Endless Fear (32 page)

Now pounding his fist against his thigh, he recounted the episode in the attic when April had acted disoriented, and the time he’d found her in the dark basement sobbing uncontrollably.

“
Actually, those are both side effects of her illness, ones we discussed and prepared for. They could mean she’d started remembering.”

Spencer quit hitting his leg and scrubbed his face with his hand. “That’s good then, right?”

“
Yesterday I would have said yes. Tonight, I’m not so certain.”

Fear heaved through his stomach.

“
Mr. Garrick, would—would you know who might have sent an anonymous note April received prior to her departure for Calendar House?”

“
An anonymous…?” Like a man moving in slow motion, Spencer stood. He frowned at the phone as though he could actually see the doctor at the other end in her Seattle hotel room. “You mean a threat of some kind?”

“
Yes.”

“
Do you think someone’s been trying to frighten her?” He was shouting now. “For God’s sakes, harm her?”

“
I don’t know.”

But she sounded as though that was exactly what she thought. Heat dropped from his face so fast he felt dizzy.

The doctor said, “I’ve rented a car. I’m driving to Anacortes to catch the first ferry. I’ll be in Friday Harbor as soon as possible, but I’m at least five hours away. I’ll call when I arrive. In the meantime, you might want to conduct another search of the house—every closet, every cupboard, anything big enough for April to fit into.”

He gripped the phone so hard his hand hurt. “Am I looking for a place April might have crawled into on her own or one where someone might have put her?”

“
Yes.”

Spencer’s skin cooled to a temperature near the one outdoors. He dumped the receiver into its cradle, then stood staring at the phone, shaking.

Had someone hurt April? Had she hurt herself? His mind spun. God, the incident in the garage, the family’s assumption it had been a suicide attempt, Dr. Merrit’s insistence April was not suicidal.

The electrician’s words assailed him, “Someone shut off the main switch on purpose.”

His heart squeezed with pain as he mentally compiled a list: the clean path around August’s discarded hulls, the access to the tunnel through which someone could come and go whenever they please, April not just terrified in the dark basement but hysterical, the missing poems, Lily’s disemboweled trunk, the collapsed wine racks, and April dramatically plunking the Barbie doll on the breakfast table as if trying to catch someone off guard. Add to that an anonymous note. Considered separately these things appeared innocent enough, weighed together, they suggested sinister goings on.

He lifted the receiver and dialed the San Juan County Sheriff.

* * * *

Spencer informed August that Dr. Merritt had called, but other than the fact she was driving up, he kept the theme of their conversation to himself. He spent the next two hours inspecting every inch of Calendar House. Alone. He confided in no one, trusted no one. How could he? April’s life or her sanity depended on his discretion.

The others—the O’Briens in particular—probably thought he was rude or crazy, insisting on rummaging through their rooms. So much for manners. Normally, he would have gone to great lengths not to offend Thane’s future in-laws; tonight he didn’t give a damn. The worse of it was, he hadn’t found a trace of April.

Maybe she’s in here
, he thought, shoving through the doors of the west wing. Eerie darkness greeted his entrance up the three stairs and into the unused hallway. The thick carpet absorbed his footsteps, the dusty air his breath. He located the light switch. The click was loud and ineffective.

He tugged the flashlight from his back pocket with a frustrated grunt, then played the beam into the dark corridor. He hadn’t been in this wing of the house in years, eleven to be exact. From the look of it neither had anyone else. Still the doctor had said to check every nook and cranny.

Spencer proceeded to the old servant’s quarters at the farthest end of the hall, quickly eliminated them and moved on to the abandoned guest bedrooms. Every surface seemed coated with dust. Ignoring it, Spencer searched in, under, and around every item in each room, smudged his clothes and his face, and emitted several hearty sneezes.

Heavy-hearted, he headed back along the corridor, absently lighting his way with the flashlight beam, to the ballroom. It was the only place he hadn’t looked. He approached the glass door with his hope in shreds, uncertain how much more of this he could take.

He stepped into the vast room. Cold as biting as the fog cleaving the enormous glass windows stole over him. Spencer shook off a shiver. Panning the light from corner to corner, he strode stealthily across the wooden floor. Nothing. Nothing but empty spaces.

He pivoted, gradually circling. The beam fell on the furniture at the far end of the room. Lily’s furniture. But why were the sheets tossed carelessly aside? Could April be hiding there?

He advanced on the huddled group of sofas, tables, and chairs with a quickening pulse, the beam of his light now purposeful, now directed. “April? Are you here? It’s me, Spence. I won’t hurt you. You can come out--” Inches from the sofas Spencer stopped short. “What in the hell?”

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The sofas were ripped open, every cushion cut, the table tops lacerated with long and short gashes. What in the name of God was the reason for this? Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his light to Lily’s portrait. Shock held him rooted. Lily’s delicate face had been scored like a piece of tough steak. The hatred behind the act was so evident it lingered in the cold air around him as though the vandalizer were still here, standing just out of his line of vision. Uneasily, he fanned the light around the room one more time to assure himself he was actually alone.

His thoughts appalled him as much as the defilement. Had April come to the ballroom, remembered her hatred of her mother and done this? The notion turned his stomach.

He slid his finger into the pocket of his slacks, touching his mother’s gold cross. Cynthia, too, had hated Lily. But why would she wait until April was home to destroy these things? Perhaps someone hoped this carnage would be discovered and the finger pointed at April. It was a possibility he wanted to believe so badly his head throbbed. But if someone else had meant April to look insane, why hadn’t that someone found a way to expose this deed? Because they’d found a way to dispose of April instead?

He left the west wing with the weight of the world on his shoulders. In all the elections he’d ever lost, Spence had never felt more defeated. He returned to the den. It was deserted. Had everyone else gone to bed? Most likely. Should he? Why bother? He was exhausted, yes, but sleepy, no.

He collapsed his long frame into one of the red leather chairs. And waited. He’d thought the night he’d waited to search April’s room for the poems had been the slowest in his life. He’d been wrong. He stared out the French doors at the unrelenting fog, then back at the sluggishly moving hands of his wristwatch. It was after one a.m. So early, so late.

Feeling as restless as a captive tiger, he abandoned the den and stalked through the lower level, surprised to come upon his mother, brother, stepfather, step-aunt, and three of the five O’Briens in the living room. Their conversation was nothing more than a low murmur, accompanied by the nervous clack of March’s knitting needles, audienced by the stealthy fog.

August sat slumped on one of the sofas, his face drawn with worry, his shoulders limp with resignation, while Cynthia fluttered, the perfect hostess at this imperfect affair. Thane and Vanessa accepted her offered coffee. Walter and Dee Dee O'Brien huddled together on the opposite couch, uncomfortable participants in someone else’s tragedy. Spencer joined them, but soon discovered he was unable to sit or carry on conversation for more than a few seconds. The strain of distrust kept him moving.

In the kitchen, he found Karl pacing, grumbling to Helga and Vanessa’s aunt about the fog. The two men exchanged knowing looks, but Spencer wasn’t ready to share his worry for April with the one man who undoubtedly knew exactly how he felt. He refilled his coffee cup and left.

At length, he found himself in July’s bedroom. A bedside lamp had been left on, evidently to placate the terrified little girl. As he strode to the bed, he realized he no longer had his coffee cup or any idea where he’d put it. Not that it mattered. He gazed down at the sleeping child. Poor kid. Overly tired, she had fought sleep until the last possible moment. She wasn’t resting peacefully. Her tiny fingers were curled into tight fists, and as he watched, she flinched and cried April’s name.

With his heart wrenching, he sank to the bed beside her and smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead. July continued to sleep as he studied her dainty face. Until now, he hadn’t noticed the tilt of her nose was a duplicate to April’s. A half smile tugged his tense mouth. Was this what he and April’s children would have looked like had there ever been the opportunity to have any? The thought tore at his ravaged spirits. He shoved his fingers through his hair, sprang to his feet, and shuffled to the window.

Damn this fog. It hadn’t given an inch. He wanted to ram his fist through the glass and tear the cursed mist apart with his bare hands. The foolish notion only served to heighten his frustration. Swearing beneath his breath, he spun around and paced the floor.

Although the four walls seemed to grow smaller with each passing minute, he stayed in July’s room, gleaning what little comfort he could being in the presence of the only person in the entire household he knew he could trust without reservation. But his limbs tingled from the enforced waiting, and again and again, he trekked to the window, treading the same path across braided rugs and hardwood planks.

As the hour hand swept toward four a.m., Spencer thought he heard the wind whispering against the house. The harder he tried to listen, the louder came the rush of blood in his ears, blocking the sound. A fast trip to the window told him nothing new. The fog was still intact. Wishful thinking, he decided. Probably just the house creaking and settling, as usual.

Disheartened, he pulled a chair to the bedside, turned it backwards, straddled the seat, and laid his chin on the wooden backrest. As he stretched his legs, the toe of his shoe stubbed something solid beneath the fold of the bedspread.

Leaning over, he scooped a metal cylinder from the floor. It was an old flashlight. The plastic lens was cracked, a piece missing, and the beam of light cast by the tiny bulb hovered near death. He flicked it off and slid it to the bedside table, wondering what childish whim had driven his younger sister to procure the worthless thing.

Behind him the door opened. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his mother standing in the doorway. She was dressed for bed. A white nylon nightie winked from the gap in her flowing black robe as she swished into the room on high heeled mules. With her long dark hair hanging loose about her face, she looked absurdly young, almost innocent.

Her brows furrowed with concern. “Is she still asleep?”

Turning to regard July, he nodded. Cynthia crossed the room so silently that when her hand touched his neck, he jumped. Instantly she removed it, but he sensed her hurt and hated himself for distrusting his family, his mother in particular.

“
There’s nothing we can do until this fog lifts. I’ve convinced August to lie down a while,” she said softly. “Don’t you think you should try to get some sleep, too?”

“
No.” He spoke louder than he’d meant to.

July’s body jerked and her eyes fluttered open. She squinted against the light. “Spence?”

He angled around the chair and gently caressed her cheek. “Go back to sleep, twerp. It’s not time to get up yet.”

“
Mommy?”

“
We’re just checkin’ on you, sugah.” Cynthia adjusted the blankets at July’s feet which the child had kicked free during her restless slumber.

“
I was dreaming.” As July struggled into a sitting position, her brows descended sharply. Fear and anguish telegraphed from her eyes. “April,” her voice caught, “fell off the cliff.”

“
Oh, dear.” Cynthia rushed to soothe July, reassuring her that she had a nightmare, that April was probably only lost in the woods.

Spencer added his own assurances, but as much as he wanted to protect July, he pondered the wisdom of lying to her. He’d already experienced a dose of her perceptive powers. Had she sensed the tension among the adults and known they weren’t telling her their true suspicions about April? Had that brought on the bad dream?

July let Cynthia plump her pillows and ease her back to a prone position, but her little fists were still curled tight. “I’m afraid.”