House of Reckoning

by John Saul

  “Thanks.” Bettina opened the door and was halfway out when she turned back. “Do we have the records from Sarah’s last school yet?”

  “Ask Enid,” the principal replied, and Bettina could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d already turned his attention away from Sarah Crane and back to whatever he’d been doing before she came in.

  Bettina closed the office door and turned to see Enid Hogan holding out a file folder. “Here it is,” she said. “It was already out. Because of the sickness, you know.” A mischievous smile played around the corners of her lips. “You know me—everything gets written down. And they’ll probably burn it all the day I retire.”

  “Thanks,” Bettina said, taking the file and perching on one of the chairs that were usually occupied by students waiting to answer to Joe Markham for whatever sins they’d committed. Apparently this morning had been sin-free, since all the other chairs were empty.

  A glance at the clock told her she had about ninety seconds until the bell would ring and she’d have to be back downstairs in the art studio. She quickly flipped through the pages of transcripts from Sarah’s last school—which had nothing to do with what she was looking for—and finally found what she wanted on the very last page: the name of the caseworker to whom Sarah Crane had been assigned.

  Kate Williams.

  She repeated the phone number to herself half a dozen times to make sure she wouldn’t forget it before she was back in her classroom, and was about to close the file when something else caught her eye.

  Sarah’s birth date.

  A terrible chill passed through her, and the folder slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.

  “Bettina?” Enid said. “Are you all right?”

  Bettina looked down at Sarah’s file, then reached down to pick it up. “I’m fine,” she said, not quite succeeding in keeping a slight tremble out of her voice. “Just clumsy.”

  Enid eyed her suspiciously. “You look pale. Did you have a decent breakfast? Low blood sugar can do that to you. There’s some doughnuts in the teacher’s lounge—why don’t I send someone down to monitor your classroom while you go have one?”

  Bettina shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. Before Enid could object, she stood up, put the folder back on the assistant’s desk, and left the office, repeating Kate Williams’s phone number three times more.

  There was no need to memorize Sarah’s birth date though.

  It was a date she’d never forget.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Bettina slammed on the brakes, her car jerking to a stop just before it would have passed through Shutters’ rusting wrought-iron gates.

  Something had changed.

  But what?

  She sat motionless behind the steering wheel for a moment, telling herself that nothing at all had changed; that she’d simply seen Sarah Crane’s birthday in the school records. Yet all through the day—a day that it seemed would never end—she’d felt a sense of some kind of shift taking place, a feeling that only grew stronger as she made her way home after school. And now, sitting in her car in front of the gates of the only home she’d ever known, she saw it.

  But it was impossible, of course; the gates were no different than they’d ever been: sagging and rusty, the leaves of the original vine pattern long since fallen away as if the gates themselves knew that winter was fast approaching. Except that this afternoon the gates looked different.

  Some of the rust seemed to have flaked off, and one or two of the corroding vines appeared to have sprouted tiny metal barbs. Which was ridiculous: metal—especially wrought iron—didn’t do that. Once it rusted, it was gone, and no matter how real the vines may have looked a century and a half ago, they had never been anything but iron.

  And yet …

  The light. That had to be it—it was nothing more than a trick of the fall light, with the sun sinking so early now that the evening shadows were hiding the worst of the grinding damage of old age.

  Taking her foot off the brake, she drove on. But as she emerged from the garage a few moments later, she once again stopped short.

  She gazed up at the house.

  And it, too, seemed somehow different. And yet what had changed? The paint was still peeling—at least the paint that hadn’t already weathered away—and the roof still lacked the slates that had fallen over the years.

  And yet …

  Somehow the paint didn’t look quite as bad as she’d thought when she inspected it a few months ago, and even the roof looked like it might make it through one more winter before she’d have to do something about it.

  She went in through the back door just as she always did, but again found herself stopping just before stepping across the threshold. This time, though, she knew why.

  She’d forgotten to turn the heat down in the kitchen, and it was the wave of heated—and expensively heated—air pouring forth that brought her to a halt. Not even bothering to shed her coat, she hurried to the electric heater and reached down to turn it off.

  But it was already off. Nor was its fan blowing, nor was it any warmer than the kitchen itself.

  Nor was Pyewackett curled up in front of it, warming himself while he slept the day away.

  She left the kitchen, moving through the butler’s pantry and pushing through the swinging door to the dining room.

  It was as perfectly warm as the kitchen.

  So was the great hall.

  And so, she discovered as she passed its open door, was the study. Not only was the door ajar, but heat was emanating from it, and so was the acrid smell of smoke.

  Smoke?

  Panic breaking over her, Bettina threw the door open, half expecting to find the room engulfed in flames. But all she found were dying embers in the fireplace.

  And Pyewackett, curled up on the hearth, sound asleep.

  But where had the fire come from? She hadn’t built it—of that she was absolutely certain. And even if she had—even if she assumed she’d built it this morning before she went to work—how had it lasted all day? And how had it heated the whole house?

  And if she hadn’t started it, who had? She reached for the phone, about to call Dan West, but hesitated as her fingers closed around the receiver. If someone had broken in, why would they have left a fire burning? It made no sense.

  Then her eyes fell on the yellowed manuscript that had been hidden away in the bottom drawer of the desk, but was now lying in the center of the desk’s mahogany surface.

  And she remembered the picture Sarah Crane drew two nights ago, the picture that still stood on the easel in the studio, propped up exactly as Sarah had left it.

  Or was it?

  Pyewackett woke up then, leaped from the hearth onto the desk, sniffed at the manuscript, then looked up at Bettina, his yellow eyes glowing more brightly than the fading embers on the hearth he’d just left. A second later he was gone, springing to the floor, dashing out the door and turning left.

  Toward the studio.

  Bettina was about to go after him, but first went to the desk and scooped up the manuscript. Then, with the ancient pages clutched tightly in her hand, she followed her pet.

  By the time she got to the studio, Pyewackett was waiting for her on the chaise.

  And the drawing on the easel, like the gates to the estate and even the house itself, had somehow changed.

  The flames burned brighter than Bettina remembered, seeming almost to leap from the paper upon which they were limned.

  Now Pyewackett was on his feet again, insistently nosing at the manuscript in Bettina’s hand, then lashing out at it with his paw forcefully enough to knock half the pages loose. As Bettina clutched the remaining pages more tightly, her eyes fell on the words on the page that was now exposed:

  I made a pile of all the papers from the file cabinets and arranged the wooden chairs around it. Beyond the chairs, I piled all the inflammable materials I could find in the office, and soaked the whole of it with kerosene from the mainten
ance shed. A little while later the whistle blew and I knew the spinners and the looms were in full production, all the workers at their stations.

  Including Honoria.

  Especially Honoria.

  She would be at her loom, with my brother’s bastard in her belly, her fingers weaving a fabric as loose as her own morals. But not for much longer. Already I could see the conflagration that would come once I touched a match to all my kindling. The lint in the air would catch a spark, and the very air would be aflame, engulfing the building and everyone in it.

  I locked the two big warehouse doors from the outside and—

  The phone rang.

  Bettina jumped at the unexpected sound, dropping the rest of the pages to the floor as Pyewackett leaped off the chaise and skittered underneath it.

  She picked up the phone and put the receiver to her ear, but before she could utter even a word, a venomous voice lashed out at her. “Leave them alone,” the voice said, soft and dangerous and trembling with fury. “You leave our kids alone.”

  The warmth of the house was washed away by a sudden flood of terrible cold. Bettina knew that voice, knew it perfectly, even though she’d never heard it over the telephone before.

  Knew it from her past.

  Knew it from her nightmares.

  Her fingers gripped the phone as if frozen to it.

  “I’m watching you,” the voice said.

  Then there was silence.

  The terrible cold that had fallen over her a moment ago turned into fear, and she instinctively looked out the enormous conservatory windows. From the brightness inside, she could see nothing at all of the darkness beyond the walls of the house.

  But from the blackness outside, anyone at all could be looking in.

  Seized by a terror she had experienced only once before in her life, Bettina raced through the house, checking every door and every window to make certain everything was locked.

  Locked, and bolted.

  Yet still she didn’t feel safe, and as if sensing her fear her animals had gathered around her, and when she finally turned off the lights on the lower floor and started up toward her bedroom on the second floor, they stayed close by her feet.

  She listened to the house.

  The animals listened, too.

  Silence.

  She led the animals into her bedroom, locked the door and climbed into bed, still fully dressed, still in the grip of the terrible fear the voice on the telephone had brought on. She pulled the covers tight around her neck and left the light on, and prayed that if sleep came it wouldn’t bring more terror with it. …

  She could feel the presence before she heard the sound. It felt like danger, and it was nearby, and she should run. But instead of running she stopped completely, waiting in the darkness, in the woods, in the loneliness of the night.

  A twig snapped, the sound seeming to come from behind her.

  She whirled, then heard it again.

  Again from behind her.

  When the third twig snapped she finally began to run, but her feet felt so heavy she could hardly move them.

  And the presence in the darkness was getting closer.

  She could almost see it, almost touch it, but somehow, even though it was very, very close, she couldn’t quite find it.

  Then something was around her neck, and she could feel it squeezing tighter, and now she could feel breathing on her ear, heavy breathing, and the thing around her neck grew tighter and now she was falling, falling, and falling until the ground rose around her and then the thing around her neck was gone, but now there was something on top of her—some terrible weight—and she wanted to scream but her voice was gone and when she opened her mouth nothing came out.

  Fingers.

  Rough fingers, all over her, pulling at her clothes, pulling them off, pushing their way inside her bra … inside her panties… inside her! Now she did scream, but her voice was caught inside her and no matter how hard she tried nothing would come out except a strange grunting noise.

  She tried to bite, tried to claw, tried everything to get away, but her attacker was always just outside her reach, just beyond her flailing arms and legs.

  The weight on her was even heavier, and she was sinking into the forest floor, and her clothes were being ripped away and now something was pushing inside her, tearing at her, a searing pain slashing up from her groin and—

  “I’ll kill you,” a voice whispered in her ear. The voice was low, and hard, and so cold its chill penetrated straight into her soul while at the same time it seared into her memory, never to be forgotten.

  The voice penetrated into her memory even more deeply than the man penetrated her body.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything. But she had to—she had to do something or she would die. Die right here in the dark, in the forest, in the blackness of the night.

  Darkness swirled inside the darkness of her vision, and just as she was about to give up, to let herself sink into it forever, she gathered herself for one last effort.

  She filled her lungs, sucking her breath in as far as she could, then forced it out again in a scream that combined all the anguish and horror and pain she had just endured.

  And sat straight up in her bed.

  She wasn’t in the woods, in the darkness and the cold.

  She was safe in her bed, safe in her house, safe with her animals.

  She grabbed Rocky and hugged him close to her pounding heart.

  But even with Rocky lapping at her face and the cats and Cooper snuggling close, Bettina knew that she was wrong.

  She was not safe.

  Something—everything—had changed, and she had to know why. And she had to know now. Steeling herself, she left her bed, unlocked the bedroom door, and started downstairs.

  Sarah was perched on a rickety stool next to the attic window, angling her history text to catch the last of the daylight rather than turning on the attic’s single light and risking another accusation of wasting electricity. A car turning the corner at the end of the block caught her eye, and she let the book drop to her lap as she watched it come down the block, slow, then pull to a stop in front of the house. Suddenly her heart raced as she recognized who it was: Kate Williams.

  What was she doing here?

  Had someone gotten worried when she wasn’t in school and called the county? Or was it one of the drop-in visits Kate had told her would happen?

  Or had Angie Garvey herself called, telling the county to put her somewhere else?

  Even as the questions rose in her mind, she heard Angie Garvey pounding up the stairs, and instantly eliminated the third thought: if Angie had called to have her taken away, she’d have already told her to pack her things.

  “That woman from the county is here,” Angie said. “I’ve no idea why, but when I call you, you’re to come down and tell her that we’ve provided you with everything you need.” Her eyes bored into Sarah. “You say the wrong thing, and Mitch will take care of you when he gets home. But if you behave yourself, you’ll go back to school tomorrow. Understand?” Sarah nodded, but Angie’s expression hardened even further. “And you’d do well to remember exactly where Mitch works, and exactly how bad he can make life for your father. Got it?”

  Sarah felt her face pale at the threat.

  “Do I make myself clear?” Angie demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sarah replied, her voice little more than a whisper.

  The doorbell rang and Pepper started barking.

  “Then try to make yourself look decent,” Angie said. “And I’ll call you when I’m ready.” She started out of the attic, then turned back. “I told the school you’ve been out sick.”

  Once again Sarah nodded, and when Angie was finally gone, she left the history book on the makeshift desk and went down to the bathroom on the second floor to wash her face, brush her teeth, and comb her hair. But she wouldn’t freshen up too much—if Angie had told the school she was sick, she might a
s well look the part. As she finished her hair, she heard Angie calling her, and began rehearsing what she would say that would keep Kate Williams from taking her away from Warwick. In just the short time she’d been here, Nick Dunnigan and Bettina Philips had become the two people in the world—besides her father—who mattered most to her, and she wasn’t about to be separated from them the way she’d been separated from her father. With a last glance in the mirror, Sarah headed downstairs, doing her best to keep her limp under total control.

  “Well, look at you,” Kate Williams exclaimed as she came to the bottom of the stairs a moment later. “No crutches!” Then her smile faded. “But you look like you’ve lost some weight.”

  “She eats like a bird,” Angie said. “And she’s been a little under the weather the past few days. But don’t you worry. We’ll fatten her up.”

  Sarah smiled at Kate as Angie put her arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Hi,” she said, her voice barely audible. “It’s nice to see you.”

  Bad match, Kate Williams thought as she left the Garvey house half an hour later. Although Sarah Crane had certainly looked wan, she hadn’t actually looked sick, and more than once she thought the girl had cast a wary glance toward her foster mother, as if wondering whether she was saying the right things. Well, if she hadn’t said everything Angie Garvey might have wanted her to, she certainly hadn’t said any wrong things, either; certainly nothing that raised any huge alarms in her own mind. And, unfortunately, the sense that the Garveys and Sarah were a bad match wasn’t enough to make her start looking for another place for Sarah, at least not yet. Any foster home was hard to come up with, and on the scale of foster parents, so far the Garveys seemed about in the middle: maybe not the best, but certainly far from the worst. And yet, even though Sarah insisted more than once that everything was fine, Kate had the distinct feeling that the girl wasn’t telling her the truth.