"Thank you sir," the mother whispered.
Nick returned the jar to the counter, dug into his pocket and slapped a quarter down in front of the grocer.
"Keep the change." He turned, and with only a wink to Theresa, left the store.
The midday sun was painfully hot. Not scorching like that 2005 summer he'd interned in D.C., but still hot enough that Nick was thankful for his car's air conditioning. He let the engine roll for a moment and just enjoyed the cool air blasting out of the vents. This was the shortest Main Street Nick had ever seen. Narrow and dusty, lined with only a few stores, a laundromat and a diner. A sign in the diner's window promised a $2.99 Breakfast & Coffee from 6-11. Nick thought that on some mornings he just might be able to squeeze in there before the deadline. A cinema was further down the street, its dilapidated marquee displaying the notice:
CLO ED FOR TH SUMM R
An old Buick passed by, driving exceptionally slow. An unfamiliar face grinned at him from inside and a hand waved vigorously. Out of the diner walked a young husband and wife, and a boy in his mid-teens. The boy had a sour expression and the father was frowning. They walked for a distance then turned into an alley beside the laundromat.
Nick was on the street across from the grocer's, and realized he didn't want to still be there when Rita or Lilith wandered out.
This town will take a lot of getting used to, he thought. But at least Stan the policeman was tolerable. And Theresa... any town with a gem like her couldn't be all bad.
He reminded himself that he had to drive out to Darrington to look for a cellular phone. Maybe an iPhone, and he'd have to hope he could get web access out here. And he supposed he should get some fishing essentials. As soon as he put the car in gear, someone rapped on the passenger window.
Nick nearly cried out, imagining Lloyd Stielman tapping the business end of an Uzi against the glass. But it was just the old man he had seen outside the store. He was stooping over, peering inside and tapping on the window. Where did he come from? The street was empty a second ago. The man made a circular motion with his hand.
Nick flicked a switch and the window rolled down. Welcome to the electronic age, sir.
A time-wrinkled face with bushy white eyebrows and gray lips intruded through the window. He wore large, tinted sunglasses that had one side taped up haphazardly so that the glasses were slanted, balanced in an awkward position on his nose.
"Mind if I ride with you into Darrington?" the voice was raspy, like that of a lifelong smoker. He grinned and scratched under his chin.
Nick moved the gearshift back into park. "How did you know I was going there?"
The man smiled, and for a moment said nothing. Finally he turned away from the car and coughed repeatedly before peering inside again. "Lucky guess. I figured you had needs over and above what Silver Springs has to offer."
Smiling, Nick said, "True. Come on in. I could use some directions anyway."
The door popped open and the man slid inside, watching silently as the window slid up of its own accord. "Let's go. Quickly, before someone sees us together."
The Taurus pulled away slowly, then built up speed down the sun-baked avenue. "Why can't we be seen together?" Nick asked.
His passenger refused to answer. Instead he pointed as they came to the next intersection, on the corner by the police station. Nick wondered if the sheriff had enjoyed his meatloaf dinner.
"Turn here, it's quicker. And I can show you the library."
Nick turned. He thought it unusual the man hadn't even introduced himself promptly, like all his neighbors had done.
A half-dozen small white houses dotted the street. All had thick stone chimneys, rows of bushes and a few maple trees. At the second house, a shirtless man, hairy and heavy-set, was mowing the lawn.
The old man cleared his throat. "They don't like little Theresa Angetti."
"I noticed," Nick said. "Why? What has she done?"
"Nothing," the man said and looked away. "They think she's possessed, that's all."
"What?" Surely they weren't that fanatical around here.
The man turned back to face Nick. "My name's Grant Wilson. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself at first." He showed his teeth and pointed to a fortress-like brick building over the next rise. "There's the library."
Nick drove by, regarding the library intently. There were no cars in the lot. He shrugged it off, attributing the lack of interest to the hot summer where people would rather sit outside or run through sprinklers than read a book. He stopped at a street lamp. No cars were in sight. A hill rose gradually to the east, supporting a more densely populated cluster of homes and buildings, after which the edge of a thick forest closed like a curtain around the town.
"You're the librarian," Nick guessed as the light changed to green. "I've heard about you."
"Terrible things, I'm sure." Grant folded his hands in his lap, and kept silent as they made their way around the winding road out of the valley.
"You said they think she's possessed," Nick reminded him. "What do you mean?"
The sign marking Silver Springs passed them on the left. "They fear her," Grant said. "Because, by all rights, she should be dead."
Nick watched Grant out of his peripheral vision.
"She was out last winter playing on the ice after the lake froze."
Biting his lip, Nick accelerated and let his eyes wander out of focus, picturing the frail child awkwardly sliding across a sheet of ice.
"It cracked, a hole opened, and the lake swallowed her up." Grant paused. "Her mother was damn near frantic. Lost her husband the previous year to pneumonia, and now she watched her daughter disappear under a foot of ice."
"What happened?"
"Luckily, Stan Michaels and Roger Morris were about. Roger is Rita's husband, by the way. They were out hunting in the woods behind your house. Heard her screamin' and came running.
"It was more than three minutes by the time they got to the lake. And Theresa hadn't surfaced yet. Roger tried to control Mrs. Angetti while Stan went to fetch an ax and a rope from the truck. They had pretty much given up all hope by this point.
"Thirty minutes later Stan was still out there chopping away, a rope around his waist. Probably about forty-five minutes passed before he found her. He actually dove in there and swam under the ice to grab her."
Grant let out a heavy sigh. "She was still breathing, Mr. Stone. She was in shock and unconscious, but damned if she wasn't alive and well. No sign of hypothermia, even."
Nick frowned. "But surely she found an air pocket under the ice and–"
"No air pocket," Grant responded. "When Stan grabbed her he swears up and down that she was under four feet of water. The next weekend, I saw Stan after his poker game. He was a little drunk, louder and more obnoxious than usual, and declared as the God's honest truth to me and all his friends, that Theresa was floating in the icy water, eyes open, and her lips were moving like she was talking to someone."
Nick shook his head. "Stan's prone to exaggeration. I've only been here one night, and already I know that much about him."
Grant shook his head. "Stan does make up a lot of shit to win himself some respect, but he knew the consequences of what he was saying. Stan's many things, but he ain't a man to ruin someone's life just for a good Friday night story. For that's sure as hell what happened.
"Day after, the gossip starts flying and everyone's got their own theories. She's in league with the Devil. She's got a demon familiar. She chats to the dead. That sort of talk."
Nick rubbed his eyes. "So now the Angettis are shunned by everybody. Great. I imagine there's a stake and some firewood all ready for her?"
Grant didn't laugh.
In a more serious tone, Nick asked, "Why don't the Angettis just leave? There must be somewhere more suitable to them than Silver Springs – no dig intended."
"They can't," Grant said. "One, because the mother's enamored with Reverend Zachary…"
"Not an uncommon feel
ing around here," Nick interjected. He'd have to meet this Reverend sometime – hopefully on a day other than Sunday to place them on equal footing.
"And," Grant continued, "I don't know. Maybe she hopes Reverend Bright can rid Theresa of her demons. As for the second reason why they're not packing up, I really don't think Zachary would let them go." Grant's features melted into an expression Nick couldn't quite place, a cross between anger and acceptance. "The good Reverend doesn't like to lose any sheep from his fold."
Grant blinked and looked away. He adjusted the vent in front of him so that the chilled air was directed up to his face.
Nick remembered something he'd heard in the store. "Townspeople also seem a little pissed at you because you don't make regular church services. I hope their expectations for my attendance aren't too high."
Now Grant laughed. "Be careful. You're in a different world now. The Reverend has a hold on most people here... one way or another." His face darkened again. "But I think you'll do all right. Just stay friendly with everyone as best you can. If it gets too crazy on you, I suggest you get out soon. And that," he said in a deep, serious tone, "isn't a threat. It's the best advice I can give you."
"Yeah. Thanks, but I'm kind of stuck here for a while."
Grant turned to the window; his wrinkles seemed to rearrange themselves into an expression similar to failure.
Nick cleared his throat and asked, "Why don't you leave if it's so bad?"
Grant was silent for some time. Nick was expecting a grand reply that would dissolve the confusion and make everything clear, but he never expected the answer that came, nor the tone in which it was offered.
"I have my reasons. Don't pry into my world, and I'll stay out of yours."
"Sorry. "I didn't mean to–"
"Then don't," Grant shot back. "I'm not going to dig up your past or ask what you're really doing here, or who you're hiding from..."
Nick nearly veered off the road.
"...or why you changed your name."
He slammed on the brakes and skidded off the road onto the shoulder. Holy shit! His mind slammed to a stop along with the car.
Grant was pushed up against the dashboard, his head angled up to the sky. "Looks like rain," he noticed. "Clouds comin' in from the west."
Nick stared at the librarian. His mouth dropped. He felt paralyzed.
Grant sat back, located the seat-belt and fastened it. "Now I feel a bit safer. Remind me not to drive with you again, Mr. Stone."
"Wh–" Jesus, how did he know? Lucky guess? Easier to believe that than credit Malcolm O'Neil with locating him this quickly.
"Relax, Joshua. Please drive." He closed his eyes. "I'm not your enemy, but all the same, I need to disassociate myself from you. For my own reasons."
Open-mouthed, Nick eased the car back on the road and accelerated, keeping an eye on the librarian. What the hell, do you read minds?
Grant's eyelids flickered. His head swiveled toward Nick. He winked, and then shut his eyes and went to sleep until they reached Darrington.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nick sat on the first wooden step on his back porch, watching the day's final act before the rose-red sky conceded to the entwined mass of dark woods. A nervous breeze rustled through the oak leaves, apologetically knocking down acorns and nudging the branches.
Two more steps led to the narrow stone path that descended into the heart of the woods. If he listened closely over the chattering of sparrows and the buzzing of a pair of dragonflies, he could hear the soothing trickle of the nearby creek. He wondered if it meandered its way to the lake he had heard about, the lake that had almost killed Theresa. And he wondered if it was a part of the system that he drew on for his own water.
He breathed in the clear, pure air, then slapped at his arm, crushing a mosquito, the first pest of the evening. Deciding he didn't want to be any more uncomfortable tonight in his new house, he rose and walked back into the kitchen, sliding the screen door shut behind him. The breeze followed him inside, and rustled the pages of the newspaper he had left spread open on the table.
Nick folded the sections and began to look under the counters for a garbage can. He found a stack of kitchen towels and was grateful that the suppliers had thought of almost everything. In the bathroom upstairs were eight bath towels and several washcloths. He'd have to do his laundry in town, however.
That's one trip a week, he thought, calculating his visits. Maybe once every two weeks. I'll just buy more underwear and take fewer showers. Who am I trying to impress, anyway?
One thing was certain, he didn't want to set foot in town or come in contact with those people any more than he had to. Today's experience with Grant Wilson had demonstrated that much.
Luckily, the rest of the afternoon trip had gone smoothly. At Darrington, when Grant had woken up, the two men shopped at a medium-sized mall, and their conversation revolved around more mundane topics. They even entered an argument over sports, Nick maintaining that the Red Sox had what it took to win it all, and Grant vehemently disagreeing. Arguments aside, Nick did what he had come to do. He decided to go with a Motorola Droid, then bought three fishing poles of varied lengths, several thick hardcover novels, and a software suite for his IBM Thinkpad – all paid for on Joshua Stone's American Express card.
As he stood before the open refrigerator and contemplated the large pepperoni pizza he had picked up on the way back to Silver Springs, Nick actually began thinking up ideas for a short story or a novel – anything that would keep him busy and pass the time until the trial was over, and he could return to the real world and start rebuilding his life.
Was that even possible now?
He took out the pizza and stuck it in the stove. The cell phone caught his eye, and he felt a stab of guilt for not calling his parents. But of course, he was ordered by the FBI not to tell a soul, and not to contact anyone for a while. His parents were retired and living in Miami, and he hadn't called them in over a month. He was sure they were shocked when they read of Evelyn's indictment; Nick's mother was never actually close to her sister, but the truth would nonetheless come as a serious blow.
He resolved to find a way to get word to them. Maybe when he met his agent, they could work out a way to let his parents know he was still fine.
The breeze turned cooler, as if the lake had frozen over and exuded a bitter chill, and Nick was suddenly concerned that he might not get that chance to ever talk to his parents again.
Heavy embroidered paisley drapes were drawn over the twin windows of his bedroom, but the curtains still swelled with the clammy gusts coming off the lake. Under a thin sheet tangled around his legs, Nick thrashed and mumbled in his sleep. He grasped at the air, as if trying to cling to something solid, something by which to pull himself out of the clutches of another frantic dream.
Submerged, deep under the stagnant water. He kicks and swings, reaching for the surface, but contacting nothing. Dark, utterly black. He can't even see his arms waving above his head.
Something nips at his flesh, chewing at his face. He screams a torrent of bubbles. Scratches at his face, knocking away scaly, slippery eel-like fish with hungry mouths and glowing eyes.
At last, in the throes of kicking, twisting and struggling, he understands why he is not rising – something grips his ankles, holding him down.
He imagines laughter bubbling up from the depths, mocking his efforts, savoring his captivity. He tries to scream again, but no sound escapes his drowned lungs. Something slimy glides under his chin and coils around his throat, and with a start he realizes the creatures are not just in the water around him, they are inside him, burrowing through his flesh, feeding on his insides.
Something with a bony, segmented body crawls out of the space where his nose used to be, and he awakes–
–in a cold sweat, the sheet drenched, the air still and the curtains motionless. In the blackness, his dream and reality intermingled.
An owl called, its voice echoing with confidence throu
gh the forest.
And Nick fell back onto the pillow, breathing heavily.
In the morning he would not recall the dream.
CHAPTER FIVE
Miami
Tuesday night
Someone was inside. Alice Murphy was sure of it; she was old, but her hearing was never better. Her house creaked in places only its lifelong resident would know. Those intimate little noises were like security alarms – provided both she and Jack were awake.
Tonight she had taken a cup of coffee at the Johnson's, after trying to calm herself down. The news. The news was so… unbelievable. So devastating. And now, no word from Nicky.
Her son was in trouble. And no one was telling them anything.
She'd been lying in bed for an hour without the faintest hint of sleep. As usual, Jack had had a couple beers after dinner, and now he was snoring like a saw through a rotting tree branch while a prowler was sneaking around downstairs.
This wasn't an especially bad neighborhood, but with all those drugs, anything was possible and no one was safe. Just last month there were two home invasions down the street.
She sat up in bed, listening intently.
Nothing.
"Jack!" she whispered. "Get up!"
He continued to breathe rhythmically, deep in slumber. Alice forced her eyes to get accustomed to the dark and she refused to turn on the lamp. She hoped the intruder was operating under the assumption that the home's occupants were not awake. Her vision wasn't as good as her hearing, but she could still make out the shape of the telephone on the stand beside Jack's side of the bed.
She crawled up the mattress, almost kneeling on Jack's shoulder, and reached for the phone.
Was that another creak – on the stairs outside her door?
No, nothing now. She lifted the receiver to her ear and started to dial 911 – and promptly dropped the phone on the pillow. Her hands fell to her sides. "Jack," Alice whispered, this time urgently.
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