The Dark House (39 page)

The unpaved road was narrow, and it was bounded on either side by soft shoulders of dirt that was thick with weeds. He pulled on the wheel and carefully inched around to the far edge. But when he backed, he could feel the rear of the car drop suddenly as his left rear wheel slid over the edge of the hardened surface. “Damn.” He pressed on the accelerator, but the wheel seemed only to dig in deeper. Any benign feelings toward his father faded with the realization that he absolutely did not want him—let alone Sloane—to find him here, stuck, vulnerable. He tried the gas again. Nothing. In desperation, he mashed down the accelerator one last time. The tires gave out a fierce roar, and the Nissan lurched back onto the road with a squeal. Rollins' blood surged out to his fingertips, but he hit the brakes to keep the car from slipping over the far edge. After checking the sightlines to make sure the car was not visible from the house or the approaching road, he pulled on the hand brake and climbed out.

Heart pounding, on foot he headed back down the road toward the house. After checking again to make sure there was no car in the driveway, and that no lights burned in the house, he turned in to the driveway.

It changed everything to be here. His senses were so heightened,
he somehow imagined he could hear the light glinting off the windowpanes of the old farmhouse and could feel on his own skin the scraping of the pine branches against the weather-beaten shingles.

Compared to the big house in Brookline, or his grandmother's seaside palace, the farmhouse had always seemed small. But had it always been this run-down? The trim wanted paint, the brick steps needed repointing, and the few shrubs that grew along the side of the house looked dry.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Father?”

There was no answer.

Whatever optimism Rollins had first felt upon seeing the verdant Vermont hills had left him. It was scary to be here. There were no kind spirits in this house. Rollins moved quietly across the driveway, which was sprinkled with rust-colored pine needles. He might have been a child again, creeping about. As before, the silence reminded him of how much he didn't know.

There was a small shed off to the side of the house, by some poplars. Rollins swung open the door and poked his head inside. In the dim light, he could make out various woodworking tools hanging off hooks along the far wall. Rollins had never seen his father work with his hands, except for an occasional afternoon spent washing his precious Saab. He'd always avoided all machinery, never worn work gloves. All that had fallen to Gabe. Yet on the workbench rested a large red engine with two rubber tubes attached, one of them splattered with what looked like mud. Rollins wiped away some grime from the housing with his fingers. He made out the word
HALE
in large, angled type. On the table beside it was an instruction booklet concerning the operation of a diaphragm pump, along with several wrenches, some pliers, and a pair of soiled gloves.

He stepped back out onto the driveway. “Father?” he called again. But he heard nothing except the wind swishing through the trees.

Rollins went up onto the small, screened-in porch at the front of the house and peered in the sidelights by the front door. It was so dark inside all he could see was his own dim reflection in the glass. He rapped on the door and shouted, but received no answer. He tried the
knob; it turned, and he stepped inside. “Father?” Still silence, except an occasional creak of the floorboards. As Rollins surveyed the shadowy interior, he realized that, for all he knew, his father could be lurking in the darkness like some savage.

The hallway was bare except for a throw rug across the floor. So different from when he was a child and winter clothing was scattered about. The household had never been exactly joyful, but it was usually somewhat active, and there was often a bright fire going in the hearth. Now, it was cool inside, and dark and silent.

“Hello?” he called again.

The living room was just to the right. The adults had taken their cocktails here on the chintz sofa by the old stone fireplace. Now, the room was dominated by a metal desk bearing a dusty computer with a small screen. There were some papers piled up, most of them investment-related: annual reports, newsletters, prospectuses. From what Rollins could make out, few displayed signs of any profitable business activity on his father's part.

Off to the side of the desk, however, by itself, lay a single, folded-up sheet tucked under the flap of an envelope. Rollins slid it free and opened it up. The handwriting was scrawled, and the text began without salutation:

The letter was unsigned, but Rollins had no doubt that it was from Jerry Sloane.

So he
had
made the frightening call that brought Marj to his apartment several days ago.

Rollins jerked open the desk drawers. He discovered office supplies and stationery (with
Henry P. Rollins, investment counselor
on Xeroxed letterhead), plus a few meager bills for necessities like gas and electric
ity. He checked the credit card statements: payments of under $100 a month, mostly for gasoline and groceries. To Rollins, who rarely passed a month without incurring at least $800 in restaurant bills on his American Express card, it looked as though his father had taken a vow of poverty. The incoming mail was stacked in a holder on top of the file cabinet. Rollins flipped through it. He found mostly the usual solicitations, but one envelope stopped him. It was from
JAR
in Farmington, Connecticut. It was slit open, and there was a note inside.
Perhaps this will tide you over. Call me, would you please? I can never reach you.
It was signed,
Missing you, J
. In the lower left was a notation in pencil.
Rec'ved, $2,000.00

Rollins' hand trembled to hold such an odious bill of sale. Two thousand dollars for what? A few moments of affection? Was that always his price? And was Rollins himself the product of such a bargain?

He passed through to the small room behind. The bird-filled wallpaper he'd always loved was badly water-stained in places, and there was a small TV (never allowed in his day) in the corner, plus a stack of old
New Yorker
s beside a couch. Rollins went back across the hall through the barren dining room, where oil portraits of his Arnold grandparents hung, and through the open doorway to the kitchen. The refrigerator buzzed, and the large clock over the stove ticked noisily, but otherwise the room was silent.

“Father?” he called again. Yesterday's
New York Times
was spread open across the table, and some dirty dishes were piled in the sink.

There was an answering machine on the counter below the wall phone. The message light was on. Was there a message that would explain his father's whereabouts? Rollins pressed the replay button. “You have one new message,” said a chirpy, automated voice. “First new message. Four-seventeen
P.M
.” There was a pause, and a gruff, male voice came on the line. “Hey, you there? Look, I've got some things to take care of, and I won't get to your place until nine. Be there, okay? I need to see you.” Sloane's voice.

Rollins checked his watch. It was 7:28. He had about an hour and a half.

He opened the back door, and went out onto the steps. A bad odor—manure, probably—seemed to be blowing in from the far field. Before him, on the grass, slender wickets had been set up for croquet.

 

Neely's blond hair down over her face. The mallet between her tanned legs. And Father watching.

 

“Neely?” he called out. A whisper this time, a quiet plea. But the rank smell got to him, and he turned back inside, the screen door snapping shut behind him.

He checked the front window. No car had pulled in the driveway.

Uncertainty had turned to unease, and now was deepening into an almost bottomless dread. It was the thought of Neely again, as she once was, flitting about the croquet balls. That thought in the gathering dusk, amid the silence, the poverty and the stench from the fields. That thought gave shape to the fear growing within him. Death was here, close by. He could feel it.

Where he stood in the hallway, there was a pair of large cabinets. In his mounting terror, all he could think was that they were big enough to store a body in. He grabbed the knobs, and yanked open both doors. But when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw only mops, paper plates, glass jars, and various cleaning supplies.

Farther along that same wall, a narrow door led down to the basement. As a child, Rollins used to go down sometimes with his father to replace a blown fuse in the antique fuse box at the foot of the stairs. That had been a rare thrill, a quiet acknowledgment of shared manhood. But he dreaded venturing down now, afraid of what he might find below. Still, he lifted a small flashlight off a pegboard on the adjoining wall, opened the door, and started down.

The stairs were rickety, and there were some spiderwebs in the top corners of the stairwell. He made his way down slowly, shining his light ahead of him. The old fuse box had been replaced by a more modern one in a shiny bluish case. But otherwise the basement was unchanged. It was as cold and damp as ever, and the rough stone walls were wet in places from condensation. The floor was packed earth, rock hard.
Shining the flashlight across it, he checked for any indentations or uneven places to suggest a shallow grave, just as Schecter had years before in the woods by Neely's house. If she had indeed been buried down here, the floor had long since been smoothed out over her. It was now as flat as poured concrete.

Rollins flashed his light about—to some shelves laden with dusty plates, piles of newspapers, an abandoned washing machine. In the far corner, a stack of empty cardboard boxes were heaped up. He went closer and scattered them with a kick. It took a few more swipes of his hand to clear away the last of the boxes, revealing a massive wooden crate that had been hidden within. It came up to his waist, and it bore stickers saying
FRAGILE
and
HANDLE WITH CARE
. It was not empty: When he squatted down and gave it a push, he could barely move it. Reluctantly, he brought his nose down to it, but, to his relief, he detected no particular scent. He tried to pry up the lid with his fingers. But it was sealed tight with heavy staples all the way around. Then he remembered seeing a hammer in the work shed.

Above his head, a narrow ventilation window faced the driveway. He dragged a bundle of newspapers over; standing on tiptoe, Rollins could just see out. No car had come into the driveway. He should be safe if he hurried. He climbed the stairs and ran back outside to the work shed. He quickly grabbed a hammer off the wall and dashed back down the kitchen stairs. Breathing heavily now, he pried up one of the crate's staples, then another, and another. He listened for any sounds from the house as he worked; several times, he stopped to check the basement window. Staple by staple, he made his way around two sides of the box, then three, then four. Finally, he pulled up the lid. The crate was filled with wood shavings. He plunged his hands in—and struck something cold and hard with his fingertips. He scooped out some of the shavings, and shone his flashlight in. He could see something dark inside, way down deep. He frantically dug out some more shavings, and a large, engraved card flew out with them and fluttered to the floor. He picked it up.
Cupid,
it said in flowing letters at the top. The text began:
Congratulations on your purchase of the very finest outdoor statuary available…

He'd found a large, well-packed garden ornament.

He breathed again.

Just then, Rollins heard a thump upstairs, then rapid clicks, suggesting movement. He scooped the shavings back in with both hands, then replaced the lid and piled the boxes back up over it. He held on to the hammer, just in case, and returned up the stairs. Back in the kitchen again, he checked his watch: 7:45. Sloane wouldn't have come this early, would he?

He called out: “Father? That you?” The clicking noise continued, louder now, like shoes crossing a wooden floor. The hammer up to protect himself, he went back through the dining room, then out to the hall. The house was darker now, but he didn't dare shine his light. “Father?” he called again. He looked in the sitting room—nothing. He checked the living room. The same. But the rapping sounds continued. He mounted the stairs, his heart beating madly. There were three bedrooms up there. “Father?” Then a whisper. “Neely?” It felt good—hopeful—to call her name. Perhaps she was held prisoner there. Gagged, bound. Locked in a closet.
Alive.
The sound grew louder as he rose. The click was sharper, more insistent, and he could hear a rubbing sound, too. He went into the end room, where he'd always slept as a child. The same twin beds, with their matching green bedspreads, the same red bureau. For a moment, silence. Then a heavy shape swinging toward the window and a loud crack. In the wind, a pine branch was jostling a loose shutter. Rollins relaxed the arm that held the hammer. Thoughts of Neely receded again.

His brother's room was behind him. It was identical to Rollins' own, except the bedspreads were a matching blue. Closet, bureau—empty. He glanced out the back window as he passed through. In the fading light, he could just make out a small mound of dirt in the hay field past the edge of lawn. The house was on a slight rise, giving fine views of the mountains out the back; the surrounding fields sloped down, so the mound had been hidden from the ground floor. A hose ran into the pit, which—judging by the dirt—must be barely a foot deep. It looked like the hose came up from the brook that flowed through the far trees. His father must be irrigating some new plant
ing with brook water. Hence the toolshed pump. That was all he could figure.