She put her car into reverse and backed up the hill, swinging around into the first street she came to and waiting there. She could just see the top of his drive. Thirty seconds went by. He would probably turn to the right and pass her, heading into town.
There it was, Phil’s car. But he turned left instead of right, speeding away toward the hills. She pulled out, following, taking a good look at the taillights, at the dark shape of the car so that she wouldn’t lose it, wouldn’t mistake another car for his in the darkness. Still no sign of Betsy. She wasn’t in the car.
Mrs. Darwin stayed far enough back so that Phil wouldn’t get suspicious, accelerating a little two miles up the road when he turned right on a broad cross street. She followed, winding along past groves and housing developments. The windshield wipers clicked away, the rain falling steadily now. An immense new-looking shopping center loomed up on the right, an ugly shade of purple under the bright lights of the parking lot. Only in California, she muttered, then slowed down, seeing a freeway ahead. She didn’t want to cramp him.
There was his signal: he was turning up the on-ramp, heading south on the freeway. God knew where, but dollars to doughnuts it involved Betsy.
62
FROM THE DOORWAY of the rectory, Father Olin paused and looked back across the mission grounds, although on this dark night he could make out little. The garden trees and rose beds were shadows, although the fountain itself was illuminated, and there were lights in the corridor above the gardens as well as in the chapel. A moment ago he had heard what sounded like a car door shutting, and although there was nothing rare in that, the noise had stood out starkly in the silence. He saw a movement now, what looked like a person—two people?—slipping across the lit corridor and in through the open door of the chapel. They had come around through at the side of the mission, past the gift shop, rather than through the gardens.
The chapel door remained unlocked through the evening, but as bad as the weather had gotten, and as deserted as the grounds were, it seemed curiously unlikely that this was simply someone slipping into the chapel to light a candle. The groundskeeper was gone for the evening and would be another couple of hours yet.
Colin closed the door behind him and hurried across the fifty yards between the rectory and the fountain, noticing when he reached the rose gardens that a car was parked in the nearby lot. He recognized it immediately, even in the darkness, as Hale Appleton’s old Cadillac.
So who was with him? Elizabeth Kelly?
He went on up the stairs and peered cautiously in through the open door. The chapel was empty and silent. The door to the cellars stood open. He had left it shut, but not locked. The door to the deep cellar, to the spring, was unlocked also. He walked to the door at the top of the stairs, and there, lying on the wooden floor, lay a stuffed animal—a child’s toy. Betsy! Not Elizabeth Kelly. Appleton had brought Betsy to the pool. With growing certainty and fear Colin descended the stairs, listening for sounds from below. He heard the scraping of footsteps, the sound of a girl’s voice. He hurried through the door into the cellar, through the second door, downward into the darkness. He had been a fool to leave the doors unlocked, something he rarely did, but there was nothing to do about it now. Thank God he had looked back from the rectory door!
At the base of the lower stairs a dusky light shone past a crack in the nearly closed door, the light flickering as if the wall lamps within the room were dimming and flaring haphazardly. He smelled spring water on stone and sensed a deepening pressure, instantly familiar and frightening. The very walls seemed to press away from him, and for a moment he had to hold onto the iron railing to keep from pitching forward. He stood still, catching his balance, closing his eyes to stop the narrow stairwell from spinning.
The cold and damp took on a gradual solidity, as if he was slipping into the waters of the spring itself, and falling away once again into the depths. He felt the same cold currents clutch at him, pulling him downward. He was acutely aware that he was older now, physically weaker, closer with each passing season to the depths of that pool of memory through which he had traveled all those years ago. He put his hands out to find something solid, to discover an end or a beginning of things in the disorienting darkness. He heard voices near and far away, heard the roar of rushing water, saw vague shapes tumbling. He spoke out loud, hearing his own voice only as broken sounds. Striving to right himself, he uttered the first words of the Our Father, picturing them in his mind as if they were cut in stone. He went on with the prayer until he could feel himself breathe and the roaring in his ears diminished, the words making increasing sense to him in the chaotic darkness. Then the cold stone of the stairs pressing against his palms revived him further, and he struggled to his feet and went on, down the last few steps, where his hand, sliding along the railing, met with an obstruction, and in the strange light through the cocked door he saw that a rope had been tied to the railing, and that it was a coil of this rope lying on the floor that prevented the door from closing fully. He pushed hard against the door, but it skidded open only half an inch or so across the top of the soft rope. He backed away as far as the small landing would allow, and threw himself against the door, striking it with his shoulder, wedging it open. Again he slammed against it, hitting it along the outer edge, pushing it open even farther, sliding sideways through the several open inches, panting and out of breath, a pain lancing across his shoulder from the heavy blows.
The lamps in the walls cast a yellow light over the waters of the pool and across the floor. And there was a strange light from the depths of the pool itself, shifting and shading with the movement of the water, waxing and waning, the water-borne shadows assuming shapes that were at once both chaotic and suggestive. The mosaic of assembled trinkets shone with the telltale moonlight glow, and the figure in the mosaic seemed to writhe as the shadows in the room moved in jittery synchronization. Colin stepped forward toward where Appleton and Betsy stood ankle-deep in the swirling waters of the pool.
Betsy looked at him hopefully, apparently recognizing him. But unless Phil had spoken to her within the last couple of hours, she would have no idea who he was, what she meant to him. She wasn’t crying, but there was fear in her eyes, confusion. Appleton held her by the arm, and she was tethered to his waist by a cotton rope, the other end of which trailed away across the stones, beneath the door, tied to the railing in the stairwell. There was a knot in the rope that Appleton held, a simple loop where two rope ends had been tied together near his waist. Appleton meant to be able to slip the rope, to disengage himself and Betsy from the tether.
Betsy’s hands were bound, palms together, as if she was praying. Colin saw that she held something between her palms, and he knew immediately what it was, what the old man was doing. It was the blue crystal that she held. Appleton would give Betsy his daughter’s memory if he could, and obliterate her own. If he could not, he was clearly prepared to cast them both away into the depths of the well itself, and to take his chances traveling through darkness and oblivion.
Appleton looked at Colin with no surprise on his face, only what appeared to be genuine sadness and regret. Colin forced himself to attend to what the man meant to say, but still recited the Our Father from rote memory, letting the words revolve within him like the effortless spinning of a prayer wheel.
“I’ll take us both under if you interfere,” Appleton said. He took one of the rope ends in his hand, shook the knot at him as if to demonstrate what he meant, how easily he could keep his promise. He seemed calm, but it was a weary calm, the calm of a man who knew that he might have come to the end of things. He looked around himself, as if considering things carefully. The waters of the pool were agitated. Heavy shadows moved within the phosphorescent shimmering depths—vast swimming shapes, appearing and disappearing like doors opening and closing on the darkness below.
“Don’t proceed with this,” Colin said. He was out of breath, already tired. He had no doubt that Appleton meant it, that he would simply take
Betsy with him into the depths of the pool. “You’ll fail,” Colin told him. “You’ll drown the girl.”
“I won’t drown the girl. You’ll help us. Attend to the rope. If I can’t pull us back, you’ll help. You’ll keep the girl safe.”
“It won’t work,” Colin said. “There’s no proof that this sort of transference will occur at all.”
“There was no proof that any of this would work,” Appleton said, his gesture taking in the pool, the mosaic on the wall, the room itself. “There was nothing but a scattering of trinkets until you and I came through the well. We know it works, you and I do.”
“We know nothing of this. I tell you you’ll drown the girl.”
“I’ll baptize the girl. Think of it that way.”
“Don’t talk blasphemy …”
“I believe that what I’m doing here is sanctified. What happened with … with my daughter was sanctified. If I had finished what I had started then, if you meddling, incoherent, grasping thieves had simply let us alone—”
“If we had left you alone it would have cost the life of an innocent child then as it will now. It’s enough that your daughter died.”
“Don’t lecture me about my daughter. You know nothing of children, nothing of a father’s love. I mean this child no harm, which is something you surely must know. I merely mean for her to become someone else, that’s all. I mean to get my own daughter back.”
“To efface her personality is murder. Don’t rationalize this.”
Ignoring him now, Appleton waded deeper into the pool, feeling in front of him with his foot, hauling Betsy with him as he strove against the currents. The glow of the lamps wavered like windy torchlight, and there was a rushing sound as if a subterranean cataract flowed beyond the rock walls of the cavern. Abruptly, Appleton put his hand on Betsy’s forehead and pushed her downward, below the churning surface. She struggled, slipped out from under his palm and swung her fists hard at him, hitting him in the side of his face as he flinched away. Colin leaped forward and grasped at the line as the waters in the pool roiled and surged around the two. He pulled, throwing himself back, but he hadn’t the strength or the weight to move them. His feet slipped, and he was jerked forward and downward, the waters rising over his head, cold and timeless as death.
63
THE MISSION WAS dark, deserted. Phil parked the car in the back, by the railroad tracks and the closed-up station. As he reached for the door handle, Elizabeth struck him on the shoulder and hissed, “That’s his car!”
An older-model Cadillac sat empty at the far end of the lot. Appleton must have come back down to the freeway after all, Phil thought. Either that or Elizabeth had lied to him again, in which case he had to watch his step here. There was no reason to think that she had ever told him the truth about anything. The night was windy now, with blowing leaves and the swish and scrape of eucalyptus branches moving overhead. The fruit trees in the mission gardens were leafless, the earth dark with rainwater.
It wasn’t particularly late, but the mission was closed up tight—no janitors or groundskeepers to be seen, the tourists gone several hours ago. Aside from lanterns along the exterior halls and the uplighted bell tower, the grounds were dark. They walked into a courtyard banked with rose gardens, past a stone fountain swimming with clusters of water lilies. Ahead lay the corridor that led to the chapel, and Phil could see now that a light was burning within, the door standing half-open. There was another light in a building some distance away, and another in a low bunkhouse-like building that had the appearance of living quarters. He hesitated. Check the chapel first?
He considered what Elizabeth had said about Apple-ton having a gun. From what Phil knew about the crystal, it was quite possible that Appleton would see the object as something worth killing for. His father, he hoped, would certainly not see it as something worth dying for. They walked up to the stairs that led into the corridor, which was walled by a series of stucco-covered stone arches, and he saw that someone had dropped something in the shadow of one of the arches. It had a familiar shape, and he bent to pick it up. It was a Piglet doll, from Betsy’s book bag.
He handed it to Jen, seeing when he turned to her that Elizabeth had vanished. He looked back down toward the fountain and gardens, but she wasn’t there, or at least wasn’t letting herself be seen.
“Where’s Elizabeth?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Jen said. “She was with us a moment ago, at the base of the stairs.”
He watched for another moment, but there was no movement. She had simply slipped away. He hadn’t left the keys in the car, so she couldn’t go anywhere. The thought that she had quite simply lured them out there came into his mind. But for what possible reason?
To hell with her, he thought, and he moved forward again. Jen took his arm and whispered, “Careful,” but he didn’t need to be told. They paused outside the door, staying well back in the shadows, and looked into the chapel. There was nothing to see. It was empty. There were places where someone might stand hidden, but why? No one knew they were here. He stepped inside, walking across to get a clearer view of the rest of the chapel. No one.
“Look,” Jen whispered. And there, near a door that opened into the darkness at the side of the room, lay another of Betsy’s stuffed animals.
They crossed to it, picked it up, and stepped into the darkness of what was apparently a stairwell running down into a basement. There were sounds from below—voices, but very distant. They went downward cautiously, stepping out into a cellar that housed heavy wooden wardrobe cabinets and bottles of sacramental wine in long racks. There was a single wall lamp burning, and the room was dim. The stone floor was worn, the damp walls streaked with rusty water marks. There was still the sound of voices, nearer now, and Phil saw that there was yet another heavy door, built of wood and iron and with a massive locking mechanism, at the far end of the room. It, too, stood open, and dim light shone beyond it. He had the sensation now that the room was moving—not the shaking of an earthquake, but a subtle vibration that he could almost hear as well as feel.
They opened the door slowly, listening to the hinges squeak, and stepped through, looking down another flight of steps, the bottom of which was illuminated by swirling light through another open door. The stairwell was full of sound now, of water splashing and a wild and windy creaking. Phil put his hands over his ears, feeling another abrupt drop in pressure. Jen stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “Hurry!” she shouted, and he stepped forward, down the stairs, holding on to the railing. At the bottom he pushed against the door, but it was immovable. A rope had jammed it open. Without hesitation, Jen squeezed through into the room beyond, leaving him, and he kicked the base of the door, pushing it open another couple of inches before it jammed hard. He slipped through after her, into a confusion of sound and light and turmoil.
64
ELIZABETH CROUCHED FOR a moment behind the wall of the fountain as Phil and Jen went on toward a distant lit door. She crept slowly around the perimeter of the pool, looking over the tops of the water lilies, until she saw the two of them stop beyond the top of a set of stone stairs. Phil bent to pick something up from the ground, then turned suddenly and looked back, and she pulled her head down out of sight, giving them a few moments to get used to the idea that she was gone. She was certain that they didn’t care enough about her to come back down into the courtyard.
When she looked again, they had disappeared, and she hurried back toward the parking lot, clutching her purse with both hands, feeling the solid weight of the pistol inside. That was something she was going to have to get rid of, just as soon as she was certain she wouldn’t need it.
There were two ways this could go, she thought, as she crossed the lot. Either the money was in the trunk of Appleton’s car, or it wasn’t. If it was, then she would simply take it out of the trunk and walk straight to the nearest motel, where she would check in for the night. Tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of her life.
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br /> If it wasn’t there … then she was purely and completely screwed, and in that case she would climb into the back seat of Phil’s car and take a nap, because she was utterly wiped out. It had been a hell of a tiring day.
When she got back to town, she’d clean out the shop, lock the door, and drive away. There would be no one to press charges, no one to complain.
She looked in through the window of Appleton’s car. There was a trunk release inside, but the old bastard had locked the doors. She knew for a fact that it had no car alarm. She glanced around the lot, which was still utterly deserted, and then slung her purse over her neck and walked toward the railroad tracks, which were hedged with oleanders and a row of granite boulders. She picked up a rock the size of a cantaloupe, hefted it, and walked back over to the car, where she squared her feet and threw the rock straight and hard with both hands at the driver’s side window. It clunked against the window and doorframe and then fell to the asphalt. She picked it up again, looked around briefly, and threw it even harder, this time square at the window, but once again it bounced off harmlessly, nearly landing on her foot when it fell.
Cursing and starting sweat now, she picked it up again, this time moving around to the front of the car, lifting the rock over her head, and flinging it down onto the windshield, which sloped back at such an angle that the rock landed solidly this time. The windshield imploded inward, flying into a million small fragments, the rock going straight through and landing on the front seat. Going around to the side of the car again, she reached past the frame of the windshield and popped up the door lock, then swung the door open, found the trunk release, and pulled it.
Suitcases, coats, paper sacks, and cardboard boxes—just as she had suspected, he was loaded up and ready to go. This was good. He would have brought traveling cash. Cash to start a new life. She pulled out the suitcase on top and opened it. Nothing but clothes, apparently. She upended it over the parking lot and shook everything out—shirts and underwear, trousers, a pair of heavy black shoes. She tossed and grabbed another, smaller suitcase—money-sized?
The Rainy Season Page 30
