Ghost Story

Gregory Bate was just scrambling up onto the stage to leap through the rip in the screen after Peter, and Ricky threw out his free hand and grasped the thick collar of his pea jacket. Bate suddenly went rigid, his reflexes as good as a cat's, and Ricky knew in terror that he would kill him, spinning around with pulverizing hands and slashing teeth, if he did not do the only possible thing.

Before Bate could move, Ricky slammed the Bowie knife into his back.

Now he could hear nothing, not the noises on the soundtrack, not the cry that must have come from Bate: he stood still gripping the bone handle, deafened by the enormity of what he had done. Bate fell back down and turned around and showed Ricky Hawthorne a face to carry with him all his life: eyes full of tearing wind and blizzard and a black mouth open as wide as a cavern.

'Filth,' Ricky said, almost sobbing.

Bate fell toward him.

Don climbed over the seats carrying the axe, in a desperate hurry to get to Bate before he could tear open Ricky's throat; then he saw the muscular body slump and Ricky, gasping, pushing him off. Bate fell back into the front of the stage and went to his knees. Fluid dribbled from his mouth.

'Get away, Ricky,' Don said, but the old lawyer was unable to move. Bate began to crawl toward him.

He stepped beside Ricky and Bate tilted back his head and looked straight into his eyes.

-live forever

Don hurriedly raised the axe over his head and brought the sharpened blade down into Bate's neck, cutting down deeply into the chest. With the next blow he severed the head.

Peter Barnes crawled back out through the screen, dazzled by pain and the beam from the projector. He made himself move across the few feet of bare wood to the edge of the stage, hearing a wild shrieking of voices, thinking that if he could get to the Bowie knife before Gregory Bate saw him, he might at least be able to save Don. Ricky had been killed by the first blow, he knew: he had seen its force. Then the beam of light slipped over his head and he saw what Don was doing. Gregory Bate, headless, squirmed under the blows of the axe; beside him Fenny rolled helplessly back and forth, covered in moving white pulp.

'Let me,' he said, and both Ricky and Don stared up at him with white faces.

When Peter was down on the floor of the theater beside them, he took the axe from Don and brought it weakly, glancingly down, his hysteria and loathing spoiling the blow; then he felt suddenly stronger, as strong as a logger, felt as if he were glowing, filled with light, and raised it effortlessly, all the pain leaving him, and brought the axe down again; and again; and again; and then moved to Fenny.

When they were only shreds of skin and smashed bones a zero breeze lifted off their ruined bodies and swirled up into the beam from the projector, passing Peter with such force that it knocked him aside.

Peter bent down into the mess and picked up the Bowie knife.

'By God,' Ricky said, and tottered into one of the seats.

When they left the theater, limping, their minds numb, they felt an impatient, hurrying wind even in the lobby-a wind that seemed to swirl through the empty space, rattling posters and the bag of potato chips on the candy counter, searching the way out- and when they broke open the doors, it streamed over them to join the worst blizzard of the season.

15

Don and Peter half-carried Ricky Hawthorne home through the storm; and now there were two convalescents in the Hawthorne home. Peter explained it to his father like this: 'I'm staying with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, dad-I'm stuck at their house. Don Wanderley and I had to practically bring Mr. Hawthorne home on a stretcher. He's in bed and so is she, because she feels bad after a little accident in her car-'

'There'll be a lot of accidents on the roads this afternoon,' his father said.

'And we finally got a doctor to come give her a sedative, and Mr. Hawthorne has a terrible cold the doctor said could turn into pneumonia if he doesn't rest, so Don Wanderley and I are taking care of them both.'

'Let me get this straight, Pete. You were with this Wanderley and Mr. Hawthorne?'

'That's right,' Peter said.

'Well, I wish you'd thought of calling before this. I was worried half to death. You're all I have, you know.'

'I'm sorry, Dad.'

'Well, at least you're with good people. Try to get home when you can, but don't take any chances in the storm.'

'Okay, Dad,' Peter said and hung up, grateful that his father had sounded sober, and even more grateful that he had asked no more questions.

He and Don made soup for Ricky, and brought it up to the guest-room where the old man was resting while his wife slept undisturbed in their bedroom.

'Don't know what happened to me,' Ricky said. 'I just couldn't move another step. If I'd been alone, I would have frozen to death out there.'

'If any of us had been alone,' Don said, and did not have to finish the sentence.

'Or if there had been only two of us,' Peter said. 'We'd be dead. He could have killed us easily.'

'Yes, well he didn't,' Ricky said briskly. 'Don was right about them. And now two-thirds of what we have to do is accomplished.'

'You mean we have to find her,' Peter said. 'Do you think we can do it?'

'We'll do it,' Don said. 'Stella might be able to tell us something. She might have learned something- heard something. I don't think there's any doubt that the man in the blue car was the same man who was after you. We should be able to talk to her tonight.'

'Will it do any good?' Peter asked. 'We're snowed in again. We'll never be able to drive anywhere, even if Mrs. Hawthorne does know something.'

'Then we'll walk,' Don said.

'Yes,' Ricky said. 'If that's what it takes, we'll walk.' And lay back against the pillows. 'You know, we're the Chowder Society now. The three of us. After Sears was found dead I thought-I said I was the only one left. I felt terribly bereft. Sears was my best friend; he was like my brother. And I'll miss him as long as I live. But I know that when Gregory Bate cornered Sears, Sears put up a hell of a good scrap. He did his best to save Fenny once a long time ago, and I know he did his best against them when his time came. No, there's no need to feel bad about Sears-he probably did better than any of us could have done alone.'

Ricky put his empty soup bowl down on the bedside table. 'But now there's a new Chowder Society, and here we all are. And there's no whiskey and no cigars, and we're not dressed right-and good heavens, look at me! I'm not even wearing a bow tie.' He plucked at the open collar of his pajama shirt and smiled at them. 'And I'll tell you one other thing. No more awful stories and no nightmares either. Thank God.'

'I'm not so sure about the nightmares,' Peter said.

After Peter Barnes went off to his own room to lie down for an hour, Ricky sat up in bed and looked candidly at Don Wanderley through his glasses. 'Don, when you first came here you saw that I didn't like you very much. I didn't like you being here, and until I saw that you were like your uncle in certain ways, I didn't much take to you personally. But I don't have to tell you that's all changed, do I? Good Lord, I'm chattering away like a magpie! What was in that shot the doctor gave me, anyhow?'

'A huge dose of vitamins.'

'Well, I feel much better. All revved up. I still have that terrific cold, of course, but I've had that so long that it feels like a friend. But listen here, Don. After what we've been through, I couldn't feel closer to you. If Sears felt like my brother, you feel like my son. Closer than my son, in fact. My boy Robert can't talk to me-I can't talk to him. That's been true since he was about fourteen. So I think I'm going to adopt you spiritually, if you don't object.'

'It makes me too proud of myself to object,' Don said, and took Ricky's hand.

'You sure there were just vitamins in that shot?'

'Well.'

'If this is how dope makes you feel, I can understand how John became an addict.' He lay back and closed his eyes. 'When all this is over, assuming we're still alive, let's stay in touch. I'll take Stella on a trip to Europe. I'll send you a barrage of postcards.'