The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  Not Mark's arms-Josef's. She recognized the blue-and-brown plaid of his shirt. That was all she could see; her face was mashed against his chest and his arms were squeezing the breath out of her.

  "I'm all right," she repeated. "I'm-"

  "All right?" Josef held her out at arm's length. His voice was quizzical, his expression calm; only the fact that he was paler than the white background of his shirt betrayed his feelings. "Sit down," he said.

  "No, I don't want…" Pat glanced around the room. It was unbelievably normal. There ought to be some traces of that incredible presence-the marks of scorching or destruction. From the bathroom she heard gulping sounds, and Mark's voice, forced to calm: "Atta girl, you're okay now. Cool it, love; gotta get back and see how Mom is doing."

  Pat pulled away from the hands that held her.

  "Where is Jud?" she demanded.

  "Under the bed," Mark answered. "Some watchdog!"

  He stood in the door, his arm around Kathy. She looked very small and pathetic; her hair hung in dripping strands, darkened by the water she had splashed on her face. She pulled away from Mark and ran to Pat.

  "I told him how wonderful you were," she whispered, her head against Pat's shoulder. "I was petrified. And you were so brave. I don't know how you did it."

  "Neither do I," Pat said honestly. "It wasn't me. Something… came into me."

  She patted Kathy's shaking shoulders.

  "You mean that?" Mark demanded. "Tell me what happened, Mom. Exactly. It's very important."

  Pat was tempted to swear at her best-beloved son. She didn't blame Kathy for being sick. Her own stomach felt unsteady. She wanted to lie down and have a cold cloth on her head, and someone holding her hand, telling her how wonderful she was… and a sleeping pill, a very large, very strong sleeping pill that would knock her out for about a year. And maybe when she woke up it would turn out that the whole thing was a nightmare, some neurosis from early childhood…

  "Leave your mother alone," Josef said. "She's had enough."

  Pat turned on him, pushing Kathy out of her way.

  "Don't talk to him that way!"

  "I'll talk to him any way I like. He is a… Get your things, Kathy. We're spending the rest of the night at a motel. Tomorrow I'll put that damned house on the market."

  "You're not serious," Pat said.

  "I have never been more serious." He took her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist like manacles. "You're coming too. Pack a bag."

  "Wait a minute." Mark advanced on them, his pallor gone, his cheeks flaming with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are? That's my mother you're talking to."

  "You seem to have lost sight of that fact." Josef glared at him.

  Mark put his arm around Pat's waist. For a moment she was literally pulled between the two of them, for Josef did not release his hold on her wrist.

  "Cut it out," she said. "You are both acting like-"

  "Let go of her," Mark said.

  "You let go. She's an adult, with a life of her own to live. She can't spend the rest of it coddling some lazy-"

  Mark's clenched fist interrupted the tirade. The old man staggered back, his hand covering his face.

  For a few seconds they all froze. Mark's arms fell to his sides.

  "Cripes," he said, his voice squeaking like that of a twelve-year-old. "Oh, God. I didn't mean-"

  Josef lowered his hand. The austere lines of his mouth were blurred with blood.

  "Kathy," he said.

  "Oh, Daddy, please-"

  "Get your things."

  Kathy gave Mark an anguished glance. He was still staring in horror at his victim, and did not respond. She lowered her head and ran out of the room. Josef followed.

  Mother and son contemplated one another. After a moment of internal struggle Pat held out her arms.

  "You goofed, bud," she said.

  "I know." Mark gathered her up, buried his head against her shoulder. "Oh, God, Mom-do I know."

  II

  After an encounter with a visitant from beyond the grave one does not worry about mundane matters, such as a job. Pat fell into bed as if she had been hit over the head with a rock, and did not stir until late the following morning.

  Memory flooded back, in all its dreadful detail. Pat couldn't decide which depressed her more, the fear that her house was haunted by a particularly malevolent spirit, or the recollection of Mark's attack on Josef Fried-richs.

  Normally when she overslept she was awakened by Albert, demanding his breakfast; but today the cat was nowhere to be seen. Pat got out of bed. She glanced at the clock and then at the telephone, and shook her head disgustedly. No use calling the office. If Mark hadn't already phoned to say she was sick, she was in trouble; and she was in no mood to invent symptoms or listen to reprimands.

  She stood in the shower for a long time and dressed slowly, trying not to think about anything. The house was quiet. Perhaps, wonder of wonders, Mark had gone to class. After what had happened he would hardly have the gall to seek Kathy's company.

  Sighing, Pat trudged down the stairs, feeling as if the descent took her back into a world of complex troubles. She had no idea what, if anything, she could do to solve even the smallest of them.

  The sink was piled with dirty dishes. Pat sighed again, louder, and with more feeling. That was all she needed to start her day. She turned on the burner under the teakettle as she passed the stove and started to take the dishes out of the sink. As she did so her eyes went to the window, and what she saw made her drop a glass.

  Not what she saw-what she did not see. The fence was gone.

  Pat ran to the back door. The fence was still there, but it was in fragments. Mark had piled some of the wood into a rough heap. He was squatting on top of it like a gargoyle on a cathedral, his back to his mother, his attitude one of profound meditation.

  He turned his head as Pat came squelching across the lawn. It was still wet with the rain of the previous night. Her sneakers were soaked before she had taken three steps.

  "Hi," he said.

  "What the hell-" Words failed his mother.

  "Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I tried to be quiet."

  "Quiet! What-how-why, Mark?"

  "It's our wall." Mark's eyes were steady. He mopped his perspiring brow with his forearm. "Dad put it up; I guess we can take it down if we want."

  "Yes, but-"

  Mark dismissed her objection with a wave of his hand. Hand and forearm were streaked with bloody scratches, and his shirt-one of his best new shirts, Pat saw- had a jagged tear across the right sleeve.

  "They're home," he said, and she didn't need to ask whom he meant. "I saw the car pull in ten minutes ago. I guess they'll be over pretty soon. Sit down."

  Pat looked at the seat he indicated-a heap of scrap studded with splinters and rusty nails.

  "I certainly will not. Get down from there, Mark, before you sit on a nail or something. You'd better get a tetanus shot this afternoon."

  "I had one a couple of years ago."

  "Yes, but-" Pat stopped herself. She recognized Mark's technique; he excelled at it, having had years of practice. Get the old lady off on some trivial point and let her rave.

  "Come in the house," she ordered.

  "Nope. That would look like I was scared, or ashamed. I'll wait for him here. You can go in if you want."

  Swearing under her breath, Pat retreated, but only long enough to take the screaming teakettle from the stove and make herself a cup of coffee. She was just in time. As she crossed the yard, carrying her cup, she saw the Friedrichs family emerge from their back door and advance on Mark.

  Kathy looked like a brand-new china doll, her sweep of shining hair tied back by a blue ribbon, her complexion perfect as plastic. She wore a blue-and-white-checked dress with a wide ruffle around the bottom of the skirt, and white sandals. Her father was dressed as impeccably, his brown slacks creased to knife sharpness, his dark hair brushed back from his high forehead. They looked like a fa
mily paying a polite social call on friendly neighbors.

  Mark, still squatting, his scarred hands dangling, appeared much cooler than Pat felt. Josef's dark eyes met hers. His face was quite impassive, but his lower lip was definitely out of kilter.

  He came to a stop a few feet from Mark and looked up at the tottering pyramid of wood and the boy atop it.

  " 'Something there is,' " he asked, " 'that doesn't love a wall?' "

  His tone was neutral. That was better than Pat had ex-pected, and she relaxed a little.

  "I thought," Mark answered, "that it was time for walls to come down."

  He meant every word of it, but he had enough ham in his soul to let the statement stand, in its theatrical glory, for the admiration of the hearers. Then he went on, more prosaically, but quite as intensely: "Mr. Friedrichs, if I said I was sorry about last night, that would be the understatement of the year. If you want to slug me, go ahead. You've got it coming."

  Friedrichs' lip twitched.

  "No, thank you. But I'll take a rain check. There may- no, there undoubtedly will-be occasions in the near future when I will feel like hitting you. Why don't you get down off that heap of trash and clean up? I'm taking your mother to lunch. You can come along if you wash."

  Mark obeyed, sliding down the stack amid a clatter of collapsing scraps. Pat suspected the boy's movement had not been planned. She had seen his breath go out in a vehement whoosh of relief when Josef accepted his apology; his relaxation had probably destroyed his balance.

  "I'll cook lunch," he offered, grinning from ear to ear. "We can talk better here."

  "We can talk anywhere," Josef said. "I refuse to eat any more of your cooking, thanks just the same. Get moving."

  Mark ran off, one hand clapped to the seat of his pants-to hide a rip or soothe a puncture, Pat wasn't sure which. After a half-defiant glance at her father, Kathy followed.

  "What made you change your mind?" Pat asked. It was a beautiful day. A warm breeze brushed her cheek, the sun shone… and Josef was smiling. The expression was not as symmetrical as it had once been, but it was still pleasant.

  "The wall, in part," he answered, glancing at the heaps of debris. "One can't help admiring the idea, and the energy. But there were other things Kathy told me about last night. I can't thank you-"

  "If she told you I flung myself into the breach to defend her she's not entirely accurate," Pat admitted. "My impulse was to crawl under the bed with Jud. I don't know what made me move, but it certainly wasn't heroism."

  "I won't argue with you. I'll even admit that your disgusting son is right again. Running away won't solve the problem."

  "Come in and have some coffee while I change," Pat said.

  "Why change? You look fine."

  Pat looked down at her wet, dirty sneakers. Who was she to argue with him?

  As they walked side by side, Josef matching his stride to hers, she knew the real reason for his change of heart. He was facing the same unpalatable fact she had already recognized: that physical removal from the scene of earlier attacks might not be enough to save Kathy. If the thing could cross eighty feet of ground, why not eight miles, or eight hundred?

  III

  Monday was not a popular day for lunching out. The Inn in Poolesville was almost empty, so they were able to talk without reserve. Not that Mark was bothered by eavesdroppers; his mother had to keep reminding him to lower his voice, and once or twice the waitress, overhearing a fragment of conversation, gave Mark a startled glance.

  He came close to another fight with Josef when he insisted that Pat and Kathy recapitulate their experience, in harrowing detail. However, the majority consensus overruled Josef's objections. Mark cross-questioned the women mercilessly.

  "You felt it too?" he asked Kathy. "The second ghost?"

  "Sssh." Pat indicated the waitress, who had stopped dead in her tracks, balancing two bowls of soup.

  Mark subsided until the woman had left, but then he returned to the question.

  "Well, Kath?"

  "I don't know," Kathy said uncertainly. "I felt something. Like a-a breath of cool air in a hot, closed-up place. I thought it was you." Her wide blue eyes admired Pat, who realized, with somewhat cynical amusement, that Kathy had added her to her list of Robbins heroes.

  "It didn't feel like me," Pat admitted. "I was horrified when I realized I was actually walking toward the damned thing."

  "Damned is right," Mark said. "Why are you all looking so depressed? Don't you realize this is the most encouraging thing that has happened?"

  Pat looked at him in surprise. "I don't see why."

  "I'm afraid I do." Josef put down his fork. "Mark is implying that some other entity has come to our aid. Hell," he added, with a flash of irritation, "it worries me, the way I can read your tricky little mind. If I thought my own mental processes resembled yours…"

  "Jeez." The idea obviously appalled Mark as much as it did Josef. They gazed at one another in mutual consternation. Pat was tempted to laugh.

  "Anyhow, you're right," Mark went on. "I think somebody else was there-somebody hostile to Peter, somebody who wants to help."

  "We will now take a poll on the identity of that somebody," Josef said sarcastically. "Pat?"

  "How on earth should I know?"

  "The brother, maybe," Kathy offered. "Eddie."

  "You're just saying that because you think he's kind of cute," Mark said crushingly. "It wasn't Edward."

  "You know what makes this whole thing unreal?" Pat demanded. "It isn't the idea of spirits or supernatural attack; it's the way you all bicker and quarrel, like twelve-year-olds."

  "You mean we ought to take it with deadly seriousness?" Josef smiled at her. "That isn't the way people behave, Pat. Only Socrates could conduct a dialogue on the subject of his own death. Besides, the whole situation is so unbelievable I find myself relapsing into trivia as a release from intolerable stress. One can't live at the height of tension without some break now and then."

  "Hmph," Pat said.

  "You're avoiding the question," Mark said. "Who do you think the second-"

  Pat waved him to silence in time to spare the sensibilities of the waitress, who was bringing their entrees. When the woman had retreated, rather more hastily than she had come, Pat said,

  "You obviously think you know, Mark. Who?"

  "Mrs. Bates, of course. Louisa."

  They considered the suggestion-if Mark's dogmatic statement could be called that. As was to be expected, Kathy was the first convert.

  "Sure, that makes sense," she exclaimed.

  "A nice, motherly ghost," Pat murmured. "I suppose one aging mom would attract another's spirit…"

  The irony with which she infused this comment was lost on Mark-and on Kathy, who nodded approvingly. Pat realized that they were now taking for granted a point that had appalled them when it first arose-the identification of Kathy with Susan Bates. Apparently Mark had discussed this with the girl, and helped her to accept it without distress.

  "It's too facile," Josef complained.

  "Go ahead, sneer." Mark took a bite of steak. He added, "Who would you expect to come to a girl's rescue? All the men in her family look like cold fish. They're probably too busy flapping their angelic wings in their nice Calvinist heaven."

  "I can't stand this tottering tower of illogic," Josef shouted. The waitress turned to stare; Kathy giggled; Josef flushed slightly and went on in a more subdued voice, "You pile one unwarranted assumption on top of another, Mark. You are the only one who's convinced that Peter Turnbull is ghost number one-"

  "It had blue eyes," Kathy said.

  "No," Pat said vehemently.

  "You saw it too, Mrs. Robbins."

  "I know, but…" Pat was unable to continue. She was not denying the color, she was denying the suggestion of humanity. The worst part of the entire episode had been those moments at the end, when the alien shape had begun to assume the dimensions of a human body.

  The reminder took away w
hat remained of Pat's appetite. Mark was the only one of the group who ate with relish. Watching him demolish a piece of lemon-meringue pie, his mother entertained herself by trying to conceive of a situation in which Mark would be unable to eat. She failed.

  Cramming the last bite into his mouth, he announced thickly, "Better get moving. We've got a lot to do."

  Josef, who had been lost in some abstruse speculation of his own, gave Mark a suspicious look. "Where are we going now?"

  "The historical association, of course. I've got to return that Bates material. It closes at three, so we'll have to hurry."

  "It's barely two o'clock," Josef said.

  Mark rose to his feet.

  "We are going to go through that place with a fine tooth-comb," he announced. "Old newspapers, military records, anything we can find. Time is passing."

  And that, Pat thought, was another of Mark's understatements. Less than twelve hours until the next manifestation… And God only knew what form that might take.

  Although she had lived in the town for almost ten years, Pat had never visited the old red brick house that sheltered the historical association. She had never even seen it, since it was on a side street, away from the highway and the shops. Almost unconsciously she had absorbed some knowledge of architecture from Jerry, so she was able to date the building to a period at least fifty years older than that of her own house.

  It was, in fact, one of the oldest houses in the county. So Jay informed them, after he had greeted them.

  "The oldest part was built in 1757, a regular log cabin. The Peabodys made it into a kitchen when they built the central part in-"

  "We'll take the tour some other time," Mark interrupted. "Today we-er-I have some work to do in the library. Okay if we go on up?"

  "Sure." Jay glanced disparagingly at a family group- father, mother, and two small girls-who were waiting meekly by the door. "Wouldn't you know-I usually don't get more than five, six people a week. I'll join you as soon as I get rid of this lot."

  They climbed the graceful curving stairs. Pat felt the handrail shift when she touched it. The house was neat and fairly clean, but it was clear that the association had no money to spare for anything more than basic repairs. The walls needed painting and the shallow stairs were bare of carpeting.