by Rick Hautala
“Why’s that?” Elizabeth asked tightly.
“Suffice it to say that, once we’ve started, do not step over the lines,” Graydon said. His tone of voice was harsh, almost angry sounding. “Don’t even touch them. Even the tiniest break in the line could be disastrous. “
Elizabeth nodded slowly, unable to look away as she watched Graydon outline the large five-pointed star on the swell of ground over Caroline’s grave. The star-shape had a diameter of ten feet or more. Although she could see Graydon’s darkened silhouette as he worked, the pentagram seemed to appear from nowhere, like an illusion on the dark grass.
The powder absorbed the light of the moon and gave it back with a faintly pulsating greenish glow, like the illuminated hands of an alarm clock. The finished design looked upside-down to Elizabeth. One point, what she would have called the “top,” was aimed down toward the foot of Caroline’s grave. A point stretched out on either side of the mounded grave, and the last two points angled in the direction of Caroline’s tombstone. The total effect made the design look like a representation of a goat’s horns, and Elizabeth wondered if that was Graydon’s intention.
Elizabeth could keep herself slightly detached by watching Graydon work on the design; but when she let the actuality of what they were doing sink in-that no more than six feet below them Caroline reposed in eternal, cold darkness-her legs went rubbery. She locked her knees to keep from falling, and fervently prayed that she wouldn’t faint, even as the soft whooshing of her pulse in her ears sounded louder, like muffled drums.
Why am I even doing this? And why am I allowing him to do this? she wondered, as fear coalesced inside her.
“Just about got it, now,” Graydon said, huffing from the effort as he sifted one last handful of white powder onto the pattern. He straightened up and brushed his hands on his pants legs. “There — that part’s all set.”
Elizabeth couldn’t stop dwelling on the thought that she was so close to Caroline’s lifeless body. So close ... so close to her baby. To stop the rushes of fear, she tried to focus on the flood of questions that arose, but she couldn’t stop thinking that both she and Graydon were crazy to be out here doing this. It was insane for him to believe he could actually summon up her daughter’s spirit; and she was just as insane to think he could. All of this preparation was just some ... lunatic show.
Dead is dead! she repeatedly told herself, and I’m not going to start living a normal life until I fully accept that Caroline is gone ... lost forever!
But what if death isn’t the end of it all? she wondered. What if we do continue to exist on some other plane of existence? And what if people like Graydon do have special knowledge and skills that allow them to contact the dead?
Having rolled the bag of white powder tightly shut, Graydon was just stooping to place it back into the larger bag when he glanced down the hill and saw a car’s headlights swing up into the cemetery entrance.
“Get down! Quick!” he whispered harshly.
Without thinking, Elizabeth dropped to the ground and stared down the sloping hill. Her breath was a hard, hot lump in her chest as she watched the car pull to a stop and then just sit there in the cemetery entrance, its motor idling.
“It’s the police!” she whispered, when she saw the outlines of the flashers and siren. She glanced fearfully over at Graydon, who was crouching behind Uncle Jonathan’s tombstone.
“Don’t worry,” he snapped. “We’ll be all right.”
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the white-lined design on Caroline’s grave. She flushed with panic, thinking that if the police came up here and found them doing what they were doing, she and — especially — Graydon would positively get connected to the other incidents that had happened out here. She glanced over her shoulder at the woods behind them and considered making a dash for safety. Better to be lost in the woods all night than to be implicated in grave robbing, arson, and murder!
For long, dragging minutes, the car stayed right where it was. No one got out. No beam of a spotlight swept over the cemetery. Nothing. Just the idling car. Elizabeth’s impulse to bolt and run grew stronger. She almost screamed when she heard a soft click behind her and, turning, saw the shadowed outline of a gun in Graydon’s hand, resting on Jonathan’s tombstone.
“What the hell is that for?” she hissed.
Graydon was silent as he stared down the hill at the waiting car. He seemed as solid, as immobile, as a funerary statue, but then he said softly, “Just a little extra insurance that we won’t be disturbed.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth and was about to ask him if Barney Fraser was dead because he had been a disturbance to Graydon out here on another night, but she thought better of it.
The car’s engine rumbled like the distant growl of a beast; then it suddenly revved up. Elizabeth tensed and glanced again at what looked like the quickest path into the woods if she had to run. She sensed Graydon’s nervousness, too, masked though it was, and that only compounded her rising fear.
The car’s engine whined loudly, and then, with the red glow of its taillights brightening the road behind it, the cruiser backed up and swung around onto Brook Road.
“Jesus Christ,” Elizabeth muttered as she collapsed onto the ground, feeling completely wrung out.
“I don’t think they’ll be back for a while,” Graydon said mildly. He lowered the gun and, after clicking on the safety, put it back into the bag. “Certainly, we’ll have enough time to do what we came here to do.”
Saying that, he dug around inside the bag for a second and then produced what in the darkness looked like five sticks of dynamite.
“Hold these,” he said, handing them to Elizabeth, who realized by their waxy feel that they were candles. She held one up to the moonlight and inspected it, guessing it was either dark blue or black.
Walking around the outside of the pentagram, Graydon hurriedly scooped out a small depression in the ground at one of the five points. He beckoned to Elizabeth, who came over and handed him a candle, which he stuck upright into the hole he had made and then patted excess soil around to support it in place. She followed him around the outside of the star and watched as he did the same to the other four candles. When he was done, he stood back and looked at her, smiling widely, his teeth flashing in the moonlight.
“We’re just about ready, now,” he said, unable to mask the excitement in his voice.
“I know this probably isn’t the time to mention it,” Elizabeth said, “but I was just you know, wondering if there is any ... danger doing this.” She knew her question sounded dumb, and she fully expected Graydon to say something like, Helluva time to ask. She was surprised when he answered her mildly.
“What’s about to happen is something not many people have ever experienced. And I won’t lie to you, Elizabeth. There most definitely are certain risks. But you have to trust me on this.” He reached out from the darkness, gripped both of her arms, and gave her a bracing shake. Moonlight glinted, cold and hard, in his eyes. “Once we start, if you stay inside the pentagram, you’ll be completely ... safe.” In the short pause before he said the word safe, Elizabeth had the impression he had been about to say within my power.
“Just remember — I’m the one in control here,” Graydon continued, his voice lowering with intensity. “You have to do everything I tell you to do — without hesitation and without question. If you let your fear get in the way of what we’re going to see and do, then — yes! I’d say you definitely would be in danger.”
“Of ... what?” Elizabeth asked through dry lips.
Graydon’s grip on her arms tightened. When he shook her again, she felt as though it was not so much to buoy her up as it was to control her, to intimidate her. She tried to pull back out of his hold, but he kept her arms locked in his grip.
“You will do what I tell you to do. When I tell you! That way, everything will work out ... just as I’ve planned it,” Graydon said.
“Can I — ask you one more thing
before we start?” Elizabeth said. Her voice trembled horribly, but she was surprised she didn’t just start screaming from the winding anticipation. The wind whistled, high and shrill above them, and the night closed down on her like a black satin-lined coffin lid. In her imagination, she saw Graydon’s eyes flash with the sparkling gleam of an animal’s eyes. Her coiled nerves were braced, waiting for his face to transform into a wolf’s just before he leaped and ripped out her throat.
“I suppose, before we begin the ceremony, I can allow one more question,” Graydon said, sounding entirely condescending. He glanced down the hill toward the cemetery gate, as though expecting to see the police cruiser there again, before adding, “But we really must hurry.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat and swallowed before she spoke. “I was just wondering — you know, about my uncle’s hand that you —”
“Ahh, the Hand of Glory,” Graydon said. There was a strong note of awe in his voice when he said the words.
“That’s what you call it?” Elizabeth asked, feeling a racing chill. She recalled the discussion she had had with Frank about the same thing.
Graydon nodded. “Through the centuries, the Hand of Glory has been a very powerful magical talisman,” he said. “Of course, back in the Middle Ages in Europe, it was most potent if it was the hand of a hanged criminal.”
“Or a suicide, right?”
“Yes,” Graydon said. “But you see, that was, I’m ashamed to say, a slight mistake on my part —”
“My uncle committed suicide,” Elizabeth said, almost as if she hadn’t heard Graydon’s comment.
“He what — ?”
“He killed himself,” Elizabeth said. “I never even knew until —”
“He killed himself! He was a suicide!” Graydon said, almost howling. ‘That explains why it was so ... so effective.” After another snicker, he calmed down and then added, more thoughtfully, “Isn’t it odd how these things have a way of working themselves out?”
“But what ... what was it used for?” Elizabeth asked, as a rush of chills danced up her back. “It was horrible that you did something like that. “
“The Hand of Glory is potent in and of itself, “ Graydon replied. “It was used primarily as a means to gain access to a house in order to rob it. You see, the magician would either place a candle in the dead hand or else, using a flammable mixture, ignite the fingers and thumb. The power of the Hand was such that everyone who saw the flame would fall asleep, and the magician, who had control of the Hand and thus was immune to it, would be at liberty to steal whatever he wanted from the house.”
“But then ... why did you use it out here?” Elizabeth asked. Her voice threatened to choke off as tears filled her eyes. “Especially on my daughter’s grave?”
Graydon’s teeth flashed in the moonlight as he smiled at her. “Why, so I could gain control over her, of course. I used the Hand of Glory to summon her. And now you’ll be able to do the same thing! See her and talk with her.”
Elizabeth shook her head in vigorous denial, wondering how Graydon could discuss something so gruesome, so horrible, with such detachment. Was it further proof that he was crazy, or that she was really losing her mind — or both? She knew she should be upset, completely freaked out to be here in the cemetery at midnight with a man who was telling her he had spoken with her dead daughter! How could he have done such a thing? If he was capable of doing that, what other horrible acts — including murder might he be able to do?
“But why did you choose my uncle to dig up?” she asked, forcing a steadiness into her voice that she didn’t feel at all.
“Control!” Graydon said forcefully, slapping his palm with his clenched fist. “It gives me the power!”
Elizabeth shook her head, confused. “But I don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, how could you have known about what my Uncle Jonathan did?”
Again, Graydon snuffed with laughter. “I didn’t,” he said, “I had no idea. I never even intended to use him, but apparently, because of the way he died, it was enough for my magical purposes.” Before Elizabeth could say anything else, Graydon snapped his fingers loudly and said, “We really must hurry if we’re going to go through with this.”
Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath and held it, then let it out with a slow whistle as she nodded her agreement. “Okay — what do we do next?”
2.
“Goddamn! You ain’t going out there again, are you?” Norton asked. The cruiser was parked in front of the 7-Eleven, its nose aimed toward the road. Norton was sitting in the passenger’s seat, sipping coffee and munching on a doughnut. He stretched his arm out and glanced at his wristwatch. “Why — Christ, it’s almost midnight. There ain’t anything going to happen out there.”
Frank grunted and, leaning his head back, scratched his neck. He wasn’t drinking coffee tonight, which was unusual for him, but he felt wound up and wire-tight enough without it. Now that he had some more details about Roland Graydon, he couldn’t push aside the feeling that Elizabeth was in serious trouble. He also was bone-deep positive that whatever else was going to happen, was going to happen out at Oak Grove Cemetery, at Caroline Myers’s grave ... and soon!
“Chalk it up to intuition, then,” Frank said, regarding Norton with a sidelong glance. “I just don’t have a good feeling about it tonight. I’ve been doing a bit of investigating on this guy, this psychiatrist Roland Graydon. You ever hear of him?”
Norton took a slurp of coffee and shook his head tightly. “Not till just now.”
That’s a lie, Frank thought, recalling that he and Norton had discussed Roland Graydon a week or so ago.
“Well, he’s a shrink who lives over in South Portland. He’s been seeing ... a friend of mine. And I don’t like some of the shit I found out about him.”
“Yeah? Like what? You mean to tell me you know something ‘n’ you’re not gonna tell your ole pardner?” Norton asked. Frank didn’t miss the hard stare Norton gave him in the darkened car.
“I’ll tell you all about it when we get there,” Frank said. “You about done?” Without waiting for a reply, he cranked the ignition. The cruiser jumped to life as Frank pumped the accelerator a few times.
“Yeah ... yeah,” Norton sputtered. He popped the last piece of doughnut into his mouth and wiped the crumbs on the back of his sleeve. “Just take it easy on the bumps in the road, all right?”
As Frank pulled out onto Main Street and headed north, Norton sat up straight in his seat. Frank noticed his partner’s sudden alertness, and several times he glanced at Norton’s face, glowing pasty white in the dim light of the dashboard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could read — what? — agitation, maybe, or some kind of tension in Norton’s eyes. Was Norton really upset about something, or was he just imagining it?
The radio squawked with static. Norton’s hand shot for the microphone as he said, “Hey! Maybe we got something interesting.” But the call wasn’t for them, so he let his hand drop to his side and looked straight ahead as the cruiser came up to the tum onto Brook Road. As Frank signaled and slowed for the turn, he most definitely picked up a coiling tension in his partner that just plain-old shouldn’t have been there. When Norton spoke, the tightness in his voice only confirmed Frank’s suspicions.
“This is a real fuckin’ waste of time, I hope you realize,” Norton said. He finished the sentence with a rising squeak in his voice. Frank knew it was because the cemetery entrance gate had come into view. He tapped lightly on the brakes as he slowed to take the turn onto the dirt road.
“I just want to —” he started to say, but that was all he got out before he detected a quick motion from Norton. As he swung the car in under the cemetery gate, he heard a soft snap sound, then the hiss of leather and a gentle click. Looking to his right, Frank saw that Norton had eased his revolver out of his holster. He cocked it and brought it to bear on Frank.
“Brad, what the fuck are you — ?”
“You’re not going up there,” Norton said
tightly, indicating with a quick nod the road leading up over the hill. He shifted forward in his seat and pressed the revolver to the side of Frank’s head. “Just stay right where you are, pardner, and don’t try anything stupid.” His voice was an octave higher than usual, but Frank didn’t doubt he meant business.
“Don’t talk to me about stupid,” Frank said softly. He jammed the shift into park and sat with the engine idling.
“Look, Frank,” Norton said. “I don’t wantto have to shoot you, all right? But I will if I have to.”
“Why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” Frank asked. He could feel Norton’s hand shaking, making the muzzle of the revolver vibrate against the side of his head. He swallowed and, in the dark interior of the car, quickly tried to assess his chances of fighting back.
“I’ve got my reasons, all right?” Norton replied t.ightly.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Frank asked. He tried to shift to look at Norton, but the pressure of the gun to his temple stopped him. “What the fuck’s going on, anyway?” A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he wondered if Norton’s trigger finger might be sweating, too ... and if it just might slip by mistake.
Norton took a deep breath to control his voice before he spoke. “Something you weren’t supposed to find out about,” he said. He shifted away from Frank, fearful that he was coiling up, preparing to try to disarm him. Leaning back against the passenger’s door, he pointed the revolver at a spot behind Frank’s right eye. “You just keep your eyes straight ahead. We’re gonna have to kill a little time before we can decide what to do with you, but you can start by telling me exactly what you found out about Roland Graydon.”
Frank shrugged helplessly and eased back in his seat. He wanted to try to lull Norton into letting his guard down, but he jumped and gripped the steering wheel tightly when he saw Norton flinch. Shifting his gaze to the side, he stared in disbelief at the unblinking eye of Norton’s .357.
