The Bloodstone, page 30
“What?” Ron asked anxiously.
“Where they’ve hidden the baby’s things. I know where they are. In the basement of the brownstone.” Slowly she began to unravel the details. “After she killed the child... they, he was hysterical. She was much calmer. They argued. She won. They had the child cremated. I don’t know where or how, but they did. And then they gathered up all the child’s belongings and hid them away down in the basement.” She turned to stare at Ron. “Mike told me they only stored old furniture in the basement. But when I asked Doreen if I could go down there—she said no. That Mike didn’t allow anyone to go down there. I can see the room clearly. And the baby’s things are down there.”
Ron made an attempt to reestablish himself on a terrain where he would feel a bit less confused. “Del, relax. Drink the sherry. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Damn it!” she cried. “They’ve hidden the baby’s things down in the basement, I tell you. Why won’t you believe me?”
Ron shook his head. “I do. It’s just that everything seems to be happening at once. First—”
“Don’t you see? Elizabeth used to live here. With Showalter. This used to be his carriage house. And they lived here together. I’m sure of it.” She spun around. “Of course! That’s why she has brought me back here.”
Chandal’s words, combined with his own confusion, roused Ron to a peak of frenzy. He grabbed hold of her. “Del! I’m interested in the reasons. What would be accomplished?”
“I don’t know!” she said, making a supreme effort to control herself.
Ron waited for her to go on. She didn’t. He tried another tack. “Suppose what you say is true. What then?”
Her eyes went up. “What then? Then I know I’m dealing with something real. Oh, Ron—if only I could know that, be sure of that.” Her eyes darted suddenly around the room. “Ron, we must get into the basement. I have to know.”
Ron shook his head. “I’m afraid—”
“Please. Help me.”
“How are we going to get in down there? If Mike didn’t let anyone in before, he’s certainly not going to let anyone in now.”
“We could break in.”
“Mike would hear us.”
“No, their apartment is in the front of the building. They’d never be able to hear us at the back of the house. Here, I have a hammer. A screwdriver, pliers—anything you need. Please, Ron. I have to see if I’m right.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Ron threw up his hands, in a gesture conveying both helplessness and irritation.
Moments later, Ron made his way down the extremely steep stairway with care, knowing that one false step in the darkness could send him toppling to the cement floor below. With Chandal holding onto his shoulder, he reached out for the brick wall which he touched for support as he edged his way downward. The heavy air that assailed his nostrils had an odor of mildew and decay.
Only after Ron had reached the bottom and Chandal had let the outer wooden door close behind them, did he turn on the flashlight.
“Can we get in?” Chandal whispered.
“Christ, yes. Whoever put the lock on, put the hasp on backwards. All I have to do is turn a few screws. Here, hold the flashlight. That’s it.”
The first two screws came away without any trouble. The last two refused to budge.
“Damn it!”
“Couldn’t we pry them loose with the hammer?”
“It would make too much noise.”
“Try again.”
“I’ve been trying. My hand is killing me.”
Chandal waited as Ron took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the palm of his hand. Pressing down hard on the screwdriver’s handle, he twisted. The screw gave way. Ron let out a gasp and smiled. “One more.”
With every ounce of strength left in him, he drove the screwdriver in and twisted.
“It’s coming,” Chandal exclaimed.
He twisted harder. “There!” A few flicks of his wrist and the hasp fell away. Slowly Ron pushed and the door swung open. An odd, cold air fanned outward.
In the dim beam of the flashlight between them, the leaden air scented with ammonia, great gusts of rotted wood varnish and paint suggesting a carpenter’s shop, an old wardrobe against the wall—the stuffed birds, the yellowing newspapers, the discarded mattress and springs—Ron was aware of the perverse nature of his actions. For God’s sake, what am I doing down here? he asked himself.
He saw Chandal looking at him.
She stopped a foot or so from him.
Ron was shaking his head now as if in doubt or fear, as if he were trying to shake clear some strange idea that was twisted and tangled in his head. “There’s nothing down here, Del,” he whispered.
There was a moment of silence with Chandal standing frozen in an attitude of deep concentration. Ron could hear her slow, harsh breathing.
“In there,” she said.
“What?” Ron flashed the light in the direction she had indicated. There were two small doors in the west wall. One of them was obstructed by furniture. The other was completely hidden from view by a large cement column.
“We’ll never be able to move that furniture.”
“It’s not in there. It’s in the other room.”
Ron looked at Chandal, her face pale, her eyes half closed, her hands clasped together. Her mouth hung open and her face appeared distorted, as if it had been shaped by some primitive sculptor.
“Del, are you all right?”
“It’s all there, Ron,” she moaned more than whispered. “The baby’s clothes, his bassinet, carriage, it’s all in that room.”
As if she were bewitched, she moved slowly toward the door. As Ron followed closely behind her, he kept thinking of his own relationship to reality. Obviously he had not escaped the dilemma of doubting Chandal. His doubt intensified as they neared the door. He suddenly felt the wild despair of a person separated from a loved one.
“It’s nailed shut,” Chandal said. “Hand me the hammer.”
“No, you hold the flashlight. I’ll do it.”
As the flashlight passed hands, Ron caught full sight of Chandal’s eyes. She was crying.
“Oh, Jesus, Del. Why are you crying?”
“I’ll be all right. Hurry. Open the door.”
Suddenly Ron thought he heard something. He snatched the flashlight from Chandal’s hand and spun around. “Ssssh.”
“What is it?”
“Hold it.” The shadows seemed to thicken. There was somebody watching them, Ron was sure of it. He took a step away from the door and flashed the light around in an arc. The narrow beam stopped on a small faucet over an aluminum tub. Small drops of water beat tatoos against metal. In a frenzy of embarrassment he turned back to face Chandal.
“Goddamn, this place gives me the creeps!”
Chandal made no comment.
Hammer in his hand, he began to extract the nails from the door. First the top three, then kneeling on the cold pavement, he removed the bottom two. There was a bad taste in his mouth now, almost medicinal, as though fever and antibiotics had combined to produce bitterness. But he had taken nothing except aspirin. He rose, wiped beads of sweat from off the bridge of his nose and reached for the door handle.
“It’s locked,” Chandal said.
“What?”
“The door is locked.” She spoke softly, her face inclined downward, as if she were talking to herself.
“How do you know?” He glanced at the door handle, then back at her. He broke into a nervous laugh and turned the handle. The door was locked.
“The key is... on the top shelf to your right.”
He reached up. Stopped. Then slowly withdrew his hand. “Jesus.”
“Open it.”
Ron hesitated a moment before putting the key into the lock. Once he began the action, his tempo increased, until he felt the door leave his hand as it swung silently into the darkened room.
Carefully he stepped over the doorsill, inched forward, then turned suddenly with a start. He caught sight of his own reflection in a large mirror resting on the floor just inside the threshold. His image emerged as a ghostly stranger, someone doomed within his own startled eyes. He shook his head. There seemed to be no limit to what the imagination could do. Quickly he focused his attention on the room.
Chandal stood center, having passed him in his moment of confusion. Her image wavered like a mirage in the pale light, her beige silk dress appearing almost transparent. She stood white and motionless, with her hands folded and raised to her breast.
Startlingly Ron could feel the air leave his chest. Directly in front of Chandal was a small bassinet. Next to that, a baby’s carriage stuffed with clothing, an infant’s clothing. Off to the right, two boxes, their lids opened, stuffed with children’s books and toys. Everything appeared clouded and was covered with a mantle of dust.
Ron’s heart was pounding. In spite of standing in chilled air there was perspiration at his temples. Then from some faroff place he heard the soft patter of music. He glanced at Chandal. She now held an ebony music box in her hands. She began to sing to its soft melody.
“Sleep, little one, and be good,
The birds are all in the wood;
They fly in the wood
From tree to tree...”
Ron moved up behind her and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Del?”
Without turning to face him, she tilted her head to one side as if staring down at a child, using a small piece of clothing as a blanket to cover its body.
“And soon they will bring
Sweet sleep to thee.
Sleep, little one, and be good.”
Ron stepped around front and flashed the light on Chandal’s face. He caught his breath. Her eyes were mere pinpoints of light. Sparkling-hot. The rest of her face seemed to possess an extraordinary calm. He watched as she moved to one side and sat in a large stuffed chair. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. She was silent and still as if in a mild trance.
Ron wanted to shout, but he controlled the impulse. Instead he whispered, “Del, you were right. It’s all here, just—” He broke off abruptly. He had the impression that he was the victim of one of life’s droll jokes, or that he was involved in a game of sorts in which he was psychologically being mocked. He really believed that for a moment, until Chandal’s eyes shot open and he could see the terror written across her face.
“Elizabeth is in me... I know it. I know it,” she said. I know it, she thought... I know it! I know it! I know it! She pressed her fingers against her eyelids, as though the thought and the mounting nausea it brought could be banished in the internal blackness. She cupped her hands now, fists actually, and began beating her chest. “In here. She’s in here! In here! In here!”
“Chandal, stop it!” Ron grabbed her hands.
Her eyes flew open again. “Ron, take me out of here. Now!” She tried to rise from her chair.
“No. Wait.”
“Let’s leave now....”
“Chandal, listen to me. There must have been a reason why Mike didn’t want you down here.” He paused, licked the dust from his bottom lip. “We must look around. Maybe we’ll turn up something important.”
“I can’t... I can’t....”
“Yes, you can. Now just sit here for a minute. It’ll only take me a minute. Okay?”
Chandal hesitated. “Please—”
Ron placed his fingertips to her lips. “Only a minute,” he said softly.
Nervously, Chandal let her body drop back into the chair.
“There must be something.” Ron turned and saw that the room was almost entirely free of furniture except for the chair Chandal was sitting in. Against the back wall was a raised semicircle alcove with platform. A low circular table was draped in dark cloth and bore a pair of candelabra and a white porcelain basin. Next to that was an altar of sorts, with Gothic figures carved along its base. Two robes with symbols embroidered on the backs with red thread hung from hooks.
His eyes wandered from the robes to the shelves of dusty books that reached above his head in three separate places along the wall. Quickly he pushed several aside, sending dust scattering into the air. A large book just above his head dropped to the floor with a loud thud. Ron started and turned to stare at Chandal.
“Please, Ron,” she whimpered, “can’t we just leave?”
“In a minute,” he muttered and turned to shine the light into the corner. His eyes fell upon a large metal chest encrusted with soot. It opened without any problem. It contained several blankets, nothing more.
He stood glancing around, filled with the weird sensation that right this minute someone might be watching them from some concealed place. Tension mounting, he pulled a heavy cardboard carton from behind the carriage. The books inside were mostly accounting ledgers from years of business and reference books: Jewelry, The Art of Jewelry Making, etc. They were dog-eared and yellowish from age and use. There were also a number of catalogs and advertisements.
Ron was just about to discontinue his search when his hand closed around a stack of letters—each addressed to Arthur M. Showalter in a small, distinctive hand—the kind of writing that indicated the sensitivity of a woman’s touch. Ron lifted the letters from the box.
At that instant he heard the cellar door bang open.
“Who’s down there!” boomed Mike’s voice.
Ron quickly shoved the letters into his jacket pocket.
“Chandal, let’s go.” He stepped out of the room first. A small beam of light fell across his face, causing him to squint.
“Mike, it’s Chandal. Ron’s with me.” Chandal stepped into the small beam of light next to Ron.
Heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Mike’s face became visible above the light. “What are you doing down here?”
“We were...” Ron hesitated.
“You broke in,” Mike said calmly and stepped closer.
For the first time, Ron could see that Mike had a rifle held in the crook of his right arm, and that he had it pointing directly at him.
“I could have killed you.” Mike’s face drew up into a knot.
“Would you mind putting the rifle down.”
Mike held the weapon steady. “What were you looking for?”
Chandal inched forward. “I asked Doreen about that small table—if I could have it back.”
“At one o’clock in the morning you decide you need a table?”
“I didn’t know it would cause this much trouble.”
Mike puffed out his jaw. “I don’t know what you two are up to, but—”
“We’re not up to anything,” Ron protested.
“No?” Mike chuckled. “Like I’ve said, I could have killed you. I would have been in my rights. You broke into my house at one o’clock in the morning.” He inched closer and lifted the rifle level with Ron’s stomach. “I didn’t know who you were, so.... This is the last time I’m warning you. I don’t know what your game is, but the next time, well...” He used the rifle to indicate the door. “I’ll expect you to fix that hasp in the morning. Just the way you found it.” He paused. “Understand?”
Ron took hold of Chandal. “Come on, Del.”
Together they climbed the basement stairs.
Ron let the safety chain on the front door of the carriage house fall into place. He turned and shook his head. “Did you see the look in that bastard’s eyes? How would, you like to meet him on a battlefield?”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Del, wait....”
Chandal turned on him suddenly. “Elizabeth wasn’t clutching her shawl the night of the fire. It was a pendant. This pendant! And she wasn’t crying out for help. She was laughing!”
Chandal tore the pendant away from her throat and flung it across the room. Without looking back she climbed the stairs and locked herself into her bedroom. The carriage house fell silent.
Ron dropped wearily onto the couch and closed his eyes. It wasn’t until later, much later, that he remembered the letters. Carefully he removed the package of letters from his pocket and stared at them. With no apparent sense of urgency he opened the first envelope and began to read.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE NIGHT WENT ON FOREVER. TIME HAD NO MEANING. Ron found himself seated in the den, his legs stretched out beneath the desk, reading ancient scribblings under the absurd light that was much too dim for normal use. Yet, oddly, here he sat, reluctant to leave this niche that wrapped around him like a skin of dust.
Outside, rain poured in a steady torrent. In the dull light Ron seemed to share a medieval fear of nature’s force with a faceless line of mankind. He pictured the earth flooded with water and thought not of the healing nourishment of rain, but rather of swarms of earthworms washed up from the depths of the earth, twisting before his eyes like small snakes. He had seen this phenomenon once before and had never forgotten it.
Now he leaned closer to the thin paper in his hand, the words blurring before his tired gaze. Pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, he dozed off from time to time, but no sooner had he allowed his eyes to shut, than something nudged him awake, jolted him into consciousness. He had read each letter numerous times. They all began “Dear Arthur,” and ended with “Your Elizabeth.”
Straightening, he adjusted his spine to a more comfortable position against the back of the chair, and read:
March 12th: Now I am certain. Magdalen and I have had a long bedtime chat about my circumstances. She believes that I should go ahead and have the child. Please understand and do not think that I wish to pressure you in any way. I love you, dearheart. Please try to love me in some way despite my decision to have our child. I want so much to see you. If you’ve a mind to, please come and see me at the brownstone.
April 1st: When I kissed you goodbye, I wept. It was exhilarating to see you again. Please, dearheart, before it is too late, say you want me. You looked so sad and I want so desperately for you to be happy. I will make you a good wife. A good home. Let me share with you those little regularities by which we measure our lives.
