“She’s not altogether crazy,” Terri had said. “The Soviets did use neuroleptics to torture people, haloperidol, in fact. There was a big senate investigation in the 70’s.” Terri had an encyclopedic memory. “Turns out, the Soviets were giving large doses to political prisoners. The only problem was that the US was doing almost the same thing to their mentally ill.”
If he had known what was coming, he would not have spoken so casually.
Now Terri’s voice startled Helen out of her thoughts. “You should drop this, Helen. Let the police handle it. Get on with your life. Do something else. What else is going on? There has got to be something.”
The only thing Helen could think of was Wilson, her muscular body, her ozone–blue eyes. Helen rested her head in her hands after she hung up the phone. Adair Wilson. The police were lackadaisical, and Drummond was too mired in hometown loyalty to see it. Terri thought she should drop the whole thing. Even the press was losing interest in the Pittock legs. But Wilson still cared. She could not possibly believe the story about a mad woman’s suicide. Wilson had to be puzzling over the same disquieting facts. She was walking the same campus paths. She was seeing the same students blithely amble across campus, fearing for them and guarding them with the same watchful gaze.
Chapter Twenty-two
By three o’clock that afternoon, Helen had been sitting at her desk for hours, staring at a stack of budget requests and thinking about her conversation with Terri. Thinking about Wilson. Thinking about the legs. This brought her no closer to an answer. She wasn’t even sure what the question was. It was like the night after Eliza died. Helen had sat in her kitchen, her head in her hands. Why? Why? But the question was bigger than why. It was how? How do I live in a world where this happens? How can the world bear so much suffering and not buckle and crack?
Helen stood up. She had to go back to the woods. She had to see the train tracks, the stones around them, and the earth that had absorbed a young woman’s blood. To know how it was possible nothing had changed. A woman was butchered in the woods and the world simply went on living. The biology department wanted test tubes; the soccer field still needed re–sodding. The media would move on to the next sensation. The story would fade from the public eye. The students would go back to drinking and dating and occasionally studying for midterms. Quite possibly, the identities of the victim and killer would remain a mystery. She headed down the hall. There had to be something there, some clue to what happened and to whom.
“Where you going?” Patrick asked, as Helen hurried past his desk.
“It’s a gorgeous day. I’m taking a walk.”
Her face must have given away her intentions.
“Whoa!” Patrick stood up. He was a husky man, and he took up all the space between his desk and the wall. Several file folders scattered to the floor. “Not in the woods. It’s not safe out there.”
Helen turned. “You typed the press release. ‘No fear for our students’ safety.’”
“‘Provided they take reasonable precautions,’” Patrick quoted.
Helen raised the back of her hand as she continued out the door. They were all lies. What reasonable precautions could they take? Living in a town of three thousand in the Berkshires should be precaution enough. She heard Wilson’s voice: There is no procedure for this.
****
Helen crossed Barrow Creek, pausing at the top of the foot bridge that led from the campus to the athletic fields. She rested her hands on the wooden railing. Before her, Arcadia pond spread out in a smooth mirror, right up to the dam. Then the pond tumbled down the corrugated concrete onto the rocks below. Helen could see the Ventmore theater and the windows in Wilson’s office. A figure appeared in one of the dormers, barely visible behind the reflection of sky on glass. She thought she saw a hand raised in greeting. Helen waved back and continued on her way. There was another bridge she needed to see: Carrie’s bridge, as the students had begun calling the railroad bridge in the forest beyond campus.
It took her several minutes to find the footpath between the groomed trail and the crime scene. When she emerged in the clearing by the bridge, a shiver ran down her spine. The surface of the tracks shone like the edge of an ax. Helen felt a sharp pain in her legs as she imagined the girl’s last moments, the weight of the train like the end of the world.
Every hair on her body lifted as she walked up the gravel mound where the tracks ran. She forced herself to scan the ground. She even walked onto the bridge, tiptoeing across the ties, and stopping every few feet to look down at the creek bed. There was nothing there. Only ghosts. Finally, she gave up and headed toward the asylum.
As Helen expected, the police had removed the orange flags planted by the student search team. To her satisfaction, they had collected the scraps of trash—or evidence—that the students had marked. Now the area looked like any other patch of forest, only without the litter. She could have been in a calendar: New England Seasons. This would have been July, although in fact it was already August. But the printers would have saved August, September, and October for pictures of fall colors. Helen walked through the leaf litter, distracted by thoughts that veered like swallows.
The path she followed led past the main asylum, to a cluster of outbuildings, no larger than park bathrooms. Most had lost their roofs. Two were covered in ivy. She was about to turn around, when something stopped her. A movement in the bushes behind one of the buildings. Just a flicker. A footstep.
“Hello?” Helen called out.
No one answered.
Helen took a few steps forward. Every hair on her body raised a fraction of an inch higher. She saw nothing but a few remnants of asylum equipment so rusted and overgrown it was hard to imagine what function they’d served. Suddenly, the bushes before her exploded with movement. Helen screamed.
Blood pounded in her ears like a drum. She turned to run. Then she looked up and caught her breath: ducks. Four ducks, of a mottled black and white, had flown from the ivy, startled by her approach. They took off like passenger jets on a short runway to land a few meters away, then waddled back in her direction.
“I don’t have anything for you.” Helen’s voice trembled. “You should be in the pond.”
She took a step forward. The pond. The word hung in the air. She heard wood cracking, then the sound of a door hitting a wall. For one sickening instant she thought she had tripped. Then she was falling, helplessly falling.
****
Helen’s mind did not have time to conceptualize what happened. Only her body knew that she hit ice-cold water and went under. She had been drawing in a breath as she fell. Under water, her chest convulsed, trying to expel the water, but each cough brought in more. She flailed, pulling herself upward. Something held her down. Her feet were trapped, her ankle wrapped in a death grip. There was no air. There was no air.
Help me, Helen. Help me. It was Eliza, and Helen was back in the kitchen. The memory rushed into her mind like the water rushed into her lungs. She tried to push it away. Part of her knew she had only a minute, maybe two, to break the surface or she would drown. But the memory held her down. She was staring at the floor, the blood. Eliza! Helen dropped her phone. Her phone! She had to call the hospital. Help me! Except she couldn’t scream. The pain in her chest was excruciating. She kicked frantically. Her leg was still trapped.
Her head expanded and she grew dizzy. She opened her eyes. The water was ultra clear. It didn’t hurt anymore. She watched a trail of bubbles dance past her eyes.
I’m dying.
Then the bubbles rushed down in a great column. A figure shot past her like an arrow. Poseidon with his trident. She felt her ankle released. Then she was at the water’s surface, coughing. The pain in her lungs returned along with the panic. She vomited mouthful after mouthful of water, until her whole body was wracked from exertion. At least she was breathing.
Finally, her coughing subsided and her gasps became regular breaths. She was not swimming. Someone was holding her, tre
ading water behind her. They were in a stone chamber, perhaps ten feet by ten. The chamber was entirely filled with water. Helen could not touch the bottom.
Above them a trapdoor hung open, letting in a shaft of blue sky. It was only four or five feet away, but there was no ladder, no ledge. The walls of the chamber were rough without footholds. There was no way to leap from the water to the sunlight. She had to get out. She began to struggle. Strong arms held her close.
“Relax,” her rescuer said. “I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you. An arm, like an iron band, encircled her waist. Her rescuer’s legs pumped rhythmically, keeping them both afloat. The water around them felt warmer. The skin pressed against hers was hot.
“Who are you?” Helen turned her head.
It was Wilson, her short, blonde hair plastered to her scalp.
“I heard you scream. I came running.”
“We can’t get out,” Helen said. She felt the room closing in around her. Something was touching her under the water. Something was brushing past her leg. She kicked violently. “Get it off me.”
“It’s just reeds,” Wilson said. She tucked her cheek against Helen’s, holding Helen’s head still. Helen could feel Wilson breathe. “It’s just an old spring well. Just plants and clean water. There’s nothing here except you and me. Look.” Wilson kept one arm wrapped tight around Helen’s waist. With the other hand, she cupped a bit of water and let it splash back into the pool. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice was calm.
“We can’t get out,” Helen whispered. She tried to scream, “Help.” There was still water in her lungs, and she began coughing again.
Wilson held her. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Finally Wilson said, “Can you swim on your own for minute?”
Slowly, Wilson released her.
“Kick off your shoes and take off your jacket. It’ll be easier.”
Helen followed Wilson’s instructions. It was hard treading water. She was out of breath almost immediately. Wilson kept a hand on Helen’s waist. In the back of her mind, Helen marveled at Wilson’s lung capacity. She was hardly exerting herself.
“Some of these chambers connect together under water. If they do, we can swim to another room. There may be a ladder.”
“There’s more than one of these… rooms?”
“They’re supposed to be secured. They were supposed to be drained and filled, but, yes, there’s a network of chambers.”
A moment later, Wilson disappeared under the surface. She was gone for so long, Helen feared she’d been trapped in the reeds. Then she emerged, shaking her head. She tried several times, but each time she said no. There was nothing but the sides of the stone wall.
“Can you touch the bottom?” Helen asked.
“At the edges, yes. In the middle it goes deeper.”
Helen thought she saw a shadow of fear cross Wilson’s face. “Are we trapped?”
“Never.”
Wilson moved Helen to the side of the chamber, then shot up into the air, arms raised, her head thrown back. She caught the ledge of the trapdoor with her fingertips. In the sunlight of the opening, Helen could see every muscle on Wilson’s arms strain as she pulled herself up. There is no way. Then she saw Wilson’s body lift a fraction of an inch. And another. As gracefully as a gymnast on the high bar, Wilson pulled herself through the opening and disappeared.
Gone. Like a vision. The water around Helen was as still as a mirror.
“Help,” Helen called out. “Come back.”
Wilson reappeared. “Give me your hands.”
“I can’t reach you.”
“You’re going to have to jump and grab my hands.”
Helen tried. “I can’t do it.”
She had a vision of waiting while Wilson got help. Could she tread water that long? Could she bear the dark water beneath her? What if she doesn’t come back?
“You can, Helen. Jump.”
This time, Helen felt her hands touch Wilson’s. Wilson’s hands closed around her wrists with vise–like grips. The assent was awkward. Helen’s pant leg ripped on the side of the trapdoor. Her blouse was plastered to her body. She had lost her shoes.
“Are you okay?” Wilson asked, once they were seated on firm ground.
Helen could not speak. She buried her face in Wilson’s shoulder, squeezing her, afraid the ground would part and the dark water swallow her again. Uncaring of impropriety, she clutched Wilson’s body, needing to feel her skin, her hair, her heat. She had to know she was alive.
Wilson held her, firmly and easily, as though they’d been embracing all their lives.
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.” Wilson spoke softly into her hair. “Students used to go swimming in those wells. Lebovetski told me that. Even when the asylum was operating, the students would throw down a rope ladder and rafts. They’d take a few beers in plastic coolers.” Her voice was calm and cheerful. “Some of the wells have ledges or shoals, so you can sit and watch your friends. That was before the asylum closed and they boarded up the wells.”
“Why are they here?” Helen whispered, still clinging to Wilson.
“The wells? I don’t know,” Wilson murmured. “We’ll have to ask Dr. Lebovetski. You know he would love to tell us.”
“I could have died.” The reality of her near miss washed over Helen like more dark water.
“I know,” Wilson said.
Before Helen realized what was happening, Wilson’s lips were on hers. Their teeth collided. Their lips parted. Their tongues touched, and Helen felt an electric charge run down her spine, not dispelling the cold but moving through it like a shooting star.
A second later, she pulled away.
Wilson said, “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,” and Helen said, “I’m your boss. I am the president of this college.” But in the moment before she recoiled, Helen had felt the shooting star drop deep into her womb, leaving her body limp and light, as though she’d swallowed a night full of stars. I want you.
Wilson’s short–sleeved shirt clung to her like a bathing suit. Water glistened on her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said again.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come.” Helen was shaking uncontrollably, and didn’t know if she could walk.
“That trapdoor should never have been open,” Wilson said, her expression darkening. “The asylum is falling apart and things are supposed to be secured. The historical society and a DOT maintenance crew come through here every couple of months to make sure everything is boarded up.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Wilson said, “My bike is over there.”
She helped Helen to her feet, keeping a protective arm around her waist.
Wilson’s bike turned out to be an Indian Chief Roadmaster. Every inch of chrome on the exposed engine gleamed in the sun. The leather seat was as smooth and warm as skin. Even drenched and shaken (and not particularly fond of motorcycles under the best conditions) Helen had to admire the artisanship.
“Here.” Wilson took a helmet off the back and laid it on the seat. Then she stroked Helen’s hair out of her face, and placed the helmet on her head. Inside the helmet, Helen smelled Wilson’s cologne, not the candy scent of women’s perfume, nor the tang of men’s aftershave. Something rare and expensive.
Wilson mounted the bike in one graceful motion. Helen struggled into place behind her. Her body sank into the leather seat and into Wilson’s back. Wilson drove carefully. In a few minutes, Helen was back at the Pittock House.
“Do you want me to come in?” Wilson asked.
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Helen intended to shower and get back to work, but as soon as the door closed, she was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Climbing the stairs felt like a dream. Every step was a monument. Every second stretched into eternity. When she lay down in bed, sleep took her like a sudden, blessed end.
Chapter Twenty-three
It had been afternoon when He
len left Meyerbridge Hall. When she woke, it was after dawn the next day. She had slept so well that it took her a moment to remember her ordeal had been real. It felt like a dream, half remembered and harmless.
When she came to her senses, she called Hornsby to make sure the wells had been properly searched. She also told him to call the emergency DOT contact, to make sure they were securely covered.
“Don’t worry,” Hornsby grumbled. “Adair Wilson called me yesterday. We’ve got it under control.”
Wilson must have been discreet in her explanation because Hornsby did not seem to know anything about Helen’s fall. Helen also omitted that detail. A dramatic event like that could define the first year of a president’s office. In a small town like Pittock, it could define a life. Helen could imagine twenty–plus years of store clerks calling out, “Now you stay away from the wells.”
****
When she went into the office that afternoon, she asked Patrick to send Wilson a bouquet of flowers.
“Roses?” he asked.
“God, no. Something polite. Carnations.”
“Those are funeral flowers.”
“Is Dr. Wilson going to know that?”
Patrick folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Don’t let Addie fool you. I bet she knows all the flowers and all the anniversaries from paper to platinum.”
“This is all too complicated.” Helen put a hand to her head in mock despair. “Get her a seasonal assortment.”
“And the card? What do you want it to say?” he asked.
Helen didn’t know. She could not tell him to send the flowers without a card. That was too mysterious.
“Thank you for your continued efforts to support Pittock College?” Patrick suggested. It took Helen a moment to realize he was teasing her. “Don’t worry,” he added quietly. “She told me what happened. I’m not going to talk about it.”
The Admirer Page 11
