by R. L. Nolen
Spring-green turf belied Ruth’s dark thoughts and muted her footfall as she made her way toward the stone building. The heavy door opened on well-oiled hinges. Her steps whispered across the cavernous room, which smelled of must, dust, and dry stone. A dim, gray light fell into the chancel through a small, high-set window.
Silence invited listening.
Some small sound caught at her ear like a hook. She swung around, but saw no one. She continued down the aisle, turning once again to make sure she was alone. She left wet footprints tracked across the slate-flagged entry.
She imagined the building alive and breathing, glad to have her heart beating life into the dear room. The stained glass beyond the pulpit was a testimony to the incredible artistry of men made in the image of God.
Hearing a noise behind her, she glanced back. There was nothing there. Not to worry, she thought, old buildings have mice.
She slipped into a pew. The seats were joined to the floors and everything creaked as she pressed against the wood. She pulled out a dusty needlepoint prayer cushion and knelt. She laid her head on her hands. Lord, why did you bring me to Cornwall just to endure my daughter being snatched away? A chill brushed the back of her neck.
Was that a step that she heard? She looked up.
A sudden appearance of the sun sent a stab of light in through the window. It highlighted the golden cross at the altar. Her breath caught in her throat.
A scratching noise interrupted her. She turned. The church was empty. Must be the mice, she thought. They should put out traps. She would mention it to Sally who was on the board.
She turned back to attempt to reclaim the sense of repose that at last she found. A familiar sense of unease tingled against her arms until the hair rose. Had God taken Annie from her because she hadn’t given Him much thought? In how long? Since her life turned sour with bad decisions? But she had never consciously blamed God. And now, to question Him was so trivial—her own fault or the natural course of events—what did it matter? She wanted her daughter back, and only a miracle would make that possible.
Leaning forward, she gazed at the cross. Her heart ached. Her parents, her God, and her church were all tied together with an unbreakable cord woven into her life. Why couldn’t she have been satisfied with the safety she knew as a child? Why couldn’t she have just learned contentment? Why had she not trusted her parents’ assessment of the man she’d set her dreams on?
Through the memory of years, a refrain came to mind, “Up from the grave He arose …” A strong song. A victorious song. It was the only thing she missed about attending church. The music moved her, lifted her, transcending the mundane into the spectacular.
She gripped the hard, wooden back of the pew in front of her.
Outside, the wind gusted. A low whistle echoed from the eaves. Tree branch shadows moved across the stained glass panels. The Bible characters appeared to move. The noise came again, like a shoe scuffling. A crystal clear thought burst into her head. Get out!
She stood quickly and turned back down the aisle. Before her, on top of her footprints, were larger ones. At the back of the room, a black velvet curtain swayed slightly. A cane with a silver handle was hooked to the pew directly behind where she had been kneeling, as if someone had stood behind her as silent as death.
With a sharp intake of breath, she ran, bursting into the cold sunshine outside.
10
Once outside, Ruth swung around in an attempt to look in as many directions at once as she could. Distant fields of new corn were visible through the beeches. Where was he? She could fight him now. She knew ways to hurt a man that she wished she’d known ten years ago.
Except for the rooks scattering up at her sudden appearance, the churchyard was empty and quiet. She was alone. So alone. She crouched ready to meet danger.
Slow the breathing. Slow the movements. Be ready.
Sam had a cane. It was one of his affectations of gentrification that griped her. If it had been him in there, why hadn’t he answered her? Would he do that to her?
When she broke it off with him, she had watched him grow more desperate to win her back, as if he couldn’t stand to lose what he thought was so easily his.
What if it had been her ex-husband in the church? What if he had Annie holed up somewhere and now he was devising ways to make Ruth pay for the perceived wrongs she had committed against him? The divorce was final; no judge could argue her that. Annie’s custody had been the issue. In any other court she would have won the right to keep Annie as far away from him as possible. But not in the family court of the small town where he and his family had arranged the hearing.
For eleven years the noise behind every closed door and the horrible things that crept into her dreams were her ex-husband. He had taken Annie to take revenge. It was working. Without her daughter she would die. Now she wished he would show his ugly face so she could get it over with, because now she knew she could kill him.
Backing away from the church door, she turned and crossed the graveyard. Dry bark and leaves crackled under her feet. A few weeks ago, rooks had fought over the best nesting spots in the beech trees, tossing pieces of nesting material at each other. Sticks rained from the trees.
Annie had called it the “Twig Wars.”
In the vale below the church, where the thin line of the River Perrin flowed to the sea, sinewy beech limbs reached and twisted together like clasped, skeletal hands. Wind whistled through their fingers.
It was spring. Daffodils bloomed wild. Dark gravestones peppered the yard like misplaced game pieces on green felt. The oldest ones, green with moss, tilted into the ground. Low shrubs cast dancing shadows across the old graves. Flowers marked a new grave. She stood looking down at them, breathing in their potpourri.
Her eyes settled upon a single piece of paper. The familiar handwriting sent a shiver down her back. Brown twine bound the note to a stone vase of fresh-cut daffodils. She stared at the words. They looked the same as she had seen on her doorstep.
A large shadow fell across the paper. She spun around.
“It is you!” Her heart beat double-time. She angled away from him.
“Sam I am.” Sam hooked each thumb in a trouser pocket.
“Were you inside the church just now? Did you leave a cane?” She was shaking, fists clenched. She wanted to take him down.
“I don’t own a cane.”
Why did he lie? She’d seen the cane at his home. “Someone followed me into the church.”
“It was not me.”
Ruth crossed her arms. She felt sure he was lying. She looked away. She had to be careful.
“Would you feel better if I went in there and looked?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Sam disappeared and returned a few minutes later. “No one there. Everything present and accounted for.”
“Didn’t you see the cane? It was black with a metal handle.”
“Nothing.”
Challenging him wouldn’t do any good. A shudder passed through her. A knot formed in her stomach.
Sam’s eyes carried a strange wariness. He put his arms around her. “I don’t want you to be scared.”
She shrank from his touch. “Sam.”
“Ruth.”
“Don’t.” She attempted to push away from him, but he held her tighter.
“You know I love you.” He sounded desperate. “You’ve been putting me off.”
She slammed a foot down on his instep.
“Oww!” His grip loosened.
She wrenched away. “We are not a couple. It’s over.”
Sam glared at her. “I’m sorry you find me so distasteful.” His voice was cold.
Not dropping her gaze, she rubbed her arms; the muscles quivered. Her heart racing, she wondered when he had changed. He’d never been harsh or touched her so cruelly. She looked around, hoping for something that would distract his intense gaze. He looked dangerous.
A dark car pulled along the church lane. She al
most fell over with relief when she spotted DCI Trewe climbing toward them.
“Just like him to show up now.” Sam’s lips curled and his face flushed red.
“Fine weather for walking in the churchyard,” Trewe said between catching his breath. His teeth were not quite straight and not quite white, but nonetheless his smile was a nice addition to the otherwise ruthless face. Trewe held out his hand.
Ruth shook it, her hand enveloped in the rough, dry warmth of his comforting grip. She asked, “What made you look here for me?”
“I happened by,” Trewe told her.
“So you thought you’d intrude,” Sam huffed.
“I certainly hope not,” Trewe said.
“Well, you hope in vain.”
Ruth stared at Sam. “The police are looking for my daughter.”
The afternoon was getting on and thunder rumbled toward them from far across the sea. The timbre of the wind changed and shifted direction, bringing with it the scent of more rain. The sun disappeared and the atmosphere grew heavy as dark clouds surged across the sky.
“Mrs. Butler,” Trewe said, staring up at the darkening sky, “I am thankful to have run into you like this. I would like a word.”
“Of course.”
“Do you need a ride? Looks like rain.”
Sam glared.
Ruth nodded, reassured by Trewe’s help to get away from Sam. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Mr. Ketterman,” Trewe said, “would you please drop by my office when you get a chance?”
“When I get a chance.” Sam turned and tramped down the slope toward the car park.
Ruth walked with Trewe to his old black car, the hood dented and not quite the same color as the rest of the car’s body.
“What’ve you got there?” Trewe asked.
Ruth had forgotten the piece of paper in her hand. She handed it to him.
“Time heals,” he read aloud.
“I recognized it’s the same writing as the note left with my flowers. Take me home. There’s been another. I left it on the stoop.”
After they reached her home, she showed Trewe the vase of flowers with the odd note.
Trewe studied the writing. “‘Gofalwch Gofala!’ Strange none of the notes are signed.”
“I can’t even read it.” She went to a cabinet and rummaged through the stack of cards she’d received so far. “I’ve gotten hand-written notes and lots of flower arrangements, as you can see.” She made a sweeping gesture. There were fresh flowers in the room, most with stuffed bears or heart-shaped well-wishes. “But then these notes on my doorstep—I can’t understand them.”
“Have you received any other emails?”
“Not from anyone I don’t know.”
“Have you received any other communications or things which felt out of place?”
“Everything feels out of place.” Ruth went to her computer. Rain gently tapped against the big window, as if asking politely to be let in. “Something happened at the church earlier.”
She briefly explained the episode at the church—the strange noises, footprints, and the silver cane. She did not offer her opinion that she thought Sam had showed up a little too conveniently.
“We’ll see what we can do.” Trewe turned to her. “We’ve traced the email. The server is a free one available for anonymous users, but we have applied for a court order to examine their records.”
Earlier, when Ruth arrived home and before Sally came to spend the night on her couch, she had found an envelope taped to her door. The initial shock of finding it had sent shivers over her. She had carefully taken it from the door and into the house.
What she found in the envelope made her burst into tears. She collapsed to the floor and held the thin slip of paper to her heart.
Annie Butler came to and felt dizzy as she tried to imagine where she was and what had happened. So, she started with simple things. First, it was still dark, but not so dark this time that she couldn’t see a few inches around her face if she lifted the rag away. Second, she was on her back, face-up, more or less, and something was holding her down. What was it? Whatever it was it was soft but resisted any attempt to be pushed away. She needed more air; the stuffiness of breathing her own, old breath pressed in on her. Fighting against the thing made a larger pocket of space for her face. Near her left eye a cloth-bound button dangled from a thread. It wasn’t a suit button or a button for a shirt. Some memory buzzed around her head. What was it? Why did this button look familiar? If she could figure out the answer to that, she would know why there was a button hanging by a thread so near her face. It remained a puzzle that kept her mind spinning. She slid her free hand up and batted at the button.
Was the button real? Yes, it was real. And the other real thing was that her head still hurt very much, especially above the brow of her right eye. And there was a pain in her arm, the arm that she couldn’t move.
Beyond her cocoon, because that is how she would describe where she was, she heard a soft slithering. A second or two had passed when it dawned on her that there could be a monstrous snake nearby. “Let me out!” she screamed, but her voice was muffled in the enclosed space like she was in a deep well. Grunting, pushing, thrashing—the effort sent her skull reeling with pain. Familiar darkness enveloped her, so she went away again.
11
Wednesday, 10:03 a.m.
Both the library computers were in use.
Charles grabbed the particular book he had stashed out of sequence off the shelf and clumped to a corner where no one would be in his way. He needed to think without any interruption.
He pulled at his collar. The heating needed to be turned off or some windows opened. The room smelt of musty books and old people. They were all for destroying the creaking place and building a new facility. He’d fought it at the last couple of council meetings. He made sure they had his opinion. The facility had served well enough the last three hundred and fifty years. Why go for change for change’s sake?
He sat alone at a table, his head in the history book he had used before. It included some mention of herbs in history. Not that he needed to go over that. He had it memorized. He was good at memorization. He had been an excellent student.
Ah, school memories.
His friend Morley had once sent him a magazine at boarding school, one that his mother wouldn’t have allowed if she had known. He was enjoying it immensely in the privacy of his room when Headmaster discovered him and grabbed the mag away. Charles had kicked him.
“Your mother will be displeased, Charlie,” the headmaster yelled. “I shall telephone immediately.”
Charles’s mother hated him enough; she didn’t need more reason. He spat on the headmaster’s back. The headmaster turned, his ugly features stretched so he looked like a gargoyle. Charles ran. The headmaster chased him—up the stairs, all the way to the roof of the old building and across a short flat area to the parapet where the headmaster caught him by the arm and tried to drag him back. But he turned and maneuvered into position behind the old man—one shove. He then “discovered” the body. They ruled the death suicide.
The smallness of the library corner where Charles sat made him feel cramped. The buzz of conversation grated across his thoughts.
An older gentleman spoke to an equally older woman, “You’ve read them all, have you?”
The answer was a drawn-out, “Yes.”
The old man again, “’Bout time to get some new books ’ere then.”
For Charles, the problem was that old people couldn’t hear. Charles almost screamed at the old buzzard, “’Bout time someone told smelly old people to keep quiet!”
The constant clicking of the mouse from the computer nearest him set his teeth on edge. He wished he could fling the book across the room or perhaps down the stairs to hit someone’s head.
Just for a change of pace.
He smirked. He had a plan. He took a quick glance around before he took up a looming position over a timid-looking oldster
sitting at a computer. He rocked back and forth, settling for a bit of a wait.
The thing was, he would need to keep his eyes open for a chance to let the American woman know he had her daughter—get her to let her guard down enough that he could grab her, too.
The timid oldster squirmed in her chair. Charles didn’t move or make a noise. With a huffing sound, she turned and glared up at him. “What?” she challenged.
“I’m waiting,” he muttered.
She stood and glared eye to eye. He didn’t give an inch.
With a final harrumph, she clomped away in her completely practical shoes.
Satisfied that she wasn’t coming back, he sat and logged on.
Ruth backed away from the window when she saw Trewe’s old, black Renault at the curb. She didn’t know how she felt about his arrival. Was he bringing news? Every part of her body felt as if she’d received a beating. It was Wednesday and nothing had been found of Annie. She couldn’t live like this. She would rather die than not know what happened.
Trewe started up the walk. Another car pulled up. Woman Police Constable Allison Craig exited her car. The WPC’s hair stuck out in wispy curls and there was a pencil behind her ear. Trewe had mentioned that he wouldn’t allow questions without the constable present.
She sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.
“Mrs. Butler, you remember WPC Craig?” Trewe stood on Ruth’s porch and kept his coat on while the constable shook out her coat and came to stand next to him.
“Yes. Hi, Allison. Come in. Can I offer you something to drink?” Ruth went to her drinks cabinet.
Allison shook her head and retrieved a notebook from a pocket of her coat.
