Starter House(94)

Every impulse of nature was against houses, every gnawing animal, every tunneling root, ice and rust, wind and rain. “Like termites,” Lacey suggested.

“But that’s not Drew,” Ella Dane said. “He’s trapped. Jack says he’s a captive soul turned vicious, like a dog on a chain. He’ll keep on hurting people till he finds a way out.”

“Out where?”

“Out.” Ella Dane waved her hands. “On. Move toward the light, all that. Jack says it’s best not to get real specific, in case you get trapped in your own ideas. He says if you can find out what’s been done before, that’ll save him some time. Anything that other people have tried to get rid of the thing.”

Greeley Honeywick had researched the house’s history, so she’d know of any past exorcisms, cleanses, cures. Could this work? Calling an expert in to get rid of Drew, as if he were mold, asbestos, lead, any deadly thing that might lie hidden in a secret place—could it work? Clean him out, take the place apart, and rebuild it without him?

She went to Ev’s office to e-mail Greeley, and to download directions to Jack McMure’s home in Columbia, where she and Ella Dane would meet. It felt good to have something to do. While she waited for her e-mail, she pulled up the picture of the Halliday family. Not Drew, not the doomed children, not the father with his hands on his thighs ready to spring to his feet—it was the mother she wanted. Dora. That ivory face with the downcast eyes.

She could draw that. It could be beautiful. She felt the shape in her hands. Layers of oil pastels, white over yellow, green over white, building up to that translucent glow, like pure white soap. Those thick curved eyelids, a shadow of blue hinting at the eyes. She’d have to stop on the way home to pick up some more colors.





Chapter Forty-two

ERIC WAS HOME BY FOUR. Lacey should have been only a few minutes behind him. Half an hour to finish checking out of the motel. Four thirty, five, six. No Lacey. She didn’t even call.

At 6:12, the phone rang. Eric grabbed it and said, “Where the hell are you?”

“Home in my little beddie,” Sammie Vandermeijn said, “all by my lonesome.” Scuffling and laughter, and she added, “Well, Floyd’s here, but he don’t count. Want to come over? Floyd’ll put his pants on.”

“Lacey’s coming home.”

“How happy you sound.”

“She should’ve been here two hours ago.” Eric cleared his throat. That thickness was congestion, maybe allergies, nothing more. All alone, a foreign thought kept running through his mind: she had left him all alone, gone on without him and never looked back; they all did the same thing in the end, they all left. “She hasn’t called.”

“Come on over,” Sammie said. “I’ve got a pound cake and strawberries. We’ll pour brandy on it and set it on fire. I love setting food on fire. Floyd bought me a fire extinguisher and he wants to try it out; he’s so romantic, you can’t imagine. Don’t leave me alone with the old goat, or I’ll have to spray him down.”

The foreign thought rattled on. She would leave him, like all the rest. He would be alone without lights or food or voices, until people came again, alone, alone, alone. He pushed it away. Self-pity never helped anyone. Lacey’s car turned into the driveway, followed by Ella Dane’s, with an unknown head in the passenger window, so it wasn’t Lacey’s fault, Ella Dane had made her stop somewhere. “She’s home. I’ve got to go.”

“We’ll save some pound cake for you. Maybe brandy, too, if you’re lucky.”

Lacey came in; she still had that bruised look around her eyes. Her week at the beach hadn’t done her any good at all. He felt a pang of hunger for the flaming strawberry pound cake. No part of Lacey’s attention was on him as she kissed him, and already she was moving away, pulling him toward the front door. “This is my mom’s friend, Jack McMure. He’s an architectural therapist.”

He would have known the man for a friend of Ella Dane’s, even without the introduction. He looked about three hundred years old, or a badly aged seventy, bald on top with a fringe of hair starting level with the tops of his ears. He’d grown out the fringe to its full length and tied it in a three-foot-long braid, thin as a pencil, with found objects tied into it: bottle caps, twist ties, candy wrappers. Birthmarks and age marks stained the top of his head in a pattern like a map of Indonesia.

“How nice to meet you,” Eric said. “There are some motels on Austell Road.”

“Oh, Eric,” Lacey said, with disappointment in her voice, “he’s here to help us.”