Liz turned the ball in her hand.
The faded patch of red came into view. Liz stared at it.
“Well,” Katie asked finally, scooted closer across the seat.
“’Well’ what?”
“The faint red mark. What’s it look like to you?”
Liz brought it close. “Rust.”
Katie sighed, glanced at me; I’d turned around in the seat by then.
“Just rust, huh Liz?” I asked.
Liz dropped the ball suddenly.
She caught it in the folds of her skirt again before it rolled off onto the floor of the car. “Sorry….”
Katie was studying her carefully. “What happened? You looked like you just got a shock.”
Liz smiled. “No, dear, no shock,” handing back the ball to Katie,” incredibly cold though, isn’t it?”
Katie held the ball a moment, frowned. She finally put it back in her purse.
She glanced my way again. Not to me, her eyes said.
* * *
Back at the house, Byron parked the car in the drive and we climbed out.
“I’d like to see it,” Liz said, smoothing her skirt.
“The ball again?” from Katie.
“The nursery.”
Everyone stopped at the same time on the front walk, turned again and looked at Liz.
“I really wish you’d stop doing that,” she said.
“I…don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Byron stammered.
I turned to my mother. “There’s been some trouble there. Byron’s locked the nursery. We’ve reason to believe whatever’s…possessing the house has its locus there, Mom.”
“I know,” Liz nodded, brushing past me, “that’s why I want to see it.” She craned back at Katie behind her. “Write that down in your little notebook please, dear…the second time he’s called me ‘mom.’”
The three of us had to hustle to keep up with her in the foyer.
“Mrs. Bledsoe, I’d really rather not unlock that room…”
“Do you find me unattractive Byron, dear?”
“What? God, no. You’re a total fox.”
“Then why don’t you call me ‘Liz’? And clearly whatever’s in the nursery isn’t interested in me, but in your son.”
Byron gave me an exasperated look as we chased her up the stairs. “Okay,” I told her, “but not alone. Byron and I will go with you, right Byron?”
“And me,” from Katie.
“And don’t get any silly ideas about spending the night in there, M—Liz.”
Liz lifted the heavy skirt to navigate the ancient staircase. “Aren’t you sweet, dear!”
But in the hallway before the nursery door as Byron, with obvious regret, unlocked it, she turned to us firmly:
“Now the three of you stay here in the hall a moment—“
“Liz, no!” from Katie.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart, I’ll dance at your wedding!”
She brushed by Byron, pulled open the nursery doors and stepped inside.
I started to follow but she held up a hand. “Elliot, close the doors now for your mother, like a good boy, dear.”
“I won’t do that! What if they won’t open again--?”
But she’d already shut them behind her with a thump of finality.
I reached for the knob—
“—Wait!” Katie whispered. “Give her a moment.”
“A moment is all it takes!”
“Elliot…”
I consulted my watch, nodded. “Fine! A moment!”
A minute passed.
I stood tapping by foot, fists at my sides. “Liz!”
Silence.
I reached for the knob.
The doors opened before I reached it. Liz stood there beaming. “Nothing!”
We all slumped.
“Well, what did you expect, that I’d vanish into the ethers?”
I had to chuckle.
“—or that I’d be dragged down by a demon? A black one, maybe. Like a leopard, Elliot?”
I went rigid. “Who told you—“
“Can we come in now?” from Katie.
“In a moment,” Liz told her, sticking out her hand. “Give me the ball, please, sweetie.”
“Wait a minute—“ I started, but Katie was already handing it to her. Again I started forward; again Liz held up her hand. “Just another moment, now…” And she shut the doors again behind her.
We stood there silently in the hallway, me with an insect tickle of sweat coursing down my back.
I was holding up my watch, counting the seconds. “That’s long enough!”
I twisted the knob.
Locked.
“Shit! Liz!”
Katie pushed me aside. “Don’t panic, now!” She twisted hard at the knob, then looked imploringly at Byron.
He came forward, dragging out the key. “Here…it might have locked itself under the jar…”
He fit the key into the lock, twisted, pulled. Nothing.
I hammered angrily at the door. “Liz!”
Byron and I grabbed the knob together in our hands, hauled back with all we had. The doors remained shut.
“Liz! Answer us!”
Silence.
“Goddamnit!” I whirled on Byron, “Do you have a sledge hammer in your shop—an axe?”
“That’s rare, antique walnut--” Byron began.
“You sonofabitch, open this door!”
“Shut-up!” from Katie, pushing me aside again.
She took hold of the knob gently. Worked it just slightly back and forth. Took a deep breath and leaned her forehead against the narrow seam between the two nursery doors. She whispered something to herself, eyes closed.
Byron and I regarded each other blankly.
Katie whispered again, slightly louder but still unintelligible.
I felt a rising knot of terror in my chest.
Katie placed her right palm on the left door, softly, flat, fingers spread.
She whispered once more, twisted the knob very slowly. The door swept inward.
The three of us shouldered through together.
Liz was gone.
Then she wasn’t gone, just monetarily lost in the shadows beneath the mantle, figure outlined in contrast against the black mouth of the fireplace, her back to us. She stood silently, as if listening.
“Liz!”
She started a little from her reverie, then finally turned and looked at us, not smiling, but not stressed either.
The carpet ball was at her feet.
“Liz!”
Katie and I got to her first.
I took my mother’s shoulders, looked into her clear, dark eyes; she looked even younger and more beautiful than ever.
“Liz?” my hands slid down to grasp her.
“I’m fine, dear, I’m fine. Get that silly look off your face.”
Her hands were cold, clammy.
Katie made a sound behind her.
I looked over Liz’s shoulder just as Katie was coming up from the floor, the onyx ball in her hand. She held it out to me. “It’s freezing.”
I took it. It felt like it had been stored in a Coke cooler.
“Mrs. Bledsoe,” from an anxious Byron, “are you sure you’re all right?”
Liz smiled assurance. “I’m fine, dear.”
She looked at Katie and me. “It isn’t the same, is it--?”
As usual, Katie got there mentally and physically before I did. “No, Liz…it isn’t.”
“Describe it.”
“Close,” I finally got there, “but more than that, more than just stuffy. I don’t know…heavy? Does that make sense?” I turned to my partner. “Katie--?”
“Ominous.”
“How?” Liz pressed.
Katie thought about it. “Hard to describe…actually physically cooler sometimes…like…”
“The ball?”
Katie nodded. “Only the kind of chill that…goes right through you. Yet is
n’t there at all.”
Liz turned back to me.
“Maybe it’s just me,” I began,” but it was like—when it came—it felt…diseased. Or…”
“Or?”
I tried to nail it down. “Deranged?” I started nodding, then faster. “Yes. Deranged. Unbalanced.”
“But not now?”
“No,” I told her, “not now. Now it feels…” I gazed about us, “…friendly, clean. Before it felt…uninviting.”
Katie nodded beside me. “And creepy as hell. You…really didn’t want to be in here.”
Liz turned to Byron. “Byron?”
Poor Byron looked a little nonplussed. “I…I’m not as sensitive as these two, I’m afraid. But yes, I can see what they mean. The place always made me vaguely uneasy, not sure I realized just how much until now. I do know I was glad when the kids came to sleep with us. That I slept better myself. And Donna as well, or so it seemed.”
Liz craned the stretch of room past us, swept an arm before her. “Everything is here?” she asked. “Just as before? The same way it was when Nathaniel disappeared?”
Byron nodded. “Yes. Cribs, toy shelf, armoire, everything.”
Katie touched his arm absently. “But not the clock…”
* * *
About halfway back down the staircase Katie said, “Byron--?”
Two steps ahead of her he craned back. “Yes?”
Katie met my eyes a moment, using the rail as support. “Elliot and I need to…tell you something…”
“Okay.”
He started back down, but turned around again when he saw I hadn’t moved. “Elliot? What is it, old man? Something I need to hear? You know you can tell me anything concerning my family.”
I started down again, moving past him on the stairs. “Something we need to show you…”
* * *
Byron bent over Katie’s shoulder, eyes on the monitor screen.
In a moment he straightened, body rigid, face like stone. “Run it again.”
Katie gave me a nervous glance, rewound the images on the hard drive, punched a key and started the scene again: little Nathaniel coming into view just briefly on Rankin’s footage of the nursery shoot, seeming to flutter like a pale moth, then to disappear again. Then Katie froze the image, zooming in on the mantle clock and the black, feral face reflected there.
Liz, who had gasped the first time, stood quietly beside Byron now, faced turned away when the grinning panther man filled the screen.
Byron turned away too this time, in the opposite direction, strode a few feet, arms crossed tightly, then whirled on us. “Jesus Christ, Elliot!”
“Byron—“ Katie began.
“Why the hell didn’t you show us before? Why’d you withhold this from us?”
I’d thought I’d prepared myself for this eventuality, but found suddenly that I had nothing to say.
Byron gritted his teeth at me, whipped back to Katie and the console.
“We didn’t…we weren’t absolutely sure—“
“What was it? What does it mean?”
“Byron—“
He turned red-faced to me. “Well, I can tell you what was! It was a picture of my son! Clearly photographed while the rest of the tape remained devoid of humanity! My son! Who looks like he’s happily holding hands with some….demon creature reflected in that clock face!”
He stepped back, appraised us both heatedly. “As for what it means—I believe that’s what I hired you two to tell me!”
“Byron,” Katie pleaded, “we still don’t have—we need positive proof…”
“Proof! Jesus, Katie! It’s reflected right there in the clock-face. The nursery is clearly haunted by a creature or creatures not of this world! What the hell more proof do you need?”
“Lots,” I stepped in. “For one thing we’re not positive that’s even a real face, or if it is, whose reflection it is! It was purposely dark, between scenes; it could have been anyone—the cameraman, the—“
Byron actually laughed throwing up his hands. “The cameraman! And where does he hang out when he’s not filming, the San Diego zoo? That’s the face of an animal! You had no right to withhold this information from us!”
Liz took Byron’s muscled arm. “Byron, dear, Elliot and Katie have to be sure before they offer their theories….”
“More sure than that?”
“Byron, listen to me. Maybe this is some kind of proof of a paranormal event--”
“Maybe?”
“Sh, listen, dear! You heard them upstairs just now, you said yourself the nursery made you uneasy, unsettled, but you didn’t understand until today, especially now, that you’ve seen that reflection in the clock-face! The truth is, objects that contain paranormal powers—in this case apparently a clock—are first subjected to some form of traumatic event, an accident or a death, perhaps. The event is recorded or held--“photographed” if you will--in space-time by means science doesn’t and can’t yet fully understand or prove. We can prove, however, that this traumatic happening, like an endless loop of tape, seems to bend time in a way that causes the event to repeat itself over a period of…weeks, months, even generations! Now, Mr. Adams, the antique dealer, said he knows the clock was stored in an attic of the Coronado Hotel dating back to 1917, at the beginning of the First World War. Meaning the traumatic event in question likely occurred at or around that period! Finding a timeline to the event helps enormously in helping us discover what exactly transpired! So you see Elliot and Katie are making progress!”
Sanderson waved her off. “What’s that got to do with Nathaniel?”
“We don’t know yet,” I told him levelly.
He looked like he wanted to punch me. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” Katie said calmly, “it’s supposed to scare you. It’s supposed to frighten the living hell out of you, just as it did us!”
“Well it does! But if that’s what it is, that’s what I need to know!”
“And your wife,” Katie said softly, “is that what you need for Donna to know as well?”
Byron started to yell back, then caught himself, face twisted into an expression I couldn’t translate.
He finally gave us both a kind of desperate look. He turned to Liz.
She nodded up at him sympathetically. “It does follow the early path of Elliot’s Tarot card reading, dear…”
Byron stood before her impotently, shook all over violently, then turned on his heel and stomped toward the back door.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! Any of you!”
“Byron—“
“But I sure as hell know one thing…”
“Byron! Where are you going?”
“To my shop! To finish fixing that goddamn clock! After that it goes straight back to the Hotel del Coronado where it came from, even if I have to give it away!”
Katie started for him. “Byron, wait! We may need the clock for—“
But he was already out of earshot.
Or just not listening anymore.
EIGHTEEN
The rest of the afternoon was pretty grim; no one dared bother Byron outdoors in his carriage house shop. Around 6:00 we heard the Sandersons’ car back quickly out of the drive and roar off for Orange Avenue and the south end of the island, no doubt, hotel clock in tow, bound for the Del. Something about the way the wheels squeaked made you think Byron was carrying radioactive cargo he could hardly wait to be free of.
Thank God for Liz.
She remained her usual unflaggingly cheery self, viewing the nursery footage of Nathaniel tirelessly, over and over, actually helping Katie with the computer’s limited refining programs to bring the image in the clock face into the sharpest possible focus--which unfortunately only made the awful face more terrifying—and repeatedly making comparisons between both the event and our arrival at the Sanderson home with what the Tarot cards had to tell.
As if reading the weary frustration in our fa
ces she kept on cheerleading with snacks and a terrific-smelling chicken dinner (placing Byron’s plate at the end of the table for him if and when he came home), vegetables and chocolate mousse for dessert. We’d just finished her wonderful meal, darkness gathering at the lead-paned windows, when the knock sounded at the front door.
I jumped up. “Byron!”
“Byron has a key, Elliot,” from Katie.
“Oh…yeah.” I hurried to the door anyway, pulled it open, and snapped on the porch light to find a slightly uncomfortable, somewhat chagrinned Mr. Adams standing on the front stoop, a heavy cardboard box in his arms, turkey neck stretching irritably at his Arrow shirt’s closed top button with a fifties-style, broad tie with a gold clip adorning it. He also sported a tweed jacket and what looked like new slacks over feverishly polished wingtips.
“Mr. Adams!”
“Ah, hell, may as well call me Adam, m’friends do, those I got,” trying to peer around me into the house. “Is, ah, the young lady about…?”
“Which one?” knowing perfectly well.
“The, uh…y’know,” trying to make a shape with his hands while holding the heavy box, “the…curvy one!”
“Which one?”
Running a little sweat now. “Dang it, boy, the black-haired one!”
“Ah! My mother!”
Mr. Adams went pale. “She ain’t!”
“She is.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“An’ I say she’s yer older sister!”
“Liz will be glad to hear that. Is that for her?”
“What? The box? No, no, this here’s some stuff for Mr. Sanderson, few things I found at the shop.” Peering around my other shoulder. “Wouldn’t be home, I don’t suppose?”
“Mr. Sanderson or the curvy one?”
“The curvy one—I mean, well…both! Inside the house, are they?”
“Sorry, no.”
Mr. Adams face fell eight feet.
I couldn’t let him suffer. “Mr. Sanderson, that is. The curvy one’s in the kitchen, I believe. Do you like chocolate mousse, Mr. Adams?”
“Which?”
“It’s a dessert. Would you like to come in? Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, no…don’t wanna be a bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
“In that case…” he practically shoved the box at me.
NIGHT CHILLS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 18