Late at Night (17 page)

Ernie put his arm on Andrea’s shoulder again and pushed her gently towards the door. Cynthia stood at the bar, sipping a martini. Jerry remained at his spot near the couch.

Anton, the insufferable, had gone back up the stairs.

Chapter 30

Ernie and Andrea had been “assigned” the area to the rear and left of the guest house, just in case the housekeepers had managed to make it back all right by themselves, then decided to do some exploring elsewhere. There were some trees in the area, a thick forest beginning about half a mile inland, but mostly there were rocky patches and fields of tall white weeds, and a beaten old path that led down to the water on a wildly winding route. It was getting chilly again, and the wind was strong, but so far there was no sign of fog. As they walked, Ernie told Andrea about her behavior in the library back in the old house. She didn’t remember anything. “I do remember coming out of a reverie at one point,” she said. “You were looking at me funny, shaking me awake. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. You looked at me and said, ‘You’ve come back, Horatio.’ Something like that.”

“Funny. Horatio was the name of Edmund Burrows’s other son. For a few moments I must have picked up the thoughts and feelings of someone who lived in the house with him when he was alive. It must have been a very emotional moment for them. Someone who cared for Horatio very much and was overjoyed—and surprised—to see him again. Perhaps his father’s— fanaticism—drove him away at some point in his life. Strong emotional moments never die, they say. It could have been any number of people talking through me.”

“Even a man?” Ernie asked.

“Yes. Spirits aren’t choosy. I guess once you pass over your sex becomes irrelevant.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun. I thought there was such a thing as sex after death. Sex between astral bodies and all that.”

Andrea smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard of that, too. What I meant is that, when a spirit wants to get a message across to the land of the living, the medium through which it chooses to speak could be either male or female. It wouldn’t make any difference.”

They stood above the water’s edge in a patch of flowering shad bushes, watching the breakers hit the rocks several yards below them and dissipate once more into the churning blue waters of the sea. The rocks were covered with lichen, moss, and black algae. There were some gulls nearby, gliding above the promontory. Ernie thought be saw something for a moment, out there riding in the waves, but when he blinked his eyes it was gone. “We never did get to see the ship in the daytime,” he reminded her.

“I know. But there’s always tomorrow.” She sighed. “I could stand here and look at the ocean forever.”

“Me, too.” Ernie pulled at the edges of his mustache, a habit he engaged in unconsciously when perplexed. “Y’know, I expected to see a lot more animal life while I was here. These islands are supposed to have eider ducks, sandpipers, even deer; some of them, at least. All this one’s got is gulls and mosquitos. Oh yes—bats and rodents, too.”

“Ugh. Spare me. Where did you see
them?”

“Uh. In the basement of the old house.” He raced ahead. “Some of the coastal islands also have minks, otters, squirrels. Moles, snakes. And frogs.”

“Now, now, little Ernie.” She spoke to him as if he was a five-year-old, teasing him. “Maybe you’ll see some frogs before the weekend’s over.”

He laughed. “Well, I guess we’d better get on with our searching. I’d like to find the girls before we need to use these flashlights.”

“Right.” Idly, Andrea flicked the switch on her flashlight, but there was no reaction. “Great. This one doesn’t even work.”

“Don’t worry. Mine does.”

They walked away from the cliff’s edge, retracing their steps on the path back to the guest house. Now and then they stopped and looked into the woods and called the girls’ names. No one answered. “Did you think about what I told you this morning?” Ernie asked. “About the book?” Before Andrea could answer he told her about finding the skeletons, about his odd intuition concerning them. Andrea just stared at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to make of it,” she said. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard of, or experienced, before. My God—those poor girls.”

“Don’t you have
any
ideas?” He knew his voice was raised, angry, but he couldn’t help himself. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

“You’re
the one who’s into all this psychic phenomena. So help me. Tell me if I’m going crazy. You’ve never heard of anything like it? Books appearing out of nowhere, books that seem to record or affect events, the future? Why am I convinced those girls are dead? I read in the book what would happen to them—that’s why. That book existed—I know it did! Either that or I’m ready for the loony bin.”

Andrea put out her hand and touched his face. “Please, Ernie. Let’s talk this through together. Try to figure it out. Getting angry, upset, won’t do any good—you know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“There
must
be some explanation for all this. Why didn’t you tell the others about the book?”

“Oh sure! What would they have said? Can you imagine what they would have thought if I told them what I think happened to the girls? Great idea, Andrea.”

“Listen! Somebody had to bring that book here with them. Someone must know where it came from, didn’t you think of that? Keep those skeletons to yourself, yes, but by all means ask the others about the book. It’s a start, isn’t it?”

“I guess you’re right. Only—”

“Only what?”

“I keep getting this feeling that the book doesn’t—didn’t—‘belong’ to anybody. Like it was there for me to find; for some reason, some purpose. Like I’m going to see blank faces when I mention it. Blank looks, like yours. It just doesn’t make any sense. I am a rational, sane, logical man. Show it to me and I’ll believe it. Mumbo-jumbo, hocus-pocus, that was never my style. Now I’m actually believing in—”

“Believing in?”

“The occult. The supernatural. I don’t know. Then again, maybe I
did
dream it all.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. That book was real. I found it. I held it in my hands. I read it. Last night. It freaked me out and it’s still freaking me out. Everything I read in there has either already happened or is starting to come true. Joanne’s encounter with Mary Lou’s spirit. The girls disappearing. It’s all starting to come back to me.”

“What happens next?” Andrea asked with some trepidation.

Ernie looked down at the ground, kneading his forehead with his fingers. “Let’s see. Uh—the. character who resembles Gloria Bordette runs off in a huff, which Gloria did, and—something happens to her. Something awful. I can’t remember. We have
got
to find that book. It may be the only way of stopping whatever’s supposed to happen from happening.”

“Okay,” Andrea said with determination. “That book has to be somewhere on this godforsaken island.

“Let’s go look for it!”

Chapter 31

The necromancer was finally alone. No one had even noticed when it had snuck out of the house. The necromancer would return before anyone got suspicious. Return, and have a good excuse for the absence.

This was the perfect place to be alone. Most of the others were inside the guest house or out searching for those housekeepers, those
dead
housekeepers. The necromancer laughed. The first full-scale test had been a smashing success. There was hardly anything left of those girls. Hardly anything left at all.

But still the necromancer was worried. Still there was no sign of the object it sought. It had scanned the island psychically time and time again, but the object always eluded it, as if someone or something was “scrambling” the waves of the object’s aura. Time was running out. If necessary, the necromancer would destroy all the others in order to keep from going back, from leaving this island, from returning to the mainland. If the necromancer could not have the mystical object, nobody could. They would all die. And die horribly. Just for getting in its way.

It stood in the distance, surrounded by the shadowy shapes of tools and boxes and gardening equipment, breathing deeply in and out, bringing on the state of trance. In this state, the necromancer could do whatever it chose. It could manipulate the island’s forces to its own ends. It could tap into the vast psychic buildup which was even now surrounding all of them.

It could
kill.

The trance was coming. Slowly. Slowly. It could feel the power building up inside it. Enough power to scan the island once again. It was becoming something more than human. Slowly the energy filled the necromancer’s body, slowly it began to transform-

But wait! Someone was coming. Someone was walking out here, coming closer.
The fool!

Too late the necromancer realized that it had been seen
in mid-transformation,
just about to enter full trance. That must not be! The person approaching had seen it, had almost seen the necromancer’s full inhuman form.

Quickly, before the other person could be sure of what their eyes had really seen, the necromancer returned to normal. It was better this way. It could not use its powers—but there were
other
methods.

“Hello. Who’s that?”

It stepped out of the dark where the person could see it. Unbeknownst to the one who approached, the necromancer had grabbed a hard wood and metal implement from the wall of the surrounding shed. The person came closer, unaware of what was to happen, so wonderfully unaware… .

* * *

Eric had done a neat job of losing Hans out in the woods, pretending he had “heard something,” running off to check it out. Ha! What a laugh. What Eric really wanted to check out was the extra liquor supply he had secreted in the storage shed. Who wanted to be out looking for the brats, as he referred to them, when you could be having a snort or two? The girls were okay, he was sure of that; just out playing around somewhere getting out of work the same way he was. Let old reliable Hans do the looking.
He
was going to relax.

Shit! There was somebody in the workshed. Who was it? The girls, perhaps? Good—then he could have a drink and play hero at the same time. No, it was somebody else. Hard to make them out in the gloom in back of the shed. It was playing tricks with his eyes. Whoever it was couldn’t really look like what he thought he was seeing. “Hello,” he called. “Who’s that?”

The person stepped out in front of Eric. “Oh, you,” Eric said, “How ya doin‘? Is there anything I can help you with?” Strange. Eric didn’t know what this individual could be doing out here— and that funny look on the face …

Eric noticed the glint of metal a second too late.

He tried to step back, get out of its way, instead tripped on a rod under his feet. It had to be the end of the rake. He lifted an arm to ward off the blow. No good.

Suddenly his hand wasn’t there any more. Just a bleeding stump, discharging gallons of his precious bodily fluids. His bowels opened out of shock and his pants were soaked with urine.

Then the axe came down a second time and chopped his head in half.

Chapter 32

Jerry Hardington felt sick to his stomach.

It always happened when he had a fight with Gloria. He’d think about what it would be like if he lost her, if she was no longer a part of his life, and it made him ill, absolutely nauseous.

He knew no one would ever believe it, but he loved her. Old. Fat. Her career on the decline. For he knew he was Gloria’s only source of pride and achievement. She’d taken this starving, lonely, struggling young pretty boy out of his series of sleazy hotels and furnished rooms, and saved him from despair and desperation. He had been one of the thousands of Manhattan’s hopeful young actors, one of the less talented ones. His dream had been at the point of expiration that night Gloria met him at that party, made it clear that she found him attractive. She had introduced him to countless talent scouts and agents and producers, all to no avail. Pretty faces were, quite literally, a dime a dozen. But she had tried her best. Little did she realize that what she
had
done for him was so much more important. She’d made him feel wanted and needed for other than physical reasons, though she certainly got her pound of flesh and offered no apology for it. But she knew and accepted his many faults and loved him in spite of them. She recognized the shy interior underneath the cocky exterior. His world was a lot less lonely after meeting her. In some small way, she had made him feel important.

So there he was, walking down the beach, tears in his eyes, knowing he had hurt her once again. He recalled the last time it had happened. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” he had told her. “Sometimes I just—I just have to cut loose. I have to remember what it feels like to be with somebody my own age. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. You’re the only person I’ve ever been committed to. The only person I ever will be.”

And he had meant every word. He knew that Gloria believed most of what he said some of the time, some of what he said most of the time, and all of what he said none of the time. She still believed her chief appeal for him was her financial support, but she was wrong. Dead wrong. Gloria Bordette was the only person he really cared about. Sure, he’d be out on a financial limb if she broke with him, but that was secondary. Most of all he needed her emotional support.

He could see her footprints in the sand, erratic, winding this way and that. He could picture her running all the way, her heart beating furiously, tears streaming down her face, feeling old and useless, unwanted and ugly. And he hated himself for having made her feel that way.

He had tried his best to stay out of Cynthia’s clutches, but knew he couldn’t lay all the blame on her. He hadn’t tried as hard as he might have. Gloria had accepted that he might now and then have an occasional encounter with a sweet young thing, but she was right—he should not have done it here. Damn that Anton! Jerry was going to break the pianist’s fingers for this. Not because Anton had gotten him in trouble, but because he’d caused Gloria pain. For that Anton was going to suffer.