The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond

by R. B. Chesterton

  I didn’t answer.

  “He meant no harm, and, from what Dorothea said, the ladies enjoyed his attention.” Joe sighed. “Chief McKinney will have to question everyone in the inn. And the guests for the Christmas party.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.” I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to tell the chief and Joe who had poisoned Patrick and also beaten Karla to death, but they wouldn’t believe me. No one would believe me. This was the last twist of the knife from Mischa. She couldn’t be accused of any crime she committed, because sane people didn’t believe she existed.

  This time I’d come back to the cabin and foiled her. I’d found the wine and glasses and I would destroy them. Had Joe and I come back together and discovered that open wine and two used glasses, he might have gotten suspicious. Or he might have drunk the wine. He would be dead, too.

  Was that her ultimate game? To kill everyone I showed any affection for? I simply couldn’t grasp her motivation.

  “Hey, you’re a million miles away, and from the looks of it, the place you’re visiting isn’t so nice.”

  “This is just so incredible. I can’t believe Patrick is dead. That he was poisoned.”

  “We won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but I’m willing to bet it’s strychnine. Twenty years ago, people used it to kill raccoons and stray dogs. It’s a terrible death, and now it’s illegal. But there was a time a person could buy it at the drugstore by simply signing a register. It isn’t that hard to come by.”

  I knew that from personal experience, but there was no point in saying so. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I should go home.”

  I clutched his shirtsleeve. “No. Please don’t!”

  A frown crossed his face and then was gone. “Are you afraid, Aine?”

  “Yes. Afraid of being alone now. I can’t bear it. Please don’t go. Spend the night. Please.”

  His answer was a tender kiss. He slowly unbuttoned the tattered dress I was still wearing and slipped it from my shoulders. My hose were ground into my knees. From the bathroom, he brought a pan of warm water and a cloth. “Lie back,” he said.

  He soaked the hose out of my wounded knees and removed then, giving my feet attention for their cuts and bruises. He assessed the damage. “It’s superficial, and some antibiotic salve will help.”

  “In the medicine cabinet.”

  In a moment he returned and smoothed the ointment into my battered flesh. It hurt, but I was strangely distanced from the responses of my own body.

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked as he pulled the covers over me.

  “My heart is damaged.”

  He didn’t laugh or mock me, but kissed my forehead. “How about some whiskey?”

  “Yes.”

  He fetched the bottle of good bourbon and two glasses. He gave it to me neat. “Drink up.”

  I wanted to drink until I forgot everything that had happened. I tossed back the bourbon and felt the burn travel from the back of my throat to my stomach. A momentary churn made me fear I’d vomit, but it settled and I was left with the spreading warmth of the liquor.

  Joe eased into bed beside me and we curled together. Before too much time passed, I heard his regular breathing and knew he’d drifted to sleep. The desire to follow him was great, but I couldn’t.

  No matter that Mischa was not in the cabin. She was in my head, and I had no clue how to exorcise her. Tomorrow, though, I would explore that option. There were plenty of Catholic churches in Concord, and though I’d left the pomp and ritual of the church far behind me, I knew where to find a priest.

  I drifted into sleep, and found myself floating in warm brine. Beneath me a huge white body coursed by. The water pulsed with the passing of the mammoth creature. My body got caught in the backwash, and I was pulled deeper out to sea. The creature passed again and again, never touching me, but inexorably dragging me away from land and safety. Struggle as I might, I couldn’t break the thrall of the whale.

  When no land was visible on the horizon, the whale surfaced. One blurry eye pinned me, and a rush of red blood shot from its blowhole. “You’ve met your destiny, Aine Cahill.” It spoke to me telepathically.

  “Do you know the child?” I asked.

  A gout of blood blew into the air and fell over both of us. “I do. And so do you.”

  The whale dove, and I was left alone a thousand miles from land.

  When I woke up sweating, I eased away from Joe’s body and slipped from the bed. I staggered and nearly fell when I saw the doll sitting on the fireplace hearth. I looked around the dark cabin, but Mischa was gone. She didn’t linger when Joe was around.

  Beside the doll was Bonnie’s journal, open to a page near the end of my aunt’s tenure at Walden Pond. Bending forward to hold the journal to the firelight, I read.

  Henry has gone into town. He’ll lunch with his parents, and I am left here alone, sick and scared. She left me a present today. The doll has a beautiful face, but the four little teeth are somehow disconcerting. The toy of a child should not have teeth. But I know this is not a doll for a child. This is meant for me. I have found the use for my hair she stole. The doll has my hair. She wears a tiny replica of my very own dress. The doll is me. I think she means to take my soul and put it into the doll for her pleasure.

  And then I think that I am truly going mad that such terrible thoughts come to me.

  At last I knew Mischa’s ultimate motive. She had written it in the journal while I slept beside Joe. I feared for my soul.

  The journal entry ended. I braced against the stone fireplace, lightheaded with terror. Poor Bonnie. I knew exactly how she felt.

  The doll leaned against the hearth, her little hands perfectly formed at her sides. She wore cloth, button-up shoes patterned after the style of the mid-1800s. I touched the hair. My aunt’s dark auburn locks had not faded with time. It was still soft and lush. Like my own.

  “Bonnie, are you in there?” I whispered.

  The doll’s blue eyes opened. The tiny teeth pressed into her lip. For a moment I imagined her mouth moved as if she meant to talk, but no words issued from the doll.

  “Bonnie?” I whispered as I glanced at Joe. He was still sound asleep, unaware that something dark and cruel had entered his life. “Bonnie?” I shook the doll lightly but stopped when Joe shifted to his back in the bed. He looked so vulnerable asleep.

  My impulse was to chuck the doll into the flames. To be rid of it even at the cost of destroying my aunt’s image. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to burn it. What if Bonnie’s soul was trapped inside? Would she burn too?

  I held the doll as I sat motionless in the rocker until the peachy glow of sunrise tinted the cabin window. Another day had begun. The night had passed, and I had much to do.

  36

  The morning sun couldn’t penetrate the gray clouds that clotted the sky like huge curds. Snow or rain was imminent. The weather reflected my mood perfectly.

  Joe helped me cook breakfast at the inn. He was handy in the kitchen, and he brought in firewood for the dining room fireplaces. A snapping fire helped alleviate the gloom, but the smell of the sausage Joe fried was almost more than I could take. Empty and grieving, I attended the chore that confronted me.

  Dorothea tried, but she burst into tears without warning, so I sent her to her quarters. The guests knew about Patrick’s death, and several were crying when they showed up in the dining room. The atmosphere was somber. Joe and I did our best, but food was not the solution for what ailed any of us.

  By eight-thirty, a half-dozen guests had checked out and the rest were packing. Joe loaded the cars, while I figured bills, ran credit cards, and tried without success to work as efficiently as Dorothea. When the morning rush was over, Joe went to work and I went to talk to my friend and landlady.

  She was huddled in her bathrobe staring out her bedroom window at the gray winter morning. Christmas Day. I’d forgotten all about the holiday.

  “The kitchen is clean and the gu
ests have gone,” I said. “Can I bring you some breakfast?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Aine. I couldn’t face people this morning, but I must pull myself together. Patrick’s family needs me. It’s the least I can do, considering he was poisoned here.”

  “We don’t know that, Dorothea. No one else got sick.”

  “I have to understand how this happened.” She spoke to herself more than me.

  Something outside the window caught her attention, and dread made me rigid. “What’s out there?”

  “Just a child. She’s gone now.”

  I wanted to ask Dorothea to describe what she’d seen but couldn’t trust myself not to overreact. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  She shook her head and swallowed back a sob. “I hate the idea of an autopsy. He was such a beautiful young man.” She struggled to hold back her tears. “But as soon as the autopsy is done, the Leahys will bury him. They don’t have a funeral plot. I told them I’d walk through the old cemetery on the hill to find a few suitable spots. They moved here when Patrick was ten, so they have no family buried in the area. I thought it would be nice if he could rest in Sleepy Hollow.”

  “I can check for you.” I didn’t mind spending an hour with the likes of Thoreau and Emerson. The old cemetery was quiet, beautiful, and a good place to think. Perhaps I would be inspired to a solution about Mischa. Then again, it might also be the perfect place for Mischa to seek me out. “But maybe you should—”

  “Would you?” Dorothea spoke with such relief, I couldn’t back out.

  “Of course. I’ll do it now.” The day had warmed, but the overcast skies seeped gloom. At ten o’clock on Christmas Day not many people would be visiting the cemetery. I could do a quick walk-through and scout a few locations for Dorothea. I could also revisit Thoreau’s grave. He was buried with his family, but I wondered where Bonnie’s final resting place might be. What had Mischa ultimately done with her corporeal flesh?

  The walk into town revealed an isolated community. No childish laughter rang out to celebrate the joy of a new sled or football. The town was quiet. I wondered if it was Patrick’s death, or just that folks were inside their homes with a Christmas fire, celebrating as families were wont to do.

  In Kentucky, Christmas was a time for outdoor games. A few children would receive ice skates to be used on shallow ponds. I’d never checked for a local rink that offered ice skating, but the notion of children outside seemed to belong to a past century.

  Ice skating had always been a fantasy of mine—that I would glide gracefully across the ice on one leg, dressed in a red hat and mittens. I’d bend and pull my extended back leg around and spin, a blur of color. The fantasy made me smile.

  The truth was that I’d borrowed my cousin’s skates and nearly killed myself. The ease and fluidity I’d imagined remained out of my grasp. My cousin Janelle was like a dancer on the ice. She could spin and swoop, skating backward and even jumping in moves she saw on television.

  When she died in a car wreck driving down the mountain, her mother gave me her skates. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have Janelle’s grace or nerve. I’d been so innocent then. Fervent desire centered on simple goals, like ice skating.

  The contrast to my current desires elicited a sigh. I wanted to rid myself of a child who was either demon or malevolent spirit who had not only the power but the will to hurt the people around me. And me. If Bonnie’s journals were correct, this child had tormented her. How did one escape such a haunting?

  The parking lot of St. Benedict’s Holy Catholic Church was jammed, so I walked on to the cemetery. Best to get the gravesite chore done. With the clouds wallowing on the horizon, I wanted to get back to the cabin.

  I’d come to associate Mischa with darkness and woods. The cemetery was shaded but not close like the path to the cabin or the old shack off Yerby Lane. There were wooded areas, but the paths winding around the graves were open and clearly marked. I would not tarry among the dead. I had enough sadness without reading the heartbreak carved into some of the stones.

  Sleepy Hollow was an addition to the original Concord burial ground and had been dedicated by Emerson, who served on the cemetery committee. I had learned this from Dorothea. Her family was buried here, but their plots lay in a western segment.

  As I turned off Bedford Road and into the cemetery, a cold chill slipped under my collar. The old lichen-covered graves blended into the landscape, almost like the stones erupted from the soil. From Upland Avenue, I took a northerly direction. There was no one around to ask about empty plots, so I simply searched for unclaimed spaces. I’d investigated the cemetery back in the early fall when the rich yellow leaves of the asters flamed against the deep green firs.

  The terrain was hilly, and I paused to admire the bare tree trunks and stone outcroppings. This land could be hard, but equally so the people who settled here.

  I was glad the trees were bare. Deep shade would generate anxiety and the expectation of red. The silvery black limbs of the trees reached into the gray sky and I continued on to Author’s Ridge where Thoreau, the Alcotts, Emerson, Hawthorne, and their families were buried. For a small town in the mid-1800s, Concord and the surrounding area had produced a surprising outpouring of literary genius. My determination to come here to write was predicated on that. My subconscious hope had been that a spark of genius would ignite in me from near proximity to great minds. Even though they were great minds of the dead.

  Leaving the trail behind, I climbed over the ridge and down to Cat’s Pond on the far side. Tranquil and quiet, the terrain forced me to acknowledge how deeply I’d grown to care about Walden Pond. So much of Bonnie lingered there, too. To write my dissertation, I needed the feel of the place she’d loved.

  Perhaps, though, it was time to pack up and abandon Concord. To head where? A question without an answer. The original idea was to stay at the inn until my dissertation was completed and turned in. I would defend it in April, which was easily doable while living at Dorothea’s place. I’d planned for this ever since I’d understood the potential of Bonnie’s journal.

  “Bonnie never left here, you know.”

  Mischa had arrived. I should have known I wouldn’t escape her. I didn’t hurry to look at her.

  “Where did Bonnie go after Thoreau left Walden? Do you even know, or is this another little game of yours?” I walked south toward the ridge. If I could get back to the main part of the cemetery, maybe a groundskeeper would make an appearance. Mischa wouldn’t ply her torment in front of anyone else. In my experience, her joy depended on my being alone.

  “You can’t outdistance me.”

  She had the uncanny ability to read my mind. “Watch and see.”

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for the doll?”

  I whirled to confront her. The red hood was back, revealing her sweet face. How could such a countenance cover such wickedness? “How did you steal my aunt’s hair?”

  “I don’t steal. She gave it to me.” She laughed and skipped ahead. “She did. I asked for a lock of her hair and she gave it to me.”

  “The doll’s head has more than a lock. You cut her hair while she slept.”

  She circled me, dancing merrily. “She’d already given me some. I took the rest. She didn’t care a whole lot.” She personified innocence. “There was nothing she could do about it, anyway. You’re curious now, Aine. That’s good. Once you explore and understand, you’ll view me differently. You’re lonely. There’s no one who sympathizes with you like I do. I can be such a boon companion. Much better than Patrick. He intended to create trouble for you. Surely you know I’m telling the truth. He was going to get all high school and spill your secrets to Joe and Dorothea. They’d be shocked, wouldn’t they?”

  Her speech was disconcertingly modern. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “You set me up to take the fall for killing Patrick. You poisoned him with wine, and you left the bottle and glasses where they could be found in my possession.
I would have been charged with murder.”

  A flock of birds burst from bare trees on the lip of the ridge. They flew up into the air and then cut sharply left to aim straight at me. I ducked as they streaked by. The brush of a black wing sliced across my cheek. When I put my hand to it, blood smudged my fingers.

  “What did you do with the bottle and glasses?” she asked. “You’re clever. Did you bury them? You’re too smart to leave them in the cabin where they could be found. Though I doubt Dorothea will feel up to searching your abode any time soon. Guilt is crushing her, poor thing.”

  “What are you?” This time I asked with fear, not anger.

  “Just a lost little child. Someone you should pity and protect.”

  I didn’t believe her, but I was too much a coward to contradict her. “What do you want with me?”

  She giggled. “Silly! You called me here. What do you want?”

  The farce she was playing made my fists clench in helpless frustration. “I want you to go away.”

  She put her hands behind her back and swung her body back and forth. “Not gonna happen. We’re sort of like … sisters. Don’t you see? I could never leave you alone without a friend. We belong together. It’s part of the deal. The Cahill deal. You can see me, Aine.”

  “I don’t want to see you. I did fine without you.”

  “Not true.” She skipped backward, staying just out of my reach, as if she knew I would gladly choke the life from her.

  “You can’t kill me, Aine. I’m part of you. We’re peas in a pod, two of a kind, made for each other. You know all the clichés.”

  “If anyone had found the wine with the poison, I would have been arrested and convicted. What fun could you have with me then?”

  “Not a chance. I knew you’d find them.” She held her arms out, dipping and gyrating. Her blond hair whipped around like a golden skein, and a deeper terror touched me. She could pass for the most adorable child.