Dead Voices (48 page)

“Jake, this is Frank. Ihave to talk to Elizabeth. It’s urgent.”

“Wish I could help you,” Jake replied, “but she waltzed in here this morning and just up ‘n’ quit on me. I ain’t seen her since—I’d say since ‘round eight o’clock this momin’.”

“Son of a bitch,” Frank said. “Son of a motherfucking
bitch
!”

“Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “I mean, I don’t hold it against her or nothin’, but I would’ve appreciated at least a few days notice. I’m pretty shorthanded ‘round here as it is, this time of year.”

“Wish I could help,” Frank snapped. “Look, if by chance you see her, tell her to call me at the station, okay?”

“Sure,” Jake replied. “What’s this all ab—”

“Gotta go. Thanks, Jake.” Frank said. He thumbed the hook, then dialed the police station.

“Good afternoon. Bristol Mills police,” said a voice. Frank instantly recognized Mark Curtis, the day-shift dispatcher.

“Mark—this is Frank. Have there been any calls for me today?”

After a slight pause, Mark replied, “Nothin’ on the incoming sheet. You expecting something important?”

“Look, I don’t have time to explain it all, but I’m expecting a call from Elizabeth Myers—write that name down and tape it to the phone. I can’t tell you how important this is. If she calls, I want you to find out where she is and tell her . . . tell her to get her fucking ass over to the station right away.”

“Should I use those exact words?” Mark asked. A lilting chuckle colored his voice.

“I’m not shitting around, Mark. This could be serious!” Frank yelled. “If she calls, tell her I’ve found out something about Graydon that she has got to know right away.”

“Okay, sir,” Mark answered. “Anything else?”

For a second, Frank considered asking to have a squad car drive out to the Payne home just to have a look around, but he realized that might be jumping the gun, at least at this point. One small, rational voice in the back of his mind was whispering that, still, everything he had found out and everything he thought was circumstantial; it would never hold up in court.

Yeah
, another—louder—voice in his mind said, but circumstantial can still get you killed!

“No, I—uh, I guess that’s all for now,” Frank said more mildly. “I’m heading into the station right away.”

“Catch you later, then,” Mark said, before hanging up.

Frank hung up the phone and, after thanking Baker for all of his help, left the library on the run. He pushed the speed limit all the way back to Bristol Mills. Unfortunately, he had plenty to occupy his thoughts. None of it was pleasant.

He granted that a direct connection between Graydon and the accident that had killed Elizabeth’s daughter, while certainly unnerving, was by no means proof that Graydon was plotting some kind of revenge against Elizabeth. Hell, if Elizabeth hadn’t mentioned the accident to him during a session, Graydon might not even have made the connection yet. But then again, she had sought therapy in the first place, Frank assumed, to help her deal with that tragic loss, so she must have said something about it to her therapist.

THERAPIST . . . THE RAPIST.

Harris’s sick joke came to mind with a nauseating rush.

The bothersome thing was the sizable odds against it being just a coincidence that so many strange—downright weird and
deadly
—things had happened in town recently. He hadn’t been the only one at the station to notice that they coincided with Elizabeth’s return home.
Something
was most definitely happening-something that directly involved Elizabeth. Frank was certain that Harris suspected her of involvement, but he was even more convinced now that she was the target-the victim, not the victimizer.
Everything
that had happened seemed directed to undermine her sanity, not help it. And who better to do something like that, to know how and when to hit her right where she was most vulnerable, how to manipulate her mental weaknesses, than someone she thought was trying to help her? Graydon hadn’t struck directly at Elizabeth yet because he was using the time to toy with her, get her off balance and keep her that way ...

To do . . . what?
Frank wondered.

What were the chances that, in looking for a therapist, Elizabeth would just happen upon the name of Roland Graydon? Or even more improbably: what were the odds that if Graydon did hold Elizabeth directly responsible for the death of his nephew, Sam Healy, he could manage events so that he would end up as her therapist? If this was some convoluted revenge plot on his part, things sure had played perfectly into his hands . . .

Possibly
too
perfectly to be left to mere chance, Frank thought. This was another circumstantial connection that would never hold up in court, he knew, but it sure was convincing . . . and scary as hell! He didn’t have any answers; he didn’t want to try to figure out how Graydon had made things work out his way, or even what he planned for his sick, twisted revenge. But Frank was damned well going to make sure Elizabeth knew about all of this before she spent another minute in Roland Graydon’s presence!

4.

“Tonight! We
must
do it tonight!”

The intensity in Graydon’s voice surprised and unnerved Elizabeth. She was sitting on the couch in his office, watching him as he paced the floor by the windows. Although not entirely sure this was a smart thing to do, she had driven out here straight from Junia’s house. She had considered giving her mother a call, to tell her she wouldn’t be home for supper, but had decided against it, telling herself she didn’t have to check in with her parents on
everything
she did!

Through the office windows, Elizabeth could see the slanting yellow light of the setting sun. It cast long, dark shadows on the rocks that lined the coast, and colored the water a deep steel gray. The ocean heaved with rolling swells that made her think not of water, but of strong, supple muscles working beneath an animal’s fur. Lost in the intensity of his thoughts, Graydon never once paused to look out at the view.

“I don’t see why there’s. . . there’s any need to hurry, “ Elizabeth stammered. “I mean, I just read the chapter you wanted me to read last night. I haven’t had time to absorb—”

“What did you think?” Graydon snapped, smacking his fist into his open hand for emphasis. “Did it make sense to you?”

The wild gleam in his eyes unnerved Elizabeth. Flustered, she shifted uneasily on the couch. Graydon walked over to her, standing so close to the couch that he towered above her. The memory of his face, transforming into that of a wolf as he feasted on her innards, rose in Elizabeth’s mind with a razor-edged chill.

“I thought it was . . . interesting,” she said, shifting in her seat to put as much distance as she could between them.

“Interesting?
Interesting
!” Graydon shouted. “That’s all you can say? It was
interesting
!”

Helpless and confused, Elizabeth raised her hands in a gesture of pleading. “A lot of it was . . . scary.”

Graydon snorted with disgust. “Scary to anyone who lives in ignorance and fear! To anyone who doesn’t have the courage to take matters into their own hands!” He clenched both fists and punched the air between them. “Here I have offered you something—something wonderful! Something miraculous! To actually be able to see and talk to your dead daughter, and the best you can say is it’s
interesting
?” He turned from her in disgust. “Perhaps we should forget the whole thing.” He walked over to the windows again and stood with his back to her, his hands on his hips as he silently regarded the gun metal gray ocean.

At a complete loss for words, Elizabeth sat staring blankly at Graydon’s back, almost overwhelmed by the confused and irrational thoughts colliding in her mind. She imagined that she was swimming far out on that steel gray ocean, being pulled by death cold, irresistible currents further and further from land.

A small voice in her head was whispering that this entire discussion was absolutely insane! It was simply impossible to raise the dead or to communicate with them—by
any
means! Claire DeBlaise, Eldon Cody, and Roland Graydon—all of them were deluded. At the very least they were harmlessly crazy; at the worst, dangerously insane! This man in particular, this
doctor
, this
psychiatrist
who was supposed to help her sort out and deal with the confusion in her life, was only compounding her problems by holding out to her even the slight possibility of such an absurd, fantastic thing. It was more than professionally irresponsible; it was criminal!

But another voice inside her was telling her that, while she might not believe in anything supernatural. there certainly were things in the world that defied explanation. Even the string of coincidences that had happened to her in the past few weeks
seemed
to be more than mere chance. It was uncanny how, when she thought about it, everything fell so neatly into place . . .

“
Help! ... Mommy! . . . ”

She couldn’t forget the desperately repeated message she had received in her dream about the Ouija board, and that she had heard so loudly she was convinced it was not just in her head, but audible, in the “sitting room” at Claire DeBlaise’s, and that both she and Eldon Cody had heard—without
any
doubt—on the tape recorder.

She couldn’t forget that someone—she had no doubt, now, that it had been Graydon—had dug up the corpse of her Uncle Jonathan—a
suicide
—and cut off his hand for use as a Hand of Glory. Frank had told her about the other incident at Caroline’s grave. Had that been when Graydon had contacted Caroline’s spirit and discovered the significance of “Button”?

‘‘I’m scared,” Elizabeth said, her voice no more than a trembling whisper. “
Really
scared!” She looked pleadingly at Graydon’s back, wanting desperately for him to turn around and say something comforting to her, something reassuring. But Graydon didn’t move; he stood there as motionless and as silent as a statue. For a panicked instant, Elizabeth thought he had died on his feet; she couldn’t detect even the faintest motion of his breathing.

Her first impulse was to get up and leave. Get the Christ out of this madman’s office! Leave him standing there by the window, thinking and believing whatever lunatic ideas he wanted to believe, and not let him bring her spiraling down into total insanity with false promises and vain, impossible hopes!

‘‘I’m really scared,” she repeated, “because I don’t . . . I don’t want to believe even for a minute that you honestly can do what you say you can.”

She jumped, startled, when Graydon turned around very slowly and regarded her with a long, steady stare. Framed against the declining day outside the window, his face was an indistinct blur. She could see only his eyes, which seemed to glow with a light of their own.

“But you
must
believe,” he said passionately. His voice resonated deeply, sounding like a distant explosion.

“But . . . why?” Elizabeth pleaded. “Why should I put any hope in what you say? It’s just not ... not possible!”

Graydon chuckled ominously. Elizabeth couldn’t detect the slightest trace of humor in his laughter.

“I’d say, quite simply, don’t knock it until you try it.”

A flash of anger rose up inside Elizabeth, and she wondered if he had been stringing her along all this time for some therapeutic reason. Could that be all it was? Some incredibly crazy test of how suggestible she was?

“You sound pretty glib about it all,” she said, not quite daring to voice her opinion that he might be leading her on. Graydon suddenly pointed angrily at her, jabbing his finger like a saber in her direction. “You told me you
believed
what you heard on that tape! That the voice was your daughter’s!”

“I—I’m not so sure, now,” Elizabeth said, completely flustered. “I mean, the more I think about it, the more I start to doubt everything that’s happened.”

“You said you clearly heard a voice and that, as best as you could tell, it was the voice of your daughter.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Don’t you think maybe I heard what I
wanted
to hear?”

Graydon shook his head as though thoroughly disgusted with her. “You sought out this man Eldon Cody. No one made you go see him. And you were the one who went with your aunt to see this—this charlatan spiritualist, Claire DeBlaise! It seems to me you wouldn’t need much more convincing that such things are possible!”

Elizabeth slumped back on the couch, feeling completely powerless. Graydon’s anger at her seemed genuine, not some kind of teasing, testing ploy. Beneath her terrifying confusion, somewhere deep within her mind, an alarm sounded. It had to do with something he had said—something that didn’t seem quite right.

“So,” he said emphatically, “if you want to see it, if you want
proof
—come with me. Tonight! Come to your daughter’s grave and you can see for yourself what I can do!”

Elizabeth’s throat made a soft gagging sound as she shook her head from side to side. “No, I—I wish I
could
believe you,” she whispered. “I really do.”

She stiffened suddenly when it finally came to her . . .

I never told him I went with Junia to see Claire! How does he know about that?

Chills raced up her back. All along, she had assumed Frank had followed her out there that night. Was it possible that it had been Graydon?

“So come with me . . . tonight,” Graydon repeated. He moved swiftly over to her and knelt down in front of her. His hands came up and lightly but firmly grasped her shoulders. He started to pull her forward, close to him. Numb with terror, Elizabeth looked steadily into the swelling pools of his dark eyes. She could feel a power there that drew her in as inexorably as the surge of the ocean outside his office windows.

“Tonight,” he whispered, rising to bring his mouth close to her ear.

His breath was warm on her skin. Against her will, a heated flush of passion swept through Elizabeth’s body as Graydon brought his face closer to hers. Strong waves of desire melted her last shreds of physical and mental resistance. He shifted forward, bringing his body up close to hers as his arms moved slowly to embrace her. His arms were surprisingly strong as he held her tightly, crushing her in a powerful embrace. Her nostrils filled with his musky aroma.