Heart of Stone (12 page)

“Please, Chief Terwilliger,” I said. “Don't pull those out here. They're quite gruesome.”

“Are those pictures of the divers?” asked Isaac. “I'd like to see them, if you don't mind.”

“I mind,” I said. “They're terrible to look at. Why would you want to ruin this perfect evening by looking at two dead bodies?”

Terwilliger looked on expectantly, hand still inside the envelope, waiting for a final verdict of thumbs-up or -down. Isaac apologized, and the chief withdrew his empty hand from the envelope.

“I'll look at them later,” he said, clamping the photographs under his right arm. (So much for the envelope ever being used again.) “They're just for the state police, anyway. I'll get you your money tomorrow.”

I didn't care either way and, in fact, doubted I'd ever see a penny from him. He turned back to the table and poured himself another glassful of beer.

“Real nice party,” he repeated, gazing out across the room.

“You're not on duty, are you?” asked Isaac.

Terwilliger regarded him queerly. “Of course I am,” he said and took a gulp of beer. “Why else would I be here?”

Isaac mumbled something about getting back to the others, and we excused ourselves. Terwilliger didn't seem to mind, at least as long as the beer held out. We rejoined Aunt Lena and Cousin Max, who again nearly swooned when he saw no glass of port on my person. I rushed back over to the table to fulfill my promise and his glass. The chief was still there.

“Was that your fellow I was talking with before?” he asked me to make conversation.

I didn't know how to answer that, so I asked him why he wanted to know.

“No reason. Just curious. A pretty girl like you must have lots of suitors.”

A little creepy, especially after he'd ogled me the day before in my bathing suit. I poured Max's port and excused myself.

“And I'm curious because he's got a shortwave radio,” said Terwilliger.

“Is that prohibited here on Prospector Lake?” I asked. “Along with photography and nude bathing.”

He chuckled. “You're a funny one, do you know that?”

“I wasn't joking,” I said. “What's wrong with having a shortwave radio?”

“There's nothing necessarily wrong with it. But some people use them to listen for instructions from their handlers.”

“I beg your pardon? What handlers?”

“You know, back in the mother country.”

I gaped at him.

Terwilliger leaned in and whispered, “KGB.”

I put Max's drink down on the table and stepped back to look him up and down. “Now you're the one who's funny,” I said. “Do you really think these people are Soviet agents?”

He shrugged and sipped his beer. “Probably not, but . . .”

I excused myself a second time and returned to Isaac, who was entertaining my aunt and cousin. Damn. Max's port. I turned on my heel and made my way back to the drinks table. This time Terwilliger was nowhere in sight. I snatched Max's drink off the table and noticed the brown envelope with the photographs inside. The chief's empty glass of beer sat on top of it, leaving a ring. I didn't want an unsuspecting reveler to discover the horrible photographs by accident, so I picked up the envelope and carried it back to my seat. Max reached out for the glass of port with both hands, trembling with exaggerated avidity. He took a large gulp. Then a smaller one. He expelled a great sigh.

“If ever I fall overboard into the lake, my dear, remind me not to ask you for a life preserver.”

“You won't need one,” I said. “Not with all that hot air. You'll float.”

“Flatterer. Now, if you please,” he said, downing the last few drops, “will you go fetch me another?”

The evening had taken an unpleasant turn for me. I hated running into that ogre of a policeman, and Isaac's ghoulish enthusiasm for viewing photos of two poor souls who'd fallen to their deaths soured my mood. It was past ten thirty, and I wanted to go back to Cedar Haven and to bed.

Isaac tapped me on the shoulder and asked what was wrong. I didn't want to spoil the party, so I shrugged and said I was tired. He handed me a Scotch on the rocks.

“Come chat with us,” he said.

David, Ruth, Rachel, Miriam, and Simon were seated on a sofa, huddled around a bottle of Chianti, deep in conversation about the fence in Berlin. Isaac and I pulled up a couple of chairs, parked ourselves, and joined in.

“Who cares about Berlin anyway?” asked Simon. “Let the Russians have it. I have no love lost for the Germans.”

“Come on, Si,” said David. “Don't be so myopic. It pains me to say it, but it's not only about Berlin. I just can't back them anymore. Not after Hungary.”

“The Soviets think they can just steamroll Eastern Europe,” said Ruth. “They've made a mockery of international socialism, and you know it.”

The discussion remained spirited but friendly this night. Simon hadn't drunk as much as he had the night before. Then the topic turned to Donald Yarrow, the escapee from Comstock.

“It's pretty scary,” said Rachel. “The latest report I heard was that he'd been spotted near Hague last night. He's heading north, and we're right in his path.”

Some were skeptical about the hysterical reports proliferating since the escape. Rachel and Ruth were inclined to believe the news, the men were less sure, and Miriam suggested he was dead.

“If the wolves or mountain lions haven't got him, he's probably starved to death by now. I'll bet he's rotting in a pile of leaves somewhere in the woods.”

“What do you think, Ellie?” asked Isaac. “Are you afraid to sleep alone?”

I threw him a reproachful look. “I heard the report Friday night on the radio. I confess that I'm a little scared walking through the woods alone. Especially in the dark.”

“Poor Ellie,” said Miriam. “Didn't Isaac see you home last night?”

Simon laughed. No one else did. I blushed.

“I can handle myself,” I said.

Isaac tried to change the subject by suggesting we pull down the rusty old hunting rifles over the stag's head and oil them up.

“Don't joke,” Rachel said. “That guy's a murderer, after all.”

Everyone promised Rachel they'd monitor the situation and take action if Yarrow came any closer to Prospector Lake. Then Ruth added that the chief of police might be able to protect them.

“He's useless,” said Simon. “Stood there drinking our beer for an hour, uninvited.”

“Actually he came to see Ellie,” said Isaac. “She took photos for him of the two men who died at Baxter's Rock yesterday.”

“How awful,” was the first reaction from the group. And the second was, “Can we see the pictures?”

“Don't bother asking her,” said Isaac. “She wouldn't even give me a peek. And she doesn't have them anymore.”

They expressed disappointment, but I sensed they'd get over it. I was actually sitting on the brown envelope with the photos inside at that very moment. Having nowhere else to stash it, I'd slipped it under my right thigh and could feel it burning through my dress as the silence grew.

“She's got them right there,” said Miriam, indicating my legs with a nod. “Why are you hiding the photos, Ellie? We'd like to see them.”

Soon Simon and Isaac joined in, and it became a chorus.

“You really don't want to see them,” I said. “There's blood and two poor dead bodies. They're terrible images to see. I was nearly sick when I shot them.”

Apparently thinking better of it, Rachel grimaced and withdrew her request to see the photos. The others held fast, though, brushing off my warnings and insisting they could take it.

“I've never seen a dead body,” said Ruth. “Except my
zeydie
, but he was in a coffin.”

“Come on, Ellie,” said Isaac, touching my arm. “I promise we'll all be respectful. We're curious.”

I shook my head, half in disgust, half in pity. They weren't as tough as they thought, I was sure.

“I tell you what,” I said. “I'll show them to one of you. If that person can stomach it, fine, you can all see them.”

They agreed, and the nomination process began. Everyone was eager to volunteer, except for Miriam, who just sat there watching. In the end, they settled on Ruth. I questioned the choice, but they insisted. Finally, throwing in the towel, I grabbed Ruth by the arm and led her to a spot against the wall a few feet away.

“Please reconsider, Ruth,” I said, but she smiled and insisted she wanted to see.

The group watched from a distance as I reached into the envelope and pulled out the first contact sheet. The one with the tight shots of the two victims. I drew a deep breath and handed it to Ruth. She took it in her hands, still smiling, and her eyes scanned the print. First her smile cracked. Then her cheeks drained of all color. And she choked, a look of horror spreading across her face. Finally she melted and dropped to the floor in a dead faint before I could catch her.

The others ran to her, all diving to the floor to assist her, and I just stood there breathless. I knew the photographs were difficult to look at, but her reaction surpassed even my worst fears. Rachel and Miriam lifted Ruth's head and patted her hand. Simon waved air in her face and offered water. And Isaac grabbed the photograph that had floated to the floor when Ruth fainted. I watched as he looked upon it. His eyes grew as he pushed himself slowly to his feet.

“My God,” he said. “It's Karl.” Then shouting, he said it again. “It's Karl!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Karl Marx Merkleson was the unknown man on the rocks. There was no doubt. One after the other, starting with Ruth's faint and Isaac's shout, they all looked at the photos and confirmed the terrible news. Their old friend was the man crumpled and crushed on the shale below Baxter's Rock.

The party broke up quickly. Aunt Lena took my keys and drove Max to Cedar Haven. I stayed behind to help organize everything that needed to be done. For starters I called Chief Terwilliger from the community phone in the Great Lodge and gave him the news: we'd identified the unknown man. He sounded put out. It was after eleven, and he'd probably just bedded down in his pen for the night. He grumbled that he'd come back over right away.

“What the hell kind of name is Karl Marx Merkleson?” he demanded once he'd taken a seat under the stag's head, a fresh beer in one hand, my prints in the other. “Are you people Communists?”

“Of course not,” said Isaac, who'd assumed the helm. There hadn't been any vote, but he was the leader. “Karl's parents were of a different generation. You understand, things were different in the twenties.”

Terwilliger frowned and took a swig of beer. “So this fellow was a friend of yours?”

“Yes, but we haven't seen him in years,” said Isaac. “We had no idea he was here. He didn't contact any of us to let us know.”

“He just showed up and decided to take a dive off Baxter's Rock?” asked Terwilliger. No one had an answer for him. “All right, then. If any of you has an address for him, I'll contact his next of kin.”

There was a pause. Finally Isaac explained that Karl had changed his name. “It's Charles M. Morton now. He lives in Bel Air, California. I've got the address in my agenda.”

Isaac left to retrieve the address from his cabin, and Terwilliger finished his beer and half of another before he returned. The chief seemed satisfied with the resolution. No more loose ends to tie up. He stood to take his leave, advising the rest of us to obey posted signs and not to go diving off cliffs.

“That's it?” asked David, leaning on his crooked leg. “There's nothing else?”

Terwilliger shrugged. “That's it. Now that we've identified both men, that's the end of the story. Unless you think someone pushed them off the cliff.”

“Of course not, no. I just expected . . . I guess it's as you say. That's the end of the story.”

“Sorry about your friend,” said the chief, and he left.

He'd forgotten the photographs again. I grabbed the envelope and ran after him, catching up just as he was climbing into his truck. I handed him the envelope through the window. He took it, tossed it onto the seat, and drove off.