CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

RON DROVE DANGEROUSLY FAST THROUGH THE BLAZING LANDSCAPE. The hilly, winding roads were narrow and, in most places, dropped suddenly into deep gorges. For mile after mile, he sat forward in the seat, peering through the windshield, straining his eyes to make out the next sharp curve of the road ahead.

The strain of vision became a brutal headache.

He drove fast, as fast as he dared.

The town fell away and he drove the car swiftly through the pass and on to the road high above. He accelerated until the speedometer needle hit the 70 mark. From time to time he glanced into the rearview mirror, imagining that any moment he would see them. The road back and front was totally deserted.

Eighty now as the wind rushed through the window and swept beads of sweat from his forehead. He had known immediately—when the oddness had started—that the past had come alive again and was stalking him. Even now he could feel the horrible sensation of those moments years ago in the carriage house. Could see lines of the old woman’s face superimposed upon the younger, smoother face of Chandal.

“But the old woman is dead...” a voice whispered.

And Ron laughed hysterically.

He took the next curve at sixty, coming dangerously close to the edge, then slowed and began his descent. He knew he was on the brink of something beyond his control, plunging into whatever it was they had planned for him.

Only he didn’t know who they were. He’d seen them in his dreams, heard their voices soft upon the wind, but hadn’t been able to make out what they were saying.

He glanced into the rearview mirror, became aware that he had just passed Frank Hadley’s General Store. Something was wrong. Definitely wrong.

Without conscious thought, he jammed on the brakes.

What was it? He lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes. His shoulders hunched forward and his whole body ached. What was wrong?

He slammed the car into reverse.

For a while he stood perfectly still, allowing the experience to make some sort of sense. Frank Hadley’s store was closed. No, more than closed. It was completely vacant and had been boarded up.

It took only a few quick moments, a few quick jerks on the boards to the rear of the store, before he watched the door swing open. He peered into the darkness.

After a minute or two, he unhurriedly moved inside. His steps were slow and deliberate. He paused for a short while taking in the calm and the dense darkness. Nothing remained. It all had been removed. Counter, cash register, shelves, all gone. Only emptiness.

As always when you make a mistake, you begin to sense it vaguely. Had he made a mistake in coming here? As the shadows thickened noiselessly beneath the dilapidated tin roof, he became conscious of another element in himself. It was a tiny spark of instinct, a primal part of him still alive and vibrant. Survival. He knew that he was in mortal danger and that to return to Brackston would surely be a mistake. He was now free of the town. They had let him go. Chandal had let him go.

Oh, God. He was positive that in some way she had become part of the conspiracy. NO, he thought, remembering the tears that had glistened on her checks. But, yes. Yes, they had her. Another agony. Kristy. Was she... Yes, he whispered helplessly. Both of them a part of it. The question was—what... what in the name of God did it mean to be queen?

I WAS QUEEN. THEY—

Beneath the roof there was suddenly only darkness. His eyes fell away from the store and focused on a prior conversation.

He remembered what Alister had said to him. “It’s a thankless business to interfere with the goings on here in Brackston. Perhaps you’d do well to remember that.” The thought now made him feel vulnerable, almost possessed.

He turned quickly and tried to find a source of light. Any source of light. His mind was blank, his eyes, unseeing. The last thing he wanted was to go back to Brackston. Yet he could not think of not returning.

Oh, God—he hadn’t the courage to return. The will. “Oh, Jesus—please help me,” he thought helplessly. Then, as though teaching himself a lesson he could not quite grasp, he repeated again and again: “Something. I must do something. I must do something...”

He was certain of what was going on. He knew that he was not helpless, although he hadn’t a clue as to what the next appropriate action should be. He must get outside help. But where? The closest town was a hundred and fifty miles away. What would he tell them? What could he say to convince them? He felt tears coming to his eyes.

He was not shaking, but very quiet and still.

Yet he knew he was crying. Nothing could console him and stop his tears. Someone once said: “When a man cries, either he cries on his mother’s shoulder, or he cries alone.” Ron was alone.

Suddenly he turned and stared into the darkness. Something had moved. He waited. There! It had moved again. His thoughts started to go awry. The darkness, the sudden noise were becoming too much to handle.

“The devil’s greatest trick is to make you believe he does not exist,” whispered a voice. Whose voice? Ron began desperately to say the word again and again: Devil. Devil. Devil. Then he ran the sound together like a chant— DevilDevilDevilDevil.

Now he found the sound taunted him, ridiculed and mocked him. The chanting, his chanting, subsided. His tears flowed more easily, more as a relief than the pain of suffering.

Moisture blurred everything as he turned to stare at the small shaft of light filtering in from the back door. It came as a great relief.

As he stepped into his car, the sun torched the dashboard. Everything around him was still. To his left, the road led away from Brackston. To his right, the road led back. As he started the car, he was still undecided.