The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “How am I?” he asks. “You’re the one laid up in a hospital bed.”

  It’s good to see the smile in his eyes, and I take a bit of comfort as the sharp pepper scent shifts to fresh-baked apple pie. “The women’s clinic,” I ask. “Did you find out anything?”

  “I suppose it’s a foregone conclusion at this point, but it was Veronica. She didn’t go in with Julianna, but they’ve got footage of her dropping our missing teenager at the door on the Friday before her disappearance.”

  “You’re not a cop. How did you get them to show you the security video?”

  “More than a decade of training in the field of psychology.” He raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a subtle smirk. “I can be pretty persuasive when I need to be.”

  “I imagine so.” The fingers of my free hand ball into a fist. “Something’s rotten. Julianna was at the clinic less than a week before her face hit CNN and they didn’t come forward?”

  “I thought the same thing,” Thomas says. “Apparently, their usual doctor was on vacation that week and the locum doctor that was filling in is now out of state. As for the staff, they claim they didn’t put together that Julianna was the one who had visited their clinic, but if you want my opinion, they were just scared.”

  “Too scared to help find a missing girl?”

  “They’re an abortion clinic, Mira. I drove past a small army of protesters just to get to the parking lot today. If I were in their shoes, I’m not sure I’d advertise if a client went missing.”

  “I suppose. Still, don’t they have some responsibility to look out for their patients after such a traumatic procedure?”

  “That’s the thing.” Thomas sits where Sterling sat moments before. “Unless I’m way off base, I don’t believe Julianna went through with it.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “The nurse didn’t come right out and say as much, but I could read between the lines.”

  “What did she say?”

  Thomas looks away, his body tensing as he searches for the words. “Eight weeks is the cut off for the pill, what they call a medical abortion at the clinic. Even a day over, though, and you’re looking at a surgical procedure. She told me a lot of young women change their minds when they hear that. Ring any bells?”

  “Eight weeks, one day.” The meaning of Thomas’ words sinks in, as do the meaning of the scribbled numbers that flowed from my hand in Julianna Wagner’s bedroom. “Veronica killed a pregnant woman in cold blood, and all over a man.”

  “Not the first crazy thing I’ve seen a person do in the throes of infatuation.” Thomas clears his throat, the emotional air shifting as he changes the subject. “Anthony’s in the next bed. Have you seen him?”

  “The doctor pulled back the curtain a few minutes ago so I could see him. He looks great.”

  “I’m not sure what you did, but it’s a miracle. He’s back to normal, well, whatever passes for normal when it comes to Anthony.”

  “What can I say? I always was good at putting together jigsaw puzzles.”

  Thomas’ eyes drop to the starched sheets covering my legs. “Now that Anthony’s better, I guess you’ll be heading back to Virginia.”

  “As soon as possible. I need to get home to my little girl.”

  “Isabella, right?”

  I laugh. “Good memory. Izzy’s been missing her Mami, and I can’t wait to get back to her.” Before I can stop myself, my free hand grasps Thomas’. His palm is warm on my cold fingers. “That’s not to say there aren’t things in Charlotte I’ll miss.”

  Thomas stares down at our interlaced fingers, but doesn’t say a word. A few seconds pass before I let go and fold my hands back in my lap.

  “How’s Caroline?” I ask, as my turn to change the subject comes around.

  “Outside getting some air. I’ll go let her know you’re awake. She’s been waiting hours to talk to you.” He rises from the bed.

  “Wait, Thomas.” I grasp his arm, and suddenly I’m the one having trouble finding words. “Rachel. Just before everything went down, she had another episode. How is she doing?”

  He sits back on the bed. “Rachel is doing surprisingly well, actually. She woke up right around the same time Anthony did.” The concern in Thomas’ eyes shifts to a look of curiosity. “I was going to wait till you were a bit further out, but I’ve just got to know. What happened this morning? Anthony’s awake, Rachel seems good as new, and Veronica… well…”

  “That’s a long story.” I do my best to fill Thomas in on everything that went down that morning, though reliving it is harder than I would have guessed. The roller coaster of emotions, both his and mine, leaves me even more exhausted than before. Still, it’s worth it to see his eyes light up like a child’s at Christmas when I describe the Gates.

  “The last piece. A door.” His fingers shake with excitement. “The whole time, and all he had to do was walk through.”

  “He had to get himself together first. Don’t forget that.”

  “With a little help from you.” His face relaxes for a moment before resuming the furrowed brow and narrowed eyes he’s held for the last several minutes. “Still, I don’t get how you kept Veronica from killing you both. From what Caroline told me, the official theory is she stroked out on the cocktail of drugs circulating through her system, but I don’t buy that for a second. What really happened?”

  “Truth?” At Thomas’ subtle nod, I answer. “Anthony and I escaped the Exhibition just before it collapsed upon itself and… we didn’t bring her along.”

  Thomas and I share a long silence, neither knowing what to say for what seems an eternity. More than once, I nearly open up about the last moments of the Exhibition, the dagger, and exactly what I dared do to bring this whole thing to an end, but think better of it.

  “That leaves the final riddle, then,” he says. “The Exhibition itself.” Thomas strokes his chin. “The coincidence of Anthony’s troubles with Julianna’s disappearance is uncanny, but how could one have possibly caused the other?”

  “Anthony is a special boy, Thomas. More than any of us ever knew. His talent, the way he connects with people, is unique in my experience and in many ways far beyond anything I can even think about doing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Imagine this. You’re thirteen, brilliant, awkward. There are two women in your life other than your mother that mean everything to you. The first, a devoted teacher and trusted confidant. The other, your most hopeless crush and someone who’s dating the person you look up to most in the world.”

  “Jason.”

  “What would happen if you were forced to watch one murder the other? What acrobatics might your mind put itself through to forget such a thing ever happened?”

  “Dissociative episodes have been documented on more than one occasion in people who have witnessed traumatic events. But Anthony didn’t see the murder. He couldn’t have. He was home that night with a stomach virus.”

  “Oh, he saw it. Anthony saw it in a way most will never understand.”

  “He didn’t just see it happen.” Thomas’ eyes grow wide with comprehension. “He experienced it.”

  “Through both the eyes of the murderer and the murdered. A unique perspective.”

  “That’s one way of describing it.” Thomas lets out a long sigh. “I believe such an experience would send most of us over the edge.”

  Eighteen months ago, little Sarah Goode told me of the subtle psychic link she shared with her kidnapper, the horror of seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt. After seeing what happened to Anthony, I’m more in awe over the girl’s resilience than ever.

  “Anthony’s world was shattered when someone he trusted did the unthinkable. All I had to do was prove to him there were still people he could believe in. People who would do anything for him and wouldn’t let him down, no matter what.” My vision goes out of focus as Baba Yaga’s visage fills my mind’s eye. “You know what’s funny? For all the trouble she caused, I ne
ver would have won without the witch. Once I had her, the rest all fell into line.” The image of Yaga’s sneer melting into Caroline’s pleasant smile warms me from within. “In some strange way, it’s like she was on my side all along.”

  “You risked it all going back into his mind there at the end.” Thomas stares at me, incredulous. “How did you know it would work?”

  “I didn’t.” A shiver starts in my neck and works its way toward my toes. “I suppose you could say I made an… educated guess.”

  “A guess.” Thomas takes a deep breath. “And that was?”

  “We saw time and again what happened to my body in the real world when Scheherazade had a difficult encounter on the Exhibition. The same with Rachel.”

  “Right. But you and Rachel are both… different, right?”

  “True, but if my theory is correct and the Exhibition was created by Veronica’s murder of Julianna followed by my intrusion into Anthony’s mind…”

  “Then maybe she was close enough to it Anthony’s mind could do the same to her through Madame Versailles.”

  “Boy’s powerful enough to reach my mind clear across town.” I shake my head sadly. “Veronica was right on top of him. I suspect it was like stepping on a landmine.”

  “But you made it out basically okay.” Thomas’ brow furrows with concern. “Right?”

  I take Thomas’ hand. “Once I learned Anthony had hidden the Gates in the maelstrom, I realized I’d been unknowingly using them to travel to and from the Exhibition since the beginning. In the end, I gambled my mind knew its way out better than hers did.”

  “A dangerous roll of the dice, Mira,” Thomas says. “You were lucky.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it.” I lower my head so he can’t see the tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

  “How so?”

  I glance up into that steel blue gaze of his. “Let’s just say I remembered the words of a wise friend and took a leap of faith.” Apple pie and lavender fill my senses as Thomas pulls me into a tight embrace. “I’m just glad I got to see that friend again,” I whisper. “Thank you, Thomas.”

  “Are you sure you won’t stay a couple more days?”

  I accept the warm mug of coffee and take a sip. “I appreciate the offer, Caroline, but Isabella has started calling every hour on the hour, asking when I’m getting on the road.”

  Caroline sits opposite me in her living room. The space seems somehow brighter than the previous week. Anthony and Rachel play in the corner, their end of the room littered with more toys than the average daycare. It’s fascinating to watch Anthony interact with his sister. With everyone else, including his mother and me, he acts stilted and aloof. I can understand why entire teams of doctors have tried to diagnose the kid with autism or Asperger’s or whatever disease of the day is getting press on daytime television. With her, however, he seems almost normal.

  “You feel up for the drive?” Caroline asks.

  “Surprisingly, yes. Your hospitality and the pillow-top mattress upstairs have worked wonders on me. I’m practically back to normal.”

  “At least finish your coffee before you go.” She looks down into her own mug, then up into my eyes. “I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

  I raise a hand to stop her. “You’ve already thanked me more than enough, Caroline. You hired me to do a job and it’s done.”

  She shakes her head and smiles as tears well in her eyes. “This was more than a job for you, Mira Tejedor, and you know it. You stepped in where no one else could and saved my entire family. I’ll never know what you went through to bring my Anthony back to me, but I know I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  I start to tear up as well. “Just look after your boy. Like you’ve always said, he’s special. I can’t wait to see what kind of man he grows up to be.”

  “Will you at least come with me to pick up Jason? He’s supposed to be discharged from the hospital this afternoon. He’ll want to see you before you go.”

  As if summoned, the front door opens and Jason Faircloth saunters into the room. His left arm hangs across his chest in a blue and white sling.

  “Jason.” Caroline shoots out of the couch and wraps her son in a tight embrace.

  “Ow,” Jason grunts. “Careful with the shoulder, Mom.” Jason’s eyes flicker over to the hole left in the drywall by the door. “I just took a bullet, remember?”

  “Sorry,” Caroline says. “What are you doing here? The doctor said he wasn’t going to let you go till this afternoon.”

  “My surgeon’s first case this morning got cancelled, so he made rounds early. Let me go about an hour ago. Brendan and the guys were up visiting, so I signed myself out and they dropped me off.” He glances across his mother’s shoulder and catches my eye. “Didn’t know if you’d still be around.”

  “Just a couple more minutes.” I join them in the foyer. “Good to see you up and about.”

  “You too,” Jason says without a trace of his usual ironic tone as he turns to his mother. “Mom, can I talk to Mira alone for a second?”

  Caroline’s gaze wanders back and forth from me to Jason. “Of course.” She swirls her coffee cup and takes a sip. “You want some rocket fuel?”

  “No, thanks. Grabbed a triple shot latte on the way home. Water would be great, though.”

  “Water it is, then.”

  As Caroline heads for the kitchen, Jason lowers his voice. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.”

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “Shoulder hurts like hell, but the pain meds are helping. Doc says with a few weeks of physical therapy I should be good as new.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  The police found Julianna’s body yesterday. Between the insight I gained from the Exhibition and Glenn Hartman’s full cooperation, it didn’t take long to find the shallow grave in the field adjoining Hartman’s couple of acres in the outskirts of south Charlotte. Her skull bludgeoned repeatedly by an unknown blunt object, Julianna’s body was mummified, a result of the chlorinated lime surrounding her shriveled form.

  I’d never tell a soul, but I’m pretty sure I know exactly how the grave must have smelled.

  Jason’s testimony, along with Hartman’s, has firmly pinned the blame on Veronica Sayles, which is a good thing, as the Charlotte Police Department likely won’t be calling on this particular psychic for any further information. My involvement in the case relegated to little more than footnote status, Veronica’s face is now the one in the upper right corner of every newscast. Despite everything from before, I owe Sterling big for keeping the exact circumstances of her capture under wraps. The Faircloths as well have agreed to keep my part in all of this quiet, and barring a miracle, Veronica Sayles won’t be giving interviews anytime soon. Still comatose and on life support, the latest news reports give her even odds on surviving her “stroke” and next to no chance of ever regaining consciousness.

  A part of me wishes I cared.

  A very small part.

  “Mom told me about the baby,” Jason says, breaking my runaway train of thought.

  “How are you doing with that?”

  Jason fidgets with the gauze surrounding his injured shoulder. “I always knew Julianna had a crush on Mr. Hartman, but I had no idea how far they’d gone. Always figured once she got the whole ‘idol worship’ thing out of her system, she’d come around. Now I’ll never find out.” He catches my gaze. “We never did it, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Julianna and I. We never did… it.”

  I give him an understanding nod. “I kind of guessed.”

  “Don’t know why I’m telling you. It doesn’t matter now.” He lowers his head and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m such an idiot.”

  I rest a hand on his good shoulder. “Love makes fools of all of us, Jason.”

  Caroline returns and hands her son a tall glass of ice wate
r. “You two good?”

  “Yeah, we’re good.” Jason shoves his hands in his pockets and heads for the hall.

  “Hey, Jason?”

  He turns back to face me. “Yes?”

  “Your mom’s got my number. If you ever need anything, call. Understand?”

  “Thanks,” Jason mumbles just before he disappears into his room. I turn for the door and Rachel runs over and flings her arms around my legs.

  “Are you leaving, Miss Mira?”

  “Yes, Rachel. My little girl misses her Mami and I’ve got to get back to her.”

  “You’ll come and visit won’t you?”

  I glance at Caroline, and find warmth there you rarely find outside of family. “Of course.” I stoop and return the girl’s hug. “I’ll see you soon.”

  On my way to the door, a photograph of a man on one of the built-in shelves in the foyer catches my attention. A grown up version of Anthony, the bearded man in the dark suit is at once familiar and strange. As if pulled from the Catacombs in Anthony’s Exhibition, the composer stares out at me from behind the glass.

  “Caroline, who is that?”

  “That’s William,” she says, “Anthony’s father.”

  “I’ve never seen that picture before.”

  Caroline picks up the framed photograph, her cheeks blossoming crimson. “While Anthony was… away, I couldn’t bear to look at it. I felt like I’d let William down. I mean, look at him. Anthony is every bit his father’s son.” She chokes back a sob. “Like I told you before, he and his father were close. When we got home from the hospital, Anthony dug the picture out of the drawer and returned it to its place on the shelf.” Caroline wipes away a tear. “First thing he did.”

  I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me when I say you both mean more to Anthony than you will ever know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I’m lying on a snow-swept landscape, The Bogatyr Gates throbbing with life just a stone’s throw away. Baba Yaga’s harsh visage melts into Caroline’s face as the hut steps into the prismatic radiance beneath the stony arch. Long after the hut disappears into the shimmering light, the composer’s devil-may-care grin still hangs in the air like the Cheshire Cat’s.