Spawn of Hell (34 page)

Part of his mind thought he was having an out-of-body experience, although he also knew that he was asleep. Perhaps his experiment had only partially succeeded. He was half-conscious at any rate, aware of what was happening, of the voyaging sensation, but not entirely sure that it was not just a dream of the ordinary kind. He had been hoping so much to enter the astral plane that it would only be natural for him to dream that he had done so. Which was it? He was afraid to find out.

He was approaching the mountain. Although he seemed to be facing the sky, somehow he could see underneath himself, too, could see the houses and then-lights receding in the distance. There were few homes out this far from town. He was traveling up the mountain road, past the home of his mother’s friend, Eleanor, not far from where the whole family had been slaughtered. He hadn’t known them very well.

He was going up the road, traveling at a dizzying speed, swishing over the trees, racing through the air. This road ended at a cleared-out lookout post where kids sometimes went when they were in a romantic mood. The quarry was about a mile away, but still too close as far as he was concerned. God, this had to be a dream, just a terrible dream. Why couldn’t he wake up?

On the bed, the trunk of Jeremy’s body wiggled and squirmed. His arms and legs were paralyzed, the body’s defense against thrashing out and hurting oneself during sleep. His mind struggled to wake up, to pull himself out of sleep. His cries were louder now.

He had arrived at the lookout point. Everything seemed so intense, so clear. The wind flapping the leaves of the trees. The warm, summer night air. He saw a car parked over near the edge of the clearing. Suddenly everything was foggy again. But he felt a strange presence and hard horrible screams. Someone, someone in the car, was screaming. A shrill panicky scream of utter horror, of shuddering revulsion. A scream high-pitched and fierce with agony.

His blood turning cold, his mind on fire, Jeremy finally awakened.

Someone was dying up there on Bannon Mountain, and
only he knew!

Or had it only been a dream?

He was lying there wondering what to do when he heard his mother coming in the front door, humming to herself, causing more fuss and bother in the opening of one simple lock than most people did moving furniture. He steeled himself. As much as he loved her, she had a habit of intruding at the damnedest moments.

“Jeremy! Mother’s home!”

But the sound of her voice reminded him how good it was to have someone else near him now, in the house, especially after his frightening ordeal or nightmare or whatever it had been. He could feel her warmth radiating down the corridor, entering his room before she herself did. This time he did not scold her for not knocking.

“How’s it going?” she asked, smiling. She had been drinking, that much was obvious. He sort of liked her in these pixilated moods, although it frightened him a bit. She was still head of the household and it scared him when he was more in control than she was. He felt he was not quite ready to assume command.

“Hi Mom. Did you have a nice time?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll never guess who I met.” She came over and sat beside him on his bed. He listened while she told the story of meeting “that girl on TV” but he was only mildly interested and could not place the woman anyway. He sat there quietly and politely while his mind replayed the images he had seen in his dream, heard the screams again, felt that unseen presence in the dark.

When she finally left to pass out in bed, he kissed her on the cheek and said, “Goodbye.”

“ ‘Goodbye’?” she laughed. “You mean ‘good night,’ little pumpkin. Never say ‘goodbye.’ “

It had been a slip. He had made up his mind to sneak out that very night and go up to the top of Bannon Mountain. He did not know why, only that he
had
to. The thought of it made him shiver with horror, but he had to confront whatever it was, had to find out if he really had traveled up there in his sleep. He had to know if there really was some kind of special plane, the existence of which would increase the chances of some sort of life after death. Maybe up there in the dark, he would at last come face to face with his father again.

He had told his mother “goodbye.”

He hoped his words had not been prophetic.

Clair Bartley used her key to enter the house, not sure if her husband or Mimi were still up at that hour. It was only a little after ten—she and the girls had stayed out much later than they had intended to—but Ted often retired early, and Mimi had been taking to her bed more and more often these days; work she had once breezed through five years ago was suddenly giving her fits of exhaustion. The woman was ill with something, but Mimi was not the type to discuss her private affairs with her employers.

Clair entered the foyer quietly and walked down the hall to the living room. She had had quite a bit to drink this evening, but now she found herself wanting yet another one to steady her nerves. That crying exhibition in the bar had been terrible. Normally she was such a composed, calm and clear-headed woman. But seeing that old friend of her son’s like that, his innocent question . . . Everything had come rushing back at her and she’d felt confused and dizzy, disoriented. It had all been too much for her. She tried her best to keep herself in control when it came to the subject of her son, but sometimes . . . sometimes it was difficult. Yes, she did need another drink.

First it had been a couple just to be sociable with her friends; she had never been crazy about Joey’s Bar and Grille. But then she’d needed another to recover from her impropriety, crying in public for God’s sake. Wilma and Eleanor had been so understanding. They knew something was wrong with George, only they didn’t know what and did not press her. Still, she knew she had someone to talk to when the time came, if ever; if her husband ever said it was all right.

Then all three of them had been feeling so good, having such a good time—and how often did she, did
any
of them have good times, really?—that they’d had another and another and it was a wonder they had managed to get up from the table. Eleanor had wisely ordered two cups of strong, black coffee. She had a good distance to drive on the night-swept highway. Although the traffic was thin at this hour, there was no sense taking chances.

Clair froze in her tracks. There were voices in the living room; someone was in there. More than one. She listened; She recognized her husband’s voice. And a woman’s. The nurse. The nurse he’d hired to take care of George. She felt ashamed, but she had to listen, had to find out of there were any foundation to her insane, hysterical suspicions. Although she could not quite make out what they were saying—only a word here and there, a phrase—she was relieved by the tone of their voices, still denoting an employee—employer relationship,
his
deep and authoritative,
hers
submissive and quieter. They must have been talking about George.

Clair crept up carefully. From this new vantage point she could see their reflections in the living room window, although they themselves were still out of view, as she was out of theirs. The nurse had a drink in her hand! It was hard to tell, but it looked as if she had been crying. She seemed quite upset. Ted, always in control, was sitting in an easy chair, holding a scotch and soda, using his resonant voice as a mainstay to calm the woman down, to soothe her.

“. . . never seen anything . . . like . . .” the nurse said. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties. Efficient, or so Bartley claimed. Good figure. Always neat and clean. She slept in a room adjacent to the one where George was kept. She was on hand most of the time, although she had her off-hours, loosely defined.

“. . . will never give up hope . . .” Bartley said, holding his feelings in as usual. God, Clair wanted to scream, to bellow, anything to break his composure. He had brought all of this upon them, and she was the one who wept.

“. . . I’m not sure how much longer . . . take . . .” the nurse said, rubbing her arm with her free hand.

“. . . know it’s trying, but we must . . . we can do.”

Clair wanted to know what had happened. She strode into the room and startled the both of them, nearly causing the nurse to spill her drink.

“Clair. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Mrs. Bartley. You frightened me.”

“A drink during working hours? Isn’t that risky?” Clair said testily, directing her question to her husband instead of the nurse.

“Miss Hamilton has had quite a fright, Clair,” Bartley said slowly. “I thought a drink might do her some good. Besides, she’s entitled to some relaxation now and then. There’s usually no trouble at this time of night anyway. George is sleeping quite soundly.”

Next he’ll have her in here in an evening gown and mascara, she thought. “Well, I can use a drink myself.” She hoped it was not apparent that she’d already had a few. She did not go near Ted or kiss him, not wanting to betray the alcohol on her breath. He got up and made her a gimlet, as she instructed. “What happened?” she asked Miss Hamilton.

The nurse looked at Ted before answering. This annoyed Clair a great deal. Was she not the boy’s mother? Didn’t she have a right to know everything that went on? Did she need her husband’s permission for even this?

Ted nodded, almost imperceptibly. Clair waited patiently, then said:
“Well?”

“George gave me a scare.” Miss Hamilton had bright yellow hair pulled up on top of her head, although a few strands hung down stylishly by her cheeks. She wore little makeup, and had a naturally creamy complexion. She was a tall woman, and a strong one, with muscular, but feminine, arms that played a great deal of tennis and were capable of lifting the heaviest private patients. Ted had told Clair that he had hired her from a very reputable agency. “At around nine o’clock, he just—stopped breathing. Oh, it was nothing serious. He started breathing again of his own accord a few moments later. No damage.”

“Then why aren’t you with him now? It could happen again!”

“Darling, please stay calm,” Bartley chastened. “It was just an initial reaction to his new medicine. He’s over the hurdle now. Jean sat with him for some time afterwards, and there were no repercussions. She’s carrying the beeper with her. If there is any change in his vital signs, the machine will beep and his room is just down the hall.” The specialized beeper had been expensive, but it was worth it. Unlike most doctors’ beepers, which alerted them to phone calls, this one—developed by the firm Ted worked for—notified a doctor or nurse any time the machines the patient was hooked up to registered the slightest change. “So you see, there’s nothing to worry about. Here, take your drink. It will help you.”

She took it gratefully. “Where were you so late?” Ted asked.

She decided to tell the truth; any lie could be easily uncovered. “I went with some of the ladies to Joey’s for a nightcap. I ran into David Hammond there—”

‘What did you say to him?”

“I only had a chance to say hello and goodbye,” she lied. “His date for the evening turned out to be Anna Braddon. You know, the TV model.”

“She’s beautiful,” Nurse Hamilton said.

“And everyone was so eager at seeing her that I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to say much to David. She’s staying with him at his father’s house. I didn’t get a chance to ask about Jonathan, either. I must call David tomorrow.”

“Is that wise, Clair?” He looked at her pointedly.

“Oh. All right then. I won’t.” She remembered that they’d told Mimi to tell David what amounted to a bold and outrageous lie when George had turned up at his apartment earlier that year. That was when his father had still been furious with George, unaware of how serious his condition had been. He’d sent down men to look for him in the city and they’d found him and brought him back—and he had gotten progressively worse ever since. She could hardly bear to look at him now. Still, he was her son. And she loved him. She did not understand what had happened to him or why, but she loved him.

She put down her drink and moved towards the exit from the room. “Where are you going?” her husband demanded.

“To see George. I want to see my son before I go to sleep.”

“There’s no need for that. He’s fine.”

“Ted. He’s my
son.”

“There’s no need to disturb him. Besides, you know how it always upsets you to see him the way he is.”

“I don’t care.”

“Please, Mrs. Bartley.” Nurse Hamilton moved towards her, her hands both free now. She was tensing her body.

“What’s the matter with you two? Why can’t I go in to see my own son? I’m going, and that’s all there is to it.” She moved again, starting for the corridor.

“Miss Hamilton,” Bartley said. “Stop her.”

Suddenly the nurse grabbed her from behind, pinioning her arms. “Damn you! Damn you!” Clair struggled and snarled at the nurse. “Leave me alone! You may have taken my husband from me but I won’t let you take my son!”

Startled by the woman’s unfounded accusation, the nurse released her and stepped back, looking towards her employer for guidance. That was fatal. Clair slapped her savagely in the face and ran down the hall towards George’s room before she could be stopped again.

“Clair! Don’t! Don’t go in there! Please listen to me!” Bartley ran down the hall after her, brushing the purse aside, desperately trying to reach his wife before she reached their son’s room. “For God’s sake—
Don’t open that door!”

But it was too late. She had it open already, and was looking inside. She was gasping for breath, her eyes widened in disbelief. Her fingers shook, then her arms, and her entire body. She lifted her hands to her mouth. And she screamed. She screamed so loud that it resounded through every room of the house.

And then she plummeted to the ground in a dead faint.

The moon was out tonight, and though it was not full, its light nonetheless bathed the earth in a gray glow, casting deep dark shadows where creatures could hide and wait. Eleanor Morrison concentrated on the road ahead of her, too frightened to think about what might be watching and waiting in the woods on either side of the highway. She was a good way out of town now, so isolated and vulnerable. She had been hoping that the liquor would have affected her in such a way that everything would have had an air of unreality about it, like a movie or a play viewed from afar. Nothing would seem menacing then. How could it? She would be safe in a gentle, protective haze of booze.