“Couldn’t you question Martin Holt about Rosa? I know he lied to me about the dates she worked for them.”
“What makes you think he wouldn’t lie to me too?”
Discouraged and even a little angry, I slumped in my chair as Sergeant Hardison continued. “You have nothing to go on but guesswork concerning this Rosa Luiz. I have a clear recollection of the maid’s room in that house. There was no bedding on the bed, and nothing in the dresser drawers. The room was clean, with no sign that anyone had occupied it for years. We had no reason to doubt the Holts on that one.”
He stood, ending the conversation, so I had to stand too. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They may have had an illegal alien working for them close to that time, but she could have left and gone back to Mexico months before the murder took place. You have some interesting ideas about what might have happened, but all you’re doing is guessing. There’s nothing tangible to go on.”
I was halfway to the door of the homicide room when I remembered another question. “What about fingerprints?” I asked. “Darlene Garland was stabbed. Weren’t Adam’s fingerprints on the knife enough to help convict him?”
“They would have been a big help,” he said. “Unfortunately the murder weapon was never found.”
Chapter
Eleven
When I got home, I found a note on the hall table from Mom. She’d walked to the pool and planned to be back by one-thirty or so. I’d just missed her. I could join her, but I didn’t want to. Maybe I’d drive down to pick her up.
I didn’t feel like eating lunch. I was tired and discouraged. I sat in Dad’s reclining chair and tilted it back, closing my eyes. There was a plop as Dingy leapt into my lap. I stroked her head, scratching around her ears and chin, but her purr stopped suddenly, and I felt her hair rise and bristle.
“What is it, Dinky?” My hand dropped as Dinky shot from my lap with a guttural cry and streaked from the room. My mind seemed alert but my body wouldn’t react. I tried to open my eyes but they were too heavy.
What was going on?
Gradually the room shifted, and the atmosphere changed. The feel of the air, the way it smelled, even the furniture under me—it was all different.
Sarah. Venga acá, Sarah.
I remember the words, because a teacher had used them often: “Come here.”
Venga acá. The voice that called to me from the entry hall was heavy with tears.
“Please, no!” I cried out. Terror spread from a cold lump inside my chest, shivering along my arms and down to my fingertips. My eyes opened to another room, another time. Reluctantly I rose from my chair and walked, one slow step after the other—as though I were an automaton—until I could see into the entry hall. I stopped, clinging to the door frame for support, trembling so hard that I was unable to go any farther. From where I was standing, I could see across the entry hall to the front door and the window next to it.
Once again the white marble tiles were yellowed with sunlight, and the room was decorated as it had been before, except that this time the crystal vase of sweet peas was upright.
Suddenly a scream tore the air, and I clapped my hands over my ears. Before me, I saw Rosa being dragged across the floor. Her blouse had been ripped off. Her skirt was torn. She was screaming, struggling against a tall blond boy who bent over her, his right hand clutching a kitchen knife. As he raised it high I ducked my head and screamed, too, screamed over and over and over, unable to stop.
Suddenly he yelled in surprise. I heard him run to the front door and throw it open. There were sounds of a scuffle, as though people were fighting, and through it all a woman’s shouts for help.
I couldn’t look, and I couldn’t stop screaming.
The room swirled; I lost my balance and fell to the floor, crying and sobbing. I’d been shown the horror of what happened, and I hadn’t wanted to see it!
Rosa’s terrified voice shouted in my mind ¡Peligro! ¡Peligro!
“Leave me alone!” I begged, gasping with shock as someone grabbed my shoulders and jerked me up from the floor. I opened my eyes to look into Tony’s face.
“Stop screaming!” he shouted at me.
¡Peligro!
“The murders!” I cried, half out of my mind. “There was blood—blood everywhere! Rosa’s blood and Darlene’s blood!”
“Sarah! Stop it! What are you talking about?” Tony’s face was pale and shocked.
I clutched his arms and hung on tightly. “Tony! I saw it! I saw him—Adam—attacking Rosa. It was just as I thought. Someone came. Darlene. Yes, it had to be Darlene. She could see through the window. Adam had to stop her from telling what she had seen!”
“You saw this?” he whispered. He dragged me to my feet. His hands were rough, and his eyes were wide with fear. “How could you see all this? Tell me! You weren’t there when it happened!”
“Rosa,” I tried to tell him, “she asked for my help. She wanted me to see—” I burst into tears and covered my face with my hands.
Tony stepped back from me. I could hear a frightened hiss of air between his teeth.
I felt arms wrapped around me, and I heard Mom ask, “What’s going on here? What’s the matter with Sarah?”
“It’s not my fault!” Fear shook Tony’s voice as he faced Mom. “I came and found her like this. She—she says she saw—saw something.”
I held tight to Mom. “I saw the murders,” I said, sobbing.
“Murders?” Mom sounded scared too. “Who are you?” she demanded of Tony. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Tony—Anthony Harris,” he said. “I came by to see Sarah, that’s all. She was like this when I got here.”
“Tony,” Mom murmured as she recognized the name. “Of course. Sarah’s told us about you.”
“I—I’ll clear out,” Tony said. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“No,” Mom told him. “Please sit down and wait for us, Tony. I want to talk to both you and Sarah.”
Mom took charge, and I was glad to let her. She washed my face, brought me two aspirins and a glass of water, and settled me in the big reclining chair in the den.
Tony was sitting hunched forward, his hands clasped together, his forearms resting on his knees. “I’m sorry, Tony,” I began, but he didn’t look up or answer. He just shook his head. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I felt more miserable than ever.
As Mom sat down she turned to me and said, “I want to know everything that happened here. You first, Sarah. Start at the very beginning.”
What difference did it make now? There was no point in hiding it any longer. I started with the day we came to this house and told Mom and Tony everything I’d heard and seen, except for my conversation with the detective. I didn’t know why. Maybe because he had discouraged me and I felt a little embarrassed about having gone to talk to him. By the time I’d finished describing the apparition, I was exhausted. I wished I could curl up and go to sleep, but Mom turned to Tony.
“I’d like to hear whatever you have to say about it, Tony.”
He was so pale that the blue of his eyes stood out more sharply than ever, and the skin was stretched tightly over his knuckles as he gripped the arms of his chair. “I—I knew about the packet of Rosa’s things,” he said. “Sarah told me about it, and I warned her to hide it.”
“Why?” Mom asked, interrupting.
“I’m not sure. I didn’t know what it meant, but I was afraid it could be damaging to Adam.”
“In what way?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Adam’s gone through enough, and I didn’t want him disturbed by something that was useless and unimportant. I hoped that Sarah would keep the whole thing quiet.”
“I don’t think the calendar was unimportant,” I insisted. “It showed that Rosa was here up to the time the murder took place.”
“Are you sure what year was on that calendar?” Tony asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Why didn’t you show
it to me?” Mom asked. “You didn’t even tell me about it.”
“I was going to, when I knew what it meant.” My excuse seemed weak. I looked at Tony. “Tell me, if you know. Is Eric the one who stole the packet?”
“Why ask me?” Tony answered. “You’ll have to ask Eric that one.”
Mom’s eyebrows dipped into a frown. “Was there a Rosa who worked here, Tony?”
“As I told Sarah, I think I remember a Rosa, but I don’t remember when she worked here,” he said.
Mom made a little puzzled sound. “Then Rosa isn’t just a figment of Sarah’s imagination, like—” She stopped.
“This is different, Mom!” I protested. “Besides the—the other presence—wasn’t in my imagination, either.”
Tony’s gaze was filled with suspicion, and his voice was so low, I could barely hear it. “Do you talk to spirits? Are you some kind of a witch?”
“No!” I shouted. “Rosa called on me for help, and I promised to help her. I didn’t know what it would mean. After I nearly died—” I turned to Mom, holding out my hands in despair. “Please, Mom. I can’t talk about it. You tell him.”
Mom explained to Tony about the aftermath of my near-death experience. When she finished, she came to me and gently rested a hand on my forehead, stroking back my hair. “There’s no question about it. I’m going to call Dr. Clark and ask him to recommend someone here in Houston who can help you. This hallucinating is very dangerous, Sarah, and we’re going to get help immediately.”
I knew I wasn’t hallucinating, but I was too tired to argue about it, and the idea of turning my problems over to someone else was very appealing at the moment.
¡Ayúdame! Rosa’s plea for help lingered. I could picture the slender young woman with the sorrowful eyes. With an ache I remembered my promise.
Mom held out a hand to Tony, who stood and shook hers solemnly. “I’m sorry we had to meet during such frightening circumstances,” Mom told him. “Thank you for trying to help Sarah.”
Obviously she was still trying to sort out the whole thing, so she turned before she reached the door to the kitchen. “When you arrived at our house, Sarah was in the grips of this hallucination,” she said. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” Tony answered.
“Then how did you get in?”
He paused for only a second. “I could see Sarah huddled on the floor. I tried the door, and fortunately it was unlocked, so I was able to get inside.”
“The door was locked when I came home,” Mom said. “I had to use my key to open it.”
Tony’s glance didn’t waver. “Force of habit, I guess. I must have automatically turned the dead bolt as I shut the door.”
“Of course.” Mom nodded and managed to come up with a shaky smile. “I hope you understand that I’m just trying to get the whole picture. I do appreciate your help, Tony.”
“I understand,” he said, and Mom left the room.
While they were talking, I was trying hard to remember. I’d come home, unlocked the door, and entered the house. Hadn’t I locked the door behind me? I was sure I had. Force of habit, as Tony said. Locking the door was just something I automatically did without thinking. Is that why I couldn’t remember having done it?
But maybe I hadn’t locked it. Tony must have been right about the door being unlocked. He’d gotten inside, hadn’t he?
There was another possibility. In my mind I saw the window upstairs in the guest bedroom. Tony knew Adam. Did he know about the broken lock on Adam’s bedroom window? Dad planned to buy the hardware for the lock today and fix it tonight. Tony could have entered through the window.
Tony walked over to stand before me, so I struggled to get to my feet. “Don’t get up, Sarah,” he protested, but I was already standing. “I’ll go now. You don’t need me here.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to go,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry because—” I felt myself blushing, and I couldn’t finish the sentence. After that awful scene he’d witnessed, I knew I’d never see Tony again. Strange Sarah. Weird Sarah. I wished I could hide.
But Tony surprised me by taking my chin and giving me a light kiss on the lips. His eyes were so blue, so wonderfully blue, that they hypnotized me. I didn’t want to look away from them. “I’m only going so that you can rest,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“You asked if I was a witch,” I whispered.
“Oh, Sarah!” He wrapped me tightly in his arms, and I could hear the beat of his heart. “I don’t know what I said. We were all so scared. Forget it. Forget everything I said. Will you?”
“Yes.” I was more than content to forget and stay close in his arms, but he stepped away.
“I’ll call you soon,” he said. “That’s a promise.”
Mom came back, walked Tony to the door, and I heard only the low murmur of their voices.
When she returned, she said, “I was able to talk to Dr. Clark immediately. He gave me the name of a Houston therapist and said the man has a very good reputation.”
“Did you tell Dr. Clark about Rosa? About the murders?”
“No,” she said. “I just told him you were having some frightening hallucinations.”
“Mom, they’re not—”
She interrupted nervously. “The doctor you’ll be seeing is named Dr. Arnold Fulton. One of his patients had just canceled an appointment for ten tomorrow morning, and we got the time. Wasn’t that fortunate?”
“Mom,” I told her, “please don’t be afraid.”
“Afraid? Sweetheart, I’m terrified! I don’t know why this is happening to you, and I want it to stop!”
“Maybe it would stop if I found out what Rosa wants.”
Mom hugged me. “Sarah! Don’t do this. You’re hurting yourself, and that hurts your father and me. Whatever happened in this house is over and done with. Please believe that.”
I returned her hug, saying, “I don’t want to hurt you, Mom.”
“I know you don’t, Sarah. I put that badly,” she said, tears in her eyes too. She tried to smile. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”
“I am awfully tired,” I said. I could feel her eyes on me as I walked slowly up the stairs.
The first thing I did was check the window in the guest bedroom. It was closed, so it told me nothing. Had it been opened? I took a wooden coat hanger out of the closet and jammed it between the sash and the top of the window. I wished I’d thought of that before. It wasn’t a tight fit, but I thought it would hold until Dad fixed the lock.
As I walked into my own bedroom, a word kept returning, flicking in and out of my mind like a persistent little gnat: ¡Peligro! I tried to wave it away, but I couldn’t ignore it. ¡Peligro! the woman had called. What did it mean?
I thumbed through the vocabulary list at the back of my Spanish-English phrasebook and found the word quickly. ¡Peligro!—“Danger!”
I had seen a repeat—as though it were a film—of the murders. Afterward I had lain on the floor, sobbing, screaming, trying to escape the horror of what I had seen and heard. A woman had cried out, “¡Peligro!” Danger! But the murders had already happened, the scene was over, and Tony was there to help me. It didn’t fit. The warning was in the wrong place.
I didn’t want to think about it any longer. My head hurt, and I was desperate for sleep. I flung back the blanket and sheet, kicked off my shoes, and climbed into bed, rolling myself into a tight ball. Mercifully, within seconds I felt myself dropping into sleep.
Dr. Arnold Fulton matched his office. He was middleaged and slender, with a head of hair as full as his thick, brown beard. His furniture was expensive but nondescript, and it was all in browns and greens and beiges. It was designed to be restful. Dr. Fulton was beige and brown and restful too. He moved slowly, with precision, and his voice was soft. He asked Mom to wait in his “parlor” while he heard my story.
I began with the drowning and went right through to the horror of yesterday’s apparition.
He sat motionless, his greenish-gray eyes on mine, and—except for an occasional blink—he didn’t move through the whole recital.
When I finished, I waited for him to speak. I waited so long that it made me uncomfortable. “Aren’t you going to say something?” I finally asked.
“You’ve related a remarkable tale. I need time to assimilate it.”
“Mom and Dad are worried about me. They want to help me, which is why I’m here. But I want to be honest with you. I promised Rosa I would help her, and I’m going to do it.”
“How can you help Rosa?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know yet,” I said. “I think she’ll let me know.” I took a deep breath to hide my embarrassment. “Look, I know how all this sounds, but I believe in Rosa. I have to.”
“Do you believe that your house is haunted?” The question startled me.
“Haunted? No, I hadn’t thought— Why did you ask that?”
“You’ve related a story of a ghostly voice, noises, and apparitions.”
I felt myself blush. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I was talking about a person—Rosa.”
“Who you believe is haunting you?”
“You make it seem like a horror movie.”
He toyed with a pencil, spinning it up and down between his thumb and finger, and was silent for a few long minutes. Finally he said, “Houses are not haunted.”
I interrupted angrily. “I just told you that I—”
In turn, he spoke before I could finish my sentence. “Houses are not haunted, Sarah. People are, and not by either preternatural or supernatural beings but by their own internal fears.”
“Rosa Luiz is very real. I didn’t know about her before we moved into that house. And don’t forget the packet. It’s real.”
“Very well. We’ll accept the fact that the packet exists. Can you see that the packet could, in itself, have been the stimulus for the scene that took place in your mind?”
“It could, I guess, but it wasn’t.”
Whispers from the Dead Page 11