Mary left the restaurant the most confused she’d been since stepping
off the bus into this New England town. The only solid fact in this shifting
story was the missing urn. Find that, and the answers may start from there.
Justin’s father was dead, supposedly. By now she’d rather see the body
before believing it. She winced. That was a ghoulish thought, the sudden
emotion in the loss of her own mother sweeping over her as she felt Justin’s
pain. Justin’s father should be more than just a piece of a news story.
What else? She flipped through her yellow notepad. There were the McTeagues who apparently owned the estate from where the urn had been sold. Kara said something about them owning a yacht down here. Didn’t Justin’s father drown off a yacht? And what of this missing Oriental girl? Nothing made sense. Where was her story in all this?
A chill breeze blew her dark brown hair across her face. She huffed, pulling it back and rummaged through her pursue for the elastic band to pull her hair back. Maybe Mr. Chase was right. She should let this mystery go and get to the reporting that mattered in a small town: little league games, tide reports, the big sale on cantaloupes down at the market. But she had promised Justin she’d look for the urn. There was clearly something wrong with him, and even if finding the urn didn’t help medically, at least it would appeased his mother with her fantastic notions. Plus it might end that painful nagging in the back of her mind that something was wrong with this situation, something bigger than the town of Danielsport.
The main street running through town was packed more traffic than normal as the locals stopped at this store and that on their way home from work. Mary dodged unnoticed between the shoppers on her way to the O’Doul antique shop. Such a beautiful little town. Many of the shop windows were lit with soft white lights, illuminating little trinkets like special fishing hooks and seashell necklaces. The salt in the air smelled refreshing compared to the choking gases of the city. If it wasn’t for the lack of opportunity, Mary could easily see herself staying in a place like this.
The O’Doul’s shop held a “Temporary closed” sign in the window. Inside
the lights were off except for one in the back room, so Mary knocked gently
on the glass door. Sylvia peeked her head around the corner before coming
to let in Mary.
“Hello. What are you doing here?” Red lines ran wildly through Sylvia
tired, brown eyes.
“I came to see how Justin was doing,” Mary said innocently, a little taken aback by Sylvia’s abruptness.
“Oh. He’s okay. He’s asleep now. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.” Sylvia led Mary into the back, through the gilded antiques and overly polished brass furniture. In the corner of the back room a green couch lined the far wall. Justin slept soundly sprawled across the cushions. His military clothes had been exchanged for blue jeans and a plaid button shirt. An amber lamp cast a soft light, warming up the kitchen corner Sylvia had made from a coffee percolator and a card table. She poured a cup of hot water with a bag of Earl Grey tea floating inside and handed one to Mary. A large sailboat was etched on the side of Mary’s cup.
“So,” Sylvia said. “What have you found out?”
“Well, not much I’m afraid. I thought I might trace the trail of the urn from your husband and go back. Is there anyone in town he might have been in contact with involving it?”
Sylvia blew on her tea to cool it and took a sip. “There was the McTeagues. They’re the ones he bought it from, but they’re all gone now. I don’t know if you heard.”
“Yes, I had. It’s an unfortunate dead-end to the leads.” Mary instantly regretted the choice of her words given. When did she become so insensitive? Perhaps thoughts of her mother’s end drove a sense of urgency to help Justin. She was glad though to hear Sylvia mention the McTeagues though. Its good to know a source isn’t hiding anything from you.
Sylvia continued. “There was that Oriental girl who kept spending time with the McTeagues.”
“Lia?”
“Yes,” Sylvia hissed. “She’s the one who stole the urn, and I tried to get the police to arrest her.”
“But that’s when your husband said it was a misunderstanding?”
“I don’t know what made him do that.” Sylvia looked to wilt under the thoughts of the woman.
“Do you think he was acting under the influence of this -- Li Po?”
On the couch Justin gasped deeply, and started murmuring. He looked younger in this light, sleeping so soundly. The hardened warrior’s edge had softened a bit with the addition of the civilian clothes and a hearty, home-cooked meal. Sylvia watched him with unblinking eyes until he stopped moving. “Don’t say that name too loud. It’s seems to rouse him in my boy’s mind.”
“Oh,” Mary whispered. “Where can I find Lia?”
“She spent a lot of time in Danielsport College’s Department of Oriental Studies. That’s how she came about looking for the urn. You might want to check there, but watch her. She’s a shifty-eyed one. Probably stick a knife in your back as soon as you turn around.”
“Mrs. O’Doul, you don’t think there was foul play in your husband’s death do you?” Mary most certain did expect foul play was involved, but she’d never heard the words from Sylvia’s mouth. A good reporter find motive, sometimes out of thin air.
“I honestly can’t say. There was--”
A rustling sound brought their attention towards the couch. Justin sat bolt upright, staring at them. His eyes glared fiercely, stretched back menacingly in evil semi-circles. His fingers curled and twisted in impossible ways, and deep breaths raced in and out. Gurgling sounds rumbled from his lips, as if trying to speak words he didn’t really want to say.
“Justin?” Sylvia said. Justin stood and slowly started walking towards them. Each muscle in his body trembling. Mary hadn’t noticed until now the sheer mass of muscle on Justin. Sweat poured down his face as he looked to grow to twice his actual size. His eyes rolled wildly in his head, and each step looked painful as he shuffled towards them.
“He’s got my boy!” Sylvia shrieked and ran towards Justin, but his arms, strong from countless humps in Vietnam, tossed his mother to the side with ease. Sylvia tumbled into the corner like a lifeless doll. Justin turned to Mary.
His eyes now blazed like ruby fires. Mary shrieked and stumbled back knocking down the peculator. It smashed on the ground, echoing like a hundred chandeliers crashing down, sending Justin in a roaring fit.
Mary looked frantically for the door, but with sudden lightning speed Justin threw his body, or rather had his body thrown, in front of the door, blocking Mary’s escape. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, his unblinking eyes, and they searched her, hated her. They stared as if they recognized something in her and wanted it dead. She felt the burning from their fire.
Suddenly Mary remembered that he had a gun the last time she was here. She looked quickly for it, but Sylvia must have hidden it somewhere deep. Justin had her backed into the corner, and Mary crawled desperately towards the couch, screaming at Sylvia who was waking from a stupor brought on when she smashed her head against the wall. An incredibly strong hand clamped down on Mary’s ankle dragging her back, and Mary screamed with all her breath. Justin’s face wore an evil, satisfied grin, pulling her closer. She did the only thing she could think of; she doubled up her fist and laid it across his jaw.
She felt a strange electric chill pass from her as she connected with Justin. He hardly flinched, but for a brief moment the hatred drained out from his eyes. The fire in them died out, replaced with his beautiful emerald green irises. Once again she saw the confused boy she’d met on the bus.
“Mary.” His voice sounded rough and faint. His knees gave out, and he collapsed. Mary reached out to keep his head from bouncing off the floor. Sylvia cried uncontrollably and ran to cradle her son.
“Go Mary. See what you can find,” Sylvia cried. “See if you can find the urn. Hurry.”
Mary staggered out of the back room, nodding hurriedly and stammered
out a bunch of promises. Her legs could barely function enough to keep
her walking. The sky had darkened quite a bit, and the cold evening chill
rose up from the coast. Once outside she fought to compose herself. Catching
her breath, she avoided the stares of shoppers on the street and searched
through her bag to find a hairbrush.
* * *
“Hello, Mr. Dennings?” Mary’s voice yelled into the apartment intercom
system.
“Yes. Hello? Who is this?” A man’s voice crackled through the speaker. The apartment building fit the rustic look of the town. Red brick, and from the sounds of it bad wiring.
“My name is Mary Wellington. I’m a friend of Marcus O’Doul. I need your help.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know of any Marcus O’Doul. Good night.”
Mary hurriedly pressed the “Speak” button. “I’m actually looking for a woman name Lia. She bought an urn from Mr. O’Doul’s antique shop, and it’s an urgent matter that I find her.”
Mary shifter her weight from one foot to the other as silence poured through the intercom. When her patience had run out she reached up to the button again, but the speaker blared alive. “Come on up.” Beside her the door buzzed and Mary rushed on in.
Mr. Dennings had the door open and waiting for her when she got to his door. Her steps halted when she recognized him as the man from the bus. The man with the shoebox filled with holes. “Oh, hello,” she said,
Dennings smile was not warm. “Please come in,” he said and offered her a drink that she politely declined. “How did you learn my name?”
Obviously, he didn’t recognize her, so Mary decided to let it go. His apartment reflected a professor living a little bit above the standard for most. She sat on soft, leather seats; two Van Goghs hung on maroon painted walls; an elaborate stereo system quietly played Mozart in the background. “Well,” Mary cleared her throat. “I stopped by the Department of Oriental Studies and caught your receptionist before she left. I asked about Lia and any antique dealings recently, and she gave me your name to check it out.”
“She didn’t give you my home address I hope.” He frowned. He had yet to sit and make himself comfortable. He stood, almost glaring down on her as he leaned against a dark wood-stained beam.
Mary blushed. “No. Sorry about that. I must admit, I’m a reporter for the Danielsport Record.”
“Oh, I see.” Dennings turned his back slightly and pour a glass of scotch. Mary caught a faint tremble in his hands. “Have you found anything out?”
She briefly went over the death of Marcus O’Doul, to which Dennings rendered a thin bit of sympathy. Then she told him of how she tracked the name of Lia through Sylvia’s mother, all the while Dennings just kept nodding, his brow getting darker and darker.
“So why does Sylvia want the urn back?” Finally he moved to sit on an elaborate recliner, air rushing from the cushions.
Mary opened her mouth to give him the answer, but a familiar shot of electricity jolted her. It was the same feeling she had when she had struck Justin and when she had stepped off the bus to see that hooded, shadowy figure staring at her. Caution suddenly loomed into her mind. Dennings was being more inquisitive than she expected. Telling him about Li Po just might get her laughed from his apartment at the least, but she feared much worse would happen. “Sylvia is a superstitious woman. She feels that it’s a symbol of health to have someone’s ancestors watching over the shop.”
Dennings smiled slightly, a bit patronizing. “A superstitious woman indeed.” He stared into his scotch, ringing the rim with his index finger. “Well, unfortunately I have no news for the good Mrs. O’Doul. I have heard of this Lia. She’s quite a fan of our department and has donated money in the past. I know she lives in Bangor. Perhaps you should continue your search up north.” His eyes quickly darted up from his glass, wavering slightly.
“Where should I begin looking?” Danger grew ever more present in her mind. In fact, it startled her when she felt the need to casually check over her shoulder. Her skin was crawling with the sense that someone unseen was watching her.
“Miss Wellington, I’m sorry I don’t have more answers for you. I also have a bit of work to still do tonight, so you must excuse me, but you must excuse me.” His eyes twitched as if he bordered on having a seizure. The rest of his body had grown strangely calm.
Mary bit her lip. “I understand completely. Thank you for your time Professor Dennings.” She stood and was halfway to the door before he rose from his own chair. She thanked him once again, but he just nodded. She stepped into the hall and the door slammed behind her, the deadbolt latching tight.
Outside the night had grown its usual New England dark, made more so by the thin layer of fog which hung over the town. Mary hated dark streets, but she knew with out a doubt she’d stumbled over the thing she needed. Dennings had a poker face like a two year old. She stood on the last step to his building contemplating her next move and not looking forward to it.
She turned and moved silently like a cat down the street and ducked into a shadow. She waited. Her ears reached out to pick up any noise, any slight scuff of danger, and she would run, hopefully to safety. A driving need in her told she must do this. Maybe for the story, maybe for Justin, maybe just for herself. She had to find out what the professor knew. A half an hour later, her suspicions were confirmed. Mr. Dennings emerged from his apartment building dressing in a dark, felt overcoat, looked both way along the street, and started walking towards the seashore.
To Be Continued…