Part 32 (2/2)

”Paul. There's no need to kick off like that. I only asked-”

”You only ask this, you only ask that. What's wrong? Can't you write the f.u.c.king book!” His face flushed red. ”Jeeza I hate this!”

John had never seen his son like this before.

Paul looked a step away from totally freaking out. He glared round the kitchen, his fists clenched. He seemed to be looking for something to hit.

Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag, sending the chair skittering across the tiles with a teeth-jagging screech. Without saying another word he marched out of the room. A moment later John heard Paul's bedroom door bang.

After that, John sat with the uneaten sandwich in front of him. He felt like an idiot, knowing he should say something to his son. But what? And what had brought on that near epileptic outburst?

Is that you, Baby Bones?

Did you make this happen?

I've given you what you want. So why are you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with my family? I've yielded to your demandsa I don't ignore your letters anymore. Baby Bones? Do you hear? Give us a break. I don't ignore your lettersa I'm missing a letter.

The thought hit him hard enough to make him sit up straight. No- that wasn't possible. He'd found each letter out there on the patio. With the exception of the first one, he'd quickly complied with whatever was demanded-the beer, the red ball. So, the demands were trivial but he'd played by the rules of the letter writer's game.

He went out onto the patio, his eyes scanning the stone slabs. They were clear. No chunks of gravestone. No letters waiting there as insidious as drops of poison.

He s.h.i.+elded his eyes against the burning sun. No. This was ridiculous; he was turning frigging paranoid. He'd gotten like those poor saps who daren't get out of bed on Friday 13th, or slept with a row of onions on their window to stop the boogie man from climbing in. He wouldn't let superst.i.tion eat into him like some mental cancer. That was nothing less than f.u.c.king schizophrenia.

The heat bore down on him, his s.h.i.+rt burned against his skin, making him itch uncomfortably. The dog paced nervously some way off, eyeing him as if he'd turned rabid.

Yeah, man bites dog. That's a headline.

s.h.i.+ta think straight, Newton.

Paul's been stung with some s.h.i.+t that teenagers get stung with every now and again. Now he's come home to p.i.s.s pure liquid anger over everyone. That's all! You can't blame this on the big bad spook that lives under the hill.

But no. He felt it in his guts.

Once more he searched the patio. This time, right under the patio table he saw that one of the shadows had acquired a lump. Skin crawling, he dived down at it. He grabbed the black lump as if he was grabbing a live rat and pulled it out.

There in his hand, a little larger than a paperback book, sat a shard of tombstone shaped like a heart. On it was one word: taken.

His mouth dried. He'd not seen this stone before. He'd swear.

A moment later he confirmed the fact when he counted the pieces of tombstone that had arrived with the letters. He'd received three letters. But now he had four lumps of dead stone.

How's your arithmetic, John? Four pieces of stone? Three letters?

One of the letters is missing.

CHAPTER 29.

1.

That afternoon John, by turns, looked for the missing letter or fumed over the recalcitrant lock. He sprayed more oil into the keyhole then left the bag on the workbench to allow the lubricant to seep into the mechanism.

By now, he couldn't look at the brief case without his heart beating faster. There was crucial information in there, he knew it-a treasure chest of answers.

Next he went through the trash. As he slipped a pair of polythene freezer bags onto his hands to serve as mittens to keep the festering goo off of him, he wondered if Val had gone onto the patio that morning, seen the letter, and simply dumped it. Alternatively, Paul or Elizabeth might have moved it.

Flies attacked the trash as eagerly as he did. They clamored around junked food that had been sweated good and hard by the sun. He plunged his hands down through layers of cans, paper bags all soggy and brown, empty coleslaw cartons, garlic dip, salsa and cottage cheese. h.e.l.l, this was a witches' brew and a half.

At first the dog came, his nose high, sniffing, as the fresher food smells rolled out of the trash can. But as John excavated deeper, turning up a full carton of cream that oozed green pus, the dog backed away, sneezing.

No joy. Queasy from the stench, he peeled the plastic bags from his hands.

John Newton was convinced a letter had arrived. He realized the repercussions if he failed to meet the demands. Bad things would happen. To his family. To him. Simple as that.

Look at Keith Haslem. He believed he could escape the influence of the letters simply by leaving the village. He'd thought wrong. Now he lay in a hospital bed, paralyzed by a stroke; his face melted by a boiling shower.

After scrubbing his hands he went upstairs.

Paul lay on his bed, fingers knitted behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

”Paul?”

”Yeah.”

”How're you feeling?”

”Great,” he grunted.

”Can I get you anything?”

”I'm trying to sleep, Dad.”

”Sorrya just one thing though?”

”What?”

”You didn't find anything on the patio this morning?”

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