Grave Intent (31 page)

Heather, mute and pale, stared back.

Coaxing Heather down with her, Janet
positioned herself back on her knees. Her left knee protested so
painfully, Janet had to lift it from the floor and drag herself
along on her hands and right knee. Frustrated with the slower pace,
she struggled to her feet and pulled Heather up with her. With a
wide sweep of her hand, Janet hobbled back into the closet. Her
fingers made contact with the clothes again, but instead of hearing
hangers scraping against metal, she heard a child weeping.

She leaned over and looked Heather, but the
girl only stared straight ahead, her eyes dry. A prick of intuition
made Janet bolt upright and look left, and she saw a gray oval
shape forming in the mist. The air soon took on an acrid scent,
like that of burning hair, and the smell intensified as the shape
broadened in length. By the time Janet shoved Heather behind her,
it was bathtub-size and closer. She crept two steps back, and
without warning, a huge, snarling, black muzzle burst through the
oval. With a gasp, Janet stumbled backwards, sandwiching Heather
between her and the wall.

Pointy, brown teeth, the length of
twelvepenny nails, gnashed and snapped, and the muzzle lurched and
twisted as though trying to break free of a restraint. Suddenly,
the bristly mouth sprang open wide, and an image emerged from the
center of the cavernous, black cavity. It was Ellie, only in
miniature. She stood naked and gaunt with bone-thin arms hanging
limp at her sides. Her tiny face was emaciated and sallow, and the
sockets that once held her bright blue eyes were hollow.

Alarm, fear, and horror fused inside Janet,
forming a monstrous rage that sent her lunging forward. “No!” she
screamed, and threw a punch with her free hand. She struck air, and
the muzzle vanished with the sound of raucous laughter.

“Mommmmy.”

Janet froze at the sound of her daughter’s
voice. It seemed to resonate from nearby and at the same time far
away.

“Mommmmy.”

“Ellie!” Janet shouted and whipped about. She
felt Heather flop against her. “Where are you? Where?”

Forcing herself to stand motionless, Janet
listened intently. She heard Heather breathing through a stuffy
nose.

“Oh, God, Ellie, where are you?”

From what sounded like only a few feet away,
Ellie’s voice beckoned. “Come, Mommy. Here.”

Janet struggled not to leap headlong into the
fog after her daughter. She moved slow and steady, holding an arm
out, flexing her fingers into the white mass. “Where, baby?
Where?”

An icy gust swirled through the mist, and
fear warned Janet to pull her hand back. Instead, she stretched her
fingers out farther. Something viscid suddenly slithered over her
hand, then clamped down in a vise grip. Crying out, Janet tried to
pull her hand back, but the grip only tightened.

“Poor Mommy. Poor, poor, Mommy,” Ellie’s
voice singsonged in her ear.

Whatever had hold of Janet gave one hard
yank, and she found herself instantly propelled through the fog.
Faster and farther she ran, pulled through the blinding mass, her
brain barely registering that Heather was still attached to her by
the shoelace. Unable to slow the momentum, Janet squeezed her eyes
shut, lowered her head, and waited to collide with a wall. At least
her body would soften the impact for her niece.

In the time it took Janet to anticipate an
impact, her body came to an abrupt halt, and her arm was released.
Wobbly and stunned, Janet opened her eyes. They still stood in fog.
She quickly dropped to her haunches to check on her niece and
spotted pale green bathroom tile beneath her feet. Heather teetered
at Janet’s side, apparently in shock. Her eyes were sunken and
blank, and her mouth hung slack.

“It’s gonna eat you up, Mama,” Ellie’s voice
suddenly warned. Janet bit her lip to stay silent and stood,
listening. “Heather, too,” Ellie said. “Poor Mommy. Poor
Heather.”

Janet gasped as a green and tan shower
curtain entered her tight circle of vision. It flapped harmlessly
at her.

“You’re getting warm, Mama.”

With a trembling hand, Janet pushed the
shower curtain away and watched it disappear into the fog.

“Hotter.” Ellie’s voice clipped up an octave.
“You’re getting hotter!”

Janet leaned forward, and the tub appeared a
few inches ahead. She bowed lower, straining to see any kind of
movement. Then, just ahead and to her right, a narrow panel of
heavier mist appeared to shift. Janet squinted, studying it
closely. The panel lifted gradually, like a veil from a virgin
bride. Beneath it, Ellie’s weary face appeared.

With a loud sob, Janet reached for her
daughter. Her fingers wrapped around cloth, which she had to assume
was the front of Ellie’s blouse since she couldn’t see it, and she
pulled.

Ellie didn’t budge. Her expression remained
somber, unchanged.

Crying, Janet clenched her teeth, braced a
heel against the floor, and tugged harder. Instead of her child
moving closer, however, Janet felt the cloth slip from her
fingers.

“Too late, Mama,” Ellie said. Her eyes
clouded with defeat, and she shook her head sadly. “Too late.”

Before the sorrowful cadence of Ellie’s voice
faded completely, a pair of withered hands thrust through the fog
and clamped down on the child’s shoulders. Above her head, appeared
the gray, fluid face of an old man with large ears.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Thirty-five.

Another glimpse at the odometer drove four
fingernails into Michael’s palm. The pain kept his tears in check.
He wanted to cry because the Cadillac didn’t have wings, and he
couldn’t fly to his only daughter’s rescue. Because he didn’t know
for sure if his wife was dead or alive. Because he’d left a dead
woman alone in the wet, dark night. He’d stayed with her as long as
he could, pacing through the mud, counting the seconds, waiting for
the ambulance. Although he struggled long and hard with his
conscience, he didn’t last long. Not with Anna Stevenson’s voice
still ringing in his ear, telling him to hurry. So he left,
convincing himself help was indeed on the way. Only after he’d
passed an ambulance ten miles down the road, did his conscience
finally quit clawing at his mind and heart. Every one of the
emergency vehicle’s lights flashed, its siren blared, and tagging
close behind it was the white Acura. Michael had little doubt as to
where they were headed. What he doubted was his sanity. What else
would explain his hearing Anna’s voice from a dying woman’s
lips?

Forty-two.

Dark, clapboard houses flew past his window,
then a bank, a lighted billboard toting Arceneaux’s Insurance, a
post office, a speed limit sign that read, 30 MPH, and just beyond
that a large, bullet-pocked plaque mounted to a sycamore. Written
across the plaque in reflective letters was: NOW LEAVING SUNTON
CORP LIMITS-YA’LL COME BACK SOON!

Michael’s eyes locked on the word SUNTON. It
took a millisecond for it to pass the windshield—SUN—pass the front
passenger window—SUN—twisting in his seat, foot jammed against the
accelerator—eyes following—following—quickly, too quickly SUN
disappeared. Only night remained. Only darkness.

Feeling like he’d just witnessed some sort of
prophetic canticle, Michael whipped back around in his seat, more
determined than ever to change it. He would win this race against
the sun even if it cost him his life.

Forty-six.
Over halfway there—forty-four
miles left to go.

Michael didn’t look up from the odometer soon
enough to avoid the lake of water pooled across the road. The
Cadillac hit it doing eighty, and the steering wheel wrenched free
of his hands. Water exploded into giant plumes on either side of
the sedan, causing it to jerk hard to the right. Michael’s head
slammed into the driver’s side window, his teeth clamping down on
his tongue. Bright sparkles shot across his line of sight, and the
taste of copper filled his mouth. He groped blindly for the
steering wheel, found it, but found it useless. The car dictated
its own direction, spinning, spinning, like a merry-go-round gone
mad.

Nausea struck him. Bile raced up his throat.
Michael gulped, then gulped again, trying to hold it back.

The sound of crashing, crumpling metal and
shattering glass surprised him. His head snapped back. His body
pitched forward.

Then, all grew still.

Disoriented, Michael fumbled for the door
handle. His hand slid over it three times before his brain
registered the find. He opened the door and got out on wobbly
legs.

The front end of the sedan was wrapped around
a wide brick column, and a dented mailbox sat on the hood. Steam
hissed from a demolished radiator. Only one headlight had survived
the collision, and it pointed up, revealing a pasture and a long,
graveled driveway that led to a farmhouse.

Not bothering to assess the rest of the
damage to the Cadillac, Michael stumbled down the driveway toward
the clapboard house. His head ached, his tongue burned from having
been bitten, and his neck felt like it was attached to his torso
with staples. He balled his hands into fists, pictured Ellie and
Janet, and willed more strength into his body.

A porch light came on the moment Michael
stepped up to the house, and he saw a curtain part in a front
window. An old woman peered out at him, her short white hair
willowy and wild as though she’d just risen from sleep, her
wrinkled, toothless mouth moving frantically against the mouthpiece
of a telephone.

Michael knocked on the door, and the curtain
snapped shut. He waited, listening for footsteps. When no one came
to the door, he knocked again.

As he raised a hand to knock a fourth time,
he suddenly found himself bathed in red and blue light. Puzzled, he
looked back to see a white patrol car barreling down the drive.
Only then did he hear the crunch of gravel beneath its tires.

The patrol car rocked to a stop fifty feet
from the house, and a young, heavyset woman stepped out. Her black
ponytail swung from side to side as she scanned the front of the
property, corded radio mike in hand. She mumbled something Michael
couldn’t understand into the mike, then tossed it back into the
car. Moving out from behind the car door, her small eyes narrowed,
and a hand settled over the gun holster strapped to her side.

���Wanna tell me what you’re doin’ here,
mister?” she asked in a congested, north Louisiana drawl. She
sounded winded, as though moving those few inches was more exercise
than she’d experienced in a month.

“Looking for help,” Michael said. “My car . .
.” He pointed toward the Cadillac and for the first time, noticed
the condition of his hands and arms. Both were streaked with dirt
and blood. His fingernails looked like he’d been digging mud holes
with them. By the look of disgust on the officer’s face, the rest
of him must have looked even worse.

“Yeah, I noticed how well you relocated Miss
Mert’s mailbox,” she said. “Just step on down from that porch now.
Slow and easy.”

Michael did as she asked and stumbled down
the last step. “Officer, listen, I—”

A flashlight beam struck him full in the
face. “How much you have to drink?” she demanded.

“Huh?”

“To drink, mister,” the officer said. “You
know, booze, beer, bourbon?”

“Nothing!” Michael said. “I—”

“Right.”

“I’m not drunk,” Michael snapped. “I haven’t
even had water since I left Brusley!”

“Brusley, huh?” She eyed him. “Then what say
we see some I.D. License, registration, that sorta thing.”

Michael quickly patted his back pockets, then
remembered he didn’t have his wallet with him. He slumped.
“Officer—”

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You left it at
home.”

“Yes, but I can explain.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, taking out
a small notepad and pen from her shirt pocket. She tucked the
flashlight under one arm and flipped open the notebook. “Wanna try
for registration?”

“Please, I know what this must look like . .
.what I must look like, but I’m in the middle of a crisis.” Michael
started toward the woman, and her glare stopped him cold. “I have
to get to Carlton. It’s an emergency, a matter of life or
death.”

She frowned. “Whose?”

“What?”

“Whose life or death?”

“My wife, my daughter.” Michael began to
pace, anxious over the time being wasted. “They’re in Carlton,
alone at our cabin, and I’ve got reason to believe they may be in
danger.”

The officer cocked her head to one side,
keeping a wary eye on him. “And what reason is that?”

Michael opened his mouth to tell her, then
snapped it shut. If he told her the truth, she’d haul him away for
sure. Straight to the nearest mental ward.

“Well?”

“They left yesterday. I haven’t heard from
them since. I’ve tried calling dozens of times, but haven’t been
able to get through.”

“And?”

Michael tried not to slouch under the
weakness of his excuse. He had to come up with something plausible,
something that would get this woman’s attention. He didn’t want to
lie, but he couldn’t very well tell her the complete truth.

Kneading his forehead, Michael said, “Look,
it’s a complicated story, but the bottom line of it is my father
owes a man money. A dangerous man. And I’m afraid this guy thinks
my father is at the cabin with my wife and daughter. I’m almost
positive he’s headed over there right now.”

The blue uniformed woman pursed her lips,
then relaxed them, pursed, then relaxed, as if she was sucking in
what he’d said. Finally she asked, “If you’re that worried about
your family, why haven’t you contacted the police in Carlton or
even the parish sheriff’s department?”

“I tried,” Michael said. “I even had a police
dispatcher from Brusley try to get through to them. But all the
phone lines have been down.”