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"No, but when he asked I said it was a distinct possibility."

  "He asked?" She giggled with delight.

  "Seems that other people she's cleaned house for have had a little problem with Minnie's sticky fingers at one time or another." He paused. "You can't repeat that."

  "I know. But I love it when I'm right."

  He smiled wearily. "Presumed right. Kiddo, your old man's bushed."

  She grinned. "And bombed."

  "Guilty."

  "Well, maybe it'll help you sleep." Amber stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek. "’Night, Daddy."

  "Good night."

  After she left, he relocked his door, flicked on his bedside light, removed his robe and slipped between the sheets, stretching luxuriously. Maybe Amber was right about the drink. He hoped so: he could certainly use the sleep.

  Despite the alcohol, his mind refused to calm down: it wanted to rehash the things he'd learned tonight, wanted to move them around and create stories around them. Face it, Masters, you want to write.

  He groaned, disgusted and pleased at the same time. When the urge came on by itself, he never fought it. Rising, he padded to the writing desk, sat down and turned on his laptop. The screen glowed, blue and friendly, in the dimly-lit room, inviting him to add more words and, after a moment of hesitation, he put his fingers to the keys and the words began to flow, the way they always did after he'd reached mid-point.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Willard Residence: 11:55 P.M.

  Mickey Willard snored so bad that the Willards not only had separate beds, but separate bedrooms. Even from here in the living room, Minnie could hear him sawing his logs and, as much as she loved the old cuss, sometimes she just wanted to put a pillow over his face and hold it there until he was out of his misery.

  Shaking her head, she held up the doll and studied its mean little face. Wouldn't those New Agers have died if she'd shown them this? They'd been fascinated by the stories about the lighthouse ghost and the retard, that was for sure, and completely gaga over the fact that Jerry Romero was coming to Red Cay. The only bad thing that had happened was when Alice thanked her and escorted her out before the Inner Circle--no matter what those people said, that's what it was--started discussing her story. Dying to know what they'd said, she'd gone home and sat in front of the television with Mickey until he hit the hay around ten, just like always. After he disappeared, she took the doll from her purse.

  He wouldn't approve of her find, she knew. He'd never approved of any of her others, either, even though she always assured him that they were things no one would miss. She had taken to telling him they were gifts, though that had backfired last year when that stuffed-shirt Lyle Worthy had reported to Chief Swenson that two of his Hummel figurines had turned up missing after Minnie had been there to clean. He had at least a hundred of the things, what did he care? Selfish, spoiled creep!

  Chief Swenson had called on her, but she'd put the figurines away in the back of the breadbox where she stored waxed paper, plastic wrap, and tin foil. He didn't exactly accuse her of anything, but Mickey had walked in while they were talking, and, afterward, he took the little statues, wrapped them up, and mailed them anonymously back to Worthy.

  It was nearly midnight and past time for bed. She hit the remote, turning off the television, and rose, holding the doll tightly in her hands, The feel of the bulge of the doll's thing under her fingers sent a little thrill through her belly and, if she wasn't so sick of Mickey's snoring, she might have stopped off in his bedroom.

  Instead, she walked down the short hall to the tiny bathroom, where she set the doll on the counter while she brushed her teeth and rubbed cold cream into her face. The mean little face seemed to leer at her as she undressed, took her blue nylon nightgown from the hook on the door, and slipped it over her head. She finished getting ready and smiled at the doll. She especially liked the little cat-o'-nine-tails it held in its hand, despite the sharp little blades tipping it. "Let's go to bed, sailor," she whispered, turning off the light. The words made her titter and her face grew warm. In the darkness, she picked up the doll, again feeling the bulge against her fingers. "Oh!" she exclaimed, thinking the thing moved under her touch. It couldn't have.

  It moved again.

  She let out a little yelp, and the doll slipped from her fingers, crashing with a porcelain crunch on the hard tile floor.

  "Heck, heck, heck," she whispered.

  As Minnie flicked the light on, the room suddenly felt very chilly and a faint odor of bay rum sifted through the air. On the floor, the doll lay in pieces in a puddle of blood.

  "My goodness!" Minnie quickly began to examine her hands, thinking she must have cut herself on the whip when she dropped the effigy.

  Then something clamped over her mouth, a massive hand as cold as death. Another hand, just as cold, yanked her backward. Frantically, she clawed at them, seeing the thick black hairs coating them, vaguely smelling bay rum like Ferd and Andy Cox wore. She felt the chill body as she was pulled against it, felt the huge erection straining against her backside. The hand at her waist was removed, but the other was so strong she couldn't get away. The more she struggled, the harder it dug into the flesh around her mouth.

  Then she heard the crack of a whip, a whip with many sharp tails.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Body House: 11:56 P.M.

  The overwhelming, powerful odor of night-blooming jasmine suddenly assaulted David's nose. Alarmed, he turned in his chair, his work abruptly forgotten. The scotch glass--he'd decided to have one more nightcap--flew to the floor as his hand smacked against it, but he paid no attention.

  He stared at the locked bedroom door as the room filled with bitter, freezing cold, and his gut turned as cold as the air as he saw the ball of darkness begin to form. The hairs on the back of his neck came to attention and he heard himself moan as he discerned the unmistakable stench of decay oozing through the jasmine.

  He rose, tugging his robe more tightly around himself. The entity--Christabel--elongated into a rectangle, just as it had previously before it took human form, and it stood between him and the door.

  Don’t panic! He reached slowly behind himself and pulled the desk drawer open, never taking his eyes from the phantom as he felt for the bag of salt--old-fashioned ghost repellent he’d secreted there. Throwing salt probably wouldn't work, he realized; Christabel had already crossed the line of salt he'd poured across the doorway weeks ago, but it was worth a try--and he didn't know what else to do.

  As it had on that day in Amber's room, the darkness slowly formed into the shape of a human female, and details began to appear as he slipped his hand into the bag and withdrew a small handful of salt.

  He took a step closer, staring at the ghost, at the beautiful black off-the-shoulder dress, at the flash of leg, at the long white hands. Slowly, his gaze rose past the breasts, up the graceful white neck, and finally, his bowels loose, he stared into the exquisite face of Christabel Baudey, saw the red bow of lips, the milk-white skin, and the piles of jet hair. A single red plume ornamented her hair.

  He looked into her huge, flashing eyes, black as hell, black as heaven, and dropped the bag, felt the grains of salt sift down between his numb fingers.

  David... David... Come to me.

  The voice, spun of silk and silver, could not be resisted. He took a step forward, then another, and she did, too, and then her chill hands were on him, untying the robe, pushing it off his shoulders. It dropped, forgotten, to the floor.

  He reached out to touch her, his whole body throbbing with unexplained desire for this creature. He couldn't think, he was all emotion, all desire, and he didn't question it. He tried to take her hand, but she was without substance, except for the coldness. But she knew what he wanted, and took his. She’s trapped in a doll! some boring part of his intellect told him. If she wasn't, she’d kill you.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. No, David. Withdrawing her hand, she began to unfasten the black dress. Da
vid, free me and I'll be yours... David. Free me and you can touch me, too.

  A perfect rose-tipped breast appeared, then the other, as the gown slipped sensuously down her torso. He reached out to touch it, but his hand found only thick, cold air. Masters, you want to hump a cold spot! He told his intellect to shut up, and tried again, his whole body aching with desire.

  David…

  The gown dropped in a black puddle around her feet and he drank in the slope of her belly, the thick bush of pubic hair, the triangle of light shining through the juncture of her thighs just below her sex. Her legs were long and smooth. He was rock hard and aching with a sweet pain beyond anything he'd ever felt before.

  But he could only look. Then, she took his erection in her cold hand and led him to his bed. Obediently, he climbed on, vaguely aware of the covers slipping off the bed of their own accord, very aware of her as she climbed on top of him. Her center, rubbing against his abdomen, was a freezing flame, and he wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life.

  David…

  She pushed his hands above his head, showed him that she wanted him to hold onto the headboard.

  Until I'm free, you can't touch me…

  He grasped the wooden rail, shuddering with desire, watching her breasts as she moved above him, arranging his body to suit her.

  The doll is in the dungeon, David. Free me and you can do whatever you want to me, David… David…

  Suddenly, he was deep inside her, and she rode him like a horse, he bucking to meet her thrusts, his excitement unaffected by the coldness of her.

  She threw her head back, mouth open, eyes slitted, and in his mind he heard that silk-silver voice cry out in orgasm, and then he was over the edge, screaming with his own release, letting go of the headrail, trying to pull her to him, finding only the cold.

  You're mine, David…

  Spent, he stared up at her, into the dark eyes that trapped him. Lust receding, his brain came to life and he felt the cold, and his own fear, enveloping him.

  She laughed, her smile turning into a cruel twist, and she reached down and touched the seed that glistened in her pubic hairs. I have a little bit of you, David. You're mine, and I'm yours forever if you find the doll. Find it and break it, and we'll be together forever...

  The cry building in his throat broke free and he bucked, trying to throw her off him. She laughed again.

  You're mine, all mine…

  Then she began to disappear back into black smoke and, in a moment, she was nothing but a dark haze that traveled through his door as if it wasn't there. "Oh, God." He rose, his legs trembling, his mind fighting to comprehend what had happened. Or hadn't happened. He yanked his robe on, suddenly aware that his groin was dry and pristine. He raced across to the bed and examined the sheets. He found one small drop of ejaculate, a tiny pearl, but no more.

  I have a little bit of you, David. Her words played over and over in his mind as he went across the hall and washed. There was no reason to do so except that he felt soiled. He could barely believe what had happened as he silently unlocked Amber's bedroom door and peered in. Seeing that she slept peacefully, he relocked it and returned to his own room, where he turned off the computer. Did he imagine it all or not? He'd been awake, though a little drunk... Briefly, he eyed the bottle of Dewar's. He could use one more drink to help him sleep.

  It hasn't helped you sleep yet, old pal. Suddenly he remembered all the old parapsychology books with warnings about alcohol consumption in them. "It opens portals," said one book, "that put the drinker in dangerous positions when dealing with more negative hauntings."

  He'd never paid the warnings much attention before, but, suddenly, he believed them, fully and completely; tonight was the first time he'd drunk alcohol in the house. "Christ." He picked up the Dewar's, took it across the hall, and poured it out in the sink. Tonight was the first and last time he would drink in Body House.

  Back in bed, it took him a long time to go to sleep and, when he finally did, his dreams were full of Christabel Baudey. You’re mine, she told him, over and over and over again.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  August 15

  Body House: 6:48P.M.

  David had allowed Amber to take the Bronco for the evening, suggesting that she and Kelly go to the movies in Pismo Beach, and he'd done it for a very selfish reason: he wanted to keep his date with Theo Pelinore a secret from his daughter. The planned overnight at Kelly's had been moved to Body House because, as Kelly had said in her breathless way, "The bug man came and the whole place smells like Chem City." David only hoped that Amber was right in her assurances that she and her friend would be totally safe in her room.

  The show would let out around eleven-thirty tonight, which meant Theo needed to be long gone by midnight, but that was fine by him. He didn't want to spend a whole night with her again; it was too exhausting, not to mention hazardous to his skin. Most especially, he did not want to spend it in Body House with her. Lord knew what could happen. Though last night's events seemed like a drunken dream now, he was still pretty sure that something significant had happened, and he was also sure he'd touched his last drop of alcohol for as long as he lived here.

  He splashed on a little Drakkar, thinking, as he had all day, about the dungeon. Earlier, he'd gone briefly into the first floor tower and examined the floor, fascinated to find definite signs of a blast showing on the outer stones. There was a newer, rough area in the cement in a two-foot-diameter circle in the center of the floor, further backing up Commodore Patton's claim to have closed off an entrance to the cellar. Satisfied, David had left the tower room quickly, hating the cold, sad atmosphere of the place.

  He'd considered going to the third floor entrance all day, but had held off, more loath to explore by himself than eager to find the Erzuli doll that contained Christabel Baudey's soul. Her promises to be his just weren't as riveting now as they had been last night, and he was also frightened: the legends about her being irresistible to men were certainly true and it would be foolhardy to go by himself. He'd either get Craig and Eric to explore with him, or he'd sit back and let Jerry Romero do the dirty work.

  Or not. He still couldn't quite accept all that had happened. He straightened his tie and shrugged on his jacket Theo would be here at any moment to pick him up. She'd said she was taking him out this time, and wouldn't even tell him where they were going for dinner.

  He finished up and left the room, closing the door behind him, moving quickly through the silent halls to the stairwell. Just as he reached the first floor, the doorbell chimed.

  She’s here. His palms suddenly broke into a sweat and he stepped quickly into the downstairs bathroom and wiped them off before walking on to the front door. Just before he grasped the handle, the bell chimed again. She’s impatient tonight. The thought made him smile nervously. Theo’s always impatient.

  This was a new situation, being anxious about a date, knowing he was going to be expected to "put out." Though his penis found this a grand idea, his intellect just kept asking him if he'd ever made women he'd dated feel as much like meat as he did around Theo Pelinore. He found it rather disgusting, not to mention disquieting.

  But you’re a guy! his penis piped up, You like disgusting! With that, he cleared his throat and pulled the front door open. "Theo, how nice to… see… you." The words died on his lips.

  The woman who pushed her way into his house had frizzy orange hair, and the overbite of Mr. Ed. As she moved, all her joints seemed to travel loosely in a cacophony of pops and twitches worthy of a tap-dancing marionette.

  She carried a ratty black bag slung over one shoulder, with a notebook sticking half out of it, and in one prehensile hand she clutched a beat-up camera. In the other, she held a microcassette player, its little red power indicator glowing a guilty red.

  "David Masters, I've finally got you where I want you."

  Her slightly nasal tones wound down as if she were a languishing Southern belle and, as she mov
ed farther past him toward the parlor, she followed the words with a sigh.

  "Calla Willard, I presume?" His own voice sounded dry to him as he moved to head her off.

  She maneuvered around him like the professional snoop he figured she was. Like mother, like daughter.

  "Miss Willard, this isn't a good time." The dolls! Just around the corner, a whole hutch full of them awaited her camera and her questions. Quickly, he grabbed her elbow and propelled her forcibly around to face the front door.

  "I only require a minute of your time," she objected. She sighed again.

  "I don't have a minute," he replied smoothly. "I'm about to leave.”

  "But there's no car in your driveway." She cocked an eyebrow significantly.

  "Astute of you to notice." David forced himself to smile ingratiatingly. "That must be why you're a reporter."

  That remark stopped her with her mouth half open. She obviously couldn't tell whether he was serious or not. Calla gulped air like a guppy. "I--I've been trying to reach you since you moved here." She heaved another Southern sigh.

  "As I said, I'm very busy now. I'm sorry, but you'll have to go, Miss Willard."

  "But--"

  "Perhaps we can chat for a moment at the dance next week," he added, determined to get rid of her before Theo arrived.

  "But I write books!" she blurted. "My masterpiece is titled, A Woman’s Purple Onion, and my mother said you'd read it if I brought it to you." She began to dig in her big black bag.

  Outside, a horn beeped twice. Theo!

  "Your mother lied to you," he said abruptly. God, I can't believe I said that! He resisted a fleeting urge to apologize. The horse-faced woman was beyond rude, beyond obnoxious, beyond foul. She’s worse than her mother!

  Calla Willard might have been a reporter, but she certainly wasn't unflappable, he thought as she did a few more guppy impressions. "My mother what?" she demanded.

  He turned her to the door again and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, marching her toward the threshold like a rusty tin soldier. "Nothing," he muttered. "Look, I'll be happy to talk to you at the dance."