A creepy-crawliness still gnawed at Foster whenever he looked across his well-tended lawn to behold, where the river used to be, the windows of that huge, archaic house, staring back at him like the empty eye sockets of a grinning death’s-head.
House and tower and two stretches of wall were clearly visible, now, through the front window of the paneled den, and Foster forced down his repugnance in order to really study the view, this time. Compared to the wall, the house looked new, the stones of the house walls not only dressed, but polished and carved, as well. A wide stairway mounted up to a broad stoop—actually, rather more a terrace—on a level with the second story of the house, where was what was apparently the entrance door, recessed within a stone archway.
Shifting his gave to the walls, Foster could see that they were crenellated and wide enough for a couple of men to walk their tops abreast. But, in several places, the merlons were askew and at last one of the huge, square stones had fallen completely off hs setting, back onto the top of the wall.
On sudden impulse, he arose and crossed to his guncase. Kneeling, he unlocked the bottom drawer and took out the pair of bulky 7×50 binoculars that had departed the army with him, years back. Then he dragged a chair closer to the window and set the optics to his eyes.
The details leapt out at him then . . . and some were more than a little sinister. The askew merlons all showed cracks and chips—recent, unweathered ones. There were cracks and scars, as well, on the rough masonry of the square, brownish-gray tower—obviously, on closer scrutiny, far older than either house or walls. But there was no visible damage to the house, nor ceuld Foster detect any sign of life or movement anywhere within or about it.
Absorbed, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Krystal laid a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, God, you’re a Peeping Tom! Why is it that every man I like turns out to be a kook?”
“Just trying to see what my new neighbors are like.” He forced a grin and a light, bantering tone. “But nobody seems to be home.”
Setting down the half-empty wine jug, she sank onto her haunches beside the chair and reached for the binoculars. “May I?”
Wordlessly, he handed them over.
After adjusting the lenses, the young woman swiveled from left to right and back, slowly, studying details of the view. At length, she stiffened, then said in a low voice, “Bass, I … I could have sworn I saw some . . . something move. It was inside those windows just above the door to that . . . that place. Do you think . . . ?”
He shook his head and stood up. “Krys, 1 don’t know what to think or imagine about any of the happenings of the last day, and I gave up trying several hours ago. The time’s come to find a way to get into that building, for I’ve got a … a feeling that there’s a lot of answers in there.”
Opening again the drawer from which he had taken the binoculars, he removed a web pistol belt, two small web pouches, and a leather holster.
“Krys, if you can take a few seconds of that old biddy’s yapping, I wonder if you’d go up to my bedroom and look in the closet. There’s a brown canvas shell vest up there. You know what a shell vest looks like?”
She nodded.
“Okay, bring it down to me, huh? And the pair of army boots, too.”
With only her long-suffering spouse for audience and sounding board, Arbor Collier had wound down and was lapping up alcohol in silence until Krystal came through the room. Then she smirked nastily.
“I’ll bet I know what you two have been doing down there!” she crowed.
Krystal’s smile was icily contemptuous. “A woman like you could read pornography into Pilgrim’s Progress, but”—deviltry shone from her eyes and a hint of mockery entered her voice—”this time is so happens you’re right. Bass and I spent all the time we were gone in mutual analingus. You should try it sometime.”
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