Her boots were waiting for her under the coffee table. There was a dab of bright blue on the toe of one of the little Ugg slip-ons. She liked it that way, she decided, not bothering to clean the leather. Arlene flipped the switch on the overhead track lighting before she slipped out, locking the door behind her.
The painting seemed to shimmer in the semi-darkness.
The Thistle Café had very few customers at eleven thirty. Arlene went over to one of the corner booths, and slid onto one of the Naugahyde seats, liking the smoothness of the material. Naugahyde had so much of leather’s character, but was somehow glossier. As old-fashioned faux as it was — lending the café an inescapable old diner ambiance — Arlene had always loved it. Heck, she liked bad faux-wooden paneling, too. Nostalgia, she supposed.
She went through the menu, her eyes alighting on the Cobb salad immediately. When the girl came to take her order, she got the salad and an herbal tea, then leaned back in the booth, and waited. Her mind instantly dredged up an image of Rose Kerrigan’s face. A flicker of guilt went through her as she thought about how dismissive she’d been toward Rose yesterday.
Guilt had been haunting her ever since. Arlene knew she ought to have told Rose the truth, not only what she had seen, but what she believed. Not just to appease her guilt, but because she had an idea that Rose might actually have the courage to try to do something about it.
Someone had to, or the town of Kingsbury was in deep shit. And that would only be the beginning. If all seven came together . . .
The waitress brought her tea, and Arlene felt absurdly grateful. It was too hot, but she sipped it anyway and wrapped her hands around the cup, borrowing its warmth. The cold she felt came both from the season and from within her. She could wrap herself in thick sweaters and jackets to combat the autumn chill, but the coldness inside her could not be escaped.
Arlene had spent her life delving into the supernatural. Not because she wanted power, or wealth and fame, but because she was just plain old curious about the subject. Magic and myth and legend. It filled her with such hope, such pleasure. She remembered being a little girl, tucked away in a lonely corner of the library, reading about dragons and ogres, trolls and werewolves, vampires and ghosts. She’d been enthralled by the tales — the myths and legends that were strangely synchronistic all over the world. It made her think that there had to be some validity to them if the same creatures that haunted Romania, also terrified the inhabitants of Peru.
Until now, she’d always wanted there to be truth in those legends.
Lost in thought, she sipped her tea again.
A wailing cry filled the café, the hysterical cry of a young child, and she spilled hot tea on her fingers. Arlene hissed as she put the cup down, quickly grabbing up her napkin to wipe off her hands, which throbbed with the scalding they’d received.
She looked over and saw a young tourist couple and their two small children standing in the doorway of the café. The young mother held a screaming, red-faced toddler in her arms, trying to quiet the child with shushes and kisses. The man had the hand of the other child, a little boy no older than five or six. The kid’s face was pale, and shed tears were slowly drying on his cheeks and chin.
The waitress carried Arlene’s Cobb salad toward the table, but was flagged by the woman with the now sobbing, snuffling toddler in her arms.
“We’d like a table, please?” the woman said, and Arlene realized she was almost as upset as the children. The husband remained calm, but his expression was grim.
“Sit wherever you’d like, m’am,” the waitress replied. “I’ll be with you quick as I can.”
The couple walked to the nearest table, and the woman sat down, the child still in her lap. Arlene watched them, curious as to what had upset them so much.
“Here you are,” the waitress said, setting the salad on the table in front of her.
“Thanks,” Arlene said, distracted by her curiosity.
She waited as the waitress took the family’s drink order and disappeared back into the kitchen. Arlene watched them. The husband glanced up from his menu and caught her eyes. She offered a sympathetic smile and he nodded his thanks.
“Are you folks all right?” she asked.
The woman glanced over at her. When she saw Arlene’s honest curiosity and concern, she let out a shuddering breath and nodded.
“I think so, thank God. We were out in the woods, near that famous inn, the Five Oaks or something.” Her eyes were wide as she spoke, and a bit wild. The memory of her fear was fresh. “These animals came after us. We could’ve been killed!”
Arlene’s throat went dry.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, heart heavy with dread. “Have you called the police?”
The husband looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t as serious as all that. My wife thought she saw something in the woods over by the stables.”
The woman glared at him.
“It wasn’t serious, Jimmy? You saw the horses! They were going berserk in their stalls!”
The toddler sensed her mother’s mood and began to cry. The woman leaned forward, and tenderly shushed her.
“Big horse dogs . . .” the little boy whispered to himself.
Arlene looked at him. “What did you say, little one?”
The little boy shook his head, his mouth firmly shut.
“He said they were horse dogs,” the mother said. “And I’m not sure he’s wrong. They were absolutely huge. Five of them. Waiting to attack us as we were going across the parking lot from the stables.”
“Kelly,” the husband said. “Please . . .”
But Arlene had stopped listening.
Five already. Five of seven. Rose was right, lord help us.
Arlene had to find Rose, and tell her what she knew, before it was too late.
CHAPTER 14
Autumn leaves skittered across the parking lot of the Norton Funeral Home as Rose walked toward the front steps. She wished the breeze would carry her away as well. A group of people stood at the base of the brick and granite steps, a social circle of necessity, brought together by cigarettes. Steve LeBeau, who’d once worked for her grandfather, stood with Sally Logan, who’d grown up in the house next door. Twenty years younger, Sally wouldn’t have given a disheveled old man like LeBeau a second glance, never mind spoken to him, if they weren’t both shivering out in the cold for the sake of a nicotine fix.
Rose nodded politely when they greeted her, a fragile smile plastered to her face. Between the cold wind and her grief, her expression felt as though it had been cast from ceramic. Other smokers lingered outside the door and as they offered her their condolences she muttered replies and returned reassuring grasps on autopilot.
Once she entered the funeral home, the smell of the place assailed her, dozens of floral arrangements competing with the scent of baby-powdered death. A sea of faces surrounded her, many familiar, but others not. Friends of her parents, neighbors and co-workers, the elderly folks who had been playing cards and trading dinner parties and gossip with her grandparents for decades, and now patiently awaited the night when the flowers would be for them, when the little plastic letters on the sign outside the door would spell out their names.
Her gaze searched the corridor for her grandmother, Isobel. Mike Richards stopped her and gave her a quick, understanding embrace. He kissed the top of her head. Rose managed to smile up at him and she reached up to gently touch his face, but she could not hear a word he said. She felt sure she must have thanked him before she wandered away, but if not, she’d apologize another day. If there was another day.
The clock read twenty after seven. The wake would last until nine p.m. Jenny had promised to sneak off from the Inn once the dinner crowd had started to thin, but Rose would be gone from here by then.
On the right, the arched entrance to the viewing room beckoned. The floral aroma emanated even more strongly from within, along with the low chatter of mourners trading stories about the late, lamented Walter Hartu
ng, her grandfather. They’d savor the good memories he had given them, grieve for his loss, and then move on, hoping it would be a while before they had to come back to this place.
The heat ticked from the radiator in the corner of the viewing room. Rose nodded and muttered to dozens of people, knowing they would forgive her remoteness and chalk it up to grief. She found she did not care. She eased around clusters of people and then between two distant cousins who tried to engage her in conversation. Rose barely looked at them.
For the first time since entering the room, she had an unobstructed view of the casket. The figure laying there on cream-colored silk didn’t look a thing like her grandfather. No way could that be Walt Hartung. Sure, he had the same slightly hooked nose and the same thinning hair. The facial structure was right and the peaceful expression on his face must have been meant to comfort those he’d left behind. But the husk that lay there in the casket looked more like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s than a man.
Of course it’s not him, she thought. Grandad’s gone.
And just as quickly, she realized she was glad that she would never have another chance to speak with him. If death hadn’t already claimed him, she’d have asked him about his journal, about what happened to Davey Chapman, and Rose knew that whether he had lied to her or told the truth, she would have hated him for it.
Now, all she could do was mourn, both because she had lost him, and because he had never been the man she’d imagined him to be.
Isobel stood beside the casket, greeting those who had come to pay their respects with a tight smile or a sad nod, accepting their attentions and affections as her due. The stalwart widow. Rose hated to be so cold, but she could not escape the thought that the role fit her grandmother well.
The old woman glanced over and saw her, and for a moment the two of them only stared at one another. Then Isobel beckoned her, an unspoken admonition on her face, silently chiding Rose for her tardiness. Her parents’ plane would be landing later tonight, so that they would be there for the funeral in the morning, but Rose ought to have been there on time to stand beside her and receive their guests.
All this passed between them in an instant.
Rose strode toward her. Someone spoke to her, put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off. Her grandmother gracefully accepted a kiss on the cheek from a woman far older and more withered than Isobel herself would ever be. A middle-aged couple — friends of her parents from down in Brattleboro — were next in line. Rose stepped between them and her grandmother, giving them her back without apology. Her grandmother’s eyes lit up with anger at this affront and her glare demanded an explanation.
“There are five, now,” Rose said, her voice low, but firm. Anger and fear had conspired to give her strength.
Her grandmother pursed her lips in typical disapproval. “What are you talking about, dear? You ought to have been here an hour ago.”
Rose reached out and grasped her hand. The old woman’s skin was thin and dry as parchment. Her grandmother flinched at this breach of protocol and fury flickered in her eyes. She did not like to be handled.
“I said there are five of them, now, Grandmother. Five of the Whistlers, here in Kingsbury.”
Arlene Murphy had called Rose that afternoon with the news. It had not been welcome. All along, Rose had thought that she would feel better if only she had someone to confide in, someone who believed her, someone who would tell her she wasn’t being crazy. That it was all true. She’d been wrong about that. Having her worst fears confirmed didn’t make her feel at all better. It made her feel sick.
“You’re babbling, Rose,” Isobel said.
But Rose saw the fear in her grandmother’s eyes and felt the way her fingers flinched at the news. The woman had always been pale, but one thing she had never done was let her granddaughter stare her down.
When Isobel looked away, though it was only for a moment, Rose knew that there could be no mistake, and no more doubt. Not only was it all true, but her grandmother had known what could happen. Somehow, Walt and Isobel Hartung had come upon the legend of the Seven Whistlers and had learned that it was all too real. There would be a story there, Rose knew. Perhaps they had seen one of the Whistlers before, seen someone else pay the price for their cowardice and sin. But Rose found that she didn’t care about the how, or the why. In the scheme of things, it was enough to know that it must have happened, and that something, now, had to be done.
Rose stepped in close to her, ignoring the whispers around her.
“I found his journal,” she said, her voice low. “I know.”
Her grandmother lifted her eyes and there was ice there. “What do you think you know?”
Anguish swept through Rose. She forced back the tears that threatened to spill down her face, but when she spoke, her voice quavered.
“I know what happened to Davey Chapman,” she whispered. Her grandmother flinched at the utterance of that name. “I know you were supposed to be his girlfriend, but you married Granddad instead. Maybe you didn’t know when you married him that he’d let Davey die in his place, but at some point, you found out.”
“Lies,” her grandmother hissed.
Like a cornered animal, she gazed around at the mourners who were close enough to have heard at least some of what had been said. Then she turned away, as though she could simply pretend that Rose wasn’t there.
“They keep coming, and that means they haven’t gotten what they’re searching for,” Rose whispered. She held her grandmother’s wrist, now, holding the woman close to her, not letting her step away. Isobel would not look at her, but Rose didn’t care.
She gnawed her lower lip and squeezed the old woman’s wrist. “You’re hiding it, Grandmother. You’re hiding him. That’s the only way I can figure it. Who else would try to keep them from claiming his . . . his soul?”
Rose rasped this last word, and now she could not have spoken above that tiny whisper if she’d wanted to. All her grief and disillusionment crashed over her and she felt her legs weaken. Even after what he’d done, those many years ago, if there had been a way to save her Granddad somehow, she’d have done it. No matter what. She loved him enough, even now, to give herself in his place, if they would have taken her. But the Whistlers hadn’t come for Rose. They’d come for Walt Hartung. And if they didn’t get him . . .
“If they don’t get what they came for,” Rose said, steadying her voice, releasing her grip on the bitter, pinched old woman’s wrist, “all of the ugly stuff that’s been happening in town is going to continue. It’s going to get worse. People are going to die. And the hounds will keep coming. There are five here already. Two more, and then it’s over for everyone.
“Even after what he did,” she went on, staring at Isobel, “I can’t believe he’s the kind of man who’d let the rest of us die for it.”
Her grandmother glared at her. A rare tear sparkled upon her powdered cheek. She stepped over to the open casket and lowered herself gingerly to the kneeler, to say a prayer over her dead husband’s remains. The visitors had cleared away, at last sensitive enough to let the grieving wife and granddaughter of the dead man sort out their troubles alone. They had the front of the room to themselves.
“Is that really the man he was?” Rose asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Isobel turned, hatred etched upon her face. “Go, damn you! Get out!”
Rose hesitated, but only for a second. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself. I’m not going to let this happen.”
She turned on her heel and fled the funeral home, people clearing a path for her, gaping in astonishment. Some well-intentioned woman reached out to her and Rose nearly crumbled at that offer of tenderness. Instead, she shook her head and forged on.
When she banged the front door open, the smokers jumped. One of them swore and dropped his lit cigarette. Rose ignored them, and headed for her car, keys out and jangling in her hand.
As she opened the door, someone gripped her arm. She twisted ou
t of the grasp and spun around, furious, only to find herself face to face with Mike Richards.
“Rose,” he said, searching her eyes, “didn’t you hear me calling after you?”
She hadn’t.
“Mike, I can’t . . . I’ve gotta go.”
His took her hand, firm and gentle all at once, gazing intensely at her, eyes full of purpose.
“What is it, Rose? What’s wrong?”
For a moment she almost pushed him away. But those eyes trapped her.
“You’d never believe me.”
“Yeah,” he said immediately, nodding. “Yeah, I would, Rose. I’m not some bystander, here. I know you. I’ll believe you.”
She remembered the way he’d talked about the hounds the night before, and how spooked he’d been by his encounter with them on the night he’d sliced his finger on the table saw in his workshop. Maybe you will, she thought. Maybe you will.
“Look, we’re friends, right?” Mike said. “Whatever it is, let me help.”
Rose glanced back at the funeral home and flinched in surprise as she saw her grandmother standing on the stairs amongst the smokers. Isobel had followed her out. The old woman stared at her and Mike with narrowed eyes, full of suspicion.
“Get in the car,” Rose said.
Mike blinked. “Okay. Where are we going?”
“Just get in. I’ll explain on the way.”
As she started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot, Rose glanced in the rearview mirror. Several people had followed her grandmother out and were trying to talk to her, but Isobel only waved them back as she walked toward her car, probably telling them she’d return in a moment, thanking them for her concern.
But she wouldn’t be back.
Rose was headed to her grandparents’ house, and Isobel knew it. The old woman meant to stop her.
CHAPTER 15
Rose pulled to a stop in front of her grandmother’s house, and she killed the ignition. For a moment she and Mike just sat there listening to the engine cool. The house was dark, but seemed to beckon to her in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. Ever since her grandfather had been put into the nursing home, this hadn’t been his house anymore. Now, though, it seemed to resonate with his memory, even from the outside. All of the changes Isobel had made, the sachet smell and the feminine decoration, would never be able to erase the old man’s presence again. Not for Rose.
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