“Voilà!” said Meredith, clicking on the icon indicating there was an e-mail message. “That guy at the Times looked up some of Maya’s old articles and came across one about Maya that I thought was of particular interest.”
Claire stared at the headline on the screen, REPORTER GOES UNDERCOVER TO EXPOSE WORKINGS OF MBLA. She read on. “Maya Sorenson is a woman, but for a few months she pretended to be a man who liked boys—even going so far as becoming a member of the Man-Boy Love Association, a group that caters to the desires of pedophiles.”
Claire looked at Meredith. “Oh my God,” she said. “Roger Gardner.”
Meredith poked an index finger in the air triumphantly. “Bingo,” she said.
Chapter 22
By the time Detective Hansom left, it was early afternoon. Claire didn’t like exposing Roger’s story to him, but she had no choice, given Meredith’s discovery. They had gone into the library to talk; the detective sat listening quietly, elbows on his knees, his square chin supported by his bony hands, his basset-hound eyes focused on Claire as she talked in a low voice, not wanting anyone to overhear them. Meredith sat next to her in a rattan chair, her bare legs swinging back and forth, shoulders hunched over, investigating a bug bite on her arm. When Claire finished, Detective Hansom nodded solemnly and rose from his chair without a word. There wasn’t much to tell; she only knew what she had heard from Liza.
When they got to the front door Claire said, “Is it relevant, do you think?”
The detective shook his head. “Hard to say. I’ll go talk to Ms. Gardner and see if there’s anything she can add.”
“Are you going to arrest him?” Meredith asked breathlessly.
Detective Hansom swiveled his large head to look at her. “There’s no real evidence yet tying him to the crime. I mean, it’s a shame that he’s into—well, if it’s true, it’s too bad, but so far it shows no direct relationship to our case. I’ll pass the information on to vice, and they’ll make their own arrest, most likely.”
Detective Hansom scratched his scalp. “Well, I always say you can find the heart of darkness in a small town just about as like as anywhere.”
Shortly before dinnertime, as Liza and Claire stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables, Tahir staggered in the back door, his face flushed. His clothing was even more disarrayed than usual; his shirt collar was torn and there was dirt on his face. He was breathing heavily, and as he entered he clutched at the counter to steady himself.
“Tahir, what is it?” said Liza.
“Someone grabbed at me from behind. I had to tear myself away and run to escape.”
“Did you get a look at them?” said Meredith.
Tahir shook his head. “No. I was scared and I ran.” He took a washcloth and wiped the dirt from his face. “I tripped on a root or something and fell down. I was so afraid.” Claire saw that he was trembling all over. “It was terrible,” he said softly. “It brought back such awful memories.”
“So you didn’t see who it was at all?” said Meredith, unmoved by his emotional state. “Did you get a sense of whether it was a man or a woman?”
Tahir shook his head. “I just ran,” he repeated. “I just pulled away and ran.”
“What were you doing out in the woods in the first place?” said Meredith. “It’s off-limits.”
Tahir hung his head as though he were a student being upbraided by an angry teacher. “I had to walk and think a little,” he replied softly.
Meredith shook her head. “Don’t go down to the end of town without consulting me.”
“What?” said Tahir.
“It’s A. A. Milne,” she explained. “The guy who wrote Winnie-the-Pooh,” she said in answer to Tahir’s blank look.
Tahir shook his head. “Winnie-the-Pooh?”
“It’s a children’s book,” said Liza. “Most kids in America read it.”
Tahir nodded slowly. “Winnie-the-Pooh,” he repeated, as if the sound of the words were a magic incantation that could release him from the fear that had them all in its thrall.
When they called Detective Hansom about Tahir’s fright in the woods, he again cautioned them not to stray from the grounds, then sent two patrolmen out to the woods to look around. Tahir didn’t have much more to tell him; Meredith suggested that Tahir’s torn shirt be sent in for fingerprinting, but Hansom didn’t hold out much hope that would provide any conclusive results.
After dinner Meredith washed the plates and went over to Liza’s cabin for a game of checkers with Sherry while Claire scoured a few pots and pans. When Claire was done, she wandered out onto the porch. As she watched the sun sink lower over Guardian Mountain, she heard Ralph’s plaintive cry coming from the woods. He sounded as if he were hurt or in trouble. Claire went out to where the patrol car was usually parked, but it was empty. The policemen were probably still in the woods, she concluded. Again she heard Ralph cry out—louder this time. He sounded terrified. Claire slipped out through the back door, taking the shortcut through the woods to the road below. She hurried along the path toward the sound, the deep woods alive all around her. Tiny unseen animals darted and scurried in the bushes; birds twittered and scolded each other, their voices rising above the constant low hum of insects.
Don’t go down to the end of town without consulting me.
She quickened her pace, walking in time to the internal rhythm created by the words running in her head:
Don’t—go—down—to—the—end—of—town—without—consulting—me.
“Ralph!” she called, but there was no reply. Suddenly she emerged from the woods onto a field of crops alongside the road. Rows of golden grain waved and bent under the gathering wind, their shaggy brown heads swaying on slender stalks. The sky, which had been clear all day, was beginning to blacken. The clouds that hung over the setting sun were heavy and swollen with rain. Claire stood there for a moment, wondering if anyone at the house would notice her absence. If she returned soaking wet, there would certainly be comments and then she would have to explain to Sergeant Rollins where she had gone.
“Ralph!” she called again. This time there was another meow in reply, a plaintive, sad sound, as though he were lost—or injured.
Following the sound, Claire came to the bend in the road where she had driven off the pavement and into the tree; there was a large white birch, its bark chipped off where the heavy car had plowed into its trunk. The imprint of tires could be seen through a thin layer of leaves that had fallen on the ground. Claire bent down and flicked a few leaves away from the place where she had climbed out of the car, looking for her medicine wheel. She poked around with her foot, peering closely at the ground, looking for a glint of bright color in between the fading brown-and-yellow leaves. She found nothing, though, and saw that dusk was slipping into twilight.
“Ralph!” she called again, but this time the woods were silent. She sighed and started back toward Ravenscroft.
As she approached the cutoff leading across the field to the shortcut through the woods, Claire hesitated. A few feeble rays from the dying sun shot up through the cloud cover and visibility on the road was good; she felt safe on the road. Though not heavily traveled, it was public, and the occasional car whisking by gave her a sense of security. The woods, though, were already growing dark, and the thought of traveling that dusky path alone made her shiver.
Don’t go down to the end of town without consulting me.
She felt a few drops of rain on her shoulders; and as she stood there trying to decide which way to go, the drops increased. Putting her fears aside, Claire headed for the woods. The shortcut would save fifteen minutes of walking, and with the rain coming on, she needed to hurry. If she arrived at Ravenscroft soaking wet, there were bound to be questions, maybe even suspicions.
She loped across the field at a jog, the thin stalks of wheat rubbing against her bare legs, their fuzzy heads tickling her thighs. She hesitated once more when she saw the entrance to the path looming up before her, dark and uninvitin
g.
At that moment the woods seemed to represent everything she feared: death, loss—and most of all, fear itself. I have to, she thought. I have to go in there. Somehow she had a feeling that by entering that dark forest, she would finally overcome the fear that had been haunting her ever since that night Robert tried to pry the life out of her body.
Claire took a deep breath and charged into the woods. The path was soft under her feet, and the woodland creatures were suddenly silent, the sound of her own breathing her only accompaniment as she pounded along the path. She could hear rain on the canopy of leaves above her, and a few drops made their way onto her face as she ran.
Don’t—go—down—to—the—end—of—town . . .
Up ahead, an ancient oak tree loomed, gnarled and twisted, its branches curling like deformed arms over the path. Just beyond the tree, the path turned sharply to the right.
. . . without—consulting—me.
Claire quickened her pace, peering ahead for the break in the trees where the path ended. Just as she made the turn by the old oak tree, she caught her foot on an exposed root and fell forward hard. She put out her hands to catch herself and felt the ground rise up to meet her, dirt and pebbles grinding into her palms as she rolled onto her side to lessen the impact. She lay on her side, the air knocked out of her, trying to catch her breath, her palms smarting from the sharp stones. She lay gasping for air, her lungs feeling flattened by the impact. It was raining harder now, the drops falling more thickly through the trees.
Suddenly she heard a noise behind her. A scraping, a rustling of leaves, a rushing forward—a large animal perhaps, but she had no desire to find out. Panting, Claire heaved herself to her feet. She took a step but her twisted ankle gave way and she flopped onto her back, helpless as a beached flounder. The rushing sound grew closer, the branches of trees crackling as whatever it was approached through the darkened forest. The thought came to her; shape-shifters, those creatures who came out at twilight . . .
A scream welled up in her throat as she struggled to her feet once more. This time her ankle didn’t buckle, and she limped forward as fast as she could without looking back. Up ahead she could see the break in the trees where the trail ended behind Ravenscroft. Claire hobbled along the ground in a kind of crooked canter, pumping with her arms, her skin slippery from the rain, which fell ever more insistently from the sky.
Don’t go down to the end of town . . .
Don’t go down . . .
. . . to the end of town . . .
She was breathing so heavily she could hear only the struggle of her own lungs, and couldn’t tell whether she was still being pursued; only a few hundred yards ahead lay the end of the path.
without . . .
without consulting . . .
me . . .
Another noise behind her, closer this time, made Claire lunge toward the final few yards at a spring. She emerged onto the back lawn of Ravenscroft at a full run and dashed across the wet grass with the last bit of energy she had, toward the yellow light of the windows, toward other people, toward safety. A great clap of thunder sounded as she reached the back door and bounded up the stone steps.
The back door to the kitchen was open, and she almost broke through the wire mesh as she pushed the screen door open. She stood in the brightly lit kitchen, blinking, sweat and rain coursing down her neck. On the other side of the room, a bowl of ice cream in his hands, stood Billy Trimble. He stared at her, his handsome face blank as stone.
“What happened to you?”
Claire took a deep breath. “I . . . I just went for a run.”
Billy looked at her jeans and white oxford shirt. “In those clothes?” he said dubiously.
Claire shrugged. “It was an impulse. It was getting dark, so I didn’t want to take the time to change.”
“What happened to your hands?”
Claire looked down at her palms, which were grazed and bleeding. “Oh—I fell down,” she answered as casually as possible. “Tripped on a root.”
Billy nodded and ate a spoonful of ice cream. “You should be more careful.”
“Well, you’re probably right.” Claire edged toward the door to the dining room. “I guess I’d better go shower; see you later,” she said, rounding the corner into the hallway. She didn’t run into anyone on her way upstairs, and her hand trembled as she pulled the key from her pocket to unlock her bedroom door.
Don’t go down to the end of town without consulting me.
Claire sat on her bed, her legs tingling from the effort, and wiped her face with a bath towel. The curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open window and another clap of thunder sent a quiver of adrenaline through her body. She thought about what Two Joe had said about shape-shifters, and tried to imagine the shape of the creature crashing through the underbrush behind her in the woods. She imagined a wolflike creature—something mythical, like a werewolf. She tried to imagine one of the Ravenscroft residents as a werewolf: Jack with his white beard and predatory smile, dark, hairy Tahir, with his deep eyes and haunted look . . . the thought of either Gary or Billy as a werewolf was laughable. She didn’t know if she should mention the incident to Detective Hansom. She knew there were coyotes in these woods, and what if it was a deer—or a bear, even? She knew there were bears in these woods, and sunset was a likely time to see one. She hoped whatever it was had not gotten Ralph.
That night she dreamed Robert was chasing her through a dark forest, his eyes glowing yellow through the trees, his face the face of a werewolf, with thick long fangs and shaggy brown fur instead of skin. In her dream she tried to run, but her legs did not respond to the frantic message from her brain. It was as though she were moving through molasses instead of air; the atmosphere itself seemed to hold her back as she tried vainly to increase her speed, her lungs pulling harder on the thick air in an attempt to breathe, while he gained ground on her. She could hear him snarling and growling behind her, heard his body crashing through the trees, felt his hot breath on her neck as she lurched forward in a fruitless attempt to free herself from his hand, which fell, cold and heavy, on her shoulder . . .
She opened her eyes and saw Meredith lying asleep on her mattress, orange hair framed a halo of light from the lamp on the dresser. Claire had left the light on when they went to bed, reluctant to be in total darkness. She turned over and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. A thought swam up unbidden from her subconscious, a thought she did not like at all. Whoever cut the brake cable on her car might have not been after her after all: the intended target could very well have been Meredith Lawrence. Claire shivered and pulled the blankets closer. She was glad Meredith was leaving tomorrow.
Chapter 23
Meredith was very quiet all the next morning. Her father was supposed to arrive sometime in the late afternoon to get her, and Claire sat on the bed watching as she piled her few belongings into her battered green knapsack.
“Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Meredith said sadly. Her tactic had changed: instead of arguing with Claire about leaving, she was attempting to elicit sympathy by acting pathetic. She sighed heavily as she pulled the strings of her knapsack together. “What did my father say when you called him?” she said, heaving the bag into the corner by the dresser.
“Oh, he just said he understood my concern,” Claire replied, flicking a stray thread from the bedspread.
“Did he seem disappointed?”
“No, he said he would be glad to see you,” Claire lied. Ted Lawrence had actually sounded a little put out. It was inconvenient for him to come up to Woodstock just now, he complained, but in the end he agreed with Claire; it was time to get Meredith away from there.
“Just as long as he doesn’t send me back to Camp Steroid,” Meredith said. “Anything’s better than that. Hey, wha’chou got there?” she said, pointing to a slip of paper Claire held in her hand.
“This? Oh, this is just a phone message someone took that Wally called.”
“Who took
it?”
“Uh, Tahir, I think.”
“Yeah? Let me see it.”
Claire handed her the slip of paper. Meredith studied it for a moment and then sighed. “Guess I’ll take a shower,” she said, tearing off her T-shirt and kicking her shorts into the corner next to her knapsack. She wrapped a thick blue towel around her lean white body, flat and undeveloped, still the body of a child. “Indoor plumbing is the key to civilization,” she remarked, scooping up her plastic soap container and going out into the hall. A few minutes later she was back.
“Forget something?” said Claire.
“There’s no hot water!” she declared irritably.
“Oh? That’s odd. Are you sure you waited long enough?”
Meredith shrugged. “See for yourself.”
Claire got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. After three minutes of running the water, it was still stone cold. She went downstairs and into the kitchen, where Sherry was fixing herself a vegetable stir-fry. She wore her painting smock over black rugby shorts.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully when she saw Claire.
“Hi. Do you know Marcel’s number?”
“Oh, getting desperate, are you? The isolation up here can do that to you.”
“Very funny. The hot-water heater’s gone off again.”
“Really? That’s strange. Let me go take a look before we bother Marcel.” Sherry put down the kitchen knife she was using to chop the broccoli and onions. Claire couldn’t help noticing how long and sharp the blade looked.
She followed Sherry down the hall to the water heater, nestled in a little corner of the east-wing bathroom.
“Let’s just see, shall we?” Sherry knelt to inspect the heater. “Yup, there it is,” she said after a moment, “and it’s switched off for some reason . . . There.” She straightened up. “I turned it back on. You should have hot water shortly”
Who Killed Dorian Gray? Page 26