Zoltan said in the same soft chant, “Come in through me, Congressman. Let me speak for you. Give me your words so I can tell Rebekah what concerns you so greatly. Come through me.”
Nothing happened. Rebekah took another drink of her tea, realized she was perfectly content to wait. The air was warm, and she felt calm, open, expectant, which she should realize was silly, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Suddenly, Zoltan whooshed out a breath and stiffened. Her eyes closed, and her hand tightened around Rebekah’s again, then eased. Rebekah felt a fluttering of movement, a brush against her cheek, and jumped. What was that? The hair lifted off the back of her neck as if there were electricity in the air. She whispered, “Grandfather?”
The room grew dim again, the embers quieted. Zoltan’s lips began to move, and out came a flat, low voice, not quite like Zoltan’s own voice, but deeper, sounding somehow distant, and older—like her grandfather’s voice. “My dearest Rebekah. To speak to you again, even through this woman, it brings me great joy. You visited me when I still breathed earthly air. I knew it was you, always, and I understood you when you spoke to me. You came nearly every day, and I loved you for it. You held my hand, talked to me, and I savored each of your words, your loving presence. Everyone believed I was gone, even the doctors believed I was locked helpless into my brain, nothing left of my reason, nothing left of me, no awareness, no consciousness, and some of that was true. But even though I was unable to speak to you, unable to respond to you, I heard, yes, I heard everything, heard everyone. Do you know, I remember when Gemma came, only once, at the beginning, and she whispered in my ear she wished I’d just hang it up once and for all and stop wasting everyone’s time. She punched my arm; I felt it. But your visits were the highlights of my day, and you came to me throughout the long years I lay there like the dead, which, thankfully, I finally am. It was only a month ago, wasn’t it?”
Zoltan paused, her eyes flew open, and she stared at Rebekah. Time froze. Then Zoltan spoke again, her voice still deep, another’s voice, still blurred, still distant. “Look at you, so beautiful, like your mother. I remember how proud you were when you told me you had earned your master’s degree in art history at George Washington, that you knew you had the ‘eye,’ you called it, and you had decided to make yourself an expert on fraudulent art. You couldn’t wait to start consulting with museums and collectors. You’d already begun your search to find a partner, someone who could work with you to identify stolen originals. And you told me you found the perfect person.”
Yes, yes, my new partner, Kit Jarrett, now my best friend, a perfect fit, my lucky day. But wait, finding out about Kit Jarrett was easy enough. It wasn’t a secret.
“Your excitement made me want to smile, on the inside, of course, and you couldn’t see it. And now you are married, to another congressman. Manvers interned for me a very long time ago. I always found him a real go-getter. I think he was born knowing how to play the game. He’s playing it well. Other than being a politician, Rich Manvers is a fine man, but isn’t he a bit old for you, Pumpkin?”
“Perhaps, but what’s important is he understands me, and he loves me.” Rebekah licked her lips, drank more tea to get spit in her mouth, and managed to say, “Pumpkin—that was the nickname you gave me when I was six years old. Not many people know that.”
Zoltan’s brilliant dark eyes opened and fastened onto something beyond Rebekah. Rebekah turned but didn’t see anything. Zoltan’s lips moved, but no sound came out. There was no expression on Zoltan’s face, only smooth blankness. Then her grandfather’s voice again. “Yes, I remember the Halloween you carved a pumpkin to look like me. You nearly burned the house down.”
Rebekah heard herself say, “Yes. I still have a picture of the pumpkin, and you’re standing behind me, your hands on my shoulders. I have so many photos of us together over the years. Of course, I came to see you as often as I could in the sanitarium. I loved you. Grandfather, I will love you until I die. I know this sounds strange, but are you well now?”
The distant deep voice seemed to laugh. “Yes, Pumpkin, of course I’m well. I’m always well now. There is no more pain since I died—well, there was hardly any even before I died. I remember you were such a brave girl, never left my side during those long, final earthbound hours. You held my hand until I was able to depart my tedious life.”
She remembered, too clearly, the shock, the pain, and the relief, too, when he drew his last breath. Dr. Lassiter, a kind, attentive man, had stood beside her, touching her grandfather’s other hand. “John is at peace now,” he’d said when it was over, and she’d finally known what that old chestnut really meant.
Rebekah said, “Yes, I remember. What is it you want to tell me, Grandfather?”
3
A pool of deep silence filled the still air. Suddenly, there was a touch, feathery soft against Rebekah’s skin. She heard Zoltan’s voice, lower now, almost a whisper. “Do you remember me telling you stories about my best friend, Nate, the adventures we had as boys, the stunts we pulled, how we were always getting the strap from our dads?”
“Yes, of course I remember. I grew up on your stories. I was always thrilled. I repeated many of them over and over to you in the hospital, hoping maybe they’d help you wake up, but you couldn’t. I hoped you would at least hear them and know you weren’t alone.”
“Yes, I heard you, Pumpkin, and I thank you now. As you know, Nate was smart, but like I told you, he wasn’t so smart there at the end. Ah, what a long time ago that was. I don’t think Nate’s here, and I have looked for him.”
She wanted to ask him where he was, but instead said, “Nate Elderby—yes, I remember, he was a big-time lawyer. I heard Grandmother tell one of her friends his second wife was a sexpot who married him for his money, a good thing since the sexpot, Miranda, had the IQ of lettuce. I remember she laughed about him and his wife, but you never said a word. But why are you asking me about him, Grandfather?”
“Did you know Nate never called me Methodist until nearly the very end, right before he went out fishing on Dawg Creek and got himself drowned? I remember what he said the last time I saw him: ‘Methodist, it’s no good any longer, you know it. I have to get out, or it’s over for me.’ Three days later he was stone-cold dead.”
“Why are you telling me this, Grandfather?”
“It’s important, Pumpkin. He failed with the wrong client and knew they would try to get back at him. He wanted to leave the country, wanted to leave as a rich man, very rich. He wanted his share.”
Rebekah said, “His share of what?”
“His share of the treasure from that story I told you, the story we called the Big Take.”
How did Zoltan know about the Big Take? Rebekah waited, but he said nothing more. “You mean that adventure story you kept telling me about the treasure you and Nate managed to steal from the evil sheikh’s caravan because he was going to use it to make war against his people? I remember you changed it, embellished it, every time you told it to me so I wouldn’t forget. Are you saying it’s true, Grandfather? The Big Take really happened?”
“Yes, the gist of it was true. I knew at the time you didn’t believe what I told you was real, only another story to entertain you. But remember how I swore you to secrecy? Of course you do, you’ve kept all my secrets ever since you were a little girl. I wondered if I shouldn’t have told you, you were so young. It was my legacy to you, yours alone, and there was time enough, I thought, to let you know it was true. Ah, the best-laid plans. I remember you talked to me many times about the Big Take story when you visited me in the sanitarium, and I know you had no way to know it was real. You’d joke, say instead of a sheikh’s treasure, maybe it was a cask of ancient Spanish doubloons or maybe trunks of Nazi gold. I couldn’t tell you what it was, that it was all too real, since I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, could only lie there. Ah, but I’d already told you where it was.”
“You mean the poem from the story? That was real, too?”
“You had me repeat it so often when we were alone. It was one of our special secrets, for only you and me, but you never told me what it means, Grandfather. Is that why you gave me the poem, had me memorize it? You thought someday I’d understand?”
“Yes, it is my gift to you, Rebekah. It’s time for you to have it. It’s been over twenty years, enough time has passed so there will be no questions. And what is the treasure, you’re wondering? No, it’s nothing ancient from a faraway land, but trust me, you won’t be disappointed. When you fetch it, you’ll know why I kept it secret, and how much I love you. But you will need someone to help you, someone you trust, someone who will believe the Big Take is real. Do you really remember the poem? Tell me, Rebekah.”
Rebekah opened her mouth to recite the poem, looked at Zoltan’s face. And stopped. She wanted to believe her grandfather was speaking to her, but she couldn’t. She’d promised her grandfather never to say the poem to another soul. Why would he want her to now that he was dead? Slowly, she shook her head. “No, Grandfather, I won’t, I can’t. If it’s really you, you say the poem to me.”
The air felt chilly suddenly, enough to make gooseflesh rise on Rebekah’s arms.
An old, distant voice said, “Be careful, Pumpkin. I feel a wolf in the fold, close to you. Be careful.”
The fan went still. There was only silence and the dim light of the lamp.
“He’s gone,” Zoltan said, her voice hoarse, but now her own again. “Give me a moment.” She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I’ll be right back,” Zoltan said, and rose. Rebekah heard her soft tread, then the overhead light came on and flooded the room.
Zoltan walked back to the sofa, leaned down, lightly touched her fingertips to Rebekah’s cheek. “Your grandfather, he was strong this time, Rebekah. He was here, and all that he was in life came through. Why couldn’t he speak directly to you? I don’t know. Amazing you already knew about this Big Take and you remember the poem you memorized as a child.”
“Yes, and as you heard, he never told me what the Big Take was, and still didn’t, for whatever reason. I don’t even know if it’s real.”
“Interesting. Fascinating, actually.” Zoltan straightened and looked around the living room, a question in her eyes. She said as she turned back to Rebekah, “Perhaps tonight was a breakthrough. Your grandfather came to us so clearly. I suppose you could say I felt what he was feeling, felt his concern for you, his excitement to tell you about your legacy, that it was real after all. You really have no idea where this Big Take is hidden? What it is?”
Rebekah looked into Zoltan’s sympathetic face and sighed. “He first told me the Big Take story when I was a little girl. The story didn’t say where he and Nate hid the treasure.” Rebekah shrugged. “There were so many of his other adventure stories I repeated back to him in the sanitarium when I ran out of news to tell him. That story was only one of them.” She shook her head and sat silently wondering what all this was supposed to mean, whether she should believe anything that had happened here, anything she’d been told.
Zoltan took her hands again, squeezed. “I believe the Big Take, whatever it is, is real. You see, it’s very difficult for most Departed to come through the Verge. Why come through if he was only going to tell you a lie? There’d be no point. I believe he wants you to have whatever it is he and Nate Elderby stole and hid all those years ago. And he wrote you the poem thinking you would figure it all out when you grew up, or perhaps he hoped you and I could figure it out together.”
Rebekah shrugged. “I can’t imagine the grandfather I knew and loved would want to make me a criminal, even if he and Nate Elderby were. I think if he loved me as much as he now claims, he wouldn’t want me tainted by whatever he did, make me an accomplice to his crime.”
She searched Zoltan’s face, shrugged again. “Whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish, Zoltan, you should know I don’t want anything to do with it. Let the Big Take stay buried, if it’s real. Let it stay forgotten. It all stops right here in this room. The last thing I want is for my grandfather to go down in history as a thief—even if I really was hearing his voice rather than your own.” As she spoke, Rebekah rose. She felt a brief moment of dizziness.
Zoltan stood, too, lightly touched her hand to Rebekah’s arm. “I’m sorry you’re still unsure if your grandfather was actually here, and you still doubt me. He was here, Rebekah. I find it interesting, though, that he never told you exactly what the Big Take was. But maybe he didn’t have time, maybe he had to leave before he could tell you everything.”
But he’d told her there was a wolf in the fold, and what did that mean? It sounded ridiculous to Rebekah. She stared down at Zoltan’s hand. Zoltan pulled her hand away, took a step back, but her voice remained calm. “Fact is, I’ve come to believe there’s a time limit to how long the Departed can stay with us once they come through the Verge. Perhaps they need to wait their turn before they connect to us again.”
Rebekah looked toward the fire in the grate, only embers now. “To be truthful, Zoltan, I don’t know for certain whether to thank you for contacting my grandfather or compliment you on the quality of the research you must have done to convince me with your brilliant performance. More likely the latter, I think. Was my grandfather really involved in some kind of major theft with his friend? I don’t believe it. No, the Big Take was only one of the wonderful stories he told me. But as I said, it doesn’t matter.” She paused, leaned down to pick up her cup, and took a last sip of tea. “To pretend you’re actually speaking to a dead person—well, thank you for the unexpected evening and the tea.”
“Rebekah, I had an idea. Perhaps we could locate the Big Take and give it back to the original owner. What do you think?”
Rebekah said again, “As I said, Zoltan, this is over. I will not be coming back.”
“You are free to do as you wish, of course, Rebekah. But if you do come back, perhaps your grandfather will tell you more about the Big Take, explain his motives, and you can question him. You can tell him you don’t want it because you want to protect him. I know he can come back, his presence was strong tonight. He wants this desperately, Rebekah. Give him another chance to convince you.”
Rebekah started to shake her head, but she stayed silent until Zoltan walked her to the front door. “I hope you will reconsider. But whatever you decide, Rebekah, you have provided me with an intriguing evening, you and your grandfather both. Perhaps you will come again on Friday night?”
Rebekah shook her head. “I’ve made up my mind. I won’t be coming back.”
As Rebekah walked to her car, she realized she still felt unusually calm, smooth as the flow of a placid river, and wasn’t that odd? She carefully backed out of Zoltan’s driveway, her hands a bit unsteady on the steering wheel, and wondered if she’d ever actually believed she was speaking to her grandfather. He knew your nickname, Pumpkin. He knew about the Big Take story. Zoltan couldn’t have known about it, could she?
How could Zoltan have possibly found out Rebekah’s nickname and all the rest of it? She realized in that moment she wished she could believe her. She, Rebekah Clarkson Manvers, wanted to believe what had happened tonight was real. But of course it wasn’t. It was all smoke and mirrors. She had no intention of coming back on Friday, no matter what Zoltan wanted. Nothing good could come of it.
Was there a wolf in the fold? Why would Zoltan—or her grandfather—give her that bizarre warning? No, it was ridiculous, her grandfather was dead, gone. Still, why the warning? Who wasn’t she to trust? Rich? No, it couldn’t be Rich, her husband of six months, a four-term congressman from Talbot County, Maryland. She remembered he’d told her after his first wife died, he didn’t think he’d ever find another woman he would love. But he’d chanced upon her at Lincoln Center at a Lucien Balfour piano concert
nine months earlier. For the first time in years, he fell in love, with her, and now he told her he was proud of her every single day. They were still discovering how much they had in common, and always enjoyed each other’s company. He dealt well with Kit, her business partner and friend, and he approved of her.
Rebekah turned into light traffic on Hazelton Avenue, only twenty minutes from Kalorama Heights and home. She thought of Rich’s younger son, Beck. He was more a gold-plated prick than a wolf. He was a health insurance lobbyist, a job arranged for him, of course, by his powerful father, her husband. He was thirty-three, five years older than she, and he made it a habit to come out of his bedroom wearing only his boxer shorts when he knew she was close by, as if he’d been waiting for her. He’d quickly graduated to coming out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. Beck had moved back to his father’s house in Chevy Chase the year before, after a nasty breakup with his then-fiancée, an investment banker’s daughter out of New York. Rebekah’s mantra to herself was: Beck, find another girlfriend soon, and leave.
Could Tucker be the wolf? Rich’s eldest son was perfectly pleasant to her, though he ignored her for the most part, regarded her as his father’s newest toy, a temporary diversion at best. That was fine with her. He seemed happy enough with his wife, Celeste, and their three sons. Celeste didn’t like Rebekah, but did she hate her enough to wish her ill? Was she the wolf? Well, speculating about it hardly mattered. She was only taking the bait Zoltan had tossed out to her, the hints and warning she’d left her with to get her to come back for another grandfather show. She thought cynically she’d probably be billed five hundred dollars for the entertainment.
Rebekah felt a wave of fatigue, and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She forced herself to focus on the meeting she had scheduled with Mr. Clement Herriot, a wealthy collector of impressionist paintings. Alas, she had bad news for him. The Berthe Morisot he’d bought at auction seventeen years before was a fake. He wouldn’t be happy, though Rebekah knew he must have suspected or he wouldn’t have contacted her to authenticate the painting. Kit had ferreted out the painter most likely to have executed Morisot’s style so beautifully—Carlos Bizet, who lived in Andalusia and was now ninety years old. Thankfully, he’d stopped his forgeries ten years before, but that didn’t help Mr. Herriot. It would certainly get his insurance company’s attention, since they’d doubtless hired an expert to authenticate the painting as well before insuring it. “No one else could have painted it,” Kit had told Rebekah. “And now Bizet’s so old, he spends his time bragging about his work hanging in museums all over the world, and, of course, in big muckety-mucks’ collections, like Mr. Herriot’s.” Rebekah thought about the wages of dishonesty, how if malfeasance went undiscovered long enough, there weren’t any wages to be paid here on earth. She’d decided long ago karma was only an inviting construct weak people used to make themselves feel better about not doing something when they should.
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