She was surprised when he grabbed her hand, like a frightened little kid, as they walked up the steps to the psychologist’s office.
Inside the house, a pleasant-looking woman behind a desk told them to have a seat. Daphne flipped through a couple of
People
magazines, but Christopher just sat in the chair, arms still crossed, lips still in a pout, earphones in place, iPod in his hands.
Soon Dr. Duane came out and introduced himself. He was a handsome man, blond, and younger than Daphne had expected. He greeted them warmly, then remarked on Christopher’s iPod. “Hey, maybe you can show me how to get mine working,” he said. “It seems to have gotten stuck.”
Daphne thought it was a brilliant move. Christopher eyed the doctor, then nodded that he would try to help. It balanced things out between them, which would make the boy less averse about meeting with the doctor. Christopher stood from his seat and followed Dr. Duane down the hall. Daphne figured he was in good hands.
The session would last for ninety minutes, so Daphne decided to take a walk. The day was sunny, if still pretty cold. She figured on walking back toward town. Rico’s wasn’t very far, after all. She wouldn’t go in. She’d just walk by.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and started to walk. But before she could get even a few feet down the road, she heard the sound of a motorcycle. She turned. Gregory pulled up alongside her.
“Out for a stroll?” he asked.
He looked so handsome with his hair blowing in the wind.
“How did you find me?” Daphne asked, smiling.
“I saw the official Witherspoon car go by, with that little gnome at the wheel,” he told her. “And I thought I saw you and the boy in the backseat. So I hopped on the bike and went out on a hunt.”
Daphne explained that Christopher was seeing Dr. Duane, which Gregory said was a good thing. He knew the doctor, casually, from the restaurant. He parked the bike at the curb and hopped off.
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Gregory, if we’re seen together again ...”
“Then let’s go in here.” He gestured to a little coffee shop. “I know the owner. She’ll give us the room in back, where we can be alone.”
So for the next hour, Daphne and Gregory enjoyed a rare interlude of peace and quiet and privacy. Under the table, they held hands. It was exactly the kind of dream date Daphne had imagined as a girl. They shared a large chocolate chip cookie and Gregory made her laugh by putting whipped cream on his half. But there was seriousness, too. He was worried about her. He was afraid that Donovan’s killer might strike again.
Daphne’s cheeks burned as she remembered how she’d allowed herself to suspect Gregory, even for a few minutes. That was absurd. This kind, compassionate man could never hurt anyone. She did her best to forget his angry words to Mr. Witherspoon.
“What do you think about Boris?” she asked. “He has teeth—horrible teeth—that remind me of the teeth of the clown I’ve seen.”
Gregory frowned. “You mean to say you think Boris dresses up in a clown suit and runs around slitting people’s throats?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
Gregory considered the idea. “Well, he was unnaturally close to the first Mr. Witherspoon. Worshipped the ground he walked on.”
“Axel said sometimes he hears Boris speaking in that horrible man’s voice.”
“Now that’s pretty creepy,” Gregory admitted.
He told her he wanted her out of the house.
“Quit your job, Daphne,” he said. “I’ll—I’ll make sure you’re taken care of until you can find a new position.”
“You’re very gallant,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “But strange as it sounds, I feel a responsibility to that young boy I just left at Dr. Duane’s. Everyone has failed him. I don’t want to be one more person who doesn’t do right by him.”
Gregory took her hand out from under the table and pressed it to his lips.
He walked her back to the doctor’s office. Just as they arrived, Dr. Duane was walking Christopher down the front steps.
“Oh, hello, Gregory,” Dr. Duane said.
“Hi, Doc, how are you?”
Daphne saw Christopher’s eyes fix on Gregory. So this was the man his father hated so much. Daphne noticed the gleam that lit up in the boy’s gaze.
“Hello, young Master Witherspoon,” Gregory said, bending down to offer the boy his hand. Christopher shook it. “I just happened to be walking by this moment and saw your pretty governess waiting for you.”
“How did he do, Doctor?” Daphne asked.
“I think we made some progress.” The doctor smiled. “Of course, everything we discussed is just between Christopher and me. I hope next time he trusts me to open up even more.” He tousled the child’s hair.
Daphne wasn’t sure if they had made any progress at all. She also wasn’t sure if Christopher liked Dr. Duane. All she could observe was the way the boy kept staring at Gregory.
After Dr. Duane had left, Christopher finally spoke.
“Is that your bike?” he asked, gesturing to Gregory’s motorcycle.
“Indeed it is. Want a ride?”
“Yes!” Christopher blurted, and for the first time all day a genuine smile bloomed on his face.
“No, no, no,” Daphne said. “Your father wouldn’t approve. Besides Axel will be here to pick us up in about fifteen minutes.”
“My father,” Christopher spit, bitterly.
“Another time, pal,” Gregory said. “Well, nice seeing you both.”
And without another look at Daphne—he was so discreet—he gave them both a jaunty salute and sauntered over to his motorcycle. Hopping on, he gave them a cheery wave. Christopher waved back. Then Gregory revved the motor and sped off.
“He’s cool,” Christopher said, watching him go.
Daphne thought of asking him to not mention seeing Gregory to his father, but figured the boy might do so just to spite her. But she suspected Gregory had made a positive impression on Christopher, so maybe he wouldn’t say anything after all.
“Could I ask you a favor, Daphne?” the boy suddenly inquired.
“What is it?”
“Could we go across the street so I can visit my mother’s grave?”
“Oh, Christopher, I don’t know if we have time. Axel will be here soon and ...”
He looked as if he might cry. “Please! She’s all I talked about with Dr. Duane! I want to see her! The cemetery is just across the street!”
“Oh, all right,” Daphne said, melting. “Of course we can go to your mother’s grave.”
They hurried across the street and into the cemetery. The recent snowfalls had left the ground wet and muddy. Daphne’s feet sunk into a quicksand of wet grass and mud. She had to pull them back out with little “pops.” Christopher was marching on ahead, toward the Witherspoon crypt, as Daphne tried to keep up. She passed the crooked old gravestones, some marble, some faded brownstone, many dating back to the nineteenth century. Engravings of skulls and winged angels stared out at her.
“Wait for me, Christopher,” Daphne called as she noticed the boy enter the crypt.
Yet as she stepped inside herself, she noticed the boy was not standing beside his mother’s plaque but was, instead, standing in a small stairwell that led down to a lower floor of the crypt.
“Have you ever been down here?” he asked Daphne.
“I thought you came to pay your respects to your mother.”
“I will. But I want to show you the graves down there. They’re from a really long time ago. Like my father’s great-great-a-million-great grandparents.”
“I don’t want to go down there, Christopher,” Daphne said.
The crypt was a dark, dank place, and Daphne shuddered. Here the sun was completely blotted out, the only half-light that penetrated the cold stone walls coming from a series of small, stained-glass circular windows. In the walls of this place lay the bones and decaying flesh of dead people. Daphne wanted out as soon as possible.
“Please, Daphne! I want to show you something! Please, it’s something I told Dr. Duane about. Something that means a lot to me!”
He disappeared down the steps to the level below.
“Christopher!”
Daphne hesitated, then, clutching her purse tightly, followed the boy down the stairs.
The light in this lower room was even dimmer than the one upstairs. Daphne stepped inside, shivering. Her eyes were blinking, trying to adjust.
“Christopher?”
From behind her she heard the low, scraping sound of metal against stone.
“Good-bye, Daphne!” Christopher suddenly sang out. “You will rot in here with the bones of my ancestors!”
He laughed, a hideous, high-pitched cackle.
Daphne spun around to see the boy pulling a large iron door behind him, sealing her inside.
“Christopher!” she screamed.
“No one will know where you are,” he said gleefully, as she caught a last glimpse of his crazed, ecstatic face before the door closed. “I’ll tell them you rode off on Gregory Winston’s bike, leaving me all alone! No one will think of looking for you in here. No one can hear you scream from down here either! And there’s a big snowstorm coming tomorrow. It will cover the crypt. So you’ll die down here!”
He laughed again.
“No, Christopher, please don’t!”
The door thudded shut.
Daphne was left in the dark.
With the dead.
FIFTEEN
It had to be a joke. He’d open the door.
“Christopher!”
But from the other side, there was only silence.
“Christopher, please! Open the door!”
She began to panic.
“Christopher!” she screamed. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me here!”
Was he standing on the other side, laughing at her?
If that were the case, Daphne didn’t want to panic. If he planned on opening the door, laughing hysterically, revealing it all to be a prank, then Daphne had best keep her cool. If she freaked out, he’d have the upper hand. He’d use it against her.
“Okay, Christopher,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “your father is not going to be pleased when he hears about this. Open the door now and I’ll let it go. But if you keep up this prank for much longer, I won’t be as forgiving.”
Nothing. There was no sound at all.
Daphne suddenly suspected that even if the boy was on the other side of the door, he couldn’t hear her. The door was thick, heavy metal. He had warned her that no one could hear her scream, hadn’t he?
“Dear God,” Daphne whispered to herself, and stepped away from the door.
The reality of her situation struck her.
This wasn’t a prank.
He wasn’t going to be opening that door.
He had really locked her in here, intending for her to die.
Christopher was even more deranged than she’d imagined.
“Oh, dear God,” Daphne said again, suddenly shaking all over.
She looked around the room. Most of it was submerged into the ground, but on one wall, the upper part of which was clearly aboveground, there was a line of four round stained-glass windows. The windows were too high for Daphne to reach, and even if she could, they were much too small for her to crawl through, being only about eight inches in diameter. But it was the dim light that came through them that gave the chamber its only illumination. Daphne’s eyes had adjusted by now, but it was still very difficult to see around her. And when the sun set, she realized, even that minimal light would be gone.
Panic threatened to overtake her. She did not want to be trapped down here in total darkness.
“Christopher!” she called once more in desperation, no longer caring if she was giving him the upper hand. “Oh, Christopher, please! Let me out of here!”
But nothing.
The boy was gone. She was sure of it.
In her mind’s eye, Daphne could see him returning to the place where Axel was to meet them, and telling the chauffeur that his governess had abandoned him, taking off with Gregory on his motorcycle. Axel would be aghast, and they’d report back to Mr. Witherspoon, who’d be irate. Of course, when Gregory was called, he’d tell them it wasn’t true, but no one would believe him, at least not right away. Dr. Duane would even confirm that he’d seen them together.
“The sheriff will investigate,” Daphne reasoned out loud. “He’ll have a search party to look for me.” She brightened, momentarily. “Gregory will come looking for me!”
But would anyone think to look for her here? In a snowstorm?
Her hopes sank.
Christopher was right. There was indeed a big storm on the way. Daphne had seen the weather report in the newspaper this morning. A big storm like that might mean a delay of looking for her for several days. And Daphne didn’t think she could survive that long in this place—this place of the dead.
She felt something tickle her ankle. Unable to see clearly, she whacked at it, and her hand came into contact with something fuzzy. She gasped out loud. A mouse? A rat? A giant spider?
“Oh, dear God,” she cried, and moved toward the far wall.
Was it her imagination, or was the light already changing? The sun set so early now. How many more hours before she was plunged into blackness?
And suddenly, she thought of something.
Her first night at Witherswood, Ben had given her a gift. A tiny flashlight. He had said the power went out frequently. It was a good tool to have.
“Don’t want you to find yourself alone in the dark,” he had said.
Did she still have it? Had she put it in her purse?
Her purse was still slung over her shoulder. She opened it quickly, rummaging through the contents. There wasn’t much inside. A date book. A compact. A lipstick and a ChapStick. A couple of sanitary napkins. A package of crackers. And ... yes! The flashlight!
“Thank you, Ben!” Daphne exulted, pulling out the flashlight and flicking it on.
Its small beam of light comforted her. She used it to survey the room.
It was maybe fifteen feet by twenty, made of solid stone—brownstone, she thought, and concrete. Plaques like the ones in the upper chamber adorned two of the walls, although these were much older and more worn. Daphne took a few steps closer, shining the light onto the plaques. The names were unknown to her.
R
OSCOE
W
ITHERSPOON
1915–1967
M
ABEL
W
ITHERSPOON
1918–1972
And then, in the corner, a plaque with no name, just a date.
A date that was twenty-three years earlier than the present one.
Who would be buried down here with just a date and no name?
The answer came to Daphne right away.
“Pete Witherspoon Senior,” she whispered. It had been twenty-three years ago that he had taken his life in that jail cell.
She stifled a scream as she stared at the plaque.
His crimes had damned him to an unmarked grave.
It had to be him. Roscoe and Mabel were probably his father and mother.
Daphne stepped back. The thought of being in such close proximity to the madman’s grave unnerved her.
Not just his grave.
But his remains. His skeleton lay behind that wall.
Now she understood why Christopher had chosen this particular place to torment her.
She flicked off the flashlight. As long as there was still a little light left coming in from the windows, she figured she ought to conserve the battery. She had no idea how long she might be a prisoner in this terrible place.
She closed her eyes, trying to zone out. Mother Angela had taught the girls relaxation exercises, akin to meditation. Daphne tried that now. She pushed from her mind all thoughts, all awareness of her body and surroundings. She must have been successful, at least for a while—a half an hour? forty minutes?—because when she opened her eyes it was clearly darker in the chamber. The light from outside was fading.
Pressing her back up against the wall beneath the small windows above, Daphne took several deep breaths. She could smell the rancid odor of decay. Leaves and roots and earth, and underneath all of that, the disgustingly sweet fragrance of rotting bones. She wanted to cover her nose with her hand, but she was also aware that the amount of oxygen in this chamber was limited. She did not want to pass out. If she did, she thought she’d never awaken.
It was getting more difficult to see. The sun was indeed setting. Gripping the flashlight in her hand, she suddenly replaced it in her purse. What if she dropped it? Broke it? That flashlight had become her totem, her key to survival.
They’ll find me,
she kept repeating to herself.
There’s no need to panic. A search will go out....
Unless Mr. Witherspoon is so outraged he does nothing.
In that case, it might be days before the sheriff or Gregory gets word that I’m missing.
She ordered herself to stop thinking the worst. She could get through this. A few hours ... maybe the night. Surely by tomorrow ...
When it was snowing. And when the whole town was under two feet of snow.
The snow would cover those windows, Daphne realized. And then she might be in complete darkness 24-7.
“Oh, dear God,” she muttered, feeling panic brewing in her belly again.
So many times over the last few months she’d wished she were back at Our Lady, but never more than this very moment. Back in her old room, on the bottom bunk, laughing with Katie, in the upper bunk, watching some silly show on Bravo, maybe
Project Runway
or one of the cooking shows. Back then Daphne had never seen a dead body, or worried about murderers, or wondered if there might be such things as ghosts. Now here she was, trapped in an underground crypt in a cemetery.
Where she might, in fact, die.
That was the worst-case scenario. But just because it was worst case didn’t mean it couldn’t come true.
Her mind began playing tricks on her. She had been standing with her back against the wall, under the windows, but now suddenly she realized she was squatting in the opposite corner, looking up at the windows. It felt as if a good chunk of time had elapsed, slipped by without her noticing. Only the faintest glow remained.
How long had she been in this place now? An hour? No, more than that. Two? She thought maybe it was getting closer to three....
The light from the windows was suddenly extinguished like the flame on a candle.
Daphne took a deep breath and felt inside her purse. Her fingers closed around the flashlight and she let out a breath in relief. She removed the flashlight from her purse and switched it on. Its tiny spotlight illuminated no more than a few inches immediately around her. But it was enough to keep her from panicking.
Her stomach rumbled, so she took one of the two crackers out of the cellophane wrapper in her purse and forced herself to eat half. The cracker was stale and a little soft. Still, it was sustenance. After she had finished chewing, she turned off the flashlight. Conserve, conserve, conserve.
She wished she wore a watch. She never had. There had been clocks all over the Our Lady campus, so she’d never needed one. And now the tall grandfather’s clock in the foyer of Witherswood allowed her to keep track of the time. But here, in the darkness, time was meaningless. She was no longer sure if she’d been trapped for three hours or five. Or maybe it was even more.
Her mind faded out on her again.
When she became conscious of herself again, she suspected it must be the middle of the night. She could the sounds of scurrying. Mice and rats, no doubt. She realized she still held the flashlight tightly in her fist. Even as she had slept—or experienced what passed for sleep—she hadn’t let go of it. The flashlight was her talisman, her protection, her comfort—she was like a little girl sleeping with her doll.
The scurrying and scratching only got louder, and seemed to be coming closer. Daphne lifted the flashlight and flicked on the switch, aiming the light in the direction of the noise. Its spotlight picked out a gray face with pink eyes staring at her. Daphne gasped.
She knew what it was. To her, it was worse than any rat.
It was a possum.
She’d stumbled on a possum once, late at night, at Our Lady, as she took out the trash. Its unearthly eyes had terrified her then. Now, sitting in the dark with one of them—or maybe there were many—Daphne’s skin crawled.
“Go!” she shouted. “Get out of here!” Anything to keep it away, to prevent its slimy, rubbery paws from touching her.
But as she shouted at the possum, a thought came to her. Steadying her trembling hand, she used the light of the flashlight to pick out the creature from the darkness again. It was a big fat one, all right, with a long, wormy tail that curled under its blubbery body. The possum was so big, in fact, that Daphne realized it couldn’t have gotten into the crypt through the little burrow holes made by rats and mice. There must be a larger passageway that it came through—and if a big fat possum could get through it, maybe a small, slender Daphne could get through it, too.
She followed the waddling possum with the flashlight, shouting at it to keep it moving. “Show me how you got in here,” she told it loudly, and the creature seemed to be obeying her command.
For a second she lost it in the darkness, but then she saw it again, and indeed, it did appear to be entering some kind of passage. At the far corner of the room, the possum seemed to be disappearing into the floor. As Daphne moved the flashlight closer, she saw the creature’s back legs and slimy tail pushing through a grate of some kind. She knelt down and brought the flashlight close. It wasn’t a grate. It was a trap door in the floor, and it had been dislodged from its hinges by decades of nocturnal mammals like her friend the possum.
Gripping the edge of the trap door, Daphne gave it a pull. It opened easily. Aiming the flashlight inside, she saw to her utter surprise that a set of steep stairs descended into the darkness below. How far the stairs went down, she couldn’t tell, as the beam of light was not strong enough to penetrate the inky blackness more than a few inches. But the stairs obviously went somewhere.