Blackthorn Winter (33 page)

Where was that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel?

Nowhere in sight.

But—wait.

Up ahead I could see another pale shaft of light—larger and brighter than those from the other small vents—filtering down from the roof of this tunnel. The low ceiling rose in height so that I could stand straight—so high that even Quent would be able to stand straight. I stumbled toward the light, holding my aching sides. When I stood directly under it, I could see the source was another metal grate set into the stone about three feet above my head. But this grate was larger—about two feet square.

Cursing myself for not having gone rock climbing with my dad more often—I'd tried it only twice at an indoor gym—I jammed my fingertips into the crevices in the rocks and started trying to scale the damp walls. Fortunately there were lots of good finger- and footholds.
Duncan would be able to do this,
I reminded myself, picturing his rock-climbing posters and stack of magazines.
I have to do it, too.
I hung on the side wall and reached out to grab the metal grid. It was rusty. Could I shift it? But with what?

I froze again, listening. There were footsteps in the darkness, coming closer. Another muttered curse. I hoped Quent would bang his head hard enough to knock himself out before he came to the high-ceilinged section.

What was that noise through the grate? A faint call in the distance. "Pars-leeeeeey!"

Adrenaline coursed through my body and gave me strength. I dropped to the ground, pulled off my shoe, clambered back up the wall, and started battering the grate with my shoe. "Help!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Help! Help! Help! I'm down here in the tunnel! Hurry! Hurry!
Help!
"

Behind me I heard a muttered curse. I tensed, ready to—to what? To throw my shoe at Quent if he appeared around the bend? "Help! Help me!" I yelled in desperation. "I'm down here with Quent Carrington! He killed Liza! And he killed his wife—" I screamed this over and over again. I heard a shout behind me. I couldn't hold on to the rocks any longer and dropped back down to the packed earthen floor. But I kept on screaming. "He's a murderer! Hurry!"

When I stopped for breath, I was sure I heard faint footfalls, but no one emerged around the bend in the tunnel. And then a querulous voice right above me rang down through the grating: "Who's that down there? Whatever is going on?"

"Mrs. Cooper! Oh, Mrs. Cooper, it's me, Juliana. Juliana Martin-Drake! Oh, thank you for finding me!" My voice broke. "Help me!"

"What are you doing in there, young lady? What in the
world
are you up to? You gave me the fright of my life! Imagine! A voice coming up out of the ground—"

"Please!" I cut her off. "Hurry! Call the police!" This was my chance—my only chance—to save my life. I took a deep breath to hold back the sobs, then spoke rapidly, desperately. "Mrs. Cooper, listen. I'm in terrible danger. It's Quent Carrington. He forced me into this tunnel—he's trying to kill me!"

"I was just coming out here to the garden to call for Parsley—he
will
insist on staying out in the rain, but it can't be good for him, not at his age—and I heard this awful wailing," continued Mrs. Cooper, just as if she hadn't heard me. "As loud as a caterwauling cat fight, and I thought it was Parsley again, tangling with the neighbor's
cat—wait a minute,
what?
What did you say? Quent put you into the tunnel? Why in the world? I've never heard such nonsense—"

"Mrs. Cooper—Quent killed Liza! And he killed your daughter, too!"

Mrs. Cooper let out a shriek, then all was silence. For once Mrs. Cooper had nothing to say. And in the silence I heard footsteps again, but this time they were moving away from me, thank God, growing fainter.

Then I heard a different voice—a very welcome voice. "Granny? What's going on?"

I shouted for Duncan, and he was soon peering down the grate at me in disbelief. "Hurry," I panted. "Can you open this grate? But first call the police. Tell them to get up to the ruins on Castle Hill. Quent must be running back through the tunnel and he'll escape in a few minutes if nobody stops him. He killed Liza and he killed your mum, too—oh, don't just stare down at me! He admitted it all. He
bragged
about it, Duncan! Go get the police!"

For a moment Duncan just frowned at me, and I half expected him to tell me again that I was a crazy girl with an overactive imagination and that I'd watched too many lurid Hollywood films. But then without a word to me, Duncan was gone. I heard him calling in a frantic voice, "Grandad, Grandad, do you have a crowbar? Take it out to Granny; she's out in the garden! Hurry!" Then I heard the back door to the house slam shut.

"What in the world?" Now Mr. Cooper's face was looking down at me. "Finding yourself in a spot of bother, luv?" he asked.

"Worse than bother, Dudley," said his wife as her face came into view beside his at the grate. "The girl says Quent
put her down there. Says he killed our Nora
and
that Pethering woman."

"And he's trying to kill me," I cried. "Did Duncan phone for the police?"

"He's ringing them now," said Mr. Cooper. "Now let me see if I do have a crowbar. And my metal saw should help. We've got to get you out of there."

I had broken through my shadows and now had memories that filled in all the gaps, though still left a lingering horror—I was a prisoner underground in an ancient tunnel; I was wet and shivering and bruised; and Quent Carrington had killed two women and tried to kill me. All this, and yet I relaxed and smiled up at the pairs of faded blue eyes in lined faces peering down at me. I heard sirens in the distance.

Two policemen I hadn't seen before sawed through the metal grating with a special saw, then hauled me up and out. Emerging into the chill, damp air felt like being born into a new world. I babbled my story incoherently, and the two officers who were rescuing me understood enough to radio for help. Soon we heard more sirens in the distance—other police heading up Castle Hill to capture Quent at the other end. Mrs. Cooper brought me inside and sat me down in her kitchen and made me a cup of sweet, milky tea. "Best thing for shock," she said, adding another heaping spoonful of sugar. "I'd better have a cup myself..."

Duncan wanted to go up to Castle Hill where the action was and talk to Quent himself. He did not doubt my story, he said, but he thought there just had to be some mistake ... somewhere. This was
Quent,
after all. His stepfather. The officers said we were all to stay put. They phoned Mom, and drank cups of tea with us while we waited for her. Detective Inspector Link arrived, with Constable Petersen right behind. Parsley came in with wet paws and was cuddled and kissed by Mrs. Cooper. Then he settled down on my lap, a comforting bulk. I was shaking. Duncan sat across the table from me with his head bowed. When Mom and the Goops also arrived, out of breath from having run
all the way from Water Street, Mrs. Cooper ushered them into the kitchen, too, and put the water on for still more cups of tea.

"I couldn't take the car," Mom told everyone, "because police are swarming around the Old Mill House. They've got a cop at every door and gate into the property, looking for Quent. I can't believe any of this!" She reached for me and hugged me, hard. "Juliana—are you hurt? Tell me what's happening!"

I licked my swollen lips, felt the throb of my scrapes and bruises. "I'm okay, Mom," I said softly.

The officers standing in the kitchen holding their cups of tea made the room seem very small. There were the two men who had rescued me—one very tall, and the other seeming very short by comparison. Constable Petersen opened a notepad, and Detective Inspector Link asked for my statement. "If you're ready, dear girl, we'll want you to tell us everything—from the beginning," she said. "What made you suspect Mr. Carrington?"

I took a deep breath, suddenly unsure where to start. "Well," I said hesitantly, "when I was three or four years old, I made a necklace out of little shells..."

The kitchen was quiet. The Coopers looked puzzled. The police constable was writing everything down. Mom sucked in her breath sharply, then reached out to take my hand. "Jule," she whispered. "Have you remembered—?"

At my sudden, sharp movement, Parsley jumped off my lap with a loud meow. "I remember
everything,
" I said raggedly, and then—right there in front of all those people—I broke down crying like a baby in Mom's arms. It took a long time before I could get the whole story out.

I told them what I'd remembered about Buzzy and Tiara, and then I told them how Liza had insisted Nora would have worn her special necklace when she set off for her big London television interview. I told them how I'd suspected Celia Glendenning and Oliver Pethering. (I didn't mention all the others I'd suspected; as Duncan said, I
had
been acting paranoid.) I told them how Quent had come into the sunroom and forced me down the stairs. I told them everything.

When I was finished, Mom was crying. Duncan was sitting there, glaring down at the table, shaking his head like maybe he didn't believe a word. Mrs. Cooper bustled over to put the kettle on again. Mr. Cooper kept clearing his throat. The Goops sidled up and wrapped their sticky arms around me. I hugged them back, hard.

Constable Petersen closed his notebook. "Thank you for your statement," Detective Inspector Link said. "We'll have it typed up, and we'll need you to come to the station tomorrow and sign it."

I nodded. "Okay."

"And perhaps you'll want a medical exam—for the record. To check out any damage—"

"No," I said. "I'm fine. Just a few scrapes."

"You've had quite an ordeal, young lady," the inspector said. "But it seems to me you've solved not one but two murders for us today. Well done."

"Three," said Duncan suddenly, "if you count Buzzy's."

"I don't even know for sure how she died," I murmured. "Just that Tiara must have stuffed her into that closet." I wiped my eyes. "Do
you
know, Mom?"

"Honey, your dad and I were told only that a woman
who was thought to be your birth mother had been found dead of a drug overdose. A second woman was also dead in the same apartment."

Two women? Tiara dead, too? I remembered her lying on the couch, unmoving, and my little girl self desperately trying to wake her. Not sleeping then, after all?

I shuddered.

"It might be that your birth mother died of an overdose, and her friend panicked and hid the body," said Duncan. "And then later overdosed as well."

"Or Buzzy could have been murdered," I whispered.

Mom stroked my hair. "There was a white woman and a black woman. Someone the police interviewed reported that the two lived together, and the white one had a little girl, he thought, and once somebody had mentioned a boyfriend or husband who had been killed in a motorcycle accident. The police guessed that the white woman might have been your mother. But there were no records of anything—no driver's licenses or passports or marriage records or death certificates. No papers identifying either woman."

Mom spread her hands on the table. "I never even heard anything about
how
the women were found. There was no mention of possible murder. Or a body locked in a closet. And I don't think anyone knew that you had found the bodies first, honey. You were discovered walking alone on the beach—you know this part already—and you gave your name as Jewel Moonbeam." She shook her head. "My poor baby. You must have been running away from the terrible shock of finding your birth mother. No wonder you blocked it out."

"And no one checked into the child's background?" inquired Mrs. Cooper, frowning. "The police, I mean. Or the social welfare workers?"

"Of course they tried. But nobody by that name had been registered in the state." Mom shrugged lightly. "Probably Juliana was born at home—wherever home was for her then." She reached over and hugged me.

"I want to call Dad—," I began, still feeling dazed, still half in the past, half in the present. "I want to ask him to check with the police whether it was murder—"

"We'll call him," promised Mom. "But right now, I think we've got enough going on right here."

As if to prove the truth of Mom's statement, the radio strapped to the taller officer's belt crackled, and he moved into the other room to listen to it and reply. We all waited without speaking until he returned.

"Well, folks, looks like Carrington's got away. He reached his car and zoomed off before anyone could stop him. Heading for the motorway. There's a chase going on right now."

We heard this news in silence. We just looked around at each other, shocked.

"We'll get him," the shorter officer predicted. "He might try to hide out in London, but we'll track him down."

"He'll find it hard to live in hiding," Duncan said softly. "Loves the limelight too much."

Mr. Cooper snorted. "That's right, lad. You've got him pegged, and you know him better than most! Sooner or later those sculptures of his will start appearing again—and then the coppers will be onto him like a shot." He turned to the police officers. "You'll let us know when that happens, eh?"

"Yes sir, absolutely," promised Constable Petersen.

Mr. Cooper accompanied the police officers to the door. Detective Inspector Link promised to be in touch as soon as they had any further information. She also promised to station someone outside our house as an extra precaution. Until Quent was in police custody, I could still be in danger.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Cooper sank into a seat at the table. She had been bustling around ever since I was pulled out of the tunnel, but now she lowered her head into her hands and sat quietly. After a second I saw her shoulders shaking with sobs. "It's starting to sink in," she choked out. "Did he really kill our Nora? Can you believe it, Dunk-o? That he killed your mum?"

"I always thought it was strange that she left without me," Duncan said softly. "I was supposed to go to London, too. We were supposed to go together." He stood at his grandmother's side, but he was looking at me. His eyes were wet. I sensed he was feeling a lot like I was just then: hollow, leaden, weighted down with an ocean of sorrow. But in some small way also mightily relieved that truth had floated to the surface at last.