The Darkest Lullaby Page 4

  “What?”

  “I’ll kiss you later. Right now you smell like Petey’s balls.”

  A couple hours later, she changed her mind about the dog.

  After scrubbing rust stains out of the bathtub and sweeping the floors with a broom and a dustpan that looked so old they might have been part of some archeological dig, she began the job of putting her clothes away. She’d been unpacking a suitcase when she found a purse she’d stuffed inside before they left. Though she hadn’t used the purse in years, there were a few items within, one of which was a crumpled photograph of Kat and her children. Ellie had seen the picture before, of course, but the last time had been before she and Chris had gotten serious about having their own family.

  And here they were, still childless.

  The sight of Kat—hugging her two girls and her son—blindsided Ellie, caused her to slump on the bedroom floor and cry slow tears of self-pity. She hated herself for reacting this way, and she hated Kat for winning yet again. Most of all she hated the fact that another year of prime childbearing was flying by, and she and Chris still hadn’t gotten pregnant.

  Then Petey came in. The animal still shook with an anxious energy that annoyed her, but sitting as she was on the floor, she hadn’t the strength to resist his friendly overtures. He nosed her hand until she petted him. He whined happily.

  Petey flopped down beside her and thrust his heavy head into her lap. She scratched him under the chin. And as stupid as it was, within a couple minutes, she’d forgotten all about Kat and her family. Gazing into Petey’s trusting, guileless face, she realized she wasn’t alone. At least she had a husband and a dog.

  She stroked Petey’s fur and was almost able to smile.

  Chapter Five

  By the time the sun had burned away the last of the morning dew, Chris and Petey were a mile from the house. The trail they followed was a tortuous earthen corridor overhung with branches that frequently smacked Chris in the face and nettles that bit through his jeans like hungry teeth. Suspicious-looking weeds slithered up his pant legs, tickling his ankle hair with spiderlike delicacy.

  Petey bolted away through the forest.

  “Hey,” Chris called after him. He did his best to follow Petey downward into the darkest stretch yet, a shadowy, marshy swale that would no doubt soon become host to a million mosquito eggs. His tennis shoes, already damp, soaked all the way through as he squelched through the standing water. He thought briefly of quicksand, of childhood cartoons that used to scare the hell out of him. In those shows quicksand was never far away, and once one fell prey to it, the speed at which a person sank was equal to the vigor of his struggles. In spite of his relative surety that there was no quicksand here, he nevertheless found himself eyeing the standing water with growing suspicion.

  A shrill bark made him jump.

  “Relax, boy,” he muttered at Petey, who watched him impatiently. “What’s the emergency?”

  The black lab danced about, his strong body tensed in a half crouch. He retreated a few feet and stopped, his back paws jittering.

  Chris frowned. “What’s eating you, pal?”

  The dog uttered a sharp bark, retreated again.

  “You want me to follow you?”

  Another bark.

  Chris glanced back up the hill. “Gimme a break this time. I don’t want the wife waiting for me all—”

  Sharp teeth clamped over his hand, and Chris jerked away from the dog in surprise. “Hey,” he said. “That hurt, dammit.”

  Petey continued to shake his hindquarters, his head low and expectant. A barely perceptible growl had begun to emanate from the dog’s corded throat.

  “All right, all right,” he said. He grunted, moved farther into the marshy thicket. “But wherever it is you’re leading me, it better be worth it.”

  For a moment all Chris could do was stand at the edge of the forest and gape. Prior to this moment he’d suspected that on a property this expansive, there must be clearings in the forest. He’d even wondered whether or not there existed a more suitable place to build a new house, a site with a better view and higher ground.

  But this was breathtaking. Acres upon acres of treeless land, slightly longer than it was wide, the gorgeous meadow rose gradually toward the middle, then sloped into a wide dale that meandered toward the woods bordering the eastern edge. Chris set off at a run up the hill with Petey in tow, and once there he realized that, yes, his suspicion had been correct. Before the woods once again reclaimed the land there lay a circular pond at the edge of the clearing, the water itself at least two acres in diameter. A family of mallards patrolled the brown water, the baby ducks floating like gray cottonballs.

  Amazed, Chris paused at the top of the hill and wheeled about, taking in the jawdropping view around him. He’d dreamed of a place where he and his children could run and tumble in the grass, and though this meadow was overgrown, it looked infinitely more inviting than the weed-strewn horror of their current yard. Petey galloped around him in delighted circles, his mouth open in silent laughter.

  “You like it, boy?” Chris asked and stared down at the glimmering surface of the pond.

  Something to the left arrested his attention. He squinted and shielded his eyes to better make it out.

  Another clearing, but much smaller. A half-acre at most. A short trail serpentined into the forest for a short time before opening upon this second cleared space. A nagging worm of unease wending its way through his excitement, Chris began to walk slowly down the hill in that direction. Unaccountably, a bitter brew of gastric juices began to percolate at the back of his throat.

  He reached the path and stared into its shadows.

  He turned, expecting Petey to be watching him, but the black dog was resting now, chin on paws, dozing languidly by the pond’s edge.

  Strangely disappointed, maybe even hoping Petey would give him a reason to head back, Chris squared up to the path and noticed for the first time how clean its lines were. No thorny undergrowth here, no brambles or deadfalls of branches. Just a neat, open swath about four feet wide that looped gradually to the left before disappearing into the enshrouding darkness. Behind him, an odd stillness had fallen over the meadow. As if bidding it farewell for the last time, Chris scanned the rise, allowed his gaze to linger on every detail of the rolling ground.

  Then, with no reason to wait longer, he entered the lightless path.

  Chapter Six

  Something’s gone wrong, he thought. You took the wrong trail.

  Had to have, for the one he glimpsed from the hill ran for no more than fifty yards before terminating into the smaller clearing. But he’d been walking for several minutes now, and there was no sign of a break. If anything, the foliage here was denser than any he’d yet encountered. And though he knew he was being paranoid, he found it odd that he hadn’t yet spotted another living creature in this eerie corridor. Perhaps the animals were afraid of this place, too.

  He wished Petey had come. The dog’s presence would have been a salve for his escalating apprehension. Chris was more frightened than he had been since he was very young, and the fear made him angry at himself. Lips thinning, he resolved to follow the trail to its conclusion, to by God see what he’d come here to see and not let his quailing nerves get the better of him.

  He peered up at the overhanging boughs and saw why it was so dark on the trail. The trees here grew in two tiers, the old growth giants—oaks, elms, sycamores—on the upper level; younger trees and shrubs forming the lower. Yet despite the surfeit of plant life, there was nothing impeding his progress, no branches here to strike him like switches brandished by stern headmasters, no nettles to set his skin aflame with their pinprick assaults.

  Almost like the path was cleared for you.

  Chris swallowed. Despite the growing darkness, his eyes were adjusting, and he wasn’t at all sure this was a good thing. A sentience seemed to lurk here in the wooded corridor, one that regarded him with barely restrained hostility. Strange de
signs began to clarify on the ancient brown trunks, and though most were oblong whorls, a few resembled faces. One in particular…

  He moved closer to get a better look.

  At first the swirling lines on the immense oak tree reminded him of knights jousting, their lances raised as they thundered together. Then their armor faded and took on the shape of modern garb—tuxedos replete with bow ties and cummerbunds.

  His breath caught in his throat. He no longer discerned just a pair of figures—he could make out eight of them. They were dressed for a wedding. And what they raised in the air were not jousts, but golf clubs. The eight clubs formed an inverted V, a tunnel through which the groom could pass.

  And yes…there was a figure emerging through the tunnel of clubs, grinning, the handsome features smug and chiseled. The face he’d seen a thousand times in his nightmares, the ones in which Ellie left him to return to…

  …to return to Jason Halladay. Her ex-husband.

  It was the same picture, right down to the grinning faces of the groomsmen, that he saw on the dining room wall at his in-laws’ house every time he and Ellie came to visit. Even after it became plain that Ellie and Chris were an item, even after they got married, for chrissakes, the goddamn picture stayed on her parents’ wall, for what purpose he could only guess. To warn him Ellie might someday divorce him too? To remind Ellie she’d already screwed up once, that this was her second marriage and her parents would brook no more failures? To confirm they preferred Jason to Chris? That they wished Ellie and Jason had stayed married because he’d been a better provider?

  He became aware of sharp pain in his hands. He glanced down and discovered he’d been digging his fingernails into his palms.

  Lighten up, he told himself. Good lord, it’s just a tree.

  Yet it wasn’t. The clarity of the design was uncannily true to the wedding photo. He’d hated the picture the first time he’d seen it, and not just because it reminded him Ellie had once been married, had been through the process of courtship, engagement, of planning a wedding, of exchanging vows, and then the wedding night, the honeymoon—

  Stop it.

  He hated the picture because it perfectly summarized Ellie’s ex-husband: Jason Halladay with his charmed life, his full ride to UC-Irvine on a golf scholarship, his cushy job working for his father. His half-a-million-dollar starter home in a gated community. Jason Halladay, grinning at Chris in triumph.

  His breathing was growing ragged, but that had nothing to do with the heat. His rage had grown murderous, a shrieking red cloud that ate through him like acid, that made him long for something, anything into which he could pour his frustration. No, goddammit, it wasn’t just the fact of the picture that bothered him, it was the symbolism of it as well. He’d once tried to explain it to Ellie, but she’d rolled her eyes at him as though he were an overimaginative child.

  But staring at Jason’s form passing under those raised golf clubs, all the groomsmen grinning at him with pride and deference, the old insecurity welled up in Chris like a poisonous geyser. Yes, Jason looked like a king in the picture, a lord and master, and wasn’t that exactly what he’d been? It doesn’t matter what you do, his grin seemed to say, it doesn’t matter that you’re legally married to Ellie now. Because I was there first, pal. I met her first. I made love to her first. She gave herself fully to me, willingly, passionately—

  And hadn’t she once confided in Chris—back before he had any idea he and Ellie would become a couple, back when they were just two people who’d met by chance at the beach—that her relationship with Jason had been largely physical, that the sexual chemistry between them was what led to their marriage, as well as the element that sustained it for five years?

  That’s right, Jason’s voice echoed in the shadowy glade. She and I made love too many times to count, and it was better than it’ll ever be between you and her. I was better than you’ll ever be. Just ask Ellie.

  He almost had, God help him, one night as they planned their wedding reception. Yet he’d been too terrified of her answer to pose the question, terrified her brutal bluntness would forever feed the tumor of jealousy gnawing away at him.

  Jason’s wheedling voice: You’re thirty-seven years old, Chris. Four years older than Ellie. You told yourself the age difference didn’t matter, but what if it does? What if that’s the reason why she’s still not pregnant?

  Oh God, he thought, a hand going to his throat. His airway had dwindled to capillary thinness. He tried to look away from the tree but could not, for now he heard a sound that bewildered him, a baby crying, and though he knew the sound was coming from his imagination, he was unable to escape it.

  It’s you, Chris, Jason Halladay whispered. You’re the reason you can’t conceive. You’re shooting blanks, buddy, and if Ellie’d stuck with me we’d have a handsome brood by now.

  No.

  You’re quite a catch, you know it, Crane? Poor, sterile, unemployed. It’s no wonder Ellie’s unhappy.

  Chris shook his head. Not unhappy.

  Discontent is her middle name, pal. And dragging her out here to the middle of nowhere just might prove to be the clincher, the move that sends Ellie to the courthouse to rectify the mistake she made when she married your sorry ass.

  Shut up.

  Can’t give her a child, can’t make her moan in bed the way I did, can’t even pay the bills to maintain that shitty apartment you two had.

  Chris dug his fists into his eyes.

  Did you really think it would work? Isolating her? You know in your heart she’ll wander, don’t you? No matter how far away you try to keep her from other men, there’ll always be someone better than you, someone who’ll sense in her that frustration, that wildness, and when it happens, there’ll be nothing you can do about it. Who knows, buddy? Maybe it’s happening right now.

  “Shut up!” he shouted. He sank to his knees, whimpering, a forearm over his eyes, over the stinging tears. He stayed like that a long while, kneeling abjectly on the soft humus of the trail.

  After a time he got slowly to his feet, sniffed, rubbed the mucus from his nostrils. Licking his lips in disgust, he glanced at the tree and was amazed to see the design gone, ordinary bark having taken its place.

  Now he was glad Petey hadn’t come. He wouldn’t want anyone, not even a dog, to see how he’d behaved. The sweat on his forehead had cooled, and the hair at his temples and the base of his neck was wet and sticky. His flannel shirt clung to his chest. He unbuttoned it, peeled it off his shoulders and tied it around his waist. The air here felt good, the forest stifling any breeze that might chill his bare skin.

  He moved on, certain now he’d chosen the wrong path—he should have long ago come upon the clearing. But this didn’t worry him. It wasn’t as though his steps would be difficult to retrace. This trail reminded him of a topiary maze he’d visited as a child, its green walls stately and impeccably manicured. The only difference was that inside the topiary he could follow a strip of blue sky as he walked. Here there were only intermittent reminders that there was a sky overhead at all. His nostrils tingled with the crisp fragrance of new vegetation, the moist scent of groping roots.

  Ahead, the trail widened.

  His pulse speeding, Chris jogged down the path. He spotted occasional breaks in the forest now, malformed splotches of sunlight piercing the forest wall. Beneath the padding thumps of his footfalls he discerned another noise, but it was so faint he was forced to slow down so he could hear it better.

  A woman’s voice. Humming.

  The song was sweet, beguiling. There were no words, but the melody intoxicated him, made his flesh tingle and his nipples harden. A heat developed between his legs, his blue jeans suddenly too restrictive. He had a delirious urge to shed them, to strip naked and dash forward into the clearing.

  The song grew louder, beckoning him forward.

  What are you doing? a voice asked dimly, but the words scarcely registered beneath the tumult of his senses. And besides, wasn’t it obvio
us? This was a mystery, a golden, glistening mystery not unlike the myths that used to spellbind him as a child. Some ethereal creature had happened into his world, and he’d be foolish to let it escape without making some sort of contact.

  Ahead, the trees began to thin, the sunlight slanting through in a dozen places. Chris beheld the mottled mouth of the clearing, but an ugly buzzing now mingled with the lovely melody, sullying it, transforming it into a dirge. His vision grayed, and his legs tingled as if they’d been asleep. He staggered against a bush and hissed as its sharp appendages gored his shoulder. He reeled down the trail toward the clearing, but he could hardly see now, the dimming veil strangling his consciousness.

  A figure flitted across the trail. It was slim, naked, but Chris couldn’t continue any longer. He sank forward on buckling knees. As his face dipped toward the earth he heard the voice again, but this time it was laughing. He rolled over, struggled to open his eyes, but the torpor deepened, a cruel lassitude anesthetizing his lids.

  Then, as he descended into the velvety folds of dream, he felt fingernails caress his stomach.

  Chapter Seven

  It had been a taxing day, with the movers unloading for the better part of the afternoon and then Chris behaving distantly. But now, as Ellie lay in bed, all the exhaustion and worry melted away. She rolled onto her belly and moaned contentedly at the warmth of the sheet on her face. She dozed, sweet images of their honeymoon in Cancun replaying in her memory. The need to urinate dragged her unwillingly back to the present, but the coziness of the comforter on her back, the peaceful susurrus of her sound machine forbade her from rising and emptying her bladder. Smiling, she let her hand dangle over the bed’s edge.

  She became aware of pressure on her fingertips. Wet, yielding.

  Ellie frowned, full consciousness tugging at her like an insistent child.

  Something was licking her fingers.

  Ellie groaned. It was a cruel irony that Petey had chosen her injured thumb for his sloppy ministrations.