"Just for a minute. You're right in the next room."

"Why?"

"I just want to be alone for a minute, that's all. I just want to . . . to think the dream out." She didn't move. "Please. I love you."

She looked at him with sad eyes. "Just for a minute then." Leaning over to where he sat on the bed, she kissed his cheek. "I don't want to lose you." Then she was gone.

His gut twisted. Did he so much want to be straight? All the time he had thought he had come to terms with himself, did he really want, in the true heart of him, to be straight, to love women and not men? He remembered himself with Jeff, and with the other men before Jeff, drew up the sense memories as vividly as he could, playing them across the screen of his mind like the X-rated gay films he had gone to once and never again because there was no love in them. Gay people should not be romantic, he thought, and there, he surmised, lay his flaw. Even though nearly everyone who'd ever known him had thought of him as a hard-headed pragmatist, he was a romantic, and had looked for years until he'd found Jeff, who was just as romantic as he.

But now, as the moving bodies writhed in his mind's eye, although he felt aroused, there was nothing of love in the acts, no tenderness. If there had been once, he was now incapable of seeing it. Coupling bodies, sweaty release, the ease of climax, relaxation of tumescence, all, all, all senses were remembered, deeply felt, even treasured.

But where was love?

And now he knew. All these years he'd blamed guilt for his life, but he knew that guilt was innocent.

It was romance that had made him join the Marines, that had made him become a mercenary, the last dog soldier in these days of push-b.u.t.ton wars.

It was romance that had drawn him to Jeff and kept him there for years.

It was romance that had led him to The Pines, that had pushed him into the arms of Gabrielle Neville and had pushed the love of her into his heart to stay even after the house had withdrawn what it had given him.

And it was romance that would lead him to ask the house for it back again.

He did not plan to do it, not consciously, but that he would was as certain as the fall of leaves from the trees outside.

The three of them spent the waking time much as they'd spent every other-they ate breakfast, played some pinochle, then went up to the third floor playroom, where Gabrielle painted and the two men read. Wickstrom was working his way through Moby d.i.c.k ("I like it when something happens, but that's not very often," he'd told McNeely), and McNeely resumed his Edgar Wallace. Though he had only thirty pages of the book to finish, he took forever to reach the last page. The words were little more than black bugs on which he placed his eyes while he kept thinking about other things. And the longer he thought, the stronger the question grew, until he could ask it to himself consciously.

How could anything that could bring me so much good be truly evil?

After all, what had the house done? It had changed Seth c.u.mmings into a beast, but was that the house's fault? Wasn't it more likely, as he'd suggested to Gabrielle, that the evil had been in c.u.mmings and not the house, that what it had offered him in innocence-even perhaps for good-he had turned to evil because of his own l.u.s.t for power? And if that were true, what else had the house done?

It had given him the strength to kill c.u.mmings, but that had protected them all, had saved the lives of Gabrielle and Wickstrom and himself. There were the dreams and the faces, but those could have been born of their own fears. In fact, that was a much more rational explanation than any malicious intent on the part of whatever lived here in the house. Perhaps all one really had to do to contact it was to reach out a hand. Or a mind.

They'd been so careful, the three of them, to avoid being alone, to avoid any possibility of the house contacting them. Why? he thought almost joyfully. To approach it with good intentions, honorable intentions, might bring out the good in it. And if he sensed anything else, he could always pull back, seek the others. He had pulled back before, when he had met it in the kitchen, and it had left him when he'd wanted it to. What's more, it hadn't seemed angry, had it? Only confused. "It was what you wanted"-that was all it had said. And perhaps because of his own fright, it had grown confused enough to think it had erred, and, so thinking, had made him the way he'd been before. If that were the case, all he had to do was to ask to be changed back again.

Simple.

And then he remembered from somewhere an old saying that came unbidden to his mind-he who sups with the devil had best use a long spoon. He laughed it away, closed the unfinished book, and waited for their appointed night to come.

It did, after a session in the exercise room, another meal, and more reading aloud from Dostoevsky. When they finally went to their bedrooms, he had had his excuse planned. As they lay together and her kisses grew more demanding, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, love, but I'm just exhausted. That d.a.m.ned thing earlier got to me, I'm afraid." He shook his head, then touched her face tenderly. "Let's sleep a bit. Then, who knows?" He kissed her with as much pa.s.sion as he could muster, heard her whispered "all right," and moved up against her when she turned her back to him so that they lay like spoons in a silverware drawer. His groin pressed her b.u.t.tocks, but neither of them moved in a way that would lead to more.

He kept his eyes open, listening in the dark for the sounds of her sleep.

Chapter Fourteen.

Sterne was out of shape. If he hadn't known it before, he knew it by the time he reached the house. It was slightly less than a mile from the cabin, but it was uphill all the way and took him over ten minutes. Once he got in sight of the huge stone building, he tried to call Monckton's name, but all that emerged from his aching throat was a dry croak. He stumbled on, falling once and bruising his knee against some loose stones. When he saw that the doors and windows were secure, he breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, bending his body in the middle to try to comfort the side st.i.tches that seemed to be eating their way through him. Straightening up, he called Monckton's name loudly, but received no reply. He began to walk around the house, his eyes sweeping the high gra.s.s of the lawn, searching for a larger mound amid the clumps of wind-twisted gra.s.s and leaves. The chill air stung his overworked lungs and he paused, resting again until his breathing came more slowly. Then he moved on around the west wing toward the back of the house.

He noticed the ladder immediately. It was lying half on the walk, half on the lawn, like some toy flung away by a giant. Then he looked up and saw the arm dangling over the edge of the balcony.

"Oh, Christ!" he muttered. "Oh, you a.s.shole ... " Tears of frustrated rage welled up in his eyes. He ran to the ladder, picking it up and propping it against the wall, then climbed up it as quickly as he could.

He found a shattered Monckton lying on the tiles, legs impossibly awry, blood coming from one of them. There were also slow trickles of blood from both nostrils. Sterne gingerly picked up a wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, faint but steady. The idea struck Sterne of running to the front door of The Pines and banging on it for help, but behind the door, he remembered, was a steel plate. And even if he could have gotten in, there would have been no way to get help from Wilmer-there was no phone.

Down the mountain, he thought wildly. I'll get him down the mountain and then Renault will never know he was here. He could have fallen off the cabin roof, out of a tree. . . . He wondered if he could get Monckton down the ladder, then put his hands beneath Monckton's armpits and exerted slight pressure.

There was a dull pop and a feel of something giving beneath his hands, and he quickly let the body slump back to the balcony floor. He swallowed painfully and looked around in panic, but there was no one to help him. The perspiration was soaking through his underclothes, and he wrenched off the down-filled jacket, tossing it on the tiles. Manhandling Monckton down the mountain could very well kill him, of that much he was certain. Even if he survived, how could he explain away the injuries-and would Monckton even back him up when he regained consciousness?

If he regained consciousness.

Sterne licked his lips nervously as he wondered whether or not the plan would work.

Simon, Monckton's gone ...

I don't know. The noise of the Jeep woke me, but by the time I looked out he was gone.

He'd been acting strangely, Simon. Saying funny things about the house. I'm not sure, but I think he might have been planning to leave for a while.

I can handle it by myself until you send someone up. No problem.

Renault couldn't have Monckton searched for-it was Monckton's Jeep. The worst that had been done was breach of contract. And once the month was up, nine days from now, they would find Monckton, and it would be a shame.

It would work. It would clear Sterne, it would shut Monckton's mouth, no one would ever know that Sterne had let Monckton go up to the house.

Sterne decided to let the man die.

"I warned you," he said, kneeling down as though Monckton could hear him. "It's not like I didn't warn you. You'd probably be dead before help could get here anyway."

At that moment Monckton's eyes jerked open spasmodically. They were tired, pained, but clear, and they recognized Sterne. Some blood had dried on Monckton's lips, and the chill wind had chapped them further, so that when he opened them, they made a sound like softly ripping parchment.

"Ster . . ." He struggled to speak, but stopped, a cough shuddering through his body. It started his nose bleeding again, but he seemed unaware of it. "Sterne," he got out breathily. "Dead . . . dead."

Sterne could barely hear the words over the rush of wind. "What? Dead? Someone's dead?"

Monckton nodded, grimacing at the pressure his muscles placed on his shattered shoulder.

"Who? Who's dead?"

"c.u.m-mings." He said the name in two distinct syllables, as if to make sure Sterne would understand.

"c.u.mmings? Seth c.u.mmings?"

It was less painful to speak than to nod. "Yeah. 'N Neville."

Sterne's eyes widened. "Neville? David Neville?"

"Yeah."

Sterne grabbed Monckton's head between his hands, ignoring the man's sharp cry of pain. "How do you know? How do you know that?"

"I-I saw. Saw them . . ."

"s.h.i.+t!" Sterne spat out, letting go of Monckton and leaping to his feet in one motion. Neville dead? But how? If Monckton had been responsible . . . Sterne knelt again and looked into Monckton's eyes. "You saw," he said with a sneer. "How could you see? This place is shut tight!"

Monckton started to shake his head; instead, croaked out, "No ..."

"What do you mean no?" Sterne wanted to grab Monckton, wanted to take him and shake him like a rat, but if he did he knew he might lose him as a source of information completely. Then he remembered he hadn't seen the windows and doors on the east wing of the house. It might be possible that one of them had been forced, that Monckton had gotten in that way.

Then why had he been apparently trying to get to the roof?

Sterne shook his head savagely. Not a thing made sense, not a d.a.m.ned thing. But if there were an entrance open, if Monckton had somehow breached the defenses, and if as a result David Neville were truly dead-well, then the s.h.i.+t wouldn't just hit the fan, it would mean a manure truck into the windmill.

He turned and threw his leg over the railing. "Wait," Monckton groaned, "help ... help me ..."

"Help yourself," Sterne shot back, and started down the ladder.

It was a combination of things that made him fall, none of them preternatural in origin. The first was the fifth rung from the top that had split when the ladder had taken its two-story drop; the second was the smooth-soled shoes Sterne was wearing; the third was the haste with which he came down the ladder; and the fourth was his overall physical condition that left him unable to retain his hold when the rung snapped in two beneath his foot. The foot went through the gap, he fell backward, and rocketed headfirst down the incline, his shoes tapping a tattoo all the way down like a stick on a picket fence. He hit the bricks with the crown of his head.

On the balcony above, Whitey Monckton heard the sound of the rung breaking, and actually saw Sterne's fingers open from around the higher rung like a time-lapse flower and disappear. He wondered only for a second if Sterne was dead, only until he saw Sterne's face appear in a blaze of white, confused, frightened, and annoyed all at once before it faded into the blueness of the sky.

Monckton lay there for another hour, too tired to move, and watched overhead as the few clouds he'd noticed earlier gathered and multiplied, turning the sky to a pale gray, then to a dark slate color. When the rain began, he was able to pull himself the few feet in against the house. He did not mind the rain. The coldness of it took his mind ever so slightly off his pain, and, too, it washed away the blood. It seemed to hurt less if there was no blood. He closed his eyes and wondered how long he would have to wait.

Simon Renault looked at the receiver and frowned. He'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd call again. Sterne had treated him like a worrisome old woman the first time. Besides, there was no need. If something happened, Renault was sure that Sterne would call him immediately. He was insufferable at times, but efficient. And Monckton, too, seemed like a man who was always in control of himself and his surroundings. Come now, Simon, he told himself. Trust them. After all, having them there is the next best thing to being there yourself.

He made himself smile, then took another sip of coffee.

Chapter Fifteen.

At long last her breathing grew easy, her muscles relaxed. It was as if she had been trying to stay awake. Several times he'd heard her breathe in sharply, catching herself asleep. He was certain that if he'd been able to see her eyes, they would have been open, staring at the darkness like a lioness protecting her sleeping mate. After he thought she was asleep, he counted very slowly to five hundred, then undraped his arm from around her. When there was no response, he inched over to the edge of the bed and got up, feeling about in the dark until he located his pants and s.h.i.+rt.

He'd turned the lights off in the living room before they'd gone to bed so as not to wake Gabrielle when the door opened. He eased it shut now, waiting for a moment after the soft click of the latch before he fumbled for the lamp. The light was rea.s.suring, and he crossed the room purposefully and stepped into the hall.

He wondered where he should go. The kitchen? That was where he had seen the unearthly, strangely beautiful face before. But it seemed so pedestrian, so unromantic somehow (G.o.d, there it was again!). He decided to go there nonetheless, and walked slowly down the central staircase. His emotions were ones that he remembered from long years ago-a mixture of excitement and youthful terror. It was walking up to Judy Marlowe's door the night of the junior prom, walking into the Marine induction center for his physical, climbing the stairs to a oneroom apartment with the first man he had ever picked up: exquisite foreboding, breathless antic.i.p.ation.

He entered the kitchen and sat at the table as he had before, wondering how one opened oneself to the scrutiny of whatever he had seen and talked with before, and finally deciding on relaxed concentration. He closed his eyes and did the breathing that a TM freak in Angola had taught him. After a bit he opened them again and looked around. There was nothing.

He decided to try speech instead. "Are you there?" he whispered. "Is anyone there? . . . h.e.l.lo? . . ."

There was no answer. Line busy? Then he remembered what Neville had said when he'd found him in the cellar: It's stronger here.

The cellar then. It was not better or worse than any other room in the house, despite what had happened there. Perhaps Neville was right. Perhaps the thing was stronger the closer to the earth it was.

It's like a lodestone, Gabrielle had said, and McNeely paused at the idea. A lodestone buried beneath the earth of Pine Mountain, drawing to it and holding fast ... secrets. He opened the cellar door and started to walk down the steps.

The odor hit him instantly, and he frowned. So the wine cellar hadn't been as airtight as they'd hoped, he thought grimly. He breathed through his mouth and prayed they'd never have to come down here to stay. Even though the smell was vile, he felt far better than on his last visit, when Seth c.u.mmings was prowling the house like some blood-mad animal. But c.u.mmings was gone now, safe and dead behind those oak doors, with only a dark stain to mark his pa.s.sing.

McNeely stood in the center of the stone floor and looked around him. He started to say "h.e.l.lo" again, but stopped. It would not need his voice to tell it he was there. He remembered that Neville had been inside the fire chamber, so he walked over and opened the ponderous steel door.

The room's smell was flat and lifeless, though there was little trace of dampness as there was in the rest of the cellar. The few pieces of furniture sat expectantly empty, but the shelves were well stocked with provisions, and the fluorescent fixtures overhead cast a more intense light than the sickly bulb that so incompetently lit the rest of the level. The odor from the wine cellar had barely permeated the air of the shelter, and McNeely unconsciously pulled the door closed behind him to further escape the smell. With the door closed, the room was so quiet, he heard his own heartbeat, and fancied he could hear the blood rus.h.i.+ng through his veins and arteries. The rest of the house had been quiet, but quiet like a coffin in a crypt. Now the coffin was in a crypt that lay hundreds of miles beneath the surface of the earth. It made a huge difference, if not in the silence itself, then in his perception of the silence. It was a thick cotton snake that stretched through his brain from ear to ear.

And it was because the silence was so great that the voice came as such a surprise. It seemed to fill the small room at first, unaware of its own strength, lifting his unprepared body and shaking it with sound before it could properly gauge how much power it would truly need. In fact, its first words were unintelligible to McNeely precisely because of the force with which they were delivered. After the first shock came a panicked certainty that Wickstrom and Gabrielle two floors above would hear, must hear the voice. But a second of consideration was enough to tell him that the voice had been inside his head, had been meant for his inner ear alone.

The psychic rumbling receded like an ocean wave, and the words became intelligible.

You have returned.

There was glee in the tone, and McNeely thought of himself as the Prodigal Son come home to his family's good graces.

We thought you were frightened, but you have sought us out. There was a pause. You have sought us out of your own free will?

McNeely nodded. "Yes," he said, surprised at how his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it and repeated, "Yes."

That is good. We can help you. McNeely heard a vast outpouring of winds, a t.i.tanic sigh. We tried before. A puzzle. The last two words were given no inflection, so that McNeely could not form a context. He thought perhaps that the thing was puzzled by his previous reaction when it had told him what it had done for him.

"I was frightened," he said, "frightened when you first made yourself known to me. I didn't know that I could be so . . ." He searched for the word, and heard the voice speak it in his mind just as it was about to leave his lips.

Manipulated. (Had it read his mind?) It was not manipulation. It was only making you as you most deeply wished to be. It is good for one to be as one wishes.

It was a soothing voice, a soft, deep, mellifluous baritone that touched his mind with cool word-fingers. The inflections were like music, like the voice of Dylan Thomas reading Fern Hill, but with such a quality that one would have thought the throat that formed the words was made of velvet.

Do you know now what you wish to be?

"I wish ('Oh Jeff I did love you') I wish to love a woman as I've loved men."

You are certain? It was what you wanted before, yet ...

"Yes. I'm certain."