When Rachel didn't reply, he looked back at her. "Rachel?"
"No, that's it," she said, her voice choked with emotion.
Noah hesitated in the doorway, wanting to say something but as usual, not knowing what. He was unsure of what was going on here between them. "Be right back," he said at last, and hurried down the hall.
Outside, he walked toward the barn, the clear dark sky overhead his path illuminated by the white driveway reflecting the soft yellow light of the security lamps secured on high poles in the barnyard. Chester trotted behind him, as faithful as he had ever been, seemingly unaware of the years that passed while his master was locked away in prison.
Noah breathed deeply and exhaled, realizing that for the first time he could remember, he had gone an entire day without thinking about having a drink. Without wanting one. Craving one. He couldn't resist a smile. Today was the best day he'd had yet since his release. Being there at the picnic with Rachel and Mallory and Mattie had made him feel good, feel proud. Today, what others thought of him, what they whispered behind his back, hadn't mattered. Only what Rachel, Mallory, and Mattie thought had been important to him, and today he felt as if he hadn't disappointed them. Maybe he hadn't made them happy, or given them exactly what they needed, or wanted, but he hadn't disappointed them, and that gave him a great deal of satisfaction.
Spotting the glowing eyes of the cellar windows, illuminated by the lamp in Mattie's room, Noah entered the barn. The red and white painted door swung shut behind him, and he hesitated for a moment. As the door closed, blocking the light from the security lamp outside, he was surrounded by darkness. Noah could feel the presence of the stuff piled around him: the winepress barrels, the cases of bottles, and the old milking staunches that had never been removed from the days when the farm had raised milk cows.
Everything seemed right, at first. He could hear nothing but the rhythmic pant of Chester's breathing and the muffled movements of Mattie down below, but as Noah took the first step toward the cellar door, a sound caught his attention. He halted, trying to filter out the sound from those made by Chester and Mattie and his own breathing.
The barn was silent.
He took another step, and this time it was not so much a sound as a feeling that halted him. He turned to peer into the darkness of the main room of the barn, where the cows had once been milked twice a day. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to make out the outline of the metal staunches, the stacked crates and barrels, other recognizable forms.
There was nothing there. His mind his logic, his sight, even his hearing now told Noah there was nothing there, and yet, he felt a presence. A presence that carved a thin curl of fear from the pit of his stomach.
Suddenly, he was aware of the change in Chester's breathing. The dog was staring into the darkness, too, no longer panting. His breath came evenly, almost soundlessly, and then he emitted a small, anxious whine.
"What is it, boy?" Noah whispered though why he was whispering he couldn't fathom. "Something there?"
Chester didn't respond verbally of course, but he continued to stare into the darkness, his side pressed against Noah's leg, his ears pricked.
Noah narrowed his gaze, staring into the darkness. Nothing moved. No sound. And yet... a presence. "Somebody there?" he snapped, sounding more menacing than he could ever be.
No response.
"It's OK, boy." He reached down to scratch between Chester's perked ears. "There's nothing—"
Out of the corner of his eye, Noah caught movement, and something fell, striking one of the metal staunches, the sound of wood hitting metal filling the darkness. Noah and the dog both jumped at the same time, as something came skittering toward them on the poured concrete floor, out of the darkness.
It streaked past Noah's leg, and Chester gave an excited bark, falling back on his one good rear haunch.
Noah burst into relieved laughter, pressing his hand to his thumping chest as the half-grown kitten slipped through the doorway leading down to the cellar and disappeared.
"OK, boy." Noah patted Chester's head and started for the cellar door. "No more late-night movies for either of us, I don't care how badly we're suffering from insomnia."
"Hey, Mattie, coming down," Noah called as he started down the steps, the dog still at his heels. "Just wanted to say good night."
He descended out of the dark stairwell into the room, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand beside Mattie's twin bed. Mattie had already changed into an old shirt he slept in and climbed beneath the sheet.
The orange tabby kitten sat on the end of his bed, licking its paw.
Noah looked down at Mattie who lay stiff in his bed, his fingers curled around the pale blue sheet he had drawn to his chin. Because the cellar was below ground, the room was cool at night, cool enough that Mattie might need the blanket Rachel always left at the end of his bed. That was one of the nice things about the cellar bedroom Rachel had built for him. It was cool in the summer without the necessity of an air conditioner, and in the winter, he apparently rarely needed the electric space heater she'd had hardwired into the electrical system.
Mattie stared straight up at the ceiling, making no indication he even knew Noah was there.
Noah's gaze shifted to the Bible fort Mattie was building. It appeared larger than the last time Noah had been down here. The walls a little taller. His gaze shifted to the three Bibles piled on the nightstand beside the lamp. "Doing a little reading?" he asked. He didn't say it to taunt Mattie, but only as a matter of making conversation. One of the Bibles was open, face down, and Noah picked it up, glancing at the page. "Psalms," he said. "You like the Psalms, don't you, Mattie? You would. There've been so many beautiful songs to come out of Psalms." Noah found himself reading a passage. It was the first time he had read a word of the Bible since his arrest. "Psalm four," he said, his own voice sounding strange in his head. "David's." He pressed his finger to the page and read aloud. "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety."
He smiled, looking down at Mattie. "That's nice, isn't it? Reassuring."
The words were barely out of his mouth when he frowned, looking down at Mattie staring at the ceiling, then at the page again. The verse was meant to provide reassurance to one going to sleep. Except that Mattie couldn't read so he wouldn't know that.
A coincidence that the Bible was left open to this page? Left open to this page by a man who could neither read nor speak?
Looking down at Mattie, he returned the book to its place, still open to the page. "Anything you need buddy?" He waited. "No? All right, well, Chester and I are going to head to bed, but we'll see you in the morning." He reached for the lamp. "You want me to shut—"
Mattie snapped his head around, staring at Noah, his dark eyes wide.
Noah pulled his hand back at once. "All right. That's fine, Mattie. We can leave the light on. That's not a problem. Leave it on all night, if you want."
He took one last look at Mattie and then went up the stairs, closing the door behind him and then securing the latch on the outside door as well. With Chester still following a few steps behind him, he went to the open garage, removed the picnic basket and quilt, and closed the hatch. Then he closed the garage door, specifically noting, in his mind, that he did it.
In the kitchen, he set down the picnic basket, draped the quilt over the back of a chair, and locked the back door, checking once he had turned the dead bolt to be sure it was secure.
He had no idea why he did it. He never had before.
Noah was just emptying the picnic basket, rinsing out the disposable containers, when Rachel appeared barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of old gray gym shorts. He couldn't help but notice she was braless, her nipples small buttons pressing against the thin cotton fabric of the T-shirt. He turned away, feeling guilty for having noticed.
"She stayed asleep?"
"Down for the count."
"Hey, did you open one of Mattie's Bibles r
ecently? Read a passage to him, maybe?"
She shook her head. "You mean in his room? No. Why?"
He shrugged. "I was just wondering." It was silly to tell her about the Bible verse. It was just a coincidence, he was sure. He was probably just feeling weird about it because it was the first time he'd touched a Bible in years. Rachel checked the lock on the back door, picked up the dog bowl, and walked to the sink.
As Noah leaned over to place the container in the top drawer of the dishwasher, Rachel stepped in front of the sink, flipping on the cold water. When he stood upright again, her hip brushed his thigh. He felt an electrical charge, something akin to what a person felt in the air on the cusp of a thunderstorm. He looked down to find her looking up at him, her green eyes wider than before.
The water trickled down the drain.
Noah lowered his head, and just as he was about to brush his lips against hers, she turned so that he missed her mouth.
"Noah," she whispered, pushing the heavy aluminum dish under the faucet.
Her voice was enough to snap him out of whatever peculiar spell he had fallen into, and he took a step back from the sink. "I... I'm sorry, Rachel. I didn't mean—"
"Noah, it's OK." She held her hand up to him, her gaze fixed on the dog bowl filling with water. "It's been a long day. Neither of us has had enough sleep."
He took another step back, still watching her. The emotion in her voice made his chest ache. He wanted to pull her into his arms and stroke her hair, her back. He wanted to tell her that no matter what, no matter what happened between them, everything was going to be all right. He wanted to tell her he loved her. That he loved Mallory and that he would always love them, no matter how far she went or how many states she put between them in her effort to get away from him.
But a lump rose in his throat and he found himself unable to say a word. He turned away, leaving her at the sink, the water still running. Chester followed him down the hall toward his lonely bedroom, and he wondered how he would possibly sleep.
* * *
Skeeter stared blurry eyed at the empty vodka bottle in front of him on the table, thinking they didn't make a pint the size they used to.
His chin resting on the table, hands palms down on either side of his head, his gaze shifted to the ceramic pipe and empty Ziploc baggy. Fucking weed was gone. They didn't make a dime bag the way they used to, either.
Skeeter needed more vodka. Or more weed. Or more of both. He even had a couple of bucks in his pocket that his old man had given him for mowing the lawn. Cheap bastard. Twenty-five bucks for mowing and raking that whole fucking lawn when he had a wad in his wallet?
Skeeter figured his father was lucky he hadn't hit him over the head with the rake and taken the wallet.
Skeeter turned his head so that his cheek rested on the old gold-speckled Formica-top table. He couldn't remember sitting down at the kitchen table to smoke a bowl or finish off the bottle, but he must have. That was his pipe, the blue glass one he'd bought at the head shop at the beach last summer when he worked that sweet construction job and had money to blow on shit like that. If it hadn't been for the boss's son who'd marked on him for pinching a couple of tools he'd later hocked, he'd still have that job.
Skeeter closed one eye, then simultaneously opened it and closed the other and watched the empty vodka bottle move.
He did it again and chuckled as the bottle hopped back and forth. When he laughed, drool came out of his mouth. He tried to pick up his head, but it felt like cement and he let it fall again, his cheek making a farting sound as he hit. That made him laugh harder.
He was more shit-faced than he realized.
Maybe he didn't need any more vodka or weed tonight. Maybe he'd just kick back on the couch and watch something stupid on TV He was hungry and he vaguely remembered bringing home a pizza. It was on the cardboard box he used for a coffee table, but that was halfway across the room. The single-room apartment above his parents' garage wasn't that big, but it could seem big if you were drunk enough or stoned enough or, if you were lucky, both at the same time.
Skeeter closed both eyes. He was tired. Tired enough to sleep, but he hated to waste a good buzz like this on sleeping. He needed to get up. Get up and take a piss. Find that pizza box that he thought he could smell somewhere in the room. It was either the pizza he'd brought home or the garbage that needed taking out that he smelled. He stared at the vodka bottle, both eyes open, wondering just which one it was.
He heard a sound behind him. Footsteps?
Was Catty here? That slut. He couldn't remember if she'd just dropped him off or come upstairs for a quick fuck. Christ, he hated having to get a ride from his friends, or even worse, his seventy-year-old parents. But he'd lost his license again, this time for two years. Barely gotten out of having to go to jail. At least the lawyer his father had hired had been decent.
Skeeter heard footsteps on the stairs. Then he remembered he'd already heard them. Catty. Had to be Catty. She probably forgot something. Her keys. Her panties.
He grinned lopsidedly, raising his head so that his chin rested on the table again.
The door behind him opened. He waited for Catty to say something. One of her smart-assed remarks about what a fucking bastard he was, or something.
Catty didn't say anything. She just walked up behind him.
Skeeter thought about picking up his cement head leaning back in the chair, and saying something to her. Telling her to take her cunt somewhere else. That she wasn't flopping at his place tonight. But it seemed like too much effort to Skeeter. She wasn't worth the concentration, the energy it would take to lift his head push back with his hands, and sit up in the chair.
From behind him, Skeeter felt a slight breeze, almost like someone had run by him, but it was only across his face. Just his right cheek. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, something black. Like a bat or something.
Holy shit. Had Catty let a bat in the house?
The black bat appeared in front of him, swooping down across the table toward him. It occurred to Skeeter as he watched it that he should be more careful about taking pills when he didn't know what they were. Catty had given him something in the car before he got out, but he couldn't remember what she had said they were. Couldn't remember if she'd said anything at all.
The bat with its long black wings struck the table, going through his hand...
Skeeter watched as blood spurted from his arm, severed between his hand and his wrist. Had the bat bit him? A lot of blood for a bat bite. The fingers twitched, which creeped him out a little. They were his fingers. His hand. He knew it was his hand, not because he'd felt the bat bite him, but because he could see the tattoo one of his friends had put between his thumb and forefinger. D.B.N. They were his initials. Delbert Benjamin Newton. But he always told people it stood for "Die Bitch Now," which always got a laugh.
Suddenly, the bat, which had disappeared, swooped down again, and as it dove for his left hand, it occurred to Skeeter that he ought to move it. Maybe even hit the bat with something. Maybe the empty vodka bottle. But he stared in fascination as it swooped again and cleanly bit off his other hand.
More blood spurted. It ran across the sloping table, over the side, down onto the floor...
Skeeter felt light-headed, and it occurred to him as he sat there, chin on the table, staring, that a bite like that ought to hurt. But it didn't hurt. Just felt weird. Almost like he was dreaming. Maybe he was dreaming.
Then the bat spoke as it grew a hand and the hand placed a piece of paper on the table, setting the vodka bottle on top of it.
It was a deep, gravelly voice. "Thou shall not steal. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into hell."
What the fuck?
Skeeter meant to say it out loud, but he didn't hear his own voice. The words just bounced around in his head. Everything was beginni
ng to get blurry, and the vodka bottle was beginning to fade. The hands were still now. His cement head had gotten even heavier until it rested, cheek down, in the pool of blood. All he heard was the sound of footsteps as the bat walked out of the apartment and quietly closed the door behind it.
Chapter 18
When he rolled onto his side to look at the digital clock beside his bed, Noah was startled to find that it was already 8:45. He never slept this late. As he dressed, he heard the sounds of a rushed Sunday morning breakfast out in the kitchen. Rachel was trying to be patient, but Mallory was obviously testing that patience. Apparently, like the day before, the two were not in agreement as to what was appropriate clothing for the day—for church, in this case.
After a quick stop in the bathroom, Noah entered the kitchen barefoot, sneakers and a clean pair of socks in hand. "Morning."
Rachel, dressed for church, leaned against the kitchen sink, coffee mug in hand. Her hair was still wet and pulled back, caught up in a plastic clip behind her head. "Morning." She walked to the coffeepot to pour him a cup. "You slept in."
"Yeah, I know." He tucked the socks into one of the sneakers and left them on the floor near the refrigerator. "I don't feel like I slept well last night. Weird dreams." He ran his hand through his hair, damp from where he'd pulled a wet comb through it, trying to remember, unsuccessfully, what he had dreamed about.
She pushed a mug into his hand. "Me too."
He took a sip of coffee, looking up at her over the rim of the white mug, stamped with the John Deere symbol and the words "Burton's Hardware."
"Really. Like what?"
She lifted a slender shoulder, gazing into her cup. "Scary stuff," she said softly.
Unspoken Fear Page 21
