“That Bonny Island was a land grant to your family after the Revolutionary War.” I sipped the tea.
“It looked good on the brochures. And back then, there wasn’t any Google to prove it wrong. The real story was my wife found an auction notice in the newspaper, and suggested we buy it with some money she had from an inheritance. We were up in South Dakota at the time—”
“At Custer,” I said.
“That’s right.” He studied me. “She died up there, as I’m sure you already know. I decided me and Kitten would go ahead and buy the island anyway. Even though Vicky wouldn’t . . .” His eyes strayed back to the other side of the room. The window. The door. The clock. Jesus, this guy. Now he was making me jumpy.
“Don’t be too hard on Doro for sticking with our old story,” he said. “Sometimes adults find comfort in childhood tales.”
“Look, Mr. Kitchens, I’m not here to call Doro out for lying. But there are so many rumors about you guys. Frances and the murder weapon. I just want to clear some of it up.”
“All those Kitty Cult rumors,” he said. “I don’t like talking about them.”
“But say, for instance, Frances knew what happened to Kimmy or what became of the murder weapon.” Or you did, I thought. “The world deserves to know the truth.”
“The world doesn’t deserve a damn thing. The cops agreed that Vera probably did it. And she’s gone now. Died of a stroke in jail before she ever went to trial. So it doesn’t matter.”
“But there are other theories. Like Susan Doucette’s.”
His head jerked up. “How do you know her?”
“I’d rather not say.”
He let out his breath. It made a whistling, wheezy sound.
“Susan said you sued my mother, back in the early nineties,” I added casually.
“That was nothing.” He waved his hand. But he glanced away. Out the window again.
“Susan thought you and my mother worked out some kind of deal. A trade.”
“There was no trade. I just changed my mind, is all. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
I started to say something more, but before I could, my stomach twisted the slightest bit. Just enough to send me to the edge of my seat. The pinpricks started too, rising up and rolling over me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I, uh . . .” I rubbed my stomach. Dr. Lodi had said nausea was one of the symptoms of lead poisoning. Maybe now that the lead was being pulled out of my system, this was how it was going to be.
“I’m fine. I’ve got lead poisoning. I have symptoms—”
He cocked his head. “Mind if I ask you a question now?”
“Okay.” My stomach cramped again. Then, as quickly as it came, it passed. I inhaled deeply. Prayed I wouldn’t have to ask this man to let me use the facilities.
“Where are you from?” he asked. He was still standing by the sofa, but he seemed farther away than just a minute ago. The weak sunlight in the little house had become strange all of a sudden. Greenish gray and dancing with dust.
I rubbed my temples. “Where am I from?” I repeated. My voice sounded strange and tinny in my ears.
He moved closer. “What nationality are you?”
“American,” I said.
“But you don’t look a thing like your mother.” I could feel his eyes travel the length of me. Not in a lecherous way, exactly, but a bit off, all the same. “Your skin is . . . beautiful but different than hers. And your hair. Not a hint of red in it. Not a hint. No resemblance, that I can see. Was your father foreign?”
My heart thudded. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“So what?” His eyes flicked briefly up to mine. “I welcomed you into my house. You can tell me a thing or two in return. Out of courtesy.”
“It doesn’t matter.” A wave of cramps hit me, and I clenched my jaw.
“It’s hard to tell,” he mused. “You could be African or Indian. Caribbean. Or Egyptian, maybe. A modern-day Cleopatra.”
Normally, if anybody talked to me like that, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell them to fuck off. But the pain from my stomach silenced me, twisting violently. And I could taste a metallic tang. My mouth felt unwieldy and numb and wouldn’t form the words I was thinking in my brain.
This wasn’t the lead. This was something else. Something different.
Suddenly, I was afraid.
“You’re pretty, either way. I mean that.”
Thoughts careened through my head, spun past me so I couldn’t seem to grab hold of them. Something was happening, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
“I—” My throat felt tight and hot, my head like it was detached from my body. The strangest sensation. I licked my lips and managed to stand. “Bathroom?”
I wasn’t thinking bathroom. I was thinking door. Or window.
Billy Kitchens smiled what looked like an apologetic smile. His eyes looked dark to me all of a sudden. Animals’ eyes did that, I thought, dilated before they pounced on their prey. So they could focus on the kill. I imagined Billy’s face had become a wolf’s face—covered in fur, his teeth lengthening to razor-sharp fangs.
Jesus. I was losing my mind.
“Easy now,” I heard from somewhere. I felt a rough hand encircle my wrist and give a gentle tug. I stumbled forward.
Toward the wolf.
“No,” I said. The fear spiked now, but no adrenaline accompanied it. I couldn’t run away. Or take a swing at him. I could barely move.
I pulled against Billy with what little strength I had left.
“No,” I moaned. “No, no, no . . .”
“You’re safe, Meggie, don’t worry. I was just gonna let you lie down on the sofa for a bit and talk to you. I needed to give you a drink so you’d listen to me. So you wouldn’t fight me or try to run out on me.”
“Fight you . . .”
“It’s okay. Come on.” He pulled me, and I staggered forward, then I sank down, surprised to feel the scratchy sofa beneath me. I leaned my head back. Closed my eyes. I felt two hands guide my shoulders until I was prone.
Oh God. If only the pain would stop.
If only . . .
“I’ve got you, little Meggie,” Billy said in a singsong voice. “Don’t you worry now, I’ve got you.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 16
Fay hoped she would go upstairs to find Kitten in her bedroom, curled up on her window seat, reading her Verselet book.
She imagined the girl sucking on a butterscotch, her composed, alabaster face set in a childish pout. Perhaps, if she were up there and Fay were very calm and firm, the child would understand that Fay had been duty bound to call the sheriff instead of throwing the ashtray in the sound.
Maybe Kitten would let Fay comfort her. She was a child, after all, and children were vulnerable when they were frightened. Fay would explain in the most convincing way she could that Kitten’s parents would return soon and there was nothing at all to worry about—and then afterward, maybe the two of them would go down to the kitchen and find some ice cream.
Fay climbed the front steps of the hotel and crossed the porch, but even as her hand twisted the corroded iron doorknob, she knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The heavy front door of Ambletern was locked.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Thirty-Five