The Back Door of Midnight ds-5 Page 10

  I needed to do some research, and Uncle Will’s collection of books would provide a good start. I pulled from his shelves several of the books I had noticed earlier and carried them upstairs, trailed by one of the two cats I had hired as lookouts. As soon as I set down the books, the little silver tabby leaped onto my bed. I let her stay, liking the company, hoping she didn’t have fleas.

  I began with the book on famous psychotic criminals, paging through it, studying the pictures. Some of the men and women looked nearly possessed, but others appeared as normal and pleasant as Dave Fleming — well, that was reassuring! I read a few case histories and, after a particularly gruesome account, set the text aside. Opening a book on the paranormal, I surveyed its table of contents: Telepathy, Clairvoyance, Precognition, Psychokinesis, Outof-Body Experiences, Mediumship — I backed up. Out-ofBody Experiences — meaning experiences when you didn’t seem to have a body? Experiences when your hands were as transparent as jellyfish? I quickly flipped to the chapter.

  I turned on the lamp and for the next hour read that chapter and a similar one in another book, reading the material twice, amazed by the accuracy with which the writers were able to describe my own weird experiences.

  Having a name for the occurrence, which was often referred to by the acronym O.B.E., made it seem less frightening.

  According to the authors, vibrations and electrical sensations were commonly reported in the early stages of an O.B.E., as was the temporary paralysis I had experienced. Some people heard electrical sounds, others, loud rushing noises, which were attributed to the spirit leaving the body through its “chakras.” There was one notable difference between the experience that most people reported and my own: I hadn’t had the shock of looking down at my own body sleeping. Nor had I enjoyed flying and choosing where I would go, an experience that some people described to researchers. It was as if the moment I let go, I was launched on a mission — as if I had been summoned by someone and was under that person’s guidance. Uncle Will? There were stories about O.B.E.s in which the “astral traveler” saw relatives who had died.

  Parapsychologists believed that, when out of body, people perceived with their minds, not their physical senses.

  However, they often interpreted their perceptions the only way they knew how, as if they had five physical senses. Out of body, without physical limitations, their minds “saw” 360 degrees around them, but since humans aren’t used to seeing that, the images seemed to overlap and became confusing when the perceiver tried to interpret them. Also, they saw things that physical eyes couldn’t see — other forms of energy — which produced distortions in the mindscape.

  A week ago, reading this stuff, I would have laughed.

  None of it was scientifically proven. But when you’re having really weird experiences and two writers describe them in detail, you’re ready to believe whatever explanation they offer.

  Both writers claimed that astral travelers could improve their perceptions by saying things like “I want to see more clearly now.” I remembered how I had made my vision clearer during my last two experiences: I complained to Aunt Iris, saying that I needed to see. I had assumed that she had cleared my vision, but perhaps the power was within me.

  That was the most interesting part of what I read in the books: the ability of the person having the O.B.E. to control the experience. Some people learned to induce out-of-body experiences and used them for “astral exploration.” Could I control my experiences enough to learn the details of Uncle Will’s death?

  One of the books explained how to put yourself in a super-relaxed stage with the goal of inducing an O.B.E. I tried it. I took deep breaths and imagined myself floating; I stared at a lamp; I lit a candle; I focused on the soothing purr of my tabby friend and hummed along. I told my feet, knees, hips, and arms that they were very, very heavy, but nothing worked. An hour later I blew out the candle and lay back in the darkness, frustrated. In my everyday life I knew how to go after what I wanted, but I was no good at letting go and having things come to me.

  That’s when I heard it — not a low, throbbing sound, but a squeak — metal rubbing against wood. The cat raised her head. The noise had come from outside. I heard it twice, as if something had opened and closed. The cat leaped lightly off the bed and padded past the bureaus toward the far end of the attic room. I followed her to the last window, the one above Uncle Will’s den. She sprang into the casement and peered down. I knelt next to her, pressing my face against the screen.

  At first I thought Aunt Iris had come home and was burying more ashes, for the figure below was bent over the spot marked by the knife. Then that person stepped back to gaze up at the house. I ducked, but I had already glimpsed the halo of white hair. Audrey.

  Using the kitty as camouflage, I snatched a second look and saw that Audrey was holding a bag from which she took objects not much bigger than her fists. She arranged them on the ground, working quickly, then headed back through the gate in the hedge, opening and shutting it with a double squeak.

  I moved like the cat, stealing down the back steps to Uncle Will’s den, and exited through the door on the creek side. After the darkness inside the house, the moonlit night seemed bright. In the area marked by the knife, rows of painted rocks gleamed. The cat circled the area, then sniffed the individual rocks. They were smooth and round, like stones that had been purchased from a store rather than dug out of a garden. Each one bore a black cross or X on it, hand-painted, judging by the uneven strokes.

  Whether the symbol was religious or simply an X, I could guess what it meant. In school we had read about the burial practices of various cultures, some of which used rocks to

  “keep” the dead person in his or her place. Audrey had made sure that William couldn’t rise out of his ashes to haunt her. Did she fear him that much? It seemed crazy to fear someone whom I remembered as a little stern but very caring. I stared at the butcher knife that marked the grave, wondering if I had known Uncle Will as well as I thought.

  I pulled out the knife, then grabbed the shovel that Iris had left leaning against the house. I’d assumed she had buried the jar of ashes, and Audrey had assumed I knew what I was talking about. But what if there was something different under the dirt, like a heavy object that could bludgeon someone to death or an object that could kill when knocked over accidentally?

  I dug in a fury, and the cat watched with interest at first.

  Twenty minutes later I leaned on the shovel, astounded at how deep Aunt Iris had dug. The sandy earth, having been lifted out recently, was loose, but it was probably packed hard for her. I was nearly three feet down and still hadn’t found anything. Was this just a hoax? The cat had departed, but I was so intent on getting to the bottom of the hole, I forgot what that meant. I kept digging. I had just uncovered the Skippy peanut butter lid when I heard Aunt Iris’s car.

  I gazed down at the top of the jar, trying to decide what to do. I could dash up to the attic room, using the back steps from Uncle Will’s den. If questioned, I could say I saw Audrey digging here. But lying would only complicate things. I stood still and waited to see lights come on in the house. None did. I drummed my fingers against the handle of the shovel, my eyes scanning the windows. Aunt Iris’s pale face appeared at the screen door of Uncle Will’s den.

  “Hi,” I said. “I was wondering when you would get home.”

  “I think you were hoping I would not.”

  I glanced down at the hole. “Well, maybe not until I finished here.”

  She emerged onto the top step. “The dead should rest in peace.”

  “Can they, if they’ve been murdered?”

  Her mouth twitched and she gazed off into the distance, as if she were reading the answer there. “Perhaps not.”

  I picked up the shovel, deciding to complete my task. She watched quietly as I unearthed the jar of ashes. Something else was in the hole, something that gleamed in the moonlight. I reached down.

  So, Aunt Iris had found Erika’s ce
ll phone.

  “Audrey’s been here,” Iris observed.

  “Yes.” I gestured toward the stones with one hand and pocketed the phone with the other. “She brought those over and placed them on top of the hole. I came out to see what she was doing.”

  “She was sticking her nose in my business, that’s what she was doing!”

  “Is she afraid of Uncle Will — I mean, the dead Uncle Will?”

  I saw the glint in Iris’s eye, the tiny smile of satisfaction.

  “Could be.”

  I carried the jar over to her. “Aunt Iris, how do you know the ashes in here are his? How do you know they’re not just pieces of the car, burned-up seats and carpeting?”

  “I can sense it.”

  “But how?”

  “How do you know the ashes are gray?” she asked back.

  “I can see them.”

  “If you worked a little harder, Joanna, you could see more,” she said.

  “I’m Anna, and I’m not psychic.”

  “You’re an O’Neill and a girl. You have little choice.”

  “All right, I’m not going to argue. Can you sense who killed Uncle Will?”

  Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed again, becoming a defiant stare.

  “Can you?” I persisted.

  “Do him the courtesy of putting him back.”

  “Can you sense where he was killed? Can you sense when?”

  “I won’t,” she replied, pressing her lips together, then turned and headed into the house.

  I pulled Erika’s cell phone out of my pocket. I knew I should give it to the sheriff immediately, but I wanted to check it out. The battery was shot, and my charger wouldn’t work with an iPhone. My iPod’s would. . except I’d lent it to Mom for vacation. So I’d spring for a charger — it was worth it.

  I slipped the phone back into my pocket, then deposited

  “Uncle Will” in the hole, finding it a lot easier to pile dirt in than to dig it out. When finished, I placed the stones back on the plot the way Audrey had arranged them. If I returned the stones to her, confronting her with her strange actions, or got rid of them by throwing them in the river, she would probably have to devise some other way to make herself feel safe. People do crazy things when they believe they are threatened, and I wasn’t going to encourage any more craziness than we already had around here.

  fourteen

  THURSDAY NIGHT I wore the only glam sundress I had brought with me. At 7:45, I found Zack on the front porch talking with Aunt Iris. She was giggling, batting her eyelashes, and trying to pat her wild red hair into place.

  When I stepped onto the porch, Zack turned to me. “Hey.

  You look good.”

  “Thanks. Where’s your car?”

  “At home. I thought we’d leave from my house rather than

  . . rather than block in Iris.”

  Rather than lose your muffler, I thought.

  “Rather than lose your muffler,” Aunt Iris said with a flirty laugh.

  Zack blinked. “That, too,” he admitted, then turned and smiled into my eyes. “I’m glad you decided to go tonight.”

  I drew back. Even though it was Erika, not you, who wanted me to come.

  “Even though it was—”

  “Aunt Iris,” I interrupted her.

  She tapped me on the hand. “I wouldn’t let that kind of thing bother you.”

  Zack glanced from her to me, trying to understand what had just passed between us, then his gaze dropped to my feet and he started smiling again. “I thought you looked taller. I’ll get the car. I didn’t know you’d be wearing fancy girl shoes.”

  What did you think I’d wear, Uncle Will’s hip boots?

  “William’s hip boots are in his boat,” Aunt Iris said to me with a sad shake of her head. “The police have them now.”

  Zack looked bewildered.

  I probably looked irritated by his response to my shoes, because he added suddenly, “What I meant to say is that you look really nice tonight, really nice in those shoes. Not that it’s unusual. I mean, you always look nice. But tonight you look. . fancy and nice and—”

  “You told me the party was at a restaurant,” I said, feeling my cheeks get pink. “I thought people would dress up. You did.”

  To my surprise, his cheeks grew pink.

  “Can we just go?” I asked, removing my tall heels to carry them.

  “Sure. Yeah. Let’s go.”

  “Bye, Aunt Iris.”

  “Have a wonderful time, Joanna.”

  When we were out of earshot, he asked, “Is your full name Joanna?”

  “No. Sometimes Aunt Iris thinks I’m my birth mother.”

  We walked in silence to the edge of the O’Neill property.

  As we passed through the gate, Zack leaned toward me.

  “My dad’s on the terrace. If we stick close to the trees, we won’t have to stop and talk to him.”

  “But I want dessert,” I whispered back.

  Zack grinned.

  “And, anyway, I think he’s nice,” I added.

  “So do I,” Zack replied, his smile softening.

  We skirted the house. I wanted to keep on walking with him — not go to the party, just walk with him and make him smile again. I reminded myself this was not a date, but a mission, for both him and me.

  “How long has your dad been married to Marcy?”

  “Two years. He built this house for her.”

  “It’s new?” I turned to study it, walking backward a few steps.

  “Yeah. Dad’s an architect. She wanted a new but colonial-looking mansion, and that’s what she got.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “I liked the old house where he and I lived the first year we came to Wisteria. This place is too Marcytoo perfect.”

  I realized a perfectionist would be a tough stepmother.

  “Do you have a mom somewhere?”

  “She died from cancer when I was five. Dad and I did great for ten years, then he kind of went off the deep end.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He fell in love.”

  I laughed out loud. “Love’s the deep end?”

  “You don’t expect that to happen when your father is fortyeight. I mean, it was unbelievable. He acted like a teenager.”

  “I think it’s awesome.”

  Obviously, Zack didn’t. “Everything’s different now.”

  “And you wanted things to stay the same, just you and him, even though you knew you’d be leaving for college one day.”

  Zack didn’t answer right away, just pulled out his keys and opened the passenger door of his car. “Yeah, I’m selfish, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  I got in, and he closed the door. I wondered if his dad had trained him to do these polite little things.

  “I’m even worse,” I said, when he got in on the other side.

  “I didn’t want my mother to adopt Jack and the twins. I was going to be a freshman in high school. Everything was perfect — for me. I couldn’t understand why she’d want to start all over again with little kids. Talk about acting like a princess!”

  Zack looked at me for a long moment, then switched on the ignition. “And how about now?”

  “Now I can’t imagine life without them. I think I’m having SpongeBob withdrawal.”

  His eyes crinkled. I liked it when his smile made his eyes crinkle.

  As we drove to the party, we talked about college and what we hoped it would be like. Finally, we turned into a lot with a sign that read SIMON’S WHARF. “Didn’t we pass this place about fifteen minutes ago?” I asked, recognizing the bouquet of pink balloons attached to the sign.

  “We did.”

  Zack did not explain why he had driven past the party, and I decided to pretend that all the guys I dated found me so fascinating that they drove past their destinations.

  The pink “Happy 17th Birthday” balloons led us up a stairway to the second floor of
the restaurant. Zack was carrying a square package wrapped in pink and gold.

  “Was I supposed to bring a present?”

  “I’ve got us covered,” he said.

  I wondered what he had selected and so thoughtfully wrapped in what appeared to be Erika’s favorite color. In the restaurant pink roses wreathed a pink candle at the center of each table. Men in white jackets were setting up a long buffet with pink tapers and flowers. Close to the buffet sat a table of relatives — at least that’s what they looked like: some middle-aged parental types, plus an old man and a youngish woman with a toddler. A DJ was working a soundboard close to a dance floor on the opposite side of the room from the relatives. Erika’s friends were also staying as far from “the relatives” as possible.

  At the center of the room was a table with a mound of gifts. I hoped we didn’t have to sit and watch Erika open each one — she had invited maybe sixty of her closest friends.

  “Let me get rid of this,” Zack said, moving toward the pile.

  It reminded me of an altar, with a portrait-size photograph of Erika sitting on an easel in the center of the offerings.

  As Zack placed his gift in the pile, I heard the girl next to me say, “I can’t believe all the people she invited. I can’t believe she invited me.”

  “Don’t be naive,” her friend replied. “Erika doesn’t like us any more than she used to. She’s scared, that’s all. We weren’t cool enough to be part of her game, and now she’s afraid that somebody she snubbed is going to snitch. This is bribery, nothing else.”

  “It’s expensive bribery.”

  “So? Daddy’s paying for it.”

  “But does anybody who wasn’t part of the game actually know enough to snitch? Does anyone have proof, anyone have a copy of the riddles she sent?”

  At that point Zack returned. He smiled and said hello to the girls, then pulled me away from the information I had come for. I glanced back over my shoulder.

  “Sorry. Did you want to talk to them?” he asked.

  “No. No thanks.” Not with him around.

  “It will be cooler outside,” he said.

  The party had spilled onto a wide deck that faced the river. As Zack and I worked our way toward the deck, I became increasingly aware of people turning to look at me. I reminded myself I was in a town small enough for everyone to know everyone else; naturally, kids would notice a stranger. And maybe my arrival with Zack had given me celebrity status. Perhaps everyone was wondering what was going on, since it was Erika’s party and she was obviously interested in him. My wry enjoyment of the moment ended abruptly, when I turned my head and met the gaze of my stalker. He smiled — if stretching your lips in a way that lacks any humor or friendliness can be called smiling.