Floating Staircase(66)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Several miles outside of Frostburg, the setting sun torched the land below, casting trails of golden light across the frozen hillsides. Small black birds sat on power lines like semicolons. In the fading afterglow of my meeting with Althea, my mind returned to the events of the past two months at 111 Waterview Court—the mystery I had begun to unravel, which revolved around my gradual understanding that David had murdered his nephew, as well as the more inexplicable events that had plagued me since that first night in the house when I’d heard bare feet padding down the hallway.

Althea’s story of the ghost girl did not so much frighten me as it caused a hot serpent of misunderstanding to coil at the base of my guts. Was I misinterpreting those nightly sounds, the handprint on the basement wall, the strange splotches of water on the concrete floor that too closely resembled a child’s footprint? We have been taught by popular culture that ghosts are restless beasts, hungry for vindication and revenge on those who have wronged them. But was this all just nonsense? I couldn’t help but replay Althea’s words over and over in my head—I like to think that maybe she realized how lonely I was that summer. How much I needed a friend. If that was true, was I missing something with this whole Elijah-David scenario?

Inevitably, my mind returned to Jodie. I was you. My interest in the Dentmans had frightened her badly enough to send her across the street to my brother’s house. I hated myself for it.

Can’t I just forget the whole thing? Can’t I throw in the towel on this murder-mystery fiasco? Call the haulers to come get Elijah’s stuff out of the basement and burn my goddamn writing notebooks? Can’t I just shake this thing and let Jodie and me move on with our lives?

But I didn’t think I could do it. Moreover, I didn’t think I was supposed to do it.

When I reached the outskirts of Westlake, I eased behind a small queue of cars at a traffic light. Leaning over, I popped open the glove compartment and rooted around until I found a pen and a curl of paper, which was actually an old Office Depot receipt. On the back of the receipt I wrote, It has been said that nature does not know extinction, knowing that it would make the perfect opening line for my Floating Staircase novel if I ever actually finished it.

The light changed, and the driver behind me laid on the horn.

Nervous and jittery, I felt like a bullet shot from a gun. I was on the verge of revealing some great and hidden truth—I knew this without question, though I had no concept of how I knew—and I floored the accelerator the rest of the way home.



The house was a dark shell. Warmer temperatures had caused the snow to start its retreat, and I could see the grayish lawn at the edge of our property. I drove up the gravel driveway as evergreens rushed in on either side of the car. Some small part of me was holding out hope that Jodie would be home, but the realistic part of me knew that wouldn’t be the case. She was hard-headed; she would stick to her guns.

Climbing out of the car, I stood staring at the house as if it had just appeared in front of me out of thin air. The front porch slouched under the weight of melting snow. The windows looked pebbly with grit.

I am not willing to lose my marriage over this bullshit, I thought. I’d already decided that I would call the junk haulers tomorrow to get Elijah’s stuff out of our basement. Then I would go over to Adam’s house and see Jodie.

I walked to the rear of the house and wended through the naked trees on my way to the lake. The neighboring pines whispered their conspiracies all around me. I paused as the lake came into clear view. Much of it was now unfrozen, save for a Texas-shaped panel at the lake’s center. It was the first time I’d actually seen the water. The lake trembled in the moonlight.

Find an anchor, the therapist piped up.

“Shut the f*ck up,” I told the voice, turning and walking back to the house.

Inside, it was cold as hell. Darkness pressed against the windows. I turned on very few lights. From the basement I retrieved Earl’s crime scene photos. I stuck them to the refrigerator with magnets, sat on the floor, and studied them, my back against one kitchen wall and a plate of cold chicken in my lap. I was missing something in those photos, something important, but it remained elusive.

Find an anchor.

There was one last thing I could do; oddly enough, it had been something my brother had said to me the other day while I was chopping firewood in the backyard. Murderers have motives, innocent people have alibis, and you can’t lock someone up behind bars because pieces don’t fit. I grabbed the telephone and punched in Earl’s number. It rang a number of times before his sleep-heavy voice growled a rough hello into the receiver.

“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “It’s Travis.”

“Shoot,” he garbled, “I was awake. What’s the news on Althea?”

“She’s a sweet old woman who’s dying a painful death. I felt horrible for her.”

“What did she say about the Dentmans?”

I relayed to him the story of Elijah’s mysterious two-day illness and the boy’s response that he “went away” for those two days. I told him, too, of the dead animals the boy had been collecting and how Uncle David did not approve of such behavior. “Just how much he didn’t approve,” I appended, “is the million-dollar question.”

“Did you tell her your theory? About David having murdered the boy?” There was a youthful exuberance that ran through the old man’s voice.