The Seventh Night Page 5

  “Are you all right?”

  “This is the place,” I said. I gave a vague, sweeping gesture with my hand toward the cemetery. In the daylight, it seemed less formidable, less frightening. The tombstones were just that—stones. A cloud of birds flew over, and a mild breeze drifted through the trees and loosened my hair. With the sea at my back, I could almost believe last night had been another dream.

  “This is where it happened last night,” I said. Then, I added excitedly, “Look!” I bent over and retrieved several bits of broken glass that flashed and sparkled like diamonds in the light. I held them out in triumph. “See? The window was broken, just like I said.”

  “A few pieces of broken glass hardly proves anything, Christine. We could stop anywhere on the side of the road and find glass, a lot more of it than this.”

  The skepticism in his voice angered me. A lot of things about him made me angry. His arrogance was maddening. “You just don’t want to believe me,” I accused him. “It’s easier, more convenient, to pretend it never happened.” I threw the glass down, but one of the pieces nicked the palm of my hand. “Ouch!”

  “Now see what you’ve done?” His voice was admonishing but oddly gentle. “Let me see the damage.”

  “It’s nothing,” I protested, but he’d already taken my hand and turned the palm upward. There was only a drop or two of blood, but he carefully wiped it away with his handkerchief. It was strange because, for just an instant, the animosity, the doubts between us, seemed to fade away. For a moment there was only softness when his eyes met mine, and something deeper, something that seemed like…interest.

  “Don’t be stupid, Christine.” It was my grandmother’s voice I heard in my head now. “Why would a man like Reid St. Pierre want someone like you?”

  I pulled my hand away and turned from his gaze, scanning the cemetery with a bleak sense of foreboding before risking another look at him. “What about my father?” I was relieved to hear my voice sounded almost normal. “You can’t explain away his disappearance as the product of a dream—or my imagination.”

  His mouth thinned. “Maybe not. But I’m sure there’s an explanation just as logical.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe he forgot you were coming.”

  The same thought had crossed my mind, but it didn’t make hearing it any easier. Was it possible that my father could so easily forget something that had been so vitally important to me?

  “Do you really believe that?” I asked.

  Reid shrugged, his gaze surveying the cemetery. The sun was setting behind us, and the tombstones cast elongated shadows across the graves. With the dying sun came a sort of unnatural chill in the air. Or perhaps it was the topic of our conversation that had me shivering.

  “Christine…” he began, trailing off in a tone that had me growing even more uneasy. His gaze shifted, touched mine, then moved away again. “In the last few months, Christopher hasn’t been himself. He’s been moody, secretive, his actions sometimes irrational. He’s been spending a great deal of time alone….” Again he hesitated, but his words filled me with dread.

  “What do you mean by ‘irrational’?” I asked quietly, wondering if he was referring to my father’s recent contact with me. For some reason, I sensed Reid’s disapproval, his distrust of my motives, yet I still couldn’t understand why.

  “Business decisions out of the blue that are contrary to what we’ve previously discussed, erratic hours, missed appointments…. He won’t show up at the office for days, and then suddenly, without even consulting me, he’s making decisions that could affect the whole future of the St. Pierre. I think he may have gone away now to reconsider one of his latest decisions. At least, I hope he has,” Reid said, his tone grim.

  I gave him a sharp glance. “Is there any place in particular he may have gone?”

  “He has a cabin up in the mountains. I’ve wondered if perhaps he’s up there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? Have you called to see if he’s there?”

  “There’s no phone. The cabin is completely isolated.”

  “And you haven’t even bothered to check on him?”

  “The last time I went up there your father made it quite clear I wasn’t needed or wanted,” Reid said bitterly. “And frankly, the thought that he really might be there hadn’t occurred to me until now. And anyway, there isn’t a thing we can do about it tonight.”

  “Why not? We can drive up there right now, make sure he’s all right. He could be sick or hurt or…” A dozen dire images flashed through my mind. I hadn’t come this far only to lose my father to Reid’s indifference and callousness. If he didn’t want to take me, I’d find someone who would.

  Almost as though he were tracking my exact thoughts, Reid said impatiently, “It’ll be dark soon, and the road to the cabin is treacherous enough in daylight. We’ll have to wait until morning.”

  “We can’t afford to wait. Something must have happened to him. That’s the only logical explanation for why he didn’t meet me at the airport yesterday. If he’s hurt or sick, he needs help now. Don’t you understand? He needs me…us. If you don’t want to go, I’ll pay someone to take me.”

  After that singularly telling little speech, Reid frowned, the shadows deepening in his eyes. “You’re being irrational, overreacting—”

  “Like father, like daughter,” I said angrily, folding my arms over my chest. “And I warn you, I can be just as stubborn.”

  “Then God help us,” he muttered as he turned back to the car. “Have it your way, then. We’ll go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you to wait until daylight.”

  And with his threat hanging heavy in the air between us, we climbed back into the car and slammed our doors in unison. Reid started the powerful engine, shifted into first and pulled back onto the road, laying rubber for several yards in testament to his silent anger and annoyance.

  As the twilight deepened, we headed toward the mountains that loomed like giant specters on the horizon.

  * * *

  The road became narrow and twisting, the forest crowding us on either side. Vines with scarlet blossoms hung from the trees, their spent petals weaving a colorful Hansel and Gretel trail in the soft evening light. We circled the mountain until the Caribbean was below us again, aqua blue and dazzlingly beautiful.

  I found it hard to imagine living every day with such beauty. The colors were extraordinary, rich and vibrant. The whole island seemed to pulse with an energy that was hard to explain. Just when I found myself drawn to the island, however, I would remind myself of what had happened the night before. And as if to punctuate that point, we passed a man in ragged clothing pulling a cart laden with bloody cowhides.

  I flashed Reid a look, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were focused on the growing dusk. He took the hairpin curves at a breathtaking speed. Below us, the Caribbean crashed against huge boulders, tossing spindrift into the air like confetti. There was no guardrail along the road, and I shivered, thinking what one tiny miscalculation could mean.

  But Reid was in full control, oblivious to—or perhaps flirting with—the danger. His large hands loosely grasped the steering wheel and gearshift as he maneuvered the car with terrifying competence.

  What unnerved me even more was his silence. We went for miles without speaking, and I couldn’t help wondering what he might be contemplating, why his expression seemed so brooding as we drew farther and farther away from civilization.

  Why had he been so reluctant to accompany me to my father’s cabin? Surely he wanted to find Christopher Greggory as much as I did. Didn’t he?

  The higher we climbed into the mountains, the darker and more primitive the landscape became. In spite of the light sweater I wore, I became chilled by the deep shadows. The countryside seemed sinister—no longer beautiful, but dangerous and sly. I could see now why Reid had suggested we wait until morning, but it was too late to heed his warning. He was already pulling the car off the road.

/>   So dense was the forest that it took me a minute to see the lane that wove its way into the trees. Reid cut the engine and without saying one word, leaned over and fished a flashlight out of the glove compartment. His hand brushed my knees, and a funny little thrill of excitement raced up my leg.

  He straightened, opened his door, and got out of the car. Reluctantly, I did the same, but the butterflies in my stomach refused to settle. My awareness of him was becoming annoying, an irritant.

  “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” he said, throwing me a veiled look as I rounded the car to join him. “Sure you’re up to it?”

  I wasn’t sure of anything at this point, but I wouldn’t admit it to him. Besides, my concern for my father outweighed my fears. I had to find him, see for myself if he was all right.

  “Let’s go” was all I said. Then I followed Reid into the shadowy lane that would hopefully lead us to my father.

  It was early yet, too early for the moon, but the thick canopy of leaves blocked the remaining light, except for sporadic patches now and then that guided us. Leaves rustled in the underbrush as tiny feet scurried away from us, and every once in a while, I could see glowing eyes deep within the shadows.

  In spite of his silence, I was glad for Reid’s presence. He strode along the darkened path as though nothing or no one would dare touch him, and I hurried to follow in his footsteps.

  At last we reached the cabin. It stood in a little clearing, basking in the last rays of light. The woods had been chopped away to make a tiny yard, but already vines were slinking across the raked lawn, and here and there saplings sprang up like soldiers spawned from the hydra’s teeth.

  We reached the cabin’s porch and climbed up the steps, but I knew already my father wasn’t inside. The place had the lonely feel of abandonment, and as Reid tried the door, I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering with disappointment.

  The door was unlocked, and we both went inside. Reid lit a candle that had been left behind, and the room flickered to life. The cabin was sparsely furnished with one leather sofa facing a stone fireplace, a daybed with a patchwork quilt sitting against one wall and an old battered desk shoved against another. There was no kitchen to speak of, and, I assumed, no plumbing. It was definitely a place one would come to “rough it” and it hardly fit the image I had of my father—suave, sophisticated and very urbane.

  “What does he do up here?”

  Reid shrugged as he inspected the cabin. “Communes with nature, meditates, writes his memoirs. Who knows? He rarely confides in me.”

  There was a photo on the desk, and I picked it up, studying it in the dim, flickering light. Although I’d never seen her before, I knew immediately it was Claudine St. Pierre Greggory, the woman who had stolen my father from my mother.

  I was amazed at the bitterness that welled up inside me. I thought I’d dealt with those feelings years ago, but seeing her beautiful, smiling face—even though she had died a few years earlier—still conjured those terrible feelings of resentment and betrayal deep within me.

  If it hadn’t been for her, my life might have been so different. My mother might still be alive, my father—

  “You never met my mother, did you?” Reid asked softly, breaking into my thoughts. He was staring at the picture in my hands. With a quick movement, I set it back down on the desk and turned away.

  “I never had that pleasure.” If he noticed the sarcasm in my voice, he was big enough to ignore it. It made me ashamed of myself for being so small and petty, for hanging on to old memories that should have long since been abandoned.

  “I met your mother once,” he said, and I looked at him in surprise.

  “When?”

  “It was shortly after Mother and Christopher married. We were still living in Chicago. She came to the house one day, and she and my mother talked for a long time. I never knew what about. She was very nice, very polite, but I remember thinking at the time that she seemed to be one of the saddest-looking people I’d ever seen. I felt very sorry for her.”

  “She had good reason for being sad, wouldn’t you say? Her husband had just left her for another woman.”

  “Do you still blame all that on my mother?” he asked. There was no resentment in his tone, no bitterness, just mild curiosity.

  I turned away, not quite able to meet his gaze. I lifted my shoulders. “What difference does it make now? They’re all dead—my mother, your mother and your father—all gone except my father and he’s…”

  Reid hardly seemed to hear what I’d said. He was still staring at the picture of his mother. “It was a tragic time for both families.”

  “It was a long time ago. I don’t see any point in dragging up the past.”

  “Maybe there isn’t, unless, of course, the past still affects the present, and might affect the future, as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated, then said, “You’ve always seemed a bit…resentful of me. I’ve wondered if it was because of my mother, because of what our parents did or…something else.”

  “I could hardly blame you for my father’s and your mother’s affair, could I?” The question was reasonable, but my tone, I feared, was a dead giveaway. I had resented him—resented him because he’d made me want something I’d known I could never have.

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But family ties can be strong, binding. I know your grandmother hated us all. Barbarians, she called us. Unholy heathens who bewitched Christopher Greggory away from his beloved family in order to steal all his money.”

  He was smiling, but I sensed he was far from amused. He’d been little more than a child himself when all this had happened with our parents. Had my grandmother’s cruel words hurt him? It was hard to believe that anything could hurt Reid St. Pierre. He seemed so formidable now, so distant.

  He shrugged, as though dismissing the mood, and set aside the picture. “I think it’s time we headed back,” he said. “Obviously Christopher’s not here and hasn’t been for some time.”

  I agreed. The gathering darkness, the stroll down memory lane, had left me oddly depressed. I couldn’t wait to get out of the cabin. But as we stepped off the porch, I heard drums start up somewhere in the woods.

  The sound echoed through the darkness, an eerie, hypnotic beat that seemed to beckon and call me.

  My breath was frozen somewhere in my throat, but my heart was pumping ninety to nothing. Even Reid had stopped, and was listening intently to the darkness.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “A vodun ceremony.” He gave it the creole pronunciation, then flashed me a brief glance. “Voodoo, as Hollywood calls it. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  I glanced at the dark purple sky. “Isn’t it a little early for that? It’s not midnight.”

  “You’ve been reading too many books, Christine.” His tone was dry, annoyed. “Depending on the occasion, the ritual can take place anytime, even in broad daylight, believe it or not. Sometimes they last for days at a time.”

  “So what is the occasion?”

  “Maybe a celebration,” he suggested, then looked as though he regretted his words.

  “What kind of a celebration?”

  He looked just plain annoyed now. “I don’t know, Christine. Would you like to go ask them?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  That got his attention. “I hope you’re kidding.”

  “No. Why can’t we go? Maybe someone’s seen my father around here. The voodoo ceremonies are harmless, right? At least, that’s what the travel brochures say.”

  “It’s a matter of courtesy,” he explained, but there was an edge to his voice I couldn’t quite identify. “We weren’t invited.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “To some, yes.”

  “But what if they have seen my father? What if they know where he is? Look, we’ve come this far. I don’t want to leave until we’ve explored every possibility. If you don’t want to seem impolit
e, I’ll go by myself.”

  Those brave words might even have fooled me if I hadn’t felt the way my hands were trembling, my heart pounding. The last thing I wanted to do was go to that ceremony alone, and yet even as apprehensive as I was, I felt an almost insatiable curiosity about it.

  How many times did one get the opportunity to witness a real vodun ceremony in person?

  It would be something to share with my students when I got back. An adventure to pique their interest. And mine.

  I turned and started toward the sound. Behind me I heard Reid mutter something under his breath, something dark and indistinguishable, but I got the gist of it, anyway. I couldn’t help smiling a little as he caught up with me, then passed me by.

  He threw me a glance over his shoulder. “Keep out of sight if you can manage it,” he said between clenched teeth. “And let me do the talking.”

  A reasonable request.

  I was scared. But as we walked through those dark and oppressive woods with the sound of the voodoo drums growing louder, more frenzied, a strange excitement overtook me. I could feel that impossible beat thrumming through my body, drawing me into its rhythm. The air seemed charged with energy. Even the trees overhead seemed to be swaying in time.

  And then we were there, and I stood mesmerized by what I saw. Reid left me on the fringes of the woods as he went to join the others.

  The gathering was small, no more than a dozen or so men and women, all dressed in red, grouped around a fire in the center of a wide clearing. At one edge of the clearing, a tall, three-sided structure stood open to the fire. It had a center post that had been intricately carved and painted with designs.

  Later, I would learn that the markings were called vévés and were used to invoke the loa or spirits. Each spirit was represented by his or her own personal symbol. The center post of the structure, or peristyle, was used by the loa to descend earthward in order to mount their human hosts. Every movement, every sound, had special significance in the vodun ceremony.