The Awakening (2 page)

For a moment he was afraid he wouldn't find his wallet in his pocket. He had no memory of how he had gotten here—wherever that was. The last thing he could recall was . . . ordering a beer and a hamburger.

To his relief, he found his wallet, in his back pocket, right where it should have been.

“New Orleans, huh?” the officer said.

“Yes.”

“What did you do—pass out here on the sidewalk?”

Finn shook his head, standing, praying that he wasn't going to be arrested.

“I . . .” He hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “I was trying to drive straight through to Maine. But when I saw the signs for Boston, I figured I had to stop and get something to eat. I think I was simply so tired that I came out, leaned against the wall . . . and nodded off. But I'm not drunk, nor was I drunk. I had one beer—hours ago, now, I think.” He glanced at his watch. “Yes, hours ago. I'll take any blood test or breathalizer you want.”

The officer was somewhere in his forties, Finn reckoned. Steady brown eyes, slightly graying hair, and a stocky build.

He handed Finn back his wallet. “You're on your way to Maine?”

“My wife is up there. Her family was originally from Massachusetts; they moved up to Maine her first year of college.”

“How come you're in such a hurry?”

Finn hesitated again, then shrugged. “We had some misunderstandings. She left me. I'm going to get her back.”

“Misunderstandings?”

He didn't really have to explain his marriage to a cop, but then, the cop had just awakened him from sleeping on the sidewalk. “Pride, maybe. She believed some things that weren't true. I was angry. You know, I didn't intend to be any pushover, and I was too damned self-righteous to give her any explanations.”

“So you're rushing up to Maine . . . you're lucky you weren't hit by a pickpocket, but then . . . you're a pretty big guy, tall and wiry, and the way you tensed when I nudged you, I take it you've done some fighting yourself. Still, a badass with a gun can take down a black belt any day.”

“I know. Look, I swear, when I decided I was going to get her back, come hell or high water, I really didn't think I needed to stop for sleep. Now, I know better.”

The cop grinned.

“Maine and Louisiana are pretty damned far apart, and you bet your ass, you have to sleep. But, good for you. Go get your wife. You two work it out. Too many people call it quits these days at the first sign of trouble. Me and my wife Laura, we've been together twenty-five years. She left me once.”

“What did you do?”

“I went after her. You got money on you?”

“Yes. And credit cards.”

“Well, you didn't look like a vagrant from the start, even using the concrete as a mattress, and you sure as hell aren't dressed like a vagrant, and you sound honest. You've got a job?”

Finn hesitated again. “I'm a musician.” The officer's brow went up and Finn said wearily. “A good musician, and yes, I do make money, a steady income, at my music.”

The fellow grinned. “I wasn't going to jail you for being a musician. But you'd better get yourself to a hotel, huh?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Head out of the city a bit; I don't need any of your blood. Hell, I've been at this way too long. I know a drunk when I see one, and you just look beat. I'm going to let you get on your way, but don't drive like a maniac. Maine is still a long way away.”

“Thanks. Thanks, a lot. I've never done anything like this before in my life, I swear,” Finn said. “I just shouldn't have been driving so hard.”

“I'd better not hear that you've been in an accident.”

“You won't,” Finn swore.

“Go on, then. Drive carefully.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you.”

The officer gave him a little salute. Finn smiled and returned it, then turned to find his car. There was an awkward moment. He didn't know where the hell his car was.

“Parking is a bitch, huh?”

“Yeah, but I have a place right on the street, somewhere,” Finn said.

“Want me to drive you around?”

“No, thanks again. It's got to be right around here.”

“All right. A little walk in the crisp air will do you good.”

Finn nodded, glad to see the officer stepping back into his car, which was double-parked in the street.

Finn started to walk, tense, afraid the cop would follow him all over the city.

But he hadn't really gone all that far. In ten minutes, he'd found his car. He slid into the driver's seat and headed for the highway. He wound up on US1 instead of I-95. A few minutes later, he saw a hotel on a little hill. Hell, it was almost morning. Checkout was noon. Still, he determined, waking on the street had been too damned scary. He was going to sleep.

He crashed into the bed, not bothering to take off his clothes. Within minutes, he was sound asleep again.

In the morning, the world was bright. He was glad of the hotel. Glad to shower and change. And glad, because Maine might still be something of a drive, but by the evening, he would reach Megan. Then, all he had to do was convince her of the truth. He loved her more than life itself. He needed her. And she needed him.

He knew she loved him, as well. Knew that she felt there was incredible passion in their lives, that there was a lot worth working for. The best way to get her back would be . . .

What the hell was he going to say?

He stopped along the way for lunch, mulling the question over all the while.

In fact, he practiced thoughts and words all the way up the coast.

He reached her folks' house, ready with his words. But Megan was on the lawn, sitting in the tree swing, and she wasn't able to move quickly enough when she realized it was him. She stood for a moment, blond hair shimmering in the moonlight that had risen, blue eyes like that of a doe caught by the sudden head beams of a car.

The words fled from him. He just strode toward where she stood, still, that mesmerized deer. He took her into his arms. She was stiff for a long moment . . .

Then seemed to melt against him.

“You drove here? All the way? For me?”

“I came to get you,” he said gruffly.

“What if I were to say no?”

“I don't intend to let you. Megan, I have a lot to say.”

“Me, too, Finn . . . but . . . there's time to talk. Later.” She moved even closer against him, a compact ball of tension and heat. The simple adjustment of her flesh against him was like being doused in liquid fire. The length of him quickened with a shudder. His voice barely rasped out.

“Your folks?”

“Gone for the weekend,” she whispered back.

She was trembling. He swept her up, knowing the way to her wing of the house. It was hours and hours later when he finally talked.

Somehow, he said all the right words.

 

 

It had been a bright, outstanding day in Boston.

Crystal blue, beautiful.

A Saturday. Children played in the parks. Boccie games went on in Little Italy. Tourists thronged through Faneuil Hall and were lined up to enter the Paul Revere House. September and October brought a steady stream of people to New England, and to Bean Town, the North Shore, and beyond. The fall foliage was like a brilliant beacon, and provided a splendor that was a feast for the eyes.

Night fell softly, the weather cool, but not bitter, pleasant. Saturday night, and couples and singles partied and played. Families went to dinner. Clubs stayed open late.

Sunday came and went.

All in all, it was a quiet weekend in a big city where crime was inevitable.

It wasn't until Tuesday morning, when Theresa Kavanaugh failed to show up for work a second day in a row, that she was reported missing to police.

And though every possible lead was followed, no one had seen her since she had left the bar Friday night.

She had been flirting with a man at the pool table . . .

But oddly enough, no one could give a description of him.

There were no signs of her having returned to her apartment. And there were no signs of violence along the way from the bar to her home.

No sign of... anything.

It was as if she had just vanished into thin air.

Like hundreds, or even thousands, of young women across the country, Theresa Kavanaugh had simply disappeared.

She was well over twenty-one, an adult. She might have chosen to disappear. It would be her legal right to do so.

Her coworkers fantasized about what might have happened.

They could remember nothing about the man at the pool table, except that . . .

He'd been wicked good-looking. In fact . . .

Devilishly exciting.

Megan was screaming.

In the terrible reality that
was
happening, she heard her own voice.

In the darkness, she knew the sense of a spiraling fear that threatened to become overwhelming, to smother her. She had a sense of fatality, and she saw the shadow figure, saw him entering the room. Adrenaline raced through her, desperation, the sense that she must move, must fight for survival.

The sound continued—it was all she heard and she screamed and screamed, knowing the deadly menace that had come to her. She knew, as well, that she had said something, done something, to precipitate what was happening. She knew each step as it occurred, the figure appearing, the fear, the terrible understanding of what was to come. She felt the violence as he came upon her, his touch upon her hair first, then her clothing, the blows against her as she resisted. The violation of her flesh, the hands around her throat . . .

Faceless, he was faceless, but she knew him, she had to know him.

Had to know his hands. Around her throat, then his hands, pressing her down, and she knew she was going to die. She wasn't sure how . . . Would the hands so powerful against her flesh crush the life from her, or was this only to subdue her? Would there be a knife blade, a pressing against her throat, creating a rich spill of blood . . .?

Whichever, it was coming, and she knew that it was coming, and she still couldn't see his face, only the darkness, and she was suddenly certain of a welling of sound, soft and low and underlying the chilling shrill of her screams, a sound of chanting, voices, many voices . . .

Whispers, laughter.

Eerie laughter, evil laugher . . .

She screamed louder, fought more wildly, desperate now not just to save her life, but to still the cackling sounds that seemed to enter her very soul, wrapping around it, crushing the life from it, as the hands upon her seemed to be doing with flesh.

She kicked, tried so hard to keep screaming, but she had no breath, no sound could come, no air could come . . .

Only the pulse, the thunder of her heart.

Fight, fight
. . . even as a darkness deeper than night fell before her eyes.
Kick, scratch, fight . . . claw at the hands . . .

The hands . . . that slipped as she dug her nails hard . . .

Screaming, still, the sound of screaming . . .

“Megan! Jesus, stop! Megan!”

Hands, again, on her shoulders, shaking her. She struck out, hard, desperately.

“Megan! Damn! Megan, wake up!”

She awoke, stunned, still hearing distant screams, but they were coming from her.

“Megan!”

Finn straddled over her then. His right hand was vised around her wrists; he was rubbing his jaw with his left. He stared down at her, his eyes as brilliant as twin knife blades, his face ashen.

“Megan! What the hell is the matter with you?”

Abruptly, her screaming stopped.

She was drawn from the incredible reality of the world she had entered in her sleep to the true reality of life. And in real life, she was in a quiet bed and breakfast in a quiet, historical town that only went a bit crazy during the month of October.

“Finn! Oh, my God, Finn!”

She tried to pull her arms free.

“Are you going to sock me in the jaw again?”

“I didn't!”

“You did.”

“I'm so sorry . . . please!”

He eased his hold. She reached up, curled her arms around his neck, shaking, nearly sobbing.

A dream. It had been nothing but a dream.

He didn't push her away, but his shoulders were as stiff as boards. When she drew back, the look in his narrowed green eyes was wary, distant, and accusing.

“Megan, Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about?”

“I had the most awful nightmare.”

“A nightmare—and you had to scream like a thousand hounds were after you, here, now!”

He was interrupted by a hard banging on the door.

She bit her lower lip, wincing. Finn jumped up and reached for the terry bathrobe she had discarded before bed that lay upon the floor by their side.

He opened the door. From the darkness of the room, Megan could see the dimly lit hallway. Mr. Fallon, the groundskeeper and jack-of-all-trades at Huntington House, stood grimly in the doorway.

“What goes on here, Mr. Douglas?” he demanded sternly.

“I'm so sorry. It seems that Megan has had a nightmare,” Finn explained.

Mr. Fallon gave Finn an up and down glare that implied he didn't believe a word of it. In fact, it looked as if he were about to call the police, and see that Finn was charged with some form of domestic violence.

“Sounded like a bloody murder!” Fallon said.

Megan couldn't just hop up and explain herself. She was naked. She called out weakly from the bed. “I'm fine, Mr. Fallon, really. I just had a horrible nightmare. I'm so, so sorry!”

“Well, then, it's a good thing you're in this wing of the house,” Fallon said brusquely. “You'd be waking up the whole household, with such caterwaulin'! Do you have these nightmares often, young lady?”

“No, no . . . of course, not!” Megan called.

“As you can see,” Finn told Fallon irritably, “everything is perfectly all right in here.”

“Actually, young man, there's not all that much I can see—since it's so darned dark and all. But we don't take kindly to folks fighting around here—not in Huntington House. We're a fine establishment with a good reputation.”

“Of course,” Finn said.

“The Merrills have a reputation in these parts, too,” he said, referring to Megan's family.

She wasn't sure if the reputation her family had garnered was good or bad.

“I'm honestly sorry, Mr. Fallon. There were too many tales filling my head when I fell asleep, I believe.”

“Humph!”

“I had a nightmare,” Megan said, her tone quiet but firm. She thought she resented Mr. Fallon. She was suddenly certain he didn't think much of the Merrill family at all.

“See that you keep it down,” Fallon said. “There can be no more such outbursts—sir!” He had started speaking to Megan; he ended with a word of warning for Finn.

“Good night,” Finn said.

Fallon nodded, and moved off. Reluctantly, so it seemed.

Finn closed the door. Darkness descended with the night-lights gone from the hall. But a second later the room was flooded with light as Finn hit the switch at the side of the door. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, staring at Megan.

“He thinks I was beating you.”

“Oh, Finn, surely not—”

“Everyone knows we've just gotten back together.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Fallon doesn't know a thing about us.”

“Well, he seems to know all about your family, and therefore, he probably knows we've just gotten back together, and he surely thinks you made a major mistake and that I was about to slit your throat before he arrived.”

“Finn, stop it. Surely, somewhere in his life, sometime before, someone has woken up from a nightmare, screaming.”

“You think? I've never woken up before next to a woman screaming loudly enough to burst my eardrums.”

“Dammit, Finn, I've said I'm sorry! I didn't do it on purpose! I had a dream, a really terrible nightmare. Someone was going to kill me!” she said, surprised to feel a hint of the fear rising within her again, as if it would choke off her speech. “In fact, a little sympathy would be in order.”

He stood, still distant, staring at her for a long moment. Even the way he looked now, far too tall for the terry bathrobe, legs seeming impossibly long and honed beneath the white hem, she loved him so much. From his tousled dark hair to his bare feet. Things were so tenuous between them, now. Before . . . once, before, she would have flown from the bed and into his arms. But only a month had passed since they'd been back together, a month since he'd driven up the East Coast to Maine, come to her folks' house, and laid everything on the line.

“Finn!” she said, still shaky, and growing angry herself.

“Excuse me, you nearly dislocated my jaw, Megan.”

“Why can't you understand? I was deeply sleeping. I had a nightmare. A really terrifying nightmare.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. Hair wild, arms folded over his chest, wearing the ridiculous robe, he was both imposing and appealing. He had a great face. Not too pretty. Classical, masculine structure, strong chin line, solid, defined cheekbones, fine, full mouth, dead straight, aristocratic nose. Not small, not too prominent. Deep green eyes set beneath a broad brow, rich dark hair. He was a natural athlete, thus in good shape no matter what his situation in life. Now, though, they were in the cool autumn of October in Massachusetts, they had just come from a week in the Florida Keys, and he was solidly bronzed and sleek, and ever more appealing.

She turned, lying back on her pillow, facing away from him.

A moment later, he was at her side.

She felt his fingers feather down her back. “All right, Megan, I'm sorry.”

“I imagine it was the fireside tales,” she murmured, still resentful, but not wanting the argument to go on.

Wrong thing to say. “You're from here!” he said with something that sounded like a snort. “You're the one with family around here. And you were frightened by stories about Salem?”

“They were different stories, not really about Salem, and certainly not in the historical sense,” she said.

“Oh, right, let's see, All Hallow's Eve is coming, and evil is something that grows, that feeds on the atmosphere, and clings to the places where man's cruelty to man has been strong? Get serious, Megan, consider history, and that would be almost anyplace on earth.”

“Of course, you're right,” she said stiffly.

“Ah, but then, a full moon will be rising. And the fog and the mist will swirl, and there are those living today who believe in the dark powers, who mean to raise the dead from their unhallowed graves, and set dark winds of evil free to haunt the world.”

She sat up, suddenly feeling defensive. “Finn, contemporary Salem is a lovely place peopled by those who scoff at witchcraft, and those who believe in their pursuit of Wicca as a real religion, those who have darling shops and make a nice income off history, and those who run great restaurants and couldn't really care less. And yes, sadly, the victims of the persecution here were surely innocent of the crimes attributed to them, but do you know what? There always were—and perhaps still are—those who believed in witchcraft, or not witchcraft, Satanism, or whatever you want to call it, and they do bad things in their belief. Damn, Finn—think about it! Are there still bad people out there? Wow. Yeah, I think so. So I listened to stories about the evil in men's hearts, in their beliefs in the powers of darkness and things that go bump in the night, and I had a bad dream. That's not so bizarre, or unforgivable.”

He laid back down, fingers laced behind his head. “And you have a cousin who operates a witchcraft shop.”

“There's nothing evil about Morwenna.”

“I didn't say there was.”

“It isn't illegal to be a Wiccan now. It was illegal to practice any form of witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds.”

“Right.”

“Morwenna believes in earth and nature, and in doing good things to and for people, especially because any evil thought or deed is supposed to come back at a Wiccan threefold.”

“And her freaking tall, dark, and eerie palm-reading husband, Joseph, is a fucking pillar of the community?” he said sarcastically.

“Why are we fighting about my cousin and her husband?” she asked a little desperately.

“Because I'm starting to think it was a major mistake to come here,” he said.

“You wanted to come,” she reminded him curtly. “This was a good move for your career.”

“I didn't think you'd come home and turn into a screaming harpy.”

She turned her back on him once again, hurt more than she could begin to say.
A mistake? Had it all been a mistake?

From the moment she had first seen Finn, her first day of college, she had begun falling for him. She'd never wanted someone so badly in her life. She had just about chased him shamelessly, but it had been all right, because he had returned her mad obsession. In a matter of days, she'd just about lost all thought of her classes, eager, anxious, desperate, to be with him at any given time. They'd eluded their friends time and time again to spend their precious hours together. At first, there had been no arguments—in truth, they hadn't talked enough to argue, they'd wanted nothing more than to touch, to be in one another's arms, naked, making love. The unfailing flame of simple chemistry had been so strong that they'd defied all advice and married one weekend, standing before friends and the priest in a small town in southern Georgia. For a few years, they had lived in the bliss of the young and innocent. Finn had graduated, and scholarships and student work programs had ended. Megan had another two years to go. Finances grew tight and music equipment was expensive. They'd begun to struggle. There were arguments about what made money, what didn't, what was good, what wasn't. The differences between them which had at first seemed so charming became points of friction. She had hunches and intuitions; he was entirely pragmatic. She was from Massachusetts, and other than her initial, abandoned adoration for him, she tended to a New Englander's reserve. Finn was from the Deep South, ready to plow into any situation and offer anything they had to anyone. She'd always been a good daughter and student, he'd been a bad boy at times, suspended for fighting now and then in high school, barely squeaking into college with a music scholarship just because he'd had such a natural talent. She was close to her parents; his were divorced and remarried. He made dutiful calls once a month, and sent cards and presents to his little half siblings, but they seldom visited either of his parents. Finn loathed his stepfather, barely tolerated his stepmother, and had been on his own from the day he had graduated from high school. Then his father died of a heart attack, and he was torn between resentment that he hadn't even been remembered in the will, and guilt that he hadn't made more of an effort to communicate despite his unease about his stepmother. He'd started spending long hours out when Megan thought he should have needed her most. He took more and more out of town work. Jealousy, doubt, mistrust . . . the little enemies that form together to tear down a relationship began to flourish and grow. Then, slowly, little shadows of doubt and anger began, and then, for Megan, the final, agonizing, hateful straw, the flutist Finn brought into the band they had formed when they weren't working together as a duo. She didn't leave right away; she was still too desperately in love. And arguments were too easily solved because anger was such a vivid emotion, and fights too easily solved by giving into the heat and adrenaline of the moment, falling back into bed, and rising later to discover that nothing had been solved. At last, the doubts moved in too deeply, and she had no intention of losing all self-respect for herself, or letting her own hopes for a fulfilling career become crushed by standing in the background, giving way completely. They'd had a fight in which she'd gotten mad and hit him in the head with a loaf of bread. They'd fought on the balcony; neighbors had seen them. The bread had become a wine bottle in the retelling, and in some stories, she'd beaten Finn, in others, he'd beaten her. Rumors had spread. He'd been furious with the things said about him, more concerned with rumor than with her, and so, she had left.