room—the last I’d seen her, she was drinking her stupid green tea in bed. But there she was in this major lip lock with Cap. I didn’t want them to see me, so I snuck out of there and hightailed it back to the barn.”
So then what had Devon been crying about? Her tears hadn’t seemed like the kind you shed when you are hopelessly in love with a man who might not leave his wife. She had said, “Someone knows something.” Had she been afraid Whitney had learned the truth?
“I appreciate your telling me this,” I said. “If there is any reason that it belongs in the story, and I decide to use it, I won’t mention your name. Can I get your cell number, just in case I need to reach you?”
“Sure,” she said. She dictated it as I typed it into my BlackBerry. “I appreciate your listening. There’s something creepy about her manager becoming involved with her like that. Don’t they have a name for that—a Svengali complex or something?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“I better get going. I don’t like being out of my room with all the lights out—and Devon’s body lying down there.”
I let her out and watched her tentatively make her way back down the corridor.
The wick of my candle was starting to sputter, in danger of being suffocated by a pool of hot melted wax. I quickly undressed, blew out the flame and crawled into bed. The room was pitch-black. As I lay on my back, praying for the sheets to warm, I mulled over Jane’s revelation about Cap. If it turned out someone had actually killed Devon—though I had no clue how—that meant that both Cap and Whitney were suspects. Sexual jealousy was one of the biggest motivators of homicide. I felt particularly curious about why Jane had spilled the beans. Jane hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Devon, and it was hard to believe the “I feel I should tell someone” motive.
I could sense I wasn’t going to fall asleep easily. I scooted back up in bed, and for the next hour or so, I read by the beam of the flashlight. Finally, with my eyes growing weary, I switched off the flashlight and wriggled down under the covers.
Earlier it had seemed so deadly quiet in my room, but now I began to pick up little noises: the fire crackling in the stove; the wind rattling the window; the ice snapping on the trees outside. Eventually, I felt my body sag into the mattress, and sleep overtook me.
And then something was stirring me. I had no clue what it was, but my heart had begun to beat faster. I raised myself up in bed and cocked my head, straining to hear. The noise was coming from the hallway. Footsteps. Was it Jessie? I wondered.
Then there was another noise: the sound of something scratching on wood farther down the hall. I leaned forward in bed as my heart gathered speed. The scratching sound happened again. It was to the left of my room, near the door to Jessie’s room. What in the world was going on? I wondered. And then the scratching was happening right outside my room. Someone was running an object back and forth across my door. It sounded as if the thing was made of metal, like a coat hanger but thicker. With a gasp I realized it could be a knife.
“Who’s there?” I called out. I grabbed the flashlight, fumbled for the switch, and then bounded out of bed toward the small entranceway. Instinctively I leaned hard against the table, making sure the person couldn’t push open the door if he had a key. “Who’s there?” I called again.
There was another rapid scratching noise—a couple of strokes, like Zorro making the sign of the Z. Next I heard retreating footsteps and the sound of someone tripping down the stairs.
I ran back toward the phone to call extension seven but remembered the line was dead. I had absolutely no desire to bolt out into the hall, but I had to figure out what was going on—and to alert Scott. While I slid my feet hurriedly into a pair of ballet flats, I heard Jessie pound on the wall between our two rooms. After dragging the table away from the door, I peered outside. No one was there. I scurried down the hall and tapped on Jessie’s door, announcing it was me. In the beam from the flashlight I saw four or five large scratch marks carved in the wood of her door. I aimed the flashlight back toward my own door. There were ugly scratch marks there, too.
“What the hell is happening?” Jessie asked as she opened the door. She looked terrified.
“I don’t know. You’ve got Scott’s cell phone number?”
“Yeah—why?”
“See if you can wake him. At the same time, I’ll head over to his room.”
“Be careful, okay?” she pleaded.
Hurrying toward the stairs, I trained the beam of my flashlight raggedly over every corner of the landing, making sure no one was hiding in the darkness. On the ground floor I could see scratch marks on two guest room doors. Richard, Christian, Cap and Whitney, and Tommy and Tory were all on this floor, but I had no idea whose room was which. Was one of them the culprit? Had the person already snuck back into his room?
I pivoted and made my way to the entrance of the glass passageway. Once inside, I saw that I almost didn’t need my flashlight; the piles of snow outside partially illuminated the passage. Grabbing a breath, I picked up speed. Once I thought I heard someone behind me and spun around nervously. No one was there. The sound, I told myself, must have come from the glass being shaken by the wind.
I reached the other barn and pushed the door open. Just as I stepped inside, the freaking light of my flashlight died. I shook the torch a couple of times and the light came back on, but it seemed dimmer now.
I trained the stream of light toward Scott’s door and made my way in that direction. I knocked several times, and when that produced no results, I banged and called out his name. Nothing. Where
Then I heard a noise to my right. I turned and aimed the feeble beam of my light there. The main door of the barn, the one that went outside, was shuddering a little from the wind, and I could see that it hadn’t been shut tightly. It looked as if someone might have hurried outside and left it ajar.
Oh, fun, I thought. I’m gonna have to investigate out there. But, I realized, that might be exactly where Scott had gone—to check outside. I strode to the door, heart in mouth, and pulled it open.
Because of the snow I could see a little better outside than in, though that wasn’t saying much. The surrounding woods seemed so big and ominous, ready to engulf the barn. But there were no humans in sight.
“Scott!” I called out several times. He might, I realized, have hightailed it down to Ralph’s. There was no reply, just the sounds of trees crackling. I glanced down. There seemed to be fresh boot prints in the ice-crusted snow, but as far as I knew, they could have been made hours ago.
I stepped back inside and closed the door, wondering what I should do. The best course might be for me to head down to Ralph’s cabin. A big knot of fear had started to form in my tummy. To make matters worse, my flashlight suddenly sputtered—and then died for good.
“Fuck,” I said out loud.
I remembered that earlier Ralph had dumped extra flashlights on the island upstairs, and if I were in luck, one would still be there. Cautiously I made my way toward where I knew the stairs were and felt in the darkness for the wooden handrail. I found it after a few clumsy attempts and began the climb to the second level. Once upstairs, I took a moment to orient myself, trying to use my sense memory. I moved toward the area where I was sure the island was and finally bumped into it. I patted my hand over the entire surface, but there were no flashlights on top.
The smartest move at this point, I realized, was to return to Jessie’s room, borrow her flashlight, and head for the cabin from the door of the smaller barn. I took cautious baby steps toward the landing. Just as I’d placed my foot on the stairs, I heard a sound and froze. Somewhere behind me in the blackness of the great room, something had just moved. Oh, man, I thought, please don’t let this be happening.
“Who’s there?” I called out, weakly. My legs felt as limp as shoelaces.
Suddenly I heard a whoosh of air as someone rushed up behind me. I caught a whiff of rancid sweat at the same moment that I heard a swishing sound, like the movement of fabric. And then, while passing me, the person shoved against the right side of my body, pitching me forward. Instinctively my hand flew out in search of the rail, but it was too late. I was being propelled down the stairs, headfirst.
