Dana Cameron - A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery

I STARED, UNCOMPREHENDING, AT THE BLOOD AS IT welled up

AS I DESCENDED THE STAIRS THE NEXT MORNING I smelled

MADAM CHANDLER KEPT ME FASCINATED FOR THE next day and

I OPENED MY MOUTH AND CLOSED IT. THE SHOCK OF

I DONT KNOW HOW LONG IT WAS BEFORE I CREPT

AS I GASPED MY WAY UP THE FRONT STAIRS, I

ARE YOU GOING TO BE SAFE? BRIAN SOUNDED AS though

FROM THE SOUNDS I HEARD EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, as far

DESPITE THE RACKET MY FLAT LEATHER SHOES slapping the pavement

FAITH WAS MURDERED THEN. THE THOUGHT POPPED into my head

THERE WAS JACK, LYING SLUMPED AGAINST THE latticework railing of

NOOO! LET ME GO! I COULDNT UNDERSTAND why I couldnt

EMMA! IT TOOK ME A SECOND TO RECOGNIZE Sashas voice.

IF ID HAVE KNOWN WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN AT

YOU KNOW, PAM KOBRINSKI WAS SAYING, I think we just

A DREADFUL POUNDING WOKE ME THE NEXT MORNING, and it

I RESOLUTELY WENT BACK TO MY ROOM, DETERMINED to continue

THE GRINDING NOISES COMING FROM UNDER THE hood finally convinced

MY FACE WAS GETTING HOT FROM MY PROXIMITY to the

PUT THE GUN DOWN, HARRY, PAM ORDERED calmly. Let Emma

ALMOST TWO WEEKS LATER, I SWIVELED AROUND in my chair,

I STARED, UNCOMPREHENDING, AT THE BLOOD AS IT welled up into a perfect sphere, balanced precariously on the ball of my thumb. Finally the surface tension broke and the globe turned into a trickle, running down my hand. That transformation also broke the spell on me, and I stuck my thumb into my mouth as the vibrant pain of the slice brought itself to my utmost attention. The excruciating sensation did nothing, however, to mitigate the triumph at hand, and I knew that if I was still capable of making puns like that, I neednt call the undertaker just yet.

It wasnt the paper cut that was causing my good mood to evaporate, however. I was sitting, freezing, in my faithful, though beat-up Civic outside the gates of the Shrewsbury Foundation, and as their newest Fellow, I really hadnt expected the kind of treatment I was receiving. All I wanted to do was get up to my room, unpack, and get ready for the four weeks of research that awaited me, but the supercilious guard who had so thoughtlessly snatched my acceptance letter away was taking his time checking his clipboard.

I sighed while he looked at the letter again suspiciously, like the barbarian hordes were crouched just behind me, waiting to storm the gates of Shrewsbury. I was tired; at three oclock in the afternoon it had already been a long day. As excited as I was to be here, it had taken forever to pack, and of course Id postponed it until the last minute, delaying the moment when I would have to abandon my husband, Brian, to the rigors of solitary household renovation for the next month. As a result, Id left nearly two hours later than Id expected, but the drive from our home in Lawton, in northern Massachusetts, out to Monroe in the western part of the state had perked me up immeasurably, perhaps even encouraging me to push the Civic beyond its present capacity and ignore the speed limit.

The views of the Berkshires were wonderful from the highway, vistas of craggy, wind-buffeted trees and steep gray cliffs, and I realized, a little guiltily, at how much I was looking forward to getting away from the never-ending home improvements and escaping into work that was purely my own. Libraries had always been where Id gone to make sense of the world, and this one had the added lure of primary sources directly related to my work. I even had a chance to visit friends who worked nearby. I was on my own, and it was a good day for driving: clear, cold, and just a little overcast. After a couple of uneventful hours, I found myself in Redfield County, where the hilly terrain made my ears pop regularly and the pines and bare oaks stood out against the empty March sky. There the driving got a little more interesting; I was wrestling for the steering wheel with the wind, resisting the pull to the edge of the road and the cliff.

And then I didnt resist. I pulled over, got out, and considered the vista before me, cataloguing it as would a social scientist and someone with a nodding acquaintance with geology and environmental studies. My stomach contracted even before I reached the guardrail and considered the drop down to the icy river below. I forgot to wonder whether the area had been formed by volcanism or tectonic smashing and forced myself to edge over and look straight down. I craned my neck to see, as if the mere act of moving closer to the cliff meant that I would immediately hurl myself over the side. The black water one hundred feet below me looked as though it sucked all the light and heat from the surroundings, keeping the town on the opposite rocky bank firmly entrenched in late wintry gloom. As if that werent enough, the little factory townI didnt even know what its name wasappeared to have seen better days since its founding; there was no smoke coming from the stack and there were no lights in the windows. A lone car moved along the street on the opposite bank, and I shivered. It might have been that the mill or factory was now converted to a high-technology haven, and the light was wrong for me to tell that there was any life inside; it might have been that the town was enjoying a well-earned rest before they geared up for a thriving summer tourist trade, but I had no way of knowing. From this distance, it all seemed as bleak as the cliffs, as scrubby and weather-worn as the firs I saw by the riverbank. I pulled my coat closer and got back into my car. I was surprised that the view should have had that dismal effect on me, but I chalked it up to a too-hectic schedule and fatigue.

Driving another twenty minutes brought me to Monroe, the town closest to the library, and the source of the Shrewsbury familys wealth. At least I could see signs of life herecars filled the main street, shops were open and busyand that cheered me again.

The Shrewsbury Foundation was located a short distance outside of Monroe, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its grounds. From what I could see of the house from the breaks in the trees along the roadone of the hazards of creating a view for yourself is that it also tends to put you on displaythe fence suited the place, all Victorian gothic and curlicues. The real blot on the landscape was this foolish, imposing, and totally inappropriate guardhouse at the main entrance, complete with an orange-and-white-striped hinge barriernothing could have been more obvious or obnoxious a bar to the outside world. When I pulled up to it, its occupant was watching a monitor carefully.

That had been nearly two minutes ago. Perhaps hed forgotten about me, turning into a paper-cut popsicle in the still-cold March air.

I tried again. Hello there!

The window slid open slowly, and a blast of warm air rushed out of the house toward me. I only noticed it because, even with the Civics heater chugging away, I was still wondering about the possibility of hypothermia.

The mana guard presumablywasnt wearing a uniform, but a smartly tailored suit and regimental-style tie. There was a posh-looking overcoat hung up at the back of the booth. His iron gray hair was expensively cut and blow-dried in the vertically puffy style that Brian would have derisively described as possum head, and he was clean shaven with a tan that bespoke beach vacations or trips to a tanning booth. The whole impact was one of self-indulgence and image consciousness.