Hand Me Down Evil (Hand Me Down Trilogy) (6 page)

I recalled the time when I was watching a special television program about mentally ill people who harm others. A psychologist narrating the program had said that one of the traits of mental illness was the rambling rant. The insane person talks in an incoherent manner and keeps talking like there is no tomorrow.

Did Edgar talk that way? And did Catherine leave Edgar and escape to Ohio because she realized that his female personality was fixated on stalking her? Poor Catherine. She lived a fearsome life with Edgar following her to Ohio and then back to Michigan. During the time that Mom was married to Peter, Catherine had never mentioned Edgar to me. I wonder if she told Mom about him. Maybe Edgar was chasing Mom, and she fled from Michigan to escape him as well? Everything seemed so confusing. Many pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were missing, and I felt that there were a lot of things that I did not know.

My thoughts shifted to Mark. Would he be able to communicate with Catherine? Catherine must have seen Amber sometime last night after the explosion. It was possible that Catherine, if she was conscious when Mark got to the hospital, could have told Mark what she saw the night my sister was kidnapped. Perhaps Mark had not had the opportunity to call me yet.

As I was sitting at the table, I decided that there was no time to waste. Since Mark was at least trying to determine what was going on with Catherine at the hospital, I resolved to pay a visit to Catherine’s house myself. The police had already completed their investigation, which they probably botched up. The authorities could not be trusted to do a thorough job. I had been to Catherine’s Grayling house many times and knew where everything was. Surely, I would know if something was out of place.

A curt knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. I eased open the side door, waived Eleanor in, tossed my blue windbreaker on my shoulder, and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Eleanor asked, as I hurried past her.

I whirled around to face Eleanor, paused for a moment, and bit my lip.

Should I tell her where I was going and run the risk that she might reveal my whereabouts to Mark? He had cautioned me not to do anything foolish, and I had promised that I would not do anything of the sort. Going to Catherine’s house was definitely foolish. What if the person who attacked Catherine was still there? I pushed that thought out of my mind. I had to find Amber whether or not my actions were foolish.

Weighing my options, I decided to tell Eleanor where I was going. While Eleanor listened intently, I recounted what Officers Ken and Henry had told me about Catherine.

“Eleanor, I need to do a quick search of Catherine’s house myself, but please, please promise me that you won’t tell my friend Mark where I am when he returns to look for me. He will be angry if he finds out I went there without telling him,” I pleaded.

I liked the way that sounded- that Mark would be angry if I went to the house by myself. It made me feel that Mark would be concerned if he found out that I went there alone.

“Who is Mark?” Eleanor asked.

“He was a schoolmate of mine. We had a chemistry class together. Mark went to the hospital to see Catherine, but I don’t want him to know that I am going to her house alone,” I replied.

“I hope Catherine will be all right,” she said in a worried tone of voice. “Catherine and I belonged to the same bridge club for years, you know.”

I gave an audible sigh. “Promise that you won’t tell Mark where I am headed.”

“Celia, you should not go there by yourself. It’s dangerous,” Eleanor cautioned. “Oh, my. All the things that have been happening around here! You don’t even have a car.”

“I’m taking Mom’s car.”

“But you said you would safeguard Victoria’s car until she returned.”

“Will Mom ever come home?” I asked, not expecting a reply.

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

I squeezed the door handle and turned it. “Besides, promises were made to be broken,” I said. “This is an emergency, a genuine emergency. I can’t just sit here and wait for the police to find Amber. Don’t forget that the authorities stopped searching for Mom after only a day or two.”

“That does not mean that they will stop looking for Amber. She’s a missing child, not a missing parent!” Eleanor said.

“I don’t trust the police. I’ve got to look for Amber myself,” I said.

Eleanor shook her head and sighed out loud as I opened the door, trotted down the stairs, and headed toward the garage to fetch Mom’s car.

With an obvious appearance of displeasure plastered all over her face, Eleanor stood still on the back porch.

“Promise me you won’t tell Mark where I am going,” I yelled over my shoulder.

“Ok, I promise,” Eleanor reluctantly said, as she went back inside, shutting the door behind her.

I eased open the garage door, jumped into the Lincoln, turned the ignition, and drove down the dirt road.

W
hen I arrived at Catherine’s house, I parked the Lincoln in the driveway, tossed the windbreaker on the front passenger seat and exited the car. The maroon red brick colonial was impressive, the way it stood alone at the end of Rutinger Road surrounded by woods. A few yards farther into the woods, a small stream ran parallel to the house.

This must be the stream where the jogger found Catherine, I thought. But I did not want to think about that right now. If I focused on the stream, on Catherine, on the senseless events of the past day, I knew that I would be totally distracted. I had to concentrate on searching the house and then get back home before Mark returned and noticed that I was gone.

I quickly scanned my surroundings. The massive house looked forlorn and dark with the window shades down. Even though I examined the entire perimeter of the home, I could not find an open window. Catherine usually kept at least one window open for a breeze, usually in the kitchen, but not now.

I remembered the time that she and I had gone shopping with Mom about two years ago. Catherine had left a few windows open on the main floor. It just so happened that a severe thunderstorm moved through the area that evening. When we returned, the kitchen and living room were drenched with water.

Why were all of her windows shut tonight? Was she afraid that someone would stare through them at her? Did she sense that Edgar was following her again? I wondered whether it was possible that someone had shut the windows after Catherine went to the hospital. Perhaps someone was still in there right now. With great effort, I chased that troublesome thought out of my mind.

I moved toward the front door and tried to push it open. It would not budge. Perhaps the side door was open. I jumped down the front porch steps and went to the side door. It, too, was locked. Just when I was about to give up, I recalled that there was a sliding door that lead to the patio at the rear of the red structure.

I headed toward the backyard.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard what sounded like a cat’s meow coming from the garage. It must be Cuddy Boy, I thought. Cuddy Boy was only two months old when Catherine found him a few winters ago and decided to take care of him. One day I had gone to Catherine’s house to drop off a pumpkin pie. When Catherine had opened the front door to let me in, she spotted Cuddy Boy sitting on her front porch close to the window. The skinny, cold, and hungry cat had purred in such a mournful way that Catherine felt sorry for him and adopted him on the spot.

After I am done looking inside, I will go back and get Cuddy Boy, I decided. He is probably locked in the garage, and Catherine won’t be back any time soon to let him out.

I made my way to the sliding patio door and pressed on the handle. To my surprise, the door slid open with considerable ease. Without hesitation, I slipped inside.

The interior was dark and smelled musty and damp and appeared unkempt. The layout of the inner rooms was familiar since I had been in the house numerous times over the past several years. I flipped on the light switch in the living room. A timeworn, brown couch occupied the west corner of the room, and next to it was a loveseat with similar worn out fabric. A wooden coffee table with a glass top sat in the center area adorned by an empty ceramic flower vase.

Catherine was elderly and did not have the energy to clean her house much. She had once mentioned to me that she used to have a cleaning lady who showed up twice per week but that one day the cleaning lady quit without any explanation.

Ever since Mom divorced Peter, I stopped having contact with Catherine. Actually, Mom and I just felt awkward visiting Catherine knowing that her son could pop in at any time. But I really respected Catherine and would have continued my relationship with her had Mom not left Peter. I just did not have any idea that Catherine had gone through so much turmoil with Edgar’s other personality stalking her. Catherine had never mentioned Edgar to me. I wonder if Mom knew about Edgar. There were so many questions that I wanted to ask Mom.

I examined the living room a little more closely. It did appear sort of cozy with the beige shag rug at the foot of the couch adding warmth to the room. The fireplace was filled with freshly chopped wood. Who had cut up the wood for Catherine? I knew better than to assume that the old lady had completed the task herself.

A bookshelf took up the entire east corner and was filled with books, magazines, and photographs. One of the pictures caught my attention, and I moved toward the shelf to get a better look.

It was a photo of Catherine when she was in her mid- twenties with a man who was probably her former husband Sylvester, and two young children who appeared to be of elementary school age. The younger child had blond hair and resembled Sylvester with his narrow nose, small blue eyes, and high cheek bones. That’s probably Brandon, I thought. The older child had straight brown hair, dark brown eyes, thick brows, and a sharp chin. “And that’s Peter when he was a child,” I said in a whisper to no one in particular.

As I stood there examining the old photographs on the bookshelf, I could not halt the wave of dread that was washing over me. I recalled reading a book that a psychologist had written which encouraged people to pay close attention to their intuitive feelings since those instincts warn of true impending danger.

But I could not quite put my finger on what was causing me to harbor this sudden sensation of foreboding. The pangs of uneasiness and frustration at the pit of my stomach had begun the moment that I heard Cuddy Boy meowing in the garage, and they were getting worse. Nevertheless, I could not leave the house yet. I had to finish what I had set out to do.

When I went from the living room into the kitchen, I heard a sound like that of a board creaking.
It’s probably the wind
, I thought. Taking great care not to make any noise, I lifted the window shade above the sink and peered outside. The wind had picked up speed, and the tree branches were swaying violently. It had grown markedly colder. I shivered as I wrapped my arms around my chest. It was then that I realized that my jacket was still in the Lincoln.

I began to climb the narrow stairway at the end of the hallway adjacent to the kitchen that lead to the bedrooms. When I reached the top, I flipped on the light in the first bedroom and peeked inside.

T
he odor of fresh candles filled the bedroom. I scanned the room quickly. A queen sized bed topped by a brown and white comforter occupied the center of the room. Next to it was a nightstand with a lamp on it. Directly in front of the bed sat a dresser made of dark mahogany wood. A row of round candles in glass holders embellished the dresser top. Just to the right, a window was decorated by a sheer yellow curtain, and immediately opposite the window stood a coat hanger which held all of Catherine’s hats.

I tiptoed toward the dresser and snatched one of the candles, a short cream colored one, in a similarly colored holder. It smelled like lemon and lime. There were a total of seven candles, each one a different hue which released a unique, pleasant odor. The orange one smelled like tangerines, and the red one emitted the aroma of crisp apples. I grabbed the green one, which carried the odor of fresh mint, and as I held it to my nose, a smudge of warm, liquid wax stuck to my fingers.

Abruptly, I dropped the candle. Why was the wax warm? Even if Catherine had lit the candle just before she was rushed the hospital in the early morning hours, it would not have stayed aflame for that long. Besides, the green candle did not look like it had been used for a long time since its wax was still mostly intact.

If Catherine had not lit the candle, who did? Surely, there must be a plausible explanation, I reasoned.

All of my senses were screaming at me, telling me to leave the house at once. Adrenaline shot through my veins, but I ordered myself to stay calm. With Amber’s fate in mind, I took a deep breath, clenched my fists, and decided that I would have to be strong if I intended to find my sister.

Maybe there was a very good explanation as to why the candle was still warm. But suppose that someone was still in the house. Could he or she be watching me at this moment? If that were the case, then I was in trouble. No one knew that I was going to Catherine’s house. No one except Eleanor. But I had made Eleanor promise not to tell anyone where I was, not even Mark. And to add to that, Eleanor faithfully kept secrets.

I almost jumped when I heard what sounded like the dry click of a car door slamming shut. I dashed to the window, pulled open the curtain, and peered outside. The Lincoln was in the driveway, but no one was around. Could I be hearing things? Why would Catherine want to live this far off the main road in the middle of the woods? She used to frequently talk about how she enjoyed solitude and keeping a distance from others. But what would Catherine do in an emergency if she needed to run for help? I stood frozen near the window, unable to take my gaze off the driveway and the Lincoln.

The wind howled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a slight movement in the bushes near the passenger side door of my car. Something had run into the bushes, something brown. It could not have been Cuddy Boy. No, no, I thought to myself. Cuddy Boy was in the garage. Perhaps the cat had found a way to get out. I clenched my fists and swallowed hard.
Calm down
, I thought. It could have been a squirrel scampering into the shrubs.