Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Charlotte grabbed a pen and jotted the information Dave gave her on the back of an envelope.

“Highway 53 from Houma, then a right just before I get to Tiber.”

“There’ll be a gas station on your right,” Dave said. “The road’s not marked so you’ll have to watch for it.”

“I don’t plan on having to go that far. As soon as I hit Highway 90, I’ll catch her.”

“If you do end up going all the way to the house and something doesn’t seem right, just get Claire out of there, okay?”

Charlotte bit her lip. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’m concerned,” Dave said. “Like I said, I’d feel a lot better if she wasn’t going down there alone.”

“She won’t be for long. I’m headed out right now. Here, let me give you my cell number in case you need to call me.”

They exchanged phone numbers and then Charlotte grabbed her purse and ran out the door. She wouldn’t let herself think about that note of anxiety in Dave’s voice.

Claire would be fine. She had to be. Because Charlotte couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

The light was fading by the time Claire made the turn at Tiber and headed down the gravel road toward Savanna Sweete’s house. The sky was lavender, and the pink clouds in the west were gilded. The sun was setting, but the air was still hot. She’d run the air conditioner for most of the way, but now she rolled her window down and the wind that rushed in was thick with the scent of the honeysuckle that grew along the fencerows. She could smell the bayou, too, and as she pulled up outside the gates, mimosa and magnolia.

She tapped her horn, and the gates swung open so quickly she found herself wondering again if Savannah had been watching for her from an upstairs window.

Claire drove through, and as she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw the gates slowly close behind her. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt a prickle of apprehension as she pulled up to the house and parked.

She climbed the porch steps, knocked on the door, and almost immediately the lock clicked open, just as it had earlier that day. Claire stepped inside and glanced around. As the sun sank behind the trees, the light through the windows in the parlor turned golden, but the foyer and stairs lay in deep shadow.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs and called up. “Ms. Sweete? It’s Claire Doucett. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.”

The house remained silent.

Claire climbed a couple of steps and called up again. “Ms. Sweete? Are you up there?”

When the woman still didn’t answer, Claire stepped back down into the foyer. She was expected. She had made it clear on the phone that she was on her way there, and it seemed doubtful that the older woman would have gone out after they’d spoken.

Claire started into the parlor, but a sound from upstairs stopped her cold. Her heart thudded as she slowly turned, her gaze going to the top of the steps.

“Hello? Is someone up there?”

The sound came again, a feral grunt that lifted the hair on Claire’s neck and sent a shiver down her spine.

“Hello?” Slowly, she climbed the stairs. “Ms. Sweete? Are you up here? It’s Claire Doucett. I’m coming up. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

There was light at the top of the stairs from a window, and as Claire moved onto the landing, she saw her.

The woman lay on the floor, her back to the stairs, one clawlike hand extended toward the elevator. The animal sounds coming from her throat chilled Claire to her core, and she found herself hesitating for a moment before she rushed to the woman’s side and bent to touch her shoulder.

The sounds grew louder and more agitated, and Claire realized she’d frightened the poor woman. She quickly drew back her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I want to help you.”

She moved around to the other side so that Savannah could see her. The older woman’s face was so thin and drawn, her eyes sunken so far back into the sockets that she looked nearly skeletal. She smelled of vomit, urine and decay. Claire put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a gag.

“What happened to you?” she asked in shock.

The woman grunted in response, her eyes darting back and forth as if she couldn’t focus. She wasn’t Savannah Sweete. She was much older than the woman Claire had met that morning. But who was she? And what was wrong with her?

Claire was almost afraid to touch her again. Her limbs looked as if they might snap as easily as dried twigs with even the slightest of pressure. She wore only a thin cotton nightgown, and the legs protruding from the hem were bruised and mottled.

“My God,” Claire muttered.

She started to rise, but the woman seemed to grow even more frantic, and the hand outstretched toward the elevator lifted slightly off the floor and brushed against Claire’s leg.

A tremor shot through her. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you here alone. I’ll call for help and stay with you until someone comes.”

The woman was still on her side, lower legs curved behind her and one arm beneath her. Claire wanted to turn her to make her more comfortable, but she didn’t dare.

“I’m going to call someone, okay?”

The woman’s eyes rounded with distress and her mouth opened and closed, but no sound at all came out now. She was obviously trying to form a word, but her jaw flapped uselessly.

She finally managed a single syllable, but her voice was so weak Claire could barely hear her. She moved in closer, and the woman’s eye movements became frantic.

“Ra…ra…ra…”

“I’m sorry,” Claire murmured. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She started to move away, but the sound grew steadily louder and more desperate, as if it were being ripped from the woman’s very soul.

“Ra…ra…ra…”

And then Claire realized it wasn’t just a random syllable or inane noise. It was a warning.

Run!

Heart pounding, she rose shakily to her feet, her mind on one thing only. She had to get help. Something had obviously frightened the poor woman terribly, and Claire could feel her own panic starting to churn to the surface. But that wouldn’t do anyone any good. If Savannah Sweete was still in the house, she might need help, too. Claire had to remain calm. She had to stay in control.

Phone!

She had to call for help, had to get an ambulance out here immediately. But the woman seemed terrified to be left alone even for a moment. Calire pulled out her cell phone, realized that it was off and turned it on. While she waited for a signal, she heard the creak of the elevator cables.

The cage rattled to a stop on the second floor, and as the grid swung open, Claire saw a man inside. His head was bowed, as if in prayer or deep contemplation. Then he looked up, and as his gaze met hers, Claire’s mouth went dry with fear. There was something familiar about his eyes, something terrifying about the way he smiled at her.

He was average height, but extremely thin, with prominent cheekbones and a wide forehead. His clothing was nondescript—khaki trousers, light blue shirt, wire-rimmed glasses. There was nothing at all frightening about his appearance, but Claire started to tremble.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I’m Matthew. Savannah’s nephew.” His gaze lit on the old woman on the floor and he clucked his tongue. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“She’s hurt,” Claire said. “We need to call a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. Didn’t my aunt tell you that this morning?”

“Then you have to help her. She seems very sick.”