"I . . ."
You wish to speak?
"I will . . ."
Take your time. We have all there is
"I will serve you."
Part IV
I myself am hell;
nobody's here—
—Robert Lowell, "Skunk Hour"
Chapter Twenty
Monckton was of two minds about the rain. In one way he had been glad for it; the water in the depressions had evaporated sometime before, and his throat had been parched. The rain also meant that the temperature had risen to above freezing again, and that was something for which to be thankful. However, the rain had also dampened the leaves once more. It had been only a brief shower, but enough to turn them from their crisp dryness back to the consistency of damp newspaper.
And now the rain was over, the sun was out, and he was scattering the leaves over the surface of the balcony once again. He had gained a drink, something to fill his raging stomach, but he had lost more time, and time was the commodity he could least afford to squander.
Several hours later the leaves were dry again. Not perfectly, though—he made sure that there was enough moisture left so that they would smolder and smoke as well as flame up, if indeed he could get them to burn at all. The sun seemed to take forever to set. He'd decided upon dusk as the best time to start his fire. That way it might be dark enough for the flames to be noticed by some distant observer, yet light enough that the smoke could be seen if the flames proved deficient. In preparation, he dragged the leaves in small piles over to the balcony railing, thinking to use the wrought iron as a hearth against which to build his fire. But the wind proved treacherous, gusting in all directions so that first handfuls, then armloads of his precious fuel were lifted over and through the decorative ironwork. Monckton cursed weakly as he tried to save the leaves from the wind, and painfully hauled them back, pile by pile, to the protection of the house wall.
When he had finished, the pile was smaller by a third, but there was still enough, he hoped, to make an observable conflagration. He looked at the sky. It was clear, tinted by the reddish-gray of mid-dusk. He took one of the two matches from the pocket of the parka and wiped it carefully on the sleeve to remove any moisture that might be clinging to it. Then he took out a nearly shredded Kleenex from his pants pocket and rolled it into a ball, tucking it beneath the leaves so that a small strip of paper protruded. He waited until the breeze died down, whispered a prayer, and struck the match on the rough mortar between two of the tiles.
It blazed into flame with a noisy rush, and he cupped his hand around it, lowering it to the tattered Kleenex, lowering it too fast. Had he moved slowly, the matchstick might have remained afire, but the quick motion weakened it, making it an easy victim for the breath of wind that seemed to come from nowhere, and suddenly Monckton was holding no more than a thinly smoking slice of wood.
At first he could not believe it, but when the truth came to him, he dropped the match with trembling fingers and fumbled in the pocket until he found the other one. This he drew out and dried quickly, putting his finger behind the phosphorous head to strike it on the mortar. Then he looked at it hard, and thought, What if it dies too? What if this one dies too?
He continued to look at the match as the sky became darker, until it was so dark he could not see the match at all.
Chapter Twenty-one
Her hand was so cold. He had been holding it for what must have been hours, but it refused to absorb any of the warmth of his own hand, as if it knew of the bargain he had made, and would take nothing from him for fear of contamination.
A bargain. He had sealed a bargain with what? With Evil, with Abomination. But would he keep his bargain? And could he trust it to keep its word? Father of Lies, it had called itself. He had no scruples about cheating such a beast if he could. And he would find a way. He must. He promised himself he would not do as he had sworn, he would not bring that beast out upon the world, would not become some diabolical errand boy to transfer it to those who, under its influence, could bring an end to everything.
Careful. He tried to drive the conscious thoughts back, tried to think of something else and keep the precious thoughts of betrayal on a visceral level, unreadable by any poachers on his mind. Think of other things, he told himself. Of Gabrielle.
He looked into her calm, peaceful face and prayed again that consciousness would soon return to it. The entity had said that neither her mind nor Wickstrom's would be damaged by what had happened, and in Wickstrom's case, at least, it had been true. Even now he was only ten yards away on the other side of the bedroom door, resting in a chair, his superficial head wound bandaged skillfully by McNeely's practiced fingers. Other than the cut, he seemed fine, but his nightmare had been internal, like McNeely's in the Great Hall. Gabrielle's had been all too real.
As he watched her, he realized again just how much she meant to him. He felt as though he would have damned the world to save her soul. But he could not do that. He would still find a way out, and he and Gabrielle would be together always, growing old with each other, maybe even having children. They were not too old for that. An ironic smile bent up the corners of his mouth. The only goal he and the thing had in common was to have him marry Gabrielle, but for quite different purposes. McNeely loved her. She was perhaps the first person, and assuredly the first woman, he had ever really loved in terms of what he thought love should be. Her money meant nothing to him, although he was realistic enough to know that she would not have become the person she was without it.
A dry ball of fear rose to his throat as he contemplated asking her to marry him. He knew that he would have someday, but that day might have been far in the future, at a time when The Pines was only a tragic memory, when they had come to know and love each other outside of its bloody walls. But the thing wanted him to ask her now, before they left the house. It obviously intended to take no chances.
He had nearly choked with rage when it had broached the subject. "What am I?" he'd said. "A stud horse?"
The arrangements must be made before we leave the mountain.
"You're insane." Foregone conclusion, he had thought. "What if she doesn't say yes?"
She will.
"Would she have said yes to Cummings? Was that your idea too?"
No. We felt that with Cummings's previous position and his desire for power, he would bring himself into the circles we required with no assistance of a marital nature. Unfortunately, we underestimated his stupidity.
"Then why didn't you go to Gabrielle direct?" McNeely had asked, fishing. "Why the roundabout route?"
The voice had paused. There was nothing we could offer her.
The reply had left McNeely silent and stunned with the implied worth of the woman he loved, and he felt more than ever that he had to free her from this house. "Why are you so sure," he'd asked after a moment's thought, "that you have anything to offer the ones that I'll meet—the presidents, the politicians?"
The voice had laughed. They will absorb us like a sponge does water! They have prayed for such as we can give them.
The answer made McNeely's stomach turn, and he promised himself in the most private sector of his mind that he would not allow the cataclysmic contact to occur. There had to be a way out, even if it meant his own death. If he could maneuver it somehow so that Wickstrom and Gabrielle left the house first, then he would remain, remain in The Pines with them, and they could do with him whatever they wished. He felt at times as though he were past saving, but he would not allow them to take Gabrielle. He would not.
The movement of her fingers broke his reverie, and he glanced up to see her eyelids flicker like leaves in a gentle wind. Then the eyes were open, and she was looking back at him with a strange mixture of relief, love, and horror. She whispered his name softly and he tightened his grip on her hand and nodded reassuringly, tears hot in the corners of his eyes.
"Just rest," he said, his voice nearly choked with the joy of her coming back to him. "Rest for a
while."
She shook her head in refusal and spoke, the whisper louder. "Was it David?"
He nodded. "His body. Something else inside," he lied.
She shut her eyes, but opened them almost immediately, and cleared her throat. "Where is he? Now?"
"It's gone from him. It won't be back again. I promise."
She looked down at the soft curves her body made under the covers. "I feel like I'll never be clean again. I can . . ." Her voice choked, but she spoke over it. "I can smell it."
"I washed you up before I put you to bed. A shower's what you need."
She nodded. "And then a bath." She seemed to remember then. "Kelly! How is he?"
"Dented but alive. He's sleeping in the next room.”
“What happened, George?"
"It . . . they . . . How much should he tell? "It got to Kelly first, and then I think it wanted to get you alone.”
“It, it? What is it?"
He held his palms out to slow her down, calm her. "The house. It, uh, occupied David's body. . . .”
“It wasn't David then?"
"No."
She looked past him at the opposite wall. "I didn't even recognize him at first. The cellar door opened and there it was and I screamed. When I saw it was David, I just blacked out. I mean, I knew what was happening, but it was like it was happening to someone else. I remember you coming into the room and thinking that it would be all right now, because you were there. Oh, George!"
She broke then; huge, wrenching sobs burst out of her, and they held each other for a long time before her crying stopped. All the while he whispered, "It's over, it's over."
When she lay back on the bed, she looked at him like a scared and angry little girl. "How do you know? How do you know it's over?"
"I know. Believe me. They've got what they wanted. They won't bother you again."
"I don't believe you."
"Do you believe that I love you?"
She paused. "Yes."
"Then believe me when I say it's over."
The doubt was still there, but she nodded her head tersely.
"You need something to eat. I'll heat up some soup.”
“No!" she cried. "Don't leave me."
"It's all right now."
"Wait, please. I'll go with you." She threw back the covers and lowered her feet over the side of the bed. Immediately a wave of dizziness swept over her.
"You should stay in bed."
"I won't." With some difficulty she stood up.
McNeely was at her side, putting an arm around her naked waist. He had had to throw away her nightgown. "Don't be stupid," he said. "You can hardly stand."
"Help me into the shower. Then we'll get something together. Just don't leave me now."
Once inside the bathroom, McNeely stripped and got into the shower stall with her. He was glad he had; she almost toppled over twice. But soon he had scrubbed her clean, and she smiled for the first time as she blinked water from her eyes and pushed back her close-cropped hair.
"A bath now," she said. "I just want to sit and soak."
He filled the tub and got her into it, then dried himself and dressed, leaving the bathroom door open so she could see him in the next room. Her reaction to what had happened surprised him. He didn't know what he had expected—hysteria, trembling fear that would refuse to go away—but whatever it was, she hadn't evinced it. For all the sheltering he knew that her money had provided, she was a tough woman nonetheless, and he smiled at her as she looked at him from the tub.
In a few minutes she was out and dressed in clean clothes, her hair still damp from the shower. "Are you sure you want to go into the kitchen?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "It's just a room," she said, but he could sense the hesitation. "You . . . you took it away?"
He nodded. "Yes. There's nothing there now. And there won't be anything either."
Gabrielle moved into his arms and pressed her cheek against his chest. "I want to believe that," she said. "I really want to."
"Believe it." Together they walked out of the bedroom. Wickstrom was dozing on the sofa, the bandage new and white around his head like a surgeon's cap. "Don't wake him," McNeely whispered. "Sleep's the best thing."
"But to leave him alone . . ."
"Believe me. Nothing will hurt him now."
When they entered the kitchen, she drew back, but only for a second. She opened a beer and sat drinking it at the table while McNeely heated the soup and threw a frozen steak into the microwave. He began to talk to her about things on the outside, where she spent her summers, whether Stowe was the best skiing in the East, who had the finest veal Orloff in San Francisco, and he was pleased to see that her glances toward the floor at the far end of the table had lessened until now she was looking only at him and the food in front of her.
Then there was a pause in the conversation, and he knew that he had to put into words what had been bothering him. "I'm sorry," he said, "about the other night." She looked up curiously. "Making love. I don't know what happened to me."
"This place. The strain. It's all right."
"I'm not . . . a cruel person."
"I know that."
"It won't happen again."
"Once we're away from here . . ." She left it unfinished, and he nodded. "Let's go into the den," she said.
They walked arm in arm down the hall. The den felt comforting, its dark woods enfolding them like birds in a nest. McNeely felt no trace of the claustrophobia that had tormented him. He built a fire, and soon they sat together on the sofa, watching the bright flames prance behind the screen. McNeely knew it was the time.
"When we leave," he said, his mouth close to her ear, the clean, sweet soap-smell of her pleasantly strong, "will you stay with me?"
"I want to," she answered after a pause.
He swallowed, hoping that she wouldn't hear the clicking in his throat. "What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"
He hated himself for saying it, not because he did not want to, for he did, but because he was required to.
"I think I'd say yes." She turned to him, and he kissed her lightly, with lips closed. It was a young lover's kiss, chaste, and somewhere in the middle of it he forgot about The Pines and the horrors and the things whose rule he must obey, and he was glad that the woman he loved loved him, loved him enough to marry him, and they would live happily ever after despite it all. He would find a way.
They sat there for a long time, saying nothing, watching the fire, happy in their closeness. After a while the flames burned low and blue. McNeely took his arm from around Gabrielle and started to get up. "Let me," she said, moving to the fireplace and setting another log on the grate, positioning it with the poker.
McNeely watched her, smiling.
Nicely done.
His smile vanished, and ice ran down his backbone. It had been the voice, but speaking to him here? With someone else present? Even if Gabrielle couldn't hear, how could he be expected to answer?
Think. We will hear you.
He opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. She was still busy with the fire. He concentrated: Can you hear this?
Yes.
But how?
We were not in you before.
In me! McNeely thought in panic.
Do not worry.
What's happening to me? What are you doing?
Just then Gabrielle set down the poker and rejoined him, putting an arm around his waist. He smiled crookedly and she lifted an eyebrow. "Anything wrong?"
"Uh . . . the soup? Stomach's a little funny."
"Oh, thanks a lot. You'd better get used to my cooking."
He heard himself chuckle. "Firing your cooks?”
“I always used to cook. I like to."
"Ah." He nodded, drawing her head down so that it rested on his shoulder and she could not see his face. He tried to keep his mind clear until he felt certain she would not continue the conversation. Then he thought: Why are you i
n me?
We must be in you when we leave.
Are we leaving then?
Soon. We are coming into you slowly, little by little.
Why not all at once? When we leave?
We entered Cummings all at once. It was too fast.
Why didn't you enter me before?
For a moment there was no response. It had to be of your own free will. Otherwise we could not leave with you.
What if I change my mind when I leave?
We will already be in you. And we will punish you if you do such a thing. And her. A soft breath hissed dreamily in McNeely's mind. She is so warm. Soft.
McNeely almost withdrew his arm from around her. Will you be coming into me from now on? From now until we leave?
Coming into you. It is a suggestive phrase. Coming into you, slowly. Little by little. There was a time when you'd have liked that.
You go to Hell!
We are Hell.
There was no more. McNeely thought consciously, but his thoughts brought no response. And he was afraid to think, afraid to plan against them, for now they were in his own headquarters, spies behind every panel, listening to … what? How deeply could they probe? Could he mix his thoughts as he had done before? Confuse the inner listeners by scrambling the message? And even if he could, could he then uncode it enough for it to make sense to his own waking self?
He felt like a blind madman in a maze with no exit. And the woman he embraced wondered at the unexpected stiffening of the arms that held her, almost as if the man were afraid to move, to breathe, even to think.
Chapter Twenty-two
By the third ring Simon Renault started to wonder. By the fourth he began to worry. By the sixth small droplets of perspiration dappled his florid complexion. He let it ring five more times before he hung up.
Stop worrying, he told himself. Don't be an old woman. There's certainly a logical reason. Both outside perhaps.
Soulstorm Page 27