Heart of Stone (5 page)

“We'll have to see if Max feels up to it after his long day,” said Lena, and I decided I had to tell her the whole story.

I explained that I'd found his station wagon in the clearing above Baxter's Rock. A belt and a pair of trousers belonging to one of the dead men were folded on the front seat.

“That's odd,” she said, her cheek twitching just a tad. Aunt Lena wasn't a panicker, so this was a dramatic reaction for her.

“I'm taking my car to go find him,” I said. “Do you know where he was going to paint this morning?”

Max had been painting for the previous two days in the woods just west of Grover Road. There was a pretty copse of birches he'd found, and he was working on a series of forest-scapes there, about two miles from Cedar Haven. Aunt Lena gave me directions.

“He's been parking his car off the road that leads to Stu Haller's place,” she said. “Just a few yards from Lake Road. You can't miss it.”

There was no telephone at Cedar Haven, and only a few phone booths in the village, so I wouldn't be able to call Aunt Lena with any news. I promised to hurry back as soon as I'd located Max.

The evening sky was still light, even if the sun had already disappeared behind the mountains to the west. The light was fading fast, though, which wouldn't make my search any easier. It was seven forty-five when I found the spot Aunt Lena had described. I knew Max's car wasn't there, of course; it was still sitting in the grass a mile away atop Baxter's Rock. The dirt lane leading to Stu Haller's place showed recent tire tracks and a flattened area of wildflowers and weeds a few yards off Lake Road. I figured that was where Max had parked his car. But why had he moved it? Or had someone taken advantage of Max's habit of leaving the keys in plain view and stolen the car? Assuming the latter, I couldn't tell which way Max might have gone on foot. After a few moments' search in the falling light, I found what looked like a narrow path through the woods. Along the trail, I came upon two or three spots that might have matched Aunt Lena's description of birches, but there was no trace of Cousin Max.

It was now eight, and the sun had set. The night had gone dark, with roiling thunderheads tumbling across the sky. I felt a chill on my neck. God, I hated the woods at night. And I didn't relish getting soaked in a downpour, which was threatening to let loose at any moment. The prospect of rain heightened my anxiety for Max's safety. Where had he gotten to?

Picking my way through the trees, I headed back the way I'd come, searching for the clearing where Max had parked his car. A flash in the sky lit up the black clouds overhead, flickering twice. I stepped up my pace, scratching my cheek on a low-hanging bough as I hurried. A few seconds later, the sky boomed as if breaking apart, and I tripped over a root and hit the ground. I scrambled back to my feet and brushed the pine needles from my hands and the front of my dress. Another crack sounded through the woods, but this time no lightning flash had preceded it. I wasn't alone.

“Max?” I called, holding my breath. No answer. I called his name again and waited. But the only response I got was another, softer snap somewhere behind me in the dark trees. I weighed my options. Run or hide? Climb a tree? Not in a lightning storm.

I heard another crackle and took off on a run. Hands out in front of me to protect my eyes, I tore through the branches, stumbled over rocks and tree trunks, and leapt over fallen logs. Gasping for air, I tripped two more times but was back on my feet instantly, almost without missing a stride, sprinting through the pines and expecting a cold hand to corral me at any moment. I wasn't even sure I was following the correct route back to my car, but stopping to find my bearings was not an option. I would run into the lake and swim to the other side, I told myself, if that was what it took to get away from my pursuer. If, in fact, I was being pursued at all. What if it had been just a deer?

After some time, I emerged from the black woods onto a dirt road. I didn't recognize it as the one I'd arrived on, but it had to be. I must have exited the thick trees farther up the road, closer to Stu Haller's place. Lake Road was surely to my left, unless I'd been completely turned around in my panic after one of my falls. Why hadn't I brought bread crumbs? Wheezing and huffing for breath, I felt the first big drop of rain on my head. Then another. And another. Then the skies opened up, and the rain pelted the ground and me, roaring like a waterfall. I set off in the direction I supposed would lead me to Lake Road and my car. The clouds flashed again, and almost immediately, another thunderclap boomed like a cannonade. I ran, and, as the rain beat down upon me, I was well aware that my pursuer might be standing between me and my car somewhere ahead on the very path I was following.

Then, like an oasis shimmering in the distance, a true road—paved and shouldered—appeared before my eyes. I fumbled for my car keys as I covered the last fifty yards at a dead run, determined to jump inside, start the car, and gun the engine before my pursuer could slit my throat.

Dripping wet I climbed into my Dodge Lancer, which, thank God, was still there on the side of Lake Road, and locked the doors. Rain drummed on the roof, and all was darkness around me. Still panting for air, I turned the ignition. The engine roared to life. I patted the dashboard in sincere appreciation—my car had occasional problems answering the call—and switched on the windshield wipers and the headlights, throwing a pale glow over the flooded black tar. The yellow dividing line, seemingly painted down the middle of the lonely road by a drunken driver, weaved its way around a bend some fifty yards ahead. I shifted into drive and pulled away from the shoulder onto the road. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I could see no threats, no one emerging from the woods. I wiped the foggy windshield with my hand and drew an easy breath, the first, it seemed, in hours. I turned my attention back to the road before me and stamped on the brake. The car skidded across the asphalt, skating over the crooked, yellow dividing line, before finally gaining traction and shuddering to a halt in the middle of the opposite lane.

I leaned on the steering wheel, my heart pounding, as the wipers sloshed back and forth over the windshield. I watched as a fat raccoon waddled across my path, unconcerned or unaware of how close he'd come to greasing the undercarriage of my car. My headlights shone on his tawny fur, as the engine ticked and growled, waiting patiently for him to get out of the way. Happy in his coat of soaking-wet fur, he stepped over a long skid mark, most probably left by another surprised motorist who'd narrowly missed him the night before, and completed his crossing in one piece. He disappeared into the darkness of the brush on the other side without ever having looked back at me. I took my foot off the brake and eased back into my lane heading south.

Keeping my eyes peeled for Max, I continued on into the pouring rain. About a mile and a half later, having driven through the village, I slowed to a stop before an outlet on the west side of the road. A cheerful wooden sign in the shape of a lyre proclaimed, “Camp Orpheus: Never Look Back.” My curiosity wrestled with my conscience. I wanted to ask about the young camper who'd fallen to his death, but Max's disappearance was more pressing. I decided to inquire if anyone had seen a lost old man. An innocent question or two about the boy wouldn't hurt a soul. That satisfied the guilt. I flicked the turn signal and made a right into the unpaved lane.

“It's been a horrible day,” said Norris Lester, director of Camp Orpheus, as he rubbed his temples with his forefingers. “I've just returned from the police station where I met with the Kaufmans, Jerry's parents. They drove up from Albany when they heard. They're disconsolate. Just devastated by the news. We all are.”

A slight man with thinning brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a prominent nose, Lester was sporting a Camp Orpheus T-shirt similar to the one the dead boy had worn for his final dive. His eyes were red, his face lined and pale.

“Is that his name?” I asked, ever the reporter. “Jerry Kaufman?”

Lester nodded. “Jerrold, yes.” Then he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, nudged his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and offered me a lemonade and a towel. I was soaking wet from my run through the woods. I accepted the towel gladly and the lemonade with a tepid smile; I wanted something stronger.

“It's a terrible story,” I said. “Tell me about him. What was he like?”

Lester took a sip of his lemonade. “A talented young man. Sixteen years old. Upstanding boy. He played the violin and piano. Loved Mozart and Saint-Saëns in particular, his instructor tells me. And he wanted to learn the zither, of all instruments. Of course we don't have one here, so he had to settle for the autoharp.” He paused, seemingly considering the differences between the two instruments. “Not quite the same thing,” he concluded wistfully. “And Jerry was an excellent tennis player. One of the top players in camp.”

“What do you suppose he was doing diving off Baxter's Rock at half past noon?” I asked.

Lester shook his head. “I've been told that he missed all his activities today, including breakfast. That's at seven thirty. Apparently he snuck out of his cabin before dawn and never returned.”

“Would you mind if I spoke to some of his bunkmates?”

Lester regarded me queerly; he'd just realized I was interrogating him.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, vexed but trying to maintain the civility of a host. “What exactly is your business here?”

“I told the boy who met me outside that I'm looking for an elderly relative of mine. He went missing this morning not too far from here.”

Lester spluttered something incoherent about an old man in the infirmary before rising and striding over to a door marked “Secretary.” He entered without knocking and reemerged a few moments later with a sandy-haired young man on his heels.

“What's the man's name?” asked Lester, looking exercised. I gave him Max's name. “Pete, here, says he's in our infirmary. Stumbled out of the woods about two hours ago, dehydrated and confused.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Cousin Max was reclining on a cot, looking like a pasha reigning over the camp's infirmary, smiling and sipping what appeared to be a strawberry milkshake through a paper straw. Upon spotting me in the doorway, he waved jovially but refused to cut short the monologue he was delivering to a middle-aged woman in a white nurse's uniform.

“So you see, the human body doesn't bounce,” he declared. “At least not with the spring of, say, a properly inflated basketball. And while there are many moments in life when our natural lack of rubberiness proves to be an asset, falling off cliffs is not one of them.”

I crossed the room, planted a kiss on his forehead, and whispered in his ear that his comment was in poor taste.

“Perhaps, my dear,” he granted. “But as truisms go, it is unassailable. And I doubt anyone could substantiate it better than those two poor souls who fell off the cliff. But, unfortunately, they died proving it.”

“That's enough,” I scolded. Then I apologized for him to the nurse, citing fatigue, disorientation, and advanced senility. Max objected vigorously to all three characterizations. Truth be told, he was known for his irreverent ramblings, to the alternating delight and horror of his interlocutors. In the case of the camp nurse, he'd achieved full marks for the latter. She suggested that he seemed recovered enough to get the hell out of her infirmary. Norris Lester, Pete the sandy-haired secretary, and the scowling nurse stood in the doorway watching as I packed Max into my car and drove off into the rain.

It was nearly ten when we reached Cedar Haven. Max was tired, but I prevailed upon him to fill us in on the travails of his day. He said he'd parked his car off Lake Road a little before 7:00 a.m., precisely where I'd looked for him. He then spent a productive morning fashioning the peeling bark of a birch in his painting. He described the umber-and-sienna mixture he'd whipped up as the finest he could remember. I prompted him to concentrate on his story. Finding the thread again, he told us he was famished by the time he'd worked his way up to a particularly difficult branch of the tree, and he set off back to his station wagon in search of the liverwurst sandwich, egg salad, and thermos of Beaujolais Lena had prepared for him that morning. It was a little past eleven, he said, when he arrived in the clearing where he'd left his car, only to find that it was gone. With the benefit of hindsight, he opined that it had been unwise to leave the keys in the ignition. In the moment, however, he wasn't so much worried about the car or his sandwich, brushes, palettes, and paints inside. But the thermos of Beaujolais might just as well have been a jolly jumbuck stolen by a hungry swagman. He wandered through the woods in search of sustenance for some time until he lost his way. Then he lay down and fell asleep. Hours later, as the sun was going down, he stumbled into a clearing where an orchestra of adolescent children was sitting in folding chairs playing what sounded like Holst's “Jupiter.” Max swore he had been hallucinating at that point, as such a scene was impossible. For a brief moment, I entertained the idea of explaining that his recollection was most certainly correct, but in the end I thought better of it. Max delighted in our pity until he'd inhaled his second glass of port, at which point he excused himself and went to bed.