by Ed Gorman
Otherwise the place was so dark it was totally unfamiliar to her.
It seemed to her that on those nights that the noise came, it came from near the pantry, up from the basement....
Ruth always explained it as a cat or dog trapped in the cellar ... finally getting itself out....
Minerva wondered....
Now that her eyes were growing accustomed to the shadows, Minerva felt silly about being afraid. She had been a part of this house for nearly thirty years. She knew her way around it as well as her blind aunt knew her way around her own house.
Minerva, curious about the animal noise even though there was no evidence of it now, went into the formal dining room on her way toward the pantry at the rear of the house. Moonlight fell across the long dining table, making the wax sparkle with silver colors.
She was ten feet from the pantry door when it happened. She scarcely had time to scream.
Ruth was not certain what had awakened her. Some sound.
She lay in that half-state of wakefulness, listening to the venerable noises made by the venerable mansion.
Friendly, familiar noises.
But what had awakened her?
After a time she fell asleep again.
5
“It’s all right,” Donna Reeves said.
“Sure it is,” Vince Reeves said. He rolled over and angrily snatched a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.
Donna was a thirty-five-year-old woman given to plumpness and occasional migraines. She was a housewife, even if her house happened to be a large trailer in Van Dyke’s Trailer City, and not at all displeased that she didn’t have to punch a time clock. Vince, her dark-haired, chunky and usually inexhaustibly horny husband, made just enough on his salary as Sheriff Wayman’s deputy that Donna could stay home. The only thing wrong with their marriage—other than the two children they’d lost to miscarriages—was the slight sex problem Vince had been having the past few weeks. Tonight, for instance, he’d rolled on and almost as quickly rolled off. The term in the sex manual she’d bought at the drugstore the other day was premature ejaculation. Here was Vince, who usually wore her out, who usually plundered her until she swore she wouldn’t want sex again for months, here was Vince getting it over in mere seconds.
Which didn’t bother Donna much, but it sure bothered hubby-poo. He had started averting his eyes, and sitting out in the squad car before coming in, as if he had some dread disease, and avoiding her sexually in every way possible. In the middle of the night tonight, he’d apparently decided to give it another shot. He’d awakened her and played briefly with her breasts, then mounted and entered her. She had just started to get a little wet when she’d heard him curse and felt him roll off with enough force that he’d hurt her.
Now he lay beside her, his whole body as tense as if it were made of stone, the point of his Merit bright in the blackness of their bedroom.
“Maybe something’s bothering you,” she said, remembering what the sex manual had to say about stress as a big factor in sexual performance.
He didn’t so much as grunt a response to her suggestion.
“Vince?”
“Yo.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, no it isn’t.”
“It’ll be just like it was. Soon.”
“You bet, missus.”
She hated that, when he called her missus. He said that to some of the fancy-schmancy women in Burton, whenever he had to issue a traffic ticket or something.
Missus.
She hated that.
“Vince?”
“What.”
“You’ve been upset ever since you drove out to the cabin that night.”
Then she knew what was bothering him. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
“What’d I tell ya?”
“Vince, c‘mon, you’re hurtin’ me!”
But he was yelling, crazed, all his frustration and shame—as well as a night’s supply of Coors—being spat in her face via warm, terrible-smelling breath.
“You tell anybody about what I overheard, Donna, and we’re fuckin’ dead people. You understand me? We’re fuckin’ dead people!”
In what seemed less than seconds he had put on his pants and shirt and slammed out of the trailer. His own car, the Firebird, roared to life. He was gone in a scream of rubber. She knew where he would go. Out on the highway to roar through the darkness, the radio blasting country western, a quart of Coors between his legs.
Miserably, she reviewed the past few weeks of their lives.
Ever since he had heard ...
Ever since ...
She shuddered, and began weeping.
She could imagine how he felt about himself, an honest, hardworking man who was afraid to push the truth any further than he already had for fear of losing his job ... and maybe his life.
6
The first traces of dawn streaked the sky, giving the mansion a regal look against the salmon-pink and yellow clouds packed with dark patches promising rain.
From somewhere in the house the animal mewling came occasionally, a combination of pleading and satisfaction.
A tomcat raised its sizable head up once to see if it could identify the sound. But no luck.
It tucked its head back into the rest of its body and went to sleep.
There were times he wished the night would never end, that the world would never be light again, when he could live with his pleasures and his lusts. He wanted to escape into the forest and live with the animals there, the dumb, sweet animals who never smirked at you or threatened you in any way. He had dominance over them the way he had dominance over the girl now.
The girl.
There were so many things he wanted to do with her—
Now that she was safely taken care of, he walked the night through the woods, considering what he would do next. He liked to walk the woods at night, think.
He could imagine the pandemonium back near the motel.
He had watched one of those scenes once—the distraught parents—the police caught up in the frenzy of the crowd—
Hidden from view, he had smiled about it all, felt superior. Felt, indeed, almost godlike.
He jerked to a stop. They had made him a “gift” of the girl—
Behind him in the forest he heard the noises of intruders.
He jumped behind a massive oak and sought the shape of his enemy.
Enemies, rather.
Conversation.
There were two of them.
The beam of a flashlight arced through the canopy of branches and leaves.
Heavy shoes tramped through soft earth.
He stayed behind the tree, panting from exhaustion and—
Fear.
The terror, the panic was back again.
Sometimes it thrilled him—it was like taking some kind of drug to almost get caught—but other times it paralyzed him.
As now.
He lay behind the tree in the soft earth with the smell of flowers and water and ferns sharp in his nostrils.
He wanted to be one of the animals. Darting in and out of the darkness. Hiding in places no human had ever been.
From somewhere within his chest—involuntarily, as if he were demon-possessed—a kind of whimper escaped.
The sound of it froze him.
Had the men with the flashlight heard it?
They came closer.
He heard them talking. They sounded angry.
Anger.
He pushed himself even flatter against the earth. His heart hammering. His legs trembling.
The closer they got, the more he thought of the girl. Distracting himself from his fear with thoughts of her.
He had had only moments to get a good glimpse of her body. But she was a beauty. No doubt about that.
The shape of her in her jeans—the young, firm hips—the swell of her tender breasts—excited him now as he lay there with the men only feet away
Abruptly, he forgot his images of
the girl.
A dog started to bay.
A hound.
Once again the beam of the flashlight caught trees—like silver fire—behind him.
He started to crawl from behind the tree but then froze as the flashlight beam dropped lower.
The dogs. He could almost see their canine teeth. Feel their hunger.
They were hunting him down.
Icy terror spread through his bones.
One of the men swore. The voice was ugly in the darkness.
Then—
Dogs and men pulled away. Heading east. Back toward the town.
Taking their silver fire and their harsh voices with them.
He lay there convulsing. His relief was almost like an orgasm.
A smile more like a snarl peeled back his lips, and a giddy, effeminate sound came up from his chest.
They had been so close, but then all of a sudden—mysteriously—
But it was not mysterious, after all, not when he thought about it.
Why, close as the dogs were, they’d done such an about-face and—
No, not mysterious at all.
And he should have thought about that instead of getting so scared.
Thought that they weren’t about to let anybody—
Well, he was taken care of, that was all that mattered.
He picked himself up from the ground.
Listened to the night.
Was that screaming, ever so faint on the dark tides swirling around him?
Faint screaming from the bottom of the vortex where the girl waited to be taken?
The smile touched his lips again.
The tiny, eerie sound of his laughter.
His eyes were animal-bright in the gloom as he moved toward where the girl waited.
Toward the feel and pain of her, toward the sumptuousness and helplessness of her—
He moved through the forest, the excitement powerful in his imagination now—
Chapter Three
1
She wasn’t there.
All the way back from the forest, the barking dogs leading the way in the gloom, Carnes had felt an unnatural optimism about the fate of his daughter, a euphoria he later recognized as a condition of shock.
He had an image of her sitting in the motel office, snuggled safely in the corner of the couch.
In the fantasy, he had bent down to kiss her sleeping eyes, only to find her opening them suddenly in a gaze so loving he knew it forgave all his shortcomings—his being a bad husband to her mother, a sometimes inattentive father, a selfish man.
But ... she wasn’t there.
Sheriff Wayman, sensing the overwhelming despair gathering up inside Carnes, made a clucking sound and said, “Doesn’t mean she won’t turn up.”
Carnes spun toward the man, all his frustration and anger telling in his voice. “Why don’t you lay off the reassurances and get your ass to doing something helpful?”
Instantly, Carnes regretted his words. Wayman had been quite helpful, quite supportive.
“I—” Carnes began.
Wayman raised a halting hand. “No need for apologies. I’d be just the same way.”
The two men went inside the office. The clerk was asleep in an arm chair, the TV set nothing more than snow.
Wayman went to the phone, checked with his office.
In the small bathroom, Carnes splashed water over his face. He knew he needed to remain as calm, as reasonable as possible. He didn’t want to become the kind of man he detested—the kind of men too many of his clients were; bullying, hysterical, unhelpful to themselves or anybody else—and so he made a pass at saying another prayer, one with two intents—finding Deirdre and helping himself behave better.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he saw another man standing there, a short, stout man in a windbreaker and khaki pants. In his fifties, the man had the air of a suburbanite, surprising for somebody in Burton. The handsomeness of his face was being buried in his jowliness. His carefully combed salt-and-pepper hair marked him as a man of some pride.
He saw Carnes and a kind of professional sympathy filled his blue eyes. He crossed the room and said, “I’m Kevin Heath. I’m the local Methodist minister.” He assessed the surprise in Carnes’s expression and said, “The sheriff just thought it might be helpful for you to talk to somebody. He said he was afraid he was beginning to irritate you.” Heath nodded to the pickup truck outside. “The sheriff’s helping load up the truck.”
“No word came into his office about my daughter?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Shit,” Carnes said, then realized he was swearing in front of a minister. He flushed.
“Quite all right,” Reverend Heath said in his very polished manner. “It’s a word I am given to using myself on occasion.” He nodded to the Mr. Coffee behind the counter. “How about if I pour you a cup of coffee?”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
Reverend Heath went back and found them two cups and filled them. When they were seated, Heath said, “You know, most of them turn up.”
Carnes had been staring morosely into his cup. “I’m sorry.”
Reverend Heath smiled. “I was just saying that most of them turn up. The great majority. Of kids who disappear, I mean. They have their own reasons for going and they go to some place you’d never think to look for them and then they turn up. Perfectly safe.”
Carnes could hear the man in the pulpit. There was no doubt the man was very good. The impression of a city person grew stronger the longer the reverend talked.
“Yeah,” Carnes said. “Maybe that’s what’ll happen. She’ll just turn up safe and sound.”
“I’m saying prayers for that, Mr. Carnes. Prayers can cure a lot of ills.”
“It’s been a long time for me, I’m afraid.”
“Praying, you mean?”
Carnes nodded.
“Well, God doesn’t mind if we’re less than poetic when we address Him.”
“I suppose not.”
“I always say to people to forget formal prayer. Just say what’s in your heart.”
Carnes wished Sheriff Wayman would come back. The unctuous piety of the reverend was beginning to annoy him.
The door opened. Wayman walked in. He looked at the clerk—still asleep despite all the conversation—and then at the reverend and Carnes. Then he walked over and helped himself to some coffee.
The reverend stood up, ambled over to the sheriff as if reporting to him on Carnes’s condition.
“We had a nice chat, Sheriff. I’m sure everything’s going to be working out fine.” The reverend glanced at his wrist watch as he spoke. He gave every impression of wanting to leave. Very badly.
“Well, glad you two hit it off,” Wayman said.
The Reverend Heath came over and shook Carnes’s hand. “You need to talk or anything, Mr. Carnes, feel free to call me.”
The sheriff and the reverend exchanged a look that unnerved Carnes.
He knew that, under such anxiety and strain, he had to guard himself against paranoia.
Still, their look—
“Something wrong?” Sheriff Wayman said.
“No,” Carnes said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The reverend said, “Maybe you’d like an aspirin or something.”
Carnes felt a sense of dislocation—the sense that all this was a bad dream came rushing back.
“We’ll find her, Mr. Carnes,” the reverend said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be praying for her.”
Carnes nodded.
Sheriff Wayman said, “Maybe a little nap would help you.”
“I don’t think I could fall asleep just now.”
The reverend smiled. “There’s a special kind of herbal tea. I happen to have some in the car. I keep a thermos of it handy.”
Carnes shook his head.
He just wanted them to leave.
He needed
to be alone.
At least for a few moments.
A terrible weariness had settled into him. He felt as if huge weights held him down.
“Going to be a nice dawn,” the reverend said.
“Yes.”
They stood looking at the dawn.
Why didn’t they leave?
The reverend came up next to him. “Faith is very important, Mr. Carnes.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes you have to keep hope even when hope seems foolish.”
Sheriff Wayman came up. “C’mon, Reverend, I’ll take you back.”
“Things will work out, Mr. Carnes. I’m sure.”
“Thank you.”
Finally, they left, walking to the reverend’s car, saying a few words to each other that Carnes couldn’t hear.
The dawn was yellow and red.
Against it birds arced.
Sheriff Wayman came in, joined him at the window. They looked at distant pastureland on the horizon, said nothing.
But Carnes couldn’t help his mood. Demons were inside him.
Depressed, anxious, becoming increasingly violent in his emotions, Carnes decided to unburden himself of his suspicions.
“Why did you have him come here?” Carnes said.
The sheriff turned around. “The reverend, you mean?”
“Yeah. The reverend. If that’s what he is, in fact.”
Sheriff Wayman smiled sadly. “You don’t think he’s a reverend?”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“Well, he is. And it’s an easy enough thing to prove.”
“Say he is a minister. Why did he come here?”
“I thought maybe you’d like to talk.”
“He got here awfully quick, wouldn’t you say?” I went in to wash my face and when I got back he was here.”
For the first time, the sheriff’s expression indicated that Carnes might have caught him in something. “Well,” the sheriff said.
Carnes stared at him. “Obviously, you called him before we left.”
Wayman nodded. “Yes, I did, matter of fact.”
“And obviously, you brought him here not for me but for you.”
“For me?”
“You wanted him to see me, talk to me, figure me out or something.”
Wayman put down his empty coffee cup. He shrugged. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you, Mr. Carnes.”
