“You don’t have any other plans for this evening?”
“No.”
“Nothing better to do?”
“No.”
“Come for dinner, then. Or at least for drinks — wine, beer. Or something nonalcoholic, if you prefer.”
A few moments while he considered. And then a heightening of the suspense when he said, “Tell you what. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later, let you know if I can make it.”
“How much later?”
“By six, if I’m coming. Okay?”
“Yes, fine.” I touched his arm, gently. The feel of his skin sent the Hunger into a momentary frenzy. “Please call and please come, John. You don’t mind if I call you John?”
“It’s my name.”
“I really would enjoy your company.”
“All right, Storm.”
The use of my first name was a good sign, very good. I wrote my address and telephone number on a slip of paper from my purse. He put it into his wallet rather than his pants pocket — another good sign. “Until later,” I said, and left him quickly. I could feel his eyes on my buttocks as I walked away — the third and best sign of all.
Out front, as I was opening the BMW’s door, Harry Richmond reappeared from under his rock. “That was sure quick, Mrs. Carey.” Smarmy, with the leer to underscore the words.
I denied his existence again. I started the car and drove away, the Hunger and I thinking that John Faith would surely call, both of us looking ahead to the evening — but not too far ahead, savoring the suspense and the various possibilities.
It was in my mind to bathe, a long, hot, scented soak in the tub, as soon as I arrived home. But I was forced to delay it because I had a visitor. Doug Kent was sitting on the front porch when I drove up, a martini in one hand, a cigarette burning in the other. Another glass and a half-full pitcher were on the wrought-iron table beside him.
“I took the liberty of making us a batch of Doc Beefeater’s favorite home remedy,” he said when I came up the stairs. He winked; he was already more than a little drunk, and in one of his crafty moods. “I know where you keep your spare key.”
“I’ll have to find a new place for it. What do you want, Doug?”
“Want? The pleasure of your company, of course. My good drinking buddy, Storm.”
“Not today.”
He pretended astonishment. “You don’t want a martini?”
“No. I’m off gin for a while.”
“I didn’t hear that. Sit down and have at least one to be sociable.” He patted a folded newspaper on the table next to the pitcher. “I brought you the latest Advocate, hot off the press.”
“Really, Doug, no. I have things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Private things.”
“Wouldn’t happen to involve Bigfoot, would they?”
“Bigfoot?”
“The strange beast in Gunderson’s last night.”
“His name is John Faith.”
“John Faith. My God.”
“Just leave everything on the table when you go. My spare key, too, if you haven’t already put it back where you found it.” I started past him to the front door.
He put out a restraining hand and said in a voice that was half irritated, half sly, “Better read my editorial, dear heart. Front page. Very edifying — one of my more provocative pieces, if I do say so myself.”
I might have gone on inside without responding; he can be exasperating at times. But he was holding the paper out toward me now and I didn’t like the expectant shine in his eyes. I took the paper and shook it open.
The editorial was at the top of the front page, under the headline STRANGERS IN OUR MIDST. “It has come to the attention of the Advocate that a new breed of visitor is on the prowl on the quiet streets and byways of Pomo. Not the benign vacationer and fisherman who are the lifeblood of our community, but a less wholesome variety of outsider — denizens of the urban jungle whose motives are at best shadowy and whose continued presence invites concern for public safety...” The rest of it was in the same inflammatory vein. And there was no mistaking the personal references toward the end, or the malicious intent behind them.
Doug was grinning at me when I finished reading. I threw the paper at him; it hit his arm and spilled some of his drink.
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
“Now, now, don’t be nasty—”
“Nasty! What’s the idea of writing crap like this?”
“To make the public aware of potential—”
“Bullshit. You did it to get back at me.”
“Why would I want to get back at you?”
“Because I won’t sleep with you. Because you think I slept with John Faith last night and you’re jealous. My God, you did everything but name him outright and brand him a homicidal maniac.”
“Well, he may be one.”
“... What are you talking about?”
“Seen following two little girls this morning. Stalking them. A pervert and a predator—”
“I don’t believe it. Who saw him? Who told you that?”
“I have my sources,” he said, but his grin had faded and so had his self-satisfied slyness. “Don’t know anything about the man, do you? Except how much of a beast he is in bed—”
“I didn’t sleep with him.”
“What?”
“I didn’t sleep with him, damn you. I tried to pick him up, but he turned me down and walked out. So you’ve played your vicious little game for nothing.”
He drained his glass, reached out to the pitcher, and slopped it full again. His hands weren’t steady.
“You’re disgusting, Doug,” I said. “A disgusting, mean-spirited, irresponsible drunk.”
My anger kindled anger in him. “You can’t talk to me that way—”
“I’ll talk to you any way I choose. That editorial gives me the right. You hate yourself and the whole world, but that’s not enough so you take it out on everybody else. Some pretty insufferable bastards live in this town, but I thought you were better than most. Kinder, at least. But you’re one of the worst. I don’t want anything more to do with you.”
“You don’t mean that, Storm.” Whining now.
“Don’t I? Get off my porch and off my property. And don’t come back, not for any reason. If you do, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
For a few seconds he stared at me without moving. The hate in his eyes was for me now, as well as for himself. Then he guzzled his drink, lurched to his feet, and deliberately smashed the glass on the floor before brushing past me to the stairs, muttering, “Slut. Whore of Pomo.”
“That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it?” I shut my ears to whatever else he had to say, and went inside to soak away my anger and wait for John Faith’s call.
Howard Wilson
Zenna started in as soon as I walked in the door. Didn’t ask how the Redding trip had gone, didn’t give me even a minute of peace. Mouth like a snake’s, that woman: Half the time when she opens it, venom comes spewing out. There’s an old proverb, or maybe a curse — Buddhist or something — that says gossips and troublemakers and hatemongers are doomed to spend eternity hanging by their tongues. If it’s true, a force somewhere already has a noose ready with Zenna’s name on it.
She wasn’t like that when we first started going together. Or if she was, I didn’t see it. Too much in love in those days, or maybe too blinded by testosterone. Good-looking woman and I wanted her badly, but she wouldn’t give in, made a lot of whispered promises about how it would be after we were married, and finally I was the one who gave in. And it wasn’t worth waiting for. I may’ve thought so back then, but not anymore. Except for Stephanie... but she’d come along too quick, and when the doctor told Zenna she couldn’t have any more, that was when she changed or got worse. Poking her nose in everybody’s business, yakking about people behind their backs, hunting dirt every place she went and with everybody she dealt with. Self-righteous, holier-than-thou. The worst kind of hypocrite.