The Awakening (4 page)

Two years ago, just before the local election, there
had been some talk of putting on a deputy to augment the police force. Nothing
ever came of it, which was just as well with Mike. There wasn’t enough to keep
one man busy, much less a bureaucracy of two. Not when he had managed to put on
twenty-five pounds in the last year. Cider Springs was a quiet little town and
he liked it that way. He’d never see either end of a promotion, but that was
okay; politics were not his thing.

Mike caught the sound of an automobile moving fast
and went to the window to squint out. It was Parker’s old station wagon, and
the old man had that new fellow with him. W
hat was that name? Derek
.
They were carrying a small boy into Doc’s place and they weren’t wasting time.

Mike got the feeling right then that it wasn’t going
to be a good day.

*          *          *

Dr. Hillard was in the front office when they hurried
in with the boy. He lowered his head and frowned over his glasses, then pointed
into the next room. An examining table stood in the center of the room, and the
sterile white paper rustled when Derek laid the boy on it.

He listened to the boy’s chest and felt for his
pulse, then pushed the boy’s eyelids back with his thumb. He took a penlight
from his smock pocket and flicked the narrow beam across the boy’s eyes. The
irises responded, but slowly.

“I saw ‘em move! He’s still alive!” Parker said.

The doctor’s face was strained, and he looked at
Parker for a moment before answering. “No, it’s too late. He’s been dead at
least two hours, I think.”

“But I saw–”

“What you saw is common, even after several hours.
What happened?”

“I found him floating in the river. I tried C.P.R.,
but… We brought him here as fast as we could,” Derek said.

They heard the outer door to the office push open,
and a moment later, a big man in a sheriff’s uniform appeared at the doorway of
the examining room. He glanced at the boy on the table and then at the three
men around it.

“It’s the Tomalo boy, Mike. Tony,” Parker said.

“I can see. Shit.” Mike fished a pack of Marlboros
from his shirt pocket and lit one. “Anybody going to tell me about it?”

“This here’s Derek,” Parker said. Mike nodded and
Derek nodded back. “We was doing some fishing, and Derek was up river from me.
I heard him give a shout and I came running. He was doing what he could for the
boy when I got there, giving him C.H.P. and stuff.”

“C.P.R.,” Dr. Hillard corrected. “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

“Oh. Whatever.”

“What happened, Doc? Did he drown?” Mike asked.

“Apparently.”

“When?”

“My guess is about two hours ago, at least. Could
have been a lot more.”

“Anything else wrong with him, like cuts or bruises?”

“I haven’t done a complete examination on him yet,
but as far as I can tell, there’s not much. His right hand is burned, though.”

“When can you give me a completely report?”

“No later than in the morning. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Parker cleared his throat and shook his head. His age
hung from his skinny shoulders like an old coat, faded and over worn. “Guess
I’d better go back there and get our gear. You want to come along, son?”

Derek nodded, not looking away from the boy. “Might
as well, I could use some air.”

“You going to be around for a day or two?” Mike asked
Derek. “I’ll probably have a few questions, since you were the one that found
him. Just routine.”

“Sure. I’m staying at the hotel. I’ll tell you
anything I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be much.”

“Okay. This looks like an accident, but I’ve still
got to check everything over. Hope you understand.”

Dr. Hillard had been looking at the sad, small body
on the table. He raised his eyes to Mike. There were tears in them. “You know,
I brought this boy into this world. Now I’ve got to…” He sighed. “What are you
going to tell John?”

Mike shook his head. “God knows. I don’t.”

*          *          *

Dull grey clouds gathered in the late afternoon sky,
stealing the beauty from the last of the sun’s rays. A slightly chill breeze
had sprung from somewhere and began drifting through the open window of Derek’s
room. He stood in front of it for a few minutes watching the town light blink
on one by one. To the left he could see the outline of the mountains, purple
and ominous.

Was it life that was unfair, or was it death?

He sighed and lay down on the bed, his mind as tired
as his body. Too many things were happening too fast, almost dreamlike; but not
a pleasant dream. Except for Ann. He thought of her and sighed. Someone had
once said,
“You’re no good for anyone if you’re no good for yourself.”

He could hear the ticking of his watch. Gradually,
the shadows on the cracked ceiling faded into an even darkness.

*          *          *

Richard Jarman stood in the front hall of the big
house, listening to the faint, distant thunder and the first few splatters of
rain. It had been dark for only a few minutes, but already that darkness had
taken on a tangible denseness; it was something a man could feel, thick and
black and clinging. Richard stretched his arms wide in welcome of the night.

His wife watched him from the bottom step of the long
staircase, her pale blue eyes shining from a mixture of fear and fascination.
He was a merciless, even sadistic man, but she worshipped his every word. She
stepped back when he turned toward her.

“This night will be good to us, Cathy.” His voice was
deep, hypnotic. “All the forces are coming together. I can
feel
it! I’ve
waited so long… Better get ready. The kids too.”

“Are you sure you…?” Cathy hesitated, watching her
husband’s face. “Yes, I’ll get them.” She turned and went up the stairs.

After a few moments, he too began to climbing the
stairway, slowly, until he reached the entrance to his private study. It was
where he spent most of his time, researching and studying, all in preparation
for the right time.

He crossed the room to his desk and lit a candle,
then undressed slowly. The bookcases lining the walls were overflowing with
books; many of them were old, leather-bound works of considerable value. More
books and papers were piled on the floor. In one corner of the room rested a
large metal-clad chest of polished mahogany. From the hasp hung an ancient iron
padlock.

He removed a thick gold chain from his neck, letting
the old key on it dangle in the dim light. It glimmered softly as he smiled. He
placed it into the lock and twisted, then set the opened lock and key on the
floor beside him. Slowly he lifted the lid on the chest. The odor of narcotics
and something subtly worse filled the room.

Carefully, one by one, he placed the contents of the
chest on the desk. It was a collection of pure evil, one that had taken years
to gather. These were the tools of the Black Arts.

He ignored the smaller objects for the moment and
clutched the black cloak to his body, savoring the sensuous feel of the silk on
his skin. It always made him feel powerful and potent, but tonight it fed fire
into his veins.

“The fools,” he hissed to the empty room. “Tonight
the Power will become mine, and the world will grovel at my feet!” He smiled to
himself, an ugly, sneering smile. He had come close, a long time ago, but never
had conditions been so perfect; he could
feel
the nearness of the other,
the dark force, from which he would succeed, and there would be none to stop
him.

As he had been stopped before.

No, there would be none to stop him this time, none
of those laughing fools that could see nothing but their own miserable, petty
little goals. They had made him lose his position at the university when their
laughter had turned to fear.

But he had continued his work, living on an
inheritance from his parents, until twenty years ago. He had been forced to
leave his home in New York because of people’s fear. Somehow they had found
out. They had been afraid of what he had done and what he might be able to do.
Rumors of human sacrifices are not healthy to those who deal in the Occult.

He slipped the heavy cloak over his shoulders and
smeared oil from a small jar on his chest. When he was done, he picked up a
dagger from the desk. It was his sacred Athame, the witches’ knife, and he
murmured strange words over it before he kissed the blade and tucked it into
the cord at his waist.

He gathered the items from the desk and went down the
stairs. His family was waiting for him.

*          *          *

Dr. Timothy Hillard dipped his hands into the stainless
steel surgical sink and splashed water over his face. He was tired and his eyes
burned, but the cold water felt good. At the edge of the sink sat a fifth of
Jim Dean, two-thirds full; he had cracked the seal less than an hour ago. He
poured part of it into a water glass, swished it around, and took a small
swallow. It felt good, too. It always had. For a long time he had treated it as
a game, his own private version of spin the bottle, hating it and loving it.
But it wasn’t a game anymore, it was a fact of life- his life- and he hated
himself for his own weakness.
Physician heal thyself? Shit. The doctor that
treats himself has a fool for a patient. Hail to thee, old fool, let us drink
and be merry, for tomorrow…

He took another swallow and sat the glass down, his
fingers uncurling from its surface with reluctance. It would be nice not to
resist, to empty the glass and fill it again and empty that one too, not
stopping until the bottle was as empty as he felt. Anything that would help him
forget that the body of a small boy was waiting for him on the examining table.
A boy he had delivered red faced and screaming, a boy he had treated for cuts
and scrapes and colds, a boy he had liked very much. And who now was very dead.

The hands of his watch pointed to seven twenty-three.

He turned and looked down at the boy, his mouth tired
and hard. He had a report to fill out. Drowning? Maybe; he had thought so when
he had first examined the boy, but now it didn’t seem right. The discoloration
customary with drowning victims wasn’t there, and there wasn’t enough water in
the lugs. And the odor… a sickening, sweetish smell, much, but not quite like
that of decomposing flesh. Normal, if the boy had been dead for several days…
But in a few hours? And it had become noticeably stronger in the last two
hours.

There was something intangibly wrong with the face,
too. As a doctor, he had seen death far too many times not to notice. Often in
the faces of the dead, especially those of children, one could see a calm,
almost beautiful expression, as if death had erased the accumulated
frustrations and worries that life provided. But in this nine-year-old boy’s
face something had gone awry, leaving him subtly changed, distorted. As if the
hand of evil had touched him and left him… unclean.

Dr. Hillard massaged his temples with his fingertips,
frowning, the sharp edges of a headache beginning. Another examination wasn’t
going to do shit. There wasn’t a mark on the boy that wouldn’t be expected on a
nine-year-old… except for the burn on his hand… The boy had been fine the day
before, so he hadn’t been sick enough to die. Poison? Unlikely; none of the
tests had shown anything suspicious. No visible evidence of foul play of any
kind. He pulled the sterile white sheet up, covering the small naked body.
He’s
dead. Why? Because he died.

He carried the bottle and glass to his small desk
where the death certificate and report lay. They would read apparent accidental
drowning if it stopped here, but it would be wrong. The Altura Coroner’s office
would have to take care of it, put an official tag on the boy’s death. He hated
the idea. The boy’s father was in bad enough shape, already, and having to go
through all of this again was going to be rough.

The whiskey was working at last; he could feel the
warm numbness seeping through his body and making everything a little soft and
fuzzy. He began filling in the spaces on the transfer form, slowly, one by one.
A few faint flashes of lightning came through the window beside the desk as if
making comments on what he was writing. He drained his glass and refilled it
again, not noticing that the temperature in the room had begun dropping. He had
just finished the first page when he heard the sound of cloth falling to the
floor.

*          *          *

It had been long, but now it was being called. The
way had been closed and it had waited, dreamless and impatient. But now the way
was opening, changing, and it was hungry for freedom and flesh and evil. It
moved.

The waiting was over.

*          *          *

Beneath the staircase in the Jarman’s house was a
doorway leading to a small room; inside, Richard Jarman’s wife, son and
daughter waited. At the far end of the room was a huge block of carved stone
that served as an altar. On it were black candles in brass holders, incense,
and a human skull. On the floor was drawn the circle of protection with a five
pointed star in the center, the pentagram.

His wife, son, and daughter were naked except for a
few simple designs painted on their bodies. The children’s eyes were blank and
glassy from the drugs his wife had given to them. He was proud of his children.
They were pure. They had had nothing to do with any outsiders, and he had
trained them himself. The boy was fifteen, the girl was sixteen; both of them
untouched and beautiful.

He redrew the magic circle with his family inside,
then drew a pentagram on the face of the altar. Two points were at the top, the
invitation of evil. Chanting, he lit the candles and then the incense.