Eden's Eyes (30 page)

She sat on the bottom step and listened. The detective's words struck her ears like a summons from hell.

"Which brings me to the bad part," he said to the grimly attentive policewoman.

Then his words seemed to slow and overlap, to run together like animal grunts.

"Less than a week later the son's graavvvve. . .

. . . waaasss. . .

. . . fowwwnnndd. . .”

The pounding beneath the floor of Karen's mind, the savage thudding which had started in her own living room the day before, resumed in sudden earnest.

She knew the detective's next word before hearing it.

(empty)

With each deafening thud, the truth of it all came rasping together, piece by hideous piece.

It's him.

Some deep part of her had known it for days, had understood the source of that dark voyeurism—but she realized it fully only now. With the perfect, untainted clarity of madness.

It's Eden.

The walls around her slowly swapped places.

She had his eyes, so she saw. She had watched him move through her dreams, to the child, to that helpless old man. . .

And now he was coming for her.

With each new bullet of awareness, the room wheeled faster and faster. Karen stumbled to her feet, wavered there. . .

And the thing from the pit, untethered again, crawled up through a new hole in the floor of her mind, this one huge, jagged, irreparable.

It crawled up and caught her by the ankle.

Drew her down. . .

Then its fingers, the nails overgrown and blackened with grave dirt, gouged like lightning at her face.

At her eyes.
      

The hallway floor, unyielding hardwood, tilted. . .

Spun. . .

Then flipped up cruelly to meet her.

When she awoke the pounding had ceased. She was in her own room, in her own bed. Someone, Mel and the detective, Karen guessed, had carried her up here after she'd fainted. She had no recollection. Now Cass was in the room with her, slouched in a chair by the window, drowsing in the deepening twilight. Karen thought of calling her over, but could not summon the requisite energy.

Despite the firm plane of her mattress, she felt balanced on the finest of wires. On one side, madness; on the other, madness again. In the lighter reaches of sleep, just before waking, rationality had done all it could.

Dead men do not get up, that rational voice told her.

But this one has, another voice warned.

Impossible, she knew.

And yet. . . he had taken up residence in her mind, some unquiet, tormenting fragment of his soul. Somehow he clung to life, or some hellborn semblance of it, and now he tracked his organs the way a lost dog tracks its way home.

He's not feeling himself just yet, that madwoman had said over the phone. But he will. . .

And hadn't that been what Karen had seen in the loathing wells of those eyes? The unquenchable fires of madness? And more. . . that smirking, secret knowledge, like the ferryman's grin on the River Styx?

She knew: She knew he was out there, stalking.

Oh, it was him, all right. She had seen him. In her dreams, lounging in her tub (he's already, up and around) administering his grotesque revenge.

Stop this! It can't be!

The argument spiraled in on itself, creating a sway in the wire which from time to time tipped her precariously one way or the next.

Until finally, she forbade all thought.

And clung to the wire.

In the gathering dark of her bedroom; sleep came on like death.

As did the dream. . .

Fields and forest, mile after mile. . .

Until just before dawn, in the hazy moonlight, she saw the tree. That great shaggy willow in back of the cheese factory.

Five miles away.

This time she woke up screaming.

Chapter 40

May 25

Karen was still up in her room. And for once, her curtains weren't drawn, though she'd lain down without taking off her clothes. That cunt Cass was sitting on the porch, looking like she'd had too much to drink, and the new bitch, whoever she was, had just come out to join her. They were talking now; Danny could see their lips moving.

The sweat rings around his eyes felt cool as he let the binoculars drop to his lap. Since that new whore's arrival two days ago Danny hadn't budged from his room but once, and then only to evacuate his bowels in the toilet next door. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't had a sip of anything to drink. When he had to piss, which was less and less often now, he opened the window and pissed out onto the lawn. His back ached miserably, and the flesh around his eyes was bruised from the steady pressure of the binoculars’ view ports.

His mother had harangued him almost constantly at first, threatening that if he didn't come out of there right this minute and get on with, his chores she was gonna throw him the fuck out, useless simpleton that he was. He had ignored her at first, knowing her threats were idle. But as the hours droned past and the sweat, hunger, and fatigue began to work on his mind, Danny became increasingly more infuriated with her bothersome rants. He began to think of her as a fat and unclean animal, a huge, slop-eating sow with spaces between her yellow teeth and a stink like dead fish around her. He imagined himself drawing his pigsticker across her great wattled throat, the blood spurting out in twin red jets. And the last time she'd come up those stairs to his room, sometime early this morning, with her complaining voice and her thudding footfalls, Danny had lunged for the door as she pushed it open and slammed it back in its frame, splitting the jamb and raining plaster dust down on them both.

She hadn't bothered him since.

The loon had been a sign. . . from what force he had no idea. Maybe it was the force that made things right in the world, the natural order which demanded pain and suffering before letting the good shine through.

He had suffered, was suffering still.

Now it was her turn.

The love he felt, the longing, had turned ugly at a single glance from those alien eyes, a glance he had since been terrified of having turned on him again. He couldn't face her until darkness owned her once more. For her, that was what the forces had intended. . . what God had intended. And before they could be together again, Danny had to make it right.

He positioned the field glasses and squinted across the quarter mile of hayfield between his place and Karen's.

All was as it had been. Nothing had changed. She was still asleep in her room. Dreaming, Danny imagined, of all she would do once she was gone from his life.

He lowered the binoculars and took out his knife. His pigsticker. His fingers felt right around its elmwood hasp. He angled it toward the window, and the blade dripped sunlight from its curve.

From his breast pocket he removed a worn leather pouch. From the pouch, a whetstone. No bigger than a matchbox, it was the only thing he had left of his father's. . . and its smell, an odd mix of leather and flint, always made him feel angry.

He let a bead of saliva drop to the stone. With clean, even strokes he ran the blade's true edge across its surface, feeling that faint honing grit as flecks of metal built up in his spit. He worked the steel lovingly, concentrating especially on its tip; that was the part he needed. The loon had taught him that. He worked it till his finger bones ached, and his mouth no longer gave spit.

Then he returned to the window.

He would have to make his move soon. Tomorrow, maybe.

Or tonight.

And God help anyone who got in his way.

Chapter 41

"Cass," Karen said in a voice that was hoarse with exhaustion. "I've got something to tell you."

They were in Karen's room. Karen had remained there since she'd fainted the previous afternoon, emerging only infrequently to use the bathroom down the hall. Cass had carried up all of her meals, but Karen had only pecked listlessly through them. Now she looked thin, skittish, pale. Early this morning Albert had come up and threatened to call the doctor, but Karen's reaction dad been so violent he had backed down immediately. By coincidence, Dr. Smith, called later in the morning to see why Karen had missed another appointment. Cass, who picked up the call, put Mel on the line and had the policewoman explain the whole rotten mess. Heather's expression of concern was warm and genuine, and she offered to assist in any way possible. Mel told her wisely that once this was over, Karen would almost certainly require the doctor's attentions.

During most of this snailing two-day period Mel stood restless vigil, chatting with Cass from time to time but otherwise keeping to herself. Jim Hall had not returned since the day Karen had fainted, but Mel had been on the phone with him often.

There was no news.

"What is it, hon?" Cass said now. She sat on the bed and took Karen's hand, which was dry and cold.

"It's. . . him," Karen said, and a lunatic smile cracked her face.

"It's who? Who's who?"
      

"The killer. It's. . ."

She fixed Cass with terror-glazed eyes. . . or was it something else in those eyes? Something utterly alien?

"It's Eden."

"Eden Crowell? The donor?"

Karen nodded, the movement spasmodic.

"He's dead!" Cass said firmly, nearly shouting. She placed her free hand on Karen's forehead, checking for fever, fearful of delirium. "It's just some crazy fuck. And when he gets here we're going to kick his ass."

Satisfied Karen was not feverish, Cass started to get up off the bed. . .

"No!" Karen shouted, the word exploding from her. She gripped Cass's hand in a vice. "He's dead, yes. . . but it's still him."

Oh, my God, Cass thought in a surge of panic, she's cracked up she's finally cracked up oh why didn't I do something before now—

Karen glanced toward the heavily curtained window.

"He's out there," she said huskily. "Circling."

Cass tried to free her hand from the vice of Karen's grasp but could not. Scared, she tugged even harder.

"Let go," she pleaded, overcome by the same sense of alienation she had experienced only mildly before, in the car on the way back home from the Albion Hotel. Suddenly she didn't know this crazy person and she didn't want to. This wasn't Karen. She wanted out of this room now, out and away, into the sane light of day.
      

Let. . . go. . . of. . . me."

"Circling," Karen repeated, and gazed back at Cass. Her eyes were lifeless now. Lifeless and flat. "Just. . . waiting."

Let—go!"

Karen relaxed her grip and Cass stumbled back, almost falling on her fanny. She whirled for the door—

But now there were tears in Karen's eyes, lost, frightened tears. . . and somewhere deep inside of Cass, compassion quelled her fear. This was her best friend, for Chris's sake, and she needed Cass's help.

Battling a fearful reluctance, she crossed to the bed again. She sat on its edge and touched Karen's face.

"You want to tell me why you think it's him?" she asked, unable to think of what else to say. She'd always felt that fears were best faced. Maybe talking it out would help.

Karen told her.

And Cass wished that she hadn't.

Mel draped a stiff yellow rain slicker around Cass's shoulders. The run of fine weather they'd been having had given out that same afternoon, and now a cold steady rain was falling. Around them, parched vegetation seemed to sigh with relief. The air was redolent with a cleansed scent of green.

Mel had found Cass sitting on the back stoop, dressed only in shorts and a light cotton blouse. She was soaked to the skin and shivering, her lips and nail beds blue. After Mel's suggestion that they go inside was ignored, Mel had poked around in the front vestibule and come back with this old slicker.

Now she sat next to Cass on the stoop, an umbrella hoisted high over them both, one arm slung around Cass's shoulders. Rain hissed into the mud around them.

"Want to tell me about it?"

Teeth chattering, Cass met eyes with Mel. There were tears mixed in with the rain.

"I'm so afraid," she said with a shudder. "I think she's really. . . gone crazy."

"She's very frightened, that's true," Mel replied, giving her tone more assurance than she felt. "Knowing that a vicious killer is stalking you would fuck over the best of us. It's the waiting that's hard, the not knowing. But she's safe here with us. whoever he is, he won't get anywhere near her."

"It's much more than that," Cass said, looking at Mel again. "She believes it's the donor who's after her. She thinks he's come back from the dead and she's seeing the murders 'cause she's got his eyes. She says he's out there right now, circling the house. Just. . . waiting."

"Jesus," Mel said, and chuckled.

But the chuckle was mirthless. Her eyes followed Cass's, scanning the rainbeaten gloom of the woodlot, the pockets of mist in the fields.

"Jesus," she whispered again.

Sitting there on the stoop in the rain, Cass had been silently debating what she should do, to whom she should turn. She did not want to burden Albert with this, of that much she was certain. The poor man had enough to contend with, what with his daughter's life in danger and a farm to run. Little sense in alarming him further. She thought again of phoning the psychiatrist, but still found it difficult going against Karen's wishes. Foolish but true; because if she called and they did remove Karen's eyes. . .

Then Mel had come out and draped this slicker around her shoulders—she hadn't even realized it was raining—and Cass had told it all, glad to be getting it out. When she'd finished, Mel had suggested letting Jim Hall in on it, too, deferring the decision to him. Mel knew the situation: thus far, baiting the killer was the only route open to them. But if Karen was losing her mind in the process, then maybe it just wasn't worth it.

Leaving the umbrella with Cass, Mel had gone inside and made her call to Jim. That had been just over an hour ago.

Now, as Jim's car, splashed into the yard, Cass went back through the house to greet him. Mel joined them both on the porch.