Dark Homecoming (24 page)

“I'm not sure. I need to speak with David before I do anything. But then . . . I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'm certainly not just going to sit around here and wait for the next knife to swing through the air. Because I'm pretty sure the next target will be me.”

“Liz,” Roger said, troubled by her words. He squeezed her hands in his. “You know I'm here for you. I will do everything I can.”

“Thank you, Roger.” She carefully extricated her hands from his. “But the first step is to wait for David to get home, presuming he responds to the police's call that he return.”

“It wouldn't be like David to ignore the law. He'll come if he's ordered to do so.” Roger sighed. “But the weather might be a problem. Have you heard about the hurricane off Cuba?”

“No,” Liz admitted. “I switched off the television after hearing the news about Rita, and I have studiously avoided being online.”

“The fear is that it's going to slam right into the Florida coast, a direct hit, on Wednesday. It's a pretty powerful storm, too. Could be a category five. If David doesn't get back in the next twenty-four hours, that could delay him another few days at least.”

“Well, whenever he gets here,” Liz said, “that's when I start asking questions.” She looked at Roger with hard eyes. “And if I don't like the answers, then I'm going to see Detective Foley. I hope David will go with me. But if he doesn't . . .”

Liz didn't finish the sentence. But it was very clear that one way or another, she would eventually tell the police everything she knew and suspected.

“May I at least take you to dinner tonight?” Roger asked.

“Thank you, but I don't want to be seen in public. Too many reporters asking too many questions.”

“Then I'll have dinner sent in to the gallery. I'll send my car around. What do you say?”

“All right,” Liz agreed.

His face lit up. “Excellent. Expect the car around seven.”

“Thank you, Roger.”

He kissed her hand again and left.

She was, perhaps, playing with fire. She couldn't deny her attraction to Roger, and he clearly felt the same way about her. But she needed a friend. And right now Liz could think of nothing she would like more than a quiet dinner alone with Roger.

T
he dark narrow hallway was strung with cobwebs. Every few minutes Variola had to stop and peel the sticky strings from her face. Her way was lit only by a series of bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, pinkish light along the narrow corridor. The odor of musty rooms and damp wood was everywhere.

She steeled herself. What she intended to do was not going to be easy. But she had to do it. There was no longer any other way. Things were spiraling out of control.

At the end of the hallway was a door. It was a small door, unlike any other in the house, barely large enough to fit through. Each time Variola had passed through that door in the past, she'd needed to lower her head and pull in her shoulders. On the other side of the door, the room was equally as small. How it stank inside that room. Variola shuddered to think of it.

She reached the door and paused.

Do it, Variola
, she told herself.

In the deep pocket of her jacket, she felt the knife, wrapped in soft fabric.

The taking of a life was repugnant to Variola. But this thing behind the door . . . that was no life. It was a mockery of life.

She placed her hand on the doorknob.

But at that very moment the door opened, and Mrs. Hoffman stood in the doorway, the white mask of her face staring at Variola. In her hands she held the tray that Variola had given to Mrs. Martinez earlier.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Hoffman hissed.

Variola took a step back. She quelled the sudden thumping of her heart and projected an outward calm. “What I always do when I come here,” she said.

“You never come this time of day.”

“Maybe I need to come more often.”

Mrs. Hoffman stepped out of the room, bending her head so that she could fit, and closed the door behind her.

“You said it wasn't working.”

Variola eyed her cagily. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“You don't think you were wrong.” Hoffman eyed her just as cagily in return. “You came here to do something else.”

“What else would I come here to do?”

“After what you said to me the other day,” the housekeeper told her, “about shifting responsibilities and changing allegiances, I don't think you need to come here at all anymore.”

Variola's large eyes opened wide. “At all? What would you do then?”

Mrs. Hoffman smiled. “I think we would do just fine.”

Variola laughed, the sound echoing in the narrow corridor. “You really
do
think you have become that powerful, that you no longer need me. Well, you are mad, Hoffman. I've always thought so, but now I know for sure.”

“Haven't you heard?” Mrs. Hoffman asked. “There's a hurricane headed this way.”

Variola was momentarily at a loss for words. “You can't think that you can do such a thing on your own . . .”

“But I can! I would like you to help me, but if you refuse, I will do it on my own.”

“Impossible,” Variola said.

“It's hard accepting the fact that you're not needed anymore, isn't it, Variola? Did you think we had learned nothing from you? You've been a very good instructor, I'll grant you that much. How very much we've learned from you.”

Variola's dark eyes flashed. She pushed past Mrs. Hoffman and took hold of the doorknob again. It was locked. But locked doors couldn't stop Variola.

Yet—it would not yield to her will.

“What have you done?” Variola spun around to face the housekeeper. “You have no idea of what you are playing around with. Papa Ghede will not allow—”

“I don't give a flying fuck about Papa Ghede. He's your god, not mine.” Hoffman gave her that strange approximation of a smile. “Besides, it is not what
I
have done, but what
she
has done. The power flows through her. I am merely her handmaiden.” Her eyes glowed. “Did you really think you might replace her as head of this coven? That I might serve
you
?”

“Without Variola, you are playing a very dangerous game.”

Mrs. Hoffman smiled. “If I were you, Variola, I'd pack my bags and leave this house at once. I can't fire you myself—I'll have to wait until Mr. Huntington returns, of course—but wouldn't it be a pity to end your glorious career convicted of murder?”

Variola glared at her.

“I think the death penalty in this state is lethal injection,” Mrs. Hoffman went on. “But they ought to burn you. Isn't that the only way to kill a witch? By fire?”

“The only one who will burn is you, Hoffman. In hell.”

What passed for a smile crossed the housekeeper's face. “You see, you don't frighten me anymore, Variola. She and I—we have found ways to protect ourselves.”

“You're deceiving yourself,” Variola told her.

“You couldn't open that door, could you? You no longer have power here, Variola. Your reign is ended.”

“I'm going to stop you,” Variola promised.

“I don't matter,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I never have. It's always been
her
. And
she
has passed out of the realm of your control, Variola. There is no way you can stop the dead.”

She turned and made her way down the dark corridor, leaving Variola standing alone outside the door.

Yet try as she might, Variola could not get inside the room. She tried the knob, she tried summoning every ounce of her power and strength—but the door was truly closed to her. Her way was barred. How had Hoffman done it?

Variola vowed that she would find out—and that she would win.

Because if she didn't—everyone in this house would be destroyed.

T
he car was waiting outside the gallery to take Liz back to Huntington House, but she didn't want to leave. The wine they had consumed—two whole bottles between them—was making her head spin a little, and she felt warm and safe in Roger's cozy lounge, sitting on the small couch beside him, talking about anything and everything these past three hours.

“Thank you for dinner,” Liz said. “It was just what I needed.”

“You don't have to leave,” Roger replied, taking her hands in his.

“We both know I
do
have to leave,” she told him, extricating her hands from his grip and standing up. “I'd like nothing more to stay here and keep talking, but . . . it's late, Roger.”

She had shared everything with him. Not just her fears and worries about David and the house and Dominique, but also the stories of her father abandoning her family so long ago, and her mother's struggles with alcohol. She'd shared the recent telephone conversation she'd had with her mother, and all sorts of long-suppressed guilt had come spilling from her mouth—how she'd abandoned her family by taking the job on the cruise ship just as her father had once walked out on them. She'd only made it worse by running off and marrying David without telling any of them. Now they were going to hear on the news that Liz's husband was wanted for questioning in a murder. What a way to meet him!

Liz had started to cry at that point, and Roger had held her tight. Resting her head against his chest, she'd listened to his steady heartbeat. Roger spoke low, in comforting tones, telling her he suspected she'd spent a lifetime blaming herself for other people's problems. She needed to stop doing that, he said. As he'd spoken those words, he'd stroked her hair. Liz had felt so warm and protected.

She was smart enough to know where the night was headed. Each time things got a little close, she extricated herself, just as she had done now, standing up from the couch and telling Roger she really needed to get home.

He stood facing her. “Liz, if David—”

She put a finger to his lips to silence him. “Don't say any more.”

“But Liz—”

“Roger, I have to hear him out. I have to let him make this right, if he can.”

“And if he can't?”

“Then . . .” Her voice hesitated. “Then, I don't know.”

“Then can I tell you that I love you?”

She looked up at him, into those soulful eyes of his. “Oh, Roger, don't say—”

But he was kissing her. She couldn't have stopped him. Even if she had wanted to.

It was bliss. Liz wanted to cling to him.

But she pulled away.

“No,” she said. “This is wrong. I have to give David the chance to make things right.”

Roger just nodded, and backed away.

“Thank you for everything,” Liz said, grabbing her purse, realizing the wine was making her walk a little unsteadily. “Really, Roger, everything. Please know how grateful I am.”

“I'm here if you need me,” he said, and walked her to the back door.

There, away from any reporters, was the car he'd hired for her. Liz slipped into the backseat. She watched as the car drove away from the gallery. Roger stood on his back step waving at her until the driver finally turned the corner and headed back to Huntington House.

Back home—
Could this ever truly be home?
Liz wondered—she was plunged right back into a dark chasm in her mind full of doubts and despair. For those few hours with Roger, she'd escaped those thoughts. But now here, back within the polished marble of Huntington House, Liz was once again tormented. The wine was muddying her thinking, so she couldn't reason herself out of it. All that kept running through her mind was:
Rita tried to show me something. She was genuinely surprised when nothing was in that room. If a woman had indeed gone in there, who was she? And where had she gone?

The house was eerily quiet. Mrs. Hoffman and Variola were presumably sound asleep in their rooms, and the other servants had all gone home. Liz stood motionless in the parlor, breathing in and out, trying to calm her sudden attack of nerves.

Her head was spinning faster now. She'd put away a whole bottle of wine. She tried to force herself to think clearly. To scissor through the thick haze that was clouding her reason. But she could hear only one thought banging around in her brain.

One thought only.

She knew what she had to do.

Slowly, silently, Liz moved from the parlor through the dining room and into the kitchen. The chrome and granite and stainless steel sparkled in the moonlight that poured through the window. Liz took a deep breath and crossed through the kitchen. She opened a drawer of the cupboard and withdrew a pin very much like the one Rita had used. She gripped it tightly in her fist. Then she resumed walking.

She paused at the back stairs and looked up into the dark.

The last room on the left.

Carefully Liz ascended the stairs, not wanting to awaken Variola or Mrs. Hoffman. She had one goal in mind. One goal only.

There
was
a woman that night, she firmly believed. Rita really
had
seen someone go into that room. So, the question was, how had she gotten out?

There had to be a way.

And might the answer to that puzzle shed light on other mysteries of this house?

Liz reached the top of the stairs and paused again. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. She felt dizzy—the wine really had a hold on her—so she moved away from the stairs, suddenly fearful that she'd topple down to the kitchen floor.

In the darkened hallway, she made her way.

She reached the last door on the left.

The door will no doubt be locked from the inside,
Rita had told her.

Why do you say, “no doubt”?
Liz had asked.

Because that's what the instructions always were,
Rita had replied.

Who had given Rita those instructions? David, clearly. This was where they had met, where they had carried on their affair under Dominique's nose. Now who was meeting David here? And was Dominique still aware of it—still angry—still seeking revenge?

The door was locked. Liz opened her fist and removed the pin with her other hand. With trembling fingers she inserted the pin into the hole in the doorknob, fumbling around until she managed to pop the lock.

The door opened with a tiny creak.

Liz stepped inside.

She felt for a light switch and flipped it on.

Once again, no one. Just a twin bed and a small dresser. Liz pulled open the dresser drawers. They were all empty.

She looked around the room. No way out. The window was too small for anyone to fit through, and besides it seemed sealed shut. There were no trapdoors on the floor, no escape hatches in the ceiling.

Liz moved over to the closet. The door was ajar. She stepped inside, nudging the pair of wire hangers on the rod, sending a soft tinkling sound through the room. Liz moved her fingers up and down the back wall of the closet. No, nothing there either—but then, just as she was about to take her hands away, she felt something.

A small groove running the length of the back wall of the closet, all the way down to the floor.

Liz fished out her phone from the pocket of her pants and turned on the light. She saw she had several messages from Nicki—she'd turned off the ringer on her phone so as not to be disturbed while she was having dinner with Roger—but she'd have to read them later. Right now she had more urgent business. She trained the light on the back wall of the closet. Yes, she could see the groove. It was very difficult to discern, but now that she had felt it, she could see it clearly enough. Liz pressed against it. A soft, scraping sound followed.

Her heart was threatening to burst up her throat and out of her mouth. Liz pressed harder against the wall. Suddenly, without any warning or any further sound, the back wall of the closet slid inward. It was a door.

Liz shined the light of her phone into the darkness behind the wall.
I've heard things—
her mind was racing—
footsteps—they seemed to be coming from within the walls . . .

Despite the bright white light, she couldn't make out much. She took a step closer, moving her head slightly through the opening. She could now see out a small, very narrow passageway leading off to the right. The passage couldn't go very far, Liz speculated, as it would end at the back wall of the house.

Steeling herself again, she took a step into the passageway and shined her light forward. As she'd anticipated, the corridor did indeed end at the back wall of the house. But there was a ladder at the end that led up into a hole in the ceiling and another that led down into a hole in the floor.

Liz realized the truth: these passageways led all through the house, between the walls!

For a moment she felt brave enough to go farther, to take the ladder up into the attic or down into whatever lay below, and see what she might find. But she quickly rejected the notion. Liz had seen enough horror movies in her day to know that wasn't a good idea. No way was she climbing through the walls of the house by herself, at night, a little woozy from too much wine.

So she backed out of the passageway into the closet. There was plenty of time to ask questions—of David, of Mrs. Huntington, of Thad the caretaker—later. At least she knew now how the woman Rita had seen had gotten out of the room.

Liz's heart settled down in her chest.

But as she was sliding the secret panel closed, the overhead light in the room behind her suddenly went out.

Liz spun around, shining the light of her phone into the darkness.

“Who's there?” she asked.

She caught a flash of something in the dark. The light from her phone was like a spotlight, picking out only the occasional shape in the room but failing to illuminate everything. Liz moved it frantically back and forth. Once again she spotted something—the flutter of some fabric—but then it was gone, and despite her attempt to follow it with her light, she couldn't find it again. But she could hear something now. A rustling sound.

And it was coming from behind her.

She hadn't closed the panel all the way. In terror Liz spun around, shining her phone in that direction, just in time to see a face—

A deformed, twisted, purple face—

The woman she had seen outside, in the sculpture garden!

Hideous bulging eyes—

Swollen cheeks—

A mouth contorted to the side of her face—

Long matted gray hair—

And hands like talons reaching out for her—

Long gnarled fingers encircled Liz's forearm, and she screamed. Her phone went flying from her hands, skittering across the floor.

“Get away from me!” Liz cried, yanking her arm away from the woman.

In the darkness Liz backed away. Where had the woman gone? It was too dark in the room for Liz to see clearly. She spun around, afraid the woman was behind her. Then, off to her right, she heard a whooshing sound. A shard of moonlight from the window revealed the source.

The long, shining blade of a knife swinging through the air.

In that instant, Liz was overwhelmed by the fragrance of gardenias.

“No!” she screamed as the deformed woman leapt at her from the darkness, knocking her violently to the floor. Liz kicked, clawed, and punched at the thing on top of her, knowing that at any second, that knife could make contact with her flesh and then it would be over.

But all at once, the woman withdrew, scuttling away in the darkness. Liz sat there panting on the floor, covering her head with her hands, too terrified to move. She could still hear the woman moving around the room, swinging the blade through the air. Was she planning to leap at her again?

Liz knew she had to make a run for the door, which was still open. It was her only hope. But just as she was about to get to her feet and run, hands were suddenly back on her, gripping her by the shoulder. Liz lunged upward and took a swing at the woman's face.

“Liz!”

Her fist stopped short of its goal. The face above her was not that of her attacker.

It was Nicki.

“Liz, what's wrong?” her friend asked. “What's happened here?”

Liz could see by the light of the moonlight that they were alone in the room. The deformed creature must have escaped through the secret panel. She tried to speak, to tell Nicki about the danger they might still be in, but all that came out of her mouth were sobs.

“There, there, kiddo,” Nicki said, wrapping her arms around her. “Everything's going to be okay now. You don't have to worry about a thing anymore. Nicki's here.”