Black Creek Crossing (31 page)

Yet as she gazed around, everything appeared to be exactly as it had been when they first found the cabin.

The kettle still hung from the pothook in the fireplace.

A thick layer of dust still covered everything.

And yet . . .

Then she knew. It was Houdini that was missing. Once again she had to struggle against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, and when she spoke, her voice caught on the terrible lump that had risen in her throat.

“I hope it is real,” she said, crouching down to pull the loose stone from the fireplace and reaching deep into the recess behind it. Taking the book from its hiding place, she stood up and moved to the counter that ran along the longest wall. “I hope—” she began as she set the book down, but her words died on her lips as the book fell open and she saw the single word at the top of the page:

Beneath the single word were two brief verses:

Angel and Seth read the two verses over and over again. Finally, Seth asked, “How come it opened to this one?”

“Houdini,” Angel breathed, her voice breaking as the memory of the cat’s body lying broken and twisted at the bottom of the grave rose up in her mind. “I just—I can’t—” At last the tears she’d been struggling to control since they’d opened her locker overflowed, and a wracking sob seized her. “Why did they do it?” she cried. “Why—” Another sob choked off her words, but the little she’d said was enough for Seth to understand exactly how much pain she was feeling.

“Let’s try it,” he said. “Let’s see if we can figure out what we’re supposed to do.”

Angel struggled against yet another sob, forced it down, and again wiped her tears away with her sleeve. Her eyes focused on the first line. “ ‘Lover’s blood . . .’ ” she whispered, then looked at Seth. “What does it mean?”

“I think it has to mean your blood,” he replied, his voice barely louder than hers. “I mean, you loved Houdini, right?” Angel nodded, and Seth went outside, picked up his backpack, and brought it in. He fished around in the front pocket of the pack and produced a small Swiss Army knife. “Think you can do it?”

“H-How much do you think it means?” Angel stammered, staring at the knife but making no move to take it from Seth.

“It doesn’t say.”

“It has to,” Angel said. “Recipes always tell you how much you need.” Wiping the last vestiges of her tears away, she turned back to the book, but this time opened it at the front. The first page bore nothing but the title.

The second page listed all the recipes the book contained.

On the third page there was a poem that bore no title:

She read the verse twice more, then gave the book to Seth. “It looks like all we need is a drop.”

Seth read the verse through, then turned the pages until the book was once more open to the recipe. “Put some water in the kettle while I build a fire.”

While Seth began stacking kindling and wood on the hearth, Angel took the large iron kettle off the pothook and dipped it into the deep stone basin that was still full of crystal clear water, the steady dripping from the roof seemingly unchanged since the last time they were here. It took only about a quarter of the contents of the basin to make the kettle half full.

“What if someone sees the smoke?” Angel asked as Seth struck a match and held it to the kindling. The bone-dry wood ignited in an instant, flames leaping from one piece to another until the whole pile was ablaze. It took only a few seconds. As if to answer Angel’s question, there was a flash of brilliant white light and a clap of thunder so loud the floor trembled beneath their feet.

A second later a pounding rain began to fall.

“Nobody will see anything through this,” Seth said, staring out at the downpour that had materialized so suddenly.

“How are we even going to get home?” Angel asked.

“Maybe it’ll quit as fast as it started.” Seth hung the kettle back on the pothook and was about to swing it over the fire when Angel stopped him.

“I have to put the blood in.” Picking up Seth’s pocketknife, she moved close to the kettle, opened one of the blades, and held it against the forefinger of her right hand. Biting her lower lip so hard it hurt, she steeled her nerves, then jabbed the point of the knife into her finger. Handing the knife to Seth, she held her wounded forefinger over the kettle and squeezed it hard.

Two or three drops of blood fell into the water and instantly vanished.

“Do you think it’s enough?” she asked, watching as the water seemed to swallow up her blood without a trace.

Seth shrugged. “How should I know?” His gaze shifted to the open door and the downpour outside. “Think you have to get the dirt from Houdini’s grave, or can I?”

Angel’s brows knit. “I probably better.” She moved to the door and peered out. The sky—crystal clear when they’d arrived only a little while ago—was leaden now, and the clouds seemed to be getting darker even as she watched. Certain that the rain was only going to get worse, she darted out the door, snatched up a pinch of muck from the spot marked by the stone Seth had laid over Houdini’s grave, and ducked back inside.

Surprisingly, though it was pouring outside, she’d barely gotten wet.

She went back to the kettle and dipped her fingers in. The fire was blazing under it, and the water had already turned warm. Rinsing her fingers clean of the dirt from Houdini’s grave, she wiped them dry on her sweatpants and looked at Seth, who was once more studying the book. “Now what do we do?”

“Let it boil, I guess. But what about this other thing? What’s ‘blur of grief’?”

Angel figured it out immediately. “My tears,” she breathed. “Every time I think about Houdini, I get all—” Her voice broke once again, and almost as if in response to her words, her eyes blurred with tears. She moved quickly back to the kettle, swung it out of the fireplace, leaned over it, and thought once more of what her cousin had done to her pet.

Half a dozen tears dripped into the kettle.

Angel swung it back over the fire.

“That’s all it says,” Seth said softly. “Now we wait.”

Chapter 28

HE FLASH OF LIGHTNING, AND THE CRASH OF THUNDER
that seemed to come at the same instant, made Marty Sullivan flinch so badly he dropped the pneumatic hammer he’d been using, which smashed down onto Ritchie Henderson’s toe.

Henderson jerked his injured foot out from under the heavy tool, bellowing with pain. “Jesus! What the hell—” But the rest of his words were lost as the sky seemed to open and a torrent of rain began pouring out of the roiling clouds overhead.

Holding his arms up in a futile effort to fend off the sudden downpour, Marty loped toward the site office, a slapped-together shed that was more of a lean-to than anything else. With most of its floor space already taken up by the wide counter covered with architectural plans for the project, there was barely enough space for Jack Varney himself, let alone all the men who worked for him. First come, first served, Marty thought as he ducked under the structure’s steeply sloping roof.

“Where the hell’d this come from?” Varney asked, gazing up at the sky as Marty tried to shake off some of the water that had already soaked through his shirt and jeans. “Am I nuts, or was it clear as a bell five minutes ago?”

Before Marty could respond, Ritchie Henderson hobbled into the crowded shelter. “What the hell goes with you, Sullivan?” he snarled, glowering at Marty with unconcealed fury. “First you drop the hammer on my foot, then you don’t even stick around to see if I’m okay.”

“You got here, didn’t you?” Marty shot back. “So I guess you’re not hurt too bad.”

Jack Varney gazed out into the downpour. “The pneumatic hammer?” he asked.

Ritchie Henderson nodded. “Lightning made him jump so bad it fell right out of his hand.”

“I coulda been killed!” Marty howled. “What’d you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to take care of the tools you use,” Varney interjected before Henderson could say anything. “Where is it now?”

“How the hell should I know?” Marty growled.

“You were using it—you’re responsible for it,” Varney replied, deciding to ignore the contempt in Sullivan’s voice. “What did you think—Ritchie would bring it in for you?”

“It’s fuckin’ pouring out there—” Marty began.

“Then you better get that hammer now,” Varney snapped, his eyes narrowing angrily. “It starts rusting out there, I’ll take it out of your paycheck.”

“You can’t do that,” Marty complained.

“The hell I can’t,” the foreman growled. “If you don’t like it, talk to Ed Fletcher.” His eyes bored into Marty, who stood his ground for only a few seconds before breaking.

“Maybe I’ll just do that,” Marty groused, but the truculence in his voice was tinged with enough of a whine that Varney knew he wouldn’t.

With the rain still pouring down, Marty left the shelter of the lean-to and slogged out toward the spot where he and Henderson had been working when the storm suddenly broke. The rain was coming down so hard that puddles had formed all over the site. They were fast merging together, turning the whole area into a muddy pond. Twice, he nearly sprawled out into the mud, but finally he found the pneumatic hammer, disconnected it from the air hose, and was about to start back toward the lean-to when another bolt of lightning struck, instantly followed by a thunderclap even louder than the first. This time, though, Marty was prepared for it, and ducking his head low into the rain, he began running back to the shed.

He was still a dozen yards away when he lost his footing and sprawled face forward into the mud. Swearing under his breath, he pulled himself to his feet and lurched the last few yards to the lean-to, where Jack Varney and Ritchie Henderson weren’t even trying to conceal their laughter.

“Here’s your damn hammer,” Marty rasped, his fury building. “And guess what? I’m through for the day!”

“We all are,” Varney replied, taking the pneumatic hammer. He wiped it off with a rag and laid it on the counter where the plans were spread out. “No way we can get anything more done today, even if this quits. See you Monday.”

Too soaked and muddy even to stop for a drink somewhere, Marty got into his old Chevelle, started the engine, and cursed when the windshield wipers refused to work. Jamming the car into gear, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and watched with grim satisfaction as the rear wheels spewed enough mud that neither Henderson nor Varney could avoid it. Serves ’em right, he thought as he sped away into the storm.