The Widow's Walk (24 page)

Garrett gave Constance a questioning look.

“It is all right, Garrett,” Constance answered. “I don't know why, but I trust her.”

Garrett looked back at Dr. Wentworth.

“Constance says yes,” he said.

“Very well,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “But first things first.” She then stared in Constance's direction. “Let me have a look at you.”

To Garrett's and Constance's surprise, when Dr. Wentworth left her desk she did so via an electric wheelchair. Although she was obviously handicapped, her disadvantage did nothing to compromise her regal bearing. As she maneuvered the chair closer to Constance, she looked at Garrett.

“It was a car crash,” she said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Garrett asked.

“Four years ago, a drunk driver did this to me. No reason for it, really. William was driving, and he got the worst of it. Nearly killed him. That was the question you were asking yourself, was it not?”

“Yes,” Garrett answered. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “Life is seldom fair, professor.”

Seated directly across from Constance, she held out her hands.

“Please, my dear,” she said, “take my hands and place them upon your face so that I can get a sense of you.”

After Constance did as she was asked, Dr. Wentworth ran her palms and fingertips over Constance's face and hair, trying to glean a mental picture of her. When she was finished, she returned her hands to her sides.

“So beautiful,” she said. Then she looked at Garrett. “How old is she?” she asked.

“Thirty-two,” Garrett answered.

“Cut down in the prime of her life,” Dr. Wentworth said. “Please tell me how it happened.”

Just then someone knocked on the doors. After Brooke bid her entry, one of the maids wheeled a silver tray into the room. It was laden with a full tea service and two platefuls of scones. She quietly served Garrett and Brooke then departed as smoothly as she had arrived.

“Would Constance like some?” Brooke asked.

Constance nodded at Garrett, and he served her some tea and a scone. After sipping the very good tea he explained everything to Brooke, including his love of Seaside and its restoration. When he finished, he sat back in his chair.

“You tell me that Constance fell from her widow's walk and onto the shore,” Brooke said. “And that she awakened in the same state in which we now find her. That is to say, her condition has remained unchanged for seventeen decades.”

“That's right,” Garrett answered.

“And that her husband, Adam, the sea captain, died when his whaling vessel capsized off Cape Horn?”

“Also true,” Garrett answered. “As fate would have it, they perished on the very same day.”

Just then Garrett saw Brooke blanch. She soon began shaking her head, and whispering something under her breath that sounded something like, “No, it can't be . . . the odds against you two ever finding each other are simply too great . . .”

Concerned, Garrett tried to look into Brooke's eyes, but it did him no good. She was staring off into space, seeing nothing, still muttering to herself. After a time Brooke seemed to calm down.

“The
mora mortis
. . .” she said quietly, as if Garrett and Constance weren't there.

“What did you just say?” Garrett asked.

“I take it that you do not speak Latin, Dr. Richmond,” she said.

“No.”

“The
mora mortis
,” Brooke repeated. “I knew of its supposed existence, but the odds are so impossibly high . . . just the same, though, that could be it. My God, could it really be happening?”

“What is she talking about?” Constance asked Garrett.

“I have no idea,” Garrett answered. He again turned his attention toward Brooke. “What are you saying, Dr. Wentworth?” he asked her.

“Please call me Brooke,” she said. “And now, the two of you must come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Garrett asked.

“Someplace where no other outsider has ever ventured,” Brooke said.

With Garrett and Constance in tow, Brooke maneuvered her chair across the massive room and toward a pair of elevator doors. She then pushed one of the elevator buttons, the twin doors hissed apart, and the three of them entered. On reaching the basement floor, Brooke used a wall switch to illuminate the subterranean room.

As they looked around, Garrett and Constance could hardly believe their eyes. The room was nearly as large as the one they just departed. Clearly they had entered another study, but this one was quite unlike any they had ever experienced.

The entire room was finished in dark hardwoods, and whoever had ordered the job had spared no expense. The walls were lined with bookcases, none of which rose to a height of more than four feet, presumably so that the many hundreds of volumes would be accessible to Brooke. The fourth wall held a lovely marble fireplace, with a hearty fire burning in the hearth that dispatched welcome heat and some rather ghostly shadows across the room.

Against the opposite wall there stood a huge mahogany desk that was literally strewn with papers, and reading and writing tools. Before the desk stood a lovely leather couch. A massive Oriental rug lay in the center of the floor, and the numerous light fixtures all appeared to be original Tiffany. Every inch of available wall space seemed taken up with historical artifacts and works of art that had apparently been gleaned from various places all over the world. Taken as a whole, Garrett couldn't begin to imagine the value of this secret room.

Brooke beckoned Garrett and Constance to sit on the sofa then she maneuvered her chair to the bookcases, where she began perusing the many hundreds of volumes. When at last she found the two books she wanted, she eagerly freed them from their brethren then blew the dust from them before going to the desk. She opened one of the books and quickly began thumbing through its pages in an apparent search for some specific information. When at last she looked up at Constance and Garrett, she was positively beaming.

“What is this place?” Garrett asked.

“It's my sanctuary,” Brooke answered. “Aside from me, my father, and a handful of servants, you two are the only other people to ever visit here.”

“Your father?” Garrett asked.

Brooke nodded rather sadly.

“Yes,” she answered. “He died some twenty years ago, and as his only child, I inherited this house. This study was originally his, and everything in it was collected either by him or me from various places around the world. As best I know there's nothing else quite like it—at least not in private hands, anyway.”

“It's amazing,” Garrett said. “I've never seen its rival.”

“Nor are you likely to,” Brooke said.

“Yes, I'm sure that's all true,” Garrett replied, “but what I don't understand is—”

Brooke quickly held up one hand, stopping him.

“May I call you Garrett?” she asked. “I do believe that I can help the two of you, at least to a certain extent. But as laymen, you have no idea of the complexity of that which has taken you into its grip. We are most likely dealing with forces beyond human ken. Even so, I still believe that I can aid you, provided you wish to pay the steep price involved.”

Constance looked at Garrett with worried eyes.

“Of what price does she speak?” she asked Garrett.

“Constance wants to know what you meant by that last part,” Garrett said to Brooke. “What is the price that we must pay?”

“All things in good time,” Brooke answered. “To give you a proper explanation, I must start at the beginning. And starting at the beginning also means telling you my story.”

Chapter 25

Leaning back in her chair, Dr. Brooke Wentworth gazed directly into Garrett's eyes.

“To understand what's happening,” she said, “you first need to know about my father, James. He was also a Ph.D., and his discipline was archaeology. My mother died while giving birth to me, and as a consequence, my father began dragging me all over the world with him on his many expeditions. If there was such a thing as a real-life Indiana Jones, then that was my dad. He risked his life more times than I can count in dense jungles, on archaeological digs, and anywhere else he thought he might find a valuable artifact. He also taught at Harvard, where I eventually received my degree in anthropology. Later came my car crash, which relegated me to this chair. That's when I quit teaching.”

“Forgive me, but what does any of this have to do with our situation?” Garrett asked.

Brooke gave him a smile.

“Patience, young man,” she said. “We're getting there. As I was saying, although my father and I shared many of the same interests, I soon became more intrigued with the metaphysical realms. As we traveled the world I studied under various swamis, gurus, rabbis, monks, and priests—virtually anyone who could give me insight into the very powerful forces that truly shape and control our world. Now I spend my days here in Salem, overseeing my ancestral home and managing several charitable foundations.”

“ ‘Ancestral'?” Garrett asked.

Brooke nodded.

“I'm sure that you're more than curious about how my father, a college professor, might have become so wealthy,” she said. “The truth is he inherited it all, and then I from him when he died. Did you notice the portrait in the foyer?”

“It's impossible not to,” Garrett answered.

“That man is my great-great-great uncle,” she said, “and at one time he was one of the richest industrialists in America. As you can imagine, being even obliquely related to such massive wealth has its advantages.”

“Of course,” Garrett said.

“A massive trust left to my father allowed for all of this, and was what really paid for his many adventures,” Brooke added. “Even so I was not spoiled, despite being an only child. My father had a saying: ‘Give your children enough to do something, but not enough to do nothing.' ”

“Well said.”

Brooke beckoned about the room.

“Many of the books and artifacts you see here are one of a kind,” she said, “collected by my father and me during our travels. We compensated their owners fairly for each of them. Even so, many are by now quite priceless—especially the two volumes that I just pulled from the shelves and brought to my desk.”

Brooke lifted one of the books so that Constance and Garrett could see its old leather cover, and then the writing that lay inside. The pages looked ancient and were nearly falling apart. They had not been printed on a press, but were instead handwritten in a language that Garrett could not read.

“Is that Latin?” he asked.

Brooke nodded.

“This book is called the
Carta Umbrarum,
she answered. “Translated into English, it means:
The Book of Shadows.
My father found it during one of his archaeological digs in Southern Italy. It dates from the fifteen hundreds. When he first saw it, he thought that it was probably an old handwritten copy of the Bible, which at one time was the usual way priests and monks reproduced it for distribution throughout the world. But because he read and wrote Latin fluently, he immediately realized that it was something else altogether.”

“And that is?” Garrett asked.

“Believe it or not,” Brooke answered, “it's like a book of spells. Sorry, let me rephrase that. It's not so much a book of ‘spells' as it is a collection of worldly phenomena for which the Catholic clergy had no explanation, many of which remain a mystery to this very day. My guess is that what happened to Constance, and then also to you Dr. Richmond, is outlined on these pages.”

“The
mora mortis,”
Garrett said, almost to himself.

“Yes,” Brooke answered.

“What does that mean in English?” Garrett asked.

“Rather loosely translated, it means: ‘The Delay of Death.' ”

Garrett turned to look at Constance. She too was mesmerized by what Brooke was telling them.

“Please continue,” Garrett said to Brooke. “But first, there's something I don't understand. On hearing our story, how could you possibly go straight to the right book and then turn to the exact page that you needed? Forgive me, but I find that quite unbelievable.”

“As would I, if I were in your shoes,” Brooke answered. “Put simply, it's because I was born with a photographic memory. Which, by the way, can be more of a curse than a blessing, I assure you. Added to that is the fact that this book was my father's favorite, because everything contained therein remains a mystery. You see, Dr. Richmond, what this book is about to tell us is what has happened to you two, and why. But when we come to the solution, well, that's the puzzling part.”

“What do you mean?” Garrett asked.

Brooke again held up one hand.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” she said.

“Are all the phenomena described in
The
Book
of
Shadows
so malevolent?” Garrett asked.

Brooke gave him a quizzical look.

“Who said anything about the
mora mortis
being malevolent?”

“It has to be,” Garrett countered, “given that it so cruelly traps someone between the worlds of life and death with no chance of salvation.”

“Once again you're jumping to conclusions,” Brooke answered. “In fact the
mora mortis
is perhaps the most benevolent of all the phenomena in
The
Book
of
Shadows
.”

“How can that be?” Garrett asked.

“Because it is based upon love,” Brooke answered. “You told me that Brooke fell from her widow's walk the same day that Adam perished at sea. The
mora mortis
is a phenomenon that occurs very rarely throughout history. It states that when two people who love one another unconditionally perish at the same instant, a tear is formed in the fabric of time, causing one to die while the other must live out another existence in between life and death. During this period, only one other person in the entire world will be able to both see that person and communicate with him or her. And if that lover doesn't come along, then the trapped person will live that way throughout all eternity. This is what happened to Constance, and the person who can see her and speak with her is you, Dr. Richmond. Infinitesimal as the odds might be, you two somehow found each other.”