Tom Hyman (50 page)

Anne stood inside the device, more astonished than frightened.

How could the woman do something like this? What did she hope to accomplish? Was she crazy?

At first Anne didn’t know what was supposed to happen to her.

She could feel the pointed spikes in front and in back of her; but as long as she stood exactly in the middle, nothing touched her.

She looked up. There were four small airholes in the top, about six inches above her head. Except for the tiny amount of light visible through those holes, she stood in complete darkness.

After a few minutes the nature of the ordeal she faced began to dawn on her. The iron box was about two feet in width and depth and six feet in height. She could not sit, kneel, or lie down.

And the spikes prevented her from moving more than a few inches in any direction. All she could do was stand in one place. For the first hour or so, this would not seem like much of a punishment; but after three or four, the need to sit or kneel would become overwhelming. Her knees would tire and buckle, or she would faint. Then the real torture would begin.

She wondered how long the baroness dared to leave her there.

Five minutes after Genny climbed back up through the hole in the floor and repositioned the bed over it, some food was brought to her.

Two men stood in the doorway holding rubber truncheons while a third carried in a covered tray, put it on the table by the window, and hurried out.

Genny pulled the cover off eagerly to view her meal. Along with a glass of milk and a slice of black bread, there was a dish with a greasy fat sausage on it, a pile of limp, smelly cabbage, and another pile of cooked, sliced potatoes in an oily dressing. Genny consumed it all.

As soon as she had finished the meal, fatigue overcame her. She lay down on the bed and fell immediately asleep.

She awoke several hours later refreshed but still hungry. She hoped the next meal would taste better. Maybe they’d include a dessert. She loved desserts best of all. Mommy would never let her eat very many, though—only on special occasions. And she would never ever let her eat any candy. It was about the only thing about Mommy she didn’t like. Except for that, she loved Mommy more than anyone in the world.

She promised herself that she would never be mean to her or refuse to do anything she asked her to do—ever again. She would never eat another dessert in her whole life if Mommy didn’t want her to.

Genny stiffened.

The faintest trace of a familiar odor—barely a few molecules of it—tickled her nose. Excited, she rushed to the door and pressed her nose against the narrow crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. Her nostrils were overwhelmed by the scents of floor wax, stain, and various chemicals. She got up and walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. She couldn’t pick up the scent anymore.

But a few minutes later she smelled it again. She crawled under the bed and put her face over the hole in the floor. It was coming up from the secret passageway. It was very faint, but there was no mistake what it was.

Mommy was here, somewhere inside the castle!

Genny got up on the bed and jumped up and down, shrieking for joy.

Mommy was here!

She ran excitedly back and forth between the window and the door, over and over again. Finally, exhausted and out of breath, she sat back down on the bed. Why was it taking her so long?

An hour passed, and Mommy didn’t come. Finally she heard footsteps coming toward her door. Her heart started pounding so hard she thought it was going to fly out of her chest.

The door opened and she ran toward it.

The same three men had come back again. But Mommy was not with them.

They left her a dinner tray, picked up the lunch tray, and departed.

After a few minutes Genny went over to look at what was under the cover. Some kind of goulash with noodles and more cabbage. No dessert. She ate the slice of bread, drank the glass of milk, and then started to cry.

They weren’t going to let her mother come get her. She had to do something about it, right away.

Genny pulled the flashlight out from under the mattress and then pulled the down quilt off the bed. She pushed the bed aside and stuffed the quilt through the hole in the floor. Before she dropped it, she held a corner and let it fall out as far as it would go. When it was hanging straight down, she released it. It fell in a nice pile directly under the hole. She then grabbed the pillow from the bed and stuffed that through the hole as well. It landed on top of the quilt.

Now all she had to do was drop herself down on top of them.

Then she was going to find Mommy, and she and Mommy were going to get out of this awful place.

With her hands and teeth she ripped the mattress apart and made a big pile of the stuffing over by the window. She threw the mattress ticking over the loose down and feathers, then maneuvered the table across the floor until she had it centered over the pile. For good measure, she ripped the curtains from the window and dumped those on top of the table, along with the towels from the bathroom.

She was about to throw the sheets onto the pile as well when another idea occurred to her. She ripped a narrow strip from one end of a sheet, threaded it through the metal loop on the base of the flashlight, knotted it, and draped it around her neck.

Genny fetched the box of matches she had taken from the basement repair shop, then cranked the casement window open as far as it would turn. A chilly breeze blew into the room. She struck one of the matches against the side of the box and held the flame against the ticking. It went out. She tried three more. The fourth one worked. The ticking smoldered for a few seconds and then caught. A dense cloud of smoke began to darken the room.

Genny pulled the bed back into place over the hole. The longer it took them to find it, the better, she decided. She crawled under the bed, swung around, and stuck her legs down into the hole.

She turned on the flashlight and braced herself on the edge with both hands. She took one last look at the smoking pile of mattress ticking.

The mattress cover had caught, and orange flames were spreading rapidly across its surface and licking at the underside of the table.

Genny eased herself down until she was entirely through the hole, clinging to the edge of the floor by her fingers. Then she let go.

Half a dozen dogs milled around Katrina, snapping and growling.

Repeatedly she tried to get to her feet, but each time the dogs pulled her back down. Her screams continued, but they were losing volume.

Stewart could not understand why no one had come out to rescue her. He slid the safety catch on the pistol and pressed the button to roll the window down the inch or two he needed to stick the barrel out.

Nothing happened. Katrina had taken the key. Without the ignition on, he couldn’t open the windows. He looked down. One dog remained by the door, baring his teeth at him.

Stewart took a chance and opened the door a crack. The Doberman immediately pressed his muzzle through and twisted his head sideways, trying to widen the crack. Stewart placed the pistol against the dog’s head and pulled the trigger.

The explosion rocked the car and filled the interior with the acrid stink of gunpowder. The dog was gone. Stewart’s head rang.

He opened the door further and tried to aim at the dogs mauling Katrina. At this range he couldn’t shoot without risking hitting her.

He fired two shots over their heads anyway, hoping to panic them into a retreat. The dogs jumped at the noise, then continued their attack.

Her screams had subsided to a choked, sobbing wail. Stewart couldn’t stand it. He got out of the car and ran over to her. He dropped to his knees and quickly shot two of the dogs at pointblank range. He aimed at a third, but another dog clamped his jaws on Stewart’s right arm and pulled it down.

Stewart transferred the pistol to his left hand and shot the dog in the chest. More dogs came toward him. Katrina rose to her hands and knees and tried to crawl away. Her fur coat, except for a sleeve and part of the back, had been ripped off. A low gurgling moan escaped her mouth; then she was silent. One of the dogs seized the back of her neck between its jaws and pinned her down on the grass. Stewart shot the dog in the head from behind. The animal yelped and collapsed.

Katrina didn’t get up.

Stewart ran back to the car. He jammed his fist against the horn and held it there. He could see people at many of the windows, but still no one would come out.

Two more dogs ran over to Katrina’s inert form. Stewart opened the car door and fired at them. Neither bullet hit, but both animals bounded off, yipping loudly.

He counted the dead dogs. At least five. He could see five or six more lurking in the shadows behind the portico, uncertain as to their duty.

He jumped back out of the car and ran over and knelt down by Katrina.

She was unconscious but still breathing. The flesh of her face and neck showed puncture wounds and long gashes.

Blood was oozing out of her from a dozen places.

Stewart picked up a large shred of the fur coat and felt in its pocket for the key to the car. Four of the dogs came out from the shadows of the portico and moved toward him. Instead of lunging at him like the others, they were showing a little caution—and some cleverness as well. They spread out, like a hunting party, and began creeping toward him, ears back and bellies low to the ground, from four widely separated directions. He saw a fifth dog emerge at a trot from behind the portico and circle around behind the car.

Stewart grabbed two other pieces of the coat from the driveway, looking for the second pocket. He found it, but the key was not in that one, either. It must have fallen out.

He stood up, walked a few paces toward one of the advancing dogs, stopped, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.

Instead of the explosion of a departing bullet, all he heard was the dull metallic click of the firing pin striking an empty chamber.

Genny landed feetfirst on the pillow, then rolled over onto her side.

She stood up, completely unhurt, pulled the flashlight from her neck, and shined it around the floor. The sword was where she had left it.

She picked it up and started down the passageway.

She covered the length of the upper level as fast as her little legs would carry her, stopping a few seconds to hold her nose against each door, hoping to catch a trace of her mother’s scent.

She reached the end of the passage and ran down the narrow stairs to the next level below. Whatever thin traces of her mother’s presence remained in the air, they were being rapidly overwhelmed by other, newer scents. The sounds of running feet seemed to reverberate everywhere through the ceilings, walls, and floor. And she could hear loud voices now, coming from different parts of the castle. They’ve found the fire, she thought.

On the lower floor, she stopped to hoist herself up the wall and look through one of the peepholes. Lights were on. She could see the backs of women at one of the windows, watching something outside. Mommy was not among them.

Genny reached the steps leading to the basement and stopped.

Someone was coming up. She could hear heavy footsteps and see the fleeting shaft of a flashlight beam. She fled back up the stairs to the upper floor and retreated across the top level all the way to the corner. There she stopped.

The ceiling of the passageway beyond the corner was on fire.

It had already burned through the floor above and was eating its way rapidly along the ancient, dust-dry timbers and planks. While she watched, a chunk of burning wood fell on the pillow and quilt she had thrown down through the hole. The bedding burst quickly into flame.

Genny ran back down the stairs to the floor below. At the corner she switched off her flashlight and listened. The man who had come up from the basement was advancing slowly along the passageway, sweeping the dark with the beam of his flashlight.

Genny ducked her head back just before the light caught her.

She was trapped, now, between this man and the fire in the passage above. She knelt down, turned out the flashlight, gripped the sword firmly with both hands, and waited for him.

Anne tried to keep her spirits up with anger, but she could feel her strength rapidly ebbing. She shifted from one foot to the other and tried to pretend that she was going for a walk, but so close were the pointed tips of the spikes that even that minimal amount of movement brought them sharp against her flesh.

She tried using the pain by pressing her knees against the tips so that the sting of their points could stimulate her fatigued muscles. But that tactic was no longer working. Her legs were beginning to burn from the stress.

She found that if she put her arms down straight at her sides and moved them slightly back until she could wrap each hand around a spike at about mid-thigh level, she could temporarily take some of the weight off her feet.

But it was only a matter of a little more time before her legs would refuse to hold her upright.

Stewart turned and ran for the car, then stopped. One of the Alsatians had planted itself directly in front of the opened door.

The dog’s eyes were fixed on him. Its lips were drawn back, exposing its long rows of incisors in a mock grin. A guttural snarl issued from its throat.

The other dogs were patiently encircling him. He felt mesmerized, watching them. They spread out and approached him obliquely, trotting back and forth in a zigzag pattern to narrow the gaps between them so he could not slip through.

He knelt down, one eye on the dogs, and ejected the empty clip from the pistol’s grip. He laid the pistol and clip on the ground while he fumbled for the box of extra bullets in his pocket. His kneeling emboldened the dogs. They approached at a trot. He tore the box open, snatched up a handful of bullets, and started forcing them into the clip. Several spilled to the ground. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He managed to get three in the clip. The dogs were getting too close.