Chapter Seventeen

Ginger's nerves were shot. The day had been a long one, and it wasn't even five o'clock, she reflected. The final taping, Elizabeth's emotional recollection of the event, hadn't been easy or comfortable. Ginger wished that she could have done even more than they had for the Scotts and the Feldmans. She was left with a burning desire to solve a hundred-year-old mystery.

"Adam?" she called out from across the house. "You up for a little trip?"

"I'm about done packing the equipment, so sure, why not? What did you have in mind?"

"How about the library?"

"I was hoping you were going to come up with something a little more romantic than that, but I guess we could go to the library."

"I want to see if I can find any more documents that might help us figure out who our mystery woman is, or was, I guess I should say."

"That's not likely to happen, Gin."

"I know, but we're here for another ten to twelve hours. What could it hurt?"

"Well then, let's go."

* * *

She was no stranger to a library, and that seemingly obscure skill served her well as she navigated her way through stacks of books and computerized articles. It was nearing the seven o'clock closing time, she noted, disappointed that they had been unable to find anything new on either Charles Switzer or Annalise. She was replacing a stack of reference books on a high shelf when a bold print title caught her eye.

"Legends of the Ojibway," she read aloud, running her finger along the spine of the volume. Hadn't Chris mentioned something about the Ojibway? On impulse, she wrestled the heavy book from the shelf and gave it a cursory glance, stopping at page 105. She began to read, the sounds around her fading as she became absorbed in the story:

Tales of demons have been passed down from generation to generation since time itself began. But one of the most fascinating is from the Ojibway, or Ojibwa, Indians. The legend of the Manitou is as chilling as it is diverse. Unlike the traditional demonic entity represented in the Christian faith, the Manitou does not refer to one specific demon, but many different entities possessing a vast array of power. According to traditional legend, Manitou is another word for God. Manitou does not refer to the Christian God, however, but signifies divinity in a more general sense.

They could be benevolent entities or vengeful forces, but most all were known for their trickery. The Manitou were legendary shape-shifters and were known to appear in many different forms, ranging from animals to exact replicas of relatives or friends of the people they wished to deceive.

One such tale hails from the north region of Manitoba, a clear and cold night when a young man faced a difficult journey…

He had been looking forward to this weekend for the better part of a year. This late January excursion had become something of a tradition for Jeremiah and his former schoolmates. There were four of them, and although they were well into their thirties, they'd remained close, still joined in the brotherhood that had brought them together so many years ago.

Every year, the four of them would take time out from their busy schedules and the hectic race that they called life and journey from far and wide to their own secret hideout. No telephones, no distractions, and most of all no women or children. It had become something of a tradition that once a year the group would descend upon the tiny cabin in the woods for a little R and R, complete with hunting and fishing. In the ten years since the tradition's inception, none of the four had ever deviated from this routine.

The pattern was always the same. They would fly in from their various locations around the globe: Jake in Livingston, Texas; Philip from Canton, Michigan; Roy from the hills of West Virginia; and Jeremiah from his ranch in the Colorado Rockies. Their meeting place was always the same as well—a large resort stationed some five miles away from the cabin they had purchased and maintained since their college days.

Winters up north are always harsh, but the winter of 1967 was a particularly brutal one. Each man considered himself lucky to have gotten a northern-bound flight at all. The punishing wind chills were noted but quickly forgotten as each looked forward to the week ahead. Jeremiah was early that year, by about a day or so, due to a combination of work scheduling and last-minute delays at the airport for the remaining three men. Phone service was spotty, so contacting the others was not an option. So Jeremiah arrived at the usual rendezvous point, grabbed a mug of cocoa from the friendly girl who worked the dining hall, and sat down to wait patiently for his friends to arrive.

The hour soon grew late. Jeremiah peered out of snow-crusted windows into what looked like a complete white-out. He knew immediately that his buddies must have been delayed but wasn't overly concerned, deciding to rent a room for the night. He would make the five-mile journey to the cabin when the others arrived in the morning. A few hours wouldn't make any difference, he reasoned.

Just then, a man in a tan striped sweater and thick brown trousers tapped him on the shoulder. "Telephone call for Jeremiah Hart." The man had a booming voice that belied his less than impressive stature.

The call was from Jake, and although it was difficult to make out the other man's words through the crackling phone line, Jeremiah deduced easily that he himself had been late getting to their meeting point. Jake informed him that the others had arrived about three hours ahead of him and they were all waiting at the cabin. He disconnected the call and looked around the lodge's knotty pine interior with the deer hide and furs hanging from the walls. In three of the five downstairs rooms, fires blazed in a hearth. It wasn't a bad place to spend a night. And a glance out the heavy plate windows at the front of the resort revealed a much less appealing prospect—a five-mile hike in snow that was already knee-deep in places.

Still, it would be nice to make it to the cabin before first light. Though it may have been foolish, Jeremiah's legendary impatience and arrogance found him suiting up for the harsh climate and bidding the resort's occupants a good night. Several of the patrons made no secret of the fact that they thought the man in the heavy snow gear was out of his mind to attempt such a journey in the dark.

But Jeremiah was not to be swayed that particular evening; he was young and healthy, in the prime of his life, and the hike was a drop in the bucket compared to what he could handle. So off he went, making his way through the winding trails that would take him to the cabin, where he knew his friends would be waiting full of alcohol and good cheer. "And a roaring fire," he added with a shudder, trying to mentally block out the bitter cold that was beginning to make itself known to his hands and feet.

Although he was adequately dressed, his heavy layers of clothing were still no match for the bone-chilling winds that swept through the landscape. His breath misted in front of him, making it all the more difficult to see the proper way to go, and he stumbled several times, always righting himself and trudging on at a steady pace.

Once he reached the woods, the wind would die down and his travel would be easier, he knew. What he did not count on was the fog that mixed with the falling snow. It filtered down through the trees and made all passage through the forest next to impossible.

He was lost. Turning in a slow circle, the full impact of his grim situation descended upon him. He was more than halfway to the cabin, to be sure, but he had completely lost his sense of direction. To move forward would be treacherous. To stay where he was and wait for the sunrise to continue his travels was a death sentence in such inhospitable conditions. The only hope for him now was to attempt to retrace his steps and pick his way back to the safety of the lodge, and even that was not without its fair share of risk. Still, he recognized the plan as his best option and steadied himself against a thick tree trunk while he collected his bearings.

A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention at once, bright red and large—about the size of a man. A parka! His numbed mind registered the sight with both relief and hope. Jake had come to find him.

The figure in red motioned for him to follow and took off at a fast pace, leaving Jeremiah to make haste to follow or be left behind.

"Wait!" he called once when his friend disappeared from view.

Jake turned around, and Jeremiah saw his face illuminated in a shaft of moonlight. He saw his oldest friend's mouth move briefly but he was unable to make out the words. With a wave of his hand, Jake turned and began to move deeper into the dense woods, but at a much slower clip this time.

Suddenly, the landscape changed, the break in the trees signaling the edge of the forest.

At once, Jeremiah knew his location. But why had Jake led him here? The roundabout path had taken them to the east, and even though he couldn't see it in the dark, he knew the lake would be directly ahead of them.

He stopped in his tracks, yelling for his friend to stop. Although the water would likely appear to be frozen, Jeremiah knew that the thin layer across the top would be the only protection afforded them. The rest of the lake did not freeze completely over, but formed treacherous slush piles. The ice would be too weak to hold them, a fact that Jake would also be well aware of. What the hell was he doing?

"Jake, no! Where are you going?" Jeremiah warned in a voice too raspy from the cold to be effective. He pressed his hands to either side of his head and watched in horror as Jake walked onto the surface of the lake. "Get out! Get out! No!"

The figure in red turned and grinned. "Come out, it's fine, Jeremiah. Follow me."

"Jake…" No, something was wrong. The voice was all wrong, Jeremiah reflected, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature creeping into his bones.

"Follow me, Jeremiah." The voice was too soft to be heard this time, and yet Jeremiah heard the words loud and clear.

"No," he whispered, shrinking back until he felt the base of a tree against his back. "No," he repeated, louder and with more force this time.

The figure in red laughed before disappearing into the night.

Jeremiah blinked rapidly, unwilling to believe what he had seen with his own eyes. But what if he had been wrong? What if the figure in red could have been Jake after all? What the hell else could it have been but Jake? He was overtired, that was all. The cold and the wind and the fatigue were playing tricks on his mind.

Jake had been there, of that he was sure. But where was he now? People didn't just vanish. Oh my God, the ice! What if Jake had fallen through the ice?

Crawling to the edge of the lake, he looked out across its surface, frantically scanning the landscape for a glimpse of his friend and coming up empty. Jake was nowhere to be found. The cold was beginning to debilitate him now. Going back was not an option. It took all of his strength to dig through his knapsack for his meager provisions. The extra layers of clothing and blankets were the only things that saw him safely through the rest of the cold night, huddled there at the base of the tree.

When dawn's light spread across the sky several hours later, Jeremiah made his way slowly back to the lodge, numb with shock and weak with a thirst he had nearly lost all hope of quenching. And there, to his surprise, he found Jake, Phil, and Roy. They turned away from the reception desk and spotted him through the wide double doors of the resort. In no time, they had crowded around him, all talking at the same time and making quick work of hustling him through the doors and into the parlor room with the large brick fireplace.

"Where have you been?"

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Why didn't you wait for us?"

The questions were all the same, and Jeremiah wasn't sure how to answer any of them. He stared at Jake with a mixture of confusion and relief.

"My God, man, I thought you had drowned in that wretched lake."

"What are you talking about?"

"The lake by the cabin. How did you make it across the ice? Why didn't you come back for me?"

He frowned when he saw Jake give a confused look to the others before answering him. "I wasn't anywhere near that lake last night, Jeremiah."

"We met up by Manitoba and spent the night in a hotel. We only just got here."

"No, I saw you," Jeremiah protested.

"Look." They each pulled out printed receipts from the motel. "We've been here for maybe half an hour. We were getting ready to come find you after the inn keeper told us you had ventured out on your own last night."

"But you called me last night, Jake. You said to meet you at the cabin, that you were all there already. I must have misunderstood you, then."

Jake's next words shook Jeremiah to the core.

"I didn't call you last night."

* * *

"Ginger? The library's closing," Adam said, breaking her concentration.

"I'll be right there. I just want to make a copy of this."

"What is it?" He peered over her shoulder.

"Legends of the Ojibway."

"Is it important?"

"I don't think so, but it's interesting."

Ten minutes later, they were out the door and climbing into the Outlander, snapping into sun-warmed seat belts. "Can I put these in your backpack?"

"Sure," he told her, lifting the green pack easily while he maneuvered through the light Main Street traffic.

"So," she said, shoving the sheaf of papers into the pack and zipping it closed, "I've been thinking. What if this whole … haunting," she began, stumbling over the word, "has never been about the Scotts or the Feldmans?"

"How so?" Adam sounded interested.

"What if there's something in the house that the shadowy figure, who may or may not be the evil spirit of the late Charles Switzer, didn't want them to find? What if there's something in there he doesn't want anyone to find?"

"How did you come up with that?"

"Well, the activity didn't start until when?"

"When the house started to cave in, I guess," Adam recalled after a moment.

"Right. And weren't the Scotts talking about tearing the house down?"

"So you think maybe there's something hidden in the house?" Adam frowned.

"Maybe. What if … what if Annalise never left that night?"

"What if she's buried somewhere on the property?"

"Exactly. And if you tell anyone we had this conversation, I'll have to kill you."

"Don't worry," Adam chuckled. "Your secret is safe with me. As for your theory—it makes sense. A lot of sense. We should mention it to Chris, but I have to tell you, I don't see how anything's going to come of it. That's a big house and an even bigger lot. If Annalise is buried there, she could be literally anywhere, and that's assuming her remains have held up this long."

"I know we can't do anything about it either way." Ginger sighed. "But it's an interesting theory."