Heaven Makers Page 8

  She found suddenly that she couldn’t move. Her head felt detached, mind clear, but there were no connections to her body. One of the creatures moved to stand directly in front of her—a queer little manling in green leotards, his torso partly concealed in a cloudy, bulging roundness that pulsed with a purple inner light. She remembered Andy’s description of what he’d seen: “Glowing eyes . . .”

  Andy! She wanted to scream for him, but her voice wouldn’t obey. How drifting and soft the world seemed!

  Something jerked past her and she saw Nev there walking as though pulled by strings. Her eyes focused on a smudge of powder along his shoulder, a pulsing vein at his temple. He tipped forward suddenly in that strange marionette way, falling rigidly into one of the open French doors. There came the crash and tinkling of broken glass. The floor around him became bright with flowing red. He twitched, lay still.

  The gnome creature in front of her spoke quite distinctly in English: “An accident, you see?”

  She had no voice to answer, only a distant horror somewhere within the powdery billowing that was her self. Ruth closed her eyes, thinking; Andy! Oh, Andy, help me!

  Again, she heard one of the creatures speak in that liquid trilling. She tried to open her eyes, couldn’t. Waves of darkness began to wash over what remained of her awareness. As unconsciousness came, her mind focused clearly on a single oddly pertinent thought: This can’t be happening because no one would believe it. This is nightmare, that’s all.

  Chapter 10

  Thurlow sat in the dark car smoking his pipe, wondering what was taking Ruth so long in the house. Should I go in after all? he asked himself. It isn’t right that I stay out here while she’s in there alone with him. But she said she could handle him.

  Did Adele think she could handle Joe?

  That’s a crazy thought!

  It was raining again, a thin drizzle that misted the streetlight at the corner in front of him. He turned, glanced at the house—lights in the living room, but no sign of movement behind the drawn shades.

  When she comes to the door, I’ll go up and help her carry whatever . . . no! Dammit, I should go in now. But she must know if she can handle him.

  Handle him!

  What was it like, those two? Why did she marry him?

  He shook his head, looked away from the house. The night appeared too dark beyond the streetlights and he eased off the setting on his polarizing lenses.

  What was keeping her in there?

  He thought suddenly of the hovering object he’d seen at the grove. There must be some logical explanation, he thought. Perhaps if I called the Air Force . . . anonymously . . . Somebody must have a simple, logical explanation.

  But what if they haven’t?

  My God! What if the saucer nuts turn out to’ve been right all along?

  He tried to see his wristwatch, remembered it hadn’t been wound. Damn she was taking a long time in there!

  Like a train shunted onto an odd track, his mind veered to a memory of Ruth’s father, the compelling directness of the man’s eyes. “Take care of Ruthy!”

  And that thing hovering at Joe’s window—what had that been?

  Thurlow took off his glasses, polished them with a handkerchief, slipped them back on his nose. He remembered Joe Murphey in April, right after the man had turned in the false fire alarm. What a shock it had been to find Ruth’s father facing him in the dirty little examination room above the sheriff’s office. And there’d been the even greater shock at evaluating the man’s tests. The dry language of his report to the probation office couldn’t begin to convey that shock.

  “I found him to be a man lacking a good central core of balanced feelings. This, coupled to a dangerous compulsive element such as the false fire alarm, should be considered a warning of serious disturbance. Here is a man whose psychological makeup contains all the elements necessary for a terrible tragedy.”

  The language of the report—so careful in its wording, maintaining the strict esoterica of officialese . . .he’d known how little it might convey and had supplemented it with a verbal report.

  “The man’s dangerous. He’s a definite paranoid type and could explode. He’s capable of violence.”

  The disbelief had been frightening. “Surely this is nothing more than a prank. Joe Murphey! Hell, he’s an important man here, Andy. Well . . . could you recommend analysis . . . psychoanalysis.”

  “He won’t have anything to do with it . . . and I doubt it’d do him any good.”

  “Well, what do you expect us to do? Can’t you recommend something?”

  “Maybe we can get him into a church. I’ll call Father Giles at the Episcopal church and see if . . .”

  “A church?”

  Thurlow remembered his rueful shrug, the too pat words: “I’ll probably be read out of the order for this, but religion often does what psychology can’t.”

  Thurlow sighed. Father Giles, of course, had been unsuccessful.

  Damn! What was keeping Ruth in that house? He reached for the car door, thought better of it. Give her a few more minutes. Everything was quiet in there. Probably it was taking her time to pack.

  Ruth . . . Ruth . . . Ruth . . .

  He remembered that she’d taken his probation report with better balance than the officials. But she was trained in his field and she’d suspected for some time that her father was disturbed. Thurlow remembered he’d gone out to the hospital immediately after the session in the probation office. Ruth had accompanied him, looking withdrawn and fearful, into the almost deserted cafeteria. They’d taken their cups to a corner table. He remembered the steam-table smell of the place, the faint antiseptic background, the marbleized linoleum tabletop with its leftover coffee stains.

  Her cup had clattered in a trembling staccato as she’d put it down. He’d sat silently for a moment, sensing her need to come to grips with what he’d told her.

  Presently, she’d nodded, then: “I knew it . . . I guess.”

  “Ruth, I’ll do everything I . . .”

  “No.” She tucked a strand of red hair under her cap. “They let him call me from the jail . . . just before you came. He was furious with you. He won’t accept anything you say.”

  They must’ve told him about my report, Thurlow thought. “Now he knows his mask of sanity isn’t working,” he said. “Of course he’s furious.”

  “Andy . . . are you sure?”

  She put her hand on his, her palm damp with perspiration. He held her hand, thinking of mingled perspiration: the idea carried an odd sense of intimacy.

  “You’re sure,” she sighed. “I’ve seen it coming.” Again, that deep sigh. “I didn’t tell you about Christmas.”

  “Christmas?”

  “Christmas Eve. My . . . I came home from the hospital. I had the late shift then, remember? He was walking around talking to himself . . . saying horrible things about mother. I could hear her upstairs in her room . . . crying. I . . . I guess I screamed at him, called him a liar.”

  She took two quick breaths.

  “He . . . hit me, knocked me into the Christmas tree . . . everything knocked over . . .” She put a hand to her eyes. “He’d never hit me before—always said he didn’t believe in spankings, he’d had so many beatings when he was a boy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We were . . . I . . . I was ashamed of . . . I thought if . . .” She shrugged. “I went out to the clinic and saw Dr. Whelye, but he said . . . fights, people in the conflict of marriage are . . .”

  “Sounds like him. Did your mother know he hit you?”

  “She heard him storm out and slam the door. He didn’t come back all night. Christmas Eve! She . . . she’d heard the commotion. She came down, helped me clean up the mess.”

  “I wish I’d known this when I was talking to . . .”

  “What good would it do? Everyone defends him, even mother. You know what she said while she was helping me clean up? ‘Your father’s a very sick man, Ruthy.’
Defending him!”

  “What about your neighbor, Sarah French? Does . . . ?”

  “Oh . . . she and Dr. French heard the fights. Sarah . . . Sarah knows daddy’s sick. Dr. French . . .” Ruth shrugged.

  “But as long as she knows, maybe . . .”

  “She doesn’t mean mental illness. Dr. French thinks he has a progressive sclerotic condition, but daddy won’t go into the hospital for a complete examination. She knows about that and that’s what she meant. That’s all she meant!”

  “Ruth . . .”He thought about this revelation for a moment. “Ruth, severe conditions of this kind, Monckeberg’s sclerosis, for example, frequently are accompanied by personality distortions. Didn’t you know this?”

  “I . . . he wouldn’t cooperate, go to a hospital or anything. I talked to Dr. French . . . Whelye. He was no help at all. I warned mother—the violence and . . .”

  “Perhaps if she’d . . .”

  “They’ve been married twenty-seven years. I can’t convince her he really might harm her.”

  “But he struck you, knocked you down.”

  “She said I provoked him.”

  Memories, memories—an antiseptic little corner of the hospital cafeteria and it was fixed in his memory now as indelibly as was this dark street outside the house where Ruth had lived with Nev. The warnings about Joe Murphey had been plain enough, but the world wasn’t yet prepared to understand and protect itself from its own madness.

  Again, he looked at the silent house, the glow of lights through the rain. As he looked, a woman in a glistening raincoat came running out between Ruth’s house and the one on the left. For an instant, he thought it was Ruth and he was half out of the car before the streetlight hit her and he saw it was an older woman with a coat thrown on over a robe. She wore slippers that squished wetly as she crossed the lawn.

  “You, there!” she called, waving at Thurlow.

  Thurlow came fully out of the car. The rain was cold in his hair, on his face. He felt overcome with foreboding.

  The woman came panting up to him, stopped with the rain running down out of her gray hair. “Our telephone’s out,” she said. “My husband’s run across to the Innesses to use theirs, but I thought maybe all the phones’re out, so I came . . .”

  “Why do you need a phone?” The words sounded hoarse even to him.

  “We live next door . . .” She pointed. “I can see from our kitchen across the patio to the Hudsons’ and I saw him lying there, so I ran over . . . he’s dead . . .”

  “Ruth . . . Mrs. Hudson?”

  “No, Mr. Hudson. I saw her come in a while ago, but there’s no sign of her around. We’ve got to call the police.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He started toward the house.

  “She’s not in there, I tell you. I ran all through the house.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe you missed . . .”

  “Mister, there’s been a terrible accident, maybe she’s already gone for help.”

  “Accident?” He turned, stared back at her.

  “He fell into one of them glass doors, cut an artery, looks like. She probably ran for help.”

  “But . . . I was out here and . . .”

  A police cruiser came around the corner to his left, its red light flashing. It pulled to a stop behind his car. Two officers got out. Thurlow recognized one of them—Maybeck, Carl Maybeck, a slim angular man with bony wrists, narrow face. He came loping across the lawn to Thurlow while his companion went to the woman.

  “Oh . . . Dr. Thurlow,” Maybeck said. “Didn’t recognize you.” He stopped, facing Thurlow. “What’s the trouble? We got a call, something about an accident. Ambulance’s on the way.”

  “The woman there . . .” Thurlow nodded toward her, “. . .says Nev Hudson’s dead, something about falling into some glass. She may be mistaken. Shouldn’t we get inside and . . .”

  “Right away, Doc.”

  Maybeck led the way running up to the front door. It was locked.

  “Around the side,” the woman called from behind them. “Patio doors’re open.”

  They ran back down the steps, around the side, wet leaves of shrubbery soaking them. Thurlow felt himself moving in a daze. Ruth! My God, where are you? He skidded on the wet bricks of the patio, almost fell, righted himself and was staring down at the red mess that had been Nev Hudson.

  Maybeck straightened from a brief examination of the man. “Dead all right.” He looked at Thurlow. “How long you been here, Doc?”

  “He brought Mrs. Hudson about half an hour ago.” It was the neighbor woman. She came to a stop beside Thurlow. “He’s dead isn’t he?” How delighted she sounded!

  “I . . . I’ve been waiting in the car,” Thurlow said. “That’s right,” the woman said. “We saw them come up. Expected another fight between Hudson there and his Missus. I heard the crash, him falling, but I was in the bathroom. I came right out to the kitchen.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Hudson?” Maybeck asked.

  “She wasn’t anywhere around. There was a lot of smoke coming out these doors here, though. He may’ve burnt something. He drank a lot, Mr. Hudson. May’ve been trying to open the doors for the smoke and . . .” She pointed to the body.

  Thurlow wet his lips with his tongue. He was afraid to go in that house, he realized. He said: “Hadn’t we better look inside. Perhaps . . .”

  Maybeck met his stare. “Yes. Perhaps we had better.”

  They could hear an ambulance siren now. It wailed to silence out front. The other officer came around the house, said: “Ambulance is here, Carl. Where . . .” He saw the body.

  “Tell ’em not to disturb any more than they have to,” Maybeck said. “We’re going to look around inside.”

  The other officer peered suspiciously at Thurlow.

  “This is Dr. Thurlow,” Maybeck said.

  “Oh.” The officer turned to direct men in white coming around the house.

  Maybeck led the way inside.

  Thurlow was caught immediately by the sight of Ruth’s clothing thrown on the bed. His chest felt tight, painful. The neighbor woman had said Ruth wasn’t here, but . . .

  Maybeck stooped, peered under the bed. He straightened, sniffed. “You smell something, Doc?”

  Thurlow grew aware that there was an odd odor in the room—almost like burnt insulation.

  “Almost smells like fire and brimstone,” Maybeck said. “Probably was something burned in here.” He glanced around. There was an empty ashtray on a nightstand. It was clean. He looked in the closet, went into an adjoining bath, returned shaking his head.

  Thurlow went out to the hall, looked down it toward the living room. Maybeck brushed past him, led the way into the room. He moved cautiously but with a practiced sureness, peered into the hall closet, behind a davenport. He touched only what he had to touch for his investigation.

  They progressed through the house this way, Thurlow a hesitant onlooker, fearful of what they might find around the next corner.

  Shortly, they were back in the bedroom.

  The ambulance doctor stood in the door, smoking. He glanced at Maybeck. “Not much we can do here, Carl. Coroner’s on his way.”

  “What’s it look like?” Maybeck asked. “Was he pushed?”

  “Looks like he stumbled,” the doctor said. “Carpets pushed up there by his feet. Can’t say much about his condition at the time, but there’s a smell of whiskey on him.”

  Maybeck nodded, taking in the evidence. They could hear the other officer talking outside to the neighbor woman. “I don’t know what it was,” she said, her voice rising. “It just looked like a big cloud of smoke . . . steam, maybe. Or it could’ve been an insect bomb—something white and smoky.”

  Thurlow turned his back on the door. He found he couldn’t stand the sight of the sprawled body. Ruth wasn’t in the house; no doubt of that.

  Insect bomb, he thought. White and smoky.

  He recalled the grove then, the hovering something which Ruth had seen as
a cloud. Abruptly, he knew what had happened to her. She wouldn’t have disappeared like this without some word to him. Something had intruded here and taken her away. It would explain the strange smell, the presence of the thing at the grove, the interest of those weird creatures with their glowing eyes.

  But why? he asked himself. What do they want?

  Then: This is crazy! She was here when Nev injured himself and she ran for help. She’s at a neighbor’s and she’ll be back any moment.

  And his mind said: She’s been gone a long time. She saw the crowd and now she’s frightened, he told himself.

  There was a bustle of activity at the door behind him—the coroner and the police homicide squad. Maybeck came up beside Thurlow, said: “Doc, they want you to come down to the station and make a statement.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” Then: “That’s the homicide detail. Surely they don’t think . . .”

  “Just routine, Doc,” Maybeck said. “You know that. It looks like he was drinking and stumbled, but Mrs. Hudson’s not around. We have to make sure . . . you know.”

  “I see.” He allowed himself to be led out the door past the still figure that had been Ruth’s husband, past the men with tape measures and cameras and dusting brushes and coldly measuring eyes.

  Ruth’s husband . . . Ruth’s husband . . . The label boiled in his mind. Where is she? Did she break down and run away? But she isn’t the type for that. She was under strain, yes, but . . . What was that cloud the neighbor saw? What was that smell in the room?

  They were outside then. The rain had stopped, but the shrubbery beside the house still drenched them. Porch lights were on across the street. People stood there staring. A white lab truck had been pulled into the driveway beside the house on the other side.

  “You know, Doc,” Maybeck said. “You really shouldn’t drive at night with those dark glasses.”

  “They’re . . . adjustable,” Thurlow said. “Not as dark as they look.”

  Ruth! Where are you?

  He wondered then: Did she push Nev . . . a fight? Did she think people would say, “Like father, like daughter”? Did she run, not wanting to drag me into it?