They both saw it at the same time. Just outside the tree line, about a third of the way along the western edge of the holy hill, heading north, they spotted what looked like a hillock, a small mound probably no higher than Gennie’s knees. It blended into the undergrowth and probably wouldn’t be noticeable from the road, even in the daylight.
Again Andrew gestured her to stay where she was. He stepped outside the tree cover, looked in all directions, then went quickly to the small mound. He lifted what looked like a tarp. It was too dark for Gennie to see what was underneath, but she thought she knew anyway. Rose had told her about the items missing from her old retiring room and workroom in the Ministry House, though she hadn’t shared any speculations about who might have taken them. Perhaps this was where the items were being stored.
Andrew’s head jerked to the side, and he drew back into the woods. Gennie knew he’d heard something. They moved farther north and hid themselves behind two thick trees. Sure enough, a rattling sound grew louder and louder. A whinny marked the object as a horse-drawn wagon. Every muscle taut, Gennie listened from her hiding place. The rattling stopped and a horse snorted. She couldn’t bear it; she peeked around the tree trunk and saw a farm wagon stopped beside the mound. Two figures sat on the wagon seat. One of them, dressed in a simple shift, held the reins. The other one looked like a Shaker sister. She wore a Dorothy cloak with the hood pulled over her head. She stood up, hopped off the wagon, and strode to the mound. The other woman waited a moment, then scrambled down awkwardly and joined the first.
“Quickly,” Andrew whispered. “Run to the Trustees’ House and call Grady. Go that way,” he said, pointing directly east, “so they don’t hear you. Tell Grady that we are being robbed and he must come here immediately. Go.”
Gennie scrambled like a frightened rabbit through the maze of trees and undergrowth. Going top speed, it would take her at least five minutes to reach the Trustees’ Office, another couple to phone Grady, and then Grady still had to hop in his car and drive the eight miles to North Homage. It wouldn’t take long for the thieves to load the wagon, even if they felt safe from discovery.
After fifty yards or so, Gennie gave up any attempt at silence. Her thoughts were racing faster than her feet. The thief in the Dorothy cloak—she had to be the ghost. It wasn’t clear to Gennie exactly what it gained a thief to dress as a ghost, but there had to be a reason. Perhaps the reason had to do with Mina Dunmore and Brother Linus; perhaps they were killed because they’d discovered the identity of the ghost. Brambles scraped Gennie’s legs, shredding her stockings and scraping the skin underneath. At that moment, she felt no pain. She would soon. It didn’t matter. A few scratches were nothing if she could help stop this stealing, and maybe even unmask a ghost and a killer.
She reached the end of the woods and really took off, covering the distance to the Trustees’ Office in less than a minute. She knew there was a small side door near the back of the building, on the west side, which would save her running around the front and up the steps in plain view. The door was unlocked, as she’d assumed. By now her legs were getting wobbly, but she propelled herself up the inside steps to the first floor, where the office and phone were located.
The night operator worked fast once she heard Gennie was trying to reach the sheriff for an emergency, and Grady, bless his heart, answered immediately.
“Gennie? What’s wrong? Are you—”
“I’m fine, just listen. We’ve caught someone stealing from North Homage. There are two of them, and one is dressed like a sister. I suspect it’s our ghost. You have to come right away, before they take off.”
“Where are they?”
Gennie told him their location. “Andrew is watching them from just inside the woods around the holy hill. Please hurry, he’s in danger.”
“I’m leaving now. Gen, call Hank, he’s on duty tonight, and tell him to call Bar. I want both of them to meet me at North Homage.”
“Okay.”
“And please, Gen, stay where you are. Don’t go back and try to stop them yourself. Okay?”
Gennie only half heard him. She had pushed aside the sheer curtain and was watching out the office window, which gave her a view of the southwest corner of the village. She had seen movement in the moonlight, she was sure of it. She hung up the phone without remembering to say good-bye. Luckily she hadn’t bothered to turn on the light in the office, so she probably couldn’t be seen from outside. She tried to stay still, just in case.
Maybe she’d imagined it. The village seemed eerily deserted. Even the hostel looked as dark as it had all those years it had been empty. The people of the world must have decided it was too chilly and damp a night for ghost watching. Or perhaps they were finally losing interest. Then she saw it again, a swish of something dark that sped across the lawn, then disappeared behind the South Family Dwelling House. This time she thought she recognized what it was—a dark cloak flying out behind a running figure. The ghost.
Damn. She hadn’t gotten to Grady in time. The thief had returned to the village, perhaps to steal more before the night was over. If she could figure out where the ghost was going, she could tell Grady when he arrived. She hurried to another window, which revealed more of the southern and eastern sections of the village. Maybe she’d be able to spot the thief going into a building. She stared into the night until her eyes watered. There it was again, a shadow against the white Meetinghouse wall. The figure seemed to be heading north, toward the path that ran down the center of the village. She’d lose the trail if she didn’t get out there herself.
She let go of the thin curtain, but grabbed it before it fell back across the window. Someone walked out of the darkness beside the South Family Dwelling House and headed toward the central path. A faceless vision in flowing white. As it came closer, Gennie realized the white was a nightgown, and she couldn’t see a face because it was bent over. But she knew instantly who it was—it was Mairin, stumbling through the grass. The child reached the path and turned east. If she kept going, she would walk right into the arms of a killer.
Twenty-two
ALONE IN THE DARK MEDICINAL HERB SHOP, ROSE TRIED to concentrate on the task at hand, but her mind drifted into worry. She wanted to be everywhere at once. Most especially, she wished she could be with Andrew and Gennie. She knew her presence wouldn’t keep them from harm, but not being there left her to imagine all the worst possibilities. She prayed for their safety and for a peaceful end to this fearsome night.
For the fifth time, she circled inside the building, peering out each window into the moon-bathed night. She paid particular attention to the west windows, which gave her a view of the Herb House. Gennie had told the story Rose had concocted, and she promised she’d talked about Sister Sarina spending lots of time in the Herb House. Had it been too subtle, that hint? The Herb House had three distinct advantages—it was a building the ghost hadn’t yet visited, according to Mairin; it was located at the northeast corner of the village, away from the buildings occupied at night; and Rose knew it very, very well. On the other hand, it was a large building, and Rose was only one person. She fervently hoped Andrew would arrive soon, with Grady and his officers.
She checked the windows a sixth time. A light snapped on in the Infirmary. Her stomach cramped for a moment, as doubt hit. What if her quarry hadn’t gotten the hint about the Herb House—or had chosen to ignore it for some reason? Was the story too obviously a fabrication? If so, might Josie be in danger? Nay, it was more likely someone was ill, and Josie was just doing her job.
Rose returned to the west window, overlooking the experimental herb garden. This time she saw what she’d been waiting for—the faint, wavery sliver cast by a flashlight. The light appeared and disappeared through the uncurtained ground-floor windows of the Herb House. The wielder of the flashlight was searching a large room where the herb presses and other equipment were kept. The room had lots of corners and storage cupboards, so it should keep the searcher busy for some time.
Rose was sure by now that the dancing in the windows only occurred when the so-called ghost saw people outside watching. The performance was intended to explain the presence of someone in the building—and to discourage folks from coming inside and confronting the intruder face-to-face.
The grounds around the Herb House were blessedly free of ghost watchers. Rose slipped out the back door of the Medicinal Herb Shop. She wore a dark blue work dress, hoping to meld into the night. She’d purposely left behind her cloak. The last thing she needed was to be mistaken for the ghost and chased around the village. Keeping as far north as possible, without trampling the herb fields, she wove around to the Herb House’s small back door.
Rose eased open the door just enough for her to slip through and into a small foyer used mainly during herb harvesting. The brothers would come in from the herb fields and change into clean shoes, leaving their muddy boots lined up along the wall. She could make out the line of boots in the darkness, cleaned up and ready for the next season. She removed her own shoes and arranged them in line, as if they’d been waiting all winter for someone to claim them. She’d move more quietly in stocking feet.
She couldn’t stay here. Eventually the cloaked figure would work through the entire ground floor before going upstairs to the drying room. And the drying room was where Rose hoped to end the charade. She knew the room so well; she could easily navigate it in the dark, if she had to. If she could stay undetected until the intruder entered the drying room, she would close the door and wedge it shut, trapping the culprit inside. The windows were so high above ground that only a self-destructive fool would jump from one of them.
Unfortunately, the building had only one staircase, and it was in full view of anyone in the herb pressing room. She’d have to hide until the intruder moved toward the back of the building. Then she’d have a chance of slipping up the staircase unseen. Rose tiptoed up the few steps leading from the back landing to a short hallway. Two small rooms along the hallway were used for storing seasonal items, such as tools, extra tins, labels, hooks for hanging herbs to dry, and so forth. Rose took one step, stopped to listen, then took another step. The flooring was solid. She wasn’t afraid of creaks so much as tripping in the dark. She passed the first room, had almost reached the second. A clatter sounded very near her.
Rose held her breath, hoping for a cry or even a curse to tell her where the intruder was—and whether she had guessed the identity correctly. All she heard was a scraping sound followed by a thud, as if an object had been dragged along the floor until it hit a wall. It sounded very, very close, perhaps just around the corner at the end of the hall. She needed to get inside the room just a few yards from where the intruder must now be. She was afraid she’d been too slow. The intruder had already worked through the pressing room and would enter the hallway at any moment.
It was now or never. She took three quick steps and reached the door of the second room. Just before dark, she had visited the Herb House to think out her plan. Luckily, she had thought to leave the door of the small storage room slightly ajar, so she wouldn’t have to click the latch. She was able to squeeze inside without moving the door. Once inside, she stopped and listened. The scraping and clattering were fainter, but she knew the intruder was close. She had perhaps one or two minutes at most.
The room she’d entered looked smaller than it actually was. It backed up against an open storage area under the stairway. The Herb House was constructed for utility, but with neatness in mind. So only a portion of the area under the staircase had been left open for items that would be needed on a constant basis. The rest of the space had been enclosed in this room and turned into an odd-shaped closet. The closet door blended almost seamlessly into the pine wall; in the dark, even the narrow vertical handle looked like part of the wood grain.
Faint moonlight outlined obstacles in the room, so Rose had no difficulty reaching the closet door without making a sound. Again, she’d earlier left the door open. She slipped inside. She shared the closet with spare and broken parts from the herb presses, machine oil, rags, and various repair tools, but she’d carved out an area large enough for her to stand in. She settled inside and reached for the door. In her earlier haste, she’d forgotten. There was no knob on the inside of the door. A rush of anger and fear paralyzed her. For precious seconds, she fought to recover, to think clearly again.
She pushed the closet door open enough to let some moonlight penetrate. She looked around her. All this junk; there had to be something . . . A narrow shelf next to her held several wooden boxes, each full of small objects. One of them held screws. As quietly as possible, she picked out a large screw with a sharp point. With her left hand, she reached around outside the door to hold it firm. With all the strength that years of daily physical labor had given her, she imbedded the screw tip in the soft pine and turned it with her bare hand. She felt the screw head scrape her fingers. She didn’t mind the pain, but if she cut her hand, she would be a weaker opponent. She grabbed a nearby rag and used it to pad her fingers. The screw wound into the door with maddening slowness. When it felt firmly imbedded, she pulled it toward her, and the door followed, melding into the wall. It had been fitted so perfectly that its creator, Brother Hugo, had decided not to mar the door with any sort of latch, so Rose knew she would not be locked inside. She whisked a blessing heavenward to Brother Hugo, with the promise of many more to come.
The sound of scraping wood against wood told her the intruder was now in the room with her. Her stomach did a flip-flop. Perhaps eating a full dinner had not been such a good idea. She forced herself to breathe as she listened to the sounds of methodical searching coming closer and closer. If she stayed still, she should be safe—as long as the intruder didn’t turn on the light. That was the part she couldn’t predict. If ghost watchers showed up while the intruder was in this room, the light would go on and the dancing would begin—and the intruder might notice the door in the wall. To make matters more frightening, locked away in her closet, Rose wouldn’t know if the lights had been turned on until the door suddenly opened. She reached out her fingers and felt along a narrow shelf until she touched what felt like a wooden handle. She explored further and identified a hammer. For a moment, her fingers closed around the handle. She felt safer, stronger. She forced herself to let go. Holding the hammer as a weapon would be an enticement to violence.
The movements now sounded as if they were just outside her closet door. She heard a momentary silence that filled her with doubt. Had she been overconfident of Brother Hugo’s skill? Had she underestimated the intruder? But the noise picked up again, softer this time. In another few minutes, Rose heard the door of the room creak as it opened more widely. Rose counted to one hundred, listening as she waited. The powerful smell of old machine oil was making her dizzy. She had to get out.
She pushed the closet door forward a fraction of an inch, then another. Finally, moonlight cracked through. No one leaped at the door and dragged her out. She could hear movement in the next room. She was safe. But only for a while. Any hesitation and she might be the next victim.
Rose slid out and closed the closet door behind her, so the intruder wouldn’t peek in the room again, notice the open door, and become suspicious. She wove through the small room with care—the searcher had left items out of place. She stepped down right on a sharp-edged herb tin lid tossed on a patch of floor hidden from the moon. It had pressed hard into her foot, slicing through her stocking. She bit her lip, stifled a cry. She steadied herself on a nearby chest of drawers and lifted her foot, careful not to clatter the tin. She stood balanced on one foot for several seconds, as waves of pain radiated through the ball of her foot. The worst subsided. She put some weight on her foot. Hurt, but usable.
Time was passing. Rose’s biggest concern now was that the intruder would finish in the room next door and catch her in the hallway. Fear propelled her to the door. It had been left open. She peeked out. The hallway was clear. A few steps would take her into the herb press
ing room and out of sight from the hall. She took a deep breath and walked as fast as she could. Tiptoeing on her injured foot was impossible.
Rows of windows allowed plenty of moonlight into the large herb pressing room. To avoid another mishap, Rose watched the floor as she hurried across the room to the wide staircase. With any luck, the intruder would now be searching the back foyer, far away from Rose. She took a risk. She lifted the skirt of her long work dress and took the steps at a half-run, flinching as the old wood and her hurt foot complained at the assault.
Rose reached the second-floor landing and glanced back down the stairs. No one appeared below. Now for the final phase of her plan. She prayed it would work smoothly, that she herself would not be the trigger for further violence.
The drying room door stood wide open, inviting. Moonlight flooded the room itself, beckoning the curious to enter and explore. On the other side of the landing, across from the drying room entrance, a small room provided additional storage space. She’d cleared an area in the room so she could hide and wait. Next to the door, in shadow, a sturdy wooden chair stood against the wall, as if waiting for a tired Believer to take a break. Rose had placed it there.
She settled in the storage room, with the door closed. There was always the risk the intruder would resist the lure of the herb drying room and decide to search the storage room first. So Rose knelt in a corner behind a stack of boxes and baskets used during the herb harvest. After a long winter of rest, they still smelled faintly of the earth. They hid her like protective friends, and for a moment she felt safe.
The moment ended as Rose heard the distant creak of stairs. She had to strain to make it out. Long spaces between the sounds hinted at a leisurely pace. That seemed odd, but perhaps the intruder had tired. The squeaking grew louder, then stopped. A full minute passed in silence. The intruder must already be in the drying room. Try as she might, Rose couldn’t hear any sounds from the room next to her; the thick walls muffled so much. It was time. She shifted her weight off her aching knees and prepared to stand.
Dancing Dead Page 24
