The Wingthorn Rose. Melvyn Chase

did you decide?”

      Joey shook his head. “It’s not up to me.”

      She turned to Lucas and asked, “Why do you want to live in Pennington? There isn’t much going on here. But I’m sure you know that.”

      “I guess I’m tired of big cities. I grew up in a small town. I’d like to be back in the kind of place I remember.”

      He smiled, his expression a mixture of hopefulness and concern.

      “I don’t know if I want a stranger living in my house.”

      “I’m very quiet. I won’t play any loud music. Or invite anyone to the apartment.”

      “How do I know that’s true?”

      “Ernie’s checking on him,” Joey said.

      “Can he find out whether Mr. Murdoch drinks? Or plays the drums?”

      “He’s just checking on whether he has money.”

      She repeated the word “money” softly, and frowned.

      She needs the money.

      “I have a decent pension, and simple tastes,” Lucas said. “The apartment would be my one luxury.”

      “I don’t know,” she said, without much energy.

      “We could do it on a trial basis—for a month, say.”

      “You would have to pay part of my electric bill in your rent, and part of the fuel bill in winter time. And you’d have to have your own phone.”

      “That’s okay.”

      She looked down at the table-top. “I don’t know.”

      “What would you consider a fair price?”

      She frowned.

      “It’s really just two and a half rooms and they’re not big: a bedroom, a combination living room-dining room, and a kitchenette. It’s furnished. And I keep it clean. I’m not sure why.”

      Lucas nodded.

      “I could take you over to see it,” Joey said.

      “Three hundred dollars a month. That’s fair, I think.”

      “It sounds fair to me. And, if you change your mind, I’ll leave. I don’t need a lease. We can keep it on a month-to-month basis, if you like.”

      Joey was nodding.

      “I don’t know,” she said. “You’d have to supply your own linens and towels. But there are dishes and pots and pans you could use.”

      “Why don’t we give it a try?” Lucas said.

      “I’d need a few days to get things in shape.”

      “He could stay at the motel in Fulton,” Joey said.

      “If you mention Joey’s name, they’ll probably give you the room for half price.”

      Joey smiled nervously.

      “Show him the apartment. If Ernie says he’s okay, I’ll try it—for a month.”

      Lucas extended his hand. “Thank you.”

      Fay hesitated, then grasped his hand. She had a strong, aggressive grip. Her skin was cool and dry.

      It begins.

      Again, the rose garden. Thousands of rose bushes all around him, packed tightly against each other. The blood-red blossoms were thick-petaled and heavy, but all the branches stood up stiff and straight, stretching high above his head. He was running on a narrow, twisting, dirt path. He was naked and barefoot. His bare arms brushed against the bushes on each side of him. Every bush he touched pierced his flesh with its thorns and then withered and blackened and died. His blood, thin and pink and watery, streamed down his arms and dripped off his fingertips. He looked behind him as he ran. He was leaving a clear trail: withered, dead rose bushes and, on the dirt path, two muddy streams of blood. He smiled. Whatever was hunting him could track him easily, no matter how long he ran, or how far he traveled. That was a comforting thought.

      As Lucas opened his eyes in the darkness, the motel room came into focus around him. He was breathing heavily, sweating. He felt the throbbing of his heartbeat deep inside his head.

      Yes, it had begun.

      2

      The Cascades

      Six-thirty a.m. Sunday morning.

      It was still cool, surprisingly cool for May. Lucas had been awake for almost an hour, lying in bed on his back, watching the shadows on the white ceiling, listening to the small sounds that floated through the silence.

      If he was alone, early morning was his best time. He remembered, sometimes he planned.

      If he wasn’t alone, early morning was when he tried to forget.

      He sat up and looked around him at the apartment in Fay Geneen’s house. The furniture was functional and bland. There were two dark prints on the living room/dining room walls. A faded still-life painting hung over the bed. The living room carpet was a half-hearted imitation of an Oriental rug, and even less thought had been given to the dark braided rug that covered the bedroom floor. The bathroom was equipped with the chrome bars that ease the movements of elderly people.

      A generic apartment.

      He wondered if the rooms had been as barren when Fay’s mother had lived here. Or had Fay stripped it of its humanity when her mother died?

      For Lucas, the apartment was ideal. It was temporary. It gave him nothing.

      He got out of bed, smoothed out the blanket as he always did. He was naked. He went to the bathroom, showered, and brushed his hair with a few quick strokes of his fingers.

      His breakfast was a glass of orange juice, a blueberry muffin and a multivitamin pill.

      Lucas went into the backyard through the door that opened onto the concrete patio, furnished with a dark green wrought iron table and chairs.

      He stretched his arms over his head, bent over and, keeping his knees locked, touched his toes ten times, then went around to the front of the house.

      Fay Geneen was walking up the street, a few yards ahead of him. He ran to catch up to her.

      She was wearing a gray sweat suit and sneakers. She walked quickly, fluidly.

      At her side, he fell into the rhythm of her stride.

      “Would you mind if I tag along?”

      “It’s more than two miles.”

      He acknowledged the challenge: “I’ll do my best.”

      She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

      “We don’t have to talk, do we?” she asked.

      “No.”

      She nodded.

      They followed the street uphill, for almost ten minutes, passing a few other houses, until they came to a wider, winding street that formed a “T” in front of them. Lucas recognized the cross-street. To the left it led up to the mansion on the hill. She turned right.

      “This is called Schuyler’s Trace,” she said. “It was the first street in town, before there was a town.”

      He didn’t respond.

      A cool, soft breeze stroked his face. The sky was a clear, brittle, early-morning blue.

      “In the seventeen hundreds, before the Revolutionary War, Hans Schuyler cut the Trace—just a path through the woods—built a farmhouse on the hill and cleared the land around it. Then he plowed and planted his crops.”

      “You’re