The Blackstone Chronicles

Chapter 11

Bill McGuire was utterly unconscious of the icy chill in the air on the day he buried his wife, for he was far too numb to be aware of anything as insignificant as the weather. Bareheaded, he stood at the head of Elizabeth’s grave. Megan was on one side of him, holding on to her father with her left hand as she clutched the doll in her right, pressing it against her breast almost as if to prevent it from seeing the coffin that stood only a few feet in front of them. On Bill’s other side was Mrs. Goodrich, one of her hands tucked into the crook of his arm, her face covered by a thick veil. The old woman seemed to have shrunk since Elizabeth died three days earlier, and though she had continued to go through the motions of taking care of Bill and Megan, the spirit had gone out of her. Bill could not help thinking that the Christmas rapidly approaching would be her last.
Even the house seemed to have gone into mourning; a silence had descended over it, broken only by Megan, for whom, Bill suspected, the truth of what had happened had not yet sunk in. Each night, as he tucked her into bed, she looked up into his eyes and repeated the same words.
“Mommy’s all right, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is,” Bill assured her. “She’s with God, and God is taking care of her.”
Last night, though, Megan had said something else: “Sam’s sorry,” she’d whispered.
“Sorry?” Bill had asked. “About what?”
“She’s sorry Mommy had to go away.”
Bill had assumed that, like so many children who lost a parent when they were very young, Megan was afraid that somehow she might have been the cause of her mother’s death. But the thoughts were far too painful to face directly, so she was projecting them onto the doll. “You tell Sam not to worry,” he told her. “What happened to Mommy wasn’t Sam’s fault, or your fault, or anyone else’s. It was just something that happens sometimes, and all of us must try to help each other get through it.”
But how was Megan going to help him get through it? How was he ever going to be able to forgive himself for leaving Elizabeth alone that morning? How must she have felt when she awakened?
Alone.
Grieving.
Bereft.
And remembering what had happened the night before, when she’d thought the doll was her baby. What must have gone through her mind? Had she thought she was going insane? Was she afraid she was going to end up like her sister, confined for the rest of her life in a sanitarium? And he hadn’t even been there to comfort her.
Surely he could have put Harvey Connally off for a few hours.
But he hadn’t, and for that he would never forgive himself.
Bill heard Lucas Iverson begin the final prayer, and as Elizabeth’s coffin began to descend slowly into the grave, Bill closed his eyes, unable to watch these final moments. When Rev. Iverson fell silent once again, Bill stooped down and picked up a clod of soil. Holding it over the coffin, he squeezed his fingers and the lump broke apart, dropping into the open grave.
The same way his life was breaking apart and falling away.
His eyes glazing with tears, he stepped back from the grave’s edge and stood silently as one by one his friends and neighbors filed past to pay their last respects to Elizabeth, and offer their condolences to him.
Jules and Madeline Hartwick had come, along with their daughter and her fiancé. The banker paused, laying a gentle hand on Bill’s shoulder. “It’s hard, Bill. I know how you feel.”
But how could Jules know how he felt? he wondered. It wasn’t his wife who had died.
Ed Becker was there too, with Bonnie and their daughter, Amy, who was only a year younger than Megan. While Bonnie Becker murmured sympathetic words to him, he heard Amy speaking to Megan.
“What’s your dolly’s name?”
“Sam,” he heard Megan reply. “And she’s not a little boy. She’s a little girl, just like me.”
“Can I hold her?” Amy asked.
Megan shook her head. “She’s mine.”
Bill knelt down. “It’s all right, honey,” he said. “You can let Amy hold Sam.”
Again Megan shook her head, clutching the doll even tighter. Bill looked helplessly up at Bonnie Becker.
“You can hold her another time,” the lawyer’s wife said quickly, taking Amy by the hand. “Just tell Megan how sorry you are about her mother, and then we’ll go home. All right?”
Amy’s large dark eyes fixed on Megan’s. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said.
This time Megan made no reply at all.
Rebecca Morrison, accompanied by her aunt, Martha Ward, was next. As Martha stood glaring at her niece, Rebecca struggled to speak, her eyes downcast in shy embarrassment.
“Thank you for coming, Rebecca,” Bill said, taking her hands in both his own.
“Tell him what you wanted to say, Rebecca,” Martha Ward urged her niece, causing Rebecca’s face to flush.
“I—I’m just so sorry—” Rebecca began, but her voice quickly trailed off as the words she and her aunt had rehearsed vanished from her memory.
“We’re so terribly sorry about poor Elizabeth,” Martha said, her eyes flicking toward her niece in disapproval. “It’s always such a tragedy when something like this happens. Elizabeth was never a very strong woman, was she? I always think—”
“Elizabeth bore more in her life than most of us have ever been asked to,” Bill cut in, his eyes fixed on Martha Ward. “We’ll all miss her a great deal.” He put just enough emphasis on the word “all” to throw Martha off her stride. Then, seeing how mortified Rebecca was by what her aunt had said, he managed to give her a friendly hug before turning to the next people in line.
The faces began to run together after a while. By the time Germaine Wagner approached, pushing her mother in a wheelchair, he barely recognized them. When Clara Wagner informed him in a stern voice that he “must come for dinner one night,” he had no idea how to respond. He knew Germaine from the library, of course, but had never been inside the Wagners’ house, and certainly had no desire to go there now.
“Thank you,” he managed to say, then turned quickly to Oliver Metcalf and Harvey Connally.
“Watch out for that one,” Connally warned dryly, watching Germaine push her mother away. “As far as she’s concerned, you’ve become fair game.”
“Jesus, Uncle Harvey!” Oliver Metcalf protested. “I’m sure Mrs. Wagner didn’t mean anything like—”
“Of course she did,” the old man cut in. “And don’t tell me I’m saying something inappropriate, Oliver. I’m eighty-three years old, and I shall say what I please.” But as he turned back to Bill McGuire, his tone softened. “It’s a terrible thing you’re going through, Bill, and there’s nothing any of us can say that’s going to make it easier. But if there’s anything I can do, you tell me, understand?”
Bill nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Connally,” he said. “I just keep wondering if maybe—” The words died on his lips as he felt Megan slip her hand into his.
“Don’t think that way,” Harvey Connally advised. “Things happen, and there’s no explaining them, and no changing them. All any of us can do is play the hand we’re dealt, the best way we can.”
Ten minutes later, when the little cemetery was empty save for the three of them, Harvey Connally’s words still echoed in Bill McGuire’s mind.
Play the hand we’re dealt, the best way we can.
Gazing one last time at his wife’s coffin, Bill McGuire finally turned away from the grave and started out of the cemetery.
Mrs. Goodrich, leaning slightly forward, dropped a single rose onto the coffin, then reached down to take Megan’s hand.
But Megan lingered for a moment, and though she still faced the coffin, her eyes were fixed on the doll.
The doll gazed back at her.
Now they truly belonged to each other, and no one would ever take the doll away from her again.
Late that night, as Blackstone slept, the dark figure moved once more through the silent corridors of the abandoned Asylum, at last coming again to the room in which the secret trove of treasures was stored.
Glittering eyes flicked from one souvenir to another, and finally came to rest on a single sparkling object.
A hand, smoothly gloved, reached out and picked up a locket, holding it high so it glimmered silver in the moonlight.
It would make a perfect gift.
And the dark figure already knew who its recipient would be.
To be continued …



Part 2 Twist of Fate: The Locket


Prelude

The full moon stood high in the night sky above Blackstone, bathing the stones of the old Asylum atop North Hill in a silvery glow, even penetrating the thick layers of grime that covered its windows so that its dusty rooms were suffused with a dim light. Though the dark figure who moved silently through these rooms needed no light to guide him, the luminescence allowed him to pause now and then to savor the memories this place held for him: vivid memories. Images as sharp and clear as if the events they depicted had occurred only yesterday. He was their keeper, even if those same memories had faded from the minds of the very few in Blackstone who might have shared them.
And this room, with its shelves filled with mementos, was his sanctuary, his museum, to which he had added something new.
It was an ancient ledger, which he’d come upon in one of the basement storerooms. Covered in faded red leather, it was like the ones used in years gone by, in which were recorded all the minutiae of the Asylum’s busy life. Taking the book to the shelf-lined, square room, he stroked its cover with all the sensual gentleness with which a man might stroke the skin of a beautiful woman. Hoping it might jog delicious memories even his brilliant mind might have mislaid, he finally opened its cover, only to feel a pang of bitter disappointment: despite its age, its yellowed leaves proved blank. Then disappointment gave way to a tingling excitement. There would be a new use for the book, an important use.
An album!
An album containing accounts of the madness unleashed upon the town that had spurned him.
Now, hunched over the album in the dim moonlight, he opened its cover and read once more the familiar words of the two articles he had painstakingly clipped and carefully pasted to the brittle pages within.
The first described the suicide of Elizabeth Conger McGuire, despondent over the premature birth—and death—of her son.
Nowhere had the newspaper account mentioned the beautiful doll that arrived at the McGuires’ a few short days before Elizabeth’s death, returning at last to the house from which it had been carried so many years ago in the arms of a child who had entered this very building, never to leave it again.
The second article, lovingly pasted into the album, had appeared three days later, noting the burial of Elizabeth McGuire and listing all the people who had gone to the cemetery to mourn her.
People who, soon enough, would be mourned themselves.
Closing the album, the dark figure caressed its cover once again, shivering with anticipation as he imagined the stories it soon would contain.
Then, as the moon began to drop in the sky and dark shadows edged up the walls, he touched again the object he had decided to deliver next.
The beautiful heart-shaped locket, in which was contained a lock of hair …




Prologue

“Lorena.”
It wasn’t her real name, but it was a name she decided she liked. For today at least, it would be hers.
Perhaps she would use it again tomorrow, but perhaps not.
And no last name. Never a last name.
Not even a made-up one.
Too easy to make a mistake if you used a last name. You could accidentally use your real initials, and give yourself away. Not that Lorena would ever make such a mistake, since she hadn’t even risked using a first name that started with her real initial since she’d come here.
They’d told her it was a hospital, but the moment she saw the stone walls, she knew they were lying. It was a prison—and dressing the guards as doctors and nurses hadn’t fooled Lorena for a minute. It hadn’t fooled the people who were watching her either. They were already there, waiting for her. She’d felt their eyes on her from the moment she came through the huge oak door and heard it slam shut behind her—imprisoning her.
Over the months she’d been here, though, Lorena developed a few tricks of her own. She’d never spoken her real name out loud; trained herself even to keep from thinking it, since some of her enemies had learned to read her mind. She’d learned to make herself inconspicuous, doing nothing that would draw attention to herself, barely moving, never speaking.
She spent most of her time simply sitting in the chair. It was an ugly chair, a horrible chair, covered with a hideous green material that felt sticky when she touched it, which she tried not to do: that sticky stuff might be some kind of poison with which her enemies were trying to kill her. She thought about finding another chair to sit in, but that would only let them know she’d caught on to what they were trying to do, and inspire them to try something else.
Lorena sat perfectly still. The slightest movement, even the blink of an eye, could give her away almost as quickly as using her real name. Some of them had been watching her for so long that she was certain they could recognize her by the slightest gesture.
The way she brushed her hair back from her face.
Even the way she tilted her head.
Her enemies were everywhere. And still they came.
Ever watchful, never letting down her guard, today she’d spotted a new one.
This time it was a well-dressed woman—exactly the kind of woman who used to pretend to be her friend back in the days before she’d caught on to the plot. This woman was younger than her, forty, with long dark hair that she had swept into an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. She wore a silk dress in the darkest shade of midnight blue. Lorena immediately recognized its distinctive cut and flair, which could only have come from Monsieur Worth in Paris. Lorena herself had been fitted in his salon when she’d traveled on the Lusitania to Europe the year before they sank it.
The woman was talking to the warden, who still pretended he was a doctor even though Lorena had made it perfectly clear to him that she knew exactly who he really was. Every few minutes the woman’s eyes flicked in her direction. Each time, Lorena wondered if the woman was truly foolish enough to think she didn’t notice.
Another surreptitious glance.
Lorena felt the familiar fear quicken inside her. They were watching her, talking about her. Despite the charade they were playing out—that they had eyes only for each other—they weren’t fooling her at all.
They weren’t just watching her.
They were plotting against her.
A plot Lorena wouldn’t—couldn’t—let succeed.
The woman’s eyes flicked nervously to the patient who had been sitting in the dayroom, unmoving, from the moment she and the doctor slipped in to steal a few minutes alone together. When the doctor had first suggested to the woman that she volunteer to spend a few hours each week at the Asylum, the idea hadn’t appealed to her at all. In fact, though she’d never admitted it to anyone, she’d always been a little afraid of the forbidding building on the top of North Hill. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that her lover was right—as a volunteer, no one would question her reasons for coming up here. Her husband would be none the wiser, and her friends would be completely thrown off the scent.
Today, as she had nearly every day since the affair had begun a month ago, she’d driven up the hill to offer her services. She had talked to some of the patients, read a story to an odd little boy, played cards with a sad-eyed old man. All the time waiting for her lover to appear. Then, there he was, taking her gently by the arm, escorting her through the corridors until finally, a little while ago, they’d come into this room, which was empty save for the woman in the chair.
“She doesn’t even know we’re here,” he assured her, slipping his arms around her and pulling her toward him, his lips nuzzling at her throat. Despite the thrill of excitement that ran through her body, the woman pulled away from him, her eyes flicking toward the patient in the chair.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked. “Why doesn’t she move?”
“She’s delusional.” He glanced at the patient. “She thinks if she holds still, her ‘enemies’ can’t see her.” Reaching into the pocket of his white coat, he pulled out a small box. “I have something for you.” He put the box into her hands. “Something to celebrate our being together.”
The woman gazed at the pale blue box, recognizing its origin immediately. Her heart beating a little faster, she undid the white silk ribbon and lifted off the lid. Inside there was a soft velvet pouch; inside the pouch was a tiny locket.
In the shape of a heart, it was covered with silver filigree, and when she pressed on the tiny catch to open it, the woman found a lock of hair pressed under the glass where a picture could have gone.
Taking the locket from the woman’s hands, the doctor unhooked its chain and, as she turned around, placed the chain around her neck and fastened it. As she turned back to face him, he leaned down and pressed his lips against her neck.
A flush of heat coursed through her body; the woman closed her eyes.
Lorena watched it all—watched them whisper to each other, watched them glance at her, then watched them whisper again. She watched the woman open the box and take out the locket; watched her open it. As the “doctor” put it around the woman’s neck, Lorena suddenly knew what was contained inside the silver heart.
Lies.
The locket was filled with lies about her, lies that the woman would carry out and spread among her enemies.
As the “doctor” bent down once more to whisper into the woman’s ear, Lorena leaped from the chair and scuttled across the room, her fingers already extended so that before the woman could turn away, Lorena had already snatched the locket from her neck, the thin silver chain breaking.
She backed away, the locket clutched in her hand, her wary eyes watching to see what they would do.
The “doctor” moved toward her. “Give it to me,” he said quietly, holding out his hand.
Lorena backed farther away, her fingers clenched on the tiny locket.
“What’s she going to do with it?” she heard the woman ask.
As the “doctor” moved toward her once again, Lorena edged backward until the wall stopped her, then scrabbled crabwise along the wall until she could go no farther. Cornered, she watched the “doctor” move closer to her. Her eyes flicked over the room, searching for some means of escape, but there was none. The “doctor” reached toward her once again, but Lorena, far more clever than he, had already figured out what to do.
Before his hand could close on her wrist, then pry her fingers loose from the tiny piece of jewelry, her own hand went to her mouth.
In an instant, she swallowed the locket.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she heard the “doctor” say, but it didn’t matter, because now the locket was safely out of his reach.
Lorena, knowing she’d won, began to laugh. Her laughter built, filling the room with a raucous sound that didn’t die away until three “orderlies” came in and circled around her. Then Lorena’s laughter suddenly became a scream of terror.
*  *  *

They were in a room in the basement of the Asylum. It was equipped with a metal table. Above the table a bright light was suspended.
The orderlies, having strapped the patient to the table, had disappeared. Now, as the woman gazed at the patient’s terrified eyes, she wished she’d never come here today.
Indeed, she wished she’d never met the doctor at all.
“Perhaps you should wait outside,” he said.
Making no reply, the woman started out of the room, but before she passed through the doorway, she turned around and glanced back.
A scalpel glimmered in her lover’s hand.
Stepping quickly out of the room, the woman pulled the door closed behind her as if the act alone could shut what she’d just seen out of her mind. But the scream she heard a moment later seared the scene into her memory forever.
The first scream was followed by another, and then another, and for just an instant the woman was certain that someone would appear, would burst from the stairs at the end of the corridor to stop whatever was happening behind the closed door.
But no one came. Slowly, the screams died away, to be replaced by a deathly silence.
At last, when she thought she could take it no more, the door opened and the doctor stepped out. Before he pulled the door closed behind him, the woman caught a glimpse of the room beyond.
The patient, her face gray, still lay strapped to the operating table.
Her eyes, open and lifeless, seemed to be staring at the woman.
Blood oozed from her eviscerated belly, and crimson threads were strung from the edge of the table to the scarlet pool on the floor.
The door closed.
The doctor pressed the locket into the woman’s hand, still warm with the heat of the patient’s body.
The woman gazed at it for a second, then dropped it to the floor. Turning, she staggered toward the stairs, not looking back.
When she was gone, the doctor picked the locket up, wiped it clean, and dropped it in his pocket.