Shadows 3

by Charles L. Grant

  At first Franciscus had assumed that Emillie was giving a show of childish petulance—she clearly resented Franciscus’ interference in her tryst the night before. As he walked along the shore trail past the small dock, he wondered if he had been hasty, and his steps faltered. He glanced north, across the bend of the lake toward the hillside where cabin 33 was, and involuntarily his face set in anger. Why, of all the resorts in the Rocky Mountains, did Mr. Milan Lorpicar have to choose Lost Saints Lodge for his stay?

  A sound intruded on his thoughts, the persistent clacking of a typewriter. The door to cabin 8 stood ajar, and Franciscus could see Myron Shires hunched over on the couch, his typewriter on the coffee table, his fingers moving like a pair of dancing spiders over the keys. Beside the typewriter there was a neat stack of pages about two inches high. The sound stopped abruptly. “Franciscus,” Myron Shires said, looking up quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Shires. I thought you’d be at the picnic.” He liked the big, slightly distracted man, and was pleased to let him intrude on his thoughts.

  “Well, I’m planning to go,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “After one,” Franciscus said, smiling now.

  “After one?” Shires repeated, amazed. “How on earth …”

  “There’s plenty of food,” Franciscus assured him, not quite smiling at Myron Shires’ consternation.

  Shires laughed and gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I ought to have a keeper. My ex-wife hated it when I forgot things like this, but I get so caught up in …” He broke off. “You weren’t sent to fetch me, were you?”

  “No,” Franciscus said, leaning against the door. “As a matter of fact I was looking for the Harper girl. Her parents are worried because she hasn’t shown up for lunch.”

  “The Harper girl?” Shires said. “Is that the skittish teenager who looks like a ghost most of the time?”

  “That’s her,” Franciscus nodded. “Have you seen her?”

  Shires was gathering his pages into a neat stack and did not answer at once. “Not today, no. I did see her last night, walking along the trail on the other side of the beach. She stopped under the light and I thought that she was really quite graceful.”

  Franciscus almost dismissed this, remembering his encounter with Emillie the night before, but his curiosity was slightly piqued: He wanted to know how long the girl had waited for Mr. Lorpicar. “When was that?” he asked.

  “Oh, quite late. Three, three-thirty in the morning. You know me—I’m night people.” He had put the pages into a box and was putting his typewriter into its case.

  “Three?” Franciscus said, dismayed. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, it might have been a little earlier,” Shires allowed as he closed the lid of the case. “Not much earlier, though, because I had my radio on until two and it had been off for a time.” He caught sight of Franciscus’ face. “Is anything wrong?”

  Franciscus sighed. “I hope not.” He looked at the novelist.

  “Do you think you can find your way to the picnic without me?”

  Myron Shires laughed. “I’m absentminded, but not that absentminded,” he said with real joviality. “Kathy’s picnics are one of the best draws this place offers.” He had put his typewriter aside and was pulling on a light jacket.

  “Would you be kind enough to tell Mr. Rogers what you’ve told me?” Franciscus added as he went to the door.

  “That I saw the Harper girl go out late? Certainly.” He was plainly puzzled but too courteous to ask about the matter.

  “I’ll explain later, I hope. And, if you can, contrive that her parents don’t hear what you say.” He had the door open.

  “I’m not a complete boor, Franciscus.” He had picked up his key from the ash tray on the end table and turned to address a further remark to Franciscus, but the man was gone.

  The path to cabin 33 was well kept. There were rails on the downhill side of it, and neat white stones on the other, and at night the lanterns were turned on, making a pool of light every fifty feet. Franciscus knew the route well, and he walked it without reading any of the signs that pointed the way to the various clusters of cabins. He moved swiftly, though with such ease that his speed was not apparent. The trail turned and grew steeper, but his pace did not slacken.

  Cabin 33 had been built eight years before, when all the cabins at the north end of the lake had been added. It was of medium size, with a front room, a bedroom, bath and kitchenette, with a screened porch which was open in the summer but now had its winter shutters in place.

  Franciscus made a quick circle of the place, then waited to see if Mr. Milan Lorpicar would make an appearance. The cabin was silent. Coming back to the front of cabin 33, Franciscus rapped with his knuckles. “Mr. Lorpicar?” A glance at the red tab by the doorframe told him that the maid had not yet come to change the bed and vacuum the rugs, which was not surprising with the small staff that the Lodge kept during the off-season. The more remote cabins were serviced in the late afternoon.

  A second knock, somewhat louder, brought no response, and Franciscus reached into his pocket, extracting his passkey. He pounded the door one more time, recalling with certain amusement the time he had burst in on a couple at the most awkward of moments, made even more so because the husband of the woman and wife of the man were waiting for their absent partners in the recreation hall. The tension in his neck told him that this occasion would be different.

  The door opened slowly onto a perfectly orderly front room. Nothing there hinted that the cabin was occupied. There were no magazines, no papers, no cameras, no clothes, no fishing tackle, nothing except what Lost Saints Lodge provided.

  Emillie was in the bedroom, stretched out with only the spread over her, drawn up to her chin. She was wan, her closed eyes like bruises in her face, her mouth slightly parted.

  “Emillie?” Franciscus said quietly, not wanting to alarm her. She did not awaken, so he came nearer after taking a swift look around the room to be sure that they were alone. “Emillie Harper,” he said more sharply.

  The girl gave a soft moan, but her eyes did not open.

  Franciscus lifted the spread and saw, as he suspected, that she was naked. He was startled to see how thin she was, ribs pressing against her skin, her hips rising like promontories at either side of her abdomen. There were dark blotches here and there on her body, and he nodded grimly as he recognized them.

  “God, an amateur,” he said under his breath, and dropped the spread over Emillie.

  A quick search revealed the girl’s clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. There was no sign of Lorpicar there, either—no toothbrush, no razor. Franciscus nodded, picked up the clothes and went back to the bedroom. He pulled the spread aside once more, and then, with deft persistence, he began to dress the unconscious Emillie Harper.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” Doctor Eric Muller said as he stood back from the bed. He smoothed his graying hair nervously. “This isn’t my field, you know. Most of my patients are referred to me. I’m not very good at off-the-cuff diagnoses like this, and without a lab and more tests, I really couldn’t say …”

  Franciscus recalled that Mr. Rogers had warned him that the doctor was jumpy, and so he schooled his patience. “Of course. I understand. But you will admit that it isn’t usual for a girl, or a young woman, if you prefer, to be in this condition.”

  “No, not usual,” the doctor agreed, refusing to meet Franciscus’ eyes. “Her parents ought to get her to an emergency room, somewhere.”

  “The nearest emergency facility,” Franciscus said coolly, “is thirty miles away and is operated by the forest service. They’re better suited to handling broken ankles, burns, and snake bites than cases like this.”

  Dr. Muller tightened his clasped hands. “Well, all I can recommend is that she be taken somewhere. I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?” Franciscus asked. He had hoped that the doctor would be able to tell the Harpers something reassuring
when he left this room.

  “There aren’t lab facilities here, are there? No. And I’m not licensed in this state, and with the way malpractice cases are going, I can’t take responsibility. There’s obviously something very wrong with the girl, but I don’t think it’s too serious.” Dr. Muller was already edging toward the door. “Do you think Mr. Rogers would mind if I checked out early?”

  “That’s your business, Doctor,” Franciscus said with a condemning lift of his fine brows.

  “There’ll have to be a refund. I paid in advance.” There was a whine under the arrogance, and Franciscus resisted the urge to shout at him.

  “I don’t think Mr. Rogers would stop you from going,” he said with an elegant inclination of his head.

  “Yes. Well.” The door opened and closed like a trap being sprung.

  Franciscus remained looking down at the girl on the bed.

  She was in cabin 19 now, in the smaller bedroom, and her parents hovered outside. Harriet Goodman was with them, and occasionally her steady, confident tones penetrated to the darkened room.

  There was a knock, and Franciscus turned to see Mr. Harper standing uncertainly near the door. “The doctor said he didn’t know what was wrong. He said there would have to be tests …”

  “A very wise precaution,” Franciscus agreed with a reassuring smile. “But it’s probably nothing more than overdoing. She’s been looking a little washed out the last few days, and all her activity probably caught up with her.” It was plausible enough, he knew, and Mr. Harper was searching for an acceptable explanation. “You’ll probably want to call the doctor in Fox Hollow. He makes calls. And he will be able to order the right transportation for her if there is anything more than fatigue the matter.” He knew that Mr. Harper was wavering, so he added, “Also, it will save Emillie embarrassment if the condition is minor.”

  Mr. Harper wagged his head quickly. “Yes. Yes, that’s important. Emillie hates … attention.” He came nearer the bed. “Is there any change?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.” It was the truth, he knew, but only a portion of it “You might like Ms. Goodman or my friend Ms. Montalia to sit with Emillie until she wakes up.”

  “Oh, her mother and I will do that.” Mr. Harper said at once.

  Franciscus realized that he had pressed the matter too much. “Of course. But I’m sure that either lady would be pleased to help out while you take dinner, or speak with Dr. Fitzallen, when he comes.” It was all Franciscus could do to hold back his sardonic smile. Mr. Harper was so transparently reassured by that very proper name, and would doubtless be horrified when the physician, a forty-two-year-old Kiowa, arrived. That was for later, he thought.

  “Did you … anyone … give her first aid?” Mr. Harper asked in growing distress.

  “I know some first aid,” Franciscus said kindly. “I checked her pulse, and breathing, and did my best to determine that no bones were broken.” It was a facile lie, and not in the strictest sense dishonest. “Mr. Harper,” he went on in sterner tones, “your daughter is suffering from some sort of psychological problem, isn’t she?” Though he could not force the frightened father to discuss his daughter’s involvement with the Reverend Masters, he felt he had to dispell the illusion that all was well.

  “Not exactly,” he said, watching Franciscus uneasily.

  “Because,” Franciscus went on relentlessly, “if she is, this may be a form of shock, and in that case, the treatment might be adjusted to her needs.” He waited, not moving, standing by Emillie as if guarding her.

  “There has been a little difficulty,” Mr. Harper said when he could not endure the silence.

  “Be sure you tell Dr. Fitzallen all about it. Otherwise he may, inadvertently, do the wrong thing.” With a nod, he left the bedside and went to the door to the sitting room. “Harriet,” he said crisply as he started across the room, “get Jim and join me for a drink.”

  Harriet Goodman was wise enough to ask no questions of him, though there were many of them building up in her as she hastened after him.

  “I was horrified!” Mrs. Emmons announced with delight as she told Mrs. Granger, who had been asleep with a headache, of the excitement she had missed. “The girl was white as a sheet—I can’t tell you.” She signaled Frank, the bartender, to send over another round of margaritas, though she still longed for a side car.

  At the other end of the lounge, Franciscus sat with Harriet Goodman and Jim Sutton. His face was turned away from the two old women who were now regaling Frank with a catalogue of their feelings on this occasion. “I can’t insist, of course,” he said to Jim Sutton.

  “Let’s hear it for the First Amendment,” Jim said. “I don’t like to sit on good stories, and this one is a beauty.” He was drinking coffee and it had grown cold as they talked. Now he made a face as he tasted it “Christ this is awful.”

  Harriet Goodman regarded Franciscus gravely. “That child may be seriously ill.”

  “She is in danger, I’ll concede that,” Franciscus responded.

  “It’s more than that I helped her mother undress her, and there were some very disturbing …” She could not find a word that satisfied her.

  “I saw them,” Franciscus said calmly, but quietly so that this revelation would not attract the two women at the other end of the lounge.

  “Saw them?” Harriet repeated, and Jim Sutton leaned forward.

  “What were they like? Harriet hasn’t told me anything about this.”

  Franciscus hesitated a moment “There were a number of marks on her and … scratches.”

  Jim Sutton shook his head. “That guy Lorpicar must be one hell of a kink in bed.”

  “That’s not funny, Jim,” Harriet reprimanded him sharply.

  “No, it’s not.” he agreed. “What … how did she get the marks? Was it Lorpicar?”

  “Probably,” Franciscus said. “She was in his cabin, on his bed, with just the spread over her.” He let this information sink in, and then said, “With what Emillie has already been through with that Reverend Masters, she’s in no shape for more notoriety. And if this gets a lot of press attention …”

  “Which it might.” Jim allowed.

  Franciscus gestured his accord and went on, “… then she might not come out of it very well. The family has already changed its name, and that means there was a lot of pressure on them to begin with. If this is added …”

  “Yes,” Harriet said in her calm way. “You’re right Whatever is happening to that girl, it must be dealt with circumspectly. That means you, Jim.”

  “It means you, too. You can’t go putting this in a casebook and getting a big publicity tour for it.” Jim shot back, more caustically than he had intended.

  “Both of you, stop it.” Franciscus said with such assurance and resignation that the other two were silenced at once, like guilty children. “I’m asking that you each suspend your first inclinations and keep quiet about what is going on here. If it gets any worse, then you’ll have to do whatever your professions demand. However, Harriet, with your training, I hope that you’ll be willing to spend some time with Emillie once she regains consciousness.”

  “You seem fairly certain that she will regain consciousness,” Harriet snapped.

  “Oh, I’m certain. I’ve seen this condition before. Not here. I hadn’t expected to encounter this … affliction here.” He stared toward the window and the long, dense shadows that heralded night. There were patches of yellow sunlight at the ends of dusty bars of light, and the air was still.

  “If you know what it is, why didn’t you tell the Harpers?” Jim Sutton demanded, sensing a greater mystery.

  “Because they wouldn’t believe me. They want to talk to a doctor, not to me. Jorry Fitzallen is welcome to talk to me after he’s seen Emillie.”

  Harriet tried to smile. “You’re right about her parents. They do need to hear bad news from men with authority.” She stood up. “I want to change before dinner, and I’ve got less than half an hour to do t
hat I’ll look in on the girl on my way back to the cabin.”

  “Thank you,” Franciscus said, then turned his attention to Jim Sutton. “Well? Are you willing to sit on this story for a little while?”

  He shrugged. “I’m on vacation. There’s a murder trial coming up in Denver that will keep my paper in advertisers for the next six months. Ill pretend that I haven’t seen or heard a thing. Unless it gets bigger. That would make a difference.” He raised his glass in a toast. “I must be running out of steam—two years ago, maybe even last year, I would have filed the story and be damned. It might be time to be a teacher, after all.” He tossed off his drink and looked away.

  The dining room was about to open when Franciscus came through the foyer beside the lobby calling out “Mr. Rogers, may I see you a moment?”

  The manager looked up from his stand by the entrance to the dining room. “Why, certainly, Mr. Franciscus. In the library?”

  “Fine.” Franciscus was already climbing the stairs, and he held the door for Mr. Rogers as he came up.

  “It’s about Lorpicar?” Mr. Rogers said as the door closed.

  “Yes. I’ve been up to his cabin and checked it out. Wherever he’s staying, it’s not there. No one is staying there. That means that there are almost a hundred other places he could be. I’ve asked the staff to check their unoccupied cabins for signs of entry, but I doubt he’d be that foolish, though God knows he’s bungled enough so far …” He pounded the bookcase with his small fist, and the heavy oak sagged. “We don’t even know that he’s at the resort. He could be camping out beyond the cabins.”

  “What about Fox Hollow? Do you think he could have gone that far?” Mr. Rogers asked, and only the slightly higher pitch of his voice belied the calm of his demeanor.

  “I doubt it. That ranger … Backus, he would have seen something if Lorpicar were commuting.” He sat down. “The idiot doesn’t know enough not to leave bruises!”

  “And the girl?” Mr. Rogers said.