“Are you about finished?”
“Any time. I got some sweet ones. Found out they’re running another tour in forty-five minutes.”
The news didn’t please Gorman; it gave him a chilly, liquid feeling in the bowels. “Not today,” he said. “I’d prefer to wait until we’ve talked to the girl.”
“Fine by me,” Brian said, and climbed in. “The motel’s just a couple of miles up.” He swung out from behind the station wagon. “The gal said it’s on the right, we can’t miss it.”
“The girl in the ticket booth?”
“She’s the one. Name’s Sandy. Very cooperative.”
“Have you ever met a young woman who wasn’t?”
“Very few,” Brian answered. A smile creased his lean cheeks, and he gave Gorman a sample of the sincere, penetrating gaze that made him such a hit with the ladies.
“Watch where you’re driving,” Gorman said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. After four years of almost daily contact with Brian, he still found himself, at times, seething with envy. The thick blond hair, the pale blue eyes, the flawless skin and trim young body seemed to mock Gorman, make him look by comparison like an aged and overweight bulldog. It hardly seemed fair.
“Wonder what they do for kicks in this burg,” Brian said.
“Our friend Janice will provide you with some distractions.”
“Hope she’s not a dog.”
“Dog or not, you’ll abide by the game plan.”
“Sure, sure.
After a few blocks of souvenir shops, cafés, sporting-goods stores, bars and gas stations, they reached the far end of town. The road curved into a forest. Gorman looked back, wondering if they’d somehow passed the Welcome Inn.
“Don’t worry, Brian said. “We didn’t miss it.”
“Sandy told you we couldn’t.”
“Should be just ahead.”
And it was.
On the right, looking cool in the shade of pines, stood the Welcome Inn’s Carriage House, a quaint-looking restaurant with bright white siding and green trim, an antique buggy adorning its lawn. A walkway led from the entrance to an auto court where a dozen bungalows surrounded a parking area. Except for two cars, the lot was deserted.
“Looks like they’re not full up,” Brian observed.
“Very astute,” Gorman said.
Just beyond the entrance to the court, the road flared out for parking in front of the office. Brian slowed and swung over. He pulled up close to the front porch. “Want to wait in the car?” he asked.
“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
“Thought you might want to make notes.”
While Gorman put his recorder into the glove compartment, Brian twisted the rearview mirror and patted down the sides of his windblown hair. Then they both climbed from the car. They mounted the wooden steps to the porch. Gorman pulled open the screen door and entered first.
With light pouring in from the door and windows, the office seemed bright and cheerful. He saw no one, but through the half-open door behind the registration desk he heard the voices and music of a television. Stepping up to the desk, he tapped the plunger of a call bell. He turned around. Brian had wandered over to a rack of travel brochures.
“If there’s a Beast House, grab a few.”
Brian nodded without looking back.
Gorman scanned the calico curtains, the pine paneling of the walls, the glossy green and yellow body of a fish mounted above the entry, the couch resting beneath one of the windows, its tweedy green fabric faded from the sunlight. A few magazines were neatly stacked on an end table.
Hanging on the far wall was an enormous map labeled malcasa point and its environs, vacation paradise with oversized cartoon characters enjoying the various activities: a little man surf-fishing; a family sunbathing and swimming at a beach; a boat offshore full of cheery anglers one of whom had managed to hook a scuba diver. The diver had exclamation points trapped inside his air bubbles. Back on land, the map depicted an array of hikers and campers in the wooded hills, a man in waders fly-fishing in a stream, rafters riding the rapids. At the center of the map loomed the Welcome Inn, shown in detail and larger than the entire town of Malcasa Point. Gorman’s eyes followed the main road downward to a drawing of Beast House. Over its roof hovered a white apparition twice the size of the house. In spite of fangs and claws, the creature bore a marked resemblance to Casper the Friendly Ghost. The word “BOOO!” was scrawled across its belly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Turning, Gorman smiled at the girl. “Quite all right,” he said.
She pushed the door to the living quarters shut. The latch clacked into place. She glanced toward Brian, then fixed her eyes on Gorman. “Mr. Hardy,” she said.
“Janice?”
Her head bobbed a bit.
She was not a dog, which must please Brian. Nor did she appear to be underage, a possibility which had worried Gorman. From the correspondence, he had assumed her to be a teenager but had never pinpointed her age. He guessed, now, that she must be eighteen or close to it.
She was slim and attractive, with golden bangs brushing her forehead, hair flowing down the sides of her face to her shoulders. The white of her bra showed through the thin white cotton of a T-shirt that read WELCOME TO THE WELCOME INN.
Brian, he thought, must be quite pleased indeed.
The girl glanced over her shoulder as if to reassure herself that the door was firmly shut. Then she looked again at Brian, who was staring at her. In his hand were a few brochures.
“He’s with me,” Gorman explained.
He came forward as if summoned.
“Janice, I want you to meet Brian Blake—my research assistant, photographer, chauffeur.”
He reached over the counter. Janice, her face puzzled and wary, shook the offered hand. From the letters, she must have assumed Gorman would come alone. Was she wondering if this man’s presence would affect her share?
In rich, sincere tones, Brian said, “Pleased to meet you, Janice.” He kept his hold on her hand. “Very pleased.”
A blush tinted her cheeks. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Bri…the Brian Blake?” she blurted. Her stunned expression brought a smile from Gorman. She looked as if she were gawking at a movie star, awestruck and a little frightened. “My God,” she muttered.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Brian said. “I left the spook back in Wisconsin.”
“God, I don’t believe this.”
Brian relinquished her hand. It dropped, limp, to the counter. She continued to stare at him.
“As you may remember,” Gorman said, “Mr. Blake and I worked very closely together on Horror. He not only recounted the tragedy during our tape sessions, he also was responsible for the photographs used in the book. I’ve kept him on as an associate ever since. He’s really an invaluable asset.”
Janice nodded. She still looked a trifle dazed. “Must’ve been awful for you,” she said, her eyes fixed on Brian’s.
“It’s like Nietzsche says.”
“Huh?”
“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”
“Besides, it was a long time ago. I suppose I’ll never be over it completely, but…I’m coping.”
“Well…”
“This,” Gorman interrupted, “is probably not the ideal place to talk.” He nodded toward the closed door behind which, he assumed, her parents were busy with other matters. “Why don’t you check us in to our rooms? Then we’ll make arrangements to meet later, after we’ve had a chance to rest up from the drive.”