Black Creek Crossing (33 page)

“Water, and your blood, and earth from his grave, and your tears,” Seth reminded her. “That’s why nothing happened to me at all—it wasn’t about me! It was about you, and it worked!”

As his words sank in, Angel’s eyes went to the book that was still open on the counter. Was it possible?

Could
it be possible?

“Let’s go home,” she whispered as she gazed at the worn volume. “Let’s just put it back in the chimney and go home, okay?”

A few minutes later they stepped out into the fading daylight of the late afternoon. The last vestiges of the storm were gone, and the sky above was dark blue. As they started to climb the berm, Angel paused and looked at the rock beneath which lay the remains of the only pet she’d ever had.

“I wish you were still alive,” she whispered. “If you were, I wouldn’t ever let a bad thing happen to you again.” She turned away and began clambering up the heap of rubble that hid the facade of the cabin from the clearing in the forest.

Had she stayed, she might have seen the ground beneath the stone marking Houdini’s grave sink lower into the ground. . . .

Marty Sullivan pulled the first bottle out of the second six-pack, twisted the cap off, and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed the plastic container by a foot, bounced off the wall, fell to the floor, and wound up lying upside down in front of the sink. Marty stared at it dolefully for a moment, then left it where it was and headed back to the living room and the comfort of his favorite chair. Half an hour ago the storm that closed down the worksite had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d have sworn the rain had been pouring down out of coal-black clouds one second, and the sky was clear the next.

More likely he’d just dozed off for a few minutes.

Now, as he glanced blearily out the front window trying to figure out how a storm that bad could have vanished that fast, a movement caught his eye, but it wasn’t until he moved closer to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside that he saw what it was.

Angel.

Angel, and that little putz he’d caught her with the other day.

The putz he’d told her to stay away from.

And they weren’t coming from the direction of the village either.

What the hell was going on?

He started toward the front door, his anger growing with every step. But just before he pulled it open, he had a better idea. Better to just wait until they came in. Settling himself into his chair, he raised the beer bottle to his lips and drained half of it in a single long gulp.

A minute or two later he heard the front door open, and then Angel came in. “Where the hell’ve you been?” he growled, his eyes fixed malevolently on her.

Hearing her father’s voice, Angel knew he’d been drinking, and when she saw the half-dozen empty beer bottles that were scattered around the chair he was sprawled in—and the full bottle in his hand—she knew she’d better be careful about what she said.

But before she could speak at all, her father’s bloodshot eyes fixed on her and he said, “You were with that kid.”

Her eyes flicked toward the window. Her father’s back was to it, but if he’d been getting another beer when she and Seth had come out of the woods . . .

Better not try to deny it.

“W-We were out hiking,” she stammered.

Her father’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ever since school let out?”

Angel nodded, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But it was already too late—her skin began to crawl as she felt her father’s eyes moving over her. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair. “If you’d been out in that downpour, you’d be soaked.”

“I—I am wet,” she said. “I better go up and change.” Before he could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and up the stairs.

Liar,
Marty thought.
That’s what she is—a lying little slut.
He drained the rest of his beer, lurched to his feet, and headed back to the kitchen. The next beer cap wound up only a couple of feet from the last one, only this time in front of the refrigerator instead of the sink. Pouring half the newest bottle down his throat as quickly as he’d drained the last one, Marty headed for the stairs.

Wet, huh? She hadn’t looked wet to him, and if she’d really been where she said she was, she’d be a lot more than just wet. She’d have come in dripping, with her hair plastered down, and that ugly sweatshirt she was always wearing would’ve been clinging to her body.

So she hadn’t been out hiking.

She’d been out doing something else.

And he knew damned well what it was.

He started up the stairs, but his foot caught on the first step. Swearing loudly as he lost his balance and lurched forward, he threw out his hands to catch himself. The half-full bottle of beer struck the wall, clattered onto the stairs, rolled down a couple of steps, then came to rest on its side, the last of its contents draining onto the step below. Cursing again, Marty picked up the bottle, drained the last few drops from it, and tossed it down to the floor below. He started to take another step, swaying as the beer he’d been pouring down his throat for the last two hours tightened its grip on his brain. This time, though, his hand closed on the banister and he caught himself before he sprawled out on the stairs. Muttering darkly, he continued on up the stairs, but when he came to the point where his head was level with the upstairs landing, he suddenly stopped.

A cat!

A black cat with a small white mark in the center of its chest was sitting on the landing above him, looking down at him.

Marty hated cats. He’d always hated them, even when he was little. He could still remember the time when he was only three or four—before he’d even gone to kindergarten—when his father had brought home a kitten. When Marty had first seen the shoe box punched full of holes his father was holding, he’d been sure it was the puppy he’d been begging for. But when his father set the box on the floor and let him open it, all he found was a kitten.

A stupid kitten!

His first impulse was to pick it up and throw it against the wall, and as he’d reached for it, the animal seemed to sense what he was about to do and lashed out at him with its tiny paw. The miniature claws, already needle sharp, slashed deep into the skin of his hand, and he screamed in pain.

The kitten had been given away that very afternoon, but ever since, Marty Sullivan had hated cats.

And been terrified of them.

And now there was one in his house, sitting on the upper landing, staring down at him. He froze, his eyes fixed on the cat, and a dim memory rose out of his alcohol-clouded subconscious. A memory of a dream.

A dream in which a cat had leaped out of the darkness, scratching his face.

He couldn’t remember much else about the dream, just that he’d been in the dark and a voice had been whispering to him, telling him what to do, and then he’d heard a cat hissing at him. Hissing at him, and then leaping out of the darkness, slashing at him!

Marty’s hand rose to his face, and his fingers touched the scabs over the not quite healed cuts he’d thought he must have accidentally inflicted on himself while he’d been shaving the other morning. But maybe he hadn’t cut himself.

Maybe it hadn’t been a dream.

Maybe the cat had gotten into the house the other night and come after him.

He gazed up at it malevolently, and as if sensing his hatred—and his fear—the cat rose to its feet and its back arched.

It bared its teeth and a low hissing sound came from its throat.

The same hissing Marty had heard in his dream.

The cat’s eyes began to glow with a light that seemed to come from within, and its gaze held Marty in an almost hypnotic thrall.

As he stood frozen on the staircase, the cat edged closer to the lip of the landing and its muscles tensed.

Marty’s heart began to pound and he felt a cold sweat break out over his body.

It was going to kill him.

The cat, which couldn’t weigh more than ten or fifteen pounds, was going to kill him!

And he couldn’t move!

It was as if every muscle in his body had gone rigid, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to turn around, or even back away.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was too constricted, and now he realized he wasn’t even breathing.

And the cat was gathering itself for the attack, its claws already extended, its jaw yawning wide, exposing all its teeth.

Then, just as it was about to launch itself at his throat, there was the slam of a door and a voice.

“Marty? Angel?”

The sound of Myra’s voice jerked Marty out of the strange trance the cat had induced, and he spun around, almost lost his balance again, and grabbed at the rail. A second later Myra appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes were hard and she held an empty beer bottle in her hand.

“How many?” she demanded, raising the bottle toward him so there was no mistaking her meaning.

“A—A couple,” Marty stammered.

“A couple six-packs,” Myra replied. “And if you think I’m cleaning up your mess, you’re wrong.” Then, seeing the ashen color of her husband’s complexion, her tone softened. “Are you all right?”

“A cat,” Marty said. “There’s a cat up here.”

Myra frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“A damned cat!” Marty said, his courage returning now that Myra’s voice had softened. “It was gonna come at me!”

Myra’s lips pursed. “Oh, really, Marty—”

“You don’t believe me?” Marty asked, his voice taking on a hint of a whine. “It’s up here right now!”

Myra started up the stairs. “Why would there be a cat up there?”

“How should I know?” Marty countered truculently. “Maybe you left a window open, or Angel—”

“I don’t leave windows open, and neither does Angel,” Myra cut in. Passing Marty, she came to the upper landing and looked around. “And if there’s a cat here, I don’t see it!”

Marty climbed the rest of the stairs, searching for the cat.

There was no sign of it.

The door to the bedroom he and Myra shared was closed, as was Angel’s, and the one leading to the back bedroom.

Only the bathroom door stood open, and Marty, emboldened by his wife’s presence, went to it. There was no more sign of the cat in the bathroom than there was anywhere else. “I’m telling you, it was here,” he said, his voice rising. “Just a second ago, when you came in!”

Then the door to Angel’s room opened and she came out, wrapped in her bathrobe. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your father seems to think there’s a cat in the house,” Myra said, her tone reflecting her doubt about what Marty claimed to have seen.

“It was black!” Marty growled. “With a white mark on its chest. And it was going to attack me. If your mom hadn’t come in—” He fell silent as Angel’s face turned ghostly white. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did
you
bring a cat in here?”

“No!” Angel cried. “I just—”

Her father pushed past her into her room. The window was closed and so was the closet. Marty pulled open the closet door, searched every corner and shelf, then looked under Angel’s bed and behind the chest.

“It was here,” he said, his voice dropping to a sullen growl. “I saw it.”

“After as many beers as you drank, I’m surprised you didn’t see a herd of pink elephants in the living room,” Myra snapped. “Now, if I were you, I’d get some clothes on and get downstairs and clean up your mess.”

Knowing better than to argue, Marty did exactly as Myra had ordered.

When her parents were gone, Angel went back into her room and closed the door, her father’s words echoing in her head
.
.
.
. black
.
.
.
with a white mark on its chest
.
.
.

But it wasn’t possible!

It
couldn’t
be. . . .

Chapter 30

O YOU BELIEVE THAT?” HEATHER DUNNE SAID,
nudging Sarah Harmon and whispering softly enough so only she could hear her. “What’s
she
doing here?”

They were in their favorite store—Meryl’s, Of Course—and Heather had tried on at least a dozen sweaters but wasn’t even close to finding one she wanted to buy. Now, with a blue cashmere cardigan over her arm that Sarah Harmon was sure was going to be the eventual winner of this round of what she always thought of as “Heather’s Shopping Derby,” Heather tipped her head toward a rack in the far corner. When Sarah followed her gaze, she knew right away who Heather was talking about: Angel Sullivan was going through the rack with a tall, thin woman whom Sarah was certain had to be her mother, given what her own mother had told her after she’d had lunch the other day with Zack’s mother and aunt. “Myra Sullivan’s nothing like Joni Fletcher at all,” her mother had said. “She’s scrawny and mousy and has no sense of humor, and I think she’s some kind of religious fanatic.” Then her mother had brightened, adding, “Well, at least if Joni and Ed put them up for the club, we can blackball them!”

“Shouldn’t she be going to that fat girl’s shop at the outlet mall?” Heather asked, pulling Sarah out of her reverie. “How’s she think she’s going to fit into anything here?”