Stranger by the Lake (20 page)

The terror I had felt in the maze yesterday was as nothing compared to what I felt now. It swept over me like a gale, blotting out all reason, all sanity. I trembled violently, and my knees were weak, unable to support me. Sitting down on one of the boxes, I let the panic sweep over me until it reached a crescendo and crashed and left me weak and empty of everything but the knowledge that I was going to die. I could scream until my lungs burst and no one downstairs could possibly hear me. If I didn't suffocate I would die of thirst and starvation. Whoever had locked me in here had no intention of letting me out. The others wouldn't miss me until morning and then they would assume I had gone exploring and wouldn't grow alarmed until late afternoon and they would start a search but they might not come up to the attics and … I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall, smelling the sour smell of dust and mildew and listening to rainwater splashing off eaves.

This would have every appearance of being an accident, too, just as Charlie's death had. They would assume I had stepped into the room and the door had swung to behind me and the bolt accidentally clicked into place. It wouldn't look like murder, but … Peter would guess. He would remember my call and he would guess what had happened. That was very little comfort to me at the moment.

Perhaps an hour passed. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. I stared about me, my eyes accustomed to the darkness now. There were boxes and an old broken chair and a coil of rope and a huge old discarded mirror here in the room. The mirror was tilted against the opposite wall, and I could see a dim reflection of myself huddled on the box, my arms wrapped around me, my face a pale oval. Through the tiny square of window I could see a bleak gray sky. The air was fetid, and it was growing more and more difficult to breathe. I had to break the window if I didn't want to suffocate within a few hours. The window was so small, perhaps a foot and a half square, surely no more than that.… I stood up and stared at that tiny opening.

I pushed two heavy boxes over beneath the window and then climbed up on them, the window level with my shoulders. I could climb through it. It would be a tight squeeze, but I could wriggle through. Pulling off one of my shoes, I smashed the glass. There was a shattering explosion of sound, and pieces of glass clattered to the floor and onto the roof outside. Cold air blew in through the opening, caressing my cheeks as I carefully removed the jagged pieces still stuck in the window frame. I peered out. The roof sloped down steeply, the eaves overhanging another larger expanse of rooftop gleaming with wetness. I might slip and go crashing to the ground three stories below, but anything would be preferable to staying closed up inside this prison.

The sky was wet and gray, and somewhere behind that gloom the moon had just come out, its weak silvery light seeping through and gilding the dark wet rooftops directly beneath the window. As I leaned forward to look out, the boxes I was standing on tilted back and shifted beneath me, and I fell tumbling to the floor, the boxes dumping down beside me. I was stunned by the impact of the fall, and I blinked, shaking my head to clear it. In the thin rays of moonlight now streaming through the window I saw something flat and dark on the floor beside me. It was the same shape and size as an envelope and seemed to be made of some kind of thin leather. It must have fallen out of one of the boxes, I thought, picking it up.

I opened the flap and pulled out a piece of stiff paper with some sort of geometrical design in violet ink. There was not enough light to really examine it properly, and I wondered what it could possibly be. I folded the paper back up and put it into the pouch again and slipped the pouch into my hip pocket, promptly forgetting it in my eagerness to get out of the room. Climbing to my feet, I stared at the window, a little dizzy from my fall. The opening was so small, so very small.

I was still wearing only one shoe, and I took it off, standing in my bare feet. The roofs would be treacherously slippery, and I would have a much better footing with my bare feet than with the leather-soled shoes. I shoved the boxes back into place under the window, lifting one on top of the other, and then I remembered the coil of rope and picked it up, tossing it out the opening. It might come in very handy a little later on, and I fully realized how fortunate I was to have had it in the room.

Climbing back up on the boxes, I gripped the window-sill and tried to pull myself up. It wasn't easy. Sitting in front of a typewriter for hours on end isn't the best kind of physical exercise, and I was in sad shape. I strained and heaved, finally managing to get my head and arms out the window. The cold breeze stung my cheeks, and drops of rainwater dripped down on my upturned face.

I was stuck. I twisted and turned, finally wedging my shoulders out, my waist resting on the windowsill, hips and legs dangling in the room behind me. I was utterly calm now, concentrating on the job at hand, all traces of panic gone. The fresh air revived me, and freedom was at hand. Twisting around until I was facing the sky, I stretched my arms out, placing my palms flat on the wall on either side of the window and shoving. I had been able to stretch and contort and get my shoulders through, but hips were another matter all together. I tugged and pushed and pulled, wincing with pain as the wooden window frame scraped against flesh.

Squeezing my hips tightly together, I gave a mighty shove against the wall with my hands, pulling my body at the same time. Flesh scraped wood, straining, sticking, but I managed to pull my hips free, falling back on the sharply sloping roof, completely free now. I lay there for a moment, my cheek against the wet slate, breathing in great gulps of fresh air and savoring the wide open spaces around me. I finally sat up and peered down at the slope. I didn't dare stand. I had a phobia about closed, confined places, true, but great heights weren't among my favorite things. I admired Sir Edmund Hillary but thought he was slightly insane to go clambering over those mountain peaks. The rooftops of Gordonwood were not as high as Mount Everest, needless to say, but they might as well have been, judging from my state of nerves.

I had no earthly idea how I was going to get down. There were thick strands of ivy growing along one side of the house, but I wasn't about to try climbing down them. I had the rope, but I didn't know what to do with it. I peered at the multiple levels of rooftops, dark and gleaming in the night, gilded with silver and spread with shadows from the many chimneys and stout black smokestacks. The level I was sitting on was the highest point, sloping at a much steeper angle than any of the others.

I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer, thankful to be out of the attic room but realizing my peril was, if anything, greater than ever. The wind whistled and soared, blowing locks of hair across my face, and I felt sure it would sweep me off the roof and out into space at any moment. From this vantage point I could see the lake, a huge expanse of inky black water, bordered by trees, the mists just beginning to form.

I couldn't sit here all night.

Reaching for the coil of rope and holding it securely, I began to move down the slope in a sitting position, scooting hands and hips over the wet slates in an undignified but highly successful manner. The drop from eaves to the next level was little more than five feet, and I managed to get down by twisting around and sliding my body over feet first, holding on to the rim of wood to keep from falling, rope looped over my shoulder. This level wasn't nearly so steep. I was able to walk easily enough, although my knees shook and I didn't dare look out toward the edge.

I reached a tall orange brick chimney and leaned against it, catching my breath. I stared at the slanting, sloping, sprawling roofs and remembered those movies I had seen as a child in which Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and Errol Flynn had gone dashing and leaping from rooftop to rooftop with great aplomb and remarkable agility. Frauds, both of them. I stood trembling, my back against the bricks, the wind tearing about and blowing up gusts of water. I finally had enough nerve to study the terrain and try and orient myself in respect to the rooms below.

The chimney I was leaning against would service the fireplace in the library, I decided, and the main staircase would be approximately twenty yards to the right of it, while my bedroom would be a hundred yards or so to the left. For a while this information did me no good whatsoever. Then I remembered the balcony outside my bedroom windows. It would be less than a fifteen-foot drop from the outside edge of the roof to the floor of the balcony. If I could fasten the rope around a smokestack and drop over the edge.… I shuddered at the thought, but I realized it was the most logical plan. There would be great risk involved, naturally, and I wasn't made of the same stuff as those movie heroes, but I could do it.

I had to do it.

Leaving the chimney behind, I moved slowly toward the left, hunching down, my bare feet slipping on the wet slate. I leaped down from one level to the next, although the drop was only three feet or so, and finally arrived at a point that must be somewhere near the vicinity of my bedroom. I was twenty feet from the outside edge of the roof, and I had to make sure where I was before I could do anything further. I edged slowly towards the drop, knees shaking, body trembling, finally getting down on my hands and knees and crawling to the edge.

I gripped the wood and slid my head over, lying flat on the slates. I peered down, and down, and down. The balcony was nowhere in sight, but I could see the ground below, a pool of light coming from one of the windows and making a yellow glow on that distant drop. I had miscalculated. Turning my head slightly to the left, I saw nothing but dark wall, but when I looked to the right I could see the railing of the balcony gilded with silver moonlight. It was approximately five yards to the right of where I was stretched out. I backed away from the edge, turning around and crawling on up to where I had left the rope.

I would like to have been brave and dauntless, ready to attempt the feat with unshakable courage, but in truth I was absolutely terrified. I looped the rope around a smokestack, securing the knot and tugging to make sure it was sturdily tied, and all the while my hands were trembling and I was trying not to think of what I was about to do. The rope was old. It had probably been in the attic room for years. What if it broke? I examined it carefully. It looked sound enough, but I stood up and pulled with all my might to see if it was going to hold. It did. The smokestack creaked loudly from the strain. That was hardly reassuring.

Holding onto the rope, I walked back to the edge of the roof and stood peering down. The balcony was directly beneath me, not more than fifteen feet down, but it looked frightfully far from this angle. I sat down and dangled my legs over the edge of the roof and knew that I couldn't possibly do it. Not this girl. Not tonight. I called myself every kind of coward, but this self-admonishment only increased my resolve. The heartiest marine would think twice before taking such a risk, and I was a mere girl.… There was a crash of thunder. Lightning streaked like jagged white fingers tearing at the sky. The rain began to pour again.

It was just too much. I gripped the rope tightly and slid off the edge of the roof and dangled in space, hanging there over the balcony and swaying to and fro. I folded my knees around the rope just like they did in the movies and let myself slide down. It was surprisingly easy. I dropped onto the floor of the balcony and let go of the rope and struggled to my feet as the rain splashed and spewed. I could hardly believe I had actually done it. I could hardly believe the nightmare was over. I pushed open the French windows and stepped into my bedroom, feeling that I deserved a medal for my valor but willing to settle for a good, strong, very stiff drink.

I bathed and brushed my hair and changed into fresh clothes, and I was surprised to see that it was just after eight o'clock. I felt remarkably fit, strangely stimulated by my adventure. I had no way of knowing for sure who had locked me in the room, but I knew I must go about my business as though nothing had happened, closely watching for any reactions that my appearance might cause. Standing before the mirror, three oil lamps burning brightly in the room, I examined myself. My experiences in the attics and on the rooftops had left no marks whatsoever. I looked alarmingly healthy. If anything, my color was a bit more vivid, cheeks pinker, eyes brighter, and my hair gleamed with rich chestnut highlights after the brisk brushing.

I went downstairs and stepped into the library. Mildred was sitting with a book in her hand. Craig was behind his desk, scribbling away. They both looked up as I came in. Mildred seemed very nervous and Craig seemed mildly surprised, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. The elements raged outside, rain lashing against the windows, thunder rumbling fiercely. The candles flickered, throwing golden-yellow light over the room.

“Long time no see,” Craig said glibly. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“You'd be surprised,” I replied.

“I came up to your room,” Mildred said breathlessly. “I wanted to tell you Cook left sandwiches for us. You weren't there—I couldn't find you. Mr. Craig said cot to worry——”

“Have there been any calls for me?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” Mildred whined. “Mary would have told me.”

“Where were you?” Craig inquired.

“Around,” I said.

“Cryptic, aren't we?”

“Did you take a tray up to my aunt, Mildred?”

She nodded, huddling in the big chair. “I gave her her pill, and she took it without any argument. I—I was frightened of the thunder and worried about you and—and came down here where Mr. Craig was.”

“Charming company,” Craig muttered.

“Did you finish revising your chapter?” I asked him.

“Not quite. I've been working for hours. Why don't you be a sport and tell us where you were? Mildred was quite worried, and if you hadn't shown up when you did——”