Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear (33 page)

"He just received a call from the bam and relayed the message to me. That child is a juvenile delinquent," she hissed.

"Patrick or Brook?"

"By the time he is ten, the police will be picking him up."

"That's absurd, and you know it. In any case, Patrick didn't go near your barn."

"It's a child's work," she insisted. "The groom said so."

I glanced back again at Patrick, then turned to her. "Most people could imitate a child's painting. Even Brook would be capable," I added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"He's a hateful child. Hateful!" Her fingers flexed with anger.

I found myself staring at her hands, her bitten-off nails. One of them was bloody.

"Adrian should take a strap to him," she said. "If he doesn't, I will."

"You touch Patrick, and I'll have the authorities here in a flash."

She smiled.
"If
you're still here."

"I will be."

Robyn looked past my shoulder. "Not the way you're tending to Patrick."

I spun around. He was on the ice, hurrying across it. "Patrick! Patrick, stop!"

I rushed toward the pond and halted at its edge. He was already ten meters from shore. "Help me,' I called to Robyn. "Patrick, come back!"

At last he stopped and glanced around warily. Though he looked straight at me, he didn't act as if he saw me. We had been talking about Ashley: Was he seeing the present or the past? I wondered.

"Don't move."

I quickly surveyed the ice, trying to see which sections appeared most solid. My weight might be too much for the area he was on. I needed a long branch, one I could extend to him.

I glanced over my shoulder. Robyn was gone. She didn't care if he drowned—she was crazy, truly mad with jealousy. I continued to look for something that could be used as a pole. The logs were too heavy; the lighter branches and hockey stick were shorter than I wanted.

Patrick had turned his whole body around now and was watching me.

"Walk toward me," I called.

He stood still.

If I moved toward him, he might retreat onto thinner ice.
Oh, God,
I prayed,
tell me what to do, tell me how to get him back.
Aloud, I said, "Patrick, you need to get on shore. Come here."

He gazed at me, but his mind was elsewhere. He was like a person on a phone, listening to a voice I couldn't hear.

"Patrick, come here!"

He didn't blink.

I picked up the longest branch within reach and started across the ice. Its surface was soft, uneven. My heart pounded. If he fel through, it would be hard to find him in the black depths. He might panic and swim under the ice.

I wanted to race to him. Even so, I forced myself to move slowly, steadily, afraid the impact of running steps would break the ice.

I was seven meters from him and getting closer. "I want you to grab hold of the branch," I said.

He edged away from me. He looked afraid.

"Grab the branch and—"

He took a step back. I heard the soft crunching, then the sickening sound of fractures running through the ice. Patrick tumbled into the water. I screamed and raced forward. For a moment his snow jacket buoyed him up, and I thought I could reach him before his head went under. Then he flailed his arms, compressing the air pockets that kept him afloat. He was still on the surface, but barely. I trained my eyes on him, memorizing his position relative to the shore.

I was caught by surprise when the ice gave way beneath me. Frigid water rushed over me. I gulped it, then thrust my head upward. The pond water ringed my throat, but I could touch ground—both feet touched ground. I pressed forward.

"Float! Turn on your back and float!" I cried.

Patrick was terrified and choking down water.

I couldn't move fast enough. It was like walking against a wall of mud, the heavy pond water feeling solid to my neck.

Patrick's clothes, weighted with water, sucked him under. I could still see the top of his head, his hair floating near the surface. Two steps more—I moved in slow motion.
Help me God, please.

I reached out and grabbed him. My cold hands felt as lifeless as shovels, my fingers so numb they were unable to grasp. I held him against me with just the strength of my arms. He was breathing, still breathing—and coughing.

I waded toward shore, continually pushing against an edge of ice. The upward slope of the pond's floor seemed steep as a mountain. As I struggled, I thought about what to do next—call 911. Get him to the warm barn.

The water grew shallower and Patrick heavier. When the water was at my hips I struggled to hold him and reach for my cell phone. The sooner I called the paramedics, the sooner they would get here. It shouldn't have been hard to push 911, but my fingers couldn't feel the buttons. The phone slid into the dark water and disappeared.

Keep going, you have to keep going, I told myself.

Patrick felt twice his weight, but it was easier now to kick at the ice and push my way through it. At last I was on shore. He breathed heavily, sounding congested. I debated what to do. "Mrs. Caulfield?" I called out in the desperate hope Robyn had stayed to watch. There was no answer.

If I laid him on the ground, I might not be able to pick him up again, and I didn't know how to administer the medical care he needed. I kept going, finding the trail through the wood, amazed that my feet could walk with no sensation of ground beneath them. When I got to the end of the path, I stopped and screamed for help, hoping someone in the barn would hear me.

From the road that led to the employee cottages, Roger shouted back. He streaked toward me, calling to the barn as he did. Someone responded.

With Patrick still in my arms, I dropped in a heap, unable to do one thing more.

Chapter 19

Toger called 911, then contacted Emily, who rushed down from the house followed by the others. The paramedics from the volunteer fire department arrived. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Mrs. Hopewell informed them that their assistance would not be needed after all—the boy was nothing more than cold. They looked at her as if she were quite mad, then followed Emily's instructions. Emily insisted that I, too, be checked at the hospital, and I agreed because I wanted to be with Patrick.

Adrian called the hospital from his attorney's office and was assured by the E.R. staff that Patrick was stable. An hour later, when Adrian arrived at Easton Hospital, Patrick's body temperature and other vital signs were normal. The doctor informed Adrian that I was unharmed and Patrick would be ready for release in another hour, as long as an X ray for aspirated water proved negative. When the physician departed, Adrian asked me for an exact account of what had occurred, reminding me to keep my voice low.

How many strange stories could I tell Adrian, I wondered, before he stopped believing me? I began with the phone call from the bam and was quickly interrupted. "There is no groom named Jack."

"But there has to—" I didn't complete my sentence. Maybe not, I thought. I believed Brook was responsible for the vandalism; maybe he was also responsible for the call. Had he disguised his voice and manner of speaking? I had thought the connection was poor, but I hadn't expected the call, so I wasn't trying to detect a ruse.

"Did you look at your Caller ID?" Adrian asked.

"I didn't think about it at the time," I admitted, "but I don't remember seeing a listing. You should ask Brook the same question. His mother said he received a call about the barn and passed on the message to her. Perhaps he did, or perhaps he or one of his friends was playing a prank. Brook enjoys family fights—they make his life less boring. You should question Mrs. Caulfield, as well. She saw Patrick on the ice and didn't stay around to help."

I couldn't read Adrian's reaction to what I had said, but Emily's face was transparent: She held me responsible; she believed I was negligent and pointing a finger at others to cover myself. Each time I moved within the curtained area around Patrick's bed, she moved, positioning herself between her son and me, making it clear she didn't want me near him.

"Why did you go on the ice, Patrick?" Adrian asked. "Kate told you not to."

"I saw November."

"What?"

The answer caught both Adrian and me by surprise.

"I saw November."

"The orange cat," I told Adrian.

"He was running across the ice."

Adrian shook his head.

"Patrick, November is dead," I said. "We buried him in the cemetery, remember?"

Patrick turned his gaze on me. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before—defiance masking fear. "You killed him."

"Me? Why would I do such a thing?" I asked, taken aback.

"You don't like him."

"Patrick, I would never kill an animal, not intentionally."

"I think this is just a decoy, Kate," Adrian interjected. "He's trying to distract us from that fact that he ran out on the ice when you forbade it."

"The other day he accused you of killing the cat. Now he's accusing me," I replied, exasperated.

"I was mixed up," Patrick said calmly.

"You're mixed up now," I told him, but he had turned away.

An hour later, when Patrick was released, Emily insisted that I ride back to the estate with Roger. I knew I shouldn't blame her for keeping Patrick away from me. In her eyes, her son had nearly died because of my negligence. How did I appear in Adrian's eyes, I wondered—like another Victoria?

On the way home I questioned Roger but learned nothing. He hadn't noticed anyone lurking about; of course, with the fog, it would have been easy to slip unseen from the woods along Scarborough Road to the pond and barn.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," he said. "Too many funny things have been happening lately."

"Do you have any idea what is going on?" I asked.

"No idea, no idea at all, just a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of it."

That evening, Emily told me she would take care of Patrick herself. I nibbled on a late dinner alone in my room, wondering why she was letting him stay up. Finally, when it was wel past his bedtime and I hadn't heard anything below, I took the back steps down to his room. I discovered that the door at the bottom had been locked from the other side. Taking the main stairs down, I found Patrick's door to the hall wide open, his room empty.

I was about to return to my quarters when I heard a ruckus downstairs. Someone was knocking on the front door and repeatedly ringing the bell.

"Henry, I told you not to answer it," Mrs. Hopewell called out.

I hurried across the second-floor hall and down the steps, then paused at the landing. Henry, retreating toward the kitchen, met my eyes for a moment.

"What the devil is going on, Louise?" Adrian shouted. He sounded as if he was emerging from the office.

"It's a trespasser," she told him. "I was just about to call the police."

"Do you know who it is?"

"A local boy."

Sam, I thought. He was supposed to call after practice.

When I heard Adrian's heavy footsteps moving toward the front door, I hastened down the last set of steps. Having lost her battle, Mrs. Hopewell marched off to the kitchen.

"Hello, Sam," I heard Adrian greet him. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Where's Kate?" Sam replied, in no mood for pleasantries.

"I do apologize," Adrian continued. "Mrs. Hopewell protects us a little too well at times."

I want to talk to Kate." Sam saw me crossing the hall toward them. "Why didn't you answer your phone?" he demanded.

"Because it's in the bottom of the pond."

I tried the house number. The old gargoyle wouldn't let me through."

I saw the flicker of a smile on Adrian's face at Sam's reference to Mrs. Hopewell. "Kate," he said, "I'm working in the office, and Emily has Patrick with her. She wants to keep him in our room tonight. The others have gone to their wings, so use whatever room you want here on the first floor. I will tell Mrs.

Hopewell to remain in the kitchen." He turned toward the office, then turned back. "I'm afraid I'm somewhat old-fashioned when it comes to young men and ladies," he added with another wisp of a smile, "and must ask that you keep the door open wherever you are."

I nodded and led Sam into the library because that was the warmest room. I could still feel the pond's cold in my bones.

"I thought something had happened to you," Sam exploded, once we were inside the paneled room. "If you knew I couldn't get through, why didn't you call me?"

"I—I forgot about my phone. So much was happening."

"You make me crazy," he said, turning his back on me, banging the palm of his hand against the fireplace mantel.

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry."

"Yeah—yeah… So what's been going on?" he asked, his voice moderating, sounding almost flat.

"Patrick fel through the ice in the pond."

Sam spun around.

"Could we sit down? It's been a long day."

"Not near the fireplace," he said. "Sound travels through flues."

We went to the corner of the room. Sam tried the Westbrooks' deep leather chairs, then sprawled on the rug. I sat on the floor facing him, hugging my knees, and recounted what had happened, backtracking to Dr. Parker's theory to explain why Patrick and I were at the pond.

At the end, Sam sighed. "I don't believe in that kind of stuff. And I especially don't believe a theory by a guy who wears pink glasses. Even so, it's creepy the way Patrick senses things when they are dead."

"I've been thinking about that," I replied. "Orange tabbies are common, and November has probably fathered a few litters. Since little kids don't always grasp the finality of death, Patrick may have seen an orange cat and thought—or hoped—it was November. He may even have imagined the whole event.

He's been very upset since the cat died."

"You said Brook knew you were at the pond."

"We talked to him as we were leaving the house. He could have painted the back of the bam long before and been waiting for the right moment to set his prank in motion. Adrian had an appointment with his lawyer today, supposedly about his will. I think Brook found himself with the perfect opportunity to stir an already boiling pot."

"And then he got lucky," Sam went on, "because Patrick decided to cross the ice? I don't think so. Kate, hasn't it occurred to you that, according to Patrick's story, he was lured onto the ice, lured by a favorite pet, just as Ashley was?"

I shifted uncomfortably and stretched my legs out in front of me. I thought of it, yes."

"And have you thought about the fact that you were supposed to be watching him, just as your mother was supposed to be watching Ashley? And that if he had drowned, you would have been blamed, just as your mother was for Ashley's death?"

I had thought about
that
quite a bit.

He leaned toward me. "I'm tell ing you again, you have to leave this place."

"And I'm tell ing
you
I'm not."

He rubbed his head. "Maybe your mother will talk some sense into you."

At first I thought I hadn't heard him correctly. "Sorry?"

He rested his back against the base of one of the big chairs, seeming a little too pleased with himself, I thought. "I contacted your mother through the Internet. It wasn't hard—I had a hunch she wasn't hiding the way she did twelve years ago. I got her maiden name from her birth records, poked around some, and found her."

I stared at him.

"I told her what was going on, just about everything I knew, including how pigheaded you are. She said you inherited that from her."

I swallowed hard.

"She said she had to get her passport updated, but would come as quickly as possible."

"Here?" I could barely get out the word.

"Yeah," he said casually, but he was faking. He had seen my reaction and was trying to downplay things. "She can stay with Mom and me."

"I can't believe you did that." My words came out in a hoarse whisper. "How dare you!"

His face colored. "You need her, Kate, whether you want to admit it or not. You need someone on your side, and you won't let it be me. So I asked her."

I was speechless.

"I want you to lock your bedroom door tonight," he said.

"It doesn't have a lock."

"Then push some furniture against it. You've seen movies, you know what to do. I'm serious, totally serious." He stood up. "Call me tomorrow. I'll keep trying to reach you, but Stone-Face probably won't let me through. If I don't hear from you, I'm coming here—understand? I'll park in their driveway and stand outside and howl if they don't let me in. I'm sure they won't appreciate another visit," he added. "My car's dropping a lot of oil on their drive. Call me."

I nodded mutely. My mother was coming. I felt as if I couldn't move from where I was.

"It's okay, I can see myself out," he said, and left.