John Saul - Hellfire

“I’m afraid I can’t agree with your assessment of her sensitivity,” Phillip observed dryly. “And as to the rules, I haven’t changed them. I’ve simply established some.”

“And you expect me to allow it?” Abigail asked, her expression hardening.

“It’s not a question of your allowing anything,” Phillip replied. “I’m simply setting some limits and rules on my daughter, that’s all.”

Abigail’s lips twisted with scorn. “Your daughter? I suppose you have a biological right to say that, but I’d hardly say you’ve fulfilled the functions of a father with her.”

Phillip refused to rise to the bait. “And of course you’d be right in saying it,” he agreed. “But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s time she learned that being a Sturgess does not make her anything special, and I intend to teach her that.”

“By punishing her for being naturally resentful of the wrong sort of people intruding into her life?”

“That’s enough, Mother,” Phillip said, rising to his feet. “I simply wanted to find out how you were. I didn’t come in here to debate with you.”

Abigail’s voice took on the coldness that Phillip had long since learned to recognize as the ultimate sign of his mother’s rage. “And you presumed that I would simply acquiesce?”

“I don’t presume anything, Mother,” he replied, struggling to retain control of his own anger. “But it does occur to me that you might be just the slightest bit interested in how Beth is doing. Her father died this afternoon. Is protecting Tracy’s selfishness really more important than Beth’s welfare?”

“There’s nothing I can do for Beth Rogers,” was Abigail’s acerbic reply. “But there is a great deal I can do for my own granddaughter. Not the least of which is preventing you from moving young Beth back into this house.”

“Because she’s ‘the wrong sort of person,’ Mother?” Phillip asked wearily.

“Not at all,” Abigail shot back. “I do not want her here because I regard her as a danger to us all.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother. You’re sounding as paranoid as Father was just before he died.”

“I am not the least bit convinced that your father did not have all his faculties intact,” Abigail stiffly replied.

Phillip sighed. “All right, Mother. There’s obviously no point in discussing it anymore. If you need anything, I’ll be in my rooms.”

“If I need anything, I shall ring for Hannah, just as I’ve done for the last forty years.”

“Hannah’s not here. She’s gone to the hospital to take some things to Carolyn.”

Tracy stared angrily at the empty bar, looking for something else to throw. But there was nothing. The last of the three dozen crystal tumblers that had sat on those shelves for as long as she could remember now lay smashed at the bottom of the library door. The door itself was marked with a series of crescent-shaped scars where the glasses had struck it, and Tracy, even in her rage at her father, was sure that those marks would never be removed. For the rest of her life they would be there in the door, a constant reminder of this day when her father had turned against her.

But there was still her grandmother.

Her grandmother would take her side, and convince her father that he was wrong, that instead of letting Beth come back to Hilltop, they should make Carolyn leave. They could go back to their crummy little house on Cherry Street. Her father could buy it back for them.

She pulled the library door open, ignoring the broken glass that ground into the polished surface of the floor, leaving deep scratches. Hannah could clean up the mess tomorrow, and call someone to fix the floor.

She hurried up the stairs, glancing down the corridor to see if her father’s door was closed. Then she turned and started toward her grandmother’s rooms.

She didn’t bother to knock; she simply pushed the door open and stepped inside. At first she thought the room was empty. Her grandmother was no longer in her chair, and Tracy started toward the bedroom.

Then, from the window, she heard Abigail’s voice.

“Tracy? Are you all right, child?”

Tracy turned and saw the old woman, leaning heavily on her cane, a robe wrapped tightly around her. She looked much smaller than Tracy ever remembered, and she looked sick. Her skin seemed to hang in folds from her face, and her hands were trembling. “Daddy wants to send me away,” she said.

Abigail hesitated, then slowly nodded her head. “I know,” she sighed. “He told me.”

“You have to make him change his mind.”

“I’ve already tried,” the old woman replied. “But I don’t think I can. He’s decided I spoiled you, I’m afraid. If your mother were alive—”

“But she’s not!” Tracy suddenly shouted. “She’s dead! She went away and left me, just like you did!” She started across the room, her face contorting as her fury, which she’d been holding carefully in check, rushed back to the surface. “You went to the hospital and left me here with them! They hate me! Everybody hates me, and nobody cares!”

Abigail felt her heart begin to pound in the face of the girl’s anger, and instinctively turned away. She tried to close her ears to Tracy’s fury, and made herself concentrate on the night beyond the window.

She shouldn’t even be standing here. The doctor had insisted that she stay off her feet, but after her conversation with Phillip, she’d had to get out of her chair, had to pace the room while she tried to decide how to handle the situation. And finally she’d gone to the window, where she’d looked out toward the mill that was always, inevitably, the source of all her family’s troubles.

She concentrated once more on the mill, still trying to shut out the shrill sounds of Tracy’s angry voice.

And then, as she stared out into the black night, the dark form of the mill seemed suddenly so close she could almost touch it.

She could see the front doors, and the windows, neatly framed with their shutters, as clearly as if she were only across the street.

It was her imagination; it had to be. It was far too dark, and the mill much too far away, for her to see what she was seeing.

Her heart pounded harder, and once more she felt the bands begin to constrict around her chest.

And then, as the mill seemed to grow ever larger and closer, she saw the strange glowing light of a fire. At first it was only that, a strange glow emanating from the stairs to the basement.

But as she watched, and felt her ancient heart begin to burst within her, the glow turned bright. Flames rose up out of the stairwell, licking at the walls, then reaching out beyond the blackening brick as if they were searching for something.

Searching for her.

“No!” she whimpered. With an effort of pure will, for the pain in her chest was consuming her now, she turned from the window and groped for a chair. “Tracy!” she said, hearing the gasp in her own voice. “Tracy, help me!”

“Why?” Tracy said in a low voice, indifferent to her grandmother’s pain. “Why should I help you? What do you ever do for me?”

“My heart—” Abigail whispered. She reached out, but as the pain clamped down on her breast, then began shooting down her arms toward her fingers, she dropped the cane and pitched forward, crumpling to her knees. She stretched out her left arm, and just managed to touch Tracy’s leg.

Tracy’s breath caught, and she pulled away from the strange apparition on the floor. She scrambled from the room, screaming for her father.

“It’s Grandmother!” she yelled. “Daddy, come quick! Grandmother’s dying!”

Phillip found his mother on the floor of her parlor. She lay on her side, her hands clutching at her breast as if trying to free herself of the demon that possessed her. He dropped to his knees, and reached down to take her hands.