The Unquiet past

by Kelley Armstrong

  She swore she’d walked five miles before another car stopped. A truck this time—a gray-haired man driving a pickup with mud on the fenders and hay stacked in the back.

  “Sainte-Suzanne?” she said.

  “Oui.”

  She presumed either he could take her there or that he was heading in that direction. She wasn’t certain of the right words to ask for clarification. It seemed that being at the top of her class in French did not mean she was actually equipped to carry on proper conversations here. The accent and inflections were different than what she’d learned. Some of the words too. So she settled for a quick “Merci” and hopped in.

  When the man said something in quick French, she made the dreaded admission. “Je ne parle pas très bien Français.” I do not speak French very well.

  The man grinned, and she realized he wasn’t as old as he’d looked. Prematurely gray. Maybe only in his late thirties.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Because I don’t speak it very well either. Lived here half my life, and I’m told my accent is atrocious. I was saying you can toss your suitcase in the back if you like, but it’s kinda dirty.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He pulled away from the side of the road. “Sainte-Suzanne, huh? You’re not taking that au pair job for the Chastains, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, because the kids are brats.” He winked her way. “And it’s John, not sir. Please. So you have family in town?”

  She considered her lie carefully. If there was no bus service to Sainte-Suzanne, it wasn’t very big, and the fact that this man knew about a local job suggested he was from the area.

  “I’m traveling,” she said. “My family comes from the region originally, and I wanted to see it.”

  His brow creased. “On your own? What are you? Sixteen?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You don’t look eighteen. Your folks know you’re here?”

  “They’re…not around anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  They drove at least a mile in silence. Then he said, “So you’re camping? I can’t imagine a tent fitting in that little bag.”

  Tess cursed herself. She should have come up with a better story. Or taken the taxi in the morning, when no one would ask where she planned to stay the night.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. Then added, “Thank you.”

  “There aren’t hotels in town, miss. Nearest one is ten miles back.”

  “I’ll go back to it. Or find a place.”

  “Well, that’s just silly,” he said. “I’ve got a spare room. You can stay with me. Us, I mean. My wife and me.”

  There was no ring on his finger. That didn’t mean he wasn’t married, but something about the way he’d quickly corrected himself said he wasn’t.

  “That’s very kind,” she said. “But I’ll be fine.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  They drove another few miles. When he turned onto a dirt road, Tess’s heart revved again.

  “Is this the way?” she said.

  She expected him to say yes or that it was a shortcut. In other words, to lie. But he shook his head. “I’m not taking you to Sainte-Suzanne at this hour. It’s almost dark. You’ll stay with me.”

  She shook her head vehemently, her scarf and ponytail whipping. “No, sir. Please. Just take me—”

  “Stop that.” He glared at her. “I’m not some dirty old man. I’m being a Good Samaritan. Your family wouldn’t want you wandering around out here on your own.”

  “Just take me back to the main road. Please. You’re right. I should have come out tomorrow. I’ll catch a lift back and stay in the inn.”

  “No, you’ll stay with me.”

  His hands gripped the wheel and, jaw set, he punched down the accelerator. She knew this wasn’t a misunderstanding.

  She dropped her head and let out a sob. “P-please, sir. Let me go.”

  He lifted his foot off the accelerator and leaned over. “Hey there. Don’t cry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve got a spare bed, and I just want to help. I’ll drive you to town in the morning—”

  She threw open the door—one hand pushing it wide, the other clutching her purse. The man let out a cry of surprise and hit the brakes, and she flung herself out the door.

  It was, in retrospect, a very foolish thing to do. It had seemed clever enough at the time. Trick him with the fake crying so he’d slow down enough for her to jump out. She’d read the scene in adventure stories—the plucky hero escaping from the villain by leaping from a moving vehicle, rolling gracefully into the ditch and racing off.

  It did not work like that.

  Perhaps part of the problem was that she’d taken the suitcase with her. She’d considered leaving it—while she’d feel guilty abandoning the clothing Billy had given her, no guilt was worth risking her life for. But it was wedged between her legs. If she went, it had to go too. So she flung herself—suitcase and all—out the door and, perhaps not surprisingly, did not land in a graceful roll.

  Tess hit the road so hard that for a second she thought, I’m dead. There seemed no way it could be otherwise. The air whooshed from her lungs, and pain ripped through her as she skidded over the gravel, her entire body on fire.

  Then she stopped. She lay there, suitcase flung aside as she’d jumped, her arms and legs pulled into an awkward cannonball, as if she’d instinctively rolled up when she hit the ground.

  As she vaulted to her feet, pain screamed through her again, and she thought, What if I’ve broken my neck? She hadn’t. Her vault, though, was more of a staggering, stumbling, rocking push to her feet, teeth gritted against the pain searing through her hip and left arm, which were studded with gravel. That’s when she heard the slam of the truck door.

  She spun to see the man jogging around the vehicle. His face was livid.

  “What kind of crazy stunt?” he shouted.

  Tess didn’t hear the rest. She grabbed her suitcase and ran into the long grass.

  “Get back here!” he shouted. “You need to see a doctor!”

  She called back that she was fine, still hoping she was being paranoid, that he really had just been trying to help and she’d read too many scary novels, and he’d see she was okay and back off. He did not. He ran after her, shouting that she needed a doctor, that he wasn’t going to let her run away when she was injured.

  He wasn’t going to let her escape. That’s what he meant. He’d keep telling her—and maybe himself—that he was doing the right thing. But the right thing would be to see she was terrified and leave her alone. He didn’t.

  She ran for a strip of trees about fifty feet from the road. When she reached it, she realized how thick the forest was, no path to be seen, and she stumbled and knocked about, struggling to carry the suitcase.

  She threw it aside. That was all she could do. Throw it and send up a silent apology to Billy. At least she’d stashed all her money in her purse.

  The man didn’t stop for the suitcase. He stayed right on her trail, maybe thirty feet back. Branches lashed her as she ran. They whipped against her skinned arm, and she bit her lip against the pain. Her hip throbbed. One knee hurt. It didn’t matter. She had to run as fast and as far as she could.

  She stumbled a few times over fallen branches and thick undergrowth. He seemed to be gaining ground. That’s when she heard a cry and spun to see him going down, arms flailing as he fell. He howled in pain. Tess kept running.

  “My leg!” he shouted after her. “I think I broke my leg!”

  She slowed and turned. She couldn’t see him now; he was lost in the undergrowth. She listened for the heaves of panting breath, the sounds of pain. None came. Silence. Then, “Oww. My leg—I think I broke it.”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “You wouldn’t leave me here, would you? I’m hurt.”

  No, he wasn’t. She was certain of that. Well, at least 75 percent certain.

  “Your truck is that way,�
�� she said. “Start crawling.”

  “You little bitch!” He leaped up and she started to run, but his fall must not have been faked, because she heard an honest hiss of pain and looked back to see him holding a tree for support, wincing.

  She kept running, and this time she did not look back. Nor did he follow. He shouted after her. Called her an ungrateful brat. And worse. He was hurt. Not as bad as he’d faked but enough that he couldn’t give chase. That didn’t mean Tess stopped running. Not until she burst from the forest, her sides aching, lungs burning. She looked around. The dirt road was to her right. To her left, more trees. She headed for them.

  Six

  SHOULD SHE CONTINUE on to the address? Did she dare? The question looped through Tess’s head as she trudged through the forest. The fact that she was trudging in the direction of the town suggested she’d already made up her mind. The operator had said it was a rural address, and since she hadn’t given it to the man—John, if that was his real name—there was no chance he’d be waiting there. She would stay off the roads and keep her eyes open. It was nine now, dusk. Cars had their headlights on and were easy to spot even from these woods.

  The terrain here was wild—a few farmers’ fields but mostly open meadows and grassy hills and forest patches. That made it easier. She found the main road and continued alongside it, sticking to the long grass and trees.

  While she could see the town lit up against the coming night, she wanted to find Rue Montcalm. So each time the main road branched off, she had to scoot close enough to see the sign and then dart back. It was slow going, and the slower it went, the darker it got. Soon she’d passed the turnoff for the village and begun to consider the very real possibility that Rue Montcalm didn’t cross the main road at all. As she was about to reevaluate her plan, she saw the name on the next sign.

  Rue Montcalm ended at the main road. There was only one way to go, which made it easier. What made it tougher was that it was now too dark to see house numbers unless she walked on the road. She’d be careful and keep her ears open for the sound of a truck.

  The road had driveways only every few hundred feet. Unencumbered by the suitcase, she broke into a jog and watched the numbers count down. Finally, she reached 16532. It was not a house but merely a sign at the end of a dark lane. Beyond that, a wooded hill rose sharply. Between the road and the hill, piles of rubble dotted a weed-choked meadow. Remnants of a demolished house.

  Tess stared at the rubble. Her eyes burned, and her legs quivered with sudden exhaustion. She imagined her knees giving way, her dropping to them, falling forward and sobbing. Just sobbing. She imagined it, and then she locked her knees, balled her fists and strode up the dirt lane to the rubble-strewn lawn.

  Tess picked her way through the grass and brambles and found…a couch. Half of one, at least. Sawed in two, the stuffing gray and stringy. Beside it was something plastic, too dirt-streaked to make out without closer examination, which she did not care to give it. After another few steps, she reached the rubble. It was clearly a pile from a construction site but only a few wheelbarrows’ worth. The area was otherwise flat and whole. No sign of a foundation. Not a torn-down house, then, but simply a spot used as a dump by someone too lazy to drive to a real one.

  Tess looked over her shoulder at the lane and saw that the drive didn’t really end at the forest. A wrought iron gate emerged from the shadowy trees.

  She walked to the gate. Beyond it, the lane continued up the hill, and in the distance, atop that hill…

  Tess gripped the ironwork to rise up onto her tiptoes for a better look. As soon as her fingers touched the black metal, she gasped and jumped back. It was ice cold. She shivered and rubbed her hands on her thighs. When she touched the gate again, it just felt cool, not surprising given the shade and the plummeting temperature. She peered into the shadows, her gaze traveling up the hill to see…

  A house. The top of one, at least. The roof of a massive stone house with spires and columns. The stonework looked yellow—a sickly, glowing yellow. Tess stepped back quickly, rubbing her hands as if the gate had turned cold again. Ice slid down her spine, making her shake, goose bumps speckling her arms.

  Run.

  That’s what her gut said. It saw the house and it said, Run. Not a scream. Not a shout. Only a whisper, as if it dared not speak louder.

  Quiet. Always be quiet. He’ll hear us if we aren’t quiet.

  Tess rubbed hard at the goose bumps. The chill threatened to turn to panic, and she felt walls closing in, heard the patter of dirt against wood, felt her breath come short, and then she was gasping for breath, the air thin, oxygen evaporating, dirt raining down—

  “Stop!”

  She said the word aloud. It echoed in the emptiness. She shook herself and grasped the metal gate again, clasping it hard, focusing on the solidity of it, grounding herself. She looked up the hill again and saw just a house. Huge and forbidding, but that’s all. The rest was her imagination tearing off down dark alleys, still spooked and unsettled by her encounter with the man.

  The gate was chained shut, but it wasn’t attached to a fence. Not meant to block the entire property then—just to keep vehicles from going up the lane. She walked around it and started the hike up the hill.

  Seven

  AS SOON AS Tess crested the hill, she knew why she’d wanted to run from this house. Foreboding. That was the word she’d used. Now she had a new one: terrifying.

  The house squatted atop the hill like a stone troll. A porch stretched across the front, yet it wasn’t the sort where you’d sit in a rocking chair with a lemonade in summer. It was cold stone, ground level, with thin columns and no railings. Parapets lined the roofs of the porch, the house, and a carport at the side. The doors looked much too small for the massive building, and the windows, while arched and leaded, were tiny and scarce.

  You’re not welcome here. That’s what the house said. A stone fortress against the outside world.

  Go away.

  Tess looked up, shivering, at that house, like something from a gothic nightmare, and thought, No.

  She would not go away. This address was hers. Hers. She had every right to be here, and a mere building would not frighten her off.

  She banged the front knocker. The boom echoed as if she’d knocked on the door of Dracula’s castle itself. Dead leaves rustled across the porch. Dirt crusted every surface. The forest reached almost to the porch itself. Desolate.

  When the wind picked up, Tess struggled not to shiver again. She pulled off the scarf, ran her fingers through her hair and retied it. She wished she could wash her face. After that tumble from the truck—and the hell-bent run through the forest—she could only imagine what she looked like.

  She pulled herself up straighter and banged the knocker again.

  Still no one answered.

  Tess put her ear to the door. Silence. She walked to a narrow window, rubbed a spot on the filthy glass and peered inside. A couch. All right. Someone must live here.

  Then she noticed the debris on the floor—chunks of wood and plaster on one side, a row of beer bottles on the other, several smashed. The couch tilted backward, one leg missing.

  The house was empty.

  Abandoned.

  She walked to the next window. Another spot cleared; another peek inside. More debris and trash and broken furniture.

  Not just empty. Long empty.

  She swallowed and thought of everything she’d gone through. The train ride. The trip up from Montreal. That man in the pickup. For nothing. She’d been given a puzzle, and she hadn’t been clever enough to find the answer.

  No, she would find the answer. One way or another.

  When the front door proved locked, she tried a side one. Also locked. Then she walked around the back to see a huge fallen branch leaning against a window. Its leaves almost hid a broken pane of glass, the frame swept clean of jagged edges. Clearly a well-used entrance point, probably by the kids who’d left the beer bottles.

&nbs
p; She heaved the branch aside and found a flashlight on the ground. Likely left by the kids for their next foray. She put it into her purse and crawled through the window.

  Inside, she retrieved the flashlight and shone it around. There wasn’t much to see. Rotten and broken furniture. Some trash—mostly Coke bottles and apple cores. A discarded blanket in the corner and the faint smell of smoke told her someone had lit a fire in the huge stone fireplace recently. She could make out shoe prints in the dust.

  The room looked like a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves along one wall. Empty shelves. She bristled as she spotted part of a charred book cover near the fireplace. Books for tinder? Someone had made a pile of the pieces, as if trying to rescue them. When Tess craned her neck, she could see the shelves weren’t entirely empty—the higher ones still had books. There was a ladder—an old-fashioned one that ran on rails, like she’d read about in books. It had been shoved off to the far side, and the vandals must not have noticed it.

  Tess started for the ladder and then stopped short. The floorboard she was about to walk on had rotted, and there was a small hole, as if an intruder’s foot had gone clear through. Tess shone the flashlight around. Nearby boards were warped, threatening to buckle at any provocation. She gave the spot a wide berth.

  Tess tugged on the ladder. It squealed like nails on a blackboard, but it moved easily. She positioned it under one of the shelves, climbed up and shone her flashlight on the spine of a very old book. A Practical Account of General Paralysis. She pulled down another one that looked so old she expected it to fall apart in her hand. A Treatise On Nervous Exhaustion (Neurasthenia): Its Symptoms, Nature, Sequences, Treatment. Nervous exhaustion? She’d heard the term before, whispered in town when the mechanic’s wife had a breakdown and had to be sent to the hospital.

  No, not to “the hospital.” To the Lakeshore Asylum.

  Tess shoved the book back onto the shelf hard enough to make the ladder creak. She climbed up two more rungs, until she was at the top row, and took down another book. She saw the author’s name first. William Battie. Then the title: A Treatise on Madness.