The Dollmaker

Twenty-Nine

The light was fading by the time Claire made the turn at Tiber and headed down the gravel road toward Savanna Sweete’s house. The sky was lavender, and the pink clouds in the west were gilded. The sun was setting, but the air was still hot. She’d run the air conditioner for most of the way, but now she rolled her window down and the wind that rushed in was thick with the scent of the honeysuckle that grew along the fencerows. She could smell the bayou, too, and as she pulled up outside the gates, mimosa and magnolia.

She tapped her horn, and the gates swung open so quickly she found herself wondering again if Savannah had been watching for her from an upstairs window.

Claire drove through, and as she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw the gates slowly close behind her. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt a prickle of apprehension as she pulled up to the house and parked.

She climbed the porch steps, knocked on the door, and almost immediately the lock clicked open, just as it had earlier that day. Claire stepped inside and glanced around. As the sun sank behind the trees, the light through the windows in the parlor turned golden, but the foyer and stairs lay in deep shadow.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs and called up. “Ms. Sweete? It’s Claire Doucett. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.”

The house remained silent.

Claire climbed a couple of steps and called up again. “Ms. Sweete? Are you up there?”

When the woman still didn’t answer, Claire stepped back down into the foyer. She was expected. She had made it clear on the phone that she was on her way there, and it seemed doubtful that the older woman would have gone out after they’d spoken.

Claire started into the parlor, but a sound from upstairs stopped her cold. Her heart thudded as she slowly turned, her gaze going to the top of the steps.

“Hello? Is someone up there?”

The sound came again, a feral grunt that lifted the hair on Claire’s neck and sent a shiver down her spine.

“Hello?” Slowly, she climbed the stairs. “Ms. Sweete? Are you up here? It’s Claire Doucett. I’m coming up. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

There was light at the top of the stairs from a window, and as Claire moved onto the landing, she saw her.

The woman lay on the floor, her back to the stairs, one clawlike hand extended toward the elevator. The animal sounds coming from her throat chilled Claire to her core, and she found herself hesitating for a moment before she rushed to the woman’s side and bent to touch her shoulder.

The sounds grew louder and more agitated, and Claire realized she’d frightened the poor woman. She quickly drew back her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I want to help you.”

She moved around to the other side so that Savannah could see her. The older woman’s face was so thin and drawn, her eyes sunken so far back into the sockets that she looked nearly skeletal. She smelled of vomit, urine and decay. Claire put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a gag.

“What happened to you?” she asked in shock.

The woman grunted in response, her eyes darting back and forth as if she couldn’t focus. She wasn’t Savannah Sweete. She was much older than the woman Claire had met that morning. But who was she? And what was wrong with her?

Claire was almost afraid to touch her again. Her limbs looked as if they might snap as easily as dried twigs with even the slightest of pressure. She wore only a thin cotton nightgown, and the legs protruding from the hem were bruised and mottled.

“My God,” Claire muttered.

She started to rise, but the woman seemed to grow even more frantic, and the hand outstretched toward the elevator lifted slightly off the floor and brushed against Claire’s leg.

A tremor shot through her. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you here alone. I’ll call for help and stay with you until someone comes.”

The woman was still on her side, lower legs curved behind her and one arm beneath her. Claire wanted to turn her to make her more comfortable, but she didn’t dare.

“I’m going to call someone, okay?”

The woman’s eyes rounded with distress and her mouth opened and closed, but no sound at all came out now. She was obviously trying to form a word, but her jaw flapped uselessly.

She finally managed a single syllable, but her voice was so weak Claire could barely hear her. She moved in closer, and the woman’s eye movements became frantic.

“Ra…ra…ra…”

“I’m sorry,” Claire murmured. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She started to move away, but the sound grew steadily louder and more desperate, as if it were being ripped from the woman’s very soul.

“Ra…ra…ra…”

And then Claire realized it wasn’t just a random syllable or inane noise. It was a warning.

Run!

Heart pounding, she rose shakily to her feet, her mind on one thing only. She had to get help. Something had obviously frightened the poor woman terribly, and Claire could feel her own panic starting to churn to the surface. But that wouldn’t do anyone any good. If Savannah Sweete was still in the house, she might need help, too. Claire had to remain calm. She had to stay in control.

Phone!

She had to call for help, had to get an ambulance out here immediately. But the woman seemed terrified to be left alone even for a moment. Calire pulled out her cell phone, realized that it was off and turned it on. While she waited for a signal, she heard the creak of the elevator cables.

The cage rattled to a stop on the second floor, and as the grid swung open, Claire saw a man inside. His head was bowed, as if in prayer or deep contemplation. Then he looked up, and as his gaze met hers, Claire’s mouth went dry with fear. There was something familiar about his eyes, something terrifying about the way he smiled at her.

He was average height, but extremely thin, with prominent cheekbones and a wide forehead. His clothing was nondescript—khaki trousers, light blue shirt, wire-rimmed glasses. There was nothing at all frightening about his appearance, but Claire started to tremble.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I’m Matthew. Savannah’s nephew.” His gaze lit on the old woman on the floor and he clucked his tongue. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“She’s hurt,” Claire said. “We need to call a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. Didn’t my aunt tell you that this morning?”

“Then you have to help her. She seems very sick.”

He walked out of the elevator, but instead of kneeling by the woman on the floor, he stepped over her and moved toward Claire.

“What are you doing? You have to help her!”

“I have to help you first.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” She saw then that he had a syringe in his right hand, and fear flushed through her system. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay. It won’t hurt.”

He smiled again, and with the slowness of a nightmare, Claire registered the color of his eyes. They were like turquoise, the same color as the doll’s eyes. The same color as Ruby’s eyes.

Dear God, it’s him.

It was Ruby’s kidnapper. The person who had made the doll in the likeness of her daughter.

Claire tried to stay calm, but her heartbeat drummed in her ears and her breath quickened. She took another step away from him, felt the railing behind her back and realized there was nowhere to go but down.

Her cell phone was still in her hand, and she tried to press the buttons. If she could speed-dial Charlotte or 911—

“Please don’t make me hurt you.” There was a strange pleading note in his voice, an almost childlike quality to the way he stared at her.

“I won’t,” she said. “Just put the needle down.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can,” Claire said. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

She lunged for the stairs then, but he tackled her from behind and they both went crashing to the floor. The phone flew out of her hand as she hit the hard surface. Blood exploded in her mouth as she bit down on her tongue. He plunged the needle into her neck, the sharp prick like the sting of an angry hornet.

Claire’s muscles jerked uncontrollably, and then she went almost completely still. Her vision blurred and she thought for a moment she would pass out. Then everything came back into sharp focus as he rolled her onto her back.

Her mouth sagged open, but the scream died in her throat. Panic dropped like a cold, black wave.

Get up! Get up and run!

She tried to muster her strength to crawl to the top of the stairs, but she couldn’t even lift her hand.

His eyes seemed to dance with madness as he knelt beside her and stroked his palm down her cheek. “See there?” he said gently. “It doesn’t hurt, does it? The worst is already over.”

He bent and grasped her feet, turning her so that he could pull her across the floor to the elevator. He dragged her inside, closed the gate, and a second later, Claire could tell they were descending. She could hear the clang of the cage and the rattle of the cable, but she couldn’t feel the floor beneath her back. She couldn’t feel his hands on her, either, but she knew they were there because she could see his fingers coiled around her ankles.

The elevator jolted to a stop and he pushed open the gate. He pulled her off the car and then was towing her again, this time down a long dim corridor. Claire had no idea where he was taking her. He released her once to open another door, and then they were on the move again.

Once inside the room, he placed her feet gently on the floor and stood looking down at her for the longest time. Then he turned, disappeared from her line of sight, and a moment later, Claire heard the door close and the lock click.

And she was all alone in her prison.

Charlotte’s skirt caught on a metal spike as she scrambled over the fence, and she heard the fabric rip as she jerked it free. “Damn it!”

The suit had cost nearly a month’s salary, way more than she could afford, and she swore again as she tossed her high heels to the ground and then jumped. Maybe she should have just waited in her car and laid down on the horn until someone opened the gate to let her in. She’d honked a couple of times, had even tried to find a way to open the gate herself. Finally, she’d given up, taken off her shoes, hiked up her skirt and climbed the fence. She was lucky it wasn’t electric, she silently grumbled, grabbing one of the metal rods to brace herself while she put her shoes back on.

Her heels sank in the soft earth as she plodded across the yard to the driveway. The light was fading, and in another hour, twilight would fall. Charlotte tried to fight the urgency that had been clawing at her gut ever since Dave’s phone call, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

She’d hoped to catch up to Claire before she got here, but Charlotte had overshot the turnoff at Tiber and lost at least another ten minutes backtracking, which meant that her sister had probably been here for nearly half an hour.

You’re just being paranoid, Charlotte scolded herself as she started up the driveway. Claire was fine. Savannah Sweete was a doll maker, for goodness sake, and Charlotte had met enough of those characters through her mother to know the type. There was no reason to worry.

When she saw Claire’s car parked beneath an oak tree, she sighed in relief. See? Nothing was wrong. Dave had just been overcautious and caused her to panic a little.

Still, as Charlotte climbed the porch steps, an odd shiver raced up her backbone and she quickly glanced around, feeling as if someone might have come up behind her. But no one was there, and she again let out a breath.

She turned back to the door and rapped several times with the knocker. When no one answered, she knocked again, and this time she heard a loud click as the door popped open about an inch.

“Hello?”

Charlotte waited, thinking that someone would open the door and invite her in, but nothing happened. She reached out and gave the door a nudge. It swung open and she called out again. “Hello? Is anyone here? Claire?” She stepped inside. “It’s Charlotte.”

She closed the door and took a few steps across the foyer. “Where is everybody?”

“In here, dear.”

Charlotte jumped at the unexpected voice, then followed it into a large parlor. A woman in a wheelchair sat in front of the windows, backlit by the fading rays of the sunset. She had short gray hair and thin shoulders, and she sat with a shawl draped over her legs. Charlotte’s initial impression of the woman was fleeting, because the moment she walked into the parlor, her attention was caught by all the dolls.

She turned, glanced around. They were everywhere.

“They are a bit much, aren’t they?” the woman said with a soft laugh. “I can’t bear to part with them, though. They’ve become a part of my family.”

“I can see why. They’re very lifelike.” Eerily so. Charlotte gave the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for Claire Doucett. She’s my sister.”

“Oh, yes. My name is Savannah Sweete.”

“You’re the doll maker.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

Claire hadn’t mentioned that the woman was in a wheelchair. Not that it mattered, of course, but Charlotte was caught a little off guard. “Is Claire still here? I saw her car in the driveway.”

“She went upstairs to bring down some files. Won’t you sit down while you wait for her?”

“Maybe I should just run up and let her know I’m here.” Charlotte was already half turned toward the doorway. She heard the wheelchair squeak, and when she swung back around, she saw the shawl fall from Savannah Sweete’s lap as the woman stood. Then she lifted her hand and slowly removed the wig from her head.

It took only an instant for Charlotte to process the strange tableau, and then cold fear shot through her bloodstream.

“Who are you?”

He smiled. “I’m the Dollmaker.”

Everything hit Charlotte at once, in a sudden flash of comprehension. The Dollmaker…the one who had created a doll that looked like Ruby. Charlotte didn’t know how she could be so certain, but she knew without a doubt that she was staring into the eyes of Ruby’s kidnapper. Her killer.

Terror twisted like a rope in Charlotte’s chest. “Where’s Claire?”

He was still smiling as he walked toward her.

Charlotte turned and lunged across the foyer, but the door had locked behind her. Frantically, she tried to find the release, then whirled, searching for another way out. She was too late. He’d had plenty of time to come up behind her, but he didn’t attack. He just stood there still smiling.

Up close, his face was thin and delicate, and seemed frozen in place, like a piece of clay. His body beneath the khaki trousers and light blue shirt was gaunt, and he had high cheekbones, a wide forehead, eyes the color of turquoise. Like Ruby’s.

And like Claire’s.

Charlotte forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. She had to keep her panic under control. Her life depended on it, and so might Claire’s. “You took her, didn’t you? You’re the one who kidnapped Ruby.”

His smile was taunting, and chilled Charlotte’s blood, even as her rage exploded. Something snapped inside her and she flew at him, pounding his face and chest with her fists.

“Where’s Claire? What have you done to her, you sick bastard?”

She kept hitting him, and he stumbled back against the wall. He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight back, didn’t do anything except stand there absorbing her punches.

A warning went off in Charlotte’s brain a split second before she felt a hard pressure in her abdomen, a searing pain, as if her insides were being ripped out with a hot poker. She staggered back, glanced down and saw a red stain seeping through the silk of her suit.

She still didn’t know what had happened until she looked up and saw the dripping blade in the Dollmaker’s hand.