The Everborn Page 11

  There was a lovely couple, an unsuspecting couple, sharing a table together somewhere midway between the bar end and the brass rails of the entranceway steps.

  He watched them. They were important to him.

  Two individuals, after their dance, sat down at the center of the last row of tables in the press section. He knew who they were, knew of them, and they seemed interested in each other.

  He was interested in them. He watched them, too, though not as keenly as he did the lovely couple.

  And then there was the singer, the stage misfit, shining brighter than all of them at the moment, for the time being, not realizing that some day, for him, there would be no more stories to tell except for his own.

  The shabby grey shape watched him also, marveling at how here....in this room, amidst this fanfare....there was gathered the most important influences of his life.

  As far as people, for the most part.

  And as far as the living, for the dead could not attend this reunion, particularly the young one whose blood still dried in gravel-caked splashes against the moonlight of the Crow Job alley.

  Though the dead could not join the reunion, the reunion could always step outside and join the dead, any time.

  And the shabby grey shape would be their escort for the evening.

  10.

  Andrew and Melony

  If Melony had been more decided upon the extent of the disclosure of her identity to Andrew Erlandson, she would not have been so careless as to invite him to her table...and would not have left her press table card displaying her name and publication so openly obvious to wandering eyes.

  Melony was subtly made aware...oh so subtly at first...of several things which disturbed her at the touch of the hand she now clasped, of the young man whose hand she held behind her as she led him through the dispersal of dancers for a self-arranged liaison at her night club table. She kept these things, these feelings, these thoughts, at bay for the fear of any or all of them getting the best of her, subduing her until she’d find herself sulking in the regret of a mismanaged and wasteful evening.

  She’d taken advantage of the opportunity to watch and observe, a task which oddly reminded her of her husband and the security guard stories of his early college years. To observe Ralston Cooper, one of the most imperative objects of her interest, was impossible not to do. She was attentive to the table at which roosted Cooper’s agent, Cooper’s hokey, party-happy girlfriend, and specifically to the son of A.J. Erlandson, the son who managed not to disappear without a trace as did his father, as did initially his elusive twin brother also. The other imperative focus of the evening could not as readily be attended to, for the probability of this elusive other Erlandson’s presence, the presence of Andrew’s twin, was very much looking like a lost cause.

  Even though, unlike A.J., who never to anyone’s knowledge ever reappeared, never yet at any rate, Andrew’s sordid and spectral twin had made dozens of profound special guest appearances over the years in the Erlandson saga. Reappearing, disappearing, reappearing, like the ink from the pen of a practical jokester who doesn’t quite want anyone to catch more than a hint of his message on paper.

  Max and Mel had hoped for another appearance here, at the Crow Job Family Reunion, particularly since it was this twin who was most likely responsible for the death of Nigel in the adjoining alley outside.

  After all, it was this twin who’d been behind Nigel’s disappearance and assumed death the first time around. The fabled Wraith-child.

  Presumably. According to Max and Mel.

  Melony’s husband was specific in covering a plan of action at the news of the discovery of little Nigel’s body; though he’d be truly disappointed at the absence of the twin or Melony’s failure to spot him, as Melony was as well. Max made clear that the assignment for Mel was to pay primary attention to Andrew and to go in for the informative kill on that angle. Max imposed upon his own self the task of going after the twin and as soon as his plane arrived from his short-lived Brazil excursion he would right away set to work on that end.

  What disturbed Melony had little to do with any of this.

  Or, said again, what disturbed Melony was that these feelings and thoughts had little to do with any of what she’d planned.

  She knew she had to formally meet Andrew, to get to know him for as long as she needed him, somehow, and she had every intention of veiling her true identity and interest in him as efficiently and as coolly as the situation allowed.

  And with plenty of room to back out should things get too surreal or too dangerous.

  In watching his table, she knew she’d get farther with him if only she’d draw him away from William Behn’s rude snubbing of any zealous Cooper fan who approached him.

  Luring him away to dance had been the first step and she scored high and heavy with his interest wholly captured. She was thankful for the frivolous urges and intuition behind her choice of dress, for the rare but refreshing ease by which she unleashed her compulsion to let loose. Together these fancies played no small part in making things work for her.

  When she invited him to join her and took his hand, it was like taking the hand of a historic figure arisen from the stagnant memories of the past. She had so many questions for him, so many secrets to unravel, and it disturbed her to feel so intimidated. And on the other hand, he seemed so awkwardly timid, like a gentle young boy wrestling with a sexual tension that clearly made him come off as inexperienced with a woman’s attentions, pitting him against his own politeness.

  Her presuppositions had never allowed for such humanness. She found herself ashamed of scarcely having considered this a trait for him; for if he be anything other than human, living as one all his life should certainly make him human at heart.

  As they sat down together, Melony hoped her new insight proved true.

  She could only hope so, because as soon as Andrew was seated he was regarding her press table card and any new insight on his part toward her could prove far more disturbing than any thought or feeling obtained just by holding his hand.

  And it was much too late to turn things around, or to turn back.

  ***

  “A newsletter, huh? What’s Diverse Arcanum?”

  Melony took a sip of her half-downed fuzzy navel. “It means many strange things. A collection of many strange, ancient things, actually. You want a drink? What were you drinking?”

  “Damn, I left my beer....” Andrew realized.

  “Don’t go back,” Mel turned, motioned for a barhop. “I’ll buy us a round. Stay, keep me company a bit. I hate being alone here, not seeing anyone I know and you seem like good enough company....”

  “No, believe me, uh....” Andrew glanced at the name printed in cursive boldness upon the folded card, “Melony? Melony, believe me, you’ve rescued me from a table full of assholes. I hate being up at the front like that, anyway, it’s like sitting at the front row of a crowded movie theatre, the screen in your face and all these idiots blocking your view and pushing past you regardless of it being the front row.”

  A barhop approached the next moment; Mel ordered another fuzzy navel, with an added Foster’s for her guest. The barhop scribbled in jotted pen pecks upon her tray, then departed.

  “Want a sip in the meantime?” Mel offered him her drink and he obliged coyly.

  He returned it with a thank you and relaxed further into his seat. He then leaned forward, offered his hand to her. “Well...Melony, I’m Andrew. Thanks for the dance, by the way. That’s never happened before. To me.”

  Mel took his hand and they shook. “It’ll happen again if I can help it. Andrew. I bet you love to dance, even when it’s to a band of less-than-impressive cheap nobodies trying to make a first-rate writer look good while he sings bad.”

  Andrew laughed in amused agreement and she joined in the chuckle. Soon enough, the barhop returned with the drinks, adding them to a running tab exclusive only to each party within the reserved press section. Andrew lifted his F
oster’s for a toast and they did so to Mel’s appreciated band comment.

  They drank. Andrew was careful to harness his own roaming eyes away from the excitement of sleek shoulders bare and slender, cascading into revealing cleavage which at once fluttered loosely as black nylons crossed and rested, hands cupped and settled around the cocktail glass now placed within her lap.

  Mel found herself with no choice but to notice these self-conscious subtleties. Embarrassingly enough, she wished he would admire her more daringly, for she was aware of her own beauty and of how it turned him on so and just about any male attention of this kind was welcomed and even longed for God only knew the last time Maxy had ever taken time out to toss even a compliment her way. Hell, he was all so caught up in his obsessive gallivants that the only attention she’d get aside from hurried lovemaking or occasional banks of approval over clothes shopping choices was in how well she’d compile material for his latest project or book. It never used to be this way, but for what seemed like a long, long while, it amounted to nothing more.

  And now, someone was actually turned on by her, someone else and although for her to sense a lust of this nature from just any strange and drooling male was a common and indifferent annoyance generally, this instance could have come at no better time. As for it coming from Andrew Erlandson of all characters, with whom she at last just now had formally met....

  ....well, she suddenly discovered the odd reality of being profoundly turned on herself. And it frightened her. Though she hid it expertly, so she thought.

  So far, so very good, Mel. Keep it up, and perhaps you yourself may become a historic figure of the future’s past, to arise one day from another generation’s stagnant memories.

  ***

  They danced once more, this time to a rampant metal beat with lyrics that could never be misunderstood, only because not one word could be understood as anything anyway.

  When they returned to the table and received their sixth round, Andrew, in repositioning himself in his seat, slammed a kneecap into the table’s underside with a start. Melony was quick to rescue her cocktail from a toppled descent, though the glass escaped her grip with a splash and a pirouette until it rested upright and half empty before her.

  And the two of them broke into laughter.

  “We’re not bombed,” Mel jested.

  “Who’s bombed?” came Andrew’s reply.

  And, for the greater part, neither one of them really were. Andrew had limited his sizeable Foster’s to two, in favor of the less demanding Coors twelve ounce longnecks, while Mel had stuck to fuzzy navels, with a zombie shared between the two of them.

  Melony had come for reasons of professional pursuit and intense curiosity, Andrew because he was expected to and because he didn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. Yet there they were, as fantastically unreal as it seemed to the both of them but for fantastically different reasons, each having a surprisingly fantastic time.

  “Is your knee okay?”

  “Didn’t feel it,” said Andrew. Then, with a blunt calmness, he said to her following another beer swig, “So...wouldn’t they allow you to at least bring a friend?”

  Melony looked at him. “Who?”

  “Your newsletter people. You know, you’re probably the only one here who came alone, which is nuts, what with the dirtbags who normally hang out here and all. And with that kid they found in the alley

  “I heard about that. And how inappropriate to have a raging party event like this right next door, with not even a mention of caution or of what happened at all. All these people and with a maniac out running around....”

  “They don’t care,” Andrew moaned. “They don’t care because Ralston doesn’t care. Ralston probably gets off on it, probably sees an angle of novelty in a murder so recent and so close to the premier gig of a horror geek.”

  “For a personal assistant, you sound like you hate the guy.”

  Andrew cast a questioning gaze at her, reminded himself that his services to Ralston, at least on the surface, were no great secret. He toyed with his beer bottle label as he replied, “Personal slave. Doing everything for him is all I ever do. And he’s a pompous rat bastard, except for when he’s passed out.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Melony admitted. “I’m a personal slave and you might say for the same kind of rat bastard, except for my rat bastard isn’t pompous and he doesn’t pass out. He’s always on the go and for what he’s known for, you might say that between him and Ralston the celebrity status is equal. I know what you go through now and I never knew you went through that....”

  “What are you talking about...?”

  Melony caught herself. She could not believe the height of witless idiocy she had just displayed to herself.

  She had never considered the notion that Andrew Erlandson could be anything but disturbingly mysterious and alien to her; contrary to any expectations, she found him intensely enjoyable, personable, intelligent, and shy, and not to mention, increasingly handsome. She began to sense that he quite possibly had no knowledge of what he was and sensing this in turn lead to a new and foreboding impression that she might be wrong about him, that he may be human after all.

  And what an upset that would be! She would quit this queer career for sure if that were the case, go back to painting. Maybe she should have been painting all along....

  These were the things which now made her careless, that Andrew’s company actually was making her forget what she was there for. This was indeed a headache, for Andrew himself was what she was there for.

  Andrew was waiting for an answer, his puzzled expression growing all the more intense while she was growing all the more distressed.

  She needed an instant escape route, a trap door tunnel to the fun they shared moments before. Perhaps she should give it up, come clean, reveal everything. Perhaps she should knee-smack the table, should spill her drink again.

  Squid Friction erupted into a boisterous bastardization of Highway To Hell just then.

  Melony bolted from her seat.

  For what it’s worth, thank God....

  And she took Andrew by the hand, once again leading him to the dance floor.

  And they danced.

  11.

  Scratch At the Crow Job

  The lovely couple rose from their center table. The young man assisted the girl, with her coat and downed the remainder of his drink simultaneously. The girl grabbed her purse.

  They were leaving.

  The shabby grey shape waited patiently as they found their way to the exit. His heart then began to race. His fingers shook. He brought them to his face along with round-rimmed spectacles and pushed his spectacles into place.

  It was just...about...time.

  He abandoned his table, taking with him a red plastic cocktail straw from a nearby empty glass. He began to take his first steps toward the exit the moment the lovely couple disappeared into the outside air. Swiftly now...even more swiftly....

  When he reached the outer walkway, pushing restlessly past a handful of others exiting and a handful of others entering, he spotted the lovely couple as they strolled arm-in-arm across the parking lot, down the sidewalk, beneath the bright lamplight of the solemn street.

  He kept his pace steady and slow, careful to turn the other way or sidestep into the shadows should one or both of them take a glance behind and his way. As they crossed the adjoining intersection, he waited for a moment’s time before he did the same.

  Halfway across and from between the faded yellow crosswalk lines, he paused to gaze back himself, back to The Crow Job, back to the gaping black mouth of The Crow Job’s rearside alley. He thought recent memories.

  For a moment.

  Then he continued onward, chewing the tip of his cocktail straw nervously and discarding it to the street curb.

  At first, he thought the lovely couple were returning to their grey Mercedes, the Mercedes the young man had borrowed earlier from his church choir leader on the half-lie that his d
ate with the pastor’s daughter would be an innocent dinner-and-movie one. The shabby grey shape was prepared to follow, prepared to go in turn for his own shabby-shaped vehicle across the street, until the lovely couple strode past the Mercedes and continued further over the crabgrass cracks of severed sidewalk, down the street and further away from the happening nightclub.

  He stood still the next moment, resting against the riddled graffiti of a garbage dumpster, placing his fingers, now trembling and anxious, into his trench coat pockets. Two raggedy young men approached him from behind, mooching for a cigarette or three. He replied coldly that he didn’t smoke. They offered him unseen other things that they insisted would mellow his harsh disposition, with only a small price to pay in return. He replied, again coldly, that the only unseen things controlling his disposition would be resolved by himself very soon, adding that the young men had better get lost should they find themselves involved personally in that resolution. With a high price to pay.

  He abandoned the young men and the dumpster to continue his endeavor on the lovely couple, who were now much further down the street, their sojourn interrupted by a kissful embrace. They vanished soon into the distant dark of a building’s sharp corner. He knew where they were headed. Together.

  Up and across he went past the mouth of a narrow alley, splish-splashing shoe soles up and across drainage water, dodging a car’s gleaming headlights, over and onto the continuing walkway and patches of wet grass. In a careful rush he scurried past the stubble-white stucco of an old building and rounded the sharp turn in pursuit. Steering subtly through the thick shaded hues of the other side and its parking lot, he followed the lovely couple past the front entrance of a weathered motel.