Son of the Endless Night, page 5
"I'm staying here with Brooksie and Tam," she said, pitching her voice to a more intimate level, trying to exclude eavesdroppers. "They'll take me in tonight. I want you to go back to the inn, pack my things, and bring them to me. Otherwise I don't want to see you until you've promised you won't have any more to do with that sick, psychotic— "
His voice strained by resentment, Rich said, "Hey, what gives you the right to say she's— "
Karyn's head jerked, cutting him off. She said through her teeth, "Oh, I don't know what she is, something evil and vile and disgusting and nobody, nobody is going to make me go through another night like I had last night! I wasn't dreaming. You'd just better accept that and drop this whole thing about Polly. Drop it. Rich, drop it!"
The hell I will. But he didn't say it.
They glared at each other, standoffish, for several heartbeats. Then Karyn lowered her bronze goggles as she turned full face into the sun.
"I'm going up again, to the Rocket." It was a steep run, a twisting cascade through subalpine forest; Rich couldn't hack it and felt demeaned by the oblique contempt her choice implied. "I'll see you when you're ready to start thinking about me for a change."
Karyn claimed her skis and poles from the ski corral and glided effortlessly across packed-down snow to the T-bar, where the wait was shorter. Rich retrieved the locket from where it had fallen, trying to do so by making an insouciant stab into the snow, but he miscalculated; hampered by the weight and stiffness of his Nordica boots, he almost pitched nose-first into a trash basket. Nearby a girl, seeing through him, tittered; he wouldn't look at her, but his spirits caved in with a lurch.
When he raised his head with a carefully bland stare he found that everyone had gone back to their own business. There was no one to intimidate, to turn away with what remained of his righteous anger. He heard the cries of children on the beginner's slope, whoops of holiday laughter elsewhere. Motionless, he fizzled in the sun. Her preppie friends would pass the word, that's what really rankled, more than her irrational attack on the defenseless Polly. Karyn had a fight with what' s-his-name. Their casual malice. What does she see in him? The knowing smiles, the little clannish headshakes. Rich wanted to lash out, memorialize his anger by smashing a ski or throwing a pole to the pitched roof of the lift shed. Better yet, he could pin one of those specimens of social butterfly to a wall with that same pointed pole, see how long it took him to wither and wilt. Hi, I'm Trux. I was born goddam rich and you weren't.
Rich's stomach contained sour heat, like a burning skunk cabbage. Conor had often left him feeling this way, tentative and exhausted, after they wrestled. Expert feinting to get him off balance, break his wind, utterly confuse and frustrate him. Then wham, on the mat and helpless, Conor so much bigger and not half working at it, applying just enough pain to get him crying. Inside arm bar. Head scissors. Side chancery. You'll never be fast enough, kid. The old sick feelings of inadequacy. A million miles from Mulrooney Street to Big Eli, a million more yet to go. Without Karyn? He gave up his pretense of indifference and searched for her. She was still waiting on line; Rich was jolted, alarmed by how magnificent she looked in tight racing pants, her hair bound up inside the headband for fast downhill runs. Have you ever seen a fifty-foot wave, Rich? No, he wouldn't concede this fight so easily. He had other things to do. He damn well could find something to do with the rest of his day.
9
What he did was drive back to the Post Road Inn to pack Karyn's clothes and toiletries. Sun-glazed somnolence of midafternoon, everything he touched aromatic of her. He felt grouchy and mean-spirited, thinking of her graceful Christies in deep churning powder as the blue shadows of waning day enclosed the mountainside. He smoked a last bent cigarette from the pack he'd bought the night before. Then he lay down on the bed, the gold locket chain around his right fist. He stared at the slightly battered locket, opened it, closed it. He had no insights. He felt more confused than ever.
Before long he was yawning, unable to keep his eyes open. Two hours' sleep, all that exercise. The spacious bed felt wonderful. The inn was quiet as a pharaoh's tomb.
No way, he reflected drowsily, anyone could have entered their room and left the locket on the bedpost. But he wanted, demanded, a rational explanation.
Then he had one.
Suddenly wide awake, Rich sat up and lunged off the bed, padded in his socks to the door. There he bent down and discovered an eighth of an inch of space between the bottom of the door and the floorboards. Enough space to push through an unfolded New York Times on those days when the ads weren't running heavy; more than enough to slide the locket into the room.
That much was solved. So how had it gotten to the bedpost?
They had made love; he had fallen asleep; Karyn, by habit, had gone to the bathroom to douche. So she found the locket, looked inside, fastened it to the bedpost where he would be sure to see it. She had recognized the locket, all right, when he showed it to her up at the mountain. Just enough fuel to really touch her off. A strategic mistake on his part, knowing how she felt about Polly.
Rich parted the curtains at the window, raised the window and opened the shutters all the way, looked out at the burned wing of the inn. White boards with wintered ivy clinging, barn-red shutters, only a little smoke damage showing from this angle. A good-sized hole in the roof, temporarily patched over and tarped to prevent further damage from the elements. Windross should have had crews at work restoring the place before the winter season ended. Maybe there was a hangup with the insurance. . . . Rich yawned, cracked his jaws, shut the window and turned back to the bed. He dived into it and fell asleep face down.
The telephone woke him up. Third or fourth ring. It was nearly dark outside. He knew it was Karyn calling. He struggled across the bed on his elbows and grabbed the receiver. His neck had stiffened in sleep. He rolled over carefully onto his back.
"Rich, I'm sorry."
"Me too."
"What're you doing?"
"I was asleep."
"Oh. What about my clothes?" "All packed."
"Listen, I got us a great room at the Davos Chalet. With a sauna." There was a mischievous lilt in her voice. "Ac-tually, it's the honeymoon suite."
Rich winced. "Yeah, well. I'll still have to pay for two nights here."
"I don't care. I'll help pay. I know you think I'm acting— " She sounded exasperated, but more with herself than with him. In a more gentle tone Karyn continued, "Just try to be patient with me."
"Okay. Don't worry."
"I want you to meet me somewhere at eight thirty."
"Eight thirty? So where are you now?"
"Some little town." Karyn turned away from the phone, made a muffled inquiry, came back on. "Brewster Center. They have this fabulous antique shop Tam knew about; rooms and rooms full of goodies . . . oh, thanks." Her words became a little slurred; she was trying to talk with her mouth full. "And I found the most b-ful— present for an'versary— "
"Whose anniversary? What are you eating?"
"Walnut fudge." Karyn swallowed. "Delicious. My parents. Their thirtieth wedding anniversary."
"Are we going? When?"
"Of course. Black tie. Twenty-eighth of January. Oh, about tonight. It's a restaurant a few miles north of Londonderry called the Frog Prince. Supposed to be great. All the food is prepared on wood-burning stoves. Reservations are very hard to get. We've got a big table."
"Did you ski all afternoon?"
"Almost. My wrist started hurting. I strained it again, I think, trying to dodge a couple of kiwis who wouldn't give track. How's your neck?"
"Stiff. I need a hot bath."
"Sauna's better for it. Why don't you go right on over to the Chalet? We're already checked in. Don't worry about what it costs, I still haven't cashed my birthday check from Aunt Bets."
"I'm paying, Karyn. We have this understanding, don't we? I'll put the bill on my Visa card and worry about it for the next ten months."
"Thanks for doing this for me, Rich. Now get moving."
"What's the rush?"
"I just don't like for you to be in that room, that's all."
An operator came on the line and wanted Karyn to deposit more change for another three minutes; she said a hasty good-bye to Rich instead.
After he hung up Rich went into the bathroom and ran smoking water in the tub. In the bedroom, while the tub slowly filled, he set out clothes for the evening: a tan and rust ski sweater Karyn had given him for Christmas and a pair of olive wool slacks. Skiers were returning to the inn from the slopes; car doors popped in the parking lot, voices called back and forth. Through the window he saw a few bright stars in an indigo sky.
Something else caught his attention as he was about to turn away and pull the curtains together; a light shining from a high window of the burned wing.
At first he thought it was a chance reflection, the last rays of the setting sun striking metal or glass. He lingered, eyes on the light, but it didn't vanish; instead it became stronger as the short dusk deepened into full night. The light was coming from a third-floor room on the west end of the wing. All of those rooms had French doors instead of windows, and little balconies that were more ornamental than useful. The doors were shuttered, but apparently the shutters were missing a few slats.
The light was steady; certainly not a flashlight, probably not even candlelight. Yet the rest of the wing remained dark.
Rich was aware of a thickening in his throat, a faster pulse. He pulled the curtains together, went back to the bathroom and turned off the water. He picked up his parka on his way out and checked for the car keys as he jogged downstairs to the lobby, where a fire fed noisily on pine logs and the after-ski crowd had begun to tank up and thaw out.
He ran all the way to the parking lot, slipping a couple of times on patches of ice. He opened the trunk of the Porsche and took out his flashlight. As he was about to close the lid he saw a big screwdriver with a blue plastic handle and took that as well. He had forgotten his gloves, and his fingers began to sting from the cold. He put them in his pockets. His breath was a fogbank. He made his way quickly uphill to the burned wing and found the entrance doors securely padlocked.
Rich backed off and stood craning to see the gleam of light he had noticed from his room. But there was no easy way up to the third floor; a climb from ground level was out of the question.
The least difficult route, he decided, was over the roof and down to the balcony, a drop of about eight feet. He looked over his shoulder at the main wing of the inn some forty yards downhill; lighted windows like little lanterns hung from the bare branches of intervening trees. A ladder, something— but a frontal approach was out of the question, someone was sure to notice him. He wondered where Windross was, what had happened to the man since he had been driven away in the old Cadillac.
Rich prowled around to the rear of the burned wing. The snow was deeper here, and he wasn't wearing boots. His feet were turning numb, and so was the end of his nose. The cold was almost palpable, a series of thin glass walls surrounding him, entombing him. Each movement shattered a wall invisibly, noiselessly, but another slid instantly into place. Behind him was a hill, then a higher hill, and the rising moon. He shivered, stamped his feet, looked up at the building. The fire damage was worse on this side. A twisted length of tarpaulin, torn by wind, hung down from the roof. Probably it was anchored to something up there, but he couldn't be sure. Nor could he reach it— the end of the tarp was a good ten feet above his head.
Jogging in place from impatience and the effects of the extreme cold, Rich looked around with his flashlight. He saw a pile of boards nearby, crusted with snow. Fat nailheads stuck up through the snow. He hauled one of the heavy planks off the pile and upended it, staggered by the weight, leaned it against the wall of the building a couple of feet from the dangling tarp. The board, a two-by-twelve, was about ten feet long. It had no bend in it. Dime-size nailheads stuck out an inch, two inches, some of them well enough placed to afford tenuous footholds. It wasn't much of a ladder, though, and it would be very dangerous if he should slip.
But there was no other way to go, and in two or three minutes he would be too thoroughly chilled to make the attempt. The necessity to climb, to scale the roof and let himself down the other side to the small balcony, went unquestioned. Rich had made up his mind that Polly was there, in that room, and he was going to get to her. After the frustration and humiliation he'd been through, he had to know what had been going on at the inn, fathom the matter of Polly's anxiety and her pleas— direct and indirect— for his help.
Reaching the dangle of tarp required delicate balance on the leaning board. His fingers rapidly were losing feeling. He leaned out and grabbed a double handful of the stiff tarp, tugged hard, decided it would take his weight, and began an awkward climb, hand over hand the last few feet to the old copper rain gutter. Hauling himself up over the gutter to the slant roof was an exercise in desperation. On his stomach, he clawed at more of the frozen tarp for purchase, until his fingernails were torn. It was too cold for blood to flow immediately. There was nothing he could do about his feet, they slipped and slid wildly on the roof, which was covered with ice, then layers of frozen and fresh snow.
When he reached the level where the roof had burned through it was easier: cinder blocks which had been placed there to hold the tarp down had been frozen as if welded to the roof— nothing could dislodge them. Rich picked his way easily over the scattered blocks to the flat ridge line of the roof and crouched there, looking down at the balcony, his chest heaving as he breathed.
The balcony seemed a small target, barely three feet by six, missable if he should lose his footing at the crucial instant he launched himself.
He took the screwdriver from his pocket and used it to hack handholds in the expanse of sloping ice below. When he could reach no farther he began a cautious backward descent on his stomach, negotiating the last few feet down by driving the screwdriver into the hard snow cover and anchoring it as if it were a piton.
Rich made it to the gutter and, with feet planted firmly, turned himself until his back was against the slant of the roof, knees bent, feet braced somewhat awkwardly at the gutter's edge. Again he was gasping for breath. He sighted down between his knees, bent his back, pushed off with his hands and then his feet and dropped over the side.
Half a foot of snow on the floor of the balcony took up most of the shock of his landing, but still the pain in his half-frozen feet was unmerciful. The balcony cracked like a shot and for a terrifying few moments seemed to sway: he thought it might let go and drop him another thirty feet in a jagged tumble of wood and old rusted iron.
Rich waited, on hands and knees, not daring to move. The cold air he sucked in through his mouth seared the lining of his throat, but he couldn't seem to get enough to fill his lungs.
"Who's that?"
So he'd been right, and the effort to get to her was worthwhile!
Rich stood shakily and leaned against the shutters over the French doors; he called to her.
"Polly, it's Rich!"
She cried out joyfully, saying his name again and again. Rich laughed and flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation going. He blew his breath futilely into cupped hands.
"Honey, come on, let me in, it's freezing out here."
"I can't."
There was a loose slat in one of the shutters near his head; Rich pried at it, cursing, and pulled it loose. Peered into the room.
She was standing a few feet from the bed, anticipation and frustration in the pale narrow oval of her face. She was taller than he remembered. But she'd be twelve and a half now, verging on puberty, shooting up. She wore a gray tweed skirt, a crewneck Nordic sweater, red knee-high socks. It was a large square room they had her in, untouched by the fire and smoke. He wondered how that could be, but he was overjoyed by the sight of Polly, at last, and not disposed to dwell on the pristine condition of the walls, covered with a silver and buff paper, a faded woodland scene, or the coffered ceiling. The room was plainly furnished. A single bed of stout maple, a round table by the bed, a lamp and a miniature TV on the table. On the bed a pillow and a patchwork quilt, some dolls and stuffed animals, teen magazines strewn at one end and falling to the floor. A small radio played so softly he almost didn't hear it.
Polly tried to take another step closer to him, but couldn't move her left foot. There was a metal ring padded with tape around her ankle, a chain attached to it. The chain, perhaps seven feet long, was padlocked to the bed.
With a cry of despair Polly bent almost double, soft blond hair falling in a wave to her knees.
"Rich, I can't!"
He had dropped the screwdriver before jumping, and now had to scrabble in the snow of the balcony to locate it. The shutters had been nailed together with a piece of angle iron. He found the screwdriver, dug it into the soft wood, frantically pried at the piece of iron until he could force the shutters apart.
The French doors weren't locked. Rich stepped up into the room and, stopped by a sudden hard wrench of caution, took the time to close the shutters again. In case anyone happened to look up there and see the light shining from the room. And came to investigate. Despite his anger he was afraid of that. Cautious and afraid, not yet knowing what the two of them were up against.
Then he had Polly in his arms, his fingertips already throbbing, about to become excruciatingly painful. He could feel her bones through the sweater, the faint fluff of her hair against one cold red cheek.
"What's going on? Why did they chain you to the bed? For God's sake— is your father responsible for this?"
"Yes!"
Rich guided her to the bed. Polly hid her face against him, as if she were overcome with embarrassment by her circumstances; the tears flowed on and on. There was a tray of food, largely untouched, on the table, a tang of childish urine from a chamberpot. Rich went down on one knee to look at the padlock that held the chain to the bed. Forget it. Nor could he move the bed. The clubbed maple feet had been bolted to the floor.
