violent homicide, maybe to drown out the victim’s screams.
He felt ancient.
Aside from not being able to hear
music
in the music, he didn’t understand why any group would call itself Wormheart. Groups should have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the Famous Flames.
Loved
James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought disgusting images to mind.
Well, he wasn’t hip and didn’t try to be. They probably didn’t even use the word “hip” any more. In fact, he was sure they didn’t. He hadn’t a clue as to what word meant “hip” these days.
Older than the sands of Egypt.
He listened to the music for another minute, then switched it off and removed the headphones.
Wormheart was exactly what he needed.
By the last day of April, the winter shroud had melted except for deeper drifts that enjoyed the protection of shadows during a large part of the day, although even they were dwindling steadily. The ground was damp but not muddy any longer. Dead brown grass, crushed and matted from the weight of the vanished snow, covered hills and fields; within a week, however, a carpet of tender green shoots would brighten every corner of the now dreary land.
Eduardo’s daily walk took him past the east end of the stables and across open fields to the south. At eleven in the morning, the day was sunny, the temperature near fifty, with a receding armada of high white clouds to the north. He wore khakis and a flannel shirt, and was so warmed by exertion that he rolled up his sleeves. On the return trip he visited the three graves that lay west of the stables.
Until recently, the State of Montana had been liberal about allowing the establishment of family cemeteries on private property. Soon after acquiring the ranch, Stanley Quartermass had decided he wanted to spend eternity there, and he had obtained a permit for as many as twelve burial plots.
The graveyard was on a small knoll near the higher woods. That hallowed ground was defined only by a foot-high fieldstone wall and by a pair of four-foot-high columns at the entrance. Quartermass had not wanted to obstruct the panoramic view of the valley and mountains—as if he thought his spirit would sit upon his grave and enjoy the scenery like a ghost in that old, lighthearted movie
Topper
.
Only three granite headstones occupied a space designed to accommodate twelve. Quartermass. Tommy. Margarite.
Specified by the producer’s will, the inscription on the first monument read: “Here lies Stanley Quartermass / dead before his time / because he had to work / with so damned many / actors and writers”—followed by the dates of his birth and death. He had been sixty-six when his plane crashed. However, if he’d been five hundred years old, he still would have felt that his span had been too short, for he had been a man who embraced life with great energy and passion.
Tommy’s and Margarite’s stones bore no humorous epitaphs—just “beloved son” and “beloved wife.” Eduardo missed them.
The hardest blow had been the death of his son, who had been killed in the line of duty only a little more than a year ago, at the age of thirty-two. At least Eduardo and Margarite had enjoyed a long life together. It was a terrible thing for a man to outlive his own child.
He wished they were with him again. That was a wish frequently made, and the fact that it could never be fulfilled usually reduced him to a melancholy mood which he found difficult to shake. At best, longing to see his wife and son again, he drifted into nostalgic mists, reliving favorite days of years gone by.
This time, however, the familiar wish had no sooner flickered through his mind than he was inexplicably overcome by dread. A chill wind seemed to whistle through his spine as if it were hollow end to end.
Turning, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find someone looming behind him. He was alone.
The sky was entirely
He felt ancient.
Aside from not being able to hear
music
in the music, he didn’t understand why any group would call itself Wormheart. Groups should have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the Famous Flames.
Loved
James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought disgusting images to mind.
Well, he wasn’t hip and didn’t try to be. They probably didn’t even use the word “hip” any more. In fact, he was sure they didn’t. He hadn’t a clue as to what word meant “hip” these days.
Older than the sands of Egypt.
He listened to the music for another minute, then switched it off and removed the headphones.
Wormheart was exactly what he needed.
By the last day of April, the winter shroud had melted except for deeper drifts that enjoyed the protection of shadows during a large part of the day, although even they were dwindling steadily. The ground was damp but not muddy any longer. Dead brown grass, crushed and matted from the weight of the vanished snow, covered hills and fields; within a week, however, a carpet of tender green shoots would brighten every corner of the now dreary land.
Eduardo’s daily walk took him past the east end of the stables and across open fields to the south. At eleven in the morning, the day was sunny, the temperature near fifty, with a receding armada of high white clouds to the north. He wore khakis and a flannel shirt, and was so warmed by exertion that he rolled up his sleeves. On the return trip he visited the three graves that lay west of the stables.
Until recently, the State of Montana had been liberal about allowing the establishment of family cemeteries on private property. Soon after acquiring the ranch, Stanley Quartermass had decided he wanted to spend eternity there, and he had obtained a permit for as many as twelve burial plots.
The graveyard was on a small knoll near the higher woods. That hallowed ground was defined only by a foot-high fieldstone wall and by a pair of four-foot-high columns at the entrance. Quartermass had not wanted to obstruct the panoramic view of the valley and mountains—as if he thought his spirit would sit upon his grave and enjoy the scenery like a ghost in that old, lighthearted movie
Topper
.
Only three granite headstones occupied a space designed to accommodate twelve. Quartermass. Tommy. Margarite.
Specified by the producer’s will, the inscription on the first monument read: “Here lies Stanley Quartermass / dead before his time / because he had to work / with so damned many / actors and writers”—followed by the dates of his birth and death. He had been sixty-six when his plane crashed. However, if he’d been five hundred years old, he still would have felt that his span had been too short, for he had been a man who embraced life with great energy and passion.
Tommy’s and Margarite’s stones bore no humorous epitaphs—just “beloved son” and “beloved wife.” Eduardo missed them.
The hardest blow had been the death of his son, who had been killed in the line of duty only a little more than a year ago, at the age of thirty-two. At least Eduardo and Margarite had enjoyed a long life together. It was a terrible thing for a man to outlive his own child.
He wished they were with him again. That was a wish frequently made, and the fact that it could never be fulfilled usually reduced him to a melancholy mood which he found difficult to shake. At best, longing to see his wife and son again, he drifted into nostalgic mists, reliving favorite days of years gone by.
This time, however, the familiar wish had no sooner flickered through his mind than he was inexplicably overcome by dread. A chill wind seemed to whistle through his spine as if it were hollow end to end.
Turning, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find someone looming behind him. He was alone.
The sky was entirely
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