The Book of James (11 page)

Then I again entered the room.

The pictures hung on the wal s as they had before, but this

time I was very aware that the eyes were watching me, following

me as I walked. Nick stared down from behind the glass, a small

smile at the corners of his mouth. I wanted to reach up and smack him. Wipe that expression from his face. Make him feel as angry

and confused as I was. But I was also sure those feelings had dominated his emotional map the entire time he was growing up.

I circled the room. One corner had been allocated to devel-

oping. Bradford had installed a counter, a sink, and shelves. Old camera equipment, canisters and reels and developing fluid, clut-tered all available space. It was a virtual museum. A big old standing box-type camera, the kind I’d only seen in photographs from

the eighteen hundreds, had been pushed into the corner. When I

pulled at the black fabric covering the back, dust flew everywhere.

Several Brownie cameras from the early nineteen hundreds were

scattered about the top of a counter. Dusty and abandoned, they

looked as if someone had been in the middle of a project and

never came back. One lone camera was lying toward the back of

the counter. A Kodak from the ’60s. I put it to my eye and looked in the viewfinder. Half a roll of film remained inside. Pictures that had never been developed.

It had been so long since I’d handled real film that I hesitated a minute before forwarding it to the end of the rol . The back of the camera popped open easily when I pulled at the tab. I removed the cartridge and dropped it into my pocket.

On my way to the door, I tried not to look sideways at the pho-

tographs on the wal . Those people, long dead, knew I was a spy,

a thief, disturbing this ancient burial ground. The small table near THE BOOK
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JAMES

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the door made me stop. I wanted to get another look at that black-and-white photograph I’d found on the floor, but it was gone. Cora had dropped it there before slamming the heavy door behind us.

I searched the entire floor and pulled out the small drawer in the table.“The picture I found? Is that what knocked her off her rocker?”

It was a whisper, but I could have sworn all those heads in the photographs gave a subtle nod of confirmation.

The stiff, damp breeze hit me before I had even gone through

the second door to my room. I blinked in the darkness. Even in the shadows I could see that the French doors were wide open. Wind

billowed out the curtains. I closed the doors, clicking the lock into place. The thick wooden flooring was slippery with moisture. I ran and got towels from the bathroom to clean up the mess, passing

by the windows in the process. I stopped short and stared out onto the lawn toward the woods. There had been a flash of movement

only a second before. Now there was nothing.

I shivered and pressed my face against the glass. Trees swayed

heavily with the force of the rain and heavy winds. The grounds

were barely visible, the woods only a curtain of darkness in the

distance. I strained my eyes to see something in the rainy mist, but my breath clouded the window, obscuring my view.

Water puddled near the doors and threatened to run farther

into the room. The thick towels I’d thrown down could only soak

up so much water, and it took two trips to the bathroom, wringing them out in the tub, to get it all tidy again. In final frustration, I dropped them into the bath. Dirty towels were better than a dam-aged floor.

I wanted nothing more than to put on my pajamas and go to

bed. My body ached like I’d just run a marathon, and my head

hurt. When I reached into my overnight bag, I knew something

was wrong. I had always been fastidious with my packing. I had a

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ELLEN J. GREEN

system. Samantha teased me about it. Underwear on the bottom,

followed by socks neatly folded together. Jeans and casual wear

were next. Items that wrinkled easily were always packed on top

so I could take them out and hang them right away. I even carried one of those travel steamers.

The clothes in my bag were in disarray. A sick feeling in my

stomach spread through my body and ended up in my throat. I

dumped the contents of my bag onto the bed.
My journal.
I knew even while my hands scattered clothes across the bed that it was

gone. My journal chronicled my every thought and feeling from

the past two years. Every fight, every annoyance, every aberrant

behavior of my husband’s was in there. Every emotion I had after

the accident, every bit of self-loathing and self-pity. It wasn’t just paper, it was my soul. Someone had taken my soul.

Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I took the bag and threw

it against the wal . With that one simple move, all my frustration instantly transformed into rage. Mostly directed at Cora. Charging upstairs and demanding my journal back wasn’t an option. She

would deny it. It would get ugly, and I’d end up back at the hotel.

But every bit of intuition in my being told me Nick was right. I

needed to be here. In the house.

Besides, now Cora had set the ground rules. Two could play

the snooping-and-stealing game.

“I’m worried about you. Please don’t make me sorry for helping

you,” he said.

She stood in the woods, perhaps three hundred feet from the

clearing. The sun was coming up, but the sky was so overcast she

had difficulty making out objects right in front of her. She could see the light from the guest room through the trees. It was only a small flicker, but to her it was a beacon. That stupid room. It was a stigma. A scarlet letter. The fire that had burned that part of the house over a hundred years ago had branded the family forever.

People might have forgotten what happened had her father at

least attempted to fix it. Instead, he’d just boarded up the room and left it, as if he didn’t care. It was a constant reminder of things best forgotten. When she was little, she’d walk to the back of the house and stare at it. She felt shame even back then, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Then she’d walk through the tunnel and go up the

narrow steps. It was a quiet, forbidden place that was all hers. She’d sit amid the charred wood and listen to the vibrations of the past.

The fire had been more than just the intentional burning

of stone structure and wood supports and furniture. It was the

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ELLEN J. GREEN

burning of the good Monroe name. It was the burning of an era.

It was the burning of the sins of the entire family, those alive and those not even born yet. Nick included.

“Why, Harry?” she asked.

He was staring through the woods at that same light. Mackenzie

must be up. “I remember those years after Nick left as being the

darkest,” he said. “I don’t want to relive them. I don’t want you to relive them.”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly. Those years were about

loss. This is something entirely different.”

Harrison nodded. “But not so different. It’s certainly not about

gain. It’s real y about more loss. Final loss.” He was silent for a minute. “Getting him back and getting his body back are two different things.”

Cora flinched. “It’s the only way I can think to make any of this right. And I need to know what he told her.”

Harrison shifted and put his hands in his pockets. “
Right?

It will never be right. This just makes me think of all we went

through when he disappeared. Tracking him. Waiting for him to

tap into Bradford’s money so we could get a lead. Worry. Dashed

hopes. Disappointment.”

“I was there.”

“Don’t lose yourself in this, Cora. Like you did before. Spending all your time in your head. Having those delusions about seeing

your father. Nightmares.”

How could she tell him it had already started? “I don’t intend

to. My goals are clear and simple. Figure out exactly what Nick told her and get Nick’s body back here. Where he belongs. I will make

Mackenzie quite at home here until that happens.”

“And if it doesn’t happen? What then?”

“I will have to make it happen, Harrison.”

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“She’s getting rather comfortable here already, I’d say—like

having young McBride come here. Interesting. Have you spoken

to William?” He glanced sidelong at her.

She shook her head. “No, I have not. McBride was busy con-

tacting
her
, not me.”

“I figured he’d be circling around somewhere. Just like the old

days. Looking after Bradford’s interests.”

A scowl crossed her face. “Don’t you have enough on your

mind with all this and your sister?” She waved her hand around.

He never got to answer. They heard footsteps entering the

woods. Harry put his finger to his lips to silence her.

“She’s weak,” he whispered, taking his other hand out of his

pocket and sliding a book into hers. “How Nick could have even

stayed in her presence for a minute is beyond me. She’s a simpering fool. An idiot. She doesn’t stand a chance. Now go.”

Cora obeyed.

I pushed the hood off my head and took a deep breath. The woods

seemed to buzz when I entered the canopy of protection from the

rain. I hadn’t intended to come here. I’d awakened with the dismal light and had an urge to get out of the house. I was still reeling from the fact that my journal was missing, and seeing Cora, or

having to actual y speak to her, was something I wanted to avoid.

When I had gone out onto the patio, I thought I would tromp

around to the front to get my Jeep. Just drive in the rain, drink hot coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, get familiar with Chestnut Hil ,

and give myself time to work off the angriest thoughts galloping

across my brain. That was my intention. Deep footprints in the

grass outside my door stopped me cold. The gardeners must have

been reseeding the grass, and the combination of topsoil and rain had created something of a muddy mess. But what was obvious

was that someone had been walking in this muddy mess, leaving

my room and heading toward the woods. They were clear, recent

prints.

The path I stood on was a well-trodden scar through the dense

growth, forged by generations of foot traffic. I followed it along, THE BOOK
of
JAMES

93

trying to get a sense of the property lines, when a figure up ahead darted away from me at a pretty good clip, familiar with the curves of the path along the way.

I reached the wrought-iron fence that marked the property’s

end. The path continued on the other side. The fence line was thick with trees and shrubs. I knew there had to be a break somewhere,

because Ginny went back and forth between the houses this way,

and I couldn’t for the life of me envision her climbing the iron bars.

It was difficult to get close to the metal-and-stone barrier because bushes and brush grew thick along the property line. I walked back and forth, searching for a missing bar or a gate, something, but the fence appeared solid. Then I looked up.

Ginny stood on the other side, watching me. She wore only a

thin windbreaker. She was soaked to the skin and looked confused.

“Mackenzie? That’s your name, right? I was looking for my

brother Fred, but he’s gone. Have you seen him?” She peered at me through the bars.

“No, Ginny, I haven’t seen anybody. And I thought his name

was Harrison.”

“No, Fred. Fred. He was here, but he disappeared.” Her fingers

twined and twisted in agitation.

“Ginny, show me how to get to the other side of this fence, and

I’ll help you look,” I said. We both needed to get inside.

She giggled at me. “It’s a secret. Only Cora, Harrison, and I

know.” She spread her arms widely. “Go ahead. Try and find it. I

dare you.” Under her windbreaker, Ginny wore nothing but a thin

cotton housedress. She had sneakers on her feet. Big sneakers.

“Okay, I’ll show you because you know Nick. Nick never told, so I guess I can trust you.”

I was intrigued, watching her slip through the trees following

the fence line on her side. She came to a halt several yards away.

“Go around the dogwood and come here.”

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ELLEN J. GREEN

In the section of fence behind the bush, the iron bars had been

cut away and soldered back into a makeshift gate. Imperceptible.

Thin strips of iron had been joined across the top and bottom of

the metal. The bars had been attached to a strip, welded into place.

Releasing several catches opened that segment of the bars wide

enough to allow a person to duck through.

“Harry did it one summer when he was about ten. Took him

almost two whole months.” She chuckled. “Come.”

Her house was small in comparison to the one I had just left.

A solid wood frame with a wraparound porch, painted white with

black shutters. I left my wet things on the porch and joined her in the kitchen.

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

The table was covered in a checked cloth. The smell of coffee

filled the room. The house was bright and open, cheerful even.

Such contrast to the one next door. Ginny returned in dry clothing and began to assemble ingredients from her cabinets.

“Would you like breakfast?” she asked. The confusion I had

seen earlier had lifted. “I woke up this morning with a taste for pancakes. Do you want some?” Her back was to me as she busied

herself.

“Okay.” I was motivated by hunger; I hadn’t eaten much before