The Book of James (8 page)

the scarred skin on her fingers. “Damn you to hel .”

The Bishop’s Col ar pub was busy and noisy when I took a seat at

an outside table. I ordered a turkey burger and Phil y Pale Ale. The group at the next table over wore Phillies caps and shirts. The beer was flowing; apparently their team had won this afternoon’s game, clinching the division championship.

I dumped the plastic bag full of Nick’s possessions onto the

table and spread them out. This was all that was left of my hus-

band that was familiar. The mother in the fortress belonged to a

stranger. I picked up his keys and flipped through them. One was

bent, probably from the collision when the dashboard had folded

down into the car, pinning Nick to his seat. I held his house key for a minute, feeling a fleeting sense of comfort. This key opened the door to a place I knew intimately. There was pain there, yes, but it was something I had created. My own mess. Not someone else’s.

Just then a reveler jostled my table; my beer tipped, saturating

the cream-linen tablecloth. I grabbed Nick’s things in my arms so they didn’t get soaked.

“Sorry.” The man’s voice was slurred. His breath reeked of alco-

hol. He stumbled backward.

60

ELLEN J. GREEN

The waitress rushed in to clear things off. Several minutes

later, the tablecloth and my beer were brand new. “Celebrating.”

She nodded toward the rowdy people. “I think you dropped this.”

She tossed some folded papers in front of me. I took a sip of

beer, then pried them apart. Some of Nick’s collection from the

plastic bag—it had fallen from the table during the commotion.

The last time I’d looked through his things, I’d been in a different state of mind. I had more information now. A more discerning eye.

The receipt for tool rental from the Home Depot lay folded

into thirds. The day the bathroom sink broke seemed like a life-

time ago. Water everywhere, spilling out onto the floor. Towels,

buckets—and hours later, Nick had replaced piping and washers

and nearly ruined the new tile floor we’d just installed. The nor-malcy of it all made me smile.

I pulled the receipt apart; a thin white letter-sized envelope fell out. It had been folded like an accordion, pressed flat so that it fit neatly inside the receipt. I tore at the seal and pulled out a piece of paper the size of a business card.
JAMES 5 6
was printed neatly in block letters in the center. That was it. The rest of the card was empty. A stamp was pressed neatly in the upper-right-hand corner

of the envelope, but he’d never addressed it.

The noise of the festivities faded behind me. My hands began

to shake, and the beer in my mouth refused to go down my throat.

My entire body was tingling. This was all real. All of it.
They’l come
after you. Hurt or even kill you. The only way to end this is to get to
them first. Stay there. Find James.
Nick’s words were there again in my ear. An eerie feeling crept up my spine, and I scanned the surrounding tables, looking for someone odd, a single stranger who

might have followed me, watching me. Nothing. Just then my cell

phone rang.

“Hey, hey.” Samantha’s familiar voice was at the other end.

“I’ve never been happier to hear a voice in my life.” My breath

came out in a whoosh.

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JAMES

61

“I went to the Caymans. Remember? What’s going on? What

happened with the will?”

I filled her in as fast as I could. “I know it’s crazy, but I’m telling you it’s true.” My hand tightened around my beer glass. “The trust is worth about fifteen million dol ars. Give or take a million.”

“And his mother’s alive? Oh my God.”

“I’ve been just holding all this in. I’m ready to burst.”

“Okay, okay, let’s think this through, Mackenzie. Do you real y

think staying with her is a great idea, given the circumstances?”

There was concern in her voice.

I took a bite of my burger and chewed. “Which circumstances

are you referring to?”

“Nick ran away and didn’t see her for years and said she was

dead. There’s a reason. And he turned down
millions
of dol ars, probably because of her. Not a couple thousand—
mil ions.
Is that enough, or should I go on?”

“I’ve met her. She’s a sad old woman. Maybe a little odd, iso-

lated. But this is my chance to learn more about Nick. It’ll be a few days, tops. And you and the lawyer will know where I am. It’ll be fine.” I hesitated. “The minute something happens, I’ll leave. Drive as fast as I can back to Maine.”

She sighed with resignation. “Look. At least keep your cell

phone charged, put 911 on speed dial, and make sure you sleep

with it.”

“Funny.”

“Not funny. Serious. Hey, listen, I’m closing on a house this

afternoon. Maybe I’ll fly down there afterward. At least you’d have an al y. And I’ve always wanted to see the Liberty Bell and . . . what else do they have in Philadelphia?”

“Humidity and cheesesteaks.” I managed to smile.

“That’s a bad combo—but let me see what’s going on in the

office and I’ll call you, all right?”

62

ELLEN J. GREEN

After our call ended, I flipped through the contacts in my

phone and dialed Dylan’s office. I left a detailed message about my plans and how to reach me. One person close by to rescue me was

all I needed.

I swallowed the rest of my beer in one gulp. Liquid courage for

what lay ahead.

The heavy iron gate slid open, and I hesitated briefly at the entryway, my left foot clamped down on the clutch; I could feel the circulation leaving my toes. My brain was telling me to lift my foot, press the gas, and go.

The driveway twisted through the trees. I drove slowly, taking

note of everything: how this graveled road had deep grooves, like carriage wheels had traversed it years ago; how the foliage grew

so thick near the fence line, then thinned out closer to the house, almost like another barrier. A gate within a gate protecting the castle. The only things missing were a moat and a dragon.

I parked in the same spot as I had during my last visit and

dropped the tailgate on the Jeep. The back was filled with all sorts of odds and ends, and I began to rummage. I’d thrown my cell-phone charger carelessly in the back a few days ago. Now, given

the isolation of this place and Samantha’s warnings, worry niggled in the back of my brain; I wanted to make sure I had the charger

before I went into the house.

64

ELLEN J. GREEN

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” An elderly woman

stood behind me, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Large veins ran through her pale fingers. A scowl marred her wrinkled face.

“My name is Mackenzie. Mackenzie Carlisle.” I held out my

hand to shake hers, but she didn’t move.

“I asked you what you were doing here. I want an answer.” She

spread her feet farther apart, bracing herself for a battle, though it didn’t look like she could put up much of a fight. She was tall but rail thin. Her legs stuck out from under a polyester dress like two white pipe cleaners. Her skin was covered with wrinkly folds, and even the unpleasant look on her face didn’t take away from the

softness in her watery blue eyes.

“I’m a guest of Mrs. Whitfield’s—”

“She didn’t tell me about having any guests, and I never heard

of anyone named Mackenzie. Now what are you doing on this

property?” She tried to make her frail voice sound menacing.

“It’s all right, Virginia,” Cora said. She must have come out the front door, but I hadn’t heard her approach. “She’s a guest of mine.

This is Mackenzie. She’s a friend of Nick’s.”

Virginia’s face changed instantly into a large, bright smile.

Her teeth, or dentures, were white and even. Her cloudy blue eyes cleared for just a moment. “Nick’s friend? He’s come back? Final y.

Where is he?”

Cora placed a hand on the frail woman’s back and turned her

toward the woods. “He’s not with her, Ginny. Go home now, and

I’ll explain it all to you in a little while.”

“Let me stay. I want to hear too. It’s been so long . . .” she pleaded.

“No. Now go on home or I’ll have to call Harrison to come and

get you. You don’t want that, do you?”

Virginia turned without a word and trekked around the front

of the house, then turned toward the back, out of view.

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65

Cora waited until the frail woman was out of sight. “I’m sorry

about that. She’s a dear friend of mine. But never mind that. Let’s get you settled.”

I gathered my things from the Jeep and carried them to the

front door. Cora waited just inside the foyer. She held the heavy doors for me with only one arm. When she let them go, they

slammed shut, the sound echoing through the tomb of darkness.

Cora led me through the foyer but turned in the opposite direc-

tion from that of my last visit. The hal way was long and narrow, with high ceilings, and seemed to go on forever. The wal s were

adorned with endless drawings and paintings, but I didn’t pause

long enough to real y look at any of them. The doors that dotted

the passageway were all shut tight. I was curious and wanted to

sneak a look in one, but Cora was moving quickly, even with my

suitcase in her hand. The hal way final y twisted to the right and ended in a narrow marble stairway that went down to a lower floor.

Only a few steps down, the weak lighting was obliterated. Cora

quickly descended and disappeared into the darkness. The sounds

of her shoes against the flooring became less distinct within seconds. I hesitated on the landing and was reminded briefly of that Poe story “The Pit and the Pendulum.” Stay up here in a vast,

well-decorated mausoleum, or descend down into the depths of

the unknown?

I took those marble stairs one at a time, squinting to make

out a shadow or an outline. I saw nothing. I had no idea which

THE BOOK
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JAMES

67

way Cora had gone. I put my arm out to the side until I felt a wal , rough and slightly damp. Clawlike fingers grabbed my elbow.

“I didn’t realize that you weren’t behind me,” she said. “Your

room is just down here a little bit.”

She flicked a switch on the wal , and the space became il umi-

nated. We stood at the entrance of what looked to be a very nar-

row, crude hal way. The wal s were unfinished, rough stone.

“These tunnels were original y air shafts to the root cel ar

when the house was built, but they were much smaller then. They

were opened up and made into tunnels during the mid-eighteen

hundreds, before the Civil War,” she said. “The abolitionists used to hide slaves down here. This house is full of passageways like

this. My family did some renovations over the years, had that stairway put in, but most of the house remains intact.”

“Real y?” I was genuinely interested. “It must have been fun

growing up here—all these rooms and little places to hide.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She hesitated. “When I was a girl I knew

spots where no one could find me. When my father . . .” Her voice trailed off.

The passageway was becoming narrower and more confining

as we moved along. “Your father?” I encouraged her.

“I mean my great-grandfather,” she continued. “Nathan

Monroe. He was involved in the abolitionist movement before the

war and had these tunnels built. He took in people from all over. A well-known stop on the Underground Railroad.”

I listened quietly to this history and tried to imagine what it

would be like to live for days at a time within these cramped wal s.

“You don’t have to come through these tunnels to get to your

room, of course,” she went on. “You can walk around the perimeter of the house to the back; this is just a shortcut.”

She stopped talking as we came to a small door. She took a

set of keys out of her pocket and unlocked it. The door was heavy, 68

ELLEN J. GREEN

and the hinges creaked when she pushed it open. We stood at the

bottom of a steep, narrow staircase.

“It’s just up these stairs, here.”

She climbed to the top with ease and opened the adjoining

door. When I reached the landing, my eyes widened with surprise.

The room, situated on the corner of the house, was spacious and

comfortable. The stone had been cut away along the sidewall to

accommodate three large windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves

and a display of art covered all available wall space. Dominating the center of the room were a brocade sofa and matching love seat in a soft, creamy color. French doors opened out onto a small patio.

“Cora, this is beautiful.”

The corners of her mouth rose slightly. “I’ll show you the

bedroom.”

I followed. A large antique four-poster bed with a canopy filled

one side of the room.

“This is so much more than I expected,” I said.

“These rooms were once a meeting place for my great-

grandfather and his supporters. They would sit in here and plan

strategies during the war. It also provided a place to wash and toilet, for the colored people.”

I winced at her choice of words.

“As a girl,” she continued, “I used to come here . . . it was so

quiet. Of course, this space was different then. No windows at al , completely closed in so you couldn’t see it from the outside. It was just this room and a washroom. I redid them as guest quarters.

Rebuilt it al , real y. Opened it up. I don’t have a separate guest cottage, so this is it.”