Dark Corner Part 16

"Ah, the beautiful young lady, Miss James" Franklin winked. "Word travels quickly in a small town, son. Of course, she's welcome to come"

David blushed. "I've got to get used to this place."

"See you tomorrow, then," Franklin said.

As David watched Franklin return to his home, he thought about the professor's suggestions. Photographs. Jewelry. Artwork. Antiques. Journals. Letters. Books. Legal doc.u.ments. Bibles.

He put his hands on his waist, looking around the living room. It was full of stuff, just like all of the rooms in the house. He had no idea where to begin his search.

Start at the top, then, he thought.

In the second-floor hallway, a square panel in the ceiling granted access to the attic.

Standing on a stepladder that he found in the garage, King lying on the carpet and watching him curiously, David slid away the panel. Dust plumed out of the opening. He coughed. The dog sneezed.

After the dust had dissipated, he climbed into the attic.

He switched on a flashlight, panned it around. Cardboard boxes were scattered across the floor. Heaps of clothes. Stacks of moldering books.

Obviously, no one had been up there in years.

But he started looking. Ten minutes later, he made his first noteworthy discovery in a sagging box packed with old science-fiction paperbacks.

A large, leather-bound Bible.

At the kitchen table, David examined the Bible. It was old, there was no doubt about that. The red leather was worn, the gold letters on the cover were faded, and the pages were stiff and yellow. He handled the book carefully, afraid it would crumble into dust.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A sheaf of pho tos stuffed between the Old and New Testaments? Notes scribbled in the margins?

He opened the book. He found an ink sketch on the inside front cover. A family tree?

Actually, it wasn't much of a tree. It was a line drawn in the center of the page; rectangular boxes were s.p.a.ced at various points along the line, and names were written inside each box.

David recognized the names from the s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation that he remembered from years ago. At the top of the line, "William Hunter" was scribbled. Then "Robert Hunter," followed by "James Hunter," then "John Hunter," followed by "Richard Hunter."

The box at the bottom read, "David Hunter."

An electric current seemed to snap through David's body.

Who had written his name in this book, and when? Had his father done it?

He rubbed his chin, continuing to stare at the bloodlinethat was the only thing he could think to call it.

There was only one child born in each generation, he noted. The child was always a male.

It was weird, especially considering that in the old days of the South, families tended to be large, so the children could help work in the cotton fields.

He couldn't make sense of it. He began to turn more pages.

Various pa.s.sages throughout the scriptures had been underlined. He read a few verses. They meant nothing to him that he might apply to his family.

He continued to search.

It was an ill.u.s.trated Bible, evidently. Interspersed between books, he found skillfully drawn black-and-white sketches. He a.s.sumed they were depictions of Biblical stories. Interesting.

Leaving the book open, he poured a gla.s.s of apple juice. King padded up to him and dramatically lowered his snout to indicate the empty water bowl sitting on the floor. David laughed and gave the dog some fresh water.

Sipping juice, David leaned against the counter, letting his mind chew over what he'd seen.

His gaze happened upon an oil painting done by James Hunter, his great-grandfather. The piece hung on the opposite wall, beside the doorway. It colorfully portrayed black sharecroppers picking cotton, under the glare of a red sun.

David frowned. He'd never paid much attention to the painting before, but now, he stepped closer to it.

His great-granddad's distinctive looping signature was scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," David said.

The gla.s.s of juice dropped out of his fingers and crashed against the floor.

King, lapping water from the bowl, yelped in alarm.

David rushed past the shattered gla.s.s, and hunched over the Bible. He flipped to an ill.u.s.tration. It was a sketch of a broadshouldered black man, dressed in overalls, leaving a hovel that resembled slave quarters on a plantation. The man gripped a long knife. Behind him, a woman took refuge inside the shack.

The name "James Hunter" was scribbled in the lower right-hand corner of the drawing.

Hands trembling, David turned to another sketch.

The male character from the previous drawing stood at the head of a crew of similarly dressed men, leading a charge against a mob of people who were swathed in shadows. James Hunter had created this sketch as well.

Years of Sunday school had familiarized David with the Bible. These were not scenes from any Biblical tales that he'd ever read.

In another sketch, the same male figure, along with two other black men, and two white men, approached what looked like an Indian encampment. The men were bedraggled and empty-handed, as if seeking help.

Yet another drawing showed the broad-shouldered character leading a posse of men toward a cave that was guarded by a slavering pack of huge dogs. The seven-member teaman a.s.sortment of blacks, whites, and Indians were armed with rifles, handguns, and bows and arrows.

If these ill.u.s.trations had nothing to do with Biblical text, then what did they represent, and why had his great-grandfather created them?

The telephone rang.

Annoyed at being interrupted as he teetered on the edge of a breakthrough, David s.n.a.t.c.hed the telephone handset off the wall.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said.

A soft, feminine voice said in a whisper, "David Hunter ... you are"

G.o.d help him, it sounded like another ghost.

He stood as rigid as a rod. "Who is this?"

"You are ... responsible," the woman said in her unearthly voice. "You must prepare"

"Responsible for what? Prepare for what?"

"It is being revealed to you ... you must believe ... and be strong"

"Who are you?"

The phone clicked.

The caller had hung up.

"Dammit!" David said. He had neither Caller ID nor Star 69 included on the phone service. His father had no use for such modern technology.

Was it a call from the Beyond? Or was there a more ordinary source?

He remembered the psychic who lived on the outskirts of town, whom his father had visited: Pearl.

Nia, too, had told him a story about her experience with the psychic. The woman had phoned Nia to warn her about dating her colleagues and not long afterward, Nia had been stalked by a fellow teacher.

It is being revealed to you ... you must believe ... and be strong.

A raw chill seeped into his bones.

If Pearl was the one who had called him, why had she done it? What was she talking about?

He looked at the old Bible.

You are responsible ...

Was he living in a bad dream, or what? What the h.e.l.l was going on?

He paged to another drawing.

In this one, a Goliath with blazing eyes and ma.s.sive hands curved like claws loomed over the ever-present black man, and the man, whoever he was, appeared to be afraid for his life.

Although Kyle had learned patience in his long life, he wondered how much longer he could stand waiting for his father to awaken from his Sleep.

Diallo had not opened his eyes once. He had not stirred. His breathing was regular, his skin was warm, and his eye movements indicated intense dreaming, all of which were encouraging signs. But he had not awakened.

Kyle paced the mansion, roaming from one candle-lit room to another. Each day, he grew more restless.

He was eager to leave, but he had to wait until his father awakened. It was not safe to move Diallo. He was certain that his father was slowly arising from his Sleep, and to disrupt the process might plunge Diallo back into the most profound depths of his slumber. They had to wait.

Mamu relaxed in the living room, a chess game arranged on the table in front of him. His agent was characteristically calm, but he had every reason to be. Mamu's father was not the one at risk.

A faint sound reached Kyle's sensitive ears. It came from the bas.e.m.e.nt.

He snapped his fingers, capturing Mamu's attention. "The cellar."

Mamu got up so abruptly he knocked over his chair. But he was not nearly as swift as Kyle. Within a human's blink of an eye, Kyle had raced across the corridor and down the bas.e.m.e.nt staircase.

The sound reached him again. A low groan.

Kyle approached the bed.

Diallo's head whipped back and forth across the thick pillow. A moan grumbled from his chapped lips.

"He is awaking!" Kyle shouted. He clutched the bed railing.

Mamu watched from the opposite side of the bed. His eyes were bright. "Yes, monsieur. It is happening."

Diallo screamed.

His mouth contorted into a rictus of agony, saliva running from his fangs in thick strands. Veins stood out on his neck like steel cables. His strong hands, clenched in fists, ripped the bedsheets into shreds.

Hearing his father's cry almost caused Kyle to collapse to the floor. He gripped the railing, desperately, to remain standing. Mamu's eyes were enormous with fear.

Diallo's shriek lifted to an octave that made the windows tremble, and then his scream pitched into a thunderous growl that came from deep in his ma.s.sive chest.

Finally, he fell silent.

And his eyes opened.

Chapter 8.

' - ou don't look good," Nia said to David when he opened the door. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." He smiled weakly.

He'd made a dinner date with Nia earlier in the week, before the surreal incidents had thrown his life into a tailspin. After he discovered the Bible earlier in the afternoon, a sickening dread overcame him, and he'd spent the rest of the day napping, as if he could escape his fear by burrowing into sleep. But bad dreams followed him. There was no sanctuary, not even in slumber.

He'd considered canceling his date with Nia, but he hated to be a flake. At the sight of her, he was grateful that she had come. She was a balm for his troubles.

"Are you running a fever? Let me check" She pressed her palm against his forehead, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Really, I'm fine," he said. "I can prove it: I cooked dinner."

"I thought I smelled something burning."

"Ha, ha, very funny." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Do you mind if we eat now? I'm starving." He had prepared a simple but tasty meal: chicken parmesan, pasta, broccoli, and Texas toast. He opened a bottle of chardonnay and filled gla.s.ses for both of them. They dug into the food with gusto.

"I'm so impressed," Nia said, slicing a piece of chicken. "I've found a man who can cook. I bet you can clean, too"