by John Saul
It looked to him like it was made out of metal.
He stepped into the shadows below the stairs, and took a closer look.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
“What is it, Daddy?” Beth asked. Suddenly her heart skipped a beat and she felt a slight thrill of anticipation.
“It looks like some kind of fire door,” Alan replied. He reached up and felt in the darkness, and his fingers found a rail bolted to the concrete behind the metal. Moving his hands along the rail, he came to a metal roller.
He pounded on the metal, and heard a low echoing sound.
“Is it hollow?” Beth asked.
Alan nodded. “It sure seems like it’s some kind of fire door. Give me a hand, and we’ll see if we can open it.”
Gingerly, Alan felt for the end of the door nearest the staircase, and curled his fingers around its edge. Then he leaned his weight into it, and tugged.
The door didn’t budge.
Frowning, he stepped back, surveyed the door, then moved to the other end.
Near the ceiling, he found what he was looking for. A metal pin, protruding from the concrete. When he tried to remove it, it too held fast.
“What is it, Daddy?” Beth asked.
“Don’t know,” Alan muttered. “And it’s going to take a couple of wrenches to find out.”
“Is there another room back there?”
“That’s what’s weird,” her father replied. “According to the plans I have, all that’s back there is the loading dock, and it’s supposed to be solid concrete.”
“Then why would they need a fire door?”
“Good question. Unless it’s not a fire door. It might be something else entirely. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As her father trotted up the stairs, Beth stared at the strange, barely visible door in fascination.
There was a room behind the door—she was sure of it.
And she knew what the room was.
It was Amy’s room.
It was the room where Amy lived, and that’s why, when she’d heard the strange voice the other day, it had sounded so faint.
It had been muffled by the door.
She moved closer to the door, letting her imagination run free.
There could be anything behind the door. She imagined an old forgotten room, still filled with the kind of furniture they sold in antique stores. It was probably an office of some kind, so there would be desks, and maybe a big black leather chair. There might even be one of those old-fashioned braided rugs still on the floor.
It would all be covered with dust, but there would still be papers on the desks, and stuff in the wastebasket, for in Beth’s mind she was sure the room had simply been closed up one day, and forgotten. And then, when the mill had been closed, no one had even remembered that this room was there.
Suddenly she heard footsteps on the stairs, and her father reappeared, carrying a large monkey wrench.
“This should do it,” he said, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “All set?”
Beth nodded, and stood back while Alan adjusted the wrench to the pin, then applied pressure to it.
The pin held for a moment, then squealed, and slowly began to turn. With some further effort, it fell away, and once more Alan gripped the end of the metal door and leaned his weight into it.
This time the door groaned and moved slightly. After two more pulls its rusty rollers screeched in protest, and it slid reluctantly to one side.
Instantly, a rush of ice-cold air flowed out of the gap.
Beth froze, the chill seeming to cut through her, and she could feel goose bumps rippling her skin as the hair on her neck stood on end. It was as if something physical had emerged from whatever lay behind the door. Beth’s first instinct was to turn and run.
And then the blast of icy air stopped, almost as if it had never happened. She looked up at her father.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“What?” Alan replied.
“The cold,” Beth explained. “Didn’t you feel the cold coming through the crack?”
Alan frowned slightly, then shook his head. “I didn’t feel anything at all.” He pulled on the door again, opening it far enough for them both to peer inside.
Alan shone his flashlight into the darkness beyond the metal door.
It was a room, perhaps twenty feet long and fifteen feet deep.
Its walls were blackened, and the floor was covered with a thick layer of dust.
It was completely empty.
Then, as Beth gazed around the long-forgotten room, she noticed a familiar odor in the stale air.
The little room smelled strongly of smoke.
12
There was nothing comfortable about the silence that reigned in the Mercedes-Benz as Phillip maneuvered it up the long drive and brought it to a stop in front of Hilltop. It was as if, by mutual consent, all of them were waiting until they were once more inside the mansion before they faced the argument that all of them now knew was inevitable.
For Carolyn, it was particularly difficult, for she was in the unique position of finding herself in agreement with her mother-in-law, albeit for reasons that Abigail would never understand. Still, the fact remained that for the first time Carolyn was about to side with the woman who hated her, against the husband who loved her.
She waited for Phillip to come around and open the door for her, and offered him an uncertain smile that was part gratitude and part apology. Getting out of the car, she started up the front steps. Hannah opened the door for her, and she nodded a greeting to the old woman before crossing the foyer to turn right down the wide corridor that led to the library. Beyond the French doors and the terrace outside, she could see Tracy and three of her friends playing tennis.
Beth was nowhere to be seen.
She dropped her purse on a table, and glanced at the fireplace, where—as always—a fire was laid, ready to be lit. For a moment she was tempted to put a match to it, despite the warmth of the day. But warming the room even further would do nothing to alleviate the chill that was emanating from Abigail.
“It won’t help,” Abigail said as she entered the room, apparently reading Carolyn’s mind. Then, stripping off her gloves and expertly removing the pin from her veiled hat, she turned to her son. “I don’t think there can be any question now of continuing with your project. We shall order Mr. Rogers to begin closing the mill tomorrow.”
Phillip’s brows rose a fraction of an inch, and his arms folded over his chest. He leaned back against the desk that had once been his father’s. “Indeed?” he asked. “And when did it become my project, Mother? Until yesterday, it was our project, unless I’m suddenly getting senile.”
Abigail’s sharp eyes raked over her son, and her lips curved into a tightly cynical smile. “If that remark was intended to suggest that I’m losing my grip, I don’t appreciate it. I’ve simply changed my mind, and in light of what happened to Jeff Bailey—”
“What happened to Jeff Bailey was an accident, Mother. We’ve seen the reports, and there’s nothing to suggest there was anything more to it than the simple facts. He tripped, and fell on a pick. That’s that.”
“He tripped and fell on a tool on the precise spot where your brother tripped and fell on a tool. Don’t you consider that a bit more than a coincidence?”
“No, Mother, I don’t,” Phillip replied, his voice and manner clearly indicating that his mind was made up on the subject.
But Abigail was not about to give in so easily. “I’m sorry you can’t see that which is perfectly clear,” she went on. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I shall speak to Mr. Rogers myself.”
“Will you?” Phillip asked. There was a hardness in his tone that neither Carolyn nor Abigail had ever before heard. Carolyn gazed curiously at her husband, while Abigail’s eyes suddenly ‘dickered with uncertainty. “You may certainly speak to Alan if you wish, but I hope you understand that he won�
�t act on your orders. He’s working for me, not for you.”
The uncertainty vanished from Abigail’s eyes. She regarded her son with undisguised fury. “You?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her contempt. “Working for you? How dare you suggest that my wishes will not be obeyed. Particularly when all I am doing is seeing to it that your father’s own wishes are honored.”
“Enough, Mother,” Phillip said, his voice suddenly sounding tired. “You might be able to buffalo everyone else that way, but it won’t work with me. I’ve read Father’s will. He left me in charge of all Sturgess business enterprises, and it is my decision to go ahead with the mill project. If you want to give in to Father’s superstitions, that’s up to you. But don’t expect me to go along with them.”
“Your brother’s memory should mean something to you,” Abigail flared.
But Phillip only shook his head. “My brother’s memory?” he repeated. “Mother, I wasn’t even born until a year after Conrad Junior died. And I wouldn’t have been born at all if he hadn’t died.”
Abigail, looking as if she’d been struck, sank into one of the wing chairs. “Phillip—that isn’t true!”
“Isn’t it?” Phillip demanded. “I’m not a fool, Mother. Don’t you think I know that I was nothing more than a replacement for Conrad? God knows, you and Father certainly never let me forget it. I grew up being compared to a brother I never even met! And now you want me to close down the restoration of the mill, simply because there have been two accidents there in the space of forty years? Well, you can forget it, Mother. What you choose to do is your own decision, but I won’t be bound by Father’s superstitions.”
Abigail sat coiled in her chair like a serpent ready to strike. “I’ll stop you,” she hissed. “I’ll use everything in my power to stop you from finishing that mill.”
“Fine!” Phillip said in a mild tone. “Start calling your lawyers, and mobilizing your forces. But you won’t get anywhere. The power resides in me. Or have you forgotten that particular Sturgess tradition?”
Carolyn, who had said nothing throughout the exchange, preferring to remain as invisible as Abigail sometimes made her feel, suddenly spoke for the first time. “Tradition?” she asked. “Phillip, what are you talking about?”
Phillip turned to face her, a glint of triumph playing in his eyes. “Something I’m sure Mother’s never mentioned to you. In my family, while the women have always been strong—we Sturgesses seem to attract strong women—there has always been a carefully drawn line. And that line, as Mother knows perfectly well, is the line where personal affairs stop, and business affairs begin. There has never been a female Sturgess who has had anything to say about our business affairs. That is always left up to the men. So when Father died, sole control over the family’s assets passed to me. In short,” he finished, smiling grimly, “Mother can make my life as miserable as she wants, and scream to her lawyers as much as she wants. But in the end, there isn’t a thing she can do. When it comes to the mill, or anything else outside of this house, she is totally without power. Indeed, Mother,” he added, his voice taking on the same chill Carolyn had felt so often from the old woman, “if I chose to, I could throw you out of this house.”
Abigail was on her feet again, her eyes blazing. “How dare you?” she demanded of her son. “How dare you speak to me that way? And in front of her, of all people?” She wheeled around, and the full force of her anger was focused on Carolyn. “This is all your fault,” she went on. “Before Phillip met you, he never would have talked to me this way. He would have asked for my advice, and heeded my words. But not anymore. You’ve hypnotized him! You’ve come into our lives—you and your common little daughter—and done your best to take Phillip away from us. But you won’t succeed! Do you understand me? Somehow, I shall find a way to stop you!” She started toward the door, her anger making her stagger slightly, even though she leaned heavily on her cane. Carolyn took a step toward her, wanting to reach out to her, to steady her. But Phillip shook his head, and made a gesture that kept Carolyn where she was.
A moment later they were alone, with Abigail’s fury hanging between them like a cloud.
“I’m sorry,” Phillip said. “She shouldn’t have attacked you and Beth. But she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop me from finishing the mill project, so she had to turn elsewhere. And you were convenient.” He moved toward her, his arms spread wide, but instead of stepping forward to meet him, Carolyn turned away, and sank into the chair Abigail had vacated only seconds earlier.
“Maybe she’s right,” Carolyn replied. Conflicting emotions were battering at her now. All the control she’d developed so carefully in the months since she’d moved to Hilltop seemed to be deserting her at the moment she needed it most. “Maybe our marrying was a mistake, Phillip. Maybe you should never have met me. Maybe you should have stayed away from Westover for the rest of your life.”
“You don’t believe that,” Phillip said, his face ashen, his eyes pleading. “Darling, you can’t mean that!”
“Can’t I? I don’t know what I mean. But I can’t go on much longer living with a woman who hates me. And it isn’t just me. It’s Beth, too. Phillip, Beth knows how Abigail and Tracy feel about her. Even though she tries to pretend it isn’t happening, she feels every slight they inflict on her! I’d hoped we could be a family—all of us. But it’s not like that! As long as we’ve been married, it’s been like a war, with Beth and me on one side, and Abigail and Tracy on the other. And you’re caught in the middle.”
“Well, at least the sides are balanced,” Phillip said in a wry but futile attempt to defuse the situation. “At least you’re not ganging up on me!”
Suddenly Carolyn laughed, but it was a high-pitched, brittle parody of her normal laughter, and Phillip realized how close she was to slipping into hysteria. “Aren’t we?” she asked. “Abigail made a mistake just now, but I don’t think she knows it. On the subject of the mill, I would have sided with her. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that just about the funniest thing you ever heard?” And then she crumpled in her chair, sobbing.
Phillip came to her then, kneeling by the chair and gathering her into his arms. Carolyn neither resisted him nor moved closer to him, and even as he held her, he could sense the loneliness she was feeling.
“It’s all right, darling,” he whispered, stroking her hair gently. “We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll put all of this behind us. But you mustn’t even think of leaving me—without you, I’d have nothing.”
“Nothing?” Carolyn echoed. “You’d have your mother, and your daughter, and Hilltop, and all the rest of everything the Sturgesses have always had. You’d hardly miss me at all.”
Phillip groaned silently, and held her closer. “It’s not true, darling. The only thing that matters to me is you. You and our baby.”
Carolyn stiffened in his arms. For that moment—that moment of overwhelming anguish—she’d forgotten about the baby. She drew back slightly, and tipped her face up to look at Phillip. In his eyes, she could see his love for her, and she felt a glimmer of hope.
“You do love me, don’t you?” she asked, the need for his reassurance gripping her once more.
“More than anything,” Phillip replied.
“And the baby? You really do want the baby? You haven’t just been saying that for my sake?”
Phillip smiled fondly at her. “How could I not want the baby?” he asked. “It’s going to be our baby. Ours! It won’t be anything anyone can use to try to drive us apart. In fact, it might even help. It will be Mother’s grandson, and she’ll fall in love with him the moment he’s born.”
Deep in Carolyn’s mind, a warning sounded. “Son?” she asked. “What makes you so sure it will be a boy?”
“What else can it be?” Phillip asked. He was grinning broadly now, the crisis behind him. “I’ve already got a daughter, and so have you. And I need a son. After all, if it’s not a boy, who will there be to carry on the Sturgess line?”
The phrase echoed in Carolyn’s mind. She tried to tell herself that he hadn’t meant anything by it, that he’d meant it as a joke. But deep inside, the warning sounded stronger.
He wants an heir. He wants a boy, to name after himself, and to raise in his own image. Abigail’s right. He’s a Sturgess, and I mustn’t ever forget it.
“And what if it’s a girl?” she asked, careful to keep her tone as lightly bantering as his had been.
“Then I’ll spoil her,” Phillip assured her. “I’ll give her everything she wants, and treat her like the princess she’ll be, and she’ll be the happiest little girl who ever lived.”
But she’ll be a girl, Carolyn said to herself. And to the Sturgesses, girls just aren’t quite as good. Nice to have around, but just not quite as good.
She kissed Phillip on the cheek, and stood up. “Well,” she said as blithely as possible, “I shall certainly do my best to produce a boy for you. But if I fail,” she added, “it will be your own fault. As I understand it, the gene that determines sex comes directly from the father. If the Sturgesses want boys, their chromosomes better be able to handle it.”
Phillip nodded affably, and his eyes once again took on the gentleness that Carolyn had fallen in love with. There wasn’t a trace left of the cold anger with which he had told his mother that she was little more than a guest in her own home. “And what about the mill?” he asked. “Are you really planning to form some kind of unholy alliance with my mother?”
Carolyn hesitated, then shook her head. “I suppose not,” she said. “For one thing, in their own way, my reasons for keeping it closed are just as superstitious as hers. And I have a feeling that she’d change her position before accepting support from me anyway. So I’ll just stay out of it, bite my tongue, and hope for the best.”
But as she slowly climbed the stairs and started toward the master suite at the end of the hall, Carolyn wondered, once more, what the best would be. Perhaps, indeed, she had been right in her hysterical outburst, and the marriage—no matter how much she and Phillip loved each other—was doomed to failure already.