by Nathan Roden
“That sounds fascinating,” Abigail said. “I hope I get to meet him.”
“So do I,” Tara said.
Abigail pushed the button on the intercom.
“Hello, Mr. Wellmore? It’s Abigail. Are you in?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes, Abigail,” the voice said. “I’m getting ready for afternoon tea if you would care to join me.”
“I’ve dropped off the items you asked me to pick up for you,” Abigail said. “They’re here in the kitchen. Thank you for the invitation, but I have a class to get to. Mr. Wellmore, there is a young lady here inquiring about someone who used to work for you.”
Abigail released the intercom button.
“What did you say the girl’s name was?”
“Holly. Holly McFadden,” Tara said.
Abigail pressed the button again.
“She says the girl’s name is Holly McFadden.”
“I’ll be right down,” Sebastian Wellmore answered.
Sebastian walked into the kitchen.
“Thank you, Abigail,” he said. “I had some pressing business calls to make—you’ve saved me a great deal of time and trouble.”
“It was no trouble, Mr. Wellmore. I needed some things from the market myself. This is Emily—I’m sorry Emily. I didn’t get your last name.”
“Roberts. Emily Roberts,” Tara said.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Roberts,” Sebastian said. “You have a class this evening, Abigail? I won’t keep you. Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it, Sir,” Abigail said. “I’ll be going. It was nice to meet you, Emily.”
“It was nice meeting you, Abigail.”
“Good luck to your father,” Abigail said.
“My fath—? Oh, yes. Thank you!”
Abigail left the castle. She turned around after she closed the front door. She felt bad about leaving the girl behind. Something didn’t feel quite right to her.
“So, Miss Roberts,” Sebastian said. “You were asking about Miss McFadden? Is she friend, or family?”
“A friend—of the family,” Tara said. She found it difficult to meet Sebastian Wellmore’s eyes. His eyes were dark and cold. Tara felt like the man could see straight through her lies.
“My family used to vacation near here when I was very young,” Tara said. “They took us to the McIntyre castle several times. They always spoke highly of the McFadden family—including Holly.”
“Have your parents come with you?” Sebastian looked over Tara’s shoulder. “I really was not expecting guests today.”
“No. They’re—they were tired after we traveled all day. They are napping in the village—at our hotel.”
“I see,” Sebastian said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Miss McFadden was with us for only a few weeks. From what I hear from our guests, she has moved to America—to the same village where the McIntyre Castle was relocated.”
Tara’s shoulders sagged. She had wasted effort and money and achieved nothing.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Sebastian said. “I was about to have morning tea—and I had a full tray of scones delivered from the bakery this morning.”
The sound of a whistling teapot sounded through the speaker of the intercom, as if on cue.
“I rather enjoy having my tea on the balcony of my study,” Sebastian said. “I would be honored if you would join me.”
Tara was getting ready to decline and go back to the village. Her stomach growled so loud that she feared Sebastian Wellmore could hear it.
Tara felt the rumbling beneath her feet before she heard it.
It came from the cellar door. Wellmore appeared not to notice anything.
Tara turned herself slightly. She watched the door begin to pulse—straining against the latch and the hinges. White smoke rolled beneath the door. It moved upward and increased in volume. The white paint on the door faded. It changed to a dull pink color—but continued to intensify. Soon, the door was a fiery mix of yellow and orange flame. She heard the crackling of fire.
She turned to Sebastian.
“Can you not hear—?”
Sebastian turned and looked at the door. He looked at Tara and shrugged.
“I’m sorry. Hear what?”
Tara watched in horror as the door became engulfed in flames. The white smoke turned to black. It billowed around the door from all sides.
And then, she heard the growl.
The face of an enormous, hideous red face filled the entire surface of the door. Ivory horns protruded from its head. Its evil eyes bore right down to Tara’s soul. The Beast opened its mouth, and Tara flinched. The Beast spoke a single word.
“Holly.”
Tara jumped backward as the Beast crossed through the doorway. It moved at her.
Tara crumpled to the floor.
Eleven
Adrian Crane
London, England
Dr. Adrian Crane shifted his weight in the almost supernaturally uncomfortable chair. A bolt of white-hot pain erupted in his shoulder. A bead of sweat formed on his lips. It was impossible for him to move at all without triggering his nerves to fire—anywhere between his ravaged shoulder and elbow.
Crane had a bottle full of pills to dull the pain, but he was unwilling to have his senses impaired on that particular day. He waited questioning by a detective team at the offices of Scotland Yard.
A door opened down the hall and Crane heard a familiar laugh. His receptionist walked into the lobby, looking perfect as always in a form-fitting dress. Two men in suits followed her into the lobby, smiling broadly.
Whatever the three of them had found so amusing was forgotten when they saw the scowl on the face of Adrian Crane.
The men stopped near the doorway. Crane’s receptionist crossed the lobby.
“I’m so glad that you’re going to be all right, Dr. Crane.”
“I was only in need of a physician—not an interrogation by half of bloody Scotland Yard,” Crane said.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” the receptionist said. Her hands fumbled nervously with her handbag.
“I didn’t….I didn’t know what else to do—I thought you were dead!”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Crane said. “If I still have a practice to return to.”
“What do you mean?” the receptionist asked. “Why would you not—?”
“I said we will discuss it later!” Crane hissed between clenched teeth.
The receptionist began to cry. She hurried from the building.
Crane winced as he repositioned his sling. He walked toward the pair of detectives.
“There was no need to upset the young lady like that, mate,” the first detective said.
Crane motioned toward the door with his good hand.
“You have plenty of time to chase her down and tell her how concerned you are about her feelings. Perhaps you can get her phone number so that you can keep in touch.”
Crane glared at the wedding band on the man’s finger.
“I’m sure your wife won’t object at all,” he sneered.
“In here, Mr. Crane,” the second detective said, holding the door open.
“Doctor Crane,” Crane said.
“Whatever,” the first detective said. ”First door on the right. Take a seat.”
Crane took a seat in yet another uncomfortable chair. The detectives sat across the table from the doctor. They took notebooks from their pockets.
Crane looked around the room.
“It is comforting to know that we are not wasting the people’s money on decor.”
“Most people who sit in this room have more important things to worry about,” the second detective said.
“Do you imply that I should be worried?” Crane asked. “Do I stand accused of a crime? Should I contact my attorney?”
“No,” the first detective said quickly. “Nothing like that, not at all.”
“It should be patently obvious, gentlemen,” Crane said, “that I
sustained debilitating injuries at the hand of a dangerous and demented teen-aged girl. What could you possibly presume me to be guilty of?”
“You must have made that young lady very angry, Doctor,” the second detective said.
“What could you have said to her—to make her so angry?” the first detective asked.
The second detective leaned forward and put his hands on the table.
“Or maybe it was something you did.”
“Please bring me a telephone,” Crane said. “I wish to call my attorney.”
The first detective put his hand against his partner’s chest and pushed him away from the table.
“That won’t be necessary, Dr. Crane,” the first detective said.
He pointed at Crane’s sling.
“We’re just trying to understand what could have triggered a sweet little girl to do something like that.”
“Let’s not be coy,” Crane said. “I have no doubt that you have seen the video from the zoo. This is no ordinary girl, by any means.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?” the first detective asked.
“Of course, I do,” Crane purred.
Both detectives leaned forward.
“Where?”
“Why, after the little witch crippled me to the extent that I’ll never have full use of my arm ever again, she said, ‘Tell everyone that I shall be at the Palace—having tea with the Queen!”
The first detective slapped the table with one of his hands. Both detectives leaned back in their chairs in disgust.
“This is not a joke, Crane,” the first detective said. “The head of this department wants this girl found immediately! The parents of the students at her school are terrified of whatever grudges this girl may hope to carry out! The school’s officials are not about to let this issue be—they want her in custody or her head on a platter! The girl’s parents are nearly hysterical—”
“I have nothing more to say until I speak to my attorney,” Crane said.
The second detective shot to his feet. His hands balled into fists and the veins on his neck stood out. He was nearly hyperventilating. After a few seconds, he relaxed his hands. He rubbed his jaw. He turned around and walked slowly toward the corner of the room. He stopped and stared at nothing. He turned and walked back to the table.
“Sixteen children,” he said softly. “A total of sixteen other children. Nine young girls.”
The first detective raised his hand toward his partner.
“Logan—” he said.
“Sixteen kids! One of them took his own life! Nine young girls!” Detective Logan pushed his partner’s hand away. “All from the same school district. All referred to Dr. Adrian Crane for his expert analysis. Sixteen children—sixteen young lives—committed to government institutions as mentally incompetent!”
“Dammit, Logan!” the first detective said. He jumped to his feet.
“We’re going to interview those kids, Doctor Crane!” Detective Logan screamed. “The court orders are being drawn up this very minute!”
The first detective grabbed Logan by his shoulders and threw him toward the door.
“Get out! Get out of here before you—!”
Adrian Crane stood.
“Before he…what? Do you mean, before a representative of Scotland Yard slanders me? Slanders my professional reputation? Questions my credentials and the endorsement of an entire school system?”
Neither detective had a response.
“I’m leaving,” Crane said.
“If you intend to detain me any longer, you will have to shoot me in the back.”
Crane walked to the train station. He sat outside and took out his phone. A man, a woman, and their young daughter sat down near him. Crane clutched the phone while he fumed at the invasion of his privacy. He looked at the little girl, who was staring at him wide-eyed. Crane narrowed his eyes and stared back.
The girl screamed and burst into tears. Her parents jumped up and asked her what was wrong. She pointed at Crane and continued to cry. The man and woman looked frightened as they observed the look on Adrian Crane’s face. They walked away quickly. Crane smiled and tapped a number into his phone.
“Inspector Danley speaking,” said the voice.
“Adrian Crane.”
“What can I do for you, Doctor?”
“First of all, you might explain why after twelve years of service to your department, I am suddenly subject to a Scotland Yard inquisition?”
“I beg your pardon?” Danley said. “Why would Scotland Yard—?”
“Never mind that, now, Danley. I need to know what other information your department has on the young girl—the one who escaped from your custody.”
“Oh, I don’t know what I can tell you, Doctor,” Danley said. “The girl’s escape has the entire station in lock-down. They’re not letting anyone out of the building. I think they’re afraid of what the press might do with this. Nobody’s saying anything right now.”
“Listen to me, Inspector,” Crane said. “I am the attending psychiatrist who is aware of the danger this girl represents, first-hand! I may be able to help locate her, but I need to know everything your department knows!”
“It’s like I said, Dr. Crane. Nobody is talking at all! If it got out that I leaked this to the outside, I could lose my pen—”
“What might you lose if the word gets out that the mental health professional endorsed by your schools is being interrogated like a common criminal?” Crane growled. “Perhaps the newspapers will find that story interesting—along with an exclusive interview with the psychiatrist willing to tell them the real story of Tara Jamison!”
“Wait, wait, Dr. Crane! Look, I’ll have to call you back. The room is full of people.”
“I’m not getting off this phone until I have what I want.”
There were moments of silence.
“Hang on,” Danley said. “I’ll have to go to the loo.”
“The girl wouldn’t talk to anyone,” Danley whispered. “I’ve only heard of one single piece of information—and I’ve been here the entire time.”
“Well, what is it?” Crane asked.
“She refused to talk to anyone at all, and they went at her with our best investigators. She said the only person she would talk to was her cousin. A girl named Holly McFadden.”
Twelve
Wylie Westerhouse
St. Louis, Missouri
I had just walked out of the shower when Nate walked in. “Walked” might not be the right term, because Nate’s legs didn’t appear to be in charge of his movement.
“Welcome to the Skyler KwyK ‘House of Pain’,” I laughed.
Nate eased himself into a chair, while he winced.
“I got this way by defending your honor, Precious.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Whose bright idea was it to put me in the gym class with the freakin’ dancers—and at five-thirty in the morning?”
“That’s probably a compliment. Somebody thought you could handle it.”
“Yeah, right,” Nate said. “Do you remember, back in Little League, when the coaches would try to punish everybody by making us run? And there were always that handful of kids that thought that was the greatest thing in the world?”
“Oh, yeah. That was never me, though.”
“It wasn’t me, either,” Nate said. He reached down to massage his calf. “But those kids grow up to be professional dancers.”
“The trainers probably watch you back there thrashing around the drums and assume that you’re in shape. And what do you mean, defending my honor? Is that trainer dissing me in public? We both know that I’m clumsy, but I can’t help that.”
“Nah, it’s not the trainer,” Nate said. “It’s your old pal, Zeus. What did you do to him?”
I laughed.
“Are you talking about Apollo?”
“Zeus, Apollo, Adonis, Mercury—one of those,” Nate said. “Whenever
your name gets mentioned, he looks like he throws up in his mouth a little.”
I sighed.
“He wants my job. According to Skyler, he’s wanted to be where I am for the four years that he’s been around.”
Nate had moved to massaging his triceps.
“I’m guessing that he can’t sing. Because he can do everything else.”
“What?” I asked. “Are you writing his biography? If you start a fan club for him, I’m not joining.”
Nate leaned forward in his chair.
“Wyles, this guy does one-handed push-ups. And one-handed pull-ups. By the dozens. I’m just saying—you need to keep an eye on him.”
“I’ve picked up all the same vibes. But, what is he going to do? Beating me up isn’t going to suddenly give him the ability to sing—and where is he gonna get a sweet gig like the one he has? You know what? Maybe we should have him over for some beers. I could let him know what it’s like to be kicked off the mountain and land on the bottom with a bad reputation.”
Nate shook his head.
“That ain’t gonna work.”
“Why not?”
“While we were taking a water break, I looked out of the windows—the ones that face the hall. Skyler was standing there watching us. She waved—I didn’t know if she was waving at me or not, but I waved back. And so did Apollo. He saw me waving, and he had pure-D hate in his eyes. And he decided that it was a good time to do some on those one-handed pull-ups—shirtless, of course. Whatever is going on inside that dude’s head goes over and beyond the job, Bro. I’m telling you. Watch your back.”
I shook my head.
