Trick or Treat (21 page)

“I’m sorry, Conor,” she whispered.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For everything … for causing you so much trouble … for getting you into this.”

He tried to laugh, but it ended in a moan. “You sound … like you don’t think we’ll get out of here.”

“I don’t think we will. You don’t, either, do you?”

“You never did … know me very well….”

She felt his hand on her head … the brief touch of his cheek against her hair….

Blinking back tears she threw her arms around him and was shocked at how frail he suddenly felt.

“The shelves, Martha,” he whispered, “something to break down the door —”

And she did it, not because she believed it would work, but because he was so determined and she wanted
him
to believe. She crawled to one wall of shelves and began ripping the sagging boards, and suddenly — suddenly — she jumped up with a shriek.

“Are you all right?” There was real fear in Conor’s voice this time, and Martha stared at him, too shocked for a moment to answer.

“Conor, there’s something
behind
here!” she gasped. “I think it’s a … a
tunnel
or something —”

Conor struck the last match, straining to peer through the smoky darkness.

“It isn’t even boarded up — it’s just got junk piled in front of it like someone wanted to hide it!”

The match sputtered … went out.

“Let’s go,” Conor said.

It was scarcely more than a crawl space. As Conor pulled himself along on his uninjured side, Martha struggled with her cast and crept behind him in a daze of terror. The tunnel echoed with Conor’s labored breathing and the soft scurrying of rats — and she had the most horrible feeling that they were crawling deeper and deeper into the earth, farther and farther from help, the darkness going on and on forever.

When Conor suddenly stopped moving, Martha threw herself on him in a panic. “Conor! Are you —?”

“A door … there’s … a door at the end,” Conor said, and Martha heard his fists scraping wood, each sound weaker and weaker….

“Conor!” She shook him violently, a shiver of danger rippling through her from head to toe. “It’s opening —”

The groan of old, old hinges echoed through the dark.

And as the opening widened, it filled the tunnel slowly with hazy light.

Martha felt Conor’s hand tighten on her own … pull her forward as he staggered to his feet into the light….

“Martha …” he whispered, and she felt him stumble, felt his ice-cold hands go even colder — “we’re in the mausoleum.”

For one split instant her mind went totally blank — and
no, this isn’t real, I’m only in a dream, I’ll wake myself up, I’ll make myself wake up now — right now
— and she floated ahead, still in a dream,
still led by Conor through a harmless, wondrous dream
….

The light hurt her eyes.

Hazy and bright all at once, pulsing through the shadows … clawing up the walls where the dead lay in their quiet places … dancing in the fiery ring around an altar wreathed with candles….

An altar wreathed with candles
….

And the stale, faded sweetness of dead flowers….

Of death….

And she felt Conor’s arm go around her, turning her away, away from the lights, away from the hundreds of flickering candle flames —

“Don’t look, Martha —”

“Conor, what
is
it? What’s there?”

“No,” Conor said, and he sounded so strange — and
no, I don’t want to hear this, I won’t listen, it’s not real
—

“Martha,” Conor said, “I think we just found Dennis.”

And Martha, staring back at him in horrified disbelief, saw something else suddenly gliding up behind him, the tall black figure floating from the shadows, its Death face reflecting the hundreds of tiny, tiny lights —

“
Conor, watch out!
” she screamed.

The knife flashed down … slicing the darkness … ripping into Conor’s shoulder….

She saw him jerk forward … slide to the ground at her feet….

And Death bending over him, the knife oozing blood onto the floor….

“Dennis,” the voice scolded, “how did you get out?”

And then Death looked straight into Martha’s eyes.

“Elizabeth … why are you making me do this again?”

Martha staggered backwards, eyes fixed in terror as Death stood there quietly, watching. Beneath Conor a dark pool was widening over the floor.

“
Why?!
” Martha screamed. “Why are you
doing
this?” Her hands were out, reaching for Conor, but Death stepped between them. “Can’t you see? I’m
not
Elizabeth! I’m
Marthal
Elizabeth’s
dead
! You
killed
her!” And Martha was crying now, moving back as Death came closer. “Why did you do it, Blake?” she sobbed. “You couldn’t have hated Dennis that much — you couldn’t have been that afraid of losing Elizabeth — you could have had anything you wanted —”

Vey slowly the black sleeve raised. The twelve-inch blade glittered and sparkled in the light.

“I want
you
, Elizabeth,” he hissed. “
Trick or treat!
”

Martha never had time to scream.

She saw the blade plunging down —

And the tiny flames scattering like sparks as doors burst wide and wind and rain roared through the tomb and two bodies hurled themselves forward, flinging Death away —

And then she heard the screaming —

The wild, insane screaming as Death thrashed and twisted in Blake’s arms —

“Blake …” Martha murmured.

“Greg, call an ambulance!” Blake shouted, and he was wrestling the mask away, tearing the knife from clenched hands, throwing the heaving body to the floor as the long brown hair spilled out around the contorted face — “They’re dead — do you hear me, Wynn? Both of them … dead.”

Chapter 19

“Conor!” Martha knelt beside his prone figure, touched his side, his shoulder, drew back a bloody hand. “Oh, Blake, I think he’s —”

“He’s not dead. Here — hold this against him. Hold it tight.” Keeping one eye on Wynn, Blake stripped out of his black cape and lay it over Conor, then took off his shirt and pressed it to Conor’s shoulder. Conor’s face was ashen, but his eyes fluttered open, trying to focus on the two faces bending over him.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay — you hear that?” Blake squeezed Conor’s hand. “Just hang on, man — hang on.”

Conor’s eyes clouded, pain and confusion glazing them over. His head moved, searching for Martha. “You … okay?”

His lips barely moved, and Martha leaned close to him, forcing a reassuring smile.

“Thanks to you … be quiet now, the ambulance is on its way —” Her eyes widened in alarm as his hand slid from her arm. “Blake!”

Blake searched for a pulse and nodded grimly. “He just passed out. Keep that against him.”

“Why didn’t you let me keep him, Elizabeth?” the voice from the corner said. It wasn’t Wynn’s voice, but it was coming from Wynn’s mouth, and a stranger stared out at them from Wynn’s dull eyes. She drew her knees up, curling herself into a ball, and began to rock, very slowly, watching them.

“You thought you loved Dennis, didn’t you, Wynn?” Blake said softly. “Why didn’t you tell us how you felt?”

The eyes grew dark with a dangerous hate. Martha pressed against Conor, as if she could shield him from it.

“You hated him,” Wynn said. “You would have fixed it so we couldn’t be together.”

“He didn’t love you, Wynn,” Blake said. “He loved Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth … Elizabeth … Elizabeth …” she chanted softly. “Elizabeth didn’t want him. Elizabeth was through with him. I couldn’t let him go back to her … he’d never have known how much
I
loved him. I was the one, you know….” The eyes were coldly smug. “I was the one who loved him best.”

Blake looked down at the floor. On the other side of the room a few candles still flickered around the makeshift altar, throwing grisly shadows over the stone walls and faded markers … shadows of something that might once have been human….

“You followed them that night, didn’t you?” Blake said quietly.

“I followed them. I
had
to follow them. The calls didn’t work, and the threats didn’t work, and they were going to
talk
that night, he was going to
convince
her to come back to him….” The eyes closed, only for an instant, then popped open, glittering. “I had him all to myself for a while … I had someone who loved me —”

“He didn’t love you. He was using you.”

“Don’t you
say
that! Don’t you
ever say that!
”

Martha cowered back from the hate-filled eyes, but Blake met them straight on.

“He was using you to keep tabs on Elizabeth —”

“He
loved
me!” Wynn cried. “He wanted to stay with me!”

“So what did you do that night, Wynn? After you followed them home, how did you manage to get Elizabeth alone in her room?”

Wynn pondered a moment, a frown at the corners of her mouth. “I just went in. I just walked in, that’s all. They didn’t even hear me.” Her features twisted at the memory. “They were in her room, and they were laughing … and I could hear them talking … and I could hear the bed … and they didn’t even know I was there —”

Martha was staring down at Conor, at his bleached cheeks and bloodstained hair, at Blake’s shirt going soggy in her shaking hands. She fought off a wave of nausea and shut her eyes.

“They thought I was a prowler,” Wynn smiled. “I
made
them think that. I made just enough noise downstairs and I went to the cellar. And then Dennis came down, just like I knew he would….”

Martha wanted to cover her ears, but she couldn’t. The cast on her arm felt like dead weight…. The fingers on her other hand had gone numb from trying to staunch Conor’s blood….

“You hit him,” Blake said softly. “Didn’t you?”

Wynn nodded, her expression gone blank. “I had to. I had to do that.” She traced a circle on the floor with her finger. “I took a knife from the kitchen. I went up the secret stairs to her closet. She was still on the bed waiting for him. She was smiling.” Wynn shrugged, almost indifferently. “I didn’t have a choice, really. I had to.”

Blake turned away then, his face grave. He put up one hand as if to hold back the horrible images, but Wynn went on.

“She didn’t really fight me,” Wynn said, as if that still amazed her. “She was just so
surprised
…. It was really just so easy….”

“What … did you do with Dennis?” Blake mumbled.

“I went back down to tell him the news — that we were finally
free
— but — but” — the eyes widened, the face crumpling in slow motion — “he wouldn’t
answer
me, he wasn’t
moving
, he wouldn’t
talk
—” She took a deep breath, her voice going hard. “It was
Elizabeth’s
fault — it was
her
fault Dennis got hurt — if she’d stayed away from him, he never would have … have….”

Martha’s heart clutched as Wynn began to uncoil and stand up. Blake positioned himself casually between them, but Martha could see his every muscle tensed. From the wildly flickering darkness near the front of the tomb came the cautious approach of footsteps.

“Greg?” Wynn called softly. “Greg, is that you?”

“Yes, Wynn, it’s me.”

And as Greg walked slowly towards them, Martha noticed for the first time how the tall, wide doors of the mausoleum were open, fresh cold air flooding the dank shadows.

“I was just telling them about Dennis,” Wynn said anxiously. “I was going to tell them how I put his car there on the bridge — I was just —”

“Yes, sweetheart, I heard you.”

Martha had never seen Greg so shaken, his face so white, his hands so unsteady. Gently, lovingly, he eased Wynn back to her sitting position on the floor and cast Blake a tragic look.

“The dream, Greg” — Wynn looked up into his face, and her voice was like a child’s — “the dream I keep having, Greg. Have I told you about it? About the long … long … dark….”

“Yes,” Greg said sadly. “You told me about the dream.”

The crawl space!
Martha’s head came up, and she locked stares with Blake, the meaning finally clear.

“The mausoleum,” Martha murmured. “She brought Dennis here to the mausoleum —”

“It was Greg who figured it out,” Blake said quietly. “When we couldn’t find you or Conor and we smelled the smoke in the basement —” He paused, drew a deep breath. “After we put the fire out and broke down the door, that’s when we saw the tunnel — Greg knew it had to lead away from the house. And then he remembered the stories about tunnels connecting with the cemetery —”

Martha reached up and clutched Greg’s arm. His smile was wan. “Lucky I had my trusty axe, huh?” He stopped beside them, his hands clenching. “The police are on their way — I —” He shook his head and knelt beside Conor, shrugging out of his own costume now, tucking it around Conor’s ribs.