Evil Returns

by Cave, Hugh

  She was silent for so long that at last he stole a glance at her, just in time to see her bite her lip. Then, in an unsteady voice, she said, "Well, all right."

  "Good."

  "To begin with, I suppose it was as much my fault as his. Because I didn't really love him, I mean."

  "Why did you marry him, then?"

  "Because of you."

  "Me? I didn't walk out on you, Sandy."

  "I know. But you weren't serious about us, either. You weren't serious about anything."

  "And he was?"

  "Oh, he was! As the only son of Rutherford Franklin Dawson, he had his future all mapped out. First there would be a State Department job—"

  "Which is why Alvaranga wouldn't do. Here's Route Twenty-seven, hon. We go north through Moore Haven." He turned left onto a four-lane highway. "Did he know you and I had slept together?"

  "No. At least, I never told him. After all, we weren't living together."

  "Worse luck. If we had been, I'd have realized what was bugging you about me and done something to fix it."

  Her hand touched his knee. "Would you, Ken?"

  "Yes, damn it. Maybe I wouldn't have mapped out a future the way he did, but I'd have thought more about it. That was the trouble, wasn't it? You were afraid you'd end up supporting me."

  "Something like that."

  "Well, go on about Brian. Is he a good father to Merry?"

  "Yes, I have to give him that."

  "Really loves her?"

  "Worships her."

  "That's something. Is he hard to live with? Outside of having other women, I mean. Or at least one other woman."

  Sandy shrugged. "He's very self-centered. Everything has to be just so and on time, as though I were a paid servant. In Haiti that could have been my own fault, because I wouldn't hire all the help he thought we ought to have."

  She voiced a brief laugh. "I remember one day our cook, Edita, was out sick and I was sick—we both had what they call the fever—and I was in the bathroom for the umpteenth time, throwing up. And he walked in and looked at me in disgust and said, 'When are you going to get my dinner?'

  "Brother."

  "I'm not a wife to him. Not loved. I'm simply someone he thought might be right for his career."

  "You do sleep with him, I suppose."

  "It isn't the same."

  "Same as what?"

  "The way you and I were. Shall I elaborate? Is that what you want?"

  It was, he realized. And not just to keep Margal from taking possession of his mind again. He wanted to hear more about the intimate side of her life with Brian because, damn it, he was jealous. And even more important, because he was beginning to feel there might be a chance to get her back.

  After all, he had never stopped loving this woman. No one else had been able to take her place.

  "All right." Again Sandy shrugged. "In bed he was the kind of man who doesn't make love to a woman but rapes her. I say was because I haven't been in bed with him in over a year. We sleep in the same room but in separate beds, and the space between is a Grand Canyon." Her fingers squeezed his leg. "You wouldn't know what I mean by 'the kind of man who rapes a woman.’"

  "You mean I didn't come on that strong?"

  "Oh, you came on strong enough. You knew what you wanted. But you were tender and considerate. Even the few times when I didn't really want to go to bed with you, I ended up being glad I was there."

  "Thanks, hon." He paused. "Why don't you leave him?"

  "He won't let me. This is a critical point in his career, he says. A divorce would hurt his prospects."

  "But he can't stop you from walking out on him."

  "Yes, Ken, he can."

  "How, for God's sake?"

  "By refusing to let me have Merry. He said if I leave him, I'll never see her again." She paused and frowned. "What are we stopping for?"

  They had been rolling north on Route 27 with the big lake on their right, and had talked all the way through the lakeside town of Moore Haven. Now a two-lane blacktop branching off to the right bore the number 78. Ken said, "Look at the map, will you? I think this is a short cut to 70 through a Seminole reservation."

  Her frown told him she had her doubts. Or was she thinking that after yesterday's brush with horror it would be safer for them to stay on a main highway? He himself was no longer afraid of being savaged by Margal again. All she had to do was keep on talking to him.

  "Well?" he urged.

  "Well—all right, I guess."

  The shortcut was all but deserted at this hour of the morning. A breeze blew across it from the water, despite a flood-control dike that hid the lake itself. A white heron stood statue still in a ditch, waiting for its breakfast to swim within reach. An armadillo crossed the blacktop like a miniature tank and disappeared into scrub growth. Houses were far apart. Sandy talked again of when they had been lovers.

  After a while Ken was no longer at the wheel of a car on a mission filled with mystery and peril, but naked on a bed with her. On a table beside the bed glowed a lamp, and he found himself remembering the time they had bought it together at a flea market, laughing at themselves for being idiots because it was a hideous plaster imitation of Rodin's "The Kiss." Now by its dim light he looked down at Sandy's small, perfect breasts and flat belly and began gently to caress her ever-so-lovely body with the tips of his fingers, to make her want him. And presently she stopped lying there so quietly and began to caress him the same way, then tugged him over on top of her and pulled his head down to bring their mouths together. And oh, it was good, so good, to know that this girl loved him and wanted him the way he loved and wanted her. It made the future so wonderfully certain.

  Their lovemaking finished, he rolled over on his back and smiled up at the bedroom ceiling and began humming a song. And the girl in the car on the road through the Seminole reservation heard him and stopped talking about their old relationship and said, "That's pretty. What's the name of it?"

  He sang the words. "Ti maman, fé ti ba pou mwen, pa kité, m'allé . . ."

  "It's Haitian, of course. I think I've heard it."

  An old Haitian love song. 'Sweetheart, give me a little kiss, don't let me go."

  "Sing it all? Please?"

  He put a hand on her knee, and while he sang the whole song for her the hand slowly burrowed down between her legs until it encountered a soft warmth that reacted to his touch by becoming moist. Then he stopped singing and began talking to her in Creole.

  She frowned. "I didn't know you spoke Creole that well. How did you learn it so quickly? Most people find it hard."

  Again he used the tongue of the Haitian peasant, this time so rapidly she seemed frightened by it and looked at him in alarm.

  "I've never heard anyone but a Haitian speak it like that!" she breathed. "Ken—what's happening? What are you doing?" Then suddenly, in a shrill voice: "Ken! What are we turning in here for?"

  With only one hand on the wheel he had unexpectedly brought the car to a near stop and swung it off the blacktop onto a pair of sandy ruts. Now he freed his other hand from between her legs and steered the lurching vehicle between walls of brush and tall grass. Fifty yards in from the road he braked it to a halt.

  "Ken!" Sandy moaned. "What are you—?"

  His right arm went around her neck, brutally pulling her closer to him. His left hand went where his right had been before, but not gently this time, just jabbing and clutching.

  A cry of pain all but turned her protest into a scream. "Ken, for God's sake, what—"

  "Oh, stop it!" he snarled. "You know damned well what I want! Don't play hard to get with me!"

  "Ken, I'm not playing hard to get! But not now. Please! Not here!"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Angrily he let her go, but only to fling the car door open and lurch out. Striding around the machine, he had his shirt off and discarded even before he reached her door. There he kicked off his loafers, rid himself of slacks and shorts, and was naked except for his soc
ks when he reached in and grasped her by an arm.

  "Get out here, damn it! I want you and I want you now!"

  She grabbed at the wheel and tried to hang on to it while he tugged at her: But his rage made him too strong. Much too strong. In a moment she was out of the car, sobbing at him to stop it while he fumbled at her clothes.

  "Please, Ken. Oh my God, I'll make love to you, but not like this and not now! We have to find my daughter! Ken! Stop it!"

  He silenced her by fiercely pulling her into his embrace and crushing his mouth against hers, pawing at her with both hands while she struggled. It was the pawing that cost him his triumph. When she felt his grip slacken, she flung her arms up and pushed with all her strength.

  He stumbled backward. Lost his balance. Fell naked into something with wickedly sharp thorns that pierced his skin and wrung a yell of pain from his throat.

  With a swiftness born of terror Sandy Dawson leaped back into the car and squeezed herself behind the wheel. Turned the key. Sent the machine roaring down the ruts in reverse and somehow miraculously managed to reach the highway while still in control of it.

  The sound of the fleeing car died away in Ken's ears as he extricated his naked, bleeding body from the thorns and struggled to his feet. Then he stood there with his mouth agape and eyes tightly shut, flailing the air with both arms, as though once again battling the fetid waters of a snake-filled swamp.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Like many others who earn their bread in the capital, Rutherford Franklin Dawson lived across the river in Virginia. His apartment fit the lifestyle of a man who worked in the White House as a close friend and colleague of that establishment's number-one resident.

  This Sunday morning he chose to prepare his own simple breakfast of prune juice, toast, and coffee. Then he elected to relax in bathrobe and slippers with a new book. Being the work of a columnist who was one of the President's most cynical detractors, the book would undoubtedly raise his already high blood pressure, but he felt it his duty to sample the thing, at least. By the time he had read a chapter or two he would probably throw it across the room in a fit of temper.

  Rutherford Dawson's favorite chair was a recliner well suited to his six-foot-three frame. Settling into it, he glared for a few seconds at the author's photo on the book's dust jacket, then began reading.

  His phone rang. With a soft "Damn!" he got to his feet and strode across the room to the telephone table.

  "Your son is here, Mr. Dawson." It was the security guard in the lobby.

  "From Haiti, sir."

  "What in God's name—All right, Eddie, send him up."

  "Your son is here," Dawson echoed in a growl on his way to the door. "Don't bother to phone first. Don't let anyone know you're coming. Damn it, suppose I'd had somebody here?"

  Someone of the opposite sex, he meant. It was a situation he enjoyed often, but not one he wanted known at the White House. A man of his influence was expected to be more discreet.

  He heard the elevator doors open in the hall, and then footsteps. His doorbell buzzed. Opening the door, he made no attempt to hide his displeasure. But his frown was quickly displaced by an expression of concern.

  "My God, Brian! What's wrong with you?"

  They shook hands. It was as close as they ever came to embracing. "I'm just a bit beat, Dad," the son said.

  Leaving the South Carolina restaurant last evening, Brian had returned to his car and closed his eyes, intending only a brief nap before resuming his journey. When he awoke it was after midnight, and through the rest of the night he had pushed on like a zombie. Did he now have the strength to carry out Margal's orders?

  His father led him to a chair. "When did you leave Haiti?"

  "Well, I—oh, several days ago."

  "Why? You in trouble?"

  "No, no. I had to talk to people in Miami about the immigration problem."

  "People in Miami? Then why are you here, damn it?"

  This was not the way it was supposed to go, Brian told himself. He was forgetting what the man in Gilford had so painfully taught him.

  "Dad." Leaning forward, he fixed his gaze on his father's face. "Look at me, please."

  "Damn it, I've been looking at you! And all I see is a man who must have been on a bender for. . ." The voice of Dawson Senior began to fade. "What—are you doing? What's happened to your eyes?"

  "Next to your mind, your eyes are your most effective weapon. Use them!" Margal the sorcerer had said over and over again. No doubt they were tinged with red now. Not the flaming red he had seen in the Haitian's eyes, perhaps, but enough to alarm his father.

  The two sat staring at each other, the father obviously uneasy, the son now using his eyes and mind in concert.

  After a moment of total silence Brian said in a low voice, "Do you begin to understand me a little?"

  Dawson Senior fumbled in his robe and produced a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. Having filled his lungs with smoke, he placed the cigarette on an ashtray while the smoke drifted from his half-open mouth as though he had no control over it. "What—are you doing to me, for God's sake?"

  There had to be a test, Brian remembered, before he could safely continue. Margal had warned him. Or was the bocor warning him now, this minute? It was sometimes difficult to know.

  "What am I commanding you to do?" The words did not actually leave his lips. His lips did not move. But he was fiercely concentrating now and knew his eyes were hypnotic.

  Aloud, his father replied feebly, "You are telling me to—to take up my cigarette—and—and—"

  "Why are you not doing it, then?"

  With palsied fingers the older man fumbled the burning tube of tobacco from the tray and put it into his mouth. Slowly he chewed and swallowed it.

  On the son's mouth a smile of triumph took shape. Aloud now, to save himself the exhaustion of too much concentration, he said, "If you go to your office today, will you be likely to see the President?"

  Rutherford Dawson responded like a man talking in his sleep. "On Sunday?"

  "I am asking you."

  "Well, he is there today. He was to go to Camp David this weekend but changed his mind and stayed to do some work."

  "And you could help with that?"

  "I believe so. Yes."

  "He would welcome your help?"

  "I think he would."

  "You will go there, then, and make every effort to see him. Time is of the essence. Now listen carefully to what you must do."

  "May I—may I smoke? Please?"

  "You may smoke."

  Dawson Senior fired up another cigarette and inhaled deeply, as though to restore some vital life force that had been sucked out of him. Recognizing the act for the desperate thing it was, Brian smiled again and began talking. After ten minutes he leaned back and said in conclusion, "You may go and get dressed now."

  "Yes." It was a word his father had used repeatedly while being instructed.

  "Perhaps you'd better take a shower, too."

  "I took one before breakfast, when I shaved."

  "You've been sweating. Take another."

  "Yes."

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes, my son."

  "I prefer 'Yes, master.'"

  "Yes—master."

  "Now go. And don't be long."

  It took the man who worked at the White House only a few minutes to shower and dress. When he reappeared, he looked a little more normal. He was, after all, the man from whom Brian Dawson had acquired his good looks, and the father was still more handsome than the son. But a close examination of his eyes, of something lurking behind his not quite steady gaze, would have betrayed a haunting or possession. Recognizing this, Brian escorted him to the door and said with a frown, "Are you able to drive?"

  "Yes, I can drive."

  "Be very careful. Time is of the essence, as I told you, but it will not help for you to have an accident."

  "I will use care."

  "Come back here as soon as you have
carried out my instructions."

  "Yes."

  "Ring the bell when you return. I'll be resting and don't want you to walk in here, using your key, and find me asleep. Is that clear?"

  "I must ring the bell."

  "Now go."

  Dawson Senior walked down the hall to the elevator. When the car rose to his summons and he disappeared into it, Brian shut the apartment door.

  He was very tired again. All that had sustained him through the interview was the knowledge that he must not incur the wrath of his master by postponing it. Going into the bedroom, he took off his shoes and lay on the bed, gazing at the ceiling.

  After a while the face of the Haitian bocor seemed to float there above him.

  "Have I done well, master?" Brian asked without speaking aloud.

  "Well enough for now. I was not pleased when you fell asleep in your car at the restaurant."

  "Please . . . I didn't mean to do that. I was just so tired. Why didn't you wake me?"

  "Because if you had driven right through without rest, you would have arrived too tired to be effective. And if aroused from sleep at such an early hour, your father might have been even more difficult to handle."

  "I—see."

  "Rest now. If he brings what you told him to, you will start back here at once, no matter what the hour."

  "Yes, master."

  The face faded. With a deep sigh, Brian closed his eyes and sank into what—just before it became sleep—seemed to be a slough of quicksand from which he struggled in vain to escape.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Except for his socks, he was naked. Why was he naked?

  Standing in scrub at the edge of a dirt road that was little more than a pair of ruts, Ken Forrest looked at his body and saw blood on it. Blood still oozed from punctures apparently made by thorns.

  Had he fallen? He must have. Merely walking through the underbrush here would not have drawn blood from his upper arms and shoulders.

  So he had fallen. But why had he been walking in such a place? Where was the car? Where was Sandy? And why was he naked?