Doom Lake Holiday. Tom Henighan
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him. Lee ambled out of the kitchen. Wrapped in her nightgown, but shivering, she stood rubbing her wet hair with a big towel.
“What a morning!” she said pleasantly to her brother, but she wasn’t smiling. “I nearly drowned getting in here. This towel isn’t clean, either.”
Chip pulled on his jeans and headed back out the door. His father spotted him and waved from the car. “Don’t bother!” he shouted. “I’ve got it under control. Just gather up our stuff. I’m going to pull up closer to the cabin.”
His father hopped down and slipped into the front of the SUV. The engine started up, the headlights snapped on, the windshield wipers moved. Mr. Mallory pulled the car forward up the muddy track, stopped, and began to back toward the front door.
Another set of headlights appeared, flashing through the rain at the point where the driveway ran into the lake road. A vehicle was approaching the cabin.
Mrs. Mallory saw it first and murmured, half aloud, “Oh no, not more trouble!” Lee groaned and headed for the kitchen; May shrank away into her bedroom.
Chip squeezed his mother’s hand. “It’s not a red car,” he reassured her. “More like a fairly huge pickup.”
They watched at the doorway as Mr. Mallory backed slowly toward them in the SUV. The thunder roared again and lightning lit up the scene. The second vehicle approached the cottage, swung round in an arc toward the cabin, and pulled up, nose to nose with their own car.
Mr. Mallory climbed out of the SUV.
Chip pushed through the doorway and approached the car. His father splashed round from the other side of the SUV.
The next few minutes surprised them. A woman got out of the pickup on the driver’s side — a tall, slender, agile woman wrapped up in a long, yellow raincoat and wearing yellow rubber boots. She slammed the door of her vehicle, stood in her tracks, and fixed her glance on them. Strands of white hair framed her face, sticking out from underneath her rain hood; her eyes were coal-dark, and her lips fuchsia red.
Chip was fascinated and stood staring. But when splashing footsteps sounded behind them, accompanied by a few incomprehensible words spoken in a low, groaning voice, he quickly turned.
A very short man — a bent figure who resembled a hunch-back — peered up at them. He was a man not old, but past middle age, wearing a bright red raincoat and matching boots.
The sight of the man sent a chill through Chip, who was immediately reminded of the Venetian killer-dwarf in Don’t Look Now!
He stood there, trembling so visibly that his father reached out and grabbed his arm. “Take it easy, son, I’m sure the natives are friendly.”
“I said Dr. Mallory,” the small man went on in a gruff voice. “Are you Dr. Mallory, sir?”
“Not usually thus designated, but legitimately so,” Chip’s father said.
The other looked at him suspiciously. “A learned man, eh? A word-spinner? Well, what are learned men to me? Not much!” He sniffed, and snapped his wet fingers.
The newcomer’s face was both crude and sensitive. He had a low, wrinkled forehead, a bulbous nose, innocent blue eyes, and well-shaped lips. His hoarse, bass voice seemed to break and cackle.
“Can’t we escape from this blasted weather?” he grumbled, holding out his hands to catch the rain. He looked around, wiped the dripping water from the end of his nose, and called out to the woman. “Come, Rachel! This storm looks like going on forever.”
He stepped quickly toward to the cabin. Rachel followed, brushing at her wet, silver hair. Mr. Mallory shrugged his shoulders and managed a smile. He and Chip marched in after the other two. Inside, the four of them stood milling around and dripping water on the filthy, worn rugs. Mrs. Mallory handed out towels and paper rolls.
“You’re leaving?” the small man inquired, glancing around the half-packed bags. “This place not to your fancy?”
“That’s the general idea,” Mr. Mallory told him.
“Give him the message, Cal,” the woman said. “The old man will be wanting his breakfast.”
Cal growled, but he reached inside his red raincoat and pulled out a large, damp-stained, and slightly crumpled envelope.
“It’s from my employer — or should I say, my master?” he added with a smirk. “He requests that you read it careful-like and take it seriously.”
“And just who is your master?”
“Dr. Gwynn’s his name.”
Mr. Mallory looked surprised. He carried the envelope over to the rickety kitchen table, then sat down, tore open the envelope, and began to read the message inside.
Lee, fully dressed, but with her dark hair gone damp and curly, stepped into the room. She looked around in astonishment, but said nothing. May came in and stood beside her, and Lee moved to the other side of the room.
The woman called Rachel sized up the shanty girl and said in a gruff voice, “I’ve a notion who you are, girl!”
May glanced nervously away, and in a faint voice answered, “I think I’ve seen you in Bascombe, ma’am.”
Rachel frowned, and pondered this. Mrs. Mallory offered brightly, “Shouldn’t we find out who everybody is?”
But Mr. Mallory spoke from the table, interrupting. “This is too much! This is amazing. I think we just might take him up on it.”
“What does it say, dear? Who’s it from?”
Mr. Mallory stood up, looking a little cheerier than he had earlier. “It’s from a man named Gwynn. I think I’ve talked to him on the phone and exchanged emails. He’s an archaeologist. You remember when we put together that software package connected with excavations and heritage building reconstruction? I consulted him. He’s done a lot of work in the Near East. I had no idea he lived around here. What a coincidence! It’s amazing!”
“He’s invited us to drop in?”
“Better than that. He’s invited us to use one of his houses. That’s the way he puts it: ‘A house I own in the vicinity.’ Well, I’ll be darned! As his guest, too! That just might be a great idea.”
“It’s probably some dump he’s going to try to sell you, Dad,” Lee cautioned. “You promised we could go to a hotel.”
The small man sniffed and seemed almost ready to spit with impatience. “It’s a fine place on a good, dry island,” he told them. “Of course, you can do as you please, for all I care. If you want to waste your money on a hotel…”
“But I don’t understand,” Mr. Mallory pressed him. “How did Dr. Gwynn know we were here?” To his wife he added, “It sounds pretty good, dear, do you think we should give it a try?”
“A house on an island? How do we get out there?” Chip wondered.
“Getting out there’s no problem,” Cal said. We have a boat, and a safe place to leave your vehicle.”
“We don’t even know you people,” Mrs. Mallory said. “I understand that you work for this Dr. Gwynn, and I suppose Rachel here —”
“That’s Rachel Stone,” the small man interrupted, indicating his companion with a nod of his head. “She drives the truck and looks after the houses. Dr. Gwynn has two or three houses I know of, maybe more. My name is Cal Froats. I’m from around here. I do the odd job for the old man. There’s people in this world I’d rather serve, but he pays me well enough, and I’ve got little choice, as it happens.”
“You folks have to decide,” Rachel told them. “We’ve got to be getting back to our duties.”
“I’d like to confer with my wife for a moment,” Mr. Mallory said, and he drew Mrs. Mallory down