Page 18 of The Forest of Lost Souls

Using the long-neck butane match with which she lights candles for her dinner table, she sets fire to the picture of Bead, burns it in the kitchen sink, and washes the ashes down the drain.

After pouring the water out of the floral arrangement, she drops the roses into the plastic bag lining the kitchen trash can.

She goes to the cellar, where steel shelving units hold a year’s worth of canned and freeze-dried food against the day when foolish politicians might precipitate a food shortage. Famines are seldom the fault of nature, nearly always the consequence of either human idiocy or a sinister intention to use starvation as a weapon.

At least for the short term, she intends to carry a handgun. Her uncle’s rifle, shotgun, and pistol are in appropriate cases, atop one of these shelves. Or they were. Deacon has been in the house long enough to discover the weapons, and confiscate them.

He could return while she’s showering. Or sleeping.

Installing new deadbolts will provide no security. A police lock-release gun is the ultimate passkey.

In the smaller building behind the house, where the pickup is parked and the propane-fueled generator labors, her uncle Ogden’s workbench and tools await her. Because of the skills he taught her, Vida has been able to attend to everything that needs to be repaired.

Here also is an uncommon weapon, concealed behind the supply of lumber and plywood that she uses for various projects. Days after Anna Lagare’s visit, Vida dreamed of the fortuneteller whom she’d met long ago. In the dream, she’d been told to acquire this thing. That nameless woman is to her an oracle, and she doesn’t question such instructions. She had driven out of state to make the purchase at a shop where no ID was required. She had since practiced for hundreds of hours and had become a master marksman. At the moment, she needs only to assure herself that the weapon is still where she’s hidden it, and it is. Nash Deacon has not found it.

From her supply of lumber and plywood, she selects an eight-foot-long birch two-by-four. She locks it in the pair of woodworking vises at opposite ends of the workbench. With a handheld circular saw, she cuts it into forty-two-inch lengths.

From a cabinet of many drawers that offer a variety of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, fasteners, and other small items, she selects eight two-inch screws and then four steel-strap U-shaped brackets,each of which features two holes in one of its legs. She carries all that, plus a power drill and selected drill bits, into the house.

In the kitchen, she bores four holes in the doorjamb, two on the left, two on the right. She changes the bit to convert the drill into a power screwdriver, anchors the brackets, and inserts one of the two-by-fours. With that entrance barricaded, she doesn’t bother engaging the deadbolts. She repeats the process at the front door.

Whenever she’s out of the house and the two-by-fours aren’t in place, Deacon can enter, but he can no longer surprise her when she’s at home.

At last she can take a shower and steam away the muscle pain that lingers from the labor at the placer mine, without worrying that she might be reenacting the key scene fromPsycho.

26

THE YOUNG PSYCHOPATH AT HOME

On that Monday in the previous August, Vida parks in a lay-by and walks the last quarter of a mile to the Slyke house.

Although she takes no pride in Nature’s gift, she knows men find her exceptionally attractive. She doesn’t need to have attended public school to understand what fantasies preoccupy self-absorbed teenage boys like Morgan. She’s wearing a white T-shirt, no bra, faded-denim cutoffs, and pale-blue sneakers with white ankle socks. With her hair tied in a ponytail, she is able to pass for a high-school senior, and she feels confident that she can conduct herself like one well enough to support her impersonation. To the best of her knowledge, the kid has never seen her before.

Vida climbs the porch steps, rings the bell, waits, and rings it again. Just as she wonders if the boy has gone out while she’s been en route, the door opens.

Morgan is barefoot and shirtless, in a pair of faded jeans. His tousled hair, heavy-lidded eyes, and soft mouth suggest that he has been rung out of bed by the doorbell and isn’t yet fully awake.

Imagining how a cheerleader might speak to the school’s star quarterback, Vida says, “Hey, hi, I’m Connie Cooper. We moved in up the road. I thought I’d introduce myself.”

He regards her with bewilderment, wiping a hand down his face as if to strip off a cobweb he walked through. “Introduce yourself?”

“Yeah, you know, ’cause we’re neighbors and all. Like a mile or so up the road, but there aren’t a lot of right-next-door neighbors around here. Says ‘Slyke’ on your mailbox. What’s your first name?”

He still seems puzzled, uncertain, but the clouds lift a little when he looks her up and down in a slow, bold assessment. When his gaze returns to her eyes, he says, “Morgan Slyke.”

“Cool name. My favorite breed of horse is the Morgan. I had one before we moved here. He was so beautiful. And really strong.”

That is all a lie, but she hasn’t come here with the intention of telling any truths.

He looks past her, toward the driveway. “Where’s your wheels?”

“I walked. I walk a lot. I just got some county trail maps. Looks like great hiking territory. I like to stay in shape.”

“You said your name,” he remembers.

“Connie Cooper. Friends call me Ceecee.” He looks as though he’ll stand here all day in a state of stupefaction, so Vida tries to finesse her way inside with a come-on. “You’re in great shape. Driving into town for this or that, I’ve seen you in the yard, seen you working out. Are you on the football team? I’ll be a senior at Long Valley High this fall.” She can’t tell if he’s dubious or just has a slow computer between his ears. When he wipes one hand down his face again, she realizes he’s wasted on something—at nine o’clock in the morning. “I failed a grade,” she adds, “’causeof some bad shit I got into. Can’t wait to be done with the school thing.”

He stands a little taller. “Teachers was done with it years ago. They don’t give a shit. Now it’s all about nothin’ but doin’ time, them and us.”

---