Nine Lives

by Wendy Corsi Staub

A sudden gust off the lake stirs the wind chimes that hang from the porch eaves. They sound louder than they should. Discordant.

  Like the wind chimes in her dream.

  Startled, she looks up at them.

  “It may have been five minutes,” Steve is telling her. “Ten, maybe?”

  Even one minute is much too long for a boy to be out on his own here, among so many strangers, with the lake . . .

  “I wasn’t paying much attention,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “Max!” Bella starts to run, limping on her sore toe. “Max! M—”

  Steve chases after her, jangling car keys. “Wait, Bella, I’m parked right there at the curb. Come on, I’ll drive you over to the playground. I know where it is. I run near there every morning.”

  Grateful, she hurries with him to the car. He removes a plastic shopping bag from the front seat and tosses it to the floor. Looking down, she sees that it contains bottled water and snacks, all set for the long drive home.

  If sensible Steve and Eleanor Pierson are leaving town, then so should Bella and Max. Yes, as soon as she finds him, she decides, they’re out of here. They’ll take the cat and kittens and . . . and just figure something out.

  Like what? Stealing a car? Asking Troy Valeri for a ride to Chicago?

  She buckles her seatbelt as Steve climbs behind the wheel and inserts the key into the ignition. Noticing his keychain with its dangling drama masks, she’s reminded of the VVM-engraved keychain, a troubling thought that leads her right back to poor Bonnie Barrington.

  How did she wind up in the lake?

  Pushing aside thoughts of menacing pirates, Bella keeps an eye on the road as they bump along. Surely they’ll come across Max and Jiffy, or at least people out walking. They can ask if anyone has seen the boys.

  But with a big-name draw in the auditorium and a storm brewing, the Dale is a proverbial ghost town. A couple of cats prowl the streets, as always. One—a black one—walks in front of the car as Steve brakes at a corner. She chooses not to interpret that as a sign—not even here.

  “We need to stop and ask whoever is working at the gate if the boys have come by,” she tells Steve anxiously, looking down the street toward the little hut beside the entrance.

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t leave town. They must know better.”

  “Max knows better than to leave the house at all without permission,” she blurts. “But that doesn’t seem to have stopped him!”

  “Hang in there, Bella. Let’s just get to the playground. It’s going to be okay. I know they were talking about a treasure. They were caught up in an adventure. That’s how kids are. I’m a dad, remember?”

  She says nothing. If the boys aren’t by the playground, she’ll ask Steve to drive back over to the gatehouse. No one can come or go without passing that way.

  Not officially, anyway. It’s not as if the town is an impermeable fortress surrounded by high walls and a moat.

  A raindrop splats on the windshield as she spots the swing sets at the end of the road, beside the Lyceum—the Spiritualist Sunday school.

  Steve accelerates toward the little patch of gravel near the playground.

  She scans the wide field, not wanting to even consider the forested acres that wrap around it. Even earlier, in the sunshine, the dense thicket of trees felt ominous. Now it’s downright sinister.

  She’s aware that this land backs up to Leolyn Wood, with its mysterious Stump and spirit vortexes. She’d said no earlier when Jiffy asked if they could go there so he could show Max the pet cemetery.

  Maybe that’s where they are now. At least there’s no drowning danger there. The lake is back in the other direction, and—

  And Jiffy was convinced there might be treasure in the water, she remembers. Sunken, not buried.

  Steve has driven beyond the gravel lot and out across the grass, rolling the car to a stop at the edge of the tree line. “Let’s go take a look.”

  Bella sits motionless in the passenger’s seat, her mind flying through the possibilities. Searching the woods is going to take a long time. Precious time wasted if the boys don’t turn up.

  But if they are, and they’re in trouble . . .

  What do I do?

  Sam would know. If he were here, he’d know exactly what to do.

  Useless thinking. Sam isn’t here, despite what the residents of the Dale would like her to believe. Despite the bluebell, even. She has no one to count on but herself.

  And in this particular moment, Steve Pierson. She turns to him, grateful she isn’t alone out here. “What if they didn’t come this way?”

  “Then they went somewhere else, and we’ll find them there,” he says logically, turning off the car and removing the keys. “But right now, we’re here, and hopefully so are the kids. Come on.”

  A soft summer rain is falling in earnest as she steps out into the field and follows him toward the edge of the field. The tall grass, wildflowers, and shrubby undergrowth are broken in a few places. If the boys had entered the woods, they’d have taken one of those paths.

  “Max!” she shouts as they circle the perimeter of the field. “Jiffy!”

  Steve calls, too. No reply.

  Her hair is plastered to her head, and her shoes are thick with mud. But at least there’s no thunder or lightning. Max won’t like being out in this, though. He’ll be wishing he’d stayed home.

  Oh, Max. Why would you leave without telling me?

  “They must have gone down one of the trails,” Steve says when they’ve circled all the way around to the other side of the field near the car. “Let’s start with this one and work our way back.” He points at a barely visible break in the foliage.

  She hesitates. “If they’re in there, they can’t have gotten very far. Wouldn’t they have heard us calling?”

  “Probably. But they might be hiding.”

  “Max would never do that.” Jiffy very well might, though.

  They shoulder their way into the woods, Steve walking ahead and holding the boughs so that they won’t snap back in her face. High overhead, the leafy canopy does little to shield them from the pattering rain. A few spots are slick with moss. She peers into the dense undergrowth on both sides of the trail, trying to imagine Max willingly venturing this far.

  If he came, he was trying to impress Jiffy. Slightly older, far more worldly Jiffy. Anger stabs Bella’s gut as she thinks of him. Anger and guilt. He’s only a child. He isn’t to blame for Max’s actions or, really, even for his own.

  It’s his mother’s fault. What is she thinking, letting him roam around unsupervised?

  She’s to blame. So are the rest of them, these so-called mediums who are so focused on contacting the dead that they seem to have lost touch with the living.

  It’s what Bella wants to believe, and yet . . .

  That isn’t entirely true, is it? Maybe it’s not true at all.

  Look at Odelia. She may be unconventional, but her heart certainly seems to be in the right place.

  Then again, Bella doesn’t really know her, does she? She’s not a surrogate mother, a close friend, or a godmother.

  Maybe I just wanted her to be those things. And more.

  Maybe I just wanted this to be . . . home.

  “Max!” she screams, hating her vulnerability almost as much as she hates this place and those people. “Jiffy! Max!”

  What if they’re not here? What if they are and can’t respond?

  Are they injured? Has someone taken them?

  “What if somebody got to them?” she asks Steve, clutching the sleeve of his polo shirt.

  “What do you mean? Why would somebody—who?”

  “Leona might have been murdered,” she blurts. “And Bonnie Barrington was pulled out of the lake this afternoon.”

  Something flickers in his eyes. “I’m sure Max is fine,” he says, but he’s lying. She can feel it. He’s trying to protect her from the truth.

  And the truth is . . .r />
  Whoever got to Leona and perhaps to Bonnie, too, could have gotten to Max.

  Whoever?

  She thinks of Pandora’s scrunchy lying on the floor of the closet and of the secret tunnel buried within.

  Max wouldn’t consider Pandora a stranger. He met her this afternoon. She shook his hand.

  If she . . .

  “I know who it is,” she tells Steve in a rush.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pandora Feeney. She did it. She killed Leona.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Quickly, she tells him about the tunnel.

  They’re not walking anymore. Steve stands listening to her, clutching his keys in his hands.

  His keys with the hanging medallion that shows the drama masks.

  “But why do you think Leona was murdered?” he asks.

  “I . . . I just . . . Please, I have to find my son.”

  It’s pouring now. The wet breeze is turning the leaves overhead, and somewhere, she can hear wind chimes.

  They’re everywhere in the Dale. But this deep in the woods? There aren’t any houses nearby.

  And these chimes aren’t pleasantly melodious. They’re harsh, like the ones in her dream about Leona. They seem to grow louder as she looks at the masks on Steve’s key chain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What’s the matter?” Steve glances down at his keychain and then up at Bella. “Why are you staring at my keys?”

  “Because I was just . . . thinking we should go.” She edges away from him, one step, and then another, back toward the field.

  “What about the boys?”

  “I’ll look by the lake. I bet they went to the lake.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because . . . it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  No. Nothing makes sense. Nothing.

  Or is it the opposite? Does everything make sense now? A terrible, frightening kind of sense?

  He’s a theater buff, she reminds herself. That’s why he has the drama masks.

  That thought, as it sinks in, only makes it worse. He’s done some stage work. Actors are adept at pretending to be someone they’re not.

  “But why the lake? I heard them say they were looking for buried treasure.”

  She fights to keep her voice from quavering. “I bet they said sunken treasure. That’s what they were—”

  “Wait—did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  He stands with his head tilted, listening intently. She holds her breath, listening to the dissonant wind chimes. So he, too, hears them? They’re real and not some kind of . . . ghostly harbinger?

  “I thought I heard someone shout ‘Mom.’ It sounded like a child.”

  “What? I didn’t hear it!” No, she was too busy listening for things that aren’t there or reading into things that are. “Where did it come from?”

  “That way.” He points ahead on the trail, using the hand that’s still holding the car keys.

  Again, she looks at the keychain depicting flip sides of human nature.

  Is Steve himself wearing a mask? Is he hiding a dark side?

  “Come on, let’s go.” He starts to push forward.

  If she stands her ground, he’ll be suspicious. Which is fine, if he’s the man he claims to be. But if he isn’t . . .

  She starts walking again behind him but reaches into her back pocket, feeling around for her cell phone. Surreptitiously, she takes it out. Just in case . . .

  In case you need to call for help?

  If Steve Pierson is some kind of criminal, then he’s hardly going to stand by while she dials 9-1-1.

  If he’s a criminal, then was he lying about having seen Max and Jiffy? Did he do something to them?

  No. No, she can’t even allow herself to think that way. If she does, she’ll . . . she’ll go crazy. Right here and now.

  She has to remain rational.

  If Steve can be trusted, he’s trying to help her.

  If he can’t, he’s trying to lure her deeper into the woods so that he can hurt her.

  It’s that simple.

  Is this what happened to Bonnie Barrington? And to Leona?

  But they were both in the lake.

  This has nothing to do with that.

  If it weren’t for that keychain of his, she wouldn’t be suspicious of him in the first place, except . . .

  Except that she was, she remembers. This morning. When she felt as though his story wasn’t adding up. And when he was so reluctant to call the police.

  What if he’d made it all up?

  Why would he do that, though?

  She trips over a vine stretched across the path and topples forward. Steve turns as she cries out, just in time to see her phone flying out of her hand. It lands on the trail by his shoe. Seeing it, he narrows his eyes just slightly and starts to reach for it.

  She grabs it before he can and gets to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” he asks as she brushes herself off with shaking hands.

  “I am. I’m fine. Sorry.”

  Again, he looks at the cell phone.

  She thinks quickly. “I was just getting a text. It startled me when it buzzed in my pocket.”

  “From whom?”

  “What?”

  “The text. Who was it from?”

  “Oh.” Casually holding it so that he can’t see it, she activates the screen.

  There really is a text, but it’s not incoming. It’s the unsent one she’d started typing to Luther.

  Sorry to bother you, but I figured out who did it. It’s—

  She was going to write Pandora’s name.

  “Who sent the text?” Steve asks again, more forcefully.

  No actress, she attempts to feign happy surprise. “Max!” The word squeaks out of her mouth. “It says he’s back at the house.”

  “He texts you? I thought he can’t even read yet.”

  Is he guessing, based on Max’s age? Or does he know it for a fact?

  Not wanting to be caught in a lie, she says, “Oh, he can’t. He just . . . he uses voice texting.”

  As she speaks, she’s hastily typing Steve Pierson into the text she’d meant for Luther, followed by, I think I’m in danger.

  “What are you doing, Bella?”

  “I’m just responding to him, letting him know I’m on my way back.” She resorts to shorthand, hoping Luther will be able to decipher it, praying he can even get a text in the first place: in wds by plygrnd snd hlp pls hrry.

  “Let’s see.” Steve stretches out his hand for the phone.

  She presses Send and shoves it back into her pocket. “There. All set.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Ignoring the request, she turns and begins to backtrack along the path. “I really want to get back to the house. He’s alone, and he’s scared.”

  “Bella, you didn’t just text your son.”

  Trepidation prickles the back of her neck, but she forces herself to keep moving. “Why would you say that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Dear God. He knows that Max can’t possibly be texting her because . . . because . . .

  She tries to shut out the thought, but it comes at her, smothers her.

  If anything has happened to Max . . .

  I’ll die.

  Not “cross over,” “pass on,” “be called home,” or any of those innocuous-sounding things the locals refer to. Not merely feel as though she’s stopped breathing. No, she actually will stop. She’ll cease to exist.

  She. Will. Die.

  Please let him be okay. Please.

  “You just told me he can’t read, Bella. So how can you text him?”

  “We voice text! I told you!”

  Realizing she sounds shrill, she turns to look at him. Something has hardened in his eyes.

  She whirls again to face the top of the path.

  “No,” he says behind her as she takes a step in tha
t direction. “Stop.”

  It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command.

  She ignores it, breaking into a run.

  “Stop!”

  He’s running, too. Chasing her.

  “Help!” she shrieks. “Help me! Someone help me!”

  She trips over another vine but manages to stay upright. He hits the same vine but isn’t as lucky, and she hears him fall with a curse. That buys her a little time, but not enough. He’s gaining on her.

  “Help me! Please help me!” She screams as though there’s someone, anyone, around to hear.

  She hits a patch of moss as slick as an ice skating rink. Her feet skid and arms flail. This time, she can’t keep her balance. She sprawls face down on the path, her foot twisting at an unnatural angle.

  He’s right behind her, standing over her.

  “Get up.”

  She tries to scramble away, clawing at the ground, ignoring the fierce pain in her ankle.

  “I said get up!”

  She sees it then. Sees his hand.

  Sees the gun.

  “My son. Did you—”

  “Max is fine. Do you think I’m a monster? I have a little girl the same age. I would never hurt a child, Bella. Never.”

  Panic is surging, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Why—why should I believe you?”

  “Because this isn’t about Max.”

  “Then what? What is it about?”

  “Shut up. Move.”

  She shuts up and moves.

  “Walk.”

  “I’m trying.” She tests her weight on her right foot. “My ankle . . . I think it might be broken.”

  “Walk anyway.”

  She limps, just like . . .

  Oh, Odelia. I can’t believe there were moments when I didn’t trust you.

  Please watch over Max for me. Please . . .

  I wish you could be the one to raise him.

  The wayward thought catches her off guard, but it’s utterly right. So right that she’s filled with a deep sense of regret that it won’t possibly happen.

  He should have had his parents. It’s not right. It isn’t fair.

  Prodded through the forest with a gun in her back, she feels tears mixing with the rain on her face. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what? You mean helping you look for your son? This was your idea,” Steve Pierson says. “Don’t you remember? You said he was at the playground looking for treasure in the woods.”