by Savage, Tom
The thought of swimming led her off around the main house to the backyard. The swimming pool was here, drained for the winter and covered by a wood platform that made the area a temporary extension of the tiled patio surrounding it. She imagined there would be furniture around the pool in season, chaises and umbrella-covered tables.
The pool house was a handsome stucco building with sliding glass doors. She went up to the glass doors of the house and peered inside. It was a veritable guest cottage, with tables and easy chairs, a little kitchenette at the back, and two big couches that probably opened into beds. Very attractive, she thought as she continued on her way around the side of the building toward the back lawn.
There was a little door here, in the side of the pool house. She tried to look through the frosted glass pane in its center to see what was inside, but the glass was opaque. Curious, she tried the doorknob and found that the room was unlocked. She pushed the door open and went inside.
It was very dark in the little room, but the mingled smells of chlorine and turpentine told her where she was before she found the light switch beside the door. She snapped the light on, revealing a crowded but neat storage room. There were utensils stacked in the corners, scythes and shovels and rakes, and long-handled nets for skimming the pool. Two wheelbarrows, one stacked on top of the other. A big white plastic drum in one corner was labeled CHLORINALL.
The walls of the room were lined from floor to ceiling with wooden shelves crammed with every imaginable maintenance and gardening need: rubber gloves, spades, hedge clippers, and paint trays with a wide assortment of well-used brushes and rollers. Two entire shelves contained only paint cans, each labeled with its specific function: POOL, IRONWORK, GATEHOUSE, etc. Below these was a shelf given over to various chemicals, a long row of cans and jars and bottles, most of them marked with an ominous skull and crossbones—cleaning agents, weed killer, ant and roach sprays, and a big jar of clear liquid felicitously labeled BEE-GONE.
She stared around at everything, taking in not the sight but the significance, what it represented. This little room indicated the vast size of all that was Randall House more acutely than anything else she’d seen so far. Here was the domain of the groundsmen, Zeke and Dave, and their several part-time assistants. The house and grounds were huge.
And now they were hers.
With a last glance around the place and a bemused shake of her head, she turned off the light and went outside, closing the door behind her.
Beyond the pool house was a small lawn that ended at a row of trees. The drive from the front of Randall House curved around the west side of it to become a small road leading past the pool area and through the trees. She went over to the road and walked down it, away from the main house.
Past the row of trees was another lawn, this one containing a little chapel and a small, fenced-in cemetery. Behind them was the apple orchard, and she knew from this morning’s ride that there was another lawn behind the orchard before the forest took over completely, stretching outward to the high stone walls that ringed the property.
The road ended in a little parking lot beside the chapel. This was a tall structure of fitted stone with a domed roof and big oak double doors. There were beautiful little stained glass windows on either side of the doors, and substantially larger ones on each sidewall. The big side window before her depicted the Ascension. She knew without having to go around the building that the opposite window would be the Crucifixion.
Never having been religious, she was always leery of such places. As a child, she’d attended regular Sunday services with Ben and Mary Smith, who were Catholic, but she’d later begged off, and neither parent had forced the issue. Odd, she thought now, staring up at the pretty stone edifice: Catholicism. The one thing the Smiths and the Randalls had in common. The only thing …
Oh, well, she decided. I’m here now, and this is my chapel, and I might as well take a look.
She was about to go up the two steps to the big oak doors when she heard barking behind her. She whirled around, startled, to see the German shepherd bounding across the lawn from the direction of the forest. Behind him, just emerging from the trees, was his master, the blond teenage boy.
The boy stopped when he saw Holly standing there, and he whistled sharply to the dog, but the shepherd paid not the slightest attention to the command. He ran straight up to Holly, all lolling tongue and wagging tail. With a smile, she sank to her knees and removed a glove, extending her bare hand to stroke the glossy black and tan coat.
“Hello, Tonto,” she whispered.
The dog, in an apparent paroxysm of ecstasy, rolled over onto his back, presenting his tummy for petting. With a laugh, Holly obliged.
She had not been afraid, because she already knew the dog was friendly. Mr. Wheatley had told her that when he’d told her the dog’s name, and the boy’s. She’d seen the pair several times from the windows of the house during her forced imprisonment in her first week, and she’d asked the butler who they were.
Now she studied the boy as he slowly, almost reluctantly made his way across the lawn to her. His name was Tobias Carter, he was called Toby, and he was about fifteen. His parents were teachers at Randall High School, which he attended. They lived in town, but Toby was on the grounds of Randall House nearly every day after school. He worked here part-time in winter and full-time in summer, helping Zeke and Dave. Maintaining the swimming pool was his principal summer responsibility, and sometimes he helped George with the horses, which he was occasionally allowed to ride. He also was a favorite of Brian Jessel, because he was as interested in the cars as the horses. In addition to the wages he was saving for eventual college tuition, he was allowed to swim in the pool and the pond and the cove beneath the cliff.
He’d been a fixture on the grounds for two years, ever since Alicia had first met him in the stable and invited him to ride with her. Mr. Wheatley had frequently seen the old woman and the boy riding together, the dog running along behind them. They seemed to have become great friends, the butler told Holly. But, despite Alicia’s occasional invitations to lunch or dinner, Toby never entered Randall House.
He also almost never spoke. At least, that’s what Mr. Wheatley had told her. In two years, Mr. Wheatley had not heard him utter more than a few words.
As the boy arrived before her, Holly got her first good look at him. He was tall and rather thin, and his golden hair tumbled down into his blue eyes. The eyes were his most arresting asset; large, grave, and full of what she could only describe as a remarkable intelligence. Very handsome, she decided, and then she immediately squelched the thought. Here she was, having impure thoughts about a virtual child. She smiled to cover her vague embarrassment as she rose to face him.
“Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “You’re Toby, right? I’m Holly. I’m pleased to meet you.”
He looked down at her hand. After a moment, he nodded and briefly took her hand in his own. Then his arm dropped to his side. He stared down at the dog, and a troubled look came to his face.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Holly said quickly, interpreting his look as censure for the dog’s overfamiliarity. “I love dogs, and Tonto here is charming.” She reached down to pet the dog again, which set off another fit of tail-wagging. She laughed, and the boy actually smiled at the dog’s antics. “If he’s Tonto, then you must be the Lone Ranger.”
He shrugged, looking off toward the house.
Far from unnerving her, his silence was oddly comforting. She immediately felt an affinity for him, and she wondered why this was. She also wondered why he was always here when he wasn’t in class, and why he wasn’t playing football or basketball at this time in the afternoon. Surely there were plenty of other boys his age in the vicinity, and that’s what they were probably doing now. That, or spending quality time with girls. Sports and sex: the twin obsessions of most fifteen-year-old boys. Toby was apparently more interested in earning his college tuition, which was certainly admirable. But she couldn�
��t help feeling curious about him.
She knew instinctively that she would not ask him questions about himself. Not that he’d answer them, anyway. He seemed more a man than a boy, serious and silent as he was. She decided that he could make his own decisions.
“Well, I’m glad to have met you, Toby,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around the place. Perhaps you’d like to come riding with me sometime.”
Now he was looking at the distant apple orchard. He had not once met her gaze with his own. He nodded again and reached down for Tonto’s collar. The dog immediately rose and stood at attention. With a last brief smile and a little bob of his head, Toby turned and walked away down the road toward the house. The dog began to follow him, then pivoted and ran back to her for one more pat on the head. He licked her outstretched hand, wagged his tail vigorously, gave a little yap of farewell, and took off after his master. When they were a little distance away, the boy suddenly turned around. He looked directly into her eyes, grinned, and raised his hand in a small salute. Then he and Tonto continued on their way.
Holly smiled, watching them go. She put her glove back on, turned around, and went into the chapel.
It was dark here, dark and silent. There was an altar at the end of the red-carpeted center aisle, which was flanked not by pews but by several rows of red velvet-upholstered chairs. Weak light glowed through the stained glass windows. In the nave before the chancel railing was a low table containing the obligatory rows of candles. A single candle was lit, its tiny flame reflected on the gold and brass fixtures of the altar behind it. Above the altar, mounted on the rear wall, was a large gold cross.
She wondered who had lit the candle.
Catherine had told her that this place had last been used for Alicia’s funeral three months ago. It had been built when the house was built, a century ago. The original Alicia Randall was devout, and the local priest had performed the Sunday service here every week for the family and their servants. But successive generations of Randalls were not as pious as their antecedents, and the little church was now used mainly for funerals and the occasional baptism or servant’s wedding. Kevin had been christened here, twenty-eight years ago. So, she supposed, had Uncle John and her father.
Her father.
She was struck by a sudden feeling of curiosity. With a last glance around at the beautiful room, she turned and left the chapel.
John walked swiftly out through the front gates of the estate, grateful for the weather. The fog would obscure him from view, which, at the moment, was precisely what he wanted. He didn’t want anyone noticing him.
He glanced at his watch—four forty-five. He was late, but he was certain that Ed—or whatever his name was—would be waiting. Hell, for what John would eventually be paying him, Ed could wait for hours. For ridding John of the obstacle that was Holly, Ed could buy a new house, or take several trips around the world. So, let him wait.
He walked along the edge of the road toward town, peering through the mist for the turnoff that led to the abandoned farm. Ed’s car would be there, parked far enough along to be out of sight of the main road. He found the lane and proceeded.
Somewhere off to his left he heard the barking of a large dog. That damned brat, Toby Carter, he thought. Always underfoot. Alicia had tolerated him, and now he had the run of the place. John had never understood Alicia’s indulgence. He didn’t like children, and he didn’t like dogs.
The red Infiniti arrived before him in the thickening fog, and he saw the silhouette of a man leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. John walked up to him, and the two men nodded in greeting. They did not shake hands: John knew, instinctively, that in Ed’s world this was not done. Hands were for holding weapons.
John had arranged this meeting by calling the New York City number Ed had given him from a pay phone in town. He was being very careful not to have any record, anything at all that could possibly connect him to this man. When the time came, he would pay Ed in cash and send him on his way.
They stood on the little dirt road in the forest, regarding each other. At last, John broke the silence.
“You’ve been here twice now, right?”
Ed shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Know your way around, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“Good. My wife and I are giving her a party on Christmas Eve. That’s her birthday. We’ll probably do something with her on New Year’s Eve, too. In the second week of January, my wife and I are going to Europe to visit some friends. We plan to be gone two weeks. That’s your best time, while we’re safely away. Any ideas on how to do it?”
Ed took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it out with his heel. “A couple. She rides horses. I saw her and that guy, Jessel, riding this morning. Does she drive?”
“I think so,” John said.
“That’s another possibility. The best accidents are natural. Two weeks in January … hmmm. Yeah, I can arrange something.”
John heard a faint noise, a rustling in the trees nearby. He leaned closer to the other man. “Do you plan to continue coming out here every week?”
“Yeah, for a while, anyway. I’ve found a place to stay, a little motel a couple of miles away. The Kismet.”
“I know it,” John said. “If I need to get in touch with you from now on, I’ll leave a message for you there.” A pay phone to a motel, he was thinking: better than a call to Ed’s home in Brooklyn, traceable or not.
Ed nodded. “I have other things to do in the next few weeks. Some business in New York. But I’ll keep an eye on her, once a week. By January, she’ll have my undivided attention.”
“Do it,” John said. “I want her dead.”
Ed smiled, a slow, lazy curling of his lip. “I’ll try not to make her suffer.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” John snapped. “Just do it.”
Ed continued to smile at him. Then he nodded.
“Sure thing,” he said.
She must have been inside the chapel longer than she’d thought. It was dark now, and the mist had intensified into a dense gray fog that had settled down around everything. Randall House was no longer visible from here, and she could barely see the wrought iron fence of the cemetery mere steps away across the road. Shivering in the cold, damp air, she walked down the steps and over to the gate of the cemetery. She lifted the latch, pushed the gate open, and stepped inside.
It was a small, well-tended place, perhaps thirty feet by thirty. She nearly collided with a headstone, and after that she made her way slowly around, finding her way as much by feel as by sight. The fog obliterated everything that wasn’t directly in front of her.
She found the largest, oldest markers in the far corner. The biggest was an elegantly simple monolith of polished pink marble, perhaps three feet high and four across. Engraved in the stone was the announcement that here lay John and Alicia Randall, Beloved of God and of each other. The two large marble stones nearest this were the final resting places of James and Ellen Randall, her great-grandparents. Then came a William Henry Randall, 1921–1942, Taken from us in the glorious service of his country. She passed the next headstone, for Charles Franklin Wainwright, who’d also apparently died in World War II. Beside him was the most recent monument, and Holly paused at this one for a few moments, gazing down. Alicia Rose Randall Wainwright. Next came James II and his wife, Emily, her grandparents.
She found the grave she’d been seeking a little apart from the others in the family grouping, under a small tree near the wrought iron fence. Other, lesser stones dotted the ground on the opposite side of the enclosure, clearly those of servants, including Mrs. Wheatley and at least two Jessels. Next to the Jessel graves a single, crudely made wooden cross rose up from a patch of freshly turned earth: a pet, she supposed, recently deceased. But the simple white stone that stood off by itself under the tree now commanded her attention.
She approached it slowly, almost cautiously, as if
she were loath to disturb the spirit within. That’s silly, she reasoned: there are no spirits here, only earthly remains. Yet she could not shake the feeling that they were all here, now, watching her. She peered nervously around and behind her, but she could see nothing in the fog.
She sank slowly to her knees before the little white headstone. She reached out a gloved hand and carefully cleared away a small tangle of dead brown ivy vines draped over it.
JAMES WILLIAM RANDALL III
Under the name were the dates, and under these a series of smaller lines, his epitaph. She stared at the words etched into the face of the stone, memorizing them so that she could recall them in the future, whenever she chose.
Beloved son, beloved brother, beloved father,
Struck down by the hand he held most dear.
He is in Heaven now.
Requiescat in Pace
Holly took off her right glove, leaned forward, and pressed her bare hand against the stone. She closed her eyes and tried to feel something, anything. Anything at all.
Beloved father: those words obviously referred to her. This man, not Ben Smith, had quite literally planted the seed that had become her, Holly.
Beloved husband was conspicuously unmentioned. He had been struck down, taken before his time, by the hand he held most dear. His wife. The woman who had been her mother; the woman who was not Mary Smith; the woman whose absence from this place, whose unmourned grave in a common field on Long Island, said all that needed to be said about her.
This man, this victim of murder, was her father.
And yet she felt nothing. She was kneeling in a freezing graveyard in the fog, her hand pressed against his monument, and no tears, no remorse, no righteous anger would come. Nothing at all. Had Ben Smith lain here, she would be weeping now. But this man meant nothing to her.
