My broken fingers pulsed in agony as I struggled against the handcuffs. Under the covering of black velvet they were sturdy metal, and my wrists were quickly rubbed raw. I racked my brain for an escape plan—any plan. The most immediate threat was the fire. Maybe I could maneuver my body around, stick my legs into the fireplace, and kick the burning logs back when they came rolling out. It was the best I could think of.
As I moved my torso, however, Lennie came tumbling off the couch onto the walnut table, then twisted and rolled on to me. He shifted and maneuvered so that his hands, which were bound behind his back, would touch my hands in the handcuffs.
Bound and gagged, we both struggled—Lennie trying to get me to untie him, me fighting to turn my body around. He was too heavy, though, and we were hindered by the wool blanket, and I wasn’t able to move out from under him.
The wedges of fatwood that Ray had positioned in the blaze burned through, and three flaming logs rolled forward, lodging against the kindling basket. Within seconds the fatwood burst into flame, shooting tongues of fire up the mantel. Lennie’s bound hands were now on mine, and I tried futilely to untie the knots.
The flame intensified as heat and smoke seared my nostrils. My fingers couldn’t feel the knots on Lennie’s wrists, much less untie them, and I gave up, letting my hands go limp. The fatwood and the mantel were blazing, the blanket smoking, as the skin on my face scorched.
As soon as I stopped fighting, Lennie touched the mechanism of the handcuffs and they sprang open. He hadn’t been trying to get me to untie him—he’d been trying to free me. The handcuffs were some kind of prop, a trick, and he knew the secret to opening them. I jumped to my feet, hurt, but elated to be loose.
My first instinct was to run from the room, but Lennie was struggling on the floor, flames near his head. I reached down through the smoke to untie him, but my hands were too badly hurt. I still couldn’t feel the knots.
They say you can perform acts of miraculous strength in a crisis. Despite my crippled hands, I somehow hoisted the bound-up Lennie onto my shoulders and moved him toward the door. His antique Japanese sword was on the bar. Ray must have used it earlier to cut the lengths of rope he’d used to tie Lennie. This sword wasn’t one of the miniature replicas—it was the real thing, and the blade was razor sharp. I put Lennie down and forced my fingers around the handle of the sword. The blade sliced through the cords that bound his feet, he rose, and we staggered through the sitting room door and into the smoky corridor toward the studio.
We were both gagged with tape and his hands were still tied, but I held out the sword and he rubbed the ropes against the razor edge. In a moment he was free. He tore the duct tape from around his head and, finally realizing my hands were hurt, did the same for me. I screamed as clumps of my hair tore off with the tape, and then gasped for air.
“He’s got Nora,” Lennie cried. “I’ve got to go after them.”
“Wait, Lennie. Nora went with him on her own.”
“No, she didn’t. She wanted to make him leave. She knew you could get out of those handcuffs with the touch of a finger.”
The fire already had spread out of control. Roaring flames from the sitting room had followed the ancient pine wainscot paneling into the hall and spread into the studio.
“We’ve got to warn Highat and Elisabeth,” I said.
“Yes, do! I’m going after Nora.”
He took the sword from my hands and ran to the front door.
“Lennie,” I called. “Did you sneak up on Ray with the Webley?”
“Of course not! I never left the sitting room! He knocked me on the head while I was asleep on the sofa and took the gun from my hand. The man’s a violent maniac,” he cried, clutching his sword as he raced from the house.
I stumbled up the stairway to the guest suite in the dark. I’d lost my flashlight and couldn’t have held it anyway; my crushed fingers were crippled with pain. Using my elbow, I banged on Highat and Elisabeth’s door, and when it moved I kicked it open.
“The house is on fire,” I screamed as I rushed into the room.
Both sat up in bed with a start, and Highat stared at the glowing coals in the fireplace.
“The house is on fire,” I repeated. “It’s spreading. You’ve got to get out.”
“Nora and Lennie?” Elisabeth asked.
“Already out,” I gasped. “Grab your clothes. Can you get down the stairs?”
Elisabeth snatched a flashlight from the bedside table.
“Of course we can,” she said. “We’re not dodderers.”
They sprang out of bed with surprising swiftness, both dressed in flannel pajamas. Smoke was already filling the upstairs hall.
“Follow me! We’ve got to go now,” I said, and went running to the stairway.
As I descended into the downstairs hall, heat blasted me. The interior of Lennie’s studio was blazing. A half dozen canvases—worth millions—were in flames.
I turned to call a warning, but the Longworths were right behind me. In an instant we were running toward the kitchen, away from the danger. I couldn’t turn the back door knob, so Highat did it for us and we rushed out onto the snowy back porch. The Longworths were in their bare feet, but they didn’t complain as we moved at a half trot around the east side of the Big House toward the open garage.
When we reached the Cadillac my fingers wouldn’t move at all, so Elisabeth opened the back door, and we both got in, as Highat jumped into the front. He fumbled the keys out of the visor and backed into the unplowed snow of the driveway, then shifted into low and drove forward almost seventy yards before bogging the car in a drift. The tires spun in the snow until Highat stopped giving it gas so we wouldn’t dig in any deeper.
The car’s heater warmed the interior as we watched the fire spread through the Big House. Flames lit up all the windows in the center studio, sitting room, and library of the south wing. We watched helplessly as the blazing light then spread into the north wing and the kitchen windows.
“Where are Nora and Lennie?” asked Elisabeth.
“They’ve gone to the Keeper’s Cottage,” I answered, unsure of what to tell them.
“Ray’s cottage? Why on Earth?” said Highat. “There was a scene this evening. Lennie accused Nora of being involved with Ray. What the devil is going on?”
His voice was shaking, but I wasn’t up to this conversation and didn’t answer. I used the little finger of my left hand to move the handle, then pushed the door open with my shoulder.
“I’m going to check on them,” I said. “Stay here, but crack a window. Beware of carbon monoxide.”
The storm had passed completely. In the east, dawn rose in a cloudless sky, and as I walked around the side of the Big House, the thinnest rays of sunlight merged with the flames in the windows and reflected across the snow. As I hurried past, the power of the fire was absorbed into my body, threatening my senses. Nothing could survive that blaze—Nora and Lennie would lose everything, not to mention the six of Ray’s paintings I had stored there. Forcing myself to turn away from the sight, I plowed through the snow down the trail toward the Keeper’s Cottage. Soon I was out of breath and had to slow down. A primal survival center in the interior of my brain was sending a message to the forefront. I stopped and listened to it.
The message was, Where in hell do you think you’re going?
It was a good question. Why should I chase these people? What could I do? At least Lennie was armed: he had his sword, for all the good it would do him. Ray would probably blow Lennie’s head off.
As I considered returning to the Cadillac, I looked back toward the Big House. Streaks of flame and masses of smoke rose above the roof. I couldn’t abandon Lennie and Nora. I vowed to keep out of sight, and help only if it wouldn’t get me killed.
The morning sky grew lighter as I labored through the drifting snow, following their tracks. For ten more minutes I struggled to cover ground, listening with dread for the blast of a gun, but instead of shots I hear
d voices.
Near the turnoff to the Keeper’s Cottage, I left the open road and, using trees for cover, moved in the direction of the voices until I reached the top of a small hill. Nora, Ray, and Lennie were below me, perhaps thirty yards away, and as long as I remained hidden among the pines I could see but remain unseen.
Lennie was sheltered behind an oak, yelling hoarsely at Ray and Nora, who stood on the snow-covered walkway that connected the Keeper’s Cottage to the Arena. Ray was trying to point the gun at Lennie as Nora pulled Ray’s arm, struggling to upset his aim.
“Lennie, go away,” she shouted, “Please, go away.”
“He’s a liar, Nora,” Lennie yelled. “He tried to kill me, and Bradley too. He booby-trapped the fireplace!”
I strained to hear Ray’s response, but the wind shifted and a roar reached my ears. Ray, Nora, and Lennie all heard it and turned their heads toward the sound. For a brief moment everyone, including Ray, stood in silence as they watched shooting flames and billowing clouds of smoke rise above the trees.
“Mother!” shrieked Nora.
She jerked away from Ray, and he didn’t stop her.
“Mother! Daddy!” she called.
Ray looked confused for a moment as he watched her run toward the Big House. Then he turned his attention back to Lennie. As Nora passed my hiding place I cried out, “Wait! They’re all right!”
She stopped dead and peered through the snow-covered branches.
“Bradley?” Nora said, and came toward me through the pines. “Is that you? Where are they?”
“In their car with the heater on and the window cracked. They got out okay—I was with them.”
Relief lit her face but was immediately replaced by anguish.
“Can’t you stop this, Bradley? He’ll kill Lennie.”
With Nora no longer by Ray’s side, there was no one to keep him from the offensive and the tide of battle surged as we were speaking. Ray charged through the snow, pistol outstretched. Lennie heard him coming, and as Nora and I watched Lennie retreated two steps away from the protection of the tree, then slipped and fell to the ground. Ray had a clear shot from less than twenty feet.
He pointed the pistol at Lennie’s chest and pulled the trigger. The Webley’s hammer fell with a resounding click. He pulled the trigger again and another click echoed. Lennie realized that the gun was misfiring and rose to his feet. With a kendo scream, he charged at Ray, the sword held high above his head. Ray stood his ground and pulled the trigger a third, then a fourth time, but still the gun wouldn’t fire. The fifth time the pistol made a snap like a firecracker. With Lennie almost upon him, ready to split his skull open, Ray pulled the trigger for the last time. There was a deafening explosion, and the Webley vanished from his hand. The force of the blast knocked both men off their feet. I prayed that Ray would lie there in the snow, but he got to his feet and staggered away.
Lennie, too, rose unsteadily and, still clutching the sword, followed Ray toward the entrance to the Arena. He wasn’t screaming any war cries now. As Nora and I fought our way down the hill, Ray disappeared into the Arena entrance, with Lennie seconds behind him.
The snow where they’d fallen was covered with blood, and around their footprints were bright red spatters. One of them, it was impossible for me to tell which, had been badly hurt when the gun had exploded. Nora and I ran to the entrance of the Arena, then peered through the open double doors. At first I only saw dusty light slanting through broken windows in the gables onto wooden grandstands and patches of powdery snow on the ancient sawdust floors. I caught movement in the shadows. It was Ray, sprinting the dozen steps toward a wall rack from which tools were hanging. By the time my eyes focused on him he’d already grabbed a double-bladed ax and turned to face Lennie in the center of the Arena.
Ray’s right arm hung at his side, the hand mangled and bleeding from the explosion of the Webley, but, with his left hand, he lifted the ax high over his head. Lennie froze for a moment, paralyzed by the sight, then took two small steps backward before standing his ground. He straightened and, holding the sword with both hands, arms half outstretched, pointed the sword’s tip directly at Ray’s neck. This stance, Noboro had taught us, is used for the most dangerous of all kendo strikes—tsuki, the jab to the throat. But it leaves the head perilously exposed.
“You bastard,” Lennie said.
Ray didn’t speak, but moved slowly, cautiously, toward Lennie, the ax still held high. His eyebrows had been burned off by the Webley’s explosion, and his face was scorched and mask-like. Though his eyes were half closed he obviously could still see; his gaze and concentration were focused totally on Lennie. As Ray moved forward a step, Lennie retreated the same distance.
“Ray’s bleeding . . .” Nora whispered to me.
At the sound of her voice, Lennie’s eyes flickered in our direction, but Ray’s attention never wavered. At the moment of Lennie’s glance toward Nora, Ray leapt forward and with one arm brought the ax down in a vicious arc.
Lennie jerked sideways to avoid it, but the moment of distraction had made complete escape impossible. He jerked aside enough to keep his skull from being split, but the ax brushed the side of his head. A flap of skin and hair the size of a small pancake flew from his scalp, just above the ear, exposing white bone underneath. The double-edged ax blade struck the ground, and Ray was completely vulnerable.
The ax hadn’t hit Lennie squarely, but the blow staggered him and he was too dazed to use his chance. Instead his eyes widened as he looked at the red circle of hair on the ground. He put his hand to his head, then pulled it away; it was covered in blood. In that instant, his moment to attack was lost. Ray recovered his balance and, still clutching the wooden handle of the ax with his left hand, raised it over his head.
Lennie also recovered and returned both hands to the hilt of his sword, again pointing the tip toward Ray’s throat. They were as they had been moments before, except now Lennie was more badly injured.
There was nothing I could do to divert Ray’s attention—even for an instant—for fear of distracting Lennie again. The moment expanded, then time froze with Ray’s and Lennie’s eyes locked. It was so quiet, and they were so still, that a tiny gray starling flew in through one of the broken windows, and, completely unaware of human presence, landed on the ground between them.
A small intake of breath beside me brought Nora back into my vision. Of course she was a part of this—the point of it, in fact. As the duelists confronted each other, they must have been aware of her watching, even before she spoke into the frozen silence of the Arena.
“If thou and I love so alike . . .” she said softly, sadly.
The little bird took wing as Ray turned toward Nora’s voice.
“. . . that none do slacken . . .”
In the flicker of diversion, Lennie hurled himself forward with the sword pointed straight at Ray’s neck.
“. . . none can die.”
Ray was looking at Nora, the ax still held high over his head, when Lennie’s sword pierced his throat. Ray stayed still for an instant at full height as Lennie pushed the sword deeper until it came out the back of Ray’s neck. Then Lennie let go of the hilt, flung his hands high into the air, and stumbled backward.
Ray’s ax fell forward slowly, harmlessly, and he let go of the handle before it touched the ground. Using both his good left hand and his mangled right, Ray fought with the sword until he’d pulled the blade from his throat. Nora screamed. In the instant before Ray collapsed onto the dirt, the starling finished its single circle of the Arena, flew up through a hole in the roof, and disappeared into the fire lit morning.
CHAPTER XVII
◊
Seven months passed before I again drove up the Schoolcross drive and into the Circle. The farm looked very different from the last time I had seen it, and not just from the absence of snow. Orange surveyor’s ribbon hung from branches along the Circle, and I spotted an enormous dump truck and front-end loader parked on the west
lawn next to the sundial. It was a Saturday and the equipment was idle, but half the fire-charred skeleton of the Big House already had been hauled away.
I drove my rented Mercury to the house site and parked beside Highat’s Cadillac. He’d been sitting in the car waiting for my arrival. As I got out, he put down his New York Times and got out of his own car to greet me.
“Mr. Bradley,” he said, extending his hand. “So glad to see you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t shake hands,” I said. “The fingers are still healing. Someday soon . . .”
He’d either forgotten or, perhaps, hadn’t ever realized how badly Ray had hurt me that night. He glanced at my hands and murmured an apology before continuing.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”
His phone call on Wednesday had been so politely insistent that I hadn’t been able to refuse.
“I have no quarrel with you, Highat.”
“And I certainly have none with you. You saved our lives. If you hadn’t returned to Schoolcross that night . . .”
The passenger’s side door of the rental car opened and my daughter, Mary, stepped out. Her golden hair caught the sunlight, and little wispy strands hovered around her head, picked up by the light summer breeze.
“Daddy,” she said, “I’m bored in there.”
“Come here, honey. I want you to meet Mr. Longworth.”
“Hello, Mary,” he said. “What a pretty girl. How old are you? Here, I have something for you, if it’s all right with your father.”
She had walked up to us with a little frown on her face, but she brightened when Highat handed her a peppermint in a cellophane twist. She took the candy from his outstretched hand and regarded it gravely for a moment. She handed it to me. I unwrapped it and returned it to her.
“She’s five,” I answered for her.
“Can we stroll for a bit?” asked Highat.
We moved away from the cars, past the wreckage of the Big House. Mary trailed behind, sucking her peppermint.
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