UNEARTHLY

by John Farris

  "But what do I do?"

  No more may I advise thee, mistress.

  "You must know!" Barry sobbed in frustration. "Tell me how I can put an end to him."

  Knowing may not be enough.

  "Tell me!"

  Very well. In the beginning, mistress, is his end. Barry stared at the manikin, the weakening nimbus of light within the dome.

  "What does that mean?"

  Must think on't, Mrs. Prye advised.

  "No, don't go!"

  In her anxiety Barry leaned too heavily against the fortune-telling machine, which tilted, then slipped and fell away from her down the side of the ravine. The dome was smashed to a hundred pieces against an engine block.

  Barry held her aching head.

  In the beginning is his end.

  "'But it doesn't mean anything!"

  And then it did. In a way it did. But she couldn't conceive of a way to make it work.

  She had lost track of time. It seemed possible that a couple of hours had passed, but not the full night, and she was shocked to hear birds, see the faintest yielding of the dark—

  Barry worked her way back toward the pond. She heard Meanness whining somewhere close by. She stood very still, listening, trying to locate him, seeing the pond through the trees. She was afraid to call to the dog, afraid of Draven. And then she heard another sound, frail and human.

  She moved closer to the pond, pausing frequently, alert to every sound, weighing what she heard. It was hope, not courage, that kept her going toward the exposed shore. The bloodhound seemed near, and his voice changed, as if he had heard her moving through the woods or caught her scent.

  When she saw the beached rowboat and the shape of the dog sitting beside it she had to force herself not to run.

  Meanness barked, not loudly, a gruff sound in his throat.

  A hand came up slowly over the gunwale of the boat, fell back into darkness. She heard Dal moan.

  Barry forgot caution and broke for the shore.

  He was very bad. That was obvious at a glance, a touch. There was blood everywhere—on his face, his clothes. But he was alive. His eyes opened when she whispered to him.

  It's Barry.''

  "Watch—out."

  She kissed him tenderly, crying. "I know. Don't worry. I have to get you to the hospital. Dal, do you think you can walk? Just up the hill to the house."

  "Try. . ."

  "Come on."

  Meanness was licking her bare legs. Barry got her arms around her brother and helped him out of the boat. Most of Dal's wounds had crusted over, but fresh blood appeared on his lips, which scared her more than his appearance. He muttered incoherently. He had no legs to speak of, but with her help he found the will to move.

  By the time they reached the house the sky was paling, the air was very still. There were lights on in Tom Brennan's studio. But she had already guessed that Draven would be there. Fully occupied, she hoped.

  She put Dal into the back of the Volvo station wagon. The keys, as always, were in the ignition.

  "I'm coming right back." But he didn't move or reply. The effort of getting there had weakened him even more—she was afraid he was going to die.

  She didn't want to go into the house, to be even closer to Draven. But she had to find out what had happened to her father.

  Tom Brennan was in his room. He lay sunken in the bed. His eyes opened briefly when she shook him, but that was all the response she could get.

  First Dal, now her father. Barry knew that if she didn't lure Draven out of the house, her father would die too.

  She took a minute to put on some clothes and a good pair of shoes.

  Then, before her fear could fatally weaken her, she plunged down the back stairs and ran to the studio. She took a deep breath and threw open the door.

  Draven turned from in front of the easel where he stood painting. A self-portrait was taking shape—he must have been at it for hours. The face was that of a man she no longer knew—handsome, but cruel. Merciless.

  "You found me," Barry said. And ran.

  She was behind the wheel of the Volvo when Draven appeared at the front door. When she knew he would follow her Barry drove away, in a hail of gravel, and saw, in the mirror, that he was headed for Dal's Lamborghini.

  The light in the sky had turned from gray to faint gold. The gates of Tuatha de Dannan opened ahead of her.

  No matter how fast she drove, Barry knew, he would be quicker in the Lamborghini. But that was all right.

  She wanted him there when it happened. He had to be there.

  At this early hour the road to Anatolia was deserted. The woods by the road were in darkness—only the sky held light.

  He was a hundred yards behind her before she'd driven a mile. Closing fast.

  Fifty-five, sixty. Barry pushed the Volvo to the limits of her driving ability on the quick sharp curves.

  At the same time she was concentrating on what had been: the beginning.

  The window on her side was rolled partway down. The air had taken on a chill—the chill of winter.

  Perhaps Draven already sensed what she was up to. He tried to overtake her on a level stretch, but she put the wagon in his way; tires screeched, they bumped, he fell back. She saw the anger in his face.

  He would do anything to stop her; what did it matter to him? He would walk away.

  Unless—

  In the beginning is his end.

  A few flakes of snow spotted the windshield.

  Draven tried to come alongside again, to slip ahead and then force her off the road in passing. Barry's heart was pounding ferociously.

  A sign whipped by: Tremont State Park.

  Now the snow was thickening, slashing across the road; she had to slow down in order to see. She turned on the windshield wipers. Draven kept the Lamborghini almost on her back bumper, angrily sounding the horn.

  The sky fell on them, in a great flaking deluge that rapidly covered the road, whitened the trees of the park.

  Summer had turned to winter; the cold wind clawed Barry's face through the open window. Her breath appeared in clouds. The Volvo, without snow tires, slued dangerously despite decreasing speed.

  He rammed into her from behind; the jolt almost threw the Volvo into a skid. But there was a worse danger: her mind was tiring.

  How much longer can I hold on to it?

  Then the last hill, the road spiraling down to the covered bridge. Her lights were on now, but she couldn't see—the world had closed in on them.

  One hundred yards to the bridge.

  It appeared then, like a mote shimmering on the dense black pupil of the eye of the storm, taking more solid form almost instantly. It stood, naked and defenseless, staring into the headlights of the Volvo, hands flung up in a pathetic, frightened gesture.

  Barry! Stop!

  She almost obeyed the mind-cry from the car behind her; there was still a moment to twist the wheel sharply, risking death herself in order to save the poor befuddled creature in the road.

  Instead she sank her teeth into her lower lip, pressed the accelerator, and drove straight into it.

  The impact was enormous, more horrible than she could have imagined; and she heard it scream, a fierce inhuman caterwaul that trailed behind her as she drove at a clip through the bridge.

  Just behind her the Lamborghini veered sharply, struck the side wall, and smashed through it, plummeting thirty feet to the water.

  Barry brought the Volvo to a stop a hundred feet on the other side, pulled weakly off the road, and leaned her forehead against the wheel, a migraine exploding like pinwheels, her stomach heaving emptily from nausea.

  The sun came out. She looked up wearily.

  The road was wet and black. The last of the snow, melting, slid off the windshield. Trees dripped beside the road.

  She opened the door and got out, was staggered by the pain in her head. But she had to be sure.

  The Lamborghini was down but right side up in three feet o
f swift water. She had to go down there.

  The bank was slippery from an accumulation of melting snow. Barry stepped from rock to rock through green shrubs and dark Hawthorne trees and stepped out into the water. It was cold, and her teeth chattered instantly. She waded on toward the middle and reached the Lamborghini. Still she was half-blinded by the pain in her head—she couldn't see well at all.

  She cupped her hands against the glass and leaned forward to peer inside.

  The car was driverless.

  Draven less, she thought, and giggled, but it turned into a sob.

  Hands fell on her from behind.

  "Nooo!"

  "Barry! Jesus!"

  Barry turned convulsively and saw her brother hip-deep in the water, looking pale and shocked.

  There wasn't a mark on him. The ugly wounds, the dried blood had vanished, just as Draven had vanished the moment she destroyed his replica in the road. She leaned against the fender. Morning sun glittered through the trees above them. The confusion of seasons had been resolved, in the land, in her mind. Time flowed rightly again. There was no fear.

  "What the hell is my car doing in the river?'' Dal demanded.

  Barry looked at the shattered hole in the bridge, and at her brother's face, now reddening, familiarly, to anger.

  "I guess," Barry said weakly, "I have some explaining to do."

  Chapter 39

  August

  Tom Brennan had finished his first major piece of work since the previous fall, and once he decided to let go of it Barry wrapped the painting in the old quilt, according to custom, put it in the back of the Volvo, and drove it to Copperwell's, where she had a glass of sherry and admired the new panel with her friends.

  Blighty Mouse had a Queen Anne side chair in the shop that Barry was interested in; they chatted about price but Barry put off making a decision to another day.

  It had been a rumbling muggy afternoon, and there was some sheet lightning in the west as she drove home from Anatolia. The day had taken on a pale green, prestorm cast, and the wind was rising.

  Dal called from New York, where he had gone for a black-tie show at a friend's gallery, and they chatted for a few minutes. The line was static-y, sure sign of a big rain moving in.

  After talking with Dal she tinkered awhile with the piano, trying to compose. Meanness drowsed, but the weather made him restless. He went to the front door, came back, barked at her. She knew what he was telling her. They had company.

  The air was dense with unshed rain; leaves flew by the windows. Barry went to look out.

  Someone was standing in the drive about thirty yards from the house. He was a young guy, wore a shortsleeved bush jacket, jeans, and desert boots. Blond, but she couldn't tell much else about him. The wind had his hair flowing back from the temples.

  As she was watching him the day turned incandescent; there was a fork of lightning nearby that attracted her eye. When she looked at the young man again he was getting up from his knees, hiding his head.

  Barry ran outside.

  "What happened? Were you hit?"

  He stared at her, speechless, deafened perhaps. He looked glazed. He shook his head.

  "You're okay?"

  "I think so. That was close." He smiled edgily. "Where'd you come from?"

  He turned his head. "Oh—back down the road. I—I think I lost my way." He glanced up as a couple of big raindrops splashed on his forehead. "Looking bad."

  He was certainly nothing sensational, but his features were regular and he had a pleasant mild way about him.

  Barry smiled at him. "Better come inside. Before we get soaked."

  "Thanks." They walked toward the front door, where Meanness had his nose pressed against the screen. ''I'm Barry."

  He still seemed a little dazed from the close call with the lightning. His tongue was a bit thick.

  "Fred. Fred Wade."

  She liked the name. It suited him. There'd been a boy her freshman year in high school named Wade Blasingame—vice-president of his class, co-captain of the track team. A solid, dependable sort of guy. She'd deeply admired him. Fred Wade was the same type.

  Barry held the screen door open, giving Meanness a little push out of the way.

  "Come on in, Fred."

  "Thanks, Barry. Nice house."

  She was beginning to love the way his head was shaped. She liked his pale thick eyebrows and the trace of freckles she hadn't noticed before. Fred was aware of her interest and continuing scrutiny. He liked her too, she could tell. There was an instant rapport. Pleasant, not spectacular. He smiled in acknowledgment, a little shyly.

  "Have a seat in the family room," she said. "How about a Coke?"

  "Great. Thanks." Fred went in, looking around, and Barry hustled off to the kitchen, humming to herself.

  The rain began its cozy preliminary drumming on the roof.

  When it came to men, Barry had made all the mistakes she intended to make.

  This time, she was sure, it was going to be just perfect.