Olivia stopped, clutching her stomach.
“You sick?” Yoly narrowed her eyes.
Olivia managed a nod. She stood there, staring down at the marble steps of the mausoleum, at the wide smears of blood there, dried now to a dark, dull reddish brown.
“You eat somethin’ today?” Yoly asked accusingly. Another nod.
“Have you seen Helen?” Olivia whispered.
“Not all day. Quit askin’ me so many questions, and come on.”
Olivia looked back at the mausoleum. Yoly swung the heavy door shut and snapped the lock back into place. She closed the gate and wiped her hands on her apron.
It’s because of what happened—what Skyler did to me—what I did to Skyler—being locked in the tomb—just a nightmare—a horrible nightmare—that’s all it was—
“Why are you here?” Olivia mumbled. “How did you find me?”
Yoly gave a long sigh of annoyance. She leaned over and picked up a basket beside the steps that Olivia hadn’t noticed.
“I come in the gardens to get some herbs. Miss Rose asks me if I’ll find Skyler while I’m out here. So I comes to the cemetery. I don’t see Skyler, but I finds you bein’ where you ain’t supposed to be. Now. You satisfied?”
Olivia had felt so calm about it before. So justified, so satisfied. So fulfilled somehow.
Now she felt nervous and sick and afraid.
Miss Rose was looking for Skyler. That meant he hadn’t been back to the house. Yoly had come to the cemetery. That meant he wasn’t in the gardens, or she would have seen him.
She saw the handle of the shears protruding from Skyler’s stomach.
She heard that strange sound he’d made as the slow awareness had come into his eyes.
Olivia stumbled and automatically glanced down, catching her breath in alarm.
There was dried blood on her bare feet, across her instep, up the sides of her ankles.
Blood in the mausoleum … running down their faces … flowing across the floor …
Blood from Skyler’s wound … splattering across the steps …
“You goin’ to take all day?” Yoly scolded, looking back impatiently. “Come on, girl, it’s time for dinner. Get a move on.”
But Olivia was the only one who sat with Miss Rose and Yoly in the dining room. Mathilde was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t a sign of Helen. Skyler never came. She tried to make conversation, but she sensed Miss Rose watching her curiously, and she excused herself with a headache and said she needed some air.
Olivia stood for several minutes behind the house, staring off across the yard, at the outbuildings, at the twisted jungle of trees and shrubbery. It was deathly silent. Not even a breeze stirred now. In places the ground had turned marshy from the rain, and the moss still drizzled water into the weeds.
She hurried in the direction she and Helen had gone last night, hoping she could remember which cabin it was. It didn’t take her long to find it, and after listening at the door to make sure it was really deserted, she slipped cautiously inside.
Dust lay thick except where feet had stirred it into untidy little piles. She inspected the mantel and found drippings there from half-burned candles and smoky stains on the wall behind. Here is where Skyler stood … and here Jesse … and here is where each of them walked … here … and here …
She tried to reconstruct the scene piece by piece, tried to recall their movements—their tones of voice—every word they had said—but it was impossible to remember everything, and she gave up in frustration. She crossed to the corner where Mathilde had been and saw dark stains on the floor. One, larger than the others, looked like it had drained out between the rotten floorboards.
Sickened, Olivia turned away. She didn’t know what to think anymore—she didn’t know what to believe. She wondered where Skyler had dragged himself away to and who would find him. She wondered what had happened to Helen.
She got back to the house and decided to try and find Helen’s room.
She’d never been above the second floor. She’d never even asked what was up on the third level, had always just assumed that it was where the rest of the household slept. Now, as she continued on up the stairs at the back of the house and came out onto the third-story gallery, she was seized with trepidation. Maybe Helen had had some kind of accident that had nothing to do with their excursion last night. Maybe she’d gotten away and then something had happened to her later, and no one had known. Perhaps she’d been trying to call for help but couldn’t. Perhaps she’d given up hope that anyone cared or would come—
The thought spurred Olivia to action. She looked both ways along the gallery, trying to decide which direction to go first. Choosing to go to her right, she knocked softly at the first door she came to.
There was no answer.
Olivia turned the latch, surprised when it gave so easily. She found herself in a storeroom with a low, steeply angled roof and odds and ends of junk strewn about. She picked her way slowly through old furniture, trunks of clothes, broken figurines and clocks, even a gilded birdcage. Dust covered everything, and cobwebs swagged from corner to corner. As she reached up and tore one of them out of her way, she saw something that made her stop.
There were portraits leaning in a corner. The frames themselves were splintered and broken, but the likenesses they held still seemed quite vivid beneath their pall of grime. Past Devereauxs, she wondered? The legacy she’d never known … the family she’d never been a part of?
Intrigued, Olivia knelt down and began sorting through them, her original mission temporarily forgotten. There were cavalier gentlemen in Confederate uniforms; pale, delicate ladies in hoopskirts … laughing children on ponies … dancers whirling in a ballroom.
Olivia touched the canvas gently. The ballroom was pure white, gleaming and glistening from crystal chandeliers and hundreds of candles. A massive gold-edged mirror hung above a marble fireplace …
Something slid down the wall beside her, and she jumped back with a cry.
One of the pictures had simply become dislodged and fallen. She let out a sigh of relief and picked it up to put it back in place.
And then she stopped, her heart catching in excitement. She stopped and her hand tightened on the frame, and she stared down at the deep dark eyes that gazed back at her.
They were the same eyes as in the portraits downstairs—Jesse’s eyes—with the same infinite kindness, the same resigned sadness.
But the painting looks so old.
Frowning, Olivia leaned forward, dusting the gentle face with the hem of her skirt. The light was no better in here than it was in the halls and rooms downstairs, and yet she could see the portrait a little more clearly because she was able to hold it close to her face. She got up and carried it over to one of the tall French windows. She squinted at the darkish cast that colored Jesse’s features and the tiny, fine crackles that spread throughout the paint. Like all the other pictures, it was covered with cobwebs and layers of dust, and she trailed her fingers thoughtfully over the contours of one of his cheeks.
Strange … the painting looks so old, but the face looks exactly like Jesse does now …
She put the portrait back where she found it, and after a last puzzled look, she turned and left.
She felt guilty now, having been sidetracked from her real purpose. She went quickly to the next room, forgetting to be cautious, and found more storage space … more Devereaux castoffs from another, more romantic time. It was so quiet up here—too quiet—and reluctantly she gave a soft call, thinking that if Helen heard, she might be able to manage some kind of sound to alert Olivia to her whereabouts.
The third room belonged to Skyler.
Olivia could tell it at once, and uneasily she paused in the doorway and let her eyes make a slow, careful sweep of the furnishings. A narrow bed in one corner. A bureau with a washbowl and pitcher. A straight-backed chair. Pegs on the wall that held jeans … a work shirt … a T-shirt caked with dried mud. A pair of old
boots was tossed beneath the bed. The covers were carelessly tumbled. Other than his clothes, there were no personal objects of any kind.
Olivia crossed to the bed.
She didn’t like the way his boots lay there, casually, expectantly, as if waiting for him to come back and put them on.
She could still see the imprint of him in the sheets, the sprawled impression of his body as he’d slept.
Slowly she picked up his pillow. She held it to her face the same way he’d held her blouse to his face that day at the bayou.
The pillow still smelled of him.
Warm, rich earth. Warm, flowing rain. Trees and grass and a sun that never shone.
She stood a moment longer, then started to leave, when she became aware of a peculiar smell.
It wasn’t exactly overpowering yet, but it had the potential to be so. As Olivia wrinkled her nose in distaste, she began moving warily toward the back of the room. The odor seemed stronger from that particular area, and as she paused and studied the walls, she noticed a spattering of drops on the floorboards, running along the base of one wall, then widening out into an indistinct smear that ended abruptly in the corner.
The room was hot and stuffy. The smell reminded Olivia of something in the early stages of spoiling. She could see marks on one lower section of the wall as though someone had made a careless swipe with a rag. Grimacing, she reached down and lightly touched the stains. Dry. Then maybe they’re very old stains—paint maybe, or grease from some long-ago candle.
But where is that smell coming from?
She placed her hands on each side of the corner and leaned in slowly toward the walls.
The smell was definitely strongest in this spot.
But there’s nothing here.
She ran her hands lightly over the boards, then felt a slight discrepancy in the wood. Her heart quickened in excitement, and as she went back over them, slowly, she discovered a slight knothole just wide enough to slip one finger into. Gently she pulled. The board stuck fast. Gritting her teeth, she pulled again, then heard the board give with a slow, steady groan.
A panel in the wall was coming out. As Olivia watched in amazement, a narrow space came into view, nestled back beneath the boards, scarcely large enough for a person to fit. For a long moment she stared at it, then nervously she inched her head inside, trying to see if there was more to it, hidden farther into the wall.
The smell hit her like a wave.
As Olivia gasped and jerked back, she also saw that the space dropped off without warning, into a yawning hole below. She stood back for several minutes, catching her breath. She leaned forward again, squinting through the close, fetid darkness.
Stairs.
It was a secret staircase hidden inside the wall.
But what could be in there that smells like that?
A vivid image flashed back to her—the blood in the nursery, the bits of flesh and skin—maybe it was a rat, Jesse had said, maybe it was some animal—
It was possible, Olivia supposed, that a rat could have crept down here, even nested down here, had died and was now in the process of rotting away …
Her skin crawled, and she quickly pressed the panel back into place. The room had a feeling about it that unnerved her, and she didn’t want to be in here one more second. She went back outside and continued along the gallery, and when she saw Helen’s dress hanging over the railing just outside the next door, she knew she had found the girl’s room at last.
It took several minutes for her eyes to adjust. All the shutters had been closed, and the room lay sweltering in heavy darkness. Olivia took a cautious step, then paused on the threshold. Furniture made formless shapes, crouching against the walls.
“Helen,” she whispered, “are you in here?”
She caught herself, feeling foolish. Of course Helen couldn’t answer … especially if the girl was sick or hurt … she’d have to go inside and see on her own.
She could barely make out a bed in one corner of the room. The shadows seemed to gather there and hover, as if they were used to hiding Helen, used to protecting her. Olivia ventured in several more feet and stopped again. She could see the slight contour of the covers, the quiet shape of someone sleeping beneath them, and she let out a sigh of relief. If Helen was sleeping, she wouldn’t frighten her. She’d just tiptoe over and satisfy herself that Helen was really all right.
She moved noiselessly to the side of the bed. The covers were drawn up over Helen’s head, and Olivia wondered how the girl could stand the unbearable heat. She must really be sick … that’s why I haven’t seen her today … it had nothing to do with last night after all …
She leaned down close to the girl and stared at the covers, waiting to see the rise and fall of Helen’s breathing, listening for the soft flow of Helen’s breath.
The covers didn’t move.
The room was deathly still.
Alarmed now, Olivia bent even nearer, resting her cheek lightly against the covers, against Helen’s back. She couldn’t feel anything at all, and as she shook the girl gently, she moved her face even tighter against her, waiting for some show of surprise, some sign of life.
“Helen—wake up! It’s Olivia!”
Heat pressed down on her mercilessly, yet Olivia felt cold. She grabbed Helen’s shoulders and shook her again, and when the girl still failed to respond, she pulled on her, slowly working her over onto her back.
She saw the limp shifting of Helen’s body as it rolled beneath the blankets into her arms …
She saw the covers start to slide away from Helen’s face …
And as the eyes stared up at her and Olivia began to scream, she felt the fingers curl slowly around her hand.
“Surprise.” Skyler smiled.
27
IT CAN’T BE IT can’t be no no it’s impossible—
As Olivia stumbled back from the bed, she saw Skyler throw off the covers and slide lightly to his feet. His eyes gleamed in the shadows, and his smile widened.
“See?” he murmured, and to Olivia’s horror, he spread his arms and she saw his bare chest and his stomach above his bloody jeans and there wasn’t a mark on him anywhere—not anywhere at all—
“Too bad.” His eyebrow lifted, and his voice was smooth with exaggerated sympathy. “You’ll just have to try harder next time.”
She bolted from the room, his deep laughter following her along the gallery. As she neared the stairs, she saw Mathilde coming up, and she spun around frantically. She’d expected to find Skyler right behind her, but when she saw that the walkway was empty, she raced back the way she had come and flung herself through the first door she came to.
She hadn’t realized it was Skyler’s room.
And now she could hear them—both of them—talking in low voices, walking together outside, getting closer and closer. Oh God—Helen—Helen, where are you—I killed him—I know I killed him—the shears—the blood—the gash in his stomach—
In a haze of fear and confusion she crouched down behind the chair, knowing it was useless to try and hide. She knew Skyler knew where she was—she knew he would take his time and then he would find her.
The voices paused outside on the gallery, just beyond the open door. Olivia looked desperately around the room.
Without even stopping to think she ran for the corner and pried the panel off the wall.
The space was low and cramped. As Olivia pressed the board back into place, darkness swallowed her whole, and she cowered there, afraid to move. Stale, rancid air washed over her in a wave. She couldn’t see a thing. She moved one foot, feeling hesitantly in front of her, then almost fell as the floor disappeared. For one heart-stopping second her foot dangled over nothingness, and then she lowered it slowly and felt a shallow step.
Sweat ran over her face as she eased herself down—down—between the crumbling walls of Devereaux House. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and rapid in the stagnant air, and it felt like the house’s heartbeat—the heartbea
t of the walls as they breathed and squeezed and closed in around her. She wondered where the staircase would lead her, and if Skyler would be waiting for her when she got there—and she thought of Helen and she tried not to cry, because every instinct told her now that something horrible had happened to the girl …
She shifted positions, trying to find just a brief respite from the fetid air. The smell was getting worse the farther down she went, and she dreaded getting closer to the source. How far have I come—how far do I still have to go? She slowed down … stopped. The odor was close now … sickeningly close … she could feel it as well as smell it.
She put out her hands, steadying herself against the wall. She couldn’t go back up and return to Skyler’s room. She had no choice but to keep going and try to get away.
“Surprise … you’ll just have to try harder next time …”
And you’re punishing me again, aren’t you, Mama, for being bad, only this time I wasn’t so bad, I didn’t hurt him at all, he touched me and I told him not to and now he’s going to touch me again, and I know it, I know it—
You let him look at you, Olivia, you let him look at you and see how pretty you are and see what he can’t ever have—
No, don’t touch me—don’t touch me—
“One of these times you’re mine. And you know it—”
“Stop,” Olivia moaned. “Skyler …”
Ground hard beneath—Skyler hard above—lips—touch burning—blood pouring—cry of pain pleasure passion hating yearning—
Olivia felt her foot come down on something in the dark.
It was lying on the step, hidden there, and when her bare skin touched it, it moved a little, awkward and slow and sluggish …
She recoiled in terror, flattening herself against the wall, her hands clenched together at her throat.
It’s a rat—I knew it—trapped down here in the bowels of the house—trapped down here to die and to rot for all eternity—
She tried to step around it, but it was still there.
She tried to step over it, but it blocked her way.
Blood Roots Page 22
