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  RAVE REVIEWS FOR GARY A. BRAUNBECK AND IN SILENT GRAVES!

  “A genuinely disturbing book. Braunbeck taps into a power cable.”

  —The New York Review of Science Fiction

  “An indelible experience.”

  —DarkEcho

  “This is an incredibly ambitious novel, and it is an absolute wonder.”

  —Mehitobel Wilson, Gothic.net

  “Good Lord, what a novel! I’m still reeling! A splendidly disturbing gem!”

  —Elizabeth Massie, author of Sineater

  “Braunbeck’s fiction is absolutely essential reading for anyone who values dark literature.”

  —Cemetery Dance

  “Braunbeck is much more than a superbly skilled storyteller. Popular fiction doesn’t get any better than this.”

  —William F. Nolan, author of Nightworlds

  “Braunbeck is one of the brightest talents working in the field.”

  —Thomas Monteleone, author of The Blood of the Lamb

  “A phenomenally talented writer who never seems to make a misstep.”

  —Shocklines

  “Gary A. Braunbeck is simply one of the finest writers to come along in years.”

  —Ray Garton, author of Live Girls

  THE KEEPERS ARE COMING

  I pulled up in front of my house, killed the engine, and ran inside, slamming closed the door behind me and locking it.

  I leaned against the door, shaking.

  What now?

  It wasn’t long before I had the answer.

  A pair of bright headlight beams cut a path through the darkness. I pulled back the curtain to see a large grey vehicle shaped like an old bread-delivery truck crawl past my house, its driver sweeping the street with a hand-held searchlight. The truck came to a stop and the driver killed all lights. It took my vision a moment to adjust afterward—the light had shone directly in my face at one point—and by the time I could focus clearly the driver was out of the truck and looking in my yard. It was already dark so I wondered how he could see.

  An SUV came around the corner, its headlights shining on high, enabling me to both see the driver and read the name on the side of the truck.

  Neither came as a surprise.

  He was impeccably dressed, expensive suit, tie, bowler hat on his head.

  The side of the truck read: KEEPERS.

  Other books by Gary A. Braunbeck:

  IN SILENT GRAVES

  GARY A.

  BRAUNBECK

  KEEPERS

  Dorchester

  Publishing

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2005 by Gary A. Braunbeck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Trade ISBN: 13: 978-1-4285-1651-9

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1650-2

  First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: September 2005

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  For Ron Horsley

  So long, and thanks for the air freshener;

  you have no idea…

  And in memory of Oscar Horsley (1998–2005)

  “Schlermy lay there like a slug.

  It was his only defense.”

  KEEPERS

  Contents

  I: Carson and the Magic Zoo

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  II: Beth, and Everything That Followed

  1970–1983

  III: The Valley of Love and Delight

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  “Who’ll tell the tale?” said the child to the magician. “People should be told.”

  “Never mind,” said the old man, smiling like a beaver. “For centuries and centuries no one will believe it, and then all at once it will be so obvious only a fool would take the trouble to write it all down.”

  —John Gardner, Freddy’s Book

  I

  CARSON AND

  THE MAGIC ZOO

  ONE

  “Hey, Gil—your air freshener’s standing by the side of the road.” Cheryl adjusted the focus on the new binoculars and then laughed.

  “My whosee-whats-it is huh?”

  “You’ll see when we catch up to him in a minute.”

  Traffic in our lane wasn’t moving nearly as fast as it was in the other two—in fact it was barely moving at all. We were coming back from the grand opening week of my second “novelties and collectibles” store, this one in Columbus, and had gotten into Cedar Hill just in time for rush hour—lucky us.

  “Why are you messing with those things?” I asked, nodding toward the binoculars.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping for a glimpse of the mysterious lion, or tiger, or bear, oh my.”

  I grinned. Over the past few months there had been several reported sightings of various animals wandering Cedar Hill; a lion on the cliffs at Black Hand Gorge, a tiger in the woods of Dawe’s Arboretum, a Kodiak bear lumbering through Moundbuilder’s Park. I half-expected the next report to be of an elephant near the Twenty-first Street exit. The reports were being dismissed as pranks, but it was still fun to follow them on the news and in the pages of the Ally. My nephew, Carson, says the animals come from “… the Magic Zoo.”

  “So, no exotic circus animals out there?”

  She smacked my arm. “Don’t make fun of me. You never know what might or might not be true.”

  I checked the rearview mirror to see if I could make it into another lane, but the traffic was coming so fast it was impossible to gauge my chances.

  “You sure you’re not going to mind this commute?” I asked.

  “Not at all. I like driving. I’m just sorry that I had to bother you for a ride home today. At least you didn’t gripe the way Larry did when I asked him to bring me over this morning. My car is supposed to be out of the shop tomorrow.”

  “It’s no bother. Besides, I wanted to come over and check out how my new Columbus manager was handling things.”

  She turned toward me. “And how is the new manager doing?”

  I grinned. “You’re doing one hell of a job, Cheryl, and you know it.”

  I own and operate The Packrat’s Attic, a store that specializes in hard-to-find movies, LP records, film posters, CDs, and various other paraphernalia, both from the present and days gone by. Want an 8-track tape and a player? An original one-sheet lobby poster from the first release of Star Wars? Maybe the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever on pristine vinyl? Then you come to The Attic.

  The original Cedar Hill store had been so successful, thanks in large part
to Cheryl, that I’d gambled on opening another one in Columbus and handing her the reins. So far it was paying off; the new place was a big hit, especially among baby boomers.

  Cheryl looked through the binoculars once again, giggled, then pointed toward the object dangling from the rearview mirror. “Okay, I give. What the hell is that thing, anyway? I’ve been seeing a lot of them around lately.”

  “It’s an air freshener. Apple-cinnamon-scented.”

  “Well, duh. Thanks for pointing that out, Mr. Obvious. I mean, what’s it supposed to be? Some guy in a derby with an apple in front of his face. Sheesh.”

  “Actually, it’s a bowler hat, and the air freshener is a reproduction of a painting called The Son of Man by René Magritte. He was part of the Surrealist movement, like Dalí and Escher. He used that image of a man wearing a bowler in several of his paintings. His work has been reproduced a lot—posters, coffee mugs, air fresheners, you name it. Hell, we’ve got prints of his work for sale at the stores. Most people recognize his work on sight, but have no idea who he was.”

  She stared at me for a moment, and then smiled. “And how is it that you know about him?”

  I shrugged. “I once minored in art history at OSU during a previous life. Also World Languages and American Literature. No, I never got a degree in any of them.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “If I were going to make a joke, don’t you think I’d pick a funny subject? Something like Art History tends to make people’s eyes glaze over and clear the room of humans.”

  “I’ve worked for you for five years, Gil, and I never knew that about you.”

  “It never came up before.”

  She shook her head. “That’s no excuse. You ought to be more forthcoming with people. Especially your friends.”

  Not wanting to get into another one of our discussions about my social life—or, more specifically, my lack thereof—I nodded toward the binoculars. “You should stop playing with those and put them back in the case. They won’t be much of a birthday present for Larry if you break the things before he’s had a chance to use them.”

  “I will not break them … but even if I did, my hubby would love them, anyway. He’d return them for a pair that worked, but he’d love me for the thought. Besides, he was such a grumpy pants about bringing me over this morning, I figure I should get to play with them first.”

  “Remind me to never get on your bad side. I’d hate to—”

  I spotted him standing by the side of the highway.

  Since traffic in our lane was all but crawling, I was afforded a better-than-average look at the old fellow: early seventies, gaunt-faced, reed-thin, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, he stood with arms held rigidly at his sides, wearing a bowler hat as if he’d been born with it on his head. Cheryl was right; throw in a floating apple the size of a softball, and you’d have The Son of Man in the flesh.

  I checked my watch. It had now taken almost ten minutes to move less than half a mile. At this rate, it would be getting dark by the time I got to the group home to pick up my nephew.

  “What do you suppose he’s doing?” asked Cheryl, leaning forward.

  Up ahead, the old man was turning to the left, then to the right, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, and for a moment I thought: He’s looking for me.

  (Where did that come from, pal? Jeez-us, but you’ve been entertaining some weird notions lately. Well, weirder than usual. Maybe it’s time you talked to the doctor about changing meds … except the last time, remember, she mentioned the word “neuroleptics”? That’s all you’d need at this point—a goddamn antipsychotic drug pumping through your system day and night for the rest of your life! As if you needed any more excuses to not trust your own memories. Hey, speaking of, remember when …)

  Blinking the thought away and silencing the voice, I inched the car forward and watched the old man.

  Just standing there, all Dapper Dan, looking for something along the road, but also looking behind him every few seconds.

  “Is there someone else back there?” asked Cheryl. “Maybe his car conked out on the access road and he climbed up the side of the incline to flag down some help. Maybe his wife’s in the car down there and she’s sick or something. Oh, God, Gil, do you think he needs help?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  Something about this seemed familiar, but I was damned if I could put my finger on it.

  “Gil?”

  I blinked, then looked at Cheryl. “Yeah …?”

  “Are you okay? You looked … I don’t know, kind of out of it for a second there.”

  (“Out of it”? Oh, pal, she has no idea …)

  “The mind wanders.”

  She studied me for a moment, then began slipping the binoculars into their case. “I think you need to get out more. I think you need to meet someone. I think I’m going to set you up with one of my friends.”

  “What happened to your concern for strangers by the roadside?”

  “This makes me nervous, Gil, and I tend to babble when I’m nervous. An old guy like that standing by the highway … this can’t be good. So I’ve decided to babble about setting you up with someone. It calms me. Deal with it.”

  I continued staring out at the old man.

  I knew this image. Goddammit, I knew it—and not just from the Magritte prints or my air freshener, but from real life.

  Okay, not this guy, of course not this guy, but another one just like him … right?

  (Listen, can you hear that? The sound of something back there in the old brainpan waking up and looking for the light switch? Hello? Hello? Is this thing on …?)

  I couldn’t pin down the expression on the old man’s face; one moment he looked almost blissful, then he’d glance behind him and appear nearly frightened. Maybe Cheryl was right, maybe he’d left his sick wife on the access road in their brokendown jalopy.

  Blissful and frightened.

  What the hell was going on, and why was the sight of him ringing so many rusty bells in my head?

  I hate it when this happens, and it has been happening a lot lately.

  (That’s because the meds ain’t working like they’re supposed to, pal. It’s coming back to you and you don’t want to remember that night, do you?)

  Fuck off already, thanks very much.

  I was four car-lengths away when a gust of wind snatched the bowler from the old man’s head and bounced it across all three lanes of traffic.

  Amazingly, the hat wasn’t struck or flattened by any of the cars. The old man slapped a hand on top of his skull to find that, yes, drat!, the bowler was indeed gone, and in a series of movements equal parts stumble, slide, and run, he darted into the river of oncoming cars.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Cheryl. “He’s not even looking at the traffic. Oh, God, Gil … that poor old guy.”

  But I wasn’t watching him anymore.

  I was staring at the dogs.

  Just before Magritte-Man had darted after his bowler, two huge black bull mastiffs came bounding up the incline behind him, snarling and snapping. Each dog easily weighed 120 pounds and stood just under three feet in height.

  They looked insane; rabidly, violently insane.

  And it seemed that Magritte-Man was the focus of their fury.

  I had just enough time to say, “What the—?” before hitting the brakes because the car in front of me swerved to miss the car in front of it, which slantdrove across the lane to miss another car as it barely missed the old man, who by now was well into the center lane where the traffic was moving much faster but was also better-spaced. He almost had the bowler in his hand when another, stronger gust of wind blew his frame in one direction and the hat in another.

  He looked upward, face devoid of expression, watching helplessly as the bowler performed a bouncing, twirling, oddly graceful aerial ballet on its way back to my side of the road.

  The dogs were pacing back and forth, looking at him—no, make that gla
ring at him. They were so tensed, so angry, that even from this distance I could see the muscles rippling across their backs and the tendons standing out on their short but powerful legs. One of them bared its teeth, then began barking and snarling, jerking its head from side to side, spraying ribbons of foamy spit from its mouth.

  They’re after him.

  Still not checking the traffic, Magritte-Man moved in the direction of the hat as if in a trance, arms reaching upward, imploring.

  Everyone, including me, was sounding their horns and rolling down their windows to shout at the old fellow to watch himself, get out of the way, move it fer chrissakes, you crazy son-of-a-bitch.

  The dogs were howling, jumping up and down, looking for a break in the traffic.

  The bowler landed smack-center on the hood of my car, skittered up against the windshield, and caught on the edge of a wiper blade.

  The dogs snapped their heads in my direction.

  “Get it for him, Gil. Hurry before the wind comes up again.”

  I nodded at Cheryl, and then—checking to make sure the lane was clear—opened my door to get out and retrieve the damn thing, hoping like hell the dogs wouldn’t decide that since they couldn’t get to Magritte-Man, I’d do as a consolation prize.

  There was a break in the farthest two lanes of traffic, and for a moment the dogs had a clear path to their prey and Magritte-Man had a clean shot at making it back to this side of the road.

  He took a step forward, saw that the dogs were doing the same, and froze.

  Looking at me, Magritte-Man gave a little wave and mouthed what looked like Hello, Gil.

  Another wave of traffic came screaming down the road.

  The minivan in the center lane laid on its horn but never slowed, even when it became obvious that the old man wasn’t going to move out of the way in time.