Now, as he realized what was happening to him, his fear released him, and a scream erupted from his throat — cut off a moment later as he pitched forward and fell.
In a flash, he remembered the story he’d heard about how Tracy’s uncle had died, long before he had even been born. It’s happening again, he thought. Just like it happened before.
In an instant that seemed to go on forever, something hard and sharp pressed against his chest, so cold it seemed to burn as it punctured his shirt, then his skin.
His own weight as he fell thrust the object into his heart, and he heard himself gasp, felt the final racking stab of pain, then heard his own blood bubbling into his lungs.
As he died, a draft of cool air blew around him, and then he smelled a familiar odor.
Smoke.
To Jeff Bailey, death smelled like smoke.…
Brett heard the soft thump of something falling, then silence closed around him once more. “Jeff?”
There was no answer. He called out again, louder, sure that his friend was trying to scare him as he had before. “Come on, Jeff. Quit fooling around.”
Still there was no answer, and Brett took a tentative step down the stairs.
And then, a chill passing through him, he was suddenly certain that Jeff was not fooling around. Turning, he dashed toward the door they had come through twenty minutes earlier, hurled it open, and charged out into the gathering dusk.
“Help!” he yelled. “Somebody help me!” In panic, he began running toward the street in front of the mill.
“All right, son,” Sergeant Peter Cosgrove said a few minutes later. “Just try to calm down, and tell me where your friend is.”
“D-down there,” Brett quavered. He pointed down the stairs, now brightly lit by the worklights that were strung throughout the building. “Something happened to him. I … I don’t know what.”
Cosgrove’s partner, Barney Jeffers, trotted down the stairs, a flashlight in his hand. A moment later, as he flashed his light around the darkness of the basement, they heard him swear. At the same moment, brakes squealed outside, then an ambulance crew with a stretcher hurried through the door.
“Over here,” Cosgrove called. He turned his attention back to Brett. “You stay right here, son. I’m gonna find a light for the basement. Okay?”
Brett nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on the staircase. What seemed like an eternity later, the lights in the basement suddenly flashed on, and he could see Jeff lying on the basement floor. Blood, mixed with dirt, soaked his shirt, and the stillness of death lay over him like a shroud. Brett’s stomach heaved, and he turned away.
“What do you think?” Cosgrove asked Jeffers half an hour later. The ambulance was gone, and they were standing at the top of the stairs while a crew worked below, photographing the site and searching for evidence. Cosgrove was ninety-percent certain they wouldn’t find anything.
“Same as you,” Jeffers replied. “I think the Kilpatrick kid was telling the truth. Looks to me like the boy went down to look around, couldn’t see anything, and tripped. If he’d been anywhere else, he might have skinned his knee. As it was, he landed on that pick.”
“What the hell was it doing lying there?” Cosgrove muttered angrily.
“You want to charge someone with criminal negligence?” Jeffers inquired.
“I’d love to,” Cosgrove replied, his voice tight. “But who do you charge? Might just as well charge the Bailey boy. If he hadn’t been trespassing—”
“It was an accident,” Jeffers interrupted. “Sometimes things happen, Pete. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Cosgrove sighed, letting the tension drain from his body. “I know,” he agreed. “But it’s weird, too, you know?”
“Weird?” Jeffers echoed.
Cosgrove looked around, his eyes surveying the interior of the mill. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird. All my life, I’ve heard stories about this place, and how dangerous it is. Stupid stories. So now they’re fixing it up, and what happens? They aren’t even done, and we already got someone dead. That’s what I call weird.”
Jeffers looked at his partner curiously. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”
Cosgrove shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “You didn’t grow up here, like I did. Something like this happened once before. Must have been forty-odd years ago. That time it was Phillip Sturgess’s brother. Conrad Junior.”
Barney Jeffers frowned. “You mean he died? Here in the mill?”
“Not just in the mill, Barney,” Cosgrove said darkly. “Right here. At the bottom of the stairs.”
Jeffers uttered a low whistle. “Jesus. What happened?”
“That’s the thing,” Cosgrove went on. “No one ever found out. No one ever knew if it was an accident, or murder, or what. But it was just like this one.” He fell silent for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Weird,” he muttered. “It’s just — well, it’s weird, that’s all.”
Then, his face grim, he started toward the patrol car, bracing himself for what was ahead. He was about to call Jeff Bailey’s parents to tell them their son had died in the mill, a pickax through his heart.
10
Hannah was in the midst of serving dessert when the telephone rang. Carolyn slid her chair back and started to stand up, but Abigail’s voice, quiet yet firm, made her sink back into her chair. “Hannah will get it.” Silently, Hannah placed the pie she had been serving on a sideboard, and left the room. A moment later she came back.
“It’s for Mr. Phillip. It’s the police, and they say it’s an emergency. I explained you were in the middle of dinner, but they insisted—”
“It’s all right, Hannah,” Phillip said. “I’m sure it’s important.” He turned to his mother. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Abigail glared at her son. “Really, Phillip, it’s most impolite of them to call you now. I simply don’t understand—”
“Maybe you will, after I talk to them,” Phillip interrupted. “Go ahead with dessert.”
When he was gone, Abigail turned her attention to Carolyn. “You simply must learn a few rudimentary things, Carolyn. First, it’s very impolite to call people during the dinner hour. There is, however, little we can do to stop
From the corner of her eye, Carolyn saw Tracy’s smirk, but ignored it. Beth, intently studying her plate, appeared suddenly to have found something fascinating in her pie. Smiling tightly, Carolyn patted Abigail’s hand. “I’ll try to remember that, Abigail,” she promised as the old woman jerked away as if she’d been burned. “But suppose Hannah weren’t here? Suppose it were her day off?”
“One of the other servants—” Abigail began, then abruptly fell silent as she remembered that there were no other servants. “In that case,” she finally admitted, her voice stiff, “I suppose one of us would have to answer it.”
Score one for our side, thought Carolyn as Tracy’s smirk faded and a tiny smile played around the corners of Beth’s mouth. In silence, the four of them began eating their pie. After four or five minutes that seemed to Carolyn like an eternity, Phillip returned, his expression grim.
“I have to go downtown,” he informed them.
“Now?” Abigail immediately asked. “Surely whatever it is can wait until we’ve finished dinner?”
