The Geis: Awakening Part 4

Ms. Slannon c.o.c.ked her head. "I had a friend in college who competed in Irish dance. But that was way before Riverdance came out and it got so popular. I'll see if I can get a hold of her and ask what she recommends." Ms. Slannon smiled. "I'm sure you will do well in any dance you try."

"Thank you." I ran out the door to meet Mom, making a mental note to look up Riverdance.

When I got into the car, one of my pointe shoes fell out onto the floor.

"Do you have everything?" Mom asked.

I checked my bag for its mate. Somehow, I'd gotten out of the high school without it. "I left one of my shoes."

"You better go back and get it. I'll wait." Mom motioned for me to go.

I hurried inside. My legs were already stiff from the cool of the night, and I embraced the blast of hot air that welcomed me back inside.

Most of the lights were out, but the windows from the cafeteria cast a glow bright enough for me to see. The halls were eerily quiet. I moved silently, my insides squirming, even though I knew there was no one else in the building.

There it was. My ballet shoe sat in the hallway, the ribbons trailing after it in a square of light that spilled from the gym door. I leaned over to pick up the shoe and froze. A rhythm echoed from the gym. I crept forward silently, wondering if Ms. Slannon had come back.

She wasn't there. Someone else had decided to use the empty gym for practice. Underneath the far basketball hoop, a man danced in an unlikely costume of overalls and work boots. The janitor, who finished the floors and cared for the grounds, danced without music.

I hid myself behind the doorframe, not wanting to be discovered. Even if I had entered the room, he wouldn't have noticed me. Eyes closed, he danced with wild abandon. He was younger than what I thought a janitor would be-probably twenty-eight or so. His face was smooth except for a hint of stubble on his jaw, and his dark hair stuck to his face from exertion.

I rubbed at the raised hairs on my arms, dismissing the brief thought that I should retreat out the door and leave him to his dance.

Low to the ground, the janitor's feet moved in rhythm. Shuffles and slides were punctuated by an emphatic stomp that reminded me of the Irish dancers. The steps wove meaning and depth, like the written word-conveying ideas without vocalization.

The only music came from the patterns of sound that wove from his feet in a haunting melody of dances long forgotten. Slow steps rang into the air, deliberate and penetrating. His body moved in smooth connection with his feet, and I watched as he spoke more through dance than words could ever express. My concentration focused completely on the emotions that poured from the story unfolding before me.

He leapt across the floor, covering the length of the basketball court in only a few steps. The tempo increased, and he spread his arms like a bird, his head bowed to his feet in concentration as they battered out an impossibly fast combination. The steps were angry and intense. Each connection sounded clearly in the empty room, weaving together in a symphony of music and dance. The story he told ached with sadness and longing. His eyes were closed, but his face mirrored the despair of his dance.

This man was not just a janitor. He was an artist.

I often pa.s.sed by him in the halls at school. From the rumors that circulated, I knew that he didn't talk, even though he could hear. But I had never given much thought to the guy sweeping in the lunchroom. Now my mouth hung slack, and I wondered at this man who could dance with more feeling than any dancer I'd ever seen.

The music of his feet stopped, the sound of his story quieted, and he lay on the floor, out of breath. I didn't see him fall, but he held one knee as if it were injured. A tortured sound escaped his lips.

Forgetting that I was an intruder to this personal performance, I spoke out. "Are you okay?" I took a step into the room.

The janitor jerked and scrambled to his feet. One leg dragged behind him and he hunched over in pain, reaching for a cane that was propped against the bleachers. He stood, turning on me with fury shining in his eyes. He looked like a wounded animal, and the blood drained from my face.

Something darted from behind the bleachers with amazing speed. The lizard, hidden until now, stood protectively in the middle of the gym, between where the janitor and I stood on opposite sides of the court. The lizard focused one gla.s.sy eye on me. This time I knew I wasn't imagining things. The lizard looked completely real. A chill went up my spine.

I wondered who the lizard was protecting, the janitor, or me?

The janitor stood perfectly still, regarding me with a now expressionless face. He pointed to the door.

I turned and fled the building for the safety of my mother's car, my lone pointe shoe forgotten in the darkened hallway.

"How far from the road does this lady live?" I followed Aunt Avril up a dirt road that wound up the mountainside. Tiny purple asters and rust-topped Indian paintbrush grew wild here, and I picked a bouquet as we hiked.

"Not too far, I hope." Aunt Avril stopped, leaning over to catch her breath. "Betsy told me that I could park the Vette by the main road, and walk up the driveway. She didn't mention that her yard was the Bridger National Forest!"

I laughed and hurried up the hill next to her.

When Aunt Avril asked if I wanted to tag along in her quest to gather information about her case, I jumped at the chance. And it wasn't because Mom had a list of Sat.u.r.day ch.o.r.es for me to do. Christa was out of town with her family for the weekend, and I was dying to tell someone what I had seen at the school the night before.

"Why are you interrogating Mrs. Saddlebury's neighbors?" I asked, matching Aunt Avril's stride. "Do you think they suspect that she murdered her husband?"

"Can we call it an interview and not an interrogation? I'm not going to be torturing Betsy for information. The police were told that Betsy is her closest friend. If Betsy noticed anything odd about Mrs. Saddlebury, I want to know when it started. We have to find out where she is."

"Where who is? Mrs. Saddlebury?"

Aunt Avril nodded. "Where her body is, anyway."

"What are you talking about? She's-"

"No, she is not. That woman you met isn't Mrs. Saddlebury at all. You may not believe what I'm telling you, but there is more going on here than it appears. Mrs. Saddlebury is no longer living, of that I am certain. I've known for some time that the criminal I have been tracking for years is abnormal-supernatural even."

I took a step back. First she told me that Mrs. Saddlebury killed her own husband. Now she was a supernatural being? Did Aunt Avril realize what she was saying? I searched her face for a sign that she was joking, but her eyes were bright, willing me to believe her.

"So the lady who lives in the castle isn't Mrs. Saddlebury? She's some kind of imposter?"

"I know it sounds strange, but it's true. Believe me, I've spent years researching what this creature can do."

"Are you saying that Mrs. Saddlebury is some kind of a monster?" I turned to face her. "Aunt Avril, you can't tell anyone else about your ideas-they'll think you are crazy."

Aunt Avril reached out a hand to touch my arm. "I am crazy, dear. Every person who has attempted to save the world is their own flavor of crazy."

I swallowed. My aunt was truly insane.

"There are many strange things that can't be explained. My experiences with Crew, my trainer in the FBI, have taught me that. There are things happening all around us that you wouldn't believe. But that doesn't mean they are impossible." She stopped, panting from exertion. "The victims in each case had one thing in common-none of them showed an outward cause of death, only a trickle of blood from the ears. But the autopsies revealed that not only were the eardrums damaged, but the brains of each victim were also affected-scrambled in a way. I don't know how, but this creature can kill without bringing suspicion to itself."

"How do you know that this case is the same as the others?"

"I don't know, not for certain. In fact, there is something that separates this case from all of the others." Aunt Avril wiped her forehead with the scarf around her neck.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Mr. Saddlebury's body is the first one that has been found within a week of his death. All of the other bodies have been dead for much longer-weeks, sometimes months-before we identified them as this creature's victims."

I shuddered.

"It's gruesome, all right. This creature kills, and then a.s.sumes the ident.i.ty of the victim. A body will be found, and close friends and neighbors will report having seen the person only the day before, sometimes clear across the country, and yet the body has been dead for much longer, but preserved and intact. That is why I need to interview Betsy. Mr. Saddlebury isn't the only fatality in this case. His wife was murdered as well."

We walked in silence. I'd heard of strange cases like this, on doc.u.mentaries, or the Internet, but mostly I thought they were made up for entertainment. If Mrs. Saddlebury was some kind of creature, wouldn't I have been able to tell? An image of the janitor dancing and pounding on the gym floor flashed through my mind. Until last night, I'd viewed him as a simpleton. Maybe I wasn't a good judge of seeing things like Aunt Avril.

We topped a hill and the trees gave way to a clearing. The driveway wound toward a ma.s.sive log cabin that clung to the mountainside. Trees paraded down the mountain toward the house, and the backyard appeared to be in danger of being swallowed up by the forest. After a quick breather, we hiked toward the cabin mansion.

I stooped to add a wild columbine to my fistful of flowers. "Aunt Avril, can you know something about someone just by looking at them and talking with them?"

"No more than anyone else, I would guess. My abilities are limited to what has already happened." She turned to look at me.

"Last night, when I ran back into the school after dance, I saw the janitor in the gym. He was dancing." I waited for her reaction.

"Well, you have to give the old guy some slack, being a janitor is not the most entertaining job in the world."

I smiled, shaking my head. "No, he's not old, he's probably in his twenties. And he wasn't dancing with his mop. He was performing." I picked the petals off of an aster, one at a time. "I've never seen anyone dance like that-ever."

Aunt Avril chuckled. "And was this young janitor good looking?"

My eyes snapped to hers. Was she serious? The twinkle in her eyes gave her away. "Come on, he's college age, at least-way too old for me."

"So you want to know if I can talk to this janitor and find out his secrets?"

"I guess not. I just wonder where he learned to dance like that."

Betsy opened the door when she saw us coming. She had a round face and short, mostly-gray hair.

"While we are talking, channel what Betsy is feeling." Aunt Avril whispered. "Make eye contact with her and pay attention to any emotions you feel around her."

We walked up the log stairs.

"Come on in." She ushered us into a cozy sitting area, decorated with antiques and handmade quilts. The windows were open to let the breeze in, and I could hear the m.u.f.fled sound of a talk show from further in the house. I liked Betsy right away.

"You brought me a posy. Oh, how nice!" Betsy took the flowers from my hand. "Please sit down, I'll put these in some water." Nervousness radiated from her. I looked at Aunt Avril, who smiled at Betsy's presumption.

She spoke to us from the kitchen. "I hope the walk wasn't too far."

"No, no, it was lovely." Aunt Avril raised her voice to talk over the sound of running water. I settled back onto the plush cushions of Betsy's paisley-print couch.

"Can I get you something to eat, or to drink?"

"Water, please," Aunt Avril said.

Betsy returned, balancing a tray of banana bread and my wildflowers in a vase that matched two teacups. She offered one to me. "I hope that I can be of some help to Helen. Arthur's death is such a shock. She and Arthur were never apart. "

It took me a minute to realize that she was talking about Mrs. Saddlebury. But, of course she would have a first name.

"Would you like some bread? I baked it just this morning." Betsy offered us each a piece of banana bread.

I fidgeted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable and hot in my light jacket.

Aunt Avril caught my eye and raised her eyebrows, nodding her head toward Betsy, who was nervously picking at a fingernail, watching to see if we liked the bread. I nibbled on mine.

Betsy's face was flushed like I knew mine was. I took a swallow of my water, and then it hit me. My uneasiness wasn't because of the heat in the room. The feelings were Betsy's.

I put the teacup back on the tray and focused on Betsy. Her nervousness rolled on the air toward me. She felt anxious having us in her house, that much I could tell.

A deep voice carried down the hall from the living room. "If you baked that bread, then I'm Lady Gaga."

"Oh, yes dear, I suppose you are right. I picked that up from the store yesterday." She looked down at her clasped hands, obviously embarra.s.sed that we caught her in a little lie. "I meant to bake this morning. I really am a good cook, you know."

"That's quite all right." Aunt Avril rea.s.sured Betsy. "We all have to make do in a pinch."

"Don't mind my husband, he's supposed to be taking a nap, aren't you Howie?" Betsy called into the other room.

Howie grunted. I smiled at Betsy, relieved now that I knew why she had been so uncomfortable. She smiled back, her coloring returning to normal.

"Have you spoken to Mrs. Saddlebury since Arthur's death?" Aunt Avril spoke softly.

Betsy stared down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I've only seen her once. I haven't wanted to intrude." Her voice faltered and she pulled a handkerchief from her ap.r.o.n pocket. "Sorry. I thought she would want my support. We've been through so much together, and we've always helped each other through."

"Have you noticed anything different about Mrs. Saddlebury in the last few months? Any mood changes or out-of-the-ordinary happenings?"

Betsy's eyes narrowed. "I heard that the police are involved. Is there something wrong?"

"Hopefully not. But anything you can think of will help."

Betsy looked around and leaned forward. "I was surprised to hear her getting upset at Arthur when we went over to their house for dinner a few weeks ago."

"What happened?"

"We were chatting on the veranda after dinner. It was still warm then, you know, and the sun was going down. Such a lovely night. Anyway, my Howie started going on about guns and ammunition, and Arthur told him that he had quite a collection stored under the house in a locked vault. He invited Howie to take a look, and Helen asked them to sit down and she would bring dessert out.

Arthur told her that they would enjoy dessert when they got back, but Helen stood in front of him and told him that he was an old fool. I've never seen Arthur so hurt. He forgot all about showing Howie the guns and didn't say much else all night. In all the years I've known Helen, I've never heard her say an unkind word to her husband until then."

"Have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary?" Aunt Avril asked.

Betsy raised her eyebrows. "Did you know that she has a nose piercing?" She wrinkled her nose.

Aunt Avril suppressed a smile, glancing at me before she answered. "That is most surprising." I hadn't noticed any body jewelry on Mrs. Saddlebury when we met her. She must have been making changes to the body she had taken for her own.

A rasping snore drowned out Howie's television show in the next room. Aunt Avril stood and I followed her lead. "Thank you so much for letting us speak with you."

"It's my pleasure." Betsy hurried to open the door. She waved goodbye with a pleasant smile.

Going down the mountain was easier. Every now and then, I could see glimpses of the valley below us through gaps in the trees. Clouds gathered overhead and a raindrop fell on my nose.

"So, what do you think?" Aunt Avril asked.

"Well, Betsy is nice," I stalled. Aunt Avril gave me a skeptical look. "She seems like a good friend to Mrs. Saddlebury."

"And?"

"And the fact that Mrs. Saddlebury yelled at her husband could mean that there is something weird going on. But it's not much to go on."

"And?"

I sighed. "And, I could feel everything that Betsy felt."