Oh Christ, Rose, he thought, remembering the party and her intention to attend. For once in your life, woman, get someplace early.
Then he propped the shotgun against the sill, and pulled the books out one by one, flipping through them swiftly as he held them up to the fading daylight, checking indices and scowling as he realized every one dealt with stage magic. Two of them had been written to debunk the claims of charlatans and the ancients, and his silent laugh was bitter. They were so damned cocksure that science and sleight-of-hand provided all the damned answers.
He snorted in self-disgust at the attitude he'd taken-as though he had believed in spells since the day he'd been born. And maybe he had. Maybe he'd always been like Matt, but had somehow forgotten because grown-ups told him it was the right thing to do. Put aside fantasy and face up to the world. Put it aside because we've forgotten how to control it…
Kids, he thought, have more answers than we realize.
Which wasn't getting him anywhere at the moment, and he began angrily slamming the books back into place. Suddenly he frowned and cocked his head. He was positive he had heard someone coming up the stairs.
"Hugh?"
No answer.
"Hugh, you find anything?"
A prolonged creaking of careful weight on a stair.
He turned slowly, still kneeling, and pulled his weapon to him.
He was just beyond the reach of the overhead light's pale white fall, could barely mark the place where the landing swung around. The glow from downstairs wasn't strong enough to cast shadows, and though he could see through the balusters, an elephant could have made it all the way to the top before he recognized what it was.
Beneath the eaves the wind began to moan.
He rubbed a knuckle over his eyes and rose to a crouch, his throat abruptly filled with grit that made him want to cough and spit the obstruction out. He kept as close as he could to the right-hand stack, feeling the books give against his shoulder as he winced and passed through the exposure of the light. The floor was silent beneath his shoes, and it wasn't until he reached the end of the aisle that he realized the light was behind him and giving him form.
Too late. If he was being searched for, he was seen. The only thing he could do now was drop to one knee and bring the shotgun to his shoulder.
Shit, he thought; oh, Jesus, shit.
In less than a minute he saw a figure on the stairs. Moving. One step at a time. Wood shifting, and the banister groaning.
He moistened his lips with his tongue and swallowed to get rid of the sand. Slipping a finger around the trigger, he held the stock tightly against his side and rose with one hand bracing himself against the shelves. The figure reached the landing, and he held his breath, praying it wasn't someone he knew, realizing it was a vain wish since he knew everyone on the island, if only by sight. That he would have to do something against someone he once spoke with and laughed with and perhaps even kissed was a consideration he hadn't dared face. Until now. Until the figure stepped away from the railing and he tightened his finger around the trigger.
"Hugh?"
The frenzied scrabbling continued in the ceiling; a sash rattled in its frame.
"Goddamn it, Hugh, say something or I'm gonna have to shoot."
"I found the dog," Montgomery said, his voice deeper than usual. "Stuffed in a supply closet. Its head was torn off."
Colin staggered out of the aisle and sagged against the banister, lowered his gaze and saw the bloodstains on the man's shoes. He shuddered, looked up and was handed a small book.
The office door on the landing was open less than an inch.
"I found this downstairs," Hugh said, stabbing at it with a finger. "I flipped through it. I think it's what we need. I mean, I think it'll give us some clues if nothing else."
"Where the hell was it?" he said, opening the cover and trying to read as he moved toward the staircase. The door.
"It was under Oceanography."
"What?"
Montgomery shrugged, "Ask Hattie. I haven't the slightest idea."
Colin held the book close to his face, to see more clearly a reproduction of a wood-carving that depicted a group of dark-faced people in tattered clothes kneeling in a woodland clearing, their faces averted as a tall, half-naked man walked toward them, his winding sheet in tatters around his waist and legs. His eyes were blank. There was a crow on his shoulder. Behind him was an open grave and a shattered, burning coffin.
The door opened wider, hinges silent, no light behind.
On the next page was a similar scene, except here the avid worshippers were intent on a feathered priest as he beheaded a black rooster, catching its blood in a shallow wooden bowl. The sketch was in black-and-white, but he could see the color just the same.
A shadow in the doorway.
A third picture, the feathered priest again, this time standing behind a kneeling man. In the priest's hand, a dagger he had apparently just drawn over his victim's throat. Blood spilled into a bowl. The priest was drinking from another bowl slopping over with blood.
Oh Christ, he thought-Warren. Warren was the sacrifice to give Gran the power.
Montgomery made a forced gagging sound amplified by the stairwell's narrow passage. "Great," he said as he took the first step down.
And Hattie Mills lunged from her office to grab for his throat.
Hugh whirled around in terror as Colin bellowed a warning and brought up the shotgun. The blast punched the librarian square in the side and propelled her into the wall. He pumped and fired again, and she flailed in a frenzied circle, falling out of sight into the room. Through the smoke he could see nothing but her shoeless feet at the threshold. They were kicking. She made no sound. Only the thump of her heels against the worn floorboard.
Ears ringing, nose wrinkled at the stench of gunpowder, he pressed his back against the stairwell and began to descend, one step at a time, the shotgun covering the open doorway and trembling so violently his fingers began to cramp as he tried to hold it steady.
When the first foot drew back, he knew she was trying to stand.
"That is the most fantastic and juvenile story I have ever heard in my life," Cameron said from behind his desk, his hands folded pompously on the blotter. "I cannot understand how you expect me to believe such a thing."
"Frankly, Robert," Peg said, "I don't give a shit."
Cameron held up a palm to show her he was trying. "Peg, for God's sake, I'm not calling you a liar, understand."
"It sure sounds like it to me."
"Well, I'm not. But surely you can understand my position. I mean, look at it from my point of view. The Three Musketeers come charging full-bore in here like you were chasing Dillinger or something, and you give me a lot of mysterious double-talk about Lombard and Vincent. Then two of you take off on some very mysterious mission, and then I have to sit here and listen to a story that's… well, honestly, I'm trying to be charitable, Peg, but Jesus, it's a crock of shit.".
She was sitting on the club chair directly opposite the desk, slumping wearily and knowing she hadn't done much at all to convey the urgency of their discovery. And she didn't blame him for scoffing. Despite the fact that she now insisted Tess had deliberately tried to kill Colin not five hours ago, she'd refused for hours afterward to take the final step. And when she had, she was weakened by a lethargy that frightened her as much as this nightmare; it was self-defeating, and it was dangerous, but she couldn't resist it. It wasn't comforting, but it was easier than leaping to her feet and screaming.