Rose for Rose: Book Two in the Angels' Mirror Series (12 page)

Thirteen

Portland, Oregon… August 14, 2002

After checking her makeup in the mirror, then combing out her long blonde hair one last time, Rosemary got out of her beat up little green VW Bug and glanced around. The heat of the day beat down on her, and she was glad she decided on shorts instead of jeans. Nonetheless, she quickly ran her hands over her shirt and spritzed herself with some vanilla-blackberry perfume a friend from college had given her for her last birthday before heading to the door.

Would Arthur still be open to that walk she’d missed the other day?

His car was in the driveway, so it wasn’t too likely he was gone. He hated public transportation, and she was actually quite surprised he’d asked for a walk together.

Last time she recalled, he’d hated exercise with a passion.

Only one way to find out
, she thought, quickly taking in the old turquoise two story Victorian. If she recalled correctly, it was actually three stories, because there was a basement, too. And if she knew Dabney, she’d guess that’s where he put Arthur once his parole officer had allowed him to move out of his mother’s place.

             
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Dabney has grown up a little, and let Arthur stay in the main part of the house,
she thought.
But… oh, yeah, that antiques guy… Ken something or another, moved in a few months ago to save them both some money. I nearly forgot!

Not too likely Arthur’s in the main part of the house in that case, after all, is there?

In near silence, she walked up the worn and mossy stairs to the door, then knocked. She fixed her hair again in the reflection of one of the twin windows on either side of the door. After waiting several moments with no reply, she tried again, a little louder.

All she got in return was the twittering of a nearby blue jay. Or was it a bluebird?

She thought she heard movement inside, but it was difficult to tell for sure. Silently, she placed her ear to the door. After a moment, she heard a thump… just barely. She shivered, wishing she’d called first.

It felt a little eerie, coming here.

When was the last time she had been? Just a few weeks before Arthur was released, but… the whole atmosphere seemed charged; different. How to explain it, she wasn’t quite sure.

Arthur’s presence must certainly be a factor, though, right?

When no answer came to a third knock, she took the key Dabney had given her as an emergency contact and quietly unlocked the door.

As she entered the overcrowded kitchen, she thought she heard…what? Sobbing? Screaming?

It was difficult to tell.

Within a few more moments, she heard another thump, and then muffled voices.

Was the sound coming from inside?

It had to be.

She took a few careful steps backward toward the door. She really shouldn’t have come… and definitely shouldn’t have come inside.

Swiftly turning to leave, she paused and stood still, trying to pinpoint the direction of the noise.

Now, she was sure there was sobbing, and it was, indeed punctuated with the occasional shriek.

Silently making her way back to the door behind her, she sent up a prayer. Sweat began to form at her brow, and her hands felt slick.

What was going on here? Why would there be… it had to be real, but it didn’t make sense!

Her instincts told her to run, but her heart told her to stay.

“Oh, God… I know you and I don’t talk as much as we should, but… someone’s in trouble here, and I think You sent me… did You send me to help her? I’m not sure what you want me to do, so… please, remember and guide me, Father God. I…”

All of a sudden, the basement door flew open. “Whatchu doin’ here?”

Arthur loomed over her, a glare in his eyes, and the sobbing grew louder.

What to say? Oh, what to say? A panic rose in Rosemary’s chest, and she thought she would faint.

Be strong
, she told herself.
There’s a reason for everything, including this situation.

“Well, I wondered if…. Did you still want to take that walk?”
Act like you don’t hear it,
she told herself. Or was that the Holy Spirit?

“Well, I’ll be. No, I don’t. You’re much too late for that now. All I want is for you to get out! Now!”

“But you sounded so… adamant about spending more…”

A shriek pierced the air, cutting her off.

“What was that? You watching a movie?” she smiled at him, and knew he could tell she was nervous.

Was she shaking? She wasn’t sure.

Arthur looked back at the door, still cracked.

“Yeah, a movie. Now would ya jus’ get lost,” he said with a sneer, looming over her. His fists were clenched, and his jaw looked tight. “I don’t wanna miss no mo’ of it. It’s impo’tant.”

“Why, Arthur? Why are you doing...?”

The voice from the basement was weak, and as Arthur shut the door, it was cut off immediately.

“Wow, that’s pretty realistic,” she said, trying to remain calm. Could he see the sweat beginning to roll down her forehead? Hear the shake in her voice?

She was almost certain.

“Actually, on second thought,” he said, pointing to the door. “Follow me. Now. There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you. I’d like to repay you for the nice dinner the other day,” he continued, his voice lowering.

“It’s alright. I can come back another…”

“I said, follow me!”

With a twist of his wrist, he grabbed her, the nails on his freshly manicured hand biting into the flesh of her arm so hard she thought she would bleed.

As Arthur pulled her to himself, he quickly groped her, took the red
Nokia
cell phone from her pocket, then flung her at the door.

Her head hit it hard, and she felt a stabbing pain before passing out completely.

Why does my head hurt so badly
, Rosemary asked herself? It was like a hammer had been banging on it repetitively; worse than any migraine she’d ever had. And there was pressure in her face, as though swollen, but… she couldn’t recall.

Where was she?

Carefully opening her eyes, she saw only shadows and a multiplication of dim images in the waning light. She strained her eyes, trying to see a little better, without much success. All she could identify was there was something in front of her on a narrow bed surrounded with weird mirrors.

She tried to connect the dots in her head from the last thing she recalled, but still, she didn’t understand.

What? How did…? What happened
, she thought as she tried to shift into a more comfortable position.

Within seconds, she felt herself tipping and suddenly recalled Arthur looming over her.

But for what?

She looked around again, trying to remember. The scent of her perfume mixed with something undeniably rancid permeated the air.

Memories flooded back to her of the earlier hours in the day; watching the news, being concerned about her missing schoolmate; deciding to stop in to see Arthur to make up for missing their walk, only to find he was hiding something downstairs.

She had wanted to discuss Andrea’s disappearance and see if he’d help her arrange an extra group of people to find her, but of course, there was no point in that now.

Now, she was in a basement with her hands tied behind her back and feet taped together a few feet away from the man’s bed. The stench in the air made her sick to her stomach, and she prayed she wouldn’t puke.

Her stomach did another somersault and her heart sped up as she looked at the disheveled form on the bed across from her: Andrea.

Andrea.

Arthur’s ex – the same woman who’d been reported missing on the news earlier, was similarly tied, and it looked like she’d been there a while. The bed was narrow, covered in dirty green sheets, and Arthur hadn’t bothered to cover the woman all the way up after the last time he’d been there.

But I thought… didn’t the news say that… they said she’d gone for a hike…
, she thought. It had been on the news for two days now.

Oh, God… help us, Oh, God! Did Arthur really… is he… what’s going to happen? What has he done?

              She heard Andrea moan in her sleep, and noticed the gag in her mouth had gone askew. For some reason, Arthur hadn’t gagged her, though.

Why?

Did he find her less of a threat? Less of a flight risk?

Her head pounded as she struggled to speak.

“Andrea,” she whispered as a stab of pain hit her between the eyes. “Wake up, Andrea. Please… wake up. It’s Rosemary.” Her voice got a little stronger with each word as she concentrated on being heard.

With a start, the woman’s head lolled up and back. That’s when Rosemary saw that her face was more black and blue than flesh-colored.

“Oh, Andrea, what did he do to you?”

Her stomach revolted again, and she realized she hadn’t eaten in too many hours. And if she hadn’t, how long had Andrea gone without food?

The woman’s eyes fluttered, but refused to open. It was as if they were sealed shut, and probably, they were. She couldn’t have opened them to save her life.

“Rosemary,” came her parched whisper. “Where…”

“Still in the basement. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, though. It’s… it’s dark out, and…” she replied, trying to see through the drawn shades behind Andrea’s narrow prison, “I don’t see any car shadows, so… maybe we’re alone. I’m not sure. How long…”

Her words sputtered out, her head throbbing all the more.

“I don’t know. What day…”

“It was Wednesday, early afternoon, when I got here. What about…”

There was no reply, but for a muffled groan. Yet she didn’t need one.

She recalled what the news caster with Channel 8 had said. The woman had gone missing sometime after four PM on Sunday.

The same day Arthur came to dinner at her place. And that had been later than the time Andrea had last been seen.

To think he may have hightailed it out of her home to come back here and torture Andrea made her even queasier.

Her stomach felt empty, and the stench in the air seemed to permeate everything around them.

She tried her best to look around, and all she saw aside from the bed and dresser in the section they were in, the myriad mirrors, and that was it… just a jumbled miscellany of antiques.

But that shouldn’t have surprised her.

Hadn’t Arthur mentioned Ken was an antique dealer? She couldn’t recall for sure.

She’d met Ken once before, but the topic of what he did never came up. It had been at a church barbecue, and they’d discussed recipes and sermons.

Maybe Ken stored the excess stuff here, or maybe he was trying to get a new space. Whatever it was, she hoped he would come down and discover them soon, or old Uncle Dabney.

She knew Dabney, and thanks to the barbecue, she’d at least met Ken. Neither seemed the type to just leave them down here, and neither seemed someone who would ignore a scream, either.

Could anyone hear outside?

As she thought back, she recalled she had heard something, but only barely. Mostly, she’d just heard a nearby bird. Her feet itched, and she wondered if she weren’t allergic to something in the tape.

Maybe if she asked nicely, he’d untape them and at least put something else on them. How could he do this? She thought he cared about her… and had cared a great deal for Andrea.

So… what had made him snap?

Fourteen

Gloucester, Massachusetts… August 14, 1930

Steven watched Miss Roisin running toward their home in the pouring rain, their father still not having returned.

It worried him to the point of being ill, but he’d tried to keep hope that Father was alive still; that Father had just lost a day with the storms and had decided to stick it out to make sure the quotas were met for the week by skipping a return home.

Miss Roisin had come over each day to watch them, and to see if the mirror would “speak” to her, as she had put it.

With the thunder and lightning, maybe it would.

Steven had done for Warren, Michael, and Peter as Rose had before him: played music on the gramophone in the wind and rain to help keep things calm. As it was the last thing they’d done with her, he wanted to remember her last moments at their side.

The younger boys were still crying on and off through each day, and Steven did his best not to allow them to see his own tears, only shedding them when he went into the bathroom or when Miss Roisin insisted he take a nap. Though she was staying with them, she walked the half block home each day to change her clothes and bring over food stuffs, as little as it was she was able to bring. And so, here she was, coming in out of a storm that was blowing something fierce and sounded like thunder may not be far behind. Water gushed in on the floor, leaving a large puddle nearest to the door, spreading several inches before they got the door closed again.

As she shut the door, the thunder rolled and as she sat down, a flash scraped the flesh off the remaining clouds in the sky.

Now this was a storm!

While he’d known to expect another storm, Steven wasn’t happy about it.

What would happen to he and his brothers if Miss Roisin went through the mirror, too? And where was Rose?

Steven’s breathing came heavy and his heartbeat fast, just thinking about it.

Michael ran to get Miss Roisin a towel to dry her hair.

Inside, Steven knew things were about to change dramatically, no matter what really happened next. If the woman tried and failed, then she’d be disappointed; if she tried and succeeded, but went through the mirror instead of merely grabbing for his sister, then what?

He, Warren, Michael, and Peter would be alone… again. For real this time.

A deep sigh rumbled through his chest. He’d be the man of the house, unless Father came home soon.

Where was he?

Maybe they should try to walk over to
Our Lady of the Good Voyage
after all, and see if there was shelter with someone on higher ground.

Lightning sluiced the air again, and he jumped. Warren and Peter hid behind Father’s chair, where Miss Roisin once again sat, whimpering. Michael now sat stock-still.

“Steven,” Warren said, “we’re scared.”

Gently and slowly, he walked over to the younger boys, squeezed each of their shoulders in turn, and tried to think of something to say.

They knew the plan, but did they comprehend it? Did they understand the consequences?

Miss Roisin dropped the towel in her lap and stood, faced them, and beckoned them forward.

Shyly, Peter moved ahead, then Warren, Michael, and Steven after him. It dawned on Steven that his youngest brother might just have more guts than the rest of them combined; more courage despite his fear.

“Now, you lads listen, hear? Everything will be okay. God, the Good Lord, will protect and watch over us all, and He won’t let anything happen He can’t handle, alright?”

Steven noticed her hands shook as she spoke; he didn’t think it was from the cold.

He nodded in assent anyway, “That’s right, you guys…,” pausing to finger the St. Peter’s medal at his neck, he noticed the boys both clung to theirs with a hand, and to one another with their free ones in a little circle. “Miss Roisin knows what she talks about. We’ve got God and the saints watching over us, now, don’t we?”

Thunder resounded again, and a bolt of lightning flashed somewhere in the area of Harbor Cove.

That was close
, he thought.

“Well, I guess it’s now or never,” Miss Roisin said as she stepped forward, toward the mirror.

Steven closed his eyes, wishing this wasn’t reality, and it weren’t happening.

A moment later, he heard a gasp.

He took a peek.

Miss Roisin’s hand was inside the mirror. She drew it back again. A butterfly came out with it, fluttering in the air. Whatever on earth?

“Pray for me, lads. I’m going through. I don’t see her. I see…” she peered closer into the mirror. “A field? Or at least… trees. I ken the good Lord will take care o’ ye.”

After taking a brief pause to steady her breath, dropping the towel on the floor, Mrs. Roisin Mac Bradaigh stepped into the mirror.

Peter shrieked, Warren ran to a back bedroom, and all Michael and Steven could do was stare.

And wait.

But for what, and how would he ever know what happened to either Rose or Miss Roisin now that they were both gone… possibly forever?

“Peter, Michael, Warren… please come out. I promise, nobody else is going to go through this mirror,” Steven said, trying to remain calm.

The storm had finally calmed, but the storm inside their home… a storm of emotion… was still brewing strong. Why had he agreed to Miss Roisin’s plan? Didn’t he know better already because of Rose’s disappearance? Now two people were gone, probably forever. And where could then have gone to? What time did they land in?

“Are you hungry,” he called again, having received no reply. He went and knocked on their door, then finally opened their door quietly.

The trio were asleep, curled up together, a single blanket covering their feet and legs. Peter’s thumb rested in his mouth, and Warren’s shirt was halfway off due to all his moving around. Michael was off to the side a bit, barely covered at all.

Steven sat on the edge of the mattress and watched them for a few minutes before turning back into the main part of the house. He found an extra blanket for them and returned to cover Michael before heading into the living room.

As he was settling into Father’s chair, too exhausted to keep his eyes open, a knock on the door jarred him awake.

He glanced at the clock; nearly nine in the evening. “Who is it,” he called gently, hoping the younger boys wouldn’t awaken.

“Steven? It’s Shalom. May I come in for a few minutes? Imma… I mean, my mother – we call her Imma – she sent me over with some food.”

Heart thumping, Steven did his best to stay quiet as he crept over to the door and opened it for his friend.

While they weren’t in the same grade, they knew one another from the neighborhood. He was thankful that Shalom, his sister, and their parents were close by.

Shalom handed him a basket and breezed past him in the door. “Thanks,” his friend said. “That rain sure has been coming down. It looks like it might stop soon, though.”

The older boy’s hair was dripping rapidly onto his shoulders, and the cloth covering over the basket was drenched. Steven sat it down on the table, opened the lid, and checked the contents.

He wasn’t familiar with all of it, but the scent was amazing.

“What is it,” he finally asked.

“Well this,” Shalom began, pointing to an oddly shaped bread with chocolate on top, “is a babka. And this,” he continued, pointing to an enclosed container, “is chicken kreplach soup. A kreplach is… it’s kind of like, how do I put this? A kreplach is… well, it’s like a pocket and these ones,” he said, pointing again, “have mashed potatoes in them. And these,” he pointed one last time, “are latkes… so, basically a potato pancake. They’re my favorite.”

The thought of mashed potatoes in a pocket floating in his soup was an interesting one for Steven. Since when did people mix the two? Weren’t they totally different things?

He scratched his head and picked up some bagels from the basket. “Do you know what kind these are?”

“I think Imma and Shannen made… five different flavors and so I’m not… I’m not sure if I know which one or two you’ve been sent.” The boy smiled at him. “May I,” he asked, holding a hand out to the bagels in question.

After a few moments, Steven handed them over. He watched as Shalom carefully smelled each one and then placed it back inside the basket. “It smells to me like you’ve got raspberry and blueberry, and a couple apple cinnamon ones. Imma wanted to make sure you had enough to get through the day,” he finished.

Steven sniffed at a bagel and took a bite.

His friend was right; it was apple cinnamon, and it tasted wonderful. And because it was still warm from the oven, he decided to use a little of what butter they had left over before it went bad.

“Hey, did I see Miss Roisin coming over here recently,” Shalom asked him, pushing aside the wavy, dark bangs that were plastered to his head.

“Yeah, but she isn’t here anymore. I’m not sure where she…”

How do I say this, God?

Steven looked down at his hands, took another bite and set down the bagel.