Restless Dead

by Cave, Hugh

  As she nodded, her expression changed from bewilderment to alarm. "They must have guessed that with a catalog they could find out—"

  "If there really is a Verna Clark on the faculty. Yes. And now they know there isn't. What's more, they must have suspected even before they wrote for it. Where did they get your profs name and address?"

  "Off the package we picked up at the bus station. It's in my room."

  Again Jeff nodded, this time frowning deeply. "Probably they got the idea when they saw the package. If they'd thought of it before, they'd have written to the college, not to your prof personally. Then, when they did get the idea, they wrote to him thinking he'd respond faster. But why should they care whether you're looking for fossils or not? Tell me—you said Earl is a house painter. Is he also a fisherman?"

  "If you mean does he go fishing, yes."

  "Then the net that was dropped on me… Verna, you've got to get out of that house."

  "There's nowhere else in town."

  "Outside Clandon, then. A motel somewhere."

  She shook her head. "It would be too inconvenient. Besides, is it really that important? Couldn't we be making a mountain—"

  "Verna, they've gone to a lot of trouble. And even if they don't yet know who you are, they know you're not who you say you are. There's got to be a reason for what they're doing. How well do the Watsons know the Everols?"

  "There's no social contact, I'm sure."

  "But the Everols might be behind this?"

  "Well, I suppose if they suspect I'm looking for something other than fossils, they might have talked to the Watsons about me. I mean, I..." Verna let it go and shook her head in frustration. "Oh, Lord, Jeff, I don't know. Maybe we'll learn something when you explore the sinkhole tomorrow."

  "Yes," Jeff said. "Maybe we will."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Are you going to eat your supper tonight, Miss Ethel?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "You said that last night, you know. Then you never even touched it."

  "I'll eat tonight. I'm hungry."

  With a shrug, the young woman with the tray of food walked past the foot of the bed to a small table by the room's only window. She put the tray on the table. "It's a real good supper tonight, Miss Ethel. Cream of broccoli soup and chicken and a nice tapioca pudding. And your tea, of course. You be sure and eat every bit of it, now." Turning, she wagged a finger at the older woman on the bed. "When I come back, I'll be expecting to find every dish clean as a whistle. You hear?"

  "I hear you. Get out."

  Marching to the door, the other woman shook her head in reproach but said no more.

  Ethel Everol waited for the door to close, then stuck out her tongue at it. Taller than average, like the rest of the Everols, she was already several pounds lighter than she had been when she had come here last month to what those in charge smugly called "the home." In fact, she had now lost enough weight to be ready tonight if everything else came together, she told herself. She'd been thinking about it all day. But in case she couldn't do it tonight, she must be more careful about disposing of the food they brought her. Last night, for the second time in a week, she had stupidly neglected to put her supper down the toilet.

  Anyway, tonight she ought to eat something, just in case. Not the whole supper, of course—not enough to put back any of the weight she had so carefully shed—but enough to keep up her strength. Getting out of bed, she lay face down on the floor in her nightgown and began to do pushups.

  "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. . . There, that's enough." She could do more if she had to, now that her arms were stronger, but it would be a mistake right now to use up too much of her strength. In the beginning she had been able to do only four, she recalled with a twisted smile. How little they knew about her in this miserable place! Rising, she went to the table by the window and sat down to eat.

  Of course, she did not leave every dish clean, as the woman had demanded. After just enough to keep her from being hungry, she carried the tray into the bathroom. Thank God she had her own bathroom in this ghastly place and didn't have to go out into the hall like some of the other patients. After four flushings, there was nothing left to arouse the suspicions of those who kept tabs on her behavior.

  Now to wait for them to come for the tray, by which time it would be dark outside.

  She sat in the only comfortable chair the room contained, a rocker done in black enamel with pink roses airbrushed on the top of its back. They had placed it facing the window so that she would expand her horizons while sitting in it. Yes, that was what they'd said: expand her horizons. Dear God—in a room only fifteen feet square that was no better than a prison cell!

  Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on what she must do next.

  But, as so often happened, her mind went back, instead, to the night of horror when her twin brother Jacob had been taken from her.

  They had been so close, she and Jacob. From the very beginning they had been able to communicate in ways even the family had not understood. That evening he had complained of a headache and gone to bed early, and she had stayed up late with a book. But, of course, she had gone to his room before retiring, to see if there was anything he needed.

  It came back now in every grisly detail, like a dream, but much more vivid than a dream, as she sat in the rocker with her eyes shut. How she had opened the door quietly, so as not to disturb him if he were asleep. How she had glided in and stopped short, confronted first by the shattered wall where the window had been, then by the bird. The bird was a monstrous vulture, night black, perched on Jacob's chest. It held his body helpless in terrible talons while its beak tore away his face... just like the turkey buzzards tore at run-over dead raccoons or snakes or armadillos on Florida highways.

  She could still see the chunk of meat lying on Jacob's bloody pillow, with one of his brown eyes in it. And the hole in his head from which the other eye had been gouged out by the thing's pounding beak. She could still hear her own screams as she slammed the door shut behind her and ran.

  And then the next night. Terrified that the thing might return, she had made a trip to the attic. Up there in an old trunk were some books she had collected years before when she enjoyed reading about vampires and werewolves and other such things. Books she had had to put up there, out of sight, because brother Everett and sister Amanda just wouldn't leave her alone about them. Even Jacob had frowned on them.

  From one of them she had gotten the idea of the crucifix. In olden days a crucifix was thought to keep one safe from vampires, the book said. She knew that Blanche, Everett's wife, was or had been a Roman Catholic and had a handsome one made of silver in the top drawer of her dresser. She had sneaked in and borrowed it. And hung it around her neck when she went to bed.

  And, yes, in the middle of the night the vulture had come again. It appeared like a great black cloud outside a window of her room. In her fear she had been unable to sleep. At the sight of it she sat bolt upright in bed, screaming, with the crucifix dangling from its silver chain about her neck.

  The crucifix had saved her. Or something had. The vulture went away.

  Of course, they said that she was crazy now. That her being a witness to the death of her beloved Jacob and then seeing at her own window the hideous creature that had killed him had driven her out of her mind. But they were wrong about that. She might have been mentally ill for a while, but she was over it now. Maybe tonight she would show them.

  Now think, she told herself angrily. Put away the remembering and concentrate on what's happening here and now. She was doing that when the woman who had brought her supper came back for the tray.

  "Well! You did eat it. Good for you, Miss Ethel."

  "I told you I was hungry."

  "I'm glad. You've lost weight since you came here, you know. Now, is there anything else I can get you?"

  "No."

  "I'm off tonight, I guess I told you. So if there's anything you want, I'll have to get
it now. Do you have something to read?"

  "Yes."

  "Well. . . I'll say good night, then."

  "Good night."

  The door clicked shut. Alone again, Ethel looked at the watch on her wrist. She would wait half an hour. Exactly thirty minutes, no more, no less. They came back sometimes after saying good night—no doubt deliberately, to see if you were doing something you weren't supposed to do. Meanwhile, what should she wear?

  Rising from her chair, she went to the room's only closet and opened its sliding door. Everything she owned in this place was here: a blue and white indoor dress for when she went down to the lounge to watch television, a brown outdoor dress and gray sweater for when she was permitted to walk in the yard, a pair of sensible black shoes to replace the bedroom slippers she always wore here in her room. Her underthings were in the dresser.

  The outdoor dress was the thing to put on, of course. And the sweater and shoes. God help her if it rained hard, as it so often did this time of year. She would just have to find shelter somewhere.

  Looking at her watch again, she closed the closet door and returned to her chair.

  Where had the vulture come from?

  They said she was crazy. Even Everett said she was crazy. But if that were so, why was she the only one asking that question? Everything had been fine up to a certain point, hadn't it? Papa had died and left the house to Mama. Mama had died and left it to her children: Everett, Jacob, Amanda, and herself, Ethel. Then that Blanche Casserly had wormed her way into the family by persuading Everett to marry her, and had brought her sister Susan to live there, too. And the Haitians had come to work on the place, and that woman from the college had disappeared and the police had asked a million questions, and then the vulture...

  The Haitians, the woman from the college, the vulture. That had to mean something, didn't it? So why couldn't they see it, instead of calling her crazy and locking her up here?

  I'll show you. Just wait.

  Her watch said she had waited the half hour. Now, then. Rising from the rocker, she went to the door and opened it. Looked along the hall. They didn't lock you in here, but of course you couldn't get out without going downstairs where there was always someone on duty who would see you. The hall was empty now. Good. She closed the door and hurried to the closet.

  Be careful now. Remember, you've thought this all out and know exactly what you have to do. Take off the nightgown. Roll it up and stuff it in the bed with the pillow so it will look like somebody asleep there. Not really, of course, but the most they'll do is open the door and peek in; they won't come all the way in to check. All right. That's done. You've really lost some weight, you know that? Wonderful. Now some underthings from the dresser. . . okay. . . and the outdoor dress and sweater from the closet. And the shoes. And the extra sheets they always keep on the top shelf in the closet, for when those on the bed have to be sent to the laundry.

  Four sheets. How many times had she counted them? And measured them? And leaned out the window to see how far down the ground was? Four sheets would reach, if you tied them together properly and you didn't weigh too much. If you weighed too much, the knots might slip or the cloth might tear, and that would be the end of it.

  Lifting them off the shelf, she dropped the sheets on the floor and knelt there, rolling them, twisting them for added strength, then tying them together.

  So I'm crazy, am I, Everett? When I'm the only one of you who could see a connection between the Haitians and the missing college woman and the vulture? I'm the crazy one?

  The window gave her no trouble. She had opened and closed it so many times, practicing, that doing so now was as mechanical as brushing her teeth or washing her face. Or flushing her food down the toilet, for God's sake. But dragging the rocker to the window and upending it and tying one end of the four-sheet rope to it was a little more complicated than she had counted on.

  By the time she was finished she was out of breath and needed to urinate so badly she didn't make it to the bathroom in time.

  Damn. Goddamn. Now you've wet yourself Ethel. What's the matter with you, anyway? But get on with it. You'll be a lot wetter if it rains tonight, as the TV weatherman promised!

  Everything was ready at last: the sheets knotted, one end fastened to the rocker, the rocker wedged against the wall. She put her head out the open window and looked up, then down.

  Nothing. If there was a moon tonight, it was hidden by clouds. Below, in the dark, the lawn was invisible, but of course it was there.

  Not a sound anywhere. Nothing.

  Dear God, help me! All I want is to go home!

  The one thing she hadn't practiced, of course, was climbing out the window and inching her way down the knotted sheets. Would she be able to do it? Would the sheets come apart?

  Dear God, I've almost starved myself so I wouldn't weigh too much! I've done push-ups every day to make my arms and hands strong. You have to help me now! Don't I deserve it?

  She was through the window now and going down. Down, down, down. The knots were holding, and so was the rocker. Her feet touched the ground. She let go of the rope of sheets and threw up her arms in a silent yell of triumph.

  Free! She was free!

  Hallelujah!

  But suddenly a heavy drop of rain splashed on her upturned face, and another, and a third. And then—oh, dear God!—lightning flashed and thunder boomed through the blackness above her, and the drops became a savage, blinding downpour.

  All at once the whole world was water.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jeff arrived at the pond road first, hoping none of the Everols had heard his car start at such an early hour. He had purposely left it some distance from the house last evening so they wouldn't. Daylight was still twenty minutes away.

  In the quiet darkness he carried his scuba gear over the knoll to the sinkhole. Then as he worked on it with a flashlight, the beam of a second flashlight moving down the side of the knoll caught his attention. He rose and went toward it.

  In a moment Verna Clark was in his arms. "Did the Watsons hear you leave?" he asked.

  "I hope not. I parked away from the house, as you suggested. What about you?"

  "My people seemed to be sleeping. Let's hope." Returning to the sinkhole with her, he finished readying the diving gear while she watched. He would be carrying a proper diving light this time, plus a second one at his belt in case the one in his hand became temperamental. To his belt he also fixed the reel of line the dive shop man had urged on him.

  "It feels like rain," Verna said. She had dressed for rain, he saw. Her dark slacks were tucked into boots, and she wore a waterproof gray jacket. "Do you think it might?"

  "The paper said there's a storm moving in. Let's hope we're out of here before it hits."

  'Jeff, be careful down there!" There was a tautness of concern in her voice, perhaps of apprehension. "Remember what Earl said."

  "About its being deep and dangerous?"

  "Yes."

  "I wonder."

  "Wonder what?"

  "If maybe he was just trying to discourage me from doing this." With her help, Jeff had donned a wet suit he had rented with the diving gear. "And you be careful up here," he warned. "If you hear anyone coming, get out of here fast." He was thinking of how her car had gone into the pond and how, before that, someone had tried to drop a boulder on her. Before putting on his mask and snorkel he took her in his arms again. "Be very careful, love. We don't have a clue as to what any of this is all about, remember."

  She reached out to touch him. "Good luck, Jeff."

  With tanks and mask in place, Jeff let himself fall backward into the water. Then, turning, he swam slowly down into a murky silence broken only by the burbling of air from his regulator. The water was cool. About 70 degrees, he guessed.

  His rented light was much more efficient than the jerry-rigged thing he had carried before. By its glow he was able to see much more. The rock wall gliding upward beside him was not all pale blu
e bottle glass this time but speckled with greens, browns, even reds.

  There was comfort in knowing that Verna Clark—not just anyone, but Verna—was waiting there at the sinkhole's edge for his return. How quickly he had become fond of her, he thought. If you believed that certain events in your life took place because they were foreordained, then her presence in Clandon might have been the real reason for his coming here, no?

  Now, as he swam on down, the sinkhole wall began to take on character. There were deep cracks in it. There were points of rock jutting out, some so long that his tanks scraped alarmingly against them. His ears began to ache but, pressing the mask in against his nose, he blew against the pressure and the pain left him.

  He swam on down.

  Below him, at last, he saw the opening he had tried without success to reach before: the cave mouth or whatever it was. Reaching it, he clung to an overhang of rock to steady himself while aiming his light into it.

  A cave, yes. Or at least a tunnel. And it was nearly at the bottom of the sinkhole, for when he aimed the light downward, he could see the floor below him.

  He swam down to investigate.

  It was a Salvador Dali world, the floor of the Drowning Pit. Boulders. A huge octopuslike creature that turned into a tree stump lying on its side with gnarled roots upthrust. A dozen or so beer cans and a dark wine bottle grouped together in an out-of-place still life. And finally, in folds and drapes, the net that had almost trapped him.

  It was, indeed, the kind of fish net he had thought it might be.

  He swam slowly back up to the tunnel mouth and shone his light into it. The beam revealed nothing that resembled a back wall. Now was the time to use the line the dive shop man had pressed on him. Testing a jagged outcrop of limestone to be sure it would not break off, he made one end of the line fast to it before pushing on in.

  As he swam on now, the line unwound from the reel at his belt, a guarantee that he would be able to find his way back out. But still he must be careful. Those seemingly solid walls just might hold booby traps in the form of unstable rocks that could break loose and damage his gear if he brushed too hard against them.