A Witness And A Warning
Heather grabbed my hand and dragged me to her office. What could be so exciting? I wondered. She had a number of books and papers scattered on her work table, but most of them had been pushed to the side, and in the middle was an old banker's box, still sealed with yellowing tape.
“I haven't opened it yet,” she enthused. “I just found it buried in the archives. I knew you had stopped in, and we were all trying to give you some space, but when I found this I knew you'd want to see it immediately.”
“What is it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“I'm not sure what's inside, but it has his name on it. These must be his papers!”
“Whose name? Whose papers?” My excitement was turning to frustration.
“Mr. Bouchard!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
I was stunned. We had been able to find out so little about him, and here was an entire box. Would this solve the mystery? Would it give me something to talk to him about next time I saw him? After a moment of amazed silence, I asked, “Well, what are we waiting for? Let's open it!”
For the next half hour we were like kids in a toy shop. The box was full of books, most of them concerned mythology, monsters, or Polynesia. There were also a few folders with documents in them. Two were of particular interest. One seemed to contain a few records of his time in the military, and the other appeared to be a manuscript of some sort. It appeared to be almost finished and ready for publication, but there were still correction marks all over it, and hand written notes in the margins that had yet to be incorporated into the text. The majority of it was typed on a manual typewriter, and a few of the later pages were hand written in fading pencil.
As a writer myself, I was drawn to the manuscript, but Heather, with her love of details and research, was drawn to the military documents. “I have a contact at Naval headquarters,” she mused. “I'll bet he would love to sink his teeth into this.” She thumbed through the papers, shaking her head. “Still not a lot to go on, but I do have...the name of a ship...some dates...Ooh! And a serial number! That should be enough to get started.” I could feel her excitement rising with each new bit of information she found. “I'll give him a call this afternoon,” she said more to herself than me.
We agreed that while she did that, I would focus on the manuscript and find out just what it was that Mr. Bouchard was so interested in that he was writing a book about it. After that we took a quick glance at the books. Many of them seemed to be referenced in the manuscript, and these seemed to be the primary material he was drawing from to support the thesis of his work. There were multiple bookmarks in most of the books, and lots of dog eared pages. Some of the books had underlined passages and a few contained cross references to other books or notes where he seemed to be trying to work something out. It was clear that while the manuscript would probably offer a more focused argument or thesis, the resource material would be more useful in understanding his process and what was really motivating him.
Finally we took a break, only to find it was lunch time. I suggested we head toward the pier to enjoy the mild weather, and she agreed. As per usual, she had brought a sandwich, so I made a quick stop at a food stand to pick something up. We settled on a bench overlooking the pier, and ate in silence, each of us absorbed in our new tasks.
“I want to ask you something,” I asked, finally breaking the silence. “You said something funny in my office. You said it was random. What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing really,” she mused. “Probably just a nod to my own incompetence. Last night I dreamed about the archives. I know, how boring is it to dream about old dusty records. But in my dream I had a hunch that something was hiding in one of the vaults in the basement. I just ignored it like you do with dreams, but I was talking to one of the grad assistants after you arrived, telling her to give you a wide berth today, and she told me that she wanted to check something out in the basement just out of curiosity. Well, you know me, I like to encourage such initiative, so I took her down myself, and she made a bee line for this box. It was towards the back, but it was right there in plain sight.”
Heather sat in silence for a moment and I could tell that she was slightly troubled. “What is it?” I asked.
“Well, it's just that after Evelyn left, I reorganized and recatalogued all of the old donations. I went through everything in the vaults. Absolutely everything. And yet I have no record of this box ever existing.
“That is strange,” I conceded. “But I wouldn't ever call you incompetent. It must have been an oversight. Maybe you got distracted while working in that vault, or perhaps the numbers were out of sync. Could someone have found it in some random nook and placed it in the vault without you knowing?”
“I suppose,” she considered, but she looked dubious.
“Still,” I encouraged, “The important thing is that you have found it now, and we have some new leads to follow.”
She smiled at that and nodded her head thoughtfully. “But it seems odd to me that on the day that you decide to pop in unexpectedly, I should have a dream about something hiding in the basement, and the grad assistant should be so drawn to the vault that I feel compelled to accompany her.”
It seemed odd to me as well, but I didn't want her to worry about it so I changed the subject to lighter matters, and she was soon laughing and enthusiastic to call her contact and get started on a new line of inquiry.
I knew Phil's routine. By the time I arrived at the boarding house, he had taken his lunch up to his room and was already beginning to lay out Miss McFierceson's ensemble for that evening. I could hear him humming behind the door before I knocked, and wondered whether he would choose one of her chiffon extravaganzas, some something more sedate and formal. When I knocked his humming stopped, and I heard him whisper, “It's time, go get everyone.” I heard the echoing of a little girl's giggle, and the sound of tiny feet running down stairs at a great distance.
“You're here!” he greeted me as he opened the door. “How marvelous!” He had not begun changing his clothes or putting on the face yet, but some of Miss McFierceson's mannerisms were beginning to sneak out. “Shall we start with a drink?” He ushered me down to the living room and asked what I would like.
“How about some lemonade?”
“Nothing stronger?” he asked, trying to tempt me to join him in a cocktail.
“I have to drive back to the rehab center after this,” I explained. “But don't let me stop you.”
“Oh, I won't,” he smiled, pouring himself some gin. After taking a good gulp, he said, “Let's go into the kitchen and you can tell me all about Ben while I make your lemonade.” And without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked to the kitchen.
We sat at the kitchen table and chatted for a while, and he was genuinely excited to hear that there had been improvement. When the conversation lapsed, I took the opportunity and said, “There is no project you're working on, is there? You just used that as a ruse to get me here.”
He feigned astonishment at such a suggestion, but quickly broke into a smile. “You know me too well. Besides, I could never lie to the people I love, but I needed you here today.”
“Why?” I asked. “What's so important?”
He looked forlornly at his empty glass and whispered, “I need another drink.” Then without another word, he got to his feet and headed back out into the living room. I began to get concerned. Phil had been known to get tipsy from time to time, but that was usually the results of a little too much wine with dinner. It wasn't like him to drink hard liqueurs, especially at this early hour. It was barely one o'clock.
I followed him into the living room and was surprised to see him, still holding his empty glass, standing like a statue, staring into the middle of the room. “Phil, what's going on? You're beginning to scare me.”
He didn't respond, he didn't even seem to be breathing. I stood beside him and tried to see what he was looking at so intently. At first I couldn't see anything, just the same living room I had come to know so well. Nothing looked out of place or unusual, although there did seem to be a trick of the light, like a bit of reflected light had somehow become frozen in mid air. As I watched the effect became more pronounced. Something was definitely shimmering in the middle of the room. I found myself holding my breath as well. What was happening?
I could see other clusters of shimmering light begin to form around the first one. As they each continued to coalesce, Phil reached over and took my hand. “Maybe you should be scared,” he whispered. “Maybe you should.”
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