I draped my towel over a straight-back chair and pulled on my nightshirt. As ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t sleep with the stones nearby. I found a wooden crate, piled them in there, and carried it down to Uncle Will’s den. Tomorrow I would confront Audrey with what she had done.
Returning to my bed, I stretched out, physically exhausted but far from sleep. Picking up one of the psychic books, I reread the chapter about induced O.B.E.s, then skipped to the section about how an astral traveler can shape an out-of-body experience, directing himself to certain places. It occurred to me that if I could direct mine, I might be able to pause at the wall, stop next to the rabbit, perhaps even keep myself from “going down the hole” that seemed to take me to the fire. If I could control my journey, and continue to ask to see more clearly, I might discover details that would tell me where that place was.
For the next hour I attempted to induce an O.B.E. My efforts were useless: If there was a psychic part of me, it would not let me control it. The author of the book talked about “letting go,” but the more determined and frustrated I became, the harder it was to let go. At last I gave up and turned out my lamp.
I lay back and tried to think about happy things—the games I played with Grace, Claire, and Jack, our senior class trip, Ring Day. . . . My eyes closed. Mental pictures became disjointed, floating by in fragments. My mind had almost shut off.
Suddenly, I sat up. Someone was watching the house.
There hadn’t been a sound; I didn’t know how I knew—I just did. I rose quietly and walked to the window nearest my bed. Kneeling there, I scanned the yard. The weather was beginning to clear, but the grass and trees were soaked, their wet surfaces shimmering with moonlight. Clouds dodged the moon, creating liquid shadows.
There! In the shadow of the big tree something moved. I waited, barely breathing. The edge of the shadow separated from the tree’s darkness and became the figure of a man: Elliot Gill.
He gazed up at the house. He was too far away for me to see the expression on his face, but his head was raised, the angle of his body attentive, like that of a worshipper at a shrine—or a hunter sighting his target. My skin crept. Was he obsessed and pitiful, or obsessed and dangerous?
He started walking toward the house. I should have listened to Zack, I thought; at least I could have made it harder for someone to get in. If I started locking up now, Mr. Gill was sure to hear me. Did I want him to know that I saw him? If I turned on a light, would it deter him or draw him to me?
I wondered how long it would take the sheriff to respond to a call. Then I remembered: My cell phone was charged, but it was in my purse, in my car. Aunt Iris’s landline was in the downstairs hall.
Keeping the lights off, I hurried through Uncle Will’s room to the hall. I didn’t know how Aunt Iris would react and decided that I’d wake her only as a last resort. I crept down the stairs. The front door was closed, and I quietly turned the latch to lock it. The back door of the hall was open, a rectangle of moonlight shining on the floor, nothing but an unlocked screen between me and Mr. Gill.
I found the phone and lifted the receiver. It was old and did not have a lighted pad; I felt the keys, reminding myself where the numbers 9 and 1 were—bottom right and top left corners.
I was reluctant to call the police. Aunt Iris was just paranoid enough to imagine that they had come to carry her off to “the crazy-people place.” I could call Zack. His cell phone number was . . . upstairs in the pocket of my muddy pants.
The dial tone changed to a ring, then a recorded voice, “If you would like to make a call, please hang up and—”
In the silence of the house, the voice sounded loud. I quickly put the receiver down and looked toward the screen door. My heart stopped. Elliot Gill was standing ten feet from the house, looking up at the second-floor windows, unaware of me watching him from the floor below. I pressed 9. My finger hovered over the 1.
Then he turned abruptly, looking to the right. Something had caught his eye, movement on the other side of the yard. He craned his neck, as if trying to get a better look, then took off, moving parallel to the house, as if he intended to run around it.
I dropped the phone and raced to the back door to close and lock it. Someone else passed by, moving fast. I couldn’t see who. I hurried to the living room, but the bushes blocked my view, both at the side and front windows. I crossed the hall to the dining room. Knowing the kitchen door was probably open, I looked out the window before going any farther.
Zack. Stopping by the cars, he turned on a large flashlight, shining its beam up the driveway.
He must have followed Mr. Gill around the house. If Mr. Gill, realizing someone was watching him, had fled the property, his only choices were the path to the Flemings’ house or the driveway; the scrubby bank up to the bridge would be difficult to climb, especially in the dark.
After a minute of watching, Zack directed the beam at his feet, where a cat rubbed his legs. He sat down next to the cat, sharing his blanket with it. In the halo cast by the flashlight, I saw a stuffed knapsack and the gleam of a long, cylindrical object—a thermos. Zack was keeping watch over me.
Tears ran down my face before I could stop them. I went upstairs, lay down in bed, and, feeling safe, fell sound asleep.
When I awoke Saturday morning, Zack was gone. Before going downstairs, I took aspirin and tried to work the stiffness out of my body with stretching exercises. Glad that Marcy kept her shop so cool, I put on a long-sleeved shirt and pants and left my hair loose so it would swing forward and make less noticeable the scrapes on my face.
Aunt Iris was already in the kitchen, wearing one of her billowy dresses and a pair of flip-flops. “G’morning.”
“I prefer your hair up,” she responded. Having poured dry cereal into a coffee mug, she was “drinking” it.
“Aunt Iris, when I got home last night, I found some stones on my bed.”
She chewed and said nothing.
“They were painted like the ones Audrey placed over the hole where you buried Uncle Will’s ashes. I put the stones in a box and left them in the den. When you’ve finished your cereal, will you come see?”
“I know what they look like.”
“They were arranged on my bed,” I went on, “in the same pattern as those placed on the ashes.”
Aunt Iris raised her mug of Cheerios to her mouth and gazed at me above the rim.
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“No.”
“Well, can you guess why?”
“I don’t wish to.”
I turned on the teakettle, then tried another tactic. “What do stones that are painted like that mean?”
“Whatever you want them to mean.”
“I don’t want them to mean anything.”
“Then why did you ask?”
She tipped the mug and made small mouse noises, crunching on her cereal. I felt like banging my head against the kitchen cabinets.
I carried my tea to Uncle Will’s den and sat for a few minutes, studying the stones that had been laid on my bed. They were obviously hand-painted. I carried two of them outside to compare them to the ones that had been set on Uncle Will’s plot—they were very similar—then headed toward the Flemings’ house, hoping Audrey would answer the door.
When I reached the gate between the two properties, I saw Clyde racing toward the creek in an effort to catch up with his duck friends. Audrey stood on the patio, watching him, her arms crossed.
“Mrs. Sanchez,” I called. “Mrs. Sanchez!”
She cocked her head and looked about.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m coming.” She walked briskly toward me, meeting me halfway between the gate and the house.
I held out the rocks. “I found these on my bed last night.”
She stared down at them. “You found these—on your bed, you say?”
“They’re like the ones you placed on Uncle Will’s plot of ashes.”
She frown
ed.
“I saw you the night you put them there.”
She glanced up at me, her brow knitted with concern.
“Why did you put these on my bed, Mrs. Sanchez?”
Audrey’s tiny upper teeth pressed into her lower lip. “Iris must have.”
“But I saw you do it! I saw you put them on my uncle’s plot.”
“I mean Iris must have put them on your bed. She’s imitating me—I don’t know why.” Audrey looked toward the house and shook her head. “You must be very careful, child,” she said, moving away from the stones, as if she thought it unwise to stand too close to them. “Don’t let what happened to me happen to you.”
“Meaning?”
“I was lured into believing in them, in their special powers. They will betray you.”
“They . . . who?”
“You know who I mean.”
“But I don’t,” I insisted. “Are you referring to my mother? My great-aunt? I know that you were a client of my mother. You depended on her, then you blamed her when your husband died. You thought she should have foreseen the accident and warned you.”
Audrey’s lips pulled over her tiny teeth. “Psychics are the tools of the devil. Joanna tempted me with knowledge not meant for human minds, and I was punished. So was William, but his debt is paid now. Better fire here than fire hereafter.”
“The fire here was set by kids, people who didn’t know he was in the car.”
“Willing or unwilling,” she replied, “knowing or not, any one of us might be called to do God’s work. Joanna’s killer saved her soul, ending her life before she could delve too far into evil.”
I stared at the woman in disbelief. “You’re saying her soul was saved by a thief and murderer?”
“Sometimes the least among us are chosen for holy work.”
I shook my head. People who attributed events that they desired to God’s will were crazy—and dangerous.
Audrey reached for me. Her fingers felt dry and papery on my arm. “You look upset, child. You see what Iris is trying to do, don’t you? She is telling you these things to turn you against me. She fears I will convert you.”
“It was Elliot Gill who told me.”
“Elliot.” She said the name with distaste. “Do not trust him. He was obsessed with your mother, and obsession does not come from God.”
“How about forgiveness?” I asked. “Where does that come from?”
“I will give Elliot a little credit,” Audrey said. “He contacted Social Services and told them what was going on in that house and that a child’s life was in danger.”
“Meaning me.”
“After your mother died, he called Social Services, and you were finally moved out of there. William hated him for it. It is true that Elliot’s reason for doing that was revenge—he was still angry at William for discouraging Joanna’s affections. But all’s well that ends well. You were out of that house of evil. You see now why I feel I must help you leave again, before you come under her influence.”
I saw now a lot of things: the intense dislike between my uncle and Elliot Gill; the extreme views of Audrey that would allow her to sanction even acts of violence; and the long-term mental problems of my great-aunt. What I couldn’t see was which of these things had led to the death of my uncle.
twenty
AFTER LEAVING AUDREY, I considered dumping the stones in the creek, but I changed my mind and left the crate in Uncle Will’s den. As soon as I had time, I would get a magnifying glass and compare the two sets more carefully to see if there were telltale differences, enough to suggest that Audrey was telling the truth. When I passed through the kitchen, Aunt Iris was gone, her mug of cereal left behind. I ate a quick breakfast and headed for work.
Marcy greeted me with a preoccupied hello, followed a moment later by a quick survey of my outfit. “Am I keeping the temperature too cool for you?”
I faked a laugh. “No, I haven’t had a chance to do laundry. These are my only clean clothes.”
It was a lame excuse, but I thought she believed it. Fifteen minutes later, when we were ready for business, she leaned over the glass counter where I was standing and pushed back my hair, revealing the long scrape on my cheek. “How did it happen?” she asked. When I didn’t respond immediately, she added, “What are you hiding beneath your long sleeves?”
“Just a few bruises.”
“How did it happen?” Marcy repeated.
“I fell. Tripped, actually. Aunt Iris doesn’t like to keep lights on. The house is really dark at night.”
“How many times did you fall?”
I hesitated, and she didn’t wait for me to fumble into a lie. “There are scrapes on both sides of your face, widely spaced scrapes, close to each ear.”
Which meant, of course, I had to fall at least once on each side—kind of clumsy, even for me.
“I want a straight answer, Anna. What happened?”
“I ran into some kids who don’t like me.”
Marcy tilted her head to one side, her light eyes studying me. “You’re not a girl inclined to get into that sort of trouble. You’re too smart.”
“You would think so.”
“What are you afraid to tell me?” she asked. “Were you molested?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “Just knocked down.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. They pushed me down face-first. I saw their backs when they were running away, but it was raining hard. It was during yesterday’s storm.”
“Where?”
“Tilby’s Dream.”
She frowned. “You went back there again—to the place of the fire? Why?”
“I just wanted to.”
She studied my face, then shook her head, as if I didn’t get it. “Anna, this may seem like a small, innocent-looking town, but we have some kids here who are spoiled rotten and bored. They’re out of control. They consider burning someone else’s property a party game.”
“I know.”
“You should have come over last night. You should have come to my house.”
“When I got home, Zack was waiting on the porch for me. I told him what happened, and he helped me get cleaned up.”
“Then he should have told me,” she said, sounding frustrated. “He should have brought you to our house. You called the sheriff, I assume.”
“Not yet.”
“All right,” she said brusquely, “I will.” She reached under the counter and pulled out her cell phone.
“No, don’t! Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I was told that if I did, there are others who’ll come after me.”
“That line is older than Hollywood,” Marcy responded, and flicked open her phone.
“For another, it could mess up my effort to figure out what happened to Uncle Will.”
Her blue eyes held mine for a moment, her gaze long and thoughtful.
“The guys are friends of the person who set the fire. The arsonist communicates by texting. It’s important for me to find out who is on the contacts list. I think that one of the kids, or someone else who has access to their messages, used the arson as a cover-up for my uncle’s murder. I don’t want to stir up these guys, not yet. I don’t want them putting pressure on other kids to keep quiet. I need to research a few more things before I go to the police.”
“Anna, you’re in over your head.”
“Give me till Monday morning. I’ll go to the sheriff then. Promise!”
She sighed, then closed the phone. “If you don’t make the call on Monday, I will.”
“Deal,” I said, hoping to argue her out of it on Monday, and if that didn’t work, to convince the sheriff I’d be more help to him if he didn’t take immediate action.
Five minutes later our first customer came in. Last night’s storm had cooled down the weather, and business remained steady through lunchtime. After lunch a tour bus passed through. The jingling of the door’s sleigh b
ells didn’t stop till Marcy flipped over the CLOSED sign. “I could use a few more days like this,” she said.
“Me too. I like it busy.”
She collected our purses from the locked cabinet. “Did Zack give you the number for our house?”
“Just his cell.”
She printed neatly on a piece of paper. “Here’s the landline. You already have my cell number. Try that first. If you have any concerns about your own safety—or about Iris—call me.”
“Thanks.”
She set the store alarm and turned out the lights.
“How is Iris doing?” she asked as we walked to our cars.
“Not so good. She gets the present and past mixed up, and I think I’m making it worse.”
“I’m sure your presence has stirred up a lot of memories.”
“She argues with Uncle Will as if she sees him, and some of those arguments are about whether or not to keep a child.”
Marcy squinted at me in the slanting sun. “Meaning you. She must be reliving arguments that occurred after your mother died.”
“Sometimes she talks to me as if I ’m Joanna, which may not be so crazy—I look a lot like my birth mother. I wish I knew how to help her.”
“I know you are concerned about her, Anna, but right now you must look out for yourself. This research you are doing before talking to the sheriff, what does it involve?”
“Just reading old newspapers,” I replied.
Marcy opened her car door. “All right, then. See you soon.” She turned to look at me. “Promise to call me if a problem arises, day or night, no matter the time.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Sure,” she repeated with a wry smile, as if she guessed I wouldn’t.
I planned to ask Marcy about Audrey and Mick Sanchez, but not until I knew a little more. Loyalty was important to Marcy, and she might sugarcoat her answers to cover for the person who had always taken care of her. I hoped the newspaper that reported Joanna’s death had also reported Mick’s accident.
Both the public and college libraries were closed on Saturday evening, but it was possible that the paper’s archives were online. Parking my car at the top of High Street, I walked to the only real hotel in town, looking for Internet access. I got lucky with a café at the rear of the hotel, but unlucky with the website that belonged to the paper: Its archives ran back only a year and a half. There was one phone number and two e-mail addresses: editor@ and adverts@. I typed to the first:
The Back Door of Midnight Page 15
