Round Robin Chapter 5

Find previous chapters here:
One
Two
Three
Four

Chapter Five


The words on the page were blurring. I don’t know how long I’d been staring at this same passage from the Cliffside Chronicle. The newsprint was faded, and the paper yellowed with age behind the protective laminate cover. The article which had so captured my attention was dated August 1868.

Far from the sensationalized stories that abounded during that time regarding Woodbury Manor and its mysterious occupants, it told a plain tale of love and loss, fascinating in its simplicity.

Gerard Holt, son of the man who built the fabled residence, the article claimed, had fallen in love with a woman from the Suquamish tribe. Their clandestine affair was discovered by her brothers, and she was never seen again. The loss of his love made the once affable man crazed, and he shut himself away from the world behind the iron bars of the gate—a recluse in a prison of his own making.

On the surface, it appeared to be just another bit of conjecture to the mystery. Yet the words resonated in me. I couldn’t help wondering if the writer of the piece knew the story first-hand, but that would remain a puzzle as well. No one knew who that was.

I had seen photos of Gerard Holt as a young man. His fair hair and laughing eyes belied the grim backdrop of the grounds at Woodbury Manor. According to the town historical society, the photos of Gerard and his sister Rose were commissioned by Holt’s father, William, in the early 1850’s. But where had they gone?

Though I’d found death certificates for both William and his wife, Cecile, I could find no mention of Gerard or Rose in any public record, save for one. A transfer of the deed of Woodbury Manor from Gerard to a Marcus Holt in 1885.

And it was Marcus Holt who held it still.

Obviously it was a mistake. Whoever Marcus Holt was, he certainly wasn’t the man I’d encountered. Not unless centenarians came that hot and brawny, which I highly doubted. More likely he was a descendent of the man, or a cousin who knows how many times removed. The man did share a striking resemblance to Gerard Holt, so it was a good possibility. Plus, the taxes on the property were paid in perpetuity through a brokerage firm, so it made sense that the house was passed from one generation to the next.

Some family genes!

My mind was wandering into dangerous territory again. Before it drifted away completely, I checked my watch.

9:57.

Shite! I hurriedly gathered my notes and copies, and rehearsed a quick but profuse apology for Angela in my head. She was probably steaming worse than the espresso machine by now.

I lumped all the research materials under my arm and grimaced as I dropped them on the cart. So much for showing the bitchy librarian up. “Next time,” I sighed to myself, and hobbled to the stairs.


***


The blaring of my alarm the next morning at 3:00 felt like an ice pick to my skull. Maya, Angela, and I had only called it a night two hours ago, and it wasn’t until then I’d powered up my laptop and checked my schedule for the following day.

I’d been assigned a story by my editor. Human interest slant about a local clam digger and the effect marine toxin-caused beach closures had on his small business, The Clam Shack. I was to meet him at Broken Ridge Commons, lands that were once a part of the Woodbury estate, but were now entrusted to The Clam Shack’s proprietor, Randall Licton.

Just the thought of being so near Woodbury, on the shore of the inlet below the cliffs on which it stood, made me wish I’d backed out. I did have a valid excuse, after all. I wasn’t supposed to get my cast wet. And besides, it still hurt like hell to stand, let alone walk down the rickety steps to the sandy beach. And once down there, to climb back up. It was the only way into and out of the cove besides by boat, and that wasn’t recommended either, unless you wanted a hull that resembled Swiss cheese.

Still, opportunities like this, to break into “real” reporting, were few and far between in a town as small as Cliffside. And my rent wasn’t going to pay itself. Necessity was a mother, alright. Besides, Jim Waters, a photographer with the Chronicle, had also been assigned to the piece.

Resigned, I got ready as quickly as my battered body would allow, and headed to the arranged meeting place.

The tide, which dictated the time of our arrival, was almost fully out at 4 o’clock, but the sky was pitch black. The Maglite I’d brought with me did little to cut even the smallest swatch through the dark. As I peered over the railing, shining the light futilely in the direction of the beach below, the howling wind whipped my hair around my head and made the stairs leading down creak and groan.

I glanced nervously toward the imposing spike-topped stone wall surrounding the adjacent grounds of Woodbury, but saw only the violent sway of tree limbs. I waited ten minutes in the bone-chilling wind, letting doubt creep over me like a slinking vine. Just as I had convinced myself to jump back in my car and race to the nearest sign of civilization, a firm hand grasped my arm hard, and pulled me back from the railing.

I screamed, the sound carried away on the brutal wind. I struggled in the steady grasp, and turned to face the man who held me.

The wizened face and twinkling eyes of a man in his dotage surprised me. I suppose I had thought it would be the ax-wielding maniac, come to finish the job. But this man, eighty by my estimation, not only displayed the same remarkable strength, there was something oddly similar about him. The curve of the jaw, maybe, though this man’s jowls had been softened with age. Perhaps the prominence of his brow, or the same hawklike nose.

His eyes, though, sparkling in the flickering lantern light, were much different. Large and bright, and lighter in color. They appeared to dance with mirth.

“Easy there, girl,” he said with a slight smirk. “You were too close to the edge. Tends to give way, you know.”

“Who are you?” I asked, pushing his hand away. I hated to appear rude, but if this guy was some sort of relation to the caged beast next door, I couldn’t be assured he wasn’t in cahoots. And, for an eighty-year-old, the guy was inordinately strong. I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Randall Licton.” He held out his calloused right hand. “I apologize for scaring you. If you’re not used to all this,” he nodded his head, which I took to mean the rising storm, “it can make you a bit jumpy. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

I’m sure my face turned two shades redder, and I hoped he couldn’t tell in the dim light. My first chance at a real article and I was blowing it already.

Determined to salvage my meager credentials, I stuck out my own hand and gripped his firmly. “Mr. Licton, I am sorry. I guess my imagination is running away with me.”

“No worries. But call me Randall,” he said.

“Randall.” I smiled. “It is so nice to meet you.”

Randall offered to wrap my cast for me, and he did so in quick, efficient movements. Then, after traversing the stairs to the beach below, he pointed me in the direction of the entrance of a great cave.

“You’ll find another lantern in there, and an extra bucket. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting that for me while I set up down here.”

“Sure,” I replied, eager to make myself as useful as possible after my earlier foible. I shuffled off, flashlight in hand, toward the yawning hole in the rock. Once inside, I began my search for the requested items.

It wasn’t until I was wrapped up in an iron grip, mouth covered by an unrelenting hand, that I realized it had been a trick. Randall stood at the mouth of the cave, lantern raised before him, eyes meeting mine in what I thought might be apology.

“Is she the one, Marcus?”

Marcus?

My nose tingled with the faint scent of Zest, and my body burned as the man I’d fought to escape once before held me tight against him.

After a brief pause, Marcus replied, “Yes, she’s the one. Thank you, brother.”