The Laura Cardinal Novels (101 page)

She took his hand. “We could try, couldn't we?”

The box sat on top of a stack of board games and puzzles set into a deep cardboard box that acted as a bin. The games were true cabin fare, part of the collective lore of cabins and beach houses everywhere: the plates were Melmac, there was a tin of cocoa and a bag of marshmallows in the kitchen cupboard, and mosquito repellent on the toilet tank in the bathroom. And board games for those long nights without television.

Steve remembered that there had always been a jigsaw puzzle up on a card table in the little living room when he and his sisters used to stay here. Now they were all in the big box. He had stacked the games there some time in the last few days, although he couldn't remember exactly when. Sheer coincidence that the Ouija board was up top.

Do you . . . Wee-gee?

The surfaces of the boxes the games came in wore a layer of dust. The boxes were old but looked new because they were so rarely opened. For a moment, as Steve lifted the Ouija board box out of the bin, it seemed heavier than it should be—it felt as if there were a gravitational pull. He wondered at that moment if this was a bad idea.

But even as this thought flitted through his mind, the box suddenly came up easily in his hands, as if it had been released by a reluctant giver. He walked it to the desk and cleared a space, and the two of them pulled up chairs.

Steve and his sisters had played with their grandfather's “talking board” a few times, then, as children do, lost interest. Steve didn't realize until he pulled the board out of the box that it was very, very old. The box was newer, but the board itself was ancient, with a maple finish that had darkened to tobacco brown. The picture on the box didn't match the board itself.

“Ouija knows the answers,” Julie read out loud from a piece of paper that had come with the board. Steve barely heard her as she intoned the message from William Fuld, inviting the American people to enter the “strange, twilight world of Ouija, the Wonderful Talking Board.” Some of the words caught in the net of his hearing: “weird,” “mysterious,” “mind-reading,” “Hindu magic.”

At the top of the board were a sun on the left and a half moon on the right. To the inside of the sun and moon, a “Yes” on the left, a “No” on the right. The letters of the alphabet spelled two arcs across the center, numbers up to ten (although the “ten” was a “zero”) beneath that. At the bottom, were the words “Goodbye.”

The board was patented in 1920.

“I think this is an original Fuld,” Julie said. “This could be worth a lot of money.”

Steve spoke without thinking. “You can have it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I was going to throw it out anyway. Take it with you when we're done.”

She looked as if she wanted to kiss him, but they weren't close enough. She scooted her chair closer. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat went dry.

“To do this right,” Julie said, “We need to face each other and put the board on our laps.”

They did so. Steve was aware of their knees touching. He didn't like it. Didn't want this to end up like the other night. He didn't want sex to bind them together anymore.

He cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

“You know how. Put your fingers on the planchette.”

He rested his fingers lightly on the planchette, opposite Julie's fingers.

Just then Jake stood up and padded over to them. He put his nose on the board, looking first at Steve and then at Julie. Made a noise high in his throat.

At that moment, Steve wondered if fooling around with the Ouija board could take them in a bad direction. He'd read something about Ouija boards, unsettling stuff about how it summoned evil spirits. That if you screwed around too much and didn't take it seriously, you could get in over your head. He'd also read that it was all fakery, that the only force moving the planchette was inside the people whose fingers were on it. There was a name for it—the ideomotor effect. He wasn't sure what the truth was.

He might be tempting fate.

But something inside made him want to continue.

Jake pushed his nose under the board and the planchette toppled to the floor. As if he were saying, “Better forget about this, pal.”

Julie picked up the planchette and put it back on the board. Steve hesitated.

“Steve?”

He put his fingertips back on the planchette.

“I'll ask a question,” Julie said.

“Fine with me.”

“Oh great and willing spirit, I respectfully ask you to answer our questions. Are you present to answer any questions we may have?”

Steve supposed there was a mating dance to any relationship, even one as ridiculous as two people to a Ouija board.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Steve could hear the clock ticking into the silence. It must have been at least five minutes. “Jules, this thing isn't going to—“

That was when the planchette moved. Tentatively, at first, trembling under their fingertips. Picking up speed and smoothness, though, as it spelled out the letters. H - E - L -

Hello
.

Profound.

“Good,” said Julie. “We've contacted a spirit. Willing spirit, will you tell us what we want to know?”

The planchette was more than willing now—it quickly skewed over to the word “Yes.”

Julie paused, her fingers lightly touching the planchette, looking like a concert pianist about to start a concerto. “What should we ask?” she whispered to him.

Steve shrugged.

“How about I ask who killed the girl?”

No time like the present. He nodded.

Julie intoned the words, asking for the spirit to grant the answer.

The planchette stayed where it was. After a certain period of time, it was clear the planchette wasn't going to move at all.

“What does that mean?” Steve asked.

Julie frowned. “I don't know. Maybe it just doesn't want to answer the question.” She added, “Spirit, do you want to answer the question?”

The planchette jerked, then hurtled over to the word, “No.”

“Why don't you want to answer the question?”

The planchette spelled the words out slowly. “There is no reason.”

“There is no reason? What kind of jerkwater reply is that?” Steve asked.

“Are you sure? There isn't a reason or there is a reason?” Julie asked.

This time the planchette cruised over to “Yes.”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve said.

“Is it yes or is it no?” Julie asked.

“Should I stay or should I go?” Steve sang.

The planchette shuddered, then started moving, looping from letter to letter: YOU MUST STAY AWAY.

They looked at each other. It seemed to Steve that the room had grown colder. He realized that the lights were dimmer, too, that the shadows in the corners seemed darker. There seemed to be a mass to them, the darkness seething with things he couldn't see.

It felt as if a door had opened, and a cold wind he sensed but could not feel had come through the corridor. He knew it; it was the presence of evil.

Or
, he thought quickly,
it's just my imagination
.

“Why must we stay away?” asked Julie.

IT WILL BE BAD.

Julie bit her lip and looked at Steve. “I'm getting a not-so-good feeling about this,” she said.

I'm getting a not-so-good feeling about this.
Julie spoke these words out loud, and she meant them. Why had she suggested this? The Ouija board had never really been her thing; she had known people who had become consumed by it. Whether or not it was a dangerous force from outside, or something they projected themselves, she had heard some wild stories.

One group of friends she knew had fooled around with the board, not taking it seriously, until an evil spirit had told them that one of them would die in a car accident. It had not happened . . . yet.

Julie didn't know why she had suggested they do this in the first place. She'd been warned about Ouija boards plenty of times. But when she saw it in the box, sitting there on top like that, it just sort of . . . called out to her.

The idea had come to her that she could ask the Ouija board about their relationship, if it would work out. Even if there was nothing to the “talking board,” she'd thought she might get an answer because Steve would be on the other side of the planchette, and his subconscious would speak.

But she'd chickened out.

She realized now, she didn't want to know.

She didn't want to know because on some level, she already did know.

Outside, watching the stars, Julie had gotten the feeling that he was about to say something. Something she didn't want to hear. And so to circumvent that, she'd suggested the Ouija board.

But now her stomach had knotted up, and she felt something strange and cold on her back, along her shoulders, on her neck. A bad feeling, as if cold, murky, toxic gas were seeping into her pores.

IT WILL BE BAD.

“Why will it be bad?” she asked aloud.

Nothing. The planchette remained motionless on the board. She looked at Steve.

Steve was staring straight ahead. Looking right through her, beyond her. He looked different. His face was slack. It made her think of a wax likeness—perfect in every way, but inanimate.

“Steve?”

No reaction. The light bouncing off his gold rims.

She waved a hand in front of his face.

“Don't come down here,” he said.

She knew he wasn't addressing her. She looked behind her, but saw only the window, the reflection of the two of them at the Ouija board.

Abruptly, Steve rose to his feet. The board slipping off, clattering to the floor. “Stay there. Don't come down here!”

Julie looked from Steve to the window.

Thought she saw something in the reflection.

Just a movement.

Just a shape.

No. Nothing.

“Don't you do that!” Steve said sharply. Then he sat down hard on the chair.

Blinked. Looked at Julie. Said, “What happened?”

“You don't remember?” Julie asked him.

“Remember what?” Steve glanced at his feet. “Why's that thing on the floor?” He rubbed his forehead. An ache starting over one eye—the beginning of a migraine? Or the wine?

Julie said, “You were talking to someone.”

“I was?” Fear, sudden and all-encompassing, punched through him. “What did I say?”

Julie repeated it for him.

Stay there. Don't come down here. Don't do that!

He rubbed the ache above his eye. “I did? I don't remember saying anything.”

“Do you remember what the Ouija board said?”

IT WILL BE BAD. He remembered that. He nodded.

“Do you have any idea what you were talking about? Who you were talking to?”

“No.”

Julie paused. “I saw something. You were staring past me at the window, and for just a minute, I thought I saw something.”

“What?”

“I don't know.”

He pressed his thumb into his eyebrow, trying to contain the pain. The pain was everything; he couldn't think. And that was when he blurted it out. “You saw the girl?”

Julie looked confused. “Who?”

He realized what he'd said. “Nobody. It's nothing. I've got a really bad headache.”

“Was somebody else here?” Julie got up and went to the window, her reflection coming to her until they joined. He watched as she shielded her eyes with both palms and stared out into the dark. “I don't see anyone.”

She turned to look at him. “Steve, what's going on?”

“Nothing's going on. I have this headache, that's all.”

“Steve, I
know
you. Who did you see? Was she peeking in through the window? Was it that detective you were telling me about?”

“No.”

“Steve . . . ”

He knew what was coming. Julie never gave up once she wanted to know something. She would stay at it, like a terrier after a rat. Digging, digging, digging.

He thought about it. If he was going to tell anyone, Julie was the one to tell. Hell, she
believed
in this stuff. She'd see it as something to embrace.

And, finally, someone else would know. He wouldn't have to carry this burden by himself.

He realized suddenly that this was why he had been willing to play with the Ouija board.

He had wanted her to know
.

Correction: he'd wanted
someone
to know.

And so he told her.

The Dark Ride

“What happened to your sling?” Jaime asked Laura as they walked out to his car. They were on their way to see Clinton Purvis.

“I took it off.”

“Now you can't be one of the Broken Wing Sisters anymore.”

“So how's Christine doing?”

“Still on me to do a ride-along.”

“Why don't you just do it?”

“What do I do with her if I get called out to a homicide? Not to mention, her mother's still mad at me. But Chris is determined—she's gonna be a cop no matter what.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

This time Jaime drove. The air conditioner had given up completely, so they rode with the windows open. The seats offered no lumbar support. Laura finally stuck her purse between the small of her back and the seat back.

“So give me the details,” Jaime said.

“Yesterday morning, Heywood showed up at Sandy's apartment, and they ended up fighting.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So he wanted his stuff back.”

“You mean the suitcase, right? The one with his trophies.”

“Right.”

“How'd she manage to hide it from him?”

“She told him she had given all his stuff to Goodwill the
last
time he walked out on her. But I guess he saw through that. Maybe something she said when they were getting along, or at least hinted at.”

According to Detective Waddell, Heywood had flown into a rage. Laura could understand that. His wife had thrown away the most important single thing in his life. She pictured him, touching his trophies and reliving his time with the girls. If for no other reason, the fact that Sandy had denied him this pleasure made her a hero in Laura's book.