Walter nodded, not looking at her. Was he thinking of her bedroom waiting just a few yards down the hall? Or of his lost wife?
“Thanks for checking the clock,” Julia said. She wondered if she could reach the bat under the bed if he decided to attack. She tried to look sleepy over the fear, and then became angry at herself for doubting the only person who had helped her.
“She got into it, didn’t she?” Still Walter stared at the floor, or maybe past years.
“Got into what?”
“About my wife.”
Julia put her hand in her pocket, touched the mace. “Well….”
Walter clenched his fists. His face tightened, the crease in his cheeks no longer cheerful. “She was probably in on it.”
Julia didn’t know if Walter was talking about his late wife or Mabel Covington. “Mrs. Covington?”
Walter went to the open door without looking at her. “Nothing. The past don’t matter none.”
He was going to walk out. He was going to act like nothing had happened. She couldn’t let him do that. She didn’t want to lose this little bit of whatever feeling stirred inside her chest every time he was around.
Julia hurried after him, wondering if Mabel Covington was over on her porch, watching and straining her ears for tomorrow’s gossip. “Walter, the past does matter. Especially if it hurts.”
Walter turned in the doorway, a sad smile across his face. “No. If it hurts, you forget it. You bury it deep as hell, like you do your favorite childhood pet when it dies. Then you get on your knees and pray, but mostly what you do is wonder why the Lord would do such an awful thing.”
Julia found herself spouting Dr. Forrest’s aphorisms. “No. You have to dig it up, bring it to the surface, acknowledge its power over you. And then you can heal.”
Walter shook his head. “Sounds like the slogans on that New Age crap in that little crystal shop downtown.”
“You’re religious. What do you think God wants you to do about it?”
“Keep living. Finding something worth hanging on to, a reason to get out of bed in the morning.” Walter finally met her eyes. His gaze was hot, the gray in his irises gone, a bright golden color radiating there. “And hanging on to faith despite it all. If this world fails you, at least you got the next.”
Julia wondered why his anger hadn’t scared her. Unlike Mitchell’s, Walter’s anger was directed toward something larger, something beyond his reach. If he was a Creep, his belief made him even more threatening, because it touched a larger mystery she couldn’t understand.
Walter looked out the door to the dark forest. “We were asleep in our tent, up in the woods north of town. I woke up in the middle of the night and she was gone. It was pitch black, the moon was down, there was hardly a star in the sky. I wandered all over the woods looking for her, yelling her name until I was hoarse. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall off one of those cliffs.”
Tears glistened on Walter’s cheeks. He turned away and continued. “When morning came, I drove all over the mountain, calling for help. We looked for a solid week. Never did find any sign of her. It was like she up and walked off the face of the Earth.”
Julia wanted to touch him, to hold his hand, but she hardly knew how to deal with her own emotions, much less comfort someone else. “What do you think happened?”
After a long pause, in which Julia could hear the cold chirping of crickets outside, Walter said, “I figured she was close by. She left her shoes in the tent. They found some of her footprints the next day. Other footprints were found up there, too, so the trail got confused. The hounds hit on her trail for awhile, but then it disappeared into a creek. Even if she was sleepwalking or something, that cold water should have woken her up.”
“I’m sorry, Walter.”
“It ain’t your fault.”
“I know, but–”
“Forget it,” he interrupted. “That was a long time ago. When something bad happens, you can either freeze up like your busted clock yonder, or you can get over it and move on. She’s with the Lord now, so maybe she’s better off anyway.”
Get over it. Was Walter like her, only half alive, part of him having been fatally wounded years ago? Even his Christianity wasn’t enough to fix his damage.
Julia folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not telling me the whole story,” she said.
“There ain’t no story,” he said. “Hell, most of the people in town think I did away with her. Do you know how it feels to have eyes latched on your back when you walk down the street? Like somebody’s always watching from the shadows?”
Oh, yes. Julia knew what that was like. She was the poster child of panic and paranoia.
“Sorry to keep you up,” he said. “You don’t need my problems. You’re the one that had a Creep break into her house.”
“Thanks for watching out for me. Helps me sleep better.”
“Got that deadly bat handy?” he asked.
“I’m ready for anything.”
“I’m praying for you.” He waved goodnight and left. Julia looked at the clock and the baseball cards and hurried after him.
From the door, Julia called, “If I can ever do anything for you–”
He was gone, lost in the dark, and she heard the Jeep’s ignition fire.
“Just let me know,” she whispered.
She thought of his parting words, and considered a possible double meaning for them. Maybe praying for her didn’t mean he was asking God to help her. Maybe he was asking God to make Julia his possession. If she were braver, or more scared, she would ask God herself, but she was afraid she might get an answer.
She closed and locked the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The phone call woke Julia sometime before dawn. She rolled over, kicking at the blankets, trapped for a moment in some strange dream in which she’d been buried alive. The bed was damp with sweat. She squinted for the clock before remembering that it was in the trash can.
She fumbled for her cell phone on the dresser and nearly knocked it to the floor before finally getting it to her ear. Only important calls came during sleep, usually with bad news. But lately, there had been no other kind of news. “Hello?” she said, trying not to sound groggy.
“Julia.”
“Dr. Forrest?”
“You’re not obeying my orders.”
“Uh?” Julia fought into a sitting position.
“I told you to stay away from that man. He’s not conducive to your healing.”
“Which man?”
“You know. Did you dream?”
Julia tried to remember, though she knew only bad things waited in the gray shadows of semi-consciousness. “Yeah. I think Daddy put me in a room, except the room was really a box, and I couldn’t breath, and I beat on the sides trying to get out–”
She realized her arms were sore, and wondered if she’d been lashing out in her sleep.
“You know what that means, don’t you, Julia?”
“No,” Julia said, afraid to find out.
“Your father oppressed you for years before the actual ritual abuse occurred.”
“But I was only a small child. How could I remember all of that?”
“The memory is in the meat, Julia. Some women have reported experiences of attempted abortions, memories made while they were still in the uterus.”
“Before they were even born?” Julia was wide awake now, her heartbeat racing, any relaxation she might have gained from sleep long gone.
“We’re just beginning to understand memory and how the mind stores information. It’s possible that memory works at a cellular level, so that even the moment of conception is recorded somewhere. Of course, it’s the retrieval system that’s flawed. That’s why you need help.”
Julia thought of Walter’s words, about how sometimes the past is best left alone. “Maybe it’s not such a good thing to remember all that.”
Dr. Forrest sighed. Julia wondered if the woman ever slept.
“I…why didn’t you tell me before that you had been abused, too?”
“Because I’m the doctor, Julia. And the only reason I told you was so you’d know that you’re not alone.”
Julia tried to wipe the darkness from her eyes. “What time is it?”
“A little after four.”
“Why are you calling?”
“You need me, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me what else happened in Memphis.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
Except for the part about the wooden blocks spread across my table and the silver skull ring and maybe one or two other things which either I have forgotten or am lying to myself about.
“Julia. Don’t keep secrets from your therapist.”
“I’m not keeping secrets.”
“You talked to a detective. You went back to your childhood home. You saw the barn where you were the victim of Satanic ritual abuse. Why didn’t you call the police and tell them about remembering the barn?”
Who had told her those things? “Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what? Never be afraid of the truth.”
“Because I don’t think the police would have believed me. I don’t think they would have believed me about Mitchell’s assault, either.”
“Am I the only one you can trust?”
No. Maybe she could trust Walter. Or could she? Her pulse throbbed in her temples, and she rubbed at her forehead. “Yes, Dr. Forrest.”
“Then you’ll do what I say?”
“I want to get better.”
“Come to my office today. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Today?” Julia thought about her staff meeting at the paper. She still had a lot of work to catch up.
“Ten in the morning.”
“I don’t think I can make it.”
“You’ll come. You want to be healed, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You want to become the person you’re supposed to be.”
“Yes.”
“You want to be free.”
“Of course I do.”
“He owns you, Julia.” The earpiece clicked as the doctor hung up.
Julia put down the phone and sat on the edge of the bed. He owns you. The darkness around her grew substance, pressed against her like a thick black jelly.
The smallest of noises came from her window, like a bird’s feathers scraping glass. Julia turned in the direction of the curtains. Two red specks glowed there.
Julia nearly dove into the blankets, to bury her head and let the panic consume her and maybe take her breath for the deepest and final time. The eyes couldn’t have been red. It must be the Peeping Tom, back for a second helping.
Her face flushed with anger. She wanted to make sure he would never peep again. She reached under the bed, grabbed the Louisville Slugger, and ran to the window.
She heard the voice, plainly, clearly, “He owns you, Jooolia.”
She dropped the bat. The twin red specks disappeared.
Eventually dawn came, the gray light filling the room. Julia numbly took a shower, dressing in the bathroom. She kept the bat close. When she was dressed, she called the Elkwood police desk. She gave her name and asked if the investigating officer in her Peeping Tom case could meet her at Dr. Forrest’s office at ten. When the communications officer asked for more information, Julia hung up.
The morning was dark, oppressive clouds spread in a solid drab sheet overhead, the air still. Even the colored leaves seemed washed out, yellows and reds edging toward brown. A soft fog hid the surrounding mountains, and the smell of coming rain fought with the sweeter odors of autumn decay and grass. No one stirred at the apartments across the street, and Mabel Covington’s rocker was empty.
Julia arrived at the Times office to find Rick waiting by her desk. “Gee, you look terrible,” he said, stirring his coffee with a pencil.
“Good morning, Mr. Compassion.” Julia expected him to again ask who was the lucky guy who’d kept her up all night, but he only pressed his lips together and nodded.
“Anything new on your Satanic murder theory?” she asked.
“Nope. Got an interview with Snead this morning. The editor’s going to love me for this one.”
If she loves you half as much as you love yourself, that would be a romance for the ages. “Good luck. Well, I’ve got work to do. As usual.”
“We’ve got days until deadline.” He moved closer to her, looming. “What’s your hurry?”
Julia nervously eyed the corners of her small office. Her heart was beating fast, the panic creeping in on a black tide.
“Hey, is something the matter?” Rick set his coffee on her desk, stepped back, and held his palms up, his expression as innocent as a teddy bear’s.
Julia put her elbow on her desk and propped up her head with one hand. “Just tired, is all.”
“Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out tonight with some of my friends, but I guess not. He owns you.”
Julia spun in her chair, tried to rise but her knees were weak. She gasped a couple of times, fought some air into her lungs, and whispered, “What did you say?”
“Jeez, what’s wrong with you, Julia?” he said.
“You said ‘He owns you.’“
His eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t say anything of the kind.”
Julia’s pulse machine-gunned through her veins, her throat constricted.
“You ought to go home and get some rest,” Rick said, taking a step back. “You don’t look so hot.”
Julia pulled a water bottle from her purse and took a couple of swallows. Her hands trembled so much that the water sloshed inside the plastic container. She was ashamed to have Rick see her this way. “I think I’m catching a little bit of the flu.”
Rick edged closer to the door. “I’d go see a doctor if I were you.”
“I am,” she said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Well, don’t die or anything before then,” Rick said, glancing at two graphic artists passing in the hall as if they might provide emergency medical assistance, or at least provide cover for his escape.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I just want to get a little work done before then.”
“Yeah,” Rick said, avoiding her eyes. “Well, I’ve got to get ready for my interview.”
“Bye,” she said, but he was already gone. Julia looked into her open purse. The box waited under her wallet, key chain, and tissues. Her fingers itched to touch it, though the memory of its strange electricity still haunted her.
She reached in, dug toward the bottom of the purse until she felt the wooden box. Her fingers explored the etched emblem. She thumbed the lid free and rooted in the cloth. She touched the cold metal and pulled the ring free of the purse.
Julia held the ring between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. Again it seemed to guide itself toward her left hand as if possessing a gravity of its own. Then the ring was on her finger, its heat expanding through her in orange radiant waves. Words popped into her head, spoken in the guttural voice of a madman: “With this ring, I thee wed.”
She wrestled the ring free and flung it into her purse. Her ears rang as the blood rushed from her head. She bent over, fighting a surge of nausea. The walls closed in, as sinister as the sides of a living coffin.
Breathe, Julia.
Count.
Just the way Dr. Forrest taught you.
She started, concentrating on each number, picturing the numerals as crystal clear shapes, and their edges softened as she mentally melted them. Ten was the tough one, because it fought and squirmed, wanted to slip away before she could pin it down. Nine came and went a little more slowly. By the count of eight, she thought she could breathe again. Seven, six, and she would survive.
&nbs
p; Five, and she could open her eyes, focusing only on the deep cleansing breath and the exhalation that carried away the fear. Four, three, now more slowly, two, and she almost yawned. Then one, the end, relaxation, an effective enough self-hypnosis that she could clearly think about the things Dr. Forrest had advised.
Bring it out. Let the pain surface. Face the nightmares. Don’t surrender.
But maybe surrender was better. She could crawl into the cellar of her head, put her hands over her eyes, and wait.
Wait for what?
For Daddy to come out of the shadows, in his hooded robe and wearing his skull ring, the knife cold and cruel in his hand?
She shuddered herself back to the present and found herself gazing at the blank screen of her computer. She flipped on the power and the screen burst into brightness. The computer ran through its loading commands and the screen saver came up, a field of deep red.
In the middle, in letters as white as corpses:
He owns you, Jooolia.
She jabbed the computer’s power switch with her index finger, half expecting a tremendous bolt of electricity to leap from the machine. She grabbed her purse and hurried into the hall, nearly knocking down an advertising rep. The rep called after her, but she staggered from the building into the gray morning. The parking lot was like water, something to be waded through.
If only I can make it to Dr. Forrest’s.
She struggled into the Subaru and drove to the therapist’s office without running off the road, though several drivers honked at her. An Elkwood police patrol car was parked by the office door, gleaming even though the sun was veiled. The secretary ushered Julia through, telling her that the doctor was expecting her. Julia glanced at her watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after nine.
She knocked on Dr. Forrest’s door.
“Come in, Julia,” came the therapist’s muffled voice.
Julia entered to see Dr. Forrest standing beside the window with a tall, thin man who smiled at her. In a tweed jacket and wearing no sidearm, he could have passed for an English professor. His face was creased from age, but his dark hair had only the slightest touch of gray. The cop’s eyes were cold and dark.
Mystery Dance: Three Novels Page 50