“…we’re not going to be any safer hiking to town through the countryside…”
The woman took a step toward them, one slender leg crossing the other, and Ellie noticed a disturbing thing. A moment earlier she was sure the woman was watching her, but now she realized the glittery sable eyes were fixed on Chris. Unwavering, as if she were obsessed with him.
“Ellie?” he asked and shook her a little. “Ellie?”
Ellie’s eyes shifted to Chris, then flitted back to the naked woman, and in that time the figure somehow vanished.
If it had been there at all.
Of course it was there! her mind screamed. She could describe the woman in perfect detail: long, curly hair; pearlescent skin; the strange, haunting eyes that weren’t quite human. The figure filled her with the same atavistic dread as…as…
As the man you supposedly found in your basement.
Supposedly?
She searched her husband’s face and discerned the same thought scrawled on his features. She fought to repel it. It was real, she told herself. It wasn’t some stress-induced hallucination, some product of the drugs she’d taken.
Was it?
“We’re going to be fine,” Chris was saying. “You wait here while—”
“You think I’m waiting out here by myself?”
“In the car,” he said, as if it were obvious.
“No way.”
“You can lock the door if—”
“I’m not waiting in the goddamn car.”
He let go of her shoulders. “All right, fine. Then stay right behind me. It won’t take long.”
He started toward the house.
“Wait a minute,” she said.
“Ellie, it’s the only way. If there is somebody inside, he could follow us wherever we went. All we need is the keys—”
“He’ll kill you.”
He stopped, put his hands on his hips and Ellie thought, Not now. For God’s sake, please don’t let your wounded male ego complicate the situation.
“Give me a little credit, El. I think I can take care of one man.”
Not this man, she thought. But she knew where that would get her. She struggled for the right words, a way to take his pride out of it…
She took his arm. “He might have a gun.”
His face clouded. He glanced irresolutely at the house. “I guess it’s possible…”
“It’s more than possible. What if he snuck in to rob the place and I surprised him? He’s probably mad as hell and ready to shoot anyone that comes inside.”
And that tidy explanation, she reflected grimly, ignores several salient questions, such as why would he have gone to the basement if he were a thief, and even more importantly, what the hell was he doing to Petey on the workbench?
Chris raised an index finger. “The garage,” he said and set off in that direction. She followed, and as she did, she cast a glance over her shoulder to see if the naked woman had reappeared.
But the forest was darker than ever.
He felt a good deal more confident with the axe in his hands.
He’d offered it to Ellie, but she claimed it was too unwieldy for her and opted for a hard-toothed rake.
As they exited the garage, he said, “What’re you gonna do with that, comb his hair?”
She brandished the rake playfully. “Would you like to be smacked with one of these?”
“Not particularly,” he said, and smiled for the first time since the clearing.
Since you cheated on Ellie.
You don’t know that, a small voice in his head pleaded.
Then the other voice, insistent, implacable: Yes, you do. You know exactly what happened in that clearing. You’re an adulterer, buddy. How’s it feel?
He turned away so his wife couldn’t see his face. As he moved cautiously toward the house, a gauzy filmstrip of images flickered through his memory:
The naked woman urging him closer.
The soft grass under his bare feet.
Her fingertips on his chest.
A dream, he protested. All a dream.
He could feel Ellie behind him, her alarm growing with every step they took toward the house.
That’s right, he told himself. Focus on that, focus on Ellie. She’s the one you’re supposed to protect. She’s the one you
(betrayed)
need to keep your eye on. After that incident with the Rottweiler, when you failed her
(because you were with another woman)
you better not fail her again
(and you went back, didn’t you? Went back because you knew who you’d find, the woman’s body easing down on yours, the feel of her warmth)
“Wait a second,” Ellie whispered.
Chris looked back at her, his head clearing.
She was staring at the ground, listening.
“What is it?” he asked and peered up at the back door, only ten feet away.
“I thought I heard Petey scratching at the screen door.”
“So?”
“He was locked in the basement.”
Chris gaped at her. “You locked him in the basement?”
“Would you rather I let the man murder me?”
He dropped his head, disgusted with himself. Husband of the year, he thought. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just…”
Just what? It’s just been a tough night, what with the extra-marital sex and all?
Ellie watched him.
He shook his head. “Just nothing, there’s no excuse. I’m just happy you’re safe.”
“If we were safe, we wouldn’t be standing outside the house with gardening tools.”
He saw the fear in her eyes, and some of his composure returned. He inhaled a deep lungful of air, gripped the axe in his right hand and took hold of the back door with his left.
He glanced back at Ellie. “You ready?”
She gave him a sardonic glare. “No.”
Despite his own fear, he grinned. He raised the axe and slowly drew open the back door.
Petey lay on the floor in the doorway between the screened-in porch and the kitchen. At first Chris was sure the dog was dead. Then Petey twitched, opened his eyes, and gazed sleepily up at him.
Chris inched his way forward, ready to swing the axe at anything that moved. He could hear Ellie behind him, her breathing strained and shallow.
He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears, whispered, “Where is he, boy? The kitchen?”
Chris glanced that way and saw the room looking like it always did, the ugly overhead light casting its sallow glow over the outdated appliances.
His gaze moved to the unlit living room. Nothing out of the ordinary he could see. He leaned into the kitchen and frowned.
The basement door stood open.
“You said you locked it?”
“That’s right.”
Ellie peered around his arm.
“Oh hell,” she said.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” he said, more to convince himself than Ellie. “Petey might’ve pushed it open to get out of the basement.”
Ellie didn’t respond. He didn’t blame her.
He didn’t believe himself either.
The house seemed empty.
When they’d searched upstairs and retrieved the car keys, they returned to the kitchen, where the basement door stood open like the hungry maw of some subterranean monster.
“Let’s leave,” Ellie said from behind him.
He paused. “You positive you saw someone down there?”
“Chris.”
“I’m just asking.”
“You think I made it up to get attention?”
He half-turned, not wanting to completely lose sight of the blackened doorway. “I’m not saying that. But you had an awful day with the dog and the hospital. The pills you took on the way home…”
“None of that made me hallucinate a man who looked like a muscle-bound Satan-worshiper.”
“Then let’s make sure he’s out of ou
r house.”
“Are you crazy? Chris, let’s go.”
“Go where? I didn’t see a hotel in town, did you?”
“We’ll go to the police station then, tell Bruder what happened.”
“Bruder’s probably in bed sleeping,” he said. “We’ll get some buck-toothed deputy who’ll think we’re nuts.”
“Great! I’d rather be laughed at than chopped into little pieces.”
“I’m the one with the axe.”
“Goddammit, Chris, would you please stop being such a macho idiot?”
“I’m checking the basement,” he said. He stepped over to the doorway, reached in, flicked on the light.
“Damn it,” Ellie said, but she followed him just the same.
They made their way down in the meager basement light.
They reached a door in the far corner of the room. Chris opened the door and waited for Ellie to illuminate the room beyond. When she did, he couldn’t make out much of anything save a few hulking piles against the wall.
“Where was he?” Chris asked.
Ellie’s voice was strained. “Over there.” The beam rested on the far wall. Squeezing the axe handle for courage, Chris stepped closer.
Halfway across the room, he stopped and indicated a door on their left. “Where’s that lead?”
“The utility closet,” she said.
He heard something odd in her voice. Before he could respond, she moved past him and stopped a few feet from the wall.
As she passed the light over the grimy gray cinderblocks, Chris asked, “Where’s the room with the workbench?”
“Son of a bitch,” Ellie muttered.
“Honey?”
“Right here,” she said, the flashlight beam dancing wildly on the wall.
“You must’ve gotten turned around,” he said. He nodded toward the wall on their right. “Maybe it’s over there.”
“It was here, Chris. This exact spot.”
“Ellie—”
“I know what I saw, dammit. There was a doorway and a workbench, and a man had Petey. Had him…hooked up to something.” She reached out, trailed a hand over the rough surface.
“You think maybe it was the medication?” he asked and immediately regretted it.
“Thanks a lot.”
“Where’s the door then?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I know what I saw.”
They left the room in silence. When they got to the stairs leading up to the kitchen he stepped aside to let Ellie pass. He followed her up. He was about to close the basement door when he decided, on a whim, to shine the flashlight into the darkness one more time.
He braced himself for the monstrous figure, the eyes full of rage glowering up at him through the gloom.
But nothing stirred in the flashlight’s dull glow.
Chris exhaled and shut the door.
Chapter Six
She barreled down the country road, Dr. Stone’s terrible words repeating in her head like some ghastly taunt: I’m so sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Crane, but we’ve found something troubling.
She was tempted to go faster than her current eighty, but each time she flirted with ninety, the loose gravel threatened to hurl her into a ditch. The sky portended rain the whole miserable way, and when she swung the Camry onto the lane, the rain cut loose and began to pelt the windshield with merciless force. For a wild moment she was tempted to let the back end continue its nauseating roll toward the trees and ruin the car for good. Then she jerked the wheel into the spin. Ahead she spotted the bridge leading home.
What if I overcorrected? she wondered. What if I aimed the car not at the bridge but to the right of it and plunged down the embankment to the creek? What if I found myself upside down in the water?
Ellie got control, maneuvered the car between the wooden guardrails.
At the far end of the bridge the Camry jounced, Ellie’s butt actually leaving the seat and the top of her head rapping the ceiling. Then she picked up speed again, the tires lurching as she marauded over the gravelly potholes.
She checked the speedometer. Forty-five. If Petey were to dart out of the forest now he wouldn’t stand a chance. Which was tragic, she told herself, since he was probably the closest she would ever come to having a child. Nature or God or whatever cruel presence presided over her life had decided to deprive her of the one thing she truly wanted. Her eyes flicked to the speedometer.
Fifty.
An overhanging branch whacked the Camry’s antenna, but Ellie only pushed the accelerator harder.
Fifty-five.
The house would appear soon, and she knew she should slow down, but the picture of her crashing into the garage didn’t disturb her. Chris would hear it and come out, and she supposed he’d be worried about her.
That was, until she told him she could never bear a child, was as fallow as a scorched field in a nuclear winter. But it’s a good thing we found out when we did, she’d tell him. Now you’ll have time to find a suitable replacement for me, someone who’ll give you the little boy you always talk about, the one with whom you dream of playing catch.
A voice spoke up, clear and clinical but not unkind: You’re hurting, Ellie, but you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Not to mention endangering your life by driving like an idiot.
She checked her speed.
Sixty miles per hour.
And the house and garage were now in view. Eighty yards away. Sixty.
You know Chris will love you no matter what, the voice insisted, and Ellie was taken aback to find it belonged to Katherine. You’re in pain, and you have every right to be angry…
The garage was very close now, the Camry racing at it with appalling rapidity.
Thirty yards and closing.
…but there are still options, Ellie. Babies get adopted every day. You and Chris could make great parents to one of those babies.
With a choked sob, Ellie stomped on the brake with both feet, yanked the wheel sideways, the Camry skidding toward the garage, the cracks in its paint clearly visible now, getting clearer, and for the second time in a minute the back end slued toward the front, but this time it kept on going, its looping swipe missing the garage by inches, the car bouncing to a stop in the narrow swath of grass between garage and forest.
She leaned against the steering wheel and wept. She pounded the dash with a shaking fist, the adrenaline of the near crash endowing her blows with added force.
After a long time she slumped back against the seat and listened to the rain. There was no thunder, just the solid thunk of the raindrops on the roof.
Find your husband, El. You need him now.
She concentrated on breathing, on calming the uneven hitches in her chest.
Okay, she thought. Okay.
Find Chris.
Ellie opened the door and climbed out. As if sensing her presence, the rain grew more intense, icy freshets plastering her hair to her scalp and soaking her clothes to the skin. She thought of a warm bath, a glass of wine. She could sure as hell have one now, no baby to worry about.
A fresh wave of grief blurred her eyes. She fought it, made it to the back door, stepped inside.
And stared.
The waves of sorrow diminished, a pulsing shock taking their place.
Where before there had been a single chair on the back porch, there were now two wicker couches and a loveseat. The tabletop was frosted glass, but its legs also were made of wicker. The couch fabric was gaudy pink roses on a lighter pink background. The furniture seemed to laugh at her, delighting in her dismay.
Hideous, she thought. And somehow familiar.
She continued inside and gazed confusedly into the living room.
Where before the room had been spartan, now the space was packed with two more couches, a leather recliner, a chaise longue with a high back that blocked a sliver of the northern window. She’d seen it all somewhere, and for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, the sight of it all plagued her with a bewildering sense
of doom. There were paintings on the walls, awful, outdated paintings of country roads and windmills and seacoasts. On one yellowing print she beheld a pair of little boys climbing a tree.
She made her way through the living room on legs that threatened to buckle. She felt like an intruder, and had theirs not been the only one for miles, she would have turned and escaped, embarrassed for having entered the wrong house.
She rounded the corner into the foyer, where more surprises awaited. Another painting, this one of a country field bisected by a rock wall. Another table, one that jutted out too far into the room. And a grandfather clock. Gazing at the brass finials, the plain beige clock face, Ellie finally remembered.
Aunt Lillith.
Dear God, Chris had retrieved her belongings from storage and littered the house with them.
“So?” a voice asked from the dining room.
She turned and stared at Chris.
“What do you think?” he asked, gesturing toward the clock.
When she didn’t answer, he raised his eyebrows, mopped sweat from his forehead. “I was upstairs arranging. Must not’ve heard you pull up.”
“I can’t have children.”
He frowned. “What?”
“I can’t have children,” she repeated. “I had an appointment today, remember?”
“How can they…”
“Endometriosis. The chances of my getting pregnant are virtually nil.”
“Ellie,” he said, reaching for her.
“Don’t.”
He dropped his arms. “Ellie, I’m—”
“You can leave me if you want.”
“You think I’d leave you?”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
He led her into the living room, where they sat on their old couch. She cried for a while, and he held her. She put her head on his shoulder and snuggled into him.
After they’d sat in silence for several minutes, Chris said, “What do you think of my surprise?”
“You mean your aunt’s old furniture?”
She felt him tense. “You said we needed more furniture.”
“I have to tell you something,” she said. “But you have to promise not to get mad.”
“What?” he said, his voice guarded.
“Promise.”
He sighed. “Fine, I promise.”
The Darkest Lullaby Page 11
