Katherine watched her with pitiless eyes.
Ellie went on, “It’s just that…you’ve always been the one with her life together.”
Katherine scowled. “What does that—”
“Nothing,” Ellie interrupted. “It’s got nothing to do with it. At least it shouldn’t. I don’t want…”
But Katherine was already turning away, her expression stony.
Ellie watched her go and tried to convince herself she hadn’t just lost the only ally she had.
The forest flew by. Chris veered left, galloping down the trail into shadow.
He’d been wrong about Katherine; he knew that now. At first he’d pegged her as a country club snob, too stuffed with affectations and rich friends to connect with.
Yet the woman who’d shown up yesterday bore little resemblance to the one Ellie had railed about for the past few years. This Katherine was more vulnerable and more alive than the one he remembered. Granted, she seemed worn out—marital problems?—but the raw vitality within her still flickered whenever she smiled or her eyes locked on his.
He stumbled over a root, staggered, but narrowly regained his balance. He shook his head, picking up speed again. That’s what he got for daydreaming about his wife’s sister.
Not telling Ellie about Katherine’s messages on their cell phone had been a miscalculation. If Ellie confronted him about it, he’d muddle his way through, claim he figured it would only stress her out, and that he’d hoped that not returning Katherine’s calls would keep her away.
Actually, this last part was true.
How surprised he’d been when she appeared at the front door yesterday. He’d been even more surprised at the powerful attraction he felt toward her.
It was too bad, really, that Katherine couldn’t stay here a good long while. He knew that wasn’t possible though. Her kids surely knew where their mother was, and even if she hadn’t told them, she could still be found here. For one, her car was parked at the edge of the bridge. Also, couldn’t they trace a cell phone signal?
His stomach did a somersault. He stopped, implacable fingers of dread closing over his throat.
Campbell had been carrying a cell phone.
He’d buried the phone with Campbell’s body.
Jesus Christ, could they trace a signal underground? He had no idea. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the phone’s battery had gone dead by now. It had already been, what, two days since Campbell could have conceivably charged it?
How long did their own battery last? Chris scanned his memory feverishly. Up to five days, he remembered with a sinking feeling. That meant Campbell’s phone, if it was as good at holding a charge as theirs, would continue to put out a signal for two or three more days.
Campbell had probably already missed work, so he’d likely been declared missing. Weren’t cell phones one of the first things the authorities checked? He thought they were.
Relax, he told himself. It probably can’t even be traced. The damn thing’s underground, for God’s sakes. And remember, you can’t even get a signal here.
Chris chewed his bottom lip, the acrid taste of bile boiling in the back of his throat. He strongly doubted they could trace Campbell’s cell phone way out here, especially through several feet of dirt.
But what if they could?
He began running back toward the house.
Ninety minutes later, he leaned on the shovel and mopped his brow with a red bandanna. He estimated he was halfway to Campbell’s body, give or take a few inches. A robust wind had begun to sweep through the forest, which made digging a hell of a lot more bearable.
Of course, the job would soon become considerably less pleasant.
Chris had read several stories involving the exhumation of a body. His favorite was Ray Russell’s “Sardonicus,” though in Chris’s own case the revenge angle of the Russell tale was blessedly absent. Chris hadn’t shot Campbell—Daniel Wolf had—and though Chris had been responsible for bringing Campbell out here in the first place, he’d never intended to hurt the man.
Why, then, was he so frightened?
That was easy, he thought. The bare fact of what he was doing to begin with. He was literally becoming a ghoul. Human bodies, once buried, were supposed to remain that way, and those who didn’t observe this axiom were committing some sort of sin, weren’t they?
Yeah, and coveting your sister-in-law isn’t sinful?
Good point, he thought.
He tossed the bandana aside and began digging again. What would have happened last night, he wondered, had he locked the door and climbed inside the shower with Katherine? Twisted the hot water back on and made feverish love to her in a cloud of steam? Would she have surrendered to him? Would Ellie have heard and come rapping at the door? Would it have mattered?
The questions scattered as the shovel blade hit an obstruction. Chris didn’t remember any rocks in the dirt with which he’d filled in the grave. It could only be Campbell’s body.
He leaned on the shovel, tested to see how much give there was. If it was Campbell he’d struck, there’d soon be a puff of foul air. He lifted the spade, jabbed it into the soil, steeling himself for the noxious odor of congealed flesh.
But he smelled only the forest, a hint of manure borne by the wind.
Frowning, he tested the soil again with the shovel tip, and again he felt the same hardening of the earth. He was tempted to drop down on all fours and begin pawing the dirt aside until he reached whatever he’d found, but the possibility of inadvertently coming into contact with Campbell’s putrefying skin precluded that. Even worse, what if he happened on the dead man’s ruined head? What if he scooped out a gelatinous glob of brains? He shivered, held tight to the shovel handle until he got control of his imagination.
Okay, he thought. You know you’ve found something, and if it is Campbell’s body, that’s a good thing, right? Isn’t that what you came out here for? It’s no vacation, that’s true enough, but neither was burying two men and a dog—which, by the way, had already become a maggot-infested horror. If you can endure all that, you can certainly do this. Just dig a little more, find Campbell’s pants, check his pockets for the phone, then shut the damn thing off. That is if it’s even working. But the main thing is to by God do it.
With steadier hands, Chris set about exposing the body. Five minutes’ work revealed the first glimpse of Campbell’s red shirt. As he set to work probing with the shovel, he told himself he wasn’t stalling, wasn’t putting off the inevitable—going through a dead man’s pockets and coming into contact with his rigor mortised body. But as his shovel sought the contours of the man’s hips, he found an odd thing; there was no stench emanating from the corpse. Momentarily forgetting his dread of contact, Chris knelt and brushed dirt off the shirt. At first there was just red fabric, but after a little more work he uncovered a small ivory button. Then another. With trembling hands, Chris undid the two exposed buttons and spread the fabric apart. Campbell’s white belly gleamed up at him like a milky cataract.
Without thinking, Chris reached over and swept a patina of soil from Campbell’s face.
And gasped.
The bugs’ve been at him, he told himself. They’ve chewed away at his flesh and that’s why he looks different.
“Bullshit,” he whispered. Bugs didn’t change the shape of a man’s eyebrows, transform them into thick, black arches. And bugs didn’t make a man’s lips curl into a savage snarl, as though the canines within had grown longer.
And bugs sure as hell didn’t change a man’s eye color—not just the irises, but the whole goddamn things—to a soulless obsidian.
No! he wanted to scream. It’s impossible!
Then what the hell was wrong with Campbell’s face?
“Fuck me,” Chris murmured. He didn’t want to do it—hell, he no longer wanted to be anywhere near this hole in the ground—but he had to do what he came here to do, had to find Campbell’s cell phone.
Studiously avoiding the unsettling, vul
pine face, he scuttled back a couple feet, clawed more dirt aside. His hands trembled as he worked, certain at any moment the too-pale fingers would batten onto him, haul him toward Campbell’s growing maw with inexorable slowness. He struggled to thrust away the thought, to ignore the sensation of the loose dirt beneath his knees shifting. Soon, he distinguished the muddy creases of Campbell’s khaki pants. In moments he’d exposed the right hip pocket, which disgorged only a leather key ring and a couple coins. He dug down until he found Campbell’s other pocket, and inside, finally, he found the cell phone.
Chris activated it. His heart dropped as an orange AT&T logo appeared, accompanied by a brief but shockingly loud jingle. He waited for the screen to say “New Voicemail,” but the only thing that appeared was a picture of a tropical beach that probably came with the phone.
Momentarily, he forgot his fear of the corpse beneath him. The poor bastard didn’t even have any family to use as wallpaper. For some reason, this filled Chris with a desolation that made him want to cry.
Then a far more terrible thought took its place.
Daniel Wolf had been a German Baptist, an upstanding man who wore the traditional beard and clothing of his faith, and for this reason Chris hadn’t even considered one important possibility.
Daniel, like his brother, had driven a newer pick-up truck. Also like his brother, Daniel was a businessman. So if Daniel wasn’t against using technology, wasn’t it possible—likely even—that he’d also carried a cell phone?
Yes, Chris thought. It was very likely.
Campbell’s battery was still working, which meant the phone could still be traced.
Which meant Daniel Wolf’s could be too.
Daniel Wolf, the man Chris had murdered.
What if the authorities were tracing Wolf’s cell phone right now? What if—
With a start, Chris depressed the Off button on Campbell’s phone. Jesus, he thought. He was one slick criminal. By digging up the man’s cell and turning the damn thing on, he might just have led the police to the body.
Why not just turn yourself in and save them the trouble?
Trembling badly, he climbed out of the grave. It would take a while to fill the hole back in, and it would take even longer to repeat the process with Daniel Wolf’s body. With any luck he’d be home by suppertime, and though he desired nothing more than a shower, some food and a good long nap, he’d no doubt have to account for every goddamn minute.
Chris scowled, imagining how Ellie would react.
Where’ve I been, Ellie? Oh, I forgot to mention that in addition to all the other bullshit gripes you’ve voiced about this place, you can now add the following:
Campbell got his head blown off the other night by an Amish man who was pissed because his Rottweiler—yep, the one that tried to eat you—was strangled to death with my belt.
What’s that? Oh, I forgot to mention…it’s sort of funny, really, but well, it’s like this: I staved the Amish man’s head in with the butt of his shotgun. Yeah, it was self-defense, and I did have some help from Petey, but yes, I’m the one who actually murdered him.
To escape these thoughts, Chris filled in Campbell’s grave, and though his hands beneath the work gloves were yowling again, he went immediately to work exhuming Daniel Wolf.
But there was no cell phone within Wolf’s navy blue work pants.
Ellie peered out the office window. Despite the lengthening shadows, Kat was still laying out in the front yard. Why she’d chosen the front yard was obvious; it was sunnier. Why she insisted on displaying so much skin was another matter. The bikini was normal enough. Just a two-piece, red bathing suit that tied at the neck. But Kat had folded the waistband down two or three times to reveal the top of her buttcrack and in doing so had given herself the world’s worst wedgie. If pressed for a reason, Kat would no doubt tell her she was trying to avoid tan lines, and if Ellie kept asking, they’d be right back to where they’d been before lunch: at each other’s throats like two snarky teenagers.
God, she thought, if we could only leave here everything would be okay.
The land won’t let you leave, a malefic voice whispered. The land won’t even let you speak.
But that wasn’t quite true, she thought. It wasn’t the land. At least not entirely the land. It was the man in the basement, the woman in the woods, Ellie’s own husband who was turning into Jack Nicholson in The Shining for chrissakes. It wouldn’t surprise her if she picked up a page of his manuscript and read “All work and no play makes Chris a dull boy.”
Impulsively, she reached down and opened the drawer. Her right hand lowered toward the stack of pages.
No, a voice spoke up. Don’t do it. You remember what happened the last time you snooped? You found that damned videotape.
Shivering, Ellie rose and went downstairs. The last thing she needed was another reason to fear her husband. In the kitchen she poured a glass of water and went out to the lawn if for no other reason than she could no longer bear being alone in the house. Ellie went outside and saw as she drew closer that Kat had not only untied the back of her bikini top, but that she’d tossed the top aside as well, apparently not worried that Chris would appear and see her half naked.
Because he’s already seen all of you, hasn’t he, Sister Dearest?
Knock it off, she told herself. It was an accident, nothing more.
Kat asked, “You ever hear of something called astral projection?”
Ellie handed her the water, and as her sister grasped it, Ellie caught a glimpse of nipple. Not as shy as you used to be, are you?
She brushed the thought away, said, “Astral projection… Is that like using the stars to predict the future?” She sat in the grass next to the blue beach towel on which her sister lay. The scent of coconut tanning oil hung in the air.
“That’s astrology. This is like an out-of-body experience, only you’re still in control of your spiritual self. The body remains where it is—in bed usually—and the ethereal self is able to move around and explore.”
Ellie could not suppress a grin. “Ethereal self?”
“Believe it or not, Roland was the one who told me about it.” Kat pushed up onto her elbows. If Chris did appear now, Ellie thought, he’d get quite a show.
Kat said, “I hardly listened when he explained it…Roland has a way of making even the most fascinating concepts sound dull. But that night I had a dream. ”
Oh crap, Ellie thought. Here we go.
“You wanna hear about it?”
Ellie shrugged.
“It was like astral projection, only reversed. My body got up, but my spirit stayed in bed next to Roland.”
“You watched yourself?”
“My body left the room. It was gone for several minutes. When it finally returned it didn’t even look like me. It looked like—” Kat broke off, a sick look on her face.
“You probably dreamed it,” Ellie said.
“That’s not the worst part.”
“Kat—”
“I watched the woman stand over Roland with a carving knife.”
“It was a dream.”
“Was it?”
Ellie stared at her sister, unable to speak.
Kat’s eyes were pleading. “What if it wasn’t?”
Ellie ignored the tingle at the nape of her neck. “It had to be.”
Tears shimmered in her sister’s eyes. Kat pressed white knuckles against her mouth, said something Ellie couldn’t make out. Ellie put a hand on her back, leaned closer.
Kat said, her voice hardly audible, “I think I’m losing my mind.”
After finishing his novel, Chris downed several beers by way of supper and plopped down in bed beside Ellie. Within minutes he fell asleep.
Later, he dreamed.
It began pleasantly enough. The beautiful woman—not the demonic predator, but the one to whom he’d first made love in the forest—beckoned him into the woods. Naked, Chris hastened after her. And though it was dark, he discovered she w
as naked too, the tantalizing glimpses of her buttocks and the feminine curves of her legs driving him crazy as he strove to draw even with her. In moments they’d somehow reached the large clearing, but here was where pleasure faded and horror took its place. The hill was crawling with white, humanoid shapes that wriggled and growled with desire. He approached them, not at all curious but unable to prevent his legs from carrying him forward. Toward the great hill, which blazed with several bonfires. Though he couldn’t make out what awaited at the crest, he was overcome with an inescapable dread, a certainty that whatever evil lurked up there was waiting for him.
Something brushed his ankle. He told himself to leap away, but his leg wouldn’t cooperate, the cold, clammy fingers inching their way up his shin, his knee. He refused to look down at whatever groped him, but the fingers continued upward, caressing the skin above his knee, his bare thigh. Then confusion set in because the firelight was fading, the familiar touch of the pillow under his head supplanting it.
But the touch on his thigh persisted.
Was Ellie waking him up for sex?
Eyes still shut, Chris wondered what had gotten into her. How long had it been? A week? Two? They’d scarcely even spoken lately.
Yet the summery touch of her fingertips was working its magic on him. He was already rock hard.
Chris debated. He could teach her a lesson, abstain tonight in protest of her bad attitude, but really, what would be the point? Sure, she deserved it, but the fact remained that he needed to get laid, especially after the last couple days. He could make love to Ellie and pretend she was Katherine, and given his wife’s bitchiness of late, he really wouldn’t feel too bad about it either. Smirking, Chris opened his eyes.
And saw the figure standing over him.
His first impulse was to scream. The room was dark and the figure was darker, and even in this dimness he could see it was a woman, and he’d rather leap out the window and risk serious injury than gaze into those soulless white eyes again. He actually did scoot toward the headboard to get away from the probing fingers until his night vision kicked in and he distinguished the crooked grin on the woman’s face. This wasn’t a vampire or a demon.
The Darkest Lullaby Page 22
