"Tell me Mary McIntyre and I'll cut my throat."
"Lucky you. Actually, it's Esther Traub and sibling."
He froze in the act of brushing back his hair. "The one with the horse's teeth?"
"That's Ruth. Esther has the purple hair."
"My God, Theresa Ann, what the hell am I doing?"
Remembering that Peg had borrowed the car, they took a cab instead, a faded yellow station wagon driven by a woman more lumberjack than model.
"I'm beginning to have second thoughts," Terry said as they turned from The Lane onto Hawthorne. "Why don't we just forget all this and go home?"
"What's the matter, angel, you scared?"
Scared. She watched the impatient traffic honk angrily past their slow-moving vehicle. She couldn't be frightened because there was nothing to be frightened of; yet the oppression of the day's stifling heat contradictorily made her extra sensitive. If Denver was lying, so what? He was an old man who apparently needed fantasies to function in an alien world. And what harm had there been? There was certainly no threat to her marriage, home, or Syd's work. There had been no menacing burning of crosses on her front lawn or mysterious notes telling her to leave The Lane or else.
There had only been the dreams. And the telephone. And the death of Alec Pritchard.
Marsha Pritchard. Tim Barnes. Oscar Denbeau. She looked down at the four fingers spread across her thigh. And shivered.
The Historical Society was evidently a recipient of some patron's largesse, though pamphlets cluttering a basket by the front door insisted the work done inside was financed entirely through local subscription. The building housing it was a miniature Monticello nestled cleanly beside the county courthouse, itself a graying marble-and-brick Georgian horror left over from the WPA school of architectural design. A small, Gothic-lettered note over the society's doorbell invited them in, and after a moment of feeling incredibly foolish, Terry swept a hand through her hair and turned the knob.
Immediately inside was a large room whose walls were buried by bookcases fronted in glass. Within, she could see blotches of colors from book covers, brochures, and other untouchable paraphernalia. Large oaken tables were situated at regular intervals on the bare wooden floor, and again displays, only now the books were opened to strategic pages and the relevant passaged enlarged by rectangles of magnifying glass.
At the back of the room was a wall-length fieldstone fireplace, and directly in front of it a small counter littered with leaflets, postcards, and neatly stacked invoices. A cash register squatted incongruously at counter's end, and behind that, Esther Traub. Her hair, Terry noted, as her eyes adjusted from the glare of the sun, was not quite as purple as she'd remembered, but purple enough, and badly colored; too many escaped strands of iron gray wafted through a thick black hair net. Around her neck was a gold chain from which dangled a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and pinned to the center of her sagging bodice was an oversized pocket watch edged in silver.
At the sound of Terry's light cough, Esther looked up, squinted, and hastily shoved her glasses into place. Then she smiled broadly and stepped around the counter. Terry could feel Syd trying not to laugh, and pinched his hip. Miss Traub's dress had hiked up to reveal knees, the rolled stockings beneath, and huge feet inside red-and-white tennis sneakers.
"Mrs. Guiness, and Mr. Guiness!" she howled as though there was construction noise to compete with, "What a delightful surprise. I must say I hadn't thought you two were the types to go hunting through a small town's past."
Syd took her offered hand, covered it, and smiled broadly, allowing as how Terry was working on an important new book at the moment and needed some expert advice. And where else to go but directly to the source of all knowledge for the area?
Miss Traub giggled doubtfully, and Terry saved Syd from further lying by pushing him gently toward the nearest display wall. "Don't pay any attention to him, Esther," she said, guiding the confused woman back to the counter. "He makes everything sound more important than it is." But, she continued, she did need help on something she was basing on the Indian reservation story, a fantasy she hoped would give the readers a good shudder and teach them something more about the people who settled this part of the country long before the white man showed up from Europe.
"But Mrs. Guiness, couldn't you ask Denver McIntyre about this?"
"Well," Terry said, "actually, I don't think I could get as much from him as, say, from someone whose training is as well grounded as yours."
"Flatterer," Esther said, grinning. She frowned, took off her glasses and stared up at the ceiling in deep thought. Terry risked a glance at Syd, who had finally made his way past the front door and was starting on the far wall. He caught her look and bowed mockingly.
"You know," Esther said, "I just might have the thing you need." She scurried into a back room, reappeared almost instantly with a small, square booklet frayed and stained from more than casual use. "This is a listing of the local Indian tribes, and all their legends."
"But Esther, I'm afraid—"
A raised palm ordered silence. "You see, dear, as far as anybody but the McIntyres knows, there was no reservation. Never. Nor was there anything like a massacre the old fool uses to scare the new neighbors with." She smiled sadly and patted Terry's arm. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, dear. I can see in your face that your book is probably ruined."
Terry recovered quickly, relieved that Miss Traub had misinterpreted her dismay. "On the contrary, Esther, the book will be enhanced by this. It's always easier to work with fiction than fact, you know." She smiled and reached out for the booklet.
"Well . . . I don't know that I should give you this," and Terry's throat went dry. "But since you're neighbors on The Lane and I know you book people would care for this as though it were your very own children, I don't see why not." She grinned. "Ruth and I can fight about it later. It's the only copy we have, you see."
Resisting the temptation to snatch it from the old woman's hand, Terry held out her hand and Esther dropped it into her palm.
"There was no reservation," Esther said, "but there's a story about a graveyard . . . well, you'll read about it, dear. I don't want to spoil your fun."
Syd, meanwhile, had maneuvered himself back to Terry's side and intruded quickly. "Hey, beautiful, Esther, but I think Terry and I had better be moving along. The editor promised to call this afternoon and we, wouldn't want to miss it."
He pulled her arm gently, though not before Terry managed a quick and grateful shake of Esther's hand and a promise to guard the booklet with her very life if necessary. Esther nodded, smiling blindly, with her glasses in her hand. Once on the porch, nearly reeling from the renewed heat, Syd laughed and flagged down the cab circling the town square.
"You should have seen her face, angel, when we left. She looks like she can't decide whether to be flattered about our coming or call the police and have us locked up before we steal her precious little pamphlet."
Terry muttered something, she wasn't sure what, and allowed herself to be eased into the station wagon. She knew he was impatiently annoyed at her for not appreciating his cleverness, but she couldn't take her eyes from the cursed treasure in her hands. The mysterious lark had suddenly turned serious.
Denver had been lying.
William had been lying.
And now she was sure she knew who Alec's they was.
Chapter IX
During the slow ride home, Syd tried banter to nudge Terry out of the depression that had settled over her. He revived memories of the childlike escapades they'd undertaken in the name of young love; he repopulated their old apartment house with the cranks, the winos, the busybodies who shuffled through their lives like bit-part stereotypes from a Forties' movie; once he tried tickling her waist and under her arm, but she only shook him off and slid into the corner, brooding. It was infectious; by the time they reached the house, his good humor had faded, preventing him from even a token bargaining with the driver.
Terry stepped into the yard, then turned about and leaned against the hedge, staring across the street at what would be Peg's new home when the legalities had been cleared away. The thought that her sister might accept it in the hopes of using it as a lure for her not quite husband crossed her mind, and sickened her. Peg was doing quite well on her own, thank you, despite the dizzying reverses of her shaky fortune. Her father had said Peg's curse was looking too much like a Scot, down to the freckles that starred her face beneath her eyes, and now Terry was half-inclined to believe it. It had taken the loss of a man to bring her to Prynne Lane, the loss of another in a markedly different respect to give her financial security for the rest of her life if she wanted it.
The hedge, which Syd kept breast-high and tabletop flat, dug into her arms. She shifted to ease the pricking and set the booklet down in front of her. Her left hand shaded her eyes from the westering sun while the right turned pages desultorily, and her attempts to read random selections failed. Immediately after she'd left the taxi, she had spotted the car under the port, and though she was tempted to believe Peg might be needing her, instinct prompted her to delay a few minutes outside. If Peg was seeking comfort, she'd know it soon enough.
And there was still so much to sort and file, and study. The lies and elaborate deceptions, the links between the McIntyres and Pritchard, between Denver and Oscar Denbeau (Marsha? Barnes?)—she scowled her puzzlement as she picked idly at diminutive green leaves and let them fall into the hedge's maze. Of course, it all could be as Esther said, a horror story to frighten the new neighbors. Sooner or later, Denver would confess the prank, the practical joke, the whatever it was, and The Lane would return to normal. Sooner or later.
She mentioned it to Syd, who was waiting patiently by her side. He agreed readily, and tried to get her inside to make him some supper. He was still trying, and she loved him for it.
"No, I'm not really hungry, love," she said. "Would you mind raiding the fridge yourself? It's too hot in. I'd rather stay out here a while longer."
"Suit yourself, Sherlock. When your stomach starts complaining, call me. I make a hell of a good peanut butter pancake."
She produced the obligatory groan and grimace, but didn't watch when he left. Instead, he settled herself on the knee of an exposed root under the dogwood. The lowest branches, heavy with leaves and age, dipped as a breeze coasted toward the field, but there was no cooling, nothing but a languid shifting of the humid air that set her lungs working for scarce comfort. Remnants of a dead white blossom fluttered to cover one foot and she shook off the petals, ground them with her heel into the grass. Then she leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and thumbed through the booklet to glance at the faded black-and-white illustrations, none of which struck her as immediately interesting enough to examine more closely. As far as she could determine, lithographs and daguerreotypes of the estates and trading posts that had settled the region before civilization became urban, curious, but valueless. She flipped to the back for an index, and sighed when she realized she would have to read the whole thing to discover what Esther had thought was so interesting.
From the beginning, listlessly, she read and forgot the names of early crossroad villages, streams, and gentry farms. A mention of Indians, but little more than one-line dismissals of traveling bands struggling through from New York to Pennsylvania. So much for chapter one, she thought, and leaned back against the dogwood bole, stretching her arms in front of her to rid them of the stiffness her tension inflicted. The second chapter, and the third, contained more of the same stilted prose, and she wondered who had taken the time, expended the effort to produce what was apparently a limited edition. It certainly wasn't intended for scholarly research—there were too many assumptions and reliances on local legends and unsubstantiated rumors for that purpose.
The fourth chapter, however, startled her. She looked around quickly, as though expecting someone to be reading over her shoulder, then looked down at the page her finger pressed flat. A badly drawn, but determined profile of a man. An Indian. The caption identified him as Tecumseh; a Shawnee chief who had tried to unite the wilderness tribes into an effectual force against the inexorable encroachment of early nineteenth century settlers. In spite of the portrait's poor reproduction, the messianic quality was disturbingly evident. She held the picture away from her, hoping distance would clarify a nagging hint of recognition. She tilted it, brought it closer, but the changes in perspective accomplished nothing. Maybe I need glasses, she thought, when she glanced up to rest her eyes, she realized much of the problem was the unnoticed haze of twilight. The sun was already below the treeline, and there were black strands of cloud rising like smoke from the serrated horizon.
She was about ready to stand when she heard a door slam, and without knowing why, she sat again and waited. The hedge, and the fact that she was still in the dogwood's pool of shadow, made her effectively invisible. Footsteps, then, striding along the tarmac, and as the streetlights winked on and added a blue glow to dusk, she saw Denver moving purposefully past her house toward the field. She stared openmouthed, then sucked in her cheeks and bit down to stifle an exclamation of surprise. As he passed the gap in the hedge, he glanced in her direction, and his teeth were white in a brief and unpleasant smile.
Terry shook her head, crawled out from under the branches and knelt by the hedge, poking her head out to watch as McIntyre disappeared into the birch without making a sound. He was carrying what seemed to be a glass from which he drank as the darkness swallowed him. The temptation to follow brought Terry to her feet, but the sharp creak of her own front door forestalled her, and she turned.
Syd was beckoning from the porch, and the brusqueness of the motion warned her not to risk ignoring him.
"What?" she said when she reached him, but he only grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. "Come on, Syd, what's up?"
"I don't want you to worry," he said. "But I think something's wrong with Peg."
Terry stared, then pulled away and ran down to her sister's room, stuffing the booklet into her hip pocket.
Pegeen was lying on the bulging green sofa. Syd had covered her to her neck with a blanket, and her face shone with perspiration, her hair wetly dark where it straggled over temples and forehead. Terry dropped to the floor beside her and laid a palm to her cheeks, her brow. She sucked in air harshly, twisted to see Syd standing nervously by the steps.
"She has a fever," Terry said.
"I thought so, but I can't find the thermometer."
"But I don't understand."
"I was eating, see," he said as he walked to her, "and thought you'd want a sandwich or something after all that heavy reading you were doing out there. I thought I heard you call, so I got up and looked out the front window. You were still pouring over that stupid thing, and I decided it was my imagination until I heard it again and came down here." He pointed to a spot near where he stood. "Peg was lying on the floor unconscious. It looked like she was trying to get to the stairs. I mean, it didn't look like she'd just fallen over, if you know what I mean. I picked her up and put her there. I guess it's all right to have the blanket. She was shivering and moaning. I called, but you didn't hear me, I guess."
Terry nodded, then fussed with the edge of the blanket while she tried to decide what had to be done. A doctor first, obviously, but what to do until he came? It was possible Peg was merely reacting to the past two days' strain, or then again it might have been coming on for weeks. She sent Syd to call the Hawthorne Clinic, then sat cross-legged on the floor and watched her sister's face for signs of animation. It was pale, frighteningly so, and her eyelids fluttered, her throat worked at swallowing. But she said nothing to Terry's whispered prompting. Nothing at all.
It's stifling in here, she thought suddenly, and moved to open the glass doors. There was little immediate improvement; the breeze that eventually found its way inside only stirred the air.
"Peg?" she said softly, bending close to her ear. "Peg, can you hear me? It's Terr
y."
The continued lack of response made her take a panicked step backward, spun her around when Syd called out.
"I've got them," he said, taking the stairs two at a time. "They said they're short tonight, and could we bring her down?" Terry nodded instantly. "Okay, you watch and I'll back the car to the street. I’ll be back in a second."
The second dragged into months, and the time Syd took to carry Peg to the car and ease her onto the back seat was a decade, if not longer. No one was on The Lane as they sped away, and as Terry sat on the back floor hump and caressed Peg's hot and still pale cheeks, she could think of nothing but the years before when youth was their domain and no one bothered them except their teachers. It had been a strict, conservative childhood, and she often wondered if her parents, had they lived, would be pleased with the way their daughters had turned out. I doubt it, she thought, then chided herself for not thinking positively, not trying to communicate some portion of hope to Peg.
"How's she doing?" Syd asked, taking a corner sharply.
"Same." She was aware of the strain in her voice, forced a cough to lose it. "I don't understand. I don't understand. What could come on so quickly like this? I don't get it."
"I wish I could—damnit, get the hell out of the way!" A truck blared past them. "I wish I could help you, angel, but it beats the hell out of me."
Tears spurted onto her cheeks, vanished by the swipe of a palm.
"She was holding onto something when I found her, Ter."
Terry pulled herself up to lean over the back of the passenger seat. Syd pulled something from beneath his shirt, nearly swerved into the oncoming lane before it was free. She reached over and snatched it from him.
It was a doll. The wooden face was carved like the others, but the hair was different: not black, not straight, but red and curled slightly at the tips.
"Like the stuff you read about in the Caribbean," Syd muttered. "What do you call it?"
The Curse Page 13
