“Just taking some samples,” Richard told him. “I’m sure you want to find out what happened to Priscilla and Paulie as much as anyone, don’t you, Mr. Devlin?”
The man’s eyes darkened. “Did you find any sign of them at all? Your men have been crawling all over this place from top to bottom for the last hour.”
“Not yet,” Richard admitted. “But we’ll keep looking.”
In his mind, he cursed the snow. It could obscure or obliterate any clues outside. Thankfully, they’d already searched most of the surroundings.
“How much longer will you be here?” Jack asked. “Not that I’m trying to hurry you. I want to be completely cooperative.” He smiled insincerely. “I’m just curious.”
“We’ll be out of here in a few minutes, I’d think,” Richard told him. “Just long enough for the team downstairs to scrape a little gunk out of the ash dump.” He smiled. “But the court order allows us to return if need be.”
“I ought to just give you a key to the front door,” Jack said, smirking.
“No, we’re happy to knock,” Richard assured him.
One of the two deputies who had searched the attic came up behind the chief. “We did find one thing that we can’t account for,” he said.
“What was that?” Richard asked.
The deputy held up a plastic Baggie. Inside was a tampon. Used, slightly pink.
“The old man says he sleeps up there from time to time,” the deputy explained. “But I doubt this is his.”
Richard turned to Jack. “Any ideas?”
Jack sneered. “Well, it certainly isn’t mine, either.”
“Have it analyzed,” Richard told the deputy. “See if it matches the DNA we took from Priscilla’s hairbrush.”
“Maybe it’s my wife’s,” Jack offered helpfully, though the insincerity was still evident in his voice. “It looks a little too fresh to have been my grandmother’s.”
“When is your wife back?” Richard asked.
“Who knows, with this storm?”
The two men locked eyes for several seconds.
“Okay, chief,” Adam said. “Forensics got what you wanted.”
“All right, then,” Richard said, nodding in Jack’s direction. “We’ll leave you alone for now, Mr. Devlin.”
“Be careful on those roads,” Jack said, walking with the officers to the door, doing little to disguise his contempt for them. “Looks like it’s getting slippery out there.”
75
For the past hour, Annabel had managed the impossible. She had forgotten all about the nightmares back at the inn. Just as she used to do when she was working in New York—on a magazine photo shoot, maybe, or organizing a fashion show—she had focused in, laserlike, on the task at hand. Looking at tiles, comparing paint colors, she allowed herself to shift into creative mode. In her mind, she could see the parlor designed as a sleek, contemporary room, with lots of glass and exposed brick and mirrors on the walls. The kitchen would sparkle with new appliances and the bedrooms would be painted throughout with a soft, comforting blue. The bathrooms would be lined with brilliant Italian tiles.
“I’m really into bringing out the brick,” Annabel said, looking at a sandblaster. “If we offset the brick with some glass and metal . . .”
“Sounds good to me,” Chad agreed. “Maybe even knock some of the brick out and replace it with glass blocks to bring the light through.”
“Oh, excellent idea!” Annabel beamed. “This place will make Architectural Digest. I know people there.”
“Here are some of the paint samples you requested,” said a stocky clerk with thick glasses, worn low on his nose.
“I like the blue,” Annabel said, examining them, “but the yellow is a bit too bright. Can you subtle that a little more?”
“Sure thing,” the clerk said, returning to his paint mixer.
“This is so much fun,” Annabel gushed to Chad.
“It’s nice to see you smile,” the contractor told her.
Annabel felt herself blush. Chad was awfully sweet, and cute, too. “Well,” she said, “I must admit it feels good to smile.”
At that moment, her phone buzzed in her purse.
It had been so long since her phone had worked—the cell reception at the Blue Boy was the next problem they needed to address—that she almost didn’t recognize the sound. She dug the phone out from among the lipsticks and tissue and tampons in her purse. The number was that of the inn. It had to be Jack. Oh, God, what was he going to say?
“Hello?” Annabel said into the phone, walking over to a quiet corner of the store.
“Annabel. It’s Neville.”
He was whispering.
“Neville. Is there anything wrong?”
“I had to call you from the house phone because my mobile doesn’t work here.” He sounded anxious. “I don’t want anyone to hear me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I wanted to let you know I’ll be gone by the time you get back. Someone locked me in my room this morning. I expect it was Zeke, on Jack’s orders.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they were cleaning the house of evidence. I’m sure of it. Chief Carlson was here, searching the place.”
Annabel was stunned. “So he got a warrant?”
“Yes. And he found nothing. That’s why I expect Jack and Zeke cleaned things up.”
“The ash dump?”
“They opened it, and it was as dry as a whistle.”
“None of that wet soot?” Annabel asked.
“Nope. Though they did scrape out something from the bottom for analysis, but it wasn’t very much.” Annabel could hear Neville shudder at the other end of the line. “I’ve never been happier to leave a place, no offense to you.”
“None taken.”
“I’m leaving now, heading down to Hartford before the snow gets too bad. Even if my flight’s canceled tomorrow and I’m stranded at Bradley Airport overnight, it’ll be better than spending another night here.”
“I understand.”
Neville sighed. “I’m supposed to fly to New York to catch a connecting flight to London. Pray that I make the connection. I’ll be in touch, Annabel. I may have to return to testify if they find whoever took Priscilla.”
“So you spoke with the chief?”
“I’m heading there now to give him a final statement before I head out.”
“Oh, Neville . . .” Annabel thought she might cry.
“Thank you for your kindness, my dear,” he said, “and good luck with everything.”
“Yes, Neville, good luck to you, too.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” the Englishman said, “I think there’s something very sinister going on in this house. Take care of yourself.”
“I will, Neville.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Annabel clicked END on her phone. She suddenly felt endlessly sad.
“Everything okay?”
She looked up. Chad had approached her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Neville just called to say good-bye. He’s leaving. But he told me the police had been by with a warrant and searched the place.”
“Did they find anything?”
“Apparently not,” Annabel replied. “But who knows? They took a sample from the ash dump. Otherwise it was clean.”
“That’s odd,” said Chad. “Hard to imagine that thing being very clean after all the chomping I heard in there. Raccoons aren’t the neatest eaters.”
“It was clean,” Annabel said, her mind suddenly very far away.
“Look,” Chad said. “The snow is getting heavier. I’ve put everything on order. We should head back.”
“Yes,” Annabel agreed. “We should.”
The happiness she’d felt just a few moments earlier had now completely evaporated. The idea of going back to that place depressed her thoroughly.
I’ve got to hold on, she told herself
. I can’t allow myself to fall down into a black hole again. I have to stay clearheaded. Strong. Resist my tendency to hallucinate and catastrophize. I have to keep my head, not lose it.
But Neville’s words kept echoing in her mind.
I think there’s something very sinister going on in this house.
Annabel followed Chad out to his truck.
76
Neville hung up the phone. Glancing around to make sure that neither Jack nor Zeke was around, he hurried from the kitchen.
In the foyer, his bag was packed and waiting by the door. A hush had settled over the house. Outside, giant snowflakes were floating down from the gray sky, blanketing everything in white. Neville realized he was going to have to brush off his car. He wished he had brought gloves.
“I’m not packing any gloves,” he’d announced to Priscilla with a smirk, as they’d left their flat for Heathrow—which now seemed an eternity ago. “I am packing as if we are not making any ridiculous ghost-hunting side trips and going straight to Florida.”
Florida. Neville had always wanted to go there. He’d been looking so very much forward to those sandy beaches, that warm water, that cool margarita in his hand. Maybe another time, Neville consoled himself with a sigh.
“Neville.”
His name came from the parlor in a whisper. He didn’t recognize the voice. But it might have been Jack or Zeke, speaking very softly.
“Neville,” the whisper came again.
He stepped around the corner and peeked into the room. He saw no one. The house seemed so quiet, as if every sound ceased. No hum from the electricity, no ticking of any clock, no wind from the eaves.
“Hello?” Neville called.
He walked into the parlor and paused in front of the fireplace. Had he imagined what he’d heard? No, that hadn’t been his imagination. He had heard someone whisper his name. Twice. And the only people in the house were Jack and Zeke.
“Neville.”
He spun around. “Who is there?”
Suddenly, Neville felt afraid. There was a killer loose, after all. Someone who had chopped off a man’s hand, and who had surely killed Priscilla as well, if her ring was any indication. Was it the killer who called to Neville now?
He bolted for the door, planning to grab his suitcase and his coat and hurry off into the snowstorm outside.
He was almost to the door when he tripped. Just what he tripped over, he wasn’t sure. But he went toppling over face-first to the floor.
He braced his fall with his elbows and forearms. The pain shot up through his shoulders. He might have broken something.
But he didn’t have time to check. He looked around and saw what had caused him to fall.
A little man, no more than three feet tall, with a little blue face wearing rags for clothes.
“Can I get him?” the little man asked in a soft, whispery voice.
“Yes, you can get him,” came another voice, and before the startled Neville could react, another little man, looking nearly identical, came hurrying around the corner. And then another little man appeared, and another and another, until five of the loathsome creatures had piled on top of Neville, grabbing at the back of his shirt and up and down his arms with their very sharp hands.
“Get off me!” Neville managed to shout, trying to shake them off.
But the little men were incredibly strong. They kept him from standing by clamping their clawlike fingers into his calves, ripping through his pants and puncturing his skin. Neville screamed.
“Help me!” he shouted, hoping that Jack or Zeke would hear. “Help me!”
The little men began pulling him across the floor. As much as Neville tried to fight them, he found he was powerless to escape their clutches. Three of them were at his feet, clawing and biting his calves and shins. The two others were positioned at each shoulder, grabbing ahold painfully and dragging him back into the parlor.
This can’t be happening! This can’t be real!
Neville could see the creatures on either side of him. They were laughing, thoroughly enjoying their task.
Twisting from side to side, still unable to break free of them, Neville looked up ahead. What he saw was even more unbelievable.
Two more of the creatures had popped their heads up from the ash dump panel at the bottom of the fireplace. They were waving their sharp little fingers—they looked like squirrel claws—motioning to their comrades to bring Neville closer.
“Nooo!” Neville screamed.
But he couldn’t fight back. All he could manage to do was writhe from side to side. The creatures seemed to have complete power over him. Neville began to whimper.
This was how he would die, he realized.
The little men thrust his head into the fireplace. The creatures waiting inside the ash dump suddenly clamped their claws into his neck and Neville shrieked out in pain. The others behind him were pushing his butt and legs now. With one final thrust, Neville’s head and shoulders were crammed down through the trapdoor into the chimney.
This is what happened to the others! This was how they died!
The creatures behind him kept pushing and shoving, while the creatures ahead of him kept pulling him down. Neville’s body was now wedged halfway down the chimney.
That’s one really wide chimney, Chad had said. You could fit a body in there, sure.
Neville felt his feet pass through the opening in the fireplace and he fell about a foot, becoming lodged in the darkness of the chimney.
Below him came the sound of gnashing teeth.
I doubt it’s squirrels and mice they’re eating, Neville had told Chad.
He was about to learn just how right he was.
77
The scream from inside the chimney echoed through the house. Suddenly it was cut short, and Zeke knew the man was dead.
The old caretaker stood in the parlor, staring at the fireplace. He was crying.
“How many more?” he asked the quiet house. “How long will this go on?”
No answer came, of course. There had never been an answer, for as long as he had lived at the Blue Boy Inn.
Damn that woman for opening up the fireplace. They had had it contained. They had had it under control.
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand. He knew what he needed to do.
He grabbed Neville’s suitcase and headed outside. He’d hide the dead man’s car in the woods. The police would think that he’d left for the airport in the midst of this blizzard in order to try to make it home.
But Zeke neglected to take Neville’s coat. It remained hanging there on the hook.
78
Chad drove his truck back toward Woodfield, Annabel seated beside him. The snow was still light, but it was starting to stick to the roads. The state trucks were already out, spraying salt and sand from side to side.
“Could be a nor’easter,” Chad said. “You’re in for quite the experience, if the storm turns out to be as big as they’re predicting it might be.”
Annabel visibly shivered. “I’ve been worrying about being snowbound at the inn ever since we decided to move up here.”
Chad smiled over at her. “But you’ve had big snowstorms in the city, too. I remember reading about that big one a few years ago where days later they found people in cars that had been piled over by snowplows.”
“Oh, sure,” Annabel told him. “But you see, in New York, you have other people in your building. You can go next door, talk to someone. You’re not isolated. You can go down to the sidewalk and you can crunch through the snow to a market that’s managed to open. Even in the worst storms, some enterprising shopkeeper always manages to open his doors.”
Chad sighed. “Okay, I hear you. That’s certainly not the case here. In Woodfield—in a lot of western Mass, in fact—things just shut down during a nor’easter. Power can go out and stay out for a week.”
Annabel groaned. “Oh, great.”
“You ought to maybe think about getting a generator
as part of your renovations,” Chad suggested.
“Yes. That’s a good idea. A very good idea.”
They were quiet for a few moments as they drove.
“You know, Annabel,” Chad said, breaking the silence, “whatever’s going down back at the inn, if you need my help . . .”
She looked away, out the window. “Of course, I need your help, Chad. I can’t rewire electricity and knock down walls myself.”
“No, what I mean is . . .” Chad struggled to find the words. “With everything that’s happened, you know, with the police being there and conducting a search, well, if I can do anything . . .”
Annabel turned back and looked at him. She offered him a small smile.
“Thank you, Chad,” she said softly.
He liked her. He found himself really liking her a lot. Chad had never been attracted to a married woman before. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his feelings. Since the breakup with Claire, he hadn’t had much interest in dating. He hadn’t had much interest in women, period. A really gorgeous woman could walk right by him and Chad would barely notice. He remembered not so long ago, Paulie—poor old Paulie—looking at him as if he were crazy. Chad had been reading the newspaper, oblivious to anything around him. “Dude,” Paulie had said. “That was a major babe who just passed by and you couldn’t even pull your nose away from the Patriots’ score long enough to notice.”
But he sure noticed Annabel.
She was hot, no doubt about that. Her shiny auburn hair, her tiny waist, her perfect figure. And she was married to a major-league asshole, if Tammy’s story was true—and Chad believed it was. What if Jack Devlin had something to do with Paulie’s disappearance, and the disappearance of that English lady? Annabel could be in real trouble in that house.
“Listen,” Chad said, as he switched on the blinker to take the exit toward Woodfield, “I’m serious. You have no idea what you’re dealing with up at that old house. Too much weird shit has gone down there over the years. I’d like to be around to take care of you if—”
“You are very sweet,” Annabel said, cutting him off, “and more than chivalric. I appreciate your offer, Chad. I really do.” She looked away again, back out the window. “But I think I’ve got to learn how to take care of myself.”
The Inn Page 20