Two Lethal Lies

by Annie Solomon

  “Is someone there?” He was inside the room now.

  Oh, how she wished she was one of those skinny things that were all bone and no flesh. Her purse and shoes squished against her chin, she folded herself as small as possible. But if she breathed out, she would burst through the walls. She closed her eyes, sent up a prayer for luck, and held her breath. The wardrobe reeked of old wood, varnish, and mildew. She was so close to it that the smell could have choked her.

  She fisted her hands and waited. Was that the room door closing? Still, she huddled inside, afraid to reveal herself. Slowly she counted to fifty, then to a hundred. Then, for good luck, she counted to fifty again.

  Finally, she cracked open the wardrobe door. She intended only to peek out, but her position was so precarious that the minute the door opened, she tumbled down and landed on the carpet.

  She nearly swallowed her heart.

  Collecting herself, she scanned the room. Empty, thank the Lord. She slid the heels back on, picked up the purse, and stole a glance into the hallway. It, too, was empty.

  She slipped out of the room, again heading for those back stairs. A door hid them from view, and when she opened it, she found herself in darkness. She looked for a light switch and couldn’t find one. Surely the entire house had been electrified at one time or another? Seeing how there was no staff anymore, maybe Dutch had cut the power to this part of the house. Man, even the rich like to save money on electric bills.

  If she was going down there, she’d need a flashlight, but where in this monstrosity of a house was she going to find one?

  Stymied, she was about to go down those stairs, anyway—if only to prove to herself she would not be defeated—when she remembered something.

  Taking off her shoes, she raced back to her room and into the adjoining bath with its spa tub. Thick white pillar candles sat in all four corners of the tub, each atop its own glass holder. She lit one and returned to the stairs.

  Creeping down was like creeping back a hundred years or more. Was this what it was like to be a servant to these Hanovers? Maybe this was how the other Mr. Hanover got to that poor serving wench who’d hung herself after he knocked her up. Or maybe she’d gone to him. Sneaking around by candlelight in her nightie.

  Had they been caught? Would she?

  What would she tell Dutch if he found her? Would he believe her?

  Shadows bounced off the walls like ghosts. At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway loomed black and baleful, her candle a flimsy shield against whatever menace lurked ahead.

  But it was only the dark. Only more empty halls and more empty rooms—even more so than the ones she’d inspected earlier. Those at least had been furnished. These were starkly unadorned, stripped down to pale walls and wood floors.

  And yet the lack of human presence didn’t settle her uneasiness. The floors squeaked as though protesting her footsteps. The house sighed and moaned around her. It felt as though unspeakable things had been done back here. Lives lived and snuffed out, out of sight and mind.

  She progressed slowly, staying within her small spool of light. Every sound sent a warning through her; every nerve ending grew frayed and raw. And still, she found no sign of anyone, and especially not Julia.

  She also saw no sign of another way in or out of the mansion.

  But there had to be another exit. She’d come through it, hadn’t she? Truth was, she had no idea where she was in relation to that door or any other. She was completely turned around. She was pretty sure the staircase was toward the left, but she’d been going to the left and it had taken her nowhere.

  So she turned to the right and the nearest door. It opened, not to anyplace familiar, but to a long, light-filled hallway. It was the only lit hallway she’d seen for hours, and it blinded her at first.

  But she was grateful, so grateful to be back in the twenty-first century. She snuffed out the candle and practically ran down the passage toward a door at the far end.

  That had to be the way back to the core of the mansion.

  All at once, she slowed. A heap of clothes blocked the door.

  She squinted, peering hard. No. Not clothes. At least, not clothes by themselves.

  Someone was inside them.

  Julia.

  She drew in a sharp, fearful breath, raced the last few yards, and skidded to her knees.

  But it wasn’t Julia.

  43

  Neesy was so shocked she could only sit on the floor and stare. The absolute last person she expected to see was conked out in front of her.

  And, oh, God, he looked… well, awful wasn’t awful enough. The right side of his face was a swollen mess of blood and bruises; his mouth was cut and twice the size it should be. Even if he was conscious, she doubted he could open his right eye.

  But he was breathing. That was something.

  Unbidden, her eyes filled. What in heaven had happened to him? He disappears whole and hearty and reappears like a ship torn against the rocks. Had he been here all along, hidden away like Julia? She cracked open the door he was crumpled against, saw the garage. Was he coming or going? And what should she do? She didn’t want to move him, and she couldn’t leave him there. But if she did move him, was she thwarting his escape or helping him infiltrate?

  Roughly, she scrubbed her eyes, trying to figure out what to do. She wasn’t even sure where to touch without hurting him.

  So she just bent over, close to his ear. “Mitch! Wake up! Wake up, Mitch!”

  That didn’t do a whole helluva lot of good.

  She shook him as gently as she could. “Dammit, Mitch, open your eyes!”

  She kept at it, scared now that he’d never wake up. Suddenly he groaned.

  “That’s it,” she encouraged. “Come on, open your eyes, wake up.”

  Slowly, like it hurt to do it any other way, one eye opened. The other, as she’d predicted, was swollen shut. He took one look at her and the open eye rolled back into his head.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She nudged him hard enough to hurt, and the pain did the trick. He opened his eye again.

  “Neesy?” His voice was a rough grumble, like he was drunk on gravel.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  He paused. “I’m not… not seeing things?”

  “No, but you can’t stay here. Come on, let’s get you up.”

  He closed that good eye again. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “If only.”

  He braced a hand against the floor and tried to push himself up. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  He ground his jaw, hard enough for her to see the muscle working. His knuckles were white with intensity. She went around the other side and tried to give him leverage. He cursed every move, but with her help and the wall, he finally managed to get to his feet.

  And swayed there.

  “Whoa.” She steadied him against the wall.

  He closed his eyes and breathed hard. “Have you seen her? Is she okay?”

  He didn’t have to say who he meant. She knew. “Look, we have to get you out of here. I’ll tell you everything then.” She put his left arm around her shoulder to take his weight. “Were you trying to get in or out?”

  “In.”

  She stopped suddenly.

  “Christ, what now?”

  “The candle. I blew it out.”

  “My head is kind of spinning. Did you say you blew out a candle? Dutch not pay his electric bills?”

  She explained about the back hallways and needing a light and getting lost.

  “What the hell were you doing back there? Better yet, what the hell are you doing here, period?”

  “I said I’d tell you everything once we get you out of sight. But unless you want to go through the main rooms, we’ll need a light.”

  “Just go to the kitchen. There are always matches there.”

  She opened her mouth to ask how he knew that, then remembered. He had lived there.

  “The thing is—”

  “I don’t k
now how long I can stay upright.”

  “The thing is, I don’t know how to get to the kitchen.”

  “Go through the door at the end of the tunnel, make a right, then a—” He closed his eye. “Better idea. I’ll take you there. Or, you can take me.”

  Then they were both silent as the struggle up the hallway began in earnest. He wasn’t a huge man, nothing like Gus, but he had plenty of height and weight on her. Why she thought she’d be able to hold a candle and help him at the same time was a mystery. In the end, they had to go in darkness. But Mitch knew the way, and though they stumbled several times, which elicited a sharp gasp and an equally sharp “fuck,” or “holy fuck,” or “holy motherfuck,” they made slow, slogging, curse-filled progress.

  By the time they arrived, he was panting and grunting in pain. “To the left,” he eked out through gritted teeth. “Behind the utility closet.”

  There was no “behind” at the back of the closet, just wall. It took Neesy several minutes to figure out she had to move the thing. Now it was her turn to curse. But with a lot of heaving and not a little swearing, she finally managed to pull it away from the wall. Behind it was a rough, spare door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. She had to shove it ajar using her shoulder, but after several attempts, it gave with a screech of protest.

  Oh, God, it was rank. A cramped little hidey-hole. There were water stains on the floor and Dutch’s beloved cobwebs in the corners. Clearly it hadn’t been aired in years, and the accumulated mold and dust and remains of other inhabitants she didn’t want to think about made it smell like a tomb. But there was a small, ancient bed and a crooked washstand with a pitted white bowl.

  Had someone actually lived here?

  She returned to the kitchen, where she’d left Mitch leaning against a wall. “What is that place?”

  “For the scullery maid.”

  “Geez, you people treated the staff so well.”

  “Help me in.”

  “It’s a mess.”

  “Is the bed still there?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Help me in.”

  “All right, all right. But first let me clean it up a bit.”

  “Do it fast. I think I’m gonna fall down pretty soon.”

  She ran back to the little maid’s cell and swung a kitchen towel to swipe away the cobwebs. There was nothing but a thin mattress on the bed, which was closer to a cot, and she managed to wriggle the thing off and whomp it a couple of times to get the dust off. She coughed and waved the powdery stuff away from her face. She hated the thought of putting him on that filthy thing without something between his wounds and the dirt, but there were no bedclothes and no linen closet. In the end, she covered the mattress with more dishrags. At least they were clean.

  She had to widen the space behind the pantry a few more feet to make enough room for him to squeeze through. He collapsed on the bed, mussing the towels she’d so carefully placed.

  “Here.” She handed him a package of frozen peas. “Put that over your eye.” Then she left him to tackle the washstand, which was broken but still usable. She cleaned out the bowl in the kitchen sink, filled it with fresh water, and brought it back to the room.

  He fell in and out of sleep as she cleaned him up, and she was constantly having to put the peas back in place. After she got the blood off his face, she tackled the rest of him. She gasped as she opened his shirt. His chest and sides were red and beginning to bruise up. The sight of them sickened her, and she had to force back the tears and the growing fear. Was there more damage under the skin where she couldn’t see it?

  “Mitch. Mitch!”

  He grunted.

  “I think you should see a doctor. You’ve got cuts on your face that probably need stitches. And your ribs are a mess. You could be bleeding internally.”

  “No doctors.”

  “But—”

  He grabbed her hand, hard and fast. “No doctors.”

  Given the state he was in, she was surprised he could move that quickly. But she nodded, and he let go.

  “Tell me about Julia.”

  She sat on the edge of the cot and told him everything she could, intertwining that story with how she came to be in New York and then at Hanover House. By the time she’d finished, he’d fallen asleep, or so she thought. But when she stopped, he reached for her hand. “Thank you.” Both eyes were still closed, and speaking seemed like a huge effort. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have left you.”

  Gently, she brushed the hair back from his forehead. “Damn right you shouldn’t have,” she whispered.

  “Wanted you safe. Now, too. Dutch… dangerous. Go.”

  “Who’ll take care of you if I go?”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Not important. Get out.”

  “But—”

  “Out.” His good eye opened with a ferocious glare, and he crushed her hand.

  She pulled out of his grip. “Okay, okay. Geez.”

  “Go.”

  She rose. “I’m going.”

  “Promise.” He tried to get up to enforce the vow, and sweat broke out on his forehead from the agony. She jumped to ease him back down, but he wouldn’t let her. “Promise.”

  She couldn’t bear it. “All right. I swear. On a stack of Bibles. Will you lie down now?”

  “Go first. Back door.” He told her how to get there, and continued to sit up until she left.

  The minute she was out of sight, she slumped against the pantry. His poor, tortured face. The tears welled up then, but she didn’t care. How was she supposed to leave him like that? He needed to be fed and cared for, and she didn’t have a clue how to do that without alerting Dutch. But she would. Somehow, she would.

  In the meantime, she grabbed an armful of apples and oranges, found some cheese and bread, and a couple of bottles of water. She shoved everything into a shopping bag, fished around her purse for a bottle of Midol, and added that. Then she tiptoed back to the room, prepared for another battle. But luckily, Mitch was out cold.

  After she shoved the pantry into place, she hurried through the house, ignoring Mitch’s directions to the rear door and trying instead to find the back stairs that would return her to the bedroom. She was scurrying down a hallway when a door opened and Dutch stepped out.

  She stopped short. All the blood in her body went straight to her toes.

  “Going somewhere?” Dutch lounged against the wall.

  Neesy’s breath clogged and her brain jammed.

  “Perhaps you couldn’t sleep,” Dutch said.

  She nodded, relieved to be given an excuse. “New place, new bed. You know how it is.”

  “I do, indeed. And I have the perfect remedy.” He smiled and slithered toward her. She would have stepped back, but he was beside her before she could. Like he’d done after dinner, he slipped her arm through his. “There’s nothing more relaxing than a little brandy.”

  She tried to pull away. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. I’m really tired now.”

  But he had her fast and refused to let go. “Nonsense. You’ll be surprised at how quickly the brandy will help.” He pulled her along, and in seconds they were in the room with the fireplace where she and Dutch had first talked. A glass cart trimmed in gold sat in one corner. It held glasses and decanters and a variety of mixers. A snifter holding an inch of russet liquid already sat on top. He ushered her to an armchair, handed her the drink, and poured another for himself.

  “I was just about to have a nightcap. So glad you could join me.”

  She sipped at the brandy. Truthfully, she could use it. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mitch and how close he was and what would happen if the brothers came face-to-face.

  She swallowed the last of the drink and set down the glass.

  “Better?” Dutch asked.

  “Much.” She rose, too quickly it seemed, because she nearly fell over. “Oops,” she said as Dutch ran to support her. “Sorry.” She straightened herself.

  “That’s perfectl
y all right.”

  She put a hand to her head. “I think… I think I should go to bed now.”

  “Of course you should.”

  She headed for the door, but it wasn’t where she thought it was.

  “Here,” Dutch said, “let me escort you.”

  He walked her back to the room with the canopy bed, and it seemed to take forever to get there. Waves of hot and cold scuttled over her, sometimes together. Where was he leading her? Why was it taking so long to get there?

  She tried to ask him, but her mouth wouldn’t work. She tried again and still couldn’t make her jaw move. Terror and panic rushed through her. What was happening?

  All of a sudden, whatever had happened to her jaw spread to the rest of her body. The last thing she remembered was Dutch, catching her as she fell into darkness.

  44

  Mitch opened his eyes to an old-fashioned light fixture on the ceiling above his head. It took him a few seconds to recall where he’d seen it before. When he finally did, and realized where he was, bits and pieces of the night before tumbled back.

  Neesy. He’d seen Neesy.

  Either that or he was going out of his mind.

  But if he wasn’t, and he had seen her… He rocketed upright and nearly screamed aloud.

  His body pulsating pain, he sank back against the thin mattress. If that had been Neesy, she had to get out of here. He had to make sure she was out of here. But he could barely move.

  A minuscule octagonal window told him the sun was up. How long had he been there? He spied the washstand with a towel over the bar. A bottle of water on the floor next to an open bag of food. And a bottle of… He squinted. Midol?

  Definitely Neesy.

  Gingerly, he rolled over, snagged the bottle, read the label. Mostly ibuprofen. He shook out a small handful of tablets and washed down the pills.