Part 18 (1/2)

”h.e.l.lo?” called a voice behind them.

Robert craned his head. Standing in the entryway was a large man. His comb-over threatened to roll over his head like a tumble weed. He wobbled into the foyer. ”You two were gonna wait for me,” he told them.

”Sorry,” said the kid. ”You were late.”

”Man's gotta eat,” said the man. Now he looked down at Robert. ”Must be Lieber.”

”Yes, sir,” said Robert.

”Why don't you two wait outside?” Once they were gone, the man labored past him to the couch nearest the door. Grunting, he lowered himself down. ”Honey, I need to talk to your daddy alone.”

Jennifer looked at him. ”It's okay, Jenn,” said Robert. ”I'll tell you all about it later.” She slowly went up the stairs to her room.

The man turned to him. ”I'm Donald Hackman.”

Robert had seen the face on billiards over Interstate Four, but the man looked different in person. ”You're the County Sheriff.”

”We found your wife this morning.”

Robert slapped his hand over his mouth. ”Is she okay?”

”No. Matter of fact, she's not. Where were you last night?”

”Oh G.o.d,” muttered Robert, staring at the floor. ”I was here.” He pressed his fingers into his eyes.

Hackman placed a hand on his knee.

”How did-”

Hackman ignored him; he slumped into the couch, looking around. ”You two separated long?”

Robert shook his head.

”I'm sorry. Me and mine have been parted before. Does she have any family?”

Again, he shook his head. ”Plane crash.”

”Siblings?”

”Only child.”

Hackman hitched up his pants, clapped a hand on Lieber's shoulder. ”We think it was the proprietor of the inn she was staying at. Man had a long list of hairy problems,” he said, chuckling for some reason, shaking his head. ”When they get her, the local home will phone you about arrangements.”

”When they-” he began, then realized who Hackman meant.

Hackman trudged the stairs, turned. ”I'm very sorry, Mister Lieber. If you should need anything, give me a call. Oh, and stick around,” Hackman told him, letting himself out.

Robert just sat there, staring dumbly at the carpet. Then a soft noise shocked him out of his daze. He stood, glanced around. ”Jenn?” He made his way toward the stairs.

Jenn was at the top of the stairs, hugging her knees, weeping.

Robert had barely dozed off when the buzzing woke him. Propped on his pillow, he opened his eyes, searching the darkness.

Something was popping off of the porch doors. He went to the gla.s.s, peered up and down. Dawn would break in an hour or so, but it was always darkest before first light. There wasn't a star in the sky. The moon wasn't much more than a smudge. The sound seemed to register from different directions; he flipped on the porch light. A fly was hovering over it, as if the light had been on all along. It's shadow flitted over the boards in wide arcs.

”A fly's making all that noise?” he asked aloud, and was about to switch off the light and return to bed when a second shadow joined the fly's on the rugged planks of the porch. It mirrored the first, following in identical arcs, so close he could've mistaken it for an optical illusion. But his eyes had worked perfectly for a few days now. He probed around for another insect, saw nothing but midges hovering in the ethereal glow. Pressing his nose to the gla.s.s, he followed the twin paths of the shadows. The fly zoomed about the light, smacking into it periodically. Shaking his head, he looked down.

The second shadow had split. There were three.

Four.

Five.

In seconds, the shadows collided, split, sped up, and the buzzing grew so loud he could feel it in his chest-a subtle, deep growl, as if a microphone had been fixed on the insect-then another sound, almost a chewing, came as the wood crunched, split. A two-by-four ripped apart. He raised his arms to protect his face; slowly, he lowered them, and his eyes widened.

The plank hadn't fallen yet. It was suspended, perfectly vertical.

The buzzing sounded like an angry hive. The wood was tearing, splintering, torn by unseen hands. Another two-by-four tore off, floated impossibly up and was suspended beside the other. The porch light shadowed their grooves and depressions. As if fastened by nails to the blackness behind them, both remained motionless. Then the second plank moved. It didn't waver, didn't shake, but sliced through the air with a purpose, almost intelligent, and stopped when it was horizontal and behind the other.

He blinked. Cupped a hand over his mouth.

The planks had formed a cross.

Robert spent two hours cleaning up the mess, though part of his porch remained as proof of what he'd seen. It was ten after five when he came inside. The sun was a promise behind the trees that surrounded his yard.

After showering, he sat in his den, and the reality of his life began to sink in. In a few weeks, he'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer, of which he should already have perished; his marriage, long on the rocks, had ended; his estranged wife had been murdered; and he'd been witness to several strange, if not supernatural, occurrences. Life was s.h.i.+t, and then . . . .

Robert picked up the envelope he'd received yesterday, thinking about what Dan had said, how sooner or later you'd see the pattern. He turned it over and over, tossed it back on the desk, moved to his bookshelf, withdrew the diary, opened it. ”You've got to be kidding me,” he whispered, running his palm over the paper. It appeared as if some sort of ink had bled. He tried to remove the formerly blank paper, but it was stuck. Carefully, he pried the edge up, peeled it inch by inch from the page, and turned the paper over. And stared, his mouth open.

Written in his mother's elegant handwriting were these two words: ”I'm inside.”

2.

Two weeks pa.s.sed.

Robert had buried Veronica, and did his best to console his daughter. He shed another eight pounds and the night sweats got worse. Sometimes he felt depressed, but often he felt possessed of a strength, a preternatural perseverance. During these moments, he nearly convinced himself that the end was not near, and that he would live on.