by John Saul
The deputy stood up and started around his desk toward Kate. “Nobody murdered your son, Andrea,” he repeated, then shifted his attention back to Kate. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m Tim Ross. I—”
“The girl you’re looking for is probably out there with that witch Bettina Philips,” Andrea West cut in. “If you can call it living—they should have torn that wreck down years ago.”
Tim Ross shot Kate a sympathetic look. “The Crane girl is out there,” he said. “Actually, the next call I was going to make was to you, but …” His voice trailed off and his head tipped almost imperceptibly toward Andrea West. “You’ll see the gates at the entrance to the property,” the deputy said, “a little less than a mile out of town, off 157.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, then turned to offer her sympathy to the sheriff’s wife, but Andrea West only glared at her.
“If the gates haven’t rusted off by now,” she muttered so quietly that Kate wasn’t even sure the words were directed at her.
She left the sheriff’s office and got into her car, her mind racing. Bettina Philips was the one who had gone to see Sarah’s father, the art teacher concerned about Sarah’s placement with the Garveys.
And Bettina Philips was the one who got Mitch Garvey so angry that he’d frightened Ed Crane enough to call her this morning and beg her to check on his daughter.
And now the sheriff’s wife had called the teacher a witch? Or had she actually just substituted a W for a B before she’d spat out the word? Suddenly, Kate wished she’d paid more attention to that feeling she’d had that all was not as well with Sarah as both the girl and Angie Garvey had insisted.
As she turned left off Main Street onto Route 157, the rain stopped completely, and by the time she’d driven half a mile farther, the sun was starting to break through the clouds. As the sky turned bluer, she kept one eye on the odometer and searched for the gates with the other. And sure enough, just a little less than a mile out of town, she found them.
Except they weren’t the kind of rusted, ruined gates the sheriff’s wife had talked about. Instead she saw a pair of handsome—and massive—wrought-iron gates that hung perfectly straight on sturdy hinges. Both the gates and the hinges looked freshly painted, and the gates stood open as if to welcome her.
She turned up a long curving drive, and the last of the clouds dispersed and the sun came out, shining brilliantly on the wet driveway, making it sparkle as if it were paved with diamonds rather than gravel. The drive curved gently through the forest for a couple hundred yards, then emerged into the grounds surrounding the house. The gravel drive formed a circle around an enormous maple tree; obviously, whatever else Bettina Philips was, she had a green thumb. The gardens were filled with asters and half a dozen other fall-blooming plants, and the lawns were green, well-mown, and—at least from what Kate could see—totally weedless.
Nor was the old stone mansion the “wreck” she had been led to expect. Rather, it was a handsome structure with heavy shutters at every window and the kind of slate roof she had always envied. The house appeared every bit as well-tended as the grounds surrounding it. The front door looked inviting, and even with winter coming on, there were perfectly matched topiaries in the massive stone urns that flanked the entry.
Kate pulled into the freshly graveled circular drive and parked next to a Mini Cooper that was the only other visible vehicle.
A lone bark greeted her when she rang the bell, and a moment later a woman who looked as if she hadn’t slept all night opened the front door, with a little terrier wagging happily at her feet. The woman scooped it up so it wouldn’t dart outside, but before either Kate or the woman could speak, a familiar voice called out Kate’s name and a second later Sarah Crane appeared.
But this was not the subdued girl Kate had last seen at Mitch and Angie Garvey’s house. This was the Sarah Crane she had grown to know, even love, during the months of her recuperation from the accident that crippled her. Kate dropped her shoulder bag and enfolded Sarah in an enormous, and relieved, hug. “Are you all right?”
Sarah nodded, wiping moisture from her eyes with her sleeve, then gesturing toward the woman who had opened the door. “This is Bettina Philips,” she said, taking Kate’s hand and pulling her into the foyer. “And this is Kate Williams, Bettina. She’s my caseworker with the county. Except she’s not just my caseworker—she’s my friend, too.”
“I know who Kate is, or at least I know of her,” Bettina said, leading Kate into the huge entry gallery. “I think you’d better come and sit down,” she said to the caseworker. “There’s been a lot happening here.” She led the way to the parlor, where morning sun was flooding through open windows. A pale woman and boy about the same age as Sarah were sitting on a small couch, both of them looking as tired as Bettina and Sarah.
The woman stood up as Bettina explained who Kate was, and offered her hand. “I’m Lily Dunnigan,” she said, the words coming out in a nearly exhausted sigh. “This is my son, Nick.”
Kate perched on the edge of an antique brocade wing chair as Sarah sank down next to Bettina on a second sofa.
“Sarah’s father called me this morning,” Kate said, deciding to approach Bettina Philips head-on. “Apparently Mitch Garvey was threatening Sarah about you.”
“Well, that’s not a surprise,” Bettina observed, her brows forming a sardonic arch. “Was it the witch thing, or the ‘tool of the devil’ thing? Both are fairly common around here.”
Kate decided at once that she liked Bettina Philips. “Actually, I heard the witch thing at the sheriff’s office, but ‘tool of the devil’ is a new one.” Then her voice turned serious. “But Ed Crane was very worried, and I’ve already heard that something happened last night. A boy was killed in an accident? And the Garveys are missing?” She saw Lily Dunnigan and Bettina Philips exchange a quick glance, but before either could say anything, Sarah answered at least one of her questions.
“There was an accident—Conner West’s car caught on fire. He and Tiffany Garvey were trying to run us down—Nick and me. But he skidded or something and hit a wall, and his car caught on fire.”
“Dear God,” Kate breathed.
“The sheriff was here last night,” Bettina said, and Kate had the feeling she was choosing her words with a great deal of care. “Actually, so were the Garveys, and Nick’s father.”
Kate waited, but instead of going on, Bettina’s eyes moved from Sarah to Lily Dunnigan and her son, as if looking for some kind of signal. It was Lily Dunnigan who nodded so imperceptibly that Kate almost missed it.
“They were making threats,” Bettina said. “They seemed to think that somehow the accident was Sarah and Nick’s fault. …”
Her voice trailed off, but Kate was sure there was more—much more—to the story. “And?” she prompted.
“And they left,” Bettina said, her eyes never leaving Kate’s.
“Left,” Kate repeated. She glanced from Bettina to the other people in the room. “I’m not sure I’m following you. The sheriff and the Garveys came out here accusing Sarah and—Nick, is it?—of causing an accident that killed the sheriff’s son, and they just … left? Where did they go?”
“I don’t know,” Bettina replied. “But I don’t think they’ll be back.” Before Kate could say anything else, Lily Dunnigan spoke.
“There’s something else you should know. Sarah is Bettina’s daughter.” She fell silent for a moment, then seemed to gather herself. “Bettina’s and my husband’s. She is Nick’s half sister.” Kate stared at Lily Dunnigan, stunned, but Lily wasn’t finished. “Shep raped her,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “While I was pregnant with Nick, the man I was married to came out here and raped Bettina. Which I suppose at least explains why he always hated her.”
“And you said he was here last night, too?”
Lily nodded. “He was going to take Nick back to the hospital.” She took her son’s hand protectively, almost as if afraid Kate might try to take him away. “N
ick’s had problems ever since he was little, and Shep—” She cut herself off, apparently deciding she might be saying too much. Then her voice hardened. “Shep wanted to have Nick committed again.”
For a long moment Kate studied the four people around her. “And they all left and you don’t know where they went?”
“Actually none of us really knows exactly what happened last night,” Bettina said. “This is a strange house—”
“It’s a great house,” Nick broke in. “And I was never crazy. I just—” He hesitated, glanced at Sarah, then went on. “—I just have a sort of talent, kind of like Sarah. She can draw things, and I can … I don’t know—sort of visualize and hear them, I guess.”
Kate’s mind was churning, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. It would be easy to prove whether Bettina was Sarah’s mother—either adoption records or a DNA test would do it—but now that she was looking at both of them sitting side by side, she was sure what the outcome would be. As for the rest of it … “I understand two deputies have already been here this morning?”
Bettina nodded. “We told them exactly what we told you, that the people they were looking for were here, and they left. They searched the house and the garage and everywhere else.”
“Looking for what?” Kate asked. “Surely they didn’t think—”
“I have no idea what the deputies thought,” Bettina broke in. “But I’m sure they’ll be back, and there will be all kinds of other people with them. And I’m sure people will talk. But the fact of the matter is, none of us have any idea where Dan West and Shep Dunnigan and Mitch and Angie Garvey went.” She paused for a moment, then went on. “And frankly, we don’t really care, either, as long as they don’t come back. And they won’t—that, we’re pretty sure of.”
“How can you be so sure?” Kate countered. “If you don’t know where they went, how can you be sure they won’t be back?”
Before Bettina could answer Kate’s question, Nick Dunnigan said, “This house. It didn’t like them. It’s a great house, and it likes us, but it didn’t like them. It didn’t like them at all. And there were reasons why.”
Kate sat back in the chair, preparing herself for what she was certain was going to be a long story. “I’m listening,” she said.
Epilogue
This was not how it was supposed to be!
Tiffany Garvey was not supposed to be standing in a hot kitchen, sweat dripping down her back as she tried to make the baby eat at least one spoonful of the disgusting pureed peas the brat’s miserable mother insisted she feed it.
And Tiffany Garvey was certainly not supposed to be taking orders from anyone like Rowena Matheson, who’d only taken her and Zach in because instead of paying for staff, she’d found out the county would pay her to take in foster children.
Foster children!
Tiffany silently cursed her parents as Brian Matheson the Third spat more peas on the front of her blouse.
Brian Matheson the Third! What a pile of crap—Brian Matheson the Turd was more like it.
And it was all her parents’ fault. If they hadn’t taken off while she was still in the hospital after Sarah Crane and Nick Dunnigan tried to kill her, she’d be home where she belonged.
And Sarah and Nick would be in Juvenile Hall, or wherever they sent people like them. But no—they’d gotten off scot-free, even though they’d killed Conner West, and probably Conner’s dad and Nick’s father, too.
Maybe even her own parents!
Well, it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and when she turned eighteen—
The baby’s mouth opened then and a stream of vomit shot out, hitting Tiffany square in the chest. Her own gorge rising as the nauseating smell filled her nostrils, Tiffany ran to the sink, barely reaching it in time to throw up there rather than on the floor.
The sink, at least, was a lot easier to clean than the floor, which she’d already mopped once today.
She was just rinsing the vomit off her shirt when Zach walked into the kitchen through the back door.
“Oh, jeez,” he groaned as he smelled not only the baby’s puke but his sister’s as well. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Tiffany shot back. “If—”
“Zachary?” a cold voice cut in.
They both turned to see Rowena Matheson framed in the door to the dining room, looking cool and fresh in a beige silk blouse and pants, despite the heat of the August day. Her feet were strapped into sandals Tiffany was sure had cost at least six hundred dollars, and every hair on her head was perfectly in place.
Why wouldn’t it be, Tiffany thought, when she had to wash it for her every afternoon?
“Have you fed the dogs their supper and cleaned the kennels yet?”
Tiffany shot Zach a warning look as his face reddened and the vein in his forehead began to throb exactly the way their father’s used to just before his temper exploded.
“No, ma’am,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from betraying his fury.
But Rowena read his face perfectly, and her eyes narrowed. “You know we only wanted one foster child.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zach said.
Tiffany watched him force himself to keep his eyes down. Mrs. Matheson had told them on the first day that they were never, under any circumstances, to make eye contact with her. You are here to make my life easier. You are not my friends or my family, and you will not expect to be treated as such. You will be respectful at all times.
“Keeping you two together was a gift,” Mrs. Matheson went on now. “The least you can do is show your gratitude by keeping the kennels clean. Am I perfectly clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zach muttered.
“Then let’s not stand around the kitchen keeping your sister from her chores. She’ll keep a dinner plate warm for you.”
Zach backed wordlessly out the back door, and all ten of Brian Matheson, Jr.’s German shorthair hunting dogs began to bark. Tiffany glanced out the window as Zach picked up the shovel, a bucket, and the hose.
Rowena Matheson smiled at her baby and gave him a little wave. “Isn’t Trip the most perfect baby you’ve ever seen?” she said. “You’re very fortunate to be able to take care of him—I don’t know how many nannies applied for the job.”
Who you couldn’t have treated like slaves, Tiffany thought, keeping her expression carefully bland so Rowena couldn’t see what was in her mind.
Then Rowena came to the real point of her visit to the kitchen. “We’re ready for dinner, Tiffany,” she said. “You may serve.”
Dinner!
Was it even ready?
Tiffany glanced around the kitchen in a panic. “Right away,” she said as Rowena Matheson turned and vanished into the dining room.
Tiffany pulled the salad she’d put together an hour ago out of the refrigerator and prayed that would hold them until she could finish garnishing the soup—a cold cucumber one that had taken her all morning to prepare—with the parsley the Mathesons always demanded.
“It just doesn’t look right without it,” Rowena had explained the one time Tiffany failed to add the parsley. “And it’s not as if it’s any trouble for you.” It had been a statement, not a question, and Tiffany had already known better than to argue with either of the Mathesons about anything, even if she had the time, which she didn’t.
In fact, she had no time for anything anymore. No time for friends—which she didn’t have anymore anyway—and no time for homework and no time to be a girl.
No time, even, to call Kate Williams and complain about the home in which she and Zach had been placed.
But when she turned eighteen …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
House of Reckoning is John Saul’s thirty-sixth novel. His first novel, Suffer the Children, published in 1977, was an immediate million-copy bestseller. His other bestselling suspense novels include Faces of Fear, In the Dark of the Night, Perfect Nightmare, Black Creek Crossing, Midnight Voices, The Manhattan Hunt Club
, Nightshade, The Right Hand of Evil, The Presence, Black Lightning, The Homing, and Guardian. He is also the author of the New York Times bestselling serial thriller The Blackstone Chronicles, initially published in six installments but now available in one complete volume. Saul divides his time between Seattle, Washington, and Hawaii.
House of Reckoning is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by John Saul
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51689-3
www.ballantinebooks.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine