Draw the Dark (13 page)

Two scrawled words:

Maybe I should have.

Oh, the things you know in retrospect.

Because the door was back.

Cold sweat popped out all over my face and chest.

The door had no knob. But there it was, in precisely the same place, the edges crisp and clean, only this time I had used Mordecai Witek’s brushes because the pouch was unrolled, a long-handled bright smelling of fresh turpentine. (Even in my sleep, I took care of my brushes. How strange was that?)

So my brain had decided to take over in my sleep and force my hand . . . so to speak. Whatever lived in the sideways place was just behind that door, pressed breathlessly against the skin separating it from this world. (Apparently, even my subconscious had limits, which was kind of hilarious when you got right down to it. Sure, make me bike a gazillion miles and dangle from a rope to spray-paint a barn, but whoa, watch that doorknob.)

Another thought occurred to me, though. What if that final step,
drawing
the knob and then turning it . . . what if that had to be my
choice
? Something I did
consciously
, understanding what might happen? I know. It sounded crazy to me too, and I was becoming an expert on crazy.

But you know what it reminded me of?
Revelation 3:20: Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me.

Now, I’m not a whacked-out Christian-type. But everyone knows that quote from Revelation. Sarah’s dad said in confirmation class that the reason God didn’t barge in was that you had to bring your head to God along with your heart; the two couldn’t be separate, and it had to be your choice. Another thing Reverend Schoenberg had said was that whenever you saw a reference to a door in the Bible, it also represented the way in which heaven and truth, angels and God, communicated with people.

So . . . was the sideways place really heaven? Some kind of truth?

Then I thought of something else: Mr. Witek’s door, the weird tube on the jamb. How I’d stood there and knocked and felt the pull, like I was being invited in . . . only our roles were reversed then, weren’t they? I hadn’t brought any kind of truth with me. No, the truth had been in Mr. Witek’s room; the truth lived in those pictures and whatever was locked in Mr. Witek’s memory.

The truth flowed from my fingertips.

I closed my eyes. Thought about counting to ten and made it to four.

The door was still there.

“Go to school, you jerk,” I said. “You’ve still got work to do.”

But I left the door where it was. I wrote down what I could tease out of the tangle in my brain: a garden room, a stream, stained glass—and then I thought:
Idiot, you’re just remembering the painting. You’re incorporating the painting into your dreams, and you think it means something.

Well, maybe it did. Damned if I knew what.

Although, of course, little kids are pretty vicious too. I should know. I’ve certainly been on the receiving end all my life. You try being the one a pack of kids will cut out from the group, make sure you’re real far away from the school so no one will see, and then beat the crap out of you. That was one thing Marjorie was wrong about. You didn’t need to live in a city to experience people being the animals they really were deep down inside.

I was scuffing out to the bike rack after school when I heard Sarah behind me: “Wait up!”

“I thought you were mad at me,” I said as she trotted up.

“I
am
mad at you.” She was wearing jean capris, and her hair was up in a ponytail, like Betty in those Archie comics. Not that I’ve ever read them. Since I was eight, anyway. Sarah looked kind of cute. She said, “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” We pushed out to the breezeway and hung a left, heading for the bike rack at the side of the school. I saw her glance at a knot of other girls in the parking lot, all of them pretending not to stare, and then away. I asked, “You know, if you don’t want to do this . . .”

“Can we talk about something else other than your insanity, please?”

“Uh . . . okay.” I wracked my brain for something to say. “How’s the research going?”

“Pretty good, thanks. I called the sheriff’s office today, and Marjorie said the anthropologist was probably coming up tomorrow or Saturday.”

“Hey, that’s cool. Would you . . . uh . . .”

She stopped, planted her hands on her hips, and said, “No, I don’t mind if you come. I said I didn’t mind before. What do you need, Christian, an engraved invitation?”

“Uh . . . no, no, I don’t need that. Thanks.”

She rolled her eyes and started walking again. “You’re welcome.”

“So who does the baby belong to?”

She shrugged. “Could be anyone’s, right? Until the anthropologist tells us how long the body’s been there, we can’t date anything or anybody. But get this . . . the house wasn’t always the way it is now. There’s the original house that dates way back to the 1720s when it was owned by a French trapper.”

“You’re kidding. I didn’t know the French . . .” My voice died, and my throat seized up.

“What?” Confused, Sarah shot a look at me and then turned to stare in the direction of the bike rack. “Oh,” she said, only it came out more like a moan.

Dekker was there, standing next to a red motorcycle— probably his dad’s. When he saw that we’d spotted them, he elbowed his two guys—Curly? Larry? I didn’t think they were the same two sandrats, so probably Athos and Porthos, but who knew. Their heads turned our way at the same time, and it was weird, like a pack of animals watching prey.

Without realizing what I was doing, I stepped in front of Sarah. “What do you want?”

“Now, is that any way to talk to someone who could press charges and get your ass off probation and into jail?” Dekker gave a silent dog’s laugh, and then his eyes shifted. “Hey there, Sarah.”

Sarah was silent. I felt her sidle up to my right elbow.

Dekker pulled a face. “What, you don’t want to talk to me?”

“Leave her out of this,” I said. (I know, I know: like a bad movie.)

“What you going to do, Killer? You going to hex me too? I hear you’ve been up to your old tricks again.” To Sarah: “I’d watch my step around this boy, if I was you.”

“Well, thank heavens, I’m not you, and no, I don’t want to talk to you,” said Sarah. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. But remember one thing, Dekker: I’m a witness. You do anything, I’m here to say what happened.”

“Ooooh.” Dekker mugged for Athos and Porthos, who cracked up, their cigarettes bobbing. “I’m so scared of the preacher’s kid.” His eyes slitted. “Come on, Sarah, you know we could have some fun together. Remember last summer? You were happy to see me then....”

Poor Sarah was the shade of a plum. “Hey,” I interrupted. “You want to talk to me, here I am. What is it?”

“What, you want her too? Well, good luck with that. These preachers’ kids, they get all hot, but when it comes to putting out—”

“What do you want?” I asked again.

“Why, I do believe the boy’s sweet on our little Sarah.” Dekker twisted around to grin at Athos and Porthos. “Won’t
he
get a surprise.”

“Fine.” Stomach jumping, I turned to Sarah. “They’re just dicking around,” I said, as casually as I could, although the words felt strange in my mouth. “Let’s go.”

“What did you . . . Hey,
hey
!” Dekker’s voice was sharp and peremptory. “Don’t you turn your back on me, you little prick!”

I turned back, expecting that the next thing I’d see would be his fist hurtling for my nose. But nothing happened. I waited a beat and then said, “What do you want?”

“What I
want
,” he bit off the word, “is for you to get your ass out to my place this Saturday. My bike’s gonna be ready, and you still got to make good on fixing it. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it.” That would also mean I couldn’t work on Eisenmann’s barn, but the barn wasn’t going anywhere, and since Dekker would find some way to break my arms if I didn’t show up, better I do his bike. “We got to go.”

“Yeah? Where to?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

Dekker feigned a blink. “Excuse me? Say what?”

This time, I kept my mouth shut.

“Naw, come on, Killer,” Dekker said. Athos and Porthos were smirking the way coyotes grin. Dekker swaggered a few steps toward us; I eased back, bumping into Sarah. “Come on,” said Dekker, “I want to hear it again.”

I said nothing. Dekker was maybe a foot away, close enough to throw a fast jab or flick out his knife again. He must’ve read my face because his wolfish eyes shifted to my arms. The bandages were long gone as were the Steri-Strips, but when his gaze clicked back, he made a little feint and laughed when I flinched. “What’s the matter? Scared I might cut you again?”

“Dekker.” It was Sarah. When I looked, she had her cell out and she’d taken five steps back, out of Dekker’s reach. Her thumb was poised over the Talk button. “You have ten seconds before I call 911.”

Dekker’s smile dribbled away, and his eyes sharpened. “You don’t want to do that, Sarah. I was just playing.” But he backed up a step, then two.

“Great. I’m not.” Sarah sounded a lot older than seventeen. Her voice was flat, no-nonsense. “Now you’ve got
five
seconds.”

Dekker’s eyes narrowed. “You little holier than thou bi . . .”

Sarah jabbed Talk.

“Son of a . . . ” Dekker’s face was purple, and he was so angry that his lips trembled. He whirled on his heel as Sarah said, “Hello, yes, this is Sarah Schoenberg, and I’m at the school and—”

“Let’s go!” Dekker stomped his bike to life and throttled up, gunning the engine. Athos and Porthos were already astride their bikes, and the three whipped their motorcycles out of the parking lot. “Saturday!” Dekker screamed back at me, and then the three growled away.