Bloodstone (19 page)

In the early hours of the following Tuesday morning Billy Smith came quickly and gaspingly awake from another vivid dream. He and Angel were being chased down a dark passage by something monstrous. He looked back; the creature was snapping at their heels, the hair of its long, ugly snout stained red with blood, round yellow eyes shining like two lamps in the darkness. They rounded a corner, and in front of them the ground gave a sudden, violent heave. For a moment he thought of lava forcing itself through subterranean cracks, spewing forth a geyser that would consume them. Then he saw the skeletal hands, reaching, bodies pulling themselves up out of the black earth. Thousands of them; one stepping forward, cleaner and more whole than the rest, his face wasted by some pestilence, eyes like a hawk, hooded and yet familiar.

When he turned to Angel, her mouth was hanging open in an expression of surprise and puzzlement. She frowned, and then lifted up her shirt with one hand. Surprise turned to pain, her lips making a round, red “oh” as her chest split and opened wide. He caught a glimpse of something that wriggled and twisted and turned.

That was when he woke up, clutching the sheets in tight, sweaty palms. He glanced across the bed to where Angel slept on her side, her back to him. He could see her soft,
round hips and the curve of her shoulder, and just the top of her head where it protruded from under the blankets. She was sleeping peacefully, thank God. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, feel her touch. But he would not wake her.

Silently, patiently, he waited for the dawn.

That night they sat again at a corner table in the dining room of the Old Mill Inn. There were three other patrons for dinner, all of them far enough away to be out of earshot. “So now what,” Angel said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You’ve got yourself a job, and I’m running around talking to crazy old women and researching old books. Neither of us knows what the hell is really going on. We’re not any closer to figuring things out than when we got here, are we?”

He shook his head. He wasn’t so sure about that. She had told him about her trip to the historical society when he returned from work Thursday night, told him everything Annie had said in great detail. He remembered the way the old woman had looked at him that day on the square; something in her gaze had made him stop short.
The look of recognition
. It was as if she had been waiting for him, all this time. What was it she had said?
You have come back
.

“Annie knows more than she told you. She’s got to. I mean, who better to figure out voices and demons and the occult than a witch? If that’s what she is.”

“She certainly thinks so. I’m telling you, she had me believing it too.”

“All right. Let’s say then, for argument’s sake, that she does have some inside knowledge on why we were both brought here. What exactly did she say to you? Maybe we’re missing something.”

“She knew why I was there. Knew about the dreams we’ve been having. She wanted to tell me about the Taylor family.”

“So whatever is happening to us involves the Taylors too. We had a good idea about that already. What else?”

“She said the town was sick. Under the control of something she described as ‘pure evil.’ Or maybe someone. She said we were a part of it. And she was scared too.”

“Of what?”

“The dead. She said they were watching us, reaching out for us. And she said that we would have a choice to make, and that it wouldn’t be clear until the end what we would need to do.” Angel shook her head. “I don’t know. Remembering it all now, it seems crazy. But I know that when I was in that basement with her I believed every word.”

Smith had read the old newspaper articles Angel brought him from her visit to the historical society.
The break-in
at the old mansion in the square. The death of Norman Taylor,
and the murder of Sharon
. He had stared at the grainy newsprint photograph of Ronnie Taylor for a very long time, finding something that intrigued him, though he wasn’t sure just what. A look about those eyes, such power and malice in them, visible even through the camera lens and across the thousands of hours that had passed since the photo was taken.

And somewhere close by, Ronnie’s firstborn son. On the edge of something that could tear him apart. Such rage inside of him, surely. Billy could almost feel it himself, a burning, twisting fist in the guts. Such pain.

He and Angel had made love every night, and sometimes in the mornings, their bodies held tight and close. He felt that heavy knot inside loosening still more, the dam cracking, getting ready to give way and unleash a flood of forgotten feelings and banished thoughts. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to be truly vulnerable to someone else, and he wondered what would happen when the knot slipped its final coil; if the wave, when it came, would be so strong it would sweep him away. Yet he wanted it. Never had he wanted anything so badly. He had been alone too long.

After a half-day of work at the clinic, Smith had returned
to the empty hotel room and got out the old newspaper articles again. Angel had been feeling a little under the weather, and was sleeping in the adjoining room (she had been sleeping a lot the past few days, seemingly able to leave everything behind, finding escape in a world without dreams. In a way, he envied her). He reread the articles. More and more his eyes were drawn to the one about the burglary of the Thomas place, and the related story of the amulet.

The professor quoted in the story caught his attention. He placed a call to information, asking for the number for Professor David Rutherford. It was a long shot, to say the least; the article quoting Rutherford was written years ago. He might have an unlisted number, moved, or even died.

But he got lucky. A moment later the operator said “thank you” and he heard the electronic voice giving him a number.

Dr. Rutherford answered on the third ring. Smith introduced himself, heard a moment’s questioning pause, and wondered where to begin. He couldn’t tell the doctor anything over the phone. Hell, he didn’t even know what he wanted to say yet. He made up something about doing research for a book, and asked to meet with the doctor that afternoon. To his surprise, Rutherford readily agreed.

After he hung up, he peeked into the adjoining room. Angel had not stirred. Deciding to let her sleep, he climbed into the car, rolled down the windows to get a breeze, and headed for Brunswick alone.

Dr. David Rutherford lived in a sprawling three-story Colonial off Main Street. It seemed that Rutherford was something of a local celebrity. Grew up in Brunswick, taught at Harvard for twenty years, published numerous articles and three fairly well-known books on ancient cultures. Still lectured occasionally at Bowdoin College, which was located just a mile down the street.

Rutherford was not at all what Smith expected. He was a tall, well-built man with long, curly hair pulled back into a
ponytail that lay like a fat gray snake on his shoulder. He sported a thick mustache and came to the door in a pair of Levi’s and a plaid shirt. He showed Smith into a large, high-ceilinged living room. They sat in comfortable, overstuffed chairs. One wall of the room was lined with leather-bound books on mahogany shelves. Dr. Rutherford caught him looking. “Those are the boring ones. I keep everything interesting under lock and key.” He smiled, and the expression brought life to his face and softened his eyes so that he looked much younger. “I’ve gathered a pretty substantial collection over the years. A lot of them belonged to my father, actually; he worked at B. I. W. down the road, but he was a closet reader. I guess it rubbed off.” He settled deeper into his chair. “So, Mr. Smith. What can I do for you?”

“I’m afraid I lied to you over the phone,” Smith said. This was the hard part, he thought; how to tell a former Harvard professor that his dreams were being haunted by the walking dead, without being laughed at, or worse, being thrown out on his ear. He wished he had a drink now; his throat ached for the burn. And then quickly wished it away;
never, never again
.

“I told you I was writing a book. I’m not.”

“I see.” Apparently Dr. Rutherford was not the questioning type. He sat back and waited.

“The real truth…the real truth is a bit more complicated.”

Rutherford smiled again. “I took a look out the window when you drove up. California plates? That’s quite a trip. It would be a shame if you came all this way just to lie to me.”

Smith took the articles out of his pocket and handed the first of them to the older man. “Do you remember this robbery?”

Rutherford studied the article and nodded. “Yes, I do. Henry Thomas had a beautiful collection, the Louis XIV amulet being the best among them. I did some research for him when he first discovered it in the basement of the family home, as I recall. I tried hard to get him to donate it to a
museum where it could be better tested and protected, but he refused. Thomas was something of an eccentric.”

“The newspaper articles say that its origins were never accurately traced.”

“Well, that true, to a point.” Rutherford was nodding again. “Although I have seen similar designs before. I wouldn’t want to swear it in court, but if it’s genuine, I now believe that amulet was Egyptian.”

“That makes it what, three, four thousand years old? How could it possibly have survived to make it over here?”

“No real mystery. There are plenty of relics from that period in museums all over the world. The ancient Egyptians were an extremely successful culture. I don’t have the slightest idea how something like that got into the basement of a resident of Maine in the twentieth century. But I suppose anything’s possible.”

“Do you know anything more about it? What it was used for, that sort of thing?”

“That amulet was used mainly for burial purposes, placed around the neck of the dead man to assist him in the afterlife. That particular amulet was quite rare.” Rutherford frowned. “Now, really, I must ask—what’s this all about?”

Smith handed him the article about Norman Taylor’s death, and finally, the murder of Sharon Taylor. The older man read them in silence, then looked at him curiously.

“Sorry, I don’t see the connection.”

“A lot of people believe Ronnie Taylor was the one responsible for the break-in at the home of Henry Thomas.”

“And where is this Ronnie Taylor now?”

“He died in prison a couple of weeks ago. Ronnie murdered at least one and possibly two people soon after he stole that amulet. People noticed a change in him, the way he acted, the way he carried himself. Let’s say it was a psychological affect. He believed in what the amulet could do, and it gave him the courage to start acting out. Asserting his control.”

“That’s a possibility,” the older man said, nodding. “I have
heard of these relics being used in black mass ceremonies, devil worship, that sort of thing. And they still haven’t found the piece?”

“No. But I believe it’s still around. It’s a pretty safe bet that Ronnie’s son may have possession of it. He’s been acting very odd lately, under a lot of stress. Isn’t it possible that Ronnie might have passed these beliefs down to his son, along with the amulet? And that his son might try to follow in his footsteps?”

“If he was sufficiently unbalanced, I suppose it’s possible.” But the man was frowning again. “Forgive me, but I have to ask—why come to me?”

“I work at the clinic in White Falls, with Dr. Stowe. We’re trying to help Jeb Taylor cope with his father’s death, get back on his feet. But he’s resisting. I thought that if I learned more about his history, and this amulet, I might be able to understand where the pathology is coming from.”

“I see.” Rutherford stood up. “Would you like some coffee? I had just made a pot.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with two cups. When they had settled back into their chairs again, he took a long sip, closed his eyes, and then put the cup down on a nearby end table. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Smith. If that’s your real name. Your car has California plates, yet you talk about having a job at a local clinic. What’s more, you claim to have traveled all the way up to see me just to help out a local boy with whom you have no ties. And you come here with a story about a very valuable piece of history that’s difficult to believe, to say the least. If I wasn’t such a trusting soul, I’d say you were looking to profit.”

“I’m not after any money.”

“That may be. But you’re after something.”

“All right. Let’s just say that I’m a mystery buff. Something strange is going on, and I’m interested in finding out the truth. The fact that I’m from California, that part’s true. My wife and I were running away from some bad memories.
We figured we’d start fresh, about as far away from the past as we could get. The part about the job at the clinic, that’s true too. I happened to meet a guy who wanted to help me out, and I’m grateful for that. Now I want to return the favor. Helping him with this kid would go a long way toward making it right.”

Rutherford studied his face, took another sip of coffee. “Okay. I guess that’ll have to do.” He put the coffee down. “So you want to know more about what you think this kid has found.” He got up, wandered to the bookshelves, but did not seem to find what he wanted there. He disappeared into another room, returning a moment later with another leather-bound book. “Here’s a picture of what I believe is a similar piece.”

Smith found himself staring down at a photograph of a very old, chipped circle of stone. The figures on the stone looked to be some kind of dragons or large serpents, intertwined around a large open eye made of some kind of gem. Next to the photo was a reference:
Ceremonial amulet of the
Middle Kingdom
.

“The Egyptians believed in an underworld,” Rutherford explained, settling back in his chair. “The spirits of the dead were taken there and were ruled by several deities. Apparently, this amulet represented one of them, or one of the smaller demons that populated this place. The amulet could be placed around the dead man’s neck to assist him in the underworld journey. Also, wearing the amulet could give a living person certain defenses by becoming a focal point; that is, the demon would become more interested in the stone than the person, and perhaps inhabit it for a certain length of time. In this way the person could harness some of the powers of the demon. Of course, the demons were fickle, and didn’t always stay put.”