Night of the Hellebore by George McNeill

Author:George McNeill [McNeill, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gothic mystery
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2015-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

16

The car swung wildly for the curb as though Catherine might actually run Ilana down.

“Get in,” Catherine called. Ilana obeyed and sat timidly as Catherine drove off. Fat rain drops hit the bug-speckled windshield. Catherine’s body was so rigid Ilana felt the bones might actually snap from tension. The fingers were claw-like and white on the steering wheel.

“I’ve been worried sick about you,” Catherine said as she turned a corner. “I came here and looked for you and had no idea where you were and now you’re late, supper will be late, and mother will be fit to be tied.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilana said but though she felt guilty she resented Catherine’s attitude. “I mean I’m sorry about being late, about supper’s being late. But really, I can take care of myself, fend for myself, Catherine. You need not have worried.”

“Obviously you can fend quite well for yourself,” Catherine said. “And quite to the contrary I would say I have a great deal about which to worry.”

“Catherine,” Ilana started but she had no idea what to say.

“Mother mentioned that you got out of your sickbed yesterday to … to walk alone with Blake in the woods, Ilana,” Catherine said.

“But that’s wrong, Catherine,” Ilana said. “I most assuredly was not in the woods with Dr. Harrison. Morgana was mistaken. She didn’t see me with him. She saw …”

“Never mind, you don’t have to lie,” Catherine said. “I certainly thought you were at least an honest child, Ilana.”

“I’m not a child,” Ilana said. “And I won’t stand accused of some walk with the doctor that I didn’t take.”

They had left the town and were passing the bayou and the clump of cypress trees. The rain was heavy but Catherine had not turned on the wipers. She drove at the same speed, her body still rigid, not even leaning forward to see through the mat of water and dust and mangled bugs that obscured her vision.

“Do you deny you just now climbed out of Blake’s car?” Catherine asked. Her lips barely moved as she talked.

“Why should I deny it?” Ilana asked. “I did get out of his car. We were out at Daphne’s, and believe me it was not by choice.”

“Daphne’s, indeed,” Catherine said. “I saw Daphne not ten minutes ago in town, dear. So you can just drop that little lie right now. Where did you two go?”

“It’s no lie,” Ilana said. They were in the swamp now, all hot and wet and shadowed, squealing and thrashing in the bayous, with frogs croaking and a wind up to blow the smell of decay into the car, to twist dripping limbs, thorn vines and clustered moss into sudden, grotesque shapes. Ilana waited for Catherine to speak and felt a revulsion for this swamp, for this drive that would isolate her once more within the ancient stone walls.

Catherine would not speak so Ilana felt compelled to. “Daphne’s son Randall was running the place,” she said. “Really, I resent this, Catherine. The doctor insisted I talk to him, go for a ride with him.

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