John Manning - The Killing Room

Watching them.

And she knew something else.

No matter where they were in the world, something would always be watching them.

“Helloooo?” Douglas called, stepping into the great foyer of the house. His voice echoed across the marble.

The place was eerily silent. Where were the servants? Usually there was some old housekeeper who scuffed her way out to greet Douglas when he visited. The face was usually different from the last time Douglas visited. Uncle Howie went through staff quickly. There was never anyone who stayed too long. Douglas wondered if his uncle was difficult to work for. Whatever the reason, the staff was usually comprised of new faces every time Douglas visited. But this time, no one-new or old-was around to greet him.

“Helloooo?” he called again. Once more, his only response was his own echo.

He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. His eyes took in the portraits on the walls, the suit of armor that stood by the great curving marble staircase. He scratched his head. Odd that the front door would be open if Uncle Howie had gone out.

He took a few steps across the foyer toward the parlor. The double doors were closed. He was about to open them when suddenly they opened inward themselves. He stepped back with a small gasp-

– until he saw that the person who had just opened them was a very attractive young woman, as real as the woman on the cliffs had seemed ethereal.

“Whoa,” he said in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, a little flustered herself. She had reddish hair, green eyes, and a smattering of freckles. The black turtleneck and pleated khakis that she wore showed off her figure quite nicely. A strand of pearls around her neck suggested she was no servant. “I’m a visitor here myself. I heard you come in and assumed Mr. Young would come out to greet you. He’s just gone to his room for a moment.”

Douglas smiled and introduced myself. “It’s okay,” he said as he shook hands with the woman. “Uncle Howie wasn’t expecting me.”

The woman returned his smile. “I’m Carolyn Cartwright. I’m…” There was the slightest hesitation, which Douglas noticed. “I’m working with your uncle on a project.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad to see that the house will have a little more life in it than usual. How long are you here for?”

“Just a few days.” Carolyn seemed to consider something. “To start, anyway. I’ll be back, however. I suspect the project is going to…take some time.”

He grinned. He was pleased to hear that. As much as he loved Uncle Howie, it sure would be nice to have a pretty woman, and one close to his age at that, around to keep things lively. Douglas had an eye for the ladies. Always had. He liked them, and they liked him. His eyes twinkled at Carolyn. She was looking at him, too-but then Douglas realized that what she was looking at were his muddy clothes.

“Oh,” he said, giving a little laugh. “I had a little accident on the way up here. Swerved to avoid…” Now it was Douglas’s turn to hesitate. “A squirrel. I took a spill on my motorcycle.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Just scraped up my leg a bit. Nothing serious. I should probably hop in the shower and change my clothes.”

Carolyn was nodding. “Your uncle is just taking a brief rest. He’s in his room. We’ve been discussing the project for the last couple of hours, and it sort of wore him out. So while he rests, I’m in here going through some books and reports…”

“It’s okay, I know where his room is,” Douglas said, smiling. “I’ll pop in on him and surprise him.”

Carolyn’s face betrayed a hint of concern. “Don’t surprise him too much. He’s…well, a bit overwrought. This project…it’s…stressful.”

Douglas made a face. He had never understood Uncle Howie’s “projects.” Often there were people here, going through books and reports like Carolyn was doing now. Just what Uncle Howie did for his living Douglas had no idea, but even at ninety-eight, the old man still seemed incredibly active in it. Must be a lot of work managing all those investments and properties, Douglas thought.

“Well,” he said, flashing a smile, “it was very nice meeting you, Miss Cartwright.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Carolyn.”

“And you can call me as many times as you’d like,” Douglas said, his grin pushing his cheeks up into his face, revealing the dimples that many women had told him were irresistible. He counted on them having the same effect on Carolyn.

Whether they did or not, he wasn’t certain. She smiled noncommittally and turned back into the parlor to return to her books and papers. Douglas sighed, heading down the corridor to his uncle’s room. Carolyn seemed like one smart, serious lady. No wonder Uncle Howie had hired her to do work for him.

Once again he wondered just what his uncle had done all these years as actual work. Oh, he figured managing millions took a lot of time and effort. Can hardly call it a job, though, Douglas thought. It sure wasn’t like landscaping, or carpentry, or steering a boatload of slaphappy tourists out to see the sharks. That’s why Uncle Howie always had “projects,” Douglas supposed, and he had “jobs.”

Douglas’s father had been very different from both his son and the wealthy family patriarch. He’d always worked for his living, even though he expected someday to be a beneficiary of at least some of the family fortune. “You’ve got to find your own way in this life,” he’d told Douglas many times. “You can’t rely just on what you hope to get someday. You’ve got to make it happen for yourself.”

Dad was a lawyer, often taking on cases pro bono for clients who couldn’t afford to hire representation. Douglas admired his father, wishing he’d inherited his drive and his commitment to do something for the world, to make a difference. But all Douglas had ever really cared about-well, at least after his father had died-was just getting by. His life’s goal was just to avoid too much hassle. Living the gypsy life had suited him fine for the last several years. No worries. Just be happy.

But now the idea of Uncle Howie setting him up somewhere, maybe in a little house here in Maine-a little cabin on a brook-sounded very appealing. Maybe he was growing up finally, or maybe some of Dad’s sense of stability had finally started to sink in. Maybe, Douglas thought, Uncle Howie could help him set up a carpentry shop where he could build furniture for the locals. Douglas thought he might like that. Maybe he’d even meet a girl up here, someone who might set his heart afire in a way that Mom had once done for Dad, in a way that Brenda, good as she was, had failed to do for him…

He turned the corner into his uncle’s room, tapping lightly on the open door.

“Uncle Howie?” Douglas whispered.

The room was dark. The drapes were drawn in the room, blotting out much of the bright sunshine from outside. But as Douglas’s eyes adjusted, he could make out his uncle lying on his enormous four-poster bed, fully dressed, even wearing his shoes. He lay on his back, his hands folded over his chest. He looked like he was dead and ready for the casket. A tiny flutter of alarm surged in Douglas’s chest.

“Uncle Howie?” he asked again, louder this time, taking a few steps into the room.

The old man didn’t move. Douglas stood over him.

“Uncle Howie?” He spoke for a third time, touching his fingers to the old man’s hand. It was cold.

But the eyes suddenly slid open.

Douglas made a little gasp and took a step back.

“Douglas!” the old man rasped. He struggled to rise to a sitting position, but couldn’t manage. He turned his head instead to look at his nephew. “My little hoodlum. What are you doing here?”