“What, you think I followed you here?”
“Yes. That is precisely what I’m suggesting. Did you follow me here? To Vanaheim, from Copenhagen?”
“I didn’t even recognize you at first.”
“So your answer to my question would be no, then?”
“Well, yeah my answer would be no. I mean, it is no. Why would I have followed you?”
She pointed the flashlight up beneath her chin before she spoke, like she was telling me a ghost story. “It just seems fairly… anomalous, is all. The two of us meeting in Denmark, and then you turning up here, only a few days after my own arrival… I suppose I’m just exhibiting signs of latent paranoia… Or is that just what you’d have me believe?”
I shuffled my shoes on the dirty floor. “Look, if you think I’m stalking you, well, don’t worry. I’m used to it being the other way around, and I—”
“No. Wait. Fine.” I saw her shake her head in silhouette. “Perhaps I should apologize; I wasn’t suggesting that you were a stalker or that you were in any way the more psychologically impaired between the two of us, but it’s just…” She turned the flashlight up at her face again and smiled. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m acting all peculiar, amn’t I? Come on. Just follow me.”
She started back down the tunnel, and I trotted after her. I figured it was best not to say anything at all. It was getting more humid, but I couldn’t smell sulphur anymore. My nose must have been getting used to it.
I hadn’t tailed anybody in a long time, and I wasn’t really used to it anymore. It was a wonder that they didn’t make me. Pacheco was walking in the lead, about a block and a half ahead, and every time he looked over his shoulder to say something to Wible I did my best to duck behind the nearest telephone pole or postal drop-box, but I was probably drawing more attention to myself than if I’d just walked nonchalantly. At least the action kept me warm.
I got so wrapped up in trying to conceal myself without looking ridiculous to the occasional passerby, though, that I hardly noticed we were moving out of the downtown area until the drop-boxes became so scarce that I had to start ducking behind snowdrifts. We were headed back in the direction from which I’d come. Were they on their way to visit me? Maybe I should just jump out and let them see me to save us the walk. But then they turned up Lanark Road, which didn’t lead anywhere near my house. Odd.
Though in this world there are phenomena that might justly be termed “strange,” there are no phenomena that cannot—given sufficient information—be explained. This is not to suggest that for every effect there is a cause, of course. That is an assumption that we are not prepared to make, lest it launch us ineluctably down the path of determinism. This is only to suggest, rather, that there is no “thing” that exists without some relation to at least one other “thing,” and it is the matrix of a “thing’s” relationships that determines its meaning in the larger context of the world. Even something strange can be explained by tracing its relational lines of flight, however casual or causal they may be.
Thus, while we found it strange that we were being followed by one of the subjects of our investigation, we assumed that—as more information came forth—an explanation would manifest itself, and we saw no cause to effect any immediate change in our course of action. It did cause us to wonder, however, what this subject’s relationship was—if any—to the librarian, Hubert Jorgen, whose store had proven so fruitful and to whose house we still were heading.
It is early in the spring of 1998, and I am assisting in the erection of the Two-Story House.
The foreman is discussing the blueprints with Shirley. She is worried that the completed structure will not adequately serve her purpose. I sense that the workers are annoyed by her, though she has brought out pitchers of fresh lemonade. Perhaps it is bitter. No one has tasted it, as of yet. The foreman is explaining again why her original plans were impracticable. On the upper level, Jon Ymirson—bare-chested in the unseasonal humidity of late March—swings a hammer, driving nails into wood, affixing one plank to another. Jack stud, king stud. He is constructing the frame of what will become a doorway. He is more competent than me in the building arts, and the workers have taken to him as one of their own. Shirley frowns at the exasperated foreman.
At least the workers are not lusting after her. She is quite attractive in her baggy white T-shirt and paint-spattered work jeans. Unless they can lust through their annoyance.
My fingers are numb from the vibrations of the electric saw with which I have been trimming boards for the last twenty minutes. My eyes are sweat-filled and my goggles fogged. Sawdust clings to my hands, and its smell to the hairs of my nose. I decide to rest a moment. Though the other workers labor on, I set aside my saw and walk to the picnic table upon which my wife has laid the refreshments.
In addition to the lemonade, she has supplied a box of donuts. Of these, the workers have deigned to partake.
I remove a plastic cup from the red tower between the pitchers and fill it with lemonade. Most of the ice has melted already. I lick the salt from my moustache before taking my first sip. My wife glances up at me and meets my eyes across the cup’s upper rim. The lemonade is sweet, and I drain the cup before it leaves my lips.
My wife smiles as I dip the ladle for a second serving. The smile contains gratitude, and shame, and love. It spans the distance between her thoughts and her actions. Her eyes turn back to the blueprints, but the smile lingers in the corners of her mouth.
I comprehend the ways in which Shirley can be an annoyance to others. I know how she allows herself to be perceived by them. But it is my pleasure that no others—not even Emily Bean-Ymirson in her lifetime—have understood the ways in which Shirley could never be a true annoyance to me.
Our Heroine has always been a bit secretive, but for many that’s a huge part of her allure; something in that rare smile of hers conveys the sense that she knows a lot more than she’s letting on, and that if you’re lucky she just might give you a hint as to what it is. I didn’t have much idea of what she wasn’t letting on about this time—and she was still out searching for her dog, so no hint was likely to be forthcoming—but I assumed it to be identical with whatever it was that I was frustratedly looking for.
That is to say, I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but it was quite frustrating not being able to find anything worth the searching. One expects the homes of celebrities to burble over with scandal buried clumsily just beneath the surface, but, sadly, this isn’t always the case. Regardless, I kept on digging.
I felt that whatever I was looking for must have had something to do with the misfortune of Shirley MacGuffin, else Our Heroine wouldn’t have been so adamant earlier about not discussing it. “But what angle could she have on the matter?” I wondered. Perhaps she was attempting to find Shirley’s murderer, though it did seem a bit unlikely that she would willingly take on any task that could so easily be labeled an “investigation.” Still, it was a definite possibility, and I was determined to resolve whether or not it was an actuality. There may have been many things that I did not know, but I was fairly certain of one thing: Our Heroine was searching for something more than just her dog. And that something had to do with the investigation of Shirley’s murder. Maybe.
I sat down on the vinyl-upholstered couch across from the fireplace and glanced around the room for anything that I might have missed upon my initial pass. I hadn’t known how much time I would have when I’d begun my snooping, so I’d limited myself to the simple things, wasting no effort on the likes of locked drawers in the desk or looking for hidden catches on the apothecary table. There had, after all, seemingly been enough out in the open to rummage through; the only problem was that, on closer examination, everything in the open had turned out to be rather innocuous.