[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning Read Online Free PDF Page B

telephone pole and raced back toward the village, not realizing her headlights were still out until an oncoming car screamed its horn at her and swerved sharply, as though she had crossed the center line.
    At the Pike she turned left into the village and pulled over to the curb after taking the first corner. Her hands would not leave the wheel. Her foot would not leave its pressure on the brake. The green dashlight wavered, blurred, picking up the quivering of her lips and arms, merged with the dark when the tears finally came. Silently. Quickly. As quickly gone as they had come. She licked her lips, tried to shake her head and discovered the aching that throbbed at her temples, swept along her jaw where she'd kept her teeth clenched. The taste of blood—her lip: The smell of the old and cracked vinyl upholstery, of gasoline, of wet tarmac, of what had to be fear. Slowly, one by one, she willed her fingers free of the wheel and flexed them to banish the cramps in the joints. Rubbed at her temples. Her chest.
    "God!" she said finally, and almost wept again at the sound of her voice.

3

    There were dreams in soft shifting colors of Cindybright days and Cynthiagrown nights, of Windsor Castle and Stonehenge at winter's dawn, of parties that lasted until the moon grew weary; of late December evenings in the family library when the fire was companion and the books her only friends; of Paul and Iris Lennon and Wallace McLeod, and the rest of the Yarrow staff who faded one by one in spite of the wealth; of Ed and his laughter and the smooth ride of his patience. Of winter nights ... of Ed ... of Paul, Iris, Wallace . . . Ed . . . and his laughter , . . of Ed ... and winter nights . . .
    And there were nightmares in colors that dared have no name; of her mother lying helpless at the foot of a steel ladder, her back twisted and broken while her mouth opened in scolding for the hands reaching to help her; of a pair of bright lights that shattered the walls to bring down the ceiling; of a faceless man stop who drove a monstrous car that expanded to cover the highway in a blackred rush; of driving between two hills stop whose incredible trees uprooted themselves and created a wall that reached out with barked claws to strip away the sky and stop! the breath from her lungs; of running across the park from the playing fields to the pond and seeing behind her a vast stop! shadowed figure that plucked at the stars and punctured the moon and stop stop in her path the sightless bloody corpses of Wallace and Paul and Iris Stop and Stop! Ed Stop! Ed please stop Ed please . . .
    "Stop," she whispered, almost whimpered, twisted herself violently onto her side and opened her eyes.
    The horrifying images of the bodies lingered, finally faded as she willed it, and the room returned in soft stages of light.
    Bookcases fronted in glittering lead glass, a tall polished wardrobe—her grandmother's— with the right-hand door that seldom stayed closed, dresser, vanity table and worn velvet stool, an overstuffed armchair with oversized wings she'd used as a child to carry herself away. Gentle reds and bronzed golds that shimmered in the morning light easing through the window—a casement window whose myriad small panes on every chilled morning seemed less like glass than thin slivers of ice. A book lay on the floor, its marker beside it. A pewter tray with crystal decanter and matching glass on the nightstand beside the bed. Prints on the walls of Remington cowboys and Remington squaws.
    All there, she thought as she rolled onto her back, and winced at the clammy sheets that pressed to her spine. Immediately she sat up, swung her legs over the side and stood, hugging her nightgown to her chest as she moved to the window and looked down at the yard. Warm; until she was reminded of the month; and cold as she rubbed her arms vigorously, stretched and rolled her neck to banish the night's stiffness.
    Brother, she thought, I don't need dreams like that