The Haunting of Brier Rose (3 page)

A movement near the garden wall caught Rose's eye. She searched
the shadows and thought she saw the dark shapes of animals in the shrubbery.
Dogs? There were no dogs at Brierwood. Perhaps she had seen the leaves of the
rhododendrons shivering in the breeze. Rose stared at the shadows and felt an
almost overwhelming urge to run for her life.

San Francisco, a month and a half later

"I'm afraid, Mr. Wolfe," the doctor said, "we
don't know what's wrong with your eyes."

Taylor Wolfe's grip tightened on the handle of his cane.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" He turned to face the doctor, and
a sharp pain shot up his injured leg. "You're a specialist!"

"I know, I know, Mr. Wolfe. But we found no damage to the
retina or optic nerve. No ocular trauma whatsoever."

"You're saying that these flashes of light I see have no
medical explanation?"

"None that I or my colleagues are familiar with. However,
there are one or two more tests—"

"No more tests!" Taylor waved him off with an impatient
hand and turned back to the window of his hospital room. Just beyond the
rooftops he could see the sparkle of San Francisco Bay and the orange span of
the Golden Gate Bridge. He yearned to be out of the hospital and back on the
water, where he belonged. No more hospital room for him. He couldn't stand
another day cooped up in this sterile prison.

"Please, Taylor, listen to Dr. Bennidetto," his mother
repeated. She clutched her purse and leaned forward. "There still may be
some hope."

He slanted a dark look at his frail mother, sitting there in her
rose-colored suit with her snow-white coif, not a hair out of place. He wished
she had never come to the hospital. She meant well, just as she always did, but
the sight of her kind and honest face always made him feel like a heel for the
time he had spent avoiding his family and their wealth. She was not responsible
for the shadow on his soul. She didn't know where the Wolfe fortune had come
from and what it had cost a frightened young woman so long ago. Only he and his
father knew about that. And now that his father was dead, the secret resided in
Taylor's heart alone.

"I know this must be hard for you, Mr. Wolfe, being such an
active man," the doctor said, coming up behind him. "If there's
anything we— "

"You've done your best," Taylor put in.

"But what about the other tests?" Ruth Wolfe turned in
her chair to look up at the balding doctor. "I want only the best for my
son."

"Mom, don't. I've had enough." He reached for his worn
leather jacket hanging on the back of a chair. "My insurance is topped out
with medical expenses as it is."

"Taylor, you know you don't have to worry about that. I'll
take care of it."

"No, you won't." He shrugged into his jacket and held
his cane in his left hand while adjusting the collar with his right. Every time
he came to San Francisco it was always the same. His mother tried to force the
Wolfe money on him. And always he refused it. Blood money—that was how he
saw the family fortune, and he would never spend a dime of it. Anything he
possessed in the world—no matter how insignificant when compared to the
Wolfe estate—he had earned with his own two hands. And that was the way
it was going to be.

The car crash had left him with a scarred face, a crushed right
leg and impaired vision. The doctors had told him he was lucky to be
alive—many in the pileup had died—lucky to have retained the use of
his leg—even though the wound wasn't healing properly—and lucky
that his scars could be repaired with plastic surgery—over a period of
time, of course.

Lucky,
hell.
He was twenty-eight years old, disfigured and crippled. Sports
were out of the question. Sailing his small schooner with impaired vision would
be risky. Running, dancing, playing racquetball—all would be impossible.
And his love life would be nonexistent. He could just imagine a woman tracing
his scarred face and whispering sweet nothings in his scarred ear. He could
just imagine limping up to a woman and asking for a date. Some stud he was now.

Taylor squeezed off his self-pity party and looked down at the
drapes blowing in the breeze from the air conditioner. He had to get everyone
off his back and spend some time alone. He was best when alone. With some
solitude, he could make peace with his situation and chart a course for his
future. Maybe even overcome some of his lameness.

He wasn’t sure how he would he tell his mother that he wanted to
say goodbye right here in the hospital. No dinner at home, no coffee in the
cafeteria downstairs, not even a ride to the marina. She wouldn’t like it.

"Perhaps if you rested your eyes—" the doctor
said behind him.

''Rest?
I've had enough of that."

"Yes, well—the human eye is slow to heal, Mr. Wolfe.
Much slower than other parts of the body.
I suggest you refrain
from returning to your normal activities for a few weeks. Perhaps take a
vacation—somewhere quiet."

"I've got to get back to work." Taylor had money socked
away but refused to dip into his nest egg. And if he didn't return to his job
at Jenson's Quality Boats, he would be out another paycheck, not to mention the
hefty commissions he made with the company. People would come in to Jenson's
just to talk to him about his voyages, get caught up by his love of the sea and
end up purchasing a yacht of their own. Taylor had intended to stay at Jenson's
only long enough to fund a trip to New Zealand. But his accident and subsequent
hospital stay had seriously impacted his traveling plans. Taylor limped to the
nightstand and lifted his water glass.

"If you return to your active life-style, Mr. Wolfe, your
eyes might not have a chance to heal at all."

"And what will that mean?" Taylor sipped the water.
"Total blindness?"

"We don't know at this point. I am merely suggesting that
you take time off. Find a peaceful retreat."

Taylor squeezed the glass. If he spent any more time surrounded
by peace and quiet, he would go absolutely crazy. But the alternative was even
worse. What if he should lose his sight altogether? That would mean losing his
independence. Scars he could live with. A limp could be overcome.
But blindness?
He gulped the water, hoping to douse the burn
of panic in his gut.

"Whatever you decide, Mr. Wolfe, I advise you to limit
strenuous activity, long stretches of reading and exposure to bright
light."

Taylor nodded, only half listening.

"Do you have any other questions, Mr. Wolfe?"

He shook his head, put the water glass down, and couldn’t help
noticing the red scar between his thumb and forefinger, another souvenir of his
car wreck. He had sailed alone around the world. He had faced hurricanes and
typhoons, had spent weeks adrift in the Sargasso Sea with a burned-out engine,
had been knocked overboard off the coast of Alaska. He had escaped all kinds of
perils, only to come home to San Francisco and fall victim to a mundane fog
bank on Highway 101.

"I'd just like to say what a pleasure it was to meet you,
Mr. Wolfe." Dr. Bennidetto held out his hand, and Taylor shook it.
"I've read about you in the papers. Must be something to live those
adventures we mere mortals just dream about."

"Yes, well, thanks for your help, Doc."

"If you have any questions or concerns, please don't
hesitate to call me."

"Right."

The doctor turned to the door. "Good luck, Mr. Wolfe."

“Thanks.”

As far as Taylor was concerned, his luck had run out.

After the doctor left, Taylor limped to the door, still
frustrated with a body that did not perform in peak condition.

"You're not really going, are you, Taylor?" his mother
asked, rising from her chair.

"Yes, I am. I'm getting the hell out of here."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"I don't care. If I stay here another minute, I'll go
crazy.'

"Wait a minute, Taylor. I'm coming with you."

He stepped into the hall, frowning. Instantly his vision shifted
into a cacophony of color—Technicolor tunnel vision that swirled around
the periphery of his sight. Nurses blurred into moving blobs of green and
lavender. Doctor disassembled into flashes of red and blue. Carts and gurneys
shimmered into floating planes of pink. And from somewhere came a crazy quilt
of tones—buzzing, chiming clanging.

Taylor struggled to maintain his balance as the color danced and
flared in a dizzying array and the noise pressed in on his ears. He grabbed for
the doorjamb, using it to ground him, while a cold sweat broke out beneath his
jacket and chambray shirt.

"Mr. Wolfe?" a female voice called out. He recognized
the tone as belonging to the nurse who took his temperature each morning,
precisely at seven o'clock, rousing him from a perfectly good sleep. "Are
you all right, Mr. Wolfe?"

"I'm fine," he lied.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She touched his arm.
"You look pale."

He couldn't make out her face or her body, but he saw a halo of
green settle around his elbow where her hand cupped him. He stiffened and stood
up straight, and released his hold on the woodwork.

"I'm fine, Miss Anderson. I'm checking out."

"Stay here and I'll get a wheelchair to take you downstairs."

"I don't need a wheelchair."

"Hospital regulations, Mr. Wolfe."

He watched her blob of color flow toward the nurses' station and
then squeezed his eyelids shut. Damn hospital regulations. He wasn't about to
be pushed around in a wheelchair. Maybe he would have to enlist his mother's
help after all.

He turned. "Mom, where's the car?"

"Out front, Taylor, but you heard the nurse—"

"Never mind her." He stepped away from the door.
"Come on." All he had to do was make it to the elevator and out to
the main lobby exit. He trailed his fingertips along the wall and limped in the
opposite direction from the nurses' station, knowing another set of elevators
was just down the hall.

By the time he stumbled into the elevator he was bathed in sweat.
He couldn't even see the numbers well enough to select the lobby. He had to ask
his mother to do it for him. Scowling and frightened, he leaned against the
back of the elevator, knowing he would never make it on his own if his vision
didn't get any better. Maybe he
would
have to take it easy for a few weeks.

"Mom," he said, running a tongue over his dry upper up.
"Did anyone ever buy Aunt Julia’s place?"

"Brierwood?" she replied. "Oh, here's the lobby,
dear. Can you see well enough to walk?"

"Yeah," he lied. Carefully, he followed her lavender
glow out of the elevator and onto the tile of the main floor. His cane clicked
on the hard surface, startling him. He tried not to let it show, but he felt
increasingly rattled with every step he took in the unfamiliar surroundings.
People and potted plants loomed up unexpectedly. Voices came from nowhere. He
was conscious that his breathing came in agitated spurts.

"Brierwood?" his mother repeated. "No, it's still
empty, except for the caretakers, that is. Why?"

"I'm going there." He heard the whisk as the automatic
doors slid open and felt the cool rush of air on his face. Thank God. A few
more steps and they would be in the car.

"All the way to Seattle? Why don't you stay here, dear,
where I can keep an eye on you? You aren't doing that well, you know. You look
terrible."

"Thanks a lot, Mom." He raised his face up to the sun,
basking in the natural heat after more than a month trapped in the controlled
environment of the hospital. "But I'm going."

A remote place like Brierwood would keep him out of the public
eye, at least until he got a handle on the mysterious blindness that plagued
him. And Brierwood had nothing to do with the Wolfe estate. It had belonged to
his mother's eccentric sister, Julia, who had been estranged from the family
before she died. Taylor had often been told he favored crusty Aunt Julia both
in coloring and temperament.
He only wished he had known her.
He imagined they might have gotten along very well, for they had more than
looks and temperament in common. Neither of them had possessed one shred of
respect for Richard Wolfe, his father.

Brierwood, two days later

Rose heard a thud down below and jerked to attention, listening
intently. Ever since Donald Jacoby's death, she hadn't slept well, hadn't been
able to turn out the lights in the house or shake the feeling that she was
being watched. She felt like a scared child and chided herself for being silly
and high-strung, but no matter how much she tried to rationalize her fears, she
could not put them aside.

The noise downstairs had sounded like a door shutting. She must have
forgotten to lock the front door, and someone had come in. Rose set aside her
brush and capped her dye. She should answer the door before Bea woke up and
went downstairs. Bea needed all the sleep she could get these days. The death
of her husband seemed to have drained her of energy. The last thing Rose wanted
was to put Bea's health in jeopardy.

She pulled off her rubber gloves and walked around the end of the
six-foot length of silk stretched over a long worktable.

After graduating early from college, she had started a business
designing one-of-a-kind scarves for wealthy clients in the Seattle area. In a
year her business had blossomed enough to show a small profit, and she
considered herself lucky to be doing something she loved for a living. But
since Donald's death, Rose felt as if her luck were fading like cheap pigments
left too long in the sun. Something had changed at Brierwood. Something was
different. The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker. She couldn't put her
finger on the reason for the change, but she attributed it to the untimely and
inexplicable death of Donald Jacoby.