Still, as Charlotte climbed the porch steps, an odd shiver raced up her backbone and she quickly glanced around, feeling as if someone might have come up behind her. But no one was there, and she again let out a breath.
She turned back to the door and rapped several times with the knocker. When no one answered, she knocked again, and this time she heard a loud click as the door popped open about an inch.
“Hello?”
Charlotte waited, thinking that someone would open the door and invite her in, but nothing happened. She reached out and gave the door a nudge. It swung open and she called out again. “Hello? Is anyone here? Claire?” She stepped inside. “It’s Charlotte.”
She closed the door and took a few steps across the foyer. “Where is everybody?”
“In here, dear.”
Charlotte jumped at the unexpected voice, then followed it into a large parlor. A woman in a wheelchair sat in front of the windows, backlit by the fading rays of the sunset. She had short gray hair and thin shoulders, and she sat with a shawl draped over her legs. Charlotte’s initial impression of the woman was fleeting, because the moment she walked into the parlor, her attention was caught by all the dolls.
She turned, glanced around. They were everywhere.
“They are a bit much, aren’t they?” the woman said with a soft laugh. “I can’t bear to part with them, though. They’ve become a part of my family.”
“I can see why. They’re very lifelike.” Eerily so. Charlotte gave the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for Claire Doucett. She’s my sister.”
“Oh, yes. My name is Savannah Sweete.”
“You’re the doll maker.”
She smiled. “Yes.”
Claire hadn’t mentioned that the woman was in a wheelchair. Not that it mattered, of course, but Charlotte was caught a little off guard. “Is Claire still here? I saw her car in the driveway.”
“She went upstairs to bring down some files. Won’t you sit down while you wait for her?”
“Maybe I should just run up and let her know I’m here.” Charlotte was already half turned toward the doorway. She heard the wheelchair squeak, and when she swung back around, she saw the shawl fall from Savannah Sweete’s lap as the woman stood. Then she lifted her hand and slowly removed the wig from her head.
It took only an instant for Charlotte to process the strange tableau, and then cold fear shot through her bloodstream.
“Who are you?”
He smiled. “I’m the Dollmaker.”
Everything hit Charlotte at once, in a sudden flash of comprehension. The Dollmaker…the one who had created a doll that looked like Ruby. Charlotte didn’t know how she could be so certain, but she knew without a doubt that she was staring into the eyes of Ruby’s kidnapper. Her killer.
Terror twisted like a rope in Charlotte’s chest. “Where’s Claire?”
He was still smiling as he walked toward her.
Charlotte turned and lunged across the foyer, but the door had locked behind her. Frantically, she tried to find the release, then whirled, searching for another way out. She was too late. He’d had plenty of time to come up behind her, but he didn’t attack. He just stood there still smiling.
Up close, his face was thin and delicate, and seemed frozen in place, like a piece of clay. His body beneath the khaki trousers and light blue shirt was gaunt, and he had high cheekbones, a wide forehead, eyes the color of turquoise. Like Ruby’s.
Charlotte forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. She had to keep her panic under control. Her life depended on it, and so might Claire’s. “You took her, didn’t you? You’re the one who kidnapped Ruby.”
His smile was taunting, and chilled Charlotte’s blood, even as her rage exploded. Something snapped inside her and she flew at him, pounding his face and chest with her fists.
“Where’s Claire? What have you done to her, you sick bastard?”
She kept hitting him, and he stumbled back against the wall. He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight back, didn’t do anything except stand there absorbing her punches.
A warning went off in Charlotte’s brain a split second before she felt a hard pressure in her abdomen, a searing pain, as if her insides were being ripped out with a hot poker. She staggered back, glanced down and saw a red stain seeping through the silk of her suit.
She still didn’t know what had happened until she looked up and saw the dripping blade in the Dollmaker’s hand.
Thirty
The table was set with Maddy’s favorite tea set, and the Dollmaker smiled as he sat cross-legged on the floor, admiring all the pretty packages. Now that he had everything cleaned up, he could relax for a while and enjoy the party.
His gaze went around the table. Maddy was at the end, of course, because the party was in her honor. Like Maddy, the other children were attired in their prettiest party dresses, their smooth, painted faces aglow in the light from the candles on the cake. Everything was perfect. Just like the photograph. Just like his memories.
The only difference this time was the flowers. Instead of camellias, he’d placed one of his orchids in the pretty glass bowl he’d purchased at the gallery from
The child sat quietly at the end of the table. She didn’t say a word, but her solemn little eyes watched his every move. She didn’t ask to go home anymore. They all stopped asking at some point, and that’s when the eyes became empty, the face a blank canvas. That’s when he knew it was time.
Actually, it was past time. He should have had the sixth doll completed by now, but his loneliness had caused him to delay the process longer than he normally would have. He’d put himself needlessly at risk, but it didn’t matter now. Everything would soon be perfect once again.
Rising, he went over to the mirror and smiled at the reflection. Fingers gently stroked the long, golden curls, a hand brushed across the smooth, pink-tinted cheeks. The turquoise eyes twinkled as the mouth curved into a delighted smile. Maddy’s smile.
“There you are,” a childish voice whispered. “I told you I would find you, didn’t I?”
Turning, he walked over to his worktable and smiled at the woman who gazed up at him. Her eyes widened and she tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth.
“Don’t be afraid.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s me, Mama. Don’t you recognize me?”
The Dollmaker coated tiny strips of paper with plaster of paris, and one by one, placed them on her face, pressing and kneading with his fingertips so that when the plaster hardened, the mold would be a perfect replica of her bone structure.
A surreal sense of horror gripped Claire as she stared up at the long, golden curls, the painted cheeks on a smooth, pale face. Fear crawled through her veins. She’d been afraid as she lay alone earlier, but now she realized a terror that seemed to have no bounds.
She tried to move her arms and legs, but couldn’t muster the strength to even flutter her eyelids.
He worked quickly, almost frantically, pressing layer upon layer against her face. He covered her eyes so that she was in total darkness, and then her nose and mouth. As the plaster began to harden, Claire had to struggle for breath. In another few moments, she would suffocate, slip slowly into a cold, terrifying blackness.
