Afterlife - Douglas Clegg [92]
A police cruiser came by, and she met the two cops outside. She worked hard to retain her composure. She didn’t tell them everything. She watched for their reactions to her story. She didn’t say “my dead husband,” and she didn’t say “psychic.” She just told them that some crazies broke in. That she passed out. That there was a gunshot, and she had the gun. That her children were missing. They wrote some things down and told her to wait at home, keep the doors locked, keep the phone line clear.
But as soon as they’d left, and she returned to her house, she got the revolver and got into her Camry and drove down to the perimeter road of the lake.
2
She drove slowly on the opposite side of the lake. The house in her mind had been a large one. It had a seventies-style architecture—rectangles and squares and too much glass. She stopped in front of several of them, but each time, it just didn’t seem right.
And then, she saw the house, with a circular driveway in front.
She had been there. She remembered being there, but she could not remember who lived there. Why she had visited it. Had it been another dream? She remembered Matt’s video of the house clearly now—he must have been in the canoe. Maybe with his father. A Boys’ Day Out. Matt must’ve held the camcorder up and just videoed the back of the house on the lakeside.
And here she was, at the front. She parked on the road, and walked up the driveway. She did nothing to conceal the gun in her hand. She stepped off the driveway onto the slate walk that went around the side of the house. It was an enormous house, and although it had huge glass windows, the shades were drawn. She went back to look at the lake, and then to look at the house.
It was the one she remembered. It was the one from Matt’s video.
She felt her heartbeat, too rapid, and a clutching at her throat. She raised the revolver slightly as she went back around to the front of the house.
She stood at the bottom of three steps that led to the front porch. A slender patch of garden bordered the porch—peonies and pansies and irises.
She took each step slowly, feeling a thudding on the inside. A gentle shivery wind down her back.
When she got to the door, she rang the bell and waited.
3
No one came to the door. She rapped at it. Waited. The revolver felt heavy in her hand, and she lowered it. She began to doubt her vision. Her memory. Was this the house? Whose was it? Who was the out-of-focus woman from her memory that Diamond’s consciousness had brought her back to see?
Who would she know who would know Hut? Would know Amanda? Might have known them years before Julie had ever met Hut? He didn’t have many friends outside of people at work. But none of them lived here. Who lived on the lake? Who was it?
When the door finally opened, she already knew. The name came up to her. A name that Michael Diamond had mentioned.
Nell. That had been what she was called as a girl in Project Daylight.
Eleanor, on the other side of the door, looked startled. “Julie?” she asked as if she had expected someone else.
Julie brought the revolver up, pointing it at her. “Where are my children?”
4
She stepped over the threshold of the house as if she were in a dream. How could this be real? How could Eleanor, a therapist, for God’s sake, be part of some insane psychic conspiracy? What was she thinking? How was it possible? But possible didn’t matter anymore.
“Now, don’t get excited,” Eleanor said. “You’re experiencing—”
Julie cut her off. “I know. Post-traumatic-stress blah blah blah.” She kept the revolver pointed at her.
“Julie, put that thing down,” Eleanor said. “Right now. You are not in any danger, believe me.”
“Where are they?” Julie asked, her voice hardened.
“Matt’s asleep. He needed rest.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“Of course not. He was getting violent. You know how he is. We had to…give him something.” Eleanor spoke as if she were in her office again, dispensing