1990 - Mine v4

by Robert McCammon

  "The dude across the road saw him, too," Mark added. "Said the guy had to plug a speaker into his throat and talk through it."

  "Wait." Didi's inner alarm had reached a shriek. "The man went to see Mr. Brewer?"

  "That's right. He asked where you'd gone. Said he was a friend of yours."

  "He asked for me by name? Diane Daniells?" She hadn't returned the binoculars to Charles Brewer yet, so she hadn't heard this. When Mark nodded, Didi felt as if she'd taken a punch to the stomach. "My God," she said, and stood up. "My God. Somebody else knows. You bastard, somebody must've followed you!"

  "Hold on a minute! Nobody followed us. Anyway, the dude was asking about you before we even got to Ann Arbor."

  Didi felt her control slipping away. The man who'd broken in hadn't taken anything. He'd known her new name, and where she lived. Had asked Mr. Brewer where she'd gone. She sensed it like a noose tightening around her neck: someone else knew who she was.

  "Please try to think," Laura plowed on. "Is there anyone Mary Terrell might have gone to for help?"

  "No!" Didi's face contorted, her nerves about to snap. "I said I can't help you! Get out and leave me alone!"

  "I wish I could," Laura said. "I wish Mary Terrell hadn't taken my baby. I wish I knew if my son was alive or dead. I can't leave you alone because you're my last hope."

  Didi put her hands to her ears. "No! I don't want to hear it!"

  She knows something, Laura thought. She walked to Didi, grasped her wrists, and pulled her hands away from her ears. "You will hear it!" Laura promised, her cheeks aflame with anger. "Listen to me! If there's anything you know about Mary Terrell — anything — you've got to tell me! She's out of her mind, do you realize that? She could kill my child at any time, if she hasn't already!"

  Didi shook her head. The image of Mary pressing the baby's face toward the burner was too close. "Please, just leave me alone. All I want is to be left alone."

  "And all I want is what's mine," Laura said, still grasping Didi's wrists. They stared at each other, inhabitants of different worlds on a collision course. "Won't you help me save my child's life?"

  "I… can't…" Didi began, but her voice faltered. She looked at Mark and then back to Laura, and she knew that if she didn't help this woman, the ghosts that feasted on her soul would grow sharper teeth. But she and Mary were sisters in arms! The Storm Front had been their family! She couldn't betray Mary!

  But the Mary Terrell Didi had known long ago was gone. In her place was a savage animal who knew no cause but murder. Sooner or later Mary Terror would snap, and this woman's baby would die screaming.

  Didi said, "Please let me go." Laura hesitated a few seconds, and then she released Didi's wrists. Didi walked to the window, where she stood looking out at the cold world. Click, click her Rubik's Cube was turning, but the answer was already in sight. "She… calls the baby Drummer," Didi said. Her heart hurt. In the electric silence that followed, Didi could hear Laura Clayborne breathing. "I saw Mary and your baby yesterday."

  "Oh Jesus." It was Mark speaking in a low, stunned voice.

  "He was all right," Didi went on. "She's taking good care of him. But…" She trailed off, unable to say it.

  A hand like an iron pincer grasped her shoulder. Didi looked into Laura's face, and caught a glimpse of hellfire. "But what?" Laura demanded, barely able to speak.

  "But… Mary's dangerous. Dangerous to herself, dangerous to your baby."

  "What's that mean? Tell me!"

  "Mary said… if the police find them… she'll kill the baby first" — Didi saw Laura wince as if she'd been struck — "and then she'll keep shooting until the police kill her. She's not going to give up. Never."

  Tears stung Laura's eyes. They were tears of relief, at knowing David was still alive, and tears of horror at knowing that what Bedelia Morse said was true.

  The rest of it had to be told. Didi steeled herself, and continued. "Mary's coming here. She and Edward Fordyce. He was part of the Storm Front, too. They're on the way now, from New York. They should get here sometime tomorrow."

  "Whoa," Mark whispered, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Far out."

  Laura felt off balance, as if the room had suddenly begun to slowly spin around her. "Why are they coming here?"

  It seemed to Didi that once unleashed, betrayal was like a swarm of locusts. It kept consuming until everything was gone. "I'll show you," she said, and she took her key chain from its wall peg beside the front door.

  Laura and Mark followed Did! out behind the cottage, to the stone structure which was Didi's workshop. She unsnapped the padlock, drew out the chain, and opened the door. A thick, earthy aroma wafted from the chill darkness. Didi switched on the overhead lights, revealing a neatly swept workshop with two pottery wheels, shelves of glaze and paint, and various clay-shaping tools in their places on a pegboard. Another shelf held examples of Didi's labors in various stages of completion: graceful vases and planters, dishware, mugs, and ashtrays. On the floor beside one of the wheels was a huge urn, its surface patterned to resemble treebark. Didi paused to turn on a space heater, and she said, "This is what I sell. Back there is what I make for myself." She nodded toward a drawn curtain at the rear of the workshop.

  Didi walked to the curtain and drew it open. The cubicle behind it was covered with another series of shelves, and on them were works far different from what Didi sold under the name of Diane Daniells.

  Laura saw a pottery head: the face of a young woman with long, flowing hair, her mouth open in a scream and a dozen snakes bursting from the top of her skull. She didn't recognize the face, but Mark did. It was what Didi used to look like, before the butchery. Another face, this one of a man, was splitting open down the center, and a more fearsome, demonic visage was beginning to push through. There was a disembodied clay hand holding a perfectly formed clay revolver, the hand's fingernails transformed into grinning skulls. On the floor was a large work: a woman — again, as Mark saw, the image of the young Bedelia Morse — on her knees, her arms lifted upward in supplication and roaches scurrying from her mouth. Mounted on a wall were what appeared to be death masks: faces without expression, marked by stitches, zippers, or jagged scars. They looked to Laura like silent sufferers, saints of a hellish world, and she realized she was peering into the depths of Didi Morse's nightmares.

  Didi picked up something that was wrapped in black plastic. She brought it out to one of the wheels, where she carefully set it down and began to remove the plastic. It took her a minute or two, her touch reverent. And when she was done she stepped back, allowing Laura and Mark a full view.

  It was the life-size model of a man's head. The face was handsome and thoughtful, like that of a prince caught in repose. The clay hadn't been glazed or painted, and there was no color at all on the model, but Didi's fingers had rippled the scalp into curls of hair. The nose was an elegant curve, the forehead high and sloping, the thin-lipped and rather cruel mouth seemingly just about to open. The eyes held a regal incuriosity, as if they judged everyone else a step beneath him. It was the face, Laura thought, of a man who knew the taste of power.

  Didi touched the wheel, and spun it around. The head slowly rotated. "I modeled this from part of a face I saw in a picture," she said. "I finished the part the picture showed, and then I did the rest of it. Do you know who that is?"

  "No," Laura replied.

  "His name is — was — Jack Gardiner. Lord Jack, we called him."

  "The Storm Front's leader?"

  "That's right. He was our father, our brother, our protector. And our Satan." The wheel was stopping. Didi spun it again. "The things we did for him… are unspeakable. He played our souls like violins, and made us obey like trained animals. But he was smart, and he had eyes that you thought could see every secret you ever tried to hide. Jack Gardiner made Mary Terrell pregnant. She was going to have the baby in July 1972. Then the world crashed in on us." Didi lifted her gaze to Laura. "Mary lost the baby. Delivered it dead in a gas stat
ion bathroom. So she's taking Drummer — your baby — to Lord Jack."

  "What?" It was a gasp.

  Didi told them about the message in Mother Jones, and that Mary had seen it in Rolling Stone. "She thought Jack was waiting for her. She took your baby to give him. But Edward Fordyce placed the message because he's trying to write a book about the Storm Front and he wanted to see who'd show up. So now Mary and Edward are on their way here." She had come to the secret thing again. Loyalty writhed within her, like a snake in hot ashes. But to whom was she being loyal? A dead ideal of freedom? An ideal that was never really true in the first place? She felt as if she'd been on a long, grueling journey, and she'd abruptly come to a crossroads of decision. One road led the way she'd been going: straight ahead, across a land of nightmares and old griefs come a-haunting. The new road faced a wilderness, and what lay beyond it no one could know.

  Both roads were treacherous. Both roads glistened with blood, under a darkening sky. The question was: which road might lead to the saving of that infant's life?

  Didi stared at the clay face of the man she had once adored, in her youth, and grown to hate in her ancient days. She decided on the road to take. "I… think Jack Gardiner is in California. That's where Mary and Edward'll be going after they leave here." The snake within her crunched itself into a tight coil, and expired with a final shudder in the embers. Didi almost cried, but she did not; yesterday was gone, and no tears could revive its clock of hours. "That's it," Didi said. "What now? Are you going to call the police?"

  "No. I'm going to meet Mary when she gets here."

  Mark's jaw would have dropped to the floor had it not been jointed to his face. "Uh-uh!" he said. "No way!"

  "I'm not going to just let her breeze through here!" Laura snapped. "I don't want the police in this. If Mary Terror sees the police, my baby is as good as dead. So what choice do I have?"

  "She'll kill you," Didi said. "She's packing at least two pistols, and maybe something else I haven't seen. She won't hesitate for a second before she blows you away."

  "I'll have to take that chance."

  "You won't get a chance. Don't you understand? You can't take her on!"

  "You don't understand," Laura said firmly. "There's no other way."

  Didi was about to protest again, but what could she say? The woman was right. She would be killed in a face-to-face encounter with Mary Terror, of that Didi had no doubt. But what other chance would she have? "You're crazy," Didi said.

  "Yes, I am," Laura answered. "I wouldn't be standing here if I weren't. If I have to be as crazy as Mary Terror, then so be it."

  "Sure." Mark grunted. "The only difference is, you've never killed anybody."

  Laura ignored him, and kept her attention on Bedelia Morse. There was no retreating now, no calling for Doug to help her or the police to bring their eager snipers. Her mouth was dry at the prospect of impending violence, and the thought that the violence could easily catch David in its storm. "I've got to ask you for one more thing. That you'll let me know when Mary gets here."

  "I don't want your blood on my walls."

  "How about my child's blood on your hands? Do you want that?"

  Didi drew a long breath and let it out. "No. I don't."

  "Then you'll let me know?"

  "I won't be able to stop her from killing you," Didi said.

  "Okay. You won't have to cry at my funeral. Will you let me know?"

  Didi hesitated. She had murdered people who didn't want to die. Now she was going to be helping murder someone who was begging for death. But once Mary left for California, any chance — however slim — of getting the baby back alive would be gone. Didi kept her gaze downcast, but she could feel the hot intensity of Laura's eyes on her. "They're supposed to call me when they get to Ann Arbor," she said at last. "I told Mary I'd give her directions to the house. God help me… but I'll call you when I hear from them."

  "We're at the Days Inn. I'm in Room 119 and Mark's in Room 112. I'll be waiting by the phone."

  "You mean waiting by your gravestone, don't you?"

  "Maybe. But don't shovel the dirt on me yet."

  Didi lifted her gaze and looked at Laura. She knew faces, and faces intrigued her. This woman's features said she'd lived a soft, pampered life, a life of comparative wealth and ease. But the pain she'd endured was showing, in the dark hollows under her eyes, the lines on her forehead, and at the comers of her grim-lipped mouth. There was something else in her face, too, something that was newly bom: it might be called hope. Didi recognized Laura as a fighter, a survivor who wasn't afraid of overwhelming odds. That was how Didi herself used to be, a long time ago before the Storm Front had twisted and shaped her into a vessel of agony. Didi said, "I'll let you know." Four words: how easily a death warrant was signed.

  They walked around the cottage to Laura's car, and Didi saw the Go home carved into the windshield's glass. She was going to take the binoculars back to Mr. Brewer, and get a full description of the man who'd been asking for her. That was the kind of thing that five years ago would have made her instantly pack a suitcase and hit the road. Now, though, she knew the truth: there was nowhere to hide forever, and old debts always came due.

  Mark, muttering his discontent, got into the car. Before Laura did, she fixed Didi with a hard stare. "My son's name is David," she said. "Not Drummer." And then she got into the BMW, started the engine, and drove away, leaving Bedelia Morse standing alone in the lengthening shadows.

  5

  Roadchart Through Hades

  THE TELEPHONE BEGAN TO RING AT THREE THIRTY-NINE ON Tuesday morning. A cold fist squeezed Didi's heart. She stood up from her chair, where she'd been sitting under a lamp reading a book on advanced pottery techniques, and she went to the phone. She picked it up on the third ring. "Hello?"

  "We made it," Mary Terror said.

  They'd probably left New York the morning before and had been driving all day and night, Didi figured. Mary was wasting no time in getting nearer to Jack. "Edward's with you?"

  "Yeah. He's right here."

  "Where are you?"

  "A pay phone at a Shell station on —" Mary paused, and Didi heard Edward say "Huron Parkway" in the background. The sound of a baby crying came through the receiver. Mary said, "Rub behind his left ear, he likes that," instructions to Edward. Then she spoke into the phone again. "Huron Parkway."

  Didi began to give Mary directions to her cottage. She could hear the nervousness in her voice, and she tried to speak slowly but it didn't help. "You all right?" Mary interrupted suddenly. She knows, Didi thought. But of course that couldn't be. "You woke me up," Didi said. "I had a bad dream."

  The baby continued to cry, and Mary snapped, "Here, damn it! Give him to me and you take the phone!" When Edward was on the line, sounding exhausted, Didi repeated the directions. "Okay," he said through a yawn. "Turn right at the second light?"

  "No. Right at the third light. Then right again at the second light and the road will veer to the left."

  "Got it. I think. You ever try to drive a van with a kid screaming in your ear? And every time I tried to push it up past sixty-five Mary jumped my case. Jesus, I'm beat!"

  "You can rest here," Didi told him.

  "Let's go, let's go!" Mary said in the background. The child had stopped crying.

  "Stone house on the right," Edward said. "See you soon."

  "See you," Didi replied, and she hung up.

  The silence shrieked.

  Didi had given them the long route. They would be here in fifteen to twenty minutes if Edward didn't get them lost in his stuporous condition. Didi's hand hung over the telephone. The seconds were ticking past. The snake of loyalty had lifted its head from the ashes, and hissed a warning at her. This was the point of decision, and beyond it there was no turning back.

  She sensed the ghosts gathering behind her. Sharpening their teeth on their wristbones, eager to gnaw into her skull. She had given her word. In a world of deceits, wasn't that the only tru
e thing left?

  Didi picked up the phone. She dialed the number she'd already looked up in the Yellow Pages, and she asked the clerk for Room 119.

  Two rings. Then Laura's voice, instantly alert: "I'm ready."

  Laura was still wearing her jeans and cable-knit sweater, and she'd slept for a few periods of about fifteen minutes each before the imagined sound of the phone had jarred her awake. She listened to what Didi had to tell her, then she hung up and went to the closet. From the top shelf she took the.32 Charter Arms automatic Doug had bought. She pushed a clip of seven bullets into its magazine and smacked it shut with her palm. It hurt her hand. She worked the safety back and forth, getting a feel for the loaded weapon. The gun was still oily-smelling, still evil in appearance; but now she needed its weight and power, and whether she had to use it or not, it was a worthy talisman. She slid it down into her purse. Then she put on her overcoat and buttoned it up against the cold. Nausea suddenly pulsed in her stomach. She rushed into the bathroom and waited, but nothing came up. Her face was hot, sparkles of sweat on her cheeks. Now would not be the time to faint. When she was reasonably certain she was neither going to throw up or pass out, she went back to the closet and put an additional clip of bullets into her purse, adding to the talisman's strength.

  She was, as Stephen Stills had told the crowd at Woodstock, scared shitless.

  Laura left her room, her purse over her shoulder. The chill air hit her, a welcoming blow. She walked to Mark's room, and she balled up her fist to knock on the door.

  She stood there, fist balled up, and she thought of Rose Treggs and the two children. The wind moved around her; in it she imagined she heard the noise of chimes, calling Mark home. She had paid him his three thousand dollars. He had brought her to Bedelia Morse. Their agreement had been kept, and she would not take Mark any further into what lay ahead. She lowered her fist and opened it.