The Treasure Box (20 page)

The policeman still knelt at Cathleen's feet. “Please, God, no,” he whispered.

Rachel jumped up, forgetting about her injured ankle, and nearly fell. She hobbled over to Michael, and when she saw it, her legs turned to jelly and her head began to reel.

Blood. There was so much blood. Soaking the blanket, seeping everywhere.

“Should it be like that?” she whispered.

Michael shook his head. “She's hemorrhaging. I can't seem to stop it, but if I don't—”

“Rachel.”

Rachel turned. Cathleen had raised her head, and her face was as gray as the ashes in the grate. “Rachel . . . come here.”

Rachel returned to the head of the pallet and took Cathleen's hand.

“Remember what you told me about Sophie? How she heard the song of the willow-woman?”

“Cathleen, no—”

“Listen to me,” Cathleen grated. “The child—my baby.

Name her—” She closed her eyes, and Rachel could see she was summoning every ounce of strength she had just to speak.

“Name her Sophia. Sophia Rose.” A tear slid down her scarred cheek, and Rachel gently wiped it away.

“Yes.” Rachel forced a smile. “Sophia for Sophie, and Rose for Mam. I understand.”

“I want you to—to take care of her. Raise her to be . . . good.

Like you. Like Sophie.”

Rachel bit back a sob. “Cathleen, stop this. You will raise her yourself. You will get through this. You will recover. And you and Sophia Rose will come to live with me, and—”

“Promise!” she interrupted. “Promise you'll take care of her.

Treat her as . . . your daughter.”

Rachel did not answer, and Cathleen grabbed her hand with a fierce grip. “Promise! I owe you everything. But she's all I have to give you.”

“You don't—you don't owe me anything.”

Peace filled Cathleen's expression as she laid the baby in Rachel's arms. “And you've . . . forgiven . . . me?”

“Yes,” Rachel whispered. “Yes, I've—”

Tears choked off the words before she could finish. But it didn't matter. Her sister couldn't hear her anymore. The last breath had gone out of Cathleen's ravaged body. Rachel still bent over her, trying in vain to formulate a prayer, but all she could manage was a silent inner scream:
Why?

When Rachel finally gave up praying and raised her eyes, she could see the blurred, watery image of Michael McCall wiping a tear from his eye.

And in her arms, Sophia Rose Woodlea reached out with a tiny fist, grabbed her Aunt Rachel's finger, and held on.

19
WHAT CHILD IS THIS ?

T
he screen went dark. Vita turned off her computer and sat staring into the distance.

Human existence was such an inexplicable, chaotic, disordered business. One dies while another lives, with no apparent reason for the choices Fate makes. A deal of the cards, a spin of the wheel. Just another game of chance. Sophie or Rachel, Cathleen or her baby. Which one lives, and which dies? And does the outcome really matter in the long run?

But while Vita's mind shifted into its old mode of conjuring up all the cynical arguments and pessimistic logic that had kept her safe behind her fortress walls for most of her adult life, her heart seemed to be taking a first tentative step through a small, unobtrusive, unlocked door. Maybe there
was
a reason.

Through Sophie's sacrifice, Rachel had lived. She had endured great heartache, but her pain had led her to America to find her sister and her infant niece, to find herself—even, Vita thought, to begin the process of forgiveness. Perhaps the struggle had a reason. A purpose.

Vita could hardly believe she was even considering such a radical idea.

For one thing, entertaining the premise that there was a purpose to these events meant Vita must inevitably wrap her mind around the concept of a
Purposer.
Some sentient Being, some Creator who, if not manipulating the marionette strings from afar, certainly exercised a measure of involvement in the lives of those it had created.

For Vita, this was a rocky, difficult path to negotiate. If she looked into the lives of Sophie and Rachel and Cathleen and discerned even the possibility of some larger design, she might have to concede—eventually, if not immediately—that her life, too, was subject to some meaning or mission outside the realm of her comprehension. She would have to give up the idea of being in control.

It was too much to contemplate—especially now, when she had been up all night and wasn't thinking clearly. At the moment she had enough to deal with just sorting out her emotional responses to witnessing Cathleen's death and the birth of Baby Sophia.

Later. She'd think about it later. Right now, all she wanted to do was drag herself upstairs, crawl into bed, and sleep.

It was her garden, and not her garden. The willow tree was there, in the back corner, draping its branches over the limestone wall, and the lilies of the valley crowded against the bleeding hearts in the bed on the west side. But everything had a surrealistic radiance, a depth of color and dimension unknown in the everyday world. As if the filmy coating of human experience had been stripped away to reveal the pristine, unpolluted beauty beneath.

The space was bigger. The walls were higher. And the garden had no gate.

Vita sat on the ground inside, happily tending to the flower beds. She felt the dark loam between her fingers. Her nostrils filled with the rich brown odor of the dirt, the floating fragrance of the blossoms, the scent of living things. She was safe here, in the garden. No one could touch her.

And then she heard it—an animal noise, a low insistent whine. Not a cry of pain, but a little moan of despair. Vita tried to ignore it, but it persisted, calling up from within her some ancient sadness, a weary, world-deep sorrow. She abandoned the flower beds and began walking the perimeter of the garden, trying to locate where it was coming from.

The whining intensified, stopped, and began again. Finally Vita dragged a garden bench over to one side, stepped up onto it, and looked over the wall into the world beyond.

It was a dog. A beautiful dog, with long silken hair in a dark sable color, and a snowy white ruff and paws. Like a collie, only smaller. It possessed an intelligent face and haunting dark eyes.

Vita's mind dredged up an identification: Shetland sheepdog.

The breed people called a Sheltie.

Vita had never owned such a dog—indeed, had never owned any pet at all. But as soon as she laid eyes on the animal, she knew he was her dog, and she loved him. Loved him with an unquestioned and unqualified devotion.

Apparently the dog felt the same way about Vita. The instant he saw her, he stopped whining and began wagging his tail, jumping and barking and dancing about in an attitude of pure joy. He pawed at the ground, dug at the base of the stones, even tried to leap to the top of the wall. But to no avail. Somehow Vita had left him outside. She had come into the garden without bringing the dog, and now there was no way to get to him. No gate.

How could she have forgotten him? She loved him; she wanted him with her, and yet she had left him behind without a second thought. Guilt pressed its invisible fingers against her throat and squeezed. A painful lump lodged there, cutting off her breathing. She sank down to the grass and began to cry.

The scene shifted, and, in the manner of dreams, Vita found herself suddenly and without explanation in a different place. In her office, at the computer. The sun had set and night was coming on; her eyes were tired and her back ached. She had the sense that she had been here all day, working.

She left the office, meandering aimlessly through the dim-lit rooms and down the hall until she came to a doorway she didn't recognize. There she paused and looked to the right.

Inside the room, in the half-light of dusk, was a baby's crib.

And in the crib a young child, not more than a year old, standing behind the bars, peering out at her.

Vita didn't know who the baby was, or who it belonged to.

Yet by some instinct she knew that caring for the child had been her responsibility. She had promised; and yet she had spent all day in her office working, completely oblivious to the baby's needs. She hadn't fed it or given it water or changed its diaper, had not even checked to see if it was still alive.

The baby was not crying. It made no sound, did not even raise its arms to be picked up. It just stood there, staring at her with dull, vacant eyes. But Vita read reproach in its gaze, and suddenly she felt ashamed, panicked lest anyone should discover her irresponsibility. She had to do something, anything—quickly, before anyone found out.

But she had not the faintest idea what to do.

Vita awoke to a roaring noise, an insistent
vroom,
like the idling of a motorcycle without a muffler. A filtered afternoon sunlight reflecting across the bed. For a second or two she couldn't quite identify where she was. And then she remembered: she had been up all night and had gone back to bed shortly after dawn.

But what on earth was that infernal noise?

She went to the window and looked down. Eddy, the workman who mowed her lawn, was out in the yard with a chain saw, cutting up the huge limb that had fallen from the oak tree the night of the storm. The mower stood beside him on the grass.

Vita returned to her bed and sat on the edge, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples. There was something—just before she awakened. Something important. A dream.

Then it came to her: not one dream, but two. The dog and the baby. One she had abandoned, and the other she had neglected.

Ordinarily Vita didn't put much stock in the interpretation of dreams. That kind of nonsense was better left to quacks and shrinks and hypochondriacs. And yet she was overcome with the unshakable sensation that these particular dreams were trying to tell her something. Some kind of message from her subconscious.

Something she needed to know.

The images had to be connected to what she had just seen in the Treasure Box program. Rachel finding Cathleen. The birth of the infant Sophia Rose. Cathleen's death.

But what did any of that have to do with Vita? And why a dog shut outside a gateless garden and a baby left alone in a darkened room?

She thought first of the dog—his joyous bark, his dancing delight when he first caught sight of her. This was something that belonged to her, something she loved. And yet she had closed herself off from it—whatever
it
was—in favor of the safety of a place surrounded by high walls.

And the baby. Not crying, not making a sound. Just staring at her. What had she learned long ago in a psychology class?

When a child's needs have not been met for a very long time, it ceases to reach out. It stops crying, and simply waits to die.

The whole idea was ridiculous. It was just a dream. Vita hadn't abandoned or neglected anything important. She had a perfectly acceptable life, full and productive.

Or did she?

Ever since the storm, when her computer had been taken over by the Treasure Box program, nagging doubts and long-buried memories had been working their way into her mind. Hattie Parker. Mary Kate and Gordon. The twins. Unwittingly, she had made the mistake of visiting the cemetery, and the ghosts had begun to follow her home.

Even ghosts that belonged to someone else's past. Sophie and Rachel. Cathleen and Derrick. The newborn Sophia Rose.

And now the joyful dog and the silent, staring child.

Who were they? Why were they haunting her? And what child was this?

After a quick shower, Vita dressed, retrieved her keys from the rack next to the front door, and went out into the yard. Eddy had piled the wood in a neat stack against the garden wall and was starting to load his lawn care equipment into his battered pickup truck.

“Afternoon, Miss Vita,” he said politely, touching a forefinger to the bill of a baseball cap which carried the logo of the minor league
Asheville Tourists.
“Great day, isn't it? I was just finishing up here.”

Vita fished on the key ring for the small silver key that fit the padlock on the gate. “I came to unlock the gate so you could do the backyard.”

Eddy removed the Tourists cap and scratched his head.

“Already done it. The gate was open.”

“Open?” Vita turned and stared at the garden gate. Sure enough, it was hanging wide open on its hinges. She could even see a glimpse of the lilies of the valley through the aperture. “Did somebody break in?”

“Don't look like it,” Eddy said. “Nothing's broke; the padlock's just gone. You sure you didn't leave it that way?”

“I'm sure.” Vita jingled her keys. “At least I think I'm sure.”

She went over to the gate and inspected the hasp. Just as Eddy said, the padlock had disappeared, but there were no scratches on the hasp or gouges in the wooden gateway—no sign of anyone trying to force the lock. It was simply . . . gone.

“Never mind,” she said, half to herself. “I'll get another padlock for it.”

Eddy shrugged. “OK. I'll finish packing up here and be on my way.”

Vita left him to his loading and went back into the house. She put a pot of coffee on to brew and then proceeded to the sunroom to boot up the computer.

Everything was just as she had left it shortly after dawn: the desk neatly arranged with her files for the Alaska project on one side; the office chair in front of the computer; the Treasure Box on a table under the windows.

But something was different. Nothing had been moved, nothing was out of place, but still the room felt strange, wrong, as if someone had been in here, skulking about, touching her things.

No lamp was on, and yet the room was bright, suffused in a surrealistic light.

Her gaze went to the windows. Beyond the glass she could see Eddy at the curb, heaving his lawn mower up into the bed of the truck.

The awareness crept into her consciousness, like Sandburg's fog, on silent cat feet. She could see
Eddy
. Not a faint movement through the crevices of the hedge, but
everything
. The yard. The hundred-year-old oak tree. A portion of the garden wall, and the open gate. The mailbox on the corner. A kid on a bicycle half a block away.