Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  He turned the key and pushed at the door, but it stayed firmly shut.

  “Damn! Mike must have bolted it from the inside. He was worried that those kids down the road would get to wanting to see the scene of the crime and come poking around.”

  As Jared gave the door a final, futile shove, there was a soft flurry of wings just above their heads. In the deepening shadow of the afternoon, an early owl was hunting. It swooped low, almost grazing Jared’s head.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed and, grabbing her hand, pulled Rosemary after him back to the front of the house and through the open doors.

  49.

  THE LAST NOTEBOOK

  Monday, October 31

  Rosemary shook off her reluctance and followed Jared deeper into Mullmore. As they moved through the house, footsteps echoing hollowly on the marble floor of the hall, she could hear someone walking about in an upstairs room.

  “That’s Mike up there. He must be almost done.” Jared didn’t pause but made straight for the open door at the back of the hall.

  The smell of fresh dirt filled her nostrils as she descended the stairs. Over there, where she had knelt to discover her handprint, the furnace had been dismantled and more concrete removed. A great hole gaped black in the center and a heap of fresh dirt lay to one side.

  The room was dimly lit by the fading light that trickled through the few dust-smeared windows. Rosemary motioned to the sheeted furniture and stacked boxes standing undisturbed: mute spectators to unimaginable horrors.

  “Back there, behind those boxes. There used to be a plastic storage bin where Maythorn kept some stuff.”

  A sudden picture of her lost friend filled her memory: Maythorn, in jeans and flannel shirt, gazing disconsolately at the frilled and fluffy canopied bed, the fussy throw pillows, the yellow-haired dolls ranged on her window seat. I came back from visiting Granny Thorn and it was like this—a surprise, she said. They put all my old stuff down in the basement.

  The storage bin was still there, pushed under a table that was covered with a stack of dusty, cobwebbed boxes. Together they dragged it out and carried it to an open area under a window. Rosemary lifted the lid.

  A faint smell of mold rose from the interior. Folded on top was the rose-red dress Granny Thorn had made. A lump formed in Rosemary’s throat and tears prickled at her eyes as she lifted the soft garment out of the box and laid it to one side.

  A jumble of objects was next: a threadbare handmade stuffed fox that Rosemary recognized as her mother’s handiwork; a cheap plastic doll, dark-skinned, with black braids and a beaded faux-buckskin dress; a Cherokee blow gun and a clutch of down-feathered darts; another fox, a beginner’s attempt, carved in pale soft wood. And beneath the rejected treasures—a stack of notebooks.

  “Here they are!” She pulled out one at random and held it to the light. The dates were on the cover—June 1985–September 1985. Flipping it open, she glanced at the small, precise printing. SD and me worked on the fort.

  “It’s a little hard to read in this light.” She reached for another book. “I guess the thing to do would be to take them back with us, but…” She looked at the cover of the notebook in her hand.

  August 1986–There was no terminal date. This is the last one she wrote in. Rosemary began to page through the notebook, struggling to read in the fading light.

  Jared picked up one of the little journals, glanced briefly at its first page, then dropped it back into the box. “I’ll go open the door to the outside—give us a little more air and light.”

  Rosemary nodded, turning pages rapidly. A phrase leapt out at her: He cut off the rattail today and I got it out of the wastepaper basket to put on the mask.

  She read it a second time, struggling to understand. The rattail. Then one of the masks was supposed to be Jared. It was Jared she was afraid of—oh, dear god, it was Jared….

  Her breath was coming fast and her knees felt as if they’d give way at any moment. Jared was at the top of the stairs to the outside, struggling with the bolt, muttering angrily as he rattled the door.

  Very quietly, very afraid, she moved to the foot of the stairs that led up to the hall. Just as she mounted the first step, Jared turned.

  “Rosie, where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to get something from my car.” Bounding up the steps, two at a time, she could hear him hurrying after her. In her haste, she stumbled, almost fell, regained her footing, and ran on—through the door and into the hallway. She just had time to slam the door in Jared’s startled face and turn the latch.

  “Rosie, this isn’t funny; what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The door rattled alarmingly.

  She whirled and dashed for the entranceway. The tall front doors that had stood so invitingly open were closed now. The rattling of the basement door increased as she snatched at the pair of tarnished brass knobs and wrenched them with all her might.

  Locked! Oh, god, no! Mike must have left, not realizing we were here…. Jared didn’t want him to know.

  She looked down the darkening hallway at the basement door. The rattling had stopped and Jared was silent. She thought of the kitchen door, or the French doors to the terrace—or a window…anything; I just have to get out before—

  The harsh sound of splintering wood made her catch her breath. The tip of the pickaxe Moon had left in the basement appeared in the midst of the thin wooden door, wiggled, and was withdrawn.

  Without waiting for the second blow, she wheeled and ran for the nearest window. She threw back the heavy drapes, only to be met with a blank wall—the plywood that blocked all the windows on the ground floor.

  Stifling a sob, she ran through the library and down a little hall, past the housekeeper’s rooms, past the butler’s pantry, and toward the kitchen. Behind her, the shattering, rending sound continued—the sound of thin, brittle wood yielding to merciless steel.

  The huge kitchen with its blinded windows echoed with the frantic thud of her boots. Just ahead lay the little mudroom and the door to the service drive. If only—

  As she scrabbled in the near-darkness at the bolt, the sound of her own rapidly beating heart thrummed in her ears. Panting, she bent to look at the stubborn bolt.

  She had just succeeded in tugging it loose when strong hands gripped her throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh. She tried to turn, to face her attacker, but the relentless fingers squeezed tighter…tighter. Her vision blurred as she clawed at the hands that held her.

  50.

  THE MASKS

  Monday, October 31

  “Trick or treat! Trick or treat! Give us something good to eat!”

  Elizabeth had heard them coming up the road but stayed discreetly out of sight in the living room, waiting for the knock and the traditional chorus. She picked up the basket, heaped high with little black and orange beribboned bags, each containing several dark brownies decorated with candy corn. She opened the door to the accompaniment of delighted squeals and giggles.

  “Trick or treat! Trick or treat!” The two small superheroes jumped wildly up and down, eager for a look at the contents of the basket. Behind them, a somewhat larger mummy lifted his bandaged arms and let out a slightly embarrassed “Ooooooh.” She offered the basket and the children grabbed at the bags of brownies, then, with hasty thanks thrown over their shoulders, were tearing off, down the steps and back to the waiting truck.

  Elizabeth was turning to go inside and finish dinner preparations when she heard a whispering and shuffling coming up the steps. Two strangely masked small figures appeared, one leading the other by the hand.

  “Treat or treat, Miz Goodweather!” The taller figure, the one in the painted mask that seemed to be made from a big gourd, came forward. “It’s me, Calven. Asheley here got kindly shy about coming to the door but I told her you was a nice sort of somebody.”

  Asheley advanced slowly, holding her strange mask in front of her face. “Trick or treat,” she whispered.

  Elizabeth bent dow
n to look at Asheley. A hornet’s nest. Cut in half and hollowed out. And holes for eyes and mouth. But she’s put lipstick and eyeshadow and, heaven help us, false eyelashes on it.

  The effect was bizarre beyond belief, but, offering the basket of treats to the children, Elizabeth mustered a smile. “Well, those are some masks, Calven. Did you all make them yourselves?”

  The gourd face turned toward her and Calven said, “Naw, these is some maskes Asheley and her brothers found up at that big place over yon.” He waved one hand toward Mullmore and reached into the basket with the other.

  Asheley tugged at Calven’s arm and whispered, “Maydern told me where they was.”

  Pocketing two treat bags, Calvin leaned toward Elizabeth and confided, “Maydern’s her nimaginary friend she plays with all the time. Travis said they found these here maskes in an empty garbage can what was in a little toolshed over there. He was gonna wear this one but then he decided to be a mummy instead.” The boy’s hand slipped carelessly into the treat basket again, withdrawing two more bags.

  From the driveway could be heard the rattle of a diesel engine as Morris Roberts cranked up his truck.

  “We got to go now. Thank you, Miz Goodweather. Come on, Asheley.”

  “Thank you, Miz Goodweather,” Asheley whispered.

  Elizabeth watched as Calven turned to help the little girl negotiate the steps. The long thin braid of blond hair affixed to the back of the gourd mask caught her eye, stirring an uneasy memory.

  51.

  THE REAPER

  Monday, October 31

  Her throat was sore and it was hard to breathe with the tape over her mouth. She was cold. Rosemary swam back through the murk into painful consciousness. She was sitting on a chair, chin slumped to her chest, hands tied behind her, and ankles firmly bound to the chair legs. Her heavy jacket was gone. Without moving her head she opened her eyes just a slit.

  Dark, deep darkness to one side and flickering lights to the other. And just beyond, a huddled body, limply sprawled at the edge of the pool of light. The face was turned from her but she saw the pale hair…. She could feel the beginning of a scream building and knew that her body was trembling beyond her control.

  A flash of silver. Something cold lay against her cheek, slid along her face in a lingering caress.

  “Wake up, Rosie,” said the Reaper.

  The knife moved under her chin and the flat of the blade began to lift. Through her half-closed eyes she saw him, haloed by the light of dozens of little candles set in a semicircle on the floor behind him. It was the same nightmare figure, in the same long black robe, the sameblack hood covering his face. It was the teasing, taunting shape that had led the Reaper Game of long ago, while she and Tamra and Maythorn shivered and hid from his grasp.

  “Hold up your head and open your eyes, Rosie. It’s time.” The knife slid away from her chin. She forced her eyes open and the Reaper nodded.

  “Good girl, Rosie. That’s better.” The black hood turned toward the body on the floor. “It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly: Halloween night again and the perfect scapegoat on hand. A quick blow to the head, the fireman’s lift, down the stairs with him, and there we are—just like Moon, nineteen years ago.”

  The Reaper held the silver blade before him, angling it this way and that to watch the play of candlelight on its polished surface. When he spoke, his voice was soft and dreaming.

  “Nineteen years ago…You should have been part of it that time. You and your—what did she say you two were?…blood twins, was it? I’d never done it with two at one time, but the way you and Maythorn were always together gave me the idea. I wanted her to watch—she always liked to watch, didn’t she…to spy.

  “I wanted her to see exactly what was going to happen. So many times they’re still alive, but they aren’t really fully participating anymore. I wanted Mary Thorn to experience it all vicariously first. And it would have been so perfect if she could have watched it happening to you, her blood twin, knowing that every cut to your body would be repeated on hers.”

  The Reaper brought the blade back to her and ran the point of it lightly along her arm. He talked on, almost crooning, like someone reliving a bittersweet memory.

  “Your…substitute was weak and fainted too soon. A disappointment. Oh, Rosie, it would have been so perfect. But you’re different now. It’s best with those lovely, prepubescent, androgynous beings, creatures of fire and air—but you, you’ve become a woman, tied to the earth and the rhythms of the moon.”

  He trailed the knife thoughtfully along her arm, the lightest pressure on the razor edge. The thin flannel of her shirtsleeve split open and a narrow thread of scarlet followed the blade as Rosemary watched, frozen with terror. He shook his head thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, Rosie—I don’t think you and your twin will have much in common anymore when you meet in the afterlife.

  “Oh, but wait!” His sudden laugh was harsh and ugly. “I was forgetting, Maythorn was an Indian, a proud Cherokee! She’ll be in the Happy Hunting Grounds, won’t she? No, you won’t be finding your twin, I’m afraid. You’ll be stuck in the white-bread, hymn-singing, Christian side of heaven, if you’ve been good.”

  She whimpered as the blade touched her other arm and began its slow descent. A second trail of blood appeared. “You have been a good girl, haven’t you, Rosie?”

  52.

  THE REAPER REVEALED

  Monday, October 31

  “Phillip, where are you?” Her voice was frantic in his ear.

  “Just crossing the bridge; Elizabeth, is something wrong?”

  “Everything! It was Jared that Maythorn was afraid of. I just realized, and Rosie’s at Mullmore alone with him right now. I’ve called the sheriff and I’m heading out the door this minute. I’ll meet you at the mailbox. Hurry, Phillip!”

  The blood had soaked her shirt and her jeans. At first it was warm and fluid but it quickly grew cold and sticky in the chilly air. Rosemary watched, feeling a strange detachment, as the Reaper tested the blade of his knife against his thumb. He frowned and looked over at her. “Oh, good, you’re back with me now. I hate it when the subject passes out too soon. Of course, it’s inevitable: you will eventually lose consciousness before we’re done, but if I do say so, I’m getting better and better at this. The last one was with me for fifty-seven minutes.”

  The black-hooded countenance seemed to study her judiciously. “But you’re a grown woman and probably have more endurance.” He shook back the dark flowing sleeve of his robe and glanced at his watch. “Twenty-three minutes so far.” Behind the slits in the hood, his eyes glittered. “Yes, I think if I don’t let myself get carried away, we can set a new record tonight, Rosie.”

  He leaned closer and she could smell the musty fabric of his robe. “You won’t mind waiting while I touch up the edge, now, will you, Rosie? Nothing worse than a dull knife, I always say. You don’t get that exquisite fine line.”

  He moved to a workbench against the far wall and Rosemary could hear the steady grind of the steel edge on a sharpening stone. Her eyes drifted shut. She was so tired and sleepy. It was almost too much effort to breathe. Sleep was tiptoeing closer, a familiar, welcome friend, beckoning to her, calling her to the comfort of oblivion. But someone was yelling and breaking things.

  “Mac’s got a car on the way.”

  “We can’t wait.” Elizabeth jogged steadily along the winding driveway. Just ahead lay the brooding mass of Mullmore, a dark shape against the moonless sky.

  “Listen, Elizabeth, let me go in there. You wait outside. I don’t want—”

  “You can go first. But I’m coming too.” She was pulling her revolver from its holster as she cast him a look of such deadly seriousness that any further objections died unsaid.

  As they drew closer to the house, Phillip could see a shadow figure slipping around the corner, moving toward the basement entrance. Silently he motioned to Elizabeth to follow.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The noise echoed through
the basement, louder at every crash. With a great effort, Rosemary opened her eyes again. The Reaper was backing away from her, looking up the stairs that led outside. Lazily, for nothing seemed to matter anymore, Rosemary followed his gaze. The door at the top of the short stairway was bulging inward with each blow.

  In a whirl of black draperies, the Reaper threw off his robe and hood and fell on the limp body that lay, still unmoving, at the edge of the pool of light. The knife flashed in Mike Mullins’s hand, and the unconscious Jared jerked convulsively.

  Loud footsteps descending the stairs, a roar of anger, and Bib Maitland hurled himself across the room onto the killer, knocking the bloody knife from his hand.

  “You goddammed piece of outlander shit! It was you, you she run off to be with. And it was you killed her and my baby girl too. Sheriff brought me into the jail and showed me their bones, thinking to frighten me into saying I done it. And when I seen that little gap between the front teeth, I knowed it was Precious. And I knowed the other had to be my baby girl, my little Tamra.”

  The basement door lay in splintered pieces; from below could be heard the sounds of two men fighting to the death. Cautiously, Phillip eased down the steps, gun at the ready. Elizabeth, close on his heels, saw two men locked in a close struggle. One—heavy, unshaven, greasy dark hair obscuring his face—she recognized as Bib Maitland. The other—slim, athletic, and silver-blond—was Mike Mullins. Then, surrounded by a bevy of flickering votive candles, she saw Rosemary, bloody cuts on her arms and legs, sagging against the ropes that held her.

  Elizabeth tried to push her way past Phillip but he put out one hand to block her. He raised his automatic to point at the ceiling; there was the deafening sound of a gunshot, and ringing echoes reverberated through the dark room.