“I have to go home.” I was suddenly freezing.
“You have no home to go to.” The girl came toward me. Her hood slipped back and revealed eyes of solid black.
I turned to run, but I couldn’t move. The snow, so thick, trapped me, rising in a high wave to crest over me and wrap me in cold white.
29
For two weeks I wrote like a madwoman. My project involved mapping the months Bonnie spent at Walden. Her journal hadn’t been written to document her life. It was more intimate, her thoughts and emotions as much as factual information. Her focus was the life she shared with Thoreau. I used mentions of holidays and blooming plants to pinpoint dates as best I could. These I overlaid on the dates associated with Thoreau’s writing. It was slow and tedious work that left my shoulders aching and temples throbbing. Still, I was far from producing the documentation that would be necessary for my dissertation.
And then there was the journal itself. I’d read it numerous times and even committed much of it to memory, but I had difficulty finding passages I clearly remembered. I simply couldn’t locate them. In numerous passages, the words had shifted from what I recalled. Was my memory that faulty, or did my new perspective of Bonnie give some references meaning I’d never seen before? In addition to the passage on the Sluagh, there were half a dozen mentions of Bonnie’s attempts to connect with departed spirits that I would have sworn were new.
When I’d first read the journal, I’d been caught up in the romance between the two. My current examination revealed other, darker things. As I learned more about Bonnie and her association with the little girl in the woods, her written words took on a new interpretation.
Thoreau’s interest in my aunt’s abilities left me wondering about his motives in regard to her. Did he love her, or was he more interested in her talents than a romantic liaison? There were indications that he didn’t approve of her attempts to call up the dead, but then she would write of his desire to communicate with his brother, or with a dead poet or writer. The results of these sessions were aggravatingly vague. But much worse than that, they prompted me to doubt myself and my reading of the journal.
The process frustrated me.
Dorothea, and even Patrick, respected my desperation and left me in my solitude to write. Joe called each day after he got off work. We spent the nights drinking wine and making love. My passion for him was quick and dangerous, consuming me when he walked into the cabin. We made love like people drowning, clinging and gasping. Though I knew the dangers of being swallowed by need, I couldn’t stop myself, and neither, it seemed, could he.
When he was gone, my thoughts returned to my work. Rigid control kept me from seeking Mischa. I couldn’t afford to follow her down the rabbit hole she offered, and I doubted her truthfulness. At times I wondered if she was a creation I’d conjured simply to keep me away from my work. Fear of failure posing as a murdered child. Such would fit my family heritage. We were masters of self-sabotage.
Joe and I seldom talked—about anything. Our relationship was not about chitchat, yet I gleaned some information. Little progress had been made in Karla’s murder. While Joe might be a suspect in Karla’s death, he wasn’t the only one. Joe told me that a young man named Anton Dressler was the prime suspect. He sold meth and crack on the outskirts of Boston, and was rumored to be Karla’s dealer.
He’d been seen in Concord the day she died, and he was known to have a violent temper. Those who dealt with him did so in fear. His ruthlessness impressed even an addict.
So far Chief McKinney hadn’t broken Dressler’s alibi—four of his associates testified Dressler was at Trader Mike’s bar in a backroom high-stakes poker game that didn’t end until three Wednesday morning. The medical examiner put Karla’s time of death at Tuesday evening. The weather made it impossible to get an accurate time.
Neither the chief nor Joe believed Dressler. His alibi witnesses were thugs, pimps, and dealers, but they never changed their story during intense interrogation, and there was no real physical evidence to tie Dressler to the murder. In fact, the murder scene was remarkably clean. McKinney’s hands were tied.
Joe blamed himself for Karla’s death, though that was ridiculous. He tried to hide his guilt, but without success. It crept over his face in the quiet moments of exhaustion before he fell asleep. I did what I could, but I knew from my own family that outside intervention wouldn’t work. If Joe wanted to punish himself, he would, no matter what I said.
Ten days before Christmas, I woke unable to face the computer. Sun streaked through the windows of my cabin illuminating the quilt pattern with vivid colors. The snow was gone, and I felt as if I’d been in a deep sleep for weeks, in a world that was monochromatic, agonizingly slow, and composed of computer screens and books. I had to get out, to walk in the shadowed trees. Walden Pond called to me. I hadn’t been to the pond since before Karla’s death. The pond and surrounding woods were my muse. A visit might spark the creative flint that would ignite my writing again.
The day was glorious, and I hiked along, buoyed by the blue, blue sky and the sunshine. It was a day that alluded to the future hope of spring, though the browns and grays of trees and lawns let me know winter still gripped Concord. While it might be December, I could still dream of April.
For the first time in weeks, I was warm. Since my adventure in the deep snow, I’d been cold. My own skin felt corpselike, though Joe never complained. I realized these fancies stemmed from my imagination. My flesh was no colder than anyone else’s. Winter had slipped into my bones, and it came from Mischa, not the weather.
I deliberately turned my thoughts from the macabre and focused on life. I passed the dress shop I loved and continued on. Dorothea was planning a lavish Christmas Eve dinner at the inn. A troupe of players performed an annual comedic Christmas play involving literary icons: Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, Thoreau, and Emerson, as well as Emily Brontë, Charlotte Mary Yonge, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. It was literary theater I was eager to sample. The event was a fundraiser for local charities, and everyone who was anyone in town showed up.
Dorothea had been babbling about the dinner for days, and I’d finally consented to attend. I had the beautiful green dress I’d bought the day I fought with Karla. An extravagance far out of my normal expenditures, the dress begged to be worn. This was the perfect occasion. In truth, I wanted Joe to see me in something other than jeans and sweats. There was enough girlishness left in me to long for admiration in his eyes.
I’d even agreed to help Dorothea bake desserts. Granny Siobhan, a fabulous cook, churned out breads and cakes and cookies, and she’d taught me to make many of her specialties. Dorothea had been so kind to me, helping me through my illness and generally caring for me, the least I could do was spend a day or two helping her prepare for the party. Besides, I was sick of my own company and my contrary writing that moved forward by minuscule fits and starts. No matter how much thought and elbow grease I applied, my prose remained lifeless and boring.
I’d found it harder than I’d imagined to link Thoreau’s writing to Bonnie’s journal. The man was infernally distant. He wrote down every tiny thought he had, but not a single emotion. Nothing at all about a woman who loved him and cared for him. Nothing about a helpmate who made hot soups on blustery February days, or who chopped and brought in wood to keep the tiny cabin warm.
I’d begun to resent Thoreau for his cavalier treatment of my aunt. He presented himself as this solitary virgin, a man who loved the quiet and sought it so he could relate to nature. To my horror, I couldn’t help but now view him as something of a charlatan. The man who craved solitude had kept a mistress. He’d excised Bonnie from any record of his life, and I knew why. His reputation was more important to him than accuracy, and that I found dishonest. He should have married her if he was ashamed to “live in sin” with her.
Deep in thought, I passed Chief McKinney without seeing him. He called my name and I met him with a smile.
; “Glad to see you’re all recovered, though you are a mite pale,” he said.
“I’ve been working too much.”
“So Joe tells me. He says you’re a woman possessed.” He fell into step beside me as we continued down the street. I’d journeyed into town to buy binder clips and more Post-it notes before I took a jaunt around the pond. My intended purchases were just an excuse to get out in public, though. I was happy to stroll along with the Chief and chat.
“Any progress on Karla’s murder?” I asked.
He tucked his chin and kept walking. I didn’t press. McKinney now had two unsolved cases. Mischa Lobrano and Karla Steele. A disappearance and a brutal murder. The ten-year span between the two meant nothing to him. For all the cases he closed, these two would devil him.
At last he sighed. “I don’t understand why Karla was in the woods near Walden Pond. It doesn’t make sense as a place for a drug deal. The area is patrolled regularly. There are other places where privacy would be easier to come by.”
“Karla knows Joe patrols the state park land. She might have thought it would be safe.” I spoke without thinking but realized my mistake almost instantly.
The chief cast a sharp look at me. “Are you saying Joe wouldn’t arrest Karla because he knew her?”
“Not at all.” My words had exited my mouth in a crooked fashion. “Only that Karla’s perception might be skewed. She was a druggie. Logic isn’t their forte. I’ve had a bit of experience with addicts in Kentucky.”
“That’s true.” The frown remained on his face. “But there’s only one way in and one way out of the parking lot. No dealer in his right mind would agree to a transaction there. I don’t think her murder involved a drug deal.”
I could come up with no response. We continued in silence.
A youngster on a bicycle whizzed past, and McKinney called out, “Be careful, Brendan. You don’t want to be barreling into pedestrians.”
The boy rode on without looking back, but he waved a hand to signal he’d heard.
“He’s a good boy. A little thoughtless, but a good kid.”
“Shouldn’t he be in school?” I asked.
“I’ll speak to his parents.” Pause. “I’d rather be overly cautious than… .”
“Have a repeat of what happened to Mischa?”
His breath whistled harshly and he unfastened the top button of his coat. “She was precocious. And she loved Joe. She thought he hung the moon. If he said slugs were fascinating, Mischa thought they were the second coming. His interest in the woods and nature became her own. She was a bright child, and Joe said she had fallen in love with biology and science. He said someday she’d get a scholarship to one of the Ivy League schools if she wanted. She was that special, and I couldn’t uncover a single damn lead that went anywhere.”
“And it was her profound interest in science that put her in danger.” I said it because he wouldn’t.
“Yes, but it could have been field hockey, piano, or riding her bicycle. Anything could have put her in harm’s way.”
“What was she doing alone in the woods?” I almost blurted out “if she was so smart,” but I managed to bite it back in time. How smart was Mischa, though? The blonde in the hooded coat was cunning; had manipulated me in ways I still couldn’t explain. But cunning and smart were two different gifts.
“It was a miscommunication. She told her mother she was meeting members of her class. Helen never questioned it. Mischa was a reliable kid. Helen believed she was meeting her classmates.”
“Yet she was in the woods alone.” I wasn’t criticizing. Granny and my dad had allowed me to roam all over the hills and hollows near my home.
“She was a spirited girl who felt safe. Concord’s a town where folks look after the children. No one could have thought she’d be harmed after school. In broad daylight. In a place that’s a refuge. I would have let my own daughter lark about those woods. Her disappearance changed the town.”
“Which makes me think an outsider took her.” I’d followed his logic and found my own conclusion.
“Took her or killed her. We don’t know.” He smoothed his moustache. “Mischa and Karla share things in common. I can’t see anyone here taking Mischa or killing Karla. I’m not naïve about my town. There are plenty here who’d steal. And there are drugs and whores and all the things that come to play in modern society. But the brutality of the beating.” He opened his jacket another button. “She was struck in both eyes with the claw end of a hammer. The bones in her face were shattered.”
I turned slightly away to hide my discomfort. “How awful.”
“The strange thing is, the medical examiner said some of the blows were struck from below. As if Karla had been standing over her attacker.”
The image that came to mind stopped me dead. McKinney continued before he realized I’d halted. “What is it?”
I couldn’t say it. I simply couldn’t utter the words. “You’re positive the blows were struck from below?”
He nodded. “The coroner is positive. It doesn’t compute, you know. She should have run, or at least tried to get away. She must have been caught completely by surprise. Someone tricked her, I think. She never suspected.”
“I have to go back to the inn.” I spun.
“Wait, Aine. I’ll give you a ride. You aren’t strong enough.”
“I’m okay to walk.” I kept marching. I had to get to Walden Pond. I had to find Mischa. She’d done a terrible, terrible thing, and I had to know why.
30
The quiet settled around me like a blessing, but I had no time to enjoy it. My heart crashed against my ribs, and when a flock of small wrens startled from the tall grass and flew into the sky, I feared the Sluagh. My first impulse was to run as fast as I could back to the safety of the inn.
But that would accomplish nothing. The confrontation I didn’t want could no longer be avoided.
I knew exactly where to find Mischa. I passed the replica of Thoreau’s cabin and continued down the trail. The day had grown warmer, a balmy fifty-two according to the outdoor thermometer nailed to a tree beside the gift shop. I removed my jacket and tied it around my waist as I moved deeper into the woods.
When I spied the two oaks, I listened. The chirping and rustle of birds and small creatures had ceased, leaving a vacuum of complete silence. No wind stirred a limb. No tweet or scolding squirrel spoke of habitation by any species. Mischa had sucked the life from a place that had once been filled with busy creatures. She’d also managed to get her hooks into my existence. Who was she? What was she that she could slam a claw-foot hammer into a young woman’s eyes?
Her actions unreeled in my imagination like a disgusting movie. She curled, so innocent and helpless, right here beside the oaks. She must have looked like a broken doll to Karla. And Karla had gone to her, to offer assistance, as anyone would, to an injured child. And Mischa had struck with the speed and surety of a cobra.
“You wanted her dead.” She’d made no sound as she crept up.
“You don’t have a clue what I want.”
“Oh, but I do. You wanted her gone. Dead and gone. Once she came back to Concord, your biggest concern was getting rid of her. Permanently.”
She was going to frame me for what she’d done, and I’d played into her hands by coming here. Oh, she was clever indeed. “That isn’t true. I needed her in Nebraska. Not dead.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever you say, Aine.” Her tone made it clear she was humoring me, like I was the child.
“How did you get her alone here in the woods? “
“People see and hear exactly what they wish to see and hear. You know that, Aine. Look at your aunt Bonnie, in love with a man who failed to acknowledge her in any way. Yet she stayed with him. She cared for him. She taught him her secrets. The truth was staring her right in the face. He never meant to admit their relationship. His family would never approve of the likes of Bonnie Cahill, kin to an empire of cutthroats and thieves. But Bonnie wou
ldn’t see it.”
“Great lecture. How did you get Karla down here alone?”
“How did I get you to Yerby Road?”
“A trail of breadcrumbs.” Oh, yes, she was smart. “The shopkeeper. He told me exactly what you wanted me to know.”
“Was there ever a shopkeeper?” She giggled and the hair on my arms rose to attention.
“What are you?”
Her smile was slow, a fox staring at a crippled hen. With great deliberation she pushed back the hood of her jacket. Blond hair tumbled about her shoulders. In the curve of her cheek was the innocence of childhood. Her dark lashes kissed her soft skin until she opened her eyes. They were black and shiny, hard obsidians where blue should have been. “Does it matter so much what I am? Isn’t it what I can do that really intrigues you?”
I didn’t want to know any more of what she could do. What she had done. “Why me? No one else sees you. Why me?”
She turned toward the location where Karla had been bludgeoned to death. The area had been raked clean, and a tatter of yellow crime-scene tape hung limp from a tree branch. A dark stain splashed across a root. Blood.
“You called me, Aine. You summoned me.”
“No, no, I did not.” I longed to grab her and shake her, but I was too afraid.
“Yes, you did. All your life, you’ve known you could communicate with the dead. You tried to deny it, but deep down you knew. Coming here to Walden Pond, working on this topic for your dissertation. You wanted to know about your great-great-great aunt. You wanted to dance with the devil. It’s in your blood, after all. You read Bonnie’s journal and couldn’t wait to come here and find me.”
“Her journal is about Thoreau, not … this!” I waved a hand at her.
“You’ve always had a flair for fitting the truth to your needs. I wonder if your dissertation committee will see that and be generous. You had to know it would never be accepted without corroboration. A journal from the woman who shared Walden Pond with Thoreau? Who would believe it without physical evidence?” She laughed, and I had the sense she was empty. Sound echoed inside her. “That was never your goal. You came here to learn about your aunt’s talents. About me.”
The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond Page 17