Shadow Dancer (The Shadow Series Book 1) (21 page)

“Mrs. Morrow?” pressed Molly.

Catherine nodded at the girl, eyes wide, trying to break free of her momentary shock. Molly helped her pick up the photographs from the floor, and Catherine accepted them quietly. It wasn’t until she got into her car that she began to scream. She hit the steering wheel in rage. Bridgette, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to her, stared at her as if she was insane.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?!”

“This!”

Catherine, still seething, passed the photograph with her shaking hand to Bridgette, whose hand flew up to her dropped jaw.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Bridgette asked her sister-in-law.

Catherine nodded. “I need to let Jack handle this.”

“It wasn’t the first photograph we had found that showed Kendricks
in the background,” explained Jack, “a photograph he had no business being in. We don’t exactly live in the middle of town. We are miles away. He was coming all this way just to spy on her. To catch a glimpse of the woman he loved and lost. He was completely obsessed with Catherine.  He didn’t think we would see him, and to be honest, we usually didn’t. It wasn’t until the photographs were developed that we discovered his presence. That naturally put all of us on edge, but none more so than Catherine. I didn’t understand the extent of her fear until it was too late.”

“She began to isolate herself. Hiding up on the third floor, ignoring me when I called her down; guarding herself from the outside world. When she was entering her third trimester, I found her crying on the third floor. It took nearly an hour to get out of her what had upset her. She had seen him, standing outside the house. Not doing anything, just staring. It was a psychological game to him. The more she distanced herself from him, the more obsessed he became.”

Jack began tossing picture after picture with Kendricks appearing in the background on the table:

Catherine and Adam horseback riding with a man watching from the orchard.

Jack squeezing Catherine into a hug, standing by his new pickup truck, as someone with binoculars peered at them from the forest line.

The most chilling of all however, was a family snapshot in the dining room on Christmas Eve, smiles all around, children with messy faces, Catherine still wearing her apron from preparing dinner. In the background through the window, despite the ice and snow, was a faint outline of someone peering in the window.

He wouldn’t stop until he had her. “If only I had known then,” lamented Jack, “I would’ve put a stop to his madness. He took an already fragile mind and applied just enough pressure for it to break completely. Not many things frighten me. But Bernard Kendricks is a sick man, and the thought that he has your sister scares the living hell out of me.”

“Your mother went into labor on Christmas Eve 1981, in the middle of the worst snow storm Skole County had ever seen or has seen since. We had to act fast. Aunt Bridgette and I got her into my truck. It was snowing really heavily at this point. The weather guy was predicting this storm to be the worst in a century. We had to take it slow down the mountain, due to ice and wind. We were finally at the bottom, about to cross the covered bridge, when we saw it – a tractor trailer was laying overturned blocking the path to where the bridge once stood. The roof of the bridge had collapsed and underneath it lay debris, and the headlights of a car shone out. I could hear the sirens of an ambulance from beneath the rubble and the screams of a small child crying out into the night.”

“There were firefighters on the opposite side of the wreck, trying to dig out the car. I got out of the truck while Aunt Bridgette waited in the truck with Catherine. I tried to see if I could dig out the car from the other side. I cleared off the hood of the car and the windshield. I could see little Cole Piedmonte and his sister inside, screaming from the back seat. What the hell was I supposed to do? Leave them there? I couldn't. The firefighters were having difficulty reaching them. I tried to reach the driver's side door, but it was frozen shut. I began to kick in the windshield over the driver's seat so that the shards wouldn't harm the children inside the car. The windshield broke in three large sheets. I cleared the remaining edges from the frame with my coat sleeve before climbing into the car and grabbing hold of the children. I passed Natalie out of the car to Aunt Bridgette, and I carried Cole. We loaded them into the front seat between us and headed back home. There was no chance that we were making it through the bridge that night. The accident was devastating, and there was no other way off the pass. I had to get Catherine back up to the house, and pray that my medically trained family members could get my wife and our baby through the night. As for Monte's kids, I would bring them back to their father once the path was clear. I couldn't just leave them out there in the cold. They would have died. It was bad enough that their mother was killed in the accident.”

“We arrived back at the farm at midnight. Gus determined that Catherine was close to having the baby, but she still had a few centimeters to go. We laid her down in the living room. Bridgette piled blankets on the floor. Gus grabbed his medical bag and monitored her heart, her pulse. Bridgette placed her palm on Catherine's stomach and she could feel and time the contractions as they came and went. As the contractions came Bridgette pushed down on the top of Catherine's stomach, to help move the labor along. I was ushered out of the room by Grandma because I was panicking at this point. Roughly four hours after midnight on Christmas Day, Tristan was finally born.

“We let Catherine rest on the third floor. She was completely exhausted at that point. We checked on her periodically through the night. Christmas morning, I got sidetracked with the kids opening their presents. Bridgette checked on her at 5:00 in the morning, and when we went back at 8:00 A.M., she was gone. We tried reporting her missing, with her health issues, we tried to tell the officers that she needed to be found right away, but they didn't listen, telling us that we had to wait twenty-four hours to report her missing. Shortly after, she was pulled out of the lake, and I was the local police's primary suspect all due to a life insurance policy that was taken out a couple weeks before Catherine's death, which was her idea in the first place! I think she knew what was coming, and wanted to make sure we were okay. Since the case was frozen, we could only collect on the pre-existing life insurance policy, not the new one, not until the case was solved.”

“Our only access to the town was cut off when the bridge collapsed. Our luck was against us. But when she went missing that morning, I knew it wasn’t of her own accord.”

“The police and the coroner were convinced that it was suicide, but I knew better. I tried to tell the police about Kendricks’ history of stalking her, but they wouldn’t listen. I’m convinced Kendricks paid them off. Sounds far-fetched, but considering the corruption in this town… it might not be far off the mark.”

“I'm sorry I lied,” Jack concluded contritely, “I just thought suicide and stalkers and murder plots were too dark of a topic for my children to comprehend at such a tender age. Please understand that. It’s important that you know the truth before officers start asking questions. I loved your mother. I still do. I would give up the world to have her back for a moment. No matter what anyone says to you, know that to be true.”

* * *

The massive oak clock struck midnight when Blake put his master plan into action; the booming toll of midnight would mask his ascent to the third floor. The grandfather clock that was located in his father’s study would sound over the jarring groan that he expected the thick metal door to make. He had located what he believed to be the correct key that would unlock the rooms on the third floor, and in the most peculiar of ways. These rooms were locked for a reason. These rooms, which once were inhabited by his mother, had to be able to tell him something about what happened. Blake had a sneaking suspicion that his father was not telling all that he knew. He was hiding something, and Blake was determined to find out what.

Blake recalled the time he and Tristan asked Jack what the key was for and he always replied the same, “I don’t remember.” Even though Jack wouldn’t say, Blake had a feeling that he knew what it opened. The key felt heavy in Blake’s hand, as if reminding him of the weight of what he was about to do. He didn’t like betraying his father’s trust, but he had to find out the truth, about Tristan and their mother. He had lied for fifteen years, what is to stop him now?
Twelve strikes of the grandfather clock were all he had to open an old, potentially rust-sealed door that hadn’t been opened in over a decade. If he got caught, Blake would never hear the end of it. All the kids knew that the third floor was strictly out of bounds. They had all been warned to stay out of the third-floor suite. He didn’t know what waited for him there, but he hoped it would provide answers.

Blake began to climb the steep stairway to the third floor. With each step, Blake felt the air getting thinner. He felt an electric charge in the air. He had the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Every step, covered with ancient, tattered carpeting, creaked in protest. Every move became a struggle, until finally he reached the metal door. He had never realized how intricately detailed it was - golden bronze with lavish flora and Celtic knotting woven into the metal. He moved a panel on the door, and it slid along a track on the door to reveal an old keyhole. He
inserted the key and turned forcefully. He put his hand on the knob expecting to receive resistance, but to his surprise the door opened with a gentle twist.

The door swung open as the last strike of midnight boomed from the clock. What Blake saw before him confused him. Blake expected to see a dingy, unkempt attic with dust, boxes, and things strewn about. Instead, an immaculate parlor lay before him. Rather than looking like a room that had been left unattended for more than fifteen years, the third-floor suite was perfectly polished and quite beautiful. The blue wallpaper with yellow birds and white oleanders hadn’t aged a day. On the west wall of the parlor stood a large circular window that took precedence over all other interior décor. The white lace curtains were brushed aside, allowing the pale moon to shine in, its yellow light illuminating the parlor in a ghostly glow.

In front of the window stood an antique wooden music stand with sheet music neatly in place. At its clawed feet lay a red stained violin, the only object in the room that appeared out of place. Blake inspected the room further. There were no cob webs hanging from the Baroque era chandelier or the vaulted ceilings, nor were there any boxes, dust or spiders for Blake to dodge. This room was much cleaner than any of the rooms in the main part of the house had ever been. While Aunt Bridgette did a good job cleaning, she had a serious problem with clutter. Why then, if we have all this room up here, did we need to cram up the downstairs? It didn't make sense.

Blake moved to the north wall, walking carefully over the elaborate Persian rug that stood beneath his sneakers. Along the north wall were oil paintings in a variety of colors. Most were the artist’s rendering of the Morrow Manor, from the Haggar Tree and Croft Lake to the original blue stables and barn. One painting that caught Blake’s eye was an oil painting of a man that he recognized immediately. Hung in the center of the wall, the painting looked very life-like. It was as if his father was looking right back at him from the wall. It was one of those paintings in which you felt the eyes following you wherever you went. Blake’s anxiety began to increase the more he looked at the painting. Still, he couldn't help looking. It was as if the artist knew Jack's face so well, as if she had created it herself, having masterfully captured the curve of his nose, the faint scar on his left cheek, even the little bit of brown in his otherwise green eyes. Fixated on the portrait, Blake concluded that it couldn’t be anyone other than his mother who could recreate his father like this.

Finally, he broke his stare from the painting, anxious to see what else the third floor had in store for him. He wandered down the bright hallway that seemed to beckon him. He tried the first door to his right, and turned the doorknob gently to reveal an immaculately clean bedroom. White linens covered a queen-size bed, while silk white flowers were situated in a clear vase and a wicker rocking chair sat in the corner.
This was her room.
Blake opened the closet door to reveal a closet full of women’s clothing - dresses, pant sets, formal wear, and jogging suits. Below them, pairs of shoes neatly lined the closet floor.

Blake returned to the hallway and went to the door across the bedroom, the only door on the left. Blake entered a large room with a plethora of artwork hanging on the walls. On the far side of the room, under a windowsill, stood a desk overflowing with paint, paintbrushes, and dull pencils.

This must have been where she came to relax.