Murder Takes the High Road(78)

“Don’t do it, Carter!” he called.

He sounded calm, which should have been reassuring, but had the opposite effect. He was too calm. He sounded like someone who had decided to jump off a skyscraper.

I looked back and he was struggling to pull the pistol from the wall. It was wired in place. That was the good news. The bad news was as I reached the double doors, I saw that he had taken the poker from the fireplace and somehow jammed it through the handles and into the wooden surface, so that it effectively barred the entrance.

I grabbed the poker, tried to wiggle it free. The doors bowed fractionally, but did not give. The poker did not pull free.

“I said leave it.” Ben came up behind me. His hand clamped down on my shoulder and he hurled me away from the door. I crashed into the ottoman, sending it sliding a few feet, and landed on the floor.

Maybe Ben wasn’t athletic, but he was strong. And highly motivated.

The clock began to chime the hour. As it hit three, the doorbell rang.

I hadn’t realized castles even had doorbells, but the sound rang through the halls and corridors like Big Ben tolling the hour.

Ben and I froze, staring at each other.

Of course, it could have been a lost shepherd or a stranded fisherman, but it never occurred to me that it was anyone other than the police. I could see Ben had the same thought.

“Somebody’s got to answer that,” I got out.

“It’ll keep.”

“It’s not going to keep. For God’s sake, Ben. What’s the point of this? It’s over. You must see that.” I scrambled up, keeping as many items of furniture as I could between us, as I edged away from him.

Ben freed the poker from the door with a couple of ferocious yanks, and came down the room toward me, smashing everything in his reach. Lamps, vases, carvings, a small table...

The fast, furious wanton destruction held me in horrified place for a couple of seconds, and then I bolted back the way I had come, past the library desk where my cell phone still lay amid the books. I ran toward the fireplace and the rest of the fireplace toolset.

I didn’t understand what had changed during our conversation. I didn’t understand why he had gone from discussion to destruction, but I was pretty sure he would kill me if he got the chance. Maybe he really did think I was a threat. Maybe he had reached his breaking point and I just happened to be handy when he needed to lash out.

A short besom-style hearth broom leaned against the face of the fireplace. The handle was made of sturdy blackwood. I grabbed it, holding it up like a martial arts Bo staff.

The servants would be up and moving around. The police had surely arrived and would soon be swarming everywhere. I only had to keep Ben at bay for a little longer. Just keep him from cracking open my skull and everything would be okay. Rescue was coming. Even if rescue did seem to have stopped for coffee first.

The poker clanged down on the crossed broom handle and I staggered back against the fireplace.

“What the hell,” I gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

Ben’s face was terrifying. Where had all that rage come from? Why was it all directed at me? Did he honestly think I was the sole obstacle to his mother’s freedom? Because he was hugely overestimating my meddling librarian powers.

I got the broom handle up in time as he slammed the poker down again.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Ben growled.

“It still doesn’t!”

The flagstone face of the fireplace pressed into my spine—there really was no room left for maneuvering—and my foot shoved against one of the ornate andirons. There was a loud grating sound like cement grinding cement. The twisted iron post gave way and I stumbled back, trying to catch my balance. With one hand I jabbed the broom at Ben, and with my other I reached for the rear wall of the fireplace. My outstretched fingers brushed...nothing. I tumbled backward into dark nothingness.





Chapter Twenty-Five

I landed hard on my tailbone.

The dark was bewildering—and it smelled unsettlingly like I’d fallen into a fish pond. Or maybe a salmon farm. As confusing as this was, I had a pretty good idea what had happened. I remembered reading in my old guidebook that Castle Dìomhair was, like so many constructions of its era, supposedly riddled with secret rooms and hidden passages. So it was a good bet that I’d inadvertently stumbled onto—or into—one of these.

Without a light, I had no idea of where I was, but I wasn’t about to waste this unexpected reprieve. Ben would have seen what had happened, and he’d be right after me. I jumped up, feeling my way down the length of stone wall. It was pitch dark. I had no idea where I was headed, but the memory of Ben’s face kept me moving.

Any second, I knew I would see a flash of light, the door to the passage would slide open, and Ben would burst through.

Except it didn’t happen.

The darkness remained absolute. The silence was unbroken.

I kept moving, hand running along the wall for guidance. The floor seemed to be slanting downward. It was disorienting. The dark, the cold, the smell of stagnant water and dead things.

Where the hell was I? Where was I headed?

Where the hell was Ben?

I continued along, until I came to a full stop. A wall was in front of me. I brailled my way across it, looking for a depression or a frame or a lever or something, anything that might indicate an entrance. Or exit.