Paradise County (12 page)

“Good dog,” he praised the animal, pleased that it trusted him enough to turn to him for protection. Holding on to the rope although the dog seemed perfectly willing to follow him without it, ducking his head, he walked along the ancient, stone-paved tunnel that had once been used to smuggle slaves to safety as part of the Underground Railroad. Shortly he came to an iron door. Although the door was well over a hundred years old, the padlock that secured it was new. The key was one of many on the key ring he always carried. Unlocking the door, he pulled it shut behind him as he passed on into a taller, earthen chamber. With relief, he stretched to his full height. Keeping his head low for so long occasionally gave him a crick in the neck.

“Come on,” he said to the dog, which wagged its tail. Heading for a wooden door, he pulled it open and led the dog into another room in which the floor, ceiling, and all four walls were made of large, hand-carved stones. This room was as old as the tunnel, and as forgotten by everyone but him. Years ago, he had turned it into his own private playroom.

“Hello, Cassandra,” he said genially to the girl who awaited him there, sitting naked on the side of the cot he had so thoughtfully provided for his guests. Lank-haired and dull-eyed, she didn’t even bother to jump to her feet at his entrance anymore. She just stared at him dully through the iron bars of her cage.

“I’ve brought you a pet,” he said, smiling at her as he turned on the battery-powered camper’s lantern that he kept on the table in the part of the room that was separate from the cell. The glow from the lantern cast his shadow on the wall, and the shadow reflected the truth of him with surprising accuracy: it looked sinister, which he emphatically did not in real life. He was pleased with the image, which included the little bow-legged
beast at his feet and the rope which connected them. The light did not quite reach the corners, but there was enough illumination to do what he needed to do.

Glancing reflexively around, he saw that everything was just as he had left it. His big leather recliner, his TV, his remote control, his collection of videotapes, the photo gallery of his guests. They were all there, pictured in life, death, and every stage in between, affixed to wooden strips that he had secured to the walls. He had recorded the metamorphosis of each of them, from the first of his victims to Eric, Cassandra’s erstwhile boyfriend, who was the last, except for the collection of pictures of Cassandra which was not quite finished. Her portfolio began with the picture he had snapped on the night he had brought her to this room. She was beautiful in that picture, wide-eyed with fright but smiling bravely at the camera because he had ordered it. Soon he would take the last shot in her series: the look on her face as death claimed her. It might not be as conventionally pretty as the first, but it would be more fascinating. The difference in the way people died intrigued him. Some prayed, some did not. Some kept their eyes closed, others looked death in the face. All of them, every single one, screamed their lungs out at the end. Death was such a pure thing, so cleansing. He didn’t know why everyone seemed to fear it so.

He did not. When it came, he would welcome it. But he was not ready to welcome it yet.

“Here dog,” he said to the dog, who was looking up at him with near-worshipful brown eyes. He led the animal closer to the wall, picked up one end of an iron chain that hung from a ring set into the stone, and wrapped that around the dog’s neck, working with it until it was secure, then padlocking it in place. The dog hunkered down on its belly, not liking to be chained, but made no effort to escape.

Knowing what was coming—after all, she had seen what had happened to Eric—Cassandra started to cry, dry heaving sobs that sounded like they hurt.

“Don’t you like your pet?” he said to her reproachfully. He tugged on the chain once, twice, just to make sure the dog could not get
loose, then, as he caught the animal’s eye, patted him on the head again.

“Good dog,” he crooned, moving away to the storage cabinet where he kept his supplies. The dog strained after him, already his loyal friend. Removing a can of kerosene and a box of fireplace matches, he retraced his steps until he stood just out of the dog’s reach. It looked adoringly at him.

Cassandra’s sobs were abating. Looking over at her, he saw that she had her eyes tightly closed.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered, his voice suddenly harsh. “Open your eyes and watch, or I’ll do it to you instead.”

Her eyes opened. He smiled, satisfied, and squirted almost the entire contents of the can over the dog. The scent of kerosene was so strong that he wrinkled his nose against it. The dog looked confused, cowering as the strong-smelling liquid soaked into its coat, uttering one soft little whimper and looking up at him beseechingly.

After making sure that Cassandra was still watching, he took a step back, struck a match, and tossed it at the dog. The flame touched the kerosene and ignited with a soft
whoosh.

The screaming dog sounded almost human as it went up like a torch.

“Good dog,” he said one last time, smiling as he watched the tethered animal leap and run in circles and finally collapse writhing on the floor as it fought desperately, futilely, to escape the flames.

Meanwhile, Alex and Neely spent a pleasant afternoon and evening together. They talked, explored the house, raided the refrigerator for cold cuts for dinner and watched TV in the cozy den that opened off the living room. Having Neely with her made all the difference, Alex discovered. Her sister’s lively and irreverent companionship was both cheering and a balm for her wounded heart. Although she was worried about Neely’s school situation, she nevertheless was more glad than she could say for her sister’s presence.

Every time thoughts of Paul’s betrayal threatened to intrude, Alex determinedly pushed them away, but the pain was impossible to banish entirely. Add that to her ever-present grief over her father, and this could have been one of the worst nights of her life.

Thanks to Neely, it was not.

Even without the shock of losing Paul, she wouldn’t have liked to be alone tonight, she mused, a book lying forgotten on her lap as she watched her enthralled sister watching
Party of Five.
Funny, when she’d made her plans to come to Whistledown on her own she had never considered what being alone in this big, strange house at night might feel like. Now that Neely was with her, she realized just how unnerving the echoing emptiness of the high-ceilinged, large-roomed space might have been had her sister not been here to share it. Their father had spent the last days and nights of his life here; he had died here. His presence was everywhere. When she was quiet, like now, she could feel it, and it disturbed her. If not for Neely, she probably would have ended up going to a hotel. Simpsonville was too small to have one, but Shelbyville did, she remembered from previous visits.

The last time she’d been here was during the summer right after she had graduated from college. She’d been twenty-one, and at her father’s invitation she had joined him for a weekend at Whistledown, where he had flown in to attend Keeneland’s July Selected Yearling Sale. They had rarely spent much time together on their own—it seemed like he always had a wife or girlfriend in tow—and she had been pleased and touched when he had told her that this time it would be just the two of them. What he had really wanted to do, of course, was talk to her about her future. Specifically, about her joining Haywood Harley Nichols with an eye to one day possibly taking over the firm. When the proposal was put to her, she had wanted no part of it, and she and her father had ended up quarreling fiercely. She’d left the day after she arrived without ever attending the horse sale.

Looking back, her chest ached at the memory. Oh, Daddy, she thought. If I’d come to work for you, would things have turned out differently? I could have, so easily. I should have… .

Tears crowded her eyes, and she blinked them away frantically. There was no point in making Neely feel bad, too. Anyway, wishing that she had made a different choice that day was useless. What was done was done.

A storm blew in about eleven, dumping what sounded like torrents of rain on the roof. Thunder rolled, lightning cracked across the sky like a whip, and the wind blew. Neely went to bed first, in the bedroom suite next to Alex’s. Both automatically chose the rooms that had been theirs on previous visits. Having taken one of the sleeping pills that her doctor had prescribed to combat the insomnia she had suffered since her father’s death, Alex was dead to the world by twelve. The storm raged, the old house creaked, the heating system kicked in with a soft hum. None of that woke her.

But something did. Something roused her from a sleep so sound that she’d been the next thing to comatose. One second she was practically unconscious, and the next she was awake, with the creepy feeling that something unpleasant had just brushed across her cheek. Her eyes blinked open, and she stared up into darkness so intense that she could see nothing at all. Briefly she was disoriented. It took a moment to remember where she was, and why.

Instinct kept her silent, and motionless, as she took stock.

The soft floral scent that surrounded her came from the fabric softener Inez had used on the sheets, she realized. She was lying on her right side with her face all but buried in the too-soft pillow, which was why the smell seemed so strong. The rattling sound was rain pelting the window-panes. The cool air that slid across her face was a draft from the old and not particularly well fitting window. Surely it was that which had brushed her cheek as she awoke.

But there was another sound besides the rain, softer, closer at hand. It came from the foot of the antique, ornately carved walnut bed.

Alex lay unmoving, staring blindly into the impenetrable darkness that shrouded her like a blanket as she listened with all her might. Her heart began to speed up; her mouth grew dry. She was no longer in any doubt as to what she was hearing: the deep, steady rasp of someone, or some
thing,
in the room with her, breathing.

Ten

T
he hair rose on the back of Alex’s neck. She lay as if frozen in place. Whoever or whatever it was that waited at the foot of her bed was motionless, too, doing nothing more than
breathing.

Oh, God, What should she do?

Her pulse raced. Her muscles stiffened. Her fight-or-flight impulse kicked into high gear, but she forced herself to remain as she was. Until she could come up with a more productive alternative, her best bet was to pretend to be still asleep.

The breathing continued unabated: in, out; in, out. Heavy. Raspy. The sound grew so loud, at least to her ears, that it drowned out everything else, even the frightened drumming of her heart, even the raging storm outside. Neely? Could it possibly be Neely standing there at the foot of her bed, for some unfathomable reason just standing silent and motionless in the dark watching her sleep?

No way. Not possible. First of all, Neely had never breathed like that in her life. Second, she would have announced her presence, loudly and unmistakably, by calling her sister’s name or poking her or even, if she was scared, jumping into Alex’s bed with her. Silent watching was not Neely’s style.

She and Neely were alone in the house.

So what possibilities did that leave? A burglar? Alex’s blood ran cold at the thought. A—ghost? Her blood went from cold to icy.

She had been dreaming of her father. Vague wisps of memory floated through her mind like drifts of fog. Whistledown was the scene of his violent death. From the very first moment that she had understood what had happened to him, she had thought that whatever else he did he would never voluntarily leave them, his family, without a word. Was this breathing some sort of ghostly visitation? Some attempt on his part to contact her from beyond?

She had never believed in ghosts—until, possibly, now.

Even as the thought formed in her mind, the breathing seemed to move, seemed to be coming from a new location. Alex could still hear the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations plainly, but they were growing ever fainter as they seemed to move farther and farther away. Whoever or whatever it was, was heading toward her open bedroom door. The realization came in a flash.