by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro says: “The second of two required English courses when I was in college was devoted to American literature; the professor earnestly believed that all fiction was based on some actuality that was either the writer’s personal experience, or something he had heard or read. From Hawthorne to Hemmingway, we spent the semester scrounging through biographies to find some justification for his theory. I did my semester paper on Poe, and it has returned to haunt me.”
* * * * *
It was an old house, a relic of the Gilded Age, abandoned almost forty years ago after a sixth powerful hurricane had plowed right through the area, pulling off huge sections of the old roof, shattering windows, demolishing most of the central chimneys, spilling bricks in all directions, and stripping the east side of the structure of shingles and 1880s gingerbread. Since it was ravaged, trees and lower-growing plants had made inroads on their reclamation of what remained of the place, repossessing it for the island; an odor of decomposing wood, plants, mortar, and excrement hung over it in an all-but-visible haze.
For the last half hour of their drive to the enormous house, Jeff Milton and Peregrine Rudolph had been discussing Moby Dick, and the historical incident upon which it was based. “Melville didn’t need to have an actual event to tell the story,” Milton had declared for the third time as they rounded a particularly steep curve in the poorly graded road.
“But he knew about it. People talked about it,” Rudolph had insisted, clinging to the steering wheel. “He used that to add credibility to his work.”
“That’s likely, yes. But the book’s not reportage— it’s a novel: you know, a made-up story,” Milton had responded adamantly.
“Yes, it is, but it’s rooted in fact. Melville didn’t imagine it, not completely. He used a real situation to build on.”
“God, Rudi, why is it you can’t stand that it’s fiction? Why does every good story have to be based on something before you’ll accept it?”
“No, of course not,” said Rudolph. “But it happens more often than you think that actualities contribute to stories, and that increases the believability of the story. And you know it.”
“You may be right, but I still wouldn’t discount the imagination. You use your games all the time.” Milton had been more annoyed than he wanted to admit; Rudolph often had that effect on him.
“But based on reality,” Rudolph maintained.
“Does that include your Enemy Stars game? All those peculiar beings you came up with. It’s pretty out there, even for a science fiction game, or don’t you think so?”
When Rudolph had not answered, Milton had fallen silent, and waited to arrive at the old, so-called summer cottage — fifteen bedrooms, two dining rooms, a breakfast room, a parlor, a sitting room, a ballroom, a library, and all the other necessities required by the seriously wealthy — that had been built well over a century ago.
“We’re here,” Rudolph said, turning toward his brother-in-law as he pulled in to the sand-scoured expanse of what had long ago been one of three tennis courts, about one hundred feet from the battered front door that was partially visible through a heavy screen of tropical plants.
Milton had been uneasy for most of their hour journey along the dusty, graveled road, becoming more and more apprehensive the farther they got from Sainte Gertrude, the nearest town, and now that they had arrived, he asked, “Rudi, whatever possessed you to buy this God-awful place?”
Peregrine Rudolph chuckled as he unfastened his seatbelt. “Location, location, location,” said as he opened the door and stepped out onto the littered swath of sand, grinning like a ten-year-old rather than the nearly forty he was. He gestured toward the gentle slope that led down to the wide swath of beach and the outrageously blue Caribbean. “Look at this spot, Jeff. Just look at it. It’s beautiful— or don’t you agree?”
“Oh, the view is nice, I’ll give you that,” said Milton, then turned to regard the disintegrating structure behind them. “But the house, Rudi. It’s horrible.”
“It can be fixed,” Rudolph said blithely.
“But why? It’s a ruin,” Milton declared. “That house is only standing because the trees are holding it up. Rudi, think about it, please.”
“Yeah, okay, it’s pretty far gone. But consider the potential. Once this estate is restored, the view alone will spur business, don’t you think?”
“You still want to make it a spa resort? Now that you’re actually here, don’t you see how impossible that is?” Milton asked, incredulity making his voice high and quarrelsome.
“Certainly I want to make the resort. Expensive, exclusive, and luxurious: world-class chefs, grand dining, celebrity entertainers, two swimming pools, hot tubs, the tennis courts, jogging trails, saunas, maybe a small casino, the whole experience,” said Rudolph, his smile widening. “If we put in the cabins as we have them in the initial designs, we can accommodate up to two hundred guests, and a staff of three hundred.”
“You plan to have people come through Sainte Gertrude, or will you bring them in from Esplanade?” Milton asked, his question verging on complaint; the central city of the island was little more than a slightly larger versions of Sainte Gertrude.
“I’ve submitted a proposal for building a new road from Sainte Gertrude; the harbor can accommodate cruise ships if we enlarge the waterfront and dredge out a channel.”
“That will cost a fortune,” Milton exclaimed.
“Then it’s lucky that I have a fortune,” Rudolph said. “We should be able to come up with a route from the docks to this place that won’t disrupt the town too much, and won’t upset the arriving guests.” Rudolph took a long breath. “That’s assuming that we have the right approach to the potential patrons. We need to be thinking about its snob appeal.”
“That’s a lot of supposition,” Milton said. “And now I understand why you’ve played your cards so close to the vest with Caroline. You made it sound like the house was largely undamaged, and that there were cabins in place already, didn’t you? Did you think she wouldn’t figure it out? She’ll have a fit when she sees this.” Milton got out of the Land Rover, and frowned as his hiking boots sank a short way into the matted vegetable detritus underfoot.
“I gather you’re planning to tell her,” said Rudolph, some of his geniality fading.
“I’ll have to,” said Milton, doing all he could to sound reasonable. “She’s my sister, and she depends on me, especially in regards to you. She’ll pester me with questions, and you know it. To repeat: whatever possessed you?”
“I can afford it, if that’s what’s troubling you. This is a good project for me; you said so when I broached it with you. So did she,” said Rudolph at his most placating. “Look, I appreciate my wife’s concerns, which is why I asked her to come along with us, but she decided not to. She sent you in her stead: I understand that. But I’m glad to have you along, Jeff, no matter how sour your mood.”
“She was afraid of what she’d find here. And looking around, I can’t say I blame her. Jesus!” Milton made an abrupt gesture toward what little remained of the roof of the house. “What a wreck. I can’t believe you know what you’re getting into.”
“Shit, Jeff, this is her idea as much as mine. I’ve got to spend my money on something, and I’m already giving to nine charities, endowing chairs at three universities, supporting twelve third-world schools, and a symphony orchestra. It’s not that I’m not proud of my philanthropy, but I need some other kind of activity. This is just for me. It’s a great opportunity.” He came around the front of the Land Rover, stretching his arms over his head; the mid-afternoon sun was warm but not oppressive, the breeze carrying the aroma of blooming flowers as well as the smell of decay. “Caroline always complains that I spend too much time in my head, developing more computer games, tied to my computer room, and not paying any attention to the rest of the world— she’s right. I have let myself get obsessive about more game development. So now I’m taking her advice, and finding something new to obsess about— her words.”
“To put it differently, she thinks you need a hobby,” said Milton. “Why this massive house restoration? It’s overwhelming, and it could be more trouble than anything you can imagine, and that’s crediting your imagination for being as vivid as it is. Why not do something in New England or Santa Cruz or Santa Fe — you have offices near those places — instead of the Caribbean? Why open a resort? Particularly in this… place? Wouldn’t taking up fishing be better? Or sailing? Or bowling, for that matter? You’re supposed to relax.”
“They’re boring, not relaxing. This won’t be. Caroline knows how easily bored I can be.” Rudolph took his rucksack out of the car and slung it over his shoulder. “And she’s right about that, as well, of course. I can’t think of anything more unlike designing computer games than restoring this old house. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I have some basic figures on costs.”
“Don’t tell me yet, Rudi; I’m not sitting down,” said Milton.
Rudolph smiled. “It’s expensive to do it, but I’ve got it covered— I’ve told you, Jeff. And you agreed that I have a lot of disposable income.”
“You do— but this looks like it could take all you have, and more.”
“And when The Outer Reaches is released next year, I’ll have more. If the HBO deal goes as well as we all expect, a lot more. The first opinion groups are very enthusiastic. Every teen-age geek in the world will want to see the series, and to buy the game after the movie’s released.”
“If you happen to develop a game about restoring old buildings, you can just plow the profits into this house, as well,” said Milton with a hint of disapproval.
“I won’t have to do that, but my accountants might recommend it, so I’m working out a Plan B. This ain’t gonna be cheap, getting this estate in shape, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, unless the computer game industry collapses, and the way they’ve figured it, I’ll have a healthy tax write-off on the restoration, and making the resort into its own profitable venture. I’ve already got some basic bids on the job— all US companies with branches in these islands.” He grinned at Milton. “I researched the original plans, and all the information I could find about Gold Bug.”
Milton groaned. “That’s it, isn’t it? Location be damned— it’s the name. You and your Poe fixation. I still don’t understand how a technophile like you can be hung up on Poe.”
Rudolph was used to wrangling with Milton, and so he resisted the urge to snap. “That’s part of the attraction here; it’s what got me started thinking about this place; you’ve got to admit that the name is provocative— the builder let it be known that he financed it through treasure he found on this very site, and that intrigued me,” he allowed, and started toward the front door, taking a flashlight from the capacious lower pocket in his jacket. “I don’t know what we might find inside. You ought to be prepared.”
“Squatters, probably, or rats and snakes,” said Milton, reluctantly following Rudolph toward the wide covered porch that fronted the door, all partially concealed by encroaching undergrowth. “You’ll have a real job protecting the site.”
“I don’t think so— most of the people hereabouts avoid the place. The people in Sainte Gertrude say that dangerous spirits guard it.”
“Oh, shit,” said Milton. “You are going to turn all that into another game, aren’t you? With malign ghosts and every kind of nasty critter you can think of.”
“Okay— the basic script has crossed my mind, but that happens often, and only about a third of those scripts turn into games. But this place is tempting in its own right. Might as well get a little extra for my efforts, right? An exclusive resort that has more potential than just a haunted house for a setting. It could have possibilities to open up a new sub-genre. We’ll see how I feel when the job here is finished.” Rudolph pushed aside a huge fan of tropical leaves and went to the stairs up to the wide, covered porch, taking care to test each step before actually putting his full weight on it; the planks groaned as Rudolph walked. He reached the broad veranda, and made his way gingerly toward the door, which was incongruously closed although only a few fragments of colored glass were left in the large, oval window set in its center.
“Pirates, too?” Milton waved away a flotilla of small, flying insects that had appeared around his head like a buzzing halo. “Your pirate game was your first big success. I can see you using pirates again.”
“Or monsters,” Rudolph answered, peering into the interior of the house. “There’s more variety in monsters.”
“Poe-monsters?” Milton asked, sounding worn out; he was growing tired of Rudolph’s obsession with Poe.
“Lovecraft, more likely.” Rudolph made an effort to remove the bits of glass without cutting himself. “You know, tentacled horrors shambling out of the sea, eldritch gods, that sort of thing.”
“So you’ve started on it already?” Milton shook his head in dismay.
“Not started, Jeff, just trying out some ideas.” He sighed. “As I’ve told you, I’ll get this place restored before I turn my attention to a new game, no matter what that game is, if there is a game,” Rudolph said, and focused his gaze on the entry hall. “It’s a mess in there.”
“Is it locked?” Milton asked, not quite sarcastically. “I’m not going to climb through that medallion window in the door.”
“I doubt you’ll have to; I have the keys to the house, just in case; I got them from the mayor of Sainte Gertrude.” Rudolph reached for the door-latch, but drew back as a large spider made its way down the doorframe toward the pitted brass. Slowly Rudolph shrugged the rucksack off his shoulder and donned one of the canvas gloves he kept in the left-side bellows-pocket on his jacket. “We’ll probably have more of these creepy-crawlies inside the house. I’ve been told there’re bats in the upper floors.” He sounded calm, but the high pitch of his voice revealed his nervousness.
“You sure you want to go in?” Milton asked as he came to the foot of the stairs.
“Not entirely, but it’s something I have to do; I own it, and I need to make a report to the architects and engineers; you don’t have to join me if you don’t want to. I’ll give you the keys to the Rover, and you can take a nap,” Rudolph said, grasping the latch as he spoke; it groaned as the ancient mechanism moved. “We’ll have to do something about this door.”
“Among other things,” Milton agreed dryly, making his way up the stairs in a sign of capitulation. “You’d do better to raze it and start over from scratch.”
The hinges protested more loudly than the latch, setting off a flurry of scuttles and flappings inside the old house, and from one of the trees near the house, a bird screeched. At least, Rudolph thought, it sounded like a bird. Or it could have been a metal-on-metal screech. He picked up his rucksack before he shoved the door more fully open, and went tentatively into the large entry hall to the broken rubble of the collapsed domed ceiling. There was a big, broken chandelier lying in pieces amid swaths of shards of stained glass and dead leaves; the odor of mold was intense. Rudolph turned back to Milton. “You coming?” His first step crunched, and Rudolph shuddered at the sound, and the texture under his boot.
“I guess I have to,” said Milton, and stepped into the entry hall. He stared up at the vacant hole where the dome had been. “Holy shit.”
“You can say that again. I knew there was a lot of debris in this place, but this is more than I anticipated. The floor looks like it’s been mulched.” He paused and coughed against the dusty air, then winced as he watched a small, longitudinally striped snake wind away from where he was standing. “Be on the lookout for wildlife.” He kicked some of the detritus aside. “I can’t figure out where to begin, but that’s not my job. The engineers will sort it out.”
“What do you see your job as being, then?” Milton wanted to know. He looked about with increasing consternation.
“To restore this place to its original glory, of course. To make it everything it was when it was built. And make it better. All the steam-punkers will be slavering by the time I’m done.” Rudolph squinted up toward where the dome had been. “I think I’ll have to send the plans for the dome to one of those reconstruction companies in L. A.; we have the originals to work from; they have the artists to manage the stained glass, and the architects to figure out how to make it secure. We’ll need the right kind of footing and anchorage so that it can stand up through the next big hurricane.” Rudolph was regaining his composure.
“Is the staircase safe?” Milton asked, casting a wary eye on the grand sweep of it, circling the oval entry hall twice in its climb to the third floor; many treads were missing, a few of the risers were gone, and only three sections of the broken banister remained.
“I wouldn’t think so. I’ll skip going upstairs for now.” Rudolph turned toward the parlor on the right. “The window-frames are intact in here. That’s something.”
“No glass in them,” Milton pointed out. “This is the leeward side, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it,” said Rudolph, taking stock of his surroundings a bit more analytically than he had when he first caught sight of the place. “The window-frames are gone on the windward.”
“Do you have any official report on the damage?” Milton asked.
“From the hurricane-before-last, I do. That one was a Five, as you will recall. The most recent barely made it to Four, and the house hasn’t been assessed in terms of rebuilding; there’s too much prior damage. That’s because it’s unoccupied— I’m going to have to find someone to be caretaker while the restoration is going on,” said Rudolph, looking around; he set down his rucksack beside the newel-post at the foot of the staircase. “The main dining room’s behind this parlor, and the breakfast room is behind that; the kitchen is on the left. According to the old plans, it’s twenty-seven feet by thirty-four feet. Good sized for the time, but it will need to be enlarged when the house is rebuilt.”
“What are you planning to do about electricity?” Milton inquired as he took his flashlight and turned it on. “Or will you go in for authentic gas-lighting?” He did not apologize for his critical tone. “Or maybe kerosene lamps?”
“Oh, all solar. With a gas generator for back-up, just in case. Doesn’t any of this challenge appeal to you?” Rudolph kept his eye on the floor as he made for the parlor. “There’s supposed to be most of a native-stone fireplace in here. The top’s gone, but the body of it is said to be intact.” He paused as he tested a bowed part of the under-planking and decided to walk around it. “There’re two cellars, as well.”
“You’re not planning to go down there, are you?” Milton was alarmed. “Come on, Rudi. Give me your word that you won’t try anything like that.”
“Can’t do it. Jeff. I may have to see what kind of shape the foundation is in, if the stairs down are safe enough to use. I’ll have to put that in my report.”
Rudolph made his way farther into the parlor: it had been a large room, twenty-nine by forty-one feet, made to accommodate two or three dozen people at a time; the fireplace, composed of oval river stone, was half-way along the far wall. “It’s in better shape than I thought it would be.”
Milton stood just inside the double-doorway, his flashlight poking its bright finger into the assortment of shadows that gathered in the corners of the parlor. “The ceiling’s sagging,” he remarked.
“There were two chandeliers in here, up to the 1960s, and a grand piano until the late 1930s,” said Rudolph as he approached the fireplace, his remote tone indicating that he was not paying much attention to his brother-in-law. “Most of the furniture was left when the last owners abandoned the place. Framed pictures, too. The mayor said they were stolen many years ago.”
“And you trust him?” Milton asked.
“This resort is going to bring needed money and jobs into Sainte Gertrude— he’s not about to endanger that. The people in the village will be happy to have this place operating again. So, yes, I trust him to know where his best interests lie.” He was in front of the fireplace now, and inspecting it closely. He looked at the pile of fallen stone on the floor of the fireplace, and nodded a kind of approval. “This is really in very good shape, considering.”
“Glad you think so,” Milton said, making no excuse for his sarcasm.
Rudolph carefully leaned forward and thrust his head into the fireplace’s open maw, turning his head to look up into the ruined chimney. “Most of the flue’s clear, but there is a tree-branch pushing through the top of the chimney,” he told Milton, and went on with his investigation of the flue. “There’s supposed to be a damper in here somewhere.”
“What does that matter?” Milton asked, and noticed another snake winding its way through the entry hall. “How long do you plan to stay in here?”
“As long as it takes,” said Rudolph.
Milton was losing all patience with Rudolph. “You are aware that it’ll be dark in four hours. We can’t remain here after dark, can we?”
“Yes; you’re right. I’m sorry about that. If we could have gotten here earlier, we’d have more time to do this properly before nightfall, but with the storm stalled off of Florida… I can’t blame the pilot for waiting until the weather improved; we’re in the Bermuda Triangle, remember.” Rudolph reached up and tugged at a wedge of rusted iron he saw sticking out from the stones. The wedge clattered down, bringing a small shower of football sized stones with it; Rudolph withdrew quickly and took a step back from the fireplace. “Not here,” he said more to himself than to Milton.
“Are you looking for something in the chimney?” Milton demanded. “Why not look down rabbit holes while you’re at it?”
“More hoping than looking,” said Rudolph.
“Because…?” Milton pursued, aware that he was beginning to pry the whole story out of Rudolph.
“There’s supposed to be a chest with something valuable hidden in one of the fireplaces in this house. I’d kind of like to find it.” Rudolph patted the front of his jacket to rid it of dust. “If the chest really exists, it might have something… valuable in it.”
“And what would that be?” Milton asked as he watched Rudolph come back across the parlor to the entry hall. “Pirate treasure?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, God, don’t tell me,” said Milton, flinging up one hand as if to divorce himself from the whole project. “It’s that Poe connection, isn’t it? Fuck it!” He flung up his hand again. “I give up. I swear I give up!”
“Maybe it’s something else; I’d like to find out, wouldn’t you? Come on, Jeff.” said Rudolph, treading through the entry hall toward the opposite door. “The ballroom’s on the other side. Let’s have a look at it.”
But Milton blocked his way. “It’s that damned story, isn’t it? You’re trying to prove it was true, the way you tried with—”
“So what if it is?” Rudolph challenged him. “It’s my money. If it turns out I’m right, and The Gold Bug was based on real events — like Moby Dick — I could do something useful for the history of American literature, at the very least, and I could have the fun of the publicity from it to make the game I develop into a best-seller.”
“It’s crazy, Rudi.” Milton was almost pleading now. “This is a potential financial catastrophe. You know it, and I know it, and Caroline knows it.”
“You don’t know that, not for sure; no one does,” said Rudolph. “And I can afford—”
“Would you please stop saying you can afford it!” Milton stood in front of him, his flashlight raised like a weapon. “Never mind your romantic notions: how can you expect your wife to go along with this ridiculous scheme of yours?”
“I expect it because she’s gone along with all the rest of my … um … ridiculous schemes, and hasn’t regretted it yet,” Rudolph said calmly. “Now, Jeff, do get out of my way. There are three other fireplaces I want to examine before the night closes in.”
“The Good Lord between me and idiots,” whispered Milton as he stepped aside. “You do understand that I think you’re nuts.”
“You’ve thought that since Caroline and I met in middle school,” said Rudolph, and went on into the ballroom, taking care to walk on the portions of the floor that were not cracked or broken.
Milton could not deny it. “She took a big chance on you.”
Rudolph chuckled. “So far, so good.”
The ballroom had once had an array of tall, narrow windows down the longest wall in the room, an impressive forty-six feet long by thirty-six feet wide; the frames remained in less than half of them, and there were low-growing plants intruding through the vacancies. There had been an elevated platform at the far end of the room where small orchestras had played that was now cracked and broken. The floor had a number of gaping holes in it, and half of the ceiling had fallen at least four decades ago. Rudolph aimed his flashlight around the room in a cursory survey; the beam stopped at the fireplace at the far end of the room, opposite the demolished platform, and was greeted by the sound of small creatures in retreat.
From his place just inside the ballroom door, Milton watched Rudolph with increasing unease. He had long ago accepted that his brother-in-law was eccentric, but this struck him as being beyond the bounds of the acceptable. He found himself thinking of that movie with Peter O’Toole, The Ruling Class, as being more applicable to Peregrine Rudolph than he wanted to admit. What on earth would he tell Caroline about this present adventure, and how could he account for his inability to dampen Rudolph’s ambitions for this wreckage.
This fireplace had once been tile-clad, but most of those tiles were gone, exposing the bricks beneath. There were filmy curtains of spider-webs in the hearth, many extending up into the chimney itself, and four large arachnids squatted in them, patiently awaiting the arrival of their dinners. Rudolph batted at the webs with his flashlight, and stepped on the one spider that had run toward him; the other spiders had retreated up into the flue.
“Hey, Rudi, be careful. Some of those things might be poisonous,” Milton warned from the door.
“Yeah. I’ll watch out,” said Rudolph as he squinted up into the chimney; he got out of the fireplace quickly. “If there was anything hidden in there, it’s gone now,” he said, and picked his way back to the entry hall. “Spiders give me the creeps.”
“No kidding,” said Milton. He reached for his handkerchief from his inner pocket and wiped the sweat from his face, telling himself that heat and not nerves was the cause for it. “There’re plenty of them about. And snakes.”
“As well as beetles and other bugs. The mayor told me to be on the look-out for centipedes.”
There was a screech and the sound of flapping wings; a hooked-beak bird with black-and-blue wings went up and out through the hole at the top of the entry hall.
“Jesus!” Milton exclaimed. “What was that?”
“A bird. There are supposedly a number of them roosting inside this house,” said Rudolph. “I understand that they help keep down the mice and rats.”
“Wonderful,” said Milton at his most sardonic.
“How about we have a look at the kitchen?” Rudolph suggested as he picked up his rucksack. “I need to see what kind of space we have in there.”
“You’re going to do it no matter what I say,” Milton told him.
“I am. But you can stay here if you’d prefer.” Rudolph slipped the rucksack over his shoulders and started toward a near-by corridor. “It’s this way.”
Milton hesitated, but then followed, saying, “Just in case you need help.”
A tangle of vines clogged the kitchen windows, a number of roots protruding into the spacious room like a gathering of enormous worms. The ceiling was spotted with mold, and there were large patches of damp along the exposed beams. Open shelves sagged on their brackets, some of the wood rotten or eaten by beetles. There had been two large stoves in the room at one time, but they had been carried away for scrap three decades ago, and now only the brick footings that had held them remained. Three large sinks, their basins cracked and the faucets and other hardware long gone, stood against the right-hand wall. The concrete floor was pitted and cracked in places, silent testament to the damage wrought by water. A five-inch-long mantis clung to the outside of the open hearth where sides of beef and entire hogs had been turned on spits in the hey-day of the house.
Rudolph was smiling as he looked over the kitchen. “They had five chefs here in 1915, and a staff of eight,” he said. He nodded toward a door hanging precariously on one hinge. “That’s the pantry, I think.”
“And what did they store in there?— whole rhinos?”
“Stop it, Jeff,” said Rudolph calmly. “I know you disapprove, but will you at least stop being so snarky?”
Milton was taken aback. “I thought I was protecting you.”
“Because Caroline asked you to?” Rudolph went to the places where two large preparation tables had once stood. “Can’t you see even a suggestion of what I see? Doesn’t any of this excite you?”
“Bluntly, no, except in my desire to leave.” Milton folded his arms and stared at the places in the wall where pipes and cabinetry had been cut away.
“I’m not stopping you,” said Rudolph. “I’ll be out when I’m done.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys to the Land Rover, which he tossed to Milton. “Go on then. There’s material for sandwiches in the cooler, and beer as well as water.”
“Good of you.” He tucked the keys into the lower pocket of his cargo pants, taking care to button it closed. “But Caroline would have my head if I left you in this… derelict of a house.”
“What were you going to call it?” Rudolph asked as he started toward the fireplace. “A calamity?”
“More like a catastrophe. But I’ve called it that already, and it didn’t faze you,” said Milton, trying to guess what else his capricious brother-in-law might decide to do.
Reaching the fireplace, Rudolph took what remained of the spit from the rusted supports that stood in the gaping opening. “It looks almost Medieval, doesn’t it? They could have cooked for Plantagenets in here rather than for Carnegies and Wainwrights, couldn’t they?” he asked as he started poking up into the darkness of the chimney. He swung his flashlight around to aid his investigation of the fire-blackened bricks. “I don’t see…” Then his tone changed. “There’s some kind of chest up there. You see?”
“Not from here,” said Milton, refusing to move.
“Well, take my word for it. There’s something…” He thrust the spit upward and was rewarded with a shower of mud and dried leaves.
“Hey! Rudi!” Milton cried out in alarm. “Don’t!”
Rudolph remained where he was, still using the spit to dislodge the object that had caught his attention. “It’s okay, Jeff. I won’t—” He stepped out of the fireplace.
Half a dozen bricks fell with a brattle and a thud accompanied by a distressed squawking from a bird nesting farther up the chimney.
“That was close,” Rudolph said merrily, and bent down to pull something from the rubble. He had to tug it out with both hands. “I hope nothing got broken,” he said as he stumbled back, turning toward Milton to show what he had in his arms. “It’s a chest.”
Milton was suddenly afraid, although he had no idea why. “Put it back.”
Rudolph laughed. “I can’t, even if I wanted to. The rest of the chimney could come down on me.” He carried the chest — a large, black one banded with iron and padlocked — to the most intact of the sinks, and set it down with care. “The padlock is rusty. So are the iron straps around it. I don’t know if we can get it open.” His demeanor indicated his dejection.
“What about the keys the mayor gave you?” Milton asked.
“The lock is rusted. A key won’t open it. We need bolt-cutters, or a metal-saw, but that’s no guarantee that the lock will open.” He sighed his frustration.
“Then leave it there; it’s probably nothing in any case,” Milton suggested at once. “Honest to God, Rudi, you shouldn’t mess with it.”
Rudolph was not listening. “It had to have been put up there after the fireplace was being used for cooking; it would have been incinerated otherwise. That means one of the last families to live here must have done it, and knew what was being saved.”
“Why hide pirate treasure— unless they wanted to start a legend about the place?” Milton folded his arms and stubbornly remained where he was.
“Don’t be cynical, Jeff,” Rudolph recommended. “They didn’t need to do that; there were already a lot of tales about the house.”
The wind sprang up, heralding the fading of the day, and the chimney moaned; Milton shuddered. “I’m surprised the chest is still here. I would have thought someone would have found it before now.”
“They didn’t have the advantage of the letter Matthew Horner sent before he left here,” said Rudolph, enjoying the confusion that overcame his brother-in-law.
“Matthew Horner?” Milton asked. “Who is he and what does he have to do with this place?”
“He was the last caretaker who lived here. He departed in 1939 to work for the British during World War II. He informed his sister in 1944 that he had put the chest into a chimney—”
“And didn’t bother to mention which chimney?” Milton shook his head. “Isn’t that a little… inconvenient?”
“I doubt he intended that she should come and find it. Most of the letter was concerned with closing up most of this house and the grounds. He did a whole paragraph on Holland covers.” He saw the blank expression in Milton’s eyes, and said, “Those sheets that go over furniture when a house is going to be empty.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Milton felt out of his depth. “How did you happen to find that letter? Do you know it’s authentic?”
“It is. I got it from Matthew Horner’s sister.” He pulled futilely at the padlock. “She was twelve years younger than he was.”
“And how did you happen to find out about her?” Milton asked, not at all sure he wanted to know.
“It was my sophomore project, the spring before I dropped out of college. I wanted to do my paper on Poe’s sources—”
“Oh, God. I remember,” said Milton, recalling how obsessed Rudolph had been.
“—and my professor suggested I check out archives and other sources at the library. I found out that Myra Davis — Matthew Horner’s sister — was still alive and living near Toronto, so I wrote to her and she answered me, saying I could read the letter and make a copy of it. At her death, all her brother’s papers, as well as her own, were going to her alma mater — Wake Forest — which is where I assume the letter is now. She died eight years ago, in her late nineties; she was pretty frail, but her mind was still sharp. We kept in touch in a desultory way for a number of years. She wanted to know about my work.”
“So you looking for this place isn’t a recent whim,” said Milton, not surprised now that he heard the back-story.
“Hardly.” He smiled briefly.
“Did the letter mention what is in the chest?” Milton inquired.
“Yes.”
Their silence was interrupted by another howl from the chimneys, an eerie harmony that ended in more protests from birds
“Well?” Milton waited, and then said, more forcefully. “What is it?”
Rudolph ran his hand over the chest, almost in a caress. “If we’re lucky, there’s a skull in here. And it’s reasonably intact.”
“A skull,” Milton repeated as if he did not know the word.
“Yeah,” said Rudolph, then launched into an explanation. “You know, how in The Gold Bug, a skull is used to find the proper direction to the treasure?”
“I vaguely remember,” said Milton, who had not read the story since high school.
“And the deviation from one eye socket to the other was more than six or seven degrees?” Rudolph went on, expecting no answer. “That got me to thinking: human eyes focus forward, and so the deviation of focus should not be more than a couple of inches, otherwise binocular vision won’t work. The lines of sight are next to each other, and parallel. Right?”
“Yeah. Okay. The degree of deviation is wrong.” In spite of himself, Milton was becoming interested. “And your point is…”
“With a deviation of six or seven degrees, what kind of skull was… is it?” Rudolph stared at the chest, then looked toward his brother-in-law. “Think of what this could mean to the development of this estate. Think of the publicity.”
“But what if it’s just a narrative device that Poe added to the tale? Even you will allow that story-tellers will embroider facts to make for better fiction. Are you sure that the name of this place wasn’t after-the-fact?” Milton stared at the ruin around him. “You know, a name to give the place a touch of the mysterious?”
“It’s possible,” said Rudolph as if he did not believe a word of it. “But this island was once a haven for pirates and other adventurers.”
“Like a lot of Caribbean islands,” said Milton, listening to the tree branches thrashing in the rising wind batter at what remained of the house. “And there are estates that are as fancifully named as this one.”
“According to Matthew Horner, the original owner, who had the house built in the first place, he chose this location because it was the place where the actual discoveries were made that are recounted in Poe’s story. There had been a treasure recovered from this spot.” There was a stubbornness in Rudolph’s stance that did not encourage dispute.
“Let me guess: you want to put the skull on display here, and recount the whole preposterous tale.” He shook his head. “Why not donate it to the Smithsonian instead, and give up this resort scheme of yours.”
“The Smithsonian would probably hide it away in one of their warehouses, and take decades to authenticate it. Same thing with most universities.” He touched the chest again. “This deserves better than that.”
“If it really is a non-human skull,” Milton reminded him. “There’s no reason to suppose it’s all true.”
“We’ll probably have to take it with us,” Rudolph said contemplatively.
“Oh, no,” Milton declared. “I’m not getting into any vehicle with that thing.”
Rudolph turned to stare at Milton in amazement. “Shit. I never realized that you’re so superstitious, Jeff. Whatever kind of skull is in here—”
“Assuming for the minute that there is a skull in that chest,” Milton interjected.
“Yes; assuming that. You’re imbuing it with destructive properties—”
Milton raised his voice. “Have you looked at this house? I may be superstitious, but you’ve got to admit, that chest hasn’t done well here.”
Rudolph laughed aloud. “You’re being blockheaded, Jeff. This skull — and I suspect it must be — has historical value, and I would like to see it restored to the public.” He reached to take the chest from the sink, but another gust of wind, stronger and longer-lasting than the previous ones had been, brought more rubble down the chimney to clatter atop the bricks and dust that had already accumulated there. “The weather seems to be on your side.”
Now thoroughly spooked, Milton began to back out of the kitchen, almost blundering into a break in the concrete flooring. “We need to get out of here, Rudi. And you should leave that chest.” He steadied himself. “It isn’t safe here.”
“I agree,” said Rudolph. “Like any neglected structure, this one is dangerous.” He remained by the sink. “If this were a little smaller,” he went on, stroking the chest, “I could probably fit it in my rucksack, but that isn’t going to work.” He aimed his flashlight’s beam at the pantry. “If I put it in there, we could come back in the morning with a hand-cart and pick it up.”
“You can come back tomorrow,” Milton corrected him. “I’m not getting into the Land Rover with that box. Like you said, this is the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Whose imagination is running away with him now?” Rudolph goaded. “But you’re right: the road is not easy to drive, and it will be dark before we get back to Sainte Gertrude.” He lifted the chest out of the sink and carried it as if it were a living infant and not an iron-bound wooden chest to the pantry, where he put it on the floor under a hanging bin that had once contained rice. As he emerged from the pantry, there was a distant grumble of thunder.
Milton had already reached the entry hall when a new display of lightning lit up the gathering clouds moving in on the island. He could not keep from yelping at the flash. “Rudi!” he shouted. “It’s going to pour! We’ve got to get out of here. Hurry up!” He heard the panic in his voice, and that only frightened him more.
Rudolph appeared in the corridor that led to the kitchen. “Calm down. These storms happen here regularly.”
“Maybe,” said Milton, panting a little, “but I still don’t want to be on that road when it opens up.”
The broken chimneys were beginning to croon with wind, a counterpoint to the thunder.
“It’ll pass soon enough,” Rudolph said. “If we have to pull over and wait it out, we will.” He came up to Milton. “You can stay in Sainte Gertrude tomorrow.”
“You can’t come back here alone,” Milton cried out. “Don’t come here ever again.”
“Jeff, calm down,” Rudolph urged as he went to open the door. “I think you’d better recline the seat in the Rover. Let me attend to the driving. We’ll talk about what happens tomorrow in the morning.” He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and reached for the brass latch on the front door, and never saw the lightning that struck the house, setting it afire, as the thunder roared overhead.
* * * * *