The Dark Door (11 page)

Now that he was no longer moving, he could see that the gray was not uniform. The rocks had touches of color, streaks of green, flecks of a flashing mineral. Gold? Silver? Quartz? He tried to think of other minerals that would gleam in the sun like that, but he kept coming back to gold, and decided arbitrarily that what he was gazing at was gold. A contrail appeared, two parallel lines as sharp as a geometry problem. Two parallel lines didn’t meet when he was in high school, but now they did, he mused. He watched the plane draw the perfect lines, and then stiffened, as he felt Constance draw a deep breath and hold it. A second later he heard it too, the sound of automobile engines.

They moved to the front of the boulder, keeping in shadows now, and watched three cars come into sight one by one on the dirt road behind the old hotel. That road was nearly as bad as the one they had driven, from all appearances; the caution the drivers were snowing was apparent. The lead car stopped by the generator truck and a man got out and climbed into the truck, as the car moved out of sight behind the hotel. The other two followed. Suddenly a blast of roiling smoke shot up from the truck, and its roar carried the mile to Constance and Charlie. She felt that she could almost smell the fumes.

“They’ll need light in the basement of the hotel,” Charlie murmured. “Maybe in the interiors of some of the buildings.” The cars had reappeared at the end of the railroad station, and they stopped there; men got out. There were seven in all. Charlie recognized the sheriff, but none of the others, who went to work at once. He and Constance took turns with the binoculars, although there was little worth watching. They took scrapings of paint, samples of dust, parings of wood. They put the samples in vials or plastic bags, labeled everything, then moved on down the street to repeat the action at regular intervals. At the far end several of them walked into view with an orange extension cord and a box. Other wires were plugged into the box, and the men separated, carrying light with them into the hotel and the first building by it. All the work was methodical and precise and slow. None of the conversations carried this far, only the noise of the generator truck; no smoke was showing now.

When he had the binoculars again, Charlie swept the entire town, then continued off to the corral, where the desert started again, up a steep hill that ended in a rimrock. He continued to study the surrounding terrain, back to the town, the railway station. He followed the tracks until they vanished behind a rocky hill, picked them up again only to lose them on another curve. Then he stopped moving. A man was standing in a deep shadow, hands in pockets, Western hat hiding his face; he was also watching the scene in Old West, from that side of the ravine. “Loesser,” Charlie said under his breath. “I’ll be damned!”

Chapter 11

Charlie watched the
man he was certain was
John Loesser, and Constance continued to watch the activity in Old West. The men had split up into groups; pairs on each side of the street were making systematic searches of the buildings and shops, vanishing into shadows, emerging, padlocking each in turn. In the center of the street, midway between the hotel and train station, three men stood in a tight cluster, talking; one of them was the sheriff, who gesticulated now and then, pointed this way and that, indicated the train tracks, the saloon, with wide arm motions. The other men were collecting samples of everything that could be scraped up, scooped up, or dug out of wood. Now and then the searchers carried the electric line into the buildings. They moved down the street slowly. Beside her, Constance heard Charlie mutter. He lowered the binoculars and squinted.

“He went behind those rocks,” he said. At the same time two of the men approached the hotel, paused on the wide porch, then entered, carrying a light with them.

Constance did not realize she was holding her breath until her chest started to ache and she felt lightheaded. She exhaled softly and felt Charlie’s hand on her arm in a firm grip. He was still intent on the rocky slope where the other man had vanished.

Below, the collectors and scientists had finished their chores and were walking back toward the cars. The searchers finished the last building before the hotel and stood as if uncertain that they should enter. One started to walk toward the sheriff, who now left the other two men he had been talking with; they turned to go to the cars also. The sheriff spoke with the two who had finished their side, and they all looked toward the hotel. One must have called out, but his voice did not carry to where Constance was watching. He strode toward the hotel, then turned and went around the side of it to where the generator truck was parked. The two who had gone inside the old building appeared on the porch, one of them winding the electric cable as he walked, dangling the bulb protected by a wire cage. They had all dispersed by now, some of them possibly to the cars, hidden by the train station, when suddenly the man winding the cable dropped everything and fell to his knees, clutching his head. The sheriff ran toward him as another man ran from around the hotel; he threw himself at the sheriff and they rolled in the street. A car revved loud enough that Constance could hear; it plunged from behind the train station and roared across the desert picking up speed as it raced over rocks, over cactus and sagebrush, until it went out of control in a shallow dip and rolled over and over down a slight hill. It came to rest in a cloud of dust that only gradually settled over it. The sheriff had got his gun out by now and he swung it and hit his attacker in the head. Now all the men were running; dust clouds made it impossible to tell exactly what was happening. Men were dragging the injured, half carrying each other, stumbling until they were all out of sight around the saloon. A car sped away, behind the hotel, behind the workers’ area, and back up the dirt road, the other car close behind it.

It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that Constance had hardly been able to follow it. She felt drained, exhausted suddenly, and now she let out a long shuddering breath. Beside her Charlie had grabbed her arm hard. “Jesus Christ!” he breathed. “Jesus!”

Neither moved for several minutes. The dust settled down below, but in the street the electric cable looked like a snake, and out on the desert a short distance, the car was unmoving, on its back. No one had emerged from it.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Charlie said. Fear made his voice thick and almost unrecognizable. They backed away from the ridge, watching the old town until they were well away from the rim, and then he hurried her back the way they had come, to where they had left the Land Rover. His face was set in such rigid lines with a faint sheen of sweat that it looked metallic. And that was the worst of all, Constance thought, terrified. For Charlie to be afraid was the worst of all.

Charlie drove to the motel before returning to their house. Nothing yet. No John Loesser, no late model black Malibu. But the son of a bitch was in the area, he knew. At the house, he eyed the phone grimly, then looked up the sheriff’s number and dialed. His face was still set in rigid lines, his eyes hard and flat looking.

“Charles Meiklejohn,” he said to the phone. “Tell Sheriff Maschi I have to speak to him
before he sends anyone in to Old West to collect
that body. I’m staying at Dr. Weston’s house in Grayling.” He hung up.

Constance busied herself making coffee, any
thing to keep moving, she thought, anything to stop the scene from playing like a tape loop in her head. “How much are you going to tell him?”

Charlie was pacing in quick jerky strides. He did not stop. “I don’t know yet. I hope the bastard hasn’t already sent a bunch in there. God, I…” The phone rang and he snatched it up. “Meiklejohn,” he said in a clipped voice. “I called, Sheriff,” he said, “to give you some advice. Have you already sent people to Old West to collect the guy in the car that smashed?” He closed his eyes, then said, “Get on the radio, Sheriff, and tell them to keep the engine running all the time they’re in there. Whatever it is won’t go near them if a motor’s running. Can you get the message to them?” He listened, then cut in sharply. “If you don’t want some more homicidal maniacs on your hands, get through to them and warn them! I’ll be here!” He slammed the receiver down.

Constance had stopped slicing bread, and now resumed. “Sandwiches,” she said, “and coffee. Nourishment to see you through when they haul you off to the pokey. I’ll visit every day, of course.”

He came to her and put his arms around her, rested his cheek against her hair with his eyes closed. “What you’ll do is go home and see if the damn cats are starving to death. Okay?”

“Not okay. Then who’ll bring you cake and files and such?”

He backed off a bit and held her shoulders, looked directly at her. “I’m not giving them Loesser yet. He’s mine.”

“I know. Liverwurst and onions, or ham and cheese?”

“You know damn well that’s not even a choice!”

“For me it is,” she said. The phone rang and he left her to answer again, expecting the sheriff.

He listened, and very softly said thanks and faced her once more. “That was my tame desk clerk. Loesser just checked in.” His voice was silky smooth.

Grayling was filled with more outsiders than it had been since their arrival, Charlie noted. More news specials? Probably. He was surprised that Loesser had been able to get a room. He was calling himself Jerry Lawes this time; sticking to his pattern. Charlie nodded when he drove through the motel parking lot and found a year old black Malibu. Another part of the pattern. The desk clerk had given him the room number—147, first floor rear. The drapes were drawn over the window. Charlie pulled in at an empty slot and got out of the car. Constance came around to get in behind the wheel, and he walked away. At the black Malibu he paused briefly at the driver’s side, slipped a flattened wire down the window opening, jiggled it, and opened the door. He pulled on the lights, then closed the door again. He went to room 147 and tapped on the door. When it opened on the chain, he said, “You left your lights on, mister.” The door closed; the drape moved a little, then fell back into place, and the door opened. The man came out and started for the Malibu. Charlie walked by his side and said pleasantly, “We’ll take my car instead. But first we’ll turn off the lights, just so no one will ask any questions.” The man froze, then jerked around to look at Charlie, and Charlie had one more shock. This was not the man in the picture; he was not John Loesser.

“Who are you? What do you want? Get away from me!”

“Mr. Lawes, don’t make a scene. Just go on to your car and turn off the lights. Then we’ll go someplace and have a talk.” Maybe he wasn’t John Loesser, Charlie thought darkly, but he was the man he had seen out on the desert watching the mayhem at Old West. The man did not move for another second, and Charlie said even more softly, “I have a revolver in my pocket, Mr. Lawes, and if I shoot you now and say you were out there today when people were going mad and trying to kill each other, why, I think I’d be a hero.” Lawes blanched, and they began to walk.

They went to the Malibu, where Lawes turned off the lights; they walked side by side to the car, where Constance was waiting, and they drove back to the house in silence. Charlie thought he could almost hear the machinery at work as Lawes stared ahead: gears shifting, toggles on, toggles off, switches thrown, everything erased to start over. Constance led the way into the house and waited until they were inside to close and lock the door. Charlie studied the man then. About six feet tall, slender, fair complexion, blond hair—all that fitted Loesser’s description, but this man did not look like the picture Charlie had memorized. He was not Loesser.

“Who are you?” Lawes demanded.

“Uh uh,” Charlie murmured. “My question. We were just about to have a sandwich. Let’s do it now.”

Constance began to reassemble the sandwich material and Charlie pulled a chair away from the table. “Please empty your pockets, and then sit down,” he said.

Lawes looked from him to Constance and back again. “You’re both mad. This is kidnapping! I’m leaving!”

Charlie took his hand from his pocket, bring
ing out the .38; Lawes stared at it wide-eyed. “At
this particular place and time,” Charlie said soberly, hefting the gun, then pointing it at Lawes, “it’s a little hard to say who is mad and who isn’t. I believe most people around here would understand anyone who shot without proof right now. Your pockets.”

Lawes continued to stare at the gun as he pulled things from his pockets, moving carefully. There was not much: car keys, motel key, change, cash in bills, a matchbook. No wallet. No identification. Charlie watched dispassionately. He shook his head when Lawes stopped. “Most people have ID, driver’s license, registration. You just have cash. Strange.”

Charlie made him turn around and put his hands on the wall and then patted him down; there wasn’t anything else. He picked up the roll of bills, five or six hundred dollars, and put it back on the table.

“Take your stuff,” he said, moving back a step. “And now let’s all sit down and have lunch.”

Constance came around the counter with a platter of sandwiches, smiled at Lawes, and went back for the coffee. He stuffed his belongings back inside his pockets. They all froze when the doorbell rang.

Charlie had put his gun away. He motioned to Lawes to move ahead of him. “Do you mind, honey?” he asked Constance. “I’ll show our guest the Indian art in our room.”

She waited until they had gone into the bedroom at the end of the hall, and then went to see who was at the door. Sheriff Maschi stood there glowering, his face dark red and angry. “I’m looking for Meiklejohn,” he said.

“Oh, come in, Sheriff. He’s around here somewhere. I’ll go find him. Do you want a sandwich?”

He followed her to the kitchen and she hurried ahead to the hall to the bedrooms. The sheriff stopped to wait.

“Sheriff Maschi,” she announced inside the bedroom. Lawes looked desperate. His eyes were examining the room as if seeking an exit.

Charlie glanced from him to Constance. “Mind waiting here until I get rid of him?”

He forced back a grin at the look that swiftly crossed Lawes’s face. Constance shook her head, and Charlie walked out, closed the door. At the kitchen he reached for the platter of sandwiches. “Sheriff Maschi, you’re just in time for lunch. Let’s go to the den.” There was a thump from the bedroom. Charlie picked up the platter.

“What was that?” the sheriff demanded, looking past him.

“Just Constance exercising. Come along.” He led the way to the den.

Carson Danvers had not believed his luck when Charlie Meiklejohn left him with this woman. He had not even given her the gun, and a glance proved that she did not have pockets capable of hiding a weapon. He waited a few seconds, then moved to the bedroom window. No screen, of course. He unlocked the latch, and she came to his side.

“Charlie really wants to talk to you,” she said politely. “Let’s sit down and wait for him.”

“Another time,” Danvers said and shoved the window up all the way. He felt her hand on his arm and shrugged it away, and then found himself sitting on the floor. It happened so fast he wasn’t even sure she had done something. She didn’t look as if she had done anything. She pulled the window down partway and smiled at him. Gingerly he got to his feet.

“Let’s wait for Charlie,” she said in her nice low voice. Her smile was as pleasant as it had been earlier. Not a hair was ruffled. “A long time ago,” she said easily, “Charlie decided that women should learn to defend themselves if they have to. I wasn’t happy about it at first, but then I got pretty good. Our daughter practices, too. Sometimes we put on mother-daughter demonstrations, but I always feel self-conscious when we do. Please sit down. You take the chair; I’ll sit on the bed here.”

He eyed her silently and she stopped smiling.

“I don’t want us to be enemies,” she said softly, “but neither do I want you to try to leave. At worst, I’ll call the sheriff and I think he’d shoot you, just as Charlie thinks. They are so very afraid right now.”

He slumped down on the straight chair. “You don’t know what you’re getting mixed up in.”

“Not as much as you do, I expect. What’s down there? What’s in the hotel?”

“The devil,” he said. “It gets to people and turns them into monsters. And it laughs and looks for the next one to invade. They won’t find it with their samples of dirt and paint. It hides until they’re unprotected. It’s pure evil down there, that’s what’s in the hotel. Pure evil.”

The image of Father Patrick flashed before her eyes, his face grave and troubled; she heard his warning again. She blinked the memory away and shook her head. “Madness isn’t evil. That’s medieval superstition. Those people need help, not condemnation.”

“You can’t help them!” he cried. “They’re tools of the devil, past help. All you can do is burn out the evil in the old building and wait for it to show up somewhere else and burn it out there.” He hung his hands between his knees and bowed his head, as if exhausted. The scar on his cheekbone had turned bright red. “Once the devil claims them, they’re his to do his bidding. You can’t help them.”