The Seven Whistlers (12 page)

“Are you folks all right?” she asked.

The woman glanced over at her. When she saw Arlene’s honest
curiosity and concern, she let out a shuddering breath and nodded.

“I think so, thank God. We were out in the woods, near that
famous inn, the Five Oaks or something.” Her eyes were wide as she spoke, and a
bit wild. The memory of her fear was fresh. “These animals came after us. We
could’ve been killed!”

Arlene’s throat went dry.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, heart heavy with dread. “Have you
called the police?”

The husband looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t as serious as all
that. My wife thought she saw something in the woods over by the stables.”

The woman glared at him.

“It wasn’t
serious
, Jimmy? You saw the horses! They
were going berserk in their stalls!”

The toddler sensed her mother’s mood and began to cry. The
woman leaned forward, and tenderly shushed her.

“Big horse dogs . . .” the little boy whispered to himself.

Arlene looked at him. “What did you say, little one?”

The little boy shook his head, his mouth firmly shut.

“He said they were horse dogs,” the mother said. “And I’m
not sure he’s wrong. They were absolutely huge. Five of them. Waiting to attack
us as we were going across the parking lot from the stables.”

“Kelly,” the husband said. “Please . . .”

But Arlene had stopped listening.

Five already. Five of seven. Rose was right, lord help
us.

Arlene had to find Rose, and tell her what she knew, before
it was too late.

Autumn leaves skittered across the parking lot of the Norton
Funeral Home as Rose walked toward the front steps. She wished the breeze would
carry her away as well. A group of people stood at the base of the brick and
granite steps, a social circle of necessity, brought together by cigarettes. Steve
LeBeau, who’d once worked for her grandfather, stood with Sally Logan, who’d
grown up in the house next door. Twenty years younger, Sally wouldn’t have
given a disheveled old man like LeBeau a second glance, never mind spoken to
him, if they weren’t both shivering out in the cold for the sake of a nicotine
fix.

Rose nodded politely when they greeted her, a fragile smile
plastered to her face. Between the cold wind and her grief, her expression felt
as though it had been cast from ceramic. Other smokers lingered outside the
door and as they offered her their condolences she muttered replies and
returned reassuring grasps on autopilot.

Once she entered the funeral home, the smell of the place
assailed her, dozens of floral arrangements competing with the scent of baby-powdered
death. A sea of faces surrounded her, many familiar, but others not. Friends of
her parents, neighbors and co-workers, the elderly folks who had been playing
cards and trading dinner parties and gossip with her grandparents for decades,
and now patiently awaited the night when the flowers would be for them, when
the little plastic letters on the sign outside the door would spell out their
names.

Her gaze searched the corridor for her grandmother, Isobel. Mike
Richards stopped her and gave her a quick, understanding embrace. He kissed the
top of her head. Rose managed to smile up at him and she reached up to gently
touch his face, but she could not hear a word he said. She felt sure she must
have thanked him before she wandered away, but if not, she’d apologize another
day. If there was another day.

The clock read twenty after seven. The wake would last until
nine p.m. Jenny had promised to sneak off from the Inn once the dinner crowd
had started to thin, but Rose would be gone from here by then.

On the right, the arched entrance to the viewing room
beckoned. The floral aroma emanated even more strongly from within, along with
the low chatter of mourners trading stories about the late, lamented Walter
Hartung, her grandfather. They’d savor the good memories he had given them,
grieve for his loss, and then move on, hoping it would be a while before they
had to come back to this place.

The heat ticked from the radiator in the corner of the
viewing room. Rose nodded and muttered to dozens of people, knowing they would
forgive her remoteness and chalk it up to grief. She found she did not care. She
eased around clusters of people and then between two distant cousins who tried
to engage her in conversation. Rose barely looked at them.

For the first time since entering the room, she had an
unobstructed view of the casket. The figure laying there on cream-colored silk
didn’t look a thing like her grandfather. No way could that be Walt Hartung. Sure,
he had the same slightly hooked nose and the same thinning hair. The facial
structure was right and the peaceful expression on his face must have been
meant to comfort those he’d left behind. But the husk that lay there in the
casket looked more like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s than a man.

Of course it’s not him,
she thought.
Grandad’s
gone.

And just as quickly, she realized she was glad that she
would never have another chance to speak with him. If death hadn’t already
claimed him, she’d have asked him about his journal, about what happened to
Davey Chapman, and Rose knew that whether he had lied to her or told the truth,
she would have hated him for it.

Now, all she could do was mourn, both because she had lost
him, and because he had never been the man she’d imagined him to be.

Isobel stood beside the casket, greeting those who had come
to pay their respects with a tight smile or a sad nod, accepting their
attentions and affections as her due. The stalwart widow. Rose hated to be so
cold, but she could not escape the thought that the role fit her grandmother well.

The old woman glanced over and saw her, and for a moment the
two of them only stared at one another. Then Isobel beckoned her, an unspoken
admonition on her face, silently chiding Rose for her tardiness. Her parents’
plane would be landing later tonight, so that they would be there for the
funeral in the morning, but Rose ought to have been there on time to stand
beside her and receive their guests.

All this passed between them in an instant.

Rose strode toward her. Someone spoke to her, put a hand on her
arm, but she shook it off. Her grandmother gracefully accepted a kiss on the
cheek from a woman far older and more withered than Isobel herself would ever
be. A middle-aged couple — friends of her parents from down in
Brattleboro — were next in line. Rose stepped between them and her
grandmother, giving them her back without apology. Her grandmother’s eyes lit
up with anger at this affront and her glare demanded an explanation.

“There are five, now,” Rose said, her voice low, but firm. Anger
and fear had conspired to give her strength.

Her grandmother pursed her lips in typical disapproval. “What
are you talking about, dear? You ought to have been here an hour ago.”

Rose reached out and grasped her hand. The old woman’s skin
was thin and dry as parchment. Her grandmother flinched at this breach of
protocol and fury flickered in her eyes. She did not like to be handled.

“I said there are five of them, now, Grandmother. Five of
the Whistlers, here in Kingsbury.”

Arlene Murphy had called Rose that afternoon with the news. It
had not been welcome. All along, Rose had thought that she would feel better if
only she had someone to confide in, someone who believed her, someone who would
tell her she wasn’t being crazy. That it was all true. She’d been wrong about that.
Having her worst fears confirmed didn’t make her feel at all better. It made
her feel sick.

“You’re babbling, Rose,” Isobel said.

But Rose saw the fear in her grandmother’s eyes and felt the
way her fingers flinched at the news. The woman had always been pale, but one
thing she had never done was let her granddaughter stare her down.

When Isobel looked away, though it was only for a moment,
Rose knew that there could be no mistake, and no more doubt. Not only was it
all true, but her grandmother had known what could happen. Somehow, Walt and
Isobel Hartung had come upon the legend of the Seven Whistlers and had learned
that it was all too real. There would be a story there, Rose knew. Perhaps they
had seen one of the Whistlers before, seen someone else pay the price for their
cowardice and sin. But Rose found that she didn’t care about the how, or the
why. In the scheme of things, it was enough to know that it must have happened,
and that something, now, had to be done.

Rose stepped in close to her, ignoring the whispers around
her.

“I found his journal,” she said, her voice low. “I know.”

Her grandmother lifted her eyes and there was ice there. “What
do you think you know?”

Anguish swept through Rose. She forced back the tears that
threatened to spill down her face, but when she spoke, her voice quavered.

“I know what happened to Davey Chapman,” she whispered. Her
grandmother flinched at the utterance of that name. “I know you were supposed
to be his girlfriend, but you married Granddad instead. Maybe you didn’t know
when you married him that he’d let Davey die in his place, but at some point,
you found out.”

“Lies,” her grandmother hissed.

Like a cornered animal, she gazed around at the mourners who
were close enough to have heard at least some of what had been said. Then she
turned away, as though she could simply pretend that Rose wasn’t there.

“They keep coming, and that means they haven’t gotten what
they’re searching for,” Rose whispered. She held her grandmother’s wrist, now,
holding the woman close to her, not letting her step away. Isobel would not
look at her, but Rose didn’t care.

She gnawed her lower lip and squeezed the old woman’s wrist.
“You’re hiding it, Grandmother. You’re hiding
him
. That’s the only way I
can figure it. Who else would try to keep them from claiming his . . . his
soul?”

Rose rasped this last word, and now she could not have
spoken above that tiny whisper if she’d wanted to. All her grief and
disillusionment crashed over her and she felt her legs weaken. Even after what
he’d done, those many years ago, if there had been a way to save her Granddad
somehow, she’d have done it. No matter what. She loved him enough, even now, to
give herself in his place, if they would have taken her. But the Whistlers
hadn’t come for Rose. They’d come for Walt Hartung. And if they didn’t get him
. . .

“If they don’t get what they came for,” Rose said, steadying
her voice, releasing her grip on the bitter, pinched old woman’s wrist, “all of
the ugly stuff that’s been happening in town is going to continue. It’s going
to get worse. People are going to die. And the hounds will keep coming. There
are five here already. Two more, and then it’s over for everyone.

“Even after what he did,” she went on, staring at Isobel, “I
can’t believe he’s the kind of man who’d let the rest of us die for it.”

Her grandmother glared at her. A rare tear sparkled upon her
powdered cheek. She stepped over to the open casket and lowered herself
gingerly to the kneeler, to say a prayer over her dead husband’s remains. The
visitors had cleared away, at last sensitive enough to let the grieving wife
and granddaughter of the dead man sort out their troubles alone. They had the
front of the room to themselves.

“Is that really the man he was?” Rose asked, almost afraid
of the answer.

Isobel turned, hatred etched upon her face. “Go, damn you! Get
out!”

Rose hesitated, but only for a second. “Fine. I’ll figure it
out myself. I’m not going to let this happen.”

She turned on her heel and fled the funeral home, people
clearing a path for her, gaping in astonishment. Some well-intentioned woman
reached out to her and Rose nearly crumbled at that offer of tenderness. Instead,
she shook her head and forged on.

When she banged the front door open, the smokers jumped. One
of them swore and dropped his lit cigarette. Rose ignored them, and headed for
her car, keys out and jangling in her hand.

As she opened the door, someone gripped her arm. She twisted
out of the grasp and spun around, furious, only to find herself face to face
with Mike Richards.

“Rose,” he said, searching her eyes, “didn’t you hear me
calling after you?”

She hadn’t.

“Mike, I can’t . . . I’ve gotta go.”

His took her hand, firm and gentle all at once, gazing
intensely at her, eyes full of purpose.

“What is it, Rose? What’s wrong?”

For a moment she almost pushed him away. But those eyes
trapped her.

“You’d never believe me.”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, nodding. “Yeah, I would, Rose. I’m
not some bystander, here. I know you. I’ll believe you.”

She remembered the way he’d talked about the hounds the
night before, and how spooked he’d been by his encounter with them on the night
he’d sliced his finger on the table saw in his workshop.
Maybe you will,
she thought.
Maybe you will.

“Look, we’re friends, right?” Mike said. “Whatever it is,
let me help.”

Rose glanced back at the funeral home and flinched in
surprise as she saw her grandmother standing on the stairs amongst the smokers.
Isobel had followed her out. The old woman stared at her and Mike with narrowed
eyes, full of suspicion.

“Get in the car,” Rose said.

Mike blinked. “Okay. Where are we going?”

“Just get in. I’ll explain on the way.”

As she started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot,
Rose glanced in the rearview mirror. Several people had followed her
grandmother out and were trying to talk to her, but Isobel only waved them back
as she walked toward her car, probably telling them she’d return in a moment,
thanking them for her concern.

But she wouldn’t be back.