Where the Summer Ends Part 24

"All that psychic energy, baby."

"All that money, you mean."

"A little PR never hurt anyone. Speaking of which, Damon-I noticed quite a number of little darlings decked out in flowing bedsheets and pointed ears and carrying about boxed sets of The Fall of the Golden Isles in ardent quest of your signature. Is rumor true that Columbine has just sprung for a second trilogy in the series?"

"Helen has just about got them to agree to our terms."

"Christ, Damon! We're better than this s.h.i.+t!" Nordgren banged his fist on the table and sent half a gram onto the carpet. One of the girls started to go after it, but Trevor shook his head and muttered that he bought it by the kilo.

"You don't look particularly ready to go back to the good old days of 3 a word on publication," Damon suggested.

"And paying the bills with those wonderful $1,000 checks from Bee Line for 60,000 words worth of wet dreams. Did I tell you that a kid came up to me with a copy of Stud Road to sign, and he'd paid some huckster $150 for the thing!"

Damon almost choked on his line. "Remind me to put my copy of Time's Wanton in a safe deposit box. Christ, Trevor-you've got enough money from all this to write anything you d.a.m.n well please."

"But we somehow write what the public wants from us instead. Or do you get off by being followed about by teenage fans in farcical medieval drag with plastic pointy ears begging to know whether Wyndlunne the Fey is going to be rescued from Grimdoom's Black Tower in Book Four of The Trilogy of Trilogies'?"

"We both have our fans," Damon said pointedly. "And what dire horrors lie in wait for some small suburban community in your next mega-word chart-buster?"

"Elves," said Nordgren.

The last time that Damon Harrington saw Trevor Nordgren was at the World Fantasy Convention in Miami. Because of crowd problems, Nordgren had stopped going to cons, but a Guest of Honor invitation lured him forth from his castle on the Hudson. He had avoided such public appearances for over a year, and there were lurid rumors of nervous breakdown, alcoholism, drug addiction, or possibly AIDS.

The Changeling, Nordgren's latest and biggest, concerned an evil race of elves who lurked in hidden dens beneath a small suburban community, and who were systematically exchanging elfin babies for the town's human infants. The Changeling was dedicated to Damon Harrington-"in remembrance of Styrofoam boaters." The novel dominated the bestseller lists for six months, before finally being nudged from first place by The Return of Tallyssa: Book Six of the Fall of the Golden Isles.

Harrington squeezed onto an elevator already packed with fans. A chubby teenager in a Spock Lives! t-s.h.i.+rt was complaining in an uncouth New York accent: "So I ran up to him when the limo pulled up, and I said to him 'Mr Nordgren, would you please sign my copy of The Changeling?' and he said 'I'd love to, sweetheart, but I don't have the time,' and I said 'But it's just this one book,' and he said 'If I stop for you, there are twenty invisible fans lined up behind you right now with their books,' and I thought 'You conceited turkey, and after I've read every one of your books!'" The elevator door opened on her floor, and she and most of her sympathetic audience got off. As the door closed, Harrington caught an exclamation: "Hey, wasn't that..."

A hotel security guard stopped him as he entered the hallway toward his room, and Harrington had to show him his room key and explain that he had the suite opposite Trevor Nordgren's. The guard was scrupulously polite, and explained that earlier fans had been lining up outside Nordgren's door with armloads of books. Damon then understood why the hotel desk had asked him if he minded having a free drink in the lounge until they had prepared his suite after some minor vandalism wrought by the previous guests.

A bell captain appeared with his baggage finally, and then room service stocked his bar. Harrington unpacked a few things, then phoned Nordgren's suite. A not very friendly male voice answered, and refused to do more than take a message. Harrington asked him to tell Mr Nordgren that Mike Hunt wished to have a drink with him in the suite opposite. Thirty seconds later Nordgren was kicking at his door.

"Gee, Mr Hunt!" Nordgren gushed in falsetto. "Would you please sign my copy of The Other Woman? Huh? Huh? Would you?" He looked terrible. He was far thinner than when they'd first met, and his skin seemed to hang loose and pallid over his shrunken flesh-reminding Harrington of a snake about to shed its skin. His blue eyes seemed too large for his sallow face, and their familiar arrogance was shadowed by a noticeable haunted look. Harrington thought of some fin de siecle poet dying of consumption.

"Jack Daniel's, as usual? Or would you like a Heineken?"

"I'd like just some Perrier water, if you have it there. Cutting down on my vices."

"Sure thing." Damon thought about the rumors. "Hey, brought along some pearl that you won't believe!"

"I'll taste a line of it, then," Nordgren brightened, allowing Damon to bring him his gla.s.s of Perrier. "Been a while since I've done any toot. Decided I didn't need a Teflon septum."

When Nordgren actually did take only one line, Harrington began to get really concerned. He fiddled with his gla.s.s of Jack Daniel's, then managed: "Trevor, I'm only asking as an old friend-but are you all right?"

"Flight down tired me out, that's all. Got to save up my energy for that signing thing tonight."

Damon spent undue attention upon cutting fresh lines. "Yeah, well. I mean, you look a little thin, is all."

Instead of taking offense, Trevor seemed wearily amused. "No, I'm not strung out on c.o.ke or smack or uppers or downers or any and all drugs. No, I don't have cancer or some horrid wasting disease. Thank you for your concern."

"Didn't mean to pry." Damon was embarra.s.sed. "Just concerned, is all."

"Thanks, Damon. But I'm off the booze and drugs, and I've had a complete check-up. Frankly, I've been burning the old candle at both ends and in the middle for too long. I'm exhausted body and soul, and I'm planning on treating myself to a long R&R while the royalties roll in."

"Super! Why not plan on spending a couple weeks knocking around down on the coast with me, then? We'll go down to Ensenada."

A flash of Nordgren's bitter humor returned. "Well, I'd sure like to, young feller," he rasped. "But I figger on writin' me one last big book. Then I'll take all the money I got put aside, and buy me a little spread down in Texas-hangup my word processor and settle down to raise cattle. Just this one last book is all I need."

The signing party was a complete disaster. The con committee hadn't counted on Nordgren's public and simply put him at a table in the hotel ballroom with the rest of the numerous pros in attendance. The ballroom was totally swamped by Nordgren's fans-many from the Miami area who forced their way into the hotel without registering for the convention. Attempts to control the crowd led to several scuffles; the hotel overreacted and ordered security to clear the ballroom, and numerous fights and acts of vandalism followed before order could be restored. Nordgren was escorted to his suite, where a state of siege existed.

Completely sickened by the disgusting spectacle, Harrington afterward retreated to the Columbine Books party, where he was thoroughly lionized, and where he discovered an astonis.h.i.+ng number of fellow writers who had known all along that he had the stuff of genius in him, and who were overjoyed that one of their comrades who had paid his dues at last was rewarded with the overdue recognition and prosperity he so deserved. Harrington decided to get knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk, but he was still able to walk, a.s.sisted by the wall, when he finally left the party.

Standing with the other sardines waiting to be packed into the elevator, Harrington listened to the nasal whine of the acne farm with the shopping bag full of books who had just pushed in front of him: "So all my friends who couldn't afford to make the trip from Des Moines gave me their books to get him to autograph too, and I promised them I would, and then they announced His Highness would sign only three books for each fan, and then they closed the autographing party with me still standing in line and for an hour and a half! I mean, I'm never buying another book by that creep! Nordgren doesn't care s.h.i.+t about his fans!"

"I know!" complained another. "I wrote him an eight-page fan letter, and all I got back was a postcard!"

Harrington managed to get most of the vomit into the shopping bag, and as the crowd cringed away and the elevator door opened, he stumbled inside and made good his escape.

His next memory was of bouncing along the wall of the corridor that led to his room and hearing sounds of a party at full tilt in Nordgren's suite. Harrington was surprised that Trevor had felt up to throwing a party after the debacle earlier that evening, but old habits must die hard, and Damon thought that a few more drinks were definitely called for after the elevator experience.

The door to Nordgren's suite was open, so Harrington shouldered his way inside. The place was solidly packed with bodies, and Harrington clumsily pushed a route between them, intent on reaching the bar. By the time he was halfway into the party, it struck him that he didn't know any of the people here-somewhat odd in that he and Nordgren generally partied with the same mob of writers and professionals who showed up at the major cons each time. The suite seemed to be packed entirely with fans, and Harrington supposed that they had crashed Nordgren's party, presumably driving the pros into another room or onto the balcony.

Harrington decided the crowd was too intense, the room too claustrophobic. He gave up on reaching the bar and decided to try to find Nordgren and see if he wanted to duck over to his suite for a quick toot and a chance to relax. Peering drunkenly about the crowded room, Harrington noticed for the first time that everyone's attention seemed to be focused toward the center. And there he recognized Nordgren.

"Trevor, my man! " Damon's voice sounded unnaturally loud and clear above the unintelligible murmur of the crowd.

He jostled his way toward Nordgren, beginning to get angry that none of the people seemed inclined to move aside despite his mumbled excuse-me's and sorry's. Nordgren might as well have been mired in quicksand, so tightly ringed in by fans as he was, and only Trevor's height allowed Harrington to spot him. Damon thought he looked awful, far worse than earlier in the day.

Nordgren stretched out his hand to Harrington, and Damon's first thought was that he meant to wave or to shake hands, but suddenly it reminded him more of a drowning victim making one last hopeless clutching for help. Shoving through to him, Harrington clasped hands.

Nordgren's handgrip felt very loose, with a scaly dryness that made Damon think of the brittle rustle of overlong fingernails.

Harrington shook his hand firmly and tried to draw Nordgren toward him so they could speak together. Nordgren's arm broke off at his shoulder like a stick of dry-rotted wood.

For a long breathless moment Harrington just stood there, gaping stupidly, Nordgren's arm still in his grasp, the crowd silent, Nordgren's expression as immobile as that of a crucified Christ. Then, ever so slowly, ever so reluctantly, as if there were too little left to drain, a few dark drops of blood began to trickle from the torn stump of Nordgren's shoulder.

The crowd's eyes began to turn upon Harrington, as Nordgren ever so slowly began to collapse like an unstrung marionette.

Harrington awoke the following noon, sprawled fully dressed across a couch in his own suite. He had a poisonous hangover and shuddered at the reflection of his face in the bathroom mirror. He made himself a breakfast of vitamin pills, aspirin, and Valium, then set about cutting a few wake-up lines to get him through the day.

Harrington was not really surprised to learn that Trevor Nordgren had died in his sleep sometime during the night before.

Everyone knew it was a drug overdose, but the medical examiner's report ruled heart failure subsequent to extreme physical exhaustion and chronic substance abuse.

Several of the science fiction news magazines asked Harrington to write an obituary for Trevor Nordgren, but Harrington declined. He similarly declined offers from several fan presses to write a biography or critical survey of Nordgren, or to edit proposed anthologies of Nordgren's uncollected writings, and he declined Warwick's suggestion that he complete Nordgren's final unfinished novel. Martin E. Binkley, in his Reader's Guide to Trevor Nordgren, attributed this reticence to "Harrington's longtime love-hate relations.h.i.+p with Nordgren that crystalized into professional jealousy with final rejection."

Damon Harrington no longer attends conventions, nor does he autograph books. He does not answer his mail, and he has had his telephone disconnected.

Columbine Books offered Harrington a fat one million advance for a third trilogy in the best-selling Fall of the Golden Isles series. When Harrington returned the contract unsigned to Helen Hohenstein, she was able to get Columbine to increase the advance to one and a half million. Harrington threw the contract into the trash.

In his dreams Harrington still sees the faceless ma.s.s of hungry eyes, eyes turning from their drained victim and gazing now at him. Drugs seem to help a little, and friends have begun to express concern over his health.

The mystery of Damon Harrington's sudden reclusion has excited the imagination of his public. As a consequence, sales of all of his books are presently at an all-time high.

Blue Lady, Come Back.

*I*

This one starts with a blazing bright day and a trim split-level house looking woodsy against the pines.

Wind shrieked a howling toscin as John Chance slewed his Duesenberg Torpedo down the streaming mountain road. A sudden burst of lightning picked out the sinister silhouette of legend-haunted Corrington Manor, hunched starkly against the storm-swept Adirondacks. John Chance's square jaw was grim-set as he scowled at the Georgian mansion just ahead. Why had lovely Gayle Corrington's hysterical phone call been broken off in the midst of her plea for help? Could even John Chance thwart the horror of the Corrington Curse from striking terror on the eve of Gayle and young Hartley's wedding?

"Humph," was the sour comment of Curtiss Stryker, who four decades previous had thrilled thousands of pulp readers with his yarns of John Chance, psychic detective. He stretched his bony legs from the cramped interior of his friend's brand-new Jensen Interceptor and stood scowling through the blacktop's heat.

"Well, seems like that's the way a haunted house ought to be approached," Mandarin went on, joining him on the sticky asphalt driveway.

Stryker twitched a grin. Sixty years had left his tall, spare frame gristled and k.n.o.bby, like an old pine on a rocky slope. His face was tanned and seamed, set off the bristling white mustache and close-cut hair that had once been blond. Mandarin always thought he looked like an old sea captain-and recalled that Stryker had sailed on a Norwegian whaler in his youth.

"Yeah, and here comes the snarling mastiff," Stryker obliged him.

A curious border collie peered out from around the Corvette in the carport, wondered if it ought to bark. Russ whistled, and the dog wagged over to be petted.

The yard was just mowed, and someone had put a lot of care into the rose beds that bordered the flagstone walk. That and the pine woods gave the place a cool, inviting atmosphere-more like a mountain cabin than a house only minutes outside Knoxville's sooty reach. The house had an expensive feel about it. Someone had hired an architect-and a good one-to do the design. Mountain stone and untreated redwood on the outside walls; cedar shakes on the roof; copper flas.h.i.+ngs; long areas of gla.s.s. Its split-level design adapted to the gentle hillside, seemed to curl around the grey outcroppings of limestone.

"Nice place to haunt," Mandarin reflected.

"I hope you're going to keep a straight face once we get inside," his friend admonished gruffly "Mrs Corrington was a little reluctant to have us come here at all. Doesn't want folks laughing, calling her a kook. People from all over descending on her to investigate her haunted house. You know what it'd be like."

"I'll maintain my best professional decorum."

Styker grunted. He could trust Russ, or he wouldn't have invited him along. A psychiatrist at least knew how to listen, ask questions without making his informant shut up in embarra.s.sment. And Russ's opinion of Gayle Corrington's emotional stability would be valuable- Stryker had wasted too many interviews with cranks and would-be psychics whose hauntings derived from their own troubled minds. Besides, he knew Mandarin was interested in this sort of thing and would welcome a diversion from his own difficulties.

"Well, let's go inside before we boil over," Stryker decided.

Russ straightened from petting the dog, carelessly wiped his long-fingered hands on his lightweight sportcoat. About half the writer's age, he was shorter by a couple inches, heavier by forty pounds. He wore his bright-black hair fas.h.i.+onably long for the time, and occasionally trimmed his long mustache. Piercing blue eyes beneath a prominent brow dominated his thin face. Movie-minded patients had told him variously that he reminded them of Terence Stamp or Bruce Dern, and Russ asked them how they felt about that.

On the flagstone walk the heady scent of warm roses washed out the taint of the asphalt. Russ thought he heard the murmur of a heat pump around back. It would be cool inside, then-earlier he had envied Stryker for his open-collar sports.h.i.+rt.

The panelled door had a bell push, but Stryker crisply struck the bra.s.s knocker. The door quickly swung open, and Russ guessed their hostess had been politely waiting for their knock.

Cool air and a faint perfume swirled from within. "Please come in," Mrs Corrington invited.

She was blond and freckled, had stayed away from the sun enough so that her skin still looked fresh at the shadow of forty. Enough of her figure was displayed by the backless hostess ensemble she wore to prove she had taken care of herself in other respects as well. It made both men remember that she was divorced.

"Mrs Corrington? I'm Curtiss Stryker."

"Please call me Gayle. I've read enough of your books to feel like an old friend."

Stryker beamed and bent low over her hand in the continental mannerisms Russ always wished he was old enough to pull off. "Then make it Curt, Gayle. And this is Dr Mandarin."

"Russ," said Mandarin, shaking her hand.

"Dr Mandarin is interested in this sort of thing, too," Stryker explained. "I wanted him to come along so a man of science could add his thoughts to what you have to tell us."

"Oh, are you with the university center here, Dr Mandarin?"

"Please- Russ. No, not any longer." He kept the bitterness from his voice. "I'm in private practice in the university area."

"Your practice is... ?"

"I'm a psychiatrist."

Her green eyes widened, then grew wary- the usual response-but she recovered easily. "Can I fix something for you gentlemen? Or is it too early in the afternoon for drinks? I've got ice tea."

"Sun's past the yardarm," Stryker told her quickly. "Gin and tonic for me."

"Scotch for you, Russ?" she asked.

"Bourbon and ice, if you have it."

"Well, you must be a southern psychiatrist."

"Russ is from way out west," Stryker filled in smoothly. "But he's lived around here a good long while. I met him when he was doing an interns.h.i.+p at the Center here, and I had an appendix that had waited fifty years to go bad. Found out he was an old fan-even had a bunch of my old pulp yarns on his shelves alongside my later books. Showed me a fan letter one magazine had published: he'd written it when he was about twelve asking that they print more of my John Chance stories. Kept tabs on each other ever since."

She handed them their drinks, poured a bourbon and ginger ale for herself.

"Well, of course I've only read your serious stuff. The mysteries you've had in paperback, and the two books on the occult."

"Do you like to read up on the occult?" Russ asked, mentally correcting her-three books on the occult.

"Well, I never have...you know...believed in ghosts and like that. But when all this started, I began to wonder-so I checked out a few books. I'd always liked Mr Stryker's mystery novels, so I was especially interested to read what he had to say on the subject of hauntings. Then, when I found out that he was a local author, and that he was looking for material for a new book-well, I got up my courage and wrote to him. I hope you didn't think I was some sort of nut."

"Not at all!" Stryker a.s.sured her. "But suppose we sit down and have you tell us about it. From your letter and our conversation on the phone, I gather this is mostly poltergeist-like phenomena." Gayle Corrington's flair-legged gown brushed against the varnished hardwood floor as she led them to her living room. A stone fireplace with raised hearth of used brick made up one wall. Odd bits of antique ironware were arranged along the hearth; above the mantelpiece hung an engraved double-barrelled shotgun. Walnut panelling enclosed the remainder of the room-panelling, not plywood, Russ noted. Chairs and a sofa were arranged informally about the Couristan carpet. Russ dropped onto a cream leather couch and looked for a place to set his drink.

Stryker was digging a handful of salted nuts from the wooden bowl on the low table beside his chair. "Suppose you start with the history of the house?" he suggested.

Sipping nervously from her gla.s.s, Gayle settled crosslegged next to the hearth. Opposite her a large area of sliding gla.s.s panels opened onto the sun-bright back yard. A mult.i.tude of birds and two fat squirrels worked at the feeders positioned beneath the pines. The dogs sat on the patio expectantly, staring back at them through the gla.s.s door.

Gayle drew up her freckled shoulders and began. "Well, the house was put up about ten years back by two career girls."

"Must have had some money," Russ interposed.

"They were sort of in your line of work-they were medical secretaries at the psychiatric unit. And they had, well, a relations.h.i.+p together."