Hellfire

18

The warmth of the morning woke Beth early, and she stretched luxuriously, then kicked the covers off and got out of bed. But a moment later, as she came fully awake and remembered last night’s fight with Tracy, her good feeling vanished.

It would be another day just like all the rest — a day of trying not to make any mistakes, of trying to stay out of Tracy’s way, of not knowing what to do next.

Maybe she should go down to the village and find Peggy.

Or maybe, instead of looking for Peggy, she should go to the mill. Maybe, if she promised to stay out of everyone’s way, her father would let her spend the day at the mill. Then, while everyone was busy, she could go down into the basement, and sneak into the little room under the stairs. And Amy would be there, waiting for her.

They could sit in the dark together, and Beth could talk to her. It would be nice, Beth thought, to be alone in someplace cool and dark and quiet, with no one around except a friend who wouldn’t laugh at you, or tease you, no matter what you said. That’s the kind of friend, she was sure, that Amy would be to her. Someone for her to talk to when she got so lonely she felt like no one in the world wanted her, or understood her, or cared about her.

She began dressing, then looked at the clock. It was only seven-thirty. Hannah would be in the kitchen, starting breakfast, but neither Peter nor Mr. Smithers would have come to work yet.

Maybe she should go down to the stable and visit Patches before Peter got there. Because Peggy, she was sure, would have told Peter what happened yesterday. Peggy always told everybody everything, and by now Peter probably would have decided she was crazy, too.

What if he told her she couldn’t come to the stable anymore? That, she decided, would be awful. Going down to see the horses in the morning was the best part of every day. Still, it hadn’t happened yet, and even if it did, she could just start getting up earlier every day.

She tied her tennis shoes, then quickly made her bed and put away the clothes she’d been wearing last night. Then she left her room, and glanced down the hall in both directions, listening. She heard nothing. Both Tracy’s door and her mother’s door were still closed. Everybody but her was still asleep. She scurried down the stairs, and through the long living room, then slowed down as she crossed the dining room. She could almost feel the portraits of all the dead Sturgesses glaring disapprovingly down on her, even though she always did her best not to look at them. When she came to the butler’s pantry, she let out an almost audible sigh of relief. Here, in Hannah’s territory, she always felt more comfortable. Finally she pushed open the kitchen door.

“Must be a quarter to eight,” Hannah said without turning from the stove where she was scrambling some eggs. “You’re getting to be as regular as clockwork. Orange juice is in the refrigerator, and the eggs’ll be done in a minute.”

“I could have made my own eggs,” Beth said as she reached into the refrigerator and brought out the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. Even though she hated the pulp in it, she wouldn’t hurt Hannah’s feelings by telling her so, so she poured a big glass, then took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut tight, and tried to drink it all in one gulp. When she was finished, she opened her eyes to see the housekeeper shaking her head sympathetically.

“Don’t see how you can do that,” Hannah said, her face serious but her eyes twinkling. “The pulp in that stuff makes me gag. I always have to strain it, myself.”

Beth’s eyes widened in surprise; then she giggled, and sat down at the table to dig into the plate of eggs that was now waiting for her. When she was finished, she scraped the leavings into the sink, rinsed the plate, then picked up the waiting bag of garbage and headed out the back door. She dumped the trash in the barrel as she crossed the little terrace, then waved to Ben Smithers, who was busy in the rose garden.

She ran all the way to the door of the stable. As soon as she stepped inside, she knew that Peter, as she’d hoped, was not there yet. There was a stillness in the little barn — a quiet that was broken only by the soft snufflings of the horses as they became aware that someone had come into the stable.

Beth let herself relax as she closed the stable door behind her, and started down the aisle toward Patches’s stall. The big mare was stretching her neck out as far as she could, and whinnying softly.

“Hi, Patches,” Beth whispered, reaching up to scratch the horse’s ears. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

The horse snuffled, pawing at the floor of her stall, then tried to poke her nose into the pocket of Beth’s jeans. Across the stall, the feed trough was empty.

“I don’t see why Peter can’t leave you something to eat during the night,” Beth told the big mare, scratching her affectionately between the ears. “What if you get hungry?”

The horse snorted softly, and her head bobbed as if she had understood every word Beth said, and agreed with her. That, Beth decided, was the neatest thing about Patches — she could say anything to her, and never have to worry about whether the horse believed her or not.

It wasn’t at all like it was with people. With people, if you said something that sounded just a little bit strange, they started calling you crazy.

Either that, or they didn’t believe you were telling them the truth.

Beth sighed, hugged Patches’s neck, then started down the aisle toward the feed bins to find something for the horse to eat. The hay wasn’t down yet, but there was a big sack of oats beneath the hayloft.

As she found a pail and began filling it with oats, Beth wondered if anyone would ever believe that Amy was real.

So far, it didn’t seem like anyone would.

Except for old Mrs. Sturgess.

But had the old lady really believed her, or was she just pretending to for some reason that Beth couldn’t understand? Yet if she was only pretending, why would she have said that when she came home from the hospital she’d show Beth something that proved there really was a girl named Amy? And why would she have asked Beth what Amy wanted?

Beth didn’t think Amy wanted anything. All she wanted was for them to be friends.

She took the pailful of oats back to Patches’s stall, opened the door, and let herself inside.

“Look what I’ve got for you,” she said, holding the pail up close to the big mare’s nose.

The horse sniffed at the pail, then backed away, tossing her head.

“It’s only oats,” Beth said, moving slowly forward until she could reach out and take hold of Patches’s halter. “You like oats, remember?”

She offered the pail once more, but the horse, sniffing at it again, tried to pull her head away. But Beth, prepared for it, tightened her grip on the halter, and held Patches in place.

“Maybe she doesn’t want any,” she heard a voice say from behind her. “Maybe she’s not hungry.”

Beth felt herself redden, and whirled around to see Tracy standing at the stall door, smiling in that superior way of hers that never failed to make Beth feel stupid. “She likes oats,” she said. “She just wants me to feed her, that’s all.”

“She doesn’t want you to feed her.” Tracy sneered. “She doesn’t even like you. She just wants you to go away!”

“That’s not true!” Beth flared, stung. “Watch!”

Still holding on to the horse’s halter with one hand, she set the pail on the floor, then took a handful of the grain and held it up for Patches’s inspection.

The big horse eyed the grain, then tentatively opened her mouth and licked. Beth raised her hand, and the horse’s lips curled out, closed, and pulled in the oats. As she munched slowly, then swallowed, Beth reached down for another handful.

“That’s the way,” she crooned softly as the horse ate the second handful. “See how good they are?”

“Big deal,” Tracy replied, her voice scornful. “A horse will eat anything, if you shove it into its mouth.” Snickering, she turned away, and left the stable as silently as she’d come.

Beth felt a sudden stinging in her eyes, and glared after Tracy. “But you do like me,” Beth said to Patches when she was once again alone with the horse. “You like me better than anyone, don’t you?”

She picked up the pail, and held it while Patches, snuffling with apparent contentment, finished off the oats. Then, patting the horse on the neck, Beth let go of her halter and left the stall to take the bucket to the sink, wash it, and return it to its place by the tackroom door.

She was just about to turn Patches out into the paddock when she heard her mother’s voice calling her to come in. She hesitated, then patted the horse once more. “I’ll be back later,” she promised. “And maybe we can go for a ride. Okay?” The horse whinnied softly, and her tail flicked up. Then her tongue came out to give Beth’s hand a final lick. “Who cares what Tracy thinks? Who cares what anyone thinks?”

But as she left the stable, Peter Russell was coming in, and Beth could tell by the way he looked at her that Peggy had, indeed, told him all about yesterday morning. And though he said nothing, Beth felt herself redden. She did, after all, care what people thought.

Beth was just coming back into the stable an hour later when she heard Patches’s first high-pitched whinny, followed by the crash of hooves against the wooden walls of the stall.

She raced down the broad aisle between the two rows of stalls and got to the big mare just in time to see the horse rear up, her forelegs lashing at the air, then drop back down. She stamped her feet, then once more reared, her teeth bared and her mouth open as if she were trying to bite some unseen enemy.

Terrified, Beth backed away from the stall. “Peter!” she yelled. “Come quick!”

But Peter was already there, coming out of the stall that belonged to the big Arabian stallion named Thunder. He stared at Patches in amazement for a moment, then dashed down the aisle between the two rows of stalls, climbed the fence into the paddock, and hurried back toward Patches’s stall. As the mare, her eyes glazed now, bolted out of the stable, Peter made a grab for her halter, but missed. Bucking and snorting, Patches moved out into the center of the paddock, then stopped for a moment, glancing around wildly, as if searching for the unseen attacker. Then she dropped to the ground, and began rolling over, her legs thrashing violently. A moment later Beth, her face ashen, appeared at the open stall door.

“Peter, what’s wrong with her?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes fixed on the agonized horse. “I don’t know,” he said. “Get me the lead, then go up to the house and have someone call the vet.”

Beth darted back into the stable, grabbed a lead, then ran back outside and gave it to Peter. She stared at Patches for a moment, then dashed to the paddock fence, climbed over it, and charged up the slope toward the house.

A moment later she burst through the back door, calling out for Hannah.

“What is it, child?” Hannah asked, bustling out of her room.

“It’s Patches,” Beth gasped. “Hannah, we have to call the vet right away. Something’s wrong with Patches! I … I think she’s dying!”

As Beth and her mother, together with Phillip and Tracy Sturgess, looked on, Paul Garvey shook his head, and slid a large needle into a vein in Patches’s right foreleg. He pressed the plunger on the hypodermic home, and a moment later Patches shuddered, seemed to sigh, then lay still.

“It’s better this way,” the veterinarian said softly, rising to his feet. “There wasn’t any way to bring her out of that.”

“But it was colic, wasn’t it?” Phillip asked, his eyes leaving the dead horse to fix anxiously on Garvey.

“I never saw a case that violent before,” Garvey replied. “If I had to bet, I’d put my money on poison.”

“Poison?” Carolyn echoed, her eyes widening. “But who—”

“I’d like to check her feed,” Garvey interrupted, his attention shifting to Peter Russell. “Any of the other horses showing any symptoms like this?”

Peter shook his head. “They hadn’t even been fed yet. At least not Patches. I’d just filled Thunder’s trough, and Patches would have been next.”

The vet frowned. “The horse hadn’t eaten anything?” he asked, his voice conveying his doubt.

It was Tracy who answered him. “It was Beth,” she said, her voice quivering with apparent fury. “Beth was feeding her oats this morning.”

Garvey’s frown deepened. “Oats?” he echoed. “How much?”

“A whole bucketful,” Tracy said. “They’re in that bag over there.” She pointed to the big feedsack that still sat against the wall beneath the hayloft, and Garvey walked quickly over, reached deep into the sack, and pulled out a handful. Holding the feed close to his nose, he sniffed deeply. Garvey frowned, then sniffed again.

“Well?” Phillip asked.

“Doesn’t smell right,” Garvey said. “I’ll take some of this back to my lab. In the meantime, don’t let any of the other horses anywhere near this stuff.”

There was a moment of silence as the import of his words sank in, and then suddenly Tracy’s voice, shrill and angry, sliced through the stable once more. “She poisoned her! She poisoned my horse!”

Beth gasped, and turned to look at Tracy, who was pointing at her accusingly. “I didn’t do anything—” she began, but Tracy cut her off.

“You killed her!” she screamed. “Just because you hate me, you killed my horse! She didn’t even want those oats! I saw you, and you were making her eat them. You were shoving them right into her mouth!” She lunged toward Beth, but her father grabbed her, holding her back.

“Tracy, nobody would try to kill Patches—”

“She did!” Tracy wailed. “She poisoned the oats, and then made her eat them.”

Beth stared at Tracy for a moment, and suddenly remembered the way Patches had snorted, and tried to pull away from the pail. It wasn’t until she’d taken the food in her own hand, and almost shoved it into the horse’s mouth, that the animal had finally eaten it. Bursting into tears, she wheeled around and fled from the barn.

As Phillip held his crying daughter close, he and Carolyn exchanged a long look. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of silent decision-making, he spoke.

“I’ll call Alan,” he said quietly. “I guess maybe it’s time we did something.”

As he spoke the words, he thought for a moment that he felt Tracy relax against his body, and her sobbing seemed to ease.

Tracy Sturgess emerged from the swimming pool at the Westover Country Club, grabbed a towel, and flopped down on the lawn, shaking the water out of her hair. She’d been at the club for an hour, and even though no one had told her, she was almost sure she knew why her father had suddenly suggested — even insisted — that she come here this afternoon.

They were going to move Beth out of the house while she was gone.

And almost as good as that was the fact that her father had promised her a new horse, and even given in when she’d demanded an Arabian just like Thunder. She’d had to cry, of course, and act as though losing Patches was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, but that was easy. She’d always been good at things like that.

Now she propped her head up on one arm, and grinned at Alison Babcock, who was her best friend this summer. “What’s everybody talking about?” she asked.

“Your grandmother,” Alison replied. She rolled her eyes toward Kip Braithwaite, who was sprawled on a towel next to her. “Kip thinks someone tried to kill her.”

Tracy’s eyes widened, and she turned to stare at Kip. “Why would anyone want to kill Grandmother?”

“Well, someone wanted to kill Jeff Bailey, and they did it, didn’t they?”

“Aw, jeez,” Brett Kilpatrick groaned. “Nobody killed Jeff. He tripped and fell on a pick.”

“That’s what you think,” Kip replied.

“Well, I ought to know,” Brett shot back. “I was there, wasn’t I?”

“But what did you see?” Kip taunted. “You were too chicken even to go downstairs.”

“But what about Grandmother?” Tracy demanded. “How come you think someone tried to kill her?”

Kip shrugged. “Well, she had her heart attack right on the same spot where they killed Jeff, didn’t she?”

“So what?” Alison Babcock asked. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“And it doesn’t disprove anything, either,” Kip taunted.

“Well, if you’re so smart, who did it?” Brett asked.

Kip glared at his friend. “What about Beth Rogers?”

Brett began laughing. “Her? You gotta be kidding. Didn’t you see her at Tracy’s party? She almost wet her pants just watching that movie!”

“But she was talking about a ghost in the mill,” Kip pointed out. “Maybe she went looking for one.”

“Are you kidding?” Alison giggled. “Beth Rogers? Give me a break.”

“Well, I think she killed Jeff,” Kip insisted. “And I think she tried to kill Tracy’s grandma, too.”

“Big deal.” Alison sneered. “So that’s what you think. But how do you know?”

“Well, I know she killed Tracy’s horse,” Kip shot back. “Tracy says that’s why they’re kicking her out. She’s crazy.”

“Oh, come on,” Alison started, but Tracy interrupted her.

“But she is crazy, Alison,” she insisted. “I was hiking up near the mausoleum yesterday, and she was up there. I heard her talking about someone named Amy that she thinks killed Jeff.”

Alison stared at her. “Amy?” she repeated. “Who’s she supposed to be?”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “She’s the ghost! And I heard her talking about how this Amy killed Jeff because he was teasing her at my party.”

The other three fell silent, eyeing each other uneasily, and Tracy could see that she hadn’t yet convinced them. “Well, she is crazy,” she insisted. “And I bet Kip’s right. I bet she’s so crazy that she killed Jeff, and doesn’t even know it. I bet she really believes a ghost did it.”

Alison’s eyes narrowed, and she stared suspiciously at Tracy. “What about your grandmother?” she asked. “Do you think Beth tried to kill her too?”

Tracy hesitated, then nodded.

“Why?” Alison demanded. “What did your grandmother ever do to her?”

“Nothing,” Tracy replied. “Except she can’t stand Beth, either, and Beth knows it. But crazy people don’t need a reason to do things — they just do them.” Then she had an idea. “And my grandmother was acting real weird last night, too. First she talked to Daddy, and then she made us go get Beth and bring her to the hospital. And afterward, Beth wouldn’t tell any of us what she and Grandmother talked about.”

“Think maybe she saw Beth down there yesterday?” Kip asked.

“If she’d seen her, why would she want to talk to her?” Alison asked. “I mean, if somebody tried to kill me, the last thing I’d want to do is talk to them!”

“Maybe she wasn’t sure it was Beth,” Kip suggested. “Maybe she wanted to talk to her to see if she could trap her, like they do on TV all the time.”

Alison rolled her eyes impatiently. “Oh, who cares what they talked about? There’s no way we can find out, anyway.”

There was a momentary silence, and then Tracy grinned conspiratorially. “I bet I can find out.”

“How?” someone asked.

“I’ll go visit Grandmother,” Tracy went on. “And I’ll bet I can pry whatever she told Beth out of her. I can always get Grandmother to do whatever I want, because she hates Carolyn so much.”

“I bet she doesn’t hate her as much as you do,” Alison said, rolling over onto her back, and closing her eyes.

“I bet she doesn’t, either,” Tracy agreed. She, too, flopped back and closed her eyes. “In fact, I wish I could figure out a way to get Daddy to throw her out, too. Or maybe I could even get Beth to kill her. Wouldn’t that be neat? Getting her to kill her own mother?” She giggled maliciously, and after a moment, the others joined in.

Tracy left the club at four o’clock, deciding it was better to walk the two miles into town than to ask her father to take her to the hospital when he came to pick her up. He’d want to know why she suddenly wanted to visit her grandmother, and she wasn’t about to tell him.

She started along River Road, wondering how she would get the information she wanted out of her grandmother. She couldn’t just ask her — she already knew that. If she’d made Beth promise not to talk, she wouldn’t just start talking herself. And then, as she approached the railroad tracks, she knew the answer.

Get her talking about the past. If there was anything her grandmother liked to do, it was to talk about the “good old days” before Tracy was born. And then, when she had her grandmother’s guard down, she’d figure out how to lead her into talking about what had happened last night.

She was crossing the railroad tracks on River Road when she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. Turning, she saw Beth Rogers standing a few yards away, staring at her.

She froze, wondering what was going to happen. What if Beth had already figured out what she’d done to the oats? Would she have the nerve to say anything? But it wouldn’t happen — Beth, she was sure, was too dumb to figure out what had really happened to Patches, just as Patches had been too dumb to refuse the poisoned oats. Raising her chin defiantly, and studiously ignoring Beth, she continued on to Prospect Street, then turned right past the mill toward the hospital that lay a few blocks further on.

Ignoring the sign announcing that visiting hours were from six until eight P.M., Tracy made her way to her grandmother’s room, and let herself inside. Lying in the bed, her eyes closed and her breathing regular, Abigail Sturgess slept peacefully.

Tracy gazed at the frail form in the bed for a few moments, then reached out and shook her grandmother.

“Grandmother? Wake up.”

Abigail stirred slightly, and tried to roll over.

Tracy shook her again. “Grandmother! It’s Tracy. Wake up!”

Abigail started slightly, coughed, and opened her eyes. Squinting against the light, she peered up into her granddaughter’s face. “Tracy?” she asked weakly. “What are you doing here?”

Tracy wreathed her face in a smile. “I came to visit you, Grandmother. I thought you must be lonely.”

Abigail struggled to sit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, as Tracy stuffed an extra pillow behind her. She blinked, then reached unsteadily for a glass of water on the table next to the bed. “Did your father come with you?”

Tracy shook her head. “I walked. I was afraid if I told anyone I was coming, Carolyn would have stopped me.”

“She probably would have,” Abigail agreed. “She’s a hard one, that woman.” Then she smiled. “Not like your mother at all.”

Sensing an opening, Tracy smiled again. “Tell me about her,” she said. “Tell me all about Mommy!”

Abigail sighed contentedly, and her eyes took on a faraway look as she let her mind drift back into the past. “She was a wonderful woman, your mother. Pretty as a picture, and just like you.” She reached out to Tracy, squeezing her hand affectionately. “And she knew her place in the world. You wouldn’t find her working in the kitchen, except once a week to give Cook the menus. But I suppose those days are gone forever …” Her voice trailed off, and she fell silent.

Tracy gazed at the shriveled form of her grandmother, wondering if she’d gone back to sleep again. “Well, if the mill starts making money again—” she began, and Abigail’s eyes snapped open.

“It won’t!” she said, her voice suddenly strong. “We don’t need the money, and I told your father to close it. I intend to see that he does!”

Tracy grinned to herself. “But why?” she asked. “Why should he close it?”

Abigail’s head swung slowly around, and her eyes fixed on Tracy’s, but Tracy had the eerie feeling that her grandmother wasn’t really seeing her.

“Because she’s evil,” the old woman whispered, almost to herself. “She killed my son, and she killed Jeff Bailey, and she tried to kill me!”

Tracy’s heart beat faster. It was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, even though her grandmother was confused. Beth couldn’t possibly have killed Uncle Conrad — she hadn’t even been born yet. But it didn’t matter. So what if her grandmother had part of it wrong? She did her best not to show her excitement. “She tried to kill you?” she whispered. “Who?” Then, when her grandmother made no reply, she decided to gamble. “You saw her, didn’t you?” she asked. “You saw her down there, and she did something to you, didn’t she?”

Abigail’s eyes widened, and she felt her heart constrict as her mind suddenly opened and the memories of the previous night flooded back to her. Again her hand reached out to Tracy, but now that hand was a claw, and when she grasped the girl’s wrist, Tracy felt a stab of pain.

“The children,” Abigail gasped. “Yes … I saw the children.”

“Beth,” Tracy whispered excitedly. “You saw Beth Rogers, didn’t you?”

Abigail was nodding now, and her jaw began working as she struggled to speak again. “Children,” she repeated. “I saw them. I saw them just as if they were really there.…”

Tracy’s heart was thumping now. “You did, Grandmother,” she said. “You saw her, and she tried to kill you.”

“Dead,” Abigail whispered. “She’s dead, and she wants to kill us.” Her grip on Tracy’s arm tightened, and the girl winced with pain. “She wants to kill us all, Tracy. She hates us, because of what we did to her. She hates us, and she’ll kill us if we let her.”

Tracy tried to pull away, but Abigail seemed to find new strength as her words rambled on. “Stay away, Tracy. Stay away from there. Promise me, Tracy. Promise me you’ll stay away.”

Suddenly frightened by her grandmother’s surge of power, Tracy twisted her arm loose from the old woman’s grip. As if she’d been disconnected from her source of strength, Abigail went limp, her arm falling by her side as she sank back into the pillows.

“Promise me,” she muttered softly as her eyes, clouded now with her years and infirmities, sought out Tracy’s.

Tracy began edging toward the door. “I … I promise,” she mumbled. Then she was gone, pulling the door closed behind her, wanting to shut out the image of the ancient woman in the bed.

As she left the hospital, she turned her grandmother’s words over in her mind, and decided that, after all, she had been right.

Her grandmother had seen someone in the basement of the mill last night, and whoever she had seen had tried to kill her.

And Tracy knew who the old woman had seen.

Beth Rogers.

She walked back along River Road until she came to Prospect Street, where she stopped to stare curiously at the old building that was suddenly coming back to life. What, she wondered, had really happened there so many years ago?

Nothing, she decided.

Her grandmother was old, and sick, and didn’t know what she was talking about.

And promises made to her, Tracy also decided, didn’t really count. In fact, Tracy had long ago figured out that promises didn’t mean anything. If you wanted something, you made promises in order to get it. Then you went ahead and did what you wanted, and nobody ever said anything. At least her father and her grandmother didn’t, and that was all that mattered.

If she felt like going into the mill and looking around, she would, and no one was going to stop her.