Wilde, Jennifer (74 page)

"He's
insane. He's—"

"Hush,"
he said. "Stop your tremblin'. Jack Reed is 'ere, and there's no man gonna
lay a finger on you while I'm around. Pull yourself together now. Ya 'ear
me?"

I
nodded, and Jack held me until the trembling finally stopped. He let go of me
than and stepped to the door. Opening it cautiously, he peered up and down the
hall. He closed the door quickly. There were footsteps; a man muttered
something unintelligible; a woman laughed boisterously. After a few moments
passed, Jack opened the door again, again surveyed the hall, and then motioned
for me to join him.

"We
gotta be quick," he said, "an' we gotta be fast. No tellin' when one
of them doors might open. Think you're up to it?"

I
nodded. Jack took my hand and we hurried down the hall, down a dark, narrow
flight of enclosed stairs. As he opened a heavy wooden door the fresh night air
rushed in, sweeping away the dreadful fumes of alcohol and cheap perfume and
sweat. Jack peered out, and when he was satisfied that the coast was clear he
gave my hand a tug and we stepped outside. The music was still blaring. The
shrill voices and laughter spilled out into the night, but here in the back
there was very little light. All the houses were built only a few yards from
the steep bluff that rose directly behind them, forming a natural alley-way
which was littered with garbage.

We
moved quickly past house after a house. A dog barked. Jack scooped up a rock
and hurled it at the animal. We hurried on. I stumbled and almost fell. My
heart was beating rapidly. I was still in a state of shock, and this seemed as
unreal, as dream-like as that hideous red room and all that had gone before.
Clearing the last house, we turned and moved toward the river, and then on
toward the docks, leaving Natchez-under-the-hill behind us. I was panting now,
almost out of breath, and Jack deemed it safe to slow down a bit. I could see
the warehouses ahead in the moonlight, see the dark silhouettes of ships and a
moving yellow light as someone walked along the docks with a lantern.

"We're
almost there," Jack told me. "You all right?"

"I—I
think so—"

"The
docks'll be alive with activity in a little while. The last boat from New
Orleans is due to arrive in less than an hour. That's the one we'll be takin'
in th' mornin'."

We
were moving past the warehouses when we heard the carriage rumbling down the
road behind us. Jack let go of my hand. I whirled around, instinct telling me
who it was. I don't know what had happened to the coachman, for Helmut was
driving himself, his pale blond hair gleaming in the moonlight. I screamed. The
horses seemed to be charging directly toward us, and then they reared, hooves
waving in air. The carriage almost toppled over.

Helmut
leaped off the driver's seat. A horrifying roar emerged from his throat, an
inhuman bellow of rage. He propelled himself toward us, his face distorted in
the moonlight, the face of a madman. Jack shoved me back against the warehouse
wall, and then Helmut was upon him. They began a bizarre, murderous dance,
locked together, staggering, reeling, finally crashing to the ground to become
a tangle of thrashing limbs. The horses stamped and neighed in terror, and I
could hear the terrible grunts and groans and the sound of flesh pounding flesh
as the two men rolled out of a patch of moonlight and into the shadows.

I
could barely see them. Two dark silhouettes grappled in the darkness. I was
unable to tell which was which. One was shoved aside and the other reached down
and picked up a piece of lumber that looked like a club and slammed it against
his adversary's skull. There was a hideous crunching noise, and the piece of
lumber snapped in two. The man who had been hit sank slowly to his knees and
then fell face forward on the ground. The other stood there for a long time,
breathing heavily, chest heaving, and at last he turned, stepping out into the
moonlight.

Panting,
unable to speak, he stared at me with crazed blue eyes, and I shook my head,
sobbing with fear. He strove to control his breathing, his chest lifting and
falling, his hands balled into tight fists, knuckles bruised. He finally
managed to speak. His voice was a hoarse growl.

"I
came to watch. The room was empty. One of the whores said she'd seen the two of
you heading toward the back stairs in a hurry. She told me where the bastard
lived—"

"You've
killed him," I whispered.

"I
certainly hope so. Now it's your turn—"

He
moved slowly toward me. I cried out, and the next moment I flew into the
darkness, running as I had never run before. I could hear his footsteps
thundering behind me, closer and closer. Then he made a flying leap and both
his arms encircled my waist. I pitched forward, crashing to the ground. Bright
lights exploded inside my head like shattering stars as the breath was knocked
out of me and I went careening into unconsciousness.

I
awoke to find myself on the sofa in the parlor at Roseclay. The blazing candles
hurt my eyes. I groaned and tried to sit up. Instead I sank into darkness
again. When I finally fought back to consciousness, I felt the pain of bruised
flesh and aching bone. Bright golden flames flickered as I lifted my lids,
wondering why I wasn't dead and wishing desperately that I were. I struggled up
into a sitting position, shoving my tangled hair away from my face. My gown was
torn in several places and covered with dirt.

Helmut
stood in front of the gray marble fireplace, drinking. He must have been
drinking for a long time, for the bottle on the table beside the fireplace was
almost empty, and he was weaving just a little as he stood. He had removed coat
and waistcoat, and his shirt, moist with sweat, was beginning to pull out of
the waistband of his dirt-streaked gray trousers. His right cheekbone was badly
skinned. His eyes were glazed, and they were full of anguish.

Finishing
one glass of whiskey he poured another, staggering slightly as he did so. He
emptied the bottle and, scowling, hurled it angrily into the fireplace. The
sharp, splintering explosion caused me to jump. He must have seen the movement
out of the corner of his eye, for he turned and stared at me, but he didn't
speak. He drank the whiskey, watching me all the while with lowered brows. I
caught hold of the arm of the sofa and, using it for support, got to my feet,
surprised to find that I could stand.

"So
you brought me back to Roseclay."

"Couldn't
risk you getting away again. Men would help you. Men like that one I knocked
out." His voice was thick, his words slurred. "Couldn't risk that.
Brought you back. I'm going to kill you."

I
stared at him with a level gaze, feeling oddly detached. He tilted back the
glass and downed the rest of the whiskey.

"She's
gone," he said. "I did it all for her. She was everything. I loved
her. I
loved
her! Meg's gone. You helped her. You helped rob me of the
one thing in life that mattered. Nothing means anything now. This house was for
her. Everything I did was for her. Meg, my Meg—"

For
a moment I thought he was going to cry. He stared down at the carpet with
anguished eyes that beheld only the beloved face, but when he lifted his head
the anguish had vanished. Replacing it was a look of hatred so venomous that it
seemed to crackle like blue fire in his eyes.

"I'm
going to kill you!"

I
stood very still.

"Drink—first
I want another drink. Then—then it's going to be such pleasure—"

He
burst into laughter. It came rumbling up from his chest, and it was horrendous,
inhuman. He shook with it, and I realized that the last vestiges of sanity were
slipping away from him. The laughter died down to a barely audible chuckle, and
Helmut lurched across to the liquor cabinet that stood in front of the windows.
I turned to watch him jerk out a bottle and try to open it. He couldn't get it
open. He hurled the bottle to the floor, and whiskey splattered all over the
draperies hanging behind the cabinet. He pulled out another bottle and smashed
the neck across the edge of the table. Even more whiskey splattered, covering
the draperies with dark stains. He seized a glass and, weaving back and forth,
splashed whiskey into it.

"Going
to make you beg," he said. "Going to make you plead. Going to crush
you—crush you—"

He
cut himself short, smiling that perverse smile, and I saw the bulge beneath the
cloth of his breeches. The candlelight flickered, flames leaping in bright
golden patterns. I reached over to the heavy silver candelabra on the table
beside the sofa. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I closed my hand around the
base, lifted it, my arm aching terribly from the weight as I raised it over my
head and hurled it at him. It crashed against the drape only inches from his
head, shattering the window behind him. Helmut cried out, startled, and
suddenly the drape was ablaze, a solid sheath of raging orange fire.

He
leaped aside, dropping the glass of whiskey. A flaming shred fell to the floor,
landing on the spilled whiskey, and then the carpet was ablaze as well, flames
crackling, smoke swirling in thick black clouds. He moved back, his lips
parted, and then he turned to look at me and his eyes began to gleam. He
laughed again, nodding his head, his hands resting heavily on his thighs. The
flames were spreading, devouring one of the chairs, snakes of orange fire
slithering across the floor, moving up the back of the sofa.

"Perfect!"
he cried. "Perfect!"

He
lurched toward me. I backed away, but I stumbled against a table and lost my
balance. Helmut's fingers closed over my wrist and he dragged me out of the
blazing room. I tried to pull back, pull free, but he didn't even notice. He
just kept walking, pulling me behind him. Though my heart was pounding in my
ears I thought I heard someone pounding on the front door as well. I thought I
heard a frantic voice calling my name, and I screamed as Helmut started up the
stairs, his fingers like iron bands about my wrist.

I
grabbed hold of the banister with my free hand. He gave a mighty jerk. As my
hand was torn loose from the railing, I was slammed against the wall. He
dragged me up the rest of the steps and down the hall to my rooms. Flinging
open the bedroom door, he thrust me violently inside. I fell to my knees. I
looked up to see him looming there in the doorway, the mad smile still on his
lips, and then he slammed the door and locked it. Getting to my feet, I threw
myself at the door and banged on it with my fists. I heard him roaring with
laughter as he started back down the hall.

Minutes
passed, and I was out of my mind with fear. I could smell the smoke now, could
hear the flames crackling and feel the heat. Roseclay was blazing. The fire had
spread over the ground floor, and in just a few minutes the flames would come
searing up the stairs. I pounded on the door, unable to think coherently,
filled with panic. As smoke began to curl under the bottom of the door, I
backed away, tears spilling down my cheeks. It was all going to end. I would
never see him again. He had come back for me, and I would never see him, never
know if he...

"Marietta!"
he shouted.

I
was
imagining it, of course. I had to be. I was hearing his voice because I so
desperately wanted to hear it.

"Marietta!
Where are you!"

"Derek!"
I cried. "Derek!"

The
key turned in the lock. The door burst open. He flew toward me, scooped me up
into his arms and raced down the hall. This must all be a dream, I thought, yet
I saw the staircase with blazing banister, saw the clouds of smoke, and heard
his heart thumping in his chest as his arms tightened around me. He started
down the stairs, keeping against the wall, away from the crackling flames. I
was coughing, and he coughed as well. As he raced toward the open door the
blazing wall began to lean toward us. Tilting, crumbling, it crashed down just
as Derek stumbled out the door and onto the verandah.

He
moved down the steps and across the lawn, carrying me away from the smoke and
flames. In the distance I could see a carriage on the drive, two men standing
beside it, one of them with a white bandage wrapped around his head. Derek moved
on and finally sat me down under the trees on the slope beyond the front lawn.
Flames leaped out of the windows of the distant mansion. The roof was blazing.
A savage orange glow that seemed to scorch the sky illuminated the dark night.
I turned to look at Derek, who knelt at my side.

"It's—really
you. You came back."

"I
came back," he said.

His
arms folded around me, and I leaned against him, closing my eyes, resting my
head against his shoulder. Roseclay was burning to the ground and Derek was
holding me in his arms, and if this was all a dream, my last dream before
death, then I was going to die content.

The
inn had changed very little in all these years. It was still comfortable,
mellow, spotlessly clean. The jovial proprietor had died two years before,
leaving the inn to his plump, ebullient daughter. Lizzie and her husband ran
the place with friendly efficiency. During the past week she had been wonderful
to me, looking after me as though I were a queen, filling the room with
hand-cut flowers and merry gossip. She had given me two of her dresses and a
cotton petticoat, and had even altered them for me. Lizzie fancied me a
glamorous creature, and it delighted her to take care of me as I recovered from
the 'tragedy' that had all Natchez abuzz.