Pure Lies

35

Washington, D.C.

2006

Chapter 1

December 15, 2006

Professor Ernie Parks gulped down the last dregs of tepid coffee and grimaced. He turned back to the pile of books and papers on his desk and the opened tome before him, Witchcraft in Salem Village, by Winfield Nevins, 1892. He’d had a hell of a time getting the copy. A friend who owned a used bookshop managed to snag this classic somehow… for a steep price. But, Parks thought, it was worth every penny. Fascinating. A Victorian view of sorcery in the colonies. From prudes to Puritans. Ha.

He leaned back in his beat-up swivel chair and gazed without seeing at the jumble of books and journals stuffed into old wooden bookcases, more stacks of the same rising in every corner of the room like crooked skyscrapers. Not an inch of wall space remained to display his degrees or articles of acclaim. The sole ornamentation in the office sat on his desk: a photograph of his wife and young son. His son. Jesse. Now two years dead. Whenever his thoughts drifted in that direction he spurred himself to action. Anything but dwell on Jesse. He strode over to the window and looked out at the campus square. Snow had begun to fall and the flakes twisted and spun in a whirlwind of white. The ground was already covered, so much prettier than the brown grass and gray concrete six stories below.

Those righteous Puritan pricks, he mused. Oh, they were clever. But he was on to them. More than three hundred years later, the truth would come to light. And Ernie Parks, history professor ordinaire, would be famous. An academic star featured at conferences and colloquia around the world. A poor black kid from the slums of the District would change history. Yes.

As if in a blink daylight faded. He returned to his desk and switched on the small lamp. A glance at the wall clock near the door told him he had wasted twenty minutes daydreaming -- it was already five o’clock. Doris wouldn’t be expecting him for at least an hour. Right now she’d be sailing through the front door of their tiny house, tossing legal briefs on the hall table and hustling up some dinner without changing out of her courtroom suit. The professor smiled as he thought of his wife of ten years. Parks still wondered how such a beauty could end up with a homely guy like him. Doris always said he had panache. He grinned. She’d be proud of him now.

Without warning, his eyes began to blur and he realized suddenly how tired he felt. Not just a normal tired from teaching and research all day, but bone-weary tired. His fingers felt numb. So did his toes. He stretched his arms and shook his hands, thinking they’d fallen asleep. But the tingle started to crawl through his body, up his calves to his thighs, which tensed in spasms, then up his spine. Parks pushed himself to his feet but his legs wouldn’t support him.

What the hell? he murmured, as his body sank back into the chair with a will of its own.

His eyes began to close and at that moment he knew. He watched his hand reach for the coffee mug as if in time-lapse images, stutter-motion. The mug tipped over and a small rivulet of grainy liquid pooled on the desk. Parks lowered his head on his arms as the world went black.

The door to the office opened with a tiny squeak, the only sound in the building. The intruder knew that every year at this time, faculty and staff of the Georgetown University History Department got together to celebrate the holidays. No one would return to the campus that day.

The intruder hesitated a moment then closed the door softly and turned off the light. Professor Parks’ office appeared dark to the outside world, just like the other offices in the History and Economics Building.

But wispy moonlight filtered into the room providing enough light for the mission. Snow – fell heavily beyond the window and the visitor unlatched and raised it. Cold air whistled in. He slapped Parks’ face and it brought no response. Good, oblivion. He propped the professor up in his chair and swung it over to the computer. Using gloved fingers, he cleared the screen and opened a new Word document. Then, manipulating Parks’ fingers to press the keys, he typed the message.

Doris – I’m sorry, but I miss him too much.

The intruder nodded at the words. He left Parks slumped in his chair while he grabbed the coffee mug off the desk and wiped the spill with a handkerchief. Tucking both the cloth and mug in his overcoat pocket, he looked around to see what might have been missed.

Satisfied, he took hold of Parks’ arm and hoisted him out of the chair. Hugging Parks around the waist, he half dragged, half carried the unconscious man to the window. He leaned him against the windowsill and took one last look outside. The Quad was devoid of life and the newly fallen snow smothered sound like thick fur earmuffs.

The intruder clutched the professor’s shoulders and turned him. Facing Parks’ back, he shoved the man out the window to the pavement six stories below. The body seemed to float in slow motion. Even when it slammed into the ground, the effect seemed softly surreal.

For a moment the intruder felt panic, a burning in his throat, an ache in his gut. Too late now. But nothing stirred and an eerie silence filled the void. How could someone die so violently and the world not notice? He stared as the body bled out onto the silvery fleece. Its position, arms and legs outstretched at odd angles, reminded him of a child’s angel in the snow. A bloody black angel.

The killer spun around abruptly, rushed to the bathroom and spewed up his last meal.

December 16

Maggie Thornhill pressed the elevator button for the tenth time. She eyed the door to the staircase but had no intention of walking up six flights to the top floor. The lift arrived and Maggie entered, pressed six, and tapped her foot in agitation. Finally, the doors opened and as she stepped out, a man flew into her, knocking her bag off her shoulder. Contents went careening across the tile floor.

Shit, she muttered and dropped to her knees.

Maggie?

She looked up. Frank?

Damn, I’m sorry. He knelt to help her collect. Lotta crap in here. He handed her a squeezy ball that looked like the planet Earth.

Yeah, well hello to you too.

They both stood.

What are you doing here? she said.

You mean, what’s a philistine like me doing in the history building of Georgetown?

She scrunched her face, then turned to the commotion down the hall. Her heart lurched at the sight of yellow tape and a swarm of crime team investigators. She knew the sight well since she often worked with the police as a digital analyst.

What’s going on? she said. God, that’s not Phillip Ambrose’s office, is it?

He narrowed his eyes. You know Ambrose?

I have an appointment with him, she glanced at her watch, in two minutes.

No, that’s not his office. Lieutenant Frank Mead pointed to another door down the hall. That is.

Whose office is that?

Dr. Ernest Parks.

What? No. Oh no. What happened?

Did you know Dr. Parks?

You said ‘did.’

What?

You said ‘did I, not do I’, past tense.

Yeah, that’s right, Mead said, pulling out a roll of Tums and popping a few.

He’s dead?

Mead crunched.

She did a spin and slapped at her leg. God Almighty.

Back to my question, did you know him?

No, but I was going to. He was to be one of my advisors on this dissertation.

Finally going for the Ph.D., eh?

She sighed, leaned against the wall. Yeah. Coursework is all done. Just had to complete the final project.

Which is?

Oh, Frank, it was so perfect. Howard Roth, the History Chair, finagled this for me, not an easy thing, seeing as the documents are so valuable, and he was able to pull the strings with Boston Historical Society and it was so --.

Perfect, yeah, right. So what’s the project?

I’m going to digitize all the Salem documents from 1692, you know, so they’ll be in electronic form and last forever. Preserving the past, so to speak and --

Salem, as in Salem witches?

She grabbed his roll of Tums from his hand and popped a few.

"Agita?" he asked.

And more if this project is kaput. She pushed her fingers through her wild mop of hair. Frank, what happened to Dr. Parks?

He hesitated, looked around. He was found dead, six stories beneath his window last night.

He jumped out of his window?

Maybe.

Maggie opened her mouth, closed it. They looked at each other.

You’re homicide.

Bingo. Frank waved his hands. No, hold on. We don’t know what happened yet, so don’t go making assumptions.

Have you talked to Dr. Ambrose yet?

Yup. Just leaving. You meeting him?

She nodded.

Well, he’s a bit shaken so don’t be surprised if he cancels. Said he was going to visit Mrs. Parks. Guess they’re long-time friends.

Maggie didn’t know what to say. She picked up her bag that was sitting beside her on the floor and started moving toward Ambrose’s office. She hadn’t even met the man and she was dreading this meeting.

Frank, would you let me know what happens?

He chomped on his Tums. Then he nodded and headed toward the crime scene.

Chapter 2

December 16

Maggie stood slump-shouldered in front of the door to her future. A plaque next to the door read Dr. Phillip Ambrose, Professor of Early American History. Her eyes shifted once more to the crime scene down the hall and she wondered if she should bother. She knocked anyway.

A muffled voice sounded inside. She straightened her back, opened the door and walked in, letting it close behind her.

Dr. Ambrose?

No one sat behind the desk stacked with books and papers.

You must be Maggie. The voice came from the window to the right and she turned to face him. He looked nothing like the infamous ladies’ man she expected. The man that walked toward her was tall, slim and weary, with a face pale and drawn, like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.

I heard what happened to Dr. Parks, she said.

Word’s out already?

Actually, I just ran into Lieutenant Mead. We sometimes work together on… Anyway, I’m so sorry. Perhaps this is not the best time to meet. I can come back another time if you--.

‘What’s the point?" Ambrose said.

Maggie felt like she had been gut-punched. She rubbed her hand on her belly to calm the queasiness. Look, Dr. Ambrose, I’m terribly sorry about what happened to Dr. Parks. I never met him and was really looking forward to working with him … and you on this project. She paused, looked at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes. Why don’t we give it a little time, not make any decisions now.

He sat down in his desk chair and leaned back. Maggie guessed his age to be about ten years older than hers, maybe forty-five. He fixed bloodshot eyes on her but his irises were a robin’s egg blue.

I’ve got to go see Doris … Mrs. Parks … but I… I don’t know what to say. He flattened his hands on the desk. What the hell will I say to her?

Maggie sat down across the desk from Ambrose and waited.

Christ, Ernie and I were friends for years. And Doris, Doris is such a gem. How can she stand another loss like this?

Another loss? Maggie said.

Two years ago they lost their little boy in a car accident. He was only two.

God. Maggie’s heart ached for this woman she didn’t even know.

I don’t know, he said. Let me think about this a few days. Discuss it with Doris. See what she thinks. Part of me wants to forget the whole damn thing. Another part of me wants to go forward. He paused. Ernie would want that.

Maggie felt like her stomach was on a roller coaster. I understand, Dr. Ambrose.

Call me Phillip, please.

Okay, Phillip. She didn’t know whether to remind him that the Chair of the History Department had arranged this, that there was a grant for the project already in hand, or that there was a limited amount of time to complete it. She said nothing.

He stood abruptly and his chair rolled back. Maggie jumped up.

Why don’t I call you in a day or so as soon as I know what’s what? he said.

Is there anything I can do? she said. For you? For Mrs. Parks?

He took her by the elbow and steered her to the door. Look, Maggie, let’s talk tomorrow. I’m just not up to it.

I am really sorry, Phillip.

She left, feeling a smidgeon more hopeful. At least they would talk again. Out in the hallway her eyes were drawn like magnets to the yellow crime scene tape on Dr. Parks’ office door … and her spirits took a dive.

***

The next morning Maggie awoke to a sloppy kiss on the face from her golden retriever, Rosie. She groaned, checked the clock and saw it was already 7:30.

Sorry, girl, I couldn’t fall asleep last night. But then you know that, don’t you?

She staggered out of bed and into the living room of her old renovated brownstone and opened the French doors that led to a patio garden. Rosie bounded out, did her business and returned for her morning meal. Maggie showered, and then both redheads enjoyed a quiet breakfast.

By nine o’clock Maggie found herself pacing the room, waiting for a phone call or email message from Phillip Ambrose. This is crazy, she thought. Waiting around for something that may never happen. But he did say a few days. Maybe she ought to come up with a new project. Still, it may …

Her cell rang. She rummaged through her purse and found it. Caller ID confirmed Ambrose.

Can you meet me at the National Archives in half an hour? he asked.

"Can I what, yes, yes, does this mean--?

Meet me around the back on Constitution Avenue. He clicked off.

Maggie gave a shriek and kissed Rosie on the snoot. Yes, yes. She grabbed her coat and flew out the door. Twenty minutes later she stepped out of a taxi and hurried around to the back entrance of the National Archives and Records Administration building, known around town as NARA, or more simply The National Archives. Naturally she was early. She danced around trying to keep warm. Still she loved Washington in winter, even with leafless trees lining the streets and patches of dirty snow in the gutters. Right now, however, she wouldn’t mind loving it from the inside before her fingers fell off.

To her relief a cab pulled up and Ambrose got out. Sorry I’m late.

You’re not. I’m early as usual. How are you doing? She felt silly asking since he looked like he slept in his clothes.

He shrugged

How’s Mrs. Parks holding up?

She’s an amazing woman, but I think it hasn’t sunk in yet.

You talked to her about the project?

He stopped, looked at her with an intensity that made Maggie shudder. She wouldn’t even hear of dropping it, he said. That’s what Ernie would have wanted. Period.

What about you? Isn’t this what you want?

What? Sure. Ambrose turned and rang the bell next to a set of large steel double doors at the rear entrance of the Archives building. Several moments later, the doors were opened by a tall, slender blond woman in her early thirties. She wore a simple black suit and white blouse. But she looked anything but Puritan. Her loose sun-streaked hair bounced on her shoulders. Maggie thought she’d look better on a surfboard than in the staid halls of a government building. Unconsciously, Maggie tied the belt of her coat tighter and smoothed her hair.

Oh, Phillip, I was so sorry to hear about Ernest. The blonde’s crimson-polished nails fluttered. It’s just dreadful.

Maggie scrutinized the woman, wondering who she was.

Veronica, this is Maggie Thornhill. Maggie, Veronica Reed, curator of early American documents.

Curator? Hmmm. Maggie contained her surprise.

Veronica stood shoulder to shoulder with Ambrose at six feet. She gazed down a pointy nose at Maggie as Maggie pulled herself up to her five-foot-five height.

Nice to meet you, Mary.

Maggie.

Of course.

Maggie felt the acid rise in her throat.

Ambrose broke in. Maggie, here’s a temporary ID card we keep for students. Just until you get your photo ID. He held out a laminated card. Whatever you need, just ask Veronica. She can put her fingers on anything.

I bet she can. To Veronica she said, I’ll be bringing photographic equipment when I return.

Both you and your equipment will have to go through the metal detectors and scanners each time. Regulations, you know. Why don’t I show you where you’ll be working? Veronica turned down a long, narrow hallway, heels clicking on the marble floor. Ambrose joined her and Maggie trailed behind, wondering whether Ambrose and Veronica had more than a professional relationship.

Passing outside one of the resource rooms, they saw a receptionist sitting at a desk. The young woman was reading a book.

If you have nothing to do, Cynthia, Veronica said to the woman, There are many other students who would like your job.

Cynthia scrambled to slide the book in a drawer. Sorry Miz Reed, she said. I’ve got plenty to do.

See that you do it, Veronica said. She turned to Maggie. This way.

Maggie eyeballed the red-faced Cynthia and hurried to follow the curator up a set of wide granite steps with handrails burnished a brilliant black walnut. Finally they arrived at a set of old wooden doors that led to a resource library. The sign on the door said Temporary Records. Veronica opened the door and waved them in.

It’s freezing in here, Maggie said.

Well, of course. The air-conditioning needs to be on high, Veronica explained, even in winter. Temperature control prevents further deterioration of the docs.

One good thing about preservation is that you’ll never run into any cockroaches, Ambrose said with a wry smile.

Maggie raised an eyebrow. How nice.

Pest control is very important in maintaining the integrity of the originals, he said.

I guess I’ll just leave my coat on and remember to wear sweaters when I return.

They walked through a maze of narrow aisles filled with rows and rows of bookcases and file cabinets. Tables and chairs occupied the remainder of the space. Wide oak cabinets stacked with artists’ drawers lined one long wall.

Holy shit, Maggie whispered.

Well, on that note, I’ll leave you two, Veronica said. I’ve got work to do.

Thanks, Veronica, Ambrose said to her receding back.

To Maggie, he said, Don’t despair. There are only a few drawers in this one cabinet we need to deal with.

He slid open a drawer that moved on smooth rollers and Maggie saw it was filled with carefully sheathed documents. These contain the records from the Salem witch trials. Arrest warrants, courtroom transcripts, death certificates and so on.

He pulled out a specially insulated sheath of Mylar that contained a yellowed parchment pressed between two pieces of acid-free paper and laid it carefully on a table next to the cabinet.

Maggie noted the smell -- like musty old books. Most of her past work had been digitizing old photographs, but photography didn’t date back this far. Instead, here were authentic documents from more than three hundred years ago. Pieces of parchment that had been touched by hands of people now three centuries dead. Her job was to digitally archive them so they’d last another three hundred years. At least.

Let me show you. Ambrose reached into a box on the large wooden library table in front of him, pulled out four white cotton gloves and gave her a pair. The gloves would keep body oil from damaging the paper. He gently removed the page from its protective sleeve.

Ah, the indictment of Ann Pudeator, he said.

Maggie took it gently in her hand. To the Marshall of Essex or Constable in Salem, she began then noticed the signature at the bottom. "I remember John Hathorne from The Crucible."

The key magistrate at the time. Great, great grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

The spelling is different, Maggie said.

That’s because Nathaniel was ashamed of his ancestor and changed it. Didn’t want to be connected with the witch trials. They were still fresh in people’s minds even three or four generations later.

Maggie lingered over the document, her mind drifting to the year 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts. She had the chance of a lifetime -- to preserve the past of early America. How could she be so lucky?

Strangely, the thrill she felt running down her back turned icy. That’s what Ernie Parks must have thought too. And now he was dead.

Chapter 3

December 17

Maggie planned to spend much of that afternoon and evening at the National Archives. After collecting her equipment from the digital photo lab at Georgetown, she returned. As Veronica Reed had cautioned, Maggie -- and the equipment -- had to go through the metal detector. She lugged her camera gear up the wide circular steps to the resource library and pulled open the door. She prayed the supercilious curator wouldn’t be around to check up on her. A young male student sat at the circulation desk in place of the hapless Cynthia. Had Veronica fired the girl?

Maggie flashed her ID and explained her intent. He handed her a sign-in directory and she filled out her name, ID number, the date and time she checked in. As she glanced at the sign-in page she noticed Ernie Parks’ name had been inscribed about a dozen times over the last few weeks. Nothing unusual about that. Made sense that he would come often to study the Salem documents. She read the names on the documents Ernie had borrowed. A sense of melancholy swept over her as she reflected on his death. She felt sad for those he left behind, but also for his work that would go unfinished.

In the resource room, she set up her camera and special lights on a stand to illuminate the tabletop. Next she opened the drawer that contained the Salem documents and pulled on white cotton gloves. Within moments she was back in 1692 Salem. Retrieving one of the documents Ernie had been working with, she readied it for the shoot. But as she began, her eyes caught the words: Indictment v. Ann Pudeator, the first document Ambrose had pulled out yesterday. She was hooked.

The Jurors for our Sov’r Lord and Lady the King & Queen that Ann Pudeator of Salem in the County of Essex aforesaid Widdow. The second day of July in the Yeare Aforesaid and divers others days and times as well before as after Certaine detestable Arts called Witchcraft & Sorceries wickedly Mallitiously and felloniously hath used practised and exercised at and within the Township of Salem aforesaid in & upon & against one Mary Warren of Salem …

The English language certainly had changed. Engrossed, Maggie took out a notepad and jotted down names and dates to follow up in order to satisfy her own curiosity. Ann Pudeator, Mary Warren. She recalled Mary’s name from The Crucible. She was the Proctors’ servant.

As Maggie sank down in a hard wooden chair, she marveled at the old-fashioned writing -- the elaborate curlicues and flourishes at the end of certain letters, the changing thickness of words when the quill was freshly dipped into ink, and the scratching out of words, reminding her that there was no way to erase mistakes. No way to delete.

She also noticed ink blotches from spilled drops and smears when the writer didn’t lift his pen off the paper between words. Writing with a goose feather quill