Sweet Dreams (12 page)

Sheriff Pat Lennox looked over the hood of his car at the old man. “Leo,” he said patiently, “how much booze did you drink last night?”

Leo's shoulders slumped in defeat. He had told his story three times. Now it was time to call it quits. Bud was right. They thought he was crazy. “I tried, Sheriff. As God is my witness, I tried. Thanks for listenin' as long as you did. See you around.”

Sheriff Lennox watched the old wino walk away. “Poor old crazy drunk,” he muttered.

The sheriff turned away, hesitated, then looked once more at Leo's retreated back. He shook his head, thought a minute. The old man had been sober, that was sure. Maybe . . . ah!

Having been born and reared in this part of the Bootheel of Missouri, Pat Lennox had seen “The Light” many, many times. He, and his father before him, had taken the girls out to the site of the light. That used to be a very popular game among the kids. But Pat now thought it had lost its popularity among the young, kids being so hip and supercool nowadays . . . or so they thought.

Kids didn't act like they were very happy anymore. And that wasn't confined, solely to this area. It was all over. Pat thought too many of them walked around – rode around was more like it – wearing frowns on their faces, like the world owed them something.

Pat almost called to Leo, to tell him to come back and talk some more. Maybe the goddamned light was somehow connected with the death of Doctor Baldwin's wife?

“Aw, crap, Pat!” he muttered. “Come on. Clear your head, man.”

Sheriff Lennox walked into his office. Ten minutes later, he had forgotten the entire meeting with Leo.

It was as if his brain had been wiped clean of the encounter.

It had.

Jerry hung the CLOSED sign on his door. People would know of his wife's death so he decided to take the rest of the week off. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday. He would reopen a week from today. But he would stay on call, not call in his friend from Sikeston to handle his load.

Why not? he asked himself.

Because this town is going to need me. The thought jumped into his brain.

“You've got a funny look on your face, Doc,” Voyles said.

Jerry cleared his head. “Just doing some heavy thinking, I guess.”

The men stood outside the office, by Voyles's car, waiting for Janet to complete her final check of the office before closing it up.

Got to remember to call the glass people, Jerry thought. Get them to fix that broken glass in the door.

“Doc?” the highway cop asked. “What do you
really
think about all this? I mean, assuming I buy all you said about last night, that is. And I'll be up front with you on that; I still have a lot of reservations.”

“I can't blame you for that, Dick. You want it honestly from me?”

“Straight from the shoulder.”

“Speaking purely unprofessionally, Dick, I don't know what in the hell we're up against. But my gut feeling is that it is something not of this world.” He heard the trooper suck in air. “I think . . . whatever
it
is, it's using the young people of this town. I don't know why, or even what it is. Let me ask you a question. Where did you spend last night?”

“The motel on 61.”

“Where were you between eight and say ten-thirty?”

“Watching TV.”

“You remember everything that transpired between those times?”

“I see what you're getting at. Yeah. I remember everything – unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

“Because it was one of those stupid cop shows. A bad one.”

Jerry grinned. “They always get the crooks, don't they?”

“Yeah. And it's always so easy. Doc? I just got kind of an eerie feeling.”

“Oh,?”

“Yeah. I recall everything that went on last night between the times the kids had their . . . experiences. You and Miss Benning do, too. I wonder if ... if we're the
only
ones who weren't under the . . . Aw, shit! Might as well say it. Under the control of that thing?”

“Good thought. Look, can you pull someone in here from your department to do a little survey taking?”

Voyles grinned. “Oh, Doc, you should have been a cop. You've got all the right instincts for it. You're sneaky, Doc. Sneaky.”

“Thank you. Can you do it?”

“Consider it done.”

“Just between us, Dick. You, me, and Maryruth. I've got a ... funny feeling about all this.”

“There'll be a man in here tomorrow morning, Doc. Asking questions for a TV-rating service.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Beautiful, Doc. Just beautiful.”

 

For a while Claire Bolling pounded her head against the door of the closet, in rage and frustration and helplessness. Now she sat naked in the corner of the dark closet. She could not scream. She could not speak above a whisper. She made little mewing sounds of total, unparalleled terror. Her throat was raw from her howlings; any words passing her lips were painful. Her mind had begun playing tricks on her – or so she thought.

Several times she thought she had heard her name whispered just outside the closet. She had hammered on the door, but no one came to her rescue.

Finally she knew no one was there. She thought she was going insane.

Her breasts were bruised from the manhandling during the rape, and her anus was sore from the brutal assault. But those were small hurts compared to the damage she had suffered from being locked, for hours, in the darkness she so feared.

Again she thought she heard someone calling her name. She listened. Yes, definitely voices. She began hammering on the thick door.

The language changed. Now she could not understand what was being said, but she could understand the laughter. It was taunting and derisive. She pounded on the door, hurting her fists. She was furious that someone thought her predicament amusing.

“Claire,” the strange-sounding voice whispered her name in a hollow voice. “Are you comfortable in the darkness?”

She managed to whisper, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Oh, I'm not doing anything to you, Claire. You are doing all this to yourself. You should have remained calm; you should have waited; you should have known.”

“Known what?”

“The blood of the Nations flows in your veins.”

“I don't understand,” she croaked.

“You will.”

Claire looked down. An eerie light was seeping under the door. It traveled slowly toward her. It touched her bare knees with something akin to a very intimate caress.

The light crept up her leg; a pencil-thin sliver that resembled a silver-gray glowing snake. There was nothing Claire could do except watch it with horror-filled eyes. When the tip of the thin light touched the back of Claire's neck, it pulsed like a living heart.

The thin snakelike glow now completely encircled the terrified woman, winding around her flesh like a glowing viper. The line of light seemed endless. Parts of it broke off to form glowing, living puddles in the corners of the closet. The small enclosure was now bathed in a mysterious glow.

“Is that better, Claire?” the voice whispered.

Claire looked about her frantically, searching for the source of the voice. She could see nothing that would produce any voice. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Let me out!”

“I can't; I am one with you.”

Claire began weeping, the tears streaking her sweaty face. Now she was certain she had lost her mind.

“No,” the voice assured her as the thin light pulsed with life. “No, you have not lost your mind. I promise.”

She did not question how they . . . whatever it was knew what she was thinking.

“Aren't you the least bit curious who I am?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” she hoarsely replied.

“I am all things. All things that you are and will be. I am all your loves, past and future. All your hates and all your fears, real and imagined. I am the winds that blow, the dust that flies, the mountains that rear toward the sky. I am thunder, lightning, rain, storms. I am Sanjaman.”

Now she was even more certain she was going mad. “And I'm Miss America,” she said. “I'm dreaming all this.”

The light suddenly vanished, plunging the small room into blackness. Claire felt the presence of someone, or something, just outside the closed door.

She heard the lock in the door click. The door began to open.

She took one look at what stood in the locker room and fainted.

 

“Who is the big guy?” Heather asked, as they pulled into the dig site just outside of town.

“That's probably the man from the highway patrol Jerry – Doctor Baldwin – told me about. His name is Lieutenant Voyles. Jerry says he's a nice fellow and a good cop.”

“I wanted to be a cop when I was little,” Marc said.

Maryruth caught the ‘when I was little.' She said nothing.

“He's big,” Marc observed. “Bet he played football somewhere.”

“You like sports?” Maryruth asked.

“Yes, ma'am. Baseball, especially.”

Jerry, Janet, and Dick watched the Mazda turn off the blacktop and onto the gravel area leading up to the dig. Maryruth and the kids got out of the small car. “Good-looking kids,” Voyles said.

“Yes, they are,” Jerry said. “I was taken by them instantly. You married, Dick?”

The cop shook his head. Rather sadly, Janet thought. “Was. Ended ten years ago. Some women just can't take the strain of being married to a cop, especially when that cop is also married to his job. We split before any kids came along. Probably a good thing we did.” He looked at Heather and Marc and then at Jerry. “Do we level with these kids, Doc?”

“Yes, all the way,” Jerry spoke with no hesitation. “Those two are very, very sharp. We'll be working with them on this thing.”

Voyles looked around him. “Damn place is kind of spooky, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Janet said, stepping closer to the big cop. “It's something else, too. But I can't put it into words. It's ... I can almost feel something hanging in the air.”

“Aura,” Jerry said. “I feel it. It's so persistent it's almost tangible. Any sensitive person can pick up the same aura in any cemetery.”

Maryruth heard the last bit. She said, “Certainly makes one wonder just what does come – if anything – after death, doesn't it?”

Everyone was introduced and Jerry could see the big highway cop liked Heather instantly. Jerry had been taken by the girl just as quickly. And Maryruth was obviously becoming very fond of Marc. Her hand rested on the boy's shoulder.

“Do you question what comes after death?” Heather asked Maryruth.

“I'm a psychologist,” Maryruth said with a smile. “We are prone to question everything. Hazards of the trade, I suppose.”

“I believe if you're good you'll go to Heaven,” Heather said. Then, characteristically as the adults were soon to discover, she added, “Of course, all that might change as I grow older. But right now, that's the way I believe.”

Voyles looked down at the girl and smiled. “Are you sure you're not really a midget in disguise?”

Heather and Marc both laughed. Marc said, “You'll just have to get used to us, Lieutenant. Sometimes we behave as children, sometimes as adults. And sometimes that isn't much fun.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Voyles replied in a soft tone of voice.

The group walked around the deserted dig site, completely circling the mound. As they walked, Heather told the adults about the mask she and Marc had seen hanging from the fence, and how it had frightened them.

Voyles stepped away from the group and walked up the slight incline of the burial mound to stand by the chain-link fence at the spot Heather had pointed out.

“A little bit more to your right,” Marc called to the cop. “Yes, sir. Right there.”

Voyles studied the fence closely. He found something and inspected it for a few seconds. Turning around, he called, “Doc? Would you open the trunk of my car and get me the black kit on the far left side, please?”

Jerry found the kit and carried it to Voyles. From a small leather pouch, Voyles picked out tweezers and carefully plucked several strands of dark hair that had become snagged in the fence. He placed the hair in a clear plastic bag.

“Human?” Jerry asked.

“I don't know, Doc. Looks like it. I'll let the lab boys decide. But if it's human, it's the coarsest hair I've ever seen.”

Neither man was aware of the eyes that watched them from the timber surrounding the dig site, eyes that watched their every move, missing nothing. Savage eyes.

“I'm hoping, Doc,” Voyles said, “this is hair from the man that killed your wife ... and not from some supernatural monster.”

“That would make your job much easier, wouldn't it.?”

“Yeah,” Voyles replied. An uneasy feeling suddenly struck him. He looked around the area, but could see nothing to arouse suspicion.

“Something wrong?” Jerry asked.

“I . . . I don't know, Doc. Just a feeling I got, that's all.”

Rejoining the group, Voyles asked, “The mask was there on Saturday, but not on Sunday – right, kids? And it was you two the deputy chased off yesterday, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Marc said. “But we didn't go far. Just circled around and hid over there.” He pointed out the spot.

Voyles laughed. “I didn't think you two went far.”

A very slight movement and a sudden burst of light from the brush surrounding the site caught Heather's attention. No one else seemed to notice it. She elected to remain silent on the matter, unless it happened again.

“I would have thought the police would have this area roped off,” Jerry said.

“My people flew in by chopper yesterday,” Voyles explained. “Two teams of them. The best people we have. It's gonna piss – irritate them when they find out they missed these hairs.”

“If they did miss them,” Marc said.

Voyles shifted his eyes to the boy. “Care to explain that, Marc?”

“Well, maybe the mask came back after your people left.”

Voyles sighed.

Jerry and Maryruth smiled at the cop.

“This is getting really weird,” Janet said.

“We always come back to ghosties and ghoulies, don't we?” Voyles said.

The eyes watched from the timberline, the faint glow absorbing every word.

“That wasn't anything human that chased us last night,” Heather said. “And I didn't imagine my dolls and teddy bears coming to life. That toy soldier really did shoot his gun at me. Ask Miss Benning; she saw the bullet hole.”

“Yes,” Voyles said. “The Doc told me about that. Kids, I don't mean to imply either of you were lying. It's just . . .” He hesitated. Not having been around kids much, Voyles had a difficult time talking with them. And he was not comfortable conversing with children on an adult level. “I deal with hard facts, kids. And it's just that I can't find many hard facts in this case.”

“You think he's lost it?” Heather said to Marc.

Marc shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Lost what?” Voyles asked, a confused look on his face.