Under the Skin (24 page)

This was a sobering thought and I paid close attention to the drivers of the few vehicles that were on the town’s main street. A vintage hippie type in a pickup, a family in a van with a Michigan plate, a young woman jabbering into a cellphone as she sped through a stoplight in her VW bug—none had any resemblance to the man Glory had described.

At last I was turning in at the gates to the spa—but still no sign of Gloria. The car’s clock read 7:35; surely she would be heading back by now. I turned through the gates and started down the winding road toward the spa building.

The spacious grounds seemed deserted, just an open
swath of green with a few wisps of fog still lingering. No sign of Gloria, but the level drive that ran through the grounds and back behind the spa building suggested itself as the route she might have taken. I was reasonably sure that she wouldn’t have been tempted by the clump of rocks we’d visited the day before so, with no more than a cursory glance down the narrow path to the center, I continued down the road.

Then, in the rearview mirror, I caught a flicker of movement among those strange rocks.

Slamming on the brakes, I reversed and came to a stop just where the narrow path ran into the center of the ancient stones.

“Glory?” I called, telling myself that what I’d seen was probably a bird or a squirrel, even as I reached into my shoulder bag for my pistol.

It had surprised me to find how easy it was to become a gun-totin’ citizen. We’d always had some guns at the farm—a legacy from Sam and just a part of rural life. But a few years back, when there was a very real threat to me and mine, Phillip had insisted that I get certified for a concealed-carry permit and when I’d passed the written test, as well as the test at the firing range, he’d presented me with a handgun suitable for carrying in my shoulder bag—or in an ankle holster, should I prefer.

I’d practiced with this weapon and had taken great pride in my improving aim. Though what’s needed with a handgun, according to Phillip, is not so much aim as resolve and a familiarity with the weapon. Two years ago I’d found myself in a position where I had used that weapon to protect myself. Ever since then, the ugly little snub-nosed .357 Magnum had been just another useful tool to keep around in case of need.

I sincerely hoped that this wasn’t such a time but after Phillip’s warning about the Eyebrow … My hand tightened around the pistol grip as an indistinct form seemed
to coalesce back in the dim depths of the tree-shaded stones.

“Gloria? …” But even as I spoke the word, I could see that the woman in the shadows was not my sister.

No, this was a local countrywoman, by her looks—wiry, ageless. But she seemed to be in costume—white, all of it: the long skirt and loose blouse. There was a basket full of green stuff on her left arm and I wondered if there was a reenactment of some sort going on this weekend. She was picking leaves from some small plants growing at the base of one of the rocks and putting them in her basket. Suddenly aware of my gaze, she straightened and looked toward me.

“Good morning,” I called to her. “I wonder if you’ve seen a small blond woman go by? She was—”

The woman in white’s arm came up, pointing a long finger toward the clump of buildings in the distance. She didn’t speak, however, and something about her blank gaze and motionless stance seemed odd—almost as if she were nothing more than a human signpost. Goose bumps lifted the hair on my forearms as a chill breeze, seemingly from the clump of trees and the rock itself, wafted through the car window.

But there was no time to puzzle over this wordless stranger. With a quick thank-you, I continued down the road.

It was too early for the spa to be open, so I followed the road around to the back and parked by the remains of the old bathhouse. It was a small, roofless shell of a building with gaping glassless windows and doorways blocked by wooden planking. Except for one, where the planking had been partially removed. There was no sign of Gloria, no sign of anyone. Stepping out of the car, I drew a deep breath, preparing to call her name, then stopped.

From within the bit of the building that was still
standing, I heard voices—low, murmuring, confidential. And one of them was my sister’s.

I hesitated, torn between relief at having found her and annoyance that I’d been so worried. One of the other weekend Seekers must have had the same idea for an early morning walk and they’d decided to take a look at what was left of the old bathhouse. But it was time to get back.

“Gloria,” I called at last, “how about a ride back to breakfast?”

The voices stopped and in a few moments Gloria appeared in the doorway, her turquoise tracksuit bright in the morning sun that had finally overtopped the nearby trees. Still carrying those hand weights, she stepped carefully around the barrier, blinking like a moviegoer emerging from an imaginary story into reality. She paused for a moment and then looked down at her wrist.

“What time is it anyway, Lizzy? My watch battery must have died.” She motioned vaguely over her shoulder. “I got to talking to the most interesting woman in there … she knew all about the history of the place. I think she must be some kind of docent—she has on a long skirt and a white cap and a big white apron.”

I frowned. “They do reenactments here sometimes. But surely someone would have mentioned it …” I stepped past Gloria to look into the interior of the old bathhouse. “Let’s ask your friend what’s up.”

A quick glance revealed nothing but a small empty room, in the center of which was a long rectangular bath, half filled with murky water. The sunken tub’s marble was stained and the floor—more marble?—surrounding it was cracked and uneven. In several places, accumulations of bird droppings hinted that the remaining rafters of the missing roof served as a night perch for birds of some kind.

Then a sudden shaft of light slanted through those rafters, hitting the water and illuminating it to a pale clouded green. I could see insects skittering over the top of the water and something seemed to move through the sunlight. For a brief moment, I had the eerie sensation of being just on the verge of—I don’t know—maybe it was the verge of time. Instantly I could imagine this little room as it had been: a wooden chair, a stack of white Turkish towels, an enamelware basin, the gleaming marble tub, now brimful of clear water with wisps of rising steam on its surface.

No sooner had I registered this impression than it was gone. I was back amid the present dingy remains of past glory. The sunlight faded and I looked up to find that a cloud had moved to cover the sun.

“There’s no one in there …” I began, turning back to Gloria. But she was in the car, carefully reapplying her lipstick with the help of the rearview mirror.

I looked again. No, there was no one. And no back way out of the roofless building. Unless I chose to believe that a woman in a long-skirted costume had somehow noiselessly climbed out …

Glory was still busy with the mirror, fluffing her hair now, and I made a quick circuit of the little building on foot, scanning the open area all around for any sign of the mysterious woman.

No sign. Unless the little scattering of fresh-picked leaves at the back of the building was a sign.

I peeked back into the old bathhouse just to make sure but, as I’d expected, there was no one to be seen.

“Hello?” I whispered, my voice echoing strangely above the marble tub. “Is anyone—”

“Lizzy!” The sharp sound of Gloria’s voice made me jump and I turned to see her face at the car window. “I thought we needed to get back to breakfast. Who are you talking to, anyway?”

“Evidently, no one,” I muttered as I climbed back into the car. “What happened to that woman in white? I don’t see how …”

“Woman in white?” Gloria’s brow wrinkled and she favored me with a long turquoise stare. “What are you talking about?”

Indeed.

I’d been there before—there on that misty boundary line between what is and what might be. For a person who prides herself on her rationality and who has, prior to giving in to Gloria, avoided all varieties of psychic exploration, I have to admit that there’ve been events … experiences … things I couldn’t explain so I didn’t try.

No more could I explain what had gone on in the two sessions yesterday. Apparently Xan had received messages from his brother via notes on the piano. I had heard the notes—and, I’m a little embarrassed to say, had lingered behind at the end of the session to look for hidden wires or something of the sort. Which I had not found.

And apparently Charlene had heard the voice of a departed friend—in her head. There had been some disappointments: No spirit had spoken through Giles, much less through any of the rest of us. But I had to admit … there had been something at work that I could in no way explain.

I started the car—we would just have time to grab some breakfast before the first session—and headed down the road toward the gate. As we passed the clump of trees and the odd rocks, I slowed but wasn’t surprised to see no sign of the woman who had been there earlier.

“Glory, when you came by here this morning, did you notice anyone back in there?”

But Gloria wasn’t listening to me. She was humming an odd little tune, simple and haunting and, I was pretty sure, not a number from one of her favorite Broadway
shows. In a minor key, it had the feel of a mountain ballad to it. And I knew I’d heard it before … somewhere …

“What’s that you’re humming?” I asked.

She stopped abruptly. “That? Why …” Her face screwed up in concentration. “That’s strange. I have no idea. It just popped into my head.”

She hummed a few more bars. Unlike me, Glory can carry a tune rather nicely and as she continued on, I realized when and where I’d last heard it.

Almost eight years ago. I’d been in the kitchen, finishing up the Christmas baking when Sam had come in. There had been snowflakes on his Navy watch cap and he’d been grinning with delight.

“Listen to this, Liz,” he’d said and had whistled a few plaintive bars. “Odus was playing it on his banjo when I stopped by this evening. I asked him what it was and he said it was ‘one of them old love songs.’ He sang some of it for me—all about a murdered man visiting his widow. But talk about a haunting tune—I can’t get it out of my mind.”

And we had laughed and hugged and planned to go back and get Odus to sing me the song. And Sam had whistled or hummed the melody till the girls had put their hands over their ears or turned up the radio to drown him out.

He’d been whistling it when he went out the door a few days later, on his way to meet an old Navy buddy and go flying in that buddy’s little airplane.

The last time I ever saw my husband.