"Oh my God, are you . . . all right?"
He moved his head back and forth slowly, half-expecting his neck to be broken from the nyctalopic ordeal. "I … yes . . . a dream . . ."
"God damn dreams!" she cried. "God . . ." A banging on the door interrupted her.
"Hey! Gabrielle! Wickstrom's voice.
"Come in!" she barked, still full of fury at what had happened to George. The bedroom door opened and Wickstrom stuck his head through. "It's all right, Kelly. I'm sorry." The apology softened her tone. "George had a nightmare. I couldn't wake him up."
Wickstrom was too open, McNeely thought, to keep the suspicion out of his eyes. "You okay now?"
"Yeah, yeah. . . ." He nodded, smiling wanly to reassure them.
"Was it the house?" Wickstrom asked point-blank.
Everything's the house! McNeely thought, but instead, he laughed. "No. You know I'm claustrophobic. I just dreamed about it, that's all. I've had nightmares like it before. No big deal."
"I couldn't wake you," Gabrielle said.
"Sure you could. I'm awake." He spread his hands to indicate the obvious.
"I mean, it was like you didn't want to be awakened," she tried to explain. "As if it were horrible, but still you didn't want to wake up."
"That's ridiculous. Why would I want to stay in a nightmare?"
She shook her head, looking at him with, pleading eyes. "I don't know."
A long moment passed while they looked at each other. Finally McNeely turned to Wickstrom. "Thanks, Kelly. Sorry we woke you for nothing."
"S'okay. Sleep well," he said, and disappeared.
McNeely looked back at Gabrielle. She was still staring at him with a deep frown. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Jesus," he said, "you've been asking me that for ages. What makes you think there's something wrong? A few stupid nightmares?"
"Maybe."
"There is nothing wrong with me," he said solemnly, his hand going out to touch her cheek. "Nothing. Believe me." He pulled her to him and kissed her, but she turned her head away after a moment. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing. I just don't … want to right now."
A dull anger ran through him. He hadn't intended the kiss to lead to sex, but now that it was denied him, an unidentifiable perverseness gored his newly found sexuality. "Sorry," he said coldly. "You call the shots."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Oh? How then?" He felt his need for her growing, but whether born of tension, desire, or rejection, he could not say.
She shook her head. "I just want to sleep."
"Fine." He lay back, turning away from her and closing his eyes. He heard her turn out the light, and felt her lie down, not touching his body with any part of hers. For several minutes they lay there, and finally he felt her move until she was beside him, her hand on his shoulder.
"George," she said, "I'm sorry. I'm just scared."
He turned and embraced her. "Don't be. It's all right." He kissed her deeply then, and though she did not resist, neither did she fully respond. But he kept on, his hands moving over her, and soon they were naked, she guiding him half-heartedly into her.
Something came over him then, a sudden anger that he knew to be irrational even as he manifested it. He began to 'drive into her, not with burning speed, but with a slow cruel force, until she moaned, not from pleasure, but from pain. But instead of stopping, or changing position to relieve the pressure that was hurting her, he continued to push down on and into her.
"Please . . ." she grunted, trying to shift his weight. "It's hurting . . ."
He thrust into her sharply once more, making her gasp, then moved down lower, on her body, relieving the tension of aching tissues he'd purposely caused. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and part of him was, but inside him another voice cried, Your fault, not mine. Because of you, because of you.
All because of you.
A moment later he came without pleasure, and from there they moved into separate, dreamless sleep. Sometime later the sound of her moving about in the bathroom woke him, and he looked at the towel they had kept by the bed to put under her after sex. His semen had drained out from her while they'd slept, along with something reddish, and now lay on the towel like a thick mixture of eggwhite and blood.
He shivered, folded the towel over, and tossed it on the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
Monckton pulled Sterne's down-filled jacket up over his head. Just for a moment, he thought. Just long enough to breathe warm air again, to melt the ice that his own breath had formed on his moustache. It had grown colder since his accident, much colder. He guessed that it was below freezing, though he couldn't be certain. He tried to remember if breath would freeze above freezing. Freeze above freezing? No, that was just stupid. It must be freezing then.
He took some more deep breaths and joyed in the ecstatic warmth his lungs created within the nylon cave. Freeze above freezing. Was his mind going? He felt so stupid, as if the things he remembered, things he knew, were all slipping away from him. Is this what dying of exposure is like? he thought with a fleeting smile, and wished again that he had died when he'd fallen, landed smack-dab on his white bushy head like that bastard Sterne must have. Died right off and not had to worry about starving and freezing to death.
At the thought of freezing, his leg tingled again, and he shivered. With a sigh he pulled the down coat off his head and spread it once more over his legs and hips. All he had were a pair of denims, and they had ripped open during the fall. Thank God for Sterne, he thought with irony. If he hadn't taken his jacket off, my legs'd be icicles by now. Small favors.
He glanced at his watch again and immediately wished he hadn't. 1:47, 10-26. And in New York people would be walking down Fifth bundled against the winds pushing up the stony canyons. The late lunchers would be scurrying out onto the sidewalks to get back for their two o'clock meetings, the shoppers at Bloomie's would be hunched over like stylish gnomes clutching their knapsacks. And in his own warm office Trish would be making the afternoon pot of coffee. Hot, rich coffee, the steam rising like a cloud of benediction …
What time now? 1:48. Good. That fantasy had killed a whole minute. Call, damn it! Renault, you fat pompous old prick, pick up the phone and call! You know you'll have to sooner or later! Monckton growled deep in his throat. It was that damnable certain hope that kept him going: Because Renault would call. He'd be coming on the thirty-first when the house opened, and Monckton was sure he would call to tell them (them! One dead, one dying) when he'd be arriving. And when he called and no one answered, then …
Then rescue.
And if he didn't call until the thirtieth? Four days from now?
Monckton started to cry in frustration at the thought, but quickly made himself stop. He couldn't afford to waste the moisture, not knowing when and if it would rain again. He wiggled his toes and was relieved to feel them respond. The socks were thick, the boots heavy. But at this point the loss of a few toes would be a small price to pay if he could get out alive.
A sharp gust of wind caught a corner of Sterne's jacket and flipped it back, exposing Monckton's thinly covered legs to the cold. As he patted it back into place, tucking the edges beneath the muscle of his shattered leg, he felt a strange rigidity to the material that should not have been there. Was there something in the pockets he'd missed when he'd gone through them earlier? Something to eat? His stomach crawled in anticipation as he yanked the jacket off his legs and burrowed into the pockets.
The left one was still empty, but in the right pocket he found, snagged under an overlapping seam, two wooden matches.
"Barnburners," he whispered, using his childhood name for the big white phosphorus matches that needed no special striking surface. There'd been a box of them next to the stove in the cabin. No doubt Sterne, who smoked cigarettes, had pocketed a handful before going out to chop wood one afternoon.
At first disappointment flooded through him at finding something so in
edible, but a second's thought told him that these could be a hundred times more valuable than a fragment of Hershey bar or a lint-covered cough drop. These could bring him warmth and even (he hardly dared think it) act as a signal. Wilmer was north of here, and he was on the northern side of the house. If someone noticed smoke . . .
He shook his head. Twenty miles away—who'd notice smoke from a small fire twenty miles away, even assuming the absence of autumn haze?
Flame then, he answered himself. If the flame were high at night, maybe then …
But it would have to be a high flame to clear the tops of the trees, higher than he could ever hope for. He looked around the wide balcony to see what fuel the matches could ignite. There were dead leaves in abundance, not only those he had blanketed himself with to keep out the cold, but more that the wind had trapped in the area between wall and side railing. They were still damp from the rain, but the sun was bright in spite of the chilling air. If it could dry most of the icy moisture out of them, leaving just enough to make them smoke . . .
Monckton gritted his teeth and began to drag himself over to the mound of leaves against the wall. It took him several minutes, and when he got there, he began to methodically take the pile apart, spreading the ice-crisp leaves in layers on the dark sun-warmed tiles of the balcony floor, cursing bitterly when a gust of wind would undo his handiwork.
Chapter Nineteen
Wickstrom cooked breakfast. 'Something special this morning," he said, grinning as he put the plates on the kitchen table.
"This morning?" queried Gabrielle, a slight frown on her face.
"Sure. It's when we get up and have breakfast, so what else should we call it?" Both Gabrielle and McNeely could easily see that Wickstrom's enthusiasm was feigned, no doubt in response to the distance he'd felt between the two of them. They'd dressed in silence when they'd gotten up, and hadn't spoken to each other since. McNeely had wanted to apologize, but something in Gabrielle's manner made it impossible for him. So now they sat not looking at each other while Wickstrom set down on the table with a great flourish a large plate piled high with fried chicken and biscuits.
"A good old southern breakfast," Wickstrom babbled, "just like my mama used to make. She was from South Carolina originally." There was no response from the others. "Well," Wickstrom said, picking up a drumstick, "help yourself. There's plenty of it."
Gabrielle took a small breast while McNeely chose a thigh. Wickstrom continued to make small talk to which they responded, but no more than was necessary. It was during his second cup of coffee that McNeely began to notice the smell. He tensed so that his cup rattled against the saucer, making the others look up. He smiled crookedly and dabbed at the spilled drops with his napkin, wondering if the others had sensed the sour odor that was emanating from behind the cellar door.
"Well," he said with unfelt joy, "anybody ready for some cards in the den?"
"I'd like to finish my coffee first," said Gabrielle dryly.
"Yeah, what's the rush?" Wickstrom smiled. "You have an appointment?"
McNeely gave a hollow chuckle, and sipped his coffee. Minutes passed and the smell grew stronger, yet the others made no mention, so that he wondered if he was imagining it or if the entity was keeping it from the others. But finally Gabrielle looked up, her frown deepening.
"What is that smell?" she asked.
Your husband. Did you forget already? McNeely thought wildly. "Some food that's turned, probably. The refrigerator won't keep things fresh forever."
"Well, good God," she said, standing and going to the refrigerator, "why don't we throw it out then?" She opened the door, but no odor escaped, only cold fresh air. The pallor that leaped into her cheeks told McNeely that she'd suddenly realized the source of the smell. In her white face and suddenly trembling hands he could see all the memories come rushing back, and then he was beside her, his arm around her supportively, closing the thick white door.
"I'll take care of it," he said softly. "You and Kelly go get the cards ready. Take your coffee along. I'll clean up here. Clean up everything."
She turned blindly, then paused, looking at McNeely with new conviction. "I can help," she said.
"No!" he barked. "I'll take care of it." He tried not to let his panic show. There was no way he could explain the presence of Neville's body in the fire chamber without revealing a good portion of the truth to them, a truth he was not yet ready to share. "Really," he said in a gentler tone, "go ahead. I'll join you in a minute."
Wickstrom stood and shook his head. "I don't think any of us should be alone."
"I'll be safe," McNeely said firmly.
"I'm thinking about the safety of all of us," Wickstrom replied.
"Nothing's happened," McNeely lied, "and nothing's going to. I mean it."
Wickstrom hesitated for a moment, then gave a sharp, quick nod of acquiescence: Why, McNeely wondered, had he given up so easily? Perhaps he thought that McNeely's self-perceived guilt could be purged by tidying up the remains of the man he let die. Or perhaps at heart he just didn't want to go into that cellar again. Whatever the reason, Wickstrom picked up his coffee mug and smiled at Gabrielle. "Let's shuffle the deck and wait for George, okay?" He looked back at McNeely, his smile stiffening. "Don't be too long." He left the kitchen, Gabrielle following him unwillingly.
McNeely waited until their footsteps faded into silence, then opened the cellar door. He winced at the pungency of the odor and started down the steps, closing the door tightly behind him, wondering if the thing would confront him, fearing that it would. He steeled himself against both the odor and the sight of what was on the fire chamber floor, and walked in.
The lights were still on, as he had left them. David Neville was still lying on the cement, cold, unmoving, ripe with decay. McNeely looked away from the corpse, upward to where he had last seen the pale, wraithlike face hanging in the air. But there was nothing, only an empty room and silence.
He waited for only a moment longer, then knelt beside the corpse, searching for an untainted place to grab it. His fingers closed around a soggy clump of wool sweater, and he dragged Neville out of the room, across the wide floor of the cellar, and into the wine cellar, leaving a red-brown trail as he went. He repositioned the tablecloth over the twisted form, looked uncomfortably at the huge covered bulk of Cummings's corpse, whose decomposition had stained the tablecloths in a dozen places, then he left the wine cellar, closing the door behind him.
Again he stood in the dimly lit main cellar; again he listened for the light, easy voice, looked for the classically featured glowing face. But still there was nothing. He was unable to sense its presence in the slightest.
Where was it? It seemed illogical that it would not confront him here, particularly since he was alone. Was it gone? And if so, where? Why? Could it be resting, completely unaware that McNeely was in the cellar alone? Think. Could that be one of its weaknesses? That it did indeed need to rest?
The thoughts bombarded his mind, and he boldly sought to deal with them, to put them into a recognizable context. The thing was force, a combination of forces, millions of them, and it could manifest itself physically, even enough to cause a dead body to rise and walk again. So obviously it expended power. And if power were expended, would it not have to be built up again, like a battery recharging?
Perhaps individually these souls, revenants, thoughts, call them what he would, were infinitely weak, in most cases totally unnoticeable. It would only be when they coalesced, joined those millions upon millions of bits of power together, that they became something to be reckoned with, to be feared.
But power fades and weakens with use. McNeely remembered how pale and weary the face had appeared after his confrontation with Neville's corpse, as though something , had been drained from it. Could it still be somewhere sleeping, letting its power build up again for its next meeting with him?
If so, there's weakness number one. It can't be everywhere at once, or in one place all the time. Yes, it was a w
eakness, but a weakness that suggested a disquieting question: how would he know when it was with him? He felt like a suspect behind a one-way mirror. Were they watching him now, silent and unseen behind that one-sided piece of psychic glass, or was the room next-dimension empty, or occupied only by a dozing sergeant?
He made himself relax again, tried to let his mind open. If it was there, he would know it. Wouldn't he?
His thoughts were his own, he felt oddly certain of it. And he used the assumed liberty to try to think of what his next plan of action would be. If it confronted him again with new and more detailed demands, he might be able to stall it, to fake cooperation by actually thinking himself into the role, at least enough to fool them. But, asked a bitter voice inside him, to fool them for how long? Just then he would have given his left arm for his wristwatch—hell, just for today's paper. How long did they have left? A day? A week? We've lived here forever already.
And what if he didn't do anything? What if he stayed out of the cellar, made himself forget about the entity?
(Fat chance!)
All right, then, what if he just ignored it, even if it spoke, to him?
Ignore it, George, and it'll go away.
That's what he'd done to the ones who'd called him a fag, and it'd worked then. They'd tired of their game.
But these things weren't raw recruits or green mercs, were they? He shook his head in frustration and made his decision. Stay away from them. If they try to speak to you, ignore them. Stay with Kelly and Gabrielle. And love her, damn it. Don't hurt her.
He turned and walked up the creaking stairs, afraid to look behind him, afraid not to, for fear that he would miss the pale face forming, or the quietly walking corpse dogging his steps. But he reached the kitchen safely and pushed the cellar door closed, wishing that there were a sturdy lock on it for all the good it might do.
As he walked down the hall toward the den, he found himself more at ease. The mere knowledge that they were not there in the cellar waiting to confront him had done wonders for him. He'd never backed down from a fight, and now that he felt he could indeed fight this entity, that it was capable of being defeated, that it had strengths and weaknesses as did enemies of flesh and blood, he felt much more secure. Besides, the time when the house would open could not be far away.
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