Late at Night (31 page)

“Should we let him go?” Ernie asked the two women.

“No,” Andrea said. “But are any of us really up to stopping him?”

Lynn pulled away from Andrea and wiped her eyes. “Let him go. He’s so sure of himself. He’s stubborn and stupid—and he’ll only fight you if you try to bring him back. A nasty drunk, that’s what he is. Leave him be. It will be better for all of us.” She blew her nose into a handkerchief she’d pulled from her pocket. “I’m going upstairs to lie down. There’s nothing any of us can do for John and the others at this hour, in this darkness.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Andrea told her. “None of us should be alone. We should sit down, talk this out. Try to make some sense of it.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that? I can’t—I can’t think about it any more. I need to be alone. At least for a little while.” She moved towards the bottom of the stairs, then turned and faced them. “How is Mrs. Plushing? Any better?”

“I don’t know,” Andrea replied. “We’ll check in on her right now. Are you sure you don’t want me to come up with you?”

Lynn shook her head. “No. No, thank you. I’ll be all right. I need to rest. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

In the morning,
Ernie thought,
we’re going to be putting our heads together and figuring out how to get off this crazy island.

Andrea watched Lynn go slowly up the stairs, then turned to Ernie and pulled him to the other side of the room out of earshot. “I’ve been trying to tell you. I think I know where the book is.”

“Where!”

Andrea backed away. “No. No, I’m not sure I
should
tell you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you, Ernie. You’ll go chasing after it and place yourself in danger. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Listen, Andrea, if we’re in danger from some nut case on this island, wouldn’t we be better off if we knew who it was?”

“Yes.”

“And do you have any idea who it might be?”

“I’ve eliminated you; Lynn—I think; myself, of course. I get no feelings at all when I try to lock in or John, Eric, the housekeepers, Cynthia, Gloria, Jerry—oh God, so many. They all must be dead. There’s just nothing there.”

Ernie ignored the horrifying implications of her body count and said, “Well, who does that leave? Anton. Hans. Mrs. Plushing. Betty.”

Andrea shut her eyes, concentrating. “I can’t get a fix on Mrs. Plushing, or Hans, but I’m sure it’s only temporary. They’re right in the house, after all, so I’m sure they’re okay. Out of the other two, I’d have to say Anton. But I can’t be positive. This fiend is diabolical and clever. He or she
might
be one of the others, one of those I think is dead, using their power to hide their presence, their life force, from me. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not really sure about Lynn. She might have told us what she did just to throw us off the track.”

“Would she know how to create these psychic manifestations you’ve been talking about?”

Andrea nodded. “Yes. After all she’s told us tonight, there’s no doubt in my mind that she could do it. In fact, the more I think about it…”

Ernie could see she was having a hard time dealing with the possibility of her friend’s betrayal. “What about Anton? Or Betty?”

“Neither of them have the knowledge, the ability, they’d need,” she explained. “But then again, I didn’t know that Lynn had it and look how
she
surprised me.”

“Then we’re right back where we started from.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and looked down at her face imploringly. “I’ve
got
to get that book. It’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”

“You can’t guarantee that, Ernie. The book may not tell us everything. I’m afraid to let you go out there by yourself, and I—I’m afraid to go out there with you. The funny thing is—this necromancer—could attack us
anywhere
really, but the thought of being out there in the dark, away from the lights, the warmth …”

“Then stay here.”

She looked miserable. “I’m a
coward.”

“We both are. I mean, neither of us are.” He kissed her hard on the mouth, felt her respond, felt her arms encircling him and pulling him closer. He pulled out of the kiss, breathless, smiling.

“I’ll be all right. Just tell me where it is.”

She moved away from him, stalling. “No, I can’t let you do it. We’ll just stay right here until morning.”

“Andrea! For the sake of my sanity I’ve got to see the rest of that book before the night is up. Don’t do this to me.”

“All right. All right. Go then and kill yourself. It’s in the old house. I got a much clearer fix. It’s in the library, that library we were in on the first floor. The middle bookshelf against the wall with the windows has a cabinet below. Open the cabinet. The book will be inside on the shelf.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Andrea. Lynn could have put the book there while she was out. Nobody else left the house.”

“Anton could be putting it there now. Remember what I said earlier about precognition? I might have been picking up his
intentions,
Ernie. In fact, I think he’s ‘our friend.’ I think Anton is the necromancer. I can sense it, I can sense that ‘our friend’ is no longer in this house.”

“Are you sure it’s Anton?”

“No, I just know it in my gut, Ernie.”

Ernie took one of the flashlights and checked to make sure it was working. He talked rapidly, nervously, to cover up his fear while he got his jacket from his room and donned it. “I still can’t imagine which of us wrote—or is going to write-Late
at Night.
I know I’m a writer, but it’s really not my sort of thing at all. Even to make Lynn’s story come true I wouldn’t do it. Besides, why would I call myself ‘Max Schumann’?”

Andrea had a funny look on her face. “I think I know who Max Schumann is, and it isn’t you.”

“Who, then?”

“Please. I’d rather not say.”

“Well, it isn’t important. Are you sure you’ll be safe here all alone?”

“I’m not alone; it’s you I’m worried about. I’ll go wake up Lynn and Betty and we’ll talk about our old college professors.” She kissed him warmly on the cheek.

And then he was gone.

PART SIX

Late at Night

Chapter 51

Unbelievable. This whole thing is unbelievable.

Ernie followed the beam of the flashlight, pretty sure that he had located the path they’d taken that afternoon to the old house. He remembered that he and Andrea had led the others, watching to make sure they didn’t veer off in another direction when they came to those spots in the trail that were overgrown. Even though neither of them had ever been on the island before, the boy scout-campfire girl training had paid off. But this was nighttime, and even though the moonlight was so vivid he almost didn’t need the flashlight, it was going to be much more difficult to find his way. At least this time he had his memory to rely on.

While he walked, looking this way and that for signs of danger, he wondered if there was really anything to be frightened about. Was he really so sure that terrible things were happening in Lammerty Island? He only had Andrea’s word for it. Cynthia and Jerry might not have even entered the
Mary Eliza,
let alone died in it. He knew there was a lighthouse on the island, but he didn’t know that Gloria had gone into it to meet her death, as the book said she—or her counterpart—would. He had no proof of anything. There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of these vanishing acts. True, one or more of the others might have injured themselves, gotten lost, certainly, might even have been killed in a fall, or died in quicksand, for all he knew. But the rest? How could he have just accepted it all so quickly? Wasn’t he a rational man, a logical creature who accepted only what his eyes could see, what his mind could understand?

Once
he had been that creature—but now?

He knew that his feelings for Andrea made all the difference. Had he not liked her, been attracted to and protective of her, he might not have accepted all this, all her stories, so easily. Yet he had also believed Lynn, believed that somehow, some way, she had crossed through the dimensions of time and space and seen her own future. But how was it possible? He did not care overly much for their hostess, so he had certainly not believed her out of love or infatuation. She had just been so … convincing. He shook his head as he walked, pushing through low-hanging branches, stopping now and then to make sure he had not strayed from the path as his cousin had presumably done.

If he came upon an old foundation with plants in it he would scream.

And these deaths, these grisly deaths—if they were partly in the victim’s mind, then what really killed the victim? The forces of the island? The necromancer’s brain power? The latter, he supposed. Yet if they were torn apart in their minds were they also torn apart in
reality?
According to Andrea, they were. The manifestations had shape and form and substance and could tear out a throat or rip off a limb just as a strong living being could. Yet he imagined that if the necromancer wanted to, he—Ernie thought of the necromancer in masculine terms for he truly believed that he was Anton—could create realistic visions in a person’s mind that would destroy them, stop their heart beat, drive them mad, as thoroughly as any physical threat to their well-being could.

There was always the possibility—and this truly chilled him—that Andrea was playing games with him, with all of them. That she and Lynn were the only supernatural practitioners on the island and Andrea was the necromancer. Perhaps the book itself was only an hallucination that had been planted in their minds. Or maybe Lynn was the killer, and by leaving Andrea alone in that house for all intents and purposes, he was playing right into their hostess’s hands.

If Lynn killed Andrea, he would kill Lynn. It was as simple as that.

Without realizing it, he had been searching a long time for someone like Andrea to share his life with. If someone had asked him—why her? what qualities does she have that attract you so? he would not have been able to answer. He and Andrea might not have had much in common, but there was a special rapport between them which was undeniable. He spent so much time alone at his desk, in the library, writing letters and typing manuscripts, deprived so often of simple human companionship. The people he met when he went out in the field were often nice, friendly—but they were temporary acquaintances, relationships which would last only until the next assignment when he had to go someplace else to look at something different or interview somebody new. If Andrea could give his life some stability—after all that had gone on, he had to laugh at
that—
a focal point, an anchor, a base, and if he could do the same for her—wouldn’t it be wonderful?

He had no close friends. Not really. Maybe Andrea could become the most important friend he’d ever have.

He was in sight of the house now. God, it was hideous, truly ugly. The moon seemed to reflect off the windows, the “eyes” in the structure’s face, and Ernie felt as if the house was looking at him.

He stepped out into the clearing and started walking across the field.

Something jumped out of the bushes, barring his way.

It was Anton.

The pianist looked not quite human, his face stretched down and his mouth open in a grotesque, disfiguring scowl that would have made Ernie laugh had he not been so frightened. Anton held his hands up, fingers curled, waving his arms at Ernie as if putting a hex on him. He said nothing, just glared, advancing on Ernie, pushing him back, back, to where he’d entered the clearing. The moonlight danced into Anton’s eyes and turned his fade the color of a dead fish’s belly.

Ernie wondered:
Is this where it happens? Is this where the demons come out of nowhere, come out of nothing, and rend me into little pieces?
He was about to speak, to reason—or plead—with Anton, to talk to him before he could give in to the urge to jump forward and smash the pianist’s face in, when he felt his feet sinking down into something and realized they’d walked onto a mushy, grassless patch of ground to the right of where the trail opened into the clearing. He pulled his shoe out with a clopping sound, steeling himself for Anton’s attack, wondering what form it might take.

Instead of hurling psychic forces and weaving spells, Anton was busy scraping the mud off his shoes.

“Oh shit! What a mess.” He looked up at Ernie. “Scared you, didn’t I?”

Ernie was still on his guard; he wouldn’t let the slimy bastard fool him.

“Oh relax, Thesinger. I was just trying to have some fun with you. You don’t really believe all this nonsense we’ve been hearing all evening, do you?”

Ernie couldn’t help it; he felt himself relaxing, start breathing again. He moved forward, trying to get out of the mud, sinking deeper. He moved back in the direction Anton had been herding him, and finally found dry ground. “Over here, Anton,” he said. “The ground is solid over here.”

Stupid old Anton. Ernie should have known Anton would pull a stunt like this.

Or had he just come from hiding the book in the mansion as Andrea had suggested he might do?

No, Anton was just too dumb, too foolish, too drunk. Ernie just couldn’t see him as an all-powerful practicioner of the Dark Arts. He might have had the old-fashioned flamboyance for it, but that was all. Anton was a joke, nothing more. At least Ernie
hoped
he was nothing more.

Anton began moving over to where Ernie stood. “Solid ground, you say? Good.” Funny, Anton seemed to be getting a little panicky, overreacting. One could always clean one’s shoes, after all. And it wasn’t as if they were in quicksand; it was just a little mud. Still, Anton’s eyes were blazing as if he’d remembered some awful thing, as if he was in some terrible predicament and the next few seconds would determine the rest of his life. Ernie chuckled. That man was so overdramatic.