The Skull Ring (2 page)

"Okay if I go in the bedroom?" he asked.

He probably found some embarrassing things in his job. He went into private places, patched things where secrets hid. But Julia had no secrets there, not much to blush about in her bedroom. No ceiling mirrors, no bedside sex toys, no leather straps or chains dangling from the bedposts.

Just a crazy clock that was stuck on 4:06.

"Go ahead," she said. "Can I make you a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks, ma'am. I don't want to put you to no trouble."

"It's no trouble. I'm going to make some anyway. I only want a cup or two, though."

"Well, in that case, I'd appreciate some to go. I got my thermos out in the Jeep."

Julia busied herself in the kitchen, whistling as she filled the pot. She didn't glance over her shoulder, even though the urge was strong. With the water running in the sink, he could sneak right up behind, reach out his long, long fingers—

She twisted the tap angrily. Tears filled her eyes. Her lip quivered.

It owned her.

Maybe it—the fear, the darkness, The Creep—wouldn't take her this morning, but she knew it was out there.

No, not out there. In
here
.

In her head.

The worst place of all. This was an inside job all the way. The monster rummaged in the rooms of her mind, hid in cramped closets, staked out the shadowed corners of her psyche. What scared her most was the knowledge that she had built that monster herself, bit by bit, sewn it from scraps of memory and the threads of what-if, imagined it to life. The cellar of her head-house was a Frankenstein laboratory for bringing strange creatures to life.

No monster had spread those blocks on her coffee table, had spelled out that name. Because everybody knew that monsters weren't real. Especially Dr. Forrest.

She started the coffee maker. Her therapist in Memphis told her to lay off the caffeine. Dr. Lance Danner. Lance. Freud could have had a field day with that name. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar and a lance was just a lance.

Dr. Danner also told her that, although they had been progressing in the therapy, a move was probably a good thing for her. He'd encouraged her to take the job in Elkwood, depressurize, embrace a rural lifestyle. Dr. Danner even made a referral to a doctor here that Julia felt comfortable with, touting it as “a continuum of care.” Mitchell had been against her leaving, but his possessiveness had only made Julia more determined. If she was ever going to show him she was a big girl, now was the time.

Big girls don’t cry, though.

Julia wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She was glad she didn't wear make-up, because the streaks would show. Not that she cared much what the handyman thought of her. She definitely wasn't out to appear attractive to anyone, especially a potential Creep in a Jeep.

She took her cup of coffee to the living room, picked up the magazine, put it down again. She stared out the window at the red, purple, and yellow of the changing leaves. The mountains were comforting despite their mystery. The ancient ridges of the Appalachians rolled out like soft ocean waves, in a rhythm that promised protection and peace.

The buildings of Memphis had been suffocating, the giant walls looming, dense traffic like a herd of sulfur-spewing demons. The hot jaws of the city nipped at her heels with every step, hounded her, gnashed steel-and-concrete teeth at her. A million Creeps lurked in the alleys, two million eyes followed her every move. Memphis would have chewed her, ground her bones to powder, swallowed her.

The move here had not been a mistake. For the first time in his exalted reign, Mitchell had been wrong, though Mitchell would never admit it.

"All done, ma'am," said the handyman, coming back into the living room. "The locks are all sound, and you shouldn't get any bad drafts come winter."

"Great.” She reached for her purse on the floor beside her. Her foot kicked one of the blocks and it rolled to Walter's feet.

"You a schoolteacher?" he asked.

"No, I write for the
Courier-Times
. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Mister Webster pays me. Repairs are the landlord's responsibility."

She thought about tipping, decided against it. These mountain folks were proud about such things. Far different from the grabby people in the city. Instead, she said, "Let me get that coffee for you. Soy creamer’s all I got. Me and dairy disagree."

"That would be fine, ma’am. I'll go get my thermos. I have to check a couple more things outside first."

He went out the open front door. When he reappeared several minutes later, he was without his tool belt. He gave her the thermos and waited by the door.

"Say, did you know your clock was messed up?" he asked when she returned with the filled thermos.

"My clock?"

"Yeah, in the bedroom. It was stuck on 4:06 the whole time I was in there."

She had unplugged the clock. Hadn't she?

She smiled to disguise the icy rush that shot through her veins. "Thanks for telling me. It's been acting up lately. Guess I'll have to get another one."

"Yeah. Never heard of a digital clock doing that. Usually they just blink or go dark."

"Stuck in time."
Just like me.
The smile felt painted on her face, like a dime-store mannequin's.

“Keeps you young,” he said. “Growing old is for people who give up too soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the work."

"Sure. You need anything else, ask for me. Walter." He smiled again as he reminded her of his name. It wasn't a come-on smile. It was a friendly smile, with slightly crooked teeth, the kind you could trust.

No, that's not true. You can't trust ANY smile. Because every smile has teeth behind it.

She almost gave him her name then decided against it. "Okay, Walter."

“You found a church yet?”

“Pardon me?”

“Church. It can be hard to settle in to a new place.” He looked at her with inquisitor’s eyes, as if he had a personal stake in her soul. She resented the notion that he saw her as a chance to bank some goodwill and capital in some heavenly coffer.

“I’m set.” She smiled, the conditioned reflex of people being mindlessly civil to acquaintances. He’d been kind to her and was probably just extending a small-town politeness. She owed him better than a bland brush-off, and her thoughts were already drifting into the dark cracks of the past.

“Have a good day, Miss Stone.” Walter waved and headed for the Jeep, humming a country-tinged tune. Julia closed the door.

Now she was alone.

No, not alone. Inside with the Creep.

The Creep was always in the house, no matter where she lived.

CHAPTER TWO

The phone bleated in a slaughter of electric sheep.

She had two phones, one in the living room, one by the bed. Perhaps overkill for a three-room house, but she liked to have one within reach if she couldn’t find the cell. In case of emergencies.

Julia started down the hall so she could lie on the bed while she chatted, remembering the frozen clock. She couldn't face that right now. She picked up the phone on the coffee table and flopped onto the sofa.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Julia." The voice on the end of the line was buoyant and brimming with self-confidence.

"Mitchell," she said, unsure whether she was glad to hear from him or not.

"What's going on, honey?"

She winced at the rote, nearly toneless endearment. "Nothing."

"Great." There was a pause, the quiet hiss of eight hundred miles.

"So . . . what's new?" Julia finally asked.

"The usual."

That was the trouble with Mitchell. The usual was always new to him. "Working on any interesting cases?"

"Yeah, come to think of it. I've got a beaut. This woman owns a piece of land, right? Inherited it from her father, been in the family since Reconstruction. Ugly stretch, half swamp and half hill, forty acres. So this developer makes her an offer so he can build a strip mall."

"Just what Memphis needs," she heard herself saying.

Mitchell didn't catch her sarcasm. "Exactly. This woman wants to keep it, maybe turn it into an organic garden, or heaven forbid, a natural habitat. Jesus, conservation easements are the tool of the Devil. Well, the Board of Adjustment votes to zone the property for commercial use, claiming the area is—let's see . . . ."

Julia heard the rustling of papers. Mitchell must be at his office on General Pickett Avenue, the one with the view of Beale Street. From his window, he could watch the tourists and the busking blues musicians clog the sidewalks. Most of the modern Memphis bluesmasters knew only the blues of a bad day at the stock market.

"Here it is," Mitchell said, his words coming out faster in his excitement. "This is classic. The Board ruled that the property was, quote, 'in an area of urban development of vital interest to the municipality's extraterritorial jurisdiction.' And the property's three miles from the city limits."

"Poor woman. How can she afford to pay you?" Mitchell billed hourly in the high triple figures.

He laughed, that silk-tie, champagne-etched laugh that sometimes made her skin crawl. "She can't afford anybody. She's got the ACLU. We're going to feed them their lunch. The developer is picking up my tab to work as a consultant to the city attorneys."

Of course. Mitchell would be on the side of big business, fat money, legal tender that was more immoral than legal and about as tender as a metal-toed boot. The worst part of it was that his cockiness appealed to her sick, weak nature, an addiction that even distance couldn’t break. He was a Leo, through and through, his lion a voracious predator to her moody Gemini.

"But enough about me," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Really."

"Really?"

Had a note of concern crept into his voice? She gave him the benefit of a doubt. "Yes. The people at the office are really nice. It's refreshing to cover community issues, the school board and that sort of thing, instead of working the crime beat."

"Good. You know I never wanted you to mess around in all that murder and stuff. I love this city, but it's really gone to hell ever since—"

"How are your parents?" she asked, before he could rant about crime and taxes and the lower class.

"My parents are doing really well. They're up at Martha's Vineyard right now." At one of their four seasonal houses. Christmas in Boca Raton, Easter in Santa Monica, Fourth of July in Boulder, slumming in Yankee country through Halloween.

"Tell them I said hello."

"Sure. You know, they'd love to hear from you. They ask about you all the time. You’re practically family, you know."

"Maybe I'll give them a call," she lied. If she called, they'd use the M-word. Every woman needed a diamond for validation, and a gold ring to seal the deal. That was as certain as the rising sun, increasing property taxes, and Mitchell's cologne being made by Jovan.

"So, how's your new doctor?"

"Good. Really good. We're making progress."

Mitchell sighed. "You were making progress four years ago, with Lance what's-his-name."

Mitchell hid his jealousy so poorly. He assumed that any man that got a woman on the couch was automatically on top of her within fifteen minutes.

No, only YOU, Mitchell
.
Besides, nobody lies down for therapy anymore. That went out with assembly-line frontal lobotomies and Mesmerism.

She said, "I feel like we're close to a breakthrough. I'm feeling much better. I don't . . . ."

—
get the Creeps?
—

" . . . suffer from as much anxiety. I think the mountains are helping me. They make me feel safe."

To his credit, Mitchell didn't laugh. "If you'd let me buy you a gun—"

"Are the leaves changing there?"

"Leaves?"

"On the trees."

"Hold on. Let me look."

"Never mind."

"When are you going to let me come see you?"

"Soon."

"How soon? You said August. It's already football season."

"Soon," she repeated. "I just  . . . want to be ready, that's all."

She could almost hear his thoughts, see his handsome eyebrows raised in perplexity.
Women. Why can't they make up their minds? If I have to wait for Julia to get her head together, I'll be old and gray and Mr. Happy won't be able to jump up and do his little dance of joy anymore.

"You know I love you, Julia."

She nodded at the phone. Her eyes were fixed down the hallway, on the bedroom entrance. The handyman had left the door open, but he must have closed the curtains because the room was dark. She thought again of the clock and those red numerals stuck on 4:06.

The handyman had seen those numerals. But she had unplugged the clock. She was sure, just as she'd been sure she'd locked the door.