“He works late, until seven thirty sharp. Like clockwork. And everyone has to stay and pretend to be working until he leaves. Then they all celebrate.”
“What about his car?” I said. “Do you know which car is his?”
“You mean the gray Porsche 611 with the spoiler in the back that he parks right next to the helicopter pad behind his building?”
“Yes,” I said. “That one.”
The beams of our three flashlights squirmed within the dark mist, painting jittery white ovals on rough bark and the mossy ground as we made our way deeper into the woods.
Henry was to my left and Natalie to my right. We tried to stay close as we hiked around trees and over scrub brush, spraying our beams every which way. The plan was to trace Beatrice’s footsteps on the last night she was seen alive. It would seem an impossible task after so long a time, but we had a couple of tour guides: Beatrice Long in my dream and her former boyfriend, Anil Singh.
Earlier in the night we had been sitting cross-legged on the helicopter pad in the deserted but lit parking lot outside his building, playing ghost to kill the time—appropriate, no? A few minutes after seven thirty, while Natalie was stumped on G-R-O-T-E, a man who matched the picture on the Singh Electronics website came walking toward a gray Porsche. He was short, gray-haired, thin, and—uh-oh—accompanied by one of his security guards. We three stood right away. A few days before, the sight of two security guards had sent us running like rabbits, but things had changed.
“Stop right there,” said the guard after Natalie, Henry, and I hopped off the helipad and started walking toward Anil Singh. The guard stepped in front of Anil Singh with one hand raised and the other reaching into his jacket. Gun? Taser? Cookie? I wasn’t counting on the cookie. “Don’t come any closer,” he said.
“It’s okay, Lawrence,” said Anil Singh in a sharp, clipped voice that was all business. “They’re not why I asked you to walk me to the car. You can go.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Singh?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, Lawrence.”
Anil Singh waited as the security man glared at us for a bit before turning and heading back to the building. When the guard was out of earshot, Mr. Singh said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“We just have a few questions,” said Natalie.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. “The chief told me about your fake history paper. Which one of you is Stephen Scali’s daughter?”
“That’s me,” I said.
“Your father represents us in patent litigations. He’s a terrific lawyer. It’s Elizabeth, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And what you want is for me to tell you all about Beatrice. Is that right, Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” I said. “If you can.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Elizabeth, I don’t think I can. The chief was very clear in instructing me not to talk to you three.”
“We heard that the last time you saw Beatrice you were kissing her sister,” said Natalie, “which is, I have to say, way cold, and a little hot at the same time. Is that true?”
“You’re Natalie, I suppose. Well, Natalie, things are always more complicated than they seem.”
“But is it true?” said Henry.
“And you’re Henry, the swimmer, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Henry.
Anil Singh, who collected first names like he was selling lemon pops door-to-door, just shook his head. “Elizabeth, Natalie, Henry, I think it’s time for you three to go home and forget all about Beatrice.”
“Like you have?” I said.
“Go home,” he said, “before I call the chief.”
“She forgives you,” said Henry. “She wants you to know that.”
He tilted his head and stared, as if Henry had just stolen his lunch.
“She called you Nilly,” I said.
He startled as if a squirrel had just run over his shoe.
“And she forgives you,” said Henry.
“How do you guys know that?”
“We just do,” Henry said. “We’re only here, the three of us, because we’re trying to help her. And she knows you want to help her, too.”
Anil turned away from us and looked up to the sky, bright with the moon. He stayed there, looking up, for a long while, as if searching for something in the moon’s face. When he turned around again, he was wiping at his eyes.
“So, here’s all you need to know about me and Beatrice,” he said, choking back what looked like a hiccup but which I realized was a sob. “She was my first love and I messed it up. I used to think I could fix anything. That’s why I became an engineer. But I messed it up with Beatrice, and she was killed before I had a chance to fix things with her. I’ve never really recovered. She still haunts me.”
“She’s good at that,” said Henry. “So, it’s true about you and Beatrice’s sister?”
“Yes,” he said, simply, “it’s true. I was young and stupid.”
“You were in high school,” said Natalie. “What else could you expect?”
“Well, maybe I could have expected more from myself,” he said. “I often wonder how things would have gone if I hadn’t been such a jerk that night. But Robbie’s parents were gone, the music was loud, and then Roberta took my hand and bit my ear. What was I going to do?”
“Say ‘yuck’?” said Henry.
Even with his wet eyes Mr. Singh smiled. “Well, maybe you’ll be smarter than I was, Henry. I sure hope so.”
“Where was the party?” I said.
“The party?” said Mr. Singh.
“The Halloween party where you last saw Beatrice.”
“Robbie’s house,” he said. “Robbie Heegner? He lived down by the woods, the last house on the left on Dartmouth before it dead-ends. I think it burned down or something, but the foundation is still there.”
“When Beatrice saw you and ran, did you chase her?”
“I tried. It wasn’t so easy to get free of her sister. That Roberta had the grip of a weight lifter.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Henry.
“Which way did Beatrice go?” I said.
“Directly away from the back of the house, farther into the woods. I tried to follow, but I never found her.”
“You didn’t see her in the hut?”
“What hut? I don’t know of any hut.”
“Just something we read in the newspaper articles.”
“I don’t remember reading anything about a hut. All I know is that she ran away and I never saw her again. I still think about her every day.” And then he smiled at Henry. “It’s nice to imagine that she still thinks of me. But it’s late, and you kids ought to get home now. It’s not safe.”
“What’s not safe?” said Natalie.
“I didn’t have the guard walk me to the car because I was afraid you three would show up.”
“Then why?” I asked.
“Because of Vance, Vance Johansson,” he said, suddenly looking around in a way that creeped me out, as if he was fearfully searching for a ghost of his own. “Didn’t you hear the news?”
We hadn’t then, but now we had, and that was why we were tracing Beatrice’s path in the darkness, waving our flashlights across the landscape as we made our way ever deeper into the woods.
He had escaped. Vance Johansson had escaped from the maximum-security hospital four weeks before. That was why Anil Singh asked a security man to walk him to the car, and that was why the chief was trying to stop our investigation. Vance Johansson was on the loose. He had been the main suspect in Beatrice’s murder. He was still considered extremely dangerous. There was no telling what he would do to anyone who crossed his path or what the police would do if they found him.
And so of course we were deep in the woods, waving our flashlights in the night, searching for Vance Johansson’s hut of skulls.
It was my decision to do it right away. My father was somewhere on the other side waiting for me
to do something, and my grandfather had told me the Court of Uncommon Pleas was due back in the city within a few days and then might be gone for months. We couldn’t wait until the police found Vance. I figured going at night would be safer than during the day. If Vance Johansson was still around, he wouldn’t be out there in the dark. And if he was out there in the dark, we would see his light in time to run.
So off we went in search of Beatrice’s head.
It was actually a nice moment, the quiet of the search in the cool, misty night, with my best friend, Natalie, and our new friend, Henry Harrison. Our flashlight beams crossed like swords in the haze. I might have appreciated it more if I hadn’t been scared out of my gourd by the image of the boy in my dream wandering these woods, and of what horrors we might discover in that hut. But still, being part of a team reminded me of when I was young and my mother—
“I think I found something,” said Natalie.
My attention snapped back to our search. I aimed the beam of my flashlight to where Natalie’s beam was pointing. And that was when I saw it, a landmark I had never laid eyes on but was still as familiar to me as the lines on my palm: a great piece of gray rock shaped like the Mayflower.
“That’s it,” I said.
When we reached it, I put my hand on its side. This was where the squirrel had hidden after being chased by the dog. This was where the snake had set up its burrow before being snared in the trap. This was where Beatrice had rested after running from the party. All three dreams had led me here, and were now telling me in which direction to go. I slipped my beam back and forth until I found the old tree with two thick and mottled trunks diverging like a V. I aimed my light right into the gap.
“She went thataway,” I said.
Walking now in a row, we moved forward as straight as we could, passing through the diverging trunks and continuing on, until we came to the creek and then turned to the right.
A bit farther along, our waving beams caught the base of a hill.
We moved away from the creek and climbed, keeping our lights focused now on the ground ahead of us, trying not to light up any of the tree trunks like flares. At the point where I thought the anthill might have been I flashed my beam, but saw nothing except a mound of leaves. When we reached the crest of the hill we turned off our flashlights. The gaps between the treetops were filled with stars and moonlight, but all around us was a darkness without the barest glimmer of artificial light.
“There’s no one here,” I said, flicking my light back on. “The hut should be just ahead. We have to look for the ruins of a stone house.”
And then, just ahead, there they were.
You know Pop Rocks, the candy that fizzes on your tongue? When I caught sight of those ruins, the way my blood started bubbling, it felt like someone had poured a pack of Pop Rocks right into a vein.
Blue Razz.
As the three of us stood inside the remains of a long-gone farmhouse, the bright circles of our lights intersected on a small hut leaning against one of the house’s rough stone walls.
The hut, well hidden within the ruins, was a misshapen gray thing with nooks and crannies and a tilted roof. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, in decades. Whatever paint had been applied to the wood had worn away, and the tin roofing was so thick with gunk that it was hard to distinguish from the night sky. A spindly tree grew out of one of the old farmhouse’s stone walls, pointing to the sky like a finger of warning.
“Well, that’s certainly creepy enough,” said Natalie.
“You think it’s there?” said Henry.
“If my dreams are indeed messages,” I said, “then it’s there.”
“How are we getting in?”
“I brought a screwdriver,” I said.
“That should do it,” said Henry. “A screwdriver can open anything. I once opened a can of corned beef hash with a screwdriver. My mom fried it right up. Pretty good.”
I looked at Henry. In the light reflected off the hut he appeared oh so eager to get inside. I felt connected to the squirrel and the snake and to Beatrice. All three might have died here. This hut was a place of sorrow and loss, and it deserved to be explored with respect.
“I’ll go in,” I said. “By myself. You guys should stay as lookouts in case someone comes. Natalie, go around to the other side. Henry, you stay here. Turn off your lights and keep your eyes open for anyone showing up. I don’t want to be surprised while I’m inside.”
“Are you sure?” said Henry.
“This is the safest way.”
“How should we warn you?” said Natalie. “Birdcalls? I can do a duck.”
“Please don’t,” I said.
“How about we just knock?” said Henry.
“Perfect,” I said. “I’m so jittery, it won’t take much. Toss a pebble and I’ll be running like a rabbit.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” said Natalie.
“No, but if something’s wrong I’ll let you know. Did you bring what I asked you to bring?”
She reached into her jacket, pulled out the whistle that had been given to her by Beatrice’s mother, and handed it over. I hung the chain around my neck.
“If I need you, I’ll blow the whistle. Otherwise, I’ll just grab the head and we’ll go home.”
“Let’s hope that’s the last time you ever say that sentence,” said Natalie before walking to the other side of the ruined farmhouse. When she got there, she turned off her light. Henry did the same.
I looked around before stepping forward, around one pile of stone and then another, making my way, however hesitantly, to the hut.
The door had the remains of chipped green paint, and there was a rusted padlock on the clasp that was still locked. I would have used the screwdriver to wedge the clasp off the door, but time had done the work for me. Most of the screws were already free of the wood and the hardware dangled.
I grabbed the little iron handle and slowly opened the door. The hinges moaned.
Inside was so inky black that the beam of my light was swallowed whole. The smell through the open door hit me like a fist, a stale, moldy odor cut with a scent that reminded me of the lion house at the zoo.
I put a hand over my nose, ducked down to get through the low doorway, and stepped forward into the darkness.
When my light finally took hold, the space I saw was smaller than in my dream, and far messier. Everything was scattered, filthy, covered with mud and bits of dead leaves that had blown in through gaps in the boards. The wall of skulls had collapsed into a pile mixed with the filth on the floor. The cages on the right were silent. I flashed my beam into them one by one and saw a few tiny bones and bits of fur, but nothing else.
I walked to the pile of skulls, stooped down, and went through them slowly. Most of the skulls were tiny, coming from small animals and birds. There were a couple of long, narrow skulls, most likely of deer, and something canine that looked positively terrifying, like a dinosaur with a fierce underbite. But as I went through them, one by one, I found nothing even vaguely human.
I stood and waved my beam around the mess on the floor of the hut. The table was overturned to the left of the door, the chair on its side. There was a canvas bag, a slingshot, an old BB gun. Then something within a mess of clothes in the corner drew my attention.
I aimed my flashlight, walked over, stooped down. Between two old T-shirts rose twin leather handles. I shoved the shirts away and saw a leather bag attached to the handles, a filthy thing that had originally been blue with white highlights. It looked like a bag made for a bowling ball.
A bowling ball. Get it?
I grabbed the handles and lifted it free. There was something inside all right. I put the bag in front of me, pulled open the zipper on top, aimed my flashlight inside. When I saw the thing bound like a mummy, I swallowed a spurt of vomit.
I didn’t have to look twice to recognize Beatrice Long’s preserved head. She had rolled it at me, after all.
I was filled
with sadness and terror, the two emotions mixing inside me so that all I wanted to do was cry and run, run and weep. I closed the zipper, grabbed the bag, and spun around to the door. As I turned, and my light swirled, I caught just a glimpse of something peculiar in the far corner of the hut.
I wanted to ignore it but I couldn’t. Something pulled me back. A lawyer’s responsibility? Does that make sense? I don’t know anymore. But slowly I turned, aiming the flashlight’s beam into the corner.
It was hanging from the wall, as if from a hook. I took a step forward and realized the hanging thing was vaguely human, like a stuffed set of clothes, a scarecrow maybe, or a dummy. Then my light hit the face: pale, gray-whiskered, with hair wild and white, scarred cheeks, and a flat nose. The eyes were closed. The hanging figure was as dead as the skulls on the floor. As dead as the bones in the cages. As dead as wax. Instinctively I took another step forward.
The eyes opened.
I didn’t scream and I didn’t throw the head—though if ever there was a head made for throwing, it was Beatrice Long’s.
Instead, keeping my light focused on the face, I backed away, slowly, stepping over the piled mess on the floor. All the while the open eyes tracked my movements.
Then, with its lips moving barely at all, the face spoke. The voice was soft, a slurp of wet sounds.
“She said you would come.”
I stared in horror for the briefest moment, then dashed for the door.
I almost made it.
He moved impossibly fast, catching my arm and yanking me back. The flashlight fell clattering to the ground. Its beam, now caught on the floor, cast shadows across the hut. I grunted as I swung the bowling ball bag, hitting him hard on his side. The thwack traveled painfully up my arm, but his grip stayed tight.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said in his soft, wet voice. He was thick and misshapen. His face was the face of the boy in my dreams, only older, paler. Vance Johansson. Of course he was. “I promise,” he said.
I hit him again with Beatrice’s head and he lost his balance, letting go of my arm for a moment as he fought to remain standing. We had spun around so he was now between me and the door. With my arm suddenly free I grabbed the whistle, bit down hard on the metal, and blew the thing with every ounce of breath I had left in me.
Elizabeth Webster and the Court of Uncommon Pleas Page 18
