“The dove said he wouldn’t be the same, that he would be different,” Tara chimed in eagerly with the detail.
“Yes, that’s true, but the children and the father’s one true love didn’t care, they wanted him back any way they could have him. They knew that what was in his heart would never be changed.”
Outside Tara’s room, Dillon leaned against the door, listening to the sound of Jessica’s beautiful voice telling her Christmas tale. He had come looking for her, hating the sorrow he’d seen on her face, needing to remove the swirling nightmares from her eyes. He should have known she would be with the twins. His children. His family. They were on the other side of the door. Waiting for him. Waiting for a miracle. Tears burned in his eyes, ran down his cheeks unchecked, and clogged his throat, threatening to choke him as he listened to the story of his life.
“Did they find the perfect tree?” Tara prompted. There was such a hopeful note in her voice that Dillon closed his eyes against another fresh flood of tears. They were wrenched from the deepest gouge in his soul. Enough to overflow the banks of the mythical river.
“At first they thought the dove meant perfection, as in physical beauty,” Jessica’s voice was so low he had to strain to hear. “But eventually, as they looked through the forest, they realized it was something far different. They found a small, bushy tree in the shadow of much larger ones. The branches were straggly and there were gaps but they knew at once it was the perfect giving tree. Everyone else had overlooked it. They asked the tree if it would like to celebrate Christmas with them and the tree agreed. They made wonderful ornaments and carefully decorated the tree and the three of them sat up on Christmas Eve waiting for the miracle. They knew they had chosen the perfect tree when the dove settled happily in the branches.”
There was a long silence. The bed creaked as someone turned over. “Jessie. Aren’t you going to tell us the end of the story?” Trevor asked.
“I don’t know the end of the story yet,” Jessica answered. Was she crying? Dillon couldn’t bear it if she were crying.
“Of course you do,” Tara complained.
“Leave her alone, Tara,” Trevor advised. “Let’s just go to sleep.”
“I’ll tell you on Christmas morning,” Jessica promised.
Dillon listened to the sound of silence in the next room. The tightness in his chest was agony. He stumbled away from the pain, back up the stairs, back into the darkness of his lonely tower.
Jessica lay listening to the sounds of the twins sleeping. It was comforting to hear the steady breathing. Outside the house, the wind was knocking at the windows like a giant hand, shaking the sills until the panes rattled alarmingly. The rain hit the glass with force, a steady rhythm that was soothing. She loved the rain, the fresh clean scent it brought, the way it cleared the air of any lingering smell of smoke. She inhaled, drifting, half in and half out of sleep. Fog poured into the room carrying with it an odor she recognized. She smelled incense and a frown flitted across her face. She tried to move. Her arms and legs were too heavy to lift. Alarmed, she fought to wake herself, recognizing she had moved beyond drifting, past dreams to her all too familiar nightmare.
She wouldn’t look at them. Any of them. She had gone beyond terror to someplace numb. She tried not to breathe. She didn’t want to smell them, or the incense, or hear the chanting, or to think about what was happening to her body. She felt the hand on her, deliberately rough, cruelly touching her while she lay helplessly under the assault She had fought until she had no strength. Nothing would stop this demented behavior and she would endure it because she had no other choice.
The hand squeezed her hard, probed in tender, secret places. She would not feel, would not scream again. She couldn’t stop the tears; they ran down her face and fell onto the floor. Without warning the door burst open, kicked in so that it splintered and hung at an angle from broken hinges. He looked like an avenging angel, his face twisted with fury, his blue eyes blazing with rage.
She cringed when he looked at her, when he saw the obscenity of what they were doing to her. She didn’t want him to see her naked and painted with something evil touching her body. He moved so fast she wasn’t certain he was real, ripping Phillip Trent away from her. There was the sound of fist meeting flesh, the spray of blood in the air. She was helpless, unable to move, unable to see what was happening. There were screams, grunts, a bone cracked. Shouted obscenities. The smell of alcohol. She was certain she would never be able to bear the odor again.
And then he was wrapping her in his shirt, loosening the ties that bound her hands and feet. He lifted her, with tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her neck as he carried her from the room. She caught glimpses of broken furniture, of glass and scattered objects. Bodies writhing and moaning on the floor as he carried her out. His hands were bloody but gentle as he placed her in her bed, rocked her gently while she cried and wept until both their hearts were broken. She begged him not to tell anyone how he found her.
She had no idea how much time passed. He was filled with fury, his rage was still lethal. He was arguing she needed her mother, stalking from her room to cool off outside where he couldn’t hurt anyone. She scrubbed herself in the shower until her skin was raw, until there were no tears left. She was dressing, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t button her blouse, when she heard the volley of shots ring out. The sound of the gun was distinctive. The smell of smoke was overwhelming. It took a few moments to realize it wasn’t steam from the bathroom that was making the room hazy, it was clouds of thick smoke. She had to crawl through the hall to the twins’ room. They were crying, hiding under the bed. Flames ate greedily at the hall, up the curtains. There was no getting to the others.
She dragged the children to the large window, shoved them through, following, dropping to earth, skidding on the slick dirt. Tara crawled forward blindly, tears streaming from her swollen eyes that prevented her from seeing. She screamed as she slipped over the edge. Jessica lunged after her. They rolled, bounced, sliding all the way to the sea. Tara disappeared beneath the waves, Jessica hurtled after her. Down. Into darkness. The salt water stung. It was icy cold. Her fingers brushed the child’s shirt, slipped off, she grabbed again, caught a handful of material and held on. Kicking strongly. Surfacing. Struggling through the pounding waves with her burden. They lay together on the rocks, gasping for breath, the child in her arms. Her world in ruins.
Black smoke. Noise. Orange flames reaching the clouds. Screams. Wearily she pulled Trevor into her arms when he joined them. Together they slowly made their way back up the path leading to the front of the house. She saw Dillon lying there. He was motionless. His body was black, his arms outstretched. He was utterly silent but his eyes were screaming as he looked down in shock at the blackened ruin of his body. He looked up at her. Looked past her to the children. She understood then. Understood why he had entered a burning inferno. His gaze met hers as he stared helplessly up at her, in much the same way she must have stared up at him when he’d rescued her. As long as she lived, she would never forget the look on his face, the horror in his eyes. Jessica watched his blackened fingers turn to ash, watched the ash fall to the ground. She heard herself screaming in denial Over and over. The sound was pure anguish.
“Jessie,” Trevor called her name softly, his arm around Tara. They helplessly watched as Jessica pressed herself against the wall near the window and screamed and screamed, her face a mask of terror. Her eyes were open, but they knew she wasn’t seeing them, but something else, something vivid and real to her, that they couldn’t see. Night terrors were eerie. Jessica was caught up in the web of a nightmare and anything they did often made it worse.
The door to the bedroom was flung open and their father rushed in, still buttoning his jeans. He wore no shirt, he was barefoot. His hair was wild and disheveled, falling around his perfectly sculpted face like dark silk. His chest and arms were a mass of rigid scars and whorls of raised
red skin. The scars streaked down his arms and spread down his chest to his belly fading into normal skin.
“What the hell is going on?” Dillon demanded but his frantic gaze had already found Jessica pressed against the wall. He glanced at his children. “Are you all right?”
Tara was staring at the mass of scars. She pulled her gaze up to his face with an effort. “Yes, she has nightmares. This is a bad one.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot my shirt,” Dillon told her softly before turning his attention back to Jessica. “Wake up, baby, it’s over,” he crooned softly. His voice was low and compelling, almost hypnotic. “It’s me, sweetheart, you’re safe here. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
Tara turned her head as more people crowded into the doorway of her room. She had to blink tears out of her eyes in order to focus on them. Trevor put his arm around her, offering comfort, and she took it.
“Good heavens,” Brenda said, “what happened now?”
“Get them out of here, Trevor,” Dillon ordered, “get out and close the door.”
Trevor acted at once. He didn’t want anyone staring at Jessica, seeing her in such a vulnerable state. And he didn’t like the way they were staring at his father’s body, either. He took Tara with him, pushing through the group, closing the door firmly and leaving Dillon alone with Jessica. “Show’s over,” he said gruffly, “you all might as well go back to bed.”
Brenda glared at him. “I was actually trying to be helpful. If Jessie needs me, I don’t mind sitting up with her.”
To everyone’s astonishment, Tara wrapped her arms around Brenda’s waist and looked up at her. “I need you,” she confided. “I hurt him again.”
Trevor cleared his throat. “No you didn’t, Tara.” He was happy to see the band members dispersing, leaving only Brenda and Robert behind.
“Yes I did, I was staring at his scars and he noticed,” Tara confessed, looking up at Brenda. “Even with Jessie screaming and how much he wanted to help her, he noticed. And he said he was sorry.” Tears welled up and spilled over. “I didn’t mean to stare at him, I should have looked away. It must have hurt him so much.”
It was Robert who dropped his hand on her head in a clumsy effort to comfort her. “We couldn’t stop him. The house was completely engulfed in flames. He was calling for you and your brother, for Jessica. He ran toward the house. I caught him, so did Paul. He knocked us both down.” There was sorrow in his voice, guilt, a ragged edge. Robert paused, rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning slightly.
Brenda put her hand on his arm. Casually. As if it didn’t matter, but Trevor saw that it did. That it steadied Robert. Robert smiled down at Brenda’s hand and leaned forward to kiss her fingertips. “He ran inside the house, right through a wall of flames. Paul tried to go in after him, but Brian and I tackled him and held him down. We should have done that to Dillon. We should have.” He shook his head at the memories.
Trevor found himself reaching out to his uncle, touching him for the first time. “No one could have stopped him. If I know anything about my father, it’s that no one could have stopped him from trying to get to us.” He glanced back at the closed door. Jessica’s screams had stopped. He could hear the soft murmur of Dillon’s voice. “No one could have stopped him from trying to get to Jess.”
Robert blinked and focused on Trevor. “You’re so like him, like he was back in the old days. Tara, what I’m trying to say to you is, don’t be afraid of looking at your father’s scars. Don’t ever be ashamed of the way he looks. Those scars are evidence of how much he loves you, what you mean to him. He’s a great man, someone you should be proud of, and he’ll always put you first. Few people have that and I think it’s important for you to know that you do have it. I could never have entered that house, none of the rest of us could go in, even when we heard the screams.”
“Don’t, Robert,” Brenda said sharply. “No one could have saved those people. You didn’t even know they were up there.”
“I know, I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away old horrors and determinedly forcing a smile to his face, needing to change the subject. “Anyone up for one of Brenda’s silly board games? She’s obsessed with them.”
“I always win,” Brenda pointed out smugly.
Trevor glanced at the closed door anxiously then switched his attention back to his aunt. “I always win,” he countered.
Tara slipped her hand into Robert’s. “He does,” she confided.
“Then it’s all-out war,” Brenda decided, leading the way back to her rooms. “I detest losing at anything.”
“Do you really have an insurance policy on us?” Trevor asked curiously as he followed her down the hall.
“Of course, silly, you’re a boy, the odds are much higher that you’ll do something stupid,” Brenda remarked complacently. “All that lovely lollie,” she added, grinning back at him over her shoulder.
Trevor shook his head. “I’m not buying your act any more, Auntie. You’re not the bad girl you want the world to believe you are.”
Brenda flinched visibly. “Don’t even say that, it’s sacrilegious. And by the way, your cute little pranks aren’t scaring me in the least, so you may as well stop.”
“I don’t pull cute little pranks,” Trevor objected strenuously to her choice of words. “If I was pulling off a prank, it wouldn’t be cute or little. And it would scare you. I’m a master at practical jokes.”
Brenda pushed open the door to her room, raising one eyebrow artfully as he preceded her into the suite. “Oh, really? So what is with the hooded face appearing in the window, and the mysterious messages written on my makeup mirror? Get out while there’s still time.” She rolled her eyes. “Really! Perfectly childish. And just how do you explain the water running in the bathtub with the stopper in the drain and the room always filled with steam? If I didn’t know it was you, it would give me the creeps. The open window and Brian’s magic circle is such a clever touch, throwing suspicion his way. We’ve all talked about it, we know it’s you two. Even that motley dog is in cahoots with you, growling at the steam and staring at nothing just to scare us.”
There was a small silence. Tara and Trevor exchanged a long look. “Is your window open when you come into your room?” Tara ventured, her voice tight. “And fog or steam all through the room?”
Robert looked at her sharply. “Are you saying you kids haven’t been pulling these pranks?” He poured them both a soda from the small ice chest they had stashed in their room.
Trevor shook his head, took a long grateful drink of the cold liquid, nearly draining the glass. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No, sir, we haven’t. And Jessica’s window is open all the time.” A chill crept into the room with his denial. “Tara’s window was open this evening. And there was burned incense and one of those circles on the floor of both Jessie’s and Tara’s rooms. Jess didn’t tell Dillon because she was afraid he would quit recording with everyone, and she thinks it’s important for him and everyone else to make the music.”
Robert and Brenda exchanged a long look. “If you kids have been playing tricks, it’s all right to say so,” Robert persisted. “We know kids do that sort of thing.” He pulled a Clue game from the closet, carried it to the table.
“How perfectly apropos, a murder game on a dark and stormy night just when we’re discussing mysterious occurrences,” Brenda quipped as they spread the game board out on the small table.
“We didn’t do any of those things,” Trevor insisted. “I don’t know who it is or why, but something wants us out of here.”
“Why do you say that?” Robert asked sharply as he separated the cards.
Trevor noticed his clue sheet was filled and he crumpled it, looking around for a wastebasket. He couldn’t toss it, practicing his technique, because the basket was filled with newspaper. With a sigh he got up and walked over to it. For some reason his stomach was beginning to cramp uncomfortably and his skin felt clammy. The conversation was
bothering him a lot more than he realized. “I don’t know, I always feel like something’s watching us. We’ve been letting the dog in and sometimes we’re in a room alone and it starts growling, looking at the door. All the hair rises up on its back. It’s freaky. But when I go look, no one’s there.”
“I’d think you were making it up,” Robert said, “but there have been some strange things happening in here, too. We thought it was you kids, so we didn’t say anything either, but I don’t like the sound of that Have you told Jessie?”
Trevor bent down to press the sheet of paper into the wastebasket. The newspaper caught his eye. It had tiny little holes in it where words were cut out. He glanced back at his aunt and uncle. They were putting the game pieces on the board. Tara looked pale, a frown on her face. She was holding her stomach as if she had cramps, too. Trevor lifted the newspaper slightly. It reminded him of movies where ransom notes had been concocted from printed words pasted on paper. The glass in front of Tara was empty. A frisson of fear went down his spine. Very slowly he straightened, moved casually away from the evidence in the wastebasket.
“No, I haven’t told Jessie much at all. She’s been busy with the recording and she’s so darned overprotective.” He looked directly at his aunt. “I’m feeling a little sick. It wasn’t the soda, was it?”
“I’m not feeling very well either,” Tara admitted.
Brenda bent over Tara solicitously. “Is it the flu?”
“You tell me,” Trevor challenged. A wave of nausea hit him. “We need Jessie.”
Brenda sniffed. “I think I’m quite capable of taking care of a couple of little kiddies with the flu.”
“I hope so,” Tara said, “because I’m going to throw up.” She ran to the bathroom, holding her stomach.
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