Greely's Cove

by Gideon, John

  “Oh, for the love of...”

  Lindsay’s mind started to race through a maze of absurd but harrowing possibilities, none of them rational, all having to do with the black tale that Hannie Hazelford had spun in Lindsay’s living room three nights earlier.

  “Esther, there’s got to be some other explanation. I can’t believe Dr. Craslowe is a fraud.”

  “It does seem hard to believe, and that’s why I wondered whether he had used some other name while attending Oxford and doing work for the Royal Academy. Even so, it wouldn’t explain why his present name is on the documents that he gave to the state board. If he’d changed his name for some reason and had updated his credentials, then the folks at Oxford should’ve known about it. They should have it in their records.”

  “But how on earth could he have slipped forgeries by the Washington authorities? I thought they were in business to protect us from that kind of thing.”

  “It wouldn’t be that hard to do,” answered Dr. Cabaza, “if the forgeries were extremely good ones. The state board relies primarily on the testing process to weed out the incompetents and the charlatans. For what it’s worth, your guy is probably qualified to practice, or he wouldn’t have passed the exam.” This, coupled with the fact that Craslowe had worked a veritable miracle with Jeremy, might have given Lindsay some reassurance, but for the apprehensions that Hannie Hazelford had planted in her mind. Lindsay had hoped that a check of Craslowe’s credentials would give the lie to Hannie’s ravings, but the opposite had happened. Contradiction: Hadrian Craslowe was a fraud who had worked a very authentic miracle. Lindsay’s apprehension sharpened.

  “If you want,” continued Dr. Cabaza, “I’ll ask the board to keep checking, which they’ll probably want to do anyway, having found out this much. If you could recall the name of the institution in Switzerland...”

  Which Lindsay could not, regrettably. All she could remember was that Craslowe had mentioned working in Zurich, meaning that to check further, the state board would have to call every mental health organization in Switzerland’s largest city. No telling how long that would take. And what would be proved by discovering that Craslowe had never worked with any of them? Only that he had told yet one more lie to Lindsay Moreland and Carl Trosper.

  Lies, apprehensions, contradictions; the sharp little dread of believing the unbelievable, of trusting the untrustworthy—these were the ingredients of the emotional stew boiling inside Lindsay as she thanked Dr. Cabaza, promised once again to bring her mother by for a checkup, and said good-bye. Then she buzzed the front desk and instructed the secretary to cancel her remaining appointments for the day.

  Hannie Hazelford’s cottage on Torgaard Hill smelled pun-gently of the potions she had brewed feverishly throughout the night and into the morning, of the herbs and spices and disgusting bits of once-living tissues that she had dug from her vast inventory of magical goods, which she had then chopped or pulverized, shredded or blended, burned or boiled or chanted over, until her rickety old body verged on collapse. And collapse she finally did. But not until she had placed at least one kind of charm—a vial or jar full of some foul suspension, or a skin pouch containing a powerful powder or crumbs of bone from a long-dead animal—at every window and door of the cottage, in the corners of every room, before the fireplace hearth and even over the heating vents. Using unbleached candle wax, she had drawn strange Kabbalistic symbols upon every windowpane, which—like the charms—would prevent intrusion by the forces that Hadrian Craslowe would surely send against Robbie and herself The war had started anew, she had told Robbie at the end of their breakneck drive back to Torgaard Hill from Mitch Nistler’s house. A war that was as ancient as the human species. The brews, the charms, and the chanted words were their fortress, their armor, their swords.

  By sunup Robbie too was exhausted but not sleepy, thanks to the adrenaline rush that came whenever his brain conjured the image of Craslowe’s direful face—inches away from his own, glowering through the Jaguar’s window with those toxic eyes. Robbie wondered whether he would ever sleep again.

  How absurd it all was, thought Robinson Sparhawk, as he stood on his crutches next to Hannie Hazelford’s amply feathered bed, having tucked her in for some much-needed sleep. He gazed down at her shapeless lumps under the blankets, at the sparsely haired head that lay as still as a fossil on its pillow. He tried to visualize the child she once had been: a redheaded slip of a Saxon girl, perhaps, with dancing eyes and freckled cheeks and a giggle that could make a father’s heart sing.

  How absurd that this little girl, having survived in childhood the plagues and pestilences of the Dark Ages, the murderous raids of the Vikings and the bloody upheavals of ancient Britain’s native tribes, should evolve to this: a senescent witch in twentieth-century America, the owner of a red Jaguar. The managing partner of a team that included an over-the-hill psychic from Texas. A warrior in a supernatural war.

  Suddenly he missed El Paso intensely, missed his home and the graying cripple he remembered as Robinson Sparhawk, who really hadn’t been such a bad old boy, despite his laziness and a streak of lily-liveredness. A good man inside, committed to decency. Not a complete man, but what the hell? He hadn’t asked to contract polio, hadn’t asked for link-sausage legs. You play the hand you’re dealt.

  Earlier Hannie herself had lamented her dwindling faculties, had blamed herself for failing to take forceful action against Craslowe weeks earlier, when she had mistakenly assumed that the body of Lorna Trosper was to be cremated and put safely out of Craslowe’s reach. Months before that, when she had learned that Lorna’s unfortunate son was Craslowe’s patient, she had recognized the horror that was afoot, having seen the pattern often enough before. But she had found that her spells and hexes were ineffective against Craslowe, that he had evolved a strong countermagic that rendered her own next to useless.

  Last night’s encounter with Craslowe, followed by nearly nine hours worth of urgent spell-casting, had left Hannie a drained and dry-boned wreck who could barely stand, who actually needed Robbie’s help to get to her bed. She would spend the morning gathering new strength, she’d said, and had advised Robbie to do the same. Come afternoon, she would undertake some serious scrying—a psychic reconnaissance of the battlefield. They would then plan their next move.

  Robbie felt himself growing pale as he chewed on the question of whether Hannie was strong enough to face Craslowe and his hell-things, whether her tired old body could take the punishment. He himself felt bruised and spent, and the fact that his own psychic powers had strengthened dramatically as the result of his ordeals seemed of small consequence.

  Only magic could destroy Craslowe, his Giver of Dreams, and its fearful offspring. Only Hannie could wield that magic. And if anything were to happen to her—

  Robbie clenched his eyes and shuddered away the awful thought.

  26

  “Did you know that this car has a name?” Renzy Dawkins asked Jeremy, who rode in the rear seat of the old Roadmaster, his hands pocketed in his acid-washed denims. No answer. Only a silent gaze that Renzy saw reflected in the rearview mirror.

  “Well, it does,” he went on, trading a quick glance with Carl in the front passenger’s seat. “It’s Leo, like in Leo the Lion. Lions are masters of the jungle, okay? And this is a Buick Roadmaster, so it only seemed right to give it a masterful name.”

  Renzy had always named his cars, Carl remembered, though not always as elegantly as he had named this one. Bushmobile had been a garish Chevy Impala that he had owned in high school. The name had been appropriate.

  “Whenever I park this thing in Seattle,” said Renzy, still trying to entertain the boy, “I hang a sign in the back window to keep it from being stolen.” He pulled a rectangle of neatly lettered cardboard from beneath the driver’s seat and flipped it into Jeremy’s lap:

  DANGER

  LIVE SNAKES IN TRANSIT

  Acme Herpetarium

  “Best antitheft device ever invented, and probabl
y the cheapest. That’s assuming the dirtball can read.”

  Still no reaction from Jeremy, whose eyes seemed hollow and distracted.

  “Well,” said Renzy, turning into the parking lot of Greely’s Cove Marina, then stopping and setting the handbrake, “I’ve been a regular bundle of laughs, haven’t I? What I need is a bag of Whoppers and a beer.”

  He opened the door and swung out, waiting for Carl to slide over into the driver’s seat.

  “Why don’t you two come by the boat after you’ve seen Dr. Craslowe? I’ve got a fridge full of regular food and beverage that I’d be happy to share. We could even call it a late lunch.”

  “Sounds good,” said Carl. “But don’t fritter away your day waiting for us. Jeremy and I have some heavy talking to do after the therapy session.”

  “I understand,” said Renzy with a little wave. “Hasta lumbago.” He turned and trotted toward the docks, his dark hair fanning in the salty breeze.

  As Carl drove on toward Whiteleather Place, he tried in vain to engage his son in light talk, eliciting only an occasional nod, an empty glance, or a monosyllable. He stayed away from the subject of the boy’s latest nocturnal excursion, wanting first to reestablish some semblance of rapport. But he got nowhere, and the more he talked, the more foolish he sounded, even to himself.

  They cleared the forest canopy and rolled onto the grounds of Whiteleather Place, which stood dark against a dazzling afternoon sun. Carl felt a pang of emotion the moment he laid eyes on it. Once this place had been the stage of childhood games, the friendly old theater of boyish fantasies. With Renzy and Stu he’d hunted Russian agents in its maze of rooms and corridors, shot it out with diamond thieves and bank robbers in the musty passages of the basement, stampeded herds of longhorns through the madronas and pines of the sprawling grounds. They had “spied” on Renzy’s sister, Diana, pretending that she was a Confederate agent who sold her body for Yankee secrets.

  Thoughts of Diana deepened his anxiety. He visualized her alone in a featureless room, sitting on a steel-framed bed and staring uncomprehendingly at the drab walls of a mental institution, her mind a void that had swallowed the horror and grief of her parents’ suicide. Renzy, he knew, had loved her intensely and had suffered fearfully over her breakdown.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Trosper,” said slim Ianthe Pauling, having opened the creaky oak doors of Whiteleather Place. As ever, she was stiff and formal, but her eyes seemed even sadder than Carl remembered. She wore her customary straight skirt of charcoal and a bone cameo on a flouncy black blouse. Today her raven hair hung down around her shoulders, rather than clinging to the back of her head in the usual tight bun. “And hello, Jeremy,” she said. “Dr. Craslowe is ready to see you now.”

  For the first time that day Jeremy’s mood brightened, and he stepped smartly into the front parlor from the foyer, as though eager to get started with his therapy session.

  Carl moved to follow. “Mrs. Pauling, I want to talk to Dr. Craslowe. Jeremy and I have had some troubles at home, and I think I need some professional advice.”

  “Very well,” replied the dark woman. “I’ll speak with the doctor about it. I’m certain that he’ll be happy to set an appointment for later in the week. Also, Dr. Craslowe has asked me to tell you that you needn’t wait here during today’s session, inasmuch as he anticipates a rather long one. Perhaps you can give me a number where I may reach you when it’s ended.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Carl, feeling a stirring of anger. “I need to see him today—right now, as a matter of fact. And I want to sit in on the session, to see just what this therapy entails.”

  Jeremy heard this and halted at the mouth of the dusky corridor that led into the innards of the house. He turned to face his father and stared icily at him. But it was Ianthe Pauling who answered: “I fear that’s impossible, Mr. Trosper. To be effective, the doctor requires total privacy with his patients. The slightest distraction could prove very damaging when the patient is under hypnosis.”

  “Well, he’ll have to make an exception in this case,” answered Carl, squaring his shoulders. “You can assure him that I won’t be a distraction. I’ll sit in a corner and not move a muscle or make a sound. I’ll even hold my breath, if I have to. But I mean to sit in on the session, Mrs. Pauling, and I mean to find out why my son has been behaving the way he has. I will talk to Dr. Craslowe, so I suggest you tell him that—right now.”

  The atmosphere grew heavy with menace, and Carl suddenly felt utterly alone in a place where aloneness seemed ill-advised. He felt a hostility that could only derive from something alive. The feeling shook him, and his gaze wandered around the dim room as though searching for living movement among the antique furniture and woolen tapestries.

  “Mr. Trosper, please be reasonable,” Ianthe Pauling was saying. “The doctor’s techniques are tried and true. You have my assurance that his reasons for wanting privacy are good ones and that what he’s doing is best for your son. I must also ask you to reconsider your demand to speak with him today. His schedule is very heavy, and he deems it important to spend the maximum amount of time with Jeremy.”

  “But the last session was less than four days ago,” Carl protested, “and it lasted four hours. I can’t believe that he’s so pressed for time that he can’t take a few minutes to answer my questions.”

  Questions about the books. Jeremy’s malevolence. Something horrible had happened to the boy, was still happening.

  Jeremy’s voice rang out from across the room, slicing Carl to the quick. “Your questions will all be answered in due time, Dad.” He sounded like a brat from a high-brow British public school, spoiled and hostile and determined to have nothing but his own way. “I’ll thank you not to jeopardize my recovery with your insane insistence upon watching my therapy session. Kindly have enough regard for my welfare to abide by my physician’s instructions, all right? And have the decency to make an appointment, if you must talk with him, rather than barging in like a backwoods bully!”

  Carl’s anger sizzled as he stared back at Jeremy, but it was anger in the company of real fear. With a Herculean effort, he reined in his rampaging emotions and forced his mind into a rational mode. He took several deep breaths of the suffocating air and allowed ten leaden seconds to die.

  “Very well,” he said calmly, “maybe I should make an appointment.” He turned back to Mrs. Pauling. “I’ll call after I’ve checked my calendar.”

  Some deep-seated instinct told him to control his thoughts, to steer them away from his real intentions, and he did so without knowing why.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you, Jeremy.” Yes, that’s it, don’t think. Just talk. “And I hope I haven’t offended you, Mrs. Pauling. You can call me at home after the session’s over. Good-bye.” Now head for the door and get out of range.

  The dual oak doors swung open, and Carl’s feet were on the porch, on the flagstone stairs, on the walk, bound for the gleaming old Roadmaster convertible parked in the drive—Just keep walking, don’t think—his mind a blank. He slid into the driver’s seat, cranked up the brawny V-8, and piloted the car in a circumnavigation of the circular drive, then swung onto a course for the crumbling gateposts. Only after he had put those gateposts behind him did he allow himself to start thinking again.

  With a final surge of effort, Mitch Nistler twisted the last screw into place. The hasp was installed on the battered old door that led to the stairway of his reeking house, as Jeremy had wanted. He pulled from his pocket the heavy padlock he had bought that morning at the hardware store on Frontage Street, swung the hasp into place, and slipped the lock through the staple. He forced the lock closed, and it clicked satisfy-ingly. Then he leaned back against the doorjamb and rested.

  The lock should do nicely, he told himself. It was a strong one. Not strong enough, maybe, to hold back the thing that lived upstairs, should it ever want out, but certainly adequate to the task of confining a human being, even a very big and heavy one.


  This thought gave him a little glimmer of anticipatory joy, and for a moment he forgot the igneous rash that covered his mouth and throat, the lumbering pain in his chest and the ache in his limbs. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, he felt compelled to treat himself to a good stiff drink.

  Carl parked the Roadmaster well beyond the precariously leaning gateposts of Whiteleather Place, so that it could not be seen from the mansion. He trotted back along the graveled road to the fringes of the grounds, then left the road to make his way through the holly-choked woodline to a point where he could approach the house with minimum exposure. Though the afternoon sky was clear but for a few patches of cloud, there was a chill in the air that cut through his light jacket and the flannel shirt he wore beneath it. He shivered and wished that he had worn something heavier.

  He was now conscious of why he had instinctively blanked his mind the very moment this idea came to him: Jeremy could read his thoughts—just as he had been able to read Nora Moreland’s mind. The fact that Jeremy had used the voice of Carl’s dead father as an instrument of pain was the proof, despite Renzy’s rational assertions to the contrary. By blanking his mind, Carl had hidden from Jeremy his intention to penetrate the secrets of Whiteleather Place.

  And to do so covertly, if need be.

  Why this new acceptance of Jeremy’s mind-reading ability did not terrify and appall him, Carl didn’t know. Maybe he was simply more afraid of losing his son than he was of some vague suggestion of supernatural power. He doubted not for a moment that he had any choice but to march on, to infiltrate the shadows of Whiteleather Place, regardless of what might wait there.

  It would be a mission to get the lay of the land, to find out what he was up against. It meant trespassing at the very least, even breaking and entering, which he was fully ready to do if the need arose. To be caught and convicted probably meant that he could forget about practicing law in the great state of Washington ever again.