The Unforgiven

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “Is anybody here?” she called out. Her voice quavered in the dark. There was no answer.

  The doorway to the attic staircase was between the living room and the kitchen. She could see that the kitchen beyond it looked brighter, and she remembered that there was a flashlight in one of the kitchen drawers. Drawing a determined breath, she padded swiftly toward the light. Halfway across the room, she was startled by a thump from above. She jumped, her shin whacking into a chair leg. The chair tumbled back and hit the sofa with a thud. Maggie grabbed her shin and held it. Tears spurted from her swollen lids. She swallowed the curse that rose to her lips.

  When the throbbing subsided, she hurried the rest of the distance across the room and entered the kitchen. She quickly ran to the window and looked out. Her black Buick sat alone in the driveway. Evy’s car was gone. Maggie turned back and faced into the room. Her eyes fell on the top drawer of the counter beside the sink. She walked over and pulled it open. The flashlight was there. With a silent prayer she flipped the switch. The light made a yellow circle on the worn linoleum. Maggie gave an unsteady sigh of relief and turned it off. Her eyes traveled around the room and rested on the telephone. Maybe she should call for help. With a wave of despair she realized that there was no one she could call. Owen was gone. Grace would hang up on her. The police? And say what? There’s a noise in my attic? The two cops had been at the service this morning. Heard her screaming. And what about Evy? Evy had promised to stay, and then she had left her alone.

  It’s probably nothing, she thought. Some little animal, trapped up there. Just find out, she told herself angrily. As she glanced around the kitchen again, she noticed Willy’s dish on the floor. She had not yet had the heart to remove it. She shuddered and opened another drawer, pawing through it until she brought up a carving knife with a pitted wooden handle. Grasping it tightly in her sweaty hand, she walked over and reached for the doorknob to the attic stairs. She hesitated a moment, then pulled. The door opened easily, and the darkened staircase loomed before her.

  “Is there anyone up there?” she cried out, trying only half successfully to assume an authoritative tone. There was no reply. A feeling of foolishness overcame her for a moment. That’s okay, she thought. If there’s no one there, then no one will know that you were sneaking around the house with a knife talking to yourself. Holding the knife and flashlight out before her, Maggie began to mount the steps.

  The staircase was old and creaked with each succeeding step. Maggie’s stockinged feet slid on the warped boards as she made her way up. She shone the flashlight up ahead, but even at the top of the stairs she could see nothing but the corners of some old cartons and an unframed oil painting leaning against the wall beams. A ghostly fragment of cobweb hung down and caught the light.

  Maggie reached the top step and turned quickly to look into the darkened cavern which spanned the top of the Thornhill house. She could see nothing but the inert shapes of the objects stored up there. It was not a particularly cramped attic. The sparseness of the Thornhills’ life seemed to extend to their saving of earthly goods.

  Maggie beamed her flashlight rapidly around the attic, satisfying herself that there was no one crouched in the far corners. There were several boxes, a shelf of books, the bottoms of some dresses and jackets not quite covered by a plastic sheet, and a few odd pieces of furniture scattered about. Maggie stepped forward more confidently into the attic, sweeping the flashlight around again. Almost all of the objects in the attic were leaning up against the walls or were packed into corners. But in the center of the room, quite apart from all the other items, was a straight-backed chair.

  Maggie focused her light on it and took a step toward it. She ran the light from the feet up to the seat, then up the back of the chair, examining it curiously from a distance. Then she turned the light on the walls again, giving them a quick scan. As the beam passed over the back wall, a moving shadow caught her eye. She jerked the light back to the center of the room, in the direction of the movement. She froze, staring at what she saw in the glare of the beam.

  Above the chair, swaying slightly in the close atmosphere, an empty noose hung from the rafter.

  A chop on her wrist from behind knocked the knife from Maggie’s trembling hand. It skittered across the floor and stopped near the leg of the chair. A cold point drilled into the small of Maggie’s back.

  Maggie screamed and whirled around. Her flashlight shone full in the face of her assailant. The upturned light cast hollows around Evy’s eyes and cheeks, giving her head a skull-like look, but her eyes glittered with a trenchant energy. She jabbed the gun she held tightly clenched in her white hand at Maggie, her blue veins bulging from the fierceness of her grasp.

  “Get back,” she growled.

  “Evy,” Maggie gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Give me that,” Evy snarled, grabbing the flashlight from Maggie. She tossed it roughly on the floor, and it rolled over on the uneven floorboards, throwing a drunken light on the two women who faced one another at the top of the stairs. Keeping her gun trained on Maggie, Evy stepped back and illuminated the hurricane lamp which sat on a nearby table. The red globe of the lamp gave the dark attic a hellish glow.

  “That’s better,” said the girl.

  Maggie stared in stunned disbelief at the contorted features of Evy’s face. A sickening fear filled her throat like bile and made her start to gag. As if to ward off the awful feeling, she began to shake her head.

  “Evy, don’t do this. Whatever you’re thinking…”

  Evy poked the gun in the direction of her midriff. “Climb up on that chair,” she said in a quiet but menacing voice.

  “No. Evy, listen to me…”

  “Do it,” the girl insisted, her voice shaking.

  Maggie moved backward. She put her hands up in front of her in a calming gesture as she stepped back. “Evy,” she pleaded gently, “we can talk about this. Let’s go downstairs and talk.”

  “Move,” Evy ejaculated.

  “I’m moving,” Maggie assured her. Her every extremity was filled with an eerie vibrancy of pure fear at the sight of the gun. Evy jerked the weapon recklessly, her eyes hard and disconcerted. A muscle twitched visibly above her right eye.

  Keep talking, Maggie thought. Gently. “Evy, please tell me why you’re so angry. There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “Shut up,” the girl growled. “There’s no misunderstanding. You’re just trying to get out of it. Well, you can’t get out of it this time.”

  She’s crazy, Maggie thought with a piercing stab of clarity. “I’m not trying to get out of anything,” Maggie said. “I just want to talk with you. I don’t know what’s the matter.”

  Evy laughed. It was a harsh, hooting sound filled with anguish. “I know what you’re up to,” she said. “You got away with it before. You fooled them. But you can’t fool me. I know what happened.”

  “What happened? What are you talking about?” Maggie used all her will to keep her voice calm and even.

  “I know what you did,” Evy spat out furiously. “You killed him.”

  Oh, God, Maggie thought. It’s Jess. She’s gone mad over it. Maggie’s thoughts spun back to their conversation in the hospital, the veiled accusation, instantly retracted. Her every instinct had warned her that the girl blamed her for Jess’s death, but she had dismissed it, lulled by the girl’s offers of help. She stared down at the barrel of the gun, then looked up into the girl’s malevolent eyes.

  “Oh, no,” she pleaded, “I swear to you. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” the girl shrieked. “You can’t lie your way out of it. You killed my father.”

  “Your father?” Maggie breathed. The accusation came like a blow, making her feel sick. Was it possible? Jess? Some long-ago island scandal, well concealed. Perhaps he too had kept secrets—but how could that be possible? It must be some fantasy that had overtaken Evy’s reason. Maggie searched Evy’s face. As she stared, a stran
ge and terrible realization began to dawn on her, along with the unformed image of another, long-blurred face. Still, she whispered, “Jess? How can you say Jess was your father?” Even as she spoke the words she recognized, with inescapable certainty, the identity of the girl who stood before her.

  “Jess?” the girl said scornfully. “No. Jess was just in the way. Jess was a fool for being taken in by you. I had to make sure that he wouldn’t interfere.”

  Roger. He had a daughter.

  “You’re Roger’s little girl,” Maggie choked out. And then she felt the delayed impact of Evy’s admission. “Oh, no. Not Jess. You killed him?”

  “Get up on the chair,” Evy commanded.

  “Oh.” A sob vibrated up from Maggie’s chest as she gazed at the girl, struggling to recall the child she had heard of, but never seen. “Lynnie,” she whispered. “Evelyn.” Then she asked softly, “What happened to you?”

  “I’m not going to wait,” Evy snarled. “If you don’t get up there, I’ll shoot you.” The cords in her neck stood out. Maggie was jarred from her paralyzed state by the intensity of Evy’s face. She turned and placed her hand on the back of the chair.

  “How did you… how did you know it was me?” Maggie asked, overcome by confusion at the impossibility of the coincidence. Her brain felt as if it were short-circuiting. “Did you know I was coming here?” She looked up in confusion at the girl.

  “I made you come here,” Evy announced, her eyes ablaze with triumphant hatred. “I wrote the letters. Not Mr. Emmett. He never knew anything about them.”

  Maggie sagged under this revelation. She leaned against the chair.

  “Hurry up,” Evy cried. “Get up there. It’s over now.”

  Maggie dragged one foot and then the other up on the chair. She stood up shakily. She looked down at the girl, struggling to think of how to reach her. “Evy,” she implored, “please listen to me. I don’t know how much you know about what happened, but I didn’t kill your father. You’re too young to remember any of it, but it was just as I told the police. It was all a terrible mistake.”

  “I know what happened.”

  “No. You only think you know. It was twelve years ago. I can only tell you the truth. I was a young girl, not much older than you are now. I was mixed up. I was in love with your father. That was wrong. I know that. But I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t have hurt him. You have to believe me.” The words tumbled out, full of misery.

  “Stop talking,” Evy croaked. “I hate your voice. I know what happened.”

  “No, Evy. I swear it.”

  “Put on the noose,” the girl ordered, waving the gun. “You’re going to hang. I figured it all out. Everyone is going to think you hanged yourself because you were so sorry for all you had done.”

  Maggie reached out to touch the running knot. The loop of rope felt like a snake around her hand. “Don’t do this,” she said. “It’s no use.”

  “Put it on.” Evy jerked the gun at her.

  Maggie swallowed hard and took the loop in both hands. Fighting her revulsion, she lowered the prickly rope over her head, holding it away from her neck. “Evy,” she said. “You were just a child. You don’t really know what happened.”

  “Oh, I do too,” breathed the girl, holding the gun on Maggie. Evy nodded her head, and her eyes seemed to glaze over. “I do know. I’m the only one who really knows. I saw things that night. Nobody ever asked me, but I saw things.”

  The woman on the chair shook her head. “What things?” she asked. “What did you see?”

  “I never told,” said Evy. “Nobody knows. Just me.” Evy’s voice seemed to shrink as she spoke. “I was sleeping. I had a cold. I was in bed, with a cold. And I had a nightmare, so I woke up. I was scared. So I called out, but nobody came. I kept calling out and crying but.… So, I got out of bed and went to look for Mommy. But she wasn’t there. Not anywhere. She said she wouldn’t leave me, but I couldn’t find her. And Daddy wasn’t there. I was all alone. Then I heard the back door open, so I ran in the pantry and hid. I was afraid to look at first, but then I looked. That’s when I saw.…” Evy’s voice trailed away.

  Maggie could not tear her eyes from the girl’s tortured face. “Saw what?” she whispered.

  “She still had the knife. She was holding it and talking to herself. And there was blood everywhere. All over her coat and her gloves. She took off all her clothes and put them in the washer. But it was still on her. In her hair. On her face.” Evy spat the words out. She paused for a moment, the scene vivid before her eyes, then she droned on. “She didn’t know I was watching. When she wasn’t looking I ran back to my bed. She told the men who came that night that she was there with me all the time. After she said that, she kissed me a lot of times in front of them. But I saw her. I saw the blood.”

  Slowly, Evy lifted her head and looked up at the woman standing on the chair, the noose draped on her shoulders. “I saw the blood,” Evy repeated as she stared up at Maggie, transfixed. Under the black mantilla the woman wore, Evy saw golden hair gleaming like a field of black-eyed Susans.

  The gun stood, forgotten for the moment, in Evy’s hand. With one motion Maggie grabbed the rope from her neck and kicked out as hard as she could.

  The gun flew back into the air and Maggie heard it land on the attic stairs. Evy let out a terrible cry and snapped to attention. Maggie tried to leap off the chair, but in her stockinged feet she slid and landed hard on her knees. For a second she rested there, stunned by her fall. Then she spotted the knife she had brought to the attic a few feet beyond her. She scrambled for it, clawing her way across the floor. The handle was inches from her fingers. She reached out to grab it. Her hand came down on the handle. Her fingers curved around it.

  Suddenly, the heel of Evy’s shoe crunched down on her knuckles.

  Maggie cried out in pain and reflexively released the knife, which spun out of reach. With a swift dive Evy swooped down and retrieved it. Maggie fell back, clutching her throbbing knuckles to her chest. Evy whirled and faced her. She held the knife out, its point aimed at Maggie’s chest.

  “No,” Maggie whispered. “It was your mother. Not me. You saw your mother.”

  Evy took another step toward her, her pale eyes glittering with insensible rage.

  • • •

  The aged latch tore out of the wall and the door burst open, snapping back to smash the wall behind it. Jess shot forward, then fell with a thud to the floor, gasping from the impact and the shock to his lungs of the cleaner air of the house.

  For a moment he lay there on his face, his chest heaving, trying to breathe. Then, at a level with his eyes, he saw a pair of slippered feet and blue-veined ankles twisted grotesquely on the footrest of a wheelchair. With a great effort Jess rolled himself over until he could look up. The old woman stared down at him, her eyes colorless and open wide. Her jaw trembled uncontrollably.

  Jess licked his lips and tried to speak. “Harriet,” he whispered.

  As if to answer him, the old woman gave a weak, phlegmatic cough.

  “Is she gone?” he asked.

  The old woman stared at his sallow, unshaven, hollow-eyed face. She tried to nod, but managed only a jerking motion of her head.

  “Harriet,” he whispered in a rasping voice. “You have to help me.” Even as he said it, he did not know how. He gazed helplessly at the mournful, aged face. She was dressed, as always, in her bedclothes, the ribboned nightgown ludicrous against the tragic eyes, the slack, downturned mouth. Jess noticed that she had a tray resting across the arms of the chair, attached to the sides. On the tray was a glass filled with orange liquid, with a straw in it. Jess gazed at it for a moment. Then he looked up into her eyes, wondering if she could understand him.

  “Harriet,” he said urgently. “I need to get free of these straps. If you could just knock over that glass on your tray, knock it to the ground and break it, I could use the glass to cut them. Can you do that? Do you think you could manage to do that?”

 
; She stared at him for a long moment.

  She doesn’t know a word I’m saying, he thought.

  Then her eyes flickered down to the glass. She shut her eyes tightly. Her body began to tremble with the effort it took to try to make one of her muscles rigid and to move it at the same time. She attempted to lift her arm. It moved an inch off the armrest, then fell again.

  “That’s right,” Jess urged her. “Knock it over. Right here. Near me.” He watched her apprehensively. There was no way to tell if she would succeed, or when. He would have no warning if the glass fell and shattered. No way to shield his face. He grimaced, trying to keep his eyes open only a slit. “Come on,” he cried.

  The old woman was breathing in gasps now, willing her arms to move, but they would not. Her torso twitched with the effort. Jess watched her with a growing despair. “Try,” he insisted.

  She opened her eyes and stared into his. A brew of sadness and fear bubbled behind them. Slowly she lowered her head.

  “Please,” Jess whispered. “You’ve got to.”

  With a sudden motion she jerked her head forward. Her outstretched chin caught the side of the glass.

  Jess flinched and squeezed his eyes shut as it fell. The shattered glass flew up. He felt one sliver nick his ear, another gouge his chin. He opened his eyes. A sticky puddle of orange juice oozed across the floor. The glass lay in fragments around him. He looked up at the old woman. “Good,” he said.

  Even her eyes could not smile. She watched impassively as he began to maneuver his bound hands toward a gleaming hunk of glass.

  25

  “I knew it!” Grace’s flushed face was triumphant.

  Schmale stared at the teletype machine from which he had just received a report on the facts of Margaret Fraser’s criminal history. He frowned and looked up into Grace’s agitated eyes. “What do you know?” he said.

  “I’ve had a feeling about her from the first day she got here,” Grace asserted dramatically. “There was something phony about her. Mr. Emmett, indeed,” she sniffed. “Mr. Emmett didn’t go around hiring convicts.”