Strangers Read Online Free PDF Page B

know the cause of his irrational fear, but he knew he would conquer it, sooner or later, so there was no sense in humiliating himself and causing Faye unnecessary anxiety over a temporary condition.
    He refused to believe that it was serious. He had been ill only rarely in his fifty-two years. He had only been laid up in the hospital once, after taking a bullet in the butt and another one in the back during his second tour of duty in Vietnam. There had never been mental illness in his family, and Ernest Eugene Block was absolutely sure-as-hell-and-without-a-doubt
not
going to be the first one of his clan to go crawling and whimpering to a psychiatrist’s couch. You could bet your ass on that and never have to worry what you would sit on. He would tough this out, weird as it was, unsettling as it was.
    It had begun in September, a vague uneasiness that built in him as nightfall approached and that remained until dawn. At first he was not troubled every night, but it got steadily worse, and by the middle of October, dusk always brought with it an inexplicable spiritual distress. By early November the distress became fear, and during the past two weeks his anxiety grew until now his days were measured—and almost totally defined—by this perplexing fear of the darkness to come. For the past ten days, he’d avoided going out after nightfall, and thus far Faye had not noticed, though she could not remain oblivious much longer.
    Ernie Block was so big that it was ridiculous for him to be afraid of
anything.
He was six feet tall and so solidly and squarely built that his surname was equally suitable as a one-word description of him. His wiry gray hair was brush-cut, revealing slabs of skullbone, and his facial features were clean and appealing, though so squared-off that he looked as ifhe had been carved out of granite. His thick neck, massive shoulders, and barrel chest gave him a top-heavy appearance. When he had been a high-school football star, the other players called him “Bull,” and during his twenty-eight-year career in the Marines, from which he had been retired for six years, most people called him “sir,” even some who were of equal rank. They would be astonished to learn that, lately, Ernie Block’s palms got sweaty every day when sunset drew near.
    Now, intent upon keeping his thoughts far from sunset, he dawdled over the repairs to the counter and finally finished at three-forty-five. The quality of the daylight had changed. It was no longer honey-colored but amber-orange, and the sun was drawing down toward the west.
    At four o’clock he got his first check-in, a couple his own age, Mr. and Mrs. Gilney, who were heading home to Salt Lake City after spending a week in Reno, visiting their son. He chatted with them and was disappointed when they took their key and left.
    The sunlight was completely orange now, burnt orange, no yellow in it at all. The high, scattered clouds had been transformed from white sailing ships to gold and scarlet galleons gliding eastward above the Great Basin in which almost the entire state of Nevada lay.
    Ten minutes later a cadaverous man, visiting the area on special assignment for the Bureau of Land Management, took a room for two days.
    Alone again, Ernie tried not to look at his watch.
    He tried not to look at the windows, either, for beyond the glass the day was bleeding away.
    I’m not going to panic, he told himself. I’ve been to war, seen the worst a man can see, and by God I’m still
here,
still as big and ugly as ever, so I won’t come unglued just because night is coming.
    By four-fifty the sunlight was no longer orange but bloody red.
    His heart was speeding up, and he began to feel as if his rib cage had become a vise that was squeezing his vital organs between its jaws.
    He went to the desk, sat down in the chair, closed his eyes, and did some deep-breathing exercises to calm himself.
    He turned on the radio. Sometimes music helped. Kenny Rogers was singing