Page 124 of Pandora

She begins her descent. She can hear him panting, can smell the putrid stench of his wound, and when she reaches the bottom of the steps all Dora can do is stare in dismay.

The basement floor is covered with debris. Lying on her side against the far wall is Lottie, her arms and legs bound with packing twine. When Lottie sees her she moans through the gag at her mouth, gestures wildly with her eyes for Dora to look behind her, and Dora turns.

“Dear heaven, Uncle. What have you done?”

The wall behind him is a ruin, but still whole, and Hezekiah stands—barely upright on his ailing leg—in the middle of a large mound of rubble. Clasped in Hezekiah’s hands, his knuckles bloody, is a pickaxe. She smells something else on him now—gin, she thinks—and Dora realizes he is covered with the stuff, that Hezekiah is dangerously drunk. He does not wear a wig, his skin is filthy, his shirt ripped and blackened. He drips with sweat, and when she meets his eyes she sees her uncle is looking at her with pure, unadulterated hatred.

“So, you’ve come at last.”

His voice is a sickening wheeze.

“Hezekiah,” she says, and the sound of his name on her tongue seems to shock him.

He drags his leg, moves further into the light. His eyes are bloodshot, seem to carry within them the spirit of madness. With difficulty he lifts the pickaxe, points its butt at Dora’s face.

“You dare talk to me like an equal?” he spits. “You are worthless! Just like your bitch of a mother. Look what Helen has brought me to!”

The pickaxe swings; Dora stumbles back, holding up her hands in defense, and she realizes she must mollify him, coax him sweet if she is to have the truth.

If she is to remain unharmed.

“What did she do?” she asks. “What did Helen do?”

“Ah, Helen,” he breathes.

Hezekiah blinks at her like a confused child and lowers the pickaxe. Its vicious point scrapes on the floor.

“I met her first, you know. I introduced them!” He cracks a bitter laugh. “I wanted to impress her. Showered her with gifts, I did. But she chose Elijah in the end and like the whore she was she opened her legs to him before they even reached the altar.”

The vitriol in his voice. Dora tries not to flinch at it.

“That must have hurt.”

“It did.” He looks confused again. “It did. How could she do that to me? After everything I did for her?”

Dora swallows, prays for calm.

“What did you do for her?”

Hezekiah’s expression turns wistful, and for the briefest of moments Dora sees the ghost of the man he might have been all those years before—young, carefree. Handsome, even.

“It was me who traced the geographical history for her precious Pandora myth. But I did not understand the ancient history that would reconcile the evidence. Elijah, though, he was always clever in that way. And then...” He trails off. His eyes darken. “I loved her. I loved her but she chose him. Do you have any idea how that made me feel? To be used like that?”

Dora shakes her head. She cannot find the words.

“Elijah thought he was being charitable, letting me manage the shop. A living, he said, in thanks for bringing them together. As if I would be thankful for that, when he had taken her from me, the only thing I ever truly wanted!” Hezekiah laughs resentfully. “And still, they used me. She used me. My knowledge, my skills. But they underestimated me, Dora. They had no idea what I was capable of. I could have made their fortunes, if they hadn’t been so blind.”

The venom in his voice is enough to loose her tongue.

“Why did you kill them?” she asks quietly.

Hezekiah sneers. “They didn’t have the imagination, didn’t comprehend. Oh, what we could have done with it! The amount of money we could have made if we’d sold it my way!” He looks past her, at the pithos, and Dora sees he is lost in his memories, is trapped in a dream. “I told them what I’d done back here in the shop. The sales I’d made. I thought they would be pleased, but they told me to leave. Leave! After I was the one who helped her discover where the bloody vase was in the first place!”

He shakes his head. Somewhere behind her, Dora thinks she hears a shout.

“I went down to the dig site, tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t have it, said that if I tried anything they would report me. Can you believe that?” Hezekiah asks, his sweating face incredulous. “Their own flesh and blood, threatened with the hangman’s noose. It was the last insult. I made a decision. If I couldn’t have the vase, then neither could they.”

He looks at her once more. His expression shifts into scorn.

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