Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

“Even though there was a drowning?”

“That happened six months later. And it was ruled accidental. After a deep freeze, Karl walked out on the ice. But he misjudged the ice’s thickness. We were all devastated, of course.”

“You said the summertime incident was the beginning of the end. Do you feel it was related in some way to the drowning?”

“Did I? Then I misspoke. What I mean is that was the first shattering incident in a terrible year.”

“If it was so neatly stored away, why are you opening the door on this skeleton in the closet now?”

“Because every year, on the anniversary of his death, I receive a strange phone call. Every year except this one, that is.”

“The calls seemed connected with the incident?”

“Let’s just say, they brought the incident to mind.”

“How come?”

“The caller hummed tunelessly, just like that boy Al did. But they were just phone calls, nothing more. No letters, no other contact. I tried to put them out of my mind. But now that my daughter’s disappeared, I wonder if the caller found her this time. Could the caller have abducted her? Was it that boy, all grown up now?”

“Do you remember the boy’s last name?”

“It was Leigh.”

“How would you spell that?”

“I always assumed it was ‘L-E-I-G-H’. He was foreign but not Chinese. But I thought you weren’t going to put this in the paper.”

“I’ll keep my word. What about his age at the time?”

“Fifteen.”

“Do you know if Al had any prior record of violent behavior or run-ins with the law?”

“He had struck out at his mother. She used the incident to get him some special education in that disciplined school environment, but she did not press charges against her son. Karl looked into it. If he had anything else in his record, I’m sure my husband would have moved heaven and earth to have the boy put away for life.”

“How certain are you that Ellen was unaware of the sexual nature of the incident? Do you think if Al confronted her recently, he might have stirred up memories that would have caused her to strike out at him?”

“I hope she has no memory of it. Frankly, I think it’s more likely she’d strike out at a perfect stranger who surprised her in her kitchen.” Ellen’s mother gazed out the window. “It’s getting dark. Are you parked at the faculty club? Perhaps I should drive you around to it.”

“That’s all right. I think there’s enough light for me to make the walk. I could use the time to digest what you’ve told me.”

“That’s good. Then I won’t have to leave the house while the fire is still burning. And I’ll be here when Veronica returns.”

The two women walked downstairs to the mudroom, where Liz handed her hostess the pair of slippers and donned her boots and coat. As she stepped out into the snow, she turned and said, “I am assuming your demand that I do not print what you have told me does not extend to any information it might lead to.”

“That’s right. If you discover Al has threatened or taken my daughter, you’ll have the scoop. You can say the young man was fixated on her. But there’s no need to mention my husband’s involvement. On the other hand, if you discover Al’s whereabouts and there’s no connection, the incident need never be publicized.”

Pulling on her gloves, Liz asked one more question.

“What was the date of your husband’s death?”

“December 18, 1974.”

Twenty-six years to the day before Ellen exited her own family circle.

Perhaps because clouds had rolled in as the sun advanced to the horizon, daylight was fading faster than Liz had expected. After the comfort of the warm sitting room, the atmosphere felt raw, too. Those two factors meant Liz would have to adjust her expectations of a leisurely, contemplative stroll. Still, Liz reasoned, without the need to proceed delicately with Mrs. Swenson—conversationally or otherwise—she should be able to retrace her steps before the sun went down entirely.

As the cold easily penetrated her sports leggings, Liz also felt chilled at the prospect of calling in to Dermott to say she had no story to file. Although the day was productive, nothing printable had come of it. And the city editor was bound to think she was not hard-nosed enough when she would have to admit the information she had gathered was confidential.

“No use thinking about that,” Liz decided, picking up her pace. She might as well take this time of forced speed walking and use it as best she could. As she strode on briskly, her eyes naturally traveled to the open surface of the lake, where the scene was best lit.

How did Karl Swenson’s drowning there change Olga’s and Ellen’s enjoyment of their Thursday afternoons? she asked herself. Did it put a damper on their walks, after the incident with Al? Or, since the boy was transferred from the school across the way, did they continue their perambulations and picnics there untroubled in the months before Karl went through the ice?

Perhaps they’d never stopped enjoying the landscape here. To this day, Olga Swenson seemed fond of the Pinetum and topiary garden. What gave her the strength to continue residing on the shore of a body of water that had taken her husband’s life?

If deepening dusk endows rhetorical questions with significance, it serves even better to clothe those who pose them with an air of wisdom. Or so it was for Liz Higgins, walking through the snow along Lake Waban that cold December evening. The farther her feet and her thoughts carried her, the more convinced she became that Olga Swenson had chosen well when the widow decided to confide in Liz.

But Liz’s confidence was in for a blow.

Night fell as Liz came to the edge of the woodland and approached the western gate leading into the topiary garden. Relieved the gate was not chained shut, Liz took comfort in knowing that beyond the rhododendrons, the scene would open up until she reached the Pinetum. Then, even when the walk darkened amid the collection of conifers, she would be closer to the well-lit college pathways and her car.

Rounding the rhododendrons, she looked ahead eagerly towards the balustrade-bounded walkway.

Much brighter.

Bright enough to reveal the silhouette of a Doberman pinscher, posed in an unmistakably challenging stance.

Liz froze in her tracks. Then, very slowly, she turned to retrace her steps.

The Doberman advanced.

She halted.

So did the dog.

With her back to the watchdog, Liz listened for its approach. The only sound in the moonless night was that made by the reporter’s own rapid breathing.

Wasn’t it always said dogs can sense your fear? And that attack dogs were more likely to strike if they smelled your cowardice?

Liz took in a few long breaths through her nose, exhaling each from her mouth. Perhaps she’d slowed her breathing. But her heart did not stop pounding. Surely she must be broadcasting her terror.

Liz felt a breeze on her face. It was blowing from the direction of the open space. Good. Her scent would not be reaching the dog. But that was small comfort when she had no idea if the dog had continued to approach her.

She had to know if the Doberman had gotten closer. Slowly, she turned her head and then her shoulders, too.

She saw the dog had held its place, but now that she moved, he did, too. Straight toward her.

Haunches forward, the dog took several steps. The movements were slow, precise, light-footed.

Liz took a few leaden steps away from the animal.

The hound halved the distance between them.

There was nothing to do but test one remaining hope. The dog might stop following her if she crossed the property line. Steadily and slowly, Liz covered the remaining few yards to the gate and passed through it.