Louise Morgan never claimed to be a saint. She had thrived on adulation, craved more and more attention, felt dishonest acting modest. Pride was her weakness, her private sickness. It had been her favorite sin.
Louise Polson could see the truth now, looking back over her shoulder, but Louise Morgan had refused to face it. She had been a junkie, addicted to her own ego. Perhaps if she'd only —
Louise clutched her precious scrapbook. She turned to a photograph of herself and her first husband William. Some church picnic, long ago: Sunshine, filtering down through thick branches; young families at play in the summer-green grass. Sweet William looked so handsome and practical, so sure of his future. That optimism had been captured here forever, sealed under clear plastic. He had one strong arm around her narrow waist and his smile was toothy, friendly and wide.
Her eyes filled, surprising her. But it was guilt, not grief, that made her turn to the next page. Hiram was her husband now — William had been dead and gone for more than twenty years. Hi was a good man; gentle, loyal and considerate. She knew she was fortunate to have him, for theirs was a chaste friendship of a marriage. Far less than a virile man deserved. Poor William belonged in the past, surrendered to memory [screaming/blood everywhere/calling out to God] — but it was difficult to let him go.
She sighed and glanced at the temperature. Nearly seventy-four degrees. Then why on Earth did she feel as if she were freezing to death? [William] Perhaps it would be wise to return to bed. Louise grabbed the wooden post of her headboard and pulled herself up onto the quilt, dragging her lower body behind her. The old woman lifted her legs and shoved them under the covers. She tried to rest, but kept seeing that night.
They had been driving, arguing bitterly. A huge truck suddenly appeared from the right. William, cursing and fighting the wheel... the screech of tortured metal... a crash. Throbbing pain, distant voices. Holding her husband's crushed, leaking head in her lap and knowing he was gone.
Louise could not help herself. She'd worked desperately to heal him, bring him back to life. She had poured her force into that gory corpse — and felt it twitch. Saw the eyes open and the nothingness behind them.
Heard it whine and moan...
Louise realized what she had nearly done; saw, with horror, the grey brain matter scattered on the ground. She stopped reaching for her husband's soul and released him. But then, when she had tried to stand, she'd found she could not. Louise Morgan was paralyzed. She had committed an unholy act, a blasphemy, by attempting to raise the dead. God had taken her legs to punish her. Or was she suffering because she wished to?
A knock.
"Mrs. Polson?"
Fred Langstrom, their only guest. He now lived in the hotel. A retired businessman, Mr. Langstrom had moved to Two Trees to paint desert scenery in his declining years.
"Yes?"
A pause.
"I just wanted to see if you needed anything."
Louise, still lost in her memories, missed the hollow lonliness in his tone.
"No, thank you, Fred. I'm fine."
"Well ... Good night, then."
"Sleep well."
She listened intently, but could barely hear Langstrom move away down the hall towards room 66. Such a quiet little mouse of a man, Louise thought. No trouble to anyone.
It was so cold. She wished Hiram would come home. She needed someone to hold her, someone she could talk to…
…Ironically, Fred Langstrom was every bit as desperate for someone to talk to. He was frightened half out of his wits. He paced, cursing himself. He'd been too shy to ask Mrs. Polson if he might come in and talk for a while. He now felt too humiliated to go back. Langstrom understood himself. Communicating would be even more of a problem in the morning. Waiting always made these things worse. No, he thought, I'll just have to wrestle through alone.
He sat on the edge of his bed, wondering where to begin. The brick walls his mind kept hitting — blank spots in his memory — scared him stiff. So did whatever horrors were lurking behind them; things he obviously found too terrible to remember.
There had been a powder-blue tint to the long, seamless sky. Langstrom had climbed the ridge shortly after noon, lost in the majesty of this land that never changed. He had no idea how long he'd remained entranced before unpacking his things and setting up the easel.
Retirement agrees with me, he thought. I like this state of mind. I may never be a great painter, but that doesn't matter. I've already been more fortunate than most.
Perhaps he would send a gift to Tammy. He'd heard she was living in Phoenix now, working as a waitress. It wasn't right, their not speaking. A man his age needed family. Hell, a woman her age might need an occasional Daddy. She probably remembered him as aloof and cold, but a painting might break the ice. Get them back in touch. Langstrom decided he'd like that.
He waited, sketch pad in hand. Two hawks began to dive in elastic circles, wing to wing. He scratched furiously with his charcoal; trying to feel the lines, not just see them. His concentration had been good, he remembered. He'd been able to hold fast to the images until long after his models had flown. When he'd finally looked up again, the light had changed.
The time! The sun was setting over his shoulder. Langstrom had hurriedly packed his things, worried he'd get lost in the dark. That was an easy thing to do in open country.
He'd been slow upon the rock face. It had taken him the better part of an hour to reach solid ground. The night was thick and oily by then, black as squid ink. There were no other sounds, nothing to mask the racket of his clumsy passage through those hidden gullies packed with sharp stones.
How had it started? Langstrom became anxious just remembering:Steadily increasing tension, the disturbing sensation he was being watched. An unsteady, unfamiliar rhythm to his pulse.
Something was following him.
His legs had gone out of control. He had run for his life, tripping and stumbling but picking up speed, racing along as if twenty years younger. Christ, then it had hit him in the face like a bucket of cold water; the absolute conviction he was out of time, that he wasn't going to survive.
Soon he was slowing. The same amount of effort only gained him half the ground. His body had worked miracles, but he was sixty-six years old and burning out.
Living through it all again, Langstrom heard someone retching and calling for help from somewhere far away. It was his own voice. The world was hoarse panting, racing blood and thumping heartbeats. Oh God, please give me a break. Keep me safe until I catch my breath. I'll do anything, just let me have a minute to —
A clatter: Something behind him, closing fast. Langstrom tried to run again, but all he could manage was a limping jog. He could see the lights of town winking up ahead. He wasn't going to make it.
Langstrom thought of Tammy, the daughter he would never know; the little girl he still remembered. She would go on, for the rest of her life, looking out through a stranger's eyes. He had to do that painting for her, for Christ's sake. He had to leave her with something nice to say about her Daddy.
He was finished. His legs were turning into tree stumps. He thought about playing golf on an autumn day, the taste of roast beef sandwiches with ice-cold beer. The way Tammy had looked, all wrinkled and red, the very first time he'd seen her. Jesus, Langstrom had sobbed, I'm really going to die.
Noise up ahead of him. He was boxed in. Tammy, he thought. I'm sorry. Those birds were the best I was ever gonna do in my life, but I just didn't know that then.
Langstrom was cornered there, in the rocks, in the dark: Oh God, what is it? Why is this happening to me? The stench. That awful stench. And then someone stepped forward. Langstrom's mind refused to accept the information. He froze, his intelligence in neutral.
The first time, he had regained his senses less than a block from the hotel. This time the cobwebs cleared quickly. The unspeakable was real. It could be on its way to his room that very moment.
He remembered most of what had happened now, en
ough to be sure of two things: It had been a kind of rape... And he was never going near that place again.
14
CANDACE & BERT
The next day. Scorching white, sparkling sand…
There is no escape, no hiding place. Not here, out in this awful, endless open: The outskirts of town, rim of the world, edge of the end of things. Sweltering heat pressed down, blistering exposed, tender skin. Flesh already pink and beginning to turn white, peeling away in defeat. Aging flesh.
Candace Stone, schoolteacher, had just entered her fiftieth year with a whimper of despair. She was brooding, moving slowly through the landscape to conserve energy and moisture. Candace was small and rather quiet. A trifle plump, perhaps, but pleasant enough to look at. One of the true meek, this woman — the soft, accepting kind. Waiting to inherit the earth, as promised, or at least something of lasting value.
Hers was a crisis of the spirit: a sudden, unexpected journey that had caused her to doubt the value of existence. It had inflicted wounds. And so she walked; alone, except for the smear of a shadow that trailed along behind her like a pet wisp of smoke.
Fifty years old, Candace thought with a fluttering gut. Now the kids are gone, and my life is draining away. I can feel myself running on empty. Why was I born?
The human is the only creature that knows it must eventually cease to exist. Most, like Candace Stone, don't discover the truth until late in life — that they have kept death cloaked in abstractions and well-hidden from the soul.
Fifty.
Candace walked, sorting through a mental attic full of discarded junk, seeking new answers. She had hoped to find hers in the eyes of another, the arms of her lover.
Bert had been cold to her during lunch, almost rude. It hurt, this strange distance of his. Left her feeling lost, aching with need at the worst of times.
Why was Bert so far away? Right now, when she'd been just about to ask him, to come right out and say it? This wasn't fair. Bert suddenly seemed like someone else, no longer the person Candace had fallen in love with. And, for no apparent reason, he was abandoning her.
Candace Stone wanted to put things right. The realization had burst open like a ripe blister: She and Bert had been living in sin. Their behavior was contrary to the teachings of the Bible and the words of Jesus Christ. Candace had never wanted anything this badly, been so certain that something was right. Well, not exactly. Something was wrong.
Candace paused and leaned against a boulder. She shaded her eyes against the glare to scan the hills.
It was noon, and she was fifty years old.
Cheer up. You'll drive yourself crazy. Don't you have anything else to worry about?
Oh sure, she thought bitterly. My chickens. Those poor, sweet, harmless little babies. Now there are four of them missing, probably slaughtered by that darned badger. I'll just brighten up my day by concentrating on the way the darling little bundles must have died.
Candace scowled and rubbed her palms together. Drat. Blast. Jake had promised her he'd kill it, sworn he'd save the rest of her flock from that murdering beast, but he hadn't tracked it down yet. Another hen was gone, taken during the night. How many more?
She remembered Rourke, that young fellow — Peter, wasn't it? Candace had heard that he was really something with a rifle. Maybe Jake could ask him to lend a hand. She barely knew the boy, just well enough to say hello to on the street. She couldn't possibly ask him herself, but Jake... No, she thought, then Jake would be insulted. I can't be rude when he's offered to help. It wouldn't be proper.
Candace Stone always tried to do the proper thing.
Candace stepped absently to one side to avoid the cracked, bleached bones of a dead cow. She strayed, without noticing, onto an unfamiliar trail that led into the mouth of a narrow ravine.
Perhaps, as Louise Polson had suggested, Bert was simply not destined to be her husband.
Candace blushed, remembering her painful conversation with the crippled evangelist. Oh, Louise hadn't shown disapproval or been judgmental. She had done all she could to comfort Candace. But Mrs. Polson had advised her not to try to second-guess God, and she'd put her finger right on the heart of the problem.
Where was the man who'd courted Candace? That Bert had vanished into thin air. He'd once been so witty and charming, kept her in stitches day and night with his impulsive sense of humor. Bert had made her feel sensual and desirable back then. He had erased her lingering doubts about her physical appearance, that mole on her cheek she disliked so much. The man had been wonderful. He'd filled her with joy and self-confidence. The Bert she lived with now — well, she hated him.
Wished him dead.
Candace blinked and looked around to discover herself in a strange, gloomy clearing. She was surrounded by low, jagged cliffs and mounds of sharp rock. Candace couldn't believe what she'd been thinking and feeling. Those nasty bursts of resentment, she hadn't really meant them. This place had affected her subconscious. It was depressing.
I couldn't hate Bert, she thought. Why, I've never hated anyone.
But the violent rumble from within continued. Her stomach felt queasy and acid rose in her throat. She took an involuntary step backward, suddenly feeling very frightened. She had to get out of this oppressive, evil place.
And then she saw it. The body.
Candace nearly vomited. She was unable to tear her eyes away from the awful sight. Invisible hands gripped her skull and forced her to look at the horror: That pathetic bundle of feathers and dried blood, hanging from a branch only a few yards up the trail.
One of her lost hens, gutted; flesh rancid and decaying, the remains at least a week old. There, on display, hacked apart in an almost ceremonial fashion. The little leg bones had been crushed together and one pronged foot left on top like some kind of voodoo totem. The mess was tied together with some kind of long animal hair. Candace moaned, startling herself. No badger had done this. A different kind of animal…Man.
It was senseless, hideous. Candace spun, faced the other direction and ran. She stumbled and cut her knee, but raced out into the sunshine. Color slides were thrown up against the inside of her eyes: Ducking low, entering the cool of her chicken coop. The way the hens eyed the basket in her hand with dull suspicion, clucking to one another and bobbing their heads. Wings flapping, loose feathers falling in the fresh straw. Gathering eggs, feeding her birds, changing their water.
Tears blurred her vision. Candace tripped again, but bounced right back to her feet. Her knee was bleeding badly. She willed herself to ignore it.
Bert was out on the porch in his rocking chair, as usual. He was staring towards town. Candace called to him but he didn't seem to hear. She slowed to a walk, sobbing. You... bastard, she thought. You don't even notice I'm hurt. You'll give me that blank look, like always.
Candace stopped crying, anger blazing in her belly. Limping, she approached the house. Bert turned, his head revolving slowly. The effect was eerie. Candace saw a balding skull with the stiff, wooden smile of a puppet.
"You okay?"
He didn't sound as if he cared. This was a recording, made a long time ago, of some other man's voice. Candace ignored him. She dragged herself up the steps and entered her house through the screen door leading to the kitchen. She ran some water, found a clean towel and began to wash her knee.
A high-voltage charge of black emotion shocked her. Smoke rising: Betrayal. Bert would never do the right thing and marry her. He would just go on, indifferent and unloving. He was cheapening Candace, causing her to suffer the threat of eternal damnation. She doubled over the sink, gasping. The room spun like a top; faded, then reappeared. It's all his fault, the rotten, lousy —
She wanted him dead.
Candace burst into tears. Bert, still as a statue on the front porch, could hear her anguished sobs. He did not come to her, didn't even react.
For Bert, too, was at war with himself.
15
GLADYS
Gladys, the obese tel
ephone operator, was still in bed. Gladys had tossed and turned all night, unable to stop thinking about what she had overheard. She felt excited, concerned and quite disturbed. But with whom could she share such information? She was not supposed to have listened in on a personal call. What to do?
The first man's voice had been so warm; such a nice, round baritone: "Hello," he said. "Do you know who this is?"
The second man had replied: "I think so. Do you want to talk to the two of us, or just to me?"
"Just you ,for now," said the first man. "Both, in good time."
"Yes. In good time." At this point, Gladys reached for the telephone jack and nearly disconnected herself from the call. But there was something in the first man's voice, something delightfully…sexy.
"Have you told her what we are planning to do to her? The delightful surprises we have in store?"
Gladys felt her breath catch in her throat. She covered the mouthpiece of her headset with one palm, to make sure she didn't give herself away.
"She only knows we are talking. She does not yet know that there will be more than one," the first man said. He chuckled. "She is going to be stimulated, to say the least."
"Here is what I have been thinking," the first man said. And he went on to describe actsthat made Gladys feel a bit queasy. Her face burned bright red her eyes grew wide, her mouth dropped open. She felt like little Shirley Temple in an old video, girlishly crying "Oh, my goodness" to the camera. The men spoke of dildoes and whips and handcuffs and masks and oils and ointments and…it went on and on. Finally the first man said: "And is she listening right now?"
Well, Gladys could have died. Her heart stopped.
"I think so, said the second man. "In fact, I'm sure she is."
Oh, my word! Gladys broke the connection. How could they have known she was there? Or perhaps she had misinterpreted the whole thing, somehow. No, she was certain she hadn't. Who could these perverts be? She considered calling Mr. Bates, the local policeman. She started to write down the telephone numbers of the two callers, and then her heart stopped a second time. She checked the numbers again.
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