It wasn’t even 5 pm., and already the sky had begun darkening. Charlie hated this. Somehow, he had gotten himself into this tacit agreement with Alfred where they would cover for each other’s sins—mostly Alfred’s sins—and the older man would help him conquer the heart of Celia. Well, maybe not her heart, but just her favors.
But Alfred was taking advantage of him. He felt manipulated, though he knew he wasn’t as clever as the old man, and he couldn’t see the moments coming, so he kept getting stuck in them.
Finally, out of breath, and shivering from the cold, Charlie stopped. Alfred had stopped right in front of him and pointed toward a dark corner at the foot of the hill.
“That’s the Lodge,” he said. “That’s where the dead women are found.”
“All of them?”
“I think so. What I want to know is why does he come here, and go into the Lodge, and stay like a half hour before leaving. Tell me, Charlie, is he the killer? Does he bring the women here and keep them alive for a while before he kills them?”
“God, Alfred, you’re a sick old man. You’re just as bad as he is, following him here and there staring at the place, imagining what all he does with those poor women. Why don’t you just go to the police?”
“I can’t. I told them George Baxter was the killer. What would they think if I went in and changed my story?”
“They would think the same thing that I’m thinking. That you’re nuts.”
“Come on, let’s get closer. Let’s see what he’s doing.”
“Oh, I know why you made me come with you. You were afraid to come alone.”
“Are you coming, Charlie, or are you going to stay there until the wolves come and get you?”
Grumbling, Charlie followed. He wasn’t sure about the wolves, but he had heard stories. Staying extremely close to Alfred’s heels, he navigated the treacherous path, stepping over fallen branches and frozen patches of ice.
As they got closer, Charlie saw a light come on inside the lodge, a dancing light, as if it were a flashlight being moved about. He nudged Alfred, who nodded. The hunt was on.
Chapter 67. The Hunting Lodge
As if echoing Alfred’s comment about wolves, howling broke out behind the Hunting Lodge, and the moving light inside stopped, frozen. Oscar must have heard it too because he interrupted what he was doing.
The air around them thickened as the fog moved in, and a soft drizzle that felt more like snow than anything else began to pelt them, wetting their faces with the frigid drops and getting into their eyes.
Charlie wiped his face and stepped into the clearing.
“He’s busy with the wolves. This is our chance,” he said, whispering, and he pulled Alfred by the arm.
The men jogged through the clearing, aware that they could be discovered any minute. Yes, it was dark, and it was foggy, but there were floodlights all over the park, and even if they were tamped by the fog and the falling drizzle, all it would take was one unlucky moment, and they would be discovered.
Charlie was aware of how absurd this whole shindig was. Alfred wanted to take things seriously, pretending that this was some sort of wargame, but all they were doing was spying on some old dude who was doing something stupid in there. Again, he thought about how much more fun it would have been to stay home with a beer and a pizza. And watch a war movie. And he promised himself that never again was he going to fall for Alfred’s requests, no matter how sane they sounded.
Shadows rushed through the darker side of the lodge and disappeared into the wilderness beyond but didn’t move toward them. Whatever the wolves were up to, they weren’t interested in the two of them for now.
They approached the window and peeked inside. At first, Charlie could only see the light moving about, and he wiped at the glass pane vigorously with his glove, but soon his eyes adjusted to the darkness within, and he saw Oscar clearly, as he walked about.
From what he could deduce, Oscar was searching for something systematically. Alfred wanted to chitchat, but Charlie shut him up with a one-hand move. That was all they needed, to be discovered because Alfred had something inane to say. Then he continued watching.
There were all kinds of tables and chairs and cabinets in there, and Oscar went through everything as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. Cabinet door by cabinet door, he shone his light inside and passed his gloved hand through the empty spaces. Whatever he was looking for, he hadn’t found it yet, because he was still searching.
He put his hands inside the sides of the armchairs, and he lifted the edges of rotting carpets. It made Charlie think that what Oscar was looking for had to be either small or flat. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have checked under the carpets.
Something small. Something flat. A letter, or a document, or a credit card. An ID? Like a Driver’s License? Had to be something he had lost, that could incriminate him, or else why the frenzy?
Chapter 68. Found It!
Then, Oscar hit pay dirt. Under one the tables, something caught his eye and he quickly bent down, feeling young all over again. Here it was. He lifted it with joy and with relief, and shone the light of the flashlight on it to make sure, and he chuckled out loudly when he saw that it was indeed what he had been searching for, for a long time.
He walked over to his backpack and moved about, gathering his things. Then, he looked around, shining the flashlight in a circle, making sure he wasn’t leaving any evidence behind. He thought he caught the shadow of someone looking in through the window, but that could be the fog, the bushes, or some random animal rushing by. There was no need to fear that he could be in danger of being discovered. Certainly not on an inclement night like this one.
He had kept his gloves on at all times, so there would be no fingerprints. His shoes were a common brand, and an even more common size 11. His head had been covered with his sock hat, keeping him from leaving hair strands behind. And the local police weren’t all that bright. His mission accomplished, he could now get on with his life and leave this torment behind him.
What else? That was it. He walked to the front door and battled the howling wind to keep it open long enough to get through, and then he was outside.
The air was bracing cold. The wind had really picked up, and he heard the wolves again and decided that it was time to go home. To go home and pack and disappear. With his mission accomplished, there was no need to stay in town any longer.
Oscar adjusted his backpack and began walking. He was tired. This ordeal had taken too much out of him. He wasn’t a young man any longer, a young man fond of forbidden pursuits. He had earned himself the right to retire forever. What had happened in that lodge could now be forgotten. Forever.
He was still far from the edge of the park, where he had left his car, and—exhausted—had begun to walk with his head down, his mind traveling through memory lane.
He never heard—over the howling wind—nor did he see, two shadows following closely behind. He took a right turn at the bend and stopped to catch his breath when he felt something fall on him with such force that he fell on the ground, face forward.
He struggled to turn around, just for one second thinking that it was the wolves and that his life was now finally over, when he saw two faces, staring triumphantly at him. And one of them was his friend Alfred.
“What on earth?” Oscar managed to blurt out, but Alfred’s loud and obnoxious voice cut him off.
“It’s over, Oscar,” his friend said. “This time we got the right man.”
Chapter 69. Peter
It was almost like awakening from a coma. Like swimming to the surface of a deep, dark lagoon. It took him a while to notice that he was still breathing. He moved his arms and legs instinctively, needing to feel them, to know that they were still there. They hurt when he moved them, and they were numb, but he nevertheless had them.
Then, he slowly opened his eyes. A brain-splitting headache stabbed him behind the eyes, but he managed to move his eyeballs some and look around. He stare
d up at the sky and saw it clear. It was of the darkest blue, full of twinkling stars and a scattering of transparent clouds that quickly vanished. He stared at the sky, marveling at the masses and masses of twinkling stars. He thought about being in the countryside, where the sky is always so full of them and so close, that you feel as if you could reach out with a hand and touch them.
He hugged his arms to his aching body as he shivered, lying on his back on the snow. He didn’t understand why he was alive, or why he was out there in the cold. Somewhere in his mind, a flash of warning told him that he must get up before he froze to death, but the pain was so excruciating that the smallest movement took his breath away. Yet he knew that he needed to move if he wanted to live.
He turned onto his hands and knees, slowly, yelping out in pain with every sudden move, but he did manage to get up, holding on to a tree trunk next to him. There, he stood still for a while—holding on to it—waiting for the pain and the dizziness to subside.
After a few minutes, he tried to walk and did manage to take a few steps, but his legs weren’t working properly. They were weak and shook too much. Frustrated, he fell on his knees on the snowy ground and stared at his hands, and the thick gloves on them. It made him angry that he couldn’t remember his name. It made him angry that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. But he had this vague idea that he was in danger and that it would be better if he found a place to hide.
Half stumbling, half walking, he got going. A long, narrow country road disappeared into the distance, and other than a few barns looming darkly against the empty horizon, there was nothing as far as his eyes could see.
The night was deep, but the star lights gleamed on the snow, guiding his way. Bit by bit, he started feeling better, and he inhaled the bracing cold air. Once he got over the hill, he saw a town in the near distance—just a handful of small houses stuck close to each other—and he thought that if he managed to get there, he would be safe.
Headlights appeared on the far horizon, and he scampered behind a bush, keeping his head down. When the car passed, he continued his trek as if in a dream, in the midst of this unknown, with the snow and the gravel crunching under his feet.
The town was small. He arrived at the first house and held on to the fence, considering whether he should walk up to the front door and ask for help. There were people inside sitting at the dining table, chatting and eating. He could see them through the window. But he was afraid. He had been brutally attacked by someone he didn’t remember. And he had been badly hurt. Something told him that it was a miracle that he was still alive. How did he know which one of these houses was safe?
He decided against it, and—holding onto the fence for support—he continued walking.
The town seemed to consist of barely a dozen houses, built one next to the other by the side of the road, with a small strip of land in between them. And apparently, all the inhabitants of the town had dogs, because the most awful barking accompanied him as he went by. It scared him, all that barking, and it surprised him that nobody came out to see what the dogs were barking at. Not even a curtain stirred under a curious hand.
Halfway through the town, he came across a convenience store, closed, with peeling posters of travel cruises stuck to the windows. One lonely lightbulb shone in the back of the store somewhere, but he saw nobody inside.
He walked up to the door and tried the knob. It would have been a good place to hide for the night. Smoke was coming out of the stacks out back, so the place was probably heated. But the door was locked. He rattled it in despair, but the door didn’t yield.
Another car approached down the road, and he quickly ducked behind the corner. As soon as he saw the headlights vanish, he continued on.
He was getting horribly tired. He was dizzy and shivery, and at times he felt that he was about to lose consciousness again. He had to find a place to rest. He decided that as a last resort, he would knock on the last door of the town and throw himself at that person’s mercy. Out here, he wasn’t going to last a very long time unless he got help. He kept on walking until he reached the end of the town.
The wind whirled cruelly around him as he looked up at the sign over the last door on this quiet country road. Salt Marsh Post Office/Police Station, the sign said in faded painted letters. The single lightbulb above it shone cheerfully suspended from a short, crooked metal pole. This was it. The end of his road. This was as far as he would make it.
He rang the bell by the front door and waited, shaking furiously against the whistling wind. Finally, the door opened, and a startled policeman wearing glasses and suspenders stared first at him, and then, down at his jacket. He followed the eyes of the policeman and looked down on his chest. His tan corduroy jacket was soaked in blood. He hadn’t realized that he had blood on him. A moment of panic assaulted him, and he caught his breath. Dear Lord, was this his blood, or was it someone else’s? The image of a young woman with short red hair floated in front of his eyes and then vanished, leaving no recognition.
“Can you please help me?” he asked. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
“Sure. Come in, come in.”
The policeman held his arm and walked him to a plastic chair by a beat-up desk and helped him sit. The room was pleasantly warm, and he relaxed.
“What’s your name, son?” the policeman asked.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I remember.” He looked at his hands again, fascinated by the thick gloves. There were bloodstains on them as well, and he held them out for the policeman to see. Then, he looked up at his eyes. The policeman had kind eyes and he felt it in his heart that there was no need to be afraid.
“I think my name is Peter,” he said. “And I think something happened to the girl I was with. But I don’t remember her name. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt her. I know I would never hurt anyone.” And with that, Peter began to cry.
Chapter 70. Meantime…
Henrietta showed her package of papers at the check-in desk of the jail and was buzzed in. She found George Baxter at the back of the yard, where she had sat with him on the previous occasion. The yard was as full of guests and prisoners as it had been the day before. A couple of guys smiled at her, and she remembered having seen them the previous day, so she gave them a shy smile in return, and a quick wave.
The lodger stood up immediately as she approached, and he gave her a friendly grin.
“Well, well, well, I didn’t think that you would decide to come. You’re becoming quite an infamous woman, shamelessly visiting despicable jailbirds in broad daylights,” he said, and he laughed, showing nice, even, white teeth.
“I wasn’t going to, but you see, I found something.” She extended her hand, the one holding the pack of papers, and she handed them to him.
“What are they?” he asked, suddenly excited.
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t read them?”
“Of course not. They're not mine.”
“You're a remarkable woman, Henrietta Jones,” he said as he glanced through the papers. “These are letters, I see.”
George Baxter talked to himself for a few minutes in a monotone while he perused the documents, and Henrietta sat down on the bench and looked around. The sun was shining, again cajoling with a Spring that never seemed to want to arrive.
She watched the same two pregnant women from the day before. One of them had brought cookies. Early stages of love, she thought, and wondered what their life would be twenty years from then. A misery—most probably—like hers.
Then, she looked absentmindedly at the lodger who was talking to her.
“These are letters to my mother, I’m pretty sure. The handwriting is terrible. Small, spidery. I’ll have to examine them later. But there is one letter that she wrote and never sent.”
“How do you know it’s from her?”
“I don’t. She was called Marie, and the person who wrote this signed it Marie.”
“Then it could have
been her. Otherwise, the coincidence would be too great. Are there any clues in it?” Henrietta asked.
“It’s rather short, but to the point. I’ll read it to you, and you can tell me.”
“Professor,” George Baxter read, “when you asked me to assist you with your work on that new virus, I felt honored. I was quick to do anything in my power to help. When you asked me to steal a vial of varicella-zoster with the excuse that we were going to invent a vaccine to outshine all vaccines, I began doubting you, but I complied. But now you tell me that if I don’t have sex with you, you will accuse me of having stolen the varicella-zoster, and you will ruin my reputation and my life. You want my answer. My answer is that I would rather throw myself off the tallest building and die than having to spend another minute of my life close to you. You have hounded me. You have made sexual advances that have not been welcomed. I have begged you to leave me alone, and not only because I am a married woman, but because I abhor what you stand for. So, therefore, the answer is no. I can assure you that you will never see me again. Marie.”
Henrietta’s mouth dropped. She had no idea what to say. She looked at George Baxter and saw that he had gone completely pale. There was his answer. Either his mother had been murdered by this professor, or he had caused her to disappear. But was it a strong enough reason to abandon her children?
“She must have killed herself,” the lodger said. “Even by today’s standards this would be a terrible scandal, but forty, fifty years ago, my family would have been ostracized and ruined financially. She might have not found another way out.”
“She could have told someone.”
“No, Henrietta. Back then, nobody would have believed her. Even today, in the 21st century, a man’s word weighs heavier than a woman’s. But what I didn’t know was that she worked in a laboratory. She must have been a chemist or a doctor, or something like that.”
The Stranger in the Attic Page 14
