The challenges facing any candidate for sheriff included a large, rugged county with a coastline to the west and mountains to the east that attracted tourists, hikers, eccentrics, the wealthy and the occasional serial killer. It was probably absurd to think a Native American female with no police force experience could successfully command the sheriff's department. Not to mention Kateri was still dealing with — would always deal with — physical frailties caused by the wreck of her cutter in the tsunami.
Yes. So many challenges . . .
Kateri Kwinault had never in her life backed away from a challenge.
Eugene Park
The next night the killer was back, and this time he got a middle-aged woman dragging a cart with two empty grocery bags. She had a long gray braid and a tired scowl, yet even with the scowl she treated the killer kindly — until he plunged the knife into her belly. Then she fought him and bled, and bled, and bled until she died. As before, as she passed on to the next world, she stared at me with reproach.
As before, he slung the corpse over his shoulder and carried her into the dark corner of the park. When he returned, the body was gone and he was using his shirttail to wipe the bloodstains off his face and hands.
The rain fell softly.
As he cleaned the gore from the sidewalk, a young couple walked by with their dog. The dog strained at the leash, fascinated with the smells of raw meat and warm blood, but when he neared the killer, the killer leveled a look at him. The dog, intelligent and running on instinct, danced away and stuck close to his master's heel.
The young couple never even glanced at the scene. The killer's behavior seemed to be without interest to them. It was as if he was part of the scenery. They made a circuit of the park. They allowed their dog to relieve himself and picked it up in a small blue bag. They walked toward town, oblivious to the fact a woman had died here tonight.
When the killer was done cleaning up his mess and before he headed back into the darkness, he looked at me and said, "You really don't like to watch, do you? Yet here you are with a front row seat. I'll try to keep the entertainment flowing."
Eugene Park
Again
Areila came through the park the next day around noon. She kept her head down, darted nervous little glances around her, and relaxed when she reached the other end. Then by chance or because she sensed me, she glanced toward the dark corner of the park.
She saw me, I know she did, but she pretended not to.
After that, it was one week and another murder before she again crossed the line of consecration. The afternoon was cloudy; the lamp posts along the walks already gave off their feeble glow. We had reached that time of year when it had either just rained, was about to rain, or was raining. Or the fog rolled in off the Pacific. Everywhere dampness rolled down the stones and moss flourished on the tree bark. Yet here and there, the crocus and daffodils poked their heads out of the soil.
Perhaps at last the long dark would be over.
Areila walked like she had somewhere to go. I stood by the fountain and watched her pass, but I didn't speak. It was the lady's prerogative to pretend she didn't see me. She got to the edge of the park; I swear her foot hovered right over the line, when she turned with military precision and marched back. She stopped in front of me and said, "Hello."
"Hello."
"My name is Areila Leon."
She had given me her name freely. Which made it possible for me to return the favor. "It's good to meet you. My name is Frank Vincent Montgomery."
"Huh!" She sounded surprised. "My grandfather's name was Frank Vincent. Not Montgomery, of course. . ."
"Neither Frank nor Vincent are unusual names." I was suddenly and wryly aware of the passage of time. "At least they weren't in my day."
"No, but to pair them — that is unusual." She gestured toward the bench. "Can you sit?"
I had the ability to move quickly from place to place, but I had found that disconcerting to most people, so I took my time, went to the bench, seated myself.
She joined me. "I've never understood the technicalities of how a ghost can sit on a corporeal object."
I wasn't really sitting, but that wasn't something I could explain. "I can do almost anything I used to do when alive. Except grasp, touch — or cross the park boundary." I looked out at the street where I had never been and wished I were gone from this place which had imprisoned me for so long.
"So you know you're a ghost?"
I looked at my hands; they were transparent and glowed faintly. "Can you think of another explanation?"
"No, but I've been reading up on ghosts and the mythology claims that much of the time, they're confused about where they are."
"I'm in Virtue Falls, Washington. This" — I waved my transparent glowing hand around at the towering old trees, concrete fountain, and neglected grass — "used to be a cemetery."
"In town, they told me they believed your grave was not moved when the city officials made this a park."
A little surprised, I nodded. "Makes sense."
"Did you not know?"
"No. Not that."
"You don't know where your grave is?"
"Not my grave."
At that, she viewed me oddly.
But bound by whatever rules there were, I couldn't say more.
"So, Frank Vincent, what is your story? Why isn't your spirit at rest?"
"I made too many mistakes, left too much unfinished, failed too often."
"Who did you fail?"
Not, "How did you fail" but "Who?" Areila was an acute young woman, seeing through the rhetoric to the heart of a matter. Again Areila reminded me of Sofia, intelligent and discerning. Did I dare remember those days gone by when all of life was warm sunshine and new feelings? I missed Sofia every moment of eternity. Surely talking about her would help . . . somehow . . . "I loved a woman," I said.
Areila pulled her knit hat off her head and fluffed her dark hair. "Here in Virtue Falls?"
"Not at all. She lived in Port Angeles. I was from Seattle. We met one summer when my family took a house on the coast. I met her on the beach. We got to know each other and she was unlike any girl I knew." I found myself smiling at the memories of Sofia dancing barefoot on the sand. "She was earthy. Funny. Ethereal. Loving. But we . . . our families disapproved. My family looked down on her. And — so much worse! — her family looked down on me." I mocked myself, but my pride, a young man's pride, had truly been stung. "The conflict in Europe was steadily growing more deadly. To me, it seemed inevitable that the United States would go to war. So I took my patriotism and my stung pride and joined the Army. When I told my love, she cried. I comforted her." In the way of lovers . . . "But I didn't tell her what was in my heart."
"How sad," Areila whispered.
Again, I thought she understood more than I had said. "But, of course, my duty called and I left anyway. While I was in training, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. We went to war with a vengeance. Only then did I realize I had loved the most beautiful woman in the world, and I might never see her again. Would probably never see her again. I wrote, giving her my sincere protestations of love and telling her that before I shipped away to Europe or the Pacific, I would return and we would marry. I begged her to wait for me. For all the three brief weeks left in my training, I never heard back."
"Was she so angry she ignored you?"
"I sometimes wondered if her family — they were very protective of her — intercepted my mail."
Areila nodded. "In those days, with women as restricted as they were, that is definitely a possibility. Did she wait?"
"I don't know because I never returned. I never returned." As I said those words, pain swept me, and I shut out the world.
When I returned, morning's light lit the sky and Areila was gone.
Eugene Park
Thursday Afternoon
The following afternoon Areila braved the constant drizzle in a puffy yello
w raincoat. From a distance, she looked as harmless as a day-old baby chick perched on the bench, and I had the thought I shouldn't involve her in my day-to-day hell. Yet I wouldn't hurt her and as to the danger that stalked the park . . . I would know if she was menaced and warn her. Somehow. Even if it broke every rule that bound me.
So with that noble resolve, I joined her. "I'm sorry I abandoned you so abruptly last night."
She pulled her hood closer around her face and did not look into my face. "You were . . . shimmering."
"I found I was unable to continue my story."
"Oh." Her expression fell. "I had hoped you would tell me what happened to you. And her. Your love. Did she ever know what happened to you?"
"No one knew. Not her. Not my family."
"You died?"
"I was murdered."
"How . . . ? Why . . . ?" Her distress gave me a real comfort.
No one had ever asked me my story. Most people had never seen me. The ones who did . . . had their own problems. How to tell this girl, sheltered by her family, by school, by time, about the difficult days of the thirties when I grew up? To me, she was a child. A lovely child, bright with promise, but a child nevertheless. How to make her understand without scarring her? I picked my words carefully. "It was the beginning of the war, but more than that, it was the end of the Great Depression. People had starved. Men had been unable to support their families. They had run away from the shame. They had killed themselves — a coward's way out, but sometimes fear can last too long and all the world is dark and hopeless. Children were orphaned. Women — daughters and wives — were left alone to fend for themselves. They were prey to bad men who roamed the country, shysters and opportunists who saw them as targets."
"Heartbreaking times," Areila said.
"Yes. After I finished training, I got my orders. I would be fighting the war in Europe. I had ten days free before I was due to ship out. I took the fastest way home I could find, via freighter to Port Angeles." He had been so close. "But we ran into a winter storm and we had to dock in Virtue Falls. The crew intended to spend the night in the harbor's safety, get a warm meal and a dry bed. I told them I had no time to wait, that I would try to hitch a ride to Port Angeles. They wished me luck and told me if I wasn't able to get a ride, to return to the dock and they would gladly take me to my destination."
"That was so nice!" She smiled.
That womanly smile steadied me, prepared me to tell her of the remembered horror ahead. "At that time, civilians would do anything to help a soldier going off to war."
"As it should be."
"I came into town. Right away, I found a ride, a trucker heading to Port Angeles with a load of lumber. While I waited, he bought me a hot meal and when I asked, told me I had time to purchase some flowers. My darling loved flowers, and I dreamed of how I would kneel before her and beg her forgiveness."
Areila's eyes widened and she shrank back. "Are you okay?"
I realized my sorrow, the regret of a restless, doomed spirit, rang in my voice. Prudently I moderated my tone. "I am fine." For someone who is dead. "The events I recall do try my very soul."
She started to stand. "Do you not want to . . . ?"
"No, please!" I extended my hand.
She stared at it, reached to grasp it.
I snatched it away. "No. I forgot."
She repeated my earlier words. "You can't grasp or touch."
"Never. Much to my regret." And to the regret of those murdered women.
As if it was armor, Areila tightened her raincoat. She seated herself again and prompted, "Did you find your darling's flowers?"
"I did, in a little greenhouse outside of town. When the lady knew what I wanted, she gladly gave all her late blossoms to me."
"Because civilians would do anything to help a soldier going off to war," Areila repeated.
"It was evening as I returned to the harbor. I hurried; I had to hurry to catch my ride. But I saw a young woman living on the beach, facing the winter storms alone, fishing and hunting, barely surviving. A man attacked her. I saw it. A man with a knife. I had no weapon. I had to get to my love." If I could have cried tears, I would have. "But I couldn't let him murder that woman, that stranger. I ran at him, waving and shouting. I meant to frighten him away. Instead he killed me. Then he killed her."
Areila put her fist to her mouth.
I continued, "He stripped me of my uniform, cut my face to ribbons, left me in my underwear, made it appear she and I had murdered each other. No one in Virtue Falls knew any difference. In their eyes, we were vagrants and they buried us in this cemetery in paupers' graves." I thought about what Areila had told me earlier — that all the graves had been moved except mine. "I have never seen the murdered woman's spirit . . . I suppose her body is no longer here."
"No. I suppose not." Areila pushed her hair off her forehead. "My God. What a tale of murder and injustice. I wish I could help. How can I help?"
The concern was sincere, the offer genuine.
"You have helped. You allowed me to tell my story."
"That's not helping. That's listening."
Although she rated her listening as nothing, it had value to me, this soul that had been too long alone. "Perhaps you'll pray for me to be released from my purgatory, and pray that sometime, somewhere I will be reunited with my love."
"I'll pray for you both. What was your love's name?"
During the telling of my story, I had not sensed the gathering darkness. But suddenly it was there, skulking closer. Closer.
Areila was in danger.
I leaned into her face, closer than I had been to any human being for decades. "Death stalks the park tonight."
She bent back. "What?" Then, "Are you okay?"
I didn't have time to explain. She had to leave. Immediately! I allowed my voice to rise to maniacal proportions. "Leave. Run. Escape now. Now!"
She stood as if my demand jerked her on strings like a puppet. "What's wrong? What will you do to me if I stay?"
She thought it was me, that somehow I would hurt her.
There wasn't much time.
I stood. I threw my arms above my head. I shouted. "Leave. Leave now!"
Dread contorted Areila's face. She turned and ran as fast as she could to the end of the walk. She disappeared toward town.
The killer stepped forward, his face crumpled with frustration and rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "You interfered. How dare you? You can try, but you are not allowed to interfere. You are not allowed to deprive me of my victims. Go. Go now! You have no place here!"
I wanted to deny him, to say I had every right to save the girl. But his words held the power of blood lust unsated, of hate that devoured, of madness that fed on slaughter.
Like leaves before the winter wind an anger-driven gust of wind blew me away.
I was banished. Gone and yet somehow . . . not released.
The Virtue Falls Library
Thursday night
When the door to the library opened, Kateri looked up from the quilting frame to see Areila Leon walk in looking disheveled, confused and excited.
The chatter died.
Areila hesitated, as women were wont to do when confronted by almost a dozen inquiring gazes, and studiously wiped her feet on the mat.
Lacey barked and danced over, eager to welcome the newcomer and at the same time surreptitiously inspect Areila with her instinctive doggie judgment of character.
Areila knelt beside the soft, girly, blond cocker spaniel and rubbed her ears.
Lacey sniffed and when she was satisfied, leaned against Areila's hip.
The verdict: Areila was a friend.
Kateri put down her needle — she was more than glad for an excuse to quit — and waved. "Areila! Come in and join us."
Areila gave the dog a final pat, hung her yellow puffy coat on the coat rack, and advanced to stand at Mrs. Golobovitch's shoulder.
&n
bsp; Tonight they had a diverse and interesting crowd. Areila should know Rainbow Breezewing, the waitress from the Oceanview Café. And she probably knew Sheriff Jacobsen's foster mother, Mrs. Margaret Smith, the ninety-plus year old proprietor of the Virtue Falls Resort. Sheriff Jacobsen's wife, Elizabeth Banner Jacobsen was there, looking uncomfortable — her pregnancy had been fraught with difficulties and she had come to distract herself from her ill health. They had Bette Abrahamson, Gladys McKissick and Rosa Sage, who had driven in together from the county, Emma Royalty, an electrician from Berk Moore's construction crew, Lillie and Tora Keidel, sisters and best friends, and Frances Branyon Salak whose mother lived with her. Frances would do anything for a night away from the old biddy.
Mary Lees was missing. Again.
Kateri ignored the sinking feeling that gave her and told Areila, "Mrs. Golobovitch is the county quilting champion and she's supervising as we piece squares of worn old wedding gowns together. We're going to sell this quilt to raise money for homeless mothers and children."
"Wow." Areila stared agog at the patches of off-white silk, pure-white lace and ornate sparkling beads, then looked around at the old concrete block building. "That's beautiful. I didn't realize you did stuff like this in a library."
"The library is closed tonight, so rather than let the building sit idle, we do this," Kateri said.
Mrs. Golobovitch's elderly good nature hid a wealth of insight. "Kateri got the project rolling. I think she likes the conviviality of the group more than the work."
Kateri smiled and confessed nothing, but dangled her fingers close to the floor.
Lacey arrived at once, let Kateri scratch her head, and flopped at her feet.
Areila looked meaningfully at Kateri. "I came to ask a question. A weird question."
"Must be a woo-woo question." Rainbow sounded as serious as a funeral.
The women tittered.
Kateri bent a stern look at all of them. "It is. Areila is researching the ghost in the park."