"Slipped her mind?"
"That's what she said." Delilah tilted her head, beckoning him. "Come on in, sit down for a few minutes."
He hesitated. "I shouldn't."
"Neither should I." She walked past him, headed for the living room. "But I think that train's left the station, don't you?" She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Oh, come on, just a couple of minutes, Snowden. I think I can control myself for that long, keep myself from ripping your clothes off."
She felt her cheeks grow warm the minute the words came out of her mouth. What had possessed her to say such a thing? She was almost afraid to look back for fear she'd see him bolting for the door.
He wasn't. He followed her into the low-lit living room. "Cora have any idea what Father Hailey needed a hatchet for?"
She sat down on the couch, tucking a bare, size-six foot beneath her, leaving plenty of room for him beside her. "Nope. Said not, but have no fear. I intend to ask him."
* * *
Noah lay awake in his bed for what seemed an eternity. He listened to the sound of Chester's snoring and of the house settling. The sound of the toilet flushing upstairs. Light footsteps. Doors opening and closing. When he shut his eyes, he could see Rachel walking down the hall in one of her skimpy T-shirts and a pair of old gym shorts, looking in on Mallory, kissing her good night on her forehead. He wished he was up there with them, wished he could kiss Mallory good night. Kiss them both good night.
He opened his eyes again, surprised that such domestic thoughts could find their way into his head tonight.
After the police had left, he'd looked everywhere for the new machete—in Mattie's room, in the barn, in the garage again. He'd asked Mateo, who vaguely recalled seeing it hanging in the garage, but that was right after Rachel had bought it. Noah had even attempted to question Mattie at dinner, but of course he had gotten no response. What he had gotten was a strange comment from Mallory just before she'd trotted off to bed. She'd come to give him a hug good night. He'd had to hug her stuffed meerkat, too. Just as she was pulling out of his arms, she had whispered in his ear, "Mattie doesn't want to talk about the ma-chet-tee. He is afraid of it."
Noah hadn't questioned her; what was he going to say? There was no proof Mattie had said a word to Mallory about the machete. But her puzzling words worried him now. Tonight, after Mrs. Santori had gone home and they'd been left to themselves, he and Rachel had a cup of herbal tea on the front porch while Mattie and Mallory ran in the grass, in the fading light, attempting to catch fat, shiny green june bugs in their hands.
Rachel had told him she wanted to talk to him about Mattie, but she'd obviously been reticent to say what was on her mind. Noah had wanted to talk to her about Mattie too, and it had only taken a moment for them to realize they had both come to the conclusion that, for the present, Mattie wasn't to be left alone with Mallory.
They had absolutely no reason to believe he would ever harm the precious little girl, but it wasn't a risk either Rachel or Noah was willing to take, no matter how badly they felt about such a decision. There were just too many unanswered questions concerning Mattie right now. There was the matter of him moving both the lawn tractor and the car, his odd behavior, the strange drawings and colorings Rachel had been saving, and now the missing machete. What if he really had somehow spoken or communicated to Mallory? What if he really had said he would kill someone with a sword to protect her? To a man like Mattie, a machete could look like a sword, couldn't it?
Rachel and Noah had also agreed this evening, over mugs of Lemon Zinger tea, that they would take Mattie to a doctor, a psychologist or psychiatrist with experience dealing with idiot savants. Perhaps a professional could help them navigate through the halls of Mattie's mind to discover what he was afraid of. Noah was also interested in knowing if it was possible that Mattie could talk and that he simply chose not to.
After such a serious discussion, the conversation had drifted pleasantly. Noah and Rachel hadn't talked about anything in particular, just good times they remembered. They had laughed about the time Noah had tried to catch a lizard in their student apartment in California and broken three lamps in the process. Then he'd reminded her of the time they'd taken the youth of St. Paul's to the beach at Rehoboth to surf and she'd lost her bikini top and had to stand in shoulder-deep water while he went back up on the beach to find her a T-shirt. It had been their early days, when they'd first returned to Stephen Kill, and the incident had made both the new priest and his wife a hit with the teens. It was the first time in a long time that Noah had been reminded of one of the good times when he'd been a priest.
Noah smiled at the thought of Rachel standing in the water trying to shield her bare breasts, exhaled, and let his eyes drift shut. Today had exhausted him. He was so tired that he didn't seem to be able to quiet himself long enough to fall asleep. He felt as if every muscle in his body was jumping under his skin.
He'd made a serious dent in cleaning the barn, finding some stainless steel equipment they would need for the wine-fermenting process come fall. Then there had been the visit from the friendly Stephen Kill police force, the discovery that the machete was missing, and Rachel's kiss. He was as occupied with thoughts of that single kiss as he was with the machete. She'd kissed him, he hadn't kissed... not initially... he was sure of it. What did it mean? She hadn't said a word about it, but she'd definitely acted differently with him tonight. She'd made the tea, pulled her chair up close to his so they could talk without Miss Nosy Mallory overhearing them. And as they had talked, she had touched him several times—tapped his knee, brushed her hand over his arm, toyed with his fingers while his hand rested on the table between them.
Noah wanted Rachel back. He'd been afraid to admit it to himself. Afraid even to think it, but now, it was all he could think about. She was all he could think of. The taste of her lips... the warmth of her hand as she caressed his cheek.
Her touch took him back to their first years together when they had been happy. When life had been good....
The dream started out innocently enough. Rachel and Noah were walking on the beach; he recognized the place as a lonely spot in Cape Henlopen Park. It was just growing dark, and they were walking hand in hand, bare feet in the surf. One moment the ocean was calm, the next it turned white and stormy, the waves rising up in a manner that seemed physically impossible.
Rachel turned to him, her green eyes wide with sudden terror. They both turned, still hand in hand, toward the ocean. What was it, he wondered. A tidal wave? The results of a nuclear blast that would alter the surface of the earth forever? Had the end of the world as outlined in Revelation finally come?
But as he turned, as the waves rose over his head, higher and higher, it began to take form. It was a creature that possessed a voice, a booming, terrifying voice. Out of the rising wave he began to see human limbs—arms, legs. People were screaming, trapped inside the rising water creature, crying out to Noah and Rachel. As the water rose higher, as high as a two-story building, it began to turn red. One moment it was an angry ocean wave, the next a sea of blood. The arms and legs became people—his parents, his babies, Pam Rehak, Mr. and Mrs. Marcus, Johnny Leager, and Skeeter.
Noah and Rachel looked up to see the wave of blood begin to tumble downward, pressing down over their heads, death imminent, and as it closed in, he saw a face clearly in the tumble of bodies. It was Clancy, his roommate from jail. His lips were moving; he was trying to tell Noah something, but Noah couldn't hear him above the crash of the wave and the voice of the creature.
As the blood washed down over Noah with bone-crushing force, he lost contact with Rachel's hand, and that was when he screamed.
* * *
"Noah. Noah, wake up." Rachel sat down on the edge of the twin bed and rested her hand on his shoulder. He was still asleep, but it was obvious by the way he was thrashing around that he was in the middle of a nightmare, that or perhaps it was one of his blackouts.
She herself had been having a nightmare. S
he'd woken shaking, in a cold sweat, and come downstairs to get a drink of water. Just as she was walking into the kitchen, she'd heard Noah call her name. The sound of his frightened voice, the way he had cried out to her, had scared the bejesus out of her. All she could think of was that someone was in the house, someone with the missing machete, and that Noah was in danger. As she sprinted down the hall toward the spare bedroom, she'd grabbed the broom from behind the refrigerator. It was ridiculous, of course. How was she going to defend Noah or herself with a wooden broom handle? But there was no logic in her response. It came from her gut. Her heart. She'd lost Noah once; she wasn't going to let it happen again.
Relief had flooded her when she burst through the door to find Noah alone, flailing in his bed. Chester had bounced up on his feet and whined, pushing his wet nose up against her as if to say, "Thank goodness you're here."
Rachel had patted the dog's head as she flipped on the overhead light, just to be sure no one was lurking in the dark behind a storage box or the ironing board. Neither the sounds she made nor the light woke Noah. Satisfied they were alone, she'd come to his bed.
"Noah, wake up." She shook him again.
His eyes flew open; he was shaking all over. "Rachel," he rasped, reaching out to grasp her arms.
"It's all right," she murmured, a tenderness coming over her that she didn't realize she still possessed for him. "You were having a bad dream."
He blinked, glanced around the room, and then looked up at her again. "Just a dream?"
She nodded.
The room air conditioner hummed in the window. Because of cross-ventilation, the old house was relatively cool. Most of the time they could keep the windows and doors open and rarely had to use the large window unit in the living room that cooled the kitchen and living room. But last week when the temperature had risen dramatically, Noah had retrieved the small room air conditioners from the attic and installed one in each bedroom.
"I... I was in the kitchen getting a drink," she said. "You called me."
"I did?" He closed his eyes. Exhaled. "What time is it?"
She glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. "Twelve thirty-five."
He opened his eyes again. "What were you doing up so late?"
It was her turn to look away. She debated whether or not to tell him. He had enough things to worry about right now; he didn't need to be concerned with her mental state. But the dream had scared her, scared her enough to want to tell him. She met his gaze. "Another nightmare. I've been having them for weeks."
"You have?" He seemed more awake now. More himself. "Come here." He slid over in the bed, putting out his arm for her. He wasn't wearing anything but a pair of boxers. In his struggle in his sleep, he'd thrown the pale blue flowered sheet aside.
She hesitated, then threw caution to the wind and slid in beside him. The moment her head hit the pillow beside his, she let her eyes drift shut. She'd been so alone for so long that just the feel of his warm body pressed against her made her light-headed. His arm around her shoulders felt so good.
Noah kissed the top of her head, and she shifted so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. He was still thin, but work in the vineyard had been good for him. He had developed arm and chest muscles a priest would never have.
"Tell me about your dream."
"I don't want to." She snuggled against him.
"Tell me anyway."
"It's more of the same thing, Noah. It... it's beginning to scare me. You've got to listen to me, got to believe me when I tell you there's something evil in this town." She couldn't keep the sound of terror out of her voice this time.
"Shhhh," Noah soothed, smoothing her hair, kissing the top of her head. "It's all right. Tell me about the dream."
She exhaled, feeling as if she needed a moment to prepare herself. Any more, just thinking about the nightmares frightened her. That was why she kept herself so busy all day, so she wouldn't have time to remember. "They never start out like nightmares," she whispered. "This time, you and I were on the beach." She couldn't help but smile. "You know, there on that stretch near the watchtowers in the state park."
"Where we used to walk at night."
She nodded. "We were just walking, talking, holding hands."
He kissed her bare shoulder. It was the first time she remembered she wasn't wearing anything but a tank top and a pair of bikini panties.
"The water was beautiful," she continued cautiously, almost fearing that to repeat the story would bring back the horror of it. "A calm surf, that refreshing breeze off the water. Then suddenly a wave rose out of nowhere."
"A wave?" He looked down at her, seeming surprised. No, more than surprised. Shocked. Disturbed.
"A huge wave," she continued, unable to tear her gaze from his. "Like, I don't know, one of those tidal waves in the movies that wipes out Manhattan or something."
"Go on," he breathed.
"What's wrong, Noah?" She turned toward him in the narrow bed, one of her knees slipping in-between his.
"Just go on."
"It was that thing again. That... monster... creature. It was like the thing Mattie keeps drawing, only worse. Scarier. The water, Noah, it turned to—"
"Blood," he finished for her.
Her brow furrowed. "How did you know?"
"This is unbelievable," he whispered. "What was in the wave?"
"Bodies. Some I knew—"
"Some you didn't," he finished for her.
She felt her chin tremble. "You were dreaming about it too, weren't you?"
"Yes. No." He closed his eyes, smoothing her hair with his hand. "It's impossible."
"Apparently, it's not," she said after a moment.
He opened his eyes again, looking down at her. "Power of suggestion can be a strange thing, Rachel. We were talking about the beach last night. We've both been having nightmares. Somehow—"
"Noah, listen to me." She rolled onto her side, resting her hand on his bare chest. Her mouth was only inches from his. "I can't explain this. I don't understand it, but I'm telling you, it's some kind of warning. There's something evil out there. It has to do with the killings in town and it somehow has something to do with us."
He was quiet for a moment before he responded. "There is something evil out there, a man who is murdering in some sort of righteous fugue."
She shook her head. "I think it goes deeper than that. What... what if it's something satanic?"
He glanced away.
"No, I'm serious, Noah."
"I don't believe in Satan."
"You used to," she challenged. Now that she had reached this point, she felt like she needed to tell him what had been running through her mind for days. Even if he thought she was crazy, at least she would have said it. "You believed in Satan when you believed in God."
He rolled his head on the pillow to stare straight up at the ceiling. "Rachel, I don't want to talk about this."
"I know you don't, but at least think about it. All these weird feelings you and I have both been getting lately. And you can deny them all you want, you know what I mean. Now Mattie's strange behavior. That eerie music he keeps playing on the organ. The pictures he's drawing of a thing that looks like the thing in my dreams. Now in yours."
He closed his eyes. "There can be no Satan if there's no God," he said, seeming to be thinking out loud.
"So what? Because you're ignoring God's presence in your life, you're willing to take the chance of ignoring Satan?"
"Rachel—"
"No, I'm serious. What if this is somehow about you? Think about it. The police actually see you as a suspect in the murders. You've even suspected yourself. What if... if someone or something wants it to look like you?"
"Rachel, it's crazy."
"You're right, it is. A good reason to ignore the facts, right?" She leaned over him. "Look at me."
He shifted his gaze.
"Please tell me you'll at least consider the possibility. Please?"
"But why
? Why would—"
"Because of who you are. What you were. You were almost lost, Noah," she cried passionately. "But now you've come back. You're a threat to all that is wrong and bad in this world."
"That's ridiculous."
"Maybe," she agreed after a moment. "But you need to consider the possibility. For me." She paused. "Please, Noah. For me?"
"OK. For you." He lifted his head from the pillow and pressed his lips to hers. "Only for you," he whispered against her mouth.
Rachel hesitated for only a second and then she lowered her mouth over his, parting his lips. This had been coming for days. She'd felt the sexual tension between them every time they touched innocently, passing Mallory from one to the other, handing him a glass.
As Noah deepened the kiss, rolling her onto her back, bringing his hand under her aching breast, she wondered if she was making a mistake. If she would regret this later. But Noah slid his hand under her tank top, and any thoughts she might have been trying to process flew out the window. As he pressed her into the mattress, she moaned with pleasure, tears filling her eyes. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the tears were of joy.
"Don't cry," Noah murmured, lifting his head over hers, gazing into her eyes as he stroked her damp cheek with his fingers. "Please don't cry. If only I could go back... I never meant to hurt you, Rachel. I swear, I—"
"Shhh," she hushed, looking up at him through her lashes heavy with tears. She took his hand from her cheek and began to kiss each fingertip. "No more apologies, Noah. I'm tired of living in the past. I want to live here, now." She drew his hand across her cheek again. "Make love to me," she whispered.
Noah had to blink to keep his own eyes from tearing up. He was so filled with thankfulness, with love for her right now. And no matter what they were facing beyond the walls of the old farmhouse, he felt as if together, they could beat it.
"Make love to me," she said again.
He was mesmerized by her lips and the pleasure she sent coursing through him as she spoke the words. "Make love to you," he said. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about making love to you." He drew his hand along her ribcage and over the swell of her breast.
Unspoken Fear Page 30