by Carol Arens
“You are no fool, Mr. Perryman, and I am no charmer.”
But her voice was. She settled onto the floor with a sigh, feeling the cold shape of the ten-inch weapon beneath her. She hoped it was sharp.
She smiled up at her captor’s black scowl and began to sing.
* * *
Trace watched Alden Hanispree stride into the lobby.
The short, cowardly man glanced fearfully at the door that led to the inmates’ quarters, then over his shoulder.
He spotted the money that Trace’s father held, and seemed to forget about what might be following him. His hands twitched and his avaricious grin flickered in the stabs of lightning flashing through the windows.
“My word, Mr. Hanispree. Are you well?” Trace’s mother asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Clearly, his parents had been doing some investigation. They knew exactly where to place a dig.
“Or they’ve seen you,” Clark added, peering hard at the man through his spectacles. “Unpleasant business any way you look at it.”
Hanispree hadn’t appeared pale before his mother fired her jab, but he did now.
“See here.” His father waved the cash at Alden. “That’s enough rubbish talk. I’ve come to do business. I want the best room you have for Mrs. Bolt.”
“It had better be,” Trace’s mother declared, then turned her back on the transaction.
She walked across the room to stand beside Trace, who appeared to be warming himself near the big snapping fire in the hearth. In reality, he was studying the situation in the room, figuring how he could use it to get to Bethany.
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Bolt?” he whispered.
“A lucky thing for you, my dear, that your brother is nosy. Cooper smelled trouble, what with that odd Perryman fellow spying on your young lady. Quite naturally, we began an investigation. Alden Hanispree is a greedy twit, I do have to say...separating children from their mother. I hope we are in time to help sort this mess out.”
“Look here, Hanispree,” Trace’s father exclaimed. “I’m not handing over this money until I’ve seen every room you have.”
“Where is Miss Preston?” His mother jabbed Trace in the ribs with her elbow. From across the room, he thought Nurse Goodhew noticed.
He handed his mother a book and opened it.
“Here we have an otter,” he said loudly. “Cavorting with its two little babies. Otters are devoted creatures, did you know?”
“I’d like to see one for myself one day, young man.”
“They live in dark places,” he said, not knowing if that was true or not. “With lots of other otters living in dark places.”
He inclined his head toward the door behind Nurse Goodhew’s desk.
“Oh, I see.” His mother tapped her finger on the page. “I believe I’ll take a trip to the zoo, Mr. Clarkly. I’d love to see a pair as sweet as these two.”
“Nurse Goodhew!” she called, when it looked as though the nurse would sink down into the chair at her desk. “If my husband finds a suitable room to lock me up in, I will be bringing a boxcar full of belongings. I’ll not even leave him a pair of my bloomers.”
She glared at Mr. Bolt, then focused her attention back on the nurse. “Please show me where my goods will be stored. Naturally, I will require access to them day and night.”
“We have plenty of room for whatever you bring.”
As far as Goodhew would be concerned, the more of Mrs. Bolt’s worldly goods she brought with her the better. As part of his investigation Trace had discovered that the nurse sold the patients’ personal belongings to add a tidy amount to her already high wages.
“We don’t think of our guests as being shut away, Mrs. Bolt. We treat them as we would our own dear families. Hanispree is a resort more than anything else.” Goodhew pointed to the door behind her. “There ought to be room for all your things back in storage.”
It took all his self-control not to snort at the lie. Behind that door were things far more precious than belongings to be stored.
“I’ll have a look. Since my husband is dumping me here, I might as well see to it.”
“We’ll think of all that tomorrow, after we’ve seen to your comfort. Let me find you a lovely room down the hall, then your husband can be on his way.”
“You’ll rue the day you did this to me, Mr. Bolt.”
“Mr. Hanispree, my wife is not herself these days. She’s a bit addled, if you know what I mean.” His father touched his temple, then slipped the money back into his pocket. “I’ll see to the room now. Kindly lead the way.”
Hanispree gave Bolt what ought to have been a cordial smile, but on his corrupt face it was a mask.
“As it happens we have a few lovely rooms available just down this hall.”
“Mr. Hanispree!” Nurse Goodhew hustled out from behind the desk. “Now would not be the time to show our best rooms. Some of the patients are receiving treatments.”
There were no patients in there, only a captive. Time was up; Trace needed to get to Bethany before the doctor gave her a “treatment” that she would never recover from.
“I’ll come along.” Trace walked up to his father and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “The treatments will certainly go easier with a book to read. I’m sure that Mr. Bolt would appreciate seeing an example of the care his wife will receive at your hands.”
Nurse Goodhew shot him a look. She clearly didn’t trust him. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, giving his mother a nod. “I’m going to find you a nice big storage room.”
Trace’s mother frowned. The otters were in danger was what she would be thinking.
* * *
“Not a single one of these rooms is up to standard, Mr. Hanispree. My wife is used to being pampered in every detail. You do have servants? I haven’t seen any.”
Hanispree had not hesitated to open each door on the ground floor, and most of them on the second.
Wherever they had put Bethany, it wasn’t here.
“I’ve a capital idea!” Trace exclaimed. “Mr. Bolt, why don’t you have the attic remodeled for your wife?”
“Couldn’t hurt to see the place, might have some nice views. Are there windows up there, Mr. Hanispree?”
“Not a single one. The attic won’t do for your wife at all.”
Because that’s where Bethany was.
“Nonsense.” His father clamped his fist over Hanispree’s arm. “I insist on seeing it. Lead the way.”
Trace didn’t wait to be led anywhere. He dropped the books and dashed toward the back stairs at the end of the hall.
Nurse Goodhew’s voice brought him up short.
“Mr. Hanispree!” she shouted from the landing of the stairs. “I found this heathen child in the storage area. I believe he belongs to you?”
“Indeed he does.” Alden Hanispree strode forward and took the struggling, gagged boy from Goodhew. “What about the other one?”
“I’ll fetch her right away.” Goodhew snorted. “I believe we’ve found our ghosts, Mr. Hanispree.”
“Why is the boy gagged?” Trace asked.
“He is a detestable child with much too much to say.” She rubbed her backside as she retreated down the hall.
“Mr. Bolt.” Hanispree squeezed Jess’s shoulder, making him wince. “If you wouldn’t mind coming back tomorrow?”
Trace leaped from the second step of the attic stairway, on the run. He shoved Hanispree to the floor and caught Jess to him. The gag was tight. The more Trace worked at the knot, the harder it held.
A moan drifted down the hallway, sliding along the walls and creeping across the floor.
An apparition appeared bit by bit. She came into view slowly, appearing at the top of the stairs. First
her head, then her shoulders, and at last the rest of her ghoulish self.
Trace continued to work at the wet bindings, but couldn’t avert his gaze from his sister’s performance.
She drifted toward Hanispree, where he lay sprawled on the floor. She hunched her shoulders and stretched out her arms, reaching for him.
“Killer...” she wailed. “Murderer...”
“Keep her away from me,” he squealed.
“Her who?” Trace’s father asked, reaching down a hand. “Your nurse has already gone downstairs.”
Hanispree began to sputter words that made no sense. He wagged his finger at Hannah. “The woman who looks like she drowned,” he finally yelped in a trembling voice.
Trace and his father glanced about. They shrugged their shoulders.
“Show me the attic, man. There’s no one here but me and the librarian...and this boy who has been treated so miserably.”
Clearly, Jess had something to say, but with the gag in his mouth his words were stifled. Trace worked harder at the knot while Jess tried to pull the cloth away.
“Hold still, Jess. It’s beginning to loosen.”
The boy stood as still as he could, but Trace felt the tension strung tight inside him.
Hannah “levitated” forward, moaning. She drew a web of moss across Hanispree’s face. He scurried backward, looking like a crab trying to escape a seagull.
“You killed me!” she moaned.
“I never killed anybody, I swear it!”
“You drowned me in the pond...oooh.”
Actually, the pond was frozen, and Alden wouldn’t have been able to do that if he had tried.
Luckily, the man was too panicked to notice Hannah’s mistake.
“I suppose a murderer might be haunted, don’t you agree, Mr. Bolt?”
“It would be hard to avoid that.”
Jess stamped his foot.
Hanispree clawed at his collar. “I didn’t kill you. You’re...”
All of a sudden he lunged to his feet and ran for the attic stairs.
They all followed. Hanispree stopped at one of several doors in the dim attic and fished a key ring out of his pocket, his fingers skittering over the choices. He selected one, then opened the door, banging it hard against the wall.
“There you are!” he shouted. “Sound and hale! I never killed anyone.”
Not yet, at any rate. In the center of the room was a chair with straps—a spinner. It was a device that was supposed to spin patients until the blood left their head, and with it their mental illness.
It whirled and clicked as it turned. This was a torture that could go on for hours in the name of treatment.
Jess ran to his mother and hugged her about the waist.
The person in the spinning chair was Dr. Merlot, his face green, and vomit stinking up the front of his jacket.
Served the fellow right for messing with one of the Preston women.
Trace would have laughed had it not been for the fact that Jess’s panic didn’t subside with finding his mother.
Bethany, apparently more adept at knots than he was, yanked the gag from her son’s head in under ten seconds.
“Perryman took Auntie Lilleth!” he shouted.
Bethany folded her boy in her arms and rocked him, wept over him. “Where, Jess?”
“I don’t know. That nurse grabbed me before I could find out.”
Jess turned to his uncle, but didn’t leave the safety of his mother’s arms. “Since it wasn’t Ma that you killed, you must have let Perryman kill Auntie Lils. There’s still the spare ghost.”
Trace’s sister shook her weeds at Hanispree and screeched.
The man shook his head. Drool pooled in the corners of his mouth and, by heaven, he had peed his pants.
Trace was at Alden’s throat, squeezing, threatening, and wishing he could kill the man. “Where the hell is Lilleth?”
Hannah drifted forward. She draped her funeral gauze over Alden’s pasty face.
“Gardener’s shed...in the woods,” he croaked.
Trace didn’t feel the stairs beneath his shoes, nor his lungs aching or his heart beating, but he did notice the inmates gathered in front of the fireplace in the lobby.
He took in the details of the scene as he dashed out the front door.
A dozen people in tattered clothing turning their cold bodies in circles, warming to the flames. Mrs. Murphy blew him a kiss.
His mother smiled and cooed to Mary. Nurse Goodhew cursed out loud, because she had been tied to the chair behind her desk.
The door to the prison rooms stood wide-open.
* * *
It seemed that her only weapon would be the stake, if she could even grasp it with her hands tied behind her back.
The very thought of using that metal shaft made her shiver. Last time she had defended herself with something pointed, Trace had nearly lost his life.
If she thought that Trace wouldn’t find her, she would use it with barely a breath of hesitation.
But he would find her eventually, once he realized she was missing. The man did follow clues for a living.
She would have to escape on her own—and soon. How could she ever draw another breath if the same thing happened again? History had been known to repeat itself.
Suddenly the sharpened metal underneath her felt as a much a threat as a help.
“You look scared, lady.”
“What?” Perryman hadn’t spoken in some time, and in her worry over the spike she hadn’t noticed that he was staring at her as if she were his dinner. “Well, yes I am. Trembling, in fact.”
“I have to punish you.” He stood up, awkward limbed, looking like a gaunt scarecrow rising from a pumpkin patch.
“Not if you don’t want to.”
Oh, dear. The flash of his grin, malicious in the lamplight, told her that he did want to. That he would enjoy it.
“You did bean me with the shovel. It hurt right smart. You insulted me.”
“Surely you can understand a mother wanting to protect her children.”
“Surely can’t. My mother was a slut. Turned me away before I knew how to call her one. Besides, you ain’t nobody’s mother.”
“My mother was a slut, too.” Maybe common ground would soothe him. “But I loved her just the same.”
“Then you were a fool.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s eat.”
Incredibly, in spite of the cold, Perryman began to undress. His flesh pebbled, but that didn’t stop him from removing every stitch.
His naked body and Trace’s resembled each other in the same way that a sway-backed nag resembled a wild stallion.
Ribs and hip bones jutting out from his gaunt flesh made him appear a ghoulish creature who might have escaped from the pages of one of Trace’s horror books.
While he struggled with the knot on a small black bag, Lilleth thought frantically. How would she outwit him?
“There you are, you pretty little beast,” Perryman murmured, drawing something dark and squirming out of the bag.
“Eat it.” He squatted before her. “Chew it slow...and smile when you swallow it.”
No! No matter what, she would not eat the inch-long stinkbug struggling between Perryman’s grimy fingernails.
He pinched it and smeared its guts against her lips. She wanted to gag, to scream, but that would mean opening her mouth. Panic threatened the edges of her control. She shivered with the effort of containing it.
She would not be forced to this vileness, to be a victim of his depravity. If she ate the insect, what would come next? She suspected this was only the first of many wicked things that he planned to force upon her.
Her lips felt slick with the bug ooze that he’d smeared ther
e. She turned her head, wiped her mouth on her shoulder. She spit.
“That wasn’t polite.” He dug in the bag again. “Maybe something more moist? More squirmy? I don’t like to eat alone. That would offend me.”
He stared at her chest, tilting his head this way and that. He licked his lips.
Placing a hand between her breasts, he pushed her down to the dirt.
She struggled, but it was all for show. If she were going to use her weapon, she would need to be lying flat to reach it. If she lay down of her own accord, he would become suspicious.
So she cowered in the dirt, giving a show of fear and submission. And the truth was, she had never been this frightened of a man.
Bent at an awkward angle, her arms hurt. She breathed deeply and steadily in an attempt to ignore the pain.
She gripped the spike, watching for her moment and praying that it would be soon.
History could not repeat. Trace was not here. He couldn’t be injured.
Perryman came down upon her slowly, his chest and his hips pressing her against the dirt. He touched her lips with what could only be a giant maggot. It squirmed and so did he.
It was this moment or not at all.
Lilleth clutched the cold metal in her tied fists. Her elbows felt as if they would pop at the joints. She wanted to vomit.
The memory of the sound of Trace’s flesh tearing, the scent of his blood and the stickiness of it on her hands, made her scream. She didn’t want to. It weakened her.
She bit Perryman’s ear. He screeched and jerked up far enough for her to turn and lift the blade.
To her complete horror, she spotted Trace standing in the doorway of the shed, his face consumed with anger, his teeth clenched in rage.
He lunged. The tip of the spike was pointed at his chest.
Lilleth tried to move it out of the way, but Perryman’s weight held her. Just as before, she could do nothing to prevent the disaster unfolding.
This time Trace would die. She would kill him by her own hand.
Lilleth shrieked. The howl filled her head. She heard the crunching of bone. The scent of blood filled her nose.
She managed to lift her knees. She ground them into Perryman’s belly, shoving his weight away from her.