Writ on Water (32 page)

What was it that Oscar Wilde had said? Something about it being
“always with the best intentions that the worst deeds are done”?

But violation or not, she still needed to know what was beyond the door. For her sake—and for Rory's—she had to know.

“Mmmmrrreeoooow.”
Roger batted at her leg, chastising her for the delay.

Chloe shoved the old iron key in the lock and turned it hard, though the force was unnecessary. The lock opened without a sound.

She laid a hand against the panel and pushed steadily. The dead moss bandage tore with an unpleasant noise somewhere between shredding cloth and ripping paper. Above her, the oaks shuddered and moaned.

Beyond the door there was only gloom, darkness barely relieved by the odd green light that filtered through the leafy canopy overhead. She looked first at the door. It bore no sign of damage under the moss. No one had attacked it with a crowbar or shovel. It was pristine except for the yellowed moss. If anyone had gotten inside, they had used a key.

Next, she peered at the floor. Her nose had grown sensitized to the smell of death, and sure enough it was there. Small deaths, but many of them. A greedy arachnid had set up its web near the door and spread its silk trap with gay abandon. The ants and other crawling insects had provided it with a smorgasbord, and evidence of its gluttonous feasting littered the floor.

Why were there ants in this old tomb? There should be nothing left for them to eat here.

She watched the giant web billow with the in-rush of damp air. There was no eight-legged horror in it now. Still, she loathed it. Avoiding the sticky trap, Chloe pushed the door wider and stepped into the crypt.

Roger immediately followed. He was not fastidious about the treacherous silk but trudged right through, dragging the chitin-encrusted cerement behind him. She tried hard to suppress the image but still thought of a shrouded zombie lurching from the grave.

As expected, there were three brick vaults in the wall. All were cloaked with cobwebs, some old and
gray and some new and white. The first two openings were bricked up in an intricate pattern that resembled the herringbone of a wool coat. The powdery mortar beyond the ancient, abandoned webs was crumbling from the years of intense summer heat, and in some places was missing altogether. There were no obvious markers to tell her which grave belonged to Edana and which to Calvin, and she did not look for them. The long dead Patricks were not what brought her there.

Chloe forced herself a step closer to the third crypt, where Roger sat covered in wisps of gray cobweb. This one didn't belong. It had been bricked up in a less careful manner, the style a simple running bond. She didn't need to peer closely beyond the new silken veil to see that the mortar on this vault was fresh and covered with more dead
weberi
moss, which—so damningly when one knew the truth—didn't like to grow on stone but looked so wonderfully aged when it was dead.

So, now she knew.

Unable to think coherently about what she had found, Chloe looked at her watch and tried to make sense of the glowing numbers. Finally she was able to arrange them into a familiar pattern and understand that she had less than an hour until the memorial service. She needed to go back to the house, return the keys to MacGregor's desk, and then change back into her black dress and stockings.

Carefully, she retrieved the cat and locked the
old black door behind her. She did her best to mend the shredded moss, then laid several long creepers over the sill. She didn't know which she was doing; hiding the evidence of her trespass, or simply hiding the tomb and its residents.

“Come on, Roger,” she whispered, her vocal chords sounding rusty and pained. “We have to go now.”

As though he understood her and was now content, the cat started down the path to the cemetery gate. Chloe followed close on wooden legs. Around her, the trees and creepers shivered as the wind whispered through them.

Rory's restless eyes continued searching for Chloe even as his head nodded automatically to Roland Lachaise's reminiscences about his father. He had been looking for her since they returned from the church. They had been separated at the chapel and other than seeing her climb into a car with Roland, he had not had so much as a glimpse of her since.

Determined to find her, Rory planted himself in the center of the music room where he could see all doors. It was an odd place to receive condolences, but he didn't care, for his vigilance was finally rewarded with a glimpse of Chloe descending the main stairs. She looked exceedingly pale and her gaze was unfocused as she pushed politely through the crowd that chattered in the foyer.

Rory felt a piercing guilt that he had left her so much on her own while dealing with the minutiae
of death. Obviously, MacGregor's demise had affected her tremendously. He shouldn't be surprised at this. After all, she had been willing to withhold what she thought was important information from the police because of her affection for his father. Rory experienced another small twist of pain. This felt more like jealousy, though, than guilt over his behavior, and it angered and shamed him that he had slipped so far as to become illogical. Chloe had clouded his judgment.

The fact of the matter was that he didn't know what she would do now that MacGregor was gone. In spite of their being lovers, large parts of her were held back from him. Would her vow of silence remain? Would she stay at Riverview? And if she did, would it only be to finish her job—a job he wanted stopped? The cemetery could never be added to that national database. It had to remain hidden, forgotten.

“Lovely memorial, my boy! MacGregor would have adored all the attention. I am glad that so many of his friends could come.”

Rory nodded again, ignoring Roland, eyes still on Chloe.

The services had been simple and well attended by local people, but he hadn't a clue what had actually been said. Rory had focused all his attention on the flowers at the altar, the smell of hot wax, gladiolas and spicy stock filling the air with the expected ritualized scents of death. Whatever lies—or even truths—the young priest said of
MacGregor were irrelevant to him. One greater truth had superceded them all.

It was the reality that would likely take Chloe from him if she ever discovered it. It was the mark of Cain on the Patricks. It made him feel guilty whenever he was near her. He didn't know if he could bear to see her face if she ever knew the truth of what had really happened. How could he stand to watch the affection fade from her eyes and fill up instead with fear and loathing?

Rory grimaced. He should have sent her away immediately. Now it was too late. She was involved up to her pretty little neck, her innocence forever spoiled by knowledge she shouldn't have.

Regardless of his feelings and his father's wishes, he knew what he needed to do. It would have to wait until all the guests were gone. Only Roland was staying at the house, but the man was observant and in tight with Morag. It was better to wait until there were no outside witnesses. Still, with Chloe so insistent and curious about everything in the cemetery, Claude would soon have to be moved somewhere else—perhaps into the river when the tide was high and the waters raging.

Then, they would see what happened—if Chloe could let the matter of Claude's disappearance go. If she couldn't . . . Though he hated to even consider the other options, he would have to decide what else to do about Chloe. The list of choices was short and unpleasant.

License my roving hands, and let them go.
—John Donne

The storm was a wild threnody, the rain a canorous violence that cleansed the land. Chloe sat curled in the wingback chair by the window and watched the heavens explode with brilliant light while the rain beat out its violent dirge against the old glass that still refused it entrance. She debated for a while about whether to go out into the storm herself to attempt purification by stormy baptism, but she had decided that it was fire that would burn the ugliness out of her mind. She knew now what she was going to do. She was simply waiting for the rest of the house to retire to bed before seeking Rory out.

Chloe smiled a little as she thought of Roland's favorite maxim—it was from
Ecclesiasticus: “Let thy speech be brief, comprehending much in a few words.”
It was apt. What she wanted from Rory was at once very simple and very complicated.
Words had many shadings—one could even lie by omission. And to ask for the truth was no help. Truth was a chimera. There were so many kinds of truth: religious truth, statistical truth, moral truth, legal truth, emotional truth. . . .

It was only the last one that she was concerned with tonight. And to know what Rory truly felt would not require any words. Indeed, words would probably only confuse the situation.

Once this question was answered, then she could decide which other truths—legal, moral, and so on—she wished to address. If she were lucky, the flames would be hot enough that nothing would rise from their ashes and there would be no more decisions to be made.

She watched the light show as it retreated into the distance, then listened to the wind's melodious howling for a few minutes more before it also faded away. Then she stood up and went to find her slippers. The floor beneath her feet was chill and vaguely damp and she disliked the feeling. It reminded her too much of her now familiar nightmare about the bitterly cold ground swallowing her legs as it gulped her down into the bony soil. She would not be able to enjoy Rory if she could not ignore the dream.

Chloe paused at the armoire, hearing footsteps in the hall. The tread was familiar, though quieter than it was during the day. The mountain had come to Mohammad.

Chloe exhaled and turned to face the door. The
latch lifted, and as though summoned by her thoughts, Rory stepped silently inside her borrowed room. At first he was a shadow, but soon proved to be not just a wishful dream but the man of flesh and blood.

She moved toward him quickly, unable to suppress a small involuntary cry. The door closed and in an instant they were on the floor, which no longer seemed cold. Hot hands were beneath her robe, stroking skin as though they were in a speed trial that required him to touch all surface area in a limited amount of time. He seemed as wild as the storm, as rough and as charged with unexploded energy as the air outside the house.

The tie at her waist was pulled from its loops and the overlapping panels shoved open. She had not bothered with a nightgown, coy seduction playing no part in her plans for the evening.

Though she had not intended to speak, a few words slipped unbidden from her lips as she pushed his discarded slacks to the side. “It's about damn time,” she muttered, sinking her fingers into his hair. The auburn blaze was hidden by the tract of darkness provided by the bed's high mattress, but she could feel the familiar texture of silken fire beneath her hands. It wasn't something that she would ever forget. He was burned into tactile memory.

Rory laughed silently, and paused long enough in his inventory of her torso to drop a kiss on her nose. “Sorry. I was unavoidably detained.”

“By a flying saucer full of emasculating aliens?” she suggested with a trace of sarcasm. “Nothing less will do. It's been
days
. I was beginning to think that I was the world's worst lover.”

Rory smiled at her, his teeth showing white. “I wish it was something so exotic. No, it was Morag, then Roland, then Sheriff Bell—and it was me.” He groaned then and lowered his head to her neck and then down to her breasts. Chloe let him go. “I was being an idiot, trying to stay away until the time was right.”

“That was idiotic all right, but possibly you couldn't help it.” She managed this concession. She had forgotten that the police would still be actively looking for Claude; they wouldn't stop and mourn with the Patricks. If anything, MacGregor's death might make them twice as annoying. Rory was the last Patrick who might know anything about his cousin.

“But it wasn't only that which kept me away, I swear it. Everyone has come to Riverview to see me tonight. Do you think there is a conspiracy to keep us apart?” he asked as he turned his head from side to side, sampling her flesh with tiny nips and then dragging his cheek along the path of his assault.

Chloe laughed without humor. “Oh, yes. There's a conspiracy and I know the members—only I wasn't asked to join because it's a males-only club. No girls allowed.”

Rory paused for one instant, surprised by her
answer. “Yes, maybe there has been a conspiracy,” he said. “But it's been disbanded. I won't be that foolish again.”

After that, he didn't speak another word.

The floor was abandoned in favor of the bed's comfort. Chloe had always known of Rory's strength. She had watched him lift and carry his father up a long flight of stairs, but it was still amazing when he stood up from the floor with her weight suspended in his arms and not giving so much as a grunt.

It was all in the configuration of tendons, she told herself. She could go to the gym and lift weights for a dozen years, but she would never have that kind of strength in her body. Her weaker joints would not allow it.

The sense of helplessness that being lifted into the air engendered was at once terrifying and also arousing. In punishment for causing her new fear, she bit Rory on the shoulder. He rolled, pulling her on top of him. The invitation was plain and she accepted gladly. Down she slid, enveloping him, taking him all the way into her and stretching her legs out until their pelvises ground together, increasing the pressure on her abdomen and in turn upon Rory.

Chloe laughed, this time breathlessly, and asked: “Did you ever name it?”

“It?” he asked.

“You
membrum virile
,” she said, contracting her inner muscles. “The one-eyed cyclops, the—”

“I follow you. I thought that you and Richard had been formally introduced.” He stopped speaking as she contracted her muscles again.