The Walker in Shadows

I

If the midwife hadn't sworn to the fact, people would not have believed that Lavinia and Louisa Peters were sisters, much less twins. They were both fair-haired and blue-eyed, but with that the resemblance ceased. Lavinia was a fairy child, fragile and exquisite; Louisa was chubby and stolid, regarding the world with cool detachment from behind the thumb that was usually in her mouth. As they grew to young ladyhood, Louisa lost her baby fat, but she was never as slim as her sister, whose waist attained the fabulous seventeen-inch span so desired by Southern belles. Her blue eyes kept their look of calm appraisal, while Lavinia's danced coquettishly, flirting long lashes at her dozens of beaux.

("I've seen old photographs of the two," Mark said. "They didn't even look alike. They were older when the pictures were taken, but one was still the professional Southern lady; the other had a placid, motherly sort of face.")

They were devoted to one another, and that was odd; for although the term "sibling rivalry" had not yet been coined, the reality had existed for centuries, and many sisters have a healthy detestation for one another. Not Louisa and Lavinia. It was not surprising that they should fall in love and marry at the same age, for they did every thing together. Nor was it really surprising, considering how different they were, that their husbands should be such opposites.

Albert Tumbull was a widower, almost twenty years older than Lavinia, but every other factor was in his favor. He was a neighbor, a planter, an aristocrat; his estate, adjoining the Peters' tobacco plantation, included fifty slaves and four hundred acres.

("And he was a good-looking guy," Mark said. "I mean, if you like the type-mustache, high cheekbones, the deliberate aristocratic sneer. I don't know why he and Lavinia didn't move into his house. Maybe she refused to live with the relics of his first wife, or maybe the ancestral mansion was falling apart…")

Whatever the reason, Turnbull moved into the handsome new house built as a wedding gift by his father-in-law. The name he gave it, Halcyon House, was not especially original, but it indicated an optimistic hope for happiness with his new bride. He may not have been so pleased about his new brother-in-law.

His name was Bates-John Bates. It was a flat, thumping, monosyllabic name, and the pictures of him that have survived show a face that suits the name-expressionless, dour, dark. A New Englander by birth and a school-teacher by trade, he had somehow found his way to Maryland and the headmastership of one of the new private schools in the area.

("I don't know how Louisa met him," Mark admitted. "Schoolteachers weren't gentry, not exactly… But they weren't lower-class types either, so I guess she could have run into him at some social function. It must have been a genuine love match. To a girl of her background, Bates had nothing in particular to recommend him. He looked like a sour-faced, sanctimonious old-")

He wasn't old, though; he was only twenty-six when he married the eighteen-year-old Louisa, more than ten years younger than his brother-in-law, Turnbull. Peters, one of the wealthier landowners of Maryland, endowed his adored daughters with wide acres, and built them each a house. It seems reasonable to suppose that the mutual affection of the sisters dictated the relative proximity of the houses, for western Maryland in those days had plenty of empty space-and the odd fact that they were duplicates. One might have expected the placid Louisa and her stolid New England husband to prefer a more classic style. But old Mr. Peters was providing the money, and perhaps it was he who demanded the very latest mode in architecture-the bizarre mixture of Tudor and castellated medieval styles known as American Gothic revival.

Some students of local architecture suspect that the twin houses were designed by the same man who built Tudor Hall, the boyhood home of the Booth brothers-Edwin the actor, John Wilkes, the assassin. The red brick walls boasted mullioned windows and diamond-pane casements. The great bay windows in the drawing rooms had Gothic tracery. Wooden curlicues and curls hung like icicles from the porches, roofs, and gables.

("Most of the wooden wedding-cake trim is gone now," Mark said. "It was too expensive to paint and repair. The houses aren't exact duplicates anymore because over the years people added things like bathrooms and kitchens. But the floor plans are the same.")

The name the Turnbulls gave their home was typically pretentious, but names were not pure affectation, they were a convenient form of identification before street names and route numbers. The Bateses also named their house.

("It's funny," Mark said. "Most of the old names are remembered. Not that one. It's mentioned in one old book, and nowhere else. Freedom Hall. You could reasonably assume a New England schoolteacher would be an abolitionist. The name he gave his house makes it certain.")

The slave owner and the antislavery schoolteacher might not have been the best of friends, but the two families lived side by side in apparent amity for almost fifteen years. Turnbull had one daughter from his previous marriage. Lavinia presented him with another child, a son, born in 1844. Louisa was more prolific than her sister, but not much more fortunate. Her first child was also born in 1844, but it did not survive infancy. She became pregnant again almost at once, producing twins in 1845-a boy and a girl. She had other children, but only one of them lived as long as eight years. By 1860 the pattern of duplication still prevailed, with two members of the younger generation in each of the twin houses. Lavinia's stepdaughter, Mary Jane, was twenty-six. Her son Peter was sixteen. The Bates cousins, Edward and Susan, were a year younger than Peter. In that year the war clouds were gathering, hanging low and dark over divided border states such as Maryland.

II

They had agreed not to interrupt Mark. No one did, but Pat was amused at the effort it cost Josef Friedrichs to keep his mouth shut. Every now and then a particularly questionable statement or undefended assumption would produce a visible contortion in the older man's face, his cheek muscles twitching as he struggled not to speak. When Mark ended with his dramatic metaphor Josef could contain himself no longer.

"You'd be a great trial lawyer," he said caustically. "Eloquent, florid, and full of hot air. How much of that is factual?"

"There's a genealogy," Mark said. "Deeds, architect's plans-"

"I assumed you had those. Where did you get all that about Bates's abolitionist beliefs?"

"But, Dad, it's obvious," Kathy exclaimed. "Can't you see the conflict building between the two families? Maryland was a border state. It almost seceded. It probably would have if the federal government hadn't occupied Baltimore and thrown a lot of Southern sympathizers in jail. There were Maryland regiments in both the Confederate and Union armies-"

"I'm glad you're learning a little history in that expensive school," Josef said. "Oddly enough, my dear, I knew all that. But you haven't proved that the two families who lived in these houses were divided in their sentiments, or that, if they were, there is any connection whatever with the presumed apparition that-"

"I'll prove it," Mark said. His lips set in a stubborn line, his dark brows drew together. "I've just started to look. But, damn it, I know I'm right. I'll do it myself if I have to, but it would go a lot faster if I could get some help from you guys."

"I'll help," Kathy said.

Josef looked at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time that morning. His eyes widened.

"Where did you get that-that garment?"

"It belongs to Mrs. Robbins." Kathy contemplated a splash of coffee with some dismay. "Gosh, Mrs. Robbins, I'm sorry. I guess I'm getting it dirty. I'll wash it-"

"The time is midafternoon and you are sitting around in a bathrobe," Josef said indignantly. "Get dressed immediately."

Kathy made a mutinous face, but obeyed. She had barely left the room when the front-door bell rang.

"It's probably one of your friends," Pat said to Mark. "Tell him to come back later. I don't think we want the whole town to know Kathy spent the night here."

"Okay, okay." Mark went out.

Josef rose. His face had fallen back into its rigid lines.

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Pat. I did not intend-"

"Oh, stop being so pompous," Pat said. "We can't go back to the old formality, can we? I don't know what to say about Mark's crazy theory, but one thing is certain: you two can't sleep in that house until we figure out what went on there."

Before Josef could answer, the swinging door to the kitchen burst open and Mark entered.

"It's Mrs. Groft," he hissed, like a stage villain. "She says you were supposed to go antiquing with her. She's in the living room, but you know her, she's got the biggest mouth in town, and she'll be coming out here any minute…"

"Darn, I forgot," Pat exclaimed. "Of all the people we don't want to know about this-"

Josef's eyes opened wide. Through terror, distress, and even unconsciousness he had maintained a certain dignity; this threat reduced him to quivering, unconcealed cowardice.

"I know that woman. She's been driving me crazy ever since I moved in. For God's sake, Pat, head her off. Mark, keep Kathy out of sight. If she sees-"

Nancy 's not so dulcet voice reverberated, even through a closed door and a long stretch of hall. "Pa-a-at! Aren't you ready?"

Josef made a brief, vulgar comment and bolted, leaving the back door ajar. Mark fled in the other direction, up the back stairs. Pat leaned against the sink and laughed.

III

She caught Nancy before that inquisitive lady reached the kitchen. The piled-up dishes would have been a dead giveaway. She could imagine Nancy 's delighted innuendos: "My, my, what class-brunch at one p.m., and with whom, my dear? Not, by any chance…" Fortunately Pat was already dressed to go out; she had only to snatch up her purse and propel her friend from the house. Upstairs Mark was thundering around like a herd of demented moose, presumably in order to cover any sounds Kathy might make.

The antique show was in Gaithersburg, a fast half hour's drive away. Fortunately it was a good show, and Nancy, who collected everything from old silver to antique duck decoys, was sufficiently absorbed to leave Pat alone. Nancy was known to, and hated by, most of the dealers, since her method of bargaining consisted of making derogatory remarks about the merchandise. Pat wandered off, leaving Nancy arguing with a gray-haired woman who was selling old glass.

In the cold light of day she found it harder and harder to believe what had happened the previous night. Surely- surely!-there must be some sensible explanation. Mark was young and given to strange enthusiasms… but he was just plain nuts if he really believed this ghost theory. Kathy was also young, and so infatuated with Mark she would believe the sun set in the east if he told her it did.

Pat couldn't dismiss Josef's experience so easily. She tried, though; and as her eyes moved unseeingly over displays of medicine bottles, postcards, Victorian chamber sets, and other dubious treasures, she finally came up with a hypothesis-not a wholly satisfactory hypothesis, but one that was easier to accept than Mark's ghost. The Chinese vase was tall and top-heavy, tapering down from swelling sides to a relatively narrow base. If Josef, running to his daughter's aid, had tripped and started to fall, his outflung arm, or even the vibration of his footsteps, might have toppled the vase. In his overwrought state, he might fancy the object had moved of its own accord. The whole thing was self-hypnotism, autosuggestion… And that same convenient diagnosis would explain her own sensations as she stood in horrified suspense under Kathy's window.

Pat grimaced. The theory was unconvincing, even to her. It was hard for her to dismiss her sensations of loathing as sheer imagination.

There was another explanation. Pat let it emerge into her conscious mind, from the depths where it had been simmering, and looked at it dispassionately.

Josef Friedrichs had engineered the whole thing. He had, in fact, attacked his daughter on the first occasion, and had stage-managed a second "supernatural" attack in order to conceal his guilt.

"No," Pat said aloud. She shook her head violently.

"I'll make it nine hundred," said the dealer, who had been showing her a piecrust table, in the fond belief that her fixed stare indicated interest.

"What?" Pat started, and blushed as she realized she had been talking to herself. "Oh-no, thank you, I'm sorry."

She turned into the next aisle. Nancy was nowhere in sight, but Pat fancied she heard the familiar tones raised in hoarse triumph somewhere in the distance.

The next booth featured old books. One of the titles caught Pat's eye, and she stopped to examine the volume. It was a battered, cheaply bound cloth edition of a history of Maryland, and she turned to the chapters on the Civil War. She was familiar with some of the material. Jerry had talked about it. But the story proved unexpectedly interesting, in the light of Mark's comments, and she was deeply absorbed when the dealer's voice cut into her reading.

"Let you have it cheap, lady. A bargain. First edition, rare book…"

He was a sharp-faced man with graying brown hair and tobacco stains on his teeth. At least his tone had been courteous; Pat wouldn't have blamed him for pointing out that he was not running a library.

At five dollars the book wasn't really a bargain. It was certainly a first edition, but Pat suspected that was because it had not been popular enough to rate more than one printing. Nancy would have offered three dollars, and probably would have gotten the book for that price. Pat paid five.

"Do you have anything else on local history?" she asked.

The dealer shook his head.

"Not my field. Try Blake."

"Is he here?"

"Not him. He's got a shop in New Market. He's an independent old-er-cuss; won't do shows. But he's the man for Maryland history, if that's your bag."

Pat thanked him, and went to look for Nancy. She was suddenly anxious to get home. For one thing, it would be a good idea to find out whether or not she might expect overnight guests. She had planned to get Chinese food, or pizza, or something of that sort for herself and Mark. But if the Friedrichs were going to be there for supper…

Nancy was also ready to leave. Flushed with triumph, she clutched an armful of bargains even more hideous than her usual spoils-a battered oil lamp, its glass base chipped; a crocheted bedspread, spotted with ambiguous stains; a large china figure of a puppy and two repulsive kittens.

"That's the third bedspread you've bought in a month," Pat exclaimed.

"But this was a real buy. I bargained the woman down to thirty bucks. The stains will come out, with bleach."

Pat doubted that, but she didn't say so. When they were in the car, on their way home, Nancy stopped gloating over her buys and said accusingly, "Didn't you get anything?"

"Just a book." Pat displayed it, admitted that she had paid five dollars for it, and listened amiably while Nancy told her that she should have bargained over the price.

"I thought Jerry was the book addict," Nancy said. "Are you going in for that now?"

"Not really. It's just that Mark and I were talking about history the other day, and I decided I'd like to know more about my house. Jerry always meant to do some research."

"Mmm." Nancy swerved to avoid a child on a bicycle. Putting her head out the window, she yelled, "You're going to get killed if you don't stay off main roads, young man." Then she went on, "You ought to talk to Jay Ran-kin, Pat."

"Who is he?"

"You have become such a recluse it is unbelievable," Nancy said severely. "If I've told you once, I've told you a dozen times… He's the curator of the county historical association. Bachelor… Not your type, though. He's one of those weedy-looking kids with long hair and a beard." She chuckled as Pat made a wordless noise of negation and disapproval. "Anyhow, he's too young. He and a couple of other boys moved into the Jenkins house at the end of the street last year. The Jenkinses wanted to rent to a couple, but they were in a hurry to get the house off their hands, and at least these young fellows have jobs-I mean, if you could see some of the communes, or whatever they call them, that have moved into some of the houses in the county…,"

Pat smothered a grin as Nancy went on with her diatribe. Nancy 's own four sons were as amiably disorganized, as frankly disinterested in work as the types she was so vigorously castigating. At least the topic kept Nancy busy for the rest of the drive. She came to a crashing halt-her driving was like her personality, vigorous and decisive-in front of Pat's house and asked, "Do you want Jay's number?"

"I expect he's in the book." Pat opened the car door. "Thanks, Nancy, I enjoyed it."

"There's a show in Columbia next week."

"I'll see. If I'm not busy…"

Nancy did not reply. She was staring out the window at the house next door. Through a gap in the hedge Pat saw what had caught Nancy 's attention: a bright-golden head and a flutter of pink.

"She's out," Nancy announced, leaning out the window in order to see better. "Hey-somebody is with her. A boy, as I live and breathe. I wonder who."

Mark was wearing the same horrible jeans and dirty T-shirt all the local boys wore, but there was no hiding his gangling height. Nancy knew his appearance almost as well as she knew that of her own sons. She turned a bright, speculative gaze on Pat and let her lips curl in an expression her neighbor knew only too well.

"How long has that been going on?"

"I can't see that much is going on," Pat said. "It's late, Nancy. I'll call you-"

"Wait till I tell Ron," Nancy said. Ron was her oldest son, Mark's buddy and rival. "He's been trying to date that girl for weeks. Of course Mark has the advantage of proximity."

Pat finally made good her escape. Peeking through the curtains of the Gothic bay, she saw that Nancy 's car remained parked in front of her house for ten more minutes. But the young people had disappeared, and finally Nancy gave up and drove away, with the usual squeal of tires.

A few moments later Pat heard the kitchen door open and went to investigate. She found Mark foraging in the refrigerator. Kathy, slim as a pencil in her faded jeans and pink shirt, her fair hair windblown, leaned against the stove.

"Hi," she said blithely. "I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Robbins. Mark offered me a Coke."

" Nancy saw you," Pat said. "What were you two doing next door?"

Mark filled two glasses, spilling liquid all over the counter and spraying fragments of ice hither and yon.

"You want one, Mom?"

"I'll have coffee," Pat said, turning on the burner under the kettle. "Mark, why were you and Kathy over there?"

"What difference does it make?" Mark asked.

"Well… none, I guess. I just don't want Nancy to know Kathy is sleeping here."

"Naturally." Mark rolled his eyes and flung a muscular, oil-stained arm aloft in a theatrical gesture. "She'll never learn the truth from me."

Kathy giggled appreciatively. She had a pretty laugh, light and bubbly as champagne-one of the sweeter, cheaper California varieties, Pat thought sourly. She had spent the entire afternoon worrying, while these two tiptoed through the tulips.

"Where is your father?" she asked.

"Working. But," Kathy added gaily, "he's going to take us out to dinner tonight."

"I don't think that is a good idea," Pat said.

"Why not?"

"We still have some decisions to make, Kathy. I think we could talk more freely here. I'll cook some-uh- something."

"I'll call Dad, then," Kathy said. "It's time he stopped working, anyhow." As she went toward the phone, she added, "I'll just write our number in your little book, Mrs. Robbins. We're not listed, and you just might want to call sometimes."

"Yes, I might," Pat said drily. "If your father insists on going out, let me talk to him, please."

Apparently Josef was not in an intransigent mood. Kathy hung up after a brief exchange.

"He's coming right over," she announced.

The teakettle began to shriek. Pat made herself a cup of coffee. When Josef appeared at the back door, she waved the kettle at him.

"Coffee?"

"I'd rather have a drink." He was wearing a sports coat and tie; the pale-blue coat was an unexpectedly frivolous touch, but it set off his dark eyes and graying hair. From behind his back he produced two bottles. "Scotch and gin. If I had four hands I could offer more variety."

"Help yourself," Pat said. "I'll stick to coffee."

Josef made himself a Scotch and water, while Pat watched.

"Kathy says you don't want to go out," he said. "Why not?"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Pat exclaimed. "We stand around here acting like any normal…" She cut off the word she had almost said, but it hung in the air as if it had a palpable shape of its own. "Family." Hardly, Pat thought angrily. She went on, with rising heat, "It's getting late, and we don't even know where you two are going to spend the night. We left everything hanging. It's driving me crazy, not knowing-"

"That's the trouble with your generation," Mark said, slurping his Coke. "You haven't learned to relax. You've got to hang loose, and let things-"

"Quiet," Josef said. "Your mother is right. The trouble with your generation is that you never plan in advance. And who gets stuck with the chaotic results of your lack of foresight? Your despised parents, that's who. I have had so many cases-"

"Okay, okay," Pat said hastily. She had seen the bright spots of temper form on Mark's cheekbones, and wanted to avert an argument. "You're both right. I am too up-tight. On the other hand, we could stand a little advance planning. For instance, what happens tonight?"

"I wanted to take you out," Josef said. "As a token of appreciation, if nothing more. But if you don't want to go-"

"I want to talk. I want to plan. I want to know where the hell everybody is going to sleep tonight!"

Kathy giggled.

"You're a very cool mother, Mrs. Robbins."

"Oh, damn," Pat said.

"I agree with Mom," Mark said. "I mean, I think we'd be more relaxed here than in some restaurant. But we have to eat."

"I can't imagine you going without nourishment for more than two hours," Pat agreed. "Why don't you and Kathy go to the Oriental and get some Chinese food to bring home?"

"I'll go," Josef said. "Where is the place?"

He was obviously unfamiliar with the routine, and so was Kathy. Watching the girl's pleased amusement as they bickered over what to order, and then placed the call so that the food would be ready to be picked up, Pat wondered how the Friedrichs had lived b.p.-before Poolesville. Had they always dined formally at the best French restaurants? Had Mrs. Friedrichs been a gourmet cook? And what business was it of hers anyway?

Josef went to get the food, the two young people vanished into the upper regions, and Pat set about cleaning up the breakfast dishes, which were, as she might have expected, still squatting in the sink. It might have occurred to someone to wash them, she thought, scrubbing at encrusted egg and wondering why someone hadn't thought to make cement with that as a base. Cleaning up the kitchen took longer than anyone might have reasonably supposed. Twilight was well advanced and she was setting the table when Josef returned, walking into the kitchen without knocking, as if he lived there.

"Where are-" he began.

"Upstairs," Pat said. She hated washing dishes. That may have been one of the reasons why she was in a bad mood. "They are not in bed together," she said nastily. "But I suppose you will want to go and check."

"Now why should you suppose-"

"Oh, forget it."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind. That abominably conceited son of yours is right about one thing: we've all been forced by circumstances beyond our control into a situation which, if nothing else, demands some degree of honest communication." He unloaded the cartons of food as he spoke; his expression, as he peered uncertainly at a bag of egg rolls before putting it on the table, was comically at variance with his sober, precise voice. "Believe me," he went on, "I regret the intrusion into your life as much as you must resent it. But-"

"I don't resent it," Pat said.

"You don't?"

Pat felt herself flushing.

"Not in the way you mean. I'd pitch in and help any neighbor who was in trouble-although God knows I've never encountered anything like your problem! I like Kathy. I like her… very much. I think we could all be… well, friendly, without getting into anything… I mean, I've no interest in and no intention of…"

She had begun fluently enough. Now to her annoyance she felt her cheeks burn more hotly as she began to stutter and stumble over the words.

Josef came to her rescue.

"You needn't go on, Pat. We have not known one another long, but as you say, the circumstances are extraordinary. I think I know you well enough to realize…"

He stopped speaking. Pat realized he was as embarrassed as she was.

"This is silly," she said, her own self-confidence rising as his declined. "Two middle-aged adults ought to be able to talk without blushing or stammering. We understand one another, I think. Now let's get to the heart of the problem. It's not me you're worried about; it's Mark. You think he is using this situation as an excuse to-well, to get closer to Kathy."

"And you're going to assure me he would never dream of doing such a thing."

"Good heavens, no. He'll use it. But that doesn't mean he is not genuinely concerned, or that he is stupid. And you must accept the fact that Kathy is going to be interested in young men. She could do worse than Mark. I'm not claiming he is a paragon, but-"

The thud of approaching footsteps-unquestionably Mark's-made her break off. Josef looked mutinous. Pat knew she hadn't gotten through to him. It had been naive of her to assume that reasoning could cure him of his prejudice against Mark, even if she had been allowed to finish her arguments.

The kitchen door opened. Mark held the door for Kathy and followed her, his nostrils quivering.

"Let's eat," he said.

"What about a drink before dinner?" Josef suggested, eyeing the white cartons without enthusiasm.

He made himself a drink; no one else joined him. Mark seated his ladies with a flourish. He was obviously in a euphoric mood. Pat wished she could say the same for Josef. Conversation was almost nonexistent until Mark had satisfied the first pangs of hunger.

"Any luck on your research?" Pat asked.

"Not much," Mark answered. "We've pretty well exhausted what the library had to offer. The historical association was closed today; but I thought maybe we'd stop by Jay's place tonight."

"Jay?" Josef asked.

"He's the curator of the historical association," Pat answered for her son, whose mouth was full. "He lives down the street. I didn't realize you knew him, Mark."

"I know him slightly," Mark said, reaching for another egg roll. His mother gave him a sharp look. It had not dawned on her until that moment that the bachelor pad on the street might offer attractions to other young males in the neighborhood. She sent forth a silent prayer to whatever powers-might-be that Jay was neither gay nor in trouble with the police, and said moderately, "Then you still cling to your-excuse me-nutty idea that we have a historical ghost?"

"Nicely put," Mark said. "Now as I see it, what we have to do is find out more about the families who lived here. There are all kinds of things we can try. I made a list." He tilted to one side so that he could reach his hip pocket, and flourished a grubby piece of paper. "First Jay and the local historical association. Then the state association in Baltimore, and the Library of Congress manuscript division. Genealogical societies, like the DAR and the Daughters of the Confederacy. I want to track down the descendants, if any, of the Bateses and the Turnbulls. There might be family records-diaries, old photo albums, letters. They wrote diaries like crazy in those days, especially the women. Some of 'em have even been published. We ought to check the Library of Congress card catalog, just in case Louisa or Lavinia got their memoirs into print. Old army records, too. I also want to search both houses."

"What on earth for?" Pat demanded. "I can assure you, Mark, that when we moved in, there were no mysterious trunks or boxes of books lying around. Your father stripped the wallpaper down to the plaster, and-"

"I know, I know," Mark said impatiently. "We did that here. But what about Halcyon House? Have you looked in the attic and the basement, Mr. Friedrichs? People sometimes pack things away and stick them in corners and they remain there for years."

"I went over the house from top to bottom," Josef said shortly. "I cannot remember seeing anything of the sort you are thinking of. What the hell are you thinking of, Mark?"

His tone, Pat felt, was deliberately offensive. Before Mark could answer, Kathy, who had been demurely silent, spoke up.

"We don't know, Dad, we're just investigating every possibility. There could be a secret room or something, where people kept money or records-"

"Fantasy," Josef snapped. "Where do you kids get these ideas? I thought the younger generation had stopped reading books like The Count of Monte Cristo. I suppose it's TV."

"I've read The Count of Monte Cristo," Mark said. "But we're talking about fact, not fiction, Mr. Friedrichs. The Civil War was the last romantic war. People actually did do things like that. And if you don't like my ideas, what do you propose-to let Kathy sleep in that room again tonight?"

Josef's eyes were as dark and cold as basalt.

"I propose to sleep there myself," he said.

There was a brief pause.

"Wait just one moment," Pat said. "After what happened last night-"

Josef turned to her. His cold stare might have softened infinitesimally, but Pat wasn't sure.

"There are two ways of going at this, Pat. One is to delve into the background; and at the risk of being rude I must say that I find Mark's theories poorly based on fact. The other is the pragmatic approach. I admit that something decidedly abnormal is occurring in my house. Mark has suggested that it is purposeful-directed by a conscious intelligence. All right. One way of testing that is to see what it-if it exists-does want. Mark has implied that it wants Kathy." Mark started to object at that point, and Kathy let out a gasp. Josef waved them both to silence and went on. "That is certainly a possibility. So we'll test it. I will stay in her room tonight; I don't claim I'll be able to sleep. If the… presence is sentient and directed at Kathy, it will not disturb me. If nothing happens tonight-"

"Then we try Kathy again, tomorrow night, just to make sure?" Pat demanded angrily. "Josef, do you realize what you are saying?"

"We try Mark tomorrow night," Josef said.

This time the silence lasted longer.

Night had fallen. Through the open kitchen windows the soft scent of spring filled the room. The noise of rushing traffic, voices raised in Saturday-night social activities, all these sounds were muted by distance. Across the table the eyes of the two men met and locked. Mark had accepted, and approved, the challenge. His response enraged Pat even more than Josef's original suggestion.

"You are crazy," she said. "If you think I'll stand for-"

"Right on," Kathy exclaimed. "Dad, you're nuts."

"Quiet," Mark said. "He's right. Only tonight I stay in Kathy's room."

"What about me?" Pat shouted. "You two male chauvinists… If you think you can keep the women safe behind the lines of battle-"

She had not realized Josef could speak so loudly. His voice overrode hers, and Mark's reply to her suggestion.

"The problem began when we moved in-never mind old Hiram, Mark, his ramblings are not evidence. We need not risk Kathy again. It obviously reacts to her. I am the most logical person to try next. As for the charge of chauvinism-"

"I'm bigger than you are," Mark said, glowering at his mother. "You just try."

"Your father would have let me try," Pat said.

It was dirty pool, and she knew it. Mark's face went white. Pat was only dimly aware of the reactions of the other two; she was concerned with Mark.

"You're bigger and stronger and younger and tougher than I am," she said. "If any material danger comes along, I'll gladly let you rush to my defense. But this is not a physical danger."

For once, Mark was incapable of speech. It was Josef who replied.

"You're crossing bridges too far in advance, Pat," he said mildly. "The first attempt is mine, that's only fair. If nothing happens tonight, we'll discuss the next step. Okay?"

Pat could only nod. The sight of Mark's hurt face made it impossible for her to pursue the discussion, which had to do with basic issues far more important than the trivial question of ghosts or no ghosts. Some day it would have to be settled, but she couldn't push her son any farther now. At any rate, her argument had stupefied Mark to the point where he was not battling with Josef for the honor of being next in line for the poltergeist's attentions.

"That's settled," Josef went on. "You can all perch on the tree outside and watch, if you like; I'm not so stupid or heroic as to refuse help. But if you plan to spend the night on guard, you might consider having a nap this evening."

Mark, recovering, shook his head.

"I'll be perching in the tree, Mr. Friedrichs, don't worry. But I want to talk to Jay tonight."

"You aren't going to tell him what happened, are you?" Pat asked.

"Out of the question," Josef said.

"Why?" Mark demanded. "We'll get more help from him if he knows all about it."

"Oh, Mark, no," Pat said. "We can't have this spread all over the neighborhood."

"Especially," Josef added, "if I have to sell the house. It would certainly have an adverse effect on the price."

"What?" Mark stared at him.

"Surely you must realize that that is the final solution," Josef said. "If nothing else works, and the manifestations continue, I have no alternative."

Obviously the alternative had not occurred to Mark, or to Kathy. Her blue eyes opened wide in distress, and then turned to Mark. Their glances met, touching as palpably as a handclasp, reflecting the same consternation. Josef was aware of the intensity of their speechless communication. His lips pinched together.

"I'll sell the damned place," he repeated. "It may be the only way out of this."

Pat knew he was right. She also knew he had failed to consider one consequence of this threat-for so it would be regarded by Kathy and Mark. Faced with such a challenge, and such a loss, Mark would stop at nothing to find another solution.