Sharp Force, page 10
“Nice of you but not necessary,” I tell Marino. “I hope Dorothy’s doing all right,” I add pointedly, because that’s who he should be most concerned about.
“I’ve not heard from her for a while. She’s not answering. Probably busy talking to Janet,” he adds with resentment. “I already know what to expect when I get home. Dorothy will be throwing back wine in front of the TV, griping to Janet about me. Implying something bogus and unfair about my relationship with you.”
“Staying here with me until Benton comes home won’t make things any better, Marino.”
“No kidding,” he says, chewing gum, his face unhappy. “I’m sorry about the spa package, Doc.”
We’ve reached the guest cottage where Lucy lives, indistinct in deep shadows. Blackout shades block any light inside, and I can’t tell when she’s home. But she isn’t now and won’t be tonight. I can’t believe we’re not spending Christmas Eve together.
“I didn’t mean to cause a stink. Especially when you’re about to skip town,” Marino adds as I notice animal tracks just ahead.
Then there are more of them pockmarking the snow in a decided direction that trails off into dense trees swallowed by darkness. Possibly a fox. Maybe a coyote. Our fence doesn’t keep out all animals. I’ve seen a fox climb it more than once, and I know that bears can. Raccoons dig under it.
“I was thinking about you flying across the pond and having jet lag, and that the spa might be just the ticket,” Marino goes on. “I thought you should be pampered.”
“Best you don’t put it like that to my sister.” I’m blunt about it. “In her mind, the only person you should be pampering is her.”
Around a bend in the driveway, floodlights shine on the white brick carriage house that’s now a garage. The double wooden doors open manually the same way they did more than a century ago. As we drive past, I notice eyes reflecting yellow in our headlights up ahead.
“What the hell?” Marino slows down.
A raccoon quickly waddles off the driveway, something not quite right with one of his legs. Before I can get a better look, he’s gone in the fog.
“Let’s hope he’s not rabid.” Marino drives on.
“He didn’t look rabid. He looked injured.” My heart sinks as I think about the likelihood of getting Mount Vernon Animal Rescue or anyone else out here during Christmas.
“And what does rabid look like?” Marino asks. “We can’t tell at a glance if he’s rabid.”
“Whatever he is, I hope Merlin is inside Lucy’s cottage or the main house.” I’m keeping my eye out for him. “I hate that he wanders about, especially after dark.”
Merlin was feral when Lucy rescued him as a kitten. Accustomed to living in the wild, he goes ballistic if kept inside against his will. She installed small doors that allow him to come and go as he pleases. It’s not safe on a property teeming with wildlife, some of it nocturnal.
We stop in front of the house, two-story white brick with dusky blue shutters, the slate roof piled in snow. Candles in the windows and other lights on timers glow warmly, a fresh holly wreath on the front door like a greeting card.
“Thank you for going with me to the O’Learys’. And for driving.” I unbuckle my shoulder harness.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in for a while, Doc? I really don’t mind.” Fishing the gum out of his mouth, he flicks it into the trash bag.
“As soon as I’m inside, I’ll set the alarm. No need to worry,” I reply. “If my sister is still awake, alert and in the mood, tell her to call. I’m sorry the two of you can’t be with us tonight.”
“Yeah, me too, Doc.” He sounds frustrated. “But now that you know what’s going on with Dorothy, it might be for the best.”
“Benton and I will stop by to see you on our way to the airport tomorrow afternoon. We have a little something for you two that we think you’ll like.”
“I’m sure you’re looking forward to getting the hell out of here for a while.” Marino can’t disguise how he feels about it.
He hasn’t said as much but I know he doesn’t want me leaving the country for two weeks. He doesn’t like me going anywhere at all. I sense him watching as I push open my door, stepping down into snow that buries my suede ankle boots, cold seeping inside them.
“Merry Christmas, Marino.” I shut the door, and his window lowers.
“You too, Doc.” His face looks reluctant. “I really don’t like leaving you here alone,” he again says, and I think of the irony.
He doesn’t mind leaving Dorothy alone. Janet’s comments about his feelings toward me aren’t baseless, and my sister knows it.
“Good night,” I tell him.
I’m tentative on the front steps, taking one at a time, the wind louder, wailing and whistling. Snow blows off trees in clouds. Thunder cracks like a gun going off, lightning flashing, and I’m startled by a loud crashing in the woods that sounds close.
“What the fuck was that?” Marino has his head out the window, looking around in alarm.
He unholsters his pistol from the steering column as I pause on the porch, staring out at swirling grayness. Snowflakes coldly touch my face, and I’m on high alert.
“A decent-sized animal, it sounded like.” I peer into the overcast.
“Maybe that raccoon we saw.”
“It didn’t sound like a raccoon, sounded bigger than that. Hopefully friendly, whatever it is,” I decide, looking in the direction of the noise. “I guess the thunder spooked it.”
“A deer, I’m betting.” Marino’s attention is everywhere.
“They can’t get in unless the gate is open,” I reply.
“One could have come in behind us and we didn’t see it,” he says as more thunder explodes like a war going on.
Sticks snap in the dark, followed by snorts and screams that turn my blood cold.
“Geezus effing Kris Kringle!” Marino’s eyes are wide. “Maybe I should get out and poke around?”
“And if it’s a bobcat or a bear?” I have my keys out. “Then what are you going to do?”
“Tell it to eat more chicken?”
“Go home, Marino.” I can’t help but laugh even as my nerves spark like electrical static.
“Told you this place is Jurassic Park,” he says, rolling up his window.
He begins turning his truck around in small maneuvers, the engine gunning as I halfway expect something hideous to emerge from the gloom. Unlocking the front door, I step inside the house, entering my code to silence the beeping security system.
Pausing in the doorway, I wave good night as Marino drives off in a swirl of exhaust. Then I hear crashing through the brush near the greenhouse in the garden. I can barely make out the lavender glow of the ultraviolet light inside. Dorothy insisted on installing it over her cannabis plants, four of them, the legal limit in Virginia.
Something grunts and shrieks. I hear a guttural hooting that doesn’t sound like an owl. If Marino were here, I can imagine him freaking out, certain it’s a Bigfoot or a Yeti. I don’t know what the hell it is, and now I hear loud growling close to the porch. Shutting the door, I throw on the deadbolt, my heart flying out of my chest.
I reset the alarm, the light on the display turning red. I check the security monitor, the video images murky. White lights along the driveway are blurry on the live feed. The vague shapes of trees near the house move in the wind, headlights shining on the front gate.
It begins opening as Marino waits in his truck. I gasp when something touches my leg.
“Jesus, Merlin!”
Lucy’s cat rubs against me, frantic, not purring. Spotted, with full moon eyes, he stares up at me. I pet him, checking to make sure he has no injuries. My first thought was he might have tangled with a raccoon or some other animal. He’s fine.
“Now’s not a good time to sneak up on me, please. But thank God you’re inside the house,” I say to Merlin, and his back arches.
He hisses at the front door, thunder clapping, and I look again at the security monitor. I don’t see anything except snow and fog, the front gate lurching shut as Marino drives off, the engine loud over the security monitor, the truck’s taillights vanishing.
Except they don’t.
What I’m seeing aren’t taillights, I realize with a start, staring at the video display in disbelief. Two red orbs float over the closing front gate.
A thrill of fear races up to the roots of my hair as the glowing red lights move along the driveway, coming closer in overcast thick like a cloud. Merlin glares at the front door, a low growl in his throat, the fur standing up on his back.
“It’s okay. We’re safe in here,” I say to him. “This is why you stay inside now, please? I don’t want you even thinking about going anywhere when we don’t know what’s lurking about.”
Bending down, I remove his plastic collar that Lucy 3-D prints. An embedded electronic chip automatically opens the cat doors when Merlin decides to venture inside or out.
“Don’t be angry.” I hope he doesn’t make a terrible fuss.
Merlin has been known to caterwaul loud enough to wake the dead. He’s destroyed blinds and curtains when feeling trapped.
“It’s for your own good.” I pet him again. “I saw that very large owl a few minutes ago, the one I’ve warned you about. And an injured raccoon that might have been growling. Which is why you shouldn’t go out at night. And the weather’s awful.”
Merlin is glued to me as I watch the monitor in the foyer. The two red orbs float blearily and in tandem over the foggy driveway like something supernatural. I’m transfixed, curious and horrified as the small red lights travel closer to the house, and I think of the video Dana Diletti took with her phone.
I envision the bright red eyes of the phantomlike specter repeatedly seen around the time of the Slasher murders. I remember police statements about the victims telling their friends and colleagues about seeing and hearing eerie red lights and sounds not long before their murders.
I’m tempted to call Marino. But if I do, he’ll come barreling back. That wouldn’t be fair to my sister, and it’s not necessary. I try Benton instead, and he answers on the first ring.
“They’ve just cleared the tractor-trailer off the highway,” he says right away.
“How’s the battery charge holding up?”
“Around twenty-eight percent.” He sounds tired, his patience beginning to fray, and that’s saying a lot as stoic as he is. “Traffic should start moving any minute.”
“Benton, there’s something strange going on.”
I’m looking at the monitor inside the entryway, and the red orbs are near the porch. I’m worried that any moment they’re going to enter the house, and the figure in black will be in front of me, grinning and waving his knife.
“These two red lights on the property,” I explain to Benton.
Parting the drape next to the front door, I peer out the window, the red orbs moving closer.
“I’m looking at them out the window. They’re floating in front of the house…”
I’ve no sooner said this than they vanish before my eyes.
“That’s weird,” I mutter, letting go of the drape.
I see nothing on the monitor but the hulking shapes of trees and shrubs in grayness. And my footprints in the snow leading up the steps to the front door. I tell Benton what I saw and heard after Marino dropped me off a few minutes ago.
“The red lights reminded me of the phantom hologram. But I don’t know what was in the woods. I heard howling and screaming,” I explain. “I know this sounds kooky.”
“One thing you never sound is kooky,” Benton replies as I hang my coat in the entryway closet. “I wish like hell I could get to you quicker. Where’s your Glock?”
“Upstairs as usual.”
“You should be carrying it.”
“Let’s don’t start on that,” I reply.
“Please go get it.”
“I will, but I’m not seeing the red lights anymore, and maybe it was a big deer as Marino suggested.” But I don’t believe it.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Benton says. “Keep the alarm on, and don’t go outside again for any reason whatsoever.”
“No fear of that.”
“I’ll be home soon, God willing,” he promises, and we end the call.
CHAPTER 13
I take off my boots, leaving them near the door. Inside the entryway closet are the shearling-lined moccasins I wear in the house, and I slip them on.
My feet are quiet on centuries-old pumpkin pine flooring original to the house and outbuildings. The wide smooth boards are a deep dark orange, the walls white plaster with rosy bricks wearing through. Exposed oak beams in curved wooden ceilings look like the ribs of a ship.
“I need to visit the wine cellar if you want to come along,” I say to Merlin.
When the house was built in the mid-1700s, it included a servants’ back hallway leading to the cellar where a second kitchen was located. I hustle that way as Merlin slinks after me.
Opening the door off the pantry, I turn on the light over old stone steps, the air cool and damp carrying the faint scent of cannabis. I flip up another switch, the dangling lightbulb overhead garishly bright on the low ceiling and brick walls.
Merlin dashes to the deadbolted basement door leading outside. He paces back and forth in front of the cat flap at the bottom of it, muttering and meowing irritably when it won’t open. The wind howls, the storm heaving around us, the house shivering and creaking.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Merlin. “But no way you’re going outside right now. I don’t know why you’d want to.”
His answer is to hiss, suddenly clawing at the air as he often does down here. Marino swears the house is haunted. He claims to have experienced the paranormal. Laughter. Metal clacking and clanging like swordfighting. A voice whispering in what he swears was Old English, although I’m not sure he would know what that sounds like.
He once saw a young man dressed like a pirate in short tight pants, a long coat and tricorn hat. The description sounds like Dobbin Lumley, the British sea captain who was the original owner. He named the estate Belle Rise, the parcel of land at the time fifty acres directly on a wide bend in the Potomac River.
He was described as short of stature but superhumanly strong, handsome with long dark hair, and fierce with a cutlass. Growing up on the London docks, he made his fortune from capturing pirate ships loaded with ill-gotten booty. Or that was what he told people. Based on what I’ve read, it’s questionable who was the pirate.
After Benton and I bought Belle Rise, I made it my mission to excavate more than the garden. In my home office is a banker’s box of photocopied records and correspondence relating to the history. During quiet moments when I look out our bedroom windows, I imagine the sea captain’s view of what today is Point Lumley Park, and beyond it the river.
Stubby timber footings are all that’s left of his wharf, and at low tide they peek above the water. I imagine his seventy-foot sloop the Black Pearl with its rampant white sails, a painting of it on display in the local history museum. I’ve never seen the sea captain’s ghost down here in what used to be his cellar and servants’ kitchen.
But I’ve felt a presence. Scraping sounds as if someone is looking through boxes of Benton’s and my belongings. Footsteps on the floor above my head when no one else was home. Drafts of unearthly cold air. Shadows that move like wraiths. I’m not bothered by whatever is here and what it might mean. Benton isn’t either. The first time we saw the house, we felt it wanted us living here.
The weedy scent is stronger as I reach the old kitchen that my sister appropriated. It’s nothing more than a fireplace that’s been nonworking for decades. On the soapstone countertop is a decarboxylator that looks like a large coffee thermos. Hanging from a wooden rod overhead are branches of cannabis curing.
Beyond is a workbench scattered with tools, then through a doorway is the large glass-doored wine cooler filled with reds and whites that Benton collects. Finding a Barolo, I slide it out of the rack.
“I know you’re upset that you can’t go outside,” I tell Merlin as he fusses. “How about I build us a nice cozy fire in the bedroom?”
He shadows me back up the basement steps, and I leave the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. Muttering and mumbling, he follows as I return to the entryway in the soft glow of caged copper sconces that Benton and I discovered at a flea market.
The stained-glass transom over the front door is a whale breaching in an ocean of variegated blue. We found it in London along with the port and starboard lanterns that are lamps in the living room. Benton grew up with a love of all things nautical, his family owning a sailing yacht they moored in the Boston Harbor.
One of our favorite hobbies together is finding unusual antiques at auctions, in salvage yards and junk shops. Other treasures are the framed marine maps, the paintings of schooners, fishing vessels, a frigate in a storm I climb past on the steps.
The chandelier over the second-floor landing is a brass ship’s wheel we happened upon in Genoa, Italy, while I was there lecturing on forensic medicine. Inside a shadowbox on the wall is the wooden-barreled spyglass telescope from France that we were told was used by a naval officer during the Napoleonic Wars.
“It’s okay,” I reassure Merlin, smiling as if all is fine when I know it’s not. “Please don’t be afraid.”
He stalks me along the second-floor hallway, yowling as thunder claps and mumbles. The wind pummels the house, roaring and whistling. Lightning flashes in brass porthole windows at the roofline as if we’re being fired upon by enemy vessels.
“We’re perfectly safe.” I tell Merlin another lie.
I continue waiting for the inevitable, a horror that we might not survive. Any second, the Wi-Fi will fail, the red orbs will reappear as the phantomlike figure floats through a window. Or the power will go out. Maybe a tree will fall on top of the house.
“It’s just a bad storm. Usually, we don’t have thunder and lightning when it’s snowing,” I explain as Merlin mutters and meows. “And yes, there was something weird going on outside a little while ago that you no doubt sensed. I’m sure you heard the growling and all the rest. I don’t like it any more than you do.”
