As if it possesses a mind of its own, the flame gutters and hisses. With one last shuddering flicker, it goes out. I read in a book once that it’s so much darker when a light goes out than if it had never been lit at all.

  I get it. Profoundly.

  The can still retains its heat, but my heart turns cold.

  “That’s okay, sir. You’re almost here. Just keep coming.”

  “I have a match—”

  “Save it. When you get over here, we can reignite it. Sometimes if you shake those cans a little, you can get them going again. I have a part-time job here in town working for a caterer. We use them all the time.”

  Without a light, going back is out of the question.

  I’m closer to the captain—and Duffy—than the stairs.

  “Straight ahead, sir.”

  I move the Sterno can to my left hand again, bringing some relief to my right. Then I continue shuffling ahead in the dark.

  After a few more steps, I catch a shadowy movement. Tall and slender, ten feet ahead. Beyond the figure, something glows faintly. Is it the opening in the bulkhead doors the captain mentioned?

  As I move forward, the shadow becomes more distinct. Man shaped. The outline of a person. A white shirt.

  “Almost there, sir.”

  A few more steps, then the captain says, “Okay, halt.”

  I freeze. The captain is five feet away. I catch the outline of his face, his rigid posture.

  “Duffy’s right at your feet,” he says. “Can you get those—that—match out?”

  “If we use it now and the can goes out . . .”

  “Sir, it’s more important to light that can now. If it’s possible. We won’t know Duffy’s condition unless we light that bad boy. Do you need my help?”

  “I do.”

  “Hand me the can, sir. I’ll hold it while you light the match and bring it to the wick.”

  “It’s hot,” I say.

  “Roger that.”

  I extend the can toward the shape, and he reaches out and takes it. My hand shakes as it slides into my pocket. For a moment, my heart locks up. I don’t feel the match.

  The other pocket—

  I dig in the opposite pocket, working my fingers past the keys until they make contact with the cardboard of the matchbox. I draw it out, my fingers still shaky.

  “Don’t drop it, sir. We might not ever find it in here.”

  “Are you trying to make me edgier than I am?”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s part of my training to reiterate commands.”

  “Never mind.”

  I shift the matchbox to my left hand and slide it open with my right. I manage to dip my thumb and index finger inside and clasp the lone remaining match. I turn the matchbook so the strike plate is pointed the right way and slide the match head across it.

  It sparks but fails to ignite. I try again with the same result.

  “Take a deep breath, sir.”

  I do. The third time proves to be a charm as the match flares in the darkness, illuminating the captain’s face as well as mine. His brown eyes reflect the light as he extends the Sterno can toward me.

  “I gave it a shake,” he says, “so let’s see if we’re in business.”

  I touch the match to the wick. I hold it there for countless seconds—seconds that seem to stretch for minutes. But the wick flares and ignites, and the captain is revealed even more clearly.

  “Well done,” he says.

  Dirt stains one side of his white shirt, and his tie sits askew for the first time all day. I can’t be sure, but it looks like his left cheek bears a scratch, one I feel certain wasn’t there before.

  I shake the precious match out and drop it, the sulfur afterburn stinging my nose.

  “Okay, sir, let’s look at our boy.”

  The captain holds the Sterno can like a holy relic as he crouches. I bend my knees, and as we lower ourselves, the light from the can shows me Duffy.

  He’s on the floor, his body resting slightly on its right side. His shirt is dirty as well, the bolo tie hanging loose, his hat gone. His eyes are closed like he’s deeply asleep, and he breathes through his slightly parted lips. Even in the glow from the Sterno can, his skin looks gray-white, like marble.

  “Duffy?” I say.

  “I’ve called his name but nothing.”

  I put my hand on his right arm, feel for a pulse. It’s there. Faint but there.

  “Duffy?”

  “I wasn’t able to examine him, sir, but if I hold this, can you . . . ?”

  I’m ahead of him. I lean forward, moving up Duffy’s body as the captain moves the light accordingly. At the back of Duffy’s head there is something dark. Wet and tacky.

  I touch it gently and bring my hand back.

  “Oh, crap.”

  The captain manages to state the obvious. “Blood, sir. That’s a decent amount of blood coming from the back of his head.”

  59

  I WIPE MY HAND on my pant leg.

  “What happened to him, Captain? How did he get hurt this bad?’

  “Apparently, he was trying to get out by hacking on that bulkhead door. Like I told you, and as I’m sure you can see for yourself, there’s an opening there where the door isn’t completely flush with the doorframe. Since it’s old wood, someone could work on that with a crowbar or screwdriver—”

  “How did Duffy get hurt? What do you know?”

  The captain remains silent. In the flickering Sterno can light, he stares at me, his face a rigid mask revealing little.

  “Are you suggesting something, sir?”

  “Do you know what happened to him—”

  “Sir, I don’t like the way—”

  “You came down here to stop him, didn’t you?”

  His eyes slide away from mine. “In a manner of speaking, sir.”

  “And this is what happened? Did you drag him away from that door? Did you hit him over the head to stop him?”

  “Sir, I feel like whatever I say will fall on deaf ears. Certain assumptions are being made about me and others in the house. What if I put forth a theory that you killed Mr. Hyde? Some people upstairs think the two of you fought, that you did him in. You were alone with him when he died. There was noise. He was clearly pushing your buttons.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “So you’ll believe me when I say I worried Duffy’d hurt himself in this mess? Besides, he may very well be guilty of these crimes. And if he’s guilty, he’d be better off just telling the truth now. I would have advised him to do that.”

  “Okay, okay. We can sort this out later.”

  As I straighten up, my knees and back register their unhappiness about how I crouched down. The captain stands up too.

  “We just need to get him upstairs. Stop the bleeding, keep him warm.”

  “I agree, sir. This is no place for an injured man.”

  “When we get up there, we’re going to discuss this more.”

  “There is a lot to discuss, sir.”

  “I’ll take his feet and walk backward. You take his shoulders.”

  Again, a silence as the light flickers across the captain’s face. Something scratches across the room. No doubt another mouse—or something bigger.

  “Is there something else?” I ask.

  “In order to move him, sir, I have to blow the flame out. We can’t carry him and the flame at the same time.”

  The chill in the air intensifies. It seeps inside me, burrowing into my skin. “Is there another way—”

  The captain blows, a quick puff, and the flame goes out, plunging us into stygian darkness. The captain and Duffy disappear.

  I sense them, presences in the dark. The only comfort I feel is the knowledge I’ll be walking backward. Facing the captain, even if I can’t actually see him.

  “Are you ready, sir?”

  He shifts his position in the dark, his shoes scraping against the dirt.

  I take a half step back.

  “Sir?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I put the can down. And now I’m going to get ahold of Duffy’s shoulders and lift. You’re going to do the same thing, right? With his feet?”

  My throat feels cracked and dry. My words come out with a croak. “I am.”

  “Then let’s do it, okay? This man needs our help.”

  He moves again in the dark. And so do I, bending down and, after some fumbling, getting hold of Duffy’s lower legs. The captain counts, and we lift together. I start walking backward. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’m going through a minefield.

  Duffy is heavy. My biceps and back strain with the weight, and my body still hurts from throwing the cradle and having it bounce against me. I grunt like an old man, and our shoes scrape over the dirt floor, another set of scurrying feet in the dark space.

  “Are you okay, sir?” The captain sounds like he’s out for a stroll in the park. No stress or effort in his voice.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  “If we need to pause and put him down—”

  “We can at the stairs—”

  “Sir, there’s a—”

  The back of my right knee hits the pipe. It doesn’t hurt, since it’s not metal-on-bone contact. But I lose my balance and start to go over backward like a stumbling circus performer.

  “Sir?”

  I regain my equilibrium. My weight shifts forward, and I stay upright.

  Duffy makes a noise in our arms. He’s trying to form words.

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “He just moaned.”

  “No, he’s saying something.”

  Duffy’s face remains hidden in the dark. But his low murmuring reaches my ears.

  “Be . . .”

  He feels heavier, like a load of stones. I bend a little, shift his weight in my hands, and straighten back up, hoping to relieve some of the strain on my arms and back. I know I’ll feel this tomorrow.

  If there is a tomorrow . . .

  “Let’s get moving, sir. You’re getting tired, I can tell.”

  Duffy makes more noises. I lean forward in the dark. “Duffy?”

  “Behind me . . . be . . .”

  “Something was behind him,” I say. “Or someone.”

  “Sir, this speculation is unproductive. We need to stick to the facts we know.”

  “You’ve been pretty vocal about not wanting the process to end.”

  “I need the scholarship, sir. That’s true. I have a family. You know what that’s like.”

  “I do. . . .”

  “Sir, did you look in the back of the bylaws like I asked?”

  “No. I have bigger problems than those idiotic bylaws.”

  “I think you should—”

  At the top of the stairs, the door makes a popping sound as someone pulls it open.

  “Mr. Gaines? Is he okay?”

  I call out as loud as I can, fighting against the feeling that my words will die in this space. “We’re bringing Duffy up, Sydney.”

  “Bringing him up? Holy shit. Did the captain try to kill him?”

  60

  GETTING DUFFY UP THE stairs feels like moving a piano.

  We grunt and struggle and—despite the cool—sweat as we carry him up.

  Sydney steps onto the stairs, and she gasps at the blood on Duffy’s head. She sounds like her heart has been punctured.

  “Let’s put him on the kitchen table,” I say.

  Natalia shows up. She uses both hands to sweep some loose napkins and silverware onto the floor. It all clatters and clangs against the linoleum, but the space is cleared for Duffy.

  We heave him onto the table. He moans again, low and painful sounding. But he forms no coherent words.

  Emily stands in the doorway, her hand to her mouth.

  “There are some towels in the bathroom down the hall,” I say. “Some clean ones. Emily, can you go get them? And any bandages if you see them.”

  She goes, moving like a shot, boots pounding against the floor.

  Sydney rushes to the table and stands over Duffy. “Who did this to him?”

  “He’s bleeding,” I say. “Natalia, can you grab some blankets?”

  “I can see that. Why is he bleeding?”

  “I don’t know yet. Why don’t you go find a pillow or something we can put under his head when it’s bandaged?”

  But Sydney turns to the captain, ignoring me. “You did this to him. You went after him like you wanted to hurt him. What did you do, hit him over the head?”

  “Sir, these accusations are getting—”

  “Go get a pillow, okay? The captain’s going to check him out.”

  “Him?”

  “He knows first aid.”

  “Just like he did CPR after he poisoned Milo. He hits Duffy and does first aid.”

  “Go, please.”

  My voice cuts through the kitchen like a cleaver. Sydney looks stung, but she turns on her heel and goes. I turn to the captain.

  “What should we do? Get pressure on this?”

  “Yes. Head wounds bleed a lot. They look worse than they are.” The captain leans down and lifts Duffy’s eyelids with his thumb. “His pupils react to light. That’s good. They’re not dilated. Also good.”

  Emily comes back in with an armful of towels. The captain takes them from her and hands one to me.

  “Get that wet so we can clean this.”

  I do as he says. Sydney comes back in with an embroidered pillow clutched to her chest. I hand the wet towel to the captain, who starts dabbing at the back of Duffy’s head.

  Duffy moans.

  “Easy,” the captain says.

  “He’s trying to say something,” Sydney says.

  “He’s delirious.”

  The captain grabs one of the dry towels and gently presses it against Duffy’s injury, which has now leaked a small pool of dark blood on the butcher-block farm table. It looks like spilled wine.

  “He’ll need stitches when we get out, I think. And an X-ray, just to make sure.”

  Duffy moans. “Captain . . .”

  “Shhh,” the captain says. “Easy. Shhh.”

  He sounds like a father calming a child.

  “Don’t shush him,” Sydney says. “He’s trying to talk.”

  “He’s out of his head.”

  Duffy’s words spoken in the cellar come back to me: Behind me . . . I’m not sure how out of his head he is.

  Sydney moves to the table, the pillow still clutched to her chest. She’s on the opposite side of the table from the captain, and she leans down, her face close to Duffy’s. “What is it, Duffy?”

  “Captain . . . behind me . . .” His face contorts as if hit with a wave of pain. “Captain . . . behind me . . . fell . . .”

  Sydney stiffens. Her spine goes rigid as the steel pipe I banged into twice in the cellar.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks the room. “Get away from him.”

  “Sir, can you tell Sydney he’s delirious? And she might be too.”

  In the harsh kitchen light, Duffy looks waxen and pale. The captain stands over him in a predatory fashion, his hands stained with blood.

  “Captain, under the circumstances, maybe you should step away from the table. We need to keep everybody as calm as possible.”

  The captain turns to me. “Are you serious, sir?”

  “I am.” My temperature and heart rate rise. Adrenaline shoots through every cell in my body, making me quiver. I hope it doesn’t show. “Just step into the other room, please. Thanks for your help with Duffy.”

  “Help?” Sydney says.

  The captain straightens up, his grip on the bloody towel tightening. “You’re accusing me? Really?” He tosses the towel to the floor, where it splats.

  “Why don’t you go into the parlor?” I say, trying to save things. “We can talk there in a minute.”

  “The talk has gotten ugly in here,” he says, maintaining his authoritative calm. “They have the secrets.”

  He walks—almost marches—out of the room, his footfalls heavy and thudding.

  “Sydney, why don’t you . . . ?”

  But she’s already placing the pillow gently under Duffy’s head, trying not to come into contact with his injury.

  Natalia leaves the room as well, following along in the captain’s wake. Her stride is determined, her body leaning forward. Her shoes clonk rapidly.

  “Sydney, will you . . . ?”

  “I’ll stay with him.”

  “Emily, can you help if—”

  “I’m here,” she says.

  “Are you still feeling better?” I ask.

  “I think so.”

  I go into the hallway. Natalia stands at the end of the hallway outside the pocket doors that lead to the parlor. She’s fiddling with the recessed handle.

  “Natalia?”

  “Check this out, Mr. Gaines.”

  When I get there, Natalia wears a beaming look of pride. “What?”

  She points to the door. “The captain went in there and closed the door behind himself.”

  “I asked him to go in there and wait for me.”

  “Well, guess what. I locked him inside the parlor.”

  61

  YEARS OF USE HAVE worn the finish on the pocket door. The lock Natalia turned also looks worn and tarnished.

  “Isn’t there a lock on the other side as well?” I ask. “Can’t he just . . . ?”

  Natalia shakes her head. “No, I checked it when I was in there with you. I tried it—it’s broken. You can only engage it from this side.”

  “Why were you so curious about the lock?”

  “Well, I . . . Just that. Curiosity.”

  I press my ear to the door, the wood cool against my face. Nothing.

  But the captain must have heard the lock turn and click. He’s too alert, too tuned in to everything