The Presence (4 page)

I felt sweat beads break out on my forehead. But he'd said he wanted to comfort me. More likely he wanted revenge. Me alive, walking around, Kirsty dead. And that had been so weird about the static. It was as if he wanted to talk only to me and somehow he knew how to make the line go noisy like that. Some electronic thing. There was a tight band of pain across my forehead.

Grandma took my hand and held it. "It's all right, sweetie," she said. "Whoever he was, you got rid of him."

We climbed into Collin's truck, and I pulled my seat-belt so tight that it cut into my chest. Safe here between them. Safe.

The Presence smiled as he hung up the office phone. He'd waited impatiently for Maureen and Rita and Arthur to leave. He'd hovered around them, listening to them complain. "Why does it have to be an icebox in here when it's seventy degrees outside?" Rita griped.

He'd gritted his teeth when Maureen said, "Maybe I'll just stay and finish off this bulletin.
"

Silly old cow. So slow. He felt like leaning down and finishing it for her. But that would never do. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if they found out there was a presence in their precious church. They'dfreak out. He'd chuckled. Would they have an exorcism? That might be fun.

But right now all he wanted was for them to get up and go. He'd moved so he was directly behind Maureen and draped himself, weightless, across her back, letting his deathly chill ooze into her body. He'd watched the goosebumps rise on her neck. She'd stood so quickly that some of her papers fluttered off her desk. "I think I'll
wait and finish this later," she muttered. Her eyes flickered this way and that. She might seem brainless sometimes, but the Presence often felt she was the only one who sensed something wrong and dangerous when he was around. It amused him. He had to stop himself from shouting "Boo!" into her ear.

He'd dialed the cell phone number that was in the Rolodex the minute they left, hungering to hear Catherine's voice. The thought of her sitting there with Collin Miller drove him wild with anger, even though he reminded himself that Collin wouldn't be in her life much longer.

Was she thinking at all about him, Noah? He'd believed she'd be more happily surprised at his flowers. "Girls love a guy to be romantic," Donna had told him. He'd been romantic with Donna, but in the end he'd had to get rid of her, like so many of the others. He couldn't let her go. What if she told? They'd search the basement. Find his room. Maybe fill it with concrete. Leave him homeless. They might put out a warning. What would it say? Beware of handsome young stranger who promises you secret love? Beware of the ghost? No, better to destroy those who had failed him. It had made him unhappy, but he had no choice.

Way, way back he'd been romantic and charming with Florence Peterson. He'd thought he had her, but early on she'd said, "It's not enough. There's a darkness," and she'd gone and never come back. All he had left now were his paintings of his ladies on the walls of his den. Those and the other unhappy things in the basement that he didn't want to think about.

He'd be romantic when he talked to Catherine. He knew what she needed most was comfort, and he'd promise her that. She needed to get rid of the guilt, and he'd make that happen for her. Lying was one of the skills he'd perfected over the years.

Standing by the window, he watched them walk back, Catherine, her head drooping, her grandmother looking angry, Collin Miller with a stupid, confused look on his face. The Presence didn't think the pastor's son was very smart. Or handsome. The guy was too tall, too loose and lanky. And that hair, like yellow wheat. In his day, they would have called him a "long drink of water." But the idea of good-looking had changed. He'd heard two of the younger girls in church describe Collin Miller as a "hot-tie." Ugh, he'd thought. The guy always looked scruffy to him, with his jeans cut off at the knees and sweatshirts with the sleeves lopped off.

He himself had always been well dressed and was still—though not in the clothes that had once been familiar to him. Now he had beige pants and a white shirt, thanks to Manuel, who left his Sunday clothes hanging accessibly in the choir room and got very angry the two times they'd been stolen. Manuel's shoes didn't fit Noah, much too big. But then he'd found a nice pair belonging to the Reverend Dr. Miller that fit him perfectly.

He knew he was handsome still. Qirls in the past, the ones he'd shown himself to, had swooned over his looks. Several had described him to himself, and he knew he was exactly as he'd remembered, with the same dark curling hair, the dark brooding eyes, the smile that could, as Lottie had said, "make a teapot whistle." But Lottie had escaped him, too.

He couldn't see his own face; the mirrors in the restrooms and the full-length one in the choir room stayed blank when he stood in front of them. But he could feel his features, still firm and tight after all this time. He could sense his body, the muscles hard under the smooth golden skin. It was Lydia who'd first called him (jolden Boy. Or was it Alice? Oh, yes, he was handsome. And that was his lure, that and his promises.

The Presence knew he had no soul. It had flown from
his body on the instant of his death. Wasn't that the way it worked? He wasn't going to think about his soul. For him the now was all there was. And soon the now would include Catherine. When that happened, his afterlife would be perfect.

Tomorrow was Sunday. She'd be here in St. Matthew's. He enjoyed playing with her mind. It was part of the chase and would make the revelation even sweeter. Cat and mouse, mouse and cat. Catch and let go.

But he was impatient for Catherine. No more playing. Tomorrow he would introduce himself properly.

I sat in my room at the desk that used to be my mother's when she was a girl. Outside in Grandma's yard, two squirrels chased each other up a palm tree, then jumped like tiny Tarzans to the branch of an oak tree.

What was happening to me? I couldn't get my thoughts to make sense. Panic swept through me.

"You're not crazy," Dr. West had said.

"I'm not crazy," I whispered shakily. "I'm not." But I
heard
that voice, in the church and on the phone. I
did.

On a piece of paper I wrote:

1. Noah, who says he talked to Kirsty.

2. Donna Cuesta, who disappeared and who had received a poinsettia from him, as I have.

3. Miss Lovelace, who had warned me about him. Not "No as waiting," but "Run! Stay away from St. Matthew's. Noah's waiting." If he'd followed me here from Chicago, then how did
she
know him? How did Donna?

I'd brought a glass of water upstairs with me, and I took a drink, seeing the shake in my hand, the water sloshing in the glass. There had to be something I could do.

Miss Lottie Lovelace. I needed to find her. She knew Noah, somehow. Maybe he was her son or her grandson, and she knew he was sick and dangerous. That's why she'd warned me. But how did she know he was after me? Unless he'd told her. That didn't seem likely. "Grandma, there's this girl I'm stalking, because—"

No, there had to be a different explanation. Somehow Kirsty was involved. That was the scariest thing of all.

I sat there at my mother's desk, thinking about my mom, longing for her and Dad and the safety of home. But they weren't there. Today they were in London, tomorrow they'd be in Paris. I was here, and for now this was where I had to be.

I could tell Grandma I was sick, which was almost true, and I could stay here, in this house—in bed, even—till it was time to catch my plane home. But Grandma would worry so much. She wouldn't know what to do. Poor Grandma, and she'd been making all these plans for my visit.

And anyway, could I go back home leaving this unsolved? Wondering who he was and what Kirsty had told him. Was she condemning me? But what if she was
absolving
me?

Don't talk crazy talk, Catherine. She can't absolve you. She's dead.

Shivers ran like spiders along my arms.

Grandma was having a reading nap, as she called it. "I just lie down on my bed for an hour or so most afternoons," she'd said. "I start off reading and end up sleeping. Unless there's a bit of good, polite passion to keep me awake. You don't mind if I leave you to your own devices?"

"'Course not," I'd said.

"The garden's nice to sit in, and there are tons of magazines and books. Maybe you'd like to go for a bike ride. My bike's right there in the garage. My helmet, too."

"I'll be fine," I'd reassured her. "I have things to do."

Things like ... finding Miss Lottie Lovelace.

I went downstairs and got the Pasadena phone book. Back at the desk, I began checking out the Lovelace names. There were only four ... no L for Lottie, but one N. Could that be N for Noah Lovelace? Could that be him?

I rubbed my hands together to try to stop them from shaking, then dialed. A sleepy, bad-tempered man's voice answered.

"May I speak to Noah, please?" I coughed. Asked again.

"Noah? There's no Noah here." The phone banged down so hard it made my ears buzz.

I'd just have to try the other three numbers, and if that didn't get me anywhere, I'd think what to do next. C. Lovelace. I mouthed the number and dialed.

C. Lovelace. Rosemont Drive. I remembered now. "Do you still live on Rosemont?" Grandma had asked.

"Lovelace residence," a gravelly voice said. I'd heard that voice before. The nurse! Lottie was C—probably short for Carlotta. Or maybe Charlotte.

"May I speak to Miss Lovelace, please?"

"Miss Lovelace is not accepting phone calls today."

She was hanging up.

"Wait," I said quickly, but she was gone.

I checked the address. 434 Rosemont Street. But where
was
that?

There were maps in the side pocket of Grandma's car. I'd seen them on the way from the airport. I ran down to the garage, pulled them out, and unfolded the Pasadena one on the hood of the little VW. There it was—Rosemont Street, seven blocks from here.

Should I go? I could take the bicycle and probably be back before Grandma finished napping. Just in case, I left her a note,
gone for a bike ride,
and propped it on the dining room table.

It would have been a nice day for a happy bike ride, but my mind churned round and round with thoughts of what I would say, maybe what I would find out. The quiet streets were lined with elegantly decorated homes, Christmas garlands on doors, small blinking white lights. Porches brimming with poinsettias. I'd always liked poinsettias, their bright sparkle and velvety leaves, but now I tried not to look at them. "I want to comfort you." Please, I thought, go away, whoever you are.

Rosemont Street, and here was the house, low and white with dark blue shutters. A spray of greenery and holly curved on the front door.

I propped the bike against the porch, hung the helmet on the handlebars, and rang the bell. Before the first echo died away, the door opened, and the nurse I remembered from this morning peered out at me. "Yes?"

"Hello." I tried to smile. "I'm Catherine. We met today at the florist's. I wonder if I could speak to Miss Lovelace for just a minute. I promise not to tire her."

"I'm afraid not. She's not at all well." The door was beginning to close.

"Please," I said. "It's really important. I think ... I think I had a phone call from her grandson."

"Her grandson? She doesn't have a grandson."

"Maybe it wasn't her grandson. Some relative. Noah?"

"Noah?" She looked and sounded puzzled, and the door opened a fraction more.

Behind her I could see the hall. There was a potted plant on a marble stand, an old-fashioned heavy mahogany chest with a brass elephant on top, a large framed photograph on a white wall.

I gasped and put my hand across my mouth. At first glance, I thought I was looking at a picture of me.

"What is it?" The nurse turned to look where I was looking.

"Who is that?" I whispered. "In the photograph?"

"Well, it's Miss Lovelace, of course. When she was young. She—" The nurse turned and looked at me. "For heaven's sake," she said. "She looks a little like you. Actually, very
much
like you."

"Yes." My heart was doing some strange fluttery thing.

The nurse was definitely interested in me now. "You know, when I saw you today, I thought you looked kind of familiar. It's because of the picture, of course. Every day I walk past it, and it's so familiar I never really see it, you know? It's just part of the wall." She looked again at the photograph and then at me. "It is quite astonishing. But, you know, there are differences. It's just that you're the same ... what would it be? You're the same type."

"Yes," I said again. The word seemed stuck somewhere in my throat.

"Are you maybe family?" The nurse was uncertain. "Miss Lovelace certainly seemed to make some sort of connection today."

"I don't know," I said.

The photograph was sepia-colored, old-looking, taken in full-length profile. Her hair was as dark as mine, bundled up in a loose chignon. Instinctively, I caught my own hair in back and pulled it up.

The nurse was nodding. "Remarkable."

In the photograph Miss Lovelace wore a dark dress with a lace collar. Her head drooped on her slender, pale neck. One hand held a closed book. She was me and yet not me. I felt as if I'd stumbled into some time warp, and I let my hair free again to tumble on my shoulders.

"I tell you what," the nurse said. "I can't let you see Miss Lovelace right now. But I could take your phone number, and she might call you. I'm beginning to think it was seeing someone so like herself that upset her today. She may not want to see you and risk getting upset again. But hold on while I get a piece of paper. Why don't you come inside and wait? I'd like to close the door."

I nodded. "Thanks."

She disappeared, and I took a couple of steps into the hallway. The house smelled of old age and lemon furniture polish. I moved to stand beneath the picture. It was water-stained around the edges, and the paper was cracking on the bottom. A studio name in a fancy golden scroll was in the bottom right-hand corner. I leaned close, trying to see the title of the book she held, but the letters were blurred. I could make out only the word "Life" on the spine. And then I noticed something else. There was a ring on the third finger of Miss Lovelace's hand. A serpent, studded with two stones. That was the description Grandma had given of Donna Cuesta's ring. Had Miss Lovelace known Donna and given it to her? Or was this just another strange coincidence?