The Unloved (41 page)

He was three feet away when his left foot slipped and he felt himself lurch downward, the palms of his hands scraping across the wet siding. Just before his balance completely gave way, his fingers found a crack and he clutched wildly, his heart pounding, his breath frozen in his lungs. Trembling, he
found his foothold once again, then moved quickly, scuttling like a crab to the relative safety of the vines.

His clothes were soaking wet, and he huddled in the vines for a moment, waiting for his heart to slow and his breathing to return to normal. At last he gripped the thick trunk of the ancient wisteria and abandoned the ledge.

Instantly he felt the vine tearing away from the wall, its tendrils loosing their grip on the old wood of the siding. Half climbing, half falling, he slithered to the ground. Just as his feet touched the wet earth, the mass of vines fell away from the house, collapsing in a tangled heap on top of him. He thrashed helplessly for a moment, but the vines seemed only to tighten around him, and he felt fingers of panic reaching out to him.

Marguerite emerged from the ballroom, humming softly to herself. She paused at the top of the stairs for a moment, her eyes darting around the small foyer outside the double doors as if she were searching for something that wasn’t there. Then her tuneless melody suddenly stopped and she murmured out loud, her words instantly lost in the moaning of the wind outside.

“My guests—I must attend to my guests.”

Seating herself on the chair lift, the bloodstained rope coiled neatly in her lap and the hurricane lamp held high, she pressed the button on the arm of the chair. The lift jerked once, then began its stately descent to the first floor.

When it came to a stop two minutes later, Marguerite stood up, staggering slightly as her lame hip protested, then caught her balance and went to the cellar door. Opening it, she held the lamp high as she started down the stairs, a soft glow of candlelight filling the dark reaches of the basement, casting eerie shadows on the walls and floor. Coming to the bottom of the stairs, Marguerite moved deliberately toward the small, nearly hidden chamber at the back, then reached into her pocket and fished out the key ring.

A moment later the lock snapped open and she pushed the door wide.

Holding the lamp high once more, she peered vacantly at the carnage within.

“It’s time to go upstairs,” she said softly, a smile playing at her lips. “In a little while the recital will begin.”

She glanced around, and finally set the hurricane lamp on a stack of cartons midway between the little room and the base of the stairs. Bending down, she grasped Kevin’s legs and began pulling him to the stairs. His body was already beginning to stiffen, and with the pain in her hip and leg increasing every moment, the job was almost more than she could accomplish.

But she had to do it, had to get him upstairs, had to get him to the ballroom. She labored on, and dust swirled up from the cellar floor, caking onto the blood that covered her clothes, settling in her hair, making her eyes sting. But at last Kevin’s body lay stretched out on its back, propped against the wall.

Returning to the tiny room, Marguerite began the labor of dragging Jennifer Mayhew’s corpse to the bottom of the stairs, and then Ruby’s. She went back to the room then, and carefully locked the door. Satisfied that it was secure, she moved back to the bottom of the stairs and tried to lift Kevin’s body up onto the stairs themselves.

It was impossible.

Marguerite whimpered in the dim light as frustration and fury welled up in her, making her whole body tremble. She kicked out at the corpse, her right foot stiffly lashing into its side, then winced as a stab of pain shot through her leg. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!” Her mind churned with rage, but as an idea formed in her mind, the anger drained away.

Stepping over Kevin’s body, she stumbled up the stairs and found the coil of rope on the chair lift, just where she’d left it. A few seconds later she was back in the basement.

She twisted Kevin’s body around until his feet rested on the bottom step, then tied one end of the rope around his ankles, twisting it tight and tying it off as best she could.
Then, chuckling softly, she went up the stairs once more, playing out the coils of rope as she went. At the top of the stairs she had one more flash of panic: What if the rope wasn’t long enough? Her heart racing, she quickened her uneven step, then sighed in relief as she reached the chair lift.

There were still two feet of rope left. Muttering quietly, she tied the end of the rope to the lift, straightened up and pressed the control button once more.

The chair began to move, and the rope, curving around the newel post, then snaking along the floor to the cellar door, grew taut.

The machinery of the lift ground in protest for a moment, then, from the cellar, there was a sharp thumping noise, then another. As the lift moved up the stairs toward the second floor, Kevin Devereaux’s body moved up from the basement, his head bumping loudly on each step. As the chair reached the second-floor landing, Kevin’s corpse emerged feet first from the cellar door and began dragging across the polished wood of the foyer. When it came to the bottom of the stairs, Marguerite stopped the chair lift and reversed its action. The rope went slack, and by the time the chair reached the foot of the stairs once more, the rope was free from Kevin’s legs.

Grasping him under the arms, Marguerite heaved him onto the chair, then held him in place as she began wrapping coils of rope around him as she’d wrapped them around Kerry Sanders thirty minutes earlier.

At last, her brother’s body tied securely to the chair, she pushed the button once more, and with her hand resting lightly on the corpse’s arm, began accompanying the body on its slow ascent.

“You’re going to be so proud of her,” she said. “I’ve taught her so much while you’ve been gone. She dances like the wind on a meadow, Kevin. Have you ever seen the way the breeze makes the leaves dance on a beautiful fall day? It’s charming, absolutely charming. And that’s how she dances now. I’ve devoted my life to her, you know. My whole life. But it’s been worth it, every minute of it. And you’re going to see. You’re all going to see. And you’ll be so proud. So very, very proud.

“As proud as I am …”

The lift came to the second-floor landing, turned jerkily, then started up the last flight. And all the way Marguerite, her hand still resting on the bloody remains of her brother, kept chatting on, as if entertaining an honored guest.

Stop! Jeff commanded himself, and with an effort of sheer will made himself lie still for a moment. Then, beginning with his right arm, he began working himself free of the clinging snare in which he was entangled. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, but it seemed like hours. The rain was still pouring down on him, but the screaming of the wind through the pine trees seemed to have eased slightly, and there was less lightning.

His right arm finally came free of the vines, and then he began stripping the clinging foliage away from his other arm and his legs. When at last he could move freely, he began methodically working his way through the tangle, gently pushing the vines apart until there was a hole through which he could crawl. At last he emerged from the collapsed wisteria, his hand sinking deep into the muddy garden that edged this side of the house.

“Jeff? Jeff!”

He barely heard his name at first, then heard it again and looked up. Above him there was nothing but blackness, but he thought he could make out his sister leaning out the window and staring down at him.

“Are you all right?” he heard.

“I’m okay,” he called back. “I made it.” Then, before Julie could say anything else, he dashed off into the night, using his memory more than his eyes to follow the path down past the garage and into the undergrowth beyond. If his aunt found out he’d gotten away, the first place she’d look for him was on the road. But out here, in the middle of the island, she’d never find him.

He ran as fast as he could, dodging through the clumps of vines and stands of pines, his heart pounding and his breath
coming in loud, rasping gasps. Finally, his energy gone, he had to stop.

He slumped to the ground, his whole body aching, and tipped his face up so that the rain sluiced over him, washing away the sweat that had broken out all over his body. At last his panting slowed and he got back to his feet.

He took a step forward, then stopped, frowning uncertainly in the darkness.

Where was he?

There was a flash of lightning in the distance, and in the brief moment of illumination he gazed frantically around, trying to get his bearings. But nothing looked familiar, and as the lightning died and a low rumble of thunder rolled across the island, he realized he was lost.

The tendrils of panic reached out to him again, but once more he fought them down. He’d been out poking around the island every day, and he knew all the paths—every inch of them. How could he be lost?

Then, a few yards away, he thought he heard a sound—the snap of a twig, then an angry hissing—as if something were moving through the brush.

He froze, listening, trying to convince himself that it was nothing but the wind.

But the wind had suddenly died away, and the rain was pouring straight down on him.

He heard the sound again.

Whatever it was, it was moving toward him. He began running again, weaving his way through the trails, no longer caring which way he was going as he remembered the alligators that floated like logs in the ponds of the island, or lay basking in the sun, their heavy-lidded eyes half open as they waited for prey to stumble into their path. Then he was out of the tangle of brush and into a stand of pines. He broke out of the pines and hurtled out onto the road. His feet hit the mud, skidded out from under him, and he sprawled headlong into the mire.

Sobbing now, he got to his feet and tried to scrape some of the mud off his clothes, then wiped his face with a filthy arm. But he knew where he was now, and taking a deep breath, began slogging along the road toward the causeway.

*      *      *

Hal Sanders pulled his car up in front of the town hall and jumped out, slamming the door behind him even as he dashed for the front door. He was almost surprised to find it unlocked—from what Frank Weaver had said earlier, he half expected Will Hempstead to have locked up and gone home for the evening.

Hal had left his house as soon as Edith discovered Kerry was missing, sure he knew where his son had gone. But when he’d gotten to the causeway and seen the waves crashing over it, he’d been certain that Kerry wouldn’t try to cross it—nobody in his right mind would. So he’d begun driving around the town, looking for his son’s car, certain he would spot it at any moment, either in front of the drugstore, or parked in the driveway of one of his friend’s houses.

But as the minutes had ticked by and there had been no sign of Kerry’s car, his worries had slowly grown. And along with worry about his son, had come anger toward Frank Weaver and Will Hempstead. If they’d done their jobs, Kerry would be home right now.

Finally he’d decided to go to the police station. He found Hempstead and Weaver, their feet propped up on Hempstead’s desk, a plate of cold french fries sitting untouched between them. Hempstead’s feet dropped to the floor as Hal came into the office, water dripping from his slicker.

“What are you doing out tonight?” Hempstead asked cheerfully. “Decide to take some swimming lessons?”

“Lookin’ for Kerry,” Hal replied, his voice tinged with anger. “And if anything’s happened to him, I guess I have you to thank, don’t I?”

Hempstead rose to his feet, his genial smile fading. “Kerry?” he echoed. “What’re you talking about, Hal?”

“Frank was over to the house earlier,” Hal explained. “He got Kerry all riled up about what’s goin’ on out on the island, and I think Kerry decided to go have a look.” His eyes, glaring darkly, shifted to the deputy. “Since Weaver here was too chicken to do his own job.”

“Now, you just wait a minute—” Weaver began, but Hempstead cut him off.

“Now calm down, Hal,” he said, “and tell me what’s goin’ on. You think Kerry tried to go out to the island?”

Sanders took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he nodded. “It’s the only thing I can figure,” he explained. “I took a look at the causeway, and it’s a mess out there. So I figured Kerry must’ve gone over to one of his friends, but now I’ve been all over town and I can’t find his car.”

“Did you go home?” Weaver asked, unconsciously echoing Hempstead’s advice to Alicia Mayhew only a few hours earlier.

“No, I didn’t,” Sanders spat. “I came here to tell you I’m damned mad that you guys left a sixteen-year-old kid to do your jobs, and that I’m goin’ back out to the causeway. And as soon as I can, I’m goin’ out to the island to have a look around.”

“Now wait a minute—” Hempstead began, but Sanders shook his head.

“You guys find Jennifer Mayhew?” he demanded. The two policemen glanced at each other, and Sanders knew the answer before either of them spoke. “So you’re just sittin’ around here waiting for the storm to stop. Well, I’m not. Now it’s my kid that’s out there somewhere, and you guys can help me look for him or not. But don’t forget,” he added, “there’s an election coming up next year, and this time you might have someone running against you, Will.”

Hempstead eyed Sanders warily for a moment, then made up his mind. But it wasn’t the threat of a fight at election time that decided the issue for him.

It was worry.

Now there were two kids missing, and both of them had set out for Devereaux Island. And Hal Sanders was apparently determined to follow them. “We’ll go along,” he said, reaching for his own slicker, then tossing another to Frank Weaver. “But when we get to the causeway, I’m the one who’ll decide if we try to cross it or not. If Kerry already tried, he either made it or he didn’t. But I’m not going to watch you go
into the sea, too, Hal. If it’s too bad, we wait for the storm to pass, and that’s that.”

Hal Sanders glared at the police chief. “If we wait for the storm to pass,” he said darkly, “it’ll probably be too late. For all we know, it already is.”