The Winter People(68)

Behind us, I heard the snapping of twigs. I raised my head, turned, and saw Buckshot, covered in ash. He looked at me, his milky-white ghost eye moving uselessly in its socket.

“Buckshot,” I called. “Here, boy.” But the dog gave a derisive snort and slipped off into the forest.





Martin


January 28, 1908


Martin was slow to get out of bed, dreading the day before him. Sara had spent the past two days searching the house and woods, barely sleeping, and strangely frantic.

“Did you lose something?” Martin had asked her yesterday morning, when she checked the hall closet for what must have been the twentieth time.

“Maybe,” she’d told him.

Yesterday afternoon, Martin had gone into town again to talk with Lucius. Lucius insisted on taking Martin for a drink at the inn. They settled in at the bar, and Carl Gonyea served them each an ale.

“Good to see you, Martin,” Carl said, giving him a jovial handshake. “How’s Sara doing?”

“Well,” Martin said through a tight smile. “She’s well, thank you.”

“A horrible thing to go through, losing a child like that. My heart goes out to both of you.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, looking down into his ale. Carl gave him a nod and went to tend to something in a back room.

Martin sipped at his pint and took a look around the room. The dining-room-and-bar area was grand and done in dark wood. Martin could see his reflection in the polished counter. The windows facing Main Street had stained-glass panels at the top that sent patches of colored light to flicker on the polished wooden floor. There were half a dozen tables, laid out with white cloths and silverware, but it was between lunch and dinner, so no one was eating. Martin and Lucius were the only two at the bar. Behind it, bottles of liquor stood on shelves, waiting for the end of the day, when men with more money than Martin had would come in and drink from them.

“Tell me, brother,” Lucius said. “Tell me the truth about Sara.”

Martin leaned over and filled Lucius in on Sara’s condition. He spoke in hushed tones, keeping an eye out for Carl.

He didn’t know what he would do without Lucius. Lucius was the only person besides Sara whom Martin ever confided in, and now that he felt he was losing Sara, Lucius was all he had. And Lucius was so patient, so wise. He lent Martin strength, and often, although Sara didn’t know it, he’d lent Martin money, too. Just a little here and there, to help them during their darkest times. Martin knew Lucius would give them more—he’d offered, more than once—but Martin didn’t feel right taking his brother’s money.

Though Lucius agreed that it was a good sign to have Sara out of bed and eating again, he said he was concerned that she seemed still to be experiencing delusional thinking.

“I found her in the woods,” Martin explained, “calling out to Gertie, as if she thought Gertie was still out there, lost.”

Lucius nodded. “Keep a close watch on her, Martin. Someone with Sara’s history … who has had episodes of madness before … such a person is very susceptible to slipping back into it. As I said, she may even become dangerous. We must prepare to admit her to the state hospital if it proves necessary.”

Martin had shivered at the idea of Sara’s becoming dangerous.

Now, out of bed and dressed at last, Martin padded down the stairs and found Sara in the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. She looked thinner than ever, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced. Had she even come to bed last night? Martin had the feeling she’d been down here, waiting for him, all night.

“Morning,” he mumbled, bracing himself for whatever might come next.

“Do you know where the shovel is?” Sara asked. “I couldn’t find it in the barn.”

“It’s there, lined up with the other tools,” Martin said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and peering at her through the steam. “Not enough fresh snow to need to shovel, though.”

Besides, that was his job. Was she teasing? Mocking him?

“Oh, I’m not going to shovel snow.” She had a curious look on her face, like a child up to no good.

Martin took a swallow of bitter coffee.

“What do you need the shovel for, then?”

“Digging.” She paused here, watching Martin’s reaction.

He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, but the words bubbled out of him. “Digging what?”

“I’m going to dig up Gertie’s body.”

He splashed coffee down his front, burning his chest.

“You’re going to …” His voice sounded shaky, strange to his own ears.

Sara smiled slyly. “Gertie left me another message,” she said, pulling a folded piece of paper from her apron and handing it over to Martin. He unfolded it, and there, in shaky, childish writing, was:

Look in the Poket of the dress I was waring.

You will find somthing that beelongs to the 1 that Kilt me.

He swallowed hard, but the knot in his throat stayed there.

He had a flash of Gertie at the bottom of the well, wearing her wool overcoat and blue dress. Heavy wool stockings bunched up on her legs.

When they pulled her from the well, he saw her hair had been cut. No one but Martin noticed. Martin, who’d carried the hank of hair coiled up in the pocket of his coat, buried it in the snow.