The Back Door of Midnight (12 page)

Although the cats gave no sign of Aunt Iris’s imminent
arrival, I rewrapped the notebook and placed it back where I had found it, worried that if I left it out, Aunt Iris might sweep it up in one of her angry displays. It occurred to me that Uncle Will may have shared that concern. Perhaps he was interrupted while examining the notebook and hastily slipped it behind the other books, hiding it with whatever newspaper was handy, the newspaper from that day. I wondered if there was something he had read in the notebook that caused him to write to me the next day and ask me to come.

I sat back in his chair, thinking I had made a big mistake. Because my feelings were hurt by Zack, I had passed up an opportunity to get to know the girl who appeared to be responsible for the fire. I was like Marcy with her response to Cindy Reed and her beautiful angels, forgetting my ultimate goal. And it wasn’t just contact with Erika that I would be missing out on. Kids talked at parties, boasting and gossiping; chances were good that I could learn something from some of her friends who had been at the fire. I owed it to Uncle Will to find out how he had died. And I had come here to learn whatever he needed to tell me about my mother and her family. If Elliot Gill was important enough to have his number listed in my mother’s book, he might know something. The truth was, I had more reasons to go with Zack to the party than he had to go with me. “Two can play this game,” I said aloud, and headed for Zack’s house.

AUDREY ANSWERED THE
door. Either I had a grim look on my face or she had a genuine obsession with the “House of Evil.”

“I knew something terrible would happen,” she said. “Come in, child. As soon as I finish with the family’s dinner, we can talk.”

“Nothing has happened,” I told her. “I just want to speak to Zack.”

“Who is it, Audrey?” a man called, and a moment later emerged through a door beneath a sweeping stairway. “Hello.”

He had the same body structure and the same basic coloring as Zack, though his hair was a shade lighter and his blue eyes lacked the haunting depth of Zack’s. Those differences and a slightly rounder face made him pleasant-looking rather than handsome. “I’m Dave Fleming, Zack’s dad. You must be Anna.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“By the”—he hesitated—“chestnut-colored hair.”

Zack must have told him about that. “I’ll come back. I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“It’s not an interruption, it’s a visit. Come in, come in,” he said, gesturing toward the door through which he had just come. “Have you had dinner? We’ll set another place at the table. Audrey’s a fabulous cook.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. I just need to speak to Zack for a second.”

Audrey exited through a small door. I was hoping Dave would call Zack, but instead, he led me through the door beneath the curved stairway. We emerged into a dusky, high-ceilinged dining room. Zack and Marcy sat at the far end of a polished table that looked long enough to bowl on. Both of them appeared surprised, the flickering candlelight exaggerating their expressions. Zack put down his fork and rose politely to his feet, which made me feel as if I were in a Jane Austen novel. His father strode ahead of me and carried a chair over to the table, setting it next to Zack’s.

“Really, I’ve had dinner, sir.”

“Dave,” Zack’s father corrected me, smiling. “Call me Dave.”

“I’m just staying a minute.”

“But you can’t,” Dave protested. “I’m the only one in the family who hasn’t gotten the opportunity to know you. Marcy sings your praises. Zack tells me . . . a few things.”

“Dad,” Zack said with a note of warning.

“According to Audrey, even Clyde has conversed with you—in dog language.”

Marcy rolled her eyes.

“And a goat, too, apparently.” From a drawer in a massive sideboard, Dave drew out a place mat and silverware. “If you’ve had dinner, I’m sure you would like dessert.”

“Thanks but—”

“Strawberries and whipped cream, guaranteed to contribute to heart disease and—”

“Dearest,” Marcy interrupted, “Anna knows what she wants and doesn’t want.”

“Oh. Well, then, I suppose that is why you two get along so well,” he said, gazing lovingly at his wife. He turned back to me. “Please sit down. Perhaps you would like something chocolate instead. I’m sure we have—”

“Dad,” Zack said, “she’s not hungry. She doesn’t want to sit down. Let her talk.”

“Of course.” Dave sat down at the same time as Zack and waited.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to go to the party tomorrow.”

In the candlelight Marcy’s eyes glinted. She probably thought I had joined the army of girls chasing Zack. But Zack
didn’t; the expression on his face was guarded, thoughtful, as if he was deducing my motive.

“I mean, if you haven’t asked someone else,” I added.

“I haven’t.”

“Well, then, that’s settled,” Dave said, jumping into the awkward moment. “It’s always good to meet new people—Zack to meet you, you to meet others, that kind of thing.”

Zack took a sip of water from his cut-glass goblet, barely hiding his smirk. “I’ll pick you up at seven forty-five,” he said. “Since it’s catered, we’re supposed to arrive on time.”

“I’ll be ready.” I took a step back. “Nice meeting you . . . Dave. I really have to go. Don’t anyone get up. I know where the door is.” I pivoted and almost took out Audrey, who had entered through a side door. “Sorry.” I gave her a little wave, then exited.

When I returned to the house, Aunt Iris and her gold car were still absent. I was uncomfortable with her there, and yet just as uncomfortable with her gone. I couldn’t say whether it was Iris’s safety I feared for or the safety of those she might become angry with, including me. She was strong. And I had seen firsthand how easy it was for her to disconnect with reality. It wasn’t as simple as believing, the way Marcy did, that Iris wasn’t the
kind
of person who could harm someone; psychotics turned into other kinds of people.

I needed to do some research, and Uncle Will’s collection of books would provide a good start. I pulled from his shelves several of the books I had noticed earlier and carried them upstairs, trailed by one of the two cats I had hired as lookouts. As soon as I set down the books, the little silver tabby leaped onto my bed. I let her stay, liking the company, hoping she didn’t have fleas.

I began with the book on famous psychotic criminals, paging through it, studying the pictures. Some of the men and women looked nearly possessed, but others appeared as normal and pleasant as Dave Fleming—well, that was reassuring! I read a few case histories and, after a particularly gruesome account, set the text aside. Opening a book on the paranormal, I surveyed its table of contents: Telepathy, Clairvoyance, Precognition, Psychokinesis, Out-of-Body Experiences, Mediumship—I backed up.
Out-of-Body Experiences—
meaning experiences when you didn’t seem to have a body? Experiences when your hands were as transparent as jellyfish? I quickly flipped to the chapter.

I turned on the lamp and for the next hour read that chapter and a similar one in another book, reading the material twice, amazed by the accuracy with which the writers were able to describe my own weird experiences. Having a name for the occurrence, which was often referred to by the acronym O.B.E., made it seem less frightening.

According to the authors, vibrations and electrical sensations were commonly reported in the early stages of an O.B.E., as was the temporary paralysis I had experienced. Some people heard electrical sounds, others, loud rushing noises, which were attributed to the spirit leaving the body through its “chakras.” There was one notable difference between the experience that most people reported and my own: I hadn’t had the shock of looking down at my own body sleeping. Nor had I enjoyed flying and choosing where I would go, an experience that some people described to researchers. It was as if the moment I let go, I was launched on a mission—as if I had been summoned by someone and was under that person’s guidance. Uncle Will? There were stories about O.B.E.s in which the “astral traveler” saw relatives who had died.

Parapsychologists believed that, when out of body, people perceived with their minds, not their physical senses. However, they often interpreted their perceptions the only way they knew how, as if they had five physical senses. Out of body, without physical limitations, their minds “saw” 360 degrees around them, but since humans aren’t used to seeing that, the images seemed to overlap and became confusing when the perceiver tried to interpret them. Also, they saw things that physical eyes couldn’t see—other forms of energy—which produced distortions in the mindscape.

A week ago, reading this stuff, I would have laughed. None of it was scientifically proven. But when you’re having really weird experiences and two writers describe them in detail, you’re ready to believe whatever explanation they offer.

Both writers claimed that astral travelers could improve their perceptions by saying things like “I want to see more clearly now.” I remembered how I had made my vision clearer during my last two experiences: I complained to Aunt Iris, saying that I needed to see. I had assumed that she had cleared my vision, but perhaps the power was within me. That was the most interesting part of what I read in the books: the ability of the person having the O.B.E. to control the experience. Some people learned to induce out-of-body experiences and used them for “astral exploration.” Could I control my experiences enough to learn the details of Uncle Will’s death?

One of the books explained how to put yourself in a super-relaxed stage with the goal of inducing an O.B.E. I tried it. I took deep breaths and imagined myself floating; I stared at a lamp; I lit a candle; I focused on the soothing purr of my tabby friend and hummed along. I told my feet, knees, hips, and arms that they were very, very heavy, but nothing worked. An hour later I blew out the candle and lay back in the darkness, frustrated. In my everyday life I knew how to go after what I wanted, but I was no good at letting go and having things come to me.

That’s when I heard it—not a low, throbbing sound, but a squeak—metal rubbing against wood. The cat raised her head. The noise had come from outside. I heard it twice, as if something had opened and closed. The cat leaped lightly off the bed and padded past the bureaus toward the far end of the attic room. I followed her to the last window, the one above Uncle Will’s den. She sprang into the casement and peered down. I knelt next to her, pressing my face against the screen.

At first I thought Aunt Iris had come home and was burying more ashes, for the figure below was bent over the spot marked by the knife. Then that person stepped back to gaze up at the house. I ducked, but I had already glimpsed the halo of white hair. Audrey.

Using the kitty as camouflage, I snatched a second look and saw that Audrey was holding a bag from which she took objects not much bigger than her fists. She arranged them on the ground, working quickly, then headed back through the gate in the hedge, opening and shutting it with a double squeak.

I moved like the cat, stealing down the back steps to Uncle Will’s den, and exited through the door on the creek side. After the darkness inside the house, the moonlit night seemed bright. In the area marked by the knife, rows of painted rocks gleamed. The cat circled the area, then sniffed the individual rocks. They were smooth and round, like stones that had been
purchased from a store rather than dug out of a garden. Each one bore a black cross or
X
on it, hand-painted, judging by the uneven strokes.

Whether the symbol was religious or simply an
X,
I could guess what it meant. In school we had read about the burial practices of various cultures, some of which used rocks to “keep” the dead person in his or her place. Audrey had made sure that William couldn’t rise out of his ashes to haunt her. Did she fear him that much? It seemed crazy to fear someone whom I remembered as a little stern but very caring. I stared at the butcher knife that marked the grave, wondering if I had known Uncle Will as well as I thought.

I pulled out the knife, then grabbed the shovel that Iris had left leaning against the house. I’d assumed she had buried the jar of ashes, and Audrey had assumed I knew what I was talking about. But what if there was something different under the dirt, like a heavy object that could bludgeon someone to death or an object that could kill when knocked over accidentally?

I dug in a fury, and the cat watched with interest at first. Twenty minutes later I leaned on the shovel, astounded at how deep Aunt Iris had dug. The sandy earth, having been lifted out recently, was loose, but it was probably packed hard for her. I was nearly three feet down and still hadn’t found anything. Was this just a hoax? The cat had departed, but I was so intent on
getting to the bottom of the hole, I forgot what that meant. I kept digging. I had just uncovered the Skippy peanut butter lid when I heard Aunt Iris’s car.

I gazed down at the top of the jar, trying to decide what to do. I could dash up to the attic room, using the back steps from Uncle Will’s den. If questioned, I could say I saw Audrey digging here. But lying would only complicate things. I stood still and waited to see lights come on in the house. None did. I drummed my fingers against the handle of the shovel, my eyes scanning the windows. Aunt Iris’s pale face appeared at the screen door of Uncle Will’s den.

“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering when you would get home.”

“I think you were hoping I would not.”

I glanced down at the hole. “Well, maybe not until I finished here.”

She emerged onto the top step. “The dead should rest in peace.”

“Can they, if they’ve been murdered?”

Her mouth twitched and she gazed off into the distance, as if she were reading the answer there. “Perhaps not.”

I picked up the shovel, deciding to complete my task. She watched quietly as I unearthed the jar of ashes. Something else was in the hole, something that gleamed in the moonlight. I reached down.

So, Aunt Iris had found Erika’s cell phone.

“Audrey’s been here,” Iris observed.