Charnel House by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online

yourself?”
    He grunted. “Okay. I deserved that. But I’d still like to tag along.”
    I took one last look at Dan, young and pale as a corpse on his hospital bed, and I said, very softly, “All right. It’s fifteen-fifty-one Pilarcitos. Nine o’clock sharp.”
    Dr. Jarvis took out a ballpen and made a note of the address. Then, before I left, he said: “Listen, I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you earlier on. You have to realize that we get a whole lot of friends and relatives who watch too much ‘General Hospital’ and think they know it all. I mean, I guess we’re kind of defensive.”
    I paused, and then nodded. “Okay. I got you. See you at nine.”
    That afternoon, a gray and gloomy line of ragged clouds blew in from the ocean and threatened rain. I sat at my desk fidgeting and doodling until half after two, then I took my golf umbrella and went for a walk. My immediate superior, retired Naval Lieutenant Douglas P. Sharp, would probably choose this very afternoon for a snap inspection, but right now I couldn’t have cared less. I was too edgy, too nervous, and too concerned about what was happening to Dan. As I crossed Bryant Street, a few spots of rain the size of dimes speckled the sidewalk, and there was a tense, magnetic feeling in the air.
    I guess I knew where I was headed all the time. I turned into Brannan Street, and there it was, The Head Bookstore, a tiny purple-painted shop lit from within by a couple of bare bulbs, and crammed with second-hand paperbacks, Whole Earth Catalogs , posters, and junk. I stepped in and jangled the bell, and the bearded young guy behind the counter looked up and said, “Hi. Looking for anything special?”
    â€œJane Torresino?”
    â€œOh, sure. She’s out back, unpacking some Castaneda.”
    I shuffled past the shelves of Marx, Seale, and Indian incense, and ducked my head through the small door that led to the stockroom. Sure enough, Jane was there, squatting on the floor and arranging Yaqui wisdom into neat stacks.
    She didn’t look up at first, and I leaned against the doorway and watched her. She was one of those girls who managed to look pretty and bright, no matter how scruffy she dressed. Today she was wearing tight white jeans and a blue T-shirt with a smiling Cheshire cat printed on it. She was skinny, with very long mid-blonde hair that was crimped into those long crinkly waves that always remind me of Botticelli, and she had a sharp, well-boned face and eyes like saucers.
    I had first met her at a party out at Daly City to welcome the Second Coming of Christ, as predicted by an eighteenth-century philosopher. The principal guest of honor, not altogether surprisingly, didn’t show. Either the predicted date was wrong, or Christ didn’t choose to come again in Daly City. I wouldn’t have blamed Him. But whatever went wrong with the Second Coming, a lot went right between me and Jane. We met, talked, drank too much Tohay, and went back to my apartment for lovemaking. I remember sitting up in bed afterward, drinking the intensely black coffee she had made me, and feeling pleased with what life had dropped so bountifully in my lap.
    However, it didn’t work out that way. That night, Second Coming night, was the first and only time. After that, Jane insisted we were just good friends, and even though we went out for meals together, and took in movies together, the lovelight that shone over the spaghetti bolognaise was mine alone, and eventually I accepted our friendship for what it was, and switched the love-light off.
    What had developed, though, was an easy-going relationship that was intimate but never demanding. Sometimes we saw each other three times in one week. Other times, we didn’t touch bases for months. Today, when I dropped by with my golf umbrella and my anxieties about Dan Machin, it was the first visit for six or seven weeks.
    â€œThe sanitation