The Bluest Blood (30 page)

I climbed—one hand, the other, one foot, the other—over and over, trying not to be daunted, and nearly failing when there was no sign of an end or opening. I almost released my hold and let myself drop. Why exercise if you were going to die before you showed the results?

I heard something from below, an almost-word or two—a pooter? A net? It sounded as if they’d trapped something. Or were singing some arcane nursery rhyme. The low hollow sound repeated, annoying the hell out of me. I had to concentrate or I’d fall. Loren’s voice didn’t do well in a wooden tube, especially when he tried to speak softly so Mrs. R. couldn’t hear. His words dissolved in the wood grain. I ignored his rumbles. It was all I could do to climb and listen to my own gasping breath.

“Mandy year?” was easier, unraveling into “Mandy, you hear?” on Loren’s third try. I didn’t know how to answer. Yes, I heard, but no, I didn’t comprehend and would not shout and alert Tea Roederer. “Cuter!” it sounded like this time. That I was
cuter
?
Was that Loren’s stupid way of cheering me on? Hand, hand, foot, foot. That was all I had room to think about, what with big blocks of brain reserved for fear and panic. I was not up to the task. If I’d had time, I would have prepared, worked out with weights. I would be buff, strong, the new woman.

But I hadn’t and I wasn’t. I was a large package of insufficient muscles with which to defy the laws of gravity.

How had I gotten myself in this unnatural position, hanging in a tube like a giant insect whose wings had been pulled? And with three lives depending on it.

Hand, hand, foot, foot.

The other two gave up on sending messages, probably by reason of being asphyxiated because I couldn’t move fast enough. I forgave Loren his sexist
cuter
remark, his failings.

Hand, hand, foot, foot.

And then—one hand was on something new. Slightly recessed. With a metal band running horizontally.

A door—what else could it be?
The
door. I braced myself more firmly and pushed with my right hand.

And pushed.

Nothing happened except that my wrist sent strong signals that if I insisted on pitting it against a solid surface, it would be the contender that broke.

The door was locked. Maybe always, maybe not even having a single thing to do with me, maybe having nothing whatsoever to do with this particular instance. Locked to prevent accidents from the other side.

In a rage, I pounded, then panicked anew. What if she were still there, and heard? What if she flung open the door? I’d plummet a story down in a wooden tube and if that didn’t kill me—she would.

Don’t have heard me, I begged of her—as if her main drive in life was granting my wishes.

What would she do next?

For that matter—what would I?

I looked upward. The chute continued skyward, dark and high above. I wanted to cry, felt my eyes sting and water, but with not a free finger to dry them, I couldn’t afford tears.

I was too tired to go on, and what if I did? Why wouldn’t all the other exits be locked, too, as further safety measures?

Damn Tea’s sudden caution! She had courage to defy the entire world, violate most of the commandments—then she obsessed about laundry chute accidents? What was
wrong
with her?

Loren shouted up the tube again. Then he was still alive, and hearty-enough sounding that I was sure Jake was still with us as well. The bad news, of course, was that between the deafening tom-tom of my own heartbeat, and the wooden absorbency factor, I still couldn’t understand him.

It wasn’t the cute business anymore. Now it was baths. Or grass. Fins and baths. Sounds like…

“I don’t care!” I screamed, then re-remembered the resident murderess and froze even more stiffly against the walls of the chute.

And became aware that, with the worst possible timing in the world, I urgently felt a call of nature.

The horrific possibilities were endless.

That was
not
how I was going out. Now, with every single muscle tensed, I moved forward, or rather, up. Hand, hand, foot, foot. I pictured the soaring ceilings, the bas-reliefs at the top of the walls, the spot from which the chandelier had hung. I pictured myself as a creature with adhesive palms and magic sneakers that stuck to all surfaces.

I focused my attention on the top of my head, the most
up
spot I had the power to imagine, and thought only of upness, the state of uphood. Be as uppity as all get out! And get out!

And no more than one second before I knew I would give up, let go, accept fate, plummet downward and die, one single yoctosecond before my brain and body would have to give up, I felt the wall change again. There it was, another slatted segment.

No lock, no lock,
no lock,
I whispered. Only then did I dare to try, once again wedging myself at three points as much as I could as, holding my breath, I pressed with my right hand.

It gave.

I was so flooded with relief, I nearly let go and plunged downward, but nearly doesn’t count. Instead, I inched my feet up the wall, keeping my head at door-level until I was in almost a fetal position, so I could propel myself through the opening, into the room.

Now I had a new mantra—don’t be here, don’t be here, don’t be here now. As I made my way, I had a few sub-mantras, depending on where precisely I was.
Don’t step on my hands as they appear. Don’t hurt my head as it appears. Don’t kill me as I appear.

I wondered if this constituted a rebirthing experience. I wondered if I’d been as worried the first time I encountered the world.

And then I was through, out of the claustrophobic dark into the blindingly light openness. I landed, headfirst, on bare, waxed floorboards, which groaned and squeaked greetings.

I don’t know why babies cry, unless it’s for joy. It’s a hell of a lot nicer out in the open, even with a slightly sore forehead. I wanted to laugh, to pound the floor and kiss it. I was alive, and I was out.

At which point I realized that getting the gentlemen in the basement
out
had been the reason for the climb, and time and oxygen were both running out.

But first…

This never happened in the movies. Superheroes never had to excuse themselves and hit the lavatory. I was inferior stock, and profoundly worried that someday people would be able to say that two men died while I visited the Roederers’ facilities.

The chute had deposited me in a hallway, centrally located between bedrooms, the better to dispose of their linens. There were an awful lot of doors, open and not, lining the hall on both sides. A small but exquisite art collection graced the landing, on the papered walls and on dark wood pedestals. The Roederer money was ill-gotten, but well spent. Closest to me was a rose-quartz statue of Shiva, the many-armed Hindu god of destruction and reproduction, an interesting combo. He didn’t look troubled by his dual nature. He looked lit from within, cool and hot at the same time, the four arms exquisitely graceful.

I wondered what would become of the treasures when Mrs. R. skipped. I wondered which, if any, of them she’d take along.

This is not to suggest I was dawdling, because I did my speculating while trying doors. To my momentary amazement, all the doors were unlocked—but when opened, most revealed nothing. Empty shells of rooms in desperate need of a human touch to bring them to life.

The wealthy couple hadn’t put even the minimum in these rooms. Not a bed, a lamp, a table. Because the Roederers didn’t have houseguests. They probably didn’t have friends. Their entertaining had been public and for public causes. Main floor only. Why waste two dimes on rooms no one would see or use? It was interesting that in this one area of their life, they saw no need for subterfuge. I wondered if Jake had noticed the unfurnished rooms, and whether he’d just accepted it as the sort of frugal economy his family would approve of. If, of course, people in his situation ever suffered a surfeit of bedrooms.

Luckily, bathrooms, even if unused, didn’t need furnishings, and I found and used one, locking the door behind me, just in case she was around, waiting.

She wasn’t.

Detour completed, I was on my way to Jake and Loren who, please God, had not expired in the last two minutes.

In the relatively small area I had to traverse between the bathroom and the stairs, I passed a very Cézanne-looking painting, a suit of armor for a tiny medieval warrior, an ornate Southwestern storytelling figure, a mask made of silver, gold, and turquoise, and a blue and white Chinese vase. I walked over two small rugs, one patterned with flowers, the other with interlocking geometries, both the zillion-knots-to-the-inch sort with the sheen of woven silk.

The best in the world. Nothing less. The collectors turned out to be fakes, but their knowledge and appreciation of art was real. Even the old flooring, creaky and tired as it sounded, was a work of art with inlaid parquetry. I tiptoed, afraid of setting off protests from the boards under my feet, then I gave that up in favor of expediency. What difference could it make?

Seconds later, I had my answer. Probably neither the tiptoeing nor the strides had made a difference. The clunk of my headfirst arrival would have sufficed. And following that trumpeted announcement, my side trip had given Tea Roederer time to arm herself before confronting me.

I froze at the top of the stairs, although inwardly, everything was in motion—pounding, clenching, spasming—because there she was, two steps up the grand staircase. No longer madcap, just mad. Her wig was more askew, and she’d misbuttoned her black velvet dress and accessorized it with a gun aimed directly at my stomach. She looked like doom, like inevitability. She was only a decade older than me; how had she become a force of nature, mythic and unstoppable?

I was inside my skin watching me—watching us—as if we were a show, played in slow motion. I didn’t and couldn’t move, but she could, a step at a time, one hand on the banister, the other carefully maintaining her grip and aim. She scowled, visibly peeved either by my presence, her forgetfulness in leaving the chute door unlocked, or both.

From my strange observer’s distance, I heard my voice say, “Don’t do this. There’s no point.”

She shook her head briskly, annoyed, not wasting words on the likes of me.

Her vast arrogance revitalized me. Systems
on
—racing, scurrying, doing their best, all at once and instantly, but to no avail. I couldn’t remember a place to run to or hide where I wouldn’t be trapped. Even if I gained a moment by locking myself into a room—a lock she could shoot through—that would only add to the danger downstairs, where minute by minute, the cellar filled with poison.

This was her house. She knew its closets, windows, and exits. That’s how she’d been able to calmly attempt the murder of three people. This was her call, her game. I had to find a way through what she knew. Or be what she didn’t know.

“I don’t like loose threads.” Tea Roederer paused and raised her gun.

I swayed, I stepped side to side, I did deep knee bends, then stood straight.

I looked like a dancing duck. I added hand motions, anything to confuse, up, sideways, above the head, down, like a bargain-basement imitation of the Shiva.

Tea Roederer, the local god of destruction, waved her gun. Behind me stood Shiva, who owned the title. I whirled and grabbed the statue and held it in front of me like a hostage. “Don’t do it!” I shouted at Tea Roederer, and I hoped so much she wouldn’t.

She would. She came up another step, squinted, and raised the gun.

With all my might, with whatever power was left in my exhausted arm, and with a silent apology—to him and to his carver—I hurled the statue.

He flew. And destroyed.

Tea gave a great
whoof!
of escaping air and toppled backward, down the stairs with the many-armed god. Except for the staircase runner, the entry was all hard surfaces—wood, plaster, and marble, so that each painful bounce against a riser was clear and loud.

A deafening explosion drowned out our human sounds. I stopped, crouched, screamed, a reflex of pure terror. Was I shot? Pieces of plaster fell silently, dustily, from the ceiling. No pieces of me followed suit.

I started down after Tea, apologizing again to Shiva, who’d been amputated twice as he bounced.

Tea tumbled all the way to the bottom. Shiva had gotten one of his remaining arms stuck between two of the balusters. I pulled him out as I passed and set him upright. He looked a lot better than the woman who’d thought herself a god.

But she still looked too good for my liking. The floor of the entry hall was marble. Very hard stuff. Tea lay on her back, blinking and stunned. But incredibly resilient. Any minute now, she’d shake herself back into place and be at me again.

I dove at her, knocking her back onto the marble, hard, and then I stood up and planted one foot on her chest. If she’d try to get up, I’d stand on her.

She bled from an unfortunately nonfatal bang on her nose. But I didn’t want her dead. I wanted her in court, explaining what would be otherwise unbelievable. That the patrician so eagerly clutched to Philadelphia’s breast was, in fact, faux. A murderer, making Tea/Chester both a wanted man and now, a wanted woman.