The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  "And you're going to assure me he would never dream of doing such a thing."

  "Good heavens, no. He'll use it. But that doesn't mean he is not genuinely concerned, or that he is stupid. And you must accept the fact that Kathy is going to be interested in young men. She could do worse than Mark. I'm not claiming he is a paragon, but-"

  The thud of approaching footsteps-unquestionably Mark's-made her break off. Josef looked mutinous. Pat knew she hadn't gotten through to him. It had been naive of her to assume that reasoning could cure him of his prejudice against Mark, even if she had been allowed to finish her arguments.

  The kitchen door opened. Mark held the door for Kathy and followed her, his nostrils quivering.

  "Let's eat," he said.

  "What about a drink before dinner?" Josef suggested, eyeing the white cartons without enthusiasm.

  He made himself a drink; no one else joined him. Mark seated his ladies with a flourish. He was obviously in a euphoric mood. Pat wished she could say the same for Josef. Conversation was almost nonexistent until Mark had satisfied the first pangs of hunger.

  "Any luck on your research?" Pat asked.

  "Not much," Mark answered. "We've pretty well exhausted what the library had to offer. The historical association was closed today; but I thought maybe we'd stop by Jay's place tonight."

  "Jay?" Josef asked.

  "He's the curator of the historical association," Pat answered for her son, whose mouth was full. "He lives down the street. I didn't realize you knew him, Mark."

  "I know him slightly," Mark said, reaching for another egg roll. His mother gave him a sharp look. It had not dawned on her until that moment that the bachelor pad on the street might offer attractions to other young males in the neighborhood. She sent forth a silent prayer to whatever powers-might-be that Jay was neither gay nor in trouble with the police, and said moderately, "Then you still cling to your-excuse me-nutty idea that we have a historical ghost?"

  "Nicely put," Mark said. "Now as I see it, what we have to do is find out more about the families who lived here. There are all kinds of things we can try. I made a list." He tilted to one side so that he could reach his hip pocket, and flourished a grubby piece of paper. "First Jay and the local historical association. Then the state association in Baltimore, and the Library of Congress manuscript division. Genealogical societies, like the DAR and the Daughters of the Confederacy. I want to track down the descendants, if any, of the Bateses and the Turnbulls. There might be family records-diaries, old photo albums, letters. They wrote diaries like crazy in those days, especially the women. Some of 'em have even been published. We ought to check the Library of Congress card catalog, just in case Louisa or Lavinia got their memoirs into print. Old army records, too. I also want to search both houses."

  "What on earth for?" Pat demanded. "I can assure you, Mark, that when we moved in, there were no mysterious trunks or boxes of books lying around. Your father stripped the wallpaper down to the plaster, and-"

  "I know, I know," Mark said impatiently. "We did that here. But what about Halcyon House? Have you looked in the attic and the basement, Mr. Friedrichs? People sometimes pack things away and stick them in corners and they remain there for years."

  "I went over the house from top to bottom," Josef said shortly. "I cannot remember seeing anything of the sort you are thinking of. What the hell are you thinking of, Mark?"

  His tone, Pat felt, was deliberately offensive. Before Mark could answer, Kathy, who had been demurely silent, spoke up.

  "We don't know, Dad, we're just investigating every possibility. There could be a secret room or something, where people kept money or records-"

  "Fantasy," Josef snapped. "Where do you kids get these ideas? I thought the younger generation had stopped reading books like The Count of Monte Cristo. I suppose it's TV."

  "I've read The Count of Monte Cristo," Mark said. "But we're talking about fact, not fiction, Mr. Friedrichs. The Civil War was the last romantic war. People actually did do things like that. And if you don't like my ideas, what do you propose-to let Kathy sleep in that room again tonight?"

  Josef's eyes were as dark and cold as basalt.

  "I propose to sleep there myself," he said.

  There was a brief pause.

  "Wait just one moment," Pat said. "After what happened last night-"

  Josef turned to her. His cold stare might have softened infinitesimally, but Pat wasn't sure.

  "There are two ways of going at this, Pat. One is to delve into the background; and at the risk of being rude I must say that I find Mark's theories poorly based on fact. The other is the pragmatic approach. I admit that something decidedly abnormal is occurring in my house. Mark has suggested that it is purposeful-directed by a conscious intelligence. All right. One way of testing that is to see what it-if it exists-does want. Mark has implied that it wants Kathy." Mark started to object at that point, and Kathy let out a gasp. Josef waved them both to silence and went on. "That is certainly a possibility. So we'll test it. I will stay in her room tonight; I don't claim I'll be able to sleep. If the… presence is sentient and directed at Kathy, it will not disturb me. If nothing happens tonight-"

  "Then we try Kathy again, tomorrow night, just to make sure?" Pat demanded angrily. "Josef, do you realize what you are saying?"

  "We try Mark tomorrow night," Josef said.

  This time the silence lasted longer.

  Night had fallen. Through the open kitchen windows the soft scent of spring filled the room. The noise of rushing traffic, voices raised in Saturday-night social activities, all these sounds were muted by distance. Across the table the eyes of the two men met and locked. Mark had accepted, and approved, the challenge. His response enraged Pat even more than Josef's original suggestion.

  "You are crazy," she said. "If you think I'll stand for-"

  "Right on," Kathy exclaimed. "Dad, you're nuts."

  "Quiet," Mark said. "He's right. Only tonight I stay in Kathy's room."

  "What about me?" Pat shouted. "You two male chauvinists… If you think you can keep the women safe behind the lines of battle-"

  She had not realized Josef could speak so loudly. His voice overrode hers, and Mark's reply to her suggestion.

  "The problem began when we moved in-never mind old Hiram, Mark, his ramblings are not evidence. We need not risk Kathy again. It obviously reacts to her. I am the most logical person to try next. As for the charge of chauvinism-"

  "I'm bigger than you are," Mark said, glowering at his mother. "You just try."

  "Your father would have let me try," Pat said.

  It was dirty pool, and she knew it. Mark's face went white. Pat was only dimly aware of the reactions of the other two; she was concerned with Mark.

  "You're bigger and stronger and younger and tougher than I am," she said. "If any material danger comes along, I'll gladly let you rush to my defense. But this is not a physical danger."

  For once, Mark was incapable of speech. It was Josef who replied.

  "You're crossing bridges too far in advance, Pat," he said mildly. "The first attempt is mine, that's only fair. If nothing happens tonight, we'll discuss the next step. Okay?"

  Pat could only nod. The sight of Mark's hurt face made it impossible for her to pursue the discussion, which had to do with basic issues far more important than the trivial question of ghosts or no ghosts. Some day it would have to be settled, but she couldn't push her son any farther now. At any rate, her argument had stupefied Mark to the point where he was not battling with Josef for the honor of being next in line for the poltergeist's attentions.

  "That's settled," Josef went on. "You can all perch on the tree outside and watch, if you like; I'm not so stupid or heroic as to refuse help. But if you plan to spend the night on guard, you might consider having a nap this evening."

  Mark, recovering, shook his head.

  "I'll be perching in the tree, Mr. Friedrichs, don't worry. But I want to talk to Jay tonight."

&nb
sp; "You aren't going to tell him what happened, are you?" Pat asked.

  "Out of the question," Josef said.

  "Why?" Mark demanded. "We'll get more help from him if he knows all about it."

  "Oh, Mark, no," Pat said. "We can't have this spread all over the neighborhood."

  "Especially," Josef added, "if I have to sell the house. It would certainly have an adverse effect on the price."

  "What?" Mark stared at him.

  "Surely you must realize that that is the final solution," Josef said. "If nothing else works, and the manifestations continue, I have no alternative."

  Obviously the alternative had not occurred to Mark, or to Kathy. Her blue eyes opened wide in distress, and then turned to Mark. Their glances met, touching as palpably as a handclasp, reflecting the same consternation. Josef was aware of the intensity of their speechless communication. His lips pinched together.

  "I'll sell the damned place," he repeated. "It may be the only way out of this."

  Pat knew he was right. She also knew he had failed to consider one consequence of this threat-for so it would be regarded by Kathy and Mark. Faced with such a challenge, and such a loss, Mark would stop at nothing to find another solution.

  Five

  I

  Pat had known Norma Jenkins well enough to exchange greetings when they met in the grocery store, but she had never been in the Jenkins house. Slight as her acquaintance with Norma had been, Pat suspected the elegant, well-groomed woman would have keeled over in a faint if she ever saw what her renters had done to her neat split-level house. It had been rented unfurnished. It was still unfurnished, by normal middle-class standards. One disheveled sofa, its fabric fraying, a number of large squashy pillows, bookcases built of boards and bricks, and a few tables were the only pieces of furniture in the living room. But the wall-to-wall carpeting-which probably served as bedding for transient guests-was fairly clean, and the dog, industriously scratching on the sofa, looked healthy and bright-eyed, except for its hypothetical fleas. After all, Pat thought charitably, it might just have an allergy.

  Her host did. He apologized, thickly, as he blew his red nose for the third time.

  "It's the damned flora," he complained. "My sinuses clog up when anything blooms, even dandelions."

  He had drooping mustaches and a scraggling black beard. Small dark eyes blinked at Pat through reddened lids and very thick glasses. He wore the inevitable jeans and a torn blue T-shirt with " Arizona State " printed on the front. Pat liked him. He had a nice smile and a firm handclasp, and he had had the courtesy to put out his cigarette when she came in, though the room still reeked with the sickly, cloying smell of marijuana.

  "I didn't realize you were having a party," she said apologetically. "You should have told Mark."

  Jay looked blankly at the other guests, a round dozen or more, who were disporting themselves on the pillows in various uncouth poses. One young man, his dirty blond hair streaming down his back, was trying to coax music out of a battered guitar.

  "It's no party," Jay said. "Just… you know. Sit down, Mrs. Robbins. Uh, wait a minute." One hand swept the dog off the sofa; the other gestured at the vacated seat, with a grace worthy of a Spanish don. Pat sat down and Jay continued hospitably, "Let me get you something. Uh…" From his facial contortions Pat deduced that he was rapidly and despairingly running through a mental list of available refreshments.

  "Beer?" she suggested, picking what she assumed to be the least evil of the possibilities. Jay's face brightened. "Right," he said.

  Kathy and Mark were sitting on the floor listening to the guitarist. Mark had given her a lecture on how she was to behave as they walked down the street; she could have done without it, but she was doing her best to present the proper image.

  Josef had refused to come. He had work to do, if nobody else did, he had remarked austerely. At least he had agreed to work at her house, instead of returning to his own. She wasn't quite sure she could trust him, but she intended to return long before the witching hour.

  It took Jay some time to bring her beer, and when she saw the damp glass he proffered with naive pride she knew he had had to search for a glass, and wash it. His usual guests probably drank from the can. She sipped the beer and tried not to shudder. She didn't really like beer, and this was not a good brand.

  "It's nice you could come," Jay said, squatting on the floor beside her. The dog had returned to the sofa and was sprawled beside Pat. "I've been trying to get up nerve enough to visit you; I mean, your house is really fascinating. But I didn't want, you know…"

  "That was thoughtful."

  "Oh, well, like, you know-" Jay waved his can of beer. Some liquid slopped over onto the dog, which roused itself and licked its stomach appreciatively.

  "I meant to visit the historical association too," Pat said. "You know how it is; when you live in a town, you never see the important sights."

  "Well, I wouldn't say the building is that much of a historic landmark," Jay said. "It isn't as old as some of the houses in town. But it was donated and, well, you know how it is. You should have seen the place when I took it over. What a mess! The old guy who had been curator for like a hundred years had good intentions, like, but he was just too old for the job-lately, I mean. I've been working my-I mean, I've been putting in fourteen hours a day since I started, just getting the library more or less in order."

  Pat realized that for all his uncouth appearance Jay was interested in his subject and was probably good at it. She made encouraging noises, and Jay went on, "You really ought to come over and look at some of the material on your house. It's interesting. And up till six months ago you couldn't have even found it. I mean, like, it was buried."

  "What kind of material?" Pat asked. This was almost too easy. But her house was one of the genuine historic landmarks, and it was not surprising that Jay should be intrigued by it.

  "Odds and ends," Jay said vaguely. "You know the family that owned your place was named Bates. Old Miss Betsy Bates, she was the last; she lived there till she was, like, eighty years old. Wouldn't sell or rent, and the place was falling down around her ears. Her relatives, they were some kind of cousins, tried to get her to move out and go to an old folks' home, but she wouldn't do it. Not that they cared whether she lived or died, they wanted to sell the house while it was still in one piece. They even tried to get her declared incompetent. But the judge, he was the son of an old boyfriend of hers, and he wouldn't do it."

  "The house was in bad shape when we bought it," Pat said.

  "So I was told. I hear you and your husband did a great job of restoration."

  "Jerry did it, not I. You must come and see it."

  "Hey, could I?" His eyes shone with genuine antiquarian fervor. "I'll show you some of the Bates family stuff. Miss Betsy left it to the historical association instead of to her relatives. They were pretty mad. Tell you what, I'll let you borrow the family papers. They're not supposed to leave the library, but what the hell, you'd take good care of them."

  "I would, of course; but maybe you shouldn't-"

  "There's an old photo album that will give you a real charge," Jay went on, warming to his subject. "You know Mr. Bates, the first owner, was some kind of government official during the Civil War."

  "Was he?"

  "Uh-huh. Kind of unusual, because he wasn't especially important locally. Maybe Lincoln was trying to get in good with the abolitionists."

  "Are you sure Bates was an abolitionist?" Pat asked. Mark had insisted on this very point, but she had shared Josef's skepticism. The confirmation of Mark's hunch made her vaguely uneasy.

  Jay nodded vigorously.

  "Yeah, I'm sure. And his son was in the Union army. Got a bunch of medals."

  "What regiment?" asked a voice. Pat turned and saw that her son had crawled across the floor to join them. He was listening avidly.

  "I forget. You could look it up."

  "I'll come over tomorrow," Mark said.

  "But tomorro
w is Sunday," Pat protested.

  "Yeah, I can't tomorrow; I've got a date to go sailing," Jay said.

  "Come over for a drink afterwards," Mark said. "Maybe you could bring the Bates records with you."

  "You're as subtle as a sledgehammer," Jay said, without rancor. "If you're that anxious, I just might be persuaded to lend you the stuff, before I take off… If you'll tell me why this sudden passion for history."

  "Term paper," Mark said. "It's already overdue."

  This was no explanation and no excuse, and Pat knew it as well as the two men, who exchanged looks of mutual suspicion.

  "We really would like to have you drop in, Jay," she said, feeling embarrassed, though why she should be she did not know; she had had ample evidence of the strange manners of the youth subculture, and it was clear that Jay had not taken offense. With a genuinely charming smile he patted her hand.

  "Look, Mrs. Robbins, you're a nice lady and someday I would like to see your house. But not tomorrow. I won't be back till late, and I can see Mark is putting you on the spot. How about another beer?"

  She accepted, out of appreciation of his thoughtfulness, and Jay swiveled on his haunches, preparing to rise. As he did so he caught sight of Kathy, who had been sitting modestly behind Mark. His eyes narrowed.

  "I've seen you someplace before," he said. "I thought when you came in you looked familiar, but… Damn, I almost had it."

  "You probably have seen me around," Kathy said. "I live in Halcyon House, next door to Mrs. Robbins."

  "Speaking of houses I'd like to see…" Jay's voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he continued to pursue the elusive memory. Eventually he shrugged. "No, I can't remember. But I've seen you somewhere-and it wasn't on Magnolia Drive."

  The room was filling up as more and more people arrived at the non-party. Jay returned with Pat's beer but he was soon occupied with the newcomers, and before long Pat was able to make her excuses and depart. She had expected some argument from Mark, but he seemed even more anxious than she to leave. As the three of them walked down the dark, spring-scented street, Mark betrayed himself.