The Walker in Shadows

I

It was still raining at twelve thirty, when the men left the house. Without star- or moonlight, the night was as black as pitch. From Mark's bedroom window the house next door was a darker shadow in the darkness, eerily distorted by the water streaming down the windowpane.

Her forehead pressed against the glass, Pat strained her eyes.

"Your father is going to get soaked, squatting in that tree like a pigeon," she muttered.

The inane comment scarcely deserved a reply. Kathy made none. She knelt beside Pat, her face also pressed against the glass, and Pat felt the tension that held the girl rigid. She herself was ready to shriek with nerves. It must be the weather, she thought. There's no reason to be nervous. Nothing much happened last night; if Mark is right, tonight should be without incident.

The weather was certainly responsible for Jud's state of nerves, and no doubt the dog's misery was affecting her. Jud hated rain. No fool he, he knew that thunder and lightning often accompanied that atmospheric disturbance, and he was deathly afraid of thunder. He had been on Pat's heels all evening. Mark was a lot of fun, but when danger threatened, Pat was more dependable. He had accompanied them up the stairs and was now lying on the floor by the bed, his head under it. His agitated panting scratched Pat's nerves like a fingernail on a blackboard.

Something is coming.

The words flashed across her mind with the impact of a hot brand pressed against flesh. So keen was the mental anguish that Pat fell backward, landing with an ignominious thump, her legs doubled up under her. The dog was no longer panting, but whimpering-a craven, abject sound, as if Jud were so terrified he could not even express his feelings in a long howl of woe. Turning, with some difficulty, Pat saw the bed shudder as Jud forced himself under it, well-padded rump and all.

Even then she did not understand. She assumed the danger would come from the house next door, the house where her son and Kathy's father waited. She tried to get back to the window so she could see, and found her limbs so stiff she could barely move.

Then the smell reached her nostrils. The same foul, indescribable stench she had smelled twice before. And it came from behind her.

Squatting, awkward and ungainly, Pat managed to turn.

It filled the doorway. A thin, spinning column of luminescence, taller by several feet than she herself, the color of… But there was no word for that shade. It was part of the infernal aura the thing gave off, a deadly miasma compounded of parts the normal senses could not absorb. It was not heat or cold, not light or color or smell. But because the human sensory organs were limited, they had to translate it into terms they could transmit. So… her nostrils flared and her stomach heaved at the odor; her eyes winced away from the cold, pale burning; the hairs on her arms rose, as a current of… something… filled the room like smoke, acrid, choking.

The feeble remnants of reason left in her flailed helplessly, seeking escape. But she knew she could not allow herself the luxury of fainting; bad as it was to face the thing, it would be much worse to lie powerless before it. It was not after her. She knew that as surely as she knew her name, her age, the color of her hair… It wanted Kathy.

She was fond of this girl; perhaps more than fond. But the strength that came into her body did not come from love or from any hypothetical maternal instinct. It came from without. Not in a great, overwhelming flood; it was more like-the incongruous simile occurred to her-more like liquid from a leaky faucet, slow and trickling. But it was strong enough to raise her, first to her knees, then, swaying, to her feet. With something like horror she felt her knees bend and saw her foot slide forward.

As she moved, one unsteady, reeling step after another, the thing in the doorway changed, in response to her advance. It thickened and shrank in height, as if condensing; and if its former amorphous contours had been hard to contemplate, this was worse, for there was in it a dreadful suggestion of human form. In the crown of the burning column two spots formed, like the low blue flames of a dying fire.

Through the pounding of her pulse, Pat heard a distant sound and recognized it: the door downstairs crashing back against the wall, as it did when Mark was in a hurry. The cold flame in the doorway flared and was gone, as suddenly as if air had first sparked and then overwhelmed its burning.

She was still on her feet when Mark burst into the room. He hit the light switch as he passed it, without pausing. Pat's eyes closed against the brilliance. She felt her son's arm around her, and pushed feebly at him.

"I'm all right," she said. Her voice gurgled idiotically. "I'm… How is Kathy?"

"She's just been sick," said Mark. "Hey, Kath, hang in there, will you? At least wait till I can get you into the bathroom."

The voice came from behind her. Pat opened her eyes.

Not Mark's arms-Josef's. She recognized the blue-and-brown plaid of his shirt. That was all she could see; her face was mashed against his chest and his arms were squeezing the breath out of her.

"I'm all right," she repeated. "I'm-"

"All right?" Josef held her out at arm's length. His voice was quizzical, his expression calm; only the fact that he was paler than the white background of his shirt betrayed his feelings. "Sit down," he said.

"No, I don't want…" Pat glanced around the room. It was unbelievably normal. There ought to be some traces of that incredible presence-the marks of scorching or destruction. From the bathroom she heard gulping sounds, and Mark's voice, forced to calm: "Atta girl, you're okay now. Cool it, love; gotta get back and see how Mom is doing."

Pat pulled away from the hands that held her.

"Where is Jud?" she demanded.

"Under the bed," Mark answered. "Some watchdog!"

He stood in the door, his arm around Kathy. She looked very small and pathetic; her hair hung in dripping strands, darkened by the water she had splashed on her face. She pulled away from Mark and ran to Pat.

"I told him how wonderful you were," she whispered, her head against Pat's shoulder. "I was petrified. And you were so brave. I don't know how you did it."

"Neither do I," Pat said honestly. "It wasn't me. Something… came into me."

She patted Kathy's shaking shoulders.

"You mean that?" Mark demanded. "Tell me what happened, Mom. Exactly. It's very important."

Pat was tempted to swear at her best-beloved son. She didn't blame Kathy for being sick. Her own stomach felt unsteady. She wanted to lie down and have a cold cloth on her head, and someone holding her hand, telling her how wonderful she was… and a sleeping pill, a very large, very strong sleeping pill that would knock her out for about a year. And maybe when she woke up it would turn out that the whole thing was a nightmare, some neurosis from early childhood…

"Leave your mother alone," Josef said. "She's had enough."

Pat turned on him, pushing Kathy out of her way.

"Don't talk to him that way!"

"I'll talk to him any way I like. He is a… Get your things, Kathy. We're spending the rest of the night at a motel. Tomorrow I'll put that damned house on the market."

"You're not serious," Pat said.

"I have never been more serious." He took her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist like manacles. "You're coming too. Pack a bag."

"Wait a minute." Mark advanced on them, his pallor gone, his cheeks flaming with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are? That's my mother you're talking to."

"You seem to have lost sight of that fact." Josef glared at him.

Mark put his arm around Pat's waist. For a moment she was literally pulled between the two of them, for Josef did not release his hold on her wrist.

"Cut it out," she said. "You are both acting like-"

"Let go of her," Mark said.

"You let go. She's an adult, with a life of her own to live. She can't spend the rest of it coddling some lazy-"

Mark's clenched fist interrupted the tirade. The old man staggered back, his hand covering his face.

For a few seconds they all froze. Mark's arms fell to his sides.

"Cripes," he said, his voice squeaking like that of a twelve-year-old. "Oh, God. I didn't mean-"

Josef lowered his hand. The austere lines of his mouth were blurred with blood.

"Kathy," he said.

"Oh, Daddy, please-"

"Get your things."

Kathy gave Mark an anguished glance. He was still staring in horror at his victim, and did not respond. She lowered her head and ran out of the room. Josef followed.

Mother and son contemplated one another. After a moment of internal struggle Pat held out her arms.

"You goofed, bud," she said.

"I know." Mark gathered her up, buried his head against her shoulder. "Oh, God, Mom-do I know."

II

After an encounter with a visitant from beyond the grave one does not worry about mundane matters, such as a job. Pat fell into bed as if she had been hit over the head with a rock, and did not stir until late the following morning.

Memory flooded back, in all its dreadful detail. Pat couldn't decide which depressed her more, the fear that her house was haunted by a particularly malevolent spirit, or the recollection of Mark's attack on Josef Fried-richs.

Normally when she overslept she was awakened by Albert, demanding his breakfast; but today the cat was nowhere to be seen. Pat got out of bed. She glanced at the clock and then at the telephone, and shook her head disgustedly. No use calling the office. If Mark hadn't already phoned to say she was sick, she was in trouble; and she was in no mood to invent symptoms or listen to reprimands.

She stood in the shower for a long time and dressed slowly, trying not to think about anything. The house was quiet. Perhaps, wonder of wonders, Mark had gone to class. After what had happened he would hardly have the gall to seek Kathy's company.

Sighing, Pat trudged down the stairs, feeling as if the descent took her back into a world of complex troubles. She had no idea what, if anything, she could do to solve even the smallest of them.

The sink was piled with dirty dishes. Pat sighed again, louder, and with more feeling. That was all she needed to start her day. She turned on the burner under the teakettle as she passed the stove and started to take the dishes out of the sink. As she did so her eyes went to the window, and what she saw made her drop a glass.

Not what she saw-what she did not see. The fence was gone.

Pat ran to the back door. The fence was still there, but it was in fragments. Mark had piled some of the wood into a rough heap. He was squatting on top of it like a gargoyle on a cathedral, his back to his mother, his attitude one of profound meditation.

He turned his head as Pat came squelching across the lawn. It was still wet with the rain of the previous night. Her sneakers were soaked before she had taken three steps.

"Hi," he said.

"What the hell-" Words failed his mother.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I tried to be quiet."

"Quiet! What-how-why, Mark?"

"It's our wall." Mark's eyes were steady. He mopped his perspiring brow with his forearm. "Dad put it up; I guess we can take it down if we want."

"Yes, but-"

Mark dismissed her objection with a wave of his hand. Hand and forearm were streaked with bloody scratches, and his shirt-one of his best new shirts, Pat saw- had a jagged tear across the right sleeve.

"They're home," he said, and she didn't need to ask whom he meant. "I saw the car pull in ten minutes ago. I guess they'll be over pretty soon. Sit down."

Pat looked at the seat he indicated-a heap of scrap studded with splinters and rusty nails.

"I certainly will not. Get down from there, Mark, before you sit on a nail or something. You'd better get a tetanus shot this afternoon."

"I had one a couple of years ago."

"Yes, but-" Pat stopped herself. She recognized Mark's technique; he excelled at it, having had years of practice. Get the old lady off on some trivial point and let her rave.

"Come in the house," she ordered.

"Nope. That would look like I was scared, or ashamed. I'll wait for him here. You can go in if you want."

Swearing under her breath, Pat retreated, but only long enough to take the screaming teakettle from the stove and make herself a cup of coffee. She was just in time. As she crossed the yard, carrying her cup, she saw the Friedrichs family emerge from their back door and advance on Mark.

Kathy looked like a brand-new china doll, her sweep of shining hair tied back by a blue ribbon, her complexion perfect as plastic. She wore a blue-and-white-checked dress with a wide ruffle around the bottom of the skirt, and white sandals. Her father was dressed as impeccably, his brown slacks creased to knife sharpness, his dark hair brushed back from his high forehead. They looked like a family paying a polite social call on friendly neighbors.

Mark, still squatting, his scarred hands dangling, appeared much cooler than Pat felt. Josef's dark eyes met hers. His face was quite impassive, but his lower lip was definitely out of kilter.

He came to a stop a few feet from Mark and looked up at the tottering pyramid of wood and the boy atop it.

" 'Something there is,' " he asked, " 'that doesn't love a wall?' "

His tone was neutral. That was better than Pat had ex-pected, and she relaxed a little.

"I thought," Mark answered, "that it was time for walls to come down."

He meant every word of it, but he had enough ham in his soul to let the statement stand, in its theatrical glory, for the admiration of the hearers. Then he went on, more prosaically, but quite as intensely: "Mr. Friedrichs, if I said I was sorry about last night, that would be the understatement of the year. If you want to slug me, go ahead. You've got it coming."

Friedrichs' lip twitched.

"No, thank you. But I'll take a rain check. There may- no, there undoubtedly will-be occasions in the near future when I will feel like hitting you. Why don't you get down off that heap of trash and clean up? I'm taking your mother to lunch. You can come along if you wash."

Mark obeyed, sliding down the stack amid a clatter of collapsing scraps. Pat suspected the boy's movement had not been planned. She had seen his breath go out in a vehement whoosh of relief when Josef accepted his apology; his relaxation had probably destroyed his balance.

"I'll cook lunch," he offered, grinning from ear to ear. "We can talk better here."

"We can talk anywhere," Josef said. "I refuse to eat any more of your cooking, thanks just the same. Get moving."

Mark ran off, one hand clapped to the seat of his pants-to hide a rip or soothe a puncture, Pat wasn't sure which. After a half-defiant glance at her father, Kathy followed.

"What made you change your mind?" Pat asked. It was a beautiful day. A warm breeze brushed her cheek, the sun shone… and Josef was smiling. The expression was not as symmetrical as it had once been, but it was still pleasant.

"The wall, in part," he answered, glancing at the heaps of debris. "One can't help admiring the idea, and the energy. But there were other things Kathy told me about last night. I can't thank you-"

"If she told you I flung myself into the breach to defend her she's not entirely accurate," Pat admitted. "My impulse was to crawl under the bed with Jud. I don't know what made me move, but it certainly wasn't heroism."

"I won't argue with you. I'll even admit that your disgusting son is right again. Running away won't solve the problem."

"Come in and have some coffee while I change," Pat said.

"Why change? You look fine."

Pat looked down at her wet, dirty sneakers. Who was she to argue with him?

As they walked side by side, Josef matching his stride to hers, she knew the real reason for his change of heart. He was facing the same unpalatable fact she had already recognized: that physical removal from the scene of earlier attacks might not be enough to save Kathy. If the thing could cross eighty feet of ground, why not eight miles, or eight hundred?

III

Monday was not a popular day for lunching out. The Inn in Poolesville was almost empty, so they were able to talk without reserve. Not that Mark was bothered by eavesdroppers; his mother had to keep reminding him to lower his voice, and once or twice the waitress, overhearing a fragment of conversation, gave Mark a startled glance.

He came close to another fight with Josef when he insisted that Pat and Kathy recapitulate their experience, in harrowing detail. However, the majority consensus overruled Josef's objections. Mark cross-questioned the women mercilessly.

"You felt it too?" he asked Kathy. "The second ghost?"

"Sssh." Pat indicated the waitress, who had stopped dead in her tracks, balancing two bowls of soup.

Mark subsided until the woman had left, but then he returned to the question.

"Well, Kath?"

"I don't know," Kathy said uncertainly. "I felt something. Like a-a breath of cool air in a hot, closed-up place. I thought it was you." Her wide blue eyes admired Pat, who realized, with somewhat cynical amusement, that Kathy had added her to her list of Robbins heroes.

"It didn't feel like me," Pat admitted. "I was horrified when I realized I was actually walking toward the damned thing."

"Damned is right," Mark said. "Why are you all looking so depressed? Don't you realize this is the most encouraging thing that has happened?"

Pat looked at him in surprise. "I don't see why."

"I'm afraid I do." Josef put down his fork. "Mark is implying that some other entity has come to our aid. Hell," he added, with a flash of irritation, "it worries me, the way I can read your tricky little mind. If I thought my own mental processes resembled yours…"

"Jeez." The idea obviously appalled Mark as much as it did Josef. They gazed at one another in mutual consternation. Pat was tempted to laugh.

"Anyhow, you're right," Mark went on. "I think somebody else was there-somebody hostile to Peter, somebody who wants to help."

"We will now take a poll on the identity of that somebody," Josef said sarcastically. "Pat?"

"How on earth should I know?"

"The brother, maybe," Kathy offered. "Eddie."

"You're just saying that because you think he's kind of cute," Mark said crushingly. "It wasn't Edward."

"You know what makes this whole thing unreal?" Pat demanded. "It isn't the idea of spirits or supernatural attack; it's the way you all bicker and quarrel, like twelve-year-olds."

"You mean we ought to take it with deadly seriousness?" Josef smiled at her. "That isn't the way people behave, Pat. Only Socrates could conduct a dialogue on the subject of his own death. Besides, the whole situation is so unbelievable I find myself relapsing into trivia as a release from intolerable stress. One can't live at the height of tension without some break now and then."

"Hmph," Pat said.

"You're avoiding the question," Mark said. "Who do you think the second-"

Pat waved him to silence in time to spare the sensibilities of the waitress, who was bringing their entrees. When the woman had retreated, rather more hastily than she had come, Pat said,

"You obviously think you know, Mark. Who?"

"Mrs. Bates, of course. Louisa."

They considered the suggestion-if Mark's dogmatic statement could be called that. As was to be expected, Kathy was the first convert.

"Sure, that makes sense," she exclaimed.

"A nice, motherly ghost," Pat murmured. "I suppose one aging mom would attract another's spirit…"

The irony with which she infused this comment was lost on Mark-and on Kathy, who nodded approvingly. Pat realized that they were now taking for granted a point that had appalled them when it first arose-the identification of Kathy with Susan Bates. Apparently Mark had discussed this with the girl, and helped her to accept it without distress.

"It's too facile," Josef complained.

"Go ahead, sneer." Mark took a bite of steak. He added, "Who would you expect to come to a girl's rescue? All the men in her family look like cold fish. They're probably too busy flapping their angelic wings in their nice Calvinist heaven."

"I can't stand this tottering tower of illogic," Josef shouted. The waitress turned to stare; Kathy giggled; Josef flushed slightly and went on in a more subdued voice, "You pile one unwarranted assumption on top of another, Mark. You are the only one who's convinced that Peter Turnbull is ghost number one-"

"It had blue eyes," Kathy said.

"No," Pat said vehemently.

"You saw it too, Mrs. Robbins."

"I know, but…" Pat was unable to continue. She was not denying the color, she was denying the suggestion of humanity. The worst part of the entire episode had been those moments at the end, when the alien shape had begun to assume the dimensions of a human body.

The reminder took away what remained of Pat's appetite. Mark was the only one of the group who ate with relish. Watching him demolish a piece of lemon-meringue pie, his mother entertained herself by trying to conceive of a situation in which Mark would be unable to eat. She failed.

Cramming the last bite into his mouth, he announced thickly, "Better get moving. We've got a lot to do."

Josef, who had been lost in some abstruse speculation of his own, gave Mark a suspicious look. "Where are we going now?"

"The historical association, of course. I've got to return that Bates material. It closes at three, so we'll have to hurry."

"It's barely two o'clock," Josef said.

Mark rose to his feet.

"We are going to go through that place with a fine tooth-comb," he announced. "Old newspapers, military records, anything we can find. Time is passing."

And that, Pat thought, was another of Mark's understatements. Less than twelve hours until the next manifestation… And God only knew what form that might take.

Although she had lived in the town for almost ten years, Pat had never visited the old red brick house that sheltered the historical association. She had never even seen it, since it was on a side street, away from the highway and the shops. Almost unconsciously she had absorbed some knowledge of architecture from Jerry, so she was able to date the building to a period at least fifty years older than that of her own house.

It was, in fact, one of the oldest houses in the county. So Jay informed them, after he had greeted them.

"The oldest part was built in 1757, a regular log cabin. The Peabodys made it into a kitchen when they built the central part in-"

"We'll take the tour some other time," Mark interrupted. "Today we-er-I have some work to do in the library. Okay if we go on up?"

"Sure." Jay glanced disparagingly at a family group- father, mother, and two small girls-who were waiting meekly by the door. "Wouldn't you know-I usually don't get more than five, six people a week. I'll join you as soon as I get rid of this lot."

They climbed the graceful curving stairs. Pat felt the handrail shift when she touched it. The house was neat and fairly clean, but it was clear that the association had no money to spare for anything more than basic repairs. The walls needed painting and the shallow stairs were bare of carpeting.

The library occupied the whole of the third floor. No doubt the room had once been a ballroom; it had long windows along one wall and a hardwood floor that was still beautiful despite its scuffed surface. Bookshelves covered the wall opposite the windows; there were rows of filing cabinets on the short walls, and a heaped desk in one corner. Three long library tables took up part of the floor space. One held a card index and a microfilm reader. Pat drew her finger along the nearest shelf and saw a miniature dust pile build before it.

"You don't know what this place looked like before Jay arrived," Mark said, as she made a fastidious face. "He's done a helluva lot."

"There is still a great deal to be done," Pat retorted.

"If people like you would donate some time, and people like our neighbors would donate some money, it might get done. Do you know how much Jay makes a year?"

"Stop arguing with your mother," Josef said. "Weren't you the lad who said we had a lot to do?"

Giving him a sour look, Mark jerked open one of the filing cabinets.

"The local newspaper," he said, taking out a roll of microfilm. "We'll start with 1858. Here, Kath, look for any mention of the Turnbulls or the Bateses, and let me know when you're ready for the next roll."

He turned to Josef.

"Tax records," he said curtly, indicating a nearby shelf. "Census reports, other legal garbage. That's your specialty, Mr. Friedrichs."

"How about me?" Pat asked, as Josef, without comment, began scanning the dusty volumes Mark had pointed out.

"You get the dirty job," Mark said, his frown relaxing. "The books have been catalogued, but only roughly, and they aren't well arranged. Read the shelves. Look for anything that might apply to our families. I don't think I could have missed a genealogy or a family history, but the Turnbulls might be mentioned in any of the contemporary memoirs. Don't waste time on modern histories," he added, as Pat approached the nearest shelf. "I've read most of them,"

He opened a file drawer. Pat saw that it was filled with folders all jammed with papers and apparently unlabeled.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Miscellaneous," Mark replied, with a wry smile. "I told you we'd leave no stone unturned. Get to it, lady."

For half an hour there was silence as all four worked steadily. Out of the corner of her eye Pat saw that both Kathy and Josef paused from time to time to take notes. So far she hadn't found anything worth noting down. As Mark had said, hers was the dirty job, and not only because of the vagueness of her assignment; her hands were dark gray by the time she had worked her way through the top shelves of the first section. Abandoning all hope of staying clean, she sat down on the floor and began on the lower shelves.

Almost immediately she came upon a group of books that promised more than the zero she had scored so far. They were memoirs and collected letters. In style and in appearance they reminded her of the book by Mary Jane Turnbull, and she marveled at the prolific literary habits of the ladies of the nineteenth century. However, it was not surprising that they should have written so much; the dramatic events that let to secession and its bloody aftermath must have prompted many a young girl to start a diary. And they had time, lots of it. Perhaps not the hard-working mistresses of large plantations, glamorized by writers like Margaret Mitchell, but well-to-do women of the urban upper classes had few demands on their leisure and plenty of slaves and servants.

The memoirs gave her less than she had hoped. Few were from the area that interested her. And, she realized, even if one of the authors had been acquainted with the Turnbulls, she would have to go through the books page by page to find such references.

Then she came upon a volume entitled My Imprisonment and the First Year of Abolition Rule in Washington, and her interest revived. Obviously the author had been Southern in sympathy, and she had lived in the capital, not all that far from Poolesville.

After the first few pages Pat forgot that she was supposed to be looking for the Turnbulls, and became involved in the fantastic narrative. Mrs. Greenhow had not only been a Confederate sympathizer in a hostile city, she had been one of the most skilled and effective spies of the time. She had sent coded messages to General Beauregard, across the river in Virginia, telling him of Northern military plans, and she had finally been arrested by Allan Pinkerton, the famous detective, when her plots were uncovered. Sentenced at first to house arrest, she was able to elude her guards long enough to sneak into the library and destroy damaging papers. Later she was moved to the grim confines of the Old Capital Prison. No place for a lady, Pat thought, fascinated; but then spying was no game for a lady either, or so she would have thought.

She was deeply absorbed in the troubles of Mrs. Greenhow when the door opened and Jay entered.

"History buffs," he announced, with a contemptuous wave of the hand in the general direction of the lower regions, whence, one was to assume, the tourists had departed. "How are you doing? Need any help?"

He might have meant the offer for all of them, but he came straight to Pat and prepared to join her on the floor.

"I'm going to stand up," she told him. "My joints are stiffening. I should have known better than to sit cross-legged, at my age."

Jay took her hand and hoisted her up with such energy that her feet missed the floor altogether. He put one long arm around her waist and kept her from falling.

"There you go," he said genially. "What are you reading? Oh, Mrs. Greenhow. You shouldn't sit on that dirty floor. Take the book home if you want."

"But I thought books weren't supposed to go-"

"Oh, hell, rules don't apply to my friends." Jay gave her a friendly squeeze.

"Found something?" a voice inquired. Josef had come up behind them, unheard until then. Jay removed his arm, looking faintly embarrassed, and Josef scowled at him.

"We really must go," Pat said. "We don't want Jay to work overtime, not at his salary."

Jay hastened to assure them that he was willing to stick around. Josef insisted that they wouldn't hear of troubling him. After a further exchange of courtesies they took their departure. As they went along the brick walk, Josef's hand possessive on her arm, Pat glanced back. A pensive figure leaned against the door, staring after them.

"I should have asked him over for a drink," Pat said.

Josef muttered something, in which Pat thought she caught the word "hairy," affixed to a pejorative noun. She did not ask him to repeat the comment.

They were using Josef's car, a dark-blue Mercedes which managed to look ostentatious in spite of its modest lines and subdued color. Mark put his hand on the hood, as gently as if he touched living flesh.

"Nice car," he said.

"Want to drive?"

"You mean it?" Mark gaped at him.

"Go one mile over the speed limit and I'll break both your legs," Josef said, handing him the keys.

He helped Pat into the back seat and got in beside her, letting the younger generation take the front. Pat was absurdly touched by the gesture. She knew how much it meant, to the giver and to the recipient of the favor. Men were so odd about their cars, especially cars like this one. Josef had taken her words to heart after all. He was really trying.

So was Mark; he drove as if his cargo included loose eggs and fragile old ladies. His fascination with the car kept him silent during the short drive back to the house. Josef, tense as a bowstring and trying not to show it as he watched Mark's every move, was in no mood for idle conversation either.

The weather was the sort Washingtonians brag about but seldom see: dry and clear, a perfect 74 degrees, with big white clouds moving lazily across an inverted azure bowl of sky. The plant-eating insects such as the Japanese beetles had not yet appeared, so the shining green leaves of the roses and azaleas were shapely and unmarred.

"Let's sit on the patio," Pat suggested. "It's too nice to go inside."

She had to repeat the remark before Mark heard her. He ran his hands lovingly over the steering wheel in a final caress, and tore himself away.

The redwood patio furniture needed a coat of paint, and the vinyl pads, bright yellow and orange plaid, weren't too clean, but none of them cared. Mark dragged a table close to hand and threw down a heap of notebook paper.

"I'll go first," he announced. "It won't take long; I got a big fat zip. Kathy?"

Kathy's once-fresh print dress was crumpled and dusty. Gray smudges added piquancy to an otherwise almost too perfect face.

"Well," she began, modestly fingering her notes, "I didn't find much. I only got up to 1860. The editor of the paper was a Southern sympathizer, no question about that. His editorials on John Brown and the Harpers Ferry raid were-well, the way he gloated over Brown's execution was really awful."

"That raid hit Marylanders hard," Mark said. "Remember how close it was. Harpers Ferry is right up there in the corner where Maryland and Virginia meet what is now West Virginia. It was still part of Virginia then."

"But I didn't realize how many people in Maryland really believed in slavery," Kathy said. "Do you know how many voted for Lincoln? Less than three thousand! He got fewer votes than any other candidate. Brecken-ridge, a Southern Democrat, got more than forty-two thousand votes."

"The western part of the state was more sympathetic to the Union than the Tidewater area, with its big plantations," Josef said. "But I don't think there is much doubt that Maryland would have seceded if she had been given free choice. The Union could not allow that. All the rail lines and roads, even the waterways connecting the capital with the North passed through the state."

"What about the Turnbulls and the Bateses?" Pat demanded. "Were there any stories about them?"

"The Turnbulls were mentioned often," Kathy answered. "They must have been social leaders, or something. They kept having parties. Peter's sixteenth birthday was a big event, it rated a whole column in the paper-dancing in the garden by moonlight, magnolias in bloom, and all that. There were about fifty guests."

"Including the Bateses?" Pat persisted. She was beginning to take a proprietary interest in them.

"They were what you might call conspicuous by their absence. Can you imagine not inviting close kin living right next door? The war didn't actually start till 1861, when Fort Sumter was attacked. But South Carolina seceded in December of 1860, and I guess things were pretty tense even before that. Mr. Bates-"

"If nothing else comes out of this, you'll be well grounded in one period of American history," Josef said, smiling at his daughter. She looked unusually pretty in spite of her dishevelment. Her blue eyes shone like the best aquamarines.

"It's more interesting when you know the people," Kathy said naively. "Anyhow, Mr. Bates was really unpopular. There was a nasty editorial about him in 1859. It didn't mention him by name, but it hinted pretty strongly. All about abolitionists in our midst, undermining the law by stealing other peoples' property… Property! They were talking about slaves-human beings. How could anybody-"

"Slavery has only been illegal in this country for a little over a century," Josef said. "We were one of the last of the so-called civilized nations to outlaw it, but it had been accepted all over the world for thousands of years."

"That's right," Mark said. "The Greeks had slaves, didn't they? And medieval serfdom was essentially the same thing; a serf could be bought and sold, like an animal."

"So maybe we are making some progress, after all," Josef said.

"Not fast enough," Mark said. But he smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Pat saw a spark of understanding pass between the two men, a look that augured well for the future.

"I'd like to read more of the newspapers." Kathy said. "It was interesting."

"Interesting, but probably a waste of time," Josef said. "You haven't told us anything we hadn't already learned or surmised, Kathy."

"How about you, Mr. Friedrichs?" Mark asked.

"Very little. I got the impression that Turnbull was living beyond his means. All those parties… He sold land six times between 1850 and 1860. I don't know how much he started out with, but he couldn't have had much property left by the time he marched gallantly out to war, leaving his wife to manage as best she could while he was fighting for the Cause. He did leave her fifty slaves-one of the largest numbers recorded for the county."

"What about the Bateses?" Pat asked.

"They owned no slaves," Josef answered. "The census reports for 1860 show a household of two men, two women, and twelve household servants of the colored race-freedmen all."

The sun had sunk below the trees, and the evening breeze felt cool.

"I saw you were reading Mrs. Greenhow's book, Mom," Mark said. "Truth is stranger than fiction, right?"

"Well-bred lady spies, complete with hoop skirts and smelling salts, do sound like bad fiction," Pat agreed. "But some of the so-called historical romances I've read lately have had even more unbelievable plots."

"And even more sex," Mark said, grinning. "I can't believe Mrs. Greenhow ever writhed in the arms of her lover as his hands moved softly over-"

"Did you read that trashy book?" Pat demanded in outraged tones.

"Slave of Passion," Mark said. He rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't leave stuff like that lying around, my dear."

"Shame on you, Mrs. Robbins, contaminating an innocent mind like Mark's," Kathy added.

It was her first contribution to the silly little exchanges Pat shared with her son, and her tentative smile showed that she wasn't quite sure how it would be taken. Feeling that she had been given some insight into the girl's relationship with her mother, Pat exaggerated her reaction.

"Innocent, she says. You should see the books he hides under his mattress."

Kathy giggled appreciatively. Her father muttered, as if to himself, "In my day it was Esquire. My mother found a copy in one of my drawers, open to the centerfold…"

"Well, back in those days people were uptight about sex," Mark said tolerantly. "I mean, you hadn't really advanced much since the Civil War period."

"I wouldn't say that," Josef objected. "Some of Petty's centerfolds were-"

Foreseeing another digression, Pat interrupted.

"Let's get back to Mrs. Greenhow. And no more writhings, please. I didn't finish the book, but the Turnbulls weren't mentioned in the part I read."

With his brows drawn together in the scowl that gave him such an uncanny resemblance to his father, Mark picked up a pencil and began doodling on the paper in front of him.

"It's so damned frustrating," he muttered. "All this blank paper, and nothing to put on it."

"Mrs. Greenhow was only one of many," Josef said, ignoring this outburst of petulance. "There was a regular espionage network in and around Washington during the war. With the enemy just across the river, it was easy to pass on news of troop dispositions and strategy; a man could paddle his boat across on a dark night-"

"Women did it too," Pat said, resenting the implicit chauvinism in Josef's speech. "One of Mrs. Greenhow's messengers was a girl, Betty Duvall. She drove a cart straight across Chain Bridge to Fairfax Courthouse, where the Confederates were, carrying the message in her hair. Nobody thought of challenging a simple little country girl."

"That's right," Kathy said. "I was reading a book at the library the other day, written by a woman who was ten years old at the time of the war. She lived in a town on the main road to Richmond, and she remembered a lot of Marylanders passing through on their way south. One of them was a sweet little old lady from Baltimore -I think her name was Alexander-whose son was in prison at Fort McHenry. She went to Richmond to get him a commission in the Confederate army so he would be considered a prisoner of war instead of an enemy agent. I mean, they hanged spies."

Pat shivered. Long blue shadows lay across the table. Mark, his eyes lowered, continued to doodle. Kathy glanced at him uneasily and went on, as if hoping to rouse him from his fit of the sulks.

"She got the commission, too. She carried it back in the lining of her bonnet, can you imagine? But her son escaped. He jumped off the parapet of the fort and broke his leg, and managed to crawl to a nearby house, where the people helped him. They smuggled him to another Southern sympathizer, who passed him on, and so forth. It just shows you how many people in Maryland really believed in-"

"Mark," Pat said suddenly. Her son's eyes were now fixed vacantly on the lilac bushes; but his hand continued to move.

"What the devil…" Josef began.

The chill that ran through Pat had nothing to do with the temperature of the evening air. Mark's face no longer resembled his father's. The features were Mark's, but they did not look like his; an alien, unfamiliar expression overlay them like a thin mask. And his hand continued to move.

"Mark!" Pat leaned across the table and caught that horribly moving arm.

Mark let out a yell. It was as if her touch had been a knife that slashed his arm to the bone.

"Damn it! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

His tone was offensive, and so was his dark frown; but Pat didn't mind, because both the voice and the frown were Mark's. The alien cast had left his features. He was nursing his right hand against his body, as if it pained him.

"What's wrong with your hand?" she asked.

"It hurts. You didn't have to hit me."

"I didn't. I barely touched you. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. We were talking about your lady spy, Mrs. Greenhow, and then you leaned over and-"

"You lost about ninety seconds of time," Josef said. "Let me see that paper, Mark."

"I was just doodling," Mark began. He glanced at the paper. His eyes dilated until they looked black.

Josef picked up the sheet of paper and glanced at it. Without comment, he handed it to Pat.

The top of the page was covered with Mark's scribbling. A psychiatrist would not have found it particularly interesting, for the symbols were overt expressions of Mark's feelings-question marks, spirals that went on and on without resolution. Then, abruptly, halfway down the sheet of paper, the penciled tracings became words.

"Tell her I came back. I want her to know. It was hard oh God it was hard, so hard, but I came I want her to know I came I want her I want her I…"

The last word trailed off in a black scrawl, where Pat had joggled Mark's arm.

Pat dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The pain helped her control herself.

"You wouldn't do this for a joke, Mark." She made it a statement, not a question. "You wouldn't do this to me."

"Bite your tongue," Mark said. He was as white as the sheet of paper, but the insatiable curiosity he had inherited from his father was rearing its head. "Did I really write that?"

"No," Pat said. "You didn't. It's not your handwriting."

"Then who…?"

No one answered. They all knew the truth. They had seen the handwriting before. Spiky, bold, unmistakably distinctive… The handwriting of Peter Turnbull.