“Bailey, no one’s going to believe that we’re just here for groceries,” he snapped. He glanced out the side window, where a mother strapped twin boys into the booster seats of her minivan. She waved cheerily to Bodhi, who gave a tight-lipped smile as he waved back.
“Would you rather stay in the car?”
“No!”
“Then stop complaining.”
I kept my eyes trained on the door, occasionally checking the clock radio. Sure enough, right at twelve, the office door swung open. Doctor Marx and her secretary emerged from the small building, strolled down the street, and disappeared around the corner. I turned to Bodhi.
“Here we go.”
As soon as we stepped out of the truck, I linked my arm through Bodhi’s. “Smile,” I told him. The worried lines between his eyebrows were no good for our cover. “Pretend we’re out for a stroll.”
His lips tilted upward ever-so-slightly.
“Convincing,” I said.
Together, we crossed the road. Traffic was light. Most of Black Bay was still at work, with the exception of a few stay-at-home moms shopping for back-to-school items with their kids. Bodhi and I edged around Doctor Marx’s office, ignoring the glass-paneled door with the practice’s name printed in white font. There was an emergency exit around the back side of the building, which gave us a better opportunity to keep our mission covert. I tugged on the handle, and the door swung forward easily.
“I told you,” I said to Bodhi with a hint of satisfaction.
“Just get inside.”
The office was empty and dark. Without Doctor Marx’s soothing presence and the annoying fluorescent lights overhead, it felt like an entirely different place. Even the Zen waterfall was still and quiet. Behind Doctor Marx’s desk, the filing cabinet waited like a soldier at attention. I rolled Doctor Marx’s office chair out of the way and tried to pull the top drawer of the filing cabinet open. It stubbornly protested.
“That’s that,” said Bodhi. “Can we go now?”
I shot him a look. “You have no faith in me.”
I upended a decorative can of pens sitting on Doctor Marx’s desk. Sure enough, there was a paper clip at the bottom. With a dramatic flourish for Bodhi’s benefit, I shoved it into the filing cabinet lock. After a few seconds of maneuvering the paper clip around, the drawer sprang open with a gratifying click. I took a bow then rifled through the files, looking for Ethan’s name.
“Watch the front door,” I told Bodhi.
He obeyed, heading out to the waiting room and perching on the arm of one of the uncomfortable chairs to peek out of the vertical blinds on the front windows. Meanwhile, I searched the files as rapidly as possible. Ethan’s name hadn’t appeared as quickly as I’d liked, even though I could’ve sworn I’d seen his file in the top drawer. I growled in frustration and checked the next drawer down. No luck. On a whim, I knelt down and yanked open the bottom drawer. I was rewarded with the sight of Ethan’s file, stuffed haphazardly at the very back, and extracted the manila folder.
It was thinner than I expected. The other patient files boasted pages upon pages of Doctor Marx’s notes, copies of prescriptions, and official insurance documents. Ethan’s folder felt light. I sat down at Doctor Marx’s desk to leaf through it. The doctor’s notes were organized by date, starting with the most recent, so I took one from the bottom of the pile. It was dated January fifth of 1996. From Caroline’s journals, I knew that Ethan’s father had died roughly a year before. Had he waited that long to seek help?
Date of Exam: 1/5/1996
Patient Name: Powell, Ethan
Ethan presents with a history of a manic mood type. His associated symptoms include decreased need for sleep and repeated hypomanic episodes. He reports feeling “off” since the death of his father in January of last year, increases in compulsive and addictive behavior, and lapses in memory. His disturbances began or have been occurring for six months. Ethan reports feeling strained over his position at the local lumber mill. He was unable to keep the business afloat on his own. He feels that he has let his father and grandfather down by relinquishing ownership of the family business to another party. Ethan reports mixed melancholia and rage at being demoted to a shift supervisor. Current stressors include work environment, pressure to please his significant other, and economic anxiety despite the monetary benefits of his recent business sale.
I flipped the note over, hoping there was more information about the lumber mill on the back, but Doctor Marx’s concise reports moved on to a suggested treatment plan instead. Nowadays, Ethan owned and managed Powell’s Lumber Mill, but from the hints in Ethan’s file, it hadn’t always been that way. Apparently, Christopher Winchester finally managed to convince Ethan to give up the family business, but at what price? Ethan was blatantly displeased with the route his professional life had taken. According to more of Doctor Marx’s progress reports, he took that frustration out through less than productive methods.
Date of Exam: 3/7/1996
Patient Name: Powell, Ethan
Ethan reports his mood is much improved but cannot recall what made him feel so angry last week. In comparison to his morose attitude during our last session, he is hyperverbal, speaking rapidly, and gesticulating as he talks. Ethan’s version of his recent social interactions are at odds with eyewitness facts. He claims to have reconciled with his previous fiancée in a recent public meeting. However, witnesses report that the couple argued and the meeting ended when Ethan’s fiancée abruptly stormed out. In addition, Ethan claims to have come to terms with his new position at the lumber mill, but records indicate that he has not been present at work for the past two weeks.
Date of Exam: 4/15/1996
Patient Name: Powell, Ethan
Ethan blatantly exhibits signs and symptoms of worsening alcohol addiction and compulsive gambling. He reports fatigue and depression and hints that he has engaged in self-harming activities. Ethan appears increasingly paler and skinnier with each of our visits, and he often has dark circles under his eyes. In addition, a distinct smell of vodka enters the room when he does, but he vehemently avoids any questions, no matter how subtly delivered, that have to do with his possible addictions.
My brow crinkled as I read through Doctor Marx’s notes. The Ethan Powell I knew was always jovial, kind, and helpful. It was hard to believe that he was once so volatile, unreliable, and inconsistent. Did his father’s death really provoke such mania in him? And if so, what happened to inspire Ethan to change his ways?
In the waiting room, the vertical blinds rattled noisily. Bodhi retreated from the window and poked his head into the office.
“Bailey!” he hissed. “Incoming. Doctor Marx’s secretary is on her way back.”
“What?” I checked my watch. “It’s only been fifteen minutes!”
“She probably forgot something. Let’s go.”
I shook off Bodhi’s grip as he tried to steer me toward the back exit. “One more minute. I think we’re on to something here.”
Bodhi glanced out to the waiting room, his eyes popping with alarm. “Are you insane? Put Ethan’s file back and let’s get out of here.”
“In a second.”
I scanned Ethan’s most recent progress report, reading through it as fast as humanly possible. If the scant file was any indication, Ethan hadn’t returned to talk out his problems with Doctor Marx since the date of his last visit.
Date of Exam: 9/23/1996
Patient Name: Powell, Ethan
Ethan continues to improve. He reports greater control over impulsive thoughts and increased ability to think rationally. He appears healthy, calm, and collective today, speaking evenly without excessive fidgeting. He continues to frankly address the matter of his addictions and credits the town’s recent tragedy as the motivation he needed to better himself. Ethan claims that this event caused him to “wake up” and realize that he had been squandering his potential. He has taken an active role in helping the locals recover from the tragedy, and those who interact with
Ethan on a daily basis report that he plays a crucial part in Black Bay’s readjustment efforts.
At the bottom of the page, Doctor Marx had listed a number of weekly dates. Next to each one, she had scribbled “session canceled and rescheduled by patient.” A blue sticky note was stuck to the back of the progress report, display one last brief detail concerning Ethan Powell.
10/29/1996: Ethan visited the office without an appointment today. He was in good spirits, thanked me for all I had done for him, and announced that he no longer required our weekly sessions. Though I encouraged him to schedule a checkup with me in six months, he politely declined. I wish him all the best.
The bell over the front entrance chimed as Doctor Marx’s secretary let herself in.
“Bailey!” Bodhi pleaded in a low whisper, propping the back door open with his foot and gesturing through it.
I hastily shoved Doctor Marx’s notes into the manila folder and wedged it back into its place in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, but when I kicked the drawer shut, it echoed with a metallic clang through the office. I winced.
“Hello?” called the secretary. The click of her heels stalled in the waiting room, as though she had stopped moving to listen for other irregular noises.
“Let’s go,” mouthed Bodhi silently.
I tiptoed toward the back door, praying that apprehension rooted Doctor Marx’s secretary to her spot in the waiting room. But when I heard the tap of her heels across the floor again, growing more audible as she neared the door to the office, I dove for the exit, dragging Bodhi along behind me. We sprinted around the corner of the building before the door had even swung shut. My walking boot skidded across a patch of loose gravel in the parking lot. Bodhi caught me under my armpits before I fell, but with the squeak of the back door’s hinges, I knew we didn’t have enough time to make it across the street to the supermarket before the secretary caught sight of us. Hunched over, I tugged Bodhi into the landscaping that bordered the building, pressing him flat against the uncomfortable bed of redwood mulch.
Through the leaves of the dense bushes, we watched as the secretary’s black pumps crossed the blacktop toward our hiding space. She paused on the other side of the shrubbery that concealed us, pivoting to check her surroundings. Bodhi’s breath hiccupped. I clapped a hand over his mouth and put a finger to my lips. His chest rose and fell like a vibrating drumhead beneath me, but he stayed quiet. After the longest minute of my life, the secretary sighed, turned, and went back inside.
Air whooshed out of my lungs in relief. I’d been holding my breath without realizing it. I rested my head against Bodhi’s chest, trying to mellow out. He moved my hand from his lips.
“That was close.”
“You’re telling me,” I murmured.
“You were right though,” he said, shifting underneath me.
“About what?”
Bodhi pushed himself to his elbows so that he could look at me. “This was a fun adrenaline rush. But do you know what would make it even better?”
“What’s that?” I asked, confused.
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh my gosh.” I smacked his shoulder lightly, shoving myself up from the ground so that we were no longer pressed together. “Bodhi!”
He laughed and got to his feet. “I’m only saying!”
I brushed mulch off of Bodhi’s back, trying to keep the grin off my face. This was a reconnaissance mission after all, and we couldn’t afford to get caught for goofing off now. As we darted across the street to the supermarket parking lot and jumped in the truck, the mood grew serious again.
“So?” Bodhi prompted as the ignition turned over and the truck roared to life. “What did you find out?”
I squinted as a cloud shifted, spraying sunshine through the windshield. “That Ethan wasn’t always the guy we know today. He had a lot of problems after his dad died. Alcohol, gambling, arguing with his fiancée.”
Bodhi steered the truck out of the parking lot. “That doesn’t really explain why he would want to hurt Patrick and Caroline.”
“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But one of the reasons his health deteriorated so quickly was because the lumber mill was failing under his ownership and Chris Winchester bought it out from under him.”
“So he might’ve had a grudge against the Winchesters,” Bodhi speculated. “That doesn’t mean he killed their kids.”
“I just find it all too convenient that a month after the Winchesters died, Ethan’s suddenly back on his feet and feeling better than ever,” I said, recalling the date on the last progress report. “People don’t learn to cope with mental illness in a month, Bodhi. Something doesn’t add up.”
As we trundled along the main road, I spotted a familiar figure walking along the sidewalk. It was Jane, holding a plastic bag with the name of the local used bookstore printed on its side. At the sight of her, my conversation with Ethan from several days ago echoed in my mind. He claimed to have been with Jane on the night the Winchesters died. If there was anyone who could confirm or deny that, it was Jane herself.
“Bodhi, slow down,” I requested, rolling down my window. The truck braked, and I waved to the woman on the sidewalk. “Hey, Jane!”
Jane glanced up. When she saw who was in the truck, she waved merrily and crossed the grass to lean in through the window. “Long time, no see,” she joked.
“Want a ride?” I offered.
“Do I!” Jane opened the door behind me and hopped into the truck. “Whew! Thank goodness for the pair of you. This summer must be breaking all kind of heat records.” She slid to the center of the bench seat, resting her elbows on the console between me and Bodhi. “You must be Bodhi,” she said, offering her hand as Bodhi pulled away from the curb. “I’m Jane Lacroix. Bailey and I met this morning.”
Bodhi shook hands over his shoulder without looking away from the road. “So she told me. I hear you’re a fan of the blog. Where can we drop you off?”
“At the high school, please,” said Jane. “Can you believe summer’s nearly over? I spent the whole week reorganizing my classroom.”
“I’m almost glad,” I said. “Bodhi and I can’t wait for the cooler weather. It’s hell renovating a house in this heat.”
“I can’t imagine!”
We drove past the park, where volunteers were putting the final touches on the venue for the summer festival the following afternoon. One man lined the flag football field with fresh white paint. A woman with a pig snout printed on her black apron manned a mammoth barbeque smoker. On the modest stage, two volunteers worked in tandem to raise a colorful banner advertising the twentieth Winchester Celebration.
In the backseat, Jane clicked her tongue. “I can’t believe it’s been twenty years already. Sometimes, it feels like the Winchesters just died yesterday.”
Bodhi and I exchanged loaded looks.
“Have you read my recent blog posts?” I ventured carefully.
“Of course I have,” replied Jane. “I love that you’ve done a few pieces on the Winchesters. God, it’s nice to think about them again. I joined the book club because of Liz, you know. She was something else.”
“I’d like to continue writing about them,” I said, hoping that my tone felt light and casual. Bodhi’s hands tensed on the steering wheel as though anticipating my next sentence. “With the anniversary approaching, I want to do something that commemorates their influence on Black Bay. A tribute of sorts.”
“That would be lovely.”
“I thought so too.” I pivoted in my seat to look Jane in the eye. “Here’s the thing, Jane. I want to gather as much information as possible before I publish anything. That way I don’t flub the whole thing. You wouldn’t happen to remember anything about that day, would you?”
Jane’s perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched together. “I remember that day vividly, but I’m afraid none of my recollections pertain to the Winchesters themselves.”
“Oh?” I said, feigning ignorance
. “What happened?”
“Ethan invited himself over for an early dinner,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’d broken off our engagement months before, but he spent a good long time begging me to take him back before the Winchesters died. Anyway, he promised that he’d finally stopped drinking, but he turned up at my apartment smelling like the floor of a distillery.”
“That’s no good,” said Bodhi sympathetically.
“It sure wasn’t,” agreed Jane. “Ethan stormed out, and I cried myself to sleep nice and early. I didn’t even hear about the Winchesters until the next morning, right after I got a call from the police telling me that Ethan had run his truck into a telephone pole late that night.”
“Ethan left?” I asked. “He wasn’t with you that night?”
“We didn’t even make it to the appetizers,” Jane recalled wistfully. “Total waste. I threw out an entire platter of stuffed grape leaves. I didn’t have the heart to eat them myself.”
Bodhi reached across the console to hold my hand. The gesture was casual enough—Jane had no reason to suspect anything of it—but Bodhi’s cold fingers and racing pulse said everything that we were currently unable to voice out loud.
21
Fear of Water
As soon as we dropped Jane off at the high school, waving as she disappeared with her bag full of books through the front doors, Bodhi stepped on the gas pedal. The truck growled as we pulled a rough U-turn and barreled toward the bluff.
“Ethan told you he was with her all night?” Bodhi asked, his eyes fixed to the road in front of him. The speed limit through most of Black Bay was twenty-five miles per hour. I grabbed the handhold above the door as we roared past startled pedestrians.
“That’s what he said,” I confirmed.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Bodhi, but his words didn’t match his actions as he cut off a Jeep in the main roundabout and sped off. “It was a difficult night for all of Black Bay. Maybe Ethan just doesn’t remember it correctly.”
The Haunting of Winchester Mansion Omnibus Page 22