The Seven Whistlers (2 page)

She had been on autopilot ever since she’d left the nursing
home. The scene she had witnessed there, and the hateful look in her
grandmother’s eyes, lingered in her mind, and she replayed the incident over
and over in her head. The worst part was that she didn’t even know what she had
done wrong. She hadn’t even read from the book. She had simply come in to say
hello to Pappy, and then all hell had broken loose.

Deep in her backpack, her cell phone began to buzz, nearly
giving her a heart attack. She didn’t bother to stop and dig it out because she
knew it was only Jenny calling to make sure she remembered they were meeting at
The Pennywhistle at six instead of the usual seven o’clock.

It was an age-old ritual — every Tuesday night she and
her friends met to share a few pints at the local pub and gossip about the
happenings in town. It was a nice way to keep in touch, and to blow off a
little steam in the process. Actually, Tuesday was a rule, never to be missed. But
the Pennywhistle was sometimes a two or three night a week habit.

Tonight, though, Rose had almost gone back up to her
parents’ cabin instead of downtown. Her nerves were shot, and her head was a
throbbing mess. The idea of brushing down horses, saddling them, carrying bags
of feed, and dealing with tourists who’d never been on horseback before make
her head hurt even more. But then she remembered that she wasn’t on the
schedule for tomorrow. She loved working the stables at the Red Oak Inn, but
tonight, the idea of a day off tomorrow was bliss.

Plus, her car was parked near her apartment. Whenever she
was down in Kingsbury proper, she walked instead of drove. So she had to pass
within a few blocks of the Pennywhistle regardless.

Tuesday night. It was a ritual.

So she’d found herself taking the short cut from Valley Glen
through the woods — and cemetery — the fastest way to downtown and
the warmth of sorely needed friendship. She could not help feeling afraid, but
she tried to fight it.

Picking her way through the dead leaves that littered the
ground, Rose felt keenly aware of every sound that plucked at the silence of
the night. She recognized most of them, could attribute them to the wind and
the comings and goings of different animals and night birds. She knew she just
needed to keep walking, that the little creatures skittering here and there
around her were more terrified of her than she was of them.

She kept telling herself that, keeping her fear at bay.

Then the night filled with a strange, ear-piercing whistle
that shook the air around her, and stilled all the other wildlife in the woods.

Rose stopped, frozen in place. She stood rigid, waiting for
it to come again, wondering what the hell had made that eerie, shrieking
whistle. She’d never heard anything like it before, and she’d walked the wooded
mountains around Kingsbury all her life. Now, she heard only silence.

Her body started to relax, only to be jarred by another
shriek. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t make herself move. She tried to
swallow, but found there wasn’t a drop of saliva left. Rose could taste the
cool of the air around here, and the vast empty space of the woods, which was
even now threatening to engulf her.

It began to rain.

Somehow, the cold droplets released her from her fear, and
she could move again. She hurried — not quite running — out of the
cemetery, and soon the lights of downtown were ahead, and she felt safe enough
to begin to feel foolish for her fear.

The old man pulled the covers even further over his head,
the transparent whiteness of the sheet barely blocking out the green cast of
the fluorescent lights above him. His whole body shook — small tremors
making his teeth chatter and his bowels liquefy in his gut. He had known fear
before, had stood on the edge of the abyss more than once in his long life, but
somehow this was different.

He’d heard the whistle.

Time was no longer on his side.

Outside, the water lashed against the windowpane and thunder
bellowed a drum roll for what was about to come. The first shriek had sounded
almost ten minutes before, and the second only moments after that.

“Bella . . . !” He didn’t want to be alone now, at the end. He
couldn’t bear it.

There was another loud burst of thunder and he shuddered,
his teeth gnashing together so fiercely that his jaw ached with the effort. In
the silence that came after each thunderclap, a new sound pierced the air. The
old man screamed, his hands clutching at his bedclothes for the protection they
could not provide.

“Go away!” the old man screamed, hysterical now with fear. The
shrieking came again, then silence, followed by the sound of something deathly
sharp scratching insistently against the glass pane of the window.

Dropping the covers, the old man threw himself from the bed.
His scrawny legs barely able to hold his weight, he stumbled toward the door.

“Damn you to hell. You won’t get me!” the old man screeched,
before grasping the doorknob. His breath caught in his throat, and he gasped,
unbelieving, as his hands pawed clumsily at the door — which would not
open.

From the outside, someone began to bang on the door.

“No . . .” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He turned,
letting his back rest against the doorframe. His gaze was drawn toward the
window once more, and Walt Hartung caught sight of what was waiting for him
outside. Frail and half-mad, having already lost so much of himself, he knew he
could fight no longer.

The only thing left for him to do was die.

His chest tightened with pain and he slid to the floor, down
into the embrace of the darkness, and the shrieking of the night.

The Pennywhistle was already a bustling madhouse when Mike
Richards walked in, at quarter after six. His eyes scanned the room until he
spied his friend, Alan Bryce, sitting with his wife, Jenny, at a table in the
back corner. The couple were holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes in
that moony, giddy, lost way unique to people in love or taking hallucinogens. Mike
had never been a huge fan of gooey showings of love, but he figured Alan and
Jenny deserved a grace period, as they were still in the thralls of
post-honeymoon bliss. They’d only been back from Hawaii for ten days or so.

Jenny caught sight of Mike first, and waved him over to
their table. At twenty-five, with her pink Strawberry Shortcake sweatshirt and
cut off jeans, she looked ten years younger than she actually was.

“You’re late, Richards!” she said as she tucked a long
strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and scrunched up her
freckle-covered nose.

“But not as late as Rose,” Alan added. “It’s weird. You’re
usually our resident space cadet. We figured she’d beat you by hours.”

Mike couldn’t really argue. He often got so lost in his work
handcrafting furniture that time lost seemed to warp around him. But the fact that
it was true didn’t mean he was going to take shit from Alan.

“You know how it is, Alan. Those of us not completely
pussy-whipped don’t have to be so worried about our schedules.”

A mottled red colored Alan’s pale cheeks, and he gave a
sheepish grin, flashing his middle finger at Mike. As enjoyable as it was, it
really wasn’t difficult to make Alan flush. Just tease him, and his Irish
heritage betrayed him every time.

Pushing Alan’s buttons wasn’t hard, but most people wouldn’t
have dared. Blond and blue-eyed, he stood nearly seven feet tall and so broad
he looked as though he’d have to turn sideways to get through most doors. If he
ever grew a beard, he’d have been a perfect Viking. Most people were
intimidated in Alan’s presence, unless they saw him handling the delicate
objects for sale in Cat O’ Nine Tails, the antique store he owned on Elm Street
in downtown Kingbury. Mike had known Alan since grade school and knew the guy
was gentle as a lamb as long as you kept his alcohol intake to a minimum
—

“Don’t poke the bear,” Alan warned.

Mike grinned. “Pooh bear, you mean. Oh, bother.”

Alan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “You’re an ass.”

“Indeed. I’m gonna grab a beer. You guys need anything? Lovely
Jenny? Pooh bear?”

Jenny held up her nearly full glass. “I’m all set, Piglet,
but thanks.”

“I’m good,” Alan said.

Mike headed off for the bar, and returned a few minutes
later with a cold black and tan clutched protectively in his hand. He took the
seat opposite Alan, lifted his glass in a silent toast to them, and drained the
top quarter of his lager-and-Guinness.

“My God, man, go easy on that drink,” Alan chided him. “They
will make more, you know.”

Mike shook his head, and took another sip, then licked the
foam off of his upper lip. “All the teasing in the world will not take away the
pleasure of this drink.”

He’d spent a long, unproductive day in his workshop trying
to get the sketches right on the Dining Room Set he was making for Mabel
Rutherford. He’d started on the commission almost two weeks before, and he’d
hardly made any progress at all in the interim.

That got Jenny talking about her day, and the three of them
fell into the relaxed banter of the closest friends. As the conversation went
on, Mike found his gaze shifting toward the double doors that marked the
entrance to the pub. He kept willing them to open and for Rose to enter, but
they stayed firmly shut, thwarting him.

Six thirty came and went, and Mike began to worry that
something had happened to her.

“You really think staring like that is gonna make her walk
through those doors any faster?” Jenny asked with a sly grin.

Caught, Mike looked away, embarrassed. “No idea what you’re
talking about.”

“Oh, come on!” Jenny chided him. “We’re all friends here,
Mikey. Might as well be family. Hey, we could be pretty helpful to the cause. But
if you’re not ready to deal with it, well, then there’s nothing we can do to
help you . . .”

The Pennywhistle was a Tuesday night ritual for them. Sure,
they all hung out here more than just Tuesday nights. The food and the
atmosphere were both perfect comfort. The place had the best Cajun popcorn
shrimp known to man, an incredible bread bar, and a selection of beers from
around the world. Everything on the menu was excellent, and on weekends they
had live entertainment. Mike loved hanging out there, especially with Alan and
Jenny. But Rose had been a big part of his motivation ever since their little
group had clicked. When Alan and Jenny had first gotten together, and Mike had
found out Jenny’s best friend was the somber girl who’d hidden behind her dark,
curly hair all through junior high, he’d been surprised. But the first time
Rose had joined them at the Pennywhistle, the surprise had been even greater. Rose
had an effect on him that was nothing short of enchantment.

He shook his head, laughing softly. Jenny was trying to get
him to talk about how he felt, but if he ever said anything so ridiculously
romantic out loud, Alan would crucify him for all eternity.
Nothing short of
enchantment.
He was an idiot. Yet, just because it sounded absurd, that
didn’t meant it wasn’t true. Whenever he saw Rose, she took his breath away.

Jenny knew. She was a perceptive woman, and had wheedled the
whole, sad truth out of him one drunken Memorial Day weekend down at Alan’s
cabin on the Sharpe River. As the last orange of the afternoon had faded into
twilight, she had listened to Mike pour out his secret while her giant fiancé
snored happily beside her on a deck chair, his head resting in her lap.

Since then she had been teasing him unmercifully, trying to
goad him into asking Rose out. Jenny just didn’t understand that no matter what
she said he was not going to risk losing Rose’s friendship by trying to create
a relationship when there wasn’t one there. If he ever got the feeling Rose had
any romantic interest in him at all, maybe that would change. But for now
—

As if she’d read his mind, and knew he was pining for her
arrival, Rose burst through the double doors, her short black hair wild around
her face, brown eyes wide and unfocused. She looked around the room, her brain
not seeming to register what she was seeing because she looked right at Mike
twice without recognizing him.

“Rose!” he called out, his voice barely loud enough to
pierce the wall of sound that filled the pub.

She turned, her eyes finding Mike’s face in the crowd, and
gave him a shaky smile before pushing her way through the busy pub toward their
table. Rose looked windblown and disheveled, and Mike recalled his earlier
worry about her lateness with fresh concern. Rose was not one given to
slouching on her appearance. She always wore a light dusting of make-up, and
kept her short, curly brown hair in check with barrettes.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Rose said breathlessly as she slung
her backpack across the back of the empty chair and sat down. Her cheeks were
flush with color, and Mike could detect a hint of sweat underneath the fresh
citrus bouquet of her perfume.

“No worries,” Alan smiled.

“Well, Mike was kinda worried —” Jenny began, a
devilish smile playing at the corner of her lips.

He was gonna
kill
Jenny.

“Evil, Mrs. Bryce,” he said.

Rose gave them all a strange look, but let it pass. She
licked her lips, her brow furrowed slightly.

“Seriously, Rose, I was starting to wonder if everything was
okay,” he said.

A grateful smile touched her lips, but did not take the
distracted worry from her eyes. “I guess I’m okay, now. But the weirdest thing
happened on my way over here.”

All the amusement left Jenny’s face. Mike had seen how
stressed out Rose was from the moment she came through the door. Jenny was just
getting it now, that this wasn’t Rose being flighty.