by Kathy
You can take the boy out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the boy, Karen thought. It had been hard for him to find something for which to apologize, but he had managed it.
He had politely ignored her own apologies and heaped further coals of fire on her offending head by offering to accompany her to the house next day. "No, it's no trouble at all. I was planning to go myself, if the weather clears, as it's supposed to."
He had also insisted on taking her to breakfast. He apologized for that, too—or rather, for the early hour he suggested, explaining that he wanted to get in a full day's work.
That comment prepared her to some extent, but she had to look twice before she recognized him. The paint-stained pants and shabby wind-breaker altered not only his appearance but his manner. Bareheaded, hands in his pockets and shoulders bowed, he seemed to shrink as he made his way through the crowded restaurant, acknowledging acquaintances with nods and murmured greetings. Even his accent was softer and more slurred.
Apparently the Hungry Hog was the town's most popular rendezvous for the Sunday breakfast crowd. For the most part it was an elderly, well-dressed crowd; a number of the women wore hats, and their gray-haired or balding escorts sported ties and three-piece suits. Not until one of the women (who would undoubtedly have referred to herself as "one of the ladies") asked Cameron whether she would see him in church did Karen understand why they were so dressed up.
Evidently the question was meant as a joke. The "lady's" companions laughed heartily. She laughed harder than any of them; all three of her chins wobbled and the violets on her hat shook alarmingly. Karen realized she was staring and wrenched her eyes away. But really, it was an astonishing hat; the violets heaped at random over the crown and brim had faded to a grayish lavender, and the purple veiling tacked over the ensemble had the cheap shine of nylon. It was not quite the same shade of purple as the "lady's" dress.
Cameron nodded and smiled but did not reply. Dropping into the chair across from Karen, he apologized for keeping her waiting.
"I just got here," she replied. Curiosity prompted her to add, "I hope I'm not keeping you from church."
"That was a joke," Hayes said seriously. "I'm not a regular churchgoer."
"Oh."
The glint in his eyes told her he was well aware of her amusement. "A well-worn joke, in fact. I'm afraid that's typical of local humor. Miz Fowler and her friends believe that members of the gentry should follow the old traditions. They don't approve of me, but around here family connections count for more than behavior."
"An aristocratic ax murderer is more acceptable than a philanthropist of humble birth?"
"Exaggerated, but essentially correct." His tone told her he didn't care to discuss the subject any further. After they had ordered he said, "I talked with Lisa last night. She told me you hurt your foot. I hope it's better?"
"A little sore, that's all. You needn't be afraid I'll sue you," she added, smiling. "I had no right to be there."
"That wouldn't prevent you from suing. And possibly winning." He hesitated, and Karen braced herself for a kindly lecture about her impetuous and ill-considered behavior. Instead he asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
The question surprised her into an honest answer. "Yes. Not that I expected to find anything in particular, it was just a feeling ... I didn't go in the house, of course. I'm anxious to see it, if you will allow me."
The waitress delivered Karen's croissant and presented Hayes with a heaped platter—eggs, sausages, bacon, and a heap of an amorphous white substance Karen recognized as the fabled Southern grits. "I gather Lisa explained the legal situation," he said, tucking into his breakfast with the appetite of a man who anticipates a long day of manual labor. "I have to have her approval before I act, but so far she's never differed with any of my decisions."
"Have you met Professor Meyer?" Karen asked.
"No. I'm surprised he went to her instead of contacting me. Have you any idea what he wants?"
"I know what he wants, but I don't understand what he's up to. He might think he could swindle a woman more easily than a man, but she couldn't sell anything without your consent, could she?"
"No. The converse is true, as well." Hayes finished his bacon before remarking, "You don't seem to have a very high opinion of your colleague."
"I wouldn't trust him with my garbage." Caught off guard by her candor, Hayes grinned, and Karen went on, "You know where I stand; Dr. Finneyfrock and I explained the situation the last time we met. The manuscript is the most important thing. I have every expectation of getting it, and in any case it is out of your hands. What I hope to get from you is evidence that would enable me to identify the author of the manuscript—diaries, letters, family records. I think that's what Bill Meyers is after too. Knowing Bill, I assume he hopes to steal it or con someone into giving it to him."
"He's in for a shock then," Hayes said coolly. "Lisa may look like a cuddly little Southern gal, but I'd as soon bargain with a shark."
At his suggestion Karen followed him in her own car. "I'll be there all day," he explained. "You'll probably want to leave before I do."
His vehicle was an aged pickup that looked as if it were held together by wire and hope. As he preceded her along the rutted driveway, the truck shook so violently she feared one of the flapping fenders might fly off. Muddy puddles filled the sunken tracks, but the trees lining the way were gilded by sunlight; white blossoms of dogwood and pink sprays of redbud showed through the dark green of the pines. It was a far cry from the ominous landscape of the previous day.
She got out of the car before Hayes could open the door for her. He stepped back with a faint smile and a slight shrug and she knew he was thinking, "Another of those damned feminists." He took a set of keys from his pocket and led the way to the front door.
Though freshly painted and repaired, it gave the impression it ought to creak as it opened. There was no creak, but as it swung silently back, a wave of cold air poured from the opening and enveloped Karen like icy water. She let out a gasp of surprise. Cameron, beside her, hunched his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then he said calmly, "The walls are two feet thick. Cool in summer, but you can imagine how much it costs to heat in winter. After you."
Sunlight did little to soften the stark emptiness of the entrance hall. At least it was clean. The walls had been freshly plastered and painted a pale cool cream. Doors on right and left, and at the back, were closed. A flight of stairs led up to a narrow landing. The only thing that satisfied an eye searching for beauty was the floor—wide boards of golden-brown wood, freshly sanded and varnished.
"Chestnut," Hayes said, following Karen inside. "One of the few attractive features the house can boast. Hideous, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't say," Karen began.
"Don't bother being polite." He shivered involuntarily. "I've always loathed the place. When I was a kid my mother used to drag me out here on duty visits. I'd pretend to be sick, but it didn't work; mothers catch on to those stunts, I suppose. As an adult I had to force myself to come here."
"Why did you?"
"Someone had to. He was old and increasingly helpless, and so bad-tempered he couldn't keep help even if he'd been willing to pay for it. I used to think it was his disgusting personal habits and foul mouth that made me dislike the house, but it still sets my teeth on edge."
Karen's teeth were on edge too. She had to clench them to keep them from chattering. The cold was pervasive, as palpable as a shroud of solid ice. "Maybe it's haunted," she suggested. "That might be a selling point; some people dote on ghosts."
The light touch didn't succeed. Hayes gave her a hostile look. "Most people don't," he said. "Do me a favor and don't suggest such a thing."
"I didn't mean it."
"I know. I'm sorry." His stiff shoulders relaxed. "It'll be hard enough to sell the place anyhow. Not even a sentimental Yankee looking for Tara would fall for this monstros
ity. It's not just ugly, it's . . . unpleasant. I don't know why—but I don't believe in ghosts. No doubt there's something slightly off-balance about the proportions of the rooms—the reverse of the classic architectural golden section. Oh, well. Maybe I'll get lucky and find a buyer with no artistic perception whatever."
He opened the door on the right. The room was large and high-ceilinged, and, like the hall, oddly graceless. Dark paneling covered the walls. The narrow windows admitted little light.
"You don't have to show me the whole house," Karen said, as her host started toward the door across the hall. "You must be anxious to get to work."
"I always check after I've been away for a few days, for broken windows or signs of unauthorized entry. Anyhow, you'd better have an overall tour before you start wandering on your own. The place is an absolute maze, no plan, no coherence."
He wasn't exaggerating. The main block was simple enough, just a three-story square divided into square rooms, four on each level. From that point on, chaos intervened. The builders hadn't even attempted to keep the same floor levels; steps went up and down, corridors led into seemingly dead ends. Staircases had been inserted apparently at random; Karen saw at least four sets of them.
Hayes led her down the last set into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was impeccably clean; she was beginning to understand why her companion's hands were those of a laborer. He must have done most of the work himself, and a formidable job it had been, to judge from his description of its condition. Every room packed to the rafters with crumbling newspapers, rotting cartons, filthy clothes . . .
"Well, that's it," he said. "Want to make me an offer?"
His tone made it a joke, but she wasn't deceived. Of course he hoped to sell her the house. He had watched her intently; he must have observed that her initial antipathy had faded as they went on. The most unpleasant part of the house was the central block; the rooms in the outspread wings were almost cozy by contrast, low-ceilinged and sunny, with big fireplaces.
All the same, it wouldn't be easy to find a buyer. The house was too big, too isolated, and still in need of extensive repairs. But if it was Ismene's house ... If she could prove it, if the book turned out to be a critical success . . .
"There are the cellars, of course," Hayes went on. "But I would rather not show them to you; they're probably flooded, they always are after it rains, and I promise you, there's nothing down there. I cleared everything out of the house."
"What about the attic?"
"You don't want to go up there."
"Why not? Wasn't that where the manuscript was found?"
"That's right. In a trunk under a pile of old clothes. But there's nothing there now except dust and cobwebs. Everything is in storage."
"Everything?"
"Yes. Including," he* added tantalizingly, "a few boxes of papers and photo albums and miscellaneous junk I kept out of the sale. Despite my greed I draw the line at putting family mementos on the auction block."
"You wouldn't get much for them at auction."
He gave her a knowing smile. "If you want to look through them we can probably come to an agreement."
"I do want to look through them, but not today. Just promise you won't sell them to Bill Meyer."
"Done."
"I'd still like to see the attic. You don't have to come with me, I know you must be anxious to get to work. Just point me in the right direction."
He didn't respond immediately. Then he said slowly, "I guess it's all right. A waste of time, as I said. You won't enjoy it. I haven't had a chance to clean the place, and there are mice."
"I like mice." Karen smiled sweetly. "Adorable little furry creatures."
He was not amused. "Come on, then, if you're determined."
He left her at the foot of the attic stairs, with a look that dared her to go on. The prospect was certainly not enticing. The narrow enclosed stairwell was a dusky dark, and she heard small scuttling sounds above. The mice were not visible, though, when she reached the top of the stairs. They must have run for cover when they heard the door open.
No wonder the place was so dark. There were windows high under the roof, but they were small and opaque with crusted dirt. The first board she stepped on sagged and groaned. She stopped, squinting into the shadows and trying to orient herself. The stairs she had climbed had been in the west wing. This space, though extensive, could not extend over the entire house; that wall of roughly mortared brick on her left must mark the end of the wing, with the central block beyond. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she saw the outlines of a door.
Slowly, testing each board before she put her weight on it, she moved toward the door. Creaks and groans accompanied each step, but the floor seemed solid enough. The door was solid too, a massive structure of rough boards. The heavy latch was of metal, red with rust that coated her palm and fingers when she took hold of it. The hinges screamed in protest when she forced the panel back.
Ahead lay a narrow passageway with closed doors along one side. That was all she saw before the cold leapt out at her like an imprisoned animal desperate for freedom. It was far more intense than that first wave of icy air, not the absence of warmth but a positive force, active and malevolent. Black cold, cold darkness, heavy with despair. It gripped her body like huge dead hands, weakening her limbs and stifling her breath.
She fled mindlessly, leaving the door ajar, and tentacles of icy air followed, trying to hold her back. Down the narrow stairs, stumbling and slipping, along the corridor toward the back of the house—and straight into the arms of Cameron Hayes. She clung to him, panting and shivering. But not with cold. Sunlight filled the corridor; the air was cool but perfectly comfortable.
"What's wrong?" His voice was low, the soft slurred accent more pronounced. He was a little taller than Bill Meyer; her head fit neatly into the angle of his neck and shoulder. Meyer was more heavily built, as she had good cause to remember. Now she was acutely conscious of the structure of Cameron's body, bone, sinew and muscle, under his thin shirt. He smelled of sweat and paint and turpentine, not expensive aftershave.
Karen stiffened, straightening the fingers that had clung to his shoulders, moving her hands to press against his chest. The ridges of his collarbones were hard and sharply defined against her flattened palms. "I beg your pardon," she said formally. "I didn't see you."
"My fault," Cameron said, in the same slurred voice. "I shouldn't have let you go up there alone. Did you see . . . Did a mouse run over your foot?"
She had not deceived him. She'd have to find some reasonable excuse for that mad rush, but pride kept her from accepting the one he had offered. "I am not afraid of mice. It must have been a—a bat. Flying at me, flapping its wings."
"They don't get in your hair, you know. That's an old wives' tale."
"Would you mind letting go of me?"
"Oh. Sorry." One of his hands had cupped the back of her head. When he lifted it, a few hairs caught on the roughened skin. Karen pulled away, smoothing her tumbled locks.
"Bats can be rabid."
"Of course." He continued to watch her, his face unreadable. "They aren't usually active during the day."
"I must have disturbed it."
"Right. Well. I'd better get back to work. Sure you're okay?"
"Absolutely."
He nodded and walked away. Karen went in the opposite direction— primarily because it was the opposite direction. After getting lost once or twice in the twisting corridors of the west wing she found the stairs that descended into the kitchen. The old gas stove and painted cupboards were comforting reminders of ordinary domestic activities. Karen raided Cameron's supplies and made coffee. The room was warm, but she could still feel the chill deep inside.
Maybe there was a curse on the place, she thought wryly—something that doomed her to make a fool of herself every time she came there, something with a perverse sense of humor that pushed her into situations where she was forced to act like a helpless, haple
ss idiot of a Gothic heroine. Why the hell did Cameron have to turn up at that particular moment? He had known she was lying about the bat. Now he'd think she was a silly, hysterical idiot, especially after that joke about the house being haunted.
Karen didn't believe in ghosts either. She had never had an experience like that one, though. Was it possible that some places retained memories of past tragedy or desperate grief? Not the spirits of the dead themselves but emotions felt so strongly by the living that they had permeated the very fabric of the walls and the surrounding air?
It was just as likely that such experiences happened only to people with overactive imaginations and strained nerves. Especially people who had fattened their imaginations on horror stories like the one Simon had read to her. It had haunted her ever since. Darkness, cold and despair . . . Damn Simon anyway. That nasty story was probably the genesis of her dreams, too.
Time was getting on. She ought to start back soon, it was a long drive. For purely rational reasons she decided to go out the back door and around the house. She would then have explored every part of it. No need to pass through the main block again.
The enclosed porch she had seen only from the outside was cluttered with Cameron's equipment—rags, paint cans, tools. The door was unlocked; she opened it and cautiously descended the sagging steps. The scent of the lilacs was so strong it overcame the smell of paint and turpentine. Reaching across, she broke off a single spray of clustered bloom and sniffed it appreciatively as she followed the path toward the front of the house.
Someone else must have arrived; she could hear voices. One voice, rather. It was loud and aggressive and unfamiliar. Cameron's responses were inaudible until she turned the comer of the house in time to hear him say, "I said no, and I mean no. If you think you can—"
Seeing her, he broke off. The other man turned.
He was a few inches shorter than Cameron and a good many years younger. The unlined skin of his face was spotted with acne which he had tried to conceal with makeup and with artfully arranged locks of flaxen hair. He had dimples. He produced them when he caught sight of Karen and assumed a pose that showed an impressive display of muscles to best advantage.