The Summer Man

Chapter SIXTEEN





Dick Calvin climbed onto the stepstool beneath the opening for the attic, reaching for the poorly knotted rope to fit around his neck. He’d learned how to tie a hangman’s noose in his late teens, back when knowing how to tie different knots had been an integral part of working the piers, but he wasn’t as dexterous as he once had been. Between the arthritis and the eyesight, he couldn’t tie shit anymore.

He’d just touched the loop of rope—and there was a knock on the door. He hesitated, twisting the thick nylon braid between his fingers. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he didn’t have any friends…unless he counted Cecil, which he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Dick felt a familiar wave of deep unhappiness. Cecil had lost most of his marbles a few years back due to a series of strokes and didn’t know his own name anymore, let alone Dick’s; the few times Dick had made it out to the nursing home in Port Angeles, ol’ Cecil had only stared at him, his poor, sagging, frozen face shaking a little, his eyes haunted by a confused and silent stranger. Cecil wasn’t going to be knocking on any doors, ever again…and lately, Dick couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the Cecil he’d known at twenty, or at forty; hell, the man he’d known only a few years before.

A man’s man, Cecil Weston. Cecil had been the sort other men privately held up as an example for themselves—because he was responsible and straight-thinking and he didn’t hold truck with idiots or fools. He also told a good joke, a rare commodity, and wasn’t quick to judge anyone. Cecil had served honorably in Korea, come home and married his high school sweetheart and raised three good boys on a ship worker’s salary. He’d even aged gracefully, putting a life-is-for-the-living face on his widower status—his pretty, funny wife had died from the big C shortly after his retirement—dating a nice lady from his church four or five years after Hazel had been laid to rest. He’d mourned his wife, of course, but he’d done it in private, the way it was supposed to be. A good man, with a lifetime of good memories to help him grow old…and blam, the first clot hit, worming into his fine brain and settling in, a massive CVA that blew out half his lights. He’d just gone to bed that fateful night, and by the time his oldest son used his key the following afternoon, it’d been far too long…doctor said it was a wonder he was still breathing, considering, and just like that, Cecil Weston was doomed to diapers and delirium for the rest of his days. His kids had pooled their money, got him into a nice place; as much as they loved him, they couldn’t take care of him at home. But the nursing facility still smelled like piss, and even if the staff got slightly better than minimum wage, they didn’t know him, didn’t care about him. They looked at Cecil Weston and saw the living, breathing parody of the man he’d been, a series of systems to be fed and wiped and pitied until his body wore out or broke. And all those memories, lost…

Knock-knock-knock.

Dick scowled. The neighborhood kids knew better than to come to his house scrounging for jobs or selling their stupid crap. He knew a few people on the street by sight—the doctor, the young couple a half block down—but they’d have no reason to knock on his door. People generally annoyed him, and he didn’t mind saying so. Last time he’d had a drop-in visitor, it’d been Annie Thomas, asking about the girl in the park; before that, he couldn’t recall. Crazy world, now, sin to every side and no end in sight…and maybe a man like Cecil could have handled it, he would have handled it, would have found a way to navigate the chaos of the young century and his old body and done it smiling, remembering his life with Hazel and the boys, taking his lady to quiet dinners and regaling her with tales of the sea. Dick had tried to tough it out, tried to keep himself busy with his yard and his occasional scribblings, but he could see now that he’d been kidding himself, that the world had little use for the likes of him. His own sweet Annelise had died better than a half century ago; his strongest memories of the only woman he’d ever loved were as thin and translucent as smudged glass. But to lose even those, to wind up like Cecil…

The reality was, he was doomed either way. If his brain didn’t give out, something else would; some tired, damaged piece of him would stutter to its inevitable halt, and if he was lucky, that would kill him. Chances were far better that he’d rot to death alone in some low-rent hospital bed, robbed regularly by the migrant orderlies and condescended to by some creaky, dried-up nurse. Or worse, a perverted Nancy boy, who maybe got a little tickle from sponging off old-man cock. But even if he beat the odds, if he stayed hale and healthy until his final day, passing peacefully in his bed after a good night’s sleep, he wasn’t half the man Cecil Weston had been, not half. He’d lived a sour, solitary life and left no mark on the world. Sick or well, what memories did he have to fill the long nights when he couldn’t sleep? And really, who would give two shits when he was gone?

Knock-knock.

Persistent bastard. He had a brief urge to go down and tell the intruder where he could stick his sample case or whatever the hell he was selling. Interrupting a man at his home, where maybe his peace was all he had; shameful, it was downright shameful.

He slipped the noose around his chicken-skin neck, pulled the rope tight. Not much slack; he had it solidly tied to the rafters—maybe his hangman’s knot was off, but he could still tie a competent anchor bend, arthritis or no—and needed the drop to be short, what with the stool being so low to the ground. His toes would almost touch as it was. The ladder he’d used to put up the rope was locked away in the shed, the bills were paid up, the garden weeded and watered. He’d written a will and left it propped on the kitchen table, donating anything of value or interest to the township of Port Isley. Not that anyone would care, but he’d tidied up as best he could. It’s what Cecil would have done, if he’d known what was coming.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dick snapped, and pushed away from the stool, giving it a kick for good measure.





John knocked again, though he felt fairly certain that Dick Calvin wasn’t home. The old man’s car, a battered beige Ford sedan, was in the tiny detached garage, but Calvin was active; he spent an hour or three in his yard every day that it wasn’t raining; there was no reason to suspect that he hadn’t simply walked down into town.

Either that, or he’s already dead.

John sighed, looking out at the bay. The view from their street was fantastic in the evenings, the water lit up in ripples of golden light, but the sight provided little distraction. The thought that Calvin had killed himself…he wasn’t certain he was ready to go there, not yet.

There was something going on. Considering his overwhelmed practice, considering the murders, he thought Bob’s theory—that the citizens of Port Isley were being influenced, somehow—needed to be revisited. Emotions were heightened, people seemed to be having impulse control problems, issues with morality and id…his current halfhearted explanation, dreamed up on his way home from the hospital, was that they had fallen victim to some mildly psychedelic spore or pollen, some new variation that had come with the season, and even that felt crazy. Psychic ability was a step further than he wanted to go.

So why am I here? He thought, turning back to the door. A hand-lettered card—NO SOLICITORS, it read, in neat block letters—had been taped inside the curtained pane.

He answered himself, gazing at the unwelcoming card. Because he didn’t want to reject anything out of hand. Not after his day at the hospital, the intensity of the feelings he’d had. He had been mostly saved from his bizarre emotional turbulence with Sarah when her sister had woken, and a very tense, very forceful Stan Vincent had shown up a third time, carrying his photos; Karen had agreed to look at them and picked out two of the boys who’d attacked her—she wasn’t certain about the third—and John had again been struck by a rage he didn’t expect and couldn’t rationalize, watching her sweet face tighten and then crumple when she looked at the pictures.

John shook his head and rapped on the door once more. When Bob had finally caught up with him—John’s cell had rung about a minute after he’d turned it back on—the reporter had recounted his morning meeting with the teenagers…and had asked John to go check on his elderly neighbor, see if he could assess Calvin’s state of mind. John had only stopped at home long enough to use the bathroom and find out that Bob had called his voice mail three times before heading back out. Perhaps Dick Calvin was suicidal—the spore explanation would account for all kinds of abnormal thoughts and behaviors—but the idea that someone had sensed that about him…

Is probably no crazier than the rest of it. When he’d finally left Sarah and her sister, he’d meant to go straight home and spend the evening at his computer, writing his way through the disorder, making lists of things to consider, to research…but the urgency in Bob’s voice, when they’d spoken—the reporter believed this girl, who believed that Dick Calvin was planning to kill himself—suddenly it seemed like too much was happening too fast for John to take his time.

Way too fast, he thought, recalling his lingering good-bye embrace with Sarah, his tryst with Annie, and the brutal end to which she’d come. John knew a guy from med school who’d gone into etiology, studying disease causation. Dwier, Kurt Dwier. John had his e-mail somewhere, or could find it easily enough, get a phone number. Kurt had done some work at the CDC; he’d have some ideas about how to proceed.

And you’ll say what, exactly? “Hey, Kurt, long time no see. Listen, people are acting out of character around here. That is, some of them. There have been murders. I’ve been having strange thoughts, too…I feel really unfocused…or, rather, too focused, too caught up in myself. With my processing, as it were. Do you think it might be some kind of pollen?” The Kurt Dwier he’d known at school—a short, grinning redhead with a penchant for burping replies to questions—would calmly, rationally hang up on him.

He needed evidence, something real and tangible to back up his claims. Stats from his files, crime data, hospital records…he could make a case. He had to do something. His training and vocation gave him a clear picture of how bad things could get for Port Isley, assuming there was some mind-altering agent at play. How many people in any community were slightly less than balanced, leaning toward trouble? How many would only need a slight nudge to send them over?

What’s actually happening out there?

John turned on the small porch and looked out at the immaculate yard. Tall or fragile plants didn’t grow well in Port Isley, blasted as they were by the winds, but Calvin had nurtured a number of low, hearty flowers in perfectly symmetrical beds that ran along the sides of his home. John recognized marigolds and what he thought was peony; his mother had been a weekend gardener, although her efforts had never been so picture-perfect. The lawn was as flawless as ever, the last of the day’s light against Kehoe’s trees casting long shadows across the manicured green. If Dick was suffering from suicidal depression, it hadn’t stopped him from keeping up appearances.

He’s fine. He walked down the hill, that’s all. John would go home, get some notes down. He would get organized—even the word was soothing, images of neat lists and bullet points calming him, allowing him to momentarily disregard his concerns—and come back in an hour or so.

He turned back toward his house—and saw a handful of teenagers emerging from the old school basement across the street, the girls giggling, the young men swaggering and playing cool. On impulse he changed direction, walking toward Dick’s backyard. He didn’t feel like being sized up by a gaggle of stoned kids, and the path that ran behind their homes was actually quite pleasant by twilight in the summer, cool and thick with shadow. There was a man walking toward him through the dusk, a stranger. John slowed his step. The man was on the tall side but hunched slightly, his head down; he didn’t see John, didn’t seem to see anything as he walked, his gaze on the ground. The guy was too thin, and pale. He didn’t look familiar, either, although the dark of the woods masked him somewhat, turning his eyes into black pools.

The stranger finally looked up when they were less than a dozen feet apart, and John saw that he was fairly young, probably no older than thirty. Surprise registered on the younger man’s face, his body straightening, his hands coming out of his pockets. He was close enough for John to see a flurry of emotions cross his gaze—the stranger was startled, angry, fearful, guilty…then carefully blank, although John believed that the man had been crying, from the raw, red look around his eyes.

Imagination, John told himself. Maybe he had allergies. And why would he be angry or afraid?

Or guilty?

Both men stopped walking and regarded one another. John put on a polite smile and stuck out his hand, stepping forward. The main trail through the park was a good fifty meters west of the small track that connected his house to Dick’s; the man was trespassing, and while John saw no reason to call him out for it, common sense dictated that whenever possible, you tried to meet the people who were lurking behind your home.

“Hi,” he said. “Going for a hike?”

The stranger didn’t back away, exactly, but seemed to hunch away from John’s outstretched hand, jamming his own back into his coat pockets.

Don’t touch, John thought, lowering his hand. Overhead, high in the trees, the wind was picking up. The crash of the branches was like the ocean, the airy surf loud enough to almost drown the stranger’s low, soft voice.

“You’re the doctor.”

“I don’t know if I’m the doctor,” he said. His voice sounded bright and amiable, which made him feel like some cocktail party dork, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “I’m a doctor. John Hanover, I live in the last house on the block.”

He nodded toward his house, although the back porch was hidden by a turn of the track. The stranger didn’t turn to look—but seemed to understand that more was required of him, that an introduction was now mandatory.

“David Mallon,” he said. He didn’t smile. “I took the rental. The gray bungalow.”

Ah. The mysterious neighbor. That explained what he was doing back here. John refreshed his own smile. Not that he particularly wanted to chat, but he’d always felt it paid to be friendly with neighbors, to at least be able to call them by name; you never knew when you might need help. “You’re right next door, then. Are you here for the summer?”

Mallon nodded. “That’s the plan.” Still no smile, and his posture continued to be defensive, his shoulders up, his whole body leaning away from John’s. Like he thought John had a cold and was afraid of catching it.

“You here for the water or the architecture?” John asked, and at Mallon’s blank look, added, “Our summer people fish, sail, or like Victorians, for the most part.”

“Summer people,” Mallon said, and finally smiled, a faint thing. “Is that what I am?”

“Not necessarily,” John said. He couldn’t tell if Mallon was offended or amused. And suddenly, standing here and chatting with him, trying to analyze him, seemed like a monumental waste of time. “I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted today; I have some things to take care of…it’s nice to meet you. Maybe we can try it again sometime?”

Mallon nodded, but as John started to walk past him, he didn’t move, didn’t take the natural opportunity to end the conversation by continuing his own way. John considered stopping for about a quarter of a second, to ask if Mallon was all right, but the lure of getting home (getting organized) was too great. He simply nodded at the young man—an introvert, obviously, and possibly a mysophobe—and kept walking, his thoughts turning back to his jumble of thinking. He would write it down, quantify and simplify. Events, his clients, something about emotional evolution…

By the time he reached his back porch, he’d entirely forgotten Mallon.





Devon was gone. He’d packed a bunch of his stuff into the ancient Volvo wagon in his uncle’s garage—Sid was still out of town on business, and the Volvo was technically Devon’s, a gift from Sid for his sixteenth birthday; Isley was too small to ever drive anywhere, though Devon drove it to Port Angeles sometimes—and he’d left a long note for Sid, explaining that he had to go to Portland (he’d intimated a boyfriend emergency for Claire, who was also Sid’s niece), and that Amanda would stay for a while (homeless)…and then he’d said good-bye and hugged her and driven away. Amanda had watched his car turn down the hill, heading for the winding route that would lead him to the interstate, his taillights barely flickering at the stop sign. Somehow, the day had passed; it was full dark and starting to cool on this side of town. Back at the apartment, the heat would just be starting to pick up, turning her bedroom into a stifling cave.

Ex-bedroom, she thought, but her homelessness didn’t bother her half as much as watching Devon drive away. Eric, who’d been conspicuously silent all day, was probably still sitting on the porch. He had hung back while she and Devon were embracing and saying their final farewells, offering a disinterested wave to her best friend in the world as he’d deserted her.

Not deserted, she told herself, still watching the empty street. Not abandoned. What choice did he have? It wasn’t like she could ask him to stay in Port Isley, to hold her hand and comfort her through this—this f*cked-up weirdness—after she’d seen him floating in the bay. And he was only going to Portland. It was six, seven hours away, tops. Sid was pretty easygoing; he treated Devon like an adult and likely wouldn’t be too freaked that his nephew had taken off. And he’d let Amanda stay for as long as she needed; Sid Shupe was one of those rare adults who actually helped people instead of just talking about it. He’d even offered to let Amanda move in once, after Grace had pulled her last DUI.

She sighed, noting that her daylong abuse of caffeine had left her with a sour stomach and a jittery, grainy feeling. She didn’t feel like crying for a change, but she was bone tired. How long before the threat was gone, before it was safe for Devon to come back? How long would she participate with Bob’s Let’s-Save-Isley idea before she decided to blow town, to make the certified jump from homeless teen to self-sufficient young person?

Eric was suddenly standing behind her, his long-fingered hand slipping around her waist. He’d ducked home while Devon had been packing, and she’d felt kind of…relieved, really. Devon had been chattering away, nervous as hell about leaving—and about being near her, she’d sensed, not in a supernatural way but because every time she moved closer to him, he found a way to be on the other side of the room. By silent consent, they hadn’t spoken about his hookup with Mitchell Jessup, which was just as well. She was pretty much creeped out by the concept, and he was obviously embarrassed. In spite of the awkwardness, though, she’d been glad for some alone time with him, because she didn’t know when she’d see him again, and their friendship was, like, the only truly solid thing in her life. But then Eric had been back in less than an hour, just showed up and walked in, like he’d been invited. He’d been too quiet, mostly listening to Devon’s anxious monologue, occasionally trying to touch her. He’d been weird all day, staring at her every time she looked at him, and he was kind of…stilted, the way he talked. Like he was carefully thinking about everything he said before he said it.

She tensed for just a second when he moved even closer but then made herself relax. With Devon gone, she didn’t exactly have a support network anymore. And Eric was still totally hot, even if he was acting stupid today, and he obviously wanted to help her. For the most part, she liked the touching and his intensity. She’d definitely liked it last night.

She had to think of Peter then, and her mother, and how the night had ended. It seemed like a million years had passed already. She didn’t want to think about it, not at all, and she grasped for a diversion. Bob had said he was going to do some research, talk to his shrink friend, and then call her at Devon’s sometime in the evening. Sid wasn’t supposed to be back until Monday or Tuesday. She and Eric were alone.

The urge to f*ck his brains out was sudden and all-encompassing. Without another thought, she turned in to his embrace, sliding her hand to the front of his jeans.

They broke apart long enough to get inside. Barely. And for a few moments, at least, their bodies locked perfectly together, and she was free from thought, from everything but his touch.