The Cunning

  They got into quite a discussion about the whole pruning problem. “Of course you have a different climate out here,” Homer said. “But where I come from, there’s just two rules. The weaker the bush, the harder the pruning. Prune hard for size, light for quantity. Of course, you take your hybrids—you cut them back for both.”

  “The older varieties, yes,” Joe nodded. “But some of the new types are much more robust. The plants are larger—take a look at these over here, for example. I never cut them back to anything over eighteen or twenty inches.”

  “What about mulch?” Homer said.

  So Joe told him his theories about mulch, and from mulch they got into a general discussion concerning compost. Homer had strong views on the compost issue.

  “Don’t care what they tell you about all these new-fangled chemicals. There isn’t an artificial fertilizer made that can do the job like the real thing. Sure, you got to watch it, but I still hold you get the best results that way, no matter if you’re growing orchids or wild cabbage. Just nothing to beat good old natural bone meal and manure.”

  Voices were sounding from the living room. Joe nodded toward the French windows. “Looks like the others are here. Maybe we’d better go back in and say hello.”

  “Right.” Homer tugged at his collar and reluctantly followed Joe across the patio and into the babble beyond. He stayed at Joe’s side through the onslaught of introductions.

  Thank God Irene was there to make things easier, but even with her help Joe had his problems sorting them all out.

  Tom and Jerry Norwood—they were the artists Irene had told him about. She seemed to be halfway civilized, yakking away with a glass in her hand, but he looked like a basket case. Funny combination, these two.

  Sylvia Clark and her husband, Warren. Another odd couple, obviously younger; still in their late fifties, he’d guess. Here again, she was bright and outgoing while he wasn’t with it at all. He had a smile tighter than Homer’s collar. Something biting him, that’s for sure.

  Carrie Humphreys. And just who in blazes was she? Mean looking old bitch—face like a barracuda with false teeth. What would Irene be doing mixed up with this one? Oh, yes, he remembered now. She was the neighbor, the trouble maker. Have to watch out for this one, handle her with kid gloves. Figure of speech, of course—he wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.

  Dolly Gluck. Now there was a different proposition. The hair was either a good dye job or a wig, and the face had been lifted by a hydraulic engineer; but whatever her age she didn’t look it. Or act it. When Joe was introduced he held out his hand and she massaged it in both of hers. “So you’re Joe Marks! I just can’t believe we’re meeting at last—I’ve heard so much about you—”

  Phony line, in a phony little-girl’s voice. But the perfume welling up from her cleavage was the real thing, and the cleavage was real, too. Retired madam? Or still in business? “I’m just dying to see this beautiful place of yours—”

  Irene took him off the hook. “I want you to meet Ed Brice. He’s the man I told you about from the bowling tournament. Ed, this is my husband, Joe.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  He didn’t sound like it. Didn’t look it, either. Bald-headed old bastard had a grip on him like a pro wrestler. The old squeeze-play, trying to make you wince. Joe made a point of not reacting.

  He just flexed his tendons to absorb the pressure and waited for this gorilla to get tired of the game. Maybe if he offered the monkey a banana—

  “How about a drink?” he said.

  Ed Brice released his hand on cue, but shook his head. “No thanks—never touch the stuff.”

  It figured. Physical fitness line, a health-food nut. But why did he keep staring at him like that? Joe searched for another distraction, then remembered Homer standing beside him.

  “How about you?” he said. “The bar’s open.”

  Homer shrugged. “I could stand a snort.” He grinned, his eyes searching for Lulu in the background.

  “And Mrs. Owens—can I get something for her?”

  “Don’t worry about Lulu.” Homer found his wife, seated in a corner chair, and nodded toward her. “She’s got coffee.”

  “Come along, then.”

  Joe led Homer over to the bar, conscious of Brice’s stare boring between his shoulder blades. He had to restrain himself from glancing back; as it was, he almost collided with the long-haired young man in the white jacket coming from the kitchen with a tray of appetizers.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said the young man. Joe recognized him, then; he was Mick, the one who’d been there that morning to set up the arrangements with Irene.

  But he didn’t recognize the fellow behind the bar. Blond hair with contrasting dark eyebrows and mustache; a little taller and a little older than Mick. He looked very professional in his red jacket and almost-matching maroon bowtie, and his movements were deft as he poured refills of Cutty over the rocks in the two glasses extended to him by Tom Norwood.

  When the operation was concluded and Tom turned away, the barman glanced at Joe.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  Joe turned to Homer beside him. “Name it,” he said.

  “Bourbon.”

  “Blend, straight or sour-mash?”

  Homer hesitated and Joe smiled at him. “How about a little Jack Daniels?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “One Jack.” The barman lifted the black-labeled bottle over a glass into which the ice had already been deposited. “Water or soda?”

  “Water.”

  It gurgled from the carafe, and the barman looked up. “And yours?”

  Joe shrugged. “The same. Straight, no ice.”

  He accepted the glass, noting the generous size of the shot. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Gibby, sir.”

  “Thank you, Gibby.” Joe turned away, lifting his glass to Homer. Homer’s glass was dark, even with the water added. This bartender must be working on commission, but what the hell, drinks made a party. Wouldn’t hurt to loosen some of these uptight characters a little.

  And they were uptight. Homer with his collar, his wife following Irene around like a puppy, that artist fellow with his sour puss, the old battle-axe—Humphreys, mustn’t forget her name—giving everybody dirty looks, and Ed Brice with his fish-eye stare. Then there was the other one, Warren Clark, sitting over at the far end of the room all alone, just watching.

  For a moment he had the feeling that they were all watching, that every one of them had their eyes on him. Even the barman; even Mick, the fellow with the tray, seemed to be watching. Watching and waiting. But why? And for what?

  Ridiculous.

  Joe lifted his Jack Daniels and nodded to Homer.

  “Cheers.”

  It wasn’t until he felt the drink go down that he realized he’d forgotten the most uptight one of all.

  Joe turned to the bar and held out his empty glass. “Here,” he said. “Do it again.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Warren sat in the corner, nursing his drink.

  Something was wrong here, something was very wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew from the moment they’d come in.

  His host and hostess seemed cordial enough, though not at all the way he’d pictured them. Joe Marks was an insignificant little man, completely overshadowed by his wife. Irene, moving through the gathering and making small talk, reminded him of Sylvia in a way, and her mask of sociability was equally impenetrable. There was nothing disturbing about her or Joe, but the others—

  Tom and Jerry, for instance. They’d greeted him casually without any hint of restraint, yet at the same time neither of them made any reference to the brunch. And Tom immediately drifted off in the direction of the bar, where Jerry joined him. The two of them were drinking steadily tonight. Why?

  Dolly Gluck hadn’t said anything about the brunch either. She acted almost as though they were meeting here for the first time. Of course, that
might have been for Sylvia’s benefit; perhaps that’s why she had avoided any further conversation and headed for the bar.

  Did that same explanation hold true for Roy Crile? Was that why he greeted Sylvia in such an off-hand manner, to keep him from getting suspicious? If so, Sylvia was playing the game too. Warren had watched them exchanging the usual social noises upon meeting and could detect nothing. Crile had moved away and Sylvia, like Lulu Owens, immediately attached herself to Irene.

  Lulu and her husband were completely unknown quantities. He’d seen Homer out on the patio with Joe Marks and wondered what they were talking about. Some business deal? But Joe Marks was supposed to be retired, and Homer didn’t strike him as the business type. Farmer, wasn’t he?

  And Ed Brice. There was a cipher for you, a bald-headed enigma, standing by himself near the bar but without a drink in his hand. From time to time Warren felt conscious of his scrutiny. What was he, some kind of private investigator?

  Warren smiled self-consciously at the thought. Who was he to pass judgment? The pot calling the kettle black. Maybe Brice felt the same way he did about these people. Something was in the air, something strained, strange. Or was that merely an echo of his own reactions?

  Because he felt strained and strange. Knowing that he was sitting here, with that time bomb ticking away in his pocket, waiting for the moment to explode and end it all. Of course it wouldn’t end anything for anybody except himself, but that was enough.

  Funny, under the circumstances, that he should be concerned with the others at all. No matter what their secrets might be, they couldn’t compare with his.

  And yet he still felt curiosity. About Carrie Humphreys, exchanging perfunctory remarks with Lulu Owens now over the appetizer tray on the cocktail table, but sending a darting glance in the direction of the white-coated figure who had just placed the tray before them.

  Warren followed her gaze, then repressed a startled frown. The young man in the white jacket—wasn’t he the one who’d been driving the van this morning and almost run him down?

  The young man turned and for a moment his eyes met Warren’s. No hint of recognition flashed across the room, but Warren realized he hadn’t been mistaken. This was the fellow, no doubt of it now. What he was doing here seemed obvious enough, and yet—

  “Guess I owe you an apology.”

  Warren glanced up to see Roy Crile standing before him. The older man was smiling.

  “Didn’t mean to run out on you this noon,” he said. “Truth to tell, I was getting a little tired, so I went home and took a nap.”

  “Is that a fact?” Is it a fact, you bastard, or did you run off to an assignation with my wife? Warren managed to keep the hostility out of his voice, but the thought was there.

  “Older you get, the harder it is to fight the second law of thermodynamics,” Crile said. “Eventually you just give up and fall apart.”

  Warren forced himself to return Crile’s grin. “You don’t look as if you’re falling apart to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, really. I always say, if you haven’t made it by seventy, forget it.”

  Was he being taunted? Crile’s smile told him nothing. Another mask.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “By all means.” Warren didn’t give a damn if he fell down. But it might be interesting to trip him up first.

  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation at the brunch,” Warren said, as the older man settled himself in a chair.

  “Me too. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk. You see, I told you something that wasn’t true.”

  Warren stiffened. “You did?”

  “Yes. About meeting you at the Bascombs’ place. It never happened.”

  What was this?

  Crile nodded. “It came to me later—you weren’t there. It was your wife I met. But she told me so much about you that my memory played tricks. I really thought we’d met.”

  And what kind of a trick are you playing now? Warren leaned back fighting the impulse to say just that. Instead he heard himself murmur, “Just what did she tell you? I’m curious.”

  “Quite a bit. About your retirement plans, why you came here. It struck me as odd that anyone as young as yourself would voluntarily elect to live in Eden. Particularly with a wife who still takes such an active interest in things.”

  “You sound as if you know Sylvia quite well.”

  “Not at all.” Crile shrugged. “We see each other at club meetings, of course, and sometimes we talk.” He paused. “Forgive me for saying this, but I get the impression that she’s lonely.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Of course not. Just a hunch. All this activity, it’s as though she was trying to fill a void. Common enough for women when they reach a certain age, particularly if they don’t have children or grandchildren to command their attention, or their husbands fail to share their interests.” Crile hesitated again. “But I’m getting too personal—”

  “Go ahead. I’m interested.” Warren fought to keep the edge out of his voice. “What else do such women do to pass the time? Watch television, turn into lushes, take lovers—”

  “Sometimes.” Crile smiled again. “I wouldn’t be in a position to know. I’ve never invited a woman over to watch television, I drink very little, and as for the sex part of it—”

  “You’re trying to tell me you’re too old?”

  Crile’s smile faded. “Perhaps we’re both getting a little too personal.”

  “You’re the one who started it.” Warren felt himself flushing and his anger surged forward. “You as much as said Sylvia’s unhappy. That you see her regularly, at all these meetings. Where else do you see her? Go ahead, let’s have it. I’d like to know.”

  “Don’t be a damned fool. There’s nothing between your wife and myself.”

  “Then why are you two so friendly?”

  “I told you what I thought the reason is. Because she’s lonely.”

  “Is that your excuse too?”

  Crile shrugged. “In seventeenth century Siam, members of the royal family and the nobility were executed with special honors. In deference to their rank, they were sewed into red velvet sacks and beaten to death with clubs of sandalwood.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Crile smiled, then rose stiffly. “Nothing. Except that some of us are not quite so fortunate.”

  Still smiling, he slowly walked away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Emily had a dream.

  She was sitting there, staring out at the garden, searching the shadows for the spot where the tree stood. The tree and the fruit, the forbidden fruit. But it was too dark, everything was black, black and brooding. When she remembered what was waiting for her out there in the blackness she began to whimper softly, and it was then that the voice spoke.

  Thou shalt fear no evil.

  She stopped whimpering, strained to listen. And the voice grew louder.

  Fear not, for I am with you. And thou art armed and armored in righteousness.

  Emily wasn’t afraid any more. She heard the words clearly.

  The time has come. Go forth. Go forth and do the work of the Lord. I command you now. Join me in welcoming our very special guest, Mr. Barry Gaines.

  Music, and a burst of applause.

  Emily’s eyes blinked open, but the sound persisted in the darkened room. Suddenly she realized its source; the muffled din was coming from the other room, beyond her locked door. Ruth and Bill were watching television in there.

  She rose, groping her way across the dim bedroom until she stood beside the door panel.

  “Barry, I understand you’re just back from a very successful engagement in London.”

  “That’s right, man. They really go for me over there, you know?”

  Emily heard the words, divining their meaning.

  Barry, tarry. Tarry and listen. I understand. And she did understand. Successful engagement in London. But she was never engaged, and
London bridge was falling down, has already fallen; isn’t it out in the desert now?

  But of course, that was what it meant. Engagement. Engage the enemy successfully in the desert, the wilderness. That’s right, man. Man, the enemy. They really go for me over there, you know? Yes, she knew. Go for me. That was the command again. The Lord speaketh in many tongues.

  Only she couldn’t go through the locked door, couldn’t let Ruth and Bill know.

  And the window was nailed shut. She remembered that, now. The nails and the crucifixion. When had Bill driven in the nails—three days ago? But on the third day He rose.

  What did that mean? It was in the Bible. And the Bible was in the drawer. Something else about a drawer—she remembered that, too. After Bill nailed the window she had taken something from the kitchen drawer. Taken it out and put it into her own bureau drawer here, under the Bible. Something to use when she wanted to remove the nails and open the window.

  Emily crossed the room, a shadow moving amidst shadows. Opening the drawer, she fumbled and found it.

  Then she went to the window.

  For a moment she stood staring out into the dark. The blackness, the wilderness. She couldn’t go there, because that’s where the enemy waited. Even armed in righteousness, she feared the enemy. Christ will overcome, but she wasn’t Christ, she was only Emily. They were trying to confuse her, the voices lied. Barry, tarry. Thou shalt tarry until I return.

  Or had she misunderstood? Perhaps He had returned. And there would be no confrontation with the enemy, for the successful engagement meant just that. Engagement. The Bride of Christ. He was waiting for her out there.

  Emily peered through the windowpane. It wasn’t all black, there was a light somewhere beyond. Beyond the brooding basilisks was the tree and on the tree was the fruit and its name was knowledge. Eat of the fruit and ye shall understand. That was the command. Soon she would know.

  Quietly, cautiously, Emily pried at the nails. Her fingers faltered but hers was the strength of the Lord, and she did not fail.