Hobgoblin

by John Coyne

  "Scott, promise me something," Valerie asked, whispering to him in the kitchen. "Promise you what?" Scott asked. 'That you won't do anything to Nick and Hank." Scott frowned a little, unsure of what she meant. "Because of what they did to me." "Val, are you kidding? They beat me up this morning. Painted my locker yellow. Stole my car. And you're afraid of what I'll do to them?" Valerie came up closer to him, shaking her finger, getting angrier. "But you wanted them to steal your car. You wanted another reason to get even with them. And now you have it."

  "You lied to me, didn't you?" "Well, if you want to see it that way..." "My God, how else am I supposed to see it? You've known all along that she's crazy, yet you allowed me to move in here with my sixteen-year-old son. When she attacks my house and assaults my son, you tell me not to worry, that she came here on the bus." "Listen, Barbara, give me a chance to explain." She didn't answer, and he took her silence as permission. He sighed, dreading the long explanation, wondering how he'd ever thought he could avoid it. "Maeve Donnellan was here when I opened the house for the Foundation last year. She had been locked up ever since Fergus died, or maybe before, I'm not too sure. I have all this from Conor, who says that forty years ago she was a maid at Ballycastle, and a favorite of the master's." "What do you mean, favorite?" Derek shook his head. "Were they lovers?" "I don't know. But it doesn't matter. He arranged to have her cared for all these years. There's nothing in his will, but he set it up with Conor." "Then the Foundation has no legal obligation to keep her here?" "No, and I didn't even realize she was until we moved in ourselves last winter. We commissioned aerial maps of the property, all two thousand acres, and that's when I spotted the cabin. "Conor was caring for her. Bringing her meals from the kitchen. I had just assumed those buckets he was carting off were for himself." "This is incredible," Barbara whispered, astonished by the revelation. She slipped down onto the arm of the chair. "You mean this woman has been living out in the woods, being cared for by a crazy old man who brings her a bucket of scraps every evening, after dark, when no one is around the castle?" Barbara kept shaking her head. "What is her cabin like? What is she like? Have you spoken to her?" "I've never seen the cabin. I mean, I haven't seen the inside." "What about the board? What did they say?" "I didn't tell the board. We were just beginning, and I thought I should take the initiative, solve the problem on my own." He stopped and laughed. "Actually, that wasn't really it. I knew what they'd say if I asked them, and I just didn't have the heart to send her off to some state institution. Conor took care of her. She was harmless. This had been home most of her life." He shrugged his shoulders, as if to admit his susceptibility to compassion. "I'm sorry I've been so hard on you," Barbara said softly. "Keeping this a secret must have been a strain. Especially with me around, prying into things that are none of my business." "It is your business when she attacks you and Scotty. You have to believe me; she'd just never done anything like that before." He stopped, as if a thought had just struck him. "Maybe it was the lights. You're the first people to have lived here, you know, since Fergus's time. Maeve probably lived here herself, years ago. This guest house was once part of the servants' quarters." "Oh, God, and that's why she came here. Of course." Barbara was swept with panic. She could feel her fear crawling up her throat, choking her. "It's all right, Barbara. I've spoken to Conor," Derek said quickly. "What good will that do? Conor is as crazy now as Maeve Donnellan." That stopped him, but only for a moment. "You're right," he admitted. "She'll have to be committed, and maybe Conor should go into a nursing home. Although I must admit I can't imagine it." Barbara knew he wanted her to smile, but she couldn't. After a moment he went on. "It'll take a couple of weeks. They'll both have to be examined by doctors. And I'll have to find places that will take them. In the meantime, Ted Ward will check the house every hour after dark." Barbara nodded, but she was not reassured. Her skin crawled at the mere thought of the old woman, out there in the dark, watching them. After Derek left she would go through the rooms and pull down all the blinds. "Okay," Barbara said. "What do we do next?" "I go home and we all get some sleep."

  "Do me one more favor?" Valerie asked as they left the kitchen. "The sweatshirt." "What about it?" "Can I have it?" she smiled, trying to coax him. "Why? I mean, what do you want it for?" "'Cause it...I don't know...." She sighed, wondering why he always had to make things difficult. Then she stopped abruptly in the hallway, put her hand flat against his chest and whispered, "Because I like you." His eyes blinked as she walked away.

  Sixteen

  Dressing for school the next morning, Valerie put on Scott's red Spencertown sweatshirt with her jeans. She wore it proudly, like a badge of honor in defiance of Borgus and Simpson. Still, as she watched the school bus slow down outside her house, she zipped up her jacket and hid the lettering. They would be on the bus, she knew, sitting at the rear, legs spread out, the two of them taking over the full back seat. Her house was at the end of the route and, as usual, she was the last student to climb aboard. As she stepped inside the bus, she was met with cheers. "What is this for?" she whispered to Tracy, slipping into the seat beside her friend. "I don't know." Tracy had books on her lap and she drew her knees together, carefully collecting herself so she wasn't touching Valerie. Valerie leaned closer. "What do you mean, you don't know? Come on, give." The other kids were all sneaking looks at her, giggling behind their hands. The bus started up again, bounced back onto the highway, when Valerie spotted Mrs. Miller, the bus driver, watching her in the rear-view mirror. The woman was frowning, her mouth set like a lock. "Tracy, come on, what's the matter?" Now Valerie was upset, realizing that it wasn't her imagination. Everyone on the bus was looking at her, whispering among themselves. "Hey, Dunn!" Nick Borgus shouted from the back of the bus. "Are you wearing your pink panties?" The roar from the busload of students was deafening. Valerie turned around in the seat and looked back the length of the aisle. Nick was sitting in the middle of the rear seat and when she spun around, he gave her a big wave. Then, over the noise, he shouted, "Hey, Dunn, let's see your appendix scar again." "Ah, shit." Valerie looked back at the front of the bus. She could feel her face flush red. "What did he tell everyone?" she said quietly to Tracy. "Nothing." Tracy turned her head elaborately and stared out the window. "Tracy, tell me or I'll bend your fingers backwards." "I don't think you're very nice," Tracy answered back, glancing quickly at Valerie. Her friend was at least five inches taller than she was and a lot stronger. "What did he say, damnit!" "He said that you gave him and Hank a ride home yesterday in whats-his-name's car and that you drove them up onto the hilltop instead." "Tracy, that can't be all." Tracy shrugged. "Well, then he said you did this crazy striptease, dancing on top of tombstones and playing the car radio, you know. And that you wanted to have a threesome with them on top of this slab of marble." "And you believed all that bullshit?" That surprised Valerie more than any of Borgus's lies. "Well, he said you wore pink underwear, and you do. I know you do." "Tracy! Me and at least ten other girls in our gym class. Borgus could've guessed that easily, and you know it." "Yes, but what about your appendix scar?" Tracy said quickly, anxious to defend herself. "Everyone knew about that," Valerie answered. "I was out of school for six weeks when I had the operation. Tracy, I just can't believe you fell for this." "But, Valerie, he described it," Tracy finished, almost in tears. "He said it looked like a fish hook dug into your belly button, and you know, Val, that's exactly what it looks like. I was thinking the same thing the other day, when you were trying on clothes at my house." Valerie dropped back into the seat. That bastard, she thought. What a dirty thing to do, spread stories around before she could tell anyone what had really happened on Steepletop. From the rear of the bus, Borgus had begun to shout, "Take it off, Dunn. Take it all off." Simpson picked it up, as did the other football players. The chant grew louder and louder as more students joined in, laughing and shouting. "Take it off, Dunn. Take it all off." Valerie slid down in her seat, as if to hide. She was the only one who rode into the schoolyard in silence, listen
ing to the chant rise above her like a new school song.

  Conor carried the two buckets of oats downhill to the small pasture near the barns. The horses still in his care were like him, he thought, too old to stray far from home. At the sight of Conor they raised their heads and trotted over to the fence for their morning feed. He grinned, pleased to watch them run. There was nothing, he thought, in all the world as lovely as a horse in motion. He thought then, as he often did, of Nightfall, the colt he had broken for Himself in the spring of '31. Conor had loved, then, to get up early in the morning, before the mist came off the river, and ride Nightfall out to the steeplechase field. Of all the horses at Ballycastle he loved Nightfall best, loved his lines and his spirit. It took all his strength to contain him as they took to the course, the stallion running full out, digging into the soft turf, leaping effortlessly over the high jumps. The loins of the animal moving with the smoothness of a woman's under his thighs. "Go, luv," he whispered, leaning forward, urging on the colt as they worked the course in the cool early morning. "Good morning to you, sir," Conor said, speaking out loud in the pasture, "and how would you be today?" The years melted away, and it was as if Conor saw his master coming towards him once again. In his day Fergus had been a bulk of a man, not tall, but with strong arms and square shoulders that made him look like a peasant as he crossed the bridge and came up through the alfalfa field. He still was not sober from the night before, Conor realized, seeing the man stumble on the uneven path. Conor swung his leg over Nightfall's back and slipped to the ground. The horse snorted jumpily, still edgy even after the hard ride. "I'm fine enough, Conor, given my condition." Fergus smiled, amused by his own behavior. He had learned to live with his excesses, even taking a certain pride in his vices, the punishment he gave his own body. "Maybe we should skip a day, sir. He's a bit randy this morning." "Aren't we all, Nightfall?" He grabbed the reins from Conor and the big horse snorted and reared up, jerking Fergus off balance. "Son of a bitch," Fergus swore, bracing himself, planting his feet in the soft soil. "Easy there, Nightfall; easy, luv," Conor whispered, going to the big black horse, gently petting his neck, bringing him under control. "Hold him steady, Conor," Fergus ordered and set himself to mount. "Let me have another go with him around the course, sir." "I'll break him down, don't worry about that." He swung himself up, pulling the reins into his own hands. Once astride the animal he seemed in control. The man fit a saddle well, Conor saw again; he looked handsome on the horse, as if he were born to it. Nightfall bolted and raced for the open field and high hedges, taking them as easily as if they were part of the steeplechase. Fergus tried to turn him back toward the course, but Nightfall was running full out, as if he were a wild horse all on his own. "Steady, boy," Conor whispered. His eyes never left the huge animal. Fergus swayed on the saddle, then gained his balance momentarily, before pitching forward. "Oh, dear God," Conor cried. Nightfall was jumping into the morning sun, the bright slice of orange that came out of the river upstream. It blinded Conor, yet still he saw Fergus reach forward, try to grab the stallion's mane, then pitch out of the saddle and into the high hedge, disappearing under the animal as Nightfall struggled to find footing, then scrambled over the hedge and away. By the time Conor reached him, Fergus was lying still in the mud below the hedge. Conor shook out the oats into the feed trough and turned away from the fence. It did no good, he knew, to dwell on the past, to trouble his mind with memories. The telephone was ringing when he reached the barns. Barbara Gardiner was calling, wanting him to come see her at once.

  Barbara Gardiner wrote "butesin picrate" on a piece of paper and handed it across her office desk to Conor Fitzpatrick. "Do you know what this is?" she asked, keeping her eye on him, hoping she'd be able to tell if he was lying to her. "Why, it's a salve, ma'am." "A salve? And what was it used for? Why would all the maids at Ballycastle have the same prescription in their files?" The old man stared at the name as if contemplating the question, then he shrugged and replied, "I guess because of the beatings, ma'am." "The beatings?" Barbara shook her head. Questioning Conor, she had come to realize, was like finding one's way out of an endless maze. Conor nodded. He was sitting on the one straight-back chair in Barbara's office, wearing the clothes he saved for special occasions: an old black suit, a white shirt and a pencil-thin black tie. "Why were the girls beaten, Conor?" Barbara spoke carefully. "Ah, for any number of things, ma'am. Not making Himself's bed right, being late for tea, sleeping through Mass on a Sunday morning, or going off, you know, with one of the lads." "And who would do these beatings?" "Well, it would be Mrs. Wilkinson, mostly." He smiled when he answered, as if he had gotten a test question right. "Mrs. Wilkinson-you mean the head housekeeper?" "Yes, ma'am. She was English, the only English servant Himself ever had. He always favored English housekeepers. He thought they had a way with the girls, could keep them in line, you understand." "And she'd beat them?" Barbara asked. "Aah, with a switch." "And they let that happen? Didn't they complain to Fergus?" "Well, you know, it was a common enough thing in its day. They were only girls, seventeen and eighteen years old, mostly. They needed a lickin' now and then to keep them in line." "And do you know how the girls died, Conor?" she asked next, still watching his eyes. "Galloping consumption, ma'am." "Consumption? You mean tuberculosis?" "Aah, it was a terrible sickness in them days." "Conor, there are nine graves up on that hillside, not counting Maeve Donnellan's, and you mean all of them died of T.B.?" He nodded his white head. "I just can't believe that," said Barbara. "We're talking about the United States in the '30s." "The girls were from Ireland, ma'am, and she's a damp, dreary place." "But still, nine of them." "Well, you know, we had quite a few employees here over the years. Most of them made a bit of cash and then went back home again-to get married to some lad and settle down. Himself helped quite a few lads and lasses in his day." Conor smiled, as if remembering. "Nine wasn't really such a lot, compared to all of them." Barbara shook her head, still disbelieving, but unable to articulate exactly what was wrong. Finally she said, "Well, thank you, Conor. I'm sorry to keep bothering you with all this." The old man stood, donning his black cape as he went to the office door. The slight rise of his right shoulder seemed more pronounced, and he moved with the slow, careful step of a man who had lost the knack of walking. She listened as the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the marble hallway, listened until she knew he had gone out the side door, and then she stood. A salve, she thought. A salve for the beatings dished out by Mrs. Wilkinson. Malarkey. She would drive into Flat Rock and show one of the old prescriptions to a druggist. He would tell her what butesin picrate really was. Barbara checked the stack of files in her In Box, but none of them were the ones she needed to gather the prescription forms. Then she remembered. She had left the dead girls' files in Derek's offices on the windowsill behind his desk. "Shit!" She went out of her office and upstairs to the second floor. "He's not in, Barbara," Derek's secretary called from across the hallway. "He's in town at the bank. Can I help you?" She smiled through the open doorway. "Oh, Marge, I forgot some files. Is it all right if I pick them up?" "Of course. The door's unlocked. Call if you need me." Barbara stepped inside and closed the door halfway behind her. She saw at once that the files weren't on the windowsill. She scanned the top of his desk, then fingered through his In Box, checking to see if he had simply slipped them under some other papers. Finding nothing, she opened the top desk drawer. The center drawer contained nothing but an assortment of paper clips, rubber bands, sugar packets and plastic spoons. She pulled out the other six drawers and found nothing. Puzzled, Barbara sat back and tried to guess where else he might have put them. They were old-fashioned files, too big for a normal cabinet, and she doubted if he would have given them to Marge. The desk had to be the hiding place. All right, she told herself, one last quick look and then she'd leave. She leaned forward in the chair and started again, beginning with the wide bottom drawers of the old-fashioned desk. This time she pulled the drawer open and searched more carefully. The bottom drawer was packe
d with brown manila envelopes, each clearly labeled in black magic marker. Barbara lifted a pile from the deep drawer and sorted through the large envelopes. Derek had marked the contents of each. Tax Returns; Ballycastle Survey Maps; Board Meeting Reports, 1981; Miscellaneous Correspondence. She kept flipping through the envelopes, then reached down and lifted out several more. It was then that she spotted the old blue photo album buried in the bottom. She paused a moment, wondering what it might be, then reached in and pulled the album out. She set aside the envelopes and, leaning back in the soft leather chair, opened the old album at random. The first photograph she saw made her flinch. Printed on thick, old-fashioned paper was the picture of a naked girl. She was sitting in a huge, heavy Jacobean chair with gargoyles' heads carved at the end of each arm. Her legs were thrown up over each of the arms, and a man was kneeling down between them. All that was visible in the photo, shot high and from the side, were the muscles of his shoulders and a sliver of his profile, which was in shadow. And the tip of his tongue, which was almost touching her, but not quite. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was wide open, in an expression very much like the gargoyles'. In the next, a different girl was kneeling in front of the same chair, naked, with her wrists tied to the chair arms. A man stood just out of frame, with one leg planted forward, and he had just brought a whip down on her back. Barbara quickly flipped through the thick pages. On each page was the photo of a different girl in a different sexual position, but something was oddly familiar about the photos. She paused a moment and studied them, looking for what it might be. Then she realized it was the background. In many of the photos were tall, narrow windows. She glanced up, looked across Derek's desk and recognized the same windows. The pornographic pictures had been taken right there in that room, the room that once had been Fergus O'Cuileannain's master bedroom.