Lost Girls (14 page)

A swipe of a knuckle under her nose wipes away a dried stalactite hanging from one of her nostrils. Her face now gone pale--was always pale--except for the splatter of liver spots the color of tea stains on linen.

''Now, people tried to do her a good turn at first, you understand. Got her to do housekeeping work if they could afford to pay her, but it never worked out for one reason or another. Mostly, I suppose, because she didn't talk proper English to nobody. And she never told a soul her name nor those of her wee ones. Like she knew and wouldn't say, or had forgotten altogether. And of course there was her
behavior
to think of too.''

''Behavior?''

She peers into the rain that falls between us, pulls tight the scaffolding of lines inscribed over her forehead and empty cheeks.

''Indecency. Lived like a gypsy. Camping out in the woods here. And when they bathed, they'd just go down to the water without a stitch on and wash themselves right out there in plain sight. In the middle of the day. Starkers.''

''And this--''

''Was a terrible
temptation,
of course. Word got out. Boys back from the service started coming round to watch her stand there washing herself on the rocks. And she'd turn around slow so's they all could get a good long look. She
knew
they were watching, sure as day. And so who could be surprised when our boys--some of them married men--started visiting her at night. None left disappointed, is what was said. And we couldn't let that go on in addition to everything else, could we?''

I say nothing to this, but she must take it as solemn agreement, because she draws a racking breath and continues with renewed volume. Behind her something scuttles away through the leaves.

''Well, there wasn't anything for us to do, was there? We had those poor kids of hers to consider in the long term, you see. So we got her put away at Bishop's Hospital up the road there, which isn't a real hospital at all, it being nothing more than where the old folks with no family were put and some of the boys that came back not quite right from the war. And which would've been all right if she hadn't busted out.''

The old woman coughs once and sends a pearl of spit tumbling through the air at such velocity that my ducking lunge comes a full second too late.

'' 'Twas the winter after she was put away that she went and escaped and she was
still
nobody, not a name under God she could go by,'' she goes on. ''Just this poor thing with the wind ripping up her hospital gown and only the blue cotton slippers they used to give them in there on her feet. And when she fell through the ice of that lake there after she'd run away, there weren't a funeral or nothing like that, because any family she would've had around here weren't admitting to belong to her. A woman who went around for a week in a freezing cold March, cooing at the little kids from town while they were walking to and from school, trying to get them to come back with her into the woods, come for a nice walk with Mommy. For that's what she said, using the few words she could say proper. You see what she had going on in her head? But of course none of us cared a whit about that, did we? Our first concern was to protect our own children. Keep them from this creature who wanted nothing but to take them away.''

''Mrs. Arthurs, I really must be getting--'' I start, but a drop of rain that lands directly in my eye cuts me off and for a moment Mrs. Arthurs is washed away in tears. When they clear I see that she now struggles to hold back her own.

''There was nothing else for it,'' she goes on finally. ''And so it was that my own Duncan along with some of the other men in town got together and went into the woods--these woods right round here--to find her out. Hunt her down. And when they came upon her they found her lying in the tree trunk she'd made as her bed, talking to herself like the madwoman she was. Well, the men had a meeting right there among themselves and decided that instead of taking her back to the hospital where she'd just get out again, they might as well go ahead and put an end to the matter.''

''An end to
her,
I take it.''

She glances out at the lake again, nods once as though answering a question distinct from my own.

''But she was fast. Faster than any of them expected. Chased her all the way down out of the bush and onto the ice that was breaking up under the first days of spring sun, though all the men had the sense to stop at the bank. Stood there and watched her, just like I did, for I'd heard all their whooping from up here and come down to see for myself. All of them there--the bank manager and the fellows who ran the town stores and the ones who worked the quarry--all the men of Murdoch watching her out on the middle of the ice. We could see it was cracking, the water bubbling up dark around her feet. But that wretched woman, do you know what she did? Turned round to us and gave us a look. Just gave us this long
look,
you see, and opened her arms out wide like she was bringing someone to hold to her breast. She did all that, which was terrible enough, and then she does something worse. From the black hole of her mouth she lets out an awful cry. Hateful and mournful all at once. Truth was it got to a point we were all left wishing for the ice to break through and swallow her up just to be rid of the
noise
. And then finally it did, and down she went. But not for a second did she stop making that sound or move her arms to grab at the ice or try to pull herself up. Just kept crying out with her mouth wide open until the water came up and flooded it closed. But the last thing we saw of her--and we all saw it, I know, despite the distance she was at--the last thing we saw was that
look
. And I can tell you now, sure as Christ, there weren't nobody who saw it who had any doubt that woman had something monstrous in her heart.''

She smacks her lips closed, presses them white.

''That's quite a story, Mrs. Arthurs.''

'' 'Tisn't a story.''

I take another step and pull up my lapel to combat the cold that's now reached below my skin to the bones. Only now does the old woman move aside to let me pass.

''A question,'' I say when I'm standing beside her at the top of the slope, surprised to find that on even ground she's not much broader than the trees around her and little more than half my height. ''Why do you believe the Lady in the Lake has anything to do with this? I mean, you have to admit, the likelihood--''

''Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Crane?''

''No, I don't.''

''Ah, well then,'' she says, and shoos me off with a wave of her hand. ''You wouldn't know then, would you?''

''Know what, Mrs. Arthurs?''

''What a mother or father will do.''

I head back into the trees, leave her to collect whatever wood she'd require to cook her dinner, to her crossword puzzle and view of the weed-choked shore. It isn't until I've found the path again that I call back to her.

''About the Lady. How many children did she have?''

''Two girls,'' the old woman shouts through the trees. ''Isn't that a pickle?''

When I get back to the hotel I open the binder marked WITNESS INTERVIEWS and scribble Helen Arthurs's name at the top of the first page. She is, after all, the first person who'd spoken to me about the case, not to mention the first to provide me with an alternative theory outside of those I'd already come up with. Unfortunately for Thom Tripp, that theory involved a woman who'd been dead for over fifty years rising out of the lake and taking her victims back down with her. Not the sort of thing that meets the credibility threshold of the dimwits of a typical jury, let alone most senior members of the judiciary. Nevertheless, I end up transcribing the whole of Mrs. Arthurs's quaint rural myth in as much detail as I can recall. An hour later I've filled twelve handwritten pages, having thrown in a few supplementary details of my own for the hell of it. When I'm finished, however, I realize the morning's totally shot and I haven't yet performed a minute of useful work for my client.

The list of potential witnesses Goodwin provided me with is composed almost entirely of those who can only support the Crown's case and do no good to my own. Not surprising, given that there's only three people who can speak directly to what happened that Thursday in May: two have disappeared and the other appears to be in the process of losing his mind. So, more to avoid continuing the labored review of documentary evidence than for any other reason, I start to call some of the victims' school friends to see if I can arrange an interview.

The first four numbers yield only startled mothers explaining that their kids are in school, each of them demanding, ''Who
is
this?'' I take to hanging up before responding. And I'm about to give up altogether when I reach Laird Johanssen, who doesn't sound much surprised to hear from me at all.

''Taking the day off from school, Laird? All your friends are in class.''

''Half days. I'm in the gifted program. Only have to show up in the mornings.'' Then, matter-of-factly, ''And I don't
have
any friends.''

We arrange to meet at the Make 'n' Bake doughnut shop near the school. A concrete-and-glass cube on the corner with a yellow fluorescent light inside so powerful that it glows from two full blocks away even during the day. Outside, beside the newspaper boxes and orange waste bin buzzing with wasps, a half-dozen girls pull their heads back from a whispering circle to watch my approach. Two pierced nostrils, four bleach jobs, all wearing lipstick the color of a fading bruise. I pass them and reach the door, pull back against the spring that holds it closed, and in this sluggish imbalance between inside and out I hear one of them whisper,
Fucking scum
.

I should turn and say something in response, and nearly do, but the door is now fully open before me and I step inside without a glance back. Still, I know they stay there and watch me squint inside against the glare of orange plastic tables and stainless-steel coffee machines until I find a seat next to the hallway to the toilets. Watch me through the glass wall, whispering together a plan.

Inside, the place is crawling with other kids skipping class in order to pursue more fruitful enterprises such as smoking and constructing sentences that repeat the word
fuckin'
as often as possible. I recognize Laird immediately, though, moving through them to where I sit, bringing with him his mug and honey cruller cradled in a sheet of waxed paper. I know it's him although he wears the same pea-green army jacket favored by his colleagues, his hair the same greasy medium-length disaster. But there are certain clues that give him away: oversize head, painful cluster of pimples at the top of each cheek, and glasses so heavy, they slide down to the edge of his nose despite the best efforts of their wearer, who stabs his middle finger at their bridge with a maddening frequency. It appears that old Laird wasn't kidding about not having any friends, for as he approaches my table he is completely unacknowledged by the other chain-smoking snifflers.

''Laird?''

''The one and only.''

''Thanks for agreeing to meet,'' I say, and slide a fivedollar bill over the table at him. He looks at it a moment before stuffing it in the breast pocket of his jacket originally designed for carrying grenades.

''Nothing much better to do,'' he says.

I watch him count to four while pouring a broad stream of sugar into his coffee.

''I understand that you were in the Literary Club with Krystal and Ashley,'' I start, and measure a half teaspoon of sugar into my own.

''In a way, yeah. I mean, we
were
the Literary Club. Just the three of us. And Mr. Tripp. But I never really went after the first few meetings, so it was more just them.''

''Why'd you stop going?''

''I dunno. It was boring, I guess. And they were sort of into it, talking about books, the characters they liked most, and all the
metaphors
and
symbols
. You know? I couldn't care less about that poetry shit.''

''So why'd you join?''

''To hang out with Ashley and Krystal.''

''You were friends with them?''

''I told you, man, I'm not friends with
anybody
. But they were okay. They were a lot smarter than most, and definitely smarter than any of the other hot girls at school. But nobody was really friends with Ashley and Krystal except Ashley and Krystal, you know what I mean?''

''So they were pretty close, then?''

''Like sisters, man. Better than sisters. Sisters without bitching over who took the last tampon or whatever.''

I glance over Laird's shoulder and see the circle of girls still there outside the glass, guessing at my words.

''What about Tripp? Were they close with him?''

''Depends on what you mean. They'd talk to him, yeah, but that's about it. They were pretty much the only ones who
would
talk to him after he got all zombied out or whatever. But they weren't in love with the guy or anything.''

''You think
he
was in love with them?''

''He thought they were pretty cool, I guess. I mean, they were the only members of his little club, which was the one thing he seemed to care about. But if you mean a
sex-love
sort of thing, I have no idea. But I wouldn't blame him if he did.''