Ammie, Come Home (19 page)

Sara crawled over to the fire, and soon the flames were leaping up. Lady grunted appreciatively and rolled over.

“Stupid dog,” Sara said affectionately.

“Are you giving up?” Bruce asked severely. “There are two more boxes upstairs.”

“We'd better have some coffee,” Ruth said. “I'm falling asleep over this stuff.”

When she came back with the tray she found her assistants in a state of semicollapse, Sara in her favorite prone position before the fire and Bruce stretched out vertically across the couch like an exclamation mark. They stirred when she put the tray down.

“I guess we'd better not start another box,” Bruce said, with a wide yawn. “Wait a minute. There was one thing I did want to look at. The cellar.”

“But we've been down there,” Ruth said. The coffee had revived her a bit, but she was not fond of the gloomy basement.

“One more look.” Bruce's beard jutted out in a way which was becoming too familiar.

“Shall we take Lady?” Sara asked.

“Not unless you feel like carrying her down. I don't.”

At Bruce's suggestion Ruth found a flashlight and located a hammer and screwdriver in the pantry drawer when he asked for tools. He gave the screwdriver back to her but kept the hammer; and when they had descended the stairs he began banging on the walls.

“My dear boy,” Ruth said, amused.

“We've tried everything else.” Bruce vanished behind the furnace. The beam of the flashlight wavered like a big firefly, and steadied. “By God! Ruth, come here.”

“Not on your life.” Ruth advanced to the side of the furnace and peered behind it. “What's back there?”

She could see for herself. No one had made any attempt to hide it, but she had never poked her nose into the dark, spidery corner.

“A door. Where does it go to, I wonder?”

Bruce gave the encrusted wooden panel an exploratory tap with the hammer. The sound that came back was not encouraging; it had a solid thunk that denied any idea of empty space.

“The panels must be six inches thick,” he said. “This isn't a door, it's a barricade. And it's going to be a helluva job breaking it down.”

“Why should we want to break it down?” Ruth asked in surprise. “This part of the cellar is bad enough.”

Bruce sneezed violently and wiped his face with his sleeve. He backed out of the corner. His eyes were bright with excitement and his beard was draped with cobwebs.

“The outer part of the cellar only goes under the dining-kitchen area. This other section must lie beneath the living room. Once upon a time somebody was moved to block it off. That would be reason enough to explore it, even without the other clues.”

“Oh, dear,” Ruth said blankly. “I don't think I like this.”

“I don't either. I'm the one who'll have to swing the ax. But it's got to be done.”

“Bruce, I don't even own an ax. There's a little hatchet someplace….”

“No, I'll have to pick up some tools. This is going to be a rough job. And I don't intend to start today, it's getting late. Why don't we—”

At the top of the cellar stairs the door stood open. They heard the sounds at the outer, street door—the turn and click of the knob, the slam of the door closing. Footsteps echoed in the hall.

Ruth's reaction was puzzlement rather than alarm. Those sounds were not connected in her mind with the manifestations. Bruce's response alarmed her more than the sounds. He made a convulsive movement with the flashlight in his right hand. The footsteps were on the stairs now. Before Ruth had time to be frightened Pat's familiar form came into view.

“I thought you'd still be here,” he said. “Wait till you hear—”

“I told you not to come to the house,” Bruce said shrilly.

“I finished early.” Pat raised his eyebrows and sat down unceremoniously on the bottom step. “What are you all doing down here?”

“Bruce found another part of the cellar,” Sara explained. “There's a door, all blocked up, behind the furnace.”

“Really?” Pat's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He stood up and wandered over to investigate the discovery, and Ruth felt her neck prickle, for as the older man passed him, Bruce made another of those abortive, violent gestures.

“I can't see much.” Pat drew back. “It's not important anyhow.”

“How do you know it's not?” Bruce asked.

“Because today I found out the missing parts of the story.” Pat beamed, waiting for the effect of his verbal bombshell to be felt. “I know what happened to Amanda Campbell.”

“Really? Pat, that's marvelous.”

“How did you find out?”

The two women spoke at once. Bruce said nothing.

Pat propped himself up against the wall.

“It was in the newspaper,” he said. “Amazing, eh? I found it right away; if I were endowed with psi faculties, I'd think I had been led to it.”

He took a deep breath, prepared, it was clear, to launch into a detailed account.

“Let's go to your place and you can tell us all about it,” Bruce said.

Pat glared.

“You trying to spoil my effect? What's the matter—mad because the wild goose chase laid a golden egg after all?”

“Pat, of course we're pleased,” Ruth said hastily. “I'm dying to know. What did happen to Ammie?”

Pat's scowl relaxed.

“You were right, Ruth, I'll never sneer at your intuition again. She did elope. Wait a minute, let me read this to you. It's classic. I copied it word for word.”

He searched the pockets of his overcoat and jacket before he found the paper. Bruce moistened his lips nervously and shifted from one foot to the other. Ruth met his eye and shrugged slightly. Short of picking him up bodily she did not see how they were going to move Pat. He was never very amenable to suggestion, and this afternoon he seemed so delighted by his find that he was more stubborn than ever. Undoubtedly the boy's earlier successes had riled him; he was prepared to rub this one in just a bit.

“Here it is,” Pat said, unfolding his paper. “You know, I didn't realize they did this sort of thing back in Colonial times. It's like a ‘Whereas' ad in a modern newspaper, only much more detailed.” He cleared his throat and began to read:

“With regret and shame the undersigned finds himself under the necessity of advertising his daughter. Painful though it may be to a fond parent, he does by these presents make known that Amanda, his daughter, has eloped from his house with one Anthony Doyle, Captain in the Army of Independence, who has long attempted to seduce her from her faith and her loving duty to her parent, and has finally succeeded; for which her disconsolate father does not hold her to blame, but promises that, should she discover her error and regret her sin, she shall be received into his home without question.” Pat glanced up. “The signature,” he concluded, “I leave to your imaginations.”

“Douglass Campbell,” Ruth whispered. “Oh, Pat, you were right too—the poor man.”

“You two are prejudiced,” Sara said, lifting a firm chin. “You always side with the parents. I think it was frightful of him to make a public announcement of her elopement!”

“The ad was meant for her,” Pat said. “Can't you read the real meaning? He wasn't trying to shame her, he wanted her to know that she could always come home.”

“That's sweet, I'm sure,” Sara said impudently. “But I'll bet she was glad to get away. Who wouldn't prefer a dashing Irishman, and an officer at that, to a dull dad?”

“Perhaps the young man had tried to court her properly,” Ruth said, trying to be fair; she was somewhat stung by Sara's remark about prejudice. “And Douglass considered him unsuitable.”

“Naturally,” Pat said. “He was Catholic.”

“How do you—oh, that business about seducing her from her faith. And it's an Irish name, of course….”

“A Catholic and a Patriot,” Pat said. “Campbell was a fiercely intolerant Protestant and a Tory. She couldn't have picked a more unpopular combination in a boyfriend.”

“You're awfully damn dogmatic about your deductions,” Bruce said spitefully.

“They seem quite reasonable to me,” Ruth said, trying to make peace; Pat's face had darkened again.

“Okay, okay,” Bruce mumbled. “Do you mind if we—”

“I wonder what Doyle was doing in Georgetown?” Sara said. “Were there any battles in these parts?”

“There must have been a detachment guarding the British prisoners,” Pat said. “He may have been in command of that.”

“We might look him up,” Ruth suggested. “Aren't there army records? We don't even know where he came from. Maybe he took Ammie home, wherever home was.”

“Camden, New Jersey,” Pat said absently. He was staring at the furnace with his forehead slightly furrowed, as if some new, disturbing thought had just entered his mind.

“Was that in the newspaper too?” Bruce asked. He had become very still, the nervous gestures in abeyance; and his eyes seemed to want to follow Pat's gaze toward the blocked and hidden door.

Pat did not reply. Bruce walked toward him, stepping delicately.

“Pat, could we—look, I don't know what time it is, but it must be late. Can't we adjourn now?”

“Sure,” Pat said. “It's a nasty night out, though. It started to rain when I turned off Wisconsin, and the wind is rising.”

The words were simply descriptive; there was no reason why they should have created such an unpleasant picture in Ruth's mind. When she reached the top of the stairs she could not repress an exclamation of dismay. The splintered reflection of the streetlight brightened the fanlight over the door. It was not quite night, but it was too near to be comfortable—dusk, twilight, deepening into darkness. She plunged toward the hall closet where they had left their coats, calling Sara.

Bruce was the third person up the stairs, and he was as anxious as Ruth to be gone. Pat, still carrying his coat, followed them obediently along the hall. Ruth thought he seemed subdued, and attributed it to their reception of his news. She promised herself she would make it up to him as soon as they reached a safe place.

Safe…. The house was not. She could almost hear the humming, like an electric motor, plugged in and building up a charge….

“Wait a minute,” Pat said, as Bruce reached for his raincoat. “Where's that stupid dog?”

“Oh, goodness, I almost forgot her.” Ruth, already wearing coat and hat, went back toward the living room. It was in darkness except for a faint glow from the fire, but she could make out Lady's silhouette, like a low lump, against the reddish glare. She switched on the lights.

“Come on, baby,” Pat said.

Bruce dropped his coat.

“I'll get her. Pat, why don't you go on out and—uh—get the car started?”

“The car'll start when I want it to,” Pat said, giving him a puzzled look. “Get up, Lady, come with Papa.”

Ruth stood just inside the doorway, her hand still on the light switch. As she watched Bruce her suspicion and alarm came back in double strength. He was so nervous that she expected momentarily to see him start wringing his hands. He vibrated distractedly just outside the door, looking from Sara, who watched him in growing bewilderment, to Pat, who was nudging the dog's snoring form with his toe. Indecisiveness was not normally one of Bruce's problems.

“I am not going to carry you,” Pat told his dog. She was not visibly moved by the statement.

Bruce hunched his shoulder, in a gesture that resembled a shudder, and made up his mind. He plunged into the room like a swimmer entering a lake in December.

“I'll carry her,” he said. “Pat, you go on and—”

“Are you crazy?” Pat demanded. “She'll walk, it just takes me a while….”

“She'll come for me,” Sara said. She threw her coat down on a chair and entered the living room. “Lady, baby, come to Sara.”

They were all there. It came to Ruth with the sharpness of a blow in the face. They were all in the living room and night crouched outside the walls. She could hear the wind moaning like a frightened child around the eaves, and through the trees, lashing the windows with raindrops.

“Sara,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse. “Sara.”

At the same moment Pat bent over to touch the dog.

Lady roused. She came up stiff-legged and aware, in the instantaneous response to peril which no human being can learn. Her haunches had been under the coffee table; she sent it over, spilling decanter, glasses, and ashtrays. Ruth did not even glance at the havoc. She had eyes only for the dog—for Lady, the somnolent, who stood with every hair on her neck up and bristling, with lips drawn back to display long ivory fangs. Her dark eyes were fixed on her master, and for a moment Ruth thought the hundred pounds of bone and muscle and tearing fangs were about to spring. But what happened was, in its way, infinitely worse. The snarl in Lady's throat changed to a horrible whine. She dropped to her belly and began to crawl, whimpering like a puppy. When she had cleared the couch she sprang up and fled. Ruth heard the crash of the heavy body against the front door, and the howl, the almost human howl of frustration and terror when the door refused to yield. Then there was another muffled crashing sound, and silence.

Ruth had no conscious memory of having moved. Her body had simply recoiled, with the same sort of reflex that jerks a hand back from a licking flame. There was no way out through the door, it was too perilously close to the spot where, once again, the foul blackness seethed and coiled. It was stronger tonight, worse than she had yet seen it, as if it drew strength from each successive appearance. And the cold beat at them in pulsating, paralyzing waves.

“The French doors,” a voice said. “Out…into garden….”

Ruth's retreat had carried her halfway down the length of the room. She stood pressed up against the wall, next to the round piecrust table. She could not turn her back on the blackness, nor could she bring herself to look at it directly; it contaminated the air by its very existence; it was an affront, a violation of normalcy so acute that it amounted to blasphemy.