Darklings, p.23
Darklings, page 23
“That’s … that’s impossible,” Julie insisted quietly.
“I think it’s high time we stopped worrying about what is and isn’t possible,” Hunt replied somewhat sternly. “I honestly believe that is what has happened.”
“But why did they kill Becky?” Tom asked. “She was … she was for the damned things. Christ, she was actually glad to see them!”
“If I’m right,” Hunt said, “and I think I am, then these things have no loyalty. Collinson himself died. Maybe it was because of his injuries. Maybe not.”
“Where are they all coming from?” Julie asked emphatically.
Hunt stopped pacing for a moment and shrugged. “Maybe they multiply, I don’t know. They’re …” His face tightened and became thoughtful. “They’re almost like a disease. They strike randomly. Just as someone in perfect health can get rabies if they’re bitten by a rabid dog, the most moral and pure-hearted person can perhaps become evil if … if entered by one of these things. They affect the brain, maybe, since they enter the skull. Then things the victims only thought of doing in the past, they do. Like Hollister ripping out his patient.” Hunt began pacing again, gesturing with his hand, his cigarette trailing a string of smoke. “Also like a disease, the creatures can harm their victims physically, as they did Becky Haber. Or me.” He glanced at the faint remains of the cut on the back of his hand. “Or they can be carried by someone, like a disease can be carried, and spread to others, as they were carried by Megan. And Kimberly.” He walked over to the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. “So far,” he said quietly, pressing the butt into the ashes, “we don’t know exactly why he went to all this trouble to make them, what put the idea into his head. And. There’s no cure.” He went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside to stare at the slowly bluing sky. A few small clouds hung lifeless in little groups.
It’s going to be sunny today, he thought absently.
Inside, Tom and Julie remained silent on the sofa, Julie leaning her head back, her eyes closed, still holding her glass, the brandy gone now. Tom stared at the diary, leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on the knuckles of his fists. There was something in the book that had triggered off a faint but distinct mental bell in his head while Hunt was reading it, but Tom had kept quiet about it and allowed Hunt to continue. Now he couldn’t remember what it was. He stared. And thought. Finally, he reached forward, picked up the diary, and opened it. The binding snapped and crackled when it was opened, and Tom was very careful not to damage the book. He scanned the pages, not wanting to read through very carefully again, looking for that sentence, or perhaps that word, that had perked his attention earlier.
“… from the grave.”
Tom’s eyes stopped, moved back, and read again. His lips moved slightly, hitting his s’s and t’s audibly.
“What I’m doing may kill me, but dying won’t matter, because what I’m doing will go on from the grave.”
Tom’s eyebrows gathered together and his mouth hung open slightly, the tip of his tongue running back and forth over the edge of his upper teeth.
From the grave.
He thought back to the time of Collinson’s death. There was something he should be remembering, he was sure. He put the book down and walked out to the porch where Hunt stood, his hands stuffed into the baggy pockets of his robe. Hunt glanced at him, then turned his gaze back to the sky.
“Do you know the coroner?” Tom asked.
“The new one?”
“The … the new one?” Tom turned to him, puzzled.
“Uh-huh. Healy retired about a week or so ago. Suddenly.”
A trap in Tom’s mind snapped shut on that fact and held tightly. That was it. He’d read about it in the paper and completely forgotten, almost instantly. There were too many other things going on. Things that, unfortunately, ruled his thoughts, and would probably continue to do so for a very long time. Tom had known Walter Healy’s son years ago. They’d nearly grown up together. Then Jim had left for L.A. to pursue a career in cinematography. They’d lost touch too quickly. But Tom had occasionally visited Walter and his wife, Jan, until just a few years ago, when the kids started taking up so much of his time that he’d lost touch with them, too.
Now Walter Healy had retired. Suddenly. And right around the time of Jeffery Collinson’s death. Was Healy ill? Perhaps Jan had gotten sick. Healy was too devoted to his work, though. And he was always as healthy as could be. Jan was too supportive ever to hear of him giving up his work just to care for her if she were sick. No. There was something in all of it that made Tom uncomfortable.
But what did it all have to do with “… what I’m doing will go on from the grave?”
“Why do you ask?” Hunt muttered.
“Oh, I don’t know. I used to be close to Healy’s son. Whole family, really. I just thought of them. Maybe I’ll go to see them today.” Tom’s words were casual, but the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t wait for the day to get under way so he could visit Walter Healy.
2
The Bible
* * *
“Get some sleep,” Hunt said, kissing Julie lightly. “I’m gonna shower, dress, and get some breakfast. Then as soon as the bookstores open, I’m gonna try to get my hands on a copy of the Satanic Bible.”
“Let me come with you,” she said, standing from the sofa and wrapping her arms around him, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“No way. Go to bed.”
“But I’m not sleepy.”
“So read a book or something. Drink lots of fluids. Eat soup.”
“You got a little Jewish blood in you or something, Mom?”
He led her to the bedroom, put her to bed, then shed his robe and showered. In the shower, standing still for a few moments, just letting the hot water hit his chest and run down his body, he thought again of the diary.
Collinson had not explained the significance of that quote from the Satanic Bible. Perhaps it had just caught his fancy and meant nothing. Then, again, it might have had a part in the creation of those crawlers. Maybe even an inadvertent part.
The quote had included the line “I am of Him that liveth forever.” That was how Collinson had signed all the letters he’d left with the corpses of his victims. It had to mean something.
When Hunt got out of the shower, Julie was no longer in bed. He could smell pancakes cooking. He dried and dressed, then went into the kitchen to find breakfast ready.
“Some nurse you are,” he said with a smile, sitting down at the table.
“I know how to take care of sick people,” she said, pouring him some coffee. “I don’t know how to be one. So. What do you hope to find out with that bible?”
“As usual, I’m not sure.” He spooned some sugar into the coffee. “I want to find out the meaning of that quote, that thing about the worms of the Earth. It meant something to him. He referred to it a lot in the diary, and he was screaming bits and pieces of it in ER. As well as something that sounded like it was in another language. Maybe the bible will explain it. If not, maybe I can find someone who can.”
Julie watched him butter his pancakes, then pour on some syrup.
“You gonna eat?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “My stomach’s a little upset.”
He gave her an I-told-you-so look and said, “You should be resting.”
“Cut it out. It’s not from the flu. I’m … I’m nervous. My stomach always gets upset when I’m nervous.”
“Nervous?”
She looked down at her slippered feet. “Scared’s more like it. About what’s going on.”
Fork in hand, he stopped chewing and looked at her for a few seconds, silent. His lips smacked when he opened his mouth. “Yeah. It is scary. I feel the same way. A little.” He took another bite.
Julie walked over to him and put an arm around his shoulders, smiling crookedly, but not comfortably. It was a dark smile. “Liar,” she said.
He turned his head toward her. “Okay. More than a little.”
They were both terrified. But they were hiding it well.
* * *
Hunt covered St. Helena, Calistoga, and Napa. None of the bookstores had a copy of the Satanic Bible on hand. They all offered to order it for Hunt; it would take a week or so. He smilingly thanked them, but, no. He couldn’t wait that long.
He went to Vallejo. Same story. But a young man dressed in leather with bleached blond hair and a small green ponytail was able to give him some help.
“We don’t have it,” he said. “It’s pretty hard to find. We could order it, or you could go to a specialty bookstore. The occult, Satanism, that sort of thing.”
“Is there one around?” Hunt asked hopefully.
“Not in town. There are a couple I know of in San Francisco, if you don’t mind the drive.”
Hunt said he didn’t mind the drive at all and got the names and addresses of two occult bookstores. He stopped at a phone booth to call Julie and tell her where he was going, then drove to the city. It took a little more than thirty minutes to get there and about fifteen to find the first place.
It was called The Wolfsbane and was so small he passed it twice before spotting the little black-and-white sign above the door.
When he walked in, he smelled incense, dark and sweet. For a bookstore, The Wolfsbane was rather poorly lit. Shelves of books lined the walls, and tables with books stacked on them were arranged in an orderly fashion. The aisles between the tables and bookshelves were very narrow. In the far corner of the bookstore, a light shining above it to draw attention, was a tall, black, delicately constructed birdcage. Inside, on a thick branch that had been perched in the center of the large cage from one side to the other, was an enormous owl. At first Hunt thought it was stuffed. He stared at it for several moments upon entering, and it stared back. Then its huge eyes blinked and Hunt almost gasped.
“Can I help you?” a deep voice asked.
Hunt turned to his right. There was an L-shaped counter in a front corner of the store. Behind it sat a burly man leaning back in a squeaky chair smoking what looked like a thin cigar. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt; what there was of his neck was very thick, and his upper arms were huge, although not all muscle. He had a head of thick black hair that was not combed, and a bushy mustache. The counter itself was actually a glass showcase and inside were a number of bottled and packaged herbs, a skull-shaped ashtray, and several books that looked like antiques.
“Uh … yes,” Hunt said a bit uncertainly; he was very uncomfortable. “I’m looking for a copy of the Satanic Bible.”
“Paperback or hardcover?”
“Uh … paperback, preferably.”
The man fitted the cigar between his lips, stood, and came out from behind the counter. He was well over six feet tall, and as he walked, he watched Hunt suspiciously. Hunt knew he probably did not resemble the typical patron of The Wolfsbane. The man went to the back of the store, near the owl’s cage, and stopped in front of one of the shelves, ran his fingers along the book spines, then removed a black paperback with white letters on the front. He came back and handed the book over. Hunt got a whiff of the cigar, and it wasn’t a cigar. It had a sweet smell, not marijuana, really—not unlike incense.
“This what you’re looking for?” the man asked, sitting down again.
“Yeah.” Hunt stood before the counter, opened the book, and began thumbing through the pages. He turned to the table of contents and ran a finger down the list. At the very end, it gave the page number for the Enochian Keys. He flipped through it, but none of it was familiar. He went on to the Second Key, breathing the words silently to himself.
“‘Can the wings of the winds hear your voices of wonder?; O you!, the great spawn of the—’”
“Excuse me, but are you gonna read that, or buy it?”
Hunt’s gaze snapped up at the big man behind the counter and he smiled nervously. “Yeah, I’m sorry.” He stepped forward, put the book down by the cash register, and got out his wallet. “This is kind of important to me,” he said as he handed the man a five. While he waited for his change, he said, “Uh … do you know anything about this stuff?” He gestured to the black book.
The man shrugged. “A little.” He looked up at Hunt slyly. “Some of my best friends are Satanists,” he said with a throaty chuckle.
Hunt chuckled with him.
“Why? What do you need to know?”
“Well”—Hunt picked up the book and found the Second Enochian Key—“I need someone to explain this to me. This … Key.” He held it out to the man and showed it to him.
Handing over the change, the man took the book and looked over the page. His thick eyebrows bunched together as he read. “Hmm,” he grunted. “Enochian Keys. Yeah, they’re like … uh … well, they’re sort of like spells, or … um … hymns. Yeah, like the Christians have hymns, you know? Well, that’s sort of what these are to the Satanic Church. Only they’re supposed to have some sort of magical power. I don’t know. It’s all in here.” He waved the book a little, but kept looking through it. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m …” Hunt laughed, realizing he was about to tell this man his story. That wouldn’t do at all, would it? “Just … wondering.” Then a thought struck him: This guy works here! Surely he’s heard lots of weird shit already, he’s probably used to it. Maybe he even believes some of it! “Um … actually, I was just wondering if it’s possible to use those … those Keys to … to, say, create things?”
The man cocked his head. “You mean, like people, or something?”
“Not … really. Like—” This is such a crazy thing to be telling a total goddamned stranger! “—like evil.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, let’s say someone wants to … um … create a physical manifestation of evil. See what I mean?”
The man thought for a moment, staring down at the book. “You thinking of doing this?”
“No!” Hunt replied a bit too quickly and too enthusiastically. “I’m just … wondering.”
He eyed Hunt suspiciously again. “Well, like I say, I only know a little about this stuff. But I really doubt it. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Do you know anyone who might be able to tell me?”
“You mean, do I know any Satanists?” The guy chuckled again, shaking his head. “A couple. But you ask them a question like that and I know right now they’re gonna tell you no. See, they got people coming to them right and left asking questions like that, just waiting for them to admit to something like that. Creating evil.” He snorted. “What are you, a reporter or something? Doing a story on the Satanists for Rolling Stone, maybe? You think they’re stupid? Even if they did do stuff like that, they’d deny it.” He held up one beefy palm. “I’m not saying they do, you know. Like I say, some of my best friends are Satanists.” The throaty chuckle again.
Hunt pocketed his change and took the book, a feeling of hopelessness beginning to flower in his chest. “Thanks.” He left the shop thinking that he’d perhaps made the trip for nothing. He had the book, but no explanation. Of course, maybe if he sat down and read the damned thing …
Feeling a little better with that thought, he got into his car and headed for home.
* * *
Julie was beginning to get hungry. The rumblings in her stomach shed their anxious feeling and took on an emptiness that made her think of peanut butter and jelly.
Peanut butter and jelly was a childhood favorite of just about everyone Julie knew. But they had outgrown it somewhere along the line. Not Julie. It had stayed with her all along. Hunt was frequently poking fun at her love for the childish sandwich, and she always went along with it laughingly, but if it were possible for a person to be deeply devoted to a food, Julie Calahan was deeply devoted to peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.
For the last forty-five minutes, she’d been lying in bed reading the latest William Goldman. She put the book down on the bed beside her, threw the covers back, and went into the kitchen in her nightshirt. She hummed. She’d been humming to herself ever since Hunt had left. And she felt her hands trembling, too. She couldn’t see them tremble if she held them up before her. But she could feel it. She knew why she was doing these things, but she refused to allow herself to think about it. Instead, she read, or listened to music. She’d even baked a chocolate cake right after Hunt had left, just a quickie, one of those Betty Crocker jobs, not because she wanted to eat it, she just wanted to do it, and the warm smell of chocolate cake baking still lingered in the kitchen. The cake sat on Hunt’s cake dish on the counter, the big transparent bell-shaped lid encasing it like royal jewels.
She opened the refrigerator and took out the grape jam, set it on the counter, unscrewed the lid of the jar, and set it down, then reached above the fridge for the bread. The loaf slipped from her fingers and fell with a thump to the floor, the wrapping making a crinkling sound. She bent down to pick it up—
—and heard a sound.
Her fingers clutched the bread automatically and she shot up and spun around, her eyes searching the kitchen.
The refrigerator hummed.
The cuckoo clock ticked.
The faucet dripped.
An empty coffee cup sat on the kitchen table.
The cake sat under its clear covering.
A pile of dishes lay in the sink.
A dish shifting, maybe?
Her grip on the bread began to relax and she put it on the counter. Her fingers had pressed deep marks into the loaf. She stepped over to the sink and looked at the dishes.
“Jesus, Martin,” she muttered tremulously, “don’t you ever wash your damned dishes?”
They formed a little hill in the sink with spaces and gaps between the dishes and pans. Old food clung to the plates. The gaps between them were dark.
Silence.
