No Time to Die & the Deep End of Fear by Elizabeth Chandler
I had guessed he would say that.
"Patrick is lonely and hurting," Sam went on. "What do kids like that do? Create imaginary playmates for company and get attention however they can.
He's been very successful at getting it—his dares have rattled you, his talk of Ashley has rattled his family."
"That's what I thought at first," I said, "but too many eerie things have happened. Patrick knows too much about Ashley. He knows things I didn't think anyone else knew but Ashley and me."
"Kate, all little kids have secrets they think adults don't know. Not only do they know, but so do the brothers and sisters who spy on the kids—or, in this case, cousins, like Westbrook Caulfield." He said the name as haughtily as Brook had.
I shook my head, rejecting his suggestion.
"Okay, let's say you're right," he said. "Then you should be able to solve the mystery of Ashley's death pretty easily. Learn ghost talk and ask her who killed her."
I felt mocked. "That's what I get for trusting you."
He took a step back. "Excuse me! Trust doesn't mean you'll get the response you want from someone, but that you'll get an honest response, and that the other person will stick by you even when you can't agree."
Stick by you for how long, through how much? I wondered. What is the expiration date on trust?
I watched Patrick tiptoeing toward a gull, leaning forward, calling to it, trying to befriend it. He was a kid desperate for companions—people, animals, ghosts. I kicked at the stones beneath my feet, then crouched down. "I should collect some of these. Patrick has been distracted."
Sam crouched next to me. "I'm tell ing you again, Kate, you can trust me."
Saying no more, he quietly gathered stones with me til I called to Patrick.
We climbed the steps and found our snowman sweating, its surface shining in the warm afternoon sun. We pressed the shel s in place, then worked on the number for his "jersey." Patrick chose 23.
"Twenty-three!" Sam exclaimed. "Are you saying my ears look like clamshel s and my hair like dry seaweed?"
Patrick cackled. "Yup."
When our hockey player was complete, we went for a walk. Patrick wanted to show Sam and me his tricks on the monkey bars. As we passed the garage, November sauntered out of the bushes and followed us to the workers' cottages, where the old play set was. Sam glanced sideways at me, as if to ask if this was the cat I'd told him about.
When the play equipment was in sight, Patrick raced ahead.
"It's not exactly state-of-the-art," Sam remarked, observing the large metal structures.
"It was built by a groundskeeper from equipment he salvaged. Patrick has a new set beyond the pool, but the swings aren't half as tall, and the plastic slide is slow. He prefers this one."
I caught my breath as I watched Patrick swing himself around a bar and narrowly miss whacking his skull. "Don't forget where your head is."
I guess it's genetic," Sam remarked. "Guys just have to show off."
"Watch this! Is everybody watching?" Patrick shouted.
"We see you."
He leaped from a high bar to the ground.
"Good jump!"
"Want to see another?" he called, and didn't wait for our reply.
Sam leaned over and brushed snow off a bench, then gestured for me to sit down. "Which house did you live in?" he asked, turning to gaze at the cottages behind us.
I turned with him. "The one on the end with the green trim."
"And that's where your dad painted?"
"No, Adrian gave him part of the orangerie—the light was better there. Sam, since you mentioned Dad, there's something"—I swallowed in mid-sentence, still awkward with the truth—"something I need to tell you about. Yesterday I learned that Dad was the father of Ashley and that my mother discovered it two weeks before Ashley died. That doesn't mean she killed Ashley," I added quickly. "I'm tell ing you only because I said your father went after her without a motive. The truth is, your father had a good reason to chase us that night."
Sam nodded.
"You're not surprised."
"No, I knew about your father and Corinne."
"You what? Why didn't you tell me? How long have you known?"
He shrugged. "I guess I was eleven or twelve when I asked my mother to tell me everything she knew about the case. My father left behind some notes.
He always typed separate notes for the client—he never handed over his personal notebook. She had kept it and told me what was in it."
I was outraged. "You knew all along about my dad. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you correct me when I said my mother had no motive?"
"I didn't want to hurt you."
"I'm tired of people lying to me!"
"I didn't lie," he answered calmly. "I just didn't tell you everything I knew."
"Omitting important facts is the same as lying—it's the kind of lying my father specialized in."
"Maybe he didn't want to hurt you," Sam suggested.
"Or maybe he was ashamed," I said. "tell me this: If you discovered my mother was guilty, would you go to the police with that information?"
He looked me steadily in the eye. "Yes."
"So if you would do it then, why save me the grief now?"
"Because I don't want to hurt you unnecessarily."
"Don't you understand? It hurts twice as much when you finally discover the truth."
He was silent for a moment. "I guess I never thought about that. I was trying to do the right thing for you."
"Stop trying. I don't need you to look out for me."
"Why does it bother you if I do, Kate?" he asked, his anger surfacing. "What's the big deal?"
The big deal was that it made me vulnerable, ripe for abandonment. But that was tell ing him too much. "You can't ask me to trust you and, at the same time—"
A shout froze the words in my throat. Sam and I turned.
Patrick hung from a metal bar high above the snow. He had climbed to the top of the swing set, onto the beam from which the swings were suspended, halfway between the tall A-frames that were meant to support it. One end of the beam had broken loose from its frame.
"I can't—I can't hold on," he cried.
Sam and I rushed forward. The ten meters between Patrick and us seemed to stretch as long as a playing field. Patrick dangled helplessly, kicking his legs. I saw his mittens slipping on the bar. He lost his grip.
"Patrick!"
He fell, landing on his back in the snow. I heard a low, grinding sound and looked up quickly. The long bar above him was pull ing loose from its connection to the other frame.
"Roll away!" I screamed. "Roll away—the bar's going to fall!" But he lay there stunned.
Sam reached him first. Grabbing Patrick's feet, he dragged him away from the swing set. Seconds later, the end of the heavy bar broke free. Chains clanked as it dropped on top of the swings and plunged into the snow.
"Patrick," Sam said, breathing hard, "are you all right?"
I knelt on the other side of Patrick. He stared up at Sam, then turned his head to see me. There was something strange about the look in his eyes—a distance, a coolness in their blue light.
"Say something," I begged.
He gazed at me for a long moment, then frowned. You re crying.
"Of course I am," I said, hastily wiping my cheek. "You could have been seriously hurt." I m not.
He didn't appear shaken, didn't seem to understand how close he had come to harm. November ventured near, making a circle around us, continually sniffing.
"What were you doing on the top bar?" Sam asked, his voice rough.
"Playing."
"That's a support for the swings, not a bar to climb on," Sam scolded.
Patrick's eyelashes lowered, then he looked up again. "It was Ashley's idea."
"It was a very bad idea."
"She dared me."
"Then she's an idiot," Sam replied gruffly.
Patrick's eyes widened. "You had better
Sam shook his head, then rose and walked over to examine the bar that had fallen.
"Can you wriggle your fingers and toes, Patrick?" I asked, gently brushing the snow from his hair.
He pushed my hands away and sat up. "Leave me alone."
Bewildered by his response, I left him sitting in the snow and joined Sam.
"How could this have happened?" I asked. "How could the swing set have fallen apart like that?"
"Looks like some bolts are missing," he replied, then turned toward Patrick. "You were awfully lucky, buddy."
"I'm lucky Ashley is my friend. She watches out for me.
Sam ignored the comment. "We had better take you back to the house. You look okay, but we should make sure, and we should tell your father about the swing set.
"But I want to go the pond," Patrick insisted. "Ashley is—"
"Later," Sam said, his voice stem.
This time, crossing the snowy grounds, Patrick trailed behind us. November wandered off. Sam and I walked silently side by side.
"The equipment is old," Sam said at last, "and bolts rust and loosen."
"On both ends at the same time?"
He shook his head. "I don't believe it was an accident. I think someone got out a ratchet and worked on the bolts. I'm just tell ing you what the others might say.
I glanced over my shoulder to make certain Patrick was with us. He trudged, head down, so I couldn't see his face.
"Kate, this is getting dangerous," Sam said, "dangerous for both of you. Killing a hamster is one thing. Pushing a person down a flight of steps and causing a swing set to collapse is something else. I think the last two incidents are related. What kept Patrick from being hurt just now? You warned him, and I pulled him away before the bar fell. You're Patrick's protector. Someone wants you out of the way so he or she can get to him."
"Maybe," I said, "or maybe someone is getting nervous because Patrick and I are talking about Ashley. I still think this is connected to her death."
"But not to a ghost," Sam replied quickly.
I shrugged. "I don't see why murderous relatives preclude a ghost."
"They don't," Sam said. "But if what you see accounts for what is happening, why bring in what you can't see? It just muddies the situation. It is people, not ghosts, who murder. I think someone has murdered here before and is will ing to do it again."
I tried to quel my growing fear. "Maybe these incidents are meant as nothing more than warnings," I said. "If I was serious about killing someone, I wouldn't fool around with attempts that may or may not work, warning the victim."
Sam laughed. "Then you'd make a lousy murderer, Kate. Think about it. The more direct the attempt—the more certain the outcome—the less chance it has of being considered an accident. As long as a murderer has the time to try a few 'accidents,' why not?
"Why not take the safer route, as long as the victims are available?" He turned toward me, grasping my wrists, making certain I was listening to him.
"And you are, Kate. You and Patrick are way too available."
Chapter 14
At first, Sam and I thought Adrian wasn't listening. We found him in the office, pacing the floor, deep in thought. As we recounted what had happened, he glanced at Patrick, then drifted over to a pile of opened mail and fingered through it. Sam grew irritated—I could hear it in his voice—but, of course, Adrian had heard every word. When we were done, he checked over his son as thoroughly as we had, then sat down facing him.
"Well, Patrick, did you thank Sam? You owe him a great deal for pull ing you away from the swing set."
"Thank you," Patrick said softly.
"And did you tell Kate you are sorry for scaring her?"
"I'm sorry."
Adrian rested his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "We have a problem, son. If we tell your mother about this, she will become quite worried and will wonder what else you might get into." Adrian lowered his head and peeked at Patrick. "You're not getting into any other trouble, are you?"
"No, Daddy."
A wry smile formed on Adrian's face; he knew better than to believe it. "Then why don't we keep this a secret between you and me, so we don't upset your mother. Can you do that?"
Patrick nodded silently.
Sam had to leave for practice, but took a few minutes to accompany Patrick to the third floor to see the playroom, where his hockey picture was enshrined. I remained behind.
"About this secret," I said to Adrian when we were alone, "are you protecting Emily from worry, or me from being disciplined?"
He smiled. "I can always count on you to be forthright. Both, actually. I know it's not your fault, Kate. As for Emily, she worries excessively and sometimes smothers Patrick with her affection, but don't think poorly of her. This is my third child; he is Emily's only."
Then he called Roger on his cell phone, asking him if he had noticed anyone around the metal play equipment and tell ing him to dismantle it immediately.
When he hung up, he looked tired.
"Do you think someone tampered with the swing set?" I asked.
"It's possible. Stay as close as you can to Patrick," he said, gesturing toward the door, indicating that our discussion was over. I knew Adrian wasn't the kind of person who felt obligated to tell others how he intended to handle matters. Family reputation was important to him; he would address the situation quietly. I left and met Patrick and Sam on my way upstairs.
"I've got to run," Sam said. "I'm picking up some of the other guys for practice."
"Thanks for coming, thanks for everything," I replied. "I know Adrian is grateful too."
Sam grimaced. "I did my best to be polite to him. It wasn't easy."
"Why?" asked Patrick.
Sam glanced down at the questioning face. "Because sometimes I'm a little rude. Don't do anything stupid, buddy, I don't care who dares you.
Understand?"
Patrick nodded.
"Yeah—yeah," Sam muttered, and raised his eyes to me. "Keep in touch?"
"Sure." I met his eyes for half a second, then looked away.
He reached out, resting two fingers lightly on the back of my hand. "Keep in touch, Kate."
After Sam left, Patrick and I put on dry clothes and spent the rest of the afternoon upstairs. Because he was doing poorly in his schoolwork, we used the extra time to work on spelling and math. He was unusually quiet and agreeable. Perhaps I had imagined him pull ing away from me, I thought; I was getting like Emily, overreacting when he didn't want to be a cute, cuddly little kid.
Patrick and I endured another family dinner, though Trent was absent from this one—in town with the "kitchen-sink blonde" who managed the hotel. I learned from Brook that Robyn's description meant the woman colored her own hair, which meant that she was a middle-class working type who didn't have much money to spend on herself, which meant she wasn't up to the Westbrook standards.
With one less participant, I had hoped the mealtime squabbling would be less, but instead it became a cat fight between Robyn and Emily. Adrian ignored them, occasionally addressing Patrick and me. Brook assigned points to the ladies' jibes, keeping score. Patrick withdrew as soon as the quarreling began, raising his head now and then to gaze at the flickering candles.
After dinner, when we were alone, he remained withdrawn, wanting to go to bed early that evening. His behavior was beginning to worry me. I asked him if he was ill, if he was sore from his fall, if he was afraid of something, if he was sad—I posed every conceivable question about how he felt, but was told nothing.
I asked Emily to come in and read a book with him, then requested that Adrian do the same, hoping to reassure him with their love and attention.
Neither of them appeared to be concerned, for Patrick seemed like a quiet, sleepy child, the ideal seven-year-old at bedtime, but I knew something was wrong. He barely responded when I said the little rhyme he liked and kissed him good night. It was as if he had fallen deep insid
I slept poorly that night, awakening at every sound, checking on him at midnight, 2:15, 3:55. I awoke again a few minutes after five, tired and cross, but there was no getting back to sleep until I checked him again. Once more, I crept downstairs.
He was gone. I couldn't quite believe it, and yet it was what some part of me had been waiting for all night. I checked the rooms on the third floor, then quickly dressed and hurried down to the kitchen. The door to the outside was locked, but the deadbolt undone, indicating that Patrick may have exited from there. I debated whether to wake the family. A search party might find him faster, but creating that kind of scene would make things worse for him. I thrust my feet in my boots. I would find him myself. I had to.
Checking my pocket for keys, I opened the door and stepped into the brittle cold. A day of March sunlight had melted the surface of the snow, but the dipping temperatures of the clear night had frozen it again, making an icy crust that glimmered in the moonlight. Hanging low in the west, the moon cast long shadows and darkened the craters of footprints, confusing the paths that converged at the back door. Had he gone to the pool? Taken the steps down to the bay? No, it was the pond that drew Patrick. I took off.
The hardened snow made it difficult to run, my feet sinking in at odd angles, my toes catching in the crust. Having circled to the front of the house, I cut across the gardens and suddenly found a fresh trail, Patrick's prints—at least prints small enough to be his. Reaching the drive that ran between the house and the main road, I saw another set of prints in the slushy, cindered snow. A cat's. November. It was as if the cat had instantly appeared and disappeared, leaving no trace of where he had come from or where he had gone on the other side of the plowed road. Then l realized that the animal was light and had probably walked on top of the frozen snow.
Patrick's tracks ran through the orchard and around the barn. I raced across the last stretch of snow toward the pond. The tall ring of evergreen trees that surrounded the pond rose up dark and silent, a forbidding circle. I entered the trees, following the short path that wound through the cedar and pine and emerged several meters from Patrick. He knelt at the pond's edge. A collection of small branches lay piled in front of him like an offering. The cat, sitting close to him, turned his head to see who had come into their circle.