F. Paul Wilson - Reborn

Who had saved them two nights ago? And why?

He couldn't escape the insistent impression that it had been Jonah Stevens wielding that club or whatever it was. But that was absurd! How would he have known where they were, let alone that they were in trouble? How would he have arrived in time? It was a crazy thought.

And yet…

"So what have you and Dad been up to lately?" he asked. "Been to the city?"

She looked at him strangely. "Of course not. You know how your father hates to go out."

"Just been hanging around the house, huh?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Oh, I don't know. When we were downtown Monday night, I thought I saw Dad—or someone who looks an awful lot like him."

Jim thought he saw her stiffen, but he couldn't be sure.

"Why, that's silly, Jim. Your father was with me all night. By the way… what was this man doing?"

"Just walking by, Ma."

"Oh. Well, we stayed at home Monday night. Watched Felony Squad and Peyton Place ." She sighed. "Just like most other Monday nights."

That should have settled it, but it didn't. The questions wouldn't let go. And that was when the idea hit him.

"Is the door to the garage unlocked?"

"I think so," she said. "Why?"

"I wonder if I could borrow a"—Jim's mind searched for something to borrow: what ?—"a tape measure. I want to get the dimensions of some of the rooms in the mansion."

"Sure. Take a look. I'll wait out in the car with Carol."

"Great!"

As Emma went out the front door, Jim hurried through the kitchen to the door that opened into the garage. He searched along the wall where Jonah kept all his tools hung on nails and hooks. There were hammers and axes and even a rubber mallet, but they were too small. Their savior Monday night had wielded a longer, heavier weapon, using only one hand, and he had put some real power behind it. Jim picked up a tire iron and hefted it. This baby could have done it, but it still didn't look right.

What am I thinking?

His father—Jonah—had nothing to do with Monday night's madness. Sure, he was a strange guy; cool, aloof, impossible to get close to—hadn't Jim tried often enough through the years?—but he wasn't a crazed killer.

Actually, Jonah was more than remote. He was damn near unknowable . Maybe Ma had some idea of what bubbled beneath that impenetrable granite exterior, but Jim didn't have the faintest. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know, either. Because there was a damn good possibility he wouldn't like what he'd find there. Although he had never witnessed a single overt act, he sensed a core of cruelty within his adoptive father. The closest thing he had to evidence had surfaced during his sophomore year in high school after he had tackled Glen Cove's quarterback and broken his arm. Jonah had been barely interested in the sport until then. But when Jim had ashamedly confessed to him how good it had felt to hear that breaking bone, Jonah had metamorphosed into an avid listener, questioning him closely on the details of the incident.

Jonah never missed a game after that.

But what he lacked in everyday human warmth and compassion, he made up for in reliability. He had always been around. A hard worker, a good provider. He did not steer his adopted son in any particular direction, but he did not discourage him from anything, either. More like a guardian than a father. Jim could not say he loved the man, but he certainly felt indebted to him.

Jim was about to head back inside when he spotted the steel crowbar leaning in the corner. As soon as he lifted it and swung it, he knew this had been the weapon. Not this particular one, but something just like it. He was certain he wouldn't find anything, but he examined the leading edge of the crowbar's curve, anyway. He smiled to himself.

What will I do if I find dried blood and bits of scalp?

"Be kind of hard to measure a room with one of those," said a deep voice behind him.

Jim whirled, his heart thudding. The tall, lean figure silhouetted in the doorway looked almost exactly like the man who had helped them Monday night.

"Dad! Don't scare me like that!"

Jonah's half smile was humorless, and his eyes bored into Jim as he stepped down into the garage.

"What're you so jumpy about?"

"Nothing." Jim quickly set the crowbar back in the corner, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Where do you hide your tape measure?"

Jonah reached into the toolbox and pulled out a Stanley fifty-footer. "Right where it's always been." He motioned toward the door. "We'd better go. The women are waiting."

"Sure."

Jim led the way to the front door, thinking of what a jerk he was for still feeling uneasy. His mother had told him Jonah had been home all night, and the crowbar was clean. What more did he want?

Nothing. Except that the crowbar had been too clean. Every other tool in the garage was layered with a fine winter's coat of dust… except the crowbar. Its hexagonal shaft had been dirt and oil free, as if someone had taken a Brillo pad to it within the last couple of days.

He decided not to think about it.

4

Carol sat in the front seat and watched the Hanley mansion peek over the high stone wall as Jim unlocked the wrought-iron front gate. Its pickets were eight feet high, with an ornate torsade along the bottom and wickedly pointed atop. Beyond the gate was the house, and it was beautiful. She had never dreamed that she would someday live in a place like this. As Jim got back in and pulled into the driveway, she saw the whole house in all its splendor and it took her breath away again, just as it had yesterday.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Emma cried from the backseat.

Jonah sat next to Emma and said nothing, but then Carol never expected to hear much from Jonah. She drank in the sight of the big, three-storied mix of Italianate and Second Empire features nestled amid its pines and willows, the long Island Sound gleaming behind it.

The shingles were cream-colored, the wood trim and the mansard roof a deep brown. A square, five-story tower rose over the center of the front porch. There were ornate dormer windows on the third floor and bay windows on the sides, all leaded with fruit and flower designs. A fanlight window arched over the front door.

Carol led them up the three steps to the front porch. To the right was a wicker swing settee, hung on chains, and wicker chairs to the left. The slim glass sidelights on either side of the front door were etched with graceful cranes and delicately arched reeds.

Emma stood back on the driveway, staring.

"Come on, Ma," Jim said.

"Don't you worry about me. I'll be there, strangling along behind as usual."

Carol gave Jim a look.

"I won't say a word," he whispered.

Beyond the heavy oak front door was a narrow front hall cluttered with floor lamps and plants on pedestal tables. Carol had spent a good part of yesterday watering each thirsty vine and frond. On the right, the staircase ran up and toward the rear, its flowered runner held down by a series of brass rods fastened to the base of each riser. On the left was a combination mirror-hat rack-umbrella stand of intricately carved walnut.

"Take a look at the front parlor," she said, leading them to the right.

"Oh, my!" said Emma, stopping at the threshold. It's so… so…"

" Busy is the word, I think," Jim said.

"A true Victorian home is very busy," Carol said.

She had concluded from her explorations that Hanley had spared no effort or expense in returning the mansion to its former glory. And it was busy. The wallpaper was striped, the carpet was flowered, the lamps were tassled, each chair was layered with lace antimacassars, and each corner supported a plant on a multitiered whatnot. The bay window was a jungle of plants. The walls were festooned with paintings and old photos. On every available surface—littering the tops of the tables, the organ, and the mantle over the Carrara marble fireplace—were cards and boxes and knickknacks and souvenirs. A maid's nightmare.