Part 24 (2/2)

Wickstrom cooked breakfast. 'Something special this morning,” he said, grinning as he put the plates on the kitchen table.

”This morning?” queried Gabrielle, a slight frown on her face.

”Sure. It's when we get up and have breakfast, so what else should we call it?” Both Gabrielle and McNeely could easily see that Wickstrom's enthusiasm was feigned, no doubt in response to the distance he'd felt between the two of them. They'd dressed in silence when they'd gotten up, and hadn't spoken to each other since. McNeely had wanted to apologize, but something in Gabrielle's manner made it impossible for him. So now they sat not looking at each other while Wickstrom set down on the table with a great flourish a large plate piled high with fried chicken and biscuits.

”A good old southern breakfast,” Wickstrom babbled, ”just like my mama used to make. She was from South Carolina originally.” There was no response from the others. ”Well,” Wickstrom said, picking up a drumstick, ”help yourself. There's plenty of it.”

Gabrielle took a small breast while McNeely chose a thigh. Wickstrom continued to make small talk to which they responded, but no more than was necessary. It was during his second cup of coffee that McNeely began to notice the smell. He tensed so that his cup rattled against the saucer, making the others look up. He smiled crookedly and dabbed at the spilled drops with his napkin, wondering if the others had sensed the sour odor that was emanating from behind the cellar door.

”Well,” he said with unfelt joy, ”anybody ready for some cards in the den?”

”I'd like to finish my coffee first,” said Gabrielle dryly.

”Yeah, what's the rush?” Wickstrom smiled. ”You have an appointment?”

McNeely gave a hollow chuckle, and sipped his coffee. Minutes pa.s.sed and the smell grew stronger, yet the others made no mention, so that he wondered if he was imagining it or if the ent.i.ty was keeping it from the others. But finally Gabrielle looked up, her frown deepening.

”What is that smell?” she asked.

Your husband. Did you forget already? McNeely thought wildly. ”Some food that's turned, probably. The refrigerator won't keep things fresh forever.”

”Well, good G.o.d,” she said, standing and going to the refrigerator, ”why don't we throw it out then?” She opened the door, but no odor escaped, only cold fresh air. The pallor that leaped into her cheeks told McNeely that she'd suddenly realized the source of the smell. In her white face and suddenly trembling hands he could see all the memories come rus.h.i.+ng back, and then he was beside her, his arm around her supportively, closing the thick white door.

”I'll take care of it,” he said softly. ”You and Kelly go get the cards ready. Take your coffee along. I'll clean up here. Clean up everything.”

She turned blindly, then paused, looking at McNeely with new conviction. ”I can help,” she said.

”No!” he barked. ”I'll take care of it.” He tried not to let his panic show. There was no way he could explain the presence of Neville's body in the fire chamber without revealing a good portion of the truth to them, a truth he was not yet ready to share. ”Really,” he said in a gentler tone, ”go ahead. I'll join you in a minute.”

Wickstrom stood and shook his head. ”I don't think any of us should be alone.”

”I'll be safe,” McNeely said firmly.

”I'm thinking about the safety of all of us,” Wickstrom replied.

”Nothing's happened,” McNeely lied, ”and nothing's going to. I mean it.”

Wickstrom hesitated for a moment, then gave a sharp, quick nod of acquiescence: Why, McNeely wondered, had he given up so easily? Perhaps he thought that McNeely's self-perceived guilt could be purged by tidying up the remains of the man he let die. Or perhaps at heart he just didn't want to go into that cellar again. Whatever the reason, Wickstrom picked up his coffee mug and smiled at Gabrielle. ”Let's shuffle the deck and wait for George, okay?” He looked back at McNeely, his smile stiffening. ”Don't be too long.” He left the kitchen, Gabrielle following him unwillingly.

McNeely waited until their footsteps faded into silence, then opened the cellar door. He winced at the pungency of the odor and started down the steps, closing the door tightly behind him, wondering if the thing would confront him, fearing that it would. He steeled himself against both the odor and the sight of what was on the fire chamber floor, and walked in.

The lights were still on, as he had left them. David Neville was still lying on the cement, cold, unmoving, ripe with decay. McNeely looked away from the corpse, upward to where he had last seen the pale, wraithlike face hanging in the air. But there was nothing, only an empty room and silence.

He waited for only a moment longer, then knelt beside the corpse, searching for an untainted place to grab it. His fingers closed around a soggy clump of wool sweater, and he dragged Neville out of the room, across the wide floor of the cellar, and into the wine cellar, leaving a red-brown trail as he went. He repositioned the tablecloth over the twisted form, looked uncomfortably at the huge covered bulk of c.u.mmings's corpse, whose decomposition had stained the tablecloths in a dozen places, then he left the wine cellar, closing the door behind him.

Again he stood in the dimly lit main cellar; again he listened for the light, easy voice, looked for the cla.s.sically featured glowing face. But still there was nothing. He was unable to sense its presence in the slightest.

Where was it? It seemed illogical that it would not confront him here, particularly since he was alone. Was it gone? And if so, where? Why? Could it be resting, completely unaware that McNeely was in the cellar alone? Think. Could that be one of its weaknesses? That it did indeed need to rest?

The thoughts bombarded his mind, and he boldly sought to deal with them, to put them into a recognizable context. The thing was force, a combination of forces, millions of them, and it could manifest itself physically, even enough to cause a dead body to rise and walk again. So obviously it expended power. And if power were expended, would it not have to be built up again, like a battery recharging?

Perhaps individually these souls, revenants, thoughts, call them what he would, were infinitely weak, in most cases totally unnoticeable. It would only be when they coalesced, joined those millions upon millions of bits of power together, that they became something to be reckoned with, to be feared.

But power fades and weakens with use. McNeely remembered how pale and weary the face had appeared after his confrontation with Neville's corpse, as though something , had been drained from it. Could it still be somewhere sleeping, letting its power build up again for its next meeting with him?

If so, there's weakness number one. It can't be everywhere at once, or in one place all the time. Yes, it was a weakness, but a weakness that suggested a disquieting question: how would he know when it was with him? He felt like a suspect behind a one-way mirror. Were they watching him now, silent and unseen behind that one-sided piece of psychic gla.s.s, or was the room next-dimension empty, or occupied only by a dozing sergeant?

He made himself relax again, tried to let his mind open. If it was there, he would know it. Wouldn't he?

His thoughts were his own, he felt oddly certain of it. And he used the a.s.sumed liberty to try to think of what his next plan of action would be. If it confronted him again with new and more detailed demands, he might be able to stall it, to fake cooperation by actually thinking himself into the role, at least enough to fool them. But, asked a bitter voice inside him, to fool them for how long? Just then he would have given his left arm for his wrist.w.a.tch-h.e.l.l, just for today's paper. How long did they have left? A day? A week? We've lived here forever already.

And what if he didn't do anything? What if he stayed out of the cellar, made himself forget about the ent.i.ty?

(Fat chance!) All right, then, what if he just ignored it, even if it spoke, to him?

Ignore it, George, and it'll go away.

That's what he'd done to the ones who'd called him a f.a.g, and it'd worked then. They'd tired of their game.

But these things weren't raw recruits or green mercs, were they? He shook his head in frustration and made his decision. Stay away from them. If they try to speak to you, ignore them. Stay with Kelly and Gabrielle. And love her, d.a.m.n it. Don't hurt her.

He turned and walked up the creaking stairs, afraid to look behind him, afraid not to, for fear that he would miss the pale face forming, or the quietly walking corpse d.o.g.g.i.ng his steps. But he reached the kitchen safely and pushed the cellar door closed, wis.h.i.+ng that there were a st.u.r.dy lock on it for all the good it might do.

As he walked down the hall toward the den, he found himself more at ease. The mere knowledge that they were not there in the cellar waiting to confront him had done wonders for him. He'd never backed down from a fight, and now that he felt he could indeed fight this ent.i.ty, that it was capable of being defeated, that it had strengths and weaknesses as did enemies of flesh and blood, he felt much more secure. Besides, the time when the house would open could not be far away.

He entered the den with a rea.s.suring smile. Gabrielle was pale, and Wickstrom looked uncomfortable. But McNeely disarmed them both after a few minutes, and in a light moment took Gabrielle's hand under the table. He squeezed it gently and hoped she could read the apology. She did, and smiled back openly and forgivingly.

The remainder of the ”morning” went well. After cards, they'd gone up to the nursery c.u.m studio, and Gabrielle had painted while Wickstrom and McNeely worked together on a few puzzles. Gabrielle was disappointed with the work she was doing, but she seemed glad to see the two men enjoying themselves, laughing and teasing each other over the solutions.

McNeely was the first to suggest lunch. ”Is it my turn to make it?” asked Gabrielle, putting down her brush.

”Let's see, I made breakfast,” mused Wickstrom. ”George, you made dinner last night.”

”Are you sure?” Gabrielle said.

Wickstrom nodded. ”I'm sure. We had steak.”

”You must be right then. That's all George knows how to make.”

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