Nancy knew what was coming. She sensed the muscles tensing as Harrison tightened his grip on the flashlight, his only weapon.
“Here, Stub, you hold on to my shotgun while I talk business with my friend here. Now, Miss Schoolteacher, you jes’ better step out of the way.”
Nancy didn’t move. “Why don’t you quit showing off,” she said. “You’re acting like one of my first graders.”
“Now, honey, why don’t you jes’ leave the talking to the men. You jes’ step back out of the way like a good girl.”
“Step back, Nancy,” said Harrison. He gave her a forceful shove as Cliff lunged at him.
The rest happened so quickly that Nancy couldn’t make sense of it.
Harrison lifted the beam of light, shining it directly into Cliff’s oncoming face. Cliff’s features appeared like a flashing white mask in the darkness. In reflex, he squinted against the brightness, lifting his hands to shield his eyes.
Exactly then, Harrison slammed the butt of the flashlight against Cliff’s forehead. There were two dull thuds: one as the flashlight connected with flesh, the other as the light, knocked from Harrison’s hand, struck the floor. It rolled away, magically unbroken.
Cliff screamed in rage and pain, slapping his hands against his wounded forehead. Harrison lifted a rapid kick to his groin. Cliff fell howling, doubled up like a fist, his hands buried between his legs.
Nancy watched a fury take hold of Harrison. It zapped like electricity through his body. “Son of a bitch,” he cried, failing upon the writhing Cliff, pummeling him with unfeeling fists.
“The gun,” begged Cliff almost crying. “Get him off me, Stub. Get the friggin’ gun!”
Stubby took the shotgun by the barrel. Holding it like a baseball bat, he moved menacingly toward the struggling men.
“Stop it!” screamed Nancy.
In the dull glow from the fallen light, she witnessed the bizarre outcome of the drama.
The door through which the men had entered burst open with the resounding crash.
A third shape entered the room. It seemed much larger than the other two, and somehow darker. It gave the impression of an oversized man dressed in a wet suit and wearing a shaggy yellow fright wig.
An unpleasant odor polluted the moist air.
Breathing in raspy gasps, the newcomer moved with incredible speed and animal agility. Long, twisted arms dangled at its sides. Its feet made odd scratching sounds on the stone floor as it sped toward the small, fat man with the shotgun.
Someone shrieked. Nancy couldn’t tell who.
Stubby dropped to the floor, bawling. The thing picked him up as if he were an obese child. His screams changed abruptly to a piercing hysterical wail as the dreadful shape hurled him with terrible force against the boarded window. On impact the rotting timbers split as if they were paper. Stubby’s body disappeared from sight. Nancy heard his diminishing cry, as he plunged toward the distant jagged rocks below.
Instantly, through the frightful hole, a painful brilliance flooded the room. Nancy’s eyes were paralyzed with horror. Her blind gaze was glued to the sunny spot where Stubby had vanished.
Surely no one got a good look at his killer, who fled quickly, silently from the room.
Nancy thought she had caught a quick glimpse, but what she saw was like nothing she had ever seen before.
Chapter 17 - A Collection of Darkness
1
When Mrs. Snowdon entered the general store, Chief Lawrence Connelly politely tipped his hat and left quickly.
Abner Mott smiled tentatively; briefly, his eyes met the dark, deep-set eyes of the old woman. She didn’t speak, but Abner knew she was here for her week’s groceries.
“Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Snowdon?” he asked with a deference that transcended salesmanship and courteous customer relations.
“I’ll find what I need, Abner. You can cut me some cheese and a bit of beef for a stew.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
She walked with a conspicuous dignity through the narrow aisles, paying little attention to Abner’s scrawled signs, automatically stopping for rice, dried beans, and an assortment of canned goods. She never paused to compare brands and prices.
When she presented herself at the counter with an armload of supplies, Abner was waiting for her. He was ready with wrapped packages of cheese, stew beef, and a third parcel.
“Threw in a couple of nice pork chops for you and Jabe — real nice cut.”
“There’s no call for givin’ what we don’t require, Abner,” she said. The refusal was neither impolite nor gracious.
As Abner placed the food in a brown hag, Mrs. Snowdon visibly stiffened. She looked up and over Abner’s head, through and beyond the parcel-covered wall behind the storekeeper, and out into the invisible distance. Abner watched her facial expression change slightly; the frozen look of her stern refusal softened into an aspect of concern.
She said, “Jabez’ll be here lookin’ for me in a few minutes. You tell him I’ve gone to the monastery.”
“The monastery?” said Abner with surprise.
“I’ll be back for these,” she said.
Before Abner could formulate another question, Mrs. Snowdon had abandoned her groceries and was out the door and gone.
2
In the empty house the newly installed telephone rang and rang.
In Burlington, Mark Chittenden placed the receiver back onto its cradle. He looked thoughtful as he returned to the couch to sit beside his wife.
“Still not home?” Judy asked.
“Naw. Wonder what he’s doing up there? You’d think he’d check in once in a while. At least let us know if our house is still standing.”
“He wouldn’t leave the island without telling us, would he?”
“I don’t think so, but who can say? Knowing Harry, he’s probably found himself some rustic little country wench to keep house with. Right now I’ll bet he’s lazing around in front of some fireplace somewhere, sipping California burgundy and fantasizing that he’s some sort of cold-weather Gauguin.”
“Why don’t you take a ride up there if you want to see him. It’s not that far.”
“I don’t know…”
“What else is there to do on a Saturday afternoon? You might as well. It might make you feel better.”
“I guess so. Sure. You want to come?”
“No, thanks. I think I’d like to stay right here and read. Bring him back for dinner, if you want to.”
“Good idea. Sure you don’t want to come, babe?”
“You go ahead, Mark. It’ll do the two of you good to spend some time together.”
3
“Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh Jesus!” Cliff was crying frantically, mindlessly. He crawled on hands and knees toward the gun. But it was out of reach, lying on the floor under the exploded window.
Nancy saw the motion jolt Harrison from his shocked immobility. Apparently realizing what Cliff was after, Harrison dove for the weapon.
Both men grabbed it at exactly the same instant. A violent tug-of-war ensued. Nancy watched helplessly as Harrison held firmly to the barrel and Cliff held the stock.
Whipping the metal back and forth, Harrison fought to wrench the gun from Cliff’s hands. Why didn’t Cliff pull the trigger? Harry was directly in the line of fire.
But before Cliff could shoot, Harrison pulled the weapon sharply toward himself, then with a massive display of strength, pushed the barrel up and, with both hands, shoved it away.
The metal slammed into Cliff’s wounded forehead, smashing his nose. Flattened tissue erupted in a crimson fountain. The speed of the assault caused the smooth barrel to slip from Harrison’s sweat-slick hands. Cliff staggered backward, clutching the gun while groping for something in his jacket pocket.
Suddenly Nancy realized what was going on. “It’s not loaded!” she cried to Harrison.
On that signal, she and Harrison lunged at the bleeding man, but too late. With practiced
smoothness, Cliff broke open the weapon and slid in the shells with amazing speed.
The couple stopped in their tracks.
“Bastard!” said Cliff. Again he had complete control of the situation. “Now let’s all jes’ take a little rest. Jes’ take it real easy.” His voice was falsely calm.
Cliff’s eyes, like the twin barrels of the shotgun, never wavered as he circled around them. When he stopped, he was in front of the window. He peered through the dreadful opening, looking down. Breathing heavily, blood and mucus bubbled in his nose. His barrel chest rose and fell in spasms. His eyes darted wildly. Perspiration poured from his bloody forehead. Absently, he wiped the fluids from his nose onto the sleeve of his woolen jacket.
He was pale as a gull. A low moan began to rise from his heaving chest, “Ohhh… Ooohhh… OOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”
Nancy thought the man was about to become hysterical. Clutching the shotgun, Cliff continued to moan pathetically. He looked first into Harrison’s eyes, then Nancy’s, plaintively, as if he were begging for some kind of help.
Then his expression changed, apparently he had remembered they were his enemy.
“Oh, Jesus… Oh, God… We’re in trouble now. Oh, Christ, we gotta get the hell out of here. Quick! We gotta get movin’.” Becoming more agitated, he motioned to the flashlight with the gun, then flicked the barrel toward the door. Harrison picked the light up off the floor.
“Git movin’,” Cliff commanded. He had regained some of his composure. “Quick! We gotta go. NOW!”
Nancy clutched Harrison’s arm as they began their walk from the sunlit chamber into the deepening darkness of the monastery’s interior. The rippling white flashlight beam led the way. Cliff followed, muttering and panicky, weapon in hand.
At this point there could be no doubt. Nancy knew they were in the hands of a madman.
4
The sky was aglow. The dark mountains to the west looked as if they were on fire. From where Professor Hathaway parked his car — hidden in the bushes not far from the abandoned quarry — he had a clear view of the crimson sunset. It is very much like fire, he thought — the intense reds and the billowing black cloud formations that offset them. He had to pause for a moment to admire the beauty.
This was going to be a very special moment, one that had been years in the making. He felt momentarily self-conscious that his plans had briefly taken a backseat to something as mundane as a sunset. Anyone who showed that much interest in nature, he chided himself, displays a decided lack of imagination. Now where had he heard that? Well, no matter….
Perhaps he was just putting off what had to be done, deferring gratification, savoring the moment that he had devoted all his retirement years to bringing about.
He turned his back on the sunset and walked away from his carefully concealed car, approaching the house. A blue Honda was in the yard — the schoolteacher’s car — but Harrison’s Saab was gone.
Good. All was going according to plan! The young couple was away somewhere. But for how long? The safest thing would be to act fast. Of course, what he had to do wouldn’t take long.
He’d known from the beginning that there was no treasure map in that old house: it was just a local legend. But there was a treasure, and now he would possess it.
At long last, all the bits of his research — the discovery of each new and elegant piece of the puzzle — were finally falling together, forming a map of their own. It was a map that led inexorably to the captain’s house.
And to the treasure: Hidden somewhere in those ancient rooms were the collected papers of Cortney Dare.
According to Professor Hathaway’s studies, Dare had been the leader of the spiritualist colony on Friar’s Island until it faded into oblivion sometime before 1930.
Dare, the philanthropist. Dare, the humanitarian. Dare, the deceiver. He had lived a double life, posing as a retired New York City industrialist who had retreated to Friar’s Island for reasons of health. His ready smile, his generosity, and his keen attention to civic matters had quickly endeared him to the local population in the early 1900s.
He had been a founder of, and trustee in, the limited island library, aiding in the selection of books, often paying for them out of his own pocket. He had declined a nomination to the Vermont legislature in 1904, and in 1907 he donated most of the land on The Jaw to the town. This land was then developed into a profitable quarry, a source of wealth and livelihood for the community. Dare had been the kind of man that mothers insisted their sons should grow up to emulate.
And Cortney Dare had lived so far from the old monastery — all the way on the opposite side of the island — that folks just knew he had nothing to do with the peculiar goings-on at that accursed old place.
Apparently, in all the years Dare had lived on Friar’s Island, no one had ever suspected that he was involved with —indeed, was the leader of — those godless heathens that lived in the north end.
Professor Hathaway chuckled silently.
When Dare died in 1919, he was given a Christian burial. Most of the local women cried at his funeral; husbands stood with their eyes cast down, never suspecting that he was not a Christian at all, never realizing that he had come to their island for reasons far removed from retirement, health, and municipal participation.
And no one on the island ever learned of the woman Cortney Dare had abandoned many years before…
Were it not for Professor Hathaway’s research — more than sixty years after Dare’s death — the suspicion linking him with the spiritualists would never have arisen. Dare’s arrival on the island had only slightly predated the formation of the spiritualist community. Its death, and his, were similarly synchronous. Only the passage of time, and the perseverance of a diligent researcher, could ever have connected the two.
Still, the bottom line was that it was only a suspicion, a theory, and it would remain that way until proof could be found. Professor Hathaway was confident that an insightful perusal of the old house’s attic — or cellar, or anywhere that old papers might have been hidden — just might disclose the unknown factor in the equation he had labored so long to balance.
As he neared the house, a chill of anticipation permeated his body. The place was perfect, so out of the way that any activities within could never be scrutinized by the curious townspeople. The place’s privacy, its isolation, would guarantee the occupant total freedom of motion. Professor Hathaway planned to take advantage of that freedom now by searching the interior.
The windows of the house in the last light of day looked black, as if the building were filled with nighttime. For him, the dark windows articulated a long-sought invitation. They beckoned like the eyes of a sensuous lover: This is it. This is what you’ve been looking for. Come to me…
It was as if a sixth sense were assuring him that he was in exactly the right place. He trusted that sense would lead him directly to the object of his search.
After opening the unlocked door, he stepped into the hallway and looked around. He saw pillows on the floor of the living room, empty glasses by the fireplace.
Harrison had been entertaining. That was good. The empty house and the Honda in the yard confirmed that Harrison and Nancy were exploring the old monastery, just as Harrison said they would — just as Professor Hathaway had planned. How suggestible they were!
But to work! The professor guessed he would have a minimum of one hour of safe, uninterrupted searching.
He thought — with some amusement and no less satisfaction — about Harrison’s notion that the house was haunted. Professor Hathaway had been truthful when he’d said he’d never heard that it was. But he had long suspected that it might be. If the spectral occupant was not the disincarnate spirit of the house’s sailor builder, then more likely it was the spirit of Cortney Dare himself. The fact that Harrison claimed he had heard what sounded like a woman in tears meant very little. It could as well have sounded like a moan or a rattling chain or slamming door, or anything at all — anything t
he spirit wanted to sound like.
And Harrison had said the noise seemed to come from upstairs: as good a place as any for Professor Hathaway to begin the search.
With little difficulty, he found his way up the creaking stairs to the second floor, then to the narrow passageway leading to the attic. As he climbed the long-unpainted steps, the smell of the attic became more and more pronounced. There was the odor of wood and creosote, of things left long ago to dry: old clothes in storage, once important, now decades forgotten. The smell of age and years wafting past his nose provided a pleasant sensual link with the past.
He paused at the top of the stairs, looking around at the long accumulated array of memorabilia. It was like stepping into a time capsule prepared a half century ago. At his feet he saw a box of antique mason jars, nearby a wooden crate of hardbound books. There were storage trunks and wooden file cabinets. Across the attic, in the shadow of the brick chimney, there was what looked like an old strongbox.
Where to start?
If this were to have been a random search, he would have gone directly to the strongbox. But he’d never planned to be random. His years of devotion to the arcane disciplines — starting with an innocent hobby of parlor tricks and magic — had taught him much more about communication than he had ever learned studying or teaching at the university.
He knew exactly what to do. He sat cross-legged on the wide pine planks of the floor, close to the top of the stairs. His old legs moved with a youthful agility. Facing his palms, he crossed his hands, knuckles to palms, touching his closed eyes with the index fingers of opposite hands, resting thumbs on his temples. In position now, he exhaled, slowly voiding his lungs of all air. He waited, not breathing, until the beating of his heart reverberated throughout his body, pounding like the clapper of a bell. His mind, empty but for the words Cortney Dare, called silently to the outer and inner voids. He spoke the name soundlessly; he wrote it in his mind, as if with stark white paint on the limitless blackboard behind his closed eyes.
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