The Sorrows, page 16
As can be imagined, Robert took out his wrath on Gabriel. After a sound beating administered by Robert and Henry Mullen—for now Robert could never best Gabriel in a physical contest without his mountainous cohort—Gabriel was cast again into the pit. After spending five days and nights without food—his longest period of deprivation to date—Gabriel was taken from the pit and given a paltry meal in his room.
Gabriel had barely the strength to eat or drink, but he did so with my help. He was not, of course, allowed to see any of the women of the island, though several of them railed against Robert’s cruelty. When Gabriel had finished his pitiful meal, Robert and Henry joined us in Gabriel’s room. The chamber was clotted with the cloying fumes of watery chicken broth and stagnant air.
“I expect you’re ready to give up this ridiculous charade,” Robert said as he stood over his malnourished son.
Gabriel made no answer.
“You do know how severe the consequences will be if I do not finish this piece on time,” Robert said.
Gabriel nodded faintly.
“I must warn you of the severity of the consequences you shall face should I miss the deadline. There are far worse things than going without food or water.”
Robert’s words chilled me to the core, yet Gabriel showed no sign of relenting.
“So be it,” Robert said. Then to Mullen, “Take him to the tower.”
It happened so quickly that I hadn’t time to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation. Like a mindless cur, I followed the trio to the tower. Henry led the way with Gabriel slung over his shoulder like a sack of meal. Robert followed close behind. And I, restive but above all curious, trailed Robert, a half-eaten crust of bread still clutched stupidly in my hand.
We ascended the spiral staircase and when we reached the zenith of the tower I beheld the ancient grand piano sitting alone in the middle of the circular keep, the wind moaning forlornly through the windows.
It was what had been added to the windows that caused my heart to race.
Bars.
Robert had transformed the tower into a prison.
We all four stood in the keep, a single candle atop the piano our sole source of illumination.
Robert gestured toward the piano. “Will you write?”
Without turning, Gabriel said, “Be damned.”
Robert’s nostrils flared. I blanched at the prospect of another beating, but rather than advancing on his son, Robert nodded at Henry Mullen, who tromped across the room to something I had not seen, something that had been blocked by the piano. I took a few steps and noticed the white sheet, which Mullen cast aside, and when I glimpsed what had been covered, I wanted to run screaming from the room.
There were six stacked pallets full of bricks.
I glanced at Gabriel and saw that he too realized their function.
“If you do not compose in the next two hours,” Robert said, “I shall wall you up in this tower.”
Gabriel stared at the pile of bricks, the trowels and buckets of mortar beside them.
“You should consider your position,” Robert said. “You need only start the piece. We have the rest of the week to work. If you write something good, our contract will be honored, and you may return to your room in the castle and perhaps someday see your child.”
Gabriel looked at Robert in dawning amazement.
“My child?”
“Yes,” Robert said in a bored voice. “The servant Anna has conceived and has been sent away.”
Gabriel’s face grew hard. “Bring her back.”
“Depending on what you—”
“Bring her back, God damn you. I want that child.”
“You have chosen this path,” Robert said, “I am only reacting as any father would.”
Gabriel’s voice rose. “This is madness.”
“You have brought us to this.”
Gabriel shook his head wonderingly. “I was happy in the forest. I was happy for many, many years.”
A chill coursed through me.
“You were naked and alone,” Robert said impatiently. “Only a stupid child could find happiness in such a life.”
A horrible smile darkened Gabriel’s face. “You really believe I was a child?”
I couldn’t move. Even Henry Mullen was watching Gabriel uncertainly. But Robert only shook his head dismissively. “You have two hours. At midnight, your time runs out.”
Robert brushed past me and exited the keep. Henry Mullen and I stood there and said nothing. I longed to follow my master, to escape the tower, but my role seemed clear.
I checked my watch. Somehow, five minutes had already passed. I ached to speak reason to our prisoner, yet Mullen’s hulking presence somehow forbade it. Gabriel returned to the barred window and gazed out.
So we waited. At one point I escaped the tower for a few moments so I could relieve my aching bladder, but when I finished I plodded unhappily up to resume my post. Ten minutes before midnight, Robert finally returned. Gabriel had not budged from his station by the window. Robert’s earlier placidity had vanished, and in its place had sprung a frantic agitation.
“Am I to believe you will forfeit your life just to spite me?”
“I have no life,” Gabriel answered. “I have been a prisoner since the day you took me from my home.”
“You imbecile, you had no home. I saved your life. You would have died without me.”
“No, Robert,” Gabriel said, his voice barely audible. “It is you who have brought me death—”
“I’ve no more time—”
“—but you shall know much of horror before the year is through.”
Robert regarded Gabriel in disbelief. “Are you threatening me? Are you so insolent that—”
Gabriel turned and walked to the piano. My heart leapt as he sat on the dusty black bench and extended his arms. Thank heavens, I thought with indescribable relief, thank heavens this insanity has finally come to an end.
But my joy vanished at sound of the tune I had heard so long ago, the music Gabriel had played that day in the Greek forest.
Robert’s mouth became a thin line.
In a voice we could scarcely hear above the music, Gabriel said, “It is midnight, Father. Our time is at an end.”
Robert’s chest heaved with emotion, and for a moment I held out hope that he would swerve from this diabolical course.
He looked at Henry, at me, then at Gabriel.
“Wall this creature up,” he said.
Of the deed itself I cannot speak. Though with a workhorse like Henry Mullen the construction of the wall moved along relatively quickly, our toil seemed to last an eternity. Of the many things for which I am ashamed, I will here admit that the tears I shed as we fitted the final few bricks into place are not among them. Yes, I wept for Gabriel, but even more I wept for my own soul. For what Mullen and I performed that night was murder, cold and brutal, and no rationalization could justify it.
I’ve no doubt that Henry Mullen has slept peacefully in his bachelor’s den these past few nights, but, Dear Journal, I have lain tormented and sick, haunted by the last thing we witnessed before we finished our task.
Per Robert’s instructions, the wall was constructed within the outer edge of the doorframe, so that if Gabriel were to open his door inward, he would be faced with an unbroken arch of brick. By unspoken mutual consent—or perhaps Mullen never even thought about it—we left the door open while engaged in our work. Why we did this I had no idea, since it afforded us a constant view of our victim as we worked. Furthermore, the open doorway allowed Gabriel’s piano playing to assault us in all its singular beauty during the entire three-hour period it took for us to finish.
When the final brick, which it fell to me to put into place, was ready to be fitted, a sudden desire to see Gabriel one final time possessed me. I don’t know what I thought I could do, disabuse him of his fatal stance? Tell him I would try to change Robert’s mind?
I do not know.
But when I peered through the small rectangular aperture, the sole connection between Gabriel and his gaolers, I beheld something that shall haunt me for the rest of my life.
I earlier stated that a single candle placed upon the lid of the grand piano provided the one source of illumination in the lonely tower keep. This lurid, guttering candlelight must have deceived me.
What I witnessed was Gabriel rising from the piano and approaching the door. But it wasn’t Gabriel as I had known him these past thirteen years. He had shed his clothing, but the body now revealed was something alien and awe-inspiring.
His feet had become cloven hoofs. His magnificent body had, in several places, grown shaggy with hair. His face had elongated slightly, goatlike but still human, a devil’s visage.
Sprouting from his head were two curving horns.
The beast that could not be Gabriel grinned at me, reached up, and closed the door.
And with a hand that quaked, I fitted the final brick into place.
Part Four: Eva
Chapter One
Claire said, “I’ve been thinking about the Clay incident. About those people getting murdered and the woman who took her life.”
Ben didn’t return her stare, but he said, “I used to think the story was crazy. Now I’m not sure.”
She folded her legs on the blanket they’d brought with them to the graveyard and inhaled the rich scent of pine. The day was hazy and warm, the blanket a little damp from last night’s downpour. Claire shifted and winced at the soreness between her legs. She thought of the nightmare…
“Remember James Ryder?” she said. “The history professor who murdered his best friend?”
“Of course I remember him,” Ben said, “and I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you blame me? The way Ryder changed on the island and the way Eddie’s been acting. He has this tortured look in his eyes…he’s angry with everyone…”
“Claire—”
“Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”
He was quiet a long time. Finally, he said, “Let’s just say I can’t wait to get back to California.”
“Glad I’m not the only one.”
“But there’s another reason why.”
She waited for him to talk, but he looked away and uttered a humorless little laugh. Claire reached out and held his hand.
He said, “I feel stupid talking about it…”
She squeezed his hand. “Go ahead.”
He averted his eyes. Claire had a fleeting moment of paranoia, suddenly sure that Ben had found out about her and Eva’s spying.
“Do you believe in…” He shook his head, laughed. “I feel like an idiot saying it, but I think I was inside my son’s head last night. I think something terrible is happening back in California.”
She listened to his dream about Joshua and Ryan.
When it was over, Claire caressed his arm. “You don’t think it was a dream.”
Ben frowned. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? It was almost like…what’s the name for it…astral projection.”
“I don’t know,” Claire said and sat back on her palms. “I went to camp once…some Baptist camp where they fill your head with the terrible things that will happen if you don’t accept Jesus.” She gazed at a gravestone, remembering. “I’ve always been a believer, but that camp scared me to death. Rather than talking about love and forgiveness, all they talked about was burning in hell.
“Anyway, my parents came halfway through the week to pick me up. It surprised me but I didn’t argue. I was dying to sleep in my own bed and to get away from all those pictures of Satan and the souls he was roasting. I’d been back a few days before I asked my dad why they’d taken me home early.
“He said, ‘We came to get you because your mother was having bad dreams.’
“‘About me?’ I asked.
“He nodded.
“‘What did she dream?’ I asked.
“He frowned like he didn’t think he should answer me, but I kept begging. You know how persistent kids can be.”
Ben nodded.
“He said, ‘She dreamed of screaming faces…she dreamed of fire. I told her they were just nightmares, worry over you being away at camp, but she wouldn’t listen. She said she was seeing things in your mind. Feeling your fear.’”
Ben’s smile had faded, his gaze intense.
Claire said, “I kept Dad’s secret until I was in college. Then something, I don’t remember what, made me think of it again. I asked mom about it, and even though she was a little irked at Dad for telling me such things at that age, she remembered the episode vividly. She told me the dreams were about the devil chasing me, telling me he was going to stab me with his pitchfork and roast me over his fire.”
Claire looked at Ben. “She told me exactly what I had dreamed.”
Ben said, “Maybe her parents sent her to the same camp.”
“I doubt it,” Claire answered. “I think our bond was so strong that she was able to feel what I was feeling, to see my thoughts.”
Ben blew out a pent-up breath, gave her a wan smile. “To tell you the truth, I hope I wasn’t seeing what Joshua was. If it was real…”
“You can go to him when Granderson comes.”
He nodded. “I plan to.”
“Then what?”
“Then…I suppose I’ll get Joshua alone and ask him to tell me. If I know it was all in my head…my heartbreak over being separated…”
“And if he says there’s something wrong?”
She watched his corded arms tighten. “If Ryan really did threaten my son, I’ll beat the son of a bitch within an inch of his life.”
“Promise me one thing,” she said.
“What, don’t kill him?”
She didn’t answer.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything that’d stop me from getting Joshua back.”
“What do you—”
“I want full custody. I let a judge decide and didn’t really fight it because I didn’t want to cause Joshua any more pain. The last few nights, I’ve realized that my ex-wife cares more about herself than she does our son. It’ll be painful for Joshua, but I’d rather him go through that now than spend the rest of his childhood in a place where he isn’t loved.”
“She doesn’t love him?”
Ben looked at her. “Not like I do. Not even close to the way I do.”
Chapter Two
Chris feigned politeness as the blonde secretary buzzed to see if Stephen Blackwood had a minute for his son. Chris imagined the man back there, maybe fifty feet away, hidden behind the mahogany door like the Great and Powerful Oz.
She hung up the phone, said, “Your father will see you in a few moments.”
Too jittery to sit on any of the imitation-leather chairs in the waiting room, Chris went to the window overlooking downtown San Francisco and waited. His stomach growled. He knew he should have grabbed a bite before heading over here, but nothing had sounded good, and besides, the fear that at any moment one of Marvin’s goons might pop out from behind a building and snatch him from the world of the living took away whatever appetite he might have had.
The burns began to ache. He remembered Marvin holding the lighter under the metal tip of the cane.
When are you gonna pay us, Chris?
I did pay you. Jesus Christ, gimme time.
No more time, Chris. You’re out of time.
The glowing red tip, a satanic eye, gliding toward Chris’s chest.
I’ll have it tomorrow. I’ll get it from my dad. Please.
You shoulda had it yesterday.
The red eye sizzling his nipple. Then the screaming and the blubbering and the hideous bacon smell. This morning Chris had tried to count the number of burns on his skin. He counted sixteen circles before he grew faint.
He sensed the secretary watching him, sizing him up. Comparing him to his father maybe. She couldn’t be older than Chris. Midtwenties maybe.
He said to the girl, “How long have you been with Blackwood Industries?” It gave him a kick to call the company by its official name, as if it actually produced anything other than interest on the money his father had inherited.
“I’ve been employed here for just over a year.”
She spoke very professionally, laying it on thick.
“What else do you do besides look pretty?”
For a moment her composure slipped, a spark of anger tightening her features. Then she tented her fingers, said, “You don’t come here much.”
“I don’t suppose the old man minds.”
“I wouldn’t know. He’s never mentioned you.”
Pretty and vicious, he thought. Chris moved closer.
“Was the interview difficult?” he asked.
“Not particularly. It was no different from any other I’ve been in.”
“Yeah?” Chris asked. “Who was on top, you or my dad?”
Her mouth drew into itself, the pretty lips puckering as if tasting something sour. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
“Why don’t you stop pretend—”
“Chris?”
He stood erect at his father’s voice, regressing into the old patterns. “Hey, Dad.”
The man stood there, smug and inimical, his navy-blue suit nicely tailored, but the rest of him sloppy, reminding Chris of a toddler whose parents had dressed him up for a picture, but who’d soiled his outfit before they could take it. His father’s chin was nearly lost in the swollen puff of flesh bulging out of his collar, his hair the color of an old Brillo pad, rust and dull gray battling for supremacy. His round belly reminded Chris of a garden gnome.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah,” Chris answered. “I did.”
They went to the office, Stephen sitting behind the desk, Chris taking the chair opposite. His father regarded him without warmth.
“Well?” Stephen asked.
