Comes the Night (36 page)

“For sending things up and down.”

“Crap! Of course! That’s the noise we heard as we climbed the stairs. We had no idea.”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Connie said. “Brooke, show me the room with Alex.”

Brooke shook her head. “She’s comatose, Connie. She’d never be able to hear or feel you. Besides, it’s too risky. Her mother stays in that room every night, and you’d never get there in the daytime. Even if you could, there’s so much traffic—nurses coming and going, testing her reflexes and writing on charts. Therapists who come to do stuff to her muscles.”

Connie was silent a moment as she absorbed this. When she spoke again, she said, “The attic... not safe.”

“Yeah, we pretty much got that memo,” Brooke allowed. “No more going up there alone. No casting out alone.”
Unless you really, really need to
.

“That whole house... not safe.”

“Ah, speaking of the house,” Brooke said. “That’s why I’ve come. To bring you back. We’re ready, Connie. It’s time to come back to the house.”

Connie shot away, as if Brooke might handcuff her in iron and compel her to come.

“Hey, wait,” she called. “Hear me out. Remember Alex talked about you casting back in?” To Brooke’s relief, Connie stopped her retreat. “We’ve unearthed the body... your body. It’s time to try.”

“No.” Connie shook her head vigorously. “Don’t want to go back to that house. It’s a bad place. I... I can’t go back without Alex. I can’t! Alex said no one would hurt me. And if she’s not there... I can’t!”

Dammit! Maryanne would know what to do here. What to say to ease her worries. But Maryanne wasn’t here, was she? It was up to Brooke.

“It’s okay,” she said in her most soothing voice. “We can’t wait for Alex to get better, Connie. That may... that may take some time. But the house is safe. The house is empty. I promise. Everyone has gone away for the American Thanksgiving weekend. The students, the house mother, Mrs. Betts. The caretaker, John Smith, only comes twice a day, and he’s due at 7:30 or so. Even that old futz C. W. hasn’t been puttering around.”

“C. W.?” Connie’s voice was sharp. “Charles William?
Billy
?”

Brooke shrugged. “Could be. He’s just C. W. Stanley to me.”

Connie’s form stiffened. “Where’s Maryanne?”

“Funny you should ask. She’s standing guard over your open grave right now.”

“Quick!” Connie cried the word from over her shoulder as she sped off toward Harvell House. “We have to get back there,
now
!”

Oh, crap. This could not be good. Not if it upset Connie enough to make her voluntarily return to her own personal house of terrors.

Back in the attic, Brooke’s arm flopped spontaneously in panic as she heard the door downstairs open and close with a bang.

Something was wrong!

Brooke put on a surge of speed, catching Connie before they cleared the meadow.

Hang on, Maryanne. We’re coming!

Maryanne

M
ARYANNE HELD HER
breath, waiting for the owner of Harvell House, C. W. Stanley, to speak first. Silently, he picked up Maryanne’s gloves from where she’d left them on the stairs. He turned them over in his hands, almost sadly, studying the dirt worn into them. C. W. looked over at Connie’s grave, the planks of wood, the shovels—both of them—and then turned his head to rake the entire area. Finally, his eyes fell hard on Maryanne. She didn’t know what to expect when he finally opened his mouth to speak. Shock at the scene he’d found, certainly. Anger over the digging, no doubt. But the last thing Maryanne expected when he opened his mouth were the words that spilled forth.

“You found the diary.”

It wasn’t a question, and she met his statement with silence.

“I always suspected Connie kept one, hidden somewhere in this old house. I couldn’t find it in the attic where Father kept her. But years ago it hit me—maybe that mother of hers wasn’t so spineless after all. What if she let Connie out at night? That damn diary could be anywhere.”

Cold swept through her.

“I’ve looked for it all over the place. Moved back to Mansbridge and paid too much for this damnable house, just so I could find it! Today I thought I’d give it one more try, while the house was empty. I just came down here to grab the keys to the rooms. Imagine my surprise to find you here, Miss Hemlock. ” He turned bitter eyes on her. “So where is it now? Where’s the diary?”

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Yes you do. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”

Maryanne shook her head. “I don’t know where the diary is. Alex hid it. I’m not even sure it’s still in the house. She may have even burned it.” How much she was making up, and how much was the truth, Maryanne wasn’t sure. But even if she did know where Alex had hidden Connie’s diary, she’d never tell. Not anyone, but especially not C. W. It was more than a niggling feeling, one she had to listen to. “Alex might have even gotten a safety deposit box,” she lied. “She said she was going to do that.”

“Damn it all to hell!” He cursed in pure frustration, pure anger. A full minute later, C. W.’s shoulders slumped inside his trench coat. He sighed as if in resignation, and nodded at whatever thoughts he held, as if the conclusions were inevitable.

Maryanne watched him under the dim yellow light of the basement. The shadows under his eyes deepened as he stood there. His eyes seemed to darken, and he clenched his shaking fists tightly as he stood before Maryanne.

Oh Dear Lord,
she thought.
He’s insane.

Maryanne had to get out of there. She had to talk her way out.

“Mr. Stanley, I—”

“We had to kill Connie Harvell,” he said coldly. “Father and I. We had no other choice. The little whore threatened to tell.”

Maryanne’s words came out in a gasp. “You’re Billy.”

“Billy.” He almost chuckled and tossed the gloves aside. “I haven’t heard that name in years. Not since I left this little town almost fifty years ago. I worked the oil fields in Alberta, back then, saved money. I started going by C. W., short of course, for Charles William.” His sadistic smile rose slowly. “But you can call me Billy.

“I came back. I just couldn’t stay away from Mansbridge—from this old house. Too many memories. Too many secrets. I had to have it back.”

C. W.—
Billy
—took three steps forward to stand at the edge of the freshly-dug grave. “We should have buried her deeper. I told Father that. But the old man never listened to me!” Gazing down at the grave, C. W. continued. “Your friend... Alex Robbins. She reminded me a lot of Connie. Spirited. Same gray-blue eyes, dark hair. And so... helpless. Weak. At least the first time.”

Maryanne felt her knees weaken. “The first time?” she whispered.

C. W. looked up at Maryanne. “Girls like her, like you... all the girls in this house. Rejects on ‘Reject Row’—I know that’s what they call you. The fallen ones. Drinking and causing trouble. The ones no one wants to bother with. The whores who’ll always,
always
, reap what they sow!”

“The helpless ones,” Maryanne said, anger overriding her fear, at least for the moment.

“Yes.” He smiled. “That’s why I drugged your little friend Alex.”

“You drugged her?” Maryanne couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“I like them to lie still. Still as the grave.” His lips twisted in a smile of genuine amusement.

Dear God, he really was mad! This was a nightmare.

“She’d come back to Mansbridge before any other students. I found her out drinking alone. I gave her some whiskey I’d laced with GHB, brought her back to the house and up to the attic by that old dumbwaiter. Then I gave her what she deserved.”

Maryanne thought she was going to be sick. That was the reason for Alex’s profound sadness. For the agitation that absolutely screamed from her when Maryanne had first met her. That was the fear she’d seen in those pale eyes. That was the horror.

“You raped her!”

C. W. scoffed. “You can’t rape whores! You take. You teach. You mete out justice. And whores suffer their due at the hands of the righteous. They reap just what they sow.” With his left foot sliding sideways, he kicked earth down into Connie’s grave. It rattled down on her bones. “But the second time I came for Alex... she wasn’t so helpless. I thought she was when I found her on the attic floor. I wasn’t even looking for her. I’d just been roaming the house as I do. Sometimes, I just watch the girls. Sometimes... sometimes I do more. And this second time I found Alex, it was like she was waiting for me. She reminded me even more of Connie that time. Of how Connie had been so often when I took her. Barely moving.
Barely there,
somehow. But then something happened. The little bitch suddenly grew strong. Incredibly strong. She knocked me across the room.” He looked at Maryanne, incredulous. “Imagine. Fighting back!”

Maryanne’s heart stormed in her chest as C. W. took a step toward her. He was insane. Truly and completely mad. Truly and completely dangerous. She had to keep him talking. “So you tried to kill her? Because she fought back?”

He stopped his advance. “From what I hear, I came pretty damn close. They’re transferring her to Halifax. Did you know that? I stopped in at the hospital before I came here to see her poor mother, ask if there was anything I could do. I shook her hand, tipped my hat, and expressed my deepest concerns.” C. W. laughed as he gave a little, gracious bow. When he straightened, he’d pulled an object from the depths of his trench coat pocket.

The candleholder!

Connie’s heavy silver candleholder! He held it menacingly.

“And soon enough,” he said, “I’ll be expressing my deepest sympathies to
your
parents, Miss Hemlock.”

Wielding the candlestick, he advanced on her slowly, his arms outstretched, his hand high, ready to strike her. He was going to kill her. Take her life from her, like he’d tried to take Alex’s. Like he’d already taken Connie’s! The evil bastard was going to take Skip and Kelly Hemlock’s last child from them. The madman was laughing now as the tears rolled down Maryanne’s face.

“Like hell,” Maryanne grated. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. She wouldn’t be an easy victim.

She took a step toward him and his laughter was replaced by a look of shock.

But a second later, both of them held perfectly still when they heard the thumping way, way above them, coming from the attic.

C. W. threw down the candlestick and pulled a gun, small but deadly looking, from his pocket.

Oh, crap!

Brooke

I
T WAS ALL
Brooke could do to keep up with the other caster on the mad rush back to Harvell House, but she wasn’t worried. She figured there’d be hesitation on Connie’s part once she actually reached the stained glass window. Some gathering of courage or careful focusing of thought before the attempt was made.

Not so much.

Connie rushed up to the window, hammered a hand down on it, and roared, “In!”

Just like that, Brooke found herself alone. She put on a press of speed to reach the window maybe twenty seconds behind Connie. Cursing, she tore off her copper bracelet and dropped it to the ground. Then she rapped on the glass and uttered the words that were second nature now. “I want in!”

Then she found herself back in her body and shooting across the room with more force than ever before. Covering her head with both hands and curling up, she managed to present her back to the far wall before impact. If it hurt, she barely felt it. She was flying too high on the adrenaline her body had been pumping out in her absence.

She leapt to her feet and began scanning the attic frantically. Where was Connie?

Duh
. The only place she
could
be. The only place a cast could go on tapping back in. Connie must have gone back into what was left of her body.

If it worked.

And if it didn’t? What would happen then? Could her caster-self survive the attempt? And if so, could she get out of the house again? Shit, what if she couldn’t? What if she were trapped in this house of her horrors forever? Oh, Jesus, what had they done?

She tore down the steps, heading for the basement. It was only when she heard raised voices—C. W.’s and Maryanne’s—that she remembered Connie’s panic.

C. W.—Charles William.
Billy
. In the basement with Maryanne.

Brooke paused in the kitchen long enough to grab a knife, which she promptly dropped once she spied the meat cleaver. Much better.

Cleaver concealed behind her back, she glided to the basement door and started down the steps.

Her attempt at stealth was wasted, however. She knew this because Maryanne cried out, “Brooke! Don’t come down! He’s got a gun.”

Brooke froze, taking in the tableau before her. C. W. held Maryanne by the hair—none too gently, from the look on her face—and held a small pistol to her head.

“Oh, do come down, Miss Saunders. I’m so glad you could join us. It saves me the inconvenience of searching for you.”

Brooke’s heart thundered in terror, and the adrenaline in her system screamed for her to run. Of course, he’d just shoot her with that pistol if she tried. Besides which, she wasn’t leaving Maryanne to this monster. Together, maybe they could take him. On that thought, she slid the cleaver blade into the back pocket of her jeans and let her hands fall to her sides.

“Come down here,” he ordered. “
Now
!”

“No, don’t!” Maryanne shouted. “He’s the one who attacked Alex!”

Oh, God! This old geezer cracked Alex’s skull?
Bit
her? The bastard!

At Brooke’s hesitation, C. W. gave Maryanne’s hair a vicious tug, making her gasp.

“Disobedience is so unflattering in a lady,” C. W. clipped. “And you don’t want me to take my... displeasure... out on your friend here, do you?”

“Whoa! Chill. I’ll come down.” Brooke lifted her hands, palms out, to show she bore no weapons. “But I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I’m no lady.”

“No, you’re a whore, just like your friend, Alex. Like the rest of the little whores in this house.”