They sat on opposite ends of the room, not talking about their lives. But they couldn’t say what they had to with a stranger in the house, and he’d make it as fast as he could and get out.
He handed her the mug, half hoping their fingers would touch again to prove to her that he wasn’t afraid, but they didn’t. He gave Klein his cup, then settled in the same chair he’d sat in last night.
Last night he’d have said second sight was bullshit and psychics were on a par with the carny morphadite and two-headed lady.
He gave her time to sip the tea. She was very pale; the skin under her eyes looked bruised. She must be as exhausted as he was, but she had not whined or given Bunner a bad time in return for the snot he gave her. She had conducted herself like a lady, his mother would have said, and he realized he liked this peculiar, amazing, half-frightening woman. Liked her very much and hoped that the handsome husband, who would probably be a lot handsomer if he got some sleep and smiled once in a while, would go back to her if that’s what she wanted. If that’s what was best for her.
He wondered.
“Mrs. Klein.” He put the cup down on the table next to the chair and saw her brace herself, but he went on doggedly. “Last night, you knew about... me... when you put your hand against my chest; today you knew about Ken when you touched Bunner. Then later, your hand brushed Bunner’s back before you told him to stay away from that party.”
She nodded.
“Then what did you touch last night to ‘see’ what you saw?”
The sun was gone, the air had a greenish tinge, and it was colder and starting to rain. Eve stood in front of the swing, with Latovsky next to her; Sam stayed on the porch, keeping his distance.
Eve looked up at the heavy chain bolted through the limb that was as thick as the trunks of some trees. The chain was still solid, but the wooden seat had cracked and blistered through the years. Abigail Reese must have touched the swing, maybe played on it when she was a kid—or the killer had.
“She ironed her blouse,” she said quietly.
“What?” Latovsky asked.
“Never mind.” She looked at him. “It doesn’t always work, you know. I might see nothing, I might see lots of things about anyone who’s ever touched it or played on it.”
“I understand.”
She stared at the chain, praying she wouldn’t see that woman die again, then she reached out and grabbed it.
The metal was cold and damp from the drizzle and felt slightly greasy.
Nothing happened; Latovsky waited tensely a few feet away, Sam came to the porch railing, the porch slats creaked under him. She looked up at the sky; the tree branches were still bare but she could make out buds on them. The sky had gotten low, the clearing felt closed in... and a wave of water came at her. It stopped short, receded into foam, and she thought it must be the lake or ocean, but it was bright blue and she was surrounded by sweating white tile walls. Someone was swimming toward her, doing a splashing butterfly stroke. The swimmer reached the end of the pool, grabbed the railing, heaved himself up, and pulled off his goggles. It was Tim, Meg’s husband; the thing was clearing up old business and she was seeing what she’d been “supposed” to see yesterday when she wound Tim’s scarf around her hand.
Tim passed her and she followed without wanting to. He left the pool chamber, the smell of chlorine changed to piney disinfectant, and they were in the shower room, only the two of them. Only Tim, really.
He turned on the water, stripped off his trunks, and Eve tried desperately to look away because she’d see him like this across the dinner or bridge table and want to die with embarrassment. But the picture turned with her as it always did—her own version of surround-a-vision—and she saw her best friend’s husband naked. His body was comfortable-looking, a little soft in the middle, and he came here (wherever here was) to lose weight, and get into shape.
Then they were in the locker room; he had his underwear on (thank God). He was putting on his shirt... and a little boy cried, “Higher, higher.”
Tim had dried himself carefully, but his shirt still got damp when he put it on. His suit was wrinkled from an hour in the locker, his tie a wreck.
“Higher... higher...” the little boy squealed. “Push me higher.”
Tim did take off his clothes and put them back on some nights, but he did it to swim laps, not boff some bimbo from the office. She couldn’t wait to tell Meg.
“Higher... higher,” squealed the boy, and she was back in the clearing. Only it was summer. Trees in leaf and jagged pieces of sky flashed over her head.
“Higher”—desperately. “Higher...” The boy on the swing was about five or six. A boy about twelve was pushing him.
“Higher!”
“Any higher and you’ll fall on your fool head,” the older one said.
“I won’t! I won’t.” The little one clutched the swing chains so hard his knuckles were white. “Higher,” he screamed.
“’Nufif.” The older one stepped back and the swing started to lose momentum.
“No! I was almost there,” the little one moaned.
The big one laughed. “You weren’t almost anywhere but about to fall and crack your skull. Look, I gotta go, I told the guys.”
“No! Don’t leave me!” He sounded terrified. This wasn’t just a little boy wanting a big boy to keep playing with him; something else was going on.
“Gotta,” said the big one. “I promised.”
“Take me with you,” pleaded the little one. He was very pale and tears filled his eyes.
“The other guys don’t like you tagging along. You know that. C’mon, don’t kick up a fuss now,” the older one said gently. “Tell you what, I’ll come early and we’ll take the boat out, okay?”
“Please, please.” The little one sobbed, “Please...”
But the big one was already heading down a path that was no longer there. It must have led back to the road and had been allowed to go back to the woods since this happened.
The older one disappeared. The little one ran to the path and wailed, “Don’t leave me...” The wail died away, the clearing was silent a second, then a voice called, “But he has left you, Sonny.”
The boy froze, facing the path.
“Come on, now.” The voice was wheedling, half chanting, with a sickish thrill in it. “Come on... come on now... don’t make me wait. Gotta get it all cleaned up.”
Tears and sweat ran down his face.
“Time,” the voice called. “Time... NOW! It’ll only be worse if you make me wait.”
The boy turned and faced Eve. His little face was almost as white as his shirt and his eyes were sunk in dark holes, but he was still a beautiful child, with light brown eyes and thick, straight, light brown hair—like the killer in the woods. But it couldn’t be; this was just a sweet little boy who was frightened and vulnerable, and lonelier this second than any child on earth.
Poor thing, Eve cried inwardly, Oh, God, the poor little thing. What waited for him in that house1 What was the owner of that voice going to do to him1
He took a step toward the house.
Don’t, Eve begged silently, don’t go in there. Run away!
He took another step, then stopped and sobbed softly. Eve wanted to scoop him up in her arms and carry him away, or face down whoever was waiting for him.
“Now!” the voice bellowed. It was deep but feminine, harsh with excitement, and Eve knew she was looking forward to whatever was going to happen. Eve’s skin crawled, the hair on her neck and arms stiffened; she couldn’t let this happen.