The Inheritance

by Savage, Tom

  Leaning forward to dip her toe in the water before her, Alicia grimaced. She thought about her nephew back at the house, and about the promise she’d made to her brother at his deathbed fifteen years ago. About the letter she had recently sent, and about the reply she now so eagerly awaited. She spent most of her waking hours thinking about it. It was probably the reason she had cheated death herself a few months ago, when she’d had the heart attack. She had to stay alive now, no matter what happened. She had to be sure that Jimmy’s dying wish was honored. She had to deliver Randall House and the Randall fortune into the hands of its rightful owner. Then she could rest, then she could die. Until then, she would continue to have the dream.

  It had come again last night, as it had come nearly every night for the past few weeks, ever since she’d mailed the letter. She would toss and turn, her arms and legs entangled in the sheets. Then, always at the same point in the terrifying, disjointed scenario, she would suddenly awaken to find herself sitting upright in the bed.

  The dream was always the same. In it, she was a little girl again, and she and her two brothers were playing here, at the pond. They chased each other around the rim of their private lake, laughing and screaming. It was summer in the dream, she knew, because it was warm, and her parents were not off at the house in Palm Beach for the winter season. They stood nearby, in front of the closest trees, smiling as they watched their children playing. They were formally dressed for some reason, Father in his black dinner jacket and Mother in her pretty sky blue crinoline evening gown. When she became aware of their presence, Alicia leaped from the water and ran to embrace her smiling mother. The familiar scent of lavender greeted her as she ran, followed by her laughing brothers, toward their parents. But she never reached her mother, who stood, arms outstretched, waiting. Just as she came up to her, the scene would suddenly change.

  Now it was many years later, and Billy and her parents were long gone. She was sitting near the fire in the big, formal living room at Randall House. Her brother James and his wife, Emily, sat silently on the couch facing her, holding hands, staring down at the coffee table before them. Mrs. Jessel stood behind them, near the doorway, her eyes filled with tears. Everyone was in black, having just come from the little graveyard beside the chapel. The guests had all gone home, and now the family was alone. Alicia watched them all, feeling the lighthearted happiness from the earlier scene diminish into sorrow and despair. James III, her beloved nephew, was dead, and the police had arrested his young wife, Constance, for his murder. She had not been allowed to appear at the funeral, of course. She was in a cell in New York, waiting for her arraignment, and for the bail that would never be offered. For the eventual trial and the verdict, and the life sentence she deserved.

  The big clock in the corner ticked softly in the background as Alicia sat there, wondering how her grandfather, the original John Randall, would react to the scandal and shame that had tainted his otherwise pristine family reputation. She wondered how they would all survive this, knowing that they would not. As she watched the man and woman on the couch across from her, her sister-in-law slowly disappeared, her image fading, fading, until James was alone on the couch. The ticking of the clock became louder, louder, and then the scene dissolved, replaced by another one.

  Her brother James—Jimmy—was in bed, and Dr. Bell and Mrs. Jessel hovered nearby. Alicia was kneeling beside her brother, holding his hand. He looked most old now, much older than his seventy years. He had buried his son eight years before, and his wife a year later. His other son, feckless John, was off somewhere, living out his worthless life, waiting for his father to die. For seven years James had remained here alone with his sister; silent, stricken, a shell of the warm, jovial man he had once been. In these, his last moments, he whispered to his sister, his faint voice filled with final urgency.

  “The child,” he said with massive effort. “You must find the child. Don’t let John come back and claim it all. Find the child, Alicia. Promise me.…”

  “I promise,” she whispered to her brother.

  “Find … Holly …” he rasped. Then, in a sudden, ferocious move, he sat bolt upright on his deathbed, his weak arms suddenly powerful as he clutched her throat and pulled her face against his own. His eyes were filled with terror as he shouted the final word, his hot breath exploding against Alicia’s startled face.

  “Holly!”

  The word would echo in her fevered mind as she came awake, filled with anxious urgency. Even as she realized that it was a dream, that she was alone in her bedroom fifteen years later, it continued.

  Holly. Holly. Holly.…

  Now, on her favorite rock beside the little lake, she shook her head to clear it, silencing the reverberation of her brother’s final word. His last will and testament had been succinct: everything—Randall House and the other houses, the stock portfolios, the family’s shares in National Food Corporation; everything—had been left in trust, to be watched over by Alicia and ultimately given to the child. If the child was dead, or could not be located—well, there were other instructions regarding the settlement of the estate. But James Randall had counted on his sister, Alicia, to find his granddaughter.

  And now, at last, Alicia had found her.

  It hadn’t been easy, and the price had been exorbitant. But it was done, and Alicia was presently waiting for a reply to the letter she had written to the child, now a grown woman, explaining everything.

  With a final, decisive shrug of her shoulders, Alicia put all of these thoughts behind her and stood up. The little clearing was so quiet, so green, and the water in the pond looked cool and refreshing. Not for nothing was she a Randall: when the time came, she would see to everything. She would manage, as she had always managed. But now it was time for a swim.

  Smiling to herself, she stepped into the water and slowly knelt down, allowing the cold, bracing water to rise to her neck. She splashed her face and hair and closed her eyes, savoring the wonderful feeling. The cool pond; the fresh scent of grass and leaves; the briefly glimpsed flashes of gold beneath the surface as the local residents made way for her, welcomed her. And the silence: not a sound in the whole world except the soft rustling in the branches, the occasional chirrup of a frog, the—

  Her eyes opened, and she made herself be very still in the water, holding her breath as she strained to listen. She had heard something else, some tiny sound from not far away, a muffled thud and a snapping sound, as of a human footfall breaking a dry twig in its path. Instinctively, she moved out farther into the water, away from the mossy bank. She stood up, looking slowly around the clearing.

  The trees, the grass, the dappled sunlight. The rustle of leaves, the soft droning of nearby bees, the tinkling of displaced water against the edge of the pond. Nothing else. Silence. Absolute silence.

  Oh, please! she admonished herself. I will not go mad. I will not become senile! Now I’m actually hearing things, and imagining eyes peering out from the shrubbery, watching me. Nonsense!

  With that, she laughed aloud in the quiet clearing and settled back down into the water. She glided forward, stroking once with her arms, moving through the lily pads. She dipped her head briefly under the surface, which is why she didn’t hear the tiny splash at the bank behind her. When she brought her head up, she reached out with her arms to stroke again.

  She froze. She slowly lowered her feet until she was once more standing—or, rather, squatting—in the water. She drew in a deep, harsh breath, staring down at the shadow in the water before her. It was the shadow of a person, a human being who now loomed silently above and behind her. A thrill of shock and fear coursed through her. When it passed, she made an effort to find her voice.

  “Hello?” she whispered tentatively, unable to will herself to turn around.

  The shadow grew larger, darker. She noticed, irrelevantly, that the bees and frogs were silent. Then, at the last possible moment, she pivoted on her feet and turned to face whoever was in the water with her.


  She had only the briefest glimpse of the face mere inches in front of her own, and of the arms that were reaching out to grasp her shoulders. Then she was pushed roughly, unceremoniously under the water.

  Panic overtook her. She struggled to free herself from the powerful grip on her arms, to break loose and rise to the surface. But she was old and frail, and there were weeds and lily stems all around her, entangling her, helping her assailant to hold her down. Her lungs began to ache, and dark spots appeared before her eyes in the murky water. With a sudden strength born of terror, she reared back with her right leg and thrust it forward. It made solid contact, and the pressure on her shoulders was suddenly gone. She shot up out of the water, filling her lungs with merciful oxygen, moving away from her attacker on unsteady legs. If she could just make it to the edge of the pond.…

  Worse than her fear was her confusion. Her mind was suddenly filled with images from the dream, even as she strove to free herself. Her brother and her sister-in-law sitting silently on the couch in the living room, gazing at nothing. Mrs. Jessel, weeping silently in the background. Her brother’s firm grip on her throat, choking her, as he summoned the strength to shout his final word.

  There was splashing behind her, and she knew that her would-be killer was after her once more. She made it to the bank, reaching out to grasp handfuls of long grass even as the hands reached out from behind and whirled her around. She stared into the face before her and opened her mouth, filling her lungs to scream.

  The first, electrifying jolt ran down her left arm, forcing the air from her lungs. Her attacker froze, watching warily. The second spasm overtook her, and she sank slowly down to her knees in the water, moaning. Just before the third and final assault within her own system, she drew a last painful breath. The word she managed to croak was the same one her brother had shouted at her before falling back, dead, on the bed. It surged up from the depths of her soul and out into the still morning.

  “Holly!”

  The last image Alicia Wainwright saw was the sunlight glinting through the leaves above the pond, and the last sound she heard, or imagined she heard, was the laughter of children. Her own laughter, and that of her brothers, long ago. Then the image and the laughter slowly faded, and she sank quietly down into the water.

  After a moment the shadow above her moved away, vanishing among the other shadows in the forest one hundred yards from Randall House.

  It always begins this way for me, on that sunny August morning, with the “natural” death of Alicia Randall Wainwright. Then, in my mind, the weather changes, and it is autumn.

  Holly came to Randall House on a cold, gray day in November, three months after the death of her great-aunt Alicia. The branches of the trees around the estate were bare of leaves but heavy with snow. Everyone was there, in the driveway, waiting for her. As she stepped out of the car to be greeted by her new family and servants, they saw that she was tall and slender, and that she had the Randall eyes: big, clear, pale blue, and remarkably intelligent. She was wearing a thick, hooded white wool coat and boots, and long strands of gold hair spilled down from the fleece lining around her face. She was smiling in what appeared to be innocent anticipation as John Randall and his wife welcomed her. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I think I fell in love with her instantly.

  Because I know so much more about it all now, I will go back three days earlier than that, to New York City. I will enter the mind of that beautiful young woman three days before she arrived at Randall House, to be met by open smiles and secret hostilities, grudges, hatred, and madness.

  And death.…

  PART ONE

  HOLLY SMITH

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’re Holly Randall Now.”

  She really had no use for these people.

  That thought had first occurred to her as the Delta 747 shuddered down out of the rainy gray sky onto the rainy gray runway at Kennedy International Airport and taxied to a stop at the gray-carpeted mobile hallway into the terminal. Even before that, actually. There was something about the forced heartiness and slightly obsequious behavior of the flight attendants that rather set her teeth on edge. Of course, that isn’t really their fault, she supposed. All flight personnel are like that; it’s part of the job description. But, for some reason, these particular personnel were particularly annoying.

  Oh, and speaking of that, the famous New York smog was everywhere in evidence. God, she thought, how do these people breathe? They might as well be smoking entire packs of cigarettes at a time. And now they had rules against smoking in public places, even restaurants. As if it mattered. Well, she was here now, and she intended to make the best of it.

  The best of it. That thought made her smile as she followed the crowd behind the perky flight attendant who led them through the Delta terminal toward the baggage claim area. The best of it, indeed! She had nothing to complain about, and everything to celebrate. So why was she trembling?

  Oh, stop it! she commanded herself. Don’t be such a ninny. Just get your suitcase and look for the man Mr. Henderson mentioned, the driver with—

  “Ms. Randall?”

  —the sign that would read—

  “Ms. Randall?”

  —something or other.…

  “Holly!”

  She stopped so quickly that the middle-aged tourist couple behind her practically walked up her back. She smiled an apology to them as she turned around. There, off to the side of the concourse just behind her, stood a tall, dark-haired man in a chauffeur’s gray uniform and cap, holding up a handwritten placard. She stared. The placard read: HOLLY RANDALL.

  She looked at the placard, then slowly up at the face above it. An extremely handsome man, she noted, and he was staring rather intently at her. He seemed to be making a study of her, from her scuffed boots and faded jeans to her frayed plaid coat and stocking cap. Nothing in the set of his features told her what he thought of what he saw. She walked over to him.

  He continued to stare. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  Holly looked back down at the placard, then up at him.

  “Why, yes,” she said slowly, smiling. “I suppose it is.”

  The intense stare dissolved into a delighted grin. “I thought so! You look just like your great-aunt, Mrs. Wainwright—I mean, the painting of her in the—oh, never mind. Welcome to New York, Ms. Randall. I’ll get your luggage for you.”

  He’d actually blushed bright red as he’d stammered all this, so she didn’t prolong his apparent discomfort by correcting him. She merely smiled and nodded and led the way to the baggage area. When she pointed at the single, rather battered plastic American Tourister suitcase, he grasped the handle and swung it up from the carousel as if it had no weight at all.

  Well, it isn’t very heavy, at that, she mused as she followed him out of the terminal to the short-term parking lot. Very few of her earthly possessions had seemed appropriate for this journey. But no matter, she’d been assured. Mr. Henderson, the Park Avenue lawyer who had provided the plane ticket and arranged for all this, would have further instructions for her when she met him at his office tomorrow morning. Those further instructions, he’d said, involved clothing. He hadn’t elaborated, so she’d merely agreed to follow his orders. She’d find out soon enough, she supposed.

  When she saw the car, she stopped dead in her tracks again. She stood on the curb, staring, as the young man carried her suitcase to the biggest automobile in sight: a long, sleek black Cadillac limousine. He opened the trunk, and her suitcase disappeared inside it.

  Oh, she thought, blinking. Of course. This man is a professional driver, and this obscenely luxurious conveyance has been hired for the afternoon, hired by Mr. Henderson. That was very nice of him, but totally unnecessary. She thought all of this, but all she managed to say was “Oh.”

  He opened the rear door and stood at attention, watching her. She looked from him to the car, then down at her clothes. Then, with a small, determined shrug—the first of m
any in the next few days and weeks—she stepped forward into the car. He shut the door and fairly ran around to the other side. Holly watched through the thick plate glass that separated the front of the car from the backseat as he slid soundlessly in behind the wheel and started the engine. The enormous car glided silently forward, and she sank back into the soft leather seat.

  She had never been inside a limousine before, though she had often dreamed of it. The interior was big, of course, every bit as big as it seemed to be from the outside. Even bigger, somehow, if that was possible: a vast area of soft black leather and thick gray carpeting. A sleek, black cellular phone was built into the wall of the car beside her, and below it were the controls for a radio, a compact disc player, and a tiny television mounted on the armrest in the middle of the seat facing her. That seat was identical to the one on which she now sat, and above it, just below the glass partition, was a gleaming silver handle. It was apparently the entry to some sort of cabinet.

  With a swift glance at the back of the driver’s head, she gave in to her curiosity. She moved forward across the gray carpet to the other seat and pulled on the handle. A section of the dividing wall came down in her hand, forming a makeshift counter. Inside the space was a fully stocked miniature bar. She grinned with delight as she stared at the array of tiny bottles and cans, tumblers and wineglasses. At the back of the bar was a little compartment containing ice cubes and two small bottles of white wine.

  A delicious thrill coursed slowly through her, a voluptuous feeling of luxury and decadence. She closed her eyes, holding on to the experience, savoring it. Then she opened her eyes and gave herself over to temptation. She took one of the chilled bottles from the cooler, uncorked it with a silver corkscrew, and poured into a stemmed crystal glass. She returned the bottle to its compartment, closed the bar, and sat down in her original seat, facing forward. She took a long sip of the dry white wine and smiled.