Necessary Evil (11 page)

“We talked about that, too, and we decided
that the best thing to do was to keep it a secret. Most people won’t recognize
him as a historian – Darlene will spread the idea that he’s a novelist, working
his summer here as background for his next book.” She grinned. “Its subterfuge,
but not that far from the truth, when you think of it.”

“It’s a bad idea,” I said, shaking my
head. “A bad, bad idea. We can’t do this, Aunt Susanna. We don’t even know the
man. How can you trust him? How do we know he’s what he says he is?”

“Darlene knew him,” she countered.

I snapped, “From a photo in a back of a
book. That’s hardly a thorough background check.”

Aunt Susanna looked at her hands, then at
me, and her gaze was steady. “I want him to investigate, Maddie. I want him to
find the answers and put this thing to rest. He thinks he can.”

“He, also, thinks he’s God’s gift to
American history,” I growled. “He is a jerk, a blowhard, and a fortune hunter.”

“He’s
not
a fortune hunter,” she
said. “He’s a scientist and a historian, and he’s very interested in finding
the truth, whether or not there’s a treasure, just like Michael. Your uncle
never wanted the money, you know. He only ever wanted the truth, and that’s
what I want. I thought that’s what you wanted, too.”

The disappointment in her voice was clear.
I turned away and leaned on the counter. I heard her rise up behind me and take
her walker.

When she spoke, her voice was clear and
firm. “It’s been a long, terrible night and you’re tired and upset. We can talk
more about this tomorrow. But Madeleine, I want this matter settled. I think
this man has the wherewithal to figure things out, but if you are so dead-set
against his involvement, then I insist that we shut the trails down. I won’t
have anyone else hurt because of this treasure. I
won’t
have it, Maddie.
You can decide. Goodnight.”

With that, she left the room, her walker
clumping awkwardly.

I stood for a long time alone in that
kitchen, until Trusty started whining. I let her out the front door to do her
business and stood on the porch as I waited.

The silence of the night rose. Spring was
aging, summer was coming, and the symphony of night sounds sang their
anticipation. I leaned on the post, sullenly refusing to allow them to lift my
spirits, facing my second round of blackmail that night.

Professor Randall had been worse than
annoying, but I couldn’t afford to shut down the trails for even one day. My
business couldn’t handle it, any more than my conscience could deal with the
idea of another accident.

I thought of Lindsay, how she’d teased me
earlier in the day about the Fontaines and how she’d looked when we found her,
a crumpled, shapeless form on the darkened trail. I thought of Missy’s limp and
wondered what the veterinarian had found. I saw Ellen’s frantic face as she
watched us checking Lindsay over, and I recalled Randall’s puzzled expression
as he looked up from the exploratory hole.

Something is really wrong here, Warwick…
he’d said.

Well, he was right about that at least.

Aunt Susanna was right, too. We couldn’t
continue as we had. Something had to give. And if I didn’t, we were likely to
break. If I didn’t, Randall would have no reason not to tell the whole world
the truth. I was surprised he hadn’t already told Aunt Susanna. Was he hoping
to use it later?

It didn’t matter. I really had no choice.

“All right,” I said aloud. “I give up. Let
him come. Let him look. It’ll be August before he realizes that there’s nothing
to find and by then, I’ll know what to do about it.”

Resignation felt slightly better than
floundering.

No one heard me but Trusty, who came
running back, her ears streaming behind her. When I opened the door to let her
back in, I caught the faintest whiff of cologne as I stepped into the foyer.
Fragrant as it was, it set my hair on end.

Discovered by Michael
Chase tucked inside an old hymnal in the attic.

Written on a long
half-sheet of paper, and reproduced here exactly with original spelling and
emphasis.

June 1, 1862

Dearest Mother,

Your letter of the
12
^th
arrived yesterday

And I was glad to
receive it.

Any word from home
is always welcome. I

Pray that you and
Avery are well. I al-

So wish to thank
you for your kind words of

Blessing – they
are dew-drops to my soul. Marched

Long today and I
am exhausted by hours

Of training and
miserable Poe-like terrain. We shall meet 

Johnny Rebel any
day and I am itching for the introduction.

To glory we go,
hungry and tired, but with

New vigor and
eagerness. It may seem strange but I have no

Fear, just regret
that I leave so little behind for my dearest

Mother – just the
earthy good contained in my home soil.

Do pray for me, as
I always do for you, knowing our God is

Just and loving
and all is in His hands.

Yours, always,

Alexander.

PS: When I fear, I
think on the August words in my beloved psalmery, especially no. 29. Read on
this and think of me. – AC

June

Professor Randall
moved into the spare bedroom in the back of the house in late June.

Despite my telling
him to park around back, he rang the front doorbell. I was in the office and
came out to find Aunt Susanna chatting animatedly with him while he wrestled
two large suitcases through the door. My aunt was leaning heavily on her cane –
she’d ditched the walker in a fit of pique a week before – and she watched him
eagerly, as Maid Marion might have when Robin Hood came swinging in to rescue
her.

Some hero,
I thought sourly.
I honestly did not understand her enthusiasm, but showing my displeasure would
be tantamount to telling Aunt Susanna about the blackmail. So I put on my most
congenial face and went over to help.

Professor
Randall’s car certainly looked the part of the poor academic. It was a four
door sedan, several years old, and filled to capacity with his belongings. He’d
brought a couple of suitcases, a laptop, a desk-top computer, and a box of
books that was nearly the size of the twin bed in his room. Getting it up the
stairs was some trick, and we were both winded when we finally made it.

“Are you moving in
permanently?” I asked, as I helped him cram it into the far corner of his room.
It wasn't a large space to begin with and the box dwarfed it.

“God forbid,” he
said cheerfully. “No, these are just a few references texts for my book and
some manuscripts I’ve agreed to look over.”

Aunt Susanna was
in the room, having made the long, slow climb up the back stairs while we
worked. She was fussing with a vase filled with the flowers that she’d insisted
on putting in his room. It was a kind gesture, but it was, also, an excuse for
her to hang around. I didn't want her getting attached to my blackmailer, but
there was little I could say about it.

As we recovered
from our labors, Randall spotted her moving an old book to better position her
vase, and he pounced.

“Ah, now
that
,”
he said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and moved swiftly to pluck
the book out her hands with the cloth. “That is a
very
valuable and
irreplaceable old book. It’s on loan from a friend – it’s not even supposed to
be out of its display. I’ll have to ask both of you not to touch this in
future. It requires delicate handling.”

Aunt Susanna
glanced at me. “Sorry, Professor.”

I just rolled my
eyes.

“I’ll just put it
over here,” he continued, wrapping it in the handkerchief and placing it on a
high shelf. “Now, then…”

He straightened,
rubbing his back as he looked around the room. Aunt Susanna and I had decided
to give him the rarely used room only after considerable discussion. She’d
wanted to give him her old upstairs room, claiming that she never used it now
that her knees had gone bad.

“It’s just empty
space now,” she’d said, but I balked.

“You are moving
back up there as soon as your knee heals,” I insisted, and flatly refused to listen
to her protests. “You’re not a cripple, you know, just an impatient patient.”

In the end, I got
my own way and Randall got the back bedroom, which suited me for a number of
reasons: One, it was one of the nicest rooms in the house - which meant he couldn’t
complain about his accommodations - and two, it was already wired for internet,
which meant he wouldn’t need the office.

The third reason
was the most important: It was the furthest room from my own.

I’d decided that
the best way to deal with living with the man was to avoid him as much as
possible. I was even willing to let him off the hook with helping out around
the farm, if it meant that he would just leave me alone. I wanted no part in
his investigation, no part in his writing, and no part in his life - and his
having the back bedroom suited the plan perfectly: his room was close to the
back stairs, while mine practically opened on the front ones. I wouldn’t even
have to run into him on the stairwell.

Just get through
the summer
,
I kept telling myself, even though I knew that the end of the season would
bring another set of problems, specifically a disappointed Hadley history
professor who still knew that the Beaumont letter was a forgery.

But that was weeks
away. Surely I’d come up with some solution by then.

Now as Randall
assessed the room, I realized how small it was. It had adequate space for the
original bed, bureau, side table, but now, with the boxes, the computer
equipment, and the small desk I’d moved in at his earlier request, the space
was definitely cramped.

As he looked
around in consternation, Aunt Susanna said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.
It’s one of our nicest rooms.”

She looked
uncertain as she said it.

“Oh, is it?” he
asked, and his gaze fell on me. I must have looked as I felt, for he returned
to Aunt Susanna. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be just fine in here.”

I breathed a sigh
of relief, turning to leave the room when he continued, “Now, where should I
set up my research center?”

Before I could
stop her, Aunt Susanna volunteered the office downstairs.
My
office.
Where I did my paperwork at the end of the day.

“There’s enough
room in there for both of you, and all of Michael’s research is still in
there,” she said. “There are two desks, so you can take one and just make yourself
at home on the bookshelves. Maddie’s only there in the evening, so you’ll have
the place to yourself most of the time. You won’t mind sharing a space, would
you, Professor?”

“Oh, not at all,”
he said. “As long as Maddie won’t feel inconvenienced?”

They both turned
to me, and although I burned with a desire to throw him out right there, I
managed to mumble, “Fine, that’s fine.”

Then I ran
downstairs to lock the filing cabinets and desk before he could start moving
in. There was nothing of value or with particular privacy demands in either,
but denying Randall something made me feel better. I spent the rest of the day
outside, working with the animals and children, and avoided going into my own
house as much as possible.

I worked until
late that night, and not entirely because I was avoiding the people I lived
with. With Lindsay out of work until at least August and being unsuccessful at
finding a replacement, my lessons were scheduled further into the night,
sometimes ending as late as ten o’clock. Late-night lessons meant bedding the
horses down even later. It wasn’t a healthy situation, but I kept hoping it was
a temporary one.

Hiring extra labor
help had become a tricky situation. Whenever I mentioned the possibility to
Aunt Susanna, she always reacted with surprise.

“Why do that?” she
would ask. “We’ve already got Randall coming to work as part of his room and
board. Why spend money we haven’t got on help that’s going to be redundant?”

“He’s an
intellectual,” I would protest. “How much help do you think he’s really going
to be?”

But she stubbornly
insisted that we wait for Randall to show what he could do before we hired. I
think she was unwilling to let go of the idea that she had brought about this
“relief” solely through her own efforts, and her triumph undermined by my
doubts. I briefly considered hiring a local boy anyway, but didn’t for a number
of reasons, not the least of which was that I hated to go against Aunt
Susanna’s wishes.

To make do, I employed
the volunteer efforts of the young riders in the stables, organizing them to
tend to their own horses’ bedding and exercise, and to help out with others
from time to time. But, like many volunteer situations, this was good only so
far as it went. They were eager, but unreliable, calling in sick, getting
summer jobs, going away on vacations, or just plain forgetting to come in. At
the end of the day, the bulk of the work was still on my shoulders.

That night, I
waited to go back into the house until I was quite sure that Aunt Susanna and
Randall had already eaten and left the kitchen. It was late when I crept in. I
popped a plate into the microwave, put the stack of mail by my cup, and went to
wash up. Yet despite my precautions, they were both in the kitchen when I
returned.

Aunt Susanna was
by the stove, preparing mugs of coffee. Gregory Randall sat at the counter,
setting up his tablet, notebook, and stack of files. The pile of mail I’d put
by my glass had been pushed aside to make room for his propped-up cell phone,
which was almost the size of the sleek, silver tablet he was working on.

He looked up when
I came in and indicated the stool I’d set up earlier for my dinner.

“Ah, Warwick,” he
said. “Excellent, we can get started.”

Warily, I went to the
stool, but didn’t sit. He fussed with the keyboard while Aunt Susanna pulled my
plate out of the microwave and set it down in front of me.

“Eat it while it’s
hot,” she said.

The scent of
roasted chicken and vegetables reminded my stomach of how long it had been
since lunch, yet I still hesitated to sit.

Aunt Susanna
hobbled back towards the stove to tend to the coffee. I considered taking my
plate and eating my meal in my room. But Aunt Susanna had three mugs ready by
the stove for coffee and Randall was absorbed in his computer screen, one
finger resting lightly against his lips as he scanned the screen.

After a moment, I
gave in and sat down. I could afford to give them one night of my time.

Despite working
outside in the muggy weather all day, the warm food felt soothing as I shoveled
it into my mouth. I was starving, and I ate without noticing much else for a
few moments. When I raised my head to take a drink, I realized that Randall was
watching me, his finger still on his lips,
a
studious
expression on his face that seemed oddly critical. I had eaten through half a
plateful already, and under his scrutiny, I suddenly felt gluttonous.

“
What
?” I
asked defiantly.

His eyes glittered
behind the glasses, but he only shrugged slightly. “You shouldn’t wait so long
between meals,” he said quietly.

My glass thudded
loudly on the counter as I brought it down.

Aunt Susanna’s
bright tone cut through the silence.

“Maddie likes a
little milk, and I like cream and sugar, but what do you like in your coffee,
Professor?”

She was limping
back over, two steaming mugs in her hands, and I reached over to take them from
her. My cup was a fragrant hazelnut, but she’d selected a mild roast for the
professor and I slid it over to him without looking.

“Black is fine,”
he said and took a sip. When he grimaced, I wondered if he’d said it just to be
accommodating. “Have a seat, Susanna, and we can get started.”

“Started?” I
asked. Despite the discomfort of eating under his watchful eye, I worked
through the rest of my plate. It had been a long day, and I knew going hungry
would only add to my stress. “What’s going on?”

“We’re giving
evidence,” Aunt Susanna said. With some difficulty, she got up onto the stool
next to mine and carefully leaned her cane against the counter between us.
Watching her struggle, remembering all the times she used to hop up on the
counter to hang decorations over it, I felt a sudden, intense urge to take the
cane and break it over my knee. It seemed to be the awful symbol of change, of
crippling injury, of restriction by violence - an object that held my aunt
back, and I wanted it destroyed.

As if reading my
thoughts, my aunt moved the cane to her other side, nonchalant, as though there
was nothing wrong.

Randall was typing
again. “Just a second,” he said.

We sat in silence
and waited.

The intervening
weeks since Lindsay’s accident had been busy, but productive. Darlene Winters’
endorsement of Randall’s abilities had aroused my curiosity, and I’d done a
little research. I could still hear the surprise in his voice when he saw that
I didn’t recognize him by reputation. Now I knew how considerable that
reputation had been.

Gregory Randall
was something of a wunderkind. His discovery of the Dunstable cache was a
fortunate event that launched the career of a wet-behind-the-ears history major
working towards his doctorate. He’d gotten recognition and a book out of the
deal, as well as nationwide coverage and offers of positions from several
well-known universities. His articles were published in magazines and blogs
across the country. Fifteen years ago, he’d been considered the rising star in
the academic ranks and, luck aside, he seemed to have earned the recognition.
One article even referred to him as “a modern age Indiana Jones”. No wonder the
man had an inflated opinion of his abilities.

“Have we decided
on a name yet?” Aunt Susanna broke the silence. When Randall and I looked at
her, she explained, “Your pen name. While you’re here, so that people don’t
realize.”

One of my few
conditions on his conducting research in my house was that the investigation be
kept quiet. The last thing I wanted was to encourage whoever was leaving the
holes on my property and both Randall and I reluctantly agreed to Darlene’s
suggestion that he pose as a novelist.

“Lots of authors
do that,” Aunt Susanna had explained to me about a week before, when she,
Darlene, and I were having dinner.

“It’s common, but
I don’t,” Darlene replied, her mouth curving into a grin. Her dangling earrings
swung as she shook her head. She should know a thing or two about writer’s
habits. Darlene had been the author of an immensely popular travel column,
globetrotting almost constantly until she took up novels instead.

Ten years of
self-imposed exile in New Hampshire had not yet tempered her exotic appearance.
Her vibrant Indian-print tunic and chunky jewelry was a shock of color against
the pale early American color palette of the kitchen. When she held up her mug,
her sleeve slid back to show a hint of her tattoo - a souvenir that she’d
picked up while in Saigon.

 Darlene
continued, “But it’s a good idea if you want to keep the neighbors in the dark.
Mention the name ‘Randall’ in connection with the Chase farm and you might as
well hang a ‘Treasure Hunters Welcome’ sign up.”

“I don’t know,” I
said. “It seems a bit – well, daytime-drama to me. A false name?”

She dismissed my
concern with a wave of her arm, bracelets clacking with the movement. “Gregory
Randall is still touted as one of the foremost historical detectives. People
will assume the treasure is as good as found, and you’ll have worse than what
happened before.”

Aunt Susanna
nodded vigorously.

“We don’t want
anyone encouraged by Randall being here,” she said firmly. “He could just go by
his middle name. I think he said it was ‘Vincent’.”

I looked from one
to the other. They were an almost comical contrast: Aunt Susanna thin where
Darlene was generous, pale where she was dark, minimalist in dress while
Darlene was bold. Aunt Susanna’s walker sat close at hand while Darlene’s
beaten sneakers reflected her athletic spirit. Aunt Susanna was the quiet
version of Darlene’s strident strength. Salt and pepper, they were best friends
and confidants. I owed both more than I could repay - had it not been for
Darlene’s presence and persistence, Aunt Susanna wouldn’t have made it through
the past couple of years.

Still, I had to
object to this plan.

“It’s dumb,” I
protested. “Besides, won’t these people know him by sight?”

“He’s a writer and
an academic, not a TV celebrity,” Darlene said. “I don’t think anyone will
recognize him from his second book photo – that picture was taken when it was
written, about ten years ago.”

“
You
did,”
I said, and she gave me a dour look.

“I
didn’t,”
she replied, with a sniff that spoke volumes. “I recognized him from a speech
he gave at an event I attended. He has a very distinctive speech pattern. But
most people here will not have seen him personally. He’s been keeping a very
low profile.”

That was the
oddity in Randall’s profile. His career seemed to have stalled as suddenly as
it launched. One day his was a best-selling book, another was promised, and he
was waving away invitations to Harvard, Oxford, UCLA, and Princeton. There was
even talk of his heading an investigation into the legendary La Noche Triste
treasure, loot that was lost after Hernan Cortes and his Conquistadores fought
their way out of Tenochtitlan.

Randall denied
being a fortune hunter then, too. In an interview, he said, “Of course,
treasure is not the object of the investigation. We hope to find a better
understanding of the tragic events surrounding the Night of Sorrows, the
causes, and the political and societal impact on the Aztec people. That’s what
we’re setting out to find.”

He had refused to
comment on how much the missing gold artwork, looted from Moctezuma’s Palace,
would be worth in the current market.

Then, without
warning, Randall disappeared. The prestigious positions dried up, his book
published with little fanfare, his website was dismantled, and the La Noche
Triste expedition was never spoken of again. The wunderkind, who once had Yale
and Princeton beating on his door, accepted a position at a tiny, obscure
Midwestern college, then transferred to Hadley. There was no scandal, no big
story, no whisper of hardship, no explanation at all. Randall just simply faded
away.

It was a fact that
I found hard to reconcile with his attitude, but it worked for our immediate
purposes and that was all I cared about.

“I thought we
decided on ‘Gregory Vincent’,” Aunt Susanna continued, breaking the sudden
silence that had filled the kitchen.

Randall paused
before answering, shooting me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Is that really
necessary?” he asked. “It seems awfully dramatic.”

I couldn’t resist the
opportunity to say, “Aunt Susanna, no one is going to recognize Randall now.
It’s been a long time since he’s been in the public spotlight.”

He stiffened, but
hardly a moment passed before he looked me in the eye and grinned, inclining
his head.

Aunt Susanna was
too busy arguing her point to notice the exchange. “Even so, I think we ought
to be careful,” she said. “It’s not like we have to lie completely. He
is
writing a book, and he
is
here to research one. We just don’t want
treasure hunting brought into it.”

 “Mmm, true,”
Randall said, tapping his mouth with his finger again. He posed as though he
was thinking, but there was a wicked glint in his eye as he said, “I understand
Maddie’s point of view. We want to be as completely open and honest as possible.
No secrets, only the truth.”

He spread his
hands on the counter and leaned on it, smiling in a manner that might have been
reassuring, had I not known him better. “So why don’t we just omit details as
you suggest? When people ask, I’m researching a book. We don’t say what it’s
about. We can imply that it’s tied to a horse farm. And I’m not a proud man –
just introduce me as Gregory. I think that will do, as I don’t think you have
many society soirees that will require a full introduction, do you?”

Aunt Susanna
nodded her agreement, I glowered, and Randall, grinning, turned back to his
computer.