The Blackstone Chronicles

Chapter 8

Andrew Sterling punched Celeste Hartwick’s number into the keypad of his portable phone for the third time, and listened with growing worry to the continuous ringing at the other end of the line. The line had been busy when he’d first dialed her number fifteen minutes ago, but when he’d tried again, he’d gotten no answer. It made no sense: he was sure Celeste had been planning to have dinner with her parents tonight. Why was no one answering the phone? The memory of Jules’s strange behavior at the bank that morning only increased Andrew’s mounting uneasiness. Following the tenth unanswered ring on Celeste’s line, he hung up and dialed the operator. After waiting thirty seconds he heard a laconic voice inform him that “that line is currently out of order, sir. Would you like me to connect you with repair service?” Unwilling to get involved in what he suspected would turn into an impenetrable bureaucratic maze, Andrew hung up.
He pulled a parka on over the flannel shirt into which he’d changed after leaving the office an hour ago, and, gulping down the last bite of the microwaved pizza that had served as dinner, he went out to his five-year-old Ford Escort—all his bank salary could support in the way of a car—and prayed there was enough tread left on the tires to let him get up Harvard Street to the Hartwicks’ house.
A few flakes of snow drifted down as the Escort’s engine coughed into reluctant life. By the time Andrew pulled away from the curb, a sharp wind had come up. The light dusting of a minute or two earlier was rapidly developing into a heavy snowfall. He’d gone only a block when the night filled with a swirling white cloud that cut visibility down to a few yards. As the wiper struggled to keep the windshield clear, Andrew crept toward North Hill, praying that the Escort would find the power to make it up the snow-slicked grade of Harvard Street.
It seemed to Celeste as if hours had passed since she’d heard her mother’s muffled scream, cut off almost the instant it had begun.
Oh God! Had her father hurt her mother?
Maybe even killed her?
But that couldn’t be possible—could it? Her parents adored one another! But as she stood rooted to the floor behind the locked door to her room, images of her father flashed through her mind.
This morning at the breakfast table, his eyes burning with jealousy as he hurled insane accusations at her mother …
This afternoon when they’d come home and found him drinking in his den …
A few minutes ago at the dinner table, accusing not only her mother, but herself as well …
Insane! It was all insane!
He was insane!
Rattling the doorknob to be certain the lock was secure, she went to the window and peered out into the night. Snow was falling rapidly now, and though she could still make out Martha Ward’s house next door, and even the VanDeventers’ across the street, no lights showed. But maybe if she yelled, someone would hear her. She struggled with the window, finally managed to lift it, then began wrestling with the storm window outside. But what was the use? Every house on the street had storm windows, and even if she succeeded in opening hers, her voice would be all but lost in the snowstorm.
Out!
She had to get out! If she could just get to the garage and her car—
Her heart sank as she remembered that her mother’s car was still sitting in the porte cochere. Even if the snow hadn’t made the driveway impassable, her mother’s car did. But she could still get to a neighbor’s—someone had to be home; if not the VanDeventers, then in the house next door. Martha Ward never went anywhere except to church, and Rebecca went only to the library.
She went back to the door and pressed her ear against it, listening.
Silence.
Her fingers trembling, she twisted the key in the lock. When the bolt clicked back, it seemed unnaturally loud.
Again she listened, but still the house was silent.
Finally she risked opening the door a crack and peered out into the wide corridor.
Empty.
She stepped out of her room and started toward the top of the stairs, then heard a door close downstairs. Celeste stopped dead in her tracks, close enough to the head of the stairs that she could gaze down into the entry hall below.
Her father appeared from the dining room. Even from where she stood, Celeste could hear him muttering to himself. His clothes were smeared with blood. When he abruptly stopped and looked up as if sensing her presence, his eyes seemed to have glazed over.
“Whore!” he said, his voice rasping as he spat the word at her. “Did you think I’d never figure it out?”
He was at the foot of the stairs now. Celeste gasped as she saw him lunge forward, taking the steps two at a time. Panic galvanizing her into action, Celeste fled back into her room, slamming the door and throwing the lock, then collapsing against the thick mahogany panel, her heart pounding.
Only as she heard her father grasp the knob and rattle the door did she realize her mistake. Instead of retreating back to her room, she should have fled past it to the back stairs. By now she’d be out of the house and into the street.
She’d be safe.
Instead she was trapped in her room like a rat in a cage.
How could she have been so stupid?
Her father stopped rattling the doorknob, and once again silence fell over the house. Celeste remained where she was, her heart pounding. Was he still out there? She didn’t know. The seconds dragged on, turning into minutes. Should she risk unlocking the door and peeking out? But then, even as she reached for the knob, she froze. She could feel him on the other side of the door, feel his insane rage as palpably as if it were seeping through the wood to engulf her.
“Daddy?” she whimpered. “Daddy, please. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s happened to you. I love you, Daddy. I love—”
Her words were cut off by something—something hard and heavy—striking the door. The force of the blow, transmitted directly through the wood, was sharp enough to startle her into jumping back from the door, and as she stood staring at it, trying to fathom what was happening on the other side, she heard the sound again.
Pounding!
He was pounding with a hammer!
Trying to break the door down?
The pounding stopped for a moment, then began again, and suddenly Celeste realized that he wasn’t trying to break the door down at all!
He was nailing it shut.
A wave of hopelessness overwhelmed her. The phones were gone, the snow was too heavy and the neighbors too far away for anyone to hear her calling for help.
Stupid! How could she have been so stupid?
Andrew Sterling automatically steered into the skid as the Escort slewed to the left, threatened to spin around and slam into a parked car, then found its traction again. Making no further attempt to keep the car on the right side of Harvard Street, he nosed it slowly up the hill. The snow, packing under the pressure of the tires into a slick glaze of ice, kept threatening his control of the vehicle. By the time he could finally make out the gate to the Hartwicks’ mansion, his body was knotted with tension and his hands ached from gripping the steering wheel too hard. But at last he was able to turn the car into the driveway. Leaving it close to the gate, he got out and started toward the house, which was blazing with light. Even as he watched, more lights came on on the second floor, but when he mounted the steps to the front porch and rang the bell, there was no response.
But someone was home.
Madeline’s Cadillac was under the porte cochere, and someone had been turning the lights on upstairs.
He rang the bell again, waited a few more seconds, then tried the knob. The door was locked.
Pulling the hood of his parka up, Andrew tramped up the driveway, slogging through the drifting snow, which by morning would block it completely. Banging as hard as he could on the kitchen door, he called out, but his words sounded muffled even to himself, and he was sure they would be utterly inaudible to anyone inside the house. He started to turn away in order to go back to the front door, then changed his mind.
Someone was inside, but no one was answering the door.
The phones weren’t working.
And something had been wrong with Jules Hartwick this morning.
Making up his mind, Andrew Sterling stepped back, lowered his left shoulder, and hurled himself against the kitchen door. Though the door held, he heard the distinct sound of wood cracking. On the second try the frame gave way and the door flew open as the striker plate clattered to the floor.
Andrew Sterling stepped into the kitchen.
For a moment everything appeared normal. Then he saw them.
Spots on the floor.
Bright red spots.
Blood red.
His pulse quickening, Andrew followed the trail of blood through the butler’s pantry, the dining room, the parlor, and into the entry hall.
The trail stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Andrew paused. Though the house was silent, he felt danger all around him.
Danger, and fear.
“Celeste?” he called. “Celeste!”
“Andrew?” Her voice was muffled, coming from somewhere on the second floor. Racing up the stairs, Andrew called out to her again as he reached the second-floor landing. His words died on his lips when he saw the door to her room.
Nails—three of them—had been clumsily pounded into the wood at a steep enough angle to pin the door to its frame. Andrew rattled the knob, then spoke again. “Celeste? Are you all right?”
“It’s D-Daddy!” Celeste replied, her voice catching. “He’s—oh, God, Andrew, he’s gone crazy! He’s done something to Mother—”
“Unlock the door,” Andrew told her.
As soon as he heard the click of the lock, he hurled his weight against the door, but the thick mahogany frame was stronger than the frame of the kitchen door had been. By the time the wood finally split away and allowed the door to open, his shoulder was aching and he was panting.
“Where’s your mother?” he said, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his shoulder as she pressed herself against him, sobbing.
“I don’t know—downstairs, I think. They were at the foot of the stairs, and he—he had a knife, and—”
Andrew suppressed a groan. He’d followed the trail of blood the wrong way. Jules must have taken Madeline down to the basement. “Where is he now?” Andrew asked, his voice urgent.
“I—I don’t know,” Celeste stammered. “He nailed my door shut, then he—oh, God, Andrew, I just don’t know!”
Suddenly Andrew remembered. The lights. It had to have been Jules turning on the lights. If he was still up here—
Both of them froze as they heard footsteps.
Footsteps from above. “He’s on the third floor,” Celeste whispered. “What are we going to do? Did he take Mother up there?”
“The basement,” Andrew told her. “Come on. We’ve got to find her and get out of here!”
Half pulling and half supporting Celeste, Andrew led her downstairs, then into the kitchen. When they were at the door to the basement, he held her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “I’m going to go down and see if I can find your mother. If you hear your father coming down, go outside.” Fishing in his pocket, he found his car keys. “My car’s in the driveway. I’ll try to catch up with you, but if I can’t, take the car and get away.”
Celeste shook her head. “No. I won’t leave you and Mother with him.”
Andrew started to argue with her, then changed his mind, knowing it would be useless. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.” Leaving her standing in the kitchen, he raced down the stairs.
He found Madeline in the laundry room. Her dress was soaked with blood, and she lay on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. Another piece sealed her mouth.
Her eyes were closed and she lay still, and for a moment Andrew was afraid she might be dead. But when he knelt down and pressed a finger against her bloody neck, he felt a pulse. Ripping the duct tape from her mouth, he lifted her in his arms and started up the stairs. A moment later he emerged into the kitchen. Celeste, her face ashen, lurched toward him.
“Mama?” she gasped, unconsciously using a word that hadn’t crossed her lips since she was a child. Her eyes flicked to Andrew’s. “Is she—” Her voice failed her and she left the question unspoken.
“She’s alive,” Andrew said. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital.”
With Madeline in his arms, he followed Celeste through the dining room and parlor, and into the entry hall. Celeste was just opening the front door when there was a roar of rage from the stairs.
“Bastard!” Jules bellowed. “How dare you come here?” He was standing halfway up the stairs, the knife clutched in one hand, and what looked like some kind of necklace dangling from the other. His face was twitching, and his eyes, burning like coals, seemed to have sunk deep into his head.
For one brief instant Andrew was frozen in place, but then he met Jules Hartwick’s insane gaze. “I’m taking them away from here, Mr. Hartwick,” he said very quietly. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“Traitor,” Jules Hartwick snarled. “Fornicator. Adulterer. I should kill all of you. And I could, Andrew. I could kill you as easily as I cut the whore’s throat.” He started down the stairs, moving slowly, his eyes never leaving Andrew.
Celeste, still at the door, stared in horror at her father. There was nothing left of the man she’d known only yesterday. The person who was advancing toward her now, spittle drooling from one corner of his mouth, his hair matted to his scalp, his eyes glittering insanely, bore no resemblance to her father at all. “Hurry, Andrew,” she said. “Please.”
Pulling the front door open, she stumbled out into the snow and ran for Andrew’s car. Andrew, still carrying Madeline’s unconscious body, strode out onto the porch, then turned back to look at Jules once again. He was at the foot of the stairs now, and starting toward the door.
Wordlessly, Andrew turned and hurried out into the night. By the time Andrew got to the car, Jules had emerged onto the porch. “Liars!” he shouted. “Prevaricators! I’ll kill you all! I swear, I’ll kill you all!”
As Andrew laid Madeline on the backseat, then slid into the front seat next to Celeste, Jules stumbled down the driveway toward them, bellowing curses, the butcher knife held high. Celeste put the car in gear and began backing out of the driveway. Jules lunged toward the car, but it was too late. He sprawled out onto the driveway, facedown, then pulled himself to his knees.
“Celeste, wait,” Andrew said as Jules stared mindlessly into the glare of the headlights. “Maybe we’d better help him. Maybe—”
But Celeste kept her foot on the accelerator, backing the car out of the driveway, then slewing it around so it was pointed downhill. “No,” she said as she started down the steep slope. “That’s not Daddy. That’s not anyone I know.”
As he watched the car disappear into the snow, Jules Hartwick let out one more bellow of rage. The fingers of his left hand closed on the locket, and then, with a howl of frustration, he hurled it after the departing car.
And as the locket left his fingers, his mind cleared.
The paranoia that had robbed him of his sanity drained away as suddenly as it had come over him.
But the memories of what he’d done did not.
Every word he had uttered, every accusation he had made, echoed in his mind. But what horrified him most was an image.
An image of Madeline, crumpled at the bottom of the basement stairs, her neck bleeding, her body broken.
Sobbing, Jules Hartwick staggered to his feet. He lurched down the driveway, the hand that had held the locket only a moment ago now reaching out as if to call back the car that was carrying away everything he’d ever loved. He stood in the street, watching until it completely disappeared, then turned and began walking the other way.
A moment later he too disappeared into the snowy night.