The Bloodwind - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels) Read online

  Pat leaned back, as much to relax as to allow Abbey to see her lips. "No. It was the wind. You . . . you heard the wind?" When they nodded she almost ran to the window. If they had heard it—Abbey more correctly sensing the house trembling—then it had happened. This time she couldn't blame it on her drinking. She felt them staring, lowered her gaze to the cup and sipped once, twice, shook her head slowly. "I guess I celebrated too much or something. I went for a walk over to Mainland and thought I saw something in the fields. It spooked me."

  What was it? Abbey asked, her expression patiently doubtful.

  "I don't know, I didn't see it. I just . . ." She cleared her throat. Now she was feeling foolish. "I ran. If anybody'd come along then, I would have belted him with Homer."

  "Tension," Kelly said firmly. "I know about that stuff. It all builds up, it gets released, and you react. Some people fall asleep, some people get giddy, but you have hallucinations. It's normal. Really."

  Whether it was normal or not, Pat thought for the moment what the woman said made sense. She had drunk the champagne, she had had that awkward moment with Greg, and a sudden spat of gusts in a snowstorm wasn't unusual. Add Danvers' car, her abrupt memory of Lauren . . .

  "You're incredible," she said.

  Kelly shrugged. "It's nothing. I didn't take all those psych courses just to fill up some notebooks, you know. It's also common sense. Abbey, do you remember the time I was interviewed for that job over in Hartford, with Travelers? It was managerial, and I had a week's notice." She grinned wryly. "I was a wreck. I lost fifteen pounds and had to buy all new clothes just to go talk to the guy." She glanced down ruefully at her still-pudgy figure. "I should be so lucky again."

  Abbey touched her knee. She was late coming back, and I got worried about her so I went to look for her. You know how she is.

  "Hey," Kelly said. "Watch it."

  Her roommate ignored her. She was standing there on the riverbank, talking to herself about swimming upstream all the way to New Hampshire. Her eyes brightened, and she winked broadly. She got the job, you see, and that's how she was going to celebrate. I was a wreck, and she was going to swim to New goddamn Hampshire.

  Pat laughed and looked to Kelly. "But you work in a bank, now, Kel."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. The guy made so many passes I thought I was trying out for the Patriots. I quit in less than two months. Small world, though. Would you believe it was Abbey who hired me for the job I have now?"

  I'm not perfect, Abbey signed. I do make a mistake now and again.

  Once more the laughter, freer now and less strained. Pat filled them in on the details of the meeting, omitting the car incident and the expression on Danvers' face.

  I'll bet Greg was happy.

  Pat smiled. "I think so. I hope so. At least he seemed to be, and I didn't feel he was jealous or anything."

  He's a good man.

  "Oh, he's okay," Kelly said. "God, Abbey, if you're not careful you're going to start lighting candles to him next."

  Pat looked away for a moment, not wanting to see the embarrassment in Abbey's face. But Kelly noted the sudden silence and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  "Jesus, I put my foot in it again, right?"

  Abbey nodded vigorously, humorously, and Pat grinned to tell her no offense was taken nor feelings bruised.

  "Ah, shit. Well . . . hell, the coffee's cold," Kelly muttered. "Nuts. Hey, Pat . . . ?"

  She sensed the abrupt approach of another favor about to be asked, but it didn't matter. Talking and laughing had made her feel much better.

  "Would you mind . . . that is, I think I did a really terrible thing."

  "You wrecked the car."

  "No, I did not. But I figured that as long as that cute guy at King's had our junk heap, he might as well do a job on it. It's been months, you know. He said it would probably be ready by dinnertime tomorrow. Tomorrow's Friday, right? Yeah, tomorrow. You think we could borrow yours again? Abbey hates to ride the bus."

  Abbey pouted, but nodded contritely, and when Pat agreed as she rose to leave she could have sworn she felt a severe wash of relief. It puzzled her, but she said nothing. At the moment she was suddenly too tired to think about the car; it was going to be hard enough just getting up the stairs. She made her exit quickly, then, snatched up Homer where she'd left him, and let herself into her own apartment without bothering to switch on the lights.

  Her clothes trailed behind her. Her legs slowly filled with lead, and her fingers were barely able to unfasten her blouse. By the time she peeled back the coverlet she was already half asleep vowing once again moderation in her drinking, and wondering as her head lowered onto the pillow what sort of creature it was she'd imagined had been stalking her.

  Her eyes closed, her lips parted.

  Greg, she decided. All very symbolic. Or Homer given life and protecting her, guarding her, shepherding her until she had returned home, to safety.

  She nodded in her sleep.

  That made sense. That made perfect sense. Greg the shepherd and Homer the sheep-grizzly. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of it before? All her protectors lined up in a row, and why the hell couldn't she admit that she needed protecting now and then?

  The demon rose from the blue-black sea and slowly turned its head toward her. Fish eyes. Scales. Ears that flared to the back of its head, pointed and scalloped. Arms thick as tree trunks, hands more claws than fingers. It rose from the blue-black sea and it began to wade toward her. She was sitting on a bed, a canopy bed done in greens and distant corn silk, sitting on the bed and floating toward a shoreline that jutted out of the surf to cliffs a hundred feet high and covered with gulls. Black gulls, white gulls, and in the center of the colony a crimson gull that shimmered as it rose from its nest and turned into a demon that soared over her head toward the fish-eyed, scaly demon driving with piston thighs toward her. She could not turn around. There was a hush of wind as the crimson demon swept over her, a clash of flesh and bone and claws and teeth as the two demons collided just above the water. But she could not turn around. She could not tell which of the demons was after her heart and which of the demons was after her blood. She could only hear them fighting, only hear them screaming their rage, while the bed rocked with the turbulence of their battle and the blue-black water washed over the edge of the mattress and soaked her nightgown until it was transparent.

  Her pillow floated away. Homer was resting on it, pushed down in its center, its front paws high, its nose testing the air.

  The bedspread floated away.

  The quilt.

  She saw her furry slippers bobbing in the waves.

  She saw the cliffs nearing, and saw the gulls slowly turning pink, turning red, turning crimson, lifting from their nests to fill the air with a sailor's warning sunrise. Her flesh darkened. The temperature rose. The water boiled. Whitecaps flared and the cliffs began to melt and behind the demons were thrashing closer and closer until she could feel the wind-shock of their blows, of their screams, could barely feel the claw that pierced the back of her neck and penetrated her spine and slowly, slowly, so slowly she dared not nod separated her head from her torso.

  Then Oliver Fallchurch rode by on a raft, his cowboy hat stained with sea spray, his fringed gloves blackened, while Ben knelt between Harriet's legs and drove into her while she shrieked Greg's name.

  "Draw," Oliver said, reaching for his holster.

  Pat began to laugh.

  "Draw, you two-timing sonofabitch," he shouted as the raft drifted out of range. "Draw, goddamnit!"

  His hat fell off and his gloves turned to lace and Harriet's orgasm knocked Ben into the blue-black sea where he grew his arm back and turned into a demon that rose from the water. Fish-eyed. Scaled. Piston thighs driving toward her.

  She laughed. She screamed. She drove herself upright and saw the muted light filtering through the curtains to lie in a cloud across her bed.

  It took her five minutes to stop trembling, and five more before sh
e dared slip her legs over the side and try to stand. She made no attempt at interpretation, even if the demons somehow vaguely resembled Danvers. Rather, she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepped in quickly and closed her eyes until the dream fell to fragments which were washed down the drain. Toweled dry and brushed her hair. Wrapped a terry-cloth robe around her and tied the sash snugly while she walked into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove. Not tea this morning. Coffee, black, as much of it as she could drink until she was positive she was awake and wasn't still in her bed, riding the sea, listening to the demons that now, as she thought about it, sounded frighteningly like the wind.

  She looked outside, cup in hand. A good deal of snow must have fallen during the night: the rose bushes had lost all trace of their burlap capes, there was little bark to be seen on the trees, and when she leaned close to the pane she could hear a shovel working in the driveway.

  Good man, Linc, she thought with a sour grin, then turned to the clock and gasped when she saw it was fifteen past nine.

  A race, then, to finish her breakfast, to sweep on her makeup, to dress and get halfway to the door before she remembered that Kelly and Abbey were taking her car today. She cursed her generosity and ran back to the kitchen, dialed their number and cursed again, loudly, when nobody answered.

  "Great," she said to the room. "Just great."

  Neither Greg nor Janice was at home, either, and she almost despaired until she remembered Harriet. One block over on Fox Road. The telephone book was in the cabinet under the sink, and she wasted a few moments looking under the H's until she caught herself, forced herself to sit down and regain some control.

  It was more than the dream that had unnerved her. And it was more than the wind that had driven her to her knees. Somewhere, back where she tried to imagine herself the best possible teacher, she could not quite believe that Greg had been right, that Harriet and the two boys were that angry with her simply because she hadn't gotten them their show as quickly as they'd hoped. Had he been talking about anyone else she would have had no trouble; Oliver, however, despite his excesses and his carefully tended temperament, surely had to be more realistic than that. And even if he wasn't, there was no way she could imagine dour Ben holding a grudge. Not against her. My god, not against her.

  A shuddering inhalation, and she dialed Harriet's number. Six rings later she answered.

  "So," Pat said, after explaining her predicament, "you think maybe I could hitch a ride with you?"

  There was a hesitation, a murmuring in the background. Then: "Sure, Doc." Brightly, almost too loudly. "Give me a couple of minutes, okay? I got to get my stuff together. Gee, you really shouldn't lend your car like that, you know? My pop always screams when I do something like that. Like I was lending it to Bonnie and Clyde, you know?"

  Pat told her she understood, then mentioned the weather and the snow and what they would be doing in class today until finally, several minutes after she'd begun, Harriet cut her off politely.

  "Doc, we're never going to get there, you know, if I don't start now. Though I guess it won't make any difference if I'm late, will it? I mean, you're my first class and since you're coming with me, I guess it doesn't make any difference at all."

  "You're right," Pat said, and rang off, leaned back in the chair and put a palm to her forehead. Shifted it to her throat, to the table, and watched the veins rise slowly on the back. It always happened when she was tense, or when she'd avoided something she'd feared might be unpleasant. Like asking Harriet if she'd known where the boys had been last night, or if it was true they were all so disappointed with her that they were slipping away.

  She hadn't asked because she hadn't wanted to hear what the girl would say.

  And in that moment she felt a rush of indignation against Greg, for planting a seed that refused to be dislodged no matter how hard she tried.

  "Hell!"

  She took her time fetching coat and gloves and muffler, spent a useless ten minutes searching the apartment for her cap before she remembered—the last time she'd seen it, it had been lying in the middle of the street.

  The wind. It had been the wind.

  She opened the door slowly, her breathing sporadic, her tongue working at her lips as she took the stairs in a virtual crawl. The banister was wood-cold. The foyer tracked with melting snow brown around the edges. On the mail table by the door was a shoe box with a tented sheet of typing paper resting on top. She glanced at it as she reached for the doorknob, saw her name scrawled across it. A look to Goldsmith's door, to Kelly's, and she picked it up.

  The note was short: Found this on the walk before we left. You must have lost it last night. Is it yours?

  Abbey had signed it, and Pat smiled at the woman's thoughtfulness, finding her cap and bringing it in. She was, indeed, a rare creature, and despite all Kelly's grousing, Pat hoped she would find the man she was looking for before long. Whoever he was, he was never going to know just how lucky he would be.

  She lifted the lid and reached in, snatched her hand back as her eyes focused on what lay inside.

  It was a glove. Brown leather, and fringed at the cuff.

  Chapter 9

  The discovery was something akin to a physical blow. Expecting to find her cap in the box, she found instead Oliver's glove, usually seen poking out of one of his hip pockets. She almost dropped it. Changed her mind and stood by the door, looking at but not seeing the frame-high glass panel so marked with facets you couldn't look through it without your eyes watering. Her arm dropped slowly and the glove dangled toward the floor. Oliver, she thought; how long had he been out there last night? And what had he seen?

  She passed a hand over her forehead, made a fist and rubbed at her left eye. This was silly. It was obvious he had been at Harriet's to whatever hour and had walked by here, perhaps on the chance of seeing a light on in her apartment. He might have wanted to apologize for his less than generous moods lately. Or maybe he was just nosy. Whichever it had been, the hedge had probably snagged the glove from his pocket and he hadn't noticed.

  A slow, brief constriction in her chest made her hold her breath. And who, she asked silently, is being less than generous now?

  The nightmare. The wind. She knew as she opened the door she was in no condition to face her classes today, despite the triumphant news she'd received at the meeting. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs, thinking she might be able to get back up in time to call Harriet. A horn stopped her, and she was down the steps and rapping on the passenger window of a much-traveled sedan. Harriet leaned over and rolled it down.

  "I'm not going," Pat said apologetically. "I'm sorry, Harriet, but something's come up and I'll not be in today. You can spread the word if you want, and I'll call the dean. If you have a chance, would you mind tacking a sign to my office door? I'll be in on Monday, for sure."

  Harriet's face pinched in concern. "Doc, you okay?"

  "Nothing I can't handle, Harriet. And I'm sorry again for dragging you over here."

  Harriet looked toward the street. A snow plow had been by at least once, but the snowfall had been too great, the temperature still too low—there was a thin and browning sheath over the blacktop, already beginning to glisten where ice patches had formed. She looked back. "It's all right," she said, though her tone was unable to mask the reproach. "Maybe, if you feel better later, you can call Mr. Curtis and see about . . . you know."

  "Yes. Maybe I'll do that."

  She stepped away from the curb, kicking back through the hillock of plowed snow until she was on the sidewalk. She watched as Harriet drove away, rear tires spinning for a moment in apparent indication the girl was angry and wanted desperately to speed. Then, with a white-breathed sigh, she hurried back upstairs and called Constable. Neither he nor Danvers was in his office, but she left a message with both secretaries and assured them vigorously she would return on Monday in one piece. Once done, she stood by the kitchen's back window and stared at the trees.

/>   The pressure was supposed to be over. She was not supposed to continue to have these fantasies of surveillance and menace. It bothered her to think she might not be as strong and resilient as she'd thought, bothered her more that she could not stand being in the apartment one moment longer. Yet there was no escaping the sensations that trailed after her as she headed quickly toward the door: that the ceilings were beginning to lower by incredibly slow inches, that the furniture was more suited to a funeral parlor than a home, that there were whisperings in the corners that could have been the hot water streaming through the baseboard pipes, could have been and weren't.

  Her right arm dragged downward. She glowered at her handbag and saw the glove and Homer, returned muttering to the kitchen, where she dropped the former on the table and set the latter on its shelf.

  Out again, holding a palm to her throat while she looked up and down the street, seeing for a disturbing second the dark wind chasing her, seeing herself stumbling, seeing her cap cartwheeling along the blacktop. She glanced around without much expectation of finding it in the snow banks, shrugged when she didn't and headed down to the next corner, turned left and walked slowly until she found herself on Centre Street.

  The Christmas decorations were gone, the curbs lined with cars, most of the shop windows under the mansard roofs already beginning to display the next season's wares. She considered walking over to Yarrow's to find a book to read, thought seriously about stopping in at Miller's Mysteries to see what curious items were all the rage this month. Miller's, though it had changed hands sometime last year, was a search-and-locate business; if there was something odd, something offbeat you wanted or needed, Miller's would find it, bring it back and give you a fair price. Josh Miller, the original owner, she had known only slightly, had remembered him because he'd been one of the few people in town who hadn't held it against her that she wasn't a native. Now he was gone (though where, she didn't know) and Larry Nesmith had taken his place. A bright, rotund Santa Claus of a young man whose amateur magic was more a drawing card to the shop than his uncanny ability to locate the unusual.