“You should have told me,” your father will say. By then, he’ll know about The Plan. About the money. Everything. And you won’t be the “good one” anymore. You’ll be the girl who should have said something. The girl who let this happen. The dumb disappointment. “You should have told me,” your father will say, again and again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why? Because you’re a child. Just a child. Frightened and uncertain and still grappling with life and all its shifting demands. But that answer won’t be good enough. Not for him, and especially not for you.
“An errand,” you tell him now. You lift your head, your cheeks still streaked with tears. “She went to town on an errand.”
“Where?”
You try to think of something. The market. The post office. Something. But you only shrug.
Slowly, your father stands. He watches the yard. Then he turns and walks up the stoop, but he pauses by the door and looks back at you.
“Go find her,” he says.
You’re shaking. Your mouth is dry. The wind is blowing through your hair.
“Else,” your father says. “Go find your sister right now.”
And after a moment, you feel yourself stand. Your head is light and your feet are weak, but you rise, clasping the locket in your fist.
“All right,” you say. “Okay.”
You step onto the grass, and then you start walking. You have no direction, no sense of where you’ll search, but you’re moving, and it feels good. With each step, your legs feel stronger. You cross the lawn and step into the road, and then you’re moving faster. Go forward. Move. Find her.
And as your legs start running, you know that you will. You don’t know where you’ll find her, and you don’t know what will happen when you do, but you know that you’ll be together again soon. You sense it. You feel it. The dusk is growing. The sky is darkening. But that doesn’t matter. Your legs push you forward, and you run. You’re going to find your sister. You’re going to find Jacqueline.
CHAPTER 25
When she said it all out loud, she felt a little foolish. The “exchange,” breaking into Alfred’s plane, the dress, the visit to the penitentiary—everything sounded slightly ridiculous, but even worse, everything was asterisked by its previous secrecy. The fact that she had mentioned none of this to Sam York until tonight seemed suddenly strange and, she knew, more than a little bit childish. From the second she set off on a rambling summary of it all, she felt like a kid coming clean to a parent about some minor piece of mischief.
But pangs of embarrassment and forfeitures of pride were beside the point now. Beyond the chagrin that her synopsis delivered, Elisabeth felt mostly vindication and an unabating sense of resolution.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen it before?” York said. “And you’re sure that it’s your sister, and that she’s older than eleven in the photograph? You’re sure?”
“I’m positive,” Elisabeth said, clenching the picture so hard that it flexed in the middle. Her hand bounced in time with her words. I’m. Positive.
And, to his credit, Sam York seemed to believe her. They were seated on either side of his cluttered desk, and now he nodded solemnly, wrote something down in his notebook. Perhaps Elisabeth had underestimated him, but York seemed nothing if not serious. Sympathetic, even. There were no patronizing grins. No “Oh, tut-tuts” of condescension. He listened to her, and he seemed to listen carefully.
“And this dress,” he said, “you’re sure about that, too? That it was Jacqueline’s?”
“It has my father’s stitching in it,” she told him. “He sewed our initials into all of our clothes, and the dress has my sister’s initials.”
“It actually says ‘JM’?”
“‘JGM.’ Jacqueline Gabriela Metzger.”
Another nod. Another note. Then he looked up. “Couldn’t you have had it all these years?”
“No,” Elisabeth said. “My father destroyed all of Jacqueline’s clothes. Alfred’s had it all this time, and he slipped it into Margaret’s closet while he was staying with us.”
“But why would he do that?” York said. “And why now?” but these questions weren’t judgmental. They weren’t skeptical. He was thinking out loud—genuinely trying to resolve his own line of thinking and, perhaps for the first time, genuinely asking for Elisabeth’s opinion.
“He’s said he killed Mack because Mack was going to ‘keep him from me.’ I don’t know what that means exactly, but it shows you just how much he wants my attention. I think he killed Mack and knew he was going to jail. He knew he was going away, and so he opened up about all this as a way to keep me under his thumb.”
York set his pencil down, and his eyes scanned up to the ceiling in thought. “But he must have placed the dress in Margaret’s closet before the murder. When could he have done that?”
“We went out while he was sleeping,” Elisabeth said. “Just for a little bit. He could have done it then.”
“All right,” York said, “but why? Was he planning Mr. Sanford’s murder all along?”
“I don’t know,” Elisabeth said, “but I don’t think so. It doesn’t all make sense yet, but I don’t think he’s been planning our ‘exchange’ for very long. He likes seeing me, and when he did what he did to Mack, it forced him into a corner. I think that’s why he opened up about my sister. He wanted to give me a reason to stay in touch with him.”
But she knew there was another possibility: that Alfred had opened up about her sister because he truly wanted to reunite them. There was no doubt that other forces impelled him. Yes, he wanted to force his way into seeing her, and of course there were motives at work that she didn’t fully understand yet, particularly when it came to Mack’s murder. But those things aside, perhaps there wasn’t much more to this than what Alfred himself had claimed: Perhaps he cared about her and wanted to help. Perhaps it was all as simple as that.
York finished jotting another note, and then, easing back in his chair, he set his pencil down and looked up at her. “This is quite a development,” he said, “but if we’re being honest, it’s still not much. There’s a lot of—”
“Are you kidding me?”
He raised one hand. “There’s a lot that depends on you, Mrs. Pfautz. There’s a lot of trust you need to carry. We have to trust that you’re right about your sister’s age in the picture. We have to trust—”
“But the dress—”
“Having someone’s dress doesn’t mean you murdered that person.”
“We’re not talking about murder,” Elisabeth said. “We’re talking about involvement. We’re talking about Alfred knowing more. We’re talking about this being proof that he’s not leading me on.”
“All right,” York said, “but, I was going to say”—and he bounced his hand at her—“but, this is all still enough, by far, to begin a formal investigation.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m going to get back in touch with the police in Lancaster County, inform them of all this, have them reopen the file on your sister’s disappearance, and then we’re going to carry this to a conclusion, if we can.”
“And what exactly were you doing before? You once told me you’d ‘look into this.’”
“Yes,” York said, “and I did, but that was just poking around. I was following up, you see, but we weren’t—”
“You weren’t doing squat,” Elisabeth said, as bluntly as she could, “but now you’re telling me you will.”
He lowered his chin, just an inch. Then he smiled politely, making a show of it. “That’s right.”
“Well, that’s just grand,” Elisabeth said, “but I don’t want an investigation.”
“Sorry?”
“What I want,” Elisabeth said, “is to know where my sister is, and that means getting more information out of Alfred. I’m not done yet. There are
more pieces here. More to learn.”
“Just let us go forward from here, Mrs. Pfautz.”
“By all means,” she said. “Go ahead. Please. Open your investigation. Start looking. Start doing your work. It’s about time, and God knows this is all I’ve wanted from you since the beginning. But as for me, I’m going to do my work, too. I’m going straight to the source.”
“And so will we, if need—”
“No,” Elisabeth said, “no, no, no. I told you the second I sat down, Alfred can’t know about this.”
York stared at her.
“Are you hearing me?” Elisabeth said. “He was very clear about—”
“You don’t need to repeat yourself.”
“I think I do.” She sat forward. “Don’t mention any of this to Alfred. Don’t go to him. That’s critically important. Let me handle him.”
And there it was, at last—the patronizing smile, the narrowed eyes filled with imperious pity.
“We’re not partners, Mrs. Pfautz,” York said. “I told you we’ll open an investigation, but that doesn’t mean you’re a part of it.”
“I am part of it,” Elisabeth said. You goddamn prick. You goddamn, god-awful prick. “I’ve been part of it from the start.”
“Then now is the time to take a step away.”
She stood.
“You’ll only make things worse,” York said to her back. “Trust me.”
Trust me, she heard Alfred saying again, because I’m the only one who really loves you.
“What I said before still stands,” York said. “Involved or not, he’s fleecing you. He’s a grifter. And now you’re trying to switch it up on him. You’re trying to play him. But do you know the one thing every grifter hates? Getting grifted. He’s going to catch on to you, and you’re going to muck everything up.”
She turned around, glowering at him.
“You think I’m a fool,” she said, and she took a single step forward. “You think I’m a silly little child.” She looked him up and down, and her hands clenched at her sides. “Well, I’m not, and I’m not going to muck anything up. So please, stay out of my way. It’s for the best.” She turned, but then she glared again over her shoulder. “Trust me.”
CHAPTER 26
Elisabeth slept better that night than she had in weeks, months, years. She slept a black, engulfing sleep, devoid of dreams and music. In the morning, she felt as though she had been asleep for a decade. She lay flat on her back and stared up at the wrinkled plaster ceiling, and she smiled at nothing in particular.
The day got worse from there. They skipped breakfast, and John went alone to visit Daniel Nilak in the hospital. Then he met them for lunch—root beers and roast beef sandwiches at the malt shop across from the hotel—and while Margaret used the bathroom, John told her about his visit.
He had spent an hour at the hospital, but it didn’t take Elisabeth more than a second to discern that it hadn’t gone well. Opening the door and walking into the restaurant, John had looked tired. He looked as if he was coming from a funeral, so much so that Elisabeth’s first thought was He’s dead. Daniel has died. Well, he hadn’t, not quite.
“But will he be able to walk?” Elisabeth asked.
“Sort of,” John said. “He’ll need crutches for the rest of his life. Like, polio crutches, I mean. He doesn’t have much feeling in his legs.”
And was he mad? Had he screamed at John when he walked through the door? Had he spat in his face?
“No,” John said. “He wasn’t mad. He was just”—John sighed—“he was mostly just sad. That’s the best way I can put it.”
“Sad?”
John nodded. “He told me his whole body feels different now. He told me he hated his life. He said he wanted to die, but at the same time he said he prays to God every night that he’ll keep on living, because he’s terrified of what else dying might be like. That’s what he said. What else it might be like, like he’s died some already. He’s in traction, you know. He can barely move.”
And then, John said, as if the whole situation wasn’t awful enough already, Daniel had started to cry. Slowly, “horrifically,” he cried.
“And what did you do?” Elisabeth asked.
“I just sat there,” John said. “I sat there and watched him.”
And now they were here, sitting together at the malt shop like a couple on their first date. Margaret came prancing back to the table.
“Daddy, my dearest,” she exclaimed, embracing him. “How wonderful of you to join us.”
They ran a few more errands; Margaret insisted on finding a bookstore, and after that they shopped for a new set of kitchen knives at the Sears & Roebuck. Then Elisabeth set into motion the thing she had waited to do all day.
“Another?” John asked. “Is it anything serious?”
“No, no,” Elisabeth assured him. They were pacing through aisles of mixing bowls, cups, and platters, everything softly shining as if the whole store were made of ice. “It’s just a follow-up for yesterday.” Then, after a moment, because it made it sound more official, she told him, “It’s standard procedure.”
And that was good enough—or intimidating enough—for John. He dropped it. She was riding in Elmer Whitlock’s limping DeSoto not half an hour later.
“Didn’t get your fill yesterday, huh?” he asked her, grinning into the rearview mirror.
“Something like that.”
“I get it,” he said. “I get it.” He lit a cigarette and rolled his window down halfway. The car filled with smoke and dusty air. Fairbanks smelled much different than Tanacross did—saltier and staler, as if the city rested on the edge of a rank, tepid ocean. “What’s your fella’s name, anyhow?” Elmer asked. “I probably know the guy.”
Her mind raced through possible answers and explanations. But then it twitched into speaking, and what she said was, “Alfred.” After a pause, “Alfred Shaw.”
Elmer exhaled a spear of smoke, puzzling in the rearview mirror. “Shaw,” he said. “Don’t know no Alfred Shaw. He related to Tall Tom Shaw? Big Tagish fella? Used to work at the Ester camp over west?”
“I don’t believe so.”
He shrugged. “Well, still. Probably know him. I’m just stupid’s all.” Elmer smiled again into the mirror. “Old age’ll do that to you. Old age and other stuff.” He winked, patting his breast pocket, and Elisabeth heard the faint sloshing of a flask. She smiled back.
If the Walrus remembered her from yesterday, he didn’t let on. They went through the same paperwork, filled out the same forms, and then she was waiting again in the drafty room with its massive wooden table and its matching rows of chairs. The day before, Alfred had left so quickly that they hadn’t discussed a crucial topic: his third and final “gift.” She had kept her end of the bargain, visiting him in Fairbanks, and he had kept his end, too, delivering the photograph. Now it was time for the next step.
And what that step was, she honestly couldn’t guess. But as she sat there, waiting for Alfred to walk through the door, an odd realization crept up on her: She was excited. Not only for getting closer to her sister, but for the sheer anticipation of Alfred’s next request. She dreaded it, partly, but in dread there was also a brand of exhilaration. The past three years felt to her now like some singular bout of stasis. Alaska had trapped her, frozen her. But now she had thawed, and her blood was flowing, and her heart was beating, and she was moving. Perhaps Alfred would ask for something horrible. But horror was better than nothing at all. And for that, she was excited. Positively giddy.
Somewhere down the hallway, a door opened and shut, and then Alfred and a guard were strolling up to the room. The guard unlocked the metal door at the front of the room and held it open for Alfred like a bellhop.
“Twenty minutes,” he said, and exchanged a single glance with Elisabeth. Then the door shut and latched behind him, an
d she and Alfred were alone.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Alfred said. He stood staring at her, thirty feet away. “What a pleasant surprise,” but his voice belied his words. He spoke flatly, and there was a sharpness in his eyes that Elisabeth hadn’t seen since that morning on the landing strip when he had asked to stay the night.
“We weren’t finished yesterday,” Elisabeth said. “So I thought I’d pay you another visit.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets, ambling forward. “My next gift, you mean. Our third and final.”
“That’s right.”
He nodded, kept walking. He stopped by the seat across from hers, though he didn’t sit down. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the top rail of the chair. “I guess you liked the photograph, then? It was acceptable?”
“In what sense?”
“As my gift. My thanks for your visit. It was up to snuff?”
“You could say that,” Elisabeth told him. Then, staring him down, “Where did you get it?”
Nothing. No reaction. No movement. “From a friend.”
“And this friend—that’s where you got the dress, too?”
“Correct.”
“And the name of that friend?”
“That’s for me to know. Not you.”
“We’re still going to do this? Speak in ambiguities?”
He pushed his weight off the chair, turned away from her, and walked toward the windows that shined overhead. “I can’t see the sky from my cell.”
“The photograph and the dress,” Elisabeth repeated. “Where did you get them?”
“We’re not talking about that anymore,” he snapped, whipping his head around. His eyes were pinched with fury, and a strand of hair hung in front of one eye like a bending claw. He stepped toward the table and began rolling up his left sleeve. “The sky,” he said, struggling to control his voice, “is very important to me. I know some people are afraid of flying, but they’re misguided. They think the sky is full of peril and danger, but they’re wrong. It’s the earth you’ve got to worry about. The hard, unforgiving earth.”
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