by Cave, Hugh
"Please. What lake?"
"What lake? Okeechobee, o' course. What other would I be talkin' about?" This time, as she peered at him, her scowl fairly dripped suspicion. "You drunk, mister?"
"No, no. I haven't been drinking."
"Sick, then?"
"I—don't know. I was trying to get to Gifford, near Vero Beach."
"Vero Beach!" she growled. "My Lord, you are lost!"
"If I'm near Lake Okeechobee, I must be."
"You're west of the lake, mister. A good long way west of it. What you better do, you want Vero Beach, you better go back to Twenty-seven, see, and head north to Seventy. Then turn right on Seventy and you'll pick up Ninety-five outside of Fort Pierce."
His head throbbing, his vision blurred by the pain of it, Ken leaned against the doorframe. "Just how do I get back to Twenty-seven, please?" Again he realized his voice was slurred, as though he were drunk
She told him and he nodded, praying he would remember. Feeling she had been generous to talk to him at all, and was perhaps in need, he fumbled a ten-dollar bill from his billfold.
"Uh-uh." She stopped him with her hand before he could offer it. "Nobody pays Della Driscoll for a simple courtesy. Just hope I've helped. But I doubt it, mister. You don't look well enough to do any more drivin' tonight."
He didn't feel well enough, either, he thought as he thanked her and returned to the car. All he wanted at this point was to get off his feet and onto a bed somewhere, and shut his eyes until the pounding in his head went away. On reaching the car he stumbled and would have fallen had it not been there for him to lean against.
Peering in at Sandy, he felt himself go rigid. She, too, was apparently in no condition to go on tonight. She was slumped against her door with one arm under her head and the other dangling.
When he jerked his door open and the inside light went on, he saw she was asleep—or unconscious—with her mouth open in what seemed to be a silent scream of terror.
Chapter Nineteen
"Do you understand now who is the master here?"
Seated on his bed, the man with the fire-scarred face gazed implacably down at his unwilling pupil.
Still on his knees, still naked, Merry Dawson's father bowed his head. "Yes, yes. You are."
"You have no wish to feel the pain again?"
"Dear God, no!"
Margal was in no hurry. Their host, Elie Jumel, had been sent from the room hours ago, just after Dawson's humiliation. The fat woman, Clarisse, had been summoned soon afterward to bring food—only for the Haitian, not the American—and then ordered to retire to her living room mattress with the child.
A prisoner of the bocor's will, Dawson had not once in all that time striven either to rise to his feet or lie on the floor, though his knees were full of agony and he had not slept since his arrival at the house.
The hour was close to midnight.
"You must be aware, of course," Margal said matter-of-factly, "that I could have controlled your actions when I sent you into the kitchen. You were able to command Jumel to kill me only because I was testing you."
"Yes, master." Slowly lifting his head, Dawson looked into the sorcerer's glowing eyes and shuddered. "Now I know."
"So long as that is clear to you, you may get up now and use a chair. I wish to talk to you. Then I will let you sleep so that you may leave here at daybreak on a mission for me."
Struggling to rise, Dawson was so stiff that he fell forward on his elbows. A second effort brought him upright. Walking woodenly to a chair, he carefully lowered himself onto it.
"Not there," Margal corrected. "I said I wish to talk to you. Bring the chair here."
Dawson fearfully dragged the chair to the bed.
"I will begin by telling you that I am sending you to your father," the bocor said. "1 would go myself, but the journey would present problems. So you will go for me."
"To my father? In Washington?"
"Confronting him, you will use the power I have given you—the power you demonstrated when you sent Jumel in here to destroy me. You will persuade your esteemed father to do certain things for me which I will tell you about before you leave."
"I need only command him? With my mind? God in heaven, how will I explain this to him?"
"Do I explain when I give you a command?"
"No, but—"
"But you are not my equal yet, eh?" Margal actually smiled. "Nor will you ever be, m'sieu. Nevertheless, your father will obey you."
"You don't know him," Dawson moaned.
"I know you, and you have the power now. But"—the smile became a scowl--"never think you can escape my mind, even though your mission will take you far from here. I will be with you every moment!"
The man on the chair bowed his head in surrender.
"You may sleep a little now." Margal tossed a pillow to the floor. "I will wake you when I wish to instruct you further. Before beginning your journey you will be allowed to shave and bathe, and be given food. Now sleep."
With a moan of relief Dawson sagged from his chair. Crawling across the floor, he collapsed in a sleep of total exhaustion even before reaching the pillow.
Chapter Twenty
"Sandy!"
As he reached for the woman in the car, Ken Forrest fought a savage torment in his head. "Sandy! What's wrong?"
A stupid question, for she was obviously unconscious. And he, too, was teetering on the brink of a black abyss. After trying repeatedly to lift her to a sitting position and finding he hadn't the strength, he backed out of the machine and returned on unsteady legs to the house.
The door was locked again. Della Driscoll must have re-secured it after his departure. In response to his desperate but feeble pounding, it was finally inched open.
The woman with curlers in her hair scowled at him through the aperture. "You back? I thought I—"
"Please, Mrs. Driscoll. I need help."
"Again?"
"It's—my wife." If he used any other word, this kind of woman might not give them a cabin together, and Sandy could not be left alone. "Something's happened to her. We can't drive any farther tonight."
"Let me have a look at her, mister." She pushed past him and strode to the car. When he caught up to her, stumbling because of blurred vision and the savage drum sound in his head, she had the car door open and was peering in.
"She does look sick." Sudden anger twisted her face. "Are you two into drugs?"
"No, no. Believe me, I don't know what's happened."
"You been eatin' in crummy restaurants?"
"No. It can't be that."
She scowled at him. "Well—all right. Dunno why I should believe you, but we better get your wife inside."
"Thank you." Ken swayed forward, hoping he would be able to lift Sandy out of the car. He didn't have to try. With a gruff, "Out of my way, mister; you look as sick as her!" the Driscoll woman pushed him aside. For her, Sandy was no burden at all. All he had to do was stumble along beside her as she strode to the house.
Inside, she carried Sandy through the "office" into a small, drab living room and laid her gently on a sofa. "You stay with her while I make some of my herb tea," she ordered. "My tea'll fix most anything."
Rather like an army tank, she went lumbering into another part of the house.
Leaning over Sandy, Ken studied her face. Now that her mouth was no longer open in the silent scream of terror that had terrified him, there seemed to be nothing much wrong.
"Sandy."
Her eyes opened. "What—where are we?"
"You passed out in the car. We're at the motel."
"Motel? Where? Gifford?"
He touched her face. "We're not in Gifford yet, hon. We got lost, and now we're somewhere in the middle of the state, at a place called Della's." When she still looked confused, he added with a frown, "How much do you remember?"
"The road . . . didn't seem right. There was a lot of fog or mist, and then we weren't on the turnpike anymore."
"Does your head ache?" His own still did. Even when attending voodoo services on the plantation in Haiti, with the three drums pounding and that fiendish iron bar called the ogan clanking away for hours on end, his head had not hurt the way it did now.
The assailant then had been only sound. Now there was something evil in what was being done to him.
Who was doing it? Margal, the bocor?
"Sandy, listen." He put his lips close to her ear, so his voice would not reach the woman in the kitchen. "We can't go on tonight. If we try to, I'm likely to pass out at the wheel. What we need is a few hours' rest here, and I want us to be together. So I've told her that we're married."
"Her?"
"The owner."
Sandy tried feebly to grasp his hand. "Oh my God, Ken, I have to find my daughter! Please!"
"Just a little while, hon. Maybe only an hour or so. As soon as we feel better—I feel better—we can go on. I promise."
Softly, almost silently, she began to sob.
Could they go on without losing time here? If he drove very slowly, say? He could understand her feelings: the child missing for so long and now known to be in the hands of a fiend like Margal. But was he able to drive at all? She certainly wasn't.
He was still struggling to reach a decision when Della Driscoll came with a tray. Placing it on a table beside the sofa, she looked at Sandy. "You're awake, hey? That's good."
Sandy only stared at her.
"This here is my own herb tea, and it'll do you good." Kneeling, Driscoll took a mug from the tray and offered it with a gentleness that seemed out of character. "You drink some now, you hear?"
Sandy lifted the mug to her lips.
"Tastes good, don't it?"
"Yes . . . thank you."
"You finish it. Then your husband here can see about gettin' you to bed." She frowned at Ken. "You're lucky, mister. I only keep one cabin open for transients now. The rest I rent by the month to folks who work on farms around here. And the one I have ain't occupied tonight. You can use it."
"My wife thinks we ought to go on," Ken said.
"Go on! You out of your mind?"
"It's urgent we get to Gifford."
Driscoll's eyes narrowed to slits as she looked from him to Sandy. "Mister, the condition you're in, you wouldn't get five miles down the road before you fell asleep at the wheel and run off into a ditch." Taking the empty mug from Sandy, she struggled to her feet. "I'll show you the cabin. Just let me get the key."
She left the room, and Ken realized Sandy was staring at him, silently pleading with him. He reached for her hand.
"Hon. I can't drive right now. I just physically can't. The worst headache I've ever had in my life is making me weak and dizzy, sick to my stomach. And you can't handle the car; you've already passed out once. Just give me an hour to get over the worst of it."
"Ken, why are we like this?" she whispered.
Because, he thought, Haiti's special devil doesn't want us interfering with his plans for Merry, whatever they are. But he mustn't say that, of course. "Hon, I don't know. But we'll get over it. All we need—"
"You comin', mister?" Della Driscoll had reappeared, clutching a ring of keys.
He squeezed Sandy's hand in a plea for her to trust him, and then followed the woman out. The cabin she led him to was the one nearest her house, he noted. Perhaps she liked to keep an eye on people she rented it to?
Opening the cabin door, she switched on a light. "Sorry it's only got the one bed. I expect you'd rather sleep separate tonight, feelin' the way you both do."
"It will be all right, Mrs. Driscoll. We won't be using it long."
"What you mean by that?"
"We must get to Gifford." Without even entering the cabin, he peered past her to see what it was like.
It was just large enough to hold the bed, an old chest of drawers painted pale blue with most of the paint chipped off, a couple of wooden chairs that had never been painted at all, and a dark, overstuffed chair about to pop its springs. Beyond the bed was a bathroom.
"I appreciate this, Mrs. Driscoll. How much do I owe you?"
"Twenty for the two of you. In the morning."
"No, now. We’ll be gone before you're up."
"You're out of your mind. The minute the two of you hit that bed, you'll be out for hours."
"Please." He took a twenty from his billfold and held it out to her.
"Well, all right. Whatever you say." The bill went into a pocket of her dress. "You want help gettin' your wife over here?"
"Well—" Normally he could have picked Sandy up and carried her with ease. But could he now?
"All right, I'll get her," Driscoll said. "You wait here."
Standing in the doorway, he watched her go to the house and come out with Sandy in her arms. So, he thought, I'm going to be in bed again with the woman I've never stopped loving. A woman who's married this time.
Despite the eeriness of the occasion and the problems they faced, he felt a surge of excitement. It lingered even after the motel owner strode into the cabin and deposited Sandy on the bed, and he saw that Sandy was again asleep or unconscious.
"Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll."
On her way out, Mrs. Driscoll turned at the door. "You need anything, just holler. Livin' alone like I do, I don't sleep too sound anyway."
The door closed behind her.
Gazing down at Sandy, he wondered what to do. Should he try to take off some of her clothes, to make her more comfortable? No. That mightn't seem right to her when she awoke. Besides, they would be leaving soon.
He took her shoes off. Removing his own, he lay beside her, on his back, and stared at the ceiling.
They had slept together in the old days, though not more than a few times. Only just enough to make him think it might be a permanent arrangement and to feel hurt and angry when she announced she was marrying Brian Dawson. The hurt was still in him, but not the anger. Losing her had been his own fault. You couldn't blame a woman for thinking of her future.
Turning toward her, he found her eyes wide open, gazing at him.
"Hello, Ken," she whispered.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
"Far-out. Kind of floating. Where are we? In one of the cabins?"
"Uh-huh." He reached out to touch her face. "I told her we wouldn't be staying long, though. Just until we felt well enough to try for Gifford again." He could manage only a small, sad smile. "It's been quite a while since we were together like this."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
He took her gently into his arms and touched his lips to hers. She pressed herself against him and they lay that way awhile before, with a shudder, she suddenly relaxed. Peering into her face, he saw she was again having trouble keeping her eyes open.
"Rest a little, hon. Sleep."
"Just for—" The struggle to concentrate made her frown. "Half an hour? Will you wake me?"
"I'll wake you."
With a sigh of surrender, she shut her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lying there beside her, he, too, must have dozed off. When he awoke, he was conscious of the pain in his head again, and that the cabin was full of the sound of drumming.
Rain. And not a welcome shower that would chase the heat, but a savage downpour that seemed likely to demolish the cabin.
He sat up. The bare bulb overhead still glowed; he had left it on, thinking Sandy might suddenly need him. Puzzled by the intensity of the deluge, now accompanied by a howling wind, he shook his head to sort out his feelings. But that only intensified the hammering inside his skull and made the contents of his stomach rise to his throat.
The cabin had two windows. When lightning flashed and a crash of thunder suddenly tore the night apart, both windows rattled so wildly, they seemed in danger of bursting. Then a second fiery flash of lightning turned them into monstrous eyes, alive and full of evil, glaring at him.
Without even a glance at the woman sleeping by his side, he flung himself from the bed and race
d in panic to the door.
The wind all but tore the door off its rusty hinges as he flung it open. Outside, the rain slammed down in sheets, lightning streaked the sky, and a shrieking wind tore through the tops of tall pines.
In Haiti's Massif du Nord, violent mountain storms had been common. But not even there had he ever seen a storm such as this!
Why, then, was he rushing out into it?
The question found its way into his mind when he was halfway to the road. Lurching to a halt, he looked wildly back at the cabin. Its door was closed now; the wind must have slammed it shut. The light was still on inside, making the windows glow in the dark except when flashes of lightning set the whole night ablaze and blanked them out.
He looked toward the house. No lights there. No other lights anywhere that he could see. Only the drenching rain, the booming claps of thunder, the darkness that was slashed every few seconds by spears of lightning.
He could not stay here! Could not go back to the cabin! He had to escape!
Stumbling on, he crossed the road and found himself in a forest he had not known was there. It must have been there, of course; he just hadn't noticed it when they stopped at the motel. Strange, though. He should have noticed anything that unusual. It was a forest of huge cypresses, their trunks nearly as big as the cabin he had just fled from. And he was stumbling through dark, stinking water filled with cypress knees—those weirdly shaped growths sprouting up from the big trees' submerged roots.
Terrified, he stopped again, clinging for support to a knee as tall as his hips and shaped like—like what? A grotesque, oversized bishop on a chessboard strewn with other grotesques. A dwarf from Disney's Snow White. A human being with an ugly balloon face and no legs.
The last thought made him relinquish his grip and back away, as though the knee might possess some awful poison that would hideously destroy him, and he stumbled on through the swamp again. But other weird growths threatened him on all sides now. Shapes resembling panthers and wildcats. And some that were even more frightening because they were almost but not quite human.
