The Unloved

  After tonight she would have nothing.

  Unless …

  Unless she was wrong.

  She had to be wrong, she told herself. She had to hold onto hope, had to cling to whatever scrap of faith she could muster that Jennifer might still be alive.

  She had to weather the storm.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jeff clutched the quilt around him, but even the warmth of its down filling couldn’t abate the chill that had seized his body. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been huddled on the bed, how long it had been since Julie had come in and tried to tell him he shouldn’t worry, that everything was going to be all right. But it seemed like forever, and the candle flickering in its holder on his bed table had burned halfway down. When he’d first fled to his room from the dinner table, he’d been certain that his aunt would come for him right away. He’d cowered in his room, his ear pressed to the door, listening for her footsteps on the stairs. But after a while, when he’d heard nothing, he finally retreated to the bed, his entire body trembling with an icy fear.

  She was going to kill him.

  He was certain of it now. She didn’t want him here, and she was going to send him away.

  But why? He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t done anything at all!

  A bolt of lightning split the sky, and for a second the room was filled with brilliant white light. Then the clap of thunder crashed into the house as the light faded away, and Jeff whimpered softly, huddling deeper into the quilt. The rain, which had been beating steadily against the windows—driven almost horizontally by the wind—grew even heavier for a moment, then abruptly stopped. The silence left by its cessation had a strange hollowness to it, made all the more eerie by the wailing of the wind, crying through the trees like the lost souls of the damned.

  And then, above the wind, Jeff finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for.

  Uneven footsteps moving up the stairs.

  Pulling the quilt tight around him, he slid off the bed, crept to the door, and pressed his ear against the wood.

  He could hear it more clearly now, and as the ominous rhythm grew louder, he could picture his Aunt Marguerite, her right hand on her hip, her left grasping the banister, pulling herself step by step toward the second floor.

  Then he heard her come to the landing, and there was a moment of silence even more terrifying than the soft thumping of her crippled leg. But the silence ended, and cold sweat broke out on Jeff’s body as he heard the footsteps approach his door.

  She was outside now, he was certain of it. And once more the heavy tread had stopped.

  What was she doing?

  He gasped—a choking whimper—as the doorknob turned only a few inches from his eyes. Shrinking back, he stared at the key in the lock.

  Had he locked the door?

  He searched his mind frantically, but couldn’t remember. He’d turned the key too many times, each time trying the door, but then, a moment later, doubting his own memory and checking it again.

  What if the last time he’d unlocked the door, and forgotten to check it?

  The knob kept turning, and then he heard a soft click as the latch slid free of the strike plate.

  The door moved a fraction of an inch, and Jeff pressed his hand to his mouth to keep from screaming out loud.

  The door stopped moving, and there was a barely perceptible pause before unseen hands suddenly rattled the door, the sound resounding through the room with the intensity of drums.

  “Why is this door locked?” he heard his aunt call, and there was something strange about her voice as it penetrated the thick oak of the door. “I’ve told you I won’t have you locking this door, young man! Open it this instant!”

  Jeff shrank back from the door once more, the quilt sliding off his shoulders and dropping to the floor. His eyes flooded with tears, and he backed away across the room.

  “Do you hear me?” Marguerite’s voice grated. “Open it!” Once more the door rattled loudly, and Jeff leaped toward the bed, seizing one of the pillows and pressing it against his chest.

  The door rattled once more, then there was a moment of silence. Suddenly, miraculously, he heard footsteps again, getting softer as his aunt moved away from his door.

  He rushed back to the door and once more pressed his ear to the wood. Where was she going?

  The footsteps seemed to be receding down the hall. Was she going to her own room? He counted her steps, his heart racing.

  Four.

  There was a pause, and he strained to hear the sound of a door. But a moment later the steps began again.

  … seven …

  Another pause, another silence.

  … ten …

  … fifteen steps.

  A door opening and closing.

  Thirty feet.

  But that was just since he’d been counting. How many steps had she taken before?

  But it didn’t matter, for he knew where she’d gone.

  She was in his grandmother’s room. But what was she doing, and how long would she be in there? He stood frozen by the door, not knowing what to do.

  Minutes ticked slowly by, and his heartbeat began to ease, but the same thought kept churning through his mind.

  She was going to come back for him. He had to get out, had to hide.…

  Julie—he had to get to Julie.

  With trembling fingers he reached for the key, but just as he touched it, he heard a door far down the hall close with a soft but distinct thump.

  And then, once more, the uneven footsteps as Marguerite made her way back down the corridor.

  But this time she didn’t pause at his door. Instead the footsteps began to fade away again, and finally he heard her on the stairs once more. And then he knew.

  She was going back downstairs to get the keys.

  He could see them in his mind’s eye, hanging on the hook by the kitchen door.

  One of them would fit this room.

  His heart was pounding again, drowning out the sounds of the storm outside. He could no longer hear Marguerite’s footsteps.

  Now!

  He wrestled with the key, and the bolt slid free. Jerking the door open, he suddenly stopped.

  The corridor should have been completely dark. Instead it glowed softly with flickering candlelight.

  That was what the pauses had meant. His aunt had stopped to light the candles that always stood on the small tables scattered along the length of the broad corridor.

  The mere presence of the soft light eased his fear somewhat. He started toward Julie’s room, then stopped as an idea came to him.

  Conquering the last of the panic inside him, he took the key out of the lock, closed his door, then locked it from the outside. Slipping the key into his pocket, he raced down the corridor to Julie’s room and tried her door.

  To his relief, it was unlocked, and he pushed through it, then shut it quickly and twisted the key beneath the knob.

  “Jeff?” he heard Julie ask. “What are you doing?”

  He turned, his face pale. In the dim light of a small oil lamp, Julie was staring at him curiously.

  “She—She went back downstairs,” Jeff managed to say, his voice quavering. “She went down to get the keys, and then she’s going to come back. She’s going to come back and kill me!” Sobbing, he hurled himself into his sister’s arms. “What are we going to do?”

  “Shh,” Julie soothed, stroking her brother’s hair with gentle fingers. “She’s not going to kill you—”

  “She is!” Jeff insisted, his eyes imploring his sister. “She hates me, and she’s going to kill me!”

  Julie bit her lip. What could she say to the terrified boy? Even she had been frightened at the dinner table, when her aunt had started talking so strangely. But then Marguerite seemed to calm down, and she’d thought maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be all right after all. “She’s not going to kill you,” she insisted once more, struggling to keep her own voice even. “All we have to do is wa
it for Dad to come home, and everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

  But Jeff shook his head. “He’s not coming home,” he sobbed. “He’s not ever coming home, ‘cause he’s already dead. And she’s going to kill us too!”

  Harold Sanders frowned as the loud banging on the front door was repeated. Who the hell would be out in weather like this? Carrying his beer with him, he went to the door, opened it a crack—bracing it against the wind with one foot—and peered out. Standing on the front porch, water streaming off his yellow slicker, was Frank Weaver. Harold’s frown deepened, and he pulled the door open far enough for the deputy to slip through.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on, Frank? It’s not fit for man nor beast out there tonight.”

  “Might have someone missing, Hal,” Weaver replied. “Got a few questions I’d like to ask Kerry, if it’s all right with you?”

  “Kerry?” Hal Sanders repeated, taking on a guarded look. “You’re not tryin’ to say my boy’s in trouble, are you? ‘Cause if you are, you’re gonna have me to deal with first!”

  Edith Sanders, wiping her hands on her apron, came in from the kitchen just in time to hear the last thing her husband said. “Don’t be silly, Hal,” she told him. “Kerry’s never been in trouble in his life, and you know it. I’m sure there’s some mistake.” She turned to Weaver, her eyes questioning.

  “Now, take it easy, both of you,” the deputy assured them. “It’s not Kerry we’re worried about. But Jennifer Mayhew hasn’t turned up at home, and near as I can tell, she ain’t anywhere in town, either. But I hear Kerry talked to her this morning, and I just want to hear what he’s got to say.”

  The elder Sanders’s expression immediately cleared, and as Edith called upstairs to her son, Hal offered the deputy a beer. Weaver shrugged. “Don’t mind if I do.” He was just popping the tab of a Bud when Kerry Sanders appeared in the kitchen door.

  “Mr. Weaver?” Kerry asked. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Jennifer?”

  “Well, now, I don’t rightly know,” the deputy replied. “But I can tell you Alicia Mayhew’s pretty het up. She says you talked to Jenny this morning.”

  Kerry nodded. “Julie and I both did. We were just coming across the causeway, and she was coming the other way. She was going to see Julie’s aunt.”

  Weaver nodded. “Did she say why?”

  Kerry nodded, then repeated the conversation he and Julie had had with Jennifer. When he was finished, the deputy looked troubled.

  “And you’re sure she actually went on up to the mansion?” he asked.

  Kerry shrugged. “I guess so. She said she was, and she was walking that way when we left. And if she hadn’t, she’d have found us at the beach, wouldn’t she?”

  “Who knows?” Weaver asked rhetorically. Then: “What about Marguerite Devereaux? Did you see her when you were out there?”

  Kerry hesitated, then nodded, his face coloring. “I saw her,” he said, his voice taking on a slight bitterness the deputy immediately seized upon.

  “Something wrong between you and Marguerite?”

  “I—I didn’t think so,” Kerry stammered. “At least, there wasn’t until I started hanging around with Julie. Ever since then, it’s like she hates me or something.”

  “So she was acting strange?” Weaver pressed.

  Kerry swallowed nervously. “I—I’m not sure. She didn’t want Julie to go to the beach with me. She kept talking about how Julie didn’t have time to waste like that. She said Julie should be practicing her dancing.”

  “Hunh,” the deputy grunted. “Well, I don’t suppose we can hang her for that, can we?”

  Kerry’s brows furrowed. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The deputy shrugged. “Don’t know as anything is, really. But Alicia says Marguerite looked real strange when she was out there, and kept talking about a recital tomorrow. Said she was sure Jennifer would be there. But Alicia never heard about it before, and now she says the more she thinks about it, the more worried she gets.”

  “Does—Does she think Marguerite might have done something to Jenny?”

  “Well, now, I guess she does,” Weaver replied.

  For the first time since Kerry had come into the kitchen, Hal Sanders spoke. “So what are you doin’ here, Frank? How come you’re not out on the island, having a look around?”

  Weaver turned to stare at Hal. “You kidding?” he asked. “You seen what it’s like outside? No way am I going to try to get out there tonight.”

  “But—But what about Julie?” Kerry asked.

  “What about her?”

  “If something’s wrong with Marguerite—” “If something’s wrong with Marguerite, which isn’t really likely, all things considerin’, it’ll keep till morning,” Weaver said. “And Kevin’s out there too. He can take care of things.” He finished his beer, then crumpled the empty can with a quick squeeze of his right hand. “Well, I’d better be gettin’ back to the office. Will’s gonna want to know what I found out.”

  He shrugged back into his slicker, and a moment later was leaning his heavy frame into the storm as he hurried back to his car. Harold Sanders, who had walked to the front door with Weaver, waited until the police car was gone before he went back to the kitchen. But when he got there, he noticed that something was bothering Kerry.

  “What is it?” he asked, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “I just don’t like it,” Kerry said. “I didn’t like it when I dropped Julie off this afternoon, and I still don’t. I keep having a feeling that Jenny’s mother’s right, and there’s something going on out there.”

  Hal gave Kerry’s shoulder a squeeze, then slapped him gently on the back. “Well, whatever it is, it can wait till morning, as Frank said. And it’s none of your business anyway,” he added.

  But Kerry shook his head. “I just wish someone would go out there and take a look around,” he said.

  “But you heard Frank,” Hal replied. “You can’t get out there.”

  Kerry nodded absently, and started back upstairs. But as he got to his room, he made up his mind.

  Perhaps the cops wouldn’t try to go out to the island tonight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.

  Grabbing his keys from his dresser and pulling a slicker out of the closet, he headed back downstairs.

  Marguerite, oblivious to the storm, opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the driving wind. It was completely dark now, and the rain had started again, lashing out of the sky, plastering her hair to her face, and washing her makeup away in smearing rivulets of color that looked almost like bloodstains against her pale skin. Her hip was burning with pain, and every step was a nightmare of searing needles being driven through her right leg. But she shut the pain out of her mind and groped her way down the steps. The path down the gentle slope was a sea of mud, and she could feel it squishing between her bare toes as she limped on. She’d taken off her mother’s dress, replacing it with a long white robe that had also been her mother’s. Its soft chenille clung damply to her body, and it felt heavy on her shoulders, but she plodded on, oblivious to it all, until she came to the gates of the small cemetery.

  A bolt of lightning flashed down from above, and Marguerite flinched, then covered her ears against the crash of thunder that threatened to overwhelm her. But as the explosion of sound died away to a boiling rumble, she lifted the latch of the gate, opened it, and stepped through into the graveyard itself. She moved forward numbly, her right leg dragging through the mud now. With each step her legs threatened to give out beneath her, and she had to steady herself, reaching out to the weathered grave markers as she staggered toward the crypt.

  At last she was there.

  Her fingers reached out, brushing against the cold marble, and then, fumbling in the pocket of her robe, she brought out a large key. She inserted it into the slot in the heavy door of the crypt and turned it. A moment later the door swung open.

  “M-Mama?” Marguerite asked. Her voice
was tiny, childlike, and as she reached for her mother’s coffin, her fingers trembled. “I-I’m sorry, Mama,” she whimpered. “I didn’t mean to do it—I didn’t mean to do any of it. But the bad times came again, Mama. The bad times came, and you weren’t here to take care of me. And they were going to lock me up, Mama. They were going to lock me up and leave me alone, and I couldn’t let them.” Her eyes filled with tears, but the rain washed them away as quickly as they came. “I know I’m a bad girl, Mama. I know I’m the worst girl in the whole world. But I didn’t want to be, Mama. I didn’t ever want to be.” She sniffled, and her hand moved slowly over the coffin, caressing it. “All I wanted to do was dance, Mama. I wanted to dance, and I wanted to please you, and I never could. And so you left me. They were all going to leave me, Mama. They were going to leave me and lock me up, and I couldn’t stand it. But I don’t know what to do, Mama. Tell me? Please, Mama … tell me what to do.” Her voice broke then, and she felt a strangling in her throat. “Tell me, Mama. You’re all I have. You’re all I ever had.…”

  She was silent then, and the storm whirled around her. But she felt none of it, for deep within her own mind, all her energies were concentrated on bringing her mother back to life. And slowly, very slowly, Marguerite submerged her own personality, and, out of the depths of her subconscious, resurrected her mother’s soul.

  * * *

  “Look!” Jeff cried out. He was at the window of Julie’s room, his face pressed against the glass. Sheets of water poured down the windows, and for a moment all Julie could see were formless streaks. But then, as lightning glowed briefly in the distance, she saw the pale form in the cemetery, near the crypt. “She’s back,” Jeff whispered. “Grandmother’s back. It—it means someone else is dead.”

  “No,” Julie insisted, but as she peered frantically out into the storm, her heart began to race. And then, as both the children pressed against the glass, the whole universe seemed to light up with the power of a thousand searchlights. A sheet of brilliant light flashed across the night sky, the darkness washed away in a shadowless glare.