Lori, p.23
Lori, page 23
Now the beam swung back and its circle of light half-haloed Dr. Leverett's troubled face. "No third grave," he said. "That much we can be sure of."
"But I saw her headstone in my dream. Which you say could be a distortion of reality. Possibly I did fantasize some of the things about this place. But I did see Dr. Fairmount's headstone just as we see it now. Perhaps Priscilla's was an illusion, a way my imagination found to dramatize the fact."
"What fact?"
"That Priscilla Fairmount is dead."
"We can't be certain of that!"
Lori shook her head. "Maybe you're not, but I am. The voice wishing me a happy deathday came from my mother's grave."
"Please, Lori." Dr. Leverett spoke firmly. "We both know there isn't any grave here."
"Then she's buried somewhere else."
"But where?" Dr. Leverett faltered, then stared at the girl as realization came.
"Take me there," Lori said.
THIRTY-NINE
Where were they now? Somewhere north of Culver City, Lori judged; they'd just crossed Venice Boulevard. The street names in this part of town were unfamiliar to her but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that they get there, get there soon. Deathday had become death night, and there wasn't much time left. Couldn't he understand that?
"I can see where you wouldn't want the police involved," he was saying. "Actually there's no reason to call them in unless you want to report me for breaking and entering." He paused for a moment, his attention diverted as he negotiated a left turn onto a darkened side street. "On the other hand I'm sure we could get a building inspector to come out, maybe not tomorrow but soon."
Lori shook her head. "He wouldn't know what to look for."
"Do you?"
"Not exactly. Only that there's something I have to find-"
"Then let's wait until morning and make a search by daylight. It isn't safe to go stumbling around in the dark with nothing but a flashlight, not in a building that was condemned years ago." His voice was urgent. "Please, Lori. Wait until tomorrow."
"There is no tomorrow." Her voice was urgent too. "This is deathday." Deathday. And death night would soon be over. The car was the coach, the house was the castle, and when the clock struck twelve Cinderella would lose more than a slipper. Couldn't he understand that? Everything would be lost unless she could get there in time. In time, in space, in the dark domain where time and space no longer rule and only death is king-
"Lori!"
She started at the sound of his voice, suddenly aware that she was trembling.
"It's nothing," she said. Or tried to say; the words emerged as scarcely more than a whisper.
His voice was firm. "There's been enough stress for you today. I'm going to take you home and I don't want to hear any arguments-"
"No!" It wasn't a matter for whispering now, wasn't a question of argument; she was fighting for her life, or what was left of it, before midnight came. "We can't stop now. Nobody else believed me when I told them about my dreams-you were the only one who didn't think I was going crazy. Even I thought so until you helped me find the truth. And we both know those dreams are true."
"Not entirely." Dr. Leverett shook his head. "Remember what I said at the cemetery. Parts of what you dreamed are symbolic, parts are pure nightmare-"
"But some of it is real. If it wasn't for those dreams I'd never have found out about the clinic. I'd never even have known my real identity."
"You're right, it's a major breakthrough. If there are other things to be learned, I promise you we'll get to them in due time."
"There is no time," Lori said. "You've got to help me now!" Her eyes sought his in entreaty.
For a moment he met her gaze, then glanced away quickly, scanning the dark vista ahead.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."
FORTY
The decibel level was mounting. But then it was always that way, Metz reasoned. Just about every rookie joining the department wants to get into either Homicide or Vice. If they do, they find out there's more clamor than glamor. Particularly when a body is involved. How Vice handled live-body problems Metz didn't know, but situations involving the discovery of dead ones usually follow a common pattern. And wherever it occurs it's always a noisy one. Hyenas howl, vultures screech, and there's no such thing as a quiet cop.
The patrolman who'd come in to tell him about the squawk almost had to shout his message, and Metz raised his voice in reply. "Who's calling?"
"Harold Mills. Badge number-"
Metz gestured impatiently. "Never mind. Go back and ask him to give you the information. Tell him I'm tied up right now."
The patrolman shifted his stance but held his ground. "He said he had to speak to you directly. Something about a girl."
"Lori Holmes?"
"That's it."
The mention of Lori's name brought Russ Carter to his feet. "What's happening?"
"Surveillance." Metz tried to soft-pedal the announcement, but it's hard to shout casually. "I put Mills on to tail her right after I assigned Kestleman to keep on you. Nothing special, just a routine precaution."
From the expression on his face, Carter wasn't buying that. Metz ignored him and turned to the patrolman. "Where'd you say you're parked?"
"Out back, in the alley."
"Okay." Metz nodded. "Let's go."
Russ Carter moved forward. "I'm coming with you."
Metz shook his head. It was easier than shouting, though Carter seemed willing to make the effort.
"She's my girl, dammit, and I've got a right to know-"
Rights. Everybody has rights nowadays. Took them away from the cops and gave them to the robbers. Metz was about ready to make a suggestion as to what young Carter could do with his rights when he caught sight of the commotion on the other side of the room. Sergeant Torrenos's voice didn't carry, but his pantomime clearly conveyed what was going on at the front door. Again, par for the course. Or corpse. First the hyenas, then the vultures, now the reporters.
Maybe Torrenos could beat them off or maybe he couldn't, but right now Metz was not prepared to take any chances. The department still had a few rights of its own, and he intended to issue an official press statement before letting them get their hooks into Carter.
He glanced at the patrolman. "Lead the way," he said. And to Carter, "Come on."
With the uniformed officer running interference they made it through the hall, into the kitchen, and out the back door. It was quieter in the alleyway but nobody spoke until they reached the patrol car to seat themselves inside.
"Metz here. What's up?"
Asking the question, he wondered if he'd made a mistake. Mills was a good man, conscientious and experienced, but he tended to become a trifle long-winded just as other veterans, Metz reminded himself, had a tendency to become impatient.
Mills surprised him tonight. "If you don't mind I'm going to skip what happened till about six-fifteen. That's when she left her apartment and drove into Beverly Hills. It was seven-ten when she hit the underground parking at the Kiereck Building on Bedford."
"Leverett's office," Russ said.
"I know." Metz nodded. "Just shut up and listen."
He took his own advice as Mills continued. He'd parked out front until Lori emerged again at seven fifty-eight but he damned near lost her because she left as a passenger in another car-a blue '87 Caddie. "I've got the license number for you," Mills said.
"Don't bother. Middle-aged man, grey hair, nice suit?"
"Right."
"Anthony Leverett, M.D. Where'd they go?"
"Believe it or not, they drove out to Hopeland Cemetery."
Metz was willing to listen to details now. Time of arrival-eight fifty-five.
Destination, Fairmount family plot; there was no need for Mills to actually follow them into the cemetery because the entrance would be serving as their only available exit. The information about the grave site came from the caretaker after Mills left the car parked down the street. The blue '87 Caddie came out again at nine twenty-one.
"Then what?" Metz glanced at his watch as he spoke. It was exactly nine-fifty. "Where are you now?"
"I'm calling from the corner near an abandoned building on South Allister. Couldn't locate any curbside number."
"Four-nine-oh?"
"It's in the four hundred block. Could be."
"They parked there?"
"At first, yes."
"What do you mean, at first?"
"That's why I'm calling. Like I said, it's an abandoned house; the way it looks, nobody's lived there for years. But that's where the two of them are right now-inside."
FORTY-ONE
Lori moved into the front hallway as Leverett's flashlight searched the darkness with its single eye. They started along the dust-strewn deserted corridor lined with cobwebbed doorways. The unblinking eye peered into the rooms as they passed, empty rooms tenanted only by shadows.
"This must have been an outpatient clinic," Leverett told her. "Seems to me as though these were offices and consulting rooms."
"What's upstairs?"
"More of the same, I suppose."
"You didn't look?"
"There wasn't time, and I wanted to get back. Besides, judging from the condition of this place those stairs might not be safe."
"I'll take that chance." Turning back, Lori moved past the staircase, the beam of Leverett's flash behind her. Floorboards creaked beneath their feet and weathered walls groaned in protest against the night wind.
Creaks. Groans. And Leverett's voice, rising above them. "Lori!"
She halted at the foot of the stairs, turning to him as he approached. "Remember what you promised me," he said. "All you wanted was a chance to look around for a moment and see for yourself-"
He broke off as Lori's hand extended toward the flashlight he held. "Give it to me," she said.
For an instant Lori wondered what might have happened if he'd called her bluff. Would she have gone upstairs alone? And if she had, would she be alone up there? Or was something watching, something waiting in the - deeper darkness above?
But Leverett didn't give her the light. Instead he took her arm and they started up the staircase, moving slowly, cautiously. The carpeting on the steps had frayed into a pattern of spidery shapes and the boards sagged beneath the impact of their feet. But they held.
The dust seemed thicker in the hallway past the second landing. The darkness seemed thicker too, but Lori wasn't afraid. Although she had never seen this long, lightless corridor and the dark-mouthed rooms opening on either side, she felt no fear.
What gripped her now was worse-the feeling, the dreadful feeling of familiarity.
It grew stronger as they made their way along the hall, halting momentarily as Leverett's flashlight fanned into the empty rooms on either side.
"Most likely this floor was for staff residents," he said. "Living quarters-"
"Stop!" Lori halted before the doorway on her right. "I heard something. In there."
Leverett nodded, turning the eye of light toward the darkened room beyond. Lori glanced with it. There was a sudden squeal and the sound of scurrying. A rat, its red eyes slitted above a brown and hairy muzzle, darted through the revealing ray and disappeared into a hole gaping from the baseboard at the far corner.
Leverett fanned the beam, and scanned the walls and the floor beneath them. "All clear," he said.
But it's not clear, Lori told herself, not clear as to why she was responding to the empty room.
Leverett caught the question in her glance. "Probably just a bedroom, judging from the size of it." He sent the flashlight on a search as he spoke. "There's the closet door. And that could be a private bath."
Familiarity. Somehow she knew this room. And the room knew her. Because it was whispering.
Leverett turned, taking her arm again and guiding her back along the hall. "Come along. There's nothing else to see."
Nothing else to see. But something to hear. Lori was hearing it now as they came down the hall and her footsteps slowed.
"Don't move," she murmured.
He nodded. "More rats-"
"No, listen!" The whispers seemed louder now. "It's someone's voice-"
Leverett stood silent for a moment. "I don't hear anything." His grip tightening on her arm, he led her toward the stairs. "It's time to get out of here."
Out of here. That's what the voice was whispering, that's what it wanted. And why couldn't he hear it, now that they were coming down the stairway? He had to hear it because the voice was rising from below, somewhere beyond the landing. The rising voice, urgent, echoing. Out of here, let me out-
It was then that Lori yanked her arm free. She was running now, running down the corridor to the rear, running to the voice that came from behind the dark door at the far end. The locked door.
"Wait!"
It was Leverett calling. He was behind her now, but she didn't stop, couldn't stop, now that she was at the door. At the door, tugging frantically at the knob, while the voice was screeching-only it wasn't the voice, the door itself made that screeching sound as it crashed outward and she jumped aside just in time. From behind her Leverett's flashbeam revealed the rows of sharpened silver embedded lengthwise on both sides of the fallen panel; the door had been nailed shut. But the way was open now.
A rank and musty odor billowed forth as the flashlight guided them into the empty room beyond. Empty, except for the dim outline of what rose from the center. Leverett lifted his hand and the beam traveled over the bare surface of a marble slab cemented to the floor and Lori recognized it for what it was.
The voice was soaring now, and her hands went to her ears to shut out the sound. But that didn't shut out the sight of the table before her, the operating table on which she was born. The table on which she had died-
She closed her eyes and the vision vanished, but everything was vanishing as she felt herself falling, falling into the darkness. Silent darkness. Icy darkness.
That's where she is now. Lying in the dark. The odor is stronger. The smell of corruption and decay envelops her, but she can only sense it. She can't see, for her eyes are gone, eaten away by the creatures that crawl to feast. She cannot feel, for her flesh has long since sloughed and only a thin slime coats the brittle bones, the mossy mold of her skull. But she knows now; knows where and what she is.
And the greatest horror comes with the realization that she will always be aware, aware for all eternity that she is dead and buried and still alive and that somewhere the voice-her own voice-is screaming.
FORTY-TWO
Lieutenant Metz wasn't wasting much time over his options because he didn't have any. From what Mills reported he couldn't come up with anything that would serve as a valid charge except simple trespassing. And that was hardly an excuse to call 911, let alone a SWAT team. Matter of fact, it wasn't even enough to bring in a backup. On top of which 490 South Allister wasn't in his division. Trying to explain to the commander posed still another problem because he had no explanation to offer.
"Advise." It was Mills on the squawk, trying to sound professional.
Metz glanced at his watch again, then consulted a mental map. "I'm leaving now-should be about fifteen minutes. Go back and wait for me. Don't try going in until I get there."
Over and out. Metz turned to the uniformed officer nodding toward Russ Carter in the back seat. "Take this gentleman inside to Sergeant Torrenos-"
He'd been prepared for a hassle but Carter made no protest. Instead he climbed out of the back of the black-and-white, glancing toward the far end of the alley. "What do you want me to tell them?" he said.
"Who?"
"If I'm not mistaken we're about to break into prime time," Russ told him. "Looks like Channel Seven has arrived. That means Two and Four remotes can't be far behind."
As he spoke, the van braked to a halt close behind the black-and-white. Metz turned quickly; in the background he could see the camera crew emerging, and a woman whom he recognized as an anchorperson was already striding forward to confront him. "Hi-we're here for Eyewitness News and I'd like to get-"
Metz swung around, taking hold of Russ Carter by the shoulder, and pushed him into the rear seat of the car as he spoke. "Sorry, just leaving."
He lowered himself into the front and came to rest on the passenger side. A moment later the uniformed patrolman was behind the wheel, simultaneously slamming the door and putting the car in motion.
As they zoomed to the alley exit, Metz glanced at the patrolman. "Nice work. What's your name?"
"Gilroy, sir."
"You know where South Allister Street is?"
"I've got a pretty good idea. If we bypass Century City-"
"I don't care what route you take. Let's see how fast you can get there."
It took thirteen minutes without the siren.
Metz didn't know this neighborhood, but a single glance served to assure him that it wasn't Brentwood. Two glances, really, because the structures on both sides of the four hundred block on South Allister were dark. So were the streetlamps at either end of the block. Burned out, maybe even shot out, Metz concluded. For a moment he recalled the run-down area surrounding Clara Hopkins's home. Why was it most film and fiction mysteries staged their murders and mayhem against a background of millionaires' mansions? And why was he wasting his time asking?
He glanced at Gilroy, gesturing. "Pull over. That's him."
Mills came out of his car as they parked behind it, then moved toward them quickly.
"Anything happen?" Metz said.
"They're still inside." Mills turned, gesturing. "Want to check the Caddie? It's right ahead of me here."
"Never mind." He turned to the black-and-white for a moment, reassuring himself that Gilroy was still at the wheel and Russ Carter continued to occupy the back seat.
