John Manning - The Killing Room

“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.

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.

“You don’t have to fear,” came a voice.

A woman’s voice.

Carolyn knew it was Beatrice.

She turned around. David stood behind her, his eyes blazing.

“Love,” Carolyn said.

“Love,” came Beatrice’s voice.

Carolyn woke up then. It was morning. She had no idea what the dream had meant, and still had no clue what the visitation the night before indicated. She showered and dressed, and headed downstairs for breakfast. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she took a seat at the table. Already there were Paula and Chelsea. Seeing them gave Carolyn the answer. She understood then what Beatrice had been trying to tell her.

“She won’t let him kill a woman,” Carolyn said out loud.

Paula and Chelsea turned to look at her.

“Beatrice appeared to me last night,” Carolyn told them. “I believe she was trying to tell us that she will do what she can to protect us. She’s probably been trying all along, but she was only successful once before. With Jeanette.”

“Well, that’s crazy,” Chelsea said. “Because the way Jeanette came out of that room, I wouldn’t say she was protected very well.”

“But still,” Carolyn said. “Jeanette didn’t die.”

Paula set down her coffee and looked over at her gravely. “Then further discussion is pointless. Let’s just forget the lottery. I volunteer to spend the night myself.”

“I’m not sure we can do that,” Carolyn said.

“If a woman has a better chance of survival than a man, then I volunteer.”

Carolyn looked from Paula over to Chelsea, who blanched.

“No,” Carolyn said. “I think we’d risk another slaughter if we don’t follow the way the lottery has always been done.”

“Who set these rules?” Paula wanted to know. “All these years, we’ve been like sheep. Herded along, never asking why.”

“You’re right, Paula,” Carolyn agreed. “And it’s time we started asking why.”

Paula smiled wryly. “And do you think Beatrice is going to tell you?”

“I think she’s trying to. I think last night she was trying to give me a clue. About why this all happened. How it all began.”

“And what did the clue tell you?” Chelsea asked.

“I think it all goes back to the love of a woman,” Carolyn said. “All of this is about a woman’s love.” She paused. “Beatrice’s love.”

“Her love for whom?” Paula asked.

“I’m not sure.” Carolyn looked at each of them. “But that’s precisely what I have to find out.”

Douglas watched as Carolyn flipped open her laptop and hit the power button. A deep bong inside the machine resonated. They were sitting in the study as rain cascaded against the walls of the house, great sweeping sheets of it. The sun hadn’t appeared all day, hidden by a scrim of dark gray haze.

“It struck me last night that none of the previous investigators would have had access to these particular records,” Carolyn said as she inserted an Internet-connecting device into the back of her laptop. For all its elegance, Uncle Howie’s house had no wireless connection.

“What records do you mean?” Douglas asked, taking a seat beside Carolyn at the long oaken table, peering around to look at her computer screen.

“The United States census of 1930,” she told him. “The government releases census records every seventy-two years. The last time the lottery was held, these records weren’t yet available.”

She was tapping furiously on her keypad. Douglas watched with a keen interest as she accessed a site, then typed in her password. A search screen appeared.