Night Things

By Thomas F. Monteleone

Classic horror from the six-time Bram Stoker Award winner. “Tension, suspense, and solid scares . . . written by an acknowledged master of the genre.” —Cemetery Dance
 
Residents of the little town of Conora, New Mexico, are none too concerned when a local construction crew unearths a Native American burial ground; after all, Sheriff Miguel Lopez, shopkeeper Lori Danek, newspaper chief Tony Cavella, his daughter Dierdre, and the rest of the bustling community have their own lives to think about. But sometimes a bulldozer does more than move the earth . . . it opens a wound.
 
A spate of strangely violent deaths, bird-like claw marks gouged into crime scenes, and a disturbed, forgotten cavern in a rural desert—Night Things, Thomas F. Monteleone’s debut horror novel, brings small town fear into harshly bright sunlight. And the people of Conora have no idea about—or any way to prepare for—the ancient terror about to be let loose upon their small town.
 
Take a chilling trip to a 1980s Southwest desert village beset by an ancient evil unleashed from its binding in the underworld—risen again to plague mankind.
 
Praise for Thomas F. Monteleone
 
“Monteleone has a dark imagination, a wicked pen, and the rare ability to convey an evil chill with words.” —Dean Koontz, New York Times–bestselling author
 
“Tom’s an expert storyteller.” —F. Paul Wilson, author of The Keep and Deep as the Marrow
 
“A vastly entertaining novel of horror and suspense [that poses] difficult questions about the nature of man, God and the devil.” —Los Angeles Daily News
 
“The story is irresistible, moving to a mighty climax.” —The New York Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781635767643

Thomas F. Monteleone

Thomas F. Monteleone, born in 1946, is an American science fiction and horror fiction author. Monteleone has been a professional writer since 1972, and 4-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. He has published more than 100 short stories in numerous magazines and anthologies. His stories have been nominated for numerous awards, and have appeared in many of the best-of-the-year compilations. His notorious column of opinion and entertainment, "The Mothers And Fathers Italian Association," currently appears in Cemetery Dance magazine. He is the editor of seven anthologies, including the highly acclaimed Borderlands series edited with his wife, Elizabeth, of which, Borderlands 5, won a Bram Stoker Award in 2003. They conduct a “boot-camp” for writers at Seton Hall University. He has also written The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel. Monteleone also writes for the stage and television, having scripts produced for American Playhouse (which won him the Bronze Award at the International TV and Film Festival of New York and the Gabriel Award), George Romero's Tales from the Darkside, and a series on Fox TV entitled Night Visions.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Grier

The New Mexico sun was like a hammer pounding on the back of Wally Grier’s neck. As soon as he swung down from the cab of Callahan’s pickup, he could feel the dry heat soaking up his sweat. He never cared much for hot weather, especially the kind you found out here near the desert. Back in Georgia, it could get humid, but it never got so damned, plain hot. The only good thing about working in this kind of heat, thought Wally, was that it made the beer taste a little better.

Walking toward his machine, Grier adjusted his hard hat, hitched up his pants. A truck door slammed and he heard Callahan jump down behind him.

Listen, Grier, said the foreman, slapping Wally on the shoulder, 1 want you and Bukowski to clear out the northern quad ... all the way out to the orange markers, okay? Jerry’s bunch will take it east of the markers so don’t worry about that. I want you two to take care of this section in here, awright? Callahan gestured with his hand over the designated area He was a big, burly guy with a rough voice and a commanding air about him. You didn’t give a guy like Callahan any shit, or he’d flatten you.

Yeah, I gotcha, said Grier. He fumbled a Camel out of his pack and fired it up. Goddamn heat. Even the cigarettes tasted like crap.

Now listen, said Callahan. I want to see a good job outta you guys. We come in under time and under budget ... that’s bonuses all around. See you later.

Callahan climbed back into his green pickup and Wally Grier watched him leave. That Callahan, he thought, he was a gung-ho bastard. Strong sumbitch, too. He was pretty smart, no doubt about that, and tough, of course. Just the kind of guy you needed to run a construction job like this. It was no wonder that Valkyrie Contractors had picked Callahan to head this thing up. Wally knew it was a tough job with the heat and the desert and all them Indians the company hired on as laborers. Wally didn’t know anything about Indians but he figured they were probably lazy and nothing but trouble.

Callahan’s truck was now just a green speck as it bounced down the line. Grier tossed down his butt, grabbed the edge of his machine’s treads, and pulled himself into the cab. He had a roll-bar cage over the seat and a canvas umbrella jammed into the rig. Anything to keep that sun off his neck. He fired the ignition and the whole machine started vibrating, surging, as if it were anxious to begin tearing up the earth. Wally turned and saw that Bukowski had already started his first cut through the quad, marking the outer edge of what would eventually be the foundation for· the Administration Building of the Hospital Complex.

Slipping the dozer into gear, Wally threw the clutch and his private monster was instantly churning into the loose, dry soil. Cutting to his left, he took an opposite tack on the huge rectangle set off by the orange flags. He really liked running that dozer, and he had been doing it for ten years, ever since he signed on with Valkyrie. He’d always thought that was a funny name for a company, though. Valkyrie. Must have been the name of the president’s daughter, or somebody like that.

The machine growled; Wally Grier hummed a simple tune. He could run a dozer with his eyes closed; he could run it along a, high wire if he had to; he could stop that big mother on a dime, and pick up that same dime with the edge of his blade. Yessir, he thought, Wally Grier sure knew his dozers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wally was watching Bukowski’s progress on the other end of the section. There was an unspoken rivalry among foundation men that you never let the other man get too much dirt ahead of you. Now if there were some big rocks holding you up, that was different. But if you were just punching dirt, then you better keep up some respectable speed. Wally liked being paired up with Bukowski — he was quick and he had a notion about his machine that made real fine sense to Wally.

There ain’t nothin’ like being up in that cab, old Bukowski would cackle. It’s like you got the biggest, strongest cock a man could hope to ever have, and there you are tearin’, up the biggest piece a pussy there is — old Mother Earth’s herself! And then the old man would laugh and slap his knee. Everybody’d laugh at that one, but Wally knew that Bukowski was talking the truth. There was power and authority in running a dozer that you didn’t find in many jobs, and it was kind of sexy-like. Grier smiled as he jammed the blade down on an outcropping of earth, obliterating it.

The work went well all morning, and when Wally broke for lunch, he felt as though he’d been putting in good time for good money. As he sat down with Bukowski on a broken board and opened his lunch pail, he looked out over the huge scar he’d cut into the ground — it was beautiful. There was a teenaged kid sitting on a bicycle atop a ridge which overlooked the worksite. Wally hoped the kid stayed where he was — he hated when the little farts ran around and got in your way while you were trying to do a good job. The kid must have noticed that Wally was looking at him because he waved and smiled. Wally felt funny so he waved back, smiling in between bites of his sandwich.

He finished both sandwiches and gulped down his thermos of Gatorade quickly. He was thinking about that bonus Callahan had been talking about. He sure could use the money, especially back in Georgia, where there weren’t too many jobs to be had. He climbed back into his cab and lit up another Camel. At least them no-smoking assholes couldn’t bug him about it up there! Up in his dozer, Wally Grier was king, he thought as he kicked over the engine. Within a few minutes he was back into the natural rhythm of the job. The boy was still watching him from the ridge as he dropped his blade and dug into a slope of flaky-looking stone and soil. Before he had traveled more than a few yards he hit the first real resistance of the day, so he punched in the throttle, revving up, and poured on ahead. The rock, or whatever it was, gave way and the big machine surged forward.

But before Wally could clear through the area, the air seemed to close up on him like a fist.

A stench rose up from the earth beneath him, heavy in the hot dry air, snaking and coiling around him. It was a choking smell; it was the meanest, vilest smell Wally had ever hit on. A thick column of puke surged up his throat, and he fought to keep it down. Slamming the dozer into neutral, Wally grabbed his handkerchief and covered his nose. Christ, he was getting sick!

He recognized the smell — it came rushing back to him from a childhood memory. He had been walking along a country road outside of Macon, Georgia, where a drainage ditch paralleled the road. Suddenly, young Grier had come upon an odor which was so strong that it burned the inside of his nose. The scent rose up from the ditch, and as Grier had clambered over .the edge he discovered its source. He had stared down into the mud at the half-rotten body of a man, probably an old hobo who had had too much to drink, who had fallen into the ditch and died. There had been little left but his skeleton, covered with a fine, green patina of decay, algae, and mold, but camouflaged by pieces of flesh which clung to the bones like old rags. There were still worms and flies and other things crawling through the body; and pieces of flesh rippled from the furious movement of thousands of maggots. Just beneath the surface. Feeding and burrowing.

But it was the smell that was the worst of it ...

Grier remembered that smell. It was the smell of death, and he had just passed over it again. He had to escape it, he thought, as he threw the dozer in gear and dropped the blade. The machine lurched forward and struck something again, Something gave way and the blade sliced ahead. Then it struck something solid again. Another lurch, and it was moving again. And the smell of death again rose up around his machine like the vapors of a poisonous gas.

Wally jammed the dozer into neutral again, stifling an involuntary cry in his handkerchief. Jesus, the smell was killing him!

Hey, mister! Look what you done!

Wally turned and saw the young boy who had been watching him work, gesturing wildly behind the dozer. He turned and saw the path of his dozer broken up by several black holes in the ground. His blade had scraped off what was no more than a thin crust of soil from a thicker layer of shale or sandstone. The blade had dislodged some boulders in the stone, revealing an underground cavern, a sinkhole.

Grier cut the ignition and climbed down from the cab, keeping his handkerchief at his face. The smell issuing up from the underground chamber was less overpowering. But there was still no getting used to it, thought Wally.

Bukowski had stopped his machine and had climbed down, ambling across the field to investigate. Whatsamatter, Wally-boy?

Dunno. Look at this.

Grier pointed down into the blackness of the nearest hole.

Kee-reist! said Bukowski, covering his nose. That’s enough to kill a man! He backed away from the pit and reached for his handkerchief. What the hell you got down there?

Dunno ... said Grier again, He was peering into the darkness, such a harsh contrast to the bright daylight, trying to adjust his eyes. He was not, actually paying attention to Bukowski, or the excited interjections of the boy who had been watching them. He thought he was looking at the insides of a vast underground room. A cave or a buried building or something like that. Whatever it was, there was something god-awful dead down there, Christ!

Hey, you see anything? asked Bukowski, who then dropped down beside Wally and peered into the darkness.

Some bones and shit, said Wally. Looks like Indian stuff.

Bukowski stood up and slapped Wally on the back. Must be, Wally-boy! You’re a regular ark-ee-o-ologist! Bukowski threw back his head and laughed, revealing a row of uneven, tobacco-stained teeth.

You think we should call Callahan? asked Wally, standing up and wiping his hands on his khaki pants.

Yeah, I guess so. Bukowski said, pausing to hock up some accumulated phlegm. This shit might be worth somethin’. Them college people and the museums, they pay for this kind of stuff!

Yeah, said Wally, laughing. Let’s go get the boss on the phone. Down at the construction shack.

Who knows, said Bukowski. You might be famous! There might be gold and silver down there!

Wally grinned and nodded. That possibility had not occurred to him. The chance of becoming a rich man all because he was a good dozer man was somehow very gratifying. He put his arm around his friend Bukowski and went with him down to the phone lines,

As both men walked away, the boy stood up and approached the hole, to peer into the darkness.

CHAPTER 2

Cavella

"G ee, Daddy, it doesn’t look like a very big place," said Dierdre Cavella as she looked out the window of the station wagon. There was a tinge of disappointment in her voice.

Her father, Anthony Cavella, had recently exited from Interstate 40, and had been heading north into Conora, New Mexico. The landscape was sere and harsh, punctuated by an occasional piñon pine or a juniper. In the distance, seemingly at the end of the asphalt two-lane highway, lay a small pool of shimmering white buildings. Conora was a small town that wanted to grow.

Well, it certainly isn’t St. Louis, if that’s what you mean, said Tony to his daughter. He smiled. But it’s a nice place, honey. I think you’re going to like it out here.

Dierdre watched the semidesert terrain roll past. I hope so. I’ve never been this far west before.

Tony studied the desolate countryside. It was not friendly territory to someone not familiar with its eccentric mannerisms. The rocky, dry land required understanding and respect.

Your grandfather grew up out here, before it was even a state, I think.

"Was Grampa that old? The eighteen hundreds?" Dierdre sounded impressed. Something difficult to do to such a precocious child of twelve years.

Not that long ago, really. New Mexico didn’t become a state until 1912. A lot of people don’t realize that. Tony followed a cut-off road which swept away from the state highway and snaked down toward Conora’s business district. It had been many years since he had visited the Southwest, especially since his father had died.

They still have cowboys then? Dierdre sat up straight in her seat, wisps of blond-going-to-auburn hair dancing across her pink cheeks. Her green eyes were windows into childhood springtime. Bright and intelligent, and at twelve years old still flushed with an innocent glow. It would not be long, however, thought Tony. Even at her age, Dierdre carried the not-so-subtle suggestion that she would be a beautiful woman.

Cowboys? mused Tony. Well, I don’t know. Maybe they did, but they probably weren’t like the ones on TV.

He watched the road carefully, slowing the heavy station wagon to a very slow speed. They entered the eastern end of Conora, cutting through a well-manicured, residential neighborhood. The residents had carefully maintained rows of hardy-looking pines and paloverdes along the wide street, partially obscuring an architecture which seemed out of place in a land of stucco and tile. Most of the homes were typical New England gingerbread: porches and garrets and widow’s watches. Victorian and Italianate styles, big yards, rock gardens, and stone paths. It was extremely quiet and peaceful, and Tony was not surprised that his father and his uncle had wished to live here rather than in a big city like Albuquerque, or an expensive town such as Santa Fe.

This is pretty, Daddy. Is this where we’re going to live?

Somewhere around here. I’m not sure where we pick up Gallinas Avenue — that’s where Uncle Martin’s house is. Tony continued to scan the neighborhood, impressed with how clean and well kept everything was, although he did not know if he wanted to be compared to such meticulous neighbors. He was an organized person, but he was not fastidious. When he had lived in St. Louis, in a townhouse in the middle of the city, there had been no lawns, no porches to paint, no gardens. Out here it would be different

Gallinas turned out to be the next street; Tony entered It and wheeled the station wagon toward the middle of the block, where a moving van was already disgorging their furniture. He stopped in front of the house he had inherited, a two-story white clapboard with a slate roof, brown shutters, and a picket fence. Real Americana, thought Tony. I love it!

Dierdre unhooked her seat belt as he stopped the car. The movers beat us here! she cried in excitement. "Gee, it’s a pretty house, Daddy!"

Tony warned her to keep out of the movers’ way and not to go far from the house. It was late afternoon and he did not want to have to go searching for her at dinner time. He spent the next hour supervising the placement of furniture and signing some papers and picking up keys from the real estate agent, a Mrs. Werstin, who was very curt and proper, but seemed to have a distinctly disapproving view of Tony Cavella, Outsider, moving into her tight little community. The woman made several tangential remarks about Tony’s widower status and the need of a little girl for a mother.

It was as if Mrs. Werstin held Tony personally responsible for the death of his wife. An interesting thought, that. Tony pushed the notion from his mind, hoping that Mrs. Werstin did not notice his discomfort.

Dierdre was playing in the back yard with some neighborhood children when he told her he was going into the center of town to check on the condition of the other half of his inheritance: the town newspaper. Tony did not plan to take very long. He was merely curious about the condition of the newspaper offices which his father and uncle had run for more than forty years. First, Tony Cavella would get his new house in order, restructure a broken life, and then he would worry about the Conora Gazette.

The Gazette. Maybe the first thing he would do would be to change the name ...

It was only a few blocks before the neighborhood residences gave way to the center of Conora’s business district. This consisted of one central street divided by a center island filled with flowers and small Japanese hollies. Its name was, not surprisingly, Main Street, and it was upon this thoroughfare that most of the town’s businesses huddled cheek-to-jowl. There were six crossing streets which also contained stores, shops, and offices, and a central intersecting street — called Center Street — which crossed Main and formed a small octagonal park. The park held a few benches, a statue of someone or other, shrubbery which was maintained by the Ladies Auxiliary of the local Rotary, and some flower beds sporting seasonal blooms. On the four corners of the park intersection were the town’s largest buildings: Town Hall, First Church of Christ, the Court House, and the Shakier Office Building, where all the professional men had their offices.

The typical Southwestern town was a smear of asphalt, a gas station, and a diner. In this respect, Conora was an anomaly, a flower in the desert. It was an odd attempt by its founding fathers to bring a touch of Midwest provincialism to the hard realities of the Southwest desert and Indian reservations. Conora claimed an ample supply of artesian water on a nearby ridge, and the peaks of the Chuska Mountains retained some of the larger cloud formations, keeping them from passing too quickly. The result of this was sufficient rainfall to keep things fairly green. Although, thought Tony, green for this part of the country meant not brown or yellow, but merely close to these colors.

Spotting a municipal space on Main Street, Tony parked the bulky wagon and stepped out into the warm afternoon. He located the offices of the Gazette on Center Street, right around the corner from Town Hall. A red brick front with a large window covered by venetian blinds, the name of the paper hand-lettered in bold English Gothic, and a small black door. It was not much of an inheritance, he thought, but it was his, free and clear.

Entering the shop, he stood in one large room that served as waiting room, copy room, paste-up room and editor’s offices. It was a big bullpen with several desks scattered about it. Every desk lay empty except for one in the far corner where a reed-thin old man sat with a sheaf of papers. Wisps of gray hair, lots of creases in his face that are supposed to add character, and a hawkish nose made him very distinctive. He wore a white shirt with puffy sleeves, a black bow tie, and a dispatcher’s cap. His steel-framed glasses magnified his eyes into large gray spheres. He looked like a caricature of a mail clerk straight out of Norman Rockwell.

Can I help you, young man? The old man looked very displeased to be interrupted.

Are you Mr. Aickman? Tony smiled.

What if I am?

I’m Anthony Cavella. Alfonso’s son ...

I see ... Aickman did not seem terribly impressed. Well then, yes. I’m Aickman. Ezzard’s the first name, but I never use it. Folks just call me Aickman.

He turned back to his desk, continuing his work.

Tony walked to the edge of the desk and raised his voice, adding a bit of authority to it. Excuse me, Aickman, but I’d like to talk to you.

Aickman looked up, squinted, then frowned. So talk.

This irritated Tony. "What do you mean — ‘so talk’?! I’m the new owner of this half-assed rag you call a newspaper. I don’t know who you think you are, Aickman, but I want to tell you right off; cut the crap or you’ll be out of here so fast you won’t know where to collect your Social Security checks!"

Tony glared at him, pausing to catch his breath, fighting off the surge of adrenaline that kept his blood pounding.

The expression on Aickman’s face changed from disgust, to surprise, to a form of admiration. You’re just like your father, you know that? Listen, Mr. Cavella ... I’m sorry. I get busy, I’m the only one here, and —

"I know you’re busy, but that’s not the point. I resent people of advanced age thinking it’s a license to be arrogant, or rude and obnoxious. You want to work for me, you will cut it out of your act ... very quickly. Like now, do you understand me, Mr. Aickman?"

I understand, Mr. Cavella. It’s just my way, 1 guess. Sorry. I’ll try to do better. He cleared his throat, adjusted a stack of papers on his desk, then looked back at Tony, trying to start over. Now ... what can I do for you, young man? Aickman smiled and it looked like a torturous effort.

I want to get my father and uncle’s books. You know, records, accountant’s files, inventories, and some file copies of the last few years.

We got all that stuff, but it’d be easier just to ask me everything, said Aickman, getting up and pulling out some large file drawers.

‘I’ll be asking you plenty as the weeks go by. But right now I want to familiarize myself with the way Dad and my uncle did things. I don’t want to make too many changes here if I don’t have to."

Aickman smiled at the mention of few changes. He directed Tony to the files and showed him everything. Tony checked through the papers, pulling out an armload of folders and manila envelopes. He closed the drawers and returned to the front office, where Aickman was quietly appraising him through squinted eyes.

Aim to learn the newspaper business overnight, eh?

Hardly, said Tony. "I used to work for the St. Louts Post-Dispatch."

Aickman’s eyebrows raised slightly. No kidding? That’s a real fine paper, that is. Reporter?

For a while. Then I was assistant editor on the Night Desk. Lots of fires, muggings, murders, suicides. If you like things on the morbid side, it’s a good shift to work.

If it was so good, why’d you come out here?

Tony paused for an instant. He knew that Aickman’s question was innocuous, but it stopped him cold. There was no way anybody could know about St. Louis. No way!

There’s a lot of pressure living in a big city, said Tony. And I’ve got a little girl. Figured this would be a better place for her to grow up.

Well, it’s still a small town. We like it, but there’s a lot of building going on. Don’t know how long it’s going to stay small.

Tony nodded. You mean the Hospital Complex?

Yeah, that. Plus the industrial park they’re putting in right near it. Some of them Navajo sold off a big piece of their land to some speculators. There’s going to be some big money coming into Conora.

Tony knew about the hospital and the park. It was one of the reasons he took on his father’s little paper. The Gazette would grow with the town. How does everybody feel about that kind of growth?

Don’t know about ‘everybody’ ... I’m not sure. But we could use more jobs around here. More jobs, more money. But that means more Indians, more tourists. Aickman reached for a pouch and a gnarly black pipe.

How far along is the construction?

Not too far, said the old man, stuffing the bowl and taking a kitchen match to it. They’re still digging the foundations last I heard. Be a while before the buildings go up.

Tony considered what Aickman said. He was taking a gamble, of course, but it was worth it. He was tired of living a too safe existence. The paper could grow with Conora. If the jobs and the money came, Conora could be the cultural and economic center for the whole northwest quadrant of the state. And the Gazette would be its spokesman, its interpreter, its herald.

Tony spent another fifteen minutes discussing the operation of the office with Aickman. Much of the procedure was a catalogue of habits, started by Alfonso Cavella, which had eventually become traditions that were too taboo to attempt breaking. The session was informative, but Tony saw many areas which would need change or improvement. The publication schedule would first be accelerated from its weekly one to a twice-per-week status, gradually expanding with the town until a daily edition was warranted. There would be new staff to hire, syndications to pick up, stringers to hook into, and lots of other techniques that would transform a weekly gossip sheet into a real newspaper.

Tony knew it was too early to share all these visions with Aickman. Too many changes and the older fellows start dragging their feet. He was about to leave the solitary staffer to his work when the front door opened.

Into the office stepped a man of perhaps fifty. He had a moon face, punctuated by round blue eyes. He was bald as an egg, with little or no eyebrows, a round puggish nose, and thick red lips. His neck was thick and seemed to flow away from his face down to his shoulders like melted wax. He wore a white T-shirt that was stained a dark yellow around the armpits and stretched tightly over his generous belly. His shiny black gabardine pants didn’t look as though they’d seen an iron or a dry cleaner in many years. The man was an inordinate slob.

Hey, Aickman! cried the fat man. Got some nooze for ya!

Evening, Ollie, said Aickman, looking quickly to Tony. This is Anthony Cavella. Alfonso’s boy. Martin’s nephew.

Ollie grinned and extended a beefy hand, his thick fingers curled slightly. Well, I’ll be ... Nice to meet ya, Mr. Cavella. Boy, you sure look like your daddy. Yessir.

He’s come to take over the paper, said Aickman, not attempting to disguise the pain in his voice.

Maybe you came just in time. I’ve got some nooze that might be good for ya, said Ollie. By the way, Mr. Cavella, the last name’s Carson. Ollie Carson, that’s me. I run the best bar in town — the Starlight Inn, down at the corner of Main and Adobe. Anyway, bunch of them construction fellas just came into the place for a couple a beers. They found something funny up at the new hospital grounds.

Tony looked at the simple man with the moon face. What do you mean, ‘something funny’?

Ollie shrugged. Dunno much about it. Just heard them hard hats talkin’, you know. They dug up some Indian shit by-accident. Some kind of big graveyard it looks like. Scared off all the Indians they had workin’ up there. Foreman’s mad as hell. And the guy that dug it up wanted to claim it for himself!

When did it happen? Anybody else know about it? Tony looked from one man to the other.

Dunno, Mr. Cavella. I just serve up the beer and keep my ears open, you know what I mean?

What about the police? Anybody from the college that should know about it? What about it, Aickman?

They’ll all know soon enough, I guess. Word travels fast around here ... Aickman nodded.

Tony couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Word traveled fast! What the hell did he think a newspaper was for!? Information was their business, and Aickman was not even aware of it.

"Aickman, it’s our job to alert people to what is going on around them," said Tony, reaching for the phone. He asked Ollie Carson for the phone number of the police.

That would be Sheriff Lopez, said Carson. Over at the Court House. He’s about as much law as we got ‘round here. Some State Highway Patrol pass through, but that’s about it. Sheriff Lopez.

What about the college? Or the federal people? Any offices of Indian Affairs around here? For some reason Tony felt drawn to this story about the Indians and their ruins. Something told him that there was a good story buried there. All he had to do was dig it out. Good reporters believed in instincts. Follow your instincts.

Closest Indian office is at Window Rock, I guess. You don’t want nothin’ to do with them lazy bastards, though. Carson smiled and winked.

Call the college, if you think that will help, said Aickman, who now returned to his neglected work on the desktop.

I’ll run down and get the sheriff if you want, said Ollie. He’s an all right guy. Ain’t your typical wetback, you know?

That’s nice to know, said Tony. Guys like Carson — they never deviated from the pattern. Things like tact and sardonicism were totally lost on them. He turned back to Aickman. How would you like to be a reporter and check out the story?

Aickman shook his head. Don’t see why. Indian ruins all over this state. Don’t seem much like a story to me.

Tony was amazed at Aickman’s lack of interest. Christ, this isn’t a newspaper I’ve inherited, it’s a ladies sewing circle!

I think I’ll call the college myself, said Tony, pulling a directory out of the desk next to Aickman’s.

After a few wrong extensions, he was connected with a Dr. Tyrell Wooster of the Anthropology Department. Wooster was very interested in the report of the Indian gravesite, even though Tony could not verify the facts of the incident. Wooster promised to check on the site in the morning, and that he would tell the newspaper anything he discovered.

Tony thanked him and hung up the phone, looking back to Aickman, who was shaking his head slowly.

What’s the matter? he asked.

Hope you’re satisfied, said Aickman.

What’s that mean?

Stirring up trouble is all you’re doing. Them construction folks aren’t going to like any professor types poking around their place. Right, Ollie?

Shit no! I’d get a hold of the sheriff, if I was you. Ollie Carson scratched himself, then waved. Well, I guess I better get back to the Starlight. Nice meetin’ ya, Mr. Cavella. See you, Ezzard.

After Carson had left, Tony turned back to Aickman. You think there’s going to be trouble? That I’ll need the sheriff? Tony laughed.

It’s not funny, Mr. Cavella. You don’t know the people around here like I know them. Everybody feels like they got their own job to do, and that there shouldn’t be anybody else around to tell them how to do it. You see what I mean?

Tony paused, studying old Aickman. It was an uncharacteristically long speech for· him. The man’s face was grim and set; he believed what he was saying.

I think I understand you, Mr. Aickman, but I’m not sure I totally agree with you. Jobs change. People change. If they aren’t changing together, maybe somebody should step in and see that they do.’

Maybe and maybe not. You stick around Conora, and you’ll see how folks live out here. Might be different than from where you’ve been.

Well, time will tell, I suppose. Now listen, Aickman, I’ll be back in the morning. You have keys? What time do you open up?

Nine o’clock. Sharp.

All right. Stop and get me a set of keys made. I’ll be here around half past nine. See you then.

The old man hunched over his desk-and cleared his throat. He said goodbye with some obvious effort and returned to his work. Tony had to smile at him as he turned and walked to the door.

Outside, Tony took a deep breath. The air was clear and clean and he rejoiced in it. The sky was a deep, impossible blue, an artist’s palette’s sky. St. Louis was already becoming less than a bad dream. He checked his watch and saw that it was getting late. He would have to go back, lock up. the house, and get Dierdre off for some dinner.

There was so much work to be done: the house, and the furniture, and all the things they would have to buy to stock and supply the house. And of course, the newspaper office, a business that had seemingly shambled along through the years under the weight of its own stubborn refusal to collapse, and little else. Tony knew that mountains of work awaited him, but he loved the idea.

Conora was making him feel alive again. It was a beautiful little town, and that was what he wanted for Dierdre. Some place safe and peaceful.

CHAPTER 3

The Site

There came a rumbling sound, an invasion of the silence which had guarded the place for centuries. Then something penetrated the earth like a spearpoint in soft flesh. It was as though a great beast prowled above, tearing into the shallow crust of rock with its claws. The ceiling cracked, then split. Rock groaned, and fell like a hard rain down the slope toward the graves. White, hot light poured into the ruptured cavern, violating the darkness.

Above, the treads churned and the steel blade flashed. A larger piece of the ceiling crumbled away, and the light became a flood, an avalanche, a cataract which flowed like liquid into the cavern, filling it with warmth, and energy, and ... purpose.

CHAPTER 4

Havens

Big yellow monsters. That’s what the earth moving equipment seemed like to Marty Havens. He

Reviews for Night Things

[LoJack2012 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Neatly put together, some loose ends but still compelling until the end