Griffen baby-frozen to death in his own bed-lay on the cot. 'Now just wait a goddamned second,' he said, 'that can't be.' He'd put the Griffen baby with de Souza, in a cell on the other side of the corridor.
What he wanted to do was lock the doors behind him again and open a fresh bottle-
He backed away toward the cell door, now absolutely unable to stand so near the body of Christina Barnes, and when he had reached the threshold of the cell looked wildly around at the other bodies. They all seemed subtly different, as if they'd moved an inch or so, rolled over and crossed their legs while his back had been turned. He stood in the entrance to the cell, now unpleasantly conscious that his back was turned to all those other bodies, but unable to stop looking at Christina Barnes. He thought that even more of her hair was frothing out from beneath the sheet.
When he glanced at the little form on the cot, Hardesty's stomach slammed up into his throat. As if the dead child had wriggled forward in its sheet, the top of its bald round head protruded through an opening in the sheet-a grotesque parody of birth.
Hardesty jumped backward out of the cell into the dark corridor. Though he could not see them moving, he had a wild, panicky sense that all of the bodies in the cells were in motion-that if he stayed back here in the dark a second longer, they would point toward him like the needles of a dozen magnets.
From an end cell, one he knew was empty, came a dry rasping voiceless sound. A chuckle. This empty sound of mirth unfolded in his mind, more a thought than a sound. Hardesty backed nervelessly down the corridor until he thumped into the edge of the metal door, then whirled around it and slammed it shut.
Edward's Tapes
12
Don leaned against the window, looking anxiously toward Haven Lane-they should have arrived fifteen or twenty minutes earlier. Unless Sears was in charge. If Sears had insisted on driving, Don had no idea how long the journey from Ricky's house would take. Crawling at five or ten miles an hour through the streets, risking collision at every intersection and stoplight: at least they could not be killed, going at Sears's speed. But they could be isolated, away from what they assumed was the safety of Ricky's and his uncle's houses. If they were out there alone in the snow, on foot, their car off the road, Gregory could close in, talking amiably, waiting until they moved or ran.
Don turned from the window and said to Peter Barnes, 'Want some coffee?'
'I'm fine,' the boy said. 'Do you see them coming?'
'Not yet. They'll be here.'
'It's a terrible night. The worst yet.'
'Well, I'm sure they'll be here soon,' Don said. 'Your father didn't mind your leaving the house on Christmas Eve?'
'No,' Peter said, and looked truly unhappy for the first time that night. 'He's-I guess he's mourning. He didn't even ask me where I was going.' Peter kept his intelligent face steady, not permitting his grief to demonstrate itself in the tears Don knew were close.
Don went back to the window and leaned forward, pressing his hands on the cold glass. 'I see someone coming.'
Peter stood up behind him.
'Yes. They're stopping. It's them.'
'Mr. James is staying with Mr. Hawthorne now?'
'It was their idea. We all felt safer that way.' He watched Sears and Ricky leave the car and begin to fight their way up the walk.
'I want to tell you something,' Peter said behind him, and Don turned to look at the tall boy. 'I'm really glad you're here.'
'Peter,' Don said, 'if we get these things before they get us, it'll be mostly because of you.'
'We will,' Peter said quietly, and as Don went to the door he knew that he and the boy were equally grateful for each other's company.
'Come in,' he said to the two older men. 'Peter is already here. How's your cold, Ricky?'
Ricky Hawthorne shook his head. 'Stable. You have something you want us to listen to?'
'On my uncle's tapes. Let me help you with your coats.'
A minute later he was leading them down the hall. 'I had quite a struggle to find the right tapes,' he said. 'My uncle never marked the boxes he kept them in.' He opened the door to the office. 'That's why the place looks like this.' Empty white boxes and spools of tape covered the floor. Other white boxes littered the desk.
Sears knocked a spool of tape off a chair and lowered himself into it; Ricky and Peter sat on camp chairs against a book-lined wall.
Don went behind the desk. 'I guess Uncle Edward had some sort of filing system, but I never found out what it was. I had to go through everything before finding the Moore tapes.' He sat down behind the desk. 'If I were another kind of novelist, I'd never have to dream up a plot again. My uncle was told more dirt off the record than Woodward and Bernstein.'
'At any rate,' Sears said, extending his legs deliberately to push over a stack of white boxes, 'you found them. And you want us to listen to something. Let's get to it.'
'Drinks are on the table,' Don said. 'You'll need it. Help yourselves.' While Ricky and Sears poured whiskey for themselves and Peter took a Coke, Don described his uncle's taping technique.
'He'd just let the recorder run-he wanted to get everything the subject said. During the formal taping sessions, of course, but also during meals, having drinks, watching television-to catch anything the subject came up with. So from time to time, the subject would be left alone in a room with a tape recorder running. We're going to listen to a couple of moments when that happened.'
Don swiveled his chair around and pushed the 'on' button of the recorder on the shelf behind him. 'This is set just about on the right spot. I won't have to tell you what to listen for.' He pushed the 'play' button, and Edward Wanderley's voice filled the room, floating down from the big speakers perched up behind the desk.
'So he beat you because of the money you spent on acting lessons?'
A girlish voice answered. 'No. He beat me because I existed.'
'How do you feel about it now?'
Silence for a time: then the other voice said, 'Could you get me a drink, please? It's difficult for me to talk about this.'
'Sure, of course, I understand. Campari soda?'
'You remembered. Lovely.'
'I'll be right back.'
Noises of the desk chair squeaking, footsteps; the door closed.
In the few seconds of quiet which followed, Don kept his eyes on Sears and Ricky. They watched the spools of tape hissing through the heads.
'Are my old friends listening to me now?' It was another voice: older, brisker, drier. 'I want to say hello to all of you.'
'It's Eva,' Sears said. 'That's Eva Galli's voice.' Instead of fear, his face showed anger. Ricky Hawthorne looked as if his cold had just grown much worse.
'We parted, the last time we all met, so ignominiously, that I wanted all of you to know that I remember you very well. You, dear Ricky; and you, Sears-what a dignified man you became! And you, handsome Lewis. How lucky you are to be listening today! Haven't you ever wondered what would have happened if you had gone into the girl's room instead of letting your wife answer her call? And poor ugly John-let me thank you in advance for having such a wonderful party. I am going to enjoy myself enormously at your party, John, and I am going to leave a present behind-a token of future presents to all of you.'
Don took the reel off the recorder, said, 'Don't say anything now. Listen to the next one first.' He put on a second reel and advanced it to a number he had written on a pad. Then he pushed the 'play' button again.
Edward Wanderley: 'Do you want to take a break for a little while? I could make us some lunch.'
