Emily should have stayed with his son, thought Daniel. He was a fine boy. She should not have broken his heart. When she had arrived at the death site, just as the body was being carried across the fields to the waiting ambulance, Daniel had been unable to speak to her. She had approached him, her eyes glistening, her arms raised to hold him and to be held in turn, but he had turned away from her, one hand outstretched behind him, the palm raised in a gesture that was plain to all who had witnessed it, and in that way he had made it clear where he felt the blame for his son’s death lay.
And so Bobby’s mother had wept tears of grief and pain at the news that her son’s life had been taken from him by others, of incomprehension at the manner of her son’s death, while his father had felt some of the weight lifted from his shoulders, and he marveled at his own selfishness. Now, in the basement, the anger came back, and his hands formed themselves into fists as he raged at the faceless thing that had killed his son. Somewhere above him the doorbell rang, but he barely heard it over the roaring in his head. Then his name was called, and he allowed the tension to ease from his body. He released a ragged breath.
‘My boy,’ he said softly. ‘My poor boy.’
Emily Kindler was sitting at the kitchen table. Behind her, his wife was making tea.
‘Mr. Faraday,’ said Emily.
He found that he was able to smile at her. It was a small thing, but there was genuine warmth in it. There was no longer any hint of blame attaching to her for what had occurred, and she seemed more like a link to his son, fuel for the fire of his memory.
‘Emily,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Okay, I guess.’ She could not look at his face. He knew that his rejection had wounded her deeply, and if he had absolved her of all blame, she had yet to do the same for him. They had never discussed what had happened that day, so it was true to say that he had not made any recompense for it.
His wife came over and touched the girl’s hair gently with the palm of her hand, smoothing down some loose strands. Daniel thought that they looked a little alike: both were pale and without makeup, and there were dark circles of grief beneath their eyes.
‘I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving after the funeral.’
He struggled to find something to say.
‘Listen, honey,’ he said, ‘I owe you an apology.’ He reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. ‘That day, the day they found Bobby, I wasn’t myself. I was just so hurt, so shocked, that I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .’
Words failed him. He did not want to lie to her, and he did not want to tell her the truth.
‘I know why you couldn’t look at me,’ she said. ‘You thought it was my fault. Maybe you still do.’
He felt his chin begin to tremble, and his eyes grew hot. He did not want to cry in front of her. He shook his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I apologize for ever thinking that of you.’
Now she gripped his hand tentatively as his wife placed three cups on the table and poured tea from an old china pot. ‘Thank you.’
‘Chief Dashut came by earlier,’ he continued. ‘He said that Bobby didn’t take his own life. He was murdered. He asked us to keep it quiet for now. We’ve told nobody else, but you, you should know.’
The girl made a small mewling sound. The little blood she had left seemed to drain from her face.
‘What?’
‘The injuries, they’re not consistent with suicide.’ He was crying now. ‘Bobby was killed. Someone choked him until he was unconscious, then tightened the rope around him until he died. Who would do that? Who would do such a thing to my boy?’
He tried to hold on to her, but her hand slipped from his. She stood up, teetering on her low heels.
‘No,’ she said. She turned suddenly, her right hand trailing. It caught the nearest cup and sent it falling to the floor, where it shattered on the tiles. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I can’t stay here.’
And there was something in her voice that caused Daniel’s tears to cease.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just can’t stay. I have to leave.’
There was knowledge in her eyes. Daniel saw it.
‘What do you know?’ he said. ‘What do you know about my boy’s death?’
He heard his wife speak, but it meant nothing to him. All of his attention was focused on the girl. Her eyes were huge. They were staring at the window behind him, where her face was reflected in the glass. She looked confused, as though the image there was not the one that she had expected to see.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Please.’
She did not speak for a time. Then, softly: ‘I caused this.’
‘What? How?’
‘I’m bad luck. I bring it with me. It follows me.’
She looked at him for the first time, and he shivered. He had never seen such desolation in the eyes of another human being, not even in his wife’s eyes when he’d told her that their son was dead, not even in his own as he looked in the mirror and saw the father of a dead child.
‘What follows you?’
The first of her tears began to fall. She continued speaking, but he felt as though their presence in the room was immaterial to her. She was talking to another, or perhaps to herself.
‘There’s something haunting me,’ she said, ‘someone haunting me, following in my footsteps. It won’t give me peace. It won’t leave me alone. It hurts the people I care about. I bring it down on them. I don’t want to, but I do.’
Slowly, he approached her. ‘Emmy,’ using his son’s pet name for her, ‘you’re not making any sense. Who is this person?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, her head low. ‘I don’t know.’
He wanted to shake her, to pummel the information from her. He did not know if she was talking about a real person or some imagined shadow, a ghost conjured up to explain her own torment. An unknown entity had killed his son. Now here was his ex-girlfriend talking about someone following her. It needed to be explained.
She seemed to sense what he was thinking, for as he moved to take hold of her, she slipped away.
‘Don’t touch me!’ The ferocity with which she spoke the words caused him to yield to her.
‘Emily, you need to explain yourself. You have to tell the police what you’ve told us.’
She almost laughed. ‘Tell them what? That I’m haunted?’ She was in the hallway now, backing toward the door. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to Bobby, but I won’t stay here. It’s found me. It’s time to move on.’
Her hand found the door handle and twisted it. Outside, Daniel felt snow coming. This strange spell of warmth was coming to an end. Soon, they would be lost in drifts, and his son’s grave would gape darkly amid the whiteness like a wound as they lowered him into the ground.
He began running as Emily turned to leave, but she was too fast for him. His fingers touched the material of her shirt, and then he stumbled on the porch step and dropped heavily to his knees. By the time he got to his feet, she was already running down the street. He tried to follow, but his legs hurt and he had been shocked by the fall. He leaned against the gate, his face contorted in pain and frustration, as his wife held his shoulders and asked him questions that he could not answer.
∗ ∗ ∗
Daniel called the police as soon as he was inside the house. The dispatcher took his name and number and promised to pass his message on to the chief. He told her that it was urgent, and demanded that she give him Dashut’s cell phone number, but she informed him that the chief was out of town and had given orders that, for this night at least, he was not to be disturbed. Eventually, she promised to call the chief as soon as Daniel was off the line. With no other option, Daniel thanked her and hung up.
The chief did not call back that night, even though the dispatcher had informed him of Daniel Faraday’s call. He was having a good time with his family at his brother’s fortieth birthday party, and he believed that h
e had earned it. He had not told Daniel Faraday and his wife all that he had learned. That morning, one of his men had called Dashut’s attention to the base of the tree to which Bobby Faraday had been tied. Initials had been carved into its bark by the kids who had gone there to make out over the years, transforming it into a monument to love and lust, both passing and undying.
But something else had been hacked into the bark, and recently too, judging by the color of the exposed flesh beneath: a symbol of some kind, but unlike anything that Dashut had seen before.
He made sure that a photograph was taken of it, and he intended to seek advice about it the next day. The symbol might mean nothing, of course, or be entirely unconnected to the Faraday killing, but its presence at the murder scene troubled him. Even at the party, as he tried to put it from his mind, it came back to him, and, with a damp finger, he found himself tracing it upon a table, as if by doing so it might reveal its meaning.
By the time the party was over, it was after 2 a.m. Daniel Faraday, the chief decided, would have to wait until the morning.
Daniel Faraday and his wife died that night. The rings on their gas stove had been turned to full. The windows, and the front and back doors, all fitted perfectly in their frames, for Daniel worked as a supervisor for one of the local utility companies and knew the cost of heat leakage in winter, so no gas escaped from the house. It seemed that his wife must have had second thoughts at some point (that, or there was the dreadful possibility that it was not a pact, but a murder-suicide on the part of her husband), for her body was found lying on the bedroom floor. On the kitchen table was a photograph of the Faradays with their son, along with a bunch of winter flowers. It was assumed that they had killed themselves out of grief, and the chief was overwhelmed by guilt for failing to return their call. It made him more determined than ever to find whomever was responsible for Bobby Faraday’s death, even as he slowly began to wonder about three apparent suicides, all involving a single family, one of which had already proven to be something other than what it first appeared.
Emily finished packing her bags after leaving the Faradays. She had been preparing to leave town ever since Bobby had gone missing, sensing somehow (although she did not speak the words aloud) that Bobby would not be returning, that something terrible had befallen him. The discovery of his body, and the nature of his death, only confirmed what she already knew. She had been discovered. It was time to move on again.
Emily had been running for years from the thing that was pursuing her. She was getting better and better at concealing herself from it, but not good enough to hide from it forever. Eventually, she feared, it would trap her.
It would trap her, and it would consume her.
8
I had the next day off, and it was the first opportunity I had been given in some time to see how unsettled Walter had become. He would paw at the door to be let out, then minutes later would beg to be let in again. He seemed not to want to leave my side for too long, but struggled to sleep. When Bob Johnson came over to say hi while out for his morning constitutional, Walter would not go to him, not even when Bob offered him half a cookie from his pocket.
‘You know,’ said Bob, ‘he was like that while you were away in New York. I thought he might just be ailing that weekend, but it doesn’t seem to have gotten any better.’
I took Walter to the vet that afternoon, but the vet could find nothing wrong with him.
‘Is he alone for long periods?’ she asked me.
‘Well, I work, and sometimes I have to stay away from home for a night or two. The neighbors look after him when I’m gone.’
She patted Walter. ‘My guess is he doesn’t like that very much. He’s still a young dog. He needs company and stimulation. He needs a routine.’
Two days later, I made the decision.
It was Sunday, and I was on the road early, Walter on the front seat beside me, alternately dozing and watching the world go by. I reached Burlington before noon, and stopped at a little toy store I knew to buy a rag doll for Sam, and at a bakery to pick up some muffins. While I was there, I bought a coffee at a place on Church Street and tried to read The New York Times, Walter at my feet. Rachel and Sam lived only ten minutes outside town, but still I lingered. I couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper. Instead, I stroked Walter, and his eyelids drooped with pleasure.
A woman emerged from the gallery across the street, her red hair loose upon her shoulders. Rachel was smiling, but not at me. A man was behind her, saying something that was making her laugh. He looked older than she did, comfortable and paunchy. He placed the palm of his hand lightly against the small of her back as they walked together. Walter spotted Rachel and tried to rise, his tail wagging, but I held him back with his collar. I folded the newspaper and tossed it aside.
Today was going to be a bad day.
When I reached Rachel’s parents’ property, her mother, Joan, was outside the main house, playing ball with Sam. Sam was two now, and was already at that point where she knew the names of her favorite foods, and understood the concept of ‘mine,’ which pretty much covered everything she had developed a liking for, from other people’s cookies to the occasional tree. I envied Rachel the opportunity she had to watch Sam develop. I seemed to see it only in fits and starts, like a jerky film from which crucial frames had been excised.
Sam recognized me as I stepped from the car. Actually, I think she recognized Walter before me, because she called out a mangled version of his name that sounded like ‘Walnut’ and spread her arms in welcome. She had never been afraid of Walter. Walter fell into the category of ‘mine’ where Sam was concerned, and Walter, I suspected, regarded Sam in much the same way. He bounded up to her, but slowed down when he was a couple of feet away, so that he wouldn’t knock her over. She threw her arms around him. After licking her some, he lay down and let her fall upon him, his tail wagging happily.
If Joan had been gifted with a tail, I don’t think it would have been wagging. She struggled to put a smile on her face as I approached, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
‘We weren’t expecting you,’ she said. ‘Rachel went into town. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.’
‘I can wait,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I came to see Sam, and to ask a favor.’
‘A favor?’ The smile wavered again.
‘It’ll hold until Rachel returns.’
Sam relinquished her grip on Walter for long enough to toddle up to me and put her arms around my legs. I lifted her up and stared into her eyes as I gave her the doll.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ I said. She laughed and touched my face.
‘Daddy,’ she said, and my eyes grew warm.
Joan invited me inside and offered coffee. I’d had my fill of coffee for the day, but it gave her something to do. Otherwise, we’d simply have ended up staring at each other, or using Sam and Walter as a distraction. Joan excused herself, and I heard a door close and then her voice speaking in a low tone. I guessed that she was calling Rachel. While she was gone, Sam and I played with Walter, and I listened to her speaking a mixture of recognizable words and her own private language.
Joan returned and poured the coffee, then put some milk in a plastic cup for Sam, and we picked at the muffins while talking about nothing at all. After about fifteen minutes, I heard a car pull up outside, then Rachel entered the kitchen, looking flustered and angry. Sam immediately went to her, then pointed at the dog and said ‘Walnut’ again.
‘This is a surprise,’ said Rachel, making it clear that, as surprises went, it was right up there with finding a corpse in one’s bed.
‘A spur of the moment decision,’ I said. ‘Sorry if I disrupted your plans.’
Despite my best efforts, or maybe they just weren’t very good to begin with, there was an edge to my voice. Rachel picked up on it, and frowned. Joan, ever the diplomat, took Sam and Walter outside to play as Rachel removed her coat and tossed it on a chair.
‘You should have called,’ she said. ‘W
e might have been out, or away somewhere.’
She made an attempt to clear some plates from the draining board, then gave up.
‘So,’ she said. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve been okay.’
‘You still working at the Bear?’
‘Yeah. It’s not so bad.’
She did a good imitation of her mother’s pained smile. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’
There was silence for a time, then: ‘We need to formalize these visits, that’s all. It’s a long way to come on a whim.’
‘I try to come as often as I can, Rach, and I do my best to call. Besides, this isn’t quite a whim.’
‘You know what I mean.’
More silence.
‘Mom said you had a favor to ask.’
‘I want you to keep Walter.’
For the first time she showed some emotion other than frustration and barely restrained anger.
‘What? You love that dog.’
‘Yes, but I’m not around enough for him, and he loves you and Sam at least as much as he loves me. He’s cooped up in the house when I’m working, and I keep having to ask Bob and Shirley to look after him when I leave town. It’s not fair to him, and I know your mom and dad like dogs.’
Rachel’s parents had kept dogs until very recently, when their two old collies had both died within months of each other. Since then, they’d talked about getting another dog, but hadn’t quite been able to bring themselves to do it.
Rachel’s face softened. ‘I’ll have to ask mom,’ she said, ‘but I think it’ll be fine. Are you sure, though?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but it’s the right thing to do.’
She walked over and, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged me.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
I’d put Walter’s basket and toys in the trunk, and I handed them over to Joan once it was clear that she was content to take him. Her husband Frank was away on business, but she knew that he wouldn’t object, especially if it made Sam and Rachel happy. Walter seemed to know what was happening. He went where his basket went, and when he saw it being placed in the kitchen he understood that he was staying. He licked my hand as I was leaving, then sat himself down beside Sam in recognition of the fact that his role as her guardian had been restored to him.