Darkness Demands Part 28

No, he told himself. Herbert Kelly's too far away from the Water Mill to help you now. Not only many thousands of miles away, more significantly he was six feet down in G.o.d's own earth.

The ghostly illusion created by the post and gull did give him pause for thought. This harem scarem escapade of him playing the detective was, he realized, his attempt to blunt the deep unease he felt about the whole situation. The fact was, he was receiving bizarre letters that demanded chocolate, beer or whatever, and which were rounded off with a threat if he did not comply. Even if he mentally got the proverbial dust pan and brush and swept up all the supernatural elements and dumped them in the trash, that still left the mysterious appearance of the letters, coupled with the suspicion that he and his family were being spied upon.

As a writer he controlled the information at his disposal. That control extended to how he wrote his books; what slant he put on the story; how and when he chose to mystify the reader and when he supplied solutions to the crime. By taking the Skelbrooke disappearances as the subject of his next book it didn't take a psychiatrist to figure out he was aiming to control what was happening around him. In truth, however, he'd be deluding himself if he thought he could control events.

No. The letter writer was in control-whether it was some bony-kneed phantom or a human being with a grudge. Val could take the dog out tonight, find a letter on the patio, then when she bent down to pick it up, an intruder might lunge outa He killed the conclusion to the scenario.

No, he told himselfa we're not out of the dark woods yeta

3.

"Look, Dad. Someone's left a ball on that grave." Elizabeth skipped forward. "And anothera and another, and another!" She laughed in amazement. "There's loads. Can I take one home with me?"

"Best not."

"Aw, go on. Just one."

"No, Lizzie, they don't belong to us, besides-"

"Aw, Dad."

"We don't know where they've been."

"We do, they've been in the graveyard, haven't they?"

"And what do you think your mother would say if we came back with a big pile of b.a.l.l.s we'd found in a graveyard? I'd wind up locked in the tool shed for a week."

"Just one. Please."

"No, not on your Nellie. Are you going to eat that chocolate before it melts or what?"

"I'll give a piece to Sama if I can find him." She looked around the overgrown cemetery. "Did you see where he went, Dad?"

"He's probably hunting mice."

"He should have been a cat not a dog. Where do you think they all came from, Dad?"

"The b.a.l.l.sa" He shrugged. "Someone might have stolen them then dumped them here."

"They're all different sizes. Look, there's one with Homer's face."

"Don't touch it, Elizabeth."

"I just wanted to-"

"Don't." Then gently he added, "It's not too savory up here."

"How come?"

"There aren't any toilets nearby. Someone might have-"

"Whizzed on the b.a.l.l.s? Gross!" Deterred from looking at the b.a.l.l.s any closer, she went in search of the dog.

"Don't wander too far," he warned. "It's like a jungle around here."

"Any tigers?" Her eyes were serious but he knew she was kidding.

"No tigers. But there's a cliff down that way; it's a sheer drop, so be careful."

"Yes, Dad."

"And don't pick up anything off the ground."

"Dad. I am nine years old-not four!"

Shaking her head, she walked away through the long gra.s.s.

John hadn't intended to bring Elizabeth but she'd insisted. She'd heard about the Necropolis from the kids at school. Now she wanted to see it for herself.

Which made things difficult for John. Another letter had arrived during the night of Tuesday/Wednesday. Now, on the evening of Wednesday, he was here to deliver what the letter demanded.

Just a red ball-a stupid red ball. No size or type of ball was stipulated, only that it should be a red one. Yes, it was so trivial as to border on the absurd, but once more he felt his veins flush with ice. Who had come silently as a ghost in the middle of the night to leave the letter?

Baby Bones? That local boogie man that had supposedly haunted the neighborhood for the last ten thousand years?

No, he promised himself not to think about that. He'd meet the demands in the letter then forget it. Clearly, his neighbors had done likewise. As Elizabeth had pointed out there were dozens of red b.a.l.l.s cl.u.s.tered around the tomb of Jess Bowen. The weeping boy statue gazed down on them.

Counting trophies for your master? Suddenly he had a savage need to kick the head right off the shoulders of the idiot statue. This surrendering to the demands of the letters made him feel so weak and useless. It was like being at school again when a bully takes your candy away and you can't do squat about it, except feel hurt and humiliation.

"Elizabeth!" He spoke more sharply than he intended.

"What?" Her surprised face appeared over the long gra.s.s. From here, the scab on her chin had all the look of a big black spider clinging to her skin.

He smiled to show he wasn't angry with her. "I just wondered where you were, that's all."

"I found Sam. But I don't think he wants to stay here. He won't walk any further."

"Don't worry. We'll be going in a minute."

"What did we come up here for anyway, Dad?" Obviously the big old cemetery held no allure for her.

"I needed to do some research for my new book."

"About graves?"

"A little."

"Is it going to be a frightening book?"

"I hope nota more suspenseful."

She stroked the dog's head. He sat with his ears flat to his head, looking unhappy.

"How long will you be now, Dad?"

"Not long. I'm just going to make a few notes." As he slipped his holdall from his shoulder he turned his back on Elizabeth.

He'd intended to walk up here alone this evening, leave the red ball on the grave then go. Elizabeth's insistence that she tag along made it a little more difficult. But he'd agreed that Elizabeth could come along for the walk. Now with his daughter busy stroking the dog she wouldn't notice what he did next.

He opened the holdall, pulled out a red ball and wedged it between the s.h.i.+n of the statue and the slab of the Bowen tomb. There. Done. I've paid my duesa He fastened the bag. "All done, Lizze. Ready for home?"

The dog responded first. In a dark blur he raced down the hill. If anything, the animal appeared to be displaying a real burning need to get out of the place.

They walked along the paths between swathes of shoulder high weeds that in turn were overhung by clumps of yew, alder and birch. John noticed Elizabeth's thoughtful expression as she looked at the headstones.

She slipped her hand into his.

"What's it like to be dead?"

"I don't know, Elizabeth."

"Do you think it's a nice feeling?"

"It's probably like being asleep."

She allowed her fingers to run over the smooth granite slab of a whole family who'd died of cholera a century ago.

"Do you think people know when they're dead?"

"I can't say, Lizzie."

"It won't hurt, though. Those people in there," she nodded at the graves, "won't feel cold, and it won't be uncomfortable to lie in a coffin?"

He always felt uneasy when she talked about death. "I hope Sam hasn't run too far," he said aiming to change the subject.

"At least people won't bug you when you're dead, will they?"

"I guess not." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

A little while later they reached the break in the cemetery fence. Sam was there, waiting for them. His tale wagged, swis.h.i.+ng the gra.s.s as they walked up.

After her morbid meditation Elizabeth suddenly seemed brighter. "Can I hold the leash, Dad?"

"Why not. Careful at the main road, though."

John clicked the leash onto the collar and handed Elizabeth the loop to hold.

She walked a little ahead of him. The gravestones stared down at her like so many dark, fathomless eyes. And suddenly to John she seemed so fragile in a world crowded with so much danger.

CHAPTER 24.

1.

"Baby Bonesa"

"Don't start all that again, Dad. It's not nice. Here, hold my hand as you get in." Under his breath Robert Gregory whispered, "We wouldn't want you to slip, would we now?"

His wife called from the bedroom, "Are you all right in there, Robert?"

"Fine, Cynthia."

"You don't need any help?"

"No, dear. We can manage perfectly well." He maintained the cheerful boom for her benefit. "We're doing all right, aren't we, Dad?"

"Baby Bones." The old man's voice was whispery. "Has Dianne Kelly told him about Baby Bones?"

"I'm sure she did, Dad."

Cynthia tapped on the door. It was so faint-hearted as to be barely audible over the slop of water in the bathtub. "Robert? Do you know where the towels are? "

"Got them right here, dear, they're warming nicely over the hot rail."

The towel lay on the floor where he'd kicked it under the toilet bowl. He sat the old man down hard into the bathtub, the bones in his ancient b.u.t.t clicking loudly against the enamel as if there was no flesh covering them. But that was about the size of it anyway, Robert thought sourly; the old man's b.u.t.tocks looked like a pair of Savoy cabbage leaves; you couldn't find anything more wrinkled if you tried.

"Harry, there's a briefcase in-"

"I'm not Harry, Dad. I'm Robert."

"Harry, there's a briefcase in the workshop. At the back of the cupboard. Mr. Kelly gave it to me the night he left. Make sure John Newton gets it up at the Water Mill. There are important papers in there. They'll help John Newton to-ah!"

Robert poured a jug full of cold water over Stan's head, making him gasp.