by Lara Parker
TWENTY-THREE
Salem—1971
BARNABAS LIFTED HIS HEAD from the table and peered into the dark. At first he did not know where he was, but Antoinette was still at his side and, when she saw him, she fell against his shoulder with a harsh sob. Relieved to find them back where the séance had begun, he held her and said softly, “It’s over. We’re safe.” All the other participants were still in a trance, hands clasped, eyes closed. One by one they came back to consciousness and looked around vaguely disoriented. All but Jacqueline. He thought she had disappeared, but he saw her standing by the shattered window, the cold wind lifting her hair and ruffling her long skirt. The storm had passed and faint moonlight etched a silver outline around her silhouette. Something about her demeanor astonished him. She seemed older, melancholy and yet serene, wrapped in solitude. Her hands were folded in front of her, she held her body erect, and a faint smile played upon her lips. A shiver crept along his spine. And yet what he saw was not evil, only magical. Her black hair fell in a tangled mass about her face and her eyes were bright with tears; and there was something about the folds of her skirt: they floated and swayed, barely touching the ground. He held his breath thinking she had been changed during the séance, transformed, but she finally walked to the table, and she was still the young girl he remembered. She seemed frightened and lost; but then, when she saw her mother, her face flooded with an expression of profound relief. She went into her arms with a cry and they embraced and kissed cheeks and lips, and Antoinette rocked her daughter, both of them weeping. Jacqueline let go of the object she had been holding so tightly in her hand and it clattered onto the table. It was a small knife with an ivory handle and it was stained with blood.
DAVID WAS STILL SLEEPING when Barnabas returned, hardly any time having passed in this world while he was away. The boy lay on his side breathing through his mouth, one hand hanging off the bed, his dark hair tussled over his smooth brow, his lashes soft upon his cheek. The other hand had tugged the quilt up under his chin as though he had been cold while sleeping, and he seemed unusually pale, his skin almost transparent, his lips a faint pink. His head was turned to the side and the jugular fluttered in his neck.
Barnabas could only assume Julia’s warnings had been meant to frighten him and keep him within her control. Except for his wound, which had begun to throb, he felt better than he had in months—vigorous, more youthful. The spasms of heat had subsided and his vitality had returned. If he were now completely human, would he need another shot?
The boy stirred, and Barnabas drew back before he opened his eyes.
“Barnabas,” he said, “where were you?” He threw off the bedclothes and sat up, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned. “I woke up in the middle of the night and you were gone. Your bed wasn’t even slept in.”
“Yes, I know. I went back out, and I found Antoinette.”
“How?”
“I drove around until I saw her truck. She was . . . she was inside a bar with some friends.”
“Did you tell her everything that happened?”
“She’s returning to Collinsport right away.”
“What about Jackie? Was she with her?”
Barnabas sensed how deeply pleasurable it was for David to say his sweetheart’s name, and, at the same time, the anxiety she aroused in him. He decided not to tell David the truth. “No, she wasn’t there. I think Toni left her in her room at the Old House.”
“So, she’s safe.”
“I think for now, yes.”
David was silent. Barnabas found it impossible to explain his foray into the past. Already it seemed a dream. However, he now had one new responsibility over which he had no choice. He must find some means of ending David’s association with Jacqueline. She was unpredictable—perhaps enchanted—and surely dangerous. Sensitive to the difficulties in admonishing a belligerent teenager, he waited until they were on the road back to Collinsport, and only then did he attempt to draw the boy into a conversation that he hoped David would not find threatening.
“Did you—had you, any idea your friend Jackie was so deeply troubled?”
“Yeah, well, I knew there was something wrong with her.”
“But you didn’t suspect it was schizophrenia before you read those reports, did you?”
“I don’t know. She’s so changeable. I thought she liked me, I mean, I thought it was me she wanted, but now I’m not so sure. When I was with her, she would act excited and happy, and then she would get grumpy. But even when we were together, I always had the feeling that she was waiting for someone or something else. You know, like that feeling you get when you’re at a party and talking to someone, but they don’t look at you. They’re always looking over your shoulder.”
“Yes, I know that feeling.”
“She would let me kiss her and hold her just the way you would expect a girlfriend to do, but I could tell; I mean, I sometimes thought I wasn’t the one she loved.”
There was a pause. The only sound was the hum of the engine as they drove through a dense forest. The sun had chased away the dark clouds and the whole world was glistening; every leaf glittered with a diamond droplet, the pavement shone, and the sky was a painful blue.
“Did she ever tell you anything about her childhood?” asked Barnabas.
“Well, one weird thing. Toni was stoned on acid when she was born.”
“Oh . . .?”
“The stuff was brand new, and they were experimenting. They thought, I don’t know, it seems so crazy today, but they thought it would make the baby be born easier. It came from ergot, a mold on rye, and I guess women used to take ergot to speed up childbirth.”
“Yes. Aldous Huxley even said he witnessed the moment of his own conception.”
“When he took LSD?”
“He said he had a moment of transcendence when he realized that love is the fundamental cosmic truth.”
“That’s cool.”
“What else did Jackie tell you?”
“She said she was really an unhappy kid until she met some Glitter girls in junior high. Back then they weren’t so weird looking. Just black clothes and white make-up. Red lipstick. But still, a couple of them pretended to be vampires, and they—I don’t know, she said they drank each other’s blood.”
“How disgusting.”
“And they did a lot of LSD and mescaline, mushrooms, shot up stuff. I guess she got really wild, and Toni put her in Windcliff.”
“Poor child. And we know what happened there.”
They sped down the highway past magnificent forests radiant with fall color; Barnabas was struck by a reappearance of the earth’s majesty, as though the trees were chords played in a sweeping symphony of light.
David was silent. Barnabas settled into his comfortable cushioning and became newly aware of the luxurious appointments of his car—the supple leather, the lavish use of chrome, the claret tint of the burl paneling. He looked over at the boy, who was gazing out the window at the landscape flying by in a blur of crimson and magenta. He wanted to reach over and take David’s hand, but he realized the boy was now too old for a display of affection—at least of that nature.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Now that you know so much about Jackie, do you still want to be with her?”
David sighed. “I still love her.”
“Why?”
“She reminds me of myself,” he said, and then after a pause, “She’s lonely.”
“Does it occur to you that she might harm you in some way?”
“What? More than she already has?”
“No, I don’t mean breaking your heart.” He hesitated. “I mean in some physical way.”
“But she’s just a girl. I’m a lot stronger than she is.”
“Would you be willing to consider my opinion?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“I think she might become violent. That’s what it said in the report, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. .
..”
“I think you should stay away from her, David.”
“Don’t tell me to do that, Barnabas. I can’t.”
“Then I may be forced to tell your father.”
David looked at Barnabas in surprise. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? You’re my friend.”
“If I thought it would keep you safe.”
“He’d send me to Exeter. He’s been threatening a military academy for years. This would be all the excuse he needed.”
“But if you thought she was someone who was evil? . . . I mean, do you really trust her?”
“She’s—I don’t know—I told you, it’s like she’s bewitched me. I know that sounds silly, but no matter how she treats me or how angry or hurt I get, if she wants me with her, all she has to do is ask. I haven’t any control over myself.”
Barnabas waited, then said, “It sounds like military school would be the solution.”
“This is stupid. This whole conversation! You can’t make me do anything. Neither can my father. You have no idea how it feels to be in love.”
“As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do. It’s agony. But I am only thinking of your welfare. I am afraid you are in danger. And if I have to do something drastic to stop you, I will.”
“Oh, yeah? Okay. You’re right.” David’s voice was flat with indifference. “Sure, Barnabas, whatever you say. I’ll stay away from her.”
For the rest of the drive David sat with his earplugs inserted, listening to his cassette player, the tinny sound of rock ’n’ roll music leaking into the interior of the car. He refused to speak again. Barnabas hoped he had made some progress, but he feared he had only alienated the boy. Perhaps Antoinette would know what to do. As they drove into Collinsport, he searched the streets for her truck. He was anxious to see her, to be alone with her, to see her smile, to simply enjoy her company, but he was worried about her reaction to the question he planned to ask. It was clear to him now what he intended to do, and the thought thrilled him with expectation.
WHEN HE AND DAVID ARRIVED BACK AT COLLINWOOD, Barnabas found Willie waiting for him near the back door, agitated and stuttering. “Barnabas, where have you been? Someone’s been creeping around the house. I-I saw him behind Rose Cottage last night around midnight, and . . . and then again up on the first floor parapet looking in a window. Then I-I saw him up on the roof, near the tower.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Elizabeth did. But after the raid on the camp, they didn’t even want to come. It’s like they’ve got some grudge against the Collinses.”
“Why in the world?”
“Their excuse was—they said all the hippies were kept in the Collinsport jail until yesterday afternoon. And then some of them were released, but they—they put most of them on a bus and took them to Portland, to County. A lot of officers on duty had to go with them, and no one was back yet. When a police car showed up, it was close to midnight, and—and whoever was roaming around was gone. What if he comes back tonight?”
“Tell Elizabeth she need not worry. I’ll be happy to keep watch. Doesn’t Roger have a pistol?”
“Yeah, and there’s a shotgun too, one that stays in the downstairs closet.”
“Good. Make sure that is loaded as well. If you see anything, call the police.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have an errand in town.”
“But, Barnabas—”
“I’ll be back before nightfall.”
Jason had kept his promise, Barnabas was certain. Somehow he had escaped the clutches of the police and returned to seek revenge on the Collins family. But there was something else that stirred his deepest suspicions, something he had ignored, until now. He remembered the carpenter’s lithe movements, his effortless grace, his glittering eyes, his cunning behavior at the camp. And where had he disappeared to when the ghoul attacked the girl? He had fled, either to avoid suspicion or because he knew the monster, and had sent it into their midst for his own purposes—angry, perhaps, over Barnabas’s tryst with Antoinette. Of course! Had he still been his old self, Barnabas would have recognized another of his clan instantly. How miserably unperceptive was the human mind.
The drive back into Collinsport was more difficult than he had expected. His heart beat like a hammer and anticipation made his stomach churn. More than once his vision clouded and dizziness bedeviled him. Until now, he had harbored a fleeting hope that he might finally be cured. But for some reason a fog filled his brain. His wound was much worse. It throbbed with pain, and he felt flushed and feverish.
ANTOINETTE’S PICKUP TRUCK was parked outside the Blue Whale. She was sitting alone at a table near the back, sipping a glass of wine, and listening to a young girl on stage singing a mournful folk song. Even though his heart jumped when he saw her, Barnabas lingered a moment to look at her. She wore a sapphire jacket embroidered around the collar with leaves and flowers. Tendrils of her yellow hair fell softly over her brow and clung to her neck. He made in that instant an inescapable decision. From this moment on, she would be the woman he loved.
The girl singing had a fine voice, and he heard the lyrics as if they were meant for him.
“My love and I did to the church go,
With bride and bride maidens they made a fine show,
And I followed last that she might never know,
For she’d gain to be wed to another.”
“Antoinette?”
She looked up with a start, her face aglow in the lamplight, but when she recognized Barnabas, she frowned almost as if she had been expecting someone else. He was dismayed to see what he thought was disappointment darkening her eyes, but in her way, she tried to cover this, and she smiled rather sheepishly, her expression acknowledging all they had experienced in the last few hours, or days.
“May I sit down?”
“Oh, sure.”
She looked tired. Her mascara was smudged and her eyes had dark circles beneath them. But the eyes were the same, those hypnotic azure eyes, changing from pale turquoise to mossy green, with the dark rings around the irises. He was mesmerized.
“I had to see you,” he said, thrilled with new energy in spite of the pain in his side. “As soon as I got back. Have you recovered?”
She did not meet his gaze. Instead, she looked down at her hands, looked up at him quickly, then looked away.
“How is Jackie?”
“Better. She’s got some of her little girl back.” She shrugged, sighed, then fingered the stem of her glass. “I couldn’t save her.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s over.”
“No, my dear. It’s just beginning.” He took her hands. She frowned.
“Toni, I have to tell you something. I was very moved by what I saw in Salem.” She flinched and turned her head to look towards the door. “Your unselfishness, your sacrifice—” He stopped himself, but only for a moment, before he blundered heedlessly into his topic. “Are you certain you have no memory of a woman named Angelique?”
She gave an exasperated little laugh and shook her head.
“But I do,” he said with sudden eagerness. “I remember her well. As I have tried to tell you before. We’ve known one another, you and I, in the past.”
She stared at him without expression. “How could that be?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we alone shared such a miraculous experience? If the séance was possible, then anything is possible. Is it not?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to think about it. It was a nightmare.”
“Of course. I agree absolutely. That is why I’ve come to tell you what’s past is past forever. I’ve come to offer you all the help you need.”
“Thanks.”
Her nonchalance annoyed him, and at the same time the words of the song penetrated his consciousness.
“My love and I sat down to dine
And she sat down beside me and poured out the wine
And I drank to the lass who should ha
’ been mine,
For she’s gain to be wed to another.”
He looked at his beloved. She wore no lipstick and her full lips were, pale and slightly lined. Her hands, which he now held in his own, bore ragged nails and the veins were prominent.
“Toni, listen to me. I want to spend more time with you.”
She seemed to be making an effort to be polite. “But, why?”
He hesitated, unsure of how to begin. “Did the night we spent together, in your tent, did you—” and suddenly he knew that if she were in love with him, it would be obvious, and there would be no need to say anything at all. “Were you glad?” he asked finally.
She seemed to sense his distress. She laughed lightly and squeezed his fingers. “Drugs are funny,” she said. “They take away inhibitions, and all the social codes seem ridiculous. The strongest urge is to experience life in all its forms, to abandon yourself to love. Who with is not so important.”
“You’re saying I could have been anybody.” The bones in his chest felt pinched.
“Well, not anybody. Not Jason. I seem to remember he was pissing me off.”
Barnabas felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten and burn with little spasms of pain. Still he blundered on. “But that night in the tent with you was for me a—a journey to paradise.”
She laughed. “Don’t forget. I gave you some too.”
“Some what?”
She frowned again. “Half a tab.” She pulled a small crevice between her eyebrows. Again he was bewildered by her jarringly modern demeanor, so different from Angelique’s, so lacking in nuance or duplicity. He didn’t know what to say to that, but for some desperate reason he found he could not stop himself from making every effort to reach her.
“I fell in love with you that night. I long to spend my life, no—eternity, with you. And you may not know it, you may not be aware of it, but you have somewhere inside you, the power—”
“Barnabas, stop.” A lock of hair fell in front of her eyes and she drew one hand away and brushed the curl back and tucked it behind her ear. For the first time since he had begun to speak to her she looked deeply into his eyes.
