“Damn you,” Coffin said through clenched teeth. “Damn you to Hell!”
“You can’t damn what’s already been damned, Father.” Kinnegad was grinning.
Merita gazed blankly at Coffin. “What men? What kidnapping? Robert …?”
“He’s making it all up,” Coffin replied quickly. “It’s all part of his attempt to turn you against me, to poison what we have together. Can’t you see he’s only been using you all along so he can get at me?”
“No!” Kinnegad spoke so sharply even Coffin looked back at him. His voice softened when he spoke to Merita. “No. I admit that was my intention at first, but that changed. She changed it. I didn’t plan to fall in love with her, but I did. I still love you, Merita. I thought I’d planned for everything, but I was wrong. I fell in love with you in spite of myself. You spoiled that part of my plan, Merita, and I’m happy that you did.
“As for what I’ve said, ask him.” He nodded contemptuously toward Coffin. “Go on, ask him if it’s true or not. You can see it in his face.”
Coffin was ready to deny again, until he saw that Merita already believed.
“How did you find out? No one knew except myself and one or two others.”
“Money buys most anything, Father, as you taught me. Your man Halifax wouldn’t tell me the time, but his accomplices are less principled.”
“Robert.” The muzzle of the revolver dropped as the strength drained from Merita. The warrior blood that had sustained her thus far deserted her.
“Go on, Father. What’s wrong? What’s holding you back? Lie to her some more.”
Coffin was breathing painfully. “I’m doing it for our son. For Andrew. Don’t you see, Merita, he can’t marry that girl. One day he’ll be head of Coffin Ltd. He’ll need a woman at his side who can deal with society, who’ll know the right things to say and how to say them. Not some half-wild child from Ohinemutu.”
“Like me, Robert?” she said quietly. “A wild Maori girl like me?”
He turned away from her. “I’ve told you before and I tell you again now, Merita: you’re different. I looked for some of that in this girl, believe me I looked, but she’s not like you. No one is. She’s not right for Andrew. You’ll see.” He tried to force a smile as he turned back to her. “In a few months he’ll have forgotten all about her. As soon as he finds someone more suitable I’ll bring the girl back, return her to her family. There’ll be no harm done. She’ll be well compensated for her enforced vacation.”
“Enforced vacation?” Kinnegad laughed anew. “You’ve always had a remarkable way with words, Father.”
“I can’t believe. I can’t.…” Slowly Merita raised the revolver, though her hand was shaking now.
“Rightly or wrongly, Merita, you must believe me when I tell you I’m doing this for Andrew.” Coffin stared unwaveringly at her.
She might have done it, might have shot him at that moment. But Flynn Kinnegad, reveling in the situation, was too eager, too anxious. “Go on, kill him! Do it now!”
The muzzle shook. Coffin gazed calmly back at her, having prepared himself for whatever might come.
Instead of pulling the trigger she looked across at the younger of the two men. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That would be your grand achievement. To have me murder Robert for you. You see, I can understand how your mind is working, dear Flynn.”
“What are you hesitating for? Shoot him, shoot him!” Kinnegad’s face was convulsed, his voice a banshee shriek. “Kill him, dammit!”
Her voice was calm. “That is why you told me this story.”
“It’s not a story!” he howled.
“I know. It is truth. All truth.” She was no longer crying. Voice, eyes, expression—all were cold as ice. “At least he finally spoke the truth.” Her eyes, those exquisite dark eyes, darted from one man to the other, appraising. Taking the final measure of each. “I loved you both. I love you both still. The gods take pity on you.” She aimed the gun very carefully.
Coffin’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to shout. “Merita—no!”
He jumped, but he was halfway across the room. Too far. At the last, too far.
She placed the muzzle of the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
8
“Dear God.” Coffin knelt next to the body. Strong. She’d always been so strong.
Behind him, Flynn Kinnegad looked on in horror. All the anger, all the self-confident power he’d brought with him had drained away like water from a broken bucket.
“No.” He was mumbling to himself. “I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t plan it this way. This is wrong, wrong, wrong.” His face was alight with terror and the final flickering vestiges of an always uncertain sanity.
Coffin gazed back at him. “You’ve had your revenge now, haven’t you?” Gently he lifted the body. As he raised her, the gun fell from Merita’s hand. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“No, no. Keep away!” Kinnegad’s bulging eyes never left the bloody, limp form Coffin held. Something held taut for decades had finally snapped inside the younger man. He no longer resembled the confident individual who had come striding into the parlor less than an hour earlier.
As Coffin watched him, a noise inside his head caused him to wonder if perhaps he wasn’t losing control of himself as well. Then he realized the whole room was shaking. A soft rumble came from beneath the floor. He expected it to cease at any moment. Instead it rose in volume, until he was reminded of a troop of cavalry passing close by at the gallop.
The house jumped. Jarred from its hooks above the mantle, the ornately framed portrait of Merita crashed to the floor. Glass and candlesticks toppled from their places. An oil lamp on the far wall leaped into the air, to smash on the floor and spill its flammable contents over wallpaper and carpet. Flames erupted from the stains.
Ignoring the blaze, both men continued to stare at one another.
“It’s over, Flynn. You got what you came for. Now get out.” Tenderly Coffin laid the body of his beloved Merita on the couch, the same couch around which he and his son had sparred not long ago. He knelt beside her. Her hair was thick with the blood, which continued trickling from the back of her skull. Coffin didn’t see the ugly wound. He saw only the still-radiant face, no longer contorted in confusion, no longer suffering.
“I didn’t mean it.” Kinnegad was babbling as he stumbled backwards. “I didn’t mean it.” A sound made him look sharply upward.
Coffin looked also. It sounded like rain, except one should not have heard rain on the roof, not down on the ground floor. Certainly it was the loudest rain he’d ever heard, much more violent than the largest hail.
The “rain” shattered a north-facing window, then the one alongside it. Black, sulphurous pumice began to filter into the house.
The parlor doors were parted by a tall, powerful figure that took two steps into the room before halting.
“Father! You’ve got to get out of here!”
Coffin rose quickly, realizing that Merita’s wound was not visible to Andrew from where he stood. His son’s attention had been diverted by the sight of the wild-eyed Flynn Kinnegad, who now stood pressed into a corner with his knuckles jammed against his teeth.
“It’s all right, Andrew.” Coffin was surprised how calm he sounded. “I’ll handle this.”
With an effort, Andrew forced his gaze back to his father. “It doesn’t matter what’s going on here. Everyone must get out. The servants have already fled.”
“Why? We’ve had earthquakes before, though none have lasted as long as this.” Coffin deliberately ignored the dark scoria now pouring through the shattered windows.
“It’s not a quake, Father. It’s Tarawera. The mountain is blowing up.”
Coffin stared hard at his son. “What are you talking about?”
“Come and see for yourself.”
Coffin followed his son out the front door. The porch roof offered protection from the stone deluge.
“I
t can’t be.” Even as Coffin murmured the words, the evidence of his eyes contradicted them. “Tarawera’s just an ordinary mountain. Dead rock.”
A mountain yes, but silent no longer. Three distinct craters had appeared near the summit of the vast gray bulk. An immense cloud black as ink was boiling out of the mountain’s guts. Gigantic lightning bolts ripped the sky, crackling and spitting thunderously. The air itself seemed on fire, though it was actually the reflection of the magma lake oozing up from below.
Harmless, docile Tarawera thundered in full, violent eruption.
The lightning, the glow from the belching magma, and the tremendous volume of white-hot rock the mountain was blasting skyward provided enough light for them to see the lake and the surrounding landscape clearly. Then ash and pumice began to fall thicker than ever and their view grew intermittent and obscured.
Coffin and his son gazed in awe and wonder at the sight. As they stood listening to the debris rattle against the roof, Coffin fought to recall something from long ago. Andrew interrupted his reverie.
“This was foretold, Father.”
“Eh? What?.” Coffin blinked at his son.
“I mean that I was told that this was going to happen.”
“You’re talking foolishness, foolishness. There’s no time for that.” The Robert Coffin of old now reached out of the past to clutch his son with both hands. His fingers dug into the younger man’s arms. “Listen to me and do as I tell you. Find your horse before it breaks its tether and bolts. Get back to the hotel. You’ve got to get Valerie out of there.”
“Surely she’ll be safe enough there, Father. The Terraces is new construction. It’ll hold.”
“If this gets worse nothing will be left standing. I’ve read about such things. Your mother,” he swallowed painfully, found his voice again, “your mother liked to read pakeha books. She had one called The Last Days of Pompeii, I think it was. About a city buried by a volcano long ago. I read part of it.”
“This can’t get that bad, Father. Tarawera’s not a real volcano.” He made himself smile. “It’ll stop soon.”
“We don’t know that, just as we don’t know what Tarawera really is. You know what the Maori always said about it. Get back to the hotel, now. Find Valerie. The two of you ride like blazes for Rotorua. Go on, quickly!”
Andrew looked back into the house. “What about you and Mother?”
“We’ll take care of ourselves. Don’t worry about us, dammit. I’ve one or two things, irreplaceable papers, to get together. Then we’ll take the carriage and come into town. Go on, boy. Think of how frightened Valerie must be.”
“All right.” Andrew started down the steps, holding an arm over his head to protect himself from some of the falling ash. A rock that must have weighed five pounds slammed into the ground near him. Another crashed through the roof of the porch.
“Go!” Coffin whirled, vanished back inside and slammed the door behind him.
With hot pumice falling all around him, Andrew Coffin hesitated. Everything was happening, had happened, too fast. Then he thought of his father’s words, of Valerie. Turning, he ran and cleared the front fence in a single leap, fairly flew into the saddle of his favorite mount. Ordinarily nothing upset the three-year-old, but now it was wrenching at its tether, rolling its eyes and frothing at the mouth. Coffin cut the rope and fought to get the animal under control. When the stallion finally heard its rider’s voice it calmed a little. Then Coffin was able to turn it up the road. It took off without having to be urged.
Though he concentrated on the road ahead and trying to see through the clinging ash he couldn’t avoid the spectacular sight off to his right. The entire lake was heaving and bubbling like a gigantic cauldron. The black cloud vomiting out of Tarawera rose higher and higher, until the entire night sky was alive with lightning and brilliant flashes of pure white light.
Robert Coffin stood at the broken window until he was certain his son would not be returning. Only then did he let the curtain drop and turn. A great calm filled him as he walked back toward the couch and its precious burden.
They might be all right here. The huge house was one of the sturdiest structures in the area. He found he didn’t really care.
Flames continued to lick at the far wall. Ash and pumice began to form miniature black talus slopes against the north wall. Overhead were the echoes of nature’s bombardment as large rocks began to split the roof shingles and crash into the attic.
He stood over the couch gazing down at Merita. The bleeding had finally ceased. The cushions, the carpet, all were soaked with her life.
A glance showed Flynn Kinnegad sitting in his corner. His knuckles were bloody now where they pressed against his teeth as he continued to stare unblinkingly at the couch.
“It’s all right now, Flynn.” There was an ineffable sadness in Coffin’s voice. “You’ve done all you can do. You came here to hurt me, and that you’ve done. I should be sorry for you, but I’m not. For your mother I can feel sorrow. Poor Irish Mary. Oh, I do remember her, despite what you think. I remember her better than I ought.”
He flinched and stumbled backward as a boulder weighing several hundred pounds ripped through the second story to bury itself in the floor. Dust and pulverized plaster filled the air. He felt the heat of the blazing wall on his back now.
Flying rock struck him above the left ear, stunning him and dropping him to his knees. He stayed like that, swaying numbly.
“I’m sorry, Merita.” He could hardly hear himself above the crash and roar of still larger volcanic bombs. “I was so good at planning everything, except my own life. First Mary, then Holly. Now you too. I never meant to harm anyone.”
He leaned close, placing his head against her breast, one hand on her forehead and the other on her belly. She was still warm.
As for Robert Coffin, he still lived, but only on the outside. Within, he was already dead.
9
Twice Andrew had to pull on the reins with all his strength and scream at his mount. Otherwise the animal would have bolted into the woods. Ash and cinders were falling faster than ever, blinding him as he struggled to see the road ahead. The ground heaved unceasingly.
He kept wiping the volcanic debris out of his eyes and nostrils, hoping his horse wouldn’t choke on it before they reached the hotel. As he considered abandoning the terrified animal and continuing on foot he saw the hotel directly ahead, lit by the eerie light of the eruption. He slowed and used the reins to secure the horse, hoping they’d hold against its spasmodic bucking.
Lightning stenciled the sky. Behind him volcanic rock fountained more than a thousand feet high.
An excited crowd milled about in front of the hotel, mesmerized by the spectacular display. A couple of the women were crying but there was no panic as yet. Everyone was more interested in watching the eruption than in running. After all, Tarawera was miles away, across the lake. No lava could reach them here. Surely the ash and pumice would stop falling soon.
The Terraces Hotel was a stoutly built two-story building with upper and lower porch. So far it looked none the worse for wear. The larger volcanic bombs had yet to fall here. Shoving past the crowd Andrew forced his way into the hotel. As he did so it occurred to him that it was likely none of the guests had ever witnessed a volcanic eruption before. They might not know enough to be frightened.
“Isn’t it a grand sight, Mr. Coffin!” someone yelled to him. He would have taken the time to reply except that his father had warned him to hurry. In a crisis it was usually best to take Robert Coffin’s advice. He took the stairs two at a time, heading for Valerie’s suite.
“Valerie! Valerie!” Her rooms were located at the far end of the hall. As he drew near he slowed, breathing hard. The door was slightly ajar and sounds issued from within. He frowned. It sounded as though someone was fighting.
He peered through the half-open doorway, his mind trying to make sense of what his eyes showed him. Valerie, in her night dress, lying on her side on
the bed with a gag in her mouth. A man kneeling next to her, binding her wrists. Two others at the foot of the bed opening a large burlap sack.
One of them happened to glance toward the door. “Get lost, friend. This ain’t none o’ your business.” In front of him Valerie twisted futilely as she tried to escape her bonds.
Another man leaned into view. When he saw Andrew his eyes widened. “Be damned! I think that’s the bleedin’ fiancé!” He reached for the knife at his belt.
Coffin burst into the room. The man who’d first noticed him dropped his end of the burlap bag and fumbled for his own blade. Coffin hit him so hard he could hear the muffled crack as the man’s jaw broke. He went down as though he’d been struck by a runaway train, the knife falling from his fingers.
His companion jumped on Andrew’s back while Halifax, growling, left Valerie’s bonds unsecured and came to help. Coffin pivoted. The man on his back hung on with both arms, but his legs swung in a wide arc to smash Halifax across the face. The big redhead stumbled back, crashed into the dressing table and slid to the floor like a man bumping down a series of steps.
Coffin swung madly in the other direction. His attacker’s flailing legs shattered a full-length mirror. Under ordinary circumstances half the guests in the hotel as well as most of the management would have arrived by now seeking the source of the commotion. Most were outside, however, and Tarawera was making too much noise for anyone to hear anything.
Valerie watched the struggle as she fought to dislodge her gag and the cords binding her wrists and ankles.
With utter disregard for his own safety, Coffin threw himself at the far wall. The man clinging desperately to his back was crushed between him and the unyielding wood. Andrew felt the man slide away as his grip loosened. He crumpled up like a broken doll.
Halifax was back on his feet and moving toward him. His right hand held a big, ugly skinning knife. He was grinning through his beard at Andrew, who was bent over the bed working on Valerie’s bonds. Now he slowly backed away, his eyes fastened on the thick blade.
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