The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  "Of all the worn-out lines," he said bitterly. " 'Where have I seen you before, chick?' I thought that one went out with high-buttoned shoes."

  Pat paid no attention to this adolescent outburst. It was later than she had thought; she quickened her steps, letting the young people fall behind. Surely Josef wouldn't be foolish enough to take up his position earlier than they had agreed, before there was someone to stand guard…

  He was in the parlor, in the big chair that had been Jerry's favorite, a squashy, almost shapeless object of in-determinate color, which Jerry had laughingly defended from all Pat's redecorating plans. The table beside the chair held a stack of books, and Josef was so absorbed in his reading that he didn't look up immediately. His dark head, bent over the book, was utterly unlike Jerry's sandy mop, but the familiarity of the tableau stabbed Pat with a new pang of pain.

  Josef looked up and saw her. He rose, politely.

  "Did you have a nice time?"

  His tone was not without sarcasm. Pat took the chair on the opposite side of the table-her chair…

  "I've acquired a headache from drinking beer, which I detest. But I think it was a sacrifice in a good cause. The young man is more capable than he appears. He has offered to lend us some of the Bates papers."

  Josef's eyes strayed from her face toward the front door.

  "Where are the kids?" he asked.

  "In the kitchen," Pat snapped. "That's where they always go first-contrary to what you may be thinking."

  "It was a perfectly harmless question. I didn't mean to imply anything."

  The parlor was dark and shadowy except for the circle of light cast by Josef's reading lamp. It shone full on his face, the harsh, unflattering illumination bringing out every line and wrinkle. It occurred to Pat that he might not be looking forward to another encounter with the unknown force that had already attacked him once before.

  "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I found out something to-night that bothers me-though I'm not sure why it should. Mr. Bates was an abolitionist. His son served with distinction in the Union army."

  Josef's eyebrows lifted alertly.

  "I know why it disturbs you. You're wondering where your son has been getting such accurate information. And so am I. At the risk of adding to your perturbation I must tell you I've found another fact that substantiates Mark's wild theory. Mr. Turnbull was a Confederate officer, as was his son, Peter." He held out the book he had been reading. Pat recognized it as one of Jerry's- a history of Maryland military units during the Civil War.

  The tramp of feet heralded the appearance of Mark, carrying a tray.

  "I thought we might have a little snack," he announced.

  Josef eyed the heaped-up tray with consternation. "Does he eat like that all the time?" he asked Pat.

  "My food bills are unbelievable," Pat admitted. "But his friends are just as bad. I suppose the girls are always on diets, aren't they?"

  Mark, absorbing a piece of chocolate cake, saw the book Josef was holding.

  "Oh, you found it. I left some of my books for you, in case you finished your work before we got home."

  His voice was bland, his face innocent; but the older man caught the implication.

  "You mean you knew I would want to check your facts," he said. "You were correct. Is this where you got the information you gave us this morning?"

  "Some of it," Mark said cautiously. "That book was my source for Turnbull's Southern sympathies." He took another bite, and added thickly, "You can tell Mom and Kathy about it if you want. I'll bet they never even heard of Captain 'Lige White."

  "I haven't," Pat said. Mark was manipulating his rival very nicely. She wondered if Josef was aware of being manipulated. From his severe expression she suspected that he was, but he responded as he was meant to.

  "White was one of Maryland 's most famous Confederate officers. Born not far from here, as a matter of fact. He formed his own cavalry troop, mostly of Poolesville men. They called themselves White's Rangers. They became part of the Thirty-fifth Virginia Battalion and fought all the way through the war until Appomattox."

  "They didn't surrender, even then," Mark said. "They broke through the Union lines and-"

  "Turned themselves in later on," Josef said, eyeing Mark without favor. "Don't romanticize a group of killers. These men even raided their home county. In December of 1862 a group of them stole horses and supplies from their former neighbors. Among those present was Captain Albert Turnbull."

  "Our Turnbull?" Pat asked.

  "Yes. The author of this book seems to share Mark's weakness for stupid violence; he mentions, admiringly, that Turnbull was almost sixty at the time, but 'as straight in the saddle as his own young son, who served as his aide.' "

  He dropped the book contemptuously on the table. Seeing battle in the eyes of her own son, Pat said hastily, "But young Turnbull-Peter-must have been barely sixteen. How could he-"

  "In 1862 he was eighteen," Mark said. "Some of them were a lot younger than that."

  He reached a long arm out and selected another book from the pile on the table, flipped through the pages, and handed the volume, open, to his mother.

  It was a large, handsomely illustrated picture history of the Civil War. So remote and so romantic does that era seem that many forget that photography was well advanced. The faded photos reproduced well-too well. The crumpled bodies of the dead struck Pat no more painfully than the faces of the living, most of whom would also die violently in battle. Some were boys younger than her own son, standing as tall as they could in their too-large uniforms, their rounded faces set in expressions meant to be grim.

  "Such a waste," she murmured.

  "War always wastes the young first, " Josef said. "And back then boys grew up to adult responsibilities earlier than they do today."

  Pat looked at him suspiciously, wondering if this was meant as a slur on Mark, but Josef's face was serious, without visible malice, as he went on, "The same thing happened in this century, in World War Two; toward the end our men were fighting boys of fourteen and fifteen- the Hitler Youth. And, my dear, lest you take it too hard, I might add that the young ones are sometimes the most vicious and intolerant of all soldiers."

  Leafing through the pages, Pat came upon photographs of survivors of the prison camps, Northern and Southern. They reminded her of World War Two atrocity pictures. She closed the book.

  "Horrible. Why do men-"

  "This is no time for a debate on ethics," Mark said impatiently. "Don't you see what it means? The two families were divided-violently divided. Can you imagine what it must have been like, living right next door to each other-two sisters, once devoted-and their sons fighting on opposite sides? Don't tell me that wasn't a tragedy."

  He and Josef continued to talk. Pat paid no attention. The faces of the long-dead children in uniform-they were no more than children, some of them-had given the case a human immediacy it had never had before. The idea of the two women waiting for news from the battlefield, news of beloved young sons, wrenched her heart. They could not even console one another; loyalty to their husbands and the causes they espoused would alienate them. The gun aimed at one boy might be held by the other's hands…

  "Did they survive?" she asked.

  "Who?" Interrupted in midsentence, Mark blinked at her.

  "The boys. Peter Turnbull and the Bates boy."

  "Edward," Mark said. "You mean did they survive the war? Edward did. According to the genealogy he died in nineteen-something." He reached for another book, a thin, limp volume bound pretentiously in brown calf. Pat caught a glimpse of the title. "Morton Genealogy," she said, in surprise. "I thought-"

  "Morton was the name of the man Susan Bates married," Mark explained. "This was written, and privately printed, by her son. He was more interested in the Morton family, so there isn't much about the Bateses."

  "I wonder," Pat began, and then stopped. No need to wonder where the book had come from; Jerry was always picking up used books in secondhand
bookstores, or sending away for them. He had received a small box of books a few days before he died.

  "Here it is," Mark said, leafing through the genealogy. "Edward Bates, born 1845, died 1915. A ripe old age. And here is a picture of his father, John Bates."

  The portrait, waist-length, showed a man wearing a dark suit, his hands folded. The stiff points of his white collar, which was encircled by a broad neckcloth, jabbed into his cheeks. Heavy horizontal creases disfigured his forehead, but all the other lines in his face were severely vertical, even to the cleft in his protruding, prominent chin. The dark hair, which had retreated from his brow, stuck out in luxuriant tufts on either side of his face. It was an uncompromising face, Pat thought, and yet there was something rather attractive about the steady dark eyes, and the shape of the full lips belied the rigidity of their setting.

  Pat reached out and turned the page. Mark had mentioned seeing portraits of the two Peters girls, and here they were: arms around each other's waists, simpering at the camera. They must have been in their early thirties when the picture was taken, for if the families had indeed split over political issues it was unlikely that the sisters would have been shown together in such amity after the late 1850's. In truth they did not look much like sisters; Louisa was at least thirty pounds heavier than Lavinia, but it was not only extra weight that broadened her cheeks and gave her face the gentle, maternal look Mark had described. Lavinia was more elaborately dressed and bedecked with jewelry-heavy earrings, bracelets, brooches, and chains. Her hairstyle was a bit too girlish for a face that was already slightly haggard.

  Pat handed the book to Josef, who waved it away.

  "I've seen it-and the other books as well. This is fine, Mark, as far as it goes; but it doesn't really go very far. All you've proved is that the families disagreed. What the hell have you got that ties this situation, potentially tragic as it may have been, to our poltergeist?"

  Before his critical stare Mark's eyes fell. He scraped up chocolate icing with his forefinger, and licked it.

  "Just a hunch," he muttered. "But give me time. I'll prove it."

  II

  At midnight they took up their positions, but not until after there had been a heated argument. Kathy wanted to be near her father. Why couldn't she stay in another room of the house, or at least in the apple tree outside the window? The others unanimously rejected both suggestions, arguing that Kathy's proximity would negate the experiment. To Pat the discussion had an element of sick humor. How did one calculate the geographical limitations of a ghost? Eventually Kathy agreed to remain inside the Robbins house, provided Pat stayed with her.

  As soon as the men left, Kathy bolted for the stairs. Pat was right behind her. She lost ground as she climbed- Kathy was younger and in better condition-but reached Mark's window in time to see her son and Josef pass through the gate of the house next door.

  Since the houses were mirror images of one another, Mark's corner room directly faced the windows of Kathy's bedroom. From that height they could see over the fence and into the backyard. Kneeling, her forehead pressed against the screen, Kathy gripped the sill with clenched hands.

  "You can't stay in that position for an hour," Pat said. "Pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable."

  Kathy ignored her; so, with a shrug, Pat followed her own advice. However, her heart was beating fast and her stomach felt queasy. Her view of the two tall figures had been both comical and touching; the slight suggestion of bravado in the swaggering walks, the false implication of comaraderie in the face of danger… They had known that their womenfolk would be watching.

  The sound of distant revelry, from neighbors entertaining and being entertained, came faintly to Pat's ears. However, the noise was not loud enough to cover the sound of the front door in the neighboring house when it opened and closed again. Mark came around the corner of the house and disappeared behind the shrubbery. Then they saw him again at the base of the apple tree. The blossoms were fading, and the leaves were young; it was possible to follow his progress as he climbed. When he reached the branch nearest to Kathy's window he was clearly visible, though only in outline. The black shape shot out an arm which waved vigorously; then it settled down, its back against the tree trunk, and remained motionless.

  "How much longer?" Kathy whispered.

  Pat answered in the same low tone, though there was really no need for quiet. "About fifty minutes."

  They had agreed on the time, if on nothing else. It had been a few minutes after one a.m. when Pat burst into the house in response to Kathy's shrieks. Mark had been careful to note the time of the next demonstration. One of the strongest points in favor of his theory was the coincidence in time-one a.m., almost to the minute.

  The wait seemed a good deal longer than fifty minutes. For someone who paid little attention to the dictates of time and schedules, Mark had a passion for clocks. Several of them shone in the dark. The two women followed the crawling progress of the faint green streaks of the hands with disbelief. Long before they came close together, at the top of the dials, Pat was kneeling on the floor beside Kathy.

  She had almost decided nothing was going to happen, and that Mark had fallen asleep on his perilous perch, when the boy's dark outline jerked forward. The window of Kathy's room, which had been a black square between the white-painted shutters, began to glow.

  Pat's hand clamped on Kathy's forearm as the girl started to rise.

  "No-wait! We promised."

  Kathy subsided, with a moan of distress. Pat continued to clutch her arm. It was almost more than she could bear to remain where she was; on the other hand, she was reluctant to lose sight of what was happening. By the time she got down the stairs and out of the house it would be too late to render assistance, even assuming there was anything she could do to help.

  In spite of her self-control she let out a yelp when Mark started crawling along the branch toward the window. He did not try to enter, but remained in a crouching position. He stayed there for an interminable period-almost a minute, in real time-and then Pat realized, with indescribable relief, that the light was not growing stronger. Between one breath and the next-and she was breathing quickly-it vanished altogether, as if a door had slammed between one world and another.

  "Where's Dad?" Kathy demanded. "Where is he? I'm going over there!"

  "No," Pat said again. "It's gone… I think. It's all right. Look, Mark is waving."

  He waved both arms, then slid down from his perch and went toward the front of the house. When he came back into sight, on the walk, Josef was with him.

  Pat realized then that her anxiety had not been solely for her son. Josef also turned and waved reassuringly. Then the two men stood by the gate talking. Pat saw Mark's arms move; he always gesticulated when he was excited.

  "Men!" She exclaimed angrily. "They know we're dying to hear what happened; why don't they come? I'm going out to the gate and make rude gestures at them."

  "I…I think I'll go and wash my face," Kathy said.

  Her voice betrayed that she had been crying. Well, Pat thought, naturally she was nervous about her father, but all the same… Then she remembered how she had felt as she stood on the outer fringes of the unspeakable aura. Kathy had been in the thick of it, not once, but twice.

  "Good idea," she said, and patted the girl on the back.

  She went quickly down the stairs. After the darkness of the bedroom the lamplit hall looked warm and serene. However, she must have left a window open somewhere; there was a draft of cold air blowing…

  Pat stopped in midstride, her nose wrinkling. Without quite knowing how she had gotten there, she found herself backed up against the kitchen door, staring down the length of the hall. Both doors were closed. How could there be a draft? There had been none on the stairs. And… no, surely not; surely it was her imagination. It must have been imagination, for it was gone now-the faintest possible suggestion of that foul, well-remembered odor she had sensed under Kathy's window.

&nbs
p; Six

  I

  The brown cardboard carton was medium-sized- two feet square by about a foot and a half high. Pat stared blearily at it, wondering how her fogged brain had been able to produce even that approximation of dimensions. She turned an even less enthusiastic gaze on her son. He was at the stove. The smell of bacon, usually so appetizing, did not improve Pat's disposition that morning.

  She had taken a sleeping pill the night before, the first time she had done so for over six months. It had left her groggy and cross. She would still be asleep, and glad of it, if Mark had not shaken her awake. He had given her time to put on a bathrobe, but she was groping under the bed for her slippers when Mark had snatched her up and carried her downstairs, showing off for Kathy, who followed them giggling and making admiring comments.

  The bathrobe was an old green terrycloth garment, snagged by Albert's claws, and not very clean. It added at least fifteen pounds to Pat's apparent weight. She had not been able to find her good robe; probably it was still in Kathy's closet, or, if she knew teenagers, crumpled on the floor of Kathy's room. She had not had time to comb her hair or wash her face or put on makeup, and she hated Mark. Kathy too.

  She added Josef to the list as he entered, neatly dressed, freshly shaved, every hair in place. If the lines on his face were perhaps a little deeper than they had been when she first met him, that didn't count for much when weighed against the snagged old bathrobe and the straggly hair.

  "Good morning," he said brightly.

  Pat lifted her lip in a silent snarl and snatched at the coffee Kathy put in front of her.

  "Is that it?" Josef transferred his attention from Pat to the carton. Not that she blamed him. Even a worn, battered cardboard box looked better than she did this morning.