by John Coyne
Nineteen
"I ain't wearing no fuckin' dress," Nick Borgus answered, talking back to the social studies teacher. "Nick, I can't let you onto the grounds." Bill Russell leaned over and looked into the car full of football players. "I must say, this is a weird looking group. Where're your dates?" He kept smiling, trying to be friendly. "Nickie's my date, Mr. Russell." Simpson reached over and squeezed Borgus's knee. "Get your fuckin' hands off me, queer!" Nick wrestled with Simpson in the front seat. "All right, everyone, let's keep it cool." Russell was already regretting his promise to man the front gate. It was getting cold and besides, these kids were just too tough to back down to him. Borgus and his gang were only there to cause trouble. "Come on, Mr. Russell, let Nick go in. He's painted his face, hasn't he? He's wearing his old lady's wig, isn't he?" Jim Kohler asked from the back seat. Again the carload of students howled. "What are you supposed to be, Jim?" Russell asked, avoiding Borgus for the moment. He glanced down the long list of characters that Scott Gardiner had given him. "I'm a Ghent. A fourth-class ghoul. Don't I look like one, Mr. Russell?" The teacher found Kohler's name on the third sheet. Scott Gardiner had typed out:
Kohler, Jim: Ghent, fourth-class ghoul. An evil spirit that plunders graves and feeds on corpses. Dress like a gravedigger with heavy boots, overalls, and carry a shovel. Face should be painted black with charcoal.
Russell glanced at the football player. His costume was right, and his face looked black. "You got a shovel, Jim?" he asked. "In the trunk, Mr. Russell." "And what are you, Tyrone?" Russell asked the only black student in the car. "An Azmara, sir. That's some kind of holy man. I can cast spells, unlock doors, heal people, you know." He grinned. "And you're wearing a monk's outfit?" Russell asked, consulting the lists. "Yes, sir." "That's why we call him Brother Tyrone," Kohler added. He stuck his head out the car window. "Hey, Mr. Russell, you got to check everyone, huh?" ""That's right." Another car had pulled up at the gate. "How come you, Mr. Russell?" Kohler asked next. "Because he's a new teacher, jerk," Hank Simpson said. "All new teachers get the shitty deals. Oh, sorry, Mr. Russell." "I volunteered, Hank. Everyone is supposed to be in Hobgoblin costumes, and I told Scott and Valerie that I'd help out." "I ain't wearing no fuckin' dress," Borgus announced again. His hands were clamped on the steering wheel. Someone in one of the cars behind Borgus hit the horn. There were now four more cars waiting. "Okay, Nick, go ahead." The young teacher stepped away and waved them in. Borgus hit the gas and sped forward. Russell watched the car for a moment, hoping he hadn't made a mistake. That was a earful of trouble, he thought as the boys disappeared from sight.
"Where's your mother?" Derek asked. All around him, Flat Rock students were arriving, dressed in gowns and tunics and monk-like robes, carrying staffs and lanterns and homemade lances. The entrance hall of Ballycastle looked like downtown New Orleans during Mardi Gras, but Derek was not in the mood for a party. Scott shrugged, "I don't know." He was sitting at the reception desk in blue jeans, seeing for himself that most of the kids were in character and costume. "She went for a walk this afternoon, probably around four-thirty, five. Do you want me to go look for her?" He tried to sound willing. "No, you're busy here. But if she turns up, ask her to come see me, okay? I'll be in my office." "Sure. I know she's going to the dance; she promised." "Good. Hey, how come you're not in costume?" Derek paused, remembering that this party was Scott's big triumph. "Oh, I'm going home to change in a couple of minutes. I just wanted to be around for the beginning, you know, when everybody was first getting here, and see how they dressed." "Well, you've done a great job," Derek said enthusiastically. "Everyone looks terrific." And I hope nobody breaks anything, he added silently to himself. Then he waved good-by and went upstairs to call Ted Ward. "Ted? I'm in the office. Have you seen Barbara Gardiner?" Stretching the phone cord, Derek looked out the front windows, hoping he would see her crossing the lawns of Ballycastle. "No. What is it? Her kid causing problems again?" The security guard sounded ready for business. "I think she's gone into the woods, Ted." "Shee-it." The guard sighed. "You want me to find her, Derek?" "You better." He leaned forward, looked toward the sky. "It's going to be dark within the hour. She'd get lost in the woods easily enough during the day, let alone after dark." "Do you know where she was headed? Back up to Steepletop, do you think?" "No, Ted, that's the problem. I think she's gone to the cabin. We've got to find her before she gets hurt."
From the bridge over the river there was a path through the woods. It was man-made, straight and clearly marked, and Barbara followed it confidently. It was nice, she discovered, to be alone in the woods. Here was an available pleasure of the estate that she had not taken advantage of. Especially now, when the woods were brilliant with autumn color. Barbara walked quickly, feeling pleased with her excursion and with herself. Lately she had had the feeling that she was suffocating between Scott and Derek, that her days were consumed with their worries and problems. just being, off by herself felt liberating. She lost the path then. Beyond the steeplechase it simply disappeared, the way water vanishes into sand. She hesitated, then kept going. She knew where she was, could even see one of the castle's high gray turrets. Also, she had a feel for where she was going. Her sense of direction, unlike Scotty's, had always been very good, and besides, she was determined. Maeve Donnellan, she was convinced, was not the utter madwoman Derek had portrayed her as being. If she were, Conor would never have had the patience to deal with her all these years, and Derek would never have consented to keeping her around. If the two of them could talk to Maeve Donnellan, well, so could she. Maeve had been their prisoner. Now, Barbara thought, striding through the forest, she would see to it that after all these years Maeve's own voice was heard. The woods simply swallowed her. Still inspired by being out of doors, Barbara went blithely ahead. Walking was not difficult. There were deer paths crisscrossing the underbrush and she kept choosing one at random, in the carefree way of people who aren't concerned with where they're walking. She showed no respect for the denseness of the forest and quickly, like a child in a crowded department store, she found she was lost. Still she pushed forward, expecting that ahead, on the next slight rise, she would see some reference point. But the trees were enormous and blinding. Night was closing in, but she kept that fear from her mind. She would panic if she thought about being lost in the darkened forest. She considered her situation. She was wearing jeans, a white Oxford cloth shirt, her green down vest, and loafers. She should have thought this through, been better prepared. For a few minutes she was just angry at herself, then she moved on, faster now, hoping to spot the highway. If she could only get home before dark, she would forget all about the log cabin and Maeve Donnellan. Then from the top of a small ridge, indistinguishable in the denseness of the woods, Barbara spotted the cabin, hidden in the forest like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel. Saved, she thought. Weak with relief, she leaned back against a tree, exhausted but no longer frightened. If she could find her way in, she could find her way out, she reasoned, and she debated the best way to approach the house without being seen. She slid down, stretching her legs, and relaxed against the tree trunk. It was pleasant there, quiet and calming, and Barbara closed her eyes and sighed. In moments she began to hear the forest. Gray squirrels were foraging in the fallen leaves, then scrambling up the trees with their morsels. She could smell the wet soil near the tree, smell pine and the medicinal scent of the imported eucalyptus. She thought: I could go to sleep right here. Another squirrel scampered in the thick fall leaves and Barbara found herself tracking the sound, trying to guess in what direction the animal was going. She cocked her head, listening closely, and then she realized it wasn't a squirrel. The rustling was coming closer, moving in a direct path toward her. She opened her eyes, looked straight ahead and held her breath, hoping the trees would hide her from sight The footfalls continued, steady, relentless. Barbara tried to remember if bears had ever been seen in these woods. There were brown bears, she knew, nearby on the Appalachian trail. It was possibl
e. It could be a bear. She closed her eyes as the animal went by. The sound filled her ears until she could not breathe. But the footsteps moved on, receding, and she opened her eyes to see that it was Conor. He had passed within feet of where she sat motionless. She watched as he walked through the trees to the cabin. She did not need to move to see him climb up on the porch, knock loudly on the wooden door. She crouched down suddenly, but the precaution was unnecessary. Conor obviously assumed he was alone, and never looked over his shoulder to scan the woods. The door cracked open. Barbara could not see inside, nor from that distance could she understand Conor. His thick brogue was unintelligible. She only saw him pass the dinner pail inside the narrow entrance. Maeve Donnellan was being fed. The thought of the old woman's dismal life infuriated Barbara, confirming her decision to bring Maeve forward to bear witness, if she could. Meantime, it was important that Conor not catch sight of her on his return trip. If he realized that she dared to visit Maeve, the old woman might disappear forever. Barbara rolled to one side, thinking, I'll crawl away, hide in the underbrush until he leaves. She glanced back at the cabin. The old man had disappeared; gone inside, she assumed. Barbara got to her feet, ran in a low crouch away from the cabin. At twenty yards she straightened up and slowed as she went up the slope. She was all right now. Safe. She grabbed the low branches and pulled herself toward the crest of the slope, out of breath from the uphill run. At first she did not realize why she fell. The hill was steep, with thick roots buried in the blanket of leaves. She stood up and kicked out, tried to shake loose the vine that had tripped her, but it held and she fell again, sliding backward on the muddy slope. The leaves were soft and wet and she couldn't grab hold. She slipped further backward, and then coldness filled her as she realized she was not slipping at all, she was being dragged. Flooded with adrenaline she struggled harder, and had managed to gain a few inches when she felt the fingers close around her other ankle. Sobbing with terror, she surrendered to the strength of those bony hands. They pulled her roughly to the bottom of the incline, then turned her over. At the sight of the face above her, Barbara began to scream, twisting her body to and fro and frantically scrabbling in the dirt with her nails. She had to live. She had to stay alive for Scotty. Oh, God, she thought, she should have listened to Derek. Ballycastle would not give up its past. And then it was too late. She shouted for Scott, shouted for Derek, as the large monogrammed handkerchief descended and filled her mouth, stiffing all sound.
Conor Fitzpatrick heard laughter on the wind as he came back to Ballycastle. He halted on the dark path, unsure of what he was hearing or where it came from. He had been in the woods for the last hour, searching for Mrs. Gardiner. He had heard her scream and had understood why, but by the time he'd gotten out of the cabin she had already been carried away. Conor resumed walking. He crossed the steeplechase field under a bright harvest moon, then plunged into more trees. It wasn't until he reached the last hilltop before the river that he saw Ballycastle, ablaze with lights, as he'd seen it so often in the old days. From this distance the mansion seemed to be afloat in the darkness, drifting under the passing clouds. He heard the sound of voices and music. "Glory be to God," he whispered. "Now what in the world are we having?" The old man limped down toward the river, remembering the last party at the castle in the first weeks after the war. It was September, 1945. The master wasn't right and had not been since that day years before when Nightfall had thrown him at the hedge. The passing years had only made things worse, but the war had brought some peace to Ballycastle. No weekend parties and hardly any passenger ships plying the Atlantic. Mrs. Wilkinson had made do with a skeleton staff, all wives and daughters from Flat Rock. But now the five-year respite was over, and once again Himself was ready to entertain. "We'll have another grand affair, Conor," he had said, "like in the old days." But this party was different. The guests were not the same ones from before the war, old friends from Ireland and Great Britain, and the very rich from Boston, Philadelphia and New York. Now there were generals and politicians from Washington, movie stars from California, even local people who owned big houses near Flat Rock. Himself had invited anyone at all, just to fill his castle. Conor had stayed close to the house that weekend. He helped out in the kitchen and carried drinks out onto the terrace late on Sunday afternoon, after they had finished the hunt. He kept busy and stayed close to Himself, making sure the master was under control. In all the last five years Himself had been with only Maeve. She was the last girl to arrive before the Germans closed the seas to travelers, and Fergus had seemed satisfied, content to let her live. But now the house was full of women, all lively, all beautiful, most especially the beautiful Nina Millay. Nina had visited the house before the war, with her family from Philadelphia. But she had been only a child then, unnoticed in her large family. Now she was nineteen and grown, a cool blond ingenue already starring in her first moving picture. Although she stood four inches taller than Fergus, she made it clear she found him fascinating. "Do you see her?" Maeve had stopped Conor in the kitchen that Sunday afternoon. "She's throwing herself at him. She hasn't the sense God gave her." Maeve's eyes burned with rage. "She'll be gone soon, dear," he'd answered. "They'll all be out of Ballycastle by tonight." They were safe, Conor thought. They'd made it through the weekend, and soon they'd have Himself alone again. But then Fergus sent word for him to saddle Nightfall and the filly, Roxane's jade. He and Miss Millay were going for one last ride. Conor followed them on foot. When they crossed the steeplechase and rode into the woods, he thought he knew where Fergus was taking her. The cabin was not luxurious, but it was isolated-as good a place as any to take a woman so no one could hear her. But this time, Conor realized, Fergus would not go scot-free. The woman was important, famous even, with a rich family to boot. She was no curtsying, fearful servant from the old country. Conor had to stop him for Fergus's sake and for his own, as well. For ten years he had helped Fergus with the women. In some savage way it had been his own revenge for Carmel. All of them, Monica, Nuala, Peggy and the others, they paid with their lives for what Fergus had done. But now Conor's rage was over, and with all his heart he wanted an end to the killings. He was nearing the cabin when he heard the girl scream, a hopeless cry of pain and fear. Running up onto the porch, he grabbed a club of firewood from the stack near the door and burst into the cabin's single room. Nina Millay was cowering on the bed, her naked back and thighs already laced with bloody cuts. "Help," she pleaded weakly, and Fergus turned, raising the riding crop in self defense as Conor lunged forward and brought his club down on the side of Fergus's head. It was a weak spot, the same place that Nightfall had kicked him, and Conor felt the cranium give way as if he had struck a ripened watermelon. The old man shook his head, remembering as he walked across the lawn uphill to the lighted mansion. At the top of the slope, in one of the wrought iron terrace chairs, he found Barbara Gardiner. She was sitting up, facing the ballroom, as if enjoying the dancers beyond the French doors. "Ah, Mrs. Gardiner, you're all right, thanks be to God. I was worried there for a while..." He stepped around the chair and stopped, seeing that Mrs. Gardiner was not watching the young people at all. Her head was slumped down, as if she had fallen asleep on the chilly terrace. "Mrs. Gardiner," the old man whispered and reached out his fingers to feel her stiff body. She tipped forward, falling, and as he grabbed for her instinctively, her face turned up and stared at him accusingly. Her eyes were open, her mouth frozen in an "O," as if she had been trying to say something when she died. Tears came to his eyes as he touched her white cheek. She was as cold as stone, as white and stiff as Carmel Burke had been the morning he reclaimed her lovely body from the river.