The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) (22 page)

“Karla knows Joe patrols the state park land. She might have thought it would be safe.” I spoke without thinking but realized my mistake almost instantly.

The chief cast a sharp look at me. “Are you saying Joe wouldn’t arrest Karla because he knew her?”

“Not at all.” My words had exited my mouth in a crooked fashion. “Only that Karla’s
perception
might be skewed. She was a druggie. Logic isn’t their forte. I’ve had a bit of experience with addicts in Kentucky.”

“That’s true.” The frown remained on his face. “But there’s only one way in and one way out of the parking lot. No dealer in his right mind would agree to a transaction there. I don’t think her murder involved a drug deal.”

I could come up with no response. We continued in silence.

A youngster on a bicycle whizzed past, and McKinney called out, “Be careful, Brendan. You don’t want to be barreling into pedestrians.”

The boy rode on without looking back, but he waved a hand to signal he’d heard.

“He’s a good boy. A little thoughtless, but a good kid.”

“Shouldn’t he be in school?” I asked.

“I’ll speak to his parents.” Pause. “I’d rather be overly cautious than… .”

“Have a repeat of what happened to Mischa?”

His breath whistled harshly and he unfastened the top button of his coat. “She was precocious. And she loved Joe. She thought he hung the moon. If he said slugs were fascinating, Mischa thought they were the second coming. His interest in the woods and nature became her own. She was a bright child, and Joe said she had fallen in love with biology and science. He said someday she’d get a scholarship to one of the Ivy League schools if she wanted. She was that special, and I couldn’t uncover a single damn lead that went anywhere.”

“And it was her profound interest in science that put her in danger.” I said it because he wouldn’t.

“Yes, but it could have been field hockey, piano, or riding her bicycle. Anything could have put her in harm’s way.”

“What was she doing alone in the woods?” I almost blurted out “if she was so smart,” but I managed to bite it back in time. How smart was Mischa, though? The blonde in the hooded coat was cunning; had manipulated me in ways I still couldn’t explain. But cunning and smart were two different gifts.

“It was a miscommunication. She told her mother she was meeting members of her class. Helen never questioned it. Mischa was a reliable kid. Helen believed she was meeting her classmates.”

“Yet she was in the woods alone.” I wasn’t criticizing. Granny and my dad had allowed me to roam all over the hills and hollows near my home.

“She was a spirited girl who felt safe. Concord’s a town where folks look after the children. No one could have thought she’d be harmed after school. In broad daylight. In a place that’s a refuge. I would have let my own daughter lark about those woods. Her disappearance changed the town.”

“Which makes me think an outsider took her.” I’d followed his logic and found my own conclusion.

“Took her or killed her. We don’t know.” He smoothed his moustache. “Mischa and Karla share things in common. I can’t see anyone here taking Mischa or killing Karla. I’m not naïve about my town. There are plenty here who’d steal. And there are drugs and whores and all the things that come to play in modern society. But the brutality of the beating.” He opened his jacket another button. “She was struck in both eyes with the claw end of a hammer. The bones in her face were shattered.”

I turned slightly away to hide my discomfort. “How awful.”

“The strange thing is, the medical examiner said some of the blows were struck from below. As if Karla had been standing over her attacker.”

The image that came to mind stopped me dead. McKinney continued before he realized I’d halted. “What is it?”

I couldn’t say it. I simply couldn’t utter the words. “You’re positive the blows were struck from below?”

He nodded. “The coroner is positive. It doesn’t compute, you know. She should have run, or at least tried to get away. She must have been caught completely by surprise. Someone tricked her, I think. She never suspected.”

“I have to go back to the inn.” I spun.

“Wait, Aine. I’ll give you a ride. You aren’t strong enough.”

“I’m okay to walk.” I kept marching. I had to get to Walden Pond. I had to find Mischa. She’d done a terrible, terrible thing, and I had to know why.

30

The quiet settled around me like a blessing, but I had no time to enjoy it. My heart crashed against my ribs, and when a flock of small wrens startled from the tall grass and flew into the sky, I feared the Sluagh. My first impulse was to run as fast as I could back to the safety of the inn.

But that would accomplish nothing. The confrontation I didn’t want could no longer be avoided.

I knew exactly where to find Mischa. I passed the replica of Thoreau’s cabin and continued down the trail. The day had grown warmer, a balmy fifty-two according to the outdoor thermometer nailed to a tree beside the gift shop. I removed my jacket and tied it around my waist as I moved deeper into the woods.

When I spied the two oaks, I listened. The chirping and rustle of birds and small creatures had ceased, leaving a vacuum of complete silence. No wind stirred a limb. No tweet or scolding squirrel spoke of habitation by any species. Mischa had sucked the life from a place that had once been filled with busy creatures. She’d also managed to get her hooks into my existence. Who was she? What was she that she could slam a claw-foot hammer into a young woman’s eyes?

Her actions unreeled in my imagination like a disgusting movie. She curled, so innocent and helpless, right here beside the oaks. She must have looked like a broken doll to Karla. And Karla had gone to her, to offer assistance, as anyone would, to an injured child. And Mischa had struck with the speed and surety of a cobra.

“You wanted her dead.” She’d made no sound as she crept up.

“You don’t have a clue what I want.”

“Oh, but I do. You wanted her gone. Dead and gone. Once she came back to Concord, your biggest concern was getting rid of her. Permanently.”

She was going to frame me for what she’d done, and I’d played into her hands by coming here. Oh, she was clever indeed. “That isn’t true. I needed her in Nebraska. Not dead.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever you say, Aine.” Her tone made it clear she was humoring me, like I was the child.

“How did you get her alone here in the woods? “

“People see and hear exactly what they wish to see and hear. You know that, Aine. Look at your aunt Bonnie, in love with a man who failed to acknowledge her in any way. Yet she stayed with him. She cared for him. She taught him her secrets. The truth was staring her right in the face. He never meant to admit their relationship. His family would never approve of the likes of Bonnie Cahill, kin to an empire of cutthroats and thieves. But Bonnie wouldn’t see it.”

“Great lecture. How did you get Karla down here alone?”

“How did I get you to Yerby Road?”

“A trail of breadcrumbs.” Oh, yes, she was smart. “The shopkeeper. He told me exactly what you wanted me to know.”

“Was there ever a shopkeeper?” She giggled and the hair on my arms rose to attention.

“What are you?”

Her smile was slow, a fox staring at a crippled hen. With great deliberation she pushed back the hood of her jacket. Blond hair tumbled about her shoulders. In the curve of her cheek was the innocence of childhood. Her dark lashes kissed her soft skin until she opened her eyes. They were black and shiny, hard obsidians where blue should have been. “Does it matter so much what I am? Isn’t it what I can
do
that really intrigues you?”

I didn’t want to know any more of what she could do. What she
had
done. “Why me? No one else sees you. Why me?”

She turned toward the location where Karla had been bludgeoned to death. The area had been raked clean, and a tatter of yellow crime-scene tape hung limp from a tree branch. A dark stain splashed across a root. Blood.

“You called me, Aine. You summoned me.”

“No, no, I did not.” I longed to grab her and shake her, but I was too afraid.

“Yes, you did. All your life, you’ve known you could communicate with the dead. You tried to deny it, but deep down you knew. Coming here to Walden Pond, working on this topic for your dissertation. You wanted to know about your great-great-great aunt. You wanted to dance with the devil. It’s in your blood, after all. You read Bonnie’s journal and couldn’t wait to come here and find me.”

“Her journal is about Thoreau, not … this!” I waved a hand at her.

“You’ve always had a flair for fitting the truth to your needs. I wonder if your dissertation committee will see that and be generous. You had to know it would never be accepted without corroboration. A journal from the woman who shared Walden Pond with Thoreau? Who would believe it without physical evidence?” She laughed, and I had the sense she was empty. Sound echoed inside her. “That was never your goal. You came here to learn about your aunt’s talents. About me.”

I challenged her. “You sought
me
out. You left the dolls for me. You spied on me. You—”

“Lured Joe to your bed?” She laughed again. “He’s like a drug, isn’t he? Sad to say, but you and Karla aren’t so far apart. You both have your addictions. For you, it’s belonging, having a man to hold during the lonely hours of the night. And like Bonnie, you’re willing to take extreme action and great risk to have that. You’re a liar, Aine. You’ve deceived him about who you are.”

Her black eyes held me transfixed. “There’s always a price, Aine. You should have learned a decade ago—the hardest things must always be done alone. No man can save you.”

“Leave me be. If I called you, I can send you away. Go!”

She started down the path and hope flushed through me like a fever. She was obeying. I’d sent her back. All I’d had to do was tell her to go and I was rid of her.

But then she turned, her countenance serene, childlike. “It isn’t so simple, Aine. I’ll be back. We have business together, you and I.”

I couldn’t have that. “You stay away from me! Don’t come back. Ever.”

She sprinted down the trail and vanished in less than five seconds. Birdsong again trilled from the trees.

31

The green dress caressed my body as I twirled in front of the small mirror in my cabin. Joe would arrive soon to escort me to the inn for the gala dinner. Even though Dorothea tried to comp me a ticket because of the baked goods, Joe had bought one for each of us. Community public relations, if such a thing mattered. He’d taken a serious beating in public opinion over Karla’s murder. As Dorothea and Chief McKinney predicted, the rumors and gossip about Mischa resurrected and shambled after Joe like zombies.

Stepping out with him in public showed my belief in him. The money on my dress would be well spent. From erstwhile student of literature, I had transformed myself.

Thoughts of Cinderella made me smile. I was no stepdaughter, but I had been working very hard, and the dinner was as exciting as a royal ball. While toiling in the kitchen, I’d heard a little of the play when the actors rehearsed. I’d read Poe, Hawthorne, Stowe, and all the other authors, but it was interesting to see them brought to life. Theater drew me. Had I possessed a whit of talent, I would have gone on the stage.

I checked my makeup one final time and sat down in the rocker to wait. In most regards, Joe was punctual. A good trait, since I hated to wait on anyone. Tonight, anticipation had driven me to get ready too early, and now I had nothing to do but sit and watch for Joe’s arrival.

For the past several days, the weather had remained in the fifties, but a cold front had moved over us from the Midwest, dropping temperatures and clearing skies. I went out on the porch to stargaze for a moment. The night sky calmed me.

In Kentucky, I’d often slipped from Granny’s house and wandered the meadow behind the old barn. We hadn’t had cows or horses that I could remember, but the barn was still referred to as the “cow barn.” As if there were another.

For a time, my uncles hung marijuana in the barn to dry, but that had been before I went to live with Granny. My arrival had prompted a crackdown on any illegal behavior on property held in Granny’s name. No criminal conduct would taint me. As a result, the barn was empty and unused. The tang of decayed manure was still there, and halters and ropes, rotted leather, an old saddle chewed by mice. When the summer nights cooled the day’s heat, the creaky old barn drew me to investigate and daydream about my own golden steed.

The hay in the loft was old and moldy, but I could lie back in it and stare up through the cracks to view the stars and occasionally the moon. Granny told me stories about the face on the moon. One of my favorites involved a time far in the past and a beautiful Kentucky girl, who, of course, looked a lot like me. The young girl braved the dark woods and hollows of the mountains to travel the miles necessary to care for her grandmother. She was, of course, a loyal and loving girl who left her young husband alone on many a night so she could be certain the old woman was safe and had plenty of food and wood to burn.

One night as she walked along the edge of a steep bluff, her foot slipped and she fell to her death. Her husband was heartbroken. He couldn’t overcome his grief, and day by day he faded. The gods, seeing his distress, revived his beautiful bride, but there were conditions. Because she couldn’t take human form, they hurled her into the sky, and she became the moon.

Her husband could still gaze upon her beauty, though he could never touch her, and he was forced each month to watch her mature and then die. But for many nights in the cycle, she was able to look after her husband, and her light guided the footsteps of other young women who were forced to travel alone in the dangerous hills.

It was a story Granny invented to entertain me, and I was still charmed by it. Gazing at the moon from the little porch of the cabin, I thought for a moment I saw the features of a lovely young woman. Her name had been Monde. Or that’s what Granny had called her.