David was dead.
And all the marbles rattled in the tin box and she grasped it with her guilt to stop the racket, and turned and buried her face in the pillow, but her eyes still saw everything. And as she clenched her hands into fists, she felt her wedding ring, and she thought for the first time that she was free.
The marbles rolled slightly, then settled. The box was still.
Trapped in a fortress, she was for the first time in her life free.
~*~
Kelly Wickstrom paused before he knocked on the door of the Nevilles' suite. He wished that he had X-ray vision so that he could look in and see if Gabrielle was sleeping. If so, he would have walked away to his own room and tried to lose in sleep the memories of the horror he had just seen. But he kept imagining Gabrielle Neville sitting staring empty-eyed at nothing, Gabrielle Neville eyeing a bottle of sleeping pills with unconcealed desire, Gabrielle Neville lying weeping, uncomforted, alone on her bed.
Gabrielle Neville, alone on her bed.
There was something in that that gave him pause, but he killed the thought before he could follow it to a conclusion. It was not the time. She had been through so much that he could not bring himself to violate her, even in a fantasy. But he could not make himself leave her alone either.
He knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked louder. Finally he heard footsteps crossing the floor, and Gabrielle opened the door.
She was not, as he had expected, prostrate with grief. On the contrary, her face was bright, as if she had scrubbed it to make it shine all the more. She had changed her clothes and now wore close-cut jeans and a yellow top. A bright purple scarf was tied around her neck. She looked young and beautiful and utterly unlike a woman who had been widowed only hours before.
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you knock at first." She was smiling and her eyes were clear. Wickstrom wondered if this was how the rich mourned their dead, remembering when his mother had died. It had seemed to him at that time that the earth should have stopped in its orbit to weep. She'd been married only a year to Frank, his stepfather, when it had happened, a car wreck that had taken her out quickly and unexpectedly, leaving no time to say goodbye or to love away the bitterness he had felt and revealed on her remarriage. His only consolation had been that she hadn't suffered. Impossible to suffer when your chest is crushed in an instant. Seeing Gabrielle's almost cheerful face, he recalled his own miserable one as he looked into the mirror before the funeral, trying to see if it looked as if he had been crying. Then, at eighteen, it was important to him not to weep no matter how great his grief, important to say farewell like a man.
It was only when he saw Frank alone at the gravesite after everyone else had gone, when he saw Frank's tears running down his cheeks, and his shoulders shaking in great silent heaves for the wife he'd lost, only then did he think that that was the way to say goodbye, stunned by the realization that the strange man who'd come to his mother's arms and bed had loved her as much or more than he did himself. He had not gone up to Frank that day, but they had become friends since, and Wickstrom still visited him on holidays.
"Come on in, Kelly. You look lost." Her voice brought him back from the graveyard in Brooklyn, and he wondered again how she could seem so unconcerned in the face of what had happened.
"I wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay."
She nodded, and her smile lost some of its buoyancy. "All things considered, I'm holding up." She shrugged, unsure of what to say next. "Did you . . . take care of everything downstairs?"
He nodded, wondering if the mention of the pieces of her husband still clinging to the cellar ceiling would take that uncaring smile off her face. "Everything's cleaned up. Roughly."
She winced, but locked the smile back on as though she were a receptionist with an unpleasant visitor. "Where's George?" she asked.
"Sleeping. He was exhausted."
"Oh.” She looked down for a moment, then back at Wickstrom. "I wanted to thank him."
"Thank him?"
"For trying to save David. How did it happen? Did he say?"
Wickstrom went through what McNeely had told him, leaving out the more gruesome details. Gabrielle sat stone-faced through it all. When Wickstrom had finished, she smiled grimly.
"I know you may think me callous, Kelly, but I'm almost glad for David's sake that it's over. Did you know that he was dying?"
"George told me."
She nodded. "He was so afraid of the pain. At least he was spared that."
"Yeah." Wickstrom hadn't looked at the body for any period of time. A quick glance and he had turned his head away until the sodden tablecloth had been drawn back over the face. But that glance was enough to tell him that although David Neville's suffering had not been long in duration, it must have been phenomenal in its intensity. Wickstrom thought there was no way in which a man could bear so much pain and retain his sanity.
He must have died mad.
"Tell him," said Gabrielle, "tell George, if you see him before I do, that I'd like to talk to him. Will you do that?"
"Sure. I think I'll get some sleep myself." He stood up and walked to the door. "Listen," he said, turning, "I know this must be hard on you. If you ever want to talk about it, or anything else, well, just let me know, okay? I mean, I'm a good listener."
She smiled again. "Thank you. I'll remember that."
As Wickstrom walked to his suite, he tried to interpret the things she had said (and more important, the things she had not said). That she was hiding something he was sure. There was something more than simple gratitude behind her interest in McNeely, but what was it? Did she want a more complete account of her husband's final minutes? If so, he thought she'd be disappointed. If McNeely had been hesitant in describing the details to him, in a way a fellow soldier would be, how much more reluctant would he be to recreate the scene for the widow?
Or was there something else? Why had she changed her clothes, 'made herself appear so casually attractive? He'd noticed and averted his eyes from the tight wool sweater and the tighter jeans. Christ, he hadn't expected her in long black, but what she had worn seemed just a bit too provocative to be fitting.
Maybe that was the point. Not for him, though. For McNeely. He'd been the one she was interested in talking to, not him. Once again he felt that odd, inappropriate jealousy wash over him as he wondered precisely how Gabrielle intended to thank McNeely. Then he was at the door of his room, glaring across at McNeely's suite with a dull, bitter malevolence that frightened him.
Stop it, he told himself. What the hell right have you got to feel this way? He was not by nature a jealous man. He hadn't known or even suspected his wife was having an affair until she'd come right out and admitted it, so this new feeling surprised him. It must be the house, he thought, and then he actually smiled. If making him jealous was the worst it could do after what it had done to Cummings, he'd consider himself very lucky.
But the thirty-one days weren't up yet, and wouldn't be for a long time.
Chapter Nine
Actually, only twelve days had gone by from the time the five of them had entered the house, and while Kelly Wickstrom was closing the door of his suite, Simon Renault was sitting in his Manhattan office just about to start the second cup of coffee of the three he allowed himself every morning. It was steaming hot, and he bent his head and brought the cup up under his eyes for a moment, letting the steam tease tiny sweat droplets from his eyelids while the damp heat pressed against them like a tender hand.
It didn't work. The headache was still there. He added the cream and stirred the mixture until the coffee turned a light golden brown, then sipped it delicately. Best to make it last. It would be 11:30 before he allowed himself his third cup. He wished he could take it without cream, black, as so many Americans did, but he found it bitter and undrinkable, even the finest blends. So he added his cream and counted his calories, finally emptying the cup in four huge and heavenly swallows before looking at his watch t
o find that it would be an hour and twenty-five minutes before his next.
As he glanced at the Rolex, he wondered again how the Nevilles were doing. It would be horrible, he thought, to be without time. That would be worse than ghosts. Renault lived by the clock. His days were filled with meetings and luncheons and dinners, appointments and transatlantic calls. He owned three watches in the fear that two could break down at one time, yet the Rolex John Neville had given him on his fortieth birthday had not failed him once in nearly a quarter of a century.
But in The Pines, he mused, there would be no need for a clock. No appointments, no phone, no television (he was most secretly addicted to Johnny Carson and Benny Hill), nothing to distract them from any communication with … with what?
Renault did not believe in ghosts, not even after what John Neville had told him had happened on that brief visit back in the forties. Imagination pure and simple, and he felt wise enough to know that even a pragmatist such as himself would not be immune to its powers. Lock anybody up with a tale of ghosts for thirty days and they'd obligingly create their own before the month was out. Though he realized that the ghosts had been David's prime motivation for going to the place, he had as much as told him that his quest would be fruitless. But while the old man could have joked and laughed about it with David's father, David was another story. Renault had never been able to establish the easy rapport with the young man that he had had with John Neville. No doubt it was partially a matter of generations, but it stemmed more deeply, Renault thought, from something in David's character that had been lacking in his father, a heavy reliance upon class distinction.
Quite simply put, David Neville was a snobbish little prick, and though Renault had loved the boy and still loved the man, he found it difficult to combine that love with any amount of respect. David had never shown the slightest degree of interest in the business his father and grandfather had built other than to ask Simon offhandedly how it was going every once in a long while. As far as David seemed to be concerned, the business existed only to supply him with the money he required.
John Neville had been disappointed in his son's lack of interest and, once into his final illness, had been very open about it with Simon. He had not died happy, and Simon Renault would always carry a trace of bitterness toward David because of that.
But for all his flaws, Simon did love him, and he hoped that David's deteriorating body would last long enough for him to find one of the two things he was looking for at The Pines. The immortality, or at least the comforting illusion of it.
Renault also hoped that David would not achieve the second quest he had set for himself—the quest for revenge.
The plot had frightened Simon at first, indeed even now. He was still against it, thinking it stupid and childish and possibly deadly, but he had been unable to convince David to turn from it. David had explained it to him when he told him of his desire to go to The Pines.
"This ghost hunting is all well and good," Renault had said, "but you don't really expect to go alone, do you?”
“No, I don't. I want three bodyguards."
"Fine. We have a good many top men who guard our executives abroad. I'll have Mayo select the top three and—"
"No, Simon. I want special bodyguards for this. Three very special men."
Simon shrugged. "Who did you have in mind?"
"Two of the men are known to me. The third is not. Kelly Wickstrom is the first. Do you recall three years ago when my cousin was arrested?"
The older man nodded. He recalled it well. David's younger cousin, Jean, with whose family he stayed when he and Gabrielle visited Paris, had been arrested in Manhattan in front of the Neville office building. He'd refused to pay for the cab ride from Kennedy, an irrational act due to the amount of cocaine he'd been snorting on the trip in. When the arresting officer had checked his bag, he found it to contain eight ounces of the drug. That was when the boy had gone for him. The officer had responded with a fist in the face that had quickly and almost painlessly blinded the boy. David had been furious when he'd heard of it, but John Neville was unsympathetic, firmly believing that Jean had deserved his fate. He did use his influence to insure that his nephew drew only a suspended sentence, but refused to bring any charges against the arresting officer. The family connection was kept quiet so that not even the officer knew the boy was a relative of one of the richest men in the city.
"This Wickstrom was the policeman who blinded Jean. He's the first. The second is a man named Seth Cummings. He works for Stahr. When Ralph McCormick killed himself because Teresa was fucking around, it was Seth Cummings she was fucking around with. The more you hear about Cummings, the uglier he gets.
"The third is a man whose name I don't know, but I want you to put some of your international connections on it. In Africa in 1974 my Uncle Philippe was connected with some rebels. Not as a mercenary, but as an advisor, to help pull down a corrupt regime. He was killed, murdered by a group of mercenaries hired by the government. They were commandeered by an American known only by the code name Hammer. I want to find out if this Hammer is still alive and where he is now."
"I don't understand," Renault had said, although he was afraid he did. "Even if these men would be willing to go with you, why? What could you want from them?"
"First, revenge."
"You're not suggesting anything violent?"
David hadn't answered at first, had only stared into Renault's eyes as if attempting to gauge how far the man would go to satisfy his employer. "If there is violence," he answered finally, "it won't be me who starts it."
"I can't condone that," Renault said, his voice as cold and firm as he had ever dared make it in front of a Neville. "If you wish to draw these men to that house to attempt to harm them in some way, I—I would have to leave your employ."
"I won't harm them, Simon. I promise you that. But these things—these acts against friends and relatives—are things that have gnawed at me over the years. And if I'm to die, I want to settle the scores."
"But how?" Renault asked, exasperated. "What on earth do you intend?"
"I intend to pit myself against them." David had spoken with passion, and there was a fire in his eyes that had not burned there for many years. "Simon, I truly believe that there is something in the house, something preternatural. Since I know I'm going to die, life after death holds no terror for me. On the contrary, it holds only hope. What I want"—and he leaned forward in his chair like a bird of prey—"is to see them break, watch the fear of the unknown cut into them and reduce them to the"—he searched for the word—"to the cowards they really are. Every one of them," he went on in a softer but no less intense voice, "has harmed someone I've loved. My cousin Jean, my uncle, and Ralph—one of the few real friends I've ever had. And each one is such a man," he sneered the word. "A soldier, a policeman, a tough businessman. I want to see what men they are when they're locked inside The Pines for a month."
Renault could restrain himself no longer. "David," he said, "I have known you all your life. When your father died, I promised him I would look after you as best I could." He shook his head. "It is my tragedy that I could not keep you from the same fate he met, but at least perhaps I can persuade you to die with your dignity intact." David opened his mouth to speak, but Renault rolled on. "This plan of yours is undeserving of you. If you wish to go to the house to investigate these rumors, then do so. But do not tarnish your final days by toying with petty vengeance. . . ."
"Dignity?" David burst out. "Dignity's exactly what I'm talking about, Simon, dignity and honor. Justice, not vengeance. Can't you understand that?"
Renault couldn't, and he told David Neville that, but it had no effect on the dying man, who directed Renault to find the man called Hammer and to then come up with a plan to get the men to the house.
Several phone calls were made, and in a matter of days Simon Renault had a copy of a C.I.A. file on George McNeely. From other sources he learned that McNeely, due to a blunder in which
several colleagues were killed, was considered hors de combat in the mercenary community. It was a fortuitous occurrence, and Renault was grateful for it.
Wickstrom and Cummings had posed greater problems. At length, Renault had employed the services of a Juan Garcia who, as planned, pulled off a burglary in Kelly Wickstrom's precinct at the precise moment when Wickstrom was walking his beat past the store. Garcia allowed himself to be arrested, then resisted, throwing a punch at Wickstrom who, true to form, launched a fist at the man's face. Instead of blocking or rolling with it, Garcia threw himself into it, ending up with a classic broken nose and a clear-cut case of police brutality. An attorney was there five minutes after Wickstrom and Garcia arrived at the station, and the case against Wickstrom was smoothly begun. Garcia was now out on bail, many thousand dollars richer, and he would be richer still after his case was brought to trial. He would receive ten thousand dollars for each month of time served. Garcia was hoping for a long sentence.
Discrediting Seth Cummings had not been as formidable a task. A party at Stahr's, a security guard with a small camera, and a set of prints sent anonymously to Vernon Warren, Cummings's chief internal rival, had been enough to do the trick—that, along with Cummings's own weakness for wealthy, powerful, and desirable women. Cummings was unemployed within the week.
"They are yours," Renault had told David Neville after the three had accepted the first part of the offer. "I have no doubt that these three will choose to remain in The Pines for the million. However, at this time I have certain requirements."
"You, Simon? And what makes you think I'll go along with them?"
"If you don't," Renault replied calmly, "I'll inform the three gentlemen involved that you intend their deaths. You may then fire me, or sue me for slander, or even"—here he smiled wryly—"hire me as your fourth bodyguard, but your plan will have been ruined nonetheless."
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