Late at Night (26 page)

But the pressure around his ankle had felt so much like
fingers.

He waited until he had regained his wind, until his heart had stopped its pounding. He wondered if the girls had fallen in here—it certainly seemed difficult to get out once you were in. He looked around the enclosure but saw no one else. But the plant growth was so thick down here that it would be hard to catch sight of another victim unless they were moving about as he had been doing.

Still, just to be on the safe side, he called out the housekeeper’s names. Surely both of them hadn’t fallen in. In any case, the weeds were like cushions and it was unlikely they’d have been knocked unconscious. They would have been crying out for help; and even if they’d fallen asleep at some point, surely his fall into the hole, his voice yelling out, would have awakened them.

It was so dark down here. The rays of the moon seemed to be absorbed and neutralized as soon as they entered the hole.
Well, time to try again,
he told himself. He paused to investigate the cuts in his palms, the puncture wounds in his arms and legs, but the bleeding seemed to have already slackened. The wounds hurt like hell. He managed to rise to his knees without reaching out for one of the malicious bushes. He had enough painful injuries as it was.

He was about to try and stand up, hoping he could climb up the side of the embankment in a reasonably vertical position, when he felt a sudden, agonizing stab directly above his left ankle. The shock of it pulled him back down to a sitting position. “What the—!” It felt as if someone had shoved a fork into his leg. Pulling up his pants, he saw that a bluish-green vine was lying across the bottom of his leg, digging under his trousers. On the tip of the vine there was a small reddish flower, and in the center of this flower there were three long pistil-like growths which had attached themselves to his skin. Like needles, the pistils were inserted into his flesh. The whole surrounding area was swollen and turning blue. Everson looked at the vine and saw that it was slowly turning red in color.

The vine was sucking out his blood!

He tried to remain calm. Surely there was some other explanation. There were no man-eating plants in this part of the world. His face was hot, feverish, dripping with sweat. He stared and stared at the spot above his ankle, trying to see clearly in the dim light, seeing the pistils disappearing under the surface of the skin, bright red now, engorged with blood, his blood. He had to stop it. Grabbing the flower in his hand, he gave it a good wrench, but nothing happened. He pulled the vine, but the pistils were too deeply embedded in his flesh. Besides, pulling them out might only make it worse.

He decided to attack the vine itself, and holding it up in both hands, tried his best to tear it in two. It was no use. The vine was firm, rubberish, like insulated wire, impossible to rip apart. And meanwhile the swollen spot above his ankle had grown to twice its original size. He was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. He saw spots before his eyes.

Just as he was about to give the flower another wrench, he felt that same horrendous pain as before, only this time digging into his right arm. He had. scarcely finished ascertaining that another plant had attached itself to this appendage, when he felt another terrible jab on his thigh. This time the pistils were sticking right through the material of his clothes. He was shaking now, moaning out loud in misery, on the verge of completely losing the control he’d fought so hard to retain all of his life.
Calm, stay calm, that’s your only way out of this.

And then one of the flowers reached out of nowhere and pushed itself into his cheek.

He clapped a hand to the side of his face, wanting to pull out the pistils, but afraid his flesh would tear off with them. The plant would not let go of his skin. He could feel the blood being drained out of his cheek, felt the numbness, the tissue beginning to swell. He felt more stabs of pain: left leg, left arm, forehead, calf, forearm. They were coming at him from all sides, these horrible, vampiric plant forms, stealing away his life’s blood. He was reduced to a jibbering, quivering mess, screaming and flopping about like a fish in a fisherman’s net, his body being tossed and pulled in all directions by the greedy sucking monstrosities attached to his body. Caught like a hospital patient tied to dozens of intravenous tubes, he could only lay back helplessly while his blood was thoroughly drained.

The vines began to tighten as Everson’s body shriveled, an empty vessel devoid of life. It was as if each vine wanted to capture that last drop, that last delicious taste of fluid before the others could. The vines began to pull against each other, snapping the lawyer’s body taut until it hung three feet above the mat, outstretched and rigid. Tension showed in the vibrating arms and legs of the victim, the limbs strained to the breaking point.

Slowly, inevitably, the limbs began to separate; muscles popped, sinews stretched and broke, tissue began to tear. Somewhat like a horse thief drawn and quartered in days of old, John Everson was shredded into six messy but bloodless segments.

Chapter 45

“Another one of these and I’ll forget all about this island, that book, and everything in it.”

Anton drank down another in a long line of martinis, put down the empty glass and smiled. He was sitting on the sofa in the lounge, and had brought the bottle of gin, the bottle of vermouth, the ice bucket, and the jar of olives over with him and placed them on the glass table.

“Is that wise, Anton?” Ernie said. “Don’t you think we should all keep our wits about us considering the circumstances?”

“To hell with the circumstances. I need another drink. And if you were smart you’d have one, too. If we’re going to die, we’re going to die, and we might as well go out with a smile on our lips. Besides, when it comes my turn to face these— these psychic .forces, or whatever they are, I’ll be much more prepared to deal with them if I’m a little bit blitzed.”

Pacing back and forth across the room, Ernie looked up and said, “I think the best way of facing this situation is stone-cold sober. Drunk you won’t have a chance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the pianist scoffed. “A drunk mind can deal with the horrifying, the terrible, the unreal, much more capably than the sober mind. A sober man can be driven out of his wits. A drunk man can only be shocked into sobriety. Ah, yes,” he sighed, holding up his new martini. “I can face anything with a pitcherful of these.”

Ernie smiled wryly. “I’m beginning to think you’re right.”

Anton was impressed. “Why, thank you.”

Ernie finally sat down over by the window, wondering how Andrea was doing. She had insisted they go back downstairs, then had decided to lay down in Ernie’s room again in the hopes of getting another fix on the stolen novel. Anton had begun tanking up again almost immediately, and Ernie—in spite of his dire warnings—was more than tempted to join him. But he wanted a clear head. Now most of all he needed one.

So he sat down, determined to protect Andrea from whatever was out there, with his life if need be. He was beginning to believe her, to totally accept all that she had told him, although part of him clung to the notion that it was only because it was dark out, because it was night, because they were on a spooky island and strange things were happening. Back home, in the cold light of day, he would have dismissed Andrea’s theories without a second thought. Yet here, now, in this awful quiet, this solemn darkness, he found himself embracing her theories wholeheartedly.

Even Anton was silent now, and Ernie found himself wishing the man would start yakking again, anything to shatter the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. No, be honest with yourself, you want Anton to talk because it will keep you from brooding, from questioning all this too closely, to stop you from wondering if Andrea, or Everson, or
someone,
is playing you for a fool.

Most of all he didn’t want to think about what a coward he was. He didn’t want to think about Lynn out there alone, about how he had let her go —about how he was
glad
that Andrea had held him, begged him to stay. It was still bugging him. He tried to pretend it was a lot of macho nonsense: the man rushing to the aid of the lady in distress—in this case, Lynn—who had pleaded with him to tell her what would happen to her lover. How could have he told her? How could he have told her what he’d read in that book? Bloodsucking vines? Malevolent plants?

How could he have told her that when she found her lover—if she found her lover—she’d find him in pieces?

So it didn’t take much urging on Andrea’s part for him to give up all thoughts of accompanying their hostess in her nightmarish quest. He didn’t know which repulsed him more: the thought of finding John’s corpse, of seeing it that way; the thought of becoming a victim himself of the same forces that had claimed the life of John Everson; or the thought of Lynn’s horror-stricken face as she gazed at the torn remnants of her lover’s broken body.

God, he was dying for a drink. He saw Anton sucking on an olive and was tempted to ask the pianist to make him a martini. He resisted the impulse.

Ever since they’d come downstairs he’d had the urge to do one of two things. The spirit was willing, but the flesh … the flesh was tired. He thought of looking through the house again for the book, searching the individual rooms as they did before, in the hope that whoever stole it had hidden it close by. His second urge was to check on Hans and Mrs. Plushing. He did neither of these things because he didn’t want to leave Andrea alone for a second. He would have stayed in his room with her, but she had insisted that she needed absolute privacy for the utmost concentration. No one could get in or out of that room, not Anton, not
anyone,
without first going past him, and he intended to make sure it stayed that way. Also in the back of his mind was the idea that the book—assuming it was indeed some sort of focal point for the island’s psychic forces-could also attract supernatural energy to the one who possessed it. He was rather glad it was temporarily out of his hands.

He wondered if he should ask Anton to check in on the cook and the handyman, but decided not to bother. Anton was going nowhere, that much was obvious.

Something else was bothering him. On their way downstairs they’d checked Betty’s room to see if she was all right, but it had been empty. He was hoping desperately that the poor woman had gone downstairs to help Hans with Mrs. Plushing, and not become one more victim of the island’s malevolent forces. He had to find out for certain.

Steeling himself for what he was sure would be a nasty rejoinder, he got up the nerve to ask Anton if he would go into the servants’ quarters and report back on who was there and what condition they were in.

The reply was not unexpected. “And why me, good fellow? You seem perfectly capable of looking into that miserable little sickroom yourself. I don’t like being near ill people, Thesinger. I might as well make that clear. I have always been extremely susceptible to other people’s germs.”

You are a germ,
Ernie thought.

“No, I’m going to stay right where I am and keep my martinis nice and dry. Why don’t you be a good boy and see how the other half is doing yourself?”

“Because I don’t want to leave Andrea unguarded. She’s in a vulnerable position—”

“Come, come! Has she got you believing all that rubbish? All that woman is doing is catching up on her beauty sleep. Besides, if you need someone so desperately to protect her, what do you think I’ll be doing while you’re out of the room? I can look after her, I assure you.”

“Anton. I’m not leaving this room.”

“What? You don’t trust me? Is that it? What do you think I’ll do—molest the poor girl while your back is turned?”

The argument was brought to a halt when the front door flew open and a large, heavy figure moved brusquely in through the door.

“Hans! Where have you been?”

The handyman did not look happy. “Looking for a boat, Mr. Thesinger.”

“A boat?” Anton exclaimed. “What for? Planning to leave us?”

“Mrs. Plushing is sick. Very sick. I must get a doctor for her. Betty is in there watching her now and—”

“Thank goodness.” Ernie could breathe a little easier. “We didn’t know where she was.”

“She’s in watching Mrs. Plushing,” Hans continued. “I went to her room and asked if she would take over for me while I looked outside for a boat.”

“Did you find one?”

Hans shook his head morosely. “No. I looked everywhere. Up and down the shore. The shed out back. I found nothing.”

“What? No raft, no lifeboat?” Anton seemed anxious to subject the Swede to his teasing. “Perhaps we could pile into the
Mary Eliza
and sail
her
back to the mainland.”

“Don’t make jokes,” Hans said with a growl. “Mrs. Plushing being sick is not a laughing matter.” He gave Anton a long, dirty look, then stomped out of the room, the sound of his clomping boots receding steadily down the corridor.

“I wouldn’t want to see him when he’s mad,” Anton said. “Should have offered him a martini.”

“Oh will you shut up, Suffron. Take things seriously for a change.”

One moment Anton was sitting there looking stupid. The next he was sitting upright on the sofa, like a puma on the verge of pouncing. His manner transformed so abruptly that Ernie was completely startled. “Seriously? You want me to take things
seriously
.” Anton smashed his drink down on the table with such force that for a moment Ernie thought both glass and table would shatter. Anton was so angry he was literally quaking. “I read that—that infernal book of yours, Mr. Thesinger. I skimmed through it, very briefly, admittedly, but I managed to read the most interesting passages. I’m making jokes, sure—but I’m terrified. Aren’t you? Not because I believe the explanation conjured up by that— that self-appointed witch in your bedroom, but because I do believe that something, or someone, is out to get us all.” He was raving now, wild-eyed. “It’s a conspiracy. A conspiracy with us as its victims, Mr. Thesinger.” He looked around as if seeking an exit. “That book—there’s no other explanation. None. That pianist in
Late at Night was
me,
is
me. I can’t understand it.