The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,128

of the long-abandoned rooms, someone—or something—was moving.

Ed Becker tried to swallow the lump of fear that blocked his throat.

The sound came a third time. It seemed to echo from one of the rooms on the left side of the wide corridor, halfway down the hall.

The room where the dresser is, Ed Becker thought, and his fear instantly notched a level higher.

Moving to the left so he was pressed protectively close to the wall, Bill McGuire began edging slowly down the corridor. Ed Becker followed hesitantly, his movement motivated less by bravery than by terror at the idea of remaining in the hall by himself.

As they drew closer to the room, they heard the sound yet again.

A scratching, as if something were trying to get through a door.

The door, which stood slightly ajar, suddenly moved.

Not much, but enough so that both of them saw it.

“Who is it?” McGuire called out. “Who’s there?”

The scratching sound instantly stopped.

Seconds that seemed to Ed Becker like minutes crept by, and then Bill McGuire, closer to the door than Becker, motioned to the lawyer to stay where he was. Treading so lightly that he created no sound at all, McGuire inched closer to the door. He paused for a moment, then leaped toward the door and hurled it all the way open. There was a loud crash as the door smashed against the wall, then Bill McGuire jumped aside as a raccoon burst through the doorway, raced past Ed Becker, and disappeared up the stairs.

“Jesus.” Ed Becker swore softly, utterly disgusted with himself for the terror he had felt only a moment ago. “Let’s get the damn dresser and get out of here before we both have a heart attack.” Retrieving the hand truck from the landing, he followed Bill McGuire into the room.

The chest of drawers was exactly where it had been on Tuesday afternoon, apparently untouched by anything more sinister than the raccoon.

Five minutes later, with the dresser strapped firmly to the hand truck, they reemerged into the bright morning sunlight to find Oliver Metcalf waiting by the truck. As they loaded it into the back of the pickup without bothering to unstrap it from the hand truck, Oliver eyed the old oak chest.

“You actually want that thing?” he asked as Ed Becker carefully shut the tailgate.

“Wait’ll you see it after I’m done with it,” Becker replied. “You’ll wish you’d kept it yourself.”

Oliver shook his head. “Not me,” he said, his gaze shifting to the Asylum. “As far as I’m concerned, anything that comes out of there should go straight to the dump.”

Ed Becker looked quizzically at him. “Come on, Oliver. It’s only a piece of furniture.”

Oliver Metcalf’s brows arched doubtfully. “Maybe so,” he agreed. “But I still wouldn’t have it in my house.” Then: “You guys want a cup of coffee?”

Becker shook his head. “I promised Bonnie I wouldn’t be gone more than half an hour. Amy’s home from school with sniffles and driving Bonnie crazy. How about a rain check?”

“Anytime,” Oliver said.

Ed Becker and Bill McGuire got into the truck. As they drove away, Oliver caught one last glimpse of the oak dresser that stood in the truck’s bed.

And as the image registered on his brain, a stab of pain slashed through his head.

* * *

The boy stares at the hypodermic needle that sits on the chest, not certain what is about to happen, but still terrified.

The man picks up the needle and comes toward the boy.

Though the boy cowers back, he knows there is no escape. He does his best not to cry out as the man plunges the needle into his arm.

Then blackness closes around him.

By the time the pain in his head had eased and Oliver was able to start back to his house, the truck had disappeared down Amherst Street, as completely as the image had disappeared from Oliver’s memory.

Chapter 2

Rebecca Morrison had no idea where she was, no idea how long she’d been there.

Her last truly clear memory was of awakening from a nightmare to hear terrible noises coming from downstairs. She remembered leaving her little room in the attic, but after that her mind could provide her with only a jumble of images:

Germaine’s room. A broken lamp on the floor. Bright red bloodstains.

More bloodstains on the stairs. On the carpet.

And an arm.

She clearly remembered an arm, sticking out from under the elevator.

Had Miss Clara been in the elevator?

She thought so, but even that wasn’t clear.

She remembered running out into the night—she must have been trying to