The Awakening (12 page)

Megan awoke around ten. Finn, a rather restless spirit at the best of times, was usually up before her.

Not that morning. He was out like a dead fish. In fact, he seemed so still that she found herself besieged by a moment of panic, checking to make sure he was breathing. He was.

She hesitated a moment, then touched his injured hand. Somewhere along the line, he'd lost the bandage. But the bleeding had stopped, and the injury didn't appear to be too bad. It would be annoying on his hand, but there was already a scab forming on the slash.

She started for the coffee machine and was surprised to see there was about an inch or two of cold coffee in the pot. He'd apparently awakened, and gone back to bed. Caffeine never had an effect on Finn. She thought it was because so many of his waking moments were so intense.

And getting strange,
she thought ruefully.

Like last night.

Newly disturbed, she rinsed the coffeepot, and grimaced when she saw that the only little package left was decaf. That wasn't going to help her a lot. She'd have to get dressed and make her way out to the dining room. Breakfast would be over, but coffee and tea were available throughout the day. And she didn't need anything to eat. They were going to Aunt Martha's for lunch.

That thought gave her a smile. Martha was so wonderfully pragmatic. Down to earth,
and
a sensational cook. The concept of going to see Martha was a cheery one, banishing some of the discomforts that began to plague her more and more.

She started the coffee, then stepped into the shower while it brewed. The water crashed down on her hard and she let out a little cry, realizing for the first time that there actually were bruises on her arms and hips.

What the hell had gotten into him?

Part of Finn's sexual charisma was his ability to be subtle. The slightest brush could seem to awaken every erogenous zone in her body. He could go from a touch softer than a whisper to a tumult of fever, electricity, and passion with a finesse that was breathtaking and so seductive she never knew sometimes how she wound up in such mindless frenzy. He could be gentle, and then rugged and forceful, in his lovemaking.

But never hurtful. Until . . .

Last night.

They'd have to talk, she decided. He'd been so . . . weird.

Yes . . .

But exciting.

Like a stranger.

Being with a stranger would not be exciting,
she thought ruefully, and honestly. He was incredible; even when she had been determined she couldn't live with him, she'd never wanted anyone else, and she'd been certain she would never find anyone who attracted her again, not after Finn. So . . .

She shook her head, then rinsed quickly, frowning at the bruises once again. They were definitely young and in love with healthy sexual appetites, but even living in a city like New Orleans, they'd never been . . . weird. Sadistic, or masochistic. She vaguely remembered that there had been moments of pain.

But still, she'd been so enwrapped in the frenetic rise to climax that she hadn't realized just how he had held her . . . pinioned her, actually.

She dismissed the uneasy notion that Finn was changing as she stepped from the shower. And she didn't want to think that being here, close to her home, among her family members and old friends, was bad for them. That it was causing them both to be different.

The decaf had gone through. She poured a cup while she quickly dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a sweater. As she tied on her sneakers, she saw that Finn was still sound asleep.

She left him, heading out to the breakfast room for real coffee. The dining room was empty. In fact, it seemed that the entire house was as silent as a tomb.

She was standing still, looking out the bay window in the dining room, when she was startled by a voice behind her.

“Ms. Douglas!”

Coffee slopped over the rim of her mug as she spun around. Susanna McCarthy was behind her. She hadn't heard the woman walk into the room. In fact, the housekeeper's movements seemed downright creepy.

“Yes, good morning, Ms. McCarthy,” she answered in kind.

“There's a telephone call for you.”

She frowned, instantly worried that something might have happened with her parents. But her emergency number, which she insisted both her folks keep on them at all times, was her cell phone number.

She didn't have to worry long. Not about her folks.

“It's old Andy Markham,” Susanna said with a sniff. “Do you wish to speak with him?”

The question implied she shouldn't. Perhaps because of that, she decided to take the call, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to be talking to old Andy.

“Of course, Ms. McCarthy, thank you,” she said sweetly.

“You can use the phone in the salon, right on through there,” Susanna said, indicating the very formal living room.

“Thank you.”

Megan walked on into the adjoining room and sat in the elegant Victorian chair next to the phone. “Hello,” she murmured into the receiver. Looking back into the dining room, she saw that Susanna McCarthy was gone.

She was probably listening in on another extension in the house, Megan couldn't help but feel.

“Megan. Megan Douglas?”

It was definitely the old man. He had a way of sounding like an old Maine fisherman.

“Yes, it's me. How are you Mr. Markham?”

“Andy, it's Andy, I've told you to call me Andy.”

“I'm sorry. Andy. What can I do for you?”

“Something very important,” he said seriously. He sounded very sane. And determined. “You can listen to me. Really listen to me. Then you can call me crazy, if you still wish.”

She hesitated, aware that she didn't want to listen to anything that he had to say. He did sound crazy. And it was all the crazy talk that seemed to be getting to everyone.

“Please.”

He knew she was hesitating. And his entreaty was so earnest.

“I swear before God Almighty, I am trying to help you, woman!” the old man insisted.

Again, he sounded so sincere.

“All right, Andy. I'm listening.”

“No. You've got to meet me.”

She hesitated again. Meet him? Finn would go through the roof.

“Where? When? I'm afraid I have a number of appointments during the day.”

“Now. It's a ten minute drive. Just on the outskirts of town, not far from the hotel where you're playing. And now.”

“Now? What if—”

“Your husband is still sleeping, isn't he?”

She was startled by that.

“Give me the address. I'll come—if I can.”

He didn't give her an address, but explained the route. Andy hung up.

She sat in the chair a long moment, the receiver in her hand—certain that she heard a second click.
Susanna McCarthy,
she thought.
Listening in.

She exhaled on a long sigh. All right, if Finn was still sleeping, she'd go. And if he had wakened . . . well, she'd said that she'd come if she could.

If Susanna had been listening in, she would tell Finn where Megan had gone once he started prowling around, looking for her.

But then again, she didn't intend to be gone long.

She rose with a strange determination, dreading the idea of meeting the man, and wondering why she was even contemplating doing so when the idea was so loathsome to her.

It had been his voice. The pleading in it.

She hurried back to her room. Finn was still sound asleep.

“Finn?” she spoke his name.

He didn't stir.

She walked to the dresser and picked up the car keys. They jangled. He still didn't make a move.

Shaking her head, she grabbed her handbag and walked out of the room.

By daylight, the car was just a stone's throw away. Bizarre how last night the walk from their auto to the B and B had seemed so ridiculously long. And scary. By the sun's light, it was a pretty walk, even with the dead and dying leaves of autumn scattering the paths. Some—a few—remained on the trees. It seemed a gentle day.

She followed the easy directions he had given her, leaving the center of town behind in a matter of minutes. Soon she was passing the new hotel where they were playing. Just about sixty seconds after the hotel turn-in, she found the trail he had indicated she take, a narrow, winding road into what looked like a forest area.

Foolish. Down the trail, the trees were thick. Despite the coming winter, there were enough branches and leaves on the trees to block out a great deal of sunlight. She began to think that Andy Markham was really crazy; the trail seemed to go nowhere.

Then, she reached a large copse at the end of the trail, and parked, looking around.

There were trails leading through the woods, but none big enough for a car. Whoever ventured down those trails did so on foot. But to either side of the central clearing in the woods were other pockets of cleared areas. They were overgrown with grass and underbrush, but the trees had been cleared, probably ages ago. As she sat, staring out the window, she noted that there were bits of stone among the long grasses, weeds, and bits of bush here and there. The place was eerie. She noted that some of the stones were larger than others, weather worn. She squinted, trying to see better from her distance. One of them looked like it had been an angel or something of the like at one time.

A chill seized her. She thought she had come upon some time-forgotten cemetery.

A tap on her window nearly sent her flying right through it.

She turned to the passenger's side of the car and saw that Andy Markham was standing just outside the car.

For a moment, she hesitated again. Maybe the old man was crazy. He had lured her here to murder her.

The thought was not without value, and yet, she suddenly doubted that the skeletal old man could take her in any kind of a fight.

He could have a gun.

But he didn't. His clothes hung off his body in a way that allowed for no hiding of any kind of a weapon.

She had come this far. And obviously, it was just she and Andy in the godforsaken, eerie clearing.

She stepped out of the car.

“Hi, Andy.”

He walked around to her, his eyes anxious on her. “Thank you for coming. I swear, I am trying to help you.”

“That's great,” she said lightly, “but—”

“But you don't believe in tall tales or hauntings, the spirits of the dead, or anything like that.”

“Right,” she said softly.

“But hear me out. Do you know where we are?”

“It looks like some kind of a cemetery. I see what was an angel over there.”

“Yes, it's some kind of a cemetery.”

“So . . . we're on hallowed ground. Nice and safe,” she murmured cheerfully.

He shook his head so gravely that she felt as if one of the dead branches on the distant trees had reached out to scrape her spine.

“Andy—”

“It's unhallowed ground. Centuries ago, it was where those who died outside the sanction of the church were buried.”

“Oh!” she murmured. “How sad! You mean like Rebecca Nurse, or others prosecuted in the witch trials—”

Andy snorted. “History and research show us that Rebecca Nurse was a fine old woman who was simply not appreciated by her neighbors. She had a loving family, and they got hold of her body. I'm talking about the truly evil.”

“I see,” Megan said evenly, wishing she hadn't come. What the hell was this creepy old man up to?

He continued to stare at her earnestly. “You must believe that there is evil in the world.”

“Andy, I have a cousin who is a Wiccan, and I know—”

“Not Wiccans!” he interrupted with a snort, then gave her a deep sigh. “It should be evident that if there is good in the world, there is evil. There is a benign god, and, even in the Old Testament, a god of wrath. Say you believe in the general tenets of the day. God is good, and sits above in Heaven. But those who believe in that God believe in his nemesis as well. Lucifer, the fallen angel. And just as the great God of our fathers is good, his nemesis is evil. They believed, once, that Satan had come to New England. Satan is a busy fellow. But just as the great God rests among the angels and what spirits surround him are those of good, Satan has his imps and demons, and creatures of pure, malignant evil.”

Megan just stared.

“Walk with me.”

She didn't know why she did, but when he turned, walking toward the stones in the underbrush, she followed.

They reached what she had thought to have been a marble angel. Seeing it up close, even in its state of aged decay, she saw that it was no angel. It was a demon. Horned, tailed, with a lean jutting jaw that gave it a terrible impression of pure carnal amusement and . . . evil.

“Andy, this thing is awful!”

“And too true,” Andy said softly. He scratched the day's growth of stubble on his chin, looking at Megan, then added flatly, “He's trying to come back.”

Chills snaked through her, but she said firmly, “ I'm sorry, but marble creatures are the artistry of men.”

“Aye, girl, and you need men, the living, to bring about the return of the dead.”

“Andy, you're creeping me out here,” she said honestly.

“You've got to understand. I have to make you understand.”

She inhaled on a deep breath. “Andy, I'm trying to understand. You think that a man is trying to bring a demon to life. A demon—a broken-down old statue—back to life.”