When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  “So,” she asked coquettishly, “why the sudden interest in a picture of Mary Montgomery?”

  “The idea came to me when I was watching all those ten- and eleven-year-old girls at the school today,” I explained. “I think the photo might help us get the aunt to open up.”

  Sandra stared at me, bewildered. “The aunt that Michael interviewed at the mental hospital?”

  “Yes. She must know what happened to the family…where they moved when they left the Towers. It might just lead us to Dr. Whidden.”

  But a look of disappointment came over Sandra’s face. “David, the aunt was useless when Michael interviewed her. I was there. He tried everything in his power to coax any kind of helpful information out of her, but she was incoherent.”

  “But Michael didn’t know what I know.”

  Sandra’s eyes widened, skeptically. “Which is?”

  “The aunt had an obsession, Sandra. An obsession with Mary.”

  Sandra mulled over this piece of news. I could almost imagine the synapses in her brain firing—evaluating data, past and present, weighing how and whether it could fit into the case as she knew it.

  “How do you know that?” she finally said.

  “The day I went over to see Lena, the aunt was acting very strangely. It took me years to realize it, but I had inadvertently interrupted a séance.”

  “A séance? As in communicating with the dead?”

  “The aunt was grasping this triangular object—holding it up to the sky; I’m now fairly certain she was using it to communicate with Mary. There was also an odd-looking man with her, clad in a purple tunic shirt. She called him Randolph, and I think he was the medium. Sandra, I really believe the aunt was obsessed with her dead niece. I heard her calling out Mary’s name the night I met Lena—afraid Mary might get caught in the rain—even though it was Lena who was out in the storm and Mary had died the year before. There must be a way to exploit her obsession—to get her to talk.”

  “And you think a passport photo is going to do the trick?”

  I couldn’t tell if Sandra was irritated or simply being dismissive. As I was about to answer, she got up from the couch, bringing her untouched glass of water into the kitchen and emptied the contents into the sink. Then she reached into a cabinet under the sink to retrieve a bottle of Absolut. She poured whatever vodka was left into her glass and returned to the couch.

  “I think I need this,” she muttered.

  Sitting even closer to me than she had a minute ago, she took a long swig of her drink, almost finishing in a single swallow what was supposed to have been enough for both of us.

  “So, are you going to explain to me how a passport photo is going to help?” Sandra asked again.

  “I didn’t mean to use the photo on the aunt. We would use it to help us find a look-alike…a Mary look-alike.”

  “A Mary look-alike!” she bellowed, almost sounding as though she were mocking me.

  “Listen, Sandra. If we can bring such a person to the aunt, we just might be able to make her believe that it is Mary. She probably never accepted Mary’s death. She probably still thinks her niece is alive…somewhere—or at least reachable.”

  Sandra finished the rest of her vodka and set the empty glass down firmly on the coffee table. She shifted her position on the couch so she could study my expression. She seemed angry with me. Did she think I was wasting her time?

  “OK,” Sandra said flatly. “So we convince the aunt that we have brought her beloved Mary. How does that help us find Whidden?”

  “Finding him starts with finding Philip Montgomery, right? Maybe the aunt knows where the family moved. If we bring her Mary—a lost, lonely Mary, who is, say, looking for her father—who knows how the aunt might react? Maybe it will shock her into remembering something about the family’s whereabouts. Since we don’t have much else in the way of leads, it’s got to be worth a try.”

  Sandra’s features slowly began to soften, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Really, Sandra,” I implored, my confidence growing, “I think it’s our best shot right now.”

  “I’m not saying no, David. It strikes me as maybe a bit…I don’t know, farfetched. But maybe not.”

  “There’s nothing to lose, Sandra,” I persisted. “I mean other than exposing some kid to the crazy aunt.”

  “And doing it in a mental hospital. Any ideas on how we find such a kid? One who not only looks like Mary but whose parents would be OK with letting her play the part of a dead girl to a woman who is off her rocker? It sounds like a pretty tall order.”

  “Maybe not. Look, when I was at the middle school today, I saw hundreds of girls the same age as Mary when she died. There’s got to be one who looks enough like her to fool a woman who’s not in her right mind and who must be in her eighties by now.”

  “Eighty-seven, to be exact.”

  “So how hard can it be to fool her?”

  “Oh, and we simply pay a visit to that middle school, line up all the girls, and choose one?”

  “No. Look, the principal…she’s my receptionist’s daughter. She claimed to be ‘forever in my debt’ for making the presentation today. She might agree to help us find the girl who bears the closest resemblance to Mary.”

  Sandra shook her head doubtfully, adding, “I think it would be a whole lot easier if you could just find your friend Benny Friedman and get him to tell us everything he knows about the Montgomerys. No little girls. No crazy aunt. Just crazy Benny.”

  “That’s not nice,” I shot back, offended.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Sandra snuggled against me as if she were making a physical apology for demeaning my friend. Her closeness made me feel strangely uncomfortable. I wondered what it was. I’d never had a woman as overtly attractive as she was come on to me like this—so why didn’t I jump at the chance? Was it because of her relationship with Michael that I felt succumbing to her charms would be a betrayal of him? Or was it because of the letter Benny gave me? A twenty-three-year-old message, probably long forgotten by its author.

  I gently tried to create some space between the two of us. “Sandra, is it OK if I take a rain check on tonight? I feel like I’m in way over my head, and I need some time to regain my equilibrium.”

  Her reaction was perfect. “I respect that, David. We’ve been asking a lot of you, and I was probably wrong to let my personal feelings get in the way of the job.”

  “Are you sure? I mean…you must know…I’m extremely attracted to you. I just think—”

  “Say no more,” she interrupted, saving me from sounding too banal. She stood up from the couch and started toward the door. I followed her, taking it as my cue that our evening together was over.

  “And anyway,” she said, opening the door for me, “you’ve had a long day today and you’re going to have another one tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked, baffled.

  “Yes, tomorrow, when you and I go out to that middle school and find our little Mary Montgomery.”

  Chapter 18

  April 21, 1989

  “I think I just might have a match for you,” Yolanda Jordan said as she studied Mary Montgomery’s passport photo. Sandra and I were sitting in her office the day after my presentation. I’d explained the situation to Yolanda over the phone that morning. At least the part about needing a look-alike for an eleven-year-old girl who had passed away decades ago, since we hoped her presence would stimulate the memory of an aunt who might have information valuable to the FBI. Fortunately, she welcomed the opportunity to help.

  Yolanda reached behind her chair to grab a book from the top of her credenza and placed it on her desk. “The Meridian Yearbook,” she explained.

  Sandra and I leaned forward in our chairs so we could get a closer look. The cover included a photo inset of the Meridian Middle School with the motto Integrity, Friendship, and Learning = Happiness embossed across the top.

  “Now let me find you a picture of Hannah. Where’s
the index…ah, here it is. Petrova, Petrova. Oh, she’s on several pages. Let’s check out page thirty-two first.” Yolanda leafed through the yearbook until she found the page she was looking for. “Now, look here,” she said, turning the book around to face us. “Disregard the red curly hair. Hannah played the lead in Annie last spring. That’s a picture of her onstage, singing ‘Tomorrow.’ She was unbelievable—a real trouper.”

  Sandra and I both scrutinized the photo. It was hard for me to get past the hair. Hannah Petrova had a wide face, and she did have Mary’s prominent cheekbones. But because the photo caught her in midsong, it was nearly impossible to tell what she would look like with just a normal expression on her face.

  “I take it she’s Slavic…from the name?” Sandra asked.

  “You know,” Yolanda replied, “I never thought about it before. But Petrova does sound like a Slavic name.”

  “Well, she looks Slavic,” noted Sandra. “For that matter, so does Mary. In spite of the name Montgomery. Of course, we don’t know if that was their real name. Can we see one of the other pictures of Hannah?”

  “Sure,” Yolanda said, taking the book back to check the index again. “There’s another one of her on page twelve. Let’s see. Oh yes, the girls’ soccer team photo. There she is, in the front row. Holding the ball.”

  Yolanda handed over the yearbook to us. In this photo—without the red-haired wig—Hannah bore a clear resemblance to Mary. Her own hair color was dark, and she had a world-weary smile similar to Mary’s. Even her upper lip had the same subtle curl, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.

  “What are Hannah’s parents like, Yolanda?” Sandra asked. “Do you think they would go along with our plan?”

  “Hannah lives with a single mom who’s not very active in the school, so I don’t really know her that well. I’ve heard she’s something of a flower child—an all-grown-up one from what I remember. I think she’s got a pretty cool attitude—at least about school matters. So I guess all we can do is ask her.”

  Sandra looked concerned. As if getting past Ms. Petrova might be our most serious obstacle.

  Yolanda picked up on her troubled vibe. “Look,” she pointed out, “we take field trips to hospitals and places like that all the time. The only difference here is you’d be asking Hannah to play a particular role with one of the patients. And like I said, I think her mom is pretty cool. So when you explain the reason you need Hannah, she’ll probably agree to it.”

  Chapter 19

  April 23, 1989

  Yolanda helped us schedule a meeting a few nights later with Hannah and her mother, Sonya, at their modest Palatine home. Hannah greeted us at the door when we arrived. Sandra and I looked at each other in astonishment after getting our first glimpse of her. In person the young thespian bore a remarkable likeness to Mary Montgomery. Hannah escorted us inside, into what appeared to be the family room, and invited us to sit on the couch. She sat down next to us. “My mom’s in the kitchen, making tea. I hope you like tea.”

  Sandra and I assured her that we did, although I don’t.

  “Tell them I’ll be right there,” a woman’s voice, with a slight Eastern European accent, called out from the kitchen.

  “My mom will be right here,” Hannah echoed, smiling because she knew it was unnecessary to repeat her mother’s words. Her smile caused my heart to race since I noticed a touch of irony there. She was becoming Mary Montgomery before my very eyes.

  Soon Sonya Petrova came into the family room carrying a tray with a teapot and four cups, saying, “Is Oolong tea OK?”

  “Perfect,” Sandra responded.

  Sonya placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch and poured four cups, handing one to each of us. Then she pulled up a chair so she could sit opposite the three of us.

  As I watched Hannah sip her tea, I found it surprising that she seemed to relish the brew. After exchanging some small talk, mainly about the health benefits of Oolong tea, Sandra took the lead in explaining what we wanted Hannah to do.

  “Your daughter looks remarkably like a girl who passed away over twenty years ago. The girl’s aunt is in a mental hospital. She is not dangerous,” Sandra explained. “The woman is in her eighties and may not even remember her niece after such a long period of absence. But if she does, and if seeing Hannah triggers even the smallest sliver of lucid thought, it may help lead us to the rest of this woman’s family, who disappeared over twenty years ago.”

  It didn’t take long for Sonya to consider the request and make a decision.

  “I would be honored to have my daughter try to help this woman,” she said. “Hannah, what do you think?”

  It took Hannah even less time to reply. “I would love to, Mother. It would be wonderful if I could help them find this woman’s family.”

  Chapter 20

  April 26, 1989

  The squeaky sound of a wheelchair on the unyielding stone floor of the Dixon Mental Hospital could be heard in the distance. As it grew progressively louder, it overshadowed the lazy, rhythmic cadence of the ancient ceiling fan overhead.

  There were three of us present in Dixon’s cavernous visitors’ room: Sandra, Hannah Petrova, and me. From the looks of the place, I doubted many people had recently passed through. Only a single magazine peered out from the metal rack. It was a tattered Life magazine dated June 4, 1982. Almost seven years old.

  Soon I spotted a middle-aged attendant approaching from a narrow hallway. He was pushing the wheelchair with the creaking wheels. Seated in it with an almost regal bearing was a frail old woman. Her aide’s vacant stare made me wonder if he was a patient here himself. As the two entered the room, I was able to discern the invalid’s features. Although it had been twenty-three years since I’d encountered Lena’s aunt at their Lincolnwood Towers citadel, there could be no doubt that this was she. Certainly the passage of time had aged her; but the wild look in her eyes remained unchanged.

  She was bundled in layers of cotton and linen up to her chin. It was hardly cold in the visitors’ room, but I presumed her ancient immune system needed all the help it could get. The attendant positioned her wheelchair directly in front of the long bench the three of us occupied. As I gazed into her eyes, which seemed focused on another world—one that none of us were a part of—I instantly lost hope that this woman could ever be reached.

  We’d learned her name was Antoinette, but she’d always been called Toni. “Hello, Toni,” I said, my face not more than a foot away from hers. “I hope you’re feeling well. We have a special treat for you today. We have brought Mary here to see you.”

  The name Mary evinced no response.

  Without prompting, Hannah took the old woman’s veined, gnarled hands in her own and held them tenderly. “Hello, Aunt Toni,” she said sweetly. “Remember me? I’m Mary. Are you feeling well today?”

  Every muscle in the old woman’s face remained rigid. Antoinette Montgomery stared, unblinking, into the face of the little girl before her. But slowly, her gaze transformed from one that was empty and vacuous to one that was penetrating. Was she actually studying the girl before her? It appeared that she’d inspired some type of brain activity.

  Then, almost imperceptibly, Toni’s eyes began to water. Hannah must have noticed it too because she leaned forward and hugged the old woman. Toni’s arms remained at her sides, but she was having difficulty catching her breath. And then it happened. Like an eruption. Sobs. Uncontrollable sobs. The old woman grasped Hannah Petrova with both arms and would not let her go.

  “Why don’t you answer when I call for you, Mary?” she managed once her sobs had subsided. “You have not been a very good girl.”

  We hadn’t rehearsed any scenarios with Hannah, and I was concerned about how she might respond. But the little actress was well into her role and continued to play it perfectly.

  “I know—and I’m sorry, Aunt Toni.”

  “Toni, where did they go?” I ventured, overcoming my considerable reluctance to interrupt the gr
owing bond between Hannah and the old woman. “We need to find your family. Don’t you want us to find them?”

  “Ahhmsk,” she murmured so softly that I could barely hear her.

  “Ahhms?” I repeated.

  She continued to embrace Hannah and didn’t respond.

  “Ahhms?” I repeated once more.

  “Ahhmsk,” she replied, emphasizing the K, which I didn’t pick up on the first time.

  Sandra, who’d been a silent witness to the scene so far, pulled me over to the side. “It sounds like she is saying some kind of nonsense word—like some meditation mantra from her séance days. I don’t think this is working, David.”

  “No,” I told her. “It is working. What she is saying is Omsk. Omsk is a city.”

  “A city? Where?”

  “Siberia. Omsk, Siberia. It’s in the Soviet Union.”

  Chapter 21

  May 4, 1989

  A cool April was transitioning into a warm May. Although more than a week had gone by since the trip to Dixon and Hannah’s encounter with Antoinette Montgomery, I hadn’t heard a word from Sandra. I was tempted to initiate contact—perhaps to suggest a drink at Harry’s—but then decided against it. I was probably better off if the Whidden investigation no longer required my involvement. I had not been able to produce my friend Benny for her. And now that she’d learned that Truce of God guru, Philip Montgomery—her prime suspect in the scientist’s disappearance—had hightailed it to Siberia more than twenty years ago, what more could I offer her?

  But I had to admit that I would’ve liked to pursue some type of social relationship with the stunning FBI agent. Although I’d balked when given the chance to engage in something physical that night at her apartment, I now regretted it, thinking that maybe I’d like a second chance. On the other hand, Sandra was probably more trouble than she was worth, the kind of woman who could chew me up and spit me out before I knew what hit me. Furthermore, her interest in me was probably feigned—for the sole purpose of seducing me into the effort to find Benny. Now that she didn’t need Benny anymore, I had undoubtedly dropped off her radar screen.