Aubry spoke about the incidence of crimes in the area and in that state when he parked, but Jason couldn’t focus on his words.
Martha Allembert was dead. Her dog, gutted, was now buried in his own backyard. The last place she had visited? His house. And he knew what was going on, he just couldn’t say it. One of the reasons would be self-incrimination. The second, Clarice. The less people knew it, the further they put her from it, the safer they would be. Or so he thought. Up to that incident with Martha, they hadn’t received other warnings from Clarice’s husband, therefore it was reasonable to believe in that fake kind of hope.
“I want to show you inside.”
Both men climbed out of the pickup, watched by the officers. All of them, obviously, knew Jason, so they weren’t bothered or questioning his being there, they just resumed their activities of taking notes, gathering evidences and photographing the place.
“This is where they found her.” Aubry said, pointing to a dark area on the grass, now covered by snow. There was blood and, clearly, a depression due to the old lady’s body. “That’s sad, Jason. Just sad.”
Jason ignored his shivers and followed up, approaching now the house.
“Everything has already been processed, but try not to get on their way.” The sheriff warned him, failing to remember he had asked for Jason’s advices many times before and that he had even once considered hiring him as a sporadic consultant to the precinct.
Jason, way before becoming a professional writer, had invested himself onto the criminalistics career, working with forensics not too long after finishing his majors. The career didn’t last long, but it was fruitful, offering him many inspirations for his amazing novels and the opportunity of meeting Michelle. Thus, the sheriff often abused their friendship and requested Jason’s opinions during investigations common to that area, some robbery or a disappearance with a fast resolution. According to Aubry, a fresh pair of eyes that hadn’t become tired of seeing the same old shit were always more useful than that of experienced people. Therefore, Jason knew how to behave in crime scenes.
The cottage was a single structure, with one large living room connected to the kitchen, no walls, only separating the rooms and the bathrooms. It had a high ceiling, rustic, and every single thing inside went back to past and elderly life. Even the smell of the inhabitation pointed to old people, that classic roses perfume Martha stubbornly kept on wearing. Well, now she wouldn’t keep on doing it, as unfortunate Jason thought was.
Aubry ignored the living room with its rounded armchairs and disagreeing colors, moving straight to the kitchen. Jason only understood his urgency when he reached the old man.
The kitchen area was in a complete mess. The glass-topped cedar table was moved away from the original position Jason had in his memory, with some weird stain in one of its edges. One of the stains, he immediately recognized, was blood and fibers, probably hair. Close to the table, a profusion of broken objects and scattered cutlery. Porcelain shards that could’ve belonged to a mug spread across a wide area in front of the table, over a shallow puddle of something that could easily be tea, coffee or simply water.
“We believe it all started from here.” Aubry showed him the messy area, pointing to the table after. “We still haven’t determined whether this stain at the table was an accident or something purposely done.”
“She got hurt before she died.”
“Face. There’s a perimortem cut in her face, nose area.”
Jason spun on his heels, trying to observe it all without moving that much.
On the stove, an old pot and a red teapot with an already vanished paintjob. A tablecloth was also on the floor, soaked with the same liquid under the shards of porcelain and blood. Beside the stove, the sink was an even bigger confusion. Dishes, silverware and cups were spread in a turbulent way, as if reflecting a heavy argument.
“Kids said they heard her scream while she ran away.” Jason recalled, more of a loud thought than a question itself.
“Yes. Cries for help and something they couldn’t precisely say, but it seems she was running away from a man. She yelled he would kill her, until her screams ceased.”
“Cause of death?”
“We are still not sure, but according to witnesses and the preliminary exams, it may’ve been a massive stroke.”
Jason sighed and crossed his arms, one hand covering his mouth in the way he usually did when trying to think details over. Something was out of place.
“Any signs of forced entry?”
“None. But Martha was not known for locking her doors.”
“You really think it was murder?”
“I cannot base my options on what I think, Jason. I haven’t got enough evidence to support this theory.”
“Fingerprints? Traces of someone being here?”
“Zilch. Although…” Aubry looked around to make sure there was nobody else in there. “There are reports she yelled something else I’m afraid to share.”
“What?”
“She was demanding a man to go away. The name she screamed, though…”
Jason came to his conclusion without needing Aubry to complete the sentence.
Henry. The name of her late husband.
“You think she was seeing her husband?”
“You seem surprised.” The sheriff replied, sarcasm dripping from his discreet smile. “Considering you just had an attack by seeing your dead wife in a grocery shop.”
Jason shrugged, deeply inhaling.
“Now tell me, Jason. What’s going on here?”
Ghosts in the mountains. Jason smile and shook his head, wondering if he was some Stephen King’s novel’s character. The smile faded as he realized it was not fiction. A woman was dead and he could easily be the next one.
“What’s going on here…” Jason repeated rhetorically.
With no convincing answers, they left the house. Air never felt so fresh and light as in that moment.
“I wish I could be of more help, Aubry.”
“You already help us being here. Martha was an old friend and since she came back, I didn’t have the opportunity of visiting. She even tried to reach me, but I wasn’t there. And now…” The sheriff scratched his eyes, trying to hide the tears gathering around. “I believe that’s the point of life, am I right?”
Jason exhaled sharply. He didn’t know what the point of life was anymore. Death? Widowers being haunted by their deceased beloved ones until they found the same destination for themselves? Dying without explanations and leaving it all behind as if you had never even been there? He couldn’t say.
With no further words, Jason accepted the ride back home, drowning himself into a wave of melancholic and haunting thoughts. Suddenly, all he seemed to believe was crumbling in front of his eyes and, as though as he felt sufficiently attached to Clarice now, it all seemed to have been triggered by her arrival. How was it possible that the appearance of someone so fragile could initiate a wave of misery? The butterfly effect. It is not the butterfly’s fault that her wings beating cause a tornado on the other side of the world, but it is not aware of that, so it remains the same.
The wonders about trust bombarded his head, making him dizzier. The sheriff had already helped him in worse and more complex situations, would he be able to keep that secret too? That an unknown woman with no memories had spent the last weeks by his company, being hunted by a psychotic husband as she suffers with the memories of abuse she received in the past years? Would it be a cry for help or declaring hypocrisy?
Before he could reach a solid conclusion, the car came to a stop again and he saw his own cabin a few feet ahead. He feared the sheriff noticed any strange movements inside. What would he say? She was a long time no see friend, an acquaintance just passing by? Wouldn’t it be suspicious?
He jumped out of the car in a flash and smile at Aubry while leaning against the window.
“I hope you get to find out what really happened to Martha.”
“Me
too. Be well, Jason, and take care of yourselves. There’s something wicked in those mountains.”
Jason just nodded and walked away, in order to allow the sheriff to back off his truck and go away. As the truck moved out of his sight, Jason felt his shoulders rise three feet, free from all that weight and regret. At last he could freely and honestly breath now, with the fear of being caught in a big and nefarious lie.
V
One or two spoons? He didn’t know. Clarice’s mix of herbs had stayed on that same glass jar for weeks and, in one of them, he tried to learn the correct measures. Jason considered that, being as good as it was, even if he exaggerated a little on the spoons, it wouldn’t be nothing too severe to the point of causing him any harm. They were herbs, Christ!
He let the teapot warm itself and returned his attention to his computer, still on the counter, observing the pages and the thousands of opened tabs with possible information about his guest. Social network pages, news and articles, mentions and even online magazines links. Everything that went back to Clarice and Nathan was selected by Jason, who tried to find more and more information about her. Not that he was suspecting of anything or wanted to uncover Clarice’s dark past; he just believed that any information would help her finding out more about herself.
His stomach growled. Dinner time was still a little too far and he knew that the stew would still take a little longer to be ready. The tea would have to be enough to cheat his hunger and, in case it proved not effective, he still had some remaining slices of pie Martha had gifted them with.
Oh, Martha. He sighed at the remembrance, the questions about her death poking his head just like an annoying chronic migraine. It didn’t make sense that Clarice’s husband had killed the woman, except if he indeed were a psychopath or someone in a psychotic break. Martha was helpless, it didn’t fit. And, even if he had picked her just to prove them he was still around and that he could enter the house at any moment, this time he hadn’t left them any messages to frighten them or even incriminate them whatsoever. Something was wrong.
He could have killed Martha Allembert for the dog, but it all had happened in such a distant space of time that it made no sense.
Unless…
Unless Martha had seen him before and all the horror witnessed by Jason was just some sort of destruction of evidences. In this case, he feared whatever could come to happen with him and Marco. And Clarice, of course. Actually, she remained as his main concern ever since she had arrived. He couldn’t quite define the proximity between them, that excitement, that sense of protection he had towards her. It was as if it was meant to happen, a union only fate could…
“Trying to steal my secrets.”
Clarice’s voice caught him unprepared and, as he raised his eyes, scared, he found her standing at the kitchen door, in plain clothes, but the robe and a towel in hands. She was getting ready for a bath.
“And miserably failing at it, I believe.”
“Just remember to add the cinnamon and sugar after.” She said in a simple smile, although her reactions were still somewhat cold and distant. It was as if at the same time she was, she wasn’t there. “I remembered some things.”
That last part sounded darker than Jason expected. Her glare lowered briefly, hovering on the polished wooden floor.
“Something you’d like to share?”
Clarice simply grinned and shook her head, still not looking at him. Her eyes sparkled in a dead green tone, slightly wet, a majestic specter of sorrow and beauty. They were like two emeralds, though now a little faded, highlighted in such pale face.
“I’ve abdicated so much, Jason, I believe I’ve lost my own purpose.”
“Don’t think that way.”
“So, how should I?” Although he knew the sentence was filled with frustration and anger, her voice remained stable, in an almost inaudible tone. “Should I hope to live a secluded life hoping it will all get better someday? Should I just forget everything at once and pray for a brighter future? You don’t believe in bargaining with God yourself.”
“Do not bargain.” He could barely give her the advice without his voice faltering. He had done the same to himself on the past times. “Just wait. You’ve been living in a storm in the last years, now is the time to enjoy the calm.”
“There’s no calm, Jason.” She turned to leave, but she stopped herself and decided to stay a little more. “What hurts the most in recalling the past, agonizing in the hands of the man who was supposed to love me, Jason, is not the recollection of it. Is knowing that I allowed it.”
“You were imprisoned.”
“I could have run. I could have left it all behind, could have put a stop to it. What’s left for me now?”
Jason dropped the dishcloth on the kitchen island and moved to Clarice, both his hands on her face. God, how could she be so beautiful, even when in pain? The memory from the woods returned to his mind and a warm shiver covered his neck.
“Trust me. Trust that we can help you, Clarice. Trust me.”
“You cannot save me, Jason.”
“I think I have already.”
“You cannot save me.”
Without warning, he leaned forward, lowering his head a little and touching her lips with his.
And Clarice touched his lips back. A light impulsive kiss, calm, weak. He was not unsatisfied, he was happy with himself for taking that step forward. Just like when…
… when he met Michelle.
He was not the one saving Clarice, it was exactly the opposite. She had saved him, she was bringing him out of the darkness of his past life and returning him to the light, to the freedom of the woods, to a path of tranquility and peace. She was his last stage of grief. The best one.
And he was happy realizing that. All he needed was right there, in that house, even if in a dark and twisted manner. Michelle had disappeared for good, the sounds didn’t bother him anymore. All he needed to do was to give Clarice some space and let her calm her own demons down so that life could move on once more, along with the arrival of spring. Maybe summer.
Clarice smirked and, despite still looking profoundly nervous and depressed, he left her and went back to his teapot, screaming already.
“I’ll take care of dinner today. Enjoy your bath.” He said, his back to her while removing the teapot from the stove.
“Bye, Jason.”
He heard the sounds of her leaving, being able to capture the last move she made before climbing up the stairs and disappearing when he turned to the counter again. Jason filled the mug with the tea, straining it as he served himself. He thought about stepping it up and headed to the fridge, from where he took a bottle of milk. He smelled it, just to confirm it was still good to drink and moved back to the mug, mixing a little of it to the tea.
As he grabbed the cinnamon, almost automatically, the memory of the first time he saw Clarice hit him. The true first time, not the romanticized one; the fragile and hurt woman, bleeding and unconscious amidst the snow. He recalled how pale she looked, almost dead, the true reason Marco’s attention got drawn to her by distance. He remembered how he immediately dropped his hunting gear and ran to her aid, repeating all procedures his wife had once taught him. Applying CPR, mouth to mouth resuscitation. The way he had to immobilize her with what he had got around at the moment to avoid her from fracturing more parts of herself or something from reaching her spine. The way he had to check the basic and vital responses through light stimulation to her eyes. The way to correctly warm up someone who’s hypothermic before doing anything else… He had remembered it all correctly and he took care of her, saving her from death.
And now, in a surprising turn of events, she was saving him. She was saving him from the constant depression, from the alcoholism, the distance from the son. It was as if Clarice was a materialized angel, trying to set all those demons away from his life. Clarice was his salvation, the person he had long waited to come and help him when drowning in so many questionings.
H
e mixed the cinnamon to the tea, also adding some cubes of sugar to it. He learned, unintentionally, that the tea was an amazing appetite stimulant, besides an option to heat his body during that dazing, deviling winter that struck the mountains. Maybe the snowstorm was indeed coming with its usual threatening and drastic face. They were safe, as they had always been, but it was good to be sheltered and supplied for the heavier days.
Jason took a sip from his own concoction. Two. Three. With milk, the taste had become softer, the texture creamier and he might have improved the tea that was already good when in its pure form. Tea with milk or cream had always been his preference and, maybe, that was something Clarice was not able to change, not yet.
While Clarice was in her bath and he had to wait for the stew to be ready, he went back to what he had been doing at the computer, sweeping through some articles he came across. In one of them, the picture of a couple. The woman, perhaps, could even be Clarice, although looking really different in expensive clothes and hair dyed in another color. The man could have been her husband and seeing him scared Jason. It did not look like a pleasant person at a first glance, but he could be judging the man with an already biased opinion. At the same time, there was another feeling regarding that man and Jason couldn’t quite define it.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, which called his attention since Clarice had entered in the bathroom not so long before.
It was Marco.
The boy came down running, an empty glass in hands and kind of puzzled, trying to walk straight with his eyes stuck on his phone.
“Is Clarice leaving?”
Jason, after another sip of tea, denied it with a nod.
“Not to my knowledge. Why?”
Marco shrugged and tossed his phone on the counter, sitting across from his father.
“Dunno. She knocked on my door and said goodbye before going to the bathroom. I didn’t really understand what…”
The Woman Hidden Page 20
