Taking a deep breath, I forced myself back to the book. The section on the Wendovers was nearly done. I needed to finish it, but then I wanted to put the revolting book away forever.
Most Wendovers abided by the agreement, but every third generation the Bane came for tribute and knowing that he would be taken before the fullness of his days, some men would attempt to flee the island. If he were captured by the other islanders, he was thrown into the sea. If he escaped the islands, some other family member died in his place.
And thus the islands have endured in peace and bounty.
Chilled, and angry at myself for being frightened by a fairytale of mythical sea monsters, and angrier at the thought of living in a town with people so superstitious they would kill to appease some ancient legend, I put the book aside. But I couldn’t as easily shake the feeling that everything that had happened, every interaction I’d had since I reached the island, had hidden meaning.
Or nothing did.
Was I ready to go all the way with this notion, to embrace signs and portents, fey feelings, superstition?
Did my cat understand me, or did he just like to stare at my face? Had I seen a ghost in my garden, or did I just have vivid nightmares? Were my neighbors killers, or was my imagination making up the most ridiculous story of all time?
Was I still sane?
This last question shook me badly.
“I think maybe Ben would like to come for lunch,” I said to Kelvin, reaching out a cold and shaky hand to pet my great-grandfather’s cat. “And maybe he would like to read that dumb book too. At his house. Frankly, I never want to see it again.”
Kelvin chuffed and Barney waggled his stumpy tail.
“Okay. I’ll call him.”
And later I would start looking at the family Bible and trying to work out if Kelvin had been born into an unlucky third generation who was slated to be Bane food. Because if he was third generation—and he really believed in the curse—then that might explain why he had left behind his home, his wealth, and every friend he had ever known, and tried for a new life somewhere else. Not that he would have much time left to enjoy his new life, having left his escape so late, but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to enjoy those few remaining days in peace and not worry about some freaked-out neighbors trying to feed him to a monster.
In the back of my mind, I also made note that if he were third generation, then I also could be in danger somewhere down the line. After all, I was his great-granddaughter. If there weren’t any other Wendovers around, this fate—assuming I wasn’t crazy and making the whole thing up—could fall on me too.
Chapter 5
It was no surprise that I had bad dreams that night, though the dream was very different than any other I have had. It began with choking which threatened to wake me. My nose filled up with the putrid smell of things rotting on the shore and made me gag. Aware that my body was still in bed, I was also standing on the low side of the island, just beyond the reach of the surf. It was dark, but the moon was full and I could see clearly as the glowing fogbank moved in.
My muscles trembled, telling me to run, but I stood with bare feet rooted to the rough sand. It wasn’t the fog I feared but the shape growing within it. Tall, almost boneless, luminescent except for the craterous eyes and the needle fangs thrusting out of its mouth. It lurched but its haunches were strong, dragging its tail behind it.
Terror is an extraordinary thing. It can be nauseating, an urgent warning from that inner voice of reason to stay away from something deadly. But sometimes it is oddly captivating, even addicting, and adrenaline gives us the imprudent urge to rush out into the dark when we hear a noise, or to look in the basement to see if perhaps a monster does wait beneath the stairs that can be very strong.
But there is another kind of terror, a sort I had not known before. Closer the thing came and I understood then why prey freezes, why deer stand in front of onrushing cars, why sometimes hares refuse to flee the hound. Horror and a sense of fatal inevitability overwhelm the survival instinct.
Then there came a wind rushing up from the sea and all around were torrents of smothering fog which hid the monster and hid me. At last I turned and ran, but every way I turned, within a few steps I was again in the cold water, and the horrible smell grew ever stronger.
Waves, reaching ever higher, hit my legs, almost unbalancing me. I feared the ocean then as I never had before, because anything could lurk below the surface of the turning tide. The Bane did not need to walk, it could slither and swim. The wet nightgown I wore chafed my flesh as I again attempted to run, and the long hem became a winding shroud.
Something grabbed my calf. Through the silvered foam I saw a clawed hand. The pain was sharp and bad enough to make me feel sick. I pulled away, letting the claws slice my flesh, using blasphemous language as I staggered away. My blood was hot as it flowed away.
There was no sign of daylight. I didn’t know if the sun would save me, but I did not want to die under that cold moon. With dawn I might be seen by someone. Help might come. Of course, not everyone would come to save me. But Ben might.
Though it seemed futile, I ran where the mist seemed thinnest.
I fell. The white curtain was ripped away by a violent wind. I could see Barney standing on a rock, wagging his stumpy tail and dancing happily. I tried to warn him away but I had no breath. The stench had crawled down my throat and stolen my voice.
I heard a low-toned bellow, a roar from the deep behind me, and then a high-pitched screaming which I thought was coming from my own mouth, but presently awoke enough to understand that it was Barney and Kelvin yowling in unison, trying to wake me up, to pull me from that terrible dream.
Frustrated at my slow return to reality, Kelvin stuck out a paw and struck me several times on the nose.
“Ow! I’m awake—stop it!”
I was awake, but clumsy and disoriented and I had a terrible pain in my leg.
Kelvin jumped back as I threw off the covers to examine my stinging limb, and I rolled out of the bed which was clammy with terror sweat. For one terrible second I thought I smelled sea rot in the air and began coughing. But it was gone before I could draw a second breath and I was sure that I had imagined it.
My leg had no marks on it, but it took the pain almost a minute to recede, and it was only when the last twinge left me that I realized it was dawn.
“Thank you, God.”
Barney barked his agreement.
* * *
After a night of storms and dreams worthy of any horror film, the morning arrived with sun and only a light wind which barely disturbed the water. I took it as a sign to continue my hunt for answers on the mainland.
Normally I might have relaxed for a day, chastened by my subconscious’ clear unhappiness with my current activities. But that warning dream had gotten my back up. I had been threatened by the show of teeth in the monster’s mouth and felt ready to snarl back my defiance. This concerned me, damn it. I had a right to know what happened.
Fortified with coffee, I called Ben who was deeply engrossed in the book I had lent him and needed a moment to switch his attention from the printed words to the spoken ones. I was vague about my reasons for wanting to go to the mainland and Ben was too distracted by my book to ask too many questions.
My neighbor absently assured me that Barney and Ben were equally happy to spend the day together, so I said I would be over shortly to drop my puppy off and catch a ride with him to Great Goose where I could get the morning ferry to the mainland.
“Huh. Oh, fine. I need some milk.”
I hung up the phone. Kelvin opened one eye long enough to give me his blessing, but didn’t stir from his favorite spot on the desk. I didn’t call Harris or Bryson to tell them what I was doing, but knew that word of my renting a car would get around fast enough.
I hoped they wouldn’t follow me. Frankly, I was still a little freaked out by what I had read in the book. The monster aside, if the information was correct, then a
t some point there was a chance that a Sands or a Ladd had been compelled to marry into my family. Bryson and Harris might be some kind of very distant cousins. The thought made me feel a little icky, though any relationship had to be so removed that there was no question of incest in my occasional romantic thoughts about them, but the notion of hidden ties was disconcerting. I needed some time to adjust to the new information.
Logic said that Great-grandpa Kelvin—or whoever the man was who had washed up on the beach—had died in the ocean, therefore he was living near the coast. This was actually far from a given since any number of occurrences could have brought him back, but I had to begin somewhere and Route 1 was closest and most coastal. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to go all the way to Danforth. I was out of the habit of driving and windy roads sometimes make me ill. Apparently the storm that melted the snow had been local as well. The weather report said that much of the rest of the state was still locked into winter weather.
I stayed on deck as the ferry crossed to land. I breathed deeply of the sea air, finding it pure and utterly unlike my nightmare. It seemed odd in the light of day that I had feared the deep waters that surrounded the island even in my sleep. But I recalled quite clearly that I had feared the ocean in my dream. Just as all supposedly sensible land-dwelling, air-breathing creatures should. It had appeared to me as a ravenous thing, full of storms which might swallow up ships and men, and that had brought that terrible creature to kill me.
That was just fancy, of course. My imagination fueled by that horrid book. But it had drowned at least two men, hadn’t it, and left them on the island as a cat will sometimes leave its prey for his mistress?
I glanced over the delicate wavelets toward the mainland. The sea was calmed, no hint of the storm remaining. There was no fog and the pastel outlines of cheery houses and well-kept boats were reassuringly close. There was nothing bad here. No need to fear anything. I was safe at home.
It took me until ten to reach the mainland and another forty frustrating minutes to rent a car. I filled the time with having breakfast and a visit with a nice mother of two who was also renting a car while hers was in the shop having new seats installed. She also had a puppy, a mastiff, and it had apparently consumed the better part of her upholstery on her last trip to the market when it was left in the backseat unsupervised. Since she had children to chauffer, she got the larger car and I was left with an economy two-door, which suited me fine. I was traveling light, just me and my thoughts.
As the car warmed it began to smell faintly of ashtray and chewing gum—mint—and it reminded me of my parents’ blue station wagon and trips up to the lake where we would swim and Dad would fish.
The first part of my journey was pleasant enough. I was feeling a little nostalgic, thinking of road trips from childhood. The weather remained mostly clear and I had fun visiting many of the towns and hamlets and picking up jam and syrup, or having coffee with friendly strangers as I subtly questioned them about rooms for rent and a visitor who had come to stay for the winter. There was a feeling of liberation and the pleasure of doing something purposeful, however grim the reason for the task.
But after a while it began to pall. I was tired of drinking coffee, exhausted by small talk, and frustrated that I had learned absolutely nothing. I began to wonder if I was asking the wrong questions. Not that I could think of anything else to do when I was trying hard not to let the word out about Kelvin being missing from his grave. People seemed to grow less friendly, too, the farther south I went.
There was also this feeling that something was waiting, maybe a storm, and it was hiding in the woods just waiting for dark when it would attack. I needed to hurry, and with every mile I traveled, I felt more depressed and dreading. Even the air seemed to change, to grow thicker and less wholesome.
I was also feeling close to my great-grandfather. The quest was, in an odd way, a shared experience—never mind that he could be dead and the sharing was likely one-sided. For the time being, we were in sympathy, involved at a very personal level even though we had never met. As the hours wore on my task was less and less an intellectual exercise in detection and more of a pilgrimage to the truth. I wanted—needed—to know what had happened to Kelvin.
Have you ever looked for a stud in the wall? You go along, tapping and tapping until something sounds just a little bit different. I was tapping along, inch by inch, town by town, but wasn’t finding anything solid to bore into. Still, I remained sure that I was heading in the right direction.
It was nearing four o’clock and I was nearing my limits of patience and caffeine intake, so I decided one more stop and then I was turning back.
The hamlet of Derrymoor, population 126, was a mix of architectural styles but with the commonality of steeply pitched roofs and sullen colored buildings without much exterior decoration. There were also a lot of churches, though none seemed prosperous. Nor was there a school or a library. It wasn’t exactly down in the heels, but it wasn’t trying hard to attract tourists. There wasn’t a visitors’ center. There wasn’t even a welcome sign.
I hesitated, needing to talk myself into stopping and not just making a U-turn in the narrow thoroughfare. So, it probably wasn’t Sodom. It wasn’t even Duluth. But people still lived there, just maybe not people I wanted to know. And this would be my last stop, then I would go home and forget all about trying to do Bryson’s job for him.
I sighed as I pulled into the diner’s small lot and got out of the rental car. I was pretty sure—and not because I had grown suddenly psychic—that I wasn’t going to find anything I liked there. No one who had any choice would want to live here and every tale I heard would be a grim one. But it was on my route and had to be checked, so I would tap a few studs and have a cup of tea before moving on. My reasons for this quest had grown dark at the margins as my anger at the dream faded and everyday reality reasserted itself.
The woman behind the counter in the empty coffee shop was hunched over and scowling, and she moved like she was walking into a strong and bitter headwind that had chapped her skin and given a constant squint to her eyes. She also smelled of eau de bathroom cleaner and was cuddling a dirty ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette that smoldered sullenly. Her less than effervescent personality was a good match for the faded décor which would have made a mortuary look lively.
“Hello.” My voice wasn’t peppy either. I had lost my enthusiasm about forty miles and two towns back.
She stared long enough that I wondered if she was giving me the evil eye. When she finally spoke, her voice was predictably dry and raspy.
“You looking for Tom?” she asked me.
I blinked but missed only half a beat before answering.
“How’d you guess?” I asked.
She stared at my nose but didn’t comment on it. It was kind of nice that though she saw the family resemblance, she didn’t seem to know any family history.
“He said someone might come. Didn’t know he had any family left after his cousin died. High time someone showed up.” She sniffed disapprovingly.
This time I didn’t blink, though I said a silent prayer of thanks for the distinctive Wendover features that seemed to be giving me permission to walk right into a stranger’s life and not be questioned.
“We aren’t as close as we should be,” I said. “But I’m trying to change that.”
“You better be close enough to pay his back rent. Laura Kingman is pissed that he just up and left. Another week and she’s throwing his stuff in the gutter. She won’t keep that moral imbecile’s things without pay.”
Moral imbecile. That was an old term for a sociopath. I could feel the hairs raising at the base of my neck. Was she serious, or was this normal vitriol?
“We’re close enough for that,” I assured her. “Where would I find Mrs. Kingman?”
“Across the street. Single story gray house with black shutters. Knock loud. She’s kind of hard of hearing.”
“Thanks.”
My heart w
as pounding as I crossed the street. No matter what was waiting, it would answer some of the puzzle. I hoped—actually I didn’t know what I hoped. That Tom was really Kelvin? But surely that would mean he was dead and I couldn’t want that.
Of course I had thought him dead before and not minded so much—it was just that the idea that he had been nearby all this time and we could have met.…
So, did I want the missing Tom to be some kind of illegitimate relative no one else knew about? One I hadn’t gotten to meet before he died? That would be better, wouldn’t it, if he were really a sociopath?
Because someone—some Wendover—was dead. The only question was which body had washed up on the beach.
The streets were slushy and the chill traveled up my body. The rain that had cleared the islands of snow hadn’t made it this far south. The light was also hazy, discouraging of plants and animals alike, and made everything appear rather monochromatic and sterile.
There was something in the air too, invisible but real that made my eyes sting. My exhalations condensed into a vapor that was slow to assimilate into the still air around me and my lungs protested the tainted oxygen that replaced each breath.
I knocked on the hollow core door at number eleven and wasn’t too surprised when it was opened by a woman who was as straight as the waitress had been slumped, but in all other ways could have been her unhappy twin. The lifelong habit of frowning pretty well expressed her attitude toward the world, and I was betting the world frowned back whenever it noticed her.
“About time someone showed up,” she said at last, proving yet again that whoever had rented her room was a Wendover.
“I hear Tom owes some back rent,” I said, figuring money was the fastest way inside.
“Yep—one hundred and twenty dollars.”
I doubted it was that much but didn’t argue.
On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) Page 4
