“We have to take her in the car,” I said.
But Cora’s face told another story. She knelt beside Berta and carefully closed her wide blue eyes. “Get Donald out of here. Stop Erin before she comes in,” she said.
I didn’t have to be told twice.
53
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. The mantra was a drum-line in my brain. Donald and Erin huddled in my room, crying softly. Hysteria had given way to shock. Dr. Adams was on the way, the sedatives in his black bag the only comfort available for the children. Cora was with Bob, keeping him away from Berta’s body, which was stretched out on the dining room floor, the gashes in her wrists a red jagged symbol of her desperation. Bob had tried CPR and mouth-to-mouth, even though Cora told him Berta was dead.
Cora and Bob believed Berta had been unable to handle Margo’s death and the possibility that Erin would be injured riding. They were wrong, though. Very wrong. Berta hadn’t killed herself. Someone had sedated her and then used the double-edged blade from Bob’s razor to slice up her wrists, opening the veins.
I paced the second floor hallway, listening for Annie’s footfalls. No one knew where she was—but I knew where she’d been. She’d come downstairs when she heard the commotion, and she’d run from the house as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. No one had seen her since.
I used the servants’ stairs to bypass Bob and Cora and went into Berta’s bathroom to drain the bloody tub and clean up. The room smelled of death and its thievery of dignity. The scene was classic suicide, and my intention was to clean up before Bob had to go in there again. Something stopped me, though. As painful as the pink-tinged water was to look at, perhaps there was evidence that would point the finger at Annie. I closed the door softly, leaning against it for a moment to rope in my grief. I had to be strong now. Stronger than I’d ever been. I returned to the second floor to stand guard over the children.
Dusk settled outside the house. Each time I paced the hallway, I stopped at the stained-glass window, original to the house, that depicted The Lady of Shalott. Shards of brightly hued glass told the story of her patient weaving while waiting for Lancelot to claim her love. According to legend, she died en route to Camelot. Berta had told me once, when I first moved in, that it was the window that sold her on Belle Fleur. She loved Arthurian legend, and the beauty of the stained glass had sealed the deal for her. In a blinding moment of impotent rage, I wanted to destroy the window, but I didn’t.
When Annie returned, Cora caught her downstairs and brought her up the servants’ staircase to avoid Berta’s body. I heard their footsteps, their whispers, and I longed to confront Annie, to beat a confession from her while Cora was with her. Instead, they passed by the second floor, my grandmother supporting Annie to the third floor. They never even noticed me. Cora’s solicitations of Annie made the top of my head tingle like fire ants were biting. Little did Cora know she was consoling Berta’s murderer.
The sheriff arrived with the coroner. Surely this medical doctor, a man schooled in illness and the secrets of the dead, would see what others couldn’t—that Berta had not taken her own life. There had to be evidence of a struggle. Bruises, medication in her system, something to show an outside force or person had played a role in her death.
I checked on the children and found them huddled on my bed, both asleep, exhausted by emotion and tears. I closed the door and went to Margo’s old room to look out over the front lawn. The nester would not be far away. The creature was drawing closer and closer, confident now of its ability to win. The dark-haired girl who did Annie’s bidding—she could be in the house already.
The flashing lights of a patrol car caught my attention. A deputy led the hearse into the yard. I watched from Margo’s empty room as the attendants took Berta’s body away. There would be no answers today, but soon. Soon. I let that word wrap me in the warmth of ultimate revenge against Annie for what she’d done to a loving family.
Dr. Adams arrived, and Erin and Donald gave no complaint when he filled two syringes with a mild sedative. They were beyond grief. Their brains refused to accept Berta’s death, and so they sought the release of sleep. With Cora insisting, Bob allowed the doctor to administer a sedative to him. Annie stayed in her room, and I refused the doctor’s offer of the gray emptiness of sleep. Someone had to remain vigilant.
The nester had struck while I was out mourning the loss of Mark. I should have known. It had appeared to me at the cemetery, mocking me, showing me Donald; and when I rushed to save the child, it went after Berta. Because Berta wanted to move back to California, Berta became the enemy. Annie had marshaled her forces to quash Berta’s resistance to staying in Alabama. The one thing Annie and the nester would never allow was for Bob Henderson to leave Coden alive.
Like the cowbird, the nester was pushing everyone out of the way. Only Annie wasn’t a baby bird wanting mother-love. No, she was older with more mature drives. Bob was what she desired, and she would remove anyone who got in her path.
The itch to take action was like salt in a wound. My body ached, and I went downstairs.
“I’m going into town,” I told Cora. She sat on the front porch. Her face was gray, drained of color and expression. “Can you stay with the children?” I asked her.
“Bob should pack up the children and go back to California. I was wrong to ever.…” She waved a hand, indicating Belle Fleur.
“Cora, it’s not this place. It’s Annie.” I glanced behind me because I had the sense that she stood at the door eavesdropping. She moved so quietly, so stealthily, and often came up on me when I least expected her.
A wind whipped off the Sound and sent leaves skittering across the floorboards of the porch. The sound was eerie, the wind biting. Cora shivered and wept without restraint.
I got a comforter from the house and wrapped it around her. In the November light, I saw the wrinkles in her face and neck. Age spots marked her hands. Cora was growing old before my eyes. She was in her seventies, but I’d never thought her old until now. “If we can get rid of Annie—”
“Stop it, Mimi.” She caught my shoulders in a harsh grip. “It isn’t Annie. You can’t live in that delusion. It’s never been Annie.”
I spun out of her grasp. The proof was right in front of her, but she wouldn’t see it. “You’re keeping yourself blind, and as long as you do, tragedy is going to visit this house.” I ran down the steps to the station wagon. It was Thanksgiving Day, but I had to find a private phone. I had to find Jimmy Finch.
As I drove toward town, I tried not to look at the place where Mark had died. I drove blindly past and sped along Shore Road to Coden, but I didn’t tarry there. I kept moving along Highway 90 into Pascagoula. The parking lot at Jimmy Finch’s detective agency was empty, the white shells of the drive crunching softly as I eased around the building to the back, which was overgrown with ligustrum and oleander. The shrubs made a thick, convenient cover as I pried off the screen to a window and worked the glass up. It was a simple matter to break in.
Hefting myself over the window ledge, I was in Finch’s private office in a matter of moments. I went straight to the bitchy secretary’s desk and found Finch’s appointment book. He was at the Eola in Natchez. The number to the hotel was right beside his information.
I placed the call, counting the seconds, wondering what a longdistance call on a holiday would cost. Whatever it was, I would pay him back. I had to talk to him.
The desk clerk connected me to his room, and when the phone rang six times without an answer, despair almost overwhelmed me. I could leave a message, but when would he call me back? I couldn’t talk in the Henderson house and there was no other phone number I could leave for a return call.
“Hello. Finch here,” he finally said.
“It’s me. Mimi. I had to talk to you.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I’m in your office.” I expected him to say something but he didn’t.
“How’d you get into my office?”<
br />
“Through a window. Annie killed Berta because she wanted to move back to California.” The words rushed out of my mouth in a blur.
“Hold on. What?” Finch was calm, and his control helped me regain mine.
I repeated what I’d told him.
Silence met my statement.
“Mr. Finch, did you find anything about Annie? We have to—” My voice collapsed, but I fought down my emotions. “She murdered Berta. I know she did, but there’s nothing I can do to stop her. You’re the only person who will even listen to me.”
“I’m coming home. I was going to stay until tomorrow, but I have enough information. I’ll head out now.”
“What kind of information.”
“You should see this in person.”
“Can we meet somewhere?” I asked.
“Meet me at my office at seven A.M. tomorrow,” Finch said. “Be careful, Mimi.”
“You found something, didn’t you?” I hardly dared to believe it.
“I did. Tomorrow at seven.” He hung up.
Cora stayed the night at Belle Fleur, but it was as if the spring in her body had broken. She sagged. She moved from chair to chair, trying to order the chaos of Belle Fleur. Her voice, weakened by grief, held no authority. At last, I put her in the recliner in the family room and crushed up one of the pain meds I’d hoarded from my injured-feet incident. I put it in a glass of bourbon and coke, which she drank without complaint.
Annie wandered the house like a ghost. She knew better than to mess with me, and I left her alone. For the moment. No doubt she was planning something special for me, but soon enough I would have the goods on her and she would be in jail, or at least a mental ward. My concern was Erin and Donald. And Bob. He’d gone into Mobile with the sheriff. Three deaths, four if you counted Andrew Cargill, all associated with Belle Fleur, was too much for the sheriff to ignore. Questions had to be asked and answered.
The grandfather clock in the hall marked the minutes and the hours as I waited for dawn and my date with Annie’s destiny. Bob returned around midnight, and I made a bed for him on the sofa in the den. He couldn’t return to the bedroom he’d shared with Berta. As I covered him with a blanket, he grasped my hand.
“They’ll have to do an autopsy,” he said. Tears leaked from his eyes, tracing down his temples. “They’ll have to cut her up and—”
“Shhhhhh,” I said, wiping the tears with my fingertips. “It doesn’t matter to Berta now, Bob. It doesn’t. They have to check.” Please god, let them find evidence of Annie’s wrong-doing. If Berta had to die, please let it count toward ridding the family of Annie and her evil obsession.
“I don’t want them to cut her up.” Bob tried to master his grief, but exhaustion made him weak.
“Don’t think about it now. Don’t.” I snapped out the light beside the sofa. “It’s after one in the morning. Cora’s asleep in the recliner. Try to rest. Tomorrow we’ll do everything that’s necessary. The children are asleep in my room and I’ll take care of them.”
“This is too much,” Bob said. “Too much.” But his voice was already fading.
When his grip on my hand eased, I covered him and also pulled the comforter around Cora in the recliner. Standing in the den, I listened to the house. Belle Fleur held its breath, or so it seemed to me.
I went to the second floor to check the children. They remained as I’d left them, both asleep on my bed. I watched them for a moment, the gentle exhalation of their breath, the movement of their eyeballs beneath the thin lids that signaled the dream state. I could only hope that in their surrender to sleep they’d found a place of joy and comfort, even if it was only for a few hours. I snapped off the light beside the bed.
Using the servants’ stairs, I went up to the third floor. If I could, I would have locked Annie in her room. I considered throwing her off her balcony and calling it an accident, but I knew I was outmatched. She had helpers. Clever little nesters with superhuman speed and strength. No, I would not take Annie on, head to head. Deception was the ticket. I would be as cunning as she was.
Sometime between the hours of two and three A.M. I fell asleep in Erin’s bedroom. I’d gone there to lie down, not wanting to disturb the children in my room. At first, I didn’t understand what had awakened me—a sound, a dream, a fragment of memory, or the wrenching twist of grief that came when I realized Berta was dead and that each day I would awaken to that reality.
I rolled over in Erin’s single bed and tried to go back to sleep, but it was pointless. Belle Fleur’s hundred-year-old frame ticked and settled, each sound an alarm to my hyper-vigilant mind. The house was wide awake now, and I sensed there was a reason for it.
With Berta gone, I was the children’s protector. It was the only thing I could do for Berta now.
I got up, straightened my jeans and top, and eased out of Erin’s room to go down to mine. My thoughts had unnerved me, and I would sleep on the floor beside Erin and Donald, a physical guard against whatever mischief was afoot in the house. Halfway down the hall, I realized the door to my room was open.
I’d left it shut.
Panic made me want to throw the door open, but I restrained the impulse. Claw marks under the doorknob made me cautious. Barely pushing the door, I slipped into the room. In the darkness, I could make out two lumps in my bed. Tiptoeing, I eased to the bed. Donald, his features still malleable, not yet formed into the visage he’d carry as an adult, rested on my pillow. Erin had pulled the covers over her head.
Terror immobilized me. What if it wasn’t Erin? What if it was the creature who’d slithered into bed with a sleeping Donald? I prepared myself to grab the nester by the throat.
Catching the sheet by the top edge, I pulled the covers back. Erin slept on her side, blond hair covering her face. My fingers caught the fine, heavy sheaf of her hair and pulled it back to reveal the thirteen-year-old, lips slightly parted showing normal teeth as she breathed in a deep slumber. I wanted to sink to the floor and thank god. Before I could move, I heard the scratch of claws in the hallway.
“Mi-mi.” The voice called softly to me from just outside the door. The creature was in the house. Bob and the children were drugged. Cora was old. There was no help other than me.
“Come and find me, Mimi, or I’ll come in there. It’s time to play.”
The creature was threatening me. I could go out and meet it, or it would come into the room and possibly harm the children in front of me. I replaced the covers over Erin and stepped back from the bed. I knew when I turned around the nester would be in the doorway.
Dread made me want to run, to escape, to flee, but duty held me in place, and I slowly faced the door. The nester blocked my escape. Its features were hidden in shadows, but it wore what looked like a black riding jacket.
“Poor Mimi,” it said in Erin’s voice. “You lost another mama. No one loves Mimi anymore.” It giggled.
“Get away from the children.” I spoke calmly, almost a whisper. If Donald or Erin woke now and saw this abomination, it could snap their minds. I advanced toward the creature. “I’m going to kill you.”
It darted out of the door and down the hall to Erin’s room. “Catch me if you can,” it trilled.
“Oh, I’m going to catch you.” I had one thought in mind. Murder. I would kill it, and then I would kill Annie. She’d come into this house with her obsessive need for love and brought this monster with her. It fed on her desperation, and it destroyed anything that got between Annie and what she wanted—Bob. I saw it. Margo, Mark, Berta. Now Erin and Donald were in the way. She would kill them to get Bob all to herself. She wouldn’t share him with his children or his wife. She’d kill me, too, but I wasn’t nearly the threat that Donald and Erin were.
The creature giggled and ran into Erin’s room. The door closed behind it.
I followed, but first I slipped into Donald’s room and got a baseball bat. I would have preferred a gun, but I couldn’t risk going downstairs. I had to stay between the creatur
e and the children.
Once the nester was dead, I would go up the stairs to the third floor and beat Annie to death. This had to end. It had to. Annie was the source, and so she had to be removed, one way or the other.
“Mi-mi. Hide-and-seek. Play with me, or I’ll play with the children.”
Oh, I wanted to play. Gripping the bat, I pushed open the door to Erin’s room and stepped inside.
Moonlight filtered in the window through the branches of a live oak. The tree grew close enough to the house that the branches grazed the glass when the wind was up. The creature had opened the window, and a brisk November breeze chilled the room.
I closed the door behind me and flipped on the overhead light.
The nester was nowhere in sight. The bed where I’d slept was rumpled, and Erin’s dolls and stuffed animals had been knocked from the shelf where she kept them. Her closet door was open, and things were tumbled onto the floor. The nester had scrambled there to hide.
Excellent. It would be easier to bludgeon it in a confined space. I knew it could run far more quickly than I could, but if I cornered it, I could kill it.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sang to the creature. “I have something for you, Nester.”
“Mimi is very mad,” it said in Erin’s voice, but there was a darker, smokier note beneath. “Mimi wants to play ugly.”
“I do.” I stepped toward the closet where the voice came from. “I want to beat the living shit out of you.” I grabbed Erin’s clothes and threw them onto the floor with one hand while I hefted the bat with another. Movement in the far back corner of the closet prompted me to swing with everything I had in me. The thwack of the bat into something solid was one of the most satisfying things I’d ever felt.
“Gottcha!” I said and beat the thing in the corner covered by an old comforter. I struck without mercy. After repeated blows, I stopped, winded. Whatever had been in the closet had to be dead.
I pushed aside the comforter and found Erin’s china doll, an antique Bob had found in the attic. The face was irreparably smashed. But that wasn’t the worst of it. If the nester wasn’t in the closet, where was it?
Darkling Page 29