The Blackstone Chronicles

Chapter 11

All was ready.
Save for her beloved Gregorian chants, the only music that had ever been able to soothe her soul, Martha Ward’s house was silent.
Though she harbored a vague memory of Rebecca calling out to her a while ago, her niece’s voice had quickly fallen silent.
God’s hand, Martha was certain, had muted the sinful girl.
She gazed at herself in the mirror one last time—chiding herself for her vanity, but secure in the knowledge that she would be forgiven, as she would be forgiven all her sins in a few more minutes—and smiled, recognizing how beautiful she looked.
The image in the mirror perfectly reflected Martha’s vision of herself: her youth restored, her cheeks rosy and her lips full, her eyes wide and filled with childlike innocence. Though her dress had been worn once before—the day she’d married Fred Ward—in the mirror it appeared as pristinely new as the day she’d bought it, and indeed, as she gazed at the seed pearls scattered across its bosom, and the perfect virtue expressed in its flowing expanse of pure white, its long sleeves and high neck, she had no memory of ever having seen it before.
A tiara of pearls held a veil to her head, and as she pulled the thin layer of tulle down over her face, Martha’s image took on an ethereal, almost saintly quality. Satisfied that all was in order, she turned at last away from the mirror and from vanity itself, knowing she would never look at her reflection again. Picking up the single object she would carry to the ceremony awaiting her, she left her bedroom, gently closing the door behind her.
Downstairs she paused outside the chapel, composed herself, then opened the door and let herself inside. The room was dark but for a single perfect light shining on the face of Christ, which seemed to float in the darkness above the altar. Genuflecting deeply, Martha moved slowly toward the altar, her eyes never leaving the face that hovered above her. Finally, when she was very close to the altar, she squeezed the object in her hands with trembling fingers.
A tongue of fire leaped from the dragon’s mouth.
Holding tight to the gilded beast, she began to light the candles on the altar, moving steadily from one to another, uttering a silent prayer over each.
She prayed for her mother and her father.
For her elder sister, Marilyn, whose sins had taken her to an early death.
For Tommy Gardner, whom Satan had sent to tempt Marilyn.
For Margaret and Mick Morrison, the fruit of whose sin Martha herself had taken into her home.
The dragon’s tongue touched candle after candle, for Martha knew well that Blackstone was filled with sinners, and on this night above all others, redemption must be begged for each of them.
When all the candles on the altar were glowing brightly, Martha turned to the saints in their alcoves, lighting a candle for each of them, that they might bear witness to the glory of this night.
Martha lit the candles in front of the Blessed Virgin, kneeling in front of the statue and praying that she might be found worthy of the saint’s only son.
When all the prayers were said, Martha rose to her feet once more. She started once again toward the altar, hesitated, then realized there was one more thing she must do.
Going first to one of the windows, then the other, she drew back the heavy draperies, securing them carefully with the velvet ties that had hung unused for more than two decades. She opened the sheers as well, and though the rotted material tore to shreds in her fingers, she was unaware of anything but the glory of her surroundings, open at last to the world outside so that anyone who wished might watch and bear witness to her final salvation. As she returned to face the altar and her Savior this ultimate time, she was utterly unaware of the siren that had started to wail outside and the lights that were going on in her neighbors’ homes as they rose from their beds to see what new tragedy might have befallen their town.
Dropping to her knees, Martha silently began the vows that would tie her to her Savior for all eternity.
Oliver Metcalf’s Volvo pulled up to the curb in front of Martha Ward’s house only seconds after the police car whose siren had already awakened the neighbors. As Rebecca tried to explain her aunt’s strange behavior to Steve Driver, the occupants of the neighboring houses began to appear, some of them still clad in their night-clothes, others having pulled on overcoats, still others having hastily dressed. They clustered around Rebecca, whispering to each other as first one, then another, picked up a fragment of the peculiar tale she was relating. But even before she had finished, someone noticed the two windows that were glowing brightly in the otherwise darkened house.
Swept along with the gathering of neighbors, Rebecca and Oliver moved closer to the Hartwicks’ driveway, their gazes following those of everyone else. Through the uncurtained windows they could clearly see Martha Ward standing in her wedding dress in front of her altar, her veiled face tilted upward, her entire figure bathed in the golden glow of the flickering candles.
“What’s she doing?” someone asked.
No one answered.
Her vows completed, Martha Ward knelt one last time. Her eyes still fixed on the face of the figure above the altar, her fingers tightened on the dragon’s neck.
For the last time the dragon’s flame came alive.
Martha Ward reached down and touched the reptile’s tongue to the turpentine-soaked carpet. As the flames spread quickly around her, she cast the dragon from her hand and rose once more to her full height. Lifting the veil from her face, she felt herself filled with a rapturous exaltation. As the fire consumed her sins, she felt her spirit being uplifted, and she raised her arms in unutterable joy.
As the medieval voices of her beloved chants gave way to the crackling of the spreading flames, Martha Ward’s soul rose to meet the destiny for which she had always prayed.
“Don’t watch it,” Oliver said. He drew Rebecca to him, pressing her face into his shoulder to shield her from the horror unfolding within the house.
A silence descended upon the crowd as they watched Martha Ward’s last moments, a silence now broken by a gasp as flames suddenly rose around her. As the fire grew, some of the women began to sob and some of the men swore softly, but no one made any move to stop the fire, to put an end to the conflagration that was already spreading through the house, destroying everything in its path.
More sirens tore apart the night, but even when the volunteer engines arrived, their crews did nothing to quench the flames, but only stood by to protect the homes next door.
Within minutes the entire structure was engulfed, the heat enough to drive even the bravest to the opposite side of the street. Finally the entire structure collapsed in upon itself, and a tower of sparks rose into the night sky as if in some strange and macabre celebration.
A pile of smoldering rubble was all that remained of Martha Ward’s house.
As dawn broke, Oliver watched in fascination while the crowd that had gathered in the night to watch the fire quickly dispersed, as if they felt exposed by the morning light and were embarrassed to have the morbidness of their curiosity further revealed.
The firemen were circling the wreckage of the house like a band of hunters warily inspecting fallen prey, knowing it was mortally wounded, but all too aware that it was still capable of inflicting damage upon anyone who ventured too close.
“Do you have anyplace to go?” Oliver finally asked Rebecca. She was next to him, her hand holding on to his arm, but her eyes still fixed on the blackened ruin that had been her home. For a long time she said nothing, and he was about to repeat the question when he heard a voice behind him.
“She’ll come to live with me. It’s what her aunt would have wanted.”
Turning, Oliver saw Germaine Wagner standing a few feet away, a gray woolen overcoat buttoned up to her neck, a grayer scarf wrapped around her head.
Oliver turned back to Rebecca, whose wide, frightened eyes made it clear she had no idea what to do. “You can stay with me if you’d like,” he said softly. “I have an extra room.”
Rebecca glanced uncertainly at Germaine Wagner, then back to Oliver, but before she could say anything, the librarian spoke again.
“That’s not a good idea, Oliver. You know as well as I do that it would cause talk.” Her lips pursed disapprovingly. “The very idea—you and Rebecca? It’s—” She hesitated, and Oliver wondered if she was going to finish her thought. But then her eyes fixed on his. “Well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Surely I don’t have to spell it out for you.”
Just as they had in the library on the December day when he’d gone in to research the Asylum’s history under Germaine’s stern stare, the old memories now rushed back at him once again, memories of the people who used to glance at him out of the corner of their eye and whisper about him behind his back. If Rebecca came to live with him, would it all start up again?
Of course it would.
The only difference would be that this time the whispers would be about Rebecca instead of his sister.
For himself, it didn’t really matter. But for Rebecca?
He wouldn’t put her through it.
“No,” he said at last, “you don’t have to spell it out for me.”
He watched in silence as Germaine Wagner led Rebecca toward her car, and wondered if she was also walking away from him forever. Sighing heavily, he realized that if Germaine had anything to do with it, she might very well be.
A few minutes later, as he too drove away from the wreckage of Martha Ward’s house, Oliver realized that his head was starting to ache again.
This time, though, he was fairly sure he knew the reason why.
*  *  *

Enough rain had fallen on Blackstone in the weeks since Martha Ward had turned the tongue of the dragon upon herself that the smell of the fire had finally begun to be washed away, its acrid stench slowly replaced with the sweet aroma of the first flowers of spring. Behind the thick stone walls of the Asylum, though, the same stale, musty odor of mildew and mold that had permeated every hidden corner of the building for the last several decades still hung heavily in the air.
The dankness was of no concern to the dark figure that moved through the shadowed rooms, as oblivious to the still and moldering atmosphere within the walls as he was to the freshly vibrant breezes beyond.
He was in his museum once more, carefully—almost lovingly—pasting Oliver Metcalf’s account of Martha Ward’s last moments into the leather-bound ledger he had found two months ago. Satisfied with his work only when his latex-covered fingers had perfectly trimmed every edge and smoothed out every wrinkle, he read the story one more time, then put the cherished book aside.
Now, before the full moon began to fade, it was time to decide which of his treasures next to give away. His fingers moved over them slowly and sensuously, feeling the details his eyes could not discern in the dim light, until at last he came to the one he knew should next be sent to work its evil.
A handkerchief, woven from the finest linen, edged in the daintiest of lace, and perfectly embroidered with a single ornate initial.
An initial that would guide this cherished article to its target as surely as if it were an arrow shot from a bow.
To be continued …



Part 4 In the Shadow of Evil: The Handkerchief


Prelude

Once again the time had come.
The moon, high in the early spring sky, silvered the long-concealed room with a glow that lent the objects within the quality of a bas relief. The dark figure, though, saw nothing this night save the handkerchief. Its soft folds hung gracefully from his surgically gloved fingers, its pale linen seeming to shine with a luminescence of its own. Nor was he aware that beyond the stone walls the winter’s stillness was occasionally pierced by the first tentative mating calls of insects and frogs slowly emerging from their seasonal torpor; within the building’s dark confines the silence of nearly half a century still reigned.
Enclosed in that silvery silence, the dark figure stroked the linen lovingly, and from the depths of his mind, a memory began to emerge.…




Prologue

The woman rose languorously from her bed, letting her fingers trail over the smoothness of the silk sheets and caress the softness of the cashmere blankets before she drifted across the room to gaze out the window. It was late in the afternoon. Below, two of her gardeners tended to the rosebushes she’d laid out last year, while another trimmed the low box hedge. Some of her guests were playing badminton on the broad lawn beyond the rose garden, and when one of them looked up, she waved gaily. For a moment she toyed with the idea of dressing and going out to join them, but then she changed her mind.
Better to stay in her boudoir, resting and enjoying her privacy before tonight’s festivities began.
What was it to be tonight?
A formal dinner, with dancing afterward?
Or a fancy-dress ball, with supper at midnight and a champagne breakfast served just after dawn?
She couldn’t remember just now, but it didn’t matter really, for one of her maids would remind her when it was time for her to dress for the evening.
Turning away from the window, she wafted back to the bed and stretched out once more, picking up the square of finest linen she’d been embroidering for several weeks now.
It was edged with lace, every stitch perfectly worked into a floral design so exquisitely wrought that she could almost smell the flowers’ scent. In one corner she was working a single initial, an ornate R to signify the rank of the handkerchiefs eventual recipient. Regina.
The queen would be pleased with her gift, and perhaps even summon her to court—a most pleasurable diversion, inasmuch as it had been months since she’d been away from her own country seat.
Spreading the handkerchief on her lap, she set about the final embroidery. Surrounding the R was another intricate pattern of flowers, these woven into the linen in the finest and palest of silk thread, lending the handkerchief a faint aura of color that was almost more illusion than reality. The stitching was so delicate that it seemed to emerge from the weave itself, and each side was as perfect as the other. Even the monogram had been mirrored so the handkerchief had no wrong side.
An hour later, as she worked the last thread into the design, then snipped its end away so deftly that it instantly disappeared into the pattern, she heard a sharp rap at the door, announcing the arrival of her maid. Setting the handkerchief aside, she drew her robe more tightly around her throat. “You may come in,” she announced.
The door opened and the servant appeared, bearing a silver tray upon which she could see a plate covered by an ornately engraved silver dome.
An afternoon repast.
Which meant that tonight would be the fancy-dress ball. She must begin thinking about a costume.
“What have you brought me, Marie?” the woman asked. “A paté perhaps? Some caviar?”
The nurse’s hands tightened on the metal tray.
Paté?
Caviar?
Not likely.
And not that it mattered either. Even if she’d brought half a pound of paté de foie gras or a whole can of Beluga caviar, it wouldn’t be good enough for this one! She hadn’t eaten anything at all for a week. And how many times had she told the woman her name was Clara, not Marie? “It’s spaghetti,” she said as she bent at the waist, intending to set the tray down on the woman’s lap. “With some nice salad with oranges, and a roll.”
“Be careful!” the woman ordered, her voice sharp. “This robe was handmade for me, and if you stain it—”
“I know.” The nurse sighed, straightening again, the tray still in her hands. “I’ll be dismissed.” She eyed the rough terry-cloth robe the patient wore over her flannel nightgown, and wondered just what material the woman’s delusions had created. Silk? Ermine? Who knew? Or cared? “And if you spill it all over yourself, don’t try to blame me. It won’t be anybody’s fault but your own.”
The patient drew herself up, her eyes narrowing into slits of anger. “I will not be spoken to like—”
“You’ll be spoken to any way I want,” the nurse interrupted. “And if you’re smart, you’ll eat this.”
Finally setting the metal tray on the patient’s lap, she lifted the cover off the plate.
The silver dome lifted to reveal a tangle of worms writhing in a pool of blood, and a rat, its red eyes glaring balefully up at her. As she hurled the silver tray off her lap and flung it aside, the rat leaped away to scuttle across the floor, and the blood and worms cascaded down Marie’s uniform. Feeling no sympathy at all for the servant who had subjected her to such torture, the woman reached out to slap the hapless girl, but to her utter astonishment, the maid caught her wrist, immobilizing it in a grip so strong the woman was suddenly terrified her bones might break.
“How dare—” she began, but the maid cut in without letting her finish.
“Don’t ‘how dare’ me, Miss High-and-Mighty! I’ve had just about enough of your acting like I’m your servant. Look what you’ve done to my uniform! How would you like it if these were your clothes?”
Rendered speechless by the impertinence, the woman watched as the maid dropped her wrist, then reached out and snatched up the handkerchief she’d finished embroidering only a few minutes ago. As the woman looked on in horror from her bed, the servant pressed the fine linen square to her chest, using it to soak up the blood on her uniform.
“Stop that!” she demanded. “Stop that this instant! You’ll ruin it!”
The nurse glowered furiously at the patient as she wiped away the mess of spaghetti and tomato sauce that was still dripping down her brand new uniform. She’d bought it only last week and was wearing it for the first time that day. “You think you can get away with anything, don’t you?” she asked. “Well, you’re about to find out who runs this place, and it isn’t you.” Leaving the patient cowering in her bed, the nurse strode out of the room, returning a few moments later with an orderly and a doctor. While the orderly mopped the splatter of spaghetti off the linoleum floor, the nurse recounted the incident to the doctor. “I suppose if she won’t eat, it’s really none of my business,” she finished. “But I don’t have to stand for her throwing her food at me.”
The doctor, whose eyes had been fixed on the patient throughout the nurse’s recitation, smiled thinly. “No,” he agreed, “you certainly don’t. And it’s certainly time she began eating too, don’t you think?”
For a moment the nurse said nothing, but then, as she realized what the doctor was saying, she smiled for the first time since entering the room a few minutes earlier. “Yes,” she said, “I certainly do!”
With the aid of two more orderlies, the doctor and the nurse secured the struggling patient to her bed with thick nylon straps. When the woman was totally immobilized, the doctor instructed the aides to hold the patient’s mouth open.
As the woman moaned and struggled, then began to gag, the doctor inserted a thick plastic feeding tube through her mouth, down her throat, and into her stomach.
“There,” he said. “That should do it.”
Before he left the nurse to begin feeding the immobilized patient, he stooped down and picked up the soiled handkerchief from the floor. Holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, he gazed at the elaborately embroidered initial and the perfectly worked lace. “Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to the nurse. “I wonder who she thought she was making it for.” Crushing the handkerchief into a shapeless mass, he stuffed it into the pocket of his white coat and left the room.
The woman in the bed tried to cry out, tried to beg him not to take away the beautiful handkerchief she’d spent so many weeks making, but the tube in her throat turned her plea into nothing more than an incomprehensible moan.
She never saw the handkerchief again.
A month later, when she was finally released from the bonds that held her to the bed, she waited until she was alone, then used the belt of her terry-cloth robe to hang herself from the clothes hook on the back of her door.
*  *  *

Still gazing at the handkerchief, the dark figure let his finger trace the perfectly embroidered R that had been worked into one of its corners.
The letter itself told him who its recipient must be.
All he regretted was that he couldn’t deliver it personally. Still, he knew how to guide the handkerchief to its destination, and who its bearer would be.…