He hesitated. “Of course.”
“About the arrows—”
“I have ten cut, but they need to be notched.” He took a burlap bundle from beside the kiln. Inside were ten thin shafts of white bone, each about eighteen inches in length. “You can make separate arrowheads out of either bone or stone, but bone arrows fly better without the excess weight.”
Emily ran her thumb over the sharpened point. “They’re fine as they are. What about a bow?”
“I have only one.”
“I’ll take it, and as much leather as you can spare.”
“But why?” he cried. “Why do you want these things?”
“I’ll answer that with another question.” Emily set the arrow back on the table. “Do you take Visa or MasterCard?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Emily gazed out the window of the Florida-bound jet, reflecting on what she’d learned from Mr. Snow. Once the old Eskimo got over his distrust, he was amicable and forthcoming, and proved to be a skilled bowyer. He even taught her how to make a bone-splitting tool from a knuckle joint.
She had the tool plus the rest of her tackle in an arrow case in the overhead. She expected problems with airport security, but Mr. Snow gave her a bastardized certificate of authenticity stating the whalebone bow, the ten bone arrows, and the walrus tusk knife were for display purposes only. He also gave her a card naming her a collector of antiquities. After a thorough inspection and a lengthy interview, Security passed her through.
Emily pressed the call button. She asked a flight attendant for a bottle of water and a bag of salted peanuts. That was something Chastity suggested she do—take in as much water and salt as she could in preparation for the trip. There would be neither on the other side.
As she waited, Emily ran through some of Chastity’s other suggestions—hold your breath while in the portal. Keep your arms pulled in tight, your eyes closed.
A wave of trepidation swept her. Was she really going to do this? Chastity said there were hundreds of demons in hell, all of them bent on inspiring as much terror and pain in their captives as they could. Even with a general floor plan of the seven levels of the castle, how was Emily going to avoid detection?
The flight attendant brought her snack, and Emily downed half the water. She held the cold, sweating plastic bottle to her equally damp forehead, fighting the fear churning her stomach. After taking several calming breaths, she conjured her daughter’s face and let it strengthen her resolve.
Emily landed in Jacksonville at three o’clock. She rented a white Chevy Aveo from a line of identical rentals. It still had a new car smell. She opened the windows, not allowing herself the luxury of air conditioning. She needed to get used to the heat.
On her drive south, she stopped at a gas station to use the rest room and to buy more bottled water. A display of pamphlets caught her eye. She remembered Dan’s stash of haunted house brochures, and how she teased him about it. She wished she hadn’t. How was she to know it was his last day on Earth?
As she leafed through the display, Emily found an ad for a Native American store. Indian not Eskimo, she thought, remembering Mr. Snow’s ire on the subject. She studied the ad’s thumbnail map as she walked back to the car. She set the bottles in the cup holders, stuck the pamphlet in the visor, and continued driving.
Once in Saint Augustine, Emily located Datil Pepper Road and then a store with an Indian headdress and colorful blankets in the window. She bought a hooded leather coat that reached to mid-calf, leather pants that laced up the sides, and buckskin prairie boots that cuffed below her knee. She signed the credit slip without noticing how much she paid for the ensemble. She had everything necessary.
She would go to hell tonight.
It was nearly five when she parked in front of Vanessa’s
Psychic Parlor
. She sat for a moment, wondering how to convince Vanessa to open Satan’s Mirror for her. Her knife was in her case in the trunk. Should she bring it along?
She decided money would be a greater motivator. She would offer Vanessa everything she had—it was meaningless anyway. She could come back for the knife if the woman refused.
Emily stepped from the car and strode to the parlor’s front door. Locked. She knocked and heard bells jingle on the other side. No one there. What sort of business hours would a fortuneteller keep?
She circled the building, following the alley to the back entrance. It, too, was locked.
A heated pique rushed through her. She wanted to kick out the screen door, wanted to scream
you can’t deter me so easily.
She gazed up the wooden flight of stairs leading to the apartment, sniffing as if she could detect Vanessa cooking dinner. A homey scene overtook her ire.
Joey might be there. He might be regaling Vanessa with the story of how he caught Emily in the swamp. They were probably having a good laugh.
The idea sobered her. Mouth dry, heart pounding, Emily took a step. Should have brought the knife after all. She held the railing as she climbed, fingers splayed over splintering wood and blistered paint. When she reached the top landing, she felt heady and unreal.
She rapped at the door.
No one answered.
Emily cocked her head, listening for movement. She knocked louder, looking around. One of the windows held a rattling air conditioning unit. Her husband used to call them shakers.
She knocked again, and then turned the knob. The latch opened. After a moment’s hesitation, Emily pushed the door wider. A smell met her. Not cooking odors but that of spoiled meat.
Death. Vanessa’s dead. Joey killed her. She should go back to the car, call the police.
She took a step inside. “Hello?” Her voice sounded sharp in the silence. She stepped farther into the room, leaving the door open.
She was in the kitchen. Tidy. No signs of a struggle. The counter was clear. There were no dishes in the sink. Two coffee mugs sat on the kitchen table.
Emily moved forward, gaping, fabricating a story. They had a cup of coffee together. Vanessa said something Joey didn’t like, and his cold hands went around her throat…
With a gasp, Emily touched her neck where the bruises still showed. She stared at the table. Burn marks scored the chipped edge. The center held an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Two different brands.
He
was
here. She suppressed a shudder. Was he still in the apartment?
Eyes wide, she moved into the living room. An old window blind turned the air yellow. The smell was worse—musty and old. It came from the bedroom. That was where she would find Vanessa’s bloated body. She should leave. But she had to know.
Steeling herself, she squeezed between the shadowed furniture. A threadbare Oriental rug muffled her steps. On the arm of the couch lay a newspaper folded to the crossword. She picked it up, holding it toward the faint light filtering through the window. The paper was dated two days ago.
How could Joey murder Vanessa two days ago when he was in the bayou of Louisiana? How did he get around? The parishioners suspected he had a Mirror in the swamps. Was it like a transporter?
She set the crossword back on the arm of the couch, deep in thought.
Her heart stopped at the sound of a man’s voice behind her.
“Vanessa isn’t here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Emily swallowed a yelp and spun toward the voice. She was so convinced it was Joey, for a moment she thought she saw him standing there, his menacing form outlined by the light from the kitchen.
Not Joey. Officer Harris.
Emily grasped her chest, panting. “You startled me.”
Harris sighed. “There are laws against breaking into a person’s home, Miss Goodman.”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to
enter
.” He looked exasperated, like he wanted to shake her. “What is it with reporters?”
“I want to speak with Vanessa. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s missing. Hasn’t made her appointments in two days.”
“Oh, no,” Emily breathed. How could she get into the Mirror now?
Harris motioned. “All right. Let’s go.”
“There’s a bad smell here. It’s why I came in. Could Vanessa be dead?”
“We found her bedroom closet stuffed full of rabbit skins, some with the heads attached. They weren’t preserved in any way, so they were decomposing. By the look of it, she’d been collecting them for years.”
“Wait a minute. Rabbits?” Emily stepped forward. “There were rabbits in that house on Weeden Street, remember?”
“Yes.” He motioned again and led her out the apartment, closing the door behind them. “I hope you didn’t touch things in there.”
“Just the newspaper. Why? Is it a crime scene?”
“Not at the moment.”
She walked down the stairs. The stench of dead rabbits was on her clothes. “Quite a coincidence, you showing up.”
“We’re keeping an eye on the apartment. When the patrolling officer did a drive-by, she noticed your car and contacted me.”
“How did she know it was my car? Am I on a watch list?”
“More or less. Your name put up a flag at the car rental.” He walked with her down the alley. “I was surprised to see you back in Saint Augustine. The last I heard you were in Hackberry, Louisiana.”
“Yeah, I met the sheriff there.”
“I know. Sheriff LaRouge reported the scuffle you had with Joey Mastrianni, but I don’t see how his account could be accurate. Joey’s been spotted several times in town.”
“It’s accurate, all right.” Emily touched her throat. “We ran into each other in a swamp.”
“He tried to hurt you?”
“He tried to
kill
me.”
They came around the side of the building, heading for her car.
Harris shook his head. “No one matching Joey’s description has boarded a flight in any of the nearby airports.”
“Yet he seems to get around.”
“So do you.” He looked at her. “Where are you staying?”
She stammered. “I didn’t get a room. I don’t plan to be in town that long.”
He held the car door for her as she slid behind the wheel. Emily started the engine. Harris tapped the glass, and she lowered the window.
He leaned in, looking grave. “Stay away from this apartment. Stay away from Vanessa. If there’s been foul play, you don’t want to be mixed up in it.”
“You have my word.” She nodded, trying to match his solemn stare—but an idea struck her. “Say, you can’t get into the parlor, can you? I would like to take a look at the tapestries hanging there.”
“I’m serious,” he said, straightening. “I know you’re frantic and looking for answers, but if I catch you trespassing again, I will arrest you.” He got into his squad car, pulled a U-turn, and drove away.
Emily covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do? Trust Vanessa to disappear right when she needed her. The fortunetelling bitch.
And why did she ask to see the tapestries? The question surprised even her. Something was percolating in the back of her mind. Something in her subconscious. But what was it? Why were the tapestries important?
She’d downloaded the pictures from Dan’s camera onto her home computer. Had she synched her laptop? It was so routine she couldn’t remember whether she had.
Emily popped the trunk, walked to the back of her car and took out the computer case. She returned to the front seat and booted the laptop. The battery was low. Might be worth getting a room just to charge up. But, no—she needed to leave tonight. She couldn’t take a computer where she was going.
The screen lit, and she then navigated to
My Pictures
and scrolled down a list of batch numbers. There they were—the last on the list.
Emily bit her lip. She brought up the photos. The tapestries were rich in detail, beautiful in spite of their subject matter. They appeared to depict scenes from Revelations. One showed a line of people traversing a stone wasteland. They were naked; their limbs were gangly and thin. Those in the back of the group cowered with their arms over their heads. Their mouths gaped as if screaming.
Dogs were on their heels, but not like any dogs Emily had ever seen—these were barrel-chested beasts with snakelike faces and red eyes. Chastity’s hellhounds.
She clicked the next photo. The second tapestry was a faded mass of red and orange. It reminded her of fire. A lake of fire. And within the flames, black stick figures. Her stomach lurched and she turned away.
The last tapestry showed a medieval castle standing on a hill of human skulls. It had a dark moat and a drawbridge. Emily zoomed in, trying to discern the seven levels Chastity told her about. Where would April be kept? How could Emily get to her?
Above the castle were wispy circles. Clouds. Or smoke rings.
Then the significance of the objects became apparent—they were the transporter tunnels Chastity described. She said they sometimes swooped to within fifteen feet of the ground. She said she actually saw a man drop out of one once—the connection must have broken before he arrived at the castle.
Fifteen feet wasn’t that high. If Emily could get up into one, if she climbed one of Chastity’s trees or made her own little hill of demon bones to stand on—if she could get up there, it should transport her and April home.
She turned off the computer with a grim enthusiasm. She had her way out, now she needed a way in. Vanessa may be gone, but Emily knew the Mirror’s origin.
She would break into the house on Weeden Street and open Satan’s Mirror herself.
TWENTY-SIX
Emily parked at the Fisherman’s Lounge facing the street so her car would be noticed if the police passed by. If she was on their watch list, she wanted them watching somewhere other than Weeden Street. She went inside the bar. It was a nice place, right on the water. It had a stage set up for live entertainment, but no one was playing so early in the evening.
She ordered blackened tilapia and forced herself to eat, knowing it could be her last meal. She had to eat for April’s sake, had to stay strong. Poor little April hadn’t eaten or drank in three days.