The possibility that he might not be able to find his way back to the guest house never even occurred to him.
The moon was out tonight. It was so bright that he toyed with the idea of turning off the flashlight. No, there would still be dark shadows among the low hanging branches, under the leaves. Better leave it on. It had gotten dark awfully fast. He supposed Lynn would attribute the mere setting of the sun to some act of supernatural force. She and Andrea. Even her aunt. All of them. Crazy as loons.
Everson rounded a curve and suddenly found himself in a very large clearing. For a moment he thought he had been on the right path all along. But then he realized with a small sinking feeling that the clearing was empty—there was no house sitting in the middle of it. Then where on earth could he be?
He called out the girls’ names. He had begun to assume that one or both of them must have tripped and broken their ankles, or fallen into a well or hole of some sort. They might have even gone into some of the caves on the island, in which case their bodies might never be recovered. Everson flashed his light around the clearing, playing it across the trees and bushes that encircled the enclosure. Funny, the silence of the place was striking. He was used to hearing insects, crickets, chirping and buzzing and humming all night. Instead nothing.
He walked to the middle of the clearing. It seemed much darker out there for some reason. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, and blamed it on the strain and tension of the day. Wait until I get my hands on Eric, he said to himself. He should be out here doing this, not me. Damn him. I’ll fire him if it’s the last—
And then he saw the hole in the ground.
It was a foundation, he could tell. The foundation of the original mansion, the one that had burned to the ground in 1750. It was blackened at the edges, and some of the lower sections of the structure had fallen into the cellar. The foundation itself was a cornucopia of thick and ungainly weeds. They were of many different colors and unusual shapes; a botanist’s nightmare. It was like a bizarre, alien hothouse full of a sinister overgrowth, the stems and reeds and roots and tendrils pushing out obscenely from a maw stretched wide open in the ground.
Could the girls have stumbled in, been knocked unconscious at the bottom of the hole?
He walked to the edge of the embankment surrounding the remnants of the house, peered over the rim of the foundation. The whole place was emitting a terrible odor.
Just as he was about to turn away, something wrapped itself around his ankle and pulled him in.
Chapter 40
Hans Swenson was worried.
Mrs. Plushing had been something of a mother to him for all the years he’d worked for Mr. Everson. She’d been a friend, a good friend. And now here she was sick and delirious and miserable and there was nothing he could do for her. When he’d first started the job he’d had for the past seventeen years, she had been a godsend, someone who took the time out to listen to and understand him. Someone who had the same values, shared the same ideas, a proud working-class woman who saw him not as a failure, a loser, a dirt-stained foreigner doomed to forever fix and dig and grovel for those above him, but a simple, proud, hardworking man who had nothing to regret or apologize for.
After a hard day’s work, he had sat in the kitchen, talked to her, about the home of his youth, the people he knew. They swapped stories about simple people and special places, about goals and ideals that made sense in a senseless era. They understood one another. And Mrs. Plushing would always make him an extra-special dinner, a tenderly and carefully prepared meal that was just as fine and polished as anything that she prepared for Mr. Everson’s fancily dressed guests. Big wedges of homemade apple pie—his favorite. Beef stew, heaping with tasty mounds of potatoes and onions. Cheesecake, her specialty. She never showed him any disdain or condescension. And for the simplest favor-bringing her a cut flower, fixing a bent spoon-she would show him the greatest gratitude. They thought alike, those two. And now she was sick, maybe dying, and there was nothing he could do.
Hans had come in with the others, seen how bad Mrs. Plushing had looked, and been shocked. Everyone had been. It had been too much for Betty. In just the space of a few small hours, Mrs. Plushing’s condition had rapidly deteriorated. A slight fever, some dizziness, and nausea had turned into a burning temperature and a condition that was totally incapacitating. Her forehead was so hot if you held your hand there too long you’d feel as if your own flesh was burning. Hans tried time and time again to take her temperature, to determine just how bad her fever was—as if he needed a thermometer to tell—but she kept dropping the thermometer out of her mouth, starting her muttering over again. “Hans-Hans. Bring Hans to me. I must—I must tell him. Must tell him.”
He had bent down, asked her what was wrong, but she did not seem to know if he was there or not. “Hans—must speak to Hans.”
When Everson and the others had left, leaving him in charge, Hans had gone through the medical kit looking for something to help Mrs. Plushing get better. Betty had given her aspirin just a while ago, so he ignored it and the other cold and headache and flu pills and looked in vain for something that might help her snap back to normal. He knew nothing about medicine; he never got sick. If only he could stop her forehead from burning.
Cool cloths. That was what she needed. A nice cold compress on her forehead would work wonders. He went into the bathroom, soaked a wash cloth in ice cold water, rinsed it out, and brought it dripping back to the room. He placed it carefully above her eyes and below the hairline. There was something lying on her brow, and he picked it off, holding it in his fingers. Hair—was it hair? Yes, it seemed to be. The same gray color as Mrs. Plushing’s. Where had that come from? he wondered.
“Hans—Hans,” the woman was muttering again. He bent down beside her and spoke softly. “I’m here, Mrs. Plushing.” He had always called her Mrs. Plushing, not Maggie or Margaret or Mrs. P, and always would. “It’s Hans. I’m listening, Mrs. Plushing. What is it you have to tell me?”
At last he seemed to be getting through to her. Maybe she had eaten something, accidentally swallowed—or what did they call it—overdosed some medicine or something. Perhaps that’s what she wanted to tell him. “Hans—is that you? It is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Plushing. I’m here. Hans is here.”
“Hans—I must tell you—” And then she had trouble breathing, her chest rising and falling rapidly while she puffed air in and out of her lungs. Finally, she stopped; her breathing became more regular, and she closed her eyes. Hans cursed silently to himself. He couldn’t begin to help her if she didn’t tell him what was wrong. Their employee had suggested that she had caught a chill from the island, had a virus or something like that. He knew a virus was just a glorified cold. But could a cold do this? He forced himself to take a good close look at her face. It seemed disrespectful; he’d never been this near to her before, inspecting, probing. But it had to be done. Her cheeks were puffy, swollen, and so were her eyes. They were bloodshot, and a sticky fluid issued from them. Her nose was running and he wiped her nostrils carefully with a tissue. Her lips were dry and cracked; a white substance like pus seemed to be filling in the cracks like mortar between bricks.
Something fell from her head and tumbled across her face, resting at the side of her mouth. Hans picked it up, inspected it.
More hair.
He leaned over further and looked at the top of her head, wondering where the hair was coming from. There was a small mound of gray locks lying on the pillow behind her head. He brushed them away, alarmed. He looked up and saw that the back of Mrs. Plushing’s head was nearly bald. The woman’s hair was falling out!
Now he was really alarmed. No cold or virus would do this to the woman. Not so quickly. Something was seriously wrong with Mrs. Plushing and they were stuck on this island, away from civilization, without a doctor around for miles. He would have to find that good-for-nothing Eric; they’d take the boat, row to the mainland or t
o another, occupied island, if necessary, and bring a doctor back. They couldn’t take her with them. She was too sick to be taken from her bed. A voyage in a shaky boat—assuming they could find one—on a damp night on a cold ocean would be the worst thing for her. Besides, there was no guarantee they would ever make it safely to another body of land.
If he couldn’t find Eric, he would have to do it alone. But first, he had to find out if there was any kind of vessel, rowboat, canoe, secreted somewhere on the island. He felt helpless, frustrated. Who would look after Mrs. Plushing in the meantime?
“Hans—Hans—you have to watch out.”
Mrs. Plushing’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. “I’m here, Mrs. Plushing. What is it? Tell me. Please tell me.”
“Be careful. I saw—I saw it’s face.”
She was awake now, sitting up in bed, her face red and swollen and ugly.
“Hans,” she screamed, her body shaking, her eyes bulging out of her sockets, saliva and pus running down her chin from her cracked and bleeding lips.
“I saw the demon’s face!”
Chapter 41
“Andrea! Andrea!”
Ernie had been trying unsuccessfully for over a minute to get Andrea to wake up. She’d muttered something about Cynthia and Jerry being in danger, something about the Mary Eliza, and had then fainted on the bed. He shook her, and slapped her cheeks, and was just about to run and get help, when her eyes opened, forming small sleepy slits, and she began to move her arms and legs.
Ernie coaxed her back into the conscious world. Hearing his voice seemed to revive her. Finally she was fully awake, if a little dopey, and sitting up on the bed. Her face was death white, and she looked as if she might be in shock. But from what? Ernie wondered. Nothing’s happened to us. Nothing’s happened in here at all.
“Oh Ernie,” she said, holding her hands against her stomach, shaking her head back and forth.
“What is it, Andrea? Are you sick? Tell me what happened.”
Her eyes widened with understanding. “I was attacked. And my body, my mind, protected itself. Just shut itself off.”
“You mentioned something about Jerry and Cynthia. Out at the old ship.”
Her face turned quite literally green. Ernie could tell he’d dredged up an unpleasant memory. “Let’s not talk about that,” she said. Ernie was about to change the subject, when she continued. “They were killed. Gloria, too. In separate incidents. Our friend”—she still referred to the other, hidden psychic on the island as “our friend”— “used the power of the island, focused through a mystic object—that book, probably—to destroy them.” She looked up at Ernie, a desperate panic in her eyes. “Imagine seeing the most horrible hallucination of your life. Then imagine that ( hose hallucinations have the power to hurt you, just as if they were real Imagine someone making nightmares tangible, ghostly figures that, for once, can reach out and kill you. Then you might know what our friend is capable of. He or she can—create—physical manifestations, optical illusions, that are three-dimensional. That are capable of tearing a person apart.”
“Andrea—stop. I—I can’t deal with this.” Before she could react, he added, “I believe you, okay. I honestly believe you. But damn it, it’s too much for me. I don’t mind telling you you’re scaring me shitless.”
“Good. Because people who are scared don’t take chances.”
“Look, I—”
“Go, Ernie,” she ordered. “Go and let me rest, Give me a few minutes. I want to see if I can home in on that book of yours.”
“It’s not ‘my’ book, for Christ’s—”
“You know what I mean,” she yelled. ”Please. I lust need to rest awhile. I’ll be all right. Go out and fix yourself a drink.”
“That’s the best advice I’ve had in a long time.” He bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead, and she took his hand, squeezed it, and smiled. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”
He turned out the light and closed the door behind him. He was rather startled by the sudden realization that he’d do almost anything to protect the woman. She was sweet, kind. Even all her psychic hocus-pocus was becoming endearing to him. He realized that he was being slightly condescending. But perhaps that was better than admitting that everything she was saying was absolutely true. Then he would have to accept that someone among them was a murderer, a diabolical maniac who would kill and kill again. He’d come to Lammerty Island to do research for a harmless little article, not to play a role in Friday the 13th Part 47.
Out in the living room Anton was feeling no pain.
“Hello, dear fellow,” the pianist said, raising his glass. Ernie ignored him. Drunks always got on his nerves.
Ernie fixed himself a nice stiff drink and drank fully half of it before lowering his glass. Anton was studying him, amused. Ernie glared back and said, “What happened to everyone else? Frighten them off?”
A very dark, very sinister look crossed Anton’s face, but only for an instant. It was replaced by the silly grin and vacuous expression of before. “Mrs. P. is still sick,” he said, “but at least she’s stopped screaming. Delirium, that’s all. Poor Betty has been put to bed by our hostess. It seems the strain of the trip has been too much for our Miss Sanders.” He burped, coughed into his mouth. “Lynn is upstairs pouting, and the handyman—what’s his name—is inside attending to the cook. The cook and the handyman. Quite a combination if I say so myself.”
“And cousin John?” Done with his first drink, Ernie fixed himself another.
“Went tottering off into the great wilds of Borneo to search for the two little housegirls. I don’t doubt he’s boffing them in the bushes at this very minute. The lech. First Lynn, then the house children. What’s next for our favorite solicitor? Babies perhaps?”
Ernie ignored the man’s inane ramblings. “Damn. Someone should have gone with him. Why didn’t you tell John I was in my room?”
“Really,” the pianist huffed, as if offended. “You mean you wanted him to come knocking on your door while you were alone in there with our beauteous local ‘sensitive?’ Tell me,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “just how sensitive is she?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ernie said. “We were just talking.” Anton chortled and sat down heavily on the sofa, spilling part of his drink in his lap. He flicked away what he could of the liquid, and said, “If you say so, chum.”
“Why didn’t you go with—oh, never mind.” Ernie drank his second drink slowly. It wouldn’t do him or anyone else any good if he wound up in the condition Anton was in, although he knew that part of Anton’s dopiness was mere theatrics. The man loved letting his hair down and acting silly at the slightest provocation.
The door to the storage room Ernie slept in opened and Andrea stepped out, looking more alert than she had been all night. “Andrea, are you all right?” Anton, who’d been nodding off, or pretending to, on the sofa, looked up and took an interest once the young woman appeared.
“I’m all right,” she said. “How are you? Look, I didn’t mean to scare you in there, it’s just that—”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Ernie said, lifting his glass in a mock salute.
She nodded. “I’m glad you understand.”
“How about you?” He indicated his drink.
“Nothing for me, thanks. I need a clear head. Maybe later.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Listen. I think I have a fix on that book of yours. I mean on the book.”
Ernie was instantly galvanized. “Where?”
“It’s still in the house. Upstairs. I can—I can feel it. It’s too difficult to explain, but if we go upstairs I might be able to pinpoint it exactly.”
“Then let’s go.”
Anton leaned over the edge of the couch and yawned. “Don’t tell me you two are going to spend the night in his room reading.”
“Shut up, Anton,” Andrea said in a calm, no nonsense voice.
Anton feigned ind
ifference. “It’s your libido, my dear.”
“Come on,” Andrea said, taking Ernie’s hand and leading him to the staircase. His curiosity piqued, Anton stood up—straighter on his feet than one would have expected—and walked in their direction. “Where are you two going? You’re up to something and I want to know what it is.”
“It doesn’t concern you, Anton.”
“Suffron, stay out of this.”
He looked at both of them in turn. “Don’t order me about. I’m not that inebriated, I assure you.” His tone was steady, too, and menacing. Ernie suspected Anton was one of these people who could let liquor affect him if he wanted to, but could easily shake off those same effects if it suited his purpose. “Neither of you own this house. If you can go upstairs, so can I.”
Andrea sighed. “We don’t have time to play games. Come with us if you want to.”
“Are you sure?” Ernie asked. “Remember— ‘our friend.’ ” He nodded his head in Anton’s direction meaningfully.
“It’s a possibility,” she admitted. “But if he is the one, he’ll find we’re not sitting ducks the way the others were.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out,” Ernie said. He followed Andrea up the staircase, and Anton followed him.
The necromancer smiled. The book. She’s found the book. I can tell. I thought she was the one hiding it from me, but I was wrong. She’s been trying to break through the barrier, too—and has succeeded. Well, it will do her no good. In a very short while I’ll have the book, right where I want it. In my hands. And if the bitch thought I was powerful before, if she thought I used the powers of the book aptly when I didn’t even know where it was, wait until she hands it over to me and I blow her and her friend and everyone left alive on this island to kingdom come.
Late at Night Page 18
