Bethany's Sin Page 21

  “Take it back, I said!” He thrust it out at her, and Kay grasped his wrist. Her eyes shone with anger.

  Mrs. Demargeon didn’t take it. She said, “I meant no harm. It’s just a toy.” And she began backing away, still tracing those scars with her eyes, as if physically caressing them. “Keep it for her, please,” she said. Her voice lower, something harsher in it. Strained. “Keep it. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to—” And then she’d quickly turned away and was hurrying toward her own house, and they both stood where they were until they heard Mrs. Demargeon close her door in the night’s stillness.

  “Evan!” Kay said sharply. “What’s wrong with—” She stopped, stared.

  He had begun to twist the bow in his hands. The plastic whitened, cracked. The bow snapped into two pieces, and Evan flung the broken toy out into the street. Then he looked at her with a wild, hot gaze. “I don’t want that thing in my house!” he told her, as if daring her to contradict him.

  Abruptly, her face flushing, she turned her back on him and went up the stairs. The bedroom door closed. Hard.

  He slammed his hand against the wall. Damn it to hell! he breathed, and shook his head from side to side. What’s happening to me? Am I losing my mind? He could see the pieces of the plastic bow, still connected by the cord. He closed the front door and turned the lock, his nerves tingling. A child’s toy, that’s all it was. Just a toy. No. No. A toy. No. Because nothing was simple in Bethany’s Sin; everything was complicated and secretive and connected by a darkness that seemed to be grinning just beyond the windows. Coincidence? Imagination? When he’d seen that bow, he’d immediately recalled the etching of Artemis, with her bow and arrows, and the carved frieze of warriors on Dr. Drago’s fireplace, some of them bearing quivers of arrows. Coincidence? Or something strange and savage and merciless, reaching from the core of Bethany’s Sin toward him, and Kay, and even Laurie?

  By God I’m going to get into that museum and see for myself, he said, his hands clenched into helpless fists at his sides.

  But not tonight; Tonight I’ve got to rest. And to think.

  After a while, Evan climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

  Where Kay was dreaming fitfully of blood-dripping slaughter.

  18

  * * *

  Behind the

  Museum’s Door

  ON SUNDAY Laurie cried when Kay told her that her father had accidentally broken her new toy. Don’t worry, Kay said. We’ll get you another one.

  Evan found Doug Blackburn’s number through Whittington information and made his call. No answer. He spent the rest of the day in the basement, trying to work on a new story, and crumpling page after page into the wastebasket.

  Kay slept badly again that night. Evan lay beside her and heard her whimper, and when he took her hand he found the flesh corpse-cold. Just past midnight he tried to wake her up because she’d cried out sharply, but he couldn’t rouse her by shaking her or calling out her name or even by putting a cold facecloth against her temples. Beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead. Finally she was quiet, and Evan settled back on his pillow.

  And at nine o’clock on Monday morning he stood across Cowlington Street from the museum. It was a hot, oppressive day, and sweat had already risen across his back. He stood looking at the forbidding house for a minute, and then, steeling himself, he crossed the street, moved through the gate and up the walkway. His pulse pounded, and as he reached that large oak doorway, his blood felt like liquid fire. He tried the door. Locked. He hammered on it, hearing the echoes within the house like a hoarse, bellowing voice. A trickle of sweat ran down his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Movements behind the door. Tentative footsteps. A pause. Then the noise of a bolt sliding back.

  The door slowly came open.

  “Good morning!” a gray-haired woman with sharp features said cheerily. She was dressed well, in a navy blue pantsuit, and she looked fresh and alert. She opened the door wide to admit him. “Please, come in!”

  He entered. There was a corridor with glass display cases, a desk with a guest book. The floor was of blue tile, and the walls were cream-colored. Similar to that corridor he’d seen in his dreams, yes, but…different, too. There were rooms branching off from the corridor and, at the corridor’s end, a wide staircase with polished banisters leading to the second floor. Behind him the gray haired woman closed the door. He felt air conditioning begin to loosen the shirt from his back.

  “I’m Leigh Hunt,” the woman said, smiling, extending a hand. A firm, cool grip. “Will you sign our book over here?”

  He nodded, took an offered pen, and signed it.

  “Sorry we were locked up,” she said. “I’m alone here for the day, and it’s rare that we have a visitor so early in the morning. It’s certainly going to be a scorcher today, isn’t it? The radio said in the middle nineties. And still no rain in sight. That makes for dangerous conditions, I’ll tell you.” She peered over at his signature. “Mr. Reid?” She looked into his face, seemed to be examining his features. “Oh, yes! Your wife is on the George Ross faculty, isn’t she? Weren’t you and she at Dr. Drago’s home on Saturday night?”

  “Yes, we were.”

  “I thought I’d seen you before. My husband and I were there, but we didn’t have an opportunity to meet you. Are you interested in our historical society?”

  “Curious,” he said.

  She smiled. “I see. Well, we’re glad to have you. I’m surprised you and your wife haven’t come to see us sooner.”

  “We’ve both been busy. Settling into the village and all that.”

  “Of course. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, then, let me give you a brief explanation of what these artifacts are. They were unearthed in 1965 and 1966, in an archaeological dig Dr. Drago supervised on the southeastern shore of the Black Sea, in Turkey. The fragments of statues, of pottery, coins, and the weapons you’ll see in the display cases date from approximately 1192 B.C. Around the era of the Trojan War. This particular region of Turkey is now geologically unstable; there’ve been several killer earthquakes there in the last century, and the most recent one, in 1964, exposed a wall of earth and uniformly cut stones. Archaeologists began digging in early 1965.” She began walking along the corridor, her footsteps echoing from wall to wall. Evan followed at a distance. “Dr. Drago held an archaeology post in Athens at that particular time, and for years she’d been petitioning the Turkish government to conduct a series of exploratory digs near the mouth of the Kelkit River. She’d been turned down up to that point, but Dr. Drago learned of this new discovery and petitioned the government again for permission to lead a team of Greek archaeologists in work on Ashava.”

  “Ashava?”

  “Yes. That’s the name the Turkish archaeologists gave the new site. After some professor or somebody. Anyway, Dr. Drago and her team were accepted. As a matter of fact, they made most if not all of the significant finds. The items you’ll see here were all unearthed by the Greek scientists.”

  Evan stepped over to a display case and looked in…There were bits of pottery, all of them numbered; most were undecorated, but on several there were intricate scrollwork designs.

  “Those were found on an upper stratum. In fact, the museum’s laid out in order of the particular discoveries. The third floor holds those items found in the lower, and oldest, portion of the dig.”

  Other display cases held more pottery. Here was a fragment of what must have been a statue: it was one arm, the hand curiously curled, as if reaching for him through the glass.

  “So what did Ashava turn out to be?” he asked the woman, seeing her reflection watching him in the display case.

  “A city,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Or, to be more accurate, a fortress. Buried by the shifting of the earth, buried from human eyes for possibly a thousand years or more. And a sheer caprice of nature uncovered its inner walls.”

  Evan peered
into one of the rooms. A headless statue stood flanked by shadows. One hand held a spear that seemed as if it were about to be thrown at him. There were other displays: large, cracked vases, small medal lions in a sealed case. “Ashava, huh?” he said, turning to ward Mrs. Hunt. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it, but then I wouldn’t consider myself any authority on ancient history.”

  “Few people are. Ashava was the name applied by the Turkish scientists. Dr. Drago identified the city by a different name. Themiscrya.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “No matter,” she said. “I didn’t know anything about it myself until Dr. Drago explained it to me. Themiscrya was a very ancient city, and a fabled one as well. Its origins are…lost in the past, but we can infer from its ruins and artifacts that it was primarily a farming community. It was a fortress, as I’ve said, but built as a fortress for purposes of defense against roving bands of barbarians. Of which there were quite a few. In 72 B.C. Roman legions attacked Themiscrya and destroyed it.”

  Evan realized there was a smell of dust in the house. Of age. Of ancient secrets, and perhaps new ones as well. “Why are these artifacts here?” he asked her as they neared the stairway. “Why not in Turkey?”

  Mrs. Hunt smiled a cat-smile. “The Turkish government was in need of…financial aid in the late sixties. As I’m sure you’re aware, Dr. Drago is quite wealthy. She…arranged for a loan in exchange for these relics.”

  “They must mean a great deal to her.”

  “They do, And to all of us as well.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because having this museum here makes Bethany’s Sin quite a special place. An important place. There’s a great deal of civic pride centered on it.”

  He nodded, looked up the staircase. He could see the battered torso of another statue, lights arranged around it to cast long shadows on the wall behind. “How did Dr. Drago make her money?” he asked, looking into Mrs. Hunt’s face.

  “She was a very lucky woman. And intelligent, too. In…1967, I think it was, she married Nicholas Drago. She was his third wife.”

  “I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “The Greek financier,” she explained. “The one with the shipping line and the chain of hotels. Unfortunately, Mr. Drago died in a fall barely a year after they were married. They were living in a villa on one of those volcanic Greek islands. I don’t know all the details, but apparently it was a pretty grim accident.” She shook her head. “Poor woman. She was supposed to have been the love of his life; he left her most of his holdings, and for a while she managed his businesses herself before she came back to America.”

  “Back to America?”

  “Oh, yes. She was born in this country.” She glanced up the stairs. “Are you going to see the rest of the museum?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. I’ll let you go ahead, then. I’ve got some correspondence to answer. If you have any questions, any at all, please ask them. All right?”

  “Yes, I will.” He started up the staircase, and heard her footsteps retreating toward the other end of the corridor.

  For more than half an hour he prowled the upper floors of the museum. There were more display cases, more fragments of statues. On the third floor there were two things of interest: bronze disks, pierced with holes, which Evan thought might have been used as currency, and a display case containing a few stone spearheads, a metallic shield shaped like a crescent moon with an angered face embossed upon it, and a battered helmet with a half deteriorated nose guard. Evan stared at that shield and helmet for a long while, intrigued by them, and then continued through the third-floor rooms. More urns, decorated with fighting figures. A pottery fragment with a hand holding a sword. A large stone slab with part of a mural on it: he could see the outline of a man’s bearded face, the eyes wide and staring and…yes, terrified. Those eyes seemed to be seeking his own. The expression chilled him. Strange, he thought. Mrs. Hunt had said Themiscrya was a farming community. But where were the farming implements? It seemed a community more attuned to war than anything else. He continued through another room, taking his time, and then found his progress stopped.

  By a large, slablike black door.

  He put his hand on the gleaming brass knob. It wouldn’t turn. Behind it lay probably more than half of the third floor, he guessed. Storage space? No. Wouldn’t the storage area be in the basement? Possibly, possibly not. He paused for a moment and then retraced his way back downstairs.

  Mrs. Hunt, pen in hand, looked up from her desk. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes. Very interesting. But I was wondering about something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “On the third floor. There seems to be a locked door up there. What’s behind it?”

  “Everybody asks that question,” she said, and smiled cheerily again. “It’s a special exhibit we’re in the process of setting up. A panoramic reconstruction of Themiscrya; there’ll be spotlights and a slide show—that sort of thing.”

  “Good. When’s it going to be finished?”

  She thought for a moment. “Sometime in November. We hope.”

  He stood before her desk for a while longer, and she finally said, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit, Mr. Reid. Maybe you’ll bring your wife and little girl next time?”

  “Certainly,” he said, and started for the front door. “Thank you. Have a good day.”

  “Same to you. I hope you can find some shade out there.”

  Evan left the museum. Reaching the street and turning toward home, he felt the harsh touch of the sun on his face. In his chest his heart beat steadily and slowly, but he felt a tension begin to radiate and spread through him from the back of his neck. He turned, looked back at the museum. So. That’s all there was to it. The last vestiges of a farming community that had existed over three thousand years ago on the southeastern shore of the Black Sea. He remembered the argument between Dr. Drago and Doug Blackburn; of course they’d been arguing about the items in the museum, but why? And what did mythology have to do with it? He made a mental note to call Blackburn’s house again.

  But what about the dreams? he asked himself, staring at the windows of the museum. What had they been trying to tell him? That there was danger here, something reaching for him from a swirl of dust? If so, he hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t felt it at all. Paranoia? Maybe. God, what if all these premonitions and feelings were only his imagination, after all? What if there were nothing whatsoever to fear in Bethany’s Sin, and he’d been slowly unraveling because it was his nature to be afraid, to question, to probe.

  He began walking toward McClain Terrace again. He wanted to check the mail and get started on the bones of a new story.

  And then he had a curious, sudden thought: How had Leigh Hunt known he had a little girl? he’d never met the woman before, and she’d never been introduced to Kay, either. Possibly someone had told her.

  Yes, that was it. There were no secrets in Bethany’s Sin.

  Kay had determined to put Sunday night’s eerie dreams in the back of her mind and was in a better mood when she got home. Laurie seemed to have forgotten about losing her toy. Evan felt ridiculous about that incident now, and ashamed, knowing he’d embarrassed Kay in front of Mrs. Demargeon. Over dinner he told them he’d visited the museum, and Kay listened with interest while he described the artifacts inside.

  He almost didn’t call Doug Blackburn. Wasn’t Kay right, he reasoned, in saying that it was none of his business? Wasn’t it interfering where he didn’t belong? But he did make the call, at ten-thirty, and Blackburn answered, sounding sleepy.

  “Sure I know who this is,” Blackburn said. “Mr. Reid, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Sorry if I awakened you, but I wanted to ask something. Would it be possible for us to get together and talk sometime this week?”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Dr. Drago.”

  S
ilence. Then, “Well…I’m giving mid-terms this week, and I’m going to be very busy. How about—wait a minute—how about a week from Thursday? Come on over to the house and bring your wife. We’ll make an evening of it.”

  “No, I’d better come alone.”

  There was a pause, and then Blackburn’s voice took on a more serious note. “Hey, what’s this all about?”

  “It concerns Dr. Drago’s museum and her archaeological dig. But I’d rather talk face-to-face.”

  “Okay, then. Whatever. How about making it around seven or so on Thursday?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “All right. See you then.”

  “Good-bye. And thanks.” Returning to the den, Evan kissed Laurie goodnight before Kay put her to bed, then sat down on the sofa to watch the nightly newscast from Johnstown. The newscaster was finishing up a story on a local politician, and then he began talking about the discovery of a decomposed, unidentified corpse in the woods near Elmora.

  And across the village, in Mrs. Bartlett’s boardinghouse, Neely Ames heard a knock at his door over the rock music on his transistor radio. He said, “Just a minute!” turned off the radio, grabbed his blue jeans from the chair where he’d thrown them, and put them on.

  It was Mrs. Bartlett, carrying a tray with a white tea pot and a glass filled with ice cubes. “I brought you a surprise,” she said, coming into the room and glancing around. She didn’t seem to mind the clothes strewn about. “I know how tired you said you were at dinner, and sometimes a body can be so tired he can’t even sleep. So I made some of my good sassafras tea for you. It’ll help you relax.” She put the tray on a table near his bed.

  “That’s very nice of you,” he said; the pungent, earthy perfume of the sassafras had entered the room with Mrs. Bartlett.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. Bartlett said, pouring the tea. The ice cubes cracked, and the noise reminded Neely disturbingly of a night when something had smashed his truck window. “It should be cool in just a minute.”

  He took the glass and sat in a chair near the windows. The slightest breath of a breeze was coming through, but it was a stale, hot breath. His shoulder muscles and legs still ached from the work he’d done that day; it was almost as if that bastard Wysinger had been trying to wear him out. He’d spent the hot, muggy morning picking up litter on the outskirts of Bethany’s Sin, loading plastic bags with beer cans and blown newspaper and paper cups and all manner of debris. Then, in the scorching afternoon, he’d cut down a dead tree on Fredonia Street, sawed it into small pieces, and hauled the whole thing over to the landfill. He always hated going out to that landfill; it was a filthy place, layered with garbage and inhabited by hundreds of black, biting flies.