Dark Dreamer

by Jennifer Fulton

  “And we can only get that if we trace Juliet.” Rowe sighed. She had already thought this through and knew they were at an impasse. If the dead girl was Becky, that meant Juliet had vanished into thin air.

  They shared a despondent silence for a few moments.

  Eventually Dwayne broke ranks, his expression brooding. “How do we explain the activity in the kitchen? Did he, uh…kill Becky there? If he did, there could be blood. That would prove a crime had occurred, and if they matched the blood to O’Halloran DNA, we could have a case.”

  Rowe pictured the maid as Phoebe had described her, tied up and left to die in the snow. How did that fit with Phoebe’s other vision of blood on the kitchen floor and someone chasing her out of the house? Did Baker attack Becky in the kitchen? Did he run outdoors after her and tie her up, leaving her to freeze to death so it would look like an accident? Where was Juliet when all of this happened?

  She went through Phoebe’s account once more in her mind and was suddenly blinded by the obvious. She turned to Earl. “That recording you made in the kitchen. The voice that yells Run…” She got to her feet and the guys hastily followed suit. “I think I know what happened in there.”

  They hurried along the hall to the kitchen. Rowe pointed at the hole in the brick façade. “There’s a cavity behind that wall. Let’s open it up.”

  Her companions gave her strange looks, but who were they to question Rowe Devlin, horror queen? Carefully they tapped out brick after brick until they had opened up a hole large enough to admit their heads.

  Rowe shone her flashlight into the cavity and felt the air flee her lungs. A mummified woman lay in a fetal position on the floor, enshrouded in a dusty nightgown. “Juliet,” she whispered.

  *

  “She probably lived for a few days after she was walled in.” The medical examiner indicated scratches on the woodwork around the bricks. “Actual cause of death is not apparent at this time.”

  One of the detectives approached Rowe, a compact young woman with sparrow brown hair and bright dark eyes. “We’ll need to bring a crime scene team in, Ms. Devlin. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “No problem.” Rowe was having trouble holding back tears. Surprised by the strength of her emotions, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to step outside.”

  “Go right ahead. Would you like a female officer with you?”

  “No. I’ll be fine, thanks. I just need some fresh air.”

  She joined Dwayne and Earl on the front steps. They’d scraped off the ice and had laid out some broken cabinet planks from the kitchen. Rowe sat on one of these a step higher than the ghostbusters. No one said a word. They stared out at the snow, foggy breaths floating in wreaths around their heads.

  A murderer had lived in her house, Rowe thought, and his crimes had lived after him. But he had left a loose end. His daughter’s baby had survived and had borne children. Now, generations later, one of her descendents had unlocked his secret. If there was such a thing as karma, this sure qualified.

  She wondered what Phoebe was going to say. She owed her lover an apology for ever doubting her. How strange it must be to live with knowledge most people would doubt. Was her gift a blessing or a curse?

  A rapid whooping sound invaded her reflections and Rowe lifted her head, certain the sound could mean only one thing. She stood up, joy and hope stealing her breath. Like a giant mechanical wasp, a black helicopter descended onto the meadow, churning the snow into clouds.

  “Awesome,” Dwayne breathed.

  Earl shoved him. “Dude. It’s the government. I told you they were watching us.”

  He and Dwayne got to their feet and gazed slack-jawed as the chopper landed and the rotors slowed to a lethargic whoop.

  “The fucking thing is unmarked,” Earl declared in a hunted tone. “You know what that means. We’re talking black ops. They’re gonna close us down.”

  Dwayne grabbed his pal’s arm. “We gotta get out of here.”

  “No way, man. Shot while trying to flee. Fuck that.” Earl turned to Rowe. “You’re a witness. Whatever goes down here, you need to tell the world.”

  “Settle, guys.” Rowe’s heart raced. “They’re not interested in you.” She craned, trying to see into the dark recess beyond the chopper’s open door.

  Several dark figures jumped out, armed to the teeth like last time. One of them turned to assist a smaller female figure. As they moved away from the dangerous blades, the wind caught at the woman’s long dark hair and she reached up to stop her woolen hat from being blown off.

  Rowe waved but she wasn’t sure if Phoebe saw her, having been hemmed in by her hulking companions. The last man off the chopper was not in commando gear, but an overcoat and dark glasses. He strode out into the open and took a long look around. The cop cars must have attracted his attention, because he signaled his men and one of them set off in a shuffling run across the meadow toward Rowe and her apprehensive buddies.

  When he reached the bottom of the steps, he queried, “Which one of you is Rowe Devlin?”

  “Guilty,” Rowe said.

  “Would you come with me, please, ma’am?”

  Stepping between Rowe and the visitor with the machine gun, Dwayne stammered, “If you… want to take her, you have to get through me first.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Earl hissed.

  The commando slowly removed his dark glasses. In a tone that was borderline parental, he informed Dwayne, “This doesn’t concern you, son. But since we’re having a conversation, have you ever thought about a career in the military?”

  Dwayne flushed almost as red as his hair. “Uh…not really.”

  “Well, your country needs young men with courage such as yourself.” Withdrawing a business card from somewhere in his body armor, the commando placed it in Dwayne’s hand. “This is the name of a recruiting officer. Tell him Captain Tony Gerhardt sent you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dwayne seemed overwhelmed.

  The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “I once had a verbal affliction myself. Getting rid of it is just another debt I owe this man’s army. Think about it, son.”

  “I will, uh…sir. Thank you, sir.” Dwayne seemed like a duck in water, a salute right around the corner.

  Earl gave him an incredulous look.

  “And son…” The captain wasn’t quite done. “Less cologne.”

  The two young males watched with worried expressions as Rowe pulled up her hood and set off toward the chopper with her gun-toting escort. They had barely made it twenty paces when Phoebe broke from the pack and struggled through the snow toward her, arms outstretched.

  Rowe swung her off the ground just like in the cheesy commercials and kissed her without regard to the flurry of armed men descending on them. “I love you, baby,” she said.

  “I adore you.” Phoebe held her like she would never let go. “Take me home.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A snowplow led the funeral procession, a crushed mailbox clinging to the blade like an oversized tuna can. This struck Rowe as a uniquely Maine touch. Likewise the organ pipes of ice suspended from the cliffs and the opaline reflections on the pale winter sea. Distant islands and vessels seemed woven of the same liquid material, shimmering mirage-like on the limitless horizon.

  A startling number of vehicles joined the cortege as they proceeded along the eighty-mile route to the Evergreen cemetery in Portland. Rowe drove her Lexus, with Phoebe in the backseat next to one of the androids the CIA insisted on supplying. His colleague was glued to her back bumper in a black Ford with extremely dark tinted windows. Very funereal. In front of her, the hearse carried Juliet in her elegant blond oak coffin, and trailing behind were Dwayne and Earl, who had tied lavish black bows to the door handles of Dwayne’s decrepit car.

  Several members of the MPRA had muscled in on the highly publicized proceedings. They were followed by the entire O’Halloran clan, now local celebrities after staging a mock trial for Thomas Baker and hangi
ng him in effigy, complete with the sack over his head and a preacher reading from Leviticus.

  The press had shown up in force for the church service in Camden and already had their cameras set up around the grave site when the procession arrived. There was nothing else happening on the Midcoast at this time of year, other than motor vehicle accidents and the occasional pothead protest outside the Rockland town hall.

  The remarkable weather wouldn’t hold, Rowe decided, as they left their cars at the frozen duck pond and straggled along a sloping serpentine path to Juliet’s grave. For now, the sky was a limpid blue and the snow glittered crystalline white in the early afternoon sun. It was too soon for spring, and hard to believe there would ever be a summer, but today a hint of thaw tinted the air. Rowe tightened her grip on Phoebe’s hand and wondered how she could have imagined herself alive before this woman upended her world.

  As the funeral directors transported the coffin to the grave, she felt strangely moved, as if she had known Juliet and cared for her. After some angst, they had decided to bury her in the existing plot. The headstone had been ripped up when Becky O’Halloran’s body was exhumed, and Phoebe had settled on a more fitting monument, which included the names of Juliet’s descendents.

  Cara thought she’d gone overboard, with the angel leaning against the side of the tall headstone, a tiny fawn curled at her feet. But Rowe had made no attempt to talk her out of it. Juliet’s diary was littered with sketches of deer. Her new epitaph had also been drawn from her personal notes:

  When I look out into God’s infinity,

  and know I am also His work, my soul rejoices.

  “I hope she likes it,” Phoebe whispered in Rowe’s ear.

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “The service was nice. I liked the Emily Dickinson reading you chose.”

  “I hope Cara wasn’t disappointed.” Phoebe’s twin had suggested some lyrics from a Patti Smith song, but Rowe thought she should run with something more in step with Juliet’s period.

  “She didn’t mind.” A wistful note entered Phoebe’s voice. “I wish she would talk to me.”

  “I thought things were better between you.”

  “They are, but she’s…closed me out. I can’t explain it. I even wrote that letter to Bev. But she didn’t care.”

  Rowe had sensed Cara’s distance, too. Since her return from L.A., she’d been friendly and charming. And she had stopped hitting on Rowe, thankfully. But she seemed to be brooding. Even escalating DVD sales for her work didn’t thrill her. The one thing that perked her up was a phone message last week from someone called Fran. This had prompted her immediate departure from the house, and she didn’t show up again for several days. Since then, she’d been on her cell phone for four hours talking to the mystery woman, but she refused to answer any questions about her.

  Phoebe was beside herself with curiosity, and her nose was out of joint. She was convinced Cara had a girlfriend. A real one, not a sex toy like most of them. It bothered her endlessly that the girlfriend must live in the area but Cara had not introduced her.

  Rowe cast a glance around the mourners. Cara had brought her own car and had somehow ended up miles back in the procession after they left Camden. Spotting a dark head, Rowe waved, and Cara emerged from the O’Halloran throng with an athletic young woman at her side.

  Rowe elbowed Phoebe gently. “I have a feeling your sister wants you to meet someone.”

  She heard a soft, quick breath and Phoebe said, “Wow. She never brings anyone home.”

  Rowe lowered her gaze to the piled-up snow around the yawning grave. “We’re not exactly home.”

  “You know what I mean. I never meet any of them. Oh, God. I hope she likes me.”

  “Don’t stare, baby.”

  Phoebe tucked her arm into Rowe’s and said urgently, “Shall I invite her for dinner?”

  “How about we leave that for Cara to do in her own time?”

  Phoebe beamed. “If she’s met someone local, she won’t want to leave.”

  Rowe sighed. She couldn’t blame Cara for wanting to make her own life somewhere else. It seemed inevitable, now that Phoebe was settling down and wouldn’t need so much from her. All the same, it was going to be rough if she left Islesboro.

  “She looks friendly,” Phoebe murmured.

  Rowe waited for Cara’s companion to spot Phoebe and react like a fool. Instead the woman broke into a broad, genuine smile.

  “Hey, you must be Phoebe,” she said. “I’m Fran. Cara says you play mahjong with my grandma, Dotty Prescott.”

  “You’re not the granddaughter who tampers with the cogs of justice?”

  “At your service,” Fran said.

  Cara looked on like butter wouldn’t melt. “We’re dating,” she said. “Nothing serious. Just hooking up while Fran’s in town.”

  Startled that Cara would make such a dismissive announcement in front of her girlfriend, Rowe shook Fran’s hand and said, “I’m Rowe. Phoebe’s partner. How long are here for?”

  “Until Cara’s done with me, I guess.” She seemed good-humored about Cara’s admission, even self-satisfied.

  Rowe intercepted a disconcerted stare from Phoebe and said, “Well, it’s great to meet you, Fran. I hope we’ll see some more of you.”

  “I’m working on it,” Fran said. This time the disconcerted look came from Cara.

  The priest undid his greatcoat so that everyone could see he was the guy in charge and declared in a voice too squeaky for his impressive robes, “We gather today to say good-bye and to thank God for a life.”

  Rowe bent her head like everyone else. Only she thanked God she had picked the right twin.

  *

  “Are you serious? They found the materials for a dirty bomb exactly where you saw them?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” Phoebe said. “But I don’t want to have to hide half my life from you.”

  Rowe gazed down at the head on her shoulder. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “I know.” Phoebe tilted her head and found Rowe’s lips, planting a delicate kiss. Her hair spilled in a dark wave across the bedding. Moonlight played across her features. Bright, liquid eyes held Rowe’s. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. I nearly died without you.”

  Phoebe was still upset over that incident. She’d been mortified when Rowe told her what had happened that night, and seemed to blame herself for not warning Rowe to stay away from the cottage. Juliet’s ghost hadn’t meant her any harm. Rowe understood that now. She had simply wanted to destroy the kitchen so her body would be found and finally laid to rest.

  Not wanting Phoebe to dwell on her imagined shortcomings, Rowe changed tack. “Are those CIA gorillas going to hang around here forever?”

  “That’s the compromise. I get to live at home and work for Vernell half the time, but I have to have round-the-clock security.” A note of anxiety entered Phoebe’s voice. “Can you stand it?”

  “So long as they don’t sleep in the bedroom.”

  “Cara says she’s going to talk some sense into Marvin Perry. It’s ridiculous to impose on our privacy like this.”

  Rowe called to mind Perry’s serene hired-killer face and said, “I don’t think much of her chances.”

  “She says she might buy that place she saw in L.A.” Phoebe’s tone was burdened with emotion.

  “I have a better idea.” Rowe rolled onto her side and took Phoebe’s face in her hands, knowing what it meant to her to have her twin close by. “Why don’t you move into the cottage with me. Cara can keep right on living here, and you and she can walk across the meadow whenever you want to see one another.”

  “Really? You’re okay about living there…after everything that happened?”

  Rowe thought about it. Somehow it seemed fitting that Juliet’s great-great-granddaughter should live in Dark Harbor Cottage. Juliet had reached out to Phoebe, needing to free herself of guilt and sorrow. There was no escaping that the cottage had
been the scene of terrible suffering. But Rowe had a sense that bringing happiness to its four walls would be part of setting Juliet free. Already when she walked through the front door, the air seemed lighter.

  “I want to live there with you, darling,” she told Phoebe.

  Her lover smiled. “We’ll build a beautiful garden where the kitchen was, so there’s nothing left of that…ugliness.” A tear spilled onto her cheek, glistening in the silvery light. “I can’t believe he did that to his own daughter.”

  “I know.”

  Rowe contemplated the horrible facts the forensic pathologist had reported. Juliet had been stabbed at least three times but had not died of her wounds. In pain and probably feverish with infection, she had died of dehydration and cold after days spent beating and scratching on the walls of her tomb. Her fingernails were broken and the bones of her hands damaged. She had bound her wounds by tearing strips from the nightgown she was wearing. These makeshift bandages were found with her remains, stained with blood from which her DNA had been sampled and matched to that of the twins.

  From her own research, Rowe had learned that Thomas Baker returned to New York with his invalid wife as soon as the snow melted. He had kept the cottage closed up for almost twenty years. It was sold when he lost most of his money in the crash of 1929. None of the subsequent owners lived there very long, and eventually the cottage was rented out as a summer home for many years. Its resident ghost was considered a drawing card by the leasing agents.

  “Poor Juliet.” Phoebe twisted the pearl on its black ribbon. She had been wearing it to bed of late, telling Rowe she wanted Juliet to know she was remembered. “She told me what happened.”

  Rowe had suspected as much, but she’d figured Phoebe would tell her when she was ready. “Was that what woke you up a few nights ago?”

  “Yes. It was horrible.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. We don’t have to talk about it—”

  “No. I want to. She heard them in the kitchen and came downstairs. Her father was beating Becky. He caught her burning the sheets from the birth. The cook’s husband told on them after Becky rejected his advances.”