"Maybe I should be the one askin' questions," the old woman growled.
At this point I figured I had already won round one. If she hadn't pulled the trigger by now, the odds were at least 50–50 that she wasn't going to. Pulling the trigger on another human being when they're breaking into your home is an impulse thing, and once the impulse passes, you've won the first round.
"What 'cha want here?" she groused.
The mere fact that she was talking instead of shooting was another hopeful sign. I felt my jaw relax, and the lump in my throat started to go away.
"It's the sarcophagus, ain't it? That's what you came for, ain't it?"
It was time to come up with a response that sounded at least halfway intelligent. If I didn't, there was a good chance that finger of hers could get a little nervous.
"I didn't come for it," I explained. "Actually, I came here to talk to you about it."
"What about it?"
There were two ways to approach it — head on or try to gain the old girl's confidence with a little preliminary chatter. Rightly or wrongly, I figured Glenna Austin wasn't big on the social amenities. James Bay didn't exactly conjure up impressions of a place where the emphasis was on the social graces.
I decided on the no-nonsense approach. If I kept her talking, she would be thinking about what she was saying and not about pulling the trigger.
"The true believers are assembling, aren't they?"
"Who told you about that?"
I pointed to the ugly little statue with the bloated belly. "I've done some homework."
"Sate, Ancient of Ancients," she repeated. "We ain't supposed to have them sittin' out where folks can see it, but I think it's too beautiful to keep hidden."
"Are you a true believer?"
The old woman nodded dreamily. "Me and the husband was both blessed."
"Your husband was a true believer, too?"
She nodded again. This time she tightened her shawl around her throat as though she was experiencing a slight chill. In the darkness I could read little else into the gesture.
It was time to let her off the hook momentarily. The one thing I didn't want to do was to put her back on the defensive. A defensive attitude could result in a squeeze, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted less than a twitch in that gnarled old finger of hers which was still tightly coiled around the trigger. I decided to do a little more talking and give her a breather.
"We were intrigued with the replica of the sarcophagus of Sate, intrigued enough to start asking some questions."
"Then you already learned that it's the time of the equinoctial awakening?"
I gave her my best E.G. Wages quizzical expression and hoped she'd catch it.
The old woman somehow managed to contort her twisted features still further. She began what was essentially an affirmation of what Kelto had already told me. "The eleven year cycle of Sate has begun again. The Prince of the other-world domain will rise again." It was all too obvious she was merely parroting the words she had so carefully memorized.
It was time for quizzical look number two.
"You know nothing of this?" she rasped.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation while she tried to decide just how much it was safe to tell me. She may have been ugly, but she more than made up for it in caginess. So far her patterns weren't the standard "I'll follow the cause at any price" attitudes. She was reticent. Most true believers won t shut up once you get them started.
"I'm told you have to be chosen."
She came back at me with a barely perceptible nod.
"How do you know you've been chosen?"
She still kept her finger on the trigger, but the other hand reached up and loosened the shawl. Beneath that was a high buttoned blouse. She opened it to reveal what appeared to be nothing more than a small discoloration of the skin, a tiny bruise in the V of her throat. "We are all marked," she said solemnly.
"When?"
"At the dawn of time, an ordinal process, an allocation with the assignment of souls."
"What do you mean by the assignment of souls?"
"The planning of events," she answered evenly.
"So what does this equinoctial awakening mean to you?"
"It means that among all the blessed, I am chosen. I am Sate's choice. Of the many who are so blessed, only a handful of true believers will be called upon to serve, to attend to the Ancient of Ancients."
"What about your husband?"
"If he had been among the chosen, he would have lived to see this day."
"What's your role in all of this?"
"My mission will become known to me as the great hour approaches."
"Are you saying the hour is near?"
She closed her pinched little eyes as though she was savoring the thought of the momentous event. "It is an occasion of great joy for the true believers. It is the time of the cycle; it is so ordained."
"Something in your voice tells me you think this so-called awakening is somehow different than the rest."
The old woman nodded dreamily. "Eleven times eleven." For one brief moment the rasp disappeared from her voice and assumed an almost celestial quality. "On the calendar of Sate this is indeed a special occasion."
"How do you know these things?" I pushed.
"These are revelations from the Great Book of Comprehensions," she answered flatly.
"You have such a book?"
She nodded suspiciously.
"May I see it?"
"Are you a true believer?"
I was tempted to tell the old girl that I couldn't be sure until I went back to the motel and gave the V in my neck a closer inspection. On the other hand, it didn't seem to be the time or place for one of E.G.'s flippant remarks. The old girl just might squeeze.
"No," I answered, knowing full well I couldn't have produced the evidence to support my contention even if I had lied to her.
Somehow the convoluted old face conveyed a look of sympathy, as though she felt sorry for me.
"Then I cannot reveal the contents of the great book to you."
"When will we witness this so-called great hour?"
"It has already begun," she announced solemnly.
Suddenly there was a chill in the room, like a cold draft. The tapered candle next to the sarcophagus flickered, and the sprig of pine swayed perceptibly. The old woman closed her eyes and appeared to lapse into what cultists like to call a state of deeper communication, a dialogue with another dimension. Her face seemed to relax, and for a fleeting moment there was a trace of a smile. Then her eyes opened.
"I have counseled with the Power," she announced. "He informs me that you are a skeptic and that you cannot be trusted with further revelations."
"I take it then that our little conversation is over."
The Austin widow nodded. She had the gun, and I was tempted not to even try to plead my case.
Still, as Cosmo would say, "No risk, no reward," and I barged on. "Well, then, who is the Emissary?"
The faint, almost discernible little smile was long gone. A twisted mask composed of distrust, confusion and cultism was all too much in evidence. She glared back at me without responding.
"If you can't tell me that, at least give me the rundown on Kelto."
The old woman was obviously weighing her answer. "I am told he is one of us, but I do not trust him. The Emissary will put him to the test."
"The test? What kind of test?"
"No more questions," she snapped. Just like that I was back to square one. "Go!"
I shrugged, turned and started for the door, hoping the Emissary wasn't sending a message that could be interpreted as "shoot." The door was open and I was halfway out before she spoke again.
"Do not come back again, Mr. Wages. The Emissary has spoken. Skeptics are to be regarded much the same as we regard the nonbelievers. They are not to be trusted. And if you cannot be trusted not to interfere, then you will be treated the same as those who seek to intervene."