Kate sat on her rock and watched, not involved in the scene. Dissociated, Alice would call it. For a wonder, her hip and shoulder didn't hurt. At least not any more than the rest of her. Her head took that prize. Kate shrugged it off and staggered to her feet. And stayed there, even if the horizon did a couple of strange moves.
Just do the next thing, and the next, and the one after that. Even if it hurt. Straight ahead, Kate Rowley's philosophy of life. Not smart enough to go around an obstacle.
"Jeff? You say he's safe?"
"I found his clothes and took him down to your truck. He's cold, needs the heater, so I gave him your keys to start it up. He's got a couple of cuts and bruises. Nothing worse."
Heater. That sounded real attractive. Kate felt cold herself, sweat chilling her shirt and hair, no jacket, Maine autumn evening with the breeze coming in off the water. Cold and sore and very, very tired. She looked around. She was standing outside the stone circle, stones bright in the moonlight against the dark blueberry heather, maybe brighter than old gray lichen-crusted stone ought to be. She needed to learn more about this place.
Caroline walked over to her and bent down to pick up one of the gleaming brass shotgun shells. Empty. Kate could still smell burned gunpowder in the air, and the Colt felt light under her left armpit. She checked the pistol. All six cartridges fired. She reloaded from one of her speed-loaders, and tucked the empties in her pocket, don't leave evidence behind. Sniffed her hands, found powder smoke there. She'd fired those rounds, without leaving any memory.
"What happened?"
Caroline paused from gathering shadows out of other shadows. Must be nice to have young eyes. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Kate puzzled over that. Her brain seemed as if someone had stuffed it with old rags. She didn't like the feeling. "Driving down the ridge road. Parking. Checking out that white Explorer. Walking into the field. The aurora. That's it."
Caroline sat down on one of the stones, in the classic Thinker's pose, her elbow on one knee and chin in her hand, maybe a minute, maybe more. Then she stood up and shook her head. "We killed the brujo. Guaranteed dead this time. Jeff's safe. Anything more than that, I'm going to talk with Aunt Alice before I tell you. Please trust me on this."
Damned Haskell Witches.
Chapter Thirty
Gary shifted down for the curve and hill, trying to keep his driving as smooth as possible, and to keep the engine noise down. Jane was sleeping, slumped back against the car seat and the doorpost. He wished he was sleeping, preferably cuddled up close to her under that toasty down comforter that Aunt Alice had witched out of one of the closets, but they had to get back to Naskeag Falls. Had to get back to classes.
And sleeping in the Haskell House, making love in the Haskell House, made him twitchy. It kept watching. He could feel it.
Now he had to figure out what to do with a car on campus. He'd left it at home when he started school, not thinking it was worth the hassle. Damned university had about half the parking it needed for students and faculty, never mind visitors on campus. And the admin seemed to think they could earn a few dollars by charging a hundred bucks for a single parking violation. And two of the long-term lots they did let students use flooded every time an ice-jam blocked the Naskeag River. Only happened one year in five or six, Russian roulette, but you had maybe fifteen minutes to move your car. That, or watch it float . . .
But Jane needed Aunt Alice. She needed the House. And he needed Jane. So, the car. Dad's car, really, a middle-aged Subaru wagon, all-wheel-drive and anti-lock brakes and dual air bags so they might survive the weekly two-hour drive each way come winter.
It was a totally unnoticeable car in Maine; there were thousands like it, a Morgan car. That had defined the difference between Morgans and Pratts, the Subaru versus the Mercedes or the vintage Rolls. Tom Pratt had liked to be noticed. Look where it got him.
One of twelve corpses the police had found in the Pratt tunnels once the fire burned out, that was where, corpses laid out side by side in one room like a disaster morgue. No hearts.
He crested the hill and shifted again, soft, smooth, gentle, the same way he had to act toward her. That girl had seen too damn little "gentle" in her life. The road straightened out in front of them, and with the light traffic, he could afford to glance at her and enjoy the rare sight of a relaxed Jane White.
At least the Haskell House Effect lasted for, he checked clock and odometer, at least sixty miles and an hour fifteen plus. He should keep track of that. Aunt Alice would want to know. He stretched across and brushed a wisp of hair away from her eyes.
She reached up and caught his hand. Held it. Not a grab, not a block, not startled. She just took his hand and held it. Her eyes opened. She smiled at him.
"You're not asleep."
"The boy's a genius, I tell you."
"You should be sleeping."
"I'm too busy being alive. It tastes good."
He squeezed her hand and then reclaimed his own, two hands on the wheel, safe driving. He should always try to make her feel safe, the Gospel According to Aunt Alice. Unless she chooses danger. And never, never, let her think she couldn't leave. Never give her any hint of trap jaws closing.
Time to bite the bullet, give her a chance to think ahead. "What are your plans?"
She stretched like a cat and then settled back, adjusting her seat. "Plans? I think I'll bring some clothes next time. Borrowed sweats make me look
