THIRTEEN
WHAT NEELY SAW
Sheriff Wysinger leaned forward slightly, his feral eyes narrowed above the cigarette stub in his mouth. Behind his desk there was an oiled walnut rifle cabinet and a shelf with gleaming football trophies.
The goldflake paint had begun to crack on several of them, exposing ugly and valueless metal. He took the cigarette from his mouth and laid it on the rim of a red plastic ashtray. "Ames," he said quietly,
"it's a little early in the mornin' for these kind of stories, don't you think?"
"What kind of stories?" Neely asked him from where he stood on the other side of the desk, his hands resting on his hips.
"Yarns. Fairy tales." Wysinger drew on the cigarette again, exhaled smoke through his nostrils in a dragonish stream, and then crushed it out in the ashtray. Tiny red embers flared, glittered, died.
"Now just what sort of shit are you trying to hand me?"
"Hey!" Neely said, lifting his arm so the other man could see the cuts. "And look at these!" He pointed out two small gashes he'd found on his chin that morning. "You want to come out and have a look at my damned truck?" He stood waiting for the man to move; he could see the overhead lights glittering on the pink flesh of Wysinger's scalp.
Wysinger sat still for a moment. finally he shrugged with disdain and hefted his bulk out of the swivelchair. Outside the sheriff's office the light of morning was pearlish, and a thin haze of wet ground-fog still haunted the curbs. Neely walked around to the other side of his pick up truck, and Wysinger followed at his own pace.
"There," Neely said, motioning toward the scrapes and the broken window; in the morning light, the ax-blade gashes were clearly visible.
Wysinger moved past him, ran a hand across one of the cuts.
"What'd you say you were doing last night?" he asked.
"I was at the Cock's Crow until they closed," Neely explained again. "On the way back to the village I drove through a group of horses and riders, crossing the road, I guess; I slowed to see who they were, and then they came after me. You can see for yourself what they did."
"Yeah, I see. What time did you say this happened?"
"Around two."
"Two?" Wysinger grunted. "Awful late for people to be riding their horses on a country road. How many were there?"
"I don't know. Jesus, I was just trying to get my ass out of there!"
"Uh-huh." He stepped over to the window, examined the jagged edge. "What'd you say they were using? Hammers?"
"No. Axes. One of them was, at least."
"Axes?" Wysinger turned from the window and looked into Neely's face. "You know that sounds wilder'n hell, don't you?"
Neely stepped toward him, his jaw grim. "Now listen to me," he said, not caring about Wysinger's position in the village anymore, not caring about the damned job he held, not caring about anything but making this ox of a man believe. "I know what I saw last night.
Riders, chasing me down. And by God one of them smashed my window with an ax! Tried to fucking run me off the road!"
"Watch your language," Wysinger said quietly as a car drove past.
"They were trying to kill me!" Neely said, louder than he'd wanted to; he could hear his voice echo off the side of the truck. "I don't see that you understand that yet!"
"I understand it. I just don't understand who they were, or why they should try to hurt you. You hit one of their horses? That why your headlight's broken and the grille's all smashed to hell and back?"
"No," Neely said, shaking his head. "I didn't hit any of them.
That happened when I went off the road."
Wysinger smiled slightly, sensing that he had Neely where he wanted him. "Well, now," he said, watching the other man. "Maybe all of it happened when you went off the road? Huh? Maybe you had a bit too much to drink last night and you slammed your heap into a gully, broke that window, and beat up the driver's door? So to keep me from finding' out you were drunk-drivin' and had a wreck, this morning you made up a cock-and-bull story in your sleep and ran over here to - "
"No," Neely said, his voice firm and cold as steel, his gaze matching the flint of Wysinger's. "That's not how it happened at all."
"You're sticking to this shit about horses in the middle of the road? Jesus!" Wysinger snorted. He turned away from Neely and moved toward the door. His lungs ached for the second cigarette of the morning.
"Wait a minute! Wait!" Neely stepped forward, put his hand on Wysinger's shoulder, and twisted the man around. Wysinger's eyes blazed briefly, and Neely dropped his hand away. "I haven't told you everything yet. I saw one of the riders. I looked into her face - "
"Her? What the hell do you mean, her?"
"It was a woman. But I've...I've never seen a woman who looked like that before. It was like. . . like looking into a blast furnace. Or a volcano. I could feel the heat from those eyes, like they were burning holes through me. I've never seen anything like that in my life, and Jesus Christ, I hope I never see it again."
Wysinger waited for a moment, his gaze probing. When he spoke, his voice was hard and emotionless. "Okay," he said. "You want me to take a drive up Two-nineteen to have a look, I will. But I'll tell you one thing. I don't like you. I don't like fuckin' drifters on the make with their hands out for money. And worst of all, I don't like drifters who drink in the middle of the night and then lie like rugs to stay out of trouble. I don't believe a word of this shit you've been spreading, and nobody else will, either: If I could prove you were haulin' ass down Two nineteen last night with a bellyful of beer, I'd either throw you in jail or kick your ass out of this place!"
Fleshy lids shawled his eyes. "Now get on over to the tool shed and get the mower. Cemetery's weeded up." Without waiting for Neely to speak again, Wysinger turned his back, strode toward the door, and disappeared into his office.
"Son of a bitch!" Neely growled under his breath. But he'd known even before he'd left Mrs. Bartlett's that his story was strange and unbelievable, and that Wysinger would probably laugh in his face. At breakfast, in Mrs. Barlett's yellow-walled kitchen, the ample, rather motherly woman had eyed him with concern and asked him what time he'd gotten to bed the night before. It's not right staying out all hours, she'd told him, moving about the kitchen in her peach-colored robe; when my Willy was alive, she'd said, he was early to bed and early to a rise. He was a hardworking man, too, and a good man. I can see in your eyes that you didn't get a good night's sleep, and that's what a body needs most. You're feeling all right, aren't you?
He'd told her he was feeling fine, but he hardly touched his breakfast. He'd told her nothing of what had happened on the road.
Now Neely shook his head in disgust and went around to the other side of the sheriff's office, where a chain-link fence surrounded a metal shed. Neely used one key to unlock the fence's gate and another to unlock the door of the shed; inside were various hand tools, cans of gasoline, shovels and hoes, the red lawn mower Neely had grown so familiar with. He found a swingblade and wheeled the mower out, locking everything behind him because he was responsible for all the tools and there'd be hell to pay if anything happened to them. His biceps and forearms already sore, he loaded the mower into the truck bed, then threw the swingblade into the front and drove off in the direction of Shady Grove Hill. He felt a gray, desolate mood coming over him; alone, that was what he felt.
Utterly alone. So perhaps it was fitting, in his desolation, that he spend the hottest part of the day in the cemetery.
As Neely drove away, Oren Wysinger let the blinds fall back across the window. He turned the lock on the door, crossed behind his desk, and took a key from the middle drawer. Then he walked to the file cabinet on the other side of the office and knelt down to unlock the lowest drawer. At the back of it, buried beneath blank sheets of typewriter paper, was a dark-brown book about the size of a photo album. Wysinger took the book out, laid it on his desk, and snapped on the gooseneck desk lamp. Sitting down, he drew on his cigarette and let the smoke dribble liquidlike from one side of his mouth. Then he opened the book.
Taped across the first page was a yellowed newspaper clipping with the headline CONBMAUGH FAMILY SLAIN. There was a picture of the Fletcher house. He turned the page. Another newspaper clipping: SPANGLER RESIDENT KILLED. A mug shot of a smiling middle-aged man wearing a tie, the name Ronald Biggs beneath it. On the next page two smaller items: WIDOWER SLAIN
and BARNESBORO MAN KILLED. The book was filled with grim reminders of murder: photographs of houses where bodies had been found, of cars that had been discovered on the sides of country roads, of blankets covering what could only be horribly mutilated corpses. Like those of the Fletchers. They covered a span of ten years; the last one was a few paragraphs on how a Barnesboro woman had discovered the mutilated body of a George Ross mathematics teacher named Gerald Meacham. That had been a little over three months ago.
Wysinger smoked in silence for a few minutes, looking at the next blank page. When he felt the sudden heat on his fingers, he crushed the cigarette out. There was a dull, heavy feeling within him, as if his bodily fluids had pooled into a lake that became more stagnant every day, thickly slimed with some kind of evil filth. He knew the thread that ran through these killings. Most of them men living alone. All killed by tremendous blows of a sharp, heavy object. All killed in the night, between midnight and dawn. Three years after the mayor of Bethany's Sin had given him the job of sheriff, Wysinger had sat down with a bottle of Jim Beam and a map of the county. For a long time before that, he'd been clipping the articles about the slayings from the small local community papers, probably because nothing in his life had shocked and sickened him so much as seeing the Fletchers ripped to pieces like they'd been.
Possibly it was curiosity about the other murders, or a strange and sure feeling that they were all some how connected, or a feeling of terrible destiny, but he'd clipped and saved and studied for years, while the police in other villages blamed maniacs or drifters or hoboes armed with bludgeons. And that night, his spine stiffened by Beam, Sheriff Wysinger had drawn circles around the towns on the map where they'd found bodies or, in some cases, just empty cars on the roadside or off in the woods. Then connected those circles with lines.
And it was then he saw that Bethany's Sin lay in the center, like a spider hanging in the midst of a web.
Now he touched that next, empty page in the brown book. His fingers felt contaminated, blighted, diseased. Often he awakened in the night, alone in his house, listening to the dark speak. The disease had crept into the marrow of his bones and festered there; sometimes the sores boiled over, and he wanted to scream. But he never did, because he was too afraid.
There would have been a new entry had Neely Ames's truck crashed into the roadside thicket. The troopers would have found the man's corpse battered beyond recognition. If they'd found it at all.
Christ! he thought. Too close to Bethany's Sin. Too damned close.
Investigations, troopers probing around, people asking questions.
Too damned close. He closed the book and turned off the light but did not move from his desk. He dreaded what was to come because now he'd have to talk to the mayor. And even though he knew from the calculations he rigidly kept that the moon was beginning to wane, he was deathly and numbingly afraid.
Kay thought: At three o'clock, silence is the instructor in the classrooms, teaching lessons on how time can slip away. She was sitting in her small office with test papers from her morning class before her, waiting to be graded. Most of the classes at George Ross were held in the morning and early afternoon, and by this time of the day almost all of the students and teachers were gone. About fifteen minutes before, she'd walked down the corridor to the teachers'
lounge and that unpredictable soft-drink machine that always had indignant notes taped to it. The halls had been silent and empty, doors closed, fluorescent lights switched off. She'd brought her Coke back to her office and continued working because to her there was something strange and slightly...yes, forbidding about a large building when all the noise had seeped out of it, when all the people had gone away. Silly, she told herself. That's silly. I can work better when it's quiet; I can get these papers finished and then pick up Laurie at the Sun shine School and go home to Evan. She was glad Pierce had gone home early. That man made her nervous.
Kay turned to the next paper. Roy Sanderson's. Nice, bright young man. He did well on the pop tests Kay sometimes threw at them. She checked through the first few problems, found an error in the fourth one, and circled it with her red pen; she reached across the desk to her right for the half-drained Coke can.
At first Kay saw it from the corner of her eye and wasn't certain what it was. When she turned her head to look, she shivered and gasped in amazement.
There was a human figure standing on the other side of the pebbled-glass door to her office. It stood motionless, and how long it had been there Kay had no way of knowing. She expected the doorknob to turn and the door to come open, but for frozen seconds she was certain a pair of eyes watched her own form there at the desk.
"Who's there?" Kay asked, realizing her voice sounded strained.
In the blink of an eye the figure had slipped away.
Kay put aside her pen, opened the door, and looked out. The corridor was empty. Off to the right, where another hallway angled out, she thought she could hear footsteps drawing away. "Who's there?" she called out again. The footsteps stopped. When Kay, her own footsteps echoing, moved forward to see around the corner, she heard whoever it was ahead begin walking again. Kay turned the corner into a corridor that would have been completely dark but for sunlight streaming through the slats of a drawn window blind. Ahead she saw a door just swinging shut. Kay stopped, the heat of the bands of sun light on her like fiery fingers, and stared at that door.
Who had it been? she wondered, her eyes narrowing slightly. One of the other teachers? A student, perhaps? She started to step forward and then paused. A sudden chill had passed through her. Go back to your office, she told herself. You've got a lot of work to do yet. Go back. Go back. Go back. You're being damned ridiculous, she heard another voice within her say. Are you getting scared of shadows now, like...Evan? No. I'm not. She moved forward and quietly pushed the door open.
Into another corridor.
The dim glow of fluorescents. Closed doors with numbers.
Silence. No, not silence, Kay realized after another moment. She could faintly hear the noise of metal clattering, then a rhythmic slapping sound. A wet sound. Kay let the door swing closed behind her, and then, trying to walk as swiftly as possible, she followed those noises. Windows with drawn blinds. A series of frosted glass doors, like hers, with names on them: DR. CLIFFORD, DR.
HEARN, DR. PERRY, others. Kay thought for a moment. History professors, weren't they? Yes, this was the history wing of the Arts and Sciences Building. She moved on, listening, feeling that chill working within her again, wanting to turn back yet curious about who it had been standing like a statue before her office door. Those noises of metal just ahead, the rhythmic sound echoing from wall to wall. Kay realized they were coming from the end of the corridor, just around the next corner, where a pocket of afternoon shadows had gathered in wait.
Go back, she told herself.
Then, in the next instant: No, I'm not like Evan. I'm not afraid of shadows.
And then she had gone around the corner, and too late she realized there was someone there, hunched over. A face looked up, eyes widened, mouth coming open.
"Jesus!" the woman cried out shrilly, stepping back and dropping her mop at the same time. The mop handle whacked dully against the floor. She almost lost her balance across the metal bucket that lay at her feet, filled with sudsy water. "Jesus!" the cleaning woman said again, trying to recover herself. "Oh, you scared the very life out of me, creeping up on me like that out of nowhere! Oh, my heart's just pounding!"
"I...I'm sorry," Kay said, her face flushing. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm terribly sorry. Are you okay?"
"Oh, God, I've got to get my breath." She put her shoulder against the wall and took a few deep lungfuls of air. She was a stocky woman with white hair and a heavily lined face. "Usually there's nobody around here this time of the afternoon," she said. "I don't expect anybody to come creepin' up on me like one of those haunts on the late show!"
"Please," Kay said, feeling foolish and embarrassed. "I didn't mean to scare you or anything like that. I was just...looking around."
"Been a long time working here," the cleaning woman said, "and nobody's ever scared the life out of me like that! What were you walking so soft for?"
"I didn't know I was."
"You sure were! Oh, Lord have mercy!" She suddenly looked full into Kay's face with dark eyes. "Are you a student here? All the teachers are gone home for the day."
"No, I'm not a student. I'm Kay Reid, and I'm a math teacher."
The woman nodded. "Oh. Well, Myrna Jacobsen cleans up the math wing. I didn't remember ever seeing you before. No need for me to have." She paused a moment more, shook her head,. and bent to pick up her mop. " My back's not like it used to be. Guess my nerves are shot, too. But it's so quiet here in the afternoons, you see, I just naturally thought that nobody was around"
"I see," Kay said. "Really, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, it's okay," the woman said, taking another deep breath and then going back to her mopping.
Kay started to tum away and then stopped herself. "You weren't over in the math wing by any chance, were you?"
"Me? No, not me." She looked at Kay with caution in her eyes.
"Myrna works over there, like I said. Nothing's missing, is it?"
Kay shook her head.
Relief flooded back. "That's good to hear. Myrna's a pretty nice lady, and a good worker, too." She threw herself back into the circular swirling of the mop; the wet strands slapped against the tiles.
"Someone was over there a few minutes ago," Kay persisted. "I was just curious."
"You must mean Dr. Drago," the woman said.
"Dr. - who?"
"Drago." The woman motioned with her head." She came through here a minute ago. Only she was walking loud, so I could hear. Her classroom's just down there, number one-oh-two."
"Who is she?"
"I don't know what she does. Just teaches, I guess. History."
More mopping, the mop slap-slapping on the floor.
Kay didn't know the name, but then she didn't know any of the history staff. She could see the door with 102 on it just ahead. "Is this Dr. Drago in her classroom right now?"
The woman shrugged, more interested in her work now. "don't know. I saw her go in, though."
Kay moved past her. "Watch the wet floor!" the woman called after her. Kay stepped over wet smears and pushed open the door of 102. What she saw stunned her for a moment. It was a large amphitheater-type class, with seats in a semicircle around a lectern.
Long windows were now curtained, and glass spheres suspended from the ceiling glowed with pale white light. Kay stood at the top of the amphitheater for a few seconds, looking around, and then slowly walked down the carpet-covered steps toward the lectern.
This classroom made her own look minuscule, and the temptation to stand at that lectern, gazing out across the seats, was too strong. She stepped up onto the speaker's platform and ran her hand along the face of the wooden lectern. Then she stood as a teacher would, hands gripping the lectern's sides, looking out upon the empty amphitheater. How many students would sit in this classroom? Over a hundred, certainly. She gazed across the room. There was no one here at all; if Dr. Drago had come into the room, she'd left before Kay had entered. On the far side of the dais where the lectern stood there was another door, and above it a green-glowing exit sign, probably leading out into the parking lot.
And Kay was about to step down from the platform when a cool, unhurried voice said, "No, Stay there. You look very natural."
Kay's head came up sharply, but she couldn't see who'd spoken.
Nevertheless, she didn't move from where she stood. "I...I can't see where you are," Kay said.
There was silence for a few seconds. Then, "l'm here." Kay looked to the right. There was a woman walking down from the top of the amphitheater; Kay knew she hadn't seen the woman because one of those glass spheres had been in the way, and it unnerved her now that she'd been observed without realizing it.
The woman approached Kay. "You seem very comfortable there. As if you're at home behind that lectern." Her voice was well-modulated and compelling, with a hint of a foreign accent that Kay found difficult to identify.
"I was just...curious," Kay said, watching her as she came nearer. "I wanted to know what it felt like."
"Yes. I began like that as well. Quite interesting, isn't it? Now imagine one hundred and twenty students watching and listening.
Does that stir something within you? I think it probably does." Still coming nearer, light beginning to rest on her features.
Kay nodded, tried to smile and found it difficult. "I didn't mean to...to wander in here. I was looking for someone."
"Oh? Who?"
"Dr. Drago," Kay said.
The woman stood just below her, at the foot of the dais. "Then I believe you've found me," she said quietly. And Kay found herself looking into the woman's eyes. Dr. Drago was, Kay guessed, in her early forties; she was a tall, large-boned woman, but she moved with the fluid grace of an athlete, smoothly and powerfully. A mane of ebony hair was swept back from a rather square-jawed face, and veins of gray swirled from the temples toward the back of the head.
Her face was tawny-colored and smooth, with only a few lines around the eyes and the mouth; she looked to Kay as if she spent a great deal of time outside in the sun, but without the premature aging that prolonged exposure to the sun brought on. In this woman's face there was a purpose and a strength of will that Kay could almost feel physically. But it was Dr. Drago's eyes that, oddly, both disturbed and compelled her; they were deep-set and clear, an aquamarine color like the depths of distant oceans. Kay's own gaze seemed locked with this woman's, and she felt her heartbeat suddenly increase. Though Dr. Drago was dressed simply, in pressed denims and a powder blue blouse, she wore the ornaments of the wealthy: glittering gold bracelets on both arms, a couple of gold chains about her throat, a dazzling sapphire ring on her right hand. No wedding ring.
"Kathryn Drago," the woman said. She smiled and offered her hand. Bracelets clinked together. "And please call me Kathryn!"
Kay took the woman's hand, found it rough-fleshed and cold.
"I'm - "
"Kay Reid," the woman said. "You live in Bethany's Sin, don't you?"
"Yes, that's right. On McClain Terrace. How did you know?"
"I live there too. And I'm always interested in the newcomers to our village. You're married, aren't you? And your husband's name is...?" She waited for the answer.
"Evan." Kay picked up the cue, trying to look away from Dr.
Drago's gaze and finding it all but impossible.
"Evan," she repeated, letting the name rest on her tongue as if it were food to savor. "A nice name. Do you have children?"
"A little girl," Kay told her. "Laurie." She thought Dr. Drago's eyes widened, very slightly, but she couldn't be certain. "We've only been in the village for about a month." Those eyes riveted her; she couldn't blink, and she felt her own eyes going dry.
"Oh? And how do you find life in the village?"
"Quiet. Restful. Very nice."
Dr. Drago nodded. "Good. That's good to hear. Many families come to Bethany's Sin and yearn for the cities again. That I've never been able to understand.'
"No," Kay said. "I wouldn't understand that, either. Bethany's Sin seems...perfect." What was it about this woman that made her heart beat so hard, hammering in her chest? What was it that made her blood thick and sluggish? She started to step down.
"Please," the woman said. "Stay there, won't you? Imagine yourself here with all those seats filled. Imagine them waiting for you to speak. Imagine them wanting a part of your knowledge for themselves."
Kay blinked. Dr. Drago was smiling slightly, a friendly smile, but those eyes above her mouth were...strange and cold. Burning through her now. Strange. Very strange. I'm not like Evan. No, I'm not. Not afraid of shadows. Who is this woman? Why does she...look at me like that?
"This is my classroom," Dr. Drago ,said matter-of-factly. "I'm the head of the history department here." Kay nodded, impressed.
"That must be a big responsibility." Eyes burning. What was it?
"Yes, it is. But a great deal of reward as well. I find a great pleasure in exploring the mysteries of the past. And passing those mysteries along to my students."
Kay's heart was beating fast, and her face felt hot. "Isn't it air-conditioned in here?" she asked, or thought she asked, because Dr.
Drago didn't answer, only continued smiling at her.
"What's your field?" she asked Kay after another moment.
"Math," Kay said, or thought she said. She put a hand to her cheek. Her flesh wasn't hot, as she expected, but cool. "I'm teaching an algebra class.'
"I see. You shouldn't have much difficulty with that. The summer semester's very quiet." ...very quiet very quiet very quiet. The words seemed to be ringing within Kay's head. Damn it! she thought suddenly. I'm coming down with something. A cold? Dr. Drago's eyes gleamed like beacons. "I live outside the village," the woman said. "One of the first houses you pass on the way in."
"Which house?"
"You can see it from the road. there's a pasture with - "
"Horses," Kay said. "Yes, I see it every day. It's beautiful; I don't think I've ever seen a house quite like that one before."
"Thank you." The woman paused for a few seconds, examining Kay. She touched Kay's hand again with her own. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm fine," Kay lied. She felt chilled and hot at the same time, and unable still to look away from the woman who stood before her.
Her heart beat fast, like a captured bird's. "I seem to be a little dizzy, that's all.'
She patted Kay's hand in a sisterly fashion. "I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about," she said. And then she blinked and the link between them was broken. Kay felt as if a burden had been taken off her shoulders; she felt weary though, and still strangely cold. She looked away quickly from the woman's face, and stepped off the speaker's platform. "You're all right now?" Dr. Drago asked, softly.
"Yes. I am. But I've got test papers to grade back in my office.
I'd better be going. It was very good to meet you, and I hope I'll see you again." She wanted to hurry out of there, hurry out of the history wing; she wasn't going to grade any more papers. She was going to get to her car and drive home and lie down. Her blood seemed to be cold, and there was some kind of strange tingling sensation at the base of her neck, as if Dr. Drago's rough fingers caressed her there.
Kay began walking up the stairs, and the woman followed her.
"I hope you continue to find the village to your liking," she said when they reached the top. "Where did you and your husband move here from?"
"LaGrange," Kay told her. "It's a mill town." They walked together out into the hallway. Dr. Drago loomed over her, her face now daubed with shadows around the eyes and in the hollows of the cheeks.
"I've heard of it," she replied, and smiled again. "A smudge pot, isn't it?"
"An accurate description." Kay almost caught. Those eyes again, and instinctively looked away. I'm not afraid. What's wrong with you? She thought she was getting one of her headaches again, but it was just that tingling at her neck. Fading now. Fading. Thank God; I thought I was going to be sick there for a minute. "I'd better get back to work now."
"Of course," Dr. Drago said. Kay turned away and began walking back toward the math wing, but suddenly the other woman said,
"Mrs. Reid? Kay? I'd like to ask something of you."
Kay turned; shadows had gathered across the woman's face, obscuring those eyes. Strange. Very strange. "Yes?
"I was wondering...well, I'm having a few faculty members over on Saturday evening. If you could, I'd very much like to have you and your husband over."
"A party? I don't know...."
"Not really a party. Just a little informal gathering.
Conversation and coffee." She paused for a few seconds. "It would give you a chance to meet some of the others."
"It sounds nice, but I'll have to talk to Evan about it. I could let you know."
"My number's in the book. I'd love to have both of you over."
Kay hesitated. She was feeling okay now, the tingling and the chill subsiding. Her heartbeat slowing to normal. You were nervous, she rationalized to herself. Nervous as hell.
"Thank you," she said finally. "I'll call you."
"Please do," Dr. Drago said. She stood without moving for a moment. Behind the veils of shadow, those strange aquamarine eyes were glittering. And without speaking again, Dr. Drago turned away and disappeared toward the other end of the corridor.
For a long time Kay didn't move. She was staring fixedly in the direction the woman had gone. I want to go to that party, she told herself. I want to meet the others. She was certain Evan would say it was okay, but even if he didn't, she would still go - alone if she had to.
Because in the last few minutes Kathryn Drago had made Kay feel that she belonged in Bethany's Sin, perhaps more than she'd belonged anywhere else. Ever.
