The Hawley Book of the Dead

by Chrysler Szarlan

  “You know military researchers are working down in the tunnels.” There was a network of tunnels below the quad, constructed in the 1950s during the Cold War. The tunnels were made to access bomb shelters. Everyone knew it; it was college legend. There was always gossip and speculation about what went on down there, what the tunnels were like, but few people had ever been in them, past or present.

  “I don’t know, I guess I’d heard that. So?”

  “So. If you wanted to, you could … do your disappearing act and get in there, see what’s happening—”

  “We don’t even know how to get to the tunnels.”

  “Actually, we do. Leon’s been in there. He does work study for a couple profs in the science department. A few months ago, they had him and some other kids down there cleaning. He says there are whole buildings underground, a mirror image of the quad buildings, connected by the tunnels. Not much was in them when he first started working there, but then guys started bringing in boatloads of stuff—desks and lab equipment, mostly. One day, he gets there and there’s a locked gate, right in the tunnel entrance. No warning or explanation. All of a sudden there’s this big-ass gate up and he can’t get in. He goes to Professor Allen, who tells him he’s been reassigned to cleaning the rat cages, not to go down to the tunnels anymore. By the way, no need to mention the gate to anybody, either. But Leon told Eli. Then Eli got snagged by some men in black while he was scoping it out.”

  “Men in black?”

  “You know, guys who work for government agencies.”

  “What, like the FBI?”

  “FBI, CIA, Defense Department, who knows? Scary dudes.”

  “So what happened?”

  “They grilled him for a while, then they let him go.”

  “Okay, so how am I supposed to get past that gate?”

  “There’s a key card system. Like some hotels have now? You could disappear, wait until someone comes with a key card, and sneak behind them when they go in. Scope it out, check their records, maybe. See what’s really going on.” I could feel her excitement. “Reve, you could make a difference. No one knows what they’re doing. They could be working on something really evil, like a biological warfare agent. Who knows, they might get around to testing it on us, on the communities around here. Or it might get out, by accident. We could blow it all to hell, expose them, make it stop, before it goes Project Blue.”

  I’d read The Stand. Maggie had lent it to me. I was convinced the scenario really could happen, just as she was. A super flu created in a military research station let loose, causing a pandemic. I guess I was as altruistic as any dumb kid, as ready to take on the role of superhero, especially since I did have a superpower, as Maggie pointed out. There was also the pure desire to please her, to live up to her righteousness. And my aunts, my Nan, my mom all used their powers, used them in real ways. Wasn’t this my chance to do the same? I saw my destiny in Maggie’s face, in her smile when I promised her yes, I’d go down into the earth.

  4

  I forced myself to save the Fetch’s e-mail. I forced myself to rise and go out to the widow’s walk, gulp the clean air. I gripped the rail hard, until my hands ached. All those years not knowing Maggie’s fate weighed on me, like a stone on my heart, always there. But this new knowledge came with a price.

  After things went wrong with Maggie’s plan, after she had disappeared more thoroughly than I ever had, I left. Left college, left the Northeast. Nothing made sense to me anymore, except the need to get away. So I went to Las Vegas. The city was the capital of illusion: What better place to conceal true magic? I could use my gift there without putting anyone else in jeopardy. I could camouflage it in that city of magic and loss, like nowhere else on earth.

  But magic has its price. Maggie had paid the price for urging me to use my magic. I could only speculate that Jeremy had, too. Now I was in a place where the magic of my ancestors had taken root. Would that magic, converging with my own, harm or protect us?

  I thought of calling the Las Vegas police, but then tried to imagine what I’d say. How could a twenty-year-old photo of a missing girl have anything to do with my own husband’s death, with someone stalking us now? There wasn’t any solid evidence the episodes were connected, only this one e-mail. I certainly couldn’t tell the cops about my ability to disappear. But there was someone I could talk to.

  I found the Hawley town directory, punched in a number. A woman’s voice answered, a cranky woman’s voice. “Hawley Police Department, Myrna speakin’. Whadda ya want?”

  “May I speak to Chief Adair?”

  “Who’s callin’?”

  “My name’s Reve Dyer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is he there?”

  “What’s this about, exactly?” She wasn’t letting me off the hook.

  “It’s … personal. The chief and I are old friends.” Great. Now the whole town would be talking about us. “I mean, it’s not a police matter.” That wasn’t exactly true, but I had no intention of divulging anything to this surly woman. Certainly not the more mysterious elements of my dilemma.

  “I can’t give out his cell number, just like that.”

  “Then he’s not there?”

  “Well, I guess I can tell you he’s not.”

  God, I was getting tired of these Yankees and their reticence. You had to wring even simple scraps of information from them. “Could you tell me where he is?”

  “I could.”

  There was a long pause, while we waited each other out and I thought maybe she’d hung up after all. But then she caved. “Gone over to Lithia this mornin’. Had a meeting with the new chief there. Bill Streeter.” This part of the world was filled with Streeters. Bill was no doubt some third or fourth cousin of Carl’s.

  “At the Lithia police station?”

  “Well. Probly not.” Myrna sounded perkier. “Since they’re buildin’ a new one now, and the temporary station’s in the old apple barn. That’s what we still call it, though it hasn’t had any apples stored in it for years. Still smells of rotten apples. And it is coldish of a mornin’ so you might just find them at the Creamery.”

  “That’s on the corner of Main and Route 9 in Lithia, isn’t it?”

  “Always has been. You could look for Jolon there.”

  “I will. Thank you, Myrna.”

  “And, missus? Could you ask him to bring back some a them mocha scones?”

  “Thanks, Myrna. I’ll make sure he does.”

  I checked in on Nathan and the girls, now wrangling over the 2004 presidential election. I decided I could safely leave them for an hour or so, told Nathan where I’d be, and headed out to find Jolon.

  It was only a fifteen-minute drive to Lithia, through some of the prettiest farm country imaginable. In Plainfield, one of the towns Edith Wharton might have based Ethan Frome’s town of Starkfield on, I realized I’d been feeling as isolated as Ethan Frome myself. Just getting out of the house, away from the Fetch’s menacing e-mail, did me good. Bright tunnels of blazing maples lined the road; the fields were golden with sunflowers and late hay.

  There was indeed a Hawley police cruiser outside the Creamery. I rolled into the potholed parking lot, then saw a vision that stopped my breath. Two little girls were sitting on the store steps, playing with paper dolls. One was pale with hair the color of rust; the other’s burnished brown skin reminded me of coffee with lots of cream. It could have been Maggie’s head and mine, bent together over a game, had we known each other as kids. Had we been that lucky. The brown girl looked up and smiled at me. I gave her a little wave, but it made my heart ache to look into her laughing eyes.

  The brew of sound and scent nearly knocked me over when I opened the door. It was a small store, but so much was crammed in it—a bakery and deli counter, grocery shelves spilling over with every organic and locally grown or made product imaginable. The air was pungent with scents of spices and roasting meat and strong coffee. The seating area by the big windows was crowded with p
eople talking and eating, from men in business suits to dreadlocked women in hemp dresses. Kids played tag around the tables, up the aisles, shrieking with glee.

  I spied Jolon in a corner, sitting with two other men. He seemed, in his uniform, very official. A wave of shyness washed over me. Surely my headlong rush to talk to him about the Fetch was ill-conceived. I should have waited. I should have thought before I leapt. Why did I always want to leap? Fools rush in.

  I was turning to slink back out the door and bolt when he looked up. That craggy, seldom used smile came over his face when he looked at me. He said something to his companions. Then he rose and made his way over, skirting running children and deli girls bearing trays laden with sandwiches and soups.

  “Hey, Reve, what’re you doing this side of the hill?” He took my arm, steered me toward the coffee station. “Let me buy you a cuppa.”

  I glanced back at his companions. Both were in their thirties, boys in blue. Both leered at us. “Aren’t you busy?”

  He ignored the stares we were getting. “Nah. We were just finishing up. Bill and Bob just got their lunches.” I nodded to them faintly as he saluted Bill and Bob. The B boys. They went back to wolfing sandwiches.

  “Did you have lunch?”

  “Lunch?” I echoed stupidly, as if I had never heard of the meal.

  Jolon grinned. “You know. What you eat between breakfast and dinner. The food’s good here, if you want soup or … Hey, Reve, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s … it’s just that …” I had no idea what to say next. It was hot in there, and there was too much noise and too many people. “Look, I really need to talk to you.”

  “You came here to find me?” I nodded, and he flushed. Or maybe I imagined it. It was hot in there. “Myrna told you where I was? Usually she won’t budge. You’d think the security of the nation depended on her silence.”

  “It was the possibility of mocha scones that did it. She wanted me to tell you to bring some back.”

  “You always did have great powers of persuasion.”

  At the mention of my powers, a kind of vertigo swept over me. I leaned against the counter to steady myself. Jolon touched my arm, his face growing serious. His touch made me feel weaker.

  “I’ll send Bob back with the cruiser. You can give me a ride to Hawley and we can talk.” Without waiting for me to answer, he returned to his table, talked briefly with the B boys, paid for two mocha scones for Myrna, tucked the white bag in his jacket pocket. Then he turned back to me. “Let me at least get you something to drink. They have passable coffee here. Or would you rather tea?”

  “Tea,” I croaked. “Please.”

  In a few minutes he returned and handed me a cup filled with fragrant liquid. “You’re in luck. This stuff isn’t for the teeming masses.”

  “You know your way around.” I took a sip, and the tea’s smoky tang shored me up.

  “I’m pretty much a regular. But then, everyone is. Peri manages the place, keeps stashes of our favorites on hand. My vice, decent tea. There’s a tea shop down in Hamp. They mix some up special for me, call it Hawley Forest blend.” I almost dropped the cup. Then remembered he lived in the forest, after all. I realized he was trying to calm me. Talking softly, not moving too fast. He steered me out the door, into the autumn-scented air. Almost immediately, he was beset by the two girls on the porch. “Hey, Jolon, when can we have a ride in the cruiser?” “Will you turn the siren on?”

  “Okay, you two, calm down. Ms. Dyer here will think we have no manners.” The two girls regarded me solemnly.

  “Is she the lady from Five Corners? My mom said she had red hair, kind of like mine. But hers is curlier.” The grapevine had clearly been busy.

  “Like I said, manners.” He put a finger to his lips. “Reve, meet two young ladies of Lithia town, Bridget Granger Sears and Tilda Delaney.” I wondered how Bridget was related to the Hawley Searses, and perhaps to me, to the Dyers, way back. Her eyes were green as sea glass, like my own. But it would take a genealogist to parse it out.

  “Where’s your mom, Bridget?” Jolon asked her.

  “The liberry. Gave us money for ice creams.”

  Tilda, the brown girl, spoke up. “But, Bridge, we forgot. We were s’posed to go right back.”

  Jolon gave them a stern look. “I suggest you go ahead, then. Don’t want your mother to worry.”

  “She can see us right from the window by her desk.”

  “Even so.”

  Bridget looked crestfallen, but brightened when Jolon reached in his pocket, gave them each a Cow Tale.

  “Gee, thanks, Jolon!”

  Just then the wind picked up, and their paper dolls went fluttering to the pavement. They scrambled, and Jolon and I bent to help pick them up. They weren’t Fancy Nancy dolls, as I’d thought at first. They were fairies, blue and green and pink, with delicate wings. When they were all safely tucked back into their tin, the girls ran off toward the stone library.

  Jolon led me to the unoccupied picnic tables by the road, weathered gray hulls that creaked when we sat on the benches. I sipped my tea, noticed more layers of flavor, smoky yet sweet, even a little flowery. It tasted like the forest smelled.

  “Good tea.”

  “You didn’t come here to talk about tea. Tell me what’s wrong, Reve.”

  “Oh, Jolon.” I put my head in my hands, rubbed at my temples, tried to coax the fear that lodged in my body into words. “I don’t know where to start.…”

  “The beginning is always a good place.” His words were abrupt, but his voice was gentle. I thought of all the secrets we’d shared so long ago. This was only one more. And I had no one else to help me.

  “The beginning seems so far away. Do you remember my Nan’s stories?”

  “As far back as that?”

  Maybe he wouldn’t believe me, after all, but I didn’t have much choice. “I needed to get out of Las Vegas. It was because of Nan and her stories that I came back here.” I took a breath, plunged on. “The short version is that the man who killed my husband is stalking us. I just … I don’t …” I could feel tears welling, stopping up the words.

  “Reve, you should have told me sooner.” He reached for me again, and I let him. I let his hand brush mine, caress it softly. I remembered the baby wren we found once. He’d stroked the tiny thing so delicately, it was more like his mind alone was touching the bird’s, willing it to live. It had.

  I took a breath, tamped the tears back down. I struggled to answer Jolon calmly, to be calm. “He’s not anywhere close by. I don’t think he is yet. But I got an e-mail from him this morning. Saying he’ll find us, no matter what.”

  “And you have no idea who he might be?”

  “None. I just call him the Fetch.” Jolon studied my face, his eyes seeking more answers. “You remember Nan’s story of the Fetch?”

  “The stealer of souls? Yeah, I remember that one. Guaranteed to terrify an eight-year-old. But if you’re right about your husband’s murder, this guy’s real, not just a specter.”

  “He’s real, all right.”

  “Do the Las Vegas police know?”

  I nodded. “But they think … Well, they still think I had something to do with Jeremy’s murder. Although they also know that whoever he is, the Fetch isn’t just a figment of my imagination. He was sending photos, of me, of the girls …” The rest of the story just spilled out. “That’s why we moved. I thought maybe he wouldn’t be able to find us. That he’d just leave us alone.”

  “Shit, Reve.” He folded my hand in his then, but in a moment let go and scrubbed his hair back. I could see him shift into cop mode, but it was all right. He’d been my friend first, and his touch had reminded me. “Okay—first thing is, I need to see that e-mail. And those photos.”

  “Can I forward the e-mail to you? The Las Vegas police have the photos. I don’t want the girls to know. You don’t have kids, but …”

  “I understand. I won’t come to the house. I can get copies of the photos
from the LVPD, and their reports. Just forward the e-mail, like you said.”

  The Lithia church bells chimed the hour.

  “I need to get back, Jolon.”

  We got in the car, and I drove out of the parking lot toward Hawley. The day was still beautiful, the leaves striking in the pearly autumn light. But it was all blurred at the edges to me, blunted by nerves. The man beside me had to know more if he was going to help me, more than the police in Las Vegas had, more than anyone else probably could.

  “Jolon. There’s something else I need to tell you. I think all this may have to do with my … ability. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. I remember, Reve. I remember everything.” I knew he did. And I knew I was safe with him, at least in that moment. So when he said, “Tell me why you think that,” I did. I told him the story of Maggie.

  5

  Two nights after my conversation with Maggie by the pond at Bay State, I drove back to Amherst. I left my car in town and met her outside the old Stockbridge horse barn. It was eerie in the moonlight. Bats swooped around our heads. We went into the barn, stood under its chestnut beams. It had been all but abandoned when the university bought a new barn to house their equestrian program. The few horses that remained seemed restless, although they knew us from past visits bearing apples. Three Morgan mares and Teddy the old Paint gelding shifted in their stalls, snorted and pawed.

  “I’ve got nothing for them,” I whispered.

  “I didn’t think of it …”

  I went to the stall that held a few bales, threw them each a flake. “We are using their barn.” Teddy blew into his hay, then settled. I walked back to Maggie’s silhouette. The mares remained watchful. Their breath in the cool air wreathed around us. Maggie was silent, and I felt a tremor of fear that unsettled me. “Did you find out where the gate is?” I asked. Maybe she hadn’t, and we could go home.

  “Yeah. Right under the barn.”

  “Where the manure pile is?”