by Lara Parker
“Where are we?” she asked in a groggy voice.
“We’re home,” he said. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer.
“Jackie?”
She was staring out the front window as they glided toward the Great House, her expression one of amazement. He looked up as well and was dumbfounded by what he saw. It was Collinwood, but not the Collinwood he had known all his life.
Twelve
The moon was definitely on the wane. A rocking crescent in the evening sky gleamed like a silver bowl on a lavender table. Quentin sat staring out the back kitchen window and agonized over his plight. The candles on the table had melted to blackened stubs, and the floor was strewn with the provocative images of the tarot. He looked down at his hands and saw that, out of frustration, he had ripped—with his lengthening nails—a jagged tear in one corner of the tablecloth.
The séance had been a failure. Having placed his faith in this obsequious doctor—or this Specialist in the Occult, as Nathanial Blair liked to be called—Quentin was disgusted with himself, but at this stage of the game he had felt he had nowhere else to turn. A séance seemed the perfect solution to his dilemma, and a medium was necessary if contact were to be made. It had seemed a simple request, especially of one who had bragged so obnoxiously about his earlier experiences with séances, describing in tedious detail the successes he had already achieved—conversations with Thomas Edison, for example, Al Capone, and even Jack the Ripper. To reach back in time and summon an acclaimed but hardly distinguished painter seemed an absurdly simple proposal.
Quentin could not help but imagine that Charles Delaware Tate, born in 1865, would have been flattered to be called up out of the grave, even if he had gone mad. He had probably not spoken to a single soul since his death.
And Quentin’s portrait had been his most brilliant achievement.
Of course, hidden beneath his stated objective, Quentin had harbored a profound desire to be whisked back in time, to be young with the young Elizabeth, to see her as she was when he first met her, to suffer in every brilliant detail their love affair again. But he knew without her there in the room that would not be possible, and she had stubbornly refused to take part.
Nevertheless, this incompetent fool—this brother of Nicholas Blair, and ineptitude seemed to run in the family—had bungled the whole thing. Contact had been made but with whom remained a mystery. No painter, no painting.
They had retreated to the library, the curtains had been drawn, the candles lit. A phonograph record was still turning listlessly on the Victrola, and in fact the perfect musical accompaniment had been discovered in the collection of old recordings kept in the Jackson Press—Caruso in fine form singing lustily from Rigoletto.
He and Blair had reached across the table, grasped one another’s hands, and even though the ceremony bordered on the absurd, he had to admit the chanting had been impressive. They had chosen a date—1929, a year when Quentin knew Tate had been at the height of his fame and residing at Collinwood, much older than when he had completed Quentin’s portrait, and although mad, still in possession of his technical skills.
There had been no response. Their summoning chants had spiraled down into the vortex of time and disappeared.
Then, against his better judgment, Quentin had suggested that Blair call up Magda the Gypsy, a difficult woman whom he had every reason to fear, but one who was certain to know where Tate could be found if she decided to cooperate. Quentin had not expected to reach her, but after they had summoned her, there had been a spark, and he had taken heart. The table had vibrated, the candles had been extinguished by a breath, the room had darkened, and a specter had made its presence known with a low moan. Whispers had danced across the leather spines of the old books and a marvel had occurred: a secret panel had opened in the bookcase and revealed a hidden corridor. The shadowed hallway had been abandoned, but out of it had gusted a blast of cold air. Something, or someone, was there.
A drawer in the secretary had slowly opened of its own accord and a faded deck of tarot cards slid to the floor. Quentin stared at the garish apparitions still spread out at his feet, and in the candlelight the images seemed animated, their gestures of supplication and despair subtly moving as if they had come to life. There were Queens and Aces, Cups and Coins and Renaissance figures with knives and staffs. He was not familiar with the tarot—that had been Magda’s province—but he did recall that there was a death card, and Quentin was careful not to look too closely at the floor for fear he would single out that harbinger of doom. Still, the appearance of the cards seemed to suggest Magda’s presence, and if she were there, that old harridan could have spoken.
Then, after that, nothing. The secret compartment closed again, the candles were lit once more, and Blair had seemed drained rather than apologetic. He had refused to discuss what had transpired. Then something occurred that neither man could explain. Through a separation in the curtains they had both seen—on the driveway, leaving the deserted building they still called the stables—an old car of the Model T era, but larger, more elegant, emerald green, with chrome headlights and a tan roof. At first it moved slowly as if the driver was being exceedingly cautious, but then it picked up speed and fairly bounced over the snowy lawn, until it reached the sea road and disappeared.
“Could that have been…?” Quentin had asked.
“Yes, I think it was a Twenties automobile,” said Blair. “A Duesenberg roadster. But now it’s gone. I’m not sure if it was really there.”
Quentin watched Blair with contempt and decided he was a charlatan in spite of the trembling table and the vintage automobile. These self-styled magicians had many tricks up their sleeves—mirrors, projections, and invisible wires.
Vexed beyond control, he left the house by the back door, determined to speak with Jackie one more time. Perhaps she had been thinking clearly when she claimed to know where to find the painting. He uttered a silent prayer that he would not run into Antoinette. The moon was turning, and what was he to do? Would someone chain him down and watch over him until it passed?
Desperation had begun to get the better of him. Looking in the mirror that morning, he had been dismayed to see his lined and haggard face and thinning hair. His eyes were no longer lustrous and his noble brow and jawline were slowly sagging as if his face were collapsing against his skull.
He quickened his step, anxious now to reach the Old House, and he was passing the cemetery when he noticed that he was walking on fresh tire tracks in the new snow made by some automobile. Then he saw, speeding down the road ahead of him, the green car. It was bouncing along haphazardly as though the driver were inexperienced, or drunk. Quentin started running. He knew this car, the long rectangular carriage of shining green enamel, the flat cloth top, the chrome taillights. He recognized the leather suitcase attached to the rear, and the wraparound bumper. Where the hell had that come from?
He ran faster, determined to catch it, but the roadster picked up speed and was soon out of sight. Quentin stopped out of breath and leaned over, his hands on his knees. He laughed bitterly. He did not have a wolf’s resilience yet. He shook his head, bewildered, thinking there must be some explanation. He recognized the model, a 1929 Duesenberg, and it held for him potent memories. It was Elizabeth’s car, and he had not seen it for more than thirty years.
Breathing hard, Quentin turned on his heel and started trudging back toward Collinwood. He wanted to find Blair if he were still around and schedule another séance. Damned if something hadn’t worked after all.
When he reached the front entrance, he was surprised to see a white van with COLLINSPORT EXTERMINATORS painted on the side panel parked up against a large snowdrift beside the kitchen door. The intrusion irritated him. Professional contractors of any breed were rare at Collinwood since Willie handled all the repairs. Then he remembered that Elizabeth had complained several times to Mrs. Johnson about a pounding sound coming from the basement. He had meant to investi
gate, but the séance had grabbed his attention, and he was annoyed with himself to have missed an opportunity to help Elizabeth with a problem.
The exterminator was standing at the open back door of his van fooling with his apparatus—a large backpack with the sprayer and the tank and a four-foot-long metal wand. He was wearing what looked like a clown’s costume. He had on full white coveralls with a hood, long green plastic gloves, and a respirator that fit over his face and head like a Halloween mask. It had a black nose guard, eye goggles, and two huge red filters covering his mouth, each about four inches in diameter. He resembled a giant white beetle with crimson compound eyes.
Quentin walked over to investigate. “Excuse me. I’m Mr. Collins. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
The man lifted his head. “Come to solve the mystery of the noise in your basement.” His voice through the round perforated disk was muffled. “Probably a raccoon,” he said. “But you never know. Most of the time it’s a raccoon raising a family, trying to stay out of the cold.”
“Why do you need a sprayer for a raccoon?”
“Might as well take care of the roaches and the rats while I’m down there.” Quentin realized the exterminator must be a teenager rather than a grown man. He was slight of build, and even through the filter his voice sounded young.
“We have a caretaker. He usually handles these things. And I don’t think—”
“You mean Willie? Yeah, I talked to him.” Oddly, Quentin could hear the boy breathing through the respirator, a disagreeable wheezing sound. “He said he ain’t going down in that basement. For some reason he’s really freaked out.”
“Really? Why?”
“Dunno. But then snakes really frighten some people.”
“You mean you think it’s a snake?”
“I think it’s a raccoon. Or a skunk. That’s what my dad says, and he’s been in this business twenty years.” The boy hoisted the sprayer on his back and took hold of the wand. “Want to come along?”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s all yours, buddy. But hurry up.”
* * *
It was Ernie’s last stop of the day. By the time he got back into town it would be dark and the guys were going out tonight. He hadn’t wanted to take the slot. He didn’t like the idea of driving to the creepy old house with its weird family lurking around in the dark rooms. Like that tall guy with the bushy eyebrows. Lots of nutso stories. The Collinses. They gave him the heebie-jeebies. There was just one, that girl with the long blond hair, Carolyn. Yeah, George said she was hot. He’d hoped he’d run into her so he could tell George, but she was nowhere about.
He’d started working for his dad’s company on the weekends even though exterminating wasn’t his thing. He didn’t like killing things, even mice. He hoped he wouldn’t find a family. They were so cute, the babies, with their tiny black masks and paws like human hands. What was the matter with people, anyway? Always afraid nature was going to come and get them. So many billions of people on earth and so few animals left. It blew your mind if you saw a deer in the woods like it was some kind of miracle to see a wild animal anymore. All the wolves were gone in Maine and Vermont. Just a few in Montana. Great beautiful animals. Only coyotes now. Maybe a handful left. And people wanted to kill them, too.
On second thought, even he’d like to kill that pack that followed the witch girl around. Jackie, yeah. What a bitch. Her and her dogs. They were probably the ones that got Petey. Nothing left of him but his clothes. He’d like to catch them all in traps just to show her.
He pulled the straps of his backpack tighter to get it up on his shoulders—damn, those tanks were heavy—and started down the stairs into the basement. Then he decided to spray the baseboards for roaches. He could charge an extra twenty bucks, and it might do in the spiders, too. He pushed the lever and a squirt of poison came out. God, what was this stuff? How could anyone live after they sniffed this toxic crap? Good thing his dad told him to wear the mask even though he hated the way it felt. It was hard to breathe.
He worked his way down and took a look around the basement. Paul wanted to go after that Jackie again, but he wasn’t for it. He didn’t want anything to do with her. That floating thing, that was crazy. What was that all about? She hadn’t been back to school, either, but Paul said he was waiting for her. That Ernie didn’t have to do anything except hold her down.
Jesus, look at all this shit. It looked like the stuff from whole lives had been stored there and forgotten. Furniture, suitcases, carpentry tools, maybe even something he could grab, like that old record player or a fishing pole, something that he could give George. She said there was a pounding. It could be anywhere in all this mess.
The first place he looked was under the big forced-air heater. After cars, rodents liked heaters because they could build a nest in the fiberglass insulation. Sometimes he found a whole bunch of babies buried in the yellow stuff. They liked wires, too, ate right though the casing and short-circuited the whole thing; they liked to nibble the plastic like it was some kind of chewing gum.
As soon as he touched the sticky web he knew there were black widows. Shy spiders, even with that awful bite. They always danced away before you could get them. He lifted up the apron and looked underneath. Sure enough, a couple of little white egg sacs, and there she was, the missus, with her long skinny black legs and the red violin on her stomach. He gave her a squirt and watched as she thrashed around, then curled up and died. Funny, he felt bad. Something had been alive and now the light had gone out. Something not doing anybody any harm, just living its life.
He stood up and pulled the sprayer back up on his back. Even through the mask he could smell the insecticide and it made him feel dizzy. How many years could he do this job before he got cancer or something from breathing this stuff?
It was a good thing a new guy was coming along tonight. He didn’t want to be alone again with Paul. He didn’t want to do what they did again, even though his prick got hard when he thought about it. He pointed the wand and squirted under a couple of big trunks and around the edges of several stacks of books. It was dark in the basement and hard to see through his goggles.
He pulled his flashlight off his belt and turned it on. The beam bounced around on benches, ladders, an old table saw, a couple of bikes, and a big butterfly net. He could use that. There were shelves cluttered with cans of paint and cleaning supplies, boxes of nails, all kinds of shit; he didn’t even know what a lot of it was. Everything was thick with dust, and when he squirted it, the poison made the dust disappear.
He skimmed the walls with the light and he could tell the stone foundation had leaks. Streaks of water and even crumbled debris inched out between the boulders. Anything could get in—rats, lizards, even squirrels. All they had to do was dig.
If they caught her after school he guessed he could hold one of her ankles and Paul could hold the other one.
He saw the wide door to a closet and walked over and opened it. The strong smell of cedar made it through the mask’s filter. A place to store fancy clothes, he thought, and sure enough there was a rack of suits and another of ball gowns and luxurious furs. A lump came up into his throat. They were all so fine looking. All stowed away forever. He pulled off one of his rubber gloves so he could feel the fabric of one of the satin dresses. He stroked the furs and fingered the beads on a flimsy little slip thing. He would have buried his face in the silk of a nightgown if he hadn’t been wearing the mask.
Then he heard it. The pounding noise, and he felt the hair stand up on his neck. It was a thudding sound, and rhythmical, a thump that drummed over and over. Didn’t sound like something a raccoon could do, but you never know. When something gets trapped …
He wandered back out into the basement and tried to figure out where the sound was coming from. For some reason he was shaking, and he cursed under his breath. There you go again, you wimp, scared of stuff like a girl. Whatever it was, he would find it and kill it. Maybe bring it home. Make his dad proud. Th
en he saw something leaning against the wall, the big fishing net. Maybe he could catch whatever it was and set it free, then tell his dad it was dead.
The pounding was definitely coming from under the stair. He shined the light across boxes labeled CHRISTMAS and HALLOWEEN, and he could see strings of colored lights and crepe paper figures of goblins and spiders, stuff for decorating. Then he saw the door tucked under the treads, smaller than most doors, some kind of storage area, and he walked over to it. Yeah, the noise was in there.
He tried the door; it was locked. Now what? He jiggled the handle and damned if the pounding didn’t start up faster than before. Whatever it was in there wanted out, maybe a little fox or a possum. He cast the light around the floor in front of the door and saw an ax, but he didn’t feel like bashing the door in. Then the light found a pile of bolts and sprinkler parts in the corner, all gathered in a neat little pile. He had to smile: a pack rat stashing his treasures hoping to catch a mate. He moved the pile with his boot and damn, there it was! A little silver key.
The door opened with a grating sound as it scraped on the cement floor. It was dark, but right away he saw the coffin, sitting in the middle of the room with a big chain wrapped around it. He thought of all the decorations outside the door. Maybe they’d had a spooky Halloween party and this was a prop, something to scare people. Who had the guts to get in the coffin and close the lid? A good party game.
The noise had stopped. He shined the light over the walls and saw there were a lot of other props for Halloween, pictures of girls in long dresses and a funny little animal with a horn. What was it? Yeah, a unicorn. Must have been some party.