Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  “I want to get to know you, Ellie. I want you to get to know me, to get to know this life we’ll make together here. There’s plenty of room here for you to have an office or a studio or whatever you want to do. It doesn’t matter to me what it is. I just want you around,” he told her one afternoon when she’d gone out to the ranch to have lunch with him. They had returned from the Grand Canyon a week earlier.

  She’d taken to going out at noon most days. He’d show her the progress on the house. He’d talk about his day, ask about hers. She wanted to look forward to seeing him, she wanted that to be the highlight of her day, the structure she craved. But it didn’t work. She felt a genuine fondness from him that both warmed her and made her feel guilty, for she did not return it. She found Al attractive, endearing even, but she did not love him. She thought about drinking again. When she drank, it was easier to be with men. The chemistry of attraction seemed heightened by a little bourbon and she was easier in her body. She could tell Al she’d changed her mind about wanting to stop. They could drink some wine together, get to know each other in that easier space. She liked him, she really did. But so much lay between them, so much that he didn’t know and that she didn’t know how to say.

  The truth was that none of it seemed real. Not the wedding in Flagstaff, not the erstwhile honeymoon at the Grand Canyon, not their return to Farmington. She had thought that when she sobered up again, things would take on the awesome clarity of her first sobriety, when every leaf on every tree seemed vibrant and special, when she was so aware of her good health and her good fortune. She had believed that if she stopped drinking again now with Al, somehow the whole experience with Joel could be sorted out, put to rest. She saw now how naïve she had been. Joel’s death, the rape, the second man—they weren’t gone. She had not drunk them away, she had just drunk them into hiding. Now that she was not using alcohol to keep them at bay, these other men loomed in her dreams, in her unguarded moments.

  And she found that she could not relax at the ranch. In many ways, it was a lovely home, airy and spacious with views of the mountains and the desert light pouring in. The stone work was local and handsomely done, the furniture massive and masculine but comfortable. The new paint gave everything a clean, fresh feel. Al had given her free rein to get what she wanted. She’d never had that before. But after the thrill of choosing and getting, it all felt empty to her. She felt empty.

  “We should be ready for you to move in by next weekend.” The touch of Al’s hand on hers was warm and gentle, although she could feel the calluses that ridged his palm.

  Anxiety swept over her. She didn’t see how she could do that. She wasn’t ready.

  He must have seen something in her face, for he put his arms around her very loosely and said into her hair. “No hurry. Just wanting you around, that’s all.” He pulled back a little and looked into her eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

  She smiled and nodded, knowing full well that she meant nothing by either one of the gestures.

  22

  The day after she talked to Detective Hansen on the phone, Ellie got dressed and left the house. She was relieved to see the reporters were gone. The long drive up the hill through the one-hundred-year-old elms was reassuringly familiar, as were the turreted brick buildings at the top. Campus was mostly deserted on a Saturday morning, and she had no trouble finding a faculty parking spot. She went in through the back of the building to the post office. Her mailbox was crammed full: student papers, committee meeting minutes, announcements of conferences and calls for presentations. She scooped it all into a canvas shopping bag and headed up the maze of hallways to her office. She passed no one save an elderly demented nun who regularly wandered the halls of the main building on the weekends. They nodded at each other and Ellie went on her way.

  Taped to the heavy wooden door were cards and good wishes from some of her students. Her heart eased a little. She unlocked the door, stepped over the cards and papers on the polished wood floor, and put her satchel on the desk. The next three hours afforded her a sort of freedom: She sorted the mail and left phone messages in the empty offices of colleagues. She talked to the two colleagues who had taken her classes the week before. They were surprised to hear from her, surprised to learn she was back at school. She was relieved that they didn’t press her for details.

  Shortly after two, she went downstairs to the student lounge and got a couple of candy bars and a soda. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed a break. She took the long route back through the chapel. More elderly sisters sat reciting the rosary or praying. One snored as she passed by. She sat a moment amid the incense and watched the pale sunlight come through the stained glass rendering of the Stations of the Cross. She felt that God, if He or She existed, was very far away.

  When she came back to her office, she found a note on her desk. The dean wanted to see her right away. Ellie retraced her steps through the chapel, then down the stairs and into the administrative wing.

  Sister Joseph Marie stood looking out the window, but she moved to her desk when Ellie came in. She motioned for Ellie to sit across from her. The dour biologist and Ellie had a history, and it was not a good one.

  “How are you?” the nun said.

  Ellie opened her mouth to tell the truth, then remembered the power the woman had. “Better each day,” she said finally. “How are you?”

  “Concerned about you. We all are. Frankly, I’m surprised to find you here. I just happened to be going by and saw that your office was open.”

  “I wanted to come in and get some work done—get caught up before Monday.”

  “And escape the reporters.”

  “That too.”

  “Ellie, I’m sure you know this has been all over the news.”

  “Yes, I assume so. I haven’t seen any of it though.”

  “Well, the school has gotten a lot of publicity, not very good publicity.” Sister Joseph Marie leaned forward and folded her hands on the desk.

  Ellie frowned. “I don’t understand. What happened to me doesn’t have anything to do with the school.”

  “Well, you work here, and the questions and rumors that are circulating are not very good for us.”

  Ellie frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There’s talk that you and this doctor were part of a sex group, couples who shared partners, and did … I’m not sure how to put this … unnatural things with each other.”

  “None of that is true. Joel and I had a normal relationship—a very normal relationship.” Ellie took a deep breath. “Sister, you seem to forget that I was raped and beaten. Are you suggesting that I consented to that, that I chose to have it happen?”

  The nun grimaced. “No, no, you’ve misunderstood me. It’s the college I’m concerned about it. Gossip of this kind does not serve us.”

  “I can’t control what people say, what they want to make up,” Ellie said. She could feel the tears coming and she willed them away.

  “I am aware of that. That’s why President Finney and I agree that you should take a medical leave for the rest of the year and let things die down. Come summer, no one will care about this.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We’re confident you won’t refuse. You will receive your salary and we hope you will see this as a sabbatical for research, perhaps even a trip somewhere. Your classes are already being covered. I suggest you take anything you need from your office and head on home.” The dean looked at her for a long moment and then took a folder from her inbox and opened it. Her dismissal couldn’t have been clearer.

  23

  Hansen got busy with other cases—a missing child most likely kidnapped by the divorced father and a series of garage fires in an upscale neighborhood. He gave the cases his attention. He was too good a cop not to. But he did not forget about Joel Richardson or the second man. And he did not forget about Ellie.

  One Friday, he took off at noon and drove to Pitts
burgh, showing up at Detective Capriano’s desk just before five. The detective sat squinting at his computer screen, and he smiled when he saw Hansen.

  “Hey, Doug! What’s up? In town on business or pleasure?”

  “Oh, a little of both. Thought I’d take you out and buy you a beer.”

  Capriano nodded. “Okay, just let me call the wife.”

  They went to a little bar two blocks south of the station. Capriano swore they had the best burgers in town and a local microbrew on tap. They got there just ahead of the after-work crowd so Hansen held down the booth while Capriano put in their order. They talked police politics, small-town versus big-city, until the beers and the food came. After they ate, Hansen ordered another pitcher and spoke what was on his mind. “Anything new on the Richardson case?”

  Capriano tilted his head. “Not really. We went over his apartment again but we found nothing. I mean, nothing. A few clothes, a few toiletries. No papers, no documents. The place felt like a motel. Even more interesting is that there was no home computer or laptop. That struck me as odd. Yeah, I know not every sixty-year-old is computer-savvy, but this is a guy living in a high-tech world. He didn’t have friends he emailed, information he looked up on the Web? So I checked with his accountant and Richardson had bought a new Asus six months before he died. So where did it go? It wasn’t at the hotel, it wasn’t in his car, it wasn’t in his work locker.”

  Hansen had been watching the bartender, a blonde girl about twenty-five who reminded him of his daughter. He turned back to Capriano. “Somebody took it.”

  Capriano nodded. “But why? What’s on there that’s problematic?” He sighed. “And there’s something else: there were surprisingly few prints in Richardson’s apartment. Not just very few prints besides his, but very few of his.”

  “But the house hadn’t been cleaned recently.”

  “You got it. Not by his regular service anyway.”

  “Whose prints did you find?” Hansen topped off the other man’s beer.

  “The professor’s. Her friend Gerstead’s as well. And here’s something interesting—Gerstead’s prints were in the master bedroom.”

  “Hmm. Maybe he used the bathroom?”

  “Maybe, but no prints in there.”

  “Didn’t Gerstead tell you that Richardson showed him a collection of Oriental knives—maybe he showed him in the bedroom.”

  “Maybe.” Capriano finished his beer and looked at Hansen. “I’d love to get my hands on that laptop.”

  “What are the chances it’s still around?”

  “Depends on who took it.”

  Hansen was silent for a long moment. “I can’t shake the feeling that Gerstead is in this somehow. I’ve got no proof, but I’ve got that feeling. What do you think?”

  Capriano shrugged. “Are you thinking there were three men in the room that night? Gerstead and Richardson both watching?”

  “No, I think Gerstead was genuinely upset that Ellie—that the professor had been abused. I don’t think he knew about that. But something just seems off with him.” Hansen finished his beer.

  “You got a place to stay tonight?” Capriano asked as they left the bar. “We’ve got one of those futon things in my son’s room. You’d be welcome to it.”

  “Thanks but I’ve got some place to go.”

  Capriano raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You sly old dog.”

  Hansen didn’t bother to tell him it wasn’t what he was thinking.

  Hansen found a cheap motel just off the turnpike in Monroeville. He watched the sports channels for a while, then slept restlessly. When he woke the next morning, he knew he’d dreamed of Ellie and the hotel room where he had first seen her. A shadow of a figure had passed by the doorway, but the light shone bright in his eyes and he could not see who it was.

  He showered and shaved, put on the clean shirt and jeans he had brought with him, and then drove to Ellie’s apartment. She lived in a handsome neighborhood that had been elegant and expensive several decades earlier. The houses were still probably expensive. They had two and three stories, were fronted by old elms, and sat on oversized lots, but many of them needed new roofs and the brick re-pointed. It was just after nine in the morning when he climbed the outside stairs to the second floor and knocked.

  There was no response and he was about to knock again when the door opened a cat’s width and a long-haired orange cat darted out. The chain was on, and Ellie looked out at him over it. He could hear her exhale in relief.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, “but everything does.”

  She unlatched the chain and opened the door wider so he could come in. He found himself in a small alcove with a landing and then followed her up four carpeted steps into a big, light kitchen that looked out over a small backyard and the cobblestone alley. She’d clearly been sitting at the kitchen table. Her journal was open, a green pen lay in the trough of the spine, and something steamed from a red mug. A black velour hoodie was draped over the chair.

  She clicked on the electric kettle. “I have black and green tea, and some herbals, and maybe some decaf coffee.” She looked over at him, where he stood by the window.

  “Any kind of tea is fine. I don’t want to be any trouble.” He smiled at her but she didn’t smile back. She had aged some since he’d seen her last, put on weight.

  A glossy black-and-white cat meandered in and came over to sniff Hansen’s leg. He stooped down and petted it, who purred loudly. “This is one friendly cat,” he said.

  At that, Ellie finally smiled. “She is. Her name is Nellie. She’s my favorite.”

  Hansen remained near the floor petting the cat, which made no effort to move away. The kettle clicked off and Ellie poured water in another red mug and set it on the table across from her own.

  “I haven’t given up on the case,” Hansen said after he sat down.

  Ellie looked at him but said nothing.

  “It’s important to me that you know that,” he said and held her gaze for a few seconds.

  She nodded, looked out the window, then sighed deeply. “The college has asked me to take an extended leave.”

  Hansen felt a surge of surprise, almost confusion. “How come? Are you ill?”

  “No,” she said. “Sick at heart, maybe. Suffering from terminal foolishness for trusting Joel, perhaps. No, they—the administrators—don’t want the publicity. I’m somehow tainted now by Joel’s sickness.”

  “They can’t possibly fire you over this.” Hansen was appalled.

  “No, but they can push me into an extended paid leave. Replace me for now. I’m welcome to come back next August and start the new school year. They hope it will all have blown over by then—or maybe they hope I’ll go away.” She turned towards him and he saw that she was frightened.

  “I was counting on school,” she said, “on the routines, on the effort it takes to teach and do my life. I was counting on that to keep me, I don’t know, sane.”

  Hansen nodded. He couldn’t imagine not having his job to go to. He wasn’t one of those eager to finish his years on the force and take the pension. His job and its twenty-four-hour nature shaped his life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he touched the back of her hand. She didn’t seem to notice. “What are you going to do instead?”

  Ellie got up from the table and poured out the tea from her cup. Then she sat back down and looked at him. “I don’t know. Six months ago if you’d offered me a year of salary and my freedom, I’d have been ecstatic. Do some art courses somewhere. Travel for a few months. Read to my heart’s content. Now all I want is my job back.”

  “Are you seeing someone? A therapist, a rape counselor?”

  “Yes, three times a week, but I don’t know how much help it is. I just can’t get over the fact that I trusted a sick man with my life and he paid someone to brutalize me.”

  “Are you going to AA meetings?” Hansen wasn’t sure it was okay to ask that,
and he could tell she was surprised he had.

  She shook her head. “I’m not drinking, if that’s what you’re asking, although I’d sure like to. But I can’t sit still long enough to go to a meeting.” She got up again and left the room this time.

  Hansen couldn’t tell if he’d been dismissed. He heard a door close and then water running. He looked around. Even in depression, Ellie was tidy. The counters were wiped, the floor clean, the dishes stacked neatly in the drainer. He went over to the fridge. There were deli salad containers and packages of cold cuts and cheeses, a roasted chicken, and a pan of lasagna. Someone was taking care of her … Sandy Gerstead, probably.

  At the entrance to the kitchen, he noticed a cork board. The large rectangle was covered with photos, greeting cards, postcards from Greece, Costa Rica, Goa, and several from France. Photos of a dark-haired woman who looked like Ellie, her sister maybe. School photos of two boys, one blond, one African American, and one of the two boys and the sister. There were several quotes typed out, and then from behind a recipe for almond cake, he saw Arlen Gerstead looking out at him. He moved the recipe and took down the photo. It was a recent picture of Ellie and Sandy and Arlen. They were dressed for summer in shirtsleeves and Ellie was laughing. They were facing into the sun. All three were squinting and the photographer cast a dark shadow over them. Joel Richardson, Hansen couldn’t help thinking. He slipped the photo into his pocket and moved the recipe back into position.

  When Ellie came back into the kitchen, Hansen was pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. She smiled at him but he couldn’t read it. Glad he was still there? Just being polite? She’d brushed her hair and a minty smell of toothpaste reached him. “I can put this in my travel mug if you want to be rid of me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No, I … It’s okay. I can use a little company, especially if I don’t have to explain anything.”