Ghost Shadow: Unfinished Sins

When Payge woke this morning, murder wouldn’t even have crossed her mind. Now, as she slid the razor nearly the full length of her leg, Payge could think of nothing else. She began another sweep with the razor, but winced and stopped as she nicked her shin. She watched as the blood spread through the water until it disappeared altogether.

The hell with it, she thought. She had pretty well finished shaving anyway, and her mind was on other things. She settled back in the tub and let the warm water flow soothingly over her breasts and shoulders. Usually, this was the most comfortable time of her day. It just wasn’t the same today. Mrs. Markham’s call had seen to that.

“Damn her anyway!”

Payge sat up, surprised at her own anger. It wasn’t that she didn’t sympathise with Mrs. Markham’s concern for her daughter and it sure wasn’t that her morning peace had been broken. Something else deep inside her had filled her with sudden anger. It had happened before. It had been part of the reason three years ago she had been asked to resign from the force. She never understood, but it always scared her.

“Damn!” she said, as she pulled the plug.

She grabbed the towel as she stood and stepped out of the tub. No rest, she thought, for the wicked.

When she was dry, Payge slipped on her house jeans and an old blouse then tied her hair back with a ribbon. She would dress properly later.

In the kitchen, as she waited for a cup of yesterday’s coffee to warm up in the microwave, she wondered about Dr. Markham. Why had he refused to call the police? Why had he refused to talk with his wife about it when she found the note? Mrs. Markham was terrified her daughter would be killed. Why wasn’t he?

Payge had met Susan Markham twice when she had come to the department to visit her father. Susan was young–at seventeen, young enough to be Payge’s daughter–and very pretty. She was slender and blonde, but it was some spirit inside, Payge thought, that seemed to draw the boys to Susan.

“At least she’s not the rapist’s type.”

Payge heard herself say the words out loud. Just the thought of the rapes sent an involuntary shiver through her. Since spring, nine had been reported–all with oriental or oriental looking girls as victims, and all brutal. How many more had gone unreported? Statistics she had read suggested more than a few.

Payge shut the thought from her mind as the microwave beeped the cheery message that her coffee was ready. She poured her coffee and took it with her to the bedroom, where she chose her clothes for the day and took her time dressing.

Mrs. Markham had said to come anytime after ten, when her husband had his first class. She did not, apparently, want him around for her meeting with Payge. It was now nine thirty. Payge’s class wasn’t until two this afternoon, so she would have lots of time to walk over and see Mrs. Markham later this morning.

The woman who came to the door had achieved exactly the look of a successful professor’s wife. The earth tones of her expensive woollen skirt and pullover complemented her beauty in a quiet sort of way. Her shoulder length hair, which must once have been deep red, now was softened by streaks of grey. Payge touched her own red hair; lately she had been finding a lot of grey hairs in her comb.

Mrs. Markham asked Payge to please come in. She led Payge down the hall to the sitting room, where she offered her a seat and a cup of tea. Payge accepted.

While Mrs. Markham was in the kitchen Payge checked the room with her practised eye. The exterior hadn’t prepared her for what she would see inside. An old monument of hardwood and stone near Riverside Drive, the house was about usual for university faculty. What she had seen in the hall and in this room was not. There was money here, she thought, more probably than a professor–even a full professor–could afford. She wondered if Dr. Markham had some family money. That would certainly explain the paintings and the antique oriental furnishings and art.

One piece especially stood out among the rest. It was not elaborate or elegant in the way many were in that room, but had an unadorned elegance about it. At first, she had not even noticed it, tucked away as it was between the fireplace and a great oriental chest. The statue of a man riding a horse had looked to be carved of some dark wood. Only when she walked across the room and knelt down to see it closer did Payge realise it was bronze which had gone unpolished for many years.

“It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?”

Payge turned with a start. Mrs. Markham was standing in the doorway holding a lacquer tray with a small teapot and two cups on it.

“Yes,” said Payge as she stood up.

As Payge walked back to her chair, Mrs. Markham entered the room and set the tray on a table.

“Frank brought it back from the dig in Tibet. It’s not really worth much, but I find it comforting to have around, like my own personal knight. My own protector.” She poured the tea, something green and Chinese, and handed Payge a cup. “Please have a seat.”

They both sat.

“It does look like a knight,” Payge observed. “Is it from those times? You know, medieval.”

“Probably twelfth century, but we can’t be sure. We’ve never shown it to a real expert. Frank calls it his puzzle, says he likes it that way. Personally, I don’t know why he likes to hide it away in that corner. Polished up, it would be a beautiful piece.”

Mrs. Markham bit her lower lip slightly. While making small talk, she was clearly agitated, fidgeting in her chair, as she worked up the nerve to broach a subject that terrified her. Payge decided to help her out.

“About your daughter?”

“Susan,” the mother said, seeming to speak from somewhere far away. “Yes, we must talk about Susan.”

“Do you have the note?”

Payge watched Mrs. Markham force herself back to the here and now. This woman is strong, she thought.

“No. Frank took it. I think he may have destroyed it. Do you need it? I know what it said.”

“We might have been able to find out something from the type of paper and ink, from the handwriting. Can’t be helped now. What did it say?”

“Not much. It was all very vague, mysterious. It said, ‘You know what we want. Take care for Susan. Your actions can ensure her long life.’ That was all.”

“Not much of a threat. How do you know it’s serious? Maybe it’s some disgruntled student playing a very bad joke on your husband.”

“I don’t think so. When Frank opened it he looked like he’d seen a ghost. I’ve only seen him look that way once before–when he had his stroke. It was like that. Like he was about to die. And he stuck it in his pocket, wouldn’t show me. He would have shown me a joke, however bad. I had to steal the note later, and when he found out he was furious. I’ve never seen Frank so angry. Or so scared.”

“Do you remember anything about the note itself?”

Mrs. Markham seemed not to understand, moving again to that far away place where she was safe from here and now. She shook violently as though taking a sudden chill, then was back.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was that?”

“The envelope or paper, how it arrived, the handwriting: do you remember anything at all about the note?”

“I guess it was hand delivered. At least it had no stamp. The paper and envelope were pretty standard. The writing seemed to be a male hand, but I can’t be sure of that. It was big, open writing. There was nothing really exceptional about any of it.”

“Please, try again. Is there anything at all about the note that struck you as out of the ordinary?”

Mrs. Markham breathed deeply, then took a sip of her tea. She sat for several minutes before speaking.

“Yes,” she said. “The ink. It was the ink that made the writing so bold.”

“How’s that?”

“It was black, like India ink. The writing seemed to have been done with a brush or maybe a calligraphy pen. But it was regular writing, not fancy like calligraphy.”

“That may help. Can’t be many people on campus who write like that.”

“Then you still think it’s a student?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a place to start.”

Mrs. Markham nodded, accepting but not believing the implied threat was anything so safe as a student prank. She sat in silence, looking across the room at her tarnished knight as though for protection she was unsure Payge could offer.

“Have there been any problems with your daughter? With Susan?”

“I’m sorry. What?” Mrs. Markham seemed confused for a second, then all right again. “What did you say?”

“Susan. Has she had any problems? At school? At home? Emotionally? Have you or Dr. Markham had any conflicts with her recently?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t remember when things have been better with her. Why?”

“I need to know whether the threat is about your husband or about Susan, something in her life. I’m sorry to ask, but sometimes it happens that way.”

Mrs. Markham nodded and took a sip of her tea. Payge sipped her tea too. It seemed to her Mrs. Markham was waiting, working her way up to saying something. Payge waited. After several minutes had passed, Mrs. Markham picked up the tea pot and turned to Payge.

“More tea?”

“No. Thanks, I’m fine.”

“It’s not students.” Her voice was hesitant, yet firm. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just know. It’s not students; it’s much worse than that–much, much worse than that!”

Payge nodded but said nothing.

“Help me, please. Help my family, my daughter.” And the woman Payge had thought so strong softly wept as the tears came at last.

In the end, it was more that she had come to like Mrs. Markham than that the woman gave her enough cash to pay her fee a week in advance that persuaded Payge to take on the case.