Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear (20 page)

"Who turned on the light?" I asked quietly.

Patrick looked unsure. "Ashley," he answered at last.

Though my mind kept saying these were nothing but dreams, my hands were shaking. I stuffed them in the pockets of my gown, then crept toward the door of the walk-in closet. Without touching the door, I slowly moved my head forward, til I could peer through.

In the slice of lit closet I could see two horses on the floor, Silver Knight and Whirlwind, facing each other as if someone had been playing with them. A light prickle ran along the back of my neck. Ashley had loved to put together these two horses, to make them "talk." I wriggled my shoulders, wishing I could slip out of the eerie grip of another coincidence.

"I don't see her," I said, opening the door wider.

Patrick, who had stayed on the bottom step, crept over and peeked in. "She left. But she'll come back. She'll come back as soon as you leave. I want to sleep in your room, Kate."

If I let him do it once, he'd want to do it again and again.

"Where do you think Ashley went?" I asked, hoping to prove she wasn't in the room. I needed some convincing myself.

He glanced around. His eyes paused at the tall mirror above the bureau, full of gray night shadows that came alive each time he or I moved. He glanced up at the wardrobe with the massive top that seemed to make it tip forward, then studied the drapes that hung to the floor. Ashley used to hide behind drapes, waiting for her chance to jump out at me.

"Would you look under my bed?" Patrick asked.

"All right," I said, opening the closet door all the way, allowing more light in the room. I didn't turn on the large bureau lamps, for their brightness would make it difficult for him to fall asleep again. Getting down on my knees, I lifted layers of bed clothing. "Nothing there. Want to see?"

He dropped down next to me, his side pressed against mine. We checked the inside of his wardrobe, behind the curtains, and every other place into which Ashley might fit. At last I closed the closet door, leaving a narrow strip of light shining, in case he wanted to check it again, then I turned on a soft night-light by his bed.

"Come on, Patrick, let's get you under the covers where it's warmer." I fluffed the quilt, then placed a chair next to his mattress. "I'll stay with you for a while and make sure Ashley doesn't come back. Into bed now. You must be freezing—I am," I said, lifting one bare foot, then the other off the cold floorboards.

He took one last look around and joined me. "Can I wear your coat, Kate?"

I don't think you'll need it with all these blankets."

"I need it," he said, his voice quivering.

"All right then." If he thought the coat would protect him from Ashley, I wasn't taking it away from him. "In you go, under the covers, head on your pillow."

He climbed in and stared up at me, his nose just above the edge of a quilt. Impulsively, I leaned down to kiss his forehead. Two arms in very long sleeves reached around my neck and hugged me hard.

"Close your eyes," I said, "left then right. Good night, starlight." I pressed my lips together, surprised at how easily it had come back to me, the saying my mother had used when putting me to bed.

Patrick rolled onto his tummy. While I rubbed his back, I thought about the things he had said and their connections to the past. Something strange was going on in this house. I wasn't a person who believed in ghosts or devils; traveling with my father, I had seen enough to convince me that human beings alone were sufficient to account for the frightening and evil things that happened in the world. Still, the coincidences of the last few days were spooking me.

There was a meanness at Mason's Choice, a quiet kind of menace that lived below the level of petty quarrels. Whether it originated from household members, one of whom might be preying on Patrick, planting ideas that would frighten him, or from something far less tangible, I didn't know. I was sure of only one thing: The source of Patrick's fear was dangerous—dangerous and sly.

Chapter 6

Saturday morning Patrick rose rested and eager to go to the hockey game. I wondered if he remembered the events of last night, but
I
was reluctant to mention Ashley by name, not wanting to reintroduce fears that sleep may have erased. While we painted a sign saying GO, SAM! I told Patrick that I had had a strange dream last night, giving him a chance to talk about whatever he might remember.

"Do you think Sam will see my sign?" was his response. "Maybe we should make it bigger."

Apparently, ice hockey was the only thing on his mind today.

We arrived late at the game, which began at noon. The high school team played at Chase College's athletic center, with the college's JV and varsity teams scheduled later in the day. Either ice hockey was big in this small town or there was nothing else to do in Wisteria in early March; the place was packed with teens, adults, and bands of little boys and girls in hockey garb. Patrick wanted to sit close to the rink and team bench. I had forgotten about the American love for cheerleaders and watched with fascination as the girls bounced around in the aisles. One of them thought Patrick was cute and told him that Sam was her favorite player too.

Even without Patrick screeching in my ear, I could have picked out Number 23 of the white jerseys. Most of the guys looked the same with their huge pads and helmets, but 23 was clearly manic. When his team scored, he punched the air and any teammate available with such ferocity that he'd knock down his own players. When a sub was put in and he was supposed to be resting on the bench, he was up and dancing, screaming at the players and the officials. I saw the referee giving him the eye when he hollered at a call he didn't like.

"Icing? Icing!" Sam cried out. "Did you forget your glasses, ref? If thirty-three had moved his big butt, he'd have had that!"

Whenever Sam took a penalty shot, a one-on-one situation with the goalie, the crowd would chant, "Sam, Sam, Sam's the man!" He was good, much better than the other players—even I could tell that. And though I didn't know the sport, I was very familiar with his style. I knew that sooner or later emotion would get the better of Sam, and then he'd look at the offending party with disbelief, even hurt. If he didn't quickly get a grip on his emotions, the passion that made him so good would work against him. I'd seen that happen repeatedly with my father.

"Tripping?" Sam screamed at the referee, as his opponent went flying headfirst across the ice.

The official struck his leg with his hand, which must have been a signal for the penalty call.

"But I touched the puck! I touched it first."

The referee jerked his head toward the penalty box. From the look of utter disbelief on Sam's face, you would have thought he'd been accused of playing with four arms. He skated over to the box, then stewed in there for two minutes.

"Stupid ref," Patrick said.

"A penalty is a penalty," I replied.

After three long periods of athletics and theatrics, Sam and his teammates won. They spent a lot of time hugging one another.

I want to get Sam's autograph," Patrick said.

"You have two already."

I want him to autograph my sign," he explained. "Let's go. I know where the players come out. Please, Kate. It's the last game."

For a moment I didn't reply. "It is?"

"The announcer just said so."

I quickly turned my back to the rink and snatched up our coats. "All right."

"Can we get tickets to the play-offs?" Patrick asked.

"I thought you said it was the last game."

"Before the play-offs. Didn't you hear the announcement?"

A moment ago? No, I hadn't heard a word, for Sam had taken off his helmet and gloves, and I had stood like a moron staring at him, attracted again by his strong hands. I had gotten a strange feeling inside, one that I quelled fast. A tough jock with damp curly hair, which made him seem childlike, muscle and sweat, but a badly bruised hand—maybe that was it, the mix of macho and vulnerability. I had turned away, but it was a second too late. He had caught me gazing at him, and worse, had gazed back with the dark eyes that were unsafe to look into.

I was relieved to find a large group of people outside the players' dressing room, waiting to congratulate their team. I took a seat some distance away, where a group of adults were waiting, keeping my eye on Patrick as he bobbed around the teens and kids gathering by the players' entrance. I counted on this group of admirers to keep Sam from being too cold to Patrick.

The woman next to me saw Patrick waving to me and gesturing with his sign. "Are you a fan of Sam's?" she asked.

"Hardly."

She tilted her head, and I realized that my response sounded rude. "What I mean is that I'm not much of a hockey fan, but that little boy is. He thinks Sam Koscinski is the greatest thing since the Queen's hats."

The woman laughed, a silvery laugh that seemed to go with her prematurely silver hair. She had beautiful skin, and dark eyes with a touch of merriness.

The players started coming out and were surrounded by friends and fans. Sam got swallowed up. I watched Patrick hopping like a bunny, trying to get his hero's attention. If I helped him I'd have to fight my way into the group, which had a rather high percentage of cute girls. I glanced down at my jeans, then my heavy boots, which were still coated with mud from yesterday's trek to the pond. I felt like a sheep farmer. Patrick was on his own.

Sam's group moved slowly in our direction. He hugged everyone on the way—girls, guys, parents, somebody's grandmother. Patrick trailed behind. I was probably going to have to do something.

"Hey, Mom!" Sam called. "We're number one!"

"Hey, Sam," replied the woman next to me, the one who had asked me if I was a fan. "Good job."

I turned to look at her and she smiled a little.

"There's a short guy behind the other kids, Sam," she added, "who would really like your attention."

Sam craned his head to see Patrick, then glanced back at me.

"No,
she's
not a fan," his mother said, laughing as she had when I'd told her 'Hardly.' "Don't let the short guy down, Sam."

I wondered if Mrs. Koscinski already knew who Patrick was and how Sam had responded to him yesterday. Did she know I drove on the wrong side of the road?

"Thank you for helping Sam pick out my bracelet," she said to me, jingling the silver chain on her wrist. "It's beautiful."

A guy who talked to his mother—I would never have guessed it. A guy who remembered his mother's birthday—not his girlfriend's—not that it meant he didn't have a girlfriend, and not that it mattered, of course.

Sam was surveying Patrick's sign. Patrick was thrilled, chattering away. Sam listened and responded, acting much nicer to him than before.

"Thank you for saying something," I told Mrs. Koscinski. "This means a lot to Patrick."

She nodded graciously.

Sam knelt down to sign the poster. Seeing Patrick's hand resting on Sam's wide shoulder, his earnest little face close to Sam's attentive one, I felt a lump in my throat.

I shook off the feeling, just in time, for Sam rose and earned the sign over to me.

I guess you couldn't find anything better to do today," he said, reminding me of yesterday's remark.

"Patrick wanted to come very badly," I replied, keeping the focus on my charge. "He really enjoyed the game."

"Yeah, he just gave me the play-by-play. Thanks for making the poster. I noticed it between periods. It's great!"

"I really didn't have anything to do with it," I said. "Patrick painted it all."

Sam smiled a little, then very lightly touched my fingertips with his. Saying nothing more, he moved on.

His brief touch traveled all the way through me. My skin felt warm, my cheeks hot. I gazed down at my hands: Incriminating poster paint was stuck beneath my fingernails.

"Come on, Patrick." I rose from my seat. "Let's get going."

"Nice meeting you, Kate," Sam's mother called after me.

I turned back to her and saw that Sam had inherited her wonderful smile. "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Koscinski."

"Store's closed."

"Maybe you should lock the door, Mr. Joseph," I replied, entering Olivia's Antiques, Patrick trailing behind me. We had left the car in the college parking lot and walked to High Street.

Joseph looked up from a worn-looking ledger. "Right. And then when shoppers insist on coming in, because they are either ignorant or illiterate—"

"Or stubborn?" I suggested.

"I have to stop what I'm doing, go to the door, unlock it, and tell them what is already posted on the sign. But I'm glad to see you, Katie. And please leave off the 'Mister' part. Who is this fine young man?"

Patrick looked behind him.

"You, sport," Joseph said.

I made the introductions and explained that we had just come from the game.

"Hockey, that's a nice violent activity. Well, Patrick, do you know what I have for you in the back?" Joseph asked.

"How can I if I've never been there?"

"Cute," Joseph remarked.

"Patrick, your manners," I chided. Whether he was being flip or reacting to a patronizing adult tone, I wasn't sure. Sorry.

"I have a pile of cartons that need to be broken down flat," Joseph continued. "Nowadays, they not only want you to recycle, they want you to fold your boxes like laundry before they haul them away. Do you think you could help me with that?"

Patrick looked up at me. He knew when someone was trying to get rid of him.

"It will give you something to do while Joseph and I talk," I said.

Joseph led the way to the back storeroom. After about thirty seconds, Patrick found it too much fun stomping on the cardboard boxes to care if he was being kept busy.

"So how is it going?" Joseph asked quietly, when he and I had passed through the doorway to the front of the store.

"When it is just Patrick and I, fine. I am to pick him up from schoollat three o'clock every day and, in the afternoon and evening, I'm going to do my best to keep him away from other members of the household—except his parents, of course."

"I was afraid you would find them a rotten lot."

"Trent is cold and barely acknowledges him. Robyn is mean and, if you ask me, a bit strange in the way she still competes for her father's attention.

Brook teases—pretends he teases—but there is no love behind it, and Patrick isn't fooled. Mrs. Hopewell is the same as ever—I think she flies on a broomstick at night."

Joseph laughed.

"Patrick's parents aren't helping any. Emily clings to him, which drives him away. Adrian loves him and makes it far too clear that Patrick is his favorite, which fuels the others' resentment of him."

I recounted the scene at dinner last night and Adrian's statement about the possibility of Patrick being the next head of the household.

"Good old Adrian," Joseph said. "He knows how to push people's buttons."

"Maybe. Even so, I like him better than the rest."

"Most people do," Joseph replied, sitting down on a piece of store merchandise. The old chair wobbled beneath his weight. "But don't trust him, Katie.

He can turn on you. Do you still have my number? Did they give you a phone?"

"A cellular," I replied, and wrote down my new number. "Joseph, why did my parents leave Mason's Choice?"

"Didn't your father tell you?" he asked.

"No. He would never talk about it." I walked around an assortment of tables and lamps, running my finger under the fringe of one of the shades. "Mrs.

Hopewell said that we were sent packing by Adrian. Adrian said my father left in an artistic huff. I remember leaving late at night in the middle of a terrible storm. My father drove without headlights, as if he didn't want anyone to see us, and I don't recall any other time in which my father got in an artistic snit and sneaked away. When he was angry, he wanted everyone to know. He had a knack for melodrama."

Joseph smiled, as if remembering that aspect of his personality. "Of course, your father was quite young then, and not very sure of himself. He may have been afraid of Adrian."

Or afraid that the ring would be discovered missing, I thought. Maybe it really did make sense.

"You know, Adrian has a history of using people and discarding them," Joseph continued.

I glanced toward the storage room to make certain there were no little ears listening in. "What do you mean?"

"When you can offer Adrian something he desires, he's delighted to make a deal and acts as if he is your best friend. But once he has gotten what he wants, he is inclined to toss people away—he'll run over you if it suits him."

Sam had indicated as much.

"So, Mrs. Hopewell assumed that he was tossing us away, that he sent us packing."

"I'm guessing that. There are some things you should understand about Mrs. Hopewell. She is very loyal to Adrian, and perhaps even more so to Robyn.

She raised

Robyn—Trent, too, after Adrian divorced, but it's Robyn that Hopewell sees as her daughter. She'll do anything for her."

"Kate, c'mere," Patrick called from the back room.

"In a minute," I called back, then lowered my voice. "Joseph, do you remember the orange cat that Ashley loved?"

"The feral one?"

"He showed up last night."

"The same cat?" Joseph asked, his head bent forward as if he hadn't heard me correctly.

"One with a bitten-off tail and torn ear. It was the cat's left ear, wasn't it?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "There was something… unsettling about that cat, the way he responded to Ashley—did what she wanted with just a look from her, without her saying a word."

"There are a lot of unsettling things at Mason's Choice," I replied. "Patrick has Ashley's furniture and Ashley's horses—he knows her secret names for them. He has Ashley's books and Ashley's outdoor play set—or I should say mine—you remember the old metal swings and bars by the workers' cottages.

He prefers them to the new equipment the way Ashley did and—"

"Kate?" Patrick stood at the storage room door. "We'd better go home. I'm supposed to play with Ashley this afternoon. She'll get mad if I'm not there."