Hellfire

  Peter looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “I just—” Beth hesitated, then plunged on. “Peter, am I any different since I moved up here?”

  “Jeez,” Peter replied. “How would I know? Why don’t you ask Peggy? She’s your best friend, isn’t she?” He handed a shovel to Beth, and pointed to a large pile in one of the empty stalls. Making a face, Beth let herself into the stall, and gingerly slid the shovel under the pile of manure.

  “But Peggy never comes up here,” Beth replied. Peggy Russell was Peter’s younger sister and Beth and Peggy had been best friends since second grade. Balancing the shovel carefully, Beth moved outside and added the manure to the pile that grew steadily behind the stable each week until a truck came on Monday afternoons to take it all away. When she went back into the stall, she found Peter staring at her with the contempt he usually reserved for his kid sister.

  “You know, you can be almost as dumb as Peggy sometimes. The reason she doesn’t come up here is because I work here. Mom says if she came up here it would look like she was tagging along on my job, and then Mr. Sturgess might fire me.”

  Beth stared at Peter. “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “Tell that to my mom.”

  “I will! Peggy’s my friend. Uncle Phillip wouldn’t fire you just because your sister came to see me!”

  “Uncle Phillip?” Peter echoed, his voice suddenly tinged with scorn. “Since when is he your uncle?”

  Beth felt herself redden, and turned away. “It … it’s what I’m supposed to call him,” she mumbled.

  “Why don’t you just call him Dad?” Peter asked.

  Beth spun around to face him again, the sting of his words bringing tears to her eyes. “He’s not my father! And why are you being so mean? I thought you were my friend!”

  Peter stared at his sister’s friend, wondering what she was so angry about. Didn’t she have everything now? She lived in a mansion, and had servants, and a tennis court, and horses. She was living a life all the other kids in Westover only dreamed about.

  “We’re not friends,” he said finally. “You’re the kid who lives in the mansion now, remember? Since when have any of the kids like you ever been friends of the rest of us? Now, if you want to help, help. If you don’t, just go away. Okay? I’ve got work to do.”

  Beth dropped the shovel and ran from the stall, certain her tears were going to overcome her. She started toward the door, but before she could get out of the stable, the big black-and-white horse in the first stall whinnied again, and stretched its neck out to snuffle at her.

  Beth paused, and automatically reached up to pet the horse. Suddenly she knew what she should do. If Peter was going to treat her like she was Tracy Sturgess, she would act like Tracy.

  “Peter,” she called; then, when there was no answer, she called again, louder. “Peter!”

  The stableboy stuck his head out of one of the far stalls. “What do you want now?”

  “Saddle Patches,” Beth told him. “I want to go for a ride.”

  Peter stared at her. “Are you nuts? You don’t know how to ride.”

  “Do it!” Beth demanded, hoping she didn’t sound as frightened as she suddenly felt. “Let Patches out in the paddock, and put the saddle on!”

  Peter only grinned at her, and shook his head.

  “Then I’ll do it myself!” Beth cried. Opening the gate, she let herself into the stall. The horse backed away, then reared up, snorting.

  Beth darted across the stall and threw open the door on the other side, and the horse immediately bolted through into the paddock beyond. A moment later, Beth followed.

  Outside, she paused, then reached up and took the lead rope off the nail it was coiled over. As she started toward the horse, she tried to remember what it was that Tracy did when she was going to saddle a mount.

  Patches eyed her as she approached, pawing at the ground and whinnying softly. When she was only a few feet away, the horse reared up, pawed at the air, then cantered off to the other end of the paddock.

  From the stable, Beth heard Peter laughing. She spun around, glaring at him.

  “Don’t just stand there! Help me!”

  “You let Patches out—it’s your problem!”

  Beth looked from Peter back to the horse, and suddenly felt herself begin to panic. The animal, so friendly in the stall, suddenly looked much bigger, and somehow threatening. But she had to get the horse onto the lead. She had to!

  She started forward once more, moving slowly and carefully, feeling her heart pound. Patches, apparently no longer interested in her, had reached down and torn a clump of grass up. But when Beth moved in close, the horse suddenly shied away, snorted a warning, then once more trotted away.

  Suddenly Beth felt the lead rope being torn from her hand, and heard Tracy’s voice.

  “What are you doing, stupid? Give me that!” Then, while Beth stood watching, Tracy trotted over to the horse, grasped its halter just as it began to rear, and snapped the lead in place. She jerked sharply on the lead, and Patches came back to earth, neighing softly.

  “You idiot,” Tracy shouted to Beth as she led the horse back to its stall. “What were you doing?”

  “I … I just wanted to go for a ride. And Peter wouldn’t saddle him for me, so I tried to do it myself.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Tracy snapped. “You don’t know anything about horses.”

  “I do, too—”

  “You just called Patches ‘him,’ didn’t you? Well, it just so happens Patches is a mare. If you can’t even tell that, you should stay out of the stable. And besides, Patches is my horse!”

  “Aw, come on, Tracy,” Peter Russell began, but Tracy whirled around, glaring at him.

  “You stay out of this, or I’ll make Father fire you. And don’t ever let her back in the stable again.”

  Peter’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. When Tracy had led the horse back into the stable and closed the door, Beth ran over to the boy.

  “Peter, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Didn’t you hear her?” Peter demanded, his anger at Tracy now refocused on Beth. “Just stay away, all right?” Then he turned, and also disappeared into the stable.

  Beth hesitated, then felt the tears she’d been fighting overflow. Scrambling through the paddock fence, she ran along the path back toward the rose garden, then veered off to the right, going around the end of the house, crossing the front lawn. On the far side two immense stone lions flanked the foot of the trail that led up to the mausoleum. Beth passed between them unseeingly, almost blinded by the stinging tears.

  Phillip Sturgess and Alan Rogers stood on Prospect Street, gazing across at the sullen brick facade of the long-abandoned mill. Its windows, long since bereft of glass, were boarded over, and the once-red bricks bore a thick accumulation of grime that had turned them nearly black. At the top, some of the crenellations that had once been the building’s sole claim to architectural interest had crumbled away, giving the abandoned factory a ruined look.

  The two men stood silent for a long time. Alan finally sighed, and shook his head.

  “I don’t know. On paper, it all looks great, but when you look at what we really have to work with—well, I just don’t know. It might be easier to tear it down and start over.”

  Phillip nodded. “It would be cheaper, too. But we’d lose something if we did that. There’s history in that building, Alan. Almost the whole history of Westover is tied up in the mill.”

  “Don’t you mean the history of the Sturgesses?” Alan replied.

  “I’m not sure there’s a difference.” Then he saw the grin on Alan’s face, and chuckled. “All right, so I sounded like my parents. But the whole attraction of the place will be the fact of the restoration, so we don’t really have any choice, do we? And the structure’s sound, believe it or not. I had an engineer survey it a few months ago.”

  Alan regarded the other man skeptically. “Did your father know that?”

&n
bsp; “You know how Father felt about the mill.”

  “And he had a right to, after what happened to your brother.”

  There was a silence; then Phillip spoke again, his voice softer. “What happened to Conrad Junior was an accident, despite what Father believed.” Then, when Alan said nothing, Phillip turned to face him. “Alan, you don’t believe all those stories, do you?”

  “The ghost stories? Of course not. But apparently your father did.”

  Phillip’s expression tightened. “He’s dead now.”

  “Yes.” Alan paused, then chose his words carefully. “What about Carolyn? What does she think of all this?”

  Phillip eyed Alan shrewdly. “The fact that you asked the question suggests to me that you know the answer.”

  “I just wondered,” Alan replied, shrugging noncommittally. “She just always hated this place, that’s all.” Then, meeting Phillip’s eyes, he went on. “A lot of people in Westover hate this mill, Phillip. They see it as a symbol, and the memories it evokes aren’t pleasant ones. A lot of the children of Westover died in that building—”

  “That was a long time ago, Alan,” Phillip interrupted. “And while I’m not pretending it was right, child labor went on all over New England back then. It wasn’t just here, and it wasn’t just the Sturgesses.”

  “I’m not saying it was,” Alan agreed. “All I’m saying is that a lot of people here still look at that mill, and think about what went on in it.”

  “Something none of them really remembers,” Phillip pointed out. “Let’s not forget that the mill’s been closed for a century, and stories get exaggerated. If Father had been smart, he’d have done something with the property years ago.” Suddenly Phillip cocked his head, and gazed at Alan suspiciously. “Alan, is there something you’re not telling me? Is the board likely to hold up the permits just because of the history of the building?”

  Alan shook his head. “Nope. The permits will go through without a murmur. As far as the board’s concerned, history is history. If turning this old wreck into a mall full of cute little shops will make people in Westover some money, the aldermen are all for it.”

  “But you doubt that it will,” Phillip stated.

  “I do,” Alan agreed, but then smiled ruefully. “Of course, as your wife will tell you, I’m not the most imaginative son-of-a-bitch around, and never think anything will work. So why don’t we go inside and have a look around, and I can tell you just why the dump will collapse when we start working on it.”

  “And I,” Phillip laughed, “will expect you to buy me a drink when nothing collapses at all.”

  They crossed Prospect Street, walked to the corner of the vast building, then turned left onto a weed-choked path that paralleled the building’s long northern wall. Halfway down, they came to a metal door, its paint badly weathered. But when Phillip slipped a key into the padlock that hung from an oversized hasp, it opened easily.

  “Father had the lock checked every month, from the day Conrad Junior died. Sometimes he did it himself. When I was a kid, I used to beg him to bring me along and show me the inside of the mill, but he never would. I guess—well, I guess he never got over my brother’s death at all.”

  “He really never even let you look around?” Alan asked.

  Phillip shook his head. “It used to drive me nuts. Sometimes I’d lie awake nights, looking down at it from my window, plotting how I could sneak in. But then I’d think about what Father would do to me if I got caught, and I never tried it.” His face twisted into an abashed grin. “Do you know, even when I came down here with the engineer, I almost couldn’t bring myself to go inside? I kept thinking Father was watching me from Hilltop, and when I got home, he’d skin me. Forty-three years old, and still afraid of my father. Some tycoon, hunh?”

  Alan chuckled, and thumped his friend’s back. “Afraid you just don’t pull off the tycoon act very well at all, Phillip, and that’s the truth. You sure you’re a real Sturgess?”

  “I’m going to accept that little bit of snideness as a compliment, thank you very much,” Phillip replied. Then he pulled the door open, and stood back. “After you.”

  Alan stepped through the door, and looked around curiously. It was almost pitch black in the interior, for only a little light filtered through the boarded windows. High overhead, a latticework of iron strutting supported the ceiling.

  “In its day, that roof was considered quite an accomplishment. There weren’t many buildings this size with no pillars for the roof. It’s almost the size of a football field.”

  “And almost as empty, too,” Alan observed. He kicked at the floor, and was surprised when there was no give.

  “It’s oak. Solid oak, and three inches thick. Downstairs, there are beams and pillars everywhere. The engineer said he’d never seen anything quite like it.”

  They prowled through the building, but Alan quickly realized there was little to see. It was simply an immense shell, with a few remnants of partitions still in place at the back, where the mill offices had been. Though it had suffered badly from neglect, the structure did, indeed, seem basically sound. After exploring the main floor, they headed toward a stairway leading to the basement.

  Phillip switched on a flashlight, and they started down. At the bottom of the stairs, Phillip suddenly stopped.

  “This is where they found Conrad Junior,” he said softly. “Apparently he tripped, and fell on some kind of tool.”

  Alan frowned, then took the flashlight from the other man and cast its beam around the expanse of the basement. Shadows from the closely spaced columns were everywhere, and the beam of light finally seemed to lose itself in the distance. But except for the forest of supporting pillars, the basement, like the floor above, seemed empty.

  “What was a tool doing here? It looks like the place was cleared out a hundred years ago.”

  “Search me,” Phillip replied. “When it happened, I hadn’t even been born yet. In fact,” he added, his voice taking on a note of melancholy that Alan had never heard before, “I guess I was the replacement child. I don’t think Mother intended having more than one, but when Conrad Junior died, they decided to have me.”

  “They didn’t do so badly,” Alan said, deliberately making his voice light. “I don’t know what your brother was like, but—”

  “—But he was the son my father loved,” Phillip said, his voice suddenly bitter. “Father never failed to let me know that I was no substitute for my brother,” he added. Then, embarrassed by what he had confided, he cleared his throat, and grasped Alan’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Though he would have liked to examine the massive wooden beams that supported the main floor, and take a closer look at the building’s foundations, Alan followed Phillip up the stairs and across the barren building.

  Their footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, and neither man spoke again until they had once more emerged into the bright sunlight of the summer morning.

  “Well,” Phillip asked, “what do you think?”

  Alan once more regarded the building thoughtfully before he spoke. Then, at last, he nodded.

  “It can be done. And it won’t take long either. If we get started right away, we should be able to have it open by Labor Day.”

  The two men stared at each other, both of them recognizing the irony at the same time.

  “Labor Day,” Phillip repeated softly. “Given the history of the building, that seems somehow fitting, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Alan agreed. “And a tad macabre, too, when you think about it.”

  Phillip relocked the metal door, and they started back up the path toward Prospect Street. Then, when they were once more in front of the old factory, Phillip spoke once more.

  “Alan, when we were down in the basement, did you smell something?”

  Alan frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head.

  “It was probably nothing,” Phillip went on. “But for a minute there, while we were talking, I t
hought I smelled smoke.”

  5

  “Hannah?”

  The old housekeeper looked up from the bowl of peas she was shelling, then started to pull her weight up from the battered easy chair she’d long ago moved from her room into the enormous kitchen.

  “Don’t get up,” Carolyn told her. “I was just wondering if you’d seen Beth.”

  “She was right here till after breakfast,” Hannah replied, sinking gratefully back into the depths of the chair. “Helped me with the dishes.” She glanced up at Carolyn over the rims of her half-glasses. “She’s a mighty nice girl, that daughter of yours.”

  Carolyn nodded absently, and Hannah’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Something wrong, Miss Carolyn? Have I done something to displease you?”

  “Of course not,” Carolyn replied immediately. “You’re wonderful, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She hesitated, knowing she should probably leave Hannah alone in her domain, then lowered herself onto one of the straight-backed wooden chairs that sat at the kitchen table. Her fingers began nervously twisting at a button on her blouse. “I … I’m not really sure,” she went on. “It’s just that …” She let her voice trail off, afraid that whatever she might say would sound somehow disloyal to her husband.

  But Hannah, her face imperturbable, nodded wisely, and finished the sentence for her. “… it’s just that things up here aren’t like you thought they’d be, and it’s not as easy as it looked?”

  How did she know? Carolyn wondered. Is it all that obvious? Instinctively, without thinking about it at all, she reached out for a handful of the peas, and began shelling them.

  “You don’t have to do that, Miss Carolyn,” Hannah said quietly, but there was something in her tone that made Carolyn look at the housekeeper. As she’d suspected, Hannah’s eyes were fixed on her, as if challenging her to speak her mind clearly.

  But she won’t ever ask me anything, Carolyn suddenly realized. If I need to talk, I can, but she’ll never initiate a conversation.

  “Yes, I do,” Carolyn replied, making up her mind. “I have to do something. I’m just not used to sitting around all day with no work to do. And I’m afraid I’m not good at lunches, either,” she added, remembering the few times she’d accepted invitations from the wives of men her husband had grown up with, only to spend a few miserable hours listening to them chat about people she didn’t know and places she’d never been.