"Uh, yeah, I know what you mean. But she's my boss and told me to get you, so I have to do it. Maybe you, uh, want to leave young Mr. Westbrook behind and talk to her yourself first, just until she cools down. She's a little—you know. You know how she is."
I know very well. Neither Patrick nor I will be there." I clicked off and slipped the phone in my pocket.
"I don't go too close to the barn now," Patrick said to me. "Really, I don't."
I heard the tremor in his voice.
"I believe you."
"Do you think Ashley did it?" he asked.
"No. I think someone else in the house is playing pranks."
"They don't like me."
It was pointless to deny it. "It's their problem, Patrick, not yours. I want you to remember that I like you very much. So does Sam. Tim did—he was your good friend, and I bet the boy at school who knows about hockey likes you."
"Ashley, too," he suggested softly. "She doesn't say it, but I think she does."
"I believe so. You know, Ashley was my friend too."
He took another cracker from the pack, then gazed up at me, frowning slightly. "Ashley usually plays with Katie."
I nodded. "That's right. That's what Ashley called me. We used to play in many of the same places that you like. One of them was the play set by the cottages. Ashley was an excellent swinger. She could go really high."
"And sing," he added.
A shiver went through me. "Yes, she always sang when she swung. We liked to climb trees. She and November could climb all the way to the top of some of them. I wasn't as brave."
Patrick stared out at the pond, no longer worried about the barn, in another world now.
"I thought she had the best toys. Often we played with her horses—Silver Knight was my favorite."
"I like Silver Knight too," he confided.
"Ashley's favorite was Banner."
He nodded. "She likes his mane, the way the plastic looks ripply, like it's blowing in the wind."
I was talking in the past tense, he in the present, but we knew the same girl.
"Ashley had lots of pets—puppies and rabbits, some chickens she kept in the old cow barn, hamsters and fish. But her favorite pet was her brown and white rabbit, the one named Silly."
"Because he has one floppy ear," Patrick said knowingly.
"Yes. One day, when the weather was foggy, like it is now, Silly disappeared from his cage."
Patrick looked surprised for a moment. "Like my hamster?"
"Yes. Ashley was very angry, and afraid, too. My mother, Joseph, and I tried to calm her and help her find Silly."
Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded, as if he knew that now, as if he had caught up with the story told by the trace of Ashley's mind. "Silly isn't in the house," he said quietly.
"No, no, he wasn't. We thought someone might have let him outside."
"She thinks Brook did it," Patrick said.
"Yes. So my mother and I and Ashley and Joseph went out to look for the rabbit."
"Ashley is crying."
"She… is," I said, shifting tenses. "She… loves Silly very much."
Patrick nodded and continued to gaze out at the pond.
"The four of us are looking for him. Each of us goes a different way. Though my mother tell s us to stay close, we don't Ashley runs here to the pond. The ice looks as if it might be frozen." That was as much of the story as I knew for sure. "She—she thinks she sees Silly on the ice," I ventured.
"She does see him."
"So—"
"Kate!" Robyn's shrill voice broke into our story. Patrick's body went rigid.
"I've had all I can take of that hellion!" Robyn shouted, sounding as if she were on the path, coming toward the pond.
Patrick turned to me, his eyes wide. "She found us."
With Brook's help, I thought, for he knew we were going to the pond.
"Don't worry, I'll handle her. I want you to stay quiet, Patrick, and let me talk to her. Stay on these logs. Don't move a millimeter, all right?"
He nodded.
I rose to intercept Robyn at the end of the path, keeping an eye on Patrick and, at the same time, blocking her access to him. In the last twenty-four hours he had become too fragile to withstand her explosions.
"Kate," she cried as she rounded the final bend of trees, "I'll have you fired for this!"
Her barn jacket sat crookedly on her shoulders, buttoned incorrectly, its mismatched front flapping open. Long strands of hair had come loose from the clasp that held it at the back of her head. The fury on her face was far out of proportion to a spray-painted patch of bam.
"We can discuss it later," I said, "when you have your temper under control."
"We'll discuss it now. Brook told me what that monster did."
"I was talking to Brook before we left the house," I said, glancing back at Patrick. He was still on the logs. "Why didn't he say something then?"
"He just received a call from the bam and relayed the message to me. That child is a juvenile delinquent," she hissed.
"Patrick or Brook?"
"By the time he is ten, the police will be picking him up."
"That's absurd, and you know it. In any case, Patrick didn't go near your barn."
"It's a child's work," she insisted. "The groom said so."
I glanced back again at Patrick, then turned to her. "Most people could imitate a child's painting. Even Brook would be capable," I added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
"He's a hateful child. Hateful!" Her fingers flexed with anger.
I found myself staring at her hands, her bitten-off nails. One of them was bloody.
"Adrian should take a strap to him," she said. "If he doesn't, I will."
"You touch Patrick, and I'll have the authorities here in a flash."
She smiled. "If you're still here."
"I will be."
Robyn looked past my shoulder. "Not the way you're tending to Patrick."
I spun around. He was on the ice, hurrying across it. "Patrick! Patrick, stop!"
I rushed toward the pond and halted at its edge. He was already ten meters from shore. "Help me,' I called to Robyn. "Patrick, come back!"
At last he stopped and glanced around warily. Though he looked straight at me, he didn't act as if he saw me. We had been talking about Ashley: Was he seeing the present or the past? I wondered.
"Don't move."
I quickly surveyed the ice, trying to see which sections appeared most solid. My weight might be too much for the area he was on. I needed a long branch, one I could extend to him.
I glanced over my shoulder. Robyn was gone. She didn't care if he drowned—she was crazy, truly mad with jealousy. I continued to look for something that could be used as a pole. The logs were too heavy; the lighter branches and hockey stick were shorter than I wanted.
Patrick had turned his whole body around now and was watching me.
"Walk toward me," I called.
He stood still.
If I moved toward him, he might retreat onto thinner ice. Oh, God, I prayed, tell me what to do, tell me how to get him back. Aloud, I said, "Patrick, you need to get on shore. Come here."
He gazed at me, but his mind was elsewhere. He was like a person on a phone, listening to a voice I couldn't hear.
"Patrick, come here!"
He didn't blink.
I picked up the longest branch within reach and started across the ice. Its surface was soft, uneven. My heart pounded. If he fel through, it would be hard to find him in the black depths. He might panic and swim under the ice.
I wanted to race to him. Even so, I forced myself to move slowly, steadily, afraid the impact of running steps would break the ice.
I was seven meters from him and getting closer. "I want you to grab hold of the branch," I said.
He edged away from me. He looked afraid.
"Grab the branch and—"
He took a step back. I heard the soft crunching,
then the sickening sound of fractures running through the ice. Patrick tumbled into the water. I screamed and raced forward. For a moment his snow jacket buoyed him up, and I thought I could reach him before his head went under. Then he flailed his arms, compressing the air pockets that kept him afloat. He was still on the surface, but barely. I trained my eyes on him, memorizing his position relative to the shore.
I was caught by surprise when the ice gave way beneath me. Frigid water rushed over me. I gulped it, then thrust my head upward. The pond water ringed my throat, but I could touch ground—both feet touched ground. I pressed forward.
"Float! Turn on your back and float!" I cried.
Patrick was terrified and choking down water.
I couldn't move fast enough. It was like walking against a wall of mud, the heavy pond water feeling solid to my neck.
Patrick's clothes, weighted with water, sucked him under. I could still see the top of his head, his hair floating near the surface. Two steps more—I moved in slow motion. Help me God, please.
I reached out and grabbed him. My cold hands felt as lifeless as shovels, my fingers so numb they were unable to grasp. I held him against me with just the strength of my arms. He was breathing, still breathing—and coughing.
I waded toward shore, continually pushing against an edge of ice. The upward slope of the pond's floor seemed steep as a mountain. As I struggled, I thought about what to do next—call 911. Get him to the warm barn.
The water grew shallower and Patrick heavier. When the water was at my hips I struggled to hold him and reach for my cell phone. The sooner I called the paramedics, the sooner they would get here. It shouldn't have been hard to push 911, but my fingers couldn't feel the buttons. The phone slid into the dark water and disappeared.
Keep going, you have to keep going, I told myself.
Patrick felt twice his weight, but it was easier now to kick at the ice and push my way through it. At last I was on shore. He breathed heavily, sounding congested. I debated what to do. "Mrs. Caulfield?" I called out in the desperate hope Robyn had stayed to watch. There was no answer.
If I laid him on the ground, I might not be able to pick him up again, and I didn't know how to administer the medical care he needed. I kept going, finding the trail through the wood, amazed that my feet could walk with no sensation of ground beneath them. When I got to the end of the path, I stopped and screamed for help, hoping someone in the barn would hear me.
From the road that led to the employee cottages, Roger shouted back. He streaked toward me, calling to the barn as he did. Someone responded.
With Patrick still in my arms, I dropped in a heap, unable to do one thing more.
Chapter 19
Toger called 911, then contacted Emily, who rushed down from the house followed by the others. The paramedics from the volunteer fire department arrived. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Mrs. Hopewell informed them that their assistance would not be needed after all—the boy was nothing more than cold. They looked at her as if she were quite mad, then followed Emily's instructions. Emily insisted that I, too, be checked at the hospital, and I agreed because I wanted to be with Patrick.
Adrian called the hospital from his attorney's office and was assured by the E.R. staff that Patrick was stable. An hour later, when Adrian arrived at Easton Hospital, Patrick's body temperature and other vital signs were normal. The doctor informed Adrian that I was unharmed and Patrick would be ready for release in another hour, as long as an X ray for aspirated water proved negative. When the physician departed, Adrian asked me for an exact account of what had occurred, reminding me to keep my voice low.
How many strange stories could I tell Adrian, I wondered, before he stopped believing me? I began with the phone call from the bam and was quickly interrupted. "There is no groom named Jack."
"But there has to—" I didn't complete my sentence. Maybe not, I thought. I believed Brook was responsible for the vandalism; maybe he was also responsible for the call. Had he disguised his voice and manner of speaking? I had thought the connection was poor, but I hadn't expected the call, so I wasn't trying to detect a ruse.
"Did you look at your Caller ID?" Adrian asked.
"I didn't think about it at the time," I admitted, "but I don't remember seeing a listing. You should ask Brook the same question. His mother said he received a call about the barn and passed on the message to her. Perhaps he did, or perhaps he or one of his friends was playing a prank. Brook enjoys family fights—they make his life less boring. You should question Mrs. Caulfield, as well. She saw Patrick on the ice and didn't stay around to help."
I couldn't read Adrian's reaction to what I had said, but Emily's face was transparent: She held me responsible; she believed I was negligent and pointing a finger at others to cover myself. Each time I moved within the curtained area around Patrick's bed, she moved, positioning herself between her son and me, making it clear she didn't want me near him.
"Why did you go on the ice, Patrick?" Adrian asked. "Kate told you not to."
"I saw November."
"What?"
The answer caught both Adrian and me by surprise.
"I saw November."
"The orange cat," I told Adrian.
"He was running across the ice."
Adrian shook his head.
"Patrick, November is dead," I said. "We buried him in the cemetery, remember?"
Patrick turned his gaze on me. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before—defiance masking fear. "You killed him."
"Me? Why would I do such a thing?" I asked, taken aback.
"You don't like him."
"Patrick, I would never kill an animal, not intentionally."
"I think this is just a decoy, Kate," Adrian interjected. "He's trying to distract us from that fact that he ran out on the ice when you forbade it."
"The other day he accused you of killing the cat. Now he's accusing me," I replied, exasperated.
"I was mixed up," Patrick said calmly.
"You're mixed up now," I told him, but he had turned away.
An hour later, when Patrick was released, Emily insisted that I ride back to the estate with Roger. I knew I shouldn't blame her for keeping Patrick away from me. In her eyes, her son had nearly died because of my negligence. How did I appear in Adrian's eyes, I wondered—like another Victoria?
On the way home I questioned Roger but learned nothing. He hadn't noticed anyone lurking about; of course, with the fog, it would have been easy to slip unseen from the woods along Scarborough Road to the pond and barn.
"I don't have a good feeling about this," he said. "Too many funny things have been happening lately."
"Do you have any idea what is going on?" I asked.
"No idea, no idea at all, just a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of it."
That evening, Emily told me she would take care of Patrick herself. I nibbled on a late dinner alone in my room, wondering why she was letting him stay up. Finally, when it was wel past his bedtime and I hadn't heard anything below, I took the back steps down to his room. I discovered that the door at the bottom had been locked from the other side. Taking the main stairs down, I found Patrick's door to the hall wide open, his room empty.
I was about to return to my quarters when I heard a ruckus downstairs. Someone was knocking on the front door and repeatedly ringing the bell.
"Henry, I told you not to answer it," Mrs. Hopewell called out.
I hurried across the second-floor hall and down the steps, then paused at the landing. Henry, retreating toward the kitchen, met my eyes for a moment.
"What the devil is going on, Louise?" Adrian shouted. He sounded as if he was emerging from the office.
"It's a trespasser," she told him. "I was just about to call the police."
"Do you know who it is?"
"A local boy."
Sam, I thought. He was supposed to call after practice.
When I heard Adrian's heavy footsteps
moving toward the front door, I hastened down the last set of steps. Having lost her battle, Mrs. Hopewell marched off to the kitchen.
"Hello, Sam," I heard Adrian greet him. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."
"Where's Kate?" Sam replied, in no mood for pleasantries.
"I do apologize," Adrian continued. "Mrs. Hopewell protects us a little too well at times."
I want to talk to Kate." Sam saw me crossing the hall toward them. "Why didn't you answer your phone?" he demanded.
"Because it's in the bottom of the pond."
I tried the house number. The old gargoyle wouldn't let me through."
I saw the flicker of a smile on Adrian's face at Sam's reference to Mrs. Hopewell. "Kate," he said, "I'm working in the office, and Emily has Patrick with her. She wants to keep him in our room tonight. The others have gone to their wings, so use whatever room you want here on the first floor. I will tell Mrs.
Hopewell to remain in the kitchen." He turned toward the office, then turned back. "I'm afraid I'm somewhat old-fashioned when it comes to young men and ladies," he added with another wisp of a smile, "and must ask that you keep the door open wherever you are."
I nodded and led Sam into the library because that was the warmest room. I could still feel the pond's cold in my bones.
"I thought something had happened to you," Sam exploded, once we were inside the paneled room. "If you knew I couldn't get through, why didn't you call me?"
"I—I forgot about my phone. So much was happening."
"You make me crazy," he said, turning his back on me, banging the palm of his hand against the fireplace mantel.
"I'm sorry. I really am sorry."
"Yeah—yeah… So what's been going on?" he asked, his voice moderating, sounding almost flat.
"Patrick fel through the ice in the pond."
Sam spun around.
"Could we sit down? It's been a long day."
"Not near the fireplace," he said. "Sound travels through flues."
We went to the corner of the room. Sam tried the Westbrooks' deep leather chairs, then sprawled on the rug. I sat on the floor facing him, hugging my knees, and recounted what had happened, backtracking to Dr. Parker's theory to explain why Patrick and I were at the pond.