“I think you’re lying, yes,” Elisabeth said. “Mack wasn’t a gambler, and he wasn’t a cheat, and he wasn’t a fighter. I think you killed him in cold blood, but I want to hear the reason why. The real reason.”
“All right,” Alfred said. “I’ll tell you why I did it.” A pause. An agonizing second. “I was protecting you. There was an argument, yes, but ultimately this was a thing I did for reasons beyond that. I was protecting you from him.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Alfred said. “Telling you what happened to the Indian would be a waste of breath.”
“Call him by his name,” Elisabeth said, and a quiver of rage shot through her. She clenched her teeth. Her toes curled in her shoes. But Alfred paid her no attention, and he continued.
“I brought you here,” he told her, “to talk about one thing, and one thing only.” He fluttered his eyes as if he were waking from a heavy sleep. “I want to talk about her, Elisabeth. You know who I mean.”
In an instant, her heart was pounding. Every muscle in her body tensed.
“Elisabeth—”
“Stop,” she said. It was all she could muster. But he ignored her.
“We need to start working together,” Alfred said, “and together we can find her.”
“I told you to stop.”
“Jacqueline,” Alfred said. His head hung low. His eyes glowed white. His mouth gaped open. “I know things about Jacqueline.”
Elisabeth steadied herself. She closed her eyes. She waited a long while. He’s baiting you, she told herself. He’s torturing you. The rational part of her mind knew exactly what he wanted. Jacqueline? he wanted her to say, raising one hand to her mouth like a woman in a melodrama. How do you know about my sister?
And she knew she couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Never mind that she hadn’t told him anything about her sister. There were plenty of explanations for that: Margaret, Mack, one of the photographs scattered throughout their house, some of them neatly labeled with Jacqueline’s name beneath her image. The part of Elisabeth that implored her to be sensible was working at full speed: He’s baiting you. He’s trying to get at you. She knew that she should leave the cache. She knew that she shouldn’t even entertain this. Her sister? She wasn’t going to talk about her sister, not with this man, and not in these circumstances.
But of course, she couldn’t leave. However powerful her inclination for skepticism, it was nothing compared to her desire for hope. Already a thing was thrashing inside her, a thing that Alfred was waking and now might never sleep again.
“I bet you dream about her,” Alfred said, “don’t you?”
Elisabeth opened her eyes.
“I dream about her, too,” he said. “I dream about her every night, which is to say I dream about you, too.” He lifted his chin. “I know how it feels, Elisabeth. How it feels to be so utterly alone. These woods”—he was staring at the north wall of the cache, and now he narrowed his eyes as if he could see straight through it—“these woods eat you up, don’t they? They trap you and squeeze you and shut you off from the world. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She did. She knew exactly what he meant. There was a trail that stretched from their yard into the woods, snaking its way up and around Glaman Pond. An offshoot of the trail led even farther than that, a trail that the Athabaskans used for hunting. It extended through the forest until finally, half a mile out, it petered away and left only the bush.
Sometimes, John went hunting with the other men, and once, just for fun, Elisabeth walked with them until the trail came to an end. It was November, early winter, and the woods were already filled with snow. The trees weren’t very large in Alaska, but the snow made them look thicker and more imposing. Their branches sagged with clumps of snow and ice that merged into the branches of other trees around them, the entire forest linking arms. In Pennsylvania, the woods were wide and easy to traverse, but here the woods swallowed you up, every burdened tree leaning this way or that way as though the whole forest was collapsing on top of you. Standing at the end of the trail, watching John and the other men slink away, Elisabeth had been shocked at how quickly they disappeared altogether—how suddenly, almost instantly, she was standing by herself.
“That’s why people like you and me come to Alaska,” Alfred said. “We come here because we feel alone, and in our weakness we want to surrender ourselves to that loneliness. We want to be lost, and what easier place to be lost than Alaska?” He swallowed, bowing his head. “But you can’t give in to that temptation. It’s easy to feel alone, and it’s easy to surrender, but I’m here to tell you the truth.”
Her voice was a raspy whisper. “What truth?”
“That you are not alone,” Alfred said. “I am here for you, Elisabeth, and I want to help you.”
She watched him. “What do you know about my sister?”
“I know that she’s alive.”
“How?”
He took a breath. A single breath. “Because I was involved in her disappearance.”
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She could only stare at Alfred Seidel, and he stared right back.
“I lived in Lititz at the time it happened,” he said. “It was shortly after I came to America. I was there, and I was involved.”
“Then tell me where she is,” Elisabeth said.
“It’s not that simple. I told you that today was going to be the first step toward the truth. It’s nothing more than that. It’s only the start.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I won’t tell you anything more than what I’ve said already. It means I can’t tell you everything I know, not in one sitting.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do,” Alfred said, and he slumped, staring up at her with a look of desperation and fear and unmistakable tenderness, “you’ll have no more use for me, and then I’ll be alone again.”
CHAPTER 9
Jacqueline’s “little bird” is hardly little. He’s a grown man—Jacqueline says that he turned nineteen in March—and his name is Jacob Joseph.
“Is he one of Papa’s friends?” you say.
“No, he’s one of my friends,” Jacqueline says.
The two of you are kneeling on the floor of your father’s workshop, collecting the money that your sister arranged into stacks only minutes before. But now you pause, sitting up on your knees.
“But he’s a grown-up,” you say. “Why does he want to be friends with you?”
You don’t mean for that to sound insulting, but that’s how the words come out. And now Jacqueline stops working, too. She glares at you, smoothly balling her fists in her lap.
“You don’t get it,” she says, like a snob, lifting up her chin. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. Jacob’s like a big brother. He’s nice. He’s smart. He’s like a fun big brother.”
“And he gives you money?”
“Sometimes,” Jacqueline says. “He’s rich. I’ve been helping him around his house, and sometimes he gives me money.”
“You mean, you’re doing chores for him?”
“No. I help him. I’m his feminine presence in the house.”
“His feminine presence?”
“Yes, you know. I cook for him sometimes, but other times we just talk, or he shows me things. He’s terribly interesting.”
He’s a native German, your sister explains, a recent immigrant who fought for the German Empire in the war. And not only that—he’s royalty.
“He was a war hero,” Jacqueline says, “and a prince, or something like that. But after the war, his castle was taken away from his family, and he came to the United States.”
“A castle?” You scrunch up your face.
“I’ve seen a picture of it,” your sister says. “It’s real.”<
br />
“But people don’t really live in castles, dummy. That’s all made up.”
“It’s not,” Jacqueline shouts, “and I’m not a dummy. I didn’t believe it either, but I’ve seen pictures, and I’ve seen his medals, and I can tell it’s all true. And then there’s this.” She holds up two handfuls of dollar bills. “Jacob just gave this to me. Like it was nothing. He’s rich. He’s royalty. He has boxes and boxes of money. A whole basement of it.”
You sit straighter, and for a moment you and Jacqueline just watch each other. “Boxes of money?” you say. “Honest?”
“Yes, honest,” Jacqueline says. She’s working again, and her voice is soft. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
For the rest of the day, you think about Jacob, turning him over and over in your mind. The Plan is forgotten, or at least it pauses for a moment. You ask one question after another, and Jacqueline answers each one.
You’re cutting onions for a pot roast.
“Does he live all alone?”
Jacqueline is cutting carrots.
“Most of the time. But he has relatives in New York City.”
You’re cleaning dishes at the sink.
“How did you meet him?”
Jacqueline is drying a coffee cup.
“At the hardware store. I was buying copper filings for Papa, and Jacob was buying something, too. A hammer or something.”
“Where was I?”
“Baking pies with Auntie.”
You’re dumping trash in the woods.
“What does he do for work?”
Jacqueline kicks a glass bottle.
“He doesn’t have to work. He’s rich.”
You’re spreading coffee grounds over the garden out back.
“Why haven’t I met him?”
Jacqueline wipes her hands on her apron.
“Because he doesn’t ever come over.”
“Then when do you see him?”
“A little bit at a time. I go to his house sometimes when I run errands. And sometimes he writes me letters that he leaves behind the workshop.”
You’re scrubbing Papa’s shirts.
“Why does he live all alone? Why isn’t he married?”
Jacqueline is scrubbing socks.
“He is married. He’s handsome and rich and smart as the dickens. But his wife is still in the old country.”
You’re watching fireflies.
“You’ve actually seen boxes of money? Whole boxes of it?”
Jacqueline is jamming a stick against the ground.
“Yes.”
“How many times have you been to his house?”
“I haven’t kept track. A bunch.”
You’re brushing your sister’s hair.
“Where does he live?”
Jacqueline sighs.
“In a house on Shenk Lane.”
You’re lying next to each other on the hardwood floor. Embracing.
“Can I meet him?”
Jacqueline closes her eyes.
“I’ll ask, but he’s a very private person.”
Throughout all of the answers that Jacqueline has given, that’s been a theme: Jacob likes to keep to himself. He lives alone. He doesn’t work. He doesn’t socialize. He has no friends, it seems, apart from your sister—his feminine presence. And he’s in Lititz only temporarily. His wife has yet to leave Germany, but her immigration is underway, and when she arrives he’ll move to New York City and join her.
“And she’s marvelous,” Jacqueline tells you the following day. “Marvelous and beautiful and wonderful in every way.”
You’re hanging laundry on the line out back. “You’ve met her?”
“No, but I’ve heard all about her. I’ve heard oodles.” Jacqueline steps closer, nudging you playfully with her shoulder. “Want to see a picture of her?”
And the woman she shows you is indeed beautiful. She wears a fur capelet and a flat-brimmed hat, one adorned with a blooming flower the size of a saucer. Silver earrings dangle beside her jawline like drops of falling water. Her head is turned three-quarters to the side, and her nose is long and narrow. Her eyes look kind, and her lips bend with a faint smile. She looks dignified. Proud, but not pompous. She looks, you must admit, like royalty. But even more than that, she looks like someone else, and you realize who after a minute of thinking. The slant of her nose. The shape of her lips. The posture. The way her hair is crimped around her ears. She looks like your mother.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Jacqueline says.
She takes back the picture and cradles it in both hands, as though it’s something delicate and small. An injured animal. A broken toy.
“Yes,” you say, fighting the lump in your throat. “She’s beautiful.”
“And Jacob says she’d love to meet me. He’s certain of it.”
“Jacqueline,” you say, but you don’t know how to finish.
You stand up from your seat on the edge of your sister’s bed. Jacqueline is standing by the window, still studying the sepia portrait in her hands. Outside, it’s dark, and above the cornfields fireflies strobe, a rippling sea of winking gold. How can you ask the thing you need to ask? How can you say it without Jacqueline getting upset?
“Can I—” And you struggle with the words for a moment, but finally your tongue feels stronger. You know how to get at what you need to ask. “You said that Jacob sends you letters?”
Jacqueline looks up at you. “Yes. Sometimes.”
“Can I read them?”
“Why?”
“Because he sounds amazing. This is all amazing.”
She considers your question, but then she leans away from you. “No, they’re private.” She walks to her vanity table—a piece of furniture that belonged to your mother—and she slips the photograph into its center drawer. “I’ve already said too much.”
“About what?”
“About everything,” Jacqueline says. “I shouldn’t have told you about Jacob at all. He told me this is a secret.”
“What’s a secret?”
“Everything.”
You shake your head. “But why does it have to be a secret? What is there to hide?”
“The money,” Jacqueline says. “I don’t want Papa to know about the money.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll take it for himself.”
“Did Jacob tell you that?”
And you can see from her face that, yes, he did. He’s encouraged her to keep this a secret. To keep everything a secret.
“Don’t you think this is strange?” you say. “If he’s so nice, if he’s like a big brother, why doesn’t he make friends with us all? He’s a grown-up. He could be friends with Papa.”
“But he’s my friend,” Jacqueline says. “I don’t want him to be friends with Papa.”
And that’s all you can take. You have to ask her directly, even if it makes her upset. Even if it makes her hate you. “Jacqueline,” you say, “are you telling me the truth about Jacob?”
She sits down on the stool in front of the vanity. “What do you mean?”
“Is he—” Just say it. However ridiculous it sounds. “Is he your boyfriend?”
She frowns. Takes instant offense. “No, he’s not my boyfriend. What are you talking about?”
“It’s just that—”
“It’s just what?” Jacqueline says.
“Well, why did Jacob give you so much money?”
“Because he’s kind,” she says. “And he’s rich. You saw the dagger. You saw the money.”
That you did. The dagger, you know, is wrapped in its towel beneath Jacqueline’s bed, and the money is hidden in a hatbox beside it. A hundred dollars. That’s more money than your father charges for his most expensive tool, and who knows how m
uch the dagger is worth?
However much is too much. It’s strange, and Jacob is strange, too—you know that in your bones—this grown man who gives your sister money and sends her notes and tells her to keep secrets.
“Does he give money to other people, too?” you say. “Does he give it to church? Or to his neighbors?”
“I don’t know,” Jacqueline says. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why did he give it to you?”
“Because I’m his friend.”
“Yes, but I’ve never given my friends a hundred dollars.”
“That’s because we’re poor, Else.”
“We’re not poor,” you say, more angrily than you intended.
“Compared to Jacob we are. That’s what he said.”
“Then fits on him,” you say. “Fits on this whole stupid thing.” Your face and neck flush with heat.
“Fine,” Jacqueline says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Then I guess you don’t want to meet him after all.”
“I don’t. Not anymore.” But you do. Of course you do. In a way, you feel it’s your obligation. Your face softens. “Did he really say that?”
Jacqueline watches you, her arms still locked. She’s debating whether she should keep on fighting. “Sort of,” she says. “But he wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“Well, fine. So, can I meet him or not?”
Jacqueline relaxes. “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. I don’t know.”
“But will you ask him?”
She thinks. And finally, she lowers her arms, and she turns away from you. “Yes,” she says. “I’ll ask him. But I’m not making any promises.”
CHAPTER 10
Alfred held firmly to his word: He didn’t tell Elisabeth anything else that day, no matter her insistence. At three o’clock in the morning, the police arrived in two planes, and when they left, Elisabeth went with them. She spent the next four hours at the police station in Fairbanks, stretched out on a cot that they set up for her in a bathroom.
And she cried. Finally, in the private darkness of the bathroom, she let it all wash over her, and she let herself break down. Elisabeth had never been one for weeping, but when she did, she did it only in the dark, only when she felt truly hidden, when even she couldn’t see what she was doing. Exhausted, her nerves as brittle as glass, she cried for an hour straight.
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