All the Little Lights
Page 89

“Who?” I asked.
“Mama. How do I explain that it wasn’t her? That it’s not her fault that they killed Presley?” She rubbed her head back and forth against the wood.
“Catherine?” Mavis called in her little-girl voice. “Catherine, I’m scared!”
Catherine sniffed, her eyes wet. She petted the door. “I’m here, Poppy. I’m right here.”
Mrs. Mason shook her head, her brunette hair stained with blood and dirt. “Don’t let her out.”
Something banged against the door. “Catherine! Let us out!” The door banged again.
Catherine pressed both palms against the door to keep the wood from breaking free of the hinges, and I helped her, leaning my back against it and pushing against the opposite wall with my shoes.
Mavis sounded like a man again.
I pushed my feet harder against the wall. As crazy as it sounded, Mavis was stronger when she was Duke. “He killed Presley,” I said in disbelief. “The guy. Duke.”
“It was all of them,” Mrs. Mason said, a single tear spilling down her cheek. “She’s dead.” She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her cries. “Presley is dead.”
The door banged again. “Let us out!” It was hard to tell who it was this time, as if they were all speaking.
“Stop!” Catherine said, banging the side of her fist against the door. “Stop it!” she cried.
I touched Catherine’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, her expression crumpling. “They’re going to take her away. I’ve locked her down there like an animal.”
“Catherine,” Mrs. Mason said, “she needs help. You can’t protect her. She’s getting worse. She . . .”
“I know,” Catherine said, standing when the banging stopped. She wiped both eyes and looked down the hall. “Elliott, get that table. We’ll prop it against the door.”
I did as she asked, rushing to the end of the hall and grunting when I picked up the table. Catherine moved to the side, and I propped it against the basement door as the sirens grew closer.
I helped Catherine climb over the table, and then she ducked behind the check-in desk by the front door, handing a landline phone to Mrs. Mason.
Mrs. Mason pressed seven buttons and then held the phone to her ear. “Milo?” She laughed and cried at the same time. “Yes, I’m okay. I’m at the Juniper. Yes, the bed and breakfast. I’m okay. The police are coming. Just . . . get here.” She cupped the phone and her mouth with one hand. “I love you, too,” she cried.
She turned, and I took Catherine by the hand, leading her to the base of the stairs. Catherine stared ahead, seeming numb.
“Look at me,” I said, raking her hair from her face with my fingers, tucking the strands behind her ears. “Catherine?”
Her big olive-green eyes looked up at me.
“Who was real?” I asked.
She swallowed. “No one.”
“Althea?”
She shook her head.
“You said seven.”
“Althea. Duke. Poppy. Willow. Uncle Toad. Cousin Imogen.”
“That’s six.”
She hesitated.
“Catherine,” I prompted.
“Mama,” she blurted out. “Mama is the seventh.” She leaned against my shoulder, and I pulled her into me, holding her tight as she sobbed.
The sirens were just outside, and then there were only the red and blue flashes. A car door slammed, and Mr. Mason called frantically for his wife.
“Becca?”
Mrs. Mason pushed through the screen door, ambling toward him.
I stood, watching them embrace and cry. The officers approached the Juniper, guns pulled and ready. I held up my hands, but the first officer grabbed me anyway, yanking my hands behind my back.
Detective Thompson walked in and peered around, his gray mustache twitching.
“Cuff him,” Thompson said.
“Stop! It wasn’t him!” Catherine said, standing. “She’s downstairs. The person who took Mrs. Mason and Presley Brubaker.”
Thompson raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
Catherine’s heart broke right in front of my eyes. “Mama. We locked her downstairs. She’s sick, so be gentle.”
“Where’s that?”
“First door on the right past the kitchen. Don’t hurt her.”
Thompson directed the officers, then glared at me. “Don’t move.”
I nodded.
Mavis cried out and then growled. Panicked voices of the officers began to get louder and rise from the lower level.
Thompson leaned to the right, looked down the hall, and then ran for the basement door. Light flickered, and smoke began to billow out. Thompson stepped to the side as two police officers breached the stairs with Mavis in tow. She was handcuffed, her feet dragging, her eyes vacant and fixed on the floor.
The men puffed as they struggled to haul her deadweight. Catherine followed them with her eyes and then focused on the basement doorway.
“What’s that? What’s going on?” she asked.
“Uncuff him,” Thompson said to the officer guarding us. He barked into his radio for the fire department. “Catherine, is there a fire extinguisher?”
“There’s a fire?” she asked.
“One of the guys kicked something over down there. I’m not sure. Where’s the extinguisher? In the kitchen?” he asked, turning his back to us.
“No! No,” Catherine said, jerking away from the officer holding her. “Let it burn!”
Thompson was disgusted at the suggestion. “She’s as nuts as her mom. Get her out of here.”
More officers ran from the basement, holding their fists to their mouths as they coughed from the smoke. Seconds later, we were pushed out the front door, too. We stood in the yard with the other officers and paramedics, watching the smoke escape from the door and windows like old ghosts released from their prison.
More sirens sounded in the distance.
“Catherine!” Mrs. Mason called, helped by her husband. She wrapped her arms around Catherine as we all peered up at the old wood being swallowed whole by the flames.
Mr. Mason draped a blanket around his wife and Catherine, and Catherine peeked over her shoulder, watching officers carry Mavis to the second police cruiser. She ran to the car, touching her hand to the glass. I followed, watching Catherine whisper comforting words to her mother, speaking to Poppy, and then Althea. She wiped her cheeks and then stood, watching as the cruiser pulled away.
Catherine closed her eyes and turned toward the burning house, walking toward it like a moth to a flame until I stopped her. She watched the embers and ashes fly as if it were a firework display.
Thompson spoke into his radio as he passed. He stopped abruptly, pointing at me. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Leave them alone,” Mrs. Mason snapped. “They had nothing to do with this.”
“It was all Mavis Calhoun?” Thompson said, unconvinced. “That nutbag did all this with no help from these two? You sure?”
“You were wrong. You could have saved Presley if you’d just looked past your own arrogance,” Mrs. Mason spat. Thompson’s eyebrows pulled together. “You’re just going to have to live with that.”
“Becca is going to be spending the night at the hospital, but she wants to make sure you have somewhere to stay tonight,” Mr. Mason said to Catherine.