The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) (37 page)

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Authors: R. B. Chesterton

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BOOK: The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton)

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McKinney’s arms wrapped around me, restraints I struggled against but couldn’t break. He didn’t say a word, just let me wear myself out. The doctor scooted to the closed door and backed up against it.

“She should be sedated,” she said. “She’s a danger to herself and others.”

“Aine,” McKinney whispered in my ear. “You’re making it so much worse on yourself.”

“Let me see Joe.” I grew perfectly still and limp. “I promise I’ll do whatever you say if you let me see him. Just for a few minutes.”

“He’s asking for you,” the chief said.

“I tried to tell him last night. I tried to warn him about Mischa. He wouldn’t listen.” I had to make Joe hear me. I’d figure out a way to prove his innocence. If it took me the rest of my life, I would. But I couldn’t be locked up. “Chief, give me five minutes. I can prove I’m not insane and that Joe didn’t kill anyone. I know it sounds crazy, but there is something, some
one
, out there who killed the little girl, Karla, and Patrick. This same entity killed my aunt Bonnie and meant to pin the blame on Thoreau.”

I shouldn’t have said the last part. Before I brought up the town celebrity, the chief was at least listening. “Dorothea told me about your obsession with Thoreau. He was to be your dissertation topic, I believe.”

“I don’t care about that. Please, let me talk to Joe.”

McKinney’s palm centered my back. “I’ll take you to the cabin to gather a few of your things. We have a lot of decisions to make. I want to help you, Aine. Your aunt said she wasn’t in a place to offer assistance. She said you were on your own.”

I heard everything he said, but I didn’t care. I’d never counted on the Cahills to save me. Quite the opposite. But I had to find a way to prove Joe’s innocence.

Under the chief’s guidance, I preceded him out the door and to the cruiser. I slid in the front seat before he could protest. Without argument, he drove to the inn.

“Who’ll help Dorothea?” I asked him. “Patrick’s gone. Joe’s gone. Now I’ll be gone.”

“I’ll check on her. I think she may sell the inn. She has family in Florida. A better climate for her. Patrick’s death is too much for her. I hate to see it happen, but she should go.”

“Can I tell her good-bye?”

“She doesn’t want to see you, Aine. She said she’d box up the rest of your things and send them to your family.”

“Where will I go?”

“Boston University Medical Center, for an evaluation. From there, probably the Massachusetts Bayside Institution. It’s a top-notch facility. Dr. Marshall has evaluated your medical record. She’s talked with Dorothea and your adviser at Brandeis. He said you were a student with a lot of potential. Anyway, we’ll see how your treatment goes.”

“And Joe?”

“Dr. Marshall said I shouldn’t lie to you. That the plain truth is the best thing. Joe’s in for a tough time. He’d likely be remanded and stay in jail until his trial. Massachusetts doesn’t have a death penalty. Life without parole.” His tone was carefully neutral.

We drove past the inn and through the woods until we came to the cabin and pulled to a stop. The sun was gone, but light still lingered in the sky. Granny Siobhan had called this time the gloaming. She’d said it was when spirits woke from their slumbers to prepare for the night’s work.

“Aine.” McKinney tapped my shoulder. “You don’t have a lot of personal things here. I’ll box up your computer and books. They won’t let you have that for the first few weeks. You pack your clothes and personal things.”

“I know you think you’re helping me, but you aren’t.” I tried to sound reasonable, but he ignored me. I noticed the cabin door ajar. It would be freezing inside. Colder than out here. And darker.

“Wait here and let me check inside,” McKinney said. “I don’t think Dorothea would leave the door open.” He got out of the car and left me sitting.

His boots echoed on the small front porch. Gun drawn, he entered the cabin. I opened the car door and eased my feet to the ground.

McKinney reappeared in the doorway and motioned me inside. “Get some things and let’s go back to the jail. I’ll let you talk to Joe.”

There was no point arguing. I did as he told me. On the porch, I paused for a moment. “I’m not lying,” I told him. I reached into my pocket for the scrap of paper, but it was only dust and lint. It was gone, evaporated like the rest of Mischa’s lies.

“The lab tested the glasses you were burying. Since we knew we were looking for strychnine, it was a simple procedure. There was evidence of the poison in one glass. Joe’s fingerprints were on both of them.”

“My prints were on the glasses too. Joe was always at my cabin and we often drank wine. So I’m not the best housekeeper. He didn’t kill anyone, chief.”

“I wish I could believe you,” he said. “Joe is like a son to me. It’s hard for me to accept what he’s done—and that he’s fooled half the town for ten years.”

“Maybe it was me,” I said.

“If I didn’t believe Joe guilty, I’d never have locked him up.” He pointed to the car. “Let’s go, Aine. Dorothea said to leave your keys on the doormat.” He went down the porch, loaded with boxes he began to stack in the trunk.

I pulled the cabin and inn keys from my pocket and dropped them in the center of the O in
WELCOME
. A roughened edge of paper caught my eye and I pulled it from beneath the mat. The handwriting was fluid and clean. I recognized it. Bonnie’s.

The dead are liars, Aine. Never listen to them
.

I tucked the page in my jeans pocket.

Back in the car, McKinney circled and headed slowly through the woods.

A flash of red followed us on my side, deep within the dusky shadows of the trees. Mischa. She easily kept apace of the patrol car.

This wasn’t over. I wasn’t beaten. Whatever happened to me, I wasn’t dead. I didn’t belong to her.

Not yet.

Acknowledgments

Writing is a strange, solitary job. Writing scary stories is a journey not for the faint of heart. There are too many times when my dogs bark at something outside the darkened window or a bottle brush limb scratches across a screen that I become frightened. Runaway imagination. But I love stories with a little chill. I love the sense of something behind me, half-hidden in the shadows. Watching. Delicious.

This book takes place at Walden Pond, but not the real Walden Pond of 2014. My Walden lingers in the past and in my imagination. It is a place haunted by many things. One autumn I went to visit a writer friend of mine, Kristine Rolofson, in Rhode Island. It was the perfect fall weekend that we never see in the Deep South—leaves in burnished red and gold, blue sky, crisp air. Kristine is a generous tour guide and took me all around her neck of the woods.

We went to Walden Pond and the Alcott house and the whaling villages. It was fascinating to learn about a way of life as alien to me as living on the moon. Never in a million years did I dream I’d be visited by a story in this setting. And yet, here it is.

Understand that I’ve taken great liberties with Thoreau and the area. The story demands certain things, and the past isn’t around to defend itself. So I used it to my advantage.

Aside from thanking Kristen and husband Glen, who shared their love of their home area with me, I want to thank Suzann Ledbetter for her skillful eye on story. Dean James, sometimes you are struck with genius in helping me untangle the snarl. This was one of those times. Jennifer Haines Williamson, you have a good eye for story. Also thanks to John Kwiatkowski and my generous pre-readers who gave me good feedback. Several northern readers were very helpful with climate and geography.

It is a joy to work with Pegasus Books. Maia Larson is an editor that any author would kill to work with. Claiborne Hancock makes each writer feel like a valuable part of the team. The book cover and interior design—this is what the printed book is all about. Thank you Michael Fusco and Maria Fernandez.

I can’t imagine the long, long journey of writing and selling a book without agent Marian Young on my side. Of all the doubts a writer can have in this crazy business, her integrity and classiness are never in question.

And I want to thank my family and friends. Some of them don’t like to be scared, and they read the book anyway. They whined a good bit, but they read it, and I was deeply gratified that I disturbed them. Thank you all.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

978-1-4804-4790-5