The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) (8 page)

I cast a glance in the mirror. The dress seemed to focus the light directly into my eyes. Maybe a spell had been cast on it. “And I thought green eyes weren’t unusual.”

She shrugged. “Any reason was good enough to accuse someone of consorting with demons and the devil. Green eyes like yours, marbled with light and dark. Pretty extraordinary.”

“Good to know. I’ll steer clear of Salem.”

She laughed, a bubbly sound of fun. “The witch trials were a long time ago. 1700s, I think.”

“Actually, the witch trials were held from 1688 through 1692, and in many cases they were about property.” I’d researched this topic in gender studies classes. “The women who died were mostly land-owning widows. The cheapest route to land acquisition was to accuse them of witchcraft and steal their property for a pittance when they were dead.”

The sales clerk frowned. “That’s not in the history books. Not this one, anyway.”

“History is written by the victors. The dead women didn’t have a chance to tell their side of the story. At any rate, allowing hysterical children to testify against helpless widows eventually backfired. When the children began accusing the rich, the trials were shut down.”

She studied me openly. “You’re not from here, but you sure know a lot. Are you a teacher?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“You have a funny accent.”

I’d tried to eradicate backwoods Kentucky from my diction, but not as successfully as I’d hoped. My “hick” accent had made me a target in boarding school and even into my undergraduate years. Reading aloud in class was comparable to taking a beating.

Now, I didn’t care. My accent, though diluted by years of Massachusetts, was a point of pride. Perhaps I’d go back to a good school in the South. Emerson or Duke or Tulane in the City that Care Forgot. Anywhere but Kentucky.

“I’m from Harlan County, Kentucky,” I said with a rural twang.

“But you’re smart.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No need to apologize for falling victim to a stereotype.” I’d become immune to people’s accidental cruelty.

“Try the dress on.” She’d wisely moved to a new topic.

I slipped it from the rack, held it up to my chest, and stared at my image in the tri-fold mirror. If I put it on, I’d have to own it. The dress was that gorgeous. Better to walk away now. I had no occasion for such elegance.

“You won’t know if you don’t try it on. I might see my way clear to marking it down another twenty percent.”

The dressing room was large, with a chair and three mirrors. My fingers slowly worked the pearl buttons, and soon the dress floated down over my head. I stepped out to see how I moved in it.

“It’s perfect.” Awe inflected the clerk’s tone. “As if it were made for you.”

The mirror agreed. Nothing I’d ever worn had shown my hair, skin, eyes, and figure to better advantage. “I’ll take it.”

How I would pay my credit card bill at the end of the month was another matter, but when I left the shop, the dress was in a box under my arm.

I window-shopped at the hardware store and the pharmacy, where Christmas ornaments had already nudged Thanksgiving aside.

“Hey! Hey, you! Bitch!”

I turned to see Karla striding toward me. She wore black tights, high-heeled boots, and a purple coat with fake purple fur around the hood. I assumed she wore a skirt of some kind, but I couldn’t swear to it. Micro-mini?

I ignored her and moved down to a florist’s window, all a-dazzle with glittery red, green, and white sparkling bows and red and white poinsettias.

“Bitch, don’t walk away when I’m calling you.”

I didn’t want to, but I faced her. She was alone, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“So you’re the one Joe has taken up with.”

“You should speak to him.” I did an about-face and started walking.

She caught up to me and gripped my upper arm with enough strength to bite through my thick jacket. “If I wanted to talk to Joe, I’d be in his face. I’m speaking to you. It’s a pretty simple message. Stay away from him.”

“Or what?” I wrenched loose and put my packages down at my feet. Anger simmered, a silvery liquid coursing through my body. I hadn’t grown up with brothers, but I’d had cousins, and I’d learned to protect myself. Fighting was a survival tool.

“I’ll kick your ass back to whatever redneck place you came from.” Karla clenched her fists.

“Give it your best shot.” I spoke softly, a deceptive tactic my cousin Wally taught me in grade school. Lure them closer, then cut loose.

“You daring me?” Karla was smart enough to be wary. She’d expected me to run.

“Yeah. I am. You want to start shit with me, bring it on. Right now.” I hadn’t been in a fight since my first year at boarding school. The girl who’d jumped me went home and never came back. She had to be fitted for a bridge.

Karla edged sideways instead of forward, as if to corner me. “Stay away from Joe. That’s what I want to tell you.”

All bluff and no action. I bent down for my packages. The blow to the back of my neck was unexpected, and painful. Only the thickness of my coat collar saved me from serious injury.

I forced myself upright and punched her hard in the face. There was a crack and blood blossomed on her face. Her squawk sounded like a mortally wounded seagull. I stood and watched as she sank to the sidewalk. Someone started screaming, and people ran out of shops and then stopped, unsure what to do.

“Press charges,” I told Karla, “and I’ll make it a point to find you.” I picked up my packages and headed back toward the inn.

“You think you know Joe.” Her voice was blubbery from blood, snot, and tears. “Ask him about Mischa. Just ask him.”

11

By the time I reached the inn, I’d stopped shaking. I’d exploded in violence—like one of my hopped-up relatives. I’d crawled away from the oxy trade, the guns, the beatings, but I hadn’t left it behind me. It was part of my DNA. Aggression and addiction, a few birth defects and mental instability, these were the hallmarks of the Cahill clan. There wasn’t a substance invented that a Cahill couldn’t grow dependent on, except maybe money. No matter how much of it a Cahill earned, it never stayed around.

Through the long years of my education, I’d worked in fast food, clerked in hardware stores, and nannied for families who could afford the luxury. I’d sold myself cheap to survive. I’d changed my hair, my clothes, my diction. I’d beaten back the dark superstitions, the fantastical visions that had plagued me as a child. Granny Siobhan told me that educated people knew such things weren’t real and that if I ignored them, they would go away. Midnight fancies were buried along with my past.

I’d worked hard to reinvent myself, but scratch the surface and the Cahill violence leaked out. My thoughts were black, and my self-loathing grew as I bypassed the inn and went down the path through the woods to my cabin. I saw the note pinned to the door before I got there.

We need to talk. Joe.

Simple as that. I hadn’t heard from him in a week and now he wanted to talk. Another wave of anxiety and anger passed through my limbs, but I contained it. It had taken years to gain the composure necessary to navigate the pettiness of academia without physically assaulting someone. A temper could be a fatal flaw in that environment. And now I’d had a brawl on a public street. Because of Joe.

Maybe not because of him. It wasn’t fair to attribute Karla’s crazy behavior to Joe. It also wasn’t fair that she had accosted and ambushed me. Still, I knew I’d likely have plenty of time to rue my hasty action.

But not as much time as I thought. The knock on my door a few minutes later was official and demanding. When I looked out the window, I saw a uniformed officer with Dorothea at his heels. Curiosity was clearly killing her.

“Miss Cahill?” the officer asked when I opened the door.

“Yes.”

“Please come with me. You’re wanted for questioning in an assault charge.”

This development wasn’t unexpected, but I still felt as if I’d been gut-kicked by a mule. “Let me get my purse.”

I put on my coat and preceded the officer onto the porch.

“What’s this all about?” Dorothea asked.

The officer ignored her, so I answered. “I was in an argument with Joe’s ex-girlfriend. Could you call him?”

“You bet.” She hurried back to the inn, and I followed the officer to his car.

Just as I ducked my head to get into the patrol car’s back seat, a slender figure appeared in the shadow of the trees not fifty yards away. She wore a puffy red coat with a hood and black pants. Her size, the slenderness of her legs, told me it was a female.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Where?” The officer turned toward the trees, but the figure had vanished.

“It was a child. Over by that big fir.”

“Probably someone from the inn.” He closed the door and slid behind the steering wheel.

A second later we were gliding away from the inn. I twisted in the back seat and tried to examine the woods. A streak of red shifted between the dark tree trunks. She was still there. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone but me.

The bare green walls in the holding room were marked with brown stains that could have been dried blood or other bodily effluvium. Every corner was crusted with filth and dust. The place hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in at least a decade. Justice in Concord was neither swift nor sanitary.

A particular wall blotch put me in mind of Granny Siobhan’s birthmark. Another spray of reddish brown reminded me of a pod of whales. No matter where I found myself, I was never far from my heritage.

I’d been alone for the better part of an hour, waiting to be questioned. Waiting to be charged. Waiting for the words that could end my academic career. I doubted I could get a job teaching with a conviction for assault and battery on my record. What would I do with myself if no school would hire me? The answer was a black void.

“Look, Ms. Cahill was defending herself.” Joe’s voice funneled down the police department’s main corridor. Dorothea had been as good as her word.

“I have witnesses,” Joe said. “Cassidy Holmes saw the whole thing. Karla Steele accosted Ms. Cahill and struck her in the back of the neck. Aine was only defending herself. If anyone should press charges, it should be Aine.”

The mumble of the officer wasn’t clear.

“She cannot have this on her record,” Joe said. “A conviction for assault could jeopardize her future career.”

More mumbling.

“Charge her, and you open the city to a lawsuit. Karla Steele isn’t rational, and you know it. Look up
her
record before you make a big mistake.”

The hubbub died down and I was left to walk the width of the small green room with minimalist furnishings—a table and two chairs. I wondered if there were cameras or audio devices so they could hear and watch me. I didn’t care. Pacing wasn’t a criminal act.

After an eternity, the door opened and Joe came in. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.” An officer stood at the door, looking in. Joe closed it.

My temper had cooled enough that I didn’t respond with mayhem. Practicality was my new mode. “I need a lawyer.”

He shook his head. “No. Karla dropped the assault charge. I just talked with her.”

My heart thudded against my ribs, and the inexplicable pressure of tears built. I was suddenly furious once again. Tears were ridiculous. “She got what she wanted, didn’t she? Your attention.”

“Not in the way she wanted, I assure you.” Anger pulsed in a jaw muscle. “I’ll make this right for you, Aine.”

Watching the pain shift across his features, I didn’t doubt his apology. I couldn’t hold him responsible for Karla’s actions even though I wanted to. “Who’s Mischa?”

Had I slapped him, he could not have jerked back more sharply. “Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Who told you to ask about her?”

“Karla. Who is Mischa? Another girlfriend?”

“God no.” His hands splayed on the desk. “We’ll talk about this when we get out of here.”

“Why not now?”

“Because it’s private, and this is a police interrogation room. Can we leave it until I get you home?”

I considered. His reaction made me want to pursue the matter, but pushing him into a corner wouldn’t yield results. “Okay.”

“Let’s go.” He tapped on the door and it opened. When he stood aside, I walked out. The police department hummed with activity, but several officers looked up.

“Golden Gloves contender,” an officer said as I passed.

I didn’t bother to respond. I only wanted to step into the sunshine and go home.

“I’ll take you to the cabin,” Joe volunteered.

I didn’t own a car, and walking in the cold from the police station was out of the question. I got into his truck and stared out the window as the town passed. Joe drove straight back to the cabin.

“None of this will be on your record,” he said. “It was clearly self-defense. Cassidy from the vintage store gave a statement. So did Mr. Black in the pharmacy. They saw it all.”

“Maybe I’ll press charges against her.” It was a tempting thought.

“Let it go, Aine. Just let it go. Karla is leaving for Nebraska to spend some time with her sister. She’s using again, and she’s out of control. Maybe, with some help, she can get a grip on herself.”

I reached for the door handle, but I didn’t open it. I needed closure on this, but I didn’t know what would give me the measure of satisfaction I required. “You put me in a situation where I could have been hurt.”

“I promise you, I had no idea Karla was in the area. I took her to Bayside Bill’s one time. I haven’t been there in months. It never crossed my mind she’d lurk there.”

He was almost bleeding sincerity. He’d asked me on a date. He wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t have known Karla the Psycho would stake out that particular bar.

“Okay. I need to let it go.”

His hand touched my shoulder. “I am sorry, Aine.”

“Me, too.” Sorry for my actions. “Will she be okay?” I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.

“Yes.”

“No details?”

He swiveled in the truck seat. “Her nose wasn’t broken, but you did a number on it. She’ll think twice before she jumps anyone again.” His grin was unexpected. “She’ll probably look like a raccoon for a few weeks.”