Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  “Well, it’s too late now.” Corey bowed toward a diminutive blonde encased in gold brocade. “Mistress Cateman.”

  “Hello, Dylan.” Jorie Cateman tottered toward them on nosebleed heels covered in the same blinding cloth as her dress. “It’s been too long.” From a distance, she looked well into her thirties, her hair upswept and makeup heavy. But the years fell away as she drew near; up close, she looked more like a teenager turned loose in her mother’s closet.

  After a fistfight. Lauren tried not to stare at the bruising and puffiness under one eye that the heavy makeup failed to hide. Did Leaf do that? Surely she would have heard about it from someone—even the richest man in town wouldn’t have been able to hide spouse abuse.

  “You must be Lauren Reardon, is it?” Jorie extended a hand as small as Connie Petersbury’s, the nails shiny scarlet. Her eyes widened when she sensed Lauren’s examination. Then she stood back and looked her up and down. “What a . . . fascinating outfit. The blouse is an unfortunate shade, though. Highlights all those things on your face.”

  Looks like we have something in common. Lauren held back the comment, and touched one of her many cuts. “I wasn’t expecting to be invited to dinner anywhere. Mistress Waycross and a few of her friends were kind enough to help me out.”

  “I thought I’d seen these things before.” Jorie sniffed. “Quite a few times.” She turned to Corey and waggled her finger. “You should know better.”

  “I was swept into this at the last minute.” Corey glanced at Lauren, and twitched the barest of winks. “I don’t see the Master.”

  Jorie’s smile could have opened a can. “Master Cateman won’t be joining us this evening. He’s indisposed.” She nodded to someone who had entered the room, and a beat later Corey found himself being helped into a gray suit coat by Sharon.

  “Apologies, Mistress.” His words came barely audible, his face reddening.

  “One can’t help what strangers do, but you should know the rules by now.” Jorie tapped his chest with one carmine-tipped finger. “We always dress for dinner.” She turned and walked back into the room, her gait unsteady as her heels sank into the layers of carpet.

  Lauren paused to straighten Corey’s tie. “I hope whoever wound her up lost the key.” He barked out a laugh, covered it with a cough, then offered her his arm.

  Lauren leaned close. “Would Leaf ever hit her?”

  “Are you kidding? If anything, it would be the other way around.”

  “She’s covering up a shiner.” Lauren watched the woman totter. “Maybe she fell off her shoes.”

  “I doubt you’ve met anyone here, Miss Reardon—it is Miss, isn’t it?” Jorie turned her back on Lauren’s affirmative, and gestured to the trio of men, interchangeable upper-management types with clipped gray hair, dark suits, and indoor complexions. “May I introduce Thaddeus Trace, Emlyn Howell, and Jeremiah Coates.” She then nodded toward the two women on the other side of the room, both older, both dressed less richly in somber brown and navy blue, like good ladies-in-waiting. “Susannah Trace and Eva Coates.” Then she pointed to the short couches arranged in a U-shape in the middle of the room. “Why don’t we all sit down?”

  Lauren lowered to the edge of one of the end couches, sat silent while the others arranged themselves. The women opted for the top of the U, Coates and Trace bracketing Jorie Cateman, while the three men sat in a row on the couch opposite hers. She moved to let Corey pass, and he gave her a warning arch of the eyebrows before taking a seat next to her.

  And so it begins. Lauren knew the attempted humiliations, the gamesmanship, were ploys to unsettle her. But she also knew she needed to keep calm, that anger could lead to mistakes, and she wondered whether she possessed the skill to outmaneuver what was obviously a well-planned assault. “A meeting of elders.” She took note of the surprised looks, arched brows, and a few frowns. “I assume that’s what this is?”

  Thaddeus Trace leaned forward, tumbler of whiskey in hand. A double, from the looks of it. No ice or water. “A little smaller than Mistress Waycross’s gathering, I assume. But yes, one could call this a convocation.”

  “Not without Leaf, surely.” That from Susannah Trace, her tone scolding for all its softness.

  “Leaf’s not here in person, true, but we all share the same concerns.” Thaddeus Trace paused to drink, then regarded Lauren over the top of his glass. “I believe you know what we want to speak with you about?”

  “Right down to business, and you haven’t fed me yet. Hell, you haven’t even offered me a drink.” Lauren sat back, arms folded. “You must be scared.”

  Jorie sat primly, hands folded in her lap, her gin and tonic untouched on the table in front of her. “You presume a great deal for someone who has only been here a few days.”

  Lauren nodded. “Perhaps, but during that time, three people have disappeared. I went into the woods for a few hours to help look for one of them and emerged three days later, at which point some of you, including your housekeeper, Mistress Cateman, tried to kill me. My time here, while short, has been eventful and instructive.”

  After a beat of silence, Emlyn Howell stood and walked across the room to the sideboard that served as the bar. “What will you have, Miz Reardon?”

  “Club soda with a twist, please.”

  Howell smiled. Fixed Lauren’s drink, then poured scotch into a tumbler and added ice. “I’m sorry that your first exposure to our way of handling things was the meeting at Mistress Waycross’s.” He set everything on a tray, along with napkins and a dish of mixed nuts, and returned to the couch. “I’m afraid she has fallen on hard times in more ways than one.” He served Corey first, then stood before Lauren, glass in hand.

  “Mistress Waycross’s maiden name was Howell.” Lauren looked into eyes the same shade of blue, sensed the same sharp assessment. “You’re related to her?”

  “Cousins.” Howell sniffed. “Distant cousins.” He tried to hand Lauren her drink, gave a little snort of surprise when she hesitated taking it. “I wouldn’t dare try to spell you. In my Master’s house?”

  Lauren shook her head. “I think you would.”

  “Not yet.” Howell set the glass on the table in front of her. “Now is the time for negotiation.” He returned to his seat and regarded her with head-cocked bemusement, as though he doubted her abilities in that regard.

  Jeremiah Coates nodded agreement. “We have an idea what you learned from your father about the history of the Mullins in Gideon, the part that your forebear, Eliza Mullin, played in the damning of Nicholas Blaine. We can guess what you learned from Virginia Waycross. You’ve been deceived.”

  Lauren shrugged. “If you haven’t noticed, my name is Reardon, not Mullin. My father left the ways of the Lady behind when he left Gideon. He didn’t want me exposed. He didn’t teach me anything.”

  “Then there will be that much less for you to unlearn.” A hard smile from Jeremiah Coates.

  “Oh, quiet, Jeremiah.” Jorie picked at one perfect nail, then clenched her hands and shoved them beneath her thighs. “Of course he taught you things. He couldn’t help himself. He’s a Mullin.”

  “Was.” Lauren studied her examiners in turn. “He passed away two weeks ago. I assumed you knew. I guess your sources weren’t as thorough as you thought.”

  “Actual experience isn’t as important as the fact that you are Matt’s daughter. Blood tells.” Thaddeus Trace held out his hands, palms up, a generous offer of his good opinion. “And word has gotten around of your woodland adventures.”

  “I wandered. I got lost.”

  “You emerged from bewitched woods twice, alive.” Trace raised his glass to her. “That required some skill, whether you admit to it or not.”

  “So I’m both pariah and saving grace.” Lauren’s throat ached, forcing her to relent and sip the drink Howell made for her. “You are desperate.”

  “And you’re as arrogant as your father was.” Susannah Trace sighed in disgust. “He’s not remembered kindl
y here. Are you sure you want to repeat his mistakes?”

  “Let’s back up.” Emlyn Howell held up his hands. “This is a bargaining session, after all. Don’t give me that look, Jorie. We knew this going in. As it stands, Miz Reardon has no reason to trust us, and little reason to give us the time of day.” He offered Lauren another smile, blue eyes twinkling. “Our goal is to attempt to change her mind.”

  You’re the good cop. Lauren smoothed her skirt, plucked a few errant cat hairs that the roller had missed. When they all threaten, you’ll offer explanation, comfort. She watched the man, looking away each time he glanced in her direction. Did they think that I would trust you? Sense Virginia Waycross in your eyes? “I wish you would just get on with it and tell me what you want from me.”

  “You’ve heard of the curse that binds Blaine to Gideon. The weight of false accusation. We know you discussed it at Waycross’s gathering. Our sources were quite informative in that regard.” Jeremiah Coates’s voice boomed. He seemed to relish his role as designated blunt instrument. “We want you to lift the curse. It couldn’t be simpler.”

  “Yes, it could. I don’t know what the curse is, much less how to lift it.”

  “We can teach you that,” Howell said. “Leaf has all the source documents here.”

  “Were they written before or after the fire?” Lauren caught a few confused looks. But Thaddeus Trace studied her for a time, drummed his fingers on the couch, then raised his hand to speak.

  “You work in the business world—we checked. You have an M.B.A. You understand about value, investment, the good that people derive from owning something worthwhile.” His brow drew down. “Gideon has been a cipher for far too long. We would be able to make it a center of commerce, of industry. People would come from miles around to live, to work, to buy all we have to sell.”

  Lauren thought of a small figure standing in the middle of the weird river, and her never-ending search for a safe place to stand. “People have died, and you’re talking about shopping malls.”

  “People die every day.” Trace waved off his wife’s mouthed warning to hush. “Gideon must live. Moreover, it must thrive. Thousands once called it home. Look at it now. It isn’t even a town anymore. It is an unworthy vessel. We must remake it into a place of influence, in this world and the next. Power. And yes, wealth, because in this world they are one and the same. Such a place as that will keep back the dark for decades to come.” He drained his glass, set it on the table with a clatter. “That’s enough for now, I believe. As Miz Reardon says, we haven’t even fed her yet.”

  Jorie shook her head. “No, it can’t be enough. We haven’t decided anything.”

  “I’m sure that over the course of Millie’s excellent dinner, we can impress upon Miz Reardon the urgency of the situation.” Thaddeus Trace smiled. Reptile warmth. “After all, she has skin in this game, too. Something to lose. Perhaps more than most.”

  Lauren had to smile. Deep down, she had expected this. Lift the curse or else. “Threat?”

  “Fact.” Trace shrugged. “I work for the coroner’s office. Jeremiah is an attorney of some repute in this part of the state, and Emlyn, well, he knows people who know people.” Another snake grin. “As you yourself said, three people have disappeared during your time here. How involved would you like to become in the investigations?”

  “I wasn’t aware of any investigations.”

  “Give us time. And motivation.”

  After a long, silent minute, the doors to the salon opened. Jorie Cateman stood. “Dinner is served.” She beckoned for everyone to get up. “Miss Reardon, I thought that instead of Dylan, Emlyn might do well as your dinner partner, given your business backgrounds. You may find a great deal to discuss.” She cemented the arrangement by taking hold of Corey’s arm and steering him toward the door.

  Howell started toward Lauren, but she dodged him with a hurried apology, even as she imagined his conversation. That Thad Trace was just a hothead who didn’t mean what he said. That it could work out to everyone’s advantage if they all just behaved like grown-ups.

  She scooted past the others and into the hall. She had passed the main staircase when she and Corey had first entered, and she headed for it now. If she encountered any staff, she would say she had been looking for a bathroom, taken a wrong turn, lost her way.

  She heard the muffled pound of footsteps from behind, softened by the carpets. “Where are you going?”

  Lauren stopped, waited for Corey to catch her up, then pulled him into an alcove. “I have to find Leaf’s office.”

  “It’s on the third floor, I think.” Corey pulled her close. “You can’t go up there now.”

  “I didn’t come here to be threatened. Not that I didn’t expect it, but damn.” Lauren felt too agitated to be held and Corey’s persistent unease made it worse—she pushed away from him and paced the small space. “This entire evening has been designed to put us on the defensive.”

  “It’s working.” Corey slumped against the wall, his borrowed jacket bunching around his shoulders.

  “We can’t let it.” Lauren stuck her head out of the alcove, on the lookout for irritated hostesses or threatening witches. “I may be gone awhile. Cover for me.”

  “How?”

  “Tell Jorie I’ve been stricken with some embarrassing GI ailment—she’ll like that.”

  “They’re going to make sure you wind up in prison if you don’t help them.”

  “Prison would be cake compared to what will happen if we turned Blaine loose.” Lauren started toward the stairs, but stopped when Corey grabbed her arm. He pulled her close again, this time kissing her. Then he spoke in whispers, his breath in her hair.

  “I’ve heard stories about those men my entire life. Howell, Trace, and Coates. Leaf paid for their college, then helped them get jobs where they’d do him the most good. They get their hands dirty so he doesn’t have to.”

  Lauren unwound Corey’s arms, touched his face, tried not to see the fear in his eyes.

  “I have to go.” She dodged him when he reached for her, and bolted up the stairs.

  Lauren bounded up the stairs, past the second floor, to the third. No sense in sneaking. If caught, she was screwed no matter what she said. Jorie and the other elders would know where she was headed.

  Darkness grew as she ascended, ornate sconces throwing thin light that cast weird shadows on the paintings that lined the curving wall. The air grew still, chilly, and damp. Like being in a tomb. An overdecorated mausoleum, gilt-edged and velvet-draped.

  And smelly. Lauren paused at the third-floor landing. The odor had been faint at first, medicinal, with an ammonia sharpness that reminded her of her father’s dried elder leaves.

  But now the rankness intensified, changed to something more . . . organic. Meat gone bad. That first hint of rancidity, of rot. She hesitated as scenes from reality-TV shows played through her head. Old newspapers and boxes stacked to the ceiling. Fifty cats in a room, and Grandma’s blanket-wrapped corpse stuffed in a closet.

  Turn back. And then what? Ask permission. Good luck with that.

  It’s all there. Lolly’s words. And now Lolly’s gone, too. Gone to the same place as Connie Petersbury, murdered—or something worse—by Nicholas Blaine. I have to stay. For herself, and for them. She had to put one foot in front of the other, and keep walking. Right to the very edge of the abyss.

  No illumination touched the hall but for the faint glow that traveled up the stairway—the doors were all closed, the sconces dark. Lauren listened for any sounds—music, voices—that indicated the presence of someone on the floor, but heard only the occasional muffled creak of her footsteps as she crept along the wall.

  How would she find the office? Even if there were a sign or a nameplate, it would be impossible to read in the dark. Open every door. She stopped in front of the first one she came to, started to turn the handle—

  —then froze when she heard the wet rattle of a labored breath. It came from the far end of
the hall, a shadowed dead end, black as the opening to a cave.

  Lauren backed away from the door, and waited. Concentrated.

  Then she felt it. A malign presence, like a weight on her soul.

  “The first time I saw your father—” An old man’s voice, like a creaking hinge. Another wheeze. “—he stood where you are now.” The prolonged footfall of an uneven step, as though the speaker fought to maintain his balance. “Fourteen, he was. Completely unaware of his talents.” The shadow emerged from the cave, took shape. A tall figure. Huge head. Broad shoulders. “He had come with his father, your grandfather, who I had just hired to manage some of my orchards.” The head bobbed, the slightest of bows. “I am Leaf Cateman, Master of Gideon.”

  Lauren fought the urge to flee. The stench emanated from Cateman, grew stronger the closer he came. Indisposed. Bullshit. Dying. Even that slow deterioration didn’t smell like this. Dead. Yes, that was it. All over but the burial.

  “I see nothing of Matthew in you.” Cateman stopped where the hallway shadow met the dim light from the stairway. “He was tall, lithe, a panther cub of a boy.” He cocked his head, and whatever he wore—a scarf or turtleneck—bunched and shifted so that he looked bull-necked. “You seem quite ordinary.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Don’t be flippant.” Cateman sighed. “An unfortunate quality. One he possessed, as well.” He lowered his head, and the half-light touched his hair.

  What there is of it. Lauren swallowed hard at the sight of Cateman’s scalp, a blistered, oozing mess dotted with a few cottony clumps of fuzz. Chemo? She tried to remember if she had seen or smelled anything like this during her hospital visits. She focused on the carpet at her feet, steeled herself, then looked up at Cateman to find him regarding her in turn.

  His was a ravaged face, cheeks sunken and scabbed, beard patchy, eyes red-rimmed and fever-bright. What Lauren had thought was a scarf turned out to be a thick swaddle of gauze, safety-pinned in place, the ends tucked inside Cateman’s bathrobe like an ascot. More gauze poked out from his sleeves and the legs of his pajama pants, mittened his hands.