Flight Dreams (5 page)

He pauses for a moment, then concludes, “My dear friends, I shall burden you with no more of my prolixity today—it is far too warm. May the blessing of almighty God descend upon all of you and remain with you always.”

Father James McMullen then returns to the altar and performs the rite of sacrifice that symbolically reenacts Christ’s death. The liturgy proceeds steadily toward the solemn climax of consecration, the moment at which the sacramental bread and wine are transformed for the faithful into the body and blood of Christ. It is the moment of the Mass for which Father McMullen was ordained, the focus of all his priestly powers.

It is the moment at which he will summon the physical presence of God.

It is also the moment at which he will be haunted by a recurring, unshakable memory.

He bows low over the chalice.
“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,
” This is the cup of My blood, he whispers. As he genuflects in adoration, an altar boy rings the tiny silver consecration bell. But as the priest peers into the golden goblet of wine-turned-blood, he hears another bell—a louder one, an alarm—and sees himself many years ago rushing down the long hall past a row of identical doors till he reaches the one he knows he must open. He grips the knob with fingers colder than the brass itself, then sees inside the room.

White sheets fall to the floor from the steel-framed bed, drenched with the still-warm blood of the boy who lies there, his eyes frozen wide with terror, his throat gaping open, savagely slashed.

B
Y MONDAY MORNING, THE
long autumn rains have settled over the Midwest. Manning drives north on Sheridan Road toward the Carter estate in Bluff Shores. The pavement glistens black beneath dense trees, their wet foliage hanging low against a formless sky.

Something Italian—something frivolous and operatic—warbles from the radio and fills the car’s chilly interior, a contrast that Manning finds more irritating than uplifting. The motors of the windshield wipers whir with each swipe of the blades, syncopated with the tempo of the music. Mercifully, the aria climaxes and dies.

“Good morning, friends and neighbors, wherever you are …” It is the drawling radio voice of Bud Stirkham, a local commentator cut from the same philosophical cloth as Humphrey Hasting. In contrast to Hasting’s eloquently affected manner, though, Stirkham’s gravelly style is that of a down-home aw-shucks man of the people.

“… and if the crisis in Ethiopia isn’t enough to shake your faith in
international
diplomacy, just look at the antics of officials here at home in their clumsy efforts to snag airline heiress Helena Carter’s killer. This spirit of apathy and indifference extends even to the
Chicago Journal,
which historically prides itself as watchdog of the public interest …”

“Ranting demagogue,” Manning mutters to the radio as he switches it off. Shaking his head as if to clear it of Stirkham’s words, he slows the car at an intersection, peering through the rain at a street sign. He turns off Sheridan Road onto a quiet thoroughfare that leads him past unmarked roads to the vast, secluded estates perched on the lakefront.

Manning slows the car as it approaches a driveway marked by a white rail fence and a country mailbox labeled with block letters:
CARTER
. Turning onto the winding drive, he is struck by how flawlessly everything is maintained—fencing, ornamental trees, beds of fall flowers. Things have certainly been kept in order, as if for Helena Carter’s imminent return. Rounding a curve of the wooded drive, he finds himself in view of the house, the lake, and a widespread freshly mowed lawn that glows electric green against the blur of a dark sky.

Parking near the front of the house, Manning checks the pockets of his trench coat for pen and notebook before stepping out into the rain. He ducks into his collar, dashes to the door, and rings the bell. As he waits, the lake roils beyond.

When the heavy enameled door at last cracks open, a stooped man in his sixties peers out for a moment, then swings the door wide, saying, “Good morning, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you.”

Manning steps into the checkered-tile entry hall and removes his coat. He fumbles in the pockets for his pen and steno book, studying the little man as they exchange small talk. A uniformed butler would fit this setting to a tee, but the man is dressed in freshly pressed work clothes—chambray shirt and wash pants. His manner is friendly and homey, not the least pretentious. Then Manning remembers. “You’re Arthur Mendel,” he tells the man. This is the nefarious houseman, the cunning majordomo whom Humphrey Hasting seems determined to bring to justice.

“I’m flattered that you remember,” says Arthur. “It’s been nearly seven years. And the day you were here, the day after Mrs. Carter disappeared, things were a bit hectic.” Chuckling at his own understatement, he takes Manning’s coat and leads him through the house, saying, “Miss O’Connor was happy to get your call. She’s waiting for you in the parlor.” Arthur opens a paneled walnut door to let Manning pass, closing it behind him.

The room is intimate in scale, designed for small groups of guests. Comfortable stuffed furniture faces a hickory fire framed by a mantel of coral-streaked marble. On a low table before it, a silver coffee service reflects the flames. Two cups and saucers flank a tray of pastries.

“I didn’t know if you’d have eaten,” says a voice, its speaker hidden by the chintz-covered wings of a plump chair. “I get the impression that young people don’t bother with breakfast.” Margaret O’Connor, sister of the missing heiress, rises to face her visitor, offering her hand as he steps forward. She is a small woman, tastefully dressed—perhaps too formally for the early hour. Her hair has been freshly, primly coiffed, with no attempt to hide the gray that now ousts the brown.

“You’re too kind, Miss O’Connor,” Manning tells her, taking her hand.

“Won’t you please call me Margaret, Mr. Manning? I find ‘Miss’ a touch unbecoming for a woman of my age.” She winks at him.

By Manning’s calculation, she is only forty-eight years old, eight years younger than her sister, but she does, in truth, exude a spinsterly air. He is charmed by her candor. “I’d be delighted, Margaret. Please call me Mark.”

“I’d like that
very
much,” she answers, patting his hand. “May I offer you anything?”

“Just coffee, thank you.”

They settle themselves, she serves, and they relax for a moment before beginning the interview. “Will you mind if I take a few notes?” Manning asks, opening his book.

She dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “Of course not. That’s why you’re here.”

A cat appears from around the base of Manning’s chair, brushing the length of its body along his cuff. Its huge gold almond-shaped eyes look up at him; Manning’s green eyes stare back at the animal. The cat’s dense brown fur seems vibrantly orange in the glow of the fire. Each hair is tipped with darker shades of brown or black, like the coat of a wild animal. Its lithe body, long front legs, and big tufted ears give the cat a regal, hieroglyphic bearing. It cocks its head and emits a quiet, inquisitive meow.

“That’s the cat,” says Manning, transfixed by the animal’s gaze.

“What cat, Mark?”

“The cat in the magazine with your sister—when they won the big award.”

“Heavens no,” Margaret tells him with a laugh. “That was this cat’s grandfather. He’s gone. This is Fred.”

“Fred?”
he asks with a tone suggesting he expected something more exotic. He leans forward and extends a hand to stroke the cat’s head. Fred nuzzles forward, erupting into a well-tuned purr. At that moment, a second cat appears from behind the chair.

“And who’s this?” Manning asks.

“Ethel.”

“Married?”

“No,”
says Margaret, feigning shock. “They’re brother and sister!”

They both laugh heartily while Fred and Ethel explore Manning’s shoes. Finding little worth sniffing, the cats turn their tails to Manning and drop themselves in front of the fire, Fred sprawling, Ethel curled.

“They’re beautiful,” says Manning. “I’ve never seen an Abyssinian—at least not until last week when I saw that magazine picture.”

“I’m not surprised,” she tells him. “Abyssinians are still rare. The breeding is controlled, and the litters are small.”

Manning sips his coffee. A burning log shifts in the grate and pops, spraying sparks, breaking a momentary lull. Manning tells Margaret, “Your home is in a much calmer state than when I last saw it, the day after the disappearance.”

“Oh, I remember it well. Such a commotion it was,” she tells him, fluttering both hands.
“I
was in something of a state that day. What with the shock and the uncertainty and the police and the lawyers and
reporters
—no offense, Mark, but it
was
an ordeal.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “You, however, were very considerate.” She reaches over and pats his knee.

“I’m glad to hear that I behaved myself.” He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the table. “Tell me, Margaret. It’s been nearly seven years since Helena disappeared. Surely you’ve given the mystery a lot of thought. Do you have any idea what may have happened?”

She sighs demurely, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. So many people seem so sure that Helen is dead, sometimes I almost wish I could believe that—‘closure,’ you know. But I simply can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm Helen. Sure, there’s the money”—she gestures vacantly at their surroundings—“but it hasn’t done anyone any good.”

“If she’s not dead, where do you think she might be?”

“I don’t have any idea at all. Not anymore.” She pauses in thought. “I used to have a …
theory,
but it was only an empty hunch.”

“What was it?”

“It seems silly now. I’d prefer that you not write about this.”

Manning sets his pen and notebook on the table.

Margaret tells him, “I’m sure you already know that Helen was very religious. I found it amazing—sort of inconsistent—that she could combine her staunch faith with so many worldly interests. Actually, I thought she took the whole church thing a bit
too
seriously, but that’s not an opinion I felt I could express to her.

“We were, of course, brought up Catholic. Papa was a railroad man—a hard worker and a good looker and a pretty good drinker too. All told, he was a fine father. He always showed real love and affection for Mama, Helen, and me. But he wanted a big family. After the twins were gone, Mama just put her foot down and said she was through trying. Well, that never set well with Papa, and we always sensed that he felt sort of cheated. We were comfortable enough, living down near the rail yards, but never what you’d call ‘well off.’ I think he hoped that another child—a son—might grow up to be a doctor or a professor or maybe a tycoon, and that would have made him the happiest man around.”

She pauses a moment, picks up her coffee cup, then returns it to the table without drinking. She tells Manning, “He seemed to take comfort in the church. It was a lasting force of goodness in his life, as it had been for
his
father when he came over from Ireland. He took the church much more seriously than Mama, which Helen and I found kind of strange because it was just the opposite in all our friends’ families.

“As we were growing up, Mama used to sit down with Helen and me after school sometimes, before Papa got home. She’d explain things to us—woman things, you know. She’d put on a big grin and tell us that even though Papa wanted a rich, successful son, there was no reason he couldn’t have rich, successful daughters. She’d explain how hard it was for a woman to make any kind of business success out of herself—and in those days, it was true. But then she leaned real close to tell us a secret. Helen and I listened with eyes as big as saucers while she told us how we
could
be successful in a way that would do Papa proud. Pretty little girls like us, she said, should have no problem going out and finding a couple of nice, rich husbands. Helen and I giggled and bit our knuckles, it all sounded so naughty.”

She picks up the cup again, sips from it, then holds it in her lap, coddling it with both hands. “Well, I don’t have to tell you that Helen managed to go out and do exactly what Mama said. I tried, too, but was never so lucky. When Helen found Ridgely Carter, Mama told her that she should call herself
Helena
because it sounded more sophisticated. Papa died before the wedding. Helen moved out when she married, of course, so I ended up staying home with Mama. Money wasn’t a problem. We had Papa’s railroad pension, and Helen was always generous when any special need came up. Then Mama died. That was the end of the pension. I was uneducated, unemployed, and—at thirty, I assumed—forever single.”

Margaret returns her cup to the table, setting it in its saucer with a decisive clank. “So Helen and Ridgely took me in. They were always sweet about it, but I couldn’t help feeling that I had invaded their home. ‘Nonsense,’ Ridgely used to tell me, ‘with all the guests and hired help we have around here, we’ll hardly even notice another face in the halls.’ And he was right. Those were good years, while Ridgely was alive. Helen married him for his money—make no mistake about that—but he loved her from the start, and her love for him grew and grew as the years went by. It was a happy home,
mostly,
in spite of that nasty episode with Arthur’s gambling. Ridgely was wonderful, always. He tried to teach us all something about managing money. It’s a good thing he did—when he died, Helen got everything.

“She’d been religious all her life, and Ridgely’s death seemed to boost her zeal. It’s funny. Mama always said we had to marry rich—and Helen did. Papa always said we had to keep our faith—and Helen did. I don’t know if Helen was accommodating, clever, or just plain obedient. She
was
clever, smart as a whip, got top marks in school. I was a little awed by her; it seems I’ve always lived in her shadow. She’s eight years older than me, and when you’re a child, that’s a big difference. She was kind of a second Mama. Now that she’s gone, it’s left to me to look after her house and take care of her cats.”