999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [317]
Freeboard glared at a poodle that had stopped at her feet and was staring at her leg with intense speculation. “Don’t even think about it,” she threatened, “or I’m turning you into a tiny rug.”
“Go, Maria! Scott!” Dare warned. “She’s a killer! Run! She meant it!” He looked over at the houseman. “Pierre, sortez les chiens.”
The houseman nodded and replied. “Immédiatemont” He clapped his hands at the dogs. “Allez les chiens! Allez sortez! Nous allons dehors!” The dogs skittered away through an inner door and the houseman followed them, one shoulder low, a shoe clumping.
“This means a whole lot to me, Terry. A lot.”
The author turned his leonine head to her and stared. He had bought this very house through Freeboard’s offices, it was how he had come to meet her; yet never since that time had she asked him for anything, not even for a copy of one of his books. His celebrity meant nothing to the girl, that he knew; and that, for some reason, she cared for him deeply. He searched her eyes for the secret wounds that he’d learned to detect behind their gleam of self-will.
“A whole lot,” she repeated.
“And how long would we be there?”
“Five days.”
She explained how Dr. Gabriel Case, the psychologist, professor and expert on the subject of hauntings, would precede them to the house with his special equipment and set it all up before they arrived. Most of their luggage would be sent on ahead, and when Anna Trawley had landed in New York they would all take a limo to Craven’s Cove, where the motor launch would carry them across to the island. “Case is making all the arrangements,” she finished. “I mean like the phones and utilities and crud.”
“How very sporting.”
“Yeah, he’s neat.”
“He’s neat?”
“Oh, well, at least on the phone. I’ve never met him.”
“You conned him into doing all of this on the phone?”
“Come on, Terry, I’m paying him a bundle. Okay?”
“Oh, I see.” The author turned stiffly to his painting. “So the fix is in. I should have known.”
The Realtor frowned and moved in closer.
“Listen, let’s get serious,” she said.
“Oh, yes, serious.”
“Margoittai is packing all our meals. The whole time we’re at the house we’ll be eating Four Seasons.”
The author’s brush stroke froze in midair.
“Ah, Mephistopheles!”
“Is that a yes?”
The year was 1993.
Later on there would be serious doubts about that.
PART TWO
Chapter Three
The carved front door of the mansion burst open as if by the force of a desperate thought. “Holy shit, is this a hurricane or what!” exclaimed Freeboard. Sopping in a glistening yellow sou’wester provided by the captain of the launch Far Traveler, she staggered and tumbled into the entry hall with a keening wind at her back. She turned to see Dare rushing up the front stoop, and Trawley, carrying a bag, behind him, slower, deliberate and unhurried. A rain of all the waters of the earth pelted down.
Freeboard cupped a hand to her mouth:
“You okay, Mrs. Trawley?” she squalled.
“Oh, yes, dear!” the psychic called back. “I’m fine!”
A booming thunder gripped the sky by the shoulders and shook it. The sudden storm that had arisen as they crossed had been a terror, buffeting the launch with tempestuous waves. Hurricane warnings had been issued that morning, but the winds had been expected to diminish at landfall. This had not occurred.
Dare entered and dropped a light bag to the floor. “Joan, I owe you a flogging for this,” he vowed. “I knew that I never should have done it.”
“Well, you did it,” Freeboard told him. “Now for shitssakes, watch your mouth around these people, would you, Terry? I had to practically beg them to do this.”
“Thank heaven I gave you no trouble.”
Freeboard lifted off her windjammer hat, and then gestured to the open door, where the psychic seemed to falter as she climbed the front steps. “Terry, give Mrs. Trawley a hand.”
“Oh, very well.”
Dare giraffed toward the psychic with a limp, loose gait and reached out