Night Mares in the Hamptons (5 page)

“Don't cry, sweetheart. Please don't. You're killing me already.”

“And me. And I am so afraid I can't handle this without you, and now you won't come.”

“I'd come for you, whenever, wherever, if I could, forever, no matter what. You know that, Willy. I never lie.”

I gulped back more tears for the guilt, for the loss. “I know.”

“We don't have to decide anything today. You're upset and exhausted. You've got a lot on your shoulders right now. Things will look different tomorrow.”

“They won't. They'll get worse if the baby dies, and you know it as well as I do. We have an expression: if Mama ain't happy, no one's happy. Those mares give new meaning to the old saying.”

“I understand. And I will come as soon as I can. We'll talk about us then, all right?”

I did not know what more there was to say, but I murmured something he took for assent.

“Meanwhile, is the foal sick or only frightened?”

“It's weak. And cold. And doesn't like the food.”

“How big, compared to a dog, say?”

“Bigger than a greyhound, but nowhere near as tall as me.”

“Let's hope it's weaned, or its captor is giving it mare's milk. Otherwise, we have even less time to get to it.”

“Why can't it just disappear like the mares? The troll popped in and out of view whenever he wanted. The white horses seem to also.”

“You said the foal was in a lighted room?”

“A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.”

“That's it, then. From everything I've heard or read, the mares only come out at night. That's when they can vanish at will. The light might be what's keeping it in the enclosure, which means the horsenapper is smarter than I'd like. Or maybe the youngster is simply too immature to know the trick. No one on this side of Earth is going to be able to teach it, even if you could reach it in another dream.”

“I am never going to sleep again. I can't bear the baby's anguish.”

“You have to, Willy. You have to reassure it that help is coming. It will listen, now that you've made the connection.”

“I can't!”

“Then draw it pictures if you have to, pretty pictures, with flowers and streams. No, paint it against a dark sky, with stars, so it knows you'll get it free. You're the Visualizer, Willy. Show the foal there's hope.”

I sniffed. “I can do that.”

“And you have to communicate with the mares somehow, too, so they know we're looking. Tell them we are on their side.”

“I've never seen them. How am I going to talk to them? I don't know their language. You do. You're the one who can mindspeak, not me.”

“I don't know if horses understand the little I've been able to translate. We got lucky with the troll, is all, because we had his brother with us. You can draw them pictures, too. Put them up where the mares have been spotted. Or dream about your paintings, of the horses all together again, on their way home.”

“That might help until you get here.”

I was really beginning to hate that silence at the other end of the line. “You're not coming, are you?”

“Ah, not right now. I have other commitments.”

“Yeah, I heard the gremlins laughing. What did you do, invite them to brunch?”

“The gremlins are all gone, as far as we can figure. We gave them a box of cell phones, for all the good the electronics will do them. They gave us some feathers we've never seen before.”

“Your scientists must be thrilled.”

“We haven't let anyone examine the feathers yet. They might explode or something. They came from the gremlins, after all.”

“Surely you are not involved in researching booby-trapped birds.”

“No, but I am promised to another operation. Half the department is here now, trying to get an expedition together to go to the Himalayas. The yetis have come through the barriers, the same as your mares.”

“Abominable snowmen? They're real and not just legends?”

“Now they are. And you cannot imagine what damage they can wreak. Already, whole villages have been buried in avalanches, not to mention how many mountain sheep of endangered species have been eaten. Yetis are huge, hungry beasts that can live through the most frigid temperatures.”

I walked to the window to see the sun rise. “You're going?”

“We're just waiting to clear it with the Asian divisions now. Not step on anyone's toes, you understand.”

Diplomacy and abominable snowmen in one breath. Who would have imagined two such rarities together? “If so many agents are there, why do you have to go?”

“People here think my experience with the troll might help me talk to the intruders, get them to go home.”

“Or get eaten.”

“That's not in the agency's guidebook.”

The sun was barely visible over the treetops. It looked like another nice day coming to Long Island, for all Sir Edmund Hillary of DUE cared. “The mares aren't as important? Paumanok Harbor doesn't matter?”

Maybe the ice in my voice prepared him for what he was facing. Maybe not. “Paumanok Harbor has withstood centuries of Unexplained Events. And we both saw what the residents there can do if they work together. There's more psychic talent concentrated in your handful of native-born residents and their kin than anywhere else in the world beyond the Institute itself. Get them organized, get them looking for the foal.”

“Just like looking for beach glass on the shore, hmm?”

“Paumanok Harbor isn't anywhere as big as the Himalayas, with fewer places to hide a stolen horse. You ought to be able to find your lost lamb in the few square miles with no trouble. Then the mares will come get it and everything will be fine. Meanwhile a horse whisperer might help. Read their body language, make the right moves, anything that might keep the mares calm. Are you familiar with horses at all?”

“I rode a pony at a friend's birthday party. And I took a trail ride on the beach at Montauk once. The horse tripped. I walked home.”

“Right. You draw pictures. I'll see if we have anyone on our rosters who can come.”

That was the best I was going to do. I couldn't burden Grant with my worries and selfish demands anymore. “All right. I'll try.”

“That's my girl. Or not.”

I started crying again. “I do love you.”

“Just not enough?”

“Maybe I need you more, and I don't want to need you. Can you understand that?”

I blew my nose, inelegantly, I suppose, but I didn't care.

“I'm trying to understand the whole thing. I wish I could hold you.”

“And I wish I could feel your strength around me.”

“You'll be strong enough, sweetheart. You really do have the courage of a lioness when you need it.”

“Let's hope so.”

I think he must have blown his nose, too. “I'll try to change your mind when I get there. Maybe I'll have a picture of a yeti to show you. We're not supposed to do anything of the kind, but I'll make an exception.”

He sounded excited by the thought. If anything proved how unsuited to each other we were, that was it. Grant was actually looking forward to facing horrible conditions, dangerous creatures, mountains of snow that could collapse at any minute, life-and-death situations. I'd cut off my foot first.

“Wear warm clothes,” was all I could say. “Be careful. Call when you can or send emails.”

“You, too.”

“It's summer here.”

“So wear cool clothes, those short shirts that show your belly—No, don't wear them for anybody to see. But be careful. I miss you already.”

Me, too.

I
SLAMMED A FEW DOORS. MAYBE EVERY single one I could. The bathroom, my bedroom, the back door when I let the dogs out, the screen door when I let them in, every cupboard I opened to make breakfast, every filing cabinet drawer that held my art supplies.

It worked.

Susan staggered down the steps in a football jersey and not much else. I hoped the football player wasn't still sleeping upstairs.

She poured a glass of orange juice while I put another English muffin in the toaster oven. “What's going on? It's barely light out.”

“I've been up for hours working.” I gestured toward the dining room table that I'd made into my studio. I already had stacks of posters printed out from my scanned drawings. The printer was churning out a second batch.

“Oh, are we having a yard sale? I have a bunch of old tapes and some shoes that hurt my feet and—”

“We're not having a yard sale. This is a whole lot more important.”

“Ohmygod, you haven't lost one of your mother's dogs, have you? Tell me they're not Lost Dog posters. She'll kill both of us.”

If Susan could count, or cared how many strays my mother fostered, she'd know the rescue dogs were all present, waiting for breakfast crumbs. “Why don't you read one of the posters and tell me what you think?”

Susan stuck a spoon into Grandma Eve's strawberry jam and licked it on her way toward the pile of flyers. “You've lost a pony?”

“It's not mine, and it's not a pony. If you'd read the damned thing instead of just looking at the picture, you'd see it's a baby horse. And don't you dare put your licked spoon back in the jam jar.”

She brought the poster back to the kitchen table. “Cancer's not catching, you know.”

“No, but venereal diseases might be.”

She retaliated by informing me that baby horses were called foals, then fillies or colts.

I gnashed my teeth. “I know that, but I don't know this one's gender, and I'm not sure everyone else understands what a foal is. I need it to be as simple as possible for as many people as I can reach.”

She read the rest: “Reward for information leading to the return of young missing white horse. With your cell phone number on those little tabs that people can tear off. So what's the reward?”

“A night with you.”

“Very funny.”

“Grandma doesn't think so either. You are embarrassing her. She told me to tell you to settle down with a nice young man.”

“She's a fine one to speak, after she shacked up with that friend of Grant's that you thought was a molester at first.”

“I was wrong about Lou, but I'm not sure Grandma is so wrong now. Aside from safety issues and ethics, I don't much like strangers coming through the house either. I have a lot of valuable equipment. And I don't like anyone seeing my work until it's finished.”

Susan fetched the muffin from the toaster. “First off, they're not strangers. I don't bring any guys back here until we've hung out awhile. Second off, would you rather I went back to some man's motel room or bachelor pad where God knows what could happen? Third, I always insist on protection. Fourth, you are not my mother.”

“Who's most likely embarrassed, too. The whole town thinks you're like a bitch in heat.”

She slopped half the jar of jam onto her muffin and muttered, “Better than a plain old bitch,” around a mouthful. “Besides, no one sees me drive down this private road, so no one knows how I spend my nights. You and I could be playing Monopoly.”

“I won't play with you. You always cheat.” I shoved a napkin toward her. “You think your partners don't talk? That's pretty naive of you.”

She shrugged, then wiped jam off her chin. “It's nobody's business.”

“Grandma thinks everything is her business.”

“That's what's got you in a snit this morning, Grandma's moralizing about my love life? Or that you don't have one?”

I did not dignify that comment with a response. I did move the poster out of range of her sticky fingers. “Someone has stolen a young horse away from its family. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

She shrugged. “Sure, but not on the scale of banks closing, icebergs melting, genocide, or—”

“I get the picture. But you're wrong. This particular crime has major repercussions, right here, right now. Not on a global scale, but not beyond our fixing either. We have to find the poor baby before it's too late.”

“Willy, I know you are your mother's daughter, no matter how much you try to be different, but this is a horse you're talking about.”

“No, it's a special animal, a rare, exotic breed. I think its mother—yes, I know she's called a dam—is the one causing everyone's nightmares. I know you haven't had any yet, but they are real and terrifying.”