She pulled off the rest of the brown paper, revealing a dusty, black album embossed with gold. On the fly leaf was written "To Mother, from John and Bob."
Chelsea opened Mary McCord's album carefully.
There were several pictures of Lucas. He was quite handsome in his youth, and to Chelsea's surprise, he did not seem austere at all. One photograph showed him astride a thoroughbred horse; on the saddle in front of him sat a golden-haired child in a smock. Lucas smiled proudly. The child before him was sturdy and handsome, beaming at the camera. John McCord?
Chelsea leafed through the book. There was Mary McCord, her eyes haunted, a shy smile on her lips. She was standing in front of a wrought-iron gate set in a stone wall, having just alighted from a carriage. The lawn stretched beyond the wall, but not so far that Chelsea could see the McCord house.
The house appeared on the following page.
At the sight of it, Chelsea's stomach lurched. It was ugly even then. Mary stood on the porch, her back straight. She held one child on her hip; an older boy sat on the steps before her. Johnny and his younger brother, Robert.
Chelsea leafed through several baby pictures, amazed at the difference in the two brothers. John was fair and smiling; Robert was dark, his expression often sullen. It was difficult to imagine that the unhappy child in the pictures had grown into jovial, good-natured Uncle Bob.
Toward the back of the album was a snapshot of Mary McCord's grave. The album also contained several photographs of John McCord's wedding at St. James Episcopal Church in New York City. With an ache in her heart, Chelsea thought: How handsome he is! John McCord radiated energy, his joy on that day apparent. He wore tails and a carnation in his lapel. His bride, Peggy Winter McCord, was slender and blond. Chelsea could see by the tilt of her chin that here was a girl who knew what she wanted. The date under the picture: July 21, 1935. After the wedding, more baby pictures: Peggy McCord holding a chubby infant, the baby propped up on a velvet couch, John and Peggy teaching him to walk. The infant was Edward McCord. John's son. Chelsea's father.
After that, a gap of several blank pages. Probably the extent of the photographs, Chelsea thought. But she was wrong.
A manila envelope, green with age, slipped out of the book as Chelsea was about to set it down. She opened the envelope. Inside were a couple of pages, obviously torn out of the album. On the first page was a newspaper clipping.
Chelsea's head pounded, and for a moment she thought she would lose consciousness.
The newspaper photo showed a black-tie party, sometime in the 1930s, the men wearing tails and top hats, the women in dazzling evening gowns. In the group closest to the camera, a man leaned toward a woman, his body striking a listening pose. He was dressed like the others. Except that the parts of him exposed to the air were black, twisted, like a melted crayon. Barely recognizable as human.
Chelsea jumped back and the album crashed to the floor. Heart thumping, bile rising in her throat, she ran for the bathroom. She almost didn't make it.
Oh God. I'm going nuts I really am I'm going— Chelsea looked in the mirror. Her face was white, her hair pasted by sweat to her face. She looked nuts. Her eyes ached, and the sour taste of vomit threatened to bring up the rest of her lunch.
She closed her eyes and saw it again in her mind's eye—the black, contorted carcass in tails and top hat. Her throat constricted. The man had been burned so badly that his features were unrecognizable. His black fingers had been fused to the glass in his hand.
She couldn't block out the hideous sight.
She walked back along the hallway, her gaze riveted on the album on the floor. I have to look, I have to see . . .
She focused on the page.
The charred apparition was gone. In its place was a tall, good-looking man. To Chelsea's relief, he was not John McCord.
Underneath the picture, in Mary McCord's sloping handwriting: "New Years Eve party, 1932." And underneath, "Brian Goodman, third from left. Died in New Years Day fire."
Chelsea counted. Brian Goodman was the man she had seen, a few moments ago, burned to a crisp.
How had she known that? How had she "seen" him that way, burned to death? Was this another of Kathleen’s tricks?
Chelsea looked at the next page. Two photographs, portraits of people she had never seen before. One was a woman. Underneath, Mary McCord had written: "Lillian Gordan, died in a motorcar accident, Dec. 1928." The second picture portrayed a balding man with mutton-chop whiskers and a mustache like a whisk broom. He was rather unpleasant-looking, but certainly not deserving of his fate. Roger Morton, Mary's handwriting said, had died in 1923, decapitated when he fell into the path of a train.
Chelsea turned back to the preceding page. Who were these people? What did they mean to Mary McCord?
Chelsea thought of Madame Toussaud's wax museum. The pictures in the album were like a gallery. A gruesome gallery of death.
But why were they here? Who had torn these pages out and put them in the envelope?
Chelsea tried to remember Mary McCord's story. There was something about her, something strange. Mary and Lucas had suffered a falling out, and she'd moved to New York. She had embarrassed Lucas in some way . . . and it had something to do with—
People dying?
She couldn't remember.
Maybe Mary McCord was obsessed with death. Certainly this morbid collection wasn't the result of a normal mind.
Twenty-five
"Here we are," Ben said, turning off US 80 and driving under the redwood sign proclaiming Caballo Rojo. The dirt road dropped off abruptly under a canopy of Arizona oak and copal trees.
They followed a creek bed lined with sycamore trees. As Chelsea watched the sun and shadow flicker across Ben's face, she thought again how glad she'd been to hear from him this morning. Mary McCord's album had thrown a real scare into her. All night long the hideous vision of poor, charred Brian Goodman lurked behind her eyelids, waiting to jump out at her like a jack-in-the-box the moment she could relax enough to sleep. But in Ben's company, Chelsea could forget—albeit temporarily—the growing feeling of dread that permeated her days and nights. With Ben on her side, she thought it just might be possible to lick this thing, instead of passively waiting for the next shoe to drop.
Ben's stone house was surrounded by oak trees, their glossy dark leaves reflecting the sky like bits of metal. A picture window stretched across the front of the house, mirroring a flagstone terrace surrounded by a low stone parapet. The door, windowsills, and trimmings were made of redwood. A string of dried chiles hung beside the door.
Chelsea slipped out of the truck. Déjà vu, strong and undeniable, held her in its sway. The house—the oaks—everything reminded her of the family ranch in Pine Valley. The home of her childhood.
"What do you think?" Ben asked.
"I love it." Memories rushed up at her, the happiest times of her life. The last time she'd felt secure, part of a warm and loving family, the future stretching before her like a bolt of bright cloth.
A spotted cat lounged on the low wall. "That's Pinto," Ben said. "Frank's cat."
"Frank?"
"Frank Carrera. My partner."
Chelsea rubbed the cat's back, still looking at the house. Incredible. She almost expected her mother to step out onto the porch, dressed for a ride, dogs at her heels.
The interior of the house reminded her of Pine Valley. An enormous stone fireplace dominated the room. Framed photographs of hunters and jumpers, a large desk and computer, shelves full of books on breeding and horses. Navajo rugs on a polished red concrete floor. A German shepherd rose stiffly from his place by the fireplace and padded over to sniff Chelsea's outstretched hands. Ben introduced the dog as Wotan.
A boy came in through the kitchen, more dogs at his heels.
"Hi, Billy. Where's Frank?" Ben asked the boy.
"His mare cut her leg," Billy said. "Wants me to get the Gentian Violet."
"In the tack room." Ben turned his attention to
Chelsea. "Want something to eat? Some coffee?"
"No thanks. I'd like to see the horses."
The barn was cool after the bright sunlight. Equine heads poked over the stalls, ears straining forward. Ben introduced Chelsea to the horses, including the dark stallion, Sarum, who had one whole barn to himself on the other side of the clearing.
"Do you ride?"
They followed the stream running through the canyon. Chelsea rode a horse named Test Pilot, who had placed fourth at Rolex the year before. He was responsive and beautiful to ride. They climbed a hill up out of the oak and looked at the view.
A gentle undulation of hills sloped away to blue distance, sparkling in the air. The mountains appeared pristine, peaceful, timeless.
"How's your sister?" Ben asked.
"I think she's going to be all right."
"Anything happen in Los Angeles?" Ben asked.
Chelsea knew what he meant. "No, nothing." She told him about Mary McCord's album.
"Have you ever thought you might be psychic?"
Chelsea considered it. "If I am, it's something new. I never was before."
"They have tests to check for psychic ability. Maybe the University of Arizona has a program. You might want to look into it."
"Do you think you're psychic, too? Do you think we were both seeing things that night at the Copper Queen Hotel?"
"No."
Chelsea shielded her eyes against the sun. "Thank you," she said.
He reached over and took her hand.
Ben cooked a lunch of steak, eggs, salsa, and tortillas. They ate out on the veranda. Chelsea met Ben's partner, Frank Carrera, a tall, large-boned man. His coffee-brown eyes gleamed with good humor, and Chelsea liked him immediately. They talked about the business. Although the foaling and breeding seasons were over for another year, Ben was still busy. Not only did he spend long hours overseeing the care of the mares and training potential show jumpers, he also traveled a lot, keeping track of Test Pilot's progress on the international circuit.
"I've been neglecting things a bit," Ben said ruefully, nodding to Chelsea. "Chasing down ghosts with you."
"Lucky you got a hard-working partner," Frank said.
The day passed in a blur. Everything was sharp, clear, memorable. Ben's hand rested lightly on her arm as they sat on the shaded veranda, formulating a plan. Ben would be in Phoenix for the next few days, looking to pick up a couple of retired racehorses with jumping potential. While he was there, he would check the state birth and death records on Kathy and Sean Barrie. Chelsea would go to the County Assessor's Office to track the ownership of her house. She also recalled seeing phone books from the early part of the century in the Shattuck Library at the Mining Museum; maybe she'd find a listing there.
If all else failed, they would just have to track down the old-time Bisbee residents and find someone who knew the Barries. Logically, that would be the next step anyway.
"Why don't you stay for dinner?" Ben asked.
Chelsea did stay. Ben barbecued chicken on the grill, and the three of them sat and watched the moon rise over the canyon walls. Ben and Frank did most of the talking; Chelsea was content to sit and listen. She basked in the vivid sounds and sights, the charcoal smoke lingering in her nostrils. Pinto jumped into her lap and settled in for the night. Ben reached over and held her hand.
"Dana's coming back for the Pilot tomorrow. She wants to get him used to the English climate," Frank said.
"Who's Dana?" Chelsea asked.
Ben said, "She rides for me."
"That's putting it mildly. She runs the show jumping operation, so Ben can stay here and loaf," Frank joked.
"Our right hand," Ben agreed. "It's thanks to her that Test Pilot's so good."
"You don't show at all?"
Ben shook his head. For the first time that day, he didn't meet her gaze. Chelsea sensed something was wrong.
The phone rang, and Ben went in to answer it. Chelsea and Frank talked about little things. Time stretched. Ben must be talking business.
"I haven't seen Ben so happy in a long time," Frank said.
Chelsea thought that was a funny thing to say. "I get the impression he's usually happy."
"He has a lot on his mind. It's difficult, starting an operation like this. Money's always a problem. You know about horses; they take so long to mature. You can't get your money back on them for years. Can't even jump them until they're over five years old—the calcium in their bones hasn't filled in yet. So they stand around the stable and eat. We make most of our money buying green horses and training them to sell." He stared out at the canyon. "At least things are finally looking up. We've got a really good horse in Test Pilot." He stood up. "I have to go check the stable one more time. Like to come?"
"No thanks. I'll stay here."
Chelsea sat on the terrace for a while, watching the moon. Ben didn't appear. The coal smoke still clung to her clothes; she felt gritty and decided to go rinse her face and hands.
On her way back out to the terrace, Chelsea paused to look at the framed photographs on the walls. Ben, resplendent in riding coat and breeches, guided horses over big jumps or posed with prize ribbons, silver bowls, and trays. In the last picture, an attractive woman held a horse by the bridle, a ribbon fluttering at its headstall. The woman's long, brown hair was pulled back and tied under the crash helmet.
Frank said behind her, "Most of them were taken at the shows when Ben was still riding. There's Madison Square Garden. He won the Grand Prix there." He pointed to each picture in turn. "That's Spruce Meadows—Carol got a third in that one. They were living in California then," he added, then leaned forward and squinted at the writing at the bottom. "Nineteen seventy-nine."
"Who's Carol?"
"Ben didn't tell you?" Frank appeared alarmed. "I thought you knew"
"Knew what?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I should tell you, though why Ben didn't . . ." He broke off, uncertain how to continue. "He never told you about his wife?"
Frank looked at the photographs of the girl with the long, brown hair. His tone was reminiscent. That picture must have been taken just after they were married. When they were still . . ." He seemed to shake himself mentally. "Anyway, she died six years ago."
"Died." Ben had a wife. A wife who died. She opened her mouth to ask what had happened to Carol Fletcher, then hesitated. Perhaps she was being too curious. But Frank saw the question in her eyes.
"She was trampled to death. Went down to bring the horses in from the paddock one day, and one of them must have got frightened. Kicked her. Ben found her. It was a double blow. Ben's father had died the year before. They were close. Ben was just getting over it when Carol was killed."
Ben emerged from the den. Frank and Chelsea lapsed into silence, and they returned to the porch. At last, Chelsea stood up. "I have to get home," she said. Tomorrow was Chiricahua College's orientation for incoming faculty.
"Come back," Frank told her, and Chelsea felt there was a bond between them.
"She will," Ben said. "You can be sure of that."
As they drove home, Chelsea forced herself not to ask about Carol Fletcher. Ben would tell her in his own good time.
At the door, Ben gave her a friendly kiss on the lips. He drew back, his eyes searching. And then his lips brushed hers again, his kiss growing in intensity until his mouth was crushing, passionate, and Chelsea's hands came up and clasped around his neck, and she thought: This is where I want to be.
Forever.
Her eyes closed, everything centering around Ben's lips on hers, his expert, passionate kiss. For a moment, Chelsea wanted to ask him to spend the night, ached to have him spend the night.
It took an act of will to resist that urge. She didn't know that much about him. What she'd heard today had been a shock. Why hadn't he told her about his wife?
At last Ben released her. There was a question in his eyes.
"It's late," Chelsea said, feeling awkward.
He s
eemed to read her mind. "I'll be in Phoenix for a couple of days," he said. "I'll call you as soon as I get back."
Chelsea closed the door, still shaking from the pleasure his touch invoked, her heart and mind in turmoil.
Twenty-six
Chelsea didn't know how she ended up walking down Main Street. She remembered kissing Ben goodnight, remembered checking the house, crawling into bed. Thinking about Ben and his dead wife.
So why am I walking through Bisbee in the middle of the night?
And why was it so cold?
The street in front of her glittered in the reflected glow of Christmas lights. Chelsea had noticed the light bulbs strung across Main Street before, but she had never seen them lit during the summer. Now the lights shuddered in the wind—yellow, red, blue, and green. The wind snapped at Chelsea's heels like a towel, and shadows wavered on the street. The night was restless, alive. Up on Buckey O'Neill Hill, the lighted Christmas tree appeared disembodied in the darkness, suspended above the town.
Chelsea followed the corner around to Brewery Gulch, passing the old Phelps Dodge business office on her left. To the right, above the Dixie Garage, the ghostly spire of the Pythian Castle pierced the sky. The building didn't look right, and then Chelsea saw why. Someone had fastened a statue to the top of the spire, a life-size angel, its diaphanous gown fluttering in the wind. The angel glowed from within. Ghostly blue, the light was eerie, unpleasant. Not only that, but the Pythian Castle itself looked different; the cupola, recently painted green and white, was streaked and faded with oxidized paint, a dark, rusty green. The steeple clock leered drunkenly from the tower, a cataract of blankness covering its eye. Chelsea experienced nameless terror at the sight of it. The building looked haunted, and yet she was . . . drawn.
Chelsea changed direction, following the narrow alley between the old Brewery and the garage. She climbed the steps behind the Lyric Theatre, the steps which led up the hill to the Pythian Castle. On approaching, Chelsea realized the thing on top of the spire wasn't an angel at all.
Darkscope Page 15