“At dinner, that night, she kept saying things, talking about the future, about the boy, as if she were a devout mother and we were such a happy family. I—I couldn’t stand it. I was growing ill listening to her lies. She had lied to me from the very beginning. She only married me because she thought I would be easy to manipulate. Because other men were smart enough to see her for what she was. I finally could take no more. I told her to keep quiet. Before all our guests I told her to just keep quiet! And that’s when she did it. She must have planned it. She must have egged me on until she knew I could stand no more.” He pressed his temples. “She must have put that bottle there before the meal was served. My God, it didn’t belong on the sideboard, but hidden away with the cleaning supplies in the kitchen! She must have planned—” He put his fists to his eyes and rubbed as if trying to rub away the vision of that night.
“It was horrible. I don’t think she knew how horrible it would be. I don’t think she knew it would really kill her. Her parents told me the next day of her past attempts. She had cut herself in front of them. She’d climbed on bridge railings. She’d even taken poison. Not out of depression or melancholy. It was selfishness. Always to get attention and sympathy and her own way. And they’d never told me. I was never warned.”
After his wife’s death, he’d gone a little mad. He’d moved with baby Justin into his old bedroom in his parents’ home. He’d done nothing except care for the boy. He didn’t read, he barely slept, he ate only enough to stay alive. He couldn’t see from one minute to the next. He’d once had his whole life planned, and then suddenly he didn’t know what he would be doing in five minutes.
And then he’d seen the calendar on his bedroom wall. Balancing Justin in his arm, he’d picked up a pencil, found the day’s date and wrote “feed justin.” In the next day’s space he wrote “take justin to park.” And in the next “buy justin new clothes.” His mind began to clear. The neat boxes of the calendar were so easy to see, so easy to understand. Life was no longer a huge blur but a series of neatly ordered boxes. He began to plan. He wrote in another space “apply university wash.,” and then “sell house.” This last he stared at a moment before erasing and rewriting “visit attorney.” Yes. That was the first step in selling a house, especially since his was still encumbered. Justin had begun to grow heavy in his arms, so he set him gently in his cradle then took the calendar from the wall, went to the writing desk and spent the next hour putting his life in little white boxes with his neat, engineer’s printing.
He’d been keeping his life in order in that same way ever since.
Missouri, still kneeling at his feet, reached up and slipped her hand into his. Her skin was warm, her hand light. “I had noticed you put some rather obvious things on your calendar.”
“Obvious?”
“Yes, like on Sundays, ‘attend Mass’ and ‘read newspaper.’ Would you forget to do those things if they weren’t written down?”
“No, I wouldn’t forget. I just feel better when I have it all down.”
“You never leave any day blank?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“Not once in eight years?”
“No. Never a blank day.”
“Tell me what you did next, after you began to fill in the calendar.”
“There were no openings at the university. The engineering department hadn’t yet been established. I moved out here anyway and worked for a year as a lineman for Seattle Electric.”
“And eventually became a teacher.”
“Yes. And, well, nothing much has happened since. I’ve kept busy raising my son and teaching.” He looked into Missouri’s dark, simmering eyes. “I’m sorry about your book.”
A crooked smile touched her mouth. “It was very dry reading.”
“Oh? I find the telephone fascinating.”
He was relieved it was over. He’d told her, they need never speak of it again. His life with Rachel had become like a photograph too often inspected and he could see nothing anymore but the grains, the tiny pieces. He was unable to feel anything but concern for his son.
“Justin must never know. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Of course. There are some things a child should never be told.”
He searched her eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.
She moved closer, pressing her body against his legs to grasp both his hands. She was warm and soft, her soul visible in her eyes, open and tender. He hadn’t been this close to anyone since the early days of his marriage. He hadn’t been looked at with such warm affection by anyone other than his mother, ever.
She spoke softly. “I know I haven’t known him long, but I do love your little boy. There’s something very precious—“
He didn’t recall lifting his hand, but he found he was stroking her face, his fingertips skimming her warm skin along her cheek. Her mouth was open slightly, but she was no longer speaking. Her eyes had widened and were looking at him in wonder. Her breath quickened, he was aware of it, and she was pressing yet closer, but he had no thoughts, only overwhelming desire that seemed on the verge of drowning him.
His fingertips continued on toward her lips, and he felt her breath, warm, moist—and alarm struck him like a physical blow. He pressed her away and sprang to his feet, nearly toppling her.
She stood facing him, a hand on her cheek where he’d touched her, her mouth still open, her eyes—confused? Alarmed?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what—it was all the talking, and you said—” You said you loved my son, and I saw in your enchanting eyes that you meant it, and my God, I love you. “I’m sorry.” He turned, heart racing, and fled to his room.
Chapter Twenty-five
Golden sun slanted through the sheer curtains into Bradshaw’s bedroom, mingling with the fresh spring air and birdsong wafting in through the open window. He lay in bed, hands behind his head on the pillow, watching the leaves of the birch tree shiver. He’d slept deeply most of the night, dreaming only as dawn approached of crackling sparks, waves of smoke, a mouth warm and drowning sweet, pulling him over the edge of a waterfall.
That’s when he woke.
That’s when he knew.
The truth had come to him, slipping under the edges of sleep, and he wondered if he had known all along.
A moment of self-examination told him no. All he’d lived and learned since Oglethorpe’s death had brought him here to this knowledge. His chest felt heavy. He didn’t relish what he must face today.
Not any of it.
He bathed and dressed and joined his household at the kitchen table for a breakfast of thick crisp bacon and brown-sugar-sweetened oatmeal. Missouri had cooked, and it was she who served him, placing the fragrant food before him then taking her own seat. He avoided catching her eye, but he watched her. He couldn’t help himself.
A tinge of color on her cheeks might have been from standing over the hot stove. But why did the color linger? And what had she done to her hair? It was puffed a bit, the short ends curled. As he looked, she tucked a curl—self-consciously—around her ear. He tore his gaze away.
Mrs. Prouty placed the morning newspaper beside his plate. She’d folded it to highlight a headline that read: Man Defies Falls! A black-and-white photograph of Snoqualmie Falls, taken from the trail below, revealed the black outline of a figure in a crouched position at the brink holding a round object aloft. Bradshaw’s eye swiftly caught details: Unknown daredevil, wheels reported stolen at Fall City, Dittmar baffled. He turned the article face down and picked up his fork. Mrs. Prouty expected the full story. But not now. Not in front of Justin.
The boy was trying to balance what Mrs. Prouty called a “rasher” on the tip of his nose.
“Bacon goes in the mouth, not on the nose.”
Missouri held her bacon as if about to join Justin’s antics and she flashed Bradshaw a mischievous grin he was too slow to escape. His heart gave a little leap. Did he imagine he saw a flickering question in her eyes? Did she look away so quickly on purpose?
He lifted his own rasher, and balanced it easily on the tip of his nose.
Justin’s delighted laughter was his reward. “Dad, you’re a lot more fun than you used to be.”
“Senility.” He removed the bacon.
“Nonsense,” Missouri countered. “It’s spring fever. Gets us all eventually. Uncle Henry got it first.”
Was she giving him an excuse for his behavior last night? Would he be forgiven as easy as that? He felt her watching him but couldn’t bring himself to look.
Justin tapped his bacon on his plate. “Uncle Henry has gold fever.”
“True,” Missouri agreed, “but gold fever in the spring is the worst. I’ve got a bit of it myself. Or maybe I should call it school fever. I’m itching to explore the women’s dorm up on the university campus.”
Mrs. Prouty, standing at the sink, straightened up. Bradshaw froze.
Justin’s young voice asked, “Why?”
“Because I’m going to live there when I go to the university.”
They were all silent. Mrs. Prouty remained motionless at the sink.
Justin was the only one to voice his concern. “But you live here.”
“I’ll live on campus once school starts in the fall. If I pass my exams that is. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”
“Can’t you live here like dad does and ride a bike to school?”
“I have my job at the hotel, remember. I can’t be spending all my time going back and forth. No, I’ve given it some thought and I’d like to live on campus like a real co-ed. Don’t you want to live on campus when you go to university?”
Bradshaw’s appetite had fled. He’d done this. He’d frightened her from the safety of his home.
“I’m always going to live here with Dad and Mrs. Prouty,” Justin said, with all the certainty of youth.
Missouri feigned surprise. “Always?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What about when you get married?”
“My wife can live here too. She can help Mrs. Prouty.”
Justin chewed happily, seeming content with his vision of life at his childhood home, his wife scrubbing pots with Mrs. Prouty. Bradshaw wondered if their domestic arrangement had given him too narrow a view of women.
“Dad, when will Uncle Henry get to Alaska?”
Bradshaw cleared his throat and stirred his congealing cereal. “Another few days yet.”
“Can I send him a letter?”
“I’m sure Henry would be happy to hear from you. But remember what it was like when he went a few years ago? The mail can be very slow and is often lost.”
“I could write him every day, and then if some get lost, he’ll still get the others. Will you do other fun stuff I can tell him about?”
Missouri tousled Justin’s hair, and the boy beamed. “How about we all write him letters, you, me, your father, and Mrs. Prouty. We’ll bombard him with letters.”
Mrs. Prouty grunted, and moved again for the first time since Missouri’s announcement. “Me? I ain’t got a blessed thing to say to Henry Pratt. What would I put in a letter?”
“You could write about things you do during the day,” Justin innocently supplied. “You could tell him about making bread, and about the moving picture you saw on Saturday with your cousin. He’d like to hear about that.”
Mrs. Prouty mumbled something about giving it some thought, then turned the faucet on full bore and became consumed in the washing up.
“Dad, you have to write Uncle Henry about the moving picture they made at your school. Remember he wanted to see if he was in it? Was he in it? Did you see it yet?”
“Someone made a moving picture at the university?”
Bradshaw kept his eyes on his breakfast. He could hear curiosity in Missouri’s voice, he knew she was smiling. He did not need to look to know. “Henry was on campus the day the senior students had their camera set up. He danced a jig and made a general fool of himself. The students loved it, but they didn’t include it in the picture they showed us.”
Justin snorted. “Aww, that’s no fair. What did they put in?”
“A lot of very boring stuff, like shots of stuffy old professors gesturing at blackboards, a tour of the campus and laboratories—” The hair on the back of Bradshaw’s neck stood on end.
“Dad?”
“Huh?”
“You stopped talking.” Justin giggled, and Bradshaw realized he had. He had also stood up.
“I’ve got to go.” He kissed the top of Justin’s head, nodded in Missouri’s direction, and when he passed Mrs. Prouty on his way to the door, he said, “Pardon me,” and tipped his hat to her as if she were a total stranger.
***
The dreadful images flickered against the plaster wall of the walk-in utility closet. Bradshaw, sweating slightly from the effort of learning unaided how to feed the eighteen millimeter film around the series of internal spools in the wooden cabinet of the Kinetoscope, waited impatiently for his own hideous image to vanish. And yet—he recognized how much he had changed since the film was made. He knew his face no longer drooped in that resigned manner. His step, his movements, now had energy and life.
Professor Hill was next, curly-headed and youthful, looking cheerful as usual. And then there was Oglethorpe. Professor Oglethorpe, tall and arrogant, his pompous stance making the shallow curve of his bones appear all the more concave. On the plaster wall, Oglethorpe was strangely animated, returned to a ghostly sort of life. Bradshaw wished that image could speak. What would he have to say about the mystery of his death? If someone else had died, would Oglethorpe have solved it by now? With his brilliant mind for theories, where would he have looked for evidence?
“The trouble with you, Bradshaw,” Oglethorpe had once said to him, “is that you can’t see past the end of your nose.”
There was truth to that, Bradshaw knew. He liked the visible, the concrete. He knew who had killed Oglethorpe, now he needed to know how. He needed proof.
He went over the clues again. The ink flakes in Oglethorpe’s hair and clothes and on the back of McKinley’s chair. The angled burn mark in Oglethorpe’s left palm. The fragments of McKinley’s bulb.
He knew where the lethal current had come from, but how had it been delivered in such a manner that Oglethorpe allowed himself to be in harm’s way?
The Kinetoscope continued to play. The Electric Machine appeared now, flickering against the wall as it had been a few weeks ago, completely assembled. The “Welcome McKinley” sign was there. Bradshaw halted the film and stepped closer to the wall, squeezing past the brooms to get a better look.
He set the picture moving, stopping it when the image revealed the lab in full. He went close again, peering at the black-and-white image of the ceiling, trying to count the wires that ran beside the conduit. But each time he got close enough to see, his head was in the way of the projected image. One, two, three, four. Five? Was there a fifth in the image?
He switched off the Kinetoscope and opened the closet door, letting in the streaming sunshine. He fetched the ladder he’d used the other day, and, after placing it where the Electric Machine had been, climbed to the top step and stretched his fingertips to the ceiling to hold himself and the ladder steady. He was too focused to celebrate his lack of dizziness. One, two, three. Four. Just four insulated wires ran parallel the conduit. Four dark insulated wires that were easily accessible so that they could be moved to different experiments. He looked down the length of the ceiling, following the wires to where they disappeared in the far w
all.
He came down off the ladder.
He pulled from his jacket pocket the white handkerchief he’d brought from home that contained the dried flake of India ink he’d pinched from Oglethorpe’s hair. He opened the cloth carefully, and shook the flake gently onto the glass plate of the lab microscope. Under magnification, the sparkling black bit revealed its secrets. It was thin and curved, telling Bradshaw what he suspected—it had been painted lightly onto something with a rounded surface. Painted onto a bare copper wire.
Now he knew how.
A fifth wire had been temporarily strung up this wall and across the ceiling, just above the marked spot where McKinley was to sit holding up his souvenir bulb. The end of the wire had been stripped of its protective insulation. The exposed gleaming copper had been painted with black India ink. India ink was made of nearly pure carbon, a superior electrical conductor.
That fifth wire had been harmless until connected to a source of high voltage. It was this that had puzzled Bradshaw up until now. But he had seen with his own eyes a mysterious small black box transform low voltage to high. That demonstration had been, impossibly, of direct current from batteries, but he’d been told by its inventor that the device also worked with alternating current—with the current available at every electrical outlet in this lab.
How the components of that small black box worked still puzzled Bradshaw, but that didn’t matter just now. It was enough that he knew that if the black box was connected to the building’s current it could step up the voltage to dangerous levels. Like turning on a faucet full blast. And that black box had been connected to that fifth black wire that was tripped, as designed, and fell.
A Spark of Death Page 19