Forests of the Night by James W. Hall Read Free Book Online

she’s taking. Film Noir. So my daughter’s learning how to wear a mask. That deadpan, shell-shocked look they all used back then, the Humphrey Bogart thing, hide your feelings, cover it all up.”
    Jesus shifted, looking uncomfortable.
    â€œSo she talks to Barbara Stanwyck? How does that work?”
    â€œShe hears a voice in her head. Barbara Stanwyck’s got a hotline to my daughter, sending her inspiration.”
    â€œShe’s got an artistic temperament. Hell, one of my girls acted pretty weird for a couple of years, making all these creepy-sounding voices. Role-playing or whatever. Just a phase, part of that teenage hormone thing.”
    Charlotte shook her head.
    â€œNow you sound like Parker.”
    â€œWell, what is it then? It have a name?”
    Charlotte hated the word. She could count the number of times she’d spoken it aloud.
    â€œSchizophrenia,” she said. “That’s what I’m told.”
    â€œOh, Christ. I didn’t realize.”
    â€œOne percent of the population worldwide.”
    â€œYeah, that’s the one percent that keeps us busy.”
    Jesus winced when he realized what he’d said.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Charlotte said. “She’s not that bad yet. It could happen, but there’s drugs, therapy. She may turn out to have the high-functioning variety.”
    Jesus stared at the red truck in his headlights, his voice going quiet.
    â€œYou know that guy Ray Hamersley, the basketball coach the kid shot? Well, about a hundred years ago I played for him at Miami High.”
    She turned to look at Jesus’s profile.
    â€œJunior year, he caught me smoking a Camel behind the gym, kicked my ass off the team right there. Did I go home and get a fucking gun? Let me think. No, no, I don’t recall that. I think I went home and smoked the rest of the case and puked in the backyard and never smoked again.”
    He looked at her and then turned back to the pickup in his headlights.
    â€œIt’s what he does, Jesus. He’s not a bad man. He does it because he believes in it, same as we do.”
    Jesus turned in his seat, pointed at her face, and wagged his finger like she’d been naughty.
    â€œDon’t you be going over to the dark side now.”
    She grabbed hold of Romero’s finger and bent it backward, not enough to hurt, but close.
    He groaned and pried loose from her grip.
    â€œOkay, okay. You women, shit, first time you burned a bra, we should’ve been all over you. What were we thinking?”
    â€œToo late now, Jesus.”
    â€œDon’t I know it. Don’t I fucking know it.”
    Charlotte opened the door and got out. Jesus popped a two-finger salute and rolled out the drive. She left the electric gate open, then squatted down to pat Max. The rest of the troop emerged from the shrubs purring and whining like they hadn’t been fed. She gave each of them a stroke, then unlocked the door and the whole gang scampered inside around her ankles.

Four
    Charlotte threaded through the maze of hallways to the bright kitchen, set her purse on the granite counter, and peered out the French doors. Gracey and Parker were out on the patio tending a small bonfire in the brick barbecue pit. Floodlights off, the fire cast a rippling halo across the flagstones and the wide waterway that ran behind the house.
    Parker and Gracey both held long twigs and seemed to be roasting marshmallows. Beside them stood a burly man with shoulder-length hair. He had on khakis and work boots, and when he turned to the side briefly, she saw on the back of his denim shirt some kind of colorful embroidered insignia. The firelight fluttered on his face, and though he was a hundred feet away in bad light, an old brain cell woke from its timeless nap and fired off a sharp tingle of disquiet.
    Charlotte watched the man sip his beer. She burned the image on her retina, closed her eyes, and tried to summon a name, a situation, any