Close to Home (14 page)

Rosalie was crying now, and she knew that when he got her back to the barn, he would punish her. Her insides shriveled at the thought, and at that point she gave up fighting, just let him haul her up the hillside, across a short field, and over the wire mesh to his waiting, idling truck, a black beast that appeared malevolent, headlights like eyes, burning through the night. Into the cab she was flung, and there Scraggly held her down. His face a pale mask of fury in the light from the dash, her abductor climbed behind the wheel, slammed his door shut, and threw the truck into reverse. Gunning it, swerving in his wrath, he drove crazily backward.

“Hey! Careful!” Scraggly screeched.

Rosalie didn't care. She figured she was dead.

Except that Scraggly had said, “No bruises,”

That couldn't be good.

Her kidnapper stood on the brakes, and the truck slid to a shuddering stop. He opened his door, hauled her outside, and without a word carried her straight to her room, spinning around just once to order Scraggly, “Be sure to close and lock the door, for shit's sake.” In that moment, she got a view of the area where she was being held. Yes, it was a stall, the first in a line of boxes with doors and padlocks. Over each door the name of a horse had been etched in thick black letters. In her case, the former occupant of the stall had obviously been named Star.

No wonder he'd called her that. She caught a glimpse of the next stall, which was named for Princess, and the third was Stormy. There were others, as well, too far away for her to read in that one quick glance.

“You just lost dinner,” her captor told her and kicked her water bucket so hard, the contents sloshed over the side and the bucket clattered against the wall, “and you're damned lucky to be alive!” He tossed her onto the cot, then stalked out, slamming the door behind him so hard the whole barn shook. “Let's go,” he said to his companion as the padlock clicked into place. “Let the little bitch think about what she's done.”

The footsteps faded, any bit of light sliding under the door extinguished, the exterior door thudding hard before the sound of a dead bolt sliding into place and a lock turning met her ears.

Rosalie fell into a puddle of desperate tears.

She was alone again.

G
racie had to be careful and really, really quiet as she descended the steps to the basement. Her mom didn't like her poking around in the unused portions of the old house, but then Mom was always overprotective, and besides, whether she admitted it or not, this old house freaked Sarah big-time. Gracie could tell. She just had a sense about those kinds of things, nothing she could put her finger on, not really, but a heightened awareness that she took for granted and other people apparently weren't blessed with.

She'd tried to describe her ability to Jade once, to prove to her skeptical sister that she was for real, by informing Jade that Dad was just about to call right before the phone rang. That had only made things worse because when Jade had answered and heard Noel McAdams's voice, she'd glared at Gracie as if she thought the call was some kind of elaborate trick concocted by her sister and father.

When they'd both insisted they weren't in cahoots and Jade had finally believed them, instead of being impressed, Jade had said, “I don't get you,” and slapped the phone into Gracie's hand.

After that Gracie had kept her mouth shut. When Jade had been searching all over the house for her phone and Gracie had known it was under the seat in the car, she'd stayed mum. And she hadn't told Jade about the time when Jade had been complaining that Cody hadn't called and Gracie had the very distinct feeling he was with someone else. Maybe a girl, maybe one of his friends, she couldn't tell which, but she did know that he sure wasn't thinking about Jade. The vibe she'd gotten from Jade's boyfriend was that he just wasn't as into Jade as she was into him, but telling Jade that wasn't going to win Gracie any points. In Gracie's opinion, Cody Russell was a low-life loser, but she kept that opinion to herself. Mostly. The few times she'd voiced her thoughts, Jade had gone ballistic, so it was better to just keep quiet. At least for now.

While Mom was in the middle of a bunch of phone calls and paperwork in the dining room, and Jade was wrapped up in something on the Internet, Gracie used the keys she found hanging on a hook near the back door, grabbed a flashlight from a shelf in the mudroom, then slipped around the staircase and unlocked the door to the basement. The flashlight's batteries were low, its beam a sickly yellow, but she didn't have much time anyway, so she hurried down the stairs.

The dusty steps creaked loudly, and cobwebs caught in her hair, but she didn't stop because she knew her time was limited. Soon Mom would look for her, and she didn't want to have to explain herself.

How could she? Who would believe that she was actually communicating with the ghost of Angelique Le Duc? She'd been frightened at first and nearly fainted on the stairs that first night she'd felt the ice in the air and seen the spirit form vanish as swiftly as it had appeared, but she was less afraid now. She'd since realized that the apparition hadn't been trying to scare her, just reach out to her.

Most of this information had come in the form of a dream Gracie had experienced the second night she'd been at the house. She was certain it wasn't just her subconscious, that Angelique was talking to her, begging her to solve the mystery of her death, so that she could pass over to the other side.

It sounded weird, even to Gracie herself, but then life and death were inexplicable. She was just going to go with it, and it made her feel special and kind of important.

She reached the bottom step and swept the wimpy beam around the cement floor. Stepping into near darkness, she tried to ignore the sound of tiny claws scratching on the floor. Rats, probably, disturbed that she was down here. She imagined seeing their beady little eyes as she moved deeper into the basement, which was really several very large rooms divided by bookcases and shelves that held a century of forgotten junk. Exposed pipes climbed up the cement walls and ran between the joists overhead. In one corner an ancient washer and dryer were rusting near an even older wringer-washer. At least that's what she thought it was; she'd read about the contraptions in historical novels. Cords were strung from wooden pillars, and on one cord wooden clothespins were still attached.

It was like stepping back in time, she thought, as she made her way through piles of junk. What hadn't been stored in the attic had found its way down here—broken lamps, old books, empty jars, and discarded picture frames. There were tools as well, handsaws and hammers and wrenches and the like, along with furniture that had been carried down here and forgotten. Lawn chairs, of course, but interior furniture as well. A broken rocker and a chaise with the stuffing exposed were pushed into a corner with old desks and bureaus, all of it slowly deteriorating.

As she walked to the corner of the basement, the temperature seemed to drop. One second she was comfortable; the next she was so cold goose bumps rose on the back of her arms. For the first time since stepping through the doorway at the top of the stairs, she felt as if she wasn't alone.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to be brave.

“Are you here?” she whispered, her breath fogging. Would someone answer her? Biting her lip, she waited, listening to her own heartbeat, hoping she wouldn't scream if she heard a voice. She held the flashlight so hard she was sure her fingers had turned white.

Nothing.

The basement was eerily silent; even the rats had quit moving around. “I—I want to help.”

Slowly she shined her light over the area again.

“Angelique?” Her voice shook a little, and she felt a little foolish calling out to the ghost. If Jade ever found out, she'd never hear the end of it.

Still there was no response, and she was running out of time. Swinging her flashlight over the furniture, she found what she thought was the oldest dresser and opened the drawers, but they were all empty. A carved wooden desk that also appeared to have been built in a previous century sat next to it. Inside the top drawer were artifacts from another century. Faded black-and-white postcards, a fountain pen, colored pencils, and a sharpener lay amid the mice droppings. The second drawer down was stuck closed, almost as if it were locked and no amount of tugging would open it. Inside the third drawer was a sheaf of yellowed stationery covered in dead insects.

Nothing that would help.

And yet she felt as if she was close to something. Why else the cold presence?

“There must be something,” she whispered as she heard muffled footsteps on the floor overhead. Gracie swept the beam of the flashlight to the crossbeams and figured her mother was walking into the kitchen from the dining room. If Sarah searched for Gracie and couldn't find her, she would wonder where her daughter was, and Gracie didn't want to try and explain herself.

Reluctantly she started up the staircase.

Whoosh! Creeeaaak!

Her heart nearly stopped as she felt a breath of wind pass through her. Icy cold, it caused her insides to tremble. Certain she would be nose-to-nose with the wispy lady in white, she forced herself to turn around and held the flashlight in a death grip. It was one thing to talk about confronting a ghost and helping a spirit, but to actually see one? Would she be able to stand her ground or flee up the stairs?

“H-Hello?” she whispered, seeing nothing but pitch black in the lower rooms. “Is anyone there?” She swung the beam of her light over the basement's interior.

Nothing.

No sound.

No flimsy wraith flitting under the old furnace's huge vents.

And yet . . .
Something
had made that noise and passed through her body.

She felt an urgency to return upstairs, but she stepped back into the shadowy basement once more and noticed that her flashlight's beam wavered; her hand was shaking. The air seemed thin but suddenly odorless.

Gracie swallowed hard, telling herself she was being a ninny.

There was nothing to be scared of.

But her heightened senses disagreed, and as she swung the beam from her light over the stacks of junk and bookcases, she braced herself, certain some horrid ghostly creature would lunge out at her.

The basement remained still.

As if drawn by a magnet, she returned to the old desk and saw that the second drawer, the one she'd tried so hard to open, was now slightly pulled out, the dark opening beneath the lip of the desk beckoning.

Every hair on the back of her neck lifted as she stepped closer. Poised to sprint in the opposite direction, she shined her pale light at the drawer. She reached out and pulled on the handle, but again, as before, it wouldn't budge. It would go backward, but not forward all the way, as if . . .

And then she knew.

Dropping to her knees, she pulled out the third drawer and shined her light on the bottom of the stuck second one. Sure enough something was adhered to the bottom of it, tacked into a purse of sorts.

Again, the floorboards overhead creaked as her mother stirred around on the first floor.

Hurry!

She reached inside and pulled. The small bag shredded and its contents, a slim book, fell into her palm, the word
Journal
scrolled across the leather binding in faded gold letters. She flipped it open, and though many of the thin pages stuck together, she saw the fluid intricate script and realized she had stumbled upon Angelique Le Duc's diary.

“Gracie?” her mother's voice seemed to ricochet down the huge ducts.

Gracie slid the diary under her sweatshirt and climbed up the stairs as silently as possible. She didn't know why, but she knew she had to keep her find a secret—for now. Mom wouldn't approve of her snooping through the basement, nor would she understand.

Quietly she slid into the darkened hallway, tiptoed to the mudroom, and hurried outside, where fresh rain was falling. Once her hair was damp and the shoulders of her sweatshirt showed drops, she returned to the house and found her mom walking down the hall, just a step in front of the doorway to the basement.

“Where were you?” Sarah asked, her brow knotted in concern.

“Outside.”

“I can see that, but why?”

She shrugged and felt the diary slide beneath her sweatshirt. “Just needed to get out for a minute.”

“Really?” Her mother eyed her skeptically, and Gracie noticed that she hadn't completely latched the door to the basement. It was hanging slightly ajar, and if Mom turned around she'd wonder why it wasn't locked.

“Yeah, I, uh, didn't feel so good.”

“You didn't?”

“I'm okay, though. I just think I need something to drink.”

“Water? Seven-Up?” Sarah asked and headed back into the kitchen.

“Whatever.” Gracie gently pulled the door to the basement closed and hurried after her mother, feeling relieved until she caught Jade standing on the other side of the staircase watching her every move.

“What're you doing?” she whispered, and Gracie held up a hand and shook her head.

Now, all she could do was hope that Jade wouldn't blow her secret. At least not until she had a chance to look at Angelique's journal.

 

“It's as if Rosalie Jamison just disappeared off the damned earth!” Deputy Bellisario declared, trying to keep up with Sheriff Cooke's longer strides as he walked briskly through the offices of the department on Tuesday. Rosalie had now officially been missing since midnight on Friday.

“Can't argue that.”

The sheriff himself was working the missing girl case with her, as the department was a few deputies down. Montcliff was recuperating from an accident where a drunk driver had T-boned his county-issued cruiser, Zwolski was on vacation somewhere in Mexico, and Rutgers was just starting her maternity leave. Today, after talking to Ray Price, whose prize bull had been stolen, they'd been called to the Delanys on yet another domestic disturbance. The night before had been no better, as they'd had to break up a near-brawl at the Bend in the River Tavern that had included a few of the antigovernment types who'd migrated into Stewart's Crossing and started mixing it up with some local boys. Now Bellisario and the sheriff were headed to the lab to see what progress, if any, had been made with Rosalie's iPad and computer, which a deputy had picked up twenty-four hours before.

“Someone knows where she is.” Cooke held the exterior door open.

A blast of late-October air hit Bellisario in the face, and she zipped up her jacket to her neck. Together they headed past the flagpole where Old Glory was snapping, the chains rattling in the stiff breeze screaming down the gorge. “We just have to find that particular someone.”

“Needle in the haystack time.”

“Right.”

They reached the Jeep just as the first drops of rain fell from an ominous sky. By unspoken agreement, Bellisario slid behind the wheel. She'd already buckled up and started the engine by the time the sheriff dropped into the passenger seat and slammed his door shut.

“I interviewed her coworkers,” she said. “Gloria Netterling, another waitress at the diner, is beating herself up that she couldn't convince Rosalie to wait for a ride. She and the cook, Barry Daughtry, were the last people to see her that we know of. Only people left in the diner that night.”

“No customers?”

“The last two were a couple. A man and woman in their forties. They left ten, maybe fifteen minutes earlier. We're checking credit card receipts, trying to locate customers who might've seen something, and before you ask, no, the Columbia Diner doesn't have security cameras either inside or in the parking lot.”

“Too bad,” he said thoughtfully, reaching into his pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes; he'd given up the habit a few years back. “You talk to the dad?”

“Several times.” She backed out of the parking slot, then shoved the gear-lever into drive. “I think Mick Jamison and his new wife are on their way here from Denver. He didn't know about any new boyfriend in the area, online or off.”