“Why exactly did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Why did you go spelunking?”
“I needed a change of scenery.”
Beck hadn’t been prepared for her laugh. Her frustration? Yes. Her dismissal? Absolutely. But her laugh? It froze him midbreath. It also made him want to say something else—and fast—to prevent her from laughing again. There was a strange kind of power in that sound. It made him feel less bulletproof. He didn’t like it.
“I thought I heard . . . something . . . last night,” he explained, focusing on answering her question. “It came from that part of the castle, so . . .”
“Something?”
He shook his head. “It was probably nothing. My imagination.” He remembered the figure he’d seen moving through the fog nights before and wondered if he’d conjured that, too.
“Well, I know that Jojo sometimes wanders around at night, but I’m not sure he’d be noisy about it.”
She had his attention. “You know Jojo?”
Jade shrugged out of the jacket she’d been wearing outside and went to hang it by the door. “Mostly I know of him. The people in town talk about him, you know, and if you live around here long enough, you hear all the stories.”
“What kind?”
She paused, looking at him as if she were gauging his sincerity. “He’s old,” she said, coming back to sit at the table. “Nobody knows how old, of course. He’s a bit of a mythical creature in these parts. The story goes that he turned up in the gatehouse decades ago. All of a sudden, he was just living there one day, as if he’d always been there. The castle was abandoned at the time, so no one really cared.”
“Does anyone ever see him?”
“He isn’t Boo Radley, Mr. Becker.” She smiled, then caught herself. “Becker. Just Becker.”
Beck took a slug of his coffee, a little embarrassed by his fascination for the urban legend that was Jojo. “So . . . you’ve seen him?”
“Quite regularly. There’s a gap in the wall out there,” she said, pointing to the carport outside the kitchen. “Monsieur Legentil owns the stables on the other side of the wall, and Jojo helps out with caring for the horses. You’ll see him going through the gap a couple times a day. Nights, too—especially when there’s a sick horse that needs tending.”
“So he’s a stable hand?”
“Not officially. I think he just likes horses.”
Beck mulled over the information. It really raised more questions than it answered.
“Has he ever hurt anyone? Scared anyone?”
“Mr. Becker . . .” Jade caught herself again. “Becker. He’s barely had the courage to speak to anyone since I’ve known of him, so scaring them or hurting them would be a little out of character, don’t you think?”
“I just think it’s strange,” Becker said, heading toward the archway with his coffee cup. “A guy who appears out of nowhere and installs himself on private property—pretty much mute, from what you’ve said. No friends, no job, up at all hours of the night . . .”
“How do you know that?”
Becker turned. “I’ve seen the light on at his place—a candle, I think.”
She smiled innocently. “So you were up too.”
“Yes, but I don’t prowl.”
“You only crawl.”
Becker heard himself chuckle as he was making his exit. The sound perplexed him. He was on his way to the entrance hall when he stopped. If Jade was surprised to see him back in the kitchen moments later, she didn’t mention it.
“About the drinking thing . . .”
She didn’t speak but merely waited for him to continue.
“I won’t mention it in front of the kids again.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Becker stood there for a while longer, his cooling coffee in his hand.
“Is there anything else?” Jade asked after a long moment of silence had passed.
He remembered the anger in her eyes, the revulsion on her face, the threat in her voice. He wanted—somehow—to address those, too. But he didn’t have the words. So he turned instead and walked away, leaving Jade sitting at the table, shaking her head.
It was the music that first alerted Beck that this was another dream. He was sitting in a circle of men. There were at least six of them. Maybe seven. He kept squinting, trying to make out their faces, but he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze up past their chests. There was murmuring—something that bordered on chanting. In the background, he could hear the strains of a Barry Manilow hit being sung by a child. “I can’t live without you, can’t smile without you. . . .” He’d always hated the song. But she’d loved it. On this occasion, however, there was something desperately wrong with the recording. The infant voice warbled as it reached his ears. It was as if the song were being played too slowly and from a warped LP. “I can’t laugh and I can’t sing. . . .”
The man on Beck’s right was wearing a blue suit. That much he could tell. He was speaking loudly into Beck’s ear, trying to outdo the music, but all Beck could hear were fractions of sentences. “No point being a hero. . . . Take one for the Gipper. . . . The view from the bottom ain’t bad. . . .”
The scene reeled and roiled, came in and out of focus. The next thing Beck knew, the man was holding him in a bear hug, pressing Beck’s face into his sweaty, foul-smelling chest, and repeating over and over, “There you go . . . there you go . . . there you go,” as if he were comforting a baby.
The Barry Manilow song was louder now. It throbbed in Beck’s head. He wanted to cover his ears, to blot out the noise of the music and the murmurs and the man in the suit’s voice, but he was anchored to him and couldn’t escape the stench or the chaos.
The world started to swirl. He saw the room pitch and turn, the vague, blurred faces of strangers staring. He couldn’t catch his breath. He started to scream. He thrashed about, tried to stand and use his legs to pull away, but they wouldn’t support his weight. He just kept getting drawn deeper into the suffocating mass that kept saying, “There you go . . . there you go . . . there you go . . .” while the child’s voice rose to a fever pitch.
At first, Beck thought the faint keening sound was a remnant of his dream. He sat bolt upright, taking in the unfinished woodwork on the desk in front of him, his T-shirt clinging to his sweaty skin, his breathing fast and labored. He felt sick. Filthy. Frightened. He got up from the desk, cursing himself for having fallen asleep, and steadied himself while his back spasmed from several hours spent sleeping in an awkward position. His legs were wobbly. His head spun. He opened the window and took in a deep lungful of cold air, holding it for a moment, then expelling it forcefully as he bent his body forward over the windowsill. And he heard the keening again. It seemed to come from the area of the patio, near the crawl space he’d explored. Shaking off the vestiges of his dream, he stepped barefoot into his work boots and threw a coat on over his T-shirt. Whatever the expedition revealed, it would distract him from his subconscious, and he was eager for the relief.
Beck grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the windowsill and took the stairs to the back door of the castle. He opened it as quietly as he could and stepped out into the night air. The covered passageway outside the kitchen shielded him from view. He looked around the edge of the wall in the direction of the patio and saw nothing but the willow tree that bent over the river, its bare branches swaying lazily in the night breeze. The moon was out, so bright that it cast a stark outline of the château’s chimneys and roofline on the lawn.
Beck moved out of the shadows, listening for the sound, but it was gone. A little spooked, he had to force himself to travel the short distance to the patio. The soggy earth was soft beneath his boots, its moisture gurgling with each step he took. He didn’t turn on the flashlight. He could see better without its beam interfering with his night vision.
Beck was halfway to the willow tree when he took stock for the first time of what he was doing. He’d woken mere minutes bef
ore from a terrorizing dream, had thought he heard an unusual sound, and had exited the castle in his pajamas so fast that he wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish once he got to the spot from which he assumed the keening had come. He was alone in the dark with nothing but a flashlight as a weapon, following something that might be much more real than mere vestiges of a nightmare. Every iota of logic he still possessed dictated that he should turn around and head back to the warmth and safety of the castle. But Beck was a stubborn man, and once he set out on a decided course, there was little that could deter him from seeing it through.
As he approached the hole under the patio, he turned on the flashlight, sweeping it quickly in an arc along the castle’s outer wall, then over the creek and into the brush beyond. He followed the stream with the powerful beam. Nothing there but stagnant water and the reflected eyes of some small animal. There wasn’t anything amiss—no intruder, no ghost, no danger at all.
Berating himself for his overactive imagination, Becker strode to the small opening next to the patio stairs and crouched down. It was time to prove to himself that his fears were unfounded. He turned on the flashlight again and shone the beam around the dank space. What he saw froze him to the spot. The rubble under the patio was still there, but nothing was as he’d left it on his last expedition. The tire had been flipped. The segments of pipe were several feet from where they’d lain before. Even the mounds of unrecognizable refuse seemed different. It looked as if someone had dug through the trash and the top layer of decaying soil in search of . . . something.
Without thinking twice, Beck crawled under the patio, shining his light ahead of him. Someone had been thorough. There wasn’t a square foot of the space that looked untouched. He crawled deeper into the cavity, exploring the objects the intruder’s search had exposed. There was nothing of value there. As he approached the far corner, his flashlight bounced off three small, pink forms lying on the dark earth. The rat’s nest he had heard earlier hadn’t survived the exploration that had turned the dark, musty space upside down. The three pups in his flashlight’s glare were dead, probably from exposure to the cold. Their mother was nowhere in sight.
It was that thought that prompted Beck’s hasty withdrawal from the crawl space under the patio. Ghosts and marauders were one thing. Angry rats were quite another. He sat on the edge of the patio for a moment, considering what he’d found. When the cold started to seep through his pajamas and jacket, he shone his flashlight in one last arc around the perimeter, then headed inside. He left his filthy pajama bottoms on the washing machine as he passed through the kitchen.
DECEMBER 1943
MARIE WAS GETTING used to the horrendous sounds that came from the room upstairs. At first, she’d been terrified by them, tried to stay as far away as possible from the screaming and moaning that bled through the walls and seemed to coat everything they touched. Marie and Elise had developed a sort of sixth sense for when the babies would be born. The swollen faces and increased discomfort of the residents played into their predictions, but there was something more—something intangible—that they recognized as impending birth. Most of the mothers seemed to settle somehow, to become more focused and brave, as if nature itself were preparing them for the ordeal ahead.
“I’ll bet you my dessert that it’s a boy,” Elise said one day as they sat in the kitchen, polishing silver. The guttural sounds from upstairs were faint but unmistakable. Elise had her own theories about birth. She thought she could tell the gender of the coming child by the pitch of its mother’s screaming, and this mother’s voice was low and hoarse.
Marie didn’t particularly like dessert, even though it was a rare commodity in these days. “Fine,” she said, extending her hand to shake on it. “Keep your dessert, though. You can give it to Karl if he comes by this afternoon.”
Elise smiled and feigned confusion about the guard from the château who had become something of a fixture at the manor in recent weeks. “Why, what on earth might you be referring to?” The question aimed for innocence but fell far short.
Marie put down the silver platter and dipped her rag into the dish of strong-smelling blue liquid. “I’m not an idiot,” she said, rubbing a particularly stubborn patch of oxidation. “I’m starting to suspect that he’s bribing all the other soldiers at the castle to let him run their errands for them—especially when those errands bring him here!”
“He’s sweet.”
“He’s infatuated.”
“He’s handsome.”
Marie pursed her lips. “If you like Nazis, I guess.”
“Marie!”
“What? You know he is!”
Elise’s eyes lit up. “But he’s not like the others! He’s kind—and generous!” She put the silver dish down on the table and took a small vial of perfume from her pocket, pulling out the cork that kept it sealed. “Smell this,” she said, lowering her voice nearly to a whisper and sliding the bottle across the table to Marie. “He brought it to me this morning, when he delivered a document to Koch’s office. Just dropped it in my pocket as he walked by!”
The perfume smelled like lavender and lemon. “He’s a guard—he can’t afford perfume,” Marie said.
Elise frowned. “Maybe they requisitioned the perfume factory in town,” she mused, her expression serious—but not for long. Elise lived in the moment, seldom letting her spirits be bogged down by practical matters or excessive doses of reality. “Doesn’t it smell divine?” she asked, taking the fluted vial back from her friend.
“It smells like my mother’s underwear drawer and furniture polish,” Marie said, earning a flick of Elise’s rag.
They worked in silence for a while, the screaming and moaning upstairs having subsided to the occasional raised voice. When Marie spoke again, it was in the hushed tone the girls reserved for speaking of the Nazis while working in their manor. “Elise,” she began, searching for the right words, “are you—are you serious about Karl?”
Elise smiled. “Perhaps,” she said.
“You are,” Marie said, dread settling in her stomach.
“Maybe.”
“Be careful, all right?”
Elise shrugged.
“Elise, promise me you’ll keep it quiet,” Marie urged. “If your neighbors and friends find out that . . .”
“And what if they do find out?” Elise asked, dismissing Marie’s concern. “I haven’t broken any laws. Besides—” she rolled her eyes—“we’re being discreet.”
“You don’t know how to be discreet, Elise. Anyone who sees you will know something . . . happy . . . is going on!”
Elise put on a sour expression. “Is this better?”
“Elise . . .”
“Oh, hush, Marie. Karl and I are being careful. The only time I’ve seen him outside of work was at the parade last week, and even then, we only had a couple of minutes together before he had to ride back to the castle. No one will know.”
Marie was at a loss. Her friend was speaking of the soldier as if he were a harmless boy next door, not a footman in Hitler’s army. “He’s a Nazi, Elise,” she said again, glancing at the doorway to make sure no one had overheard.
“So? You work for Nazis, and I don’t see you considering quitting.”
“There’s a difference between working for them and falling for them,” Marie said, hearing the futility of the argument as it left her lips.
“I don’t love him,” Elise replied, rolling her eyes again. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“And yet—look at what you’re risking for him.”
Elise leaned across the table and grabbed her friend’s hand, excitement dancing in her limpid gaze. “He’s taking me to the ball!”
“The army ball?”
She nodded vigorously. “In the castle, with an orchestra and . . .”
“Elise.” There was genuine worry in Marie’s voice.
“Karl told me to wear my prettiest dress. Can you believe it? I’m going to a ball. . . .”
“Elise
, are you sure?”
“Oh, Marie, stop being a nag!” Her frustration was growing.
“This is a big event. I know it’s happening at the castle, but who do you think will be serving? There are going to be townspeople everywhere, and you want to attend it with your German boyfriend? Do you know what people will think?”
“Let them think what they want!” Elise said, her petulance loud and brittle in the quiet kitchen. “I haven’t danced in forever, and I can’t wait for the first valse musette!”
“Your friends will hate you. . . . Elise, surely you realize that.”
“But you won’t, will you?” The worry in her gaze wasn’t feigned.
“No, of course not. Not me, but . . .”
Elise’s face split into a wide, exuberant smile. “Then it’s going to be wonderful,” she said.
BECKER BREATHED a sigh of relief. The massive work that had prepared the skeletal structure of the castle for the renovations was finished, and the army of carpenters and other artisans Thérèse had so carefully selected for the next stage of the project were all on-site. The real restoration could now begin.
The crews gathered in the ballroom in the west wing of the castle, a vast, high-ceilinged space with creaky hardwood floors, tall windows, and an imposing fireplace. The bare-bulb lighting contrasted ridiculously with the carved ornamental molding that framed the ceiling and the tall, elegant windows through which the early-morning sunlight streamed. Beck was grateful for the change in weather. He’d seen little other than rain and grayness since his arrival in Lamorlaye.
When all the craftsmen had gathered, some of them new to the work site, he gave them a brief overview of the weeks ahead. There was a timeline on the whiteboard he’d brought in for the meeting, and he walked each group of workers through the tasks that would be theirs. It was important that they all understand the full scope and sequence of the project if they were to work together to meet their deadlines. Beck had laid out a series of drawings and plans on several tables at the front of the room and extended an invitation for the men to peruse them at their leisure. He introduced Thérèse as the person to go to with any purchasing needs or general concerns and warned them that because time was short, he would personally be keeping a close eye on the superhuman effort completion would require.
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