Night Songs - Charles Grant

"It ain't funny, Denise."

The hand slipped lower until it covered her nipple. Then her fingers parted, and her tongue moistened her lips.

"Damn it, Denise!"

She rolled her shoulders until her shirt slipped to the mattress, then her right hand unsnapped the top of her jeans.

"Listen," he said, shaking his head in sudden confusion, "I don't know," and he kicked angrily at the liquor bottle, spinning it against the glass door. It turned crazily and slipped out onto the second story's building-long balcony. "I must be tired." He attempted a sly wink. "Last night, y'know?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "Last night. Yeah."

"I mean, Jesus, I ain't Superman, y'know." He was almost whining.

"Yup, I know that."

"Aw shit, Denise, gimme a break, will ya? Christ," and he grabbed a length of his hair and yanked, hard.

A thin coil of perspiration trickled out of her hair and down along her cheek. She shivered, but made no move to stop it, to wipe it away. It felt cool in the stifling room, felt tickling as it dropped from her chin onto her breasts. She looked down, smiled absently, and rubbed the salty moisture into her skin with her palm. Slowly. Half closing her eyes.

"Now that's sick, Denise!" Naughton exploded, but he didn't move to stop her, didn't look away. He was furious-at her for being such a bitch, and at himself for not being able to show her what he could do. The* goddamned liquor; he shouldn't have tried to drink the whole bottle at once.

A bubble of nausea rose in his stomach and he swayed, turned and grabbed for the edge of the dresser, looked into the mirror and saw her sitting there, that dumb ass look on her face, touching herself like some kind of whore, staring at him from under those lashes. Teasing him. Mocking him.

"Denise," he said, dangerously calm.

The wind changed direction and something thumped on the balcony.

"Friggin' place is fallin' apart," he grumbled.

She ignored him. She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, one hand holding the top of the headboard, and pulled her jeans down over her hips. A slow fall onto the pillows, and she rolled onto her back, kicking her legs until the jeans flew at Cart's chest. He snared them and flung them aside.

She rose to her knees and one by one fanned her fingers over her abdomen, pulling in her chin and pushing out her chest.

"Denise…" But hoarsely.

She began a slow bump and grind.

"I'll knuckle those damned eyes," he warned, silently cursing the dryness of his throat that made his voice crack.

She cupped her breasts and stuck out her tongue.

A shadow passed across the drapes.

Cart saw it just before it disappeared, and swore.

"What?"

"Someone's out there," he said, unconcerned for his nakedness as he strode to the sliding glass door, pushed it open and looked out, slapping at the drapes swirling around him. "Probably your goddamned brother trying to get his rocks ofiF, the son of a bitch. Jesus, I hate him."

"He ain't that bad." She caressed her stomach, and wished Cart would stop playing games. He got her all hot and bothered and ready and slick and then… nothing. Nothing. Just like always, half the time, nothing.

Cart grunted.

"Well, who the hell is it?"

"No one," he said, and turned around to face her. "Could've been your old man, too. I wouldn't put it past him. I bet he watches when you take a shower, right?"

She thrust out her hips and flicked a thumb at a dark nipple, stared pointedly at his groin and pouted. "Ah, poor Cartie," she whispered. "Poor, poor Cartie." She crooked a finger and beckoned. "C'mere, Cartie. Maybe we oughta play."

"I don't like that stuff," he said, though not as strongly as he wanted.

She dropped to her hands and looked down at her hanging breasts. "Cartie?"

He took a step toward her, and she lifted her head, lowered herself slightly and raised her buttocks high. The dim yellow light glowed along the length of her back, and her breasts vanished in shadow. He took a deep breath and ordered himself forward. This was no time to fail; there was a repuation at stake if he wanted to keep walking.

Her mouth opened slightly. "Cartie, I'm hungry."

He felt a tingling in his groin. "I don't like that shit, Denise, you know that."

Her mouth opened wider. "Lollypop time, Cartie."

The tingling grew stronger. "Jesus, Denise."

And the glass door shattered inward.

Denise screamed and scrambled frantically back across the bed, grabbing up the sheet to cover herself, unable to turn away as something flailing in the drapes finally shredded them over Cart and dumped him to the floor. He shouted angrily, and thrashed, finally pulled the material aside and pushed himself back against the bed. He was ready to kill whoever was fucking him around, but there was nothing he could do except gape when Frankie reached silently for his throat.

Denise stared in disbelief and shrieked her brother's name. He paused and looked up at her over the edge of the mattress, smiling through the dried blood that coated his pale face.

She gasped, froze, couldn't will herself to move until the thing that had been her brother reached for Carter once again. Then she flung the sheet aside, leapt from the bed and raced for the door, her hand too slick to hold the knob and turn it. She heard Cart begging, gagging, heard nothing else but the wind that tore into the room, scattering papers and sheets and rippling the bedspread as if a serpent were trapped beneath it. She prayed and grabbed the knob with both hands, finally got it to turn, and yanked the door open.

Again she cried Frankie's name, but she didn't turn around. Instead she sprinted down the hall toward the staircase, passed the fire station and skidded to a halt, her shoulder slamming into the wall as she spun around suddenly. There was a hose behind the glass, and a red-handled ax. She hesitated, then pulled the door open, grabbed the ax from its rack and started back to the room.

Cart wasn't screaming.

The wind pushed a sheet of motel notepaper into the hall.

She moved slowly, pushing her bare feet along the carpet until she reached the door.

Then a hand touched her shoulder and she whirled, holding the ax high and ready. Her eyes opened, and a tear welled in one. "Daddy?" she whimpered. "Daddy?" Just before she screamed.

* * *

The wind died. Nothing moved.

The only sound was the surf's roar as it slammed into the woods, the tide so high now the beach remained flooded.

A single gull drifted over the tops of the trees.

The patrol car was parked at the curb in front of Cameron's house, engine still running, its lights flaring. Montgomery and Tabor were standing near the hood, arguing heatedly though their voices were low. Colin couldn't hear a word they were saying, but he could guess. From the moment Garve had arrived and seen the liquor glasses, smelled their breath, he hadn't believed two words either had told him, especially when they searched the immediate area and found no trace of Vincent's body. The only thing that saved them was the blood on the grass and the blacktop; the only thing that kept the chief from driving off was Peg's and Matt's corroboration of Tess' condition.

As Montgomery had feared, Tabor had driven straight to the cliffs when he couldn't get hold of the doctor. He had found the picnic site, and had fought his way through the wind down to the first ledge along the path. There was no blood, no shards of bone, no strips of cloth. There was nothing to prove Tess May-fair had landed there; she was gone.

In disgust, Colin had walked away from the argument. He stood leaning against the station wagon's tailgate, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. It was all too damned ridiculous, and he wanted to go home. He didn't give a damn about Vincent and he didn't care about Tess and it would be just fine with him if he could crawl into bed and pull the sheets over his head and pretend it was Saturday morning, and he was going to see Peg.

He looked around and wondered where all the people were. It was a solemn and universal truth that neighborhoods were incapable of ignoring the police, especially when they were parked in front of that neighborhood's most prominent house. But there was no one. Not even Bill Efron-who could easily have seen everything from his front window-had bothered to come over to find out what the trouble was.

Like everything else today, that wasn't right at all.

He's mad, Lilla had said, he's very, very mad.

The gray bundle at the shack.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, trying with a violent shudder to banish the abrupt sensation that all of this was not a grim sequence of unpleasant coincidences. Then he looked over at the two men and saw them watching him, frowning slightly, either pity or sympathy twisting their lips. "Jesus."

He pushed away from the car and walked down the drive, trying to look everywhere but at Tabor, his neck muscles taut and lips pressed to a hard line as he willed someone, anyone, to come out of a house and head their way with a dozen morbid questions.

"The point is," he heard Garve say, "somebody stole the damned body. Lombard, most likely. Who the hell else?"

"There was no one out here," Montgomery insisted.

"You were watching the whole time?"

A silence.

"I thought so."

Colin shook his head and looked to his left, to the curve of the street as it headed inland toward Neptune. The wind had picked up again, still lifting over the houses and barely ruffling his hair.

And in the distance he could hear it-the namesake of the storm.

Screaming.

A faint and undulating wailing as the wind charged over the sea and dragged the dark clouds behind it.

He looked down at his windbreaker and saw it darkening in patches, then wiped a hand across the back of his neck, and it came away damp-the seaspray was thickening to a condition much like drizzle.

"Colin!"

He turned. Montgomery was standing at the patrol car, the passenger door open. Garve was rounding the hood to the driver's side, yanking down his hatbrim.

"Colin," Hugh said, "we're going with Garve to hunt for Tess and Vincent. C'mon."

Deputy Ross at your service, he thought sourly, and had taken a single step toward the cruiser when he saw Lilla. She was running up the street, had just reached the curve and was heading for the dunes. He called out, and pointed, and broke into a slow trot that increased to a sprint when she saw him, threw up one hand and veered sharply away. A car door slammed, another, and the engine turned over. He reached the corner and leapt the curb, nearly tripped on the dune's loose sand, scrambled on hands and feet to the top. Lilla was below him in the shallow trough; she'd fallen, her legs pumping hard to drive her up and away.

"Lil!"

She didn't look back, as he slid and ran down the slope at an angle to keep from stumbling. Shells skittered from under his feet; sawgrass lashed at his legs and stung his outstretched hands.

"Lilla!"

She was at the top of the second dune when he reached her, lunged forward and caught one ankle. She fell with a shriek and kicked out at his head. He ducked and backed to his knees, pulling at her, dragging her toward him until he was able to snare the other leg.

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