My teeth chattered, not from the weather, but from the cold, otherworldliness of the scene. Shadows cast by long fingers of pine stretched across the pond's dull white ice. Near the center, the circle of dark water that never froze shone like a black moon. Patrick seemed a part of this unearthly place, as if he had stepped over the line that divided the colorful world of the living from the stark shades of death.
I walked quietly toward him. "What are you doing?"
He didn't turn his head, didn't act as if he had heard me. He was striking matches, one after another; they must have been wet, for none of them would light. I could see the thin flannel of his pajama pants beneath his snow jacket. He wore shoes rather than boots. His head and hands were bare.
I knelt next to him. "What are you doing?" I repeated.
"This will keep us warm," he said.
I touched the pile of sticks. "Are you making a fire?"
"Don't be afraid. It won't melt the ice."
His voice. sounded both strange and familiar. It wasn't the slightly high pitch Patrick used when he was trying to convince me of something, but the low, demanding tone of Ashley when she had insisted that I believe her.
"You can't believe what the grown-ups say," he went on. "They tell you things just to scare you."
The tingle started low in my spine and ran to the base of my skull. I had had this conversation before.
"They lie to you."
"Who does?" I asked.
"Everyone. They lie because they want you to do something."
"Not always," I argued.
"They want to hurt you."
"Who does?"
"They hate me, Katie!"
I pulled back. Patrick's fists were clenched with fury. He was no longer just hearing a ghost—he was speaking her words, he was feeling her emotions.
"Patrick, look at me."
He abruptly turned his back, then rose and walked over to November. "They don't know your name," he whispered to the cat. "No one knows it but me.
No one can touch you but me." His fists relaxed as he pet the animal, then he glanced in my direction. "We'll get warm, and then we'll go skating."
"No, Patrick." I said, walking toward him. "It isn't safe."
Kneeling again, I took his face in my hands and turned it toward me. His eyes were open, but I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of a plastic doll—unblinking, glittering circles, eyes that did not physically see me.
I shook him lightly. His eyes rolled back in his head, then his lids closed. Panicking, I pulled them open with my fingertips. All I saw were the whites.
"Patrick!" I cried. "Wake up!"
I let go, and his eyelids closed. I shook him, terrified that I was losing him. "Come back, Patrick! Stay with me—stay awake!"
I shook him again, harder than I meant to.
He opened his eyes, gazing blankly at me for a moment. Then his eyes widened. He wrenched away from my grasp. "You can't hurt me!"
He scrambled to his feet, stepping on the cat. November squealed. Patrick rushed toward the path through the woods.
I stood up, bewildered, and glanced around the pond. "Show yourself, Ashley!" I cried out angrily. I dare you!"
I ran after Patrick and caught up with him outside the ring of trees. I followed at a short distance, wary of getting too close. I would wait til he stopped, I thought, wait til whatever frightened and drove him away from me ceased in his mind. But when we reached the road he veered suddenly, turning away from the house toward the cemetery. At its iron gate, I grabbed him and held him tightly against me.
"Stop, Patrick."
He fought me.
"Patrick, be still."
His resistance lessened.
"It's Kate! I'm trying to help you."
At last he sagged against me. I was almost afraid to let go and look in his eyes, afraid I'd set him running again. I slowly eased down next to him. "How are you doing?"
He looked ghastly in the pale moonlight. "I don't feel good."
"I know you don't." I removed my jacket and put it over his. "Climb on my back. I'll give you a ride."
He climbed on and placed his arms around my neck. "Where's November?" he asked.
"I think he stayed back at the pond. He'll be all right."
I stood up, holding on to Patrick's legs, massaging them as I walked toward the house, trying to warm them. I carried him piggyback all the way up the main stairs. When we reached his room, I laid him on his bed. I quickly pulled off his wet pajamas and gave him a dry set along with a woolly pair of socks.
"Better?" I asked as I tucked his quilt around him.
He nodded. I gently rubbed his cold cheeks and ears. He lay there for a long time with his eyes wide open, his body absolutely still. When his eyes finally closed, I turned off his alarm clock, then tiptoed to the stairs connecting our rooms, planning to turn off my own alarm and fetch my quilt. It would keep me warm while I sat by Patrick's bed. At the top of the steps, I found the door to my room shut. Opening it, I felt a rush of frigid air. I quickly closed the door behind me, cutting off the draft so it wouldn't blow closed the door to Patrick's room. Then I saw my window and backed up. The upper half was shattered, jagged pieces of glass hanging from its wooden frame. Shards glittered like ice on the floor.
I walked toward the window, glass crunching beneath my boots. I knew what was outside the dormer, but I couldn't believe what I was seeing and I had to be certain. At the cottage there had been a tree for Ashley to climb when she'd thrown my doll through the bedroom window, smashing it inward. Here—just as I had thought—there was nothing more than a strip of steep slate roof. Still, the window had broken inward, the glass scattering on the floor rather than on the roof outside.
I dare you to show yourself, Ashley," I whispered.
In the thin moonlight I caught the reflection of a rounded piece of glass. The framed picture of my father—and hers—lay as my doll had among the rubble.
Chapter 15
I didn't clock it, but I would say that ninety seconds after Patrick was due downstairs, dressed for school, Mrs. Hopewell arrived outside his room to inquire why he wasn't. I was waiting for her by the door and told her that Patrick hadn't felt wel during the night, so I was letting him sleep. I also informed her that my window had been broken. She asked how and why I had broken it—as if people routinely break their own bedroom windows in the middle of freezing winter nights. Twenty minutes after she departed, Emily tiptoed in to see the sleeping Patrick. Adrian showed up more than an hour after that, when the others were downstairs at breakfast. I left Patrick in his room getting dressed and accompanied Adrian to my room so that he could inspect the window.
"How is Patrick doing?" he asked, closing my door behind us.
"Physically, all right, I think."
"And emotionally?"
"Not well at all." I quickly told him what I hadn't told the others, where I had found Patrick last night and what he was doing.
Adrian paced my room, and for the first time I saw the color of barely repressed anger in his face. "Someone is planting these ideas in his head." He kicked at the shards of glass. "And someone is playing pranks. I'm going to find out who." He took a deep breath. "I suppose you know there was some opposition to hiring you."
"Yes. I overheard Mrs. Hopewell and Mrs. Caulfield talking the day I was interviewed."
"Trent wasn't happy about it either. As for my grandson, while he has never objected to you, I believe he has a double major in partying and pranks. It is a terrible thing to say about one's own household, but any of them could have done it."
Including Ashley, I thought. I found it odd, the way the glass broke inward," I ventured aloud.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it would be easy to knock it out and onto the roof, but—"
Adrian walked over to the window and looked out. "I see what you're saying." After studying the shattered upper half of the window, he lifted the lower half a few inches and slid his arm under t
he sash. "I suppose any number of objects could be adapted to break the top inward, something like a pole with a hook at the end. A golf club."
Or a hockey stick, I thought. We had left one with the snowman and the other in Patrick's playroom. I should have thought of it last night.
He withdrew his arm. "Obviously, by scattering glass on your floor, someone meant to be nasty. I have given Mrs. Hopewell orders to vacuum several times, then wash the floor. We'll get you a new rug. In the meantime, don't go barefoot."
"Adrian, would it be possible to turn on the alarm system at night? It's too easy and too dangerous for Patrick to slip out alone. Can't the others come in and reset the alarm?"
"Brook doesn't know the code." In response to the surprise on my face, Adrian smiled a little. "No, I don't trust him, but you are right, I need to set the alarm. Brook will have to abide by a curfew until this nonsense is over."
He started toward the door, then stopped. "You know how grateful I am to you, Kate. You also know I could hardly blame you if you decided to find a less… dysfunctional family to work for."
"I'm not leaving Patrick."
He opened the door, a grim smile on his face. "I always seem to like the ones who aren't my own," he said, then descended the steps to talk with Patrick.
I drove Patrick to school about 10:15. He was will ing to go, and I thought it better for him to spend time away from his family. I walked him to the office and, when he had departed for his classroom, asked if I could meet with his school counselor. I was told that, as caretaker rather than family member, I had to have his parents' written permission to discuss him with her. Adrian had already made it clear that he did not want the counselor's involvement. Frustrated, I headed for High Street, hoping to catch Joseph at the store.
"Shop's closed," I greeted Joseph as I entered.
He looked up from behind the counter and smiled, then got a curious look on his face. "Don't take this personally, Katie, but you look wretched."
"I haven't slept much lately."
"pull up a piece of antique and tell me what's been going on," he invited.
I lugged an old chair over to the counter. Joseph picked up the tarnished necklace he had been examining and poked through a case of jeweler's tools.
He worked on the clasp while I filled him in on the events at Mason's Choice.
"I don't know what to do, Joseph," I said at the end. "How can I protect Patrick if I don't know where the danger is coming from, if I can't even decide if it is human or not?"
I waited for him to respond. So far, he had shown no reaction to my idea that there might be something other than flesh and blood haunting Patrick.
"I can discuss only half of my fears with Adrian," I went on. "He would think I am mad, talking about a ghost Sam is already convinced of it I myself think I'm going mad, and yet…" I stopped and shrugged my shoulders.
"And yet?" Joseph prompted, setting down a tool.
"Ashley seems so real to me. Go ahead, you have my permission to laugh."
"I wish I could, but I find what you have told me too disturbing. I'm sure the family does, too, even if they don't admit it. There's nothing like guilt to make you worry there might be a hereafter."
I laughed out loud, though the idea was sobering. "So you think Ashley might have been murdered."
I don't know, Katie. I've spent the last twelve years believing that Adrian acted stupid and mean when he tried to blame someone for an unfortunate accident. It's a struggle now for me to admit he may have been right."
"I'm going to the college library today to see if I can find a book about ghosts, the kind that takes seriously the paranormal, if they have anything like that.
I don't know what else to do," I said, sounding defensive. "I asked to talk to the counselor at Patrick's school, hoping she could help me understand what Patrick is feeling. She can't see me without permission from his parents."
Joseph gazed at me thoughtfully, "I think I can help you," he said, then set down the necklace and rummaged beneath the counter. At last he pulled out a ragged looking phone directory. "Obviously, Mother believed that when you own an antique shop, it's in poor taste to have anything current. Still, this old book may do. James wasn't the type to move around." He paged through the directory, wrote a number on a store receipt, then searched some more and scribbled another one.
"'Dr. James Parker,'" I read aloud, when Joseph handed me the paper.
"He's an old friend of mine—we went to college together. He works at the high school as a psychologist, so he must know about family problems. But he has a hobby—at least he used to—paranormal psyche. Two for the price of one, Katie, and I believe he is discreet. Why don't you give him a call? He's probably at the school now, the first number there."
I called from the store, then left my cell phone number. I was on my way to the college campus when Dr. Parker returned the call. I told him that Joseph Oakley had referred me and described some of the problems Patrick was having with his family; he said he could see me next week. Then I told him about Ashley; he suddenly had a free period that afternoon and gave me directions to the high school.
It was a brick building with two stories of long windows. Inside, the lockers and speckled floor looked new, but the beige tiled walls definitely were not. A big sign advertising the hockey team's championship game hung in the lobby.
I signed in at the school office, where the psychologist met me.
"I'm Dr. James Parker," he said. "Call me Jim."
I nodded and planned to call him Dr. Parker.
Fortunately, I had been warned by Joseph not to let the psychologist's "fashion sense" put me off. He wore a short-sleeved flowered shirt and pink tie with a long gray sweater vest. I estimated that the sheep that had produced the sweater had been dead for at least seventy years. Perhaps the same sheep had produced the wool socks that puffed out under his sandals. But the man had inquisitive eyes, and a cheerful smile peeked through his beard; I suppose the world looked very rosy to him, given his tinted glasses.
He led me to his office and soon proved himself a skillful reader of people. He gestured to the sofa first, then quickly changed his mind and pointed to a stiff-backed chair, which was fortunate, because I had no intention of getting comfortable. He chose a wheeled chair for himself, which he pushed back a half meter, putting a little more distance between us. For a moment we simply looked at each other.
"So you are a friend of Joseph Oakley."
"I knew him twelve years ago, when he and my mother took care of Ashley Westbrook. This is the first time I've been back to the States since then. I met up with him last week and he has been helping me, listening mostly."
"I hope he hasn't been tell ing you tales from our college days," Dr. Parker said.
I suspected he really hoped that Joseph had. "No, sir.
"Joseph and I were two locals—'farmers' are what the dorm kids called us. We were hopeless—neither of us jocks, both of us lousy at cards. Joseph was good at music, but he didn't listen to rock. We were about as un cool as you could get, until he got that great car—a used Jaguar. Even used, it cost him a bundle, but it was worth every penny." Dr. Parker laughed. "A lot of kids wanted to ride around in that Jag."
I smiled, trying to imagine Joseph and this late-blooming flower child cruising in a British sports car.
"So tell me what has been happening, Kate."
There was a lot to recount. I was grateful that he didn't interrupt me, though I wondered from time to time whether he was thinking with his eyes closed or taking a short nap.
"Interesting," he said, when I had finished. "Extremely interesting." He opened his eyes and took off his glasses, glancing around as if surprised to see the world less pink, then put the spectacles back on. "tell me, Kate, how do you account for these events?"
"As I said a few minutes ago, I have two theories. Either someone in the family is setting things up and seeding Patrick's fears, or there is an actual ghost—but I don't like either theo
ry. I don't believe in ghosts, and the fact is, I don't see or hear something that might be considered the ghost of Ashley. But when Patrick speaks of her, when he speaks the same words she did and does the same things she was daring me to do, she feels so alive. In the beginning he claimed that she liked me, but that is changing. Patrick is distancing himself from me, sometimes acting afraid of me, and I think it is she who is causing this. It is as if he is possessed by her. I don't know how to protect him."
"And you feel as if you need to."
I stiffened. Was he turning this into a psychological analysis of me? "When it results in something as dangerous as standing on a diving board over an empty pool or walking on thin ice—yes!"
"There is nothing harder to do than to protect another person from himself."
From himself? I thought. "If you are saying Patrick is making this up, I don't believe it,"
"I'm not suggesting that he is making it up, but that he is making it possible."
The psychologist stood up and walked around. The two deep-silled windows in his office bloomed with plastic flowers, a contradiction to the bag of "All Natural" health food sitting by his briefcase. He picked up a bouquet of faded roses and shook it, creating a cloud of dust.
"Based on what you've told me, I would be very surprised if Ashley is a ghost the way we normally define ghosts, i.e., a spirit from the other side, the personality and soul of someone who is dead. For one thing, no one else has seen her. Now, you might be particularly insensitive—"
"Excuse me?"
"Insensitive to the spiritual world, but I doub't that everyone on Mason's Choice is that way. And yet no one has admitted to seeing her. I would very much like to talk to Patrick."
I bit my lip. "I don't think I can arrange that. I am certain Adrian would not give his permission, and while I, myself, can come here without tell ing Adrian, I don't have the right to bring his son without him knowing it."