She was weary, and she ached. Growing old, she thought. Giving in to pain and getting weak.
Ten years ago she could have strangled Bedelia Morse with one hand. Should've beat her to death with a piece of wood, she thought. Or shot her with the Magnum and then run the van over the other bitch. But things had been moving so fast, and she'd known she was torn up and she was deep-down scared she was going to pass out before she and Drummer could get away. She'd figured the pitbulls were going to finish Laura Clayborne off, but now she was wishing she'd been certain.
I panicked, she thought. I panicked and left them both alive.
But their car was gone. The dogs had done a number on Laura, at least as bad as the damage done to herself. Should have killed her, Mary fretted. Should have run over her with the van before I left. No, no; Laura Clayborne was finished. If she was still alive, she was gasping in a hospital bed somewhere. Suffer, she thought. I hope you suffer good and long for trying to steal my baby.
But she was growing old. She knew it. Growing old, getting panicked, and leaving loose strings.
Mary slowly and painfully got out of the lounger and limped back to check on Drummer. He was sleeping soundly on the bed, cuddled up in a clean blue blanket, the pacifier clenched in his mouth, and his cherub face scraped from friction with the floorboard. She stood there, watching him sleep, and she could feel fresh blood oozing down her thigh but she didn't mind. He was a beautiful boy. An angel, sent from heaven as a gift for Jack. He was so very beautiful, and he was hers.
"I love you," Mary whispered in the quiet.
Jack was going to love him, too. She knew he would.
Mary picked up her bloody jeans from the floor and reached into a pocket. She brought out the clipping from the Sierra Club newsletter, now stained with spots of gore. Then she limped back to the den, and the telephone there. She found a phone book, got the area code she needed, and dialed directory assistance in northern California. "Freestone," she told the operator. "I'd like the number of Keith Cavanaugh." She had to spell the last name.
It was rattled off by one of those computer voices that sound human. Mary wrote the number down on a sheet of yellow notepad paper. Then Mary dialed directory assistance a second time. "Freestone. I'd like the number of Nick Hudley."
It joined the first phone number on the sheet. A third calclass="underline" "Freestone. Dean Walker."
"The number you have requested is not available at this time," the computer voice said.
Mary hung up, and put a question mark beside Dean Walker's name. An unlisted number? Did the man not have a phone? She sat in a chair next to the phone, her leg really hurting again. She stared at Keith Cavanaugh's number. Did she dare to dial it? What would happen if she recognized Jack's voice? Or what if she dialed both numbers and neither voice was Jack's? Then that would leave Dean Walker, wouldn't it? She picked up the receiver again; her fingers did their clutching dance, and she had to put the phone down for a minute until the spasms had ceased.
Then she dialed the area code and the number of Keith Cavanaugh.
One ring. Two. Three. Mary's throat had dried up. Her heart was pounding. What would she say? What could she say? Four rings. Five. And on and on, without an answer.
She hung up. It was a little after nine o'clock in Freestone. Not too late to be calling, after all these years. She dialed Nick Hudley's number.
After four rings, Mary heard the phone click as it was being picked up. Her stomach had knotted with tension.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Hard to say how old.
"Hi. Is Nick Hudley there, please?"
"No, I'm sorry. Nick's at the council meeting. Can I take a message?"
"Um…" She was thinking furiously. "I'm a friend of Nick's," she said. "I haven't seen him for a long time."
"Really? What's your name?"
"Robin Baskin," she said.
"Do you want Nick to call you back?"
"Oh, no… that's all right. Listen, I'm trying to find the number of another friend of mine in Freestone. Do you know a man named Dean Walker?"
"Dean? Sure, everybody knows Dean. I don't have his home number, but you can reach him at Dean Walker Foreign Cars. Do you want that number?"
"Yes," Mary said. "Please."
The woman went away from the phone. When she returned, she said, "Okay, Robin, here it is." Mary wrote down the telephone number and the address of Dean Walker Foreign Cars. "I don't think they're open this late, though. Are you calling from the Freestone area?"
"No, it's long distance." She cleared her throat. "Are yon Nick's wife?"
"Yes, I am. Can I give Nick your number? Council meeting's usually over before ten."
"Oh, that's all right," Mary said. "I'm on my way there. I'll just wait and surprise him. One more thing… see, I used to live in Freestone, a long time ago, and I've lost touch with people. Do you know Keith Cavanaugh?"
"Keith and Sandy. Yes, I do."
"I tried to call Keith, but nobody's home. I just wanted to make sure he still lived there."
"Oh, yes. Their house is just down the road."
"Good. I'd like to go by and see him, too."
"Uh… may I tell my husband you called, Robin?"
"Sure," Mary said. "Tell him I'll be there in a couple of days."
"All right." The woman's voice was beginning to sound a little puzzled. "Have we ever met?"
"No, I don't think so. Thanks for your help." She hung up, and then she dialed Cavanaugh's number once more. Again there was no answer. Mary stood up, her thigh swollen and hot, and she limped to the Barcalounger and her can of beer. Two days and she'd be in Freestone. Two days, and she'd find Lord Jack again. It was a thought to dream on.
Mary fell asleep, with the lights on and the TV going and the wind shrilling outside. In her sanctuary of wishes, she walked with Lord Jack across a wide, grassy hillside. The ocean was spread out in a tapestry of blue and green before them, and the thunder of waves echoed from the rocks. She was young and fresh, with her whole life before her, and when she smiled there was no hardness in her eyes. Jack, wearing tie-dyed robes, held Drummer in his arms, and his blond hair flowed down around his shoulders and back like spun gold. Mary saw a house in the distance, a beautiful two-story house with rock chimneys and moss growing where the Pacific spray had touched. She knew that house, and where it stood. The Thunder House was where the Storm Front had begun, in its ritual of candles and blood oaths. It was where she had first been loved by Lord Jack, and where she had given her heart to him forever.
It was the only house she'd ever called home.
Lord Jack hugged their baby close, and he put an arm around the tall, slim girl at his side. They walked together through flowers, the air damp and salty with ocean mist, a lavender fog creeping across Drakes Bay. "I love you," she heard Jack say close in her ear. "I've always loved you. Can you dig it?"
Mary smiled and said she could. An iridescent tear rolled down her cheek.
They went on toward the Thunder House with Drummer between them and the promise of a new beginning ahead.
And in the Barcalounger, Mary slept heavily in an exhaustion of blood loss and weary flesh, her mouth partway open and a long silver thread of saliva drooling over her chin. The bandages on her thigh and forearm were splotched with red. Outside, snow flurries spun from the sky and frosted the barren fields, and the temperature fell below fifteen degrees.