Lori, p.5
Lori, page 5
And someone was screaming now, screaming here inside Nadia's head. No-don't-put it back-
Nadia let the box fall. As she did so a nimbus of light flooded her face and she crouched down, flattening frantically against the ashy base of the foundation wall behind the overturned cabinet.
In the street beyond, a car moved slowly, its searchlight sweeping over the ruins. Was it a squad car or a security patrol checking the neighborhood? Had someone seen her before she ducked?
Suppose someone had, and came over. How could she explain why she was prowling around here at midnight with a stolen strongbox at her feet? What could she say about the screams that never stopped, the screams no one else could hear?
Nadia held her breath until her lungs were bursting, held it until cold sweat broke out on her forehead, held it until the light streaked past. Then she lifted her head, peering over the jagged edge of the sidewall as the car reached and rounded the corner of the street beyond.
Rising, she expelled her breath in a sigh of relief-a sigh submerged in the crazed clamor of her inner voice.
Put the box back! Put it back and get out of here!
Yes, it was time to get out, that much she knew. But the box was another matter. Finding it was important, not just to her but to that poor girl who moved in an aura of danger and death.
The box is the danger. There's death inside. Put it back!
The voice was shrieking now, demanding, commanding. Nadia paused, jaw tightening, then shook her head.
To hell with inner voices. Make up your own mind. Do what common sense tells you.
Nadia stooped and picked up the metal box, then stepped through a gap in the wall foundation, crossing the lawn to the sidewalk beyond.
No-put it back-I warn you-
The scream pursued her to the station wagon, and slamming the door after she entered didn't shut it out. Neither did the roar of the racing engine as the car started off.
Back-back-back-
Nadia wanted to press her hands against her ears but that wouldn't help because the voice was inside. The only way to stop it was to obey, turn the car around, replace the damned box. Then the voice would go away and she'd be free. It was all so simple, so easy. And so wrong.
To most people, hearing voices means you're crazy. But she wasn't crazy; she was a sensitive. Knowing this was-what kept her going these past few days, gave her the strength to run the risks she'd taken tonight. If she didn't believe in herself, then she was crazy.
And even if she did believe, it wasn't enough. What she needed was proof. The kind of proof she had now-the proof inside this box.
That was ridiculous, or was it? Sometimes only the ridiculous makes sense.
At least it made more sense than listening to inner voices screeching commands. Putting the box back in its hiding place meant burying the proof forever. Then no one would learn the truth.
What was the truth?
Nadia didn't know, but she meant to find out. Take the box to Lori, let her open it. Maybe she had a key; if not they'd break the lock, force the lid, reveal the secret inside.
The secret is death.
No scream now, no shriek. The words were scarcely more than a whisper, but they held a chilling conviction. Death. The box holds death.
Nadia glanced at the strongbox on the seat beside her. For a moment she wondered if someone had planted an explosive device inside, triggered to go off when the lid was lifted. But certainly there was no reason to store a deadly weapon like that in a suburban home, and Lori's parents weren't terrorists. There had to be some other explanation of why the box had been hidden in the liquor cabinet's concealed compartment. Did it contain a drug stash? Stolen cash, perhaps?
She frowned at the thought, frowned at herself. Under normal circumstances-or paranormal, to be exact- she'd be getting vibes that might clue her in about the box's contents. But nothing specific was coming through. The only way to get answers was to reach Lori's apartment; just a ten-minute drive and the streets were clear.
What she needed now was to clear her head. The voice seemed to have sunk to a murmur, but somehow its whispering was worse than a scream.
Go back. Back, before it's too late-
Nadia grimaced, suddenly aware that she had a splitting headache. Either that or her mind was splitting, because now she sensed a second voice too. The man's voice, sending a message of its own.
No, keep going. You must!
The contradictory commands combined with a subsonic intensity, and she clawed the dashboard quickly, switching on the radio to drown both voices in the boom of a rock beat.
Guitars twanged, trumpets blared, and the singer wailed the vocal, loud and clear.
"Take it back, baby, take it back!
Don't wait, I'm warning you
Don't hesitate!
Take it back before it's too late!"
Nadia shut off the radio and the voice stilled. Or had there been a voice? Now there was only silence. She blinked to clear her vision, eyes intent on the street ahead. It was dark, darker than before; even the headlight beams seemed oddly dimmed.
She knew where she was, or thought she did. In a few minutes she'd reach the cross street leading to Lori's apartment. All she had to do now was keep going, but why had the lights faded? It was like driving through a tunnel.
Even the streetlamps had faded into shadows. Shadows looming on every side, shadows of trees, shadows of buildings. But trees and buildings have roots and foundations; they don't move, don't crowd closer so that the street becomes nothing more than a narrow opening between. Tunnel vision.
Nadia floored the gas pedal, speeding past the shadows toward the faint pinpoint of light still visible ahead. But, crouching over the wheel, she realized she'd never make it, the voice was right, it was too late-
A blast of sound jerked her head upright. Then came a screech and she echoed it as the station wagon braked to a halt.
Her sight clearing, she found herself back on a normally lighted arterial, but on the wrong side of the street.
Only a few feet ahead was the tanker-truck which had swerved to the edge of the curb. Its driver leaned his head through the open window of the cab to pose a rhetorical question.
"Sumbitch bastard, you wanna get killed?"
Avoiding his scowl, Nadia maneuvered her way to the right lane as the trucker continued his interrogation.
"Jeezus Chris', why the hell don' you look where you going? Wassa matter, you drunk or someping?"
Nadia didn't reply. She could see clearly now and she did know where she was going. She wasn't drunk, either, no matter what that big ape thought.
Accelerating, Nadia moved forward, back on the road to reality. She came to the crossing and turned into the side street just three blocks from Lori's apartment.
As she did she was conscious of a sudden chill and reached down to switch off the air-conditioning unit. To her surprise she found it wasn't operating; the cold must be coming through her side window.
She rolled it up but the cold persisted. Skin prickling, Nadia reached down to turn on the heater. The switch didn't budge; as she tried to jiggle it she realized that her hands were like ice. Her feet, too, because now the cold was creeping over her entire body; even her brain was cold and dead.
Overtired, that was her problem. Too tired to be driving this way. The cold engulfed her and she sank into it, wanting to sleep. She was a Jewish snow-princess and it was time to sleep because she was so tired, so very tired-
"N-no!"
Somehow the word forced its way between numbed lips, fueled by a tiny flame flickering somewhere deep inside. Nadia visualized the flame growing, feeding on fury, and as her anger flared the cold receded.
This wasn't real; she wasn't a snow-princess. Tired, yes, but that wouldn't stop her. Now there were only two more blocks to go. Her foot pressed the gas pedal, finding energy in determination.
And the engine died.
The engine died and the wagon bumped to a halt against the curb. Nadia pumped frantically but there was no sound. The dash lights faded, the headlights went dark.
Battery trouble? Whatever the problem, it wouldn't prevent her from walking the last two blocks.
She could feel the coldness returning, and when her hand moved to the strongbox on the seat beside her, it was like touching a block of ice.
Why the sudden drop in temperature? This was the kind of thing the spook-hunters reported when they tangled with a ghost in a haunted house. But she wasn't looking for ghosts and her station wagon wasn't haunted.
Or was it?
Dead batteries she could cope with, but dead spirits were something else. She'd never had any reason to believe in ghosts or their powers and this was no time to consider such matters. Except that she had heard voices, she'd almost been killed in a freak accident, the engine did conk out, and the metal surface of the box beneath her hand was covered with hoarfrost.
Running her tongue over chapped lips, Nadia remembered the whiskey in the glove compartment. There was still a drink left, and God knows she needed one now.
Nadia sent her fingers running on an errand of mercy. The bottle was icy to the touch; she saw that the inch of amber inside had paled to a lighter hue. And when she tilted it, the bottle's contents remained motionless.
How could that be? Alcohol doesn't freeze, not in any normal lower range of temperature. But there was nothing normal here and she'd have to get out.
Shoving the bottle back into the compartment, Nadia turned and unlocked the door at her left. Or tried to.
The lock didn't budge.
Fumbling at the catch with half-frozen fingers, she knew it was no use-whatever caused the cold controlled the car itself. The windows on both sides were jammed shut, and her balled fists hammered at the shatterproof glass without result. The ice palace was now an ice prison.
Panting from exertion, Nadia felt the cold congealing in her lungs. Beneath the jumpsuit her body spasmed and shivered.
Cold blood. Up to now it had only been an empty phrase, but as her body temperature dropped she realized its meaning. That's how she could die here-in cold blood, trapped inside this damned deep-freeze.
Nadia's hand slammed down angrily on the lid of the strongbox, and the thought came. Just how strong was it?
Pain lanced through her fingers as she gripped the frosted metal sides of the box, raising it to smash against the windowpane at her left.
The impact sent a surge of sensation through the muscles of her right arm and shoulder, but the window glass held firm. Gasping, she struck at it again, and once more the only damage done was to herself.
It was hopeless to keep on trying, even if she had the strength. Nadia turned and let the box fall to her right; it bounced, then slid across the seat to lodge against the door catch on the passenger side.
There was a click as the handle moved-and as she stared, the passenger door swung open and outward.
Realization brought relief in such intensity that she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she did neither; sliding across the seat, Nadia scooped up the box and stepped out onto the walk beyond the curb.
The night air was damp rather than chill. Only the strongbox was cold, but she held it firmly as she started forward. The street was deserted, its condos and apartment buildings darkened except for outside lights before entrances and the driveways leading to underground parking. But that was to be expected at this hour and the absence of sound or movement was reassuring.
Nadia quickened her pace. Now that she was free she could think clearly again. There was no cold to numb her body, no voice to numb her mind. If she hadn't been so traumatized she would have realized that the car was only an ordinary station wagon, not a cryogenic coffin. Something must have gone wrong with the computer or whatever monitored the power system; that would account for engine failure, locked doors and windows. If the controls were out of whack, the air-conditioning could have been on full force, even though it was switched to Off. That was explanation enough for the cold, and she welcomed it.
Psychic sensitivity seemed to transcend boundaries of time and space, but it could never help her to penetrate the mysteries lurking under the hood of a car. When she got to Lori's she'd call the Auto Club and let them take over.
That would give her enough time to tell about finding the box; more than enough, because she'd already decided not to mention the business of hearing the voices and what followed.
The important thing was the box itself and what it might contain. Lacking a key, they could pry the lid open and then-
As Nadia came to the first crossing and mounted the walk beyond she shifted the box for a better grip and felt something jiggle inside. It didn't rattle or tinkle, which ruled out jewelry unless wrapped in cloth or cotton batting.
Most likely the contents were papers, but what kind of papers-deeds, mortgages, stocks and bonds?
She'd really been on a roll earlier this evening; it might have been possible then to open channels and pick up an impression or even a visual image of what the box contained. But now the energy was gone and it took all her strength just to keep moving because she was tired, so tired, and the box was so damned heavy.
Nadia's pace slowed as she started past the buildings lining the second block. Their outside lights blurred, separating into pairs. Double vision, diplopia, or some such term for it. Hard to think when you're so tired, when your arms and legs ache and each step is exhausting.
She blinked and the lights came back into normal focus, but the fatigue remained. Even blinking was an effort. Blinking and winking and thinking and drinking. God, she needed a shot! Lugging the strongbox was a mistake, she should have left it in the wagon. She could still put it down right now and spare herself the load; just leave the thing in the bushes for somebody else to find. And why not? After all it wasn't her property and its contents were no concern of hers.
What did concern her was this feeling, this terrible feeling of being dragged-out, spaced-out, too weak to go any farther. Put the box down and forget it-
Nadia took a deep breath. Why was she thinking such nonsense? Or was someone or something else doing the thinking for her? Tired or not, she knew what she was doing and had to do. Deliver the box. Learn what's inside.
But it was heavy, so hard to carry; just hanging on to it took all her strength. How much farther now?
Nadia scanned the numerals on the building fronts, then realized the address she sought was directly ahead. Only a few dozen yards more, but now the lights were blurring again and the pain in her limbs intensified. It was like walking underwater with an anchor in her arms. Walking at the bottom of the sea, breath bursting in her lungs, pressure building to squeeze her body, and the hunger hovering.
She sensed the hunger here in the deep where the great sharks prowled, the man-eaters. And they sensed her. Even though she couldn't see them in the blur she knew they were circling, coming closer.
It was the box they wanted, of course. The heavy box that dragged her down, down into the depth and the dark. Let the burden fall and she'd be free, floating to the surface in safety. No time to lose, she must do it now.
Now. Nadia clung to the word, clung to the box, clung to her purpose. Now was her only remaining link to reality; now was here and she was here, in the street. And though each step was agony she kept going until she reached the walk leading to the building entrance.
Somehow she opened the door, somehow she staggered inside to lean against the wall, panting with exhaustion and relief. No water here, no pressure, no imaginary shark. But the box was still heavy.
She peered toward the tenant-list panel at her right, seeking Lori's name.
Had she come to the wrong building? No, because the address checked out. Probably, since Lori was a new occupant, her name hadn't been added yet. Now Nadia visualized the number of her apartment on the second floor; all she had to do was walk up the stairs and ring the doorbell.
Or could she?
Carrying the damned box was like lugging a safe, and the stairway beyond the lobby entrance was steep. This was an older building, only four floors instead of the usual high-rise levels, so it lacked an elevator. Cursing the architect, the landlord, and her own misfortune, Nadia moved slowly toward the foot of the stairs.
For a moment she stood there, seeking strength, forcing herself to regain control, remember reality.
Name, rank, and serial number first. She was Nadia
Hope, a psychic sensitive with ESP abilities. Abilities which led her to Lori, led her to the discovery of this box. Nothing supernatural about it; there is nothing supernatural, period. All she had to do now was climb to the next floor. Easy does it, one step at a time.
She turned and placed her foot on the first riser. Pain shot through her heel, but she kept moving. The second step was worse, like walking barefoot over hot coals. Clenching her teeth, she moved upward, clutching the box.
Its surface was heating, heating so rapidly and so intensely that the metal scorched her fingers. The box was filled with hot coals too, and unless she dropped it her hands would be burned.
But that was imagination, and she had to remember the reality. She was Nadia Hope, a psychic sensitive, and there is nothing supernatural, period.
Wrong. There is no Nadia Hope. The powers you think you possess exist only in the imagination of Molly Bloom.
The voice was back, and it was telling her to go back. Go back, Molly, take the box back to the car. You can start it this time, you can drive, get away from the heat, stop the burning. Go, Molly. Go now!
Molly listened, wanting to obey. But all the while she kept on climbing, kept on until now she was at the top of the stairs. Here the air was hot too, because heat rises and she had risen with it. Now was the time to turn back, go down, down and out into the coolness.
She would go, she had to go, but not just yet; not when she was only a few feet away from Lori's apartment door. All she had to do now was ring the bell-
No-don't do it. Don't do it!
The voice crackled like flame, but there was no flame, only the smoke rising from all sides, blinding her as she stumbled toward the door. She halted before it, trying to tell herself there was no smoke, no heat, no voice. She must focus on reality, focus on the little black button in the center of the door.
