Page 111 of The Promise
Let there be light.
There wasn't a glass table. She'd known there wouldn't be one, but she was devastated nevertheless. Most likely because it meant that this wasn't a dream. So, most likely there wasn't a sister at the top of the well. No, there was only a madman and Michael.
Michael. God, she hoped he wouldn't fall into Owen's trap. The man was insane. She shook her head to clear it of the image of Owen, the consummate British madman. No use in borrowing problems she didn't have. Her main concern had to be getting out of here. And that was a big damn deal.
Her language was going to hell. So much for her parochial school upbringing, but then again, the nuns hadn't covered what to do when one was pushed into a mine shaft. Probably evenSister Inez would allow for a few curse words in this situation. She shook her head—hard. She had to stay in control. No room for hysteria here.
She struggled to her feet, wincing as she put weight on her right foot. Not broken at least. But it hurt. A lot. She focused on the flickering candlelight. Holding it away from her body, she surveyed the shaft. Only about half of it was illuminated and it was frustratingly round, curling in an almost perfect semicircle without an opening to mar the arc.Damn.
She limped forward, holding the candle high so that the other half of the shaft was illuminated. The light glanced off ivory, and two black eyes stared back at her. She bit back a scream and tightened her grip on the candle. The eyes were joined by a jaunty grin. A grimace really—a death mask.
Her heart lurched and descended a moment for a conference with her stomach. Cara could only stare at the skeletal remains. All that was left of a person. Her cellmate so to speak. Cellmates. Her stomach demanded more time as she stared at a second skull. This one looked gentler somehow than the first. Its eye sockets were just as empty, but the smile was less jaunty, more feminine somehow.
Her stomach heaved, then settled, the voting evidently completed, but her mind sent in the minority opinion.Get Out. Not bad advice. She circled the cavern looking for the exit tunnel. There wasn't any. What had once been a tunnel was now nothing more than a pile of shale and rubble, the pair of skeletons marking the entrance with frightening punctuation. There was no exit. This was the end of the line.
The smiling skulls seemed to mock her and she turned away to avoid their knowing gazes. A glint of something caught her eye as she turned and she bent with the candle to see what it was. A band of gold circled the smaller skeleton's bony finger. Cara fought with her stomach, heart, and brain before she found thestrength to reach for the ring. With a deeply drawn breath and a mumbled apology, she snatched it away.
The gold was smooth from years of wear, the faint pattern of etched flowers almost faded from the band. A wedding ring. She held it up into the soft glow of the candle light. R.O., D.M., 1858. Initials. A date. Her sluggish mind processed the information. A wedding ring. R.O. D. M.
D. M. — Duncan Macpherson. Her mind clicked into gear. R.O.—Rose. Rose O'Malley. Oh God. Her stomach signed off altogether. She was on her own.
She looked at the remains of Michael's mother and what had to be Zach, and took a deep, but not particularly cleansing, breath. What did one say to the dead? She sank to the ground, leaning back against a wall, her right hand still clenched around the wedding ring, her head inches from Zach's. She ran her left hand over the cool silver of Loralee's locket, tears filling her eyes. So many dreams…
Michael grabbed Patrick's elbow,recognizing his brother's need to fight. But that would only get them both killed. "We need to find Cara," he whispered, and Patrick nodded in mute acceptance as they moved to the wall of the tunnel.
"I see you both remember how to follow orders." Owen sounded smug, almost relieved.
Michael had to bite his tongue to keep from responding. Patrick, obviously, had no such self-restraint. "You killed our mother." The words were harsh and they hung in the cavern as if carved from stone.
Owen narrowed his eyes, watching them. "No." His response was angry. Abrupt. Secure, in only the way the deranged can be. "She killed herself."
"Why?" Patrick asked. "Because she loved Father more than you?"
"She loved me." The words were clipped, explosive.
Michael was beginning to follow the train of Patrick's conversation. "She never loved anyone but our father. You know that, Owen." He threw the words out, trying for distraction.
What he got was rage. A rage so fierce and out of control, he felt his brother flinch. "She loved me."
"No." The word was like an epitaph in its finality. Patrick spewed it almost as if it were an obscenity.
"She always loved me. That's why I did it," Owen retaliated.
"Did what?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain demanded. Patrick was face forward against the tunnel. Michael had opted for a less conciliatory stance, his back to the rock wall.
"Killed her."
Michael felt sick inside. "You killed her?"
"I had to."
The man in front of him shrank a little and Michael swallowed his bile. "Why?"
"She wouldn't come with me." Owen sounded like a three year old who hadn't gotten his way.
"When you offered her the silver?" Patrick asked, his back still turned.
Owen leveled the gun, his chest heaving in and out in agitation. "I offered her more than the damn silver. I offered her my life." He waited for some reaction, and when he got none, he continued. "Duncan led her on. Year after year, he promised her the moon, but never,neverdid he deliver."
