The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  "What are you driving at?" Josef demanded in exasperation.

  "I told you. I want to find out where and when Peter Turnbull died. We can't do that unless we know what his unit was. Maybe it was the First Virginia Cavalry. Company K was a Maryland unit; it was formed at Leesburg, Virginia, in 1861."

  Josef eyed his stepson-to-be with poorly concealed hostility.

  "Mark, will you stop making mysteries about everything? Tell us what you have in mind."

  "I can't! There's a piece missing, and it's the key to the whole business. You'd laugh if I told you what I'm thinking now. I was hoping you'd have the same reaction to Mary Jane's letters that I did."

  "My reaction is that the book isn't worth the trouble of stealing it," Josef snapped. "You can't admit that, can you?"

  "I just don't agree, that's all." Mark brooded in silence. Then he brightened. "Maybe if we had some lunch it would stimulate our thinking."

  "Lunch! You had breakfast less than…" Josef broke off; apparently he had decided he might as well resign himself to Mark's appetite. It was, after all, one of Mark's lesser faults.

  Josef rose. "I'm going in to the office for a few hours. I can't afford to lose my job. It seems clear that my expenses are going to increase drastically in the near future."

  He walked out the back door, letting it slam behind him.

  "What did he mean by that?" Mark asked.

  Pat debated briefly with herself, and then decided this was not the time to tell Mark about her personal plans. Anyway, she hadn't quite made up her mind what she meant to do about Josef. She could hardly marry a man who hated her son.

  "I think he was talking about the possibility of selling the house," she answered, for this was certainly true, as far as it went. "He'll take a loss on it if he does."

  "That's no solution," Mark muttered. "And you know it."

  Before Pat could reply, the back door opened again. Josef looked even grimmer than he had when he left.

  "If you think the mess upstairs is bad, come and see a real masterpiece," he said.

  "Of course!" Mark jumped up. "Why didn't I think of that? Naturally it would…"

  He dashed out the back door. Kathy followed him, and Josef met Pat halfway across the kitchen. For a few moments they stood holding one another, without speaking.

  "I feel like the lover in one of those old-fashioned French farces," Josef said after a time. "Looking over my shoulder for the husband to turn up, snatching kisses in corners… When are you going to tell Mark, my darling? Or shall I ask him formally for your hand?"

  "He'd love that," Pat said, with a weak laugh. "Can't you see him imitating an outraged Victorian father- 'Begone, sir, never darken our door again!' No, I'll break it to him. I doubt that he will be enthusiastic."

  "I'm trying," Josef said, with unaccustomed humility. "I understand how he'll feel… But I can't wait too long, Pat. I feel like some idiot eighteen-year-old; I want to brag about you."

  "I'll tell him," Pat promised. "But not until this is over. I can't concentrate on anything else."

  "One good thing has come out of this mess, anyway," Josef said. "Damn it, Pat, I can't be too pessimistic. We'll figure it out somehow. We'll sell both the houses, move west, or south, or into New England… the cursed thing must have some geographical limitations. Maybe if we leave, it will give up. After all, it was quiescent for years. You know, I can't help wondering…"

  Gently Pat removed herself from his embrace.

  "I do know. I've wondered the same thing. Did Mark and/or Kathy unwittingly do something to stir the thing into life? Obviously Mark has information he's keeping from us. But it won't do any good to nag him about it, he's as stubborn as his father. Shall we go and view the damage?"

  "It's pretty bad," Josef warned.

  Pat tried not to show how shaken she was by the extent of the destruction. Kathy's room was the worst; every small breakable object in the place had been smashed. But the trail of breakage ran from room to room, and down the stairs.

  Kathy and Mark were in the dining room. Mark was fingering a deep gouge in the wall. A small but heavy bronze statuette, a copy of the Michelangelo David, lay on the floor. Mark picked it up and weighed it in his hand.

  "It must weigh about ten pounds," he said.

  Pat leaned against the wall. "I hate to think what the kitchen must look like," she said.

  "It went thataway," Mark agreed, indicating the fragments of a crystal bowl that lay in the doorway.

  "Not funny," Pat snapped.

  "No, I mean it. The living room is intact-didn't you notice? It came down the stairs, into the dining room, and… Let's see."

  A short, rather dark hall connected dining room and kitchen. There were no windows, only doors leading to the basement and the back stairs, and to a series of cupboards.

  Squaring his shoulders, Josef took the lead. They looked over his shoulder, with surprise and relief, into a sparkling, untouched kitchen.

  At first no one could think of an appropriate comment. Mark was, of course, the first to recover himself.

  "It decided nobody was home," he said. "So it went to our place…"

  "Theories, theories," Josef muttered.

  "Well, there's plenty it could have broken here," Mark said.

  The statement could not be denied. The canisters containing sugar, coffee, flour and so on were of clear glass; the electric clock hung insecurely from a single nail; and a collection of antique plates was suspended on brackets along the walls. The cupboard doors were closed, but that, Pat imagined, would have been no problem for the poltergeist, and no doubt the shelves behind the closed doors were crowded with glassware and dishes.

  "It means something," Mark muttered. "What?"

  "It means I don't get to work today," Josef said. "Kathy, we've still got most of the cartons left over from the move. Let's pack the breakables that have survived, and your clothes. We'll go to a motel again tonight. Tomorrow I'll rent an apartment in the District."

  "But-" Mark began. He stopped with a gulp and a start. Pat looked sharply at Kathy, who met her eyes with a candid stare. She was, as usual, standing so close to Mark that they might have been Siamese twins, but if she had jabbed Mark in the ribs she had done it very neatly.

  "The boxes are in the basement," Kathy said gently.

  "Uh," Mark said. "Okay. I'll get them."

  He went out, followed by his shadow. They returned with an armful of boxes, and Kathy said, "I'm going to pack my clothes. Mark?"

  "Huh? Oh, sure. I'll help you."

  As soon as Mark and Kathy had left, Josef reached for Pat's hand.

  "You have to tell him now, Pat. I can't leave you in that house. If you think Mark will object to our living in sin, we can get married right away."

  "I can't," Pat said agitatedly. "It's confusing. There are too many problems. All my things-and the animals-"

  "The dog can go to a kennel for a few weeks, till we find another house. We'll smuggle the damned cat into the apartment, if you insist-"

  "Josef, you're moving too fast. I can't decide." Then she saw his face, and remorse swept over her. "Oh, my darling, I don't mean that; I've no doubts about that. It's simply a matter of logistics. Give me a little time."

  "I'm sorry." He smiled at her, and her heart thumped. "We'll work it out, Pat. Take all the time you want."

  But there wasn't time; she knew that as well as he did. The alternative to the hasty decision he had urged was the unbelievable situation they had faced too long already.

  For a while they worked in companionable silence, Josef handing dishes to Pat, who wrapped them in newspaper and stowed them away in the boxes. The monotonous, meticulous task ought to have been soothing; but her mind continued to flutter incoherently from one problem to the next. Close up the house… what would Nancy say? And the other neighbors? Rumors were sure to circulate… Jud hated kennels, he grew morose and melancholy if he was away from Mark… Mark. How would he take the news that she intended to marry Jos
ef Friedrichs? The answer came only too readily. Mark wouldn't take it well. He needed time, not only to rid himself of his prejudices against Kathy's father, but to grow accustomed to the idea that his mother was a person, with needs of her own. He had to be consulted in the decision, not just notified of the grownups' wishes. He thought he could solve the case… His ego would be assaulted on every possible level by what Josef had proposed.

  Suddenly Pat jumped to her feet, dropping a cup. Fortunately it fell on top of a half-filled box and the newspapers kept it from breaking.

  "What's the matter?" Josef looked at her with concern.

  "Mark," Pat said. "He and Kathy, up there… He didn't argue with us. He's helping her pack, and he hasn't mentioned lunch."

  Comprehension lighted Josef's eyes. As Pat pushed through the door and ran along the hall, she heard him close on her heels. He did understand Mark. Their minds worked rather similarly, allowing for the difference in age. That was probably a hopeful sign. But at that moment Pat forgot her personal concerns in a more urgent matter. What was Mark doing up there in Kathy's room? She would have laid odds that he was not helping her pack.

  She pounded up the stairs, with Josef close behind. Together they made almost as much noise as Mark could have made. But the two young people did not hear them until they burst into the room. They had other schemes afoot.

  They were sitting close together, at Kathy's desk. A sheet of blank paper lay on the desk top, and Mark's hand, holding a pencil, was poised above it.

  Mark jumped several inches as his mother flung the door open. The pencil jabbed into the paper, tearing a hole, but Pat was infinitely relieved to see that there was no other mark on the virgin surface.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted.

  "Nothing." Though visibly shaken, Mark tried, simul taneously, to put the pencil in his pocket and hide the paper.

  "You were trying that-that automatic writing," Pat exclaimed. "How dare you! Of all the stupid, dangerous-"

  "Well, we have to do something. He came through once before. I thought maybe if we gave him another chance he'd say something that-"

  "You-horrible-" For once Pat was so angry that she moved faster than her son. Her hand shot out, avoiding the hand he lifted, as if in anticipation of a blow, and snatched at the paper. She had nothing particular in mind; she only wanted to claw at something, crumple it, crush it between her hands… Better a blank sheet of paper than Mark's face.

  Then she realized she was not the only one who was reaching for an object on the desk. A small white hand slid swiftly but surreptitiously toward something half hidden by the sheet of paper.

  Pat's calloused hand slapped down hard on Kathy's fingers, and the girl let out a squeal. Pat snatched up the book Kathy had reached for.

  Even in her rage and fright she knew that the book was no ordinary object from a library or bookstore. The cover felt slick and damp under her fingers.

  She stepped back and for a moment or two they were silent, staring at one another and breathing hard. Josef looked in bewilderment from his beloved, whose infuriated face was barely recognizable, to his daughter, whose big blue eyes filled with tears as she nursed her stinging fingers.

  Luckily for Josef, he did the right thing. After a baffled moment he stepped to Pat, put his arm around her shaking shoulders, and included his darling daughter with Mark in an all-inclusive scowl.

  "All right, you two. Speak up. Kathy, apologize to Mrs. Robbins."

  Pat's saving sense of humor came to the rescue. With a laugh that was half sob, she said, "I guess I should apologize to Kathy. I didn't mean to hit you, honey; it was pure reflex. Mark can tell you I've done the same thing to him."

  "She sure has," Mark said coolly. "She's a very impetuous lady. Where she loves, there does she chastise most heavily-"

  "And you!" Pat turned, with pleasure, to a worthier opponent. "You and your stupid half-baked quotations! This is all your fault. Your idea. You nasty young… person, you've been holding out on us all along. What is this book? Where did you get it? It's old. It's…"

  With a dramatic gesture, worthy of Mark at his ham-miest, she opened the volume, and the words died on her lips as a sentence seemed to leap up from the page at her. She read it aloud.

  "Peter told Eddie he must get the cake while cook was not looking. He didn't want to, but Peter…"

  "It's Susan Bates's diary," Pat gasped.

  Mark made a gesture of resignation and defeat.

  "You've got it, lady."

  II

  Mark took the little book from his mother's nerveless hand and put it gently on the desk.

  "It's in bad shape," he said reproachfully. "You shouldn't handle it so roughly."

  "Where… what…" Anger and amazement robbed Pat of speech.

  "So that's where you've been getting your information," Josef said. "I knew there was something. Where did you find it, Mark?"

  "In the oak tree," Mark said. "You see, it was like…" He glanced at Kathy, whose cheeks had bloomed into a lovely pink blush, and grinned rather sheepishly. "I told you this was going to be complicated, Kath. Let me think just how to put it…"

  Pat collapsed onto the bed. Josef stood by her, his hand on her shoulder. Mark was too immersed in his own difficulties to see this gesture, but Kathy did; her blue eyes took on a look of guileful speculation, and she spoke without embarrassment.

  "We met there, Mark and I. After you told Mark we couldn't see each other. It was only a couple of times. The tree is awfully old, there are holes in the trunk. Mark found the book one time when he was waiting for me and I was late. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth and oiled paper."

  Pat wondered, with some apprehension, how Josef would take this revelation. His heavy dark brows drew together, but when he spoke his voice was milder than she had expected.

  "I'm sure you enjoyed meeting clandestinely, thwarting the heavy father. Romantic as hell, wasn't it? Well, never mind. May I see the diary, or is it reserved for those under thirty?"

  "Be careful," Mark said, handing him the book. "It was well wrapped, but damp got in, all the same, and since it's been exposed to the air it has deteriorated. If you don't mind, Mr. Friedrichs, I've got a suggestion…"

  "Well?"

  "Maybe Mom could transcribe it," Mark said. "She's pretty good on the typewriter." He grinned at his mother, the recollection of last-minute term papers hastily typed fresh in his mind. Pat did not grin back at him.

  "It will take forever," she protested.

  "Not so long. She didn't keep a day-by-day diary, she just wrote things down when she was in the mood, or when something important happened. And a lot of the text is illegible-rotted by damp, or too faded to read."

  "But you've already read it-so I assume," Pat said. "We've got a lot of packing to do. If the poltergeist comes back tonight, it may smash the things that are left."

  "Mom-trust me, will you?" Mark leaned forward. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes burned with sincerity. "I'm right on the verge. I really am. Let's go over it once more. Anyhow…"A look of such consternation came over his face that Pat recoiled, wondering what horrific revelations were in store. "Anyhow," Mark went on, "it's way past lunchtime. No wonder my brain is so weak. You type, I'll read aloud… and Kathy can get lunch."

  III

  Pat found it easier than she had expected to keep up with Mark's dictation. Damp had disfigured the edges of the pages, so that the only legible portions were in the middle. There were no dates; presumably they had been written on the illegible tops of the pages. Yet, scattered and broken as the fragments were, floating in time, they formed a picture in Pat's mind as her fingers reproduced the words.

  Three children, growing up in the wilderness of western Maryland… The girl, small and delicate and blond, dressed in the calico simplicity her father's spartan creed required: had not the Apostle Paul warned against vanity in women? Her brother, as dark as she was fair, trained to sobriety by the same ri
gorous faith, yet fascinated by and tempted to mischief by the imperious older cousin.

  In all their schemes Peter was the ringleader and Edward was the one who got caught. It was Peter who dared Edward to climb the tallest tree in the yard, but when the younger boy, shorter of limb and breath, was unable to get down, he was blamed, and punished. The idea of dressing up like ghosts and scaring "the darkies" was Peter's; but it was Edward who tripped over the trailing sheets in the act of escaping and was soundly thrashed by his father. Even when Peter was caught, his indulgent parents refused to punish him. "Uncle Al laughed very loud," Susan recorded, on one occasion when the three had gotten tipsy on homemade wine. Poor Edward had to eat his dinner off the mantel for several days after that scandalous affair.

  Gradually, over the years, the tone of the diary changed. The early accounts of childhood mischief turned to a young girl's inarticulate record of parties and beaux. The first was Sammy Hart, who kissed Susan at a school picnic. But Sammy did not last long. "He has spots on his face," Susan recorded contemptuously. References to contemporary historical events were few and far between. Like most fifteen-year-olds, Susan was much more interested in her own emotional problems than in national disasters.

  Kathy, who was already familiar with the material, made sandwiches, then took over the typewriter while Pat snatched a bite and a cup of coffee. Somehow Mark managed to read and eat simultaneously. Pat went back to the typewriter after a brief interval. She was conscious of a queer feeling of urgency, as if some sort of deadline were approaching, and as Mark read on, her fingers flicked over the keys with a speed that exceeded her best record.

  In 1859, outside events shook Susan's peaceful world.

  "Father and Uncle Al quarreled again. Something about that Mr. Brown at Harpers Ferry. Usually Uncle Al laughs when they argue, but this time…"

  "Go on," Pat said, her fingers poised.

  No one answered. She looked up and saw, with a shock of inexplicable alarm, that considerable time had passed. The windows were darkening.