The kid giggled.
“Where is she Bring her here, let me see her, please, let me talk to her!”
Tyler figured a Ouija board would be necessary for that conversation. “We’ll, uh, collect her shortly.”
Collect. That was rich.
The woman’s screams and pleas continued unacknowledged as Tyler and Gage left the suite.
“Four-Adam-eight-one, come in. Eight-one …”
Cain listened to the crackling radio in the twilight dimness of the living room. He had moved in here with Lilith so they could escape the smoke and lift their masks.
“Ready” he asked tensely.
She answered in Trish Robinson’s voice. “That’s a roger.”
The mimicry was excellent.
Cain thumbed the transmit button and held the radio close to her face.
“Eight-one,” Lilith said, reciting the words he’d taught her. “Go.”
“Hey, eight-one”-Lou’s raspy voice was sweetened by relief-“it sure took long enough to raise you.”
Like trying to raise the dead, Cain thought.
“Sorry for the delay.” Lilith spoke briskly, her lisp gone. “We were code seven. Grabbing some chow.”
“Yeah, well, I kind of let that code seven slide. It’s been an hour.” Irritation was replacing relief. “Look, what’s your location”
“Hospers Road, west of the highway.” He’d told her to say that. There was a strip of fast-food franchises out that way, a likely place for two cops to scarf down a meal.
“Okay,” Lou said, “we got a ten-thirty-three at the Cracker Barrel on Johnson.” A ringing alarm, just as Cain had thought. “You back in service or what”
“Ten-four, we’ll take it.”
Lou signed off. “Twenty-one twenty-five.”
Cain lowered the radio, and Lilith gulped a breath.
“Think she bought the story” Her lisp had returned.
“Hell, yes.”
“How long before they figure it out”
“I’d guess at least twenty minutes before they realize the unit’s disappeared. After that, a half hour or more until they think of sending a car here.”
“That should be long enough. But … but I was okay I sounded like her”
“You were perfect.” He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You were her.”
A shy smile. “I can talk like Trish anytime.”
“Even in bed”
“Sure.” She twirled her finger lazily against his neck. “Too bad we don’t have time to do it right now.”
“Sorry. Got to save myself for Mrs. Kent.”
“You bastard.”
But she shivered with a thrill of expectation, and he understood that she looked forward to having him inside her after he’d taken Barbara Kent-as if Barbara’s death would linger on him and excite her with its residue.
He knew her mind so well. And he did love her. Though occasionally he toyed with sweet things like Ally, they were of no lasting significance. He and Lilith were soul mates. Or perhaps, he sometimes thought, it was nearer to the truth to say they had no souls.
The idea did not displease him. A soul was a conscience, and conscience was weakness. He and Lilith were predators, sleek as sharks, primitive and deadly. Her lisp and her round angelic face were the camouflage that hid her gleaming fangs.
“Come on.” He clapped his hands. “We need to see the bodies.”
“And then … Barbara Kent”
Lilith stared up at him, a child anxious for the arrival of Santa Claus, terrified the magic sleigh would miss one special roof.
“Then Barbara,” Cain promised. “She’ll be joining her little girl real soon.”
44
Dead end.
Ally stopped short, her flashlight beaming a pale yellow oval on a smooth limestone wall. The spot of light wavered badly, tracing lopsided spirals, because the hand that held it was palsied with stress and exhaustion and fear.
Behind her, Trish whispered, “Damn.”
Her voice shook as badly as Ally’s hand, no doubt for the same reasons, but at least Ally could hear her now. The ringing in her ears had subsided to a distant, monotonous chime.
“Guess we’ve got to double back,” Ally said. “Try the other route.”
The cave system was a labyrinth. Several times she’d had to decide which branch of a fork to take, relying on the compass as her guide. At the last intersection she’d guessed wrong.
She began retracing her path, leading the way with the flash. Her bare feet, scraped bloody by the unforgiving stone floors, hurt with every step.
But she couldn’t complain. She had seen how badly Trish was limping. Must’ve sprained her left foot or ankle. If Trish could go on, so could she.
She didn’t ask what they would do if the alternate route was a dead end also. Or if the flashlight’s battery gave out. Or if they blundered onto a false floor-a common hazard in caves-and plunged into a lower gallery from which they could not emerge.
Lots of worries, lots of dangers, and no need to talk about any of them.
Besides, there was another question on her mind.
“So who was she” she asked without looking back.
“Who was who”
“Your friend. The one who used to go with you to the old farmhouse.”
In the beat of silence that followed. Ally knew she had inadvertently fingered a nerve.
“Her name,” Trish answered finally, “was Marta. Marta Palmer.”
More silence, unbroken save by their ragged breathing and the scuffle of shoes and bare feet on the uneven floor.
Ally’s flash ticked like a pendulum, lighting the narrow passageway, picking low stalactites out of the gloom. An elaborately ridged section of the gallery wall passed by, the limestone sculpted into flowing draperies, water and time conspiring to rival Michelangelo. Brown streaks of iron oxide colored the rocks, creating the surreal impression of cave paintings.
Frigid air, stirred by no breeze, wrapped her in its chill. Not too cold for her-but Trish in her wet clothes must be risking hypothermia.
Maybe it was best to keep her talking. Besides, Ally didn’t like the ominous quiet of this place.
“Is she dead” she asked. “Marta, I mean.”
This time she did look back, the flashlight swinging with her gaze. She saw Trish’s eyes widen in the glow.
“How … how’d you know” Trish whispered.
“The way you said her name. I just had a feeling.”
“You should be a psychologist.”
“Anthropology’s my thing.” Hesitation. “I guess maybe you don’t want to talk about this, huh”
“I can talk about it. It’s just that I usually don’t. See, she was only nine years old. And so was I.”
There was weariness in her voice, a deeper weariness than any born of injury or fatigue. This was the listlessness of old grief and remembered tears.
They arrived at the fork in the maze and started down the alternate corridor. Somewhere ahead was a soft, susurrant whisper. An aquifer, probably.
