The bloodstone, p.33
The Bloodstone, page 33
“Yes, I’m ready,” Chandal said without expression and closed her suitcase.
Chandal had agreed to return to Lakewood. I don’t want to go back. I’m afraid to go back. Please, must I? she had wanted to plead. It was a plea from her past, she knew that. A past that reached out to consume her, bury her alive, in the present.
But she did not make this plea.
Instead she had brooded upon herself, as she had done so often in the weeks gone by. She had scanned those weeks in her mind’s eye and tried to unravel the hopelessly enmeshed images that crowded her memory, images of her isolation, images of futility and despair.
In doing so, she had become almost convinced that perhaps they were right, that she was essentially insane. Yet there had been some minute part of her mind that resisted and would not accept this judgment.
Ron lifted her bag, then hesitated. “I’ve talked with Dr. Luther. He’s agreed to let me stay on at his place for a while. If all goes well, I’ll be able to see you almost every day.”
She made no reply, merely looked at him and smiled. His face seemed to have aged so much in such a short time, she noted vaguely. And there was not a trace left of his California tan.
Then turning away, she glanced around the room, and said: “Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For the terrible things I’ve done.”
He paused, groping for a response. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing in the world can convince me you’d do anything to hurt people.”
“Ron, I’m sure people have been hurt. Innocent people.”
“No, Del. You haven’t done anything,” he said and placed the suitcase on the floor.
Instinctively she moved into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. He suddenly became her protector against torment.
“What are you thinking?” she asked after a moment.
He sighed deeply. “That I’m frightened.”
It was the first time he had ever revealed his state of mind to her so simply. So completely. She understood and pressed against him even closer. “Hey, where’s that happy-go-lucky businessman I used to know?”
“Is that the way you think of me?” He smiled sadly.
“Only when I want to protect myself.”
“From what?”
“From saying—” She paused. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Del.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Ron?” She looked up at him. “If you don’t mind, I’d... I’d like to have my pendant back.”
Ron felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach.
“Del, I don’t—”
“Don’t worry. It can’t hurt me now. Please, Ron—I’d like to have it.”
He looked at her quizzically. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and handed her the pendant. She looked at it for a moment, its tiny red speckles glittering before her eyes. Then she quickly dropped it into her shoulder bag.
“All set?” Ron breathed, his eyes still riveted on her bag.
“All set.”
They descended the stairs in silence. At the front door Chandal discovered that she was unable to move another step without help. She hooked her hand into Ron’s arm.
Ron led her outside, closed the front door of the carriage house, then guided her slowly over the flagstone path. Chandal did not look back. From this time on, she would never look back.
A few seconds later the front gate slid open. Dr. Luther was standing curbside waiting for them.
“The car hasn’t arrived yet,” he said softly.
“Oh?” Ron stared at Chandal.
“Perhaps I should call. See what’s keeping them.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ron said, squeezing Chandal’s arm. In the back of his mind was a last-ditch argument or plea. Perhaps even now another course of action might be possible. “There’s still the small trunk,” he said in a curiously controlled tone. “The two of us can easily carry it.”
Luther cast an undecided glance at Chandal, who looked very calm sitting on the largest suitcase, her eyes seeming to caress the sky, the clouds, the occasional tree that lined the concrete city block. Perhaps it was her calmness, her obvious need to have one more moment of freedom, that made Luther function on an emotional rather than a clinical level, made him decide to give her that last moment of aloneness and freedom that she was unlikely to have for some time in an institution that would decidedly have her on maximum security suicide-watch.
“We’ll be right back,” Luther said gently and she turned to meet his eyes with a calm gaze.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be all right,” she said.
Ron felt his control close to the snapping point. He could only kiss her briefly on the forehead and turn swiftly away.
They retraced their steps over the flagstones.
Inside the house, Ron dropped wearily on the arm of the couch and waited for Luther to complete his call. From time to time he glanced at the den. His mind began to wander.
Chandal looked so controlled now, so serene. Impossible to believe that this beautiful young woman he loved was on her way to a state mental institution. His mind frantically turned to the possibility of arranging her transfer to a private hospital in L.A.
He forgot, as even Luther had forgotten for a moment, the danger. Chandal looked so calm, so damn sane and controlled. Just as she must have looked before the Examining Board at Lakewood.
Ron’s head suddenly jerked up.
“What’s the matter?” Luther asked sharply, dropping the receiver into its cradle, but Ron had already run through the door of the carriage house and was halfway down the flagstone path. Luther caught up with Ron curbside, where both men paused, suddenly past words.
Chandal was nowhere to be found.
It was really amazing, Chandal thought, wandering through yet another room of the Metropolitan Museum, how she had managed to hold onto her self-control for so long. All the time she could feel Elizabeth kicking and screaming within, fighting for the right to be.
Chandal had denied her this right for an hour now as she wandered through the labyrinth that the Metropolitan had become to her. She forced herself to go slowly, to pause in thoughtful contemplation, to spend the hour as a fascinated sightseer. Don’t attract attention, she ordered herself firmly. Sit for a moment on that bench. Study the marble fountain god.
God, Chandal knew, was the issue. She had heard Elizabeth whisper so often: “The ultimate sense of powerlessness comes not from any confrontation between man, but from the confrontation with Ahriman.” If this was true, Chandal reasoned, then Ahriman’s ultimate confrontation had to be with God.
A half hour before closing time Chandal entered the large room where the Egyptian shrine was displayed—the ruins of the first Christian church on the Nile. It was as she remembered it. Only one guard, a middle-aged black woman, was on duty, her back to the shrine, obviously tired of standing on her feet for hours with no one to talk to in this solitary quiet atmosphere.
Chandal settled on the ledge on the opposite side of the temple. She slipped from her shoes and massaged her feet gingerly as though exhausted from an over-zealous day of sightseeing. The room was almost deserted, but occasionally people walked by.
She hesitated, could not seem to find the right moment. First there was a solitary man with a sketch pad who finally lost interest in his drawing, then a family of five, then a couple, then two girls strolling toward the exit. Please, God, let there be a chance.
Suddenly an instant presented itself. A vacuum of timelessness that seemed to encapsulate her until she was protected, invisible. As she stepped forward in her stocking feet, the guard glanced down at her watch and then moved to the doorway to peer out.
Chandal didn’t stop to think, to wonder if she’d made it, just covered the small space soundlessly and fell to her knees, hands clasped, inside the temple. “Help me,” she whispered.
And then Elizabeth began screaming inside her.
“She’s not here,” Doreen Hammer said coldly, her eyes flickering past Luther to Ron. “Did you bring the keys to the carriage house? The owner wants me to get them back.”
“Here’s your goddamn keys!” Ron snapped and shoved the ornate key ring into her hand.
“Why would Chandal—” began Doreen, then stopped, her eyes widening.
“What’s the matter now?” Ron snarled, seeing that her gaze had fixed on his neck. He felt a sudden weakness, felt the perspiration running down his throat. Dimly he reached up to wipe it away and then, looking at his hand, realized that the dampness wasn’t sweat. It was blood. And that it was draining from his right ear.
He fell to his knees before he knew on any conscious level that he was passing out. Frowning, he grabbed onto his last thought and clung to it. He believed in Chandal—in everything she had said. Moreover, he believed that there was an even greater danger, something that she herself didn’t realize.
“Because I believe you,” he murmured hoarsely as Luther grabbed hold of his sagging body.
“Ron!” Luther cried.
Ron’s head fell back. “That’s why—that’s why...” The last thing he saw before his eyes shut was the expression on Doreen’s face—satisfied but angry and something that suggested that, in a way, in back of all other emotions, she too was a little afraid.
There was no reason to panic yet, Chandal told herself. Still she found herself trembling, her mind focused on her past. She had escaped their power before. She was a survivor. Save yourself. That was the unmistakable voice of her own stubbornness. She knew how to do it. How it could be done.
She leaned forward now, almost totally relaxed, her head touching the ancient brick of the temple that loomed dark around her.
“I know what you’re up to,” the voice whispered.
Chandal shuddered at the sound.
“Cold, my dear?”
Chandal’s hands mechanically loosened the scarf around her neck to ease the tension from her throat.
How strange that the old woman could go on talking to her at a time like this. In a temple of Christian worship.
“Do I make you nervous, dear?” Chandal reached up to wipe sweat away from her forehead, her cheeks. What time was it? Four-thirty P.M. Fifteen minutes till closing time. Where was the guard now? Chandal could only see part of the large outer room. Through a thin crack she watched a young man and his son study the temple. She drew back so as not to be seen.
For one eternal heartbeat Chandal stood immobile. Again she shuddered, hearing the eerie moaning and thumping that had begun in her head. She forced herself not to cringe, fearful she would move, speak out, afraid to...
She knew it would take much more than any sort of struggle that could be envisioned through normal human channels of perception, much more. It would mean a struggle that would threaten her on many levels, from her identity in the world right down to her identity in God’s eye. If she lost, the cost might be her very soul. But if she didn’t struggle, the cost would be the same. The choice was—to be taken as a lion or a lamb. She straightened. She knew that freedom was far away, while the old woman still had her grasping hands on her psyche.
Chandal touched her hair, stroked her head. No! Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. Turning her head only slightly, she tried to swallow in a dust-dry throat and shifted her attention to the guard who came into view to her right.
Something went click. She heard it distinctly. She opened her eyes and could only see darkness. Yet within the darkness, images.
Click.
Like a camera, her mind began to snap pictures of the past and display them on the screen of her mind. It was similar to watching a slide show at your local pavilion at any state fair.
Click.
Panic seized Chandal. No, I don’t want to see! No! Still the pictures came, and her mind began to thaw like a block of ice, flooding her being with a cascade of memories. She glimpsed her own face within the flames.
Click.
Where was Justin?
She recognized the sound now. Justin screaming.
She gripped her hands into fists, took several deep breaths, while the old woman’s cracked voice moaned obscenities into her ear. Dust engulfed her. She gasped, choked back a cough. A hand touched her arm and she jerked away in fright. The old woman’s voice was an unctuous sneer.
Chandal was frozen now as the frigid air pressed at her face, the acid smell of death and dying and nothing else, nothing to do with the living. This temple had become her tomb and she was sure that she would never get out of it alive.
Hands shaking. Mouth full of saliva. She didn’t know in what form the next attack would come. She waited, the sweat running down her face in the cold air of the temple. She could feel the steady acceleration of her heartbeat and the tightening of the nerves through her body.
The movement within her was growing strong, a steady unfolding. Her head was being forced to one side. She could feel a sudden rush of heat as layers of old flesh wrapped itself around her consciousness.
Elizabeth was fully alive now, trying to force herself to the surface of Chandal’s skin. Chandal held tight, gasped when she saw that her hand had begun to physically reshape itself. A tremor took hold and sent blue veins rushing to the surface of her skin, forming a network of wrinkles, tumors, and cracks. The tremor took hold of her arm next, her skin writhing in the darkness. Now her whole body was experiencing a chemical nightmare. A boil burst open on her arm, spraying pus on the temple wall.
“God, take me,” Chandal whispered. “Please, God—take me, take me....” Over and over again she whispered these words until everything within the temple seemed to stop. She glanced down at her hand. It had returned to normal. “Oh, Jesus.... she gasped.
Her eyes darted left, right—probed the room. She felt hands grasping her, twisting her, and she imagined she heard screams and she wondered if the screams were not her own. She responded in a slow-motion flex of movement. The screams continued and she wondered why no one heard those screams. There was no way to avoid it; she felt the woman’s wild strength tearing at her, and fought back the temptation to run.
Slowly she forced herself to relax in the darkness of the stone cube, but her body remained a bundle of unexpected sensations, and once more she caught herself gasping for breath. Caught in a sudden whirlpool of time, she saw a memory image of herself striking a match. Just a glimpse, and then—that twisted face... those terrified eyes. Elizabeth burning. Even as she recalled the moment, she imagined the smell of burning flesh.
Did I light the fire? I have to know!
She held her breath and felt someone else’s thoughts buzzing through her mind; with the buzzing came dizziness. Each new thought made her feel ancient. She squeezed her fists to rid herself of the sensation.
A violent trembling shook her body.
Abruptly, images began to rush through her mind like a tornado, leveling everything in its path. Bits and pieces at first, an agony here, a face there, screaming that opened into whirling circles of fire, writhing, ceremonies and witches....
But I was not one of them! No! Not one of them! And because she knew this to be true, there was a new strength in her and a sudden clear vision. The little room in the brownstone. Yes, they had locked her away because they had wanted to possess her body. Had always wanted to possess her body, to use it for evil. It had been arranged from the very beginning, and Justin—he had become one of them against her. And with the thought—a thousand images flashed; every hour, minute, second spent in the brownstone became vividly clear in her mind. They were devil worshipers. Magdalen, Elizabeth, Billy Deats—even Justin. All devil worshipers. And she knew now that she had set the fire. And why.
Her mind was functioning clearly now, as though the long years of emptiness and fear had prepared her to defend herself in her moment of need. For an instant she pressed herself parallel to the door of the temple. The lights were dimmer now; at the moment, there appeared to be no one in the area. The museum was now closed and the night guards must be in other parts of the building.
Soundlessly, she slipped down the steps of the shrine, her stockinged feet as sure and stealthy as the paws on a jungle cat. There was a sense of urgency in her motion now. Without conscious decision, she began to maneuver toward the American Wing of the museum. She reminded herself that the cathedral room within the American Wing was the one place where Elizabeth had appeared helpless.
Releasing the door, she stepped cautiously into the hallway.
The dull lights flattened everything before her eyes.
Intensely aware of the crushing silence around her, she glanced down the long corridor. Where were the guards? The dimness of the light was hypnotic. Images wavered before her eyes. She felt the silent wonder of watchfulness—she watching for the guards, Elizabeth watching her, and the guards most likely watching them. She spun around. The corridor door to her left opened and a guard stepped out.
Walking in a slow shuffle, he moved down the hallway and started up the center stairway. Chandal waited until his footsteps disappeared far above her before she stepped into the open. She quickly moved forward.
Midway to the American Wing she hesitated. She could sense a swarm of activity. Nothing on the material plane, nothing that could be perceived by any of the five senses; no, she had picked it up on a special highly tuned antenna as a sixth sense that provided entrance into a dark spirit world.
Now she could actually see the line of worshipers who came marching toward her, their heads in the far recesses of black crepe hoods, their bodies covered in dark capes. She could hear them chanting. Flat music, discordant and yet hypnotic. She started to cover her ears, then dropped her hands. No, she must appear to be one of them. In that way she knew she’d be safe.
The line slowed and parted, making room for her. A figure, a middle-aged woman, plucked at her sleeve, urged her ahead. Nodding briefly, Chandal made eye contact with the woman who wore layers of thick makeup—rings of rouge, red-caked lipstick, black spiky false eyelashes. Chandal froze. Thelma Rose—she recognized with a frightened jolt.
