Part 27 (1/2)

”I . . .”.

You wish to speak?

”I will . . .”

Take your time. We have all there is ”I will serve you.”

Part IV I myself am h.e.l.l; n.o.body's here- -Robert Lowell, ”Skunk Hour”

Chapter Twenty.

Monckton was of two minds about the rain. In one way he had been glad for it; the water in the depressions had evaporated sometime before, and his throat had been parched. The rain also meant that the temperature had risen to above freezing again, and that was something for which to be thankful. However, the rain had also dampened the leaves once more. It had been only a brief shower, but enough to turn them from their crisp dryness back to the consistency of damp newspaper.

And now the rain was over, the sun was out, and he was scattering the leaves over the surface of the balcony once again. He had gained a drink, something to fill his raging stomach, but he had lost more time, and time was the commodity he could least afford to squander.

Several hours later the leaves were dry again. Not perfectly, though-he made sure that there was enough moisture left so that they would smolder and smoke as well as flame up, if indeed he could get them to burn at all. The sun seemed to take forever to set. He'd decided upon dusk as the best time to start his fire. That way it might be dark enough for the flames to be noticed by some distant observer, yet light enough that the smoke could be seen if the flames proved deficient. In preparation, he dragged the leaves in small piles over to the balcony railing, thinking to use the wrought iron as a hearth against which to build his fire. But the wind proved treacherous, gusting in all directions so that first handfuls, then armloads of his precious fuel were lifted over and through the decorative ironwork. Monckton cursed weakly as he tried to save the leaves from the wind, and painfully hauled them back, pile by pile, to the protection of the house wall.

When he had finished, the pile was smaller by a third, but there was still enough, he hoped, to make an observable conflagration. He looked at the sky. It was clear, tinted by the reddish-gray of mid-dusk. He took one of the two matches from the pocket of the parka and wiped it carefully on the sleeve to remove any moisture that might be clinging to it. Then he took out a nearly shredded Kleenex from his pants pocket and rolled it into a ball, tucking it beneath the leaves so that a small strip of paper protruded. He waited until the breeze died down, whispered a prayer, and struck the match on the rough mortar between two of the tiles.

It blazed into flame with a noisy rush, and he cupped his hand around it, lowering it to the tattered Kleenex, lowering it too fast. Had he moved slowly, the matchstick might have remained afire, but the quick motion weakened it, making it an easy victim for the breath of wind that seemed to come from nowhere, and suddenly Monckton was holding no more than a thinly smoking slice of wood.

At first he could not believe it, but when the truth came to him, he dropped the match with trembling fingers and fumbled in the pocket until he found the other one. This he drew out and dried quickly, putting his finger behind the phosphorous head to strike it on the mortar. Then he looked at it hard, and thought, What if it dies too? What if this one dies too?

He continued to look at the match as the sky became darker, until it was so dark he could not see the match at all.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Her hand was so cold. He had been holding it for what must have been hours, but it refused to absorb any of the warmth of his own hand, as if it knew of the bargain he had made, and would take nothing from him for fear of contamination.

A bargain. He had sealed a bargain with what? With Evil, with Abomination. But would he keep his bargain? And could he trust it to keep its word? Father of Lies, it had called itself. He had no scruples about cheating such a beast if he could. And he would find a way. He must. He promised himself he would not do as he had sworn, he would not bring that beast out upon the world, would not become some diabolical errand boy to transfer it to those who, under its influence, could bring an end to everything.

Careful. He tried to drive the conscious thoughts back, tried to think of something else and keep the precious thoughts of betrayal on a visceral level, unreadable by any poachers on his mind. Think of other things, he told himself. Of Gabrielle.

He looked into her calm, peaceful face and prayed again that consciousness would soon return to it. The ent.i.ty had said that neither her mind nor Wickstrom's would be damaged by what had happened, and in Wickstrom's case, at least, it had been true. Even now he was only ten yards away on the other side of the bedroom door, resting in a chair, his superficial head wound bandaged skillfully by McNeely's practiced fingers. Other than the cut, he seemed fine, but his nightmare had been internal, like McNeely's in the Great Hall. Gabrielle's had been all too real.

As he watched her, he realized again just how much she meant to him. He felt as though he would have d.a.m.ned the world to save her soul. But he could not do that. He would still find a way out, and he and Gabrielle would be together always, growing old with each other, maybe even having children. They were not too old for that. An ironic smile bent up the corners of his mouth. The only goal he and the thing had in common was to have him marry Gabrielle, but for quite different purposes. McNeely loved her. She was perhaps the first person, and a.s.suredly the first woman, he had ever really loved in terms of what he thought love should be. Her money meant nothing to him, although he was realistic enough to know that she would not have become the person she was without it.

A dry ball of fear rose to his throat as he contemplated asking her to marry him. He knew that he would have someday, but that day might have been far in the future, at a time when The Pines was only a tragic memory, when they had come to know and love each other outside of its b.l.o.o.d.y walls. But the thing wanted him to ask her now, before they left the house. It obviously intended to take no chances.

He had nearly choked with rage when it had broached the subject. ”What am I?” he'd said. ”A stud horse?”

The arrangements must be made before we leave the mountain.

”You're insane.” Foregone conclusion, he had thought. ”What if she doesn't say yes?”

She will.

”Would she have said yes to c.u.mmings? Was that your idea too?”

No. We felt that with c.u.mmings's previous position and his desire for power, he would bring himself into the circles we required with no a.s.sistance of a marital nature. Unfortunately, we underestimated his stupidity.

”Then why didn't you go to Gabrielle direct?” McNeely had asked, fis.h.i.+ng. ”Why the roundabout route?”

The voice had paused. There was nothing we could offer her.

The reply had left McNeely silent and stunned with the implied worth of the woman he loved, and he felt more than ever that he had to free her from this house. ”Why are you so sure,” he'd asked after a moment's thought, ”that you have anything to offer the ones that I'll meet-the presidents, the politicians?”

The voice had laughed. They will absorb us like a sponge does water! They have prayed for such as we can give them.

The answer made McNeely's stomach turn, and he promised himself in the most private sector of his mind that he would not allow the cataclysmic contact to occur. There had to be a way out, even if it meant his own death. If he could maneuver it somehow so that Wickstrom and Gabrielle left the house first, then he would remain, remain in The Pines with them, and they could do with him whatever they wished. He felt at times as though he were past saving, but he would not allow them to take Gabrielle. He would not.

The movement of her fingers broke his reverie, and he glanced up to see her eyelids flicker like leaves in a gentle wind. Then the eyes were open, and she was looking back at him with a strange mixture of relief, love, and horror. She whispered his name softly and he tightened his grip on her hand and nodded rea.s.suringly, tears hot in the corners of his eyes.

”Just rest,” he said, his voice nearly choked with the joy of her coming back to him. ”Rest for a while.”

She shook her head in refusal and spoke, the whisper louder. ”Was it David?”

He nodded. ”His body. Something else inside,” he lied.

She shut her eyes, but opened them almost immediately, and cleared her throat. ”Where is he? Now?”

”It's gone from him. It won't be back again. I promise.”

She looked down at the soft curves her body made under the covers. ”I feel like I'll never be clean again. I can . . .” Her voice choked, but she spoke over it. ”I can smell it.”

”I washed you up before I put you to bed. A shower's what you need.”

She nodded. ”And then a bath.” She seemed to remember then. ”Kelly! How is he?”

”Dented but alive. He's sleeping in the next room.”

”What happened, George?”

”It . . . they . . . How much should he tell? ”It got to Kelly first, and then I think it wanted to get you alone.”

”It, it? What is it?”

He held his palms out to slow her down, calm her. ”The house. It, uh, occupied David's body. . . .”

”It wasn't David then?”

”No.”