Instruments of Night (17 page)

“All right,” he said quietly.

He mounted the stairs, sat down in one of the chairs opposite her, took the glass of wine she offered, but did not sip it.

“You didn’t come to lunch,” Eleanor said.

“No, I didn’t.”

When Graves added nothing else, Eleanor let the matter drop. “Last night I thought I noticed a southern accent. What part of the South are you from?”

“North Carolina.”

“Did your whole family move north?”

“No. They stayed in the South.” His mind spontaneously envisioned the trio of gray stones that marked the place where they had stayed.

Eleanor watched him distantly, like someone studying a liquid in a test tube, something squirming in a vial. “Well, how’s your work going?” she asked, forcing a certain lightness into her voice. “Found anything interesting?”

Graves revealed the only thing of interest he’d found. “Faye Harrison was going down Mohonk Trail when she was seen for the last time. Away from Riverwood instead of back toward it.”

Eleanor immediately grasped the point. “So she wasn’t planning to meet Allison Davies at Indian Rock?” She leaned forward slightly. “All day I couldn’t write,” she said. “I kept getting distracted. Thinking about Faye Harrison. Riverwood too. The mood it must have had that summer. I kept thinking about how Faye’s death destroyed all that. And I suddenly remembered a painting I’d seen in Germany. It was of a lovely little German village, and it reminded me of the way Cezanne painted French villages. Very peaceful. Idyllic. I didn’t think anything of it particularly until I noticed the title. It was called
Dachau.
And I thought: No one will ever be able to look at that painting in the same way, or think of Dachau as anything but a death camp. That’s how it must have been with Riverwood.” She took a sip from her glass. “Innocence is a fragile thing. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

Hurled back in time, Graves saw the old car pull away, a black stain against a bloodred dawn, a freckled hand waving good-bye in the early morning air. That same malicious hand had taken his innocence from him during the preceding night, snatched it prematurely and abruptly, like his sister’s life.

“In every life there’s a period of moral virginity, don’t you think?” Eleanor mused. “A time before you’ve done anything truly evil. And when it’s gone, you realize that you’re exactly like everyone else. A place can experience the same thing. Lose its innocence. I’d never thought of that before.” She took a deep breath. “You know, Paul, the way I see it, you’re going to have to do what I do, make a play out of it. Out of what happened to Faye Harrison. With Riverwood as the stage and all the people who were here that summer as the characters. You’re going to have to mix them all together, shake the mixture, and see what boils up. Dramatically, I mean.”

It struck Graves that she had already thought this out, predetermined the course he should take. Her next question did not surprise him.

“How many characters are we talking about anyway?”

Graves ticked them off. “Well, besides the Davies family, there were the two men who were at work on the second cottage and the usual members of the household staff. Mona Flagg too. She was the girlfriend of Allison’s brother Edward. And there was one other guest. The man who actually found Faye’s body. An artist. Andre Grossman.

Eleanor appeared to be logging the names into her mind, storing them for later reference. “That’s the cast of characters, then. Somewhere in that list is the person who strangled Faye Harrison.”

Graves knew all too well that that was not necessarily so. “Unless it was a stranger,” he said. He heard the voice behind him,
What you doing out here, boy?
He said, “Someone who just came out of the woods, then vanished back into them.”
You lost in the dark? You a lost child?
He could hear the old horror enter his voice and knew that Eleanor had heard it too.

“You actually believe in evil, don’t you, Paul? You believe that it exists.”

“No. At least not as something separate from what people do.”

He felt himself move silently toward the darkened house, heard the sound of his footsteps as he mounted its creaky wooden stairs, Kessler’s breath like a stinking wind across his bare shoulders.

“But there are people who …”

He saw the door swing open, the light flash on, Gwen bent over the kitchen table, hands and feet tied to its wooden legs, her white skirt thrown up over her back, panties yanked down to her ankles, a trickle of blood snaking down her thigh. Kessler’s voice sounded behind him,
You didn’t know I’d already been here, did you, boy?
Next came laughter and the dreadful truth,
but you brought me to her anyway, didn’t you?

“People who …”

He felt Kessler’s hand shove him toward a chair, lash him to its wooden back, heard him ask his appalling question.
Want to hear her squeal?

“People who … ”

“Who savor pain,” Eleanor said, completing the thought. “That’s what you say about Kessler, the villain in your book, that he savors pain.” She smiled softly. “I read one of your books this afternoon,” she explained, anticipating his question. “My play wasn’t going anywhere, so I went up to the library in the main house. I started looking through the collection, and there they were. Your books all in a row. From your first novel to the latest one. I took the whole series, but I’ve had time to read only the first one. About the kidnapped little boy.
The Lost Child.”

Graves said nothing, partly pleased that she’d read one of his books, but also apprehensive that she’d done so,
fearing both her judgment and that she might have learned too much.

“I have to say it was much better than I’d expected,” Eleanor continued. “Rather haunting, in a way. That opening scene, with Slovak standing in the rain, at night, looking up at the ‘yellow-eyed windows’ of a child’s brothel.”

Graves could easily recall the scene, even the opening line he’d put in Slovak’s mind:
Innocence is not a shield.

“The child,” Eleanor added now. “The little boy of the title. The one Kessler kidnaps. He’s still lost at the end of the book.” She looked at him pointedly. “Is he ever found?”

“Not yet.”

“He’d be a man now, wouldn’t he?” Eleanor gazed at him intently. “With those terrible memories—the ones from his childhood—with them still in his mind.” Her eyes took on a sudden comprehension, and Graves saw it, the pure white wave of her intuition, how in a single instant she’d read a cryptic sign, glimpsed some portion of his secret history.

“The lost child,” she said quietly, as if merely repeating the title of his book. She said nothing else, but he knew what she was thinking,
It’s you.

M
ake a play of it.

Graves awakened the next morning and realized that even as he’d slept. Eleanor’s suggestion had continually circled in his mind. All through the night the people of Riverwood had risen from the depths of his sleep. Because of the photographs he’d already seen, most of them had appeared as they’d actually looked in the summer of 1946, Mr. Davies with his close-cropped gray hair, Allison in her boyish cut. But others had been fashioned by his imagination: Mona Flagg as a bright-faced young woman with fiery red hair, Greta Klein dark and pencil-thin, Andre Grossman short, stocky, a repulsive little gnome. In the images that came to him, all of them were alive, their features warmed by a summer sun that had departed over fifty years before. Faye alone had emerged already dead, a figure rising toward him out of a dark, brackish water, her face ghostly, her eyes open but unlighted, her lips moving slowly, whispering the same words again and again,
Oh, please, please, please …

It was to that voice Graves had awakened just before dawn. The ache in his shoulders told him he’d slept in a hard, protective crouch, his hands drawn beneath his chin, his legs curled toward his chest, a semi-fetal position that adult bodies were unsuited for but in which he’d awakened often over the years, especially when the past suddenly swept toward him out of the darkness like a white, skeletal hand.

But this time the dream had emerged not from his own past, but Riverwood’s, engendered, he thought now, by Eleanor’s suggestion that he fashion a play of it. For the people of Riverwood had come out of his sleep not as fully realized individuals, but like actors from behind a black curtain, their roles not yet determined despite their presence on the stage.

He made a cup of coffee and walked out onto the porch. To the left he could see Eleanor’s cottage, obscured by the early morning fog, the lights still out. He remembered their talk of the night before, how she’d watched him knowingly, as if she’d seen his dreadful secret nakedly exposed. What amazed him now was that he hadn’t instantly gotten to his feet, fled to the safety of his own solitary cabin. Instead, he’d remained on the porch for a time, chatting quietly about his books, enjoying the interest she showed in them, the piercing intelligence she brought to everything. Even now he found that he had no wish to avoid her. In fact, he was already looking forward to their next meeting, the small, trembling pleasure he took in her company.

The fact that it would be a brief pleasure, that it would end with summer, when both of them left this place, was not one Graves wanted to dwell upon. He quickly finished the coffee, showered, dressed, and made his way up to his office in the main house.

Saunders had just come out of the boathouse when he
neared the bottom of the stairs, showing up without warning, just as he had the morning before, so that Graves had the uncomfortable sense that he was always being watched, perhaps even followed, Saunders the secret agent, directed by some as yet invisible hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Graves.” Saunders was wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt, his arms smooth, tanned, unusually muscular for a man in his late sixties. Graves imagined him as he must have looked in the summer of 1946, a handsome, athletic boy who’d watched Faye Harrison and Allison Davies with the longing common to his age. Earlier, Graves had injected a murderous quality into that longing. But now he imagined it differently, as something quiet, almost melancholy. The youthful Saunders as a boy who’d learned his place early and always kept it, Allison and Faye so utterly beyond his grasp he’d had no thought of striving for them.

With no further word Saunders headed up the stairs, Graves following along at his side. At the top he stopped and faced Graves once again. “You know, Faye wasn’t the only pretty girl here at Riverwood that summer,” he said. “Mona Flagg was just nineteen. Beautiful. Hair like sunlight.” A curious sadness settled over his face. “I always felt sorry for Mona. From the wrong side of the tracks, you know. Studying to be a nurse.” He glanced back to Graves. “Edward was crazy about her. Wanted to marry her.”

“Did he?”

“No,” Saunders said. “Something broke them up at the end of that summer.”

A dark possibility pierced Graves’ mind. “Could it have been Faye Harrison?”

Saunders looked surprised by the question. “I don’t know,” he said. “I sometimes saw Mona and Faye together.”
He brought his attention back from the pond. “Such a pretty girl, Mona was. Smart too. Lively. You know the land. The type you’d die for.”

Graves nodded silently.
Or kill for?
his mind asked.

Graves turned to Detective Portman’s notes on the interviews he’d conducted with the people of Riverwood during the initial stage of his murder investigation. As he read, separate personalities began to emerge. Substance replaced shadow. The veneer of stateliness and harmony slowly peeled away from Riverwood as the characters, however grudgingly, began to reveal the edgy conflict that had no doubt marked their lives.

In Mrs. Davies, Graves detected the calculated reserve of one who, more than anything, feared embarrassment, a stern woman with a fierce temperament she held firmly in check, the sort who could grow irritated with an old detective’s questions, show that irritation in her voice alone: