What child is this?
MOON LAKE MARKS THE SOUTHERN BORDER of the Borough of Lickin Creek. Where once a sandy beach stretched along the shore of the crescent-shaped lake, there is now a thorny forest extending to the water's edge. Where once ladies in long white dresses and men in natty suits and straw hats strolled along well-tended paths, there is now only desolation. Where excited children once rode the carousel, there is now only the vine-covered ruin of a pavilion. A decaying dock is a nostalgic reminder of times when renting a rowboat on a dreamy summer day was the stuff memories were made of.
Great mansions, built before the turn of the century as the vacation cottages of the very rich from D.C. and Baltimore, have crumbled for years beneath the ancient trees. In the summer, the area is heavy with the fragrance of wild honeysuckle and old rosebushes. Only in the winter, when the bare branches admit the sun and the snow hides imperfections, can one imagine the original grandeur of the old summer colony.
World War I, the stock market crash, and the development of rapid transportation brought the glory days of Moon Lake to an end. But in the past few years the development had once again sprung to life, and many of the huge homes were now occupied by young professionals, some of whom commuted daily to the cities of D.C. and Baltimore. They arrived in their minivans and BMWs with grand and often unrealistic plans for remodeling the enormous white elephants and filling them with large families.
I entered the colony through the rusted iron gates, turned off the main road circling the lake, and drove down the narrow dirt lane that approached the largest, grandest, and gloomiest of the lakefront mansions: my temporary home-sweet-home. It was the perfect setting for one of the gothic novels I'd loved to read in junior high, even rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a woman who died during childbirth in one of its fairy-tale turrets. I've often thought it would be fun to don a long white nightgown and flit about the yard like a heroine on the cover of a gothic but have decided to wait until the weather gets warmer.
The reason I was living in such unusual splendor was that I was house-sitting for a college professor on sabbatical in England to study the use of contractions in medieval writings. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. I had a free (except for utilities) place to live for the six months I'd committed to editing the Chronicle, and all I had to do for Dr. Ethelind Gallant was make sure the house she'd inherited from her grandparents didn't collapse while she was gone.
It was fun having all that space to spread out in, but the utilities turned out to be a huge expense. I really hadn't considered what it would cost to heat a thirty-room house in the winter. That's why I was angry with myself tonight, for I could see a sliver of light shining through the chink where the velvet drapes didn't quite meet in one of the front-parlor windows. I couldn't afford to be so careless with electricity.
I left Garnet's macho-man pickup truck in the roundabout in front of the mansion and shuffled through the light dusting of snow to the kitchen entrance in back. Some of the new owners had successfully renovated their homes, but Ethelind was not one of them.
Right before she flew off to merry olde England, she'd casually mentioned that the front porch roof was on the verge of collapse. “Don't go slamming the front door,” she'd cautioned me. I hoped the warning note I'd tacked on a pillar near the steps was sufficient to protect unwary visitors.
I hung my coat on the oak hall tree on the enclosed back porch, slipped off my boots, and opened the door into the kitchen. Funny-I thought for sure I'd locked it. I was getting to be more like the natives every day.
Before I could turn on the lights, my nose began to twitch. My nose is unusually sensitive, and I recognized the sweet, spicy scent drifting in the air; it was the aroma of carnations, mingled with the smoky smell of burning firewood.
Good grief! Ethelind had said not to use the fireplaces because she hadn't had the chimneys checked for safety. I hadn't lit any fires. Who had?
As I groped for the light switch next to the door, I realized something was dreadfully wrong. There were no warm, furry cats rubbing against my legs, begging for food and affection.
“Fred… Noel…?” I called in a soft voice. No answer.
I sniffed the air and identified the scent. Only one person I knew wore Bellodgia, a distinctive and expensive perfume from Paris, and that person was Praxythea Evangelista!
Praxythea was the best-known psychic in America, thanks to the many TV talk-show hosts who desperately needed guests. She was always a welcome addition to their shows because of her glamour, intelligence, and her well-publicized talent for helping police departments solve hopeless crimes. Now, she reclined on an antique chaise longue in my front parlor. On her lap lay Fred, curled into a round orange ball and grinning like a big dope. The more sophisticated Noel rested her chin on one of Praxythea's shapely ankles and appeared to be enjoying the unexpected luxury of the fire blazing in the marble-faced fireplace.
On the index finger of the hand that held a crystal goblet half full of amber liquid, an emerald of immense proportions, surrounded by diamonds, glimmered in the firelight. Praxythea's hair, hanging loose around her shoulders, was the color of the flames that threatened to burn the house down. She looked at me through those amazing catlike eyes, which matched her emerald, and smiled. “So glad you have Glenfiddich. Double malts cause psychic confusion-too many clashing vibrations.”
I collapsed into an armchair and stared at her in amazement. Praxythea was not someone I knew well. We'd only met last summer when Alice-Ann's husband was murdered and Praxythea supposedly had been in town to find the long-lost diamond known as Sylvia's Star. Since then we'd “done lunch” a couple of times in New York, but still, she was the last person I'd expect to find camped out in my living room.
“Not that it isn't nice to see you,” I said, “but what are you doing here?”
“I had a vision of a little boy, lost in the woods, and knew I had to help the police find him.”
“Could that vision possibly have been on the evening news in New York?” I asked.
She grinned. “My sources are private.”
“How'd you get here so fast?”
“A friend put his plane and pilot at my disposal.”
I should have thought of that. Don't we all have friends with planes and pilots?
“That delightful man with the taxi, Uriah's Heap, met me at the airport. He told me you were staying here, and I was sure you wouldn't mind a houseguest.”
When I didn't say anything, she said, “You can't expect me to stay at a Days Inn. By the way, you really should pick a better place to hide your key, Tori. Those phony rocks from a catalog are too, too obvious. You might as well leave the door unlocked with a note on it saying ‘Help yourself.’”
While she spoke, her long, elegant fingers drifted through Fred's soft orange fur. He writhed in ecstasy.
I heard myself repeating what I'd heard so often from local people. “This isn't New York, you know. We don't worry about things like that here.”
It isn't that I don't like Praxythea; it's just that I feel totally inadequate every time I'm near her. She's beautiful while I'm ordinary, tall while I'm height disadvan-taged, and has a perfect figure while my weight would be okay if I were eight or nine inches taller. On top of all that she's rich, and her first book, Adrift on a Psychic Sea, which had just come out, was already on the New York Times best-seller list. Unlike mine, which was due to be remaindered any second now.
“You don't mind my staying here, do you?”
“No, of course not.” Praxythea hadn't become famous only because she was beautiful. She was also intelligent and witty. As a houseguest, she would be better company than those traitorous animals of mine.
“Would you get me another drink please, Tori? I don't want to disturb these darling cats.” Fred squirmed with pleasure and adjusted his tail.
I glared at him as I carried Praxythea's glass to the bar, where I poured an inch of Scotch into it. I didn't want to cloud those psychic vibrations she'd mentioned. Then I poured about three inches in another glass for myself. I had no vibrations to worry about, and as late as it was, I'd welcome a cloud-all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and get to bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day: I still had to write up my interview with the Pof-fenbergers and, of course, I'd want to keep up with the progress of the search parties.
I handed her the glass. “I'd better extinguish that fire,” I said. “The chimneys haven't been cleaned in years.”
“It's safe, Tori. I checked it out.”
“Physically or psychically?”
“Don't worry about it.”
I slumped into the armchair and hoped Ethelind had a good homeowner's policy. Still, I did have to admit it was nice to have a fire going. For the first time since I'd moved in, I was warm. The firelight cast a cozy glow upon the room, camouflaging the dust and the shabby upholstery, and making it easy to imagine how grand it must have been ninety years ago.
We sipped our drinks, and Praxythea filled me in on her most recent psychic adventures. Lulled by the warmth, her melodic voice, and the Scotch, I was nearly asleep when the sound of a car approaching on the gravel driveway startled me awake.
“What time is it?” I'd been meaning to get my Timex repaired for months.
“Only a little past one. That should be Luscious Miller.”
“Luscious! Why?”
“I called him a few minutes before you got home. I've offered to help him with his search for the boy.”
A moment later, there was a loud pounding at the back door.
“I'll get it.” Did I have any choice?
Luscious stood on the back porch, stripping off layers of clothing. I asked, “Any luck?”
He shook his head, so upset he didn't even bother to rearrange his hair over his bald spot. “Praxythea Evange-lista called me-said she's come all the way from New York to help us,” he said. “She found a missing murder victim for us back a few years ago. We're real lucky to have her.”
“Indeed we are.” I tried not to sound skeptical. After all, it couldn't hurt to have her here, despite what I thought about her psychic abilities. “Luscious, if I were you, I'd ask those kids more questions. The ones that were with Kevin before he got lost. There was something peculiar about the way they acted-I don't trust them.”
“Thanks, Tori. I'll do that. First thing in the morning.”
Praxythea was standing when we entered the parlor. Now I saw she wore a creamy raw-silk pantsuit with a purple scarf artfully draped around her neck. Purple, I recalled, represented spiritualism. I couldn't help feeling shorter, heavier, and more poorly dressed than I had a few minutes ago.
She held her arms out, and Luscious, with a goofy smile on his face, stepped right into her embrace.
“So good to see you again,” she whispered huskily into his right ear. His bald spot glowed like a fuchsia in full bloom.
“Let's start at once, shall we?” Praxythea said. Looking at me, she said, “We'll need a small table and some straight-backed chairs.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “You're not going to hold a seance, are you?”
“I prefer to call them readings.” She spotted a carved Chinese table, rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in a dark corner. “That table will do nicely. Chairs, Tori?”
Luscious and I carried in three oak chairs from the kitchen and set them around the table Praxythea had selected.
“Very nice. I need one more thing. Something convex with a reflective surface to concentrate on.”
“You mean a crystal ball, don't you?” I said. “I'm surprised you didn't bring one with you.”
“Mine is far too heavy to carry with me and is really not necessary. I'm sure you can find something suitable.”
“Would you like some background music, Praxythea? I have an Enya tape.”
Her cool stare told me my attempt at humor was not appreciated. A few minutes later, the three of us sat in a circle around the rosewood table, holding hands and staring at an upside-down one-and-a-half-quart Pyrex baking dish. As Praxythea had ordered, all the lamps were turned off and the only light in the room came from the burning logs in the hearth.
“Concentrate on the reflection,” she told us. “Let your eyes relax until you feel you are falling into it.”
“Just like looking at a 3-D computer picture,” I commented, crossing my eyes.
“Whatever it takes for you, Tori. Relax. Empty your mind. Be receptive to what comes.” Her eyes narrowed to nearly closed slits. I was afraid if I did as instructed I'd fall asleep, so I concentrated on a baked-on gravy stain on the side of the bowl.
We sat that way for a long time, while the fire died down to embers and the room turned cold. Once or twice I imagined I saw a shadowy image move across the surface of the bowl, but when I tried to bring it into focus, it disappeared. An illusion caused by moving light and tired eyes, I thought.
The room was dark. Way too dark. There should be moonlight coming in through the windows. My hands were icy cold, and I wished I could disentangle my fingers and blow some warmth into them. Although I tried to act nonchalant, I didn't like this type of thing at all. The memory of an encounter with something evil in the Mark Twain house in New York was still fresh in my mind. Intellectually, I knew there were no ghosts, spirits, or evil entities, but something deep inside the darkest reaches of my mind told me differently.
Suddenly, Praxythea's long bloodred fingernails dug into my palm. “I'm here,” she said, only it wasn't her voice that emitted from her mouth. “Mommy, I'm here, and I'm cold and scared. Where are you? Why don't you come, Mommy?”
A frisson of fear chilled my spine. What I was hearing was a small child. A frightened child. A child who was now crying.
A tear trickled down the psychic's cheek as the child continued. “Why don't you come? I've waited so long. Please, come get me. It's so dark. Please… please… please…” The voice deteriorated into pathetic sobbing that nearly broke my heart. I kept trying to remind myself that it was only Praxythea being dramatic, but damn, she truly did sound like a child.
“Where are you, darling?” Praxythea's speech was back to normal. She sounded like a concerned mother, talking calmly, trying not to alarm her frightened toddler.
The child's voice answered. “It's so deep… and still… something's holding me down… I'm cold… here… by the edge of running water…” The voice faded, and the room suddenly felt twenty degrees warmer.
“Lights, please, Luscious,” Praxythea ordered.
Luscious leaped to do her bidding. I pried Praxythea's fingers off my hand and rubbed the painful dents in my flesh. When the lights came on, I saw she looked dreadfully worn. The dark purple of old bruises circled her eyes, and her cheeks were pale and sunken. I could actually see her heart pounding through the soft silk of her suit.
My heart pounded, too, with fear that she might have a stroke or something equally awful. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, and she accepted it wordlessly. Luscious helped himself to something from the bar, and we sat and waited.
After a few minutes, Praxythea regained her usual, glamorous demeanor with no apparent ill effects. “He's trapped,” she said. “I saw a deep, still pool of water surrounded by cliffs. There's running water nearby. A spring or maybe a small creek. Can you think of any place that fits that description, Luscious?”
Now that things were back to normal, I couldn't refrain from expressing my disbelief. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Praxythea. Every time you try to locate someone psychically, you come up with the phrase ‘by the edge of running water.’ It's getting to be a bit much.”
Luscious interrupted. “Sounds like the old limestone quarry on Seven Springs Road. But it's about five miles west of where the kids say Kevin got lost.”
“They might not have told the truth,” I pointed out. “If Kevin's cousins did something to hurt him, it's quite possible they'd try to throw the searchers offtrack by lying about where they'd last seen him.”
I knew there was the off-chance possibility that Prax-ythea was right about the quarry. No matter what I thought about Praxythea's psychic ability, the quarry had to be checked out. And, much as I hated to admit it, she'd had some amazing successes with police departments in other parts of the country.
“The child in your vision-he was dead, wasn't he?” I asked.
Staring deep into the fire, she nodded.
Luscious jumped to his feet. “I'll get divers out there right away. We'll know by morning.”
He placed several calls. For once, he sounded sure of himself and in control of the situation. Garnet would have been proud of him.
“I'm heading out there now,” he said. “You two try to get some rest.”
“No way!” I protested. I was now wide awake. “I'm going with you.”
“So am I,” Praxythea said. “I can help you locate the exact spot to dive.”
By four that morning, the area on the limestone cliffs above the quarry was lit by the flashing lights of dozens of emergency vehicles. Whoever wasn't searching the mountain near Stinking Spring was here to help.
Television crews from Hagerstown, Harrisburg, and York stretched out their cables and set up floodlights and cameras. I spotted the Poffenbergers being interviewed by a reporter who couldn't have been more than three days out of college. Although I couldn't hear him, I could imagine the dialogue: “Tell me how you feel…”
Teams of divers, trained in scuba techniques and body recovery, took turns diving into the still, black depths of the water below.
Praxythea and Luscious had their heads together, studying a map. Since there was nothing I could contribute, I sat down on a rocky perch overlooking the rescue scene. Ginnie Welburn and Oretta Clopper, bearing doughnuts and paper cups full of steaming coffee, soon joined me.
“I thought you two were up on the mountain,” I said, moving over to make room for them on my rock. Oretta lowered her bulk with a grunt, making me wonder how she was ever going to get back on her feet.
“We thought we could be of more use here,” Oretta said.
“Besides, nothing's happening up there. This is where the action is,” Ginnie said as she squeezed in between us.
Even in the dim light, their drawn faces showed the stress we'd all been under for the last seven or eight hours. I wanted to say something light and clever to relieve the tension. I settled for “You two appear to have become best friends.” Not exactly a bon mot, but at least it brought a trace of a smile to Ginnie's lips.
“We had a lot of time to get acquainted tonight,” Gin-nie said. “We discovered we're practically neighbors.”
“I know Oretta lives on the other side of Moon Lake, but I didn't know you lived nearby,” I said.
Ginnie nodded. “At the end of your street. I've always harbored a secret desire to live in a grand Victorian mansion. Finding one I could actually afford was a dream come true.”
“They are fun to live in,” I said. “Especially in the summer when you don't have to heat them. I've heard mine's haunted.”
Oretta, who had been sipping coffee and listening to the conversation, broke in with a sniff. “They all are, Tori. If you believe local legend, Moon Lake has even more ghosts per square inch than Gettysburg.”
I was disappointed to learn my ghost story wasn't unique, particularly when Ginnie said, “Mine is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a woman who died in childbirth.”
Oretta began a long, complicated commentary describing the play she planned to write someday about a haunted house, when a shout from below captured our attention. We waited for a few minutes, but nothing more happened.
“Do you really think Kevin's down there?” Ginnie asked with a shudder.
“Praxythea could be right,” I said. “She has been in the past.”
“This is awful!” Ginnie said softly. Oretta took her hand, and we watched the divers go down, again and again.
The dark night sky was brightening to the gray light of dawn, when we heard a shout from below. “Found something.”
As people rushed past us to look down at the water, Ginnie and I pulled Oretta to her feet. From our vantage point, we watched a diver hoist himself out of the water onto a yellow rubber raft, where his diving partner waited. He laid a small item on the floor of the craft, then tumbled backward into the water.
“What is it?” someone called.
The man in the raft waved his arms and yelled something that was swallowed up in the noise of the crowd.
The diver reappeared on the surface, passed another object to the man in the boat, and disappeared beneath the surface once more.
So many people were calling out questions that there was no chance of hearing the answers. Luscious stepped forward with a battery-operated bullhorn and commanded the crowd to be quiet. An eerie stillness settled over the quarry. “What did you find?” he asked through the horn. His words bounced off the cliff face.
The man below cupped his hands and shouted back, “Bones! Looks like a child's skull.”
Skull… skull… skull… The word echoed from the limestone walls of the quarry. Mrs. Poffenberger's screams shattered the still air, and Oretta Clopper exhaled sharply and dropped at my feet in a dead faint.