Chapter Eight

It’s Friday. The bat squad is here, dressed in plastic suits, boots and helmets like there’s a leaking chemical weapon in the house. Alice has tennis after school and I’ve got time on my hands. Time to be out of the house and curious. Besides, after yesterday, I could do with a break. I’ve heard so much about Emerald Lake. People in town refer to it all the time, like you would an attractive landmark. Today’s the day. I’m going to drive up there and see it for myself.

Call me unimaginative, but Emerald Lake is more pewter than precious gem, though the vegetation’s green enough. The forests spread down ravines and gullies to the water’s edge, holding their old secrets. I spot a layby on the narrow shore and park there, but don’t get out of the car. It’s lonely, and very quiet for a city-lover like me, lately resident in the metropolis of Lobster Cove. I sit for ten, fifteen minutes, window open to the sunshine, watching the water, contemplating the sensation of being the only person in the world. I shiver, start the engine and move on, away from the grey water, up the hill, where the ground levels out and the trees stand back from the roadside.

Here’s something. A small house with a sign out front that I recognize:

Agat—Abenaki—Herbaliste—Facialiste

The beautician Cherri Chandler told me about. I slow the car to a stop. I never had time for this kind of stuff in my old life, but right now I do. I’ll stop by and make an appointment. What luxury.

I park the Jeep and walk in below the little sign, squeaking on its hinge, swinging in the breeze. The path to the cabin is no more than rough stones laid in the mud. A few chickens scratch about happily in the garden, such as it is, between clumps of herbs and succulents, mulched with bark, pebbles and broken seashells. I spot beehives to the side of the house, some distance away, in the shelter of a thicket of young pine trees. Clearly, an old tree fell there and young ones are growing where it seeded. I step onto the porch by way of three shallow wooden planks, raised on bricks to make rustic stairs. Baskets of shells, pebbles, broken coloured glass and blown eggs crowd every surface. Objects hang from rusty wire hooks under the porch eaves: dream-catchers, tumbleweeds, birds’ nests, bunches of dried herbs. The front door is wide open to the pitch-dark interior of the house. I ring the iron bell and wait, smelling incense. I wait a long time and am about to ring again when—

“Yes?”

I jump. Turning, I see, right there, on the porch, somehow without a sound to herald her arrival, Agat, I presume. She’s brown, wiry, and white-haired. Smooth-skinned, it has to be said. She’s wearing a denim ankle length shift dress and clogs. Clogs that would have scrunched up the stony mud of the path, so God knows where she’s beamed herself in from. Her pale blue eyes stay on my face, challenging me to ask a question. I do.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you Agat?”

“Where you from?”

“Lobster Cove. Cherri told me about you, said you offered facial treatments.”

“You the new girl for Blue Rocks?”

“I’m Lara Fairmont. I work for Lucas Dalton.” I offer my hand, but she doesn’t reciprocate.

She spits to the left and makes a funny little circle sign in mid-air with both forefingers. “You touch that man?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You touch him? His skin, his hand? You kiss him?”

“I…well…yes, I have touched him.” I shook his hand after all, and kissed him goodbye, urged by Lara. I touch my cheek like I’ve been stung there.

She puts her hands behind her back. “Ah, he kiss you. Go away. I don’t touch you!”

“Excuse me?”

“Go. Away.” She leans toward me, eyes flickering.

I drop my hand. “But—”

She brings her hands to the front of her body, presses them to her heart, and then raises a forefinger above her head like she’s checking wind direction. “That man evil, evil, evil. He think nobody know, but I do. I know. I am Abenaki, a child of the Dawn Land. My ancestors are warriors, so I am not afraid. You, you must fear Dzeedzeebonda. All girls want to catch him, catch the handsome, rich man, capture his loose hair and braid it. They want, they want to wear his ring, but that ring will go to Alombegwinosis like the first one. Her ring went to Alombegwinosis.” She holds her stomach. “They must fear him. You must fear him.”

I stare at her. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about. “Are you Agat?” I try again, smiling.

She lowers her hand and walks across the porch, putting herself between me and the open door. “Kisosen bring the sun and see everything by daylight. But even when he fold his wings and bring the night, he see. He saw him, he saw that evil man that dark night.”

Right. Time to go. “Thank you,” I say with the most polite expression I can manage. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

She follows me to the car. “That man touch you already. He leave blackness on you. Blackness in your heart.”

I drive away, not much caring that I’ve left her covered in dust, my black heart thumping, shaky hands sweaty on the wheel. A mile or so along the road I pass one of those signs: Maine—the way life should be.

Really?

****

There’s no infant class at Alice’s school on Fridays, so there’s a good chance I’ll catch Cherri at home around lunchtime. I know where she lives—along the road to Grant’s Lake—because Alice points out her house each time we drive past. Besides, she said I could approach her for help. Anytime, honey, were her exact words. I slow down on the approach her front gate—feeling like the sheriff in his cruiser—and bingo there she is, peering into her post box.

I park on the roadside, get out of the car and lock it. We exchange pleasantries, and I explain why I’ve come. “I have questions about Lucas,” I tell her.

Cherri looks at me, scarlet lips pursed. “If I don’t tell you you’re gonna go to the public records’ office, the library, all those kinds of places and try to dig up the truth, ain’t you? You’re that kinda woman.”

I nod.

Does it matter, though? I’m here to do a job. To look after Alice until Lucas gets home, and then to go home myself. Do I really need to know what shifts in the shadows of Lucas’s life? Am I curious—is that all? Am I afraid? As long as Lucas doesn’t murder me, and if he’s not here, he can’t do that, can he? What’s this all about? I can’t put my finger on the exact reason why I have to know, but I do. I must know, and I will. This is as good a place to start as any.

Cherri tips her head toward the house. “Let’s go and sit in the garden out back.”

Using the excuse that I have to be gone in ten minutes to pick up Alice from tennis, I refuse all offers of tea, mint or otherwise, relishing the safe warmth of Cherri’s garden, billowing with crimson roses and peonies, purple petunias and sky-blue lupines. There’s a marijuana plant, happy as Larry, flourishing between the mint bushes.

We sit on a wooden bench in the sun, and Cherri asks me what’s up. I tell her about my visit to Emerald Lake and how I came across Agat’s house, her less than friendly welcome and her weird ramblings.

“Shoot.” Cherri twists her mouth. “Agat is a mad old fool. You don’t wanna to listen to her.”

“I had no option. Was she cursing me? She babbled on about Dzeedzee somebody…who is that?”

Cherri sits back. “Dzeedzeebonda is a monster, that’s all. It’s folklore. Mythology of the Abenakis.”

“What sort of monster? What does he do?”

Reluctant, she tells me, with a sigh. “He’s a monster so ugly he can’t look at himself, apparently. I’ve never seen him, honey. Pay no attention. He ain’t anywhere in Maine.” She laughs, but I’m not convinced.

“She referred to Lucas as that monster. Why? And she spoke about other people, women wanting to catch him and braid his hair—what’s that about?”

She takes my hand across the table. “Let me get you some tea.”

“Cherri, no. Thanks. I must go in a second. Please tell me what she meant by the hair-braiding stuff.”

Her eyes slide away from mine. “A young Abenaki man wears his hair long and loose until he becomes engaged to be married. Then, his woman braids his hair to show he’s taken. Once married, once rings are exchanged, she shaves his head, all but the braid.”

“There was something about a ring, too. She said Alombegwi…something…would take the ring. No. She said—implied—he would get the ring again, like the last one. What did she mean?”

“Alombegwinosis is no more than a fictitious imp in the folklore of the Abenaki—”

“What kind of imp?”

She leaves go my hand and sits back in her chair. “A dwarfish creature who can change his size at will.”

“And what else?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cherri rolls her eyes. “Gawd. The batty old crow.”

“Does she know something? Did she see something?”

She narrows her eyes to amethyst slits. “Who knows what she sees and saw? She’s crazy.”

“Did she?”

She presses her lips together and glances at her watch. “Ain’t you late, Lara?”

Well. So much for that. But I am late. I get up, grab my bag. “Your garden’s gorgeous. I’m sorry to leave.”

“Sorry to see you rush,” she calls from the porch, waving me off. She isn’t though. Her relief at my departure is palpable.

Tomorrow, I’m going to see the sheriff. He’ll know what’s what.

****

I’m the last at school. All the kids have gone and Pick is busy in the foyer, stacking small tennis rackets in a crate, locking up.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, annoyed that I am.

“You needn’t have rushed. Alice has been collected.”

“Collected?” Every drop of blood in my body freezes.

She smiles. “By her Uncle John.”

Uncle John? While my blood freezes, a hot river of shock spurts through my veins. Alice has been taken by a pervert.

“Who is Uncle John?”

“Not to worry. He’s an accredited relative.”

Not to worry? Is this what people with children do? Let them go off with strangers? Arrive at school to find they’ve been picked up by some randomer? I don’t think so.

“Pick, where is Alice?”

She gazes past me. “Mr. Dalton said he saw Mr. Dalton’s Jeep outside Teacher Cherri’s so he was going straight on over to—”

“Hi.”

I whip around to see who owns the voice behind me. It’s Lucas. My heart skyrockets for a second, then crashes back down, leaving me breathless. It’s not Lucas. It’s a brother or a cousin. He’s similar, but shorter, and heavier, a little older, with different eyes.

“For God’s sake!” I snap. “What do you think you’re doing?” I’m angry. I want to cry. I squeeze my lips together to stop the wobble.

He holds up his hands. “Hey, I drove by, saw school was out, saw Lucas’s Jeep parked down the road outside Cherri’s, figured I’d pick up Lis and bring her over. That’s it. That’s all. By the time I’d parked, you were driving back up the road. You didn’t see us waving. I came right back, knowing you’d be real worried.”

“If you’ll excuse me?” Pick thins her lemon lips, vanishes inside and locks the door.

I blink, take a breath. “Sorry.” I look at his car beyond the playground fence. Alice waves at me through the window, happy as you like, finishing off an ice cream.

“I’m John, by the way. Luke’s brother.”

John and Luke. Biblical. We don’t shake hands. Instead, he says, “Um,” and puts a hand on my shoulder.

Startled, I look at the hand, and back at him. “What?”

“Luke would be real glad to know you were looking after Lis so well.”

“What do you mean?” I glance at Alice, who’s freed herself from the car.

“’Ticky hands.” She holds them up and runs toward me. I duck away from John’s hand, rinse hers under a tap in the schoolyard and scoop water onto her face.

“Dry it on your dress,” says John, smiling. “Like Daddy did.”

“Did?” I frown into his eyes, but he’s looking at Alice.

He chuckles. “Yeah. At my wife’s birthday picnic last month in Back Bay. It caused quite a stir.”

“Is everything all right?” I ask John as we walk back to the cars. Alice, smitten by way of ice cream, bypasses the Jeep and climbs back into John’s Corvette.

John opens the driver’s door for me. I look at him, but the sun blinds me. I can’t see his face properly, can’t read his eyes.

“We need to talk,” he says. “I’ll see you back at the house.”