Sweet Dreams (22 page)

“Look,” Heather said, pointing to the lead surrey. “There're boxes and other stuff in there—and a dress over the seat.”

While Janet and Maryruth attended to Vickie, Dick and Jerry walked to the carriage—both uncomfortable and self-conscious in their new attire—and looked in the rear seat of the buggy.

Jerry fingered the material of the dress. “Yeah,” he said. “A dress. Just the right size too, I'll bet. And several pieces of luggage.”

Voyles looked at the rear surrey. “Luggage in here, too, Doc. Jesus! I wish this was a bad dream so I could wake up.”

“Me, too, Dick. But we both know it's anything but that.” He looked around him, trying to get his bearings. He looked toward where he assumed the old Indian burial grounds were located. Since they had been hurled backward in time some seventy or eighty years—maybe more, he wasn't certain how much time had passed—he really wasn't certain where the dig site was located. He smiled. “Funny thing, Dick . . .”

The highway cop, now dressed like a dapper Bat Masterson, looked at the doctor. “Tell me something amusing about all this, Doc,” he said drily. “I sure could use a good laugh.”

The heavy, ominous sound of the drum picked up in volume. It sounded much closer now. Maryruth, awkward in her long dress complete with bustle, knelt beside Vickie and then mentioned the closeness of the drum.

“That is correct,” Bud said. “We are ever so much closer to the Manitou's previous life.” And mine, he thought, is rapidly coming to its end. But it is as I thought it would be. I am not afraid of the other side of life.

The old Indian looked toward the west and smiled. It is a fine way to die, he thought: doing something good; saving young lives, and helping destroy an evil life.

“You are a fool, old man.” Only Bud heard the unspoken words. “Your medicine is weak. I will destroy you, fool!”

“Perhaps,” Bud flung back a silent reply. “But my life is not important in this struggle. And don't be too sure of your power, Sanjaman. I can detect many friendly spirits around this home. I think perhaps you acted foolishly in bringing us here.”

The Manitou laughed.

Bud thought: Your arrogance will defeat you, that and the faith and purity of the children. But he kept these thoughts to himself.

“What are you thinking, old man?” the Manitou projected.

“Nothing that would interest you, Sanjaman.”

The drumming intensified.

Janet jerked at her long skirt. She took a tentative step and stumbled. How in the hell did women ever get around in these damned things? And why did they allow this to be done to them?”

“You've come a long way, baby,” Dick said with a forced grin.

“Wonderful,” Janet muttered.

Dick looked at Jerry “You were about to say something, Doc?”

“Just thinking of the dig site. When white men excavate an Indian burial ground, it's called archaeology. But when someone disturbs a white grave, it's called desecration.”

Bud grunted. “That statement and attitude will be a point in our favor with my Gods, Doctor Baldwin. I thank you in advance on behalf of my people.”

The drumming ceased. The area was silent.

“Can your Gods get us out of this mess?” Dick asked.

“I cannot speak for the spirit world,” Bud replied solemnly. “No living being can. But when the time comes, I shall attempt to call on the Old Gods. Then your question will be answered.”

The drumming began anew.

The small band of travelers looked at the huge old mansion. “Obviously,” Maryruth said, “we are expected to go in there.”

“Expected is an interesting word,” Bud said. “It has many interpretations. Do not anticipate a cordial welcome.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Heather asked.

Dark laughter sprang out of the night. The laughter seemed to soil whatever it reached.

Heather stepped closer to Jerry, and he put his arm around her slender shoulders. He could feel her trembling. He patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“That is something you must all experience personally. For each of you that personal encounter will have many different meanings. But please remember, this is very real, and very dangerous.”

“You wanna carry that further?” Vickie asked. She sat on the ground, Dick's frock coat draped around her shoulders.

“I cannot,” Bud told her. “But I believe you have already experienced the reality of the situation. Correct?”

“Vividly,” the cop said. “And painfully. Notice how I'm sitting, for example? If I get out of this mess, I'm going to shoot the son of a bitch that shagged me.”

“It probably had something to do with my father,” Heather said. “Right, Miss Vickie?”

“Yes,” Vickie told her, “and others.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Vickie.”

“You had nothing to do with it, Heather. And it really isn't your father's fault. You must understand that.”

“In a way, it is,” the girl replied. “He's a weak person.”

“Like my father and mother,” Marc said.

She looked at Marc and together they looked far into the distance. The adults silently watched them.

After a moment, the only sound being the constant beat of the invisible drum, Marc said, “We're alone, Heather.”

“Yes. They're gone.”

“Then who do we have?”

“Not our brothers and sisters.”

“No,” Marc said. “They're gone, too.”

“Then it's going to be up to us.”

“Yes.”

“What are you two talking about?” Voyles asked. “I am confused. To say the least.”

“Our parents,” Heather replied. “And our brothers and sisters. Our families. Everybody.”

Maryruth put her hand on Marc's shoulder. “What about them?”

“They are all gone to us,” Heather explained. “We can never go back to them.”

“How do you know that?” Maryruth asked.

“We just do,” Marc said. “We're alone.”

“No, you're not,” Jerry said. “Neither of you. Remember that.”

The boy and girl nodded and then shifted their gaze to the huge mansion, with its many candle- and lamplit windows. They stood for a long silent moment, staring at the house.

“What do you see?” Jerry asked Heather.

The girl looked at the man through suddenly old eyes. “Death,” she said.

 

“Not enough time has passed for us to take any official hand in this matter,” the chief deputy said. “But it's a quiet night—unusually so. Just keep your eyes open for an '83, two-tone blue Mustang. Belongs to a Scott Haswell. History teacher here in Sikeston. Last seen about twenty-four hours ago by a friend. When he left his apartment Haswell said he was going out to see his ex-girl friend, Claire Bolling, lives out in the country. 'Bout halfway between 61 and Salcedo. Get time, Chuck, you might take a run out that way and have a look around. Chances are, it's one of two things: Haswell blew it with his girl friend and is driving around, working off his mad; or he's shacked up with her, so don't go busting in and ruining their fun.”

The deputy laughed at that. It was a good laugh, full of youth and fire and life and energy. It was to be his last laugh.

“I'll check it out,” Deputy Chuck Lansing said, grinning.

“All right. See you in the morning.”

And he would—in a manner of speaking.

Deputy Lansing rolled on a 37—a family disturbance—and he found a one-hundred-and-ten-pound woman beating the living daylights out of her two-hundred-pound husband with a softball bat. Chuck broke that up and asked if the husband wanted to press any charges against his wife?

Nope.

Would the man like to go the hospital? His nose appeared to be broken and he looked like he might need a stitch or two on his noggin.

Nope.

Would the woman like to press any charges against her husband?

Nope.

Go to the hospital?

Get the fuck outta here and mind your own business, Deputy!

Yes, ma'am.

Rolling again, Chuck called in. Dispatch said nothing was doing. No calls, no trouble, no wrecks, no nothing. So have fun on patrol, Chuck.

“Yeah, sure.”

Chuck made a few rounds out in the county and then decided to head toward the Bolling house. As he approached the place, Chuck experienced a few moments of light-headedness. He shook his head a couple of times, blinked his eyes; and the sensation left him.

He drove slowly past the dark house, giving it the eyeball. He could see nothing. But the main house blocked the beam from his headlights. He'd turn around and try it from the other direction. Once again that odd sensation swept over him.

He shook it off.

Then his lights picked up the shape of the Mustang. It was parked between the house and the shed. He pulled into the driveway and parked, cutting his engine. He looked at the Mustang for a moment. Then he got out.

With a cop's gut instinct, Chuck knew something was wrong. He reached inside his car to call in, then withdrew his hand. He'd feel like a fool radioing in a trouble call when all he had was two people screwing.

That feeling of light-headedness once more struck him as he walked toward the dark house. This time the sensation was almost overpowering. Chuck fought the feeling off and stepped onto the porch.

The porch light came on, flooding the area with bright light.

Chuck experienced waves of sudden fear; they washed over him in chilly ripples. He did not understand the fear, nor was it something he was accustomed to experiencing. The door opened and a woman was framed in the light. Pretty lady, but dressed rather oddly.

“What do you want?” Claire asked. Her voice sounded hollow, like nothing Chuck had ever heard before.

Eerie! the deputy thought.

Chuck opened his mouth, started to speak, then cleared his throat. “Miss Bolling?”

“Yes. I am she.”

“Ma'am, I'm Deputy Lansing. Is a Mister Scott Haswell here?”

“Obviously, he isn't. Do you see him?”

Smart-ass! Chuck thought. “I mean, ma'am, is he in the house?”

Claire smiled strangely. “You might say that.”

“I . . . see.” I think. Goddamn, this broad is weird. Who does she think she is: the reincarnation of Sacajawea.

Close.

Chuck said, “Would it be possible for me to talk with Mr. Haswell?”

“Why, of course. If you are willing to make the sacrifice.”

What is she—stoned, wired, or drunk? “I ... don't understand, ma'am.”

“Then Sanjaman will explain it all to you, I assure you of that, Deputy.”

“Sanja ... Come again, ma'am?”

“Why don't you come into the house, Deputy? We can talk about it and be comfortable at the same time.”

Chuck almost turned around to go back to his patrol car and call in, give dispatch his ten-twenty. Then he minutely shrugged his shoulders and walked into the foyer.

The odor of death struck his nostrils hard the second he entered the house, that and the thick smell of blood. Lots of blood and sweat—and the intangible odor of fear. Chuck turned around to face Claire.

She stood passively, smiling at him.

Chuck was thinking fast, trying to decide how to handle this. He knew full well what that smell represented. But should he pull his pistol on this little woman? Shit! He'd just play it by ear.

Claire broke the silence, still maintaining the eye contact. “I believe you wanted to see Scott, did you not, Deputy?”

“Uh ... yes, ma'am.”

She pointed. “That door right there.”

He turned in the foyer archway leading to the den. Then he saw the gore-splattered walls and floor. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol and started to turn around, to face the woman. “Miss Bolling, I . . .”

Chuck felt the lash of the razor-sharp blade cut through the tendons of his right wrist. Pain shot up his arm as his service revolver fell to the floor. His right hand flopped uselessly. He screamed in pain and grabbed at his arm.

He felt the sharp blade cut through the muscles of his left arm, saw his blood leap from the deep slash. As Chuck tried to run he felt the blade drive deeply into his right leg—the upper thigh—tearing the muscles. He tumbled to the floor.

Chuck tried to kick the woman, but all he succeeded in doing was flailing the air. Claire grabbed his left foot and twisted it, holding it firmly, her strength incredible for such a small woman. She sliced the tendons in his ankle and Chuck howled from confusion and agony.

He felt her hand working at his crotch. She unzipped his trousers and fondled his penis and balls. Through his pain, Chuck felt her masturbating him, trying to force an erection that would not come. Frustrated, she savagely jerked his trousers from him and knelt down between his bloody legs, taking him orally for a moment. When she realized he was not going to become hard she pushed him away and stood up.

A drumbeat suddenly filled the foul air of the den. Lifting his cloudy, pain-filled head, Chuck watched in horrid fascination as the woman lifted her skirt and began fingering herself toward climax. She shivered with delicious pleasure as an orgasm shook her.

Kook-factory! the words came to Chuck. A real fruitcake.

Then his head fell backward as strength ebbed from him with his blood. He heard a thumping sound coming from behind the closed door the woman had pointed out. Something was behind that door—but what?

Chuck wasn't at all sure he wanted to find out.