Then she thought of another attraction of this explanation. “That might explain why Beau won’t come to me even when I go out into the woods. Maybe he senses that he’s causing me distress.”
“Possibly.”
“Why else wouldn’t he come to me?” she asked, defensive.
“Because he’s ...” Garrick stopped, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
“He’s what?”
“Dead,” Garrick finished flatly. “He’s not of the same world you are anymore.”
Ann felt her throat tighten.
After a pause, Garrick added, “The fact that he presents himself to you at all is quite unusual.”
Ann waited, hoping there was more, but Garrick was silent.
Finally she gave up. “In any case,” she said, “you told me Biden wasn’t at the cabin.”
“He was not,” he said, clearly relieved that the delicate topic of her dog’s waning devotion had been dealt with. “But then, you weren’t there either.”
A chill ran down Ann’s spine. She asked her next question even though she suddenly knew what the answer would be. “Why would that make a difference?”
“Because, my dear, it’s possible Biden Firth is haunting not your house, but you.”
She felt a thud in her gut. She didn’t want what Garrick was suggesting to be true. Not only did it challenge her current favorite theory—a physical reaction to the sensing experience—but it represented a complication she had never considered in her own experience with spirits.
“I’ve never encountered a spirit that haunted a person and not a place,” she said, but then realized that that was exactly what she had seen with Dan and Amita’s daughter. Sylvia would hardly be haunting a Chester County restaurant; it was her parents she was tied to.
“It is surprisingly uncommon,” Garrick was saying. “Or perhaps merely underreported, since those who are being haunted might be hesitant to admit to the act that triggered the haunting.”
“Couldn’t a spirit want to stay with a person for good reasons?” asked Ann. Sylvia had looked happy to be sitting in a nice restaurant with her parents.
“One would think so, but it’s not often the case.”
“Why not?”
“Who can say?” said Garrick, sounding unaccustomedly uncomfortable. “It’s not a strict rule, only a general observation. Perhaps spirits who have positive feelings for someone who is still alive are more willing to let nature take its course to reunite them.”
“Do you believe they are reunited?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” said Garrick, back to his usual irritable self. “It only matters what they believe.”
Ann was silent for a moment, her thoughts a jumble. Garrick evidently felt no compunction to fill the silence. “But why can’t I see him?” she eventually asked.
“From what you have told me about Biden Firth, it seems as if he was a man who regularly caused people pain but was ineffectual—not good at making himself ‘seen,’ even in life.”
“But if he is haunting me, what can I do about it? If he were at the cabin, I could just move somewhere else, but if it’s me ... Can you fix it?”
“I’m not an exorcist, my dear—plus, we’re not even sure that’s the case. I only mention it as a possibility.”
“But I need to find out. Could you come to West Chester and see me?”
“Not possible, I’m in the middle of a tedious but potentially lucrative engagement conducting a series of interviews with a spirit here in Maine.”
“I could come there.”
“Highly unusual.”
Since this didn’t seem like an outright refusal, Ann decided to wait it out.
Just as she was about to give up, Garrick said, “But not impossible.”
“I’d be curious to hear about your engagement,” said Ann to be polite.
“Impossible. The client insists on strict confidentiality.”
Ann sighed. “Fine. But can I come up there?”
“I must say the case does hold some interest,” said Garrick. “Very well, you may come to Maine.”
“That’s great, Garrick, I really appreciate it,” said Ann, feeling better now that there was a concrete action she could take to try to address her situation. “I need to get back to the Adirondacks to get my car, then I’ll drive up there. Hopefully I can get there in the next couple of days. How long should I plan on staying?”
“It will be difficult to say until you are here and I can assess the situation. Are you under time constraints?”
“No.” She had rarely felt as unconstrained by demands on her time as she had lately.
Garrick gave Ann the necessary logistical details. When the call ended, Ann was tempted to call Walt to arrange her flight home, but it was late and she resigned herself to waiting until morning. She climbed into bed, but her hand hesitated as she reached to turn off the light. She scanned the room, senses alert for even the faintest sign that usually signaled the presence of a spirit—the lights or scents she had been able to perceive all her life, or the more lifelike manifestations that were a more recent development. There was nothing. But what if Biden Firth was haunting her? What else could he do to take revenge on her for ruining—and ending—his life?
*****
Ann fought her exhaustion, knowing what awaited her, but eventually the relentless hand of sleep seized her and dragged her down.
She was on her dock on Loon Pond. Dark clouds boiled, distant on the horizon but so close she could feel the breeze from their movement. An oily black ice covered the pond, heaving slightly with the movement of waves trapped underneath. She heard a scratching sound coming from under the end of the dock and, taking a step, almost fell on the slippery boards. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the end of the dock, lowered herself onto her stomach, and peered over.
In an ice-free space under the dock was Beau. He was trying to climb the piling. He would wrap his front legs around the piling and pull himself up, then, claws scrabbling on the ice-slick wood, would slip down under the icy water, then burst to the surface with an almost human gasp and try again. Each time, his surfacing took longer, his movements slowed by a cocoon of ice accreting on his fur like wax on a candle wick.
The dream-Ann watched him dispassionately, calculating the length of his next submersion. Then she heard a whistle in the wind and, looking up, saw the old woman shuffling across the ice toward her, her gait accommodating the movement of the ice the way a sailor’s walk accommodates the rolling of a ship. Mesmerized, Ann watched her come. When the old woman neared the dock, Ann looked down and realized that Beau hadn’t resurfaced.
The old woman reached the hole in the ice into which Beau had sunk and, kneeling down, pulled the sleeve of her garment back and lowered her arm into the water. She moved her arm back and forth, seeking. Then a look of satisfaction slightly smoothed her wrinkled brow and she drew out of the water a puppy Beau, dangling by his scruff, a look of placid contentment on his face.
The old woman tucked the pup under the robe draped around her shoulders and turned from Ann.
“Wait, he’s mine,” said Ann, a sudden panic gripping her, but the sodden air absorbed the sound. The old woman shuffled away and disappeared into the clouds, which had now lowered to form an impenetrable fog over the surface of the ice-covered pond.
The cabin. Her Beau would be there. She turned and began to crawl back along the dock, feeling cold rain stabbing her back, which was now bare. She hooked her fingers into the spaces between the boards and dragged herself forward. Then the ground became somewhat softer, covered with tendrils she was able to grasp for purchase.
The ground was slippery but now warm. She had crawled under some sort of overhang that sheltered her from the rain. At the back of the cave created by the overhang, she began to dig, burrowing into the warm wetness, tearing at a network of roots that bent her fingers and broke her nails. The wetness swallowed her up—soaking her arms, then her shoulde
rs, then her whole body. Her hair stuck to her neck, slimy and grasping.
Then, like a movie camera zooming out, she was both in the cave and far away looking at herself toiling away. Only then did she realize where she was.
The tendrils were chest hairs, the overhang a chin, the roots the bones and sinews of Biden Firth’s neck, into which she was burrowing like a rat.
She shot upright in bed, her neck damp with sweat, the covers bunched in her fists, and choked back a sob. Biden Firth was haunting her indeed.
Chapter 7
“You’re going to Maine?”
“I don’t know what else to do.” Ann, haggard from her restless night, poured herself another cup of coffee.
“Well ...” Mike began, then took a hefty drink from his own mug as he cast about for alternatives.
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Scott. “Mr. Masser will be able to see what’s up, and maybe he’ll have an idea of how to get rid of whatever is causing Annie to hurt herself.”
“But he’s such a ...” Mike began irritably, then trailed off again.
“It would be discreet,” said Ann. “I know Garrick won’t tell anyone about this unless we want word to get out.”
“Oh, he acts like he’s all publicity-averse, but he makes sure all his stunts get in the news. Plus he charges a fortune. How much is this going to cost?”
Ann hadn’t thought to ask that. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it.”
“So the plan is to have Walt fly you back home and then you’ll drive to Maine? I’ll bet you could drive to Maine from here in about the same time,” said Mike, determined to be difficult.
“Sure, if you’ll loan me your car,” Ann shot back.
“I have an idea,” said Scott. “Why don’t I drive you to Maine?”
Ann and Mike turned to him.
“Well, if Ann needs to be driven to Maine, I can certainly do that,” said Mike sheepishly.
“Don’t be silly,” said Scott, “you can’t stand Garrick Masser, it would be a disaster.”
“I can drive myself to Maine if that seems to be the most efficient plan,” said Ann. “I could rent a car here—”
“Sweetie, if he can make you stab yourself with a knife, let’s not give him a chance to see what he can do with a car.”
Ann and Mike looked at each other, their eyes wide.
Scott patted Ann on the arm. “I’m probably being an alarmist, but just to be on the safe side ...”
Scott called his supervisor at Bryn Mawr Rehab, where he worked as a physical therapist, and explained that he was going to take some personal time to take a relative out of state to consult with a specialist of an unspecified type. If it had been up to Scott they would have left that morning, but less impetuous heads prevailed.
Ann called Garrick to let him know they would be arriving the next day. She tapped away on her iPad as they talked.
“Hey, Garrick, you have a website!”
“Of course I have a website.”
Ann scanned the page for tabs or links. “It’s only one page.”
“Of course it’s only one page. Why would I need more than one page?”
“It gives a business address in Somesville. We can get a place to stay near there. Do you have any recommendations?”
“How should I know? I live here,” Garrick responded in what Ann suspected he thought of as his patient voice.
“I’ll see if we can find somewhere in town.”
“There is nowhere in town. That I know of,” he amended.
Ann pulled up a map. “You’re right, I don’t see much in Somesville. Looks like it’s not that far from Bar Harbor.”
“Good heavens.”
“What?”
“Tourists.”
“Well, where then?”
“Perhaps Southwest Harbor. Fewer tourists. Or at least fewer cruise-ship tourists.”
After a brief internet search, Ann located an appealing-looking inn and called to make a reservation.
“Is the inn haunted?” she asked, as she always did when making lodging reservations.
“No, I’m afraid not,” said the innkeeper despondently, anticipating a lost booking from someone obviously interested in ghosts.
“Perfect,” said Ann. “We’ll likely be staying two nights, maybe longer if the rooms are available.”
*****
One of the standing agenda items when Ann came to West Chester was for her and Mike to review her financial position. Ann counted herself lucky to have a brother who was a professional financial planner, and she was happy to let Mike take care of her bank account as well as her consulting engagements. Since Ann and Scott wouldn’t leave for Maine until the following morning, she and Mike decided to take advantage of the free morning for the review.
They walked from Mike and Scott’s townhouse to Mike’s West Chester office, located over an art gallery on High Street, on their way passing near the house where they had grown up. Once at Mike’s office, they settled behind his desk, sharing a 3 Musketeers bar from which Ann cut bite-sized slices with her Swiss Army knife while Mike tried to interest her in a series of graphs and charts he brought up on his monitor.
Their parents had left them with a considerable inheritance, the income from which Mike referred to as the “paying-the-rent” money while the income from Ann’s spirit-sensing engagements and his financial-planning business was the “having fun” money.
“The fun will have to be curtailed somewhat if we don’t start accepting some engagements,” said Mike, clicking through reports. “Considering how your abilities are expanding—especially you seeing Dan and Amita’s daughter like you did—we could raise our rates considerably.”
“I don’t think it will be that way for all of them.”
“Still, no way to know for sure unless you give it a try. I can keep charging the old rates for now if you want. Maybe that woman in Virginia who wants her horse barn checked out ...?”
Ann pushed her chair back from the desk. “I could just stop, right? I mean, maybe I’d have to cut back on some expenses, but we don’t really need the money.”
“You’ll need a chunk of money if you’re asking Garrick Masser for advice.”
She waved her had dismissively. “I said I’d take care of that.”
Mike swiveled his chair to face her. “No, we don’t need it. But why do you want to stop?”
“Why would I want to keep doing it?”
“A., you stopped a murderer—how many people can say that?”
“I didn’t stop him, I just gave him a new potential victim—me. If I hadn’t gotten involved, he probably would have spent the rest of his life harmlessly frittering away his family’s money.”
“You saved his daughter from growing up alongside the man who killed her mother.”
“She would never have known that, so what difference would it have made? Besides, her grandparents would have ended up raising her anyway.” Ann sat back, arms crossed, staring morosely at the monitor.
Mike reached over and snapped it off. “I feel so bad when you talk like this. You have an extraordinary gift, you can do so much good—”
“I’m doing no good!” Ann burst out. “I got Beau killed, I got myself shot, I got myself in a position where I had to kill someone, for God’s sake. I can find people once they’re dead, but can I find them when there’s still a possibility of helping them? No! If you hadn’t decided it would be a good idea to butt into the Firth business—”
“God, I know, I’m so sorry about that, I don’t know what I can do to—”
“—and now you want me to keep doing it? To keep putting myself through this? To keep having these pains in my hands? Maybe you’re the one who needs the extra money.”
She stopped, realizing she had gone a step too far.
Mike clamped his lips shut against his retort, his face flushing. A few moments ticked by, then he said tightly, “That wasn’t fair.”
“I know, I’m sorry—�
�
“If you feel like that, you should find someone else to manage the business.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that—”
Mike stood and strode to the window overlooking High Street. Ann sat miserably at the desk, drilling a hole in the candy bar with the knife. After a moment, Mike turned, his color subsiding.
“I mean it. I never want you to think I’m in it for the money. I just wish you appreciated your skill as much as the people around you do—me, Scott, your clients, the spirits of the people you find. And I have no objection—none—to guaranteeing that I don’t benefit from your work financially if you decide to keep doing it. You need to do what’s right for you and I will do my best to butt out of it.” He gave her a slight smile. “Even if it means curtailing the fun.”
Ann felt her throat get tight. He might be her baby brother, but even as children it was usually Mike who had defended her and rarely vice versa. She sliced a chunk off the candy bar, speared it with the knife, and held it out to Mike.
“Let’s see how it goes. But don’t be a pest about it, okay?”
“Me? A pest?” said Mike with mock effrontery.
“Yes, hard as that is to imagine,” replied Ann. “Can we do something else? This is boring.”
They decided on pork sandwiches at the Mexican restaurant.
Chapter 8
Early the next morning, Ann found Scott humming away in the kitchen, filling a cooler bag.
“I’ll bet we can find someone to sell us food along the way,” she said, getting a banana out of a basket on the counter.
“Rest-stop food—yuck,” said Scott.
“Humor him,” said Mike, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the BBC news on his iPad. He and Ann were accustomed to avoiding news about events that might turn into consulting engagements, so on the theory that the UK was farther than they were likely to go for business, they generally used the BBC to keep current on world events. “He’s so excited. It almost—almost—makes me want to go along, even if it meant putting up with The Count.”
“You’re missing out on a road trip because you can’t contain your snarkiness around Mr. Masser,” said Scott happily.
The Sense of Reckoning Page 4