Darkness Demands Part 13

"Did you see any blood?"

The girl shook her head. "He was all covered up. My dad said it was a body bag."

"Then you didn't see his face?"

"No. But I could see the blood from my brother's bedroom. He's got a telescope like they have on Johnny Quest. We could even see the murderer's footprints made from blood."

The kids buzzed with excitement.

"Who got killed?" asked a girl from second year, her eyes wide.

"A little kid called Liam Thorp. Now his mother's run away."

Voices rose into a squeal of delicious terror.

"Did his mother kill him?"

"Gross!"

"No," the older girl replied. "His mother didn't kill him." She paused for effect. "It was Baby Bones."

At once the children took up the chant.

"Baby Bones! Baby Bones! Baby Bones!"

3.

From way off in the distance John could hear the chanting coming from Elizabeth's school. He couldn't quite make out the words. They seemed to shimmer on the summer air, growing louder, then softer before coming back stronger than ever to echo from old cottage walls. Perhaps Elizabeth was one of the chanters. He smiled to himself. She always tended to be in the middle of things.

The yellow house lay ahead of him. It was probably a good couple of centuries old. Tiles dipped here and there with the curve of ancient roof timbers. Cedars stood in the garden, while well-tended lawns rolled up to the house itself. A wall ran at shoulder height around the garden. This must be the very same wall that Martin Marcello and his friends had stood on long ago to catch that first glimpse of color television.

It was certainly a peaceful backwater here. There was little in the way of traffic along this particular street. What cars there were, were expensive enough to reflect the wealth of the neighborhood.

With his opening line carefully rehea.r.s.ed he went to the main gate. A sign read: EZY VIEW. He turned the handle. d.a.m.n. Locked.

Standing back he looked left and right, wondering if there was another way in.

A little way along he saw a door set in the wall. Five seconds later he swore under his breath again. That was also locked. Stan Price had himself a fortress here. Yet, he'd wager, the locked gates were to prevent the old man from wandering away rather than to prevent people from getting in. Frowning, John followed the road looking for another entrance. A footpath ran along the side of the property. He followed it.

At that moment common sense suggested he quit this mission. The computer sat on his desk at home, waiting for him to fire it up and write that first chapter.

You're scared, John Newton, he told himself. Admit you're diarrhea s.h.i.t scared of writing the first chapter. This is nothing but a big exercise to postpone the act of sitting down and typing those first few words. You know that Without Trace won't be half as good as Blast His Eyes, so you're too frightened to even try. Now here you are chasing the proverbial wild goose. Anything to delay the dreadful moment when you have to write.

He pressed the nagging thoughts to the back of his mind and walked on. Here, nettles grew high at either side of him, trees closed overhead. Neglected for years the path narrowed to a tangle of brambles.

Dead-end.

Just like your career, he thought. Unless you can work a miracle in the next few days.

With the way ahead closed off to him, he turned back. But the detective inside of him nagged like a personal devil. Newton. Are you going to give up so easily? You've got to make the effort. You've got to take risks. Remember? You followed that hunch at the archive office. You turned a so-so book into a bestseller. You can do it again. But only if you follow your heart, not your heada Yeah, he told himself sourly, as he side-stepped a fistful of dog p.o.o.p on the path: yield to the Force, Luke Skywalkera That was the moment he stopped dead in his tracks and did something that came as a complete surprise.

He jabbed his toe into a hole in the weathered brick, then climbed onto the wall. Great. Now you're a housebreaker. He found himself grinning despite it all. C'mon, for heaven's sake, you have a way with words. If you're challenged come up with some plausible excusea the gates were locked. You needed to see Mr. Gregory. You thought you saw smoke coming from the tool-shed.

"Yeah, and you're on a mission from G.o.d," he added flippantly under his breath.

He swung his legs over the wall. Below him, a lawn ran up to the house. At this height he couldn't even break a leg if he tried. He eased himself forward and dropped down onto the gra.s.s. Then as nonchalantly as he could he strolled toward the house.

He'd just cleared the ornamental bushes when he heard a shout.

"Oh, d.a.m.n," he murmured, his heart sinking.

CHAPTER 10.

The cry came again. John turned to its source, a 'plausible' excuse for his climb over the garden wall already forming in his mind. But John wasn't ready for what he did see.

It was old Stan Price, this time dressed in trousers and a white shirt open at the neck; straw hat perched on his head. The man's face was incandescent; the eyes blazed with what seemed to be sheer ferocity.

"What kept you?" the old man cried. "I've been waiting for days to see you!" Stan Price beckoned John.

John recovered his composure. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, of course, of course. Come over here." The old man waved John across to him, as if he were bursting with news.

When John got closer the man reached out to grab him by the wrist. Even though Stan Price was incredibly thin, with fingers like twigs, he was surprisingly strong. But then he was so fired up with emotion he looked ready to go a couple of rounds in the boxing ring.

John started speaking. "Good morning, Mr.-"

"Harry!" Stan Price's eyes sparkled with delight. "Harry, thank G.o.d you've come."

"Mr. Pricea I think you've got the wrong-"

"Harry. Where on Earth have you been? Oh, never mind that now. You're back, that's all that mattersa it's so good to see you. I've been calling you night and day but I couldn't make you hear. Wouldn't your mother let you out? Oh? Did she find those cigars? I said we should have hidden them in the barn." Stan Price shook John's wrist, his eyes glistening. "Oh, G.o.d, it's good to see you again."

"Stan, I wonder if your daughter's at home? Mrs. Gregory?"

But Stan Price continued speaking as if he'd not heard. "If we get time we'll go down to the river. I've found a pool there where the carp are like this!" Releasing his grip, Stan held his hands apart to show the size of the fish. "I'll get my bike out and the rods. Did you bring your rod, Harry?"

"Mr. Price. I'm not here to go fishing. There was-"

"Of course, of course." The old man suddenly became thoughtful. "Harry. There was something else I had to tell you. It was important. Very important." He rubbed his forehead with the bent arthritic hand, the liver spots covering the skin like oil stains. "So important. Now what was it?" He noticed his own ancient hands and stared at them in surprise. "I don't know what's happening to me, Harry." He shot John a searching look. "I keep forgetting things. Silly little things and ffftt!" He tapped his head. "They go just like that. And I get stupid ideasa yesa I could have sworn someone told me you were dead, Harry. Who'd tell me a ridiculous thing like that? Especially when there are so many televisions in the world today. Televisions? Now why did I say that?"

The excitement that had briefly energized the old man pa.s.sed. John saw confusion cloud the old man's eyes. Suddenly he seemed physically smaller as if some evil spell was shrinking him, causing his face to shrivel into a sad landscape of deeply etched valleys and gullies that reached toward his eyes, which had become a faded blue.

"Harry. You're not dead. Why did they say that?"

Now it seemed cruel to John to deny that he was Harry-whoever he was. "Why don't you sit down?" John suggested and nodded to a garden bench.

"But I've a consignment of television sets due at any minute. New ones from j.a.pana colora they make them to show programs in color these days, Harry. Can you believe that?" His blue eyes fixed on John's face.

John nodded. "Color televisions will be in big demand, Stan. Now, sit down, please. It's too hot to stand in the sun."

"The summer's are in color these days, too. Just look at all that green." He nodded in the direction of the cemetery where trees ran riot across the hillside.

"They certainly are," John agreed. He shot a glance up at the yellow house. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Gregory would have noticed the old man wasn't alone now?

"You haven't brought any cake, have you, Harry? Or an apple?"

"No, sorry, Stan."

"I'm so hungry these days. I don't seem to get enough to eat. But I know why you're here, you know?"

"You do?"

"Yes. You're here about the letter."

"The letter?" Despite the heat, a cold trickling sensation ran down John's spine. "Did you receive a letter, too, Stan?"

"Oh, yes."

John leaned forward. "What did the letter say, Stan?"

"Oh, the usual."

"The usual?"

The old man looked round as if suddenly agitated. "That's why I was shouting for you night and day. For some reason I can't go up there anymore. I don't know whya so you've got to go."

"Go where, Stan?"

"To the Water Mill, Harry. You must warn Mr. Kelly that it's starting all over again."

Gently John asked, "What's starting again?"

"All that troublea all that horrible trouble that happened before. You remember, Harry? It was a proper nightmare. All those people got hurt, and Ben and old Mrs. Stokes died." His forehead wrinkled as he shook his head. "She got took that night whena" He sighed as if the memories were suddenly too powerful to allow him to speak.

"Stan. This letter that came. What did it say?"

"Oha Harry. I'm frightened. It's just like last timea just like ita I thought you'd been frightened away. That's why you wouldn't come."

"Stana" For a moment John was going to ask about the letter. Then something prompted him to ask a different question. "Stan. Who's Baby Bones?"

The old man drew breath like he'd been plunged in ice water. His frightened eyes locked on John's.

"Harry? Why did you ask that? For pity's sakea you know all about Baby Bones. It was you who saw his face!"

"Eh, excuse mea excuse me?"

John looked up to see Mrs. Gregory walking down the path toward them. She ducked her head as timid as a frightened bird. "Can I help you at all?"

"Cynthia," the old man said, excited. "Look, it's Harry. He's come back!"

"Dad." She gave an embarra.s.sed smile in John's direction. "This gentleman isn't Harry. Harry's-" She shrugged. "This is Mr. Newton. He's an author."

So my fame precedes me, John thought. Quickly he climbed to his feet and held out his hand. Cynthia Gregory shook it, but it was such a faint, ghost-like shake of the hand he hardly felt her touch at all. "Call me, John. Pleased to meet you."

"It's Harrya" The old man said, looking from one to the other as if he were a lost child.

"Now, Dad, you sit there. I'll bring you a gla.s.s of orange juice in a minute." Then turning to John she whispered, "I'm sorry about that. I hope he didn't trouble you. He gets a bit confused."

"No, not at all. In fact we were having quite a conversation."

Stan Price looked up. "Mother. Is it all right if Harry and I go fishing?"

"I'm not your mother, Dad. I'm Cynthia."

Inwardly John winced. He hated seeing the poor woman squirm with embarra.s.sment like this. When it wasn't her fault, or the old man's. John gave a friendly smile. "Stan was telling some of the history of the village."

"Oh?"

"I've only lived here a few months, so it's quite something to hear about what happened in the past."

"Oh." Her cheeks pinked. "Nothing ever exciting happened here. It's all a bit of a backwater."

"The letter," the old man said.

"Don't you start about that silly letter again, Dad, please. I've had enough of it."

"I got a letter."

Cynthia smiled apologetically at John. "You'll have to excuse him, sorry."

John maintained his smile. "A letter?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Some kids have been playing a practical joke on Dad. Which is criminal really considering, he'sa well, you know."