Rainbow paused, her quilting needle held high above the fabric. "I thought she was a geology intern?"
Following Kateri's lead, Areila improvised, "I am, but at this time of the year, there's a limited amount of field work available and a lot of keyboard input. I have to do something to keep my mind entertained."
"Have a seat, dearie." Margaret Smith scooted to one side; Elizabeth scooted to the other. "We can help. We know all the stories."
Areila pulled a chair over into the gap. "Does the ghost ever do anyone harm?"
Her question startled Kateri, and she looked more closely at Areila.
Areila's cheeks were flushed, her gray eyes were wide and she looked as if she'd run all the way from the park.
Maybe she had.
Margaret said, "I never heard of the park ghost doing anything but floating around looking sad. And I ought to know — I'm the oldest one here. "
Kateri was concerned. "Areila, why would you ask that?"
"In my research, I came across a story that he . . . warns people to leave the park in a rather forceful manner. Like with howling and bugged out eyes." Areila clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. "I was wondering if he has crazy episodes and does poltergeist-type stuff."
"I've never heard that." Emma continued to stitch as she talked. "I know when people start having sightings, that's an omen."
"What kind of omen?" Areila asked.
Rainbow leaned back and folded her arms. "Bad things are happening around town."
"Like disappearances?" Bette looked significantly at the place where Mary Lees usually sat.
"Her husband killed her." Lillie spoke with absolute certainty.
"Now, Lillie, we don't know that," her sister said.
"No one's seen her for over a week," Lillie answered.
"Her books are overdue," Kateri told them. "Her books are never overdue."
"Garik said that this morning Donald Lees reported that Mary was missing." Elizabeth rubbed her back. "He told Garik she went out grocery shopping one evening and never came home."
"He's lying," Lillie said. She and Mary had been best friends in high school and she was fierce in her anger at Mary's abusive husband. "He beat her all the time. All you have to do is find where he buried the body."
"Donald told Garik he thought she'd run away. He said he waited for her every night for a week with the belt." Margaret's Irish eyes flashed as she gave her report.
"Donald told Garik when he went looking for her, he found her grocery pull cart in the woods half buried under pine needles," Elizabeth said.
"Oh, right. You know why she had that thing? 'Cause he wouldn't let her drive 'cause he was afraid she'd leave him. Leaving him was more than he deserved." Lillie kept talking, fast and fierce, but she blinked away tears. "She should have taken a baseball bat to him. Before he killed her. That bastard killed her."
"Mary would never have hurt him. You know that better than anybody," Tora said. "She prayed for his soul every day."
"Garik said Donald is a bastard and an abuser." Elizabeth sighed. "But that doesn't mean in his own twisted way he doesn't love her. Garik said Donald seems genuinely worried."
"Worried he's going to get caught," Lillie muttered.
Rainbow wrapped her arms around Mrs. Golobovitch and Emma Royalty. "Group hug."
Areila looked startled to be included. Then she sort of smiled and Kateri thought her opinion of the weird folks in Virtue Falls had taken a leap.
When the quilting crowd gave each other a last embrace and resumed their sewing, Areila said, "If the ghost is a bad omen . . . is there anything else unusual happening around town?"
Bette stuck her needle back and forth through the quilt, speaking rapidly. "Apparently that guy who lives in the park, Cleardale, is in the hospital. I heard from Sheila who used to work at the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility and has now moved to work at the mental ward . . . that Cleardale is really off this time, babbling about the talking ghost, the girl that glowed and the dark, cold place in the park."
"That's . . . creepy." Rainbow shoved her red, white and blue hair out of her eyes. "Do you ever wonder how much of it is true?"
"Sure," Bette said. "But I think it's more likely his meds aren't working well."
"I don't like the dark, cold place in the park." Areila stared into space. "I feel it. It's there."
Lillie and Tora exchanged sideways glances, now clearing wondering if she was a little nuts.
Rainbow, of course, saw nothing wrong with Areila's insight; she leaned forward and stared at Areila. "Have you checked it out?"
"I should. But it's winter. It's spooky." Areila shivered and looked around at her new friends. "So no one knows who the ghost in the park is? Where he comes from?"
Everyone looked to Margaret for the answer. "No one at all," she said.
"Hm." Areila stood. "I think I might have a theory."
Eugene Park
The finale
After I was banished, Areila came through the park every day for two weeks looking for me. When she called, I couldn't respond. I wanted to . . . I wanted to tell her to run.
He was stalking her.
But I had broken the rules, whatever rules there were, and I was imprisoned in that dark corner of the park, mute, invisible, while blood seeped through the soil and smothered me with grief.
Then Areila disappeared. She was gone for over a week, and I was glad.
If only she had stayed away . . .
On a gray day in the late afternoon I heard her making her way across the park toward the corner that led into the woods — the corner where darkness dwells. I wanted to shout at her no! But I wasn't there. Not really. I was nothing more than a scent on the air, a shadow you catch out of the corner of your eye that disappears when you face it. I was merely waiting . . . waiting for another dose of horror and helplessness.
I didn't want it to be her horror.
I could not stand it to be my helplessness.
She left the sidewalk, crunched across old leaves and fallen pine needles to stand at the soft, recently disturbed mound of dirt. The witch hazel was blooming — the shrubs were always the first to vanquish winter — and as she removed her knit cap, the yellow blossoms framed her head. She was young, pretty, unwary — and I was afraid for her. She held a shovel in one hand; she planted it firmly in the dirt. "Frank Vincent Montgomery, I don't know if you can hear me, but I wanted to tell you — I figured out why I can see you. When you gave me your name, you gave me the clue I needed . . . Does the name Sofia mean anything to you?"
Yes! Yes! Sofia is my love! But I couldn't communicate. All the times I had haunted Eugene Park when I wanted to be elsewhere, listened to the crazy people, tried to stop the murders . . . and now, when I desperately longed to be beside the fountain or standing among the grand old cedars, I was not.
"Sofia was my great-grandmother." Areila waited again.
Of course! I should have known. I had compared Areila to Sofia in her spirit and her personality, but hadn't seen the resemblance between them.
Out of nowhere, a thought struck me. Maybe . . . maybe because Areila resembled me.
That one night Sofia and I shared had been brief and in the end, bitter. Foolish man and careless lover that I am, it never occurred to me she would bear my child.
Areila said aloud what I was thinking. "You're my great-grandfather! That's the connection between us. I know it is!"
If I could have cried tears, I would have cried tears of joy — and of fear.
"Before I told you my suspicions, I wanted some proof. So I called my great-aunt Bea. Aunt Busybody the family calls her. She's a nice lady. Really. But she loves to gossip. I asked her about her sister's mother-in-law, pried really, and she spilled the whole story. She said Grandma Sofia married my great-grandfather, an older man, Facundo Baptista, a widower who already had four kids, and moved to the Yakima Valley. My grandfather was the fir
st child born, six months after they got married, and Aunt Bea said Sofia insisted on naming him Frank Vincent. How about that!" As she told her story, Areila's eyes sparkled. She gestured, waved the shovel, pointed up at the treetops, down at the ground.
Ah. Now I saw the resemblance. She had inherited her exuberance from Sofia.
Areila continued, "The matriarch of the Baptista family was furious, said the child should have a Hispanic name, but Sofia wouldn't budge. Her husband was a cold bastard, and he didn't care what Sofia named her son as long as she put meals on the table, kept the house clean and sent his kids out to work in the orchards."
My darling Sofia had not gone on to make a love match. I was not glad; I had hoped that somehow she would find happiness.
"Aunt Bea said my grandfather, Frank Vincent Baptista, didn't look like anyone in the family. He looked like an Anglo, and the family gossip was that Grandma Sofia was in the family way when she married Facundo, and not from him. I asked if anyone knew who the father was and Aunt Busybody said the rumor claimed that Sofia was involved with a white boy. They had a fight, he joined the Army, deserted even before he went to war and Sofia never heard from him again." Areila took a breath, brought her tone down from that excited pitch, spoke to me warmly, sympathetically. "I think from what you told me —that's you. I think you died here trying to get back to her. I'm pretty sure I am your descendent."
She waited as if she expected me to answer her. And I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I wanted to weep at the news that I'd left Sofia alone to bear our son. I wanted to turn back time, go to the beach in Virtue Falls and save that woman's life and my own, and return to Sofia.
Instead, I was mute, held by invisible bonds and all too aware of the menace growing behind Areila.
"Sofia and Facundo had two more kids. He died four years later. Sofia inherited the orchards and she tended them while she raised all the kids, his and hers, and got them into college and through college. She never remarried. I knew my great-grandmother. She was an amazing woman. She taught me so much about being independent and proud of my intelligence, and she said that I should follow my dream, whatever it was." Areila's voice caught. "She lived a long life — she outlived Grandpa Frank — and she died only two years ago."
So my darling Sofia was gone. She had moved on. I had given her passion and heartache and a child, and now she was gone from me forever. I had always known that was what had to be. But to face that truth, to know there was no other ending — I gave a wail of pure grief.
Areila looked around, up at the trees, down at the ground. As if she recognized the sound of my sorrow, she spoke in a softer voice. "Before I came here, I went to my great-grandmother's grave. I spoke to Grandma Sofia, told her what I had found, told her where you are and that if my suspicions were right — and we can find out with a simple DNA test — I would bring your remains to her."
I snapped to attention. The killer was close. Pay attention, Areila. Great-Granddaughter, listen for footsteps behind you. Don't be caught unaware!
Blithely she continued her story. "I came back to Virtue Falls and spoke to Sheriff Garik and the librarian, Kateri. I told them what I'd found and that I was sure you were buried back here where it's stuffy and dark." As if she sensed the cold hand of death on her neck, she shrugged restively. "The sheriff was maybe a little skeptical — he said even if we were related it was a far stretch to think I could divine your gravesite. But Kateri stuck up for me, convinced him that it wouldn't hurt to excavate the site, so here we are. I came early because I wanted to talk to you, explain everything. The sheriff is bringing Kateri. Walt, the park grounds keeper, has volunteered to help exhume your body."
No! The killer is here!
Areila glanced at her watch. "They should be along at any minute."
The sun was setting. One beam broke through the clouds, penetrated the branches and I saw it — the glittering sharpened point of the pickax raised high above her.
The killer brought it down with all his might.
I leaped.
My palm smacked the wooden handle.
The thump resonated through the grove.
Areila turned. Even as my grip dissolved, even as the handle slipped through it, she saw the threat. Without hesitation, she lifted the shovel and smacked Walt on the side of the head.
The gray metal clanged against his skull. He stumbled sideways. But nothing could dim the light of murder and madness that twisted his face. He lunged again.
She gripped the shovel with both hands and drove the edge toward his face. It broke his nose, slid off his cheek, opened a bloody gash that exposed the bone.
He gave a shriek of pain and surprise.
God, that noise did my long-silent heart good.
He swung the pickax sideways.
But the shovel's handle was longer and Areila didn't give up her advantage. She hit him again with the sharp, shiny edge, right on the center of his throat.
Gagging, he fell backward onto the ground. He put his hand to his throat, to his face, and looked at his bloody fingers as if he couldn't believe she had done this to him. He gave another shriek. "Bitch. You bitch! How dare you! You and your great-grandfather. I'll kill you!"
"I'm already dead," I said. I was enjoying myself.
She hit him again with the flat of the shovel. Bones crunched in his face and at last he fell over, unconscious.
One more time she hit him on the skull. "To be sure," she muttered.
Of course Areila was Sofia's great-granddaughter. She sparked with temper. She fought with all the resources at hand. She didn't stop until the beast was vanquished.
Sofia's great-granddaughter . . . and my great-granddaughter, too.
She turned to me. "You saved me."
Exultant, I nodded. "I did."
"I was afraid you were gone, and you saved me!"
"You fought like—" I almost said a man, but I realized that wasn't true. "You fought like a woman. You fought like a warrior."
"He tried to kill me. Why did he try to kill me?"
My exaltation faded. "For the same reason he killed the others." I had saved Areila. But I had failed the rest of his victims.
On the ground, Walt moaned. He opened his bruised and blackened eyes.
Areila lifted the shovel edge over his face. "If you move, I'll chop your throat open."
We heard running footsteps.
We turned and Sheriff Jacobsen raced forward shouting, "What are you doing?" He caught the handle of the shovel in his grip.
"She tried to kill me!" Walt screamed. Or tried to. His voice was raspy.
"He tried to kill me," Areila said. She relinquished the shovel and pointed at the pickax. "With that."
"Liar!" Walt whispered. Whimpered.
Across the park, the woman with the walking stick hurried to reach us.
Indignant as only a man who has been duped can be, Sheriff Jacobsen shouted at Areila. "No one sees the ghost unless they're crazy or medicated or mentally impaired. No one! Yet you say you can see him. Who should I believe? Our groundskeeper who's worked for us on and off for years? Or you?"
In a reasonable voice, Areila said, "I can see him because we're related."
"Right." Sheriff Jacobsen spoke into a two-way radio hooked to his holster. "Attempted homicide at Eugene Park. Request back-up and an ambulance." He put the device away and said to Areila, "Walt brought the pickax to help excavate the grave you believe is here."
"All the graves are here," I said.
Sheriff Jacobsen looked around. "Who said that?"
He had heard me. "I did," I said.
He spotted me. Just like that. He could see me. For one moment, he covered his eyes with his hand. Then lowered it.
He could still see me. And he wasn't crazy or medicated or mentally impaired.
Areila realized what was happening and smiled. "Perhaps, Sheriff Jacobsen, in the right circumstances anyone can see my great-grandfather Fr
ank Vincent Montgomery."
Sheriff Jacobsen didn't want to believe it.
I moved closer to Areila.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Kateri arrived, limping and leaning heavily on her walking stick.
She saw me, too. But then, she would.
With their attention captured, no one bothered to notice Walt. But I knew what was happening with him. Areila's blows had broken his nose, cracked his cheek and battered his throat. Blood clogged his breathing passages. His throat was swelling shut, and as it progressed, his struggle for air became progressively more acute. I watched and cheerfully considered how much he deserved this miserable death.
"My girls," he whispered. "You can't take my girls."
That brought the sheriff's attention back to him. "What girls?" Sheriff Jacobsen asked.
"The girls he's murdered," I said.
The sheriff put one finger in his ear as if trying to block the sound of my voice. But I didn't have a voice; he was hearing my thoughts in his head and he liked that even less. Yet he looked at me and answered, "That's impossible. This is a public park. I'm the sheriff. We would know if someone was killing women."
Areila said, "He's the park groundskeeper. He's quiet. He's non-descript. No one notices him. I didn't."
"He can always clean up the mess." With one shaking hand, Kateri pushed the fall of shiny black hair away from her face. "Mary Lees was my friend. I don't believe she would have left Virtue Falls without telling me. I really don't believe she wouldn't return her books first."
The sirens got closer. I could see red and blue lights flashing on the street.
Sheriff Jacobsen fought the truth. But he was a man of the law, a man of honor, and he acknowledged, "Last autumn, we had a tourist who went missing. One of the homeless women has disappeared. And I got a report from the FBI about a girl who ran away from home; they found her car in Virtue Falls Canyon and asked us to keep an eye out for her remains."
Areila made the logical leap and asked the logical question. "When we excavate Frank Vincent's grave — what will we find?"