Greely's Cove (33 page)

After hanging up the telephone, she sat awhile in her orderly study, absently fingering the telephone cord, thinking. Maybe there was hope for Carl after all. Though she still doubted that a person could change his basic nature overnight, she was willing to concede that she may not have seen Carl’s true nature during the years before Lorna’s death.

The doorbell sounded, and Lindsay suffered the small fear that some acquaintance had dropped by with thoughts of dragging her out for a late-night drink—one of the guys at the office, maybe, who had screwed up the nerve to try his luck with her one more time, or a pair of female pals who felt she was working too hard and not playing enough.

The last person she had expected to see standing on her porch was the risible old Englishwoman, Hannabeth Hazelford. “Hannie—I mean, Miss Haz—I mean
Hannie.
What a surprise!” Lindsay remembered that Hannie always insisted on being addressed by her nickname, which for some reason always seemed hard to do.

“I do hope that you’ll forgive this intrusion,” said the old woman. “I realize that it’s very late, but I really must speak with you. May I come in?”

Though she stood with head held high and chin thrust out in the aristocratic manner that sometimes made her the butt of jokes among the blue-collar types of Greely’s Cove, she seemed somehow unsteady, which was definitely out of character. Her turquoise contact lenses could not hide an urgency in her eyes.

“Of course you can come in,” answered Lindsay, pulling the door open wide. “I was just about to make a pot of coffee. Or, if you’d prefer, I’ll make tea.”

Hannie came inside and shed her orange raincoat, uttering more apologies and redundant thank-yous. Lindsay took her coat to the closet and tried not to stare at her guest, whose appearance was the definition of eccentricity. Hannie’s blue-and-green paisley frock hung in billowy folds on a frame that seemed tiny and ancient and brittle, a frame that moved as though the joints needed oil. Tied around her waist was a silken rope of bright red, and around her neck hung a loose scarf of a florid print. Most remarkable was her face, a raddled webwork of wrinkles under cakey makeup, topped with the familiar blond wig that often seemed slightly askew, as it did now.

“So,” said Lindsay, after seeing that Hannie was seated, “will it be coffee or tea?”

“Have you any gin?”

Lindsay held back a snicker and asked how Hannie would take it. “Straight up, and only a small amount, if you please.”

Lindsay went to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and poured a generous ounce of gin into a tumbler, after which she started a pot of coffee for herself. The chores gave her time to recover from the shock of finding Hannie Hazelford at her door and to run through all she knew about the old woman, which was not much. She had been acquainted with her only casually for the past few years, and then only through Lorna, whose watercolors Hannie had bought and encouraged. Hannie apparently had money. She owned a beautiful old cottage on Torgaard Hill, drove expensive English pars (that she could drive at all seemed incredible at her advanced age), and generally lived far better than was attributable to the income from a sleepy little boutique on the main drag of Greely’s Cove. Lindsay had always been entertained by the fact that the operator of a women’s shop, even one that sells cheap goods, should dress so atrociously.

“I want you to know how sorry I am,” said Lindsay, presenting the tumbler to her guest, “for the trouble you’ve just been through. I really hope that my nephew wasn’t involved with it.”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Hannie. “Fortunately, no lasting harm resulted, only inconvenience and some minor expense.”

She took a tentative sip from the tumbler and grimaccd approvingly. “I must say, I find your home very attractive and tastefully furnished. Do you live here alone?”

“Yes, I do. I’m glad you like it.” Lindsay sat in the chair opposite.

“I’ve always admired Georgian homes. I see that you share my taste for your sister’s watercolors.”

She nodded at the far wall, on which hung a cluster of Lorna Trosper’s paintings—traditional still lifes of fruit and pottery, all laced with colors that complemented the warm tones of the throw rugs on the floor and the cushions on the sofa.

“Lorna had such remarkable range, don’t you think? Landscapes, still lifes, portraits—she was equally at ease with all of them. I consider myself fortunate indeed to have acquired a collection of her work, which I shall always treasure.”

“She gave me these for my birthday several years ago,” said Lindsay, trying not to show her raging curiosity over why Hannie was here on a cold, wet night. “There’s another set on the wall of my study, if you’d care to see them.”

“Perhaps later.” She sipped her gin again, then closed her eyes a moment, waiting for the alcohol to flow into her veins, as though she needed its blunting effects. “Tell me, Lindsay,” she said after a long moment, “do you consider yourself a religious person?”

The question took Lindsay aback, and her blue eyes widened. “Why, no. Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Do you believe in God?”

Lindsay took a deep breath and leaned back in her armchair, knitting her fingers on her lap and assuming the contemplative pose that she often used with clients at the brokerage. “Not in the sense that many people do,” she answered noncommittally. “My family went to church regularly when I was a child—Episcopalian—but we were never really very spiritual. Oh, we believed in Christian goodness—human kindness, decency, honesty. But church was more a social thing for us, and I fell out of the habit as I grew up, even though I’ve tried to hold on to the values.”

“If you don’t believe in God, say so.”

The hint of sharpness in the old woman’s tone irked Lindsay. “Very well. I don’t believe in God. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

A smile pulled at the corners of Hannie’s withered, painted lips. “I only want the truth, child. I must know where you stand.”

“I’ll admit it: Religion offends me. I don’t need it. I happen to believe that the universe has an orderly beauty that isn’t improved by wild-eyed notions of gods and devils who can move the stars around, or cause storms, or interfere in our lives.”

“I see.”

Hannie dropped her watery gaze to the tumbler of gin that she cradled in her bony hands, and Lindsay noticed for the first time the large ring that adorned one of her twiggy fingers. She strained to make out the silvery shapes that some long-dead smith had pounded and etched into the metal, shapes that age and wear had obscured: the hooked head of a shepherd’s staff, linked and entwined with a serpent and a lion’s face.

“I’ve come to talk with you about Jeremy,” said Hannie, looking up at last. “I must say that this will be difficult, considering your beliefs about God and creation—or, rather, your lack of them. Nonetheless, I sense in you a great love for the boy, as well as a fundamental goodness, which together make you a potential ally, a strong one.”

“An ally? I don’t understand.”

The old woman straightened in her chair, and her stare hardened. “Lindsay, your nephew—Jeremy—has fallen victim to a very old and potent evil, one that ordinary human beings cannot possibly defeat on their own. It is a conscious and conniving evil. It eats both flesh and souls, and it has powers that mere words cannot describe. I believe that there is yet time to undo the harm that has befallen Jeremy, but we must act quickly and decisively. We really cannot afford to waste precious hours in the debate of things spiritual. I must have your assurance that you will do exactly as I say.”

Lindsay groped for words that would not come, for an answer that only evaporated the very instant it reached her vocal chords. How does a sane, rational person respond to such lunacy? she wondered.

“An
evil
, you say? What could possibly make you think that?” Too late she realized her error, for she was only encouraging the ravings of an obviously very sick old woman.

“I have a great deal of experience in such things,” replied Hannie. “I know the signs, the symptoms. You yourself may have noticed some of them, for you have spent time with Jeremy, but given your background, your upbringing in this age of arrogance and skepticism, you could not be expected to recognize them for what they are.”

Lindsay took a slow breath and exhaled, determined now to choose her words carefully. “Hannie, I want to help you. The best way I can do that, I think, would be to find someone who knows about the things you must be feeling, a professional. Now, I know several good doctors who—”

Hannabeth Hazelford’s laughter suddenly poured out of her, a brittle peal that hung sadly in the otherwise still air of the parlor. Lindsay endured it with a patience that surprised herself, lowering her eyes against Hannie’s unfailing stare, awaiting the ebb.

“Forgive me, child—I’m not laughing at you, only at the irony of being patronized by someone so young, so inexperienced.” The laughter resumed briefly, more indulgently now, with a hint of real humor this time.

“I didn’t meant to patronize you,” said Lindsay.

“No, of course you didn’t. I’m not offended, really I’m not. But neither am I—how do you young people put such things?—
batty,
or
loony.
I don’t have a
screw loose,
Lindsay. Do me the honor of forcing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that I am not insane.”

“I’ll try.”

“Very good. Now, where was I? Oh, yes—the signs, the symptoms.” Hannie grew serious again. “Have you noticed in Jeremy any odd behavior of late—any manifestations of extraordinary abilities or long periods during which his mood seems very dark?”

The question loosed a chill that crept down Lindsay’s spine into the small of her back, causing her to squirm. She thought immediately of the troubles her mother had endured at Jeremy’s hands, of Nora’s allegations that he seemed able to read her mind, to move things without touching them.

“Or has he shown an especially keen interest in the occult?” pressed Hannie, leaning forward slightly in her chair, staring hard into Lindsay’s eyes. “I’m not speaking of those horrible films that children watch these days, the ones with
Halloween
in the titles, or those awful paperback novels about demons and vampires and all such rubbish. I speak of the
real
occult, Lindsay, of old books and charms, of rituals—”

“I really don’t see what we’re accomplishing here,” said Lindsay, not liking the direction the talk was taking. “You obviously know as well as I do that Jeremy has been behaving strangely. But you must also know that he’s been a very sick little boy throughout most of his life, and that kids with his particular kind of sickness—”

She heard herself regurgitating Dr. Hadrian Craslowe’s explanation of Jeremy’s recent troubles, employing lofty terminology like “mildly aberrant behavior.” Something about the explanation seemed hollow and rote even to herself.

“You’re deluding yourself, my child,” said Hannie. “You are shaping the facts to fit your own beliefs about reality; rather like trying to force square pegs into round holes. But don’t be angry with yourself—it’s a natural human failing, as old as time itself, the source of history’s most delightful myths and legends, I might add.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Lindsay, annoyed now. “
You’re
the one who’s been talking about the occult, about some kind of ancient evil that eats flesh and souls.
I’m
the one who’s trying to be scientific.”

“There-there, my dear, don’t be angry. I’m only trying to help you see that there are possibilities outside the realm of what you think of as truth. Surely you won’t deny that there’s such a thing as the mythology of science, a body of beliefs based on the rather arrogant assumption that everything
real
can be seen, or touched, or heard, even measured or counted. The high priests of this myth, the scientists and engineers, have declared that there is no such thing as an unseen truth, that everything outside the scope of mankind’s senses is unreal. Their god is technology, which they say will eventually enable mankind to see and measure even the tiniest particles, the very smallest bursts of energy, to know nature’s darkest secrets.”

“I won’t deny that there’s such a thing as scientific myth, but since it makes sense to me, I won’t deny that I believe in it, either.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will. But since you are an educated, rational woman, consider this: Your twentieth-century science cannot possibly explain what has happened to your nephew.”

“That’s not true, Hannie. There’s a perfectly rational explanation—”

“
Listen
to yourself, child! You’re saying that science can explain how a thirteen-year-old boy, one who has been severely impaired from birth, unable to speak or dress himself or even go to the toilet on his own, can suddenly become an articulate, well-spoken person who reads and reasons in the abstract—almost overnight! And you’re saying that science can explain his ability to penetrate other people’s minds, to read their thoughts and plant schemes for doing mischief, to
use
people—”

The old woman had apparently heard the yam spun by Kirk Tanner and Jason Hagstad, thought Lindsay, the outlandish allegation that Jeremy had somehow forced them to dump garbage into the stockroom of Hannie’s boutique, slash the tires of her Jaguar, and firebomb her house. But had she also gotten wind of the torture that Jeremy had inflicted on Lindsay’s mother, of the fact that he had stockpiled in his room a veritable mountain of musty old books about the occult?

“Listen, Hannie,” said Lindsay, interrupting, “those two boys who tried to harm you are known drug users, chronic juvenile delinquents—hardly reliable witnesses. They’ve obviously lied about Jeremy’s involvement—”

“There you go again!” exclaimed Hannie. “You’re trying to shape the facts to fit your own notions of what’s real and what’s not. But suppose you’re correct, that those two boys are lying: Wouldn’t you think that they’d be able to manufacture a better excuse for doing what they’ve done, than trying to pin the blame on Jeremy, a mere child? And why would they direct their mischief at
me?
I’ve lived in Greely’s Cove for more than six years, and I’ve never had any trouble of this kind. Why should Jason Hagstad and Kirk Tanner suddenly take it into their heads to inflict misery upon
me,
someone they’ve never cared the least about in the past, someone whom they may not even have known existed until recently?”