The Blackstone Chronicles

  For half an hour Oliver continued speaking, his thoughts organizing themselves as he spoke in the same simple, orderly prose that flowed from him when he sat at his computer, composing a feature or an editorial for the newspaper. Then, as the bell in the Congregational church downtown began to strike the hour of noon, he turned to Bill McGuire, the contractor who would oversee the demolition of the old building and construction of the new complex of shops and restaurants as well.

  Nodding, Oliver stepped away from the podium, walked down the steps to join the crowd, and turned to face the building as the great lead wrecking ball swung for the first time toward the century-old edifice.

  As the last chime of the church bell faded away, the ball punched through the west wall of the building. A sigh that sounded like a moaning wind passed through the crowd as it watched half a hundred fieldstones tumble to the ground, leaving a gaping hole in a wall that had stood solid through ten decades.

  Oliver, though, heard nothing of the sigh, for as the ball smashed through the wall, a blinding flash of pain shot through his head.

  Through the pain, a fleeting vision appeared …

  A man walks up the steps toward the huge double doors of the Asylum. In his hand he holds the hand of a child.

  The child is crying.

  The man ignores the child’s cries.

  As man and boy approach the great oaken doors, they swing open.

  Man and boy pass through.

  The enormous doors swing closed again.

  Prologue

  The previous day’s clouds had long since swept out to sea, and a full moon stood high in the sky. Atop North Hill the Asylum was silhouetted against a sky sparkling with the glitter of millions of stars while the night itself seemed infused with a silvery glow.

  No one, though, was awake to see it, save a single dark figure that moved through the ruptured stone wall into the silent building that had stood empty for nearly forty years. Oblivious to the beauty of the night, that lone figure moved silently, intent on finding a single chamber hidden within the warren of rooms enclosed by the cold stone walls.

  The figure progressed steadily through the darkness, finding its way as surely through those rooms that were utterly devoid of light as it did through those whose dirtencrusted windows admitted just enough moonlight to illuminate their walls and doors.

  The path the figure took weaved back and forth, as if it were threading its way through groupings of furniture, although each room was bare, until it came at last to a small, hidden cubicle. Others would have passed it by, for its entrance was concealed behind a panel, the sole illumination provided by the few rays of moonlight that crept through a single small window, which itself was all but invisible from beyond the Asylum’s walls.

  The lack of light in the chamber had no more effect on the dark-clad figure than had the blackness of the rooms through which it had already passed, for it was as familiar with the size and shape of this room as it was with the others.

  Small and square, the hidden cubicle was lined with shelves, each of which contained numerous items. A museum, if you will, of the Asylum’s past, containing an eclectic collection of souvenirs, the long-forgotten possessions of those who had passed through its chambers.

  The figure moved from shelf to shelf, touching one artifact after another, remembering the past and the people to whom these things had once been dear.

  A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness, catching the figure’s attention. The memory attached to these eyes was bright and clear.

  As clear as if it had happened only yesterday …

  The child sat on her mother’s lap, watching in the mirror as her mother brushed her hair, listening as her mother sang to her.

  But a third face appeared in the mirror as well, for the little girl held a doll, and anyone who saw the three of them together would have noticed the resemblance.

  All three—the doll, the child, and the mother—had long blond hair framing delicate, oval faces.

  All three had the same lovely blue eyes.

  All their cheeks glowed with rouge, and their lips shone brightly with scarlet gloss.

  As the brush moved through the child’s hair in long and even strokes, so also did the brush in the child’s hand mimic the motions of the mother, moving through the hair of the doll with the same single-minded affection that flowed from the mother.

  As her mother sang softly, the child hummed, contentedly crooning to her doll as her mother crooned to her.

  Through the open window the gentle sounds of the summer afternoon lulled them. In the street, half a dozen of the neighbor boys were playing a pickup game of baseball, and in the next block the melody of the ice cream truck chimed its tune.

  The mother and child were barely aware of it, so content were they in their own little world.

  Then, from downstairs, the sound of the front door slamming interrupted their idyll, and as heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs, the mother began wiping the lipstick from the child’s face.

  The child twisted away, dropping the brush with which she’d been stroking her doll’s hair, but clutching the doll itself close to her chest. “No! I like it!” the child protested, but still the mother tried to wipe away the gloss.

  Then the child’s father was towering in the bedroom doorway, his face flushed with anger. When he spoke, it was with a voice so loud and harsh that both mother and child shrank away from him.

  “This was not to happen again!”

  The mother’s eyes darted around the room as if she was seeking some avenue of escape. Finding none, she finally spoke, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t help it. I—”

  “No more,” her husband told her.

  Again the mother’s eyes darted wildly around the room. “Of course. I promise. This time—”

  “This time is the last time,” her husband said. Striding into the room, he swept the child from her lap, his arms closing around fragile shoulders. Though his wife reached up as if to take the child back, he moved out of her reach. “No more,” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if this continued?”

  Now the woman’s eyes filled with panic, and she rose to her feet. “No!” she pleaded. “Oh, God, don’t! Please don’t!”

  “It’s too late,” the man told her. “You leave me no choice.”

  Pulling the doll from the child’s arms, he tossed it onto the bed. Then, ignoring the child’s shrieks, he carried her out of the bedroom and started downstairs. Moving down the long central hall on the lower floor, he passed through the butler’s pantry and the large kitchen, where the cook, frozen in silence, watched as he strode toward the back door. But before he could open it, his wife appeared, holding the doll.

  “Please,” she begged. “Let her take it. She loves it so. As much as I love her.”

  The man hesitated, and for a moment it seemed as if he would refuse. But as his child cried out in anguish and reached for the doll, he relented.

  The woman watched helplessly as her husband carried her child out of the house. Instinctively, she knew she would never see her child again. And she would never be allowed to have another.

  The man carried the child through the great oak doors of the Asylum, and finally set the small, trembling figure on her feet. A matron waited, and she now knelt in front of the child.

  “Such a pretty little thing,” she said. As the child, holding her doll, sobbed, the matron looked up at the man. “Is this all she brought with her?”

  “It’s more than will be necessary,” the man replied. “If anything else is ever needed, please let my office know.” He looked down at his child for a moment that stretched out so long a spark of hope glowed briefly in the child’s eyes. Finally, he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry for what she did, and sorry you let her do it. Now there is no other way.” Without touching his child again, the man turned and strode through the enormous doors.

  Without being
told, the child knew she would never see her father again.

  When they were alone, the matron took her by the hand and led her through a long hallway and then up some stairs. There was another long hallway, and finally she was led into a room.

  Not nearly as nice as her room at home.

  This room was small, and though there was a window, it was covered with heavy metal mesh.

  There was a bed, but nothing like the pretty four-poster she had at home.

  There was a chair, but nothing like the rocking chair her mother had painted in her favorite shade of blue.

  There was a dresser, but it was painted an ugly brown she knew her mother would have hated.

  “This will be your room,” the matron told her.

  The child said nothing.

  The matron went to the dresser and took out a plain cotton dress that looked nothing like the pretty things her mother had given her. There was also a pair of panties, and some socks that had turned an ugly gray color. “And these will be your clothes. Put them on, please.”

  The child hesitated, then did as the matron had instructed. Taking off the frilly pinafore in which her mother had dressed her that morning, she lay it carefully on the bed so as not to wrinkle it. Then she pulled off her underthings, and was about to put on the panties when she heard the matron utter a strange sound. Looking up, she saw the woman staring down at her naked body, her eyes wide.

  “Did I do something wrong?” the child asked, speaking for the first time.

  The matron hesitated, then shook her head. “No, child, of course you didn’t. But we got you the wrong clothes, didn’t we? Little boys don’t wear dresses, do they?” The matron picked up the doll. “And they certainly don’t play with dolls. We’ll get rid of this right now.”

  The child screamed in protest, then fell sobbing to the bed, but it did no good. The matron took the doll away. The child would never see it again.

  Nor would anyone beyond the Asylum’s walls ever see the child again.

  The dark figure cradled the doll, gazing into its porcelain face in the moonlight, stroking its long blond hair, remembering how it had come to be here. And knowing to whom it must now be given.…

  Chapter 1

  Elizabeth McGuire was worried. It had now been nearly twenty-four hours since her husband had gotten the call from Jules Hartwick. Though the banker told Bill that the “small problem” that had come up about the Blackstone Center wasn’t particularly serious, Bill had been brooding ever since. All through yesterday afternoon his agitation had grown worse. By dinnertime even Megan, who in the six short years of her life had rarely failed to bring a smile to her father’s face, was unable to extract anything more than a grunt from him.

  Bill spent most of the night pacing the house, finally coming to bed only when Elizabeth had come downstairs, rubbing her distended belly, and informed him that not only was she lonely, but their soon-to-be-born baby was too. That had at least brought Bill to bed, but she was aware that he hadn’t really slept. By dawn he was already dressed and downstairs, getting in Mrs. Goodrich’s way.

  Worse, when Megan came down ten minutes ago, the first thing she wanted to know was if her daddy was sick. Elizabeth assured the little girl that her father was all right, but Megan wasn’t convinced, and volunteered to take care of her daddy if he was sick. Only when Bill himself had given her a hug and declared that he was fine had she gone off to the kitchen to help Mrs. Goodrich with the breakfast dishes.

  Now, as she poured Bill a second cup of coffee, Elizabeth tried to reassure him one more time. “If Jules Hartwick said it’s nothing serious, I don’t see why you don’t believe him.”

  Bill sighed heavily. “I wish it were that simple. But everything was all set. I mean, everything, right down to the wrecking ball day before yesterday—”

  “Which was mostly ceremonial,” Elizabeth reminded him. “It’s not like you’re tearing the whole building down. You told me yourself the ball was mostly for show.”

  “It was still the beginning,” Bill groused. “I’m telling you, Elizabeth, I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Well, you’ll know in another twenty minutes,” Elizabeth told him, glancing at the clock. “It’ll be all right, I know it.” She heaved herself up from the table, suppressing a groan. “This has to be the heaviest baby in history. It feels like it weighs forty pounds.”

  Bill slipped an arm around her, and together they walked to the front door. “See you in an hour or so,” he said. He kissed her distractedly and was just reaching for the doorknob when the bell rang. He opened the door to the mailman, standing on the porch, holding a large package. “Another present, Charlie?” he asked. “Is this one for Christmas, or the new baby?”

  The mailman smiled. “Hard to say. Christmas is only a couple of weeks away, and the package just says McGuire. Take your pick, I guess. Don’t weigh too much, for whatever that’s worth.”

  “It means I can take it,” Elizabeth said, reaching for the package as Bill started down the steps. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  The mailman touched his cap almost as if saluting, and Elizabeth had to resist the urge to return the salute. Contenting herself with a wave, she called a good-bye to her husband and went back into the house, quickly closing the door against the early December chill.

  Taking the package back to the dining room with her, she stared at it, puzzled. Just as Charlie had said, it bore no other name but McGuire, and their address, written in neat, block letters.

  There was no return address.

  “ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ ” she quoted softly as she tore away the brown paper that enclosed the parcel. She was just opening the box itself when Megan came in.

  “What’s that, Mommy? Is it for me?”

  Elizabeth peered into the box, then lifted out a doll.

  A beautiful, antique doll with blue glass eyes and long blond hair.

  Save for the doll, the box was empty.

  Her eyes went once more to the empty spot where the sender’s name should have been. “How strange,” Elizabeth said.

  Chapter 2

  Bill McGuire started down the hill toward the center of Blackstone. Elizabeth is right, he told himself. Whatever prompted Jules Hartwick’s call yesterday morning was no more serious than Jules claimed.

  “We need to have a meeting,” Hartwick had explained. “And I think you should hold off on the project for a day or two, at least, until we can talk.”

  Though Bill had asked any number of questions, trying to find out precisely what was on the banker’s mind, Hartwick refused to answer, saying only that he wasn’t ready to go into it yet; that Bill shouldn’t worry.

  Meaningless platitudes that had triggered even louder alarms in Bill’s mind. How on earth could he not worry? Blackstone Center was the biggest project he’d ever taken on. He’d turned down two other jobs—one in Port Arbello, the other in Eastbury—in order to concentrate on the conversion of the old Asylum into the sort of commercial center that could revive what had been a slowly dying town. The Center, in fact, had been in large part his own idea. He had thought about it for more than a year before even suggesting it to the directors of the Blackstone Trust. The one person he’d talked to almost from the start was Oliver Metcalf, because he’d known that without Oliver’s support, the plan would never have gotten off the ground. A couple of tepid editorials in the Chronicle, and that would have been that. But Oliver was enthusiastic about the Blackstone Center from the very beginning, with a single major reservation.

  “What about me?” he’d wanted to know. “Am I suddenly going to be living on the busiest street in town?”

  Bill had already thought of that. Grabbing a pencil from Oliver’s cluttered desk, he’d quickly sketched a rough map to show that the most logical approach to the site was not through the front gates, but from the back, where the old service entrance had once been. Appeased, Oliver immediately backed the project, pushing f
or it not only in the paper, but with his uncle as well. Once Harvey Connally had been won over—albeit reluctantly—the rest was easy. By the day before yesterday, when the wrecker’s ball had made its ceremonial swing, puncturing the Asylum’s west wall in preparation for the expansion of the building, most of the opposition to the project had evaporated.

  Bill McGuire, and his entire crew, had been all set to go to work the next day.

  Yesterday.

  But only hours after the ceremony, Jules Hartwick made his ominous call. “Hold off for a day or two,” indeed! “Not to worry”—fat chance of that. Bill McGuire was worried, all right. Worried nearly out of his mind.

  Now, as he walked the three blocks down Amherst Street to the corner of Main, where the redbrick, Federal-style building that housed the First National Bank of Blackstone stood, he felt an anticipatory rush of fear. His nerves gave an additional jump when he spotted Oliver Metcalf at the bank’s door.

  “You know what this is all about?” Oliver asked.

  “He called you too?” Bill replied, trying to betray nothing of his ballooning sense that something very serious had gone wrong.

  “Yesterday. But he wouldn’t say what it was about, which tells me that whatever it is, it’s not good news.”

  “Did he tell you not to worry?”

  The editor nodded. His eyes searched McGuire’s face. “You don’t have any idea at all what this is about?”

  McGuire glanced in both directions, but they seemed to be alone on the sidewalk. “All he told me was to hold off on the Center project. You can guess how that made me feel.”

  “Yes,” Oliver said with an ironic smile, “I certainly can.”

  Together the two men entered the bank, nodded to the tellers who stood behind old-fashioned frosted-glass windows, and made their way to Jules Hartwick’s office at the back.

  “Mr. Hartwick and Mr. Becker are waiting for you,” Ellen Golding told them. “You can go on in.”