“Mama!” He would hear her footsteps coming any minute to wake him from this awful nightmare. She’d turn on the light and hug him and tell him not to be afraid. If he just waited, she’d come. She always came when he had nightmares.
No footsteps, no light, no sound except his own hoarse breathing. Christopher reached out cautiously and felt damp earth around him. This was no dream. Where was he?
There was a big lump on his head and it hurt. He must have fallen . . . yes, that was it.
He let his breath out in a shuddering sigh as he remembered. He was in his Grandmother Appleton’s root cellar. He’d fallen down the steps trying to hide from the people who told him lies about his mama. And tonight he was going to run away and find her in California. She’d be so proud of him when he told her he hadn’t believed their lies. She’d hug him and kiss him and promise she’d never have to go away again.
Perhaps it was night now. Christopher forced himself to open his eyes. He opened them wide but he couldn’t see anything, not even the white shirt he was wearing. It must be night and that meant it was time for him to go.
Christopher sat up with a groan. It was so dark he couldn’t see the staircase. He knew he’d have to crawl around and feel for the steps, but it took a real effort to reach out into the blackness. He wasn’t usually afraid of the dark. At least he wasn’t afraid of the dark when there was a lamppost or a moon or something. This kind of darkness was different. It made his mouth dry and he held his breath as he forced himself to reach out into the inky depths.
There. He gave a grateful sigh as he crawled up the first step of the stairs. He didn’t want to lose his balance and fall back down again.
Four . . . five . . . six . . . he was partway up when he heard a stealthy rustling noise from below. Fear pushed him forward in a rush, his knees scraping against the old slivery wood in a scramble to get to the top.
He let out a terrified yell as his head hit something hard. The cover—somebody had closed up the root cellar!
He couldn’t think; he was too scared. Blind panic made him scream and pound, beating his fists against the wooden door until his knuckles were swollen and raw. Somehow he had to lift the door.
With a mighty effort Christopher heaved his body upward, straining against the solid piece of wood. The door gave a slight, sickening lurch, creaking and lifting just enough for him to hear the sound of metal grating against metal.
At first the sound lay at the back of his mind like a giant pendulum of horror, surging slowly forward until it reached the active part of his brain. The Cold Spring people had locked him in.
The thought was so terrifying he lost his breath and slumped into a huddled ball on the step. In the darkness he could see flashes of red and bright gold beneath his eyelids. He had to get out somehow! He had to!
“Help!” the sound tore through his lips and bounced off the earthen walls, giving a hollow, muted echo. He screamed until his voice was a weak whisper but no one came. Then his voice was gone and he could hear it again, the ominous rustling from the depths of the cellar, growing louder with each passing heartbeat.
God, no! This nightmare was really happening! He recognized the scuffling noise now and shivered with terror. Rats. They were sniffing at the air, searching for him, and there was nowhere to hide. They’d find him even here at the top of the stairs and they would come in a rush, darting hurtling balls of fur and needle teeth . . . the pain of flesh being torn from his body . . . the agony of being eaten alive!
He opened his throat in a tortured scream, a shrill hoarse cry that circled the earthen room then faded to a deadly silence. There was a roaring in his ears and terror rose to choke him, squeezing and strangling him with clutching fingers.
“Mama! Please, Mama!” he cried again, and then suddenly he was pitching forward, rolling and bumping to the black pit below. He gasped as an old shovel bit deeply into his neck and a warm stickiness gushed out to cover his face. There was a moment of vivid consciousness before death claimed him and in that final moment, one emotion blazed its way through his whole being. Hatred. He hated all of them. They had driven his mother away. They had stolen his inheritance. They had locked him in here and left him to die. He would punish them . . . make them suffer as his mother had suffered . . . as he was suffering.
ONE
The interior of the truck was dusty and Mike opened the wing window all the way, shifting on the slick plastic-covered seat. Karen had wanted to take an afternoon drive through the country and here they were over fifty miles from Minneapolis, on a bumpy country road. It wasn’t Mike’s idea of a great way to spend a Sunday. He’d rather be home watching the Expos and the Phillies from the couch in their air-conditioned Lake Street apartment.
Mike glanced uneasily at Karen as he thought about today’s game. He had a bundle riding on this one and it was a damn good thing Karen didn’t know about it. She’d been curious about his interest in baseball lately but he’d told her he got a kick out of watching the teams knock themselves out for the pennant. The explanation seemed to satisfy her.
Karen was death on two of his pet vices, drinking and gambling, and he’d agreed to reform three years ago when they were married. Way back then he’d made all the required promises. Lay off the booze. No more Saturday-night poker games. No betting on the horses. No quick trips to Vegas. No office pools, even. The idea of a sportsbook hadn’t occurred to her yet and he was hoping it wouldn’t now. Naturally Mike didn’t make a habit of keeping secrets from his wife but in this case he’d chosen the lesser of two evils. He knew Karen would hit the roof if he told her he hadn’t gotten that hundred-dollar-a-month bonus after all, that the extra money came from his gambling winnings on the games. It was just lucky that he took care of all the finances. What Karen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“Cold Brook, one mile.” Leslie was reading the road signs again in her clear high voice. “Oh, look Mike! A church with a white steeple and all those trees. Can’t we just drive past before we go home?”
Mike had been up most of the night developing prints for his spread in Homes magazine and he wasn’t in the mood for extensive sightseeing. He was going to refuse, but then he caught sight of his stepdaughter’s pleading face in the rearview mirror. Another little side trip wouldn’t kill him. He’d been too busy lately to spend much time at home and these Sunday drives were a family tradition.
“Oh, let’s, Mike.” Karen’s voice was wistful. Mike could tell by her tone that she’d been feeling a little neglected lately, too. Maybe it had been a mistake insisting she quit her job at the interior decorating firm. Mike was old-fashioned sometimes, and he maintained that a mother’s place was at home with her children. When he had discovered that Karen was pregnant he’d put his foot down insisting she stay home. Karen had agreed, but still she missed her job. He told himself that she’d be busy enough when the baby was born, but that didn’t solve the problem right now.
Mike slowed the truck, looking for the turnoff. A little sightseeing might be fun. Karen and Leslie would certainly enjoy it and his being home to watch the game wouldn’t change the outcome any.
“All right, you two win.” Mike smiled at his wife and turned left at the arrowed sign. “Just a quick run through town and then we have to get back. I still have to finish the penthouse prints and start work on that feature.”
Leslie gave Mike a quick kiss and settled down again in the backseat of their Land Rover. When she was sitting down on the seat, Mike could barely see the top of her blond head over the stacks of film boxes and camera cases. She was a small child for nine, fair-haired and delicate like the little porcelain shepherdesses his mother used to collect. She was an exquisite child, a classic Scandinavian beauty. Mike was accustomed to being approached by people who wanted to use Leslie as a model. Karen claimed she didn’t want Leslie to become self-conscious, but Mike noticed how she enjoyed dressing Leslie in the height of fashion. Much of Karen’s salary had gone into designer jeans, Gucci loafers, and Pierre Cardin sweaters for her daughter. Leslie always had the best in clothes and she wore them beautifully, taking meticulous care of her wardrobe. Even in play clothes she always looked every inch a lady.