She shook her head vigorously and rushed into the sitting room, to the far side beyond the second fireplace where she flung open the doors of a walnut cabinet. From it she grabbed a bottle of Bourbon, splashed as much as she dared into a tall crystal glass and drank it before she could imagine the burning. And when it came and she gagged, she drank again, and again. Set the glass down and sagged into a chair.
Insane, of course.
The whole idea was gothic: drive the poor little rich girl right out of her mind, settle her portion of the dwindling estate and divide it. Divide it. But division meant partners. Two at least; at the most ... my God!
"All right, Cyd," she said out loud, "you know damned well there's only one way you're going to convince yourself one way or another."
But she could not get up to go out to the car.
And in facing that fear and the possibilities it bore she knew that in spite of the storm in her mind, in spite of the denials that all science had taught her ... in spite of it all, she had accepted it all.
There was no need to face the dead crow that lived.
"No," she said, ten minutes later.
"I don't know."
She stood suddenly. This wavering between the real and the unreal would last all night, for the rest of her life if she let it. She needed to verbalize it, to talk aloud to someone who would play the devil's advocate with a modicum of humor without laughing her right out of the room. That, without question, would have to be Ed. No matter the pain, or the drugs that they'd fed him, he would have to hear her; hear her, and now.
She returned upstairs long enough to yank her cardigan from the wardrobe and kick the green coat under the bed. The note she left lying in the middle of the floor, unafraid but unwilling to touch it again. The handkerchief also remained where it had fallen, and she gave it wide berth as she came down the stairs and headed for the door.
Stopped.
Listened, with one hand on the knob while the other fussed meaninglessly with her hair.
She listened for the sound of the dead crow flying, for the first time realizing that unless she could somehow exorcise the car she would have to walk all the way into town.
And in listening heard the sound of a motor in the drive.
You did it, Ed, she thought with a grin; by God, you did it!
She opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Several seconds passed while she waited for her eyes to adjust to the night; and when they had it was too late to duck back inside.
In the oval, at the curve by the garage, headlights flared out and an engine died.
And all she could do was stare at the Greybeast.
Chapter 15
When the driver's door opened she could see five faces inside: Evan, Rob, and her mother in back; Barton and Cal Kraylin seated in front. They were motionless for several long moments, but it was more than sufficient for Cyd to understand that here was the proof of the nightmare she had been feeding. Not that it would stand up to scrutiny in a court, and not that even Ed would believe it unless he saw. Nevertheless it was here. Nevertheless she had it. It was an intuition that leapt into something not quite faith and more than terror; it was the acceptance she had felt inside about the bird, and the knowledge that Horatio should have been here after all. Real and unreal was a problem that had a solution—both real and unreal existed as one. A particle here, an atom there, a shade for this portion ... all of it of a piece and none of it separate; and none of it meant a damn unless one believed.
And she did.
As Kraylin and the others stepped out on the drive, and Evan and Rob moved immediately to the car and peered inside, Evan shrugging, Rob nodding, as Kraylin and her parents waited by the Greybeast's hood.
Oh Ed, Cyd wept silently, for the last three months I've been living in a tomb.
They stood in the glow of all the house's light and waited until they were once again five. Then Kraylin looked steadily in her direction, as if waiting for her to join them, out of fear or resignation. And when she did not move he nodded, stuffed his hands into his blazer pockets and began to walk toward her, the rest trailing a step behind.
Normal; they look normal, some part of her cried. But the illusion, now that she had pierced it, was not quite complete. Like the tiny brass horse in the library, now that she understood that what she was watching was false, there were minute items missing, items that glared in their absence: the barely military swing of Barton's left arm, the stilted stride of her mother, Evan's bird-cock tilt as he seemed to listen to the ground more than air. All of it missing, vital parts so small they were taken for granted and thus overlooked.
Kraylin lifted a hand in a mocking gentle greeting, and she bolted.
She slammed the door and raced down the hall toward the back, skidding on the bare sections of flooring but keeping her balance without losing her speed. At the back door she paused, a panicked look to either side, then flung it open and was ready to sprint across the veranda to the lawn when Evan stumbled around the corner of the house. She stared at him for a moment before doubling back toward the stairs, had her hand on the bannister when she looked up and saw Myrtle on the first switchback landing.
Rob stood in front of the sitting room entrance, and across the foyer waited Barton, his hands clasped at his waist.
Kraylin was at the door, hands still in his pockets, rocking on his heels like a skipper at the helm.
"Are you finished?" he said. The hardness she had seen at the Clinic was still there, a tone-rough edge that gave timbre to his voice to help it carry though he whispered. "Are you finished?"
No, she thought, you murderer.
She nodded.
Kraylin raised his thick brows, seemed to sigh his relief, then indicated with a nod that she should follow her father into the living room. She almost hesitated, changed her mind about running when she heard Evan striding up behind her. She did not turn around; instead, without looking at the others she walked carefully into the room, afraid she would stumble over her own shadow or another's, not willing to give the doctor the satisfaction.
Without waiting, she headed directly for the wing chair that flanked on the left the television hearth. She looked at the blank screen, saw her faint grey reflection, turned and sat and crossed her legs. She would listen, she thought, because it would give her time; time for the improbable to alter definition, time for something positive to come to mind. And when it did she would be ready. Given the chance to run, she knew where she would go.
Kraylin waited on the threshold, his gaze examining the room as if it held a trap before moving deliberately to the divan that was set on her right. He took the far corner, draped an arm over the back, unbuttoned the blazer and rubbed idly at his stomach.
Immediately, Cyd pointed to the four Yarrows arranged behind him. "Get them out of here," she said tightly, amazed that she had not exploded in tears. "I ... I know what they are. They don't have to be here."
"Well," Kraylin said, his admiration showing. "If you think that will help you, of course." And he lifted one hand in a listless dismissal.
"Can you do that every time?" she asked, wishing she could sound far more calm. When Kraylin nodded she almost spat in his face. "So? Now what?"
Kraylin brushed a hand through his windblown hair, as if in a moment he would be sitting for a portrait. He fussed at it, patted it, smoothed it down to his nape, taking so long that she thought she would scream. Then he shifted his attention to the front of his shirt, again patting, again smoothing, until he was satisfied.
"If you wait a minute," she said, "I'll get my purse and give you a nail file."
He did not smile.
"Listen, doctor," she said, the use of his title as close to an obscenity as she could get, "you can keep on doing what you're doing, or you can threaten to kill me, it really doesn't make a bit of difference to me. You're not frightening me. I'm scared to death already."
He nodded, slouched deeper into the corner and cleared his throat theatrically.
"When I was younger," he said, his gaze fixed at some point on the ceiling, "I used to daydream a lot. About being able to control things no one else could. Or make things, like Victor Frankenstein. It's not all that unusual, you know. All kids dream about being magical, fighting monsters, wondering what it would be like to be a vampire or a werewolf—without, of course, any of the pain that goes with them. So I did it, just like everyone else, the difference being that I didn't let go. I read books, I saw movies, sometimes I even promised to sell my soul to the devil in return for some bit or piece of magic for my own.
"Naturally, it didn't work.
"And neither did the nonsense that Mary Shelley wrote about in her novel. Oh, I don't deny that I thought about it once in a while during the time I spent in medical school, and afterward, while I did research in France and England. I thought about it, dismissed it, but I didn't stop dreaming. The best time, as you probably already know, is when you first lie down in bed and your mind isn't quite ready to let go for a bit. It's also about the only time you can control your dreams. You force the action, as it were . . . and so I forced my magic."
Cyd listened carefully, searching for signs of the madman in the voice, finding none and realizing that this made it all the more terrifying. The man was serious. She wished the wind would stop blowing.
"And then, when a little bit of inheritance money drifted my way, I began visiting clairvoyants, mediums, other charlatans of that ilk, thinking that perhaps they had stumbled upon what I had been only dreaming about. I did this, you must understand, only half-heartedly, It was . . . rather like a hobby, I would say. Something to pass the time when there was nothing better to do. I suppose a psychiatrist would call it a fetal obsession, one that feeds on you slowly until it gives birth to a psychosis." Bingo, she thought; and knew it was too simple.
Kraylin crossed his legs and grabbed hold of his knee. His gaze had shifted, from the ceiling to her breasts, though she could tell that his vision was somewhere else, somewhere inside and he didn't see a thing. Nevertheless, it made her nervous and she turned slightly away.
"I began to feel afraid for myself. But the irony of it is, the more afraid I was that I would drive myself crazy, the more I began to think that maybe, just maybe this magic business had a foundation I could unearth, as it were, and build on if I had the right tools. And the right attitude, my dear Cynthia, was the key to it all.
"Attitude.
"You see, daydreams are one thing and reality is quite something else. You can daydream all you want, but unless you believe, not a blessed thing is going to happen. And the reason most people don't believe is because they've been trained not to. One believes in illusion, but not in magic.
"So I worked at it. For several hours every day, for years at a time. I would stand in front of a mirror and tell myself it was true. I would whisper it to myself during an operation—you look surprised, Cynthia. Did you think I was a quack?"
She was startled and angry that she'd allowed something to disturb the carefully built neutrality of her expression. So startled in fact that she nodded without thinking, and shrank back into her chair when Kraylin stiffened and scowled.
"I am a good doctor, Miss Yarrow," he said slowly. "A very good doctor. If there's one thing I'm not, it's a phony practitioner."
"I'm sure," she muttered, flinching again when he struggled to his feet and stood before her.
"I will not be patronized, Miss Yarrow!"
She shook her head quickly. "Not me," she said. "I was just agreeing with what you said. You said you were a good doctor, I said okay."
His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he turned away sharply to face the front windows with his hands behind his back. The drapes there and the shades were drifting slightly as the wind found cracks in the panes and the frames, created draughts that became snakes to creep along the floor. Her ankles grew cold, her calves and her thighs.
"It happened two years ago," Kraylin said, his back still toward her. "One morning, after all that self-promising, I was able ... I was able to do something! It doesn't matter what. I did it. And it wasn't telekinesis or telepathy or any of that other nonsense about ESP. It was magic, Miss Yarrow. A certain kind of magic."
He spun around, one arm outflung, and she almost yelped and raised her palms toward him.
"It's all right," he said softly. "I don't throw lightning bolts or anything like that. I don't pull rabbits out of hats or create windstorms or fire. I'm getting there, to be sure, and one of these days all those elements will be mine to control. Earth, wind, fire, water. But not yet, Miss Yarrow. Not yet, and I'm patient."
She looked toward the foyer, looked back at Kraylin. You're crazy, she tried to tell him; you're out of your mind.
Dead crow . . . flying.
She drew her legs up under her and hugged her knees tightly. Heard footsteps upstairs and frowned until she realized that someone was moving from room to room, following her earlier race, turning out all the lights.
And the wind . . .
"It takes a great deal of concentration," he said, bending forward at the waist as though talking to a child who was a great deal shorter, "and it takes nearly everything I have. You have to be strong, Miss Yarrow. Very strong indeed. And I knew almost at once that I would have to give up my practice and my research if I wanted to keep hold of what I had. But to do that I needed money. A great amount of money. And where better to find it than Oxrun Station."
She swallowed to kill the dryness in her throat. "Where . . . where did you meet my father?"
"Angus Stone," he said without hesitation. "The old man was the first one I'd met when came here. He had a reputation for fairness and liking a bit of the greenback for himself now and then. I . . . well, I gave him a demonstration, so to speak. I showed him what I could do, and what I needed so that I could keep on doing it, so I could get stronger. He introduced me to your father."
"And you killed him."
"I can raise the dead, Miss Yarrow."
"You killed him because alive he would have none of your nonsense. He didn't believe you, whatever you told him, so you killed him so you and Angus could get hold of the money."
He took a step toward her.
"Don't come near me," she spat, her feet down to the floor, her hands gripping the armrests as if ready to spring.
"Or what?" he said with a twitch of a grin. "You'll tear out my eyes? Miss Yarrow, I think we had better understand each other a little more clearly." He took a deep breath, held it, released it, moved away from the divan to pace the open floor, though not once did his eyes leave her, measuring her, checking to be sure that she could not outrun him. "I can, literally, raise the dead. That takes concentration. It takes, as I've said, a great deal of power. But once done . . ." He stopped and pointed at her sharply. "Once done, Miss Yarrow, my creations last for hours. Not many at one time, of course. I'm not a juggler. But while they last they do my will. They don't have instructions, not to the letter, because they're not zombies, my dear. They are living creatures of my creation that happen also to be dead."
Cyd wanted then to place her hands over her ears, her eyes, whatever it would take to drive the man from her. It was madness she was hearing, and madness she believed—Father was dead, and Mother did not bleed. They had been murdered in some way—how agonizing to think that it didn't matter how—and Kraylin had retrieved them. Used them. Sold property and valuables to keep himself going—in a manner, she thought through a swirling cloud of hate, that he would like to become accustomed to. And it followed in diabolic logic that the sons would be next.
One question remained, "Why aren't I dead?"
The doctor cocked his head, his eyes narrowing into a concentrated squint that seemed to swallow his face until only his mouth was left.
"I don't need you," he said. He shrugged as though the answer were simple. "I don't need you. The money is mine, and I have proved to myself what I can do. I was prevailed upon not to kill you when you returned and so I did not."
>
"Generous."
"Expedient," he corrected. "As I said, I don't need you."
A shadow swelled on the foyer wall, someone waiting just beyond the door.
"But now you will have to kill me, won't you," she said flatly. There was no query; it was a matter of fact.
And she was startled when Kraylin shook his head slowly. "I still have no need," he said "Besides, my dear Cynthia, who would believe you, eh? No one, that's who, or you would have headed straight for the police, or that... boyfriend of yours. You know people will think you're mad, crazy, whatever you choose to call it. No one will believe that you've been living with the dead and not known it."
"The office," she said quickly, a grasp at a straw. "Someone down there will believe me, I know it. Someone would have noticed by now that Father is . . . different." She felt the tears again and fought them. "Someone will know."
"Not quite," he said smugly. "Your family hasn't owned that bank for at least, oh, eight months. It was the first thing I had sold."
"But Angus—" She stopped, closed her eyes briefly, snapped them open again when she heard herself crying, a faint and distant wailing that was building to escape. She had to get out. One minute more in the company of this nightmare and she would lose all hold of what sanity remained. Lose all control . . . Control. "Wait a minute," she said softly. "I thought you said it took a lot of power, or whatever it is, to do this . . . this thing. Then how could you . . ." Her eyes widened.
Kraylin nodded. Again the teacher, this time complimenting on the insight that had been reached.
"Who?" she said. Then she waved her hand to forestall his reply. She knew. It was Evan. Evan in the background for all of his life; Evan who did most of the work and took most of the abuse; Evan who was the middle son and received the dwarf portion of affection once she had been born and there was a girl in the house. Evan who worried about everything night and day, who had less sleep than anyone until a solution had been found, a buyer put off, a poor risk unloaded. Evan whose loyalty was to the fortune, not the family.
The Last Call of Mourning - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels) Page 18
