Haunted (45 page)

David shivered, pulling the quilt up around his neck. If breaking the doll of the beneficent Ezra Wilder made him powerful enough to break locks, communicate, and physically interact with the living, what might the soul of Christabel’s black-hearted lover be capable of doing?

Finally, he considered the most disturbing part of Wilder's visit and the reason for his own rubbery legs. The spirit had projected to him the image of Amber and it was obviously a warning about her safety, but, beyond that, he wasn't sure of the implications.

Confused, David rubbed his temples and decided to dismiss the captain from his mind for the night. Further pondering would be useless--he was beyond exhaustion. In the morning, he'd consider it all again. Maybe you’re just losing your alleged mind, Masters.

David reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, then changed his mind and left it on. To keep away the ghosts.

He closed his eyes and fell immediately into a deep, fathomless sleep.

August 16

New York City: 6:05 P.M.

Melanie Lord stood in her tiny kitchen waiting impatiently for the microwave to finish zapping her Lean Cuisine. She was still rattled by David Masters' phone message, and still contemplating its meaning. She wanted to call him back, but he hadn't asked her to and, as a result, she'd spent all day today scrubbing down her apartment, which was what she did when she couldn't make up her mind about something. She and Ray had planned to go to the Museum of Modern Art, but she'd canceled on him, knowing she'd be rotten company.

"Five, four, three, two, one," she counted as the microwave finished cooking her dinner. Ray had whined about the cancellation and she didn't like that. He'd also been whining about his proposal, the one he'd given her to submit to Harry Rosenberg over at Dorner. David, she thought, I wish I'd listened to you about mixing business and pleasure. Boy, were you ever right, you son of a bitch. You sweet son of a bitch.

In the other room the phone rang, and she paused, straining to hear who was calling. Probably Ray, to ask her if he could come over for a quick fuck and a little pillow talk, which would consist of him telling her how he needed her to get him half a mil from Rosenberg. Hell, she'd be amazed if Harry even nibbled at the proposal: Ray Blaisdell had done it up trite and sloppy.

"Hi, Mel? It's Amber. I-- "

"Amber!" Melanie dropped her potholder and raced into the living room, snagging the receiver off the hook so quickly that the phone tipped and fell. She caught it before it reached the ground, crying, "Hang on!" over the static invective of the answering machine.

"Sorry," she said, switching off the machine. "Amber, is that really you?"

"It's me." The teen laughed delightedly. "Miss me?"

"Miss you? How can you even ask me that?" The fact was that the sound of the girl's voice filled Melanie so completely with a mix of emotions--most of them wonderful--that she was fighting back tears. "I miss the shit out of you, girl! How are you?"

For the next half hour, Amber rattled on about cheer leading, her sort-of boyfriend, how her dad was going to get her a car, and about her costume for a local dance. Finally, she paused and Melanie knew that the real reason she'd called was about to be revealed.

"Dad misses you, Mel."

Music to my ears. "What makes you think that, Amber?"

"He's pining away. He needs you."

"Well," she admitted, "I miss him too. Sort of." Like hell, sort of! "But--"

"I overheard him talking to Georgie, Mel. He's really jealous of Blaisdell. I think he wants to kill him."

"He knows about Ray Blaisdell?" Melanie smiled to herself, mentally retracting all the bitchy things she'd ever thought about Georgie Gordon. Bless you, Georgie, you matchmaking devil!

"Uh huh. Are you in love with him?"

"With Ray?"

"Yeah, I mean, are you engaged or anything?" Amber asked tentatively.

Melanie laughed. "No, hon, Ray's nice, but he's just a friend." And he looks good escorting me around town, but he’s nothing but a big hunk of petulant meat, just like his nickname.

"Good," Amber said. "Can you fly out next Saturday?"

"What?"

"You've got to come to the party."

"What party?"

"You know, the Come As You Were Dance. You have to! I've got a costume ready for you and everything. Dad's dressing as the sea captain who loved Lizzie Baudey. Do you know who she is?"

David had talked about Lizzie and her house for as long as she'd known him. "Yes, I do, but--"

"Listen, Mel, you look a lot like her and I've got her dress ready for you. You can make such an entrance, Mel. It'll be, like, symbolic. The reunited lovers. It'll be so cool. He'll just die when he sees you."

"I don't think it's really such a good idea," Melanie said as she flipped the pages of her calendar to the twenty-second. "I mean, doesn't he have a date or something?"

"Or something." Amber's tone hit new heights of sarcasm.

"You've got to save him, Mel, before the Wicked Witch of the West gets him for good."

Oh, great, Amber wanted her to crash a party and a date. "Amber, I can't just waltz in there and--"

"I know, I know. You can go with Rick and me."

Oh, boy...

"She's a gold-digging slut, Mel. She'll kill him."

"Amber--"

"She's like Lorna."

Melanie's stomach twisted with delight, or fright, she couldn't tell which. She knew all about Lorna. "You must be exaggerating."

"Not one bit," Amber replied firmly.

"Amber, I'd like to come," and I have the time, "but I don't think it's a good idea. Not unless David invites me himself."

"Listen, I'm going to tell you the rest, but you can't tell Dad, okay?"

"Okay."

Melanie's emotions spun between disgust and protective anger as the teenager recounted how the housekeeper had spread the filthy rumor about Amber's and David's relationship and then how this bitch, this Pelinore woman, had handed the girl her dad's underwear in a bag. That was too much, way too much.

"You swear she did that, Amber? Swear to God?"

"Any god you want."

"You're not exaggerating to talk me into coming?"

"I'm telling you everything, the whole truth and nothing but." Amber sounded a little angry, a lot desperate. "It's humiliating. I couldn't let Dad know. I hate telling you, but if that's the only way I can convince you that he's in danger from that witch, Pelinore, then..." Her words trailed off. Amber was trying not to cry.

Melanie believed her, all her instincts fluttering up into a weird older sister or maternal thing that Amber had always brought out in her. The teenager was the one being attacked.

She needs me, she really needs me. The thought filled her with joy. She'd take this Theo Pelinore by the tits and twist them off and when she was done, the bitch would never fuck with Amber Masters again. She'd see to that and she'd make sure David knew what was going on, one way or another. "Okay, Amber," she said. "I think I can get away for a few days."

The moment Amber hung up, Melanie phoned her travel agent and made reservations because she knew she'd chicken out otherwise. Seeing Amber was one thing, but seeing that bastard David was another.

She know full well that the adjectives she always stuck in front of his name were empty words that she used to keep herself from missing him, from feeling foolish for blowing their relationship. David had been her friend--her best friend--as well as her lover, and that had made losing him a bigger blow than she thought possible.

She'd been able to tell him things she never thought she could tell anyone, and no matter what, he accepted her. She missed that and wondered if he did too. And then there were all the unimportant conversations--they'd talk for hours on end and, afterward, neither could remember the topics, but it didn't matter because what had really happened was that they'd connected on another level--recharging each other's batteries, was what David had called it--and it left them as close or closer than making physical love.

She missed that, too. David had been a gentle, thoughtful lover, the rare man who understood that feminine arousal began in the brain, not the crotch. He had the patience of a saint. A horny saint, she corrected, smiling to herself. He knew how to tease and titillate her. Often, he'd begin in public, early in the day with whispered comments and looks that made her feel like the most desirable woman on earth so that, by the time they were alone, she'd be ready to rip his clothes off. And still, he'd make her wait, indulging his inherent hedonism, teasing himself as much as he teased her. He'd start by touching her hair, kissing her eyelids and cheekbones and ears and neck, smelling her and making little moans, noises of pleasure that drove her mad and made her feel as if she were a priceless work of art.

Slowly, he'd undress her, always looking and smelling and tasting, an expression on his face that made him look like a kid in a candy store, and when all her clothes were off, he would continue his foreplay, kissing her inner thighs, right up to the place where leg and pubis met, but no further. And finally, when she could stand it no longer, and she was at the point of begging him to let her touch him and taste him, he would. At the same time, he moved in, giving her orgasm after orgasm, always dragging just one more out of her than she expected and, when she'd finally make him lose control, his orgasm would be so overwhelming that, at first, she was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. His eyes would roll back in his head and, if Amber was around, she had to put her hand over his mouth to muffle his cries. After, he would fall back, exhausted, for about five minutes. Then he'd look at her and say, "I need a steak--rare," and they'd dress and go out and indulge their palates, all the while staring stupidly at each other and knowing they had better sex than anyone else in the world. Ray Blaisdell's hunky smile as he whispered, "How about a blow job, Babe?" just couldn't compete.

David, I want you back. A tear escaped and she wiped it away roughly. There was no way he'd have her back. She knew that. When she saw him again, she'd have to maintain tight control over her emotions and not let herself hope. Too much.

The Willard Residence: 4:00 P.M.

Calla Willard arrived at her parents' home for supper precisely at four in the afternoon. Usually, she hated the weekly get-together--her mother never wanted to hear a thing she had to say--but today, as she rapped smartly on the door, she was eager to listen to all the tales her mother could tell about David Masters.

She rang the bell impatiently. Calla hadn't listened to much of what Minnie had said about the arrogant writer before, but now she was more than ready. After the shameful way he'd treated her the night before, she wanted to hear it all. Maybe, she thought, she'd gather all she could on the man and sell it to one of the national gossip magazines. She could see the headline now: "Horror Writer Is a Real Life Horror: His Housekeeper Tells All." She smiled, then knocked loudly again. "Mother?"

There was no answer and, puzzled, she walked around the side of the house and found that the truck and the car were both there. Inside the white frame cottage, the phone began to ring.

Calla tried to blow air out her nostrils but her nose was too stuffy--she was catching a cold. Going back to the front of the house, she withdrew the spare key from the fake rock under the geraniums, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door.

The phone had stopped ringing and the house seemed deserted. "Mother?" she called. "Dad?"

She moved quickly through the shadowed living room, and into the hall, not bothering to stop in the equally dark kitchen. Farther up the hall, the bathroom light burned. "Mom?"

She let a little yelp of shock escape when she saw the reddish powder and black material on the bathroom floor. She stooped to examine it more closely and saw that the powder had spilled from the broken remains of a china doll. Goosebumps rose on her neck as she hurried from the room. Her mother's room was empty but when she opened the door to her father's room, she recoiled.

The shadowed room was cold, so cold, and there was a stink of old-fashioned men's cologne--the kind Ferd and Andy Cox liked to wear--mixed with a horrible metallic odor that Calla didn't immediately recognize. "Dad?" She felt behind her for the light switch.

She screamed as light blossomed within the room, revealing a red wash of blood and her father's body on the bed… and in the rocking chair… and on the dressing table.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she whispered in unconscious litany. She began backing from the room, her eyes still fixed on the arms, the hands neatly folded as if in prayer, upon the dresser. "Oh God, oh God, oh God--"

Sudden pain shot across her back in a dozen places. Dimly, she heard a cracking sound, then a whistle, and again, she felt stinging pain. She screamed.

Her scream was cut short by a hand over her mouth; a hand far colder than ice.