Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,12

the business. David Reagan had a brother who sold the cabin, and it’s been passed around and rented ever since.”

“And have there been stories since then of ghosts or something in connection with the place?” Somehow the idea did not seem as absurd as it should have.

“No, can’t say there has,” acknowledged Lonzo, his expression guarded. “Not much of anything unusual gone on at the Reagan place. Nobody’s ever cared to keep the place for too long for one reason or another. Still, the only thing you might call mysterious was that artist fellow back in the early ’50s.”

“Artist? What about him?”

“Some New York fellow. Had some disease, I think. Kind of strange—crazy in the head, you could say, maybe. Anyway, he killed himself after living there a few weeks. Cut his throat with a razor, and didn’t find him for a week. Had trouble renting the place for a while after that, you can guess. Fellow’s name was—let’s see. Enser Pittman.”

•IV•

Janet seemed disgustingly solicitous during dinner, going out of her way to avoid mention of Gerry’s long absence that afternoon. She had fixed Swiss steak—one of his favorites—and her eyes were reproachful when he gave curt, noncommittal answers to her attempts at conversation. If only she wouldn’t be so overbearing in her attempts to please him, Gerry thought, then act like a whipped dog when he didn’t respond effusively.

Dutifully he helped her clear away the dishes—even dried while she washed. Afterward she offered to play gin rummy, but he knew she really didn’t like the game, and declined. Conversation grew more dismal, and when Janet seemed disposed to get romantic, he turned on the TV. Presently he lamely mentioned paperwork, and left Janet protesting her loneliness. He thought she was crying again, and the familiar flash of anger returned as he descended the precipitous stairs. Anyway, she’d perk up for the Doris Day flick.

Drink in hand, Gerry once again studied the strange painting which had captured his imagination. E. Pittman—1951. Enser Pittman who had once stayed here. And committed suicide. Artists were never stable types.

But why had he painted a woman dressed in the fashion of a quarter century previous? Renee. Gerry felt certain that this Renee was the unfortunate Renee Reagan who had probably been murdered by her jealous husband in this cabin years before.

Of course! Pittman had discovered an old photograph. Certainly he would have learned of the cabin’s tragic past, and the photograph of the murdered woman would have appealed to his artistic imagination. A mind on the brink of suicide would have found sick gratification in the portrayal of a murdered temptress from a decadent period like the ’20s.

She was a beautiful creature. It was easy to see how such beauty could drive a man to adultery—or murder. Easy to understand why Pittman had been fascinated as an artist.

Moodily he stared at the painting. She was so vital. Pittman must have indeed been talented to incarnate such life within the oils. Strange how her eyes looked into your own. Her smile. If you looked long enough, you could imagine her lips moved, her eyes followed you. Amazing that he had painted it from only a photograph.

She would have been easy to love. Mysterious. Not a shallow housewife like Janet. Strange how things had changed. Once he had loved Janet because she was a perfect housewife and mother. A woman like Renee he would have considered dangerous, trivial—desirable, perhaps, like a film sex goddess, but not the type to love. So old values can change.

And Gerry realized he no longer loved his wife.

Bitterness flooded his mind. Guilt? Should he feel guilty for treating Janet so callously? Was it wrong to be unforgiving over an accident, a simple accident that...

“You killed my son! ” he choked. Tears of rage, of pain, blinded his eyes. With a sob, Gerry whirled from the painting and flung his empty glass through the doorway of the bar.

He froze—never hearing his glass rip through the rusty veranda screen and shatter against a tree below.

Renee. She was standing in the doorway.

Only for a second did the image last. For an instant he clearly saw her standing before him, watching him from the darkness of the doorway. She was just like her picture: green summer frock, bobbed flame hair, eyes alight with longing, mouth half open in invitation.

Then as his heart stuttered at the vision, she vanished.

Gerry let out his breath with a long exclamation and sank onto a chair. Had he seen a