Slowly, he lay down again. Christ, that was hard. He was going to need a couple of days to get his strength back. But he didn’t have a couple of days; he had to move now. He tried again, and again didn’t make it. But the pills should help. He gave himself twenty minutes to let them do their magic.
He didn’t intend to sleep, but he did. The little window was dark when he woke again. He cursed when he saw it. Had he slept all day? Or was it the day after?
He took another dose of Midol, downed half the bottle of water, and ate an orange. He still hurt like a son of a bitch, but moving was less torturous and getting vertical no longer felt like a crawl up a high, rocky mountain.
He tried his sea legs, shuffling around the perimeter and holding on to the walls.
It was ironic, hiding out in that freak show of a room. The walls had long ago been painted over, but he’d never forget what they’d looked like before. Like someone had gone crazy in there. Precise but insane drawings in heavy red ink. Circles around circles around eyes dripping blood. Things that looked like spiders with huge teeth crushing bodies. No one could ever accuse Dutch of not having talent. Some of it had even been painted in blood, or at least that’s what Dutch said when he crept up to Mitch’s bed the night after he’d showed the room to their mother. That was what the washstand had been for. Mice, birds, cats, even a small dog.
“I can do the same to you,” Dutch had whispered in the blackness of Mitch’s room. “And no one would care.”
Mitch believed him.
When he showed the room to Iona, she’d gone as white as the walls were now. She’d dragged him out, shock and fear on her face.
“Don’t you ever, ever mention this again,” she’d said, her hand a claw on his arm. “Not to anyone, do you understand?”
Within the hour, she’d dismissed one of the help, a girl who’d come to them recently and who was categorized as “slow” and who probably didn’t even know the room existed. Painters were there that afternoon, and the pantry moved in front of the door the next day.
He’d had years to think about his mother. From the distance of time and the occasional news photo, he saw how brittle she’d become. As though keeping her beautiful son’s secret had turned her into a pillar of ice—one with faults and fissures she was desperate to conceal. The strain must have been enormous; no wonder she was barely sixty when she died.
Had she thought about him in those last moments? When he’d read about her death, he’d had a short-lived hope that somewhere inside her had been a softer place, a place that was sorry and wanted forgiveness. But reality soon surfaced. She’d probably been too focused on Dutch to worry about her firstborn. That had always been the pattern—Dutch consumed every ounce of her energy; she simply had no room for anything or anyone else.
Now he carefully lowered himself onto the cot. He hadn’t lasted long, but just the fact that he lasted at all gave him hope.
For the first time, he heard noise from outside the room. It must have been there all along—pots and utensils banging in the distance—but he hadn’t been focused enough before. If it was dark outside and the kitchen was being used, it probably meant dinner. So it was sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. He wouldn’t be able to sneak out and look for Neesy and Julia for hours.
He spent the time alternating between sleep and exercise, trying to rest as much as possible but also keep his muscles from forgetting what they were there for. By the time the cooking noises beyond the door had stopped, he felt as ready as he’d ever be to find what he’d come for.
The biggest obstacle was going to be pushing that pantry away. Ordinarily it would have been no problem, but he was not at full strength. He used his back and his legs, the least compromised parts of his body, and was gratified to hear the scratch of the wood on the floor. He rested, pushed again, a little wider this time. A third push gave him enough room to slip past. The exertion left him breathless, so while he waited for his heart to slow, he went over the plan in his head.
Neesy had said she’d checked the upstairs bedrooms and some of the servants’ quarters, too. But she also said she’d gotten lost, so there were parts of the back hallways she might have missed. Not to mention a few nooks she’d never find unless she knew where they were.
When he’d regained his strength, he slipped through the door, past the side of the closet, and into the kitchen. He didn’t remember coming through with Neesy, so it seemed as though this was the first time he’d been there in over a decade. The smell of lavender hit him immediately. His mother had abhorred cooking smells and insisted on a fresh bouquet at all times. He also recognized the long prep table with the pots hanging above it. There was a new stove and refrigerator, both stainless, wide, and professional-looking. Other than that, the kitchen looked exactly as he remembered.
Except for one small detail.
Dutch lounged against the counter.
45
Neesy woke slowly. The light was so strong she flinched and slammed her eyes shut. God, her head… It was so huge and so heavy it must have grown ten pounds overnight.
She groaned, tried to raise an arm to shield herself from the glare seeping through her lids.
Her arm didn’t move.
She tried again.
Icy heat raced through her. She bolted up, her eyes jerking open.
But straps across her chest and waist, her thighs and ankles, kept her still. She was in some kind of chair—not unlike what the dentist used—and with horror saw that on either side, her arms were cradled in some kind of support, her palms and wrists up like a sacrifice. A needle was inserted in her vein just below the elbow fold. It was attached to a tube that was taped down the length of her arm. The tube disappeared into a bag that was slowly filling with blood.
Her blood.
Her stomach cramped. She gagged.
What was happening? Where was she?
Forcing herself to calm down, she looked around. Above her, open timbers formed the ceiling. The three walls she could see were completely transparent, and they went all the way up to the roof. Beyond them, everything was white—walls, floor, all lined in white tile. A set of chrome shelves held boxes of syringes, tubing, scalpels, packages of sodium citrate, and something labeled FLUNITRAZEPAM.
Was she in the hospital?
Her heart thudded desperately.
No hospital looked like this.
She searched her memory for something to hold on to. Her mind was fuzzy, and it took a while for a solid recollection to surface. The mansion. Hanover House. The name slipped into her mind like a victory. Yes. The last place she’d been was Hanover House.
Another memory surfaced. Mitch. She’d found Mitch and he’d been hurt. She’d helped him to that room off the kitchen and then…
And then…
She tensed. Dutch. Something had happened with Dutch.
Had he brought her here? When? Why couldn’t she remember?
She stared at the thing in her arm. Forget the where and why—she just had to rip that thing out of her arm.
She wriggled, trying to dislodge herself. When the wriggling didn’t work, she pulled and jerked, twitching herself into a crazed, spastic dance.
The straps didn’t budge. Neither did the needle in her arm.
A haze of icy dread swirled around her as she realized with growing terror that she was too securely bound to escape.
How long had she been there? How much blood had she lost?
She started screaming. She screamed until she was hoarse. Until she wore herself out.
No one heard. No one came.
Exhausted, her muscles went lax. All that effort and she was exactly where she’d been when she woke—lashed to a chair.
And bit by bit, with inevitable and relentless detachment, the blood slowly drained out of her.
46
Shock rooted Mitch to the floor.
“What took you so long?” Arms crossed in front of him, Dutch looked unflappably relaxed in a pair of
charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt open at the neck. Exhilaration gleamed from his baby blues. “I left you enough breadcrumbs. That poor dog.” He shook his head, but it was more mock sorrow than the real thing.
Warily, Mitch kept his distance. “Heard you’d busted your knee.”
“Amazing what medical science can do these days, isn’t it? People see what they want to see, what the true artist frames for them. A man on crutches? Surely he was in the hospital all day.”
Sick knowledge swirled inside Mitch. “And Shelby?”
“Just another body to add to your long list. A little incentive to get you moving. I’ve been expecting you daily.”
“You should have sent a car.”
Dutch grinned. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
They stared at each other. Mitch fisted his hands; the memory of his brother’s throat beneath his fingers was potent. But he was acutely aware of the knives in the block within Dutch’s easy reach, and of his own weakness. Given his current physical state, his younger brother could grab a blade and thrust it through his heart before he could evade, let alone disarm, him.
Dutch seemed to know it, too. “This what’s bothering you?” He slid out a large butcher knife and waved it provocatively between them. “I don’t think I’ll be needing this, big brother. At least, not yet.” He rammed the knife home. “You want Julia and I have her. That’s really all the leverage I need.”
Mitch growled, and Dutch held up an open hand. “First, a few ground rules. Disney World was exciting, but I don’t relish a repeat. You will neither attack nor interrupt me, and you will do exactly as I say. Finally—now, I want to be clear about this—you can have Julia or you can have Miss Brown. But not both.”
“Miss Brown?”
“Oh, come on, Mitch. You’re not very good at deception. You know Miss Brown. Neesy. Your… companion in arms, so to speak. You really should have told her to clean the floor when she moved the pantry. She left a mark even a blind man could see.”
Mitch looked down. A slight discoloration in the wood showed where the pantry had stood for decades and where it stood now, an inch over.
“The devil is in the details, isn’t it?” Dutch said.
A cold, slimy film coated Mitch’s mouth. He wanted to spit in Dutch’s face. Skewer him with a knife himself. Silently, he flung a dozen curses at him. But out loud all he said was, “Fuck you, Dutch.”
His brother threw back his head and laughed. He held out a trim arm, still burbling. “Shall we?”
Dutch produced a flashlight and directed Mitch through the back hallways. They met no one on the long, dark route.
“No thugs today?” Mitch asked.
“Family matters are best left to family, don’t you agree?” Dutch smiled amiably and opened the door to the attic. “Up you go.”
“Neesy said Julia wasn’t there.”
“Can’t believe everything you hear. Or see.”
Mitch gazed up the narrow, winding steps. Dutch had given his thick-necks the day off—a sign of supreme confidence. He thought he could handle Mitch alone, without help or witnesses. But that worked both ways. Climbing those stairs would be difficult for Mitch. He’d have to go slow and stop often. But the pace might give him a chance. One chance only, when he got to the top ahead of Dutch. For a second, maybe two, he’d have Dutch off balance with the sweep of the stairs behind him and Mitch in front. Even with his injuries, Mitch thought he could shove Dutch hard enough to topple him down the stairs. And hopefully break his neck. And there were no bystanders to deny it was an accident.
He started up, hopeful, planning, braced for the coming struggle.
“No, no,” Dutch said. “Wait a minute. I think I’d better go first this time.”
Mitch stopped dead. Didn’t move.
“Unless you’d rather not see either of the women,” Dutch said.
Wordlessly, Mitch shifted to one side so Dutch could go ahead of him, then slogged the rest of the way, holding on to his side and gritting his teeth.
The attic was as naked of humanity as Neesy had said it was. If anything lived there, it was the spider, the rat, and the roach. Then again, that was how Dutch liked it. Always fodder for his little hobbies.
“Well?” Mitch demanded.
“Patience, brother,” Dutch said. “Perhaps you’d like to see my latest project?” He uncovered an easel that sat off to one side.
“I’d rather see…” But the words died in Mitch’s throat. On the easel was another of Dutch’s strange child-women. She was lounging on a glass slab, half naked and half covered in fur and animal skins. Her face had no features yet, but her hair was short and dark like Julia’s. That alone set alarms clanging, but there was more. Something Mitch couldn’t name, an innate evil that jumped out at him from the canvas.
“Of course, it’s not finished,” Dutch said. “In fact, I may never finish it.”
“Where is she?” Mitch scuttled over to his brother like an injured crab, limping and jogging and dragging one leg.
Dutch easily avoided him. “All right. So you’re not an art lover.”
“You tell me what I want to know or I’ll shove that thing down your throat and watch you choke on it.”
“You do and you’ll never see Julia or Miss Brown again.” His eyes were blue flint, hard and cold, and Mitch wanted to hack out those beautiful orbs. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Dutch’s lethal glare immediately softened into amusement. “No need for hostilities. A deal is a deal.” A table near the easel held a variety of painter’s tools, and Dutch reached for one.
Not a brush. A remote control.
He held it toward the center of the attic ceiling. “You remember Agnes, don’t you?”
“Agnes? What are you talking about?”
“Family lore, Mitchell. The girl in the attic.”
“The one who hung herself? That’s just a story.”
“Actually, it’s not. I looked it up. Her name was Agnes Deare, and she was probably murdered. Of course, the authorities covered all that up. And I’m sure they were well paid for it, too.” He pressed a button on the remote. “I just thought it appropriate to carry on the family tradition over the spot where she died.” Above their heads, the ceiling opened like the heavens dividing. From the groaning split, a set of stairs slowly descended.
When they were in place, Dutch gestured Mitch up, and once again, Mitch had a chance to break free.
But when he got to the top and saw what was there, all thought of escape evaporated.
The stairs led up through the center of a new room. In front of him was a glass prison, its transparent walls built up to the ceiling. Inside, Neesy was strapped to a chair, a needle in her arm.
“So,” Dutch hissed behind him. “What shall it be, the lady or the tiger?”
47
With frenzied intent, Mitch scanned the room, looking for something, anything, to use on the glass.
Dutch opened a door that was flush with the tiled walls. He brought out a baseball bat. “This what you’re looking for?”
Mitch wrenched the bat away and used every ounce of strength he had to attack the glass.
Dutch watched, an amused expression on his face. “You’re wasting your time. It won’t shatter. I know because right after I had it installed, I tried to break it myself.”
Mitch tossed the bat away, and it landed on the tile with a crash. He grabbed Dutch by his shirt.
“What the hell are you doing to her?”
“Remember our deal,” Dutch warned.
Shouting, Mitch shook his brother. “What are you pumping into her?”
“I’m not pumping in anything. I’m withdrawing.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Withdrawing what?”
“Her blood, Mitchell.”
Mitch was so stunned he relaxed his grip, and Dutch stepped away. “It’s a relatively painless way to die.” He straightened his shirt. “Eventually there won’t be enough left for her heart
to pump and it will simply… stop.”
“You’re even more of a monster than I thought possible.”
“Sticks and stones, brother.” He brushed his hands together, ridding them of invisible dust. “Now, I should count that as a deal-breaker.” He smiled. “But I won’t.”
That smile enraged Mitch. He swiped a scalpel from a shelf of medical supplies and sprang at Dutch. “The keys, brother! Where are the keys?”
But even with a knife inches from his jugular, Dutch only looked amused. “Do you think I would resort to something so mundane?”
“Give me the key or I’ll cut your throat—I swear I will. I might even do it anyway.” Mitch nicked Dutch’s throat. Droplets of blood landed on the collar of his pristine white shirt.
Dutch flinched. “Kill me and she’ll bleed out before you can open the door.”
“The key, Dutch!”
“There is no key! The cube can only be unlocked by a code. And only I know what it is. Kill me, kill her.”
Mitch looked over at Neesy. She was watching with stark, bloodshot eyes.
“I’ll take that.” Dutch grabbed the scalpel. “I see you can’t be trusted to hold up your end of a bargain.” He played absently with the blade. “But I won’t have it said that I’m a hard-hearted bastard.” He picked up the remote and quickly punched in the number on the keypad. “There. Go ahead. Take her.”
One of the walls began to slide open. Mitch ran to it, but it halted before it was wide enough to slip through. He whirled. Dutch was watching him closely.
“Of course, I do keep my end,” Dutch said. “So, if I let you take Miss Brown, you’ll have to leave Julia with me.”
Mitch took a step toward his brother, and Dutch smiled again.
“I thought you might change your mind.”
“What do you want from me, Dutch? Do you want me dead? I’ll die for you, but you have to let Julia and Neesy go.”
“Very noble of you. But I want you very much alive. I want you to watch them die. I want to see your face when the life goes out of theirs. And I want you to know your choice made it happen.”
Two Lethal Lies Page 26