by John Saul
As Amy died, she knew that she never would leave the mill. But as it had killed her, so would she kill others.
She would have her revenge.
20
For Alan Rogers, that late-August afternoon had been the day on which, for the first time, he’d finally begun to see the results of the summer’s labors. The outside of the mill was finished. Its surfaces, stripped clean of their layers of grime, were now the warm dark red of old brick, set off with white trim around the windows. The windows themselves, formerly no more than symmetrically placed holes in the otherwise blank facade of the building, had been widened with shutters, and now gave the building a vaguely colonial look.
The fence, no longer serving any useful purpose, had been torn down a week ago.
The main entrance on Prospect Street was done, a broad flight of steps leading to a rank of glass doors that opened directly onto the main concourse of the first floor. Halfway down, the concourse widened into a huge skylit atrium, above which a rainbow-hued dome of stained glass had been installed. Beyond the atrium, the concourse continued to the end of the building, where a waterfall would eventually cascade down to a small pool. The old offices had long since been torn out, but the staircase to the basement still remained—one of the last vestiges of the original structure still to be replaced.
Above him, the construction of the open mezzanine was two weeks ahead of schedule, and already the dividing walls of the second-level shops were in place. Their facades, like those on the main level, would not be completed until the tenants had signed their leases and submitted designs for completion of their storefronts. All of them would be different, but there were strict guidelines within which the tenants could exercise their imaginations. In the end, Alan was now certain, the mill would look exactly as Phillip had hoped it would—an ornate nineteenth-century arcade of the sort one would be likely to run across in London, but that one could scarcely hope to discover in a fading industrial town fifty miles outside of Boston.
Until today, Alan had not been certain that the September 1 deadline would be met. Even now he wasn’t positive that every detail would have been completed. But it would be close enough for the Labor Day dedication ceremony to take place, and for the Old Mill to be opened to the public. Some of the stores would be occupied, and the rest of them would have intriguingly painted wooden fronts, announcing the names of their future tenants, and hinting at what the contents of the shops might eventually be.
The construction crew was gone, and silence hung over the building. But in his mind, Alan could almost hear the murmur of a crowd of shoppers, and the faint gurgling of the waterfall. He walked slowly around the main floor, inspecting the work that had been done that day, and reinspecting what had been accomplished over the previous weeks.
He did this every day, correcting as many of the mistakes as he could himself, and making copious notes with exact instructions on what was to be done the following morning so that no time would be wasted while he had to accompany the men from place to place, giving them verbal instructions. But for the most part, the work was perfect—the men had long since discovered that Alan Rogers would allow nothing to slip by, and that he would not appreciate having to pay their wage while they corrected their own mistakes. It hadn’t hurt that Alan had let it be known that the bonus for early completion would be divided equally among the workers, rather than going directly into his own pocket.
His inspection of the first floor completed, he mounted the stairs to the mezzanine.
Up here, although ahead of schedule, the work had not progressed as quickly as it had downstairs, but that was only to be expected. No one expected the mezzanine to be open by Labor Day.
Still, it was coming along faster than he’d dared hope, and the subdivisions were all but completed. Now the lowered ceiling that would cap the shops was being installed. Though to the casual observer that ceiling would appear to be supported by the walls it surmounted, it was actually being suspended from the spiderlike struts that held up the roof of the building itself. Almost ten feet would separate the false ceilings of the shops from the intricate ironwork above them, and from the main concourse on the first floor, all the old strutwork would be clearly visible, framing the new skylight in the center.
Alan gazed up at the skylight, admiring it once more. Though it was massive, it appeared to be light as a feather, the effect of lightness achieved through the artist’s use of pale greens and blues and almost pastel reds and oranges.
Then, as his eyes scanned the intricate glasswork, he suddenly frowned.
One of the panes, near the base of the dome, appeared to be cracked.
He hesitated, started to make a note of it, then wondered if perhaps he was mistaken. It might not be a crack at all—it could be nothing more than an imperfection in the glass, magnified by the angle of the slowly setting sun.
He moved closer, but even then he couldn’t make the crack out clearly. Glancing around, he saw a ladder propped up against the strutwork, left there by one of the workmen for use again in the morning.
Alan moved quickly to the ladder, and a moment later was up in the ironwork, moving carefully out above the concourse toward the dome.
He’d never been afraid of heights—indeed he’d always rather enjoyed them—and before he moved all the way out to the center of the roof, he looked down. As always, the distance between floor and ceiling was amplified by the angle of viewing it from above, but for Alan there wasn’t even the slightest feeling of dizziness or tightening in his groin. He glanced around the empty building, enjoying the new perspective on his work, then moved confidently onward toward the dome.
When he was directly beneath the spot where he thought he’d seen the cracked glass, he looked up, but the angle was far too acute. The pane in question was almost invisible, extending almost straight up from where he was.
He leaned out, his full weight suspended above the floor below by the strength of his fingers alone.
Still, he couldn’t quite see the pane. But if he stretched upward, reaching with his left hand, perhaps he could feel it.
He clutched one of the crosspieces tight in his right hand, and groped upward with his left.
His fingers touched the cool surface of the glass, and carefully explored it.
Nothing.
He reached further, his left foot leaving the iron beam on which he stood.
And then, with only one foot on anything solid, and only his right hand checking his balance, it happened.
Time seemed to stop as the small piece of wrought iron in his right hand suddenly cracked in his grip, then gave way.
Instinctively, he looked down.
The distance seemed to telescope away from him, the floor, forty feet below, receding quickly into the distance. Now, for the first time in his experience, the dizziness of heights came upon him, he felt an almost sexual tightening in his groin, and a sudden wave of fear washed over him. His entire body broke out in an icy sweat.
What was happening to him wasn’t possible.
The ironwork had all been examined, the badly rusted pieces replaced weeks ago.
And yet, somehow, this piece had been missed. This very piece on which he had depended today.
His fingers, acting independently from his brain, clutched desperately at the broken piece for a moment, then, too late, dropped the fragment and reached for the solid bar that was suddenly just out of his reach.
He felt himself teeter, and slowly arc away from the I-beam.
Then he was plunging downward, his eyes wide open, his arms stretched out as if to break his fall.
He opened his mouth, and screamed.
It was the scream that jerked Beth back into the present. For just the smallest instant she was sure it was Amy’s scream, that last, horrible sound as she’d died, but then Beth knew it was more. For a second she could still hear it, even now that the vision was gone, and she was once more alone in the cool darkness of the room behind the stairs.
&nb
sp; And then the scream was cut short by a loud thumping noise, followed by the kind of empty silence that Beth had never experienced before.
The silence of death happening suddenly, unexpectedly.
She sat frozen, and slowly the silence was intruded upon by her own heartbeat.
“Daddy?” she whispered softly. Even as she spoke the word, she knew instinctively there would be no answer.
She rose slowly to her feet. The pleasant cool of the room had shifted to a bone-chilling cold, and she reached down without thinking, picked up the blanket, and wrapped it around herself.
She moved slowly toward the door, but then hesitated, something in her not wanting to leave the safety and isolation of the little room, wanting rather to stay there in the darkness and isolation, as if that alone could protect her from whatever waited for her outside.
But she had to go out, had to go and see for herself what had happened.
She slid the door open just far enough to slip through, then slid it closed again behind her. Then, using the flashlight to guide her even though she knew the steps by rote, she crept out from under the stairs and started upward.
She could see him as soon as her head came above floor level.
He lay in the center of the mill, beneath the stained-glass dome. Sunlight, streaming in from one of the high side windows, illuminated his body, and motes of dust danced in the air above him.
He was very still, lying facedown, his arms outstretched as if he was reaching for something.
Beth froze.
It couldn’t be real.
She was imagining it. Or she was seeing something else, something out of the past like the things Amy had shown her.
It wasn’t her father on the floor. It was someone else—someone she didn’t know—someone she didn’t care about.
As she forced herself to move slowly forward, she kept repeating it to herself.
It isn’t Daddy.
It isn’t Daddy, and it isn’t even real.
It’s only a dream.
It’s only a dream, and I’ll wake up.
But then she was there, standing beneath the dome, her father’s body at her feet. Beneath his head, a pool of blood had formed.
She knew it was real, and that she wasn’t going to wake up.
She felt her body go numb as her mind tried to reject it all. But that was impossible. He lay there, no moving, not breathing, with the stillness that only death could produce.
And slowly, almost against her will, the connections in her mind began to form.
It was Amy.
Amy had killed her father.
It had happened at the same time, to the very instant.
She’d been in that room with Amy, been there when the fire broke out, been there when Amy died.
She had felt Amy die, felt as though she was dying with her. She’d felt the heat of the flames, felt the despair when she knew there would be no escape.
And she’d felt the fury—Amy’s fury—in that final moment when she’d heard again the words of her father, and seen his face.
Not my father. Amy’s father.
But the wish—the dying wish for vengeance—had been hers as well as Amy’s.
And now her own father was dead.
She pulled the blanket, filthy with soot, closer around her body as if its warmth could shut out the chill she was feeling, and sank slowly to her knees. She reached out with one arm, the tips of her fingers touching the flesh of her father’s face.
It was still warm, but despite that warmth, she could feel that there was no life there.
He was gone.
She wasn’t even aware of the sound that began emanating from her throat, the high, thin wail of anguish, that built slowly until it was the scream of a wild animal caught in the vicious jaws of a trap.
A scream that was part agonizing pain, part stark terror.
The scream built, filling the enormous building, echoing off the walls and roof, building on itself until it almost seemed the walls themselves must give way under its force.
“NNNNOOOOOOOOOOO—”
She was prone now, stretched out over her father’s body, her fingers clutching at him, poking him, prodding him, pulling at him, as if at any moment he might respond, might move beneath her, then turn over, put his arms around her, and tell her that everything was all right, that he was alive, that he loved her and would still be there to take care of her.
And still, the scream built.…
Phillip was driving the Mercedes at no more than fifteen miles an hour, and doing his best to avoid the worst of the potholes in Prospect Street. Beside him, Carolyn was staring straight ahead through the windshield, but he could see a slight smile playing around the corners of her mouth as she listened to Abigail’s diatribe pour forth from the back seat.
“There’s hardly a need to proceed at the pace of a snail, Phillip. I’m not going to break, and I shall be much more comfortable back in my own room than I am trapped in the back seat of this car.”
“I asked you to use an ambulance, Mother,” Phillip reminded her, but was silenced by an indignant sniff.
“Ambulances are for sick people. If I’m still sick after six weeks in that terrible place, then I should be dead. And, if I may say so, Phillip, it is a miracle that I’m not. One would think that considering the amount of money we have given that wretched little clinic, the least they could have done was serve me decent food. And as for the doctors, I can’t imagine how any of them even qualified for medical school, let alone graduated. In my day—”
“I know, Mother,” Phillip interrupted. “These days they’re letting just anybody be doctors, aren’t they?”
Abigail’s lips tightened as she heard Tracy snicker from the seat next to her. She glared at her son in the rearview mirror. “Are you mocking me, Phillip?” she asked, her voice cold.
Phillip did not answer her. He slowed the car to a complete halt in front of the mill, and pressed the button that would lower his window. “Well, there it is,” he said proudly. “I thought you might want to see it.”
“I do not,” Abigail declared, turning her head away. “All I want is to be taken home—” And then she fell silent. A strange sound was filling the air, and it seemed to be coming from the mill.
The sound grew louder, and within seconds all four of them knew what it was.
Inside the mill, someone was screaming.
Carolyn froze in her seat; her heart had begun pounding. From the back, she heard Abigail’s voice, uncertainly asking what the scream could be. Then she heard her husband’s voice.
“I’ll go see.”
“I’ll go with you,” Carolyn said immediately. Phillip’s voice had the effect of releasing her from her paralysis, and she opened the car door, then hurried around to the sidewalk.
The scream was getting louder, sending a chill through Carolyn’s very soul.
“You’d better not,” Phillip told her. “Take Tracy and Mother home. I’ll find out what’s happened, and call you as soon as I can.” When Carolyn seemed to hesitate, he gripped her arms tightly. “Do it!” he said. Then he released her arms and started toward the steps that now rose to the newly installed front doors.
Carolyn remained where she was for a moment, then, reluctantly, got into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, and closed the door.
Phillip, even as he mounted the steps, realized it would be pointless. The doors would be locked, and he had no key.
He should abandon the steps, and head for the side door. But he couldn’t. He had to look now.
With the unearthly scream still ringing in his ears, he came to the top of the steps, shielded his eyes, and peered through the glass doors.
One hundred and fifty feet away, barely visible in the dim light within, he saw a shape huddled on the floor. Then, as he watched, the shape moved, and a face appeared.
Caught in the strange light of the sun, he saw Beth, her features twisted into a mask of anguished grief. Blood smeared he
r face, and her hands seemed to be clawing spasmodically at the air.
Phillip felt his stomach tighten for a moment, and fought against the nausea that was threatening to overwhelm him.
Then he felt a movement at his side, and heard another voice.
“What is it?” Tracy asked. “What’s happening in there?”
Almost against his will, Phillip looked down. Tracy, her eyes glinting with malicious curiosity, looked back at him. “She killed someone, didn’t she?” he heard his daughter saying. But there was no fear in Tracy’s voice, nor so much as a hint of compassion or pity.
Only eagerness, and a strange note of satisfaction.
Clamping his hand on Tracy’s wrist, Phillip jerked the child away from the door.
“Stop it!” Tracy screeched as Phillip dragged her down the steps. “You’re hurting me!”
Phillip shoved Tracy into the back seat, slammed the door, then spoke through her open window. “Don’t say anything, Tracy,” he commanded. “If you say one word, I swear that the next time I see you I will give you a thrashing you will never forget!”
Then, at the look of anguish in Carolyn’s eyes, he shook his head. “It looks bad,” he said quietly. “Just get them home. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Then, as Carolyn put the car in gear and drove away, he dashed around the corner of the building and started toward the side door.
Phillip recognized Alan’s car parked next to the construction shack, and had an instinctive feeling of relief. Whatever had happened, Alan would already be taking care of it.
Then he was at the door, and even before his eyes had fully taken in what he was seeing, he recognized the body that lay broken on the floor.
He rushed into the area beneath the dome, and dropped to his knees, his arms instinctively going around Beth, trying to draw her away.
She fought him for a moment, clutching at her father’s body, but then let go, burying her face against Phillip’s chest, her arms encircling his neck, her hysterical screams dissolving into a series of racking sobs that shook her entire body.
