The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) (27 page)

Something outside the window caught her attention, and dread made me rigid. “What’s out there?”

“Just a child. She’s gone now.”

I wanted to ask Dorothea to describe what she’d seen but couldn’t trust myself not to overreact. “Is there anything else I can do?”

She shook her head and swallowed back a sob. “I hate the idea of an autopsy. He was such a beautiful young man.” She struggled to hold back her tears. “But as soon as the autopsy is done, the Leahys will bury him. They don’t have a funeral plot. I told them I’d walk through the old cemetery on the hill to find a few suitable spots. They moved here when Patrick was ten, so they have no family buried in the area. I thought it would be nice if he could rest in Sleepy Hollow.”

“I can check for you.” I didn’t mind spending an hour with the likes of Thoreau and Emerson. The old cemetery was quiet, beautiful, and a good place to think. Perhaps I would be inspired to a solution about Mischa. Then again, it might also be the perfect place for Mischa to seek me out. “But maybe you should—”

“Would you?” Dorothea spoke with such relief, I couldn’t back out.

“Of course. I’ll do it now.” The day had warmed, but the overcast skies seeped gloom. At ten o’clock on Christmas Day not many people would be visiting the cemetery. I could do a quick walk-through and scout a few locations for Dorothea. I could also revisit Thoreau’s grave. He was buried with his family, but I wondered where Bonnie’s final resting place might be. What had Mischa ultimately done with her corporeal flesh?

The walk into town revealed an isolated community. No childish laughter rang out to celebrate the joy of a new sled or football. The town was quiet. I wondered if it was Patrick’s death, or just that folks were inside their homes with a Christmas fire, celebrating as families were wont to do.

In Kentucky, Christmas was a time for outdoor games. A few children would receive ice skates to be used on shallow ponds. I’d never checked for a local rink that offered ice skating, but the notion of children outside seemed to belong to a past century.

Ice skating had always been a fantasy of mine—that I would glide gracefully across the ice on one leg, dressed in a red hat and mittens. I’d bend and pull my extended back leg around and spin, a blur of color. The fantasy made me smile.

The truth was that I’d borrowed my cousin’s skates and nearly killed myself. The ease and fluidity I’d imagined remained out of my grasp. My cousin Janelle was like a dancer on the ice. She could spin and swoop, skating backward and even jumping in moves she saw on television.

When she died in a car wreck driving down the mountain, her mother gave me her skates. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have Janelle’s grace or nerve. I’d been so innocent then. Fervent desire centered on simple goals, like ice skating.

The contrast to my current desires elicited a sigh. I wanted to rid myself of a child who was either demon or malevolent spirit who had not only the power but the will to hurt the people around me. And me. If Bonnie’s journals were correct, this child had tormented her. How did one escape such a haunting?

The parking lot of St. Benedict’s Holy Catholic Church was jammed, so I walked on to the cemetery. Best to get the gravesite chore done. With the clouds wallowing on the horizon, I wanted to get back to the cabin.

I’d come to associate Mischa with darkness and woods. The cemetery was shaded but not close like the path to the cabin or the old shack off Yerby Lane. There were wooded areas, but the paths winding around the graves were open and clearly marked. I would not tarry among the dead. I had enough sadness without reading the heartbreak carved into some of the stones.

Sleepy Hollow was an addition to the original Concord burial ground and had been dedicated by Emerson, who served on the cemetery committee. I had learned this from Dorothea. Her family was buried here, but their plots lay in a western segment.

As I turned off Bedford Road and into the cemetery, a cold chill slipped under my collar. The old lichen-covered graves blended into the landscape, almost like the stones erupted from the soil. From Upland Avenue, I took a northerly direction. There was no one around to ask about empty plots, so I simply searched for unclaimed spaces. I’d investigated the cemetery back in the early fall when the rich yellow leaves of the asters flamed against the deep green firs.

The terrain was hilly, and I paused to admire the bare tree trunks and stone outcroppings. This land could be hard, but equally so the people who settled here.

I was glad the trees were bare. Deep shade would generate anxiety and the expectation of red. The silvery black limbs of the trees reached into the gray sky and I continued on to Author’s Ridge where Thoreau, the Alcotts, Emerson, Hawthorne, and their families were buried. For a small town in the mid-1800s, Concord and the surrounding area had produced a surprising outpouring of literary genius. My determination to come here to write was predicated on that. My subconscious hope had been that a spark of genius would ignite in me from near proximity to great minds. Even though they were great minds of the dead.

Leaving the trail behind, I climbed over the ridge and down to Cat’s Pond on the far side. Tranquil and quiet, the terrain forced me to acknowledge how deeply I’d grown to care about Walden Pond. So much of Bonnie lingered there, too. To write my dissertation, I needed the feel of the place she’d loved.

Perhaps, though, it was time to pack up and abandon Concord. To head where? A question without an answer. The original idea was to stay at the inn until my dissertation was completed and turned in. I would defend it in April, which was easily doable while living at Dorothea’s place. I’d planned for this ever since I’d understood the potential of Bonnie’s journal.

“Bonnie never left here, you know.”

Mischa had arrived. I should have known I wouldn’t escape her. I didn’t hurry to look at her.

“Where did Bonnie go after Thoreau left Walden? Do you even know, or is this another little game of yours?” I walked south toward the ridge. If I could get back to the main part of the cemetery, maybe a groundskeeper would make an appearance. Mischa wouldn’t ply her torment in front of anyone else. In my experience, her joy depended on my being alone.

“You can’t outdistance me.”

She had the uncanny ability to read my mind. “Watch and see.”

“Aren’t you going to thank me for the doll?”

I whirled to confront her. The red hood was back, revealing her sweet face. How could such a countenance cover such wickedness? “How did you steal my aunt’s hair?”

“I don’t steal. She gave it to me.” She laughed and skipped ahead. “She did. I asked for a lock of her hair and she gave it to me.”

“The doll’s head has more than a lock. You cut her hair while she slept.”

She circled me, dancing merrily. “She’d already given me some. I took the rest. She didn’t care a whole lot.” She personified innocence. “There was nothing she could do about it, anyway. You’re curious now, Aine. That’s good. Once you explore and understand, you’ll view me differently. You’re lonely. There’s no one who sympathizes with you like I do. I can be such a boon companion. Much better than Patrick. He intended to create trouble for you. Surely you know I’m telling the truth. He was going to get all high school and spill your secrets to Joe and Dorothea. They’d be shocked, wouldn’t they?”

Her speech was disconcertingly modern. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “You set me up to take the fall for killing Patrick. You poisoned him with wine, and you left the bottle and glasses where they could be found in my possession. I would have been charged with murder.”

A flock of birds burst from bare trees on the lip of the ridge. They flew up into the air and then cut sharply left to aim straight at me. I ducked as they streaked by. The brush of a black wing sliced across my cheek. When I put my hand to it, blood smudged my fingers.

“What did you do with the bottle and glasses?” she asked. “You’re clever. Did you bury them? You’re too smart to leave them in the cabin where they could be found. Though I doubt Dorothea will feel up to searching your abode any time soon. Guilt is crushing her, poor thing.”

“What
are
you?” This time I asked with fear, not anger.

“Just a lost little child. Someone you should pity and protect.”

I didn’t believe her, but I was too much a coward to contradict her. “What do you want with me?”

She giggled. “Silly! You called me here. What do
you
want?”

The farce she was playing made my fists clench in helpless frustration. “I want you to go away.”

She put her hands behind her back and swung her body back and forth. “Not gonna happen. We’re sort of like … sisters. Don’t you see? I could never leave you alone without a friend. We belong together. It’s part of the deal. The Cahill deal. You can see me, Aine.”

“I don’t
want
to see you. I did fine without you.”

“Not true.” She skipped backward, staying just out of my reach, as if she knew I would gladly choke the life from her.

“You can’t kill me, Aine. I’m part of you. We’re peas in a pod, two of a kind, made for each other. You know all the clichés.”

“If anyone had found the wine with the poison, I would have been arrested and convicted. What fun could you have with me then?”

“Not a chance. I knew you’d find them.” She held her arms out, dipping and gyrating. Her blond hair whipped around like a golden skein, and a deeper terror touched me. She could pass for the most adorable child.

When she breathlessly pulled up, she assessed me. The cunning in her blue eyes pierced me. “You’re predicable, Aine. I know you inside and out.”

“Why bother with me if I’m such a middling example of a human?”

“It’s a long story. Do you like stories? I would think you must, since you’re studying literature. But do you? Truly?”

As I crested the top of the hill, I struggled to pick up my pace, cutting across the cemetery and angling through the woods. I was headed vaguely toward Author’s Ridge where Thoreau and his brethren were buried. Mischa danced beside me.

“Don’t you want to hear my story?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. Each time I communicated with Mischa, I slid deeper into a frightening world. I jogged. My scraped knees complained, but the pain gave me a focus.

“I’m your burden to carry.” Mischa darted in front of me, forcing me to change directions and angle deeper into the woods. “Want to know why?”

“I want you to get the fuck out of my life.”

“Am I annoying you, Aine? A lot of annoyances have been eliminated from your life. I wonder how that happens.”

I dodged around the trunk of a large black oak. My ankle twisted on the uneven ground and I went down hard. The fall knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t catch my breath. For a moment, I thought I would die there, waiting for Mischa to move in for the kill. I cowered.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes. Above me in the branches of the oak, a large crow peered down at me. Granny Siobhan believed a solitary crow signaled impending death. Whenever we saw one crow, we hunted until we found another. A superstition, but one I remembered with the black eyes of the bird boring into me.

The crow cocked his head. His beak opened, and the sharp tongue flicked in and out, as if he tasted the air.

“Shoo!” I waved my arms and tossed a handful of leaves at him. He didn’t move, but his attention shifted to the distance. I followed his line of vision, wondering where Mischa had gone. And why. She could have killed me, but she hadn’t. And now she was gone.

I rose to my knees. Mischa was nowhere to be found. The crow clung to his perch not ten feet above my head. He was a big creature, maybe eighteen inches tall. “Shoo!” I stood and fluttered my hands at him.

He jumped to the ground and dared me. His attitude was more human than avian. He seemed to be old. And wise. A descendant of dinosaurs. And a harbinger of death.

I kicked leaves at him. The brown curls fell over his head and he didn’t budge.

Striving for calm, I turned to walk away. The bird’s lack of fear triggered my panic. I’d gone only a few feet when his beak pulled my pants leg. I pivoted to meet him head-on, and he hopped back to his original place.

“You devil.” I spoke in a low tone, and I heard the quiver in my voice. This was a bird. I could kick it to death if need be. I couldn’t allow my fear to break me. Surely I could defend myself against a two-pound bird. But at the back of my mind, I knew it was no ordinary crow.

He pecked at the leaf-covered ground, cawed, then pecked more. A grass plug came loose and he tossed it aside and attacked the dirt again. He was after something beneath the grass. The bird was showing me.

I eased forward and knelt. The bird held his position, pecking and looking at me, inviting me closer. I brushed the leaves slowly away and let my fingers rake the grassy earth. When I felt smooth, flat stone, I stopped.

In my peripheral vision, I saw a red blur in the woods some thirty yards away. Mischa in her red coat. But she had company. A young woman with auburn hair piled high on her head. The hem of her dark dress skimmed the ground.

She was there and then gone.

“Bonnie.” I whispered her name. I knew it was my aunt. She was in Sleepy Hollow. Anticipation drew me to my feet. “Bonnie?”

The woods were deserted. Even the crow was gone. The mystery of the stone slab remained, though. Easing down on my knees, I pulled at the runners of grass. The soil was dark and pebbled with rocks that tore at my fingertips. I didn’t feel the pain. I dug and pulled until the stone was unearthed.

It was a simple pale gray grave marker, long covered by grass, dirt, and leaves. Lichen and mold grew in the granite’s cracks, and for a moment, I thought I saw her name. Bonnie Cahill. But it was merely the broken stone and black mold, an illusion.

Bonnie was buried here, though. I knew it. I had no way to prove it, nor would I ever be able to. But I knew. At last, I’d found her. There was no record of her life, because it ended here in Concord when she was a young woman. Her death wasn’t recorded; her burial outside sanctified ground.