They fell back against the front of the ATV, his fingers struggling with the zipper on her jeans, her hands yanking on his belt. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up, his mouth crushing hers again, and they moved like awkward dancers toward his truck. Her skin burned from the inside out. Her breath exploded softly against his mouth, his neck.
She tore open his shirt, the buttons popped off. He rolled her jeans down over her hips, discovered she wore no panties, and drove his fingers up inside her. Her pleasure didn’t build slowly; it burst through her like fireworks, burning new afferent pathways in her brain, wiping away memory, sound, sight, obliterating everything except the need for more. She ground her hips against the exquisite pressure and her back arched over the hood of the truck and his mouth slid in a kind of free fall down the center of her and between her thighs. When he slipped his tongue over her, she cried out and her hands locked in his hair, holding him there, and then she was gone, swept away in a wave of pleasure so intense that she thought she blacked out. The next thing she knew, he was inside her, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands supporting her, and it was starting all over again.
They slipped down the hood to the floor of the garage. Their damp bellies and thighs slapped together and waves of heat and desire rose from every part of her, from the pit of her belly and the space between her toes, sweeping upward over her face and the crown of her head. She threw her arms back, her hips, then wild, violent shudders seized her.
Afterward, she twitched like a splayed frog and inhaled the cold, sweet air. A weird sort of peace settled through her. He ruined it by running his hands over her hair and caressing her cheek and whispering how wonderful she was, how beautiful, and she just wished he would shut up and disappear.
Allie suddenly thought of Mira and the amoxicillin. How long have I been here? How much time have I lost? Suppose she died? Suppose...
“I have to go,” she murmured, and pushed him away and quickly sat up. Her clothes, where the hell were her clothes?
“What’s wrong?” Whitford asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just have to go. I’m expecting calls from my staff in the ER. I completely forgot about it.”
“Oh.”
He sounded mortally disappointed and got to his feet. He gathered up his clothes and quickly pulled on his jeans, shirt, and shoes. Both of them seemed inordinately modest now, turning their backs on each other to finish dressing, one commenting on the chill wind that blew through the garage, the other remarking on the dog’s continued barks. She helped him pick up the wood that had fallen and stack it back against the wall. He carried two bundles out to the Rover for her and as she shut the door, he said, “I’d like to see you again, Allie.”
“Sure.” She didn’t want to get into some heavy, drawn-out conversation.
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
“I don’t plan on getting up before noon, Nick. I’ll call you.” She got into her car before he could say anything else and backed out of the driveway.
Mira looked bad. Her breathing was shallow, ragged. She was sweating profusely because the aspirin had lowered her temperature, but she still had a fever of 101.
“Mira, wake up, c’mon,” Allie said, touching her shoulder. “You need to swallow this.”
“Water,” she murmured.
“I’ve got water. I’m going to lift your head up. You need to take a sip and swallow these two pills.”
Allie slipped her hand under Mira’s head, but because her arms were still strapped down, she couldn’t raise up on her elbows and started to cough. Allie quickly removed the straps and helped her sit up. “Slide the pill between your lips. Great, that’s great. You’re doing just great.”
“Hurts to breathe,” Mira whispered, and started coughing.
When the coughing spell had passed, Mira opened her eyes, looked at Allie, and frowned. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Allie.”
Her eyes slipped to Allie’s left. “I know you.”
“Right. I’m Allie.”
“No, not you. Him.” She lifted her arm and pointed to Allie’s right. ‘That man.”
Goose bumps raced up and down Allie’s arms and her head snapped around. But no one was there. Of course not. “There’s no one in the house but us, Mira. Look, you need to take this other pill. Then you can use the bedpan.”
“I remember you!” Mira exclaimed, still looking at something to Allie’s left. “Your name is...”
Shit, she’s raving. ‘Take this pill,” Allie said again, slipping the tablet between Mira’s dry, chapped lips. ‘That’s right. Here’s some water.” She slid the bedpan beneath her. “Use this.”
Mira sipped from the bottle of water, swallowed, coughed, sipped some more. Allie removed the bedpan, set it aside, and lowered her head to the pillow. She realized the temperature in the basement had turned significantly cooler. It had its own thermostat and she remembered checking it before she’d left, making sure it was set at about seventy-five degrees. But the temperature in here now felt at least twenty degrees colder than that and it definitely hadn’t been that cool when she’d come down here a few minutes ago.
When she exhaled, she could see her breath in the air. Great. That was all she needed. No heat. She would have to move Mira upstairs and that would entail greater risk. Especially now.
Breakfast tomorrow?
Nick Whitford had been the day’s major mistake. But Christ, it had felt so good.
So give him your number and tell him to call you after the new year. Then you can fuck your little brains out, and what difference will it make?
None. Except that she’d told him she lived in Macon... Oops, I told you the wrong city.
…and she didn’t want a relationship. She wanted sex. She wanted his body. She wanted hours of sensuality and no ties, no expectations.
And why’s it so damn cold in here?
Allie went into the bathroom to empty the bedpan. It wasn’t at all cold in here. Why not? The bathroom was on the same thermostat as the rest of the basement.
When she returned to the main room, the temperature felt as though it had dropped several more degrees. Mira was propped up on her elbows, eyes focused on an empty spot in the room. She was smiling stupidly. “I went to the library,” Mira said.
“Right.” Allie pulled the sheet over her.
“I sat where J. K. Rowling sat,” Mira went on, nodding, her smile widening, her cheeks damp, flushed, her eyes glazed with lunacy.
Allie considered giving her another shot that would knock her out for the rest of the night, but she was afraid of overdosing her. “Hey, Mira. I’m right here.” She waved her hand in front of Mira’s face, but she didn’t notice.
“Your name. Right. Your name. It’s . . . Dean. That’s it. Your name is Dean.”
Jesus God. Allie, shivering now, jerked back from the bed. Goose bumps covered her arms, crawled up her neck, and a tongue of ice licked its way along her spine. Her heartbeat slammed into three digits, sweat rushed from the pores in her skin. She caught movement in her peripheral vision and spun around.
Nothing.
And now Mira was humming to herself; nodding yes, yes, and said, “The library, right, uh-huh.”
She’s talking to someone.
Someone Allie couldn’t see.
To Dean.
She lurched forward, pushed Mira back against the mattress, quickly secured the straps around her arms again. The cold was almost unbearable now. Mira would die in this cold, die before the plan was finished.
Allie ran across the basement and into the utility area under the stairs. She threw open the cabinet doors and brought out two more blankets, thick blankets, winter blankets. She raced back into the main room—and stopped, gaping, clutching the blankets to her chest.
There, right next to the side of Mira’s bed, was a shape. She couldn’t tell what the hell it was, except that it seemed to be growing up from the floor, drawing the cold into itself, as though the cold gave it
substance. And then the shape drifted over the mattress, elongating, shrinking, adjusting itself to the length and width and shape of Mira’s body.
Mira jerked—her limbs, head, torso—and her face contorted, one side of her mouth puckering, the other side widening, so her mouth looked like a clown’s. Then her eyes shut, snapped open, shut, and snapped open again and looked straight at Allie.
The blankets dropped out of Allie’s arms.
Mira raised her head from the pillow, the tendons in her neck straining. Her mouth moved. “Don’t do it, Al,” she said in Dean’s voice. “Not in my name.”
With that, Mira’s head collapsed against the pillow and Allie whirled around and ran for the stairs, her shoes pounding against the basement floor. She took the stairs two and three at a time and burst through the door at the top. She slammed it shut, fumbled with the key in the lock, turned it, heard the click, and backed away from the door, blinking hard, shivering, arms clutched to her chest.
Not in the pattern, not in the pattern, not not not...
And when she couldn’t go any farther, when her spine was up against the opposite wall, she slid down it to the floor, jerked her legs up against her. She wrapped her arms around her legs, pressed her head against her thighs, and shook uncontrollably.
November 1989
Cassadaga, Florida
1
Dean hurries downstairs, anxious to get on the road. It’s nearly two and it will take him at least five hours to get to Disney World, where he’s supposed to meet Lia. With traffic, it may take even longer. Every moment he delays is one less moment he will spend with her
He heads into the kitchen to post a note on the corkboard for his parents, informing them where he’ll be—DeLand, looking for an apartment near Stetson for when he starts college in January. He’s leaving Ian West’s number in Cassadaga in case they want to get in touch with him. Which they probably won’t. Usually they don’t care where he goes or what he does, as long as they know how to get in touch with him.
But when he comes into the kitchen, his mother is there, struggling with something at the counter, her back to him. “I thought you were at the lab, “Dean says.
She whips around, an unopened container of pills in one hand. “You startled me. I can’t get this damn thing open. Can you do it?”
“I thought you took those only at night, Mom.”
“I’m feeling kind of stressed about Allie’s dinner party.”
Dean sticks his note on the corkboard, then goes over to the counter and opens the container of pills. Ever since little Ray death four years ago, his mother has been romancing sleeping pills the way other women romance their lovers. At first, she took them only at night. Now she seems to take then all day long and often combines them with booze. Recently she has been coming home from work early, before Dean gets out of school, and is usually out of it by dinner. Mothers with addiction problems are probably the only family thing that he and Lia have in common.
“What’re you doing home so early?” she asks as he hands her the opened container o fpills.
“I told you. I’m going up to DeLand to find an apartment.”
She frowns, struggling to remember. At one time, his mother was a pretty woman, with a mind as sharp as cut glass, and her impeccable appearance like a trademark. But the pills and booze have changed all that. She is fat now, sloppy, and indifferent to how she looks. Her mind doesn’t function like it used to.
“You didn’t tell me that, “she says finally.
“I did, Mom. Look, I’ve got to hit the road. “He gives her a quick hug.
“But what about Allie’s party? It’s her anniversary. She thinks you and Keith are going to be here.”
“I’ve got other plans. See you Sunday.”
He hurries out the door before she can say anything else, tosses his bag in the back of the car, and realizes he has left his camping gear in the garage. He raises the garage door and hastens inside, gathering up the gear—the tent, sleeping bags, pillows, the grill, and a cooler of food. His heart soars at the thought of seeing Lia—the first time since August.
For the last two and a half months, they have traded dozens of phone calls and letters, with Lia ‘s calls and letters going through Mr Barker’s store. He is their messenger, their Hermes. Since Dean has his own phone line and pays the bill, he always calls her. So much sneaking and planning he thinks, but nothing worked out until this opportunity came up last week. Lia and some friends are going to Disney World and someone’s older sister and her friends are chaperoning them. Lia will leave the group for two days. It will just be the two of them.
When he shuts his trunk, his sister’s BMW is pulling into the driveway. Great timing.
Allie swings out, still dressed in her ER greens. She’s holding a large tray of food. “Hey, Dean, “she calls.
He waves, gets quickly into his car She’s the last person he wants to talk to right now. But she can’t stand being ignored and strides over to the car “I hope you’ll be back by six. We’re having a dinner party. The family, a few friends.”
“Mom didn’t mention it. I’m off to Stetson for the weekend. To find an apartment for January.”
She whips off her shades. As usual, her eyes look enraged. “You can’t do that. This is a special party. It’s my one-year anniversary.”
“Exactly. Your anniversary, Al. Not mine.”
“Do Mom and Dad know you’re going?”
“Sure. They’re glad to get rid of me.”
“But you’re only seventeen years old. They’re letting you drive all over the state.”
“I’m not your kid, Al. Butt out. Besides, my driving record is better than yours. Dad said that last speeding ticket of yours was—what? A hundred bucks and change?”
Her mouth purses with annoyance. “I was in a hurry.”
“Yeah, well, so am I. Enjoy the party.” He raises his window and takes off.
She will make a stink with their parents and his father will say the usual thing, that Dean is old enough to make his own choices. She and their mother will commiserate about how permissive Dad is and by then Mom will be so out to lunch she won’t remember a word of the conversation. Even if this weren’t his weekend for meeting Lia, he wouldn’t attend the party. He dislikes Allie’s husband, a surgical resident as arrogant as she is.
It shouldn’t be this big a deal, but of course it is because he’s striking out on his own rather than doing something with the Family.
He drives hard and fast, music pounding from the radio, and pulls up in front of Lia’s motel at exactly eight o’clock. And there she is, waiting outside, just as she said she would be. Her hair is loose, her long legs tanned. Nearly three months and she is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
She runs over to the car, her bag banging against her hip, and scoots inside and off they go. But he makes it exactly two blocks before he pulls into a gas station and takes her into his arms. His senses are flooded with the fragrance of her skin and hair, the softness of her hungry mouth, the shape and feel of her. They break apart and just look at each other “Forty-eight hours together can you believe it?” she whispers.
“But is it safe?” he asks.
“It should be. Molly older sister says as long as I’m back by five on Saturday, when they’re leaving she’s fine with it.”
“Five it’ll be.”
They drive half an hour north to a campground about a mile from Cassadaga. Their campsite is secluded, tucked back under huge banyans and live oaks, and that first night they do little more than talk and make love. It’s the longest time they have been alone together, Dean thinks, without the threat of discovery hanging over them.
Late that night, they lie in the tent, on top of the sleeping bags because it’s unseasonably warm. Night sounds surround them, the air is redolent with the scent of smoke. He tells her all about Cassadaga, preparing her for the strange wonder of it. “There’s only one other place like it in the country, a sister commu
nity in upstate New York.”
“And everyone who lives there talks to the dead?”
“Most of them.” He tells her about his friend Ian West, a medium who has lived and worked in the village for fourteen years, a man she will meet tomorrow. “He an incredible medium. You’ll see.”
“Tell me more about the history.”
The history of the town dated back to Iowa in 1875, he continues, when a medium named George Colby held a séance at the home of a friend. His Indian guide, Seneca, came through and told him to travel to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, where he was supposed to contact T D. Giddings, a Spiritualist. Once he was in Wisconsin, Seneca promised to give him more instructions. Colby, who was single, in his late twenties, packed up and split.
“You have to kind of wonder about a guy like that, “she says. “Was he nuts? My mother would think so.”
Dean laughs. “I think Ian would say that Colby had a lot of faith in what he received as a medium. But it gets weirder In Wisconsin, Colby met up with Giddings and held another séance. Seneca described a wilderness of high bluffs, lakes, hills, and told Colby and Giddings to head for Florida. So they did. They institutionalize people for less than that. But this was 1875 and the Spiritualist movement was gathering steam. When you hear Ian talk about it, he talks about spirit with a capital S.”
“So is this like blind faith?”
“No. Ian studied this stuff most of his adult life. He’s the youngest medium they’ve ever had in Cassadaga. When he did his first reading for me, he tuned in on my grandfather. Described him, talked like he talked. . . It was eerie.”
She turns onto her side, pulling her pillow closer to him. “Tell me more about this Colby guy.”
“They headed south, Colby, Giddings and his family, on trains and then steamboats. They got as far as Blue Springs, a frontier town surrounded by subtropical forest, that was supposedly close to their final destination. There they held another séance and Seneca instructed them to start walking into the forest. So they did. And we’re talking about thousands of acres of wilderness covered in pines, scrub brush, palmettos, and riddled with all kinds of reptiles and insects. It must’ve seemed like another planet to these two guys.”
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