They kissed again, long and lingering. The horse closest to them tossed his head.
Bob, suddenly uncomfortable at watching this little scene, tried to decide what to do. Should he leave?
John saw him. “Bob! Good God! Bob! He’s my brother,” John said to Kathy, “You remember him, don’t you?” To Bob he called out, “Let me look at you!” He strode across the lawn, his brew smooth, his expression welcoming. There was no shame about him, not anywhere. Kathy followed, still laughing.
It was not what he had expected at all.
Bob made the appropriate noises. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Kathleen Barrie. Her face was so fresh, her laugh so beautiful. And her figure . . . Bob didn’t want to imagine John and Kathy together, although he had gotten a pretty good idea what it was like from their antics just now. He didn’t want to think of his brother pressed against those enticing breasts, his brother winding his fingers in that thick, soft hair.
Then and there, Bob made his mind up to have her for his own.
“We’re just going for a ride,” John was saying. “Would you like to come along? We could stop off at the house in . . .” He checked his watch. “A half hour and meet you there.”
“Are these your horses?” Bob asked.
John put his arm around Kathy. “Bought them yesterday. We’re keeping them at Highland Park. You may have noticed, I’m not exactly welcome at home.” No furtive glances, no downcast eyes. Just a statement, a little bald maybe, but containing no hidden meaning.
“Kathy’s good on a horse, aren’t you, darling?”
“I try,” she said, looking up at him with shining eyes.
“She’s being modest. She can ride like the wind. I’m teaching her polo.”
Bob, who hated polo, tried to look interested.
“Bob’s not much for polo. He likes fast cars, don’t you, Bob?”
Kathy looked at him, and he felt as if she had deliberately pulled a wire deep in his groin. Not a sexual feeling at all, more like fear. It was as if she had triggered something deep inside him, deep and black and not at all good. Something that—if it were exposed to the air—would decay. Her eyes sent him a clear message. Leave us alone.
Had his thoughts been so easy to read? How did she know what he was thinking? How did she know that he wanted her for himself? His gaze dropped to his shoes, and this time, it was he who was uncomfortable. When he looked up, Kathy’s gaze had fixed on John again, her love for him almost palpable.
“Come on” said John, unaware of the tension between the two people he loved so much. “It’ll do you good. I bet you’ve been spending altogether too much time indoors.”
“John, he might not want to go,” Kathy said.
“Nonsense. We have a lot to catch up on.”
Kathy looked at Bob again. He saw her (and later, much much later when the life bubbled from his lips, he would remember this moment) white and lifeless, he saw the desert, cold in the morning light, and his father’s Packard, big and gray and somehow reminiscent of a tomb. In that moment, he wished he could turn around and walk out of their lives, walk away from Johnny, whose expression had never been so animated, whose life had never seemed so focused, and leave them to their happiness. But Bob was Bob, and that was the trouble.
Bob McCord sighed. He had never married, never would. It was the price. The price he paid for loving his brother’s girl.
He put down the report unread and walked to the window, peering out at the cactus garden. The cactus crowded around the study window, strange hulking shapes tinged blue by the floodlights: short, portly, fishhook-barrel cactus; prickly pear, saguaros, and teddy bear cholla, looking deceptively like a tree of dust bunnies—but these dust bunnies could cling like miniature porcupines when brushed by the unwary passerby. Beyond the cactus garden, spidery mesquite branches netted the sky.
The desert plants—their very presence—comforted him. He loved the desert, always had.
Suddenly tired. Bob decided to read the reports first thing in the morning. He walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Looking into the mirror above the sink, he was shocked by what he saw.
How had he gotten so thin? His face was drawn, his cheeks hollow. He took inventory. Wattled neck, stretching like hawsers from his chin. Bruised eyes. Grayish skin. I might be dying.
If that were so, why did he feel so warm, so content these last few mornings? Why did he feel that Kathy had visited him, looking as she had on that first day—young and fresh and strong? He thought about vampires. Maybe Kathy was a vampire, feeding on his dreams, feeding on his energy. Impossible. Kathy was dead. Kathy was dust. And then another thought came through, completely unexpected.
Chelsea’s cat didn’t chase birds. He remembered her saying so on several occasions. Old Mr. Chips had no instincts, she’d told him. Old Chips had once sat on the lawn with a live bird between his paws. The bird had sat cradled in his paws, perfectly content. And Chips had sniffed it, stood up, and walked away. Something was wrong. Bob picked up the phone.
Thirty-eight
Chelsea didn’t know how long she stood there, frozen in horror.
Although she didn’t dare look, Chelsea knew the camera hadn’t moved from its place at her feet. She could feel the air it had displaced against her ankle; sensed its presence as a blind person senses an object in his path. She knew it was there, sitting patiently at her heels like a square, black dog awaiting its master’s next command.
Chelsea’s limbs trembled from the exertion of holding every muscle still. Heart drumming, she willed herself to relax. I can’t do anything if I’m wound up in knots. Gradually the message got through to her legs. As the rigidity eased, her knees almost gave out. She leaned against the wall for support, unable to control the shaking of her body.
The camera didn’t move.
She had three choices: the back door, the front door (she would have to step over the camera to reach it), or she could rfeach down and pick the thing up.
She shuddered with revulsion at the last option.
Mouth dry, Chelsea backed up a few steps. The camera followed, just like a black dog would. Heeling. It stopped when she did.
“What do you want?”
No answer. What did she expect?
Chelsea summoned up every bit of energy available to her. Holding her breath, she counted to three, then sprinted for the front door, fumbled with the knob, jerked the door open, and slammed it shut behind her.
She leaned back against the door. Blood pounded in her ears, and hot triumph suffused her skin. I made it! Try to get me now!
Bump, bump.
Her triumph faded.
Another muffled thump. Coming from the bottom of the door. The camera, bumping blindly at the barrier between them, trying to get out.
Bump, bump.
The thudding seemed to last forever. Chelsea listened, her breath suspended on the thread of her fears.
Silence. At last. Chelsea exhaled with relief.
The camera must have realized its attempts at escape were futile.
So now what? Sure, I’m safe for the time being. But the camera’s inside, and I’m out here. For all intents and purposes I’m locked out of my own house.
She looked up at the star-spangled sky. The immediate danger circumvented, her mind turned to practical matters. What should she do now? Since her walk back from the camera shop several hours ago, the night air had gotten colder, if anything.
Ben was away for two weeks. But Gary might be home. She could call him; he’d probably still be awake.
What would she say? Gary, can I spend the night with you? My box camera chased me out of the house?
Sure.
Chelsea looked at her watch. Almost eleven o’clock. Where could she find a phone at this hour? The Copper Queen Hotel? They had a pay phone. Looking down at the light kimono belted around her waist and her flimsy bedroom slippers, Chelsea nixed that idea.
The chill breeze ruffled her hair, eddied in th
e voluminous sleeves of the kimono.
She had to do something.
If only my keys weren’t in the house. I could drive down to the Copper Queen.
Chelsea’s gaze strayed to the sodium arc lights in the canyon below. Wait a minute! The Circle K had a phone! All she had to do was walk down a flight of stairs and cross—
A grating sound. Coming from somewhere along the side of the house. Chelsea looked up in time to see the window slide up and open. The skin on her arms prickled. How could—
The light caught the dark edge of the box camera as it tipped up to balance on the sill. Then she saw the black box topple down into the ivy at the edge of the house, shards of starlight glancing off its lens. The Kodak righted itself and came toward her. It snicked through the grass. A dry, furtive sound.
Chelsea knew then that there was no escape. The camera would follow her to the edges of the earth.
Heart pounding in her ears, Chelsea waited for the camera to come to rest at her feet like a faithful, black dog. A faithful, black dog from hell.
What do I do now? Enroll the damn thing in obedience school?
Pick it up. The voice came from her own brain.
No. I can’t.
You can. You must.
So she did. She held the camera gingerly, uncertain what to do. It throbbed with malevolent warmth. Chelsea held the camera for a long time, staring at the dull, black surface without seeing. Abruptly, the key which advanced the film started to turn. First slowly, then faster and faster until it was lost in a blur of motion.
Chelsea leaped back. The camera jerked out of her hands. The odor of death pervaded the night air. Corruption, sweet and cloying. The Brownie fell, coming to rest on its side on the grass, the surface on which the key was mounted uppermost. The key spun until Chelsea thought it would break loose and fly off. Behind the film window in the back of the camera, orange paper whizzed by in a blur. Kodak paper.
The camera had reloaded itself.
The key kept spinning, all the way forward, then all the way back. Then it stopped.
Chelsea approached the camera, kneeling beside it. The film had stopped at the end, after number eight.
I asked you what you wanted, and you gave me the answer, she thought.
The camera wanted its film to be developed. It wanted to show her something.
Chelsea knew what she would see when the photographs were developed. A girl with black hair.
If the photographs are developed, she reminded herself. It’s a free country.
But did she really have a choice? Kathy had chosen her, for whatever reason, and Chelsea couldn’t turn back now. She had to see those pictures.
Gingerly, she picked up the camera, removed the film, and took them both inside.
The phone rang just as she reached the living room.
Uncle Bob sounded nervous. “Chelsea. I had this funny feeling. Are you all right?”
I’m fine. I was just going to turn in.” She set the camera down on the chair.
“I guess it’s just a silly old man’s imagination working overtime.”
“You’re not silly, and you’re not old. Thanks for worrying. I’ll see you Saturday, okay?”
“Okay.”
The camera pulsed, giving off a weak, blue light. At that same moment, an idea—clear and articulated—burst like an exploding shell in her mind. Aren’t you forgetting something, Chelsea? He lied.
“Uncle Bob,” she said, catching him just before he was about to hang up.
“Yes?”
Chelsea’s mouth went dry. She’d have to say it. “I met Frances Kagle the other day. Maybe you remember her?”
“Frannie Kagle? Sure I remember her. Haven’t seen her in years. How is old Frannie?”
“She’s fine. She told me something interesting.” Chelsea paused, not sure how to say it. At last she blurted it out. “She’s sure you knew Kathleen Barrie.”
There was a long pause on the line. At last Uncle Bob said, “She must have been mistaken.”
He disconnected.
Shaking, Chelsea put the phone down. Did she know her great-uncle at all?
Chelsea dreamed all night long. The most vivid dream took place in Henry Kagle’s shop after dark. Kathy advanced slowly, her leg swinging out awkwardly to the side, the left foot dragging. She wore black clogged shoes, strapped at the ankles, and they made a hollow sound on the floorboards of Henry Kagle’s shop: stump, drag, stump, drag. Darkness clotted her forehead.
Chelsea awoke in a sweat, unable to get back to sleep.
The next morning, after her Basic Design class, Chelsea drove back into town. She parked in Brewery Gulch and walked up the hill to OK Street.
She carried the film from the old camera in her purse.
Chelsea would take care of two problems at once: Mrs. Kagle could develop the film, and she could tell Chelsea what she’d meant about Uncle Bob not having his way.
Chelsea saw instantly that the shop was closed. Not only closed, but it looked as if it had been empty for years. Mustard-yellow paint peeled in the blinding sunlight. The display window had been boarded shut.
Chelsea’s stomach lurched.
No sign hung high above the door, outlined by tiny light bulbs. No Kodak trademark. Everything was gone.
Bewildered, Chelsea looked up and down the street. Just below her at the entrance of the Pythian Castle, a thin woman wearing a tam-o’-shanter, a man’s shirt, and corduroy bell-bottoms was sweeping the street.
“Excuse me,” Chelsea called. She pointed to the yellow shack. “Do you know if Frances Kagle moved her shop?”
The woman looked at her strangely. “Frances Kagle?” she asked. “You’ve got to be kidding. Frances Kagle’s been dead for six years.”
Thirty-nine
Walking past the giraffe exhibit, Jack wished his mother would let go of his hand, even for a little while.
She bent down and asked him if he wanted any cotton candy. He nodded, smiling though he didn’t feel the smile inside. He wanted to go over and see the Big Cats.
“Now you wait right here, honey,” his mother said, leaving him with his sticky cloud of cotton candy and walking toward the Ladies. “Don’t go anywhere, Jackie, okay?” she called over her shoulder.
He nodded.
As soon as she disappeared into the bathroom, he headed for the Big Cats. His mother said she didn’t like to see the Big Cats caged up like that. She said it wasn’t fair. But the boy was glad they were there where he could see them. He loved to watch their sleek hides rippling over powerful muscles, the huge paws flapping across the ground like oversize bedroom slippers—but it was what was in the paws that intrigued him. He knew they had claws like knives that could rip him to ribbons. Only they couldn’t, because the Big Cats were caged, and he was on the outside.
He liked their frustration. He liked watching them pace behind the bars, liked to see their noses wrinkled in fierce grimaces.
He had slipped away before. One time, when no one was looking, he had stuck a branch through the bars and goaded the panther until it snarled and swiped at him.
“Dumb old cat,” he said now to a spotted leopard.
Suddenly, an unearthly scream split the air. A commotion rose up behind the thick tapestry of eucalyptus trees, over near the panther cage. Colored summer clothing converged and voices jumbled in the air. Someone yelled, “Oh my God! Get someone! Hurry!”
“Is he dead?”
“Can’t you hear him scream?”
“It’s the handler!”
“Oh God!”
Jack pushed through the crowd in time to see the man in an agony so intense that Jack could feel it from where he stood.
The man was screaming, screaming. The screaming had no end, no beginning. The man’s blue coverall had turned purple with blood-like grease spots. The black leopard had pounced and sat, haunches collected, worrying at something bright red. The red thing was attached to the man’s hip and soon the boy realized it was the man�
��s leg. The panther was stripping the flesh away like bark off a tree trunk.
The sky got brighter. The smell of people pressing closer nauseated Jack. Panic telegraphed through the crowd, rippling in waves.
“Oh my God, do something!” someone screamed.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the bloody leg.
A handler came on the run.
The panther turned its eyes on the boy, and he imagined it hurtling across the space between them, over the bars, through the crowd.
It looked right into his eyes.
It knew he had liked its pain, its frustration. I’m coming for you someday, it told him with its eyes. I’ll tear you apart like a wishbone!
The man lay on the smeared cage floor, groaning. The people babbled, and the rushing in the boy’s ears was like the sound of being under water. He stood transfixed, staring into those amber eyes.
And then it happened. The thing that couldn’t happen. There were bars, there were people. It couldn’t happen.
But it did.
The panther gathered its legs together and leaped toward him, a black bullet of doom.
He awoke bathed in perspiration. At the edge of a scream. The dream again. He sat up, shaking, remembering that day so long ago. The keeper had died.
He made his way to the sink, splashed water onto his face and waited for his heart to calm down. Of course it was all right.
He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a man, in control of himself and his destiny. Outside his window, the hills above Bisbee greeted the day.
Forty
Chelsea drove back from the debate in Tucson late Saturday night. Bob offered her the guest house, but Chelsea refused. She didn’t feel right about staying there. Not with her confusion over Bob’s story concerning Kathy.
Chelsea hated herself for her ambivalence. Could she readily take the word of a woman who’d died six years ago, who owned a shop that didn’t really exist—a cheap magic trick—over her own beloved great-uncle, whom she’d known and trusted all her life?
Chelsea no longer doubted that Frances Kagle’s photography studio was just another one of Kathy’s tricks.
Darkscope Page 22
