Saltar's Point (15 page)

Abby was in the master bedroom on the second floor. The room was massive, with a large walk in closet and adjoining bathroom that opened through a vaulted archway. Why Jack insisted on spending his time in the basement rather than setting up his bedroom in here was beyond her, but then again anything he did these days was beyond the boundaries of conventional wisdom. On the west wall a large bookcase that was built into the paneling extended from the floor to the ceiling twelve feet up, other than that the room was bare.

She had been exploring the floor when Jack was out boozing or doing whatever else it was that he did. Although it was a grueling process to roll her wheelchair even a few feet, she had plenty of time and a fervid determination to regain a small part of her independence. She had been getting stronger, albeit slowly. Her arms had begun to regain a little bit of the muscle tone she had before the accident. Her hands had formed calluses, protecting the soft meaty flesh beneath. She was determined. For two years now she had relied on Jack for everything. It was time to change that.

The sweat poured from her brow, trickling down her forehead and stinging her eyes. It would be easy to give up, to succumb to her frailties but she would not. The anger welled inside of her, she did not deserve this. She wanted to scream, to cry out to the heavens, WHY! Why me God. She had given everything to this man and he had spurned her, choosing the comforting familiarity of the bottle over the love of his wife. Her friends had warned her of course. Jack Darrow was not the sort of man in which a girl should become involved. Utilizing a sixth sense that only good friends seemed to have they pleaded and they begged, but she would not listen. At parties they steered clear, congregating around the punch bowl and waddling away like geese from an approaching golfer whenever Jack came near, not wanting any part of him.

But fate was fate, intertwining with the choices she had cast so long ago. Nothing in life was ever easy. The words her mother had so often whispered to her now rang in her ears as though she were still here, giving advice to those who would choose to listen. She was listening now. Jack would be home soon she knew. It was growing late and the bars would be closing, casting out the patrons who had had too much to drink, and those still searching desperately for someone to take home with them. He would not be pleased if he found her outside her room, preferring her to stay confined within the bounds of her bedchamber.

God I wish he were dead.

The thought came from the back reaches of her mind, startling her with its blatant ferocity. She had harbored a deep seeded resentment for Jack ever since the accident, but her conscience had pushed it from the forefront of her mind, not wanting to admit the hatred that had been welling inside her. She calmed herself. There was no need in crying over spent nickels. Abby forced the wretched thoughts from her head, she would not pay them heed.

She steeled herself, preparing to wheel herself from the room languishing over the needed effort she would need to accomplish the task. Abby pushed down on the right wheel, spinning herself counter clockwise. The chair creaked as she exerted her effort. As she slowly spun a glaring observation jumped out at her, so striking she had wondered how she could have possibly overlooked it before. Attached to the right hand side of the bookcase were three brass hinges securely fastening it to the paneling. They were rusted and it was apparent that they had not been used in a long time, but there was no mistaking the fact that the bookcase was also a door. Abby paused for a second, debating her next move. Jack would be home soon and if he caught her snooping around in some hidden room he might become angry enough to beat her, but the curiosity was bubbling up inside of her. She made her decision and pushed the chair forward rolling closer to the looming bookcase. Abby peered up the side looking for some secret button or lever, or maybe even some misplaced book that might trigger the opening mechanism, but she could find nothing of the sort. The hinges denoted by their position that the bookcase swung outward into the room so she tried the simplest solution of all. Rolling herself over to the left side she pulled the edge like a handle. The bookcase swung open easily. I’ve been watching too many Edgar Allen Poe movies she thought.

Inside a dark dusty corridor awaited her. She looked into the darkness trying to see if she could get a glimpse of where the passageway went, but the darkness was too thick, blocking out her vision a mere ten feet from where she sat. Well I guess there’s only one way to find out Abby girl, time to get rolling. Her chair squeaked again as she moved forward. The passageway was narrow, a mere three feet from side to side and the proximity of the walls placed a dreadful thought in her mind, she would not be able to turn around. Rolling the chair backwards was a much more tedious task than moving forward. If the passageway had any considerable length to it she might be forced to wait for Jack to pull her out. It would be a most unpleasant confrontation. She bit her lip and continued forward trying vainly to picture the floor plan in her mind. From the main hallway a small study occupied the space directly west of here, but the room was shallow and Abby figured that she must be on the north side of that wall. When she was about five feet in she breathed a sigh of relief. On the right side of the hallway was a solitary light switch. She held her breath and flipped it on hoping that it was still operational. A single sixty-watt bulb popped to life illuminating the corridor in a soft incandescent light.

The hallway was fairly shallow extending maybe another twenty feet to a small wooden door at the opposite end. There was another problem, the hallway began to slope gently downward and it would be difficult to wheel herself back up even if she was able turn around in the far room. And what if the door was locked or something was leaning against it on the other side? She definitely could not make the trek up the slope backwards. But she had come this far already and her curiosity was fueled more with each passing foot. She gritted her teeth and pushed on. The chair began to roll forward with ease, the gentle tug of gravity pulling her onward. As the slope increased the chair began to accelerate. Abby pressed her hands against the rubber wheels, trying desperately to slow herself. The rubber bit into the flesh of her palms, burning her like a moving rope unyielding to the violent friction. She cried out with pain as the wheels removed a small patch of skin exposing the tender nerve endings underneath, making her hands throb. She let go instinctively and the wheelchair accelerated, moving beyond the bounds of her control. The roller coaster image came to mind again, only this time she was descending down the first terrifying drop. She careened off the sides of the hallway like a pinball, knocking dust loose and producing a hollow thumping sound against the thin walls. The waiting door was growing larger quickly and Abby braced herself for impact. The steel leg rests struck the door first making a cracking sound and pitching the chair forward. Abby brought her hands up to protect her face but her arms were far too weak to absorb the momentum and her forehead slammed against the oak surface nearly knocking her unconscious before her body recoiled back into the chair.

She sat unmoving for a while, trying to control the throbbing pain in her forehead, content just to be motionless and using the time to steady her breathing. The door had a small brass doorknob with no keyhole. A good sign, since there was no lock to contend with. She reached out and turned the knob clockwise. There was gentle click before the door swung inward.

The awaiting room was miniscule, eight by eight feet with no windows or any other doors, at least none that were visible. Abby wondered how many hidden passageways and secrets rooms Talcott Manor harbored. In the center of the room sat a small oak table and a single chair. Atop the table sat a small battery powered reading lantern, some stationary, a penholder filled to near bursting with an assortment of pens and pencils, and several dusty books strewn about haphazardly with no apparent organization at all. The walls were adorned with a variety of objects. A large bundle of rope, a survival knife –Rambo style- several flashlights, and a large battery powered generator. It was almost as though Porter was expecting the apocalypse and had built a bunker above ground. Minus the food and water, it was a regular survival den. The light bulb from the hallway cast just enough light for her to make out the surrounding walls. Abby wheeled herself over to the table and pulled the chain hanging from the reading lamp, bathing the table in soft light.

The collection of books was random, several novels, a Bible, some accounting ledgers, and several instruction manuals ranging from home improvement to personal income tax preparation. One book in particular caught her eye. It was bound in black leather, and the corners were cracked and faded denoting that the book had been put to good use. A single word scrolled in gold leaf lettering sat perfectly centered on the cover. DIARY. Abby smiled, she had always been one who was not shy about prying into the business of others and this should provide her with some interesting reading. She flipped it open and peered at the first page.

RUPERT FREDERICK PORTER

1924-1998

The title page gave her pause. It was not a common occurrence to find a diary complete with the year of death. A macabre feeling settled over her, raising a row of goose bumps that stood the fine hair lining her arms on end. Her hands trembled slightly as she flipped to the next page.

“ABBY!”

The voice was barely audible but that did nothing to disguise the urgency that permeated it.

“Abby you have to get out of here.” She recognized the voice as Brenda’s, but she had never heard her speak with such terror. She focused her thoughts as she had learned to do, and spoke with her mind.

Brenda where are you?

“I’m right here Abby.”

Why can’t I see you?
The odd circumstances of their conversation were beginning to give Abby alarm.

“I’m weak. I can barely speak to you.”

Why?

“I don’t know, but you have to get out. Jack’s back and he’s thinking bad thoughts.”

Where?
Her panic elevated.

“Downstairs, hurry Abby please.”

That was all it took to shake Abby to the core. If Jack found her in here he would beat her senseless. In her panic she glanced again at the large hunting knife and an eerier thought crossed her mind but she quickly dismissed it. She could never bring herself to harm Jack and even if she could her arms were far too weak to inflict the necessary damage. She had to make it back to her room and the diary would have to wait. She gripped the wheels on her chair and turned herself around as fast as she could, banging into the table leg and knocking several books off in the process. They slammed against the floor with a loud thump that echoed through the walls and up the corridor. Perspiration rolled down her arms, making her hands slippery, she fought to get a good grip on the wheels. She slowly rolled herself out of the room and began to inch herself up the sloping corridor. She was unable to close the door behind her but that was the least of her worries. If Jack caught her down here there was sure to be a beating the likes of which she had never seen.

It was an agonizing process, her arms burned with lactic acid as her body tried to pump adrenaline into her small atrophied muscles. Several times she had to pause a second to catch her breath but the strain of holding the wheels in place was exhausting. She felt them slip just a little before she halted them once again. Working one hand over the other she forced herself back up the ramp. At last she pushed the wheelchair through the open bookcase and utilizing strength she didn’t know she had slammed it shut behind her.

Abby peered down at her injured hands catching a breath in her throat to prevent herself from sobbing. Thin ribbons of skin hung down around the large blisters that had formed in her palms. Little red droplets oozed their way to the surface of the wounds making her hands appear as if they were perspiring blood. From downstairs she could hear Jack’s boots thump as they walked along the hardwood. She tried desperately to get his location from the sound, but his footsteps were too faded to be sure. She guessed that he was somewhere in the foyer and fast approaching the grand staircase.

“Hurry Abby!”

I’m going as fast as I can!
Abby screamed within the confines of her mind.

She pressed on, rolling herself with sheer determination from the room and down the hallway. The pitch in the sound of Jack’s boots deepened, he was on the stairs now, making steady progress. Thump. Thump. Thump. Glancing down the hall she estimated the distance to her bedroom door, about thirty feet. She could make it. She would make it. The wheels turned slowly, pushing her along in semi-rotations as she forced her aching hands to apply more pressure. Oh my God, the blood. What if the blood from her hands was staining the wheels marking her path like a trail of breadcrumbs?

(Or bloodcrumbs in this case)

She pushed the macabre thought from her mind and twisted her head around trying to gaze at the floor behind her, it was bare. She felt a tiny surge of relief, the tread in the wheels was absorbing the miniscule traces of blood before they could leave their mark.

At last she sat before the doorway to her room and with one final heave she summoned enough strength to propel herself through the doorframe just as Jack negotiated the final step. She rolled herself over to the window where he would expect to find her, and sat there trying desperately to steady her breathing. She could feel Jack’s eyes on the back of her head burrowing their way into her skull as if trying to see what she was thinking. Abby heard his boots again as he moved up behind her. He smelled like a distillery, in Abby’s exhausted state the aroma of alcohol was nauseating, the mixture of whisky and beer causing her to gag slightly. She felt his hands clamp down on her shoulders and just then she had the horrible feeling that he was going to crush her windpipe, to choke her pathetic miserable life out of existence once and for all. Instead he spoke softly.