The Dark of Summer

“Gwyn!” the ghost called after her.

And Ben, not hearing that other-worldly plea, cried, “Gwyn, what's gotten into you.”

She did not answer either of them, did not look back until, as she neared the bottom steps, she heard Ben scream behind her. She whirled in time to see him falling, head over heels, thumping rudely from step to step by the rail, clawing out for support — and then coming to a brutal and final stop. His head caught between two stairs railings, twisted and sheet-white, breaking his neck. His face was streaked with blood, his eyes bulging, more blood running from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, God,” Gwyn said.

The ghost, smiling, stooped by the body. “He's dead,” she said. “Well, he'll be happier now.”

Madness?

Reality?

The dead girl stood again and started down the steps. “Well,” she said, “you've already reached the bottom, safely enough. We'll have to look for some other way for you to reach your end. But there are plenty, dear, so don't fret. And it'll be less painful than his end was, I assure you.”

Gwyn turned and ran along the hallway, deeper into the dark manor house, alone with the dead girl, so terrified now that she could not even cry, and could barely draw a breath. Madness…?

TWENTY-TWO

The Kettle and Coach, on the outskirts of Calder, was more crowded than usual, and considerably rowdier than the Barnabys liked it, though neither was put out by the cloud of cigarette smoke that hung over the cocktail lounge, or by the roar of conversation that, by its very volume, almost ruled out conversation. They actually seemed to enjoy the close quarters, the hustle and the bustle, and they had a smile and a few words for almost everyone they saw. After all, the more contacts they made, the more sound their alibi for the evening.

From the cocktail lounge, they went into the dining room, where they ate a leisurely dinner, accompanied by a bottle of good wine and a lot of unimportant business talk between Will and Edgar Aimes. It was near the end of this dinner that waiter brought a message from the cocktail lounge.

“Mr. Barnaby?”

Will looked up, smiled. “Yes?”

“A phone call, sir. You can take it in the lounge.”

“Thank you.”

“Business?” Edgar Aimes asked.

“Our friend Mr. Morby, I should imagine.” He smiled at Mrs. Aimes, who had no idea who Mr. Morby was and never would. He said, “You will excuse me,” as if she were the only important person at the table.

His special attention took her mind off Morby. She flushed and said, “Of course, Will.”

He followed the waiter to the lounge and had the proper telephone pointed out to him, tipped the waiter a dollar, waved away the man's profuse thanks, and stepped into the glass booth, drawing the folding door tight shut behind him.

“Hello?”

“Morby here.”

“How are things?”

“The job is finished. I thought you'd like to know that it went well, as smoothly as it could have.”

Barnaby smiled. “I bet those tramps were screaming their heads off, eh?”

“I wouldn't know,” Morby said. “I don't stick around to see how a job affects anyone.”

“Well, I would have,” Barnaby said, chuckling.

“And you'd never last in a profession like this,” Morby said, without rancor, as a man might say the sun will rise in the morning.

“Perhaps you're right.”

“Of course I am,” Morby said. “And if you've any work for me in the future, don't hesitate to call.”

“I won't.”

Morby hung up.

By the time he got back to the dinner table, Barnaby was feeling like a million bucks, or better. And if the second half of tonight's plans were running to schedule, he'd actually be worth far more than a measly million, in just a few months time.

The young fisherman was not going to back down from his position, and the longer he held to it, the more he stirred up the men who were listening to him. His name was Tom Asher, and he swore that the Princess Lee had not been ripped open by an explosion in her fuel tanks nor by any gas fumes trapped in a lower hold. He said, “It was plastic explosives, as sure as I stand here. I was in Vietnam eighteen months, and I saw that kind of blow-up a hundred times. If it'd been a gasoline explosion, from the start, you'd have had a fireball, a big mushrooming effect. But this was compact and neat, ripping right through the top and right through the bottom of the boat. The fireball, what there was of it, came later, when the gas tanks went. You could see that, a second explosion a few seconds after the first. And from the smallness of the fireball, I'd say her fuel tanks were nearly empty. No, it wasn't an accident. It was a shaped charge, a planned blow-up.”

Jack Younger (the elder), was a squat, muscular man with a full gray beard and bushy sideburns, a chest like half a barrel and arms as thick as the limbs of large oak trees. He was the strongest of the fishermen, and he was the most reasonable as well. Right now, he felt as if he were the only thing holding back a second explosion that might be far more damaging than the first.

He said, “Tom, you can't seriously be saying that the Princess Lee was sabotaged?”

“I'm saying it,” the young fisherman told him.

“But who would do a thing of that sort?” Younger asked.

His son stood next to him, a pace or two behind.

He admired his father immensely, and he could usually expect him to win out in any contest of fists or wits. Tonight, however, it was evident to Younger (the younger) that Tom Asher was going to carry the largest part of the group with him.

“I've already named the culprit,” Asher said.

The other fishermen murmured agreement.

What was left of the Princess Lee had burned and sunk in the water of the Niche and had not set fire to any of the other ships, thanks to the quick reaction of all present. Now, the campfire had died down too, and they were all illuminated by an eerie red glow that left the tops of their faces swathed in darkness and turned their chins the color of blood.

“Barnaby?” The elder Younger asked.

“Yes. Who else?”

“But, Tom, use your sense. Why would he resort to some stunt like this, when we must be out of here in another month anyway?”

“That man's not sane,” someone behind Asher said.

“He's nuts,” Asher agreed. “You can't ever say what a nut is going to do — or why.”

“You don't become a millionaire if you're nuts,” Younger cautioned them, wagging a finger like their father.

“Now, Jack,” Asher said, “you know Barnaby was born a millionaire. He didn't have to earn it, not a penny. He's still nuts, I say.”

“But where's your proof?” Younger insisted.

“Aboard the sunken Princess Lee,” Asher said. “The state police will find fragments of the plastic explosives.”

“And will that lead back to Barnaby?”

“It may. That stuff's not easy to get.”