Barbara Michaels - The Walker in Shadows

"I didn't know, though," Mark said. "She never mentions his name. Sure, I suspected-the way she talks about him, even when they were kids, like he was God or something… But I wasn't certain till I read Mary Jane's letters. Let me go on. There isn't much more."

Unlike Mary Jane and the other literate ladies of the period, who had been conscious of history, Susan was not concerned with the great events of the succeeding years. She used her diary to express her private feelings, and as the remaining fragments showed, these were unre-lievedly doleful. Reiterated expressions of sorrow and loneliness appeared on the faded paper, whose condition deteriorated rapidly as the book neared its end. Mark, who knew the material practically by heart, skipped over the fragmentary passages and focused on one that had survived.

"I must see him, though conscience says I should not. Yet how can I deny him, when he comes through such dangers, when any day may bring the news that he will never come again? If my kind parents knew…"

" Through such dangers,' " Pat repeated. "Then he must have been in the army at that time. I suppose he sent her a message somehow, when his cavalry troop was in the area on one of those raids you told us about. How foolish to take such a risk!"

"Not necessarily." Kathy's eyes were shining; and Pat thought, uncharitably, that the young of all centuries seemed to prefer romance to common sense. "He'd be safe at home-in the Turnbull house-if he could get there without being seen. I'm surprised the Federal government didn't hassle the Turnbulls."

"Why should they?" Josef said. "Two women alone, one of them an invalid? I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Bates's influence kept them from being bothered. It sounds as if his bark was worse than his bite."

"Let's finish this," Pat said. "Go on, Mark."

"Huh?" Absorbed in some dark, deep thought of his own, Mark started. "Oh. There isn't any more, Mom. The rest of the book is illegible. Except for this."

He held up a sheet of paper. It had been folded several times. The damp that had ruined the remainder of the diary had stained the outside of the sheet, but the message, though badly faded, had survived. The handwriting, now so familiar, needed no identification. But it was not Peter Turnbull's writing that made the hairs on Pat's neck prickle. It was the message-the same message, word for word, that she had read only a few days earlier, written to Kathy by her son. "Meet me at midnight, the same place. Love…" At the bottom of the sheet, in a smaller, more even hand, was the addition, "His last letter."

Pat looked up from the page and met her son's troubled eyes.

"Had you read this, before…?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"No," Mark said. "I found this book after I wrote the note to Kathy. It was the same place for them that it was for us. That's probably why Susan left her diary there, after… Mom. Let's try the automatic writing thing again."

"No!"

"Then," Mark said resignedly, "there's only one thing left to do. Mr. Friedrichs-"

"What?" Josef asked, visibly bracing himself.

"We'll have to tear down your basement walls."

As she descended the steep wooden stairs, Pat was again struck with a fact she kept forgetting-that the two houses had originally been identical. The upper regions were so altered by structural changes and by differences in decor that the similarities were less apparent, but here, in the utilitarian regions belowstairs, the resemblance was so striking as to be rather unnerving. The same whitewashed walls, the same low ceiling, the same impressing atmosphere. The floor of her basement was of concrete, this one was brick. Otherwise they were the same.

After his initial apoplectic objection, Josef had shrugged and agreed to let Mark go ahead. Mark was as irritating as only he could be, refusing coyly to explain what he hoped to find. One of his bright ideas had backfired. He had insisted on bringing Jud with them- with, Pat surmised, some notion of using the unfortunate animal as a sort of psychic bloodhound. Jud, not the brightest of dogs, had welcomed the excursion with gambols and waggings of tail, and the others trailed along, watching, while Mark escorted the animal through the entire house. But at the top of the basement stairs Jud had come to a sudden halt and refused to budge. When Mark took his collar and dragged him, he howled and produced a puddle-his invariable habit when deeply angry or disturbed.

"I suppose that proves something," Josef remarked with restraint, eyeing the mess on his polished floor.

"It confirms something I had suspected," Mark replied austerely. "Kath, you better take Jud home."

"Or vice versa," Pat said, as the dog retreated at full speed, towing the girl with him.

"We'll need tools," Mark said. "Something heavy, like a sledgehammer."

"All the tools I own are on the workbench," Josef said. He sat down on the bottom step, pulled Pat down beside him, and put his arm around her. Mark paid no attention. Flashlight in hand, he surveyed the walls, mumbling to himself.

"… mirror image… has to be here. Or changed, for the sake of security? Psychologically…"

A door upstairs banged and Kathy came to the top of the stairs.

"Mark? Any luck?"

"Not yet. Come on down."

Kathy obeyed. Her father rose to let her pass. He sat down again, and the two young people retreated into a corner, where they stood whispering.

"Time," Pat said suddenly. "What time is it?"

Josef glanced at his watch. "A little after nine. Do you realize that boy hasn't asked for his dinner? He must be on to something big."

Mark walked along the far wall, giving it an occasional thump with the hammer he held. When he reached the corner he stopped, his nose inches from the neighboring wall surface, and stood still so long that his mother, whose nerves were already twitching, said sharply, "Mark, if you are going into another trance, this whole deal is off, do you hear?"

"Mom, for God's sake." Mark turned and glared at her. "You make it sound like I didn't clean up my room or something." He transferred his attention to Kathy, who stood close by him, watching him expectantly. "It's here, Kath. Down below. Must be in the floor somewhere."

He squatted, examining the bricks, and then looked accusingly at Josef. "You had this fixed. It's new mortar."

"Oh, God, give me patience," Josef said, to nobody in particular. "Forgive me, Mark. I had meant to have the bricks taken up and concrete poured, but someone convinced me that would be a sin against history. These bricks are of the Civil War period, I was told, so…"

He paused, forgetting his annoyance as he realized what he had just said. "Civil War… Do you suppose-"

Mark was already at the workbench, throwing hammers and screwdrivers aside, as he searched for what he wanted. He returned to the corner with a chisel and mallet. Kathy moved back out of range as chips of mortar began to fly.

Josef looked at Pat. She moved a little closer to him, and his arm tightened around her shoulders.

It took Mark almost an hour to remove a section of floor two feet square. He rejected Kathy's offer of help. No our else offered. Despite the damp coolness of the cellar, perspiration was pouring down his neck by the time he finished. He then uttered a word his mother had forbidden him to use in her presence.

"Watch your mouth, bud," she said.

"Sorry. I thought I'd find… But it's dirt. Packed, beaten earth."

"Ha," said Josef, leaning back.

"Well, but naturally," Kathy said. Squatting on her haunches, she leaned forward to inspect the site of Mark's labors. "She'd have to put something over it, to hide it, before she had the slaves lay the bricks."

"What are you talking about?" Pat asked.