Part 12 (1/2)

And so would they all be, unless they could get the h.e.l.l out of that house and away from what had been c.u.mmings. But the only way to do that, McNeely thought desperately, was to get four keys and four people to turn them. c.u.mmings's own key was out of the question. It was undoubtedly buried somewhere along with its chain in that thick cord of neck muscle.

They were at the door of the den now, and Gabrielle walked by it, wanting to move on to the study to find David Neville, but McNeely stopped, grasping the k.n.o.b. Gabrielle looked back at him, and the fear in her eyes was just as great as that in his stomach, but he turned the k.n.o.b, knowing that they had to find Wickstrom as well, and knowing that he could be anyplace.

So could c.u.mmings.

The den was empty, but McNeely wouldn't believe it until he checked the other side of the high-backed leather couch to make certain Kelly Wickstrom wasn't napping there (or Seth c.u.mmings wasn't crouching in wait).

They tried the study next, and found it vacant. The library was across the hall, but McNeely paused at its door. He had suddenly thought of a TV game show he'd seen once in a Chicago hotel room, where the contestant picked one of nine numbered squares on a screen. Behind each number was either a word or an amount of money, and you could keep picking until you hit a thousand dollars or got the right combination of words.

Only there was a catch. Behind one of the squares was a cartoon dragon with long teeth and flaming nostrils, and if you picked that square . . . well, the game was over. You lost.

Pick the rooms, George, he thought, but don't pick the room with the dragon.

Or you're burned.

Kelly Wickstrom was thirsty. He had grown extremely fond of Ba.s.s ale in the short time (Long time? Who cares?) he was in The Pines and decided that when he got out, he would forsake Pabst, his long-time favorite, and pack Ba.s.s away by the case. Maybe he'd even buy the brewery. He tossed the coffee table book on baseball down on the couch, saluted a farewell to Willie Mays, who was smiling at him with ”say hey” in his bright eyes, and left his suite.

The hall was empty, as usual, and he walked briskly down it until he reached the stairs, which he took two at a time to the third floor, thinking longingly of the half case he'd stuffed into the lounge refrigerator before his last sleep.

At the door of the lounge he hesitated, though at first he couldn't say why. Then he remembered. The door was closed.

It had always been open before, the lamps always on, pouring a welcoming wedge of light out onto the wall and floor of the hall. The tavern door is never closed.

But it was closed now. Wickstrom put his ear to the door and listened. He thought (dreaded) that perhaps Gabrielle and McNeely, or, worse, Gabrielle and c.u.mmings, might be in there seeking privacy, might be-may as well say it to himself-f.u.c.king in there on the couch. She had the hots for George, Wickstrom noticed that easily enough, and it made sense. Her husband was a royal a.s.shole, and George was a h.e.l.luva good guy. Still, Wickstrom felt, if not jealous, a bit sad at the thought.

He listened more closely and thought he heard a faint sound from within. Should he open the door, see who was there?

He decided it was foolish not to. If anyone was having s.e.x, surely they'd choose one of the bedrooms, which had so far been private and sacrosanct. If either George or c.u.mmings were looking to pull off a quickie with Gabrielle Neville, it would only be natural to seek the privacy of a bedroom, where no one thirsting for a beer would catch them in flagrante delicto (flagrante delectable, Cohen at the station house had called it).

He opened the door. It was dark inside and he was fumbling for the light switch when he heard the noise. It was a growl, low and throaty. Polar bear. The thought came lightning fast, the inner vision followed: a mound of white, pure white, heaving up on its haunches, nearly invisible against a snowy background. The eyes, the tongue, even the claws were white, and he felt as if the dream he'd had had burst out of his head and taken form there in the darkness of the so familiar lounge. For a second he could not move. It was long enough to hear the other sound, a wet, smacking sound, and for a relieved moment he thought his first suspicions had been correct after all, that someone was having wet, sweaty s.e.x on the couch, that what he heard was nothing more frightening than hot s.e.x-slick a.s.ses slapping against leather.

”Hey,” he said nervously, ”sorry...”

The sound stopped. The growl returned, a growl with a chuckling laugh in its center. And the wet, rhythmic noise started again. He recognized it now for what it truly was. Chewing.

There is a monster here, Kelly Wickstrom thought dully, taking his hand away from the light switch as slowly as he would from a rattlesnake. He was more careful than he had ever been in his life. He did not want to b.u.mp that switch, to turn on those bulbs, to see what thing of madness burrowed there. It was something the house had made, something to frighten him, to drive him crazy if he'd let it.

Well, he would not let it. He would leave the room dark, and close the door, and go find someone to talk to.

And he did.

Gabrielle Neville saw him first, gliding down the stairs to the first floor like a wraith. She and McNeely had just finished checking the dining room, and she'd stepped into the hall when she noticed Wickstrom's stealthy form in a pool of shadow on the landing. ”George!” she hissed fearfully before she realized that it was Wickstrom. McNeely was with her in an instant, and when he saw Wickstrom, he smiled in relief.

”Kelly,” he called softly, beckoning to Wickstrom.

”Jesus, George,” said Wickstrom, ”there's something in here, something up in the lounge . . .”

”The lounge,” McNeely repeated, glancing at Gabrielle. ”We've 'seen it too, Kelly. Listen, take Gabrielle up to my suite. It's got hall doors in both the bedroom and living room. Good place to escape from. Maybe c.u.mmings isn't fast enough to catch us if we've got a jump on him.”

”c.u.mmings?” Wickstrom said, shaking his head. ”What do you-”

”Gabrielle will tell you about it. I've got to find Neville. Whatever you two do, stick together. I'll be there soon as I can.”

Wickstrom and Gabrielle went up the main staircase while McNeely finished searching the first floor. Neville was neither in the pantry nor in the small rooms of the servants' quarters. McNeely went up the east wing stairway then and found the Nevilles' suite empty. There were two things he could do now.

One was to tackle the third floor-the observatory, the playroom which Gabrielle used as a studio, the gym, the three small bedrooms, and the large vacant room in the west wing-the room across from the lounge.

The other was to look in the cellar.

He felt uncomfortable with either, but knew that in order for them to get out of the house, Neville had to be found. He decided on the cellar first. There was only one way down, leaving no escape route, but the cellar was large enough so that if he had to, he might evade c.u.mmings by slipping around him. That misshapen body had been created for strength, not speed.

McNeely padded down the east wing stairs and went into the kitchen. He hadn't noticed it before, but the door to the cellar was slightly ajar.

Could c.u.mmings have come down here, have gone into the cellar while they were searching for Neville? Could he even now be crouching down there in a blot of shadow, or behind the stairs, ready to reach through and grasp McNeely's ankles with those nightmare hands, sending him cras.h.i.+ng down the wooden steps to lie half-stunned at the bottom until that great hulking shape poured out into the dim light to do...

Whatever he wanted?

Come on! a voice yelled inside him. He'd been in 'Nam, Thailand, in Angola, in half a dozen more s.h.i.+tholes around the world, where every step was a step with death. What made this place so G.o.dd.a.m.ned different?

Because, he told himself as calmly as he could, in 'Nam, in Angola, in Nicaragua he had known-known who his enemy was, known where he came from, known his firepower, known.

But how on G.o.d's green earth could he know what Seth c.u.mmings had become or what had made him that way?

He made himself walk down the steps, thinking how good an Ingram .45 would feel right now, its b.u.t.t cool against his palm, its trigger kissing his finger, its muzzle ready to explode into flame and cut the monster in two. But there was no Ingram, not even a fart-sized .22, though he doubted if a .22 slug would even partially penetrate those sacks of muscle that surrounded the essence of Seth c.u.mmings.

At the bottom of the steps he turned and looked through the sideways gaping teeth of the stair boards. Nothing. No Quasimodo/Jonah in the cellar's belly. He hurried across the cold cellar into the large central area. The light was on, and McNeely wondered why there was nothing more to illuminate so large an area. The cellar seemed empty, but he wanted to check the fire chamber before he went back upstairs. It would be a perfect place for Neville to seek the solitude he seemed to want so desperately.

The door was closed and locked. McNeely ran his hand over the cold steel, looking for a keyhole. Finding none, he knew that Neville had to be inside. ”Neville?” he called, knocking on the door, wincing at the loud clanging sound his knuckles made.

There was no answer.

”Neville!” he called again.

Neville's voice came back to him, thin and far away. ”Go away. Leave me alone.”

McNeely hammered violently on the door. f.u.c.k the noise. If Neville doesn't come out, we've all had it.

Suddenly the door swung open, and for an instant, as he looked into the blazing eyes, McNeely thought that c.u.mmings had tricked him, had spoken in Neville's voice, had lured him on to death. But the furious eyes were only Neville's, who shrieked in his rage.

”G.o.d d.a.m.n you! I'd almost reached them! They're here-it's the strongest place in the house. They're all down here, and I almost reached them, and you! You come, ruining my concentration, frightening them-”

”Shut up.” McNeely's voice was cold as ice. ”Shut up and listen to me. We've got to get out of here. Now.”

”Now? You're crazy! I won't leave now, not when I'm so close.”