Haunted (41 page)

"Yes," Alice said slowly. "But--"

"If you don't want to hear it, then I'll tell Calla and she can write it up for the Guardian. They'll love it."

"You blackmailing, dried-up old cu-- "

"Theo, hush," Alice ordered. "We'll hear what you have to say, Minnie."

At that moment, the door opened and four members of the channeling group strolled in. "Minnie," Alice said kindly, "There's the coffee pot, over in that corner. Why don't you sit down and relax a while. We'll call you into our meeting room in a few minutes."

With a harrumph, Minnie got herself a cup of coffee, with plenty of cream and sugar, then situated herself where she could keep an eye on everything. People had been treating her poorly, and she was going to do something about it. First that disgusting David Masters fired her--and she bet his slut of a daughter had something to do with it too--and now the Beings of Light were treating her like a pile of dog doody, going back on their promise to let her into the Inner Circle.

Minnie set her cup down and patted her purse. She had no intention of showing them the black-garbed doll she'd found--that was too good for the likes of them--but she did plan on telling them all about the broken doll that David Masters had, and about that crap the idiot Eric Swenson had yelled about the lighthouse ghost wanting its head. She was telling because she wanted to know who did the channeling, and she was bound and determined to find out, no matter what it took--and those New Age doo-doo heads would eat up what she had to say like frosting left in a bowl. Then they'd owe her and they'd have to let her in.

She was also going to tell them about the conversation she'd overheard between Masters and some Englishman. She hadn't meant to listen in, but she'd picked up the phone at the same precise moment as the Holy Hermit had in his precious office, so she couldn't put it back down until he hung up, could she? When the Beings of Light heard Jerry Romero was bringing his show to Red Cay, they'd be owing her all the more for the information. Why, they'd all be kissing her feet!

The meeting room door opened and Alice poked her head out. "Minnie? We're ready for you."

It's about time. Putting on her perkiest smile, Minnie went to meet with the Inner Circle.

Body House: 10:55 P.M.

"Dad, I'm home!" Amber's voice startled David and he almost spilled the dregs of his scotch on the rocks on Keith Shayrock's photograph album.

"You're early, kiddo," he called as he set the items carefully aside, rose, and pulled on his white terry cloth robe.

"Rick had to be home at ten-thirty. Can I come in?"

"Hang on." He knotted the tie and crossed to the bedroom door, feeling distinctly drunk. Shayrock had not only brought the album, but a bottle of Dewar's as well, and they had spent the evening sipping and talking and examining the dolls. It had been the sort of evening that made David wish he smoked cigars. He unlocked the door, opened it, and his daughter swept in, her cheeks ruddy from the cool night wind, her eyes happy and sparkling.

"It was great," she said before he could ask. "Rick's really nice." She grinned. "You'd like him. He's really shy, too."

"Shy is good," he said, hoping his voice wasn't as slurred as his brain. He hadn't meant to have any more to drink after the doctor left, not so long ago, but the evening had been so enjoyable, he'd decided to have a nightcap.

"What's that?" Amber asked, pointing at the album.

Glad to have something to talk about, he related the details of the evening. He and Shayrock had identified a number of the dolls--Louis Shayrock, a true country M.D., had known everyone in town, from the poorest fisherman to Red Cay's elite, and he'd evidently taken great pleasure in collecting pictures of himself with his friends and patients. The album had proven to be a gold mine of information.

"Keith Shayrock's lent me the photos for a few days, so we can wait until tomorrow to do some more comparing," David said, yawning. "You'll get a kick out of it, though. Baudey House serviced nearly everyone in town--the mayor, a senator, a Presbyterian preacher." He flipped through the pages. "Look at this."

He waited while Amber studied the grainy photo of a Sherman and a pretty dark-haired young woman standing arm-in-arm in front of a trawler. "Peter Castle," she read, then gasped. "And Christabel Baudey. Dad, it's her!"

"It sure is. Does Castle look familiar to you?"

"Yeah, kinda Think he was her boyfriend?"

"Very possibly."

She stared at the photo another minute, then looked at her dad. "He looks a lot like that ugly doll in the black clothes."

"Exactly my thoughts."

"You didn't find the doll, did you, Daddy?"

He shook his head. "No. Not a trace. It's making me crazy."

"Minnie has it," Amber said.

"You'll be happy to know that I let Craig Swenson know it's missing."

"Did you tell him Minnie took it?"

"No, but when he asked I said it was a distinct possibility."

"He asked?" She giggled with delight.

"Seems that other people she's cleaned house for have had a little problem with Minnie's sticky fingers at one time or another." He paused. "You can't repeat that."

"I know. But I love it when I'm right."

He smiled wearily. "Presumed right. Kiddo, your old man's bushed."

She grinned. "And bombed."

"Guilty."

"Well, maybe it'll help you sleep." Amber stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek. "’Night, Daddy."

"Good night."

After she left, he relocked his door, flicked on his bedside light, removed his robe and slipped between the sheets, stretching luxuriously. Maybe Amber was right about the drink. He hoped so: he could certainly use the sleep.

Despite the alcohol, his mind refused to calm down: it wanted to rehash the things he'd learned tonight, wanted to move them around and create stories around them. Face it, Masters, you want to write.

He groaned, disgusted and pleased at the same time. When the urge came on by itself, he never fought it. Rising, he padded to the writing desk, sat down and turned on his laptop. The screen glowed, blue and friendly, in the dimly-lit room, inviting him to add more words and, after a moment of hesitation, he put his fingers to the keys and the words began to flow, the way they always did after he'd reached mid-point.

The Willard Residence: 11:55 P.M.

Mickey Willard snored so bad that the Willards not only had separate beds, but separate bedrooms. Even from here in the living room, Minnie could hear him sawing his logs and, as much as she loved the old cuss, sometimes she just wanted to put a pillow over his face and hold it there until he was out of his misery.

Shaking her head, she held up the doll and studied its mean little face. Wouldn't those New Agers have died if she'd shown them this? They'd been fascinated by the stories about the lighthouse ghost and the retard, that was for sure, and completely gaga over the fact that Jerry Romero was coming to Red Cay. The only bad thing that had happened was when Alice thanked her and escorted her out before the Inner Circle--no matter what those people said, that's what it was--started discussing her story. Dying to know what they'd said, she'd gone home and sat in front of the television with Mickey until he hit the hay around ten, just like always. After he disappeared, she took the doll from her purse.

He wouldn't approve of her find, she knew. He'd never approved of any of her others, either, even though she always assured him that they were things no one would miss. She had taken to telling him they were gifts, though that had backfired last year when that stuffed-shirt Lyle Worthy had reported to Chief Swenson that two of his Hummel figurines had turned up missing after Minnie had been there to clean. He had at least a hundred of the things, what did he care? Selfish, spoiled creep!

Chief Swenson had called on her, but she'd put the figurines away in the back of the breadbox where she stored waxed paper, plastic wrap, and tin foil. He didn't exactly accuse her of anything, but Mickey had walked in while they were talking, and, afterward, he took the little statues, wrapped them up, and mailed them anonymously back to Worthy.

It was nearly midnight and past time for bed. She hit the remote, turning off the television, and rose, holding the doll tightly in her hands, The feel of the bulge of the doll's thing under her fingers sent a little thrill through her belly and, if she wasn't so sick of Mickey's snoring, she might have stopped off in his bedroom.

Instead, she walked down the short hall to the tiny bathroom, where she set the doll on the counter while she brushed her teeth and rubbed cold cream into her face. The mean little face seemed to leer at her as she undressed, took her blue nylon nightgown from the hook on the door, and slipped it over her head. She finished getting ready and smiled at the doll. She especially liked the little cat-o'-nine-tails it held in its hand, despite the sharp little blades tipping it. "Let's go to bed, sailor," she whispered, turning off the light. The words made her titter and her face grew warm. In the darkness, she picked up the doll, again feeling the bulge against her fingers. "Oh!" she exclaimed, thinking the thing moved under her touch. It couldn't have.

It moved again.

She let out a little yelp, and the doll slipped from her fingers, crashing with a porcelain crunch on the hard tile floor.

"Heck, heck, heck," she whispered.

As Minnie flicked the light on, the room suddenly felt very chilly and a faint odor of bay rum sifted through the air. On the floor, the doll lay in pieces in a puddle of blood.

"My goodness!" Minnie quickly began to examine her hands, thinking she must have cut herself on the whip when she dropped the effigy.

Then something clamped over her mouth, a massive hand as cold as death. Another hand, just as cold, yanked her backward. Frantically, she clawed at them, seeing the thick black hairs coating them, vaguely smelling bay rum like Ferd and Andy Cox wore. She felt the chill body as she was pulled against it, felt the huge erection straining against her backside. The hand at her waist was removed, but the other was so strong she couldn't get away. The more she struggled, the harder it dug into the flesh around her mouth.

Then she heard the crack of a whip, a whip with many sharp tails.

Body House: 11:56 P.M.

The overwhelming, powerful odor of night-blooming jasmine suddenly assaulted David's nose. Alarmed, he turned in his chair, his work abruptly forgotten. The scotch glass--he'd decided to have one more nightcap--flew to the floor as his hand smacked against it, but he paid no attention.

He stared at the locked bedroom door as the room filled with bitter, freezing cold, and his gut turned as cold as the air as he saw the ball of darkness begin to form. The hairs on the back of his neck came to attention and he heard himself moan as he discerned the unmistakable stench of decay oozing through the jasmine.

He rose, tugging his robe more tightly around himself. The entity--Christabel--elongated into a rectangle, just as it had previously before it took human form, and it stood between him and the door.

Don’t panic! He reached slowly behind himself and pulled the desk drawer open, never taking his eyes from the phantom as he felt for the bag of salt--old-fashioned ghost repellent he’d secreted there. Throwing salt probably wouldn't work, he realized; Christabel had already crossed the line of salt he'd poured across the doorway weeks ago, but it was worth a try--and he didn't know what else to do.

As it had on that day in Amber's room, the darkness slowly formed into the shape of a human female, and details began to appear as he slipped his hand into the bag and withdrew a small handful of salt.

He took a step closer, staring at the ghost, at the beautiful black off-the-shoulder dress, at the flash of leg, at the long white hands. Slowly, his gaze rose past the breasts, up the graceful white neck, and finally, his bowels loose, he stared into the exquisite face of Christabel Baudey, saw the red bow of lips, the milk-white skin, and the piles of jet hair. A single red plume ornamented her hair.

He looked into her huge, flashing eyes, black as hell, black as heaven, and dropped the bag, felt the grains of salt sift down between his numb fingers.

David... David... Come to me.

The voice, spun of silk and silver, could not be resisted. He took a step forward, then another, and she did, too, and then her chill hands were on him, untying the robe, pushing it off his shoulders. It dropped, forgotten, to the floor.

He reached out to touch her, his whole body throbbing with unexplained desire for this creature. He couldn't think, he was all emotion, all desire, and he didn't question it. He tried to take her hand, but she was without substance, except for the coldness. But she knew what he wanted, and took his. She’s trapped in a doll! some boring part of his intellect told him. If she wasn't, she’d kill you.