When she breathlessly pulled up, she assessed me. The cunning in her blue eyes pierced me. “You’re predicable, Aine. I know you inside and out.”
“Why bother with me if I’m such a middling example of a human?”
“It’s a long story. Do you like stories? I would think you must, since you’re studying literature. But do you? Truly?”
As I crested the top of the hill, I struggled to pick up my pace, cutting across the cemetery and angling through the woods. I was headed vaguely toward Author’s Ridge where Thoreau and his brethren were buried. Mischa danced beside me.
“Don’t you want to hear my story?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Each time I communicated with Mischa, I slid deeper into a frightening world. I jogged. My scraped knees complained, but the pain gave me a focus.
“I’m your burden to carry.” Mischa darted in front of me, forcing me to change directions and angle deeper into the woods. “Want to know why?”
“I want you to get the fuck out of my life.”
“Am I annoying you, Aine? A lot of annoyances have been eliminated from your life. I wonder how that happens.”
I dodged around the trunk of a large black oak. My ankle twisted on the uneven ground and I went down hard. The fall knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t catch my breath. For a moment, I thought I would die there, waiting for Mischa to move in for the kill. I cowered.
Nothing.
I opened my eyes. Above me in the branches of the oak, a large crow peered down at me. Granny Siobhan believed a solitary crow signaled impending death. Whenever we saw one crow, we hunted until we found another. A superstition, but one I remembered with the black eyes of the bird boring into me.
The crow cocked his head. His beak opened, and the sharp tongue flicked in and out, as if he tasted the air.
“Shoo!” I waved my arms and tossed a handful of leaves at him. He didn’t move, but his attention shifted to the distance. I followed his line of vision, wondering where Mischa had gone. And why. She could have killed me, but she hadn’t. And now she was gone.
I rose to my knees. Mischa was nowhere to be found. The crow clung to his perch not ten feet above my head. He was a big creature, maybe eighteen inches tall. “Shoo!” I stood and fluttered my hands at him.
He jumped to the ground and dared me. His attitude was more human than avian. He seemed to be old. And wise. A descendant of dinosaurs. And a harbinger of death.
I kicked leaves at him. The brown curls fell over his head and he didn’t budge.
Striving for calm, I turned to walk away. The bird’s lack of fear triggered my panic. I’d gone only a few feet when his beak pulled my pants leg. I pivoted to meet him head-on, and he hopped back to his original place.
“You devil.” I spoke in a low tone, and I heard the quiver in my voice. This was a bird. I could kick it to death if need be. I couldn’t allow my fear to break me. Surely I could defend myself against a two-pound bird. But at the back of my mind, I knew it was no ordinary crow.
He pecked at the leaf-covered ground, cawed, then pecked more. A grass plug came loose and he tossed it aside and attacked the dirt again. He was after something beneath the grass. The bird was showing me.
I eased forward and knelt. The bird held his position, pecking and looking at me, inviting me closer. I brushed the leaves slowly away and let my fingers rake the grassy earth. When I felt smooth, flat stone, I stopped.
In my peripheral vision, I saw a red blur in the woods some thirty yards away. Mischa in her red coat. But she had company. A young woman with auburn hair piled high on her head. The hem of her dark dress skimmed the ground.
She was there and then gone.
“Bonnie.” I whispered her name. I knew it was my aunt. She was in Sleepy Hollow. Anticipation drew me to my feet. “Bonnie?”
The woods were deserted. Even the crow was gone. The mystery of the stone slab remained, though. Easing down on my knees, I pulled at the runners of grass. The soil was dark and pebbled with rocks that tore at my fingertips. I didn’t feel the pain. I dug and pulled until the stone was unearthed.
It was a simple pale gray grave marker, long covered by grass, dirt, and leaves. Lichen and mold grew in the granite’s cracks, and for a moment, I thought I saw her name. Bonnie Cahill. But it was merely the broken stone and black mold, an illusion.
Bonnie was buried here, though. I knew it. I had no way to prove it, nor would I ever be able to. But I knew. At last, I’d found her. There was no record of her life, because it ended here in Concord when she was a young woman. Her death wasn’t recorded; her burial outside sanctified ground.
A mental vision held me captive until it played out. Henry David Thoreau’s thin figure labored over a shovel as he dug the grave. The night was dark, a moonless sky, but I recognized the cemetery in my vision—the exact place where I now knelt. The body of my aunt, wrapped in a bloody sheet, rested on the grass beside the grave.
He wept as he fought the unrelenting surface, and I wondered if his tears were for Bonnie or himself. The vision played out like a movie as I watched, helpless, unable to help or hinder Thoreau in his pursuit to bury my aunt’s body.
For I knew she was dead. This spot marked Bonnie’s grave. Mischa, for whatever purpose, led me to my ancestor’s final resting place. She’d told me Bonnie had never left Concord.
She hadn’t lied about that, though the journal had led me to believe Bonnie had survived Thoreau. With Mischa, the truth was a twisting snake, but I believed I had finally seen the truth.
How had my aunt died? Had a small child played a role? Mischa was responsible for Karla’s death. And Patrick’s. Had she murdered Bonnie too? Would I be next?
A sudden wind cut through the woods, rattling the bare limbs until they clacked and clattered like bones. I had to get home. The cemetery was no place to be alone on a gray winter day.
37
I ran down from Author’s Ridge to the bottom of the hollow. Tombstones, blackened by time, rose up around me. The angel Gabriel, hovering on a stone pedestal, glowered at me with malevolence. I didn’t slow. Panic drove me toward the cemetery entrance. At any moment, I anticipated Mischa stepping out from behind a headstone or marble guardian of the dead. She meant to harm me, but first she would torture me. I understood why I was Mischa’s choice. She meant to destroy me.
Granny Siobhan’s fears of the Cahill Curse were justified—and understated. Granny had tried to save me, but she’d failed.
If Bonnie called this creature to her and, in coming here to investigate Bonnie, I had somehow done the same, I’d sealed my own fate. Bonnie died young while residing at Walden Pond. Her lover, Thoreau, buried her in the town cemetery, but outside the consecrated plots of his family and friends. Even in death she was excluded.
Icy sweat trickled from my temples down beside my ears. The sensation of bugs crawling on my skin made me tear at my face with muddy fingers as I hurried. At last I reached the main entrance of the cemetery, and I forced myself to calm. There were people about. Not many, but a few of the living had come to share Christmas Day with the dead.
Terror coated the back of my throat. I had to get a grip on myself. At a seat made of rough stones, I rested for a moment. I couldn’t leave without finding a caretaker and locating possible burial plot sites for the Leahys. I’d promised Dorothea, and there was no escaping this duty. Before I spoke with anyone, though, I needed to rein in my panic.
A middle-aged couple, hand in hand, passed me. They looked with curiosity, then dropped their gazes to the pathway. Shock registered on their faces. I rubbed my cheeks on the shoulders of my coat, trying to dislodge the blood from the bird’s wing and the dirt I’d put there clawing at the sweat.
Watching the couple pass, I tried to deduce why they were in a cemetery on Christmas Day. Were they visiting a parent? A child? A sibling? They walked with great dignity, as if this holiday visit to the dead held special significance for them.
My answer came soon eno
ugh. They were visiting a dead son. I saw him a hundred yards ahead, a ghostly outline against a towering marble sculpture of a tree trunk. Beside him a faithful dog struck the pose of a pointer.
The tree and dog were incredible works of art, and I knew the boy had been loved, and his family had not lacked for money to erect such a memorial. He watched his parents, but at such a distance I couldn’t read his expression.
I could tell he was a young man. No older than eighteen and maybe younger. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a plaid jacket with the casual grace of a boy who kept fit and busy. I stood, compelled by an impulse I didn’t understand. I followed the couple, eager to eavesdrop on their conversation.
The woman spoke softly. “It won’t be long until we’re with him.”
“He has Peanut for company now,” the man said, and I knew he referred to the dog at the young man’s side.
“Such a waste,” she cried. “Some mornings I still can’t believe he’s dead. I wake up and think, what would Bryson like for breakfast.” The woman wept, and the man comforted her by hugging her close.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He lived exactly as he wanted.”
“I can’t accept it. It’s been ten years, and I still can’t accept that he fell down a mountain and that was the end of his life.”
For a moment I felt I was losing my mind. It couldn’t be, but beneath the disbelief, I knew it was. This was the grave of the boy who’d gotten me pregnant. He’d fallen into a chasm in a skiing accident. Yet perhaps it wasn’t an accident after all. Mischa was capable of anything.
The couple regarded the monument in silence for a time. At last the woman put the bouquet of red roses she carried on the grave. “Merry Christmas, son,” she said. “Soon. We’ll see you soon.”
The young man and the dog stood motionless. Sadness surrounded me, and I felt his grief. The couple stood a moment longer, and then turned slowly down the path. When they were gone, I went to the grave and read the headstone. Bryson Cappett, beloved son of Bertrola and Charles Cappett. A smaller headstone contained only one word. Peanut.
I looked around quickly. Mischa had to be nearby. She’d set me up for this. She wouldn’t miss watching.
The couple disappeared down a turn in the path, the woman in her dark green coat and heels, the man in a topcoat and fedora. They could have come from 1960 or from down the block. In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, time didn’t hold to the rules of the outside world.
There was no sign of Mischa. She was watching, of that I was sure. But she didn’t intend to show herself. It was enough that I now realized the scope of her manipulation. She’d tried to lure me to Concord before, and I’d failed to take the bait. I’d not come to see Bryson buried. There was no other reason for his death than her attempts to bring me to Concord.
The enormity of it froze my muscles. She’d killed my brother, possibly influenced my mother to kill herself, my father, Granny, Bryson, Karla, and now Patrick. She was a monster, just as Bonnie had labeled her.
The central caretaker’s office wasn’t far away, and I composed myself and headed in that direction. I limped slightly, though I didn’t slow. Willpower and determination drove me on.
In the distance, a young man in warm outdoor clothes fired up a gas-powered blower and scattered the fallen leaves from one of the plots.
“Excuse me.” I tapped his shoulder because the blower prevented him from hearing my arrival.
“May I help you, miss?” he asked after he’d turned the machine off.
“I need to find the availability of cemetery plots. For a family. The Leahys. Three gravesites.” Patrick would not have children. It was safe to assume this Leahy line was fading from the registers of Concord.
“In the newer part of the cemetery there are family plots available. And single, too. But most people want a place for their loved ones to be near. You need to speak to Mr. Tagget, the director. He’s off today.” He kicked at the leaves. “I’m just here for the last details so it looks good for the folks who’ll come by after church. Folks visit their relatives on Christmas.”
“I hate to interrupt your work, but could you show me a few possibilities?” I didn’t want to venture into the back sections of the cemetery, but with this young man at my side I felt safe from Mischa’s mischief.
He put the blower down and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “Right this way.” He fell into step beside me. “Christmas Day is a sad time to be looking for a burial place. You related to the Leahy kid who died at the inn last night?”
“Yes,” I said, unwilling to satisfy his curiosity further. “Please show me.”
“Remember, you have to complete the deal with the boss. I don’t handle the money.”
“It’s fine. I just want to have an idea of the location. His parents will finalize matters.”
He pointed up the hill. “There’s some space there. Still, it’s not right to bury a boy so young.” He set off up the incline. “Was he really murdered?”
“Yes,” I answered. “He was.”
38
The small Catholic church was somber, the pews plain and uncushioned, but sunlight sheered through the leaded glass windows, giving off jewel tones and a sense of holy peace. The gathering of Concordians spilled out of the church and into the yard. There wasn’t enough room for all who had come to pay their final respects to Patrick Leahy, murder victim.
I’d taken a seat in the back of St. Benedict’s and saved a place next to me for Joe. Chief McKinney had drafted Joe as a “consultant” with the investigation into Patrick’s murder. As a park ranger, Joe had training in law enforcement and the best tracking and woodland skills of anyone in the area. No one said it, but it was obvious to me that McKinney had moved to show his support for Joe and to stop malicious rumors before they sprang up.
Dorothea had spent the last two nights in the hospital—her blood pressure off the charts. She left the hospital against doctor’s orders to attend the funeral and sat up front with the family. I worried she might collapse before the service even began.
The hum of voices rose around me. Though the words were indistinct, the mood was palpable. Concord was upside-down with speculation and fear. I was now the inn’s only guest and had taken over Dorothea’s duties, though they mostly consisted of taking cancellations and unlocking doors for police detectives.
Joe spent every night with me, but we were both locked in private cells of silence. He refused to discuss the case, and I couldn’t bear to hear it. We went to bed and made savage, passionate love. But we didn’t talk. Not really. I had too many secrets.
Mischa hid from me. No fleeting sightings filtered through the trees as I ferried back and forth to the inn twenty times a day. She was there, though. I sensed her. And she left presents for me. A dead bluejay, crushed by a cruel hand. The tail of a squirrel, stump still seeping blood. A decapitated Barbie doll, her perfect body twisted and contorted into unnatural positions.
I spent hours at the inn, doing everything I could for Dorothea. I avoided the cabin, and I couldn’t bring myself to open Bonnie’s journal. The thing I’d viewed as my salvation now seemed a force of darkness. Mischa was attached to the journal. She was a co-author, if not the sole writer. I’d come to believe she sent it to me. By design.
She’d stolen my brother, then my mother. She’d driven my father to an early grave with alcohol. Even Granny Siobhan. I’d assumed she’d died of a heart attack. Natural causes. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter to me. To me.
Her death came shortly after the arrival of the journal. It had been left in the English Department of Brandeis. The secretary said she’d missed the delivery man, but there was no return address. My assumption was that Granny had sent it, a surprise to push me toward the Ph.D. she so desperately wanted me to have.
I’d learned differently when I wrote home—the mountains were no place for land lines or cell phones, so I’d dashed off a letter filled with thanks and my plans for my doctoral work.
But I hadn’t. I’d kept it. Thrilled by the potential it offered.
A week later, Granny was dead. The letter she’d begun to me had begged me to burn the journal and come home. And now I had to wonder whether Mischa had prompted her heart attack. Had she taken my grandmother because she attempted to thwart her scheme?
By reading the journal, had I called Mischa to me? Since I’d divorced myself from it, she’d disappeared. Perhaps all I had to do was steer clear of the journal and she’d stay away from me. And the people who crossed my path.
What would happen to Mischa if I burned the account of my aunt’s life? I’d considered this possibility before, but as I sat in the church listening to the final words spoken for Patrick Leahy, I now knew I had to destroy the journal somehow.
In the recent past, I’d been stopped by the possibility that somewhere in the journal was a way to destroy Mischa. My aunt Bonnie had powers. She’d seen and communicated with the dead. My own powers were developing apace. I’d seen Bryson and his dog in the cemetery. Sitting in the church, I caught the ethereal silhouette of a multitude of the dead hovering near the pulpit. Unlike Mischa, they had no desire to harm me. They ignored me, drifting about the place they viewed as a safe haven; but with practice, I might be able to get help from the other side.
The journal might unlock secrets to the world of the dead. I needed to read it one more time to find any help that I could before I disposed of it. I’d come to view the journal as a multi-leveled work. It captured the voice and emotions of who I had supposed was a dead relative who felt closer to me than anyone alive. Now, I believed the journal was a game designed by Mischa. The journal changed as she wished it, but I still believed there were answers written into the pages.
My kinship with Bonnie had been clear from the first paragraph. In a tragic way, I was reliving her life. The parallels were undeniable. And upsetting. I knew where both Bonnie and Thoreau were buried. I didn’t want to die in Concord as a young woman. If Bonnie’s journal could help me, I had to bring myself to read it again.
The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond Page 22