The White Road-CP-4 (17 page)

“Boy,” he whispered, “I warned you. I warned you to keep your pets under control.”

From close by came a sound that might have been the hissing of steam or an exhalation of barely restrained rage.

And in his own cell, half asleep, the remembered smell of damp earth flooding his senses, Cyrus Nairn stirred as another voice was added to the chorus in his head. This one had been coming to him more and more regularly in the previous weeks, ever since he and the preacher had begun to communicate and share the details of their lives. Cyrus now welcomed the stranger’s arrival, feeling him stretch searching tendrils through his mind, establishing his presence and silencing the others.

Hello, said Cyrus, hearing in his head his own voice, the one no one else had heard in so many years, and signing his words by habit with his fingers.

Hello Cyrus, the visitor responded.

Cyrus smiled. He wasn’t sure what to call the visitor, because the visitor had lots of names, old names that Cyrus had never heard spoken before. But there were two that he used more than others.

Sometimes he called himself Leonard.

Mostly he called himself Pudd.

7

T HAT NIGHT RACHEL watched me, unspeaking, while I undressed.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked at last.

I lay down beside her and felt her move in close to me, her belly touching my upper thigh. I placed my hand upon her and tried to sense the life inside.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Great. Only puked a little this morning.” She grinned and poked me. “But then I came in and kissed ya!”

“Lovely. It’s a testament to your personal hygiene that I didn’t notice it being any more unpleasant than usual.”

Rachel pinched me hard at the waist, then raised her hand so that she could run it through my hair. “Well? You still haven’t answered my question.”

“He said that he wanted me—us, I guess, since you’ll be called too—to withdraw from the case and refuse to testify. In return, he promised to let us be.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No, and even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything. Stan Ornstead has doubts about my suitability as a witness, but I think he’s just edgy and those doubts really don’t extend to you anyway. We’ll be testifying whether we want to or not, but I got the feeling that Faulkner didn’t really care about our testimony and that he was pretty certain of making bail after the review. I don’t understand why he called me to him except to taunt me. Maybe he’s so bored in prison that he thought I’d provide some amusement.”

“And did you?”

“A little, but he’s kind of easily amused. There were other things too: his cell is freezing, Rachel. It’s almost as if his body is drawing all the warmth from its surroundings. And he baited one of the guards about a relationship with a young girl.”

“Gossip?”

“No. The guard reacted like he’d been struck in the face. I don’t think he’d shared that information with anybody. According to Faulkner, the girl is underage, and the guard confirmed as much to me later.”

“What are you going to do?”

“About the girl? I asked Stan Ornstead to set something in motion. That’s all I can do.”

“So what’s your conclusion about Faulkner? That he’s psychic?”

“No, not psychic. I don’t think there’s a word for what Faulkner is. Before I left him, he spit at me. Actually, he spit into my mouth.”

I felt her stiffen.

“Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel about it too. There isn’t enough mouthwash in the world to take that one away.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He told me it would help me to see better.”

“See what better?”

This was delicate ground. I almost told her then: about the black car, about the things on the prison walls, about the visions of lost children that I’d had in the past, about Susan and Jennifer visiting me from some place beyond. I so badly wanted to tell her, but I could not, and I did not understand why this should be. She sensed some of it, I thought, but chose not to ask. And if she had asked, how could I have explained it to her? I was still unsure myself about the nature of the gift that I had. I did not like to think that something in me drew these lost souls to me. It was easier, sometimes, to try to believe that it was a psychological disturbance, not a psychic one. I was tempted too to call Elliot Norton and tell him that his troubles were his own, that I wanted no part of them, but I had made a promise to him. And as long as Faulkner remained behind bars, awaiting a decision on his bail, I believed that Rachel would be safe. Faulkner, I felt certain, would do nothing that might endanger the possibility of his release. The black car was another matter. It was neither a dream, nor a reality. It was as if, for a brief moment, something that resided in a blind spot of my vision had drifted into sight, that a slight alteration of perception had permitted me to see that which usually existed unseen. And, for reasons that I did not fully understand, I believed that the car, real or imagined, did not represent a direct threat. Its purpose was more indistinct, its symbolism more ambiguous. Still, the thought that the Scarborough PD would be watching the house provided an added consolation, even if I thought it unlikely that police officers would be reporting sightings of a battered black Coupe de Ville.

There was also the matter of Roger Bowen. No good could come of a confrontation with him, but I was curious to see him, maybe to dig around a little and see what I could come up with. Most of all I felt a convergence of events, of which Elliot Norton’s case was a distinct yet linked part. I’m not a great believer in coincidence. I have found in the past that what passes for coincidence is usually life’s way of telling you that you’re not paying enough attention.

“He thinks the dead talk to him,” I said at last. “He thinks that there are deformed angels hovering above Thomaston prison. That’s what he wanted me to see.”

“And did you see them?”

I looked at her. She wasn’t smiling.

“I saw ravens,” I answered. “Scores of huge ravens. And before you consider making me sleep in the spare room, I wasn’t the only one that saw them.”

“I don’t doubt you,” said Rachel. “Nothing you could tell me about that old man would surprise me. Even locked up he gives me the creeps.”

“I don’t have to go away,” I told her. “I can stay here.”

“I don’t want you to stay here,” she replied. “That wasn’t what I meant. Give it to me straight: are we at risk?”

I thought about it. “I don’t think so. In the end, nothing’s going to happen until his lawyers appeal the bail decision. After that, we’ll have to reconsider. For now, the Scarborough PD’s guardian angel role is just a safeguard, although they may need a little unofficial backup.”

She opened her mouth to raise some fresh objection, but I covered her lips gently with my hand. Her eyes narrowed in reproach.

“Look, it’s as much for my sake as yours. If it comes it won’t be conspicuous or obtrusive, but I’ll sleep a little easier for it.”

I lifted my hand slightly from her mouth and prepared myself for the tirade. Her lips parted and I pressed my hand down again. She let out a resigned sigh, her shoulders sagging in defeat. This time, I took my hand away completely and kissed her on the lips. She didn’t respond at first, then I felt her lips part and her tongue move cautiously against mine. Her mouth opened wider, and I moved against her.

“Are you using sex to get what you want?” she asked, her breath catching a little as my hand brushed the inside of her thigh.

I raised my eyebrows in a poor imitation of hurt.

“Of course not,” I assured her. “I’m a man. Sex is what I want.”

I could taste her laughter on my tongue as we gently began the slow dance together.

In blackness I awoke. There was no car waiting, yet the road seemed newly empty. I left the bedroom and walked softly down to the kitchen. I could no longer sleep. When I reached the final steps, I saw that Walt was sitting in the doorway to the living room. His ears were erect and his tail was beating slowly on the floor. He looked at me once, then returned his attention to the room beyond. When I scratched at his ear, he didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on a patch of darkness in the corner, denied light by the thick drapes but darker yet than it should have been, like a hole torn between worlds.

Something in that darkness had drawn the dog close to it.

I found the only weapon to hand—the letter opener on the coatstand—and palmed it, then stepped into the room, conscious of my nakedness.

“Who’s there?” I asked. At my feet, Walt let out a little whine, but it was more excitement than fear. I moved closer to the darkness.

And a hand emerged.

It was a woman’s hand, very white. Three horizontal wounds had been torn upon it so deeply that I could see the exposed bones in the fingers. The wounds were old, gray brown within, and the skin had hardened around them. There was no blood. The hand extended farther, palm facing out, fingers raised,

stop

and I knew that these wounds were only the first, that she had lifted up her hands against the blade but it had made its way to her face and her body despite them, and there were more cuts like this upon her, made unto death and beyond.

please

I stopped.

Who are you?

you’re looking for me

Cassie?

i felt you looking for me

Where are you?

lost

What can you see?

nothing

dark

Who did this to you? Who is he?

not one

many in one

Then I heard a whispering begin, and other voices joined with her own. cassie let me speak let me talk to him cassie will he help us does he know cassie does he know my name cassie can he tell me my name cassie cassie can he take me away from here cassie i want to go home please i’m lost cassie please i want to go home

please

Cassie, who are they?

i don’t know

i can’t see them

but they’re all here

he put us all here

Then, from behind me, a hand touched my bare shoulder, and Rachel was beside me, her breasts against my back, the feel of the sheets cool against my skin. The voices were fading, barely audible, yet desperate and insistent.

please

And in her sleep, Rachel’s brow furrowed and she whispered softly:

“Please.”

8

I FLEW OUT of the Portland Jetport the next morning. It was early Sunday and the roads were still quiet when Rachel dropped me at the door of the terminal building. I had already called Wallace MacArthur to confirm that I was leaving and had passed on my cell phone and hotel numbers to him. Rachel had arranged a date for him with a friend of hers named Mary Mason, who lived out at Pine Point. Rachel knew her from the local Audubon Society and figured that she and Wallace would probably get along pretty well. Wallace had taken the trouble to check out her photo through the BMV and had professed himself pleased with his prospective mate.

“She looks good,” he told me.

“Yeah, well don’t get too cocky. She hasn’t seen you yet.”

“What’s not to love?”

“You have a pretty healthy self-image, Wallace. In anyone else it would come across as smugness, but you manage to pull it off.”

There was a noticeable pause before he asked:

“Seriously?”

Rachel leaned across and kissed me on the lips. I held her head close to mine.

“You take care of yourself,” she said.

“You too. You got your cell phone?”

She dutifully raised her phone from her bag.

“And you’re going to leave it on?”

She nodded.

“All the time?”

Pursed lips. Shrug. Reluctant nod.

“I’ll be calling to check.”

She punched me on the arm. “Go get on your plane. There are flight attendants waiting to be charmed.”

“Seriously?” I said, and instantly wondered if I had more in common with Wallace MacArthur than was really healthy.

She smiled. “Yep. You need all the practice you can get.”

Louis once told me that the New South was like the Old South, except everybody was ten pounds heavier. He was probably kind of bitter, and he certainly wasn’t a fan of South Carolina, often considered the most redneck state in the South after Mississippi and Alabama, although it had managed its racial affairs in a slightly more developed way. When Harvey Gantt became the first black student to go to Clemson College in South Carolina, the legislature, rather than opting for blockades and guns, grudgingly accepted that the time for change had come. Still, it was in Orangeburg, South Carolina, in 1968 that three black students were killed during demonstrations outside the whites-only All Star Bowling Alley; anyone over forty in South Carolina had probably gone to a segregated school; and there were still those who believed that the Confederate flag should fly over the state capitol in Columbia. Now they were naming lakes after Strom Thurmond, as if segregation had never happened.

I flew into Charleston International via Charlotte, which seemed to be a kind of clearinghouse for the runts of evolution and a dumping ground for the worst fashion excesses of the polyester industry. Fleetwood Mac was playing on the jukebox in the Taste of Carolina saloon, where overweight men in shorts and T-shirts drank light beers in a fog of cigarette smoke, the women beside them feeding quarters into the poker machines that stood on the polished wood of the bar. A man with a tattoo of a skull in joker’s regalia on his left arm gave me a hard look from where he sat, splay-legged, at a low table, the neck of his T-shirt soaked with sweat. I held his gaze until he belched and looked away with a studiedly bored expression on his face. I checked the screens for my departure gate. There were planes flying out of Charlotte to places that nobody in his right mind would want to visit, the kind of places where the routes should have been strictly one-way, heading out of there to just about anywhere else, doesn’t matter, just get me a damn ticket. We boarded on time and I sat beside a big man with a Charleston Fire Department cap on his head. He leaned across me to look out at the military vehicles and aircraft on the Tarmac, and at a US Airways Express twin-prop that was taxiing toward the runway.