An explosion of thunder froze her. Blue-white illuminated the corners. She rocked back onto her heels and faced the pot belly stove. The slitted door resisted her first attempts, then shrieked open. Her hands were trembling so violently, the doll would not fit through the wide gap on the first try. She closed her eyes and pulled reins on the runaway panic in her mind, steadying, though not calming. Her hand reached out slowly, and the doll fell into the gray ashes.
She watched herself. A hand, pink with blood mingled with water, reaching for a pile of discarded newspapers. Catching one, dropping it, reaching for the next. Bunching it. Stuffing it into the stove. When she pulled her hand away, the paper was edged in red.
Bracing a hand against the concrete floor, pushing until her knees cooperated and she was on her feet. Left hand into a pocket before remembering the flashlight was broken. To the wall. The lights would not burn. A shelf just above eye level. Her fingers scattered detergent boxes and bottles of fabric softener and bleach, nameless shapes and clammy cloth. Finally she closed them around a box of wooden matches.
Careful now, she warned. Do it right. She licked at her lips. The first three matches flared and died; they were damp and left streaks of sulphur along the box's abrasive side. A fourth flared, flamed. Dropping the box and holding onto her wrist to keep the match steady, she painfully lit the paper. Reaching. The paper browning, hissing black, and finally a tongue of blue that darted along the crumbled edge until gouts of yellow billowed out at her. She cried and held her injured hand against her stomach. She rocked, and the paper burned. She stuffed more in, and the odor was familiar, then tinged with the bite of charring cloth, the light snap of thin wood.
"In a minute I will call the hospital," she told the fire. "I will call the hospital and everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. It will be, you know. It will be. Everything will be all right. Fine. Just . . . fine . . . ."
The stove welled toward her, receded, ballooned and was punctured. A hand brushed back the poncho and she shook her hair free. The movement made her nauseous and, protesting silently, she felt herself falling backward, slowly, as though she was sinking beneath the waves of ebb tide.
She thought she couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, five minutes at the most. Her hand throbbed and she stripped off the poncho and ran upstairs and into the bathroom. With tweezers she pulled the shards of glass from her palm, rinsed it and bound it tightly with nearly a full roll of gauze. She would have to make a trip to the clinic soon to have it cared for, but at the moment she had other things, more important things to worry about.
What McIntyre had done with Syd was the primary concern. She no longer doubted that McIntyre was, if not homicidal, at least manic enough to try to eliminate anyone who got in the way of his so-called legend. She tried telling herself that her actions with the doll were the results of unbridled panic aggravated by the storm and Syd's prolonged absence, and again belief was replaced by skepticism. Call the police, then, but what could she say? What proof had she that Denver had harmed her husband, or even threatened them?
She paced the living room from sofa to door and back again. There had to be something she could do. But if only she knew exactly, without a shred of doubt, what she and Syd were fighting! And that such a thought would even venture into her mind frightened her more than the believing of it: a modern woman, a business woman of sorts, preparing to do righteous battle for her man against forces possibly gathered mistily beyond the fringe of natural law. It would have been laughable, but the stinging of her palm and the death mask staring of Alec as he lay on the stretcher further strained her skepticism. However it may appear to the outside world, if and when it was over, The Lane constituted her only reality, and she knew that whatever occurred within its boundaries she had to accept, natural or otherwise. For the moment.
Having decided then, she hurried into the bedroom and changed into dry clothes, substituting sweater for blouse, walking boots for loafers. She toweled the inside of the poncho, and from the hardware drawer in the kitchen found a screwdriver, weapon enough and not as dangerous as a knife, should she have to run.
As she stood in the center of the room, burying the last of her indecision, the telephone rang. Instinctively she reached out, then snatched back her hand. This wasn't the hospital. It was . . . the whatever it was calling her name. When the last ring died into the refrigerator's hum, she grabbed the receiver and dialed, asked for and was connected with Dr. Flaherty. "I'm in a hurry, doctor," she said briskly. "I want to know about my sister. Please spare me the bedside manner. Just tell me."
"Mrs. Guiness, I can understand your concern—"
"Doctor, I have neither the time nor the patience to fence with you. I must know my sister's condition right away. Not tomorrow, or an hour from now, but right away. My sister, doctor."
"To be frank—"
"It's about time."
"—Your sister's not responding as we expected; Antibiotics, the ice, oxygen, nothing seems to be effective as yet. Of course, we haven't given up hope," he added quickly, "but I don't know what to tell you."
The doll, she thought. It's burned. Peg should be all right.
"Mrs. Guiness, are you still there?"
She blinked. "Yes, of course I am. Thank you, Dr. Flaherty, you've been more than kind. And I apologize for my rudeness."
She hung up and braced herself against the stove. Pegeen was going to die. Terry had been mistaken about the doll all along. It wasn't voodoo, as Syd told her; and since it was not, what then had Alec tried to do that had been prevented by Denver?
One way, she thought, and left the house, ran across the street as her hair caught in the wind. One hand poked back inside the poncho and pressed against her jeans' pocket. The key to Alec's house seemed too large, too bulky, cold when she pulled it out, slippery when she crouched in front of the lock and eased it in. She twisted several times before it turned over, darted inside and was encased in black before anyone had spotted her. For the first time that evening she was grateful for the driving rain, at least now there would be no peeking through curtains. She was effectively invisible for whatever she had to do.
From another pocket she pulled out the penlight and flicked it on, following the narrow beam up to the living room. Then she stood in front of the fireplace and traced the outline of her previous visit, kneeling to search for something she'd missed. But in the ashes there was nothing, nor on the rug or anyplace else in the room that she could determine. But it was here that Pritchard had been discovered, and here that the doll had been found.
Hefting the poker, she tapped it impatiently against the slate hearth, her lips moving in soundless curses until an accidental sweep of light flashed back at her from the poker's tip. Pulling it closer, she blew carefully at the dust, turning the forged iron slowly. Her imagination, she thought. Another glint. Caught in small gashes in the metal, gashes caused by pounding against stone, were slivers of silver. She pried one loose with a nail, but it fell, and when she flashed the light down to recover it, a faint telltale blue winked at her from between the odd-shaped sections of hearth. With forehead nearly touching the slate, she stared until she found a tiny fragment of turquoise wedged tightly into the accumulated dust.
It wasn't the doll, then: it was the necklace. It had already been taken from the doll buried by the marker, already gone from the doll she'd seen in the lot. And the doll in the dresser? Alec had taken its necklace and pulverized it. And who had he saved? Her? Syd?
"Oh, my God, Alec," she said, leaning back onto her haunches. "Oh, my God, I've killed my sister."
Anguish closed her throat, raised a pounding in her temples. She dropped the light and poker and began to rock, beating at her breasts until they ached, moaning up a sorrow-filled scale to a soft-pitched keening that was amplified by the empty house, competed with the soughing wind. But her eyes were dry, and her throat soon cleared. Mourning would have to be deferred; she had a legend to destroy.
The window was less than a foot from the railing and by leaning just slightly she could see through the thin curtains into a room painted a painfully bright green. Mary was standing by the sink, her back to the room. William was in a straight-backed chair tipped onto its hind legs. The elder was on the floor, a blanket beneath him, a blanket around his shoulders. There was no talking, but the younger man's eyes were focused on his grandfather's hands. Terry settled back onto her heels, leaned forward again, farther and higher. Other than the chair, the room was without furniture, and there was no sign of Syd that she could see. Nor of Denver. William's head snapped back as though he were fighting sleep, but his eyes remained open and it was a discomforting moment before Terry realized he was in some sort of hypnotic trance, induced perhaps by the hands that wove invisible patterns over the elder's legs. There was something on the blanket, dark and shapeless, half hidden by the elder's bobbing shoulder. The wind shifted, then, and blinded her, and when she had shaken off the water, the old man was already moving to his feet. Neither Mary nor William stood close to assist him.
Suddenly there was a muffled yell and Terry ducked. The yelling continued and she recognized it as a chanting, a rising and falling song without translation, and it was more than the cold rain that raised bumps on her skin and weakened her determination. Taking a deep breath without successfully calming herself, she looked into the kitchen again and saw the elder and William shuffling around the edge of the air in silent drumming. Circling. Mary at the sink, her face lifted to the ceiling, her mouth open and sighing while her hands lightly patted her stomach. The something in the blanket's center. A bowl. And . . . Terry swore, but couldn't make out the shape.
A distant flash of lightning fragmented through the trees behind the house, and Terry ran down the stairs to hide under the porch. Without knowing precisely what it looked like, she knew they were performing the ritual of the Ghost Dance. The summoning of the dead. The calling of the warriors to return to the realm of the living to claim what had been theirs. Denver . . . Tecumseh . . . waiting for the hill in the field to give up its dead.
Nonsense, she told her hands as she rubbed them for warmth. It's nothing but a remnant of a religion I don't know anything about.
To the Old Ones, rest.
The Ghost Dance. Ritual of desperation. The last frantic hope of a scarred and doomed people.
Syd. If he had left the Mclntyres of his own free will, he would have stopped in the house to let her know, left her a note, a sign. He had gone to see Denver, and the last time she had seen the Indian, he was heading for the field.
She was reluctant to leave the protection of the porch. The storm, for one, had unleashed a reserve of fury usually left to the August and September hurricanes that lashed the coastal towns. And, if she should rave into the field armed with only a screwdriver and her fury, what could she do if she found Denver there? Attack and kill him? Could she kill? Could he be killed?
She turned hands into fists and pressed them against her forehead, cursing her confusion and fear, ranting silently at her inability to order things and people about as though they were figures in one of her illustrations. And suddenly it occurred to her that she might be able to do just that, or in failing, at least precipitate movement that would allow her to act. To do something!
Chapter XIII
She stood on the front porch, biting the insides of her cheeks. There was a momentary temptation to run to the Griffiths, the Dormens, but their reactions would be the same as the police. More so if she tried to convince them Denver was . . .
In spite of the storm, she tried to make herself look less disreputable, checking and wiping away telltale signs of mud on her boots and poncho. Then she rang the doorbell, keeping her thumb on the button until Mary again peered through the screen. Contrite gestures, since speech was impossible, caused Mary to back away and allow Terry to step into the foyer. The contrasting warmth soothed her, made her eyes sting as though she'd been days without sleep. She said something, neither caring nor knowing what the words were, listening rather for the sounds of chanting from the kitchen. But there was nothing untoward, and she was disappointed when William stepped into the square of light at the end of the hall, nodded, and moved to greet her.
"William," she said quickly, falling easily and nervously into the role of a rambling neighbor who'd left her manners behind, "I'm really sorry about before. I mean, I really shouldn't have come over here and shouted like I did." She waved away William's response. "The storm, see, it scared me a little, I guess, and you know how it is with newlyweds and all." She turned to Mary and smiled broadly, prompting a weaker one in return. "Mary would know, right, dear? And you in your condition seeing me like that! God, you must think I'm really crazy! You must think I'm some kind of city freak, right?"
"Mrs. Guiness," William said firmly, "we thought nothing of the kind. I do not believe you are a freak. I understand your concern. I was thinking, however, that if Mr. Guiness came over while I was still at the tavern—"
"Oh, he must have!" Terry interrupted, her hands waving water over walls and rug. "I thought that myself. That's why I came over. I'll bet he and Denver went to the show together. They're pretty close, you know."
She almost laughed at the deflated expression on his face, and immediately apologized to herself for feeling sorry she had stolen his thunder.
"Exactly," he finally said, taking Mary by the shoulder and pulling her close. "They are probably both at the movies laughing at John Wayne. In fact, I must apologize to you, Mrs. Guiness, for not thinking of it sooner."
There was a silence, and Terry reached nervously for a curl plastered wetly to her cheek.
"And how is your sister, Mrs. Guiness?"
The abrupt change of subject startled her, and she knew immediately she had lost something, not yet sure what.
"Not good," she stammered in the face of their prodding stares. "I don't think the doctors know what's really wrong with her."
"But you do, don't you, Mrs. Guiness?"
She tried a smile, but in the wake of the accusation her advantage faded to nothing. "No," she said, drawing it out and shaking her head as she inched her way back toward the door. "No, I don't. I mean, if I did, don't you think I'd run like hell to the hospital to tell the doctors so they could make her well again?"
"No," William said, releasing his wife. "No, I don't think so, Mrs. Guiness. You might, but you know they wouldn't believe you. In fact, I think you'd rather try to cure her yourself."
"Ridiculous."
"It has been said so, Mrs Guiness. After tonight, however, perhaps not." He smiled and barely lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
"William!"
The name forced a gasp from Terry, froze her hand in the act of groping for the doorknob. William stood to one side, and she could see the elder standing in the kitchen door. Backlighted, he was a shadow taller than fact, and his voice was canyon deep, canyon old. He hobbled slightly as he moved, his head bobbing as if he'd long ago abdicated control of its actions. When he was ten paces closer, he stopped, still in shadow, his white hair glowing like a frayed cloud.
"What is it?" William said. He was brusque, reluctant to surrender his position of control.
"William."
"I know, I know, but—"
Terry knew she was listening, but she couldn't understand a word of what was happening. There seemed to be another level of communication which she could not fathom and to which she was not privy, a silent and perhaps even telepathic exchange. What she could grasp, however, backed her until she f
elt the knob hard against her spine. She smiled inanely at Mary, and ignored even the slightest glance at William and the elder. Her right hand finally found purchase on the knob and her fingers tightened while her left dipped into her pocket and closed around the screwdriver. The odd conversation continued, with the elder saying only William's name, and William spurting half-sentences, unintelligible phrases partly in English, partly in the language she had heard earlier.
Suddenly, Mary darted forward and grabbed her arm, shouting and pulling her back into the center of the foyer. Terry spun to one side and pulled out the screwdriver, stabbing at Mary, striking her on the hand and shoulder until William leapt at her and smothered her against his chest with his arms.
Fighting, as much for air as freedom, Terry felt herself being lifted off her feet and carried back into the kitchen. She knew she was shouting, calling for Syd in the midst of obscenities, but it was fruitless. The light, fluorescent and glaring, blinded her, and by the time she could remember all she had known about self-defense and a man's weakest points, William had dumped her into the straight-backed chair. Then he stood behind her, holding her arms back, straining the muscles in her shoulders, thrusting her breasts out. The poncho billowed and she felt cold water dripping into the tops of her boots.
"No shouting," William whispered into her ear, yanking sharply and making her gasp. "The elder does not like noise."
"Damn him," she spat, and Mary slapped her twice.
"You will be silent," William ordered.
Defeated, her arms aching and growing numb, Terry nodded. She was close to tears, but something refused to allow her this display of weakness in front of her enemies. All she wanted now was for Syd to come charging into the room and sweep her out as he lay the Indians low with great sweeps of a broadsword, battle axe, anything at all. But she blamed no one; in trying to be a heroine, in playing out the roles she'd usually reserved for the books she could not write, she had precipitated the events she'd hoped for, and was now paying the price she had refused to consider possible.
The Curse Page 17
