The Killing Room (11 page)

“Did they
ever
find him?” Douglas asked.

Kip shook his head. “Apparently not. He never resurfaced, as far as Harry Noons ever knew.”

“But the sheriff must have led a manhunt to find him,” Douglas said.

“No.” Kip sighed. “For the simple reason that your great-great-grandfather never made any accusation against him.” Kip sat back down, shaking his head. “The family was terrified of scandal. They only reported that Beatrice had died of an accident. They never let anyone into the house. They never told the sheriff the nature of Beatrice’s accident, and reported simply that she’d been buried in the family cemetery nearby.”

“And such has always been the power of my family that what they decree is accepted by the authorities.” Douglas sighed. “Money has its privileges.”

“But the newspaper reports make no mention that she had a baby,” Carolyn observed.

“No,” Kip said. “That much isn’t all that surprising. Back in the day, a bastard child was an unmentionable in the press.”

“So what happened to the baby?” Carolyn asked.

“Harry Noons was told that Mr. Young had found a home for the baby.”

Douglas seemed aghast. “And the sheriff didn’t even inquire further?”

Kip shook his head. “Mr. Young was apparently simply taken at his word. Of course, this was in the days before aggressive child welfare services and things like that.”

Douglas stood, unnerved and agitated by all that he heard about his family. “And so when the high and mighty Desmond Young issued a pronouncement, the local authorities just shook their heads and said, ‘Yes, sir.’” He snorted. “I know how it works. And it’s not right.”

“So there was never any investigation into Beatrice’s death,” Carolyn said.

“None,” Kip said.

“And no inquiry into what happened to her baby.”

“None.”

Carolyn was adding it all up in her mind. “And Clem disappeared, never to be heard from again.”

“Except to haunt members of the family,” Douglas said. “Okay. So this tells us some of the history. How did the lottery start? What connection does it have?”

“I’m afraid that I can’t tell you precisely,” Kip said. “Yet again, Mr. Young was stingy with some details. All he would say is that without the lottery, without the sacrifice of one member of the family every ten years, the entire clan would perish. This is what was told to his father, Desmond Young, who inaugurated the first lottery a week after Beatrice’s death.”

“
Who
told him?” Douglas wanted to know. “Who told Desmond Young that they had to send someone into that room? The ghost of Beatrice?”

Kip could only shrug.

“It would appear again,” Carolyn said, “that certain details are being withheld from us, whether through choice or force.”

“Okay,” Douglas said, trying to find some iota of logic in all of this madness, “let’s suppose it
was
Beatrice who started the curse, or whatever you want to call it. It would seem that it would
have
to be her, right? Because as far as we know, Clem didn’t die that day. He escaped. So if it was Beatrice, why would she want to hurt a family who had been so good to her? Who hadn’t cast her out when she got pregnant? For a family that feared scandal, that was pretty nice of them. So why would she want to hurt them?”

“Again,” Kip said, “your guess will be as good as mine on that.”

“Perhaps Beatrice is the force in that room,” Carolyn observed, “but perhaps she isn’t the originator of the curse. Perhaps it was someone else—someone we have no idea about as yet.” She stood, wrapping her arms around herself, still struggling to get warm. “As an investigator, I can only go with the facts as we know them. I cannot add two and two to get four, because there may be another variable to consider in the equation. Maybe it’s two plus two plus two again—and we get six.” She smiled. “It’s not enough for me to say that Clem just disappeared. What happened to him? And for that matter, how do we know Harry Noons is a reliable witness? Why did he wait seventy years to tell his story?”

Kip smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry; I left out a rather salient point.” His eyes moved over to Douglas. “Your great-great-grandfather paid him a considerable amount of money to keep quiet. In the midst of the Depression, with five younger siblings in his struggling family, Harry couldn’t refuse. Only all those years later, when I found him, did his conscience compel him to tell the real story.”

Douglas groaned, putting his hands in his hair and turning to look out over the marsh.

“And you found Noons to be trustworthy?” Carolyn asked.

“I did. As did Georgeanne.”

“I held his hand,” she said. “He was speaking the truth.”

Kip chuckled. “She’s rather like a human lie detector. I can’t get away with anything with her.”

Carolyn managed a small smile. “So we still don’t know how the lottery began and what power keeps it in force—or what does the killing in that room.”

“If I were still working on this case,” Kip said, “I would try to reach the spirit of Clem. Find out what happened. Where did he go? And why did he kill Beatrice?”

“We don’t know he killed Beatrice,” Carolyn said.

“He was the only one with a motive,” Kip said. “Noons said he saw Beatrice turning him down, taunting him.”

“But he didn’t see him kill her. He left the basement. And when he went down there again, Clem was nowhere to be found.”

Kip made a face. “He saw Clem there moments before the screaming began.”

“And he rushed down there immediately and found only Beatrice. No Clem.”

“He could have been hiding in the basement somewhere.”

“Possibly.”

Kip looked extremely sad. “I wanted so much to help the family. I wanted so much to end those terrible deaths that they face every decade. I volunteered to continue my research after it was clear that I had failed. I wanted to keep going, to try to find the cause and the solution so that next time…but Mr. Young said I was done.”

Douglas turned his head at that. “Why wouldn’t my uncle want you to continue? After you had already discovered so much?”

“He is a very stubborn man,” Kip said simply.

“Did he blame you for not ending the curse?” Carolyn asked.

“Let’s just say he wasn’t very happy with me.” Kip sighed. “I refused to accept any payment from him. But I did promise him that I would speak of it to no one, unless he sent other researchers to me. I heard nothing until I got your call, Carolyn.”

“That’s why you never wrote a concluding report,” Carolyn said. “Howard Young was done with you.”

Kip nodded sadly. “I suppose I can understand his distress. I had failed. Another family member of his was dead. The curse went on.”

There was nothing much more to say. Carolyn and Kip exchanged a few words as they looked over each others’ notes while Georgeanne refilled everyone’s coffee cups. Douglas remained where he was, standing looking out over the marsh. The ducks had all taken flight, nearly in unison, and flew in formation over the coastline. The sun was dropping lower in the sky, emerging from the gray clouds to stain the marsh pink.

He didn’t like what he’d learned about his family. The secrets were horrible enough. But the way they’d withheld information from the police, picking and choosing details, was reprehensible. That woman’s killer was never brought to justice. No wonder she and her baby haunted the family. And the parceling of information that was done eighty years ago was not so different from the way Uncle Howie shared certain details with some people and not with others. What was going on?

They all bid good-bye soon after that. Kip offered to be of service if he could, telling Carolyn to call him. Georgeanne, too, said she would be willing to use her powers of intuition, as she called them, if they were ever needed. Carolyn thanked them both. Douglas shook both of their hands. To Kip he said, “Thank you for trying. I know you did all you could.”

Kip seem very moved by his words, and brought him in for an embrace.

On the ride back to the airport both Douglas and Carolyn were silent. As before, it was not until they were airborne that they spoke of what they faced.

“I’m scared,” Douglas said.

“I am, too,” Carolyn admitted.

“I just wish I knew who—or
what
—I was scared of,” Douglas said. “Beatrice? Clem? Or something else?”

Carolyn nodded. That was exactly what she was thinking. She rested her head against the window and looked down at the waters of the Atlantic. She steeled herself, vowing she would do everything in her power to find out what she needed to know. She vowed she would succeed where Kip had failed.

If only she had more time than one slim month.

Ryan Young wasn’t pleased when he hung up the phone with his Uncle Howard. The old man had told him that his cousin Douglas was visiting. Douglas had been there at the house for nearly a week now. Ryan had tried to seem happy that his uncle had a visitor, but inwardly, he was seething.

Leave it to that gypsy Douglas to sneak in and work on Uncle Howard before any of us could get there
, Ryan thought. He was anxious to tell his father about his cousin’s sneaky ways. They didn’t trust Douglas. He played at being carefree and happy-go-lucky, a hippie on a motorcycle who didn’t give a damn about money and inheritance. But he was fooling them all. He wanted that house. He wanted all of Uncle Howard’s property. Ryan was certain of it.

Ryan glanced in the mirror at himself and liked what he saw. He’d just come from the pool, and his hair was slicked back against his head, his chiseled body glistening. He had not six abdominals but eight. His eyes brimmed with ambition and desire. He was as dark as Douglas was fair. Uncle Howard liked to say that Douglas was a lady-killer—in fact, at that very moment, Douglas was charming a young lady who was working for him. That only made Ryan more angry. It was
Ryan
who was the lady-killer,
Ryan
who had every woman in New York chasing after him at nightclubs and restaurants. It was Ryan who often showed up in the gossip columns with some starlet or socialite on his arm. Last he knew Douglas was dating some babe who worked at a
diner,
for Christ’s sake! Ryan had dated Paris Hilton—and had his picture printed on Page Six to prove it!

“Chelsea!” he shouted. His sister was staggering out of her room, still sleepy-eyed, her hair a mess. It was two in the afternoon, and she was just getting up after being out on the town very, very late last night. “Guess who’s up at Uncle Howard’s right at this moment!”

“I don’t really care,” the girl grumbled. “I have a wicked hangover.”

“
Douglas!
Dear cousin Douglas!”

She spun around to look at him, her eyes suddenly coming to life. “No fucking way!”

“
Way
.” Ryan folded his muscled arms across his broad chest. “I just spoke to Uncle Howard. I called just to show what a good nephew I was. Calling in to check up on him, to see how he was feeling and to tell him how very, very much”—here Ryan’s eyes rolled comically for his sister to see—“I’m looking forward to the family reunion.” He paused, his face puckering as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “And what does our dear uncle tell me? That
Douglas is there
! Once again, the loser has gotten in ahead of us!”

Chelsea was running fingers through her hair, trying to untangle the knots. “Well, he’s not going to be a loser for long if he keeps kissing ass like he is. Uncle Howard will leave him everything. You know Daddy worries about that.”

“We have to go up there right away,” Ryan said. “I’m not waiting until the actual reunion. There will be too many people around then. Paula and Dean and those obnoxious twins of his.” Both Ryan and Chelsea shuddered. “If we leave soon, we can have a couple of weeks with Uncle Howard.”

Chelsea made a face. “We have to stay up there a couple of weeks? In that backwoods? There are no clubs, no happening places….”

“Do you want to be in the will or not?”

She nodded. “Okay. You’re right.” She narrowed her eyes. “But will Douglas still be there?”

Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. Uncle Howard didn’t say how long he was staying. But he may well be. But all the more reason for us to get our asses up there! Douglas may be planning to stay up there buttering his toast for as long as he can. He knows he has to work on Uncle Howard. He has to prove that he’s more than just a wandering hippie.”

“That will be difficult,” Chelsea said.

“Yeah, but he’s always been able to wrap Uncle Howard around his finger. Remember when we were kids and he’d convince Uncle Howard to let him play in the attic? You and I were never allowed to run free through the house.”

“It’s true,” Chelsea grumbled. “Douglas was allowed to go anywhere he wanted.” She thought a moment. “Except the basement.”

“Well, no one was ever allowed in the basement,” Ryan said.

“What’s down there anyway? Why is it always closed off?”

Ryan grinned. “Probably the family jewels. Which can all be ours, dear sister, if we can charm Uncle Howard in the next couple of weeks.”

She laughed. “But Daddy has already made us rich. Why would Uncle Howard want to leave us more when Paula or Dean or especially Douglas need it more?”

“Uncle Howard is a businessman,” Ryan insisted. “He is a shark. He’d have to be, to accumulate the fortune he has. He respects businessmen. He’s told Daddy that many times. He admires the way Daddy has run his business. If he thinks we are just as shrewd and smart and capable as Daddy, he’ll make sure we get a good chunk of his change.”

“Is he really all that richer than we are?” Chelsea’s voice dropped into a whisper. “Does he really have that much more money than Daddy?”

“He makes Daddy look like a pauper,” Ryan assured her. “Think about what we could do with Uncle Howard’s money. We’d have access to everything and everyone.”

Chelsea laughed. “Still burning over the fact that Paris dumped you?”

Ryan’s lips tightened. “If we are Uncle Howard’s main heirs, we will have so much more money than the Hiltons.”

“Well,” Chelsea said, heading back toward her room, “I need to sleep off this hangover a little longer. When do you want to get on the road?”

“I have a few things to finish up at the office today, so let’s head out first thing tomorrow morning.” He was planning on a quick jaunt into Manhattan to issue instructions to his assistants and then to enjoy a late supper with one of his girls. Of course, he’d need to make sure it was the best restaurant and the prettiest girl he could find. If he was heading up to Maine tomorrow, it would be a while before he got back to civilization. “Be ready bright and early tomorrow,” Ryan called after his sister. “I mean it! Like eleven o’clock!” She groaned. “Okay, no later than noon!”

She shut her door without answering.

Ryan bolted down the stairs and into his father’s study. There were files in here on a couple of business deals he was working on. He’d bring them into the office and dump them in his assistant’s lap. He could do things like that. He was the boss. Or more accurately the boss’s son. Which was the same thing.

He was standing at his father’s desk, riffling though the pages of several spiral-bound files, when he heard the door behind him gently click shut.

He turned. He had left the door open. Now it was closed.

It must have been a breeze. He thought nothing more of it and continued leafing through the files.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of the lock being turned on the door.

“Dad?” he called out. “Are you there?”

He set the files down on the desk and turned toward the door. Gripping the handle, he saw that it was indeed locked.

“Dad? Hey! I’m in here! Did you lock the door?”

But then he remembered his father was in the Hamptons. “Mom?” he called out instead. But his mother was at their townhouse in the city. She’d been spending more and more time there ever since Dad had hired Melissa. “Melissa?” Ryan called out. But he assumed Melissa was with his father in the Hamptons. As far as Ryan knew, only he and Chelsea were in the house. The servants had all gone home.

“Well, clearly not all of them,” he said under his breath. Obviously someone had come back and, finding the door to the study unlocked, thought he or she was doing the right thing by locking it. Ryan began to pound on the door. “Hey! Who’s out there? Consuela? Maria? Max? Carlos?”

But there was no answer. The house was eerily silent.

Ryan banged harder, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hey! Somebody! Open this door!”

But still nothing.

“Jesus Fucking H. Christ,” he growled. He turned away from the door, glancing over at the windows. He’d have to crawl out through the window. It wasn’t a very high drop; he’d be fine. It was just a frigging nuisance. And very undignified to have to crawl out a window of his own house. Whoever locked that door was going to have his or her ass fired. How irresponsible to lock a room without first checking to see if anyone was inside.

Ryan was barefoot, wearing just a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He worried that he might cut his feet on the gravel outside the window. Plus there were rosebushes. Crawling out of the window meant he’d land in a thicket of thorns. There was no way around it. He groaned. He was really going to fire somebody!

“Hello?” he called one more time over his shoulder. “Anyone hear me?”

Chelsea, he was sure, was sound asleep again. He knew how zonked out she could be when she had a hangover. There was no choice but the window.

Except that it wouldn’t budge.

“Jesus Fucking H. Christ!” he shouted again. He tried the second window. Same thing.

Had Dad permanently sealed these windows closed? Was it an antitheft thing? He knew Dad kept important papers in the study. But he had a fucking wall safe. Why would he seal off windows?

They were just stuck. That had to be it. Ryan tried again. Once more, the windows wouldn’t move.

Ryan Young was not a patient man. In college, one of his girlfriends, a smartass psychology major, had said he suffered from “LFT”—low frustration tolerance. Ever since he was a kid, Ryan had always expected to get what he wanted exactly when he wanted—and ninety-nine times out of a hundred he did. But when things didn’t go his way, he got pissed. Instantly. And completely.

“Get me out of this room!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He picked up a vase and hurled it. It smashed against the door into hundreds of shards of glass.

Maybe that would bring someone running.

But it didn’t. The house retained its eerie calm.

Which only infuriated Ryan more.

As a kid, he used to throw temper tantrums. Mom always gave in and let him have the candy bar or the extra bottle of Coke after he started screaming and kicking. Sometimes he still threw tantrums. At the office, if his assistants didn’t do everything they were supposed to do, or had failed to call a client or move stocks or trade shares, Ryan was known to rip them new assholes right in front of everybody. Often he threw things, like he’d just hurled that vase. Once he threw an assistant’s iPhone out the window when it rang while he was speaking. It smashed the glass and dropped twenty-three floors to land on top of a parked cab on Wall Street. Good thing it hadn’t hit someone in the head.

But as much as Ryan wanted to pitch a hissy fit, wanted to throw a few more things and break them against the door, he sensed this time a tantrum would do him no good. If he was going to break anything, it would have to be the glass in one of the windows. Then he’d have to crawl out, risking getting cut on the broken glass and rosebushes. This was just too terrible for words.

It was, however, about to get more terrible.

Ryan heard a sound. He turned. He heard it again. He spun around.

It sounded as if someone was in the room with him, though he could plainly see he was alone.

But then he heard it again. Footsteps. Not from above. Not from outside the room. But within the very room.

His father’s study was large but very open. The desk was set near the windows, surrounded by wooden cabinets. The other half of the room contained two comfortable chairs positioned in front of a fireplace. There were no closets, no alcoves. If someone were in the room with him, Ryan would have been able to see them. There was nowhere for someone to hide.

The sound this time came from behind him. Spinning around once more, Ryan saw no one there.

But it had sounded as if someone had just walked up behind him!

“What the fuck?” he whispered to himself.

Now there was another sound. Metal. It sounded like metal being tapped against the tiles of the floor. Someone walking around the room, banging something made of metal. Not heavy metal. The sound almost had a musical tone to it. There was reverberation in the air. If Ryan strained his ears, he could still hear it.

“What the fuck is going on?” he whispered again, and for the first time, he felt a little flicker of fear.

He would break the window. It was the only way. He picked up a heavy marble paperweight from his father’s desk and aimed it at the glass. But even as he did so, he heard the sound again. A footstep. The tapping of metal against tile.

He glanced around quickly.

And this time he saw it.

A man. A man in dirty overalls and a straggly beard. And in his hand he held an enormous pitchfork, its sharp tines scraping against the floor.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ryan screamed.

The man stood there, gazing at him with eyes so dark that they seemed dead. There was no emotion in the man’s face. Only dumb, brute power.

“How did you get in here?” Ryan demanded.

It was amazing how many thoughts could rush in to fill his mind in so short a time. A new landscaper. That’s who it must be. Someone Dad hired. A big old dumbass. Blundered into the house.

Or maybe not so dumb.
Maybe he was trying to rob the place….

But why would he be carrying a pitchfork? There were no haystacks on the property….

“Who are you?” Ryan asked again.

The man seemed jolted into movement by his words. He took a step toward Ryan.

Ryan drew his arm back and let the paperweight in his hands go flying across the room. He watched as the heavy object struck the brute in the forehead. It bounced off easily, leaving no mark, drawing no blood. The man didn’t even blink, didn’t even seem to notice. He just kept walking toward Ryan.

“Stay back!” Ryan shrilled.

Now the man lifted the pitchfork.

He means to kill me
, Ryan thought.
He is going to stick that thing right through me!

He leapt behind his father’s desk just as the pitchfork came crashing down, piercing the wall behind him instead. There was a second’s delay as the man extracted the prongs out of the plaster, just enough time for Ryan to yank open his father’s bottom desk drawer and remove the pistol he knew he kept inside. He stood, holding it toward the man, his hands shaking terribly.