Nothing I can do now, she thought. Except make dinner and try to unwind. She gathered together some vegetables and lettuce, washed them in the colander, took them over to the kitchen table, and started to chop them up. Mr. Chips sat at her feet, blinking at nothing, relaxed and content. Chelsea’s portable radio sat on the table, turned to the news station. The chill fall air streamed in along with the sun through the open windows, washing everything in golden light. The newscaster’s deep voice lulled Chelsea into a trancelike state.
“. . . In response to President Reagan’s new proposal, Soviet General Secretary Gorbachev said today . . . And the battle goes on between the administration and Congress over new funds for the contras . . .”
The newscaster’s voice drifted in and out, punctuated by the sharp sounds of slicing scallions.
“And on the home front, we should be getting that bad weather around midnight, the weather service says . . . snow is forecast above six thousand feet . . .”
Mr. Chips shifted onto his stomach, tucking his feet neatly underneath him, and purred loudly.
“. . . Only days before the gubernatorial election, the polls put Bob McCord in a comfortable lead. . .”
Mr. Chips’s rumbling purr became oppressively loud in the small kitchen.
“. . . Leaders of the group say that county officials ignore victim’s rights . . . Until now there have been no formal complaints, said District Attorney Everett Peters . . . The latest in a series of (Chelsea listen to me) bumbling which has (Chelsea listen you must) in sports Chelsea your uncle your uncle your uncle.”
The voice belonged to the newscaster. His inflection hadn’t changed, but the words were for Chelsea alone.
“. . . Still no word about the proposed BLM Riparian Reserve, fighting its way through Congress, but Congressman Jim Kolbe said today that Chelsea your uncle is in danger . . . homeless families . . . Chelsea your uncle . . . agencies, there just isn’t any room . . . your uncle your uncle your uncle”—The newscaster’s voice suddenly sped up, jumbling the words together—“If he is elected he will die everyone must know that he killed me Chelsea everyone must know it is up to you to stop him stop him save him or he’s doomed and So. Are. You.”
The knife slipped from Chelsea’s fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. Mr. Chips jumped onto the table and sat on the cutting board, his green-gold eyes staring into Chelsea’s, unblinking.
“You must tell Chelsea you must tell”
Mr. Chips stared, his eyes blurring in front of Chelsea’s eyes, stretching . . .
“You must stop him Chelsea you must stop”
Three eyes in a vertical row, like traffic lights, indistinct, shiny. The growling purr was almost deafening.
“Talk to him Chelsea and make him turn himself in he must pay for killing me . . . Chelsssssee . . .” The rumbling reverberated in Chelsea’s ears and Mr. Chips just kept staring and staring and staring. “Death, Chelssseee. That’s what he did to me. Death. I’m lost, Chelsea, lossst…Thissss issss what death soundssssssss like. . .”
Silence. A hiss just at the edge of sound—not a real sound at all—emitted from the radio, as if she were completely alone in a desolate, empty space. Space. Dead air.
The sound that was no sound poured out of the radio. The sound of Amelia Earhart lost over the ocean, the sound of nuclear winter, the sound of the lost.
It stayed with her, battering her consciousness, almost unbearable, the colorless landscape of dread silence. Mr. Chips’s eyes had blurred into a pyramid, three shimmering globes merging with one another, and the dead air filled the kitchen, every nook and cranny, leaving no room for sound—or thoughts or feelings.
Unable to control her muscles, Chelsea felt her body slip in the chair. Mr. Chips’s gold-green eyes were revolving in a circle. A circle of blurred orbs.
It was the last thing she remembered before passing out.
Fifty-two
As it turned out, the storm came earlier than midnight. It was already shrieking and howling around the little house on Higgins Hill when Chelsea locked the door and headed for the rental car.
The clouds had piled on top of each other in gauzy, blue-black pillars, blotting out the afterglow of a blood-red sunset. Sheets of yellow leaves and dust rattled along the narrow streets. The scent of rain lay heavy on the air. Chelsea had just passed Huachuca City when the storm caught her. Water brimming on the windshield, the rental car’s lights cutting only a foot ahead, Chelsea felt as if she were encapsulated in a fragile glass-and-steel pod. A thin, crushable pod in an enraged giant’s fist.
If Kathy chose to haunt her now, she’d be done for. But Chelsea knew that Kathy would let her go, because she was doing what she had been asked to do.
After several minutes of unconsciousness, Chelsea had come to. She couldn’t remember exactly what had transpired, except that she awoke with an overwhelming feeling of urgency. She must speak to Uncle Bob, she must stop him from running for governor because—
Because Kathy would kill him.
She arrived at Uncle Bob’s at a quarter of nine, standing on the doorstep in a shimmering curtain of rain, trying to arrange her thoughts. What would she say? Don’t run for governor because I have this weird feeling that if you do, you’ll die?
Everything was swept from her mind as Uncle Bob opened the door. Chelsea’s first thought: He looks like a skeleton. Her second thought came swiftly on the heels of the first: The smell is much worse. It wafted out into the rain-filled night, the stench of corruption, decay, decomposition. The smell of the grave.
“Uncle Bob—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Chelsea, so save your breath. I look terrible.”
“What’s wrong?” She tried to keep from grimacing, but the smell overpowered her.
Bob ignored her question. “Come in, my dear, and sit down. What’ll it be?”
Chelsea noticed that his eyes were red-rimmed and unable to focus. He looked as if he’d been drinking steadily for days. That impression was confirmed as he led her into the living room. He picked up his glass of bourbon and drained it, then walked unsteadily to the wet bar. “Wine?”
“Please.” After seeing her great-uncle in this condition, Chelsea could use a drink.
“Red wine, am I right? You fooled more waiters that way. They almost always expect women to drink white. White wine’s a girl’s drink.” Bluish hollows shadowed his eyes. Chelsea noticed that as he handed her the wineglass, his hand shook.
“Sit down, sit down,” Bob said grumpily. “Now what brings you out on a night like this?”
Chelsea took a deep breath, “I’ve been having nightmares,” she said. She told him about her dreams, watching for a reaction.
He went a shade paler, but rallied quickly. “I’m sorry you’re having nightmares, but what can I do? I suppose I could call Dr. Stern—”
“I think you’re having the same thing,” Chelsea said.
“What are you talking about?”
“About the woman. Aren’t you?”
Bob’s puzzled expression almost convinced her that he didn’t know what she was talking about. Almost.
“I don’t remember my dreams,” he said.
“You knew her, even if you’ve forgotten. She was Grandfather McCord’s lover.”
“Who’s been filling your head with such nonsense?”
Chelsea removed the photographs from her purse. She had no recollection of putting them there. Her hands automatically found them, and she handed them to Uncle Bob.
His reaction was immediate. He slumped in the wing-back chair, eyes wide, nostrils constricted. He seemed to be fighting for breath. The smell of decomposition rolled off him in waves.
“Are you all right?” Chelsea asked, leaning forward.
“What kind of joke is this?” he demanded. “Where did you get these pictures?”
“I . . . found them.”
“They’re fakes!” He flung them on the carpet, his face a mask of contempt. “I�
�m surprised at you, Chelsea. Trying to ruin your own grandfather’s name.” He paused, a strange light creeping into his eyes. “Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
Uncle Bob stood up. “I’ve shown you every consideration, given you a place to stay, looked after you, and this is how you repay me! Trying to drag your grandfather’s name through the dirt. What can you possibly gain from doing such a thing?”
Chelsea stared at him, shocked. He had never used that tone of voice with her.
Bob’s glass hit the table with a crack. “If you want to spend the night, I’ll have Felicitas make up the guest house. I’m going to bed!”
Chelsea stood up. “Please! Listen to me! I’m having dreams about her, and I think you are, too. I think that’s why you’re sick. And it won’t get any better—”
“What are you talking about?” His voice carried a strength Chelsea hadn’t expected, almost a bellow. For a moment, she was taken aback. Was it possible that she’d been wrong? Maybe he didn’t know. She studied his face, the skull underneath it a thin, almost translucent membrane—too thin to be skin—the fierce eyes like glowing, blue coals.
“Kathy!” Chelsea shouted. “You said you didn’t know her, but you did. And now she’s back!”
His eyes changed, a furtive craftiness creeping into them, the cunning of a wounded animal. A wounded, cornered animal, looking for a way out. “I should have done something before now,” he said at last.
“What?”
“All the signs were there, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“What do you mean?” Chelsea’s voice faltered.
“But I believe it now, I really do.” His voice took on an eerie calmness, a smugness. “That episode on the phone, that wasn’t just the cat coming in with a bird, was it? I could tell from your voice, you were . . . seeing things. Having hallucinations.” His eyes glittered with a mad light. “Yes, that’s it. Like on the mine tour.”
Panic gripped her. “The mine tour—”
“Do you honestly think that you can go around doing anything you want and not be noticed? I’m running for governor. We’re living in a fishbowl. I heard all about it. And let me tell you, we had to do some pretty fancy footwork to keep it out of the papers.”
Chelsea felt as if the air had been knocked out of her.
“I didn’t want to believe it. I hoped it was just claustrophobia, like the tour guide had said. But you’ve been acting very strangely, my dear. Very strangely indeed.
“You’re going to have to get help, Chelsea,” he said softly. “And if you won’t go yourself, I’ll have to get help for you. I don’t want to do it, you know that, but it’s best. It’s really best.” He stepped toward her, smiling ghoulishly. “That’s what we’ll have to do. Get the best doctors. I know some of the finest psychiatrists in the field . . .”
Chelsea backed away, repulsed. The Uncle Bob she had known didn’t exist anymore. Just this gaunt pile of bones, unearthly light coming from eyes nestled in a grinning skull. She was almost knocked down by the stench.
“I see I was wrong. Very wrong. You’re my great-niece, Chelsea. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t do my duty and protect you from yourself.”
Chelsea spoke in a rush, trying to blurt out everything before he could reach her. “Her name was Kathleen Barrie; she was my grandfather’s mistress; she even had a stillborn child by him. You were in love with her; you were jealous of my grandfather. That’s all true. Frances Kagle—” She stopped. Bob didn’t seem to know that Frances Kagle was dead. But if he found out, he’d have even more reason to call her crazy.
Bob paused for a moment, looking like a spider inviting a fly into its lair. “Go on. This is very interesting.”
“You were in love with Kathy, and when grandfather died you must have kept after her. I don’t know, maybe you were lovers, but the only thing I don’t understand is why you . . .” She trailed off, horrified. I can’t say it.
Uncle Bob stopped as if a bullet had caught him. His eyes gleamed. “Why I what?” he asked slowly.
She stood there dumbly, staring at the man who had been so important to her.
“I’m waiting,” Uncle Bob said patiently.
“Maybe I was wrong,” she heard herself say. She looked at the malachite ring gleaming in the firelight. It hung on Bob’s blue-veined finger, his almost fleshless finger,
“Maybe you were wrong,” he mimicked. Then the light in his eyes dulled; he looked more like Uncle Bob again. When he spoke again, his voice was measured and chillingly sane. “Frankly, I think you have a screw loose. You come in here, accusing me of God knows what, and when I press you for details . . .” He turned on his heel and walked over to the bar, poured himself another drink. “You’re in trouble, my dear. You need psychiatric help.” He waved his glass. “I can help you check into a clinic. No one will ever know . . .”
Chelsea stooped to pick up the photographs.
You have to warn him, Chelsea. He’s been too good to you not to at least warn him.
“It was the abandoned house,” she said quickly. “The one on Highway 90, wasn’t it? What happened? Did you find her, or was it an accident, how—”
“Get out! Get out of this house or I’ll call the police!”
“I know she died. I know you were there. Was it an accident, or did she kill herself? Please. Tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, I promise—”
“You’re crazy!” Uncle Bob picked up the telephone. “You’re an intruder in this house. I can have you arrested. Or committed. Sydney will back me up. I won’t be harassed this way!”
He held the receiver in one hand, the crafty look back in his eyes, defiance in every line of his face. Well, Chelsea? his expression seemed to say. What’s it gonna be?
A look of understanding passed between them.
She knew then that he would never admit to killing Kathy.
Bob’s hand faltered, then set the receiver back in its cradle.
“I’ll go, if that’s what you want. I won’t harass you anymore. I guess I jumped to conclusions.”
“You don’t know how far you jumped!” Bob sank down on the couch. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice quivering. “I can understand that you’re worried about me. But it has nothing to do with Kathleen Barrie. I guess I have to level with you.” He smiled ruefully. “You can imagine why I don’t like to talk about it. She was my brother’s girl, and I was jealous. You were absolutely right about that. That old girl Frances Kagle, sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong.” He shook his head as if in amazement at the woman’s audacity. “And look what she’s done. Blown this whole thing out of proportion. Look at us. We’ve almost fallen out because of this.” He leaned forward. “I knew Kathy, so what? I’ve been trying to protect your grandfather’s name all these years. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Chelsea shook her head numbly. She was too tired to argue.
“I’ll tell you what happened to Kathy Barrie. After my brother died, I tried to get her to fall for me. I’m still embarrassed to this day by the way I acted. Well, she took off for Hollywood to make her fortune as a dress designer. Dad helped her. He didn’t want his second son to make the same mistakes his first son did. And that,” he added expansively, “was the last I heard of Kathleen Barrie. God’s honest truth.”
Chelsea stood up, looped her purse strap over her shoulder, “I’m ready to listen when you want to tell me the real truth.” She walked to the door.
Uncle Bob didn’t move from the couch. “Chelsea,” he said. “You’re wrong.”
Chelsea paused, hand on the doorknob. “I hope so.”
On the drive home Chelsea went over and over the conversation in her mind. There was nothing she could do. Uncle Bob wouldn’t relinquish his chance to become governor. She should have known he wouldn’t listen.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds pressed in, closing around the car like cotton wool.
She knows.
>
Bob stared at the amber liquid in his glass. How? Everyone linked to Kathy was dead, except for Frances Kagle, who didn't know anything. Could Chelsea really be telling the truth about the dreams? No use wondering how she knows. She knows. That's all. What if Chelsea went to the press? What if they believed her?
I can't afford to take that chance. Not now, not when I'm so close.
He would have to stop her.
Fifty-three
The storm lingered until morning, wrapping the sky in an impenetrable gray shroud. Around dawn the clouds began to break up, leaving a cold clear sky.
In his house on Woodland Road, Bob McCord was insulated against the weather, a cheery fire flickering in the grate. But nothing could insulate him from the gelid fingers gripping his internal organs with dread. Nothing could keep the memories at bay, not even the bourbon at his elbow.
Bob had forgotten how far it was to the house.
Kathy’s silence disturbed him; he’d expected her to put up some kind of fight. But she had only made her feelings known, then remained silent on the subject.
He drank a lot more, more than he could ever remember drinking in one sitting. Soon the liquor took over and he waxed eloquent on a number of subjects.
Kathy was unimpressed.
He’d take care of that, though. She would be impressed—oh yes—very soon. He kept that information to himself with drunken cunning, talking about the fellows at school, about his father, whom he called alternately the old man, the grand old man, and when he was really drunk, His Deityness. He didn’t know if there was such a word, but it fit his father.
Kathy said nothing.
They reached the house. He was very drunk by then. He got out of the car and held the door open for her, bowing low. “Your public awaits, my dear,” he said, his arm sweeping out to the side.
Her eyes were like two holes in her head. He couldn’t fathom her expression.
Then suddenly, she laughed. The laughter tinkled over him like a refreshing waterfall, and he remembered his purpose. “I love you, too,” he said, settling a wet kiss on her hand. “Please get out.” He left her then, walking ahead of her toward the house.
Darkscope Page 28
