Return of the Wolf Man (10 page)

“Not a one, Dr. Cooke. All I remember is that there was a slippery staircase and a lake down there.”

“A lake?” Caroline asked.

“Yes’m,” he said. “Fed by the bay through the cove. Maybe it sent up a draft, I dunno. Pratt’s grandad—the sheriff—checked the lake. He didn’t find any bodies or anything, so we also used a little dynamite on the cave feedin’ the lake. Closed that baby right up. Then I blocked this entrance up and that was that.” He glared at Porterhouse. “Of course,
my
word that it’s empty, the word of a Korean War vet, ain’t good enough for Uncle Sam’s bloodhound here. He’s gotta wreck the wall an’ nose around for hisself.”

“I have a job to do,” Porterhouse said, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in the outside pocket of his blazer. “And so do you. Are you ready?”

“I guess the hell I am,” Banning said, excusing his Spanish once more as he walked to the basement door, his tool belt rattling. He turned the brass handle but the door didn’t open. “So, yer gonna fight me, are ya?” he said. Standing his jackhammer against the wall, he fished a small can of WD-40 from his pocket. He gave the hinges two squirts each then tried the door again. It opened grudgingly, a screeching inch at a time. “Not bad for a half a century of crusted grime an’ ocean salt. That’s one good thing about this place.”

“What is?” Caroline asked.

“It may be creepy, but it don’t creep the way houses do on the mainland.” Banning pulled a pair of clear goggles from a pocket. “This place was built out of stone on top of granite. The mansions back ashore are practically built on sandbars, some of them. They sink an’ wobble over the years. Also, except for the stairs in the basement, there ain’t very many timbers in this place. There ain’t much for the seawater to warp and rot. That’s why this door is still almost perfectly flush even if the hinges are a little rusty.”

“Constructed to last,” said Pratt.

“You said it,” Banning said. “This castle may’ve been built by nutburgers, but they did it right.” He slipped his goggles on without removing his cap. Then he motioned the others back and leaned over the jackhammer. “I’d gimme a good ten yards if I were all of you. The chips’re gonna fly.”

“Hold it, Mr. Banning,” Caroline said anxiously.

He turned and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you have to use that?”

“You mean Jack the Ripper?”

“If that’s what you call it,” Caroline said.

“I do . . . And yes, I do. Have to use it, I mean.”

She pointed to the molding between the wall and the ceiling. “Some of those arabesques are rather fragile. Your machine might shake them apart.”

“Sweetie,” Banning said, “Mr. Pratt here was right. These walls and designs are tough. They’ve stood up to storms pushin’ hundred-an’-twenty-mile-an-hour winds. Me an’ Jack won’t do more than rattle a few cobwebs loose, I promise. In fact, I’m not even gonna cut much of a hole—just enough for Mr. P. to crawl through, poke around with his flashlight, and crawl back out again.”

“Come again?” Porterhouse said.

Banning cocked his head toward Pratt. “Yer gettin’ a mouse hole, chief. Lawyer’s instructions.”

“The law says we have to let you in,” Pratt told him. “It doesn’t say we have to cut you a door.”

Porterhouse’s gaze turned icy. “The least you could have done was warn me, Pratt. I wouldn’t have worn good clothes.”

“Sorry,” Pratt said insincerely.

“Y’can go out and get a drop cloth from the boat if you want,” Banning said.

“No,” Porterhouse said. “Let’s just get on with this.”

Banning glanced at Pratt. “Actually, it’s gonna get a little dusty in here. You might want to open the door for ventilation.”

“Good idea,” Pratt said.

He walked over and tugged the door open. As he did, Caroline looked out. The sky was now a blue-black and the early moon hovered low behind the trees on the mainland. Caroline felt herself comforted by the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks on the shore.

“You’re really taken with the place,” Pratt said.

Caroline nodded. “I was thinking before that Aunt Joan must have known I’d feel at home here. She must have sensed it somehow. She knew I’d take care of the Tombs for her.”

“You know,” Pratt said, “it’s just a thought, but if you’re really interested in staying here permanently—and I hope you are—you could probably set up a practice in LaMirada and turn this place into a bed and breakfast. I’ll bet you could charge three, maybe four hundred dollars a night for a room.”

Porterhouse, who had been watching Banning prime the jackhammer engine, turned to Pratt. “In that case, Counselor, I’d have to come out and reassess the Tombs. The tax rates are different for private residences than for businesses.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Porterhouse,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t want to do that anyway. If I decided to sell my practice and move down here, I wouldn’t want the Tombs to be an inn.”

“I understand,” Pratt replied. He smiled. “Maybe you could continue the family tradition and write.”

“I don’t think so,” Caroline said. “Painting is my hobby, Mr. Pratt. And this foyer would make a wonderful studio. The royalties from my aunt’s books will provide me with a healthy income. There’s no need to change what the Tombs has always been. Someone’s home.”

The conversation was disrupted by the noisy hum of the jackhammer as Banning pulled the starter handle. Holding the two grips tightly, he placed the tip of the insert steel against the top of the lowest brick, squeezed the handle control, and began chipping away the dry mortar.

Caroline felt a jolt, as though the steel had penetrated her body. The sensation passed, but she turned toward the basement door and watched with concern as the chunks fell away like the words of a broken promise.

THREE

T
he great castle vibrated from the top of its sloped turret to the imposing cornerstone on the island’s northwest side. The old stones themselves seemed to be moaning as the drone of the jackhammer was transferred from one to the next. Cavernous rooms, untenanted for decades, amplified the sound and sent it rolling like a roar toward the darkening sky.

Beneath the sealed basement door, the waters of the long-hidden lake did a choppy dance. The rotting wood of the staircase came apart in tiny splinters and rats and flies that had found their way in hurriedly found their way out again. The pleasant company of death was one thing. The company of humans was quite another.

A short flight below the barricaded door, to the right of the landing, a group of stones did more than jiggle. They moved as one—an upright, oblong slab turning around iron hinges set in the ceiling and in the floor.

The thick doorway opened slightly, barely more than an inch. Fetid air leaked from the room beyond, joining the rank atmosphere without.

Behind the door, a small room also shuddered under the relentless pounding. Spiders scuttled away as their cobwebs shook loose. Strand after strand floated to the floor, some of them landing on an old wooden chair, some on an ancient iron grate in the center of the floor. Some of it fell upon a desiccated body that lay on its back beside the grate in the heart of the room. The body was also trembling.

Protruding from the chest of the body was a jagged piece of looking glass. As the room shook, dust-sized particles fell from the top side of the glass. Small flakes of silver snowed onto the sleeve of the corpse and onto the floor. The mirror itself wiggled, sheathed in dry flesh that no longer held it snugly. The glass rose up and up until it finally tumbled over, hitting the floor and breaking apart with a tinkle.

The jackhammering stopped. The cobwebs beside the body were still, covered with a fairy-tale coating of silver. A lone rat bravely poked its nose into the room, sniffed, and then quickly exited. For a moment, there was peace.

Then the pounding started again. It grew louder as the tip of the jackhammer broke through the first bricks. Light entered the basement for the first time in over twoscore years. Glittering diamonds seemed to flit across the top of the waters and a whisker-thin slice of light penetrated the darkness of the hidden room.

It penetrated the darkness and slashed across the hollow, graying chest of Lawrence Talbot.

FOUR

“T
hat oughta do it,” Banning said. He stepped away from the brick wall and surveyed his handiwork.

“Very good,” Pratt said. He glanced at Porterhouse and smirked. “Your turn, William.”

William Porterhouse looked from Pratt to the opening to the man who’d cut it. His eyes seemed to narrow with each stop. “That,” he said, pointing, “is not an entrance. It’s a wasp hole.”

Banning shrugged. “If the shoe fits—”

“It most certainly does not,” Porterhouse said.

Caroline was leaning against the jamb in the open castle doorway, watching the brightest stars wink on against the soft wash of moonlight. She tried hard to ignore the men and their desecration of the Tombs.

Porterhouse turned to Caroline. “Dr. Cooke, I’m a reasonable man—”

“When it suits you,” Pratt said.

“However,” the assessor went on, “I must insist on a more commodious opening! Not only is that
—that fissure
unsafe but, speaking frankly, I believe it’s punitive.”

“Hey,” Banning said, “it’s gettin’ late. We ain’t got time for big words or big holes.”

Caroline turned toward Porterhouse. This had been the first moment she’d had to relax, to savor the fact that the castle was hers. Really
hers.
She wasn’t going to let this man and his whining or Banning and his silly wisecracks or Pratt and his well-intentioned legal tricks spoil the moment for her.

“Do you know, Mr. Porterhouse,” she said calmly, “I was an architecture minor in college.”

“I did not know that,” he said politely through his teeth.

“Yes. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to preserve landmarks or human lives. I finally decided on humans, though I’m not sure I made the right decision. The point is, some of the arabesques I was mentioning earlier are lincrusta.”

“More big words!” Banning complained.

Caroline said, “Lincrusta are wall coverings that look like leather, only they’re not. You know what they are?”

No one answered.

“They’re animal glue and pressed wood. Very rare and very fragile. I was just thinking, I wonder what the Florida Landmarks Conservancy would say if they knew what was going on here?”

Pratt looked at the woman with open admiration. “I’ll bet they wouldn’t be very happy if they knew we were risking some very, very valuable works so the county can make a few extra bucks.”

“The FLC has no authority on La Viuda,” Porterhouse said with a sniff. “This castle has never been declared a landmark.”

“Do you doubt they’d declare it one?”

“I’m not qualified to say,” Porterhouse replied. “I only know that it isn’t one right now. I also know that that hole isn’t fit for a man to enter. And I
also
know that I’m losing patience with all of you.”

“That’s your problem,” Pratt said.

“I can make it yours, I promise,” Porterhouse replied. “First thing tomorrow morning I can get an extension of the tax warrant. And I’ll have it amended to make sure that Ms. Raymond didn’t seal up other rooms. That there aren’t any hidden closets or attics or trapdoors in this godforsaken—”

“Look,” Pratt said, “this isn’t a legal issue. It’s a matter of morality.”

“That’s a funny thing for a lawyer to be sayin’,” Banning remarked. “Listen, Porterhouse. I don’t care about anything except gettin’ out of here. So you better start crawlin’.” He started toward the door with his jackhammer. “I’m gonna get the stuff to close that opening back up.”

“Wait!” Porterhouse barked.

“Don’t wait,” Pratt said to Banning. “Mr. Porterhouse, this is all the drilling we intend to do. Which means you have three choices. First, I
will
accommodate you. We’ll make the opening larger. But you have to wait while we have the wall chipped away by hand. I don’t want to cut away one inch more than is necessary, so you’ll have to stand here and say when.”

“If you want that, yer doin’ it yerself,” Banning said. “I ain’t stayin’ in this place that long.”