Chapter 36
Roland rested on the couch, an arm draped over his eyes. The afternoon sun had warmed the still air in the turret to a pleasant temperature that made his eyelids heavy. His mind and body felt numb. Relaxed . . . with the exception of his bladder. At least it didn’t make such urgent cries when he lay still.
He drifted toward sleep . . . He stood alone. Water trickled above him. The drops grew as big as oranges. They fell harder. He dodged to get away, but to no avail. Cold water, like icy picks, stabbed the top of his head. Fear gripped his soul. He couldn’t get away—
Roland inhaled and forced his eyes open, pushing back the daydream. Bright sunlight crept under his arm. He shut his eyes again.
Stay focused. He wanted to have something smart to say when he confronted Jarret. Papa would return soon. He should figure out what to say to him, too.
Jarret shouldn’t get away with this. He manipulated every situation to his benefit and always got away with it. He had to learn that things didn’t always have to go his way. Papa should know what he did: the basement, the turret, his scheme—
A clanking sound came from the door at the foot of the steps.
Roland sat up and rubbed his eyes. His bladder sloshed and sang. School must’ve been out. Jarret had said he’d see Roland after school.
The door creaked open, and someone climbed the stairs with slow, steady steps.
Roland yawned and blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light.
“Roland?” Keefe’s voice came before him as he climbed the steps. He stopped a few steps shy of the top. His eyes bugged as if he saw a ghost or a wild animal. “You can, uh, you can come out now. You must be hungry.”
Shaking his head, Roland turned his gaze to the Bible on the table so as not to appear anxious. Really, he couldn’t care less about eating. He had to pee.
“Papa will be home soon,” Keefe said.
Roland looked. That was good news.
“He called this morning. Jarret spoke with him. He’ll probably be here in an hour or so.”
“I guess you’re letting me out just in time,” Roland said. “You won’t have to explain why I’m locked up here.”
Keefe averted his gaze. “Just come on down. Jarret wants to talk to you.”
“So you’re here to deliver his message? This morning he had you trick me into coming up here. You always going to let Jarret control you?”
“Hey, in some ways, I control him. You don’t know what he originally had planned for you, what I talked him out of. This was better than the alternative.”
The look in Keefe’s eyes said he had more to say, but he turned away and descended the steps.
“The alternative.” Roland huffed.
Once all sounds of Keefe ceased, he jumped up, pounded down the stairs, and raced to the bathroom. He hadn’t finished washing up when someone rapped on the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute. Go use another bathroom.” Roland glanced at his pale reflection in the mirror and ran a wet hand through his hair. They had more than enough bathrooms in the house. Why was this one the favorite?
“Open the door. I need to talk to you,” Jarret said.
“Later.” They could talk when Papa got home.
“Open it or I’ll open it for you.” It sounded like Jarret pressed his face to the door to speak.
Roland opened the door.
Jarret gave a crooked smile, his eyes dark with deceit. “I want to make sure you understand what will happen if you tell on me.”
“Didn’t you already threaten me the other day?” Roland tried to pass him.
Jarret put a hand on Roland’s chest. “You skipped school today, and it had nothing to do with me. Whatever you say, I’ll deny it. I’ll turn it around and make it worse on you.” His grin grew. “You should know . . . Nanny’s on my side now.”
Chapter 37
A sinking feeling began in Peter’s chest as he led Caitlyn into the woods on Roland’s side of Forest Road. Shade covered the boulder from which he and Toby had fished. The afternoon sunlight sparkled on the stream, blinding him a few times as he crossed the natural bridge of stones. They strode down the horse trail that Toby had found on Saturday, the trail that led to his friendship with Roland and made him the keeper of several West family secrets.
The sinking feeling deepened. Would Roland care if Caitlyn saw his house? Would he mind visitors, him being so private? Maybe this was stepping over the line. Maybe this would push him away for good.
Peter stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He needed his book back. Roland should’ve come to school.
“I can’t wait till more of the leaves turn color.” Caitlyn smiled at the treetops and inhaled deeply. “I love the fall.” She spun around.
“Yeah.” He made the obligatory glance at the dying leaves above. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she saw Roland’s castle-like house.
“I wonder who rides horses back here.” Her focus had gone full orbit, and now hoof prints in the mud held her attention.
“Who do you think rides horses back here?”
“The Wests? You think they own horses? I don’t think so. Have you ever been to Roland’s house?”
“Uh, no. You mean like inside it? Uh, I don’t know how to answer that.” He’d been in the tunnel that led to the basement. Did that count? Nah, probably not. What did the inside of a castle look like, anyway? A fire pit? Thick, rough tables and chairs? Nah. They probably had it modernized.
“I hope he’s not embarrassed by it. He shared his lunch with me the other day, and I felt so guilty. I think he comes from a poor family.”
Peter laughed. He narrowed one eye. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. He had to borrow your clothes on Sunday, and he wears the same thing to school every day.”
Peter laughed. “No, he doesn’t. It’s not the same shirt. The kid only wears black. Maybe he re-wears his jeans, but don’t we all? Except you.” He made an obvious glance at her skirt. “Why do you wear dresses every day? People make fun of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans.”
“I’m not wearing a dress. It’s a skirt. And who cares what people think? I don’t like jeans. I’m a girl. I like to look feminine.”
She wore a long, slim, beige skirt with a slit in one side, a brown tank top over a white t-shirt, one baby blue sock, and one pink sock, with white tennis shoes. The day before, she had on a yellow and a white sock. Did she dress in the dark?
Feminine? He snorted. “You could at least match your socks.”
“I don’t know. Roland seems very humble. Maybe that’s why I think he’s poor. There’s nothing wrong with being poor. I think poor people learn harder lessons and can grow in greater virtue. That’s more important than money anyway. Hey, what’s that?” She dashed down the trail.
The huge rock formation loomed ahead, a short distance off the path.
Shoot. It must’ve had a magnetic force that drew everybody and their brother, well, at least his brother. What a stupid place to put a secret door. It wouldn’t be his fault if she stumbled upon it . . . except that he led her here.
Caitlyn stood with her arms aloft and her mouth open, like a tourist gawking at an ancient cathedral. “Have you ever seen a more awesome rock?”
Peter came up behind her. “Yeah, cool.” His tone lacked enthusiasm. He tapped her arm. “Let’s go. We want to get to Roland’s and back before dark, don’t we?”
“Okay.” She sighed, accompanying him back to the trail. “How much farther is it?”
“We should get a glimpse of the castle any second now.”
“Castle? Why do you call it that?”
He didn’t have time to answer before the trees parted and the medieval, stone structure came into view, battlements, towers and all.
“Oh wow,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Who lives there?” Her pace slowed to a crawl.
He grabbed her arm to speed her up. “That’s poor Roland’s
house.”
Her eyes grew round and bright as two green traffic lights. “You never told me he lived in a castle. Why’d you let me go on about him being from a poor family?”
He shrugged. “A guy’s gotta have fun.”
She shoved him. “Have you been inside?”
“No, not exactly. I’ve never been this close before.”
They reached a deep lawn. Peter picked up his pace. They passed a row of fruit trees and neared a long, winding driveway that came all the way up to the house. Peter soaked it all in. Dark, barred second-story windows and uneven stonework gave the castle an authentic quality. He’d give anything to live in a castle.
“Should we go to the door?” Caitlyn said.
“I don’t know. Maybe we should try throwing sticks at the windows. Which one do you think is his bedroom window?”
She shoved him again, harder. Then she stomped ahead, over the driveway, onto the front porch, and right up to the arched wooden door. For a moment, she only stared at it. Then she reached an unsteady hand up to the massive lion doorknocker, gripped it, and gave it a bang. She turned and gave Peter a big-eyed, should-we-be-here? look.
Peter sighed and stomped up behind her. No, they probably shouldn’t be here. Too late to turn back now.
The door creaked open.
He swallowed his Adam’s apple.
A fifty or sixty-year old woman, topped with a gray mound of curls and wearing an apron over a dark blue dress, stared at them through suspicious eyes. She didn’t say a word.
Peter gave Caitlyn a nudge.
“Hi.” Caitlyn clasped her hands behind her and bounced. “Is Roland at home?”
The woman’s eyes grew wide. Then she smiled. “You must be his new friends. I’m not sure if he . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, into the house. “. . . if he came home yet.”
She looked them over, still smiling. “Well, come in. I’ll go see.” Opening the door farther, she motioned them in. “Please, have a seat.” She scurried down a long hallway, mumbling to herself in a cheerful voice.
Caitlyn’s gaze bounced all around. She nudged Peter and whispered, “She said to sit.”
“I’m not gonna sit,” he whispered, sizing up the two carved chairs with velvet seats on either side of a polished wood table. “What if something went wrong?”
The foyer was large enough to be a room of its own. A big chandelier hung on a chain from the ceiling, its light making geometric patterns on the walls and shiny hardwood floor. Big framed paintings decorated the walls all the way down the long hallway the woman had gone down. A darker hall went off in another direction.
“It’s like a museum,” Caitlyn whispered. “Where do you think that door leads?” She pointed to a double door. “And look at that room at the end of the hall.”
Peter turned to see what she meant just as Roland’s black-clad figure appeared in the hallway, the gray-haired woman at his heels.
Roland strutted toward them with an attitude and a stone face, looking like the man of the house. His gaze was locked on Peter. It didn’t stray to Caitlyn even once as he approached. He stopped about ten feet away and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his black jeans.
“What’s up?” he said, his eyelids flickering.
“Hi, Roland,” Caitlyn whispered, tangling her arms up in front of herself.
He spared a nod.
The gray-haired woman grabbed Roland’s arm and tiptoed, bringing her mouth close to his ear, but she didn’t whisper. “Invite them to the family room. I’ll make iced tea.”
Roland barely turned his head to reply. “I don’t think they’re staying.”
The woman smacked his shoulder. “Of course they are. They must’ve walked all the way over here. Invite them back, and I’ll get something to drink.” She left, disappearing through a doorway halfway down the hall.
Roland gestured with a nod and led the way.
They passed several doors and a dark staircase. The hall ended at a dimly-lit room of dark reds and raw umber, of heavy carved furniture, tapestries, and a fireplace.
Roland breezed through the room and pushed open a set of double doors along the wall. He glanced over his shoulder as if making sure they had followed.
“Right with ya,” Peter said.
They stepped into a longer room with a few doors off one side, windows on the other, and a million interesting things to see. A cozy arrangement of furniture sat near another fireplace—or, more like, the other side of the fireplace in the room they just passed through.
Roland sat in an oversized leather recliner, in the corner by the fireplace. Caitlyn crept around the couch, sat down, and stared at Roland over the coffee table.
Peter’s attention snapped to the sword and shield hanging over the fireplace. “You’ve got a sword? You ever use it?”
“Not that one. It’s old.” He stole a glance at Caitlyn as she turned to check out the sword.
“So, you use a different one? I mean, really, you guys fight with swords?”
“Fencing? Yeah,” he said, his manner nonchalant.
“So, how old is that one?” Peter studied the bronze sword. Little pits marred the length of its double-edged blade. The wide cross guard and flared grip seemed made of a different metal.
“It’s fifteenth-century.”
“And the shield?”
The steel shield, curved at the top and pointed at the bottom, had a gold crest—a knight’s helmet over three tiger heads—in the middle of it. Hadn’t he and Toby seen that symbol in the panel by the secret door?
“My father had that made.” He stole another glance at Caitlyn, but this time she hadn’t turned to see the shield.
She gave Roland a sad smile.
Peter soaked up the rest of the room. A suit of armor stood in the corner, holding a long-handled axe. Thick-framed paintings and candleholders hung on dark, paneled walls. Vases and old books sat on the mantle. There was more to see on the other side of the seating arrangement. He should take it in another time, though, because now a question burned in his mind.
“How’d you guys get all this stuff?”
Roland’s eyelids flickered and his jaw twitched.
“I mean, where do you find an actual medieval sword? And that armor, is it real? Did it all come with the house, I mean castle?” He grinned.
“My father gets stuff. I told you he’s a collector.”
“Yeah. What does he do for a living? You gotta have some money to have a collection like this.”
Roland’s mouth twitched. “He does various things. Freelance.” His gray eyes narrowed with a look of challenge.
“Okay. Freelance.” Something was up with that. Maybe there was truth to the rumors after all. And if that was the case—
“My father hasn’t returned yet. He should be here soon.” He spoke quick and emotionless. “Do you want to wait? I can show your book to him then give it back to you.”
“Oh. Your dad’s gonna be here soon, huh?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The book? Worried about it, worried about it being in my hands?”
Peter opened and shut his mouth. He exchanged glances with Caitlyn. “No. We were wondering what happened to you today.” He tried to give a concerned look, like the one plastered on Caitlyn’s face, but it didn’t feel natural.
“If you’d like, I can go get it.” He pointed toward the double doors and leaned as if about to get up.
“Uh, no, Roland. Chill. Forget about the book. So, why didn’t you go to school?”
“Are you—” Caitlyn said but then turned her head.
Peter turned, too, to see what held Roland’s attention behind the couch.
Roland’s twin brothers sauntered from the direction of the double doors to another door in the wall behind the couch. A light went on, and the corner of a pool table showed through the doorway.
“Man, you got a pool table?”
Roland nodded.
“Roland?” Caitlyn’s voice
dripped with emotion. “Are you sick? Should we leave?”
His gaze bounced from her to Peter and back to the doorway of the poolroom. “I’m not sick. I just couldn’t make it to school.” His face twitched then he grimaced, seeming to follow someone with his eyes.
Peter looked to see who it was. He gasped.
Inches away, stood one of the twins. He leaned on the back of the couch and stared at Caitlyn until she looked away. Then he grinned at Peter and pulled something from the front pocket of his purple hoodie. “You guys want to play us a game of pool? We were—”
“No,” Roland said.
His purple-hoodied-brother opened a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. After lighting it, he gestured with the pack, offering a cigarette to Peter.
“I don’t smoke,” Peter said, screwing up his face to show disgust.
The kid blew smoke in his face. “No?”
Peter coughed and turned away.
“What’s your game, Jarret?” With his arms still resting on the chair, Roland formed a fist.
“Pool.” Jarret exhaled more smoke, this time out the side of his mouth. He and Roland remained locked in a hard glare for a few long seconds.
A crack came from the poolroom. The other twin must have hit the break.
Jarret tossed the pack of cigarettes. Roland caught it, and Jarret returned to the poolroom.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Caitlyn said, looking as naive as a girl could look.
Roland jerked his head to face her and wrapped his mouth around a word but never let it out. He dropped his gaze and shook his head.
“Roland, I . . .” Caitlyn slid off the couch and onto the carpet. She kneeled, resting her clasped hands on the coffee table. Eyebrows slanted, mouth trembling . . . she was about to make a fool of herself.
Peter yanked her by the arm. “Get up, Caitlyn. What’re you doing?”
She straightened and smoothed her skirt. “They were saying such awful things about you.” She took slow steps around the coffee table, heading for Roland. “I just wanted to make them stop.”
Roland shot Peter a look, half-angry, half-befuddled. “What’s she talking about?”
Roland West, Loner Page 19
