When they were finished, they all retired to the parlor for coffee. The others made small talk among themselves, but Paula took a seat beside Uncle Howard. Above them hung a pair of old rifles, still as shiny as the day they were made.
“They were my father’s,” Uncle Howard said. “He carried them in the First World War. They saved his life many times. That’s why I keep them in such good condition.” His eyes twinkled. “And loaded.”
“Would that we had such weapons to save our own lives,” Paula said.
The old man nodded.
“Uncle Howard, I need to ask you about Dr. Fifer.”
“I said no more for tonight,” the old man said wearily.
“Please, Uncle Howard. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if we don’t talk.”
He made a face. “Why do you bring up Fifer’s name?”
“He was the one who was here investigating when you first told me about the room and the lottery. I remember he was a very nice man. Rather eccentric, but nice.”
“One of those professor types,” Uncle Howard said, raising his coffee cup to his lips, holding the saucer below with shaky hands.
“He asked many questions of all of us,” Paula said.
Uncle Howard’s eyes were far away. “Yes, indeed, he did.”
“And then, right at the end, he said he’d found out something,” Paula said. “I remember that so clearly. He said he’d found out something, and that gave me hope. Hope that maybe we wouldn’t have to go through with the lottery after all.”
Uncle Howard seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. “Well, obviously, whatever he found out didn’t amount to anything. Because the lottery still took place. It was the year your father died in that room.”
Paula nodded. “That’s why I always wondered what Dr. Fifer had found out. He never told us.”
“Who knows?” Uncle Howard said. “It was clearly nothing important.”
“Why did you fire him before the lottery had even taken place?”
The old man’s hands were shaking almost uncontrollably now. He had to set his cup and saucer down on the table beside him.
“Because he upset Jeanette. I couldn’t have that.”
“But he got a response from her,” Paula said. “For the first time in twenty years. That means he was on to something.”
“He was not!” Uncle Howard was angry now. “Please, dear, let me be. This all takes so much out of me.”
“Of course, Uncle Howard,” Paula said. “I’m sorry.”
She stood. She noticed that just a couple of feet away, Carolyn and Douglas were watching her. She walked over to join them.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
Carolyn nodded. “Fifer actually said he’d found something important?”
“Yes,” Paula said. “Then suddenly he was gone. If only we could find him now…”
“He’s dead,” Carolyn said. “I found an obituary for him online. I wanted to speak to him, too, but it was too late. So I’ve been looking for his survivors. He left a son and two daughters. But so far, I’ve been unsuccessful.”
“Do you think he may have left notes?” Douglas asked. “Notes that might reveal what he thought was so important?”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Carolyn said. “Because any notes he took are not among the papers that Mr. Young has kept. There are notes from every other investigator who has worked on the case, but not Fifer. He’s the only one.”
Paula glanced back at the old man sitting in the chair. “He’s hiding something, isn’t he?” she asked. “He destroyed Fifer’s notes.”
“Why would he do that?” Douglas asked, still not wanting to believe anything negative of Uncle Howie.
“I think if we knew the answer to that,” Carolyn said, “we’d know how to end the curse of that room.”
The three of them looked over at the old man in his chair, the flickering light of the fire making strange patterns across his face.
Chapter Twenty-one
Carolyn knew she wasn’t alone the moment she turned off the light.
The terror had returned. Since leaving New York, she’d managed to push David Cooke out of her mind, concentrating instead on horrors of a different sort. But now, lying awake in her bed, she had the uncanny sense that he was outside, looking up at her window, much the way he had been in New York.
That’s absurd, she told herself. There is no way David knows where I am. She had told no one. Not Sid, not Andrea, not anyone she’d worked with. Only the police, and then only one detective she trusted completely. No one knew where she was going when she took off on the plane.
What if he found the pilot and forced him to tell?
What if he broke into Diana’s apartment and forced her or Huldah to tell?
Carolyn sat up and switched on the light. Now she was really acting crazy. The pilot of Mr. Young’s private plane lived here in Youngsport. There was no way David could find him. And she had spoken with Diana on the phone just a few hours ago, and Diana was fine. There simply wasn’t enough time for David to learn Carolyn’s whereabouts from her and then make it all the way up here to Maine.
Still, she had to give in to her curiosity. Switching off the light again, she stepped over to the window and pulled back the curtains. She saw no one standing below in the moonlight. She breathed a sigh of relief.
But that sigh became a gasp as she turned around and looked back across her room.
Beatrice stood there. The moonlight reflected against her long white dress.
“Why have you come to me?” Carolyn whispered.
Never before had Beatrice appeared to someone outside the Young family. If she was appearing to Carolyn now, it was because she wanted to tell her something.
“I want to help you,” Carolyn whispered, “and I think you want to help me. You want to help all of us, don’t you?”
Beatrice lifted her right arm from her side and pointed a finger at Carolyn.
“What is it?” Carolyn asked. “What are you trying to say?”
The apparition took a step forward, her finger pointing directly at Carolyn’s face.
“What? I don’t understand.”
She gently wagged her finger.
“Me. You’re indicating me. What about me? What are you saying about me?”
A book suddenly fell from a shelf. It slammed hard upon the floor, startling Carolyn. She stooped down to retrieve it, and in that fleeting second, Beatrice disappeared.
“Wait!” Carolyn called. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
But it was no use. Beatrice was gone.
Carolyn lifted the book from the floor. It was a family photo album, and it had opened to one page. Carolyn looked down. It was a photograph of Jeanette Young, probably shortly before she was chosen in the lottery to enter the room. She looked so young and so full of life, a far cry from the pale, shrunken woman Carolyn had met.
“Why did you show me Jeanette?” Carolyn asked out loud. “And why did you point at me?”
She sat there for nearly an hour on the edge of her bed, looking at Jeanette’s photo, hoping Beatrice would return, trying to make sense of her message. But all that happened was that Carolyn grew tired. Very, very tired.
Finally she replaced the photo album on the shelf and crawled back into bed. Sleep was forcing itself upon her, even though her mind still struggled with the riddle of Beatrice’s appearance. What was she trying to tell her? And did it have anything to do with the feelings of terror Carolyn had experienced, the absurd conviction that David Cooke stood outside, looking up at her window?
Before she knew it, she was dreaming. She was in the room downstairs, the door was locked, and there was someone else in there with her. She didn’t need to see him to know it was David Cooke. She could hear his breathing. He was coming at her. She banged on the door, screaming for help.