The Sorrows, page 6
His cheeks shining with tears of joy, Ben completed the song and glanced across the room.
The boy had cranked open the casement window, was straddling the sill.
No Joshua, Ben tried to say, but his voice wouldn’t work. The boy gazed down at the lawn below, the stars outlining him in brilliant-white fire.
Ben advanced toward the child, sure at any moment he would frighten him into sudden movement, send him plummeting to his death.
He had halved the distance between them when Joshua said, “It’s too late, Daddy, I’ve already gone.”
Joshua’s voice was the same—that husky, unassuming soprano that melted him—but the words themselves were too mature, too world-weary to be his son’s.
Ben took another stride. If he could just reach out, grasp his sleeve…
But the boy said, “No, Daddy.”
Ben lunged as Joshua fell backward out the window, his fingers just brushing one of the boy’s shoes as he disappeared.
Then Ben awoke, harsh sobs wracking his sweat-soaked body.
After a time he glanced at the Toy Story watch Joshua had given him last Father’s Day—he remembered how proud the boy had been for having chosen it—and saw by the faint green light between Buzz and Woody that it was only 11:38.
Ben did not sleep again that night.
When Eddie heard the girl’s voice, he was sure it was Eva.
Sooner than expected, he thought.
In the shadows of his bedroom, Eddie pictured Eva’s body and yearned to see her naked. He bet she tanned in the nude, her ass as brown and firm as the rest of her.
Was she even now drifting, wraithlike, through the inky darkness toward his bed?
Eddie propped himself on his elbows.
“I’m over here,” he said.
Silence for a moment. Then, faintly, he heard the voice again. Female, yes, but it couldn’t be Eva’s. Not unless she was impersonating someone else. The voice was plaintive, immature. Nothing like Eva’s low purr.
“Claire?” he asked.
Silence.
“All right,” he said, “I’m going back to sleep. Whoever you are, you can forget about scaring me.”
When no response came, Eddie closed his eyes and feigned sleep in the hope that sleep would come. He had no idea how long he’d lain there when he heard the voice again, louder this time, almost at his ear.
“What the hell—” he started to say, but the words clotted in his throat when he beheld the open door, the flutter of a white gown departing the room.
Eddie swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, furious with Claire. It had to be Claire, he realized now. The glimpse of leg was chalky and full. Nothing like Eva’s lithe, brown calves.
So Claire was playing games. She’d said earlier she’d forgiven him, but Eddie knew how women could be. Climbing out of bed, Eddie thought of several girls he’d dated who stayed angry for days over some petty thing. That’s what pissed him off most about women. It was the reason he’d never married. You had to walk on eggshells around them, pretend they were behaving rationally when rationality had nothing to with their behavior.
Eddie crossed to the door, craned his head around the corner.
The hallway was quiet. Here and there shadows shifted, the ocean wind worrying the trees. They threw thin, spidery images up and down the walls, giving the impression the corridor was acrawl with scuttling, secretive things that fled the daylight and lived for the darkness, now capering in their midnight riot, willing the unwary to enter their realm.
Jesus, he thought, smiling a little. Relax already.
Eddie strode into the corridor, the wood cold under his bare feet. He could see Eva’s door at the end of the hall. Closed, of course. Next to hers, Claire’s door was also fastened tight. He went to his door, preparing to lock himself in for the night, when he heard it.
Giggling, the voice high and girlish and far too familiar.
It came from the staircase. Eddie followed the sound, not wanting to meet the one responsible for producing it, but not wanting to stand there doing nothing either. The giggle came again, fainter now, the woman descending the steps.
Eddie followed it down and paused at the foot of the staircase. The great hall was steeped in a darkness nearly impenetrable. Only at its eastern edge, where it connected with the foyer, was there any light at all. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he made out a figure. Silent, unmoving, it stood there facing him in the moonlight pouring through the foyer windows.
Eddie’s lungs tightened, his mouth opening in horror. Warm copper flooded his mouth.
It can’t be, he thought.
The figure turned and glided across the foyer. The door grated open, starshine streaming in, and Eddie glimpsed the long blonde hair, the tall, athletic body. The woman glanced over her shoulder, but before he could see her face Eddie bolted up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time, jerking at the handrail, barking his knees as he stumbled. He dashed down the corridor and ripped open his door. Hands shaking, he pushed it closed, shot the thick iron bolt, and backed away from it, sure at any moment it would fly inward.
Oh my God, he thought. Oh my God.
Claire frowned in the darkness. She knew there were a hundred valid reasons why Eddie would leave his room this late at night. Perhaps he wanted to explore the castle further, maybe he couldn’t sleep. Whatever the reason, it was none of her business. But slamming the door at—she checked—12:55 a.m.?
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
So she wasn’t the only one Eddie had roused. Ben or Eva had awakened too. She heard the footfalls pause down the hall a ways, just outside Eddie’s door. She expected a knock, Ben—it had to be Ben because the footsteps had come from that end of the hallway—inquiring after Eddie’s well-being, or simply wanting to know why he felt the need to make such a ruckus in the middle of the night. But Ben didn’t knock, only stayed outside the door, maybe listening for Eddie inside, making sure he was all right.
Claire yawned, waiting for the footsteps to recede down the hall. She waited a long time, lying on her side and staring at the rectangle of moonglow.
She waited, but the sound of departing footsteps never came.
Chapter Eleven
Lying in a ball between the bed and the dresser—he couldn’t bring himself to sleep in his bed again—Chris allowed himself to go back to that night fifteen years ago.
When his parents told him what his fourteenth birthday present would be, his first impulse was to ask why.
Experience told him to bite his tongue. Once Stephen Blackwood gave you a present, you damned well better show your appreciation, or else the purse strings would draw even tighter.
Chris would have chosen a three-wheeler or a jet ski. Maybe a new pool table for the basement.
He guessed a trip to the Sorrows would have to do.
When his grandfather died, Chris didn’t think about the island at all. He didn’t think or feel anything at the man’s passing, except that the viewing of the body, the funeral, the endless dinner that came after, were all about as fun as piano lessons with Mrs. Scheidt, a stern, gray-haired woman whose name reminded him of taking a dump. But the island was now his father’s and soon after the inheritance, Chris received his birthday present.
It began with dinner, his father drinking too much, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. His mother hitting the bottle hard—that was most definitely not ordinary. And the way his father pawed at Rosa, the little Mexican cook, right there in the open for his wife and son to see, that wasn’t ordinary either. Sure, they all knew his father slept around. But to do it in front of his wife? Asking his son…
“You ever seen a tastier dish than this?”
Chris sipped his wine, grateful his parents allowed him to drink during vacations because it made them feel French or something.
Chris’s father hugged little Rosa around the hips. “I think you’re gorgeous, comprende?” He gave her a shake. “You understand what I mean?”
Rosa didn’t say a word. The dining hall was dimly lit, but Chris could see the woman was uncomfortable.
He glanced at his mom, watched her swirling her dark-amber drink, her eyes fixed on the glass. As if her husband wasn’t—holy crap—fondling one of Rosa’s large breasts right there in front of her.
“May I be excused?” Chris asked.
When no one answered, he got up, lifted a corkscrew and a fresh bottle of wine from the serving table, and went out.
Instead of going to his bedroom, he entered the great hall.
This was their fourth night on the island, and this was the first time Chris had been in here alone. The entire castle gave him the heebie-jeebies, but no place more so than here. The sheer size of the room made Chris feel terribly insignificant.
Then again, his father had the same effect on him.
The large stone fireplace could accommodate a good-sized car. Above its burnished-wood mantel were posed two snarling lions. Their ferocious expressions made it plain that, if alive, they would tear each other apart.
Or tear Chris apart.
Stepping back from the fireplace he gazed up at the intricate designs adorning the ceiling. He supposed a more mature, better-trained eye would see order amidst the chaos of patterns, but to Chris it was an unattractive jumble.
In his periphery he spotted a dark smudge. Whirling, he faced a black statue of Cupid perched atop a white marble stand. He blew out a relieved breath, told himself to get a grip. His throat rasped like some desiccated husk. It reminded him of the bottle in his hand. A drink would help.
He shoved the point of the corkscrew in and began the job of getting the bottle open. While he did, he heard footsteps outside the great hall, his parents heading upstairs for the night. Chris removed the cork, cast aside the corkscrew and hunched his shoulders at the clatter it made on the hardwood floor.
According to his father, the renovation was 90 percent complete. Chris knew nothing of renovations, but to him it seemed they’d gone all out. Upgrading the plumbing and electricity. Refinishing the floors. Updating the kitchen and putting in one hell of a huge generator.
Still, he wondered if modernizing this place was such a good idea. He’d had bad dreams all week, nightmares such as he’d never experienced.
He glanced uneasily about the room, took in the deepening shadows that lay beyond the reach of the chandeliers.
He knew there was a great deal his parents weren’t telling him, and he knew much of it had to do with his great-grandfather. He’d seen pictures of the first Robert Blackwood. A couple of them had been taken right here in this room.
Chris gazed up at the lions, wondered what terrible things they’d seen. He imagined them pivoting toward him, their soundless growls swelling into audibility. He shuddered. To take the edge off his fear, he tilted the bottle and took a gulp.
“A very good year,” he said and wiped his mouth. He had no idea if the wine was any good or not, but it tasted fine to him. He drank from the bottle again and felt the pleasant warmth spreading throughout his body. He wondered idly if Rosa was in the dining hall cleaning up. She was many years older than him, but she was still very attractive. What would happen if he were to go in there and offer to help? He could carry dishes for her, offer her some wine. Then, who knew? If she was lonely enough, certain enough that one of her bosses wouldn’t be down again that evening, maybe she would welcome a curious touch, a lingering kiss.
He hadn’t gotten laid yet, but he knew all about such things. He’d fingered Carrie Lieberman at her birthday party a few months ago. Three or four girls had allowed him to slip a hand under their bras.
Chris took another drink.
A woman like Rosa wouldn’t bother with such foreplay. He thought of her full breasts, her round butt. What would she do if he snuck up behind her, lifted her dress, said “what do we have here”? Would she smack him in the face? Tell his mommy on him?
Chris put the bottle to his lips, drank.
Only one way to find out.
He patted Cupid’s glossy black head on the way by and sucked in a breath as his elbow grazed the tip of the little archer’s arrow. He frowned at the dark pinprick of blood. Maybe, he thought as he exited the great hall, the accident was a good omen. Maybe Rosa would be pierced by Cupid’s arrow too.
But she wasn’t in the dining hall.
Nor was she in the kitchen or her own quarters. Chris knew the castle was large—twelve thousand square feet, according to his father—but it was now, he checked his watch, ten-thirty at night. He couldn’t imagine where the woman could be.
More than a trifle drunk, the fruity flavor of the wine permeating his palate like some natural anesthetic, Chris wandered the echoing corridors. It was a little creepy, and he was glad to be drinking. He could never have walked the halls of Castle Blackwood sober and alone. Especially at night.
Yet now, emboldened by the booze, Chris drifted from room to room, from floor to floor, hunting for a woman more than twice his age whom he was now sure was hunting for him too, yearning for a pair of arms to warm her, aching for an eager young lover to take away some of her loneliness.
On the fifth floor Chris heard Rosa’s laughter. At first he thought the sound came from his own room.
Holy shit, he thought. She was waiting for him.
A thickness in his throat, Chris opened the door of his bedroom and flipped on the light.
Empty.
The laughter echoed again, and Chris was amazed to find it coming from his parents’ room. He told himself it had to be his mother laughing so. It couldn’t be Rosa. Then he approached the door and felt his stomach lurch at the trio of voices.
Without thinking, he opened the door and there on the four-poster bed lay his mother, her knees spread apart, arms splayed as if crucified.
Between her legs Rosa’s small head rose and fell, rose and fell.
In the corner stood his father, naked. Nearly blotted out by his overhanging belly, his hairy hand was stroking in rhythm with the movements of Rosa’s plunging face.
No one seemed to notice Chris standing there. No one said anything to him as he wheeled and hurried away, sure he was going to spew hot wine and gastric juices all over the floor. Chris stumbled into his bedroom, tossed the bottle on the bed, and barely made it to the toilet before it all exploded in a scalding gush, the color of it a dull burgundy, except for a few bits of what looked like maggots but were actually rice, the only part of the meal Chris had touched. He vomited a long time, then hung there panting on the edge of the cool, white bowl. Through the ringing in his ears and the poisonous saliva dribbling from the corners of his mouth, he became aware of a new sensation, a tingling at the small of his back and a tightening of his sphincter. Then he heard what his body had already reacted to—an ugly, enraged voice followed by a strident plea.
Confusion and terror at war in his mind, he pushed away from the toilet and navigated the sickly swaying bathroom. Halfway through his bedroom he heard his mother’s laughter, and the afterimage of the Mexican woman going down on her almost brought on another wave of vomiting. He managed to hold it together, to get his door open. Using the wall as a brace, he approached the master suite again.
With a superstitious dread, Chris approached the lurid crimson glow emanating from the doorway. He reached out to steady himself on the jamb and fancied the slick wood squirming under his fingers.
In the corner of the room, his father thrust his big hips into Rosa, whose back rested on the open windowsill. His father’s expression was not of a man enjoying himself, but rather of one intent on inflicting pain. Even as Chris watched, his father’s meaty fist shot out, bludgeoned Rosa in the nose. He could see how far his father had shoved the woman into the aperture, five stories from the ground below.
His dad reached out, still thrusting his hips, and began to choke Rosa.
Chris knew he should say something, somehow help her, but he felt himself mentally retreating, taking refuge in his dulled senses. He saw the three figures in a writhing, hellish tableau:
Christina Blackwood, sated and drowsing on the bed.
Stephen Blackwood’s lips pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wild and feral.
Rosa’s eyes huge and frightened, the tendons of her neck straining.
Chris’s father said something unintelligible. Rosa’s rear end passed over the outer rim of the sill, her body held there by the hand that strangled it. Her madly kicking legs slid outward another inch. Three more. If his father let go now, Rosa would plummet to her death. Chris opened his mouth to scream but it was his mother’s voice that broke the trance.
“Go away, Chris,” was all she said.
His father looked at him, and Chris took a step in that direction. Rosa’s anguished face swiveled toward him, her eyes bulging with terror.
“Help me,” she managed to whisper.
His father smiled, his eyes red-rimmed and empty.
Then he let the woman fall.
Part Two: Claire
Chapter One
Claire awakes and is immediately assailed by a sense of wrongness. For one thing, she is standing up rather than lying in bed as she should be. The fact that she’s been sleepwalking barely registers in her wildly disordered thoughts, the far more urgent question being where the hell she’d sleepwalked to. The floor under her bare feet is startlingly cold, like standing in a field of newly fallen snow, but the knowledge does little to orient her—after all, the entire castle is uncarpeted. She could be in her room, the hallway, the great hall even. For all she knows she could be
(in the pit)
in Ben’s room. Oh God, what possessed her body to choose this, of all times—her first night in the castle—to switch to autopilot?
A murmuring voice makes her freeze. Someone is in the room with her.
Okay, she tells herself, okay. Nothing to freak out about, no reason to come unhinged.
More words from her immediate right, nearly intelligible now, and though the voice itself is velvety and unthreatening, the ice-pick jag of her heartbeat accelerates with the sound.
