The Blackstone Chronicles (48 page)

Every bone in his body was aching with cold.

His eyes blinked open and for a split second he felt certain he was still caught in the nightmare, for around him he saw none of the familiar sights to which he usually awoke. Instead of the wall of his bedroom and the budding branches of the maple tree outside, he was staring at the silhouette of the Asylum, etched against a leaden sky. He was not in his house, but outside it.
Shaking off the last cobwebs of his uneasy sleep, Oliver slowly sat up, stretching first his arms and then his legs.

It was as he stood that he realized that not only did his limbs ache but his head did too. He braced himself against the great stab of agony that often followed the first telltale pang of one of his headaches, but the onslaught did not come. Instead, the dull ache in his head slowly ebbed away. He moved toward his house, but before going inside, felt an urge to look back just once at the Asylum. As his eyes scanned the dark building that loomed over his cottage—and his entire life—the strange images flickered once more through his mind.

But what did they mean? And why, since they were obviously embedded deep within his memory, could he not call them up as anything other than ghostly fragments of a past that seemed to be deliberately hiding from him? Turning away from the building at the top of the hill and closing the door firmly behind him, Oliver made his way to the kitchen and put on a pot of water for coffee.

As he waited for the water to boil, he glanced up at the clock: just after six
A.M
. Far too early to call Phil Margolis, even if the doctor would see him on a Saturday. But why call the doctor anyway? Whatever was causing his headaches was not a physical problem: the CAT scan had proved that.

No, it had to do with memories, and with the Asylum. And it had to do with his father.

As he poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds in his old-fashioned Silex, he remembered the case history he’d read a few days ago—a case history that had shown him just how little he’d really known about his father. Since then, he’d gone through most of the files he’d found in the attic, to discover they shared a sickening similarity. For years, patients in the Asylum had been subjected to the worst kinds of treatment, treatment that must have been utterly unbearable for them.

All of it done under his father’s supervision.

Oliver absently poured himself a cup of coffee and took small sips of the hot brew as he thought.

Almost against his will, he found himself going to the window and once more looking up at the grimy stone building. What else had gone on inside it? What was hidden behind its walls that was so horrifying it prevented him from entering the building? Even as the question formed in his mind, he knew who would have the answer.

Draining the rest of his coffee in two big gulps—gulps that threatened to scald his throat—Oliver pulled a jacket off the hook next to the door to the garage and got into his car before he could change his mind.

Five minutes later he pulled up in front of the big house on Elm Street, just a little west of Harvard, in which his uncle had spent his entire life. Harvey Connally had been born in the master bedroom on the second floor of the Cape Cod-style house, and often announced that he had every intention of dying in the same room. “A man can travel the world all he wants,” Harvey had been heard to say more than once, “but when he’s ready to die, he shouldn’t be far from where he was born.” Though there were those in Blackstone who thought Harvey Connally’s determination to die in the very bed in which he’d been born was a bit excessive, the old-fashioned sentiment was more typical of the town than not.

The house itself had become all but invisible from the street over the years, hidden behind a hedge that had been allowed to grow far beyond the basic demands of privacy. Whenever Oliver suggested that it be trimmed, though, his uncle shook his head. “After I die, you can do what you want with it. For now, I’ll just leave it alone. I’ve got no reason to see what’s going on outside it, and other people certainly have no need to look at me!”

Now Oliver opened the gate, then let himself into the
house with his own key, calling out to his uncle as soon as he was in the foyer.

“In the library,” the old man’s reedy voice called back. A moment later, as Oliver entered the book-lined room—his uncle’s favorite in the house, and his own as well—Harvey Connally eyed him suspiciously. “A mite early for a social call, don’t you think?” he asked. “I don’t generally stir the martinis until the sun has set.”

“I wasn’t even sure you’d be up,” Oliver admitted.

“I’m always up by five these days,” Harvey replied. “An old man doesn’t need as much sleep as a young one,” he added pointedly. When Oliver made no reply, his uncle nodded to a silver tray that sat on a table in front of the wing-backed chair in which he was seated. “Help yourself,” he said.

As Oliver poured himself a cup of steaming coffee, he felt his uncle watching him appraisingly, and as Oliver sat down, the old man issued his judgment. “You look tired, Oliver. Peaked. As if you’re not sleeping well.”

“I’m not,” Oliver confessed. “And there’s something I need to talk to you about.” Though his uncle said nothing, Oliver was certain the old man’s posture changed, that he became wary. “It’s my father,” he went on. “I want to know—”

“There’s nothing you need to know about that man,” his uncle snapped, his eyes flashing with anger. “After he died, I raised you to be a Connally, not a Metcalf! Do you understand? A Connally, like your mother! Like me! The less said about the man who was your father, the better.” Harvey Connally’s gaze fixed on Oliver with an intensity that warned the younger man he was treading on ground even more dangerous than he had expected, but he went on anyway.

“I need to talk about my father,” he repeated. Choosing his words carefully, he told his uncle about the headaches he’d been having, and the strange half memories that seemed to accompany them.

“You should talk to Phil Margolis about this,” the old man growled, his eyes hooding as he pressed deeper into his chair, almost as if he was seeking protection from his nephew.

“I did,” Oliver said quietly. “And he hasn’t been able to find anything wrong. But there
is
something wrong, Uncle Harvey. There are things I can’t remember that I think I have to remember.”

The old man snorted impatiently. “When you get to be my age, you’ll know that some things are best
not
remembered.” His eyes remained fixed on Oliver like those of an old wolf staring down a younger one. But Oliver didn’t waver.

“I still need to know. I need to know what happened to my father. And I need to know what happened to my sister.”

Harvey Connally studied his nephew for several long seconds, as if taking his measure. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “Your father killed himself,” he said.

“I knew that,” Oliver replied. “But I don’t know why. Was it because he missed my mother so much?”

“I really have no idea,” Harvey said, his tone betraying his reluctance to discuss the matter at all. “I suppose it could have been that. I also suppose”—and his voice hardened—“it could have been because the trustees had decided to close the Asylum.”

Oliver felt his pulse quicken slightly. “I thought the decision to close the Asylum was made after my father died.”

Harvey’s head tipped slightly in assent. “There was no reason to tell you otherwise,” he said.

“They fired him, didn’t they?” Oliver asked. “The trustees found out what he’d been doing and fired him.”

Again Harvey Connally’s head tilted a fraction of an inch, but he said nothing more.

“And what about my sister?” Oliver said. “What happened to her?”

Harvey’s attention shifted away from Oliver, as he pondered something.

“Did my father have something to do with my sister’s death?” Oliver pressed.

Harvey Connally’s gaze snapped back to Oliver. “I only know what he told me,” he said.

“And what was that?” Oliver asked. “What did he tell you?”

Silence hung in the room for a long time. Finally, Harvey spoke, and though his words were uttered very quietly, they exploded in Oliver’s head like blasts of dynamite. “It was your fault,” his uncle told him. “It was just an accident, but it was your fault.”

Oliver slumped in his chair, unable to speak.

Amy Becker’s fists were firmly planted on her hips as she glared at her father with stormy eyes. “Why can’t I go too?” she demanded.

“Because there isn’t anything for you to do, and you’d just be bored,” Ed assured her. “And I’ll be gone only a couple of hours. When I get back, you and I can go for a hike. Maybe up in the woods behind the old Asylum. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I want to go to the office with you,” Amy insisted. “I want you to teach me how to be a lawyer!”

Ed reached down and lifted his daughter up so he could look directly into her eyes. “If you want to be a lawyer, you have to go to law school. And you can’t do that until you’ve finished college. And you can’t do that—”

“Until I finish high school, and I can’t do that until I finish grade school.” Making a face as she completed the familiar litany, Amy pretended to try to wriggle out of her father’s arms. “I’ll never get to be a lawyer!”

“Sure you will,” Ed told her as he put her back down.
“Unless you decide to be something more fun, like a fireman or an astronaut. But all I’m going to do this morning is look at some papers. Okay?”

Amy sighed as if she were being asked to take the weight of the entire world onto her little shoulders, but then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll play with Riley until you get back. But as soon as you come home, we’re going for a hike in the woods. You promised!”

“I promised,” Ed agreed, leaning over to kiss his daughter on the head. He straightened up as Amy skittered out the back door, then moved toward the kitchen sink, where Bonnie was rinsing the breakfast dishes. “And maybe when we get back from the hike …” he began, nuzzling the back of her neck as he slipped his arms around her waist.

“Ooh, promises, promises,” Bonnie replied, letting her body shimmy against his. “Promise you won’t stay more than a couple of hours?”

“Promise,” Ed repeated. “I just have to review the final financing package for the Center so Melissa can give it to the feds. Should have done it yesterday,” he added with a sheepish smile before Bonnie could remind him that he’d put in more time on the chest of drawers than his paperwork. Then, briskly: “In another week, maybe we can all start breathing a little easier around here.”

Bonnie sighed. “I hope so, but sometimes I wonder if maybe we shouldn’t just tear that horrible old place down and be done with it.”

“Oh, Lord,” Ed groaned. “Not you too! You’re starting to sound like Edna Burnham!”

“I am not!” Bonnie protested. “Well, maybe a little bit. But I’m starting to think the whole idea of turning an insane asylum into a shopping center is a little creepy.”

“It was Charles Connally’s home before it was a mental hospital,” Ed reminded her.

“I
still
think it’s creepy,” Bonnie insisted. Then she smiled. “On the other hand, if it’ll help everyone in town
earn a decent living for a change, then who cares what I think?
I
don’t even care. Go get those papers done so we can all get on with our lives.”

Giving Bonnie one more kiss, this time on the lips, Ed went out to the garage and got into the Buick.

Just as he always did, he started the car, glanced in the rearview mirror, and put the transmission into Reverse in a nearly seamless series of motions, then pressed lightly on the gas pedal.

The rear door had just cleared the garage when Ed felt a bump, followed instantly by a yelp of pain, then a scream of anguish. Instinctively slamming on the brakes, he jammed the transmission into Park and leaped out of the car, his first awful thought being that somehow he had hit his own daughter. A second later, though, as he saw Amy standing in the driveway and realized she was unhurt, he felt a wave of relief. His relief, however, was replaced with horror as he heard what Amy was shouting.

“You killed him! You killed Riley!”

Ed saw the black mass that was half-hidden under the car, and in an instant he was back in his dream, standing at the courthouse window, staring at the mangled body of Riley smashed on the pavement below, crushed beneath the wheels of a truck.

But this wasn’t a dream.

And Amy, now on her knees beside her injured pet, was sobbing brokenly.

“No!” Ed gasped. “I didn’t—” His words died on his lips as he saw a twitch of movement in Riley’s hind leg.

Now Bonnie was next to him too, brought running from the kitchen by her daughter’s anguished cries.

“Help me!” Ed told her. “He’s not dead! If we can get him to the vet …” Leaving his sentence unfinished, he carefully drew the dog out from beneath the car. A faint whimper bubbled up from the animal’s throat, but then, as if to apologize for the inconvenience he was causing,
he tried to lick Ed’s hand. “Oh, God, Riley,” Ed said, his own voice now catching with a sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“The car, Ed,” Bonnie urged, gently guiding Ed to his feet. “Let’s just put him in the car and get going.” She pulled open the back door, and Ed laid the dog on the seat, ignoring the blood oozing from the corner of the Labrador’s mouth onto the upholstery. “I’ll get in back with him and hold his head,” Bonnie said. “Get in front with your father, Amy. And fasten your seat belt!” Then she caught sight of her husband’s ashen face. “Maybe I’d better drive,” she suggested.

Ed shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”

Less than five minutes later he pulled into the graveled parking area in front of the building that served as Cassie Winslow’s office as well as her home. From behind the house came the sound of half a dozen barking dogs and the cries of twice as many birds. Even before Ed was out of the car the veterinarian appeared on the porch.

“It’s Riley, Dr. Winslow,” Amy cried as she scrambled out of the passenger seat next to her father. “Daddy ran over him. Don’t let him die! Please?”

Cassie Winslow dashed off her front porch and pulled open the rear door of the car. The dog’s breathing was shallow, and his eyes had taken on a glazed look. “Let’s get him inside,” she said. “Ed, go ahead and open the doors for me. I’ll bring Riley.”