Read Online I Travel by Night by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
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dockmaster?”
“It does.”
“Then,” McGuire took a swig of his liquor, “I reckon I is.” He offered a thin-lipped smile that lasted only a few seconds. “What’re you wantin’ with me ?”
“I need a boat. A small skiff, something with two oars. Got anything that’ll do?”
McGuire hesitated, as if thought he hadn’t heard this right. “A skiff ,” he repeated. “You’re from New Orleans and you come here to this damned shit-hole to take a skiff out into Hell’s Acres? What’s your business? Runnin’ away from a nuthouse?”
“I’m sane,” Lawson answered, though sometimes he doubted it. “I’m looking for a town called Nocturne.”
McGuire laughed, but his eyes weren’t in it. “Now I know you’re an in -sane idjit! Ain’t no town called Nocturne out there! And I know that swamp, as much as any man does. Much as any man wants to know it!”
“No town called Nocturne?” Lawson prodded. “You’re sure of that?”
The dockmaster took another drink of what was most likely both his courage and his pride. “Sure there ain’t one now . Nocturne was wiped out near sixteen years ago.”
“Ah.” A ray of light in this eternal midnight, he thought. “Wiped out how?”
“Hurricane. Came tearin’ in from the Gulf and flooded the town. That was August of 1870.”
Lawson nodded. “May I come inside for a few minutes?”
“No!” came the quick response. “This is my home ! I don’t suffer no idjits here.”
A hand into a pocket and the production of a five-dollar gold piece made McGuire put down the jug he’d been lifting to his mouth.
“Come right on in,” said the dockmaster, opening the door wider. He took the gold piece as Lawson entered, and then closed the door behind.
The place was a hermit’s heaven. All the furniture—chairs, table, bed—looked to have been hammered together by a crooked man using a crooked hammer. There stood a cast-iron stove rimmed with rust. On the planked floor was a red rug that looked like a dog had been chewing on it, but there was no dog. The walls were bare boards and even the lamplight looked dirty.
“My castle,” said McGuire, with just an edge of sarcasm. “Welcome to it.”
Lawson had seen worse. He’d been trapped in worse. He decided not to sit. “Nocturne,” he said. “Tell me where it is.”
“Out there.” McGuire hooked a gnarled thumb toward the swamp. “Off the main channel to the west, about five miles as the crow flies. What the hell you wantin’ with Nocturne?” His eyes studied Lawson’s clothes. “New Orleans gent. But somethin’ ain’t right with you, is it?”
“No,” said Lawson.
“You smell funny. Cold, like a grave.”
“My nature,” was the answer, delivered calmly and quietly. “Everyone else I asked about Nocturne tonight didn’t know it. Why do you?”
“I used to live there, bucko.” McGuire sat down at the crooked table. He set the jug aside and placed the gold coin before him so he could admire it. “Got anymore of these?”
“Enough for a skiff with two oars.”
“I reckon you do. Drink?” He tapped the jug with two knuckles.
“Not my brand. I want to leave for Nocturne within the hour.”
“Now there’s a story in this !” McGuire grinned wickedly across the lamplit room at the vampire. “Goin’ to Nocturne at night ? Goin’ to a ghost town in the dark of the swamp? Holy Mary, you did get out a nuthouse window, didn’t you?”
“I’m sane enough,” said Lawson. But barely so , he thought. “You say Nocturne is a ghost town? Destroyed by a hurricane? What else?”
McGuire took a long drink and turned the gold coin between his fingers. “Not all destroyed. Some of the mansions are still there, but they’re half-ate up by the swamp. See, Nocturne was built on higher ground. Well, it was higher ground then . Fella who built it was a strange sort. A young man from a rich family. Came into the loggin’ business to compete with his father, they had a kinda
“It does.”
“Then,” McGuire took a swig of his liquor, “I reckon I is.” He offered a thin-lipped smile that lasted only a few seconds. “What’re you wantin’ with me ?”
“I need a boat. A small skiff, something with two oars. Got anything that’ll do?”
McGuire hesitated, as if thought he hadn’t heard this right. “A skiff ,” he repeated. “You’re from New Orleans and you come here to this damned shit-hole to take a skiff out into Hell’s Acres? What’s your business? Runnin’ away from a nuthouse?”
“I’m sane,” Lawson answered, though sometimes he doubted it. “I’m looking for a town called Nocturne.”
McGuire laughed, but his eyes weren’t in it. “Now I know you’re an in -sane idjit! Ain’t no town called Nocturne out there! And I know that swamp, as much as any man does. Much as any man wants to know it!”
“No town called Nocturne?” Lawson prodded. “You’re sure of that?”
The dockmaster took another drink of what was most likely both his courage and his pride. “Sure there ain’t one now . Nocturne was wiped out near sixteen years ago.”
“Ah.” A ray of light in this eternal midnight, he thought. “Wiped out how?”
“Hurricane. Came tearin’ in from the Gulf and flooded the town. That was August of 1870.”
Lawson nodded. “May I come inside for a few minutes?”
“No!” came the quick response. “This is my home ! I don’t suffer no idjits here.”
A hand into a pocket and the production of a five-dollar gold piece made McGuire put down the jug he’d been lifting to his mouth.
“Come right on in,” said the dockmaster, opening the door wider. He took the gold piece as Lawson entered, and then closed the door behind.
The place was a hermit’s heaven. All the furniture—chairs, table, bed—looked to have been hammered together by a crooked man using a crooked hammer. There stood a cast-iron stove rimmed with rust. On the planked floor was a red rug that looked like a dog had been chewing on it, but there was no dog. The walls were bare boards and even the lamplight looked dirty.
“My castle,” said McGuire, with just an edge of sarcasm. “Welcome to it.”
Lawson had seen worse. He’d been trapped in worse. He decided not to sit. “Nocturne,” he said. “Tell me where it is.”
“Out there.” McGuire hooked a gnarled thumb toward the swamp. “Off the main channel to the west, about five miles as the crow flies. What the hell you wantin’ with Nocturne?” His eyes studied Lawson’s clothes. “New Orleans gent. But somethin’ ain’t right with you, is it?”
“No,” said Lawson.
“You smell funny. Cold, like a grave.”
“My nature,” was the answer, delivered calmly and quietly. “Everyone else I asked about Nocturne tonight didn’t know it. Why do you?”
“I used to live there, bucko.” McGuire sat down at the crooked table. He set the jug aside and placed the gold coin before him so he could admire it. “Got anymore of these?”
“Enough for a skiff with two oars.”
“I reckon you do. Drink?” He tapped the jug with two knuckles.
“Not my brand. I want to leave for Nocturne within the hour.”
“Now there’s a story in this !” McGuire grinned wickedly across the lamplit room at the vampire. “Goin’ to Nocturne at night ? Goin’ to a ghost town in the dark of the swamp? Holy Mary, you did get out a nuthouse window, didn’t you?”
“I’m sane enough,” said Lawson. But barely so , he thought. “You say Nocturne is a ghost town? Destroyed by a hurricane? What else?”
McGuire took a long drink and turned the gold coin between his fingers. “Not all destroyed. Some of the mansions are still there, but they’re half-ate up by the swamp. See, Nocturne was built on higher ground. Well, it was higher ground then . Fella who built it was a strange sort. A young man from a rich family. Came into the loggin’ business to compete with his father, they had a kinda
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