Monarchs

by Rainey, Stephen

  Jesus! That tore it. Jan would be up to investigate any second now, and there was no earthly way she could explain her presence here a second time. Undoubtedly, Martha had rigged the cans as an alarm — just to ensure that Courtney would be caught should she be audacious enough to repeat her original, ill-fated stunt.

  Bravo, you clever shrew.

  Well, if anything were to be found here, it must be in the closet. And if she could no longer hope to escape discovery, she might as well go all the way. Galvanized by adrenaline, she began rifling through the hanging dresses, the blouses, the fine satin nightgowns, the blankets and bed sheets folded on the end shelves. In here, the odor of mothballs was almost unbearable. She found a ton of old clothing piled in the corners — probably garments that should have been disposed of but that Martha had saved, for whatever reason. There were blouses, slacks, skirts, jackets, even shoes, and nothing looked less than thirty years old. At least a dozen shoeboxes, a few handbags, and a large hatbox occupied the upper shelves.

  Her heart fell, for surely, Jan would even now be on her way up to investigate; Courtney was going to get caught snooping — again — and for what? Confirming that Martha was a hopeless packrat?

  She stood and listened for a few seconds, expecting to hear Jan's footsteps on the stairs. So far, nothing. She could hardly breathe any easier, but she welcomed every remaining second before she had to answer for her actions. She was just about to abandon the closet when something at the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned to identify it. There, behind the pile of clothes at one end — a familiar pattern. Too familiar.

  She pulled it free and held it up. A black, white, and mocha striped sweater, obviously newer than the other clothes in the pile.

  And very obviously Courtney's.

  Something fell to the hardwood floor, and she looked down to see a small brown paper packet, which she picked up and opened without hesitation. A pair of silver, sapphire-studded earrings fell into her palm.

  Also hers.

  "Why, you crafty old…"

  "Courtney? Fancy finding you here."

  It wasn't Jan but Arlene standing in the doorway, regarding her with narrow, suspicious eyes. Courtney's heart sank, for she had appeared the fool once already to the kindly housekeeper. Regardless, at the moment, her ire had the upper hand. She held up her sweater and earrings. "I thought I might retrieve these. They belong to me."

  "Do they?" Arlene's gaze turned doubtful.

  "Yes, they do. Dear Aunt Martha isn't only demented, she's apparently a kleptomaniac."

  Arlene reached out and touched the sweater. "Where did you find them?"

  She pointed to the closet. "In there. That was the racket you heard. Martha piled cans up so they'd fall if anyone opened the doors."

  "How did you know Martha took them?"

  She hesitated. "I didn't, actually."

  "So…you weren't in here looking for these specifically?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think you were going to do anything like this again, Courtney."

  "Neither did I." So far, Arlene had shown herself to be compassionate, so she decided to stick with honesty. "Look, I don't know if you know anything about what's going on, but Martha threatened me last night."

  "Threatened you?"

  "She came down in the middle of the night and basically suggested I should make my peace with God."

  "I see." Arlene stared deeply into her eyes. "And you believed her?"

  She shrugged. "At the time, it seemed like a good idea to take her seriously."

  "So you reckon that's grounds to come up here and start poking around — again?"

  "Arlene, that old woman is scheming something. It apparently involves me, and I want to know what it is." She held up her sweater and earrings. "Why do you suppose she would take these?"

  "I don't have the first idea." Arlene shook her head in annoyance, but after a long look at Courtney, her expression turned sad. She sighed heavily. "I have to tell you, I don't imagine it was for anything good. Did she mention the Monarch again?"

  "Not directly. But she suggested that I accept it as real. That I should believe in the things I've seen and heard."

  Arlene now stood close to her and said in a soft voice, "Courtney, I'm going to tell you something. Now, I don't know if the Monarch is real. My head tells me there can't be any such thing. But that old woman. She can sure make things happen, one way or another. And if she's threatening you, it's not something to take lightly."

  "That," she said with a hard swallow, "is why I'm here now."

  "I understand. But this isn't the right thing to do."

  "What do you think she could 'make happen'?"

  "Let's just say she gets her way. She always gets her way. That's the most I can tell you."

  Courtney sighed in frustration. "Is there no such thing as a straight answer around here?"

  "Courtney. You understand I'm risking my livelihood talking to you right now. You know that?"

  She gave Arlene a long, remorseful look. "I'm sorry. The last thing I want to do is put you in an awkward situation."

  "Girl, you've already done that." She looked around at the scattered cans and scowled. "Well, let's get this mess cleaned up. This time, and this time only, I won't say a word to a soul."

  "Why are you helping me?"

  "Because I believe you're a good person at heart. And you're Jan's friend." She knelt to gather up a few of the cans.

  "I appreciate your kindness," Courtney said.

  "That girl does think the world of you."

  "Where is she?"

  "Out in the garage, cleaning out her car. I gathered y'all supposed to go to the beach this morning."

  "First I've heard of it. So she doesn't know I'm up here?"

  "No."

  "That's a relief. You know, you don't have to stay here and help me, if it makes you uncomfortable."

  Arlene chuckled. "I'm a lot more uncomfortable leaving you here alone."

  "I didn't mean to drag you into this."

  "We'd better hurry," Arlene said, placing another armload of cans back in the closet. "Unless you want to have to explain this over again to Jan."

  "I suppose I should tell her, shouldn't I?"

  The older woman gave her a stern glance. "I don't think you should say a word about it. Not to her, not to David, not to anybody. You don't want it getting back to the old woman — assuming she doesn't figure it out on her own."

  Courtney felt a little chill. "You're frightened of her, aren't you?"

  Arlene shook her head. "Girl, I'm too old to be frightened of her. No, ma'am, I dread that woman."

  The afternoon at the beach with Jan was excruciating. They exchanged perhaps three meaningful words on the hour-long drive there, three more while catching the few rays that occasionally slipped through the gaps in the clouds, and a final three on the way home. Jan did carry on aplenty, but it was all chitchat — mostly fond reminiscences about their times together in college and people and places they had known over the years. Several times, Courtney wanted to break down and confess what she had done, or at least lay out her fears and try again to extract some answers; however, each time she even started to mention Aunt Martha's name, Jan tensed up and either fell completely silent or moved on to topics such as drinking games and attracting the opposite sex.

  Clearly, Jan was suffering from shock and denial. The events of the past few days had been traumatic, certainly, but it was something more than that. Her parents' and fiancé's deaths, perhaps. Whatever her outward face, Jan still had not come to terms with them. Maybe these recent events had dragged her pain, which she had tried so hard to bury, back to the forefront of her consciousness.

  Somehow, Courtney thought, she had to get away from Fearing. No more idle days lounging at the beach or sipping wine with Jan. Beginning tomorrow, she must redouble her efforts to find a job, a new place to live, and become independent again. Having all her needs provided for, at least in this e
nvironment, no longer held the slightest appeal.

  She had racked her brain trying to think of somewhere else to go, someone she might stay with until she found her feet again. But Frank had been so possessive, so jealous of anyone else in her life, that any close friends she'd ever had, except for Jan, had long since drifted away. Seeking help from her parents was out of the question. After the things her own father had done, she had vowed never to speak to him again, and her decrepit, alcoholic mother could barely sustain herself, much less help her.

  Truly, she was on her own.

  She had been apprehensive about returning to the Blackburn house, uncertain whether Martha might have learned about her latest round of trespassing, but something told her that Arlene had seen to covering her tracks. Eventually, Martha would discover the sweater and earrings missing, but by then, hopefully, Courtney would be gone for good and beyond worrying about the demented old witch ever again. She could still scarcely believe Martha had stolen her things — the senselessness of it! — and she wondered how the old thief would take finding that she had been robbed of her prizes. Courtney had half-expected Arlene to suggest she return her things to the closet to allay any suspicion, but that was something she would never do. If Martha were to discover the theft immediately, it just might draw her out and reveal her motives. The idea was almost enticing, but for the inevitable consequence of having to face the crone's fury.

  Jan was her only company at dinner, and it was as grim as the afternoon at the beach. Arlene had made a fine meal of ham, potatoes au gratin, and fresh green beans, but Courtney barely ate any of it, and afterward, she retired to her room and logged onto the Internet to do some job hunting. She posted her résumé at a few promising-looking sites, but she didn't find herself feeling very hopeful. After an hour or so, a knock came at her door, and her heart stuttered. Summoning her courage, she called, "Come in," only to feel a warm wave of relief, broken by a sharp stab of anxiety, when David, rather than an irate Martha, stepped inside.

  "How about a run?" he asked, looking infuriatingly cheerful.

  "It's dark outside."

  "Best time for it, don't you think? It's getting cooler, and there's less chance of anyone seeing you."

  "You think someone might be out there watching for me?"

  "No. You do."

  She gazed coolly at him. "How do you know there isn't a murderer lurking nearby?"

  "I don't consider that our problem."

  "No? And why not?"

  "Because whoever had it in for Hank Surber took care of his business, and I expect that's that."

  "You're very confident."

  "No reason not to be."

  For several moments, she studied his carefree posture, his earnest expression. Why should he be so certain they would be safe?

  "I could stand to get out of here for a little while," she said slowly, unsure she liked where her mind was going.

  He smiled warmly. "Then how about we both change, and I'll meet you here in ten minutes?"

  She felt her face burning, but he didn't seem to notice. "All right. In ten."

  "Good."

  If she felt safe with anyone here, it was David. He had already proven he would protect her against physical threat. But he had all but brutalized her, sexually. What was really happening behind those luminous, sapphire blue eyes that appeared so adoring of her?

  She changed into her T-shirt and running shorts, only then realizing that the air felt quite chilly again. There was no air conditioning in her suite. Why did it so often feel cold here, in late summer, in the Great Dismal Swamp? If she believed in unnatural things, she might think it was exactly that. Well, when she considered the thing she had glimpsed, and that Aunt Martha wanted her to believe in, she couldn't be sure that her definition of "natural" was quite what it used to be. So far, she had dealt with the chaos in her mind by accepting that, somehow, her senses had been fooled.

  But they hadn't been fooled. If anything, manipulated.

  When David reappeared, dressed in white gym shorts and a gray T-shirt bearing the logo of Beckham College, she couldn't help but admire his well-toned arms and legs, his slim waist, his tanned skin. Her heart pounded a little, just as it had when she had first seen him — how many days ago was it? Even now, after having spent two nights with him, each time they came together, he seemed more complex, more fascinating.

  More perilous.

  "I distinctly recall you saying you didn't like to run."

  "I like being with you. Which trumps my aversion to running."

  "I see."

  "Shall we?"

  She shrugged and followed him out the door, into the humid but distinctly cool evening air, taking a few long, deep breaths to prepare herself. As she started around the corner of the house after him, she glanced up and noticed in the illuminated upstairs window a dark, hunched silhouette, its head slowly swiveling as its unseen eyes tracked them across the lawn. She tried to ignore the image, to banish the notion that Martha was something other than an eccentric old curmudgeon who delighted in making mischief, but the very sight of the woman dropped a cold stone into her stomach.

  A crescent moon hovered in the hazy sky, turning the landscape a dull silver-gray, so she could see far enough ahead to avoid any hazards. At the bottom of the driveway, somewhat to her surprise, David turned right, away from town and toward the darker reaches of the Dismal Swamp. At first, her mind rebelled at the idea of venturing into unknown territory in the dark, and she nearly halted to voice her protest. But David's point that she would be camouflaged against prying eyes was well-taken, and she forced herself to trust his judgment. She let him set the pace, a comfortable jog she could sustain for a couple of miles or more, and once they rounded a curve and left the hulking old house behind, she began to relax a little.

  Still, the memory of that other thing lurked undimmed in the back of her mind, all the more so since Martha had seen them leave. Though her mind might accept the possibility that her perceptions had been distorted, her heart certainly didn't. David's presence reassured and steadied her, so she ran with confidence, yet she knew that if he were not here right now, her self-control wouldn't hold up any better than a matchstick tower in the wind.

  They ran without speaking to each other, which suited her fine. For one thing, she didn't care to waste her breath while working out her body, and for another, the silent night clearly disapproved of any sound louder than the syncopated thumping of their shoes on the asphalt. Tonight, there was no wind, and the lonely calls of night birds and crickets crept out of the close-pressing trees only sporadically and from a distance.

  Her eyes continually darted into the dark thickets, her senses alert for any movement or other sign of someone or something shadowing them. Once, she heard something crunching through the nearby brush, seemingly keeping pace with them, but her roving eyes failed to spot anything. David ran on, oblivious to the noise, though she knew damn well that he must hear it too.

  For God's sake, it's just an animal. There are "normal" animals in the woods, you know.

  By running, she had hoped to find relief from the stifling atmosphere of the Blackburns' ancient keep, but inside or out, it no longer mattered. For her, Fearing held only gloom, and despite his impenetrable veneer, David seemed the only fixture firm enough to cling to.

  The road threaded its way deeper into the abyss, and they passed only one farmhouse, a vaguely sinister-looking thing with a single light burning in an upstairs window. As she glanced at it, a dark silhouette appeared briefly in the window, bringing to mind the image of old Martha watching from her aerie. Even after the figure disappeared, the eyes of the night seemed to have awakened to her presence and now regarded her with icy disapproval.

  Something crunched heavily in the woods off to the right, and she nearly slammed to a halt. David kept going, though, his eyes set firmly ahead, evidently oblivious to the noises. The trees now hid the moon, and she feared finding loose gravel or a hidden pothole that might send he
r stumbling. She slowed down, hoping it would signal David to do the same, but he maintained his pace, unfazed by the diminished visibility.

  "Hey," she finally called softly. "Hold up, will you?"

  "Tired?" he called back.

  "No, I can't see."

  She heard his footfalls winding down, and she closed the distance between them, barely able to make out his faint, silver-limned figure against the featureless black backdrop. "The road's straight," he said. "Nothing to worry about."

  "We should have gone the other way. At least we'd have the moon."

  "I like the dark," he said, his teeth flashing as he grinned. "And the privacy back here."

  "I've always preferred to see what I was getting into."

  Their pace had dwindled to a fast walk, which suited Courtney fine. Only the faintest gleam revealed David's eyes. "You're not afraid, are you?"

  "Just a little worried about myself, for following you so willingly."

  "Yes, in your position, I'd worry too."

  She didn't laugh. "So where does this road go?"

  "About half mile on, there are a couple of forks that lead a ways into the river basin before they just peter out. Years ago, there were a few plantations out this way, but the swamp just swallowed them up. That land's no good for anything now. Arlene grew up back there, you know."

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "Her family pretty much came apart at the seams when their farm failed. My grandparents — Dad's parents – basically rescued her from destitution, and she's been loyal to the family ever since."

  "I see."

  She gazed at his hidden face. "I'm going to ask you the same question I asked Jan. What keeps you tied to this place? With all the trouble you've had, haven't you considered moving somewhere else?"

  He didn't answer for a moment, and she could feel his stare. "You never had a home place that your family occupied for generations. A place where you grew up that you loved."

  "No."

  "Then I wouldn't expect you to understand. For all its troubles, I've always loved it here. So has Jan. We'd do anything to protect our home. This is our heritage."