Winds of terror (3 page)

fused, but she shook her head slowly as she said, "I can't leave, Mark. Aunt Addie needs me. And I promised my mother I would repay Addie for her generosity to us when we needed it so desperately. I don't have money, but I can give her love and good care.**

"Don't say I didn't warn you, cousin," he said through clenched teeth, giving her one final shake. "Don't say that I didn't warn you to leave this place. My brother will never rest until his death is avenged. You may be assured of that fact**

He turned and began walking down the hall with quick steps. A tremor of apprehension went through Melanie, and she ran and caught up with him and clutched at his sleeve desperately.

"Are you telling me that you plan to get even with Aimt Addie for your brother's death? Is that what you are saying, Mark?" An icy stab of fear went up and down her spine as he looked at her with the coldest eyes she had ever seen.

When he spoke, his voice matched his eyes: "I won't have to, Melanie. My brother will do that. He will seek and get his own revenge. And he will deal with anyone who gets in his way. Remember that And do not say that you were not warned."

Mark left her then, and she did not try to stop him. Something within told her it was useless. Now a shroud of fear settled down upon her, chilling her as the house was chilled—^not with the remnants of winter, but with the icy fear of something unknown and sinister.

Chapter 3

She closed the door behind her and looked about the room that was to be hers for the duration of her stay. The heavy, old furniture, with oraate carvings, was covered by a thick layer of dust. There was a double bed, a faded crocheted spread, a nightstand with an old porcelain pitcher and washbowl, and a deeply grained dresser, its oval mirror dark with age.

Melanie lay down for a while, but her thoughts were too jumbled to allow her any rest. Finally, when she could stand the silence of the room no longer, she got up and went downstairs to find Mark. He was nowhere about, so she wandered through the first floor of the once-familiar house.

Beyond the living room, there was the formal dining room, where she and her cousins had been allowed to eat with the rest of the family only on special occasions. Other times, they had sat in the kitchen with Hilda.

The kitchen was enormous, with its huge stove and oven that once had been used to feed the entire plantation. Melanie closed her eyes and conjured up a picture of Hilda poking chunks of firewood as bits of a fat old hen and thick, juicy dumplings bubbled in a big cauldron. Later, at the back door, the field hands were spooned individual portions of the delicious treat, accompanied by rosy-pink sweet potatoes, a scoop of fresh-churned butter melting on top. And there would be crispy homemade biscuits and hot apple pie, from apples picked right out in the orchard* She smiled in remembrance. When Uncle Hartley had been alive, there had been happy times.

Melanie went from the kitchen into the tiny room at

the very back of the house. Though it had always been sparsely furnished, now it was stripped of everything that might suggest anyone had ever occupied it. It was a lonely room now that Hilda was no longer there.

Nearby, on the first floor there was a sewing room where the women had sat at night with their mending baskets while the men gathered, with their brandy and their cigars, before the fireplace, to talk politics and crops. Now it was as unused as the rest of the house seemed to be.

Feeling sad, Melanie returned to the livmg room and warmed her hands in front of the dying fire. Glancing above the mantel, she smiled at the Confederate flag that still hung there proudly, now faded and worn with age. She remembered very clearly the story Uncle Hartley had liked to tell about his father, Vernon Beecher, and that flag.

Although Vernon Beecher had been too young to go to war with the local menfolk, he had done his best to do a man's job by helping his mother in his father's absence. One night the Yankees came. Vernon, his mother, and his younger brother and sister huddled in terror beside the fireplace. The Yankees did not bother to knock; they kicked down the front door, and charged into the room, their swords drawn. Three of them, in their blue uniforms, stood there, questioning Vernon's mother while their comrades searched the house for food and for any Rebel soldiers who might be hiding.

When one of the soldiers spied the flag above the mantel, he pointed his sword at Vernon. "Take that down, boy!" he ordered. "Get it down—now!"

Enraged and indignant, Vernon leaped upon the stool beside the fireplace. His father, who was off fighting for the Confederacy, had placed that flag above the fireplace the night before he went away. Never would Vernon take it downl Never! He would sooner die!

"I'll wave it over your head, you damn Yankee!" he screamed in outrage. He grabbed the flag and began waving it back and forth.

Quickly, the enemy soldier's surprise was replaced by uncontrolled fury. The Yankee soldier, his face contorted with rage, raised his sword above his head, and just as the sword was about to slice downwards, a Yankee ojQScer appeared in the doorway.

"Stop!" he thundered at his subordinate. "We don't kill children, soldier!"

Although the Yankees stole all their food, that night Vernon Beecher had saved something worth far more to him. Over the years, his son, Hartley, had told the tale of his father and that flag proudly.

"Lost in thought again?" Melanie turned to see Mark watching her from the doorway.

"I was thinking of the story about the flag. I always loved to hear Uncle Hartley tell it. He'd almost burst with pride."

Mark shrugged. "He probably made it all up. Todd never believed it"

"Todd didn't believe anyone," she said with displeasure. "He always wanted to be the center of attention, and, to his way of thinking, no one else ever deserved to be in the spotlight."

The look Mark gave her said he knew she was right, but he mumbled, "Todd is dead, Melanie. You shouldn't talk that way."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," she agreed. "Forgive me. Tm just afraid my memories of my cousin are not very pleasant. He hated me because Aunt Addie always fussed over me when my mother brought me to visit. Aunt Addie gave me presents, and Todd didn't Uke that. He taunted me, teased me, and he made fim of me for being adopted. And he called me a dirty name. At the time, I didn't know what that name meant, but it hurt just because of the sound of his voice when he said it. Later on, when I found out the meaning, I felt hurt and ashamed."

She thrust her chin up. It didn't matter anymore. The past was gone. She had sad memories, but she had happy memories, too—memories of Robert and the happiness they had shared. There had been love—oh, so much love— and some of it always would remain in her heart to keep her warm when loss and grief made her feel cold with pain.

"Enough of the past," Mark said nervously. "Todd had his evil ways, but—"

"But what?" She whirled around angrily. "I want to ask you something, Mark. Just why did you take so much off of him all those years? He could make you take the blame for anything he did, and you never said a word. Just what kind of a hold did he have on you? I've always wondered, Mark, just what kind of spineless person you were."

His eyes flashed with anger; his face colored; and, for a

moment, he just glared at her. Then he seemed to crumple, and, in the place of anger was a look of defeat.

"I don't know, Melanie," he attempted to explain. "Todd just had a way about him that made me unable to fight back. Oh, I tried a couple of times, when we were real little. I told on him, or I refused to take the blame for something he did, but he beat me up pretty bad. The more I told on him, the worse he would beat me. Finally, I just :got so scared of him that I decided anything Mom and Dad did to me couldn't be as bad as the things he did. Once he even put spiders in my bed.''

His laugh was brittle. "I guess I am spineless."

"Well, it's over," Melanie sighed, wanting to change the subject. "Will you take me downtovm so I can do the marketing?"

"Sure thing. I was going to take you up to meet Cale, but he's asleep. He's anxious to meet you."

Mark had driven a 1952 Chevrolet to the front of the house. It was beautiful, and Melanie almost felt Uke royalty as she sat on the tufted upholstery. She had never ridden in a new car before. When she commented on how nice it was, Mark explained that it was Cale who had talked Aunt Addie into buying it.

"The guy loves cars," he said, "And he convinced her that if she'd get the car, he'd try harder than ever to walk again so he could drive it"

"Don't the doctors know why he can't walk?" Melanie's heart went out to her twenty-four-year old cousin, forced to spend the better part of his life in a wheelchair. "Couldn't surgery help him?"

Mark shrugged. "They did all they could. The spinal cord was pinched in the accident, and they say it will have to heal itself. He may walk one day, and then again, he may not. No one knows. It's just one of those things."

Melanie did not know much about Cale. He was not part of her childhood visits to the plantation. His was a sad tale. His father, John Beecher, had been the only child of Hartley and Addie. When John was nineteen, a traveling carnival came through town, and John eloped with one of the dancing girls. Hartley and Addie were so enraged that they disinherited him, and they sent word that he could never come home again as long as he was married to that disreputable woman. A short while later, Cale was bom but even the news of the birth of their

grandchild did not move his bitter grandparents. Even when Hartley died. Addle did not even try to get in touch with her son.

"John is already dead," she had said coldly.

When Cale was twelve, there was a terrible accident in the carnival. A tent caught fire, and panic followed. A trailer housing wild animals was overturned, and the animals escaped. In the melee, Cale's mother was trampled to death, and John, thinking his wife was inside the burning tent, went after her.—He burned to death that same day.

Addie took Cale into her home, only because he had nowhere else to go. But she did not take him into her heart—at least, not then. She sent him away to a boarding school, and left him there. She sent him on to college, but, by then, she wanted him to return to run the plantation. She had mellowed some, but Cale had other ideas. He had inherited some of his mother's adventurous spirit, as well as a great love for cars. He began racing.

And then there was a bad accident. It was a miracle that Cale escaped aUve. After that, he was taken to his grandmother's home, to spend his days in a wheelchair.

The little town of Linville, fashioned with its center square, its stone courthouse, and its moldy green statue of some long-forgotten patriot, seemed exactly as it had been years before. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. Not in Linville.

Mark left Melanie at the grocery, and she went inside, eager to see people whom she had known most of her whole life. She greeted Mrs. Debnam, who had taught her in vacation Bible school, but Mrs. Debnam only smiled stiffly and said, "Nice to see you, Melanie, dear. It was nice of you to come stay a few days with your aunt"

"Oh, I'm here for good, I guess," Melanie replied, rebuffed by the cool reception.

Mrs. Debnam raised an eyebrow, and mouthed "oh" sUently, before walking away.

It was the same with all the others she met. When Mr. Proctor, the storekeeper, checked her order and acted remote, Melanie could stand it no longer.

"Mr. Proctor, just what is going on around here?" she asked with a mixture of anger and hurt feelings. "Have I got the plague or something? I was looking forward to

seeing old friends, and I thought they'd be glad to see me, too."

He looked at her quietly for a few seconds before he spoke. Then he sighed. "Melanie, honey, folks just don't think much of the Beechers anymore—not after Todd got in all that trouble, then hanged himself, and your aunt went berserk. Folks steer clear of the Beecher place, and I guess that means they're going to steer clear of you, too."

"I don't understand." She shook her head from side to side slowly, her heart pounding fearfully. "My aunt did not go berserk, and, if my cousin committed suicide, that has nothing to do with her or me or the rest of the family. Many people commit suicide. They are usually sick, disturbed, unhappy people."

"Your aunt did go berserk, Melanie," he said in a gentle voice. Though Mr. Proctor hated to contradict the yoimg woman he had known and liked for so long, he thought she needed to know the facts. Had she known them, it was highly unlikely she would have been so foolish as to get herself involved by coming here.

He leaned across the counter and whispered so no one else could hear, Melanie thought his attempt at discretion was ridiculous; obviously the whole town knew whatever it was that she didn't know.

"Hilda Hutchins, the housekeeper, was out there working then, you know," he said softly. "She was there when Todd killed himself, and the fit your aunt pitched was what made her decide to get out of the place. She'd put up with Addie Beecher's temper and mean disposition for a long time, but when she found her babbling and screaming and groveling on the floor of the bam, with Todd swinging from a rope overhead, it was just too much."

"It was obviously too much for my aunt, too.** Melanie's voice was crisp, annoyed. "She suffered a stroke."

He shrugged and lit his corncob pipe. After watching the smoke spiral upwards for a moment, he reflected: "Maybe she did, child. Maybe she was having a stroke and didn't know what she was saying when she said what she did to HUda."

Somehow, Melanie knew she wouldn't want to hear what was coming next, but Mr. Proctor was only too eager to oblige her with all the details now.

^'Your aunt said Todd was hanging there dead when she found him. She couldn't believe it, and she picked up the suicide note and was reading it, when all of a sudden, he lifted his head up from where it had been hanging limp down on his chest, and he looked at her and laughed and said he'd be back to get her, 'cause it was her fault he'd done what he did. Then he died again.''