Ghost Story

The three of them floundered across the drifted street.

17

Don pushed open the building's front door, and the other two followed him into the vestibule. They pulled their scarves away from their faces, their breath steaming in the small cold space. Peter brushed snow from his fur hat and the front of his coat; none of them spoke. Ricky leaned against the wall, looking almost too weak to climb the stairs. A dead light bulb hung over their heads.

'Coats,' Don whispered, thinking that the sodden garments would slow them down; he lay the axe down in the dark, unbuttoned his coat and dropped it on the floor. Then the scarf, stinking of wet wool; his chest and arms were still constricted by the tight sweaters, but at least the heaviest weight no longer pulled at his shoulders. Peter too removed his coat, and helped Ricky with his.

Don saw their white faces hovering before him, and wondered if this was the last act-they had the weapons which had destroyed the Bate brothers, but the three of them were limp as rags. Ricky Hawthorne's eyes were closed: thrown back, its muscles lax, his face was a death mask.

'Ricky?' Don whispered.

'A minute.' Ricky's hand trembled as he raised it to blow on his fingers. He inhaled, held the air for a long moment, exhaled. 'Okay. You'd better go first. I'll bring up the rear.'

Don bent down and picked up the axe. Behind him Peter wiped the blade of the Bowie knife against his sleeve. Don found the bottom step with his numb toe and climbed onto it. He glanced back. Ricky stood behind Peter, propping himself against the staircase wall. His eyes were closed again.

'Mr. Hawthorne, do you want to stay down here?' Peter whispered.

'Not on your life.'

With the other two following him, Don crept up the first flight of steps. Once, three well-off young men just beginning their practices in law and medicine and a preacher's son of seventeen had gone up and down these stairs: each of them close to twenty in the century's twenties. And up these stairs had come the woman with whom they were infatuated, as he had been infatuated with Alma Mobley. He reached the second landing, and peeked around the corner to the top of the last flight of stairs. With part of his mind, he wished to see an open door, an empty room, snow blowing unnoticed into an empty apartment…

What he saw instead made him pull back. Peter looked over his shoulder and nodded; and finally Ricky appeared on the landing to look up at the door at the top of the stairs.

A phosphorescent light spilled out from beneath the door, illuminating the landing and the walls a soft green.

Silently, they came up the final set of stairs into the phosphorescent light.

'On three,' Don whispered, and cradled his axe just below the head. Peter and Ricky nodded.

'One. Two.' Don gripped the top of the banister with his free hand. 'Three.'

They hit the door together, and it broke open under their weight.

Each of them heard a single distinct word; but the voice delivering it was different for each of them. The word was Hello.

18

Don Wanderley, caught in a huge dislocation, spun around at the sound of his brother's voice. Warm light fell around him, traffic noises attacked him. His hands and feet were so cold they might have been frostbitten, but it was summer. Summer: New York. He recognized the corner almost immediately.

It was in the East Fifties, and it was so familiar to him because quite near-somewhere very near-was a cafe with outdoor tables where he had met David for lunch whenever he was in New York.

This was not a hallucination-not a mere hallucination. He was in New York, and it was summer. Don felt a weight in his left hand, and looking down, saw that he was carrying an axe. An axe? Now what…? He dropped the axe as if it had jumped in his hand. His brother called, 'Don! Over here!'

Yes, he had been carrying an axe… they had seen green light… he had been turning, moving fast…

'Don!'

He looked across the street and saw David, looking healthy and extremely prosperous, standing up at one of the outdoor tables, grinning at him and waving. David in a crisp lightweight blue suit, aviator glasses smoked over his eyes, their bows disappearing into David's sun-blond hair. 'Wake up!' his brother called over the traffic.

Don rubbed his face with his freezing hands. It was important not to appear confused in front of David- David had asked him to lunch. David had something to tell him.

New York?

But yes, it was New York, and there was David, looking at him amusedly, happy to see him, full of something to say. Don looked down at the sidewalk. The axe was gone. He ran between the cars and embraced his brother and smelled cigars, good shampoo, Aramis cologne. He was here and David was alive.

'How do you feel?' David asked.

'I'm not here and you're dead,' came out of his mouth.

David looked embarrassed, then disguised it behind another smile. 'You'd better sit down, little brother. You're not supposed to be talking like that anymore.' David held his elbow and led him to a chair beneath one of the sun umbrellas. A martini on the rocks chilled a sweating glass.

'I'm not supposed… Don began. He sat heavily in the chair; Manhattan traffic went down the pleasant East Fifties street; on the other side, over the top of the traffic, he read the name of a French restaurant painted in gold on dark glass. Even his cold feet could tell that the pavement was hot.

'You bet you're not,' David said. 'I ordered a steak for you, all right? I didn't think you'd want anything too rich.' He looked sympathetically across the table at Don. The modish glasses hid his eyes, but David's whole handsome face exuded warmth. 'Is that suit okay, by the way? I found it in your closet. Now that you're out of the hospital, you'll have to shop for some new clothes. Use my account at Brooks, will you?' Don looked down at what he wore. A tan summer suit, a brown-and-green-striped tie, brown loafers. It all looked a little out of date and shabby beside David's elegance.

'Now look at me and tell me I'm dead,' David said.

'You're not dead.'

David sighed happily. 'Okay. Good. You had me worried there, pal. Now-do you remember anything about what happened?'

'No. Hospital?'

'You had about the worst breakdown anyone's ever seen, brother. It was the next thing to a one-way ticket. Happened right after you finished that book.'

'The Nightwatcher?'

'What else? You just blanked out-and when you'd say anything, it was just crazy stuff about me being dead and Alma being something awful and mysterious. You were in outer space. If you don't remember any of this, it's because of the shock treatments. Now we have to get you settled again. I talked to Professor Lieberman, and he says he'll give you another appointment in the fall-he really liked you, Don.'

'Lieberman? No, he said I was…'

'That was before he knew how sick you were. Anyhow, I got you out of Mexico and put you in a private hospital in Riverdale. Paid all the bills until you got straightened out. The steak'll be here in a minute. Better get that martini down. The house red isn't bad here.'

Don obediently sipped at his drink: that familiar cold potent taste. 'Why am I so cold?' he asked David. 'I'm frozen.'

'Aftereffect of the drug therapy.' David patted his hand. 'They told me you'd feel like that for a day or two, cold, not too sure of yourself yet-it'll go away. I promise you.'

A waitress came with their food. Don let her take away his martini glass.

'You had all these disturbed ideas,' his brother was saying. 'Now that you're well again, they'll shock you. You thought my wife was some kind of monster who had killed me in Amsterdam-you were convinced of it. The doctor said you couldn't face the fact that you'd lost her: that's why you never came out here to talk about it. You wound up thinking that what you wrote in your novel was real. After you mailed the book off to your agent, you just sat in a