The Blackstone Chronicles

  Walking up Princeton Street, he crossed Maple, then turned right on Elm. It was just a few minutes after five o’clock when he raised the knocker on the front door of Clara Wagner’s house. Rapping it twice, he waited a moment, then pressed the button next to the door. Before the chimes had quite died away, Rebecca opened the door. The questioning look in her eyes as she pulled the door open instantly gave way to a warm smile. The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, as Clara Wagner’s voice called down from above.

  “Rebecca? Who is it? Who’s at the door?”

  Rebecca glanced anxiously over her shoulder. As she hesitated, it occurred to Oliver that she was going to close the door in his face. But then she opened it farther, quickly pulled him inside, and, maneuvering around him, shut the door.

  “It’s Oliver, Miss Clara,” she called to the upper reaches of the house. “Oliver Metcalf!”

  Oliver stepped farther into the foyer. From this vantage point he could see Germaine’s mother. Sitting in her wheelchair, a shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders, she was glaring down from the mezzanine.

  “What does he want? And don’t shout, Rebecca. I’m not deaf, you know!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Wagner,” Oliver said, nodding to her. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to need more firewood, Rebecca,” Clara Wagner said. “My room is no warmer than it was an hour ago!” Turning her chair away from the balustrade, she wheeled herself back into her room. Oliver and Rebecca heard her door close with an angry thud.

  “Is she always that charming?” Oliver asked.

  Rebecca’s eyes clouded slightly. “She’s old, and she doesn’t get out very much, and—”

  “And she can still be polite,” Oliver cut in, but as Rebecca flinched at his words, he wished he could take them back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re right.” He grinned lopsidedly. “I guess I’m just not quite as nice as you are, am I?”

  “Oh, no!” Rebecca protested. “You’re very nice! It’s just—well, she and Germaine have been so good to me, and she really is very old, and—”

  Oliver put his forefinger gently to Rebecca’s lips. “Enough,” he said softly. Then: “I went by the library. I was going to walk you home and try to convince you that you ought to let me take you out for dinner tonight. We could go to the Red Hen, or even drive up to Manchester, or—” Feeling flustered, he broke off, then spoke again. “Maybe I better find out if you want to go at all.”

  Now it was Rebecca who seemed flustered. Involuntarily, she glanced up at the gallery where Clara Wagner had been only a moment ago, then back toward the kitchen. “I don’t know,” she fretted. “I’ve got so much to do.”

  “I can bring the firewood in,” Oliver told her, breaking in again before she could totally refuse his invitation. “And you can let whatever else you were doing wait.”

  Now Rebecca looked utterly at a loss. “I’d love to go, Oliver, but Germaine wanted me to get the stain out of …” Again her words died away, this time because a car had pulled into the driveway. As they heard its door slam shut, Oliver took her hands in his own.

  “Rebecca, you can go out to dinner with me if you want to. Germaine and Clara don’t own you. I know you feel grateful to them for giving you a place to live, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a life of your own.”

  Before Rebecca could reply, the front door opened and Germaine Wagner came in. Though Oliver was almost certain he saw a flash of anger in her eyes, it disappeared so quickly he couldn’t quite be sure it had been there at all. One thing he did know: the smile on her lips was far less genuine than she obviously intended it to appear.

  “Isn’t this nice,” Germaine said. “You have a gentleman caller!” She turned to Oliver. “Like in The Glass Menagerie”

  Oliver glanced at Rebecca, who appeared to wish she could disappear through the floor. “I just came by to ask Rebecca if she’d like to have dinner with me,” he said.

  Germaine’s eyes darted toward Rebecca, then shifted back to Oliver. “And what did she say?”

  “She hasn’t said anything yet,” Oliver replied. Then, knowing that if he stayed in the house much longer he would say something he’d regret, he opened the front door. “Why don’t I wait for you outside?” he told Rebecca. “Even if you decide not to have dinner with me, at least we can take a walk.”

  As he closed the door, he could already hear Germaine starting to lecture Rebecca. When Rebecca came outside several minutes later, he could not only read her decision on her face but see her unhappiness as well.

  “I really can’t go with you, Oliver,” she said. “There’s so much I have to do, and I promised Miss Clara I’d make tea for her.” She peered anxiously at him. “You understand, don’t you?”

  For a second Oliver was tempted to argue with her, then just as quickly he realized that his words wouldn’t change her mind, but would only upset her more. “Of course I understand,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package he’d wrapped for her. “I brought you this,” he said. “I found it in my attic today, and—well, you’ll understand when you see what it is.”

  Her expression instantly clearing, Rebecca carefully removed the wrapping paper from the package, then opened the box Oliver had found for the handkerchief. As she lifted it out, her eyes widened in a gaze of delight at the delicate lace and embroidery. “Oh, Oliver, it’s beautiful,” she breathed. Her finger traced the mirrored R emblazoned in one corner. “And it has my initial! I’ve never had anything with my initial on it before.”

  “Then from now on, finding you presents is going to be easy,” Oliver replied. “All I have to do is look for R’s.” Leaning over, he kissed her quickly on the cheek, then started down the steps. “Promise me you’ll have dinner with me one night next week?”

  Rebecca hesitated, then smiled. “I promise,” she said. “And I won’t change my mind either. I’ll just do it.”

  “Is he gone?” Germaine asked as Rebecca came back into the house.

  Rebecca nodded. “I told him I’d go out with him next week,” she said. “And look! He gave me a present!”

  Germaine took the handkerchief from Rebecca. She could see at a glance that although it was spotless and carefully pressed, it was very old. As she examined both the lace and the embroidery, she realized something else: not only was the work flawless, but it had all been done by hand. “It’s beautiful,” she pronounced, bringing a happy smile to Rebecca’s face. Then she smiled herself. “Mother will love it.”

  Rebecca’s pleasure at Germaine’s compliment for the handkerchief instantly collapsed. “Your mother? But Oliver gave it to me.”

  Germaine clucked her tongue as if chiding a child who was being deliberately dense. “But what would you do with it? You’d only lose it, or ruin it. A work of fine craftsmanship like this should be enjoyed by someone who can truly appreciate it. And I can’t think of anyone better than Mother.” She paused a moment, then: “Can you?”

  Rebecca hesitated; she reminded herself of how kind Germaine and Clara Wagner had been to her. “No,” she said at last. “I’m sure she’ll love it as much as I did.”

  As Germaine started up the stairs to present the beautiful handkerchief to her mother, Rebecca returned to the back of the house. First she would bring in the firewood, then she’d fix tea for Miss Clara.

  And she would console herself with the memory of the look on Oliver’s face when he gave her the present she didn’t get to keep.

  Germaine paused outside the door to her mother’s room, girding herself to face the woman whose only goal in life appeared to be to make her daughter’s life as miserable as her own. How long had it been since her mother had announced one morning that she could no longer walk? Fifteen years? Closer to twenty, Germaine suspected, though she’d long ago given up keeping track. After all, what was the point? Nothing was ever going to change until her mother had passed to her heavenly reward, and Clara Wagner was sho
wing no signs of joining her Maker anytime in the near future.

  Germaine had always suspected that nothing was wrong with her mother when Clara suddenly announced her status as an invalid; indeed, none of the many specialists Germaine had taken her mother to had been able to find any physiological cause for the woman’s paralysis. But Clara had insisted she could no longer move her legs, and by now it was undoubtedly true. Certainly her mother had grown smaller over the years, her whole skeleton seeming to shrink as her body adapted to the cramped contours of the wheelchair. Her muscles had quickly atrophied from lack of exercise, her legs turning into useless sticks. The pounds had dropped from her once stocky frame, and Germaine was sure she no longer weighed even a hundred pounds. Her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, and her skin hung in wrinkled folds from her cheeks and arms. But the strength of Clara’s voice had never failed her over the years, nor had her will to dominate everything—and everyone—around her.

  Most of all, Germaine.

  The years had ground slowly by as Germaine waited on her invalid mother. She prepared her meals and kept her bathed. At first, when she’d still believed that Clara would either recover or quickly die, she tried to keep her entertained as well. She’d gotten her to movies and concerts, even taken her on trips. But it had never been good enough. There was something wrong with everything they did and every place they went. After a while, when it became clear that Clara was neither on the verge of recovery nor hovering on the doorstep of death, Germaine had given up. It was no longer worth the effort to try to cajole and plead and lift and push her mother into activities that Clara showed no sign of appreciating. Her father had left just enough money to keep up the house, and Germaine’s paycheck, while not generous, yielded just enough for her to hire a part-time cleaning girl, giving her at least a partial respite from her mother’s complaints each day.

  But every day when Germaine came home from the library, Clara demanded to know what she had brought her, like a spoiled child asking for candy.

  Well, today she had something to offer, even if it was only the little gift that Oliver Metcalf had given to Rebecca.

  She would have to do something about that situation. When the idea of inviting Rebecca to live with her had come to her in a flash of inspiration as she watched Martha Ward’s house burn to the ground, it hadn’t occurred to her that Oliver Metcalf might be a problem. Indeed, it had seemed to Germaine that Rebecca would be the perfect solution for her. She would take Rebecca in, and a grateful Rebecca could take over not only the duties of the cleaning girl—thus allowing her to save a dollar or two—but much of the care of her mother as well.

  It also hadn’t occurred to her how quickly she would become annoyed by everything about Rebecca. The girl never complained about anything, and always seemed able to find the good in everything. As far as Germaine was concerned, that made her a fool.

  But it was Oliver Metcalf who bothered her more. He was starting to hang around—a situation that could lead to no good at all in Germaine’s estimation. Well, she would simply forbid Rebecca to see him anymore, and that would be that. At least Rebecca—unlike her mother—would do as she told her to do.

  “Germaine? Is that you?”

  She flinched as her mother’s voice jabbed into her reverie as sharply as needles stuck into flesh. “Yes, Mother,” she said, finally stepping through the doorway to face the old woman.

  Clara’s hooded eyes fixed on her. “What were you doing out there? Were you spying on me?”

  Germaine cast around in her mind for an excuse for having lingered outside the door, but knew there was none that would satisfy her mother. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she finally admitted.

  “You were spying on me,” Clara accused.

  “For Heaven’s sake, Mother, why would I do that?” Too late, Germaine realized she’d let her exasperation be revealed by her voice.

  “Don’t use that tone on me, young lady,” Clara snapped. “I’m your mother, and you’ll show proper respect.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn’t bring me anything today, did you?”

  “You’re wrong,” Germaine said. “I brought you something wonderful today. Look!” Crossing to the wheelchair, Germaine knelt and placed the handkerchief in her mother’s lap.

  Clara stared at the handkerchief for a long moment, then her gaze shifted and the bright black eyes fixed sharply on Germaine.

  “Where?” she asked. “Where did you get this?”

  Germaine’s jaw tightened in anger. Was that all her mother cared about? Where it had come from? Next she would be demanding to know how much she’d paid for it. Well, if that was all that counted, fine! “I found it in Janice Anderson’s shop,” she said.

  “Liar!” Clara rasped. Then, with no warning at all, she spat in her daughter’s face.

  As Germaine fled from the room, Clara’s voice rose in a furious howl that pursued her down the stairs. “Liar! Liar! LIAR!”

  Chapter 3

  Oliver Metcalf wasn’t sure exactly what it was about the file that caught his eye. He hadn’t really been thinking about what he was doing; indeed, more of his attention had been focused on his growing concern about Germaine Wagner’s influence over Rebecca Morrison than on the task of packing the old files he’d brought down from the attic back into their box. Yet the moment he’d picked up the faded folder he was now holding, he knew there was something different about it.

  The folder itself was made of the same buff manila paper as all the others, mottled with age, its edges softened and fraying. The tab on the edge showed a discoloration where the identifying sticker had once been glued, but the label had long ago fallen away.

  Dropping onto the straight-backed chair that he had positioned next to the guest room’s single window, Oliver opened the file. As he scanned its first page, he felt the pangs of a headache coming on. Absently, he rubbed his fingers against his temple, as if hoping to massage the pain away before it took root, and focused on the handwritten notes.

  The first page bore nothing more than the patient’s vital statistics. Her name—Lavinia Willoughby—meant nothing to Oliver, and her home had been someplace in South Carolina called Devereaux. Complaining of depression, she had been brought to the Asylum by her husband, and was admitted in 1948.

  According to the record, she had died in the Asylum four years later.

  The year Oliver was born.

  As he began reading Lavinia Willoughby’s case history, Oliver unconsciously pressed the fingers of his right hand harder against his temple, which was starting to throb with pain. Mrs. Willoughby was diagnosed as manic-depressive, and the treatment prescribed for her had been typical of her time. There had been some counseling, with a great deal of emphasis put on her relationship with her father. As her counseling progressed, it became clear that Lavinia’s doctor had concluded that there had been an incestuous relationship between Lavinia and her father.

  Lavinia Willoughby, though, had apparently not agreed with the doctor, for there was a notation on the same page that the patient was “in denial and refusing to deal with the possibility.”

  A few pages further on, the doctor began exploring the suggestion that Lavinia herself had initiated the incestuous relationship, though it was duly noted that the patient also denied that possibility. After that session, the doctor prescribed hydrotherapy for his patient.

  Oliver’s headache spread from his right temple to the back of his head as he read the account of Lavinia Willoughby’s three sessions in the hydrotherapy room. The first one had lasted an hour, after which the patient developed “pneumonia unrelated to her therapy session.” When she had recovered from her illness, her therapy resumed, and after the third session, in which she’d been immersed in cold water for three hours, her therapy had proved successful. The next day, in her regular counseling session, Lavinia Willoughby had remembered that her father had, indeed, molested her when she was a small child.

  Looking up from the file as the afternoon light began t
o fade, Oliver’s eyes moved to the looming form of the Asylum atop the hill. Its gray walls seemed almost prisonlike this afternoon, and though neither the room nor the day was cold, Oliver found himself shivering as he imagined what incarceration there must have been like for Lavinia Willoughby. He scanned the blank and filthy windows of the ancient stone building, wondering which of them might have been Lavinia Willoughby’s, which of those barred portals might have stood between her and the world outside the Asylum’s walls.

  How had she stood it? How had any of them stood it? Even if they weren’t insane when they entered that building, surely they would have been after only a few months’ stay.

  His headache spreading into his left temple now, Oliver switched on the lamp that was on the table between the bed and the chair in which he sat, and went back to Lavinia Willoughby’s file.

  It was after her acknowledgment of her relationship with her father—and her admission that she had initiated it—that electroconvulsive therapy had been prescribed for Lavinia.

  As Oliver began reading the description of the treatment that had been administered to her, a blinding stab of pain slashed through his head and a shroud of utter blackness closed around him.

  The boy is looking straight up, watching the pattern of light and shadow on the ceiling change. He knows it is useless to struggle against the thick leather straps that hold him to the gurney: even if he could work his arms and legs free, there is no place to run to, for he knows there is no way to escape the people who have tied him down, let alone escape the building itself.

  He tries not to think about where they might be taking him, but it doesn’t matter.

  All of the rooms are the same.

  All of them terrify him.

  The gurney stops, and the boy is able to shift his eyes just enough to see a door. A plaque is mounted on it, with three letters:

  E. C. T.

  The boy doesn’t know what the letters mean, but he instantly knows that all the rooms are not the same and this is the worst of all of them.