Night Relics by James P. Blaylock Read Free Book Online Page A

rat to get up and run.
    “That’s right,” Pomeroy said softly. And then, quick as a snake, he grabbed the cat’s tail and spun around toward the house,
    snatching the cat up off the porch. Surprisingly, the cat retracted, balling itself up, latching on to his forearm with its
    claws. Then there was the sharp, hot pain of teeth fixed into his bicep as the cat scrabbled up his shirt, clawing the sleeve
    to ribbons.
    Pomeroy trod backward across the porch, stepping on the rat, trying to yank the frenzied cat away from his neck and face.
    The creature sank its teeth into his hand, lacerating the soft skin of his palm, and when he tried to fling it away, it held
    on long enough to tear out a piece of flesh. Then it let go and dropped, somersaulted forward, and raced away into the underbrush.
    He held his fist closed. His whole hand throbbed. The rat’s head was crushed where he’d stepped on it, but he forced himself
    to pick it up anyway, by the tail again. He grabbed the bag off the ground with the same hand and walked stiffly back toward
    the trail to the water tank. Blood trickled down his forearm from the scratches, but it was the bite that ached, and he could
    feel blood leaking out of his closed fist onto the edge of his hand.
    Next time he’d be ready for the cat.
    After climbing back up the hillside, he located the other two rats, forced himself to pick them up, and then had to put them
    down again to push back the little trapdoor in the lid of the steel tank. He put his lacerated hand into the icy water, flexed
    it, and gasped when the cold pain lanced up his arm. He pulled his hand out, closed his fist again, and dropped the rats into
    the tank one by one before pushing the door shut.
    He tucked the bag into his pocket and started down, holding on to roots and branches with his free hand to steadyhimself. There was no sign of the cat anywhere, but he bent over to pick up a grapefruit-sized rock just in case it showed
    its face. When he straightened up, there was a woman not twenty feet in front of him, walking on the road.
    “Linda!” Pomeroy gasped. His throat constricted and for a moment he was afraid he would pass out. Then he saw that he was
    wrong. It wasn’t Linda. Same blond hair, tall. Jesus, same build. It was her mouth, too, the full lips …
    For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that it
was
Linda, and he pictured her alone in her bedroom, unhurriedly sorting through the things in an open dresser drawer. Now she
    had come to him alone ljke this, out of the forest, having finally noticed him, understood him. He would forgive her, and
    together they would go into the trees….
    Now that she was closer he could see a certain suspicion in the woman’s eyes, and he smiled brightly at her and nodded.
    “Haven’t seen Mr. Ackroyd this morning, have you?” he asked. Before she could answer he said, “My name’s Adams. Henry Adams.”
    He almost shoved his hand out for her to shake, but his palm was slick with blood again. He dropped the rock behind his back.
    She seemed to have visibly relaxed when he mentioned Ackroyd’s name. Thank God she hadn’t been standing there two minutes
    ago when he was dropping rats into the water tank.
    Or had she?
    He stopped himself from turning to look at the tank.
    “Name’s Beth,” she said.
    She looked so much like Linda that he nearly couldn’t trust himself to speak. He had never had a chance to explain himself,
    his love for her. Beth—her name filled his mind.
    Then he realized that she was looking at him uneasily, and he made himself smile again. “I was just thinking that I knew you,”
    he said. “You remind me of … of a woman I knew once.”
    “I’ve got a common face,” she said. “What happened to your hand? It’s bleeding like crazy. My boyfriend’s placeis right up the road. He’s got a first-aid kit. You ought to put some hydrogen peroxide on that and bandage it up.”
    “Naw,” Pomeroy said. He was pretty sure why she had