by Jack Cady
“He wasn’t crazy,” John said flatly. And then — “I don’t know whether he was crazy or not.”
“I want to see.” She walked wide of a chalked circle and headed back to the hallway. He jumped to follow, saw her avoid the circle, and slowly walked after her.
Amy was now standing too close to the coffin. He looked at the painting. There were no reds in the background. He walked to Amy, moved her back. The coffin was oversized, like an ornamental piece of furniture designed to fit the proportions of the high-ceilinged hall. Rosewood gleamed dull in the half light. Gold-plated handles were massive and ornamented. As he leaned forward for the first careful look he’d ever given the coffin, he was shocked. The ornamentation was a twisting, erotic display. He rubbed at a handle and felt repulsed, but also fascinated.
“Watch.” He stood at the end of the coffin, raised the lid, and the coffin tilted backward, displaying needlesharp hooks. A muffled thump sounded from inside. He righted it, looked in and saw nothing. He searched in the faded satin, found a lever. A small trap door opened to display a compartment beneath the false bottom. He looked, slammed the lid down hard, and stood there, trying to force back an hysteric, absurd laugh that was trying to escape. He turned back to Amy. She still seemed ready to go exploring. She was not looking at him. He was glad. In a moment he would have enough control. He would be able to go looking for Vera without having to tell Amy that the fake coffin was not a fake, after all.
Chapter Eight
Jude Tracker, son of Johan and Sarah, brother of Theophilus and grand uncle of John Tracker, died at age seventeen of scarlet fever. His was the first death in Johan’s family.
Johan buried Jude and staked two dogs at the grave. The dogs howled at night. Johan wasn’t sure if they howled at the moon or the Devil. He exhumed Jude and did not know what to do. He could not leave his son unprotected. The body was in such numbing condition that it could not be brought into the house. So in desperation Johan built a vault in the subcellar and placed Jude there. When the skeleton was ready, it was removed and put to rest in a cell. In this way the cemetery where John believed Theophilus to be buried was a fake. Bones lay throughout the house. The cemetery contained only a few pet dogs and cats, which bordered it like a skeletal ring of flowers.
Vera was in the same room as before. When they entered, Amy gasped, shrank back, then stood still and grabbed John’s arm.
He moved in front of her and she lowered her head and pressed it against his back.
“I’ll take you out of here,” he said, “then I’ll come back and handle this.” He turned to lead her from the room. But she stood, head bowed, rigid.
“I want to stay.”
He understood. Even one room away she would feel that death lay in the space between them. If they were together, then death only sat in front of them in an old chair.
This time he was sure Vera was dead. The musty room was filled with a deeper scent, the light odor of beginning decomposition. The smell lay through the room like the rising layers of morning mist from the river. (Later, he would tell himself that a rat must have died in the walls.)
He started to move toward Vera — stopped. He turned to look at Amy as he felt time shift. He was almost glad for it. If Amy felt the shift too then it was real.
The ill-lit room dimmed, shaded back to light, and dimmed again. Distant rooms seemed to hold murmurs, but this time there was no music or child’s laughter. Instead, the murmur changed to a low trilling, like winter vibrating in walls or windows. The light rapidly became normal. Amy stood there, her face reflecting wonder. Or so he saw it.
“Did you feel it?” he asked.
“Feel what?”
“Did you see the light dim?”
“I don’t know. What are you talking about? I don’t know.” Her voice was thin, nearly hysterical. It, he, was all obviously getting to her. She looked beyond him at Vera, and seemed reproachful because he’d turned and, in turning, once more exposed her to the sight of Vera.
The house of the Trackers. No question, now it was working on Amy too. He turned back to Vera, and as he did he was sure that Amy felt time shift; he was sure she was denying the evidence of her senses, which was exactly what a person learned to do in this house.
His grandmother slumped forward. This time the body was cloaked and hooded. Robed. Like an ancient monk. Her face was buried in shadow, and the arms seemed even thinner, projecting from the heavy cloak. He went toward her, saw one of her hands tremble. Would the old bat never die? Something urged him forward to tip body and chair into a tangled, robed heap.
But this was not John Tracker. Or rather, he feared that it was John Tracker. He was disgusted with himself. This house was a well of depravity.
Her hand was moving in front of his eyes, independent of arm and wrist. Fingers crawled, then grasped. The nails were long and looked healthy, the thin hand and almost fleshless fingers like fragile sockets into which the nails were plugged. Her hand clenched, released, trembled and again crawled. Then it became a tight fist. Her head raised slightly and her body rocked a little as her shoulders tensed. She raised her head.
He continued to watch. Her eyes were dull and glazed, but life seemed to spark from some inner tomb of spirit. Her shoulders relaxed and her head remained upright.
“Like last time,” he said. He touched her arm. It was cold, flaccid beneath the cloak, and there seemed not enough flesh to sustain life.
Amy was beside him. “She’s alive? Yes…” Amy hovered over the woman, drew the robe closer around her, looked about for more covering, then began to take off her own coat.
“Leave it,” he said.
“She’s freezing.”
“I’ll build another stinkin’-dammit fire.”
“Don’t curse.” Amy was bustling. “It’ll be all right, we’ll get you to bed, we’ll take care of you.”
He figured she’d learn better, and she would learn it quick. Right now there was no sense in arguing.
This time his grandmother seemed to revive rapidly. Her eyes flashed, then came into focus. As the kindling began to pop and crackle, she was talking.
“Where did you get this one?” Her voice was raspy, but it was better than the other time.
“She’s waking up,” Amy said. “She must be nearly frozen.”
“You couldn’t kill her with an ax. You couldn’t bury her with a bulldozer.”
Vera was looking at Amy’s figure, judging how good Amy was in bed. Vera seemed to have concluded that, for a punk kid, Amy was probably not too bad.
“You old scut,” he said. “You flaming bitch.” It was stupid. He knew it while he was saying it.
“What in the world is wrong with you? Are you going crazy?” Amy seemed to be missing everything.
“He’s scairt,” the old woman said. “Tracker men don’t change.” Her voice was smoother. She modulated it so that the tone was friendly, although the words were not.
Tracker turned away.
“It’s hard to be old,” Vera said to Amy. “I never thought I’d ever be this old.” Her voice was getting smoother all the time. There was something antique and pleasant in the voice, like Victorian music.
“We’re leaving,” he said. He looked at Vera. “Walk or carry? I don’t care which, but here we go.” He moved toward her, half-expecting time to shift or the floor to drop from beneath his feet.
“We’re goin’ nowhere,” Vera said. “’Til the trouble’s laid.” She looked at Amy. “I feel terrible weak, just terrible.” The old, parchment-like face beneath the hood was shadowed. In the dim light and the flickering glow of fire all he could see were Vera’s bright eyes.
The snarl-like sound rose involuntary in his throat, like the attack signal of a cornered wolf or dog. He heard it happening and stood there, shocked. Was Amy hearing this?
“Besides,” his grandmother said, “It’s stormin’.”
Amy looked surprised.
“It isn’t storming,” Tracker said. “The storm is at least one, probably two days away.”
“Stormin’. Stormin’.”
He listened. If there were a storm, wind would echo through empty rooms, booming like drums. He heard nothing.
“I know this place,” he said. “If it was storming we could hear.”
“Screamin’ silent-like, head fulla storm.”
He gave her credit. One irrelevent statement and she had Amy fooled.
“Get some blankets,” Amy said. “She’s wandering in her mind. Is there any tea or coffee?” She leaned over Vera like a concerned intern viewing symptoms not to be found in any textbook.
“She’s faking,” Tracker said, “she’s fooling you.”
“She’s not. Get busy or I’ll go myself.”
“Not in this house, you won’t.”
“I will. I will.”
He decided she was getting hysterical. “Please listen,” he said. “Even if she’s wandering in her mind, which she isn’t, then the best place for her is a hospital. In the next town. Three miles down the road — ”
Vera moaned, sagged in the chair, made choking noises that might be laughter or sobs.
“You see, you see. She’s sick. Sick.”
“All right, I’ll go,” he said, “and I’ll bring what you want, but you’ve got to promise not to move in this room, no matter what. Don’t believe a thing she says.”
“Yes. All right. Go.”
Maybe she heard and understood, and maybe not. “Ten minutes,” he said. He followed the fastest route. It was a maze, its floors inlaid with colored symbols, leaves and crosses, chalices and flowers. It was a tightly webbed network of repeating pictures that seldom varied but which were so randomly mixed that there seemed to be no pattern. The trick was to look at as much of the floor as you could see. When you saw the largest area possible, and when you isolated the leaf symbols, then you could see how they formed a trail. They often broke off. It was not consistent, but no matter where you walked in the maze, the trail would sooner or later reappear.
He used the flashlight and followed the leaf symbols until they ran to a wall, then he pressed on the wall. A door opened into a room only two removed from the kitchens. There was nothing dangerous in those rooms if you remembered not to walk beneath the heavy chandeliers.
Water splashed in the sink. The stoves were working. This time he did not have to wonder how power was getting into the house. On Monday he had called the local utility and found that bills were being paid by a local bank. Then he called the bank and explained who he was. The name Tracker might be anathema in the surrounding towns but it still worked in banks. The bank president had limited power of attorney on a Tracker account with a balance of nearly thirty thousand dollars. The banker was handling all billings for the house and would be happy to meet with John Tracker at his convenience to further discuss that matter and any others.
Damn right, he would, Tracker thought; but the question that the banker could not answer was why the bills, while substantial, were not huge. He figured that the answer was that while the house ran on outside utilities, the power was supplemented by generators somewhere in the house.
He searched now through cabinets, found tea and sniffed at it. It smelled like plain tea, but it would serve Vera right if the stuff was poisoned.
Not much time had passed since he’d left Amy. The water boiled quickly. He figured he couldn’t have been away for even ten minutes. Still, he felt it was wrong to leave Amy. Except there seemed little choice. Beyond this house, in the bustling world of buildings and trees and plans, he might have influence. In this house, with a half-hysterical woman, he was pretty helpless. If he’d refused to do as she asked she might have become really extreme. Well, what about his reasons for being in the house? Were they good ones? The job in Council Bluffs, that was a good job. He’d be proving some things on that job that architects and planners would be talking about for years. The job on the freeway, it didn’t sound like much, but a properly landscaped freeway could be low-maintenance and still make you feel almost like you were driving through a park. Sure, there were reasons to be here. But the best, the most important reason was to understand John Tracker.
A voice was echoing from somewhere.
He grabbed the teapot and a cup, hesitated. The voice sounded distant, and almost desperate. Amy. He dropped the pot and heard it shatter behind him. It could only be Amy. No one else in this house would be calling that way. Had something happened to Vera? Maybe the old hellion had keeled over and saved them some trouble. Maybe, but he had more faith in Vera than to expect her to do anything decent.
Amy must be in trouble. He ran through the second room. The desperate voice was closer. There were distant thumps. He slugged a wall that opened a door into the maze, scrambled through, the door slammed. Once in the maze the voice was clear, bordering now on hysteria.
“I’m coming,” he called out. “Stand still. Where are you?”
“Lost. I’m lost.” Her voice did not hold hysteria now. The moment she heard him, she felt safe, which was a lot of responsibility to put on a man, at least in this house.
“Describe where you are.”
“Between walls. Like in a long box…”
She was lost in the maze without a flashlight. Still, there was nothing there to hurt her, only confuse and wear her out. Maybe it would teach her a lesson if she had to wander for a while.
“Keep talking,” he said.
No human anywhere, not even its builder, could walk through this maze and not become lost. Her voice seemed to be coming from both the left and right. It faded, then was strong, then faded. She could not have been in the maze for long, could not be too deep in its shifting illusion. The trail of leaf symbols was useless except to get out of the maze. It did not do a thing to help find Amy.
“Keep talking,” he said again. “I can only find you by sound.”
“I’m afraid…there’s something in here with me.”
It was a rat. Bound to be. He didn’t want to tell her that, it would only terrify her more.
“It’s okay,” he said. “There’s nothing in here.”
“I see your light. Oh, good, thank God…”
He stood still. Listening. He heard footsteps, footsteps going away. It sounded like Amy was running. “It’s a trick,” he yelled. “Stop.”
The footsteps faltered.
“Why are you running away from me?” Her echoing voice was disbelieving.
“I’m not. It’s a trick. The old sonofabitch must have rigged lights that would trap someone into following deeper into the maze.”
“The light’s blue, it’s just around the next corner.”
When she went around that corner it would be just around the next corner. Damn Theophilus.
“Stand still. Sing. Whistle. Keep talking, but stand still.”
“I can’t. Something is in here with me. Every time I stand still, something moves toward me.”
He hoped some rat bolder than the rest would not advance under cover of darkness and nip her. She was, he thought, handling the situation pretty well. Then, abruptly, it occurred to him that it was not a rat and not her imagination.
“What does it sound like?”
“Like sighing, like someone is sad — ”
“It’s a trick. You’ve activated recording equipment. There are concealed speakers in the wall. No matter where you go you’ll hear it. Just stand there, don’t move.”
The maze was like an echo chamber. He walked in the direction of her voice, but every time he heard her voice it seemed to be co
ming from an opposite direction. A memory was trying to break through, some past knowledge that should help him find her. He stopped. If he could figure out what he knew, it might not take hours to reach her. If he couldn’t, he would have to go on walking the maze. Finding her would be pure chance. He would be as confused as she, though he could get out whenever he wanted. So spend a little time reflecting, and save a lot of time.
Once, when he was little, and when this maze was already built, there had been an awful fracas. It seemed he could still hear Vera’s laughter, could hear her scorn. His father had fussed and worried, and for a while Theophilus had been like a madman.
The old man was sitting in the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up. There was plaster in his gray hair. The muscles and cords in his forearms made his fists look like hammers. Vera was standing in an entry, laughing. Justice, curly haired and slightly beefy, sat across from his father.
“It’s plain fact,” Justice said. “It’s new theory, but it’s also fact, and the fact is you’re proving the theory.”
“Theory.” Theophilus was digging into the tabletop with a pocket knife. Slivers and shavings erupted. “You can take your theories and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine.”
“You use theory every day,” Justice said. “You just call it practical.”
The knife scraped, scooped, and on the tabletop the shape of a bird began to form. It rose from the wood in that magic way that always fascinated John when he was a child.
“Your whole life’s wasted,” Vera said. “Your whole raggedy no good job don’t run furder than your foreskin to your tailbone.”
The knife left Theophilus’ hand, whirled, struck into the frame of the door beside Vera’s face. She laughed, plucked it loose, tossed it back to him.
