Lilah

by Marjorie DeLuca

  Nick felt suddenly deflated, all the emotions drained from him like a burst balloon. “God – I’m sorry. How could I be so selfish?”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you.”

  He caught her hands in his. “You can tell me anything,” he said. “I want to help you. Hey – maybe I can come and see her too.”

  The pot on the stove started to bubble, water splashing over its sides. She jerked away from him. “She’s too delicate. Strangers bother her,” she said adjusting the burner heat. “And besides I’ve been thinking about having my own housewarming party here. I’ll do it on New Year’s Eve. You can cook your turkey then.”

  “Perfect,” said Nick, though the thought of Christmas spent alone with a Hungry Man microwave turkey dinner and the usual parade of Christmas movies on the television was totally depressing. But as Lilah bustled around the kitchen, seasoning the soup and buttering the vegetables he had a brainwave.

  “I’ll go to Chicago,” he said. “It’s a perfect time to track down Stephen Castle – and see if I can find Emmie Lindahl.”

  Lilah turned to him, her face beaming. “It’s great to see you so involved with a story,” she said, mashing the potato. “It’s like those kids haven’t been forgotten.”

  Nick sipped at the wine, feeling the glow return. “And I’ve been meaning to get out to the Nicholson place. Talk to them about Tara.”

  “But you’ve been putting it off?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it takes guts to talk to people whose lives have been turned upside down like that. You can’t just breeze in with your notebook and start asking questions.”

  She pushed a platter of tiny crab cakes in front of him. He was ravenous. “That’s exactly what was going through my head. Any suggestions to make it seem less intrusive?”

  Lilah sipped at her wine and thought for a few moments. “I’d say the simple truth works best. Tell them you’re writing the article because you don’t want people to forget those beautiful young kids whose lives were cut short, and that maybe – now a few years have passed – someone just might be ready to come forward with some answers. Time has a way of changing a person’s perspective and a heavy conscience can sometimes be too much to bear.”

  “You’re a wise woman Lilah,” said Nick, lifting his glass and saluting her.

  “I like to think I’m an honest one,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

  Over the next three days Lilah threw herself into organizing the party, insisting that Nick draw up the guest list. The first ten were easy, starting with Danny Johnson and then working down Main Street through the various business owners, but he became stuck on his ex-girlfriends and the resident jerks like Gorman and Dewar.

  “Think of it as a way to make amends to those girls,” said Lilah. “And this place is too small to have enemies. Invite them all – you never know when you’ll need them for your story.”

  Of course she was right, and before he knew it, Rosie Bradley, Leah Carter and Shayla Reid had all messaged him saying they could make it. Three of them in one room. He was already feeling queasy at the thought. But he knew Lilah would help him through it – and besides they’d all be accompanied by new boyfriends so they’d be eager to prove they were over him. Gorman and Dewar were coming though Madge wasn’t, which was interesting because Betsy Thorson emailed him back right away to say she’d be delighted.

  Lilah even hired a small catering company from Bemidji, explaining she’d barely have to time to prepare anything when she got back from her trip and also she wanted to spend the time mingling rather than cooking.

  The party created quite a buzz in the small community. Nick was greeted with knowing grins and meaningful nods when he stepped into the bakery or the bookstore. It had been a while since he’d attracted so much positive attention and the boost to his confidence gave him the courage to set out to the Nicholson house on the outskirts of town. Tom Nicholson kept a low profile, commuting to work as a maintenance engineer at a casino resort in nearby Red River Falls. His reclusive wife, Rosa, worked from home as a freelance editor. The only other family member was Avery, away at college in Fargo. With beating heart, he’d called them and given them Lilah’s lines, and to his astonishment they’d agreed to see him the evening before Lilah was due to leave.

  The night was clear and so cold that ice crystals spun a hazy curtain in the air, lit by the glow of a full moon that hovered behind the trees. He pulled up outside the small stone-faced bungalow. A single ornamental lamp post threw yellowish light on the cracked concrete driveway, unlike the neighboring houses that were ablaze with coloured lights, illuminated deer and blow-up Santas. For a moment he faltered as he took up his notebook. How could he face these people whose lives had been destroyed? Who had no explanation of why their beautiful daughter had run away – been kidnapped – or maybe even snuffed out by god knows which perverted monster who just happened to be in the right place at the right time and maybe was still lurking around Silver Narrows. Then he remembered Lilah’s words and strode to the door, pressing the doorbell before he had time to change his mind.

  A light went on inside and after some shuffling the door opened. Tom Nicholson stood there, a pale, tall man with gold-rimmed glasses and thinning hair. His heavy-lidded eyes had a sleepy look - as if he was high, and as Nick stepped inside he detected the unmistakable musky stink of a recent joint.

  “Don’t be shocked,” said Tom, leading the way into the living room. “Dope has the right kind of calming effect for us.”

  Rosa Nicholson was lying back in a huge, leather recliner, her eyes focused on a small aquarium of tropical fishes and the last tendrils of smoke clearing from the air above her head.

  “You gotta alter reality sometimes,” she murmured. “Take the sharp edges off before they wound you.”

  “Wanna glass of wine – a beer,” said Tom, ushering Nick to a checkered tweed sofa that looked like something from a thrift store. “Or maybe a toke?”

  Nick shook his head. “I gotta drive back. Give me a beer.”

  Tom shuffled off to the kitchen leaving Nick alone with Rosa. The low buzzing of the fish tank filter occupied the difficult silence.

  “It’s okay if you don’t know what to say, Nick,” said Rosa. “Most people don’t. That’s why I prefer spending my life reading. I can lose myself in another world when things become too painful. Trouble is I’m stuck with this particular version of reality.”

  She raised a hand and swept it through the air in a limp movement that spanned the mantelpiece where pictures of a pretty blonde girl at various stages in her life were arranged in frames. In some photos Tara was with her sister. In others she grinned at the photographer, posing in dance positions, poised on the edge of a swimming pool or bundled up by a grinning snowman.

  “She was so full of life,” said Rosa, her voice hovering in a minor key. “Always had to be doing something, going somewhere, planning something. She certainly didn’t inherit that from me.”

  Tom slipped in soundlessly and held a beer out to Nick. “Or me,” he said. “She was like a bright little foundling child. Avery is more of an introvert like us.”

  He handed a large glass of wine to Rosa, then returned to the kitchen for his beer.

  “The house has been so quiet since she was gone,” said Rosa, taking a large sip. “But then silence hurts less.”

  Tom came back and settled himself beside Rosa. They both gazed expectantly at Nick, who was beginning a slow slide downwards into the grey vacuum that engulfed the house.

  “Oh – of course,” he said, clicking his pen and opening a blank page in his notebook. He took a deep breath. “Do you remember any changes in Tara’s life around the time of her disappearance?” He swallowed and waited for the question to settle.

  “Things changed the year leading up to her – her graduation,” said Tom. “She started hanging around with Dr. Castle’s son, Stephen.”

  “How did
that affect her?”

  “She went out a lot more. Stephen drove a fancy BMW. He was always showing up right after supper. Screeched up to the front door and she’d take off with him.”

  “Do you think he was a bad influence?”

  Tom hesitated. “He was a party guy. Typical eighteen year old with too much money too soon. But he had a good heart. He did a few charity drives with Tara.”

  “He wasn’t the bad influence. His asshole father was the problem,” spat Rosa, suddenly jolted from her soporific state.

  “How so?” said Nick, his heart starting to throb.

  “We don’t know the whole truth, Rosa,” said Tom, gazing at his wife.

  She sat forward, clutching her glass. “You’re right. We don’t have cast iron proof but we’ve heard plenty of rumors. Dr. Aaron Castle’s wife left him when Stephen was only eight. She fled the place and was never seen again. Then there was a succession of nannies, each one younger and prettier than the last. Each one lasted less than a few months after they got wise to the doctor’s terms of employment. That guy couldn’t keep his hands off young women. One night Tara came back from Stephen’s place crying. Said his Dad cornered her in the downstairs powder room at one of Stephen’s parties. He wouldn’t let her go until he’d groped her like she was a piece of meat.”

  Tom winced. Nick watched as his hand curled into a fist. “I went to call him up on it and he wouldn’t let me in the place,” said Tom. “The bastard said he’d set his dogs on me.”

  “Did Stephen know?”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Tom. “Tara claimed he was afraid of his father, who had a history of roughing him up. He’d also threatened to cut him out of the family will if he ever squealed.”

  “Do you think Dr. Castle was responsible for Tara’s disappearance?”

  They both stopped to think, as if searching for just the right words. “To tell the truth - we don’t know. But we do know he wasn’t alone in his tastes. A few people around here did – and still do have an appetite for younger women.”

  Nick’s mind immediately snapped back to Ray Gorman. “Could you name any of them? Off the record for now.”

  “Ike Dewar – for a while,” said Rosa. “But I think he’s moved on to the more mature type.”

  “Ray Gorman,” said Tom. “That guy is a sleaze. Problem is, he owns a good part of the best land in town.”

  Rosa ran a hand through her hair. “Tara mentioned there were a couple of others. But she’d only heard that second hand. She had no names and the girls seemed afraid to tell.”

  “Do you think drugs were involved?”

  “Tara was never a junkie,” said Rosa, suddenly energized from her doped up stupor. Tom put a steadying hand on her arm.

  “C’mon Rosa. You know she was experimenting with Ecstasy and a few other things. She came home high plenty of nights.”

  “And Stephen? Was he involved too?”

  “That was the strange thing,” said Tom. “I couldn’t figure it out. Stephen was clean. He was quarterback on the football team. The coach was like a drill sergeant. You took drugs – you were benched for the season. I tried to get Tara to tell me who was supplying the stuff.” He glanced back at Rosa, whose eyes had started to brim with tears again. “I even waited for Ray Gorman one night. He was pretty new in town then. I figured he hadn’t been here long enough to care about burning bridges.”

  Nick leaned forward, eager for answers. “And?”

  “It was like hitting up against a brick wall. Tara said she didn’t know. The stuff just appeared magically in school. And Gorman smirked and told me there were bigger fish than him around these parts who preferred to keep their names out of things. I had him up against the wall with my hands at his throat and he still wouldn’t tell.”

  “So you see, Nick, there’s a big dirty secret in this town and nobody wants to tell it,” said Rosa. “That’s why we stayed here. The other parents moved away, but we’re not scared. We won’t abandon Tara until the scum rises to the surface. Sooner or later somebody’s gonna talk and I don’t want to miss a word of it. I want to spit in the face of that monster – whoever it is – I want to see him own up to it – I want to…”

  Tom lunged across the couch and caught Rosa tightly in his arms. “Don’t do this again, Rosie. Keep it together – please.”

  By now she was shuddering so hard the couch rocked. Nick stood up. “Look – maybe I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve raked up all those old memories again. I’ll take off.”

  Tom looked up at him, his eyes swimming with tears. “Don’t apologize, Nick. Everyone else has swept Tara’s memory away. We want you to keep things going.”

  Nick gathered up his book and coat. Rosa’s face was buried in Tom’s shoulder. “Just let yourself out,” he whispered.

  “Sure,” said Nick, turning and heading for the door.

  As he turned the handle Rosa’s voice shouted after him. “If you find him, you come and tell me first.”

  “I will,” Nick called back, then slipped out of the door, glad to finally gulp in a mouthful of cold, fresh air.

  12

  Nick was on the road to Chicago by eight the next morning. He’d been pretty shaken up by the interview and spent the night at Lilah’s, but he’d kept quiet about Aaron Castle’s involvement in Tara’s life. To tread the same floorboards as the creep of a doctor felt weird, and soured Nick’s admiration of the beautiful house. He’d stood in the powder room and imagined Tara’s fear at being cornered by a tall figure who filled the doorway, his body casting a shadow over her.

  It was a very masculine room. Oak-paneled with dark green paintwork and set away from the other rooms. A perfect place to do secret, forbidden things without fear of discovery. He shuddered, his back prickling at the memory of a similar place. The sweaty, metallic stink of a hockey change room, empty except for him and a bearish man waiting in the shadows for the right opportunity. Just as his face broke into a cold sweat, Lilah had called from the kitchen that the chicken was done. The terror was sucked away and he was back in the brightly lit house.

  He began to breathe again and turned back to the warmth of the kitchen, making a mental note to suggest a makeover to the room – maybe to the whole place. A spring freshening up – to remove all traces of the doctor for good.

  The roads were dry - one advantage of the extreme cold. Higher temperatures brought icy, slush covered roads and the risk of skidding off into the ditch. He’d filled up at The Beanery with a large flask of coffee.

  “Not sticking around for Christmas, Nick?” asked Danny.

  “Nah – gotta visit a friend in Chicago,” said Nick, reluctant to reveal his real purpose.

  “Careful on those roads,” said Danny, handing him a couple of wrapped seed bars. “You don’t want to be stranded in this kind of weather.”

  “Cheers,” said Nick, taking the food. “You got friends or family coming?”

  Danny shook his head. “I’m planning some good old snow shoeing and maybe a bit of hunting,” he said. “Got some great lakeside trails near my place.”

  Nick remembered that Danny also lived on the lakeshore in a quaint Swiss style chalet. “Hey bud – did you know Aaron Castle?”

  Danny’s eyes barely flickered. He held Nick in his gaze. “Now why would you wanna know about a guy like him?”

  “Just wondering. He left in a hurry. Lilah’s living in his old house.”

  “I know,” said Danny. “It’s a barn of a place. But I gotta tell you, he wasn’t well liked here.”

  “Know why?”

  “There’s some things I’d rather not talk about and he’s one of them,” said Danny, wiping the counter with more urgency. “Now get on the road, Nick and leave the past where it belongs.”

  Danny’s last words left a strange taste in Nick’s mouth. Nobody wanted to talk about the past, and this wasn’t the first time someone had warned him about digging up old memories. There was something weird about this reluctance to dredge up pa
st secrets. But Nick felt an even greater surge of motivation to drive hard and get to Chicago. To find out what exactly was festering in the town’s darker history.

  As the bare, black trees flew by, giving way to wide expanses of flat, white fields enclosed by low wooden fences, he thought about the task ahead. He’d messaged Stephen Castle on Facebook and received no reply, but he’d left a cell number and hoped for a call before he got to the Windy City. As far as Emmie Lindahl went, he had no address – just some pictures of a bar that featured in many of her Facebook photos.

  By sundown he entered the city, skimming past the grey expanse of Lake Michigan with its floating patches of ice. He felt a rush at the sudden sight of towering skyscrapers clawing at the watery winter sky. He’d booked a room at the downtown Regency Hyatt, and was ready for a cold beer since he’d driven non-stop except for a couple of bathroom breaks. Pulling into the underground parking garage, he opted to pay the staggering $59 charge for overnight valet parking. It was less hassle and, he told himself as he travelled up to the lobby, it wasn’t like he splurged on much these days. It was time to lay out a little cash to enjoy some comfort.

  The lobby was like an airport. Windows everywhere, sweeping staircases leading to open upper levels, decorated with chrome, glass and wood fixtures. He found the bar as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. A massive granite counter that spanned the entire length of one wall of the hotel. Its muted lighting and neon blue, six-level tower of illuminated bottles drew him right in and soon he was nursing a sweating beer and a plate of cheesy nachos with the hockey game playing on at least a dozen screens all around him. Surrounded by all this luxury, he’d forgotten how much he’d missed city life with its comforting sense of anonymity and the undeniable sense of excitement and promise pulsing beneath it all.

  He was just reaching for the second beer when his phone rang. The call display said Unknown. Expecting Stephen Castle’s voice, he held the phone to his ear. It was Lilah.