by Denise Daisy
Chapter 39
Breathing a prayer, I unlatch the lock, push open the door, and exit our secret hiding place. Closing it carefully, Emily takes extreme caution to not make a sound. We’ve decided to make our way to the pistols James keeps locked inside a gun cabinet in his study. Emily admits she doesn’t know how to shoot one. I am pretty sure I can pull the trigger, as long as it’s already loaded. Again, she’s not sure he keeps them loaded, but it’s worth a chance, anyway. At least I can wave it around, acting like it is.
We creep past the cupola stairs, and my heart drops when I think Quillan might be dead already. It’s quiet, and there is no glow from a lantern. Only the moonlight fills the round room, radiating its soft light on us as we sneak by.
We make it to the staircase, and I breathe a sigh of relief. For some reason, it seems much safer on the second floor. We take the corner, my skirt flares out again. Only, this time I’m not having fun. I’m running for my life. The clock strikes eleven, an hour left before my departure and the bludgeoning of the Faulkner family.
Anxious to retrieve a weapon, we burst into the study to find it already ransacked and the gun cabinet empty.
“Lookin’ for somethin’?” Jimmy’s voice comes from the darkness. The door slams shut behind us, and Slimy steps in front of it. “Well look who came to visit.” He sneers, walking toward us.
Grabbing Emily’s hand, I back toward the bookcase.
“Where’s Lunar?” she demands.
“That Negro is poised and ready for execution.” Slimy grins, puffing on an expensive cigar he found. “He’s just waiting for his audience. What do you say we take that trip back upstairs so you can get a good look at what happens to Negroes who go after our pretty white women?”
We keep retreating toward the bookcase, but Jimmy comes around behind us. We’re surrounded. “Let’s go have some fun, rice princess.” Slimy snuffs out his cigar and grabs Emily, pulling her away from me. “And you.” He shakes his head disappointed. “You’re proving to be far too much trouble than you’re worth. Jimmy, do what you want with this one.” Covering Emily’s mouth, he pulls her through the bookcase and into the secret passage.
Jimmy grins, a manic smile, and then walks toward me. “Are you the one who took Leonard’s head off?” He raises the harvesting sickle. My heart races, stampeding in my chest like a herd of wild horses. I am in the same room with the grim reaper, and he’s holding death in his hand.
Now I know how James Faulkner and his guests were dismembered.
“You’re pretty when you’re scared.” He eyes my heaving chest. I am breathing hard, I know, because I am scared as hell right now. Backing up against the bookcase, I reach behind me and grab a candlestick. Using it like a bat, I swing for a home run. Stunned, he stumbles backward, dropping the knife as he falls. Taking my chance, I bolt for the door, but he reaches out and grabs my ankle. I hit the floor hard, knocking the wind from my lungs. Keeping his hand tight around my ankle, he yanks, pulling me closer. He flips me over and pounces on top of me. His grimy hands snatch a handful of my hair, pulling my head back. Blood pours from his wound onto my face. He grabs my mouth, squeezes it open, and crams his tongue inside. I bite down as hard as I can. He moans, pulls it out, and hits me, angry I would try and defend myself. What did the dumb ass expect would happen?
Keeping his heavy body on top of mine, he scans the room and reaches for the velvet cord holding back the curtains. Yanking the tassel, he rips the rope from the drapes. I start kicking and screaming. I can see my actions have him panicked. Making a quick decision, he lays the cord aside and slaps his hand hard over my mouth, smothering my cries for help. Still lying on top of me, he rises up slightly, giving himself enough room to shove his other hand in his pants pocket and pull out his hanky. When he does, I take my chance. With one swift move, I grab the smooth wooden handle I see sticking out of his belt, aim, and pull the trigger. It was loaded, and Jimmy’s dead with a giant-sized hole where his gut used to be.
Scrambling to my feet, I keep the pistol and run to the third floor. It’s dark, and I don’t have my lamp, but I don’t care. I know the way by now. I hear Emily sobbing by the time I reach the third floor. I run down the hall, turn the corner, and make my way to the soft glow of the moon, spotlighting the floor. Without a thought, I take the spiral staircase. Slimy won’t be expecting me. He thinks Jimmy has me in the study, but true to his word, I’m trouble.
I slow down on the last spiral, sneaking up on them. Slimy’s got his back to me, and it would be easy to shoot him, but I fear the bullet might go clean through at this range and hit Emily. Hearing her sobs is heart wrenching. I can only imagine what it is she’s seeing as Slimy forces her to look out of the cupola. The night air is blowing the fall leaves in through the broken glass, and again my heart weeps, knowing Quillan fell trying to save his mother. Despite his efforts, she’s back up here in the clutches of Slimy, and once again I’m haunted with the question—is it possible to change the past? No matter what we’ve done, we keep coming back to the same end. But then, in the midst of my darkest hour, I have a thought. It’s a brilliant idea, and once again, I am brought to remembering something my momma always said. “Averie”—she would tell me—“every situation you find yourself trapped in is an opportunity for you to think smart.” I never understood what she meant until now. I am in the worst situation I have ever found myself, and I am thinking smarter than ever. If there wasn’t a chance to change the past, then Quillan wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to begin with. He was given a chance, and that is what we have, a chance, an opportunity, a possibility. And what is a possibility? Something that is possible.
I point my pistol and step into the cupola cramming the barrel against the back of Slimy’s head. “Let her go!” I pray he doesn’t feel my trembling hand. He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t let Emily go either.
“Why don’t you take a look at your husband,” he suggests. I want to turn and look out the window with everything that is in me, but I don’t. I will not be distracted, not now.
“I said turn her loose.” I pull back on the hammer, ready to fire. My hand cramps when I do. The gun is heavy, and ordinarily it would take two hands to fire the thing. I’m hoping I can still do it.
Without warning, Slimy pushes Emily through the gaping hole of broken glass, killing her and her unborn child. I fire, and what little brains Slimy has splatter against the glass and drizzle down with the scattering leaves.
I look out the cupola window. The gun blast has drawn the attention of Seedy and two men who have Quillan and Mike at gunpoint, distracting the men long enough for the boys to fight back. Lunar is alive, sitting on horseback with a noose around his neck. The horse bucks with the commotion and gallops off, hanging Lunar. Somewhere in the darkness, I hear Emily scream. Sticking my head out of the broken window, I see her hanging off a balcony railing directly below the cupola. My heart skyrockets. She’s alive. Dropping the pistol, I climb through the hole in the window and fall to my knees as I lean out over the railing. I reach for her and grab both her wrists.
“Averie, I can’t hold on.” She apologizes, saying her good-bye with fearful eyes.
“I can.” I tighten my grip. “Use your legs!”
“I can’t!” she cries. “I don’t know how.”
“Swing them up, Emily,” I beg her. “Like when you were little on your swing in the garden. You pumped them to go higher. Pump now. Please…for Quillan.”
I’m not sure if she heard my last remark, but she starts swinging her legs and after a few tries, she places her feet on the base of the railing. I pull her wrists, but she trips over the hem of her damn dress and falls, nearly yanking me off with her.
“It’s all right,” I coax. “Do it again.”
“I can’t!” she cries again. “It will never work.”
“Yes, it will!” I scream back this time. No more coddling. “You’ve been given a second chance at life, now take it!”
Lying on the balcony, we fearfully take a peek below. Three men lie on the ground dead. Lunar is holding his throat and looking up toward the cupola. Mike and Quillan are beaten and bloody, but standing.
The old grandfather clock begins striking twelve. Quillan hears it and points down, telling me to run toward the passage. Leaving Emily, I scrape against the rough shards of glass as I climb back through the window and into the cupola.
Two bongs. I head for the spiral stairs.
Three bongs. I make it down the stairs and sprint down the hallway.
Four bongs. I make it to the third-floor stairs.
Five bongs. I’m on the second floor and I run to the master staircase.
Six bongs and I am dashing downstairs like Cinderella leaving the ball.
Seven bongs. The front door flies open and Quillan runs inside, extending his hand to me with Mike in pursuit.
Eight bongs. Quillan and I clasp hands and begin running to the dining room.
Nine bongs. He looks at me and smiles, his eyes filling with tears.
Ten bongs. We burst into the dining room just as the candles go out. Instead of heinous screams, we hear hysterical laughter from the overintoxicated guests.
Eleven bongs and Quillan pushes the glowing pocket watch on the painting and drags me inside.
Twelve bongs. His hand disappears from mine.
Chapter 40
The tunnel is dark, and without Quillan to guide me, I hunker down and crawl, using my outstretched hands as eyes. I swallow back my tears and call out just to make sure. “Quillan?”
“I think he’s gone, Ave,” Mike says from behind me.
Taking my hand, he helps me stand. We grope our way through the darkness until we reach the secret door to the carriage house. I can hear the rain even before Mike pushes the door open. It’s storming, just as it was the night we time traveled. Sighing, I step into the downpour, my soul crying along with the night sky. Keeping his hand in mine, Mike walks me across the property to the front of the estate.
The plantation home is lit, nearly every window aglow. A paved circle drive leads to the front and a uniformed parking attendant stands at the valet kiosk, ready to serve the next guest. Twinkle lights that decorate the trees illuminate the hanging moss. A beautiful hand-painted sign planted along with the landscaping reads Railroad Inn. I begin to cry.
“Come on.” Mike puts his arm around me. “Let’s go to Dairy Queen. I’ll buy you a Coke before you go home.” I shake my head and sniff. Can life ever be the same?
Everyone stares at us when we walk inside the eatery. They did on the bus, too, but I don’t care. So what if we’re both dirty, wearing Southern belle and gentleman attire, and have blood splattered across our clothes. Right now, I’m super depressed and don’t give a shit.
I wait at the booth while Mike pays for our drinks. He had his wallet in his pocket the night he went through time, so he kept it with him, making sure he had it for the transfer back. He’s anal like that, but I’m glad he is, cause a big ole burnin’ Coca-Cola is gonna hit the spot right now.
I take a huge swallow and my nose burns, but it feels good. Mike laughs and asks me if I want something to eat, but I refuse. My stomach can’t take anything right now.
“You know, Ave”—he leans across the table like he has top-secret information— “things may be different now that we altered the past.”
“No kidding,” I say, referring to the difference in the Faulkner mansion.
“It could be exciting. Maybe your life has changed, too. You never know.” He slurps his drink up through the straw and shrugs. I contemplate the possibility he could be right.
Mike calls a cab from the Dairy Queen, sweet-talking the cashier into letting him use her cell phone, promising to put his number in her contact list. I give the driver my address, all the while secretly hoping I live somewhere else now that we’ve changed the past. It’s nearly one-thirty in the morning when the taxi pulls in front of my apartment complex. Mike asks him to hang close for a minute, explaining we aren’t sure if we came to the right place.
Everything appears to be the same as I make my way down the twisting sidewalks that lead deeper inside the complex. Reaching my building, I look upstairs. It’s dark, but the porch light is on. I turned it on before I left, but it means nothing. A lot of people leave their porch lights on all night.
Mike follows me up the wooden steps. I stop at apartment 249. Taking a deep breath, I hesitate, afraid to knock.
“Come on, Ave.” Mike turns my chin to face him. “The way I see it there are two outcomes here. Number one, a stranger could answer, which means you don’t live here anymore. So there’s a big chance your life got better when we fixed the past.” His eyes dance at the telling, wanting me to pick door number one and win his prize. “Or number two.” He wrinkles his nose, distorting his enthusiastic expression, but he keeps up his encouraging spirit. “It’s still your place, so really you haven’t lost anything.”
He’s trying to be nice, but I want to push him backward down the steps. Haven’t lost anything? My God, I’ve just lost everything.
“What about scenario number three?” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering like a little lost child. “What if I knock and Momma answers. That could happen, too, you know.”
He runs his hands through his messy hair and gives me a slight nod, but I know he doesn’t believe it’s possible.
Taking a deep breath, I knock.
Nothing. I knock again. Still nothing. My neighbor opens her door and peers outside. “Oh, hi, hon.” She recognizes me. “Lock yourself out again?” Defeated, I nod my head. “Yes, sorry.”
“No problem.” She’s eager to help. “I’ll get your spare. After all, it’s why you gave me one.”
“I’m sorry, Ave,” Mike says as Tabitha disappears inside her apartment.
“Heard from your mom?” Tabitha asks as she unlocks my door.
“Not yet.” I force a smile. “Thanks for letting me in. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she assures me. “I was watching the movie, The Time Traveler’s Wife. It’s so depressing, glad you interrupted me.”
I nod and close the door. Everything’s the same as I left it. Everything that is except an envelope lying on the floor, as if it had been slipped under the door. I tear it open.
We regret to inform you that Mrs. Cindy Cooke…
I drop the paper and cry.
Mike refuses to go home. He insists on staying the night. In a way, I want to be alone, but on the other hand, I am glad he is here.
He takes the couch. Skipping my room, I crawl into Momma’s bed. I can smell her within the sheets, so I cuddle up with her favorite pillow and hope I will dream of Quillan. It’s been a hundred and fifty years since he was born. He’s dead now, and I’m wondering if he ever made it out to the pond, and if he ever dreamed of me like he promised. I’m sad I never got my beautiful locket back. I drift off to sleep, remembering the day at the beach and how he looked when he gave it to me.
Mike’s up with the sun and is climbing on the bed, waking me up. He has a smile on his face that stretches from ear to ear. “Wake up, Ave! You’re never gonna believe this!” He slaps his forehead and laughs. “Hell, I can’t even believe it.”
“What?” I rub my eyes, depressed that he woke me already. I didn’t intend on facing today until noon or after.
“Guess who the owner of the Railroad Inn is?” He sits there all toothy, looking as cheesy as ever.
“I have no idea, and I don’t feel like guessing, so just tell me.”
“Me!” he announces with his arms stretched out and his hands turned up. “I mean my mother does, but it’s ours. Can you believe it?”
“That’s great.” Right now, I
’m as jealous as hell. How come his cushy life got even better and mine got worse? What law of the universe did I ever break?
“How’d you find that out?” I ask, not really caring but acting like I do.
“I called Mom, and she asked if I was bringing you to the dinner there tonight. We talked, and it all spilled out.”
“Oh, Mike.” I grimace, pushing the hair out of my face. “I don’t feel like working a meal tonight. Not there. You understand, don’t you?”
“You’re not working it. You’re one of the invited guests, and guess what the occasion is?” He’s still toothy, so I give a wild guess. “You’re celebrating ’cause you won the lottery?”
“No, Ave.” He laughs. “It’s my mom’s engagement party. She’s getting married, and you have to come because you’re one of her bridesmaids.”
“I am?”
“Yep.”
“Mike,” I protest. “As honoring as it is, I can’t go back this soon. It hurts, you know.”
He stares at me, and I realize he doesn’t know. “Ave, it will be good for you, a closure of sorts. You can go and hear the history and find out what kind of life he ended up living.”
I hit him with a pillow. “Find out who Quillan married and how many kids they had? Good idea, Mike.”
“I think when you see him as an ancestral portrait, and realize he’s gone, you will be able to get on with your life. Please, Averie. It will make you realize what good you did and how you were able to help him. It will bring closure.”
I sigh, blowing the air out of my mouth long and hard so he gets the point. “All right, I’ll go.”
“Great.” He beams. “I’ll pick you up at eight.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves. I swear he’s walking on air. I sit on the bed, in the same spot, for nearly another hour before getting up. I’m numb and the last thing I want to do is go back to the Faulkner Estate, but Mike’s right. I desperately need to move on.
Chapter 41
