by Carol Arens
“Lils,” Trace whispered, coming up from behind. He reached around, pulled the coat open, then slipped his hands between the wool and her belly. “If you want to get to the hospital you’d better at least put on your underclothes.”
“You’re a fine one to give orders, Mr. Naked Ballentine.”
He turned her around and nibbled a trail between her ear and her throat.
“Oh,” she moaned, and leaned into his lips. Her intended was dangerous. With his mouth alone he could turn her into a spineless creature who cared for nothing more than coupling with him.
Somehow during these precious days, lying under, beside or on top of Trace, she had come to understand her mother...and to forgive her. They were the same, except that poor Mama had never been able to distinguish a good man from a dissolute one.
Lilleth gathered her wits—or what she had left of them—and pushed away from her trustworthy man, because trustworthy or not, he was temptation incarnate.
“Get dressed.” She tapped her toe and Trace sighed. He shoved his fingers through his matted hair.
“Who knows what might be happening at the mental hospital while you and I dally away precious time?” she asked.
“Dally, Lils?” He strode to the fireplace, where trousers tangled with bloomers and coarse red long johns lay beneath a delicate ivory camisole. “Love doesn’t dally, it binds. The minute we free Bethany, we’re headed for the preacher.”
“And I’ll lead the parade,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now put on some clothes.”
* * *
Traveling the main road to the hospital held some risk, but as far as Trace could determine there was no other way to get there. The woodland path was impassable with the snow piled in drifts and broken tree limbs littering the way.
Not only was he concerned about encountering Alden and Perryman, but the weather had taken an odd turn. Rain had switched back into snow almost the moment they’d stepped out of the lending library.
They were still a quarter mile away from the hospital when lightning exploded with a long, muffled crackle. It sounded far-off, but wouldn’t be.
An eerie loop of light illuminated the sky. It looked like a static halo. He’d never seen the likes of this but he’d read about it. Thunder snow happened when bitter cold clashed with warm air in some odd and unusual way. Mostly, it happened in the spring, but also in the fall once in a great while.
“That was spooky,” Lils whispered, huddling closer to his side.
“Can you still run?”
She nodded. Red curls pulled away from his coat, full of static. She dashed out ahead of him, then turned back to wink. Lilleth put on a brave face, but she had to be frightened.
Hell, he was nearly shaking in his socks, watching her run up the wide road ahead of him. Bolts of electricity hit the ground all around. It etched spiny fingers through bare trees and gave the snow a freakish white glow.
Lils was still a runner, faster than he was by far. She paused at the front gate to wait for him.
When he got there she rose on her toes to kiss him. Then, as they had plotted on the way, she headed round the back, toward Mrs. Murphy’s room, to make sure all was well with the children, while Trace—in character as Clark—entered through the lobby to find out what he could.
He was greeted by a merrily snapping fire in the big hearth and the rotund Nurse Fry gesturing wildly to Nurse Goodhew.
The drama between them was intense. They either failed to notice him come in, or downright ignored him.
“I heard it myself,” Nurse Fry wailed. “A baby crying, and no doubt about it.”
“We have no infants here, Nurse. Pull yourself together.”
“No human infants.” Nurse Fry wrung her hands. “I won’t be going back in those dark halls again, I can tell you.”
“If you value your job you will.”
“I will not! Not alone, at any rate. It’s not just the baby crying anymore. There’s a boy, a frightening apparition that pops out from anywhere.” Nurse Fry covered her mouth and shook her head. “Not an hour ago it tugged on my apron strings.”
“Really, Miss Fry, have you been getting into the drug cabinet?” Nurse Goodhew stared down her long nose at her employee.
Lightning shocked the lobby, making the women appear rather spooky themselves. If Trace didn’t know who the ghost child was, he might be frightened, as well.
If one were to imagine ghosts and goblins gliding in and out of walls, this would be the night for it.
“Good evening, ladies,” Trace declared.
“Mr. Clarkly.” Nurse Goodhew shot him a frown. “Why must you always come when the weather is foul? Do you enjoy dripping all over my floors?”
As a matter of fact, he did. That particular trick had come in useful on a few occasions.
“Why, no. That is, I don’t mean to. It’s just that the weather is normally foul. It is November, after all.” He shook his coat to make sure that the snow splattered on the floor. “I’ve brought books. Since you and Nurse Fry seem to be engaged, I’ll hand them out myself. Won’t be but a few moments.”
He took several steps toward the hallway where the well-appointed patient rooms were.
“Stop right there!” demanded Nurse Goodhew. “Not one more step.”
He continued on for five more. “It’s no trouble at all.” He meant to get into those rooms. He suspected that’s where Bethany had been taken.
When the weather cleared and Hanispree ventured from the hotel, he wouldn’t have the courage to confront her in her old cell. That had to be the reason she had been moved.
Nurse Goodhew abandoned her argument with Nurse Fry and ran toward the hallway, cutting Trace off.
“Give me those books and go home, Mr. Clarkly.”
“I believe Nurse Fry looks ill. Perhaps if we take her down this corridor and open each of the doors, between the two of us we can convince her that there is no such thing as the wandering dead.”
“She will simply have to accept my word on that.”
He resolved to get into those rooms even if he had to tie the unpleasant Goodhew to a chair. Lilleth counted on him to free her sister. He would get Bethany out of this hell pit today, before Hanispree got here.
“What if Nurse Fry is correct? Shouldn’t we assure ourselves that she is not?”
“Don’t blather, Mr. Clarkly. There is no boy and there is no baby. It’s bad enough having Mr. Hanis—”
“Mr. Hanispree is in attendance?” Trace’s stomach pitched.
He could not have gotten here in the storm. That meant he had come before that and been here three days, and possibly Perryman with him.
No matter what it took, this would end today.
“Perhaps he’d care for a book, if you will point me to his room?” he asked mildly, in spite of the turmoil in his gut.
“Mr. Hanispree is indisposed.”
“Terrified of the ghosts is what he is.” Mrs. Fry pointed a plump finger at Trace. “He knows the truth.”
Mrs. Goodhew heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You are dismissed, Nurse Fry. Take your belongings and don’t come back.”
A spear of lightning brightened the room at the same time that Nurse Fry opened the door.
An older couple blew inside with the wind. The nurse hurried past them, sailing out into the night.
Trace blinked, Clark style, more than surprised to see the couple about in the storm.
“I’m Mr. Horace Bolt. I’ve come to commit my wife,” the man said, his voice harsh as sand. “She’s losing her mind.”
“I’m saner than you, you old goat!” Mrs. Bolt said. She gazed at Trace, clearly noticing his alphabetized stack of books.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Hanispree himself,” Mr. Bolt demanded.
“He is not available,” Nurse Goodhew answered with a sniff. “I’m certain I can help you.”
“I’m rich. I’ll pay a lot.” Mr. Bolt withdrew a wad of bills from his money pouch. “Go get him.”
“You won’t lock me up.” Mrs. Bolt continued to stare at Trace. “I’ll pay Hanispree even more to set me free.”
At the sight of the cash, Nurse Goodhew’s demeanor softened. “We are not concerned with money here at Hanispree. The well-being of our patients is of paramount importance to us,” she said, acting her part so well she might have been a Ballentine. “Perhaps Mr. Hanispree will see you tomorrow.”
“He will see me right this minute or the deal is off.” Mr. Bolt stuffed the cash into his coat pocket. “Give my wife a room before she drives us all to distraction.”
“And who,” Mrs. Bolt demanded, pointing her finger at Clark, “is this? You ought to be more careful about who you expose that wad of money to, Mr. Bolt.”
“Clarkly,” Trace answered. “Mr. Clark Clarkly.”
“That ridiculous librarian?” She stepped up close to him, her eyes narrowed in her round, pink-cheeked face. “I heard he’d retired.”
“Without a word of warning,” Mr. Bolt added. “Just up and quit.”
Trace nodded at his mother, then his father. “Sometimes a career won’t let you go even when you try to give it up.”
“Who would want to be a dreary librarian, anyway?” Mrs. Bolt observed.
“Dreary or not, Mrs. Bolt,” her husband replied, “it’s a job and someone’s got to do it.”
“If you think so, ma’am...sir—” he wanted to hug them, but his shoelace made him lose his balance, and he slipped to one knee “—I reckon I’ll give the job another go.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bolt, the wealthy and overbearing couple, turned as one to face Nurse Goodhew.
“If you value your job, miss, you’ll send Mr. Hanispree to the lobby.” Mr. Bolt demanded. “If not I’ll fetch him myself.”
“Get him this very moment!” Trace’s mother snapped her fingers at the nurse, then turned and winked. “I find that I can’t endure my overbearing husband for another instant. Please show me all your very best rooms.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lilleth hustled around the corner toward the back door. Jess was supposed to have made sure that it remained unlocked. He would have been expecting her to return well before now, though.
She was more than a little nervous to know how the children had fared with Mrs. Murphy. She was an old lady and two young ones would be a challenge. Jess was capable, but because of the storm, it had been three days.
Thankfully, the knob turned in her hand. Before she went inside she went to the woodpile and picked up three logs. There was not any smoke coming from the chimneys of the inmates’ quarters, so they must have run out.
She stacked the wood beside the door, then returned to get more. On her next trip she tried to carry four logs, but ended up dropping one. She bent to pick it up.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. It spun her about so that she lost her balance and fell over.
She looked up into the obsidian eyes of the bug eater. He hovered over her as though she were a roach and he was about to chomp on her with those unnaturally sharp teeth.
“You idiot!” she swore.
“Look who’s on the ground and who’s standing up. Who’s the idiot now, pretty lady?”
She was, of course. She hadn’t been talking to him at all. To let a man creep up on her unaware was the height of folly.
“You’ve got me now, I reckon.” Reaching for a log to defend herself with would be a mistake. Perryman would disarm her easily. Her only defense would be surprise, so she sighed and gave a helpless shrug. “Whatever will you do with me?”
“That’s for me to know. It ain’t wise to tell a woman too much.”
“You’re right, of course.” She reached a hand for him to help her off the ground. “It’s just that if you tell me where we’re going I can walk there instead of you having to drag me.”
“Could be I want to drag you.” He ignored her hand.
“Could be you’ll be sorry for it,” she snapped, even if it meant revealing that she was not as helpless as she pretended.
Perryman rubbed the back of his head. Good, it looked as if the two blows she had dealt him with the shovel still smarted.
“Walk, then, but I’m right behind you...breathing down your neck.”
“You might want to tell me where I’m walking to.”
“You’ll see when we get there. Just march your helpless self right through them trees.”
Across a frozen meadow and then through a copse of icy-branched trees appeared a gardener’s shed made of stone.
Perryman opened the door, gripping her wrist with fingers that felt more like cold bones than flesh and blood. He shoved her inside and shut the door behind them.
Cold air crept up her legs. It nipped and swirled about her. The interior of the shed was too dark to see anything. Metal scraped metal, probably a bolt being shot home.
Perryman was about five feet away from her, judging by the rasp of his breathing. A match hissed, then a lantern flared to life.
“You poor man, is this where Alden makes you sleep?” she asked, spotting a crude pile of blankets that made for a tattered bed in the corner. A shovel and a pick leaned against the wall beside it.
Perryman must have noticed her looking at them.
“I’m no fool, lady.” He snatched the tools and tossed them out the door. To her relief, she didn’t hear the lock slide back into place. “I won’t forget what happened the last time you had your hands around a shovel. Just since you asked, I sleep in the big house, all warm and cozy. The gardener’s shed is for you, for as long as I want to keep you here. The pick and shovel are for when I don’t.”
The hiss of his bare palms scratching against each other filled the room. He chuckled, obviously expecting her to cringe.
Well, she wasn’t ready to cringe, not just yet.
“I hit you because you were a stranger.” She walked up close to him, pretending that she was not his victim. “A mother has a duty to protect her little girls.”
“S’at so?” He pinched her chin between his stringy fingers. “I know you ain’t a mama. Those kids you got hiding in the crazy house belong to Hanispree.”
“If you believe that, why are you here and not turning them over to your employer?” She wrenched her chin from his hold and walked to a far corner of the shed. Perryman followed her, his grim shadow crossing the dirt floor.
Thunder shook the building. The lightning must have struck only feet away for it to make stone tremble. For an instant, it rattled Perryman and distracted him.
Lilleth’s foot kicked something solid that had been covered in dirt and straw.
“Got me a plan. Guess it don’t matter to tell you, though, since you won’t be saying anything to anybody anymore.” He grinned. In the dim lamplight his sharp teeth glittered with a feral snarl. “I’m not giving those kids to Alden, not for the pitiful price he was going to pay. My pockets won’t be big enough for all the cash he’ll have to hand over. A man ought to get a fair price for something another man wants so bad.”
“You’re smart as well as handsome, Mr. Perryman.” She sat down on the floor, then fluffed out her skirt. Just under her derriere pressed the cold hard shape of a spike.
“I’m not a fool who can be charmed, so don’t you try.” He snatched a rope from a hook on the wall. “Take off your coat.”
She had no choice; she did it. He tied her hands behind her back and tested the knot with a vicious tug.
Lilleth doubted that her mother’s suitors had prepared her for this battle. Not a single one of them had ever gotten close enough to disab
le her with a rope.
“You are no fool, Mr. Perryman, and I am no charmer.”
But her voice was. She settled onto the floor with a sigh, feeling the cold shape of the ten-inch weapon beneath her. She hoped it was sharp.
She smiled up at her captor’s black scowl and began to sing.
* * *
Trace watched Alden Hanispree stride into the lobby.
The short, cowardly man glanced fearfully at the door that led to the inmates’ quarters, then over his shoulder.
He spotted the money that Trace’s father held, and seemed to forget about what might be following him. His hands twitched and his avaricious grin flickered in the stabs of lightning flashing through the windows.
“My word, Mr. Hanispree. Are you well?” Trace’s mother asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Clearly, his parents had been doing some investigation. They knew exactly where to place a dig.
“Or they’ve seen you,” Clark added, peering hard at the man through his spectacles. “Unpleasant business any way you look at it.”
Hanispree hadn’t appeared pale before his mother fired her jab, but he did now.
“See here.” His father waved the cash at Alden. “That’s enough rubbish talk. I’ve come to do business. I want the best room you have for Mrs. Bolt.”
“It had better be,” Trace’s mother declared, then turned her back on the transaction.
She walked across the room to stand beside Trace, who appeared to be warming himself near the big snapping fire in the hearth. In reality, he was studying the situation in the room, figuring how he could use it to get to Bethany.
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Bolt?” he whispered.
“A lucky thing for you, my dear, that your brother is nosy. Cooper smelled trouble, what with that odd Perryman fellow spying on your young lady. Quite naturally, we began an investigation. Alden Hanispree is a greedy twit, I do have to say...separating children from their mother. I hope we are in time to help sort this mess out.”
“Look here, Hanispree,” Trace’s father exclaimed. “I’m not handing over this money until I’ve seen every room you have.”