Chapter Forty-Four
The voice—voices? She couldn’t tell—called Patricia’s name again, dragging her reluctantly back into a woozy consciousness.
The storm was letting up, she realized; the air felt lighter, softer, gentle on her tormented and pain-racked body.
From the corner of her eye, Patricia could see her right arm, her hand, covered in her own blood.
Her brain told her fingers to wiggle; her eyes told her they did, though with a strange sense of dislocation, as though they weren’t really hers at all.
Her brain sent another message; the fingers moved once more, this time closing into a fist and reopening.
Her mind moved sluggishly. Her fingers were obeying her brain; she was not paralyzed.
She was not dead, which meant the bullet had probably not hit a major artery, or she would already be gone.
But there was still blood, a lot of it, everywhere, soaking into her clothes and pooling around her.
And pain—lots and lots of pain. Audra’s bullet might not have immediately killed Patricia as she intended, but it would probably do its job, anyway; Patricia had no illusions about that.
And even if it didn’t, the once-alluring woman she should never have trusted would doubtless be back shortly to finish the job.
She could tell herself as many times as she wanted that Audra had been the one to persuade her that Effie had to be eliminated, had opened her mind to the possibility of murder, something she would never have contemplated in her wildest ambitions—but Patricia had gone along with it; she couldn’t escape that truth, not here, not now.
Then Audra had killed Susan and Geralt, and then Hank and Naomi, secure in the belief that her accomplice would stay in line, would never oppose her, since Patricia had killed too.
When Patricia finally did attempt to resist, Audra had not hesitated to take her out of the equation.
But I am still a murderer, Patricia’s mind said to her quietly, the same dispassionate voice that told her fingers to move.
No emotion, no excuses, simply a statement of fact.
I murdered Effie Cameron. Not Audra. I did.
I set all this into motion. Maybe this is justice.
My death, here, at sunrise. Beside the ocean, my ocean. On my island.
But now Audra was going to kill Willow.
No, Patricia thought with a hint of her old fierceness. No.
She could barely move. But her eyes watched her hand twitching, saw it feebly drag itself along the blood-soaked boards of the porch until it reached her side.
The elbow did not want to bend at first—the hand at the end of the limb was too heavy—but with another breath, another burst of pain, it obeyed her and successfully positioned the hand at the opening to her skirt pocket.
The hand found the phone inside and clumsily slipped it out.
Another wave of pain swept over her, a paroxysm of coughing seized her; the blackness crept back, threatening to swamp her again …
No.
Audra’s laugh was a cocktail of steel and malice. “Are you serious? ‘Get out of my house,’” she mocked. “Do you honestly believe I’ll let a melodramatic story and a few jump scares stop me now?” At that moment, another bolt of lightning lit up the room.
For a split second, the warm firelight was overtaken by that cold blue flash.
The cheery old women were replaced by skeletal figures whose gray skin stretched over their skulls, the black dresses torn and shifting as though uncounted tiny grave creatures swarmed beneath them.
Joel, too, in that instant, was an emaciated corpse, decades longer in the grave than Effie, his long fingers little more than bones as they delicately balanced the antique pen that, Audra noticed, had a sharp metal tip.
Then the rush of thunder; it rattled Audra, which made her furious—but when it receded, she was back in the calm firelit room with the impeccably neat trio, all three staring unblinking at her.
Except now it was a quartet. Effie now sat in the tall wingback chair opposite the elderly twins, also staring at Audra.
And … there was another man leaning against the fireplace, in a gray pin-striped suit and hat, dressed like a character from an old Cary Grant movie; he was staring at her as well.
In fact, Audra realized, there were eyes all over the room, aimed at her with unsettling intensity.
The dark library, growing ever lighter as the storm dissipated and the day began, had filled with people.
They were of all ages, from child to elderly adult; some wore more modern dress; others looked like extras from a Gilded Age streaming series.
All staring at her. And they were not happy.
Joel spoke, his voice gentle but firm. “Miss DuBois, it is time for you to leave. I suggest you depart this house and this island forever and that you do not return.”
For half an instant, Audra considered it. She had Naomi’s jewelry, plenty of money, and a stash of convincing fake IDs; she could leave this godforsaken island and make a new life, an ordinary life, for herself and never have to see this place again.
But I’m not ordinary, she told herself fiercely. I won’t be cowed or sent away or dismissed. Especially since I haven’t accomplished what I came here for.
First, Willow Stone would die. And then Audra would crawl over her body and claim for herself everything Geralt Talbot had owned.
Patricia’s gun might be useless to her now, but it wasn’t like she’d come unprepared.
She pulled her large folding knife from her pocket and opened it, enjoying the heft of the handle, and smiled at Willow.
“Once you’re dead, we’re still back to me as heir.
And even if I would have considered leaving this place standing”—she turned her gaze to the ghosts all around her, her lip curling in contempt—“now that I’ve met you, I have to say I have no interest in protecting your precious homestead. ”
At that, the ghosts shifted, murmuring to one another, and stepped in a little closer. Audra tried not to shiver. She wasn’t afraid of them, she told herself.
She looked back at Joel; he was whispering into Willow’s ear. A burst of fury went through her. “What?” she demanded. “What are you saying to her?”
Joel and Willow ignored her.
“Are you ready?” Joel asked.
Willow nodded.
His gaze raked the room, taking in each of the ghostly inhabitants of Cameron House. Audra saw each of them meet his eyes; some stood a little taller, some nodded almost imperceptibly, and she saw on a few of their faces faint smiles of fierce anticipation.
For the first time, Audra DuBois felt a stab of real fear, felt control of the situation slipping away from her.
“What?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shriek.
“Stop it, all of you, stop it! This house is mine by right, and I deserve it, so to hell with all of you—and especially you, Willow Stone!”
As she shrieked the other woman’s name, Audra raised her arm and lunged forward with the blade, intent on burying it in Willow’s heart.
“Now,” she heard Joel murmur to Willow as he stepped forward and jabbed his fountain pen into Audra’s knife hand.
Willow did not hesitate but turned and ran to the rear of the library.
Stupid, Audra thought, wincing at the pain in her hand; it hurt, a lot, but the ghost creep with the fountain pen hadn’t done anything but slow her down a little.
And get her good and mad. Where exactly does she think she’s going to hide? I’m faster and stronger and—
Suddenly, Audra realized she didn’t know exactly where she was or what direction she was facing. A sea of faintly glowing spirits surrounded her like a thick mist full of faces; she could no longer see the fireplace or Willow or anything but the surrounding press of bodies—
Then she remembered they had no bodies.
“Get away from me!” she screamed, slashing around ineffectually with her knife.
For a fragment of a moment, they fell back; Audra heard the faint sound of a door closing—upstairs? In the corner of the library?
She realized what had happened, both now and earlier; there was a second exit from the library through a hidden door upstairs; Willow knew about it, and Audra had not.
Audra’s target had taken that way out, doubtless planning to run downstairs and out of the house while the ghosts held Audra up in the library.
The hell you will, Audra thought. You think you’ve beaten me, but I know where you are, and I’ll get you.
She sprinted for the foyer, past the empty umbrella stand, and up the front stairs, shouldering through the sea of people who both were and were not there.
In the library, the Cameron family exchanged glances and were gone.
Willow cracked open the hidden library door and peeked out into the second-floor hallway.
No sign of Audra yet, but the young woman in the maid’s uniform was there, busily dusting the stair rails with a feather duster.
She saw Willow, held up her finger for her to wait, and snuck a few steps down to listen into the library; a second later, she returned, nodding furiously and gesturing Willow to hurry.
Willow hesitated at the stairway, every fiber of her being yearning to run downstairs and out of the house. Instead, she headed for the third floor, up, higher.
“It has to end,” Joel had whispered into her ear. “You know that. And you know where.”
She knew. She dreaded it, but she knew.
When Willow heard the first footfall on the grand staircase by the front door, she deliberately looked over the railing so Audra would see where she had gone; their plan would only work if Audra followed her.
Sure enough, the other woman locked eyes with her and, with a snarl on her face, leaped up the stairs two at a time.
She’s quick, Willow thought in dismay, running as fast as she could, pushing through aching knees and the tightness in her chest. The drugs from the night before were mostly worn off, but her head still hurt. Audra had gained the second-floor landing before Willow even reached the top of the third.
Willow gave an extra lunge forward to reach the top—and kept running. Down the hall, into the little parlor at the end, and through the door that kept her going up, up, farther, till there was no place left to go.
Willow stepped onto the widow’s walk into the gray-cast light of a clouded dawn, with Audra seconds behind.
What was Joel thinking?
She pressed her body to the outside of the doorway, the only spot not visible to someone running up the stairs.
But what then? Should she hope Audra slipped on the post-storm wet of the deck as she burst through the door?
Take advantage of her disorientation to run back onto the staircase, slamming the door behind her and praying the ghosts could lock it long enough for her to get out, find a phone, and call Nick?
Or did they expect her to push Audra off the roof the way Audra had Sue?
Even if she were physically capable, Willow didn’t think she could bring herself to do that. Besides, if Audra got hands on her, she knew she didn’t have a chance. I’m a doughy grad student, she thought, and she is a go-for-a-run-and-do-actual-workouts kind of woman; she’ll kick my butt …
Willow had only one advantage, and it was meager at best. She had seen Audra in the library, and hers were no longer the eyes of the dispassionate predator of a couple of hours ago.
Patricia had been the planner, the calculator.
Without her, Audra was rudderless. Then she had been forced to face down a roomful of dead people, feel the pressure and the weight of almost-heard voices closing around her.
She had come face-to-face with the impossible; it suffused the very air around her, and she had no choice but to inhale it, to take it in.
Willow still had her wits about her, but Audra, Willow suspected, was beginning to lose hers.
Audra burst through the doorway onto the widow’s walk, her feet sliding a little on the wet boards, windmilling her arms to stay upright.
Willow lunged at her, hands outstretched, hoping to knock her down long enough to escape through the door back downstairs, but Audra was too fast. She wheeled her arm around as she fell, grabbing a handful of Willow’s hair and pulling her down with her; Willow yelped as the knife sliced through Sue’s coat into her shoulder.
Within seconds, Audra was on top, pinning Willow down to the deck, holding her wrists with one hand while the other brought the knife up for its fatal blow.
See? Willow thought inappropriately. I knew this was a terrible idea. The knife began its inexorable journey down toward her chest …
It never made it. A long and solid object swung in an arc into Audra’s forearm with a sickening thud, sending the knife skittering across the widow’s walk, out of reach.
Willow heard Dot’s—or was it Dellie’s?—voice in her memory: We can only touch things that existed when we were alive …
and we each have our own little talismans …
As it swept by, Willow caught a glimpse of the long wooden stick with its faceted glass handle and understood what it meant.
Geralt Talbot was back.