Silent Stalker, page 5
The balls went higher. Wit grinned.
“He’s an executioner, you know. He wanders the halls in the dead of night looking for victims to do in. You’re not the first to see him.”
“Ghost?” Jenny murmured. “But he had—”
“Sometimes an ax, sometimes a noose, nobody’s safe when the hangman’s loose.”
“Then you’ve seen him, too?” Jenny leaned forward.
“No, of course I’ve never seen him. I happen to be an extremely rational and stable person.” Wit shook his head condescendingly. “The ghost, you see, comes with the castle. What’s a castle without it’s own personal ghost?”
“I saw him,” Jenny said stubbornly. “I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t dreaming. I saw him.”
Wit stretched out his hands and caught the balls, one by one.
“You asked about the family curse right before we left you tonight. Doesn’t it make sense that it was the last thing on your mind before you went to sleep? And that you must have gone over it again in some weird nightmare?”
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Jenny persisted. “I’ve had nightmares. Nothing ever like this.”
“You took a pretty nasty fall. You’ve got bumps and bruises all over you. We know.” He winked at her. “We checked.”
In spite of herself Jenny blushed. She turned her head away from him and stared at the wall.
“An executioner,” she mumbled. “A real one.”
“A ghost.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“What else do you know about him?” Jenny chanced a quick look in Wit’s direction and saw him smile.
“Oh, I get it. You like being terrified in your sleep, so you want me to help.” Wit crossed his arms over his chest. “You really are a glutton for punishment.”
“I want to know.”
“Okay, let me think. I certainly wouldn’t want to get any of this wrong—and have you ending up inside the wrong nightmare.” He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “They said they saw him, too. The women who never survived here. Or at least”—his voice lowered conspiratorially—“that’s what I’ve heard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every victim. Right before she met her untimely end. Every victim told about having seen the ghost.”
“And no one believed them, either?”
Wit gave her a condescending look. “You can’t prove anything when you’re dead.”
“But you said they didn’t all die.”
“And what an incredible memory for detail you have. Well, unfortunately, some of them just lost their minds and lived on to speak of the ghost time and time again. Of course, nobody takes you seriously when you’re crazy.” He gave her a meaningful look. “I rest my case.”
“Is this really the legend, or are you making this up?”
“It’s all true,” Wit said solemnly. “As true as your being in that room with me and Malcolm and Derreck doing horrible things to you.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I think it really could have happened. And that you were all just trying to scare me. And this is part of the act.”
“Right. You mustn’t listen to me—after all, I’m only a fool.”
“With a really sick sense of humor.”
“Thank you.” He bowed mockingly and slid the balls back into his pockets.
Jenny lay back and gazed up at the ceiling. She glanced at Wit and saw him glance just as quickly away.
“But how could it have been a dream?” she whispered again, unhappily. “How could it have been? …”
She shifted beneath the covers, then looked down at her legs in slow surprise.
“My nightgown,” she said suddenly. “It’s all wet. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”
“What? That this place leaks like a sieve? When Malcolm found you, you were lying in a puddle the size of a small swimming pool.”
Jenny managed a slight nod … grew quiet. “So … there’s no reason, is there? For you to believe me.”
“It’s magic, this house,” Wit replied easily. He frowned and put one finger to his forehead as if pondering great thoughts. “Works on the mind. Twists it about. Makes you wonder. Makes you doubt.” Jumping up from the bed, he spread his arms in an inclusive gesture. “Look around you. Is this not the stuff dreams are made of? Evil dreams, that is?”
“Then … if it didn’t really happen …” Jenny’s voice trailed off, too weary to finish.
“Who’s to say dreams aren’t real and reality’s just a dream?” Wit gave her a mysterious smile. “It’s been known to happen. Bumps on the head make for straaaange hallucinations.…”
“But you said I saw a ghost,” Jenny mumbled. “You said the ghost was real.”
Wit feigned surprise. “Did I? But you said you didn’t believe. So which of us is right?”
He made a sudden turn and landed in the center of the room, so swiftly that Jenny hardly saw him move at all.
“But”—Jenny raised up on her elbows—“for just a second in that awful room … I really thought I saw Malcolm … or Derreck …”
“Then how would you tell them apart?” Wit finished her sentence triumphantly.
“And why would he—whoever he was—lie about being there? So if Malcolm says it wasn’t him … then maybe it was Derreck.”
“Or Malcolm disguised as Derreck,” Wit added delightedly. “Or Derreck pretending to be Malcolm. I wouldn’t know. I was in some other dream at the time, not yours.” He twirled about and landed in the exact same position. “In dreams we see only bits and pieces. Thrown together”—he twirled again—“helter skelter without rhyme or reason. We need to put all the pieces together before we can have a pretty picture. Or”—his eyes narrowed—“sometimes the picture’s not … so … pretty.”
Jenny’s head was throbbing. She made an impatient gesture and settled back down onto her pillow.
“I wish you’d just go. I wish you’d leave me alone.”
“What you really wish is to know the difference between Malcolm and Derreck.” Wit gave a sly grin and perched at the foot of her bed.
Again Jenny turned her face away and stared at the wall. “I don’t care. I don’t care anything about them.”
She waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. Silence settled thickly in the room, filling the space between them with a strange uneasiness. Without warning, Jenny felt a slow chill work its way up her spine. When Wit spoke at last, his teasing sounded almost forced.
“Perhaps you should,” he said casually. “Just in case you happen to meet one of them in a hallway after dark. Just in case one of them … creeps into your dreams.”
Jenny turned and stared at him. “You sound almost as if … you believe me,” she whispered.
Wit shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you … at least … think it’s possible? That maybe I wasn’t dreaming? Hallucinating? That something strange and horrible happened to me tonight?”
Wit crossed his legs, cocked his head, and began to rattle off, counting on his fingers:
“Derreck is quieter. Malcolm has more to say. Malcolm is the charming one; Derreck’s more mysterious. They’re exactly the same height, they have the same color hair and eyes, the same shaped face—though Derreck’s is a bit thinner—the same arch to their brows. You can’t tell them apart hearing them speak—though Derreck’s voice is a trifle deeper. Same build, same weight, same bone structure. But …”
He scooted forward and rested the tip of one finger against his left earlobe.
“Perhaps it is that Derreck has a scar—just here. Beneath his hair, behind his ear? Small and … intimate, shall we say. Not so easy to find. You’d have to be quite … close,” he finished smugly.
Jenny watched him a moment, then frowned.
“None of that matters to me.”
“Doesn’t it?” And suddenly Wit’s voice changed, the teasing completely gone, replaced by a note of seriousness. “There is a difference, Jenny—hear me and listen well. This is all I can tell.”
He clamped his mouth shut as footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the door. Jenny shivered a little as Malcolm walked in.
“Where’s my dad?” she asked, trying to peer around him. “Didn’t you give him my message?”
Malcolm looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Wit but got no look in return.
“Well … the thing is, Jenny …”
“What?” And she could feel the fear building again, her body stiffening as she sat up, as Malcolm reached out to gently restrain her. “What are you talking about? Couldn’t you find him? I want to see him now.”
“You can’t see him.”
“Why not?”
“You just can’t.”
Again Malcolm looked at Wit. Wit looked at the floor and whistled softly under his breath.
“It’s three in the morning, Jenny.” Malcolm sighed. “We’d only been coming to check in on you—your dad told us not to tell you till morning.”
“Tell me … what?”
“He got a call in the night. Some assignment he had to tend to right away.”
“So … you’re saying he’s—”
“Gone.” Malcolm nodded. “He’s left you here with us till he comes back.”
8
Jenny leaned over her plate and toyed listlessly with her breakfast. She hadn’t slept a wink last night after Malcolm and Wit had left her room, and now she wondered how she’d ever be able to stay awake today. Wit had come for her early that morning and led her back to the main house, but she’d eaten alone. She was surprised when he suddenly appeared again, informing her she had a phone call in Sir John’s study.
“Down there.” Wit pointed her toward a corridor. “You look awful this morning, by the way.”
“Well, at least I changed my clothes.” Jenny retorted. “What do you do—sleep in that costume?”
Wit struck a pose. “We’re all at the fair on display—we run back and forth all the day—doing well at our jobs, entertaining the mobs—so we must live the parts that we play!”
Jenny glowered at him before turning her back. She didn’t expect the study to be occupied, so she was surprised when she heard voices inside. Pressing against the wall, she put her ear close to the open door and listened.
“Of course it’s inconvenient,” Sir John hissed. “What do you think?”
“I think we should get her out of here,” a familiar voice replied. Malcolm? Or Derreck? “In fact, I think she should never have come at all.”
“Granted, but it’s done now, isn’t it? And I can’t very well turn her out. We mustn’t do anything to arouse suspicion. Everything must go on as normal as possible. I need the publicity—to bring the tourists—to spend the money—to keep this house!” Sir John’s voice rose. “Dammit, just her being here is—”
“Dangerous,” the other finished.
“More than dangerous,” Sir John muttered. “Tragic at the very least.”
“Well, then, perhaps you haven’t considered the very worst.”
Sir John sounded angry. “So now at last you’re beginning to understand the magnitude of our predicament—”
“Not our. Yours. You already know how we all feel about it.”
There was a moment of silence. Even from her hiding place, Jenny could feel the tension in the air.
“This must be your responsibility,” Sir John said coldly. “I can’t do it alone. It’s up to you three to take care of her.”
“Really? Easier said than done, I should think, considering the circumstances.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“I’m sure we’ll have to.”
Footsteps moved rapidly through the room. Jenny had only a split second to squeeze herself behind the doors before one of the twins strode out and disappeared down the corridor. In less than a minute Sir John also came out and walked off in the opposite direction as Jenny slipped quietly into the study and picked up the telephone.
Her father didn’t even wait for her to say hello.
“Jenny, it’s an important assignment,” Mr. Logan greeted her. “I’m the only one who can cover it—I don’t have a choice, I have to do it! And with your mother galavanting off to Paris—”
“She’s not galavanting!” Jenny’s voice rose. “She’s away on business and—”
“Whatever. The point is, I promised her I’d keep you, so you’ll have to stay there till I get back.”
“I can’t.” Jenny gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles hurt. “Dad, I can’t stay here! Something happened last night—is happening—right now—”
“Yes, yes, Sir John told me—some silly nightmare. I wish you wouldn’t upset everyone with that imagination of yours, Jenny—remember you’re a guest!”
“But, Dad—”
“Look, I’m sorry I ran out on you, but I had a plane to catch, and there was no point in waking you up. It’ll only be for a couple days. In the meantime I want you to take over for me there. Get some pictures or something. Human interest stuff.”
“All I’ve got is my little camera! How can I take pictures for you? Dad, about last night—”
“Make notes, then. Ask questions. Jot down your impressions of the castle and the fair and all the people you meet. My next interview’s the first of next week—I can’t miss it. So you’ll have to do most of the research for me. Understand? I don’t know how long it’ll take to get the damn car fixed—we’ll just have to rent one till I can get back there to pick mine up. Maybe I can get some money from your mother or … well, never mind about that. I’ll see you day after tomorrow. I’ll only have one day to spend when I get there—and I can see now that’s going to mean one whole day of shooting photos—so I’m counting on you to have all the other research done for me. Sir John said he’d love to have you.”
Jenny heard his voice through a layer of numbness. Her gaze wandered around Sir John’s huge chamber, then settled back on the window, where the morning shone through, bright and fresh and clean after the rain.
“Jenny?” Dad’s voice brought her back. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard.”
“Okay, then. Do a good story for me, kid.”
There was a click and a dial tone. Jenny hung up and leaned against the table, feeling sick.
“You’re missing the fair,” a voice spoke behind her, and she turned to see one of the twins in the doorway.
“Oh, you scared me—” Jenny straightened up and stared at him. “Malcolm?”
A slow smile went over his lips. He shook his head, then disappeared.
For a long time Jenny stood gazing after him, then she gave a deep sigh and turned again to the window. Far below to her left she could see a curve of rocky shoreline, water lapping and foaming along the cliffs at its edge. In the opposite direction an overgrown field stretched nearly half a mile before it began a gentle slope downward and out of sight. The sky was brilliantly blue, and in the distance colorful banners snapped in the wind, just visible in the partially hidden valley below. That must be the fair going on down there. …
“So. How is your father this morning.”
Jenny started as Sir John came up behind her and laid one hand upon her shoulder. His touch was as cold as ice.
“Busy,” she murmured.
“Yes. The sad fate of journalists, I suppose.” The old man gave a slow smile, and Jenny realized how much he must have resembled the twins in his younger days. “As I promised your father, I’ll be more than happy to be of any assistance I can. And that, of course, extends to my boys.”
“Is that the fair down there?” Jenny changed the subject.
Sir John moved close to her, narrowing his eyes on the windowpane.
“At the bottom of the hill, yes. I think you’ll find it most amusing, Jenny, and especially today. This is Visitors’ Costume Day—most of the tourists will be dressed in period clothes. Prizes for the best, and so forth. I’m sure I could find you something to wear if—”
“No, thank you.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “It’s a phenomenon, really. The way participants seem to forget about this modern century once they pass through the gates. A sort of magic. Stepping back in time.”
“Has it started yet?”
“Of course. The fair opens early and won’t close until dusk. Here. Use this free pass. With my compliments.”
He turned to go, but Jenny’s voice stopped him.
“Sir John—now that my father’s gone, do you think I could use his room?”
The old man seemed to be thinking. After a long pause he turned back to face her.
“I’m so sorry, my dear.” He shook his head. “And especially after that grisly nightmare of yours my sons told me about. The truth of the matter is, last night’s storm seems to have severely damaged one of the windows in there. I’m afraid that room is completely out of the question.”
Jenny stood stiffly, watching as another smile crept across his lips.
“You will enjoy yourself”—he nodded slightly—“won’t you?”
He didn’t wait for Jenny to answer. He went off again down the hall, and Jenny watched from the doorway to make sure he’d really gone.
It was already hot when she got outside. Last night’s rain had left the air thick with humidity, and by the time she neared the foot of the hill, she was out of breath. Her mind felt dull from lack of sleep, and she couldn’t stop the discussion she’d just overheard from playing over and over in her brain—“Dangerous … Tragic … It’s up to you three to take care of her …”
Who were they talking about? Me?
She stopped, an icy chill crawling over her in spite of the heat.
But why? What reason would they possibly have for talking about me?
“Let’s scare Jenny to death.…”
“Oh, God …”
Jenny closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun. Warmth spread across her cheeks, and she willed it into the dark, confused corners of her mind.
I didn’t hear them say my name in the study. They could have been talking about anyone, anyone at all. I’m just overreacting—being paranoid. Dad’s righ—I do have an overactive imagination. It’s because of that dream last night—and it must have been a dream—it had to be a dream—nothing real could be that horrible—no real person could ever be that cruel.…
