The Killing Room (15 page)

“Hey, listen,” she said, raising her voice. “You need to get out of here!”

The woman sobbed harder.

“Stop your crying! I can’t take it! I’m going to call my uncle!”

Still nothing but tears.

Chelsea reached down, angry now, grabbing the woman by the shoulders. Immediately the woman’s hands fell away from her face and she looked up at Chelsea.

Her eyes were red with blood.

Chelsea screamed, staggering backward.

Now she could see the woman’s body. Across her chest were five gaping holes, each gushing blood. The blood was staining the sheets of the bed and dripping into puddles on the floor.

Chelsea screamed at the top of her lungs, then screamed again. She covered her own face with her hands.

She was still screaming when Ryan rushed into the room, shaking her, asking her what was wrong.

“That woman!” Chelsea cried. “On the bed!”

But of course there was no woman on the bed.

And no blood either.

Ryan and Chelsea exchanged looks.

They had been in this position before, only reversed. They said nothing to each other, just continued staring in dumb horror.

In moments, Douglas and Carolyn were at the door, clearly having heard Chelsea’s screams. That heating vent worked both ways.

“What’s wrong?” Douglas asked.

“What the
fuck
is going on in this house?” Chelsea demanded. She saw Carolyn’s face go white.

They heard a shuffling from the hallway, and within a few seconds, Uncle Howard had made his way into the room.

All he had to do was to take one look at Chelsea’s face, and he seemed to surmise what she had seen.

“Perhaps,” he said, in a weary voice, “what I have to tell you cannot wait for your father to get here.”

Dean Young wasn’t getting any work done today. In front of him, spread all over his desk, were the plans for a major new high-rise development set for Boston’s Copley Square. Construction was slated to begin in less than a month, and all sorts of decisions had still to be made. Final dimensions, work orders, schedules. As chief architect, he had to approve all of the minutiae his associates had planned. But he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his work. All he could think of was that a month from now, when this project got under way, he might not be alive.

It may be me who’s chosen this time
, Dean thought, for the thousandth time.
It may be my turn to spend a night in that room.

Of course it terrified him. What went on in there? What horrible events took place? He remembered his father the morning after his name had been chosen in the lottery. He’d been found sitting on the couch in the room, his eyes bugged out, his hair white. His heart had stopped, and he was cold as ice. Dean would live with that image for the rest of his life.

Would that be how I’d die as well? Terrified beyond all reason? Or would it be even more gruesome, the way cousin Douglas had died, with a plastic bag secured over his head by some unknown creature? Or would there be gore, like so many of the others?

But for all his terror, the manner of his own death was not the worst of it for Dean. It would be leaving Zac and Callie fatherless. He’d made sure to buy all sorts of life insurance policies, with them and Linda as beneficiaries. He was able to get some terrific plans, because, according to everything the insurance companies could see, he was in good health, and was still a relatively young man. Every indicator pointed to Dean living a long life. But Aetna and Travelers didn’t know about the room in the basement of Uncle Howard’s house.

Sitting at his desk, looking past the blueprints and gazing out his twentieth-story window onto the city below him, Dean thought of his sister. What if it was Paula who was chosen? How could he let her walk in there by herself? He adored his older sister. He had ever since he was a little boy, and asthma had prevented him from playing ball or running too fast. Paula had always been there to protect him when the other boys picked on him. Once, when it looked like they’d miss the bus to school, Paula had swept up the six-year-old Dean in her arms and carried him as she ran, knowing full well he’d never have been able to make the exertion himself. In Dean’s mind, that symbolized their relationship. Paula had literally carried him through some of life’s roughest moments.

And, he hoped, he’d done the same for her now. He felt terribly bad that the family curse had ended Paula’s relationship with Karen. How many lives would it destroy?

He’d spoken with Uncle Howard yesterday. The old man had sounded optimistic that this new investigator might come up with something. Dean wasn’t so sure. The investigator, a Carolyn Cartwright, had only been located in the last couple of weeks, at the eleventh and a half hour. “What can she do between now and the lottery?” Dean had asked. “Other people you’ve hired have had
years
, and they never found an answer.”

But Uncle Howard had retained his optimism. It may have been largely an act, Dean surmised.
He has to try to give us some hope
, he thought. But Uncle Howard did keep returning to the fact that Carolyn was a woman. “That will help,” he insisted. “I believe that will help.”

How Ms. Cartwright’s gender could benefit them remained unclear to Dean. But he was encouraged at least that she had good credentials. And that someone—anyone—was trying to find a remedy for them as the date of the lottery drew nearer and nearer.

“Mr. Young?”

His secretary’s voice started him as it came through the intercom.

“Yes, Sondra?”

“The image that you asked to be digitized is ready. Should I have them e-mail it directly to you, or should I have it printed out?”

“E-mail it to me, please,” he said. “I’ll print it.”

His mind snapped back into sharp focus. But the image had nothing to do with the plans on his desk. It had everything to do with the thoughts that were consuming his mind this morning.

He heard the little ping on his computer that announced the delivery of a new e-mail. He instantly clicked on it, opening the e-mail and downloading the attached file. As he’d requested, it was a big file. The image had been scanned at a high resolution by the firm’s production department. Dean was very curious if such enlargement might allow him to discern something he had long wondered about.

When he and Paula had been young, probably no older than eight and ten, they had broken a very strict rule of Uncle Howard’s. While visiting him one weekend, they had snuck down into the basement. That was the one part of the house that was forbidden to them, which of course only made them want to see it more. They were innocent back then, unaware of the dangers and the tragedies of that locked room. But they’d found a set of keys, and while Uncle Howard was in his study, they’d unlocked the door in the foyer that led to the basement and crept down the stairs. They discovered many rooms in the basement, only one of which was locked. All of the rest were open, packed high with crates and boxes. In and out of these rooms Dean and Paula had tiptoed. Nothing exciting to be found. But perhaps in the one room that was locked? The key ring in Dean’s hand jingled. They decided to see if they could find the key to the one room they’d been unable to explore. And, after four tries, they’d found the key that fit….

Dean opened the image on his computer.

That day in the basement, they’d recorded their undercover work with a Polaroid camera, a gift Dean had recently gotten from Mom and Dad for his birthday. They’d snapped pictures of the basement staircase and of the various storerooms. They wanted proof that they’d actually made it into forbidden territory. As each photograph slid out of the camera, Dean would hand it to Paula, who would hold it as it dried and the images took shape. But as the door to the locked room creaked open before them, they heard footsteps from above. Uncle Howard was emerging from his study. They would have to forget about exploring the room and hurry back upstairs—but still Dean had time to snap a fast picture of the inside of the room before locking the door again.

That image revealed itself on his computer screen now.

It looked just as it had that day when they’d taken the Polaroid back to Dean’s room to look at it. A sofa, a table, and lots of cobwebs. But there had been something else, too. An image in the upper right corner. As kids, they’d enjoyed scaring themselves into believing it was a face. After they learned about the secret of the room, Dean had told investigators about what they had done and what they thought they had photographed—but by then, the relics of their childhood had been lost. Who kept old toys and forty-five records and comic books and Polaroids? The picture was gone, lost. Without it, none of those who tried to end the curse could ever say definitively what the image was. But a couple of weeks ago, going through a box of old school papers, Dean had found the Polaroid. He didn’t tell Paula. He didn’t tell anyone. He just brought it to his production department and asked them to scan it for him.

He hit the button on his screen to enlarge the image. And then he enlarged it again.

Dean sat back in his chair, his heart thudding in his chest.

All those years ago, he and Paula had been right.

Their childish imaginings had been absolutely on target.

The image in the corner of the photo was indeed a face.

The face of a crying baby.

Douglas watched with mounting annoyance as his cousins fluttered around Uncle Howie. Chelsea was adjusting the pillow behind his back as he sat reading in his chair. Ryan kept asking if him if he’d like a brandy, or maybe to share a cigar. They were wide-eyed and attentive to all his stories, asking him to repeat old tales about the family that they’d all heard dozens of times before, acting as if the stories were fresh and new, laughing and telling Uncle Howie how funny and how brilliant he was. It was making Douglas sick.

He knew why they were behaving that way. The old man’s will. They had rushed up here when they heard Douglas had arrived. They were afraid that Uncle Howie was going to leave everything to Douglas. They didn’t want to get cut out. So they were doing what they always did whenever they visited. They were kissing major ass.

Stretched out on the couch, Douglas just shook his head and went back to reading the notes Carolyn had left for him. He would have thought that finding out about the room—about the lottery, about the ten-year cycle of deaths—would have shaken some sense into Ryan and Chelsea, convinced them that some things were more important than money. Hell, who was to say that either of them would even be
around
to inherit anything Uncle Howie left them? What if one of them was chosen to spend the night in that room? So much for the old man’s will then.

But, no. Ryan and Chelsea went on as if unfazed. Oh, sure, that day when Uncle Howie told them the whole story, they had been terrified. Both had seen things that convinced them what their uncle was saying was true. Ryan babbled on about how the man with the pitchfork had tried to kill him. Both of them were shaking like the last leaves on a maple tree on a windy October day. But then they’d run outside to call Daddy on their cell phones. An hour later they’d come back inside with a sense of calm. “We trust you, Carolyn,” Ryan grandly announced, kissing the lady’s hand. “We trust you will deliver our family from this terrible curse.”

Again, Douglas tried to focus on the materials Carolyn had left for him to peruse. So apparently reassured were his cousins that they evinced no interest in reading any of the accounts that had been compiled about the room. They had no desire to help find the solution. They simply went on kissing Uncle Howie’s ass. Maybe, Douglas thought, their nonchalance stemmed from the fact that their side of the family had been largely spared any of the tragedies. The luck of the draw had always seemed to favor them. While Douglas’s father had died horrifically in that room, their father had survived, decade after decade. Maybe they were counting on that luck to continue.

“Uncle Howard,” Ryan was saying, “what do you say about you and I taking a little spin on the yacht? It’s still rigged up, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “It’s down at the marina. But I’m afraid I get awfully tired these days….”

“Come on, Uncle Howie,” Ryan said, appropriating the nickname Douglas always used. “Just you and I. I’ve got some girl troubles I thought you might be able to counsel me on.” He shot a glance in Douglas’s direction. “Rest assured, I’ll be popping the question to a very desirable candidate very soon.”

Douglas groaned and sat up on the couch.

“Oh, Douglas,” Ryan said. “I wasn’t aware you were still here.”

“I’m heading out,” he said, standing. “The air’s getting a little soupy in here.”

“Will you be back for dinner, Douglas?” Uncle Howard asked.

He nodded. “Sure. I’m just going to take a little walk around the grounds.”

There was no way he could concentrate in there. In fact, what he needed to do was take a good long walk and clear his head. It wasn’t just his cousins’ rapacity that irked him. It was also the growing sense that time was slipping away from them and that they were still no closer to finding any kind of solution. Unless they discovered something, the lottery would have to be held exactly two weeks from now. One of them—possibly Douglas himself—would have to spend a night in that room.

Heading outside onto the great lawn, Douglas looked up at the sun, enjoying its warmth on his cheeks. He tried not to feel despair. They’d discovered quite a bit already; they could still discover more. Carolyn had returned to New York to meet with a couple of psychics with whom she’d worked in the past. There was talk of another séance when she returned, possibly conducted by one of her experts. Also being considered was a more powerful exorcism than the one Kip attempted. But Douglas couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just repeating the same steps, going through the same motions that had been tried by so many before. And none of them had ever succeeded.

The strangest sensation of all, however, was how much he missed Carolyn. In the last few days before she headed back to New York, they had spent a great deal of time together. On the night before she left, sitting on the stone bench out near the cliff, she had shared with Douglas the pain of her mother’s death. He’d learned of Carolyn’s sister, living in a home, and Carolyn’s deep sense of responsibility for her. But most significant was hearing about the horrible relationship Carolyn had endured. To think she had been sleeping next to a murderer. Douglas had been unable to restrain himself. He had reached over and placed his arms around Carolyn. She had seemed grateful for his embrace. Slowly, tenderly, he took her chin in his hand and moved his lips to kiss her….

But then a twig had snapped, and they had looked around. Chelsea and Ryan were heading toward them. They had separated quickly, moving apart on the bench. Douglas’s cousins were rattling on with questions about whether the curse would end if the house was razed. “I doubt it,” Carolyn told them. “Your uncle said he believes that if that were to happen, it would simply cause the kind of slaughter we’ve seen when periodically the strict rules of the lottery weren’t followed to the letter.”

“Well,” Chelsea said, impatiently, in a tone of voice she never used around Uncle Howard, “eventually, when our dear uncle is gone, someone will have to decide what to do with this house. I wouldn’t want it. So many horrific things have happened here.”

Douglas thought she spoke as if she had no fears at all about being chosen to enter that room. All she was concerned about was what happened after. As if she knew she’d come out just fine.

The worst part was that he and Carolyn never got to finish what they started. The next morning she was packed and heading out to the airport, being driven by one of Uncle Howie’s chauffeurs to the airport. Douglas had offered to take her on his bike, knowing how much she had enjoyed the ride before, but she declined briskly with a smile, saying her bag was too heavy. She seemed cool, a little distant, though she gave him her files to read while she was gone. They barely said good-bye. Uncle Howie was there, so Douglas couldn’t say what he wanted to say to her.

That he thought he might be falling in love with her.

It’s crazy
, he thought as he walked across the grass now.
I’ve known her for just a couple of weeks.
But her strength, her confidence, her
will
in the face of all this had made a huge impression on him. Never before had he met a woman like Carolyn.

“Terrific,” he said out loud. “I finally meet someone I think I could really fall for, and I might have to lose my life to a pitchfork-wielding ghost.”

He realized he had walked to the place where the woods began intruding onto the well-manicured lawn. Just ahead lay the path that wound its way down the steep side of the hill into the village.

An enormous black crow high in the tall oak tree in front of him let out a cry, startling Douglas. The bird flapped its wings, then took off soaring down the side of the hill. Douglas kept his eyes on it, listening to the cries it made.

That was the moment he realized he wasn’t alone.

He turned his head, and Beatrice stood in the brilliant sunshine not three feet away from him.

“You’ve got to help us,” Douglas said instinctively. “You don’t want this killing to go on, do you? It’s not you doing it. I know that. So please help us!”

She looked at him with pitiful eyes. She seemed to Douglas the manifestation of sadness, what sadness would look like if it took human form. She cocked her head at him, as if looking for something there. Then she turned and walked away, toward the path.

“Wait!” Douglas called after her.

But she kept walking, the breeze moving her flowing white dress. Douglas realized she was leading him somewhere.

And he thought he knew the destination.

Beatrice disappeared into the trees. Douglas followed, certain that he knew where he’d find her. And he was right. Rushing along the path, skillfully jumping over the protruding roots of trees, he emerged into the old Young family cemetery. And there stood Beatrice, forlornly gazing down upon a patch of tall yellow grass.

Douglas hurried over to her. But even as he approached her, she vanished into the light, a flickering static of incandescence.

He reached the spot where she had been standing. Why here? There was nothing here. The nearest stone was a good three yards away. This was just a stretch of empty ground, covered with grass and the occasional black-eyed Susan.

But then he felt something underfoot.

He bent down, pushing aside the grass.

A sparkle of granite.

There was a stone embedded in the earth. A flat stone overgrown with grass and weeds and moss. He scraped at the moss, peeling it back like a moldy carpet. He saw what was inscribed on the stone.

Just the letter
M
.

And above it, a carving of a small cherub.

Douglas stared at the stone.

“Why did Beatrice want me to see this?” he asked out loud.

He traced the
M
with his finger.

Malcolm.

Perhaps it stood for Malcolm.

Was that Beatrice’s last name? Was this the place where they had buried her? Here, in an unmarked grave. Forgotten by the world.

But the cherub…

Something about the cherub.

It frightened him. Cherubs were little angels. Symbols of love. Cupid was kind of a cherub. With his little boy’s body and his magic arrows of love. There was nothing frightening about Cupid.

But this little winged figure set Douglas’s heart racing.

It had been roughly carved. A local stonecutter had most likely been hired to do a rush job. Someone had told him to carve a cherub above the
M
. And so he had etched a rough approximation of a human face and attached two wings in place of ears. The mouth on the face was open, perhaps in song. But it looked as if it were crying.

Or screaming.

Suddenly Douglas felt a terrible chill. He stood up, letting the grass obscure that terrible cherub once again.

M
.

What was
M
?

What lay buried under that stone?