Second Glance: A Novel Read online

  "Fireflies?" Shelby said.

  "When was the last time you saw so many fireflies moving around it looked like a snowstorm?" He rewound the tape and pumped up the volume, so that his voice and Ethan's could be heard again. "This is where I leave," Ross narrated. His footsteps, on tape, thudded lighter and lighter as he made his way downstairs. "See? Those lights show up just after I go."

  Then the camera went black.

  Ross rolled his shoulders until the bones popped. "I think whatever it is came into the room with Ethan when I was outside. Those sparks on the tape--that was energy changing form. And that would explain why the flashlight went out. Ghosts need energy to materialize and move around; this one was using the double A's in the Maglite." He watched Ethan stifle another yawn. "And, apparently, whatever force keeps Ethan going."

  But Ethan had been alone in that room, and he hadn't seen anything. Or had he?

  A bathtub. A foot, rising from the bubbles.

  The picture rose from the still blue of his mind, then sank to the bottom before he could grab hold. Each of Ethan's eyelids, by now, easily weighed ten pounds. He heard his mother's voice, an underwater current. "What are you going to tell the development company?"

  But Ethan did not hear his uncle's answer. He was already dreaming of a beach, of sand so hot it felt sharp as a knife beneath his jitter-bug feet.

  Shelby knew that some librarians felt the human brain was like a microfiche file, impossibly tiny images and words on transparent leaves, arranged page by page for a person's viewing pleasure. But every time she saw those miniature dossiers, she thought that if any part of the body were similarly cataloged, it would be the heart. She imagined autopsies, the organ sliced thin. One sliver would chronicle the way you had cherished a child; one would record the feelings you had for parents and siblings. Another, scarlet, might be etched with moments of passion; angels embracing on the head of a pin. And for those who were lucky, the thinnest slice would be teeming with memories of a love so strong it turned you inside out and left you gasping, and would be an identical match to a slice stored in the heart of a soul mate.

  Desiderate: to long for.

  "Do you need any help?"

  Shelby pushed her reading glasses up her nose and turned to the pockmarked clerk of the probate court. "No, thanks. I can do this in my sleep." To illustrate, she pulled out the base of the microfiche machine and deftly switched transparencies, so that she could view the next page of the will.

  It was Ross who'd made the request for her investigative services--and because he so infrequently asked for help, she agreed. He had wanted her to find out how long the land had been in the Pike family, if there was any record of a Native American settlement on it. Shelby had driven to the municipal building, which housed the police station and the district court, as well as the probate department and the town offices. What she learned was that the property had only belonged to Pike since the 1930s.

  There was no record of any Native American ever living there.

  Shelby had taken it upon herself to discover how Spencer Pike got the deed to the land. It had not been a real-estate transaction, to her surprise, but rather an inheritance. From his deceased wife.

  Shelby hadn't made a will of her own. It wasn't like she had all that much, actually--not that Ethan would be left as a tatterdemalian if she was hit by a car on her way out of the court building, but then again, she wasn't Ivana Trump either. However, the reason she hadn't bothered to go to a lawyer to have one drawn up had less to do with her assets than her benefactors. Every other parent in the universe left their worldly goods to their children. But what if you knew for a fact that you were going to outlive your son?

  I, Mrs. Spencer T. Pike of Comtosook, Vermont, make this my last will, hereby revoking all previous wills and codicils made by me.

  Shelby frowned at the date--it had been signed in 1931. The lettering of her signature was delicate and spiderlike. She had signed the will that way too--Mrs. Spencer T. Pike--as if before her marriage she had not existed at all. Shelby had to wade through the legalese, but the intent was fairly straightforward: Mrs. Spencer T. Pike had left everything to her husband. Almost.

  I give and devise all of my tangible personal property, including but not limited to my furniture, furnishing, jewelry and automobiles, to my husband, Spencer Pike. I give and devise the real property owned by me located at the crossing of Otter Creek Pass and Montgomery Road, in Comtosook, Chittenden County, State of Vermont, to my issue resulting to my marriage from Spencer Pike, to be held in trust by my executor for those issue until they each reach the age of 21. Such real property shall be held by those issue as joint tenants. If Spencer Pike and I shall have produced no living issue at the time of my death, I give and devise the aforesaid real property to my husband, Spencer Pike.

  There was nothing in the will about how a woman with so little sense of self had wound up owning the property in the first place. Nothing about how her husband had been affected by her untimely death; whether he had ever looked at the property that was now his and thought that he would trade every square inch if it brought her back.

  Shelby loved words, but she would be the first to tell you they had a habit of letting you down. Most of the time, the words that were not written were the ones you needed most.

  She slipped the microfiche out of the machine, slid it into its protective dust jacket, handed it to the clerk, and left the probate office. But she had no sooner stepped off the curb outside than a police cruiser screamed into the circular driveway of the municipal building; coming to a stop so close that Shelby found her hand outstretched, as if that might keep the car from striking her. The cop who got out muttered an apology, but he wasn't even looking at her as he hurried into the police station.

  Shelby shook the whole way to her own car. Promised herself that she would have a will drawn up by the end of the week.

  Eli was late. He rushed into the lobby of the station and stuck his head into the dispatch cubicle. "They're looking for you," the sergeant said.

  "Tell me something I don't know. Where are they?"

  "In the conference room. With the chief."

  Groaning, Eli walked down the hall to find Chief Follensbee sitting with two teenage boys. "Ah, Detective Rochert. Mr. Madigan and Mr. Quinn, here, said that you specifically told them to meet you here at ten-thirty to take down their statements. And yet here it is, past eleven."

  "I'm sorry, Chief," Eli said, hanging his head. "I got, uh, hung up." Actually, he'd overslept. After spending most of last night awake, he'd drifted off shortly before dawn. He had been dreaming of the woman who smelled of apples, the same one he'd dreamed of before. Was it any wonder he'd ignored his alarm?

  Then, he'd been driving past the Pike property and was stopped by two girls riding their bikes. There was a lady wandering around Montgomery Road, they had said, looking lost. Last year, an elderly woman with Alzheimer's had driven off in her car and had been found dead of hypothermia two days later in a supermarket parking lot--for that reason alone, Eli had backtracked to the spot the kids had indicated. But whoever they had seen was gone by then, and Eli was more than twenty minutes late.

  He sat down across from Jimmy Madigan and Knott Quinn. They lolled in their chairs in their metalhead Tshirts, torn jeans, black boots. High school dropouts, they were kids who floated on the fringe of society. For them to have willingly walked into a police station, they must have had quite a scare. "So you boys say you saw something on the Pike property?"

  "Yeah," Jimmy said. "Three nights ago. We went for a dare, you know, because of what people say is going on there. And that's when we saw the thing."

  "The thing?"

  Jimmy looked at his friend. "We both saw it. It was, like, taller than both of us together. And it had these fangs . . ."

  "Teeth," Knott agreed. "All jaggedy, like a hunting knife."

  "And did this creature speak to you?"

  The boys glanced at each other. "See, that's the weird