by Alex Gordon
She walked down to the first level and was enveloped by rose scent seasoned with evergreen bite. Clusters of herbs and medicinal plants served as ground cover—Lauren’s lack of diligence with respect to her herbology lessons had driven Virginia to despair, but she recognized mandrake, vervain, rosemary, and wood betony. Near a bushel-basket-size spray of lemon thyme, she spotted the first sculpture, an attenuated figure the size of a kitten, which looked like a running rabbit. She poked through the thyme until she found a small placard. Fleeing hare, Etruscan, 700–600 B.C.
Lauren wandered throughout the level, spotted a few more animal sculptures of the same stylized appearance as the hare. Most were Etruscan, of the same general period. Others were labeled Upper Paleolithic, Dark Ages, Renaissance.
On the next level stood a grouping of shoulder-high shrubs with sweet-smelling white flowers. Downy thorn apple. Around them grew clusters of plants with curly kale-like leaves and pale yellow flowers. Horned poppy. She walked around the beds, spotted a few more plants with poisonous seeds, leaves, or fruit, and a few that were bad news no matter which part you dealt with. So this is the poison level. She looked for warnings not to touch, but couldn’t find any. Apparently the Carmodys knew better, and assumed their guests would, too.
Lauren missed the statue at first, then found it during her search for placards. It appeared like nothing more than a free form lump of clay. But when she looked more closely, she could pick out the outline of bulbous eyes, a narrow jaw and rounded mouth, hands with fingers so short they might have been claws.
She hunted for some type of identification, something about the sculptor or the name and age of the piece. Slapped away a few insects that she flushed from the undergrowth. Dug a tissue out of her pocket and brushed away the dirt and dried leaves from around the base.
At first she found nothing. Then, on closer inspection, she found the etching on the surface of the pedestal on which the statue rested. Messy, indistinct letters, as though someone had scratched them with the edge of a stone or piece of glass.
WE ARE THE FOREST
She polished the inscription, then cleaned the stone, on the lookout in case she had missed something. But the ragged carving was all she found.
She hunted until she came to another statue. A deer, this time, a fawn or doe. It stood about knee-high, a spindly-legged creation with a featureless face. She thought it another Etruscan figure but could find no identification of any kind.
She examined the piece more closely and found it bore a large mark that almost encircled its neck. A scratch? No, an actual slice through the metal—she could see the hairline space between the deer’s head and its neck. It reminded her of a gash, as though the beast’s throat had been cut.
Then, around the corner, another mound creature. On the ground, this time, half-hidden behind the bloom-laden branch of a rosebush. Lauren crouched down and cleaned the area around it to find it rested upon a small slab of stone. She expected to find another scratched phrase. She wasn’t disappointed.
WE ARE THE DARKNESS THAT HIDES
She searched that level for more mound creatures but found none. Moved down to the next, hunched low, and poked through the comfrey, parsley, and other ground cover. Was about to round the corner into the central section but stopped when she heard sounds of arguing. Not her voices. Somebody else’s.
“Keep it down.”
“Let them all hear me. I don’t fucking care!”
“Dammit, she’s here to help you. Five minutes of your time—that’s all I’m asking.”
Lauren crept to the end of a planter, peeked around the corner, and spotted a middle-aged man in jeans and a denim shirt and a teenage girl in cutoffs and a tank top. They stood in the center of a circle of flowering dogwoods, which were tall enough to hide them from view from the house. Her host and his daughter, having an afternoon meltdown.
“Nyssa.” Andrew Carmody pointed toward the house. “We can get through this.”
“Just stop, okay?” Nyssa covered her ears with her hands. “Nothing she or any of them can do will help. They came here because you paid them, and they’ll tell you what you want to hear.” She turned and headed up the steps toward the house, bare feet padding softly on the stone.
“You’re not leaving,” Carmody called after her.
Nyssa didn’t bother to turn around. “You can’t stop me.”
“As a matter of fact, I can. I’ve locked up your phones, so you can’t contact any of your usual accomplices. All the car keys have been secured. Anyone who provides you a set will be fired.”
“I’ll just walk down the mountain and hitch. I’ve done it before.”
“And I’ve talked to the sheriff and Greg and Millie at the truck stop. Anyone who sees you calls me. Anyone who picks you up will be stopped. If you make it as far as Portland, all your usual bolt holes are being watched. All the places you go, and a few you haven’t thought of yet.”
Nyssa slowed, stopped. Then she turned and stared at her father. Her look held no heated emotion, no anger or hatred. Resignation, maybe. Weariness with an argument that they’d had too many times before.
“Why do you bother?” Her voice came low and quiet and devoid of feeling. “Who are you really trying to protect?” She studied him for a moment longer, then continued back up the steps.
Carmody had been standing shoulders back, arms folded across his chest. But as soon as Nyssa vanished from sight, he crumpled—his head hung, and his hands fell to his sides. He paced a ragged circle, kicked a stone into the shrubbery.
Then he stilled, straightened, and looked toward the spot where Lauren stood hidden. “I know you’re there.” His voice could have been chipped and used to chill drinks. “You may as well come out.”
“I—” Lauren stepped out from behind the planter and held up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I was just walking through the—and I’m going now.” She turned tail and fled, almost falling on her face when she tripped on the edge of a step. She scurried into the house and down the first hallway she came to, all the while checking over her shoulder to see if Carmody followed. She ducked through the first open doorway into what looked like a media room and almost tripped over a dark shape in the middle of the floor.
The room lights blazed, triggered by her movement.
“Uh—hello?” Jenny Porter stared up at her. She sat cross-legged, a bottle of wine cradled in her lap.
CHAPTER 10
Jenny had changed out of her business wear into cream linen slacks and a blue tank top over which she’d thrown a raggedy denim jacket, and had loosened her dark brown hair so that it formed an aureole of tight curls around her face. She fixed on Lauren, eyes wide, the startled expression of someone who hadn’t expected to be found.
“I’m sorry.” Lauren backed away and started to leave. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Jenny beckoned for her to come back in. “I was just . . . hiding.” Her phone rested on the floor next to her—she picked it up and checked the time. “Is it dinnertime yet? I’m trying to decide whether to blow it off or not.”
“I think they said it’s at six.” Lauren walked to the window, which allowed a view of the edge of the garden, and caught sight of Carmody entering the house.
“Sorry about being such a bitch this morning.” Jenny freed a jackknife from the recesses of her jacket, then held it up so Lauren could see. “Girl’s best friend.” She fiddled with it until she flipped open the corkscrew, then set about opening the bottle. “Jameson introduced himself by asking if I rode a broomstick when I chased ambulances, and that just—” She gave the corkscrew a hard twist. “Is he always such a dick?”
“I don’t know. I just met him today.” Lauren lowered to the floor. “But I think the answer’s yes.”
“Hmm.” Jenny extracted the cork, then took a swig from the bottle. “I didn’t bring any glasses. They were all hanging around the bar when I went into the lounge and Jameson was sitting under the overhead rack thing a
nd I couldn’t bring myself to get that close to him. I just swiped the first alcoholic whatever I could reach and hid in here.” She wiped the mouth of the bottle with her sleeve and handed it to Lauren.
“That’s okay. It’s turned into a drink-straight-from-the-bottle kind of day.” Lauren read the label. “Syrah. Isn’t it a crime to drink red in Oregon if it’s not pinot?”
“I think you get special dispensation if you don’t use a glass.”
“I totally knew that.” Lauren took a long pull. Then she dug in her pocket for a clean tissue to wipe the bottle, but came up empty. “I don’t have a sleeve.”
“I don’t have a cold—do you?”
“Nope.”
“Then the hell with it.” Jenny held out her hand for the bottle.
They drank in companionable silence. Lauren replayed the scene in the garden, alternated between wondering whether Nyssa had attempted her escape and thinking about the strange mound figures. Eventually she stood and returned to the window, looked out in time to watch an owl glide through the trees. “It’s beautiful out here. I wish this was an actual vacation and not—whatever the hell it is.”
Jenny rose a little unsteadily, put a hand on a nearby couch for support. “What do you think you’ll have to do?”
“I don’t know. Kaster made it sound like a retreat.”
“Kaster’s good at making things sound the way they have to in order to get you to do what he wants.” Jenny shrugged. “I know him. I mean, I know of him. How he operates.”
Lauren held back her questions. She had already experienced enough of what Kaster was capable to figure out the rest. “Are you here in case someone gets hurt?”
Jenny laughed. “I wish. I’m in patents and trademarks.”
“What’s Carmody going to do, patent magic?”
“Be nice. At least I’d have something to do.” Jenny leaned against the window. “I think they just wanted somebody with ‘Legal’ in their title here in case some bullshit thing happens, and I drew the short straw.” She studied Lauren with bleary-eyed bemusement. “After what I heard this morning, I thought it might be you. But you don’t seem the type.”
“What did you expect?”
“I’m just thinking about the way they talked about you before you showed up. Like you were, I don’t know, some kind of intruder. ‘Who is she? Is her name Mullin or Reardon? What’s her pedigree?’”
“My pedigree?”
“That’s the word Jameson used. I guess there are certain people that you can train with to get good at what you do, and none of them knew you, so no one here knows you. They just know about you.”
“Sounds like grad school.” The wine urged Lauren to say more, but she refrained. All she did know was that the new-kid-in-class feeling had overstayed its welcome.
“So you’re some superstar magic queen.” Jenny waved her hand in a woo-hoo gesture. “I heard them talk about what happened in Gideon. What you did. I think that’s what got their backs up. They’ve all got advanced degrees, and they’ve all studied this stuff for years, and you apparently did all what you did without any training and they’re like, whoa.”
Lauren’s smile wavered. Jenny seemed friendly enough. More than friendly. Very understanding of things that would have sent civilians screaming for the exits. “You seem to be taking all this in stride. Do you practice?”
“Practice? Is that the term?” Jenny grinned. “No. But I keep an open mind.”
Apparently. Lauren nodded, and took another swallow of wine.
JENNY DECIDED TO skip dinner, so Lauren begged directions to the dining room from one of the house staff and entered to find the others already well into the first course. The table was an odd kidney shape that left her with no good choices when it came to seating. The open chair next to Sam would leave her sitting across from Heath, while the spot next to Peter would stick her right next to Andrew Carmody.
She opted for the seat next to Carmody as the lesser evil and settled in. Heard Heath mutter something to Sam, then caught his poisonous look.
“Glad you could make it.” Peter offered a halfhearted smile, then turned back to Stef.
Lauren focused on her appetizer, a deconstructed crab salad sandwich that proved complicated enough to claim the better part of everyone’s attention. Conversation remained sporadic until staff arrived to clear plates and set out the main course of grilled salmon.
Simple as you can get. Dammit. Lauren pretended to be engrossed in her food, then made the mistake of glancing up to find Carmody watching her.
“Did you find anything of interest in the sculpture garden?” He took a sip of his wine, then regarded her over the top of his glass.
Lauren started to speak. Stopped. Carmody looked as he had in every photograph she had ever seen, an unmade bed of a man in perpetual need of a haircut. He wore the same clothes he had in the garden, battered jeans and a denim shirt faded to silvery blue.
It matches his eyes. Except that his eyes were more than a single color. Light blue centers, yes, but darker blue around the outside of the irises, circles sharp and clean as pencil lines. And there’s gold. Rings around the pupils, soft and smudged, the color of banked fires.
“Hello?” Carmody pressed his lips together as though struggling not to smile.
Lauren blinked. “I’m—I’m sorry.” She felt the blush rise, her face heat. Sensed the stares of the others and sat back, bought time by taking a sip of water. “I tried to apologize before. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s not what I asked.” Carmody rested one elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. “I watched you rummaging through the shrubbery earlier. You seemed pretty intent. I thought perhaps you’d lost something.”
Lauren tried to read Carmody’s expression but could sense nothing other than simple curiosity. If he still felt irritated that she had blundered into his argument with his daughter, he hid it well. “I saw the—” She drew an oval in the air with her fork. “‘We are the forest.’”
“I’ve heard about those.” Ice cubes clattered as Heath shook his glass. “I look forward to examining them.”
Carmody said nothing. As the silence continued, Stef nudged Peter, who arched his brow. Sam sat in stiff politeness while Heath shifted in his seat.
Finally, Carmody looked up, eyes widening, as though he just realized they were there. He took a large gulp of wine and cleared his throat. “I doubt they’d be of any interest to you. The Etruscan and Bronze Age works, however—”
Heath pushed on, despite Sam’s not-so-veiled gesture that he shut up. “But Celia Carmody is so well regarded. Her exhibit in London last year . . .” His voice fizzled under his host’s fixed gaze.
“Her name is Celia Westin. She resumed her maiden name after the divorce, something of which I’m sure you’re aware, given that you know her work.” Carmody glanced at Lauren. “My mother.”
Lauren nodded, struggled to think of something she could say that wouldn’t make the tense moment worse, and finally settled on “I’m sorry.”
Carmody shrugged. “It happened almost thirty years ago. I’m well over it.”
Sure you are. Lauren looked down the table at the others. “Are there local legends of forest creatures?” She caught Sam’s eye, as well as her mouthed thank you.
“Every culture has its tales of nature gods and demigods.” Sam gave Heath a last warning glower, then picked up the conversational ball and ran with it. “The Japanese kodama, or tree spirits.” Her expression softened as she warmed to her subject. “Dryads, the Greek forest nymphs. They guard the woods, inhabit certain trees. They also protect those who live there, if they’re so disposed.”
“But do the creatures here have a name? I’m a little familiar with stories of the Coast Range, but I have never heard of anything like them.” Lauren almost added that they were just the sort of thing the engine driver would have enjoyed telling them about. But given his boss’s mood, she didn’t want to be responsible for getting the poor man
fired.
“I always found them hideous, but they’re part of the collection and according to the terms of my father’s will, they have to remain.” Carmody sat up straight at the sound of approaching footsteps, then slumped when they proved to belong to a staffer who had come to check on the progress of the meal. “Nothing magical about them. They were a product of my mother’s artistic imagination. They’re what you invent when your marriage is falling apart.”
Everyone quieted as plates were cleared, drinks replenished, the next course set out. A palate cleanser, tiny dishes containing golf-ball-size scoops of sorbet garnished with mint. Lauren took note of the empty chair opposite her, the unused plates and silverware, and realized that Carmody had been on the lookout for his daughter. That was confirmed when one of the servers hesitated in front of the place setting, then glanced at Carmody, who shook his head.
Stef caught the exchange as well. “I saw Nyssa as I was on my way downstairs. I believe she was headed for her room.”
“Kids these days!” Heath’s voice boomed. “They have everything they want in their rooms—TV, computer, phone.” He watched Sam as he spoke, as if daring her to stop him. “Stick a fridge in there, they’d never leave.” He raised his glass in a toast to himself or kids or room refrigerators, then drank.
“I could strip that room to the bare walls and she’d still . . .” Carmody started to say more, then picked up his spoon and shoved it into his sorbet with such force that it almost spilled out of the dish.
Oh Jenny—what art thou up to? Lauren wondered if the woman had retired to her room with the last of the wine, or found a quiet corner of the house in which to curl up, and wished to hell that she had joined her.
I should tell them.
Soft as a whisper, a quiet voice sounded in the back of her mind.
I should tell them who I saw.
As minutes passed, it grew louder, more insistent. Like a child demanding a toy, it urged her on.
Well, why shouldn’t I? A sighting of a woman thought dead, however strange the circumstances, was important, wasn’t it? And if any crowd could appreciate strange circumstances, it was this one. I might piss off Carmody even more than he is already. Of course she could, but was that her problem? Maybe I should wait. Poke around a little first. She found herself watching Carmody’s hands, the broad palms and blunt fingers, and wondered if the rumors were true, if he had indeed murdered his wife. Then why did she appear so old?