Part 2: Red Rover
Chapter 7
Barnabas sat slowly revolving the prickly wheel in the floor of the dumbwaiter, keeping his eyes on everything he passed. The dumbwaiter door was open so that he could see any alcove or ledge where David might have gone; but it was dark, so he extended his hand and ran it along the rough expanse of brick wall that passed as he went. He was surprised when the dumbwaiter revealed nothing but wall, for he had expected to eventually find himself at another station opening, on a lower floor. Perhaps this one fetched up in the basement; very well. He would see.
He suddenly felt a cold draft of air. Fresh air. As though he were outdoors, he could hear the soughing of wind through trees as boughs tossed and shushed. And before he could process any of it, he was outside. The brick wall before him ended, rising like a curtain as the wheel turned, and as he continued to lower the carriage, he saw that he was indeed going to set down outdoors. He was outside Collinwood.
What in God's name! he asked himself. Could this be a receiving door for outside deliveries? Coal deliveries? But how have we not come across this before, in going around the outside of the house? Elizabeth and Roger never mentioned such a thing, and I remember no such feature being built …
Barnabas stopped the wheel, and the dumbwaiter carriage hesitated perhaps forty inches from the ground. Looking about in amazement, he slid his legs to the edge of the compartment and, ducking his head, clambered out.
It was dark, but there was moonlight, and he could see very well. He straightened his clothes and gazed about in frank surprise, mingled with defeat. He wasn't going to find David here, for there had already been multiple searches for the boy all over the grounds. He should get back into the dumbwaiter and take it upwards; perhaps that was the right direction for the alcove or ledge he sought.
But he hesitated, looking about him before climbing back into the dumbwaiter. He hadn't realized that the hour had been quite so late as this; there was velvet blackness everywhere; perhaps it was already well past midnight.
He turned and observed the frame of a small dwelling nearby, perhaps only seventy-five yards from him. He stood silently and stared at it. This was all wrong. That wasn't supposed to be there, there was no such dwelling at just this location on the grounds, and he knew it. Barnabas shook his head. Something was certainly off.
He gazed upon it. It was familiar. His mind began to race, but totted up only a confusion of vague ideas.
Frowning, he quietly approached the door of the—cottage?—and carefully laid his hand on the doorknob. The door wasn't locked, and swung open easily under his hand.
It was certainly not an outbuilding. Barnabas stepped into a room deep in darkness, but moonlight spilled in like a spotlight along the floor as he paused in the doorway. It was a small home.
Memory roiled, and yet—he couldn't figure this out. He had been here before, surely, but with whom? Elliot, Julia? What had they been doing here?
He stepped inside. At first, he didn't notice the faint glow of light coming from a crack beneath a closed door across the room, because of the moonlight he had brought in with him. He closed the door behind him and looked about.
A small dining table and chairs … a kitchen hutch … beaded curtains … surely there was another door just on the far side of this table?
His heart began a fast, sickening beat. His temples felt tight. Dread, indefinable, clutched at him. Why couldn't he identify the place, remember when he'd been here before?
Barnabas crossed the kitchen area and found the other door, carefully turned the knob and entered, blinking into the gloom.
She lay perfectly still on the examination table, a sheet pooled at her waist. A sky-blue sleeveless nightgown was the only thing she wore and she slept deeply, incapable of escaping the awful hold that kept her from consciousness. She was being forcibly kept asleep. That was because she was being used as fuel. This girl kept Angelique alive in parallel time—in past parallel time—and all of this this had happened to Barnabas before. He had rescued this girl once before.
Hot tears blinded him, and low groan of anguish wrenched from his throat as he gazed upon the dear head with its bright, choppy cut. The angelic eyes, now closed, the long sweep of lashes over the exquisite curve of cheek. The rise and fall of her breasts, so very slow. Perfect stillness; perfect subjugation. A perfect sacrifice, a living death. She was a captive.
She was Roxanne.
.
.