Bloodstone (27 page)

His mind began to gibber at him again. The ache of his guilt was almost too much to bear. He broke down and sobbed, pulling at his hair again. He would pray, yes, that was what he would do. Pray for God to bring her back to him.

The rain began to fall harder, drumming on the roof. Lightning crashed, thunder rolled through the heavens. In the black and white flashes of the silent jail, he thought he saw a shadow moving across the far wall. Was that the soft tread of bare feet on the tiled floor?

Pat stared at his hands again. Blood under his nails. He would not look up, did not dare. Was he afraid that she would not come, or afraid she would?

The soft, lurching steps ceased abruptly. There was a faint, rotten smell on the air, drifting through the cramped cell to caress his face with ice-cold, filthy hands. He stared at the blood caking his fingers, clenching them, unclenching. He felt the hair on his scalp begin to rise.

Oh, my love, my darling. Have you come? Have you really
come back for me?

He looked up. Someone was standing just outside the cell door, motionless. It was too dark to see clearly, but his eyes followed the slope of shoulder, the gentle curve of hips, the meat of the calf. A woman, surely.

He rose from the bed, whispered her name.

The figure did not move. He blinked, no longer sure whether he was seeing a person standing there, or a shadow. Less than ten feet separated them, but the darkness was thick now, no moonlight through the windows, and the storm rocking the ground outside did not cooperate with a bolt of lightning. He took a single step forward, and then was overcome with sudden doubt; this could not be. He had watched her die. She could not be alive for him, or anyone else. Things had long since passed the point of no return.

And if that was so, then who had come back to claim him?

He blinked again and rubbed a hand across his eyes, but the figure did not disappear as he thought it would. Something was dripping softly and steadily onto the floor. He took a half-step in retreat, felt the iron side of the bunk against the back of his legs, and finally lightning came jagged across the angry sky, shedding light through the window and across the small cell. For a moment he was able to see everything. He bit back a scream.

Julie Friedman stood there in the hallway of the jail. In the flesh. Only a glimpse, but her image was burned into his
mind forever; he felt himself frantically scrambling to re-sculpt her in his head, plumping those sunken cheeks, scrubbing the mossy growth from her white skin, restoring color to her gray, lifeless lips.
Yes, yes
. His wife, whole and new, offering him a loving smile. She had forgiven him.

For a moment he had it in his slippery grasp, and then the image dissolved back into the nightmare of his dead wife as the lightning flashed again. Thunder shook the jail to its foundation.

She was dressed in her favorite sundress, the one they had buried her in yesterday afternoon. The dress had ripped down the front, exposing the bloody hole in her chest where the shotgun had done its work. Her breasts were two raw and mangled humps of meat, the skin around them burned black by the heat of the blast. Her hair was plastered to her skull, water running off it onto the floor in muddy streams; she had mud on her face, on her hands and bare feet. Her fingers were white nubs of bone, the nails torn off, flesh rubbed raw where she had clawed at the wood coffin.

The lightning faded and there was blessed darkness again. She raised her arms to him through the bars. A soft, guttural sound escaped her lips that sounded like “come.” Something slid wetly down her ruined front, and landed on the floor with a soft plop.

Pat Friedman opened his mouth to scream. All at once something snapped as the connections broke. The lights went out inside his head as if he had blown a mental fuse. It was no longer difficult to re-sculpt his image of her; but not entirely satisfied, he went further. There were no bars separating them, no jail cell, no storm. His wife was whole and alive again. He was floating somewhere in the middle of a warm, soft cloud, nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. After all, she loved him, didn’t she? Everyone had their little arguments, but things always worked out in the end.

Abandon ship. All hands on deck
. He smiled vacantly, dreamily, nodding to himself, but as he went to meet her
embrace, he was irritated to find that something had made him pause. One last sliver of doubt; somebody trying to flick the breakers back on up there, which was not a good idea, no sir…

He cocked his head. “It won’t hurt?” he whispered. His throat felt raw.

She did not answer him. Of course she wouldn’t; he did not deserve an answer. He had been a bad boy, but she was willing to forgive him everything. He could see it in her loving gaze. That was all that was important.

He smiled. She held out her arms again on the other side of the door, and he stepped into them, wrapping his hands around her slimy waist, closing his eyes, kissing her cold, slippery lips through the bars.
My love
.

He let her take him down into that blessed darkness.

They found the stone rolled away from the tomb. Then they went in and did not find the body…as they were afraid and bowed
their
faces to the earth, they said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

—
Luke 24:2–5

From the diary entry of Mr. Frederick Thomas (undated):

During the early morning hours the storm began to ease somewhat, and Angel slept more peacefully, her horribly vivid dreams fading into the blurred edges of her subconscious. When she awoke her nausea had eased, and she began to wonder how much of it had been the pregnancy, and how much could be attributable to the town itself infecting her with its sickness like a person passing along a communicable disease. Perhaps it was her newfound sensitivities, but she felt the sickness in the air today, so thick she could smell it, a subtle yet rancid odor, like curdling milk or something similar.

Her thoughts turned back to Billy, and she realized that they had never really left him all through that long night. His rejection of her the day before had not weakened her resolve to have this child she carried in her womb, or to break through the barrier he had erected; on the contrary, she was more determined now than ever to discover his secret, and what it meant. That glimpse she had received when she thrust herself inside his mind, the pain he was struggling to contain, made her love him all the more. He was a mystery; the more of him she thought she understood, the more there was to know.

As she lay in bed and listened to the wind and rain that
was still falling steadily outside her window, she had an idea. It was so simple she wondered how she hadn’t thought of it before. She would go talk to Annie. Annie would help her. Annie would know what to do about Billy.

She dressed hurriedly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and then she went downstairs to look for a phone book. The lobby was empty, as were the gift shop and dining room, which was not really surprising. But there was something odd about that emptiness. The smell was stronger down here. Some food had gone bad, probably in the kitchen.
The cook left the milk out, she thought, or maybe he
forgot some hamburger on the sideboard
…

She felt herself being drawn to the big dining room windows as the entire inn rocked from a sudden gust of wind. She crossed the floor between tables set for dinner, deep red tablecloths, white folded napkins, candles in glass bowls. Beneath the tables the dark, wine-colored rug showed the fresh, clean lines of yesterday’s vacuuming. The room seemed twice as large with nobody in it, and she suddenly felt very lonely.

When she got to the window she paused, then put her hands on the rain-streaked glass. The lake was swollen to nearly twice its normal size. Water had climbed the banks of grass, submerging the spot where she and Billy had sat and talked that first day; the old mill wheel was leaning and on the verge of being pulled in, and if that happened it would surely go over the dam and smash on the rocks below.

The dam itself looked pitifully small to be holding back such a large body of water. She could hear the river rumbling, the vibration coming up through her feet. It rushed over the little spillway, crashing onto rock and muddy earth, sweeping under the bridge (the water was almost touching the lowest beams, she noticed), and disappearing beyond her sight. The currents in the water were hypnotic; along the banks of the swollen pond, they seemed to flow back upon themselves, moving upstream, before swirling and mingling
again in hundreds of little whirlpools. A branch as thick as her thigh floated by, turned lazily in the currents, and snagged itself on the bank.

Finally she pulled herself away with an almost physical wrench. She moved back through the empty dining room, went beyond it, and found a telephone book under the reception desk. The chair was empty, and nothing about it suggested that anyone had been there since late the night before. No half-f cups of coffee, no opened newspaper.
Someone
should be here by now
…

She looked up the number for the historical society, dialed, and listened to the phone ringing distantly in her ear, once, twice, three times, four. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Past nine-thirty. Sue Hall should be up and open for business. Maybe the historical society had closed down for the festival.

So they had gone out. But something nagged at her. This was not the day to be out running around; obviously, all the planned events on the square would have to be canceled. The rain showed no signs of letting up.

She stood behind the big wood desk and stared at the entrance to the gift shop, and beyond that, the door to outside. Something was not right. She could not put her finger on it, but that feeling of expectancy was growing. She felt as if the very walls had eyes. They were all watching her, peering out from the shadows. She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out slowly between clenched teeth. Around her, the stillness seemed to buzz with an underlying tension. She felt as if she were the only person left alive in the entire world. Stepping out from behind the desk, she fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for the car keys. She didn’t want to stay in this empty tomb of a place more than a second longer.

The gift shop was dark, and she paused at the door before going through. No sound or movement came from within. The racks of clothes and shelves of odds and ends were
staying put. Feeling a little silly, she took a deep breath and hurried past them, keeping her eyes straight ahead, and when she reached the front door she ducked her head and kept on going, out into the storm.

The wind caught her immediately, and for a moment she thought she might actually leave the ground; her oversized sweater billowed out like a parachute and she fell forward and almost stumbled over the curb. The rain lashed at her tender skin. The storm had gotten worse, and now it seemed to be howling in frustration, perhaps over its failure to pick her up and send her tumbling like a leaf across the asphalt.

Inside the car, she wiped her hand through her wet hair and dried her face with a sleeve, shivering. Her clothes had soaked through to the skin almost instantly. Rain drummed on the metal roof, sounding like a thousand little hammers. Gusts of wind rocked the car on its springs, whistled through tiny cracks, wrenched at the doors. She put the key in the ignition, turned it, pumped the gas. Nothing happened.
Oh, shit
. She slammed her palms against the wheel, pumped the gas again, and turned the key once more. A dry, empty click met her efforts. Then she looked down and saw the gear lever had been left in drive. She shifted to park and this time the engine ground and caught.

The rain came so hard and fast now the wipers were all but useless. Water pounded off the pavement in front of her car, ran down the asphalt in rivers. She passed the high school parking lot, which looked strangely empty, and Pritchard’s garage, which looked closed. A minute later she pulled into the circular driveway of the historical society and parked up close to the steps. The wooden sign on the front lawn was swinging crazily back and forth on its short chain, every few moments bashing itself against one of the support posts with a dull thudding sound.

She peered at the house through the passenger side window. It was dark, but the sign on the door said open, and so
she readied herself for the dash through the rain and stepped quickly from the car.

Silence met her inside, as the wind slammed the door shut at her back. There was a light on in the kitchen to her right; but the hallway was dark, and there was no light coming from the room at the end where she had used the microfilm machine the week before.

That smell again. Something rotten. Maybe the sewers were backed up? The wind shook the panes of glass in the two narrow windows that flanked the door, battered itself against the roof. Again, she had the feeling that something was not quite right here. Too quiet, for one…

“Ms. Hall? Annie?” Her voice intruded on the silence, tried to force it back unsuccessfully. In the kitchen the refrigerator kicked on, causing her to jump slightly.

Relax, you silly bitch. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.
They’re just downstairs, or maybe out back at the swap shop,
getting things under cover and fastened down for the storm
.

She stepped forward, feeling that familiar nervous itch at the back of her neck and uncomfortable prickling under her arms. She moved quietly across the hall rug and paused at the archway to the kitchen. It was empty, but the smell was even stronger in here.

Little town like this wouldn’t have a sewer system, most
likely. At least if it did, this house wouldn’t be on it
.

That was probably true. So what was that smell?

She found herself staring down at the linoleum floor. A line of muddy footprints led from the edge of the hall carpet, through the kitchen, and disappeared through a door in the back. Somebody had come through here not long ago, and hadn’t bothered to wipe off on the welcome mat.

But these aren’t ordinary footprints, are they, sweetheart?
This particular person wasn’t wearing shoes. Which
means they were walking around out there in the freezing
cold, in the middle of the storm, in bare feet. Now, who
would do a crazy thing like that?

She knew where that smell was coming from. She knew who had walked through this brightly lit kitchen.

Reverend Hall had come home.

That’s crazy. He’s dead and buried
.

But she knew. Her dreams rushed back into her mind, the dreams she had almost managed to wipe from her consciousness over the past few days; her brother’s bloated, purple face. Annie’s warning about the dead.

One of them has found a way to return to this world, a
window. You must find it and shut it, or the dead will rise
again
.

Here were the answers that had been there all along, waiting to be seen, or, more likely, hidden purposefully from her until just this moment; and they pushed at her, wanting to be understood, refusing to be ignored. Her lust for heroin fading so easily, for one. Did she really believe that was all her doing, that simply by letting go of the past she could loosen the physical hold the drug had on her?

Are you blind, woman? What makes you think that you
have been drawn here by something good? Who said that it
wasn’t all part of the plan for you to be standing here this
very moment?

Oh God, the smell. There was a dead man in this house. She stepped back from the kitchen (so very normal and plain-looking in the bright lights,
so sane
) until she felt her shoulder blades touch the wall. The refrigerator kicked off, and now there was nothing but the howling of the storm outside. She stood frozen, the fear alive in her, confused and struggling to come up with an answer to silence the doubts that had suddenly gained such a strong voice. Then she had it.

Annie did. Annie said my future wasn’t yet written
.

Annie. The thought of the old woman gave her fresh confidence. She glanced back down the gloomy hall, but the door to the basement room was closed. Taking a deep breath, she began to edge very slowly toward it, keeping her back to the wall, her eyes watching for any movement.

A dead man in this house
.

Horrible images sprang unbidden into her head; imagining what he would look like after a week in the ground, the parasites already at work on him in the coffin, flesh beginning to puff, run, and dissolve. She reached the records room. Risking a quick glance inside, she saw the vague bulk of the microfilm machine and the long glass display case against the wall. The room appeared to be empty. She passed by quickly, and felt the comforting press of the wall again at her back. Then she was facing the closed basement door. She reached across, turned the handle and pulled it open.

The faint, flickering glow of candlelight filtered up from below.

She leaned over the top step and whispered Annie’s name. A faint breath of air touched her face, cold and moist and full of the mossy smells she remembered. There was no answering voice, but the stink of decay was not as strong down here, and that decided her. She started down, gripping onto the rail, remembering the last time she had been here, holding tight to the memory. The old woman with the bright, knowing eyes, her hair like a halo of white around her wrinkled face.
Annie, please. Help me
.

She reached the bottom. The basement room was lit by a single candle, placed in the center of the desk at the far end. A sensation of movement made her glance to the left, and now she could see things wriggling in the milky yellow jars on the shelves, suspended in the cloudy fluid like amniotic sacs. She had time to wonder what they might be, and then her gaze fell upon the bed against the wall.

Annie lay on her back, silent and still. Something was wrong with her, with the way she lay with her hair covering her face. Angel hurried forward, and then stopped, her hand creeping to her mouth. The old woman’s head had been turned completely around. “Oh, Annie,” she whispered hoarsely. She touched the old woman’s arm; the skin was still warm under her fingers.

The last of her confidence dissolved, leaving her weak and shaking with fear. The candle flickered, and for a single, horrible moment she thought it would go out and leave her in darkness. It did not, but she felt as if she were being watched, the sensation so strong it started the itch in her scalp again. The smell returned, stronger than before, and she whirled in all directions, fighting panic. Shadows, rippling against the walls, but nothing solid, no lurking, nightmare figure from the grave waiting to lunge at her. She wished for a weapon, anything heavy to hold in her hand. But there were only books and those jars—

There is no one else in this room, damn it!

But there was. The air had changed; the temperature had plummeted. She could feel eyes on her. She looked up into the darkness.

A man was hovering flat against the ceiling over her head. A grin played about the corners of his ravaged mouth.

A small, helpless noise escaped her lips. The candle suddenly flared, illuminating him clearly. His grin widened, his features bubbling, running into themselves, a hundred faces moving behind whatever was left of Jeboriah Taylor.