by Nora Roberts
“I couldn't say as it was a problem. I was cleaning up that chest of drawers—already got somebody interested. That's a real fine oak piece. 'Bout 1860, I'd say.”
“It's been in the family.”
“It needed a little work.” Bob shifted uncomfortably. He knew how touchy some people could be about selling family pieces. He had to play this cagey for a number of reasons. “Anyhow, I was taking the drawers out to sand them up some, and I came across this.” He took a small book out of his pocket. “Found it taped to the bottom drawer. Didn't quite know what to think of it, so I brought it in.”
It was a passbook, Cam noted when he took it. A savings account in a Virginia bank. He read the names over twice.
Jack Kimball or E. B. Stokey The first deposit, a whopping fifty thousand, had been made the year before Kimball's death. The year, Cam thought grimly, that the land had been sold for the shopping center. There had been withdrawals and more deposits, continuing after Kimball's death and up until the month before Biff's.
Bob cleared his throat. “I didn't know Jack and Biff had, ah, business together.”
“It sure looks that way, doesn't it?” The account had swelled to more than a hundred thousand and had shrunk to less than five with the final withdrawal. “I appreciate your bringing this in, Bob.”
“I figured it was best.” He edged toward the door, anxious to spread the word. “I guess if Biff was alive, he'd be in a shit pot of trouble.”
“You could say that.” Eyes moody, Cam looked up to study the antique dealer. “I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you to keep this to yourself?”
Bob had the grace to flush. “Well now, Cam, you know I can keep my mouth shut all right, but Bonny Sue was standing right there when I come across it. No telling who she's told already.”
“Just a thought,” Cam murmured. “Thanks again.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping the book against his palm and wondering how he was going to show it to Clare.
Clare got home at dusk, angry, frustrated, and miserable. She'd just spent the better part of an hour with Lisa's surgeon. The second operation was over, and Lisa's leg was in a conventional white cast that had already been signed by her family, friends, and most of the staff on the third floor.
She would be going back to Philadelphia within the week. But she would never dance professionally again.
No amount of arguing or pleading with Dr. Su had changed his prognosis. With care and therapy, Lisa would walk without a limp, even dance—within limits. But her knee would never stand up to the rigors of ballet.
Clare sat in her car at the curb in front of her house and stared at the sculpture taking shape in the drive. A woman reaching for the stars and gaining them.
Oh, fuck.
She looked down at her hands, slowly opening, then closing them, turning them over. How would she feel if she could never sculpt again? Could never hold a mallet or a torch or a chisel?
Empty. Dead. Destroyed.
Lisa had lain in that bed, her eyes filled with pain, her voice strong.
“I think I knew all along,” she'd said. “Somehow it's easier being sure than wondering. Hoping.”
But no, Clare thought as she slammed out of the car. It was never easier to lose hope. She stopped under the sculpture, staring up at it in the waning light. It was only a hint of a shape, long, slender, graceful arms lifted high, fingers spread. Reaching. But she saw it completed, and the features of the face were Lisa's.
She could do that, Clare thought. She could give the statue Lisa's face, and her grace and her courage. And maybe it wouldn't be such a small thing. Casting her eyes back to the ground, she walked into the house.
The phone was ringing, but she ignored it. She didn't want to talk to anyone, not yet. Without bothering with the lights, she moved through the kitchen to the living room and thought about escaping into sleep.
“I've been waiting for you.”
Ernie rose, a shadow in the shadows, and stood waiting.
After the first jolt, she steadied, facing him adult to child. “People usually wait outside until they're invited in.” She reached over to turn on the lamp.
“Don't.” He moved quickly, covering her hand with his. She found it sweaty cold. “We don't need the light.”
Her annoyance was laced with the beginnings of fear. She reminded herself that the windows were open and a few good screams would bring neighbors. And he was a kid. She slid her hand from under his. Sexually frustrated, mixed up, but still a kid.
Not a murderer. She wouldn't believe that. Didn't dare.
“All right, Ernie.” She moved casually and put the couch between them. “What's this about?”
“You were supposed to be the one. The way you looked at me.”
“I looked at you the way a friend would. That's all.”
“You were supposed to be the one,” he insisted. She was his hope. Maybe his last. “But you went with Rafferty. You let him have you.”
The pity that had been creeping into her heart iced over. “My relationship with Cam isn't open for discussion. It's my business.”
“No. You were mine.”
“Ernie.” Patience, she told herself. Patience and logic. “I'm ten years older than you, and we've only known each other a couple of months. We both know that I never did anything to make you think I was offering more than friendship.”
He shook his head slowly, continually, his eyes dark and fixed on hers. “You were sent. I thought you were sent.” A whine came into his voice, the music of youth, and softened her.
“Sent? Ernie, you know that's not true. You've built something that never existed out of your imagination.”
“I saw the statue. The statue you made. The high priest. Baphomet.”
Shaken, she took a step back in denial. “What are you talking about? Did you steal it?”
“No, others did. Others know what you know. You've seen. So have I.”
“Seen what?”
“I belong. There's nothing I can do now. I belong. Don't you see? Can't you understand?”
“No.” She laid a hand on the back of the couch. “I can't. But I'd like to. I'd like to help you.”
“It was supposed to make me feel good. It was supposed to give me anything I wanted.”
The whining turned to tears, but she couldn't make herself step forward and comfort him. “Ernie, let me call your parents.”
“What the hell for?” Tears turned to rage. “What do they know? What do they care? They think they can make everything all right by making me go to a psychiatrist. All right for them, maybe. I hate them, I hate them both.”
“You don't mean that.”
He pressed his hands to his ears, as if to block out her words and his own. “They don't understand. Nobody does, except—”
“Except?” She took a step toward him. The whites of his eyes glowed in the shadows. She could see the sweat beaded over the upper lip he only had to shave once a week. “Sit down, Ernie. Sit down and talk to me. I'll try to understand.”
“It's too late to go back. I know what I have to do. I know where I belong.” He turned and ran out of the house.
“Ernie!” She raced after him, pausing in the middle of her yard when he jumped into his truck. “Ernie, wait.” When he speeded past her, she looked frantically down the street. His house was dark. Clare swore and darted to her own car. She hadn't been able to change things for Lisa. Maybe she could help Ernie.
He turned onto Main, and she lost him. Slapping the heel of her hand against the wheel, she circled around, scooting down side streets searching for his truck. Ten minutes later, she was ready to give up, figuring the best thing she could do was go into Rocco's and relate the incident to his parents.
Then she spotted the truck, parked in the rear lot of Griffith's Funeral Home. Clare pulled in beside it. Great, just great, she thought. What was he doing? Breaking into a funeral parlor?
She didn't bother to weigh the consequences. She would go in and
get him out, as quickly and quietly as possible. Then she'd turn him over to his parents.
The rear door was unlocked, and she opened it, fighting back her natural distaste for entering a place where death was a daily business. She sent out a quick prayer that no one had died lately and slipped inside.
“Ernie?” she whispered, her voice sounding hushed and reverential as it floated downward. The delivery entrance, she supposed, looking down the flight of iron steps. “Damn it, Ernie, why here?”
Abruptly, she thought of the symbolism. Coffins and candles. Clare was well aware of the statistics on teenage suicide. Ernie was a prime candidate. Torn, she stood at the top of the stairs. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't trained. If she couldn't stop him …
It would be better to go find Cam, she decided, though it made her feel like a squealer. Doc Crampton might be an even better choice. As she turned toward the door, a sound from below made her hesitate. Why would the boy listen to a cop—especially one he'd decided to hate? And he certainly wouldn't pay any attention to a small-town G.P. If it was just an adolescent temper tantrum, how much harder would it be for Ernie to have a cop pick him up? She remembered his tears and his desperation, and sighed.
She would just go on down and see if she could find him first. Trained or not, she could talk to him, and with luck and perseverance calm him down. Slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, she descended the stairs.
Voices. Who the hell could Ernie be talking to? she wondered. Chances were that Charlie was working—oh, God—and the boy had run into him. She would try to explain, cajole, smooth over, then get Ernie back to his parents before there was any real trouble.
No, not voices, she realized. Music. Bach played on an organ. She supposed Charlie preferred the reverential music to set the mood for his work.
She turned into a narrow corridor. Light was thrown by wall sconces, but was overwhelmed by shadows. There was movement again, murmuring under the music. Clare reached out with a hesitant hand and parted a long black curtain.
And the gong sounded.
There was a woman lying on a platform. At first Clare thought she was dead, so pale was her skin in the flowing candlelight. But she shifted her head, and Clare knew, with an even more primitive horror, that she was alive.
She had her arms crossed over her naked breasts and gripped a black candle in each hand. Between her spread thighs was a silver cup, covered by a paten on which lay a small round of black bread.
There were men, a dozen of them, in long, hooded robes. Three of them approached the altar and made a deep bow.
A voice was raised, intoning Latin. Clare recognized it and began to tremble.
But it wasn't right, she thought, swaying a bit with the first shock. There had been trees and a fire and the smell of smoke and pine. Her knuckles were bone-white against the black curtain, and she stared. The voice, the one she remembered from her dream, filled the stark little room.
“Before the King of Hell and all the demons of the Pit, before this, my brotherhood, I proclaim that Satan rules. Before this company, I renew my allegiance and my vow to honor Him. In return I demand His assistance for the fulfillment of all my desires. I call upon you, Brothers, to do the same.”
The men flanking him spoke in unison, repeating the vow.
It was true, Clare thought, horrified, as the celebrant and his deacons continued in Latin. All of it was true. The dream, her father. Sweet God, her father. And all the rest.
“Domine Satanas, Rex Inferus, Imperator omnipotens. ”
The celebrant took up the paten, raised it to chest level, where a heavy silver pentagram rested against his robes, and recited the profane words in a long-dead language. He replaced it, repeated the gesture with the cup, then set that down as well, back between the woman's slim white thighs.
“Mighty Lord of Darkness, look favorably on this sacrifice we have prepared for You.”
The scent of incense, sweet and heavy, took her back to the long, formal High Masses of her childhood. This, too, was a mass, she thought. A black one.
“Dominus Inferus vobiscum. ”
“Et cum tuo. ”
Her body was sheathed in ice. She shuddered from it, willing herself to move, to step back, to run; unable to pull her rigid hand away from the curtain. The music droned on, dreamlike. The incense spun thickly in her head. The celebrant lifted his arms, palms downward. He called out again, his voice rich and full and hypnotic. And she knew. Though her mind rejected it, she knew the voice and the face that went with it.
“Salve! Salve! Salve!”
The gong rang three times.
And she fled.
She didn't think about moving silently, being cautious. The panic that gripped her demanded that she run, escape. Survive. It had been the same that night so many years ago, when she had scrambled like a rabbit through the woods, back to her father's car. She had lain there, shivering with shock, until he found her.
The lights in the corridor floated around her, silent and secret, casting the steps into deeper shadow. For an instant, she thought she saw her father, standing at the base of them, his eyes filled with sorrow, his hands stained with blood.
“I told you not to come, cutie pie. It's not a place for little girls.” His arms reached out for her. “It's just a dream, a bad dream. You'll forget all about it.”
As she raced toward him, the image faded. She bolted through it, sobbing, and up the metal stairs. She knew the taste of hysteria. Its chalky flavor clogged her throat, gagging her, as she pushed against the exit door.
She was trapped. The sweat that had beaded on her skin began to run in rivers as she pushed against the door. Her own whispered pleas roared in her head. They would come for her. They would find her. And she would die, as Carly Jamison had died. They would take up the knife and, as if she were a small, terrified goat, slice it across her throat.
A scream bubbled up to her lips, then she found the latch and stumbled out into the night. Blind fear took her across the dark parking lot. Breath heaving, she clung to a tree, pressing her wet cheek against the bark.
Think, think, damn it, she ordered herself. You have to get help. You have to get Cam. She could run to his office, but her legs no longer felt as if they could carry her. He might not be there. She would go to his house. Safe, it would be safe there. Somehow, between the two of them, they would make everything right again.
She looked over and saw her car, gleaming red beside Ernie's truck. She couldn't leave it there. Didn't dare. She took a step back, and the wave of revulsion struck like a fist. Clare gritted her teeth against it and kept walking. She would get in her car, drive away, drive to Cam's house, and tell him what she'd seen.
When the beam of headlights cut across her, she froze like a rabbit.
“Clare?” Dr. Crampton leaned his head out the window of his car. “Clare, what in the world are you doing there? Are you all right?”
“Doc?” Weak with relief, she darted to his car. Now she wasn't alone. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”
“What is it?” He pushed up his glasses and focused, noting her pupils were dilated. “Are you hurt, ill?”
“No. No, we have to get away.” She sent a quick, desperate look toward the rear entrance. “I don't know how much longer they'll be down there.”
“They?” His eyes, behind the glint of his glasses, were filled with concern.
“In Griffith's. Down in the basement. I saw them. The robes, the masks. I used to think it was a dream, but it wasn't.” She held up a hand, trying to stop herself. “I'm not making sense. I need to get to Cam. Can you follow me?”
“I don't think you're in any shape to drive. Why don't you let me take you home?”
“I'm fine,” she told him when he stepped out of the car. “We can't stay here. They've already killed the Jamison girl and probably Biff. It's dangerous.” Her breath hissed as she felt the prick of a needle on her arm.
“Yes, it is.” There was regret in his voice as he sent
the drug screaming into her bloodstream. “I'm very sorry, Clare. I tried very hard to protect you from this.”
“No.” She struggled away, but her vision was already wavering. “Oh, God, no.”
Chapter 29
IT WAS A DREAM. In dreams you didn't really feel anything, and