by Anita Higman
Wyatt paused, his breath coming fast from the exertion. “The thought has crossed my mind.”
That had to be an understatement. He went back to pulling up the boards, piling them off to the side until the gaping hole was uncovered. “Why?” I asked, as Wyatt gazed into the pit.
“Why what?”
“Why do you think Ivan killed your mother?”
He rose from a squat and avoided my eyes. “It’s just…a very intense feeling I have.”
I crossed my arms. “So you don’t have any evidence?”
Agitated, Wyatt pushed his hair away from his eyes. “No, not really. But haven’t you ever followed your gut before?” He made a fist and held it against his stomach.
A memory of my dad surfaced in my mind, surprisingly vivid. As a little girl, he’d taken me to the animal shelter to get a kitten for my birthday. When I saw their furry faces, mewing through the bars of their cages, I looked up at him and crooned, “Daddy, I can’t choose. How do I decide which one to pick?”
Dad put a hand on my shoulder and said—in that steady voice of his—“Go with your gut.”
Wyatt exhaled through his nose, shoving the memory into the back of my mind. “Anne, please. I need your help.”
It was probably not a good idea to drop into a dark rat-infested abyss with a guy—who quite possibly had a rather large bone to pick with me—in order to investigate the buried past life of my future stepfather. But, for whatever reason, my gut told me Wyatt could be trusted.
And it was that gut feeling that took me to the edge of the pit, flashlight in hand, ready to descend.
Chapter Fourteen
Anne
Wyatt lowered himself down first, hanging from the floorboards by his hands and then dropping down like a cat to the dank room below. He clicked on his flashlight, set it on the floor, and then held up his arms. “Scoot off the edge. I’ll catch you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Methinks you overestimate your own strength.” Attempting the same maneuver as him, I swiveled my back toward the hole and lowered my body down, hanging from my arms. However, my descent was much less graceful than his and I swung forward—clinging to the ceiling like a terrified monkey—until Wyatt caught me around the waist and set me down on the stone floor.
He looked down at me, inches away. “Not bad.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thanks.” I took a few steps away from him.
We wielded our flashlights and began to search the cell, the small circles of light revealing the creepy, stomach-twisting etchings on the walls and a narrow wooden door I hadn’t seen last time. As I stared at a crude drawing of a decapitated head, the eyes made of X’s, I realized that I wasn’t nearly as afraid as I had been the first time I was here. Having Wyatt with me made all the difference. I only hoped my trust in him wasn’t misplaced.
After a few silent moments, Wyatt turned to me, his flashlight creating pools of shadow on his face. “You weren’t kidding. This is some pretty psycho graffiti.” He pointed at a wall that had endless tally marks, too many to count. “These marks must be the number of days someone was down here.”
“I thought the same thing.” I approached the wall. “But see how the tallies are separated into chunks? Maybe whoever the person was wasn’t imprisoned for one long sentence, but a bunch of different times over a span of years?” I felt like an archeologist, deciphering the meaning of some ancient code.
“Possibly.” Wyatt gestured toward the sailboat in my back pocket. “I wonder why one of Ivan’s childhood toys was down here. I can’t swallow the idea of someone trapping a kid in this place, especially the heir of Belrose.” Leaning close to another wall, he studied a batch of etchings. “Some of these pictures are more detailed and better drawn than others, but all of the faces seem to be the same.”
I swept my light over the wall, taking in all the faces, their eyes crossed out. There had to be hundreds. Even though the figures were all acting out different deaths—hanging from trees, falling from cliffs—the facial features on all of them were similar: the same sharp nose, heavy brow, and stern mouth. It was as if every etching was the same person, dying over and over again.
I shuddered. “I wonder who that person was supposed to be.”
Wyatt pointed at a particular carving. “I think it’s supposed to be a woman. A lot of them are wearing dresses.” He gave me a weak grin. “But maybe they’re all the same because the artist could only draw one face.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.” Then something dawned on me. “Hey, the toy chest is gone.”
Wyatt’s eyes grew wide. “How did I not notice? Getting out of here just got a lot harder.”
I hugged myself, feeling the chill close in around me. “Didn’t you say there was an entrance Ivan had blocked? Surely it wouldn’t be locked from the inside.”
He turned toward the cell door, testing the iron handle. “Yeah, but that’s our last resort.”
“Why?”
“Because it leads into Ivan’s bedroom.”
“Oh.” I thought about bringing up the fact that he’d already broken into Ivan’s office. What was the difference? But I held my tongue.
Wyatt put his shoulder against the door, holding down the latch. “Help me shove this door open. It’s not locked, it’s just swollen shut.”
I walked over and leaned against the door. “How will going deeper into the catacombs help?” Did I even want to go deeper?
“Hopefully we’ll be able to find something that can boost us up a little higher so we can reach the hole in the ceiling.”
I guess he had a point. Although he probably wanted to explore more for other reasons too. Still being careful with my tender ankle, I pushed against the door with Wyatt, the cool wood hard on my shoulder. After a few grunts and heaves, the door released its hold and flew open, throwing us out into the inkiness of a low-ceilinged corridor, the only illumination coming from the bouncing beams of our flashlights.
To the right, the corridor stopped at a dead end—a flat stone wall with an ancient sconce that might have been used to hold a candle long ago.
“Shall we?” Wyatt asked, gesturing toward the left.
Squaring my shoulders, I said, “No way but forward.” My words echoed off the close walls, whispering back to us. I followed Wyatt down the corridor, walking on tiptoe, although I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was afraid I’d awaken something from the deep.
Oh cut it out, Anne.
We passed a small enclave filled with large urns that were draped with a silken layer of spider webs. Speaking just under his breath, Wyatt said, “The last time I was in this corridor, I was playing hide and seek with my mom.”
“Really? Down here?”
“She had a way of making anything fun. She was usually pretty happy, but she was physically frail. She had a bunch of maladies. Scoliosis. Asthma. Ulcers. Hemophilia.”
I glanced up at him, surprised. “Really? My mom is a hemophiliac.”
“I could have guessed from the cut she got at dinner last night.”
There was a question pressing on my mind. Since our faces were mostly obscured by the darkness, I felt more comfortable asking. “Do you know where Miss Easton found…?”
“My mom’s body? No. That’s not the kind of thing people usually tell a ten-year-old.” He stopped. “Wait. Did you hear that?”
I paused mid step, my ears pressing against the silence. “What?”
“Shh.” He held up a hand.
Then I heard it. Soft at first, then growing. A high whining.
No, it was a wail. A woman’s wail.
It rose and fell, undulating and warbling, like a keening lament.
I clutched Wyatt’s arm, trembling. “What is that?”
He swallowed. “It’s probably the wind sneaking through a crack. Wind can do some weird things.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mostly.” Looking down at me, he said, “Come on. No way but forward.�
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Still holding his arm, I advanced with him, the wailing echoing around us.
After a few tense moments, we came upon a heavy oak door, a heavy padlock hanging from the latch. Wyatt tugged on the lock but it was fastened tight. “I wonder what’s in there.”
The wailing died to a hum. “Something that somebody wants hidden,” I said. “Can you pick the lock?” Who knew those words would ever come out of my mouth?
“No, the lock is too strong.” He gave the padlock one last vicious tug.
In the center of the door, I noticed a smudgy black rectangle the size of a postcard behind a kind of grate. “Wait, there’s a little window behind these metal bars.” On tiptoe, I stuck a finger through the bars and scrubbed some of the grime from the glass. I succeeded in clearing a small space, enough for my eye to peer through. I pressed up against the door, straining to see into the pitch black room.
“What do you see?” Wyatt asked.
“It almost looks like…” I squinted, attempting to identify the dark shapes. “Like a table set for two.”
A distant jangling snapped my head toward the corridor. “That can’t be the wind, can it?”
Wyatt growled through his teeth. “Nope, not this time. We need to go. If I remember correctly, there’s a spot up ahead where we might be able to hide before she comes by.” He grabbed my arm and we continued down the corridor at a brisk walk, my ankle smarting.
“She?”
“Miss Easton. Who else jingles when she walks?”
Of course, the keys. “Miss Easton? Why would she be down here?”
Wyatt shushed me and said in a whisper, “No more talking. It’ll echo.”
Now I could hear footsteps, a steady clack of heels on stone, coming closer. Wyatt clicked off his flashlight and then reached over and turned off mine.
Darkness.
Wyatt led me forward, my eyes straining to adjust, my free arm groping the chilly emptiness around me. Gradually, a faint glow began to appear, like a night sky graying to dawn. It didn’t seem to be coming from directly ahead though.
The footsteps kept approaching.
In a hiss, I said, “Shouldn’t we turn around—”
Wyatt clamped a hand over my mouth. Suddenly the corridor split, going in two directions. To the right, the growing light bobbed with the rhythm of the footsteps. He pulled me to the left and we slipped into a shallow alcove in the wall. I shuddered as I felt the softness of countless spider webs enclose my shoulders and hair.
The light rounded a corner and the strong beam shone unhindered down the corridor, almost illuminating the toes of our shoes. Miss Easton paused at the branch in the corridor, as if she were debating which direction to go. Had she heard us?
A rat skittered out of the enclave we were huddled in, running over my shoe. A scream burned its way up my throat, but I held it in, clenching my teeth. My eyes seemed to bulge from the effort. Once the rat found itself caught in Miss Easton’s spotlight, it scrambled away down the corridor, disappearing from view.
Then the footsteps and the beam of light turned to the left and faded away, taking the path we were just on.
Once the jangle of keys was out of earshot, Wyatt and I exhaled, our breath shaky. We clicked our lights back on. Putting my hand to my forehead, I said, “That rat just about did me in.”
“I could tell. But you didn’t scream.” He smiled, a spark of admiration in his eyes.
“What would have happened if she’d caught us?”
“She’d tell Ivan we were down here, which we definitely don’t want.” He pointed forward, the way Miss Easton had come in. “Let’s go. It’s time to use our last resort.”
“We’re leaving through Ivan’s bedroom?”
“Yup.”
Even though the plan could be risky, I was anxious to leave the catacombs, so I followed without complaint. We passed the fork in the corridor and continued on, turning a corner and walking for several silent minutes before reaching a short flight of steps leading to a small plain door.
“Let me peek in first,” Wyatt whispered, after he’d put his ear to the door to hear if anyone was within. Turning the lock and grasping the little iron knob, he cracked open the door and looked through the slit. Then he widened the door to stick his head in. “The coast is clear,” he said, waving me on.
We entered the bedroom, a cavernous space with rich red walls and heavy rugs to hush our feet. This would soon be my mom’s room too. Weird. Would I be able to visit her here or would that be against the rules? After Dad died, Mom and I had made a ritual of drinking hot cocoa together in her bed every night—me filling the empty, empty space that was once Dad’s. I doubted our little tradition would continue here. But I’m sure if Mom ever wanted hot cocoa, Ivan would get it for her, probably the finest available.
As we left the bedroom—Wyatt once again checking outside the door for any passersby—I spied an intricate silver jewelry box, inlaid with rubies, sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. Just below the lid were two heart-shaped indentions, side by side. A ray of sunlight snuck through the heavy drapes, making the box wink silver at me, bright and beckoning.
Chapter Fifteen
Dauphine
I awakened drowsily and rose up on my elbows. Where was I? For a second I’d forgotten. Oh, yes, having a catnap under a pretty river birch tree. I doubted I’d been asleep long, but oddly, those forty winks had felt like hours or even days. As if time had slowed to a stop. That was the funny thing about sleep. And the dream I’d had—something about a room full of beautiful toys. A child’s dream world. But in the darkened corner of the room, there was one lone doll with eyes that gleamed a little too brightly and a smile that curled into a sinister grin. The other details of the nightmare were gone, but that one image left me with a foreboding kind of uneasiness.
The weeds rustled and sighed in the breeze, coming to life with sound. I jerked to attention, popping my head up above the grasses like a prairie dog. But it’s only dragonflies, Dauphine, remember? I chuckled at my jitters.
But there it was again, and this time it was harder to dismiss the noise as the drone of insects. The sound was longer in duration, and deeper. Could it be the guttural snarl of a dog?
In an instant, I scooted up off the ground and dusted myself off, all the while studying the landscape for any kind of animal that might be lurking about. Were there bears or mountain lions in this part of the country? Perhaps if there were, the animals lived in the nearby hills and canyons, but fed on the animals in the meadow. I shivered. Surely Ivan would have told us if there were any dangers on the estate. Wouldn’t he?
With all my scanning, I saw nothing but beauty and serenity. I’d learned from my decades on this earth, though, that sometimes tranquility could be deceptive. Bad things had a way of masquerading. However, in this case, my imagination was simply working overtime. Calm yourself, Dauphine. But my body persisted without my permission as my skin prickled and the hair rose on my arms.
My mother had always told me that too much imagination could be dangerous, and it wouldn’t put food on the table. She’d been so pragmatic when it came to childrearing, I intentionally raised Anne differently, encouraging her creativity to soar and her dreams to find no tethers. And to know all the delight-filled and freeing things I never knew growing up.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and started down one of the footpaths that led to the abbey. Best to get back in case there really was some animal on the loose. I plucked a few poppies along the way to make a bouquet for Anne. Wonder what she was up to right this minute. Probably tucked cozily away in the abbey’s vast library and getting lost in a story.
I sped up my pace, going faster and faster, until I was jogging. Guess I’d gotten more frightened than I thought. Feeling winded, I stopped and studied the trail, which now broke off in three more directions. Suddenly, nothing looked familiar. Not the trees or boulders or patches of wildflowers. I walked one way and then another. All the paths looked the same
and none of them looked like the way I’d come. How odd.
The dark clouds had mostly passed on by, but a new kind of storm rumbled inside me.
The house is nowhere in sight. I’ve gone too far. I’m utterly lost.
And, dear God, I thought I heard that funny sound again. A growl. Only a real one. Behind me. Now.
I spun around.
The poppies fell out of my hand as I stared through the grass into the eyes of a creature I’d never seen before. The huge dog-like animal was hairless and yellow-eyed. It slowly advanced toward me with an unhinged kind of gait. One bold step. Then two.
Every cell of my body screamed one word—run.
But I held steady.
The beast snarled at me, baring its teeth. This was no ordinary dog. More like a monster. In fact, as I stared into its sickly, sallow eyes, I felt that the creature had surely risen from the farthest corners of hell.
God, help me.
Chapter Sixteen
Dauphine
What to do. Run. Now. No. Back away slowly. Or should I raise my arms in a threatening way?
The animal crept closer.
My eyes stayed locked onto his. Probably not the right thing to do, but those eyes. Those hideous eyes mesmerized me. Took me in. All but possessed me.
I took a slow step back without looking down. Then another. And another.
The vile creature flinched, as if preparing to lunge in my direction.
A shriek spilled out of me, the sound of it echoing through the surrounding hills.
The animal didn’t budge. No scream was going to frighten him off. Running might be my only hope. If only I had a weapon. Even a stick. But I saw nothing to defend myself.
I scanned the area for refuge. Nothing. No, wait. I suddenly spotted a small white building peeking out from the trees. A steeple. It must be the chapel Miss Easton had spoken of. The beast walked in such a disjointed way, maybe I could outrun him.
If he caught up with me and attacked, one slash with his claws and I’d surely bleed to death before I could get help. Why had I wandered so far?