Lori

  Robert Bloch

  Lori

  ***

  Lori Holmes has everything-doting parents, a happy home, a brand-new college degree, and a wonderful fiance-until fire destroys her home and family, until grief turns love to ashes, until nightmares steal the peace of sleep from her tormented mind.

  Step by step, an innocent young woman is drawn into a web of deceit, murder, and supernatural danger Death awaits-but will Lori be victim…or killer?

  ***

  From Publishers Weekly

  Bloch, whose professional career is now in its 55th year, still manages to write with the same enthusiasm and in the same voice he used in the novels of his prime (c. 1954-1964). A master of pulp fiction, Bloch always sets up an intriguing premise. In this case, a recently orphaned young woman whose parents have died in a mysterious fire discovers a school yearbook older than she is-with her picture printed in it. Bloch piles mystery upon mystery, adds unsavory characters, false leads and several violent deaths, before resolving the whole thing in a typically complicated and unbelievable fashion. Despite, or because of, all this, it's great fun-the thrills and the puzzles keep the reader engaged all the way through, and the prose is befittingly purple.

  ***

  From Library Journal

  Lori returns from college graduation to find her parents dead, her home burned. In the wreckage, a daffy psychic finds an old college yearbook containing a photo that looks just like Lori. The "twin" is Priscilla Fairmount, who disappeared in 1968-the year of Lori's birth. Lori begins having nightmares and becomes convinced that Priscilla is trying to possess her mind. Under police suspicion for the fire and for the murder of her family lawyer, she receives help from her psychiatrist to find out who the mysterious Priscilla is. Although the story is interesting, most of the characters are two-dimensional. Lori is particularly disappointing: dependent on everyone else to solve the mystery, she herself does nothing but indulge in stream-of-consciousness wordplay. Not bad, but one expects better from the author of American Gothic (1974) and the film classic Psycho (1959).

  ***

  "Lori is all that Bloch's hordes of admirers could wish: inimitably written, ingeniously sustained, and spinecnilling as only Bloch can be!"

  - Ramsey Campbell

  "A new Bloch of terror? Look in the mirror and repeat after me: he's baaaack! Now go read it and tremble!"

  - Harlan Ellison

  "It's a terrifying read shot through with those dark glints of humor only Bob seems to know how to find-a book made for a stormy afternoon with a big cup of hot chocolate somewhere near at hand. Lori was made for suspense addicts like myself who like to take their poison straight; compulsive reading and imaginative plotting. I loved it!"

  - Stephen King

  "He has become part of the popular psyche, has Robert Bloch. A dark part, to be sure, but a permanent one."

  - Gahan Wilson

  "Robert Bloch knows every twist conclusion available and probably invented most of them. Any time devoted to studying this master is time well spent."

  - Fangoria

  "Robert Bloch is one of the all-time masters."

  - Peter Straub

  ***

  P. (heroic scan-finding & OCR) & P. (formatting & proofing) edition.

  ***

  For Frank M. Robinson

  who gave me the idea, plus a lifetime of valued friendship

  ONE

  When you reach a certain age, you can see the tunnel at the end of the light. Ed Holmes stared at the sentence for a moment, then pulled the sheet from his typewriter and tossed it into the wastebasket. The basket was almost filled with such sheets now, crumpled into popcorn balls. Stale pop phrases, stale corn for a junk-food generation. And when the wastebasket started to get full it meant he was getting empty. Now he was quoting President Bush.

  Time to quit for the day. Maybe he never should have started-better to live one's autobiography than write it.

  Occupational therapy, that's all it was. Something to pass the time until reaching the tunnel.

  Ed pushed his chair back and stood up. His knees were stiff, his neck was sore, his back ached, but what else is new? Nothing, at his age.

  What made him think writing could solve the problems of retirement? If he'd wanted to be a writer he should have started forty years ago, risking starvation to tell it like it is. Instead he'd opted for real estate and a chance to get rich selling fantasy-own your own home, the Great American Dream.

  And it worked, because he worked. Made his bundle, married the prettiest girl in town, bought his own pitch by buying his own house. Retirement was a reward, the grand finale. Trouble was, the finale didn't seem so grand now.

  Ed shook his head, then made his way across the room to the liquor cabinet. A drink might not clear his mind but at least it could ease the pain in his legs.

  Opening the cabinet, he surveyed his stock of scotch. Johnnie Walker for casual acquaintances, Chivas for closer friends, Glenlivet for special occasions.

  And this was a special occasion, he reminded himself. It's not every day that your only child graduates from college. Time to celebrate.

  Ed reached into the cabinet and took out two oversize crystal shot glasses, filled them generously past the ounce mark, then carried them down the hall and into the living room.

  The forlorn February sky beyond the picture window lent little light, and only a small portion of the parlor was brightened by the blaze on the hearth. Flames danced but shadows were still. All of them, including the shadow of the wheelchair and its occupant.

  For an instant Ed caught his breath. Had something happened while he was working? Did the shadow in the wheelchair still have breath to hold?

  "You all right?" he said.

  The shadow swiveled. "Of course. I must have dozed off for a minute."

  Frances Holmes wheeled forward into the firelight. Ed raised the glass in his left hand, smiling. "Here, I brought you something."

  "At this time of day?"

  "Almost sundown. Or would be, if there was any sun." He extended the glass and she cupped it in both hands to keep the drink from spilling over. Fran Holmes, the prettiest girl in town. Whatever became of her? And who was this elderly arthritic in the wheelchair?

  The glass in his right hand was cold, but its contents held a welcome warmth. He needed that warmth now.

  "Drink up, it won't hurt you." He raised the crystal rim close to his lips as he spoke. "We're entitled to a little celebration."

  "Shouldn't we wait until Lori gets here?"

  Ed shrugged. "Graduation exercises should end just about now. But even if she leaves right away it's a two-hour drive. We'll have another drink when she arrives. Meanwhile-cheers."

  He gulped his scotch but Fran didn't join him. The swollen fingers cradled the glass in her lap as she stared into the firelight.

  "What's the matter?" he said.

  "I've been thinking. We've got to talk."

  "We are talking. Either that or I'm hearing voices."

  "Ed-"

  "Okay, okay. What is it?"

  "Lori." Her lips formed the name, then a smile. "Need I say more?"

  Ed felt something stirring in the pit of his stomach. "Look, we've been through this a hundred times-"

  "This is the last, I promise you. She's got to be told."

  "Give me one good reason."

  "I'm dying."

  "Don't say that!"

  She nodded. "Remember what Dr. Bernstein said about my heart. It can happen anytime, just like that."

  "He wasn't talking about today." Ed managed another smile. "Let's have a little positive thinking. We have years ahead of us, good years."

  "You and Lori, perhaps. Not me, sitting in this chair. I only hope it happens soon."

  "For God's sake
-"

  "For my sake, Ed." She spoke softly. "I can deal with the pain. What I can't handle is the lying."

  He shook his head. "For the last time, I'm not going to do it."

  "Then I will."

  "Fran-"

  Now she raised her glass and drank. There was no hint of celebration in the gesture, only defiance. Or was it despair?

  Ed reached down to take the empty glass from his wife's hand, then sighed. "All right. We'll both do it."

  Fran's eyes brightened. "Promise?"

  "Of course. Only-does it have to be tonight? She's happy, this is a big occasion for her. Why spoil it?"

  "We're not going to spoil anything. Lori will understand. Please, Ed."

  His shoulders sagged in surrender. "If you insist." He turned and moved to the doorway and her voice followed him.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Might as well get another page or two done before Lori shows up." Pausing at the edge of the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder. "If you need anything, call me."

  Fran nodded. "I'll be all right."

  Ed started down the hall, pace quickening as the burning sensation rose. The fire was in the pit of his stomach and the liquor was in the cabinet. Fight fire with fire.

  Reaching the den, he reached into the cabinet again. The second drink splashed into his glass, gurgled down his throat. Then he carried the bottle over to his desk and sat down.

  There was still work to do, but right now he couldn't face it. He'd faced too much already-the long years of watching Fran's slow decline, the decision to retire so that he could help care for her, and then the bitter realization that it was all for nothing. There was no way out for either of them now. Fran was trapped in her chair and he was trapped in a sedentary existence equally painful, equally crippling.

  Ed bought himself a fresh drink. Just an ordinary shot this time, but when you're fire fighting you've got to do the job right.

  As he raised the glass he noticed that a few drops from the bottle had spattered across the right-hand side of the desktop. Not to worry, it wouldn't harm the varnish and the cleaning lady would be here day after tomorrow. Too bad he couldn't have somebody full-time, but twice a week was better than nothing.

  Funny, the way he'd gradually increased his drinking after Lori went away to school. Or maybe not so funny. The part-time help did the housework and cooked up stuff in casseroles that could be reheated for other meals; Fran sat in her chair and supervised, and he pretended to write. But more and more he'd relied on the contents of the liquor cabinet to see him through the empty hours, keep the fire from gutting him completely.

  Ed drank, then poured again, but he knew that his amateur efforts at fire fighting weren't enough. The conflagration had been fueled by Fran's decision and his compliance. In a few hours, when Lori arrived, the blaze would be out of control, consuming him, consuming what was left of their lives together.

  For a moment he almost wished there'd be a real fire, putting an end to the endless days and sleepless nights. Sleep, that was the answer. Let sleeping dogs lie-

  Leaning back in his chair, Ed realized he was dozing off, but he didn't resist. Just forty winks, forty thieves stealing time. He who steals my time steals trash.

  His eyes blinked shut on twilight, and when they opened again darkness had gathered outside the window, invaded the den. Darkness, silence, and the acrid odor.

  He reached out to the desk lamp and the darkness was dispelled, though the silence remained. The silence, and the smell.

  A glance at his watch told him it was almost seven-thirty. He really must have passed out. Stupid thing to do. Sleeping dogs lie, but they can't lie forever.

  Ed swayed as he rose, his right hand gripping the corner of the desk to steady himself. He took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head, but all it did was make him more conscious of the pungent odor.

  What was it? Could Fran have spilled something while he slept?

  Ed peered toward the shadowed hall and called out. "Fran?"

  No answer-just silence, darkness, and the surge of scent.

  He crossed the room quickly, stumbling past the hallway entrance without pausing to flick the light switch. The smell grew stronger, there was something familiar about it which Ed knew he'd recognize if he only stopped to think. But he couldn't stop, and there was no time to think.

  "Fran!"

  Again no answer. And-this was strange-no burning sensation now. The pit of his stomach was ice-cold.

  It was only when he reached the parlor doorway that he felt a wave of warmth fanning his face. No lights had been turned on, but there was heat in the room beyond, heat and acrid odor, and a flickering which filled the foreground with a reddish glare.

  Scotch and sleep had blurred his vision; he halted for a moment until he could see clearly. See the redness from the fireplace around the corner, reflected in the stains of the carpet, red against red. See the overturned wheelchair, the empty wheelchair-

  "Fran!"

  She lay on her side, lay on the red-stained carpet in the red light. And as Ed started toward her the light brightened.

  It was then, in that final moment, he looked her straight in the eye-the single, sightless eye staring up at him from what remained of her face.

  TWO

  Lori Holmes glanced down at the red wetness. The red was just a reflection of light from the stop sign beyond the passenger window, but the wetness was real. A moist film oozed up from the floorboards beneath her feet. "You need new mats," she said. Russ Carter nodded. "Sorry about that. Made a note to buy a set before the trip but I never got a chance."

  "No big deal. Do it tomorrow, after the rain stops," Lori told him. "And while you're at it, you can buy a new car too."

  Russ smiled, then peered ahead as the light changed. Windshield wipers battled the blur of raindrops as he downshifted to fight the shimmering slickness of the road ahead.

  "There's a blanket in back," he said. "Might as well save your shoes."

  Lori turned, taking inventory of the clutter on the rear seat. Notepads, an attache case, a flashlight, a cordless shaver, one scuffed Reebok, a half-rolled poncho, sunglasses with a cracked left lens, and an open box of vanilla wafers. She sighed and Russ grinned at her.

  "Know what you're thinking. But a good reporter has to be prepared for emergencies."

  The blanket was crumpled in the far corner and she tugged at it gently, trying not to dislodge the jumble beneath.

  "Problems?" Russ glanced back.

  "I can manage. Keep your eyes on the road."

  She tugged harder, freeing and lifting the blanket over the back of her seat, then spread it across the floorboard below.

  The car lurched as Russ spun the wheel to control a skid. Red lights flashed from the rear of the truck ahead as it slowed in a bumper-to-bumper crawl.

  "We sure hit the jackpot," Russ said. "Rain and the rush hour. Perfect timing."

  His passenger settled back in her seat, smiling down at her newly protected shoes. "So we'll be a little late. Enjoy the scenery, and welcome to Greater Los Angeles."

  Russ grinned. "That's my Lori."

  The words blended with the rush of rain and the half-screech of the windshield wipers' steady sweep, but she heard her name and consciously suppressed the frown that followed.

  Lori had always disliked her name, even before she got into etymology. The "Holmes" patronym was Middle English, meaning from the middle islands, and if it was good enough for Sherlock it was good enough for her. But "Lori" sounded wrong. A diminutive of "Laura," the feminine form of "Lawrence," which in Latin meant crowned with laurel.

  That bothered her, and she couldn't understand why. So she wasn't a female Lawrence, she'd never been crowned with laurel any more than she'd come from the middle islands, wherever they were. But what difference did it make? It just seemed wrong, and she wished she knew the reason.

  Russ was "Russell," of course; Old French for red-haired.. And "Carter" derived from the English
term cart driver. Russ wasn't French, he didn't have red hair, and he was driving a Toyota. What's in a name?

  She thought of her parents. "Edward" meant prosperous guardian and that was appropriate enough; he'd always been prosperous and he'd certainly guarded her as well as any father could guard his daughter in today's troubled world. "Frances" in its masculine form meant Frenchman. As far as Lori knew, her mother was no more French than Russ, but she'd never been bugged by that. She had plenty of other things to be bugged over but she never complained.

  Neither of her parents was the complaining type; they took their lumps and made the best of it. Like not being able to attend the graduation ceremonies. Lori realized how much today meant to them. Dad had kept asking about her grades this last semester every time they talked on the phone, and sometimes she got the feeling Mom was just hanging on long enough to see her finish school.

  Lori breathed a soundless sigh. What must it be like to spend your life locked into a wheelchair, popping pills, with nothing to look forward to but nothingness? And Dad, leaving the business he loved, just so he could be close to comfort her. But what was there to comfort him? This puttering around with memoirs was only busywork, playing with the past because there was no future.

  And here she was, snug as a bug in a rug, getting herself all worked up because she resented her name. God knows where it had started, or why; it didn't matter.

  What mattered was that she had graduated; the diploma resting on the seat beside her provided proud proof.

  What mattered even more was that she had Russ. And this proof encircled her finger, its radiance visible even in the dim light of the dash.

  She could hardly wait to get home and see the look on their faces when she showed them the ring, told them how Russ had pressed the little brown box into her hand the moment she stepped off the platform at the end of the ceremonies. Never a word in advance, but that was Russ for you, full of surprises. Correction: that was Russ for her. Now and forever.