The windows of his ranch-style house were dark when I drove up. I switched off the engine and said: “Tell me if he’s in there.”
Ann closed her eyes. After a minute her breathing slowed to a hoarse, deep rhythm.
“Well?”
Ann jumped, and her eyes flew open. “I don’t pick up anything, Fred. But you know, that doesn’t mean...”
“I know. I’ll have to go in. You stay here with the engine running.”
“Oh Fred! You wouldn’t know what to do if you rah into it.”
“Well, tell me.”
“The best thing is not to be afraid.”
“What’s the next best thing? I’m already terrified.”
“No, really. It works by paralyzing your will, through fear. The bird and the snake. You hate what you fear, and your hatred consumes you. Thus you become what you hate. Is that clear?”
“No, but I’m going in anyway. Lean on the horn if you see anything. Don’t leave the car!”
I opened the screen door and walked across the wooden porch. The kitchen door hung open; I stuck my head into the dark room and breathed the smell of stale food and dishwater. My flashlight beam found the fuse-box in the hallway. The insert which held the cartridge fuses had been pulled out and dropped onto the floor. I picked it up and, shoved the prongs back into their slots.
The flourescent kitchen light blinked, flickered, and settled into a dull hum. Naked white light bathed a woman’s body sprawled across the bedroom door. She wore a blue nightgown and what looked like a wet red bandanna around her neck. Her throat was a ragged gash from jaw to collarbone.
I heard Ann gasp beside me. She ran forward and slipped her hand into the woman’s armpit.
“Still warm.” She jumped up. “I can track him—”
“No!”
Ann looked at me in surprise. “No?”
“No. We’ll go back to the motel and call the sheriff.”
Her chin jutted. “Suppose I follow him anyway?”
“I’ll stop you.”
Ann tilted her head and squinted at me, looking more puzzled than angry. “I’m not used to being told what to do.”
“Sorry about that. I’ll keep you safe if I have to cripple you in the process.”
I found a sheet and covered the body of Rose Marie Westlake. I didn’t like to think about the manner of her death. Probably she’d gotten up to fix her husband a snack, knowing he’d be hungry after his coon-hunting.
I turned out the lights and we drove back toward town. Ann rode in silence. She didn’t seem to be brooding, just thinking.
I called the sheriff from her room. The night deputy said Sheriff Hoffer was investigating a disturbance at Chuck and Patty’s Tavern, and he would try to patch me into his car phone. While I waited, Ann peeled off her coveralls and opened her suitcase to take out a sheer nightdress. I guess she was so completely attuned to the spiritual plane that she didn’t realize how her body affected a carnal person like myself.
The sheriff answered in a gruff, angry voice. I gave my name and then Ann leaned over and whispered in my ear:
“Tell him not to shoot. Whatever he does, don’t shoot.”
The sheriff growled: “Goddammit, Fred, say your piece and get off the line. A guy and his gal got murdered in a parked car out here and I got no time—”
“How were they killed?” I asked, afraid I knew.
“Shot, through the windshield. Then the bastard crawled in and cut their throats.”
My scalp drew, tight. “Nobody heard the shots?”
“No. The damn lights went out inside, everybody was hollerin’ and grabbin’—”
“Sheriff, the man who did it is Bob Westlake.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’ve known Bob since the sixth grade. He’s harmless as a kitten.”
“He’s changed. He just killed his wife.”
There were three ticks of silence. Then the sheriff said in a tight silky burr: “Fred, boy, where are you callin’ from?”
“Never mind that. You go on out to Bob’s and look. But if you see him, don’t shoot. Just get a lot of men and surround him, take his gun away but don’t hurt him. Hear, sheriff? It’s important. It’s not a joke! Sheriff—”
The receiver clicked in my ear. I hung up and looked at Ann. She was stretched out on the bed with her arms at her sides, palms up. Without taking her eyes off the ceiling she said:
“You can’t keep a sheriff from using his gun, any more than you can keep a bull from using his horns.”
I swung a chair over beside her and sat down. “What are you doing?”
She reached out and took my hand. “Stay with me, I’m going to try to communicate.”
“I think it’s too dangerous.”
“No. Lock the door and windows. It can’t hurt us physically if it can’t get to us. There’s just one thing. Whatever I do, whatever I say, don’t let me leave the room. Remember that. Don’t let me out!”
“I won’t,” I promised.
X
Ann began breathing evenly. I took the burning cigaret from her fingers and lay it in the ashtray. Her breath slowed, deepened. I got up and opened the window at the end of the room, looking across the open field which stretched out behind the motel. Dark forested hills reared up a quarter-mile away. Near the crest, where the highway curved, I saw the blue-red splash of neon which marked Chuck and Patty’s tavern. The beast had been very close.
I closed the window and yanked down the inside lever, wedging it tightly into its socket. Then I went into the bathroom and fastened the hook on the window. I turned the key in the door and fastened the night-chain. Then I turned out the light and walked back to the bed. Ann was murmuring softly:
“I know how it feels. Hates everybody, everything. Motorcars, buildings, people. I remember the old legends of trolls and little people of Ireland who lived under the ground. I’ve seen their fairy castles and the magic circles where they dance in the moonlight. This isn’t one of those. This is something strange, twisted — OH!”
Ann shrieked and went rigid. I tried to smooth her body with my hands but she was vibrating like a taut doorspring. I found a bottle of scotch in her suitcase, poured a glass full, and let it trickle through her clenched teeth. She snorted and spat, then sat up flailing her arms, knocking the glass out of my hand. I backed away, and she bounced off the bed, like an uncoiling spring, crossed the room in two leaps, and started clawing at the door latch.
I ran over and grabbed her arms, pulling them up behind her back. She snarled and kicked backward, her soft heel striking my kneecap. I imprisoned both her wrists in my left hand and clamped my right forearm under her chin. She twisted her head, her teeth flashing white in the dim light.
I saw her eyes; the pupils were almost out of sight under her lids. I lifted my knee and shoved it against her rump, pushing her pelvis against the wall while I pulled her head back. She writhed, jerked, clawed tracks of fire on the backs of my hands — and then collapsed.
I carried her back to the bed and stretched her out, sliding a pillow under her head. Then I refilled the whisky glass and pushed it under her nose. Ann raised up, took a huge swallow, then lowered her head to the pillow.
“Again?” she asked.
“Yes. How do you feel?”
Ann stretched out her hands and pressed the covers beside her, then reached up and put her hands beside my ears, touching my neck, my shoulders, my body.
“It hates me. I’m the enemy. It feels that I’m persecuting it. It wants to kill me, but it knows it can’t.”
I held the glass to her lips and she took another sip. “Why can’t it?”
“Because I don’t hate it.”
“You don’t?” My voice rose in surprise.