It was too much, now. She felt as if she were carrying a curse with her. A scolding, still rational part of her mind told her it was coincidence and she'd better not start looking for superstitious nonsense; but she couldn't help feeling that somehow she was going to be part of this tragedy, too.
Bella had stayed by the shop and took Dale's arms, guided her inside. "My poor dear," she muttered, "you look like . . ."
"Thanks," Dale said, knowing the word the woman had avoided. "Have . . . have you got anything in the back? Something brewing, or a little stronger?"
"I have just the thing," the woman said and left her at the counter to hurry into the back office.
Dale leaned heavily against the door jamb, her stomach roiling. She shook her head and thought of Milly and Flora, wondering how they would manage now that their paycheck was gone. Cold you are, she thought, and in searching for something to distract her, she spotted an odd piece of paper covering the receipt Bella had written earlier. She stared at it, seeing the childish scrawl but not able to read it.
Her hand trembled when it reached out, and yanked the paper off the nail.
"What is it?" Bella said, coming up behind her with a drinking glass filled with brandy.
"Another love note," Dale said.
She closed her eyes when Bella took it from her. Saw the mutilated corpse, an object by its bloodied hand. It was small, possibly wrenched from an angered, clenched fist
"I don't understand," Bella said.
Dale waved the paper away. She didn't want to touch it.
Miss Bartlett, it said, we missed you at the park.
CHAPTER IV
"For crying out loud, that was two months ago!'
They were walking along Chancellor Avenue back toward the center of town with the park at their right. It had been Dale's idea, to escape the commotion of the accident and the smothering consolations Mrs. Inness felt the situation warranted. Vic had protested as they passed Dale's house, suggesting they stop for a drink instead. But she'd refused, not knowing why, only partially admitting she would have felt uncomfortable with a man in the place, alone. Onward, then, until he demanded they turn around. And when they did, her mood had soured instead of lightened.
"And this definitely couldn't have been from him," she added, waving the paper in front of his face.
"No kidding, Dale. That much is obvious from the use of the word 'we' instead of 'I.'"
"All right, then, wise guy—who is 'we'?"
Vic shrugged, picked up a stick from the ground and rattled it along the iron fencing. When she asked him to stop it, he broke the stick into pieces and flung them up and into the trees. "All right, then, the kids. They must have known about that first note and are playing a game. Okay?"
"Oh sure." She tugged at her hair, then shoved a finger angrily through it. "That's not going to work, Vic. I mean, how long can the attention span of a kid be, huh? Do you really think they'd pick up on that love-note nonsense now? After all this time? No way, teacher, no way."
"Fine, have it your way. So it wasn't the kids. Maybe it has no connection at all. I don't know, lady, I'm just guessing. You're the one who's making a big deal out of it."
They were opposite the house again and Dale, furious at Vic's inability to solve her problem, stopped and moved to the curb. "This," she said stiffly, "is where I get off."
"For God's sake, Dale, come off it!"
"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to be alone. Or isn't that all right with you?"
He frowned, seemed ready to explode, then blew out a deep breath and stared at the sky. "No, that's fine with me. You just trot on home." He glanced at his watch. "I'll just wander on down to the Inn and grab something to eat before my landlady makes me have some of her god-awful Irish stew."
"Is that a thinly veiled invitation?"
"No."
She glared, turned, and strode across the street, up the walk to the porch where she stood with her back to the road for several long seconds before looking back over her shoulder. She muttered a curse when she saw Vic already crossing the Park Street corner.
There was a fleeting hesitation, and an impulse to run after him; but she only dropped to the top step and cupped her hands to her chin. It had been a stupid argument. She had expected too much. When she had finally described her nightmare to him, and he'd suggested the first note had been from Willy, her subconscious suspected as much and was still dredging up a spanking in an effort to convince her she might have saved the boy's life had she found the note sooner and gone to the park to meet him.
A car sped by, horn blaring loudly, several boys within calling to her as they passed. Now there's the more likely answer, she thought as she watched the car out of sight. High school boys with a crush. They probably knew she spent a great deal of time, particularly her lunch hours, in the park; they had spied on her as an ideal opportunity to get a good look at the woman they thought they were in love with.
She smiled and shook her head.
Boys. They weren't all that much different from men in that respect—shy and aggressive, brimming with a protective shield of brashness that, once punctured, revealed a core of masculine insecurity.
Boys. Men. Victor Blake.
Flora and Milly Campbell. Whatever her own problems, they were as nothing to the distaff Campbells. What a horrid thing to happen, and so soon after the boy, too. God, she thought, there sure is a perversity to life that sometimes makes you want to scream.
It was like a twist on a saying that one of her professors was fond of quoting: If all the world's a stage and all the people merely players, who's the jerk who hired the Director?
She went inside and fixed herself a meal too bland to taste, too weak to keep her satisfied for more than two hours. At nine, then, she decided to walk down to the luncheonette and get herself the largest ice cream sundae she could find on the menu; that, she thought, ought to keep her pacified until breakfast.
A digital clock in a jewelry-store window indicated close to ten-thirty by the time she had finished her sundae, joked with the night counterman, and left. Her legs were heavy, her arms two lead pipes, and she couldn't see herself doing this on a Sunday and getting up in the morning to open the store. As she turned the corner onto Chancellor, she looked at the houses slowly displacing the two-story business-district buildings. An old twinge of envy for their owners made her lower her head and stare at the sidewalk. It must be nice, she thought, to be able to work a five-day week, to get home every night for supper and not have to go back to work again. The vacation had spoiled her, had given her something she hadn't known she was missing until she came face to face with it. Of course it was possible Vic might help to alter that—if he caught on rapidly enough and was good enough, she might be able to trade off Saturdays with him and Bella. One on and two off, or some such arrangement. A two-day weekend just like normal people.
She paused at the corner of the park and leaned against one iron spindle of the fence. One block to home. One very long block. She yawned and considered sleeping where she stood. The day's heat had cooled, more so because of the light mist that settled soothing droplets on her face and bare arms. The street lights had a faint haze about them, and she frowned when she saw the two nearest her house had blown out again. High school kids and air guns, the police thought; but they had never been caught at it, and so it continued throughout the village until, in some places, globes weren't replaced for days at a time. In the long run it probably saved time, she thought, not that Oxrun needed to save money—but it made for a dismal walk home.
She pushed off the fence and walked, her fingers gliding along the metal as Vic had done with his stick. There were no cars and Chancellor Avenue seemed a long diminishing tunnel that led nowhere, from nowhere, and the cracking slap of her sandals was unduly loud.
When she came opposite Western she stepped over the grass verge to the curb and looked down the street that ran past the house. She tried to remember what was down there, how far it w
ent before it was cut off by the forest that poked its extensions into Oxrun wherever houses had encroached. She tried to remember, and couldn't, and had just about made up her mind to take a walk in that direction when something turned her around.
Imagination, she decided. Beyond the fence was the black void that became a park when the sun rose. What she thought she heard was a rustling in the brush, decided almost instantly it was either night birds or stray cats prowling for a meal.
She heard it again.
Softer. Further down the road. It wasn't a rustling. It was a whispering, a conversation between more than two people. She lifted her gold wristwatch close to her face. Nearly eleven. The park gates had been long closed and locked, and the lovers who defied the curfew generally chose places deeper into the trees.
She glanced back toward the center of town. A dairy's delivery truck momentarily blinded her before turning off, its faint rumble almost like a receding clap of thunder. A patrol car glided slowly away from her. When it too turned into a side street, Chancellor was deserted.
It has to be lovers, she thought, and this is no time to be playing at voyeur.
A shout, then, cut off by a flurry of whispers.
Dale cautiously moved back to the sidewalk, bending and slipping her sandals into her hands. She was cold, damp, and, in spite of the muggy night, glad she hadn't worn shorts. She crept forward slowly, once glancing over her shoulder at her house as it passed her and wishing she'd left the porch light on. Then she stepped off the walk onto the narrow band of grass and weeds that had escaped under the fence. By straining she could just make out the vague shapes of trees and shrubs, but without the moon there was little else. She frowned, wiping a hand against her leg. If the light on the street was so terribly bad, she couldn't understand why those inside didn't even have a match—and suddenly she knew they didn't because its glow would have been visible for at least a full block. She had a disconcerting vision, then: of small twisted creatures covered with slime and fur, their saucer eyes wide to pick up the faintest illumination. It made her shiver, and she scolded herself out of the first stirrings of apprehension felt since she decided to eavesdrop.
A moment later she dropped into an uncomfortable crouch. Whoever was making the noise was less than ten feet ahead of her now, and she didn't dare move closer lest she be seen. Yet it was dark where she was; not even a light from the houses opposite broke through the mist that had thickened to a gray, clammy fog. She took a small step forward. A sandal clattered against the fence and she froze, holding her breath, staring unblinking at a lonely dandelion quivering in a breeze she couldn't feel. The fog shortened the street, curtained off everything more than a yard away.
The whispering resumed.
Her breathing returned.
A thundering began in the depths of the fog.
She swore silently.
The thundering grew. The fog became lighter in two uneven patches. A cat ran across the road; the strident blare of an air horn shattered the night as an oil truck barreled past and its headlights, yellow running lights, diesel engine trampled, dispersed, blew away the fog.
And when it was gone, there was the fog and the street. Nothing else.
Dale waited impatiently, edging nearer to the point of the whispering; but whoever it had been was gone. She sensed it but remained in her crouch until her thighs began to ache the threat of a cramp. Finally, she grabbed the fence and pulled herself up. She dropped her sandals and slipped her feet into them, kicking at the grass before turning to stare boldly into the park. There was no need for caution now—she was alone.
And that, she thought as she headed back to the house, is the perfect way to end a rotten day.
Like an insect that couldn't be found when the lights were turned on, the whispering stayed with her. She showered and kept the water drumming loudly in the stall, but the whispering stayed with her. She sang as she undressed and walked heel hard into the bedroom—but the whispering stayed with her.
And when she closed her eyes, the night stand light glowing softly, the whispering grew louder until she shouted it from the room in a rush of obscenities that startled her into silence when she realized what she'd been saying.
"All right, then," she said, and turned off the light.
The window was open, the shade up and curtains drawn back. A single rectangle of faintly white. She stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep, and remembered the last time she had spoken with Dave Campbell. It had only been the week before; he had come into the store with a set of chessmen carvings—oddly designed, resembling primitive stone statuettes aged a centuries-old gray. Yet when she hefted one, she'd nearly dropped it in surprise at its light weight.
David, his laugh as deep as his frame was large, had taken it carefully from her palm and replaced it in the oblong black box he'd made to carry the set.
"My God, Dave," she said, "it must have taken you years to finish these off."
"Long enough," he agreed, then put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
"Ah," she smiled, "the haggling begins." She set the case in front of her and eyed the cotton-packed carvings. "Now, if we were in the city, there'd be no problem at all getting at least one hundred fifty for men and board."
"But we're not in the city, Dale," he said.
"True. Oxrun Station is definitely not the city. It is, in fact, a million miles into the country. However"—and she raised a finger —"what we have here in the Station is something you don't find in such abundance in that mean old city."
"Money," Dave laughed.
"Money," she said. "So, if I can't get at least three hundred for such exquisite work, I'm no businesswoman."
Dave's eyes had widened and his hands snapped back front in a pleading gesture. "Three hundred? But that's too much. Nobody will—"
"David Campbell, why don't you just leave the gathering of the loot to me? After all, wasn't it me who got you three fifty for those silkie pieces, and you thought we should ask only ninety-five? Wasn't it my brilliant fast thinking and talking that pried five fifty from Councilman Hopkins for the mahogany pipe band set? And wasn't—"
"You win, you win!" he laughed. "Three hundred it is. Unless you hit Hopkins again, in which case you can aim a little higher."
She grinned and reached over the counter to jab at his shoulder. "You're learning, David Campbell. You're learning."
"Not nearly fast enough," he muttered, smiling weakly and turning to leave. Dale immediately whistled him to a halt.
"If you don't mind," she said, "would you tell me what they're supposed to be in case someone asks?"
"Oh." He touched the figures gently, as if in silent benediction. "They are of the myths," he said, and there was an echo of his aunt's Highland burr. "The darker ones are the Children of Don, the lighter be the Children of Llyr." And as he named them . . . "Govannan, Ludd, Gwydion" . . . the store grew quiet . . . "Arianrod, Llew, Bendegeit, Bran" . . . the light through the window became a glare and she was forced to squint, lean closer to follow his heavily pointing finger . . . "Manawyddan, the rooks be the fortress Gower, the pawns here the Hound of Culann, and here they are the water-dog—what we call the otter."
And when he looked up into her eyes, she saw the tears brimming, his thin, pale lips drawn in between his teeth.
"Sell them well," he said quietly. "A traveler would be best."
She rolled over onto her stomach and punched at the pillow. The scene faded as quickly as it had been conjured, but she was positive he'd added something else before hurrying from the store. She made a fist and tapped her forehead lightly, then more strongly. It had only been a passing utterance, a few words hung in the store's cool air and vanishing as the door closed and she'd watched him lumbering up the street.
Come on, she told herself, you of the fantastic memory ought to be able to remember a few short words.
I wish I knew, fire or water.
All right, she said silently; now that you've got them, what ar
e you going to do with them?
Remember them, she answered; for Dave.
The set had been displayed less than two days before Dr. McPherson had passed by, seen it, and bowled over three small girls waiting at the counter in his eagerness to have it. Bella had taken the money, for which Dale was extremely sorry—if such covetousness could pry that kind of payment so easily, she might have been able to add an extra hundred or two. And then there was Dave's unusual request to sell it to a traveler. An out-of-towner, she thought he meant.
Not that it mattered now.
David was no longer in a position to spend anything she would have gotten beyond their original agreement.
And the following night her nightmares returned.
The water, the sinking, the bubbles, the stench. Each time she sank more swiftly, and each time the face in the cloud became clearer, more malevolent. Again three days later, and three days after that. By the end of the second week she was afraid of taking a nap. And it was less the corning of the dream itself than the not knowing when it would appear again. She tried to find a key, something during the preceding days that might have triggered each shuddering premonition of her death; but there was nothing that she could see, nothing she might have avoided. Vie was doing well, sufficiently so that she was able to inaugurate the alternate Saturday plan with no qualms. No, it wasn't Vic, and Bella's inexplicable attacks of continuing good cheer were hardly a catalyst for such terror.
Neither rhyme nor reason, then, were cause for such fright.
The dream changed. A hint of a change. A hint of a flame on the rim of the cloud.
It changed.
On the last day of September Dale sat in front of the library. There were four benches on the perimeter of a large square of deep green grass, an island in the middle of a concrete plaza. Opposite her, two elderly men played checkers on a board precariously balanced across their knees. Every so often they glanced up and smiled at her, and when she smiled back they returned to their game, nodding. Williamston Pike was crowded with traffic, people scurrying out of the Station as if they sensed this would be the last decent weekend before October's autumn chill set in and spoiled the twilights that were still cozily comfortable. The sun set nearer to six each day, lost more of its brilliance sooner, poked back to the world a few minutes earlier. The building-tall gray glass windows behind her hid the hanging lamps inside, but she knew it would not open until at least nine.
The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel Page 6
