Barbara Michaels - The Walker in Shadows

"This was deliberate," Mark said. "It couldn't find what it was looking for, so it went storming up and down smashing things. Damn it, Mr. Friedrichs, this knocks your poltergeist theory all to hell. There wasn't a living soul in this room last night. According to the conventional theories, a poltergeist needs a human catalyst. I had the car keys, so you can't accuse Kathy of-"

He gulped, his eyes widening, as he realized the impli-: cations, but Josef shook his head, looking at Mark with grudging respect.

"You're too smart to incriminate yourself that way. If you had planned a stunt like this you'd have made damned good and sure you weren't found within a mile of those keys. Where did you go last night, Mark?"

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you," Mark said. "I'm just trying to think how to explain it."

In a stupor of distress Pat knelt down and began to pick up broken scraps. Josef took her arm and raised her to her feet.

"We'll form a cleanup team later, Pat. Come on downstairs while Mark tries to figure out how to break his latest bad news to us."

Muted howls and meows led them to the kitchen, where they found both animals waiting on the back porch. When Pat opened the door Jud bolted in, flung himself at her feet, and writhed delightedly. Albert still refused to come in, but indicated that he was faint with hunger, so Pat took a bowl of food out onto the porch.

In an effort to postpone what was clearly going to be a painful revelation, Mark turned on the radio. Rock and roll blasted out.

"Turn that off," Josef shouted.

Mark lowered the volume. "Coffee, anyone?" he asked brightly.

"Talk," Josef said.

"All right, all right, I said I'd tell you, didn't I? But you have to understand the reason. I got to thinking yesterday about some of our assumptions. The discrepancies have been small, but they have been piling up, and that made me wonder if maybe we weren't on the wrong track."

The song ended as such numbers often do, trailing off in discordant howls of woe; an announcer's bright cheery voice began to report the usual international disasters: an earthquake in Iran, a revolution in South America, the failure of the latest talks between the Arabs and the Israelis.

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Josef demanded. "All the assumptions have been yours. You practically shoved them down our collective throats."

"Oh, the basic idea is right," Mark said. "I'm certain of that. What I might have been slightly mistaken about is-er-well, let me put it this way-"

"And now," said the announcer, "for local news. A shop in New Market-"

"Shut that damned thing off," Josef snarled, reaching for the knob. As he touched it, however, the content of what was being said finally penetrated. His fingers froze on the switch, defeating Mark's belated attempt to silence the voice.

"… a number of valuable books," the announcer continued. "The proprietor, Colonel William Blake, estimates their value at approximately fifty thousand dollars. The thief gained entrance through an upper window. The police have made casts of tire tracks in the alley behind the shop, and they hope for an early arrest."

Three pairs of eyes focused on Mark.

"Don't worry," he said hastily. "They aren't yours. I wasn't dumb enough to park where I would leave tracks."

Josef rubbed his forehead.

"Where are the books?" he asked gently.

"In your trunk. I had to take a bunch of them. If I had just swiped the one, he'd have suspected you right away, since you even told him who you were and where you lived and all. Now, keep cool, Mr. Friedrichs. Don't get excited. It's bad for your health."

"In my trunk," Josef repeated. "Fifty thousand… That's grand larceny, Mark. Very grand. Plus breaking and entering-"

"I wore gloves," Mark said.

Josef face was a bright, dangerous crimson. He folded his arms on the tabletop and lowered his head onto them. His shoulders shook.

"Josef." Pat found her voice. "Mark, curse you-look what you've done." In considerable alarm she reached for Josef's wrist. Before she could locate his pulse he raised his head and she saw, incredulously, that he was gasping with laughter.

"He'll have to go away to school," he wheezed. "To Hawaii, or Tibet -someplace where there is only one flight a month out…"

Relieved and unregenerate, Mark grinned at him.

"You're a good sport," he said approvingly. "I was afraid you might be mad."

"Mad?" Josef's alarming color faded, and his mouth closed like a trap. "Mad? What would your father have done to you, Mark, if he caught you in a trick like this?"

"Uh." Mark sobered. "I hate to think," he admitted.

"Think. Because whatever it is, that's what is going to happen to you. I'll ponder the subject. Your dad sounds like a man of considerable ingenuity, but I'll try to come up with something.

"In the meantime, we must deal with the situation as it stands. Just tell me one thing. Was it worth it?"

"Yes," Mark said. He got to his feet. "You'll see. I'll show you."

He slunk out of the room. Kathy, her eyes blazing, turned on her father like a miniature Fury.

"He did it for me, Dad. How dare you yell at him!"

Her father's face softened. "All right, honey. I do understand, but-"

"He has to be punished, Kathy," Pat said. "Good intentions don't count."

"What would your husband have done?" Josef asked.

"Made him pay for the books, I suppose. But, Josef- fifty thousand-"

"That's the Colonel's estimate. We'll find out the true market value." Josef grinned. "That will be a suitable job for the young swindler: getting the prices without leaving evidence of his interest in those particular books. I'll lend him the money, and he can figure out how to reimburse the Colonel anonymously. If he gets a job right now, after school, and works straight through the summer, he'll be able to pay me back. Plus eight percent interest on the loan, of course."

The idea obviously appealed to him. He was about to develop it further when Mark returned carrying the letters of Mary Jane Turnbull. The book bristled with little slips of paper, evidence that Mark had spent the remainder of the night, after the raid on the bookstore, in perusing his prize.

"The cloth is too rough to take fingerprints," he announced cheerfully, making sure the table was clean and dry before he put the book down. "I turned the pages with my fingertips, and-"

"You are unnecessarily obsessed with fingerprints," Josef said. "There is only one chance in a million that our overworked county police would… Wait a minute. Are your prints on record?"

"Certainly not," Mark said indignantly.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Josef said. "All right, Mark, what revelations have you come upon?"

"I want you to hear it straight from the horse's mouth," Mark said. "See if you get the same impression I did. I'll read it aloud."

"That will take all day," Pat objected, looking at the thick volume.

"No, it won't. I've already marked the relevant passages." Without further ado Mark opened the book.

"Background first," he began. "These letters were written by Mary Jane to her friend, who lived in Richmond. Cordelia kept them. Ten years after the war was over she had them published, 'as a memorial to a martyr to that Holy Cause for which so many died.' " Josef started to speak; Mark raised an admonitory finger. "Wait. We'll discuss our conclusions later. I want you to hear this first.

"The ladies had been corresponding for some time before hostilities broke out. I won't waste time with the earlier letters; the first one of interest to us has the date of April twentieth, 1861.

"Surely this is the most momentous era of human history. Events follow one another so rapidly that a weak female pen can scarcely do them justice; yet, my dear Cordelia, I find relief in writing to you, since I can express my true feelings here only within these four walls. We are surrounded by enemies, the most hateful of them only a few feet from our door. The new wall keeps them from our sight, but we cannot forget their horrid presence.