“You’re Ariel Jardell,” he said.
And you’re Mr. Jeffrey Channing, she thought, but decided against letting him know that she knew who he was. She merely nodded, and took a tentative step toward the car, moving from the sidewalk to the narrow strip of lawn between sidewalk and curb.
“Get in the car, Ariel,” he said. He let the door swing open and smiled at her, a tight smile that stopped short of his eyes. He was definitely a handsome man, she thought, and wondered that Erskine couldn’t see it.
Old enough to be her father...
“Get in, Ariel. I’ll drive you home.”
“I live close,” she said.
“I know where you live.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s cold out. I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, I sort of think I’d rather walk.”
“Get in the car,” Channing said. There was a taut quality in his voice that she recognized. Roberta’s voice had that tone to it at times when she was having trouble holding herself together. If he was really Roberta’s lover, maybe he learned it from her. Or maybe she got it from him.
“Get in the car, Ariel.”
Suppose she ran. Suppose she turned around and ran up the path to Erskine’s door. They would let her in and Mr. Wold would call the police.
And tell them what?
“Ariel—”
“Why were you following us?”
“Why were you and your friend at my house the other day?”
“Your house?”
“On Fontenoy Drive. I saw you there, Ariel.”
“Oh,” she said. “We went to visit a friend of mine from my old school. Her name is Linda Goodenow.”
“You were at my house.”
“I didn’t know it was your house. Honest. We were visiting my friend Linda. You can ask her if you don’t believe me.”
He looked at her for a moment. Then suddenly his face brightened with a smile. “I believe you,” he said, moving to pat the seat beside him. “Now hop in and I’ll give you a ride.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t you know me, Ariel?”
“No.”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
“My mother?”
“That’s right.”
Her heart pounded in her breast. “Do you mean it? Are you telling me the truth? You really know my mother?”
“Of course.”
“You know who she is? Is she alive? Does she live here in Charleston? You really know her?”
“Get in the car, Ariel.”
“Are you going to take me to see her?”
He smiled again for an answer.
Who was he? Her father? Roberta’s lover? Some combination of lawyer and detective? It didn’t matter. He knew her mother and was taking her to meet her. It was hard to believe but it was true. It was...
She got into the car.
Twenty-two
“Where are we going?”
“For a ride.”
But she already knew that. He had driven out of the neighborhood down streets she did not know, and it was hard to tell whether he had a destination in mind or was just letting the car find its own way. She was sitting next to the door now, her right hand on the handle. All she had to do was wait until he stopped for a light or a stop sign and then open the door and hop out.
“Are we going to see my mother?”
“Your mother,” he said, like an echo.
“Are we?”
“You’ll be home in time for dinner, Ariel.”
“Home?”
“With your mother and father.”
Her heart sank. Of course! Like a fool she had believed what she’d wanted to believe. Erskine had said the man was old enough to be her father and she had believed he was her father. And he’d mentioned knowing her mother, and she’d believed he meant her real mother when all along he was talking about Roberta. Unless—
“You mean Roberta.”
He nodded. “Your mother,” he said. “I have my own name for her, you know.”
“You do?”
“I call her Bobbie,” he said. His voice was very soft, tender, and Ariel could imagine him murmuring love things to Roberta — to Bobbie — and the idea stirred something in her.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you. For a ride.”
“I want to go home.”
“Where’s that?”
“You know. On Legare Street.”
“You can’t go home again, Grace.”
“My name is Ariel.”
“There’s no time left, Grace. The captain’s lost at sea and all your little ones have died in their beds. Did you smother them as they slept, Grace?”
Oh, God, he was crazy. That’s why he’d had that tightness in his voice, just like Roberta. He was as crazy as she was. Maybe even more so.
Why was he calling her Grace? And what was he talking about?... Little ones, smothered in their sleep... he was talking about Caleb!
“I want to go home,” she said.
“Miles to go before you sleep, Grace.”
“I want to get out of here.” Why was there no red light, no stop sign? He was driving too fast. If she jumped out she might break an ankle or a leg.
“Why did you come to my house, Grace? You should have stayed in the attic.”
God, she was in the car with a lunatic. And he thought she had killed Caleb, that must have been what he was going on about. Roberta must have been crazy enough to tell him that, and he was crazy enough to believe it, and now she, Ariel, was crazy enough to have gotten in the car with this nut.
And he was going to kill her.
She felt a coldness settle on her chest. He was going to kill her, she was going to die. It was punishment, retribution, she couldn’t escape it.
Because didn’t she deserve it?
For Caleb’s death. For lighting candles and writing in her notebook. For playing the flute.
For Graham Littlefield’s ruptured spleen. For Veronica Doughty.
For blowing out the pilot lights.
For going to his house on Fontenoy Avenue. For sneaking down the stairs last night and spying on David and Roberta.
For hearing her own music. For having dreams, and for what she did in her sleep.
For the mess in Caleb’s room. For the painting on her wall and the expression in the woman’s eyes. For creaking stairs and rattling windowpanes.
For her eyes. For the shape of her face, and her cool paleness.
For being adopted—
He said, “I can’t get away from you, Bobbie.”
“I’m not Bobbie.”
He didn’t seem to have heard. “I can’t shake loose. Nothing seems to work anymore. Bobbie, Grace, Ariel — you’re so many different women I don’t know who you are. Lilith? Astarte? Mother Eve?”
There were shards of glass on the floor of the car. Bits of a mirror, and she raised her eyes and saw that the rear-view mirror had been broken.
He stopped the car.
She looked around. They were in the country, with no houses in sight, no other cars passing them. If she got away from him here, how would she even find her way back home? And it was a cold night. She could freeze to death, wandering around and not knowing where she was.
She huddled against the door, not looking at him.
For a long moment he said nothing, nor did he move from behind the wheel. With an effort she turned her face to look at him. He had both hands on the wheel and was looking straight ahead, and she saw a tear gathered at the corner of his eye. His face was drawn and he looked as though he had been awake for days and days.
He said, “It’s all over now.”
“What is?”
He looked at her. “Everything has to happen over and over,” he said. “You died a hundred years ago, Grace. Did I know you then? Was I your captain, lost at sea? Or was I some secret lover the world never knew of?”