Читать книгу Doom Lake Holiday - Tom Henighan - Страница 10

Chip’s room was dark and stuffy. The cabin floorboards crackled. A mouse or a rat seemed to be busy in the rafters above his head. He rolled over inside his sleeping bag and listened. He was awake again, and his illuminated watch, which he had placed on a chair next to his cot, told him it was three a.m.

A very bad time of night, as his grandfather used to insist to him. The old man — he had been dead for a good seven years — had always said that midnight in a creepy house was nothing compared with three in the morning anywhere. At that time of night, as Grandpa Wilson told it, life was at its lowest ebb. “The gates of the other world are wide open then,” the old man explained. “You can sense it. Nothing wants you to be alive; everything conspires to drag you down into that terrible blackness.”

Outside, someone fired a gun. Pow, pow, pow — three shots, just like that. Then a dog barked. He sat up straight on his cot. He listened.

Through the thin walls he could hear May Bates turning on her cot and whimpering. The shots had disturbed her, but perhaps she hadn’t wakened.

There was silence for a while, then more scurrying above his head. And outside, some noises in the bushes. He climbed out of his bed and pressed his face against the window. Nothing moved among the shadows.

No one else in the house seemed to be awake; no one stirred. Perhaps it was all just his imagination.

He climbed back inside his sleeping bag and tried to think of more pleasant things. Mr. Bascombe’s parrot! That was pretty interesting. The parrot with the odd name. Captain Howdy, that was it. Where had he heard that name, Captain Howdy?

Suddenly, he remembered. It was the name the devil first uses to contact the girl in The Exorcist!

My God! He thought. What a name to give a parrot! Mr. Bascombe must be weird, too.

Chip lay on his back and felt himself drifting away at last. He could sense light filtering into the room, reflected off the leaves outside and the flyblown ceiling. But he was deserting the light, losing it, sinking slowly down and down into a blackness that wrapped around him ever tighter. After a while he resisted no more; he was asleep.

All at once he was in a swamp — a bleak land of smooth, stagnant water, greenish-hued and slimy to the touch. Trunks of dead cedars rose all around him, like the pillars of a temple. He lay on a bumpy, near-solid but oozing patch of turf, holding his new cellphone at arm’s length and shaking it like a rattle or a box of dice. He knew it wouldn’t work — it needed recharging. How would he ever get out of here? He had an exam he couldn’t afford to miss, but he hadn’t studied for it. He was frantic. He would fail all his courses, get kicked out of school. Then a snake, only a few inches long and completely transparent, crawled up on a lily pad and a voice said from somewhere, “Have some animal crackers!” Suddenly he was walking to class, his clothes completely soaked, and people were pointing at him and laughing. A strange girl, dark-haired and very beautiful, came up and comforted him. “It’s all right,” she said. “The white horse is in the Coliseum.” He was swallowed up in, absorbed by, a huge thundercloud, and a loud voice commanded,

“Wake up, Chip! It’s pouring out there! We want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

He opened his eyes, surprised by the near darkness, the roaring storm outside, the unfamiliar, dirty room, his moth-er’s anxious face.

“Yeah, yeah.” He yawned, stretched his arms, groaned, and sat up.

“Your father needs help with the packing.”

Chip crawled out of bed, staggered to the bedroom window, and pressed his face against the glass. Rain pelted down on the rough bush; small trees bent in a fierce wind. Lightning flashed above, the rain-darkened leaves glittered, an old metal barrel flashed beside the rear wall of the cabin.

Rubbing his eyes, struggling to get focus, Chip made his way to the front. A wild scene confronted him. The sky was a ragged darkness, the lake half-hidden by thick sheets of water. A stream rushed down the driveway and along the path that led to the house. Rain beat against the SUV, dousing his father, who huddled there, grabbing again and again at a loose-flapping rope. Bent against the wind, he finally secured it, opened one door to climb up, and began to tie the rope to the roof rack. Lightning flashed, followed by a huge volley of thunder. The screen door banged on its hinges.

Chip started to run out to help his dad, then realized he was wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. He scrambled back into his bedroom. May Bates stood in the hallway and stared at him. Lee ambled out of the kitchen. Wrapped in her nightgown, but shivering, she stood rubbing her wet hair with a big towel.

“What a morning!” she said pleasantly to her brother, but she wasn’t smiling. “I nearly drowned getting in here. This towel isn’t clean, either.”

Chip pulled on his jeans and headed back out the door. His father spotted him and waved from the car. “Don’t bother!” he shouted. “I’ve got it under control. Just gather up our stuff. I’m going to pull up closer to the cabin.”

His father hopped down and slipped into the front of the SUV. The engine started up, the headlights snapped on, the windshield wipers moved. Mr. Mallory pulled the car forward up the muddy track, stopped, and began to back toward the front door.

Another set of headlights appeared, flashing through the rain at the point where the driveway ran into the lake road. A vehicle was approaching the cabin.

Mrs. Mallory saw it first and murmured, half aloud, “Oh no, not more trouble!” Lee groaned and headed for the kitchen; May shrank away into her bedroom.

Chip squeezed his mother’s hand. “It’s not a red car,” he reassured her. “More like a fairly huge pickup.”

They watched at the doorway as Mr. Mallory backed slowly toward them in the SUV. The thunder roared again and lightning lit up the scene. The second vehicle approached the cottage, swung round in an arc toward the cabin, and pulled up, nose to nose with their own car.

Mr. Mallory climbed out of the SUV.

Chip pushed through the doorway and approached the car. His father splashed round from the other side of the SUV.

The next few minutes surprised them. A woman got out of the pickup on the driver’s side — a tall, slender, agile woman wrapped up in a long, yellow raincoat and wearing yellow rubber boots. She slammed the door of her vehicle, stood in her tracks, and fixed her glance on them. Strands of white hair framed her face, sticking out from underneath her rain hood; her eyes were coal-dark, and her lips fuchsia red.

Chip was fascinated and stood staring. But when splashing footsteps sounded behind them, accompanied by a few incomprehensible words spoken in a low, groaning voice, he quickly turned.

A very short man — a bent figure who resembled a hunch-back — peered up at them. He was a man not old, but past middle age, wearing a bright red raincoat and matching boots.

The sight of the man sent a chill through Chip, who was immediately reminded of the Venetian killer-dwarf in Don’t Look Now!

He stood there, trembling so visibly that his father reached out and grabbed his arm. “Take it easy, son, I’m sure the natives are friendly.”

“I said Dr. Mallory,” the small man went on in a gruff voice. “Are you Dr. Mallory, sir?”

“Not usually thus designated, but legitimately so,” Chip’s father said.

The other looked at him suspiciously. “A learned man, eh? A word-spinner? Well, what are learned men to me? Not much!” He sniffed, and snapped his wet fingers.

The newcomer’s face was both crude and sensitive. He had a low, wrinkled forehead, a bulbous nose, innocent blue eyes, and well-shaped lips. His hoarse, bass voice seemed to break and cackle.

“Can’t we escape from this blasted weather?” he grumbled, holding out his hands to catch the rain. He looked around, wiped the dripping water from the end of his nose, and called out to the woman. “Come, Rachel! This storm looks like going on forever.”

He stepped quickly toward to the cabin. Rachel followed, brushing at her wet, silver hair. Mr. Mallory shrugged his shoulders and managed a smile. He and Chip marched in after the other two. Inside, the four of them stood milling around and dripping water on the filthy, worn rugs. Mrs. Mallory handed out towels and paper rolls.

“You’re leaving?” the small man inquired, glancing around the half-packed bags. “This place not to your fancy?”

“That’s the general idea,” Mr. Mallory told him.

“Give him the message, Cal,” the woman said. “The old man will be wanting his breakfast.”

Cal growled, but he reached inside his red raincoat and pulled out a large, damp-stained, and slightly crumpled envelope.

“It’s from my employer — or should I say, my master?” he added with a smirk. “He requests that you read it careful-like and take it seriously.”

“And just who is your master?”

“Dr. Gwynn’s his name.”

Mr. Mallory looked surprised. He carried the envelope over to the rickety kitchen table, then sat down, tore open the envelope, and began to read the message inside.

Lee, fully dressed, but with her dark hair gone damp and curly, stepped into the room. She looked around in astonishment, but said nothing. May came in and stood beside her, and Lee moved to the other side of the room.

The woman called Rachel sized up the shanty girl and said in a gruff voice, “I’ve a notion who you are, girl!”

May glanced nervously away, and in a faint voice answered, “I think I’ve seen you in Bascombe, ma’am.”

Rachel frowned, and pondered this. Mrs. Mallory offered brightly, “Shouldn’t we find out who everybody is?”

But Mr. Mallory spoke from the table, interrupting. “This is too much! This is amazing. I think we just might take him up on it.”

“What does it say, dear? Who’s it from?”

Mr. Mallory stood up, looking a little cheerier than he had earlier. “It’s from a man named Gwynn. I think I’ve talked to him on the phone and exchanged emails. He’s an archaeologist. You remember when we put together that software package connected with excavations and heritage building reconstruction? I consulted him. He’s done a lot of work in the Near East. I had no idea he lived around here. What a coincidence! It’s amazing!”

“He’s invited us to drop in?”

“Better than that. He’s invited us to use one of his houses. That’s the way he puts it: ‘A house I own in the vicinity.’ Well, I’ll be darned! As his guest, too! That just might be a great idea.”

“It’s probably some dump he’s going to try to sell you, Dad,” Lee cautioned. “You promised we could go to a hotel.”

The small man sniffed and seemed almost ready to spit with impatience. “It’s a fine place on a good, dry island,” he told them. “Of course, you can do as you please, for all I care. If you want to waste your money on a hotel…”

“But I don’t understand,” Mr. Mallory pressed him. “How did Dr. Gwynn know we were here?” To his wife he added, “It sounds pretty good, dear, do you think we should give it a try?”

“A house on an island? How do we get out there?” Chip wondered.

“Getting out there’s no problem,” Cal said. We have a boat, and a safe place to leave your vehicle.”

“We don’t even know you people,” Mrs. Mallory said. “I understand that you work for this Dr. Gwynn, and I suppose Rachel here —”

“That’s Rachel Stone,” the small man interrupted, indicating his companion with a nod of his head. “She drives the truck and looks after the houses. Dr. Gwynn has two or three houses I know of, maybe more. My name is Cal Froats. I’m from around here. I do the odd job for the old man. There’s people in this world I’d rather serve, but he pays me well enough, and I’ve got little choice, as it happens.”

“You folks have to decide,” Rachel told them. “We’ve got to be getting back to our duties.”

“I’d like to confer with my wife for a moment,” Mr. Mallory said, and he drew Mrs. Mallory down the hall toward the sitting room. Chip followed uncertainly, and Lee shuffled along after them.

“I hope you’re not going to go for this, Dad,” she muttered, twirling the loose strands of her glossy, dark hair. Outside, the rain still pelted down, although the thunder and lightning seemed to have passed on. “You’ve never even met this guy. It’s the nuttiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Real adventurous spirit,” Chip told her. “Didn’t you always want to be in one of those survivor shows, running around the jungle with handsome muscle guys?”

“Why don’t you just shut up! If the island was like that they wouldn’t let you on it.”

“Both of you cool it,” their father said. “I think we should give this a try. I know this man is reliable. He may be eccentric, but he’s not a serial killer or anything, and if we don’t like the arrangements we can leave at once. This holiday has been turning into a disaster; now maybe we have a chance to turn things around in an interesting way.”

“I agree, John,” said Mrs. Mallory. “But there’s one problem: what do we do with May? We can’t just abandon the poor girl.”

Lee stamped her foot and groaned. “Well, if you’re planning to take her to the island, count me out. I can hitchhike back to Ottawa.”

“Now that’s a generous response,” her mother said sarcastically. “But don’t worry, dear, we’re not taking her to the island. The question is, what do we do with her?”

“Why not just leave her here?” Chip suggested. “We could get her some food, and she could lie low for a day or so. After all, you’ve already paid the rent for this dump. And it sounds like she’s come from worse.”

His parents pondered this. Then Mrs. Mallory said brightly, “It’s not a bad idea. That would give us time to get in touch with the local authorities — the people who can really help her.”

“Of course, those two farmers might just come back and kill her or rape her,” Lee said scornfully. “Then you’d be to blame, wouldn’t you?”

“Let’s talk to our two sterling messengers out there,” Mr. Mallory said, ignoring his daughter. “Hopefully we can work something out.”

“I can’t wait to see the island,” Chip said. “I wonder if the house has a satellite dish.”

“More likely a leaky roof,” Lee said. “Or some old bones rotting in the cellar.”