It read: “I want to meet with you -- M,” and listed a set of coordinates.
Evelyn re-read the note, and then re-read it a third time. She put it down so Terrence could study it.
“Could it be…” Terrence’s voice trailed off.
“Yes,” Evelyn replied, her heart racing. For the first time in her life, her father had reached out to her personally.
“It doesn’t say when,” Terrence pointed out.
“Tomorrow, I suspect. I’m not risking it tonight,” Evelyn said.
“Should we risk it at all?” Terrence asked. “There’s still a chance that your father killed all those people.”
“When did you become cynical?” Evelyn asked with a raised brow.
“I’m not, but… we should call the police, nonetheless.” Terrence suggested.
“So they can arrest my father for murders he didn’t commit?” Evelyn shook her head.
“Will you bet your life on that?” Terrence asked.
Evelyn glanced at his shotgun and then his eyes. “We won’t need to.”
Terrence paced. “I don’t know, Evelyn. I don’t know if I can pull the trigger if push comes to shove.”
“You can,” Evelyn replied, though she doubted herself as well. She put the gun on the island and pressed close to Terrence. “We will if we need to.”
After propping the gun against the nearest counter, Terrence wrapped his strong arms around Evelyn, pulling her close. Evelyn reciprocated. She rested her cheek on his shoulder.
“You owe me big time,” Terrence said. “For this and many things.”
“Keeping tabs?” Evelyn asked.
“Something like that,” Terence replied.
Evelyn kissed him and then pulled away. They searched the room for another hidden entrance. It seemed that the note was delivered a different way.
The rest of the night, Evelyn tossed and turned, barely able to keep her eyes closed. Her heart beat in a combination of fear and anticipation. She didn’t know if she should be weeping for joy or utterly terrified. Looking out the window at the pregnant moon, Evelyn knew she’d find out soon.
Tomorrow, Evelyn would meet her father.
20
Encounter
Evelyn studied the glowing computer screen and map it showed. The coordinates listed in the note pointed to a wooded area a few miles outside her property. No roads stretched that far out. She would have to walk.
At daybreak, Terrence drove to town on a water run. Evelyn stayed in Quenby House, admiring its size and Antebellum-era interior design straight out of a civil war movie. She opened up the master bedroom closet. It smelled of mothballs and had multiple racks of blazers and men’s sports coats dangling on twisted wire hooks. With her palm, she brushed them aside, momentarily distracted by the idea of Terrence dressed in one of these. They might fit him well, however, none boasted the tiny instruments that decorated ninety percent of his shirts and socks. At the bottom of the closet floor, Evelyn found the backpacks. They were nearly twenty years old but sturdy. Evelyn grabbed it by the straps and lifted one up. It had multiple pockets on both the inside and outside, a waterproof exterior, and was surprisingly heavy. By the expert construction and suturing, she knew she wouldn’t find this at Walmart. Father must’ve been a hiker. Being a city girl most of her life, Evelyn would enjoy exploring nature with her family. She struck down the thought, reminding herself that her father was a stranger and possibly a killer.
By the time Terrence returned, Evelyn had set the dining room table with loaded shotguns and travel packs. She put her blonde hair into a ponytail with a few loose strands tumbling down the side of her face. She wore jeans, a belt with her extendable baton clipped to the right hip, and a short-sleeved olive green V-neck.
As he walked into the dining room, Terrence paused to stare at her and then bounced his eyes to the weapons. “It’s not our typical breakfast platter.”
“It is a little abnormal,” Evelyn pointed out.
“We can still call the police,” Terrence not-so-subtly reminded her of his stance on the issue.
Evelyn felt resistance in her gut. It was a common side effect of her bull-headedness. She couldn’t fault her husband for thinking rationally. Calling in backup would be safer, and probably smarter, but if her father saw them coming, he might slip into the woods and out of Evelyn’s life again. Whether or not they shared a family bonding moment, Maxwell could be the key to sending home the phantoms and freeing Evelyn from her burden.
“We do this alone,” Evelyn declared.
Terrence put the twenty-four-count water pack on the table. “I thought you might say that.”
Without much else to say, they prepared for their deadly venture. They packed light and put the minivan’s first-aid kit in Terrence’s backpack. Evelyn strapped one of the shotguns on her shoulder and hung it in an upright position, with the barrel pointed to the blue sky. She grimaced under the weapon’s weight. It would be a long walk.
They started out the back door, not wasting a moment to turn back to the vine-covered mansion. Brushing past the mossy stone furnishings, they followed the dirt path by the six slave cabins. The single-room buildings had wooden walls, dirt floors, and flat roofs. Through the musty windows, decaying and collapsed feather beds could be seen. Soon, the path branched out into the hay and cotton field, the latter being tainted by a black scorch mark at its white and weedy hair. Terrence shuddered when he glanced at it. Hooked-nose Stephen Doyle and his siblings murdered Mary in that very spot, and it seemed the blackened earth would never be the same.
They ignored the cotton field and went around the cut hay. Yellow bales spotted the smooth terrain. Beyond it, the trail pattered into nothingness and disappeared into the trail line. The instant Evelyn and Terrence stepped into the woods, society, safety, and the clear path vanished, leaving behind the sounds of odd birds and insects in search of something dead to consume. The terrain seemed to roll and dip. Evelyn’s only guidance was the map book with a red line toward the coordinates.
The land here had no owner. Evelyn and Terrence kept an eye out for anyone or anything. Explaining why she had weapons but no hunting permit was something Evelyn needed to avoid. Every forty-five minutes, they drank water and sat on rocks or felled trees in order to readjust their weapon’s weight and get the kinks out of their shoulders. Terrence would yawn a few times or squeeze a half-drunken bottle of water on his well-structured face, and then they would set out again.
The woods seemed alive. Ferns and other greenery spotted the dirt while trees of different shapes and leaves bent out in all directions. Every few moments, Evelyn forced herself to looked up from the ground and out at her surroundings. Behind any tree or boulder could be a predator, whether beastly or human.
Only getting turned around once, Evelyn neared the destination as the afternoon sun breached the canopy. Loose strands of hair were sweat-glued on her pale cheeks. Her clothes were stained, and though she was physically exhausted, her mind stayed alert and her hands prepared to equip the gun at a moment’s notice.
In the distance and amidst the trees, a rusty tin roof jutted out of tall shrubbery. Tall briars concealed the dark wood walls of the lopsided home. The age of the building and the reason for its strange locale left Evelyn wondering. By its outwardly appearance, the structure had to be someone's home because it was far too big to be a cabin. What few window panes remained suffered elemental damage that left spider web cracks across their faces. Evelyn guessed it contained a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and closet. Restroom facilities were in the nearby outhouse with a moon cut on the door’s face.
“Do you think Maxwell’s been living here all this time?” Terrence whispered as they huddled behind a tree.
No light shone from the house. Evelyn would be shocked if the building had access to electricity. “The place looks dead.”
She unslung her shotgun.
“Shouldn’t we wait to do that?” Terrence asked. “I don’t want him getting th
e wrong impression.”
“And I don’t want to be defenseless if someone starts shooting.”
After a moment of hesitation, Terrence unslung his shotgun.
Staying hunched, they moved from tree to tree, getting closer to the house with every movement. Evelyn’s blue eyes scanned the decrepit house’s windows, keeping an eye out for any protruding gun barrels. Though no threat was present, Evelyn’s heart raced. Her sweaty palms clenched the heavy weapon tighter, imprinting her hands with the pattern of the forestock and grip. If push came to shove, Evelyn hoped these weapons would fire. Being at least over a decade old, she couldn’t know their reliability, even after they had test fired the weapons several times.
With no more cover, Evelyn and Terrence stepped out into the “yard.” Shin-high grass brushed against their pant legs. They reached the front door. Evelyn pressed up beside it and peered in through the cracked window. Dust swirled in the living room. There were a few wooden chairs, but no couch or any sort of entertainment setup. Evelyn leaned back and knocked on the door.
Nothing. She peered back into the window.
“Maybe he wants us to wait for him?” Terrence theorized.
Evelyn chewed her lip nervously. He should be waiting for us. “Try the door.”
Terrence twisted the knob. He glanced at Evelyn and shook his head.
A crow cawed at the clear Georgia sky. More unseen crows answered its cry. Leaves rattled and branches swayed in the breeze. Apart from the sounds of nature, the place was unnervingly quiet.
Evelyn mustered her courage and gave the door another knock. “Max? Maxwell Quenby?”
It somehow felt wrong to talk in her normal voice, almost like it was too loud for such a harrowing place.
“I don’t like this,” Terrence said, his eyes widening and his fingers further coiling around the gun.
“Let’s check around back,” Evelyn suggested.
Silent, Terrence followed her around the corner of the building. They turned sideways to slide between two far-reaching thorn bushes. Through the window, the basic kitchen could be seen. It had a few cupboards, counters, a water bucket for a sink, and a small table. They made it around back to the kitchen door. In the back yard--which wasn’t so much a yard as it was a sprawl of green weeds and tall grass--a stone well rose out of the earth. It had a wooden A-framed roof and lowered bucket. Evelyn took a detour from the house to check it out. The inside was a circular black abyss. She pulled at the retrieval rope and watched the wooden bucket climb into her sight. A dead and bloated rat bobbed at the surface of the murky black water.
“No one could survive like this,” Terrence said with a sickened expression.
Evelyn let the bucket splash back into the deep but nearly diminished well.
They returned to the building and tried the back door. Locked as well. Evelyn slung her weapon back over her shoulder and pulled out her lock-picking tools.
“Evelyn, should we--”
“Yes,” Evelyn replied as she listened for that sweet clicking sound. After a few moments, she heard it and the house was open to her. Re-equipping her gun, Evelyn stepped into the kitchen. The clacking noise from her foot on the wood floor bounced off the wall. Terrence followed her inside.
“Maxwell?” Evelyn called out to the old house.
There was no sign of a refrigerator or any sort of cold storage. She briefly opened the cupboards, finding dead insects either on their backs or swaddled in spider webs. The dining area was similar in its emptiness. Evelyn moved into the living room. The three wooden chairs at the center seemed to have been pulled from the dining room table. Two of the chairs sat side by side. The third faced the corner. Evelyn noticed the lack of dust on the two chairs and dirt caked on their legs. Someone brought these outside, and not too long ago from the looks of it.
There wasn’t a hallway to the bedroom, only a closed door branching off from the living room. Evelyn gestured for Terrence to keep his gun ready while she pushed the door open. A rusted spring bed frame supported a skinned mattress. The stained yellow sheeting that once sutured it was nailed above the window to make some sort of makeshift curtain. Containing a little bit of dirty spring water, crinkled plastic bottles and mason jars rested on the dresser’s top nearby a stack of mystery novels with bent bindings. The ajar top dresser drawer revealed a matchbox, pocket knife, and compass. A portable hot plate with charred meat melted to its surface sat at the base of the dresser.
“Someone’s been living here,” Evelyn stated.
They turned to the closet.
Evelyn kept her gun aimed while Terrence took the initiative. He pulled open the door, revealing the deceptively large windowless room. Two ruffled sleeping bags with the head opening at the opposite ends were laid out on the floor. Next to it was a bloodstained shirt.
Terrence turned back to Evelyn with a worried expression.
Evelyn felt her mouth dry out. “We need to leave.”
Terrence gave her a look full of concern and fear. “What?”
“Maxwell didn’t write that letter.”
“Then who did?”
Evelyn rushed into the living room and grabbed the front door knob when she saw the figure outside the window. The man with a featureless white cotton mask and a raised pistol. She dropped to her belly. Terrence mimicked her. Evelyn’s heart pounded. Did he see me?
Terrence army-crawled to her. “That’s Stephen Doyle. What is he doing here?”
Rolling on her back, Evelyn aimed the shotgun at the front door. The weapon trembled in her hands. Her vision bounced between the entrance and the windows. She waited. Come on. Come on. Come on. Her heart twisted. A bead of sweat snaked down the bridge of her nose.
Terrence tapped her shoulder and pointed to the dining room. He was right. They needed to get out of here. Not taking her eyes off the entrance, Evelyn returned to her hands and knees and scurried as quickly and quietly to the dining room as she could. As she rounded the corner, the front door knob jiggled. By the time they were halfway past the table, the front door opened with a loud creak.
A boot stepped inside. Terrence and Evelyn pressed themselves up against the nearest wall, trusting their hearing to locate the masked gunman. Slowly, he stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind him. Terrence, being closest to the living room, straightened his back against the wall and positioned the gun to point upward at the door. Perspiration dotted his dark skin and upper lip. His finger slid on the trigger.
Evelyn slowly began scooting away. Somehow, even that simple movement made some noise. She froze and listened.
Stephen wasn’t moving.
Was he listening too?
Evelyn didn’t want to wait to find out. She turned her head to the open kitchen. The back door wasn’t far. If she ran…
The gunman’s footsteps neared. Terrence tensed up. In three seconds, Doyle would be around the corner.
They needed to run.
Two seconds.
Dread pitted in Evelyn’s stomach. Two sleeping bags, she remembered. Two enemies.
One second.
Evelyn aimed the gun.
The back door opened.
Evelyn saw the burgundy-stained white mask. The woman wearing it wielded a woodcutter's axe. With a hollow shriek and her weapon raised, Catherine Doyle charged at Evelyn.
Evelyn shut her eyes and held her breath.
The masked woman tore through the kitchen, her little feet pattering on the hardwood, and swung down the glossy edge of her deadly axe.
Evelyn heard it cut the wind.
Unable to wait any longer, Evelyn forced herself to squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot blast rattled the whole house. The weapon’s stock punched Evelyn’s shoulder. The masked woman lurched back, red mist bursting from her flat chest.
“Nooooo!” Stephen yelled and curved the gun around the doorway. Terrified, Terrence pulled his shotgun’s trigger. Jammed.
With no time to think about the person she had just doome
d, Evelyn grabbed Terrence and they ran as Stephen blindly fired the pistol at them. Bullets zipped by their heads, only inches away from instant death. Evelyn jumped over Catherine’s twitching body. The woman’s mask had fallen off. She had a hooked nose, lazy eye, and a bruised and pus-filled forehead. A massive red soup puddled on her chest. By the time Terrence jumped over, Catherine Doyle was dead.
Evelyn ran for the woods. Her vision tunneled. Adrenaline screamed through her veins. Thorns raked against her arms. She ducked below skinny branches. Keep running, her instincts told her. Keep running and never stop.
Evelyn didn’t know how far she went. There were no familiar landmarks or trails. She slowed down amidst trees and bushes. Her stomach cramped and the weight of the weapon had returned. She couldn’t escape the fact that she had killed the woman.
Guilt-ridden and panting, Evelyn turned back to talk to Terrence. He wasn’t behind her.
“Terrence,” she called out, her voice hoarse from the sprint. “Baby?”
Quiet.
She observed the woods. No sign of him. No sign of any movement.
Holding the gun in one hand, Evelyn used the neck of her shirt to wipe down her soaked and dirty face. She couldn’t remember when she lost track of him. The events replayed in her mind. She grabbed him by the shoulder, let go to hurdle over the dying woman, and ran. Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to recall if Doyle had gotten another shot off after she escaped the house, but her own killing made the rest of the world and its noises a blur. There was a chance Terrence never made it out of the house.
Evelyn looked to the blue sky and forced herself to think about her next move. She cocked her gun, watched the empty shell shoot into the air, and then turned back the way she came. Moving swiftly but with caution, she realized just how far she’d run. Nothing looking familiar, and the more she traveled, the more fears pinged in her head: you’ve already gone past the house, you're going the wrong way, your husband is dead. The world seemed to tilt. Evelyn rested her hand on the rough bark of the tree. Her husband needed her. She couldn’t let this guilt and physical pain crush her. She pressed on.
The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery Page 22
