The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton)

by R. B. Chesterton

  “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.

  “Homesick?” Patrick asked.

  I almost yelped. I hadn’t heard him approach. “No, I’m not homesick, and yes, you startled me.” I couldn’t completely hide my aggravation. He’d scared at least ten years off my life. I’d avoided being alone with him since I’d recovered from my illness. He found it difficult to take no for an answer. He had a bit of the dog-in-the-manger attitude. I didn’t flatter myself to think he’d fallen for me, but he resented the idea that Joe would have me. Because I didn’t chase after him, he pursued me.

  “You’re so beautiful.” With one long stride Patrick mounted the porch to stand beside me. His fingers slid over the fabric of my dress. “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”

  “I’m going to the Christmas dinner at the inn. I thought it would be nice to look presentable for a change.” I rubbed my arms against the cold. I hadn’t intended to stay outside and I’d neglected to grab a coat. In truth, I’d lost my heaviest winter coat. I’d searched everywhere for it to no avail. My assumption was that one of the women caring for me while I was sick had borrowed it and forgotten to bring it back.

  “You’re Joe’s date, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I sounded defensive, which teased my temper.

  “You like him better than me.”

  Dear god, why had I ever slept with a teenager. Patrick had zip for emotional maturity. “My relationship with Joe is different, Patrick. We’ve been over this, more than once. I admit I was wrong to sleep with you. You’re a wonderful young man, but you need to find someone more age-appropriate to date. You’re young and—”

  “That was a plus. You said youth was in my favor. You said I had stamina.”

  Who’d have thought he’d take my silly banter to heart. “Patrick, I’m almost a decade older than you.”

  “Age doesn’t matter. I fell for you. You let me. You encouraged me. You were wild for me. I know it. Joe has made you turn your back on me.”

  Those accusations could only make trouble if he said them around town. “I was wrong to say those things. I was wrong to sleep with you. I forgot you’re only nineteen.”

  “Let’s go inside.” He took my arm and angled me toward the door.

  I balked. “That’s not a good idea. Joe will be here any minute.”

  “He doesn’t know we’re lovers, does he?”

  I was at a loss. I needed to defuse this situation, and I hadn’t a clue how. “We aren’t lovers. We had a good time. Once. You have young girls stopping by the inn for lunch or dinner just to see you. You’re a charming young man. They adore you. What we had was a fun fling. Let it go.”

  “It wasn’t a fling and it isn’t over.”

  “It’s over because I say so.” Firmness was called for. If I let him bulldoze me now, I’d never be able to control him. “It was fun; it’s over.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He opened the cabin door and pushed me inside.

  In the uncustomary heels, I stumbled and almost fell, but I caught myself on a table. By the time I regained my balance, he was behind me. He slammed the door and shot the lock home.

  “What does he do
that I don’t?” His voice was loud, demanding.

  I’d known Patrick for the four months I’d lived at the inn. He was a happy, carefree kid who loved life and a good roll in the sack. The young man standing in front of me wasn’t the boy I’d laughed with, tickled, and made love to. Even the planes of his face were different. His eyes were more deep-set, his mouth sullen.

  “He doesn’t do anything. It isn’t about sex. Joe and I have a relationship—”

  “Liar! You don’t have a relationship with him.” His voice clotted with emotion. “You fuck like rabbits. I see you. He comes in the door, throws back a glass of wine and you fuck each other silly. You don’t do things together. You don’t talk. You don’t love each other.”

  “Calm down.” His anger was completely out of proportion.

  “Fuck calming down. You fucked me and then you threw me over for him. I want to know why.”

  This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening. But I knew differently. This was a looming disaster of my own making. There would be a terrible price to pay unless I took it in hand. “I thought we both understood we were having fun, with no strings attached. Nothing more. Just sex, because it felt good.”

  “Well, it doesn’t feel so good now. Not to me. I care about you, but you act like you don’t even remember my name.”

  “Patrick, you have to leave. This instant.” I brushed past him and went to the door. Undoing the lock, I threw it open. “Leave.”

  “Or what?” he asked. His head tilted in a strange manner and his gaze was leveled on the floor.

  “Or I’ll tell Dorothea.”

  “She won’t do anything. You’re the one in the wrong.”

  I had the creepiest sense Patrick was no longer speaking. Someone else was there. Someone who took pleasure in the pain he felt. “I didn’t break any laws. You’re of age. Push me and I’ll call the police.”

  His head snapped up and for a flash I saw black obsidian eyes. “Go ahead, Aine. I’d love to tell the police chief the things you like me to do when we fuck.”

  “Patrick!” I stepped back from him and the door. If he’d struck me I wouldn’t have felt more assaulted. The charming young man I knew was gone. Someone—or something—else stood in his shoes.

  “Don’t act so shocked. You wanted to know how I got Karla to Walden Pond.”

  I grasped the back of the small sofa for support. She’d revealed herself to me in all her power. I’d asked to see, and she’d shown me. But I didn’t know what to do about it. About her.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” I forced calm into my voice.

  “It took you a while to figure it out.” His lips tried for a smile but failed. For one brief second I thought I saw Patrick, terrified and struggling to escape.

  “Let him go, Mischa. Do it.” It was more request than command. “Please, let him go. He’s just a kid.”

  “You hurt people all the time, Aine. You do it and never think twice. Anger is better than pain.” Patrick’s voice came to me, but the words were Mischa’s.

  Headlights illuminated the interior of the cabin. Joe had arrived, but I didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset. No telling what Patrick would say in front of him.

  Patrick grinned at me as he waited for Joe to get out of the truck and come to the door. “Exciting, isn’t it?” Patrick asked. “What will I do? What will he do?”

  Joe tapped lightly and stepped inside the cabin. He paused just past the threshold and looked at Patrick, then me. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Patrick said. “I came to see if Aine needed any help taking the cookies she baked over to the inn. She’s already carried everything over.” He brushed past Joe and clattered down the stairs. “See you at dinner,” he called over his shoulder.

  Frowning, Joe closed the door. “Am I missing something here?” he asked. “What was Patrick really doing in the cabin?”

  “He was acting strange,” I said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was getting worried. Maybe he got into Dorothea’s punch. He knew I’d delivered the cookies early this morning.” I forced a laugh. “Teenagers. Who knows what goes on in their heads?”

  “He was so intense.”

  I put a hand on Joe’s cheek. “Patrick’s a kid. Let’s go before Dorothea sends someone to check on us.”

  32

  Red, white, and green candles glowed at every table, and garlands of holly and cedar draped the doorways and mantel top above a roaring fire. A miniature crèche centered an enormous mirror in a gilt frame. The most delicious smells wafted from the kitchen each time the swinging door opened and closed.

  As Joe and I snaked our way toward the bar at the back of the largest dining room, I was well aware of the glances that followed us. I hoped part of it was my beautiful dress, but I knew people disapproved of Joe. And therefore of me. The taint of Mischa’s disappearance had been resurrected. A couple of people actually turned their backs to us when we went past.

  Joe’s grip on my hand tightened. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this,” he said. “I’ll leave and you can enjoy the party.”

  “Of course not,” I said, my shoulders back and my chin high. “They can’t run us off. You didn’t do anything and you won’t act like a guilty man.” Joe’s concern over the guests allowed me to search the area for Patrick. My worry for him was genuine, if also self-centered. Mischa had begun to truly frighten me. She was powerful. There was no doubt in my mind that she’d taken control of Patrick. What could she force him to do? I didn’t want to think about it.

  “So you’re the doctoral student living in the cabin?” A tall thin woman held out her hand. “Eleanor West.” She wore a huge diamond ring and a jewel-crusted Rolex. Her clothes fit her trim body perfectly. She could have been the mother of any of the girls at the boarding school I’d attended a decade ago. My dislike of her, based on my past suffering, was instant.

  “I’m Aine Cahill,” I said, “and this is Joe Sinclair.”

  “Yes, the school teacher turned park ranger.” Eleanor didn’t offer her hand to Joe. “Dorothea says you’re writing your paper on one of our local icons, Henry David Thoreau. Actually, David Henry is his birth name. He never changed it legally.”

  “I am.” I was surprised she wanted to talk to me. About anything.

  “What prompted you to select Thoreau for your dissertation, Miss Cahill?” she asked.

  “He believed each man had the right and the responsibility to stand up for his beliefs. I admire that, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I find him outdated.” She smiled only with her lips. “But I think Kenneth Jenkins does an excellent job portraying Thoreau in the play. He’s reprised that role for the past ten years. I’ll be curious to get your take on his performance.”

  “I’m eager to view the show. Do you have a favorite work of Thoreau?”

  “He was a bit of a kook, don’t you agree?” She watched me with the eagerness of a crow zeroed in on a shiny object.

  “He was different.” I tiptoed through a minefield.

  “So what angle are you using to approach his work?”

  I was unprepared to make small talk about my dissertation and I was bored with her rudeness to Joe. “Most people aren’t interested in literature dissertations. I suspect you really aren’t either. What do you want from me?”

  She didn’t even blink at my direct assault. “David Henry is a distant relative. I want to be sure you’re treating him fairly.” Her smile barely concealed her animosity.

  “I assure you, I’m a fan of his writing. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?” This was a tremendous opportunity and even though I found Mrs. West haughty and rude, I couldn’t pass up the chance to see if she had special insights.

  “While you chat I’ll grab some drinks,” Joe said, excusing himself.

  “Thank you, Joe. This won’t take long.” I turned back to Eleanor. “Thoreau was such a loner. Do you have family history about that aspect of his life?”

&nb
sp; “The consensus of family opinion was that he was appallingly unattractive. Physically. Unlike today, there wasn’t an abundance of eligible women in his time. He did ask Ellen Sewall to marry him, but she declined. She was eighteen and he was sickly, which would be a burden no sane woman would take on. Had he lived, I suppose he would have married. The family would have arranged some type of union.”

  “No family stories about a girl, other than Ellen Sewall?” I tried to hide my disappointment.

  “None.” She almost sneered. “He was an odd duck, and I personally find his writing dry and boring. Tell me, do you really think it interesting enough to deserve years of study?”

  “I do.”

  “Takes all kinds.” Her laughter tinkled in practiced ripples. “And Joe Sinclair? Do you find him interesting?”

  “Joe’s been kind to me. As has Dorothea.”

  “She does take to the strays and waifs. She has a good heart.” Her gaze sought Joe out, and her lips thinned when she found him. “Looks like your date is running for cover. He’s headed out the door.”

  “Probably for some air that isn’t tinged with suspicion. You don’t like Joe,” I said. “Why not?”

  “I’m close with Helen and DeWitt Lobrano. They’ll never recover from the loss of Mischa. Too much evidence pointed at him.”

  “There was no evidence. None. She disappeared.”

  “Sinclair should never have come back here. His mother is dead. He needs to leave.” She leaned closer. “It’s salt in the wound.”

  Eleanor’s connection to the Lobranos might be a lode of information to me, but I had to defend Joe. “He returned to Concord to take care of his sick mother, a deed that would be exemplary in anyone else. Not a lick of evidence connected him to what happened to the Lobrano child.”

  “And nothing to exonerate him, either. Now his ex-girlfriend is beaten to death in the park he patrols.” She dared me to look away. “Either you’re very brave or very stupid.”

  “Neither, actually. I don’t believe Joe harmed the child. He couldn’t have. And he didn’t hurt Karla Steele. Her drug-infested lifestyle caused her death.”