“Because she told me.”
“She …” Lucy sat straight in her chair. The quilt slid down to her waist, and she impatiently pushed it aside. “What do you mean, she told you—what are you saying?”
“In a dream that night. She told me in a dream.”
He turned around to face her. As Lucy held his steady gaze, she slowly shook her head.
“You know something, Byron … you’re asking me to believe a lot.”
“Haven’t you ever had a dream so real, you knew it was more than a dream?”
“Yes, but …” Lucy’s voice trailed off. Until that moment she’d almost forgotten her own dream of two nights ago … her mother at the window, sounding so sad …
“But what?” Byron persisted.
“I did have one like that,” Lucy murmured. “That night, after I got home from the cemetery. My mother came back to me. It was like … like she was trying to warn me about something.”
“What’d she say?”
Lucy’s voice faltered. “She said … that I was going to a place where … where she couldn’t help me.”
Byron gave an almost imperceptible nod. His eyes shone even darker.
“So your mother shows up with a warning. On the very night a dying girl touches you and leaves this scar on your hand. Doesn’t that seem a little more than coincidence?”
“Oh God …”
“When I finally went to sleep that night,” Byron said tightly, “I dreamed she was in a grave. I saw the storm. I saw her covered in blood … and I saw her reaching out.”
“But. . . you didn’t see who killed her?”
“No. She was talking to me … she wanted me to know that she was gone. And that she hadn’t been alone when she died. She told me I should go to the cemetery the next morning and wait for someone. And then she said, ‘Help her … now you must help the one who helped me.’”
Lucy didn’t know how to respond. As Byron fell silent, his sorrow seemed to fill the room, yet at the same time she sensed his own defenses struggling to pull it back.
“So … what you’re saying,” she stammered, “is that I have these … these powers now. And I’m going to start having visions … and … and feeling things I don’t want to feel just because I touch something?”
But when Byron didn’t answer, Lucy’s tone grew almost pleading. “Are you absolutely sure? Are you positive it was her? I mean … maybe she didn’t even show up that night. Maybe she was never here in town. Maybe it was just some girl you didn’t know, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—”
“Lucy, stop,” he said tightly.
“But it could have been, right? I mean, it could have been a mistake and maybe she’s still alive somewhere, maybe she—”
“She’s not alive.”
“Then where’s her body? Where’s the grave? If she’s really dead, you would have found her—you would have found something—”
“Lucy, stop!” His voice struck out at her, cold and final. “There are just some things you know, because every part of you feels it, because you have a bond with somebody that’s special and unique. And she and I had that kind of bond. So … no. No. It wasn’t a mistake.”
He raked a hand back through his hair. His face twisted in pain.
“She’s dead, Lucy. She’s dead.”
Lucy’s heart ached at the sight of him. “You really loved her, didn’t you?” she whispered.
A muscle clenched in his jaw. He turned stiffly back to the window. “Yes.”
“So … she was your girlfriend?”
“No. Katherine was my sister.”
21
“Your sister?” Lucy echoed. “The one who—”
She broke off, flustered, as he shot her a cold glance over his shoulder.
“Was crazy?” he finished sarcastically.
“I was going to say … the one who went away.”
“Well, you have been in Pine Ridge awhile. Time enough to have heard all the gruesome stories about my family, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry.” Lucy’s cheeks reddened. “I haven’t heard that much.”
“It doesn’t matter. Actually, it’s not so bad, being part of the local folklore. People tend to leave you alone.”
“Is that what you want? To be left alone?”
He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, fixing her with another intense stare. “I guess that depends on who it is.”
Lucy dropped her eyes. She heard him move to the fireplace and sit down upon the hearth.
“Are you sure you want to hear the rest of it?” he asked pointedly.
“Can it get any worse?” She gave him a wan smile, and he almost—but not quite—returned it.
“These … powers … forces … psychic abilities … whatever you want to call them,” he began tentatively, “they run in our family. At least that’s what my grandmother says. When I was little, I thought she was magic. Sometimes she could tell us things before they actually happened.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Well … like when a certain neighbor was going to knock on our door—and then they would. Or who’d be on the other end of the phone before she even picked it up. Just simple things like that. She could tell you where to find things you’d lost… or that a storm was coming when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And I never thought it was strange. It was normal to me.”
Intrigued, Lucy leaned forward. “So all of you had psychic talents?”
“It was always so obvious with Katherine. From the time we were little, she was already having visions and seeing things nobody else could see. It was just a part of who she was. But mine was different. I was older the first time it happened. Probably around ten or so. And a woman—someone I’d never met before—had come to see my grandmother, and I remember she was so sad.”
He hesitated, as though reluctant to venture too far into the past.
“I remember she was sitting at our kitchen table, waiting for Gran to come downstairs. And I sat down across from her, and suddenly she just looked at me. Looked me full in the face, and her eyes were so big and so desperately unhappy.”
Byron’s voice lowered. A poignant blend of sorrow and awe.
“I stared right back at her. Right back into her eyes. Deep, deep into that terrible sadness. And I said, ‘I’m sorry about your little girl; I’m sorry she drowned.’ And I remember she tried to smile at me, but she couldn’t smile—all she could do was cry—and I felt so bad for her.”
Again he paused. Then he met Lucy’s gaze with a level one of his own.
“There was no way I could have known about her or her daughter; she didn’t even live around there. Gran told me later that I’d had a glimpse of her soul.”
“Eyes,” Lucy murmured. “Eyes are supposed to be windows to the soul.”
“Some people say so,” he agreed. “I couldn’t explain it then, and I don’t even try anymore. But if that’s true—about windows to the soul—then the daughter she’d lost was the most important feeling in her soul that day. And I had a glimpse of it.”
“Is it like”—Lucy struggled for words—”looking beyond pain? Or seeing something that’s even deeper than grief?”
His shoulders moved in a shrug. “It’s nothing like Katherine could do—nothing that clear or sharp. No smells or sounds or things like that. It’s like … looking through a veil. There’s fog … mist … no definite features or details. Yet somehow I’m able to pull something out of it.”
“Like … through a curtain … or a screen?”
“Sort of, yeah. Lucy? What is it?”
But as the memory of the confessional flashed through her mind, Lucy hurriedly shook her head. Not now. Not yet. This isn’t the right time …
“Nothing,” she assured him. “Tell me more about Katherine. About this gift of hers.”
“A gift sometimes. But also a curse.”
The edge was back in his voice, and Lucy felt a pri
ckle of apprehension as he continued with the explanation.
“As she got older, she didn’t want to use it anymore, because it scared her too much. She’d get nervous and embarrassed because she never knew when the visions would hit her—how strong they’d be, or how frightening—and most people didn’t understand. Most people didn’t even try to. All they knew was that she was different, and that sometimes she acted strange. And so some people laughed at her, and some made fun of her. And others were just plain scared.”
Byron pressed both hands to his forehead … gently massaged his temples.
“But of course, she couldn’t just not use it anymore—that was impossible. It’s not like a switch she could just turn on and off whenever she wanted. It was part of her; part of who she was. So it got to where she wouldn’t even leave the house. Gran and I were the only ones she trusted; home was the only place she felt safe.”
Lucy frowned, taking everything in. “But if that’s true,” she asked carefully, “then why did she end up leaving?”
She saw him tense … saw the briefest flicker of indecision over his face. She sat up straighter in her chair as her voice grew suspicious.
“There’s something else,” she accused him. “Something you’re not telling me.”
Byron stood up from the hearth. He pulled her from the rocking chair, then turned and strode purposefully to the door.
“Come with me,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
22
It was a relief to get out.
Despite the coziness of the cabin, Lucy was beginning to feel claustrophobic. As if every new revelation of Byron’s cast a dark, uneasy shadow over her heart and her mind.
The crisp, cold air felt wonderful. As they walked together toward the lake, the pungent fragrance of pines swirled through her head, almost making her forget, almost sweeping the doubts and fears away.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” Lucy murmured. She followed him to the shore, to the wooden dock stretching out over the water. A boat was tied at the end, bobbing peacefully upon the barely rippled surface, and with one smooth movement, Byron helped her down into the bow and slipped the rope free.
Here I go again, Lucy thought ruefully, watching the dock glide farther and farther from view—getting myself into another dangerous situation. And yet, out here in this pristine wilderness, surrounded by such stillness, watching Byron rhythmically work the oars, she felt a sense of peace that she hadn’t felt for days.
“Don’t ruin it,” she said suddenly, and felt her cheeks flush as Byron gave her a curious look.
“What?”
“The mood. The minute.”
He cocked his head … lifted an eyebrow. A playful wind tugged at his hair, streaming it back from his face. “I’ll just keep rowing, then.”
“So much has happened,” she tried to explain, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Too much—too much to comprehend and understand and try to believe. And from what you’re telling me—and maybe from what you’re going to be telling me—things might be getting worse.”
He didn’t answer, but still, she could see the seriousness in his eyes.
“So just give me this one minute, okay? To breathe? And be away from everything that’s bad? And see the world in a way that makes some sense to me.”
Lucy’s voice caught. She turned from him abruptly and fixed her gaze on the distant shoreline … on the woods and the hills and the endless blue sky above. For a long time there was only the sound of the oars dipping water … the music of the birds … the soft sigh of pine-rich breezes. Lucy shut her eyes and pretended wishes came true, and she wished this could last forever.
But wishes never come true. At least not mine. At least not the good ones.
As she felt the boat jar, her eyes came open. A second later the dinghy was scraping up onto a narrow stretch of beach, and Byron was out of the boat, anchoring it securely between a small shelter of trees.
“Grab those blankets under your seat,” he said, reaching for her hand. “We’ll go this way—I think you’ll like the scenery.”
“What is this? Some kind of island?”
“No, just another side of the lake. We could have driven—there’s a road off that way about half a mile—but I think the boat ride’s much nicer.”
“How do you know about these places?” Lucy asked, as he pulled her up a steep rise and on to a stretch of level ground.
“I grew up here, remember? And I take care of a lot of these cabins off-season. And in the summer I do some maintenance work.”
“What kind of maintenance work?”
“Handyman stuff, mostly.”
“So that’s how you had that key.”
“I have all the keys.”
Taking the blankets, he led her along the beach for another five minutes, then suddenly veered off again toward the shore. After maneuvering several more rocky slopes, Lucy found herself in a small, wooded cove with a breathtaking view of the lake.
“You’re right, it is beautiful,” she said appreciatively, gazing out across the shimmering expanse of water.
“And private.” Byron shook out a blanket and spread it over the ground. “Sit down … wrap this other one around you. It’s pretty cold out here.”
Lucy did so. She watched as he sat beside her, his eyes narrowed intently on the opposite horizon. She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees.
“Do you believe in evil?” Byron asked.
Lucy turned to him in surprise. Somehow, surrounded by all this peaceful beauty, his question seemed almost laughable … and far more than ominous.
“Evil?”
“An evil that can transcend time and space? An evil so obsessive that you can’t escape it, no matter how hard you try?”
Her brow creased in a frown. She drew back from him and stared harder. “You’re really serious.”
“You told me you thought you were being stalked the other night, when you ran from the church. Do you remember how you felt?”
“Of course I remember. I was terrified.”
“Well, that’s how Katherine felt all the time … like she was being stalked by someone. Except she couldn’t outrun him. And she couldn’t hide. Because he was in her visions and in her dreams.”
“Byron—what are you talking about?”
But he wouldn’t look at her, just kept staring out across the water, at the play of light and shadow off the woods across the lake.
“They started about three years ago,” he said gravely. “When she was sixteen. And they weren’t like the other visions she’d had her whole life. These were like the worst kind of nightmares. Nightmares she couldn’t wake up from. Nightmares she couldn’t escape. Things more horrible than you could ever imagine.”
With an unconscious gesture, Lucy pulled the blanket closer around her. The breeze off the beach had nothing to do with the sudden chill in her veins.
“She said it was like looking at the world through the essence of evil … as though she were inside his head, thinking out through his thoughts and seeing things through his eyes.”
“Sort of”—Lucy was struggling to understand—“like a camera taking pictures?”
“Yes, capturing every gory detail as it happens.”
Despite the blanket, Lucy felt even colder. “Did she tell you what these things were?”
“Never. Only that they were inhuman. So violent and hideous, she couldn’t bear them anymore. Never knowing when they’d come … or how long they’d last. And worst of all, never being able to stop them. Just having to stand by and watch, over and over again.”
“So where were these visions coming from?”
“From the mind of a monster. From someone sick and twisted, who enjoyed causing pain and watching his victims suffer.”
“My God … so you think … you think this person was real?”
Byron’s expression turned grim. “Katherine did. And she was convinced he’d keep right on ki
lling and brutalizing people, and that he’d never get caught. Because she was the only one who knew about him.”
“And she didn’t have any idea who he was?”
“None. She never saw his face. Because she was always seeing things from his perspective.”
Lucy could feel goose bumps along her arms. Could feel a cold, stealthy uneasiness gnawing at the back of her mind. Determinedly she tried to force it away, tried to concentrate on what Byron was saying.
“—a connection,” he continued. “But why? We never knew.”
“You mean, a connection between their minds? Between their thoughts? Like the bond you had with Katherine?”
Byron’s face went rigid. “How can you even compare the two? That’s—”
“No, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to understand this. So Katherine could see these … these atrocities this guy was committing. As he was committing them?”
“Yes. Forced to watch him. But helpless to stop him.”
“Then … was it someone she knew?”
“Impossible.”
“Someone she met just one time, maybe? Someone with psychic abilities as exceptional as hers, who was somehow able to lock into her mind?”
“You mean … sort of like a psychic parasite?”
“Exactly.”
“She hardly left the house. And this is a small community—people tend to know each other around here. I can’t think of anybody who fits into an evil mode like this one. And believe me … I’ve tried.”
“But you said she sensed things—saw things—by touching. So maybe she bumped into him in a crowd … I mean, he could have just been passing through town, or visiting somebody nere. Maybe he dropped something … or … or accidentally left something of his behind. And Katherine just happened to pick it up.”
Byron sounded weary. “I’ve thought of that, too. And I guess it is possible … except I think she’d only have felt a connection to it when it was in her hands. Just when she touched it. Not on and on for three years.”
“But maybe she kept it. Maybe she found something, and took it home with her and didn’t realize.”
It Begins Page 12