The Binding (12 page)

As they pulled past the front of the house and down the driveway, Nat felt a wave of repulsion come over him, and he reached up and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his jacket.

It was as if the house knew what had happened, but had sealed itself up to the public, damping its secrets, its malevolence, in darkness. The thought that Becca was up there, sealed within, made him want to go at it with an axe.

John pulled up to the bumper of the single patrol car and killed the engine. Nat got out and felt the wildness of the air. It was tossing back and forth, fitful and strong. He smoothed his hair down and looked down the length of driveway at the backyard. There was a flashlight shining deep in the trees.

He led the way back. The ground was slick with dead leaves, and he had to catch himself twice after tripping on exposed roots. Nat weaved through the dark trunks and heard the gales tossing the tops of the oaks high above. When he got to the patrolman, the officer—tall and lanky—was facing away, the flashlight held down by his left side, the light illuminating a pair of gray wool slacks with a black stripe and a pair of black shoes.

“Officer.”

The man swung around, his right hand reaching to his side. His face was startled, the cheek muscles tight. “Oh, it’s you guys,” he said, straightening up.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Nat said, looking at the gun gleaming evilly by the cop’s right hip.

“Uh, no, it’s just a little spooky out here.”

John’s flashlight fixed the young cop in a cone of light. Nat saw that he was pale as a sheet of paper, the line of his stubble visible beneath shocked blue eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Nat, this is Officer Pendleton. Pendleton, this is Nat Thayer.”

They nodded at each other.

“Nice way to get shot,” John muttered as he went by.

Nat heard something in the wind back here that was different, something added to the grand sweep of the trees dancing above. He knew it was the sound of a rope with something heavy on it.

“Who called it in?” John said.

“The neighbor,” the young cop said.

They were three blue-black silhouettes lit up nightmarishly now and then by the flashlights. John shone his toward where the sound was coming from.

Walter Prescott’s face suddenly loomed out of the darkness.

“Jesus,” John said.

“Yeah,” Pendleton said. “That’s what I said.”

Prescott’s eyes were bulging wetly from the sockets. The mouth was open as if in midscream. The purplish tongue was visible behind the yellowing teeth. He was hatless, and the flashlight shone off his bald pate.

The body was facing away from the house, out into the deeper woods.

Nat had seen five suicides in his life: one cutter, one pill overdose drowned in a bathtub for good measure, a self-inflicted gunshot, and two hangers. He’d been struck by the expression on their faces, all except for the shooter, who’d apparently flinched at the last moment and turned the gun so that he’d lost the front part of his skull above the eyes. The others had looked exhausted. Not peaceful, but just
finished
with whatever had goaded them to get out the razor blade or the rope. Fucking done.

But Walter Prescott, swaying here slightly a foot above Nat’s
head, didn’t look like that at all. Prescott had the appearance of being caught. If Protestants had put gargoyles on their churches, they would look like this.

Nat was staring so hard that he missed what John said next.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, ‘What’d he step off of?’ ” said John.

Pendleton shone his light on something near the foot of the tree. It was a cooler, bright blue with a white top, and for a moment Nat flashed on Walter and young Chase Prescott going down to cast their fishing lines from the shore, and Walter sitting on the chest, which contained sandwiches, with beer for him and root beer for the boy.

Maybe it had happened. A long time ago.

“Coroner coming?” John said.

“Yeah. Said ten minutes,” Pendleton noted.

“Let’s look at his hands,” Nat said.

John glanced over with an expression that might have meant,
I don’t recall deputizing you, asshole.
But from John, it was just surprise. Nat supposed he’d brought him to the scene to help in interviewing the girl; he didn’t want to overstep his boundaries, but he wanted to know how Prescott had died.

John shone the light down on the old man’s wrists.

Nat, relieved that Prescott’s face was no longer a beacon of death in the dark forest, came closer to the body and around the back, his shoes shuffling through the mustard-colored leaves that glowed dimly on the ground from John’s flashlight. The flesh on the wrists was swollen and puffy just above the rope, which was light tan and dirty. It was tied in a simple double knot, pulled tight.

“That’s an old rope,” said Pendleton.

“Mm-hmm,” John said.

Nat took a half step toward the body and peered at the knot.

“Now how do you do that yourself?” he said.

“Doesn’t need to be too tight,” John replied. “Once you start struggling, you’re your own worst enemy. With the right knot, it takes care of itself.”

“I realize that,” Nat said. “But could
you
tie that knot on yourself?”

John played the light over the tie, tilting his head. “Probably not.”

Pendleton looked uncertainly from Nat to John.

“You think someone else . . .”

Nat frowned and replied: “I’m not saying anything, but it’s a detail.”

“Jesus Christ,” John said softly.

Nat followed his eyes and swiveled. Through the tree trunks, he could see a window lit up on the second floor of the house. Through the muslin curtains, Nat thought he saw the outline of a body.

“Did you tell the girl?” Nat barked at Pendleton.

“What girl?” Pendleton said. “I knocked on the door but no one—”

John looked at Nat. “Would she talk to me?” he said.

“I’m not sure. I think I’d have better luck, at least to start.”

“Go ahead.”

Nat hurried off through the elms.

He ran through the dark trunks, dodging the trees. The cold seeped through his clothes and he began to shiver. Above him he could see the brightly lit window flashing into view for a second here and there.

Nat made it to the side door. He pulled open the screen door and grabbed the brass knob. It screeched as he turned it. He found himself in a small entranceway, with a coatrack to his left and a narrow stairway to his right, lit by a single fixture high up on the wall.

“Becca?” he called.

Something stirred above him.

He began climbing the stairs, the wood of the railing chilled under his hand. He ascended slowly, listening. There was a small landing, then stairs to his left, even darker than the lower section. He continued upward. As he got closer to Becca’s floor, he could no longer see the stairs in front of him, only a matte blackness. He felt ahead instead.

He sensed something breathing on the stairs, someone pressed back into the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he said.

It could be a breeze moving past. Is there a window open up here?

A board creaked.

“Damn it, who’s there?”

He advanced toward the sound, feeling along the wall. His hand flinched, but it was just a stuffed animal head. The house was probably lousy with them. He couldn’t make out the features, so he reached up to feel its thick tufts of hair. He had to know what the damn thing was, to visualize it. He slid his hand down, and his fingertips felt something hard under the fur. The jawbone, he thought. He saw the animal’s face as his hand explored: a long snout; thick, bristly fur as coarse as any he’d touched; a small glass marble where the eye had been; and, finally, two large, curved tusks extending on either side of the snout that the taxidermist had left as sharp as small knives. At any moment he expected to feel the pulse of blood under his fingertip, to hear the jaw snap shut over his hand.

It was . . . a boar? Some kind of boar, maybe. He walked on. He felt a slick oil painting, and then the cool touch of glass.

Finally he came to a door, but it couldn’t be Becca’s, as this one felt rough under his hand. Something pricked his finger and he drew back.

“Becca . . . ?” He felt to the side. His hand finally fumbled on what felt like a light switch, and he took a breath and flicked it up.

The cone of yellow light flooded down and Becca’s door
came blooming into view. Nat started, stepping back. Deep holes had been gouged in the wood, fresh hack marks glowing in long strips and cuts.

Someone had gone at the door with a kitchen knife or a small hatchet.

He looked at the locks. Splinters hung around them. Nat touched one of the needle-sharp pieces of wood; it came loose and fell away into the darkness at his feet.

Five more minutes and whoever had done this would have gotten through.

“Becca!” he said, and pounded on the door. It rattled in its frame.

Silence.

“I saw you in the window. Please let me in.”

He heard a voice.

“What?!” he cried.

“How do I know it’s not him?”

“Listen to me. You know my voice. This is Nat Thayer, and you and I are friends. Okay? Just please open the door. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

He heard a bolt slide back slowly. A lock popped, and the door opened a crack. Nat could see a line of yellow light, and then Becca’s brown eye staring at him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he breathed out. The rush of relief shook his knees.

The door opened and suddenly Becca rushed into his arms.

He didn’t want her to see the door or how close the attacker had been to getting the lock dug out. He murmured comforting words and pushed her slowly back into the room, leaving the door ajar. She would have to get used to having it open.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, her hair rubbing against his cheek. Her body was incredibly light in his arms.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down. Everything’s going to be okay.”

She found the bed and quickly sat on it. Nat sat on the desk chair and glanced around the room.

“What the hell happened?”

She shook her head.

“You were locked in here?”

She looked flustered. “I’m
usually
locked in here.”

Nat frowned, but his other questions were more pressing. “Did your father try to get in?”

“He is
not
my father.” Her eyes flashed angrily and her voice rose.

“Okay. Just tell me what happened.”

Her face, the slightly flattened nose, the rich brown eyes—he’d been seeing them in his head ever since he’d left this room, and he felt a lightness in his chest now that he was seeing them again.

She looked at him, her eyes wide.

“I was sleeping. That happens a lot these days. I thought I was dreaming, and it kept getting worse and worse. I don’t remember what it was now, but through it all, there was a voice talking, describing something, describing horrible things that were being done to somebody . . . and the same things would happen to
me
.”

“Go on.”

“I felt heat. I was sweating and I . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay, Becca.”

“I felt I was trapped, like the walls were closing in. And through it all was the voice. But not that man’s voice, the one who kept calling himself my father. Another one.”

Nat frowned.

“And I heard banging. The branches of the tree outside my window, they knock on the glass when there’s a storm. Maybe that’s what I heard. But whatever it was, it woke me up.”

Becca’s eyes searched around the room. They went from object to object—bookcases, the oil painting of a jungle, the bottles of perfume on her table, and then Nat, seeming to look right through him.

“That light was on. But not the corner lamp. I woke up . . . I was so happy to be here. Safe. The room was nice and cool. I could hear the wind outside.”

Nat came and sat on the bed next to her. “Did you hear anyone pounding on the door?” he said.

“I . . . I don’t know. Earlier, I heard pounding, but I was still half asleep, and thought it was part of my dream.”

Nat watched her. “Okay. In the dream, what was the voice saying?”

Becca’s eyes went wide, but then she shook her head a little. “He wasn’t speaking English.”

“Really? What then?”

“It sounded like French . . . but it was so bad I couldn’t understand it. Why?”

“No reason. Keep going.”

“I could catch only bits and pieces. But it was a horrible, low voice. Like a chant.”

Nat reached over and put his hand on her shoulder. Becca’s body was tense. “Did you see anything through the window?”

“I looked out to see if the storm was over. I saw . . . the man who lives here. He was walking down there in the trees. That’s all I saw.”

“The man. Was he alone?”

She looked at him, then shook her head once. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. And then?”

“And then I heard a scream. After that, silence.”

Nat sighed. “Becca . . . I have to tell you something. The man who lives here—”

“Yes?”

“He’s dead.”

“Good,” she said, breathing out in a rush.

“Becca,” he said, grimacing. “The man who lives here was your father. He hanged himself.”

She glared at him, and a vein pulsed in her throat. Her lips slowly lost their blood. She was refusing even to say the words again.
He was not my father.

“So why do you keep saying he was a stranger to you?”

Her mouth opened, and she gave him a wounded look that turned to disbelief. “What, you think I’m crazy? Do you think I don’t dream of my father coming and taking me away from here? Don’t you think I’d recognize my
own father
if I saw him? I would jump into his arms and never let him leave me again. But he deserted me . . . and he left me here to be murdered.”

Nat stood up and walked to the window, feeling his craft escape him. She wasn’t responding in a normative way—even for a psychiatric patient.

“Becca, growing up . . . did the man who lived here . . . did he ever touch you?”