Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear (27 page)

"You can't hurt me!" he said.

"Hurt you? What are you talking about?"

He turned his back to me, hunching his shoulders. "You can't hurt me."

"Patrick, you know that I won't. What is going on with you?"

"November hates you," he said.

"I'm not fond of November, either, after what happened last night."

Patrick turned his head to look questioningly at the cat. "Why? What did he do?"

"He came in the house, don't you remember? He wouldn't leave your room. I was going downstairs to get some bait, when I fell and hurt my shoulder."

Patrick turned all the way around to face me. He eyed my shoulder. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"No." I studied him, perplexed, trying to read the expression in his eyes. "We talked about it already this morning, remember?"

He bit his lip and nodded, but I wasn't sure that he did.

"Patrick, you could have killed yourself falling off the diving board. Why did you do that?" I had to ask, though I knew before he answered what he would say.

"You'll get mad," he replied. "You won't believe me."

"Because Ashley dared you?"

He nodded.

Twelve years ago, as in my dream the other night, she had dared me to do the same thing—to jump up and down at the end of the board, to entertain her with a stupid, risky game.

"I do believe you."

I believed in and feared something at Mason's Choice that was as dangerous as the people currently living here—a mind and force that I had never known how to handle: angry, vindictive, careless Ashley.

Chapter 13

What did Ashley want, I wondered, as Patrick and I ate lunch. Justice? The company and friendship of another child? Friendship that would ultimately mean death?

Patrick was quiet during the meal, not like a child enjoying a school holiday, nothing like the little boy who had danced in the falling snow the night before. I feared that Ashley was changing him, and I didn't know how to stop her. Though Adrian would listen, he wouldn't believe me if I told him Patrick was haunted. I could tell him that I had found Patrick playing on the diving board, omitting my own experience with Ashley and fears about what was happening, but that wouldn't keep Patrick safe from her.

And it might backfire. I sensed that Emily was turning against me, jealous when Adrian supported me, upset when Patrick wanted to be with me. She could charge me with incompetence for letting her son wander off to the pool alone. If she had me dismissed, Patrick would have no one to watch over him.

I set down my half-eaten sandwich. At the same time, Patrick pushed back his plate. "I'm not hungry."

I immediately picked up my roll again and took a hearty bite. "Try just a little more. You want to have energy to play in the snow."

He didn't respond.

"Do you want to play outside after lunch?" "I guess."

"We can make a snowman. How about a snow fort?"

He shrugged. "Okay."

The Eastern Shore was mostly flat, and there were no hills on Mason's Choice for sledding. The drop of land down to the bay was too steep. "Do you know of a place around here where children like to sled?"

"No. That's okay."

I took a long sip of tea and made up my mind. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere. I want to see three more bites out of that roll."

I didn't want to make the phone call in front of Patrick and build up his hopes only to crush them. Standing close to a window in the dining room, hoping I'd hear or see him if he decided to slip out the kitchen door, I pulled out my cellular and punched in Sam's number, the one Elaine had given me.

Someone picked up at the other end.

"Hi," I said after a moment of silence.

"Hi, Kate," he replied.

"How did you know it was me?"

"The way you said hi, as if you weren't sure you wanted to, as if you might hang up."

Was I that obvious? "You have Caller ID," I guessed.

"That too. What's up?"

I issued an invitation to play in the snow. "Patrick would love to see you," I added. Realizing that I was pacing nervously, I made myself stop.

"Can't do it."

"Not at all? Not even for a half hour? Twenty minutes?"

"Would
you
love to see me?" he asked.

"Uh,"—he had caught me off guard—"yes, I'd like it, of course."

"Okay, then. I don't want to hang out with two people when one of them doesn't want me there."

"I didn't realize your ego was that sensitive," I said.

"Neither did I," he replied with a sigh.

"So… we'll see you in a bit. Do you know how to get here?"

"I can find the gates."

"They open automatically. Come straight up the road to the house."

"By the way, I have to leave by three o'clock," Sam said. "Even though school is canceled, we have hockey practice."

"Lovely. I mean, it's lovely that you're coming, not that you have to leave at three o'clock."

He laughed and I signed off quickly, wishing I could stop the burn in my cheeks. At least we'd be out in the cold where my cheeks always got pink—and my ears looked like roses stuck on either side of my head, I remembered.

When I told Patrick the news, he perked up. We found Emily in her sitting room, working on sketches for an art course she was taking, and received official permission for Sam to visit. Twenty minutes later, as Patrick and I headed to the kitchen to pull on our boots, we passed Brook in the hall.

"Anybody you know drive an old heap?" Brook asked. "One just pulled up in front of the house."

Patrick ran to the front window. "He's here!" he cried, as if Father Christmas had just arrived.

Mrs. Hopewell called down sternly from the top of the stairs: "There is company, and I wasn't informed."

"She has a boxful of eyeballs," Brook whispered to me. "She puts one in each window of the house."

I walked to the foot of the stairs and spoke loud enough for both him and Mrs. Hopewell to hear. "The guest is a friend of Patrick and mine. We had permission to invite him." There was no need to say permission from whom or that we secured it after I issued the invitation.

Patrick yanked open the front door. "Hey, Sam!"

"Hey, buddy. How are you?"

"Good! Come in. I'll be right back. I have to get something upstairs."

Sam stepped inside and Patrick raced past me. When he spied Mrs. Hopewell at the top of the stairs, he put on the brakes and headed in another direction, choosing a set of back steps.

"Hello, Kate," Sam greeted me.

"Hi." I tried not to notice his rough beard—he must not have shaved—or his dark hair or his intense eyes, or the softness of the sweater he wore beneath an open jacket.

Sam walked toward Brook and held out his hand. "Hello. Sam Koscinski."

Brook nodded without taking his hand. "Westbrook Caulfield," he replied formally.

Mrs. Hopewell had descended half the flight of steps and stood staring down at Sam. I assumed she recognized the name and knew he was related to the man who had investigated Ashley's death.

"Hello, Mrs. Westbrook," Sam greeted the housekeeper.

She pulled back her head with surprise. Brook burst out laughing.

"This is Mrs. Hopewell," I said.

Sam didn't blink. "Hello, Mrs. Hopewell."

Without a word, she descended the remaining steps and strode down the hall toward Robyn's wing, probably to tell her who was here. Brook asked about the condition of the roads, then headed out.

Sam turned to me. "I knew who the old gargoyle was," he said. "She's a legend in town. Besides, I know how a housekeeper dresses—I've seen movies."

"So why did you pretend not to?"

He shrugged. "To get her to stop staring. To remind her that she is not the owner of the house." He glanced around. "Nice place."

"I've got my boots in the kitchen," I said, leading the way.

Patrick joined us there, carrying two battered hockey sticks, the ones I had seen in the third-floor storage rooms.

"Whoa! Look at those," Sam said, taking one in his hands, running his fingers up and down it. "This must have been used in the Revolutionary War.""

"No, I think my dad used it," Patrick answered seriously. "We can play on the pond if you want."

"You can
what?"
I exclaimed.

"Kate says it isn't frozen hard enough to hold us," Patrick quickly confided to Sam, "but I know it is."

"Yeah? How do you know that?" Sam asked.

"Ashley told me."

That answer didn't surprise me anymore, but Sam hadn't expected it, and he glanced at me before responding. "Well, here's the problem. Since, far as I can tell, Ashley is lighter than air, and you and I are not, I'm going by what Kate says. But we can bring the sticks outside," he added. "They'll be good for batting snowballs."

Though disappointed, Patrick was agreeable. He and I tugged on our boots, and the three of us headed to the grounds behind the house, where there were no gardens hidden by snow that we might damage. The stretch of lawn was a white downy quilt against the long, blue horizon of bay and sky.

We took turns tossing snowballs, walloping them with hockey sticks, and running madly around the bases, which were mounds of snow.

"Are you sure you're a leftie?" Sam asked, when the balls I threw kept falling short of home plate.

"Are you implying I can't pitch?" I didn't want to tell him my right shoulder hurt.

Everything Sam did, Patrick did: winding his arm to pitch, sliding dramatically into base, bellowing that he was "safe." Afterward, we made a snowman as tall as Sam and gave him a hockey stick to hold.

"We need eyes and a nose," Patrick said. "And I want to make a number for him to wear."

"You're supposed to use a carrot for his nose," Sam replied, "but I always used broccoli, used it for everything—even had broccoli hair—that way, there wouldn't be any left for dinner."

Patrick laughed. "Green hair. Cool!"

"How about you, Kate?" Sam asked.

"It didn't snow much in England, not where we lived, but once we had a big storm and my father gave me loops of undeveloped film to make curly hair, then he and I dressed up our snow lady in paint rags and a drop cloth spattered with colors. She was elegant."

I hadn't thought about that for years. I blinked before the unexpected tears got beyond the corners of my eyes.

"Cool!" Patrick repeated.

"Very cool," Sam said, his voice unusually gentle.

"So what do we use now?" I asked, glancing about, trying to look as if I'd already forgotten about the snow lady.

"Beach stuff," Patrick said. "Let's go down there."

"Can we?" Sam asked.

"I suppose so." There were steps, steep wooden ones that ran down the side of what Ashley and I used to call "the cliffs," eroded banks of sandy soil and clay that dropped about eight meters to a narrow shoreline of sand, shel s, and stones. "We should be careful on the steps. They may be rotted in places. Let me go first, Patrick."

"I'll go first," Sam offered.

I said I would."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this like the door thing?"

It was, and it was stupid, but I wouldn't admit it. "Fall through the steps if you want to," I said. "You're the one who has a play-off game on Saturday."

"Good point. You go first."

"Kate fel down the steps last night," Patrick volunteered, "down the big stairs, and woke everybody up. Daddy wanted to call 911."

Sam turned to stare at me.

"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. I stopped at the landing."

"Mommy said she could have killed herself."

"I bruised my shoulder, that's all," I told Sam. "Come on. This snowman needs eyes and numbers." I started walking.

"Race!" Sam shouted suddenly, and took off. The snow made it harder for Patrick to pick up his short legs and run. He looked like a bunny hopping after Sam. I waited til Sam slowed down to let Patrick catch up, then shot past the two of them.

Snowballs pelted the backs of my legs. I stopped to taunt the boys, and Sam rushed past me. He stood grinning at the top of the steps, then started down them, kicking off snow as he went. As it turned out, the wood was in good shape; I should have known that Adrian would keep his property perfectly maintained.

At the bottom, strips of snow lay like shimmering froth left behind by waves. It was low tide, and stones sparkled at the edge of the sand. The banks above us looked streaky, red clay and yellow sand sugared over with snow. The fresh smell of snow mixed with the tang of salt.

Patrick skipped along the shore, searching for materials. "We'll use clams for his ears," he called over his shoulder.

"Perfect!" I said, starting after him, but Sam caught me by the sleeve.

"What happened last night?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"How did you fall down the steps?"

"I just fell."

"I don't think so," he said. "I think you called me because something has happened to upset you."

"I called because I was worried about Patrick."

"Did you trip?" he persisted. No.

Sam waited for an explanation.

"I was pushed."

"Pushed! By who?"

"I don't know. It was dark—someone turned out the night lamp."

"Who do you think it was?"

"Ashley."

He grimaced. "That answer works only when you're seven. Be honest, who do you think it was?"

I don't know," I told him.

"Why do you think you were pushed?"

"I don't know!"

"You can trust me, Kate."

I bit my lip.

"I went on the Internet," Sam said, "and read the obituaries about your dad."

I glanced at him, startled. He was doing research on me.

"One of the articles said he and your mom had been separated for twelve years."

"That's right. She left us after we got to London. I haven't seen her since."

"That must have—" Sam broke off, seeing Patrick walking toward us.

"I found eyes and ears for the snowman," Patrick said, studying the treasures he carried. He dropped mussels and clamshel s into my hands.

Sam admired them. "Great! Now we need a lot of stones, so we can write out the uniform number."

Patrick went off again.

"That must have been pretty tough, your mother suddenly disappearing," Sam said, continuing our conversation.

I shrugged. "The tough part was having to raise my father alone."

He smiled a little, but his eyes were serious. "Do you know how to contact your mother?"

I looked out at the bay, at the cold blue-gray waves, their jagged glitter. "Yes, but I won't. Ever. Can we change the subject?"

He didn't answer right away. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

"Patrick." I watched him at the edge of the water, picking up stones. There were others on dryer land, but he wanted the wet ones, the shiny ones. "I am really worried about him."

"Has his loving family killed any more pets?" Sam asked.

"He doesn't have any other pets, unless you count November."

I told Sam about the strange reappearance of Ashley's cat and recounted the other odd events: the way Patrick had played the song Ashley had played, with the same incorrect note; the dare on the diving board—the same dare Ashley had made to me. Once I started, I couldn't stop and I told him everything, though I avoided using the word "ghost."

"Sam," I said, finding my nerve at last, "what if Patrick sees and hears something… something real?"

"Like what?"

I don't know—a force, a spirit, the mind of Ashley. I think you may be right about her being murdered. What if Ashley is seeking justice?" I rushed on. "Or what if she is lonely and wants Patrick with her, in her world, forever?"