by Josh Lanyon
I swallowed. My throat was very dry and made a squeaky sound, like a nervous cartoon character. Neither of us smiled.
“She changed. The minute he closed his eyes, she changed. She was obsessed with—” he looked around the beautiful, strange room “—this. With her. Vanessa.”
I nodded. But I knew Yvonne had booked this trip two years ago. She’d mentioned it a couple of times. We had all booked years ago. She had planned and plotted.
Maybe Ben read my thoughts. “She said she wanted to confront her. Vanessa. Wanted to tell her to her face what she had done, the harm she had caused. Wanted her to know that she could forget it, and go on, but the rest of us had to live with it.
“I believed her. I still believe that’s what she intended.”
I unstuck my tongue to ask, “How did your aunt come into it?”
Ben said with quiet venom, “That bitch.”
I didn’t move a muscle. Ben was in a dangerous state of mind. The blackness in his eyes scared me. He had never struck me as the violent type, but he had changed. As long as he was talking, I was okay, but I was afraid to say the wrong thing.
“This was her idea from the beginning. Mother would never have thought of this on her own. They hadn’t contacted each other for years, but then Daya wrote her and told her about the tour. Told her they should go together, confront Vanessa together.” His face flushed with anger. “And then look what happens. Daya tries to back out of it. Says she can’t go through with it. Left Mother to confront Vanessa on her own.”
I felt sick. “What happened?”
He shook his head and kept shaking it. “I think Vanessa recognized her in the hall that day. I don’t know how she could have. Mother...just stared at her. Didn’t say any of the things she’d planned to say. They just stared at each other.”
He raised his dark anguished eyes to mine.
“Ben...”
“It was strange. Silent. Then Elizabeth came down to show us to our rooms.”
That was why Vanessa had been so different that evening. She had recognized Yvonne. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she thrown Yvonne out then and there? Why had she—or so it seemed—let her in her room that night?
Ben was still talking. He had been close to tears, but now he sounded cold and clear. “Whatever she did, it all comes back to Vanessa. In the end, everything that happened is Vanessa’s doing. She sowed this. You can’t blame the victim for fighting back.”
I didn’t say what I thought. That Vanessa had been a fifteen-year-old child when she had committed her crime. That she had served her time, paid her debt to society. That she had not initiated this encounter, and even after recognizing Yvonne, had not thrown her out of her home—or even revealed who she was. Yvonne was clearly not in her right mind, but blaming it all on Vanessa was too much for me.
“Look, Ben, I’m sorry. I really am. I’m not judging Yvonne. It’s obvious after your dad got sick, she wasn’t herself. But if I can put these pieces together, the police sure as hell will. There’s no way Vanessa’s death will be written off as a natural or even accidental death. Everybody on the tour thinks she was murdered.”
I rested my hand on his. Ben’s skin was ice cold. His features hardened as he met my eyes, but he didn’t speak.
“Also, it sounds to me like Daya isn’t going to hold up under any kind of questioning. She might spin her version of events to make it sound like this was all Yvonne’s doing. That she just got dragged into it. The best thing your mother can do now is go to the authorities and give her side of the story first.”
He jerked his hand from mine, and rose, towering over me.
I rose too, glad of the table between us.
Ben said, “Give me a goddamned break! Like anyone is going to take Mother’s side? She killed a Dame of the Realm—or whatever they call it. A famous, rich writer that people who should know better—people like you—fawn over. How much of a fair deal will my mother get over here?”
I still thought talking to Ben was the way to go. If I made the wrong move, showed aggression or tried to run from him, I was liable to trigger the very thing I desperately wanted to avoid. The thing I had to believe Ben wanted to avoid too. But I was considering Plan B too. Judging the distance from where I sat to the doors, trying to decide if I had a chance in hell of getting out before he could grab me. Ben was taller and heavier than me, but not particularly athletic.
“Okay,” I said evenly. “What’s your plan?” I looked automatically to the clock in the corner. Just a little before five in the morning. The servants would be up now. People would soon be stirring. That was good. More people upped the chances of peaceful resolution.
“Don’t say anything. Whatever you think you found out, keep it to yourself.”
“All right.” I gestured to the books stacked beside us. “Say I do keep quiet about this. It’s all speculation anyway. Not proof.” I couldn’t help reiterating, “I don’t have any proof. I’m not the one you have to worry about.”
Ben’s eyes flickered. He said nothing.
“Then what?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
I nodded at the window and the blue haze beyond. “The storm is over. The police will be here first thing this morning. They’re going to fingerprint us—all of us—and start looking into our backgrounds, and they’re going to have their answers by dinnertime. At the latest. Right? We’re not talking about waiting for expensive lab test results. We’re talking about running fingerprints through a couple of databases.”
He shrugged. “By then it’ll be too late.”
“It’ll be too late? What does that mean?”
I didn’t like the way Ben glanced past me and then seemed to consider the display of antique pistols on the opposite wall. He was no longer listening to me. He was figuring out what to do with me.
“Ben,” I said, heart thumping hard. “Why will it be too late?”
Eyes still on me, as though trying to hold me in place with his gaze, he strolled toward the pistols. He said, “By then they’ll be far away from here.”
Those pistols would not be operational, right? And even if by some chance one of them was still in working order, it would not be loaded. And even if one was still loaded—
Ben reached the display and wrapped his hand around the heart-shaped butt of a flintlock. I sprinted for the double doors at the far end of the room.
“Don’t do it, Carter!” he called.
He sounded calm, which should have been reassuring, but had the opposite effect. He was too calm. He sounded like someone who had decided to jump off a skyscraper.
I looked back and he was struggling to pull the pistol from the wall. It was wired in place. That was the good news. The bad news was as I reached the double doors, I saw that he had taken the poker from the fireplace and somehow jammed it through the handles and into the wooden surface, so that it effectively barred the entrance.
I grabbed the poker, tried to wiggle it free. The doors bowed fractionally, but did not give. The poker did not pull free.
“I said leave it.” Ben came up behind me. His hand clamped down on my shoulder and he hurled me away from the door. I crashed into the ottoman, sending it sliding a few feet, and landed on the floor.
Maybe Ben wasn’t athletic, but he was strong. And highly motivated.
The clock began to chime the hour. As it hit three, the doorbell rang.
I hadn’t realized castles even had doorbells, but the sound rang through the halls and corridors like Big Ben tolling the hour.
Ben and I froze, staring at each other.
Of course, it could have been a lost shepherd or a stranded fisherman, but it never occurred to me that it was anyone other than the police. I could see Ben had the same thought.
“Somebody’s got to answer that,” I got out.
“It’ll kee
p.”
“It’s not going to keep. For God’s sake, Ben. What’s the point of this? It’s over. You must see that.” I scrambled up, keeping as many items of furniture as I could between us, as I edged away from him.
Ben freed the poker from the door with a couple of ferocious yanks, and came down the room toward me, smashing everything in his reach. Lamps, vases, carvings, a small table...
The fast, furious wanton destruction held me in horrified place for a couple of seconds, and then I bolted back the way I had come, past the library desk where my cell phone still lay amid the books. I ran toward the fireplace and the rest of the fireplace toolset.
I didn’t understand what had changed during our conversation. I didn’t understand why he had gone from discussion to destruction, but I was pretty sure he would kill me if he got the chance. Maybe he really did think I was a threat. Maybe he had reached his breaking point and I just happened to be handy when he needed to lash out.
A short besom-style hearth broom leaned against the face of the fireplace. The handle was made of sturdy blackwood. I grabbed it, holding it up like a martial arts Bo staff.
The servants would be up and moving around. The police had surely arrived and would soon be swarming everywhere. I only had to keep Ben at bay for a little longer. Just keep him from cracking open my skull and everything would be okay. Rescue was coming. Even if rescue did seem to have stopped for coffee first.
The poker clanged down on the crossed broom handle and I staggered back against the fireplace.
“What the hell,” I gasped. “Why are you doing this?”
Ben’s face was terrifying. Where had all that rage come from? Why was it all directed at me? Did he honestly think I was the sole obstacle to his mother’s freedom? Because he was hugely overestimating my meddling librarian powers.
I got the broom handle up in time as he slammed the poker down again.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” Ben growled.
“It still doesn’t!”
The flagstone face of the fireplace pressed into my spine—there really was no room left for maneuvering—and my foot shoved against one of the ornate andirons. There was a loud grating sound like cement grinding cement. The twisted iron post gave way and I stumbled back, trying to catch my balance. With one hand I jabbed the broom at Ben, and with my other I reached for the rear wall of the fireplace. My outstretched fingers brushed...nothing. I tumbled backward into dark nothingness.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I landed hard on my tailbone.
The dark was bewildering—and it smelled unsettlingly like I’d fallen into a fish pond. Or maybe a salmon farm. As confusing as this was, I had a pretty good idea what had happened. I remembered reading in my old guidebook that Castle Dìomhair was, like so many constructions of its era, supposedly riddled with secret rooms and hidden passages. So it was a good bet that I’d inadvertently stumbled onto—or into—one of these.
Without a light, I had no idea of where I was, but I wasn’t about to waste this unexpected reprieve. Ben would have seen what had happened, and he’d be right after me. I jumped up, feeling my way down the length of stone wall. It was pitch dark. I had no idea where I was headed, but the memory of Ben’s face kept me moving.
Any second, I knew I would see a flash of light, the door to the passage would slide open, and Ben would burst through.
Except it didn’t happen.
The darkness remained absolute. The silence was unbroken.
I kept moving, hand running along the wall for guidance. The floor seemed to be slanting downward. It was disorienting. The dark, the cold, the smell of stagnant water and dead things.
Where the hell was I? Where was I headed?
Where the hell was Ben?
I continued along, until I came to a full stop. A wall was in front of me. I brailled my way across it, looking for a depression or a frame or a lever or something, anything that might indicate an entrance. Or exit.
Instead, I fumbled my way around a corner.
The tunnel had branched off. The floor had leveled out. I kept walking, and came to another corner. I went on, but more slowly now. I was pretty sure I was not being pursued, which was good. But why wasn’t I being pursued? Where was Ben?
Where was I?
Question: If the police had arrived, why were they not coming to the rescue?
Answer A: The police had not arrived.
Answer B: The police did not know I needed rescuing.
Answer C: The police here took a dim view of amateur sleuthing and the dumbasses who did it.
Answer D: None of the above.
How long had I been wandering around down here? Half an hour? An hour? How long before anyone noticed I was missing?
Oh, here was a thought. How would anyone think to look for me in a secret passage if Ben didn’t tell them what had happened?
I stopped walking.
Yeah. I had been sure Ben wanted me dead. And maybe he had. But most of all, he wanted me out of the way. And I was about as out of the way as a guy could get.
And getting more out of the way with every step.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Can anyone hear me?”
To my astonishment I heard the very faint echo of my words bounce back.
Hey! Can anyone hear me?
Hear me?
Hear me?
I tried it again. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”
Hello? Is anyone out there?
Out there?
Out there?
Okay. Not good. If I was hearing an echo I was a lot farther underground than I’d realized. I might have accidentally stumbled onto one of the old tunnels used by smugglers back in the day. Although I thought those had all been closed off.
Anyway, no need to panic. Ben was unlikely to be still hanging around the library. I could simply retrace my footsteps, go back the way I’d come.
Yeah. Right.
I took my time, and found my way back around the two corners, but the floor did not seem to rise and before long I was turning a third and then a fourth corner, and the floor was sloping down again.
Where the hell was I going?
Even with a light, I might have had trouble. In total and disorienting darkness? No question about it. I was lost.
Completely and totally lost.
* * *
The walls felt damp beneath my hands. I sniffed my fingertips and recognized seawater. The air was less stale now, I could smell rain. Even the darkness seemed to have faded a little.
Was there light ahead? I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took a closer look. Were the shadows thinning?
I had been wandering around for at least a couple of hours. Stumbling down long, interminable passages. I had turned thirteen corners. I had tried yelling for help at intervals, but there was never a response.
I was cold. I was tired. I was hungry. I was starting to think I might really be in trouble.
And then two things happened. The floor beneath my feet turned to rocks and sand. Well, wet sand and wet rocks. Secondly, I heard voices.
“Hello?” I yelled. “Can you hear me?”
A woman screamed in reply, “Yes! Help! Help us! We’re here! Help us! For God’s sake help us!”
A second voice, also feminine—and more familiar to me—cried harshly, “Stop it! Don’t be a fool! Be quiet.”
“We need help! We’re going to die down here!” Daya protested.
I was right. There was daylight ahead. Bars of light striped the ground. I knew where I was now. I stopped beneath the round grate and gazed up at grass and the gray, stormy sky above.
“We’ll be all right,” Yvonne said. “We just have to wait for them to leave.”
I followed the voices, peering through the gloom. I could see them now, bedraggled and white-f
aced. They were huddled, shivering before a wall of broken rock and debris. They had gone as far as they could. We all had. The rest of the tunnel was blocked off.
“You!” Yvonne cried, spotting me. She raised her arm and came toward me. Something glinted in her hand. A rock? A knife? Hypodermic needle maybe?
I wasn’t taking any chances. I grabbed her arm, twisting it, and she dropped the hypo. I stepped on it, smashing it, and shoved her back. She staggered and fell against the rocks, glaring at me.
“Haven’t you done enough?” I said. “You couldn’t stop at destroying Vanessa. You had to drag Ben into it as well. Now what? How do you think this ends?”
I thought Yvonne would hurl herself at me again. Instead, she glanced at Daya, who began to sob. The fight seemed to go out of her. She leaned back against the rocks and closed her eyes.
I walked back and stood under the grate. Flecks of rain hit my face. “Hey!” I yelled. “Can anyone hear my voice? Is someone up there?”
Footsteps thudded overhead. A rosy-faced police constable in a yellow rain slicker peered down through the bars.
“Mr. Matheson?” he said. “Is that you? Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m all right,” I said. “I’m not alone down here. I’ve found your fugitives. They may need medical attention.”
Things happened pretty fast after that. The first constable was joined by a slightly older female constable. We chatted briefly and they both disappeared with the promise that I would soon be out of my underground prison.
A new visitor in a tan trench coat took their place. John. He looked uncharacteristically haggard as he bent down, reaching down through the grate. “Jesus Christ, Carter. I thought—” His voice shook.
“Hey! You’re back.” I reached up, took his hand, and squeezed it. He squeezed back, his grip hard, warm and reassuring. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”
He said tersely, “You know why I’m here.”
“You lost them?” I just managed not to add again.
He gaped at me. “No, I didn’t lose them—well, not for long. I came back for you. I was sitting in the Kirkwall police station when word came through that Vanessa was dead. I knew then I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk...you.”