Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Hold this.” He gave her the candle as he bent down and removed the top. The bottles were nestled in their wooden holders. One holder was empty: the bottle he had given to Pendergast. Reaching in, he grasped another and held it up.

“Since I’ve broken the case, let’s drink another.”

“Really? Isn’t it worth, like, ten thousand dollars?”

“Much, much more. But we’re not getting any younger — and what is wine for if not to drink?”

“Maybe you’re not getting any younger,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, even after all this time I don’t know a thing about wine. You’d be throwing it away on me.”

He put his arm around her. “That’s where you’re wrong. My dear, you and I are going to rebuild this collection. We’re going to travel to Italy, France, and California, tasting and buying wine and shipping it back. You need to educate your palate. And what better way to do it than to begin with the greatest wine ever made?” He gave her a squeeze.

“That sounds lovely. Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

“That was easy.”

They turned to go. As they passed the open niche, Lake paused. “To think a fortune in jewels was sitting right there, under our noses. Too bad we didn’t find it ourselves.”

He felt Carole give a shudder. “I’m glad we didn’t. Think of all those mothers and babies, butchered. Talk about blood gemstones. Bad juju for sure.”

“True.”

Cradling the bottle, careful not to disturb its sediments, he brought it up the stairs and into the living room, setting it down with exquisite care on the table in front of the fire. He removed the lead capsule and wiped off the neck of the bottle with a damp cloth. The cork looked good, no signs of leakage or mold. Then, again with care, he inserted the tip of a corkscrew into the center of the cork and slowly twisted it in, hooked the edge of the lever against the side of the bottle, and — with bated breath — eased it out.

This was the moment of truth. He hadn’t mentioned it to Carole, but the chances were good that a wine this old had already turned to vinegar, or at the very least had become corked. But as he inhaled the scent, he took in a rich variety of aromas that not only indicated the wine was fine, but were of staggering nuance and complexity. He took another sniff, marveling at the layering of characteristics.

“Well, well,” he murmured.

“Is it good?”

He nodded, bringing over a decanter. As if handling a baby, he carefully decanted the wine, leaving an inch left around the punt. He then poured out two glasses. They both took a good drink. The wind shuddered the house, rattling the windows. The lighthouse beam swept across the sea, then swept again.

In silence, they enjoyed the wine, without the usual wine chatter about this taste or that smell. Lake liked that. There was way too much talk about wine drinking. It was like those people who talked incessantly in museums; God forbid they should simply look , for a change.

He was delighted to see how much Carole was enjoying the wine. Yes, she could learn. They would travel and taste and buy. It would give them something to bond over, which, if truth be told, he’d found rather lacking in their relationship. It would be a wonderful experience... and it would help him finally accept the loss of his wife. This would be the way he would at long last overcome that hole in his heart, that seemingly permanent feeling of loss.

They continued sipping.

“What was that?” Carole asked.

He paused. There had been a thump. A gust of rain lashed the windows as they listened. Then came a second, louder thump. It appeared to come from the porch.

“I think the wind just blew over one of the rocking chairs.” He turned back to the wine.

Another shuddering thump sounded on the porch, almost like a stamping foot.

“That was no rocking chair,” Carole said.

“Let me check.” He rose, picked up a flashlight from the table, and went out of the living room and into the front hall. As he reached the door he heard something strike it, like a clumsy knock. Suddenly uneasy, he went to the vertical row of sidelights beside the door and shone the light out onto the porch to see if someone was there.

There were muddy, indistinct footprints leading across the rain-swept porch, but he couldn’t see who was at the door. Good God, he thought, who in the world would be out in that storm? But whoever it was, he was standing too close to the front door to be seen. The antique door had no peephole.

“Who’s there?” Lake called out over the sound of the storm.

This was answered with another fumbling knock, and then the rattle of the doorknob. The door, thank God, was locked.

“Look, if you’re in trouble, I’ll help you — but you’ve got to talk to me first!”

Carole appeared in the hallway. “What’s going on?”

“Some crazy person at the door.” He turned back. “ Who is it? ”

Now came the sound of a heavy body pressing itself against the door, which groaned with the pressure.

“Who the hell’s there?” Lake yelled.

This time the body slammed against the door, rattling the hardware. Carole gave a short scream and jumped back.

“Carole, get me the baseball bat!”

She disappeared into the darkness of the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with the birch Louisville Slugger they kept in the broom closet.

Another body-slam against the door, more powerful this time. The wood cracked around the frame.

“You son of a bitch, you come in here and I’ll kill you!” Lake cried. It was dark and he could hardly see. “Carole, shine this flashlight over here!”

He stood back, cocking the bat, while she stood behind him, holding the flashlight with shaking hands.

Another powerful slam, more cracking of wood. The lock plate jarred loose with a rattle.

“Stop it!” he screamed. “I’ve got a gun! I’ll shoot you, God help me if I won’t!” He wished to hell he did have a gun.

Another crash and the door flew open, splinters of wood scattering. A figure burst in and Lake swung the bat hard, but the figure, leaping over the shattered remains of the door, moved so fast that he got in only a glancing blow to its shoulder as it blew past him, filling his nostrils with a sudden overwhelming stench. He turned around and drew back the bat just as Carole let out a bloodcurdling scream, the flashlight dropping to the floor and plunging the room into gloom. At the same time there was a wet sound, like a water balloon bursting. In the dimness, Lake saw the dark shape drop down to its knees and hunch over Carole, lying splayed on the Persian rug. He could hear the sodden sounds of mastication. With a roar he rushed over and swung the bat at the shape, but it rotated upward, two blunt hands rising to catch the bat; it was twisted out of his hands with horrific force; and then he felt a gigantic ripping jerk to his midriff, heard the sound of something wet and heavy hitting the ground, before he himself fell backward, screaming, into a bottomless pit of pain and horror.

I told you we were out of candles,” Mark Lillie said, opening and slamming drawers, his voice raised over the banging of a loose shutter in the wind. “Two weeks ago when we had the last blackout, I told you we needed candles.”

“You only imagine you told me that,” said Sarah. “What about the shutters I’ve been telling you to fix for the past year?”

As if to underscore her comment, the shutter banged again. He pulled a flashlight out of a drawer, cursing.

“What’s wrong with that?” Sarah asked.

Mark turned it on, shining it in her face. “A flashlight doesn’t exactly light up a room.”

“Get that out of my eyes.”