Chapter Five
Harry had been uneasy for days—starting the minute Townsend slid into the booth in that downtown café. By now he should be feeling better. He had a decent wad of cash in his wallet, more money than he’d ever owned at once. Enough, Townsend said, to get him to Portland and to support him while he seduced Swan.
He had a car too, a taffy-colored ’48 Ford. Not as nice as Townsend’s cushy late-model Caddy, the Ford showed a few dents and scrapes, and its interior smelled like an ashtray. But it was his to drive, at least for a while. He’d never owned a car.
He even had new clothes, because Townsend claimed Harry needed something better than the well-worn denims and threadbare shirts he’d brought from Missouri. The old church suit he’d worn for his interview was too short in the legs and too tight in the shoulders, and he knew it betrayed him as a rube from the sticks. Now he owned several pairs of nice trousers, some new shirts and sweaters, and a suit jacket that made him look downright snazzy.
But despite all the material goods and the escape from the March Hotel, Harry was troubled. Maybe that had something to do with the not-corpse in the trunk of his car.
He hadn’t expected the monster to talk, surely hadn’t expected him to beg. And although the monster looked horrible—all skin, bones, and vivid scars—his blue eyes were as human as any Harry had seen.
Jesus fucking Christ, what had he gotten himself into?
After Townsend recruited him, Harry had spent a few days at HQ with some of the agents. They’d given him the story to use on Swan and then drilled him so thoroughly that Harry almost lost track of his real history. Was he any longer the unwanted son of a drunk from Missouri, a guy with one thin, final hope of a future? Or was he a would-be actor who’d had a brief but torrid love affair with an older man, a gentleman of some means who dabbled in the arcane arts before croaking suddenly in a car wreck, leaving his monster and some of his money to his protégé?
Townsend had him sleep in a hotel near HQ. A nice place, not a rooming house like the March. Harry basked in the private bathtub and the soft, clean linens. He ordered from room service—a luxury he’d seen in movies but never experienced himself—and had a few drinks in the swanky hotel bar. On a whim he wandered into a bookstore and bought a copy of Frankenstein, as if the book might somehow help him make sense of his predicament. It didn’t. In fact, always a poor reader to begin with, he’d especially struggled with the old-fashioned language. Still, he’d kept the book, and now it was tucked into his suitcase in the back seat.
The monster hadn’t raised any fuss on the day when Harry had cuffed him, hauled him from the cell, up the HQ stairs, and out to the car. In fact, he’d sort of leaned against Harry’s shoulder as if enjoying the contact. That should have been unsettling, but it wasn’t—not exactly. It made Harry want to protect him, actually. Maybe because the monster was the first person in a long time who hadn’t acted as if there was something wrong with Harry.
“Great, I have the approval of monsters.” Now with the monster in the trunk, Harry frowned and stepped harder on the gas.
The Ford took him swiftly over the hills and into the Central Valley, which reminded him uncomfortably of Missouri. Dusty farms and little nothing towns. He frequently glanced at the Sierras to the east, just to confirm he was in California.
Was the monster uncomfortable in the trunk? Scared? Harry had no idea what range of emotions such a creature might feel, but he was certain he’d already seen the monster show fear.
Uneasy with this line of thought, Harry tried to focus on the road. Eventually, though, his eyelids grew heavy, and shortly after the sun set, he pulled into the parking lot of the El Rancho Motel. It was an L-shaped, single-story building with a red tile roof. A row of palm trees stood nearby, two of them with the crowns broken off. But what interested Harry the most was the nearly empty lot; it looked as if he’d enjoy plenty of privacy here.
The old man in the office didn’t seem the type to enjoy chitchat. He took Harry’s eight dollars, watched him sign a fake name in the register, and then handed over a key with a worn metal fob. “Check-out time’s eleven sharp.”
“I’ll be gone well before then.” Harry sauntered back into the crisp evening air.
Townsend had instructed him to leave the monster in the car overnight. Less chance of complications that way. But Harry doubted he’d get any sleep, knowing the monster was still cramped in the trunk, chained and cold and alone. So after carrying his suitcase into the little room, he opened the trunk of the Ford.
The monster blinked up at him and didn’t struggle when Harry lifted him into his arms. Luckily nobody was around to see him carry what looked like a naked, shackled corpse. The monster uttered a single hoarse word as Harry crossed the short distance back to the room: “Stars!”
The room boasted worn carpeting, wood paneling, a seascape painting, and sparse furniture. Harry’s first idea was to set the monster on the armchair, but he doubted the monster could remain upright. He couldn’t bring himself to just dump him on the floor, where Harry would likely trip over him. That left the bed. When Harry set him there, the monster lay on his back, completely still, his eyes wide.
Only now did Harry realize how filthy the monster was. He didn’t smell particularly bad, but grime marred nearly every surface of his papery skin.
Shit.
Soon Harry found himself on his knees beside the bathtub, running a soapy washcloth over the monster’s body. The monster kept his gaze fixed on Harry and didn’t make a sound, didn’t object in any way as Harry moved his arms and legs around. Finally the silence became too heavy. “Do these hurt?” Harry asked, scrubbing gently at one of the larger scars on the monster’s chest.
“Hurt,” the monster breathed in response. Harry didn’t know if that was an answer or just an echo of his own final word.
“I want to take the cuffs off. Will you fight me if I do?”
“No.” The monster lifted his wrists. “I won’t fight.”
So he did understand speech, and he could carry at least a simple conversation. Harry pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the manacles and then the ankle cuffs. He set the restraints aside in case he might need them later and then winced when he saw the terrible condition of the monster’s wrists and ankles. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Should he bandage the wounds?
“W-will you study me?” The monster interlaced his sticklike fingers as if in prayer.
“What?”
“Study.” The monster traced a thumb down the long scar bisecting his belly, then looked up at Harry with an anxious frown.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Although Harry had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what was meant. When the Bureau had first acquired the monster, wouldn’t men like Townsend have taken him apart to see what made him tick? Swallowing bile, Harry shook his head. “I’m not gonna… hurt you.”
The monster’s smile should have been terrible—thin lips stretched over yellowed teeth like a death’s-head image on a grave. But he didn’t look terrible, not even with the few remaining wisps of pale hair trailing from his scalp.
Harry cleared his throat. “You said…. Your name….”
“John. Please, please call me John.”
“All right, John.”
The monster’s—John’s—smile stretched even wider and he breathed a long sigh. “Thank you.”
“I’m, uh, Harry Lowe.” Nobody had ever taught him proper etiquette for introductions with the undead. He didn’t feel as awkward as might be expected, though, probably because John was staring at him as though Harry were something amazing.
By now John was relatively clean, and Harry’s knees had begun to ache. He stood and wiped imaginary dust from his pants. “I need dinner.” But he couldn’t just leave John in the tub, so Harry pulled the plug from the drain and then wiped John down with a towel before carrying him back to bed. “Stay here and be quiet. I’ll be back soon.”
“Yes.” John stroked the bedspread and gave another smile. “It’s soft.”
Harry nodded curtly and left the room.
Earlier, he’d spied a little diner a couple of blocks away. He decided to walk rather than drive since he’d had no exercise at all today, apart from carrying John. But while the short stroll helped stretch his legs, it did little to clear his head.
The place was called Hazel’s Drive-In, and the big, brightly lit windows looked inviting. Judging by the number of cars and trucks parked there, the food was probably decent too—an assumption supported when Harry entered and inhaled the delicious scents of sizzling meat and frying potatoes. But the din of conversation made him wince, and so did Eddie Fisher crooning on the jukebox.
“Just one?” asked the waitress nearest the door. She slightly resembled Harry’s mother, with her drawn-on eyebrows, too-red lipstick, and deep lines at the corners of her mouth.
“Can I, um, get something to take with me?”
“Sure, honey.” She handed him a menu. “Whattaya want?”
He glanced at the offerings. “Cheeseburger with everything and french fries. And a bottle of Coke.”
“How about a piece of pie to go with? Our apple’s real good.”
“Okay.” He had plenty of cash right now; he could afford a small splurge.
“That’s a dollar and five cents.”
He gave her the money and then leaned against a pillar near the entrance, watching the other customers. Tables held young couples or raucous groups of teenagers or families with little children. Some men sat at the counter; maybe they were travelers, like him. Harry wondered what these people would think if they knew his errand. If they discovered what lay in his bed at the El Rancho Motel. Or if they learned any of his other secrets, for that matter. But none of them even glanced his way.
The waitress returned quickly with a paper bag containing his food. At the cashier stand, she added a few paper napkins, a couple of mints, and a book of matches. “Thanks,” Harry said when she handed everything over. He gave her a quarter, which she tucked into her apron.
“You have a good evening, now,” she said.
He returned quickly to the motel, eating some of the french fries along the way. He almost expected to discover John missing, but when Harry opened the door, there was John on the bed, exactly as Harry had left him. He probably couldn’t have gone far even if he tried. As far as Harry could tell, John couldn’t sit upright, let alone stand.
Harry plopped down in the armchair facing the bed, and John watched as he pulled out the paper-wrapped hamburger, the cardboard container of french fries, and the bottle of Coke. Then Harry set the bag on the adjacent dresser with the pie still inside. “You, um, don’t need to eat, right?”
The answer came as hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t.”
“Okay.” Thick, juicy, and a little greasy, the cheeseburger tasted great. But having John stare at him while he ate was weird, especially because John’s nudity was suddenly very obvious. He’d been naked all along, of course, and Harry had touched almost all of him when John was in the tub. But Harry hadn’t really been thinking of him as a person then, while now for some reason he did.
After finishing the burger, he wiped his hands clean with the napkins, stood, and proclaimed, “Clothes.” John watched Harry lift his suitcase onto the empty side of the bed and shuffle through the contents. Nothing he owned would be a proper fit for John, who was little more than a skin-covered skeleton, but eventually Harry selected an undershirt and pair of tan trousers.
He closed the suitcase and set it aside. “You can put these on,” he said, nudging the clothing toward John.
John’s eyes widened, but he didn’t budge. “I… put them on?”
“Yeah. We’re going to need to jury-rig a belt somehow, but they’re better than nothing.”
Moving slowly, John reached over to stroke the undershirt. “It’s soft,” he said, voice filled with wonder.
“I guess.”
Harry watched him for a few moments, but it soon became clear that John lacked the strength to pull himself upright. He also didn’t seem to have any notion of how to get dressed. After he fumbled the shirt onto the floor, Harry sighed and stepped around to help.
John cowered when Harry neared him. “I’m sorry, master.”
Shit. “Master?” That came out more harshly than Harry intended, so he forced himself to soften his tone. “I’m not your master. I’m Harry, okay?” He sighed. “Let’s get these clothes on you.”
Although the outfit was many sizes too large, John looked even more human when dressed. How old had he been when he died? Harry couldn’t tell. After Harry helped him lie down again, John kept running his fingers reverently over the fabric of his shirt and pants. Something about those small movements twisted Harry’s heart.
“Gonna turn in,” he announced, more loudly than necessary. “Long drive tomorrow.” He got ready quickly, then turned out the light in hopes it would make climbing in beside John less awkward. It didn’t—although at least he didn’t have to face John’s startled gaze.
“You do, uh, sleep, right?” Facing away from John, Harry rearranged the thin pillow into a more comfortable position.
“Yes.”
Morbid curiosity brought the next question. “Do you dream?”
“No,” John replied after a long pause. “I don’t think so.”
Would that be a good thing or bad? Harry had been plagued with nightmares since he was young; sometimes he’d cried out, loud enough to wake his family and cause his father to stomp into the bedroom and yell at him. The man who rented the room next to his at the March once complained too. But now and then Harry dreamed wonderful things—of flying like a bird or triumphantly slaying dragons. Of dancing in the arms of a man who loved him.
“Harry?” The whisper came when he was almost asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Did I…. Am I bad?”
At first Harry thought he’d just ignore the question. But he could feel John’s presence just inches away, and he imagined the disquiet on that ruined narrow face. Not to mention the shadows in John’s bright blue eyes.
“What do you mean? You did what I told you today.”
“Yes. I tried to be good. I won’t…. You don’t have to silence me.”
Shit. “Okay.”
“B-but did I do something bad? Before?”
“Before what?”
“Before I was… like this?”
Harry hadn’t given any thought to John’s memories or sense of self, and it hadn’t occurred to him that John might not know who he’d been before he died. Harry certainly didn’t know the answer. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Townsend, who in any case might not have known either. But this wasn’t a line of examination that Harry wanted to explore right now. Or possibly ever.
“You weren’t bad,” he said, although that might have been a complete lie.
John sighed into the darkness. “Thank you.”