Help for the Haunted: A Novel

by John Searles

  Back at the hotel, the three of us climbed the stairs to the second floor, a weary silence all around. The moment my father snapped on the light in our room, we saw Rose curled beneath the covers in one of the beds. She lifted her head from the pillow. “Hey.”

  “Hey?” my father said.

  “Where were you?” my mother asked.

  “Uncle Howie took me to—”

  “You know what?” my father shouted. “Never mind. How did you get in here?”

  “The lady at the front desk gave me a key.” Rose yawned, messed with her hair. “She’s one of those too-tan Florida freaks. I took one look at her wallet face and—”

  “Let’s go!” my father shouted, charging toward the bed. He ripped back the covers and yanked Rose by the arm, lifting her up and off from the mattress. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  “Ow! Go where?”

  “Don’t ask! Just do what I say for a change! Now!”

  My sister still had on her T-shirt and jeans from earlier, though her sneakers were off. While my father kept squeezing her arm, she made an effort to get her balance and slip her feet into them. All the while, Rose looked to my mother and me. The defiant expression she wore when slamming the truck door earlier gave way to something frightened. Normally, I knew my mother would have made some effort to calm the situation, but after the way Rose had behaved at the convention center, she just turned away, walked to her suitcase, and pulled out her nightgown. My sister barely managed to get her feet into her sneakers before my father began jerking her toward the door. Rose stumbled as she stared back at me. My mouth opened to say something that might stop it, but what words would he listen to? In the end, I just stood there, mute as that girl who emerged from the bushes.

  Once they were gone, the room filled with a heavy silence. My mother walked to the window, not to stare outside, but to adjust the curtains. There wasn’t enough fabric to cover the glass, so she had to choose where the light would come in the next morning: down the middle or at the sides. I watched her sample both before choosing the middle. After that, she told me I might as well get ready for bed too.

  When she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, I listened to the faucet handles squeak, the water run. The hard, cinnamon-colored suitcase I shared with Rose lay open on the floor across the room. I had every intention of doing as my mother said, but stopped to look out the window. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see fat moths doing a sloppy flutter beneath a light, but no trace of my sister and father.

  At last, my mother emerged from the bathroom. She wore a knee-length white nightgown, her feet bare so she must have forgotten her slippers back in Dundalk. Since she was never the type to walk around the house in sleeping clothes, I rarely saw her this way. Unpinned, her hair fell past her shoulders, revealing more silvery streaks than were apparent in her bun. That hair, that gown, that pale skin, made her look ghostly—a vision worthy of those slides on the screen at the convention center.

  “It’s been a long day, Sylvie, and an even longer evening. We need our sleep. Now come away from the window and get ready for bed.”

  I stared outside again at those moths around the light. “Where did Dad take her?”

  “I’m sure he just wanted to talk with Rose about what she did.”

  “Why outside?”

  “Well, since it was not going to be the quietest of conversations, it only makes sense to have it someplace where they won’t wake the other guests in this hotel.”

  “But I don’t see them out there. I don’t hear them either.”

  “They’re probably farther away. Down in the parking lot. Now try not to worry, Sylvie. I know it’s hard. Your sister’s behavior this evening upset me too. But difficult as it is to watch your father be so tough on her, it’s what she needs. Something has gone wrong with Rose, and we’re working hard to make it right.”

  I didn’t want to turn my attention away from the world outside that window, but I forced myself. Pajamas. Hairbrush. Toothbrush. Once I pulled those things from the suitcase, I slipped into the bathroom. When I stepped out, I saw that my mother had unfolded the cot my father ordered. On account of his back, he needed his own bed. He and Rose could work out who slept where when they returned, my mother told me, and I could sleep with her.

  Before pulling down the covers, she knelt and clasped her hands in prayer. When I was little, I used to kneel with her each night when she came into my room to tuck me in. No longer. And my prayers had become more of a mental wish list I ticked off with my head on the pillow. Still, I knew she expected me to join her, so I knelt on the opposite side of our hotel bed. Eyes closed, I prayed that my father and Rose would stop fighting. I prayed that whatever had gone wrong with Rose would go right, just the way my mother said. After that, I waited in silence until I heard her stand, and I stood too.

  In bed with the lights off, we listened to the rise and fall of each other’s breaths. Rather than her usual milky scent, I smelled the perfumed hotel soap on her skin. How much time passed? I was not sure, but when my mind wouldn’t give itself over to sleep, I whispered, “Are you awake?”

  “Yes, dear. I am.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You know the rule.”

  The rule. It had been a while since she or my father mentioned it, but this is what it was: Rose and I could ask any questions or share anything we were feeling. In return, our parents would listen and do their best to understand. Despite the rule, I felt nervous saying, “Back at the conference center . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “That man. That girl.”

  “You mean, Albert and Abigail Lynch?” The way my mother said their names, it was as though she had been speaking of them all her life.

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?”

  “How . . . how did you, you know, do what you did?”

  My mother paused before responding. I shifted my head on the pillow so I was that much closer. At last, she said, “The most truthful answer I can give you or anyone else, Sylvie, is that I don’t know. All I can say is that it’s something I have done for a long time without understanding the whys and hows of it all.”

  “How long have you done it?”

  “Well, it began when I was a girl not much older than you. I find there are moments when I am overcome by certain feelings about things. You know that much already. But sometimes, what I feel most of all is another person’s need for peace. A soul can be so scared, so troubled, so lonely and sad in this world, Sylvie, and when that happens, what’s needed most is a promise of calm, of comfort, of safety. That’s what I did my best to give that girl tonight.”

  “But you didn’t even speak to her.”

  “It’s not about speaking. It’s about sensing what’s inside a person. Most people could do the same if they tried. I know you certainly could.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” She laughed. “There’s no one else here but us, is there?”

  “But how would I do it?”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t have a set of instructions. But, well, try looking at me.”

  My mother moved her pale, pretty face still closer on her pillow. In the slash of light that came through the gap in the curtains, I could see her glittery green eyes blinking. For a long while, the two of us were silent, gazing at each other, breathing softly, until at last, in her whispery voice, she said, “Tell me now. What have I been feeling as we lie here?”

  I did not plan my answer, but out it came. “That you love me.”

  My mother smiled. She leaned forward, kissed my forehead.

  “Was I right?”

  “Right that I love you? Of course.”

  “No. Was I right in guessing that’s what you were thinking?”

  “First of all, Sylvie, ‘guessing’ is not the word for what we are talking about.”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t need to answer that question for you. You know the t
ruth already. What I will say is this: each of us is born into this life with a light inside of us. Some, like yours, burn brighter than others. You don’t see that yet, but I do. What’s most important is to never let that light go out, because when you do, it means you’ve lost yourself to the darkness. It means you’ve lost your hope. And hope is what makes this world a beautiful place. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

  “I think so,” I said if only not to disappoint her.

  “That’s my good girl. It won’t always be easy, but you have to believe. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, like I said, it’s been a long day so let’s try to get some rest.”

  There was more I wanted to know, but my mother said good night and rolled away. Too soon, her breath grew heavy and I lost her to sleep. I waited, staring toward the window, feeling more alone in that room than I should have with her so close. But without her voice, without her eyes looking into mine, an emptiness spread inside me, until at last, I heard a hand jiggle the doorknob.

  With so little light in the room, it was as though two shadows entered. Without speaking, they moved to their suitcases and took turns using the bathroom. Rose went to the cot as my father settled into the bed, releasing an enormous sigh as he pulled the covers over him. With all of us safe inside, I should have felt calm. Instead, I lay there thinking about that conversation with my mother. Despite what she said, my answer really had been a guess. It didn’t take a gift to see the love she felt for me—her good daughter, the one my parents relied on and trusted to do what they needed. I thought of that pleading expression on Rose’s face earlier, the way I’d watched our father yank her from the room without uttering a word.

  Something has gone wrong with Rose, and we’re working hard to make it right . . .

  Why, if my mother’s gift gave peace to that Lynch girl, did it not work to bring the same sense of calm to Rose, her very own daughter? My mind tugged and pulled at that question until it grew weary enough that sleep came at last, though the answer I wanted never did.

  Chapter 11

  Snowbirds

  Snowbirds—that’s a term I learned today. Now I’m certain to hear it all the time in that way new words have of popping up after you discover their existence, making you wonder how you missed them before. (Someone should come up with a term to describe that phenomenon.) Anyway, snowbirds was how Detective Rummel described the old couple who stopped at the gas station where Albert Lynch claims to have been at the very moment I followed the footprints toward the church last winter. As I stepped inside to see those three figures near the altar, he claims to have been washing his hands in the men’s room at the Texaco. He claims to have been making small talk with . . . a snowbird.

  “Have you always kept a diary, Sylvie?” Rummel asked.

  “No. This is just something I started doing lately.”

  “And do you mind if I ask what sorts of things you write about in there?”

  “School stuff,” I told him, closing the book while being careful not to let the letter I’d found beneath Rose’s bed on Halloween night slip out. I stared around at the gray walls of the interview room. They had become achingly familiar since that article appeared in the paper two weeks before, and Rose and I had been summoned to the station almost daily. “Just things I need to remember. It helps me do better on tests.”

  “According to your sister you don’t need much help,” Louise Hock said from the corner where she stood. Even though it was nearly three in the afternoon, her curly hair looked damp. Beneath her blazer, her shoulder pads had shifted in a way that gave her a lopsided appearance. “She says you’re very bright. Top of your class.”

  “I study a lot. That’s all.”

  Detective Rummel gave me a small smile, an event that felt increasingly rare. As he spread papers on the table between us, I picked up my journal and slipped it in my father’s tote. I never would have taken it out, but since they’d begun separating Rose and me on our visits, I needed something to distract my mind from the nervousness I felt whenever they spoke to her in the next room. “The complete affidavit was filed in court this morning,” Louise began. She paced behind the table, never sitting the way Rummel did. “The documents provide more detailed information than what we supplied you with on your previous visits here. I’m sure you remember everything we’ve gone over so far. Right, Sylvie?”

  Patrick Dunn—that’s the snowbird’s name. What makes him one is that he and his wife live up north (Maine) all summer and down south (Carolinas) all winter. Normally, Mr. Dunn insists on fleeing for warmer weather immediately after Christmas, but last year they lingered in the cold temperatures because his wife’s sister broke her hip and needed them nearby. By the time she was better, and by the time they finally hit the road, it was February. Their Crown Victoria (“The Vic,” as Rummel keeps calling it) was jam-packed with Mrs. Dunn’s garment bags and shoeboxes, plus her three Pomeranians. Despite predictions of bad weather, Mr. Dunn refused to wait another day, since he had already waited long enough and he firmly believed that all weathermen exaggerate. On their drive south, they could have pulled off the highway anywhere for gas, but Mr. Dunn chose Baltimore. He chose the Texaco off the White Marsh exit. There in the men’s room, he washed his hands at the sink beside an odd-looking bald man with a wispy mustache. They chatted about the obvious topic: the storm, which turned out to be even worse than the weathermen predicted, before going their separate ways.

  “I remember,” I told her. “But like you said, it’s Mr. Dunn’s word against mine. The cameras at the station weren’t working. Nobody else, not even the attendant at the register, remembers seeing Lynch.”

  Neither responded. I stared down at those papers, a choppy sea of words between us.

  “You also said that Dunn is an old man,” I went on, “and that chances are good the jury will believe my testimony over his.”

  “You’re right, Sylvie,” Louise told me. “I did say those things.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  The detective took a breath, blew it out. “More information has come forward. And I’m afraid to say it’s not good for our case.”

  Out in the hallway, my sister’s voice rose and fell, mixing with the shhhh in my ear. I couldn’t hear her words but knew she was talking to Dereck, who had started coming around a few days after I saw him in that field. “What information?” I asked, doing my best to shut her out.

  “It seems Mr. Dunn is not the only one offering Lynch an alibi,” Louise told me.

  Rummel slid the papers closer, but the words blurred before my eyes. When he saw me staring at them with no reaction, he asked if he should read it. I nodded, expecting Louise to give me her line about speaking my answers, but she kept quiet.

  “This is directly from Mr. Dunn’s court interview, all of which is reflected in his affidavit, Sylvie. Here goes: ‘After I finished washing my hands and exited the restroom, I walked outside to my car, where my wife was waiting. When I opened the door, one of her dogs scrambled free and made a beeline toward the road. I can barely catch those dogs when there’s no snow on the ground, never mind when things are as slick as they were that night. Had I gone after that dog, I risked breaking my hip just like my wife’s sister. Had I let him run free, I risked breaking my wife’s heart, because she loves those animals even more than she loves me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to make a choice.’ ” He quit reading and looked up at me. “Give you one guess who saved the pooch from becoming roadkill.”

  I knew—of course, I knew—but something kept me from saying it.

  Louise went right on pacing. “You’re a smart girl, Sylvie. We don’t have to tell you the answer.”

  “There’s more,” Rummel said. “Even though the attendant at the register doesn’t recall seeing Lynch, he does remember Mr. Dunn. So it’s no longer your word against one man’s. It’s become your word against a small web of people. Three, actually. Four, if you count Lynch.”

  “But what
about his fingerprints and footprints at the church? And the things you said about his motive and his confession that he was there that night?”

  “All that’s still true. But our defendant now has what’s called a time stamp on his alibi. The Dunns may have paid with cash, like Lynch. But unlike him, who could never produce a receipt, the couple turned theirs over. It shows they purchased gas at 1:04 A.M. The same time neighbors near the church reported hearing gunshots.”

  In a quiet voice, I asked why the Dunns waited so long to come forward. That had all been explained on previous visits, but I brought it up again as a way to stall, if only for a moment longer, since I sensed what was coming next. In the same gentle way he spoke to me that first night at the hospital, Detective Rummel described once more how neither of the Dunns thought about that evening for a long time afterward. Why would they? But that changed when Mrs. Dunn opened the paper a few weeks before and saw a photo of a man who looked familiar. She kept staring at that photo, finally showing it to her husband who immediately recalled the odd-looking man from the restroom, the same man who went on to save his wife’s dog in the snowstorm.

  When Rummel was done telling that story again, the air around us fell quiet. I thought of Cora, who had escorted Rose and me to meetings at the station when she was first assigned as my caseworker. Legally, she was not allowed in the interview room, and though I could request a break to see her at any time, I never did. Some part of me wished to see her now, however, if only for the distraction of her mindless rambling and cheerful assurances. But after Halloween night, Cora stopped coming by. Instead, Norman had been reassigned as my caseworker. The most he offered by way of explanation was that the Child Protective Services Department sometimes changed its mind, and this was one of those times.

  “So what does this mean?” I asked now.

  “It means we keep going forward just the same until the trial,” Louise told me. “But our case is going to be significantly more challenging. Like you said, though, we have the evidence at the church as well as a clear motive. And the Dunns are elderly and may prove unreliable as we dig deeper. The man working the register that night has an arrest record. Nothing major, marijuana possession years back. But that’s something we can use to discredit him in the jury’s eyes. Most important, we have your eyewitness account. And when a girl who lost her parents gets up on that stand, when she points her finger at Albert Lynch and tells the court exactly what she saw—”