She jumped when the air conditioner clicked on and began its familiar hum. Then slowly, carefully, Janet lifted her body off the girls. She leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed Ellie’s sandals. Eyeing Heather’s high-top sneakers at the foot of the other bed, she took a deep breath, then scrambled over to get them.
“Put these on,” Janet said quietly, and tossed the shoes to the girls. She glanced back at the door. “Hurry.”
Heather fumbled to put her sneakers on.
Ellie only stared at her shoes, which lay upside down on the blanket. She scratched her chin with the nose of the horse and looked across the room blankly.
Anger quickly whipped through Janet like the backlash from a gator’s tail. “I said put on your shoes now!” Heather gasped as Janet stormed over to the bed, grabbed Ellie’s sandals, and shoved them on her daughter’s feet.
Immediately ashamed of her outburst, Janet held Ellie by the shoulders and winced at the blank look on her face. “I’m—I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean—it’s just—I’m . . .”
“Scared,” Heather whispered, her dark eyes knowing. She stuck her right thumb in her mouth.
Janet grabbed her daughter and niece by the hand. “Come on,” she said firmly. “We’re going home.”
Heather’s thumb popped out of her mouth and relief radiated on her face. “Right now?”
“Right now.” Janet linked Ellie’s right hand into Heather’s left. “Now I want the two of you to hang onto each other and don’t let go,” she warned, then reached for Ellie’s left hand but it was locked around the glass horse. She started to tell her to leave it, then changed her mind and took hold of her wrist instead. Now was not the time to argue about a horse. “No matter what, don’t let go. Do you understand?”
Heather nodded eagerly and worked her fingers tighter around her cousin’s hand. Ellie stared straight ahead, her eyes vacant.
With Janet in the lead, they inched cautiously toward the door. When they reached it, Janet picked up the pogo stick with her free hand and stuck her head around the doorjamb, straining to see the staircase. What on earth did she think she was doing? A bum knee, two little girls, and the only way out of the cabin was either past the kitchen or through the dining room. If there was an intruder in the house, what was she going to do? Brain him with a pogo stick?
Janet took small, cautious steps into the hall with the girls huddled close behind.
As soon as they cleared the doorway, the door to Ellie’s bedroom slammed shut, as did the bathroom’s across the hall. A loud whirring noise, like an army of fan blades beating against the wind, erupted from the bottom of the stairs.
Janet jerked on Ellie’s wrist. “My room,” she yelled, as the whirring grew louder and closer.
She pulled them toward the master bedroom, dropping the pogo stick to free a hand. By the time Janet flung the bedroom door open, she felt something behind her. Reluctantly, she looked back. A white mass as thick as cotton batting boiled up the stairwell and into the hall.
“Get in!” Janet cried. She kept one eye on the mass while trying to shove the stumbling girls into the bedroom. The whirring sound was almost deafening now. It numbed her eardrums until she could hardly hear her own voice.
Ellie pushed hard against her mother, refusing to enter the room. “No, he’s in there!” she shouted. “He’s there!”
Heather screamed and pointed. The same foggy mass racing toward them from the south end of the hall now poured from the master bedroom, seemingly out of nowhere. One moment it wasn’t there, the next it rolled and lapped over them like a solid white wave.
Before Janet could lift a foot to move left or right, the masses collided, folding them inside. Its cover and thickness were so complete, Janet felt like she’d been wrapped in a cocoon, isolated from the rest of the world with nothing visible beyond six inches of her face.
“Ellie? Heather?” she yelled, and pulled on the small arm she clung to. She squatted so she could see her daughter’s face. The face that appeared, though, was Heather’s.
Janet stared at the child, confused. She’d been holding onto Ellie not Heather. She grabbed blindly for Heather’s other hand and felt a crushing weight in the pit of her soul when it came back empty.
Janet screamed into the cocoon. “ELLIE!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
At first, Wilson didn’t know where he was. He rolled onto his right side, blinked, and studied the dark, bulky shadow nearby.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, and sat up.
After he’d aspirated the body last night, he was getting ready to leave the funeral home when someone banged on the front door. Not sure if he’d be faced with Michael, who might have forgotten his key, or the barefoot man from earlier, Wilson peeked through a window to see who it was before opening the door. He’d nearly dropped his false teeth when he spotted Lester Vidrine standing outside, arms folded across his chest like a pissed off, dime-store Indian. He’d waited to see if Lester would leave, but that didn’t happen. Lester only knocked harder. It wasn’t until the doorknob started jiggling like the lock was being worked that Wilson hunted for a place to hide. The attic won, hands down. The access door, located in the back hall, dropped down from the ceiling by pulling on a long hideaway cord. He’d had some difficulty getting the collapsible stairs to fold back into place and the door closed once he’d climbed inside. But he’d made it.
Wilson had spent most of the night sitting against the north wall, keeping watch through a two-foot by three-foot, screened air vent. From there, he could see Lester’s red Suburban parked a block away.
Sleep must have crept up on him because the next thing Wilson knew, he’d awakened to gray, hazy daylight and voices down below. The Suburban was no longer at the corner, but now he had a new problem to deal with. A funeral home full of people. He’d had to wait them out because the alternative was unthinkable. Just appearing from out of the attic meant he’d have to explain to Michael what he’d been doing up there in the first place. And no matter what color Wilson tried painting a lie, it came down to the same issue. He’d been hiding up there like some wimpy, tail-dragging pussy.
So, he’d waited, using an old vase for a urinal and staying near the air vent where it was cooler. When the rain came, it had cooled off considerably, and the sound of wind and raindrops beating against the roof had lulled him in and out of sleep. His last nap must have been a doozie because it was now night again.
Wilson yawned and peered out of the air vent. Under the glow of streetlights, rain fell like silver tinsel. He pressed his face against the screen and scanned as much of the parking lot as he could. It looked empty.And the Suburban hadn’t reappeared.
Grinning, Wilson stood up. He yawned again, stretched and studied the wide musty space around him. Darkness lent little definition to the objects cluttering the room, but he knew if he walked straight ahead twenty feet, then doglegged right, he’d wind up at the attic door.
“Okay, old boy, it’s now or never,” he said, and began to shuffle along, sweeping both hands out in front of him like divining rods.
When his foot finally bumped against the bulk of the stairs that were attached to the attic door, he paused. The only way for him to open the door from up here would be to push down hard on it with a foot. Once opened, the stairs would immediately unfold. That meant noise. Lots of noise. He’d have little chance at stealth if anyone remained downstairs.
Holding onto the corner of an old kneeler for balance, Wilson settled a foot over the edge of the steps and pushed. The attic door creaked open a couple of inches, then snapped shut with a bang. He quickly lifted his foot again and this time stomped down hard. Just as he suspected, the attic door crashed open, and the stairs unfolded with enough noise to wake the dead in the next parish.
Wilson held his breath and waited. No shouts of alarm came from below. No sounds at all. He peered down through the opening, confirmed that the immediate coast was clear, and began his descent.
Once he
reached the bottom, Wilson stood silent, surveying the halls. When no one jumped out at him, he refolded the stairs, closed his escape hatch, and crept down the hallway toward the front of the building.
Light from a brass picture lamp cast a feeble yellow glow across the intersecting corridor. Wilson took a left, crossed the area where he and Michael had seen the old man the night before, and shivered. The air felt heavier here, musty, like he’d walked into some old, forgotten closet. He quickened his pace to a near run.
His imagination kicked into gear with his feet, and soon every shadowed chair, every curio cabinet and occasional table seemed to inch closer to the middle of the hall as if meaning to trip him. Wilson’s breathing became labored. He considered turning on the next light switch he came to, but didn’t. Someone might see the lights on from outside. He kept moving, peering over his shoulder every few seconds.
After cornering the last hall that led to the entrance doors, Wilson’s paranoia began to ease a little. Enough for him to slow to a fast walk and stop hyperventilating. As a last precaution, he whipped around, planning to take by surprise anyone who might be lurking behind him. The only one startled, however, was Wilson when his feet tangled together and he pitched face first to the floor.
He groaned and was struggling back upright when the lights from one of the viewing rooms snapped on.
“No need to get up on my account,” a gruff voice said.
Wilson ducked reflexively, and when nothing clobbered him, he looked up. Standing at the threshold of viewing room A was Lester Vidrine, complete with tawny polyester suit and Panama hat.
“You know, you really should have the lock on that lobby window checked,” Lester said.
Wilson glanced toward the front door, calculating the distance he’d have to run.
“Don’t be stupid,” Lester said, his face hardening. He unbuttoned his suit coat, revealing the handle of a .38 in the waistband of his pants. “I’m getting too damn old for a game of tag.”
Wilson squared his shoulders. He figured he had about two seconds to produce a brilliant excuse as to why he didn’t have Lester’s money or wind up on his own embalming table. “Look, Lester, buddy—”
“Don’t buddy me. Those days are over.”
“But ten years, Lester,” Wilson whined. “Ten years, and I’ve never skated out on you once. That’s gotta count for something.”
“Nothing counts but the last deal.”
“But—”
“My last favor to you was my coming here instead of sending Tank. I want my money . . . now.”
Wilson cleared his throat, feeling a little more confident. Lester showing up alone was a good sign. He’d never known the man to shoot anyone himself. Rumor had it that blood made Lester squeamish. Broken kneecaps were a different story. “Well, you see . . .it’s like this. I . . . I don’t have it.”
Lester wrapped a hand around the pistol handle. “You got one minute to reconsider what you just said.”
“Whoa, no need for the drama,” Wilson said, holding up a hand. “All I need is a few more days, that’s all.” He held two fingers an inch apart. “I was this close to getting it, Lester, I swear. But something came up, and—”
Lester’s fist jackknifed across Wilson’s jaw, dropping him to his knees.
“Play time’s over,” Lester said. “Out of the fucking kindness of my heart, I gave you extra time. Now you wanna screw me out of what’s mine?” He pulled the .38 out of his pants and aimed the barrel between Wilson’s legs. “Take my stuff, I take yours. That’s the rule.”
Wilson winced.
“You’re ball-less anyway, Savoy, so what’re you worried about? I’d be doing every woman in America a favor by shootin’ ‘em off.”
Thinking fast and sweating like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, Wilson said, “Wait up, all right? Just wait. My son’s office, we’ll go in there. I think he keeps some cash—”
“Now you’re talking,” Lester said, and pulled Wilson to his feet by his collar. “Lead the way, buddy.”
Before Wilson could explain that the cash in Michael’s office might only add up to twenty bucks, he heard a deep moan overhead.
Lester jerked his head up, throwing his hat askew. He pointed the gun at the ceiling. “What the hell was that?”
Instead of answering, Wilson cocked an ear and heard jumbled, faraway voices over the moans. How could anyone be up in the attic? He’d been up there alone. No one could have possibly had time to sneak up there. Wilson stepped back, suddenly desperate to hide again.
“Who the fuck’s here, Savoy?” Lester shouted. “You got backup hiding somewhere?”
“No! I don’t know—”
A loud thump riveted both men’s attention to the reception desk nearby. It was floating three inches off the floor and jittering from side to side. The desk legs thumped against the carpet with each tilt, pitching notepads, pens, and a tissue box to the floor. The phone slid across the desk like a hockey puck before flying off and crashing into the wall with a loud brrring!
Awestruck, Wilson stumbled back, flattening himself against the wall.
“Holy fuck,” Lester muttered, and pointed a shaking pistol at the desk. Red splotches sprang to his cheeks, and he began to back away slowly. When he reached the front door, he clawed blindly at the deadbolt lever until it flipped upright.
At any other time, Wilson might have laughed at the panic plastered on Lester’s wide face. But not now. Definitely not now.
The voices and moans, which seemed to originate from the attic, migrated to the walls, growing louder and angrier. The desk began a slow, end over end spin.
Lester let out a keening whine while frantically twisting and pulling on the doorknob. “It won’t open! Jesus, it won’t open!” He let go of the knob and kicked the door hard. When that didn’t open it, he backed up, and aimed the .38 at the knob.
The sound of three rapid shots jerked Wilson into action. He ran to the door and without thinking, shoved Lester aside. He saw two bullet holes the size of quarters in the middle of the door, and the knob, having taken a direct hit, hung aslant. Wilson grabbed the knob and pulled. It fell off in his hand. He stuck two fingers in the bullet holes and yanked. The door creaked in its jamb, but held fast.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” Lester yelled.
“How the fuck should I know?” Wilson shouted back.
Lester pushed Wilson out of the way and tried the bullet holes for himself. The door didn’t budge.
Wilson spotted movement to his left and looked over in time to see the desk sailing in their direction.
“Duck!” he cried, and dropped to the floor.
Lester fell beside him with a grunt, and his hat popped off his head like a cork from a champagne bottle.
The desk crashed into the lobby wall and exploded into splinters. Immediately, the clamor of voices and moans died.
Neither man moved. They just stared at each other, listening, waiting.
Lester was the first to lift his head, his eyes wide. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“Listen!”
Over his hammering heart, Wilson heard low, throaty growls coming from above. Then came the sound of heavy, padded feet racing across the ceiling. He looked at Lester, bewildered. “Dogs?”
“Sounds like it.”
Wondering how in the hell dogs had gotten into the attic, Wilson scrambled to his feet. He’d had enough Twilight Zone for one evening.
“Hey!” Lester jumped up and grabbed Wilson’s arm. “Where the shit you think you’re going?”
“The back door and out of here,” Wilson said, jerking his arm free
Lester glanced up nervously at the ceiling, then waved the .38 at Wilson. “I’m in charge here, remember?”
The padded, thumping feet sounded more frantic, the growls growing louder and closer.
“I don’t think so,” Wilson said, and took off for the hall.
Lester caught up to him quickly and sh
oved the gun barrel against Wilson’s back. “Move,” he demanded. “We’re going out the back door.”
“No shit?”
Lester pushed him. “Just move!”
They hurried out of the lobby with Wilson continually glancing over his shoulder, and Lester jabbing the pistol into the small of his back.
When they reached the intersecting hall that led to the back door, Wilson stopped short.
“Go!” Lester snapped.
Wilson held his ground, listening to the growls overhead. “They followed us,” he said, pointing up.
Lester shoved him. “Just go!”
Wilson lurched forward, then turned left. He swallowed hard as he approached the back door. Something didn’t feel right. After all the weird commotion in the lobby, he felt they were getting out far too easy.
Suddenly, Lester’s hand clamped down on Wilson’s shoulder. “Don’t move,” he croaked. “Don’t fucking move.”
Wilson stiffened and at first all he heard was Lester’s rapid breathing in his ear. He started to turn his head, and Lester’s fingers dug into his collarbone. The sounds of snarling and the snapping of teeth quickly reached Wilson’s ear. Lester must have heard it, too, because his grip loosened, and Wilson felt his fingers tremble. Cautiously, hesitantly, Wilson turned around.
At the opposite end of the hall stood a huge Rottweiler poised for attack. Its massive head looked like an over-inflated basketball tucked low between a two and a half-foot shoulder span. Its dark eyes bore into them while long, sharp teeth bared, then chomped. Its large front legs were splayed, and its paws, the size of a man’s hands, were turned slightly inward. Short, black hair bristled on its back.
“Call it off,” Lester gulped.
Wilson looked at him, incredulous. “You think that belongs to me?”
Lester raised the .38 slowly, and the dog inched forward. Lester cursed under his breath and took aim. The dog’s legs quickly bunched before stretching out to incredible lengths. It rocketed toward them.
With a shout, Wilson whirled about and sprinted for the exit. His fingers flew over the lock pad, and he nearly cried with joy when the door opened on the first tug. His exuberance was quickly squelched, however, when he caught sight of a second Rottweiler guarding the concrete sidewalk outside. Nearly twice the size of the one behind him, it crouched, ready to pounce. Wilson slammed the door shut. Before he had time to refocus on Lester, he heard a gunshot and spun around to see a lunging, black, blurry mass. Two more gun blasts rang out as Lester emptied the pistol into the beast. But instead of falling dead, the dog vanished in a puff of smoke and wind.
Grave Intent Page 21
