It moved again, vanishing into shadows and shrubs at the side of the
house.
What spooked him was not this particular creature, but the memory of the
feline horde at the Pollard house, which raced to attack him and Frank,
in eerie silence initially then with the shrill single-voiced squeal of
a banshee regime and with a most uncatlike unanimity of purpose. On the
prowl alone, swift and curious, this cat was quite ordinary, posses only
of the mystery and haughtiness common to every remember of his species.
At the end of the walk, three front steps led up to an archway, through
which they entered a small veranda.
Julie rang the bell, which was soft and musical, and no one answered
after half a minute, she rang it again.
As the second set of chimes faded, the stillness was disturb by the
rustle of feathered wings, as some night bird settled on the veranda
roof above them.
When Julie was about to reach for the bell push again, porch light came
on, and Bobby sensed they were being scrutinized through the security
lens. After a moment the door opened, and Dr. Fogarty stood before them
in an outfall light from the hall behind him.
He looked the same as Bobby remembered him, and he recognized Bobby as
well.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside to admit them.
“I half expected you. Come in-not that an you is welcome.”
“IN THE library,” Fogarty said, leading them back through the hall to a
room on the left.
The library, where Frank had taken him during their travels, was the
place Bobby had referred to as the study when he had described it to
Julie. As the exterior of the house had a Hobbity-fantasy coziness in
spite of its Spanish style, so this room seemed exactly the sort of
place where one imagined that Tolkien, on many a long Oxford evening,
had taken pen to paper to create the adventures of Frodo. That warm and
welcoming space was gently illuminated by a brass floor lamp and a
stained-glass table lamp that was either a genuine Tiffany or an
excellent imitation. Books lined the walls under a deeply coffered
ceiling, and a thick Chinese carpet dark green and beige around the
border, mostly pale green in the middlegraced a dark tongue-and-groove
oak floor. The water-clear finish on the large mahogany desk had a deep
luster; oil the green felt blotter, the elements of a gold-plated,
bone-handled desk set-including a letter opener, magnifying glass, and
scissors-were lined up neatly behind a gold fountain pen in a square
marble holder. The Queen Anne sofa was upholstered in a tapestry that
perfectly complemented the carpet, and when Bobby turned to look at the
wing-backed chair where he’d first seen Fogarty earlier in the day-he
twitched with astonishment at the sight of Frank.
“Something’s happened to him,” Fogarty said, pointing to Frank. He was
unaware of Bobby’s and Julie’s surprise, apparently operating under the
assumption that they had come to his house specifically because they had
known they would find Frank there.
Frank’s physical appearance had deteriorated since Bobby had last seen
him at 5:26 that afternoon, in the office in Newport Beach. If his eyes
had been sunken then, they were as dark as pits now; the dark rings
around them had widened, too, some of the blackness seemed to have
leeched out of the bruises to impart a deathly gray tint to the rest of
his face.
previous pallor had looked healthy by comparison.
The worst thing about him, however, was the blank expression with which
he regarded them. No recognition lit his eyes he seemed to be staring
through them. His facial muscles were slack. His mouth hung open about
an inch, as if he had star to speak a long time ago but had not yet
managed to remember the first word of what he had wanted to say. At
Cielo Vista Care Home, Bobby had seen only a few patients with face
empty as this, but they had been among the most severely retarded,
several steps-down the ladder from Thomas.
“How long has he been here?” Bobby asked, moving tow Frank.
Julie seized his arm and held him back.