As Garrett drove, he and Constance talked of many things. He never tired of hearing about her life. While the windshield wipers slapped back and forth and the Jeep’s knobby tires sang upon the road, at last they came to the heart of Salem. The weather had cleared, and the sun had begun drying the rain-soaked buildings and streets.
Garrett had always thought Salem an interesting place. Much of Salem’s current identity was still reflected in its role as the location of the Salem witch trials of 1692. The police cars were adorned with witch logos, a local public school was known as Witchcraft Heights Elementary, and several Salem high school athletic teams were named “The Witches.” Gallows Hill, a site of numerous hangings, was currently used as a sports field. Today’s tourists knew Salem as a weird mix of historical sites, New Age Wiccan boutiques, kitschy Halloween celebrations, and a vibrant downtown that boasted more than sixty restaurants, cafés and coffee shops.
About twenty minutes later the GPS system said that they had arrived at their destination. Garrett stopped the Jeep and looked out his window incredulously. The home standing before them was nothing like they had expected. They were parked before a walled mansion, with a huge wrought-iron gate that bore the single word FAIRLAWN. Fairlawn lay about fifty yards ahead, serenely basking in the Massachusetts sunlight. Still wet with rain, manicured lawns seemed to stretch into infinity on either side of the drive.
Built entirely of stone, the mansion stood three stories tall, reminding Garrett of those huge, English country estates one sees in the movies. He always wondered how anyone afforded to maintain them, much less navigate their mazelike interiors. Ornate windows with leaded panes graced all three floors, their glasswork glinting prettily in the sunlight. Ivy had long ago conquered much of the facade, adding a welcome splash of color to what would have otherwise been a monotonous shade of gray.
“Hardly what I was expecting . . .” Garrett said wryly.
“I daresay not,” Constance answered. “I understand nothing about the device that let us here, but are you quite sure that it is correct?”
Garrett turned and again looked toward the mansion.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he answered.
Garrett inched the Jeep toward the speaker setup standing near the gate. He pressed the button and waited.
“May I be of service?” a rather imperious sounding voice asked.
“Dr. Garrett Richmond to see Dr. Wentworth,” Garrett answered. “I have a three o’clock appointment.”
“One moment, sir,” the speaker voice answered.
After about twenty seconds of silence, the speaker crackled again.
“Thank you, Dr. Richmond. You may proceed.”
The twin gates soon parted, allowing them access. The circular drive before the mansion was wide, and Garrett pulled the Jeep off to one side before shutting down the engine. He and Constance walked the short distance to the massive front doors, where Garrett rang the doorbell.
After a few more moments passed, one of the great wooden doors opened to reveal a butler standing there, dressed in full formal livery. He looked to be in his late fifties, with balding gray hair and an expansive midsection.
“Dr. Richmond?” he asked politely.
“Yes. And you are . . . ?”
“William,” the butler answered. Despite how long his tenure in America might have already been, it had done little to blunt his English accent. “This way, please.”
Garrett and Constance followed William into the grand foyer. For several nervous moments they each wondered whether William could see Constance, but if he did, he gave no appearance of it. While breathing quick sighs of relief, Garrett and Constance took a moment to look around.
The two-story foyer was huge and built from solid mahogany. Its inlaid hardwood floors sparkled with cleanliness. The vast room was beautifully furnished with exquisite sofas, tables and chairs, none of which looked like they had been used a day in their lives. A great marble fireplace stood in the wall on the opposite side of the room and was adorned with flying cupids that, although continuously trying to reach each other, were doomed to perpetual failure.
Over the fireplace hung a huge portrait of an elderly man. Behind him was a scene showing several factories, each one unapologetically belching dark smoke into the air. The great portrait appeared old, and although the man seemed familiar to Garrett, he could not place the name. Given Garrett’s great love of architecture, he could have gladly spent an entire month respectfully admiring this majestic house.
William then led them down a spacious hallway and into yet another great room, one nearly as large as the foyer, and decorated just as beautifully. The right-hand wall held a line of twelve French doors that looked out over but one portion of Fairlawn’s spacious grounds. Because the day was unusually warm, each door stood partly open to accept the afternoon breeze, which bothered the curtains pleasantly and carried with it the familiar smell of wet leaves. Here too there was a massive marble fireplace adorned with angels. Like the foyer, this room was decorated with upholstered furniture, Oriental rugs, and numerous oil paintings.
At the far end of the room, Dr. Brooke Wentworth sat behind a massive Louis Quatorze desk. Rather than acknowledge their presence, she remained riveted to something she was reading. When William beckoned Garrett to sit in one of several upholstered chairs opposite the desk he did so, silently followed by Constance. For several moments Garrett and Constance simply sat there, with William standing guard next to them like some obedient gun dog awaiting his master’s next command.
“Thank you, William,” Dr. Wentworth said at last, her attention still riveted upon her work. “You may leave us now. Please tell Millicent that I would like a full tea service sent in. And have her include some of those lovely blueberry scones, should we have any left.”
“Yes, madam,” he answered. “Will there be anything else?”
“Just a few quiet moments with my visitor,” she answered.
“Very good, madam.”
With near military precision the large man turned briskly on his heel, left the room, and closed the sliding doors behind him.
Even now, Dr. Wentworth did not look at Garrett. Realizing that silence was in order, he wisely remained quiet.
While waiting, Garrett took a few moments to regard her. She was a trim and astute-looking woman who appeared to be somewhere in her midfifties. Her face was attractive, and she was impeccably dressed. Her graying auburn hair was cut rather short. She wore a ruby necklace overtop a well-tailored pink suit, accompanied by matching ruby earrings. Tortoiseshell reading glasses lay perched near the end of her nose, allowing her to gaze over them when needed. Taken as a whole, she seemed every inch a highly intelligent, extremely wealthy, and very capable woman.
Garrett smirked a little. Jim Baker never gave me a heads-up about any of this. Just like him to send me into the lion’s den without any warning, the bastard . . .
After a few more moments, Dr. Wentworth finally removed her reading glasses and looked into Garrett’s eyes.
“You told me on the phone that you would be coming alone, Dr. Richmond,” she said.
Her words stunned him.
“But I am alone, Dr. Wentworth,” he finally answered.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “And before we go any further, I need a promise from you that there will be no more lies.”
Garrett was at complete loss, as was Constance. Until now, they had been quite certain that he was the only person in the world who could see and hear Constance. Completely stymied, he realized he had no choice but to come clean.
“You’re right,” he answered apologetically, “and I’m sorry for misleading you. There is a woman with me, but I thought I was the only one who could recognize her presence.”
“I can’t ‘see’ her, per se,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “But I know that she is sitting beside you, just as surely as I know that the sun rose this morning. I can detect her aura, and from that I already know she is
female. I cannot, however, converse with her. I can only assume that it is her presence in your life that has brought the two of you here. If you wish to have my help, you must tell me everything.”
Garrett gave Constance a questioning look.
“It is all right, Garrett,” Constance answered. “I don’t know why, but I trust her.”
Garrett looked back at Dr. Wentworth.
“Constance says yes,” he said.
“Very well,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “But first things first.” She then stared in Constance’s direction. “Let me have a look at you.”
To Garrett’s and Constance’s surprise, when Dr. Wentworth left her desk she did so via an electric wheelchair. Although she was obviously handicapped, her disadvantage did nothing to compromise her regal bearing. As she maneuvered the chair closer to Constance, she looked at Garrett.
“It was a car crash,” she said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Garrett asked.
“Four years ago, a drunk driver did this to me. No reason for it, really. William was driving, and he got the worst of it. Nearly killed him. That was the question you were asking yourself, was it not?”
“Yes,” Garrett answered. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “Life is seldom fair, professor.”
Seated directly across from Constance, she held out her hands.
“Please, my dear,” she said, “take my hands and place them upon your face so that I can get a sense of you.”
After Constance did as she was asked, Dr. Wentworth ran her palms and fingertips over Constance’s face and hair, trying to glean a mental picture of her. When she was finished, she returned her hands to her sides.
“So beautiful,” she said. Then she looked at Garrett. “How old is she?” she asked.
“Thirty-two,” Garrett answered.
“Cut down in the prime of her life,” Dr. Wentworth said. “Please tell me how it happened.”
Just then someone knocked on the doors. After Brooke bid her entry, one of the maids wheeled a silver tray into the room. It was laden with a full tea service and two platefuls of scones. She quietly served Garrett and Brooke then departed as smoothly as she had arrived.
“Would Constance like some?” Brooke asked.
Constance nodded at Garrett, and he served her some tea and a scone. After sipping the very good tea he explained everything to Brooke, including his love of Seaside and its restoration. When he finished, he sat back in his chair.
“You tell me that Constance fell from her widow’s walk and onto the shore,” Brooke said. “And that she awakened in the same state in which we now find her. That is to say, her condition has remained unchanged for seventeen decades.”
“That’s right,” Garrett answered.
“And that her husband, Adam, the sea captain, died when his whaling vessel capsized off Cape Horn?”
“Also true,” Garrett answered. “As fate would have it, they perished on the very same day.”
Just then Garrett saw Brooke blanch. She soon began shaking her head, and whispering something under her breath that sounded something like, “No, it can’t be . . . the odds against you two ever finding each other are simply too great . . .”
Concerned, Garrett tried to look into Brooke’s eyes, but it did him no good. She was staring off into space, seeing nothing, still muttering to herself. After a time Brooke seemed to calm down.
“The mora mortis . . .” she said quietly, as if Garrett and Constance weren’t there.
“What did you just say?” Garrett asked.
“I take it that you do not speak Latin, Dr. Richmond,” she said.
“No.”
“The mora mortis,” Brooke repeated. “I knew of its supposed existence, but the odds are so impossibly high . . . just the same, though, that could be it. My God, could it really be happening?”
“What is she talking about?” Constance asked Garrett.
“I have no idea,” Garrett answered. He again turned his attention toward Brooke. “What are you saying, Dr. Wentworth?” he asked her.
“Please call me Brooke,” she said. “And now, the two of you must come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Garrett asked.
“Someplace where no other outsider has ever ventured,” Brooke said.
With Garrett and Constance in tow, Brooke maneuvered her chair across the massive room and toward a pair of elevator doors. She then pushed one of the elevator buttons, the twin doors hissed apart, and the three of them entered. On reaching the basement floor, Brooke used a wall switch to illuminate the subterranean room.
As they looked around, Garrett and Constance could hardly believe their eyes. The room was nearly as large as the one they just departed. Clearly they had entered another study, but this one was quite unlike any they had ever experienced.
The entire room was finished in dark hardwoods, and whoever had ordered the job had spared no expense. The walls were lined with bookcases, none of which rose to a height of more than four feet, presumably so that the many hundreds of volumes would be accessible to Brooke. The fourth wall held a lovely marble fireplace, with a hearty fire burning in the hearth that dispatched welcome heat and some rather ghostly shadows across the room.
Against the opposite wall there stood a huge mahogany desk that was literally strewn with papers, and reading and writing tools. Before the desk stood a lovely leather couch. A massive Oriental rug lay in the center of the floor, and the numerous light fixtures all appeared to be original Tiffany. Every inch of available wall space seemed taken up with historical artifacts and works of art that had apparently been gleaned from various places all over the world. Taken as a whole, Garrett couldn’t begin to imagine the value of this secret room.
Brooke beckoned Garrett and Constance to sit on the sofa then she maneuvered her chair to the bookcases, where she began perusing the many hundreds of volumes. When at last she found the two books she wanted, she eagerly freed them from their brethren then blew the dust from them before going to the desk. She opened one of the books and quickly began thumbing through its pages in an apparent search for some specific information. When at last she looked up at Constance and Garrett, she was positively beaming.
“What is this place?” Garrett asked.
“It’s my sanctuary,” Brooke answered. “Aside from me, my father, and a handful of servants, you two are the only other people to ever visit here.”
“Your father?” Garrett asked.
Brooke nodded rather sadly.
“Yes,” she answered. “He died some twenty years ago, and as his only child, I inherited this house. This study was originally his, and everything in it was collected either by him or me from various places around the world. As best I know there’s nothing else quite like it—at least not in private hands, anyway.”
“It’s amazing,” Garrett said. “I’ve never seen its rival.”
“Nor are you likely to,” Brooke said.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s all true,” Garrett replied, “but what I don’t understand is—”
Brooke quickly held up one hand, stopping him.
“May I call you Garrett?” she asked. “I do believe that I can help the two of you, at least to a certain extent. But as laymen, you have no idea of the complexity of that which has taken you into its grip. We are most likely dealing with forces beyond human ken. Even so, I still believe that I can aid you, provided you wish to pay the steep price involved.”
Constance looked at Garrett with worried eyes.
“Of what price does she speak?” she asked Garrett.
“Constance wants to know what you meant by that last part,” Garrett said to Brooke. “What is the price that we must pay?”
“All things in good time,” Brooke answered. “To give you a proper explanation, I must start at the beginning. And starting at the beginning also means telling you my story.”
Chapter 25
Leaning back in her chair, Dr. Br
ooke Wentworth gazed directly into Garrett’s eyes.
“To understand what’s happening,” she said, “you first need to know about my father, James. He was also a Ph.D., and his discipline was archaeology. My mother died while giving birth to me, and as a consequence, my father began dragging me all over the world with him on his many expeditions. If there was such a thing as a real-life Indiana Jones, then that was my dad. He risked his life more times than I can count in dense jungles, on archaeological digs, and anywhere else he thought he might find a valuable artifact. He also taught at Harvard, where I eventually received my degree in anthropology. Later came my car crash, which relegated me to this chair. That’s when I quit teaching.”
“Forgive me, but what does any of this have to do with our situation?” Garrett asked.
Brooke gave him a smile.
“Patience, young man,” she said. “We’re getting there. As I was saying, although my father and I shared many of the same interests, I soon became more intrigued with the metaphysical realms. As we traveled the world I studied under various swamis, gurus, rabbis, monks, and priests—virtually anyone who could give me insight into the very powerful forces that truly shape and control our world. Now I spend my days here in Salem, overseeing my ancestral home and managing several charitable foundations.”
“ ‘Ancestral’?” Garrett asked.
Brooke nodded.
“I’m sure that you’re more than curious about how my father, a college professor, might have become so wealthy,” she said. “The truth is he inherited it all, and then I from him when he died. Did you notice the portrait in the foyer?”
“It’s impossible not to,” Garrett answered.
“That man is my great-great-great uncle,” she said, “and at one time he was one of the richest industrialists in America. As you can imagine, being even obliquely related to such massive wealth has its advantages.”
“Of course,” Garrett said.
“A massive trust left to my father allowed for all of this, and was what really paid for his many adventures,” Brooke added. “Even so I was not spoiled, despite being an only child. My father had a saying: ‘Give your children enough to do something, but not enough to do nothing.’ ”
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