====================== Night Demons by Howard Hopkins ====================== Copyright (c)2001 Howard Hopkins Atlantic Bridge www.atlanticbridge.net Horror Preditors and Editors Reader Poll 2001 Top Ten Finalist --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- Published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2001, Howard Hopkins All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. -------- *PROLOGUE* Dark Harbor, Maine 1889 "I'll kill you all!" screamed Nathan Courtwright as his father and two brothers dragged him through the woods towards the mausoleum that loomed beyond a bank of fir and spruce. Body arching, he fought to twist free of their grip, unsuccessful. They hauled him another ten feet, his heels thudding over the frost-hardened ground, kicking up pine needles and dead leaves. The stench of autumn filled his nostrils, sharp and musky in the chilled night air. Nathan let his body go slack in an effort to conserve his waning strength. Muscles quivered from exhaustion; his breath burned in his lungs and beat out in choppy gasps. Images careened through his mind, scenes of Catherine and death and rebirth. Hazy, blurred, swept away as glimpses of his surroundings gyrated before his eyes: the dark hulk of the mansion from which he'd been dragged, growing rapidly more distant; branches of maples and oaks, interlacing above him like the fingers of charred skeletons; the frosty speckling of stars glittering in the dying October sky. The moon shined through an opening in the branches. A wispy haze serrated its alabaster face with jagged gauzy strings. Nathan uttered a sharp cry and thrashed about. With a burst of strength, the little he had remaining, he fought to wrench an arm loose. And failed. "Bastards!" he shouted. "Let me finish!" Both brothers halted, feet skidding on the slick needles. Tightening their grips, they struggled to restrain him. "Noooo!" Nathan screamed, insanity chiseled on his gaunt face. Eyes livid with hate, his gaze drilled Jerediah, his younger brother. Jerediah was the weakest; he could get to him, tear out his fear. "You'll die for this, brother. I promise you that -- " A brittle thud punctuated his words. Terror on his face, Jerediah jerked back his foot and kicked Nathan in the teeth. His head snapped back and a welt of pain shot through his jaw. Blood sprayed from his lips. Nathaniel Courtwright, his father, stepped close and glanced at Nathan, then to Jerediah. His lips tightened into a hard line. Through the noise of pain swelling in his head, Nathan heard his brother's voice ring out, brittle and fear-drenched. "I-I felt him! I felt him in my mind!" "I felt it, also." Chad, the eldest brother, nodded towards Nathan. Contempt laced his voice. "It was him. He is a monster, now. There is nothing left of our brother." "Resist him," commanded Nathaniel, voice solid. "We must end this tonight. It has already gone too far." "We don't have the gift." Jerediah shook his head. "I feel the hate inside him, the evil. He is too strong." "No, he is not," said Nathaniel. "Not as long as I am with you. Hurry, now, while he is still dazed." Jerediah and Chad shot each other glances, eyes frosted with fear, indecision. Resolve overcame the fear in Chad's, and he motioned to his brother. "It must be done." Moving forward, they dragged Nathan from the woods. Reaching the mausoleum, Nathaniel threw open the iron door and stepped into the anteroom. Moonlight spilled in, bathing the room with a ghostly glow. Jerediah and Chad dragged Nathan across the threshold and paused, drawing stuttering breaths. "Christ, it's awful in here." Chad threw a nervous glance about the anteroom. "Feels like a bloody grave." Jerediah trembled visibly. "It feels him." Nathaniel nodded towards Nathan, who glared. "It feels the monster inside my son." Nathan laughed, an insane look flittering on his face. Hate raged within him, burning. Oh, yes, he hated them, hated them utterly and completely for doing this. Hated them for interrupting. "Let's get this over with." Nathaniel stepped to a second iron door, which led to the main chamber. As the door creaked open, Nathan's struggling increased. He kicked out; his heels thudding on the stone floor sounded like pistol shots. His brothers, struggling to hold onto him, hauled him into the chamber. The main room was drenched in gloom. A torch blazed on one wall, casting shimmering lazy shadows on the stone, which seeped moisture. Veins of liquid trickled down, black and shiny in the anemic light, as though the walls dripped blood. At the far end of the chamber, a brick cubicle, partially completed, stood out from the wall. Its front gaped open, inviting, its interior shadowy. Waiting. "Bring him..." Nathaniel's voice came strained, a bit quivery. "No!" Anger glinted like black ice in Nathan's eyes. "You cannot do this!" He fought furiously at his brothers' hold, wrenching an arm free from a startled Jerediah's grip. The younger brother recoiled; a gasp escaped his lips as he took a step back. Nathan's movement ceased. His gaze stabbed Jerediah again. FEAR ME! Jerediah shook his head. "Voices..." Terror lay naked on his face. "Thousands of them -- in my mind! Begging -- they want to be free -- 'Help us! Help us!' Release ... hate ... anger -- " "Stop it!" Nathaniel stepped close to Nathan, hand lashing out. A brittle crack echoed through the chamber. Grabbing a handful of Nathan's hair, he wrenched up his son's head. "Stop it, now!" Nathan laughed, the sound chilling, inhuman. Its rhythm ululated with the flickering shadows, as if the shadows were part on him, of what he had become. "It does not matter." Spittle, flecked with blood, gathered at the corners of his mouth. "You will all burn in the same hell." "Hell is reserved for the ungodly, my son. Hell is reserved for you." Nathaniel turned and looked at Jerediah, who was staring, blank-eyed, with shock. "Put him in the hole." Jerediah hesitated, glancing from his father to Nathan. "Go on! He will not bother you this time." Jerediah shook his head and mouthed a barely audible, "No." "Jerediah, help us!" Nathaniel's voice rose with an air of command. "It must be done." "I ... cannot. I cannot." Jerediah whirled and dashed from the room. Nathan's laugh chased his footsteps. Silence. Nathaniel grabbed Nathan's arm. "He will be long forgetting the stain you have cast upon this family." "So?" Sarcasm laced Nathan's tone. "You will not forget. You will never forget." "Hell is waiting for you, Nathan." Nathaniel looked to Chad, whose fear danced black waltzes in his eyes, but whose face had set with determination. Without a word, they heaved Nathan up and dragged him to the cubicle, forcing him inside. Nathan didn't resist further as they locked his wrists in the shackles embedded into the wall above his head. He saw no use. This night, victory belonged to his father. "Leave," said Nathaniel, as they stepped back. "But -- " "Leave!" Chad hesitated, and then strode from the chamber. "The glory belongs to you, father..." Shackles clacked against stone as Nathan's head lifted. "I prayed you would understand, Nathan, but I see Evil has completely devoured your reason. You are my son. No matter how much I detest what you have done, I cannot bring myself to let them destroy you. This is the only way." Nathaniel went to a pile of bricks stacked near the cubicle. A wheelbarrow filled with dry mortar stood beside the bricks. A bucket of water reflected shimmering torchlight. Nathaniel slowly rolled up his sleeves... * * * * After Nathaniel bricked up the front of the cubicle, he hesitated, clutching the last brick in bleached fingers. "It is the only way, Nathan." His voice broke with emotion. "No." Nathan's voice grew colder. "You can join me, free them. You have the key." "The key ... yes, the key. The gift occurs but once a generation, sometimes less often than that. I gave you that gift and you abused it, soiled it." Nathan laughed a mocking laugh. "Gift? You gave me no gift, father. You gave me a disease." Nathaniel bowed his head. "Perhaps. Perhaps I did at that. For my part in this, I will carry the burden of guilt throughout my life, but if I am responsible for infecting you, then I am also responsible for your cure. I am sorry, Nathan. May God have mercy on your damned soul." Nathan's scream of protest became a muffled wail as his father slid the last brick into place... -------- *PART 1: DARK HARBORS* Dark Harbor, Maine The Present - Wednesday * * * * SOON... Jake Corsetti's shouting set in motion the ground-breaking for the Courtwright Drug and Rehabilitation Center. Backloaders and dump trucks rumbled in the early morning sunlight, ambling over soil and clay and stone like drunken beasts; bulldozers and Caterpillars belched blue-tinted smoke and rammed truckloads of top dirt and tree stumps into heaping mounds; cranes whined and heaved steel girders and wooden beams through the air in graceful arcs. Picks and shovels clanged and crunched. Slamming the trailer door shut, he descended the rickety wooden stairs, guzzling his fourth cup of Nescafe and cursing under his breath. The crisp chill of the night had dissolved and he knew it would be sweltering by noon -- as the town had baked in a late-May heat wave for the past three days. By that time, his men would be bitching and he'd have to deal with the usual number of walk-offs, mostly new guys unused to the heat and sun. Jake chided himself for not hiring seasoned professionals, but with Corsetti Construction sinking in a quicksand of tax evasion charges and lawsuits claiming shoddy work, who could afford it? If his perpetually crocked brother would get his goddamned act together instead of sleeping off the previous night's round of cheap rum and even cheaper women, maybe Jake could haul this company up by its ass-straps and get back on top. He remembered when Corsetti Construction was a name. Hell, they had built half this damn town. Now the company was headed for bankruptcy and he suspected his brother of skimming more than just the cream off the profits. Jake gulped the last of his coffee and crumpled the paper cup, flinging it to the ground. He scanned the site, muttering. Walking past a stack of crates marked DANGER: EXPLOSIVES, a pang of worry struck him and he prayed he could keep his trigger-happy foreman, Hillson, from blasting the whole project straight to hell before they even started. This project was his last shot at staying afloat and the town was shelling out big bucks for the Center. Well, thought Jake, at least it would give the loonies and losers somewhere to go. The Center would cost millions and probably put Dark Harbor on the map. Jake didn't give a crap whether Dark Harbor got on the map or sank into the goddamn Atlantic. The hell with Dark Harbor and its blue-blooded inbreeding. This Center was his ticket to early retirement. Let his no-good brother have the goddamn company after this job was finished. All Jake cared about now was bleeding every drop of blood out of his crew before they quit or dropped dead from heat exhaustion. "Hillson!" Jake yelled, arching a hand above his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. Droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. The foreman, dressed in filthy Levis and a stained T-shirt riddled with holes, lumbered over, sucking the last drag from his Camel and flicking it to the ground. The tools stuffed in his utility belt clacked as he walked. He hocked and spat. "Yeah?" Hillson pulled up his hard hat and swiped dirt and sweat from his brow. Jake's nostrils flinched; he wondered when Hillson had last taken a bath. He peered at the burly man with the sun-browned, tattooed arms. "What's the word on that?" Jake jabbed a finger at the sprawling rectangular structure that loomed at the north end, a great stone beast with an arched granite doorway. The building exuded all the charm of a gravestone and something about the place sent a shiver skipping down Jake's spine. JAKE... He tensed. At times he swore that thing called to him. Shaking the ominous feeling off, he shuddered, despite the heat, and ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "I checked the Courtwright history," said Hillson. "It's empty. Was built along with the old house." Hillson ducked his chin toward the dilapidated rambling mansion, barely visible beyond a ridge of trees. Even from this distance, Jake felt the house's portending gloominess. "Was intended to be a mausoleum," Hillson continued. "But for some reason it was never used. Belonged to Nathan Courtwright, the resident black sheep who disappeared abruptly over a hundred years ago. Supposedly disgraced the family by hooking up with a Stanford in the days of the 'big feud', then murdered his bride-to-be. Guess he musta figured that'd take care of the problem, but -- " "I really don't care what happened to any of the Courtwrights." Anger boiled in Jake's veins as something undefined began to gnaw at him. He wondered if it weren't stress catching up with him. "Okay, okay." Hillson shrugged. "But they're paying a big hunk of our paychecks and they did donate this land." "Yeah, yeah, I know. But that's all I care about. Which means getting this project completed on time -- is it ready to blow?" "Uh, sort of." "What do you mean, 'sort of'?" Sweat zigzagged down Jake's face, annoying him. With a swipe of his sleeve, he mopped it away. Agitation growing, his hands started to get a good case of the jitters. "The entrance is blocked by an iron door -- I do mean solid -- and it's been welded shut. Can't get into the place at all. No windows, neither. I set the charge all around the door." "Why does that make me nervous?" Hillson smirked. "Gotta make sure it's empty. If someone was buried in there, well, we'd have hell to pay." Jake sighed. "How much will it set us back?" "Depends. If it's empty, we'll blow her almost on schedule. If not ... well, you know how the Historical Society's been gripin'." Jake cursed. The Society, a bunch of blue-haired sonofabitch meddlers, in his humble opinion, had tried to halt the construction of the Center three times in the past few weeks, claiming the old house and mausoleum were part of the town's heritage and should be preserved for the generations. "Lucky for us the sheriff and town support this, otherwise we'd be screwed." Jake spat. Hillson chuckled and a sly gleam crossed his eyes. "One more thing: I say when we go in, we check every nook and cranny. Rumor has it Courtwright skidaddled with a hunk of the family stash, jewels, gold, that kinda thing. Gotta be a reason that place is locked up so tight -- if you know what I mean." Jake grinned. "It'd make it worth the wait, wouldn't it? Just don't find anything else in there -- we can't afford it." * * * * The explosion hurled chunks of masonry into the air and shook the ground. The concussion pounded Jake's eardrums, despite his reinforced ear-protectors, and scattered chickadees and squawking blue jays from the trees for a few hundred yards. Great clouds of spinning, spiraling dust and debris billowed and a shower of rock chips pelted the ground like gray rain. With a metallic shriek, the iron door wrenched loose from stone and pitched forward, crashing to the ground with a clang. Jake yanked off his ear-protectors and tossed them atop a crate. "All right, back to work!" Gawking workmen shuffled off to their positions and soon the hydraulic wailing of heavy equipment filled the deadened silence. Jake stepped forward, Hillson lagging behind him, and examined the wreckage. "Jesus, you sure you used enough?" Jake eyed the foreman, brow furrowed. Hillson bellowed a laugh that rivaled the sound of the explosion and spread his hands. "Figured that door'd be in there a little firmer. Looks like the welding job was stronger than the building itself." "I wonder why?" Jake adjusted the strap on his hard hat. A sudden coldness washed through him as he approached the mausoleum, vague, unnerving, but distinct against the heat of the day. An ill-defined dread seeped from the back of his mind. For an instant, he felt the urge to run, get as far away from the building as possible. Something held him fast, gripping his mind and impelling him forward. JAKE ... COME TO ME... Anger boiled within him again and he wanted to slam something, strike out. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, tightening his muscles, making his heart jump. He struggled with the feelings, gripping at strands of thoughts and fleeting images that flittered just so close to his awareness, only to be snatched away when he reached for them. "Well?" Perplexity shone in Hillson's eyes. The foreman's voice invaded Jake's reverie. He shook his head and ran his fingers under his hat and through damp thinning hair. "Let's go in and hope the damn thing doesn't come down on top of us..." * * * * Jake stepped over the iron door into the murky anteroom, squinting to see through the clouds of swirling dust. He paused, waiting for his vision to adjust. The anteroom felt laden with coldness and Jake shivered, the chill rising from within as well as from without. With a thin snap, Hillson flicked his lighter to life and lit up another Camel. The foreman tugged a flashlight from his utility belt and clicked it on. A diffused beam shot out, stabbing through the dust-clogged air. Jake edged forward, rubble crunching beneath his work boots. A tingling wave surged through the hairs on the back of his neck. God, there was something in here. A morbid fascination that repelled him yet drew him closer. "Look." Hillson's voice rumbled out and echoed from the stone walls. His beam swept over the anteroom and settled on another iron door. "Great." Jake tensed as he stared at the door. "Just what we need." "Yeah, but this one's only padlocked." Hillson went to the door and fumbled with the lock. "Rusty, too." He jerked a heavy claw hammer from his belt and drew it back, swinging in a short powerful arc. The lock shattered with a loud clank. "See?" Hesitantly, Jake stepped closer, a distinct and powerful force calling to him from behind the door. "Whatsa matter?" Hillson absently scratched at his crotch. "Nothing." Jake's voice came low, hollow. "Nothing at all." Jake reached for the door, hand stopping in mid-air. He curled his fingers, staring at them. His hand seemed different, somehow. Blurred. A ripple of pain skittered through his fingers. A memory from childhood sprang to mind unbidden: he had tripped over a Tonka truck he'd left parked near the stove and his out-thrust hand had landed on a hot burner. He remembered the pain, as if he were reliving it. The feeling vanished and his hand went forward again. Jake pushed open the door; it swung inward with a grinding creek. As dampness slapped his face, he shuddered. "Crap." Hillson's face twisted with revulsion. "Smells like a goddamn butcher shop or something." Jake nodded, nostrils flinching. "Maybe some animal got in here and died." "How? Place is locked up tight as a drum." JAKE... "What'd you say?" asked Hillson. "Nothing." Jake shook his head. "Musta scraped the floor with my foot." "Oh." Hillson sounded unconvinced. "I thought I heard a whisper or something." "I think this place is just getting on our nerves." "Hell, it's a mausoleum. It's s'posed to get on your nerves." Hillson sighed and swung the flashlight. The beam splashed over the chamber, revealing sterile gray walls and scampering shadows. An arc of caliginous sunlight sliced through the doorway, giving the interior a nightmarish smoky quality. Jake's flesh felt suddenly alive, crawling. The strange dread grew much stronger in here. A ball of anger lodged in his gut. An intense ache began to pulsate at his temples. His palms grew moist and he clenched and unclenched his fingers. His heart thudded and he wanted to shake his fists, yell as pressure welled in his mind, pressing ever outward until he feared his skull would explode. He fought to control himself, quell his sudden rage. I'm having a goddamn breakdown! Just the way my mother did when I was ten. Keep it up, Jake, just keep it up. Dark Harbor Memorial has a nice little room all wallpapered with foam rubber and pink paint and a gorgeous little old nurse who sticks things up your ass and into your brain till you dance around like a decapitated chicken and fill in your name with crayons -- What's wrong with me? Jake forced out the breath jammed in his lungs. "Well, it's empty," said Hillson. "No stash, no nothing. Just a big stone room waiting for someone to die." Waiting for someone to die... Jake glared at Hillson. The man was a fool. An utter fool. "Might as well blow her." A trace of nervousness edged onto Hillson's features as he stared at Jake. "Wait!" snapped Jake. "Shine your light over there." He stabbed a finger toward the far end of the room. "Okay, you're the boss." Hillson swung the beam back and forth, outlining an area of wall that jutted out from the main expanse and was fashioned of brick instead of stone. "What is it?" asked Jake. "Dunno. Probably supporting beams behind it or something." Jake moved closer and ran his fingertips over the cold rough brick. The protuberance seemed to emanate a force that drew him forward, as if desiring to pull him through the wall itself. "No, I don't think so," said Jake. "It's the only spot in the room. They wouldn't erect supports just in one place." JAKE... "What?" Jake spun, voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Didn't say anything!" Alarm sprang into Hillson's voice. A nervous twitch pulled at the corner of his lips and he shifted feet. "A whisper..." Wildness burned in Jake's eyes. "A whisper ... calling my name. Didn't you hear it?" "Nah-uh, didn't hear anything." "I have a feeling about this, Hillson. There was a reason for locking up this dump. The missing stash. What if Courtwright planned to come back and stowed it all in here -- in there?" Jake pointed at the brick enclosement. "It's behind that wall. It has to be." "That's stretching it, Jake. They had goddamn banks in those days. He probably pawned the stuff and tucked it away under another name wherever he went. I'm sorry I even suggested it." "Maybe he didn't get the chance. Maybe he hid the stuff and something happened to him, something that prevented him from coming back for it." "Or maybe he took it with him. C'mon, it's just the way the place was built. Probably planned a fireplace or God knows what." "In a mausoleum? Why? To keep the bodies warm? No, there's something behind that wall -- I'm sure of it." Drilling Hillson with his gaze, Jake saw the foreman's fear. He thinks I'm crazy -- crazy like mom! Crazy, crazy, CRAZY! Bastard -- Christ! What was happening to him? The question screamed through his mind. He'd never felt such anger, such unbridled hate and rage. Get a grip, he told himself. He had to calm down before he lost it totally. Sucking a deep breath, he fought to steady his nerves. "Give me your hammer," demanded Jake. Hillson gawked, suspicion brewing with the fear in his eyes, but handed over the tool. With damp palms, Jake clenched the hammer tightly, its weight full in his hands. He turned to the wall and began to tap. A hollow clinking echoed through the room. "See?" Jake's voice came shrill, unnatural. Hillson stared. "It's hollow. This section was added on afterward. There's something behind it." But it's not money, is it, Jake? No, no, no -- it's something much better... "Jake, please. I never should have mentioned it. It was an outside chance. Nothing's there. Maybe you been pushing yourself too hard, huh? Let's just blow this place and be done with it. Being in here's making me real nervous and I don't get nervous easy." Anger flashed across Jake's face and maliciousness glinted in his eyes. "I want what's behind that wall, Hillson. It's the answer to everything. I won't need this goddamned company anymore!" Jake uttered a shrill laugh that he knew belonged to insanity. He remembered his mother uttering that same laugh before they put her away. "O-okay, okay. Say there is money in there. What if the Courtwrights find out? It's theirs. They'll want it back." "The hell with them! They have all the goddamn money they need. What's behind that wall is mine. Mine. Go get me a pick and sledgehammer." "Jake, why are you doing this? You never acted like this before." Hillson's lip twitched at machine gun speed, now. "Because I'm your goddamn boss -- remember? Go!" Jake started forward and Hillson recoiled, and then shambled out, face tight with fear. Inebriation mixed with Jake's anger. He spun and stared at the wall, its mottled brick shimmering with a dull reddish glare he hadn't noticed before. Anger and hate coursed through him, stronger now, growing with the glare. He welcomed it, bathed in its power. JAKE, YOU ARE MINE... Yes, yes, I am yours. A force tore through him. Agony flooded his body, igniting every fiber and cell with white-hot pain -- the pain, oh, God, the pain! Emptiness screamed through him. Incredible tearing, renting, cold fire, every cell singing with hate, sweet hate. A barrage of dark images swept through his thoughts, scenes filled with unnamable horrors and carnage, depravities. And oh, the goddamn power! Red flame erupted from his hands. Waves of searing agony blazed through his fingertips. A scream tore from his throat as he gazed down at them. He smelled the childhood stench of burning flesh. He watched his skin melt and run, dripping from his bones in great globs. The flames vanished, snuffed as though a switch had been thrown. He stared, transfixed. Blood bubbled from his pores, streaming between his fingers; red globules spattered onto the floor. As quickly as the drops splashed, they were absorbed. Then his hands were normal again. The pain in his body receded. Only the anger, the pure hate, remained. Oceans of hate with undertows of lust and cruelty. Cold ... empty ... dark... Jake laughed, a gibbering sound that haunted the room, knowing the transmutation was nearly complete. The Evil thrived in his body. He screamed with a voice that belonged to the darkness inside him: "Hillson!" * * * * "Here," said Hillson. Jake spun, sweat streaming down his face. Damn you, Hillson, he thought. Damn you, damn you, damn you! Outlined in the shaft of sunlight, Hillson poised in the doorway, gripping a sledgehammer in one hand and a pick in the other. He leaned the sledgehammer against the wall. RELEASE ME... Yes, part of him was still trapped behind that wall, wasn't it? "Give me the pick." Jake's voice came grating, unnatural. He breathed deeply, drunk with hate and power. God, he felt strong, alive again. Hillson hesitated. "W-what's wrong?" Jake saw suspicion swell in the foreman's eyes but it no longer mattered. "Give it to me!" Jake yelled and Hillson started. The staccato twitching pulled at the man's lips again. Jake lunged, hand flashing out. He tore the pick from Hillson's grip and the foreman staggered back, pressing against the wall, fear exploding in his eyes. How Jake loved to see Hillson cower, how he bathed in the man's terror, drank it in. That was and had always been the most fulfilling part, hadn't it? The foreman's eyes filled with the certainty of his own death. Jake caressed the pick handle, squeezing it, its fullness swelling and pulsating in his grip. Viciousness flashed into a grin on his face and Hillson trembled visibly. Jake heaved the pick into the air. Hillson's mouth moved silently up and down. He seemed frozen, incapable of moving or protecting himself. "J-Jake, please," Hillson pleaded, words brittle leaves rustling down an autumn sidewalk. "Please, don't -- I got a wife and three kids depending on me -- " Hillson's pleas melted into babbling. DO IT! "I've waited a hundred years for this moment!" Jake screamed. His head ached with the imploring of a thousand demonic voices. The chamber blurred around him as a flicker of his decency fought for control. For a moment he wasn't sure who or where he was. The walls wavered, glowing with vermilion light. Decency lost. Jake screamed, the flicker stamped out. He swung the pick in a wide arc, muscles tensing and roaring with every ounce of his strength. Hillson's dying shriek barely penetrated the cacophony of voices screaming in Jake's mind. On the wall, the shadow of the pick descended, its swing jerked short as it collided with the shadow of Hillson's head. A horrible crunching sounded as metal slammed into bone. A geyser of crimson splattered Jake's face and clothes. Jake laughed and ran his tongue over his lips, savoring the sweet sapidity of Hillson's' blood. He hoisted the pick again; its shadow on the wall came down, down, down! Pieces of flesh and clumps of hair splattered the wall in grisly inkblot smears. ANGER... Rushing, rushing through him! Never had he felt anything so controlled, so satisfying. To live again. To live again. HATE... A long time, I have waited, hissed the voice crowding his head. A very long time. Jake lashed out; the pick cleaved the air with a metallic whine and Hillson's mangled head flew from his body. His body, which had seemed pinned to the wall, crumpled, as if folding in on itself, twitching spasmodically on its way to the floor. Jake threw down the pick and snatched up the sledgehammer. Sweat and droplets of Hillson's blood mingled and streamed down his face. His breath pounded in his lungs, driven out in hot, rasping gasps. He stumbled to the brick out-cropping and heaved the hammer up, swinging over and over. Brick shattered, spewing chips and chunks. Exhilaration flooded him as he bashed a huge hole in the wall. He flung the hammer with all his strength; it rebounded from the stone and crashed to the floor. The thundering voices in his head grew unbearable as he stared into the hole he'd opened. He braced himself on the edge of the aperture and peered into its dark maw... -------- *(2)* Quincy, Massachusetts * * * * COME BACK, PAUL. I'M WAITING... Dark streets, always dark streets. Mist washed over the cobblestones, an ashen carpet. Shadows reached from alleyways. Gaslights flickered, sputtered, guttered, dancing ghosts in the fog. Paul Stanford ran, feet clap-clapping with hollow reports that reverberated along the canyon of brick buildings rising to either side of the street -- a canyon that narrowed ahead, intersecting at some dark distant point. As the clatter of his steps swelled, a hissing clamor crowded his mind, swelling until he thought his head would shatter. Louder, louder, louder. His gaze swept over the street, taking in every stray patch of blackness, every errant shadow that seemed alive, entreating. God, please let me wake up... (Closer) Paul's breath jabbed out and his heart jack-hammered. A sliver of pain stabbed his left knee and it buckled. He stumbled forward, thrusting out his arms to maintain his balance, keep his stride. The thing behind him gained and indescribable dread washed through him, the same dread he remembered feeling as a child when he'd perceived a faceless grinning something lurking in his bedroom closet at night. Waiting, always waiting, warm and slithery, until he chanced drifting off to sleep. Then it would flow out like a thousand shadowy snakes and writhe about his blanket-pyramided toes, trying to drag him into the closet until he jolted awake, screaming, tears streaking down his face. He remembered the bedroom door bursting open and an awful fear -- a real fear -- coursing through him as his father stormed into the room and tore away the blankets, then beat the hell out him for crying out. He was dreaming but couldn't wake himself. Trapped, the thing from the closet emerging, he could only run. A moist hotness brushed the back of his neck. A shudder worked the length of his spine and his head swiveled. Casting a glance behind him, he saw nothing through the fog. But he felt it there, looming, all around, close enough to reach out and touch, yet distant, too. He saw only mist, great shimmering clouds of it, swirling and eerie in the pale flickering streetlight. Paul forced his legs to pump harder and muscles quivered, burning with effort. His steps quickened but the thing's indefatigable pace swiftened as well, equaling his. A spasm of pain seared his chest and clamped about his ribcage, threatening to cut off his air. He gasped, fighting for breath. You better wake up, Paul! Better wake up right here and now or you're going to die in this nightmare -- Ah, but isn't that what you want? To escape? Dying's an escape, isn't it? The ultimate escape -- no bills, no stagnant relationships, no dreams, no crap! Just keep pumping those legs, forcing that adrenaline and maybe, just maybe, you can jump off this joyride -- Stop it! A wave of dream inertia gripped his body, thrusting him into a slow-motion movie. His pace faltered. He struggled forward, straining against the powerful invisible current, but the harder he fought, the slower his progress became. The pounding clatter of his steps slurred to a muffled throbbing that gonged in his temples. The roar of his blood seemed amplified as it pulsed through his veins. Wake up, dammit! Remember that thing in the closet -- Pressure welled in his mind and his head pulsated like a hammered thumb. Numbness swallowed his legs and he felt as if he were trudging forward on limbs of stone. He looked up. The street ahead seemed skewed, slanting downward, and he felt himself leaning forward, stumbling. (Closer) Thin scraping noises rasped from behind him and he chanced another backward look. Nothing. That you can see, anyway. But you know it's there, Paul, don't you? He swung his head around and a surge of dizziness sent him off balance. Pain speared his knee again and this time he was unable to halt his plunge. The knee buckled. He pitched forward, arms out-thrust and windmilling in an absurd sluggish circle. The fall seemed endless, agonizingly slow, as if he were falling through thickened air. As Paul slammed into the cobblestones, the shock jarred his body and his teeth clacked together. Flesh tore from his palms with a searing welt of pain. He gazed at his hands, terror on his face. Blood bubbled and streamed through his fingers, more blood than could possibly have come from any minor scrapes. Too much blood, rivers of blood that seemed to stain the enshrouding mist with crimson. The thing in the closet, Paul. Fell asleep again, didn't ya? Here it comes, big and ugly and drooling. You're a goner. Nice knowing you and say good-bye to your toes -- Wake up oh please Mother of God wake up -- Mist converged, swirling around him. A fetid wind slapped his face and he gagged; it stank of rot and things buried. A surge of coldness swept through him. I WANT YOU, PAUL. COME TO ME. GIVE IN AND LIVE ETERNALLY. YOU ARE THE KEY. DO NOT BE A FOOL AND DWELL WITHIN THE VANISHED PLACE... The invisible thing's presence reared above him, engorged with mist, a nebulous bloating of air and space. A sense of indescribable oldness pervaded it; an evil and rage, uncontrollable, eager, hungry. I KNOW WHAT TERRIFIES YOU, PAUL, AND I KNOW WHAT YOU NEED. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SHOW YOU? I CAN GIVE HER TO YOU, GIVE YOU JENNY. GIVE IN. IT IS COLD, SO VERY COLD IN THE VANISHED PLACE. "No!" Paul screamed, voice dragging, distorted. The warm slithery feeling from his childhood nightmares suffused him again. The mist bulged, becoming perceptively convex, as if something were trying to push through it. Wake up, dammit! Wake up or become part of him. Wake up or die -- understand? WAKE UP! Paul snapped bolt upright in bed. His head whirled with murky images, a scream frozen on his lips. He gasped, breath beating out, chest heaving. Sweat trickled down his chest, back, face; the sheets were damp, tangled. You were lucky this time, Paul. What about next time? Care to fall asleep again? Paul shook his head, fighting to calm himself. The dreams had begun about a month ago, becoming increasingly more acute with each recurrence, taking more and more out of him physically and emotionally. He'd been a wreck at school lately, making all manner of mistakes. In his waking hours, he felt the thing from his nightmares dogging him, waiting ... but for what? You have to go back, you know it -- He uttered a nervous laugh. Did he really think it would be different this time? The restlessness had stayed away so long this time his mind had lulled him into a false sense of security. True, the dreams were something new, but he'd been foolish to think moving in with Jill would calm him down. For a time it had. But the pattern had been the same with the others, too. The thing in the closet knows where you are, Paul. Knows where you are and always will. It'll find you anywhere you go. Needs all those toes, you know. Got a real big collection of them. Better check and make sure yours are all there. Paul lay back in bed and tried to orient himself. His breathing eased. Amber shafts of sunlight pierced the window and dust danced in the blaze. The brightness stung his eyes and he pressed them shut, opening them after they adjusted to the glare. The familiarity of his apartment bedroom began to relax his strung nerves, though enervation still gripped his mind. Some of the dream's intensity dissipated, though it left a shimmering after-dread. He glanced at the digital alarm clock, which blinked a blue 12:00, and realized the power must have gone off during the night, the tell-tale excuse for his alarm not having rung this morning. He stared at the ceiling, his gaze absently tracing the jagged cracks criss-crossing its stained surface. Jill... Glancing at the empty space beside him, he suddenly realized Jill was already up. She always got up before him. He'd never mastered the knack of early rising. He remembered sleeping until noon as a child -- when his father wasn't around to kick his ass out of bed or too drunk to care -- and staying up till 3 a.m. reading Iron Man comic books, and, later, smuggled-in copies of Playboy. A simple pleasure he missed as an adult -- possibly the only part of his childhood his missed. The smoky scent of sizzling bacon drifted into his nostrils and his stomach groaned. He ran his fingers through his sandy-brown hair, which was matted and damp, and sighed. You have to tell her. You know it. You can't let this go on. So don't be a wimp, as Jill so fondly puts it. Face it, one more night like that and you'll lose more than just your toes and Jay Leno can't keep you awake forever. Now c'mon, you've both seen it coming. Stand up to her this time. Paul wondered if she would scream or cry or strike out when he told her. Funny, he should know her well enough to predict that; she was an expert at all three. They'd live together for nearly a year -- the longest he'd stayed in a relationship since -- No! Don't let her back into your mind. No way. Remember how long it took to get over her the first time? (Did you ever?) Hell, it was just a stray thought, anyway. No reason to panic. Force it out of your head. All right? For some time, now, Paul knew he and Jill were drifting apart, but a small rift had widened into a chasm. They bickered constantly, from major knock-down-drag-outs to squabbling over toothpaste globs in the sink. The cause didn't matter. He'd attempted to discuss leaving with her more than once, but she always diverted him, swearing they could work it out and yes she'd try harder to control her temper and that was that, stop being a wimp and get used to it. Blame yourself, that's what she means. It's your fault and God bless you for realizing it. He did have himself to blame for a lot -- not all by a long shot -- of their problems. More so over the past month, since the dreams started. He became agitated and reclusive at times, nearly impossible to live with. His temper flared over trivial things, matching Jill's, which was a feat in itself. They hadn't made love in over a month. He suspected she knew separation was inevitable -- he could see it glare, reflected with spite, in her eyes. Don't go back, Paul. It's dangerous and he'll be waiting... Who? (...) He should be used to it. His past relationships had been a veritable minefield and so far he'd blundered into four of them. His last relationship, with Julie, had self-destructed in a mine of tears and grief; Jackie had shrugged it off in her typical pseudo-sixties style and flipped him the one-fingered peace sign; Jenny? No, that one was too painful. That one he didn't think he'd ever fully get over. Only Jenny had blown off some vital part of him. Stupidest thing you ever did, Paul? Keep asking yourself that question. Isn't that the real reason you have to go back? And what would Jill's response be? He really didn't want to hurt her. When they agreed to live together, she wanted marriage, but he kept putting it off, knowing somewhere inside what it would come to. Don't delude yourself. You knew you'd hurt her -- the same way you hurt the others. Feels pretty good, doesn't it? Big kicks! Remember Jenny? Sure ya do! Tore your guts out and I won't let you forget it. How 'bout Jill? (Do you love her?) The question stopped him short. Guilt twisted inside him. If you did, the restlessness wouldn't have come back would it? You wouldn't want to leave so bad, would you? Crap. She doesn't love you, either. They'd just grown so damn comfortable. Living in neutrality was easier than upheaving their lives and starting over. It wasn't only Jill; he knew that. Something in his dream, something that seeped into his waking thoughts, called to him (dared him?). He felt some thing waiting for him in the tangle of his past, in that childhood closet, taunting him to throw open the door and gaze upon its face. It's dangerous to go back... But he knew he had to and that was that. He was tired of running. You still love her -- that's why you have to go back. Somehow she's all a part of this -- and him. Who? (...) You're messed up, Paul, you know that? Paul slammed a fist against the nightstand, frustration welling. The phone jumped from its cradle. He picked it up, hesitating, dialing, decision made. * * * * Jill kicked open the door with a bare foot and padded across the room, balancing a tray on one hand -- the only practical skill she'd learned as a waitress. Her willowy figure shown clearly beneath a see-through blue teddie. Arousal stirred in his groin as he watched her small breasts jiggle with her steps. Jill set the tray on the nightstand, leaned over and kissed him lingeringly, tongue probing his month. The pungent tang of marmalade flavored her lips, sweet and inviting against the stale after-taste rooted in his mouth. He hardened, damning himself for getting turned on. A sly smile crossed Jill's lips and she ran her hand over the bulge beneath the blanket. He suddenly felt embarrassed and tried to force his arousal away. "Better hurry up and eat, sleepy-head." Jill grinned and flipped back her bleached hair with a sweep of her hand. "You'll be late for school again." The husky timber of her voice -- sultry, he once thought -- that's what they called androgyny in a woman, didn't they? Sultry? -- sent a wave of apprehension coursing through him. She suspects, Paul. Breakfast in bed for the first time in eight months -- damn right she suspects. And she's going to make you feel guilty as hell, going to make you choke on it. That's always been her game: If you can't keep him with love, do it with guilt and screw FTD. Survey says -- Number One Response: Lay on the guilt -- Richard Dawson's voice popped into his head and he tried to force it away, knowing his nerves were getting the better of him. "I'm not going in," he mumbled. Damn! He was choking up; emotion lodged in his throat, squirming there like a ball of worms, though he had rehearsed the speech in his mind a thousand times. Number One Response in place and working wonderfully. Care for Number Two? He sucked in a deep breath and gripped his composure. He had to get this over with now. It'd only get worse if he waited. "Are you sick?" Concern etched onto Jill's sharp features, softening them. She felt his forehead. "God, Paul, you're soaked. What's wrong?" Feel nice and guilty, don't you? Good old Number One; gets you every time. Paul swallowed hard and drilled into a well of courage he seldom had. "I ... I had another dream ... the same one again. It's getting worse. I've tried to tell myself it wouldn't beat me, wouldn't control my life, but..." "What are you getting at, Paul?" She said Paul with ice dripping from her tone. Survey says -- Number Two Response: Talk down to. Her stared at her and blinked, unanswering. Her lips pressed into a tight line and the small creases around her mouth became more evident. Muscles stood out on either side of her clenched jaw like marbles. As Paul twisted the corner of the blanket, his mind groped for words, but Jill saved him the trouble. "You've only had these dreams for a few weeks. They'll go away. You're just over-tired. Besides, we've got more important things to work on between us than some silly old nightmares. You're a grown man, not a child." She shot him her you've-been-bad-now-let's-stop-this-nonsense look. Paul ignored the look. "It's not just the dreams." His gaze shifted to the blanket and his wilting erection. "It's more than that. I have this restlessness that doesn't go away. Whenever I try to settle down, tell myself I'm going to have a normal life, it comes back." He paused, seeing the expression drop from Jill's face. It seemed to say: Careful, Paul. You blow this and it's back to Miss December and floggin' it in the shower -- God this was difficult, and Jill sure as hell wasn't making it any easier. He still had some feelings for her -- lust, security, whatever -- even if they'd never said "I love you" and meant it. "Don't you see?" Paul continued. Jill's lips pressed tighter together until they almost disappeared. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were struggling to hold her temper, which Paul knew from experience she probably was. "I can't stay in one place for too long or I'll go crazy. This time it's worse, like some dark part of me has a new life, a missing part that wants me back and I don't know why. But I have to find out." Paul, It's dangerous to go back. Get this silly notion out of your head before it's too late. "Paul, please." Jill's face softened. He saw a defensive wall going up before her eyes. "Can't we try to talk it out, make it work? I don't know how to try harder." Survey says -- Number Three Response: Helplessness. "You mean force it to work? Pretend everything's all right, that everything between us is going the way it should?" He paused and looked away. "I quit my teaching job." "Oh, Christ, Paul!" Fire sparked in Jill's eyes. Her temper was revving up, skipping first, second and third gear and grinding into high. She no longer bothered to hide it. "That's crazy! You're talking like a crazy person. Now this? Why didn't you discuss it with me first?" Jill stopped, as if realizing the answer to her question. Survey says -- Number Four response: Pissed off -- thank you very much, Mr. Dawson! "It got to me. Everything." "It got to you? It got to you?" Jill's voice climbed a shrill staircase to a high-pitched whine. "You can't just run from things for the rest of your life, Paul. You have to grow up sometime." She shook her head and jammed her fists into her boyish hips. "I know." Paul's face reddened. It was the best response he could manage. Don't wimp out, Paul. She thinks she's got you right where she wants you. She can see it in your eyes, the indecision, the guilt. Jill glared at him. "Well? That's it? Just 'I know'? Nothing else?" She twisted her lips into a disparaging frown and he knew she was daring him to come right out with it. "You're right: It is time to stop running and face what happened. I'm going back. I don't know quite why but it's the only way I can think of. I can't hurt you any longer and I'm no good to either one of us this way." Tears sprang into Jill's eyes, along with resignation and hurt. It subdued her anger for a moment. "Paul, maybe..." Survey says -- Number Five Response: Crying. "I'm sorry." For a moment he thought the words would lock in his throat, that he wouldn't be able to say them. But there! It was out. He felt his stomach churning. Oh-oh, here comes guilt again. What's the matter? Run out of responses? "Try to understand," said Paul. "It's something that's gnawed at my insides for a long time. I just refused to see it. I swore I'd never go back, but I have to." She won't be waiting. Not after you jilted her. Probably has a hundred kids and a husband the size of George Foreman. Chump. "Paul, I know we've been fighting and having our problems, but you'll get over these nightmares and we'll work it out." Is that Number Two sneaking up again? Paul recognized the pat-on-the-head-and-do-as-I-say voice she used when she knew she was losing or when she talked to Tannenbaum, her mother's Terrier. What it translated to was: You'll come to your senses and realize how good you've got it. Right? If you don't, say hi to Miss December and cold cantaloupes. Now be a good little putz and eat your breakfast so we can stop this nonsense. Not this time. "Is it really worth it?" Paul asked. "I'd hoped you'd understand." We could end this as friends or... "Understand?" Fury and exasperation shown on her face. Tears zigzagged over her cheeks. "You're just going to pack up and leave? Good-bye, thanks for throwing away a year of my life? Well, screw you, Paul Stanford. Have your craphole town and screwed-up memories. Feel sorry for yourself if that's all you can do. You're messed up, Paul. You're really messed up. You think some mythical force shat on you and you've been scraping it off ever since. But it's in your head, you jerk. That's why we can't make it work. It's not my fault. God knows I've tried." Nice going, Paul. She's taking this real well. Didn't even get a survey on it! Whatta you say we just let you take over the show and screw it up some more? Go to hell. "Jill, try to see things my way for once. I have to go -- " "Go, then! Go straight to Dark Harbor hell for all I care!" Jill locked her arms together. Her lower lip quivered. Paul looked into her eyes and for the first time since he'd met her, he saw defeat. They seemed to say: Change your mind, now, Paul, or forever hold your peace. Last chance. You know you can't live without me, can you? Tears pushed at his eyes, but he forced them away. Emotion burned in his throat. He reached out tentatively, wanting to comfort her somehow, but feeling awkward and separated and suddenly distanced from her life, as though they'd never been lovers. He knew he was an idiot for ever starting this, and that she was right: he'd never really tried, never let himself get that close. "Don't touch me!" Jill pulled away, voice blurred with tears. "Don't even touch me." "I ... I am sorry. Please believe that I never intentionally meant to hurt you. It's better this way; it'd never work between us. Deep down we both know it." "You're sorry? That's a laugh. Just get the hell out of here and don't come back." She stabbed a finger towards the door. Paul edged out of bed, suddenly self-conscious at his nakedness, and grabbed his clothes from the chair. He dressed, went to the closet and pulled out a scuffed-up Samsonite. He didn't own much for clothing and what they'd bought together he'd leave her. After he packed, he paused at the bedroom door, gripping the handle, gaze riveted to the floor while Jill sobbed on the bed. The knot in his belly made him feel sick. "Maybe if I can face it -- " Paul started. "What?" screamed Jill, not giving him a chance to finish. "We can try again? I was a fool once, Mister Stanford. Once and only once. Get out!" Survey says -- Number Six Response: Blow it out your ass! Paul turned and pulled the door open. "We never really could talk, could we?" "It's a little late." "Yeah, I guess it is." "Bastard." He eased the door shut behind him, the tears he'd been holding back streaming out. -------- *(3)* As I-95 wriggled across the Maine border, a blast of salt-sweetened air whipped through the open window of Paul's 1990 Dodge Shadow and he sucked in a deep breath. As he raced along, barely noticing his speed climbing to ninety, the car rattled and vibrated and whined. He wondered if would shake itself apart. It's dangerous to go back... The warning rose in Paul's mind, vague and unsettling. He tried to force his edginess down, but sporadically it insisted on taunting him. You're a damn fool, Paul. Take my word for it. You don't want to know the reason for your dreams. You don't need to know -- no matter how much you think you do. No way, no how, leave it the hell alone -- okay? Uneasiness settled over him like a cloud of ice mist and he suppressed a chill. It was more than simple apprehension, he told himself. It was solid dread. Irrational, undefined -- dread. Maybe he could attribute some of the feeling to the ambiguity of returning to a town he hated, the fear of not knowing what he'd find when he got there, but not all of it. Something else, something darker lurked at the back of his mind, a strange notion that an unseen force occupied the car with him, a pervading sense of presence that struggled to break free of his dreams. Maybe you're feeling your past close in on you, Paul. Well, the past is the past, so leave it buried because buried is just what it's been. Things don't look so pretty after they've been under that long. Remember that. You still have time to turn around and get your ass out of here. But do it NOW! No, I won't turn back. I'm tired of running. I need to ... find myself. You're a damned fool, you know that? She won't be waiting but he will... Who? (...) Paul let out a grunt of frustration. Something invisible, unreachable dangled in front of him, issuing a warning, but he ignored it, determined to see this through. If he didn't take charge of his life now it would run him over. Shaking his head, he shifted his attention to the highway. Sweat trickled down his neck, chest and back, making him uncomfortable and irritable. His shirt was plastered to his body. He clicked on the radio, twisting the knob until he located a Maine rock station, hoping the music would relax him, or at least keep him alert. After ten minutes he found it merely aggravated his raw nerves, so he snapped it off. His belly voiced a rumble, bitching at him for passing up Jill's breakfast in honor of their fight. It's 12:25; do you know where your lunch is? Paul chuckled and his stomach groaned. He pulled off the 'pike, deciding to grab a quick lunch in Kittery and discovered a diner called Mrs. B's Good Eats. The kind of place where you lined the toilet seat with three layers of paper before sitting down, but the food was passable. Hitting the road by 1:15, his stomach, never satisfied, complained about his choice of a corned beef sandwich and Moxie. As he sped past the sign for Kennebunk, he glanced out the window, taking in the scenery as it whipped past. Ten years had slipped away since he last gazed upon the uneven terrain of forests, jagged mountain ranges and rocky shores of Southern Maine -- ten years since he slammed the door in his father's face, swearing never to return. Is that what you thought? Survey says -- you were WRONG! Decisions like that have a way of boomeranging, waylaying your life when you least expect it, and when they hit, they hit hard. Paul ran a hand over his unshaven face and sighed. His skin felt like old plastic. He gazed into the rearview, startled at the drawn, haggard face peering back. Wasn't his face. Couldn't be. His face was younger, more full. The mirror face was older, the features more gaunt, laced with exhaustion. Sleep deprivation, he concluded. When he reached Dark Harbor and settled in, the first things he would do were take a long shower and sleep till noon tomorrow. Wouldn't do him any good to be wandering around like a zombie. Just in case she's still there? Paul tensed, apprehensive again. His body went rigid as he stared at his reflection, which blurred shifted, superseded by -- Jill... Oh, Christ, Paul thought, mouth dropping open. Jill's lips spread wide in a mocking grin; her husky chuckle whirled up, a tornado of mirth. A smug expression smeared her features. You blew it, Paul. You goddamn blew it! Congratulations, my dear. Messed up real good this time, didn't you? Wound yourself up tighter than a two-dollar cuckoo clock. Yes, sir, you're three-quarters past crazy, jigging away in psychotic double-time. And do you know why? Yay-ah! Because you left me! By the way, how's Miss December, you sonofabitch? Jill's grinning features dissolved in a blizzard of variegated snow, sparkling, wavering. For an instant, another image struggled to form. It fluxed in and out like a distant signal, unable to fully materialize. LET. ME. IN... Paul shivered, despite the heat, and ice water pooled in his groin. Whatever it was imploded and vanished in some nether region behind the glass. Again, Paul peered at the shocked reflection of his own face. What was that? What was the shadow of a thing he'd glimpsed? The thing lurking in his childhood closet? Doubts bunched in his mind. Was he returning to Dark Harbor for himself or was he being lured? Or was it really Jenny? A deep shudder wracked his body. You're tired, he assured himself. Tired and preoccupied and maybe a trifle over the edge. Chased a few too many windmills. What do -- "Jesus!" A horn blared, shattering his reverie. He yanked the steering wheel ninety degrees and his tires screeched. A semi roared up beside the Shadow, dwarfing it, and Paul let out a sharp breath. Deep in thought, he'd wandered over the line from the passing lane into the next. He'd wrung the wheel just in time to avoid being splattered all over the interstate. The truck driver's face, a mile wide and scowling, filled the semi's window as he proudly displayed his middle finger. Paul shrank in his seat, feeling like a first-class idiot. Heat rushed into his cheeks. Taking a deep breath, he fought to control his thudding heart. There was a reason for that, Paul. A good reason. You've never been this self-absorbed. He's showing you what he can do. Who? (...) Realizing how close he'd come to being compressed into so much scrap metal, Paul shook with a violent and prolonged case of the jitters. * * * * The signs for Biddeford, Saco, Scarborough streaked by, green blurs. The next forty-five minutes of driving dragged and found Paul growing increasingly eager to get out of the car and move around. After what seemed an eternity, he geared down and swung onto Exit 13, gateway to Dark Harbor. Old ghosts like old flames. They flicker and burn at the fringes of your soul, teasing and laughing until they flare up and live again. Yet, somehow they're never as sweet as your memory leads you to believe. Sometimes they seethe with dark bitterness. Where had he heard that? A teacher? A priest? Perhaps Freddy, the man who'd treated him more like a son than his own father had. God only knew. Why it should suddenly pollute his mind now was beyond him. COME TO ME, PAUL. COME TO ME AND LIVE FOREVER... Dread still simmered in his mind, welling as he braked to a stop and idled at the bottom of the ramp. Glad to be back, Paul? Well, damn glad to have you. Say hi to Hellsville and bless you for stopping by. Last chance. Go back now and we'll forget all of this. Whatta you say? Paul hesitated, fingers bleaching as he clenched the wheel tighter. To pass this point means your doom... The thought struck him unbidden, reminding him of the old jungle movies he used to watch when he was a kid. Even the densest, most remote jungle sported a sign carrying that forbidding warning. Usually scrawled in blood-red letters -- at least Paul assumed they were blood red; it was hard to tell on a black and white portable. The warning, which any explorer worth his salt blithely ignored, acted as an instant aphrodisiac. Paul got the notion someone should stick the same sign at the bottom of the off-ramp. Remember what happened in those movies? The intrepid, peanut-brained explorer always ended up the main course in a cannibal orgy. What do you think is going to happen to you? Paul drew another deep breath and jammed the gearshift into first. The Shadow jerked forward as he stamped the accelerator. He hoped there were no cannibals in Dark Harbor. The ramp led onto Coast Road, which was deserted and suffused with gloom. Tall firs and pines loomed to either side, branches shrouding, creating a canopy of somber emerald. Jagged splinters of sunlight sliced through the boughs, severing dark patches of hardtop. The road itself was littered with empty beer cans and McDonalds' garbage. Frost heaves had split the pavement and left thick spidery cracks. Stumps, like severed limbs, had erupted, some jutting up a good inch. It didn't help his mood any good. The setting emanated a claustrophobic uneasiness. Creepy. Lonesome. Paul sped past a sign -- which was canted at a weird angle, the result of some industrious vandal having tried to yank it out of the shoulder -- that boasted WELCOME TO SMUGGLER'S COVE. An anchor had been spray-painted onto the lower left-hand corner. The Cove, a pocket community, reached into the sea like a stubby tentacle. Fringed on three sides by Dark Harbor, it was actually part of the same town, though somewhere along the way -- closest guess was the mid 1840s -- the Cove dwellers had taken the notion to secede, primarily because its mother council objected to the nefarious source of industry embraced by the Cove fisherman. The Cove's secluded coastline, with its abundance of sea caves and rugged beaches, had, at various times in its history, teemed with smugglers: slaves, rum, drugs, Hula Hoops, whatever. An inordinate number of Dark Harbor's questionable enterprises had sprung up in the Cove, until the place garnered the reputation of a miniature Barbary Coast. Many of Dark Harbor's officials secretly hoped the place would just slide into the ocean; others pretended it had. Gina's, remember that, Paul? The memory pricked him. He wondered if the place were still there, or if the council had finally forced the Sheriff's Department to shut it down. Like hell, Paul. Old Sheriff Hinckly got his bells rung there more than anybody. Paul remembered the night of his seventeenth birthday, when his curiosity and hormones had gotten the better of him and, after sneaking into a strip show on a fake ID and lugging around a hard-on as big as Bangor, he wandered into Gina's and spent three days there -- well, actually only an hour, but it sure as hell felt like three days at the time. He'd staggered out on Gumby legs, his first taste of manhood trembling through his loins, every hormone electric. Paul tensed as the sound of his father's voice intruded on the memory: "I ever catch you there and I'll beat your ass till you piss sideways! Just no-good whores there, that's all they are, no-good whores!" "How many nights have you spent there, Pop?" Paul had asked with youthful cockiness. Wrong thing to say. He regretted it the moment his father's hand crashed into his face. The sting of that blow still rang crisp and fresh in his mind. As did the stench of whiskey in his nostrils and the sour metallic taste of his own blood streaming from his nose into his mouth. The memory surprised Paul. He hadn't thought of Gina's or that incident in years. It seemed to him he'd vicariously experienced the entire event, a movie or a dream, perhaps. He found it hard to pinpoint specific things from his childhood. So much had just disappeared somewhere inside him, hidden until he dared peel back the layers and discovered the festering, the poison. The woods thinned, blazing streaks of sunlight splashing over the road and scattering the murkiness. With the brightening, some of his tension eased. Perhaps he was on the right track. After all, he'd remembered Gina's. Maybe the past was better served up in small portions. * * * * Coast Road meandered on for another four miles, pregnant with dangerous curves and pernicious angles like so many backwoods roads in Maine. As the woods thinned completely, sparsely populated outskirts yawned into house-choked streets as he neared the town center. Paul turned onto Main Street, eyeing the buildings with an unexpected ache of nostalgia. The old town hall still perched at the top of the hill, its white coat yellowing, chipped and flaked. The sprawling structure was one of the town's oldest, erected in the late 1700s. Paul was surprised to see few motorists; it gave the street an almost spectral quality. Dark Harbor was primarily a tourist town, which sprang to life after the approaching Memorial Day weekend. Amusements would then glitter and whirl and splash the night with variegated pastels; the humid summer air would be redolent with the scents of pizza and fried dough and coconut-scented suntan oil. A transfusion of tourism blood would surge through the town's flaccid winter veins and myriad souvenir shops would sprout like toadstools, as quickly vanishing after Labor Day. He had missed that. In the distance, the marble-blue swell of the ocean bulged from the horizon, restrained as if by some invisible barrier -- an optical illusion Paul always enjoyed. He remembered, as a kid, dashing into the water on the first warm day of the season, forgetting how deceptive and supplicating the peaceful blue waves could be. Finding the water freezing, he'd scramble out in a flurry of icy spray, windmilling arms and tingling flesh, but that was the fun on it. The vivid memory sent a warm prickle down his spine. Paul noticed many of the smaller shops littering Main Street had either vanished or been remodeled. Bouchard's Soda Emporium had been devoured by a drug store; a Burger King had usurped Betty's Diner, where he and Tommy Graywolf used to trade Red Sox cards and flip for quarters, the winner springing for coffee frappes; a 7-Eleven had gobbled up Mrs. Tidwell's Candy and Confections -- he relished the times he and Tommy had lingered there on those sweet Saturday mornings, the sugar-coated scents of hot caramel and peanut butter fudge blending with the salty sea air and enticing their nostrils. Mrs. Tidwell always made sure they got plenty of samples, which they devoured until sick. Candy ghosts still haunted his tongue. Paul wasn't shocked to see Perault's Package Store squatting at the far end of the street. A looming, decrepit thing, it reminded him of an old cockroach -- impossible to exterminate. He wondered if even older and more decrepit Mrs. Perault -- Queen Cockyroach, Tommy used to call her -- still occupied her time gossiping about anybody and everybody she deemed, in all her infinite wisdom, deserved it -- which, as of Paul's last calculation, encompassed most of Southern Maine. His family certainly provided her with enough ammunition and like any good trouper, she had fired it liberally. But it was one of the few places he recognized and, strangely, it pleased him. All the benefits of progress, eh, Paul? Out with the old and in with the new and all that crap? What was it Tommy used to say? No more whitemen, no more stores; no more Indians, no more wars. That was it: Tommy's favorite saying. Paul never knew exactly what it meant and he suspected Tommy didn't know either. But he kept saying it until ... he shuddered to think of it. At thirteen, Tommy had died of cancer. Paul had watched him waste away until he resembled more a wrinkled man of ninety than a boy entering puberty. He remembered crying at seeing Tommy bed-ridden, only able to listen to Red Sox games on TV, vision having deserted him at the first hint of battle. He remembered screaming to an unsympathetic God as a half-sized coffin was swallowed by a cold December ground. He watched the dirt shoveled in, the hole appeased, blaming himself because God had not heard his prayers. He would have traded all his Red Sox cards to have Tommy back. A sense of utter helplessness gripped Paul at the memory. It pervaded him with the certainty that the few things -- the few good things -- he'd known as a child were gone So much for nostalgia, huh, Paul? Paul swung left onto Seaview Avenue, which snaked parallel the length of the beach and merged into the waterfront district. Cottages and summer homes surrendered to Courtwright Canneries, marinas, wharves and scattered dives. No more Stanfords, no more wars? thought Paul as he drove past them. The Shadow lurched and jounced him in his seat; his wheels ka-thumped and his teeth clacked together. The town, he could see, hadn't bothered to rip up the damn trolley tracks that bisected the road, no doubt leaving them to abuse tourists' cars so they'd drop more money in the local garages. Paul cursed the tracks, the town council, the highway commission, or whoever the hell was supposed to take care of those things. Inside, though he hated to admit it, the tracks pleased him, appeasing the sense of homesickness a bit. A half mile on, as he neared the Blue Coral Inn, the feeling strengthened. Damned if he knew why. He pulled over and idled. He distinctly remembered the carved wooden sign, which hung above the door by two chains fastened to a beam protruding from the building. Its spouting whale eyed him with an I-told-you-you'd-be-back grin. A portholelike window glared from the center of the door, an ugly glass eye, black and unrevealing, but God bless it for being there. Let me get this straight, you're glad that dump's still here? C'mon! You're more screwed up than you thought. How many nights did you spend alone while that bastard drank his life away? A stray image struck him. The slurred thunder of his father's voice boomed in his memory. "Why should you give a tinker's damn where I've been?" came his yell. Then another voice, sweeter, but laced with anger and hurt. His mother's: "Goddammit, Jack! I do give a damn -- for his sake, for your son's." "My son? That's a goddamn joke, isn't it?" Silence, as thick and omnipresent as a dark forest. His mother's voice sounded again, trembling, now. "You have no right to treat us this way. Blame me, it wasn't Paul's fault. I'm tired of your jealousy and pretty grudges. The past is the past; it's not an excuse to abuse us, let alone yourself." "What the hell do you expect? If I knew I was marrying a goddamn whore -- " The heavy crack of a slapping hand snapped his father's words short. "You make me sick!" his mother cried. "I swear to God if you keep this up I'll leave. And I'll take Paul with me. This is your last chance or you'll never see us again." "So?" His father's voice dripped with sarcasm. Then... Paul, not quite seven, cowered in the darkness of his bedroom, their hateful words thundering in his ears. He knew the result of his mother's threats, her endless series of last chances. He strained to hear what was coming next, anxious, frightened. The clamor of his stuttering heart nearly drowned out the sound. Thuck! The heavier sound of his father's fist. Paul went rigid, hot anger flooding his cheeks. His mother's sudden weeping broke the suspend silence. Oh Go make it stop make it stop please make it stop -- Her voice rang out again, blurred with tears: "You bastard, you goddamn bastard!" Paul knew the next morning bruises would stain her face and he would question her in his seven-year-old way. She would tell him what she always told him: it had been an accident. Daddy really didn't mean to hurt mommy but sometimes he just couldn't help himself and don't fret too much about the fights because soon everything would be all right and he wouldn't have to worry about them or his father anymore. And because little boys shouldn't worry so much anyway; it wasn't healthy. It wasn't healthy... Paul came from his reverie, staring at the porthole in the door as if it were some black mirror that reflected his past. A mirror suddenly gone blank. Why did she lie? The question stung him, making something burn in the pit of his stomach. Because she loved you? Is that it? Yeah? Then why did she leave without you? Ask yourself that one, Paul. Try to convince yourself she didn't leave because she didn't give a damn what happened to you. That's the truth, Paul, the whole truth and nothing but. Damn his father for whatever he had done to make her leave without him. Damn dear old dad for the stock market crash and everything else in this pissant world while he was at it. Getting a little cynical, aren't you? Give me a reason not to be. Paul shifted into first and pulled out onto the street. Where to, now, Paul? Where do you go now that you're here and your memory-lane tour is over? And what about Jenny? A half-mile farther on, Paul swung into a parking space on the side of the road and shut off the car. He got out, stiff and cramped and aching, and walked to a phone booth he'd spotted. Opening the phonebook, he ran his finger down the "T's", stopping at a name: Thornton, Cynthia A. 21 Milliken St. She's long gone, Paul. Told ya. Did you really think she'd wait? No, he guessed he hadn't. He remembered Cindy being her sister; apparently, she still lived there. Disappointment gripped him. He hesitated, then flipped to the "G's". Gaumont's Boarding House, 22 Milliken St. Well, at least that was still there. Paul flipped the book closed and went back to his car. Right now he needed a place to stay and Gaumont's was as good as any. His problems could wait that long. He hoped. -------- *(4)* The weathered sign said Gaumont's Boarding House and dangled from one hinge, creaking as it swayed under the slight breeze. In smaller, hand-painted lettering: Rooms -- $30 nightly, weekly rates avai -- . The L had worn off and the other letters had faded. The price, however, shined crisp and clean, a more recent add-on. Still the cheapest place around, though Paul remembered it being $20 a night, but that was ten years ago. The building pretty much matched the sign: rambling, unkempt, shutters sagging, shingles drooping, the roof sadly in need of repair. The place's appearance starkly contrasted with the rest of the houses lining Milliken Street; these ranged from split-levels to Capes to ranches, all boasting tight manicured lawns, trimmed hedges and prim little walkways. The Brady Bunch Syndrome, Paul concluded. Give 'em a few pink flamingoes and... Uh-huh, any second now Florence Henderson's going to prance out of one of those doorways and invite you over for milk and cookies. Ah, make mine a chocolate milk, Florence. Straight up. Paul drove into the small parking lot and pulled into a rear space, glad no one had taken the notion to force the place to be torn down in favor of condos. He heard his wallet groan at the extra ten bucks he'd have to shell out, but the ramshackle condition of the place gave him an idea. Paul climbed out of the car. The trip had taken its toll on his body. Bending, he touched his fingertips to the ground and slid his jaw left and right to loosen the tight muscles. With his sleeve he mopped sweat from his brow. Opening the hatch, he pulled out his suitcase, swearing it felt ten pounds heavier than when he'd packed it this morning. His arm and shoulder set to aching as he hauled it across the parking lot. Paul climbed the rickety wooden stairs. The screen door, which sported a gaping hole in its center, stuck when he tried to open it. Frustrated and tired, he suppressed an inclination to punch a matching hole into the top half. He yanked harder and the door jerked open with a loud cuck, vibrating madly. It squeaked louder than the sign as it closed behind him. Obviously Mrs. Gaumont hadn't invested the extra room charge in mending the building. Stepping into the gloomy hallway, Paul noticed a musty cellar-like odor that made his stomach -- touchy from the corned beef and long ride -- swivel. He paused and scanned the hallway for signs of life, finding none. An antique desk squatted to his right and he flinked the rusty bell; it produced a muffled kathuck as useless as a Susan Anthony dollar. Looking the desk over, he noticed a note clothespinned to a cheap Indian statuette, the kind popular with the tourist shops downtown. The note was clipped to the Indian's upraised tomahawk and flapped each time an oscillating wall fan turned its way. Paul steadied the note between his thumb and forefinger and mumbled, "The manager can be located in the kitchen -- up the hall, first right, thank you kindly." Paul lugged the suitcase up the hall and paused at the kitchen entrance, peeking around the corner. He spotted Mrs. Gaumont poised in front of an old gas stove, bent at as much of a forty-five degree angle as her ample frame would permit. With a metallic swish she slid a cookie sheet into the oven and flipped the door shut. She straightened, which appeared to be a slow torturous process. Bracing herself against the counter, she struggled with her breath, gasping, beads of perspiration springing out of her brow and trickling down her face. Paul gave her a moment to collect herself, wondering why anyone would want to bake on a scorcher like today. Oblivious to his presence, Mrs. Gaumont pushed herself away from the counter and slapped her flour-covered palms against her daisy-print apron, forearms jiggling like pink Jell-O. Small flour clouds wafted out. Paul pretended to clear his throat to let her know he was there but it didn't prevent her from starting as she turned and spotted him. A gasp escaped her lips and her entire body quaked in layers. She blurted, "Gracious!" a pudgy hand jerking to her over-ripe bosom. She said "Gracious" three more times before gaining control of herself. "You sure gave me a start, you!" Her voice came blemished with that unmusical accent mid-Mainers liked to call French. "Didn't hear you come up." Paul grinned his it's-okay-I'm-not-an-axe-murderer grin. Some of the tension eased from her face. He thunked down his suitcase, arm throbbing and ready to drop off. Studying her features, Paul didn't think she looked much older than the last time he'd seen her. A bit heavier, but the extra pounds had padded some of the wrinkles and softened her features. Her chalky complexion and plump body made him think of a wrinkled Pillsbury Doughboy. Her hair contained less gray than he remembered, but glimmered with a suspicious bluish tint; it had the texture of an SOS pad. A wig, he decided. "Can I help you?" Her voice had steadied, sharpened, and her gaze drilled him. "Sorry, didn't mean to surprise you, but the note said to come right up." "Oh, it's quite all right, quite all right." The edge in her voice dulled. "Pay me no mind. I get so darned involved with my baking ... well, can't say outright I've been hearing too awfully good in the left ear, neither. Else I would have heard you coming sure. Used to have the ears of widow Farley's retriever, Rex -- course I had to give them back eventually. Dogs look mighty peculiar without ears, 'specially retrievers." Mrs. Gaumont chuckled at her own joke and Paul, wincing inwardly, pasted on a smile. "Age creeps up on you, I guess," Mrs. Gaumont continued. "Not that I'm old, you understand..." She cocked an eyebrow, peering at him as if ready to pass final judgment on his character by what he said next. Paul forced the smile to remain on his lips. "Don't look a day over forty." His grin widened. Mrs. Gaumont's moon face relaxed and her dull brown eyes shined. Paul knew he was winning her over. In the back of his mind he heard Jill calling him a cad, but what the hell. "Gracious! Maybe forty-five or so. Bet you couldn't guess I'm sixty-two. Most women hide their age after they get to be forty. Me, I'm proud of it. Keep myself young by staying active, even on the hottest days." "It certainly shows." Paul hoped he hid the sarcasm creeping into his voice. If she said she took Geritol everyday, he'd burst out laughing. "Well, don't just stand there in the door, you. Come in, come in." She motioned with a plump hand. As Paul came into the kitchen, an odd medley of odors assailed his nostrils. The scent of peanut butter cookies drifted from the oven, riding a stifling wave of heat, and mingled with the citrusy tang of lemon detergent -- he noticed a bottle perched on the edge of the sink -- and floor wax. Another smell, medicine-like, drifted above the others. He couldn't place it. Bengay or Polydent or something. Combined with the heat of the kitchen and his already touchy stomach, the odors were nauseating. A thin scorching breeze wisped through the window, ruffling the saffron curtains and bringing little relief. Mrs. Gaumont waved a flabby arm toward a chair and said, "Have a seat. You're pale as ghost. Must have been plumb ungodly traveling in this heat. Course, the heat don't bother me way it used to; seems I'm always cold. A young man like yourself probably sweats buckets -- getcha an iced tea?" Before Paul could answer, she waddled to the refrigerator and plucked open the door. The breaking seal smucked and her forearm flesh jiggled. A blast of refrigerated air wafted into his face and he drew a deep breath. Mrs. Gaumont hauled out a frosted-blue pitcher and pulled a plastic glass from the cupboard. As Paul watched her, he thought she carried herself with a slightly pompous, busybody air, a trait that might quickly grate on his nerves. But he was tired, temper short, so perhaps he was getting the wrong impression. Just the same, he was glad he'd made a decent impression on her, suspecting she could be pretty difficult on those she disliked. After pouring the tea, Mrs. Gaumont set the glass in front of him. He guzzled it. The tea, over-steeped and bitter, slid comfortably down his throat and nestled coolly in his gut. "There!" An omniscient expression welded to Mrs. Gaumont's features. "Knew you was dry. Heat's been mighty harsh the past few days, 'specially for so early in the season. Don't you think?" Paul nodded, feigning interest. "Bit unusual to say the least," she continued. "Channel Six says it'll cool down pretty soon, maybe by the weekend. Kinda wish it'd stay past then, what with the holiday and all. Means better business. But I reckon it's for the best. Every time we get a heat wave up here some of the old folk over to Pineview check out, if you know what I mean." She emphasized her meaning with a tilt of her head. "Besides, the heat does bring out the worst in people." "Yeah?" Paul had no idea what she was rambling about, but he had the notion she'd soon tell him. "Yep, why just this morning an awful thing happened over to Widow's Walk. Right at the site of that new drug center they're building." Paul tensed involuntarily. He remembered Widow's Walk and the name sent a shiver down his spine. He thought of Tommy again: his friend had constantly wanted to go up there and explore the old Courtwright Mansion. Something about the place had given Paul the creeps and he'd used every excuse he could think of to get out of going -- the main one being his old man would splinter his behind if he caught him within fifty miles of anything Courtwright. One day, despite Paul's protests and better judgment, Tommy nagged him into it. With fifty yards of the house, Paul began to tremble, his palsy augmenting the closer they got. He'd hyperventilated and scared the piss out of Tommy. His friend never bugged him about going to the mansion again, though he had pestered Paul into telling him why he was so terrified of the place. Paul explained it was like the thing in the closet, or the Sepahpoonuck demon Tommy was so sure lurked in the forest. Tommy said he understood and let it go. "What happened?" asked Paul finally, curiosity pricked. "Oh, it was horrible, simply horrible. Poor Jake Corsetti went berserk, I guess. Killed his foreman in cold blood, then was killed himself. Heard it on Newscenter at Noon, but the details was still sketchy. Course, some pretty bad elements have moved into Dark Harbor in recent years, but one of our own ... what's the world coming to?" She gazed at Paul. "I dunno." He shrugged. He thought there had always been some "pretty bad elements" in Dark Harbor, things that just weren't talked about, so it didn't really surprise him some nut had gone crazy and trashed his foreman, especially at Widow's Walk. "Jake was always such a respectable sort. Nothing like his brother, you know. Isn't that peculiar? Hope that's the end of it. Course, it could be the heat..." "Yeah, you might be right." Paul really didn't care to know anyone's life history right now, or the old woman's theories on weather-related killings. Mrs. Gaumont, obviously, amused herself with things other than baking cookies. He stifled a sigh. With a forefinger, Paul absently traced the ring of water left by his sweating glass. He looked up, catching Mrs. Gaumont staring at him, twin dimples pitting her rugose cheeks. She seemed to be searching her mind for something, perplexity shambling into her eyes. "Something wrong?" Paul wondered if she had sensed his boredom. Exhaustion made ennui harder to hide. Hell, it was a struggle just keeping his eyes open. "No ... no. Just you look kinda familiar to me, now that I think about it. Never forget a face, you know. And I don't think I caught your name, though names I'm terrible with. But faces ... faces always stick." Mrs. Gaumont snatched his glass up and poured him another iced tea. Paul drank deep gulps of it before answering. "Name's Paul Stanford. Used to live 'round here about ten years ago, a few streets over." Recognition leaped onto Mrs. Gaumont's face, bloating it like a full moon. "Oh, hoop-di-do! You're Jack's little boy. I remember you from grammar school -- always was one to be active in the education system, you know, though I never did get no formal schooling myself." Paul nodded, hoping this wasn't going to turn into a long-winded speech. "Awfully sorry 'bout your father passing away last year." Mrs. Gaumont donned a sympathetic mask. Probably the only one who was -- "Aren't we all." Paul knew his attempt to hide the sarcasm failed. "Oh?" Her eyes hardened slightly and Paul sensed he was on thin ice. Quick with that crap, aren't you, Paul? Get out of this one. "My father and I didn't get on very well, I'm afraid." "No...?" She was prodding him to elaborate but he wasn't about to hand her his dirty laundry. After Paul made no move to answer, Mrs. Gaumont appeared to let it slide. He got the feeling she'd bide her time and question him again at a later date. "Stanford's a right big name around these parts, you know. Least it used to be, back aways. Right up there with the Courtwrights -- probably before your time, though." "So I've heard." Paul remembered his father screaming terrible things about the Courtwrights every time he got drunk, as if he blamed them for all his woes. Not just the second-hand antipathy of a century-old feud, but a deep, burning hatred. Paul discovered quickly the name Courtwright wasn't brought up, not if he intended to use his hind end for sitting. "Feud carried on near a hundred and fifty years or there abouts," Mrs. Gaumont rambled. Paul stifled a yawn, but found himself mildly interested. "Courtwright hated Stanford; Stanford hated Courtwright. Course, there was them that hated both and with good reason. Not so much nowadays. But then the Courtwrights managed to buy up 'bout all the Stanford properties and businesses. Be hard-pressed to find another Stanford within miles of Dark Harbor anymore. I believe Jack was the last of them. Don't have much use for the Courtwrights myself, though I'd be the first to give them their due; was right nice of them to donate all that land for the new center. Still, wouldn't surprise me none if you hated the Courtwrights, too." She gazed at him with a look that said she knew everything about him. He denied her that pleasure. "Actually, I don't care about the feud one way or the other. I guess my generation skipped it." Which wasn't exactly true, but as far as he was concerned, anybody his father hated was a friend of his. Although Mrs. Gaumont seemed satisfied with the answer, he decided to shift the conversation before she got around to the subject of his father again. "Is Mr. Gaumont still living?" "No ... oh, no." As she answered, a far-off look clouded her eyes and Paul suddenly regretted asking. "Sorry, didn't mean to pry." "Oh, no, not at all." She punctuated it with a don't-worry-there's-no-way-you-could-have-known wave of her hand. "Poor dear Franklyn, God bless his soul. Passed on five years back this November. Guess I still miss him powerfully, that's all. Thirty-five years together is quite a spell, you know." "I'm sure it is." Mrs. Gaumont appeared not to have heard him. Paul recognized the lost-in-memory look. "I remember when I couldn't pull him away from the tube every Saturday night like clockwork when All in the Family played. He just loved Archie and Edith. Even took to calling his brother 'Meathead' -- well deserved, I might add." She folded her arms and cocked an eyebrow. "Franklyn never did care much for that Maude character. Called her a bleedin' heart liberal, just like Archie did. Me, I never miss the repeats. Plays every night at 7:30 on cable. Just don't make shows like that no more -- all that blood and sex don't do a soul no good, if you ask me." Paul nodded. "I'm sure." "You must come down and watch it with me during your stay." "I promise." Paul saw the distant glaze to her eyes thicken. Had she even heard him? The pain of losing her long-time spouse still haunted her; he could see that. He couldn't begin to imagine how that must feel, but he wasn't sure whether his sympathy welled totally for the old woman, or for himself. He wondered if he could ever let somebody get that close to him, if he could ever experience that kind of bond. Jenny... Stop it. Paul drained his glass, the bitter taste of the tea acrid in his mouth now that his thirst had passed. Pushing away from the table, he stood, feeling the need to move around after sitting in the car for so long. He went to the window and peered out. A breeze jostled the curtains and he inhaled deeply. His gaze scanned the neighborhood. He realized Mrs. Gaumont had a bird's eye view of every house on the block and Paul wagered she got in her share of snooping. She seemed the type. Mrs. Gaumont ambled up beside him and a cloying flowery scent, mixed with peanut butter and Bengay or Polydent -- he still couldn't tell which -- assailed his nostrils. It was the redolence of nursing homes, and something about it revolted him. He had hated those places, geriatric hothouses, since visiting his grandmother at one when he was six, just before she died. They reminded him again of the thing in the closet, a sickly warm feeling of a place where you were dragged to die. His sympathy for the old woman suddenly welled and his first impression of her mellowed. Busybody or not, he had to respect her for sticking it out alone. Would he have the same courage? "Keep the neighborhood crime watch from this window," said Mrs. Gaumont proudly. "Make sure none of them biker types or delinquents go around breaking into houses, you know. Why just last summer we had a break-in down on the corner. Caught the Bartley boy stealing from the Hendersons." Florence? Paul wondered, trying not to chuckle. "And with that horrible murder this morning, well, one just can't be to careful." "One certainly can't." Now he was sure she was a snoop. Jenny... Paul's gaze centered on the house across the street, the house that had belonged to Jenny's parents. He stared at it, wondering, feeling something inside him stir. Where had she gone? The book didn't list her name, only Cindy's, so maybe she had stayed out west. He considered asking Mrs. Gaumont; she would probably know. Before he could, his stomach dropped and his heart leaped into his throat, beating thickly. As if in answer to his question, the front door to the house across the street flew open. An auburn-haired woman hurried down the steps, fumbling through her purse and pulling out a set of car keys. She wore a tan business skirt that hugged the curve of her hips and a white blouse that accentuated her ample breasts. She climbed into a gray Chevy and backed out of the driveway. Paul's mouth went dry as he watched the car turn the corner and disappear. His heart let loose, speeding up and thudding. He noticed himself holding his breath and forced it out. He checked the impulse to shout to her, choking it off at the last second before he made a fool out of himself. He had the absurd notion the woman -- for that's what she was, now, a woman, no longer a girl -- wouldn't have heard his yell above the jack-hammering of his heart. What do you think her response would be, Paul? Give you a hint -- the first word has four letters. "Jenny," he whispered. "Jennifer Gazio," volunteered Mrs. Gaumont, leaning closer. Her voice shattered his reverie, jolting him more than it should have. He turned, knowing she must have seen the shock plastered on his face. Mrs. Gaumont's face beamed with the motherly look, punctuated by an upturned, crooked smile. Her flowery perfume and medicinal odor made his stomach revolve, but he suppressed the urge to pull away. "Gazio?" So that's why her name wasn't listed. "Doctor Gazio. Doctor Jenny, we call her, because she works in pedi ... pedi..." "Pediatrics," supplied Paul. So, she had done it. "Right. Babies mostly, I think. Wonderful girl -- do you know her?" Paul turned back to the window and peered out. No use denying it. Mrs. Gaumont wasn't stupid and the thunderstruck look on his face was a dead give away. "Yes, I know -- knew -- her. But her name was Thornton." Paul stared blankly at the empty driveway. Old flames like old ghosts, right, Paul? How about two for the price of one? This is what you wanted, isn't it? Plunked you right down on her doorstep. Now it's your choice. Paul remembered Jennifer Thornton all right. Emotion clogged his throat. Jennifer forever: he'd carved it into a huge oak at Clipper Point. Forever had come a hell of a lot faster than they expected. "...eight years ago," said Mrs. Gaumont. "W-what?" Paul realized the old woman had been speaking but had no idea what she said. "Paul, you haven't been listening," she admonished with a sly grin. "I said, she was a Thornton up until 'bout eight years ago." "She's married?" asked Paul before he could stop himself. A cold feeling clung to his insides with the question, though he knew he had no right to feel that way. "Was." Genuine sympathy spread across the old woman's features. She shook her head and folded her arms. "Split up more than a year ago. Hear tell he went to California or some place. I knew right when I met him he was no good. Can't fool me, though he had Franklyn buffaloed. Wasn't Franklyn's fault, you understand. Not many are blessed with my judgment of people." "I'm sure." "Know Doctor Jenny well, did you?" It was half a question, half a statement. "You could say that." Paul didn't suppose he'd get out of this one. "See? I knew it! A body can tell that sort of thing." Paul glanced at her, hiding the emotion jarred loose within him. "We dated our last year of high school. We went to the prom together." "Oh, I just bet she was a real beauty in her gown." Mrs. Gaumont smiled a wide smile. "Couldn't be matched." Old ghosts, old flames, dancing angels in white prom gowns -- admit it, Paul; you're relieved. You're freaking overjoyed her husband booked it. And, secretly, you prayed she'd be waiting like a forgotten promise, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise. Isn't she the real reason you came back? No, I came back because of the voice in my dream; because of the restlessness; because I had to. Questions filled him, misgivings, buried feelings. Was he here because of her? Did he want -- need -- more than just answers to his nightmares and jumbled feelings? "Does she live there?" Paul wondered if she were just visiting her sister. "Yes, lives with her sister -- wild one, that Cindy is." Paul didn't bother asking how she knew that, but guessed her neighborhood crime watch had something to do with it. "Sometimes Jenny's little boy, Andy, comes over when I bake cookies," Mrs. Gaumont went on. "Jenny lets me baby-sit once and a while." Her face beamed and Paul couldn't help being pierced by the old woman's need for companionship. He was regretting his busybody judgment of her more and more. She was just a lonely old woman. God only knew loneliness could make you do weird crap sometimes. "We have a great time watching All in the Family. Lovely child. Closest thing to a grandson I've got, you know. Franklyn and I never were able to have children of our own." Then her eyes flashed with anger. "Do you know his father never even comes to see him? Don't write, neither. I think Jenny gave up completely on child support, too. Has some foolish notion about standing on her own two feet and supporting Andy herself. If it were me, I'd sick the FBI on the bum!" "I'm sure you would." Paul nodded. Jenny forever? Left her just like you left the others and that's that. No, it was different. Sure. "You know..." Mrs. Gaumont's eyes lighted. "Maybe on Saturday I could have Jenny over for coffee, if'n you'd like to say hi to her?" Paul felt his belly tighten. He realized what the old woman was up to: she had jumped at the chance to play matchmaker. The idea angered him, mostly because he didn't find himself as opposed to it as he should have. Remember why you came back, Paul? All those nasty little problems spinning around in your head. Your father, your mother, the damn closet... Ah, but maybe if you look deep enough you'll find she is the reason you came back. Can't fool yourself forever. "Paul?" Worry crept into Mrs. Gaumont's voice. "Huh?" "Are you all right? You're pale as a ghost and a million miles away. I'm not boring you, am I?" "Perish the thought. I'm fine. Really. Just tired. A good night's sleep and I'll be good as new. Maybe I should get that room now." "Oh, of course, of course. I should have known better than to jabber your ear off. I'll fix you up with the best in the house." "By the way, I noticed you might need some handy work. I'm no Mister Fix-it, but I can certainly mend your sign and shutters and such." Mrs. Gaumont seemed to consider it a moment. "With the tourist business coming in over the weekend I guess the place could use a little sprucin' up. Winter was mighty harsh on her last year, you know. And, well, guests haven't really been pouring in ... you're the first in a while, you. I'll let you have the room for twenty since you're a local and want to help out." "Great, then it's a deal." "About that coffee?" Mrs. Gaumont looked hopeful. "I'll be away on Saturday," Paul lied, trying to think up an excuse. "Sorry. I have some business to take care of." "Oh, I see." He heard doubt in her voice. She either didn't believe him or was trying to concoct some other plan. "Maybe next time?" "Maybe..." Paul knew she wouldn't let it drop and cursed himself for not objecting too strenuously. -------- *(5)* The room was small and box-like but it would do. A dilapidated dresser with a cracked mirror stood against one wall, and the sagging mattress on the twin bed looked concave. An oak nightstand suffering from rickets squatted in front of the window. The adjoining bathroom appeared to be a converted closet. Stale cigarette smoke permeated the air and, he knew from experience, the sheets and towels. The blue wallpaper was mismatched at the seams, speckled with little white polka dots. A classic example of Early American Dixie Cup, Paul thought, but at twenty bucks a night he wouldn't grouse about the decor. Dropping his suitcase, he closed the door and leaned against it, back-to. As he massaged his sore forearm, his mind wandered. Seeing Jenny had shaken him worse than he cared to admit. YOU CAN HAVE HER, PAUL. I CAN GIVE HER TO YOU AND THE PRICE WILL BE SMALL. JOIN ME AND SHE IS YOURS FOREVER (EVER ... EVER...) A sense of dread still simmered in his mind, but the strange voice from his dream seemed somehow more distant. Had he partially blocked it? Or had another factor -- the Jenny factor -- entered into the equation? Uh-uh, Paul. Off limits. You screwed up with her once already. She doesn't need your kind of relationship. Ask Jill. (You left me, Paul. You goddamn left me!) Maybe Jill was right. He was three-quarters past crazy. Loco. Lunatic Standard Time. He didn't feel crazy. Not really. Just exhausted, and maybe a little haunted. What the hell did crazy feel like, anyway? He'd always thought he would just know if he went nuts. Craziness wasn't some sublime thing. Oh, no, craziness was little pink pigs in cocktail dresses dancing across the bottom of your mind screen, giggling oink oink and focusing your attention on them instead of what was really going on in the picture. And craziness hadn't brought him here. Something darker had. Jennifer forever. A scent touched Paul's nostrils, perfumed, welling from within his memory -- a perfume, fragranced with lilac, she used to wear. Merely an illusion, but it took him, entangling his senses until he felt the caress of her soul sliding through his mind. A haunting shiver trickled down his spine. Paul struggled to shake the feeling, the sudden need to pull back overwhelming him. What's the matter, Paul? Make up your mind. Don't you think that after this morning's break-up with Jill you should have learned something? Not you. Oh, no. Like a moron child repeatedly plugging paperclips into live electrical sockets, you just keep at it. What a trouper! Jenny is the reason you came back, isn't she? Not some silly notion you can rid yourself of some freakish dreams or nebulous restlessness. Not some dark voice whispering from your mind closet. When you saw her today you wanted to rush right through the window and start babbling your fool head off about all the reasons (excuses) you had for never contacting her, though none of those reasons is worth a damn and you know it. That about right? Go to hell. Ah, a response! A nasty one at that. Hit the nail bang on the head, eh? But, hey, don't let me tell you what to do. You're the expert in these things. "Dammit!" Paul thumped the heel of his fist against the door. I BROUGHT YOU HERE, PAUL. AND I CAN GIVE HER TO YOU. The voice again -- the voice from his dream. Insanity? Maybe. Or maybe just plain exhaustion and jangled nerves. Or perhaps guilt. Guilt was an even easier pill to swallow. (Hey, Paul, remember me? Good-old-dependable-go-ahead-and-screw-me-till-you-drop-then-leave-me, Jill? Oh sure you do! Because I won't let you forget me. And I won't let you have Jenny, either. Nothing personal, but what the hell, you know how I like to hold a grudge. And if you don't believe it, just remember you blew it, buddy. You goddamn blew it!) Jill's face crowded Paul's mind, grinning and damning. He forced her image down, surprised at just how easily he managed the feat. They hadn't loved each other; he realized it all the more, now. Jill was being unceremoniously shuffled through the back door of his mind, given expedient valet service by Jenny. Paul sighed and pushed himself away from the door and headed to the bathroom. After showering and changing into fresh clothes, he fell into bed, exhausted. He focused on the ceiling, singling out water splotches and fly specks until the whole expanse hazed into an oyster-colored blur. Soon the blur darkened, taking on a velvety blackness, muted and shimmering. Then lolling waves. He drifted, free-floating and tumbling, scattered flashes of the morning's events whirling up in his mind. Down ... down ... down... His awareness swam in an ebony sea. Somewhere, a laugh pierced the virgin darkness. Light. Hazy and distant. Dark shapes shimmering to the sides -- trees, he saw, now. He wasn't sure why that made him feel better. The light blazed, fuzzy and distorted, high above him, becoming oblong as it focused. Murmuring reached his ears: the ocean. Lolling waves sharpened into the rush of breakers. The trees hugged a dirt parking lot, shady-blue sentries, their ghostly rustling chatting to the soughing of the sea. A late-August breeze whispered through their branches. The light became a three-quarter moon, splashing the powder-blue hood of Paul's old Ford. Sitting in the car, a sadness volcanoed within him. The mournful ebb and flow of the sea only deepened the feeling. Paul focused on the beach, staring at the glimmering sand, ivory clean; the sparkling breakers, liquid silver. Summoning his courage, he turned to face Jennifer Thornton, who was gazing at him, topaz eyes wide. He loved those eyes; they could drag things from his soul. "The Winner Takes it All" by ABBA throbbed from the radio; a song they'd heard on their first date and both loved, Paul now found distasteful. He snapped the radio off, then yanked the keys from the ignition and tossed them onto the dash. Silence. Endless. Black. Hushed. Broken only as a cricket chirped and a breaker rumbled in. Clipper Point had always been their favorite spot, but now Paul realized he shouldn't have brought her here. Not tonight. Not with the vulgar taste of good-bye souring his soul. "Jenny, I..." Paul's voice trembled, heart a muffled throb as it beat thickly. Sweat dampened his palms. He drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Tell her. "Jenny..." Again, he stumbled. "Shh." Jenny touched an index finger to his lips. A fragile smile parted her lips, a concealing smile, a smile positive of the outcome of this night. She had always been the strong one; Paul knew that. Good old Jenny, solid as a rock. He should know; hadn't he depended on her enough times? For that, he'd be forever grateful. She made him feel so comfortable, as if a small part or her strength rubbed off and gave him control over his life whenever they were together. God, she was beautiful. The moonlight, icy and indifferent by itself, frosted strands of her auburn hair and transformed her face into shimmering porcelain. Yet, somehow, her topaz eyes didn't glimmer as brightly as usual; they seemed enameled with a diaphanous brown that obscured the hurt -- but not completely. Jenny's fingers traced the contours of Paul's face and a shiver wandered through him. She leaned close, her hand resting on his shoulder, warm breath stroking his neck. The shiver multiplied into a wave of tingles that raced through his body. She kissed him, the sweet after-taste of red wine flavoring her lips, and the kiss seemed to engulf some of his sorrow. For the moment, he was lost. Then reality crowded back in, discordant and harsh. Leaving her would be the hardest thing he'd ever done, harder than walking into Gina's, harder than losing his mother, harder than any of the abuse his father ever handed out. "Funny," said Paul at last. "I rehearsed everything I was going to say a thousand times, just the right words, just the right reasons. Now that it comes right down to it ... I didn't know it would be this hard." "I know, Paul," Jenny whispered. "I've been dreading it all summer, but I knew when we started this time would come. I knew you'd be leaving. Can't say it still doesn't feel like hell..." She tried to smile. Paul chuckled humorlessly and shifted his gaze back to the sea, focusing on an incoming wave. He couldn't linger on Jenny's face. If he stared into those eyes for too long, his determination would falter and he'd come apart. "Maybe the Army will make a man out of me." A heavy note of sarcasm laced his voice. "That's what my father keeps telling me." "That's ridiculous, Paul. You know better than to listen to anything he says. He's goading you, trying to make you stay and take his crap. No matter how much he hates you he's really afraid that when you leave, he'll only have himself. And he doesn't want to face that." "Thanks, doc." Paul smiled, despite himself. "That's me, Jennifer Thornton, amateur shrink." "No, I know you're right. But I think it's finally over. I'm leaving tonight; I have no choice. I've waited long enough and he can't hurt me anymore. Hell, maybe he never really could, but I let him. That's what gets me: I let him. In a way, I feel relieved, yet in another, I'm afraid and bitter. I still have so many unanswered questions, especially about my mother. I still wonder why she didn't take me with her." Paul turned back to Jenny. "You don't know why she left. There could be a hundred reasons for it, besides the marital problems you saw." "I can't help thinking there was more to it; she talked about us leaving. I realize now she was a deeply troubled woman, but at seven all I knew was that my mother abandoned me." "She was abused, scared. It's hard to judge what someone will do in a situation like that. Don't blame her for running like -- " "Like I'm doing?" Paul finished. His jaw tightened. "I didn't mean -- " "Hey, it's okay. I am running. I feel so restless, like something is pulling my insides every which way. I don't blame my mother for it. It just took me a while to realize it. When the recruiter came to our school, I suddenly found myself offered a first-class ticket out of Dark Harbor. I didn't know I'd meet you. Who knows, maybe I would have had to leave anyway, maybe this thing inside me would have forced me to. The only thing I'm sure of is that it's part of me and I can't change it, at least not at this point." "Paul..." Jenny hesitated, control slipping. He saw it on her face. Her dam of conviction was cracking, yielding to a rushing tide of emotion. "You're not coming back, are you?" Jenny bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Paul's heart throbbed in his throat. "I ... no." His voice trailed off and he stared at an invisible spot on the floor. "Please come with me?" "I can't, Paul. You know that. Just like you had your plans made, I had mine. I start college in a few weeks. It's something I've dreamed of all my life, working with children, making a real difference. That goal is important to me." "More important than me?" "That's not fair." "You're right, it's not. I'm sorry." What else could he say? Not much, Paul. Jenny forever? Not goddamn likely. She's slipping through your fingers and there's nothing you can do. And someday you'll look back and realize just how much of an idiot you were. Hurt peered from Jenny's eyes as Paul's gaze locked with hers. And hurt was a repulsive thing when it grinned back at you for idle reasons. "Maybe when you get out..." Her control slipped another notch. "Maybe you could come out west ... and when ... it's unrealistic, I know, but we could wait for each other, couldn't we?" Her topaz eyes widened, stained with sorrow. "You'll write me, keep in touch?" "Yeah, sure I will." Paul's voice rattled from somewhere deep and distant inside, inflamed with the sound of a lie. He knew he wouldn't write, though damned if he knew why. Jenny knew it, too. It lay naked on her face. Jenny slid her hand behind his neck and pulled him close, kissing him. Again the shiver went through him, and at that moment it was the most welcome thing he'd ever felt. As they held each other, tears sliding from their eyes, the gnawing sorrow he'd felt finally wore his nerves raw and effused. But that was yesterday, a hundred yesterdays. Years raced by, vanishing somewhere. Years that now seemed endless eons away and mired in a tangle of lies and unfulfilled promises. Paul muddled his way through the Army and secured his teaching degree. At first he found his mind locked with images and feelings for Jenny, but with time the raging fire quelled, its roar sapped, and damned if he weren't right: he never did write. Instead he'd been inexplicably content to be blown from place to place, relationship to relationship, losing himself along the way. Women came and went; Jenny faded from his mind. Almost. Jenny forever. He can give her to you, Paul, no questions asked and the price is small... Paul tossed and turned, tangled in the sheets, breath stuttering out. A thought struck him unbidden: What if Jenny were part of the reason for his dreams? The thought quickly dissolved as fatigue overwhelmed any chance of nightmares. Perhaps his dreams would quietly fold into the darkness now that he'd returned to Dark Harbor, but right now he didn't care. -------- *(6)* "I still feel guilty. I can't help it." A frown creased Dr. Jennifer Gazio's full lips. She took a sip of coffee and glanced across the table at Dr. Margaret Fox, who shook her head and let out an exasperated sigh. The hospital cafeteria was deserted, the air stuffy with the odors of macaroni and cheese, French-cut string beans and stale coffee -- the daily special. Jenny twisted an errant lock of hair into a corkscrew shape, then poked the lock behind her ear. She had pulled her normally loose tresses back into a tight bun. Her gaze shifted back to Peg, who fiddled with her mac and cheese, shoveling it into globs with her fork then smoothing out the gluey mixture, leaving wavy ridges. A look of distaste crossed her dark features. "Will you quit worrying yourself? Cindy's a big girl; she can take care of herself. You gotta let go sometime, huh? Let her fly the nest, momma bird." "I know." Jenny smiled and shrugged. Her topaz eyes twinkled under the florescent lights. "I just can't help thinking that if I'd been around more, if I hadn't moved out west to go to school, none of it would have happened. She was only twelve. She had no idea how to handle a situation like that." "Nobody knows how to handle a situation like that. Not me, not you, certainly not at twelve. Don't blame yourself. Christ, how were you to know your freako uncle would turn out to be a pervert?" "Cindy was barely eleven when mom and dad died. Their deaths hit her a lot harder than they hit me. I'd been away from home for a few years, so I suppose I was better equipped to handle it. Cindy had just started to cope when I had to go back to school. And with what that bastard did ... she still can't -- or won't -- talk to me about Dudley." "Give her time, Jen. She's just not ready." "I have given her time." Jenny spread her hands. "I'm worried it's all going to back up on her someday, and she won't be prepared for the consequences. If she'd just start to let it out -- I should have quit school and raised her. It's my fault. "Look." Peg, waved her fork and a stern look tightened her features. "Don't feed me any of that crap! You worked your ass off to get where you are. You're going to be the best damned pediatrician this dump of a hospital ever had." "But -- " "No buts, girl! I know, believe me. We all got to deal with our demons in our own way. Took me years to get over my dad's death. I was terrified of it, to the point were a bird hitting the window would send me cowering to my room for days. All because I was piss-scared to go outside and maybe find the damn thing staring up at me, its beady eyes glazed with the same look I saw in my father's eyes the night he had his heart attack." Jenny started to open her mouth to say something but Peg held up a hand. "No, let me finish. I'm telling you this for a reason. One day I made decision to face what shoved my tail up my ass. I decided to become pathologist to face death. Wasn't eee-zee, believe me. I got used to heaving my guts pretty regularly for a while, but now I've learned to accept death as a natural part of living." "Thank you, Sigmund Fox." Jenny offered a thin smile. Peg frowned. "What I'm so eloquently pointing out is this: Cindy's nineteen, a grown woman. If you're always hovering over her with that hound-dog look on your face, you'll only make things worse. Cindy will either face it the way I did, or she'll tote it around for the rest of her life and manage just the same. Believe me, whatever she decides, she'll come to you when and if she's ready. Not before." "She is my baby sister and I can't help worrying about her. I can't shut off my emotions just like that." Peg's frown deepened. "I'm not telling you to. But you've got yourself to worry about. Keep fretting over others and you'll wake up one day and find yourself old and gray and wondering why you didn't take the time to stop and live your life. And that would be a waste, girl, a goddamned waste. I learned that the day I stood up on my own two feet and headed off to med. school. You never know when the Good Lord's gonna call you collect, so you better not tote around all that excess baggage, know what I'm sayin'?" "Yes, I know." Jenny smiled. She was glad to have Peg's advice, though she had a bad habit of ignoring it. When Peg came to work at Dark Harbor Memorial she and Jenny hit it off immediately. Since returning to this town, Jenny hadn't made many new friends: Dark Harbor, she found, seldom welcomed back its bastard children. Unless you got famous or could do something for them. She wondered sometimes why she had even bothered to come back. "Well? Don't nod off on me, girl. I'm not that boring." "Okay, Dr. Fox, I'll think over your sage advice. In the meantime, I'll still feel better if I call home and check on Andy." Peg raised an eyebrow. "Oh, sure, on Andy ... or might that be Cindy?" "Okay, smartass. On both." Jenny grinned. "That's cool, that's cool." Peg spread her hands in resignation. "Can't blame a girl for trying. But believe me, the little tiger's fine -- and Cindy's fine. Take it from a slightly older doctor." "Slightly older?" Jenny's eyebrows arched. "Hey-hey! Don't get nasty! Tell you what, after I finish up why don't we forget all this and swing over to the Coral? Couple of brews, maybe dancing with some eligible mustangs -- and who knows?" Peg winked. "I don't know. I don't think I'm ready to start getting out again, and I should get home after work." "Oh, you're pissing me off, girl! It's been how long since that loser hit the road? Locking yourself up in your house ain't gonna get your groove on." "Peg..." Jenny tried not to laugh. "Can't fool me, Jen. I see right through that cover-up. Remember what I said about worrying too much about others." "How can I forget? You won't let me." "Damn right I won't. So what's the hang up?" Jenny shrugged. "After Bill the swill -- as Cindy lovingly refers to him -- left, I swore I'd get right back out and try it again, you know, the old chestnut about falling off the horse." "Make that an ass." "Mmmm... Anyway, every time I think about it I get nervous. I had to tell Andy his father wouldn't be back, and I couldn't really tell him why. What do you say to a three-year-old? 'Hey, your daddy doesn't give a damn about your mommy anymore, so he left'? I don't know if it's wise to put him through that again." "I see your point, but you're dwelling too much on the negative. Andy's a smart boy. Take my word for it, he probably had the situation figured out a long time ago and someday he'll tell you why -- not the other way around. End of lecture!" "Maybe you should have been the pedi, Peg." Jenny chuckled. Peg groaned. "Pedi Peg -- how do you like that?" "I think you've been screwing the anesthesiologist in the supply closet." "Yeah, it was a gas!" "Oh, God, please!" Peg waved a hand. Jenny laughed. "Little medical humor, there -- I know, I know, very little." "Uh-huh. You've been working too much." "You're probably right. Everybody around here has." "Nice try. You can fool some people, but you can't fool me. Even with the shortage you do too much." "Oh, and why is that, Dr. Fox?" "Because even with that little boy, or maybe because of him, you don't want time to think about being alone. Hey, I recognize the signs and anybody crazy enough to eat more than two meals in this place has to be running from something." "I thought you said you were through with the lecture?" Jenny raised an eyebrow. "Hey, say no more." Peg shook her mop of kinky black hair. "My lips are sealed." She pantomimed zipping her lips, locking them and throwing away the key. "That'll be the day!" A wry grin spread over Jenny's lips, but inside she knew Peg was right. She had immersed herself in her work to fight her feelings of loneliness. She needed to be strong for Andy, for Cindy, give them the best she could. But in doing so, she denied Andy her time. She hoped she wasn't hurting him more than helping him. "Well?" Peg stared at her. "Well what?" asked Jenny, jarred from her thoughts. "Look," Peg waved her fork, "with all the old fart doctors running this place -- and might I add a disconcerting lack of eligible black interns -- we ladies have to find some outlet for our carnal aggressions." "Carnal aggressions?" Jenny felt thankful Peg had changed the subject. "Oh, come now, Ms. Fox, Dark Harbor Memorial has its share of interns." "Jesus, girl, you're young, you're pretty, you're white. You got your pick. Me, I have to hope said interns have seen enough episodes of Quincy not to be turned off when I tell them what I do for a living." Peg squinched up her face and put on a shrill voice that sounded like a witch's cackle. "Heh-heh, guys, I may slice and dice at work but, hey, you oughta see what I can whip up with Hamburger Helper!" "Peg!" Peg wrung her hands witchily. "Hey, for some real fun, what say we drive on over to the cemetery and dig us up a few stiffs. Ever done it on a morgue slab before? Well, hell's bells, are you in for a treat. Hope y'all don't mind a little formaldehyde on my breath -- " Jenny cast her a disapproving expression. Peg's indifference to her work gave Jenny a slight case of the creeps. She could see why men might be turned off by Peg's slice-and-dice routine but she didn't exactly have them lining up at her door, either. Once they discovered any relationship came complete with five-year-old Andy it was usually "I'll call you sometime". Most of the men working at Dark Harbor Memorial weren't looking for ready-made families. "All right," said Peg. "If you don't want to buy the merchandise at least you can do some window shopping and get out for a little. You know, relax, let your hair down, kick off your Nike's. Whatta you say, girl?" "Well..." Jenny hesitated, reluctant. She supposed it wouldn't hurt just this once. She did need to unwind. "Okay, Dr. Fox. I surrender. Besides, it'll give me the perfect excuse to call Cindy and find out how everything is." "Uh-huh, I knew there had to be an ulterior motive. But I'll take it just the same. Why don't you come up after your rounds and watch a real professional at work." Peg winked. "Should be an interesting one." Jenny twisted her face in mock disgust. "Nooo thanks! I don't want to know what you do behind closed doors. Horror movies make me sick and I always hated Quincy. I have no desire to watch you 'slice and dice'." "You'll miss one of my famous fillets, girl. You don't know what you're passing up." "It's no wonder you don't have dates." Peg laughed and flipped back her ebony hair. "Well this one's hot, girl. You know Jake Corsetti, the guy who owns the construction company building the drug center? -- or I should say owned. Won't be building nothin', now." "I know him in passing. I've treated his drunk of a brother in Emergency a few times -- what do you mean 'owned'?" "Just that Jake's brother better get his act together real fast 'cause he owns the whole company now. Jake had himself a little accident this morning." "He's dead?" Jenny's eyes widened. "Girl, don't you read the papers? Night edition was full of it. Jake Corsetti flipped, blew a gasket, lost his whole bag of marbles." "What?" "Major attack of the loony tunes." Peg circled her finger at her temple. "Chopped his foreman into pieces and came out swinging a sledgehammer at his men. Did some minor damage to a couple of workers before they brought him down. They said he just snapped, one minute normal, the next, ranting and raving with this mad-dog look in his eyes. And get this, after they brought him down, Jakey just up and croaked. Poof!" Peg snapped her fingers. "Just like that. One minute a guy's sitting on his chest and the next..." Peg drew her finger across her throat and made a kirst sound. I gotta find out why." "God, Peg, I thought Jake was the sane one. His brother's always into something. I thought he would be the one to crack." "You never know. Maybe the pressure got to him and he snapped his bean. You read about it all the time. When I lived in Atlanta this crap happened on a daily basis." "But in Dark Harbor? It's a small town. We have our share of basket cases, but never something like this." "Don't bet on it. You ain't been around enough. I hear tell plenty of weird things happen in Dark Harbor. This town has history of strangeness from the witch trails on up to the creature Mr. Dugan claims lives in the marsh." "Wives tales and lonely people." Jenny's tone held a note of skepticism. "This is as peaceful as any small town." "Well, don't be surprised if you change your mind. The sheriff shut the site down. Won't let work start until he gets to the bottom of what happened. I bet it'll cost the Courtwrights plenty by the time he's done." "They can afford it, don't worry. They damn near own the town after forcing the Stanfords -- " Jenny caught herself. An odd warmth shivered through her and her thoughts momentarily drifted back to a late-August night. Paul. His name entered her mind for the first time in years. He'd never called, never written, and eventually she'd put him out of her thoughts. Yet, now, a familiar yearning seemed reborn inside her. But why had she thought of him at all? "Earth to Dr. Gazio." Peg waved her hand in front of Jenny's eyes. "What?" A vacant look remained on Jenny's face. "Anybody in there? Or have you learned to sleep with your eyes open?" "Sorry, I was just thinking." "Look, sometimes I get out of line with my talk. I forget most people -- even doctors -- aren't used to my morbid sense of humor. Didn't mean to offend you. You look as white as a sheet -- and take my word for it, I knooow sheets when I see them." Peg drawled the last words, smirking. Jenny chuckled, relaxing, but found herself unable to shake the strange feeling that had suddenly come over her. "No offense taken." "Good." Peg pushed her seat back. "I gotta go get my SHAKE'n BAKE and hockey mask and get back to work." Peg plopped her fork into the mac and cheese and contorted her face. "With the food they serve in this place it's a wonder I don't get more customers than I do. Give me a yell at quittin' time, okay?" Peg adjusted her frock and picked up her tray. "Popsicle Palace?" asked Jenny, using Peg's euphemism for her lab. "Uh-uh. Fifth. East. Renovations to the Palace, you know. Sure you don't want to assist? Last chance. I could use another hand. Hell, with the understaffing and renovations around here, next thing you know I'll be working twenty-four hours and dissecting out in the parking lot." Jenny held up a hand. "I'll pass." "You best get moving yourself, girl. Smith will have your ass." "He's already tried." Jenny rolled her eyes. "I don't think he's ever forgiven me for that slap I gave him when he 'accidentally' put his hand on my butt at the Christmas party last year." Peg grinned. "Had the same accident with me, too, the old fart-bag. Told him if he ever put his paws on my black behind again, I'd cut off his twinkie and Federal Express it to his wife." Jenny chuckled and pushed back her chair, standing. "But you're right; I've got work to do ... and a call to make first." "Jeez!" Peg turned and dumped her tray on a metal cart. She headed towards the door and stopped, waving a finger at Jenny. "Remember what I said: Cindy's a big girl." "Get the hell outta here, will you?" Jenny snapped playfully. "Okay, okay." Peg shrugged. "Couldn't resist a parting shot." She shoved through the swinging doors, leaving Jenny alone with her thoughts. She'd tried without success to shake the strange feeling pervading her. Along with it, she found she couldn't get Paul's name out of her mind. Why? Had he returned to Dark Harbor? No, not likely. Paul was always the restless type and he told her he'd never come back. She wondered how she would react if she saw him again. Was there anything left? Or was he just another childhood sweetheart, a first love that could never be rekindled? Oddly, she found herself resistantly eager to find out. Funny, with the thoughts of him the feeling that he was close strengthened. They always did have that special bond, able to tell when one another needed help. Did Paul need her help, now? With that question, a nascent fear gripped her. Maybe it was just Peg's talk about Corsetti eating away at her nerves. Or was it? Why did the feeling and Paul's name seem suddenly mixed together in her mind? They couldn't possibly be linked. Stop it, she told herself. There was no use dwelling on days gone by. Peg was right: she had herself to think about for a change. She had to draw from that well of strength she had drawn from so often -- the times when Cindy needed her, the times when Andy needed her, the times when she cursed Bill for leaving Andy, and the times when she wanted to pull her hair out from just plain frustration. But now that she needed it, she felt the well going dry. Maybe she had drawn from it too often. Jenny pursed her lips and let her breath trickle out. Right now she had more important things with which to occupy her time. She'd have to worry later... * * * * Walking through the second floor hallway, Jenny fumbled in her frock for a quarter. She didn't feel like hustling up to the employee lounge, since she was already on the second floor, Pediatrics. The hallway, a vapid masterpiece of speckled brown tile, off-white walls with stripes of blue, green and yellow skirting the ceiling, was virtually deserted. The understaffing situation had reached the critical point; if they didn't get some trained help soon, the hospital would be headed for some major shut-downs. Rounding the corner, Jenny shivered. The strange feeling that had come over her in the cafeteria intensified. It seeped into her mind like black ink unfurling in a crystal clear pond. A sensation of what? Dread? Something felt wrong. The empty corridor drove the feeling home, making her nerves crawl. Perhaps Peg's blase attitude toward her work had affected her more than she thought. Still, she should be used to that by now, though coupled with the news of Corsetti's death it bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She uttered a nervous chuckle. Peg had a way of making her uneasy at times, as well as calming her. A walking paradox, girl, as Peg would say. But Peg couldn't be blamed for all her edginess. Something else worked through her, gusting like a damp sea wind, chilling her to the bone. She shuddered, mind locking onto a morbid image of Peg sliding Corsetti's corpse from a drawer and slicing open his chest. Don't dwell on it, girl, she heard Peg say in her mind. Dammit, she was working herself up over nothing. It wasn't like her to be frightened by insubstantials. She was too practical for that. Jenny tried to force the feeling down as she approached the row of phone booths embedded into the wall across from the elevator bank. She stepped into the closest booth and pulled the sliding door shut behind her. After plunking a quarter into the slot, her slim fingers danced over the buttons. "Come on, Cindy," she whispered, as the phone went unanswered. The muffled sound of the rings and crackling hush at the other end of the line sounded as though they were echoing from some spectral place. A click sounded as someone finally picked up. "Hello?" A girl answered. Her voice, though young, carried an edge. "It's me, sis. How's Andy and what the hell took you so long to answer?" A laugh came from the other end. "Nice to hear from you, too! Calling to check up on me again, huh? Well, he's fine and I just tied him to the bed -- after he made me read 'Hey Diddle Diddle' three times, of course. That's what took me so long to get to the phone -- can't stop in the middle of a diddle, you know. Uh-hum. Anyway, he nodded off before the dish ran away with the spoon." Jenny smiled, relieved. "That's Andy, all right. Hey, could you do me a favor and stay with him a little longer tonight? Peg coerced me into going to the Coral after work. You know how persuasive she can be. I'd appreciate it." "Well, the coach has to be back by midnight, but what the hell. No problem. You need a night out and Jeff's working till one in Portland. Andy cooked Play-Doh for dinner, so I'm staying home with my stomach ache." Jenny frowned. "Look, about Jeff -- " "No way, Jen! I've had enough of the lectures. I know how you feel about wayward musicians in general and Jeff in particular. I respect that but don't push it. It's my business. Don't forget, I'm doing you a favor, so don't get me pissed off." She sighed. "All right, all right. I'm sorry -- more or less. I just hate to see you involved with someone like that. I am your older -- and wiser -- sister. I care about you." "Sis," Exasperation laced Cindy's tone, "why don't we try this conversation some other time, okay? Or better yet, not at all. Now get the hell back to work before I change my mind." "The wisdom according to Cindy." Frustration bled into Jenny's voice. "All right, and thanks." Jenny let out another long sigh, knowing she'd get nowhere with her sister, especially over the phone. "Ta-taa." Jenny replaced the receiver and remained sitting in the booth, thinking about Cindy. "She's a big girl." Peg's words repeated in her mind. "Maybe," mumbled Jenny. "But she's further away from dealing with life than she thinks." Jenny slid the door open and headed down the hall. "Late again, Ms. Gazio." She checked her watch. "You'd better get a move on if you want to catch up with Peg. She's probably half-way through her autops by now." Jenny shuddered. She could hear Peg now: "Welcome to the Popsicle Palace! Come one, come all. Yessiree. People just dying to get in!" Jenny groaned and made a mental note to avoid frozen food and work on Peg's sense of humor. -------- *(7)* SOON... Peg gazed at the wall clock and saw the minute hand jerk to the six. The second hand tottered around the face, seeming to slow even as she watched, dragging out her shift. "Nine-thirty and all's crap," mumbled Peg, gaze skipping around the room. The lab sported antiseptic ice-blue tile -- floor and walls -- which was only a slight improvement over the puke-avocado color used in the fifth floor hallway. Blinded, double windows overlooked the back parking lot. The room's sterility depressed her and she wished the clock would magically speed up so her shift would end. Despite her flip talk and morbid humor, she was damned sick of this job. Ennui had set in, nesting in her mind like spiders spinning a web of gloom. The thrill had definitely worn off. Yeah, right, some thrill. She found herself less and less eager to go sloggin' around inside bodies. This was a freaky job for a woman. Hadn't she beaten her demons a long time ago? All that tripe she'd handed Jenny about facing up to and dealing with your fears -- it hadn't brought her father back, had it? No way, girl, she told herself. It hadn't erased the awful cramped feeling she got in her gut every time she thought about that night. Christ, no. That feeling pissed in her memory and filled her mind with a dark bloating pressure. She remembered that night too well; how could she ever forget it? It could have been yesterday. A January snow lazed down, the world outside silent and white, spinning promises of snowmen, the world inside a crackling warm fire that assured security and whispered bedtime stories. Worlds separated only by a thin frosty windowpane to which she, a black girl of ten, pressed her tongue. As she licked the chilled glass, shivers tingled through her body. Snow was a treat in Atlanta; they didn't get much and she knew it wouldn't last for long. She wondered what it would be like to be a snowflake, free and drifting, never-dying, reborn with each winter's magic touch. She wondered what it would be like to be alive forever. She'd ask her daddy; he would know. Daddy always had answers to her questions. After all, hadn't daddy brought her rag-doll, Bethy-Ann, back to life after her nasty little brother tore off her arm? Yes, daddy would know. Peggy pushed herself away from the window, grabbing up Bethy-Ann by her good arm, and scuttled to the living room. She saw daddy sitting stiffly in the old recliner by the fireplace, sleeping. Yellow ribbons of flame bathed the room with a gentle amber glow. The glow fell over daddy's face, giving his features the rich brown color of the Hills Bros. coffee man, she thought. Did something look different about his face tonight? Yes, something did. At first she couldn't tell what it was. Daddy always slept by the fire after he came home from work. Snow or not, tonight wasn't any different. At 5:30 she had scurried to meet him at the door, full of grins and giggles, Bethy-Ann dangling at her side. He'd squeezed her tight in his big-bear arms and kissed her cheek. After mommy left -- today was Thursday and Thursday was her Bingo night -- for the church, daddy took his bath while she gobbled SpaghettiOs. When daddy finished his bath, he settled into his chair with his paper while Peggy knelt by the window and watched the snowflakes. Something struck her as strange. Groping a moment, she realized what it was: she hadn't heard the familiar crinkling of daddy's paper. She peered at him. The paper lay folded on his lap, unread. She froze. A funny heaviness settled into the pit of her stomach and she shivered, despite the toasty warmth of the fire. Another thing struck her. Just what was wrong with him or looked out of place took a moment to sink in. She stared, cocking her head. Then she realized what it was: daddy's eyes were open. A nervous giggle escaped her lips. Funny, she'd never seen him sleep with his eyes open before. Peggy crept closer, sneaking up beside him. "Daddy?" she whispered, as if the sound of her own voice might jump out of her mouth and scare her. The funny heaviness in her stomach swelled. She peered at her daddy's face. His features, close up, looked strange, an odd ash color. And his eyes -- glazed, staring. As though they stared right through her. She'd never seen that look in them before and it sent icicles through her heart. "Daddy?" she whispered again, a bit louder. The fire crackled and issued a loud pop that made her jump and squeeze Bethy-Ann's arm tighter. The sweet tang of singed wood reached her nostrils. She looked at the fire a moment, then shifted her attention back to the chair. Daddy still gazed straight ahead, as though he hadn't heard the pop. Staring at nothing. A horrible death stare, she thought, suddenly very frightened. Death? No, daddies lived forever. Didn't they? Peggy gulped and forced herself to reach forward, small fingers brushing his thick, liver-spotted hand. She instantly jerked her hand away, repulsed by the clammy feeling of his skin. It felt like a frog's skin. "Daddy!" she blurted, voice rising, shrill and panicked. Her insides began to do flip-flops. The heaviness in her stomach began to crush her. "Daddy!" She forced herself to reach out and grip his big hand, his deathly cold hand. She tugged. "Daddy!" As she pulled at his hand, daddy's glassy stare seemed to fall upon her like a weight. A viscous greenish fluid snaked from the corner of his mouth and dribbled over his chin. His body arched, canted, and pitched forward, tumbling off the chair and thudding onto the hardwood floor in a lifeless heap. Peggy screamed until her throat went raw and dropped Bethy-Ann. She stared at Bethy-Ann's crumpled form and screamed some more... The screams of the child she once was reverberated through time and memory and startled Peg from her reverie. She remembered her mother had come home from Bingo and found her huddled, shaking and incoherent, in a corner. Daddy still lay on the floor, frozen in death. Later, her mother told her he had suffered a massive coronary. Maybe snowflakes lived forever but daddies did not. Now she knew what massive coronaries were, how things worked in the human body, but she was damned if she knew why God just snapped His fingers and wiped out a life for no reason. No, that she didn't understand at all. And now this was just a job; a damned depressing one at that. She balled her hands into fists, frustrated. "Goddammit, girl," she mumbled. "If Jenny knew how you felt she'd probably run right home and not let Cindy out of her sight." But maybe she'd talk to Jenny about it, anyway. Jenny, for all her worrying, had her head screwed on straight. "And I'm giving her advice?" She shook her head. What would Jenny tell you, girl? "She'd tell you to go with what you feel and if that meant changing jobs, changing lives, so be it. So why bother asking her? You'll just do what you want, anyhow. Always have and always will." Peg blew out an exasperated sigh. Well, plenty of other positions had opened up at the hospital. Why not take one and admit she'd made a mistake? Based her whole career on facing up to the surest fact in life: people die. Even the people you love who are supposed to stick around forever. Amen. So screw it. Tomorrow she would check on those openings. But for now she had a job to do. Peg turned her attention to the shroud-covered form lying on the stainless steel table. She checked over her dissecting tray, which was attached to the head of the table. Scalpels, hemostats, hooks and heavy cord, clamps and trepan, all arranged with precision on the tray. Metal instruments that glittered under the lights, reminding her of silver snowflakes. The thought made her shudder. She shook it off and checked her sprayer, T-shaped dissecting board, drains, suctions. Everything A-OK. Always was. "You do run a tight ship, girl," she praised herself. Reaching over, she yanked the shroud from Jake Corsetti's body, feeling a slight heaviness sink into her gut as she viewed the pale form. She never had been able to completely lose that feeling. "Uh-uh, my formaldehyde baby," she mumbled tunelessly, a little edgy. She adjusted the microphone attached to her green surgical scrubs and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Using her toe, she pressed the foot pedal; the table rose with a pneumatic whine. "Case Number 9-2666, Jake Corsetti, Caucasian, male..." BITCH. "What?" Peg blurted, startled. She scanned the room, perplexed. She thought she had heard a voice, a rasping thing that might have come from the depths of her mind. No, that wasn't possible; she couldn't have heard anything. She was alone in the lab and Jake Corsetti was beyond uttering diddly. Peg caught herself staring at the body just the same. A bemused expression flittered across her face. A shiver wormed through her. Apprehension spilled into her mind, but she shook it off, turning her attention to the dissecting tray. "What the hell?" Peg jolted, hand jumping to her bosom. For on the tray lay Bethy-Ann, button eyes vacant and damning, the repaired left arm her brother had once torn off missing. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and a crawly feeling raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The heaviness in her gut swelled. She stared at the doll, dumfounded. She couldn't even remember what had happened to Bethy-Ann. She thought the doll had been lost or thrown out. Peg's gloved hand edged out, hesitant to touch the doll. Bethy-Ann suddenly vanished. She jerked her hand back and stared at the tray. NIGGER BITCH. Peg froze. This time she had heard a voice. And she had definitely heard words. She had heard those words before, while attending school in Atlanta. She would never forget them. The white kids used to call her that, the mean ones who pulled her hair and taunted her on the playground. She remembered crying over it until daddy explained that some people just didn't know any better. But it still hurt. Those kids weren't here, now. And if someone were playing a joke, it was in damned poor taste. Was it a joke? A troublesome thought gnawed at her: the voice seemed to have come from Jake Corsetti's body. She stared at the corpse, for the moment forgetting about Bethy-Ann. That was impossible. Corsetti, stored in the damned freezer all day, was beyond calling anyone anything. Unless one of the attendants had rigged a microphone to the corpse again. Some idiot had tried pulling that on her in med. school. It had scared the piss out of her then and it did now. Peg forced herself to the table and examined the body. Then she checked the table, but found nothing. Taking a step back, she noticed her hands were shaking. What the hell was wrong with her? She had walked the streets of Atlanta at night without one-tenth of the jitters she felt now. This reminded her of the feeling she had experienced the night -- Oh, Christ, girl! Panic seized her. The voice! The voice sounded like -- DADDY'S BACK! DADDY'S BACK! HEART ATTACK. HOW'YA DOIN', NIGGER BITCH? Frozen, Peg's heart pounded. Her eyes widened and her breath clutched in her throat. She was sure, now: the voice did belong to her father, though she barely remembered his deep base tone. Somehow, the voice reflected her memory's inadequacy. It sounded distorted, like a garbled long-distance phone call. "All right," she yelled, the sound of her own voice snapping out, giving her a little control. "If this is some sort of joke, it's not funny!" Silence laughed. "Where are you, whoever you are?" Her voice came shaky. "You've got ten friggin' seconds to get your ass outta here before I call security." She waited, tense, the seconds trickling away. Still nothing. Peg tried to tell her stuttering heart it was really a joke, but she knew it wasn't. For the first time, she noticed the room temperature had dropped. The lab was becoming bitterly cold, a freezer. And she knew the temperature outside still hovered around seventy. A snowflake drifted before her eyes. It lazed its way downward and vanished as it hit the floor. The sheer incongruity of it struck her, took her aback. Another snowflake swirled down. Then another ... and another. Until the lab filled with snowflakes, each one dissolving as it landed on the tiled floor. Some struck her face, her hair, her clothes. The flakes had no feeling, no coldness to them. They seemed mere images of snowflakes, devoid of substance. She felt as if she were suddenly trapped inside a Christmas snow-globe. PEG... The voice again. A shudder rattled her. "Oh. My. God." she mouthed. Her eyes shifted back to Jake Corsetti's body. But that was wrong, wasn't it? Because Jake wasn't lying on the table anymore -- her daddy was! A gasp escaped Peg's lips as her gaze riveted to the naked form of her father. Those eyes! Oh, God, those awful glaring eyes with their cold soulless stare, drilling into her. YOU LET ME DIE, PEGGY. WATCHED YOUR DAMN SNOWFLAKES WHILE MY HEART EXPLODED. IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU KILLED YOUR DADDY... His accusation struck her and summoned memories of that dreadful night. Her head reeled. Fear, wriggling and pulsing, became serpents in her veins. "No, daddy..." she mumbled, hardly aware she was speaking. "I didn't. I didn't. I'm sorry, daddy." Her thoughts spun, became jumbled, confused. YOU'RE SORRY? YOU LITTLE SNOT! YOU THINK I GIVE A DAMN IF YOU'RE SORRY? YOU'LL HAVE TO DO BETTER THAN THAT, PEGGYKINS. The room, cold a moment ago, became frigid, now. The terror within her swelled. Snow swirled before her eyes, hypnotizing her. As she stared at the flakes, transfixed, her father began to rise from the table. His liver-spotted hands griped the steel edge and, bracing himself with his thick arms, he swung his legs off the side, arching into a sitting position. COME HERE. His lips didn't move but she clearly heard his voice. Her breath staggered and she felt herself being drawn toward her father, unable to resist. His vacant stare drilled deep into her mind, shattering her courage. A viscous green liquid drooled from the corner of his mouth and trickled over his chin, spattering on his barrel chest. The air in the lab sizzled with a frozen electricity that vibrated through her. She trembled. Her father's arms spread wide, as if to hug her, engulf her. She struggled to pull back, fight his spell. "No, you're dead!" she heard herself shout in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else. "You can't be here. You can't!" BUT I AM, PEG. BACK FROM THE DEAD. AND THERE'S ONLY ONE WAY YOU CAN REPAY ME... Her father's body arched, muscles rippling in his shoulders as he jutted out his chest. His hand jerked out in a stiff mechanical motion. Clumsy thick fingers splayed out, clutching at her left breast. A wave of revulsion went through her as his fingers groped, fondling her painfully. Sick terror sent bile rushing into her throat and strangled the cry she attempted to make. "Daddy, no," she rasped, shaking her head. Then, as on that snowy night years before, the thought that something was wrong, out of place, struck her. This time it came to her mind full-blown: she suddenly remembered clearly, accurately, her father's comforting drawl. This voice was foreign and cruel, as though it had been plucked from the depths of her subconscious where the terror and sorrow of that night had twisted it out of shape. That voice, she realized, had never truly existed; it had been birthed by a terrified shattered child, a child huddling and quivering in a corner. Another realization hit her: her father never would have called her nigger bitch. He knew how much she hated those words. And her father never would have touched her sexually. God, she pleaded in her mind, please let me wake up and find this is all some horrible dream -- Her father laughed. GOD WON'T WAKE YOU UP, PEG. ONLY I CAN DO THAT. LET DADDY TOUCH YOU. LET ME CLEANSE YOUR WICKED SOUL. "No!" Peg screamed. "Whatever you are, you're not my father!" WE WON'T LET THAT STOP US, WILL WE? WE CAN HAVE SO MUCH FUN TOGETHER. COME TO ME! Her father's scannel laugh boomed in her mind, dredging up rushes of emotion within her, hate, anger, fear, beyond anything she'd ever known. She fought the emotions, the fear, repeating, this is not my father in her mind until her head stopped whirling. She tried to scream, felt it rushing up inside her like an eruption, but the sound strangled in her throat. Oh, please let me scream, she thought. Let me scream and bring the goddamn cavalry, let me scream and burst a blood vessel and goddamn die right here and now -- DIE, PEGGY? DO YOU REALLY WANT TO DIE? I CAN SHOW YOU ITS PLEASURES. Her father grasped her arms and pulled her closer. His fingers dug in, sending splinters of pain to her shoulder. As he drew her close, she smelled his raw filthy stench. It repulsed her, shocking her senses like smelling salt. "You're not my father, you bastard!" she said through tight lips. "You're not my father." Her father laughed, a sound she heard only inside her head. Anger pulsing through her veins, she jerked backward with all her weight and strength, tearing loose from his grip. Spinning, her hand darted to the dissecting tray. She grabbed a scalpel, waving it in the air. A burst of hate, of things incredibly dark, struck her, sending her mind reeling. She knew it emanated from the monster masquerading as her father. She hesitated under the barrage, stunned. The snow suddenly stopped. The room shimmered and gleaned with a sterile iciness. She clenched the scalpel more tightly. GO AHEAD, PEG. KILL ME. KILL YOUR DADDY AGAIN. Peg screeched and swung the scalpel with all her strength. Metal glinted, a silver streak lacerating the air in a wide arc. Her father's arms jerked upward, its speed deceptive. His fingers snatched her wrist, squeezed. The scalpel slammed to a halt. Peg uttered a gasp of pain as small bones in her wrist snapped, crushed by his grip. The thing with her father's face grinned stiffly. His grip tightened and slowly forced her hand around. The pain in her wrist grew excruciating, but she couldn't scream. Her gaze locked with his. She peered deep into his eyes, now black pits slashed with sizzling red, and saw utter nothingness reflected there. That terrified her more deeply than anything she remembered seeing in her father's death-stare. Hate, she realized, the nothingness of hate in its purest form: a thing responsible for all prejudice and war, intolerance and atrocity; a thing she knew no human should ever see. A sight that would mercifully spare her its memory. * * * * Freedom. The sound of that word rang through Jake Corsetti's mind as he stood naked in the center of the lab. Harsh light bathed his whitish flesh, shining from splotches of blood that had spattered his skin. He surveyed his work, gloating, the orgasmic rhythm of fresh slaughter singing through his veins. His laugh crumbled the silence. His eyes flashed, flaming red slits burning against coal black. He gazed at his crimson-stained hands, licked them, the taste of blood sweet in his mouth. Bits of flesh were embedded beneath his nails. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, feeling a strange buzzing. It's starting... Glancing over, he gazed at the steel table upon which he'd placed Dr. Margaret Fox. Her open-eyed stare was stricken with terror, eyes empty mirrors. He had shown her the wonders of nothingness, the ecstasies of the damned. Something he'd soon show the entire world. Dr. Margaret Fox had been laid open. An incision began at her Adam's apple and sliced through her clothes, cleaving her dark skin wide, the uneven cut snaking over her abdomen to her lower belly. Stepping close, Jake grasped the folds of her flesh and muscle, prying them apart. His face twisted with an obscene grin. The perfume of hot copper and raw insides filled his nostrils, inflamed his senses. The buzzing within him grew turbulent, sending shock waves of increasing violence through his body. In a frenzy, he ripped the cavity wider; muscles split with great tearing sounds, exposing the clean red meat of her internals. His fingers bored deeper, deeper, burrowing until he'd exhumed her heart. Freedom. Jake rubbed the organ over his face, pressed it to his lips. His tongue flicked out, stiff and purple and probing. Within a moment, he'd devoured it. Again his hands swept into the cavity. He splashed his body with her blood, rubbing his chest, arms, face. The crimson fluid crawled over his skin, boiling like frying fat, then vanished, absorbed. It's happening... He tensed, feeling the seed burst open within him. An ocean of pain washed through his body. He held his hands, rigid with agony, in front of his face, gazing in eagerness. The thing inside him began to push out, swelling, throbbing, wanting. A thin crack, almost imperceptible, split the flesh on the back of his hand. The crack thickened, spreading outward in all directions, tributaries zigzagging over his bunched tendons. The cracks snaked down his fingers, jagged and sharp, exploring their new-found flesh. A web-work formed until the entire hand looked like a cracked arid desert. Jake's gaze went to his other hand as he turned it palm up. Fissures opened and ran along the fold lines, racing down the fingers and up the wrist. The flesh between the cracks became brittle. A thin crackling sound, like eggshells being crushed, filled the lab. Areas of skin began to peel, flake, paper-like edges curling and dropping off. The fissures quickly spread throughout his forearms, reaching upward and outward until they worked their way across his shoulders and chest. As the cracks widened, the eggshell sounds grew louder, echoing like the snapping of arctic ice. Pain exploded throughout Jake's body. His nerve endings sizzled, arching with agony; every fiber of his being burned with torment. But the pain was sweet, oh so sweet! He screamed, a roaring tortured sound dredged from deep within his empty soul. Large flaps of skin were curling everywhere, now. Chunks fell away, dissolving as they fell into the pool of blood that spread like a crimson ocean across the blue tile. Great sheets of flesh dropped from his back and chest. The skin on his face slid downward, exposing gelatinous strands of muscle that gleamed under the light. Clumps of coarse black hair uprooted, fell, revealing a glimmering muscled skull. His ears crumbled and fell off. Every sinew and muscle stood out, rippling, tensing, spasming. A viscous fluid dripped to the floor in glossy strings. Blue veins wriggled, pulsed with blood. Ridges of exposed spine shown on his back. Freedom! The Demon, once Nathan Courtwright, once Jake Corsetti, was free. Free to walk the earth, free to complete his task. Damn his father for the years of confinement, loneliness. Bless his father for making him what no human should be. His father and brothers were gone, dead and buried, but he was strong, and the Evil he'd begged for so long ago flooded his body, his ragged soul. The Demon threw back his head, suddenly gripped in a final burst of intense pain. His lips parted in a silent scream. Gradually, the agony subsided. His evil strength crackled with power, with hate. Nathan Courtwright had completely shed his host body, taking what he needed and making it his own. And through the remnants of Jake Corsetti's soul he saw his new world, the advances: bombs, weapons of war, the subverting prejudice and blinding hate, and he became overjoyed. The world was ready for him -- more than ready. It begged to him, lusted for him. And he would give it what it wanted. "Stanford..." he whispered. A key. A sound caught his attention. It filtered from beyond the lab door, the soft fall of a footstep. Coming closer. His mouth parted in a lipless smile. * * * * Jenny finished her rounds, checking last on Angela, the baby she'd delivered the previous day. It had been touch and go, the child coming two months premature, but the little girl was doing fine. She thanked God Andy had been a healthy baby, sometimes too healthy for his -- and her -- own good. She thought the precocious stage was supposed to end as soon as he toddled past the "terrible twos", but just her luck, Andy had decided to extend the stage indefinitely. She chuckled. She wouldn't trade him for the world; he was the one shining spot in her life, the one thing she was grateful to her ex-husband for. And she'd do her damnedest to bring him up the best she could -- without Bill's help. Rounding the corner, Jenny approached the elevator bank and jabbed the up button. She thrust her hands inside her frock pockets, waiting for the cage to arrive. Her mind wandered as she watched the numbers on the number plate above the doors blink on in descending order. Paul... His name again. That made three times today she'd thought of him. Third's a charm, isn't it? What would she do if the elevator doors opened and Paul stepped out? "Hi, Jen, long time no see. How you been keeping yourself?" she heard him say in his flippant style. Paul always did have a weird habit of joking when he got nervous, but she kind of enjoyed that trait. Jenny supposed she really didn't harbor any animosity towards him. Not anymore. He did what he thought he had to do. She couldn't blame him for that. Besides, she had already decided to hi-ho it off to med. school. Sure, she felt hurt and angry for a while, and mad as hell when he never bothered to write or call. She even longed for him sometimes. Maybe in a way she still did, and that's why his name kept creeping into her thoughts. But she had never been one to stick by the phone. Not her. She had pinned a Modern Woman button to her heart and carried on with her life. The strong one, Paul always said. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. The elevator doors swished open and she stepped inside, poking the button for the fifth floor. Jenny's stomach plunged as the cage started upward, whining. The cage's closed-in emptiness felt strangling and apprehension pierced her belly -- the same dread she'd felt stalking her earlier, after talking with Peg. She tried to ignore it, but it forced her to acknowledge its presence. Something was wrong. She felt it. The dread had become almost palpable, suffocating. But just what was wrong? With whom? Andy? No, he was fine when she called. Cindy? She shook her head. No, Peg was right: Cindy was a grown woman and Jenny had to accept that. So why did she feel this way? Maybe it's Paul... She let out a pfft sound and frowned. Paul's name again. That made four times. "Well, you just threw away your good luck charm." As the cage came to a halt, Jenny felt her stomach catch up with itself and keep going upward into her throat. She knew the motion of the elevator wasn't entirely at fault. The doors opened and the feeling strengthened as she stepped tentatively onto the fifth floor. The apprehension felt more pronounced up here. A chill shivered down her spine. She wished she could shake the feeling, but as her steps clapped hollowly on the tile her unease increased. She suddenly hated the tomblike emptiness of the hospital at night. A sudden urge to turn and run made her steps hurried, a little awkward. Controlling the urge, she reached the nurses' station and braced herself against the counter, surprised to find herself almost gasping for breath. Her heart throbbed and a damp film covered her palms. She felt immensely relieved to see another human presence behind the desk. But not completely. "Hi, Gail." The sound of her own voice came as a comfort, though she struggled to conceal a tremor. Gail, who had just shoved the corner of a pizza slice into her mouth, jolted and glanced up, wide-eyed. "Sheez!" she blurted, mouth full. "You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought Smith had snuck up on me." A bit of the pizza dropped from the corner of her mouth and fell onto the desk. Gail brushed it aside with a swipe of her plump hand. "Don't worry." Jenny's voice came a bit steadier, now. "I avoid him, too." "Wanna piece?" Gail held up a slice covered with pepperoni. "Nooo thanks." Jenny gave an iffy smile. "It'll end up on my hips." "Mine, too, but my husband don't give a crap. More to love, he says." "Peg out yet?" Jenny asked, hopeful. The thought of going to the lab hit her with all the enthusiasm of attending a funeral. "The Corpse Queen? Na-uh. Got some big stiff in there. Gives me the creeps just bein' on the same floor. Can't wait till they get her back downstairs. I mean, she always makes these morbid jokes about it. Weird, if you ask me." "Great." A sinking sensation hit the pit of her stomach. "Now I have to go get her. I hope she's not in the middle of something." She wasn't kidding. She had no desire to walk in on one of Peg's "famous fillets". Gail glanced at her pizza. "Don't tell me about it if she is. I don't wanna know." "To tell you the truth, neither do I." Jenny pushed away from the desk and turned towards the long corridor, hesitating. "Whatsa matter?" asked Gail, staring. Jenny paused. "Do you feel ... well, odd in any way?" "Hemorrhoids are acting up. Other than that, no more than usual. Why?" "No reason, I guess." Jenny shook her head. "I must be coming down with a cold or something." "It's probably because you're too skinny." Gail held up her pizza slice. "Only thing that keeps me sane and healthy." Jenny smiled and started down the hall. Glancing at her forearm, which had started to tingle, she noticed gooseflesh had given her skin a moon-surface look. As she walked, she locked her arms together, hugging her sides. A nurse passed her and smiled, obviously feeling nothing wrong. Jenny shivered again. Had it suddenly gotten colder in here? Or was she just imagining it? No, it did feel chilly; it felt like a freezer. Jenny stopped, casting a backward glance, searching the hallway for God knew what. Nothing. Letting out a breath, she started forward again. The corridor ahead became suddenly ... different, changed in some way she couldn't explain. Heavy with dread, thick with an ill defined something -- as though she had stepped into an alien landscape, an empty, barren world where life could never exist. Her heart started to bang wildly with free-floating anxiety. What the hell's wrong with you? she scolded herself. You weren't even scared of the damned dark as a child, so why pick now to come down with a first-class case of the jitters for no reason? Peering at the end of the hallway, she could see the lab door. The closer she got to it, the stronger her unease became. All right, she assured herself, so Peg doesn't have the most cheerful job in the hospital. You're never been afraid of it before. What's the problem now? Her mind couldn't come up with an answer. Reaching the lab door, Jenny stopped, pausing, the awful dread suddenly ballooning. It's coming from behind that door, she thought. Definitely from behind that door. She felt something else: a sense of incredible hate, anger, and it jolted her. She couldn't remember ever having experienced such a powerful surge of feelings. God, Peg, please be done by now, she pleaded in her mind. Because whether she had ever been bothered by dead bodies before, if she saw one now she had a strong suspicion she'd faint dead away. Jenny took a deep breath and reached tentatively for the handle. She jerked her hand back, uttering a sharp gasp. Her heart somersaulted into her throat; its thick pounding threatened to choke her. She felt her head get light. For an instant, the handle was alive, a striped green serpent, its body arched, set to strike, tongue flicking, fangs dripping. Jenny froze with terror, staring in disbelief. Then it was gone. The handle was completely normal, brass-colored and worn. An old fear sprang into her mind: growing up, she'd been deathly afraid of snakes. It started when she and her cousin crawled under the front porch and she'd put her hand into a nest of garters. One managed to slither up her pant leg and she'd screamed her lungs out until her uncle came running and pulled it out, killing it. She'd forgotten all about that incident until now. She shuddered. What's the matter with me? she asked herself. Was her mind playing some sort of weird trick on her because she was nervous? Maybe. But she wasn't convinced. Maybe Peg was right: she had been working too hard. After all, the handle was perfectly normal, now, wasn't it? Sucking in a breath, Jenny forced herself to reach for the handle again. She noticed her fingers shaking. With a sharp dart of her hand, she grasped the handle, clenching it so tight her knuckles bleached. The handle remained solid, ice-cold. Her hand seemed frozen to it. "It's okay, it's okay," she whispered. She braced herself and pushed the door open. But she wasn't prepared for what she found. A scream jammed in her throat. Only a small gasp escaped her lips. Her head rushed, as if everything had jumped sideways then snapped back again. Her mind whirled and she felt trapped on a merry-go-round, spinning and spinning, out of control. Her eyes widened in shocked horror and a rubbery feeling washed through her limbs. Her legs became shaky, unsteady, on the verge of collapse. Her gaze riveted to the scene in the lab; it splattered upon her mind like a painting splashed with a thousand shades of red. A ruby ocean shimmered under the lights. Thickening red rivulets ran over the edge of the steel examination table, feeding the gory sea. She saw Peg, what was left of Peg, laid on that table, her body gutted, opened and appalling. A sour copper odor assailed her nostrils -- the stench of an abattoir. The merry-go-round in her mind sped up, whirling faster. Oh, God, she wanted to get off, wanted to run and hide and scream. But her frozen muscles refused to respond, holding her fast, forcing her to look. NO! It wasn't real. It couldn't be. But one thing was very real: Peg was dead! Horribly dead. Her vision clouded with tears and sobs shook her body. Then her attention jerked away from the sight on the table as something flashed from behind the door. She caught sight of a reddish blur that streaked in the opposite direction, heading towards the windows. Before her benumbed mind could react and her eyes focus, the blur, airborne with a tremendous leap, propelled itself at the windows. Metal blinds twisted and shrieked, torn loose from their mounting. Glass fragmented with a horrendous crash. Shards rained in every direction, glittering diamond spikes that lacerated the air. With tremendous momentum, the thing went completely through, and was swallowed by the night. The crash jangled her nerves. She reeled as if struck a blow and her mind tumbled down, down, down. A thought flickered: whoever killed Peg had just leaped five floors to his death. The thought struck her as absurd, laughably insane and irrational. Suddenly the scream that had jammed in her throat exploded outward and crescendoed throughout the hallway in an ululating wave. A miniature black cyclone roared up from the depths of her mind, devouring the merry-go-round. Her legs buckled. Her body crumpled and her last glimpse was that of the floor rushing up to meet her. -------- *(8)* Jenny sat stiffly in a big leather chair in Chief-of-staff Smith's office. The office was plush, paneled in rich walnut, which made the room dark and somber. Smith, a bearded man in his mid-forties, propped both chins atop his chubby interlaced fingers, elbows jammed to the desk. Reports and papers littered the blotter. Smith unlocked his fingers long enough to rub his little pig eyes and lumpy gingerbread face. He yawned, a yawn that made Jenny think of a great shark opening its mouth. "It's 12:30, Sheriff." Smith's voice sounded weary. "Can't we finish this tomorrow?" Jenny shifted in her chair, wringing her hands to keep them from shaking. Her mind spun with images she had no wish to remember. Her temples ached and the back of her head throbbed, compliments of the floor she had collided with when she fainted. She struggled to hold back the tears. The great rush of sorrow, the horror of her friend's death, felt crushing, unreal. The sight of Peg's mutilated body stained her mind and she fought to keep a wave of nausea down. Peg was dead. Jenny's mind sought to reject what she knew was true. They should have been at the Coral right now, chatting, laughing, listening to music as it blared from the jukebox -- living. But they weren't. They would never be. There'd be no more talks in the cafeteria, no more friendly lectures, no more anything. Not now, not ever. Peg was dead. Period. The words rang in her mind and sorrow laughed in her heart like a vicious clown. Her head threatened to spin again. "We'll be here as long as it takes." Sheriff Walt Baker's sharp tone pierced her muddled thoughts. She looked up to see his gaze locked on Smith like a rifle sight leveled on a target. "And how long will that be?" Smith sounded put out and made a face. "There's been a murder, for chrissakes!" A hint of a downeast accent laced the sheriff's voice. "I presume you have at least a passing interest in locating the killer, since it involves your hospital and members of your staff?" Baker nodded towards Jenny. "Unless there's a reason you wouldn't want to cooperate?" Baker drilled Smith with hard eyes. She could see the sheriff's nerves were tight and she knew he had formed an immediate dislike for the Chief-of-staff. A cold unsympathetic look glazed Smith's eyes. She had picked up on it almost instantly, even in her jangled state. It deepened her own disgust for the man. She knew Baker had seen the same thing, and had formed the same opinion -- with one difference: the sheriff didn't work for Smith and therefore made no effort to conceal his antipathy. "Well?" Baker shifted feet and folded his arms. Smith peered back, eyes looking too small for his face. His rubicund features flushed. "No reason, Sheriff. The hospital will cooperate in any way necessary. I was merely thinking of Dr. Gazio when I stated how late it was. We've been here a long time and you know all there is to know from her ... and me. Now why don't you do your job and find out who murdered Miss Fox?" Baker's face reddened. He stroked his mustache, eyes narrowing. "Why, so you don't have to deal with the adverse publicity?" "Perhaps Miss Gazio should be allowed to leave," interrupted Deputy Dave Hudson, who was leaning against a bookcase that took up an entire wall. Hudson had remained silent until this point. "She's been through a lot." "Hudson..." The sheriff's tone came even but irritated. "I realize she's been through a lot. She's also our only witness, in case that fact escaped you. Maybe you'd prefer to just send her on her way and say the hell with the investigation?" The expression dropped from Hudson's face, but, for an instant, intense anger flared in his eyes. He seemed to struggle with concealing it. "No, I suppose not." His tone became meek and his gaze shifted from Jenny to Smith to the floor, as if he'd suddenly developed a fascination with his feet. Jenny remained silent, suspecting why Hudson had defended her. Smith propped his chin back atop his pinguid hands. "Good," said Baker. "I'm glad we're all in agreement, then. It makes my job a hell of a lot easier." Baker's gaze settled on Jenny and she tensed reflexively. The sheriff was only doing his job, she told herself, but she'd been over and over her story. Didn't he believe her? Exhaustion gripping her, as well as grief, she felt like just collapsing somewhere and crying. What more could she say? Peg was dead. That's all that mattered. Why couldn't the sheriff see that? "Dr. Gazio?" Baker massaged the back of his neck, face looking drained. "You say you had just finished your rounds when you discovered the body?" Jenny shifted, first glancing at Smith, then Hudson, who still seemed fascinated with his feet. Smith didn't give a damn, she concluded. He just wanted to leave. The sheriff woke him up and dragged him down here and he just didn't give a damn about what happened to Peg. He wants to go home and make sure none of this leaks out so he can keep his cushy fat ass in his cushy fat job. But he can't stop something like this from getting out and he knows it. Hudson was a different story. He had dated Cindy a few times, but had made numerous passes at Jenny. Harmless enough, she supposed, but he had a cunning about him she didn't like, like a snake sneaking up on a mouse. While Baker was around, Hudson probably wouldn't say much and she was just as glad. Then there was Baker. His face had grown strained and serious. Despite his abrasiveness, however, a genuine caring showed in his eyes. She knew the murder would keep him awake nights, drive him to dig deeper and deeper until he found what he wanted. But he was looking in the wrong place, and Jenny was convinced he knew it. He held her, questioning her over and over, on the slim chance she would remember some minute detail he'd find useful. She noticed the odd way he looked at Hudson, too. Contempt? Was that it? Or suspicion, maybe? Why, she didn't know. But something burned behind that look. "Dr. Gazio?" The sheriff stared at her. In a softer tone: "Are you all right?" "Yeah, I'm great," Jenny snapped, poised on the edge of her chair. "I've already gone over this a hundred times and nothing's changed in the last hour. Peg's dead. Don't you understand that? Can't you get it through your head?" Jenny felt tears straining at her eyes. Be strong, she told herself, please be strong. "Look, I'm sorry to put you through this." Baker's tone became comforting. "I do understand that you've lost a friend and I'm not trying to be insensitive. I don't want to make this any harder on you than I have to, but I need your help. I want the sonofabitch who did this and if there's even a slim chance you'll remember something else, anything at all, then I need to know." Jenny nodded, settling back in her chair. "I understand." Resignation weighted her voice. "I'm just upset." "Please go over it again. I promise this will be the last time. You finished your rounds and...?" "Peg, Dr. Fox, and I were going to meet on fifth after my shift, then go to the Coral for a while. I had just come up to get her ... she hadn't come out yet." "You were on the second floor, coming up to the fifth?" Jenny nodded. "Yes." "Nothing unusual had occurred until that point?" "No," she answered, slightly hesitant. "And the last time you saw Dr. Fox alive was in the cafeteria?" "That's right." Jenny debated telling him about the strange dread she'd felt, but didn't think it would do any good. What good were feelings when they came too late to do anything? "Did you see anybody on the fifth floor?" Baker rubbed his neck, face draining a shade whiter. "Just Gail Ives, the desk nurse. And one of the night nurses." "That's it?" "Yes." "Mrs. Ives testified that she didn't see anything until she heard a scream. The nurse, a Miss Potter, was just coming back down the hall when she heard you scream and saw you faint. Do you remember what happened before the nurse found you?" "I ... I..." "Please, Dr. Gazio. Think. It's very important that you give me every detail, no matter how trivial." Jenny nodded, straining to penetrate the haze clouding her mind. "I, I opened the lab door ... and ... and..." Jenny felt tears rush from her eyes and stream down her face. "She ... Peg was lying there ... the blood, everywhere..." "What else, Dr. Gazio?" Baker's gaze intensified. "Please." "Sheriff, I don't think -- " started Hudson, tensing. "Shut up, Hudson!" Baker snapped. Hudson jolted and anger sparked in his eyes, but he said nothing. Smith stared, silent, as if bored, eyelids half closed. "Something ... something moved," said Jenny. "I caught only a glimpse of him, but he looked ... looked all red, like he was wearing a costume or something." "Costume?" asked Baker. "What kind? Halloween?" "Yes ... I mean, I think so. I didn't really get a good look. I was so shocked by ... by..." "It's all right, Dr. Gazio," said Baker, voice comforting again. "After that?" "He jumped through the window." "You keep saying 'he'. Are you sure it was a man?" "No, I'm not positive. I didn't see a face. I just had the impression that whoever wore the costume was big, bigger than a woman would be." Baker nodded. "Okay, say he went through the window. That's a five-story drop, which in this case happens to be onto asphalt, the rear parking lot used by the staff, I believe." "Then...?" A twinge of hope laced Jenny's voice. "We found nothing, except for glass fragments." Baker rubbed his neck again, then twisted his head from side to side, as if trying to loosen knotted neck muscles. "I don't understand. How could ... how could anybody survive a fall like that?" "Your guess is as good as mine at this point." Baker shrugged, shifting feet. "Assuming the murderer did jump, he couldn't have taken a fall like that without some damage, a broken leg or worse." "I'm not lying, Sheriff!" Jenny said in a defensive tone. "I know what little I saw, and I saw him go through that window." Baker sighed. "I'm sure you think you saw him go through." "You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think I'm hysterical!" "Dr. Gazio, please," said Smith, coming to life, eyes widening. Ignoring the staff head, she vaulted to the edge of the chair. "I want to know what you think, Sheriff. Am I crazy? Or am I lying?" "Quite frankly, I think you are telling me the truth as you believe it. You were distraught and frightened." "So I'm crazy; that's the verdict?" "Hardly. From my preliminary investigation, I'm inclined to agree with you. There was no sign of a chair or any other large heavy object used to smash the window, and we found traces of blood and some unidentified fluid and tissue on the sill and on some glass shards. And whoever it was left footprints in the blood on the floor, which led to the window. From all indications, the prints belonged to a man." "So you knew it was a man?" Jenny glared. "I suspected, but I wanted you to verify it for me. Some women have large feet." "So where does that leave us?" asked Jenny. "What does all this mean?" "At this point it leaves us with damn little. Whoever killed Dr. Fox was very clever -- and he may have had help. Perhaps a rope or scaffold arrangement outside the window, though it seems unlikely -- something to pull him up to the roof. We're checking out every window and floor above the lab window, as well as the roof, to determine if he didn't somehow get back into the hospital and waltz right out through the front door. We're also combing the parking lot and looking into the possibility of a second individual." "And where does that leave me?" Jenny's gaze locked with the sheriff's. She had to wrap her arms around herself to keep from trembling. "Frankly, it leaves you as our only witness, though I'm not sure as to what -- unless you remember something significant after you get some rest." "There's nothing else, Sheriff. I wish to God there was. Anything that could help me find the ... the monster who killed Peg." "Me, too, Dr. Gazio. Because a person capable of doing something like that is fully capable of repeating it. I want him before he has that chance. Three deaths under suspicious circumstances in one day are quite enough." Baker paused, face thoughtful. "There's something else I need to ask you. I want you to think hard before answering." "Go ahead." Jenny settled back into her chair. "Dr. Fox was working on the Corsetti case; she'd promised to get the results to me tonight." "She mentioned it while we were in the cafeteria. She planned to finish it up before we went to the Coral." The sheriff stepped forward. Hudson glanced up. Smith yawned. "The man you saw, the one in the costume you say went through the window." Baker paused. "Was he ... carrying anything?" The question struck Jenny as odd but she searched her mind, trying to skim away the fog and lock onto a clear picture of the killer, but the scene remained a blur. She could see a flash of red, but maybe it was just all the blood distorting things. She wasn't sure of anything anymore. But she couldn't recall the killer carrying anything; if he were, he couldn't have moved that fast. "No, nothing," she answered at last. "You're sure?" "Yes, I'm sure. Nothing; he had nothing." "When you first opened the door and looked into the lab, did you see any other body, except for that of Dr. Fox?" "No, why?" "Because it seems as if our killer isn't the only one missing. Jake Corsetti's body is nowhere in this hospital." "Gone?" Jenny gasped. "How could it be?" "When I find the answer to that, Dr. Gazio, I'll probably find our killer. But for now, Jake Corsetti can be listed as deceased -- and missing." "Are we finished, now?" interrupted Smith, chins jiggling as he looked at Baker. "Yeah," said the sheriff after a moment. "I suppose we are. For now." "Good, I, for one, am exhausted -- oh, will this be withheld from the papers?" Smith peered with hopeful eyes. "Not goddamn likely." A hint of satisfaction hung in Baker's tone. "You know how these things get out. Hope that doesn't spoil your night." Smith's face reddened, but he remained silent. The sheriff grabbed his hat and turned to Jenny. "Need a ride home? I can have your fanclub drive you." He nudged his head towards Hudson, who seemed to shrink where he stood. "No, I have my car and it's not that far." "Okay, I know where to reach you. Please don't go on any trips without letting me know. If the killer caught a better glimpse of you than you did of him ... well, you never know." "I won't." "Come on, Hudson." Baker grabbed the door handle and went out into the outer office. Hudson fumbled with his hat then turned towards Jenny. "Sorry he was so hard on you," he said. "He's doing his job. I want this bastard caught as bad as he does. Peg was my friend." Jenny turned away, having the feeling she knew what was coming and not in any mood for it. "I know this isn't a good time and all, but -- " "You're right, Deputy Hudson, it isn't. It never will be." Jenny rose from the chair and folded her arms. "Oh." A sheepish look crossed Hudson's face. Something that flickered in his eyes belied that look, made Jenny uneasy. A dark light, a light pregnant with violence. Maybe he wasn't as harmless as she thought. Hudson turned and went through the door, following the sheriff out. Jenny glanced at Smith, who was now standing, pinguid hands gripping the edge of the desk. Smith looked relieved to have the sheriff gone, but nervous at the same time. "Can I go now?" she asked. "Yes, you can go. Oh, it might be a good idea if you took a few days to get yourself together." "Okay." She was in no mood to object. "I'll probably need it." She wondered why Smith had suddenly become so good-hearted. She suspected negative publicity had something to do with it. Jenny turned and gripped the door handle. "Oh, Dr. Gazio?" Smith said behind her. "Yes?" she said without turning. "One small favor?" "What?" "Try not to talk to any reporters about, er, what happened. The hospital will release its own statement. It might not be good for your job if you were to appear to contradict anything." Jenny slammed the door behind her. * * * * "What's wrong with you?" asked Sheriff Baker, as he swung out of the hospital parking lot. The headlights of the squad car splashed over the road, beams scattering in the fog that blanketed the ground. "Nothing." Hudson stared straight ahead into the night, face pinched, lips a tight line. "Nothing, huh?" Baker doubted it. He fumbled though his shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of Bufferin, tearing it open with his teeth. He popped the tablets into his mouth and dry-swallowed them. Christ, he'd gotten sick of these migraines. Tension made the muscles in the back of his neck feel as tight as an over-tuned bass string, except the bass string had the luxury of snapping when the tension became overwhelming. His temples throbbed and his skull pounded so hard a thin coating of sweat broke out and glistened on his forehead. A twinge of nausea rose in his belly. Along with the migraines, he suspected he had the beginnings of a good ulcer. This job was really getting to him; he was living on Bufferin. "You haven't said a word since we left Smith's office," continued Baker. Hudson remained silent. "What happened -- Gazio turn you down again?" Hudson kept staring straight ahead, but Baker saw the deputy's cheek twitch. He could almost feel Hudson's anger. Inwardly, Baker laughed. The deputy was sure an odd one. Something seethed inside him, like a long dormant volcano constantly building pressure, getting ready to blow. Over the past few months, Baker had become convinced Hudson had acquired a few nasty habits that were eroding his self-control. The sheriff found himself eager to nudge that process along, because he suspected Hudson's habits went far beyond his personal health. Nothing provable -- yet. But sooner or later Hudson would slip, and Baker wanted to make sure he didn't land on anything soft when he did. But for now, to all appearances, Hudson was doing his job. "If you want some advice, you'd be better off to just forget -- " "I don't need your advice, so just drop it." The deputy turned and drilled Baker with his gaze. Baker saw barely controlled fury raging in the man's eyes. Hudson had acted a hell of a lot different around Gazio. A good act. A real good act. But if Hudson's anger ever broke loose... "Hey, just trying to make conversation." Baker shrugged and massaged the back of his neck again. "What do you think happened to the killer?" Hudson suddenly asked, changing the subject. Purposely, the sheriff bet. "I doubt he jumped five stories, if that's what you're asking." "You think Jen -- Dr. Gazio's lying?" "Didn't say that." Baker kept his eyes on the road. "I have a hunch he had help, a second person, someone connected with the hospital, maybe. Somebody made off with the corpse. Would have been damn hard to jump out a window carrying it. When the lab boys get done, I hope I'll have proof of that. Make sure you get on them first thing tomorrow, too. You know how slow they can be. I also want to question Mrs. Ives again. She should have noticed something, no matter how trivial. I want to know why she didn't." "I checked with the nurse who passed Dr. Gazio in the hall; she told me Ives has a habit of sneaking off to the cafeteria to microwave food. Takes a lot of unscheduled breaks, I gather. Ives claims she left briefly to reheat a pizza." "Great timing." Baker sounded disgusted. "That probably explains it, but I'll question her again anyway, just in case she left something out." "What about Corsetti?" "Well, he damn sure didn't get up and walk out." Baker winced, the loudness of his own voice making his head thrum like a gong. He lowered his voice. "The killer -- or killers -- for whatever sick reason, must have taken him. Why or where, I can't begin to imagine, but sooner or later that stiff is going to start decaying. Ever smell a rotting corpse, Hudson?" Baker shot a glance at the deputy. "Can't say I've had the pleasure." His voice carried a smugness that made Baker think he was lying. "Well, I have. In Viet Nam. You can't hide a smell like that for long. Somebody may notice something." Hudson grew silent again, remaining so the rest of the way to the station. Baker inhaled deeper breaths, letting them trickle out while concentrating of relaxing his knotted neck muscles. A nagging suspicion lingered at the back of his mind, one born of years' experience. It told him nobody would notice anything, that Jake Corsetti would never be found. It also told him something damn peculiar had waltzed into Dark Harbor. Before it was over he had a feeling things would get a whole lot stranger. * * * * Half an hour later, Deputy Hudson sat at small folding table in his apartment. The table, which he used for dining, was outlined by light from a Burger King sign across the street. The reddish glow slashed through the dusty blinds and sharpened his features in shadowed relief. As he leaned forward, the light reflected in his eyes and flashed back with an angry glint he now made no effort to conceal. The glint vanished as he leaned back in his chair. Hudson's breathing grew shallow, rapid, as he fingered a creased photograph that lay on the table. "Jenny," he whispered, gaze riveting to the picture. The photo showed a wedding couple; the groom had been slashed out with a red X. He'd stolen the photo from Jenny's house one night when he picked up Cindy for a date. His fingers traced the outlines of the bride -- Jenny. Dave Hudson never wanted Cindy, not at all. She was just a girl, unrefined and headstrong, a useful tool for staying close to Jenny, but that was it. He would stare at Jenny when Cindy wasn't looking, undress her with his eyes, slip his mental fingers inside her moist crotch. He wondered what it would be like to be inside her. But Jenny had shrugged off his advances and Cindy stopped seeing him. Hudson had never understood why Jenny didn't want him. He laughed humorlessly, thinking, knowing there soon would come a day when she had no choice. He'd force her to want him. A wave of intense anger raged inside him with the thoughts. His body trembled with it. "Control," he told himself, jaw muscles balling. Control. But in some dim recess of his sanity he knew control was becoming elusive. He needed the Strength. Deputy Hudson pushed the picture aside and, twisting, reached for the small packet that lay on the counter behind him. With quaking fingers he tore the packet open. He tapped the powdery contents into lines on the table, drawing out a name in broken letters: JENNY Taking a small straw from his shirt pocket, he snorted a bit of the powder. He felt a rush as Strength filled him. For a moment he was walking through a room fashioned of crystal, an electric breeze tinkling like glass chimes, inflating his soul. Then he was back. His head swelled with Control. His anger grew seething, comforting, exhilarating, slow fire. The strength gave him power over his rage, pulled him from the edge. He had come too close this time. Hudson remembered the last time his control deserted him, a time before he'd found the Strength. Barely sixteen, he'd joined the soccer team at school, just to get close to Melinda Jacobs, one of the cheerleaders. He saw her face in his mind, blonde hair falling over her shoulders in long tresses, almost touching the tips of her tender young breasts. He smelled her intoxicating perfume, her sweet sweat. He'd dreamed about her for months. He'd masturbated over her. Her voice pierced the dark clouds of his thoughts: I don't want to go out with you, you goddamn turd. You don't have a car, you don't even have any money. Why would I want to date you? You're a loser! The words cut him, but he could deal with that. A month later, however, when she'd shunned him for Steve Barton, he felt anger overwhelm him, take control for the first time. He remembered having fits and tantrums before, the worst being when he killed his sister's goldfish for something stupid she'd done to him. He'd always had a sense of control over his anger, a sense that he alone directed it. But now he felt something terrible crawl up from inside, a thing of repulsive beauty that concomitantly terrified and invigorated him. Made him alive; made him a prisoner. The darkness now directed him. You're a loser! When Melinda spurned him for Steve, he felt the snap, the clean sharp sensation of a break between what his life had been and what it would be. Enraged voices filled his head, encouraging him, guiding him. The next day, a crisp fall day with the scent of dead leaves cloying his nostrils, he waited for her beneath the bleachers on the soccer field. Although the autumn chill sliced through his thin blazer, his palms were damp with sweat and expectation. He tingled inside, blood rushing. Four-thirty. Melinda always cut through the field on her way home after cheerleading practice. He'd stalked her long enough over the past few months to learn her routine. Dave had cut school today, too anxious with his thoughts, his plans, to concentrate; too fragile with his anger to take the chance on venting it in the wrong place. His muscles tensed, the thrill of expectation sizzling through them like an electric arc. The moment he'd been waiting for, imagining, masturbating to, had arrived. He spotted Melinda walking toward him, school books tucked beneath her arm, the swell of her breasts and erect nipples bouncing beneath her cheerleader's sweater. Dave stepped out from beneath the bleachers and grinned, delighted by the shock that jumped onto her face. "What the hell do you want?" A tremble laced her voice. She was scared; it showed in her eyes. Scared like a captive bird. He suddenly wanted to crush her head in, hear its fragile shell crack, taste her oozing brains. Sweat trickled down his back as an indifferent late-afternoon sun watched from a frosty blue sky. "You shouldn't talk to me like that." His voice came steadier than he expected. "You shouldn't treat me the way you do." "What are you talking about?" Anger replaced some of the fear in her voice. "Get out of my way, you asshole! Steve's meeting me any minute so you better leave me alone before he beats the crap out of you." At this, Dave Hudson laughed. Inside he felt anger taking over, guiding him. He hadn't expected anyone else to show up, and he considered waiting, but the arrogant purse of her lips, the contempt in her eyes infuriated him. He had all he could do to hold back. As Dave Hudson stared at her, cold and seething fury singing through his veins, he saw fear leap back onto her face. He liked it there. "I mean it." She tried to sound strong, but he knew she was deeply frightened. "I'll scream if you don't get outta here!" The thing that had snapped inside him took control then. It shouted through his mind: You're screwing this up, Hudson. Kill the bitch! A burst of rage powered his body; it seemed to act on its own. He jumped forward, fist lashing out, striking her face with a brittle crack! Her head rocked and he knew the impact had shattered her thin jaw. Her books flew from under her arm and scattered over the ground. Papers flew out, snatched by a greedy wind. The sun closed its eyes. Before she could recover, scream, cry, he clamped his hand over his mouth and dragged her across the field into the woods that bordered the south edge. He lugged Melinda deep into the forest, feeling more alive than he ever had. His heart pounded and his lungs ached with sweet pain. Melinda struggled weakly, semi-conscious from the blow, and this enraptured him. Stopping, Dave threw her on the ground near the base of a huge oak and stared at her until she came around. "You're going to pay for this, you asshole!" she yelled, crying, spitting blood. "When Steve gets you -- " She stopped. Her gaze locked with his. "Wrong thing to say." A grin spread over Dave's lips. "Wrong thing." He came at her. Melinda, terrified, tried to pull away, pressing her back against the tree. She tried to kick him in the groin, missed. The blow glanced from his thigh and he laughed. Melinda began to shriek. The sound raked his ears, infuriating him. He grabbed the bottom of her sweater and jerked it up until he had it tangled around her neck. She made choking sounds as he pulled one of the sleeves loose and wrapped it around her neck. Drew it tight, tighter. Her eyes bulged, reminding him of his sister's fish. He thought they'd pop out. That'd be neat. "Where's Steve, huh?" he shouted. "Where is he? He can't help you, now, can he?" Dave didn't stop choking until Melinda was quite dead. * * * * Deputy Dave Hudson jerked to the present. A film of sweat glistened on his face. His head felt amazingly clear, thoughts razor-honed. Hudson remembered that day in vivid detail, as he always did when the Strength held his anger at bay. He remembered dragging Melinda's body to the river and dumping her in, then carefully going back over the area and obliterating any evidence he could find. When her body surfaced a few days later, a great uproar swept through the town. He'd been jittery for weeks, but eventually it all blew over and nobody even came close to guessing. The common conclusion was a transient committed the murder, then moved on. Dave made it through high school, secretly laughing at Steve, knowing that for once he'd beaten the son of a bitch. Hell, his grades even took a jump after the murder. Something about violence agreed with him. But sometimes it terrified him as well. In college, some friends introduced him to the Strength. It had given him back his sense of direction, his Control. Lately, however, his rage seemed to be growing stronger, harder to guide, even with the Strength. Especially since Jenny turned him down. Jenny reminded him a lot of Melinda. Dave Hudson's attention shifted to the table. He snorted the rest of the Strength. In a moment he felt relaxed. He twisted in his seat and pulled the phone from the counter. Plunking it on the table, he lifted the receiver and dialed the number. It rang three times before being picked up. "Corsetti, this is Hudson." "Yeah?" came a voice with a pronounced slur. "Whatta you want?" "I need more." He heard silence, knew Corsetti was hesitating. "Look, I been thinkin', maybe we oughta be careful for a while. With what happened to Jake, the sheriff might be keeping an eye on me. We might get found out." Hudson laughed. "Don't be an idiot. I know exactly what the sheriff's up to. You don't have to worry about that part of it. He knows nothing. If he did, I'd take care of him. If you don't want unnecessary problems, I suggest you get me what I want. Your little operation can end real quick." "You wouldn't shut me down; you're in it too deep." "Something you'd never be able to prove." At the other end, Corsetti hesitated, apparently thinking it over. "Fine, have it your way, but it'll cost you extra on the count of I gotta be more careful." "You'll get it -- same price. Do you understand?" Hudson's tone was glacial. The line buzzed while Corsetti kept silent. Hudson knew Corsetti had too much to lose to argue. He also knew Corsetti's fear of him. "All right -- but you gotta get this mess about Jake cleared up so there won't be no problems." "No problems, Corsetti. Hold up your end and there'll be no problems at all." -------- *PART 2: THE DAYS OF DEMONS AND PILGRIMS* *(9)* Thursday * * * * Paul was glad the heatwave had broken. It was still warm -- the temperature hung in the low seventies -- but much more pleasant than the previous few days. He finished nailing up the last shutter and descended the ladder. He'd tackle the roof later this afternoon. He needed to get to Home Depot and pick up some singles, anyway, so he supposed he'd better get in and hit up Mrs. Gaumont for the cash. Tossing his hammer into an old toolbox, which he'd found in the basement, he hoisted the box and started for the door. He felt better this morning. Not great, but better. Everything seemed somewhat brighter, less constricting, now that he had rested. He'd even managed to roll out of bed at eight and get a good start on the repairs he'd promised the old woman. Better watch yourself. The dreams might come back. You could get restless again. Yes, he knew his pattern only too well. A year here, a year there ... yet, somehow, the dread didn't feel as threatening today. With the sun beating warmly on his face and the fresh perfume of the new day filling his nostrils, he felt almost ... reborn. Maybe returning to Dark Harbor had done him some good after all. Although he couldn't deny his restless feelings had eased, he wondered if his newfound sense of serenity were a good sign. Had his past formed some sort of truce with his present? Or was it were merely lulling him again, waiting for his defenses to drop? He still needed to find out certain things; about his mother and father, the dreams that called him here, Jenny. About himself. Paul opened the screen door and stepped into the dingy hallway. As the door skreaked shut behind him, he made a mental note to oil the damn hinges as soon as he got back from the supply store. He dropped the toolbox by the desk and headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Gaumont, Paul knew, had risen with the roosters -- had anybody on Milliken Street had roosters to rise with. Half asleep, he'd heard the old woman puttering about in the kitchen at the crack of dawn. During the night he'd heard muffled voices also, which he finally pinpointed as coming from the TV set in her living room, just off the kitchen. He wondered if the old woman slept at all. When Paul entered the kitchen, Mrs. Gaumont had two mugs set on the counter and a pot of steaming water whistling on the stove. "You were up bright and early this morning." Paul smiled and brushed his sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead. "Oh, always am. Gives you a head start on the day, Franklyn used to say." "Not to mention the competition." Paul winked. "Suspect that was the main reason myself. But since Franklyn passed away, I haven't slept more than a four-hour night, sometimes even a bit less. You were up pretty early yourself, there you. Didn't expect to see you much before noon, considering how tired you was when you got in yesterday." "Surprised myself. Guess I wasn't as bad off as I thought." Paul pulled out a chair and sat. Mrs. Gaumont had already poured hot water into the two mugs, so he guessed she wouldn't take no for an answer. The old woman rummaged through the cupboard and pulled out a can of Cafe Vienna. She set it on the counter and pried up the lid. "Never miss a day." She pointed to the can. "Used to be sort of a ritual 'tween Franklyn and me, you know. Perks a body right up." She carefully carried the mugs to the table and set them down, not spilling a drop. Paul took a sip, tasting the bright cinnamon flavor. Mrs. Gaumont lowered herself into the chair beside him and absently stirred her coffee. She seemed to have some trouble with the motion. Looking up at Paul, she said, "Arthritis acts up a bit every now and then, 'specially after a decent fog. Franklyn always made sure I had some of that special heating cream. Course, I run out 'bout a week back. Don't get down to town too often no more. Usually the sheriff stops up and brings it to me, but I reckon he'll be too busy now -- the murders and all, you know." "I have to go to town to pick up shingles anyway. I'll get you some at the drugstore." "Well, that would be downright considerate of you, Paul." The old woman beamed. "What do you mean, murders? I thought there was only one." "Oh, didn't you hear? All the news carried it this morning. Was another killing, over to Dark Harbor Memorial this time, where Dr. Jenny works. And that's not all. Someone stoled Jake Corsetti's body." Surprise crossed Paul's face and a slight twinge of apprehension hit him. Something about the old woman's words sent a shiver down his spine. "Stole his body? Who would steal a corpse?" "Probably one of them drugged-up types or Moonies or something. Lot of bad elements moving in lately, you know." Paul nodded. "Was Jenny involved in any way?" Why had he asked that? It had just slipped out, riding a wave of the vague dread stirring inside. He got the feeling Jenny might be in some sort of trouble, but the sensation passed almost as quickly as it came. He remembered it had been the same way when they were dating: each could sense the other's moods of problems in an almost psychic way. "Don't think so..." Mrs. Gaumont shook her head. "Gonna give her a ring later on and make sure she's all right, though. News wasn't real specific, because it happened late last night. Not that I'm nosy, you understand. Never did like to get involved in other folk's business. Not the decent thing to do." Paul stifled a chuckle. But don't worry, Mrs. G., Paul thought suddenly. Jenny's all right. Don't ask me how I know, but I do. "Speakin' of which," the old woman added. "Now you can tell me if it's none of my business and I'll understand..." I'll just bet, thought Paul. He knew it wouldn't take her long to try pumping him again. He also knew that if he told her it was none of her business she'd take it as an insult. "I got to wondering 'bout your daddy and all. You say you and he didn't get on well? I always thought Jack was a decent sort." Paul cringed inwardly. Yeah, real decent, especially when you stuck a drink in front of him. "Let's just say he had some pretty big flaws that he tried to drink away." "Alcoholic?" Surprise crossed her face. "Not in the classical sense, I guess. Sometimes he'd just stop and not have another drink for months. Like he'd be thinking something over for a long time and the longer he did, the more he couldn't deal with it, so he'd start again. Then the abuse got worse." A shocked look welded onto Mrs. Gaumont's features. Her hand went to her bosom. "My word! Abuse, you say? He hit you?" Paul didn't answer at first, finding his mind strangely blank as he tried to pin down a specific instance. "It's hard to remember sometimes. Odd, isn't it? I think I've blocked out a lot of it. I remember him hitting my mother more than a few times, hitting her hard, too. That hurt more than any of the beatings he gave me. With me, it was more emotional abuse. That did the most damage. Funny, I remember getting a good lashing for losing the key to the cellar when I was about ten, maybe a few lickings after that. But the physical pain healed. Most of the time I was just plain scared that something was going to happen." Paul paused and took a sip of his coffee. "The way he looked at me scared me sometimes, because that look said that somehow I didn't belong there and never would. He just didn't care." Paul glanced at Mrs. Gaumont, who stared at him, a motherly look on her face and genuine sympathy in her eyes. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this; it really was none of her business. But for some reason, despite her faults, or possibly because of them, he'd begun to feel closer to her. Was it because she wasn't dangerous? If worse came to worse, he could just leave again. A sympathetic ear without strings. Or was it because he felt something maternal from her, a sense he could talk to her the way he'd never gotten the chance to do with his mother? Although he thought her a busybody, he sensed she wasn't in a malicious way, that she didn't want to hurt anybody. She was just lonely. Maybe that in itself made him feel closer to her. "Didn't think Jack was the violent sort." Her tone turned comforting. "Goes to show you never can tell." "He didn't have to be violent." "Well, Franklyn always said you can't judge anther's family way 'less you live under their roof. Me, I never judge. Bible says it's wrong, you know." "Your husband was a smart man, Mrs. G." Paul smiled. He finished the last of his Cafe Vienna and stood. "I'd better get to town and pick up those shingles before it gets too late." "So soon? We were having such a nice talk." "I'll miss it myself," Paul said, not untruthfully. "But duty calls." "Oh, Franklyn was the same way once he took it in his head to fix something. Never could slow down a minute -- remember to get a receipt for the shingles." "Sure thing." Paul headed for the door. He knew he had plenty of time to get to town, but, after talking to the old woman about his father, an idea had struck him. He would make a stop first -- one he knew wouldn't be easy. * * * * The ranch house on Jasper Street hadn't changed much since Paul saw it last. Windows had been boarded up; a brownish blanket of dead leaves from the previous fall covered the small yard; shrubs and weeds had wedged their way through cracks in the driveway; hedges had overgrown. He noticed a window pane smashed out and places where the elements had scrubbed off paint. Sometimes he felt the same sense of wearing inside himself. Paul had parked across the street. Getting out of the car he leaned against the fender and folded his arms. He peered at his boyhood home, an icicle of apprehension piercing his belly. Well, Paul, you got yourself back here. Now what are you going to do about it? Go in? Bet you won't. Why not? Because you're not ready yet. Because whatever you thought you came back here for, whatever reason, you're still afraid to go in there because of the old ghosts. (Old ghosts like old flames...) Paul stared at the front lawn, at the house, at the boarded-up memories. As his mind wandered through the years, he became lost in images from his past. He was a little boy again, playing catch with Tommy in the front yard. He threw the baseball, watched it arc through time and space and air, and thuck into Tommy's out-stretched glove. Tommy, thick black hair tousled and stirred by gusts of autumn breeze, dug the ball out of his glove, thucked it in again. He looked at the ground, face troubled. A whirl of dead leaves, browns and yellows and burnt orange, swirled up, covering Tommy's sneakers. Paul peered at his friend, wondering when he'd throw the ball back. "Paulie..." Tommy looked at him. "Yeah?" Paul kicked a twig out of the way. "What if ... what if I had to go away?" "Don't be silly." Paul crinkled his nose. "Your parents ain't gonna move." "I don't mean that. I mean, what if I went away permanently?" Tommy's eyes looked plaintive. "Where would you go?" Paul wondered what Tommy was getting at. His friend had been acting different lately. Paul wasn't sure how -- just different. Strange, maybe. Tommy shrugged. "Dunno. Just away. You know, like my grandpa did last year." A clammy tightness clenched at the back of his neck. "He ... died, Tommy. You ain't gonna die. You're a little kid. Little kids don't die." Paul noticed his words speeding up and rising in pitch. "Mrs. Patrick's little girl died last year." "That doesn't count. She got runned over because she chased a ball into the street. Anybody knows better than to do that." "Maybe..." Tommy sounded unconvinced. "Why you talkin' like that, anyhow?" "Dunno. Just that sometimes I don't feel so good, Paulie. Sometimes I just feel sick for no reason. And sometimes at night something inside me just aches real bad and I can't get back to sleep." Paul looked relieved. "Aw, that's just growin' pains. Everybody gets 'em -- 'cept for girls, of course, 'cause that's when you get your nuts." "Maybe." Doubt etched onto Tommy's face. He thucked the ball into the glove again. "Paulie, promise me that if ... that if I go where my grandpa went you'll keep my Yaz cards for me. I know you'd take care of 'em." A knot lodged in his throat. "Sure, Tommy. Now quit talkin' like that, will ya?" Sure, Tommy... The words echoed through the empty corridors of his memory. He suddenly remembered those words with startling clarity. And he remembered the words he'd whispered when he tucked those Carl Yastrzemski cards in Tommy's breast pocket as he lay in his coffin: "Keep them with you, Tommy. You'd take better care of them than I ever could." In a way, he supposed he'd broken his promise. In a way, he hadn't. Paul took a deep breath, giving the house a final glance. Maybe sooner or later he'd go inside, stir up the dust and old ghosts -- but not now, not today. Paul turned, about to get back into his car when something caught his attention. Again, the sense of dread crawled through him, the sense that something hidden was calling to him, though much weaker than before. His gaze seemed drawn to one of the boarded-up windows, to an uncovered dusty pane, as if the strange feeling were emanating from the glass. ("Beware the Sepahpoonuck...") As he watched, Paul swore, for an instant, a face, tenuous and childlike, appeared in the window. A boy's face. The remnants of a child's gleeful laugh seemed to echo from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere, as quickly dissolving in the wind. "Tommy..." Paul whispered, a chill shuddering through him. Then, as if his whisper had been a catalyst, the almost-image of the face vanished. Something else, its outline vague and sinister, replaced it momentarily. Paul instantly thought of the thing he'd glimpsed in his rearview mirror yesterday. Was it the same face? He felt sure it was. Gone. The glass looked completely normal. And suddenly he was no longer sure it was the same face at all, or if it had ever truly been there. He felt certain of one thing, however: the thing responsible for his feelings of dread, whether exhaustion or something darker, had grown weaker. He had gained a measure of control over it, pushed it into the recesses of his subconscious. But for how long? * * * * "How're we feeling today, Sis?" Cindy kicked open the bedroom door. Balancing a tray on one hand -- she'd garnished the tray with a fresh red carnation in a glass vase -- she padded across the carpet. "Don't know about you," grumbled Jenny, pushing herself up in bed, "but I feel like crap." She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then massaged her temples. Her brain still felt fuzzy from the Valium she'd swallowed upon finally crawling into bed at three a.m. She felt her headache getting worse. "Migraine, huh?" "Ugh," Jenny grunted. Cindy chuckled and set the tray on the nightstand. She reached over and tugged the shade cord. The shade snapped up with a shudder and bright sunlight spilled into the room. Jenny winced. "Jesus!" She pressed her eyes shut, reopening them slowly. Cindy smiled and went around to the other side of the bed. She pulled the cord on the second shade. "I'm going to kill you." Jenny glared. "Well, well, well." Cindy shook her head of dirty-blonde hair. "Testy this morning, aren't we?" "Ugh!" grunted Jenny again, faking a grimace. She tried to get her vision to focus, but the brightness stung her eyes, made them water. The furniture -- double night tables, Cannonball bed, mirror and hutch, pine triple dresser -- looked like great brown blobs. "Uh-huh, thought as much. Well, I made breakfast so you'd better just snap out of it. Your favorite: Count Chocula and orange juice." Jenny groaned and felt her stomach revolve. "That's Andy's favorite, not mine. You've been baby-sitting too long." She attempted a half-hearted smile. "Okay, okay. So I didn't major in fine cuisine in Romper Room Finishing School. Sue me. You'll eat it and like it. Besides, if I don't have you up and about soon, I'll end up eating this crap myself for the rest of the week." Jenny laughed, then clutched her head. "Oh, feels like something's stomping around on my brain." "No doubt. You must have conked your head good when you fainted. Lucky you didn't get a concussion or something." Cindy leaned over and fluffed Jenny's pillows, then shifted the tray from the nightstand to Jenny's lap. "You're not really going to make me eat this, are you? Looks worse than hospital food." "Keep criticizing my cooking and hospital food is just what you'll be eating." Cindy winked, a twinkle in her eyes. But a serious look showed behind it. After a moment she said, "I really am glad you're okay. I don't think I could take it if..." Cindy's voice trailed off and she turned to stare out the window, arms folded. "If I left you again?" Jenny completed, gaze falling to the breakfast tray. "No, that's not what I meant. Forget I even mentioned it." "All right." Unable to put up a fight, she sank into her thoughts. Last night's incidents flooded her mind, a blur at first, then sharpening into bold and terrifying relief. Peg was dead. It wasn't some horrible nightmare; she hadn't woken to find everything OK and her friend still alive. Peg was dead. That wouldn't change. "I wish ... I wish I could have helped her." Tears welled in her eyes. Cindy turned from the window, a strained look on her face. "I know, Jen. It's not your fault. How could something like that happen, especially at the hospital? How could anyone be so ... so inhuman?" "Staff is low right now. Smith can't find good help so we're running on minimum. Anybody could sneak in." "Knowing Smith, he probably gropes the help away." said Cindy, in a half-hearted attempt at humor. She frowned. "Why Peg? Why kill her?" "I wish I knew. Maybe it had something to do with the stolen body. Maybe it was some kind of weird cult or something. Or just some sicko. Who knows? It didn't make sense to me last night and it makes even less sense to me this morning. Guess it's just like everything else in the world. Senseless slayings and violence everywhere. No real reason. It just happens." "In Dark Harbor? I thought the last time anybody died of suspicious causes around here was when Mrs. Gaumont accused old man Gilbert of poisoning her cat. I mean, it just doesn't happen." "If anybody had said that to me two days ago, I would have agreed. But it did happen -- twice in the same day. First Corsetti killed his foreman, then ... well, maybe Dark Harbor isn't as immune as we thought. Peg said things had happened here before -- oh, God, Cindy, I miss her." Jenny broke down. Tears streamed down her face, dripping off her chin. Cindy sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on Jenny's shoulder. "Let it out, Sis. It's your turn to cry on my shoulder. You're always there for me, so let me return the favor." With a finger, Cindy brushed the tears from Jenny's face. "Has anyone notified her family?" "Her mother lives in Atlanta. I suppose the sheriff has contacted her by now. He said he would." Jenny sniffled, words clogged with tears. "Does Baker have any clues? He must have found something. It's not that easy to carry off a body without being seen." Jenny struggled to regain her composure. "No, not many. He said they'd check the roof and parking lot and that they had found footprints. But it was late. Nobody saw anything. I was the only witness." "What did you see, Jen? You were pretty distraught last night. I couldn't make heads or tails out of what you were saying." "I saw..." Jenny hesitated, searching her mind. "I don't know what I saw. A glimpse of ... someone, a costume. But I didn't even get a good look at that. First time in my life I faint and it's a doozy." "You were pretty rattled. Lucky you even got that much. Maybe you'll remember something else after you've had time to get your thoughts straight." "Maybe. I just hope they catch the guy before he hurts someone else. I hope they give him the same treatment he gave Peg." Jenny's lips tightened and she felt anger scream through her veins. "Don't worry, Baker'll find him. The sheriff's a good man. He knows what he's doing." "I hope you're right." "I'm always right. You know that." Jenny chuckled and felt her head spin. A serious look welded onto Cindy's face. "Are you all right? I'm worried about you. I know how good you are at hiding your own feelings." "I'm fine. Really. At least, I will be." Jenny smiled a fragile smile. She fought to hold back a new rush of tears. Cindy pulled her close and hugged her. Jenny kept seeing Peg's features, smiling and laughing, in her mind. Then Peg's face would turn into a gory mask, splashed with blood, oceans of blood. It would take Jenny a long time to forget what she'd seen in the lab. Probably she'd never forget it; she just prayed she could eventually live with it. One thing she'd never be able to live with: the dread, the feeling of wrongness that had gripped her at the hospital. It still simmered inside her, even in the naked light of day, a part of Peg's death, yet separate, somehow. As if it waited out there in the part of the world that was always dark, waited for her. Maybe the murderer saw you, Jenny. Maybe he thinks you saw more than you did. She was being ridiculous. Even if he had caught a glimpse of her, he was wearing a costume, his features hidden. But the dread, the fear, was unmistakable. Jenny forced herself to think of something pleasant. "How's Andy? I didn't get to see him this morning." "Getting into everything, as usual. Bus hauled his little ass off to school hours ago. Let him fingerprint their walls for a change." Jenny smiled and glanced at the soggy brown cereal on the tray. Her stomach turned again. "Sis, I love you, but I really can't eat this. Put it down the disposal before Andy sees it and gives me the we-need-a-puppy speech again." Jenny's face contorted with a look of distaste as she plopped the spoon into the mixture. "Well!" Cindy used an indignant tone. "After I slaved over a hot stove all morning." She grinned "Oh, all right." Picking up the tray, she started for the door. Backing out she said, "If you need anything, give me a holler, okay? I'm going to take a quick bath and maybe head out for a while later on." Jenny frowned. "Jeff, I suppose?" "Yes, Jeff." Cindy cocked an eyebrow. "Do you have to go out tonight? I mean ... well, never mind." Jenny felt vague fear rise again. She was being silly; she knew it. But she really didn't feel like being alone tonight. "Oh, sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'll cancel out. But on one condition." "And what's that?" "We don't stay home. You need to get right up and out. Best medicine there is." "Thank you, Dr. Thornton." Cindy gave a sarcastic laugh. "I mean it. Why don't we go to the Coral for dinner?" "Cindy, I can't -- " "Uh-uh." Cindy held up her hand. "Don't argue with me. I know what's best. It'll just be worse if you stay cooped up in your room and I think it would do us both some good. Peg would want it that way." Jenny managed a feeble smile. "Yes, she probably would." In her mind Jenny heard Peg saying, "Come on, girl, live a little -- double for me!" "Okay," said Jenny. "It's a deal -- but not tonight. My head's too fuzzy and I want to spend some time with Andy while I have the chance. We haven't had much time together lately. Tomorrow, okay?" "Done! I'll call Mrs. Gaumont and see if I can pawn the little torpedo off on her for a few hours tomorrow night. I know the old bitty -- " "Cindy, she's a lonely old woman -- " "An old woman who spies on me through the window -- a peeping Jane. Every time she watches Andy he comes back singing that damn Archie Bunker theme song over and over for days. Keeps calling me 'dingbat', too. I think she puts him up to it." "She's very nice to Andy, even if she doesn't mind her own business at times." "At times? Yeah -- daytime, nighttime, all-the-time!" Jenny smiled and winged a pillow at Cindy. "Get outta here, dingbat." Cindy chuckled and on the way out hooked the door closed with a foot. After Cindy had gone, Jenny pulled the blankets to her neck and drew her knees to her chin. She sank into her thoughts and a tear slipped from her eye, trickling down her face. * * * * For all the Blue Coral hadn't changed on the outside in ten years, it made up for on the inside. Paul remembered the tavern being rather dreary and dark with no restorations or improvements since it was built in 1890. It was still dark, but far from dreary. The interior had been remodeled in rich dark woods. Ships' wheels, wooden markers, fish nets from which dangled colored glass balls, and various stuffed sea creatures -- fish, lobsters, mounted on plagues -- adorned the walls. A voluptuous raven-haired maiden, formally on the bow of an old ship -- the Ninyo Del Mar, according to the brass name plate -- jutted from the wall above the bar. The tavern had a contrived, coastal look that attracted the tourists and revolted the natives. A juke box, somehow seeming incongruous, blared an old country/western tune by Randy Travis that sang of lost love and phone calls to 1982. Booths and tables were new, wooden benches replaced with vinyl seats. Paul sat at the bar, draining his second mug of beer. He was tempted to curse himself for not following through with his original plan to enter the old house. Wimped out, Jill would have said. Maybe she would have been right, too. The thought of going back into that house brought more unanswered questions to his mind: Why had he been hesitant -- no, almost afraid -- to go in? Was it the old ghosts? Did it hold more bad memories than he felt like dealing with right now? What about his dreams, his restlessness? Were they gone for good? Or were they waiting patiently for him to let his guard down? And why was he suddenly beginning to feel so damn comfortable in a town he once despised? Paul had a hunch he would find those answers somewhere deep inside, tucked away in the boyhood closet full of dark demons. What would happen when he opened that closet? It's still out there. It's out there and it's waiting to grab your toes and pull you into that moist dark place and turn your brains to Jell-O and nail your balls to the wall as trophies. And it wants Jenny, too. Jenny. Paul shivered. Why had he thought that? Was she the real reason he'd come back, or merely part of it? This morning, while working on the repairs, he'd considered going across the street to her house when he'd seen her car in the driveway. But he hadn't been able to work up the nerve. That's getting to be a bad habit, isn't it, Paul. Maybe it was. But what if he did stay in Dark Harbor? He could pick up another teaching job, if not here, then in Norwich. His father was dead, so the old house belonged to Paul by default. He could renovate it, completely make it over so it no longer resembled a bad memory. But can you stay? Will the past let you? Or would he awake one night, the terrible pressure of wanderlust heavy in his soul, and run from the restless beast that inexorably followed? Paul struggled with his uncertainty, confused. A selfish part of him said, go ahead, call Jenny, he was back to stay; his rational part told him he'd only leave her again. He knew which part was winning. "Hey, bud, you all right?" The voice snapped Paul's reverie. He looked up to see the bartender, a slim guy with an angled face and an overdeveloped Adam's apple, wiping out a glass and staring at him. "You been sitting stone still for half an hour." Paul ignored the question. "Got a phone?" The bartender nodded, looking insulted, and reached beneath the bar, bringing up a Princess and plunking it on the counter. "Quarter a call. We don't give charity here." "Sure. How 'bout a pen?" The bartender muttered something about wanting the world, but dropped a pen on the bar. Paul picked up the phone and dialed information, writing the number he got on a napkin. Jenny's number. He hesitated then lifted the receiver again, dialing the first three numbers. That was as far as he went. He replaced the receiver. "You've come full circle, haven't you?" he mumbled. "And that circle's small and closing in on you a hell of a lot faster than you want it to." Maybe you couldn't call her this time. But next time you will and there'll be no turning back. Paul threw a five on the counter and slid from the stool, heading for the door. -------- *(10)* The Sheriff's Office was housed primarily in one huge room of an ancient brick building. City maps, charts and a portrait of George Bush adorned the walls. Old wooden chairs lined one wall, broken only by the clattering steam radiator in the middle; battered filing cabinets filled a section of another wall. The windows, old fashioned with a wide sill, held a spider plant and a hamster cage. A three-foot high wooden partition with a swinging door squared off a twelve-by-ten-foot section of the area, dividing the sheriff's desk from the other three desks directly across the room. Sheriff Baker looked up from his desk and said, "You're late again," as deputy Dave Hudson closed the door and hung his hat on a wall hook. "Sorry," said Hudson without emotion. "Didn't ... feel well." Baker's gaze followed Hudson as he walked stiffly across the battered linoleum floor to his desk. Hudson eased into his chair and pretended to scan a report. Baker studied the deputy's face: dark pouches nested beneath his bloodshot eyes and his face appeared pale, almost corpselike; he sniffled constantly. "You look terrible," Baker volunteered. "Yeah?" Hudson lifted his head briefly, went back to his report. Baker shrugged. Two, maybe three weeks; that's how long he gave Hudson before something came to a head. Faster, if pushed. "Parker and Morrow are out on patrol, so it looks like you've got your choice." A slight grin played on Baker's lips. Hudson lifted his head again, seemingly doing so with difficulty. His face pinched. "What?" His voice came flat, uninterested. "I want to know if anybody new has come into town since the beginning of the week." "Are you crazy?" Hudson blurted, then controlled himself. "This is Memorial Day weekend. A hundred friggin' people could have come in. Traffic's already starting to bunch up around the beach this morning." Baker shrugged again, smiled. "Well, then, it'd be worse if I asked you to check after the weekend, wouldn't it?" "Christ!" Hudson muttered. "What's the other choice?" Baker's grin widened. "You can go over to Dark Harbor Grammar School and give the safety-in-the-neighborhood speech to the kiddies. They'd love you. And from the way you look, I'm willing to wager you'd last through about ten minutes of that." Hudson groaned. "All right, I'll check who came in." Baker chuckled. "I thought you'd see it that way. Oh, give my regards to Katie at records. Closest thing to a brother I've got." "Screw that! You know how she climbs all over me every time I go in there. Goddamn bitch has a beard." "True love, Hudson." "True this." Hudson made an obscene gesture by grabbing his crotch. "Tsk-tsk." Secretly amused, Baker watched Hudson cross the room and jam his hat on his head. The door slammed shut behind him. After Hudson left, Sheriff Baker hauled himself out of his chair and went to a row of cabinets above the counter that ran along the north wall. He grabbed a box of hamster food from the shelf and dumped some of the pellets into the cage. The hamster, whom the sheriff had named Ernest after the character in the movies, gobbled the food. Baker chuckled as he watched the hamster eat, but after a few moments his face turned serious. "What do you think, Ernest?" Baker poked a finger through the bars and nudged the rodent. "You think Deputy Hudson has a real powerful case of spring allergy, or do you think it's snowing a bit early this year?" Ernest went on nibbling. He turned, about to go back to his desk when the door swung open. A man in his mid-twenties stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Safe?" The man pushed his hair away from his forehead and glanced about, face uneasy. "Left a few minutes ago. Sent him out to check on this week's new arrivals in town. Should keep him busy a while. By the way, the statement for your paper is on the desk." Baker pointed. "Be sure the name Smith gets a big mention." "Thanks." The man, whose name was Carl Speckler, picked up the paper, scanning the words. "Not much." He looked up. The sheriff massaged the back of his neck. "My sentiments exactly." "Nothing from the lab yet?" "Nope." Baker pulled open the top drawer of his desk and fished inside for his bottle of Bufferin. He went to the water cooler, popped two tablets into his mouth and swallowed. "There were footprints?" "For all they're worth. Until I have a suspect to match them to, they're as good as useless -- coffee?" Baker took the pot from the counter and poured himself a cup. "No thanks. Caffeine makes me jittery." "Anything on your end?" Baker went back to his desk. "Very little, but I thought I'd give you what I have." "Shoot." Baker slid into his chair. "Antonio Corsetti -- " "Hah!" Baker interrupted. "Don't surprise me a bit. Small fish, I bet." "Hard to tell just yet. Not sure if he's dealing or just hooked on the stuff. I'll keep digging -- some cash from the construction company seems to have been 'misplaced', however, so he's probably in deep enough." Baker thumped his feet on the desk and sipped at his coffee. "With his brother dead, there ain't much to stop him, is there?" Speckler shrugged. "Like I said, hard to tell." "For the moment, I'm more concerned with our mole. Every time I start to get close to something tangible, someone I can put my hands on, the sand slips through my fingers. I'm sick and tired of it." "You're positive it's Hudson? Maybe there's some other explanation." "No, it's him, all right. They're always one step ahead of me, a little too elusive, so something's leaking somewhere. I don't see any other way it could be." Speckler nodded. "He has visited Corsetti a time or two, but, hell, maybe he had some other reason for being there." "Such as, maybe they're beer buddies? You wouldn't have any doubt if you had seen the way he wandered in here this afternoon. He looked like one of the walking dead. If it ain't nose candy he's doing, then he's got a hell of a hayfever problem. He has to be the link." "A little recreational indulging does not an informant make." Speckler shook his head. "We've been trying to nail him with something concrete for a few months, now, with no luck." "I know. He's a clever bastard, I'll give him that. But I have this gut feeling, like the hunches you reporters always rely on. Since Hudson started here ... well, if this investigation were cancer, we'd be in remission." Speckler chuckled, nodded at the statement in his hand. "Now this murder thing. Plus Corsetti going loony tunes and his corpse disappearing." Baker rubbed the back of his neck. "Just thinking about it makes my head throb." "Try Advil." Speckler started towards the door. "Let me know what turns up." He paused, turning. "You don't think these cases are interrelated, do you? Maybe Fox had some connection with the drug ring?" "Killed her to shut her up? I doubt it. I've worked with Dr. Fox before. She seemed pretty straight up. Did good work and she didn't give me a twitch of the bad feeling I get with Hudson." "Strikes me as odd, though. First Jake Corsetti, then Fox, like somebody's moving them out of the way." "For what reason?" Baker shook his head. "Doesn't make sense." "Just a thought." Speckler spread his hands. "I'll try to keep closer to Hudson. I hope you're right on this. It's my shot at the big time." "Or my shot at an early retirement," said Baker. * * * * The Demon huddled in his niche, fleshless back pressed against the cold slimy stone. As he listened to the incessant trickling of water clink-clinking from unseen pipes and the occasional scampering and squeaking of rats, his impatience grew. In one respect, the comforting dampness of the sewer protected his fragile new form from the heat of the day, the blaze of the sun. On the outside, his body would blister, dry out, and he'd be as surely dead as any other human. In here, he was safe, for a while anyway, but he felt entombed, trapped as he had been for over a hundred years within his brick prison in the mausoleum. Freedom. Yes, that was the difference, wasn't it? He wasn't truly a prisoner. Soon, he would find a host body, a soul filled with as much rage and hatred as his own. Then he would show the world what true evil was; then he would receive what the Master promised him so long ago, when Nathan Courtwright offered his and Catherine's soul to unlock the door that would release the damned. He had been interrupted before he could complete the ritual, lost his chance. Now he needed the key, another with the gift to enter the Open Realm. Paul Stanford. Yet Stanford had succeeded in blocking him somehow, at least for the moment. Why Stanford should posses the gift in the first place was beyond his understanding; the Demon had thought it only a Courtwright gift, though it was not unreasonable to assume it ran through other blood lines. How Stanford had inadvertently used it to his own benefit was another riddle. Perhaps Stanford was stronger than the Demon had given him credit for. When the Demon found Stanford -- locating the gifted one was a simple matter in the Open Realm, where he'd been confined after his father bricked him up -- and entered his dreams, he'd been elated at Stanford's psychological state, thinking him to be an easy mark. To convince Paul Stanford to join him freely should have been simple. But it had not been simple. He'd misjudged Stanford as he had misjudged his father. The Demon saw one difference between the two, however. His father had no weaknesses; Stanford had many. And when the Demon saw the girl, Jenny, in Paul's mind, he knew eventually he would shatter Stanford's defenses. "What do you fear most, Paul Stanford?" whispered the Demon. "What do you love most?" The Demon laughed, a sound of emptiness and sulfur. A great hunger burned in his belly, the hunger for fear, his life's blood. He'd grown weary of feasting on rats, their instinctual terror insubstantial, unsatisfying. It's strength didn't last. The demon groaned, aching deep within himself. Silence. The clink of dripping water. Something else...? A harsh grating sound caught his attention. He listened, hopeful. The grating noise came again, from somewhere above. He recognized it: the sound of the manhole cover begin pried up. He waited, eager, as diffused light spilled into the darkness. Waited, and smiled a lipless smile. * * * * Eight-year-old Billy Fredericks let out a whoop and leaped the six inches from the curb to the street. He and his best friend, Johnny Perkins -- though sometimes Johnny really got on his nerves -- had finished watching Superman cartoons on Billy's dad's VCR and Billy had decided no monster could match his heat vision and X-ray eyes. But he'd grabbed a crowbar from the shed, just in case. It had taken Billy half an hour to convince Johnny to follow him to Pine Cone Avenue to search for the monster. "No such thing as no monster 'cept in movies," Johnny had mumbled, mouth stuffed full of Kit Kat. "You're a butthead." But in the end, Billy and Johnny jumped onto their bikes and peddled for two blocks to the last place Billy had seen the monster. "C'mon!" Billy swiveled his head to make sure Johnny didn't try riding off on him. Johnny hesitated and glanced about, then leaped off his bike, letting it crash to the sidewalk beside Billy's. Johnny waddled up behind him, swiping away a trail of boogers that dribbled from his nose and wiping it on his trousers. Billy brushed a stray lock of red hair away from his forehead and scrubbed at his freckled face with an equally freckled hand. Arching his thin fingers above his brow, he scanned the street, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. The street was empty, no cars coming. He saw the heat-distorted shape of Dark Harbor Memorial looming in the distance and a twinge of fear fluttered in his belly. "Well?" Johnny frowned. Tousled black hair fell unbridled over the tops of his basset hound ears and perpetual dimples punctuated his cheeks. "Told ya," Billy peered down at the manhole cover, eyes squinched to half mast, "I was ridin' home on my bike last night when I saw him go down this hole -- and don't you dare tell my dad; he'd cut off my nuts if he knew I snuck out late on a school night." "He'd kill us both if he found out we skipped school. Good thing my mom works." "More than your brain works." "Well, anal retentive, where's your monster, now? Don't see 'im nowhere." "Down that hole. I seen it, ugly as crap. And it ain't got no skin. None. Worse than those pictures we saw in my dad's Hustler magazine. It came from the hospital direction, runnin' kinda funny." "Maybe he's got bad feet," said Johnny, dubious. "Hey, I bet it was one of them weird Frankenstein experiments or something. I bet they do all sorts of weird stuff in that hospital. Glad they didn't get to take out my tonsils." Johnny stared at the manhole cover, disbelief in his dark eyes. "How'd he get the cover off? That thing looks heavy." "That's what I'm sayin'. He's a monster, probably almost as strong as Superman. He just picked it up." "Sure it's a he?" asked Johnny. "Had nuts -- big ones. And a wang, too, least sorta." "What if he's down there? What are we gonna do then? Maybe he don't like kids." Concern crossed Johnny's round face, a hint of fear. Billy's forehead creased. "And maybe he likes 'em for lunch." He scratched his head. Billy looked at Johnny; Johnny looked at Billy. "Oooo," they chimed together. Billy was only half-joking. Thinking about it a moment, a nascent fear sprang up in his mind. But he'd never admit he was scared to Johnny and risk being branded a wimp. Johnny had a habit of blabbing things around -- Jeezum! it would spread all around school and his life would be ruined. "No problem," said Billy finally. "I'll use my heat vision on him." Billy thought it over, then added, "And if that don't work, I'll hit him with my crowbar." "Heat vision," mimicked Johnny. "Right." The dark-haired boy's eyes riveted to the crowbar. Billy sensed his friend's doubt and said, "Plus, I've got my X-ray vision to see through the manhole cover and 'round corners and stuff, so as he don't sneak up on us or nothin'." "Then why don't you look down now and make sure he ain't waitin' for us?" Johnny hocked an oyster of phlegm and spat. A trace of worry shone in Billy's eyes as Johnny drilled him, waiting. Hesitating, Billy peered intently at the manhole cover. His eyes bulged and strained. He couldn't pierce the cover with his vision. The fear knot lodged in his belly tightened. "Well, stupid?" Johnny folded his inner-tube arms. "Must be made outta lead." He was glad he'd come up with the answer. "Lead, right." Johnny scoffed. "C'mon, let's go read comics. This is dumb." "Is not," said Billy. "Is so." "Is not!" "Is so!" "You're a wimp," Billy chided. "Am not!" Johnny jammed his fists into his soft hips. "Wimp, wimp, wimp." "Oh, okay, asshole!" Resignation welded onto Johnny's face. "Be that way. But I'll go down there on one condition..." A lascivious gleam sparkled in Johnny's eyes. "What?" asked Billy, suspicious. "After we're done, we go back to your house and spy on your sister when she gets home from school and takes her shower." Bully mulled it over. Anna, his sister, was in high school and Billy had noticed Johnny drooling sometimes when Anna wore her bikini or a tight sweater. Johnny always tried to peer down her tops and mumbled "nice tits" every time she was around. Billy didn't see what Johnny thought was so special about her. Billy had seen her naked plenty of times and knew she sometimes stuffed socks into her bra. Johnny tried to get Billy to take pictures of her once, through the big crack in the bathroom door. Billy hadn't wanted to do that, but just spying on her would be okay. It was worth it not to have to go into the manhole alone. "Deal," said Billy finally. "Okay." Johnny grinned and slid his hands together. "Let's get this over with so we can do something really interesting." Billy noticed sweat springing onto Johnny's forehead; a thin line of drool slid from the corner of his fat lips. Billy knew it wasn't caused by the heat -- at least not from the sun, anyway. "Bet you this will be interesting." Triumph spread across his freckled face. He wished he could get the butterflies out of his stomach. If they didn't leave soon, he'd have to find a bathroom and take a serious dump. "Bet you it won't." Johnny sniffled and wiped drool away with a forearm. Billy ignored him. "C'mon, help me get this cover off before a car comes." "You couldn't get it off if Betty Bowers grabbed it." Johnny snickered. "Very funny, idiot." Billy doubled and jammed the crowbar into the notch on the lip of the cover. He leaned against the bar with all his weight. The cover grated, rising. "C'mon, help me!" Billy yelled at Johnny through gritted teeth. Johnny had his fat hands stuffed into his pockets and a funny expression on his face. Billy didn't want to know what he was doing. He flushed and yanked his hands free, then grabbed the crowbar and strained. The cover came up faster with a metallic shriek. They slid it over to the side. Billy and Johnny peered into the dark maw of the hole. "Kinda dark down there, ain't it?" Johnny's voice broke slightly. "Yeah." Billy swallowed. Hard. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. A lump lodged in his throat, telling him that, in fact, the idea was damn bad. He had the gnawing suspicion that pretty soon a matching lump in his pants would second the motion. Billy bent a little lower. A blast of chilled putrid air wafted into his face. He shivered, palms dampening. "You ready?" Johnny's eyes shifted back and forth. Billy jumped despite himself. "Uh-huh." He didn't sound convincing. "Good. You first." Johnny gave Billy a slight shove. "Maybe you should go first," Billy countered. "You're bigger -- lots bigger. If'n we get stuck down there that way I could go for help." Johnny drilled him with piercing dark eyes. "What happened to your super powers? I'm not gonna go first. It's your monster." Billy considered the situation for a moment. "Oh, all right." He suddenly felt more afraid than he had in his entire eight years. Even more scared than when Jeff Hepner put a snake in his sleeping bag at summer camp. Pretty seriously scared. But he couldn't wimp out in front of Johnny. Fumbling through his jeans pocket, Billy yanked out a penlight his older brother, Charlie, had given him on his birthday, three weeks ago. He clicked it on and jammed it between his teeth. Tentatively, he turned and dipped a foot into the hole, probing for the first rung of the ladder like a swimmer testing the water. Found it. Crap. Next foot. He dropped down to the next rung. Down another. Chilled sewer breath wafted up and slithered over him. The blackness seemed alive down here, clammy. Billy shuddered; a warm cramp in his bowels ached. He wanted to scramble back up the ladder, had almost decided to when he saw Johnny's clublike Nike clunk down on the rung above him. "You going or what?" Johnny's voice sounded strangely hollow and far off. "I-I'm going, I'm going!" he mumbled through clenched teeth, mouth chock-full of flashlight. He dropped down another rung, his descent slow, awkward, one hand locked to the side of the ladder, the other welded to his crowbar. His legs felt soupy. The desire to rush back up into the comforting sunlight became almost overpowering. Jeezum! he couldn't let Johnny see he was scared. He'd be branded a wimp the rest of his life. Betty Bowers, his school crush, would never look at him again. It was your stupid idea to come down here and find the monster, he chastised himself. Hey, where was it written that all monsters had to even be bad? The Hulk was a monster and he wasn't bad. Yeah, it might be a good monster, one that liked kids. Liked them for lunch? Oh God, oh God, oh God! Billy had the sudden feeling he was going to mess his pants. The pressure had become almost unbearable. If he did that, it would be worse than wimping out. He squeezed his buttocks together, straining to hold it back. Down another step. The putrid stench became choking. He tried not to breathe, but after a moment his lungs ached and he gasped a breath. Okay, here's the plan, he told himself. When he hit bottom, he'd slosh around for a few minutes, claim the monster had escaped and get out, pride and bowels intact. Nooo problem. "Smells like poop down here," Johnny yelled from above him. Billy jolted, almost, as his dad would say, farting with a lump in it. Billy looked up and said, "It's a sewer, it's supposed to smell like poop." Billy's stomach flip-flopped. He heard a thin plop ring out from the water at the bottom of the shaft. In an instant, he'd realized he'd just committed a very non-Supermanlike boner. "You penishead!" yelled Johnny. "You dropped the freakin' flashlight! You're gonna havta swim around in that crap and get it." "Oops." Billy stared down into the darkness. He saw a faint muted glow at the bottom of the shaft. He gulped. Fear hit him like a solid thing. His heart began to ka-thump. Okay, here's plan B, Billy thought, mind racing. The hell with what Johnny spread around school. So what if the rest of his life was screwed? The hell with Betty Bowers, too. He tensed, ready for a mad scramble up the ladder. Something moist and slimy and powerful clamped about his ankle. It tightened like a vise. Terror exploded in his mind and a shriek volcanoed from the depths of his soul, ripping from his mouth. "What-What?" Johnny screamed above him, tone frantic. Oh God oh God oh God! Billy's mind stammered. The warm pressure in his bowels became an explosion in his pants. His grip tightened on the crowbar, knuckles bleaching. The thing attached to his ankle jerked. Billy's chin collided with the ladder rung, rattling his teeth and his thoughts. His grip was wrenched from the rung as he was yanked from his perch on the ladder. Down he went, surprised to hit the water so soon, falling scarcely five feet. The bottom had looked more distant than it was. With a great splash, Billy went under, the horrid taste of feces and garbage clogging his mouth, the slithery blackness of putrid chilled water engulfing him. His mind whirled from the conk to his chin, but he instinctively kicked his legs, arms flailing. Taking in a gulp of sewer water, he felt panic flash through his mind, clearing his thoughts. Oh God I'm gonna drown I'm gonna freaking drown -- Up Billy came, propelled by a viselike fleshless hand clamped to a handful of his shirt. He felt himself hurled from the water as if he were feather light and slammed against the stone wall. His bones rattled with the impact. He struggled to get the blurriness out of his eyes. Any relief he might have felt at being saved from drowning quickly vanished as his vision cleared enough to see the thing pinning him to the wall, its hideous face pressed close. Distantly, he heard Johnny wail, a blood-curdling sound that would have been hilarious under any other circumstance. The shriek, however, faded with ominous rapidity. Johnny had deserted him. Billy's eyes filled with tears. In the dim light, he peered blearily into the red-slit eyes of his monster. God, why doesn't he just eat me? his benumbed brain asked. Why doesn't he just get it over with? "You're a child," the monster rasped, disgust in his tone. The sound of that voice sent renewed waves of terror through Billy. "An innocent. I cannot destroy you. You are of no use to me." Billy didn't know what the hell that meant, but prayed it was good. A thought struck Billy like a blow: he realized he'd somehow managed to retain his grip on the crowbar. His hand seemed frozen to it. Relief surged through him. He gasped a deep breath and swung, arcing the bar in a wide loop towards the monster's skinless head. The monster jerked his head sideways, and the crowbar sailed past his shoulder. Jeezum! He'd missed! He'd freakin' missed! The monster glared at him, red-slit eyes flaming blood. "Crap!" Billy mumbled, stomach dropping. He'd had it now for sure. The monster was pissed and he was dogmeat. "Mum-mum-mum-mum," Billy stammered. Desperately, he tried to swing the crowbar again. The monster snatched it out of his hand in mid-swing and hurled it down the tunnel. It landed with a distant splash. "You are lucky, boy," said the monster. "B-b-b-boy," stammered Billy. Oh God please get me out of this and I'll never skip school again I promise never never never -- The monster dropped him. Billy gasped in disbelief and scrambled through the water, slogging to the ladder. Up he went, as fast as his rubberband legs would carry him. He popped out of the manhole into the open air and glorious sunshine, staggered to his bike. His sneakers made squishy sounds and water dribbled out of his pants. Shakily, he climbed onto his bike and wobbled down the street, swearing never to skip school again, never to pretend he had heat vision, and never ever to go down into another manhole. -------- *(11)* "Goddamn fog!" Carl Speckler peered through the windshield of his old Pontiac. He hated driving in this soup. Frustrated, he pressed the accelerator harder, immediately regretting the reflex as his teeth clacked together and the front of the Pontiac bottomed out with a jarring ka-thump. "Goddamn speed bumps." He opened his mouth wide and slid his jaw back and forth to work the muscles loose. Those bumps littered the trailer park, and, since he'd switched off the headlights to avoid being spotted by the car he followed, he'd managed to nail every damn one of them -- as well as a few potholes and some unlucky kid's bike. Speckler squinted and tried to pierce the fog with his gaze, hoping to spot the Buick ahead of him. No go. He had a fairly good idea which side road the car had turned off onto, but the park was an effing maze. "You're crazy trying to maneuver through this crap in the dark," he said under his breath. Crazy, yeah, but that hadn't stopped him, had it? He sighed, swinging onto Avenue C, sure of the Buick's destination. Around the next corner, he proved himself right. Speckler killed the engine and coasted to the side of the road as far as he could. The thought of what he'd done to that kid's bike flashed through his mind and he didn't care to have the same thing happen to his wreck. An odd silence filled the car, heavy, oppressing. His neck hairs tingled as he strained to see through the fog. Finally, he spotted the Buick, barely managing to pick it out in the light coming from a row of mobile homes. He waited for the driver to get out. The driver was cautious, not exiting immediately. Speckler's breathing shallowed; at times, he found himself holding his breath in anticipation. He glanced at his watch; the driver had sat in his car a good fifteen minutes. Did the driver suspect he'd been followed? Carl Speckler's nerves tightened. He caught himself holding his breath again and forced it out. The Buick's door swung open and he pursed his lips, letting out a relieved sigh. Sliding lower in the seat, he watched the driver throw a glance in every direction before walking up to the third trailer -- a dilapidated relic from the early seventies. The opening door of the trailer threw a splash of light over the fog and the driver disappeared within. But for a moment the light had clearly outlined Deputy Dave Hudson's features. The corner of Speckler's eye began to twitch. He forced his nerves to steady and waited another ten minutes to be sure Deputy Hudson didn't come waltzing back out. Easing out of his car, he left the door half shut to prevent any noise from its closing. Skulking through the fog, Speckler skirted the trailers and made his way along the street. When he reached the third trailer, he crept around to the door side, bending low, though the windows were above his head. A light blazed from the living room window, frosting the fog with mother-of-pearl. He shivered, more from nerves than coldness. He crept closer, picking his way along scattered junk: toys, trash cans, lawnmowers and more abandoned bikes. One false step would cause a commotion he had little desire to see the results of. "Baker'd better be right," he mumbled. This story was his big break. No more friggin' concert reviews and Household Helper columns for the Dark Harbor Sentinel. Maybe even a book deal -- he'd always wanted to write a novel -- and an appearance on Oprah: Local Reporter Cracks International Drug Ring. He could see the headlines, now, his byline displayed prominently beneath, front page, of course. Oh, yeah, Baker'd better be right. Speckler had a feeling he was. He padded up to the window and tried to peer in, finding it two inches too high for him to get a good look. He rose up on tip-toes, almost reached, but still couldn't see inside. "Dammit!" he muttered. He glanced about, searching for something to prop himself up with. He had trouble making out specific objects; the fog turned everything into black lumps. "I'm gonna break my goddamn neck out here." That'd make a great story, wouldn't it? So why the hell are you here? He had asked himself that question a hundred times already. The answer always came back the same: he'd followed Hudson to the park because his reporter's hunch told him something important might happen in that trailer tonight. He'd felt that way since he watched Hudson leave the sheriff's office earlier tonight; he felt that way now. More so. When Hudson went home first, Speckler began to think he was wrong, but he'd waited anyway. Hudson hadn't stayed put for long. Within an hour, Carl found himself trailing -- pardon the pun, he thought -- the deputy to the park. Speckler had followed the deputy here before, so Hudson's destination didn't surprise him. Item 1: The trailer belonged to Antonio Corsetti, Dark Harbor's biggest waste. Item 2: Corsetti, in Speckler's mind, had a definite connection to the drug activity in Dark Harbor. How deep, he wasn't sure, and he'd been hesitant to pass on his suspicions to Baker, in case he was wrong, though Baker well knew the score on Corsetti. Did Hudson have a definite connection? Speckler tended to agree with the sheriff on that count. Still, the deputy might just have an addiction. "Well, what are you going to do now, Mr. Kent?" Speckler asked himself. "Can't just mosey on up to the door and say 'Hey, guys, mind if I watch you deal some drugs?' Bet they'd be real anxious to sell tickets to that." Grumbling, Speckler searched the vicinity again. He located a skeletal mass with a familiar outline. He went to it and stooped, grasping the handlebars of an old stingray some kid had left propped against the next trailer. Bikes in this neighborhood must have a high mortality rate, he thought. He hoped reporters didn't have the same life expectancy. Then he discovered why the bike had been left out: as he hefted, the handlebars came off in his hands with a squeak. "Aw, crap," he said under his breath. He dropped the handlebars and gripped the bike frame, heaving it up and lugging it to the window. He jammed the stem against the trailer wall as quietly as he could and forced the peddle down, stepping onto it with his left foot. He angled his right foot across the seat, and, balancing himself, eased up until he could peek through the window. "Hot damn!" he whispered, expectation burning in his veins. The scene within lived up to his suspicions. Corsetti, an unwashed burly man with matted hair and an overhanging gut, passed Hudson a packet of white powder. He caught the word Friday, then: "That's all?" Hudson yelled, staring at the packet. Anger welded onto the deputy's face. "Short notice." Corsetti reached over and plucked a can of beer off the TV set. He took a swig and belched. Hudson's face got red. "You'd better see to it there's more where this came from." He shoved the packet into a pocket. "Short notice or not -- if you want your little business venture to keep running smoothly." "Screw you!" yelled Corsetti. "I get caught, you get caught." Speckler saw Hudson's face shade from red to purple; even from this distance something murderous glimmered in the deputy's eyes. It gave Carl the chills. That was the last thing he glimpsed. Because something scurried in the blackness beneath him, between the bike and trailer. "Christ!" He jolted, losing his balance. His foot slipped off the seat. Before he could stop himself, he fell backwards, arms flailing. He crashed down hard on his rear. Something gave a wild yowl and a flash of black streaked past him. "Aw, goddamn cat! A goddamn pissing stinking sonofabitch cat!" His body trembled and his nerves uncoiled. But he had very little time to sit around and curse or worry about his aching tailbone. With a shudder, the trailer door burst open. Light splashed out, revealing him. Speckler felt his blood freeze as he saw the muzzle of a revolver poke through the open door. The gun was attached to a hand, which was attached to Deputy Hudson, who followed it out. "Jesus." Speckler bolted to his feet and scrambled around to the back of the trailer. He banged his shin on some dark object and let out a squawk, stumbling, righting himself, and hopping forward. "Oh, goddammit!" he yelled as his other shin slammed into the edge of a lawnmower. But he didn't let the pain impede him. He kept going, stumbling numerous times, agony slicing through both shins, too scared to stop and consider the alternatives. Getting caught by Hudson and Corsetti would be monumentally worse than the two bruised shins he'd have tomorrow. Speckler pogoed around the side of the next trailer and out into the street where his flight was less restricted. Finally, heart stuttering, he reached his car and scrambled inside. With frantic fingers, he twisted the key and the Pontiac grumbled to life. He pulled the headlight knob and lights blazed over the fog-shrouded street. Hudson, caught in the glare as he rounded the corner of the trailer next to Corsetti's, flung his arm up in front of his face, headlights apparently blinding him, but not slowing his progress. Hudson loped towards Speckler's car, picking up speed. Speckler's heart pounded in his throat. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and yanked the steering wheel around. The Pontiac spun ninety degrees. The tires squealed, gravel spewing. On the way out, in his haste to exit the trailer park and avoid Deputy Hudson, Speckler crashed over every speed bump. But he didn't care. He'd worry about his suspension later. He prayed Hudson hadn't gotten a clean look at him or his license plate. * * * * "Who the hell was it?" Worry twisted Corsetti's features, as Hudson re-entered the trailer. "Christ, somebody knows, I'm tellin' you." "Couldn't see his face in all the goddamn fog." Hudson holstered his revolver. "Headlights blinded me, too. He got away before I could catch him or get a license." Corsetti knotted his fingers. "This is bad, I know it. I'm thinkin' maybe we oughta get out of this while we can." "No!" Hudson grabbed two handfuls of Corsetti's stained T-shirt and jerked him close. "All you have to worry about is your end. Don't screw it up, you hear me? You hear me?" Fear leaped onto Corsetti's face. "Yeah. yeah, I hear you." "Good. I'll take care of the rest. I always do. I've covered your ass so far, haven't I?" Corsetti stared, glassy-eyed, blinked. "Haven't I?" Corsetti seemed to shrink under Hudson's glare. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose. But someone must know. Someone's getting too close." Hudson uttered a laugh. "You know, you think too much, Tony. Hell, it was probably just some geek trying to catch a cheating wife and got the wrong trailer." "You think so?" Doubt hung in Corsetti's voice. "Relax." Hudson let Corsetti go, smoothing out his T-shirt. "Nobody has any idea what we're doing." Hudson was lying, but he didn't want trouble from Corsetti while he still had a use for him. After that... Still, a stab of apprehension took him as he wondered who really had been at the window. Baker? He doubted it; he'd been too careful. Who, then? He didn't need problems, not now. He had too much at stake. Not just his job; he didn't give a damn about that. It was just a convenience. But his control, that was a different story. He seriously doubted he could survive without the Strength; he'd been using it for too long. Without it, his darker emotions would rise up, gain dominance. And that wouldn't do -- not until he forced Jenny to be his. Or killed her. "You sure?" Corsetti asked again. "Course, I'm sure." Hudson smiled. "I've covered all the bases. No one suspects." * * * * When Carl Speckler reached his apartment, he bolted his door and left the light off for fifteen minutes. That was how long it took to get his jackhammering heart out of his throat. He breathed deeply, finally beginning to relax. He poured himself a Scotch and gulped it. The liquor soothed him, steadied his nerves. Going to the phone, he plucked it from the cradle and dialed the sheriff's office, knowing Baker'd be working late, as usual. His hands still trembled. "What you got?" asked Baker, after Speckler got him on the line. "A bad case of sour stomach and ten years scared off my life." He informed the sheriff of what had happened and added, "Heard something about Friday night. Don't know what, but I've got a feeling it has something to do with a shipment." "Tomorrow?" asked Baker. "Looks that way." "Well, we'll just have to find a way to keep Mr. Snowcone busy, then, won't we? I'll keep Morrow and Parker on late and get one of them to watch the Cove. Maybe we'll have some luck." "I hope so. My nerves can't take too much more of this." "Cheer up, Speckler. At least you don't get migraines." "Not yet, anyway." Carl hung up. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, he flicked on the TV and sank into the couch, fighting to relax and forget about trailer parks and drugs, at least for tonight. He hoped before this was all over he didn't develop something a lot worse than headaches. * * * * Jenny fell into the big easy chair and said, "Andy's finally asleep -- after an hour of telling me what his school day was like. He'll make some poor girl a wonderful husband someday." Cindy, sitting on the couch, pulled her knees to her chin and locked her arms around her shins. Her feet were bare, toenails painted glittery purple. "What about this mess?" She nudged her head towards the array of Lego Blocks, built into a something, and the superhero figures scattered about the living room floor. "It's supposed to be a Batman fortress." Jenny gave a thin smile. Cindy laughed. "Looks more like a cake I tried to bake once." "Looks like everything you tried to bake once." said Jenny, not really putting herself into the playful insult. "Very funny, sis of mine," said Cindy, half-heartedly. Jenny studied her sister's face. She looked different than she had earlier. Cindy's mood seemed painted with the darker tones of her temperament now. Her sister's personality appeared to change with the weather sometimes. This afternoon, she'd been cheerful, almost giddy; but now her features had set in hard lines tainted with melancholy. Jenny saw signs of manic depression, but getting Cindy to go for help would be a touchy subject -- but lots of subjects were touchy with Cindy lately. "How're we feeling?" asked Cindy, breaking Jenny from her thoughts. "As clear-headed as six cups of coffee can get you." An aching emptiness plagued her over Peg's death, at times mixing with disbelief and denial: Peg couldn't really be dead. The next time she went to work, Peg would be waiting for her in the cafeteria, just like always. They'd talk their girl talk, make plans to go to the Coral, laugh over silly things, just like always. But, no, she'd realize after tears began to flow, it would never again be just like always. Peg was dead and no matter how much she refused to believe it, no matter how strongly she denied it, Peg wouldn't be coming back. Never. When Jenny faced that, when the choking sorrow and pain rushed up inside her, she felt bitter anger fill her heart, anger at the utter senselessness of Peg's death, anger at the inhuman monster who'd murdered her friend. Anger at herself for being so goddamn helpless. She had a feeling the anger would remain, an unwelcome squatter in her soul that only time -- and understanding, if that were ever possible -- might evict. You're the strong one, she told herself. Be strong for Cindy, for Andy. "I guess I feel a little better than I did last night or this morning," she said finally. "Some of the shock is over, but the reality isn't any better. You?" "Fine -- why?" Cindy's eyes narrowed and her mouth formed a tight line. "Oh, because you've been glued to the couch since I went upstairs to put Andy to bed." Cindy shrugged. "Why do I feel one of those sisterly talks coming on?" "What are sisters for?" Jenny tried grinning but didn't get the expression across. She needed to get her mind off Peg and even arguing with Cindy -- for that's what their "talks" invariably turned into -- was a distraction. "We didn't get very far on the phone and you can't hang up on me, now." "It's going to be about Jeff again, isn't it?" Cindy's face pinched further. "Well, why don't we just pretend we already had the talk, okay?" Cindy unfolded her legs and began to get off the couch. "I'm just trying to help you. I don't want to see you make the same mistake I made with Bill." "That's presuming a lot, isn't it?" Cindy turned. Jenny saw fire blazing in her sister's eyes. "You don't even know Jeff. You think because he wears an earring and plays in a band that makes him some sort of freak or something. You'd rather have me going around with one of your nice doctor types with their patent leather shoes and save-the-world attitudes. No thanks, sis. I screwed mediocrity a long time ago and it didn't do anything for me. You don't know Jeff, so how can you make a judgment out of thin air and say he's not good for me?" "I don't care whether he wears an earring or puts a bone through his nose. I just think he's got too many rough edges to be smoothed out and eventually one of those edges is going to cut you. Call it a hunch, but that's how I feel." "Did you have the same hunch with Bill?" Cindy's eyes flashed. "Because if you did, it shows how much your hunches are worth, doesn't it? The words stung. "Cindy, that's not fair." "What the hell's fair in this world?" Her voice rose. "Maybe you're just jealous because my judgment is better than yours." Jenny knew she was getting nowhere. Cindy's stubbornness and ice-pick cynicism had set in with her down mood. "Look, I'm older and -- " "God, Jen, then you should know by now you have to trust me a little. I'm not a child anymore. You don't have to come running every time -- " Cindy cut off the words. A ball of frustration tightened in Jenny's belly. Dammit, she thought. Every time Cindy began to open up a little, she caught herself and closed off. Why couldn't she reach her sister? Why couldn't she help Cindy the way she helped others? Was it because she was too close to the situation and any advice came out heavy-handed, too much like interference instead of compassion? "Cindy, listen to me, please. You've got your whole life ahead of you and I don't want to run it for you -- I really don't. I just want to see you make the right choices, not the ones I made, the ones I -- " "The ones you feel guilty about?" Cindy glared, hands jammed to her hips. "I don't need your guilt, sis. I've got plenty of my own." "That's not what I meant and you know it." Jenny stood, frustration sending waves of heat into her cheeks. "Isn't it?" Jenny's lips tightened into a frown. She knew it was useless trying to get through when Cindy was defensive. But it was her own fault; Peg had given her sound advice and she had ignored it. "Why do we always fight when we talk?" Resignation crept into Jenny's voice. "I don't know. I really don't. But we do. And nothing changes." "No, it doesn't." "Maybe if you'd let me grow up, it would." Cindy turned and stalked towards the stairs. Jenny let her go; it would be useless to stop her and she didn't know what else she could say. Her own grief weighed too heavily on her mind to think straight right now. Jenny sighed and walked to the window. She stared out into the foggy night with a mixture of feelings, gaze absently wandering to Mrs. Gaumont's boarding house. Sooner or later Cindy would understand what Jenny was trying to tell her, what she was trying to do for her. Or is it you who needs to understand? All right, maybe she hadn't let her sister grow up. Maybe she had trapped Cindy in that little-girl-lost world. Maybe she just wanted to make something right that never would be. Maybe she was the one who couldn't let go, because if she did she was afraid she'd suddenly feel more empty and alone with her anger than she'd ever felt before. "If you weren't so pig-headed, you'd have understood that by now," she mumbled. That's why you always fight when you talk to her. Because you really want to fight with Dudley. You want to scream at him and maybe you even want to kill him and he cheated you of that. And since you can't fight with him, Cindy's the next best thing. You've been so stupid. So why not talk to her like a person instead of reprimanding her like a child? Better get that through your thick head because you're losing her. Just like you lost -- Paul? Dammit. Is that what she intended to think? Maybe she even felt guilty over that. Why not? She'd lost Bill and Peg and now she was losing Cindy, so why not throw Paul in for good measure? You're just feeling sorry for yourself... Jenny leaned against the side of the window, growing lost in her thoughts and confusion, as she stared out into the night. She felt so empty and cold inside. So alone. Where was all that strength she had preached about to others when she really needed it? Who could she lean on? -------- *(12)* The principal's office was crowded with the usual things -- a cluttered desk, file cabinets, water cooler -- except for a poster of The Monkees tacked to one wall, the cover shot from their "Then & Now..." album. The principal, Michael Hayes, proffered his hand and Paul accepted. Tuffs of red-blond hair stuck out from either side of Principal Hayes's head, giving him a perpetual unkempt look. His hairline receded as far as possible without meeting the back of his head. Paul guessed him to be about 35, but had the impression of an aging hippie. A wrinkled brown suit completed the package. Paul lowered himself into a chair and tried not to wring his hands. He glanced at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. In the ten years since he'd stepped foot inside Dark Harbor High School little had changed except the principal. The air still reeked of chalk dust and floor wax, cheap cologne and body odor. The school appeared to have more students, now, every one of them looking infinitely older for teenagers than they had when Paul walked its hallowed halls. "Not bad." Principal Hayes' gaze lifted from the resume Paul had handed him. "Moved around a lot?" "Rambling fever, but I think I'm here to stay this time. You know, hometown homesick and all that." Paul had surprised himself coming to Dark Harbor High for a job. The thought of staying had been rolling around in his mind a lot since first occurring to him yesterday. But actually acting upon it, he had thought, was another story. Still, if he did stay, even if only for a few months, he needed money. What little savings he had wouldn't hold out much longer. "Don't worry about it." Hayes waved his hand. "Used to do that quite a bit myself, back in the Sixties -- before they caught up with me for Nam, anyway." Paul nodded, relieved, and added a few years to the man's age estimate. "Well," continued Hayes, "we don't have a whole lot of crop to choose the good ears from in Dark Harbor, so to speak. And we do need a summer baby-sitter, er, make that teacher. Some of our casualties, you could say." As Hayes spoke, Paul's impression of a misplaced hippie strengthened. "Casualties?" "Quite frankly, the obnoxious bastards who have nothing better to do than cut class ninety percent of the time or light fires in the bathrooms. Daydream Believers, I call them. Get the picture?" "Delinquents." Paul frowned. "Ain't like it used to be. Some even carry guns nowadays. Had any experience with problem kids?" "A little," Paul lied. What the hell? He needed the job. Hayes shifted in his chair, finger sliding back and forth across his upper lip. Paul started to feel more uneasy. "Oaky-doaky, you've got yourself a job. I'll be frank with you, though, it's more because nobody else wants it than what's in your resume. I'd be lying if I told you it was going to be a cakewalk. You'll have your hands full." "I'll give it a shot." The job wasn't quite what he had hoped for, but he wasn't in the position to turn anything down. "You might have to -- give it a shot, I mean." He laughed at his own joke, then stood and walked around to the front of the desk. Paul got up and pumped the principal's out-stretched hand again, then started for the door, Hayes escorting him. "'Bout two weeks left till summer vaycay. Give me a call then we'll settle the details." Paul gripped the doorhandle. "Should be a ... challenge." "Should be a war zone. Say, you like The Monkees?" Hayes jerked a thumb to the poster. Paul nodded, trying to recall at least one of their songs. "Greatest pop group to come out of the Sixties." A reverent light blinked in Hayes' eyes. "Got me through Nam, listening to their tapes. Better than the Beatles. Those New Monkees sucked, though, if you ask me." "Haven't seen them but I'm sure you're right." Paul closed the door behind him and walked down the empty hallway. He remembered when he and Jenny used to do that. He thought back to his senior year, Christmas assembly: the chorus had just completed "Silent Night", and while the rest of the kids were piling out in an unruly wave, eager to get on with their holiday vacation, Jenny had Paul had stayed behind. She'd brought a sprig of mistletoe and, pulling him behind the stage curtain, held it over her head. That kiss, sweet and soft and arousing, had lasted all vacation week. The bell jangled for the end of third period, breaking Paul's reverie. He hurried to the front door, eager to leave. Remembering the mad scramble to get to the next class, he had no wish to be caught in the frenzied rush of students that would momentarily burst from the classroom doors. * * * * Mrs. Gaumont dragged a chair to the kitchen window -- no mean feat, if she did say so herself, because her arthritis shot deep burning pains through her hands as she did so. Paul had brought her some of that heating cream, but so far it hadn't helped much. Seems the damn arthritis just got worse instead of better, you know. Some days she could barely move her fingers at all. Lowering her bulk into the chair, she began to scan the street. She sipped from a cup of Cafe Vienna, then set the cup on the saucer resting on the sill. She wondered where Paul had gotten off to so early; she missed drinking Vienna with him. She looked forward to their chats and she did have so few people to talk to. True, she expected that anytime now the summer visitors would start coming in -- though she had to admit they didn't flock to the boarding house the way they used to when Franklyn was alive. But it wasn't the same. Mrs. Gaumont thought she had developed a special relationship with Paul, a relationship that might replace the son she never had. And with little Andy being like a grandson... She wished to God Franklyn and she could have had children of their own. They'd just been so busy living their lives and getting the business going -- well, who had time to stop and think about raising little ones? She wasn't being quite honest with herself, was she? That was just the excuse she'd made up, maybe the one she even thought she'd eventually come to believe. It was her fault they didn't have children. The doctor had told her she was barren. Barren; how she despised that word. Perhaps defective would have suited her better. It all amounted to the same hill of beans: she couldn't conceive, plain and simple. And Franklyn, dear man, never said much about it. But in her secret thoughts she knew how much it hurt him. Mrs. Gaumont noticed the emptiness more now. All this time on her hands, time to think about the things they never had, time to miss Franklyn more than ever. Oh, stop it, you! she scolded herself. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself this minute or you're going to cry again. Still, one question plagued her, one she couldn't force away no matter how hard she tried: Why hadn't she been the first to go? For the second time in her life, she thought, the Good Lord had let her down. Mrs. Gaumont took another sip of her coffee. Her heart felt hollow and her soul felt empty. She hated it when she got herself into one of these moods, but she couldn't help it. Sometimes the loneliness ached in her bones worse than the darn arthritis. At least she could take aspirin for that. For the rest, well, she had the simple pleasure of watching All in the Family and remembering. And tonight All in the Family was going to be special; little Andy was coming over. That would cheer her up. She was glad she'd baked that fresh batch of cookies. She could hardly wait until tonight. She simply relished the times when Andy visited. She could help raise him right, the way a grandmother should. Lord only knew she had her work cut out for her, reversing some of the bad habits he was bound to pick up from Cindy. Cindy stayed out till three in the morning sometimes and had a most disconcerting habit or parading around nude in front of her bedroom window for God and everyone to see. Cindy, in her humble opinion, was a bit of a hussy. That couldn't be a good influence on a child. She'd have to remember to make sure Andy remembered to call Cindy "Dingbat", too. For some reason, that tickled her pink. Tonight's visit would also give her a perfect opportunity to try out a little plan she'd formed. Oh, yes, she remembered Franklyn scolding her over and over to keep her nose out of other people's love lives, but this time she couldn't resist. It was the least she could do for Paul. He'd been so nice to her. The plan was perfect. Jenny was going to be at the Coral with Cindy. When Paul got back, she'd make a point of telling him that information. After all, she already had a head start; they'd dated in high school and it'd be a downright shame if she didn't help Paul out. She'd seen the way he'd looked at Jenny through the window. And he'd made her feel less alone, less like a silly old woman who considered her life wasted and who thought of checking into one of them nursing homes because she couldn't stand the loneliness anymore. She could at least repay Paul for that, you know. Besides, Andy needed a father, plain and simple. Franklyn would understand. Well, then, it was decided. She wondered why people always made the world so complicated. Mrs. Gaumont smiled an took a sip of her coffee, thinking that, yes, just this once, Franklyn would understand. * * * * When Paul came into the kitchen a short time later, he could tell Mrs. Gaumont had something on her mind. Since leaving Principal Hayes' office, he'd caught himself whistling "Daydream Believer" and stopped in mid-whistle upon seeing the old woman perched by the window, staring out. She jolted and let out a shrill "Gracious!" when he said hi. "Sorry," said Paul. "Seems as if I'm always scaring you." Mrs. Gaumont took in a rattling breath and her hand went to her bosom. "Oh, no mind, no mind, Paul. Just absorbed in my thoughts -- that's why I didn't hear you coming, you understand." "Of course." Paul grinned. "What are we looking at?" He nudged his head towards the window. Mrs. Gaumont flushed a little. "Oh, just watching a plane go by." "Didn't hear it." Paul guessed she'd been checking out the neighborhood again. He shrugged. "Out bright and early again? I missed you for coffee." "Getting to be a habit, isn't it? Had a job interview at Dark Harbor High School. Start teaching summer classes in a couple weeks." "Oh, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Gaumont beamed. "So you've decided to stay a spell, that means." "Looks that way. Maybe I need to settle down for a while." "Oh, I'm so glad. We need some Stanfords back in Dark Harbor. Balances out the Courtwrights, you know." "I'm afraid I'll be a little needle in a big haystack, as far as that's concerned, Mrs. G." "Never know..." The motherly look welded onto her face, making Paul nervous. "By the way -- " Oh-oh, Paul thought, here it comes. He let out a mental sigh. " -- you'll get to meet little Andy tonight -- if'n you'd like to come watch All in the Family with us. Doctor Jenny and Cindy are going to the Coral for a bit and they asked me to take care of him." Paul tensed, despite himself. He didn't think he managed to keep the startled look completely off his face. Hey, Paul, here's your big chance. Jenny's just been dropped right into your lap. Why not go to the Coral and talk over old times -- Hey, remember me? I'm the guy who left you ten years ago but now I'm back and ready to screw with your head all over again. Think it over good this time, Paul. Paul shook off his thoughts, suddenly realizing he'd been spoken to. "W-what?" "I asked, what's wrong? You're all white again." Concern played on Mrs. Gaumont's face. "Nothing." His tone wasn't the least bit convincing and he knew it. "Must be a touch of that exhaustion catching up with me." "Oh." The old woman nodded. She looked doubtful and Paul couldn't blame her. "Well, you're more than welcome to join us, there you. Of course, if you had other plans I'd understand..." A slight wink made her intent more obvious than it was already. No dialing and hanging up before somebody answers this time, Paul. Survey says -- You can have what you want, so why are you complaining? Well, thought Paul, if he had truly came back to see what he could recapture with Jenny, then it had just been made childishly easy for him, God bless Mrs. Gaumont. So why not? New job, new life, all served up on a silver platter. What if the platter's tarnished and you just can't see it, Paul? "We'll see," said Paul at last. "We'll see." * * * * Baker smiled to himself as he sent a dart whizzing through the air. The board rattled as the dart thucked into the bullseye. "What's the matter, Hudson?" From the corner of his eye, he saw the deputy start as the dart hit. "You seem a little edgy today." Baker walked over to the board and yanked out the darts. Hudson glanced up from his desk and said, "Nothing's the matter." He's lying, Baker thought. "Game?" "Maybe later." Baker caught the look of suspicion in Hudson's eyes. The deputy seemed to be trying to pinpoint something -- trying to fathom what, if anything, the sheriff knew about the incident at Corsetti's trailer last night, he bet. Baker kept his face straight, denying Hudson the satisfaction. "How 'bout at the Coral tonight? Loser buys the beer." Hudson stared, the veil of suspicion growing thicker. He quickly tried to hide the look, however. Baker thought: if it's a game you want to play, Hudson, it's a game you'll get. "Unless you've got something more important to do, of course?" Baker drilled Hudson with his gaze, challenging him. "No ... no." Anger shoved the suspicion aside as the deputy backed down. "Nothing more important." "Good. It's settled, then." Baker turned back to the board. "I guess it is," said Hudson. Baker tossed the darts again, then went back to his desk and fell into his chair. He shuffled through the reports of Dr. Margaret Fox's murder, which had come in a short time ago. For the third time, he examined the photo of the bloody footprint taken from the lab floor. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "What'd they find?" asked Hudson. Baker looked up, suddenly realizing the deputy had been staring at him all the while. "Huh?" "What'd the lab find?" "Diddly squat, after you wade through the technical garbage Sanchez at the lab seems so intent on jamming down my throat. We got a size 12 footprint, men's. If we find a Cinderella to match it, we'll be goddamn lucky." "Anything on the roof? The upper floors?" "Nope. However our killer escaped, he didn't go up. From all indications he went across the parking lot. Lab found traces of blood, body fluids on the asphalt, but they only went a hundred feet or so then stopped." "Blood? You mean from Dr. Fox?" "Some of it." Baker wondered why Hudson was being uncharacteristically curious. Then it dawned on him: Hudson was worried the investigation might somehow lead to the drug traffic. The deputy was keeping tabs on what Baker thought, did, suspected, ready to divert him if the paths of the drug traffic and the murder threatened to intersect. Baker smiled inwardly. Maybe Speckler had thrown a little scare into Hudson after all. "You'd think all that blood would have belonged to Dr. Fox," Baker continued. "But it didn't. Lab found another type mixed in. Weird." "What's weird about it? The guy probably cut himself going though the window." "That's what I would have thought, but it matched the blood type on Corsetti's records, as if old Jake decided he'd had his fill of being dead, got up and waltzed across the parking lot into the night. Freakin' strange, all right. And impossible." "What was all that other stuff on the floor?" Baker absently began to rub the back on his neck. "Skin. Traces of human skin. Big traces, like a human snake or something. Body secretions, too. Can't tell who it belongs to at this point." Baker cringed inside. A nagging suspicion had latched onto his thoughts, telling him to whom the skin traces belonged: Jake Corsetti. It gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his belly. He damn well didn't like the direction this case was taking. "Nice, huh?" Hudson nodded, blank-faced. "Maybe Corsetti came back to life and killed her. Maybe he's a zombie." "Very funny, Hudson." Baker wondered why that thought disturbed him. "You've been watching too many horror movies." Hudson uttered the closest thing to a humorous laugh Baker had ever heard from him. "What'd you find on new arrivals?" "Easier than I thought -- only ten until Wednesday night. Mrs. Fletcher's daughter flew in from Kansas City with her three brats, so that accounts for four out of the ten -- course, one of the kids might have done it." "Save me the stupid humor, okay?" Baker found himself growing annoyed. "The Hanson family's son came in with his wife -- shoot two more. Couple of Canadians and their kid -- not likely suspects. Only loner I dug up was a Paul Stanford when I made a check of the boarding houses and hotels." "Stanford..." Recognition lit on Baker's face. "Been a while since I heard that name around here. Didn't think there were any left." "Yeah?" "Never mind. Before your time, I guess." "I suppose." Hudson nodded. "Where's this Paul Stanford staying?" "Gaumont's Boarding house, over on -- " "I know where it is. I go there often enough. Nice old lady, but will talk your ear off. I'll check on it. Anything in his record? I assume you checked that like a good little deputy." Hudson glared. "No. Pretty clean. A few speeding tickets. Moved around a lot. Born and raised here in Dark Harbor. Left about ten years ago. Maybe you expected killer to be stamped across his file in red ink?" Baker ignored the sarcasm. "I don't know what I expected. Maybe just a place to start." Baker became silent. He glanced over the reports a final time then shoved them into the manila envelope, along with the crime scene photos. It didn't make sense. What he hadn't mentioned to Hudson was that the size 12 footprint seemed to have no identifying characteristics, now whorls and texture, no print. As if the murderer had no skin on his feet, the notion struck him. He was being silly. It was just a costume of some sort, some skin-tight footglove or something easily explainable. Why was he jumping to conclusions? And why didn't he believe that? A headache began as another question rose unbidden in his mind: What had come into Dark Harbor Wednesday? And what would it do next? * * * * Cindy poised nude in front of the bathroom mirror, examining her small round breasts. She cupped them and shoved them up, sighing. Uh-huh, she thought, only nineteen and the Bobsey Twins are starting to sag already. Great. Just great. Well, Jenny was right again -- all those times she'd nagged her about wearing a bra ... Cindy had given herself the pencil test -- take a pencil and place it under any old breast; if the pencil didn't fall, well, it was high time to start listening to Jane Russell and buy one of those Cross-Your-Hearts instead of the black lace numbers she liked to wear for Jeff. Lifts and separates, she heard Jane say in her mind. Good thing she wanted to be a singer instead of a Playboy model, but she pictured herself more like Britney Spears than Jane. And sooner or later Jeff would have to agree to let her sing a couple numbers -- if she kept nagging him. That was her main interest in him, though she hated to admit it and never would to Jenny. She wanted to prove to her sister that just once she could make a decision on her own, that Jenny didn't have to lead her around by the hand for the rest of her life. It goaded her that Jenny was so damn right all the time. Cindy knew she shouldn't have talked to Jenny that way last night. Her sister was just being overprotective. But dammit! she needed to make her own mistakes. The worst part was Jenny was probably right about Jeff, too. He wasn't the type to settle down. She'd met him at the Coral almost a year ago, back when the Inn had experimented with live bands. Cindy knew Jeff wouldn't amount to anything nationally, but he did have some local contacts. His band, the Unbreds, was on the verge of signing with some rinky-dink record label and if Cindy tagged along and Jeff let her sing ... well, maybe she'd get a break. Cindy blew out another sigh and went to the tub. She adjusted the knobs until water streamed hot from the tap and steam clouds wafted up. Grabbing a box from the counter, she dumped in some of Andy's Mr. Bubble. The tub filled with puffy white clouds. When the clouds reached the tub rim, threatening to spill over and really give Jenny something to have a piss-fit about, she turned off the water. Testing the water with her toe first, she slipped into the white clouds, letting them engulf her. The hot water soothed her tense muscles and tension trickled out. Okay, so maybe she had been a little rough on Jenny; maybe her goddamn temper had gotten the better of her. Sometimes she just couldn't stop herself. Jenny would understand. She always did. They'd had plenty of fights before, more than their share. Cindy would talk to her about it tonight at the Coral, clear the air. Sinking deeper into the clouds, she massaged her shoulders. Her hands drifted to her breasts, kneading them, then stroking in increasingly smaller circle until her nipples distended and punctured the Mr. Bubble clouds. She liked the feel of her body, slick and soft, didn't mind giving herself pleasure. At least that was safe. Trickles of water wandered over her smooth shoulders and chest and a warm tingling quivered low in her abdomen as her fingers slid over her belly. She drew in a deep breath and let it out, relaxing more. Her eyelids fluttered closed. She imagined herself stretched out on a bed, her nude body electric with sensations: trembles, warmth, wanting. Her bosom gently rose and fell, ripe with expectation. A thin film of sweat glossed her skin like a fine oil. Jeff poised above her, his long dark hair teasing her flesh and making her insides feel like warm shifting beads. She closed her eyes as his tongue flicked over her hardened nipples. His mouth explored her abdomen with small tingling kisses. His thin hands caressed her thighs, kneading the muscles in long tapering strokes, fingertips paying minute attention to every curve and secret place. His tongue found her, her sex moist and open to him, lingering, probing. Then he worked his way upward again and his lips caressed her neck with gentle kisses. His bristly unshaven face pressed close to hers, rough and arousing against her skin. She moaned as liquid fire blazed in her belly, engulfing her with small explosions of intense pleasure. Cindy's eyes fluttered open; she wanted -- needed -- to see his face, grow lost in his eyes as he thrust deep into her. But where she expected to see passion, trust, she suddenly saw something else, something hideous and shocking. At once, sex was no longer a beautiful caring expression of love; it was a sin. Jeff was gone. The hard bed she lay on was no longer her own. The decor of the surrounding room appeared grotesque, a scene from a child's nightmare. She recognized the room, the obscenity from the past. She remembered every crevice and dark corner, from the sickly pink-flowered wallpaper to the porcelain merry-go-round perched like a vulture atop the peeling veneer dresser. "Oh please God," she moaned, suddenly frozen. Her body and mind locked with terror, the rigor of dark secrets laid bare. As if in answer to her plea, the merry-go-round began to turn, slowly at first, its notes distorted, dragged out. Then it picked up speed and she heard the tine to "Around the World in Eighty Days" ring out, a maniacal chiming that had burned itself upon her memory. She remembered this hell room, as if it had been a tomb in which she'd been buried alive. She had spent part of her twelfth year there, after her parents died -- the room at her uncle's. She was trapped there again, trapped as she had been then, chained to the awkward womanhood of her puberty and the cellar of her soul. The room darkened, suffused with gloom and obscene shadows that seemed alive on the floors, walls, ceiling. She noticed a light had blinked on in the far corner, a night light that barely illuminated the room. Across the room, the door creaked open and her heart pounded in her throat. A dark bulky figure filled the doorway, a swaying black goblin. Then the goblin entered, leaving the door ajar. Dim light from the hall sliced across the bed. She clutched handfuls of her flannel nightgown, damp with cold sweat and tears, gripping it so tightly her fingers ached. The black goblin staggered to the bed and hovered over her, breathing heavily. She wondered if he could hear her thudding heart. Her muscles locked as rough hands grasped her nightgown. She felt it being lifted in jerky increments. Dark silence, broken only by the goblin's raspy breathing, crushed her like a weight, making her own breathing shallow, painful. She felt her blood rushing through her veins and roaring in her ears. Though she couldn't yet see the goblin's face clearly, she saw it in her mind, an image imprinting itself forever on her memory. A chilling surety swelled within her and she clutched the blanket, trying to pull it over her body with one hand while the other hand struggled to pull down her nightgown. Thick groping hands tore the blanket away, then grabbed her small arms and forced them to her sides, pinning them to the bed. Her heart beat faster, faster, faster, stuttering in her throat like a fragile bird's heart. She wished she could choke on it, escape the goblin. But there was no escape. Only terror, pain. The door creaked again; it opened about a foot, stopped. The sliver of light across the bed widened. "Please, Dudley, leave her be," a woman's hoarse voice pleaded. "Mother Mary, she's just a little girl. Please don't do this again." Aunt Agie's voice. Cindy twisted her head until she could see her aunt standing in the doorway, face a mask of fear and supplication. That was as far as the old woman ever came, as much as she ever pleaded. Above Cindy, a harsh laugh sounded and her gaze shifted back to the goblin. A burst of putrid breath assailed her nostrils. Spittle dotted her face. She stared into the shadowed features of her Uncle Dudley, more visible now as he leaned towards her. Cindy began to mew like the kitten she had seen her uncle drown. She felt like that kitten, a helpless thing gripped by cruelty, forced under the water until it couldn't cry or breath or live. But she did live; that was the worst part of it. Her cries seemed to infuriate her uncle. His hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sounds. His skin tasted bitter, repulsive, embedded with a milky sourness and she suddenly wanted to throw up. She screamed in her mind, but it came out her mouth merely a whimper. She couldn't hold the sound back. She knew she'd made a mistake letting the sound escape. Uncle Dudley's hand drew back and crashed into her face. Her head rocked and the whole room spun, an entangled blur of light and dark and smeared faces that spun in time to the tinkling merry-go-round. As her senses cleared, pain throbbing in her cheek, she could only stare pleadingly at her aunt in the doorway. Watching. Only watching. Cindy pressed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the horrible sight of his face and praying the darkness would take her. Please God I'll do anything you say just don't let him touch me again -- "Uncle Dudley's here, sweetie-pie." His voice stabbed her. She pressed her eyelids tighter together and tried to drown out the sound of his thundering words. But they shattered her thoughts, smothered her hope. "Got something for you, Cindy. Got something you're gonna love." He laughed, a goblin laugh that could only have been gifted by the Devil she'd heard so much about in Sunday School. His reeking breath made her want to gag, but she held it back. That would only make him hurt her worse. God, she wished Jenny was here, wished Jenny would come and take her away from this awful place. But she couldn't even tell Jenny because Dudley had told her God would strike her dead if she told anyone about the things he did to her. She knew he always read her letters to Jenny before mailing them. "Got a new toy," said Dudley, pressing closer. Words he'd babbled a hundred times before, no less repulsive, no less terrifying. His stench clawed at her senses. I'm going to puke, she thought. I'm going to puke in his face and then he's going to kill me but dying would be better than this. Anything would be better than this. "Wake up, sweetie-pie." Slurred words. Fire breath. Sour sweat. He was so drunk he'd forgotten she was awake a second ago. Cindy kept her eyes pressed shut. She prayed to God over and over -- Jesus loves the little children... -- because she knew if she opened them he would be there, hovering over her, a horrible unwashed demon. A night demon. Wet lips slid over her face. Cindy tried to press herself into the bed, sickened. Nausea and disgust exploded within her in great rolling waves. Drool slithered from the corner of Dudley's mouth and dripped onto her lips. Bile shot into her throat, stinging, burning, forcing her to open her mouth. Some of the drool slid in as she did, slick and sour like cold bacon fat mixed with vinegar. She gagged, unable to stop herself. "Goddamn little bitch!" Dudley's voice thundered through the black fog suddenly swirling up in her mind. He slapped her again, but her mind whirled a bit slower this time. The merry-go-round's tune dragged itself across the sudden silence. "Open your eyes!" Dudley's tone was pregnant with rage. "I want you to see me, you goddamn ungrateful child! Can't even look at your uncle after all I've done for you." Cindy opened her eyes. Dully, she saw his goblin face suspended in the darkness above her like a Halloween mask. He grinned. In the doorway, Aunt Agie watched, frail veiny hands pressed to her cheeks. Her face betrayed fear and disgust, but also resignation, and Cindy hated her for it. "Please don't," she managed to say, knowing it was useless. "Please don't hurt me again." Her voice trembled, barely audible. "I ain't gonna hurt you, Cindy, darlin'. Uncle Dudley loves you and he'd never do that. "Why?" Cindy murmured. "Why are you doing this to me?" For an instant, Dudley stopped. The closet thing to compassion she'd ever seen in him crossed his eyes. "Because ... because I can't stop myself..." Then the dullness washed back into his gaze. "Because you deserve it, you little bitch! BECAUSE YOU LIKE IT!" Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, becoming a river, a tidal wave. She wished she could drown in them, like the kitten. Oh God why can't I just die? Then Dudley's face receded into the distance, as if what was happening to her was really happening to someone else, a dream maybe. The black fog swirled around his far away features, engulfing them. She no longer cared what happened, because the blackness was her friend, her only friend. It hid her from the goblin, let her escape -- Cindy jerked up in the tub, water splashing over the side onto the floor. Tears streaked down her face and sobs wracked her body. She had let herself go too deep, inviting the memory back in, the one that sometimes laughed at her in her darkest nightmares. How she hated the bastard for what he had done to her. How she hated her aunt for letting it happen. She remembered the cruel elation she felt the day Dudley, drunk out of his mind, ended the problem by stepping in front of a train at the railyard where he worked. She hadn't stopped laughing until her throat was raw. Perhaps there was a God. Then, teary-eyed, she'd written Jenny. Jenny and Bill had mailed her a plane ticket and she'd snuck out one day while Agie was out, hitching her way to the airport. She told Jenny little of what had happened, but she knew the counselors her sister made her go to had filled in some of the blanks. Three months later, she learned Agie's heart had burst and the old bitch had croaked. Jenny said that happened a lot with older people, that sometimes one couldn't live without the other. Cindy had shrugged, but felt as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, if not from her nightmares and memory. Now, every once in a while, when she relaxed and let her guard down, the terror of that time rushed back. She knew she'd never be able to forget what happened. The sight of Dudley's face was embedded in her mind. She wished she could have killed him herself. Maybe then he'd be gone for good. Cindy took a deep breath. The water had gone tepid and annoyed her now. Climbing out of the tub, she wrapped herself in a towel. She brushed a stray tear from her cheek. She hoped, prayed, someday she'd be able to talk to Jenny about it, but didn't know how long it would take. All she knew was she desperately needed her sister's help. But, for now, she couldn't even ask. Not without going to pieces. -------- *(13)* Jenny gazed at the lacquered lobster mounted to the wall above the booth she and Cindy had taken near the back and tried not to laugh. "Better Homes should see this." She pointed and took a sip of her light beer, then shook her head. Long tresses of auburn hair fell over her shoulders, reddish tint highlighted by the dim light. The Coral was still quiet, about half full, but it was early. Patrons had just started to filter in. A trickle now, within an hour it would be a steady stream. Across the table, Cindy made a half-hearted attempt at laughing and Jenny knew depression still gripped her sister. "Cindy, about last night..." "No." Cindy held up her hand. "It's okay. It's my fault for taking your head off the way I did. I've been thinking about it all day and I know I was wrong." "Well, I'm sorry, anyway. I know I have no right to butt my way into your life. But please understand I do it because I love you, not because I want to control you." "I realize that, Jen. And you're probably right -- the way you always are." Cindy shook her head and spread her hands in a defeated gesture. "I don't know what it is. Sometimes I just get this anger inside me. I don't know why it's there and I don't know how to deal with it. I can't get it out. It just builds and builds and gets in the way. Sometimes I just feel like screaming, it's so frustrating." "I think if you took a good look you'd know why it's there." Jenny's face turned serious. "Maybe." She frowned. "But I'm scared to look that deep." "If you talked about your problems, it'd help. What happened just won't go away by itself. It has to be kicked out -- sort of like that no-good ex-husband of mine." Jenny smiled. "And least he did you a favor and left. Mine won't leave and I can't file for a divorce." "Well, pretend I'm an emotional lawyer; at least if you talk to me I can get you a temporary separation." Jenny's smile widened. While she wished Cindy would open up to her, she couldn't force it. "You can talk to me, you know." "I know -- but not yet. I don't know why." Cindy's lips tightened. "I wish I could forget the whole goddamn thing, lock it away somewhere where it can't get out, where it can't hurt me." "That's not possible, Cindy. It does get out." Jenny took Cindy's hand, squeezed it. "It seeps through the cracks and hurts you all over again. It will keep hurting until you find a way to deal with it." "That's easy for you to say." Cindy frowned. "You've always had your life under control while I was screwing up." Jenny uttered a flat laugh. "Don't bet on it. I've got my share of regrets and hurts. They're different and I've managed to deal with most of them. But a few still haunt me." Paul? Jenny tensed as his name entered her mind again. Didn't that regret, that hurt, haunt her the most? Didn't that one thing remain unresolved? And didn't she wish he'd walk back into her life? "What's wrong, Jen?" Concern etched onto Cindy's face. "Nothing." Jenny shook her head. "I just happened to think of someone I used to know, that's all." "Paul?" Cindy raised an eyebrow. Shock filtered onto Jenny's face. She hadn't dreamt Cindy even remembered him, let alone pulled his name out of thin air. "How did you know I was thinking of him?" she asked in an incredulous tone. "Oh, I'm quite psychic." Cindy grinned and sipped her marguerita. "You're quite full of it, too!" Jenny cast her a doubt-filled look. Cindy spread her hands. "All right, so I heard you blabbing away in your sleep last night. You yelled 'Paul' three times -- sounded like a hot one too. Maybe you should get out more." Cindy wagged her hand and gave Jenny a sly wink. "Oh, great, a peeping Jane." Jenny flushed. "I'd like to keep my dreams to myself, if you don't mind." "How could I help it? You woke me up. And if you do it again, I'm sending it to the Enquirer." Cindy grinned; she seemed to be cheering up and Jenny felt glad. "Don't you dare." "So who's this Paul guy, huh?" "You're doing a great job of changing the subject." Jenny waved her finger. "So don't think I didn't notice." "You caught me." Cindy slapped her hands on the table. "Slap on the cuffs -- but I still want to know." "Paul Stanford." Cindy laughed. "Now there's a name from the cedar chest. I haven't heard you mention him in ages -- how old was I, nine? Ten?" "You were nine and a little puke who always followed us around." Cindy stuck out her tongue and Jenny chuckled. "God, I remember how hung up on him you were, and how you moped around after he left -- drove me crazy!" "Serves you right." "So what brought him back from the dead?" asked Cindy. Jenny cringed, despite herself. Paul could be dead for all she knew. "I don't know. Nostalgia, I guess. I just started thinking about him the day ... Peg died. You know how you just sometimes think of old boyfriends you haven't seen for years?" "Ooo, maybe it's a premonition. Maybe he's going to walk back into your life soon, you know, like 'you'll meet a tall dark handsome stranger'." Cindy said it in her best gypsy voice, then cackled for effect. "I doubt that. Paul was the restless type. He's probably out exploring the world." "Don't be so sure. People change. Everybody has some of that in them when they're young, but ten years is a long time. Most people start to settle down once they get over the hill." "Hey!" Jenny took a swat at Cindy, missing by a mile. "I resent that." "Just kidding -- I hope I look as good as you when I get that old." "Watch it. You're still not too old to put over my knee." Cindy gave Jenny a loud raspberry, then took another sip of her diet Coke. "And you're changing the subject again," said Jenny. "Okay, make you a deal: you don't discuss Jeff and I don't get pissed off." Cindy raised an eyebrow. "Some deal, Mrs. Trump." Jenny's face turned serious again. "But I am sorry -- and I'll try not to bring it up again or fawn over you as much as I have." "Well, maybe you could fawn just a little." Cindy winked and Jenny reached over and squeezed her hand. "So what time is the louse -- I mean Jeff meeting us?" Jenny smirked. Cindy stuck her lower lip out in a pout. "Keep it up, sis of mine. He's gotta play till one, so I was thinking -- " "You were thinking maybe I'd let you take the car when we were through, so you could trot your little ass down to Portland to see him." "Caught again. Well, something like that. Maybe." "No maybe. I know you better than that. I'll make it easy on you this time." Jenny reached into her purse and pulled out her car keys. She tossed them on the table. "Go ahead, take the car. I'll catch a cab home." "Really?" A trace of suspicion laced Cindy's voice. "You sure? I could drive you home first." "You could drive me? Nooo thanks. I don't need the stress." "Phfttt!" "Seriously, I'd kind of like to stay here awhile. You and Peg were right: I need to start getting out more -- and do more things with Andy, too." "Well, this is a first, you admitting I was right on something. Write it down." "Very funny." "You sure you don't mind? Wait a minute, what's the catch?" "No catch, except..." "I knew it! Well, let me have it." "Okay, just this: When you are ready to talk about what happened, about what you feel, you come to me first." "Sure, Jen." A dark look crossed her face. "You'll be the first. But I don't know when that will be, or even if it will be. You understand?" "I understand. Now get outta here." "Thanks. I really mean that." Cindy stood, leaned over and gave Jenny a hug and kiss on the cheek, then walked away. As Jenny sat alone in the booth, she wondered whether she had done the right thing. Only time would tell, but she hoped that maybe she and her sister had become a little but closer. * * * * "Paul this is Andy; Andy this is Paul," said Mrs. Gaumont, pride obvious in her voice. Her face beamed with the motherly look -- make that grandmotherly look, amended Paul. He had walked into the kitchen to see the old woman pouring milk into a glass. A cherub-faced boy with sandy-brown hair and blue eyes sat at the table, munching a cookie. Looking at the child, Paul found himself thinking: that boy could have been mine. He doesn't look like Jenny. He looks like me when I was a kid. The thought unearthed an odd sadness, the sadness of having lost something he'd never had. "Pleased to meet you, Andy," Paul said. Andy stuffed the rest of his cookie into his mouth. "Hi, Mr. Stanford," the boy said after he swallowed. Good manners. That was Jenny; she'd make sure of that. "Isn't he such a nice boy?" Mrs. Gaumont set the glass of milk on the table. "A big one, too. That's his third cookie. We were just about to watch All in the Family. Want to join us, there you?" "Oh, I think I'll have to pass this one up. But I'll take a raincheck." Mrs. Gaumont eyed him. "Wouldn't per chance be goin' to the Coral, would you? Not that I'm nosy, you understand." "You never know." Paul couldn't help smiling. "Well, I can tell these things, you know." "I'm tempted to believe that, Mrs. G." As he turned he heard her say, "Say hi to Jenny for me if you just happen to run into her." Before he could stop himself he said, "Will do." * * * * Paul parked on a side street a few blocks from the Coral. Although cars had crowded into the parking spaces along Seaview, forcing him to park farther away than he intended, strangely, only a few people passed him as he rounded the corner, then none at all. Paul knew the holiday traffic had picked up as the day waned, but guessed the tourists, weary from their long rides, had hit the bars and nightspots first, leaving the drudgery of unpacking till the next morning, depending, of course, upon the extent of their hangovers. Walking along the street, Paul's' footsteps clattered in a hollow rhythm. The night carried a brisk chill he wasn't used to after the heat of the past few days and he shoved his hands into the pockets of the light blazer he'd worn. A shiver wandered through him that had little to do with the temperature. Vague apprehension returned, the same impression of dread he'd first experienced in his nightmare. A wispy mist tumbled along the ground, giving the night an eerie dreamlike atmosphere that only added to the feeling. The street seemed darker than it should have. Shadows clogged the alleyways and side streets. Brick and beam buildings rose to either side, windows obsidian. The ocean soughed in the distance, as if sobbing. He noticed a rolling unevenness beneath his feet that, he realized, came from walking over the original cobblestones, which had never been paved over. The thought of the cobblestones deepened his sense of dread and he quickly stepped onto the sidewalk. They reminded him too much of -- The street in your dream? Paul stopped, a prickly sensation skittering through the hairs on the back of his neck. It did remind him of that. He saw differences, too, ones that brought a small measure of relief: lighted taverns ahead, the marina, an occasional passing car. In the distance, a buoy clanged, the sound wistful, lonesome. A cold seabreeze stroked his face and stirred the fog. Salt-scented air drifted into his nostrils and he drew a deep breath, hoping it would steady his nerves. Continuing on, he tried to shake the strange feeling, ignore it, but made it only a few paces before stopping again, tensing. Had he heard a noise behind him? The sound of a shoe scraping against the sidewalk? Turning, he scanned the street, but saw nothing. Maybe his nerves were getting the better of him. A little jittery, aren't you, Paul? Probably just a cat or something. He cast another glance about the street to make certain. Nothing. Not a sole anywhere, though the sounds of muffled laughter and music ringing out from the bars reached his ears. The noise, the humanness of the sounds, comforted him a little, separating reality from the dream. Starting on again, he stepped up his pace, in spite of telling himself that he was being silly. The scraping sound and dread were merely products of his imagination, nothing more. This time. But the apprehension stayed with him. The thing in the closet? Old ghosts? With little success, he tried to force the nagging thoughts from his mind. He concentrated on Jenny, finding himself eager to be with her, though nervous about how she might respond seeing him again after ten years. Would she accept him, give him the chance he knew he really didn't deserve? Would she even talk to him? And could he explain if she did? Or would she be bitter, as she had every right to be, and simply tell him to get lost? His questions remained unanswered for the moment because the scrape sounded again, behind him, louder this time. Closer. Now he felt sure the sound had come from a shoe scuffing against the sidewalk. Thoughts of the invisible thing bulging through the mist in his dream and the dark thing in the closet flashed through his mind. Dread deepened into cool fear. He noticed his heart thudding, palms sweating. He stopped. He shot a glance behind him, to the side, ahead. Nothing. Fifty yards on, he saw the Coral sign, swaying lightly under the chilly seabreeze. A lone street lamp glared. For a moment he had an almost uncontrollable urge to run, until a car drove past, headlights splashing the fog and darkness, calming him, making his fears seem groundless and unrealistic. You're scaring yourself silly, Paul. What the hell's wrong with you? He didn't know. Maybe he was more nervous about approaching Jenny than he thought. Or maybe it's something else? Drawing a deep breath, he started on again. A tightness gripping his legs made his steps stiff, clumsy. The Coral was only another block distant; he'd be there in just a moment... PAUL... Something brushed his shoulder and he jolted; his body seemed to lift off the ground then drop back down, hard. A blade of fear plunged into his belly. The feeling couldn't have frightened him any worse if the thing in the closet had jumped out and grabbed him. For an instant, he felt paralyzed, on the verge of letting out a shrill yell. His heart skipped a beat, two ... then stuttered and finally raced. Slowly, he turned. The relief that pulsed through his mind made his legs suddenly weak. He let out the breath jammed in this lungs and forced his heart to slow. The old man must have come from one of the alleys Paul had just passed. The man, who stared, silent, looked like one of the homeless people he'd seen in Quincy; gray-flecked stubble peppered his grizzled face; his clothes, dirty and ragged, appeared years old. Dark Harbor had its share of homeless like any other town and many of them haunted the waterfront, begging for money or booze from drunken bar patrons. He chastised himself for not having thought of that before nearly giving himself a heart attack. "What do you want?" Paul's voice came stronger than he expected it would. The old man remained silent, staring, eyes bloodshot and glossed with a milky dullness, rimmed with dark circles. His cheeks were hollow, drawn. An odd stench clung to his clothes, like something left in the cellar for too long. He reached out to place a hand on Paul's shoulder but withdrew it when Paul recoiled. He noticed the old man's fingernails were encrusted with dirt, knuckles swirled with black. "Paul ... I've been waiting for you to come back." The fear Paul felt a moment before jumped back. Shock made his jaw drop and his face pinched. How the hell did the old derelict know his name? Take it easy, Paul. There must be an explanation for this. Hell, it might even be a reasonable one. "Who are you?" A hint of anger laced his voice, disguising the fear. "How do you know my name?" "You don't remember, do you?" The old man let out a rattling cough and tugged his grimy overcoat together at his throat. Paul studied the haggard face more closely, trying to peel back the years of hardship and abuse layered there. Now that he thought about it, something about him did strike Paul as familiar. But what? He wasn't sure. "I'm sorry." Paul's tone softened. "You must have me confused with someone else." Then how does he know your name? He didn't just pull it out of a hat. "No, boy, I'm not mistaken." The old man hacked again, a shuddering thing that made Paul think of the cancer victims he'd seen in the anti-smoking movies they used to show in school. "You must be," Paul insisted, not believing it himself. "I don't know you." Did he? "It's been a long time. A very long time. Think. Think back and you'll remember soon enough." Paul strained to place the face, the voice, which also had a familiar sound to it, but the memory proved elusive. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I still don't -- " "I knew your mother, Caroline." A gasp of surprise escaped Paul's lips at the mention of his mother's name. He studied the old man's face again, trying to remember a time before his mother left. It came to him, then, with the force of a blow, as if the old man had somehow reached into Paul's mind and dredged up the name. "My God -- Freddy?" Paul asked in amazement. "Aye, you remember." The old man rubbed his gray-stubbled chin. "You should." "It can't be. You were -- " "What? Wealthy? I am no longer. Young? No longer that, neither. No more to say than that." Freddy's voice was strained, laced with bitterness. "I don't understand." "Aye, you don't. But someday you might. My family didn't much agree with some of the things I did. They closed their doors. Hell with them! I don't need their money or their sympathy." "How did you know I'd come back? How did you know where to find me?" "Know lots of things, boy." Freddy eyed him as if he should have understood what that meant. His face turned grim when Paul didn't respond. "Things you might know yourself deep down. You came back for a reason." Paul shrugged, still uneasy, though not sure why. "Everybody comes back for a reason. I just had some ... unfinished business. I needed a vacation, too." It's not really any of your business, he added in his mind. Freddy laughed. "The darkness called to you, boy, and you came. Aye, it's unfinished business and him." The old man nodded towards the darkness. "Who?" Paul felt suddenly frustrated with the old man. "What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about the gift, boy. It runs in families. You have it. I found you by it. The darkness found you by it." Paul felt his unease deepen. He peered at the old man, wondering if he were drunk or senile. How did Freddy, a man he barely remembered from his childhood, seem to know so much about him? Did he know about the dreams, the voice that seemed to call Paul back? Or was he guessing, rambling? "Look." Paul held up a hand. "I'm meeting someone and I have -- " "Your mother didn't desert you, boy. She would never do that." The old man's eyes moistened. "You don't know that." Paul said it with more anger than he intended. He caught himself, forcing the sudden rush of temper down the best he could. The old man's mention of his mother's leaving had stung Paul, caught him off guard. "Whatever the reason," Paul said in a calmer tone, "She left. I don't even care anymore." Freddy's lips spread in a vapid smile. "You care. Your eyes show it. You care deeply. I knew your mother, boy -- and I knew your father, closer than you think." Paul scoffed, shaking his head. "Whatever my father wasn't, I can at least give him credit for sticking around. That's more than I can say for her -- or you." His eyes narrowed. "We all have our reasons for leaving, boy. Our own ghosts, eh?" Freddy held Paul with his gaze. For a moment Paul had a flash of memory of a gentle man who came to visit when his father was at work, bringing toys. Freddy spent hours playing soldiers or superheroes or whatever Paul wanted to play. But his mother always warned him afterward he should never tell his father of Freddy's visits. He wondered why, too young to understand, but never asked and she never told him. After his mother left, Freddy stopped coming. Over the years, Paul hadn't really thought about him much. Now, a strange sorrow welled; maybe he had missed him more than he thought. Paul looked at Freddy again, seeing the grim reality of years scrawled on the old man's face, the fool's light dull in his eyes. He felt sorry for him, wondering just what had happened to the old man to make him this way. "Don't feel sorry for me, boy!" Freddy snapped, as if he had reached into Paul's mind and plucked out his thoughts. "You knew what I was thinking?" Paul asked before he could stop himself. "I know things, boy, I told you ... I know things. Even if I didn't I can see the pity on your face and I don't goddamn need it." "Then tell me," Paul couldn't disguise the sarcasm in his voice, "if you know things, where'd my mother go? And why?" Freddy ignored Paul, a distant look crossing his eyes. "I loved your mother. I never forgot her after she left." The old man's gaze centered on Paul. "Or you." "You didn't stay around very long after she left, if I remember right." "Your father threatened to kill me if I ever came near you." Freddy's eyes flashed with anger. "Did he ever tell you that? He told me, told me to my face. Said if I so much as stepped foot on Stanford property he'd blow my brains out." Paul shook his head. He hadn't known that, but the fact, if true, didn't really surprise him, not with his father's violent temper. "I thought not," Freddy proclaimed, as if he were a lawyer who had just driven home a fact that would win an important case. "You didn't think he knew about me, did you?" Paul shook his head again. "It doesn't matter much now, does it? It was a long time ago." "It matters to me, boy. I'm not proud of being a coward. You should know that. That's why I'm here -- to set things right. It's the only way I can repay you." "Repay me for never coming around again? Well, you don't owe me anything if that makes you feel better. You told me your reasons. Fine, I accept them for what they're worth. Let's let it go at that and forget about it." "No." He gripped Paul's arm, bony fingers digging in. "You may wish to forget, but the time will come soon when you'll wish you remembered more." The old man peered intently at him and Paul thought he saw tears welling in Freddy's eyes gain. "Your mother didn't leave without a reason -- know that." "Oh, come on!" Paul's patience had worn thin and his voice rose. "She had every reason in the world. She had a bad marriage, so she left. Plain and simple. Happens every day. Except most mothers don't dump their kids." "Don't doubt me." Freddy shook a finger at Paul. "Don't doubt me. You weren't there." Paul felt his nerves fraying again. Freddy had obviously lost himself in some sort of fantasy, a fantasy, true or false, he wanted to drag Paul into. "Look, she ran out. Couldn't stand the heat. Fine. I understand that better than you think. I don't even blame her that much. But that's all there is too it." "No!" Freddy's bloodshot eyes narrowed. His fingers burrowed deeper into Paul's arm. "That's not all. I knew her, I tell you! She wouldn't just leave ... you." Had he intended to say us? Paul wondered. "Okay, okay, say you're right. Then where did she go? Tell me that." Freddy hesitated, as if probing his mind for an answer. "I ... don't know. She told me she was planning to leave your father, take you away from him. I was supposed to get bus tickets -- she had relatives in Texas or someplace. Can't remember anymore. She told me to get the tickets and help her escape, because she knew, no matter how much Jack despised her he'd never let her go. He was insanely jealous of ... well, I got the tickets. Everything was ready." Freddy paused, fumbled with his coat. "I never saw her again." Sorrow glistened behind the old man's eyes. Whatever his reason for concocting this fantasy, he truly believed it. But Paul couldn't shake the strange feeling that maybe the old man was right -- at least in part -- and that he had left something out. "What are you saying? That my father had something to do with it?" "I'm not sure." Resignation showed on Freddy's face. "I'm not sure. I sensed a ... turmoil in Caroline. It went beyond her anxiety over leaving, as if she was wrestling with a much deeper decision, one she'd never be able to change. It scared me, I can tell you that. I asked her about it, but she only joked it off, saying she was just worried Jack wouldn't be able to take care of himself once we were gone." "We? What do you mean?" Freddy looked startled a moment, then regained his composure. "Her and you, that's what I meant. Her and you." Paul had the feeling the old man was leaving something out again -- or flat out lying. "She'd want you to know these things," he continued, as if sensing Paul's skepticism. "You can doubt what I say; it don't really matter none. But you must believe she loved you, boy. She would not have wanted things to turn out the way they did. I'm not proud of the way I acted, neither." "Even if that's the case, I'm burning those bridges, now. I've done as much holding onto the past as I care to." Paul surprised himself, saying that. He wondered if he really meant it. "The past will hold onto you, boy." The old man's lips tightened. The bitterness in his tone took Paul aback. "It does not want to let you go. I must tell you about the dark -- " "Please, this has gone far enough already." Paul held up a hand. "No, it hasn't." Freddy's fingers clamped tighter on Paul's arm. Pain shot to Paul's shoulder and he winced. He tried to jerk away, but the old man's grip remained fast. "Look, I appreciate what you told me and I'll think about it, okay? But the past is the past and it's going to have to stay that way for now." The conviction in his tone almost sounded sincere. Freddy laughed, then a cough shuddered his body. "Perhaps." He leaned closer and Paul could smell his stagnant breath. "Beware the Sepahpoonuck..." The old man released his shoulder and pushed past Paul. Paul cringed inwardly, body going rigid. He stood there, frozen, then began to rub the spot on his arm where the old man's fingers had dug in. Why had he mentioned Tommy's wood demon? The question, as he lingered on it, began to awaken the weird dread again. The old man was probably senile, he assured himself, only half-believing it. "Wait -- " Paul began as he turned, intending to question him further, but the street was empty. Freddy had vanished. * * * * Freddy huddled in an alley, sorrow weighing heavy in his heart. He had watched Paul walk down the street and go into the Coral, knowing the boy hadn't believed him. He should have told him more, told him of the Demon and the things that lurked between worlds. Forced him to listen and feel his gift. Would Paul have believed it? No, not now. Not yet. He wasn't ready. Freddy wondered if he had risked his life for nothing. What the hell. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered without Caroline. Nothing but seeing Paul had the chance she meant for him to have. Freddy hacked, blowing phlegm flecked with blood into his hand. A great pain wracked his chest. Perhaps he'd die before the Demon dealt with him. Perhaps he would welcome it. -------- *(14)* Paul stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. He scanned the room, searching through the crowd for Jenny. The place was nearly full, making the task difficult. A thick haze of cigarette smoke clouded the room and the juke box blared a Shania Twain tune. A surge of eagerness went through him, but at the same time his belly fluttered with nerves. He suddenly felt like a kid about to ask his first school crush for a date. When he didn't spot Jenny right away, his hopes started to fall. Perhaps she'd already left, while he'd been delayed talking to Freddy. Paul glanced from table to table, face to face, about to give up when auburn hair, shimmering in the dim light, caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat, the way it had when he first saw her through Mrs. Gaumont's kitchen window. She sat alone in a booth near the back. He swallowed a gulp of his beer, a rush of anticipation and nervousness quickening his heart. Hey, Paul, there she is. Like the commercial says, "You asked for it, you got it." You can still turn around and walk out that door, so if you want to back out, you better do it NOW. No, it was too late for that -- too late the moment he decided to come here. Too late the moment he decided to return to Dark Harbor. Paul slid off the bar stool and threaded his way through the tables and people. Taking a deep breath, he came up behind the booth and stopped. Now or never, Paul. Open your goddamn mouth. As Jenny looked up, surprise flashed on her face; it quickly resolved into complete shock. "Paul?" Her voice was barely audible. "I-I can't believe it. I don't know what to say." Her eyes were still the same liquid topaz -- that was the first thing he noticed. Perhaps a hint of their girlish sparkle had dulled, but they still drew him in, made him feel suddenly ... comfortable. That was the only word he could put to it. "How about inviting me to sit down?" He smiled and she looked at him with -- what? Confusion? Uncertainty? But none of the hostility or hurt he might have expected. That, he told himself with more than a little relief, was a good sign. "Sure," said Jenny. "Sure." Paul slid into the booth and set his beer on the table. After a moment of awkward silence she said, "I feel a little shocked. Where do I start? How have you been? What's new? Seen any good movies lately?" She spread her hands. "You could start with hello. I found that's always a good ice-breaker." "My God, it's been ten years -- I can't believe you came back. I thought you never would." Paul couldn't tell from her tone whether she was damning him or merely stating a fact. One edge had obviously dulled: he used to be better at reading her. But he expected that. "I didn't think so either." Paul studied her face with a mixture of memory and reality: small lines had set in around her eyes and mouth; her hair style had changed, somewhat longer, not as straight; her face looked a bit thinner. Funny, yesterday when he'd seen her through the window she looked exactly as he remembered, girlish, as if she'd been suspended at eighteen. Now he saw the changes. She was still beautiful, though with the beauty of a woman, not a girl. For a moment, the overpowering desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, hold her the way he did when they were teenagers, took him. "I'm sorry, I'm terrible with small talk." A wafer smile turned Jenny's lips. "You caught me completely by surprise. You know, it's an odd coincidence, but I thought of you earlier tonight, like maybe you were close. Funny, huh? I thought it was impossible. I thought you'd be out sailing the seven seas or exploring lost jungles or something. Isn't that what the Army used to do, show you the world?" She uttered a small laugh, but Paul had the feeling she was only half-joking. "I think that's the Peace Corps. Besides, I didn't re-enlist. Scared of malaria and pigmies." Jenny's laugh carried a little more humor this time. He felt her relaxing, some of the initial tension between them dissipating. "Seriously, Paul, I didn't think you ever come back." Paul stared into her eyes, trapped there a moment, torn back to the night he'd told her good-bye, given her excuses. "To tell you the truth, I planned to stay away from Dark Harbor for the rest of my life -- until a few days ago. But ... well, you know the old story: hometown boy strikes out to explore the world, winds up homesick." Paul grinned. Maybe that came closer to the truth than he thought. "Homesick?" Jenny sounded doubtful. "That surprises me, coming from you. I would have sworn homesickness was a disease to which Paul Stanford was immune." Paul shrugged. "Mom told me I was vaccinated for it." "You should have kept up your boosters." Jenny took a sip of her beer. Paul snapped his fingers. "Knew I'd forgotten something." Jenny seemed to relax even further and Paul felt himself slipping into a familiar old groove. He couldn't mistake the fact that the awkwardness he felt between them a few minutes ago had vanished. "So what did the world show you, Paul?" That was Jenny all right, straight to the point. "This and that, mostly that. I learned not to invest in homeowner's insurance." Paul hesitated. "Seriously?" "Seriously." Jenny nodded. "It showed me things weren't quite what I expected maybe. No more windmills left." "I think Don Quixote got them all." "How 'bout you?" "Huh!" Jenny rolled her eyes. "I probably should have gone exploring." She paused, running her finger around the rim of her glass. "I've had my share of ups and downs like everybody else, I guess." "You're a doctor," Paul stated, matter-of-factly. "How did -- " "I'm staying at Mrs. Gaumont's, right across from you." Jenny laughed, as if trying to conceal the slight surprise that widened her eyes. Maybe his being so close made her uncomfortable. "Oh, that explains it. You probably know more about my life than I do." "She does seem to be a storehouse of information." "That also explains where you met Andy, now that I think about it." "Nice boy." "A handful. I s'pose she's told you my life history by now?" Paul nodded. "Something about being abducted by revolutionists and becoming a nun. Other than that, she was pretty vague." "Then it appears, Mr. Stanford, you have me at a disadvantage." Jenny's gaze dropped and with her finger she absently traced the wet circle left by her glass. Her gaze lifted. "So did you just happen to get a room at the boarding house, or did you plan it that way?" Paul saw the slight twinkle in her eyes. "I confess." "And meeting me here tonight, that's not a coincidence either, is it?" "Mrs. Gaumont sort of let it slip you might be here with your sister." "Uh-huh." Jenny nodded. "I would have bet on it. Will you be staying long?" Why are you asking, Jenny? Do you want to know because you still care? Or is it because you need to know how long you'll have to avoid me? "Looks like I'll be here for a while. I'll be starting a summer teaching job at Dark Harbor High and I'm thinking about remolding my father's old house. But it looks like I'll have some spare time on my hands for a couple of weeks." Jenny nodded, face serious, now. "You don't owe me anything, Paul. I want you to know that." Paul's gaze focused on an invisible spot on the table. Somehow, she had reached into his thoughts and answered the question he wanted most to know and he couldn't hide the relief that crossed his face. "I should have let you know, but..." "No, it's okay. We were young. Both of us didn't really know what we wanted. It hurt for a while and God knows I called you more than a few ugly names. But I grew up. I realized we both did what we thought we had to do." She gave him a smile that sent a shiver down his back. No, Jenny, you always knew what you wanted. And we both knew that when it came right down to it, we would have given up all our plans for the other if asked. But we never would have asked because we respected each other too much. Or was that loved each other too much? "Thanks, I wasn't really sure how you'd react to seeing me again." "Oh, so you did plan it?" she challenged in a playful tone. "Well, maybe just a little." He made a pinching motion with his thumb and index finger. "Funny thing is, I wondered myself just how I'd feel if you suddenly showed up. I thought it was fantasy, of course. I never thought you'd actually come back. Maybe I'm even a little surprised at how calmly I reacted." "Me, too. But relieved. I'm glad you didn't decide to shoot first." "So, then, Mr. Stanford," She peered at him, "where do we go from here?" Paul had wanted to ask her the same question * * * * Sheriff Baker pushed open the door and stepped into the Coral. Deputy Hudson, hat in hand, trailed close behind. Baker took a seat at the bar and ordered two Buds. Hudson, looking tense, slid onto the next stool. "Not keeping you from anything, am I?" Baker made sure he laid on the sarcasm. "No, why?" Hudson answered almost too fast. His eyes held -- what? A question? Yes, that was it -- a question: Do you suspect? Yes, I suspect, you sonofabitch, answered Baker in his mind. And I'm going to watch every goddamn move you make. "Oh, because you seem to be your usual preoccupied self," said the sheriff instead. "Thought maybe you had a big date or something." Hudson didn't respond, but Baker swore he saw the deputy's face turn a shade whiter. The bartender brought their beers, plopping them on the bar hard enough to make foam splash over the rims, and Baker tossed a five onto the counter. Baker sipped his beer and glanced about the room, surveying what he knew must be the new crop of tourists, though he recognized locals as well. His attention locked on a rear booth for an instant, then he turned back, a slight smile turning his lips. "Think maybe you should find yourself a new fanclub to join," Baker said matter-of-factly, unable to deny the malicious pleasure he was going to take in this. He looked at Hudson, saw suspicion and puzzlement on his face. God, I enjoy taunting you, Hudson, he thought. Heaven help me, I do. The deputy deserved it, as far as he was concerned. Baker's suspicions of Hudson's miscreant conduct had solidified into cold hard fact in his mind, especially after Speckler's phone call last night. Now he needed proof; he needed to push Hudson into losing his composure enough to make a mistake. Anything he could use to hurry that along was just fine with him. Besides, with two murders in one week, Baker's nerves were raw. He didn't feel too guilty about relieving some of that at Hudson's expense. "What the hell are you getting at?" Hudson sounded plainly annoyed. Baker studied the deputy's eyes, struck by a feeling a wrongness he saw there, an angry glitch in his soul that glittered like a sliver of cold sharp steel. He considered dropping his intention, but not long. He'd have to gauge the deputy carefully, though. Whatever his reaction, however, he figured he could handle him. "Looks like Dr. Gazio's got a new beau." Baker took a sip of his beer and stared straight ahead. "What are you talking about?" "Take a look." Baker tilted his head in the direction of the rear booth. Watching from the corner of his eye, he saw Hudson search around. Then the color washed from his face. And anger, unbridled, barely restrained, washed in. Hudson's eyes flashed. A thought struck Baker: Hudson's eyes held more than just anger. He was hiding something else. What was it? He had seen that look before, but at the moment he couldn't place where. Baker pushed a little harder. "Guess you'll be dropping out of her fanclub for sure, now, huh?" "Go to hell!" Hudson slammed his fist on the bar and the bartender threw him a reproachful look. Baker saw the tenuous control the deputy held over his emotions just then, the fight to push down the great rage that suspended Hudson at the half-way point on the bridge to insanity. At least that was the impression Baker got, that right now Hudson was as close to being insane as any criminal he'd ever dealt with. That knowledge made him more than a little uneasy. Hudson had to be handed very carefully indeed. "Recognize him?" asked Baker, a bit more cautious. "Can't recall seeing him around here before. Maybe he's just a vacationer or a relative." As if a shade had been drawn, Hudson's control seemed to come back. A chilling impassiveness replaced his blazing anger. Only a rigidness of body hinted that he still seethed. That, Baker found, worried him more than anything. It said Hudson might have already crossed the bridge, and Baker had the ugly feeling it wasn't for the first time. Hudson stood and pushed back his stool. Baker tensed, grabbing Hudson's arm. "What are you doing?" Baker suddenly worried he had made a mistake and pushed Hudson too far. "Just going to say hello, that's all. Every town needs a welcoming committee." Hudson's tone was far too flat. He stared in the direction of the booth, never taking his gaze from it. "Why don't you just sit down and forget it -- have another beer." Baker's grip tightened. "No thanks." Hudson jerked away, breaking Baker's grip with ease. The sheriff was shocked at Hudson's strength. Baker came to his feet, muscles tensing. "Don't start anything, Hudson. You're still in uniform. I expect you to act like it." Baker held his gaze. Hudson laughed without humor. "Don't worry. Public relations, nothing more." I doubt it, Baker thought, as he watched Hudson walk away. I sincerely doubt it. * * * * "Looks like we've got company." Paul glanced up at the approaching deputy. "Run afoul of the law lately?" Jenny's head swiveled. "You'd think I had," she said sarcastically. "Great." "Bad news?" "More than likely." Jenny sighed and turned back around. Before Paul could question her further, Hudson reached their table. The deputy's gaze stabbed Paul, then swept to Jenny. Although he didn't know the man, Paul swore he saw contempt in the deputy's short glare, and that contempt was aimed at him. "Hi, Jenny." Hudson's voice was almost timid, belying the impression Paul had gotten. "Mind if I talk to you a minute?" Jenny remained silent and Paul interrupted, half-standing, proffering a hand. "I'm Paul Stanford -- " "So?" Hudson didn't bother looking at him. Then Paul placed the look Hudson flashed him a moment ago: hatred. Not contempt. The deputy hated him for no apparent reason. Another notion struck Paul: if Paul gave him any excuse, any excuse whatsoever, the deputy wouldn't hesitate to kill him. The thought startled him and he wondered if he were being paranoid. "Talk." Jenny's tone came cold and she folded her arms. Hudson nodded, then nudged his head towards Paul. "Alone?" "Paul's an ... old friend. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of him. I told you all I know the other night." "It's not about the other night." Hudson threw a sharp glance at Paul. He couldn't conceal the burst of rage that blazed in his eyes. Paul noticed it vanished when Hudson looked back to Jenny, like a switch, on and off. "No? Then what?" Irritation, concluded Paul, watching Jenny's reaction. She looked genuinely more annoyed than he ever remembered seeing her. She had an intense aversion to the deputy. Hudson fumbled with his hat, fingers twisting at the rim. "There's a dance over to Whaler's Hall next Thursday, the pre-summer one they have every year. I was wondering if you'd like to go? With me, I mean." Jenny sighed and Paul saw exasperation weld onto her features. "Sorry, Hudson, you're too late. I already have a date for the dance -- right, Paul?" Paul concealed the shock he felt as she looked at him. Hudson looked injured and furious at the same time. "Right." Paul smiled. "Oh." Hudson glared at Paul. He wants to kill you for sure, now. Making lots of new friends, aren't you? Pissing off the police force is a great start. Gonna be real popular here, pal. "You're new here." Hudson's tone belonged in a morgue. "More or less." "Came in on Wednesday." "Yes," said Paul, surprised and suspicious. "How'd you know that?" Hudson ignored Paul's question. "Same day as the murders." "Are you done, Hudson?" snapped Jenny, irritation more pronounced, now. Paul found his own irritation mounting. He didn't care for the direction the deputy's questions was taking. Hudson ignored her and his gaze locked on Paul. "Well?" "I was at Mrs. Gaumont's all day, if you want to check." "Evening, Dr. Gazio," interrupted Sheriff Baker, coming up behind Deputy Hudson. Jenny nodded. "I think Hudson was just leaving." "Yeah, I think so, too." Baker eyed the deputy with a strained look. "We have a dart game, I believe?" He slapped Hudson on the shoulder then held out a handful of darts. "Right, Hudson?" Paul watched, wondering if the deputy would start frothing at the mouth. "Watch yourself." Hudson looked at Paul. "Is that a threat or have you been watching too many cop shows?" Paul felt his temper starting up. Hudson uttered a small laugh and walked away. Baker shook his head and tipped his finger to his brow in a parting gesture. Paul eyed them as they left. "He always that friendly?" "He's an idiot," Jenny said, tight-lipped. "I gather you've had plenty of experience with him." "He used to date my sister -- as an excuse to get to me. Got to be a problem for a while." "How so?" "Oh, nothing ever physical or anything more than advances. Just constant, calling me a lot. Real pain. And there's just something about him that makes me nervous. I used to think he was harmless but now, well, I just don't know." "I see what you mean. What did he mean, 'not about yesterday'?" Paul saw a deep sorrow cross her face. Her gaze dropped to the table. "My ... my friend, Peg, was killed at the hospital. I ... found her." Remembering what Mrs. Gaumont had told him about the murder, he gave her a sympathetic frown. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry." "So am I. Peg was a special person." Jenny looked at him and he didn't say a word. He knew she needed her own time to get over it. She'd always been like that -- good at helping others through their problems, but when it came to her own feelings it was a different story. "Were you serious about the dance?" He changed the subject to get her mind off of it. "Yes. Yes, I guess I was." "Good, I haven't cut a rug in years." He smiled. Jenny glanced at her watch. "It's getting late. I should get back and pick up Andy before he drives Mrs. Gaumont nuts. Besides," she nudged her head in Hudson's direction, "the place seems to be filling with undesirables." "Don't worry about Mrs. Gaumont. From what I can see, she loves having Andy all to herself." "The last time I left him there too long he almost had her convinced we needed a puppy -- and Cindy hates the things he picks up from her." "Need a ride back? I brought the limo and I believe I'm going your way." "I'd like that." She smiled warmly and Paul smiled back. As they started for the door, Paul saw Deputy Hudson, arm cocked to throw a dart at the board, glaring at him. The hate in his eyes was unmistakable. He wants to put that dart through your head, Paul. Kill the competition? Was that how it worked in Dark Harbor nowadays? He couldn't deny a feeling of relief as they walked out into the night air. The night had cooled even more and the fog had thickened. The clanging of the buoy sounded sharper, but not as forlorn. The street didn't look as hostile, as if walking with Jenny chased away some of the shadows of the past and dreams. "I was thinking," said Jenny, as the strolled towards Paul's car. "Remember when we used to walk down to the arcades and rides on Main Street and just talk for hours on end?" "And freeze our butts off on nights like this!" "Yeah. But after a while we really didn't notice the cold." Her tone grew softer, reminiscent. "We got used to the fog and ocean sounds. It takes me back. Feels almost the way it used to feel when we were young. Strange, isn't it?" Paul nodded, agreeing. He felt the same way. He wanted to reach out and touch her face in the darkness, hold her close, the way he used to on nights like this, hold her until she stopped shivering and they both felt warm together. Whoa, Paul. Take it nice and slow since you're so hell-bent on going through with this. Don't you feel just a little bit guilty? No? Remember Jill? (You left me, Paul. You goddamn left me!) The pang of guilt quickly passed, pushed aside by the new-old feelings welling within him. For the rest of the walk they remained silent, a little lost in the past. * * * * "Thanks for the ride home," said Jenny, as Paul swung into the boarding house parking lot. He stopped the car and switched off the ignition. Walking across the lot, he noticed two unfamiliar cars parked there. "Looks like business is starting to pick up," he said, just for conversation. "Always does over the Memorial Day weekend. By the Fourth of July, everything will be filled." "I remember. I always used to look forward to summers in Dark Harbor, at least when I was a boy. The vacationers made the place seem less like a graveyard." "In some ways." Jenny turned to him as they reached the top of the porch. Their eyes met and Paul found himself unable to resist; he leaned close to kiss her. Jenny pushed him back and he immediately felt foolish and embarrassed. "Sorry, I had no right -- " "No, it's okay, Paul. I feel a little uncomfortable still, that's all. One day I think you're gone forever and the next you're driving me home like ten years hadn't passed. I'm not quite ready to accept it yet. Let's take it slow, okay?" "If that means we can take it forward -- sure." "I'd like to try." Jenny gave him a warm smile. Paul pulled back the screen door and they stepped into the hallway, which was lit by a small night light that came on with the dusk. "I hope Andy's asleep by some miracle," said Jenny. "It'll be easier to get him into bed that way." As if in reply, a high-pitched giggle came from down the hall. Jenny sighed. "Alas, tis not to be." "I think you're in trouble." Paul cast her a sly smile. "If you don't mind, I'm going to head up to my room and leave you to the wolves. I don't want Mrs. Gaumont starting any nasty rumors." "Chickening out, Mr. Stanford?" "You bet I am!" He turned and walked towards the stairs. "Paul?" he heard her say and stopped. "Yes?" "I take Andy to church over in the Cove Sunday mornings. We go to this little diner after for breakfast. Why don't you come with us? It'd give you a chance to really meet him." There you go, Paul. She's leaving the door wide open for you. Whatta you say? "I'd like that. I really would." "Good. I won't have to drag Cindy out of bed. Now I'd better go collect my son before Mrs. Gaumont decides she owns him." * * * * Deputy Hudson pushed open his apartment door and fumbled along the wall for the light switch. Finding it, he flicked it on and kicked the door shut. He threw his hat across the room. Rage burned in his veins, making his neck feel tight and his head pulsate. Damn her! Damn her! Jenny was just like Melinda. She had made a fool of him tonight. He couldn't let her get away with that. Why would I date you? You're a loser! "No!" He shook his head. A voice, Melinda's voice, crashed through his mind, taunting him, hurting him, Melinda all over again. Why was her voice there? Hadn't he killed her, made her love him in death? Anger careened through his veins. He clenched trembling hands into fists. He stared at the fists, transfixed by the whiteness of his knuckles. The same hands that had strangled Melinda. Loser! The same hands that could strangle Jenny. Yes, he could feel his fingers pressing deep into the soft yielding flesh of her neck, squeezing, squeezing until she begged him to stop. But he would never stop, never stop until she loved him. Because Jenny had given herself to Steve, as Melinda had. Steve? No, that wasn't right. It was Paul. Paul Stanford I'll scream you goddamn loser! I'll scream my lungs out and Steve/Paul will beat the crap out of you! Voices. Oh, Christ, the voices! Melinda's? Jenny's? "Go ahead and scream, you bitch!" he yelled, pressing his hands to his ears. The voices wouldn't leave. They came from the darkness inside him, wanting control, his control, no, oh Christ, no -- Hudson lashed out, knocking the lamp from the table. The lamp crashed to the floor, shattering. Darkness swallowed the room. Grabbing the lamp table, driven by blind fury, he threw it over. His mind whirled with flashes of images: the soccer field, lifeless trees, lifeless Melinda. Her mouth gaping, eyes bulging; his blood racing, his heart pounding. I'll scream I'll scream I'll scream -- Hudson stumbled madly in the darkness. He braced himself against the couch, gasping, the tightness in his throat squeezing off his air. Blackness everywhere, in the room, in his mind. Stop it! Stop it! He needed, he needed -- Strength. He needed the strength. Hurry, hurry, find, had to find -- where had he stashed it? Christ, why couldn't he remember? The drawer, the desk drawer; that's where it was. He pushed himself away from the couch and staggered across the room to a small desk. With quaking hands, he jerked open the drawer and fumbled through it until his desperate fingers found his stash. He switched on a small desk lamp and tore the packet open, the powder spilling out onto the desk and over his fingers. Hudson, you goddamn loser, you goddamn cokehead! Why would I date you? I've got Paul, now. You've got nothing! His head, his goddamned head, spinning, spinning, spinning with voices and images, streaks of blackness. Frantic, senses deserting him, he clumsily snorted some of the powder, licked it off his fingertips. At once, the explosion of images in his mind became crystalline, frozen in time and space and illusion. They slowly began to move again, becoming organized. He saw himself dragging Melinda into the woods, strangling her, his body filling with power, with -- Strength. The voices vanished. All his thoughts shined crystal clear, filled with sharp images, rooms with bleeding walls and bloody faces distending from diamond expanses. Melinda's face. Where it belonged, trapped in death. Control. He'd gained control. Jenny's face floated up in his mind, smiling, soft, wanting. He focused on it, knew she wanted him not...Paul. And he knew it hadn't been her fault tonight when she rejected him. No, not her fault at all. She was different than Melinda and he saw that clearly now. Hudson suddenly saw Stanford's face, as it had been at the Coral, smug, so full of himself. That sonofabitch had somehow forced Jenny to turn away from him, humiliate him. Hudson uttered a low laugh, an ugly sound laced with insanity. "Goddamn you, Stanford!" He shook his fist at the air. "Goddamn you!" With all his power, he swung at the wall. A brittle crack sounded as his fist punched through the sheetrock. Hudson ignored the stabbing blades of pain that radiated through his wrist and forearm. Once more, the Strength had shown him the way. Hudson snorted more of the Strength and let it take him. Stanford. Yes, his fault. Not Jenny's. Now Hudson understood. And soon, Stanford would understand as well, understand what happened to those who humiliated him, took things away from him -- the way Melinda had understood. Then Jenny would see how wrong she had been. * * * * Paul undressed and slid into bed. Reaching over, he flicked off the light on the nightstand. In his mind, he still saw Jenny's face and topaz eyes, lights shining from the darkness that had been his past. Now, as then, the strong one. But with a difference. At 18, he had constantly needed her strength to support him, pull him up when he had his fights with his father, or wondered why his mother and Tommy left him alone. Now, time had balanced the two of them somewhat; he had gained a measure of strength in coming back to Dark Harbor in search of an answer, and she, well, in her he sensed an erosion, a wearing away of her stone will, as if she needed someone now. Maybe you're hoping for too much, Paul. Maybe you're reading something into tonight that wasn't there. Maybe he was. But he couldn't remember feeling this right about something in a long time. If you hurt her... That thought, real and frightening to him only a short time ago, seemed strangely alien now. Paul thrust his hands in back of his head beneath the pillow. For a moment his thoughts turned to Freddy. Hell, he couldn't even remember the old man's last name. Had he ever known it? Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall his mother ever mentioning it. What the old man said about his mother bothered Paul. He wondered if she had been forced to leave, that maybe things were supposed to have been different. Had she really planned on taking him with her? Freddy said he bought bus tickets, but maybe that was just something he'd made up and convinced himself to be true. Or had his father been responsible, as Freddy had implicated? For some reason, Paul couldn't make himself believe that. Even at his worst, Jack had his good points; Paul could admit that now. After all, he had brought Paul up, more or less; he might just as easily have sent him to a foster home or worse. Or worse, Paul? What could be worse than the suffering he put you through? The lack of emotion he felt thinking about it surprised him. While he still hated his father and remained confused about his mother, it didn't cut so deeply at the moment. He knew he would need to deal with those things eventually, find the truth. But not now. Jenny had pushed those thoughts aside. He felt a deeper need take control, the need to be with her and discover if what he lost ten years ago could be regained. * * * * "Okay, young man." Jenny made her tone stern. "It's time for bed." She cast five-year-old Andy a serious look, hoping to coax him into bed without his normal I'm-not-going-to-make-this-easy-on-you routine. "Nooo," said Andy, as if he'd just been sentenced to walk the plank. He jutted out his lower lip and gave her his best pout. "Not tonight, kiddo." Jenny waved a finger. "It's straight to bed -- without a tantrum." Andy worked the pout a little harder and widened his hound-dog eyes. "Uh-uh." Jenny shook her head. "But mommy, I wanna watch tee-lee!" Andy stamped his foot and jammed his fists into his hips. "Tee-lee" was Andy's way of saying TV. Jenny had hired a speech counselor at school, but when he got excited he still pronounced his v's as l's. She did need to spend more time with him, help him more herself. With the hours she'd been putting in at the hospital, Andy spent more time with Cindy and Mrs. Gaumont than her. Cindy did a good job with him, though Andy frustrated her more often than not; Mrs. Gaumont baked him cookies and spoiled him rotten, but it was still no substitute for having his mother. Jenny laughed to herself. She remembered telling Bill she didn't want kids until she got her career on track. Her schooling took so much time and energy and their marriage was shaky at best past the first two years. But he insisted and they'd fought about it constantly until she relented. Now, she was glad he had won on that point. While she worried Andy didn't get the best she could give, she realized her life would be pretty lonely -- and boring -- without that little boy. So why do you work all those hours and stay way from home so much? she asked herself. Why is there still something missing? She couldn't answer that yet, but she resolved to do something about it. Who knows, she thought, with Paul back... She smiled despite herself. Maybe her luck was changing. Andy seemed to figure out tonight wasn't one of the nights he would get his way and resigned himself to stuffing his action figures and Mr. Potato Head into the cardboard box he'd adopted as his toy chest. Jenny believed her son had an almost psychic sense of how to play her, a dwarf virtuoso in a parental symphony. Tonight he had ended the show early. Andy finished putting his toys into the box. He grabbed his stuffed ALF then took Jenny's hand. She trotted him up the stairs and led him down the hall to his room, the location of which he commonly claimed to forget at his convenience. After a brief dialogue that amounted to no Saturday cartoons if he didn't obey, she coerced him into his superheroes PJ's and made sure he'd brushed his teeth. She tucked him into bed and pulled a ragged Mother Goose book from the nightstand and flipped it open to Andy's favorite at the moment, "Hey Diddle Diddle." He changed stories regularly, usually neglecting to tell Cindy, who'd spend an hour trying to figure out which tale he wanted that night. That way, without saying a word, he discovered he could squeeze out an extra hour of up time. That trick didn't work with Jenny, who found the threat of a spanking countered it. As Jenny read, Andy hugged his ALF. Soon, she noticed his eyelids struggling to remain open. They closed completely and she could tell by the rhythm of his breathing he'd fallen fast asleep. She set the book on the nightstand and flicked on his nightlight. After kissing him on the cheek, she padded to the door and switched off the main light, then eased the door shut. * * * * In her room, Jenny noticed the hush that had fallen over the house now that Andy was asleep. Cindy, who snored loud enough to keep Jenny awake sometimes, still hadn't returned from Portland. The silence reminded her of the hospital corridor the night of... The thought startled her. She tried to keep the sight of Peg's body from entering her mind, but found grief choking her throat with emotion and making her heart heavy with sorrow. A sob escaped her and she noticed her lower lip quivering. She wrapped her arms around herself and took a deep breath. Pushing the thoughts aside, Jenny forced herself to think of more pleasant things. She switched her mind to Paul. While glad he was back, she found herself worried at the same time. Would he leave again? Why should she worry about that? He said he planned to stay and she had no right to expect too much, especially this soon. Perhaps they had both changed so much in ten years they'd end up being incompatible. A caution light blinked on in her mind. Go slow, the light warned. Go slow, because you're vulnerable right now, and Paul's a little too handy to lean on. He came out of nowhere and he just might go back there. Jenny slipped into her nightgown and climbed into bed. Switching off the light, she lay staring into the darkness. Yes, she admitted, she was glad Paul had come back. Almost overjoyed, in fact. She hoped she'd stay that way. * * * * The Demon, hunched in the darkness of the sewer, felt weakness creeping in. With that weakness, an old and wretched emotion: loneliness. It ached with his hunger for fear, his thirst for dominance. In the shreds of what he used to be, he saw woods, the trail leading to the mansion. So long ago, locked within the dreams and desires of Nathan Courtwright. Catherine... "Nathan, you frightened me!" said the blonde-haired woman. Her slim hand went to her bosom, the ornate engagement diamond glittering as it caught a flash of moonlight. Her breath frosted out. A chill wind stirred dead autumn leaves and whined a dirgelike song through the naked branches that rose above them. Nathan Courtwright peered at her, seeing the stark fear that had filled her eyes when he stepped on the path in front of her. Although he loved her, he found himself strangely addicted to her fear, lusting for the soft tremors that laced her voice and the fluttering of her heart. He'd followed her most of the way along the path as she headed for his home, making a game of stalking her the way a beast would stalk its prey. "I'm sorry, Catherine," he lied. "I needed to talk to you ... about the wedding." "Oh, Nathan, not your father again." Her voice came stronger. The chill painted her unblemished cheeks with rose. Blonde curls cork-screwed from her pinned-up hair and fell to either side of her cheeks, highlighting the beauty of her soft-angled face and slim neck. "No, not that." A coldness washed into Nathan's jade eyes. For a moment, his attention shifted to the mansion looming beyond the ridge of pines ahead. It seemed to glare back, indifferent to the ceremony that was to take place within its walls tonight, the ceremony that would join them forever. In his mind, he saw a crude pentagram scrawled on the hardwood floor of the drawing room, the candles placed at its points, hungry, waiting to receive his Catherine. Waiting to receive them. "What, Nathan? Tell me, please. You are frightening me again. You have been acting so different lately, so strange." He saw fear jump back into her eyes, a fear he'd seen there many times since he'd pledged himself, his gift, to the Dark One in exchange for eternal life. "The wedding will take place tonight, Catherine." He felt an odd liquid anger course through his veins. A darkness rose in his soul like a black moon, forcing out the remnants of any compassion he possessed. He felt the force growing stronger lately, taking control. As if the man who had been Nathan Courtwright no longer existed. "What?" Shock jumped onto Catherine's face. "It's not for months -- we can't -- " Nathan gripped her arms, pulling her closer. "No, Catherine. Tonight I'm asking you to live forever, don't you understand?" His fingers pressed deeper into her arms. He saw pain register on her face, heard the slight gasp escape her lips; it intoxicated him. For a moment, the dark thing inside took control, screaming at him to kill her. He squeezed harder. "Nathan, please, you're hurting me. What is wrong with you?" She tried to pull back, but was unable to break his grip. Then, looking into her soft blue eyes, Nathan felt part of himself come back, the part that loved her, cherished her, the eroding kindness. "I..." He struggled for dominance over the demon within. "Please, Catherine. There is a way, a way we can always be together. The Dark One has promised me." Her eyes widened with understanding, terror. "My God, Nathan. Your father was right." She shook her head, as if refusing to accept what was in her mind. "What?" he screamed, fury in his voice and in his soul. "What did he say to you?" She stared, mouth moving with silent words. He shook her. "What did my father tell you?" A black sun blazed in his eyes; a slash of red glittered deep, as the thing within him peered out. "He-he said, said you had changed. He suspected you had dealt with the dark forces. He said there was a 'gift'." Tears streamed down her face. "He said though he hated my family he did not want to see me hurt. I did not believe him..." Nathan felt her trembling in his grasp. He knew then that she saw through him, saw what he had become. Nathan laughed, the sound eerie and brittle in the frosty air. A laugh born of darkness, fed by suffering and pain. "Oh, God, Nathan -- " "To hell with Nathan!" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "Don't you see? He is the key to the dark door. He has the gift. Share it with us!" "You are insane!" A disguise of control came into her voice suddenly. For a moment, the Demon seemed to step back and Nathan's will flickered. His grip eased. He stared into her eyes with a look of fractured compassion and sorrow. The waning sun of his soul setting in a black ocean. With a shrill scream, Catherine tore herself loose, taking advantage of his hesitancy. She stumbled back, then spun and ran. "Catherine..." he mumbled. A beat. Two ... ANGER. Rushing, rushing ... then control. "Catherine!" He ran, closing the distance between them in seconds. Grabbing her, he spun her around, threw her brutally against a huge oak. His gaze held hers, the blackness throbbing, red slits blazing. His hands locked about her fragile neck, squeezing, tighter, tighter, tighter. He felt her windpipe crush, heard the brittle crackling it made as it caved beneath his fingertips. The life trickled from her body and she went limp. He pressed his face close to hers, kissing her lifeless lips, then let her drop to the cold ground. For an eternity, he stared at what he had done. And for an eternity, the Demon remembered. Loneliness. He felt it now, crawling over him in the damp darkness. A tear rolled down his fleshless face. Then he caught himself, letting the anger and fear-hunger regain control. Soon, he would find the old man he had seen through Paul Stanford's fear -- and he would feed. And soon he would seek the dark soul with which he could bond, become whole. Almost human. For a moment, the Demon did not think, did not stir. Then, the loneliness creeping back in, his fleshless lips formed a name: "Jennifer..." * * * * Jenny sat up in bed. An hour after drifting off to sleep, Jenny awakened. It occurred to her she had repeated the acting of sitting up three times before remaining in the position. She decided she'd dreamt the first two. Confused, she peered into the cloaking darkness of her room -- it was her room, wasn't it? Yes, she was sure it was. Why had she thought it wasn't? Because the room looked different somehow. She felt confined, as if black velvet walls were slowly, inexorably sliding in on her. That was ridiculous, wasn't it? Of course it was. The walls weren't moving, now. Had they ever been? She struggled to see into the darkness, vision adjusting enough to pick out the contours of furniture, the door, the closet. Wait. Something was happening. The walls again. She had the impression of motion, though not compression. They undulated rhythmically, in and out, in and out, like a huge pulsating black lung, a lung in which she was entrapped. Her gaze shifted to the floor: same thing. Funny, the bed wasn't moving. The whole thing struck her as impossible, ludicrous. She must still be dreaming. She had to be. She sucked in a deep breath and pinched her arm. The pinch hurt, telling her she must be awake. Taking two more breaths, she pressed her eyes shut and counted to ten, opening them. The walls appeared normal; so did the floor. She let out a sigh of relief and tried to convince herself it was only the result of lucid dreaming. As Jenny tried to force herself into accepting that explanation, her attention was drawn to the foot of the bed, which seemed to be narrowing, extending outward and tapering, ever more distant. Watching with the sinking sensation that her lucid dream excuse had just dissolved, she felt a numbing warmth tingle through her limbs. The warmth spread, sweeping upward from her legs until she could no longer feel her lower body. Her pulse started to pound thickly, exaggeratedly, throbbing deep in her abdomen. The air in the room grew thick, heavy. A muffled drumming filled her ears, pounding distantly, as though she were trying to hear something under water. A gasp escaped her lips as her gaze went back to the end of the bed, which had expanded to a distant point, as if she were sailing in a soft dreamboat that reached infinitely into space. Glittering stars sprang out on the dark walls, completing the illusion. Jenny's heart throbbed in her throat and her pulse beat faster in her wrists, neck, temples. Sweat beaded on her forehead. A welling pressure squeezed her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Oh, God, Jenny thought in a growing panic. I'm having a heart attack. I'm twenty-nine and I'm having a damn heart attack! No, that was crazy. For all its augmented pounding, her heart still beat in normal rhythm. The pressure came from something else. Like being at the bottom of a pool. The thought startled her, but that's what she felt: as if she were under water. Trying to shake the thought, she glanced around the room. She peered against at the dark sky-walls sprinkled with glittering stars. Shadowy outlines of furniture thrust up into the sky, blocking some of the view. The jutting end of the boat-bed sliced the wall-sky in two. The bed began to rock with a gentle movement, as if drifting over lolling waves. Panic strengthening, her attention shifted to the floor, to see what was causing the bed to rock. The floor. Something about the floor looked wrong. It shined like a sheet of polished black ice. What's happening? Sweat trickling down her face, she tried to raise a hand to brush it away, but her arm would no longer function. She strained to move both arms from her sides, finding it impossible. She endeavored to shift her legs, wriggle her toes beneath the sheets. The wouldn't budge. I can't move them! I can't move my legs! She concentrated, forcing the panic down a moment, and compelled her limbs to move, but they remained frozen. "Please!" she begged, thrusting her head back and clenching her teeth. Again, she tried, harder, using all her strength. Her legs might well have been stone. Yet, despite the uselessness of her limbs, she remained upright. Her body sat rigid as a stature, a living statue. Jenny's heart pounded harder. Another drop of sweat ran over her forehead and streaked down her face. Another. A stream of sweat. Concomitantly, she noticed two things: a coolness told her, even before she glanced down, the blankets covering her legs had vaporized. With shock, she realized they had liquefied and run off, soaking into the mattress. Second, she noticed her nightgown had become completely drenched, plastered to her body. Staring, she saw the reason: ice sweat seemed to gush from her pores, as if a faucet had been opened. The gentle swaying of the bed ceased. She saw the sheets beneath her liquefy, turning black and shiny, running off the sides of the bed, the mattress too saturated to hold more water. The bed went next. One moment it was there, its tapering bow jutting into the starry sky-wall; the next, it grew soft with the consistency of quicksand. She sank into it, but as she went deeper, it dissolved, flowing outward in all directions. In a blink, she found herself sitting upright on the floor, as if one scene had jerked to the next. The carpet beneath her was cold and spongy, covered by an inch of shiny back water. The water swirled around her bare ankles and legs and she could feel its coldness, which told her the paralysis in her limbs wasn't the result of a stroke or spinal cord injury. The conclusion did nothing to relieve her mind and panic surged in as her gaze lifted to see the bedroom furniture soften, melt. The water level rose another two inches. Her mind struggled to grasp the absurdity of it all. She couldn't be awake, could she? It must be a dream. Yet she certainly felt the pinch she'd given herself. Sweat poured from her brow and streamed down her face. It flowed down her neck, between her breasts. Her arms, legs, entire body seemed to be gushing water. Then, with startling clarity, she realized her sweat, her gushing sweat, was running into the sheet of water covering the floor, adding to it, filling the room. Although her sweat ran in torrents, her rational mind told her it wasn't possible to lose that much body fluid and live. A thought struck her unbidden, something she'd been told years ago in grade school: the body was mostly composed of seawater, the teacher had said, and at the time that had startled her. It scared her even more now and she quickly gave up the thought. You're a doctor, for God's sake; you know what's possible and what's not -- and this isn't! As if mocking her, the water level sloshed at her belly, rising more quickly. A shiver rattled her spine and she strained to move, still could not. A wave of terror threatened to drown her first. This isn't possible, this isn't possible -- The water, its touch coldly caressing, reached the underbelly of her breasts. A soughing sound filled the room. She ran her tongue over her lips and tried to utter a sharp cry, bring Cindy, who surely must be home by now, running into the room, but the noise strangled in her throat. The water rose another few inches. Oh, God! she thought, as the level edged over the top of her chest and touched her collar bone. I can't move and even if I could I can't swim and I'm going to drown -- The thought was cut off as shiny black water stroked her chin. Fright dredged a memory loose from the bottom of her thoughts. She remembered one of her friends, Kate, had drowned and the thought of how she looked after being pulled from the water flashed across her mind. Kate had waded out too far, not knowing about the drop-off at Barker's Pond. When divers located her body six hours later, Kate's face was blue and bloated, with eyes that stared like those of a stuffed animal. That image sprang into her mind, ghastly and chilling. Jenny jolted from the awful memory as water touched her lips -- a wet kiss, a lover's kiss that said, I love you, Jen. I love you and I want to keep you forever... Her hand shot up as if a compressed spring had uncoiled. The sudden release of her limb filled her with hope. She kicked out, legs coming free and the feeling augmented. Whatever force paralyzed her vanished as abruptly as it began. She let out a relieved gasp, swallowing a gulp of water. The water tasted bitter, stagnant, as if unseen things had rotted beneath its blackness. She coughed and tried to spit it out, but the taste remained. Rearing up, she floundered in the black water, struggling to gain her balance. She reached her feet with great effort, the carpet like shifting glass beads beneath her bare toes. She noticed an undertow, at first a gentle sweep that tugged at her lower legs, but its strength increased within seconds. The current began to shift treacherously and she fought to keep her balance. She maneuvered forward, fighting against the increasing flow, but found herself forced back, jounced about. The level had risen to her shoulders, making progress more difficult. Short choppy waves slapped at her face. She felt suddenly buoyant, as if her feet would be swept off the ground and the waves would pull her under at any moment. Gulping a deep breath, she forced herself onward, gaining ground slowly by thrusting out her arms and trying to cut the water with slicing strokes, then pushing back flat-handed. She concentrated on reaching the bedroom door. A new panic invaded her mind as she made the door and fumbled beneath the water's surface for the handle. Gone! The door handle was gone! Worse, she realized, the bedroom door, with its inch gap at the bottom that had always annoyed her so much, had become airtight. A scream wrenched itself loose only to be smothered in her throat. Or perhaps she was screaming, the sound merely dissolving in the roar from the water that swirled around her; she wasn't certain of anything now. The current grew more powerful, tearing at her sides, swirling between her legs, pulling, jerking. Her fingers dug into the edges of the doorframe and she strained to hold on, fingers aching, hands cramping. She held her ground, determination giving her strength. She suddenly thought of the window and cranked her head around to look. Could she get to one of them? No. They were on the other side of the room and with the powerful current she knew she'd never reach either. The closet? What the hell good was that? She'd still drown in the damn closet. She found her attention drawn in that direction just the same. A light. She saw a light, a dull reddish glare that ran up the edges of the closet door and over the top, completely outlining it. The light emanated from within the closet, she felt sure. She found herself sure of a second fact: the water flowed towards that closet, towards that light. With the thought, Jenny let her guard slip just enough for the water to seize its chance. Her foot slipped on the beadlike carpet, torn loose from beneath her. Her fingers lost their grip and the current snatched her under. She swallowed gulps of stagnant black liquid, head submerging then bobbing up again. A great roar filled her ears and a crushing pressure seemed to swell in her chest. ("Mom-meee ... help meee -- ") A sound, muffled, distant, pleading; a child's voice. Over the roaring and panic she heard it, calling to her. "Andy!" she screamed, finding her voice, though it came distorted and far off. Head going under again, water rushed into her mouth and choked off her cries. With strength born of terror, she lashed out with both arms, pushing downward in a violent motion that raised her body. Her head broke the surface and she gagged, coughing out water. Andy was in that closet! She was as sure of that as a mother is sure her child has been hurt, though that child might be miles away. That maternal sixth sense that grinned at you when it was already too late. ("Mommy, help me. Please Mommy -- ") The voice came more clearly this time, closer, and it sent a wave of chills through her soul. "I'm coming, Andy!" Jenny tried to scream, but swallowed more water and the words came out a choked gurgle. She stopped fighting the current, letting herself go limp. The water whisked her forward, toward the closet. (Mahmm-meee -- ") Andy's voice sounded strangely garbled, as if he were calling out from beneath the water. Oh, please God, no! Don't let Andy be hurt. Anything but that! Jenny slammed into the closet door with a jarring impact. Air exploded from her lungs. Her head spun and she went beneath the waves, taking in great mouthfuls, arms and legs flailing in panic. She forced her mind to focus and kicked up with all her strength, the thought of her son drowning behind that door driving her. Her head shot out of the water and she gasped; a violent spasm of coughing wracked her, sending slivers of pain across her chest. She found the closet door handle, jerked the door wide, not stopping to reason why it opened so easily against the current. A great splash of crimson light shivered over the surface of the black water, blood and ebony. In the closet world, a glaring red sun blazed from a scarlet sky. She remembered the scene from her worst nightmares, the way she'd dreamt Barker's Pond to be after they pulled Kate from its muddy bottom. A ridge of drooping dead willows lined the opposite bank of the pond, endlessly distant. Flaming eyes from hidden faces sparkled from the tangles of creeping vines that slithered like thick snakes into the blood-black water. "Andy! Where are you, baby?" Before she could resist, the closet world sucked her in, welcoming her into the nightmare pond. She reached outward, trying to steady herself, black water bubbling around her but no longer rushing. The current ebbed, become dead calm. She found her footing, stood on her toes, feet barely touching the slimy ground. A small scream, cut short, burst from her lips as she spotted something floating towards her. In an instant of stark terror she realized what it was. A body! Andy's body! Floating face down, moving forward as if tugged by invisible strings. Reaching, Jenny's splayed fingers clutched for her son's pajama top, gripped it. Pulling him around, her hold tenuous, she grasped his out-flung arm and brought him toward her. Turning his body over in her arms, she gaped in horror. Her lips parted in a shriek that never came. Andy's face was bloated and blue. His bulging glasslike eyes glared sightlessly up at her. His swollen lips were parted, spread in a death grin. He looked like a hideous version of a child's punching clown. Blackened welts criss-crossed his face. His hair, tangled and matted, squirmed with skinny snakes that wriggled over his forehead and slithered into the water, disappearing. For a split second, Jenny's mind tumbled in time and she saw Kate's bloated face grin at her; then Peg's mutilated face replaced the image -- Told ya I'd be back, girl. Can't keep a good dead woman down -- Jenny's mind snapped back as she felt the pencil-thin body of a snake brush against her beneath the surface. It slithered into her nightgown and between her legs and a shudder rattled her body. The terror of the snakes bothered her little, for the horror of seeing the death-look on her son's bruised and bloated face, the look that said Mommy, you killed me! filled her mind. She hugged him to her breast, tears running down her face -- Jenny sat up in bed. Holding nothing. She sat up only once this time. Her chest heaved, breath shuddering in sharp hollow gasps. She brushed frantically at her forehead, wiping away the sweat beaded there. This time her sweat didn't gush. Her gaze swept over the walls, the end of the bed, the carpet. A wave of relief washed through her being at seeing everything normal, the furniture all in place. She sat rigid, silence frozen about her, only the clamor of her terror roaring in her ears. Clutching at her nightgown, she twisted it between her fingers as she fought to steady herself. The nightgown was damp with sweat. The panic she'd felt over her son came back in an explosive burst and she threw off the blankets. Springing from the bed, her feet hit the soft carpet, which was dry and immensely comforting. She stumbled across the room to the door, relieved to discover the handle and annoying gap still intact. Christ, she'd never have that door fixed. Throwing open the door, she dashed out into the hall and on shaky legs rushed to Andy's room and pushed open the door. Relief flooded her. The nightlight shined over Andy's sleeping form and as a snore rattled from his open mouth she couldn't help uttering a nervous laugh. Easing the door closed, she padded back to her room, legs still quivery, but heart beating in its normal rhythm again. Her son was safe but she doubted she'd be able to sleep for the remainder of the night. -------- *(15)* Sunday * * * * By Sunday morning Dark Harbor went from ghosttown to thriving tourist resort. A river of Canadians and "out-ah state-ahs", as the locals were wont to call them, surged along the interstate from the North and from the South, clogging the toll booths and pouring into the coastal communities. Shopkeepers acquired fresh business and stale tempers. Some of the business trickled into Mrs. Gaumont's boarding house -- not near as much as it used to, you know -- but the majority flocked to beachside cottages, hotels, motels. Cars swarmed up and down Main Street. The chalky-sweet scent of doughboys and the pungent aroma of pizza and sizzling pier fries hung in the air, carried on a salty ocean breeze. The Whirlwind heaved screaming nauseated children into the sky and down again while parents remained content to get sun-baked and stuff suspectly clean food into their mouths. Of course, the usual number of fender benders occurred. Middle fingers wagged and irate customers abounded, but the tourist shops sold out of flip-flops, T-shirts sporting obscene sayings, and lobster key chains. All in all it looked like a bang-up start to the summer season. Sheriff Baker, for one, was glad he had to handle no more than the usual number of minor skirmishes -- except for one Harry Bartlet, who had threatened to take his trusty .12 gauge and deposit it up his estranged wife's personal spot and jerk the trigger. Baker wasn't happy about getting no closer to finding Margaret Fox's murderer -- let alone coming up with even one paltry suspect. It irked him. No doubt about it. He had checked out Paul Stanford's alibi with Mrs. Gaumont, who'd bitched at him for not coming over as often as he used to, and it seemed to corroborate. Besides, Baker, though he'd only met Stanford briefly, didn't really think he had anything to do with it. And that pretty much pulled the rug out from under his suspect list. Sitting across from Carl Speckler -- whose attention was glued to the open notebook in his hand -- at the pier cafe located at the end of Main Street, the sheriff stuck a fry into his mouth and tried not to think about the headache brewing in his temples. He picked up the vinegar bottle and sprinkled more on his fries. "How are they?" Speckler glanced up. "Greasy as always." Baker grunted, looking disgusted. "Told you it was too early for that stuff. It'll kill you someday." "If these headaches don't first, you mean." Baker said it without humor but Speckler chuckled. "So Friday night was a bust, huh?" "Mostly. Morrow and Parker didn't come up with anything. They combed the Cove area, which I thought would be the most likely spot for any kind of shipment, but I was wrong. Either nothing came in or they're sharper than I gave them credit for and just laid low. I kept Hudson occupied till late, though, so at least they didn't have his protection." Speckler flipped back a page in his notebook. "Went home about one, stayed there?" "Uh-huh." Baker nodded. He stared out at the crowded beach, gaze centering on a bikini-clad tourist woman who waddled along the water's edge, most of he ample flesh not left to the imagination. What was left, he didn't care to think about. "You should have seen Hudson's face when he saw Gazio with that Stanford guy." Baker shook his head. "Thought for a moment I was going to have bloody murder on my hands. Kept my eye on him every minute but ... well, I wouldn't put it past him to try to get even with Stanford. He made it through last night, but I think he's about to crack. I realized I have to be more careful with him. He's more unstable than I figured." Speckler nodded, looking thoughtful. "I saw Hudson take some dope from Corsetti, but I guess it wasn't as much as he wanted 'cause he looked livid. He's definitely into the crap, at least we know that much. I don't see anything to hang a conviction on, though from what I heard I'm sure he's protecting someone or ones from getting caught." "We're getting somewhere, but damn slowly." Baker plucked another fry from the grease-saturated paper cup and crammed it into his mouth. "So what, though?" Speckler gestured with a hand. "We can't prove it and he's being real careful. Even if you haul him in for possession, it won't more than dent the drug traffic around here, and only for a short time. We'd be skimming the top. They'd lay low until it blew over and Hudson would be out in a few days." "Matter of time." Baker shrugged with tense shoulders. "Hudson's acting too damn fidgety if you ask me. Something is bothering him and I think it's more than just snow. He's more dangerous than I thought, but I'm still going try to edge it along." "What? This Gazio thing?" "Mmmm. I have the feeling Hudson's got more than a hankering to own that woman and he doesn't care how he does it. I saw it in his eyes Friday night. Took me a while to figure out where I'd seen that look before, but I finally did. It's the same look I've seen in the eyes of the sex offenders I've dealt with. A corruption, like something in his make-up was strung together wrong -- damn wrong. I don't know how deep it goes, but it's there, all right." Baker paused. "I have to be careful. I don't want to endanger Gazio or Stanford. I saw the look Hudson gave him; not much stopping him from letting loose." "You think maybe he'll snap, go after one of them?" "Depends. I'm betting he'll snap somewhere, but it's hard to tell with his type and I'm no criminal psychologist. What about Corsetti?" It was Speckler's turn to shrug. "Nervous. Very nervous. I think maybe he wants out and Hudson's holding him through intimidation or blackmail or both. A hunch, call it, but if Deputy Hudson doesn't slip somewhere, Corsetti just might." "Good. Let's give him plenty of rope, as the saying goes." "What about this Stanford guy? Any chance of him being our murderer?" "Paul Stanford, is his full name. I met his father once, a long time ago. Stanford used to be a big name around here. Hudson checked him out, but I have the feeling he'll worry him like a dog at a bone until he finds something -- just because of Gazio. I didn't come up with much else on him, but, call it one of your reporter's hunches, I think he's clean enough. Has an alibi, though not unshakable." "What about Jake Corsetti's body? With this weather I can't see it lasting for too long." "Maybe the killer's got a big freezer," Baker said without humor. "Or maybe he's got it in a spot where nobody would notice the stench. Then again, maybe he just disposed of it, though God knows why he'd bother taking it in that case. It's goddamn frustrating. Nothing matches nothing. Weird part is, I've seen this kind of thing in Dark Harbor before, weird cases, you know? I always shrugged it off and put it down to unresolved, but I'm sick of two and two coming out five." "What next?" Speckler closed his notebook and folded his hands. "Where do we go from here?" "I'm sure Hudson's got it stuck in his mind to check out Stanford, so I'll give him at least that much -- as long as he doesn't start something. Otherwise, I don't have a lot of options until the murderer does something to reveal himself." "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be connected to this drug thing." "Maybe. But I doubt it. I really doubt it." Baker glanced at the ocean, watching a wave tumble in and splash a group of kids, who screamed and scurried as the cold water chilled them. "Tourists won't make it any easier, either." "Makes the haystack bigger." "Ah, but the needle may turn out to be a lot sharper than we think." "Reporter's intuition again?" Baker grinned. "Call it what you will, but I think that needle's going to stick someone else real soon -- and stick 'em hard." * * * * The Holy Altar Church in Smuggler's Cove squatted at the end of Maple Street, which was a dead end. The church had little redeeming value as a structure, other than being a place of worship. Small, off-white and ugly, it looked like a wart on the street's fingertip. Its grounds scrabbly and ill kempt, patches of crab grass grew unbridled; bare spots littered with stones abounded. Looking at it, Paul suspected the people in the Cove deposited more money at Gina's than in church collection plates. As Paul, Jenny and Andy strode up the walkway to the stairs, Paul glanced up at the sky. A ridge of gray clouds was moving in, threatening rain. They came fast, obliterating the sunny sky, sending occasional dime-sized splotches of water to the sidewalk. A damp breeze made it feel colder than it was, clammy. The encroaching bleakness made the church appear more moribund than it did already. Jenny scooped up Andy's hand and hauled him up the shabby wooden steps. She must have sensed Paul's thoughts, because as they made their way through the door and into the anteroom she leaned close and said, "Not much to look at. The church's been out of money for the past two years, but Pastor Petrie is super. He keeps the church going -- lots of fund raisers, suppers, that sort of thing." A smell like that of musty old books left in an attic for too long hung in the anteroom and Andy made a pew noise, squinching his nostrils shut with his fingers. Paul stifled a laugh. "Andy..." Jenny cast him a reproachful look. They picked up hymnals and walked down the aisle toward the front pews. Andy's cheeks bulged and his lips puckered, as he tried to whistle "Oops, I Did it Again." He managed only a mushy whoosh. "Stop that!" Jenny frowned. She turned to Paul, who was unable to stifle the chuckle this time. "Remind me to break that CD when we get home. I thought he'd be sick of it by now. He must have listened to it a thousand times." They seated themselves in the fifth pew, sandwiching Andy between them. Although he only spent a short time with the little boy, Paul noticed himself growing fond of him. The feeling surprised him; he'd never had any inclination towards children or family life before. Children meant settling down, responsibility. Hell, he could remember having knock-down-drag-outs with Jill over the subject. So what was different, now? Why did he find himself suddenly not averse to the idea of starting a family? Maybe his restlessness was really leaving him. Maybe he didn't have to worry about the damn nightmares anymore. Pastor Petrie started to preach in a booming voice on how the Devil would try to deceive the people of the earth and might even start in a place as obscure as Dark Harbor. Paul thought the Devil would probably be smarter than to bother with this town. Andy, fidgeting, suddenly blurted, "Mommy, does the Devil ever eat at diners?" Jenny answered with a sharp shush, giving him a scolding glance. "Ooohh-kaaay." Andy went back to making whoosh sounds. Paul felt his stomach grumble and thought that if the Devil did eat in diners he'd have to wait in line. And hour later, Pastor Petrie had put Andy to sleep -- which Jenny told Paul was just as embarrassing as the irritating whoosh sounds, perhaps even more so since his snoring attracted Mrs. Tidwell's disparaging glances. Paul told Jenny the old bitty probably hadn't had a sex life since Johnson was president, so it was understandable why she was so uptight, and Jenny giggled. All the while, he found himself paying more attention to Jenny's blouse than to the sermon. He let out a secret sigh of relief when lightning failed to hit him on the way out of the church. The diner, The Scrambled Egg -- stupid name, Paul thought -- was in considerably better shape than the church and clean enough to sit on the men's room toilet seat without fear of ringworm or something worse. When Paul returned from the men's room, they selected a corner booth by a huge plate glass window over-looking the parking lot. Andy skipped ahead, pulling on Jenny's arm and muttering his desire for a cheeseburger. "Looks like he's made up his mind." Paul smiled. "He'll have eggs and bacon. He always does." Andy scrambled into the booth, sneakers flailing behind him. "Usually I have to fight to make him get on the inside." A look of mild disbelief crossed Jenny's face. "He has a disconcerting habit of throwing food and silverware." "Huh, so do I," said Paul. "Maybe I could give him pointers." "Don't you dare! He picks up enough all by himself." The waitress shuffled over and Paul ordered a black coffee and muffin, while Jenny opted for just coffee. Andy said, "Scrambled eggs, scrambled eggs!" forgetting his earlier resolution to have a cheeseburger, and banged a fork on the table. The waitress strutted off with the order and Andy played with the Sweet 'n Low packets until his food came. Jenny made swirling circles with the creamer in her coffee, as though her thoughts were somewhere else. "Hey," said Paul. "I'm not boring you, am I? I could make milk come out of my nose or something." Jenny gave a slight chuckle and an easy smile came to her lips, but he could see something hidden behind it. Andy, not bothering to swallow his mouthful of egg, blurted "Yeah!" "Never mind!" Jenny snapped at Paul before he had the chance to do it. Andy sighed and went back to his food. "Don't worry, it's not you, Paul. I was just thinking of a dream I had the other night after you took me home. It's bothered me ever since." Paul felt a twinge of apprehension. "Dream? What about?" Jenny glanced at Andy and Paul saw hesitancy flicker across her face. Turning back to Paul she said, "Nothing I'd really care to get into, but it was the weirdest thing. Like everything I was ever scared of -- I mean really scared of -- came back. You know, stuff like a fear of snakes and..." Her gaze dropped. "What?" Paul tensed, despite himself. "Drowning. A fear of drowning." "Guess it was a bad one." Paul wasn't quite sure why he felt relieved, but he did. "More like just plain weird. I haven't even thought of those things in years." "You know what they say about snake dreams..." Paul thought he saw crimson creep into her cheeks. "What do they say about drowning dreams?" she countered with a smile in her eyes. "Means you're all wet." Paul said, unable to resist the shot, but he found it hard to put much humor into it, remembering his own experience with dreams. Maybe the damn things were contagious. "Hey!" Jenny flicked her coffee stirrer at him. Paul swatted it away and laughed. "My advice would be to just forget it. Probably just a one-time thing that didn't mean anything. Maybe it was built-up stress. You've been through a lot lately and it's bound to affect you." "Wait a minute," Jenny raised her eyebrow, "who's the doctor here?" "Actually, I always was rather good at playing doctor." "Tell me about it." She laughed, the sound easy and honest. For a moment, their eyes locked and Paul felt the old feeling surge back in. You're hooked, Paul. You're still hooked. You always were. All right, so maybe he was, but this time the thought of it didn't bother him the way it had with Jill and the others. Something just felt right. At the same time, he felt that old reflex that made him want to pull back, take it slow. What if he were letting himself -- and Jenny -- in for a major fall? What if the dreams and the restlessness did return? What if the thing in his dream caught up with him and demanded payment in full? You're getting neurotic, Paul. Getting? A slurping noise pulled him from his thoughts. Andy sucked the last drops of chocolate milk from the bottom of his glass, making as much noise as possible in doing so. Jenny shook her head in exasperation. Paul grinned. "Oh, Andy!" Jenny blurted with a heavy sigh. Andy had belched a disgusting er-umph! of a sound. A beat later, up came his scrambled eggs, smack into his plate. "Oops." Paul's face contorted. "Crap." Jenny shook her head. "Yuck." Andy stared at his plate. * * * * The sun splintered through the clouds by late afternoon. The ebbing tide captured and reflected the last sparkling drops of daylight. As they walked along the beach, Paul drew in a deep breath of salty air, letting it out slowly and feeling relaxed. They'd spent the day taking Andy on the rides, Paul's stomach doing double flip-flops after Andy talked him into going for a whirl on the Pirate Ship -- a huge replica of a galleon that swung back and forth at least a thousand feet into the air, if Paul's windmilling gut was any indication. Jenny hadn't stopped giggling for fifteen minutes after Paul stumbled off the thing rubber-legged and nauseated, Andy pulling up the rear and tugging on Paul's hand, wanting to go on it again. Paul had forced a smile, but Jenny accompanied Andy the second time. Then it had been Paul's turn to laugh when Jenny staggered off, green as a Martian. "Hey, young man." Jenny waved a finger at her son. "Eat that a little slower. We don't need any repeats of this morning." "Don't worry, mom." Andy dragged out the word "mom", a condescending look on his face. He stuffed a blue cloud of cotton candy as far into his mouth as it would go. "Yeah, don't worry, if anyone throws up it's going to be me." Paul clutched his stomach and winced and Jenny burst out laughing. "Wassa matter, Paul? The itty-bitty boat ride too much fer ya?" She stuck her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans and straddled along, bow-legged. "Very funny. If I recall, you were walking that way yourself when you got off that, that ... boat." "Oh, come now. I was the picture of control. I'm a doctor, you know. A little height doesn't bother me." "Let's go again, mommy!" blurted Andy. His mouth resembled an over-stuffed chair erupting blue filling. Jenny peered at him, the smile dropping from her face. She looked back at Paul, who was staring at her, arms folded. "Well?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Er, maybe next time. It's getting late." She pretended to check her watch. "I thought so." said Paul, triumph in his voice. "Okay, okay. So maybe I was a little scared." She made an inch gap between her thumb and index finger. "A little?" "Weeelll..." Jenny burst out with an easy laugh. They walked the beach in silence for a while. The sun dipped below the horizon. Andy, exhausted, began to complain until Paul picked him up and carried him. The little boy was soon fast asleep and snoring, head jammed to Paul's shoulder. "It's been a long day for him." Jenny brushed the hair from Andy's forehead. "How 'bout you?" "Me? Well, let's just say I hardly noticed it passing." She turned to him, the waning light turning her topaz eyes into glittering amber pools. Paul tried to see into their depths, the way he used to so long ago, fathom the thoughts and feelings hidden there. This time, he thought he did see something, something he knew he wanted desperately but was afraid to admit to himself -- something that scared the living hell out of him. He saw she did still have feelings for him, but with those feelings, a shadow of reluctance, doubt. She wasn't quite ready to trust him again. Would she ever be? If she did let her feelings go, could he? Would he let himself get that close? Or would he wake up with that restless curse? Leave again? God, for once he really wanted to stay, needed to, and the realization more than surprised him: on one hand, he fought it; on the other, he cherished it like a first kiss. This time it was Jenny, he told himself. It had always been Jenny. Paul looked away, glancing at the water, the sand, not knowing what to feel suddenly. The sky purpled to twilight, captured sunlight draining from the sea. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jenny looking straight ahead, lips parted in a thin smile. His fingers drifted out, touched hers, entwined. This time she made no move to pull away. Maybe that scared him most of all. -------- *(16)* Monday * * * * As she stepped into the hospital elevator, nervousness pierced Jenny's belly. Her hand went out, pausing in mid-air. She debated pushing the button for the fifth floor. No, it was only her first day back; she wasn't ready to go up there. Not yet. She found it hard enough just being at the hospital. For the past two days Paul had helped take her mind off of what happened, but now it all came back -- that night, the dread, Peg's face, the way her body lay opened and sprawled across the examination table. Blood streaming down cold steel, spreading over antiseptic tile. Peg was dead. Being back at the hospital sealed that point, grim and final. The hospital seemed so much emptier, so much colder, without her friend. Jenny didn't think she'd ever get over that feeling. Now, more than ever, she looked forward to starting her own practice, leaving this place. It reminded her more of a morgue than a place to heal the sick. A shiver worked through her as she remembered the dread that plagued her that night. It returned now, singing somewhere distantly inside like wind whining across arctic ice. Not as intense, no, but there nonetheless. During her time with Paul, she hadn't noticed it; she'd felt so relaxed, at ease. Here ... yes, something still felt wrong. He's out there, waiting... The elevator door slid shut and she felt swallowed within the cage, as she had that night. She noticed her hand shaking as she finally jabbed the button for the second floor. The cage started upward with a soft whine. Jenny tried to force the unease away. She had to face being back sooner or later and it was better to do it now; the longer she put it off, the harder it would be. The fifth floor would have to wait until another day. She couldn't deal with going up there, not with Peg's murder fresh in her mind. You're the strong one, girl, she thought she heard her friend say in her mind. Funny, she didn't feel that strong anymore. Had she ever been? Or was it all just something she'd deluded herself into thinking because somehow it made her feel secure? She remembered Paul calling her the strong one, ten years ago. But even then it had been a front, she realized. Because his leaving had torn her apart, not matter how much she told herself or anyone else otherwise. But miracles of miracles Paul had come back and all that pain didn't matter anymore, did it? That memory, that old unfulfilled dream could be thrown away, now, because like a school girl with a crush she felt herself slipping, erasing ten years as though she and Paul had never been apart. On one day she'd shut him out of her mind for good; on the next, the door had blown open, letting him back in. She found herself more eager than she wanted to admit to consummate what they'd started then. With that eagerness came fear, a desire to pull back, protect herself. He might leave again. The thought kept running through her mind, the only jarring note to the weekend. She tried to console herself by thinking over and over they had both been young and immature ten years ago, that Paul was ready to stay this time. She was the strong one? Jenny suddenly knew that if Paul left again, even though they'd only been together a short time, it would be a whole hell of a lot harder to deal with this time -- if she fell. Who are you kidding? she asked herself. Haven't you fallen already? Before she could answer that question, the elevator stopped. The dread of a moment ago rushed back. She stared at the number panel, at the lit-up circled 5. Five? No, that had to be wrong. She'd pressed the button for the second floor. Hadn't she? Yes, she felt sure she had. But the panel said 5. Her heart started to pound as she stared at the number. Its beating throbbed in her throat, made her face feel heated. The air in the cage seemed compressed, heavy, crushing. She made a move towards the panel, seeking to press the second floor button again. The elevator doors swished open, stopping her. A gasp escaped her lips and her hands went to her face. She recoiled, terror hitting her like a solid thing. Peg stood in the doorway. Flaps of raw meaty flesh dangled from her face. Bone shone through the cheek where muscle had been pulled away. Blood matted her black curls and soaked the front of her shredded frock. A chunk of flesh clung by tenuous strings to her temple. A gaping hole existed where her stomach had been; intestines snaked out. A ruby pool glistened at her feet. Peg's hand, flesh tattered and hanging, bones showing through, lifted, pointed. "Go. Home. Girl. Stay..." The words, liquidy and harsh, trailed off, as though the apparition were struggling to maintain itself. Jenny gasped and stumbled back, pressing against the elevator wall. Her senses reeled; a creeping blackness began to overtake her mind. Weakness struck her legs. She knew she was going to faint again, felt the blackness expanding and a scream welling up -- Jenny stared at the closed elevator doors, heart pounding. The lighted button on the panel said 2. The second floor. She was on the second floor. Not the fifth. Peg, or that thing that looked like Peg, wasn't really there. She'd merely imagined it. God, was she still that close to the edge? That she was seeing ghosts, things that weren't real? Jenny noticed herself holding her breath and forced it out. Was she losing her mind? No, she told herself, as the elevator doors opened. She was just a bit overwrought, thinking about going to the fifth floor and Peg's death. It was her first day back; she couldn't expect it to be problem free. Her vague dread just made her imagine the worst. Right? As the doors began to close again, she poked the button to hold them open and stepped through. She still trembled all over and on unsteady legs she made her way to the Pediatrics waiting room and fell onto the big vinyl-covered couch. She tried to steady herself by taking deep breaths. Perhaps she had come back to work too soon; another few days or a week off might have done her good. Maybe spending more time with Paul would help her deal better with her grief. It didn't matter, now, because she was here and she had to deal with it, get herself together or she'd be no good to her patients. Jenny stood, nerves finally calming some as she thought about the kids in the ward that depended on her to be cheery while they were ill. It was going to be a long shift. * * * * "Been seein' lots of Dr. Jenny, haven't you, Paul?" Mrs. Gaumont stood by the counter, arms folded and head slightly cocked. She reminded him of an old mother hen waiting up for a kid on the first date. "Well, if I am, I only have you to thank." He smiled. "Oh, my!" Mrs. Gaumont beamed. "It was nothing, nothing a'tall. I knew you two were meant for each other the minute I saw you looking at her through the window, you know. Like I said, a body can tell these things." Satisfaction glowed on her face. "If only Franklyn was alive to see this. He never did cater much to my messin' in, I mean, helping out with relationships, you understand. But I always said, 'Franklyn, I should have been a marriage counselor.' Sometimes God just means for certain people to be certain things in life. I truly believe that was my callin'. I guess some things just don't work out the way they should, do they?" She motioned to a chair and Paul sat, while she turned to the counter and busied herself with making two cups of Cafe Vienna. "No, sometimes they sure don't. But I'm sure you would have done a fine job." "Oh, Paul, you're such a flatter!" Her dough-girl face crimsoned in uneven splotches. "Only when I have such a good subject." Paul found himself in such a good mood today that nothing could dampen his spirits. And he did have the old woman to thank for giving him that little extra push toward seeing Jenny. "Speaking of jobs, I'll be finishing up with the repairs by the end of the week, I think." "Oh, do say?" She raised her eyebrows. "The old girl will look almost as good as new. Might even try to bring some of the same magic to my father's old place." "I'm so glad for you, Paul!" Mrs. Gaumont set a cup of Vienna before him and seated herself. "You seem so much happier since you've been here." "You know, Mrs. G., I think you're right." "Good. I'm glad. And remember, you still owe me an All in the Family." She shook a finger at him, forearm flesh jiggling, and laughed. "I'll be down tonight, I promise. Give me time to get cleaned up then put on the popcorn." "Oh, hoop-di-do!" said Mrs. Gaumont. * * * * Mrs. Gaumont was right, Paul thought, as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He was happy. For the first time in God knew how many years, he was happy. Since Friday, Jenny had occupied his thoughts almost constantly, lifting his spirits. Remember what happens when you get too close, Paul. Another love mine explodes in your face. Paul laughed. The warning no longer worried him. He'd thought about it a lot today, making up his mind to put his past in the past where it belonged. Oh, he knew it wouldn't be easy, but he had to try. Next week, he even planned to go back to his father's house and start repairs, rid the place of its old ghosts for good. Then, maybe, when he felt ready, he would find Freddy again and straighten out a few things about his mother -- if the old man really knew anything. But that could wait. Life had turned around and Paul couldn't help smiling again. This time he'd make sure it stayed turned around. He wouldn't let voices in his dreams, old ghosts or things in closets get in his way. -------- *(17)* Tuesday * * * * "I think Paul Stanford's our killer." Drumming a No. 2 pencil on the blotter, Deputy Dave Hudson looked up from his desk and peered at Sheriff Baker. "What?" Baker, tone laced with surprise, turned from the window where he'd been poking a finger into Ernest's cage. The deputy's statement had come out of thin air. "I think Stanford murdered Dr. Margaret Fox." Baker shook his head and sighed. "And what do you base this astute theory on? Lack of dating?" Hudson reddened, a flash of anger in his eyes. Baker smiled to himself. Getting Hudson rattled was almost too easy; getting him to blow it completely was another story. "It makes sense." Hudson's tone went glacial. "Enlighten me." Baker leaned against the window sill and folded his arms. A doubtful expression welded onto his face. "He's the only one who came into town that day and he's a loner -- " "Oh, let me guess," Baker held up a hand, "the Dr. Gazio fanclub revoked your membership." Hudson snapped the pencil in half between his fingers. "You laugh now, but I'll prove I'm right." "Stanford has an alibi, Hudson. And I certainly doubt he's got any corpses stuffed in his room at the boarding house. Not with Mrs. Gaumont around." "You haven't checked his alibi." The deputy was wrong; Baker had checked, but he didn't bother to bring Hudson up to date. The less Hudson knew about his activities the better. "Didn't get around to it." Baker cleared his throat. "Well, I'm going to." Hudson swung his chair around and vaulted out of it, strode across the room. He grabbed his hat and faced Baker. "And I know I can shake it." "Don't shake too hard." Baker eyed the deputy with a stern gaze, but made no effort to stop him. "There's such a thing as police harassment, even in Dark Harbor." "We'll see." Hudson let out a half-laugh and put on his hat. "Where are you going?" "To see Mrs. Gaumont and check out Stanford's alibi. I have a hunch he messed up somewhere." "I'll tell you this once, Hudson: don't start any trouble. Do your job and let that be that. Understood?" "No trouble. No trouble at all." His tone said different, but the deputy closed the door behind him before Baker could object. Baker went to his desk and settled into his chair, leaning back. He wondered again if he'd pushed Hudson too far, wondered if the deputy was danger to Paul Stanford or Gazio. Maybe he should follow Hudson, or better yet, have Parker or Morrow do it. However, Baker didn't think Hudson would really hurt Stanford at this point. At the moment, he seemed merely intent on proving something against the man. If that didn't work? Baker would have to keep his eyes wide open and deal with that when the time came. The sheriff swiveled in his chair and faced the window. Watching Ernest scurry inside the hamster wheel he said, "Whatta you think, Ernest old buddy? You think Deputy Hudson's got a screw loose or just a major case of the hornies?" Ernest didn't answer. * * * * "Deputy Hudson, what a pleasant surprise!" said Mrs. Gaumont, as Hudson, hat in hand, stepped into the kitchen. "Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood so I thought I'd stop by and ask you a few questions." "Well, sit down, sit down." She motioned toward the table, but Hudson ignored her and strolled to the window. Leaning over the counter and peering out, he stared at the house across the street. Jenny's house; Melinda's house. You're a loser! "Deputy Hudson?" he heard Mrs. Gaumont say distantly. Yes, he had come here for a reason, hadn't he? He turned, then went to the table and pulled out a chair. Eyeing him, Mrs. Gaumont said, "Cafe Vienna?" "No thanks." Hudson sat. "Oh." The old woman raised an eyebrow. "I wanted to ask you a few questions about one of your guests, Paul Stanford." Suspicion crossed her face. "Paul, why?" She cocked her head. A distance suddenly gaped between them; he could tell by her tone, the way she looked at him. Her defenses had risen. He'd have to alter his approach if he wanted to get any information out of the old bag. She obviously liked the bastard. "Ah, well..." His tone lightened and a forced smile bled onto his lips. "It's routine, really. With the murder at the hospital we have to check all leads -- and Stanford did arrive the same day as Dr. Fox was killed." "Oh, shoot!" said Mrs. Gaumont, less distant. "You can just rest your mind on that, you know. Paul stayed with me till late afternoon, then he went up to his room for the night. He was exhausted from the trip and his car never left the parking lot. He didn't even know about the murder at the hospital till I told him about it the next day." "That doesn't vindicate him." Hudson was unable to conceal the spite in his tone. Stanford would pay for taking Jenny, guilty of Fox's murder or not. Hudson didn't give a damn which way he had to do it but he'd get rid of Stanford. "What time did he get here?" "'Tween two and three -- I don't know as I like your line of questioning, there you. I know people. I'm telling you Paul is a very nice young man. He couldn't be involved in any murder. Why don't you check on them bikers or drug pushers, instead of wasting your time harassing innocent people. You took your sweet time getting out here when those kids broke into those houses down the way, didn't you? Why don't you go after the real criminals!" Mrs. Gaumont locked her arms together and glared at him. Smooth, Hudson told himself, temper rising. Now you've really pissed off the old bitch. You'll get crap out of her now. Stanford still had time to commit that murder, you stupid cow! he suddenly wanted to shout at her. And nothing you can say is going to stop me from nailing him. Maybe I'll even nail you. Can you still screw, you old whore? You're a loser! Hudson stood, gripping his anger. He saw no use in questioning her further, not now. "Well, then," he said slowly, deliberately, "if you'll excuse me, I'll just go out and chase some real criminals." He went to the door, pausing. "Sure hope none of them drug pushers ever bother you." "I don't care none for your tone, Deputy Hudson," Mrs. Gaumont stated, body stiffening. "The sheriff will hear about this." "Do say?" Hudson walked from the room. * * * * Paul had spent the day in Portland, running an errand he'd set for himself. He was mildly surprised to see the squad car in the boarding house parking lot as he drove in, but didn't think much about it until he'd started up the steps and the screen door flew open. "Stanford." Deputy Hudson stopped and blocked the doorway. A darkness shone in the deputy's eyes Paul didn't like one bit. He saw the man's resentment etched across the glare; it had grown deeper since their first meeting. The resentment looked more focused, more calculated, laced with cunning. A caution light blinked on in Paul's mind, telling him he'd better keep his eyes open. "Deputy... Wish I could say it's a pleasure. Is this a social call or did you come here to harass old ladies?" Don't push it, Paul. He wants to hassle you; don't give him an excuse. "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?" Hudson stepped onto the porch, shoving close to Paul. Paul tensed, wondering what the deputy was up to. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Stanford." "Is it free or do I have to pay for it?" Hudson ignored him. "Dark Harbor doesn't take well to strangers coming in and messing around with the way things work. Know what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't, Deputy Hudson. What's more, I don't care." Paul made a move to push past the man. Anger hit Hudson's face; he stepped left, blocking Paul's way. Paul, leaning back against the rail to get some distance, felt his heart start to pound as adrenaline shot into his veins. Hudson jabbed a finger into Paul's chest. Painfully. "You'd better start caring. And you better listen. Stay away from Jennifer Gazio. You'll save yourself a load of grief." Paul didn't say anything, but barely suppressed the urge to take a swing at the deputy. After a moment of strained silence, Deputy Hudson pushed past him and went down the stairs. Paul watched him drive away, thinking: no, staying away from Jenny won't save me any grief at all. Because one way or another, Deputy Hudson, we're going to clash. And when we do someone is going to get hurt. * * * * "What an awful man!" said Mrs. Gaumont, as Paul came into the room. "Hudson?" asked Paul, still thinking of his encounter with the deputy. Mrs. Gaumont poured him a cup of Cafe Vienna without asking, then set both cups on the table. "You just missed him. Waste of a uniform, if you ask me." "I'm inclined to agree with you on that point, Mrs. G. Unfortunately, I didn't miss him. Met him on the steps as I was coming in. His ... manners leave something to be desired." "Well, I certainly hope he doesn't stop by again. Sheriff's downright decent folk, you understand, but that deputy..." "What'd he want?" Paul took a sip of coffee. "Well, he asked me about you." Mrs. Gaumont lowered herself into the chair. Paul couldn't help the stab of apprehension that pierced his belly. "Not that it surprises me, but why?" "Wanted to know when you came in on Wednesday, because of the murder at the hospital. I told him he was foolish, of course." "Thanks. I'll need all the support I can get when it comes to him." Why did Hudson want to know that? Then the truth hit him: the deputy, in searching for anything to keep Paul away from Jenny, was looking to tie him to the murder. "Don't worry about it, Mrs. G.," Paul added, "probably his job to check every possibility." "I still don't like him. He's nothing like the sheriff, though Baker ain't got a lick of sense when it comes to hiring deputies." Paul chuckled but didn't feel particularly at ease. "You're right about that." He took another sip of coffee, wondering how much of a problem Hudson would be. He didn't know how far the deputy would push it, but something told Paul little would stand in his way where Jenny was concerned. The last thing Paul needed was a small town deputy with a jealous grudge having it in for him. -------- *(18)* Wednesday * * * * Rats and darkness; darkness and rats. The Demon had endured his fill of both. His strength had deteriorated long enough, his fleshless body drying out despite the dampness. A hunger for fear, for hate, for anger ravaged his soul, turning upon him, devouring him as an animal caught in a trap chews through its very flesh and bone to escape. If he didn't find a host, he knew his skinless form would wither and rot in another day or two, and he would be exiled to the Vanished Place. Trapped in a nothing eternity with the exorcised, the soulless. the only prison he truly feared. But the Vanished Place was not for the Demon. Because tonight the hate-soul was near, the one he'd chosen for his host. Tonight he would drink of his anger, feed on his darkness and merge with his terror. But first, the Demon would replenish some of the strength he had lost. The old man. Yes, the old man who'd tried to warn Stanford. The old man would pay dearly for his interference and his bloodline's transgressions. Revenge! "The past is not forgotten, father," he uttered in a grating voice that seemed part of the darkness. "It is merely entertained." The demon slid from his niche; cold cruddy water swirled at this legs as he made his way toward the ladder. Fleshless hands gripped the rungs. He pulled himself upward in slow jerky movements. At the top, he shoved against the manhole cover, forcing it aside. Dusk had made the air crisp and damp; that would make his task easier. He could remember nights such as this a hundred years gone, a time when he'd been human, a time before he'd consigned his soul to Hell. Then, he had relished the smell of the sea and the bite of the cool ocean breeze. His Master had neglected to tell him these things would be taken away from him. No matter. The wind and the sea made no difference to him, now. To Nathan Courtwright they meant life; to the monster he'd become they meant nothing. Only hate mattered; hate and anger and the hunger for fear. Tonight he would be filled. * * * * As Freddy hurried along the sidewalk, he pulled his coat collar to his chin, trying to keep out the damp. The muffled throbbing of a jukebox, bleeding into the night from the Blue Coral, reached his ears. The night had a satin quality, streetlights scattering their glare on crystals of fog like opal beads. He shuddered, a spasm of cold wracking his body and a rheumatic cough seizing his lungs. Christ, he felt that infernal dampness clamp about his bones. The salt-sharpened breeze sliced right through his old coat and through his soul. It reminded him of the coldness that gripped him the day Caroline disappeared. Freddy uttered a dry laugh. So Paul thought his mother had deserted him. The old man didn't know why he found that perversely funny. He thinks you don't care... How many years had he searched for a trace of her, a clue to what happened? Freddy couldn't remember anymore. He felt guilt gnaw at his guts, knowing he hadn't quite told Paul the truth about the tickets, how he'd bought three instead of two. For Freddy would have had to tell him everything, then, how he was to leave with them. They were to have gone far away, start a new life where he and Caroline could have raised Paul right. Happily ever after. A perverted joke. Because then she was gone. And Jack had forbidden him to see Paul. Freddy supposed he could have challenged Jack or kidnapped Paul. What use? More guilt. Freddy caught himself laughing again. Big joke. Big goddamned joke. He shuffled along, the sounds of music and laughter from the Coral fading, swallowed by the empty sounds of the night. The street darkened and wispy fog shrouded everything, as it had on the night he'd met Paul in front of the Coral. Streetlights became more sparsely spaced, their scant illumination greedily rationed over this area of the waterfront. Colder. Emptier. With palsied fingers, Freddy probed beneath his coat and pulled out a worn flask. He stared at the flask, lost somewhere, then unscrewed the cap and took a deep drink of the contents. Liquor seared his throat and settled like a glowing light in his belly. Warmth coursed through his rusted veins. "Hell," he muttered to no one in particular. "Freddy, you old bastard, you ain't just a bum, you're a goddamn cliche." Walking along, his thoughts drifted to Paul again. He wished he could have made the boy listen, though, hell, he could hardly be blamed for his reaction. Maybe he owed the boy one more try. There were other things Paul should know -- had to know. Darker things. How could he expect Paul to believe if he didn't tell him everything? "Aye," Freddy mumbled, "sooner or later you'll have to face your own feelings, boy. That's all you'll have left." Would it be too late? IT'S ALREADY TOO LATE, OLD MAN. Freddy jerked to a halt, an arc of fear sizzling through him. He listened, straining his ears. A gust of wind ruffled the fog and whispered along the street. Had he heard the wind? No, not the wind. The wind didn't speak. He knew what made the sound: the thing was close, the dark thing he'd tried to warm Paul about. Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed it stalking him. A thin smile crossed his lips but inside he shuddered. Uttering a low grunt, Freddy started on again, no longer feeling the coldness that plagued him earlier; the liquor had chased that away. But it couldn't chase away the chill that lived in the darkness, the dread waking inside him. The scent of death, evil. Wasn't death warmth? Eternal warmth? No loneliness, no pain, no forgotten promises or abandoned wishes. Why should he fear death? He'd expected the Demon to seek him out eventually. He had known it since he first tried to warn Paul. His death would leave Paul to face the thing alone, wouldn't it? The boy was stronger than he knew; he had the gift. Freddy hoped it would be enough. A nervous quiver fluttered through Freddy's gut, as he felt the essence of the thing pursuing him. Ripe evil, a filth that could never be scrubbed clean. He could scarcely believe his family's blood flowed through the Demon's veins. Oh, yes, he knew what the Demon was; and he knew how to fight it. As if mocking him, a sense of incredible hate blazed through him in great shuddering waves. Anger, unbridled, effusive, gripped him, shook him, squeezed him. It filled his mind, a raging storm, lashing at his senses, roiling up his own bitterness. Dread. The awful dread. Yet, within, Freddy felt a glimmer of hope. Somehow, the Demon's pull wasn't as powerful as he expected. Why? He peered into the darkness ahead for a glimpse of the thing that tasked him. The force of hate blazed directly before him, coming from the direction of the hospital, which was at least a mile distant. He could see its lights twinkling on the hill. Freddy uttered a low grunt. The harder he tried to see the Evil, the more elusive it became. The power seemed lost within the swirling mist, latent memories and forbidden nights. Don't fear, he told himself, struggling to push the feeling away. Don't fear or he'll have you. But he couldn't oust it. It rose up on charred wings, fluttering close. The fear in all of us, the old man thought. The fear, the hate, the bitterness: tools of the Demon. Even the kinder emotions could be turned against him. No, he had to resist, fight him! Freddy stumbled forward, moving at an awkward uneven pace. If only he had the gift, like Paul. Then his chances would be so much better. But what the hell? He'd never been particularly blessed in any way. OLD MAN, YOUR RESISTANCE IS USELESS. Deep in his mind Freddy heard the Demon speak. He felt the eternal fury of the Evil, the waves of hate and fear and anger growing stronger, stronger, stronger. He smelled its stench, the decay of emptiness. Fight it! He shook, despite himself. Fight him! Fight the memories, the pain! "Your games are useless on me!" Freddy yelled into the darkness. His face set with determination. "I know what you are. I know who you are." THEN I PITY YOU, OLD MAN. Despite his resolve, Freddy's steps quickened, his gait stiff and shuffling. His toe hooked a jutting portion of the sidewalk and he almost tripped. A block farther on and his limbs began to ache, throb. An old pain struck at his knees. His breath pushed out faster, rattling in his lungs, and he coughed with a shudder. He felt the Demon pry into his mind, burrowing through the layers of self-pity and abuse. Again, he fought to push it back, force the Demon out and block the things that had tortured his mind. But quick steps ignited into clumsy run. RUN! RUN, OLD MAN! I DEVOUR YOUR FEAR. IT FEEDS MY HUNGER. YOUR BITTERNESS RUNS TOO DEEP TO BE HIDDEN. YOUR SOUL HAS ROTTED. "You won't have me, you bastard!" Freddy shook his fist. His heart banged, rattling like a freight train in his chest. Perhaps that would take him first. I WILL HAVE HIM, OLD MAN. YOUR FOOLISH WARNING DID NO MORE THAN BRING ABOUT YOUR OWN DEATH. "No! He will realize. He'll stop you!" Louder, goddamn ticker banging louder. His breath burned in his throat. Pain blazed across his ribs, heart on fire. I PLAY WITH HIM AS I PLAY WITH YOU. HE IS WEAK, EASY PREY. STOP FIGHTING ME, OLD MAN. PERHAPS I WILL BE MERCIFUL. Freddy shook his head in a defiant gesture. The Demon's voice grated through his mind, thundering with the force of a hundred beating hearts. Hate. Anger. Wave after wave of it. Burning with his own iniquities. Crushing him, feeding on his -- NO! He wouldn't let himself fear. Block it out, block it out -- YOU ARE INDEED A FOOL, OLD MAN. YOU ARE POWERLESS TO RESIST MY WILL. I WILL SUCK THE LIFE FROM YOUR VEINS AND DEVOUR YOUR PETTY SOUL. Freddy's pace slowed, exhaustion cramping his legs, sapping his strength. The jabbing pain in his chest became a heavy pressure that crushed the breath from his lungs. He was too damn old for this, too damn eaten up inside. His breath came in ragged gasps. He shuddered a cough, feeling something thick come up in his throat. His insides were coming loose, pieces of his life chipping away like old paint. Block the fear. Block it or die. Fight him, you old fool. Push the Demon back. Repay the boy! YOUR TIME IS NEAR, OLD MAN. YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE WARNED HIM. I SEE HIS IMAGE IN YOUR HEAD. BUT IT'S TOO LATE. HE HAS ONLY SO MUCH FREEDOM. THEN I SHALL FEED ON HIS PAST. "No, damn you! Get out of my head!" The Demon's laugh rang out with mocking cadence, rising and falling. A death knell. Voices! Voices spilling from the ringing peels. Hushed cries, like daggers; tortured whispers, like sin; a thousand damned souls keening for freedom. Freddy shuddered with the anguish trapped in those cries, felt their pleas ravage him. "Don't listen!" he screamed, pressing his hands to his ears, but he couldn't crush out the sound. Resist them! Resist him. It's your only chance. He's weak or he would have won by now. RUN! RUN FROM ME! LET YOUR OWN DECAY SAVE ME THE TROUBLE OR SNUFFING YOUR PETTY EXISTENCE. "You're weak!" Freddy's legs wanted to give out. "In the name of God, I repel you!" A harsh laugh crashed through his mind. YOU ARE DISILLUSIONED, OLD MAN. I AM POWERFUL, MORE POWERFUL THAN ANY GOD YOU COULD KNOW. I WILL FREE THE DAMNED. IS YOUR FAITH STRONG ENOUGH TO FACE THAT? The sibilant voices grew louder, like the slithering of countless snakes. Their anguish hissed though his senses, overwhelming, crushing. "You're lying!" Freddy shouted back in an effort to drown the voices. "You're lying, goddamn you! I know your ways, your tricks." Freddy's heart gave a lurch, its beating throbbing irregularly, stuttering. His strength was failing, nearly gone. He knew he couldn't last much longer. His body couldn't stand the strain. But he'd be damned if he'd give the thing his soul. AM I LYING, OLD MAN? GIVE IN. I PROMISE IT WILL BE MUCH WORSE IF YOU DON'T. I'LL SHOW YOU TERRORS THAT WILL SHATTER YOUR MIND. IT'S COLD, SO COLD IN THE VANISHED PLACE. "No colder than the hell you promise." Freddy stopped, muscles giving out. Waiting in the darkness, he felt his breath slow, the pressure in his chest lessen. Now Freddy was positive the Demon was trying to trick him, wasn't strong enough to take him. His own feeble resistance had temporarily stayed the monster. That meant he still had a chance. But how? How could he best the Demon and warn Paul? Would his strength return fast enough, now that he had stopped running. "Freddy..." A voice drifted over the fog, bell-like, enchanting, something from a sweet dream. It had come from somewhere behind him. The old man's head swiveled. In the recesses of his memory, he recognized the voice, and a warm shiver passed through him. "Freddy ... come to me..." A figure emerged from the mist, as though its very form were part of the night's shroud. Dark hair floated out, entwining with fog and shimmering with diffused ambiance. A glow softened the features like a memory haze. Her full lips parted in a beckoning smile, and she spread her arms, reaching for him. Diaphany caressed her nude figure, carnal wraiths. Freddy's heart grew heavy; its erratic beating slowed, pumping with muted passion, filling him with gentle cravings he'd thought long dead. She looked as lovely and as young as the day he'd last seen her, the day she'd asked him to buy the tickets. "You've come back, Caroline..." Freddy whispered through dry lips. He didn't even notice the voices had faded from his mind. For in their place rose a deep yearning. And sorrow. "I've waited a long time for you. A very long time." Her voice filled him with a strange rapture, and with a rush of emotion he remembered the feelings he'd felt so many years ago, the happiness, the completeness. Everything that was gone now. "We must be together," Caroline said. "Be as one." Her voice sounded somehow hollow, as if her tones had been duplicated from an old master reel tape. But Freddy didn't care. Caroline had come back. Exactly as he remembered her. Even Paul, though a child at the time, would have recognized his mother. "Come to me, Fred. Come to me so we can be together. I've missed you so." Her smile stirred warm things inside him, made him tingle as though he were young again. She moved closer, gliding with the fog. "I've missed you, too." Tears welled in his eyes. "By God, I have. I got the tickets. I got them just like you asked. Why didn't you wait for us? We were to leave together. "Freddy's stiff fingers fumbled with his coat lapel. "I have so much to ask you, so much time to make up for." Forgetting his panic of a moment before, he went towards her. His fear had drained, lost in bliss and love. "All your questions will be answered. I could not stay. But I have come back for you and Paul. Please hold me." Paul. The name stuck in Freddy's mind, but before he could grasp its significance, she moved closer and all thoughts except those of being with her, holding her, fled from his mind. He reached out, inviting her in, a brittle smile on his lips. "Hold me," she whispered. Freddy didn't even notice her voice sliding into the distance. He wanted to hold her in his arms, hold her forever, spend the rest of his life with her. He got his wish. As her fingers softly stroked his face, an ancient warmth stole through him. He grew lost, enraptured as her lips brushed his. Years filled with frozen smiles melted away. But only for a moment. DEATH CAN BE SO PLEASANT, OLD MAN. The Demon laughed in Freddy's mind and the fury of it seemed to burst every vein in his head. Realization thundered, too late to tell him his lost love was sucking the life from his soul. As he looked down he saw her arm embedded in his chest. He felt her fingers gouging there, tearing away pieces of his life. Blood bubbled out and flowed over her arm, which was now a vile fleshless appendage. Gaze lifting, he looked into the monstrous face that had been his lost love, his Caroline. Red slits blazing from coal black glittered like demon jewels and Freddy knew he had lost. I STILL PLAY A BETTER GAME, OLD MAN. YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT. I'VE HAD AN ETERNITY TO PRACTICE. "You ... bastard." Freddy coughed a spray of blood. He mouthed something else, but it was drowned in a series of liquid gurgles and a prolonged, piercing shriek. * * * * "Hey! you ready or what?" Deputy Hudson yelled, staring at the closed bathroom door. Sitting naked on the bed, absently fondling his member, he waited for the hooker he'd hired to get her ass out of the toilet. He'd spent enough on her, let alone the hotel room at the Harbor Crest, which was on the waterfront. Although the cheapest hostelry around, he'd still shelled out forty bucks. "Hold your goddamn ponies, okay?" a rough-edged voice shot back. Hudson felt frustration burn hot in his veins. A knot of anger started to ball in his gut. "Well, hurry up! Stay in there any longer and I won't need you." The bathroom door popped open. A red-haired woman in her late twenties named Glenda -- at least that's what he thought she said her name was, though he really didn't give a damn -- stood in the doorway, bare-breasted, shear black panties taut about her spongy hips. The over-hanging flesh almost hid the straps. Her face, lined and hard, held little trace of enthusiasm. A drugged dullness glossed her eyes. Her swollen nipples took up most of her small sagging breasts. Giving his partially erect member a disgusted look she said, "Be my guest. I could use the vacation." "Come on!" snapped Hudson, the ball of anger growing larger, tighter. "I suppose you want me to cum on command, too," Glenda returned in a dull tone. "I don't give a damn if you cum at all. Long as I get off, I'll be satisfied." "Typical," Glenda said smugly. Hudson saw her gaze shift and linger on his gunbelt, which lay in a heap on the nightstand. "Problem?" he asked. "What's that for?" She ducked her chin towards the belt. "Props." Agitation boiled. Why was she stalling? Melinda had stalled, too, hoping her sonofabitch boyfriend would come along. But this wasn't Melinda, was it? The ball of anger in his gut began to roll down hill, gathering momentum like an avalanche. Hudson suddenly, desperately wished he'd brought along some of the Strength. Glenda, who had remained silent for a moment, said, "Kinky stuff costs extra." "Doesn't everything? You're born, you die, ain't nothing free in this goddamned world, is there?" She snorted and cast him a quizzical, unamused look. As she walked toward the bed, the cratered cellulite at her thighs jiggled. Christ, thought Hudson, she was damn near ugly. Where had he gotten the notion all hookers looked like Julia Roberts? What the hell, as long as the box worked. "Money on the stand, please." A gleam of distrust overrode the dullness in her eyes. She stopped at the edge of the bed and folded her arms. "Jesus." Hudson leaned over the bed and grabbed his trousers. Fishing through a pocket he brought out his wallet and pulled out a hundred bucks worth of twenties. He slapped them on the nightstand next to his gunbelt. "Satisfied?" Control, he told himself. The anger hurt, now, an orgasmic pain, building, building. Sometimes he couldn't stand the pressure; it just kept burning and burning, a lust never satisfied. Making him just want to lash out and -- "Screw you!" Glenda slid off her panties. "Let's get this over with, Cowboy Bob." She crawled into the bed and lay next to him, unenthusiastically massaging his manhood. Hudson forced a smile. Melinda. The ball of anger slammed bottom. He felt it hit, burst. Control, he shouted in his mind. No, only the Strength gave him control. But he didn't have any with him, did he? He gave the hooker a malicious stare, barely seeing her at all in his rage. He grabbed her, fingers gouging deep into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She winced and uttered a clipped squeal. Hudson grinned and flipped her over, mounting her, pressing her into the bed. "Christ -- go easy, will you!" A flash of anger ignited in her dull eyes. Hudson's grin widened, an inflamed thing. He barely heard her words. For Glenda's face had changed, features dissolving and rearranging themselves into the contours of a younger, prettier face, blonde hair spreading out over the pillow like golden snow. "Melinda," Hudson whispered. Glenda struggled, face strained. "You call me whatever you freakin' want, lover boy, but remember this ain't no goddamned horse race!" Why would I date you? You're a loser! Heat rushed into Hudson's face. "You should have been nicer to me, Melinda. You should have been nicer." His member ached with hardness and his blood throbbed in his veins. He plunged inside her and Glenda ripped a scream. Her cry thrilled him, made him want to hurt her more. "Jesus H., watch -- " He slapped her. Hard. She choked on her words. Her head rocked and blood sprayed from her lips. For the first time he saw fear replace the rebellion in her eyes. Melinda's fear. He liked that fear; he loved that fear. It made him feel -- in control. "I told you to be nice, Melinda. I told you -- " "I ain't your goddamn Melinda!" she tried to shout, but the sound came out liquidy, subdued. The resolve had vanished from her voice. "You. Are. Not?" Hudson glared at her, hand rising, poising to strike again. Then he realized she was right; she wasn't Melinda. Her hair was now auburn, her face older, eyes topaz. "Jenny?" he said, almost a gasp. Her lips didn't move, but he still heard her words: No, Hudson. I belong to Stanford. I could never want you. Do you know why? Because Melinda told me what you are: You're a loser, Hudson, a goddamned loser! "NO!" Hudson shook his head and blinked. Rage surged through his veins, quickening his heart, making his breathing shallow. His hand jammed into Glenda's throat, fingers pressing into the warm flesh. The fear in her eyes became bastard terror. "Say you love me, Jenny. Say it!" His face twisted into an evil mask, naked with viciousness. A burning exploded in his groin, premature but welcomed. "Please," Glenda mewed, "You're hurting me." His laugh was obscene. "I'd never hurt you, Jenny. Not if you loved me." His fingers gouged deeper into Glenda's throat and she made frantic choking sounds. He watched the terror in her eyes, watched it intently, reverently. He didn't notice that her struggling suddenly lessened, didn't see her hand edging out, creeping towards the nightstand. Her reaching fingers faltered momentarily. Her eyes bulged and blood and saliva drooled from the corners of her mouth. Hudson, engulfed by a feeling of domination and power, attention riveted in grim fascination to her terror-stricken face, smiled viciously, drool slithering from his own lips. Loser, loser, loser! Glenda's hand was in motion again. Inch by inch she pushed towards the nightstand. Her fingertips found the butt of his revolver, clasped it. She eased it out of the holster and towards her, trying to slide her finger through the trigger guard. From the corner of his eye, Hudson caught the movement. His gaze flicked to her out-stretched hand, saw the revolver clenched in her whitened fingers. "Bitch!" he yelled. His free hand swept out and snatched the gun from her weak grasp. She let out an almost inaudible gasp of terror. He released his grip on her neck suddenly; white indentations from his fingers stood out on her throat. Glenda choked, gagged, spittle flying from her lips. "You want the gun, Jenny? You want the goddamn gun?" Glenda tried to shake her head no. Tears burst from her eyes and streamed down her face. Hudson's wild gaze held her. Still inside her, he began to shrink. "It's your fault!" he screamed, infuriated at losing his raw edge. He lashed out again, striking her cheek with the back of his hand. The flaccid light in her eyes flickered out a moment, then blinked back on, a shade duller. "Want the gun?" he repeated, running the cold barrel over her left breast, pressing it into the soft flesh, leaving a round indentation. He circled the muzzle about her nipple, then stroked up to her neck and chin. Caressed the side of her face. "Open your mouth," he commanded. She looked at him in utter terror, eyes wide and pleading. "P-please," she mumbled hoarsely. "Don't. I-I'm sorry, I'm -- " He grabbed her face, jamming his fingers into the hollows of her cheeks and forcing her jaw open. He inserted the barrel as if it were a part of him, an extension, languishing in the feeling of power and control it gave him. Glenda's eyes grew even wider and Hudson had the absurd notion they'd fall out. Oh, the power! The goddamn power! Anger jacked his senses like opium, directed, now, as it had been the day he killed Melinda. His member hardened inside her again; he thrust deeply. Loser, loser, loser! His features twisted into something barely human. "Lick it!" He clacked the barrel against her teeth. She whimpered, hesitating, tears streaming. "LICK IT!" She whimpered again, as if his words were crashing blows. She ran her tongue clumsily along the muzzle. "Now suck," Hudson said. She closed her trembling lips around the barrel in mock fellatio. Hudson uttered a satisfied laugh, but something had changed. The nectar of anger was deserting him. With her submission, he felt his head begin to clear, almost the same feeling he experienced after taking the Strength. Rage was leeched. He blinked and stared at the terrified face beneath him. Even that was different. Jenny's features had been replaced by Glenda's hard unattractive lines. "I should blow your head off," he said, voice level. "I should really blow your head off." But the anger was satiated, gone for the time being. He jerked the gun from her mouth and climbed off her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to pull on his clothes. "If you move, I'll still kill you." Glenda didn't move. Standing, Hudson reholstered the gun. He grabbed the hundred from the nightstand and shoved it into his pocket. "Don't figure you deserve this, do you?" Glenda stared, silent. "It buys a lot of Strength." Hudson grinned. "Maybe we can do business again sometime?" "Go to hell!" Glenda screamed suddenly and more blood sprayed from her lips. Tears gushered, but fear still danced in her eyes. "Why don't I meet you there?" Hudson uttered a dry laugh. She rubbed her throat and sobbed as Hudson started toward the door. He paused, turning back. "If you say anything, I'll find you. Do you believe that?" Glenda nodded, bloody lips quivering. "Good. Do you know what I'll do to you then?" Again she nodded. "Better. I don't think there'll be any problem, do you?" She shook her head no. * * * * When Deputy Hudson stepped from the hotel into the misty street of the waterfront, the smug expression disappeared. He had parked roughly a mile away and he headed in that direction, walking with a lazy stride. He knew Glenda would keep her mouth shut. A quarter mile on, he stopped. He noticed an odd feeling stalking him, a feeling he'd never experienced. The exhilaration of Control he felt in the hotel began to dissolve. A few more steps and it fled completely. A darker sensation, welling like a bad side effect from a drug, arose. It took a moment to place the feeling, then it came to him: dread. He felt dread. Like he'd felt when he thought the police might realize he'd killed Melinda. Yet different, somehow. Hudson's gaze roved the street; he tried to pierce the fog and darkness, but had little success. He saw only a glaring street lamp and, farther on, the lights of fishing boats jittering like blurry fireflies out on the sea. They blinked, went dark, swallowed by low-hanging mist. An eerie silence rolled in, making him shiver. A buoy clanged. He tensed despite himself, tighter in the grip of the strange apprehension, and another stronger chill chased something down his spine. The flesh on his forearms began to crawl. This was a new one. Fear was an emotion he seldom let himself explore, enjoy. He preferred to inflict it. Yet something -- he had no idea what -- was guiding him into it, leading him down another dark corridor of his mind. Perhaps the explosion of anger -- without the benefit of the Strength -- he felt earlier had opened new pathways. Whatever it was, he liked the feeling; it gave him a rush he didn't get experiencing it vicariously. He stood frozen, listening to the murmur of the ocean and the muffled throbbing of his quickening heart. He inhaled deeply, trying to draw in the stench of the dread -- there! He smelled it: like something buried, rotting. Why hadn't he noticed how attractive that smell was before? Hudson, letting the sensations bleed through him, began to feel strangely ... complete. So this was what Melinda had felt, what the hooker had trembled with. Or was it? They knew terror; he, on the other hand, felt a submission to the fear, to the darkness. They had fought it; he felt its -- Control. He laughed, starting forward again. As he walked, his fingers slid over the cold butt of his revolver, its roughness comforting. Why take any chances? he asked himself. Another fifty feet. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. His skin seemed to lift and settle back, tingling. His fingers tightened on the revolver. A sound. What was it? A liquid sound. Reminded him of the gurgle the hooker had made when he had his hand lodged against her throat. A piercing shriek ripped through the night, a shriek unlike any he'd ever heard. Pregnant with mortal terror and agony. He couldn't even be sure it was human. A shudder throttled his body and his hands began to shake. He was surprised at how tense he had become. Then, the raw putrid stench assailed him full force. Christ, what was it? His steps slowed and he went forward with more caution. Senses hyper-alert, his eyes roved. Dammit! he couldn't remember ever being this afraid. The fear was beginning to lose its attraction. Rapidly. I CAN GIVE YOU STRENGTH... What? Had he heard a voice? The ocean maybe; sometimes the ocean made weird, almost human sounds, sounds like ghosts whispering. But he couldn't convince himself that was it. Hudson jerked the revolver from its holster, gripping the weapon so hard his knuckles bleached. He strained to keep the gun level and stop his hand from jittering. Christ, he was scared. Cold terror. Knowing terror. A thing that ate at his insides. Going forward with caution, Hudson glanced to each side, peering into dark alleys, then across the street. He saw no signs of life. He swallowed, the prospect of running into what screamed suddenly unattractive. One thing he felt certain of, whatever had screamed had become very very dead. Despite the erotic promises of the fear, he had no desire to wind up the same way. He had even less desire to walk into the force that evoked the that shriek. (Closer) A sound came from just ahead and he jolted. A muffled scrape. He strained his eyes to see what had made it, fix its exact location, but the illumination was too sparse, the darkness and fog too intense. He took another few steps, careful to prevent his shoes from scraping on the sidewalk. He found himself growing uncontrollably frightened as he drew closer to where the scream had sounded. He wished he could make his anger return, but with its desertion it left a strange understanding chained to his soul: fear only served the dominator, and this fear, this awful dread, dominated him. He was the victim, now, the controlled. He felt emptiness enwrap him, felt the gaping hole it left inside. As if his own sense of identity, the furious soul dwelling within him, were being sucked dry. The scraping sounded again and a burst of adrenaline shot through his veins. His muscles went rigid and his stride became stiff, awkward. His forearm ached violently from the vise-hold he had on his gun. Hudson's toe struck something and he jerked to a halt. As he slid his foot forward, encountering the semi-solid something again, his stomach dropped. The object resisted his probing toe. He realized with startling clarity what the thing was, but he was damned if he wanted to look down and confirm it. WHAT IS WRONG, DEPUTY? DO NOT BE AFRAID TO LOOK. A voice rasped from somewhere inside his head, the sound he'd tried to pass off as the ocean a few moments before. A strange pressure welled as it entered him, violated him. It compelled him to look down. Unable to resist, his gaze lowered. A strange glare, reddish, like glowing blood, permeated the sidewalk. Its glow illuminated the thing at his feet. Hudson jerked his foot back, repulsed by the ghastly thing. Nausea twisted in his gut but he forced himself to keep looking, gripped by morbid fascination. The eyes of Freddy the bum stared sightlessly back at him. The old man's head had been severed. A spreading pool of blood surrounded the head like a crimson aura. Hudson was vaguely familiar with Freddy; he'd seen the old man hanging around the waterfront enough times to recognize him on sight. "Oh, Christ," he muttered, unable to tear his gaze away. Then something struck him. Hudson's hand flew to his head. Anger! Hate! Great waves of it. Smashing into his mind! As if every violent thought he'd ever had were being amplified. He staggered back, suddenly unable to control his legs. Every fiber of his being burned with raw, unadulterated fury. It directed itself, flowed in a stream, so intense, so powerful he thought his head would explode. YOU FEEL IT, DEPUTY HUDSON? WE ARE MUCH ALIKE. YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR ME, DESIRING ME. I AM YOUR CONTROL. I AM YOUR STRENGTH. A volley of images shotgunned before his mind, flashing his deeds before him -- Melinda! Loser! Loser! Loser! "What the hell are you?" he screamed, stumbling forward, gaining some control over his legs. He swept his gun back and forth, unable to hold it steady when he tried to keep it aimed in one direction. Gaze darting over the street, he saw an alley lay just ahead; something emanated from within its dark maw, drawing him towards it. COME. COME, DEPUTY HUDSON. I AWAIT YOU IN THE ALLEY. Yes, the voice was down there, calling to him, luring him. His revolver wavered and he struggled to keep it steady. At the mouth of the alley, he stopped. FEAR ME. I KNOW YOUR DEEDS. Hudson jerked the trigger reflexively. The shot sounded like a cannon going off and he jolted. Christ, he'd never been terrified enough to fire off at nothing that way. YOU MISSED. "Where are you? What are you? What do you want from me?" Hudson poked the gun out, finger tensed to fire again. NO, DEPUTY HUDSON. IT'S WHAT YOU WANT -- WHAT WE BOTH NEED -- JENNY. Jenny's face flashed in his mind. An almost living image; three-dimensional like a hologram, it appeared separate from his imagination. Hudson knew the thing in the darkness had put it there. "Jenny," he whispered. I CAN GIVE HER TO YOU -- TO US. "How do you know about her?" Hudson's gun wavered as he again tried to pierce the blackness of the alley with his gaze. He'd begun to sweat profusely and droplets crawled down his face, his back, his chest. I KNOW EVERYTHING. "She doesn't want me. Do you know that?" He cocked his head. IT DOES NOT MATTER. "It's Stanford's fault." Hudson felt anger burn anew as he thought of Stanford. You're a loser, Hudson! Paul's voice said in his mind. STANFORD WILL DIE WITH YOUR HELP. I PROMISE YOU THAT. HE MUST COMPLETE THE MATRIX. JOIN ME AND THE GIRL WILL BE YOURS. Hudson tensed. In the alley a reddish glow appeared, bleeding from the very air. It expanded, floating, a ball of ruby light that stretched out and reached to the asphalt. In the glare, he saw a shape form, the vile fleshless shape of the Demon. "Oh Jesus God, no!" Disbelief laced Hudson's voice. He struggled to pull the trigger, but couldn't. He felt riveted by the sight, controlled by it. DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD, DEPUTY HUDSON? HAVE YOU EVER? HE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE. "I-I ... can't -- " TRUST ME. GIVE IN TO YOUR FEAR AND YOU CAN HAVE THE GIRL. As the Demon moved towards him, Hudson's grip faltered. The gun slipped from numb fingers and clattered on the alley floor. He stared, mouth agape in silent awe, stifled fear. He could see the smooth ridges of muscle undulating on the Demon's body, the veins wriggling like blue worms. JOIN ME. The Demon reached out a fleshless hand. JOIN ME AND BE FILLED WITH STRENGTH, THE TRUE POWER BORN OF EVIL. "Y-Yes..." Hudson muttered before he could stop himself. "Yes!" A burst of controlled anger washed through him, sharp and renting. The sweet fulfillment of evil passion he felt the day he strangled Melinda. He felt Strength! Hudson wanted to join the Demon, now, wanted it with all his soul. Wanted to devour what he promised. It was something he'd waited -- yearned for all his life: absolute power, total domination within his dark emotions. Total Control. His fingers trembled with expectation as he undid the buttons of his shirt. He let the garment drop to the pavement, then removed his trousers, underclothes. Standing naked in the cool drifting mist, sweat glistened on his body like ruby beads in the scarlet light. His heart beat faster, faster. The Demon came closer. Hudson felt its cold gelatinlike fingers touch his body. A welt of pain seared his insides. The Demon's fingers clamped about his arms with an iron grip, spun him around, jammed him front-forward against the chilled brick wall of a building. A curtain of stars exploded before his eyes and a gasp burst from his lips. The Demon held the deputy there, pressing his face against the gritty surface. Pain swept his mind clear. Spasms of hate and anger coursed through him, wakening lost senses. Oh, Christ! Hate, pure hate, like Strength -- Erupting in every cell, every fiber aflame, bursting. He saw Melinda's fear-stained eyes, heard her trembling pleas. Saw Jenny, Stanford, Corsetti, Baker, revolving in and out of view. Flaring with every dark emotion he'd ever concealed, dared to feel. It spilled forth, strained from the very fabric of his soul and reweaved, stitched with bleeding threads of anger and hate and pure evil. AND OH THE GODDAMN POWER! The gelatinous body of the Demon pressed into his. At first there was nothing but a cool numbness, then a swelling, burning. Pain seared his hand. He looked down, saw the Demon's fleshless fingers kneading his own hand, pressing deeper, deeper, deeper, as their flesh became one. Hudson shrieked with the utter agony and ecstasy of the pain. As the Demon burrowed deeper, every muscle and nerve swelled with the penetration. The core of his body seemed to push outward, as if trying to explode within itself. His mind whirled, went black. * * * * When he came to, every nerve buzzed and his thoughts were muddled, as though mixed with another's. His mind strained to hold his personality, his essence. A wave of alien thought rose up, overriding his own, and he sensed its great violence. Hatred. Anger. Loneliness. Torturing him. Deep within himself, the remains of Deputy Hudson screamed a prolonged knowing wail. At once, he knew all the Demon knew, the past, the present, the future. And he knew in what tattered bits remained of his soul he'd been deceived. JENNY! No, you promised, Hudson's mind responded feebly. He found himself unable to hold the thought. A wave of darkness was overtaking him, a great wall of nothing sucking him in. IT'S COLD, OH SO COLD IN THE VANISHED PLACE, DEPUTY HUDSON. In the bowels of his new form, the Demon laughed and Deputy Hudson cried out in a final tortured scream. -------- *PART 3: HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE AND BOY THE WAY GLEN MILLER PLAYED* *(19)* Thursday * * * * "God, I hate mornings." Cindy fell into a chair and stifled a yawn. She rubbed her eyes and reached for the coffee pot, which Jenny had set in the middle of the kitchen table. "Me, too." Jenny, at the counter, finished dumping Count Chocula into Andy's bowl and pouring milk over it. Andy giggled and from the cheerful expression on his face appeared to be the only one who liked getting up early. He was still at an age where he enjoyed going to school. Jenny hoped that enthusiasm didn't wear off anytime soon. Carefully lifting the cereal bowl, which she had overfilled, Jenny tip-toed to the table. "Sh-sh-shoot -- I always do that!" she blurted as a glump of brown cereal landed on the table. Andy giggled again. "And you always say 'sh-sh-shoot -- I always do that!'" said Cindy. "Maybe you should practice walking with a book on your head or something." Jenny slumped into her seat and cast Cindy a snide smile. Andy dribbled some Chocula onto his shirt and said "Oh-oh," as if that covered it. Jenny tore a paper towel from the roll she'd put on the table for just such an emergency and blotted it up. "Didn't stain, anyway -- you're lucky, young man." She waved a finger. "The bus is here, mommy!" Andy said, looking out the window and pointing. "I've got it." Cindy vaulted from her seat and scooped up Andy. He spread his arms out like an airplane and made sputtering sounds as she rushed him out the door. A few moments later, Jenny let out a laugh when Cindy came back in, disheveled, a copy of the Dark Harbor Sentinel lodged under her arm. Cindy stuck out her tongue and sat, unfolding the paper. "Paperboy threw it in the bushes again." A note of disgust laced her tone. "He was probably looking in your bedroom window at the time. He's trying to get a look at your boobs." Then, in her best old lady imitation, Jenny added, "Mrs. Gaumont tells me you walk naked in front of the window, you understand." Her gaze dropped and she pretended to sip her coffee. "Oh, ha-ha." Cindy screwed up her face. "Besides, that explains the spider crawling down your shoulder." "Hey!" Cindy leaped up, knocking over her coffee cup with the paper. She swiped at the spider, brushing it off and squashing it with a slipper-clad foot. "Why didn't you tell me there was a spider on me -- oh, I hate those things!" Cindy's face had flushed. She gave a shudder and slumped back onto her seat. "I did tell you." A wry smile tugged at the corners of Jenny's lips. "After it got half-way down my robe. Jesus, that thing could have fallen between my tits or something!" Jenny snorted. "Maybe if you'd start buttoning up a little farther you wouldn't have to worry about that. But, hey, don't worry, it wouldn't have had much reason to stay there anyhow." Cindy made her tone indignant. "If we are referring to my more than ample bosoms, I know plenty of men who'd be glad to stay there." "Ah, the wonders of tissue paper nowadays." "Oh, shut up!" Cindy played hurt and pouted. Jenny chuckled. "You're in uncommonly good spirits for someone who usually climbs out of the sack around eleven." "Well..." "I thought so. It's this Paul again, isn't it?" "Could be." Jenny gave a wry expression. "Damn right it is. First you mope around and get visions like one of those TV psychics, then poof!" Cindy snapped her fingers. "This guy shows up the one night I'm gone and you look like you're ready to start skipping around like a love-sick school girl. M'thinks I smell romance in the air, hmmm?" Cindy cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips. Jenny blushed. "Nooo, it's not that..." She knew she wasn't covering up very well. The fact was, she felt much happier since Paul came back into her life. "Oh, no? Then what? Penis envy or something?" Cindy said with a German accent. "Thank you, Dr. Whuth." "I knew it." Cindy crinkled her nose. "Okay, so I admit it. I like Paul. A lot. It's great having him back. He's someone I can really talk to, someone I feel comfortable with. It's like we just picked up where we left off, as if ten years didn't make any difference. We've both changed some, but I think we've changed for the better. He's different now. Maybe he's finally ready to settle down and not walk around with the world's weight on his shoulders." "All that after a couple dates? Jeez, I can't leave you alone for a minute." Cindy paused, face growing serious. "You're still in love with him, aren't you?" Jenny wondered. She wanted to say no, but found she couldn't. Was she still in love with Paul? "I don't know, Cin." She spread her hands. "I honestly don't know." "Oh, I think you do. Or at least I think I know which way you'd like it to be. You're just a little scared." "And when did you get so world wise?" "I..." Cindy hesitated and Jenny could see something dark well in her eyes. "What's wrong?" Cindy looked up, gaze meeting Jenny's. "I just thought about ... about being scared of things." Jenny grasped Cindy's hand and squeezed gently. "Tell me. Maybe I can help..." "It's hard. It's just so goddamned hard." Cindy's lower lip began to tremble. "I thought ... about being scared, maybe scared of love or scared of letting someone get close because of what happened to me." "What about Jeff?" "Oh, Jeff's not ready for anything serious and to tell you the truth I wouldn't want it with him. He's fun to be around, but not permanent." "And someone else?" "I'm worried that when the right one does come along I won't be able to respond right. It's like there's this thing locked inside me that stops me from giving everything. Even when I fantasize about letting Jeff get close I have ... problems." She smiled feebly. "I'm tired of it, Jen. I just want to forget, that's all. Is that too much to ask?" "But you don't forget." "No, I don't. Never. Sometimes it comes back ... when I let my guard down ... like when I'm lying in bed late at night and I can't sleep because something from the past keeps pounding on my door, keeping me awake. Keeping me afraid." "It might help you to talk about it. Believe me, that kind of thing just doesn't disappear, no matter how much you want it to. You can hide it for a while, but it's like an infection that festers and spreads poison all over until you -- " Jenny stopped herself short. She had been about to say the wrong words. Christ, Cindy was finally talking and she was screwing it up. Watch your step, she cautioned herself. Don't send her back into her shell. "You meant to say 'die', didn't you?" Cindy shrugged, a plaintive expression washing over her features. "That's the way I feel sometimes, like I'm just going to die if it stays there. I mean, all those counselors, all that therapy ... none of it helped. Maybe it even made things worse." Jenny's gaze dropped and she traced the rim of her coffee cup with an index finger, struggling to find the right words. She looked at Cindy, lips tight. "I know. I've been a doctor long enough to know sometimes there's no substitute for just learning to trust someone close. You can't get that from somebody who's not a part of you, somebody who's not willing -- or able -- to go beyond the limitations of their job." Cindy lowered her head and twisted her fingers into a knot. "Maybe I deserved what I got, Jen. Maybe I led him on somehow. It's possible, isn't it?" As she looked up, tears welled in her eyes. Jenny's stomach took a drop. Anger boiled in her veins, but she kept it down. "What that bastard did wasn't your fault. You were a child and he was a grown man -- a sick, sick man, and a miserable drunk. You did nothing -- nothing -- to deserve what you got. You hear me?" Jenny squeezed Cindy's hand, keeping her gaze locked on her sister. Cindy nodded a shaky yes, but Jenny couldn't tell if she believed it. "The counselors told me that but how can I believe them if it happened?" "Do you really believe you could ask for something like that? Do you think anybody deserves to be degraded, violated? You were a child. You couldn't have stopped what happened no matter what you did." Cindy attempted a smile, then a tear streaked down her cheek. Another. "If you're right, Jen, why do I feel so dirty? Why do I still see his face in my nightmares? And why do I still smell his stench all over me, like it's happening over and over again? I don't want to see him. I don't want to. But I do. And then ... then I think ... that if I can't make his face go away, I must ask for it to come. Somewhere deep inside I must ask for it to come. It terrifies me, and I just want to scream, scream until I can't hear his voice in my mind, scratch my eyes out so I can't see his face in the dark. Then I realize even if my eyes are gone his face will still haunt my dreams; that even if I scream he'll laugh inside my head until I can't bare my own thoughts. Why, Jen? Why does he come back if I don't deserve it?" Cindy, tears streaming down her face, peered at her sister and sorrow sliced into Jenny's heart. She felt her sister's pain, her turmoil and confusion, as if it were her own. "You have to believe me, Cin, it doesn't come back because you ask for it, any more than somebody asks to get cancer. It comes back because deep down it's not ready to be finished. You locked it away, but it seeps through the cracks. It needs to be dealt with; it needs to be set free. And you have to talk about it to be able to do that. What happened, happened. It could strike anyone and you did not bring it on yourself." Cindy nodded. "Why ... why did she watch?" Tears poured faster, running off her chin and dripping onto her robe. Something clutched in Jenny's stomach and her heart skipped a beat. "What?" Jenny said with almost a gasp. "Aunt Agie. She ... she stood in the doorway, watching ... while he..." "Oh, God, Cindy. I had no idea." A sick feeling accompanied the tightness in her belly. "I never told anyone, not even the counselors. I figured when Aunt Agie died it would be buried with her. But I think that hurt almost as much as what he did. I loved her. How could she just stand there and let it happen?" Cindy shouted the last part and vaulted from her chair to lean against the counter, sobbing. The world seemed to stop, suspended in heavy silence. Jenny pushed back her chair and went to her, gripping her shoulders and turning her around. "Why?" Cindy screamed in another burst of tears. "Why did she do that? How could she just watch while he screwed me? How could she?" Jenny pulled her close and hugged her. She felt tears well and run from her own eyes. "Please tell me, Jen," Cindy pleaded, words hot with tears and anger. "Please tell me, because if you don't I don't think I'll ever be able to understand." "I don't know all the answers, Cin. I wish I did. The best I could guess is Agie was afraid of him. It doesn't excuse her behavior, not in the least. It doesn't even make it understandable. She was afraid of him and had some sick attachment to the bastard. When he died, she died too, because maybe she couldn't live without the fear or with her guilt. But you did live. You lived because you can exist without that fear. You can release it. It won't be easy; it's going to take some work, lots of it. It'll mean finding a good therapist, but we can do that together. I'll go with you if you want. Please trust me." "I do trust you, Jen, as much as I can trust anyone." Jenny pressed her palms to Cindy's cheeks and turned her sister's face upward until their eyes met. "Then listen to me. We'll make it through this. Whenever you need me I'm here for you." "At night when ... I see his face?" "You wake me up." "When I hear his voice?" "God, yes." "And when I want to scream?" "Anytime, okay?" Jenny gave her a warm smile. "It hurts so much." "And it will keep on hurting for a while. That's part of healing. Sooner or later that hurt will subside and you'll know the nightmare's over. Then you'll wonder why you ever held onto it in the first place." Jenny hugged Cindy closer, feeling Cindy's tears of hurt and suffering turning to ones of relief and love. In the sudden hush, Jenny heard the chirping songs of morning birds outside the window, the murmuring of distant traffic. She held Cindy in the morning light for a very long time... * * * * Night brought the threat of rain. Occasional slivers of lightning seared the dust-colored clouds. A damp breeze ruffled the grass and whispered through the trees. Paul hesitated outside Jenny's door, adjusting his shirt collar and preening his hair. He jabbed the doorbell and when it swung open he said, "Pizza delivery!" The blonde girl peered at him with a half-smirk then said, "Damn, I ordered chicken!" Paul felt suddenly foolish. "Sorry, I expected -- " "Jenny, I know. Always a bridesmaid. C'mon in, I'm -- " "Cindy. I remember you when you were this high." He held his hand about three feet off the floor. "Some people tell me I still act like I'm that high." Paul chuckled and stepped into the foyer. "Jen will be right down." Cindy hitched her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, as Paul followed her into the living room. "I believe you've been introduced to the master of the house?" Andy, dressed in pajamas, sat on the floor in a scattering of Lego Blocks, his ALF doll close by. His gaze was glued to the TV, watching Elmo. Paul smiled and nodded. "Hi there, Andy." Andy looked up and saluted. A sound caught Paul's attention and he turned to see Jenny, dressed in a clingy blue knit dress, coming down the stairs. An alluring slit revealed flashes of her shapely thigh as she descended. A plunging neckline revealed the upper swell of her bosom and Paul felt his blood start to heat. "Hi, Paul," said Jenny. "No pizza?" "Oh, save me!" blurted Cindy. "You guys are meant for each other." She rolled her eyes and started up the stairs, stopping to whisper, "Nice butt!" in Jenny's ear as she went by. "I think she approves," said Jenny. "Glad I passed inspection." Paul grinned. "Is there a curfew?" He helped her on with her shawl. "No, but I turn back into a pumpkin at midnight." "No problem, my car turns into a lemon." * * * * The drive to Whaler's Hall took fifteen minutes. Jenny and Paul seated themselves at a rear table. A twirling mirrored ball spewed glittering jewels of variegated light around the huge room, while a local band struggled with a swing song and thirty-odd couples gyrated on the polished wooden floor. The hall, built over a hundred and fifty years ago, served as Dark Harbor's primary function place for wedding receptions, dances, auctions and political gatherings. "This is the summer dance," said Jenny. "There's another at Halloween and one just before Christmas. It's been years since I've been to one of these." "Makes two of us." Paul found himself riveted to her eyes; sparkles from the dance ball glittered deep in her gaze like topaz embers. "You look beautiful tonight." Paul knew it sounded awkward as hell, but hoped it didn't sound stupid. "Why thank you, Mr. Stanford. You should see me in the morning." I sincerely hope I do, thought Paul, then mentally slapped himself. The band began to play a slow song and the dancers jerked into an uneven waltz. "Dance, M'lady?" Paul proffered his hand. "Why, yes, M'lord." Jenny rose. As they danced, Paul pulled her close, closer perhaps than he should have, but she didn't resist. The touch of her body pressed against his made him feel electric with sensations. He felt suspended in the dancing lights, swept away by the sweet fragrance of her perfume and the familiar comfort of her body in his arms. He wanted to hold her this way forever, safe from his past and safe from his future. Is this what you really want, Paul? Is it this time? The song ended. A faster tune began. For the moment he had the absurd thought the songs paralleled his life: the slow comfortable rhythm he fell into when his restlessness didn't chase him, and the jangling peregrine syncopation of his life that had drawn him here. He pushed the thought away. Tonight, he wouldn't let himself dwell on it. He was having too much fun with Jenny. * * * * "Hello?" said Sheriff Baker after he had picked up the phone. He slapped his feet on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "It's me," said Carl Speckler on the other end. "Can we talk, as Joan Rivers would say?" "Yeah," said Baker in a frustrated tone and little appreciating Speckler's bad attempt at humor. He massaged the back of his head. His goddamn head was splitting again. "What's wrong?" asked Speckler, catching the sheriff's tone. "Something's up. Something I can't put my finger on and I don't like it one goddamn bit." "Hudson?" "Damn right it's Hudson. He didn't show up for work today and I can't reach him at his apartment. It ain't like him. I have a feeling something's going to happen and soon." An understatement, thought Baker. He felt more than that, more than he wanted to let on to Speckler. A strange dread had birthed within him, slowly building. Every time he tried to get a handle on it, it would disappear and leave him wondering if it had ever been there at all. "I have the same feeling," said Speckler. "Guess reporters aren't the only ones with big hunches." "I bet this hunch means something bad for someone. I only hope it doesn't have anything to do with Gazio or Stanford." "Maybe it doesn't." "What do you mean?" Baker's curiosity rose. "I've been keeping tabs on Corsetti when I've had the chance. He's damn anxious about something, jittery as a priest in a whore house, as the saying goes, especially, I would hazard a guess, after not seeing Hudson around last Friday night. Looks to me like he's about to blow a gasket." Baker let out a sigh. "I hope you're right, Speckler. Because I'm getting a whole lot of nothing but headaches and it's a damn ugly feeling." "Where do you think Hudson went?" "Haven't a clue. He might have just stepped off the face of the earth for all I can tell. And it gets worse. Some drunk reported seeing another murder last night, a little ways from the Coral. Said he saw Hudson near the scene. Get this, he also said he saw a monster eat him. Had me half-believing his story until he threw that in. I checked it out anyway, just in case. Weird part is, I found blood stains on the sidewalk and in the adjoining alley." "But no bodies?" "None. That's what worries me. At least part of this guy's hallucination might be on the mark. Bodies seem to have developed a distressing habit of wandering off around here lately." After hanging up with Speckler, Baker stared at Deputy Hudson's empty desk and absently ran his finger over his mustache. Where the hell had he gone? Hudson was up to something worse than either he or Speckler had previously suspected. If he could only figure it out. Baker kicked himself away from the desk and gained his feet. He went to the hamster cage and poked a finger through the bars, jouncing Ernest out of his bed of shavings. "Dammit, Ernest," he muttered. "I think I'm slipping. After all these years I think I'm burnt out." As if in response, Baker felt a painful knocking at his temples. "What say we take a nice long vacation after we catch up with Mr. Hudson? Maybe twenty years would do it." Ernest seemed to nod in the affirmative -- at least Baker thought so. "Yep, Ernest, old buddy, I think we've both got some time coming to us. But I'll bet you a month's supply of hamster treats that Mr. Hudson's got an even longer time coming to him..." * * * * The Demon crouched in the darkness of Deputy Hudson's apartment. He stared out through the window, transfixed by the glittering lights of the night-shrouded town. The Demon had been here since last night, after he'd merged with the hate-soul, Hudson. But he would not stay much longer. Tonight, he would go home; tonight he would reenter the mansion from which his father and brothers dragged him over a hundred years ago. The focus for his -- Hate. He felt it boil in his veins. The need for fear had grown more powerful, almost too powerful to resist. Soon... His attention shifted to the floor. He smiled, a grotesque thing half-concealed by the darkness. His hand drifted out. He drew his fingernail across the natty carpet; a slit of intense darkness, barely visible in the gloom, opened in a jagged fissure about two feet long. It's interior seemed to extend infinitely inward. Bursts of blue-black sparkled within. Voices, profane whispers that pleaded in anguish, hissed from the opening. Their torment fed his hate. The blackness, which had widened, began to pulsate. In it, the Demon imagined a face. He stared at its features. "Stanford," he whispered, reaching towards the hole. The face vanished. The demon clenched a fist in anger. A growl rattled from deep within his throat. The fissure snapped closed and he cursed. He couldn't hold the door open for their escape. Not yet. Not until Stanford surrendered. "Open yourself to me, Paul Stanford!" His voice thundered from the darkness of his soul. "Open yourself to me!" * * * * On the dance floor, Paul staggered as his head suddenly spun. The flashing jewels of light blurred into laserlike streaks. Weakness washed through his legs and he pitched forward, only to be stopped by Jenny's supporting arms. Distantly, the throbbing beat of the band, muffled, abstract, thrummed in his ears. For the moment, he saw darkness, entangled with monstrous shapeless entities and a profound sense of -- what? Gone. His head began to clear and Jenny's concerned voice penetrated his haze. "Paul, are you all right?" He glanced at her with a dumfounded expression. "W-what?" "Are you all right? You almost passed out." "I ... I'm fine. I think. Just need to sit down for a minute." Jenny, arms wrapped around him, guided Paul back to their table. His legs felt like rubberbands and he was glad to slump into the chair. "You're white as a ghost." Jenny made him take a drink of his Coke. "What happened?" "I don't know." Paul shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I felt my head spin, then nothing. Guess I've been burning the candle at both ends lately and with the dancing ... but it's gone, now. I'm fine." But a vague unease stayed with him. There was a reason for that, Paul... "You sure? Maybe I could take you to the hospital. You still look pale." "No. No, really. I'm fine. But John Travolta, I'm not." Jenny uttered a nervous laugh. "Okay, but I'm going to watch you." "Fine with me." Paul smiled. * * * * "I had a great time," said Paul, as he pulled up to the curb in front of Jenny's house. "Even if I did get a little light-headed." "I hope you're not pregnant." Jenny smiled. "Nah, I'm on the pill. How 'bout you?" "Naw, I'm on the pill, too." Paul laughed. "I meant, did you have a good time?" "I had a wonderful time." Jenny's voice lowered. Paul noticed her topaz eyes were glittering and alive again and he hoped he was responsible. "Guess it's goodnight, then. Mrs. Gaumont will wonder where I am if I don't meet my curfew." Jenny chuckled girlishly. "My shift ends at eleven tomorrow night. How 'bout a midnight walk on the beach, like we used to do?" "I'd love it." Paul was unable to hide the boyish enthusiasm bubbling in his voice. Jenny leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. A warm tingle shot through him. He stared stupidly, not saying a word. The kiss lingered after she'd stepped from the car and closed the door. You're a goner, Paul. He smiled. The kiss still tingled on his lips as he pulled into the boarding house parking lot. He thought he probably floated up to his room. * * * * I've been waiting for you, the mansion seemed to say. Waiting over one-hundred years to welcome you back to hell, Nathan Courtwright. The Demon poised at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the great doors of what had once been his home. Shadows from the columns to either side of the entrance stretched across the huge porch, as if clutching at him. "A long time I have waited," he whispered in the voice of Deputy Hudson. He felt the rush of hate, of anger, rise within him again as he remembered those doors being flung open by his father and brothers, remembered how they dragged him, struggling, screaming, down the steps and through the woods that night; remembered how they imprisoned him in the mausoleum for an eternity, forcing him into the Open Realm -- a world that didn't exist. A world reserved only for the gifted, and for demons. The Demon started up the steps, taking them slowly, feeling the mansion's dark power draw him. At the doors, he paused, images of that night again flashing through his mind. Then he gripped the handles. The darkness that was his soul seemed to bleed black as he stepped inside and closed the doors behind him. It didn't surprise him to find the place unlocked; apparently his family had not cared enough to secure the mansion since they had decided to tear it down. He stood in the foyer, the great twisting stairway rising before him. To the left, another set of huge doors that led to the drawing room. On the floor, once elegant tile was gouged and mildewed. As he stood frozen in the gloom and bleeding silence, the dark shadows seemed to stir around him, as though time -- past, present and future -- were merging, consummated by his presence. His mind wandered again, back to when he was Nathan Courtwright and this place mattered to him. His thoughts swept down forgotten corridors of his memory, struggling to recall the way the place had been before darkness invaded its halls, the rooms and chambers that once rang with gay voices and laughter, the sounds of life. For an instant, he thought he heard the faintest strains of violin music, lilting, the shuffling of feet, dancing. But the sounds were fleeting. Now the hallways, as his soul, echoed with a dark melody, so somber, so haunting, so dead; the silence played empty forgotten tunes while skeleton feet shuffled to a ghost waltz. Darkness. Only darkness. A forbidding sense of loneliness creeped into the small part of him that had been Nathan Courtwright. Shadows of a man that shuddered with despair and screamed out in silent importunity. Did part of him yearn to go back to that time, be merely human again? Did part of him wish Nathan Courtwright had never traded his gift, as well as his soul, to live eternally in a hell-world that was to be, a nightmare existence where the damned would rejoice and the blessed would wail in anguish? No. Nathan Courtwright's body died in that mausoleum, as would have any other human's. Only the darkness that lived inside him remained; only the monster survived. And when the Demon forced Paul Stanford to open the dark door, the world would be full of monsters. And hate. The Demon crossed the battered tile to the drawing room doors. He stood before them, running his fingers over the wood, which felt damp and pitted, no longer polished and smooth. Gripping the handles, he threw the doors wide. The drawing room. The room that once hosted a pre-wedding ball for him and Catherine. A ghost dance now, specter music whispering in a soulless chamber. The furniture had all been removed, leaving gaping spaces and frozen time everywhere. Dust coated everything, moldy snow, blanketing the floor and fireplace mantle. The crystal chandelier was a cocoon of spider webs and dust, spiders toiling obscenely within. Litter lay scattered about the floor and vandals had spray-painted obscenities across the walls. Great patches of papering had torn loose, exposing bare boards like open sores on bones. Bay windows were shattered with weblike cracks; some panes were missing completely and boarded over. The Demon strode into the room. Dead leaves and trash crackled beneath his feet. A rat skittered across the floor, startled by his presence. He stopped before the fireplace, peering up at the painting that still hung above the mantle, the sole remaining object in the great room. His fingertips traced the coarse dustiness of the painting's face, drifted along the soft-stroked lines of Catherine's features. Catherine Stanford. A pained smile parted the Demon's lips. "Stanford," he whispered. How ironic he'd once thought her bloodline to possess the key. He knew different, now, didn't he? He'd seen the truth in the old man's mind. He thought it perversely funny their families' silly feud had eventually been tainted with each other's blood, as it nearly had been a hundred years ago. The Demon turned and went to the center of the room. He knelt, reaching out, sweeping away the gritty layer of dust that covered the hardwood floor. Beneath the dust, a dark blotch still stained the boards. He touched the stain... ...Touched Catherine's opened body. A crude pentagram had been scrawled upon the polished floor; candles, flames flickering and casting weird jittering shadows on the walls, stood at the five points of the Satanic star. Nathan Courtwright kneeled within the center of the pentagram, hovering over Catherine's mutilated body. Her clothes were shredded, torn away to expose her belly. He had dragged her here after killing her in the woods. With the strength of the dark soul within him, he'd gouged a gaping hole in her stomach. Blood, black ink in the shimmering candlelight, pooled beneath her, soaking into the smooth boards. Pressing his hand into the cavity, he relished the feeling of her cold blood running between his fingers, bathing his flesh. He tore out her heart. Thrusting his hands into the air, he held her heart before his face. Candle flame glittered in his jade eyes, reflected with viciousness. Shadows sliced across his gaunt features and sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his face. His heart quickened, pounding with mounting expectation and excitement. The Master was coming. He felt Him, felt the air thicken and crackle electric, drenched himself with the Evil's power. The Hate. In his mind he heard the soft agonized whispers of the damned crescendo into an entreating roar. They felt freedom drawing close and strained at the door his gift would soon throw open. "Now!" Nathan screamed, throwing back his head, mouth gaping, sweat pouring from his chin. "I pledge this soul and my gift to unlock the dark door. Take it! I beseech you. Take me!" The candle flames flickered wildly, stirred by the invisible power bleeding into the room. The chandelier began to swing back and forth, crystals jangling, mountings creaking. Nathan's blood surged through his veins; his pulse throbbed in his temples, neck, abdomen. Sweat soaked his shirt and ripe expectation soaked his soul. Jade eyes blackened, slashed with blazing red slits. He placed Catherine's heart on the floor in front of him. He stared at his hands, the blood staining them, and clenched his fists. The voices in his mind grew ever-louder. "Take me now! Open the door!" The force raged around him, but with growing panic he realized something was wrong. "Take me -- why do you not take me?" he screamed. NO. YOU HAVE FAILED... The voice crashed into his thoughts, clear and scolding above the pleadings of the damned. "How? How have I failed?" THE INNOCENT WAS NOT PLEDGED. "I don't understand!" A great anger laced with cascading disappointment rushed through his being, its fury blazing and threatening to consume the remains of his sanity. SHE IS WITH CHILD. "What?" Shock threw his eyes wide, twisted his features. Nathan's gaze jumped to Catherine's mutilated body, the gory opening in her belly, unbelieving. She carried his child? A mingling of Courtwright and Stanford blood? Oh, how horrified his father would have been. How pitifully horrified! Then, in a burst of anger, he grabbed her arms and jerked her up, toward him. Her head lolled back. "No!" he yelled, shaking her furiously. "You never told me! You have ruined everything -- everything!" His voice dropped and somewhere deep inside him Nathan Courtwright wept. "You ... never ... told me." Throwing back his head, Nathan screamed. "It is not fair! It is not fair!" YOUR GIFT IS TAINTED. YOU MUST CONVINCE ANOTHER. "Who? I know of no other -- please tell me his name!" YOUR FATHER HAS THE GIFT... Yes, Nathan had forgotten about that. His father. His father had the gift. But -- "He will never use it for that. Do you hear me? I could never convince -- " TRICK HIM... "I'll force him, make him give it to me!" NO. IF YOU FORCE THE GIFTED YOU WILL DWELL IN THE VANISHED PLACE. THEY MUST GIVE THEIR GIFT. BY DESIRE OR BY DECEPTION, IT DOES NOT MATTER. The drawing room doors burst open. The invisible force moving through the room vanished, suddenly, totally. Jittering candlelight steadied and the chandelier creaked to stillness. The voices in Nathan's head dissolved. Gone. Everything gone. Everything that led to this moment destroyed, wasted. Nathan hurled Catherine's body to the floor; it splayed limp, an arm out-stretched, her neck twisted unnaturally. Gaining his feet, he spun. "God in Heaven, Nathan." His father stood in the doorway, face drained white, hands visibly shaking. "I would have believed you capable of many monstrosities, but not this." Nathan's father's gaze sweep to Catherine's body and revulsion, disbelief and shock glittered within his eyes. Nathan laughed, a laugh poisoned with bitterness and hate. "Why not this?" Nathan stepped towards his father. "Is this not what the hatred and fighting of a century leads to? Is it not what the Courtwright gift leads to?" "One Courtwright a generation possesses the gift," replied his father through tightly drawn lips. "To use it as you intend is sheer lunacy. If you were not my son, I would have let the townspeople hang you long ago. I was a fool. Now this ... this sacrilege -- you leave me no choice." "Such is the price of disgrace, is it not, father? You disgust me with your righteousness. Your own petty hatred fed me all these years, made me what I am. You carried your ridiculous feud to its limits. I have merely carried it beyond. I would think you'd be delighted by Catherine's death." "Mine is a learned hate, Nathan. Yours is pure evil." Nathan's father made a slight waving motion with his hand. Beyond the shadows of the foyer, Nathan saw his brothers step forward, revulsion and fear splashed on their faces. He saw their eyes avoid Catherine's body, center on him. "What is this?" Nathan took a backward step, but he already knew. He had misjudged his father. "I cannot even say I am sorry," said his father. "For what you have done we shall all suffer. But this will be done." "No, you cannot!" shouted Nathan, backing up. "I have not finished!" "You have, Nathan." His father motioned. "Take him. Take him now!" * * * * The Demon pulled his hand back from the dusty blood-stained floor. His gaze lingered on the dark splotch a moment, then he straightened. Yes, he had failed that night. And he had paid for it a hundred damned and miserable years. His gift to enter the Open Realm had left him trapped there while his body rotted. But now, now he had another chance to unlock the door to the damned; now Paul Stanford would turn the key. And this time, the Demon would not fail. -------- *(20)* Friday * * * * The rising sun splashed a variegated explosion of colors across the surface of the ocean. Waves slapped the rocks and battered the shoreline. Stringy clouds clung to the horizon, giving the sky a temporary reprieve from the previous night's threat of showers. Weather reports claimed it would cloud up again for the weekend and bring scattered thunderstorms to Dark Harbor. Tony Corsetti, nestled in the lap of drunken luxury in his trailer, switched on the TV, feeling a thunderstorm brewing much closer to home. He knew the clouds would damn sure burst soon. He staggered to the refrigerator and pulled a can of Bud from the shelf. Popping the top, he swigged a huge gulp. Beer dribbled down his chin. His fifteenth -- or was it his sixteenth? -- hell, he couldn't remember and really didn't give a damn. He'd been up drinking and pissing all night, for chrissakes! A man was entitled to forget a few minor details. Unfortunately, the beers hadn't wiped away the details he wanted to forget. Tony Corsetti uttered a mushy chuckle. He remembered when he started this thing, this "minor enterprise," as he was wont to call it. A few connections here, a few wasted kids there, and a handful -- a big handful -- of the company's money while Jakey had his back turned, and hot damn! if he didn't have a business going. Not one he could brag about to Jake, but hell, he made more money than his brother. Spent it a damn sight faster, too. "Jakey," Tony mumbled, feeling maudlin -- he always felt maudlin when he drank and it pissed him off but there was nothing he could do about it. "You were always the good one, weren't you?" Tony punctuated the words with a belch. "Mom and pop worshipped the goddamn ground you pissed on." And me? Tony asked himself. Well, hell, Tony baby. You got the leftovers and swallowed them like they was caviar. You should have been happy with that, huh? That's what every numb ass in town tried to tell you, you dumb sonofabitch. So what'd you go an do? Dug yourself a nice deep hole, so friggin' deep you couldn't never get out again. But ol' Jakey went and blew a nut. Not me. Jakey's just a dead puke, now. No goddamn fanfare. No goddamned nothing. And I got the company; I got the money; I got my goddamn life. Pretty lucky bastard, ain't I? Tony swigged half the can of beer and belched again, long and loud. No, he didn't feel lucky at all. And if he got caught, as he'd grown more and more sure he would, he'd be anything but lucky. So what the hell was keeping him here? He'd stashed enough cash away -- that's all he'd originally planned to do, anyway. Now he had the company and he could dump it on someone, half-price, even. But Hudson wasn't about to deal him out. Oh, no. And Hudson scared the piss out of him in some way he couldn't put a finger on. Tony didn't know how far to trust the deputy, but something dark in the man's eyes told him about as far as he could crap. Well, Hudson could have it all, including the drug connections. Maybe that'd get the bastard off his back. All Tony wanted was his stash and his goddamned ticket to Rio. He figured he could do all right down there. With the money he got from selling off Corsetti Construction -- before some smart-assed accountant got a gander at the books, that is -- he could assure himself a life with no goddamn Social Security and loads of beer and girls. "Damn right!" he muttered. "Maybe I'll even give you the goddamn funeral you deserve, Jakey boy. 'Cause there ain't nothing else left for you to take from me, now, is there? You took the school honors, you took the girls, you took mom and pop. Ha-ha, Jakey. Joke's on you! You're goddamn friggin' dead. Can't take nothing from me, now, can you, you sonofabitch?" In a burst of anger, Tony Corsetti cocked his arm and hurled the beer can across the room. It struck the wall, beer spraying out in foamy patterns and dribbling down. "How's that, Jakey?" he yelled. "You ain't got a goddamned thing no more! I got everything, you hear me? I got everything!" His voice lowered and he shook his head "I'll never goddamn forgive you for that..." Tony crumbled to his knees, putting his face in his hands. He sobbed uncontrollably. Yeah, he had everything all right. Everything he ever needed. And Hudson could have the goddamn garbage. * * * * Tony Corsetti guessed he'd been on the floor more than an hour because when he awoke The Price is Right had just started. He hadn't even realized he'd passed out, but every muscle and joint seemed to need oiling. His bladder ached, telling him he was lucky he hadn't pissed in his skivvies. Swaying, he gained his feet. The room kaleidoscoped then slowed to its normal nauseous pace and pattern, though slightly fuzzy. He rubbed his blood-shot eyes and belched. Pausing, he tried to remember what it was he had decided to do. Oh, yeah. Take a piss. Then get another beer. The doorbell rang. Tony Corsetti heard it, but didn't budge. He stared blankly. The chime had rung loud and clear but for some stupid reason he couldn't figure out what the sound was or where it had come from. Then realization penetrated his brain. He turned, legs rubbery as he stumbled toward the door. Gripping the handle, he jerked the door open with a rattle. The glaring sun blazed in and stung his eyes and he winced, pressing them shut. Reopening them, slowly, painfully, he let them adjust to the brightness. "Hudson?" He stared at the man who stood on his porch. "May I come in?" "You're askin'?" Corsetti stepped aside. He glanced outside, then shut the door. "Was meanin' to call you, anyway," he added, turning to the deputy. "Oh?" said Hudson. Tony peered at the man; even through his alcohol-hazed brain he knew something looked different about the deputy. Off kilter. What the hell was it? His mind struggled for an answer but couldn't come up with it. "Where's your car?" Tony asked instead, suspicious for a reason he couldn't place. "Didn't see it." "Parked it around the corner. Didn't want to be too obvious." Hudson seemed calmer, somehow, Tony decided. Yeah, that was it: calmer. Why? "Well, if you're looking for more stuff, I ain't got none." "Oh, no?" Corsetti eyed Hudson, searching for a sign of the anger that normally swarmed like hornets in the deputy's eyes whenever Tony tried to hold back on the coke. Hudson's eyes remained placid. No anger, not even minor irritation. Zero. An odd dread began to creep into Tony Corsetti's mind; it pierced his dull senses like little ice picks. He licked his dry lips. "N-no." Was his voice shaky? "I-I want out, Hudson. I mean it this time. I'm through with this crap. I'm getting a goddamn ticket to Rio and you can have the whole thing, okay?" "No problem, Tony..." Hudson glanced about the room. "I have my own Strength, now." Corsetti's suspicion multiplied tenfold, now. It cleared some of the cobwebs from his brain. Hudson's voice was entirely too calm. This was too easy, way too easy. He had expected the deputy to yell, fight him, maybe try something desperate. But this? No, something was wrong-O. "Why are you taking this so well?" asked Corsetti, mind still blurred enough to override some of the caution he should have used. "I respect your decision, Tony. Frankly, I'd been thinking of getting out myself." "W-what?" Corsetti felt ants begin to crawl through his nerves. Ants of fear that sank their teeth into his composure and made him want to jump. Hudson's eyes fell upon him, cold black eyes that made the ant sensation even worse. He felt a chill creep down his spine. Tony Corsetti got the sudden notion to try for the gun he kept in the top drawer of the dresser in his bedroom. But his muscles, languid and beer-slogged, opposed the idea. In his condition he knew he'd never make it more than a few feet before Hudson caught up with him -- or shot him in the back. "In fact," Hudson continued, voice sharp, making Corsetti jolt, "I just came over to give you some good news." "Yeah?" Sweat beaded on his brow and his heart began a sluggish stutter. "Yes, we found your brother." "Jakey? You ... found him?" Hudson's words sank in, registering with a slight delay. Tony's mounting unease became a hot sharpness, piercing deep into his mind. "Would you like to see him?" Something in Hudson's tone made Tony's bladder want to loose. "I-I don't understand," he stammered. He took a step backwards. "I brought him with me, Tony. He wanted to say good-bye -- One. Last. Time." A scream tore from Tony's lips, a long piercing wail of bottled-up terror. He couldn't remember ever having screamed that way in his life. He did, now, and he didn't give a damn who heard him. Deputy Hudson smiled and took a step forward. But it was no longer the deputy that came towards Tony. No, it was Jake, Jake his brother, Jake his dead brother. All rotted, flesh peeling, sores leaking green fluid. Jake, hand proffered in a brotherly gesture. Tony mumbled something unintelligible and pressed his back to the wall. His heart thundered now. Jake's out-stretched hand brushed Tony's face; cold deteriorated fingers stroked his cheek, making his gut want to heave in revulsion. That was all Tony Corsetti had time to feel. Jake's hand drifted downward and a flash of excruciating pain tore through his belly. Tony glanced down, almost uttering a laugh at the absurdity of seeing Jake's hand embedded in his gut up to the elbow. The laugh died on his lips. Because Jake's hand forged upward inside him and Tony's last coherent thought was that he swore he felt his heart being torn out. * * * * "Where the hell have you been?" snapped Sheriff Baker, as Deputy Hudson stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. Hudson, unanswering, threw his hat on the rack and walked to his desk. Baker's gaze followed him. The deputy cast the sheriff a quick look that made the sheriff shiver inwardly. He felt as if he'd been glared at by a corpse. "Well?" Baker spread his hands, forcing aside his unease. "Nowhere. I've been nowhere." Different, somehow. Hudson looked different. The sheriff couldn't put his finger on it at first, but then it came to him: the difference was in the deputy's eyes. Hudson's simmering anger always smoldered with little fires of fury that occasionally blazed. Now his eyes held a fixed coldness. Dead was the word that kept pushing its way into Baker's mind. Bleak, barren eyes, twin dead moons in a coal-black sky -- that was the impression they gave Baker. Even that wasn't quite right, was it? Something did live in those eyes; a waiting hate, cold, controlled, directed. And it didn't make Baker feel a damn bit better. Baker found something else nagged at the back of his mind. Bringing it to the front, he realized what it was: Hudson's eyes were clear as crystal. He saw no redness, no dullness, none of the usual after-symptoms of coke. The deputy didn't even sniffle or rub his nose. Wherever Hudson had been yesterday, Baker decided, he hadn't spent it with Doctor Snow. Baker's face reddened and his temples started to bang. "What do you mean 'nowhere'? You drop out of sight, don't bother to show up for work, then wander in here like somebody's lost cat, and you tell me you've been 'nowhere'. You better come up with a better explanation than that or you'll be going back to nowhere." Hudson peered at him, phlegmatic. In an even tone he said, "I've ... been gathering evidence on Stanford and I had to drive to Massachusetts on a lead." Baker studied Hudson's placid face, unable to tell whether he were lying. Riveted to Hudson's cold (dead) stare, Baker felt his insides begin to crawl and he didn't care for the feeling one bit. "You didn't think to tell me? Or call once you got there? They do have phones in Massachusetts, I'm told. And we do have procedures around here, Mr. Hudson -- just in case you've forgotten. Or don't they pertain to you?" "It was last minute and I didn't get the chance once I was there." "You didn't get the chance? You didn't get the chance? Would you like a chance at another line of work?" The redness flushing Baker's face turned to a muted purple. He felt a visegrip of tension squeeze the back of his neck. He kneaded the muscles, trying to avert the migraine he knew would follow. "Fire me, then, if you're going to," Hudson challenged. Baker grunted. No, he couldn't get rid of Hudson, not without blowing his chance at nailing him in this drug thing -- or at least without making the task much more difficult for himself. Baker had the distinct impression the deputy had read his mind on that point, too. You're a lucky bastard, Baker thought. Because that's the only thing stopping me from kicking your arrogant ass out that door. Baker leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. "Well, Dick Tracy, what did you find out? Is Paul Stanford the dark maniac stalking Dark Harbor -- and Dr. Gazio, not to forget?" He waited for a reaction, only to be disappointed when none came. The deputy didn't so much as flinch, registered no trace of anger at all. Something was definitely askew, but what it was, Baker didn't have a clue. "I'll let you know soon..." A hint of smugness laced Hudson's voice, now. His gaze dropped to the paperwork piled on his desk. "I'll let you know soon," the sheriff mimicked under his breath, but oddly he discovered he had no desire to push it at this point. Instead, he rummaged through the desk drawer and pulled out two Bufferin, swallowing the caplets with coffee. I'll wait for now, Hudson, Baker said to himself. Then maybe I'll let you know soon. Until then, I'll let you have so much rope you'll wrap it around that goddamned scrawny neck of yours and strangle. * * * * The night remained clear, except for wispy low-hanging clouds hugging the horizon. Paul had finished up the repairs to the boarding house earlier today, and had taken a run into Portland on an errand he'd set for himself. He decided tomorrow morning he'd even try going back to his father's old house and start assessing what the place needed for repairs. At eleven, Paul picked Jenny up at the hospital -- waiting an extra fifteen minutes while she changed into the jeans and sweater she'd brought with her to work. They drove the long way to Coast Road, deciding on the spur of the moment to bypass the waterfront. As Paul turned the corner onto Coast Road, he fell silent, the miles lolling by. He found himself grappling with a mixture of feelings. With Jenny, emotions gripped him he'd only experienced in longings: happiness, an inner peace that pushed aside the restlessness and wanderlust. Growing increasingly more comfortable with the feelings of peace and belonging, he let himself give in to them. Within a short time, he'd become almost convinced he'd never struggle with that restlessness -- or the strange nightmare that brought him here -- again. Not as long as he was with Jenny. She was the cure he needed all along. A question entered his mind, one that occurred to him before, but he had debated asking Jenny, unsure how she'd react. It was none of his business in the first place. At the same time, an urge to know everything that had occurred in her life since they'd parted ten years ago nearly overwhelmed him. "Tell me about your husband," asked Paul, before he could stop himself. Jenny shrugged. "Not much to tell, really. Married him young, when I was still struggling with school. For the next few years we fought about anything and everything. I tried to make it work for Andy's sake. I wanted him to grow up in some sort of stable environment, with two parents, but now I know it would have been worse in the long run. Nothing pleased him, no matter what I did. He wanted me to give up school, all I had worked for, and mother full time. I almost did, too. He saved me the choice in the end, because one day I just found him gone, with a note saying he was headed to California, to stay with relatives he had there. Never a word after that, no forwarding address, no Christmas or birthday cards for Andy. Funny how you can misjudge someone so thoroughly, someone you thought you loved." "You didn't try to find him, get support?" "Oh, I considered hiring detectives to chase him down, but I finally figured what's the use? I didn't need or want anything from him -- and he just beat me to the punch in leaving. I just hoped he might contact me for Andy's sake." "Do you miss him?" "Huh, like a bad headache. I would have handed him the car keys at that point." Paul chuckled and Jenny smiled back. "I found out that life without him was better for Andy; he didn't have to listen to the bickering and he was still pretty young. Bill didn't spend that much time with him anyway, even though he was the one to insist on kids, probably thinking it would keep me home. All in all, though, I can't say I've done half-bad. Guess I always had an independent streak." "I think its called stubbornness." "Hey!" snapped Jenny in mock anger. "Well, whatever you call it, it got me through. For a while I had to wonder where the next meal was coming from, but things turned around when I came back to Dark Harbor -- in some ways. I have the house and a good job. Who could ask for more?" Paul couldn't be sure if she were serious; he thought he detected a note of irony in her voice, and, just for an instant, an empty look seemed to spark in her eyes. It told him she did want something more. He hoped that something was him. "What about you, Paul?" Jenny gazed at him. "Didn't have a husband," Paul shot back, laughing. "No, I'm serious." "What do you mean?" "Well for starters, I was thinking about the talk we had the night before you left. What happened with your father that night? I remember how hard he was on you." Paul's throat tightened. His mind skipped back against his will and he suddenly remembered the events of that night with startling clarity. Things he had repressed came spilling back, overflowing with bitterness. "I'm leaving!" Paul yelled, turning to face his father. His father glared at him, eyes blazing with anger, accusing. Paul averted his gaze, unable to face him, though he'd told himself over and over he'd stand up to Jack. "So?" his father said, the word slapping out and taking Paul aback, as if he'd been physically struck. The reek of whiskey assailed his nostrils. "You don't care, do you?" Paul struggled to hold his voice steady, but was unable to stop a quiver from creeping in. "You never did." "Why should I?" Jack yelled back, words slurred, thick with contempt. "Because of mom. Because I'm your son. If you had a shred of self-respect and decency left -- " His father's jeering laugh cut Paul's words short. Paul felt himself shrink inside, withdraw, his conviction dissolving. "You want to know the truth about your mother? She was a no-good whore. She never gave a damn about either of us!" "You're lying! You're trying to rationalize what you did to her." Paul's accusation came in a weak voice, stripped of the force he'd tried so hard to muster. "What about me? What about what she did to me?" "She loved you, stuck with you despite your faults." His father let out a scoffing grunt. "What could you possibly understand about what happened?" "I understand you treated her like crap. I understand it was enough to make her leave you -- finally." "You don't understand anything, boy!" His father shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "NOTHING! You don't know what humiliation and disgrace does to a man. The lies I had to live with. The pain I endured. This place breeds pain and I've suffered with demons you couldn't begin to imagine." For the first time Paul could recall, he saw tears shimmer in his father's glazed eyes. And for the first time, his father looked incredibly old "All I know is you beat her, you miserable drunk, and she left because of it." His father's voice dripped with coldness. "She left you, too, Paul. Don't forget that while you're judging me." Any trace of resolve Paul might have felt melted away. In frustration, his fist shot out and sent a lamp flying from the table by the door. It crashed to the floor and his father uttered a sharp laugh. "You know it's true, don't you?" Paul stared in silence, their eyes locking momentarily, but found himself still unable to hold that mocking gaze. He swallowed, tears straining to burst free. As he turned and grabbed the door handle, he heard his father say, "You'll come back one day, Paul. Things in this place won't let you go. Dark Harbor don't give up its dead." Paul threw open the door and left, slamming it behind him and never looking back. * * * * "Paul?" Jenny's voice penetrated his reverie. She gently touched his shoulder. "Sorry. Didn't mean to bring back bad memories." "No. No, it's okay." Paul's voice came low. "I guess I must have shut the memory of that night out of my mind, at least part of it. It ... it came back to me, that's all. I wasn't quite prepared for it. Funny, though, how things like that just disappear sometimes." "The mind's little way of coping with things we're not ready to face. But it was none of my business anyway. You don't have to tell me." "No, I want to. I want to get it out of my system. I really did plan to stand up to him that night, make him regret everything he ever did -- or didn't do. But I couldn't. I just couldn't say all the things that were on my mind. I left knowing I never really faced him -- and knowing I never would." "Maybe you just have, in a way." "How's that, Dr. Gazio?" Paul let a wry grin slip onto his lips. "By remembering it and telling me." "You're the doctor." "Well, take two aspirins and call me in the morning." And don't dream ... Paul added in his mind. Maybe Jenny was right, maybe he just needed to share it with someone -- with her. But that feeling, Paul. What about the dread? He couldn't answer that, at least not yet. They fell silent and as Paul drove on, the road twisted at sharp angles, then straightened. Dark rows of trees rose to either side, gloomy soldiers adorned with glitters of moonlight. A mile farther on, the woods thinned. He heard Jenny utter a small gasp. "What's the matter?" Paul tensed, feeling an odd case of nerves working on him suddenly. Then, as the last stands of pines cleared, he realized where they were. He saw the dark hulk of an old mansion looming on the hill ahead to the left. Beyond it, partially obscured by a stretch of pines, the Courtwright mausoleum stood like a square black gargoyle. Immobilized heavy equipment squatted nearby, dark shapes outlined within the roped-off construction sight by slashes of moonlight. "The Courtwright Mansion," said Jenny, voicing Paul's thought and pointing. "The old one, anyways. They're building the new drug center there -- or at least they were until..." She shuddered and Paul suppressed the urge to do the same. "Mrs. Gaumont told me about the trouble there." Jenny remained silent and Paul glanced at her, seeing a troubled look on her face. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, fine. It just made me think of Peg. She was working on the Corsetti case the night she was murdered." Paul's tone grew comforting. "That place gave me the willies when I was a kid. Couldn't get near it without hyperventilating. My friend, Tommy, even had to drag me off the porch once. I think I would have strangled to death right there if he hadn't." "You never told me that." Jenny's voice came stronger now. "There are lots of deep dark secrets I've never told you." Paul said, using his best Bela Lugosi voice, but sounding more like Truman Capote. He was only half-joking. Jenny chuckled, looking brighter. "Well, they're going to tear that awful thing down soon and I for one won't miss it. That'll finish one part of the Courtwright history. I think the only reason they donated it was because it's still a black mark on their record -- one of many, I might add." "If I remember right, old Nathan got into all sorts of hot water. My father used to gloat over it, calling them as big a bunch of no-goods as they made the Stanfords out to be." "They've got more than their share of skeletons hiding in their closets, that's for sure." Jenny's remark suddenly made Paul think of his childhood fear of things lurking in closets. The mansion reminded him of that fear and looking at it now still gave him a case of the creeps. He bet he'd still hyperventilate if he got close to it. "Probably as many bones as the Stanfords," he mumbled. Jenny uttered a nervous laugh. "Well, at least Mr. Nathan Courtwright is a skeleton by now -- wherever he is. You're lucky, Paul, he was almost one of your relatives." "So I heard. He was supposed to marry my great great cousin or something or other, but she was murdered. I think they found her body in the mansion. Looked pretty obvious who had done the deed when Nathan disappeared." "Probably did do it. Blood was thicker than marriage in those days." Paul chuckled without humor. A strange feeling that he couldn't identify pulled at him. Why does that place still bother you, Paul? Is it because of bad memories -- or something worse? Old ghosts, maybe? Paul slowly blew out a breath and forced his apprehension down. "Well, I won't miss that dump, either," he said. "When they tear it down, the Courtwright-Stanford feud will die with it." "Good riddance, too," said Jenny and Paul saw her shiver again. For some reason, he couldn't help casting the mansion another glance as it waned in his rearview mirror. No, he wouldn't miss it at all. * * * * "Here's the surprise." Paul brought the car to a stop at the edge of the dirt parking lot. Switching off the engine, he left the ignition on auxiliary. "Clipper Point." A smile warmed Jenny's lips. "Why, Paul Stanford, you wouldn't be trying to take advantage of little ol' me, would you?" she drawled in her best Scarlett O'Hara voice. "Frankly, my dear," said Paul, thinking he sounded more like Archie Bunker than Rhett Butler, "I am!" He grinned. "Oh, Rhett!" Jenny fanned her face with her hand, pretending to swoon. "And..." Paul reached over, popped open the glove box and pulled out a CD. He inserted it into the player and the opening notes of "The Winner Takes it All" came from the speakers. "Paul!" A look of mild surprise crossed her features. "I haven't thought of that song in ages. Where did you find it?" "Portland. Super Trouper album." Jenny smiled and kissed his cheek, snuggling close. When the song finished, she blurted, "Catch me!" and threw open the door, darting out. Paul grabbed the car keys and flew out after her. She bounded over the bank at the edge of the lot and dashed across the beach. He closed the distance, almost catching up. Jenny hopped along on one foot then the other, shucking her shoes and running barefoot in the wet sand at the ocean's edge. Low-tide waves straggled in, filling her footprints with silvery water. She pulled ahead again. Paul chased her, moonlight glittering off the sand in the wake of the receding tide, making it look as though he were dashing along a field of sparkling diamonds. Ahead, Jenny giggled, and he suddenly felt boyish excitement surge through him, an explosion of intense freedom and carefree well-being that made him forget everything except what he felt for her. "Come on, Rhett!" Jenny shouted in her Scarlett voice. His legs pumped harder, shoes slap-slapping on hard wet sand. His breath burned playfully in his throat. As he ran, he became more and more lost in the sparkle of the diamond field and the euphoria of his feelings. Coming to his senses suddenly, Paul noticed Jenny had vanished behind an area of rocks that jutted into the sea. He slowed and hopped over a huge granite slab. "Jenny?" He listened, the murmuring of the waves and the pleasant sped-up rhythm of his heart sending a warm tingles through his being. "Why, Rhett, I do declare..." Jenny popped out from behind a boulder. Paul started, at once feeling foolish and Jenny giggled. She moved close, sliding her hands around the back of his neck and locking her fingers together. Moonlight played on her face, glossing her moist lips, frosting her auburn hair and glittering in her topaz eyes. Paul gazed into those eyes, unable to keep from being drawn in, swept way. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and, with his fingertips, traced the contours of her cheek, her lips. "Who caught who?" he whispered. "Who cares?" She touched her lips briefly to his. An electric wave of tingles coursed through him and he felt as if his feet had lifted off the ground. "Please, Paul..." she whispered. "Jenny, I..." Say it, Paul. Say it the way you should have said it ten years ago. "Paul, I don't want to wake up and find you gone again. I don't think I could deal with that right now." Paul hesitated. "If I can't promise...?" "I don't think I could deal with that, either." "I want to stay this time. God knows, I want to." Jenny stepped back from him and pulled her sweater over her head, tossing it aside. Soft moonlight accentuated her nakedness and arousal filled him. As she stepped close again, Paul became aware of everything with crystal clarity: the fragrance of her hair, the sweet perfume of her sweat, the soft chanting of the ocean and the wanting beat of his heart. His fingers caressed her skin, wandering over her shoulders and circling her breasts. He felt her heart flutter, race with excitement. Her eyelids closed and she pressed closer to him. "I love you, Paul," she whispered, and he felt emotion rush through him, filling his being with a deep warmth that weakened his legs and trembled in his soul. He'd never felt anything so fulfilling, so right. "Jenny ... I ... I love you, too." She smiled and he pressed his lips to hers. They fell to the cool sand and made love. * * * * Jenny flicked off the living room lamp and climbed the stairs in semi-darkness. She felt as if she were floating up, feet barely touching the carpet. Pausing at the top, she heard Cindy snoring away in her room and tried not to laugh. A giggle escaped, despite her best efforts to hold it back. Suppressing that chuckle had suddenly become an impossible task, especially with the warm caress of newness and bliss filling her soul. Paul had kissed her goodnight and dropped her off more than an hour ago, but she had lingered downstairs, looking out the living room windows at the boarding house across the street, watching the quiet shadows flitter on the lawn, watching the pale moon and bright sequin stars stray across the ebony sky. She'd never felt so free, so complete. Not even when she first met Bill; at the time she'd mistaken some other feeling for love. Now she realized it had never been. No, what she felt tonight was an entirely different sensation, a feeling that had started more than ten years ago, only to be interrupted by circumstance and then to be rekindled over the past week. Tonight, it had raged; tonight a yearning she had buried had been consummated. Jenny smiled. Giggled again. She went to Andy's room and gently pushed open his door. Andy had the covers pulled up to his nose, his eyes wide and roving. The lamp blazed. Jenny was surprised to find him still awake. "You all set, munchkin?" She moved to the bed and sat on the edge. "I think so," he murmured from beneath the blankets. "You think so? That doesn't sound very sure. What's wrong? You should have been asleep hours ago." "I heard something." Andy's eyes shifted toward the window. "I woke up and heard it, maybe in the closet or outside the window." Jenny, trying not to grin, pasted a semi-serious look on her face. "Well, let's just see about that." Andy's eyes got wider as she stood and crossed to the closet, pulling the door open. Toys and clothes peered out. Jenny rifled through the hanging clothes, shoving them aside, and pretended to search behind them. "Nothing there, sweetheart." She looked back and smiled. "Maybe it was at the window?" "Uh-huh." Jenny nodded. Turning to the window, she glanced out at the shifting shadows cast from swaying trees on the front lawn. "Nope. Nothing there, either." "You sure?" His "sure" sounded more like "sewer." "You're on the second floor, honey. Nothing could be outside the window, unless it was a bird or a squirrel maybe." "Oh." Andy sounded unconvinced. "Maybe it was your aunt's snoring you heard," Jenny added quickly and Andy looked a bit more relieved. "But you better get to sleep, now. You've got a full morning of cartoons ahead of you tomorrow. And Mr. Stanford promised to take you on the amusements again in the afternoon." "Mommy?" Andy dragged the word out and she knew what was coming. "Yes?" she asked with a grin. "Diddle, diddle?" "Weeelll..." Jenny paused and cocked her eyebrow. "Mooommm..." "Oh, all right!" She laughed and pulled the worn Mother goose book from the nightstand drawer and flipped it open. "Hey diddle diddle..." she read, watching him from the corner of her eye. "The cat and the fiddle..." Andy's eyelids flickered, drooping until he barely managed to keep them open. "The cow jumped over the moon..." Almost closed, fluttering. "The little dog laughed to see such sport ... and the dish ran away with the spoon." She finished the last in a whisper and Andy gave a snort, fast asleep. She set the book on the nightstand and kissed his forehead. Shutting off the light, she tiptoed from the room. God, she loved that little boy, she thought, easing the door shut behind her. After Jenny took a quick shower, she went to her room, slipped into her nightgown and climbed into bed. Lying there, her mind drifted to earlier tonight, the beach, the soft rhythm of incoming waves that blended with rhythm of her aroused breathing and the gentle pattering of her heart as Paul made love to her. She still felt the touch of his lips on hers, the whisper of his fingertips stroking her skin and the fullness of him inside her. And those words: I love you. As if it had been the first time for both of them. In a way, it had. Oh, she knew she was being silly, that neither of them were teenagers anymore and both had been with other lovers. But this time it felt right; this time she felt a magic she once thought belonged only in movies or romance novels. With the thought, however, a warning voice in her mind threw up a question that intruded on her bliss. What if he leaves again? But as she drifted off to sleep, she prayed she'd never have to deal with that question. And she prayed the magic would never go away. * * * * Paul lay in the semi-darkness of his room, a river of excitement rushing through him, swelling with life and freedom as he thought about the beach, his body joined to hers, the emotion he felt for her, locked away for ten years, finally breaking loose and geysering. Joy. Desire. Freedom. Yes, he was free, wasn't he? Tonight he'd given himself completely to her, without holding back that secret part of his passion, without the fear of attachment he'd experienced with Jill and the others. The past seemed so unimportant, now. Jenny forever? It was always Jenny and it always would be. She was the missing piece; he had come back to Dark Harbor for her. Jenny. Love. He could be sure of it, now. Feelings of dread and images left over from dreams were all but forgotten in the passion of this night. His father, his mother, Tommy, Freddy, gloomy old mansions and childhood closets -- they grew lost in the murk and mire of the past where they belonged. And where he would make them stay. Forever. Jenny forever. As he drifted off, the happiness that seemed so unobtainable only a week ago warmed him. The town that once seemed so hostile, so alien and unforgiving, seemed lush and bright and shining with life: ready to accept him -- no, welcome him. It would be a long time before he left Dark Harbor. A very long time. -------- *(21)* Dark streets, always dark streets. A mist washed over the cobblestones. The street seemed alive with fog, diaphanous fingers clutching at Paul as he ran. His heart jack-hammered, pounding in his throat. His pulse thrummed low in his abdomen and his breath staggered out, lungs burning. Told you you'd come back. Now you can never escape. Never! Never! Never! Time to pay the goddamned piper. Can't let all that happiness get out of hand. Your dreams are you ticket in. And you're still the same old screwed-up sonofabitch you always were. Something about the nightmare appeared different. What was it? He finally pinpointed it: this dream was more advanced, the preliminaries skipped. The street ahead had already narrowed, stretching, intersecting at a distant point that approached with impossible speed. A dark hulking shape lay at its juncture, though he couldn't make out what it was. It drew him forward, its pull unearthing the dread within him. Behind you, Paul. Always behind you. The thing -- the thing in the closet! Guess what? Yea-ah. This time it's coming out and this time it's going to punch your ticket. Going to waste you like the little turd with the blankets jammed up to his chin always knew it would. You're a goner, Paul, old buddy. You're a goner! "No!" Paul screamed. The sound hung in the thick air, ululating, drawn out and distorted. Paul cranked his head around and glanced backward. As always, he felt the thing more than saw it. Felt its hot breath against the back of his neck, felt its dread. But now he saw the membrane of fog convexing; it bulged as if something incredibly large were trying to break through, something unseen and vile that strained the very fabric of mist and air and darkness. (Closer) Paul forced his legs to move faster, pump harder. His exhausted muscles quivered and burned with effort as he struggled against a sluggish dream-tide. His steps quickened only slightly; the invisible thing's indefatigable pace swiftened to equal his weary tread. He became conscious of an odd sound, a low whirring that seemed to emanate from everywhere, crescendoing. Louder, louder, until it grew to a deafening pressure that threatened to shatter his eardrums. Suddenly, he realized what the noise was: whispers. Countless whispers, layered one upon the other, pleading in awful harmony, unbearable agony. (Let us out, Paul! Let us free!) Paul's toe hooked a cobblestone and he stumbled, nearly going down. He caught his balance at the last instant, righting himself. A sliver of pain stabbed his chest and he gasped for breath. Thin scraping noises rasped behind him and a chill shuddered along his spine. The invisible thing was clawing at the air as if it were a solid thing; soon it would tear its way through. Closer, Paul. The thing, the thing in the closet! It's almost got you! Don't turn around, don't turn around -- He chanced another backward look. The thing had gained on him. He felt its presence swelling, the bulge in the air ripening. The thing's dread strangled his courage. Feelings of raw hate and rage, evil, terror, swept over him in shuddering waves. Paul strained to see the thing, but for the moment the fog and night held its secret. As Paul swung his head forward, a surge of dizziness took him, throwing off his balance. Sharp pain stabbed his knee and his leg buckled. This time he went down, unable to halt his forward plunge. Arms out-thrust, windmilling in an absurd sluggish circle, he seemed to fall forever. His palms raked the cold damp stone, flesh shredding and blood flowing, more blood than seemed possible from any minor wound. Too much blood, rushing, splashing, staining the fog with a ruby glow. His legs came down a beat behind and the impact jarred the breath from his lungs, rattling his body, stunning him. It's the thing in the closet, Paul, remember? Better get the hell up 'cause here it comes, big and ugly and drooling. He twisted his head and looked up. A damp fetid wind slapped at his face and he gagged. The thing, so close he could almost touch it, stank of rot and things buried. Panic seized him as the closet of his youth creaked open. His mouth gaped, moving mechanically, but no sound came out. The membrane of fog ballooned outward, its huge shape becoming oblong, contoured with sharper jutting angles across its surface. Then, stretched to its limit, the air ruptured. The webbing of mist and dream fell way and the unseen presence became visible. Like a world rotating on its axis in the frozen blackness of space, it revolved to face Paul. A gigantic fleshless face hung in the mist-clogged air. Red-slit eyes swiveled and spiked Paul beneath their gaze. He shuddered as fleshless lips parted. FACE TO FACE AT LAST, PAUL STANFORD. NOW YOU FULFILL MY DESTINY. Paul suddenly grew aware he was shrieking. The sound shook him from his spell. He summoned what was left of his strength and will and scuttled backward, the huge face pressing towards him. He pushed himself shakily to his feet and stumbled forward on some fear-powered reserve. YOU LET YOU GUARD DOWN, STANFORD, LET YOUR DEFENSES FALL WHILE I WAS GROWING STRONGER. YOU LET YOURSELF ENTER THE OPEN REALM. A grating laugh shuddered out, chasing him, swelling from everywhere, nowhere. It coupled with the whirring whispers of the damned as they rose to a frenzied pitch. (Free us, Paul! Free our souls!) YOU HEAR THAT, STANFORD? THEY WANT THEIR FREEDOM. THEY WANT YOU. Paul fought to shut out the sound and forced himself onward, moving headlong toward the dark looming shape at the end of the converging street. All the while he felt the constant menace of the demonic face inexorably pursuing him. GO ON, PAUL. DESTINY AWAITS YOU. Paul slowed as he neared the structure. It rose before him, engulfing his entire field of vision. Its lines became startlingly clear, a gargoyle of a thing that emanated dread and filled him with panic. He'd seen that house before, in his worst nightmares and puerile fears: the Courtwright mansion! Stop, Paul! You can't go near that place. Never could, remember? Tommy had to pull you off the steps. Paul fought against the desire to stop, turn back, knowing the only alternative was the ghastly face. HURRY, PAUL. THE PAST IS AWAITING YOU BETWEEN THE WALLS OF TWILIGHT. GIVE IN. OR DO YOU PREFER THE COLDNESS OF THE VANISHED PLACE? Before him, the mist swept back, revealing mottled stone steps the stretched endlessly toward great oaken doors. Shadow ribbons, cast from columns, twisted across the porch. "C'mon, fraidy cat!" he heard Tommy's voice suddenly boom in his mind, as it had all those years ago when his friend taunted him into coming to the mansion. Paul's gaze rose and he stared up, transfixed, as if standing before its judgment like a child awaiting punishment. "C'mon, let's go in!" Tommy's voice shouted again. In a blurry mass of shadows at the top, Paul saw the semi-solid figure of his friend motioning with a baseball-gloved hand. "No, I can't!" screamed Paul in a ridiculously childlike voice. Everything inside him shouted to pull back, run. "I can't go in there. It's evil, Tommy. I'm scared!" "Aw, c'mon, chicken. It's just a house. It can't be evil." Paul shook with terror, but he put a foot on the first step. With the move, tightness clamped about his windpipe. He gasped, breath catching in his throat, air choked off by panic. His hand went to his throat and his face reddened. "Tommy ... I can't ... I..." Paul collapsed to his knees, hands clawing at his throat. His head whirled and the world seemed streaked with blackness. Then he felt Tommy's hands thrust beneath his arms, hauling him back -- Paul stared at the empty steps and shook his head. Tommy had vanished. The strangling pressure at his throat dissolved. No longer did he feel trapped in the body of a little boy. But as he gazed up at the porch, a new dread seized him. The doorway. Something near the doorway riveted his attention. What was it? Go on, Paul. Face the past. You know it's there, waiting. Paul edged a foot onto the first step, feeling his insides shake as they had as a child. The tightness began to grip his throat again, but it was cleaved short as movement near the door captured his attention. A figure stepped from behind a column and stood in the shadows glutting the doorway. "Oh, Christ, no!" Paul shook his head. "No..." Paul recognized the figure, remembered the grinning haggard face, the cruel hollow eyes, the skin drawn taut over sharp jutting cheekbones: his father. His goddamned father! Dressed in the silly costume of a sideshow barker, blue-veined hands clasping the thick hide-bound handle of a whip. As their eyes met, Paul cringed. His legs drained of their tenuous strength and threatened to send him sprawling on his face. "Step right up, Paul!" his father shouted. "Step right up! Come one, come all! See the one and only Courtwright mansion with its midnight show of old ghosts! Only a small service charge of your eternal soul, Paul, my boy. Care to try it? Or are you still the turd-stinking coward you always were?" His father's grin widened, the smile of a skeleton, brown teeth flashing. His eyes seemed to sink into the recesses of his skull. His father's hand shot outward, swept back, and the great doors opened. They swung inward on creaky hinges. His father cracked the whip, a sound that jarred Paul to the bone. "Well, Paul?" Within the gloom of the foyer, barely illuminated by some freakish crimson light, he saw the body of a woman. She was sprawled, ragdoll-like, on the dusty floor. The gown she wore, which looked to Paul to be at least a hundred years old, was torn, ragged, stained with blood. He saw the obscene twist of her neck even from where he stood, the back of her head turned unnaturally towards him, her face hidden. An ocean of shiny crimson flowed outward from her body, creeping over the door's threshold. "Step right up, Paul! You're partner is waiting!" His father roared with laughter, exaggerated and maniacal. Paul's gaze cut from the crumpled form to his father. "You're partner is waiting, Paul. Next dance, please." Something drew him forward, despite the terror clutching his insides. He took the steps slowly, each a labor. As he crossed the porch, his father stepped back, motioning Paul inside with a sweep of his hand. Paul entered, blood like icewater in his veins. Going to the body, he knelt and with quivering hands reached towards the woman. Her body felt cold, repulsive, but he gripped his nerves and turned her over -- A gasp exploded from his lips and a burst of laughter cascaded from behind him. The woman's face was a mutilated mask from which topaz eyes stared sightlessly. Her skin had been shredded like ribbons of gory onion paper. A grisly gaping hole lay open in her chest. Paul saw her exposed heart beating thickly, yet she was certainly not alive. "Jenny..." Paul muttered, shaking his head. "No, please." His mind struggled to hold onto reality. "That's right, Paul, my boy! The one, the only -- Jenny! Come one, come all! See the sight. See the man responsible for her, heh-heh, untimely demise. The late great Paul Stanford!" "Bastard!" Paul screamed, turning to face his father. But his father dissolved before his widened eyes, dissolved and rearranged, expanding into the huge raw face of the Demon. The face crowded the doorway, filling it, lips ablaze with laughter. WHAT'S WRONG, PAUL? JENNY A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR? YOU STILL HAVE A CHOICE... Paul looked back to Jenny. Her ragged bloody lips twitched, formed words that burdened his mind: "You let me die, Paul. You let me die." Her voice echoed out and became lost in the Demon's laughter. SHE BELONGS TO ME FOREVER, PAUL. SHE BELONGS TO THE DARKNESS. COME. LET YOURSELF BE WITH HER. JOIN ME. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. "No!" Paul shouted, more out of fear than bravery. "I'll never join you. I'll die first!" The Demon threw back its head and laughed. THEN SO BE IT. A huge hand stretched from the air below the head. Its clutching, fleshless fingers crammed through the doors, reaching for him. Paul tried to gain his feet, but Jenny's bloody fingers grabbed his arm, jerking him close. "Be with me forever, Paul," she rasped. "Be with me forever." She kissed him, pressing cold bloody lips to his. He tasted the copper bitterness and a scream welled in his throat -- The scream burst loose and Paul sat bolt upright in bed. Sweat poured from his body, running down his face and chest. His breath beat out sharp and shallow. At first, the darkness around him seemed impenetrable, constricting, but his vision slowly adjusted and he stared into the gloom. His heart thrummed and his gaze shifted to the dresser mirror. An image seemed frozen there, just for an instant, its fleshless face grinning behind the glass, laughing in silence. Then the image melted away. Paul swung his legs out of bed, sat there fighting the trembling in his body, the after-terror. They came back, Paul. Bigger and better than ever. This time there's no escaping, nowhere to run. ("You let me die...") Jenny. Oh, God, Jenny. He saw her image from the dream, the shattered bloody face and ragdoll body. He shuddered, emotion clogging his throat. Would he somehow cause Jenny's death if he stayed here? Was that what the dream had told him? Had he blatantly obliged the dark force within the dream by returning to Dark Harbor? Or had it taken coming back for the nightmare to finally play itself out? You're being foolish, Paul -- it's only a goddamned dream! What about tonight at the beach? Doesn't that at least count for something? The restlessness, Paul. It's back, isn't it? And you're too goddamned weak to fight it. There's only one answer, the only one there's ever been. Leave now. Leave before you do any more damage. Before you hurt her -- murder her with your past. Paul vaulted to his feet and staggered to the mirror. He gripped the edge of the dresser, head rising, and stared deep into the mirror's glassy depths. For an instant, he caught the image of the grinning face of the Demon and anger surged through him. YOU'LL KILL HER, PAUL STANFORD. KILL HER WITH YOUR OWN FEAR. LET ME HELP YOU... "I won't let it!" he yelled. "I won't let it hurt her!" Paul's fist shot out and crashed into the mirror. The glass cracked, became a webwork. The flesh of his knuckles split and rivulets of blood ran between his fingers. Crimson streaked the mirror. * * * * A pipe organ droned. It's somber notes echoed throughout the huge drawing room. It was a drawing room; Jenny could see that, now. A fire blazed in the fireplace and the chandelier swung slowly back and forth, glass tinkling chimes. She didn't know where the room was, or how she'd gotten here. The last thing she remembered was going to bed and thinking of Paul as she drifted off to sleep. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was here -- wherever here was. A thought struck her: something seemed wrong with the room, though she had never seen it before. It took her a moment to figure it out, but it came to her: everything appeared slightly blurred, unreal. A dream. Yes, that was it. She was having another weird dream. Okay, so wake up, she told herself. Nothing happened. She tensed suddenly, becoming aware she was no longer alone in the room. As if they had stepped from the very air, people formed a circle around her. Had they been there all along? She was no longer certain. "Who are you?" she yelled. "What do you want?" They stopped circling. Then through the haze their faces grew visible and Jenny let out a loud gasp. For they had no faces, merely blank expanses of flesh stretched taut over skulls, no eyes, no mouths, no discernible features whatsoever. All were dressed in formal attire that impressed as being very old. As their heads turned towards her, their sightless stares weighed upon her mind. One of them lifted an arm and pointed, and she looked down, a shocked look welding onto her face. She now wore a gown -- a wedding dress designed in a style at least a hundred years old. Soft frills buffeted her wrists and neck; its lace, intricate and delicate, graced the curbs of her body. She ran her hands over its silky front. It was lovely, yet somehow it filled her with revulsion and fear. Jenny looked back to the faceless people. "What do you want from me?" she yelled again. But even as she said it she realized what they were: guests. Faceless guests gathered to attend a nightmare wedding in which she was to be the bride. As if in confirmation a voice said, "They are here for the wedding, Catherine." Jenny spun, the man's voice coming from behind her, its tones distorted, dragging, but recognizable. "A long time I have waited. A very long time." His gaze locked with hers. "No, Paul," she tried to shout, but the sound was smothered somewhere in the empty air. "I'm Jennifer, not Catherine! Don't you understand?" Paul smiled a placating smile that somehow terrified her. With the smile, his eyes changed, Paul's warm blue ones, eyes she'd seen filled with love and desire and kindness, blackened, slashed with fiery red slits that burned with hate, contempt, rage. He gazed at her with a hungry animal look, a wanton look. As if those eyes wanted to absorb her somehow, transform her into someone she wasn't. She felt the overwhelming urge to shout who she was, yell her own name over and over. She wasn't Catherine! She wasn't. And she knew if she accepted that name, her own identity would be lost forever. "I'm Jenny! I'm Jenny!" "No, Catherine." Paul's tone came infuriatingly calm. "It is the way it must be. Don't be frightened. I promised never to leave. I promised to love you forever." Do you take this woman Catherine... A hollow voice floated out. She couldn't tell if it came from one of the faceless people or from the depths of her own mind. "No, I'm not Catherine!" she screamed, a pleading look on her face. "You are Catherine." Paul gestured towards the portrait that hung above the fireplace. A chill shuddered down her spine. Why hadn't she noticed that painting before? She stared, transfixed by the woman on the canvass. Dressed in Victorian clothing, hands folded and fingers laced on her lap, the woman bore and uncanny likeness to Jenny. But it wasn't her, couldn't be her. Jenny's gaze lowered to the brass plate at the base of the frame: Catherine Stanford. She turned back to Paul, mouth agape. He no longer wore his own face. Instead, she stared at features she didn't recognize immediately. A gaunt face, with hollow jade eyes. Then it came to her: the name, Catherine Stanford, the man before her -- both were interrelated. Yes, she had seen this man's face before, recalled it from some book on local history she'd studied in high school. She'd forgotten the face of Nathan Courtwright until now. Do you, Nathan, take this woman... The voice again, hollow and ringing. A minister stepped from the circle of faceless people, a minister holding an open Bible with blank pages. A minister whose face was utterly devoid of features, empty flesh stretched over a bulbous skull. "Yes." A cold smile turned Nathan's lips. Catherine, do you -- "No!" Jenny clenched her fists in frustration, in fear. "I'm Jennifer! Don't you hear me? Don't you understand?" Her gaze swept back to Paul, who had his own face back. The red-slit eyes were gone, replaced by a vacant whiteness; they shined like twin cue balls. "Catherine, please," he said. "I'm staying this time, I swear I am. Weren't you worried I would leave you again?" He stepped towards her and gripped her arms. His fingers burrowed into her flesh; welts of pain radiated to her shoulders. "We've all come back, Catherine. We've all come back, all the old ghosts, the night demons." He leaned closer. "Even Evil needs to be needed, needs someone to call its name." Jenny shook her head in protest and tried to pull away, break his algetic grip. Paul's fingers clamped tighter, squeezing until her arms grew numb. Until death you both shall part... "And beyond," completed Paul. Jenny's face twisted in horror. "No, you're not Paul!" She struggled, still unable to break away. "You're not Paul!" His smile mocked her. Paul's face began to change again. His features became parchmentlike, the color of jaundiced cellophane. The flesh crackled, flakes peeling away in great withering flaps to expose the membrane and muscle beneath. A grotesque fleshless Demon face glared at her. Jenny couldn't stop the awful feeling that she'd seen that face before. But where? In another dream? The Demon laughed. "Recognize me?" he grated. "I killed Peg. Spread the dumb bitch open like a gutted fish. Surely you remember? You saw me leaving." Her mind flashed back to that night. Was this, this monstrosity what she'd glimpsed smashing through the window? But this wasn't a costume he wore. This face, this horrible fleshless face was real. "No, you can't be..." "Welcome to Hell, Dr. Gazio..." "Where's Paul?" Jenny screamed at the Demon, nerves raw with terror. "What have you done with him?" "With Paul? Why nothing. Paul left. He lied to you again. He has always lied to you. He never intended to stay. He came because I called him. He used you, only wanted to screw you, then leave. He's miles away right now -- oh, but I assure you he will be back. But not for you, Catherine, dear. No no no -- for me!" Jenny uttered a bleat as the Demon's fingers pressed deep into her arms. "I don't believe you. You did something to him. Show me where he is or I swear you'll be sorry." The Demon laughed, a sound that sliced through her soul. "You think your threats mean anything to me? Your insolence rivals Catherine's." He peered deep into her eyes, red slits blazing, and she cringed under his stare. "I offer you what I offered her. She was foolish to refuse, but you..." As the Demon leered, great dread shuddered through her. She felt the incredible power of the thing, the hate, the evil, but she was determined to fight him, make him take her to Paul. "I don't want anything from you. Take me to Paul, now!" "You are stronger than I thought. Perhaps you are not afraid of the unknown, even defiant in its face. But are you so sure of the known? Perhaps I should slaughter your precious son before your eyes, drown him as you watch, helpless." Jenny felt a burst of panic. Andy, oh God, Andy -- this monster could murder him the way he had Peg. She didn't care what the Demon did to her, but she couldn't let him harm her son. Leaning closer, leering vile features inches from her face, the Demon said, "I know your weaknesses. But then I was always good at that." The grotesque lipless smile pushed back onto his face. Glossy strands of fluid dripped from his chin. "You go to hell!" Jenny snapped, gripping her courage. "I already have. Perhaps you will join me next time." "Take me to Paul!" Jenny was determined not to let the creature intimidate her. This was only a dream, she told herself again. Only a dream, like the one with the water. Any time now she would wake up and be lying in her warm comfortable bed. "You do have a one-track mind, don't you? Very well, I will grant you your wish. But you should be more careful in the future, Dr. Gazio, in wishing for things you really don't want." Jenny opened her mouth to say something but the words caught in her throat. She no longer stood in the drawing room. The faceless people and minister had vanished. Instead, she stood in a stone chamber, a dark and foreboding room that was bone-chillingly cold and damp. Like a room somewhere in Hell. A putrid raw-meat stench assailed her nostrils. "You asked for Paul..." the Demon said in a mocking voice. He gestured towards the far end of the chamber. Jenny's gaze followed his hand. She saw where a gaping hole had been smashed into a brick out-cropping at the far wall. Peering into it, she gasped, hands going to her mouth. She felt suddenly sickened, horrified. Paul, struggling, was pinned to the wall within the cubicle by a great iron spike that pierced his belly. Blood bubbled from around the spike, soaking his shirt and jeans. It ran in stringy rivulets from his mouth, streaked from his chin. His arms, stretched above his head, were spiked to the wall by grotesque wormlike creatures that jutted through his palms. Each worm head was masked by a tiny woman's face, none of whom Jenny recognized. Their features were twisted in some unknown pain, their low moans pitiful. One worm face was blank. "The faces of those he has used and thrown away," said the Demon. "The women he has left in despair, the hearts he has broken. One creature remains faceless, but not for long. Do you know who will occupy that space?" Jenny shuddered. "You're lying." "Am I? How can you be sure?" "I am sure," Jenny said, but her conviction wavered. "Paul wouldn't -- " "Then go to him!" Anger flashed in the Demon's red-slit eyes. "Go to your great love and help him if you doubt me." The Demon shoved her forward. "Jenny ... help me..." Paul rasped as she drew near. A gout of blood came from his lips. "P-Paul..." She reached for him. Before she could pull her hand back, Paul became a writhing mass of snakes, his entire body a Medusa of reptiles, slithering forward, enwrapping her hand, hissing, tongues flicking. She screamed, a scream of deep terror and puerile fear -- Jenny threw back the covers and bolted from her bed, as if it still contained the snakes from her dream. God, it was a dream, a horrible, horrible nightmare. For a moment she stood frozen in the darkness. Cold sweat drenched her body. Her heart banged. The thick carpet beneath her feet suddenly felt enormously comforting. Her own room. A dream. A sick dream. Finally her stuttering heart began to slow. She stumbled across the room and leaned heavily against the dresser, fighting the weakness trembling through her body. She struggled to regain her composure but even the silence seemed vaguely threatening. A dream, she assured herself again. Only a dream. She was awake now and the things within the nightmare could no longer hurt her. Could they? But as she remembered the vivid details, panic rose in her mind. "Paul," she whispered. "Oh, Paul." She pushed herself away from the dresser and grabbed her robe from the end of the bed, wrapping it about her shoulders and tying it loosely at the waist. Dread swelled in her heart, an after-terror of the nightmare, bringing an urgency that was overpowering. Something had happened to Paul; she knew it. But that was ridiculous, she tried to tell herself. He was fine a short time ago. She was overreacting. No, she had to see him, make sure, know he was okay. Jenny threw open the door and dashed out into the dark hall. She had the impression she took the stairs in a single leap, but two or three was probably closer to the truth, because in an instant she was across the foyer and at the front door. Pausing, she fumbled with the handle. "Goddammit!" she swore in frustration and worry, then got it open. The night air hit her like a cold bath. Sweat evaporated from her skin in a chilled tingling wave. Her feet seemed to find every pebble as she ran down the driveway and across the street. Scrambling up the boarding house stairs, she pulled open the screen door and tried the inner door handle. Locked. "Dammit!" She pounded the door with a fist, hammering until she heard Mrs. Gaumont's heavy tread coming down the hall. The door swung open and Mrs. Gaumont peered out blearily, swathed in enough robe to make her look like the Mummy. "Jenny, gracious!" "I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Gaumont -- I know how late it is -- but I think something's wrong with Paul." Mrs. Gaumont blinked then rubbed her eyes. "Paul?" It seemed to take a moment to sink in. "Please, I have to see him." "Well, it's mighty late -- you say there's something wrong with him?" "Yes, I'm sure there is." She prayed Mrs. Gaumont wouldn't question how or why she knew. "Well, okay, come on in." The old woman stepped aside and Jenny rushed in. "Follow me." Mrs. Gaumont gave her a come-on gesture. "His room's up near the top of the stairs, you know." She trailed the old woman down the dimly lit hall, Mrs. Gaumont's lumbering steps infuriatingly slow. Jenny's heart pounded with anxious worry. They climbed the steps, Mrs. Gaumont in the lead like the ghost of the Pillsbury Doughboy -- she suddenly and absurdly remembered Paul mentioning the comparison to her. At the time she had laughed but it didn't seem at all funny now. "This one." The old woman pointed a stubby finger at a door as they reached the top of the stairs. Jenny pushed in front of the old woman and pounded on the door. "Paul! Paul! It's Jenny! Please wake up!" No answer. The dread gripped her tighter. She trembled with it. Her legs felt weak; her stomach did tumbles. "Don't worry, dear, he's probably sound asleep. No need to -- " "NO! He's not asleep! Something's wrong!" She pounded again, harder. Still no answer. Mrs. Gaumont frowned, starting to look worried. Jenny noticed her suddenly turn and head back down the stairs. "Paul! Paul! Please answer." She pounded again, then rattled the door handle. Oh, Paul, please, please God answer -- Mrs. Gaumont returned with a ring of keys and Jenny felt like kissing her. The old woman located the one to Paul's door, then gave it to Jenny. With shaking fingers, she inserted it into the lock. She pushed the door open with trepidation, strangely frightened of what she might find. Her heart throbbed in her throat. Darkness. She edged across the threshold into the room. "Paul?" she called softy, as if afraid of her own voice. No answer. Fumbling along the wall, she located the switch and snapped it on. Mrs. Gaumont gasped. "He's gone..." said Jenny numbly, staring at the rumpled empty bed. -------- *(22)* Run, run, you coward! Desert Jenny the way you did the rest -- (You left me, Paul. You goddamn left me!) It won't matter. Just another love mine. What the hell. You knew it would happen. Tried to tell you, but you just wouldn't listen. Now Jenny's got to pay for it. Paul clenched the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles bleached and his palms grew slick with sweat. As he neared the state line, accelerator jammed to the floor, he was barely aware he had driven so many miles. The highway stretched endlessly ahead, blurred into a black-gray streak. The night rushed by and the car's engine whined, revved too high for too long, but he didn't hear it, wouldn't have given a damn if he had. (You let me die, Paul. You let me die!) A jumble of broken images and thoughts careened through his mind. Pieces of the nightmare: the dark street, his father, the Courtwright mansion -- Jenny's mutilated body. And the feeling that the Demon from his dream was lurking at the edges of his consciousness, temporarily restrained by some power Paul didn't understand, waiting for him. Paul stamped the accelerator harder, as if trying to punch it through the floor, make the car go faster than it possibly could. The Shadow suddenly swerved under the high speed and Paul's lack of concentration. The front end swung right then left, as if possessing a mind of its own. Tires screeched. Paul jerked from his thoughts, cranking the wheel and straightening the car. Had his reflexes been any slower, he would have lost control. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. What the hell, he told himself. What the hell if he did lose control and crash into something? Flattening the car against one of the steep walls of granite rising to either side of the interstate would end this nightmare crap real quick, wouldn't it? Grip tightening on the wheel even more, pain radiated through his hands and forearms; muscles quivered under the strain. Where do you go this time, Paul? How 'bout Jill? Bet she'd be real happy to take you back -- (You left me, Paul. You goddamn left me!) So what, Jill old girl? Made heap big mistake and decided to come right on back and screw with you some more. Whatta you say? Dammit! ("It's just a house, Paulie. You can't be scared of a house.") What? What was that? A voice, a child's voice? "T-Tommy?" Paul mouthed, unbelieving. Oh, Christ, he'd really blown a nut this time. He was hearing ghosts. (Old ghosts) ("So what you gonna do, Paulie? You got nowhere to go.") Tommy's voice rose in his head again. This time he was sure he heard it and that thought terrified him. Was he really crazy? Or just so emotionally overwrought his mind struggled to latch onto something real, something friendly from the past to comfort or replace the confused after-images from his dream? Get the hell out of my head, Tommy. You're not real. I feel bad enough for letting you down as it is -- hell, if he's not real, why am I arguing with a memory? Jesus, Paul, you really are loony tunes. Real or not, Tommy's voice was dead right on one count: he had nowhere to go. He'd been driving for more than an hour with no destination, just a restless compulsion and a gnawing dread that drove him forward. He knew -- he knew -- he could no longer hide from the thing in his dream. Going back to Dark Harbor had been his last chance to right the wrongs of the past, to face the old ghosts, and somehow he'd gotten off track, let himself be lulled again. Go back... No, if he went back Jenny might die because of him. But why? His past? Why would that endanger her? Or was there something else, a force, he thought, for lack of a better word, inside him that had finally ripened? A force some thing wanted. It won't let you go, Paul. No matter where you run it'll find you. It's waited too long. And it won't let Jenny go either. It won't matter whether you're there. ("You're just scared of a house, Paulie. C'mon!") "Tommy?" Paul whispered. "What are you trying to tell me?" Paul slammed on the brakes. The action came more of reflex than awareness. Something had penetrated his reverie, at least partially, something looming in the road ahead. He had the impression of blackness, intense and deep against the night. Blackness that rose upward, a wavering blue-black column, that, for the briefest flash of time, seemed to have a shape protruding from its side. Then it was gone, and Paul couldn't be sure what it had been -- or if he'd seen it at all. He got little time to dwell on it, because the car swerved madly as he hit the brake. The Dodge careened left, right, left again. He struggled with the wheel, more from some instinctive sense of self-preservation than desire. Tires screeched and clouds of burning rubber plumed behind the car. His heart raced and tension set his arms to trembling. Finally the car slowed, straightened. He managed to pull into the break-down lane and coast to a stop, not bothering to gear down. The Shadow coughed, sputtered, clunked, stalled, as Paul ignored the clutch. He sat frozen, the thudding of his heart filling his ears. Then he cranked his head backwards and scanned the road for a sign of the blackness. The highway was empty. An occasional car, headlights glaring and alien, raced by, but that was all. Turning forward, he slumped in the seat, pressing his head against the rest. Sweat trickled down his face. He swallowed and let his eyelids close, breathing deeply. ("So what, now, Paulie?") Paul opened his eyes. Tommy, if you're really there, if you're not a memory, I don't know what to do. ("You have to decide, Paulie. You know that. I can't do it for you.") Yes, decide. Decide to run the way he always had. Decide to leave Jenny again and start over somewhere new, keep the pattern going. That would be the easy thing to do. Just keep moving, maybe forever. Or at least until he ran out of places and unknown people to hurt. Until endless nights filled with nightmares made him insane enough to throw himself over a goddamn bridge. But, no, Paul. You know that won't work. 'Cause the thing in the dream (closet) wants you (needs you) and now that it's reached you again it's never going to let you rest. You have to face it, face the past because that thing's part of it. You know what you have to do, Paul. "I have to go back," Paul whispered. He had to go back, because he had more at stake this time than just the stupid false life and pretend love he kept setting up for himself. Much more. He had Jenny. Could he really live with losing her again? Could he? And could he risk letting the thing in his dream find her? (You let me die, Paul. You let me die!) No. He wouldn't lose her again. And he wouldn't let the thing take her from him. No matter what it meant facing. You could die, Paul. You know that? If you go back, you could die instead of her. It didn't matter. He had to take the chance. For Jenny; for himself. You have something He wants, Paul. The thought persisted. The Demon in his dream did want something from him, but what? Paul searched his mind, recalling the nightmare in vivid detail. Three things stood out: the demon-thing pursuing him, the Courtwright mansion, his father. Was the first part of the second and third? Separate things entwined in a rope of rotted memories (ghosts)? Did it matter? He just needed a place to start, didn't he? No more aimless waiting, running. One of them had to be it. But which one? The mansion, the Demon, or his father? Old ghosts, Paul. Remember the old ghosts. They won't let you go until you satisfy them. Yes, old ghosts. Things in closets and demons in dreams. ("C'mon, Paulie. You're coming back, aren't you?") "Yes, Tommy," he whispered. "I'm coming back." Paul started the car. God help him if he were wrong about this and something happened to Jenny, but this time he was determined to let neither of them down. * * * * Gauzy predawn light whispered along the ground like fragments of memories beckoning from somewhere deep in Paul's past. As he made his way across the lawn, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet, the dread of coming back to this house swelled in his soul, as it had the first time he came. Now he was sure he'd seen Tommy's apparition in the window that day -- that Tommy wanted him back here for a reason. Paul had decided to begin here, instead of at the Courtwright mansion, because he knew Tommy had tried to warn him about something, and because maybe there was still something somehow trapped in the memories of this house that needed to be finished before he dealt with the other images from his nightmare. Beware the Sepahpoonuck... Was that what Tommy had tried to warn him about? Old Freddy said the same thing. But what did a child's bogeyman have to do with his problems? He didn't know -- yet. Maybe this place would give him the answer. Reaching a boarded-up window that belonged to the living room, Paul stopped. He hesitated, staring at the boarded window that seemed like a closed mouth, a mouth of unspilled secrets. Secrets he felt reluctant to know. You have to go through with it, Paul. It's your last and only hope. Don't let Jenny -- or yourself -- down. Paul took a deep breath and grabbed the board, jerking. It tore loose with a screech as long-embedded nails pried from old wood. He set the board aside and yanked off the others, then reached up and unfastened the latch. He slid the window up. Swinging a leg over the sill, he climbed through, dropping into the living room. It felt like stepping into a pool of something cold and clinging, as if his fear slithered all around him. He assured himself it was merely an illusion, but couldn't stop his heart from pounding. He moved forward on hands and knees. The floor felt gritty and vaguely damp. He put his hand in something squishy, immediately withdrawing it. Probably rotted food, he thought, but he didn't want to shine the flashlight he'd grabbed from the glovebox and stuffed into his belt on it and find out. Gaining his feet, he glanced about. Predawn light slashed weakly through boarded windows, falling across the floor in weird splintery shapes. Dust swirled thick as fog in the rays, disturbed by his entry. Paul gave in to a nervous shiver, the urge to leave like gossip in his mind. No, he told himself again, he had made his decision and he'd go through with it. He had the nagging suspicion he couldn't turn back now if he wanted to. Another thought struck him: now that he was here, he didn't know where to start looking -- hell, what was he even looking for? Old ghosts? This house was probably riddle with the damn things. Paul scanned the room, not bothering to use the flashlight. The gloom lay thick, making shapes look distorted and eerie. Someone had covered the furniture with sheets. He had no idea who, but guessed it was the same person or persons who'd boarded-up the place. As far as he knew there were no other Stanfords within miles of Dark Harbor, though his father probably had relatives somewhere; the ones on his mother's side all lived far away and would never have bothered coming here. Paul took a step and something brittle crunched under his foot. He stopped, swallowed, nerves tightening. Looking down, almost afraid of what he might find, he saw a thick coating of mold and dead leaves had carpeted the floor, along with scattered trash. The leaves were responsible for the crunching noise and the discovery only marginally relieved him. Across the room, he heard something skitter and his head jerked up, body tensing. He knew it was probably a rat but didn't have any desire to prove it. As Paul stood in the gloom, myriad feelings began to shake free within him. Dread mingled with a sense of nostalgia. Not a good longing, like wishing you could go back to that special birthday or Christmas, more a twinge of yearning for something that never was, but should have been. A wishful wondering, a wondering what it might have been like to have a real family life -- his mother going to parent-teacher conferences and bringing him to little league, his father taking him to movies and playing catch in the back yard. Simple things he'd never had, but always wanted. Things locked away in the empty spaces of this house and in little-boy dreams. With the thoughts came a peculiar feeling. At first a strange tingling, it increased in intensity as he wished for a past that had never been. He was barely conscious of it until a tunneling effect began to blur the edges of his vision. As he became aware of it, he realized the feeling had been there for some time, perhaps even since he had entered the house. A strange ... pulling was the only way he could describe it, came next. As if somehow he were trying to step from his body, toward or into something unknown, yet familiar. A secret place that always existed but had never been reached during his waking hours. Why did he feel that way? Was it merely the house? And why didn't he have the desire to stop it? "Told you you'd be back, boy!" a voice crashed out, snapping his reverie. He spun, heart leaping into his throat. By the far window, Paul saw him, a shadowy outline, a black ghost of a thing sitting in one of the sheet-covered chairs. In the gloom, he couldn't make out any of the features at first, but he recognized the voice. The voice! His father's voice. His father, sitting in the chair he'd always sat in, as if Paul had suddenly stepped through a rift in time. He stared in disbelief. Old ghosts. Paul was certain the figure hadn't been there a moment ago, before the weird feeling of pulling came over him. The figure leaned forward, features becoming visible in a slat of light from the window to the side of the chair. Yes, Paul remembered that face: the sunken eyes, the cruel set of the mouth and sharp cheeks, the jutting blocky chin and rumpled hair. It suddenly struck Paul he didn't bare the slightest family resemblance to the man. More to his mother, yet different. His father wore a dirty T-shirt and brown work pants -- the same clothes he'd worn the night Paul left. Paul studied the shadowy face again, placing it with the last image of it he had seen that night. His father hadn't changed much at all, except that now his face appeared more masklike, the lines of hate locked in place, frozen in time. Another thing caught his attention and sent a chill down his spine: where his father's eyes had been only hollow black sockets remained. Like emptiness, the blackness of things desperately wanted, yet always denied -- the same emptiness he felt when he wished his family life had been normal. "Told you you'd be back, boy," his father repeated. "Told you the day you left me -- left me to die." Paul recoiled, shuddering. As if his father's words had physically struck him. He felt something inside cringe. For moment, he fought a sensation of weakness that struck his legs. A syrupy feeling flooded his belly. Survey says -- You're dreaming again, Paul. You bonked your head coming through the damn window and this is all some sort of new and improved nightmare! It wasn't a dream. He was awake. Awake, but different in some way he didn't understand. And his father was here, waiting like an old ghost. "What's the matter, Paul? Didn't expect me to be hanging around? You didn't think I'd miss this moment, did you? Didn't think I'd miss welcoming back my flesh and blood -- my own son!" Paul shook his head. "You're not real. You can't be real. I don't know what I expected to find here, but you can't be it." "Why couldn't I be real?" His father's tone came mocking and he tilted his head. "Oh, I'm real enough, Paul. As real as anything gets in this world. And I can still hurt you the way I always could. Don't forget that. You couldn't stand up to me then and you can't now." "You can't hurt me now. You're dead." The argument struck Paul as foolish, but then so had all the arguments with his father. Why should death stop that? "The past can always hurt the present, Paul. You of all people should know that. The years taught you nothing, I see. I'm not surprised." "I had nothing to learn from you, you bastard." Paul's heart beat thickly in his throat and the old debilitating need to shrink away from his father crawled through him. Come on, Paul. Even in death he's still controlling you. Don't let him. You came back to face the old ghosts -- do it! "I owe you nothing." Paul tried to force the fear away, rise above it in a way he'd never been able to before. "Nothing except contempt for what you did to me, and my mother." His father laughed. "Nothing changes, does it? You're wrong, son. I did nothing to your mother, your precious decent mother, no matter what that old bastard told you. I raised you. Not her. I was the one who was there when she ... left. I gave you everything. You do owe me." "You gave me nothing!" Paul's voice went slightly shrill. He jabbed a finger at his father. "You gave me pain and sorrow and a feeling I never belonged anywhere. It's your fault she left. And your fault I left." Rage surged through Paul's veins, overpowering his fear for the moment. His father vaulted from the chair and stepped towards him. Paul felt the urge to shrink back, but his father stopped a few feet away so he managed to hold his ground. "You're wrong, Paul. It's your fault. You weren't meant to be. Every day, every goddamned day I watched you grow you tortured me, reminded me of her, only her. You took away my dreams so I had to take away yours." The black soulless sockets glared at him and anger yielded to surrender, as it always had. He struggled to block the sting of his father's words, words he didn't understand, words that only made sense in some other reality, words with missing pieces. Paul turned away, unable to face the throbbing accusation of those empty black eyes. You don't belong here, Paul. You never did. And somehow he blames you for that. But as Paul turned away from his father, he saw the man sat on the sheet-shrouded couch, facing him. Two of them? His gaze swept from one to the other, a chill blowing through his soul. "You're a coward, Paul." said his father on the couch, but the voice came doubled, issuing from both figures at the same time. "A bastard and a coward. You could never face me. You could never admit how you destroyed the way things were meant to be. Destroyed me, destroyed the happiness your mother and I were meant to have." "I don't understand!" Paul shouted, mind racing, confused, frightened. "I didn't do anything!" The figure on the couch rose and stepped towards him. Paul began to back up, to the center of the room, turning away, feeling the weight of his fathers' empty stares crushing him. A scuffing sound caught his attention and Paul looked up to see another father coming towards him from the direction of the front door. Paul spun, but yet another figure came from the direction of the kitchen, shuffling down the shadow-drenched hallway. Paul jerked back as the cold touch of a hand brushed his shoulder. His head spun with confused terror. The figures emerged from every corner, converging on him. "Tommy," Paul muttered. "Tommy, help me." He felt his head rushing, face heating. Strength flowed from his legs and weakness surged in. "You mother was a whore!" (A whore ... a whore...) the figures said in harmony. The words thundered in his ears, battered his mind. "What do you want from me?" Paul screamed. "I was never goddamn good enough for you. I never knew what you wanted." "I wanted you to be my son! Not hers, not a whore's! I wanted you to be mine. I hated you for that, Paul. I hated you to hell -- " The figures tightened their circle. Their damning faces spun before his vision and the room seemed to cant; he felt himself losing balance, everything draining out of him -- his will, his identity. His legs deserted him and he crumpled to his knees. His head dropped and he grew aware that he was babbling something: "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. I don't understand, never knew ... why you didn't love me..." Paul was suddenly a little boy again, cowering as his father's hateful words crashed out and his hand flashed down, striking him once, twice, three times, until his cheeks were splotched with crimson and hot tears rushed down his face. Yet for all the pain from the blows, the words hurt him worse, left the thickest scars on his soul. "Face me, Paul!" the voices thundered, becoming slurred, distant. "Face us, Paul, all the old ghosts!" Daddy please don't hurt me again, please love me -- His pleas didn't stop the tirade, never halted the slashing words that shredded his feelings to ribbons. What was his father beating him for? The key; he'd lost the key to the cellar: he and Tommy. The damn key! To everything -- Tommy? Where was Tommy? Shouldn't he be here? Paul buried his face in his hands. Boy's hands; man's hands. Sobs wracked his body. A boy's body; a man's body. Now, he remembered it all, every detail of his life growing up. Everything he had locked away. How he'd felt so unaccepted, so out-of-place, so wrong. Pain tore through him as though it were yesterday. He could never make his father understand what he wanted: his love. He wouldn't have known how to try. And he never understood what his father had wanted from him -- still didn't. He had failed. Failed to face his father again. Failed in coming back to this house, failed to find whatever it was he hoped to discover and most of all, failed himself. ("Paulie...") "Tommy?" Paul lifted his face from his hands. The room had lightened, dust dancing in shafts of sunlight slicing through boarded windows. His father -- fathers -- was gone. Sheets still covered the chairs, the couch, unruffled, as though no one ever sat there. Silence. But only for a moment. Then the voice again -- Tommy's voice: ("Your hand, Paulie.") Paul grew aware of an ache in his left hand, which was balled into a tight fist, now, clutching something so snugly the strain caused pain to radiate into his wrist. He looked at the hand, then slowly uncurled his fingers. In his palm rested an old tarnished key, its bow ornate and worn, its warding flattened from use. "Christ," he mumbled. ("C'mon, flip ya! Then we'll trade Red Sox cards, okay? Say okay, Paulie. I don't have much time.") "Tommy, where are you?" What does this go to?" Paul searched the room, knowing it was impossible for Tommy to be here, but looking for his friend anyway. Seeing nothing, he entertained the absurd notion invisible friends were all a part of going crazy, but, somehow, he knew he wasn't insane. Tommy was here, somewhere. Just as his father had been. Paul just couldn't understand how yet. ("You know, goofus! It's for the cellar. We lost it. Don't you remember anything?") "The cellar?" Paul repeated, lips barely moving. "Yes, the cellar." He remembered the day he and Tommy lost the key. His mother and father always kept the cellar locked, told him he didn't belong playing down there because rats got in -- rats that chewed off little boys' feet in no time. Curiosity had gotten the better of them. They'd swiped the key and his father had found out because they'd lost it somewhere after finding nothing exciting, no buried treasure or secret caches of Red Sox cards, in the cellar. That's why his father had been beating him, because he lost the damn key. Paul gained his feet and made his way down the hall, stopping before the door at the end. The cellar door, enticing as a virgin. ("C'mon, Paulie, we ain't got all day. Don't want your spaceball father to catch us, do ya?") "No." Paul was barely aware that he answered. Clenching the key in white fingers, he noticed it felt strange, as if it weren't quite real and only granted to him for a short time. He had no idea why he felt that way, but knew if he waited too long it would be gone. ("C'mon, Paulie. Can't let him catch us!") Paul inserted the key into the lock with a thin clink. As it turned, the mechanism clicked with a skeletal sound. The door creaked as he pulled it open and he stared into the darkness below. A blast of cool damp air hit him; a musty odor wafted from below. Gazing into the darkness, Paul felt his earlier dread return. He tried to push the feeling away, but had little success. ("Paulie, c'mon down!") "Tommy," Paul whispered. "You down there?" The child's voice had come from the cellar this time; Paul was sure of it. His eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness and he could see the stairs stretching downward to the vague square of the first landing. A shaft of grayish light played over the landing, probably bleeding in from one of the cellar windows. The light didn't quite dispel the gloom or his nascent dread. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and snapped it on. ("Don't worry, Paulie. Keep coming.") Leaving the key in the door, Paul placed his foot on the first step and heard it groan under his weight. He took the steps slowly, testing them first in case one was rotted or broken. His flashbeam jabbed down, darting back and forth over the landing below and splashing against the stone wall. Each step creaked like a coffin lid opening. The cellar door swung shut behind him with a loud bang. Paul started and his grip tightened on the flashlight and for a moment he couldn't move. ("Don't worry, Paulie. It'll be oaky-doaky.") Paul turned and rushed back up the stairs. Budding panic seized his mind as he gripped the door handle and twisted. Locked! The damn door was locked! But that was impossible. Wasn't it? Paul shook the door violently, but the handle wouldn't turn. Panic swelling, he banged the heel of his fist against the panel. ("C'mon, Paulie. Hurry up! Ain't got all day and I want a chance to beat you out of your Yastrzemskies!") "Tommy, where are you?" Paul shouted. "Help me! Get me out of here!" Paul shoved against the door, using his shoulder and putting his weight behind it. The panic in his mind turned to unexplained terror, the terror of a trapped animal. God, Paul, get hold of yourself. Maybe the wind closed it. Wind? What wind? There's no goddamn wind inside a house! All right, maybe the floor was slanted and it swung shut. That's it: the floor's slanted. Nonexistent slant like a nonexistent wind? Paul took a deep breath and counted to ten, trying to gain control of his jangled nerves. Scrape. Oh, crap. A sound came from somewhere deep in the cellar. Paul jerked the flashlight around and down, sweeping the beam in a wide arc. Don't panic, don't goddamn panic! It was just an animal or something. Rats, probably. Rats got in here sometimes. He took a tentative step downward, forcing his panic down temporarily. Although his entire body trembled with a weak quivery feeling, he kept going. With each step downward, the musty odor grew stronger, almost nauseating. Stinks like a fart from a giant's bowels, Tommy always used to say. ("C'mon, Paulie!") "Where are you?" Paul found himself shouting, hoping the sound of his own voice would down out his fear. ("Hey, Paulie, watch out for -- ") Paul took the next step before Tommy could complete the words. A loud snap sounded as rotted wood gave way. It registered in Paul's brain what happened seconds too late to react. The board beneath him splintered. Paul's foot plunged through to the ankle. A sharp welt of pain sliced into his shin and radiated to his knee. Off-balance, he pitched forward, arms flailing. The pain in his ankle exploded into fireworks of agony as his foot twisted and jerked free. He went down, the landing rushing up to meet him. The flashlight flew from his hand and clattered on the boards. Then blackness exploded across his mind as his head collided with the cold stone of the cellar wall. -------- *(23)* Saturday * * * * Sheriff Baker sighed and picked up the ringing phone. "Yeah?" he snapped, mood not particularly good. "It's me," said Carl Speckler. "All clear. Little turd's out on a call." "I think we've got some kind of problem." "Just what I need." Exasperation laced Baker's tone. "I've had all the problems I care to have today, but give it to me anyway." "What do you mean?" asked Speckler, instead of answering. "Hudson's been acting weirder and weirder since he took a powder the other day. Doesn't talk at all now -- not that he was a gabby-abby before. Does his job, goes home on schedule. And far as I can tell he hasn't come in coked up since that day. He's just not right. He's different in some way I can't explain." Baker leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the desk. "Then you're gonna love this," said Speckler. "Maybe you got Hudson back but I can't find hide nor hair of Tony Corsetti. I've been to the trailer park, a couple of his usual bar haunts, and nobody's see the slimebag for days -- at least since the time of Hudson's disappearance." "Wonder if there's a connection?" Baker's gaze settled for a moment on Hudson's empty desk and a weird feeling of coldness slipped through him. He wanted to shudder, but forced the urge down. "I wouldn't be surprised, but here's the part you're not going to like: I want to take a look through Corsetti's trailer and see if I can't find a clue to where he went. Can we do it officially?" "That's a joke, right?" Baker rubbed the back of his neck. "Ain't a damn thing you can do in Dark Harbor officially at this point. Nobody's reported him missing and I doubt anybody will. Course, unofficially..." "Was hoping you'd say that." "Give it a little more time, a day or two, maybe. If he don't show up by then..." "Check, but I bet he doesn't show. I have the feeling he got so spooked he skipped the state or something." "That would be too bad. We've spent too much time on this to have him fly now and with Hudson acting like a zombie, who knows how long before he follows suit." Baker hung up, disgust souring his belly. He'd waited a long time for something to move, and now that it had it was heading off in the wrong direction. Dammit, Hudson, he thought. If he lost the deputy, now, the way, he suspected, he had Tony Corsetti, a lot of time and sweat would be down the drain. He'd have to start all over. But there was more to it than just the drug thing. Hudson had become a personal issue with him; Baker wanted to nail him as bad as he wanted to stop the trafficking. As he thought of the deputy slipping away, Baker felt a spike of pain stab his temples. He pulled open the desk drawer and grabbed his Bufferin. He didn't have a migraine yet, but from the tenseness squeezing the back of his neck, he would soon. * * * * "Don't know what I can do, Mrs. Gaumont," said Deputy Hudson in a flat voice. He moved to the kitchen window and gazed out. "Usually you have to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing. Plenty of people take off from boarding houses without leaving a note, I'm sure." He turned back to her. Mrs. Gaumont frowned and the wrinkles on her face got deeper. She hated having to talk to Deputy Hudson again, especially about Paul. But she was worried, him taking off in the middle of the night like that. She thought she had developed a special relationship with him and knew he would have told her if he were leaving. Still, she wished the sheriff had come instead of Hudson. "Now don't tell me there's nothing wrong. I can feel it. I'm good with things like that, you know. Something's wrong, all right. It has to be. Paul wouldn't just leave, not without telling anybody. He even left his clothes and suitcase. He wouldn't check out and not bring his belongings." The old woman crossed her arms and punctuated her words by cocking her head. "His car is gone." Hudson still registered no emotion. "That means he probably drove it himself. Doesn't sound too suspicious to me. He'll probably come back for his stuff later." "Now listen here, you!" The old woman's cheeks turned crimson. She felt her dander rising. "I've been running this place longer than I care to remember and I know a skip when I see one. I've had my share. Paul Stanford is not a skip. He was paid up through next week." Mrs. Gaumont drilled Hudson with her gaze. It suddenly occurred to her that something looked different about the deputy -- something in his eyes. She wasn't quite sure what, but it gave her a strange uncomfortable feeling. It also gave her a strong suspicion the deputy didn't care where Paul was, didn't care at all. Hudson spread his hands. "Okay, say he didn't take off on his own. What do you want me to do about it?" "Why, investigate, of course. Find him!" She made a waving motion with her hand and triumph spread across her moon face. "All right, Mrs. Gaumont." A smile pulled at Hudson's lips that gave her a chill. "I' ll find him. I'll need a spare key to his room, of course. Maybe I can ... find some clue in his belongings." "Now that's more like it. Well, just hold your ponies and I'll fetch the key for you." She shuffled from the kitchen towards the living room, not seeing the smile that spread across the deputy's lips. He moved back to the window and peered out, gaze centering on the house across the street. The smile became a sneer. For a moment, the illusion of Hudson's eyes faded to black and burning red slits blazed. "Jenny," he whispered in the Demon's voice. Mrs. Gaumont lumbered back into the room, having trouble walking because of the pain in her knees. She saw Hudson peering out through the window again and wondered what he was looking at. He turned as she came towards him. "Here." Mrs. Gaumont passed him the key. As her fingers brushed his skin, she almost jerked her hand back; his flesh felt cold, plasticy, reminding her of a reptile's skin on an old purse she had. Dead was the word that popped into her mind. For an instant the strongest sense of aversion she'd ever felt towards any human being nearly overcame her. She wanted to recoil, put a few feet of distance between her and the deputy, though she didn't know why. She suppressed the urge and her gaze rose from the key in his hand to his eyes. The feeling of aversion strengthened and she had the sense that she was peering into something, looking right through his eyes into -- what? She couldn't tell and suddenly the feeling vanished. "I'll hold onto it for a while," said Hudson. Had his voice changed slightly? Deeper? He closed his hand about the key. "Don't move any of his things or enter his room until I tell you to." He gave her a smile she knew was false. "Evidence, you know." Mrs. Gaumont's forehead crinkled and she couldn't hide the suspicion on her face, but she nodded. "Just find Paul." "Believe it or not," Hudson grabbed his hat from the table and put it on, "that's just what I plan to do." The false smile remained as he turned and walked from the kitchen. After he was gone, the old woman stared after him, unable to take her gaze from the empty doorway. She suppressed a shiver. She hoped she didn't have to see Deputy Hudson again and she'd call the sheriff and tell him so. With a strange dread she hadn't felt before the deputy arrived, she suddenly hoped Hudson didn't find Paul, that Paul would come back all by himself. Because for some reason she felt afraid of Hudson. Afraid of what the deputy might do. "Gracious!" she muttered, shaking herself loose from her thoughts. She pulled a chair to the window and lowered herself into it. * * * * Jenny poised at the living room window, arms folded, as if to protect herself from the hurt and confusion screaming inside her. She peered out at the gray day, wondering briefly if it would rain, not really caring if it did. Her gaze wandered to the boarding house parking lot and centered on Deputy Hudson's patrol car. She had seen him arrive and supposed Mrs. Gaumont had called the sheriff to report Paul missing. She prayed the deputy wouldn't come over to question her; she was in no mood to deal with him today. Her gaze lifted to the kitchen window and for an instant she thought she saw the curtains stir, but she couldn't be sure. A shudder rose within her suddenly, accompanied by an almost overwhelming sense of apprehension, the same thing she felt the night Peg died. Staring at the boarding house window, transfixed, she lost track of time until she saw Deputy Hudson exit and walk to his car. His face turned toward her and she stepped back from the window, knowing he couldn't have seen her, but feeling as if somehow he knew she was there. Her apprehension grew stronger, making her heart pound mildly. The feeling dissipated as his car pulled from the lot and disappeared after turning the corner at the end of the street. The sensation that something evil had fastened upon her had been strong enough to temporarily override the hurt she felt over Paul's leaving, but now it crowded back. Paul had left her. Again. She'd been stupid to think he'd ever stay, that somehow he'd changed into the Prince Charming she had in her mind. She'd ignored the caution light that had gone off in her head and given in to her feelings, and one more time, her feelings had turned on her. Jenny remembered the way she felt the first time he left, ten years ago, but at that time she knew he would be leaving, had prepared herself for it the best she could. Besides, she had college and med. school in her future. But this time she had actually convinced herself he would stay, that he really loved her and they were older, wiser, with the future rising happily in front of them. You were vulnerable and you let him in too quickly. Now look what you've got: nothing. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, she tried to convince herself. After all, Paul had left without his clothes and suitcase. Why would he do that if he weren't coming back soon? Then why leave in the middle of the night? Another voice inside taunted. Why leave without saying a word about where he was going or at least leaving a note? And that nightmare, telling her he was gone; why had she dreamt that? She had no reason to think such a thing would happen, except for a small voice inside she'd ignored. Perhaps that's what the dream was -- her cautioning voice finally getting through to her. Another thought struck her: maybe he's in trouble. Or hurt. Hadn't she felt that very thing before he came back? The thought buoyed her hopes for a moment, but then reality crashed back in. It didn't make sense. What danger could Paul possibly be in? Especially at the boarding house in the middle of the night? And after they'd felt so ... happy on the beach, so complete making love, with nothing in the world to threaten them. How could all that change so fast? But the thought persisted. What if he were in some sort of trouble she didn't understand? No, Paul had left and he wasn't coming back. She had to accept that. He got what he wanted from her and like some naive schoolgirl she had given it to him. You're overreacting. Maybe she was, but while she didn't feel sure of anything right now, she had reached one conclusion, one that hurt as deeply as facing the fact he had left her: even if Paul did come back, with whatever excuse, she couldn't risk letting him get close again. Not until she somehow changed inside. Not until she could accept leaving as a part of loving. Not until she was more sure of the things in her life. She uttered a humorless laugh at the thought. Funny, she had always told herself she knew what she wanted out of life. What had happened? Why was everything so different, now? Jenny shook her head and sighed, the outside world focusing before her as she came from her thoughts. She glanced at her watch. Half an hour. God, had she been standing here that long? "You okay?" asked Cindy, coming up behind her, causing her to start slightly. She turned to face her sister and Cindy shoved a cup of coffee into her hand, adding, "Here, you need this." "Maybe I do." She tried to conceal the pain bleeding into her voice and faked a half-smile. "I'm fine. Just ... tired, that's all." "Well, you look like hell." Cindy sat on the arm of the couch and folded her arms. "Thanks for the diagnosis." Jenny took a sip of her coffee. "Well..." Cindy gave her a slight shrug. "Go on, say it. I can always tell when you got something on that mind of yours." "No, nothing." Cindy's tone was unconvincing. "It's none of my business." "Come on, spill it. I know you better than that." "All right, I'm worried about you, is all. I was wondering how you were holding up with..." Her words trailed off. "With Paul taking off," Jenny completed. "I guess that is what I meant to say. And 'I'm fine' doesn't cut it. I know you're covering up -- you always do." Jenny's throat tightened with emotion. "I am holding up fine. I was old enough to know better, but didn't. That's all. Paul left once before. I should have expected he'd leave again." Jenny found herself fighting back tears. She pretended to sip her coffee, but her hands shook as she lowered the cup. "Maybe it's for the better, you know?" Cindy pushed away from the couch. "It's a cliche but if things were meant to work out they would have and you'll see someday it was all for the best." She touched Jenny's shoulder. "I'm sure you're right." Jenny squeezed the cup tighter. "I'm a big girl. We weren't together that long and I was probably just thinking back to the way things used to be. Next time I'll use better judgment." Cindy peered at her, sympathy in her eyes, and shook her head. "I think you're lying, but I also know you well enough to realize I can't pry it out of you." "Look, I'm fine. Really. It's no big deal. It was fun while it lasted, but I've got too much work at the hospital to even consider a relationship right now. Paul did me a favor." "Okay ... but I still don't believe you." Cindy turned and walked to the stairs, stopping, foot on the first step, hand gripping the rail. "If you need anything..." "Go on -- scat!" Jenny chided with as much conviction as she could muster. "You're a worse nag than Andy sometimes." "Okay, okay. I'm gone. A ghost. You won't see me again for the next, oh, at least ten minutes." Cindy smiled. "Will you -- " Jenny jutted a finger towards the top of the stairs. Cindy gave her a heavy sigh and went up. Jenny watched until her sister disappeared at the top, then turned back to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Sure; she was fine. Why shouldn't she be? She was the strong one. A simple case of desertion by one unstable lost love was nothing for her steel-plated heart. Right? Damn right. She couldn't stop the tears from rolling down her cheek. * * * * A dull clanging echoed through Paul's brain, vibrating like an Oriental gong being incessantly hammered. The clang grew louder and receded with the ebb and wane of his senses. His eyes fluttered open, but everything appeared blurry, dark. He had no idea how long he'd been out but a dim memory told him he'd woken at least once, consciousness lasting only a few moments before he tumbled back into a world of blackness. During those moments of awareness, he'd been vaguely aware of a shadowy shape that moved about in the cellar below and, distantly, Tommy's voice had penetrated his stupor. Paul struggled to grasp his senses, hold on this time. Remaining still a moment, he managed to keep a feeble grip on consciousness. The pain helped. For along with the bonging in his head, a dull ache throbbed through his skull. The throbbing quickly became an acute hammering just above his right ear, making him regret he'd managed to stay awake. With an effort, he lifted his head. Matted hair, caked with blood, fell over his forehead. He knew he must have slammed his skull against the stairwell wall, which he now sat propped against, head pressed against the stone. A second pain, a pulsating spike of agony, emanated from some southern hemisphere of his body. It took a moment to mentally pinpoint the discomfort to the ankle that had punched through the stair. Splinters of pain radiated into his calf, ending just short of the knee. He knew he'd done a good job of wrenching the ankle, but doubted it was broken. Paul tried to maneuver the ankle from where it lay twisted beneath his other leg, straighten it. Holding his breath, he eased it out a fraction of an inch. Bad idea. Agony skewered the ankle and pulsating slivers shot as far as his thigh. "Jesus!" he muttered through clenched teeth. With the effort, his head swam. He froze, barely managing to hold onto consciousness as streaks of blackness swept across his mind. Within a few moments the streaks faded and his mind began to clear. A much duller pain pulsated in the small of his back, an ache that ran from his tailbone to the lower arc of his ribs. He attributed that to the way he had landed and the position in which he been for ... how long? He didn't know. Without moving his head, his eyes roved, trying to pick out shapes in the darkness. The cellar was pitch black, now. Wasn't it dawn when he fell? That meant he had lost most of Saturday, so it was at least Saturday night. No light filtered through the cellar window, indicating it had to be sometime past nine. A gnawing hunger in his belly confirmed that estimation. Easing his arm up before his face, he struggled to read the digital numbers on his watch. Tiny splotches of light from his banging head burst before his vision. He lowered his arm, careful to make no sudden moves and aggravate the pain in his head and ankle. Wait, didn't he have a flashlight when he started down the stairs? Yes, he did. He reached out, patting the dusty boards of the landing beside his legs. When he didn't find anything he began to worry it had bounced down the short second flight into the cellar below, but his fingertips brushed cold plastic and a feeling of relief flooded him. The flashlight. He stretched to grasp it; another bad idea. His head swam violently and beads of sweat sprang out on his forehead. Nausea welled and he waited a moment for it to pass. Using his fingertips, he gingerly rolled the flashlight towards him. Grasping the shaft, he clicked the switch and his relief died. Nothing. The damn batteries were dead. The light had been on when he fell. Okay, Paul, now what? You got yourself into this mess, get yourself out. Not a damn sole knows you're down here, so don't count on one of those Saturday matinee cavalries galloping in and pulling your ass out of the fire. He took a deep breath as a wave of blackness struggled to wash through his mind, reminding him it wouldn't take much to pass out again. He fought it away by moving his head slightly, the resulting throb of pain clearing his senses some. ("C'mon, Paulie. Don't give up on me, now. We've wasted too much time already.") "Tommy?" Paul's words hung weirdly in the darkness. His lips felt dry and cracked, his tongue thick and throat parched. "T-Tommy, help me, please..." Summoning his strength, he made an effort to push himself away from the wall. As he shifted, hot welts of pain shot concomitantly through his head, back and ankle, as well as various other remote body spots that had locked into place. His head swooned, but somehow he managed to brace his weight against the wall and gain his feet -- almost. His bad ankle bent sharply, excruciatingly, and he collapsed, foot going out from under him. He landed hard and this time the pain was overwhelming, seeming to come from every area of his body. A sea of nausea waved up and a tide of dizziness cascaded through his mind. Blackness washed across his vision, blotting out his thoughts. -------- *(24)* Sunday * * * * Sometime later, the blackness became liquid, moving in great lolling waves. In the distance, a booming, sporadic and ephemeral, rang out, but the sound was different from the earlier bonging in his head. Moments dragged by as Paul rode the black waves, consciousness cresting, dipping again. Finally, a thin scraping noise pierced his haze; it came a number of times before he realized it and his senses made a feeble effort to respond to the sound. This time he experienced no gradual climb to consciousness, no algetic banging in his head to pull him up. The blackness merely dissolved until, opening his eyes, he saw a ball of fuzzy light that stung his eyes. The booming sounded again: thunder. Far in the distance. The light sharpened, growing more distinct and he realized it came from a cellar window below. Christ, had he really been out all this time? It had to be the next morning at least. That meant Sunday? He prayed it was no longer than that. Using caution, he lifted his head and turned his watch face towards him. He struggled to clear away the gauze clouding his vision, as well as the rippling lava lamp effect that gripped his mind. Six-twenty a.m. Paul lowered his hand and waited for his head to clear further before attempting to move. A clammy feeling clung to his skin and his shirt was soaked with sweat. A damp shiver worked through him. Although the ache in his back had solidified into a tight knot, his head didn't bang as severely as it had last night -- or what he guessed was last night. A measure of strength had returned and he felt more clear-headed this time. He chanced pushing himself up a bit, but his brain seemed to tilt sideways, spinning. Giving it a minute, he braced his palms on the gritty landing floor and shifted. While his head didn't spin so bad, a slight dizziness persisted, but he felt in no danger of blacking out again. Good, Paul. Give it a little more time. It's getting better. Drawing a deep breath, he let it trickle out. Another. A bit more strength returned and he flexed his arms, kneading the muscles to get the circulation back. With a glance left, he spotted the flashlight where it lay beside him and saw the ruptured step, three up. Gaze roving, in the dim light he made out the vague shapes of appliances in the cellar below; an old Kenmore washer against the wall and near that the battered extra freezer his father had used to store meat, summer vegetables and what food supplies he got when he didn't squander his paycheck on booze. To the left of the washer, an old mesh laundry bin on wheels lay on its side -- Paul suddenly remembered his mother used to constantly complain about the squeak those wheels made. Dilapidated crates were stacked against the wall near the bin, and, to the back, the dark hulk of the furnace filled a corner. Scrape... Paul went rigid, remembering what had dragged him from his stupor. The scraping noise, like the sound of a sneaker scuffing across cement. Rats? With the house empty for so long, the rodents had probably claimed the cellar as their own. He imagined thousands of beady red eyes glaring up from the bottom of the short flight that led from the landing to the cellar, their needlelike white teeth flashing as they climbed, gnawing the flesh from his feet till clean bone shone through. Christ, stop scaring yourself, Paul. If the noise came from rats, wouldn't they have already overwhelmed him when he was unconscious, helpless? Wouldn't they have chewed half his flesh off by now? Maybe it's the thing in the closet, Paul. Only this time it's already out and you can't run. Say good-bye to your toes -- Scrape... Closer, now. Panic welled in his mind. Something was (out of the closet) down there, and it sounded too big to be a rat. It came from the far end of the cellar, from an area blocked from his sight by the corner of the stairwell wall. ("Paulie?") Paul stifled a gasp. Oh, God -- Tommy! Tommy's voice floated up from the cellar like a wisp of insanity. Easy, Paul. You got a good one on the head, remember? This time you're not crazy, just delirious. Get a grip, okay? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Paul had secretly hoped, prayed, Tommy's voice had been some sort of weird delusion, though he suspected he knew all along it wasn't. "Tommy?" he whispered. "Where are you?" ("I'm here, Paulie. Here in the cellar. Thought you was gonna stay sleeping forever. You sleep too much, you know that? Always did. Ain't got much time, Paulie. Should have been quicker to warn you 'bout that step, I guess.") "Tommy, why are you back?" ("You wanted me back, didn't you?") The scrape sounded again and Paul gasped as the frail-looking figure of a boy stepped from around the corner of the stone wall. The boy placed a sneakered foot on the bottom step and a cold wave washed through Paul's belly as he gazed at the child's drawn face. God, it was Tommy! Except it was the ninety-year-old version Paul had watched set adrift on an ocean of life with nothing to cling to that wasn't already sinking. The virtually hairless head with its few strands straggling in opposite directions, compliments of the chemotherapy; the creviced brow fraught with strain no child should ever have to bear; the face scrawled with resignation and the eyes stained with hopelessness. Paul shuddered as he remembered the way Tommy looked lying in his casket, the way he looked now. Oh, God, Tommy, maybe I wanted you back but not like this -- "Got any Red Sox cards?" The man-boy peered into Paul's eyes. Paul felt emotion wander through him under that gaze, not pity, but a transcending feeling of friendship that suppressed his instinctive revulsion at seeing his friend in that condition. A friendship that hadn't vanished in the chasm that separated childhood from adulthood, life from death. "No," Paul whispered. A sharp twinge of pain stabbed his ankle as he shifted and pressed his back to the stone. "Sorry." "Aw, don't matter. Maybe I should give up; they're never gonna win another series anyway. I should keep my Yaz cards, don't you think?" "Sure, Tommy, I think so..." A memory of a day at the soda shop when Tommy had gone out of his way to trade Paul for all his Yastrzemski cards, even throwing in ten Spider-man comic books and a pass to the Dark Harbor movie house, came into his mind, glowing, lost. With the memory, an old feeling of helplessness gripped him. Images of a small coffin being lowered into the ground, Tommy and the last of his Yaz cards buried forever. Almost forever. Because somehow Tommy had come back, and Paul knew he was responsible. "Why, Tommy? Why are you here? Like this?" Paul titled his head forward and saw Tommy smiling, an expression that looked concomitantly ludicrous and pitiful on the ninety-year-old child. "You know why, Paulie. Because you had to see me again." Tommy brought his arm up from the shadows. A baseball glove covered his left hand. With thin white fingers he dug a baseball from the webbing and began to thuck it into the glove. Paul propped himself up, a surge of dizziness taking him and for a moment he wondered whether he would black out again, but the feeling faded. "I don't ... understand..." "Sure you do, Paulie! I'm one of the reasons you came back." Tommy's voice sounded somehow more adult, now, as if he were growing up within the child's wasted shell, growing into the man Paul had never known, never existed. "I came because you never gave up on me," Tommy continued. "The doctors gave up on me, Paulie. Even my parents did. I don't blame them, of course. But I figured I owed you one. Now you can stop feeling guilty about not helping me. Because you did help, Paulie. You were the best. You kept my memory alive, too. But I gotta go, now. Time's almost up." "Tommy, no, please ... don't leave again." "Have to, Paulie boy. Only so much time to a customer." Tommy grinned, the lines of his bony face deepening. "I just came to tell you something, to pay you back..." Tommy pointed a frail finger towards the steps leading up to the cellar door. Paul turned his head and a blank expression welded onto his face when he didn't see anything. "What?" Paul mumbled, looking back to Tommy. "The step, Paulie. The one you went through." Paul cranked his head again, gaze centering on the splintered step. With an effort, he might be able to pull himself up to it. "I don't understand -- " Paul turned his head back, but Tommy had vanished. He stared at the vacant spot at the bottom of the steps, emptiness reaching out and gripping him. He had lost his friend all over again -- and again he hadn't told him that he missed him, that he loved him. "Tommy!" Paul shouted, emotion tightening his throat. "Tommy, come back! Please, come back. There's so much I want to say to you." ("You've already said it to me, Paulie. In your head. Now we're even.") "No, wait. Please wait." But as Paul stared into the gloom, he saw only the familiar objects of the cellar. Then, Tommy's voice came once more, farther away, more the voice of a man than a child, as if his friend had finally been allowed to grow up in some parallel life and world Paul didn't understand. ("Can't, Paulie. Long distance, you know. My time's up ... Remember ...Beware the ... Sepahpoonuck...") The voice dissolved into nothingness and Paul knew it was for the last time. He might just as well have imagined it. Beware the Sepahpoonuck. What did Tommy mean by that? What did Tommy's Indian demon have to do with him? Was it the demon in Paul's dream Tommy was trying to warn him about? Paul remembered the step. Cranking his head around, he looked up. Leaning forward, he edged towards the step carefully, not wanting to bring on another bout of dizziness or start his ankle screaming. He gripped the edges of the bottom steps and pulled himself up until he could see into the hole. A surge of dizziness spiraled through his mind; he gave it a moment to pass. Paul tried to peer into the hole, but the angle was wrong, the gloom too thick. Clenching the front board, he wrenched it free with a rotted squeal. Another burst of dizziness assailed him with the effort, but quickly passed. Reaching into the hole, he probed in the darkness, locating a cold damp object. The object felt slick, fuzzy, as if covered with mold, and his immediate reaction was to pull back. But he didn't. He brought the object out and fell back down against the stone wall. The movement set his ankle to throbbing, but the pain was much less and settled after a moment. Paul examined the object he'd taken from the hole, turning it over in his hands. Old cellophane covered with mold concealed its contents and it carried a cloying musty odor. He tore away the cellophane and tossed it aside, revealing a yellowed piece of paper and ragged photographs. The photos had faded badly, despite someone's effort to preserve them. Paul gazed at the top photograph with a feeling of -- what? Longing? He wasn't sure. It showed him as a boy, two years old, maybe, sitting on old Freddy's lap, a huge grin on his face. Except Freddy, wearing a double-breasted suit, wasn't old; he was young, still handsome, hair deep black and combed back. Paul flipped the picture over, seeing pencil marks scribbled on the back, barely legible. He held the photo closer to his face, tilting it toward the dim light filtering up from the cellar: Paul, aged 19 mos. and Frederick C -- The last part of the inscription was too faded to make out. Paul slipped the photo behind the others. Looking at the second picture, he saw himself at the same age, this time with his mother. A chill worked its way through him as he stared at the photo he didn't remember taking, stared at the delicate lines of her face. She was smiling, looking down at Paul, whom she held in her arms. He shuffled the photo to the back and peered at the next snapshot. It showed them all together -- his mother, Freddy, himself. Freddy had his arm around Paul's mother's waist with Paul nestled between. He flipped it over: 1972 -- the family, the inscription read. He recognized the writing as his mother's on this picture; the other inscription, he assumed, had been written by Freddy. Vague unease trembled deep within him, the unease of knowing what the last inscription meant, yet not quite solid enough for his thoughts to voice. He flipped the picture back over, fingers quaking as they traced the worn surface, lingering on his mother's face. 1972 -- the family... The words rose in his mind and warmth fluttered in his belly. Warmth mixed with fear. A fear born of the knowledge he was about to discover something he might not really want to know or be ready to handle. He suddenly jammed the pictures into his pants pocket. His attention shifted to the letter. Rubbing the old paper between his fingers, he hesitated before opening it. You're close to it, Paul. Closer than you've ever been to finding out what happened to her, and it scares the piss out of you. Do you really want to go on? Do you really want to open it? Come on, just throw it back in the hole and let it go at that. Bury the last of the old ghosts... He stared at the letter for dragging moments. No, he had to know what it said. He'd come too far to let it go, to wonder the rest of his life. Opening the letter, Paul immediately recognized the elegant handwriting, the same as on the third picture. His mother's. Again the vague fear of knowing the truth gripped him, for with mounting certainty he knew that was what the note contained: the truth about what happened to her. And maybe more, Paul. Maybe something that will change everything. Yes, something more. An unsettling something that had struck him as he peered at the photos. An answer just beyond his conscious reach, but one that would soon be his. An answer that would change everything. Put it back in the hole, Paul. Last chance. Survey says -- you don't want to know. He didn't. He did. Dammit! What was wrong with him? He had wondered for years what had happened to her and now the answer was possibly right in his hand. So why the hell was he putting it off? Paul took a deep breath and tried to force the hesitancy aside. His gaze went to the letter, centering on the upper right-hand corner: July 6, 1978, the date said and heaviness sank into his belly. July 6; the day before she left. The memory of that day flashed into his mind, the images sharp and clear. It was a bright summer day and he and Tommy had brought fishing poles to the stream about fifty feet down the narrow path that led through the woods to the yards of the houses on the next street. Perhaps if he had been older he would have realized she'd been acting odd that day, sullen, less attentive than usual. Maybe he would have noticed she had been acting that way for weeks. But he hadn't noticed. And the next day she was gone. His vision clouded with tears as he thought about it. A strangling melancholy gripped his heart, and he was unable to focus on the letter. After a moment, he forced himself to go on. His gaze went to the salutation: Dearest Paul. Reading his name, he felt a shiver go through him as he realized his mother had addressed the letter to him, expecting him to find it eventually if he came back here. His feeling that the answer to his mother's leaving lay within the letter solidified. His gaze drifted to the first line: "I write this in the hope that somehow, someday you will read it, though if all goes as planned it will not be necessary. And because I will never be able to tell you this myself. I would never have the courage to do it face to face. "I've made mistakes, Paul, ones I'll never be able to change or live with. So I've made the decision not to live with them. But you have a right to know why. "I asked Fred to purchase bus tickets, three of them, knowing one would not be used. I told him I had relatives in Texas and that he should take you ahead. I told him that we would change your name and I was leaving Jack because I couldn't stand living with the abuse anymore. "It is myself I can't live with. "Tomorrow night, eight years ago, Fred and I were lovers -- " "Jesus!" Paul gasped, the words jolting him. A knife of shock plunged into his heart. He sat rigid in the silence and gloom, for a moment unable to think or move. Fred and I were lovers... The words drummed through Paul's mind. Hadn't he really known that all along? Somewhere deep down? Sure you did, Paul. You just never wanted to admit it to yourself. That's why he brought over toys and played with you. That's why he treated you more like a son than -- More like a son. Paul's mind snapped back to the pictures, to the one showing the three of them together. He set the letter aside and pulled the photos from his pocket, staring at the one with Freddy, his mother and himself. Then he flipped it over and read the inscription again: 1972 -- the family. The family. More like a son... With welling acrimony, Paul hated the way his thoughts fell together. He wanted to deny them, shun them, but they kept resurfacing, grinning demons of the past. Fred and I were lovers... He let the pictures slide from his fingers to his lap. Picking up the letter again, he went to where he left off, a voice within him telling him it would confirm the puzzle pieces locking into place in his mind. " -- and though I feel ashamed, I can't say I'm sorry because I loved him and still do. Fred is the reason for Jack's anger towards me, Paul. And towards you. Fred is your father..." He paused, the emotion in his throat almost strangling. He pressed the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he let it trickle out. Finish it, Paul. You started it, so finish the letter. You have to know the rest. Paul tilted his head forward and opened his eyes. He forced his trembling hands to steady as his gaze locked on the words. "I know you will need to hate someone, Paul, but please hate me instead of Jack, because it really wasn't his fault. Whatever I've caused him to become, he loved me. Maybe he still does. "But I can't handle the disgrace I've caused him and the hurt I've caused you. My guilt has eaten a hole in my heart and I no longer want to live. I think Jack suspects what I intend to do, but the arrangements have been made and Fred will come for you tomorrow before Jack gets out of work. "By the time he gets here, I will be gone. I've been told the caves in Smuggler's Cove are endless and that they lead to hell. How appropriate that would be, for there I will end my life -- " There I will end my life. Paul's mind flashed back to the last time he could remember seeing her, the image clear and subtly obscene now. She had made him go to bed for a nap, promising to let him go out and play with Tommy after he'd slept an hour. "I'm too old for a nap, ma," he had argued. But she insisted and he'd fallen asleep, despite his protests. The slamming of the front door had awakened him. His father had come home from work early, unexpectedly. Paul had heard him storming throughout the house and later, when he'd asked Paul where his mother was, Paul had shaken his head and said he didn't know. She left while he was asleep. That night, peeking through his bedroom door, Paul saw his father take the picture of his mother from the shelf and smash it against the corner of the bookcase. With dreadful clarity, Paul remembered the mask of fury his father's face had twisted into, a look of anger worse than any Paul had seen before. Another look shown in his eyes as well, one that could have almost passed for sympathy when he looked at Paul. Something else struck him: for once, his father hadn't taken his anger out on his son; he'd merely glared at him with the strangest look, a look that asked, though Paul hadn't caught it at the time, Why are you still here? But Paul had known then, even at seven, his mother was never coming back. Now he knew why: his mother was dead. Dead. The word crashed through his mind like a shot. "She goddamn killed herself!" Paul suddenly screamed. Tears flooded his eyes, flowed. He pressed his forehead against his palm, elbow on his arched knee, feeling vacant inside, as if every emotion had drained out and left a shell that might crumble. So now you know, Paul. Now you know the answers to all your questions. Jack wasn't your father; Freddy was. Old goddamned Freddy! Ain't that a kicker? You bet it is! That's why Jack hated your guts; that's why he beat up on your mother. Makes sense, doesn't it? Well it made enough goddamn sense to her to make her kill herself. Hell, she's probably still wandering around in those caves, don't pass GO, go straight to hell -- Read the rest. There's more... Paul stared blearily at the last paragraph on the letter. Yes, there was more, but he already knew what it said: it told him what the picture would have told him had the pencil not faded. It told him Freddy's last name. Paul's last name: Courtwright. Paul uttered a humorless laugh. It was all so clear to him, now. No wonder his father, the man he'd thought was his father, had been so pissed off. Paul Stanford was Paul Courtwright. Jack had known and kept his disgrace hidden, but not very well. The rage had leaked out, too powerful to be contained, especially when alcohol ate away his control. Jack hated the Courtwrights not because of some silly feud, but because their blood flowed through Paul's veins. Like a goddamned poison. A poison that murdered Jack's love for Paul. But maybe not completely. Oh, how it must had crushed him, Paul thought, a strange anger coursing through him for his mother. How it must have destroyed him inside. "Nooooo!" Paul screamed in frustration, shaking his head. In fury, he crumpled the letter and hurled it. He flung the pictures from his lap, sending them scattering on the steps. Time seemed to stop as he struggled with his anger, feeling its rage eat away all the love he'd felt for his mother, all the hate he'd felt for Jack. Then emptiness returned and he felt hollow, so hollow, as if his feelings had been scooped out, his soul scraped clean. In his mind he set the rest of the pieces in place with a detachment that surprised him. Jack had suspected Paul's mother was leaving and came home early to catch her in the act, possibly to stop her, now that he thought about it, maybe even to kill Freddy. His mother, knowing Jack suspected, left early, counting on Freddy to take Paul before Jack got home. Paul guessed Freddy, delayed for some reason, had never come to the door upon seeing Jack's car in the driveway. He would have waited, perhaps confronting Jack at the Coral or some other place, instead of taking Paul away as she planned. Oh, yeah, his mother had planned. But she had planned wrong and stupidly. She had slipped up somewhere, enough to make her husband suspicious. It really didn't matter, now, did it? Because when she left that day, she left for good, and even if Freddy had taken Paul away the results would have been the same. She still would have killed herself. Paul knew those caves in the Cove; they might just as well have led to hell. Kids had disappeared in them, some the suspected victims of kidnapers or drug runners. Bodies could go undiscovered for years, lost in their depths, or swallowed by the ocean as the tide rose and filled the caves. Paul's detachment began to give way to hurt. All those times he had wondered why she left, all those goddamned years. Now it ended like this, his life suddenly upheaved, changed forever by the lines on one yellowed letter and a few pictures he hadn't known existed. A great rift of depression split wide within him. His mother was dead, her body in all likelihood entombed in one of those caves. That was pretty damned final, if you asked him. But, where only a minute ago he hated her, he now felt a great cascading loss. There would be no chance of finding her and asking the questions he thought he would ask; now, there was no chance of anything. Now, he had most of his answer and it was simple: things just hadn't worked out as planned. So what's the big deal, Paul Stanford? Paul Courtwright? Paul, you illegitimate sonofabitch! You wanted the truth, now you have it. Happy? Hope so. Hey, thanks, Tommy -- some payback! Paul uttered an empty laugh that dissolved into a sob. So? So what? So goddamn what? A rush of tears streamed down his face and he cradled his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body and when he finally looked up and leaned back against the stone, he sat staring at nothing for a very long time. Half an hour later, when Paul finally stirred, the vacant feeling still filled his soul. His past had come together, at least most of it, but with none of the elation or sense of discovery he expected to feel. What he didn't know, he could probably find out from Freddy. Maybe later Paul would track down the old man, for though Freddy was his father -- his real father -- finding him made damn little difference to Paul at the moment. Maybe it should have. Through the vacantness within him, one thought came with startling clarity: none of this had brought him back to Dark Harbor. No, it was just excess baggage he'd been carrying around. The voice in his nightmare had called him back; somehow, distracted again, he forced that voice away for a second time. A sinking dread told him it wouldn't be for long. What about Jenny? You came back again to help her. What if it goes after her because it can't get to you? Nascent panic rose above the numbness in his soul. No, he told himself, she's fine. He'd feel it if she weren't. But for how long? Sooner or later he's going to use her to get to you. Who? Who is he? (The Demon...) The Demon. The Demon of dark childhood closets and nightmares. Beware the Sepahpoonuck... With budding urgency, Paul drew a deep breath and heaved himself to his feet. Gingerly, he put weight on his twisted ankle. A welt of pain ripped up his shin and he winced, but the ankle held. Although he had to keep most of his weight on the other leg, he knew the ankle was merely sprained. The small of his back felt sore and cramped but he could live with it. A slight surge of dizziness plagued him and he gave it a moment to pass. Taking the stairs cautiously, in case another was rotted, he went up, avoiding the broken one. His legs felt stiff, clumsy, but he gained a bit of strength by the time he reached the top. He tried the door. The knob turned and the door opened and he really wasn't surprised. Had it ever been locked or jammed? It didn't matter. Paul limped down the hall to the living room. Dull gray light filtered through the window, falling eerily across the dusty floor and sheet-covered furniture. The light, though dim, hurt his eyes after being in the dark cellar for so long. At the window, he braced himself against the wall, battling a momentary bout of the spins. His ankle began to ache violently, but he was determined not to let the pain stop him. Finally, he gripped the sill and clambered through. A chilly dampness hung in the air, but Paul found it refreshing after the mustiness of the cellar. The day was gray and somber, the sky pregnant with the threat of rain. Paul searched his pockets for his car keys, finding them. In padding for his keys, he noticed a stiffness at his left breast. As he made his way across the lawn, he pulled a small rectangle of cardboard from his shirt pocket. He stared at it, a blank expression on his face, a wave of chills running down his back. A baseball card, its edges frayed, corners bent. Paul flipped the card over, gazing at the picture of Carl Yastrzemski, poised to swing a bat, on the front. -------- *(25)* With a mix of nerves and apprehension twisting in his gut Paul pulled into Jenny's driveway. How would she react after he'd been gone for two days without a word? What do you say to her, Paul? Yes, I almost ran out on you, but I decided you couldn't live without me so I'm back -- hey, whatta guy! The nerves were quickly overridden by a mounting sense of doom that had plagued him since leaving his father's -- correct that, ex-father's house. The feeling strengthened when he didn't see Jenny's car in the driveway. Maybe he already got to her, Paul. You're too late again. While you were out screwing your past, the thing in your dream was taking care of your loose ends. No, Jenny was all right. Although the dread felt stronger, he knew she was in no danger for the moment; he would have felt it if something had happened to her. But why is the dread getting worse? Paul felt a net tightening around him, a net he was obligingly stepping into by coming here. The thing in he closet, it's coming for you, getting closer. You won't be able to keep it away much longer. This time you'll have to face it head-on, before it hurts Jenny. You have to warn her. First he had to find her. Once he did, making her believe she was in danger wouldn't be an easy matter. Jenny was too practical to accept goblins in closets and dreams without proof -- hell, he had a hard enough time accepting it himself. But he did believe it. He'd spent half his life denying it, but, now, it felt as if some ... gift -- why did that word spring into his mind? -- were maturing, strange and wonderful and frightening. A thing linked somehow to his past; his mother? Or his real father, perhaps? Could Freddy give him that answer? Or had cleaning out the excess baggage merely made room for it? A combination of both? Paul had the feeling Freddy could probably tell him, but for now that had to wait. He opened the car door and got out. Shifting most of his weight to his good leg, he leaned against the Shadow, ankle throbbing. The cool damp air refreshed him and he shot a glance at the late-afternoon sky: slate-colored clouds, embroidered with dark gray, seemed to whisk from horizon to horizon, moving with the turbulent violence typical of late spring thunderheads. Thunder rumbled occasionally in the distance. As Paul studied the clouds he got the sudden notion the net of dread wasn't merely tightening around him; it was clamping about the entire town. As if whatever lured him back to Dark Harbor was somehow part of this town's past and was merging with its old ghosts. Paul shook off the thought and pushed himself away from the car. As he reached Jenny's front door, nerves fluttered in his belly. He poked the doorbell and the door opened. "Paul!" said Cindy, shock on her face. "I thought -- " "I need to talk to Jenny," Paul cut her off. "Is she here?" Cindy hesitated, a frown replacing the shock, and he wondered if she'd shut the door in his face. Maybe that told him more about how Jenny felt than he wanted to know. "Paul, look..." Cindy's tone got firm. "I love my sister and I don't want to see her hurt again. I think it would be better if you just left." The nerves in his belly solidified into a rock of despair. "Please, I have to tell her why I left like that. I have to make her understand ... things." Cindy cast him a look of doubt. She folded her arms. "All right, Paul. First make me understand. Then I'll let you know whether you can talk to her." Paul hesitated. Exhaustion was making his thoughts muddy and his ankle was throbbing as he stood on the porch, but he knew he had to come up with something if he wanted to see Jenny. Something he doubted would sound reasonable. "This is going to sound a little strange so you have to promise to give me a chance." "That's what I'm doing -- but it's for Jenny's sake, not yours. I want what's best for her and if you're it ... well, it better be good." As Paul explained to Cindy about his dreams and his decision to return to his father's old house, the whole story struck him as crazy. He wondered if he'd believe it coming from somebody else. Cindy didn't interrupt and he was glad. If she questioned him too deeply, he doubted he could supply the answers, at least answers that didn't sound crazier than his already shaky explanation. "I always wanted to know what happened to my mother," Paul finished. "Something in my dream told me to go back there and now I do." Paul had told her about finding the letter in the broken step but conveniently left out the part about talking to Tommy and his father. "The fall I took after getting locked in the cellar put me out for quite a while, but I came straight here after getting out." Cindy's gaze rose to his head. "Well, that explains that ugly welt on your forehead and why you look like hell." She stepped aside and motioned him in. "Let me clean that up." She pointed to the couch. "Sit down. Andy's taking a nap, so it's quiet." Paul lowered himself onto the couch, glad to get his weight of his ankle. He watched Cindy walk towards the kitchen. "You can consider yourself lucky, Paul," she said, coming back into the living room, a damp cloth in her hand. She sat beside him and gently dabbed at the welt, which had ripened into a blue-black lump. "I believe you -- barely. This bruise helps -- it's gross, by the way. You better have Jenny look at it in case you got a concussion or something." She pulled the cloth way and Paul let out an audible sigh of relief, thinking how ridiculous his story must have sounded to anyone but himself, and knowing he'd let out just enough to get by. "Then I can talk to her?" "Well, that's up to her." Cindy folded the cloth and leaned back, arm resting on the low back of the couch. "I can tell you she's not here now. She's at work. Second floor probably. I can't promise she'll be receptive. She's pretty bummed." Paul gained his feet, wincing slightly as pain stabbed his ankle. "Oh, and Paul..." Cindy got up and followed him to the door. He paused. "Yes?" "If you hurt her in any way you'll have me to deal with." Paul peered at her, seeing the look of caring and concern on her features. "Hurting Jenny's the last thing I want to do." * * * * Paul tried the second floor first, but the desk nurse told him Jenny had gone on break five minutes ago, probably in the cafeteria. It took him another five minutes to locate the cafeteria and as he stood outside the swinging doors he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He pushed through the door, scanning the room and spotting her sitting near the back, sipping a cup of coffee, her back to him. He made his way across the room, the heavy smell of food -- he guessed meatloaf -- combining with his exhaustion and making him nauseated. "Jenny?" he said in a much lower voice than he intended. She turned and a look of shock flashed over her features; the shock quickly dissolved, replaced by a glitter of anger in her topaz eyes. Anger and something else: hurt. A wounded look that made him want to turn around and leave, made him wish he'd never tried to see her again. His hopes sank. "Paul." Jenny's tone came cold, sharp. Her eyes narrowed and her lips drew into a tight line. "Jenny, I need to talk -- " "No." She held up her hand, cutting him off. "We have nothing to talk about, not anymore, and certainly not after the way you left the other night." She folded her arms, as if closing herself off to him. "If you'll just let me explain -- " "I let you explain the first time and what did it get me? Worried goddamn sick. You just take off in the middle of the night, no call, no note, just gone. At least the first time you told me you were dumping me." Paul's gaze dropped and a leaden sensation plunged in his belly. You deserved that. You hurt her and now she wants to hurt you back and you deserve it. "Jenny, I know I left abruptly and I admit when I did I didn't intend to come back. But I realized I couldn't leave you again. It sounds silly but if you'll just give me a chance to explain..." Her gaze drilled him and he saw coldness there, fury. "Why? So you can take another crack at me? Well, don't bother. You came back when I was really vulnerable and took advantage of it. But I'm not eighteen anymore, and I'm not some toy you can throw away when you get tired of playing with it." She paused and her lower lip quivered slightly, but she quickly steadied it. "I loved you, Paul. God knows I still do. I think I always have. But I can't live with the uncertainty, wondering day in and day out whether this will be the morning I wake up to find you gone for good. Go chase your damn windmills if that's what you have to do. I've done some thinking, a lot of thinking in the last two days. Maybe I'm not as strong as I thought, but I don't break through open doors, and I can't be happy with just a few weeks or a few months. I need more than that. Andy needs more than that." "Jenny..." He reached for her, wanting to touch her, hold her, make her understand. She drew back and he stopped, the last of his resolve deserting him. He felt suddenly awkward and drained, the sensation of finality he experienced upon discovering what had happened to his mother flooding back in. Only this time it was worse, cut deeper, because though Jenny was still alive, she was just as dead to him, just as unreachable. Nothing he could say or do would change that. "Jenny, I do love -- " "Don't. Please, just don't." She shook her head. A tremor laced her voice and Paul could tell she fought to control her hurt. She'd thrown up a facade of strength and he felt as if he'd stepped back in time to that night he left ten years ago, the situation reversed. And this time they were older, less flexible, and what they had together had become a fragile, crushable shell of might-have-beens. "I'm ... sorry." His voice came low, strained. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I don't know what else to say." Jenny turned away from him and Paul felt tears well in his eyes. "Please leave, Paul. I don't want to see you again." Although he expected them, the words stung. "There's something else you need to know -- " "I don't want to hear it. I just want you to leave." She didn't turn around. Paul walked to the doors, pausing. "Jenny, please be careful..." "I am being careful, Paul. That's why it's better this way." He swallowed at the emotion clogging his throat, then walked out. * * * * After Paul left, Jenny felt her strength collapse. As it did, rushes of hurt and anger crowded in. Her trembling fingers went to her face and she put her head in her hands. The tears she'd been holding back ran between her fingers. Then she forced the tears back again and stared blearily at the wall. "The strong one," she mumbled, voice ragged with emotion and anger, anger at Paul, at herself, at the world. "The strong one!" She lashed out, sending her coffee cup flying; brown liquid splashed a streak across the wall and ran in stringy drips towards the floor. What have you done? She'd done the only thing she could. Hadn't she? She couldn't wonder for the rest of her life whether Paul would leave again. A few months of happiness, maybe a year if she were lucky, wasn't worth the pain that would come when it ended. Was it? God, what had happened to her in ten years? Where had all her strength and stability gone? Right now she just didn't know. * * * * "You look terrible." The bartender slid another Scotch and water in front of Paul. "Been in a fight?" His eyes cut to Paul's forehead. Paul gave him a forced smile. "No, just breaking through open doors." "Huh?" The bartender look confused. "My mother died, my girlfriend left me and I found out I was a bastard. Other than that, it's been a swell weekend. Any more stupid questions?" The bartender stared and shrugged. "You could have just said you didn't want to talk about it, buddy." He walked away, shaking his head. The look on his face said he thought Paul was crazy. Paul cupped the Scotch in his hands and stared at it, watching the amber liquid shimmer under the soft lights that pervaded the Blue Coral. He raised the glass to his lips and took a deep drink. The liquor burned his throat and his head swam, then began to feel incredibly heavy. He was working on his forth Scotch and the alcohol, combined with exhaustion and lack of food, intensified his depression. Hope you're proud of yourself this time, Paul. You thought you had a lot to lose before? All your stupid self-pity and self-indulgence. Well, let me tell you, old pal, everything you ever lost was nothing -- NOTHING! compared to losing Jenny. Paul downed the last of his Scotch in one gulp and ordered another, a double. One good thing, he no longer felt his throbbing ankle. The liquor was hitting him fast and his thoughts were getting muddled. Thank God for small crappy favors. As the bartender set a double before him and walked away, Paul jammed his left elbow to the counter and his palm against his lead-filled head. He suddenly had trouble keeping it from crashing to the bar, and a swooping effect made the sensation of dropping all the more realistic. He raised the double to his lips, missing on the first try. Go ahead, Paulie wally doodle, old buddy, old screwed-it-up-again. Have another drink. Have ten-hundred-thousand or whatever damned number you think it will take to forget her. Hey! You've got your freedom again, look at it that way. No Jill, no Jenny, no kidding. Celebrate! Live it up! Yeah, got my freedom. Got my freedom, got my freedom. No more old ghosts, old toasts -- what the hell? Where whush whush? Ha! Funny, ain't it? Mind's turned to goddamn Silly Putty. Got my freedom, go screw a cow -- (Jenny forever) PAUL... What? I CAN GIVE HER TO YOU. FOREVER. Hey, I remember you. You're the goddamned voice that got me here. The voice from my dream. What the hell you want, voice? Why can I hear you so clear? Why don't you piss off? Paul's head slid off his hand and dropped, springing back up like a Jack-in-the-box when he caught himself checking out of his consciousness. The room tumbled, then settled into a buzzing shimmer. I OFFER YOU A CHANCE. YOU CAN HAVE EVERYTHING. JENNY, MONEY, ETERNAL LIFE. LET ME USE YOUR GIFT. JOIN ME... Join you? You're just a goddamn voice in my head. I AM MUCH MORE. I AM HATE AND POWER. I AM ETERNITY. You are screwed if you want me. I'm crazy. Crazy lazy hazy, do-wah, do-wah. That's all I am. Crazy and drunk. Paul uttered a slushy laugh and downed his double. Fire ripped through his throat and the room started to bend and bow, everything scooping towards the center and vibrating. He stared at his hands; they looked like huge spatula hands, fingers splayed and flat. He found that funny, hilarious, and began to laugh again. Then, looking at his hands again, he stopped laughing. He glimpsed faces in his augmented fingernails: Jenny's, Jill's (You left me, Paul. You goddamn left me!), Cindy, Andy, Mrs. Gaumont. Even Deputy Hudson had a pinkie. The faces dissolved and Paul had his fingers back, normal. Except now his hands felt amazingly heavy, too heavy to lift off the bar. He grew vaguely aware of some disturbing feeling, a swarming dread that came with the voice in his head, but his thoughts were too scattered to focus on it. PAUL ... JOIN ME ... RELEASE THE DAMNED... Ha! Damned if you do, damned if you don't! Paul laughed and yelled, "Hey, bartender, bring me another double!" The words came slurred. The bartender strolled over, gave Paul a disgusted look, then took his glass and drilled him with deep-set dark eyes. "No more for you, buddy. I'll call you a cab." He pulled a telephone from beneath the bar and started to dial. Paul, mind too fuzzy to argue and mouth suddenly too loose to work, slid off the bench, nearly bouncing on his rubber-band legs. He barely managed to hold himself upright as he staggered across the barroom, and fumbled to get the door open. He stepped out into the cool air, thinking he heard the bartender yell, "Hey, come back here!" but it might have been his imagination. The air had become chilled and a premature darkness was settling in. The chill did little to revive him and it took fifteen minutes of wandering to locate where he'd parked his car across the street. It took five minutes more to get his damn key into the ignition. In the meantime a surge of nausea rose into his throat and he rolled down the window. Leaning out, he vomited. YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL. GIVE IN. JOIN ME. LIVE ETERNALLY. Screw you, voice. Who the hell wants to live eternally? Who the hell wants to live at all? IF YOU DO NOT YOU WILL SUFFER FOREVER IN THE VANISHED PLACE... What? What was the voice saying? Either it was getting weaker or throwing up had made him slightly more sober. YOU WILL CHANGE YOUR MIND, PAUL STANFORD ... OR YOU WILL DIE... Paul managed to catch the word "Stanford" but that was all. Ha, he thought. Not Stanford (no more Stanfords, no more wars). Just us Courtwrights here, now. Just us goddamn nobodies and ghosts and memories. He gripped the steering wheel and jerked the car out into traffic. The street jumped back and forth, blurred in and out, then settled. More or less. A horn blared as Paul wavered over the midline, nearly crashing head-on into the other vehicle before he yanked the wheel to the right. He almost grazed a parked car. Paul had no idea how he managed to reach Milliken Street without killing himself. He pulled into the parking lot, had difficulty getting the car into a rear parking space. He settled for leaving it parked at a haphazard angle. Climbing out, he left the key dangling in the ignition. A wave of nausea sent bile into his throat and he braced himself against the open car door, waiting for the sensation to pass. Dusk had thickened, casting quivering shadows across the lot. Maybe they were just shimmering to him, he thought. He pushed himself away from the car, slamming the door and staggering through the shadows, which seemed suddenly alive and groping, across the lot. He climbed the steps and leaned heavily on the rail. Something's wrong, Paul... A dim warning flickered in his mind as his gaze settled on the squad car parked on the street in front of the boarding house. Funny, he hadn't noticed it when he drove in, but, then, he wouldn't have seen anything that wasn't directly in front of him, and even that was iffy. The warning rose in his mind again and he tried to focus on it, but it was lost in a haze. It drifted back, fading, and a face replaced it: Jenny's face, as if she were connected with the warning, but he was just too unhinged to figure out why. His gaze shifted, settling on the house across the street. He half-debated storming over there and waiting for her to get home, pleading with her, begging, if that's what it took. No, he told himself, capturing a shred of rational thought. He couldn't hurt her anymore than he had already. And he had his doubts about making it across the street without collapsing. Paul teetered for a moment then pushed himself away from the rail. A drill of nausea bored a hole in his gut. He wondered if he'd make it to his room or if Mrs. Gaumont was going to have to clean her hallway. Jerking open the door, he stumbled into the dusky hallway. He suddenly seemed to be leaning absurdly sideways. He tried righting himself, only to find that it was his mind tilting that way when he nearly fell on his face. He sucked a deep breath as bile surged into his throat, burning. Nausea rushed back, stronger. Close, he thought. Another burst like that and say good-bye Mr. Stomach. Paul stumbled along the hallway, ankle twisting murderously sideways, but the pain rang so distant he didn't care. Was the hall a lot narrower than it used to be? he wondered, bumping into a wall. Seemed so. What the hell? Ahead, light from the kitchen spilled across the floor. The light blazed in his dazzled eyes as if saying "Hey there! How the hell are you? Drunk? No kidding!" He squinted and saw the steps that led to his room seem to stretch endlessly up and up, disappearing into the darkness. He groaned and clutched at his belly. Paul suddenly jolted as Mrs. Gaumont stepped out of the kitchen like an ugly god -- the Pillsbury Dough-God. She was babbling something at him; he saw her mouth moving but the words came out jumbled. "Paul, I'm sorry. I told him you couldn't have done anything like that, but he wouldn't listen, you know." Strain lined her face and deep hollows nested beneath her eyes. "W-what?" Paul managed to ask, realizing she was talking normally but his goddamn audio system was distorting the music. "Paul, he's up there -- I had to let him wait -- " Ignoring her, Paul stumbled to the stairs, taking the first two. As he glanced up into the gloom at the top of the stairs, he felt the weird dread stir inside him again. "Paul, don't tell him I warned you..." he heard Mrs. Gaumont blubber behind him. He turned and stared at her, the strained concern on her face comical to him in his state. "Oh, go to hell," he mumbled before he could stop himself. "Gracious!" Shock hit Mrs. Gaumont's face and her pudgy hand went to her bosom. "Well, Meathead!" she said finally, as if that were the worst insult she could hurl at him. Paul would have laughed but knew if he did he'd vomit. Turning, he climbed the stairs. Reaching the top, he fished through his pockets for his room key. He wavered and nearly toppled backward as he did so. A quick grab of the handrail saved him from going down. He located the key in the change at the bottom of his pocket and thanked God he'd been too lazy to put it on his ring. Leaning against the doorframe, he got the key into the lock on the third try and pushed the door open, stumbling inside. Paul became instantly aware of someone stepping from behind the door to his left, though the movement was more felt than seen. In the dim light swarming in from the hall, the thing looked like a living shadow. He heard a swish of cloth as an arm came from the shadow, looking like a disattached thing that floated in the air. The arm jerked downward in a short arc and Paul became equally aware the arm had a nightstick attached to it. The knowledge didn't do him a damn bit of good, because the club glanced off the back of his head. He tried to twist away at the last instant, but couldn't avoid it completely. A dull shock of pain, which he knew would have been infinitely sharper had he been sober, exploded in his head. His legs went out from under him, no ceremony, no last minute struggle to stay righted, just gone. He collapsed, the shock of crashing into the floor jarring what was left of his senses and forcing a burst of air from his lungs. Half-conscious, he knew someone was stooping over him. A hand grasped a handful of his hair and jerked his head up so his line of sight met the open suitcase on the floor in front of his bed. A jabbing cone of light from a flashlight outlined the case. Paul tried to focus on the object lying within the case, propped against its back. In a sickening flash of realization Paul knew he'd never have to search for Freddy, his true father. Freddy had come to him; at least part of him had. The old man's grisly severed head stared at him with accusing sunken eyes. The nausea Paul had been forcing down rushed up and sizzled in his throat. "What's wrong, Stanford?" snapped a voice above him, which Paul hazily placed as belonging to Deputy Hudson. Now he understood what Mrs. Gaumont had been trying to tell him. "I gave you your chance." Hudson yanked hard on Paul's hair. "It could have been so much easier if you'd just given in." But Paul didn't hear more than the lowering slur of the last part, because the nausea no longer sat in his throat. His belly spasmed and a stream of vomit splattered the floor. His vomiting was cut mercifully short, however, as blackness rushed in and ended his consciousness. -------- *(26)* Monday * * * * A pall hung over Dark Harbor. It saturated the sky, the air, and latched onto the town's soul. Black clouds, pregnant with rain and hail, spread across the heavens with the dawn and today the threat of a storm became a brooding promise. The air itself felt laden with a strange and growing malignancy, as if some unseen blight were consuming the very ether, leaving only darkness. The old people of Dark Harbor felt it first, this thing of darkness in the air; they'd felt it building since just before dawn, perhaps longer, though few cared to admit it and even fewer ventured to talk about it. Some thought they sensed it first because they were a step closer to death than the younger folk; or perhaps they simply had become more attuned to the darkness after years of life and work and emotion had eaten away their resistance. Lenny Murray, "Booch" to his lodge buddies for some reason he'd never figured out, turned seventy today. He felt the darkness, the something imbedding itself into the air's fabric; he felt it and damn well didn't care for it. Dread was the only word he could put to it. A deep unsettling fear that wrapped itself around him, chilled him, as he shambled out onto the big porch that surrounded half his old farmhouse. He paused halfway across the porch, a copy of the Dark Harbor Sentinel tucked under his arm and a mug of beer in which floated a raw egg clutched tightly in a veiny hand. He liked to sit on the porch swing every morning he could, reading only the paper's headlines 'cause the rest was just so much crap in his opinion, and drinking his beer with egg. The concoction kept him healthy, he swore; after all, he'd never been sick a day in his life that he could remember. So by dammit that 'bout said it all. Today felt different. Today the dread made him want to turn around and go back into the house. He gazed down at the amber liquid in his mug, realization coming to him as if floating up from the bottom of the glass. He had felt the dread during the night a few times; half-asleep, he'd ignored it, passed it off as a lingering dream. Hell, he was used to getting strange feelings during the night: aches, pains, creaks of all sorts in his joints, little buzzing sensations on his scalp and ringings in his ears -- old feelings. Now he felt certain the dread wasn't a dream, and it wasn't brought on by old age. No, it filled the air like an invisible sleeping thing awakening, grumbling, restless in an airy grave. It blotted out the sun and stole the joy from the day. And from Lenny's morning. Lenny took one long look at the vast tract of land his farm squatted on, then back at the gobbling clouds yawning from the horizon and gulping at the sky, and turned, heading back toward the door. The beer and raw egg had kept him healthy all these years and in what the Almighty allowed him left, he wanted to stay that way. Across town, Ethel Kilroy peered out through the kitchen window from behind blue chiffon curtains. She stared at the dark clouds, swearing she saw even darker things swirling within them. Things and shapes; shapes and things, not a one of them good. Didn't really matter a toot what they was. Because somebody, she knew, was sawing at the woodpile with the Devil's saw, 'ceptin' this time it was a chainsaw they was usin' 'stead of a woodsaw. Chainsaws made bigger, badder noises and did loads more damage and some damned soul had started it up. Let it rip, as her nephew would say. Darn fool, that soul. How many times had she told her church group -- The-Good-Ladies-of-the-I-told-you-Damnation-was-close, as she liked to call them -- that indeed the end was a'coming? Had they believed her? Had they really? Heck, no! They said the Bible probably gave them ten more years. They'd be sorry they hadn't listened to her, but Ethel did so love to be right and with the fear she felt, she also felt gloating. Ethel slapped the curtains shut and walked to the living room to her favorite easy chair. Sitting, she smoothed the wrinkles out of her flower-print dress and waited for the world to end. The old people weren't the only ones to feel the dread thing squatting on the town: At Dark Harbor Elementary, when the bell clanged and the doors flew open, letting an eruption of screaming, pushing, shoving children out for recess, eight-year-old Richie Cooper came down with what his pop would have referred to as the collywobbles. He really didn't have a bellyache. Oh, no. He just felt the strong twisting fear that had come over him when he'd watched those black clouds from the schoolbus window. Richie didn't want -- no how, no way -- to go out and play. And no one was going to make him. To make sure of that, he'd jammed his index finger down his throat and puked all over his desk in the middle of Mrs. Sturban's math lesson. Richie, too scared to smile at what he'd gotten away with, subsequently went home. At the far corner of the playground, Billy Fredericks and Johnny Perkins huddled close, whispering in nervous voices. They watched the other kids play, running, climbing the monkey bars, swinging, but had no desire to join them. "The monster's comin' today." Billy rubbed at an itch on his freckled nose. Johnny just stared, worry welded onto his features. His gaze darted to the dark clouds in the sky then back to the kids on the playground, so unaware and oblivious to the dark feeling permeating the air. "I wanna go home," he said, voice wobbly. "Can't, least not without an excuse." "I don't feel good and I'm scared -- that's a good excuse." "He can't hurt children, you know." Billy's gaze flicked to the clouds then back to Johnny. He felt like farting. "He'll do something that will hurt everybody," said Johnny. "Maybe not directly to us, but it will be the end just the same." "Maybe." "Maybe, my ass." "I wish Superman was here," said Billy, fear suddenly a rabbit in his tone. His gaze lifted to the clouds again and he shivered. * * * * Paul awakened a little past noon with the impression that something was sitting on his head -- something heavy. Whatever the something was, it came with a horrendous banging that threatened to split his skull from the inside out. His eyes felt cemented shut, lips pasted together. He occasionally experienced a detached sort of feeling, as though his brain had jerked loose of its fastenings and become incorporeal and distant so that he could view his body from afar, saw it tumbling in a black void filled with nebulous images and thoughts. You've got a bitch of a hangover, Paul. No kidding. Paul gave up trying to think for a moment and let himself tumble in the void. The pounding in his head suddenly took precedent over trying to focus on stray thoughts. Thinking, he discovered quickly, caused too much pain. He lay still, and after a while dim memories, a mixture of images and feeling fragments, forced their way back into his mind. He saw his childhood home, snatches of faces -- his father, mother, Tommy -- but they all dissolved before he could lock on them. As the pain subsided a bit, the images became stronger, but far from concrete. Another sensation came with them, now, a rising fear that seemed all around him, inside and out. The dread he'd felt in spurts and instances before seemed about to birth, impending, saturating. The sensation clutched at him, shook him awake, despite his desire to fall back into the black comfort of sleep and escape his hangover. Paul pried his eyelids apart and forced them to remain open, though a gloomy gray light filtered into his blurred vision like a flare and hurt. As his eyes focused and adjusted to the light enough not to cause pain, he saw patches of rough gray. He lay on a cot, staring up at the dingy expanse of a ceiling, one he didn't recognize. Cranking his head sideways, he felt an ice pick of pain drill into his brain. Things became smeared and swerved left, then right. When everything finally settled, jerking back to semi-normal in the pulsating throb of his vision, he saw he was in a small jail cell. He groaned, drawing a shaky breath and running his dry tongue over cracked lips. He forced himself into a sitting position, gripping the edge of the cot so he wouldn't pitch forward -- the direction his head seemed bent on following. A surge of nausea rushed through his belly and shot bile into his throat. He took several more deep breaths and was able to suppress the sensation. Paul looked around the cell, eyes feeling too big for their sockets. He saw two other cells, one to either side, both empty. A short hall, lighted by two bare bulbs, led to a metal door at the end. A high window let in barred gray light. Thunder rumbled in the distance. You're in jail, Paul, but where? How did you get here? How long were you out this time? Flashes of memory flickered in his mind again, more complete, now, but equally as confusing. He remembered his nightmare, going to the old house and seeing his father and Tommy, then falling down the stairs, blacking out. The letter, pictures... Yes, when he'd woken he'd found the letter from his mother, the pictures of her with Freddy. The letter that had told him she was dead and the old man was his real father. Freddy. Oh, Christ! Paul's stomach revolved at the thought of the old man's severed head lying in the suitcase. His body trembled as the grisly image shocked back the rest of his memory. Cold sweat sprang out on his skin and trickled down his chest. He had gone to the hospital to see Jenny, explain to her, warn her, but she told him she didn't want to see him again. So, like a fool, he'd gone to the Coral and gotten blitzed ... then... Paul struggled to pierce the haze that shrouded his memory past that point, for a moment unsuccessful. Then, his mind locked again upon the image of Freddy's head and it began to come back to him. He'd somehow found his way back to the boarding house and fallen on the floor in his room -- no, wait, that wasn't right. He hadn't fallen. Someone had hit him. Someone waiting for him. Then he had seen the head, its eyes glaring, piercing, chilling. Freddy. Freddy, his real father. Freddy who could never explain to Paul what had gone on between him and Paul's mother. Freddy who had died in some hideous fashion and ended up in Paul's room. Then the lights had gone out again. But... Yes, he remembered the voice, the voice of the other person in the room, the one who'd hit him. Deputy Hudson's voice! Yet, somehow, different. What had Hudson said? He couldn't remember. As the deputy's face formed in Paul's mind, he felt a sudden surge of dread. The fear from his nightmares was now stronger, closer, somehow. All around him, in the cell, the air, his being. He knew it had escaped his dreams, followed him into the world of reality. What did the dread have to do with Hudson? He found his thoughts still too cloudy to up with the answer. Paul shuddered with the feeling of deep fear gripping him. He knew something was going to happen. Soon. But what? One thing was clear: in the space of a bit over a week, he'd plunged himself into as deep a hot water as he ever had. And it worried him less than it should have. Hell, not bad, Paul. You gained a father, lost a father, gained a lover, lost a lover, and you're sitting in a jail cell with the worst goddamn hangover you've had since the Bangles topped the charts. Most people have to work real hard at screwing things up this bad, so maybe you'd just better start panicking. No? Well, maybe you could market it, then, you know, like the Richard Simmons diet plan or one of those flex-a-ma-call-its exercise machines they sell on cable. The Screw-Up-Your-Life pill? Hey, pop one of these babies and lose all that unwanted joy and happiness! Crap! Paul let out a groan and settled back onto the bunk, head flying in two different directions, stomach threatening to race up his throat and end up on the floor. He hung a forearm across his forehead and closed his eyes, wondering what the hell to do next. * * * * The wind had picked up, blowing trash around like paper tumbleweeds and making eerie whistling sounds as it blew through bicycles and lawn mowers and any other junk that happened to be lying around the park. As he crept up the stairs to Tony Corsetti's trailer, Carl Speckler felt like pissing his pants. A warm fullness pressed at his bladder and he wasn't happy about the feeling in the least. He shot a furtive glance back and forth, left and right, praying enough kids were in school and enough parents were at work to leave the park deserted. "What you're doing, Carl m'boy, is seriously illegal, capital I." The words came out in a mumble. "What happened to the reporter's code of ethics?" Huh! a voice retorted in his mind. Don't be silly, reporters don't have ethics -- at least that's what the politicians keep saying. Oh, hell, flush the ethics crap then in the interest of the biggest story of your life. He hoped. If he got caught he knew it would mean another kind of big story, say good-bye to the Pulitzer and probably a few years of freedom. Editors, he knew damn well, frowned on such extracurricular activities as breaking and entering. Or at least getting caught at it. Speckler let out a nervous laugh and the pressure in his bladder pulsated uncomfortably. His palms began to sweat. What's wrong, Carl, old boy? he asked himself, as he tried to peer through one of the three small windows in the door. Okay, so maybe he was doing something a bit unethical. No big deal, not when he was trying to bring down the biggest drug ring Dark Harbor had ever seen. At least that's what he told his conscience for the hundredth time since dreaming up this plan. Carl backed from the window, unable to see anything except gloom and what looked to be the blocky outline of a TV set across the room. "Maybe you're just afraid of getting caught by someone other than the law," he murmured, rubbing his chin. "Maybe Corsetti has some buddies you don't know about or maybe he'll come back just as you wriggle your way through a window." Christ, he was talking to himself a lot. He didn't think that was a good sign. But he couldn't force the thoughts from his mind. He wondered if maybe he feared something worse than Corsetti or even Deputy Hudson. Speckler had grown aware of the strange pall that lay thick over Dark Harbor. He'd felt it before dawn, which, unable to sleep, he watched through his apartment window. A dawn full of storm clouds and darkness -- and dread. The fear rose from some primal place in his soul, a voice that seemed to scream up and tell him more than just thunderstorms stirred in the air. A hellstorm. He had struggled to suppress the feeling. He didn't want to admit it to himself. No, he preferred to keep it simmering on a mental back burner; it was safer there. To dwell on it meant losing his already shaky nerve and admitting to something that before only existed in the dark forbidden places of his soul. His book or reporter's hunches didn't cover that. He went down the rickety steps and stared at the trailer. He glanced at the windows and slowly walked around the side. In the daylight, he could see the battered siding and cracked plastic shutters. The place was a dump, all right. He also saw the mower that had caused the ugly bruise on his shin. He was tempted to give it a kick but suppressed the urge. Speckler suddenly wished he had taken a course in Burglary 101. Where did criminals learn that crap, anyway? He scratched his head and brushed the hair from his forehead. He had considered bringing along a crowbar and smashing out a window, but had dropped the idea when he thought about the noise it would make. So now he was stuck. Should have planned this better, he told himself. That's what he got for being a reporter instead of a crook, though he'd heard numerous arguments in favor of linking the professions. "Aw, hell!" he muttered, coming around the front end of the trailer. He decided the windows were too high to climb through even if he did bust one, which left the door as the most obvious way in. Well, if anybody caught him forcing it, he would claim to be a friend of Corsetti's. Of course, if Corsetti came along he'd have to come up with a somewhat better excuse. Quick. Speckler had a hunch Corsetti wouldn't show up. Not in this lifetime. And he found the thought frightened him as much as getting caught. Gripping his nerves, more or less, Speckler again climbed the rickety stairs. He paused at the top to let out a small shudder that had built up inside him. The muscles in his legs felt tense, shaky. Going to the door, he paused, feeling as if an electric dynamo of fear were churning behind it, sending out waves of dread. He forced himself to push the feeling to the back of his mind, the pressure in his bladder increasing, despite the effort. Pulling himself together, he took a deep breath and, holding it, fumbled through his pocket for his Swiss Army knife. He remembered seeing people forcing their way into places using that method -- or a credit card -- and this door was thin, typical of trailer doors. He let out the breath, shot a glance to the next trailer and the street, then jammed the small blade into the gap between jamb and lock, wiggling it. And wiggling. And wiggling. "How the hell?" he said under his breath. With a sweaty hand he gripped the door handle, intending to give the door a hearty shove with his shoulder. He felt suddenly foolish as the knob turned in his hand. "You stupid asshole!" he chided himself. "The goddamn thing wasn't even locked!" He let out a nervous laugh. Why did the unlocked door give him a mixture of relief and terror? Letting the door swing inward about a foot, he stood frozen on the threshold, listening, almost afraid to move, enter. Afraid because of a damp fear-wind that seemed to blow from the interior of the gloom-filled room. An acute sense of premonition -- a nuclear reporter's hunch, he thought absurdly -- told him that if he entered a chain of events would clink into place, a chain too strong to break. If anyone had asked him why he felt that way, he wouldn't have had an answer: he simply did. Gripped by the premonition, he strongly considered shutting the door the strolling back to his car and driving as far away from the place as he could. Screw the Pulitzer and drug ring. "Okay," he mumbled. "If you do that, you can kiss your career aspirations good-bye. Remember that. If you back out now you don't have what it takes to be a top notch reporter." Well, there was always dog grooming. Okay, what about the drug traffic? Could he live with himself if he didn't do his best to stop it? What's to live with? Legitimate question. So he wasn't Nancy Reagan. But, still, if he didn't see this through, try to finish what he and the sheriff started, he'd never forgive himself and he knew it. Speckler let out a long sigh and tentatively pushed the door open wider. He prayed he didn't piss his pants in the line of duty. You'll be sorry ... a voice in his mind taunted as he peered inside. Maybe. Probably. Speckler stepped into the dingy trailer and shut the door behind him. * * * * Sheriff Baker closed the office door and flung his hat on a peg. With a swipe of his hand, he brushed his hair back into place, wishing he had waited until he got inside to remove his hat. The wind had begun to gust -- up to 25mph he'd heard on the car radio. Dime-size splotches of rain had begun to spatter the pavement. That caused Baker little concern because he knew a storm wasn't the only thing invading Dark Harbor. Something else was. Something mysterious and dark. He felt it. He'd lived in Maine all his life, had experienced his share of thunderstorms, even the biggies where he'd seen golf ball-sized hail smash out windows and dent car hoods didn't compare to what he felt coming. No, it was no storm, it was a dark force, and it had followed him in. An alien thing that churned invisibly in the air, reaching out to sweep the town and its people into its spiraling vortex. That was a silly thought, wasn't it? he asked himself, as he moved to his desk. He was used to dealing with facts and nothing about the feeling fell into the realm of fact. Baker glanced at Hudson, who was sitting at his desk, shuffling papers, obviously faking. Dread. Sudden. Stabbing. Baker could have sworn it emanated from Hudson. A chilling thought followed the dread: perhaps the feeling of fear hadn't followed him into the office; perhaps it had been waiting inside. Suppressing the urge to shudder, Baker went to the cupboard and pulled a box of hamster food from the shelf, then turned and went to the window. He dumped pellets into Ernest's dish and set the box on the sill. A strange sensation struck him, startled him. He felt unseen eyes penetrating him, cold steel blades that drilled into his back. He turned to find Deputy Hudson staring at him with a gaze utterly devoid of emotion. A gaze, Baker couldn't help thinking, not even remotely human. He couldn't remember ever having been afraid of any man, really afraid, but if anyone had asked him, he would have said he was afraid of Hudson now. Or something in Hudson. "You got something to say?" Baker asked in a flat tone, forcing the fear down with the control he'd mastered early on in the job of sheriff. He drilled Hudson with a cold stare, letting anger override the impulse to back off. The anger felt strangely satisfying. For an instant, Baker thought he saw a hint of a smile cross Hudson's lips, but the expression didn't quite form. "Well?" he prodded. Hudson shrugged and looked back to his papers. Baker turned and, suddenly feeling weary, went to his desk, dropping into his chair. A small headache geared up in he back of his neck and he massaged the muscles at the base of his skull. Then the sheriff remembered Stanford. Yes, Hudson had brought the man in late yesterday afternoon, along with the most gruesome piece of evidence Baker had ever seen. Well, maybe discounting Dr. Fox, he amended. So Hudson finally had his wish. He'd caught Stanford doing something other than Jennifer Gazio. But where was the smug satisfaction that should have shown on the deputy's face? It just wasn't there. In fact, when Hudson had brought Stanford to his cell -- dragged, was a better word -- he had shown a complete lack of emotion. He didn't seem to care at all. That was not Dave Hudson. As Baker dwelled on the arrest he found it bothered him more and more. Why? He couldn't nail it down -- yet. Stanford just didn't have any reason to kill anyone -- let alone some bum. Cripes, the guy was just a friggin' school teacher, not Jack the Ripper. Still, Baker couldn't deny what had been found in Stanford's room. Now the man was sitting in a cell. Out of Hudson's way. Baker lingered on the thought. Why did it stick in his head? Because of Gazio? Was that why the deputy wanted Stanford out of the way? Last week Baker would have said yes. But last week Hudson would have made sure Jennifer Gazio knew her boyfriend was facing a murder charge. He would have gloated over it. Now? As far as Baker knew, Gazio had no idea the deputy had brought Stanford in, unless Mrs. Gaumont had blabbed, which was not an unlikely possibility. No, Hudson had some other reason for wanting Stanford on ice, some darker reason. But what? Dammit! Frustration made Baker tense. Why wasn't this coming together? Why didn't anything seem to make sense to him today? Baker stared at his desk, an idea forming in his mind. Nodding slightly, he opened a drawer and pulled out a 9 x 12 manila envelope. Opening it, he yanked out the picture of the bloody footprint the lab had sent over after the Fox murder. He stared at the photo for a good minute, not sure why at first. Then he suddenly shoved the picture back into the envelope and pushed himself away from the desk. He rose and walked past the filing cabinets to the metal door at the end of a short hall at the back of the room. Baker paused at the door, getting the being-watched feeling again. Turning, he saw Hudson look back to his desk. Baker shrugged and opened the heavy door, then stepped into the hall of cells that normally only held drunks he hauled in to sleep it off. He saw Stanford stretched out on a bunk, eyes closed. As Baker approached, Paul's eyes flicked open. Baker's gaze shifted to Paul's feet, studying them, mentally comparing them to the footprints in the photo. Baker's attention went back to Paul's face and he said, "Have a good nap?" "That supposed to be funny?" Paul swung into a sitting position. His face looked drained, pasty, eyes circled with darkness. Baker rubbed the back of his neck. "That attitude won't do you a damn bit of good at this point." Baker's voice held more than a hint of irritation, but he wasn't sure what was causing it. "Not if you want my help. And I do believe you need it." Baker leaned against the gray cinderblock wall and folded his arms. "Hudson get sick of dealing with me?" "You let me worry about Hudson. You worry about yourself. You're not in an enviable position right now. You do realize that?" "I'm hung over not stupid -- is this Monday? I'm having a little trouble orienting myself." Baker surveyed Paul's face, deciding the question was legit. He also concluded Stanford didn't carry the look of a guilty man in his eyes. And make no mistake, Baker had dealt with enough guilty men to know they all had that look, no matter how subtle, even the expert liars. The ones who didn't were the types without souls, in his opinion, the Bundys of the world. Hunch or intuition, Baker knew Stanford wasn't one of them. No, the only thing in his eyes was a haunted look, a look of fear that got into the eyes of a man wrongly accused, a man deeply concerned about something or someone. "It's Monday, 2:30. Your watch and personal stuff are in my safe, in case you're wondering." Paul nodded. "So what happens next?" Baker shrugged. "The usual. You'll get a nice room compliments of the county department in Norwich. You'll be processed, formally charged." "My chances?" "Not good. With what Hudson found in your room, the powers that be will take a damn close look for any connections to the recent murders. Wouldn't be too surprised if they reinstated public hanging." "Thanks for the encouragement. I want a lawyer." "Of course." "What do you want from me?" Paul asked bluntly. "You're here for a reason and you know I'm just going to say what they all say -- I didn't do it." "You got a habit of packing heads in your suitcase?" Baker thought he saw Stanford cringe, but the look that came into his eyes didn't say guilt. No, it said something entirely different: loss, regret, sorrow. Why? "No..." Paul's voice trailed off. "I have no idea how it got there. I barely remember yesterday at all." "You'll want to think that over. You'll need to account for all your time." "Why are you telling me this? It's not exactly standard procedure." "No, it's not, but I don't think it's going to matter. What Hudson did wasn't standard procedure, either, and that may be a great help for you when things go to trial." Baker paused, shifted feet. "Don't ask me why, but Hudson's got some strange grudge against you and I think he set you up. That's nothing I'll admit to saying so don't bother repeating it. But I want what's fair, and I'll do my best to help you out." Baker pushed himself away from the wall and stood closer to the bars. "You expect me to believe that? Why would you want to help me?" "I've got my reasons." The thought of the drug ring and his belief of Hudson's involvement being two of them, he added in his mind. "What size feet you got, Mr. Stanford?" "What?" "Your feet, what size?" "Nine and a half." "Weight?" "One-eighty." "Don't s'pose Hudson read you your rights?" "Don't remember. I wasn't particularly coherent." Baker made a pfft noise. "Maybe your odds just took a step in the right direction." He turned and went down the hall, Paul staring after him. * * * * Blood. Oh, Christ, it was blood! Carl Speckler, kneeling, touched the splotch that had dried on the natty carpet to the right of the door. The stain, which appeared black in the dim light, branched out in a two-foot area that showed distinctly. He straightened, gaze lifting and centering on another large stain on the wall, a blotch that spread downward with pencil-thin streams running to the floor like some huge black jelly fish painting. Smaller splotches and spatters were spaced at uneven intervals. It looked to Speckler as if a body, bleeding profusely, had been jammed against the wall with considerable force, then let go, sliding to the floor but getting hung up at intervals on the way down. Speckler tore his gaze from the stains. If he stared at them for too long, the thought struck him, he'd start to see shapes in the gory splotches, patterns of things no mortal had a right to see. So much for his brave news nose, he told himself. The ache in his bladder intensified. Something's wrong... Speckler scanned the living room, gaze sweeping from the dark bulk of the couch to a chair to the TV set, the only pieces of furniture in the room. Nothing, other than the blood, seemed out of place. Deciding to try the kitchen next, which adjoined the living room, he walked across the worn linoleum floor and began opening drawers and cabinets. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he had a feeling he'd know when he found it. Speckler finished his search, finding nothing. He told himself he should be relieved, but wasn't. He felt worse, like a player in a game of Russian roulette who just heard the penultimate click on an empty chamber from the other player. His hands seemed to be gushing sweat now; he wiped them on his trousers. Going back through the living room, he headed down the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms, walking as if he didn't want to wake someone. He passed the laundry closet and made a quick survey of the bathroom and first bedroom, which was only slightly bigger than a closet and empty. Seeing the condition of the bathroom he drew the conclusion that Tony Corsetti lived something like a pig. Dirty towels were scattered across the floor and tub, hanging out of the hamper; toothpaste was globbed in the sink; the toilet hadn't been cleaned in ages. Speckler shook his head in disgust and went to the end of the hall, entering the second bedroom. This one was used, anyway. Like the bathroom, it was a shambles and confirmed his conclusion on Corsetti's lifestyle. "Definitely a pig," he mumbled. Clothes were strewn about, lying on the floor, bed, dresser; beer cans littered the carpet; ash trays, over-flowing with stale cigarettes, gave the room a foul odor. All the earmarks of bacherlorhood -- a goddamn slob of a bachelor. Speckler spotted a small desk squatting in the corner and went to it. Pulling open a drawer, he rifled through the papers and junk -- old matchbooks, elastics, pop tops -- but found nothing. "Crap!" he muttered. He had half-hoped to locate some incriminating evidence: receipts, drugs, anything. He supposed even a scum like Corsetti wouldn't be stupid enough to leave that sort of thing lying around. Speckler turned on the ball of his foot, about to walk out of the room when he noticed a small closet. Don't open it. The voice rang in his mind, clear, distinct, foreboding. He shuddered. Okay, so what? It was just a closet. No big deal. Probably even a waste of time looking in it. He didn't know what he expected to find anyway. Corsetti had beat it and that was that. Speckler found himself taking a step towards the closet, despite himself. As he stared at the pull-a-way slatted door, dread stabbed his mind. His bladder ached violently and he suddenly considered running to the bathroom; he wondered absurdly if the police could identify a suspect from a piss signature. Get ahold of yourself. Reaching out, holding his breath, he clasped the doorknob. Okay, he told himself, if nothing's there, what's the problem? Problem is, Mr. Reporter, there is something in this trailer and you damn well know it. Something bad. You just haven't found it yet. As if agreeing, a gust of wind slammed into the trailer, rattling the windows and his already strung nerves. His legs began to tremble and feel weak. Heat rushed into his face. Swallowing, he braced himself and pulled the door open. Speckler choked back a scream, but couldn't stop a heavy gasp from escaping. He felt suddenly foolish, though relieved he hadn't pissed himself. He'd almost shrieked at a closet full of clothes. "Now wouldn't you have felt like an asshole," he mumbled. "Just clothes, just goddamn clothes! Almost soiled your pants over some old suits and mothball-stinking pants." Face still heated, he slid the door shut and started from the room. Halfway down the hall, he paused, something gnawing at him he couldn't pinpoint. Silence weighed on him, seeping into his being like dampness into a cellar. He gave a small shiver. "Get a grip, Speck, old pal." Cripes, didn't investigative reporting come with thrills, chills and spills? He'd just better get used to it. Starting down the hall again, almost reaching the end, he stopped for a second time. The gnawing feeling grew stronger, as if telling him in no uncertain terms he had overlooked something. What? He ran his hand over his face, through his hair, trying to figure it out. Wait. That closet in the hall. He'd almost missed it in his anxiousness. He turned and looked into the shadows of the hallway. The murk seemed to snap at him, bite in deep. Just a laundry closet, he decided. No use looking in there, was there? A waste of time. Nobody in their right mind would hide any evidence in a laundry closet. Nobody in their right mind? He guessed that didn't apply to Corsetti or Hudson. Staring, he thought he felt something in the closet pull at him, as if saying, "Come on, open me! What have you got to lose?" Right. What did he have to lose? Just a stupid laundry closet. Speckler went back down the hall, walking slower than he thought he should, as if one hand pushed him onward while the other pushed him back. He stopped before the slatted pull-back door. He gripped the handle. Another shiver. Come on, you idiot! You're scaring yourself silly. He swallowed, wishing he could force the fear away. His breath caught in his lungs and he pushed it out. Tugging the door open, he saw the dark shapes of a washer and dyer nestled within the cubicle. "Phew!" Speckler blew out a long breath of relief. He stood there a moment and absently ran his finger along the edge of the washer, the enamel cold and slick and -- wait! What was that? His finger had grazed some dried roughness on the smooth surface, as if something had crusted there, something that felt like dried-up chocolate milk. Okay-okay, his mind rattled, fear bolting through him. Get your balls out of your throat. Probably just spilled soap powder or something. Yeah, that was it: soap powder. Or something. He patted the wall for a light switch. Finding it, he gave it a flick. A gasp exploded from his lips. He recoiled, taking a step back, staring open-mouthed. His heart jack-hammered. Blood! The light revealed dark splotches that had pooled and dried all long the top of the washer. Smears and rivulets spread over the sides and front. Super large capacity! Speckler thought, fumbling for his composure. Extra rinse with your victims! Oh, God -- oh, God! His trembling fingers edged towards the lid as if of their own volition. He felt compelled to open it, though every cautionary alarm in his head blared. Don't touch that lid -- Slowly, he pried the lid up. As he got the lid up fully and peered in, Speckler felt his heart stop, pound. His blood pulsed thickly through the artery in his throat and for a moment he couldn't move, couldn't breath. He no longer had to wonder what had become of Tony Corsetti. Corsetti wouldn't be taking any trips or dealing any drugs ever again. His body -- pieces of it -- had been crammed into the large capacity tub like a load of soiled human laundry. His head, bathed in rusty red streaks of dried blood, stared upward, eyes flung wide in mortal terror, mouth gaping in a silent scream. Speckler felt something start to heave in his belly. He forced himself to turn away, move back a step. His mouth hung open in a wide O and he shook his head in mute denial. He kept backing up until the opposite wall stopped him. He pressed his back to it, slid down into a sitting position and pissed his pants. * * * * Sheriff Baker stuffed the picture of the bloody footprint back into the envelope. For the second time in the last hour he'd stared at it to no avail. The photo revealed no more than it already had -- the print was too large to belong to Paul Stanford. He wished he could say that surprised him. Reaching into the envelope, he pulled out the lab report. Scanning the pages, he found what he wanted: estimated weight of assailant: 205 pounds. Twenty-five pounds heavier than Stanford. Unless Stanford had gone on a quick-loss diet, he wasn't the man who murdered Dr. Margaret Fox. That didn't surprise him either. He'd already felt certain of that fact; the report merely confirmed his conclusion. Of course, he was sure other things wouldn't match -- blood type the most obvious -- but in his estimation he had all the evidence he needed to prove Paul wasn't the killer. What about the other murder and the head found in Stanford's room? Funny, now that he thought about it he saw a hole in that theory, too. When Mrs. Gaumont reported Stanford missing, she said she and Gazio had entered his room. Baker bet they would have noticed the gruesome head had it been there, though they might not have opened the suitcase. Baker glanced surreptitiously at Hudson, saw him staring down at his desk, as if his mind were somewhere else. A chill scraped his spine again, for no reason he could pinpoint. He suddenly wondered if Hudson really thought a murder conviction would stick on Stanford. Although he had told Paul different, Baker knew a good lawyer would have a field day with the way Hudson had handled the case. Whatever else Hudson was, he knew his job and was well aware of procedure. Yet he had thrown it all to the wind. Before his little vacation, Hudson wouldn't have done that. Why had he changed? The more he thought it over, the more Baker became convinced Hudson wanted Stanford locked away for only a short time, which again left him with a big fat why? Baker's thoughts went back to the head found in Stanford's room. A bum. Fred Courtwright. A man who belonged to the wealthiest family in Dark Harbor, but who somehow took a wrong turn in life and ended up ostracized by his relations. What connection could he possibly have to Stanford? None the sheriff could see. Yet the head had wound up in Paul's room. Maybe it was put there... By whom? His gaze flicked to Hudson again, then back to the report. Baker shook his head and sighed. Something still didn't make sense. He shoved the report back into the envelope and tossed it in a drawer. The phone rang. The sound startled Baker more than it should have. Hudson glanced up and their eyes locked briefly, then the deputy went back to staring at his desk, as if completely uninterested. Had Baker caught the merest trace of a smile? He snatched up the phone as it rang again. Carl Speckler's anxious voice burst from the other end, almost unintelligible. "Just calm down." Baker kept his voice low and his lips tight. "I can't understand a damn word you're saying." "C-Corsetti," came Speckler's frantic voice. "He's dead!" "What?" Baker stiffened, the hair on the back of his neck tingling. "Oh, Christ, it's horrible -- I mean -- God! -- I -- " "Take it easy, take it easy." Baker lowered his voice another notch. "Now listen, this is what I want you to do: just get out of there. Don't goddamn touch anything and get the hell over here. I'll call Morrow and Parker and send them out to the trailer, but I'll give you a few minutes to get far enough away." "What about Hudson, and procedure?" Speckler's voice had calmed a bit. "Don't worry about him; I'll take care of it. As far as procedure goes, screw it. Nobody else around here pays any attention to it and I have this sickening gut feeling it isn't going to matter." Baker hung up, slamming the phone down with more force than he intended. The control he normally maintained over his nerves was faltering. The pounding in his head had amplified into a full-fledged migraine. So Corsetti was dead. And Stanford was in jail. Why was everyone on Deputy Hudson's chessboard suddenly getting removed? I'll tell you why. Because Stanford didn't kill Dr. Fox, Freddy the bum or Tony Corsetti -- Hudson did. The thought struck Baker with the force of a blow. With the conviction came a question that chilled him: Who was the next pawn to be removed? Gazio? Himself? A shudder went down his spine as he looked up to see Hudson staring at him, eyes vacant and cruel, cold and lifeless. "It's too late," said Hudson with no emotion. "You know that, don't you?" "What?" Baker tried to return the coldness, but his voice carried a tremor. Something shined in the deputy's eyes, something black and evil. Something ageless. Hate, pure raw hate. "It's too late to stop what's going to happen -- what must happen. You could not even try." Baker's hand edge toward his gunbelt, palm slick with sweat and his soul thick with crawling fear. "What are you talking about, Hudson?" He tried to cover his fear, wasn't successful. "You feel it, Sheriff Baker. All around you. In the air -- in your soul. You've felt it growing all day, though you had no conception of what it was. Perhaps if you had lived a hundred years ago, you would have recognized it. One man did: my father. You, however, do not have the gift." Baker's fingers slid over the butt of his revolver and clamped there. The gun felt cold and full and comforting in his grip, a lifeline. He eased the weapon from its holster and leveled it beneath the desk at Hudson. Christ, he felt scared and he didn't really know why. One thing he did know: if Hudson so much as sneezed, Baker would put a bullet between his eyes and not think twice about it. "Stanford is innocent, isn't he?" said Baker before he could stop himself. "He didn't kill that bum or Dr. Fox; he didn't kill anyone." Baker forced his gaze to hold Hudson's, though the feeling he got from it made him want to come unhinged. "He's innocent of murder, but he's guilty enough." "I don't understand." Hudson uttered a mocking laugh. "He is guilty of things you couldn't begin to understand. Suffice it to say he carries the foul taint of my bloodline, for which he'll suffer. For now he is a tool." Hudson nodded to Baker's desk. "Do you intend to use that on me?" The question startled Baker and he swallowed hard. Hudson knew, somehow he knew. Baker remained silent. "He is my means to an end," Hudson continued. "A delayed end, Sheriff Baker, something I've waited more than a century to achieve. Pity you cannot remain to witness it, but I suspect you'll be glad I spared you." Hudson rose and moved around to the front of his desk. Baker's hand, slick with sweat, tightened on the revolver; his forearm ached with tension. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he held his fire. Baker found himself standing suddenly, as if time had jerked from one scene to the next. He brought the gun up and leveled it at Hudson's heart. "Always aim for the chest, Sheriff Baker." Hudson moved forward, a sneer spreading over his lips. "Isn't that what you are thinking? Largest body area -- you are sure to hit something. Good rule, but this is my game, so your rules no longer apply." Baker stared into Hudson' eyes, transfixed, now sure that Deputy Hudson no longer existed. He had been replaced with something ghastly. A thing. A thing of evil. He saw the veneer strip away, saw blazing red slits slash like alien suns across a hungry black sky. He knew with deadly clarity Hudson or whatever he had become would never let him leave this room alive. "W-what do you want?" Baker tried to gain enough composure to pull the trigger, but his finger seemed frozen. "I want to cure your headaches." Hudson took another step. Baker's finger twitched, began to tighten as he desperately tried to fire. Sweat poured down his face. Why couldn't he pull the trigger? What hold did Hudson have over him? A great wave of fear crashed into his mind. Terror, laced with hatred and anger, pried at his soul. He trembled violently, weakness cascading through him. For he no longer stood in his office. No, he cowered in a muddy rice field, darkness all around, closing in, suffocating him. Drizzle, chilling, stroked his face. His features welded into a mask of disbelief and alarm. He wanted to scream, but no sound would come. Then, through fear-widened eyes, he saw him, the V.C., his eyes blazing red against black, advancing on him. Coming closer, closer. "Goddamn you!" Baker shouted. The snapping sound of his own voice broke his spell. As a sliver of lightening sizzled across the sodden black sky, Baker fired, pumping the trigger until the gun was empty. The Cong bastard kept coming, his sneer arrogant and vile. How could he have missed him? Because I'm terrified! He struggled to gain control, steady himself. How had he come to be here, Viet Nam? It was impossible, a nightmare he'd occasionally suffered with after his discharge. He glanced down at his gun, confusion gripping him. He squeezed the trigger. An empty click sounded, a sound as hollow and final as any shriek of terror he ever heard in the war. The empty sound of death. The rice field vanished. Baker again stood in his office. Before he could orient himself, a horrible searing pain tore through his chest and he looked down to see Hudson's hand embedded in his flesh, buried to the forearm. He saw blood gushing from around it. Baker silently said a prayer, knowing he was a dead man. -------- *(27)* Lightening sizzled across the black sky. Through the barred window, Paul watched it scorch the clouds. A clash of thunder and the whole cell seemed to rattle. As the day wore on, anxiousness built, becoming a live wire in Paul's nerves. His mind had cleared to a reasonable degree, but he almost wished it hadn't. The banging in his head mellowed to a low throbbing, but his ankle, now swollen to double its size, screamed whenever he put pressure on it and ached when he didn't. There was something to be said for living in a stupor. With coherency, his mind filled in a number of blanks, memories spliced together with an adhesive made of sorrow. He kept seeing Jenny's face, hearing her voice. For all the good it did him. Without her, nothing held him in Dark Harbor. Except this little murder charge. Don't forget that. Room with a view, hell, maybe they'll even find a nice warm chair for you to sit in... Did Maine even have the electric chair? Well, it didn't matter, because he'd discovered he'd developed a curious lack of interest in his whole predicament. With the business end of the Dark Harbor gunbarrel pressed to his temple, he just didn't give a damn. Why? Because you were set up, Paul, set up by someone who has no intention of seeing you face charges, someone who needs you where he can find you when he wants you, someone who needs something from you. Who? Over the past hour Paul's mind kept returning to that question. The answer always came back the same: Deputy Hudson. But that answer brought another question: why? Maybe he just wants to get even with you for taking Jenny. No, that didn't make sense, at least not entirely. Granted, he figured Hudson would go out of his way to keep him away from Jenny, but murdering a bum seemed a bit of an overkill, pun intended. There had to be another reason, maybe connected with the old man, though Hudson had no way of knowing the association between himself and Freddy. Not the real Hudson anyway... Why had he thought that? Odd, the notion seemed almost planted there, as if something inside him had thought it. Beware the Sepahpoonuck... The Sepahpoonuck. Tommy's wood demon. Tommy's demon. Demon... He's waiting, Paul. Out there in the strange dread and darkness swallowing this town. The storm of doom, like two worlds, yours of reality and his of nightmare and dark closets, churning, coming together, each repelling one another until something tips the balance and only one remains. He won't wait much longer, Paul. He needs you to tip the scale. Needs me? The Demon? Hudson? Demon/Hudson; Hudson/Demon... Paul swung into a sitting position on the edge of the bunk, thoughts coming together, making him uncomfortable. He gripped the cot's edge, a bit shaky. Jenny... As he stared at the scuffed gray floor, her name lingered in his mind with twisting apprehension. He thought of yesterday afternoon, going to see her at the hospital. He had gone there for two reasons, hadn't he? To explain why he left in he middle of the night -- and to warn her. He'd succeeded in neither. She's in danger, Paul. He'll find her and you won't be able to do a thing about it because you're stuck in this goddamn cell. Out of the way. Out of his way. Where he can use her to get to you. Was that why he was here? The thing in his dream hadn't gotten to him otherwise, so it had decided on another tactic: Jenny. The image of her mangled body forced its way into his mind. Paul tensed, knowing he was close to the answer. Hudson. His mind flicked back to that name. Hudson, Jenny, Freddy. They all tied together, didn't they? A dagger of lighting stabbed the sky's gray-black flesh; light flashed throughout the cell, snapping Paul from his thoughts. Thunder boomed, while wind slapped at the window and whined along the stone wall. Then, gaze riveted to the cell floor, he became aware of another feeling rising above the apprehension, and feeling of being watched. He lifted his head. "Oh, Christ -- " Shock welded onto his face; his lips parted slightly. Beyond the bars, near the opposite wall, a pillar of blackness had begun to form. It spired from floor to ceiling, disappearing somewhere within each. Braided blackness, twisting, twisting, blackness constantly in motion within itself, deeper pits of blue-black glistening liked stars of coal. As Paul stared, transfixed, the column completed itself, solidified. Oh, my Lord. He felt frozen, mesmerized by the sight. The thing in the road... Yes, now he recognized it, the strange blackness he'd glimpsed on the highway. He saw it clearly, now; it had a hypnotic cycling quality to it. Peering within its depths, Paul suddenly glimpsed faces, features twisted in obscene agony, but as quickly as they rose, they vanished. They seemed extensions of the pillar, yet somehow apart from it. With a stabbing blade of revulsion, he knew the faces were trapped within the column, prisoners of infinity struggling to break free. Paul fought to pull his gaze from the column of onyx, unsuccessful. Staring, he watched as a tenuous jagged tendril began to drift from its body. Protoplasmic, the tendril thickened, expanded, contouring into the shape of a figure. Paul's heart quickened and his mouth dropped open. The figure, fully formed, crouched beside the column. "Freddy..." Paul mouthed, the word barely audible. The old man slowly lifted his head, as if the very movement were a great burden. Ragged clothes clung to his wasted body like garments on a hanger. His face appeared drawn, hollow, eyes showing only whiteness, as if somehow his soul were missing. As the empty gaze fell upon Paul, he couldn't suppress a shudder. The old man tried to raise his bony hands, but failed. Barbs of blackness jutted from the tendrils that attached him to the pillar, penetrating his wrists, gouging deep. Pity rose inside him, along with the shock. Suddenly he wanted to deny the blackness existed, turn away from the decrepit soulless thing that had been his real father. "Paul ... listen..." The old man's lips moved as if with great effort. His voice sounded garbled, reverberative. "What ... do you want?" Paul managed to get out, almost a whisper. "Help ... me ... The vanished Place..." Oh, Christ, Paul! Survey says -- you're dreaming this. You have to be. You just passed out again and instead of Tommy you got this -- But he wasn't dreaming. No matter how much his wished it were true. Paul came to his feet, ankle throbbing as he walked to the bars. Closer to the blackness, he felt filled with its obscenity, its insinuating dread. It pulled at him, a magnate of evil that wanted -- no, needed him for something. A hunger, a hunger of the damned. Again he caught glimpses of the faces, anguished tortured souls who screamed out in torment and pleading -- Oh, God -- Paul jerked loose from the thing's hold, as if his soul were somehow elastic. He felt drained, weakened. The image seemed to lose strength for a moment, becoming almost transparent. A reflection cast from a black pool. Then the column solidified and the faces within swirled about, their agonized wailing drawn out and distorted. "Paul ... you must ... listen." Freddy's lips barely moved. Paul gripped the bars, knuckles draining white. "Why are you here?" His voice carried a tremor. "Why did you come back?" "I have to tell you ... son. Not much time. Aye, the Demon is close." "Tell me what?" Paul pressed his face closer to the bars. The Demon. The Demon is close. Again Paul felt the strange pulling emanate from the blackness. He forced himself not to look into it. He saw Freddy attempt a feeble smile, as if the old man recognized Paul's resistance. "You must face him, boy, deny him your gift." "Gift?" Paul's eyes narrowed. "You will enter the Open Realm, the world within the folds of twilight, the world that for most does not exist." "I don't understand." "It is a battleground, a dimension where darkness clashes with light. Even now you feel the worlds moving together ... one rejecting the other like an infection. The darkness will prevail if you let the Demon have your gift." "Why does he want me, my 'gift'?" "You are the key to the dark door, boy, but a key that must turn willingly to atone to his god for his failures. With your gift he can unlock the door and keep it open. He can release the damned." A sinking sensation filled his gut. The feeling told him he'd somehow known all along why he'd been called back to Dark Harbor; yet he hadn't really known, just lived with something passed down to him, like and inherited disease waiting to quicken in his blood. His blood. His Courtwright blood. Shock crossed Paul's face and the image of the Courtwright mansion burst into his mind. Then he saw the face of the thing in his dream, fleshless features vile and grinning, and he knew -- he knew the reason he'd been so frightened of that house, that dark closet that concealed the even darker horror dwelling within. "Aye, boy, Nathan Courtwright." "How ... how can that be possible?" "Like you, he had the gift. He misused it, twisted it with evil. His family -- our family -- confined him, bricked him up behind a wall in his own mausoleum. They little realized his full power. His evil soul escaped to the Open Realm and waited -- waited for you." "If I let him have my gift?" "He will become immortal and rule over the damned you release -- as was promised to him over a hundred years ago. His master will have your world." "And me? What do I get out of it?" "You will get whatever he promises you, boy, what you most desperately desire. But the price will be great." "If I refuse?" "He will try to trick you, feed off your deepest fears and force you into the Vanished Place where even the damned are lost." "Jenny?" Paul swallowed hard, dread resurfacing and making him feel sick. "He'll use your feelings for her against you; if you don't give in, he'll destroy her." "And you? What happens to you?" "I am chained to Hell, boy. Lost already. You can do nothing for me, now, but I owe you what I never had a chance to repay. I have ... so little time ... you must fight him." "If I do ... Jenny could die..." Paul let the words trail off. "You have no other choice, boy. He will unshackle the damned. Every lost soul, every deranged spirit throughout time and history will be set free upon the Earth. Do you understand the consequences of that?" All Hell would break loose, Paul. That's what he's telling you. You know it's true because you can feel it. You felt it all along. You were so goddamned preoccupied with your own petty problems you let this go further than it should have. You could have listened to the old man that night on the street, but oh, no, you could only think of Jenny. Even now you're still thinking of her, screw the rest of humanity. Looks like they picked the wrong guy for a hero, huh? Maybe you care about Jenny more than this messed up world you live on. You love her, Paul. You love her more than you ever loved anything and you know you won't be able to just let her die... "Yes, I realize," Paul mumbled finally. He lowered his head and stared at the floor. "I realize." "Don't let him take your world, boy. One person isn't worth it. Face the Demon in the Open Realm, where you can find your strength and be equal." "How?" Paul found himself asking, before he could think about it. His head lifted and he met Freddy's white stare. "How do I enter?" "You have been there before, boy." The words dissolved strangely. Freddy's image suddenly wavered, rippling, distorting, fading. "No!" Paul screamed, thrusting an arm through the bars, reaching for his father. Freddy's lips parted, but silent words trickled into space. "Don't leave me now! Please, don't leave me now." Paul's words seemed lost, unheard. The image of Freddy and the black pillar swept in a twisting arc that collapsed towards an invisible center line, folding into it and vanishing into the air, as if they had never existed. Paul's reaching fingers grasped at nothingness and closed into a fist. He stared at the empty gray wall, feeling as if some small part of him had vanished with his father. Withdrawing his hand, he gripped the bars in despair, then fury. He had to get out of the cell -- now! He had to find Jenny, get to her before the Demon could hurt her or use her against him. With her safe, he could face the thing on his own terms. Then he wouldn't care if it killed him, but God help him, he didn't know if his love, his selfishness, would let him choose between her life and the survival of this goddammed world. "Baker!" he yelled, gaze jerking to the metal door at the end of the hall. "Help me! Get me out of here!" Paul stopped yelling, listening for a moment despite his frantic anxiousness. A sound. A rapid series of reports. Silence. Another sound, one that came from behind the door. A thin clank as a key was inserted, turned. The door opened with a rattle and Paul felt a glimmer of hope. The glimmer was suddenly snuffed as he saw Hudson step through the door and walk towards the cell. Beware the Sepahpoonuck... "No..." Paul whispered, shaking his head as the realization, half-formed before his father had appeared, coalesced in his mind. Hudson/the Demon; the Demon/Hudson. One and the same. The deputy came forward with an odd shuffling gait. His skin had a washed-out sickly pallor, as if his face were merely muscle coated with a thin layer of flesh. Then Paul saw there reason for Hudson's laboring walk: a gory slash shone on his right thigh; his uniform pantleg was shredded and bloody. He'd been shot. Hudson stopped just beyond Paul's cell and Paul forced his gaze to hold the deputy's. For a moment the man's blue eyes faded and blackness -- a strange almost sentient blackness -- took their place. Deep slashes of crimson blazed like hellfire within the ebony and Paul stifled a gasp. Then Hudson's eyes came back, dull, lifeless, empty. "What are you?" Paul asked, a wave of dread washing through him. The deputy laughed. "You know what I am, Paul Stanford ... or should I say Paul Courtwright? Before I butchered the old man I didn't realize the connection. Then I knew why you had the gift." "You bastard!" Paul said. As Hudson stepped close to the bars, an immediate urge to recoil took him. Fear, hate, the corrosive touch of evil, emanated from the deputy. He realized now that's what he had felt yesterday when he entered his room at the boarding house. He had sensed the Demon waiting for him, but was too drunk to realize it. "You are alive for one reason, Stanford. Because I want your help. Join me. You can have anything you want, anything you've ever dreamt of having: women, power, immortality..." "You know I'll never join you. And you can't take me unless I let you." Hudson smiled. "You are wrong. I can take you. The old bastard lied to you." Hudson's face changed for a moment, as if his guard had come down. He slumped against the bars. Now, Paul! Something's wrong with him. He's vulnerable -- that bullet wound proves it. Do it now! His hand shot through the bars. His fingers clamped about Hudson's throat. The deputy tried to jerk back, but Paul's fingers tightened. He squeezed with all his strength, hand whitening. His hand began to ache from the strain, but a vicious desire to murder the deputy surged in his veins and he forced his fingers to press deeper into soft flesh that felt like old cellophane. Hudson struggled, trying to break the grip, but the deputy was weak. Paul thrust his other hand through the bars and tried to pull him closer, maneuver his forearm around the back of Hudson's neck. He wanted to spin the deputy around, maybe crack his skull against the bars or snap his neck. Paul's heart pounded. Pent-up fear and anger coursed through him, focusing itself on Hudson as he thought of Freddy. Suddenly he no longer wanted to merely kill Hudson, he wanted to torture him, prolong his agony, make him suffer -- Kill the sonofabitch, Paul! Let it out. He murdered your father and he'll kill Jenny! For an instant, Paul's attention wavered to Jenny. Hudson, choking, struggling wildly, took advantage of it. The deputy thrust back, using all his weight. Paul's elbow slammed against a bar and pain splintered through his arm. His grip faltered and Hudson jerked free. Where Paul's fingers had pressed into the deputy's throat, white indentations remained. The indentations looked strangely crackled, as if the cellophanelike flesh were brittle, drying out. Paul had the sudden impression he could peel off that flesh and peer at the musculature beneath. Hudson's hand went to his throat. He uttered a hoarse laugh and staggered back. "A good effort, Stanford, but you failed. If it's any consolation, it would have been easy for you to kill this body just then. That fool Baker almost did. Now I will show you the same courtesy." "You can't kill me without losing your chance to open the door." Paul's eyes narrowed, face tight. Hudson forced a smile. "Does the same apply to Jennifer Gazio?" His insides tightened and ice settled in his belly. Paul had missed his chance at Hudson. Now the Demon was free to go after Jenny and there was nothing he could do about it. "No, please," Paul pleaded, tone frantic. "Leave her alone -- I changed my mind -- I'll join you. I'll do whatever you want. Just let her go." Hudson uttered a patronizing laugh. "As soon as I opened that door you would not hesitate to destroy me. I must have something to bargain with. That something is Jennifer Gazio." Hudson turned and began to walk down the hall towards the door, left leg dragging slightly. Come on, Paul. He's slipping away! You have to kill him or he'll kill Jenny. "Wait!" Paul shouted. "I give you my word." "Your word?" Hudson turned briefly. "Your word is no good to me." "Please don't hurt her..." Paul's words trailed off. It was futile to expect mercy from the deputy. "Hurt her? I won't hurt her. But I may slaughter her." Hudson paused. "Don't worry, I'll save you a seat for the show. By then I'll be too strong and you won't get a second chance to do what you did a moment ago." Hudson walked through the doorway. As the door closed, Paul heard the clank of the key in the lock, and hope died inside him. He shouted again, throat raw and paining, knowing it would do no good. -------- *(28)* The doors swished open and Jenny stepped into the elevator. Hesitating before pressing the button, she felt dread wash over her, as it had the night Peg died. She wondered if she'd ever get over it. Gripping her nerves, she jabbed the button for the fifth floor; she decided it was time she did. If she didn't face it, she'd never get over it, never be completely comfortable in the hospital. With a whir of machinery the elevator started upward. Her stomach followed a beat behind. Why are you so nervous? she asked herself, folding her arms. The damn storm didn't help. The wind had picked up, gusting, making strange soughing sounds as it rushed against the concrete walls and rattled the windows, as if clawing to get in. She caught herself tensing every time she heard a muffled boom of thunder and saw the hospital lights flicker with each sizzling bolt of lightning. She'd never been particularly bothered by thunderstorms, but this one was different. This one made her skin crawl. That was an excuse, wasn't it? The storm wasn't really to blame for her edginess; it was some other force churning in the air. A dread. The same dread she felt the night of Peg's death, only amplified and more ubiquitous. She'd felt it all day, perhaps even before that, though she'd hardly noticed in her distraction over Paul. Now it was stronger, closer. Don't worry about it, she tried to convince herself. Why not? another voice questioned. The only thing you've got on your mind is Paul. You've been thinking about him your whole shift. He's in trouble and needs you... "No," she mumbled, trying to force the thought away. Paul would always be in some kind of trouble. She couldn't let that sway her. She had made her decision and had to stick to it. Didn't she? She'd been wrong twice before about him; twice might be a mistake, but three times would be a bad habit. So why couldn't she shake the feeling he was in danger? Why couldn't she shake the dread? Earlier the feeling had grown so strong she'd even found herself picking up the phone and starting to dial the boarding house. Realizing what she was doing, she'd stopped herself immediately. Seeing his car in the boarding house parking lot she'd wrestled with the urge to walk across the street and talk him, give him a chance to explain. Didn't he deserve at least that much? In the last few hours she found herself dwelling on him and that question more and more. Her mind always came back with the same answer: maybe a little time together would be better than no time at all. God, she still loved him; she wished she could deny it. But she had Andy to consider. Wasn't it better to break it off now than have to explain the her son after he really got attached that Paul had gone? He already kept asking when Mr. Stanford was going to take him on the rides again. Jenny sighed and glanced at her watch: 6:30. Where had the last hour gone? She wasn't even sure of that. What the hell good was she to her patients in a mood like this? Paul's in trouble... Damn that voice in her head, and the dread, too. Because both the feeling and Paul seemed interrelated. That's the real reason she had forced herself to go through with coming back to the fifth floor: because it all started there with Peg's death, the dread and thoughts of Paul that night. Now that she had taken the step, she found herself frightened to a point that bordered on childish terror. The elevator stopped and she jolted, taking a tremulous breath. You have to go through with it... As the elevator doors opened her resolve began to rush away. Maybe she hadn't made the right choice. The dread felt so much stronger up here, electric. Worse than on the night Peg died. Much worse. She forced herself forward before the doors closed and her resolve deserted her completely. She struggled to hold back a surge of undirected panic as her foot slapped into a layer of water that covered the floor. Her gaze dropped and a gasp escaped her lips. A sound strangled in her throat. A rippling sheet of water spread over the floor, about an inch deep. Brackish and black, it washed over the tiles and flowed into the gap between the elevator and floor sill. It splashed over her soft-soled shoes, as she took a tentative step. She jumped as the elevator doors slid shut behind her. Forcing her panic down, she told herself a pipe had burst, or perhaps the sprinkler system had gone off accidentally. She glanced up and found both her excuses discounted. The ceiling tiles were dry, as were the sprinklers. She knew a pipe couldn't have burst without soaking the panels, and the sprinklers would still be dripping. Her shoes soaked, Jenny began to walk towards the nurses' station. Was the water deeper than it had been a moment ago? A sinking feeling told her it was. She peered over the desk, leaning on it heavily for support. Her hopes sank. Gail was nowhere to be found. She pushed herself away from the desk and walked around it. Facing the empty corridor, she thought it suddenly looked a thousand miles long, the sheet of water like shiny black marble that stretched on endlessly. Except when she looked down her feet were embedded in the black marble, now topping her ankles. Go home, girl... What? Had she heard something? Or was it just her jangled nerves? Come on, you're a grown woman, she told herself. You're not dreaming this time so there has to be a reasonable explanation. Right? She took a step, another, weakness invading her legs. The water now came halfway up her shins, soaking her nylons. It's rising... Her heart began to palpitate. She fought the powerful desire to turn back, run. Only her stubborn nature and morbid curiosity drove her forward. "Okay, Jen," she whispered. "Steady yourself. You know you're not dreaming and you know the pipes didn't burst and the sprinkler didn't go off. The roof can't be leaking because there are two floors above you." So what did that leave? Where the hell was the water coming from? Good question. A flash of lightning splintered through the window at the far end of the hall, and she tensed. The light skittered along the marblelike floor, jagged fingers almost reaching to her feet. She kept on, despite her fear, heading for the lab at the end, which seemed to have become farther way, instead of closer. The liquid marble sloshed at her knees, now. It flowed against her, as if pushing her back. It was all she could do to control the panic that strained to burst free in her mind. You're the strong one, Jenny. Remember that. Her flesh tingled as an electricity sizzled in the air, as if somehow the lightning had seeped into the building and been captured. It strengthened the dread squirming within her. You've got to face it, she thought. You don't want to, but you have to. Remember what you told Cindy? If you don't face it you'll never get over it. For once take your own advice. Paul's in trouble. Paul's face flashed in her mind and a sensation of danger filled her again. Stronger. Much stronger. Without realizing it, Jenny had reached the lab door and stopped. The water rose to mid-thigh. She stared at the door, afraid to move. Open it, Jen. Forget Paul and open the door. Lean on yourself. Face your own problems, the way you always have. She was the strong one. Her hand drifted towards the handle, shaking as if palsied. Time seemed to jerk to a stop and hurl itself backward to the night she found Peg's mutilated body. Go home, girl... He hand stopped. Had she heard something? A voice? Or was it water sloshing against the walls? The water. The damned water. Cool and oily and fondling her thighs. The current had become stronger, shifting. Do you want to drown, Jenny? Don't open that door or you might be swept away. In her mind she saw a flash of red as the murderer hurled himself through the window, heard the jangling crash of glass and saw the glittering shards flying into the air. And Peg's body, drowning in blood. Drowning. Jenny's gaze dropped to the water. Along the edges of the lab door crimson bled into the black. Go ... home ... girl... Jenny's trembling hand darted outward and clutched the door handle. She swallowed hard and her fingers tightened, bleaching. Do it, Jenny! Open it! Something touched her shoulder. She suppressed a scream that threatened to erupt from her very soul. Electric fear sizzled through her. Slowly, Jenny turned her head. Her gaze dropped to the tattered dark hand hunched on her shoulder like a ragged spider. Clean white bone shone through two fingers, as if stripes on the spider's legs. The dark flesh looked brittle. Oh, my God... Jenny tore her shoulder away from the thing in a burst of panic. She knew what was attached to that hand. She tried to whirl, taking a backward step at the same time, but the water, now slapping at her waist, made the movement uncoordinated and she barely retained her balance. The terror of plunging beneath the water's blood and black surface was the only thing that prevented her from falling into it, and she scrambled wildly to stay on her feet. Horror coursed through her as her gaze settled on the apparition attached to the ragged hand. A thing from her worst nightmares stared back at her, a mucousy glaze clouding its deep brown eye. The other eye was missing, gouged out; a gory hollow socket glared sightlessly. Shreds of flesh dangled from its right cheek. Layers of muscle and part of a cheekbone shone through, glinting under the florescent lights. A large flap of flesh hung from the left temple. Black kinky hair, tangled and matted, lay over the hole, strands caked with dried blood. The body, its hospital scrubs ripped and stained with huge splotches of browned blood, sported gaping holes from which dangled organs. A few ribs jutted through, pushing out from beneath the frock. Brown skin peeled back from a gruesome slash across the neck. "Peg!" Jenny half-gasped. The same vision she'd had of her friend her first day back at the hospital, yet worse, more deteriorated. As if some force had pried into her deepest terrors and laid them bare. Jenny suddenly felt the cyclone of blackness begin to whirl deep in her mind, the way it had when she first discovered Peg's body. It rose, spinning faster, faster, faster -- The water, the bloody black water! You'll drown -- Jenny caught herself. Her mind snapped back, clearing, and she willed herself to face the terror inside. Panic came in jolting waves, making her feel weak, but she held on to consciousness. She pressed her back to the wall for support, to keep the rushing current from pulling from her feet. "Peg..." she whispered in a childlike, fragile voice. The sound that escaped Peg's shattered lips might have been a laugh; Jenny couldn't be sure, but the sound froze her. "Go. Home. Girl." Peg's words seemed formed with great difficulty, forced. A bloated purplish tongue squirmed in her mouth, clogging the sound. "Go. Home." Peg's eye roved and Jenny tried to press herself into the wall. Revulsion crawled through her, but above the fear rose another urge, an intense desire to get home as fast as she could. Peg's mouth came open again and a grating sound issued from dead swollen lips: "An-dy ... die..." "No!" Jenny screamed. Her hands flew up and pressed to her ears as she tried to block out Peg's voice. But she kept hearing her repeat Andy's name. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight. A great roar filled her brain, the sound of Andy's name pounding, pounding, pounding. She felt crushed by fear, resolve beaten down, the urgent desire to get home checkmated by her terror-frozen muscles. Andy, Andy's in danger! Andy -- Paul, Andy -- Paul -- Go home -- GO HOME GIRL! In her numbed mind she saw Peg's ghastly image coming towards her, sloshing through the water. Her tattered dark hand reached out, fingers writhing, clutching -- Jenny shrieked. Her eyes flew open in stark terror, expecting the see the apparition fall upon her. Silence, the echoes of her scream snuffed. She stared at the empty hallway. Peg had vanished. The floor was perfectly dry. Her skirt, nylons, shoes were also dry. Jenny stared transfixed at the floor. Time seemed suspended and for a moment she didn't move, didn't breath. Go home, girl... "Andy..." Jenny mumbled, lips barely moving. Then, louder, "Andy!" Urgency flooded back, a surety that Andy (Paul) was in terrible danger. Before she could think about it further, Jenny found herself in motion, the grip of fear broken. She ran down the hallway on shaky legs. Whatever she had seen or felt in that hallway, she'd have to deal with later, because right now she knew some unknown danger threatened her son and she had to be strong for him. * * * * Cindy stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in an over-sized towel, tucking the ends into the top so it would stay up. Rivulets of water zigzagged into the valley of her breasts. Grabbing a smaller towel, she bundled her hair. After wiping her feet on the bathmat, she padded down the hall and stepped into her bedroom. She left the door ajar so she could hear what Andy was up to in the next room. Listening a moment, she caught the playful sounds of toys being banged around and mumbles of childish satisfaction and glee. She smiled. Outside, thunder bellowed a cannonball roar and lightning snickered, flashing its stark light into the room. Rain poured down in wavering wind-distorted sheets. The lights flickered, dimmed, came back, and she uttered a curse. She hoped the damn power didn't go off before she finished blow drying her hair. She lowered herself onto the chair in front of her vanity and pulled the blow dryer and a hairbrush from the top middle drawer. Yanking the towel from her head, she tossed her hair back, then plugged in the dryer and flicked it on. The dryer whirred as she ran splayed fingers through her blonde locks, flipping back the front in an effort to straighten some of her natural curl. Twenty minutes later she clicked off the dryer, fluffed her hair, then cocked an ear. Above the sound of the beating rain and wind she still heard Andy rummaging around in his room. She listened for a moment to make sure he was playing with his toys and not getting into something he wasn't supposed to. She had developed a knack for distinguishing between his sounds. Careless noise meant he was playing with his own stuff; subdued noise meant he was trying to cover up something; no noise meant he was definitely in trouble. Cindy picked up her watch, which she'd set on the vanity, and glanced at the time. Good, it was almost time to read him "Diddle Diddle" and get him off to sleep. She expected a battle nevertheless. Stuffing the dryer and brush back into the drawer, Cindy rose and turned to face the room. She had carefully laid out her blouse and jeans on the bed. She was about to cross to the bed when she was struck by a sudden sense of being watched. Her gaze lifted to the window. Peering out into the preternatural night, she saw great splotches of rain splatter the glass, disrupting the watery sheets that flowed down the pane and over the sill. A flash of lightning outlined the street in stark relief, as it skipped across the rain-bloated sky. Her gaze centered on Mrs. Gaumont's boarding house across the street. A light shined from the kitchen window, stretching down the glass like glowing taffy. Oh, Jesus! Cindy shook her head. The old bat was at it again. As the rainflow on the window lulled, she saw the old woman clearly, perched by the window, sipping from a cup and staring out. Then rain drew a blurry liquid shade over Cindy's window and distorted the view. The water shade seemed to ripple strangely and form a vague outline that sent a shiver snaking down her spine. For an instant, Cindy's gaze riveted to its ghostly symmetry. The deeper she stared into it, the more she got the impression of a face, features caught in rain and imprisoned in glass. The face hovered, shimmering and liquidy. A vaguely familiar face with harsh, cruel features. The face melted away, streaming down the window and she decided it had been only her imagination, but shuddered just the same. The incident left her with a disturbed cold feeling she couldn't shake. "It couldn't be..." she mumbled through tight lips. "The storm's just making me jumpy." She shivered again. Looking away from the window, she tried to ignore the nascent fear crawling through her nerves. As she went to the bed and picked up her jeans, she found it wouldn't let go. It felt stronger, now, combining with the sense of being watched. Normally when Cindy caught Mrs. Gaumont peering in she would do something to shock the old woman, like whip off the towel. She got a perverse pleasure out of putting the old bag in her place. But not tonight. Tonight the feeling of being watched didn't seem limited to Mrs. Gaumont. She felt something else there, hidden eyes that stripped her naked, exposed her beyond that, somehow. Compelled to look up at the window again, she fought the urge, but the compulsion was too powerful. Mrs. Gaumont no longer sat by the window. Perhaps she had gone for another cup of coffee or whatever it was she was drinking, or had given up. Cindy's eyes reluctantly focused on the glass. A gasp escaped her lips as she caught a glimpse of the face again. Its subtly evil lines appeared frozen in the swirls and wavering texture of rain washing down the pane. Then it dissolved, swept away as a gust of wind hammered the fluid into a nova shape. She stood frozen, breath catching. She had seen the face clearly enough to recognize its features and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up in a chilling wave. She clenched her jeans tightly, fingers going white as they twisted at the material. Standing there wrapped in only a towel, she felt suddenly dirty, as if violated by secret depraved eyes that somehow raped her soul. A hollow, used feeling slithered from the dark places in her past. When she was twelve. The bedroom door slammed shut. Cindy jolted, spun, heart jumping into her throat. She stared at the closed door, a warm fluid fear pooling within her. It's okay, she assured herself. It was just the door. There's no reason to be scared. Defying the fear, she went to the door and grabbed the handle. She twisted, pulling at it when she found the handle wouldn't turn. She used both hands, jerking hard and leaning back to get her weight into it, but the door wouldn't budge. "Oh, Christ!" The damn thing was stuck again. This house wasn't that goddamn old; doors shouldn't be sticking. It had done this to her before, but it usually came open when she gave it a good yank. Wait. The door didn't usually close on its own. And the handle wouldn't turn. Each time the door had stuck before, the handle turned. She felt fear rush back, stronger. "God, I don't wanna be stuck in here till Jenny gets home!" She rattled the door again; it remained jammed. Then she thought of Andy and a surge of relief took her. Maybe he had closed the door as a joke. She hadn't been paying attention to his sounds at the time and he could have snuck out of his room and pushed it shut. But he couldn't have locked it... With a fist she pounded the door. "Andy, let me out!" She prayed Andy wouldn't realize that with her trapped he wouldn't have to go to bed until Jenny got home. She decided he'd earned a spanking, regardless. "Andy, open the door this minute!" She yelled it in a firm tone that usually got his attention. She pounded on the door again to emphasize the words. Silence. Cindy pressed her ear to the door and listened. Muffled noises came from Andy's room. Christ, the little turd was ignoring her. Anger mixed with edginess. "Andy, get in here and open this door -- NOW!" As if in response, the light blinked off. Dead silence screamed through her mind, broken suddenly by a crash of thunder that jangled every nerve in her system. A blaze of lightning flashed through the room. "Oh, goddammit!" She stamped her foot. What a friggin' good time for the goddamn power to go off, she thought. Yet something felt wrong, something her nervous thoughts couldn't cover up. Standing in the darkness, she tried to pinpoint just what it was. A moment later, it dawned on her. Andy hadn't stopped playing. Noise came from his room as if nothing had happened. No pause, no yell, as though he hadn't even noticed the lights going out. That wasn't Andy. Oh, no. Andy was scared of the dark. That's why he slept with a night light. Yet he hadn't made a sound. Another thing struck her as she turned to face the dark room, something that made her blood run cold. Peering through the window, gaze settling on Mrs. Gaumont's kitchen, she saw the old woman's light still on. Mrs. Gaumont stepped into view, paused to peer out, then settled back into her chair and sipped from a cup. Mrs. Gaumont didn't gaze towards Cindy's room because obviously she thought Cindy had turned out the light herself. Cindy could tell by the tilt of the old woman's head she was looking in the direction of Andy's room. Was Andy's light on? That was impossible, wasn't it? She was pretty goddamn positive the power didn't just go out on one side of the street and in selective rooms on the other. A wave of panic threatened to unhinge her. "Andy!" she yelled, spinning back to the door and slamming the heel of her hand against the panel. Her body wanted to tremble itself apart. As she paused to listen, nothing but the hammering of her heart and the sound of her quickened breath reached her ears. "Andy, please open the door -- you're scaring me!" A sudden trapped feeling gripped her mind and the darkness felt moist, groping. Her room no longer seemed familiar or comforting, only eerie and alien. A world where screams and compassion no longer mattered because no one heard and no one cared. It reminded her of -- Oh, God, please don't think about that! Don't let it come back! A noise startled her and she jerked around, eyes wide. On the dresser, a music box, bathed in a dull reddish glare, slowly turned. The old carousel from her room at Dudley's, it tinkled a song, a song that unearthed dark memories and the promise of terror: "Around the World in 80 Days." "Nooo -- " The word came out in a gasp. She spun back around and grabbed the door handle, shaking it violently. "Oh, no, oh please, sweet Jesus -- no! Andy! Help me! Open the goddamn door!" Her fingers slipped from the handle and she backed up on unsteady legs. Mind racing, she tried to think of a way out of the room. The vanity chair! Smash the window! Smash the window and scream! She started for the chair -- stopped cold. Something reached around from behind and touched her, something cold and dead feeling. It pinched her flesh as it thrust beneath her arm, clamping about her breast, squeezing. A hand! A scream ripped from her throat and she froze, breath stuttering out. A grunt sounded close to her ear and a burst of moist warm breath caressed her face and sent chills through her body. She felt herself spun around and in an instinctive response from her childhood, she pressed her eyes closed to shut out the sight of the goblin she knew was behind her. In the darkness of her mind, past and present blended, twisted, insane. Oh, God please no don't let him be -- A stench, sour, like old whiskey and rot, assailed her nostrils; his breath. Then, even with her eyes shut, she saw his face. It rose from black memories, corroded nightmares, floating in darkness and a murky reddish light not a part of the past. The glare crawled over the face, the goblin face, as if its features bled light. Pain spiked into her arms as cold hands gripped her and pressed deep into her flesh. The goblin forced her back, hurling her onto the bed. "Open your eyes, Cindy darlin'." That voice, the voice of her Sunday School Devil, of everything perverted and twisted in her past. Icy fingers, snaking up her thighs, probing, kneading, fumbling at the towel, trying to tear it off. "OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES!" the voice demanded, heavy with the slur she remembered. Her eyes flew open. An inarticulate sound of fright escaped her lips as she focused on the face hovering above her. Outlined in the dull red glare, his face looked exactly the way she remembered it. His glazed eyeballs bulged, violating her soul with their intent. His lardy naked form straddled her, her own body half on the bed, legs hanging over the side and feet touching the carpet. His fingers pushed up between her legs, groping, each touch bringing pain. Jesus loves the little children... "No," she mewed, shaking her head in impotent protest. Why was it happening again? Why had the bastard come back? "Please, not again..." "Give Dudley a smooch, little girl. Give your uncle a great big kiss!" His face pressed close to hers; his raw putrid breath washed over her face and slimy lips slid over her cheek, leaving a sickening stinking film. All the children of the world... Cindy's gaze jumped to the bedroom door, for an instant her mind snapping between present and past. She expected to see it cracked open, light spilling in from the hall, Aunt Agie's face framed in supplication and sorrow. But she wasn't there. Only darkness. He's a sick man ... she heard Jenny's voice say in her mind. It isn't your fault. From some pocket in her mind, a blind burning rage tore loose, jerking her to the present. Every ounce of hate and bitterness she had carried for him through the years surged, blazed, cremated her terror and filled her with strength. He would not do this to her again, he would never do this to her again. She wasn't twelve and Dudley was dead, gone, buried. This was an impostor, a ghoul. He wouldn't take her, never, never again, never again -- Her hand shot out, fingers stretching to grip the small heavy-based table lamp on the nightstand. She touched its thick base, getting a firm grip. "Not this time, you sonofabitch!" she screamed. "Not this goddamn time!" Cindy yanked with as much strength as she could muster. The cord snapped taut and the plug jerked from the socket. The lamp arced through the air, glancing from Dudley's head with a sound like two blocks colliding. He had seen it coming, almost avoided it -- but not quite. He reared back, distracted and hurt, hand going to his head. She twisted violently, thrusting her other arm out for leverage, and threw him off. "Bastard!" she screamed, leaping up, legs shaky but holding, a gout of anger giving her strength. "You bastard!" Dudley gripped the bedpost, bracing himself, straightening. He uttered a hoarse laugh, started for her. "Come to your uncle, bitch. It's been so long. I know you want it. You always did. You always teased me." "Pig!" Cindy yelled, diving for the vanity. "You goddamned disgusting pig!" Throwing open the drawer, she snatched up a pair of shears and spun. "This is for all the times you put that filth in me, all the years you tortured me!" She flung herself towards him in a blind rage, swinging the scissors in a looping arc. "I hate you! I hate you!" Dudley grunted and jerked his head sideways. The scissors whizzed by his ear and opened a gory slash as they skimmed his shoulder, but did little other damage. Cindy, off balance from the force of her swing, tried to right herself and plunge the shears into his neck. Dudley's hand snapped up, catching her wrist and twisting. Agony splintered through her forearm as small bones cracked in her wrist. The scissors dropped from numbed fingers. Her eyes rose to meet his, locked on black obscene pits slashed with scarlet. "One shot to a customer, you little slut. You got two. Now you have to pay for it." He forced her backward. She tried to kick his shin, thrust her knee into his groin, but failed. He hurled her to the bed. Her head collided with the bedpost and her world spun. Streaks of blackness and streams of red flew before her vision. His icy hand pressed into her belly and sudden fiery welts of pain shot through her insides. Agony, streamers of agony. His hand burrowed in, pressing deep into her flesh, merging with it somehow. Darkness, leading her. The agony became a distant throbbing pulse. She was going to the dark place, the safe place, escaping the goblin. He couldn't hurt her anymore, never again. In that instant, she knew, knew, she had done everything as a child she could to keep him from taking her. Jenny was right: it wasn't her fault. It never had been. In the fading light that was her life, the knowledge gave her freedom. * * * * Andy pointed his toes upward, cocked his leg, and punted Mr. Potato Head through the open window. Rain and wind lashed in, splattering the sill and soaking the carpet below the window. The thought struck him that when his mother or Aunt Cindy came in and discovered the window open and the water, he'd get a big spanking, but it was worth it to see if Mr. Potato Head could swim. Andy giggled and picked his way through the clutter of toys scattered across the rug, action figures, limbs twisted into positions impossible for any human; his ALF doll sprawled in a display of alien dexterity; multicolored Legos, with which he was building a fortress for his figures, strewn about like variegated plastic snow. Andy turned around and surveyed the toys, hands jammed to his hips. He considered kicking out an Iron Man figure to keep Mr. Potato Head company. Before he could make up his mind, something cloppedy-clopped on the carpet behind him. He turned and burbled a surprised giggle at finding Mr. Potato Head had elected not to remain outside in the storm and flung himself back into the room. Bending and picking up the toy, he wondered briefly how Mr. Potato Head had managed the two-story climb, but quickly shifted his attention back to kicking the booger out again, to see if he could repeat the action. This time instead of kicking it Andy cranked back an arm in a pitcher's wind-up and flung the mustachioed spud as hard as he could. It sailed through the air and out the window -- then suddenly stopped and hung suspended, as if stuck to a wall of invisible putty. Plastic eyes vacant and shiny, it seemed to say, "Ha-ha, Andy! Can't get rid of your old pal Potato Head that easy. Wanna try again?" A flash of lightning splashed the sky, glossing the toy with an eerie light. Andy thought Mr. Potato Head suddenly didn't look as friendly as he had a moment ago. Of course, kicking him out the window had probably pissed him off. That's what Cindy always said when she got mad. Andy stared. Mr. Potato Head glared. Beady plastic eyes shined now with a weird red light. A funny quiver went through his stomach. Yup, he decided, Mr. Potato Head was definitely pissed. "Oh-oh." Andy crinkled his brow and pursed his lips. Mr. Potato Head jerked slightly, tilted. A gust of wind and rain wailed through the window, billowing the curtain. With he wind, Mr. Potato Head burst forth like a rocket. The toy shot into the room with a high-pitched whine, whizzing past Andy's head and slamming into the opposite wall. Ears dislodged and flew in opposite directions; plastic lips and nose snapped off, spewing across the room; the brown lumpy body shattered and fragments spiraled to the floor. A deep indentation shone in the wall where the toy had hit. Mr. Potato Head was no longer pissed; Mr. Potato Head was dead. Andy had seen dead once, when his mother had given him a choice of going to Gramma Gazio's funeral last fall. He had gone, secretly hoping to see his daddy there. But daddy never showed up, and he hadn't dared asked his mother why. As soon as he had seen Gramma Gazio lying in that box, he had started to cry, pleading with his mother to make Gramma alive again. He still had bad dreams about that once and a while. He wondered if he'd have to give Mr. Potato Head a funeral. He hoped not. A scraping noise caught his attention. He spun around, sweeping the room with nervous eyes. He saw nothing that could have made that noise but blurted "Aunt Cindy!" at the top of his lungs anyway. He felt suddenly very afraid, like the time his night light burned out and left him in the dark. It happened a few days after Gramma Gazio's funeral and he thought the light had died, too, so he had screamed until his mother came bursting into the room. Andy was getting that no-night-light feeling all over again. Everything felt all creepy. All he knew was that he felt scared. Something had made that noise and he knew it wasn't just the wind or rain. The noise came again. Andy tensed, afraid he'd pee his pants if he moved. "Hey diddle diddle," said the cat with the fiddle, as he clambered through the window. Andy felt his fear vanish. His face brightened and his eyes widened and his mouth opened in a surprised O. It was only the diddle diddle cat. Nothing to be afraid of. Mommy read him "Diddle Diddle" every night; the cat was his friend. The cat, fully into the room, now, stood dripping on the carpet. At least now he had someone to blame the mess on. The cat reared up on its hind legs, four feet worth of striped tabby, one paw clamped to a fingerboard of a fiddle, the other clutching a bow and sawing away at the strings. Except the fiddle made a terrible screeching noise, nothing like Andy imagined it would sound like at all. Andy didn't think the cat was playing it right. But the cat grinned, as though he didn't notice the awful tune. Andy smiled back. The cat stopped fiddling. With a wave of its big paw, the tabby beckoned Andy closer. He took a hesitant step towards it. He'd seen this kind of thing a hundred times on Saturday morning cartoons, characters coming to life, but he'd never seen it in real life. Something told him things on TV didn't really happen in real life, just the way he was starting to suspect Santa was really mom dressing up and trying to be fat. The cat waved Andy closer, gesturing with its bow and dancing a small jig. Andy giggled and walked towards it, drawn close by his trust in his favorite nursery rhyme character. Mother Goose loved little kids and probably had hundreds of her own. She wouldn't let the cat hurt him, even if he occasionally did kick up a fuss before going to bed. Only giants and witches in gingerbread houses hurt little kids. So why was he getting that no-night-light feeling again? "Aunt Cindy," he murmured, doubt and vague fear in his voice. The cat grinned wider. Then it took a step forward and wrapped Andy in its striped furry arms and hugged him tightly. Very tightly. * * * * Mrs. Gaumont peered out into the storm, sipping at her second cup of Cafe Vienna. She had seen the light blink off in Cindy's room and figured she must have gone downstairs. Lightning flared, illuminating the rain-swept street and Jennifer Gazio's front yard. Shadows scurried, bunching near the house, then rushed back as the light vanished. Mrs. Gaumont tried to see into Cindy's room, unable to pierce the darkness with her old eyes. For an instant, she thought she glimpsed something moving within the room but couldn't be sure. Mrs. Gaumont leaned back in her chair and thought of Paul, grief filling her. How could she have been so wrong about him? Why, he seemed like such a nice young man, you know. And to think, a murderer living right here, under her nose. Well, God only knew what awful things he might have planned for her. And Jenny. And Andy. It would have been her fault, too. How could she have misjudged him so? Maybe Franklyn was right: some things were just not to be meddled with and affairs of the heart was one of them. The old woman took another sip of coffee. As the warm liquid flowed down her throat, an odd shivery feeling welled from deep inside, one she had felt a number of times today. She wondered why. Something about today just felt different. Peculiar was the word that came to her. Downright peculiar. You know? Almost the same feeling she felt that day when she was a little girl and her daddy had come home from work with that look on his face. Hiding behind the doorway that led to the dingy hall at the old house on Clayton Street where she grew up, she had secretly listened. "What's wrong?" she recalled her mother asking. Her daddy had snapped at her mother in a tone she'd never heard him use and it had frightened her deeply. She'd been afraid to move or run to her room. When his voice came again, he said the stock market had crashed and everything was gone and God only knew how the hell they were going to live from now on. She had been too young to know what a stock market was, but she had seen her daddy change after that. He treated her different, and they had to eat lots more home-grown food in the summer and sometimes go hungry in winter. With that memory, a chill rattled her spine. Yes, today reminded her of that day. A sense that after it was over nothing would ever be the same. A strange sight brought Mrs. Gaumont from her thoughts. She leaned forward and peered out into the storm, at the glare of light shining from Andy's room. The pouring rain blurred her view, and though she hated to admit it, the old eyes just weren't so quick to adjust as they used to be. But she had caught sight of something, something weird and impossible. A huge cat. In Andy's room! Lordy, cats carried all sorts of nasty diseases, didn't they? She didn't recollect Jenny saying she had gotten any pets. Little boys should have dogs, anyway. Not cats. Whoever heard of a boy and his cat? Cats were for little girls. Now that she thought about it, this was no ordinary cat she had seen. Too big. Bigger than Andy, like one of them puma cats you saw in the mountains sometimes. Then the cat disappeared and she couldn't see Andy anymore either. Fear began to coil inside her. The bad feeling increased, as if whatever evil clung to the day had gotten closer. Much closer. Mrs. Gaumont found herself halfway out of the chair and moving towards the phone. Clutching the receiver, she felt a sliver of pain from her arthritis skewer her knuckles. She began to dial Jenny's number, but at the last minute replaced the phone. If she called, Cindy would answer and Mrs. Gaumont would have to admit she'd been spying on the house. What to do? What to do? A sound pushed the dilemma from her mind. From the living room, the lilt of a tinkling piano rang out, the notes of Archie's theme. Then Archie and Edith began to sing "Those were the Days". Funny, she recollected turning the TV off, and All in he Family had already played tonight, anyway. Mrs. Gaumont felt something tighten in her belly and the bad feeling bloated into vague terror. She took a small step toward the living room, stopping. She was sure she had turned the TV off; she wasn't that forgetful. She wondered if one of the guests had come down and turned it on. Surely none of them would be so bold. Would they? And they would have had to come past her in the kitchen. What if it was a burglar, or one of them biker types? The thought startled her. Come on, now, you're being silly, she told herself. It must have been a power surge from the lightning or something. Didn't surges turn TVs or electrical things off instead of on? A scuffing sound behind her. She spun in a jerky awkward motion, heart leaping. She winced as arthritic pain slashed at her knees with the sudden movement. "Hi, Mrs. Gaumont." Andy came out from behind the table and stopped. One small hand was behind his back, the other stuck in a jeans pockets. She stared at his beaming face, heart settling back into pace. Almost. "Got any cookies?" A half-smile played on his lips. His voice sounded a little odd to her, like the voice of a man stuffed into a child's body; all wrong, as if it didn't really belong to Andy. But that was silly, wasn't it? Of course it was. So why did she feel so strange, so ... frightened? "Time for All in the Family yet?" Andy asked when she didn't say anything. "Andy!" she blurted, getting her voice loose. "How did you get in here, dear? I locked all the doors." Andy shrugged. "I need a hug, Gramma." Mrs. Gaumont beamed, feeling some of her ambiguous fear dissolve. He'd never called her gramma before, though she secretly always wanted him to. "Everybody left me and Mr. Potato Head is dead." His smile broadened but the expression looked crooked, odd, a forced smile -- not the uninhibited smirk of a child, but the cunning smile of something older, something ... evil? "Andy," she tried to conceal the fear again wedging into her mind, "where's Cindy? Did she bring you over?" "Nobody brought me." Andy shook his head. "I'm just here." "Surely someone must have brought you, dear. Cindy wouldn't have just let you walk over here alone -- and you're not even wet." Ignoring her, he said, "I found this." Andy pulled his hand from behind his back; chubby fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle of a butcher knife. Its shiny steel glittered under the kitchen lights. Mrs. Gaumont turned her head and gazed at the knife rack on the wall above the counter. An empty space shown at the end where the knife should have been. Andy, gracious, you shouldn't pick up things like that! You might get hurt." "I won't get hurt, don't worry." "Somebody must have left it lying around, I suppose. You certainly couldn't have reached it by yourself. Give it to me, dear, and thanks for finding it." "Okay." Andy stepped forward. He gave it to her. His stubby arm thrust out in a short vicious arc. Mrs. Gaumont felt a searing pain skewer her stomach, worse than any arthritic pain she'd ever experienced. Andy plunged the blade in deeper, through the layers of fat and muscle, twisting and slicing with more strength than any five-year-old could possibly have possessed. Yanking the butcher knife free, he grinned maliciously. A warm geyser of blood spurted from the gaping wound in her belly. Shock froze on Mrs. Gaumont's face, shock and pain and betrayal. She couldn't believe her little Andy would do this to her. But the blood; there was so much blood, pumping out of her like from an old well, running over her flower-print dress. Weakness washed through her and a strange warmth flooded her limbs. Her knees buckled and she staggered backwards, crashing down against the cabinet and sliding heavily to the floor. Her lips opened, closed, opened, no sound coming out. A thin worm of blood slithered from the corner of her mouth. Clutching at her crimson-soaked dress, she felt more blood stream through her fingers. Andy came towards her again, lips slashing into a hideous grin. Sadistic, hate-filled. The grin of the Devil, not a child. Andy raised the knife above his head; blurred steel slashed a silver streak and searing pain sizzled across her face as the knife ricocheted from her cheek and embedded itself into her collarbone. Blood bubbled from her lips. Vision rapidly deteriorating, she looked up, staring into Andy's grinning face and hollow black eyes. It was no longer Andy's face. No, now the features looked vaguely like those of Archie Bunker, giving her a great big raspberry; then Edith's face, hands pressed to her cheeks (Oh, myyy!). Edith vanished and another face took her place: Franklyn's. Not the kind rugged face she recalled, but Franklyn with a devil's grin, eyes black slashed with red. Franklyn who wrenched the knife from her flesh, Franklyn who brought the knife down, down, down. Pain. Ripping pain. In her chest, her arm, her face. But even that faded and distantly she heard the notes of All in the Family's closing theme. Then nothing more. -------- *(29)* Hands bleached white, Carl Speckler wrenched the steering wheel around. The car fish-tailed and tires skidded and screeched, as he swung into the parking lot of the Sheriff's Office. His insides felt jumbled and his mind struggled with spasms of dread and confusion. A muscle near his eye twitched, driving him crazy. As the car rolled to a stop, he glanced at the gas needle, letting out a sigh of relief. It nudged into the empty zone and he guessed he had just made it to the office because he wasn't quite sure where empty actually was. Speckler jerked the keys from the ignition and shoved them into his pants pocket -- he'd made a stop at his apartment to change them after having his little accident at Corsetti's. The car rumbled and ran on, as it always did when the wires got damp. The engine died and the howl of the wind as it battered the windows made his already taut nerves tighter. He sucked a deep breath, trying to half-compose himself before going inside. Blowing it out slowly through pursed lips, he watched sheets of water ripple down the windshield. Light from the parking lamps twisted and braided within in an almost hypnotic union. Rain pattered the roof like skeletons dancing. A wave of dread struck him again. It's been here. The thing that killed Corsetti had been here. He couldn't say why he knew; he just did. Oh, Christ, a voice in his mind said, you definitely were not cut out for this investigative reporter crap. You should have been a goddamn salesman like your pop. Salesmen didn't find bodies in washing machines and get their minds twisted around by unseen terrors. "But now that you're in it," he mumbled, swallowing at the constriction in his throat that wouldn't go away, "you'd damn well better get your act together and deal with it, 'cause there's worse to come." Speckler checked his watch, finding he'd lost more than an hour getting himself together after discovering Corsetti's corpse -- going over everything in the trailer he could think of with his handkerchief to wipe away all the prints, changing, then driving here. "Okay, so now you're here. The sheriff will know what to do." He hoped. Speckler jerked his collar up to his neck, braced himself, then shoved the car door open against the wind. Slipping out into the beating rain, he hurried across the lot. Rain battered him like frozen bullets and soaked his clothes, drenching him before he was halfway to the stairs. He went up, grabbed the door handle and plunged inside, a blast of wind and rain taking a final swipe at him before he slammed the door on the storm. He scanned the office, finding it empty. His breath jerked out and his heart thudded, but along with the coffee pot that occasionally gurgled those were the only sounds. Where the hell was Baker? Another burst of the jitters rattled him. The dread was stronger in here, as if he'd stepped into a nest of silent stinging hornets. His teeth started to chatter. Something, in his humble opinion, was goddamn wrong. Something had happened to Baker; he knew it. Speckler's mind suddenly leaped back to the ghastly sight of Corsetti in the washer, the death-shrieked face and glassy lifeless eyes. He shuddered with the image. Would he find Baker that way? God, he hoped not, because if he found one more damn body he was going to lose it for sure. A noise startled him and he jolted. The eye muscle ticked like a machine gun stuttering. Afraid to move, he listened intently. Nothing. He let out the breath jammed in his lungs and struggled to bring himself under some semblance of control. It's okay, he assured himself. You just heard someone somewhere shout, that's all. No problem. No problem at all. His gaze shifted to the far end of the room, to the short hall that housed the metal door leading to the cells. The yell, a man's, he felt sure, had come from behind that door. Forcing himself to move, Speckler slowly headed towards it. * * * * Paul slumped in the corner of his cell, face pressed against the bars. Sweat ran from his forehead. He felt weak, drained, empty. His throat ached from yelling, but his screams had been useless. Hudson hadn't come back, nor had he seen any sign of Sheriff Baker. He didn't expect to; Baker, he felt sure, was dead. You blew it. Jenny's going to die and there's nothing you can do about it. You let her down again, the way you always have. The way you always will. To top it off, his ankle ached like a sonofabitch. Paul's head lifted suddenly. He got the pressing feeling of being watched again, caught movement from the corner of his eye. For a moment he saw it, forming just beyond the bars, or more accurately, trying to form. A blackish something wavered in the air, stretching out in tenuous lines, wispy, rising from ceiling to floor. A dark tendril floated from its side, terminating in a half-formed shape. "Freddy..." Paul rasped through parched lips. The ... Open ... Realm... A voice drifted out, as if from a great distance; Paul could barely hear it, though he knew "hear" wasn't the right word: he could barely sense it. His hopes rose and he sat up. The lines ... have formed ... face the Demon ... Open yourself... The voice came stronger and Paul caught the words clearly. He could now almost see the outline of the old man shackled to the pillar, which had thickened, become almost solid. A slight blurring formed at the edges of his vision. "How?" Paul yelled. "I don't know how!" He struggled to concentrate on the old man, try to bring him in more fully. He began to see the lines of despair etched into Freddy's face, the hollow terror there, the suffering of things Paul couldn't even guess at. The black pillar suddenly wavered, folded into itself. Freddy vanished, wrenched into the ether. The blur at the edges of his vision melted away. A frozen silence remained. "No!" Paul screamed, reaching out. "Come back! Why don't you help me?" BECAUSE HE IS ROTTING IN HELL, STANFORD, WHERE HE BELONGS. DO YOU WISH TO JOIN HIM? "Hudson, you bastard! Where are you?" He stopped shouting. The Demon was gone; he knew it. Somehow he had let himself open when he tried to reach Freddy, but the door had closed and he had no idea how to reopen it. Paul slumped against the bars, filled with frustration and utter defeat. "Please come back..." he mumbled, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. The Open Realm... He could find Hudson there, but how could he reach it? How could he reach into himself and find his own key? You've been there before, boy... Freddy's words came back to him. When? When had he been there? A click sounded from the end of the hall and Paul snapped from his thoughts. He saw the metal door swing inward... * * * * Jenny jerked her foot off the accelerator, but not in time to keep herself from taking the corner into Milliken street too wide. She'd seen the squad car parked off to the side of the adjoining street and it had sent a wave of panic through her being. The feeling distracted her for only a moment but that was enough. Tires screeched and locked as she jammed her foot on the brake. The car swerved, slid sideways onto the opposite shoulder. With a great grinding crunch that rose above the roar of the wind and rain, the car slammed driver's-side-to into a telephone pole. Metal groaned as the door caved. Her body lurched violently forward with the impact and her head snapped back. Only her seatbelt prevented her from being thrown through the windshield. The car stalled. Headlights slashed through the downpour, frosting waves of water. Jenny, the air knocked from her lungs, struggled for breath and tried to force away the sheet of dark clouds drifting over her mind. Andy ... Andy's in danger... Her fingers clumsy, numb, she fumbled with the seatbelt. Getting it off, she tried the door, which was pinned against the pole and wouldn't open more than an couple inches. She crawled across the seat to the passenger door and thrust it open. Rain slapped her in cold numbing bursts and the chill made her shudder. Grabbing her purse, she made her way through the storm, across the street. Shielding her eyes with an arched hand, she got a bead on her driveway and stumbled towards it. The wind and stinging rain helped clear her mind, but, as she went up her driveway, dread crowded back in. The feeling strengthened when she saw no lights in any of the windows. It dawned on her that the entire street was dark; the power must have gone out, but the fact brought little relief. "Oh, God," she mumbled, lips numb from the cold. She vaulted the front steps and leaned heavily against the door, fumbling through her purse until she located her keys. She thrust the key into the lock and gripped the handle. Please let me be in time -- She threw open the door and stumbled inside, hand going outward and searching the wall for the light switch. She flicked it on, knowing it was probably useless but needing to try it just the same. The room remained dark. She peered into the darkness, shaking all over, confusion and fear riveting her where she stood. You're too late! It's been here. Maybe it's still here. Maybe it's still waiting. A banging startled her, shook her fear-frozen muscles loose. The sound of the wind hurling the door against the wall. She had forgotten to close it. Jenny grabbed the door and pushed it shut against the storm. For a moment, the comparative silence helped calm her. The strong one. If you've ever had to use that strength, use it now. "Andy -- Cindy!" she yelled. Her voice seemed to dissolve in blackness. Dread edged up the scale another notch, trying to shake loose her resolve. She refused to let it; she wouldn't give in to her fear, not with Andy needing her. She forced her legs to carry her forward. They seemed to respond in slow motion, but got the job done as she picked her way through the darkness. Her eyes slowly adjusted and she could make out vague shapes: furniture, closets, walls. Making her way to the kitchen, she fumbled along the cabinets until she reached the end drawer where she kept her flashlight. A flash of lightning shocked the room with a dazzle of magnesium light and a clap of thunder rattled the windows. Fear sank its teeth into her deeper. It's still here... Yes, she felt sure it was. Whatever had been at the hospital, whatever Peg had come back to warn her about, was here, now, in her house. Lurking somewhere close. She took the flashlight from the drawer and snapped it on. The small click made her jump, despite herself. Jenny shot the light around the room, the beam bobbing and weaving and jerking in her unsteady hand. She found nothing. She let out a long breath and started from the kitchen. Going through the foyer, she reached the stairs and peered up. Don't go up there, girl, a warning voice went off in her mind, a voice that sounded strangely like Peg's. She tried to ignore it, placing a foot on the bottom step, the flash held loosely at her side, but the voice came again. Don't go up there, girl, 'cause there's no turning back once you do and you're not going to like what you find. "I have to," she mumbled. "Andy might be hurt." She didn't care what happened to her as long as he was safe. Saying a silent prayer, she took another step. Be strong, she told herself as she went up, the sound of her own thoughts slightly comforting. Be strong or you're going to scream. Her weight made the steps creak. She thrust the flashlight ahead of her. Light from another flash of lightning slithered through the front door's three windows, across the foyer and up the stairs to her feet, vanishing as quickly. Thunder made her jolt. Don't lose it, don't lose it, she told herself, knowing if she could have jumped out of her skin at that point she would have. Reaching the top, she paused and sucked in a deep breath. The beam shot around the hall. Shadows dispersed as light chased them and she saw the hallway was empty. Taking tentative steps, she moved down the hall. Her heart pounded wildly, now; sweat beaded on her brow, mixed with rainwater from her drenched hair and streamed down her face. "Andy!" Jenny called, fear making her voice come out softer than she intended. No answer. Not even the sound of him banging around his toys. Oh, God, not Andy. Please don't let anything happen to Andy. Dread and panic became a wall thrown up before her, membranous but thick, flowing over her, absorbing her in its gluey folds. Beneath her feet the carpet felt suddenly alien, alive, as if throbbing or -- slithering! She jabbed the beam at the floor, darting it back and forth, but the rug looked entirely normal. Still, an urge to let out a shrill shriek welled inside her. She wanted to scream in terror, scream her goddamn lungs out at the thing waiting in the darkness, playing with her, taunting her. She knew it was there, here, somewhere. But where? Why wasn't it showing itself? Maybe then she could deal with it. She had to resist the terror, force herself on; she'd come too far to turn back, now. Jenny moved forward, stopping at Cindy's bedroom door, which was closed. A shudder rattled her. She reached out tentatively, gripping the handle, feeling its coldness. Fingers tightening, she whispered, "Cindy? Are you in there? Are you all right?" No, she thought, she's not all right and you know it. Nobody in your life's going to be all right ever again. She eased the handle around and pushed at the door. Jammed! She shoved harder, throwing her shoulder against it. The door rattled but wouldn't budge. She tried again, this time stepping back and putting her weight into it. With a sharp crack, the door gave. Jenny let it bound open and shined the flash into the room. A shrill ululating sound told her she was shrieking. The scream, however, was crisp and short, and silence crashed in. She felt her legs go weak, buckle, almost spilling her before she caught her balance. Naked yellow light splashed over Cindy's mutilated form. Splayed across the bed, arms flung out, head twisted, Cindy's yawning eyes glared from a fright-stained face. Intestines ribboned from a hole in her belly. Blood, black and shiny under the flash beam, splashed everything, the bed, floor, her body. Jenny's hand flew to her mouth. Hot tears streamed down her face. Her mind threw up a screen, which split into two scenes: one showed Peg's body sprawled over the lab table, while the other showed the scene in the bedroom. Then her screens washed blank. Jenny thought she must have blacked out, because suddenly she had her back pressed against the hallway wall, opposite the bedroom. The flashlight hung limp in her hand, its beam nailed to the floor. Somehow she'd backed from Cindy's room and closed the door, though she couldn't remember doing so. She fought for control, mind flashing with images of Cindy growing up: an Easter when she'd gotten a frilly yellow dress and an afternoon when dad had taken them both out for ice cream. Then, crashing in and shattering the serenity, the sight of Cindy's blood-drenched corpse. Sobs wracked Jenny's body. The cyclone of blackness swirled up in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her consciousness. Oh, God -- Cindy! Pull yourself together, girl! another voice shot back -- Peg's voice, coming up through the black spinning haze. Pull yourself together, Jenny, 'cause you've got that little boy to think about, now. Cindy's a big girl -- she can take care of herself, remember? Jenny battled the cyclone, forcing it back in small increments. Thoughts of her son swelled in her mind, accompanied by sobering panic. She had to find Andy, help him. There'd be time to mourn later. "Andy!" she half-screamed, propelling herself away from the wall and stumbling towards Andy's room. As she did, the carpet seemed to come alive again, rolling, slithering. She fought to keep her balance. She fell against Andy's door and hurled it open, terrified at what she might find within. Bracing herself as best she could, Jenny shined the light into the room. The beam spiked across scattered Legos, ALF, action figures, and, strewn near the wall, the remains of Mr. Potato Head -- but no Andy. Jenny gasped in relief, but the emotion was fleeting. If Andy wasn't there, where was he? She backed out into the hall, stumbling as her foot rolled on something thick, round. The carpet was undulating, flowing. She swept the beam downward. The carpet had become a tapestry of serpents, their thick sausage bodies writhing, slithering; they coiled about her feet and she shrieked, letting loose with all her pent-up terror. An icy weakness trembled through her body. The black tornado threatened to whirl up again. No, she couldn't let herself black out. If she went down, the reptiles would surge over her, cover her body in seconds, and she didn't think her sanity would survive that. Even as she stared, frozen, snakes enwrapped her ankles, began encircling her calves, tongues flicking. From the head of the stairs came a harsh laugh and Jenny's head jerked up. The flash beam followed a beat behind, splashing over a figure standing there. "Hudson, thank God -- " Jenny started, relieved to see even him. "Don't thank God, Jennifer." His grin was as much a serpent as the creatures at her feet. A reddish glow surrounded him like an aura, as if some jagged doorway had been opened in the fabric of the air, a doorway through which he'd stepped. "Thank the Devil, the true ruler of this loathsome world. For now it shall be returned to him." Hudson's tone stabbed her with terror. He wasn't here to help her. Oh, no, he was here to hurt her. He was the reason for all this, all the terrible dread filling her being. "You killed my sister!" Jenny yelled, face locking with anger. "I needed her. She made me stronger. So did the old woman. I ate their hearts." "What have you done with Andy, you sonofabitch? What have you done with my son?" "I've done nothing to him, Dr. Gazio -- nothing you can't reverse if you help me." He raised his hand and pointed to the far end of the hall. Jenny's gaze swung in that direction. Horror twisted her face. "ANDY!" she screamed. A huge serpent, bathed in gory light, its thick body a shimmering pattern of scales and rippling muscle, protruded from the wall, its tail embedded in the sheetrock. Glowing blood-red eyes pierced her. It reared, head lashing from side to side. Its throat bulged with an ominous lump. Two small legs, raggedly flopping back and forth as the snake convulsed, dangled from the creature's engulfing jaws. Jenny shrieked; she couldn't stop herself. Tears rushed down her cheeks. The small legs slipped farther into the reptilian mouth, only a pair of sneakered feet showing now. "An illusion from your deepest fears, Dr. Gazio. One that can easily be real if you refuse me. The choice is yours. You can still save him, but there is ... So. Little. Time." "Anything -- please. Anything." Jenny sobbed, strength crushed. "Just don't hurt him." Hudson held out his hand. "Hurt him? It's the farthest thing from my mind. Come, Dr. Gazio. Take my hand and consider yourself privileged. You will be one of the very few non-gifted to cross into the Open Realm." "Andy?" Jenny cried, face pleading. She started towards Hudson, the snakes at her feet evaporating. "He'll be waiting there," said Hudson. Jenny reached out and took his hand. * * * * "Please, you've got to let me out of here." Paul's gaze frantically searched the young man who stood just outside the cell, looking for a response. The man, who had identified himself as Carl Speckler, a reporter, stood there staring, silent. Paul thought he saw terror in his eyes, a twisting terror that said the reporter was close to the edge. Paul felt a strange camaraderie with the man, a need to share the fear, understand it before insanity took over, but he knew if he said anything wrong, Speckler would let him rot in the cell. "The sheriff mentioned you," Speckler said at last in a slow measured voice that almost passed for control. "But he didn't say he'd locked you up." "He didn't. Hudson did." Speckler uttered a nervous laugh. "I'm not surprised -- why?" Paul hesitated, weighing his words. He had one chance to convince the man and he had the feeling Speckler would quickly spot a lie. "He says I murdered someone, an old man. He set me up." Speckler peered at him, doubt registering on his face. Come on, Paul -- you're blowing it! Do something or Jenny's going to die! "Look, I can't begin to explain everything without sounding crazy, but you've got to get me out of here. A life depends on it." Speckler's eyes locked with his and the reporter seemed to be trying to probe deeper. A muscle beside his eye twitched. "At the moment very little would sound crazy to me. Why does Hudson think you killed the old man?" Paul's hopes started to sink. Too much time was slipping by. Hudson could have killed Jenny by now. What do you do? Tell him you found Freddy's head in your suitcase? Not much chance he'd let you out of here then. Speckler, as if attuned to Paul's reluctance, said, "Tell me the truth, Mr. Stanford, because if you lie, I'll probably know it and you won't have a chance in hell of getting out of there." Speckler's eyes turned serious, grim, with and underlying desperation that seemed to say he needed Paul as much as Paul needed him. "Hudson planted evidence in my room, a ... severed head. Even the sheriff didn't believe him." "Where is the sheriff? When I talked to him on the phone, he said he'd meet me here." "I don't know. He was here ... but then the only one I saw was Hudson and he ... left. I yelled my head off, but nobody came." "Something's happened to him," Speckler said and Paul couldn't tell if it were a question or a statement. "All I know is Hudson came back here and told me he would kill Jennifer Gazio and by now he already may have. At least give me the chance to stop him. If you do let me out, he will kill her." Speckler seemed to mull it over, remaining silent for almost a full minute. A strange jittery fear darted in his eyes. He doesn't believe you. Who would? He thinks you're crazy and better off where you are. As if he could tell what Paul was thinking, Speckler turned and slowly headed back down the hallway. "No!" yelled Paul. "Don't leave me in here! Jenny will die!" Speckler kept walking stiffly. "At least call the County Police and send them over to 21 Milliken Street. You've got to help her!" Speckler turned a moment, a look of desperation and confusion on his features. Then he went through the door, closing it behind him as if closing it on everything that had once been Paul's hope. * * * * Speckler stood in the office, staring at Hudson's desk, a look of fear and indecision on his face. With what Stanford had told him, the certainty something had happened to Sheriff Baker solidified in Speckler's mind. Somehow, Hudson had discovered what Baker was up to and done something about it -- something permanent. And it don't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who Hudson'll come after next. After Jennifer Gazio? Maybe. He remembered Baker telling him about her, how she had been a witness to the Fox murder and the object of the deputy's desire. Baker said Hudson was jealous of Stanford. A threat to Stanford, Gazio, Baker -- who to Speckler's frenzied mind was dead -- and now to himself. Hudson was gone. Stanford was here. Jennifer Gazio was -- where? 21 Milliken Street, Stanford said. If Hudson killed Corsetti -- a given in Carl's opinion -- he may well have planted a head in Stanford's room. With the deputy's jealousy, it figured he would go after Gazio and then -- Come back here to finish the job. Tie up loose ends, which meant Stanford and himself. Stanford. The name lingered in his mind. Speckler knew the man wasn't guilty. He wasn't an expert at spotting liars, but he had a certain reporter's instinct about things, enough to be a reasonably good judge of character. He might have labeled Stanford as distraught, anxious, with a desperation in his eyes that a man only gets when he has something precious to lose. Stanford looked like a man who had very little hope. "So what does that all add up to?" Speckler asked himself. Proof or no, Hudson's up to his drugged-up little ass in this thing: drugs, murder, God knew what else and if Stanford was still in that cell when Hudson got back, he wouldn't have a chance in hell at making it out alive. But, and it's a big "but", does the deputy know about you? Speckler asked himself. The answer is yes. I don't know how he knows, but he does. That left him side by side with Stanford. Speckler didn't really like the feeling that came with that, not one bit. Mind made up, Carl Speckler went to Hudson's desk and began searching through drawers... * * * * "Thank God," breathed Paul, as Speckler unlocked the cell door. Relief shown plainly on his face. "I thought it was over." "It still may be." Speckler's forehead creased with deep lines of worry. "I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why -- " "Am I letting you out?" Speckler completed. "Because I found a body in a washing machine, one I'm sure Hudson put there. If the police had walked in about then they would have blamed me, so I can understand your point of view -- I finally found a spare set of keys in Hudson's desk." Paul nodded and stepped out of the cell. "I'm still taking a big risk here, Stanford, but I know Hudson's as crooked as they come and I don't want Jennifer Gazio's blood on my hands." "He's worse than crooked," said Paul as the went down the hallway. "Much worse." Following Speckler into the office, Paul shut the metal door behind them. "I think Hudson will be back here for you," said Speckler, "so we're going to need protection. I suggest, since I have no idea how to contact the sheriff's other deputies, we call the Norwich police. Hudson's armed and he's dangerous. "He's armed, all right. But not the way you think." "What do you mean?" Speckler's voice broke slightly and Paul suddenly realized that deep down the reporter already knew, but couldn't admit it to himself. The strain would be too much. He was close to cracking. Paul certainly didn't need that right now; he was too close to panic himself. "Nothing, just scared." Paul's gaze fell on the rifle cabinet. Pointing to it he said, "Grab some rifles -- I'll call Norwich." Paul went to Baker's desk and grabbed the phone, but he didn't think the police would be of much use. What would he tell them -- he had a hundred-year-old Demon in a deputy's body he was having a bit of trouble with? They'd pass him off as a nut and rightly so. Just tell them there's been a murder and get them over to Jenny's. Maybe they can do something... The point became suddenly moot. Paul had started to punch the buttons, so absorbed with his worry over Jenny he got halfway through the number before he realized he heard no dial tone. He clicked the plunger, but, listening, he heard only an eerie silence on the line. "Christ!" Paul slammed the phone down. "It's dead." Paul reached over the desk and tugged on the line; it came up limply in his hands. "I think someone suspected you were coming, Speckler." Silence. "Speckler?" Paul turned, a sudden blare of alarm bells clanging in his mind. The frozen look of terror on Speckler's face told him the alarm was completely justified. The reporter's eyes were riveted to one of the cabinets. His jaw hung slack. Slowly he raised his arm and pointed with a trembling hand to the base of the cabinet. Shiny red rivulets streamed out from the base of the door, liquid strings of blood that dripped onto the counter below. Paul had to fight a wave of his own terror as he stared at the scarlet pool forming on the Formica top. Speckler just stood frozen; Paul couldn't even tell if the reporter were breathing. Forcing himself to move, Paul went to the cabinet, a growing sickness in his gut. Guess what's behind Door Number 1, Paul? Bet you can! Why don't you open it and find out? Paul reached out, hesitating, then gripped the knob. His heart thudded in his throat. He felt trembly all over. Holding his breath, he yanked the door open. An arm fell out, bounced off the edge of the counter and landed on the floor. A head followed, rolling off the scrunched-up torso that had been crammed into the cubicle. The head thucked on the floor; blood spattered the worn tile. As Paul watched, frozen, the torso canted, tilted forward, ready to fall. A burst of panic breaking his spell, he rammed the door shut to keep the grisly thing from toppling out. He edged backwards, legs wanting to go in different directions. His gaze swept to Speckler, whose mouth seemed to loose itself from its hinges and flop ludicrously from side to side as he tried to utter something. The reporter gave a violent shudder, then let out the loudest shriek of unadulterated terror Paul had ever heard come out of a man. The shriek jangled Paul's nerves and he nearly let rip a screech of his own. But he held it, because Speckler's scream was suddenly chopped short. The reporter's eyes rolled and he crumpled to the floor, going down in one big heap like a demolished building. Well, Paul, you wanted Baker, now you've found him. Satisfied? Hudson left him there to taunt you, make you freak. He knew you'd get out and this was another slap in the face, another warning. He wants you to lose your composure. It's working... Paul's gaze dropped to Baker's gruesome head and he felt himself want to freeze, the sight taking him back to the scene in his room, Freddy's head in his suitcase. Faintness washed through him, making his legs weak. Jenny! Remember Jenny. She needs you -- don't let her down. Jenny was in danger. He had to help her. That was the only thing that mattered now. Paul's mind snapped back and he found himself staring at Speckler's limp form. He shook his head to clear the lingering cobwebs and force himself to move to the reporter, though it meant stepping around Baker's head. Nausea threatened to bring up his stomach, but he managed to hold it down. Squatting, he rifled through the reporter's pockets until he found his car keys. -------- *(30)* Paul jammed the accelerator to the floor; the old Pontiac rumbled and skipped, then shot backward. Wringing the wheel and jamming the shift, Paul skidded from the parking lot. "Come on, you bastard!" he muttered, feeling the car resist. He eased off the pedal slightly, clenching the wheel harder, knuckles bleaching. The constant slap-slapping of the wipers drove him crazy but he had little choice but to put up with it. Still, rain poured down the windshield, distorting road signs and divider lines, making the going deceptive and treacherous. At times he had to slow to a crawl, rain pounding in a torrent the wipers couldn't disperse. Muscles tensed, balling into white knots to either side of his jaw as he clenched his teeth and swallowed at the barely restrained panic that tightened his throat. The Pontiac hesitated, coughed and began to skip. "Christ, what the hell?" A sinking feeling rooted in Paul's gut. A few hundred feet later, his fear was confirmed. The Pontiac grumbled, coughed, sputtered, went dead. Paul's gaze jerked to the gas needle, which sat on empty. Still rolling, Paul coasted to the side of the road, which he could barely see. When the tires hit soft dirt, he hit the brake. Rain thrummed on the roof. Sweeping waves washed over the windshield. Paul sat in the darkness a moment, staring into the night, anger, frustration and hopelessness surging. "Jesus!" he said through clenched teeth and slammed a fist against the steering wheel. What the hell do you do now, Paul? Should have paid the goddamn Triple A bill on time! Paul threw open the car door and stepped out into the night. Rain soaked him as he started walking. Wind and elements pounded at his body, chilling him to the bone. Within a hundred feet, his ankle throbbed so violently he could barely stand it. Grimacing, he slowed to a fast hobble. His breath beat out and his chest tightened. Screw it, Paul, you're not going to make it in time, not this way, not by a long shot. Your damned ankle's ready to give out on you and you can't see ten feet ahead -- and it's another three miles to Milliken Street. Paul let out a frustrated yell and clenched his fists. He trudged on, repeating Jenny's name in his mind, determined to reach her, somehow. As if mocking him, his ankle twisted sharply and his face snapped into a mask of pain. "Goddammit!" he yelled, enraged. You're not going to make it, Paul, no matter how much you want to. The realization rang in his mind like a death knell. He tried to force it away, but his steps were already slowing. The storm was slapping him about more easily, now, sending him stumbling. A moment later, Paul noticed the road ahead seemed to be brightening, a yellow sheen forming. He stopped, staring at it, a distant hope rising in his soul. The light seemed to evaporate from the road, rise up in misty, rain-glittering sheets. Paul turned and scattered rays of light flashed over him. Headlights! From a small truck that rumbled slowly towards him. The headlights got brighter, dimmed, and Paul knew the driver had spotted him. He limped to the center of the road and waved his arms, to make sure the truck would stop. The truck rumbled to a halt, and a surge of relief took him. He moved around to the passenger side, rain and wind still slicing him, but he no longer cared as he gripped the door handle of his dilapidated salvation and leaned in, swiping water from his eyes. "Where yah goin'?" asked a man with a thick downeast accent. Eyes barely visible under bushy brows peered at Paul. "Milliken Street, three miles or so." Paul had to shout to be heard above the clamor of the storm. "Well, hop on in. You'll catch your death out thay-ah." Paul climbed into the truck and pulled the door shut. The driver cranked his head around in a backward scan of the road, then sent the truck lumbering forward. Water from his rain-soaked hair streamed down his face, and in the warm cab his drenched clothes were uncomfortable. He drew in a deep breath to steady himself, but suddenly felt the urge to stop breathing. He squeezed his nostrils shut, trying not to be obvious about it. A cloying barnyard odor pervaded the cab, mixed with what Paul guessed to be stale tobacco. "Pig!" said the man, smiling with tobacco-stained teeth. Some of the teeth were missing, making the smile less than attractive. "What?" Paul knew the man had caught his reaction. "Pig, the smell. Took Bertha's young'uns down to my son's spread near Windhahm week back or so. Nevah got the scent out of heah. Don't bothah me none, though." Paul nodded, but felt the drawstring on his nerves tightening again. He was getting somewhere, but damn slow. The farmer was puttering along, the speedometer needle vibrating at the thirty mph mark. It made Paul want to shout at him in frustration to push the damn truck. He tried to take his mind off the situation, gaze seeking something in the cab to center his attention on. He peered at the dash -- which was littered with papers, a couple packs of Camels, a half full pack of plastic lighters, a Skoal can and crumpled receipts -- then at the wipers slogging monotonously back and forth, but he couldn't keep his mind off Jenny and the danger she was in. "Cah break down?" asked the man, breaking Paul's reverie. With his free hand, he tugged his old cap up and slowly prodded his matted brown hair beneath it. Brown stubble stood out on his chin, at least three days unattended, and a sour odor came from his breath that made Paul almost appreciate the pig smell. "Ran out of gas." Paul clenched his teeth to keep from chattering with the sudden chill that shook him. His body wanted to keep trembling, but he managed to control it. "Oh, ayah. Name's Cal, short for Calvin." "Paul," said Paul with a modicum of calmness. Come on! his mind groused. Move this piece of crap. His pulse sped up. Getting awfully tense, aren't you? You can't save her anyway, so what's the use in getting pissed? You'd probably lose your nerve the way you always do, anyway. "Shut up!" Paul mumbled, lips tight. "What's that?" "Ah, nothing," Paul said hastily, realizing he'd spoken aloud. "Just thinking to myself -- this thing won't go any faster, will it? I have ... an appointment to meet." "Nope. She won't. Sorry, lost her a cylindah, I think. Lay on her too hard and she just bucks. Can't shut her off when it storms like this neithah. Nevah get her started again. Wicked. But them city banks want no paht of loanin' us no more money." Christ, doesn't anybody in this damn town have a car that works? Paul thought, but he said, "Oh," nodding and fighting the urge to strangle Cal. The truck seemed to slow more as the farmer pressed his vocal accelerator to the floor. "Ayah, don't get down to these heah parts much. Come to fetch a few supplies. Picked a wicked night to do it, though. Bessy -- that's my wife -- says I got no moah sense than my hog. Could be she's right." Cal shrugged his skeleton shoulders. With bony fingers, he fumbled along the dash and retrieved the Skoal can. Maneuvering the lid off in his oversized hand, he took a pinch and inserted it between his cheek and gum, then capped the tin and chucked it back on the dash. He reached down and fumbled beneath the seat, pulling up and old coffee can. "Ayah, tryin' to give up the smokes." He popped the plastic lid from the can, then spat into it. "But I'm not complainin' 'bout the weathah. Been dry heah for quite a spell, 'cept the old girl don't care for the wet weathah." He patted the dash as if it were a pet. Oh, Christ. Paul watched the needle shimmer at the twenty-five mph mark. Cal babbled on in a monotonous drone that became lost in the distance as Paul's thoughts intruded. Jenny's face rose in his mind, the image of her shattered bloody features from his nightmare. A sense of horrible urgency flooded him, and then the scene changed: he saw Hudson's leering face, but even as he focused on it the features twisted and flesh began to peel off, leaving the hideous Demon face from his nightmare. Finally, Freddy's face came into his mind. With it intruded a strange emptiness that filled his being. Freddy was somehow locked in the blackness, the closet of the night, of Paul's childhood. If he wanted to help Jenny or Freddy -- if that were even possible -- he would have to throw open that closet, step inside. Would he be able to make a choice between her life and the consequences of releasing the damned? It should be an easy choice, Paul. One life or many? But it isn't, is it? You care too much -- Paul shook from his thoughts, not sure why at first. He heard Cal mumbling something about the weather and his pig, then realized what had disturbed him. "Why are we stopping?" Paul blurted, knowing Milliken Street was still a mile away. The truck had dropped speed to ten mph. Cal jutted a grimy finger at the half-full gas gauge. "Need some gas. Nevah let her get below a half. Course, I keep a can behind the seat just in case, but I generally use that in the lawn mowah." Paul's eyes flicked to the gas can sticking out from behind the seat, then back to the farmer. Cal swung the wheel around and turned into the gas station. The truck rattled to a stop in front of the pumps. "Have to leave her runnin' while I pump the gas 'cause -- " "I know," Paul interjected with more than a little irritation. "You'd never get her started again." "Ayah." Cal spat into the coffee can, capped it and set it on the floor. He pulled a yellow rain slicker from behind the seat and pulled it on. Getting out of the truck at what seemed to Paul to be a snail's pace, Cal went around to the pump. Paul suppressed the urge to back the truck over him. Cranking his head around, Paul saw Cal jam the pump nozzle into the side of the truck. The rain had slowed to a steady drumming that beat on Paul's nerves, and watching Cal at the gas pump only increased that feeling. Keep calm, Paul. You won't do Jenny one damn bit of good if you shake yourself apart now. Besides, this little stop's not going to matter because Hudson's already been there and she's already -- NO! He couldn't let himself think that. Hudson could have been delayed, Jenny could still be at work -- there had to be some hope to hold onto. If he gave up now... He let out a long breath and twisted to look at the pumps. Cal had gone inside and was jabbering away with the attendant. The farmer's mouth appeared to be moving in slow motion, each silent syllable dragging out until Paul's frustration wound itself into a tight coil set to explode. Come on, dammit! Get the hell out of there! Cal yammered on, now making slow circling motions with his large bony hands. Adrenaline surging through Paul's veins, he wanted to scream out in frustration, anger, fear. Christ, Jenny could be dying! A clank sounded as the tank reach the full mark and the pump shut itself off. Paul shot a glance at Cal, who was still talking, oblivious, then to the keys dangling in the ignition. He felt the rumble of the engine and the throb of his anxiousness. "Screw it!" Paul slid over into the driver's seat. He threw the shift into first, let out the emergency break and stamped the gas pedal. The pump line jerked taut as the truck bucked forward, and snapped loose with a spwang. Cal would have something to talk about, now, goddammit, Paul thought with a small measure of satisfaction. On the road, Paul tried to force the truck to go faster, but the engine groaned and the front end shook violently. He slammed the wheel with the flat of his palm. Come on, Paul, it's only a little farther. Hold onto it a bit longer. You have to help Jenny, remember? Don't let her down again. No, Paul, another voice chided, she's already dead. Don't worry, start the show! Come one, come all! Isn't that what dear old dad said? Error, make that ex-dad. He'll be there, you know, to see you fall on your face again. Wouldn't miss it for the world. No way! Paul didn't break going into Milliken Street. Swerving, the truck tilted precariously on bad shocks, but he managed to control it. Jenny! His belly sank as he spotted her car jammed against the telephone pole. He jerked the wheel and sent the truck to the opposite shoulder, stopping it in front of her car. He flung the door open and jumped out, then went to her car. Arching his hand over his brow to keep the rain out of his eyes, he peered through the window, only slightly relieved to find it empty. PAUL... Paul's head jerked up and he straightened, the powerful dread-force pushing into his mind. Hudson's been here. He's been here and so has Jenny. Know what that means? "Nooo..." Paul mumbled. He pushed himself away from her car and with a pronounced hobble, crossed the street. Making his way up Jenny's driveway, he felt ice-picks of pain skewer his ankle. Reaching the door, another bolt of apprehension shot through him. The door was unlocked! He pushed it inward and stepped into the dark foyer, yelling, "Jenny?" Rain drummed, wind whined, his heart pounded. "Jenny! Cindy!" Paul went in further. Lightning flashed corpse-colored light into the foyer and rain blew in through the open door. Thunder crashed, jolting him. The flash outlined the furniture in stark relief, along with the stairway leading to the upper level. The dread, Paul -- it's upstairs... "Hudson?" Paul said tentatively, gripping the rail. "Hudson I know you're here..." The dread suddenly lessened; had Hudson heard him? Yes, Paul felt sure he had, but was the deputy here, or lurking somewhere behind the walls of a dream, in the Open Realm? Only one way to find out, Paul -- go up there. He started up the stairs, taking them slowly, deliberately, shifting most of his weight to his good leg. Each step was agony to his swollen ankle. At the top, he kicked something. He squatted, patting the carpet. A flashlight. He picked it up and flicked it on, heart pounding in his throat. He knew it must have belonged to Jenny. Don't think about it, Paul. Convince yourself she's all right. Convince yourself there's still hope. "Jenny?" he called again, scanning the hall, the beam dancing out like an angel of light. "Cindy? Andy?" Nothing. Paul edged his way down the hall, battling rising hopelessness. When he reached a closed door, he stopped and shined the flash on it. A bedroom, he guessed, but whose? Survey says -- don't open that door, Paul! He gripped the handle and electric dread shot through him. Told you, Paul. Something's behind that door. Something goddamned dead and you're not going to like who it is. Whatta you say we just turn around and leave this alone, okay? Paul? Paul turned the handle. "Jesus!" Paul gasped as the door swung wide and the flash shined into the room. The beam had become dull, batteries weakening, but not dull enough to hide the grisly sight awaiting him. "Paul..." came a soft lifeless voice from dead lips. He froze, flashlight jittering in his trembling hand. Cindy, nude figure glossed by fading light from the flash, moved towards him. Her gait was clumsy, shuffling. She fondled the gruesome snakes of intestines hanging from her belly. Streamers of dried blood ran down her abdomen, legs. A wave of revulsion coursed through him. "Cindy ... what ... happened?" he managed to get out, words barely a whisper. Stupid goddamn question, Paul. It's obvious, isn't it? This is Hudson's work and he's not finished yet. Paul wanted desperately to back away as she came towards him, but his legs refused to move. She was staring at him, prying into his mind somehow with a sense of morbid sensuality that pierced to his darkest desires. "Cindy, you need help, you're ... hurt." "Don't be silly, Paul." Her tone came ragged, flat, hollow. "I don't need any help now that you're here. I'm beyond help. I'm here to help you." She giggled, a sound so out of place it made him shudder. She took another step. Her fingers, caked with blood, slid over her abdomen to her breasts, cupping them in a stiff awkward movement. Paul felt sickened, yet at the same time drawn to her grisly mocking of sensuality. Lust stirred from some dark cavern in his soul, rising up in black waves. "What don you mean 'beyond help'?" You know, Paul: Survey says -- she's dead, she's goddamn dead! Dead dead dead! "Jenny doesn't want you, Paul." Her lips parted in a corrosive smile. "She never wanted you. But I do. I want you to take me, screw me." Her tongue pushed out, grotesque and swollen and purplish, awkwardly tracing the contours of her puffy lips. Perverted desire raced though him. Cindy moved up to him, stumbling slightly, regaining her balance, as if she'd forgotten how to walk. The soft flesh around her hips and breasts jiggled and Paul found himself wanting to caress it, run his fingers and mouth over every inch of her nakedness. Burning with prurient cravings, he shuddered, frightened by the power of his morbid fascination and longing. What the hell's happening to me? Why do I feel this way? His gaze locked with hers. Her eyes, sunken and rimmed with dark circles, shaded to black, slit with blazing red; eyes that engulfed him at some primal level, drew him in, enflamed his lust, a lust he'd never suspected to exist. Her arms rose stiffly in front of her, reaching for him. "Make love to me, Paul," she whispered. "I want you to. I've always wanted you to." Paul felt himself tumbling deeper into the blackness of her eyes, falling, falling, falling, losing himself and his identity within the fire of her evil. Shackled to blackness, entrapped the way Freddy was -- "Everything forbidden will be yours, Paul. Let yourself fall. Give in. You just have to want it, ask for it." Her fetid breath, like an abattoir breeze, assaulted his nostrils. As her face pressed closer to his, he fought to pull back, but some force from his darkest fantasies held him fast. She pressed her swollen lips to his and perverted wanting burned deeper within him. Frozen fire blazed in his groin as her stiff, blood-stained fingers fondled him. His hands, as if gripped by some force, lifted, touching her breasts. His fingers probed the icy flesh there, his touch absorbing the sensation with abominated yearning. He wanted to surrender to her, give himself over completely. Lust seared him with cold black fire. She pushed closer, falling into his arms. Her tongue stroked his cheek, repulsing yet intensely delectable. Paul -- for chrissakes! If you go any further Jenny's lost for good. This isn't Cindy. It's him, the goddamn Sepahpoonuck! He's tricking you. DON'T GIVE IN! "Desire me, Paul. Desire me completely and you can have it all." Yes, he did want to be taken completely, swallowed in her dark promises, absorbed in her dead flesh, protected in the womb of the grave. All he had to do was say it, say it, say it... JENNY! Think of Jenny. Don't let her down, dammit! Come on, Paul, don't be an asshole just this once -- Something was screaming up from deep within, a lifeline of purpose that lashed in a raging soulsea, close to his drowning spirit. A scattering of images rose in his mind: the beach, Jenny's face as they made love, her warm body pressed to his. The line, Paul! Grab the line! Reach out for her! You don't have much time left -- do it NOW! This dark desire, this abhorrent lust did not belong to him. It was no more than a spell cast from the evil entity before him, the evil that now possessed Jenny's murdered sister. He had to stop it now or lose everything. His mind reaching out, he groped for the line that lay so close, yet so far. Then, as the icy probing fullness of Cindy's tongue filled his mouth, a choking revulsion make him jerk away, and he knew he had feebly clasped the line. His gaze locked with hers, and he saw the evil within them, the abandonment and eternal pain. "This ... is wrong," he mouthed, words barely audible. He shook his head, the lingering taste of her deadness suddenly stale in his mouth. He was pulling himself onto a lifeboat of reality, for the first time in he didn't know how long, clutching to some inner strength he little knew existed. "It's only guilt, Paul," Cindy whispered. Now he noticed how harsh, how unreal her voice sounded, how inhuman. "What you been programmed to feel. Let it go. I'll show you the way. Your conscience can't tell you how to think or feel any longer. Laugh at it. Give in to your desires." Paul opened his mouth to speak but the words dissolved. He felt himself slipping back. Jenny, Paul. Remember Jenny! She'll die if you do this and you'll join Freddy. The damned will be free. The choice will be made for you. "I ... I..." It's a trick, an illusion. If you've done one goddamn thing right in your life, make this it. Save her -- save Jenny! "Nooo!" The scream came long and tortured, something ripping loose, creating an abyss between his prurient longing and the grotesque thing entreating him. He knew he had pulled himself onto the lifeboat. He stared at the repulsive effigy that had once been Jenny's sister. He sensed the engulfing aura of dread and death emanating form it. Why hadn't he felt the thing's evil so intensely before? He shuddered as he realized with crashing force what he'd been about to do. He struggled to move back, pull away from her, her stiff fingers still kneading his crotch, her arm locked around the back of his neck. "Give in, Paul!" Cindy said, lips twisting. "It's so easy." "No, I don't want you!" His words came stronger, now, his hold to himself more secure. "I love Jenny." Cindy hissed a vile reddish mist. YOU ARE A FOOL, PAUL STANFORD. Her lips didn't move, yet he heard the voice clearly in his mind. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GIVING UP. I OFFER YOU ETERNITY -- ETERNITY! "You offer me damnation!" shouted Paul. YOU'LL DWELL IN THE VANISHED PLACE. THAT'S WORSE THAN ANY DAMNATION YOU COULD IMAGINE. "It'll be better than what you offer." WILL IT? YOUR PITIFUL COURAGE SUPPORTS YOU, NOW, BUT I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU KNOW YOURSELF. I KNOW WHAT TERRIFIES YOU. I KNOW ALL THE OLD GHOSTS. A wave of dread tore through Paul's mind. The evil force struggled to pry its way in, suck at his buried fears. He forced himself to concentrate, repel the Demon. Cindy laughed with a voice no longer hers. "Where's Jenny?" Paul grabbed Cindy's arms and shook her violently, every fiber of his being revolting now at the touch of her cold flesh. "Where is she?" YOU KNOW WHERE ... AND I'LL BE WAITING. WE'LL ALL BE WAITING... Cindy's body went slack; he let her fall to the floor. Paul backed into the hall, spun, and staggered towards the stairs, bounding off the opposite wall with his shoulder as he leaned too heavily on his bad ankle. You were lucky that time, Paul. You were sacred out of your goddamn mind and a fraction too close to falling and that thing knew it. It almost had you and I'll bet that's not as bad as it can get. Can you face it head on? Can you really? He knows what scares you... (Old ghosts) He wavered at the head of the stairs, courage growing shaky again. The Demon was still somewhere close, at the edge of his mind, waiting in the dark closet. He started down, clinging to the rail for support, flashbeam jabbing out ahead. As he stumbled into the night, rain, which had slowed, splashed his face, but now it felt refreshing, strengthening. Making his way back to the truck, Paul tore open the door, almost falling into the seat. He sucked in a deep breath and with trembling fingers gripped the key, turning it. The truck whirred, but wouldn't start. "Can't shut her of in wet weathah." he suddenly heard Cal drawl mockingly in his mind. "Dammit!" Paul yelled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. He twisted the key again, pumping the gas, praying, but the truck remained stubborn. Survey says -- you're going to be late, late, late -- too freaking late! Calm down, Paul. Just calm the hell down and think things out or you're not going to get anywhere. You can't help Jenny if you lose your mind now. He struggled to focus, mind reeling. His own car, where had he left it? The boarding house parking lot? Yes, that was it. What if Hudson had impounded it? Christ, he hoped not. And the keys, where had he left the freaking keys? He patted his pants pockets. Nothing. had he left them in his room? The sheriff's office? God, that day was still too fuzzy in his mind to remember little details. Paul bounded out of the truck and limped toward the boarding house. His ankle throbbed full force as he stumbled up the stairs. He jerked the screen door open, nearly tearing it from its hinges. Grabbing the doorknob, he let out a yell. Locked! Why was the goddamned door locked at this time of night? "Can't have none of them druggie or murderer types like you, Paul, gettin' in here, you know." Mrs. Gaumont's voice responded in his mind. He pounded a fist against the door, enraged. Where the hell were the other guests? He beat on the door again. "Come on, you stupid old woman!" Good, Paul. Get mad! Get goddamn furious! Get that adrenaline flowing. Rage overrides pain and fear, doesn't it? It's worth a shot. "Mrs. Gaumont, open the goddamn door!" he screamed. Of course she's not going to open the door for you, Paul. You're a criminal, remember? Probably got a big old shotgun ready to blow your nuts off the moment you step inside, don't you know! Paul slammed a shoulder against the door and the wood groaned. A thin crack lanced down the panel. Drawing back again, he hurled himself at the door a second time. Again! Again! The crack widened with each impact. Then a sound like a shot came with the next blow and the whole top panel gave. He pushed the wood apart and got his hand through the opening, undoing the bolt. Staggering his way along the wall, he went down the hall to the kitchen, still clenching the flashlight he'd found at Jenny's. Dull light shot into the room. "Oh, my God..." he whispered, as the beam outlined Mrs. Gaumont's mutilated body. She was splayed on the floor, head jammed against the cabinet, tilted at an awkward angle. The weak light glazed her terror-stricken features, which held a ghastly corpselike pallor. Blood soaked her flower-print dress, the linoleum, the cabinets. Bile rose in Paul's throat and a throbbing sorrow gripped his heart. He slowly backed from the room. Survey says -- whole lot dead! Care to see the next response? Didn't think so. Well, give the old lady a big hand, Paul. Good freaking show! Wait'll you see Jenny's gig! That'll really get you! This was it, Paul thought. He couldn't hold on any longer. He was going to turn into goddamn walking Jell-O right here, right now, don't pass GO, go straight to insanity. Jenny, Paul. Help Jenny. Help her! That's the only hope you have. Lose it later, use your Get Out of Insanity Free card. Just don't let her down. You hear me? Paul? Come on, do it for her -- I can't, I can't -- You've got no choice. That thing is out there, waiting, and he isn't about to let go. If you go crazy now it won't matter. It'll only make it easier for him. Paul swallowed, trying to loosen the constriction at his throat, force his thudding heart to beat with some semblance of normality. He had to keep at least a temporary grip on his fear, contain it. This time he had nowhere to run. Paul turned and made his way towards the stairs with a grim mask of determination welded onto his face. His keys, he had to find his keys. Maybe he'd had them in his hand, dropped them on the floor when Hudson hit him. He stumbled as he took the first step, almost falling over something soft and large. He jabbed the light downward and gasped. The mutilated body of one of the guests lay sprawled across the stairs, an arm twisted beneath his back, a gaping hole in his chest. Now you know why no one opened the door, Paul. They're all dead and now the Demon's stronger, much stronger. He tore his gaze from the grisly sight and edged around the corpse. His heart pounded harder as he reached the top of the stairs, the images of both bodies fixed in his mind. Reaching his room, he cursed at finding the door locked. This door would give more easily than the front one had; it was solid but had sagged over the years, the bolt barely aligning with the socket. Paul thanked God it was one of the few things he hadn't gotten around to playing handy-man on. He threw himself against it. A rent appeared in the panel; a sharp crack sounded as wood surrendered and door and lock separated. The door bounded inward. He swung the flashlight up, its beam almost non-existent. Sweeping it around the floor, he searched for his keys, but found nothing. Could Hudson have taken them? He doubted it. The Demon wanted him to follow, would leave him an option. He had probably known Speckler was on his way to the station, had likely left the spare keys in his desk on purpose. The keys had to be here somewhere; Paul was just overlooking something. Come on -- think! Where did you have them last? Were they in your hand? Paul struggled to clear away the haze that clouded everything from that day. He remembered the big events -- seeing Jenny at the hospital, getting drunk and coming back here to run into Hudson -- but there were lapses in time, minor events that had disappeared in mind murk. He tried to concentrate, despite his anxious fear for Jenny's life. He remembered ... yes, he'd staggered from the Cora l... drove here ... parked at the back of the lot... Paul backed from the room, then took the stairs with less caution than he should have, avoiding the body at the bottom. He reached the door and bounded outside, heading towards the rear of the lot. His car was still there -- Christ, he'd forgotten to even check in his panic to find his keys, but then of course Hudson wouldn't have impounded it. The deputy had left Paul an option, a means to reaching him if all else failed. He cursed himself, knowing if he had a shot at beating the Demon he had to stop making little mistakes, because any error could prove fatal for Jenny. Reaching his car, he jerked open the door. The cascading rush of relief that went through him made his legs tremble. Dangling from the ignition, the keys glinted as the dying light from the flashlight struck them. Paul slid inside, drenched and shivering, and twisted the key. IT'S TOO LATE, PAUL. MUCH TOO LATE... A voice crowded into his mind. It came clearly, boring into his thoughts. Paul fought it, gaining tenuous ground. Force it out, Paul. Don't let him get to you -- "You can't stop me!" Paul shouted, the loudness of his own voice a vague comfort. "You can't stop me or you would have already!" STOP YOU? WHY SHOULD I DO THAT? I WANT YOU TO COME. COME AND FACE ME IN THE OPEN REALM, PAUL STANFORD, AND YOU'LL TASTE MY REAL POWER. "I'll kill you, you bastard!" Paul shouted, shaking with rage. "I swear I'll kill you. I'll die for Jenny this time!" In response, a great rush of hate and fury and dread rushed through his mind, a crushing force of evil emotion. The dark pressure wrenched at his sanity, endeavoring to tear it loose. Paul fought the sensation but his senses reeled from its impact. It weakened him, but he held it back, at least for the moment. HOW NOBLE, PAUL. IS SHE WORTH IT? I COULD SLAUGHTER HER BEFORE YOU COME TO ME. WOULD THAT MAKE YOU MORE PLIABLE? She's still alive, Paul. That means there's hope. He heard the Demon's laugh rise up, reverberate through his soul. CONGRATULATIONS, PAUL. YOU HAVE WON A SMALL VICTORY, BUT IT WILL BE SHORT-LIVED, I ASSURE YOU. YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME, DON'T YOU? I'VE MADE IT ALL SO EASY FOR YOU. I'LL BE WAITING IN THE CLOSET... "I know where..." Paul whispered. Because now he did. The third part of his dream, the choking fear from his childhood. Paul shot the car backward, then jammed the shift into first and skidded from the lot. A sudden notion struck him and he slammed on the break, sliding to a screeching halt beside Cal's truck. Leaving the Shadow in neutral he got out and went to the truck. Reaching behind the seat, he located the gas can Cal had mentioned. He found it half-full. He grabbed a handful of plastic lighters from the dash and shoved them in a pocket. After hurrying back to his car, he took the corner of Milliken in third and shot the car up to seventy. -------- *(31)* The dark shape of the Courtwright mansion rose up from the shadowed grounds, a structure of midnight and evil, the shape of terror. It's dreadful power, a force Paul felt emanating from the great house long before he sighted it, gripped him, dragged him towards the dwelling. The gift within him -- he felt it clearly, now -- the gift he could neither fathom nor control, collided instinctually with the fear. But without the control he knew he somehow had to master, the gift was not strong enough to overcome the feelings. Nor would it be strong enough to overcome the Demon. You have to face the mansion; you have no choice. For somewhere within the mansion's walls Nathan Courtwright held Jenny captive. This was the third part of his nightmare, the convergence of a lifetime. The thing in the closet wasn't coming out after him; he was going in after it. It all comes down to this, Paul: all the years of restlessness and searching, the might-have-beens. It's all locked up inside that house and waiting for you to confront it. Paul slowed the car, veering off the road and onto the overgrown driveway. As he rolled to a stop twenty feet from the mansion, its funereal contours filled the windshield, lines distorted and ominous and eerie in the streams of rippling rain that washed down the glass. He peered at the house, swallowing at the knot of fear in his throat, the boy inside him quivering. Lightning sizzled across charcoal clouds, illuminating the building; shadows jumped from magnesium ghosts, then rushed back as the ghosts vanished, reclaiming their territory. In the burst of light, Paul caught sight of Hudson's squad car parked at a haphazard angle off to the left. He eased open the door, grabbing the flashlight from the seat and clicking it on. The batteries were dead. He uttered a sharp curse and threw the flash to the ground. Reaching into the Shadow he snatched up the gas can and left the door hanging open as he walked towards the mansion. A sluggishness gripped him as he neared the steps; his legs dragged, as if filled with lead. The air seemed thick, unyielding. As if he had stepped into his dream while awake, it was the same feeling he experienced on the misty nightmare street. This was no dream. It was real. Too real, a grotesque fantasy melding with his life. At the foot of the stairs, he paused, staring up at the huge oaken doors that may as well have led to hell. When he opened them would he find Jenny's mutilated body lying in a bloody heap on the foyer floor? The thought terrified him and he had to suddenly fight an intense desire to turn back, to ignore the truth. He forced himself to take the first step, legs weak, shaking, ankle screeching with pain. Rain splattered the stone. A chill shook him. A vise of tightness squeezed his chest; his heart began to pound. You can't do it, Paul, can you? You still feel those boyhood fears crushing you, that panic crashing back in, choking you. Come on, Paul. This time you've got something more important to lose than just your toes. This time it's your soul -- and Jenny's. Forcing himself to move, Paul took the second step. He began to gasp, the chest vise squeezing tighter. His lungs burned and suddenly couldn't catch his breath. ("C'mon, Paulie! Don't be a chicken!") "T-Tommy..." Paul tried to say, the words rasping out. Survey says -- Number One Response: Run, run, run! His lungs craved air and searing pain splintered across his chest. Gasping and choking, head reeling, he saw shadows scurrying across the porch in some weird dark ritual before his fading vision. Leg muscles quivering, he barely held his feet. Jenny's depending on you, Paul!. Don't let her down again! ("C'mon, Paulie -- don't be a chicken!") Paul tried to force himself up another step, but his legs buckled. His hand went out to stop the fall and the gas can clanked on stone. A searing pain slashed at his palm as his flesh slid on the rain-slicked surface. Lying on the stairs, he brought his hand up in front of his face and through blurry vision saw blood flowing from the raw patch in the center of his palm. Rain streamed over it, washing the blood away. Paul's gaze rose to the steps looming up before him; they were jittering, streaking with blackness. Come on, Paul -- breath, dammit -- BREATH! "I-I ... can't..." You can! You're too close to fail now, like this. It's an old ghost, Paul, put it to rest! "Rest..." Paul gasped. He slumped on the step, thoughts murky, strength failing. Then, with frantic fingers, he gripped the gas can, lifted it; the effort seemed prolonged, arduous, but he got it up, maneuvered it above his swollen ankle. He brought the can down with as much force as he could muster. Welts of agony blazed up his shin, through his knee, into his thigh, as the metal edge drove deep into the swollen tissue. Paul screamed, fire sweeping through him. His breath jerked out, gasped in, became labored, shallow, then deeper. He lay there, unable to move for the moment, taking in air until his breathing became almost normal. The pain cleared his senses and brought tears to his eyes, and he struggled to his feet. The whole event had taken only a matter of minutes, but it seemed an eternity. Maybe not the best method, Paul, but what the hell -- it worked. He focused on the great doors. He felt a rush of dread, but his breathing remained normal, if a bit labored. He had beaten an old ghost, but how many more lurked behind those doors? Carrying the can, he took the rest of the steps with caution, careful not to put too much weight on his ankle. His legs grew steadier, as if the small victory had given him renewed strength. He gripped the handle and, bracing himself for what might lay beyond, he threw open one of the doors. A rush of relief surged through him. No body lay on the worn floor. Another obstacle hurtled, he shut the door and stood in the gloom, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The sound of rain and wind filtered in, muffled by the solidity of the place. It murmured like a dirge, low, macabre, smothered but indescribably lonely and forlorn. The mansion, empty all these years, moribund, seemed to cry out in desolation, remorse, as though it were not responsible for the horror weaved into its seams, the infection seething there. Paul was surprised; he hadn't expected such a feeling. The house knows you're here and it's begging you to rid it of its evil, its pain, set it free. But the Demon knows you're here, too. This is his house, his sanctuary; he's corrupted it and he's not willing to let it go. The sense of loneliness vanished and the dread crowded back, stronger, closer. His vision had adjusted enough to see bulky shapes; a staircase wound up into blackness and a second set of huge doors stood to his left. Gazing upon them, he remained transfixed, afraid of what lay beyond. There, Paul, behind those doors. He's waiting... He went towards the doors, heart thudding, as if pulled by some invisible force. He gripped the handles, suppressing a shudder. This is it. Go into the closet. Pull that ugly bastard out. He pushed the doors open and stepped into the room. Yes, this was the room; he could feel it. Somehow, everything started here many years ago, and one way or another it would end here tonight. This room was somewhat lighter than the foyer, the broken windows letting in the vague light of the night. Looking around the room Paul could see the disrepair, the garbage scattered everywhere, the spiderwebs, jostled by wind whining through holes in the windows. Letting his gaze wander upward, he noticed a chandelier -- which didn't impress him as being too solidly anchored after all the years of neglect. Above the fireplace, he made out the portrait of a woman he didn't recognize. Moving deeper into the room, he turned his back to the fireplace and set the gas can on the floor. "Hudson!" he yelled, gaze darting back and forth. "Where are you? I'm here, you sonofabitch! What are you waiting for?" Silence. Something seemed to blur at the edges of his vision. A vague pulling came from deep within his being. Open yourself... Paul stood frozen, mind struggling with something indefinite, as if trying to focus on some hidden ability, bring it to the front. You're been there before, boy... His gaze swept over the room, half-expecting to see the strange black pillar with the old man chained to it, but there was nothing ... or was there? Paul took a step closer to the end wall. For an instant he thought he'd glimpsed something, a deeper patch of blackness hovering on the wall itself. But now, as he searched for it, he saw no sign of the patch. Maybe he'd imagined it, wanted it to be there. "Freddy?" Paul's nerves tingled. No answer; no feeling. Open yourself... There! In his mind, breaking the surface. An utterance of the latent power inside him -- his gift -- striving to burst through. "How? How do I open myself?" You've been there before (before ... before ... before...) "When? For God's sake -- when?" Come on, Paul, you've got to remember -- think dammit! Jenny's close and you can reach her, you know you can. You have the gift! So? I have a goddamn musical ear but I can't play the piano. Remember what Freddy said: you have been there before. But when? I don't know when! "Hudson!" Paul shouted. "Tell me, you sonofabitch! Tell me how to get there!" Dammit, Paul -- THINK! You've been there! The closet, the goddamn closet -- you've been there -- the ghosts -- the old ghosts -- "Jack's house!" Paul blurted, realization flooding his mind. Of course he'd been there! At Jack's house -- the place he'd encounter his father. And Tommy. He'd been in the Open Realm then, at least partially. He'd found a way in. That was the only way he could have seen them. Paul remembered something else: in his cell, when he'd seen Freddy, he'd felt different, strange. He must have entered the Open Realm. Perhaps even each time he heard the Demon's voice in his mind and in nightmares. His gift had held sway over him all along, especially in his dreams; he just hadn't realized it. Now, Paul. Go after him! "I'm coming for you, Hudson. You hear me?" He knows what scares you... I don't care... Readying himself, he scooched, hand drifting out and pulling the gas can close. He concentrated, letting his mind focus on the feelings he'd experienced at the ranch house. He struggled to remember the exact way he felt, after crawling through the window, just before he encountered his ex-father. An odd sense of suspension, of going deeper into areas of his thoughts he'd never dared explore. In his mind, a door began to open. It's working, Paul. Let it happen. Open yourself! The slight blurring at the edge of his vision became suddenly more pronounced, accompanied by a weird tunneling effect. A feeling of separation, of being pulled towards an unknown point. Then he was hurled forward, thrown through a door that for most humans did not exist. He realized he'd never fully entered the Open Realm; he'd merely wandered along its borders. Jack, Tommy, Freddy, they had all come to him, entities that peered out from behind the door and invited him to step through. But he'd never entered completely. Until now. It's different this time, Paul. This time you're not just along for the ride. This time you are on equal footing with him, no matter how strong he's become. Remember that! A curtain of variegated lights flew up before him, sparkling, undulating in a weird respiratory pattern. His senses wavered, as if he were drifting off to sleep, losing reality. Don't black out, now, Paul. It'll pass. Don't lose it! He strained to keep his thoughts focused, directed at the door. The lights glittered around him as he fell into the curtain, scattering like frightened glowing animals. Then the lights streaked and streamed and vanished. The tunneling effect was back, widening, and Paul knew he had passed through the door. Gone. The blurriness at the edges of his vision vanished. Paul, still kneeling, looked up to find he was still in the same room. The gas can rested beside him, his fingers lightly touching the handle. The same room? No, not exactly, was it? Something was different, changed. A strange cold wind had sprung up within the chamber, sweeping up dust and debris. Paul couldn't tell where it was coming from. A crimson glow bathed everything, as if the air were steeped in blood. This, Paul knew, was the Open Realm, the separate reality, a dimension that co-existed with his own. The same, yet imbued with subtly different laws and tones: a wind inside, the night beyond the window still; a light within the room where there should have been darkness; a world where parody existed between the forces of good and evil: a battleground. Catching something from the corner of his eye, Paul turned his attention to the far wall. A splotch of blackness had formed there. A jagged spot roughly the size of a silver dollar, it glistened with a blackness more intense than the deepest night. It riveted Paul's gaze, drawing, wanting, lustful. The blackness he'd almost glimpsed in his own world, but it wasn't Freddy shackled to the ebony pillar. No, this was another door, the door the damned wanted unlocked. The dark door. As if in response, the spot began to enlarge. It flowed outward in every direction, like thick shiny tar, glittering coals of blue-black twinkling within. With morbid fascination and awe, Paul watched the silver dollar swell to an oval at least a foot in diameter. Tendrils splayed out from the main body, roots of blackness, hungry blackness that swallowed new territory with accelerating swiftness. Soon the inky substance devoured the entire wall, becoming a great expanse of jet and obscene glitter. The blackness stopped at the wall's borders, going no further. Paul uttered a gasp as he felt the thing's evil power pull at him; the black door wanted him, desired him. The same feeling he had experienced from Freddy's pillar only much stronger. Paul knew Freddy was in there, somewhere, confined to the blackness. He knew if he stared into that blackness for too long, he would be dragged into it, too, yet he felt compelled to look, gaze deeper, deeper. Suddenly the blackness moved, began to shift and ripple like cloth, as if a storm were brewing behind its fabric. Patches bulged, bubbled, sank back again. Faces, glossy with jet features, distended from the wall, forced up by the invisible storm, perhaps the cause of it. As if pushing through black cellophane, their visages obscene with suffering and anguish and guilt, they became three-dimensional. Black hollow mouths gaped in unheard pleas. Sunken soulless eyes were thrown wide and blazing blue-black. The wall had become a tapestry of the tortured, the maledicted, the cursed -- the damned, a tapestry weaved with sin, embroidered with evil. (Paul, let us out...) Their pleas whispered through his mind, crushing whispers, filled with agony, ascending in volume and intensity. He tried to force them out, pry his gaze from the wall. As he struggled against their pull, the flow of the wind in the room increased, became a lashing invisible force whisking towards the wall. Garbage and papering tore from the other walls, disappearing within the engulfing blackness. Paul struggled against the force, resisting it. He turned away, but with the motion a great moaning and wailing arose, voices calling his name, burdening him with their guilt, with their sorrow and suffering, with their sin. Pain, incredible pain! Why? Oh, God, why couldn't he let them out? Was it so very much to ask? (Release us now! Make things right!) Paul pressed his hands to his ears in an effort to drown out the voices, but they swelled in his brain, louder, louder, louder! He had to free them, had to -- It's a trick, Paul! "HUDSON!" he screamed, letting anger surge. "You can't beat me that way! You wanted me here, now you have me. Face me, you sonofabitch!" WELCOME TO THE OPEN REALM, PAUL STANFORD. The drawing room doors crashed shut. Paul jolted, fighting a wave of dread. A red tear-shaped ball cried from the air. It hung suspended, lengthening. Like a nova, it splintered into a million gory fragments. The glare blinded Paul temporarily. When he could see again, a jagged split had formed in the air. He felt terror run wild in his mind as Deputy Hudson, bathed in the crimson glow, stepped from the rift, like some ancient god stepping from a fireball. He flung Jenny ahead of him, then swept her back and jammed an arm around her throat. Her face was drawn, ragged with fear, eyes shock-filled. Tears ran down her face, trickling over a hideous blue-black bruise on her cheek. She suddenly struggled against Hudson's grip, her terror checked by some inner strength of will, the strength Paul had always leaned on. "Jenny!" he shouted, voice barely audible above the clamoring whispers in his mind. He pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. "Paul," Jenny said, face pleading. "Help me." Hudson laughed and hurled her forward. She crashed to the floor, arms out-thrust. Pushing herself to her hands and knees, her gaze locked with Paul's. He saw terror and confusion rampant there, saw her reaching out to him, clutching for some sort of hold on reality. Paul started for her, wanting to suddenly take her in his arms and hold her, his relief at seeing her alive overriding all else for the moment. "No!" Hudson's voice snapped out like a whip and stopped Paul short. Paul felt paralyzed, as if the word had frozen him to the spot. "You wanted her, didn't you, Paul?" Hudson's black eyes blazed with red slashes. He jutted a finger towards the black wall. "You can have her when you open the dark door. I promise she will be yours then." Paul's eyes cut to the darkness; a section of blackness bulged up, a black enameled face protruding, its lines etched with indescribable anguish. Freddy! (Paul ... help ... me...) He felt the blackness pull at him, beckon him with growing force. Resist it, dammit! It's another trick. Hudson's strong, too strong, and he's using Jenny and Freddy against you. It's only the beginning. If you don't beat this... "Your father's in there." Hudson's voice was taunting, corrosive. "Go in after him. Help him. Unlock the door and I'll give him back to you along with your precious Jenny." No, he's lying. He wants you in there and if you take his word you'll have very little chance of ever coming out again. The bastard won't give you Jenny and when you let out the damned, you'll be damned too. Jenny will die anyway. You have no choice. Paul's attention flashed to the gas can then back to Hudson. "I won't go in there. You want me? The you'll have to do it out here, where I have a chance." Hudson gave Paul a derisive smile. "Congratulations. You have more courage than I gave you credit for. But remember, it's my game and I have other ways to win you can't begin to imagine." Hudson's grin widened and his head turned towards the wall. "Step one." Paul's attention shifted back to the blackness. From its depths, a small face distended, its pudgy black features torn with terror and pain and pleading. "Andy!" Jenny screamed and a shock-chill shuddered through him. She had gained her feet, her features shot with anxiety for the safety of her child. Paul had forgotten about the little boy in his panic over her. Jenny took a step towards the blackness, hand rising, fingers splayed as she reached out in desperation to her son. Paul knew she intended to plunge into that wall after the boy. "No, Jenny!" Paul shouted. "He can't kill children! He won't hurt him -- he's trying to trick you!" The words rushed from his mouth before he could think or stop them. How did he know the Demon wouldn't hurt Andy? Because, Paul, your damn gift's telling you that. Hudson would have killed Andy at the house with Cindy and Mrs. Gaumont otherwise. But he didn't, the same way he didn't kill you -- because he couldn't without risking his goal. Because he'd fail again. Jenny turned towards Paul, eyes searching, pleading, needing something solid he knew he couldn't provide. He saw indecision, confusion, tears. "I can't, Paul," she stammered. "Andy ... he's ... in there. I have to help him. I have to!" "It's a trick, Jenny. He knows your worst fears. Don't ask me how I know, but he can't hurt Andy. Trust me. If you've ever trusted me before, do it now. I love you. Jenny, please -- " She hesitated, as though pulled in two directions at once -- tensed to step into the wall and save her son and poised to take Paul's word. Paul knew which side was winning. "She doesn't believe you, Paul," said Hudson. "You've let her down too many times in the past." (Mommy, help me! I'm scared!) The words echoed from the small black face on the wall, its lips barely moving. "Paul, I'm sorry," Jenny mumbled. She lunged towards the wall. Paul tensed, every fiber of his being coiling for a desperate plunge to stop her, but the distance was too great; he wouldn't be in time. The blackness absorbed her with the sound of quicksand pulling under an animal. She vanished into the tar and Andy's face disappeared. "No!" Paul cried, starting towards the wall, intending to follow her in. Christ, Paul, no. That's just what he wants you to do. If you go in, you'll have no choice but to help him! Paul stopped and slowly turned towards Hudson, whose face was an arrogant map. "You've lost. Go into the wall and save her if you think you can. The damned would tear you apart without my help. Join me and you can have them back." No, Paul, destroy him or he'll kill her anyway. It's you're only option. Here you're equal. "Well, Paul? I'm running out of patience. You want your precious girlfriend back? Join me or lose her forever." Hudson sneered. Paul's legs moved as if of their own volition. He had made his choice, the only choice. With a mad lunge, he threw himself at Hudson, putting his entire weight behind the thrust. Impact. In almost the same move, he was flung backward with incredible force. A great wave of fear and dread struck him, solid fear that repelled. He felt shock waves of intense hate, anger. He crashed to the floor, striking hard on a shoulder. A welt of agony pierced to the bone. The air exploded from his lungs and blackness threatened to blot out his senses. Struggling on the floor, he rolled over, clutching at his paining shoulder. Through reeling thoughts, he heard Hudson's laugh ring out, its tone filled with spite and mockery. The sibilant wailing of lost souls and dark things that roamed behind the blackness crescendoed again, crowding the confused spaces of his mind. Resist them, Paul. Resist the pain and fear and dread. You have the gift -- use it! Paul let out an inarticulate sound and pushed to his hands and knees. His mind felt crushed under the bombardment of the voices, but he fought to focus on Hudson, forcing them down with partial success. He rose to his knees, but before he could gain his feet Hudson stepped toward him. The deputy grabbed two handfuls of Paul's shirt and hauled him to his feet. Their faces level, Paul gazed into the evil depths of the Demon's black eyes. Burning red slashes pierced deep into his soul. Great churning emanations of hate, pure and unadulterated, and living anger pried at his mind, raping his being. His head reeled with the force. "I'm too strong for you, Stanford. Give in. Join me. It will be so much easier." A stench assailed his nostrils, made him recoil, a stench of rot and death and hell. The wind swimming through the netherroom blew harder. The chandelier swung back and forth, its glass chiming; its mountings, in disrepair and strained to near their limit, creaked and groaned. Debris swept up, whirled past them. Paul fought to keep his senses, evoke the gift buried within him, a gift he had no experience in using or controlling. "Easier for who, Hudson?" he shouted. He pounded the fear back the best he could, met the Demon's gaze and held it, though it terrified him. "You can't kill me -- you can't goddamn kill me! We're even here, you sonofabitch! And your master won't settle for even, will he?" The words came with more force than he expected. His will surged up, summoning strength from the gift breaking free. The expression on Hudson's face changed slightly and for an instant Paul caught a glimmer of concern. Then it was concealed, replaced by the deputy's sneer. "You're right about one thing, Stanford: I can't kill you. but I can kill Jenny." He nodded towards the black wall and Paul's gaze instinctively followed. The black liquidy wavering grew more violent, flowing into itself then out again. A face rose in the mire. Jenny's face! Her black mouth gaped open and distantly her plaintive voice rang out: "Paul, they're killing us! They're all around -- " "You see, Paul? The damned want her and only I can keep them away. But not for long. They'll rape her soul. You have very little time to decide." No, it's another trick. He's running out of options. He's blown his wad. Destroy him! Clean out the goddamned closet for good! Paul's hands shot towards Hudson's throat, intending to finish what he'd started in jail. His fingers gouged into the soft plasticy flesh. His thumbs pressed deep into the deputy's windpipe; he felt the fragile cartilage give with a popping sound. Hudson's face became a mask of rage. The red slits in his eyes blazed and Paul shuddered under their power. On the wall, the black faces, rising and sinking, wailed and shrieked, their horrible crushing whispers slamming into his mind. The wind whipped against him. His grip weakened as his mind started to reel again. Block them out. Block your fear. Don't let him use it against you. The strength was running from his fingers, but he forced himself to hold on. The wall -- push him into the wall! But as the thought surfaced in his mind, Hudson's hands released their hold on Paul's shirt and gripped his wrists. Pain splintered through his forearms as the deputy squeezed. His fingers opened against his will, coming lose from the Demon's neck. "You didn't think it would be that easy here, did you?" Hudson's voice was raspy, clogged. A reddish liquid bubbled from his lips, ran in pencil streams down his chin. "Sorry to disappoint you." Hudson's eyes narrowed and Paul wanted to scream. The deputy's face began to crack. Flesh split, fell away in great chunks. Like one painting stroked over another, another set of features shone through, a cruel face, bonewhite and shining with soulless eyes; a sharp mouth twisted with malicious lines. Paul gasped, will draining out of him with the sight. "Been a long time, you little puke!" came the voice of Jack Stanford. "Told you you'd come back to face me a last time." Paul shook his head in silent protest. A stream of images ran helter-skelter through his mind: he saw the ranch house the morning he had climbed through the window, saw his father sitting in the chair, on the couch, the multiple images of Jack bearing down on him. Saw himself backing down again, cowering the way he had as a child. "I'm what you fear most, Paul. I'm the reason you came back, came back like I always said you would." "I..." Paul managed to get out, voice barely audible. He stared into glazed black eyes and could see images wallowing there, scenes of every time he had shrunk away in fear and hurt and humiliation. As his body went limp, his father released his hold on Paul's wrists and he collapsed to his knees. "You couldn't stand up to me then, Paul, and you can't now. You're a bastard, son. A Courtwright bastard! I despise you, Paul, despise everything about you." Paul uttered an inarticulate sound and tried to move, but his fear, the night demons of his past, paralyzed him. He trembled, mind wanting to unhinge totally. Get a grip, Paul. Come on! Face him the way you never could. It's different, now -- he's not your father. You know his reasons... From the wall came the desperate sounds of Jenny's voice calling out to him. "Help me, Paul! Help Andy!" Then her voice was gone, but it gave him something to hold onto. She needs you more than ever, now, Paul. There's not much time. You'll have to face him, face you past. You have to face all the old ghosts. Remember his reason. "Well, Paul, what's it going to be?" Jack Stanford said. "You do want Jenny, don't you? You do want the precious love you never had from me? There's only one way to get it -- unlock the door!" Paul's head rose. His gaze locked with his father's. "No," he said deliberately, getting control over himself. "That's where you're wrong. You made a goddamn mistake, Hudson or whatever you really are. I did want his love, but now I know what I wanted was in some weird way already mine. I just never understood. You offer me what already existed." The sneer on his ex-father's face started to crumble. "You made a mistake, Hudson." Paul's voice grew stronger, resolve flooding him. The fear locking his muscles dissipated. "Because when you reached into my mind and pulled out my deepest fear, you reached back too far. You took from a child who didn't understand why his father did the things he did. But I understand, you bastard. And I can no longer hate him for it. I'll no longer fear him either -- and I'll be damned if I let you make me." Paul's hand darted to his side. He snatched up the gas can, unscrewing the cap in almost the same motion. The Demon lunged for him, but Paul was already on his feet. He flung the can in front of him; gas sprayed out in an arcing stream, catching his ex-father across the front of his shirt. Grabbing Paul, the Demon jerked him close. Paul managed to get the gas can between them and up. Liquid poured out, splashing the Demon's hair and face. The Demon flung Paul around and Paul lost his grip on the can. It clattered to the floor, spilling gas across the old wood. For a moment, their eyes met and Paul saw a strange dullness cloud the Demon's hellish gaze, an expression that was laced with defeat, and the knowledge of some fate much worse than any Paul could imagine. The Demon jerked Paul closer, their faces mere inches apart. A grin crossed his lips, but it was strained, weary, as if a century had crashed down on his shoulders, a century of waiting that ended with the mistake of underestimation, a lesson repeated and avoidable, save for arrogance. "You changed the rules," said Hudson, whose own face had returned. Paul's hand crept towards his pocket, extricated one of the lighters and brought it up to the deputy's chest. "I changed the game." Paul jabbed the lighter into Hudson's chest, flicking it, thrusting himself backward at the same time. Hudson's gas-soaked shirt caught with a woof! Flame engulfed him, jagged yellow claws raking up his face and singing Paul's eyebrows and hair before he could break Hudson's grip. Hudson's face began to melt away, flesh running, dripping, scorching with an acrid stench. Paul stumbled back, thrusting up an arm to shield his eyes and face from the intense blinding heat. The Demon shrieked. "Not like this! Not like this!" he screamed with the sound of a soul being torn loose. Flame engulfed Hudson's entire frame now, devouring his clothing, his very flesh. Back smoke poured into the room and flaming tongues streaked over the dry floor where gasoline had spilled, spreading towards the walls with startling quickness. Paul, peering through stinging smoke, was struck by a sickening realization: the mansion was going up and Jenny and Andy were still trapped in the wall! If the mansion burned down with them inside the blackness, they'd be lost forever. Paul's gaze shot to the black wall. His fear was suddenly confirmed. Black edges had started receding, pulling back from the wall's borders about an inch. The door was closing! Paul didn't have to think about it any longer. His attention went back to Hudson, whose grisly fleshless form was a shrieking gyrating pyre superimposed against the blackness. Frantically, ignoring the flames, Paul flung himself at the Demon. Fire scorched his face and blistered his flesh, but they went hurtling back, propelled by the force of the impact. Backward into the closing black wall! The blackness absorbed them and Paul found himself suddenly suspended, tumbling away from Hudson, tumbling end over end into nothingness. Blisters on his hands and face sent welts of agony through his nerve endings and for a moment he drifted with the pain, letting himself be dragged forward by some invisible wrenching force. Then, trying to regain his control, he saw faces, distorted hideous masks, features filled with damnation, eternal torture. Some hovered within inches of him, and he swore he felt their hands clutching at him, as if trying to rent loose his soul. They reached out, groping with all their suffering and torment, but he tumbled away, resisting more from instinctive revulsion than anything else. As he was drawn forward, the faces became more infrequent; soon, he saw none at all. Why? Because he had passed the point of the damned? Because what lay ahead was infinitely more frightening, more final? For what seemed like endless moments, he drifted. There were feelings, semblances of emotions and hate and anger and bitterness and great sorrow, of desolation. Something ripped past him, a figure engulfed in flame, a sheet of living fire. It whirled end over end, thrashing and hurtling towards something distant and unknown, an anguished shriek tearing out and trailing behind it. Paul knew he had been right: the Demon's master would never have settled for even, and he damn sure wouldn't settle for losing. The Demon, Nathan Courtwright, had lost, this time for eternity, and was being exiled to the realm of the fallen: the Vanished Place. The Demon became a distant blazing star; a star that flickered out. Paul had scarce time to dwell on the demise of Nathan Courtwright. Suddenly his drifting increased its speed as a force drew him forward. He realized with crashing surety he was following the Demon to his fate. Panic rose within him. Ahead he caught glimpses of ... what? What in hell is that? A barrier of some sort, a colossal thing whose size defied description. Infinitely distant, startlingly close, Paul was hurtling towards the barrier. A barrier that once passed would deny any hope of returning. The Vanished Place. As if a lens had focused, the barrier seemed to materialize before him. Its distance had been monumentally deceptive, an illusion. A great jagged sheet of colorless lights, light without the normal qualities of brightness and warmth, wavered, as if breathing. Streaks of non-light slithered in serpentine patterns, then collapsed into themselves, new streaks springing up to take their place. A Nothing Wall, was the only way Paul could describe it. Like an infinitely huge waterfall of anti-light that flowed and shimmered and snaked, down and up at the same time. Something emanated from the barrier, waves of absolute emptiness that grew more pronounced as he neared. With mind-shattering awareness, he began to catch glimpses of what lay beyond its boundary -- the Evil there, the insuperable combined darkness of innumerable worlds and dimensions -- the disease of evil, of which Nathan Courtwright had been but a single living cell. A cell returned to its cancerous womb. A great feeling of hopelessness assailed him, rippling out from behind the barrier, from within himself. The Evil was too powerful to be contained. There's no goddamn way to stop it, Paul! The thought crashed into his mind. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the inevitability of it all, the Evil's unconquerability, its omnipotence. The Evil glared at him with a naked face, grinning with the insanity of its dark depravity. It called him a fool for ever trying to outwit it, letting him know the truth: He could do nothing; he had done nothing. Even Courtwright's defeat would do nothing to end the disease. Evil would go on and on and on, laughing and leering and damnably efficient. A macrocosmic cancer, spreading from soul to soul, world to world, devouring eventually the entire universe. The Vanished Place. And there Paul would join the Demon, lost forever, chained to some infinite fate he couldn't begin to imagine. He hadn't won, hadn't beat the Demon; he had merely delayed the inevitable. Paul was drawn closer to the outer fringe of the non-light barrier. He felt its sterile hopelessness, insaneness, bite deeper, deeper. ("Paul ... Courtwright...") "Freddy!" Paul cried out. Tears rushed down his face, tears of overwhelming loneliness and grief. "Where are you?" ("I am alone.") "Behind the lights?" ("No") "It didn't matter. None of it mattered. It won't ever stop. It won't ever end." Paul's words fell into the blackness; he could no longer hear them. ("It is an illusion, boy. An illusion bleeding from the barrier -- a trick to lure you into the Vanished Place. It cannot take a clean soul, a hopeful soul. Search beyond its veils, Paul. Peer behind its threats of hopelessness.") To what? Paul answered in his mind. To emptiness? To despair and damnation? Forever without the chance of winning? I can't, I can't -- ("NO, boy. To faith. To the woman who calls out to you with her love and trust from the dark corridors of this hell. To her child, frightened and pleading. Use your weapons against it, as you did against the Demon. The Evil has impotent life on its own, but infinite ability in fractions.") I'm afraid. ("You are human, boy. It's not the first time you will fear, nor the last.") What about you? ("With the Demon destroyed, I, and others he has tricked will be set free. We will not remain in this place for long.") Freddy's words trailed off. Paul called out to him in his mind, but received no answer. Yet even with the old man gone, Paul felt new strength surging through him. New hope. He saw the barrier, looming before him with no demarcation, seem to change, reveal itself, a chameleon of deception showing its true colors, its hollow nature. Paul felt revulsion for the thing, and almost a sense of ... pity. He felt pity at its endless existence, its desolation and remoteness. But that was as far as he let himself go. As he searched for the shreds of his faith, his mind threw up a shield against the barrier's power. Immediately its hold weakened, but he knew the thing's strength hadn't lessened; his own had grown stronger. "Paul!" He heard Jenny's voice ring out from somewhere, a beacon entreating him. He knew she had been calling to him all along; he just hadn't let himself hear her. Listening, he tried to focus on her face. With the image, his progress towards the barrier halted completely, leaving him suspended in the engulfing blackness. Faith, Paul. Faith in yourself and in Jenny. It might be goddamn corny but you need it now. You've got all the pieces so put them in the right places. Panic welled in his mind as he remembered the wall had been closing when he entered. How long ago had that been? Could they even get out? He grew aware of the blackness pressing against his body, squeezing. He knew the opening must have shrunk considerably, but not completely, and if he didn't get them out before it closed, it wouldn't matter what he'd accomplished; they'd be trapped. Again he focused on Jenny, urgency and determination flooding him. Reaching out, he felt himself begin to drift left, slightly backward. A lost ship sailing a void, he began to pick up speed, turning, moving in the direction from which he had come. Back, back, back he went, gathering momentum. Jenny -- reach out for me! he screamed in his mind. As if in response, he saw her then, ahead. Her face was stark with terror, a white sheet against the blackness. He caught glimpses of the damned floating near her, clutching at her. They reached for Paul, but with a new-found sense of his gift, he swept them back. You can't touch me, you bastards! Not now! He flew towards Jenny, urgency driving him harder. Not much time, Paul. The door is closing, more quickly now, you can feel it! The distance between them closed. He thrust out his hand in an attempt to touch her, protect her, just missing. She floundered like a drowning swimmer, fingers coming within reach, then suddenly jerked away as she flailed her arms. Come on, Paul -- hurry! No more time, no more goddamn time! Paul's arm shot out in a last desperate attempt. Their fingers touched -- locked! "Paul, thank God! I was so scared -- Andy! He's -- " "Just out of reach," Paul finished. Paul locked his thoughts on Andy's face, but it was suddenly difficult to hold the image. The mounting pressure from the closing entrance had become like walls crushing in on all sides. Pressure clamped to his chest, forcing the air from his lungs, and he gasped for breath. Beside him, he could hear Jenny choking. "Paul ... I can't ... breath!" Jenny gasped. Paul knew he had been wrong when he thought they would just be trapped in here when the entrance closed. No, they couldn't remain within the blackness and live. They'd be crushed out of existence. "Mommy, help me! It's cold! I'm scared!" There! Andy's voice, close by. "Andy!" Paul yelled. "Think of your mother!" Paul endeavored to focus on the little boy and seconds later he saw him. Andy hung in the darkness just ahead. Paul's hand flashed out, snatched Andy's small wrist, yanking him towards them. "Paul..." gasped Jenny. "The hole's closing!" Her face twisted with frantic lines as she fought to breath. She had realized what Paul already knew and begun to struggle furiously. "I know," said Paul, the pressure a vise crushing his lungs. His head began to pulsate as blood throbbed in the veins at his temples. He passed Andy to Jenny and she wrapped her free arm about her son, pining him to her side. "Jenny, if you've ever had any faith in me, have it now. Believe we can get out of here." "I do, Paul. God, I do." "Concentrate on the opening with all your mind." Paul felt a sudden jerk that told him her thoughts had joined his. They began to hurl backwards, accelerating. They shot toward the opening with a feeling that they were falling up. It's almost closed, Paul -- No time! Go through! Go through NOW! Paul shot out of the wall opening and into the drawing room. He smashed into the floor, the force jarring him, almost breaking his hold on Jenny's hand. The black opening, now the size of a manhole cover, vomited Jenny right behind him, Andy secured in her arm and kicking. The blackness on the wall began to cyclone inward. The opening grew smaller, smaller until it became a pinpoint and vanished. The room was an inferno. Tongues of flame lashed at the walls, devouring old papering and wood. The blaze swooped upward, across the ceiling. With a loud groan, the chandelier yanked free of its fastenings and crashed to the floor. A circle of fire swept outward around it. Great swirling bundles of black smoke clouded the air and filled Paul's gasping lungs, choking him. Slivers of agony skewered his chest. Jenny and Andy, lying beside him, were choking and coughing. Paul pushed himself to his feet. Throwing a last glance at the wall where the opening had been, he saw only a sheet of flame. "Jenny -- we have to -- have to get out. The whole place is going!" He grabbed her hand and hauled her up, then swept Andy up by the waist and tucked him under his arm. They weren't in the Open Realm any longer, he thought fleetingly, as they staggered towards the drawing room doors. With their exit from the blackness, they had been thrown clear, but the events in that dimension affected the events in his own and somehow the fire was a part of that. "Hurry!" Paul shouted above the roar of the flames. He could barely see through the pall; the smoke stung his eyes and the heat reddened his face. Jenny suddenly pulled free of his grip and pulled open the great doors, which were already alive with flame. One door canted, then tore from its hinges, crashing to the floor, flames leaping and spreading out into new territory. Paul groped blindly for Jenny, regaining his grip on her hand. They stumbled through the foyer and Jenny yanked open the front doors. Staggering out onto the porch, their faces blackened and blistered, their lungs aching and choked with smoke, they lingered a moment, drawing deep gulps of cool fresh air. As a ribbon of flame wriggled across the threshold, they hurried down the stairs. From a distance, they watched as fire engulfed the mansion. Beams collapsed with great rending tears. Popping noises exploded from within like gunshots. The mansion sounded like a living tortured thing, a dying thing. Paul had the feeling it would have thanked him for setting it free if it could. They stared in silence, transfixed. The rain had become a drizzle, but it felt refreshing on his tortured skin. Jenny pressed her face into Paul's shoulder and he hugged her close. Tears of relief and pent-up emotion zigzagged dirty lines down her face and Andy sobbed, burying his face in Paul's other shoulder. Reflections of dancing flames, now entirely engulfing the mansion, flickered over the ground like a dying phoenix. The mansion uttered a final grating wail and collapsed. Huge sheets of flame scorched the night sky, a thousand sparks vanishing into the darkness. "Paul?" Jenny looked up, face smeared with charcoal. "Is it really over?" Paul stared at the flaming ruins of the Courtwright mansion for a moment, twin reflections of the blaze jittering in his eyes. "I pray to God it is," he said, voice soft. "I couldn't face it again." "And us?" He hugged her and Andy closer. "I think we're going be okay ... I really think we're going to be okay." The End -------- *About The Author* Howard Hopkins lives in a Maine seacoast town and has published 17 westerns, 12 of which have gone to large print editions, under the penname Lance Howard. He is an Active member of the Western Writers of America and a member of EPIC. His large print Western WANTED is a November 2001 release and his hardcover Western, BANDOLERO, sees print the same month. He is hard at work on his 18th at the moment, THE SILVERMINE SPOOK. During the late 80s-early 90s he produced and edited GOLDEN PERILS, a journal for fans of the pulp magazines from the 1930s, primarily focusing on Doc Savage, The Avenger and The Shadow. He recently revived the magazine in electronic PDF format and published the most recent issue, #22, in September, 2001. He produced numerous other magazines in the field and wrote a comprehensive study of The Avenger character, as well as over fifty articles on pulp characters for various other journals. He plays mandolin, alto sax, electric and acoustic guitar and paints ebook covers, as well as print. ----------------------- Visit www.atlanticbridge.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.