The carpentry shop was filled with sawdust-on the floor, in the air, in clouds and clinging specks through Zack Cabot’s thick sandy hair. He was neither tall nor husky, but his forearms and chest were thick and solid, his hands a scarred blur as he ran the plane over a two-foot length of rounded hawthorn. Chips and curls fell at his feet, and for almost thirty minutes there was only the sound of the metal blade at its work.
“For heaven’s sake, man,” Ned finally exploded from his stool in the comer, ‘‘I’m not asking you for perfection!”
Cabot didn’t bother to look up. “You want these stakes done right, young man, you bide your patience and you hold your tongue.”
Ned grunted and squirmed.
“Don’t know what you want ’em for anyway. Damn silly. if you ask me.”
“Just do it, Zack, please? I’ve told you all I can for now.”
“Ain’t told me nothin.”
“Zack … ”
“All right, all right, but god knows why you need a dozen.”
“I can’t wait anymore,” Pam finally said. “It’s been almost two hours. If he doesn’t come back soon … Faith, I don’t know if I can wait.”
“You must,” Faith told her, toneless and resigned. “You have no choice.”
She turned helplessly, bound by her promise to Ned not to leave the house, and equally tom in her desire to run to her father and tell him what she knew. She was desperate. And she was afraid in spite of the weapons Faith had told them they could use. Several times she reached for her cloak, and just as often watched her hand fall away. Outside, on King Street, couples strolled in the waning light, home from visiting, from sharing dinner, from spending their Sundays as they always have done.
Sunday! she thought. “Faith, it’s Sunday. Surely — ”
“Sunday don’t mean anything to a man who knows the Devil.”
And what, she thought then, if Reverend Alden didn’t believe him, wouldn’t help him? What if he couldn’t persuade Cabot to make all those stakes? Suppose the horse had thrown him, or he had been waylaid by his father. She gnawed hard on her lower lip, bit the inside of her cheek. No; she couldn’t stay any longer, no matter how much she’d promised. She just couldn’t, and she knew that Ned would understand.
When she took down her cloak and swung it close around her shoulders, Faith leapt from the chair and stood in front of the door as if daring her to leave. Pamela, however, only took her arms gently and moved her aside.
“But you can’t!” Faith cried, pointing at the window. “The sun’s almost gone! You can’t go out there now!”
“I can and I will,” she said grimly, reaching for the doorknob. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out the silver cross. “This helped me before; it will help me again, at least until I get … ”
“Yes,” Faith said, “yes, and where are you going?”
There was no need for thought. “Home. Ned was right. It all started with Saundra Chambers, and I’m going to find out if that’s where it ends.” She grabbed Faith’s hands, squeezed them before they fell into an embrace that almost broke her resolve. Then she was gone, racing down the steps to the pavement.
The last thing she heard was Faith calling after: “Please, Miss Squires, please find my Rick!”
Timmons backed out of the kitchen quickly, weary of fighting with Cook over a dinner on such short notice. It was going to be a disaster, and he knew it. Just one day to find enough food to feed half the village, prepare it and serve it as if they’d had it around for ages. One day to deliver several dozen invitations and polish the silver and replace the candles and see to it the house was immaculate and keep what was left of his slow-crumbling temper.
He strode the halls swiftly, eyes narrow and lips taut, his white-gloved left hand every so often testing a panel, a sconce, the top of a sideboard, patting the tapestries for signs of hidden dust. He could hear Mr. Squires upstairs, bellowing for a clean shirt; he could hear Cook scolding her help in a voice not too short of a nagging wife’s whine; he could hear the wind beginning to pick up outside the green house where he finally escaped for a few moments’ peace among the lush plants and vivid blossoms. The worst of it was, the entire staff from himself on down thought Mr. Squires was being a fool. If only Miss Pamela hadn’t left in such a huff. If she were here, things would soon be right again, and perhaps this farce wouldn’t be carried out. He shook his head sadly, and left the warm room.
A glance at the center hall’s clock told him it was time to choose the wines for the occasion. He opened the cellar door and hurried down, pausing just long enough to light the gaslamps on the wall. Then he veered sharply into the wineracks, frowning concentration, touching a bottle here and there and rejecting, picking up a wicker basket from a pile near the last row and finally slipping the chosen out of their nests.
When he was done he turned to leave, and stopped when he saw the door at the back. It wasn’t open, but there were tracks in the dust below it. He grunted, and shook his head. He told the maids a hundred times a week to stay away from that part of the cellar, though for all the good it did him he might as well be talking to the rats who made it their home. There was nothing of value in the other room, but he suspected they used it for late night assignations, or early afternoon trysts with a willing tradesman or two. It was shocking, but his eyes could see only so much at a time; and whenever he complained to Mr. Squires, the old man simply muttered something about discipline and order not being his job.
He set the basket down and walked over to check the lock. It was fast, and when he rattled the knob the door held to.
A skittering in the shadows, and he spun around, without thinking picking up a bottle and flinging it fiercely overhand. It crashed and there was a tiny shriek, wine dripping, and silence. Timmons smiled. The bottle could be replaced; the rat would be a good snack for some of its brothers. As he took the stairs and snuffed out the lights, he reminded himself to have one of the stableboys come down and shovel the remains into the trash. That wasn’t his job; and besides, he thought as he turned out the last flame, the cellar was getting too cold for his old bones, too cold and too dark.
The idea of lying to Pamela was unpleasant, but he could not bring himself to include her when he made his first stop. Later, he told himself; later, when it was done, he would take her home. But not now. Now was the time when he need test his courage, to see if he had the strength to face Gregor Brastov.
Cautiously, gnawing on his lower lip and holding his breath, he descended the steep stairs, the burlap bundle under his arm heavy and unwieldy. He stumbled once, grabbed the bannister and held his breath. A cobweb swayed as a white spider repaired it. His shadow was divided by the glow from upstairs and the gaslight flickering weakly on the wall. When he reached the bottom he closed his eyes once, opened them and saw John Webber’s body just as he’d left it. The door, too, was the same, though the ashes at the base had grown to a small pile.
He took small steps and swallowed; he felt the perspiration snaking down his sides; his lips were dry, his tongue felt swollen. He sidled around the body and tried to ignore the deep flat cold.
He lay the bundle on the floor and took hold of the bar. The wood was like ice poked through with needles. He gritted his teeth and lifted it carefully, just as carefully leaned it against the wall and reached into the bundle for a stake, and a large hammer. A hand to the knob. A single creaking turn. And despite its massive weight the door opened smoothly.
The acrid stench of decay that billowed from the room made him gag and clamp a hand hard to his mouth and nose. He almost bolted for the stairs, instead returned slowly to the wall and turned the light up as far as it would go. The flame jumped and hissed an angry blue, the shadows multiplied and danced, and the dark of the morgue was driven to its comers.
He stood at the threshold, poised to flee if he had to.
He reined in his fear and took the first step.
There was no sound, no whispering, only the three trestl
e tables and the corpses that lay on them. He neither looked at them nor touched them; he strode quickly to the overhead lantern and after three fumbling tries finally had it glowing. Then he returned to the outer room and lifted his bundle, stood there afraid to reenter.
Had things been as he’d last seen them he would have felt exceedingly foolish, and grandly relieved. But they weren’t. The stained, bloody sheets were in piles on the floor, and the bodies were lying serenely on their backs, hands folded over their chests, faces up toward the ceiling. At the foot of each table was a coffin, lid propped beside. Go on, Ned, he told himself angrily; go on, they can’t hurt you. Faith said they can’t hurt you until the sun goes down.
An involuntary glance to the stairwell, and he could see the light dimming by stages, as if someone up there were drawing it back on a leash.
A look at John Webber made his decision. He ran back into the morgue and grabbed the first stake, held it over Jubal Pierson and stared at the dead man’s grizzled, unearthly face. A sleeve over his eyes to clear the sweat away and he brought the hammer up, knocking against the light and setting it to swinging. The hammer came down as the light swung back, and Jubal Pierson opened his mouth in a bloodless silent scream as the stake lanced his heart. He thrashed, and the hammer came down; he wrapped his fingers around the stake, and the hammer came down; he opened his eyes with hellish hatred to stare directly at Ned, and the hammer came down and the stake pierced his heart and the vampire was pinned to the table beneath him.
An anguished sigh that filled the room, fetid breath that turned Ned’s head, and Pierson at last slumped, his chest soaked and running with viscous black blood.
Ned refused himself thought — he moved directly to Marty Reston and repeated the process.
Then he stood over Adelle Bartlett and could not swing the hammer.
The light outside the door was nearly gone.
The old woman lay peacefully, save for the gash at her throat the same woman who had plied her expert seamstress trade for anyone in the village, and it made no difference if the money were there. For Pamela on special occasions, and twice for his own mother.
Black blood dropped from Marty Reston to the floor. Steam rose from the puddle that ran toward Ned’s feet. This one couldn’t be one of them, he thought, drawing back his hand and the stake. She couldn’t. Surely there were things about people’s lives that protected them after death. Surely there were.
The light outside the door turned suddenly black.
Adelle Bartlett’s eyes opened, and her lips grimaced in a smile. Neddie, she whispered, have you found my Horace yet?
He groaned as the old woman planted her elbows and made to rise. He groaned as her red-fire eyes sought to find him and hold. And he groaned almost screamed as he swung stake and hammer up over his head, down into her chest and closed his ears to the shriek, the damnation that swirled like bats’ wings around him. She grabbed his wrist, and the hammer swung down; her free hand clawed for his eyes, and the hammer swung down; smooth ebony blood gushed from her mouth and the fangs that had been her teeth suddenly withdrew as she fell back and died when the hammer swung down.
When he ran, he almost forgot to bring the bundle with him.
And when he reached the outside he groaned one last time.
The sun was nearly gone, and the wind had climbed to a banshee keening.
16
“What the bloody hell do you mean, she’s gone?” Ned shouted, wild-eyed and frantic. He had hold of Faith Driscoll’s shoulders and was shaking her violently, finally pushed her aside and dashed into the front room.
`“Gone,” said Faith resignedly … She couldn’t wait for you.”
Ned turned quickly. “You let her go? Fool, don’t you know what’s out there?”
“I know. It has my Rick. I know what’s there.”
He reached for the mantel to support himself, still unable to shake the feel of Adelle Bartlett’s fingers around his wrist, the sight of Marty Reston’s devilish sneer before the first blow of hammer shattered his dead heart.
“Where?” he asked wearily.
“Home,” Faith told him. “She said — ”
She never had time to finish. He burst from the hearth and shoved past her, was through the door and into the saddle before she could reach the porch. He rode swiftly, dodging the few carriages still on the streets in defiance of the wind, nearly running down a group of children playing hoops at one corner. The short cape of his Inverness coat flapped like wings against his shoulders; his hair spun and tangled furiously into his eyes. He leaned over the roan’s thrusting neck and urged it on, round the comer onto Williamston Pike, and out toward Squires Manor.
Pamela came through the front door as if she’d never left. The moment Timmons saw her his face creased in a broad smile, but he held his welcome back when he saw the determination in her eyes, the firm but hurried step of her boots on the staircase. She made directly for the library, flung open the door and glanced around for her father. He wasn’t there. The room was dark. She backed away instantly and took to the stairs again, this time heading for the guest apartments on the third floor. Below her she could hear the bustle of the staff, the calls, the curses as frenzied preparations for the last minute celebration caused collisions in the halls. She did not smile. Instead, she took hold of the doorknob and pushed in, Saundra’s name on her lips.
But the room was empty.
She looked into the bedroom and frowned. There was no one there either. Curious, she thought as she wandered aimlessly over the carpet. Surely, for such an occasion, Saundra would be frantically dressing by now. Yet, when she opened the wardrobe, she was not surprised to find it bare. Nor were there clothes in the steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
And the mirror over the vanity had been turned to the wall.
She about-faced at once and went to the hall again, one finger pensively to her lips while the other hand pulled at the folds of her skirt. She must be here, she thought. She can’t have left. She can’t.
One by one, then, she checked every room on the floor, every closet, until her hands were dark with dust and her cheeks were smudged, her hair straggling down over her brow.
“Where?” she whispered to herself urgently. “Where?”
The second floor yielded the same results, and she was just about to descend to the first when her father lumbered up and saw her. All thought of Saundra vanished for the moment when she saw the look of pure relief and love on his face. They said nothing; they embraced, and a moment later her ear with filled with his profuse and awkward apologies. Then he pushed her away from him without dropping his hands and stared at her face.
“Pamela, have you been rooting about in the cellar? Look at you, child!” He stopped, and grinned sheepishly. “No. Look at you, daughter! My Lord, you’ll never be ready for tonight if you don’t hurry.” Another frown. “You … you are planning to be the hostess, are you not?”
“I thought that would be Saundra’s job,” she said flatly.
“Yes. Well. Saundra is a little difficult to get hold of, as you can well imagine.”
She debated but for an instant. “I can imagine more than you, father.” She took hold of his arm and began leading him back to her room. “Come with me while I clean up and change. I have something I think you ought to know.”
“But time — ”
“ — is short. Yes, I know. But much shorter, Father, than you think. Please, bear with me. There’s a story I want you to hear.”
Amy Reston cursed and muttered all the way down the steps into the cellar. It was bad enough, wasn’t it, that Timmons damn his black soul, was a tyrant today. Bad enough she was barely over mourning her Martin when the call comes and she has to work like a demon for the likes of Grandon Squires. Good thing they’re paying double wages, though she really didn’t need it.
Martin had piled enough away for a rainy day to keep her happy until someone else came along; and she herself had a great deal of silver hidden
under the bed for the next time she could get to Hartford and the man who took it, gave her money, and asked no questions.
She wiped a hand over her pudgy face, back through the red hair snarled with finger brushing and perspiration. Another oath to solidify her annoyance and she stood with her hands on her hips and stared at the rows of wine bottles that seemed to stretch forever ahead of her. When she reached the end row she saw the locked door in the rear wall, smiled briefly at a memory of Marty and her back there on an old mattress that had been rescued from the trash. But the memory faded quickly. Marty was dead, and she had to fetch the damned wine.
Now how the hell was she supposed to know which bottle was which, huh? Timmons told her to fetch some silly French name thing, and here she was unable to read English, for god’s sake! Well, she knew it would have to be a red wine, and he did say it was in the last rack. If she happened to grab the right one first off, so much the better. If she didn’t and had to come back, well that young rake from the baker’s would be glad to help her find it, she was sure.
Lifting her starched black skirts with one hand to keep them from dragging in the filth on the floor, she hurried into the shadows, paused when she realized she’d only turned on one light. But the idea of walking all the way back was too much; one bottle was all she needed. She spat when a cobweb brushed across her hair, spat again when she found what she was looking for and pulled the bottle out. She held the label close to her face and squinted, shrugged, and was about to return when she noticed the door in the rear wall.
It was open.
Pamela stood behind her dressing screen and slipped the emerald-dark dress over her head. Then, as she bent to fasten the laces that held the bodice together, she listened as her father strode angrily from one side of the room to the other. She’d thought that hiding behind the screen would make her story easier to tell, but it hadn’t been. Luckily, Squires hadn’t interrupted; if he had, she’d never have found the nerve to finish. And talking about vampires and werewolves while standing half-naked in the safety of her own room had brought a blush to her cheeks, a feeling of being absolutely and completely stupid.
The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 11
