As I removed the journal from the hidden compartment, a photograph flutteredto the floor, landing face down at my feet. Knowing what I did, my heartfilled with a sense of foreboding as I reached for the picture. Acrossthe top of it, scrawled in my mother's loopy handwriting--Caitrin Faith,age 6 months. Below it, in father's block lettering, the word, "Soon".

Turning it over, the shock of what I saw passed quickly, and since learningthat Mother had wanted father with us, it did not surprise me. It was ofMother and I.

I knew she was beautiful but here she was stunning, motherhood radiatedwithin her. Her dark hair haloed her face, blue eyes blazed with such intensejoy. She knew this would've fueled his desire to be with us. It was thisphotograph that must have made him realize what mother meant to him. Whyelse would he write that which he did on the back. He must have thoughtabout us, her-- constantly.

Did his arms ache to hold her? Did his blood burn inside him? This phototugged, gripped at the heart and held tight and fast. She used visual blackmail.

With a heavy heart and the journal in my hands, I headed for the bedroom.A room that I was beginning to love. Crawling between the sheets, I pulledthe comforter over my head and clutched the book tight to my chest. Sleepeluded me for what seemed hours. Then sleep came; I dreamed. I dreamedthat I was somewhere cold and dark. I was afraid. In the distance, a flashof bright light. Urgency made me walk toward the light, and I stumbledover unseen objects in my path. A high-pitched noise filled the air likea scream, yet no one could scream that loud without catching their breath.Danger, yet I felt compelled to find the light. It flashed, no closer thanbefore, the source unknown, unnatural.

A voice spoke in my head. It was impossible.

"Soon," it said," Soon."

The light turned into flames, and I screamed.

I woke and stared wildly about the room trying to get my bearings, myheart thundering in my chest as the visions of the nightmare faded. Therewas a clammy feeling of apprehension that passed rapidly, but the feelingsof uneasiness persisted. I could feel the perspiration on my neck. I layback, thinking about the vision.

The ringing of the telephone is what roused me from my fugue state,reaching a hand out toward the table, I brought the receiver to my ear.

"What?"

"So like your mother, Cait," the voice on the other end said softly.

"Sydney, how are you?" I struggled to sit up in the bed, wrestling withthe bed covers, noticing the purple clouds that dotted the sky outsidethe windows.

"Older but none the wiser," he said," You?"

"Tired."

  "Up for a visit with someone from your parents past?"

"You! I'm not allowed to talk to you until I have completed my quest,Syd. You, of all people know of mother's wishes," I chuckled softly, asmall smile forming.

"Not me, but Cox," he said in a low voice.

"He's alive!"

This was a surprising start to a surprising day.

***

Sydney confirmed it when he showed up at the house with Broots. I smiledat them as they entered the house. He reminded me of a tortoise. This isnot to suggest that there is anything foolish about him, for tortoisesare dignified and self-sufficient, its just that Sydney had not set footin this house in a very long time. His entrance was slow and yet one gotthe impression that his thoughts were not nearly as slow. He was almostninety-five and full of opinions on everything.

Our bond had been forged at my birth and wouldn't change. He said itwas d
estiny, and I didn't doubt it.

"All this time and you never said a word," Broots said, dramaticallyyet hurt echoed in his words.

I said nothing. I sighed and took a seat on the sofa, as Sydney tookup a position in front of the fireplace. He spoke of mother, father andof treachery and deception on part of the Centre. For the first time Ibegan to understand what my parents had been fighting against with morethan blind loyalty. Mother never discussed this part of her life with me,yet it dwelled in the recesses of her mind. She didn't need to discussit, for father had written about it with such clarity and committed itto paper with such care. As I thought my silent thoughts I noticed thatthe room had grown startlingly silent.

It was my voice that broke the silence.

"Where is the devil incarnate lodged, Sydney?" I asked coldly.

"Salisbury Asylum," Sydney said as he looked in to the flames.

"Is he . . . .?" Broots stammered.

"Insane, no, but he did suffer a stroke that left him paralzyed. Hecan't move, and his speech is slurred, somewhat."

Broots pulled the car up to the gate and waited for the guard to unlockit, and then relock it behind us. I'm not sure why they bothered ---surelythe remoteness of the place was an effective way of keeping others out.Or was it to keep those housed within from obtaining freedom. I tried tosee the building but ornately clipped trees obscured the view. Someonehad gone to great lengths to keep Salisbury hidden.

"Salisbury," Sydney said looking out the window. His voice was low asif the sight of the sombre building quelled him as much as it did me.

It was a massive construction and outwardly more like a series of buildingsthan one single mansion. It was constructed of grey stone blocks streakedwith flecks of blacker stone. It had no grace and in some places it wastwo and three stories high, with barred windows. It was immense and mademe wonder how many lost souls dwelled in its rooms. There was somethingunnerving about the place, its ugliness churning my stomach.

It was a grim, gray place and suddenly a sense of gladness seemed towash over me when I realized that Cox was locked away in a place that offeredas much hope as the Centre had to its occupants.
 
 
 

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Part 6