She nods. That makes sense, although the elderly woman’s hearing had seemed sharp when they met last night.
Sean tells her he’ll come back here after he finds out what’s going on over at the Windmill. She could tell he was concerned when the police detective summoned him, though he seemed to play it down—for her sake, or for his own.
He’s been through so much. It can’t have been easy to get a call from a cop, even though she assured him that it has nothing to do with his family.
“I bet another crate of booze went missing from the back room,” he says now. “It happened a few weeks ago, and the owner questioned all of us. Or maybe Laura’s lowlife husband violated his restraining order again.”
“I really hope it’s something minor.” Something that doesn’t directly involve Sean.
Twenty-four hours ago, she’d have had no problem envisioning him in trouble with the police, based on the way he looked, his attitude, and the direct comparison to his clean-cut cousin. First impressions are so misleading, she thinks as she gets out of the car with the fragile documents from Hadley’s archives.
She watches Sean drive away, rounding the corner onto the town Common. Then she takes out her phone and looks at the text that came in as they were getting into the car.
It’s from Braden.
Sorry about this afternoon. Hope Sean got you home OK. Will call later.
Maybe he will; maybe he won’t.
Maybe she wants him to; maybe she doesn’t.
Why, she wonders as she pockets her phone and walks up the mansion’s front steps, does life have to be so messy?
Death, too.
She’s haunted by what she found in the files today. All those terrified people watching helplessly as their loved ones starved to death, starving to death themselves, refusing to eat the human flesh that would have saved their mortal lives, but—in their Puritan eyes—doomed their immortality.
What set the Mundy family apart? Were they less pious? More educated? Suffering some diabolical DNA mutation?
It’s long past the visiting hours that are posted alongside the door. Savannah knocks.
When Ora fails to answer, she rings the bell.
Still no response.
Deciding Sean might have been right about the elderly woman’s hearing loss, Savannah turns the knob, expecting to find a locked door.
For the second time today, she does not. Ora must have gotten her message after all, and is expecting her.
“Ms. Abrams?” she calls, poised on the threshold. “Hello?”
No reply.
Savannah assures herself that it’s perfectly fine to enter and close the door behind her. It is, after all, a public museum, and she’s here to see the curator on official business.
She isn’t convinced the old woman is hard of hearing, but she has mobility issues. It might be difficult for her to jump up and answer a landline, and certainly to descend several flights of stairs to greet a visitor. She’s probably upstairs.
Savannah shouldn’t feel as though she’s trespassing, or—strangely—a sense of foreboding, as though someone is going to jump out at her, or something bad is about to happen.
For a moment, she stands motionless in the grand foyer, wondering if she should heed her instincts and get out of here.
But her instincts were wrong about Sean. Maybe about Braden, too. And who wouldn’t be feeling jittery, given the day she’s had?
She crosses the grand foyer and starts up the sweeping staircase.
The house is quiet, except for the sound of the ticking clock and her own voice calling for Ora.
But then, reaching the second-floor hall, she hears a rustling sound in a windowed alcove behind her.
She turns to see a velvet drapery moving as though someone might be lurking behind it. Just a breeze, she assures herself.
Then she sees that the window is closed.
She bolts for the stairs, but someone—something—does, indeed, leap from the shadowy nook.
A large orange cat skids in front of her, nearly tripping her. She cries out as she grabs the banister, sparing herself a harrowing nosedive.
Steadying herself, and her nerves, she looks down to see the cat regarding her with feline disdain.
“You’re right,” she tells the creature. “I’m being ridiculous. Come on, let’s go find our friend Ora.”
Barnes is back on the line.
“I sent the link,” he tells Sully. “Just take a quick look. Emerson was either acting as though she still had a job, or she was delusional and believed it. Either way, the behavior is bizarre.”
“So Roy had a real reason to worry about her.”
“And about himself, but maybe he didn’t realize it. If she was unstable, and he followed her here, she could have snapped. She didn’t tell him she’d been fired. He found out after she left California.”
“How do you know?”
“I reached out to one of her teaching colleagues. Said I was a landlord and that she’d listed the woman as a personal reference.”
Sully nods—an old, favorite tactic they’d often used on the job together. “The woman told me Emerson had lost her job. Then she said Roy had called her Sunday, saying he couldn’t reach Emerson and asking if she knew where she might be staying. The friend was shocked to hear Emerson had gone to the conference, and Roy was shocked to hear she’d been fired.”
Sully’s phone dings as she contemplates that.
“Wait, the text is here. Let me take a look.”
She clicks the link he sent, and is taken to a site containing photos displayed beneath a purple and white conference logo and the headline washington whirlwind weekend. A message at the top invites attendees to upload their personal photos to share with the group.
Leaving the screen open to that page, she presses the phone to her ear. “There are tons of photos, Barnes. Where am I looking?”
“About a quarter of the way down, look for the pictures from the scavenger hunt. She’s posing with a bunch of people in front of a shuttle bus.”
She looks for it, scanning captions and crowds of unfamiliar faces.
Scavenger hunt . . . scavenger hunt . . .
Some of the pictures are of famous locales—the Lincoln Memorial, Ford’s Theater . . .
Some are of objects—a museum brochure, a MetroCard, a tote bag imprinted with the logo alongside an array of contents the contributor has labeled “goody bag.”
Sully stares at that one in disbelief. Alongside typical convention freebies—a lanyard, a pack of pocket tissues, mints, a travel coffee mug—are two items that catch her eye.
Imprinted with the conference logo are a small spiral-bound notebook, about four inches by six, and a packet of purple-ink markers.
After what seems like an eternity, Emerson’s headlights find the stone pillars marking the entrance to the nature preserve.
It will be deserted now. The old oak tree is there, waiting for her. So is the rope in the car trunk.
She can be alone in the dark, on the spot where her ancestors suffered their terrible fates.
She pulls over to the side of the road, turns off the car, and leaves the keys in the ignition.
Taking a deep breath, she opens the door—
“Ma’am?”
A voice in the darkness, accompanied by a bright, bobbing beam and footsteps crunching on the dirt road.
She isn’t alone.
A uniformed park officer appears in the glow of his own flashlight, turning it away from the car so that it won’t blind her.
“Sorry,” he says, smiling. “The park is closed.”
For a moment, she can only stare at him.
“Ma’am? Come on back tomorrow morning, all right?”
She nods, turns the keys, and heads back toward town.
“Emerson . . .”
“Yes,” Ora hears Rowan’s voice say. “Emerson Mundy told me that you can use some help around the house. She was concerned about you. You’re so lucky sh
e was there with you this afternoon. She saved your life.”
“No!”
It takes every bit of her strength to utter the word. Depleted, she struggles to find another word, another breath, another glimmer of light here in the darkness, or Papa’s voice . . .
Silence within, silence all around her.
Then Rowan speaks. “Ora, did she do this to you? Did she . . . hurt you?”
You must tell.
You must.
And then you can be with Papa.
She feels a hand close over her own, warm and strong, and for a moment she believes it’s him. She sucks air into her lungs again, another precious breath.
“Ora, can you squeeze my hand? Squeeze it. Let me know you can hear me.”
Somehow, she musters the power to squeeze Rowan’s hand.
“Good. Good job. Oh, Ora. You must be exhausted, I know. And you just want to rest. I . . .” Her voice seems to choke, and then she recovers. “I promise you can rest. But I just need to know if Emerson hurt you. If she didn’t, you can just . . . go to sleep. But if she did, squeeze my hand, so that I’ll know.”
Ora is tired, so very tired. She doesn’t know if she can find the strength to take another breath, let alone move a muscle in her hand.
But then she remembers those eyes—one blue, one gray—the eyes of a madwoman, looming over her, right before the smothering darkness. She fought in that moment to free herself, to breathe, and she’ll fight again in this one.
She squeezes Rowan’s hand with all her might.
She hears a sob, and a whisper. “Thank you, Ora. You can rest now. You’ve been a dear friend to me . . . to all of us. I’ll take care of everything for you. I’ll feed Briar Rose, and I’ll take care of your things, and I’ll make sure your work continues on, and no one will ever forget what you’ve done for Mundy’s Landing.”
Mundy’s Landing . . .
Those are the last words Ora Abrams hears before Rowan’s gentle touch is replaced by a firm, masculine, familiar grasp, and the darkness gives way to warm, bright light.
Papa.
Hand in hand, they walk home together at last.
Letter
July 10, 1979
Dear Didi:
See? I told you I would write to you. I always keep my promises. I hope you will keep yours and come visit me. We can do all the things I told you about—go to Disneyland, see the movie stars’ homes and the Hollywood sign, and stroll along the Walk of Fame. One day, I know your own star will be on that sidewalk. I’m sure you’re the most talented young actress in Philadelphia. Out here, they will recognize your talent and see that you’re something special.
I’ve enclosed a SASE so that you can send me those pictures we talked about. My agent friends out here will go crazy for them. Just remember you want to look sexy, but not older than your years. You can even try to look younger, so that they’ll consider you to play little girls.
I’m also enclosing enough money for a bus ticket to LA when you’re ready to come. That way, you don’t even have to ask your parents to send you. Like you said, they’ll get the wrong idea.
In fact, you probably shouldn’t tell them you heard from me. I love my cousin Artie, but I know how old-fashioned he can be. He treats you like a child. I will treat you like an adult when you visit.
If you ever need anything at all, remember, I’m here for you. And if you ever want to talk to me, you can call me collect anytime from a phone booth. Hearing your sweet voice will be worth every penny.
I hope to see you soon!
Love,
Jerry
Chapter 17
“Where could she have gone? Any ideas?” Sully asks Barnes, still holding the phone as she gets behind the wheel of her car.
“She can’t have gotten very far. What kind of car was she driving?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it. She said she rented it after she landed at JFK.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks. I have to let Nick know.”
She disconnects the call to Barnes and dials the lieutenant as she drives away from the Mundy home. In the rearview mirror, she can see Jake still silhouetted in the doorway. She didn’t take the time to pause and explain anything, but she could tell by the look on his face as she rushed toward the door that he knew.
“Colonomos.”
“Nick, we need to find Emerson Mundy.”
“Is she in danger?”
“She is the danger.”
She explains, zipping along the road until she spots the sign at the fork.
Emerson would have seen the same sign.
“I don’t know,” Nick is saying in her ear as she brakes, wondering which way Emerson would have turned.
“You don’t know? You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know if I understand why you’re chasing her down. You don’t have any solid evidence, Detective.”
“I have the notes, and—”
“But Roy Nowak is already dead. Even if she killed him . . . she can’t kill him again. What is it that you think she’s going to do?”
“I don’t know. But I’m the one who spent time with her, and my gut is telling me that something is off. We have to find her.”
“Where do you suggest we look?”
“Forget it. I’m on it.” Sully hangs up the call and veers to the right, toward Schaapskill Nature Preserve. A woman with an obsessive interest in her own ancestry would likely do the same.
The road narrows as it approaches the river, winding past the vast parcel of land where the Valley Cove Pleasure Park had stood a century ago. The spot had played a pivotal role in the Sleeping Beauty murders of 1916, and in last summer’s tragedy.
Sully hasn’t been out here in a while—not since the blustery March day when she came to watch workmen dismantle the last of the ruins and haul them away, including the abandoned icehouse.
It was there that she confronted the handiwork of a madman who called himself Holmes, along with ghosts of her own past. She couldn’t save Manik Bhandari back in New York. Nor could she save every innocent life tainted by violence, not there, not here. But that time, at least, she wasn’t too late.
Tonight as she drives past, she can see construction equipment parked in the field, now mown, that lies between the road and the wooded slope along the river. A developer is preparing to break ground on a new hotel on the spot. There’s been talk of a riverfront boardwalk, an echo of the one at the old Pleasure Park that drew so many people—strangers—to Mundy’s Landing.
They’ll never learn, Sully finds herself thinking, before she remembers that she herself is an outsider here, lured by the quaint village and its friendly residents.
Up ahead, she can see the stone markers at the entrance to Schaapskill. She turns off her headlights as she rolls to a stop beside them. She opens the car door, one hand at her holster.
A bright light sways over the trees to glare in her eyes.
“Sully? That you?” a voice calls.
Herschel Milks, one of the park’s security guards. Still wary, she asks if everything’s all right out here.
“Busy tonight. What are you doing here? Is something going on?”
“Busy how?”
“Most nights, I don’t see a soul. You’re the second person to come by here after closing.”
“Is someone in the park?”
“Nah, I told her to come back tomorrow.”
“What did she look like?”
He does, indeed, describe Emerson, complete with a weird look in her weird-colored eyes.
“Weird how?” she asks Herschel.
“Weird like she was just . . . no good. Know what I mean? Is she up to something, you think?”
“Maybe. We’re looking to question her. If you see her again, Herschel, you steer clear and let us know right away, okay?”
Sully gets back into the car. Her phone buzzes as she makes a U-turn, wondering where to go next.
; Expecting Barnes, she sees that the caller is Rowan Mundy, and answers immediately.
“Sully?” Rowan sounds like she’s crying. “Where are you?”
“I’m—where are you? What’s wrong?”
“At the hospital. Ora Abrams passed away just now.”
“Oh . . .” Sully exhales—not in relief, because she has great affection for the old woman. It’s just that for a frightening moment, she was worried that this might have something to do with—
“Sully, do you know where Emerson Mundy is?”
“No, why?”
“Because she was with Ora at the historical society this afternoon when she fainted, and Ora told me that she hurt her—”
“What?”
“—and now Ora is dead, and I’m afraid that . . . I’m afraid.”
Ora.
The historical society.
Sully thanks her and hangs up. About to call Nick back, she changes her mind.
She dials Barnes as she speeds toward town.
She’s at least five minutes away from the historical society by car.
He’s one, tops, on foot.
Barnes answers with a gruff “Yeah?”
“I know you’re in some kind of trouble,” she says in a rush, “but if you can take a risk and leave the apartment, I need you to do something for me.”
She waits for him to tell her that he can’t leave.
That he’s in hiding.
That they don’t work together anymore.
That she’s chasing a crazy whim.
“Tell me where to go,” he says, “and I’m there.”
Emerson drives past the Dapplebrook Inn, where she, the spurned Oswald’s great-granddaughter, could have locked herself away in Horace J. Mundy’s sumptuous suite if things hadn’t gone awry.
Instead, she pulls into the driveway alongside the historical society and parks around back beside Ora Abrams’s sedan, and she wonders what other secrets the old woman might have shared, had she not collapsed at the sound of Nancy Vandergraaf’s horrified screams.
Ah, irony.
Her whole damned life has been a series of ironic episodes from start to . . .
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