Death, Snow, and Mistletoe Read online

  “I hope this doesn't mean Lickin Creek's getting to be like the city,” I commented, thinking I was beginning to sound like a true Lickin Creek native.

  “I hope not, too, Tori. But this was probably just teenagers out for a thrill. Not much was taken. Only a few flashy things, Wilson said. They left the most valuable stuff alone.”

  “How'd they get in?” I asked, thinking of my not-so-well-hidden key.

  “Wilson said they got in through the servants’ entrance in the basement, then came up the hidden staircase.”

  “Hidden staircase? Sounds like a Nancy Drew mystery—The Hidden Staircase. You're kidding, aren't you?”

  “Of course not. Everybody knows that all the houses in Moon Lake were built about the same time, and all of them have hidden staircases and corridors.”

  “Even mine?”

  “Probably. They were for the servants to use—so they wouldn't bother the rich home owners with their comings and goings.”

  I made a mental note to look for secret passageways when I got home tonight.

  The next call was from Praxythea. Her limo had just arrived to take her to York, but first she needed to tell me that Ginnie had stopped by to remind me of our bingo date. “And she brought you a bingo kit,” Praxythea said with a chuckle.

  “What's that?” I asked.

  “It's a little plastic bag with colored markers in it, and—let's see—a good-luck troll. How adorable!”

  I groaned.

  “She'll pick you up at five-thirty.”

  “Are you sure she said five-thirty? That's awfully early. I won't have time for dinner.”

  “She said to plan on eating there—they have good slippery potpie. What is that?”

  “A local delicacy. One I don't care for. Have a good trip.”

  My hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang again. Thinking of the many articles I had to write, I almost chose not to answer, but I've never been able to ignore a ringing telephone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Nothing.

  I tried again. “Hello, anybody there?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Damn computer-generated calls!” I muttered, almost ready to hang up.

  Then I heard a faint, hesitant voice. “Miz Miracle?”

  “This is Tori Miracle. Who is this, please?”

  A pause. “It's me. Peter.”

  I jerked to attention. Was he going to tell me the truth about Kevin—despite his sister's bullying? This could be the break we needed. “What can I do for you, Peter?” I asked calmly. I didn't want to scare him off with my eagerness.

  He mumbled something so softly I couldn't catch anything but Kevin's name.

  “Do you know where Kevin is?” I asked. “If you do, please tell me.”

  “I'm scared,” he whimpered.

  “Of what?”

  “Pearl.”

  My God, what has Pearl done? I wondered.

  “Where are you, Peter?”

  “Corny's,” he said.

  “Corny's Feed Store?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Pearl with you?”

  “I'm all alone.”

  “Is Kevin all right?” I asked. I couldn't bring myself to ask if he was alive.

  “Don't know. I'm real scared.” His voice quivered. “Can you come get me?”

  “Peter, stay where you are. I'll be there in half an hour.”

  “Don't tell no one. I don't want Pearl to know I called you.” I could hear sharp bursts of air and knew he was hyperventilating.

  “Hang in there, kid. I'm on my way.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Bless all the dear children

  THE SNOW HAD MELTED, THE ROAD WAS NO longer icy, and I broke all the speed laws going up the mountain, arriving at Corny's Corner in record time. Fewer cars were parked in the field than last night, and I feared the search was winding down as people lost hope in finding Kevin.

  Inside Corny's, the Friendly Feed Store, I discovered it was not only a feed store but also an old-fashioned hardware shop, dark and dusty, with shelves piled high with tools, bags of fertilizer, kitchenware, Christmas decorations, and many items I didn't recognize. Down the center of each aisle was a row of wooden barrels full of nails. Ceiling fans, high overhead, churned up dust motes, but did little to freshen the stale air. I looked around the cavernous old building, trying to spot Peter, but there was no sign of him.

  A young man approached wearing black trousers, yellow suspenders, a bright-purple shirt, and a black hat too small for his head. A delicate golden peach fuzz bloomed on his rosy cheeks. With a thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent, he asked if he could help me.

  I shook my head, since Peter was obviously hiding and I'd promised not to tell he'd called. I spent a few moments examining the store's selection of blue and white crocks and ceramic butter churns, while I tried to figure out what to do. It came to me that Peter would most likely be somewhere near the phone he'd called from.

  “Do you have a public telephone?” I asked the young man. “I've got a little problem with my car.” I don't know why I thought it necessary to throw in an explanation for wanting to use his phone.

  The youth smiled, rather patronizingly, I thought, and said, “Ain't got no pay phone, miss, but you'uns can use the one in the office.” He pointed down one of the long aisles, to a heavily varnished oak door. My helpless-female act had paid off. I stepped inside the small office, really not much more than a closet with a window, and closed the door behind me. “Peter, are you in here?” I whispered. “It's Tori—I mean, Miss Miracle.”

  From beneath the rolltop desk came a rustle, a grunt, and finally a frightened-looking, towheaded boy.

  I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. I could feel the pounding of his heart right through his skimpy jacket and my quilted one.

  “You didn't tell no one, did you?” he asked, still shaking. “Pearl don't know I called you, does she?”

  I smoothed his tousled hair. “It's okay. There's no way she could know.”

  My words seemed to soothe him.

  I watched through the crack in the door until the clerk left his position at the counter to wait on a customer. “Now,” I said softly to Peter, and we scuttled, unseen, out the front door.

  “Where to?” I asked him, once the truck had sprung to life.

  Peter scrunched down beside me on the front seat. “Up the mountain,” he said.

  He and Pearl had told the police that Kevin's kidnapper had driven toward town—the opposite direction from where we were now headed.

  “Keep going till I tell you to stop,” he said. He appeared much calmer now. I reached over and patted his hand to reassure him, and he smiled wanly at me.

  We passed the entrance to the Iron Ore Mansions Trailer Park. As far as I could tell, there were no media vans beyond the gate. The ghouls had moved on.

  “Hurry,” he urged. “She could be watching.”

  I knew he meant Pearl. Again, I wondered what she had done and why Peter was so terrified of her.

  Shrouded by the evergreen forest, the road became so dark I could hardly believe it was still morning. It was now hardly more than a trail, and I feared I would round a bend and find it gone. As I drove higher and deeper into the forest, I realized I was also driving farther and farther away from the area on which the search parties were concentrating.

  Peter was now sitting up, watching the passing landscape with intense interest. “Stop here,” Peter said.

  I braked, pulled onto the shoulder, and turned off the ignition.

  He jumped out. “Come on,” he said and pushed into the forest, where I could see no path. I followed him, not liking this one bit. The only sound to be heard was the faint crunching of dry pine needles beneath our feet. Low branches reached out, tangled my hair, snagged my jacket. I ducked to avoid one and came up with something unpleasant and sticky clinging to my face.

  “Where are we going?” I panted after a few minutes. We'd been mov
ing uphill at a brisk pace, and I was rapidly realizing I was in no shape for hiking.

  “Shhh.” He paused and looked around. “You hear something?”

  “No,” I snapped. I was growing impatient and, unfortunately, beginning to wonder if Peter was leading me on a wild-goose chase. For the first time I wondered if he and Pearl were pulling a trick on me.

  “Let's go,” he ordered.

  At last, we stumbled out of the gloom into a small clearing. Directly in front of us was a crumbling tower of dark gray stones, rising at least twenty feet over my head. Behind it was a steep, rocky hill.

  I bent over, gasping, and tried to catch my breath. Tomorrow, I vowed, I would really start my diet—and an exercise program, too.

  When I'd pretty much recovered, I straightened up to see Peter climbing the hill behind the tower. What had at first looked like natural rock formations now appeared to be the ruins of a stone staircase.

  “Come on,” he urged. “Hurry.” He was halfway up the hill, at the summit of the tower. A narrow bridge crossed from the hill to the tower, and Peter skipped across it. He leaned over the stone wall, looking down at something.

  The tower, I realized, was similar to one I'd seen in Caledonia State Park—an enormous chimney, built long ago to process iron ore from the local mines. The large opening at the base, where the fire would have been built, was blocked now by fallen rocks. I suddenly knew Kevin was inside, and my heart pounded wildly as I scrambled up the hillside.

  The rocks were moss covered and slippery, and many were loose. I stumbled, twisted my ankle, and had to grab a tree limb to keep myself from tumbling backward down the hill. At last, I reached the bridge. Trying not to look down, I hurried across it to where Peter sat on the edge of the chimney wall.

  “Be careful,” I warned. “Don't fall in.”

  I stood on tiptoe and peered down into the square opening. It was larger than my New York living room. Stones from the wall had tumbled in and partially filled the interior, and it was heaped with dead leaves, brown pine needles, and picnic trash.

  “Kevin,” I called into the pit. “Are you there? We've come to help you.”

  I listened, and at first I heard nothing, then came a faint crackling sound from beneath the debris. “I have to go down there,” I told Peter as I climbed onto the wall. The height made me dizzy, but I managed to swing my legs over the side, get a good handhold on the ledge, and lower myself as far as my arms could stretch. It wasn't quite enough. Shutting my eyes and saying a quick prayer, I let go and dropped the remaining couple of feet.

  I landed upright, then toppled over backward. The litter cushioned my fall. As I rolled over, my left hand came in contact with something soft and warm. I scrambled to my knees and began to dig through the trash.

  It took only seconds to uncover the child's face. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was alive, and that's what was important. I cleared some of the crumbled dead leaves and dirt away from around his lips and nose and made sure his breathing passages were open.

  His eyes opened then, and he blinked several times, trying to focus. Slowly, he seemed to realize someone was with him, and this appeared to frighten him. He attempted to push me away with his frail arms. “Go 'way … go 'way.”

  “It's okay, Kevin.” I tried to soothe him. “I'm going to get you out of here.”

  I began to scoop the rest of the trash away from his body. Suddenly he screamed, and I realized that one of his legs was twisted unnaturally beneath him. I gently uncovered it and saw a jagged, blood-crusted bone poking through the skin of his thigh.

  “Peter,” I called. “You'll have to hike down the mountain and find a phone. We need an ambulance—and emergency crew.”

  As if in answer, a rock tumbled off the ledge and landed in the pile of garbage next to me. “Careful!” I screamed. “That almost hit us.”

  Another rock fell, closer this time. I looked up and saw Peter peering over the edge. He was smiling, and I felt uneasy.

  “What's wrong? Why don't you go?” I asked.

  He giggled, and to my horror I saw him raise a large stone above his head.

  “No!” I yelled. I threw myself over Kevin, hoping to protect him with my own body. The stone, when it landed, bounced off another and hit my right arm below the elbow. The pain was so severe I couldn't even scream. But Kevin could and did. I realized my weight was crushing him.

  From above came one more high-pitched giggle. Another rock landed somewhere behind me. The next grazed my right leg. Lying facedown, on top of the screaming child I'd come to rescue, I knew we were both going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I thought of Fred and Noel and hoped someone would give them a good home, and of Garnet, and the baby brother or sister I'd never get to see. “I'm sorry,” I told Kevin, who seemed to have fainted. “I'm really sorry.”

  All was quiet for a moment. I tensed my back and waited for the next barrage of rocks—the one that would most likely prove deadly—when I heard a sound that was even more horrifying than Peter's laughter: the unmistakable blast of a shotgun.

  Where had he gotten a gun? Would the end come quickly? Would it hurt? I waited. Nothing happened. I rolled off Kevin onto my back and looked up. There was no sign of Peter. I feared he'd gone for more ammunition. I had to get out before he returned.

  I started tossing rocks into one corner. The ledge was not too far above. If I could pile up enough stones, I might be able to climb out and get help.

  I frantically continued working on my escape route, even when I heard approaching footsteps above me. I climbed to the top of the mound of rocks and reached for the ledge. Almost. Almost.

  I had the feeling I was being watched. I looked up in dread and saw not Peter but Pearl staring over the edge at me.

  “You two kids won't get away with this,” I yelled at her. “Help me get out of here. Right now!”

  “It's okay,” she said. “I done tied him up. But you better hurry. He might get loose.”

  I quickly finished my makeshift staircase and climbed out of the pit. Behind me, Kevin moaned pitifully. The child needed help, and he needed it fast.

  Peter was lashed to a nearby tree with gray metallic duct tape, tightly wrapped from his chest to his feet. More tape covered his mouth. Blood trickled from a wound on his forehead, and I guessed Pearl must have hit him with something. He writhed and twisted, but the tape held him fast.

  Pearl stood a few feet away, cradling an enormous shotgun in her arms.

  “You go for help,” she said to me. Her voice was calm and confident.

  “You go,” I said.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “You wouldn't shoot him if he got loose.” The coldness in her blue eyes said she would if she had to.

  Somehow, I found strength I didn't know I had and ran down the trail to the road in only a few minutes. Luck was with me, for a pickup truck, with a dead deer strapped to the hood, came by almost immediately and stopped. I explained to the driver, in a rush, what had happened, and he called for help on his cell phone. He was familiar with the ruins of the old furnace and described to the dispatcher exactly where we were.

  He grabbed his rifle from the window rack, retrieved a first-aid kit from the toolbox in the back, and followed me into the woods.

  Pearl sat on a rock, gun on her lap, watching Peter, who had stopped struggling. The malevolent gleam in his wild eyes made me pray the tape held.

  The kind stranger climbed down into the pit to look after Kevin. “I think he'll be okay,” he called up to me. “Hand me my first-aid kit. I'll stay with him till the ambulance gets here.”

  I sat down next to Pearl.

  “Well?” I said, not looking at her. “You going to tell me what this is all about?”

  The story she told chilled me to the bone. The three children—Kevin, Peter, and Pearl—had been playing on the hill beside the furnace, when Kevin had tumbled into the chimney.

  “He was hur
t bad,” Pearl said, “and scared, and crying. That's when Peter called him a crybaby and throwed rocks at him. I told Peter to cut it out, but he kept on. I pulled him off the wall, but Kevin was all bloody and wasn't moving, and I thought he was dead.

  “I was afraid we'd get in trouble, so to make sure nobody would find him, we covered him with branches and leaves. Then we went home and made up the story about Kevin going home by hisself.”

  “But why didn't you try to get help for him?” I asked.

  Pearl started to cry, and for the first time I remembered I was talking to a child. “We was real scared. I thought if we done told, they'd take Peter away and stick him in jail forever. I always done took care of him—nobody else does—and I knew if they took him away, then he wouldn't have nobody. Now, they'll do it anyway.”

  I put my arms around her. “Peter won't go to jail,” I said. “There are people who can help him.”

  She sobbed into my chest. “Promise? I think there's something wrong with him. Ever since he was a little kid, he always liked to pull bugs apart and watch them squirm. And cut up mice and little animals.” She cried, “I kept telling him to stop, but he wouldn't. Last summer he done poured lighter fluid on the neighbor's cat and set it afire. It was awful.”

  I shuddered and looked at Peter, who glared back at me. I wondered why I'd been unaware of the unadulterated evil in his eyes earlier. “He'll get counseling. He's just a child,” I said to Pearl. “There are people who can make him better.” I hoped this was true.

  I got up and went to the edge of the chimney and looked down at Kevin and the helpful stranger. “How's he doing?” I asked.

  “Well as can be expected. Hope the ambulance gets here soon.”

  I returned to my spot next to Pearl. “How did you find us here?” I asked.

  “I caught sight of him sneaking out of our trailer, so I followed him to Corny's. He didn't have no business there, so I guessed he was going to call someone. Only phone they got's in the office, so I listened through the window. When you came and went in the store, I hid in the back seat of your truck, under all that junk you got there.”