Bag of Bones 33 страница

They shattered against the far wall with a brittle xylophone sound. None of them struck me; it was as if an unseen hand guided them away. Then Jo’s rolltop desk rose into the air. It must have weighed at least four hundred pounds with its drawers loaded as they were, but it floated like a feather, nodding first one way and then dipping the other in the opposing currents of air. Jo screamed again, this time in anger rather than pain, and I staggered backward against the closed door with a feeling that I had been scooped hollow. Sara wasn’t the only one who could steal the energy of the living, it appeared. White semeny stuff ectoplasm, I guess—spilled from the desk’s pigeonholes in a dozen little streams, and the desk suddenly launched itself across the room. It flew almost too fast to follow with the eye. Anyone standing in front of it would have been smashed flat There was a head-splitting shriek of protest and agony—Sara this time, I knew it was—and then the desk struck the wall, breaking through it and letting in the rain and the wind. The rolltop snapped loose of its slot and hung like a jointed tongue. All the drawers shot out. Spools of thread, skeins of yarn, little flora/fauna identification books and woods guides, thimbles, notebooks, knitting needles, dried-up Magic Markers—Jo’s early remains, Ki might have called them. They flew everywhere like bones and bits of hair cruelly scattered from a disinterred coffin. “Stop it, ” I croaked. “Stop it, both of you. That’s enough. ” But there was no need to tell them. Except for the furious beat of the storm, I was alone in the ruins of my wife’s studio. The battle was over. At least for the time being.

I knelt and doubled up the green rag rug, carefully folding into it as much of the shattered glass from the light as I could. Beneath it was a trapdoor giving on a triangular storage area created by the slope of the land as it dropped toward the lake. The ridge I’d felt was one of the trap’s hinges. I had known about this area and had meant to check it for the owls. Then things began to happen and I’d forgotten. There was a recessed ring in the trapdoor. I grabbed it, ready for more resistance, but it swung up easily. The smell that wafted up froze me in my tracks.

Not damp decay, at least not at first, but Red—Jo’s favorite perfume.

It hung around me for a moment and then it was gone. What replaced it was the smell of rain, roots, and wet earth. Not pleasant, but I had smelled far worse down by the lake near that damned birch tree. I shone my light down three steep steps. I could see a squat shape that turned out to be an old toilet—I could vaguely remember Bill and Kenny Auster putting it under here back in 1990 or ’91. There were steel boxes—filing cabinet drawers, actually—wrapped in plastic and stacked up on pallets. Old records and papers. An eight-track tape player wrapped in a plastic bag. An old VCR next to it, in another one. And over in the corner-I sat down, hung my legs over, and felt something touch the ankle I had turned in the lake. I shone my light between my knees and for one moment saw a young black kid. Not the one drowned in the lake, though—this one was older and quite a lot bigger. Twelve, maybe fourteen. The drowned boy had been no more than eight. This one bared his teeth at me and hissed like a cat. There were no pupils in his eyes; like those of the boy in the lake, his eyes were entirely white, like the eyes of a statue. And he was shaking his head. Don’t come down here, white man. Let the dead rest in peace. “But you’re not at peace, ” I said, and shone the light full on him. I had a momentary glimpse of a truly hideous thing. I could see through him, but I could also see into him: the rotting remains of his tongue in his mouth, his eyes in their sockets, his brain simmering like a spoiled egg in its case of skull.

Then he was gone, and there was nothing but one of those swirling dust-helixes. I went down, holding the lantern raised. Below it, nests of shadows rocked and seemed to reach upward.

The storage area (it was really no more than a glorified crawlspace) had been floored with wooden pallets, just to keep stuff off the ground. Now water ran beneath these in a steady river, and enough of the earth had eroded to make even crawling unsteady work. The smell of perfume was entirely gone. What had replaced it was a nasty riverbottom smell and—unlikely given the conditions, I know, but it was there—the faint, sullen smell of ash and fire. I saw what I’d come for almost at once.

Jo’s mail-order owls, the ones she had taken delivery of herself in November of 1993, were in the northeast corner, where there were only about two feet between the sloped pallet flooring and the underside of the studio. Gorry, baa they looked real, Bill had said, and Gorry if he wasn’t right: in the bright glow of the lantern they looked like birds first swaddled, then suffocated in clear plastic. Their eyes were bright wedding rings circling wide black pupils. Their plastic feathers were painted the dark green of pine nee-dies, their bellies a shade of dirty orange-white. I crawled toward them over the squelching, shifting pallets, the glow of the lantern bobbing back and forth between them, trying not to wonder if that boy was behind me, creeping in pursuit. When I got to the owls, I raised my head without thinking and thudded it against the insulation which ran beneath the studio floor. Thump once r yes, twice r no, asshole, I thought.

I hooked my fingers into the plastic which wrapped the owls and pulled them toward me. I wanted to be out of here. The sensation of water running just beneath me was strange and unpleasant. So was the smell of fire, which seemed stronger now in spite of the damp. Suppose the studio was burning? Suppose Sara had somehow set it alight? I’d roast down here even while the storm’s muddy runoff was soaking my legs and belly.

One of the owls stood on a plastic base, I saw—the better to set him on your deck or stoop to scare the crows, my dear—but the base the other should have been attached to was missing. I backed toward the trapdoor, holding the lantern in one hand and dragging the plastic sack of owls in the other, wincing each time thunder cannonaded over my head. I’d only gotten a little way when the damp tape holding the plastic gave way. The owl missing its base tilted slowly toward me, its black-gold eyes staring raptly into my own.

A swirl of air. A faint, comforting whiff of Red perfume. I pulled the owl out by the hornlike tufts growing from its forehead and turned it upside down. Where it had once been attached to its plastic base there were now only two pegs with a hollow space between them. Inside the hole was a small tin box that I recognized even before I reached into the owl’s belly and chivvied it out. I shone the lantern on its front, knowing what I’d see: JO’s NOTIONS, written in old-fashioned gilt script. She had found the box in an antiques barn somewhere.

I looked at it, my heart beating hard. Thunder boomed overhead. The trapdoor stood open, but I had forgotten about going up. I had forgotten about everything but the tin box I held in my hand, a box roughly the size of a cigar box but not quite as deep. I spread my hand over the cover and pulled it off.

There was a strew of folded papers lying on top of a pair of steno books, the wirebound ones I keep around for notes and character lists.

These had been rubber-banded together. On top of everything else was a shiny black square. Until I picked it up and held it close to the side of the lantern, I didn’t realize it was a photo negative.

Ghostly, reversed and faintly orange, I saw Jo in her gray two-piece bathing suit. She was standing on the swimming float with her hands behind her head.

“Jo, ” I said, and then couldn’t say anything else. My throat had closed up with tears. I held the negative for a moment, not wanting to lose contact with it, then put it back in the box with the papers and steno books. This stuff was why she had come to Sara in July of 1994; to gather it up and hide it as well as she could. She had taken the owls off the deck (Frank had heard the door out there bang) and had carried them out here. I could almost see her prying the base off one owl and stuffing the tin box up its plastic wazoo, wrapping both of them in plastic, then dragging them down here, all while her brother sat smoking Marlboros and feeling the vibrations. The bad vibrations. I doubted if I would ever know all the reasons why she’d done it, or what her frame of mind had been. . . but she had almost certainly believed I’d find my own way down here eventually. Why else had she left the negative?

The loose papers were mostly photocopied press clippings from the Castle Rock Call and from the ekly News, the paper which had apparently preceded the Call. The dates were marked on each in my wife’s neat, firm hand. The oldest clipping was from 1865, and was headed ANOTHER HOME SAFE. The returnee was one Jared Devore, age thirty-two. Suddenly I understood one of the things that had puzzled me: the generations which didn’t seem to match up. A Sara Tidwell song came to mind as I crouched there on the pallets with my lantern shining down on that old-timey type. It was the ditty that went The oldjlks do it and the youngjlks, too / And the oldjlks show the youngjlksjust what to do. . .

By the time Sara and the Red-Tops showed up in Castle County and settled on what became known as Tidwell’s Meadow, Jared Devore would have been sixty-seven or -eight. Old but still hale. A veteran of the Civil War.

The sort of older man younger men might look up to. And Sara’s song was right—the old folks show the young folks just what to do.

What exactly had they done?

The clippings about Sara and the Red-Tops didn’t tell. I only skimmed them, anyway, but the overall tone shook me, just the same. I’d describe it as unfailing genial contempt. The Red-Tops were “our Southern blackbirds” and “our rhythmic darkies. ” They were “full of dusky good-nature. ” Sara herself was “a marvelous figure of a Negro woman with broad nose, full lips, and noble brow” who “fascinated men-folk and women-folk alike with her animal high spirits, flashing smile, and raucous laugh. ”

They were, God keep us and save us, reviews. Good ones, if you didn’t mind being called full of dusky good-nature.

I shuffled through them quickly, looking for anything about the circumstances under which “our Southern blackbirds” had left. I found nothing. What I found instead was a clipping from the Call marked July 19th (go down nineteen, I thought), 1933. The headline read WTERA GUIDE, CARETAKER, CANNOT SAVE DAUGHTER. According to the story, Fred Dean had been fighting the wildfires in the eastern part of the TR with two hundred other men when the wind had suddenly changed, menacing the north end of the lake, which had previously been considered safe. At that time a great many local people had kept fishing and hunting camps up there (this much I knew myself). The community had had a general store and an actual name, Halo Bay. Fred’s wife, Hilda, was there with the Dean twins, William and Carla, age three, while her husband was off eating smoke. A good many other wives and kids were in Halo Bay, as well.

The fires had come fast when the wind changed, the paper said’like marching explosions. ” They }jumped the only firebreak the men had left in that direction and headed for the far end of the lake. At Halo Bay there were no men to take charge, and apparently no women able or willing to do so. They panicked instead, racing to load their cars with children and camp possessions, clogging the one road out with their vehicles.

Eventually one of the old cars or trucks broke down and as the fires roared closer, running through woods that hadn’t seen rain since late April, the women who’d waited found their way out blocked.

The volunteer firefighters came to the rescue in time, but when Fred Dean got to his wife, one of a party of women trying to push a balky stalled Ford coupe out of the road, he made a terrible discovery. Billy lay on the floor in the back of the car, fast asleep, but Carla was missing. Hilda had gotten them both in, all right—they had been on the back seat, holding hands just as they always did. But at some point, after her brother had crawled onto the floor and dozed off and while Hilda was stuffing a few last items into the trunk, Carla must have remembered a toy or a doll and returned to the cottage to get it. While she was doing that, her mother had gotten into their old Desoto and driven away without rechecking the babies. Carla Dean was either still in the cottage at Halo Bay or making her way up the road on foot. Either way the fires would run her down.

The road was too narrow to get a vehicle turned around and too blocked to get one of those pointed in the right direction through the crush. So Fred Dean, hero that he was, set off on the run toward the smoke-blackened horizon, where bright ribbons of orange had already begun to shine through. The wind-driven fire had crowned and raced to meet him like a lover.

I knelt on the pallets, reading this by the glow of my lantern, and all at once the smell of fire and burning intensified. I coughed. . . and then the cough was choked off by the iron taste of water in my mouth and throat. Once again, this time kneeling in the storage area beneath my wife’s studio, I felt as if I were drowning. Once again I leaned forward and retched up nothing but a little spit.

I turned and saw the lake. The loons were screaming on its hazy surface, making their way toward me in a line, beating their wings against the water as they came. The blue of the sky had been blotted out. The air smelled of charcoal and gunpowder. Ash had begun to sift down from the sky. The eastern verge of Dark Score was in flames, and I could hear occasional muffled reports as hollow trees exploded. They sounded like depth charges.

I looked down, wanting to break free of this vision, knowing that in another moment or two it wouldn’t be anything so distant as a vision but as real as the trip Kyra and I had made to the Fryeburg Fair. Instead of a plastic owl with gold-ringed eyes, I was looking at a child with bright blue ones. She was sitting on a picnic table, holding out her chubby arms and crying. I saw her as clearly as I saw my own face in the mirror each morning when I shaved. I saw she was about Kyra’s age but much plumper, and her hair is black instead of blonde. Her hair is the shade her brother’s will remain until it finally begins to go gray in the impossibly distant summer of 1998, a year she will never see unless someone gets her out of this hell. She wears a white dress and red knee-stockings and she holds her arms out to me, calling Daddy, Daddy. I start toward her and then there is a blast of organized heat that tears me apart for a moment—I am the ghost here, I realize, and Fred Dean has just run right through me. Daddy, she cries, but to him, not me. Daddy!

and she hugs him, unmindful of the soot smearing her white silk dress and her chubby face as he kisses her and more soot begins to fall and the loons beat their way in toward shore, seeming to weep in shrill lamentation. Daddy the fire is coming! she cries as he scoops her into his arms. I know, be brave, he says. We’re gonna be all right, sugarplum, but you have to be brave. The fire isn’t just coming, ’ it has come. The entire east end of Halo Bay is inflames and now they’re moving this way, eating one by one the little cabins where the men like to lay up drunk in hunting season and ice-fishing season. Behind A1 Leroux’s, the washing Marguerite hung out that morning is in flames, pants and dresses and underwear burning on lines which are themselves strings of fire. Leaves and bark shower down, ’ a burning ember touches Carla’s neck and she shrieks with pain. Fred slaps it away as he carries her down the slope of land to the water. Don’t do it! I scream. I know all this is beyond my power to change, but I scream at him anyway, try to change it anyway. Fight it! For Christ’s sake, fight it! Daddy, who is that man?

Carla asks, and points at me as the green-shingled roof of the Dean place catches fire. Fred glances toward where she is pointing, and in his face I see a spasm of guilt. He knows what he’s doing, that’s the terrible thing—4way down deep he knows exactly what he is doing here at Halo Bay where The Street ends. He knows and he’s ajaid that someone will witness his work. But he sees nothing. Or does he? There is a momenta doubtful widening of the eyes as if he does spy something—a dancing helix of air, perhaps. Or does heidel me? Is that it? Does he jel a momentary cold draft in all this heat? One that jeh like protest ing hands, hands that would restrain if they only had substance? Then he looks away, ’ then he is wading into the water beside the Deans’ stub of a dock. Fred! I scream. For God’s sake, man, look at her! Do you think your wife put her in a white silk dress by accident? Is that anyone’s idea of a play-dress? Daddy, why are we going in the water? she asks. To get away from the fire, sugarplum. Daddy, I can’t swim! You won’t have to, he replies, and what a chill l ]gel at that/Because it’s no lie—she won’t have to swim, not now, not ever. And at least Fred’s way will be more merciful than Normal Auster’s when Normal’s turn comes—more merciful than the squalling handpump, the gallons of eezing water. Her white dress floats around her like a lily. Her red stockings shimmer m the water. She hugs his neck tightly and now they are among the fleeing loons, ’ the loons spank the water with their powerful wings, churning up curds of jam and staring at the man and the girl with their distraught red eyes. The air is heavy with smoke and the sky is gone. I stagger after them, wading—I can Jel the cold of the water, although I don’t splash and leave no wake. The eastern and northern edges of the lake are both on fire now there is a burning crescent around us as Fred Dean wades deeper with his daughter, carrying her as if to some baptismal rite. And still he tells himself he is trying to save her, only to save her, just as all her lij Hilda will tell herself that the child just wandered back to the cottage to look fir a toy, that she was not left behind on purpose, left in her white dress and red stockings to be JSUND by her father, who once did something unspeakable. This is the past, this is the Land of Ago, and here the sins of the fathers are visited on the children, even unto the seventh generation, which is not yet. He takes her deeper and she begins to scream. Her screams mingle with the screams of the loons until he stops the sound with a kiss upon her terrified mouth. “Love you, Daddy loves his sugarplum, ” he says, and then lowers her. It is to be a full-immersion baptism, then, except there is no shorebank choir singing “Shall V Gather at the River” and no one shouting Hallelujah! and he is not letting her come back up. She struggles furiously in the white bloom of her sacrificial dress, and after a moment he cannot bear to watch her, ’ he looks across the lake instead, to the west where the fire hasn’t yet touched (and never will), to the west where skies are still blue. Ash sifts around him like black rain and the tears b I UI-IEN IXLPQKA pour out of his eyes and as she struggles furiously beneath his hands, trying to free herself)qom his drowning grip, he tells himself It was an accident, just a terrible accident, I took her out in the lake because it was the only place I could take her, the only place left, and she panicked, she started to struggle, she was all wet and all slippery and I lost my good hold on her and then I lost any hold on her and then-I ]rget I’m a ghost. I scream “Kia/ Hold on, Ki! ” and dive. I reach her, I see her terrified face, her bulging blue eyes, her rosebud of a mouth which is trailing a silver line of bubbles toward the surface where Fred stands in water up to his neck, holding her down while he tells himself over and over that he was trying to save her, it was the only way, he was trying to save her, it was the only way. I reach for her, again and again I reach r her, my child, my daughter, my Kia (they are all Kia, the boys as well as the girls, all my daughter), and each time my arms go through her. Worse—oh, far worse—is that now she is reaching)$r me, her dappled arms floating out, begging Jr rescue. Her groping hands melt through mine. I cannot touch, because now I am the ghost. I am the ghost and as her struggles weaken I realize that I can’t I can’t oh I couldn’t breathe—I was drowning. I doubled over, opened my mouth, and this time a great spew of lake-water came out, soaking the plastic owl which lay on the pallet by my knees. I hugged the jo’s NOTIONS box to my chest, not wanting the contents to get wet, and the movement triggered another retch. This time cold water poured from my nose as well as my mouth. I dragged in a deep breath, then coughed it out. “This has got to end, ” I said, but of course this was the end, one way or the other.

Because Kyra was last. I climbed up the steps to the studio and sat on the littered floor to get my breath. Outside, the thunder boomed and the rain fell, but I thought the storm had passed its peak of fury. Or maybe I only hoped. I rested with my legs hanging down through the trapthere were no more ghosts here to touch my ankles, I don’t know how I knew that but I did-and stripped off the rubber bands holding the steno notebooks together. I opened the first one, paged through it, and saw it was almost filled with Jo’s handwriting and a number of folded typed sheets (Courier type, of course), single-spaced: the fruit of all those clandestine trips down to the TR during 1993 and 1994. Fragmentary notes, for the most part, and transcriptions of tapes which might still be down below me in the storage space somewhere. Tucked away with the VCR or the eight-track player, perhaps. But I didn’t need them. When the time came—if the time came—I was sure I’d find most of the story here. What had happened, who had done it, how it was covered up. Right now I didn’t care. Right now I only wanted to make sure that Kyra was safe and stayed safe. There was only one way to do that. Lye stille. I attempted to slip the rubber bands around the steno books again, and the one I hadn’t looked at slipped out of my wet hand and fell to the floor. A torn slip of green paper fell out. I picked it up and saw this:

For a moment I came out of that strange and heightened awareness I’d been living in; the world fell back into its accustomed dimensions. But the colors were all too strong, somehow, objects too emphatically present. I felt like a battlefield soldier suddenly illuminated by a ghastly white flare, one that shows everything. My father’s people had come from The Neck, I had been right about that much; my great-grandfather according to this was James Noonan, and he had never shit in the same pit as Jared Devore. Max Devore had either been lying when he said that to Mattie. . . or misinformed. . . or simply confused, the way folks often get confused when they reach their eighties. Even a fellow like Devore, who had stayed mostly sharp, wouldn’t have been exempt from the occasional nick in his edge. And he hadn’t been that far off at that. Because, according to this little scratch of a chart, my great-grandfather had had an older sister, Bridget. And Bridget had married—Benton Auster. My finger dropped down a line, to Harry Auster. Born of Benton and Bridget Noonan Auster in the year 1885. “Christ Jesus, ” I whispered. “Kenny Auster’s grandfather was my granduncle. And he was one of them. Whatever they did, Harry Auster was one of them. That’s the connection. ” I thought of Kyra with sudden sharp terror. She had been up at the house by herself for nearly an hour. How could I have been so stupid? Anyone could have come in while I was under the studio. Sara could have used anyone to-I realized that wasn’t true. The murderers and the child victims had all been linked by blood, and now that blood had thinned, that river had almost reached the sea. There was Bill Dean, but he was staying well away from Sara Laughs.

There was Kenny Auster, but Kenny had taken himself and his family off to Taxachusetts. And Ki’s closest blood relations—mother, father, grandfather—were all dead. Only I was left. Only I was blood. Only I could do it. Unless-I bolted back up to the house as fast as I could, slipping and sliding my way along the soaked path, desperate to make sure she was all right. I didn’t think Sara could hurt Kyra herself, no matter how much of that old-timer vibe she had to draw on. . . but what if I was wrong? What if I was wrong?

Ki lay fast asleep just as I had left her, on her side with the filthy little stuffed dog clutched under her jaw. It had put a smudge on her neck but I hadn’t the heart to take it away from her. Beyond her and to the left, through the open bathroom door, I could hear the steadyplink-plonk-plink of water falling from the faucet and into the tub. Cool air blew around me in a silky twist, caressing my cheeks, sending a not unpleasurable shiver up my back. In the living room Bunter’s bell gave a dim little shake. Water’s still warm, sugar, Sara whispered. Be her friend, be her daddy. Go on, now. Do what I want. Do what we both want. And I did want to, which had to be why Jo at first tried to keep me away from the TR and from Sara Laughs. Why she’d made a secret of her possible pregnancy, as well. It was as if I had discovered a vampire inside me, a creature with no interest in what it thought of as talk-show conscience and op-ed page morality. A part that wanted only to take Ki into the bathroom and dunk her into that tub of warm water and hold her under, watching the red-edged white ribbons shimmer the way Carla Dean’s white dress and red stockings had shimmered while the woods burned all around her and her father. A part of me would be more than glad to pay the last installment on that old bill. “Dear God, ” I muttered, and wiped my face with a shaking hand. “She knows so many tricks. And she’s so fucking strong. ” The bathroom door tried to swing shut against me before I could go through, but I pushed it open against hardly any resistance. The medicine-cabinet door banged back, and the glass shattered against the wall. The stuff inside flew out at me, but it wasn’t a very dangerous attack; this time most of the missiles consisted of toothpaste tubes, toothbrushes, plastic bottles, and a few old Vick’s inhalers. Faint, very faint, I could hear her shouting in frustration as I yanked the plug at the bottom of the tub and let the water start gurgling out. There had been enough drowning on the TR for one century, by God. And yet, for a moment I felt an incredibly strong urge to put the plug back in while the water was still deep enough to do the job. Instead I tore it off its chain and threw it down the hall. The medicine-cabinet door clapped shut again and the rest of the glass fell out. “How many have you had? ” I asked her. “How many besides Carla Dean and Kerry Auster and our Kia? Two? Three? Five? How many do you need before you can rest? ” All of them! the answer shot back. It wasn’t just Sara’s voice, either; it was my own, as well. She’d gotten into me, had snuck in by way of the basement like a burglar. . . and already I was thinking that even if the tub was empty and the water-pump temporarily dead, there was always the lake. All of them! the voice cried again. All of them, sugar! Of course—only all of them would do. Until then there would be no rest for Sara Laughs. “I’ll help you to rest, ” I said. “That I promise. ” The last of the water swirled away. . . but there was always the lake, always the lake if I changed my mind. I left the bathroom and looked in on Ki again. She hadn’t moved, the sensation that Sara was in here with me had gone, Bunter’s bell was quiet. . . and yet I felt uneasy, unwilling to leave her alone. I had to, though, if I was to finish my work, and I would do well not to linger. County and State cops would be along eventually, storm or no storm, downed trees or no downed trees.

Yes, but. . . I stepped into the hall and looked uneasily around. Thunder boomed, but it was losing some of its urgency. So was the wind. What wasn’t fading was the sense of something watching me, something that was not-Sara. I stood where I was a moment or two longer, trying to tell myself it was just the sizzle of my overcooked nerves, then walked down the hall to the entry. I opened the door to the stoop. . . then looked around again sharply, as if expecting to see someone or something lurking behind the far end of the bookcase. A Shape, perhaps. Something that still wanted its dust-catcher. But I was the only Shape left, at least in this part of the world, and the only movement I saw was ripple-shadows thrown by the rain rolling down the windows. It was still coming down hard enough to redrench me as I crossed my stoop to the driveway, but I paid no attention. I had just been with a little girl when she drowned, had damned near drowned myself not so long ago, and the rain wasn’t going to stop me from doing what I had to do. I picked up the fallen branch which had dented the roof of my car, tossed it aside, and opened the Chevy’s rear door. The things I’d bought at Slips ’n Greens were still sitting on the back seat, still tucked into the cloth carry-handle bag Lila Proulx had given me. The trowel and the pruning knife were visible, but the third item was in a plastic sack. nt this one in a special bag? Lila had asked me. Always sa]b, never sorry.

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