Ghouls

Willard measured time with cigarettes; he smoked one every fifteen minutes, so by the accumulation of butts in the ashtray, an hour and a half had passed since Nancy had put down the phone.

The tiny light on the jackplate glowed green, indicating LINE CLEAR. In the top drawer of his desk was a UT-55A full-function extension monitor, similar to an answering machine, only quite a bit more complicated and costly. It monitored all incoming and outgoing calls on either extension, and recorded them on an Akai reel-to-reel tape recorder also in the desk. The recorder was activated whenever any phone in the house was picked up.

He’d heard Nancy’s entire conversation with Kurt Morris.

She was upstairs now. She was probably packing her bags, planning to slip out tonight after she’d spoiled everything. She was probably masturbating, eyes closed and her head full of thoughts of the security guard. He’d seen her do this many times.

The study was quiet and comfortably dark, his place of peace. The air-conditioning hummed hypnotically.

Willard lit another cigarette. He realized the obscenity of smoking, but was hooked to it. Nicotine had proved as psychologically addicting as heroin, and cigarettes were the number one preventable cause of premature death in America. Worldwide, 50 million smokers per year contracted a chronic obstructive lung disease; in the United States alone, 14 billion dollars were spent yearly to treat smoking-related ailments. The gas and particulate phases of cigarette smoke contained more than twenty toxic chemicals, carcinogens, ganglionic stimulators, tumor accelerators. Ciliotoxins wiped out the body’s primary system for foreign-matter expulsion, clearing the way for myriad pneumoconioses. Carbon monoxide interceded oxygen transport and utilization to the brain, causing excess production of hemoglobin and actually dropping the smoker’s intelligence quotient, while nicotine traumatized the cardiovascular system and unnaturally released catecholamines in the brain. Cigarettes even contained trace metals and radioactive substances. These were cold, objective facts. It perplexed him then why the government continued to subsidize the tobacco crop and thus corrupt health-care costs to levels unaffordable to the average workingman. Certainly an extended life expectancy and millions saved in health benefits was worth the jobs of an insignificant number of tobacco farmers. Perhaps the tobacco industry was really just a government plot to generate revenue and kill off the elderly before they could collect much Social Security. Monstrous, Willard thought. Monstrous to smoke. He drew deep and found harsh bliss in the smoke that filled his lungs. Ah, well.

He held one of the small amber bottles up to the desk light. TTX, the label read. FDA CONTROL 4B639, RESEARCH USE ONLY, DO NOT HANDLE, DO NOT FREEZE, AVOID DIRECT SUNLIGHT AND EXCESSIVE HEAT. Doubtfully now, he wondered. God knew he’d tried enough things in his tests. It stunned him, the metabolic tolerance to toxic substances. Tricothene, ricin, triopental sodium, tubocurarme chloride—all of them totally ineffective. A 200,000-parts-per-million carbon monoxide breathing mixture hadn’t even caused unconsciousness. A massive intracardial injection of epinephrine had only negligibly increased systolic blood pressure and respiratory expansion. Symptoms had vanished within minutes.

But those had been tests. This was something crucial and called for severe, deliberate measures, now that retrieval seemed hopeless.

The thought of Nancy interrupted his deductions. She was infuriating. It amazed him how she could be so smart and so stupid at the same time. She was scared, she lacked control, she’d left herself open to panic. Willard hadn’t panicked. No, there was no need. He was in control. But Nancy couldn’t think enough ahead to preserve the importance of the situation.

Bitch, he thought. Bitch.

She was ready to run to the police, ready to ruin everything, all he’d worked for, all his dreams. The phone call to Officer Morris was proof. Not that he’d believe a word she’d say. How could he?

Still, though …

Good Lord, I wonder what she’s told Glen.

He hadn’t even considered that.

His own doubts came in a riot of questions. What if they relocate? Surely they’re intelligent enough. Worse, what if they’re found, and… Pictures, my God, what if someone photographs them or shoots one? What if a poacher shoots one? And what am I going to do if the TTX doesn’t work?

He heard a door upstairs open and close. A floorboard creaked. Footsteps.

He sat and listened. As predicted, he heard her come downstairs, go into the kitchen, and come back out again.

“Charles,” she called from the hall, exasperated. “What happened to the Cokes I put in the refrigerator?”

“I gave one apiece to the boys from Lawn-King, dear. They thatched and fertilized the yard today.”

“Shit. You gave away my Cokes.”

“Well, it was hot out, dear. And thatching’s hard work.”

Gripes, he thought. God, how she loves to gripe. The goddamned house could be on fire, and she’d be more concerned about her Cokes. “There’s fresh lemonade,” he said.

He went into the kitchen, following her footsteps.

She was bending over as she reached into the refrigerator. Willard frowned. Her dress clung to her ass like tissue. She did it on purpose, he knew. Tight, low-cut dresses. Pants that made her vulva protrude. Crotchless undergarments, when she wore them at all. She’d walk the streets nude if it were legal. But that’s what he got for marrying an erotopath. Could it be she’d been born with two libidinal systems?

“Want some?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She poured two glasses from a plastic pitcher.

“The Lawn-King people say we have chinch bugs,” he told her, setting his glass on the counter. “That’s what caused the brown spots. They want to come back in a few weeks, to spray.”

Nancy half emptied her glass of lemonade. Her gulping throat reminded Willard of a toad. He wondered if she gulped Glen like that.

“Charles,” she said, “don’t you think we have more important things to worry about than the lawn?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He watched her finish her drink and refill the glass. “So tell me,” he went on. “How long have you been fucking Glen behind my back?”

Nancy nearly spat out her drink.

“All ways and always?” Willard suggested. “I’ll bet you ride that poor boy like a horse…and I suspect he’s hung like one, too. Otherwise, why would you bother with him?” Willard grinned. “Does he put it up your ass?”

“You’re sick!” she said, having finally swallowed her shock. “Jesus, Charles, you really do have a problem. Jealousy’s one thing, but I don’t deserve this kind of shit. Name one time when I’ve given you reason to believe I’ve been unfaithful?”

Willard exploded with laughter. “Please, dear, spare me. I can’t stand to see a woman put her foot in her mouth… I’ve been listening to your phone conversations with Glen for months now. My extension monitor records them all on tape. It’s a remarkable little machine.”

She stood still, thinking, challenging him with her silence. He could almost hear her little brain ticking away. Abruptly, she said, “You’re lying. You don’t have any extension monitor.”

“Oh, but I must, dear. How else would I know about your chat with Kurt Morris just a while ago? Really, Squidd McGuffy’s?”

Nancy’s face turned white.

“You were going to tell him everything,” he said. “You were going to destroy it all for me without so much as blinking an eye. And I’m sure you’ve already told Glen, haven’t you? Haven’t you?”

“Yes!” she shouted. She let it all run out of her now. “Yes, I told him! Somebody had to do something, Charles. It’s dangerous for him out there every night. I’m not going to let him get killed while you just sit back and do nothing.”

“Did he believe you?”

Nancy didn’t answer.

“I can almost forgive you telling Glen; he is after all quite vulnerable. I’m sure I could pay him off. But Officer