The Awakening (3 page)

At the moment, her attention was divided between her
driving and Derek. Unconsciously, she nibbled her lower lip; it was a nervous
habit she had never been about to rid herself of. There was something about
this big, quiet man that was different and unsettling, something that made her
feel as if she were someone else. The Ann Commers she knew was a cautious girl,
one that didn’t talk much to someone she didn’t know, much less invite them out
for a drive. But here she was.

She turned off the main road, leaving the buildings
of the small town behind, and drove past a few scattered dwellings. Most were
small-frame houses, with wooden fences enclosing well-kept yards. A big German
Sheppard shot out from one, barking, chasing the car until Ann sped up and left
it in the swirling dust. She laughed.

“That was Pluto. We’ve been friends for years, and
he’s been chasing my car ever since I got it. It’s a game we play. I’m the only
person he does chase.” She smiled, feeling foolish. “I guess that sounds dumb,
huh?”

“No,” Derek said, smiling back. “It’s nice to have
friends, even if they have four paws and chase you.”

The road curved to the left, cutting through a small
stand of pine trees. To the right, the ground began rising gently to form the
base of the low mountains that stretched across the western horizon. Derek’s
eyes wandered over the outline they formed against the blue sky, and for a
moment they seemed almost familiar, as if…
no, it was nothing… Déjà vu.

“That’s the Jarman place,” Ann said, pointing to
their right through the windshield. “It was built by one of the prominent
founding fathers of our fair city. No one knows how he came by the money, but
he and his family disappeared one step ahead of the Feds back in the thirties.
Gives people some pretty good ideas. This used to be whiskey country.”

The place was a mansion by most standards; a large
two-story house set well back from the road. The iron fence surrounding the
grounds was over seven feet in height and a heavy double gate was set in the
fence across the gravel driveway, which formed a circle in front of the house.
The yard was choked with weeds and knee deep dead grass, and the paint on the
house was grey and peeling.

“It doesn’t look like anybody has lived there in a
long time. How come?” Derek asked.

“Oh, but someone does live there.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. What kind of people would
let a place like that just fall apart?”

“The Jarmans?” Ann giggled at his expression. “I
guess you might call them our resident weirdoes: they moved here about ten
years ago. Nobody knows much about them, and as far as I know, nobody wants to.
They’re not very friendly. The only one you hardly ever see is Richard Jarman,
and if you say anything to him, he’ll just stare at you for a minute and then
walk away.” She made a face and shook her head. “He gives me the creeps. He and
his wife have two children, but they’ve never gone to our school. Weird
people.”

“Maybe they just like a lot of privacy.”

“Nobody likes that much privacy and is normal at the
same time.” Ann dropped her voice into a Bella Lagosi imitation and hunched
behind the wheel, looking at Derek with one eye. “Strange sounds cometh from
yon dwelling at the stroke of midnight, when the moon is full and the wild dogs
bay. Heed my words and beware.” She straightened, laughing. “Believe it or not,
it’s true.”

They drove on, passing an occasional house, until Ann
turned into the driveway of one built of brick. This one had a fence also, but
it was lower and made of wrought iron. A flagstone path ran most of the way
around the house.

“A friend of mine lives here, and I promised to drop
some books off for him. It will just take a minute. Do you want to come with
me?”

“No, I think I’ll wait here. Unannounced guests are
not always welcome.” Derek felt slightly jealous, and felt silly for feeling
that way. Of course she would have friends. She was too pretty not to have
boyfriends crawling out of the woodwork.

“Okay. Be right back.”

Derek waited in the car. Ann crossed the tiny yard
and knocked on the door, waited a minute, then knocked again. After another
minute the door opened by a tall man, thin, in his late sixties. He leaned
heavily on a wooden cane.

From the car, Derek could see the obvious pleasure in
the man’s face as he greeted Ann and took the books she was carrying. The old
man motioned towards the car and said something, but Ann shook her head and
smiled, answering. After a few more words she waved goodbye and came back to
the car.

“That was Dr. Wittakin,” Ann said, backing the car
out of the driveway. “He’s retired now, but he was a professor of natural
history. He’s written three books so far, and is working on another. He won’t
tell me what it’s about though, the brat. I wish I could do that. Write a book,
I mean. He’s such a nice old guy. I wish he didn’t have to spend so much time
in that wheelchair of his. He has a lot of trouble with his legs, but…” Ann
stopped when she saw Derek’s amused expression, and her face turned slightly
red. “I’m sorry. Boy, I must have been talking your ear off.”

“No, I enjoy listening to you. It’s just that it’s
been a long time since…” Derek shook his head, smiling.

“Since?”

“Nothing. As I said this morning, I’m one pretty
boring fellow. And you’re too nice to bore. How long have you lived in Cider
Springs?”

“You’re a subject changer, you know that?” Ann waited
a moment, but Derek wasn’t going to bite. “Oh, well. I tell you now, I don’t
give up easily. I’ll get it out of you sooner or later. But to answer your
question, I’ve lived in this place all of my life. That makes me the expert on
boring. I hate it here.”

“Why do you stay if you hate it so much? It’s a big
world with a lot of room.”

“I know, and I think that’s what keeps me here. It’s
too big and lonely out there.”

And I’m too scared of staying in one place.
Derek watched the trees moving past. The road they were on formed a loop from
the base of the mountains and back, and they were almost back where they had
started. He felt vaguely sad, as if they were near the end of something other
than a simple drive.

*          *          *

Parker was standing in the door of his store when Ann
dropped Derek off. The old man was busily staining an old T-shirt with beer; he
waved at Derek and some of it slopped onto the wooden porch. The dry wood
soaked it up greedily.

“Hi, son.” Parker stretched and set on the steps,
scratching one hairy forearm. “Go grab a beer and join me.” Derek did as he was
told, then went back out to sit with Parker on the steps. The beer was icy cold
and good. “Looks like you’re gonna be around for a while,” Parker said. “I was
talking to Ernie a bit ago. Car’s busted up pretty bad, huh?”

“Not too bad, but Ernie has to order parts.”

“Shit. Time was when a man could fix his own
automobile with some spit and bailing wire. They’ve got everything so
specialized now that a man has to have a degree or something to put air in his
tires. Know why?”

“Why?”

“It’s the communists. They’ve bought out all the big corporations so
they can complicate everything. Pretty soon us Americans won’t be able to do
anything for ourselves and then they’ll just walk in and take over.”

Derek grinned. “You might be right at that.”

“Damn right I’m right. It’s a communist plot.” Parker
nodded sagely. “Still feel like fishing, don’t you?”

“You just try and stop me.”

It took only a few minutes to load the equipment.
Derek smiled as he watched an almost childlike enthusiasm grow in the old man.
It was contagious; the prospect of a little fishing sounded better the more he
thought about it. By the time they were on their way, he was beginning to feel
more relaxed and easy than he had in months.

Parker drove his old tan station wagon through the
middle of the town, an undertaking of three minutes if the vehicle was kept to
an even crawl. Once out of town, the road angled slightly, heading directly
north. Parker followed it for a half mile before turning off onto a narrow dirt
road. The road wound westwardly to the base of the mountains.

“If you follow the main road back there for another
mile, you get to the bridge,” Parker said. “A lot of folks do their fishing
there, but it ain’t much good. Water’s too fast. Now, the place I’m taking you
is the best around. It’s God’s gift to fish and fishermen both.”

“Sounds good.”

The station wagon lurched over the rough road for
another half a mile until they reached the river and Parker parked in a small
natural clearing at the water’s edge.

Derek didn’t know about the fishing, but the spot was
beautiful enough to make the trip worthwhile. Mountains crowded the banks of
the river not far above them, and the trees and grass gave the area an
unspoiled natural elegance, proving the superiority of nature’s ability to
landscape. In the river, the water splashed over rocky shallows and lay slow
and quiet in deep places.

Parker unloaded the fishing gear and piled it on the
open tailgate. He opened the lid on a huge and rusty tackle box, and then dug
around in the bottom before producing a clear plastic box. It contained a half
dozen fishing flies, and he proudly held them out for Derek’s inspection.

“Here you go, son. Made these myself. Ain’t nothing
with fins safe from you if you’re using these, guaranteed. It ain’t fair to the
fish, but what the hell. Pick out whatever meets your fancy, and let’s get down
to some serious fishing. We’ve already lost most of the day, with Ann dragging
you off like that.”

Derek grinned. “She’s a nice girl.”

“Not when she interferes with fishing. Come on.”

Derek selected one of the flies and tied it on his
line. The two of them waded out to the middle of the river, moving from rock to
rock, separating as they got the feel of the water. Derek did some experimental
casting for a few minutes, reeling in slowly.

He heard a shout and turned. Parker’s line was
dancing and the old man was working it, reeling it in and playing it out. The
trout broke through the water, twisting and Parker whistled. “You see that? Got
me a good one.”

“Looks like it to me. I think I’ll try a little
farther up.”

“Okay. Give a holler if you hook one bigger than
this. I’ll be glad to cut your line for you.”

Derek wave and waded out of the water. He stayed
close to the edge of the bank, working his way upriver fifty yards or so before
finding what he was looking for; a place where the water formed a gentle pool
crowding the bank. A pine tree angled slightly out over the river for shade.

He sat with his back against the trunk of the tree,
casting into the slow moving water and letting his line move with the current.
His eyes wandered toward the mountains, and as he studied them he had the same
sensation he had had earlier with Ann. It was the sense of vague recognition,
like some subconscious memory. He frowned, trying to drag whatever it was out
where he could examine it, but it was too much like some dim, elusive dream;
thinking about it only seemed to drive it away. He began to feel uneasy with
the mountains about him, and the quiet… it was too quiet, he realized. He
should be hearing the sound of birds and insects. He’d been still and quiet for
long enough. The only sound was that of the river.

Damn!
The peaceful mood had evaporated. He
sighed, stood up, and suddenly found himself scrambling in the damp grass as
the edge of the bank gave way. For a moment he thought he would be able to pull
himself up, but more of the bank crumbled away and he splashed back first in
the water.

Derek twisted until he could get his feet under him
and stand up. The water came up to the middle of his chest; the edge of the
bank was as high as his head. He sighed. He would have to wade downstream a
short distance to where the bank was lower before he would be able to pull
himself out. He reeled in his line and tossed the rod onto the bank so that he
could get it later.

He waded about thirty feet before finding a place
where the bank dipped low enough for easy climbing. It was treacherous; the
constantly moving water had eroded away the soil under the bank in many places.
Roots hung in the water like long, gnarled fingers. He was already in the act
of pulling himself up when he noticed something under the edge of the bank, something
that made a cold, black stone drop in his stomach.

That something was a body.

Derek slipped back into the water, hanging onto the
roots with one hand and reaching for the small body with the other. It was
pitifully light; he pushed it onto the bank easily. He pulled himself up beside
the body and rolled it over. It was the boy he had seen at the store.

Oh, god!
“Parker! Come here, hurry!” Derek
yelled, hoping the old man could hear him over the noise of the river. The
boy’s clothes were torn, but he could see no sign of a wound or blood. He put
his ear to the boy’s chest hopefully. Nothing. He started working on the boy.
“Parker!”

“Yeah!” Parker burst through the bushes, panting.
“What the…” He saw Derek pumping on the boy’s chest and his leathery face lost
its color. “My god, that’s Tony! What happened?”

“I just fished him out of the water,” Derek said
grimly. “I think it’s too late, but we’d better get him to a doctor. Quick.”

*          *          *

Sheriff Mike Dunns leaned back in his desk chair with
his feet propped on the desk’s littered top, idly thumbing through an old copy
of Detective magazine. He figured it was garbage (hell, he
knew
it was
garbage) but he read it anyway. He got a kick out of comic book super-cops.
They always got whoever they were after, no matter what kind of crap got in
their way, come hell or high water or continued-next-week. He grinned. So did
he, in a way, even if it was just passing out a ticket now and then, or packing
one or two of the local boys home when they got a little too frisky down at
Sam’s place on a Saturday night.