The Girl In The Woods Part 20

"Thanks." The cop gave Roger another long look. He seemed to be satisfied with what he saw because he drove away.

When he was out of sight, Roger felt like someone had lifted a ton of bricks off his chest. He did smile then, and he started walking toward home.

His smile quickly faded.

The cop. They were already looking for him.

"s.h.i.t," he said. "G.o.dd.a.m.n."

The girl had to go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Roger trudged upstairs as soon as he returned home. He was tired and sweaty, despite the cool fall temperatures, and his legs felt like lead posts. He wanted to lie down, to take a nap and just forget about everything. The cops, the girl, the clearing. But he knew he couldn't. He knew if he let his guard down, if he stopped or slowed, he'd wind up in trouble. He forced himself to keep going.

When he entered the bedroom, he found the girl unmoved and unchanged. She was still tied to the bed, still quiet. She grunted a little when he came in, and there were tears on her face, which made Roger feel bad. He felt sorry for her too. She didn't understand that she was part of something bigger as well, that she had been chosen by the clearing to come and be his wife. And now she had to go back to the clearing.

Roger walked to the far side of the bed, the side where the blood and brains of the cop still decorated the wall. He planned to take care of that later, after he had taken care of the girl. He had some white paint in the garage. And bleach. He thought about making the girl clean it up but decided against it. She was too upset, and it seemed cruel. He'd have to get used to doing the cleaning now anyway.

Roger stood over her, and the girl's eyes widened. She'd just seen a man murdered before her eyes, a murder committed by Roger, and now Roger stood over her like a looming tower. He looked at her feet and the cuts there. They had stopped bleeding. He felt relieved about that, then wondered why he cared. If the girl was going away, what did it matter if she bled or not?

His eyes moved up her body. He saw a wet stain in her middle. She had had to go to the bathroom and when he didn't take her, she'd been forced to pee herself. Roger looked away. It made him sad to see her look so pathetic. He started untying the ropes.

While he untied, the girl came to life. She started to squirm and grunt. He started to yell at her but stopped himself. Let her do it, he thought. Who cares?

He untied the rope that bound her to the bed frame but left her hands tied together. He did the same with her feet. She could move off the bed but couldn't move her hands or feet freely. She lay still on the bed, looking up at Roger, waiting.

"We're going somewhere," he said.

She grunted, but he knew what she meant. Where?

He couldn't take the tape off her mouth. She'd make too much noise. She'd scream and pitch a fit. He used to think no one could hear her out there, but maybe that wasn't so. Maybe the cops were all around, waiting. Still, he wanted to leave the tape on for a different reason. He couldn't bear to hear her screams or pleas or cries.

He picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder. Her weight felt like a child's after carrying the cop earlier in the day.

"We're going to the clearing," he said.

The girl kicked a little while they went down the stairs, but when Roger picked up the shovel, she screamed and kicked enough that she almost knocked Roger down. Roger felt the anger grow inside of him, a hot pressure that burned against the inside of his rib cage, but he didn't do anything about it. He didn't want to hit the girl or yell at her. He tightened his grip on both her and the shovel and started into the woods.

By the time Roger started for the clearing, the sun was slipping away, leaving a red smear across the skyline in its wake. As he moved down the path, ignoring the branches and vines that whipped against his legs, Roger felt the familiar stirrings the clearing always brought on. And this time, for whatever reason, it came over him with a more desperate sense of hunger, a more intense longing for the pleasures the clearing offered. Maybe it was because those pleasures were about to end. His mother always said, You never miss the water 'til the well runs dry. Roger never fully understood that saying of his mom's until that very moment. His pleasures, which were already dwindling, were going to end, once and for all. Nothing would ever be the same. He thought about taking a different wife, waiting for everything to calm down and the trouble to go away, and then starting over with someone new, someone the clearing directed him toward. But it seemed more and more impossible the more he thought about it. Even if they didn't put him in jail and send him away, they'd be watching him, following him. They'd keep coming back and coming back.

The girl had calmed down and was almost still. Roger felt the bittersweet, painful pleasure grow inside him as he moved closer to the clearing. He remembered both his mother's funeral and his father's funeral, the way he had been forced to say goodbye to them at the cemetery as they were lowered into the ground, and it felt as though they had simply evaporated, disappeared off the face of the earth like someone had engineered a giant magic trick. For days after each funeral, Roger thought they'd come back, thought they'd re-emerge as though they'd merely been on a long trip, and when he realized they really weren't coming back, it was like they had died all over again, a second death that hurt even worse than the first. Roger didn't want to go through that again. He didn't want to be fooled by his own stupid head and his own stupid heart. He wanted to make a clean break and leave the girl behind in the clearing, once and for all.

He saw the opening in the trees and came in sight of the spot, felt his pleasure grow like steam in a boiler.

The sunlight was almost gone from the sky above the trees, the clearing nearing full dark. Roger laid the girl down in the center and stood over her. She watched him with frightened eyes while he brought out his knife. He flicked it open and bent down, cutting the rope that bound her wrists and ankles with quick, certain movements. The girl rubbed her hands, bringing circulation back, and Roger stood over her with the knife still open. He waited, thinking she might try to run, but she didn't. She remained on the ground, staring up at him. He bent down again and pulled the tape off her mouth. It made a long, ripping sound, and the girl gasped when it was gone, taking deep breaths after the long deprivation.

"You can't be my wife anymore," Roger said.

She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm not your wife. I never was. Just because you raped me doesn't make me your wife."

Roger didn't like that word. Rape. It wasn't true.

The girl kicked out and scored a direct hit against Roger's shinbone, making him yelp in pain.

"d.a.m.n you," he said. He held the knife up in the s.p.a.ce between them.

"Go ahead," the girl said. "Go ahead and cut me right here." She pointed at her neck. Her face contorted with anger, making her almost unrecognizable to Roger. "Or do you want to rape me again first. Is that it, you fat, f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.d?"

Roger swung and the back of his hand connected with the side of the girl's head. She yelped and fell back against the soft earth. She stayed down, sniffling and sobbing.

"Don't make me do that again," Roger said.

She didn't look up but stayed facing the ground, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

"What do you want from me?" she said, her voice low. "Do you want to kill me? Is that it?"

"I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anybody."

"You killed that man today. He came to save me, and you killed him."

"He was a cop," Roger said. "He wanted to take you away. He ruined everything. It always gets ruined." Roger felt like crying again. He felt the hot tears welling, and his breath hiccupped. "I just want my house and my wife. That's all."

"You can have those things."

"No, I can't. Look at me," he said. "I can't."

The girl didn't respond, and he knew why. He was ugly and cursed. A f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.d. He'd always be alone. After today, he'd always be alone.

"You should just let me go. It will be all right if you let me go."

Roger shook his head. "No. That's not what the clearing wants. It's not right."

"The clearing?"

"It wants you dead," he said. "It wants your bones in the ground with the other girl. That's what it wants me to do, and so I do it. I feed the clearing bones. That's who I am."

"Then stop it. You don't have to be that way. Let me go."

"No, they'll put me away, in the jail."

"They'll help you." The girl reached out. She touched Roger's leg. He let her hand stay there. "It will be okay. You're sick."

"Sick?"

"Yes, you need help."

Roger knew what kind of help she meant. She meant the kind that happened in a hospital, a loony hospital, which might be worse than jail. Roger jerked his leg away from the girl. He wasn't going to go there no matter what the girl said.

"No."

The girl started to scramble backward, moving like a crab on her hands and knees. She flipped over and started to stand up, but Roger grabbed her from behind. He pinned her to the ground.

"No. No. No. No."

She kept repeating the word, her voice a hoa.r.s.e whisper, as Roger turned her over so they were face to face. Her neck was exposed. Roger moved up, using his knees to pin the girl's shoulders, leaving his hands free.

"I'm not sick," he said.

He took the girl by the hair with his left hand and, with his right, brought the knife across her neck with a swift, clean motion. The girl gasped. Bright, red blood pumped out of the wound, spilling down her neck and over Roger's pants leg into the ground where the clearing soaked it up like a thirsty beast.

When the girl stopped breathing and after she'd stopped bleeding, Roger wiped the knife on his pants' leg. He knew the blood wasn't enough, the clearing wanted all of her. The clearing wanted everything.

He had no choice. He had to bury her and hide her from the world. Even if the cops knew about him and the clearing and the girl, he still had to try to hide her. He had to at least try.

He dug the hole, slowly and carefully. He should have been more tired after all of the work the day had brought, but the clearing kept him going. He knew that. He felt the burst it provided, surging through his body like adrenaline. When the hole was dug, right next to the spot where the last girl lay, he dragged the new girl over and prepared to push her in. But before he did, he stopped.

The painful pressure grew at the center of his body. He remembered burying the last girl, and taking her one last time before he placed her body in the grave. The clearing was telling him this was all right, this was the thing he was meant to do-take one last thing before he said goodbye.

Roger gritted his teeth with anger. He bit down so hard he thought his teeth might chip. He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to do the things the clearing told him to do. But the urge was so strong, so consuming. He felt like he was going to explode. His breath came in heaving convulsions.

"No," he said. "No."

He fell to his knees, crippled by desire.

He placed his hands on the girl. He felt her soft flesh beneath his fingers. He grabbed a handful of her clothes.

"No."

He pushed and rolled her into the freshly dug grave. He grabbed the shovel and began throwing the dirt on top of her, covering her face first and then the rest of her. He didn't do a neat job. He just wanted to not see her anymore, to take away the temptation that burned through his body like hot iron.

When he was finished, he dropped the shovel. He wiped the dirt off his hands, hoping to leave the clearing behind forever. He felt a dizziness come over him, and as he walked out of the clearing, he stumbled. The place wanted to hold him, to keep him there just as he had kept the girl in the house. But Roger wouldn't let it. He'd break its hold.

He pushed himself to his feet and ran from the clearing without looking back.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

In the weeks since the vision outside Dan's house, Diana felt as though her nerves were becoming metal springs. They were coiled and taut and ready to bounce at the slightest provocation. She jumped when a door slammed somewhere in the building, and when she entered the apartment, she took extra care turning the two locks and fastening the chain on her front door. Only after completing those gestures, only after barricading herself in her own apartment, did she realize how pointless they were, and that was the most frightening fact of all.

Her enemies didn't exist outside. The real enemy lived inside, somewhere in her own brain, an organ which was once again turning against its owner, like a well-trained attack dog that decides to savage its master. Except, Diana believed, her brain had never been well trained. It had been turning against her for a number of years, and after a long dormant period, was now back with a vengeance, ready to finish the job. How that job would be finished and what the ultimate measure of victory or defeat would be, she couldn't guess. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

The problems were the worst at night.

At night, she feared closing her eyes. She didn't know what would happen when her conscious defenses were down, leaving her subconscious-or whatever was responsible for the visions that plagued her-to take over like an unruly child left without supervision. So she spent a number of nights lying in bed, all the lights in the apartment on, trying to will herself to stay awake. For a short time, it worked. She sat up through the night, her eyes growing increasingly bleary and strained, and come morning she'd doze off, only to snap awake convinced that she was on the brink of slipping into a vision. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and she had no choice but to sleep at night or even during the day, and when she did, she dreamed, and the dreams were almost worse than the visions.

She remembered a particularly vivid one that occurred shortly after the vision in Dan's yard. In the dream, she encountered a middle-aged woman, someone she had never seen before. The woman approached Diana in the parking lot outside her apartment just as Kay Todd had. And just like Kay, this woman approached Diana confidently, with a.s.surance, as though she knew things about Diana that Diana didn't think this strange woman could know.

The woman placed her hand on Diana's arm. Her touch was cold, like something that had been refrigerated for weeks. Ice cold.

Diana tried to withdraw from the grip, but the woman wouldn't let go.

Diana looked into the woman's eyes and recognized her sister.

With the twisted logic of dreams, Diana knew that the woman didn't really look anything like Rachel, either as a young woman or as a projection of what Rachel might look like as an adult, but still, Diana knew it was her sister. And still, she wanted out of the grip, perhaps all the more because it was Rachel, and Diana knew Rachel shouldn't be there, and she shouldn't be that age.

"What do you want?" Diana said to her sister.

"It's okay," the Rachel said.

"What's okay?"

"It's okay that you stopped looking and caring."

A stronger sense of panic gripped Diana. She didn't want to be misunderstood.

"I didn't. I swear I didn't."

"You did, and it's okay."

"I..." Diana started to repeat the lie but she couldn't. She knew in the dream that Rachel could see through her and knew her. She couldn't hide.

"You lost me. You let me go. It's okay."

"I'm back now. I'm looking. I'm back for you."

The Rachel woman let go.

Diana's arm burned from the cold, and the woman's touch had left a red mark behind. Diana stared at the mark, and when she looked up again, the woman was changing.