Ghost Story

'Could you explain yourself, Freddy?'

'Not on the phone. Could we meet somewhere to talk about it? See, I found something out at the Dedham place, and I didn't want to show it to Hardesty until I had talked with you and maybe with, ah, Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. James.'

'Freddy, I don't have a clue what you're talking about.'

'Well, to tell you the truth I'm not so sure myself, but I wanted to get together with you, have a few beers maybe and bat a few ideas around. Sort of see what we can come up with on this.'

'On what, for God's sake?'

'On a few ideas I have. I think all you guys are just terrific, you know, and I want you to know if there's any kind of trouble coming your way…'

'Freddy, I've got all the insurance I need,' Lewis said. I'm not in the mood to go out. Sorry.'

'Well, maybe I'll see you in Humphrey's Place anyhow? We could talk there.'

'It's a possibility,' Lewis said, and hungup.

Freddy put his receiver down, satisfied that he had planted enough hooks in Lewis for now. Lewis was bound to call him back once he'd thought about everything Freddy had told him. Of course if everything he was thinking was true, then it was his duty to go to Hardesty, but there was plenty of time for that-he wanted to think out the implications before he spoke to Hardesty. He wanted to make sure that the Chowder Society was protected. His thoughts went more or less in this order: he had seen the scarf from which the piece had been torn around the neck of the girl Hardesty called 'the new dame.' She had worn the scarf at Humphrey's Place on a date with Jim Hardie. Rea Dedham suspected Jim Hardie of killing the horse; Hardesty had said something about a 'feud' between the Hardie boy and the Dedham sisters. The scarf proved that the girl had been there, so why not Hardie too? And if these two had for whatever reason killed the horse, why not the other animals? Norbert Clyde had seen a big form, something peculiar about the eyes: it could have been Jim Hardie caught in a ray of moonlight. Freddy had read about modern witches, crazy women who organized men into covens. Maybe this new girl was one of them. Jim Hardie was fodder for any lunatic who came down the pike, even if his mother would never see it. But the reputation of the Chowder Society would be damaged if all this were true, and if it got out. Hardie could be shut up, but the girl would have to be paid off and forced to leave.

He waited two days, anxiously waiting for Lewis to return his call.

When Lewis did not, he decided that the time for aggression had come and once again dialed Lewis's number.

'It's me again, Freddy Robinson.'

'Oh, yes.' Lewis said, already distant.

'I really think we ought to get together. Hey? Honestly, Lewis, I think we should. I've got your best interests at heart.' Then, searching for an unanswerable appeal, 'What if the next body is human, Lewis? Think about that.'

'Are you threatening me? What the hell are you saying?'

' 'Course not.' He was flattened. Lewis had taken it the wrong way. 'Listen, how about tomorrow evening some time?'

'I'm going coon hunting,' Lewis immediately said.

'Gosh,' Freddy said, startled by this new facet of his idol. 'I didn't know you did that. You hunt raccoon? That's really great, Lewis.'

'It's relaxing. I go out with an old boy who has a few dogs. We just go off and waste time in the woods. Great if you like that sort of thing.' Freddy heard the unhappiness in Lewis's voice, and for a moment was too disturbed by it to reply. 'Well good-bye,' Lewis said, and hung up.

Freddy stared at the phone, opened the drawer where he had put the section of scarf, looked at it. If Lewis could go hunting, so could he. Not really knowing why he felt it was necessary, he went to the door of his study and locked it. He searched his memory for the name of the old woman who worked as receptionist for the law firm: Florence Quast. Then he got her number from the book and mystified the old lady with a long story about a nonexistent policy. When she suggested that he call either Mr. James or Mr. Hawthorne, he said, 'No, I don't think I need bother either of them, I think that new girl of theirs could answer my questions. Could you give me her name? And just where is she staying again?'

(Are you thinking, Freddy, that somehow she will be living in your house very soon? And is that why you locked the door of your study? Did you want to keep her out?)

Hours later, he rubbed his forehead, buttoned his jacket, wiped his palms on his trousers and dialed the Archer Hotel.

'Yes, I'd be happy to see you, Mr. Robinson,' the girl said, sounding very calm.

(Freddy, you're not really afraid of meeting a pretty girl for a late-night conversation, are you? What's the matter with you, anyhow? And why did you think she knew exactly what you were going to say?)

3

Do you get the point? Harold Sims asked Stella Hawthorne, absently stroking her right breast. Do you see? It's just a story. That's the kind of thing my colleagues are into now. Stories! The point about this thing the Indian was chasing is that it has to show itself-it can't resist identifying itself-it's not just evil, it's vain. And I'm supposed to tell dumb horror stories like that, dumb stories like some stupid hack…

'All right, Jim, what's the story?' Peter Barnes asked. 'What's this big idea of yours?' The cold air rushing into Jim Hardie's car had sobered Peter considerably: now when he concentrated he could make the four yellow beams of their headlights slide together into two. Jim Hardie was still laughing-a mean, determined laughter, and Peter knew that Jim was going to do something to somebody whether he was with him or not.

'Aw, this is great,' Hardie said, and banged the horn. Even in the dark his face was a red mask in which the eyes were slits: that was the way Jim Hardie always looked while he was doing his most outrageous stunts, and whenever Peter Barnes ever took the time really to think about it, he was grateful that in a year he was going off to college and getting away from a friend who could look as crazy as that. Jim Hardie, drunk or otherwise stimulated, was capable of frightening wildness. What was either almost admirable or even more frightening was that he never lost his physical or verbal efficiency, no matter how drunk he was. Half-drunk, like now, he never slurred his words or staggered; wholly drunk, he was a figure of pure anarchy. 'We're gonna tear things up,' he said.

'Great,' Peter said. He knew better than to protest; besides, Jim always got away with everything he did. Ever since they had met in grade school, Jim Hardie had talked his way out of trouble-he was wild, but not stupid. Even Walt Hardesty had never gotten anything on him-not even burning down the old Pugh barn because dumb Penny Draeger had told him that the Dedham girls, whom he hated, were using it as a stable.

'Might as well catch a few grins before you go to Cornell, hey?' Jim said. 'Might as well catch all the grins you can get, because I hear that place is the pits.' Jim had always said that he saw no point in going to college, but he occasionally showed that he resented Peter's acceptance, by early admission, to Cornell. Peter knew that all Jim Hardie wanted was for them to go on raising hell, a perpetual eighteen, forever.

'So is Milburn,' Peter said.

'Good point, my son. It sure as shit is. But let's at least liven the place up, huh? So that's what we're going to do tonight, Priscilla. And just in case you thought you were going to dry up in the course of our adventures, your old friend James took care of that.' Hardie unzipped his coat and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. 'Golden hands, you turd, golden hands.' He unscrewed the cap with one hand and drank while he drove, and his face grew red and taut. 'You want a shluck?'

Peter shook his head; the smell nauseated him.

'Stupid bartender turned his back, right? Zoom. Asshole knew it was gone, too, but he was too much of a dipshit to say anything to me. You know something, Peter? It's depressing, having competition no better than that.' He laughed, and Peter Barnes laughed too.

'Well, what are we going to do?'

Hardie passed him the bottle again, and this time he drank. The headlights swam apart and became four, and he shook his head, forcing them back to two.