Spawn of Hell (18 page)

Something funny was going on in this town, and he swore he was going to find out what it was.

Jeffrey’s house was on the outskirts of town, not far from the lake and the forest. It was a white, one-story clapboard structure, perfectly square and neat and clean. There was a tiny stoop one step above ground level in front of the white-painted door. A curtain hung over the window. There was another, larger window to the right of the door, looking into the living room. Anna felt a fresh flood of tears gathering in the corners, of her eyes, but she held them back, not wanting to make a scene in front of David. He had been nice enough to come all the way up here with her. She would not make it any more uncomfortable for him than she had to.

They parked next to a blue station wagon which they assumed had been Jeffrey’s car. The front lawn was brown and patchy, but he had made a game effort to keep it green and growing. There was a single, solitary tree a few yards from the house, a mere sapling struggling to survive in the drought-ridden atmosphere. They could see a laundry line strung up in the back. It ran at a diagonal from the house and over to a stake in the ground. There was a redwood picnic table, too. Both the line and the table were bare.

There was another car parked in back which they could not see. They could not have known it was
that
car which belonged to Jeffrey, and not the one in front.

Harry London had been right; there was no trouble with the lock. One swift jab with the key and the door swung open easily. Anna and David found themselves in a small foyer with a coat rack on their right. Several hats and a gray raincoat were on the rack, and a black umbrella stood in a wastebasket near the entrance to the living room. The kitchen was on the left.

Anna stiffened when she heard a noise from the bedroom in back. Was it possible? Had it all boon a mistake? Had the awful, mutilated body they’d found belonged to somebody else? Was there still a chance, still time for her to tell her brother that she loved him, that she cared? Was it not too late? She heard a stifled cry, a gasp, then the sound of bedsprings squeaking as if someone had stood up from a mattress, and the soft approach of footsteps up the hall. Any second she imagined the owner of those footfalls would appear, and it would be—had to be—her brother.

But it wasn’t.

It was a woman. In her mid-thirties. Very pale, very thin. Like someone who spent all her time in twilight and who shied away from sunshine. She looked quite ill and weak, like someone who’d been bedridden for some time, or someone shattered by grief. Her eyes were red and moist and it was obvious that she had been crying. Her hand went up to her mouth when she saw them, and her face turned red beneath the ghostly, unfading white, as if she had been expecting someone else. The blush in her cheeks stayed there for a few seconds, while she wiped her eyes in embarrassment and quickly extracted a handkerchief from her coat pocket to wipe her nose with. She wore a simple white blouse and a light brown skirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her mouth opened and closed, forming words, but no sound issued from her lips. Her eyes darted around the enclosure, as if checking the walls and ceiling for flies or spots of dust. She licked her mouth with a slim, supple tongue.

Anna moved a step closer, not sure herself of what to say. “I’m Anna Braddon.”

Paula Widdoes relaxed a bit at that, managing a sincere, if nervous smile. “Hello.” She held out her hand for Anna to take, then pulled it back suddenly, as if she had almost committed a nasty breach of etiquette. “I’m sorry. You must be wondering . . . My name is Paula Widdoes. I was a friend of your brother’s. I had a key to the place. I came here to . . . to . . .”

She couldn’t say any more. Suddenly she rushed at Anna and threw herself trembling and sobbing into her arms. “I’m so sorry,” she said, over and over. “I loved him. I loved your brother. I can’t believe . . . I just can’t believe it. He’s dead! Oh God, he’s dead!”

Anna comforted the woman as well as she could, leading her slowly but firmly into the living room, sitting down on the couch with her, her arms still around her. David stood by the side, watching them, seemingly aware that there was nothing to say and nothing to do. Whoever this woman was, she had been more than fond of Jeffrey Braddon.

“I came here just to feel near him,” Paula said, when she had recovered enough to speak. She pulled away slightly from Anna, apologizing again, dabbing at her eyes with the kerchief. “I can’t accept it, you see. No matter how hard I try, I can’t accept it. I was almost hoping I’d find him here, reading his magazines, sitting in front of the television, nibbling pretzels the way he used to. He didn’t have very large dreams, you see, not like some people. But does that mean that he had to die? I don’t understand, Anna. I don’t understand.”

Anna pulled her close and stroked her hair, and asked, “Is there something we can get you?”

“Some tea. Maybe some tea.” She whimpered so softly it was hard to hear her. David saw Anna start to rise, but waved her back. “I’ll get it,” he said. Anna realized he probably had offered to make the tea more out of fear of being left alone with Paula than out of an effort to be helpful. He’d probably had his fill of weeping women.

“I’m so sorry,” Paula said, trying to compose herself. “This is the last thing you need. It must be tough enough for you without having me around to complicate things.”

It was quite the opposite. Anna was glad to know that Jeffrey was being properly mourned by someone who really knew him and needed him, although she was sorry for Paula, of course. She said, “You’re not complicating things. I know Jeffrey meant something to you. I think his death has hurt you even more than it has me. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We lost contact some time ago, Jeffrey and I. I didn’t know that he had someone . . .”

“We were just friends,” Paula said quickly, too quickly. “Good friends.” She paused a moment and looked out into space.
“More
than friends. But we never decided to do anything about it. Nobody’s fault.” When Anna said nothing, she added, “I wasn’t trying to imply that I was his girlfriend or anything like that. I mean, Jeffrey was a very private person. I mean I—” The words had come rushing out, filling the air, closing the gap between them. “I wasn’t his fiancée or anything like that. I—” Paula put down her head and looked into her lap, brushing away some nonexistent piece of lint from her skirt. “I just loved him.”

Anna wondered if Paula’s love for her brother had been returned. She hoped so. If it hadn’t, she thought morbidly, then Jeffrey’s death might have been the best thing that could have happened as far as the woman was concerned. She would have been doomed to pine away for a man who lived, yet did not love her. Now Paula would be free to find someone else. Yet, what if she gave up the search altogether, and spent the rest of her life longing for the presence, the caress, of a corpse? Forever haunted by what might have been? Wouldn’t that be even worse? Anna erased the train of thought from her mind. It was sick to think like that, sick to even suggest with unspoken words that her brother’s death was for “the best” in any way, shape or manner.

“I’m very sorry I intruded here,” Paula continued. “I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to sit here, to look at his things, to feel him. To feel his presence. It’s captured in everything he possessed, in everything he touched. It’s almost as if he were still alive, about to come home any moment, to step in that front door. I know that won’t happen. But I can sit here and pretend, can almost feel him all around me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t intrude.” Anna squeezed Paula’s hand gently with her own, again ashamed that she had barely known the man that this woman had felt, still felt, such passion for. This stranger had known her brother so much better than she had. She felt a stab of regret, of loss, aware too late of what she had missed. “Is there anything of Jeffrey’s you’d like to keep? I thought I might go through his things while I was up here. I won’t have any use for . . .” She regretted her words immediately, afraid that they’d sounded too harsh, to unfeeling. “Is there something that might mean something to you?”

Paula shook her head. “No. No, thank you. He gave me gifts, keepsakes, that I’ve kept at home. That will be enough.” She looked like she was about to cry again. She got up quickly, sudden tears streaming down her face. “Please forgive me. I’ve got to go. Apologize to the gentleman for me.” She grabbed up a white bag that had been lying on a table near the sofa and dashed out the front door, off the stoop and into her blue station wagon. David came back into the living room when he heard the sound of her car driving away. Anna explained what had happened.

“Well, the tea is ready anyway. Care for a cup?”

“Yes, I think I’d like that.”

They sat in the kitchen, a small and cheery place with a big window that let in the sunlight. It was an ambience at odds with their mood. Anna expressed her sympathy for Paula, verbalizing the thoughts she had had while comforting the woman. David simply listened and sipped his hot tea, appreciating Anna’s beauty even now. “This is going to be quite a job,” she was saying. “Packing up Jeffrey’s belongings. I don’t know what I’ll do with them.”

“Go through them. See what you want to keep. Put the rest in storage until you figure out what to do with it. Even if you don’t sell the house you can’t just leave everything lying around.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. It will take a while, though.”

“You might as well do it while you’re up here, Anna. If you think you can handle it. If you want to stay for a day or two that would be all right with me.”

“Oh, David, I couldn’t impose on you.”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t mind. I’d be with you, right?” He smiled and took her hand, then kissed it. “You might need help, a little moral support.”

“There’s no hurry. I could come up here again.”

“It’s up to you. I’ve got nothing to rush back to the city for. Nothing at all.”

She swallowed half of the tea in her cup and licked her lips. “I couldn’t ask you to stay for such a dreary task, sorting through Jeffrey’s things with me. That’s something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

“I said I don’t mind.”

Anna thought it over for a minute. “Well, maybe we’ll stay overnight. Go out and get something to eat. But we won’t stay here,” she said determinedly. “We’ll get a hotel room. I brought all my credit cards so there’s no problem with the expenses.”

David kept silent, wondering when the humiliation of letting her pay for everything would end. “All right,” Anna concluded. “We’ll stay overnight. But I won’t have you stuck in here digging through my brother’s effects. I can do that myself. Why don’t you go for a drive, go into town, see a movie? No need for you to be us depressed as I am.”

A chill went up his spine at the thought of driving her car, driving
any
car, even that short distance into town. He just wasn’t ready for it. He had thought that he would have been by the time they’d arrived in Milbourne, but the old icy fear still gripped him and he was positive that he would freeze behind the wheel. Maybe if she went with him? But no, she wanted to stay and go through Jeffrey’s things. She had used a polite excuse before, but the fact was that she wanted—needed—to be alone.

“Maybe I’ll walk into town,” David said. “I could use the exercise.” Immediately he thought about the distance and wondered how his gimpy leg would fare. That was a factor he’d have to worry about later. Aside from the pain, he seemed able to get around and walk for blocks without problems in the city. He saw no reason to think things would be different out here.

He kissed her goodbye, both of them holding back, as if too strong or deep a kiss would be improper in such a somber atmosphere, an affront to Jeffrey’s memory.

He walked across the ragged front lawn with its brown patches and tire treads and started on the long lonely walk towards town.

Chief Walters was nothing if not a creature of impulse.

He was out at the campsite where the four teenagers had disappeared, when he found himself thinking again of the morning meeting with Anna Braddon and her boyfriend. After all—there was nothing more he could do about those youngsters. The search parties were still out, combing the woods in ever-widening circles, still concentrating on the southeastern end of the forest. Nothing had turned up. A few more people had set up halfheartedly through the mountain on the path undertaken earlier by Sam Withers and his group, believing that if the kids were anywhere, they were there, but they’d come back before completing the journey. Withers and Co. were still on the mountain. The general feeling was still the same: The kids had hitchhiked or walked to another town, leaving the cars to throw off the scent. Walters was fast losing interest with it all. The patrolmen could handle matters. He was more concerned with Jeffrey Braddon’s death.

He drove back to the office and once there started to pace. He ignored Old Tony and Cecelia as they pleaded with him to get a copy of Anna Braddon’s autograph. He felt impotent, tied down, stuck at the station while Jeff Braddon’s body was prodded and probed by the coroner. Something funny was going on. He had always wondered about their coroner’s credentials—virtually
anyone
could get appointed to the office—and the way he stalled over the Braddon boy made him wonder if he knew what he was doing? How many autopsies would it take to find out why he died? He thought again of that half-eaten body and grimaced.

He had been planning to take his men and have a good look in those tunnels and find out where they led—he might pick up a clue or two—but those teenagers’ disappearance, and other matters, had gotten in the way. They’d only had time to bring the body to the surface. Boy—had
that
been unpleasant!

Something
had gnawed away half of Braddon’s body. He told himself that it must have been rats or some other cave creatures that would probably leave you alone unless you were already injured or dead. In that case, there was nothing to fear underground except the occasional resurgence of his nagging, but controllable claustrophobia.