He needed no further proof of danger. Swooping down for his cane, he clutched Rose's hand and dashed for the back door, ignoring the screams of protest from his leg. The dogs pounded the ground behind them and were close on their heels as they gained the flagstones of the patio. Taylor could hear their jaws snapping and their labored breathing mere inches from his feet. He pushed Rose ahead of him and whipped around, brandishing his cane. The four Rottweilers bared their fangs and growled, pacing around him as if looking for an opportunity to dive at him.
"Taylor!" Rose cried.
"Get in the house!" he shouted over his shoulder. One of the dogs leapt for his throat. He swung the cane and caught the dog in the rib cage. It fell, howling in pain, while the other three charged. Taylor staggered back, lashing out with the cane, and managed to hit a second dog in the head. By that time, however, the first dog had recovered. He grabbed the leg of Taylor's jeans and jerked his head, nearly toppling Taylor to the ground. If he went down, his throat would be ripped out in a second by the dogs. Frantically, he jabbed the Rottweiler in the chest with the end of his cane while he half-dragged the animal to the door.
Then Rose appeared at his elbow and bashed a wrought-iron chair across the dog's back. The Rottweiler rolled away, yelping in agony. Taylor managed to pull open the door while he fended off another dog, and Rose threw another chair in the path of the remaining animals. Then Taylor pushed her into the house and fell in backward, hanging on to the handle of the door for dear life. If the dogs got in the house, he and Rose wouldn't stand a chance of surviving an assault in the hallway.
Taylor threw his weight against the door and locked it. Immediately, the dogs fell silent. Shaken, he looked out the window beside the door and watched the dogs pacing the flagstones. Taylor remained at the window, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, until he saw the dogs take off toward the herb garden. Then he turned.
Rose was standing near the kitchen doorway, her face white, and a knuckle to her lips. He tried to smile in reassurance, but his leg was a column of fire that consumed the grin before it made it to his mouth.
"Taylor, are you all right?" She ran to his side and took his upper arm.
"Yeah," he panted and put his arm around her shoulders. "Whose dogs are those?"
"I don't know. I think they're wild."
"God." He looked down at his tattered pant leg. "I hope they're not rabid."
"Did you get bitten?"
"Amazingly enough, no."
She squeezed his arm and he felt a warm feeling flood his senses.
"You throw a mean lawn chair," he commented, heading toward the kitchen with her still tucked under his wing.
"Don't joke around, Taylor. They could have killed you!"
"But for some reason they didn't. Beats me why."
"I'm going to call the dogcatcher as soon as they're open. We've got to get rid of those dogs before they really hurt somebody."
"In the meantime, I'm going to make you a cup of coffee."
"I'll make it. You look as if you're in pain."
"I am. This damn leg of mine is a damn curse."
"Sit down, Taylor," she urged.
He complied, grateful to take the weight off his leg. He sighed and eased his leg out straight in front of him. He ignored the throbbing in his calf and watched Rose as she reached up to the cupboard for a coffee filter and ground a handful of beans. "I might as well make enough for Bea," she commented with a smile, but the grin was only a shaky imitation. "After all that racket, I'm sure she'll be down, wondering what the fuss was about."
Taylor nodded, enjoying the sight of her puttering around the kitchen in the faint glow of the light above the sink. There was something intimate about sharing the kitchen so early with Rose, and he fervently hoped that Bea wouldn't come down too soon and break the spell. He wished he could spend more mornings smelling the earthy fragrance of brewing coffee and watching Rose arrange cups and saucers in her careful, quiet fashion. Yet if he didn't do something to stop Seth Bastyr, this would probably be the last day he ever spent with her.
"I forgot to wish you happy birthday," he remarked as she carried the cups to the table.
"Thanks," she replied. She slid his coffee in front of him, and her hands shook enough to rattle the china.
"Are you going to be okay?" He touched her wrist.
She sank to the chair nearby without breaking eye contact. "I'm scared."
Taylor curled his hand around hers. "So am I. But we'll get through this. Somehow."
"Those dogs," she swallowed. "When they attack, I can hear them calling my name."
"Your name?"
"Yes. Roselyn, Roselyn, Roselyn. When they snarl I can hear my name."
"I didn't hear it."
"Maybe I'm just imagining it." She wrapped her long fingers around the base of the cup. "But I wonder if they're normal dogs, or if they're—"
"Part of the Bastyr clan?"
"Yes. I know it sounds crazy, Taylor." She shook her head and looked down. "I feel as if I'm losing my mind."
"You're not. There's a reasonable explanation. We just haven't found it."
"Bea told me that the Bastyrs have weird powers and that Seth is the most powerful one of all. But what is he? A man? A hypnotist? Or a vampire, like you've said?"
"If Seth Bastyr is a man, Rose, he's the embodiment of evil. His aura is black." Taylor took a drink of the steaming coffee. "Come to think of it, maybe the dogs are connected to him, because they have black auras, too."
"I don't think they're normal dogs. I've never had an animal attack me or even nip me. Never." Rose sipped her coffee and glanced at the doorway to the morning room. "And something else is odd."
"What?"
"It isn't like Bea to sleep through so much noise. I thought she'd be down by now."
"I was hoping she'd take her time." He stroked Rose's wrist, but she remained looking at the door.
"Maybe I'd better go see if she's all right."
"She's probably sleeping, Rose. Just relax for a minute."
"I can't." She stood up. "I have an awful feeling, Taylor, that this day is going to be filled with trouble. Starting with those dogs."
He rose. "I'll come with you, then."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Edgar swooped down and alighted on Rose's forearm as she and Taylor walked up the stairs. Though Rose stroked the raven, her eyes were focused on the floor above, and Taylor could tell that her thoughts centered on Bea. When they reached the top of the stairs, she paused and sniffed.
"What's that smell?" she asked.
She had heard the dogs before he had. And now she smelled something. Apparently her senses were much more acute than his. Taylor inhaled but didn't notice anything different.
"Smoke!" she cried. "Down there!" Rose pointed to the end of the hall, where a puff of gray billowed from under Bea's door. "Bea's apartment!"
She broke into a run as Edgar flapped away squawking and headed in the opposite direction from the smoke. Taylor sprinted down the hall behind her, sure now that Rose's feeling of doom was an accurate forecast for the day. She gained the door before he did and reached for the knob.
"Wait!" Taylor cried. "Feel the door first."
She tested the wood with the palm of her left hand as Taylor came up behind her.
"Is it hot?"
"No."
"Okay. You can open it."
She turned the knob, but it rotated only halfway. "The door's locked," she exclaimed in a voice shrill with panic.
"Stand back." Taylor dropped his cane and then threw his shoulder against the door, but it remained tightly shut. "Damn," he gasped, holding his bare arm. "I'll have to try kicking it down."
"But your leg—"
He ignored her words and the pain in his leg and backed up a pace, turning sidelong to the door. Then, standing on his bad leg, he kicked to the side, hitting the door near the latch. It burst open onto a room full of rolling smoke.
"Bea!" Rose cried, stumbling
into the cloud. "Bea!"
Taylor coughed and held his hand over his nose. His eyes stung as he strained to see Bea's parlor through the smoke. He bumped into a chair and knocked over an end table, sending something that sounded like china crashing to the floor.
"Bea!" Taylor yelled. Neither of them got a response.
A strange sound crackled in the kitchen up ahead. Taylor grabbed Rose's hand. "The fire's in the kitchen! I'll go look there. Any other rooms on this side?"
"A bedroom."
"Check it!" He coughed and peered to the side. He had to get some kind of protection for his bare skin. A wet blanket would be ideal, but he would have to make do with the objects in the parlor, and the only available fabric was the long drapes near his elbow. He yanked the heavy curtains, pulling the fixtures out of the woodwork, and slid the rod out of the rings. While Rose headed off in the direction of the bedroom, he swirled the fabric over his head and shoulders and plunged through the smoke toward the kitchen.
Taylor groped his way across the parlor, stubbing his toes and knocking over furniture until he reached the kitchen. Flames licked the floor of the kitchen and leapt from a tall wastebasket to the towel hanging on the door of the refrigerator, but the fire seemed to be confined to a small area. Whatever was in the wastebasket burned like rubber tires, filling the apartment with a stench that made him feel lightheaded and nauseated. Then he caught sight of Bea in her blue housecoat, tied to a chair on the other side of the room. She was slumped in her bonds, her head hanging and her feet and legs lashed to the chair.
Taylor felt a dark shaft of dread at the thought that she might already have succumbed to smoke inhalation. For Rose's sake, he prayed that Bea was still alive.
"Bea!" he gasped, hunching beneath his fabric cloak as he hurried to her side. He picked her up, chair and all, and retraced his steps, straining with the weight of her ample body. The curtain dropped from his shoulders as he passed the wastebasket, and he felt heat from the fire on his bare back.
Ignoring his cramping muscles, he hobbled into the parlor.
"Rose!" he yelled. "I found her!" His voice came out hoarse and ragged from the smoke, and the words burned in his throat. He ran his tongue over his lips and struggled across the room to the door and out to the hall, where he set down Bea and the chair.
Gasping for breath, he leaned closer and eased back Bea's head, all the while wondering if Rose would soon find her way out of the apartment, or if she had even heard him. What if she had collapsed from the smoke? He couldn't think about it for a moment, not until he saw to Bea.
With tender fingers he felt the side of her neck and sensed a faint pulse. Heartened, he gently patted her cheek. "Bea, Bea! Wake up!"
He fumbled with the clothesline that was wrapped tightly about her torso, hands and legs, all the while throwing glances over his shoulder to see if Rose had found her way out of the smoke yet. He caught sight of Bea's eyelids fluttering open and felt a rush of relief. She would be all right.
Then Rose burst from the apartment, holding the skirt of her nightgown to her face. Her eyes streamed with tears. "You found her!"
"Yes. She's breathing. But just barely."
Rose sneezed and coughed as she stumbled forward.
"Here, Rose." Taylor held up an end of the rope. "Take over. I'm going back in to put out that fire."
"No, Taylor. I'll call the fire department."
"It might be a while before they can get out here. I'll see what I can do."
"No, Taylor!"
"Mr. Wolfe." Bea moaned, which caught Rose's attention and gave him enough time to slip away.
Rose blinked her watering eyes as she tried to untie the clothesline, but she could hardly see through the bleariness caused by the smoke. Her hands shook, and she kept stopping to encourage Bea, who coughed and sputtered and closed her eyes as if exhausted. The woman's face was unnaturally flushed from the fire, as were her hands and knees, and Rose only hoped that she hadn't been seriously burned.
At last the rope came free from around Bea's torso. Rose unwound it, dropping it to the floor, and then knelt at Bea's feet to unfasten the bonds at her knees and ankles. Whoever had tied Bea had made certain she would not wriggle free on her own. And that whoever was most likely Seth Bastyr.
Rose rebuked herself as she struggled with the knot. Why hadn't she listened to Bea's fears and left Brierwood when they still had time? Why had it taken so long for her to accept her past and believe in the dangerous power of the Bastyr family? This was all her fault. If it hadn't been for Taylor, Bea would surely have died in the fire. What if she still didn't make it?"
"Hang on, Bea," Rose urged, finally freeing the older woman's legs. She jumped to her feet and looked down at her grandmother.
Bea panted and opened her eyes.
"Rose," she croaked. "The emerald—"
"Never mind that. Can you walk?" Gently she took Bea's left arm. "We've got to get you out of this smoky hallway."
In answer, Bea held out a hand and clutched Rose's forearm. With great effort, Rose managed to hoist Bea out of the chair.
"All right so far, Bea?" Rose asked.
Bea nodded, her eyelids fluttering. Though her skin was tinged with ruddiness from the fire, Rose was not fooled by the appearance of color. Bea was on the verge of collapse from shock and lack of oxygen, and she had to get her some fresh air as quickly as possible. Rose drew Bea's arm across her shoulder and stooped slightly to support her, in case Bea suddenly lost consciousness. She only hoped she could withstand Bea's weight should the old woman collapse.
Together they staggered down the hall to Rose's room. Rose pushed opened the door with her foot and urged Bea to the bed, where she helped her lie down on the comforter. Carefully she lifted Bea's legs and straightened her housecoat. Then she rushed to the bathroom to get a glass of water and cool wet towels, denying her own parched throat until she saw to Bea's care.
"Bea, drink this," Rose said, helping her sit up. Bea opened her eyes and tried to reach for the glass, but her arms sank to the counterpane, too weak and trembling to function.
Rose held the glass to her mouth. Bea gulped down the water and sighed. At least her breathing was less labored now. Rose eased her back against the pillows and then draped the hand towels on Bea's pink arms and legs, and covered her flushed face. She could see Bea relax beneath the soothing terry cloth.
Rose leaned closer. "Bea, I've got to call the fire department. I'll be right back."
"Okay, Rose." Bea's voice was reedy and weak, not at all like her.
Rose hurried to her writing desk and picked up the receiver of the phone. She dialed 911 and held the plastic handset to her ear, and only then noticed that the line sounded dead. Frowning, she depressed the button and waited for a dial tone. Nothing happened. Frustrated, she depressed it again and again. Nothing.
"Bea, my phone isn't working. I'll be right back."
Unnerved, Rose sprinted down the hall, her bare feet chilled and tender. She fled to Taylor's room and dashed to the side of his bed, to the phone on the nightstand. She grabbed the handset and listened. His phone had no dial tone, either. All the phones were out. Had the fire caused a short in the wiring? Or had someone cut the line? Rose felt the bottom of her stomach curl with fear. What should she do now?
Bea needed medical attention. Taylor might, too. And what if he couldn't get the blaze under control? Would Brierwood burn to the ground?
Frantic, Rose ran back to her room to check on Bea. She lay in the bed, still covered by the damp towels.
"How are you doing, Bea?" Rose queried, peeling back the cloth on her face.
"Better." Bea opened her eyes. They were dark with worry. "Much better."
"Shall I refresh the towels?"
"They're fine, Rose." She lifted the fingers on her right hand in an effort to touch Rose's hand in reassurance, but she was still too weak to move. She sighed and then looked up at Rose. "Mr. Wolfe saved my life," she said in wonder.
"Yes, h
e did. He's trying to put out the fire now. The phones are down, Bea, so I can't call the fire department."
"Oh, dear!"
"Rest, Bea." Rose straightened. "I'm going to see if Taylor is all right. Then I'll be back.''
"But the emerald—" Bea put in.
"Later, Bea." Rose left the room, hoping she would find the box and the emerald unharmed by the fire. If Taylor had managed to put out the blaze, she would search the apartment for the emerald until she found it, just to ease Bea's fears. In her condition, she shouldn’t be worrying needlessly about a gemstone.
A haze hung in the parlor as Rose entered the apartment. But at least the heavy, rolling smoke had dissipated to reveal a war zone of debris. Furniture lay upended and one of the windows was hung with half a curtain. Shards of Bea's prized china figurines littered the floor. But Taylor must have made some headway, if she could see this much of the parlor. Heartened, Rose walked across the floor, careful not to step on any of the broken china, while her eyes watered anew, for the acrid odor still permeated the air. She could hear Taylor banging around in the kitchen and continued in that direction.
The kitchen was in worse shape than the parlor. Taylor had dumped flour into the blackened wastebasket and poured it over the tile floor, creating a weird nuclear fallout effect. He had flung water on the now-steaming refrigerator and counter, making a sticky paste of the flour and ash, and was standing at the sink with his back to her as he filled a bucket with water. The stove and refrigerator were streaked with soot, as were Taylor's bare back and tattered jeans.
Before she could speak, he turned with the bucket and hurled the water against the counter near her, unable to stop in time when he spotted her standing in the doorway.
She cried out, more surprised than anything, as the water splashed over her. She froze, holding her arms up in the air as her filmy nightgown was instantly sealed to her skin by the cold water.
"Rose!" Taylor gasped, horrified that he had drenched her.
For a moment they gaped at each other. She probably looked like a drowned rat and she was sure that Taylor could see the outline of every part of her body beneath her sopping nightgown. He, on the other hand, looked like a clown, with his face smudged by soot and his hair and lashes dusted in flour. His lips appeared cherry red in contrast to the flour. Suddenly those lips turned up in a grin.
The Haunting of Brier Rose Page 19