“I’ll take aspirin,” said Prin. “It would also help, I think, if I were to get some sleep. Would you very much mind, darling, if I were to go in and try?”
“Princess. I love you.”
“Coley. I love you. You’re so sweet and clever and — and lovable.”
“I’m actually devious as the devil,” said Coley modestly. “Let me take you into the house.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll go in through the kitchen, and you can cut through to the street. It’s a long walk back to town. Kiss me good night?”
They kissed with fervor beside the stump, joining shadows in the moonlight, and then Coley went one way, toward the street, and Prin went another way, toward the house. The rear of the house was dark, and she felt her way onto the screen porch. She was sure the door would be unlocked, for no one ever bothered to lock a door, a kind of slovenly trustfulness of O’Shea character that was not likely to be altered by murder or anything else. She was just reaching for the back door knob when something stirred in the nearby darkness of the porch. Prin jumped and squealed.
“It’s only me, Princess,” said Cousin Twig’s appalling voice.
“Damn it, Twig, what in the hell do you mean by skulking here in the dark and scaring me out of ten years’ growth?”
“I wasn’t skulking. I was waiting.”
“For what? A broomstick?”
“You. I thought you’d never send that Coley away. I want to talk to you.”
“Well, dear cousin,” snapped Prin, “it will have to be some other time, if ever. I have a headache, and I’m going up to my room and take some aspirin and go to bed.”
“Stay and have a cigarette with me, Prin. Please?”
“No, thank you.”
“You have plenty of time for that Coley.”
“What I have for Coley and what I have for you are two different things, thank God.”
“Including kisses. I saw you out there kissing in the moonlight.”
“So you’re a Peeping Tom in addition to your other disgusting accomplishments. I’m sorry conditions were unfavorable tonight, Twig. Otherwise you might have seen a lot more exciting sight than a few kisses.”
“Cut it out, Prin,” Twig said rather thickly. “You go too far with me and you’ll be sorry.”
“No danger, Twiggy. I’m not going anywhere with you — far or near.”
“You’d better be careful. I’m warning you.”
Prin had a sudden notion, accompanied by a chill, that maybe she’d better. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the shape of Twig as a long-domed shadow among shadows. There was something rather dreadful in his immobility, as if he had been waiting — was still waiting — for more than her mere body. She knew that his disproportionate face was dark and still and hard as buried stone. His voice was a listless, lusterless monotone, almost without inflections or stress — the voice of a Thing, Prin thought; and she shivered and decided not to arouse him further by leaving.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“About you and your precious Coley, for one thing.”
“What about him?”
“To begin with, I don’t like him.”
“I’m sorry, Twig. I do.”
“You’ll change your mind after a while.”
“You think so? Why?”
“He’s not good enough for you.”
“Who is good enough, do you think? Twig O’Shea?”
“Why not?”
“This is very sudden, I must say. I had no idea you really care so much.”
“Because I haven’t carried on about you like Brady after my stupid sister? Your brother is a fool.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Tell him whatever you please.”
“You’ll regret it if I do.”
Twig barked a laugh. “He can’t even handle Peet.”
“Brady has no desire to knock Peet’s head off. I think he’d enjoy going to work on yours.”
“Perhaps that’s what Peet needs. As an introduction, that is, to something else she needs.”
“I suppose that would be your approach?”
“That’s right.”
Prin said rather carefully, “I take it you mean that would be your approach... to me?”
“I’ll consider it.”
“All right, Twig. Then I’ll merely consider telling Brady what you just said about him.”
The laugh spat at her from the dark again. “Brady has more to worry about than anything I’ve said.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the police.”
“Why should Brady be worried about the police?”
“Because if Uncle Slater was murdered, there will be an investigation. And once a murder investigation starts, a lot more may be dug up than what’s being looked for.”
“You think my brother has done something he needs to worry about?”
“A dozen things.”
“How about yourself?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Is that so? It hasn’t been apparent. Now that Uncle Slater isn’t here any more, we’ll see how well you can take care of yourself.”
The voice nearby was stilled. Then it began again with a sort of cornered-rat determination. “We’ll all have to clear out of here soon. Let’s you and I clear out together, Prin.”
Prin said, “You think I would—?” But then she controlled herself. “I have other plans, Cousin Twig.”
“Involving Coley Collins?”
“Intimately.”
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t let you.”
“And how do you propose to not let me?”
“You’ll come around, Prinny. Do you know the things we could do together...?” And now the unnatural voice held an undernote of hot yearning, thick and fierce as a flow of lava. But the words were obscene, utterly obscene; and they painted such pictures as Princess O’Shea had only dreamed of in her ghastlier nightmares, so that she wanted to scream and had to choke the screams back lest the very fears at their source touch off the actions that the words only spoke.
All that Prin could think to say when the monster across the porch paused, heaving for breath, was: “Did you hear yourself, Twig? Did you listen to yourself?”
“I want you,” Twig gasped. “I want you....”
He made a soft hissing sudden sound and she heard the scrape of his feet.
“I’d rather be dead,” Prin cried; and she lunged for the back door and jerked it open and ran into the kitchen and slammed and locked the door in one fluid blur. She could hear him rattling the knob and cursing her as she sped upstairs.
With the key turned securely in the lock, Prin stood still and breathed deeply in the moonlight flooding her bedroom. She counted for a minute the diminishing beat of her heart. Then she undressed, put on pajamas as pale as the moon itself, and lay down on the bed, turning her face to the windows. Her head still ached in a cadenced throbbing. She was intensely awake. There was no sleep for her, then or soon, or even at all.
She got up and went into her bathroom and took three aspirins, then crept back into bed and lay stiffly, face turned again to the moonlight. She was still lying that way, a long time afterward, when someone tapped secretively on her door.
Dear God, Prin thought, dear good God, let it not be the monster. She covered her ears. She pulled the summer blanket over her head. She burrowed under her pillow. But she could still hear the tapping.
Prin sat up in bed. She swallowed first, hard. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Let me in, Prin.”
Brady. It was Brady! “Go away, Brady,” Prin said. “I’m in bed.”
“Prin, I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” How wonderful of Brady.