Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,44

the studio by day. Across the street, the houses directly opposite had been pulled down. The kudzu-covered lots pitched steeply across more kudzu-covered slope, to the roofs of warehouses along the rail yard a block below. If Linda were standing directly at the window, someone on the far sidewalk might look up to see her; otherwise there was no vantage from which a curious eye could peer into the room. It was one of the room’s attractions as a studio.

“See. No one’s out there.”

Linda made a squirming motion with her shoulders. “They walked on, then,” she insisted.

Mercer snorted, suspected an excuse to cut short the session. “They’d have had to run. Don’t see anyone hiding out there in the weeds, do you?”

She stared out across the tangled heaps of kudzu, waving faintly in the last of the morning’s breeze. “Well, there might be someone hiding under all that tangle.” Mercer’s levity annoyed her. “Why can’t the city clear off those damn jungles!”

“When enough people raise a stink, they sometimes do—or make the owners clear away the weeds. The trouble is that you can’t kill kudzu once the damn vines take over a lot. Gradie and Morny used to try. The stuff grows back as fast as you cut it—impossible to get all the roots and runners. Morny used to try to burn it out—crawl under and set fire to the dead vines and debris underneath the growing surface. But he could never keep a fire going under all that green stuff, and after a few spectacular failures using gasoline on the weed-lots, they made him stick to grubbing it out by hand.”

“Awful stuff!” Linda grimaced. “Some of it’s started growing up the back of the house.”

“I’ll have to get to it before it gets started. There’s islands in the TVA lakes where nothing grows but kudzu. Stuff ran wild after the reservoir was filled, smothered out everything else.”

“I’m surprised it hasn’t covered the whole world.”

“Dies down after the frost. Besides it’s not a native vine. It’s from Japan. Some genius came up with the idea of using it as an ornamental ground cover on highway cuts and such. You’ve seen old highway embankments where the stuff has taken over the woods behind. It’s spread all over the Southeast.”

“Hmm, yeah? So who’s the genius who plants the crap all over the city then?”

“Get dressed, wise-ass.”

•III•

The afternoon was hot and sodden. The sun made the air above the pavement scintillant with heat and the thick odor of tar. In the vacant lots, the kudzu leaves drooped like half-furled umbrellas. The vines stirred somnolently in the musky haze, although the air was stagnant.

Linda had changed into a halter top and a pair of patched cutoffs. “Bet I’ll get some tan today.”

“And maybe get soaked,” Mercer remarked. “Air’s got the feel of a thunderstorm.”

“Where’s the clouds?”

“Just feels heavy.”

“That’s just the goddamn pollution.”

The kudzu vines had overrun the sidewalk, forcing them into the street. Tattered strands of vine crept across the gutter into the street, their tips crushed by the infrequent traffic. Vines along Gradie’s fence completely obscured the yard beyond, waved curling tendrils aimlessly upward. In weather like this, Mercer reflected, you could just about see the stuff grow.

The gate hung again at first push. Mercer shoved harder, tore through the coils of vine that clung there.

“Who’s that?” The tone was harsh as a saw blade hitting a nail. “Jon Mercer, Mr Gradie. I’ve brought a friend along.”

He led the way into the yard. Linda, who had heard him talk about the place, followed with eyes bright for adventure. “This is Linda Wentworth, Mr Gradie.”

Mercer’s voice trailed off as Gradie stumbled out onto the porch. He had the rolling slouch of a man who could carry a lot of liquor and was carrying more liquor than he could. His khakis were the same he’d had on when Mercer last saw him, and had the stains and wrinkles that clothes get when they’re slept in by someone who hasn’t slept well.

Red-rimmed eyes focused on the half-gallon of burgundy Mercer carried. “Guess I was taking a little nap.” Gradie’s tongue was muddy. “Come on up.”

“Where’s Sheriff?” Mercer asked. The dog usually warned his master of trespassers.

“Run off,” Gradie told him gruffly. “Let me get you a glass.” He lurched back into the darkness.

“Owow!” breathed Linda in one syllable. “He looked like something you see sitting hunched over on a bench talking to a bottle in a bag.”

“Old Gradie has been hitting the sauce pretty hard last