Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  * * * *

  McLaren peeled out of his driveway like a British Grand Prix driver charging past an opponent. The gravel splayed in a narrow arc, directed by the urgency of the tires biting into the loose surface. He was on the road and zooming through the village nearly before the gravel had settled.

  On the drive to Kirkfield he talked aloud to himself, as though he were hearing a friend’s statement. He repeated the sentence until it became a chant and a prayer and the road blurred into a gray ribbon snaking between the hills. He was only half-conscious of the traffic, oblivious to the weather, concentrating on the voice drilling into his ear and brain. He found himself breathing in time to the chant, as if that helped with his meditation. Or with its transmission heavenward. Mile after mile the chant buzzed in his ears. “Jamie will find Dena. Jamie will find Dena. Jamie will find Dena…” On and on the cantor sang to him as the villages and farms scurried past him in hazy clumps. “She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.”

  But it was more than a chant, more than a childish crossing of his fingers to bring luck. The song was also part emotional anchor and medication, something he could mentally clutch in the midst of this maelstrom. And he needed this buoy for, although he hadn’t admitted it to Jamie, he had nearly given in to suicide last night. It would have been so easy to end the soul-destroying ache. So wonderful to sink into oblivion and not feel anything again. Beer and whiskey could do that, certainly, but he needed a permanent fix. Something to guarantee the intense hurt would never again consume him. So he had seriously considered killing himself, debated about method—not gas or hanging or carbon monoxide, but pills or gun, as they are painless. Debated, too, about the consequences of living lonely years without Dena. In fact, he had taken a few sleeping tablets around two that morning, downed them in one quick head-back toss when he couldn’t endure the sleeplessness or the dark any longer. The rest of the pills he would take in half hour intervals, for he had heard that the stomach would regurgitate too many taken at once. So he had placed the pill bottle, bottle of beer and Dena’s photo on his bedside cabinet, angling the clock so he could track the half hour intervals, moving the photo so he could see her face-on when he had lain down in his bed. But Dena’s eyes had mesmerized him as he had stared at her; her voice had sung to him, telling him she loved him and would live with him if he would only wait for her return.

  It had been a dream, he knew now, driving to Kirkfield. A desperate handhold on that lifebuoy because he loved her more than his life. And that had been the lifeline. Her eyes had seemed to tell him she couldn’t live without him. What would have happened, once Jamie rescued her, when she found out McLaren had ended his life? Would her love turn to anger and hatred because he had had so little faith in her return? Would she turn into what he had recently been—a misanthrope, a hermit who threw away her life and happiness in constant grief over his death?

  He had sat up, the answer to this question and to the question of his own life’s purpose as clear now as if Dena had materialized from the photo and sat beside him. He wouldn’t be that selfish, that thoughtless. He would not insult Jamie that way, either, by doubting he could find Dena. She would come back to him; Jamie would find her. And when she was once more in his arms, he would never let her go.

  So, with more inner strength than he knew he had, he had shoved his fear deep within himself, returned the pill bottle to the mirrored bathroom cabinet hiding it behind the mouthwash and electric shaver, washed the remaining beer down the kitchen sink, and had downed cup after cup of freshly brewed coffee while walking off the effects of the pills. He had wandered outside around half past three and sat on the top of the stonewall, the coffee in his hand, his gaze fixed on the sickle moon resting in a puff of dark gray clouds. The air even at this early hour hadn’t been chilled enough to shock the encroaching sleepiness from his system, but he kept downing coffee and walking. And uttering ardent prayers to God. He had even succeeded in slowing his racing pulse by the time he reached Dena’s House.

  The house interior held the quiet, almost stale, air of a deserted place. McLaren called out Dena’s name as he closed the front door, praying with all his heart to hear her answer. But the quietness remained, nearly overpowering. Fear he had never known icicled down his back and he called again, more loudly. Still no answer.

  Fighting the impulse to run through the house, calling for her, he conducted a methodical search room by room. He overlooked nothing—drawer contents, notes scribbled on paper, appointments marked on calendars, condition of her bedroom and bathroom, contents of her fridge, clothes in her wardrobe. He played her recorded phone messages, searched for blood spatter and discarded buttons and muddy shoe prints and cryptic messages scrawled on mirrors or walls or nap of the carpet. He opened every wardrobe, pantry and closet door. He looked beneath the bed and sofa and behind the draperies. He walked through the basement, moving and peering behind stacks of luggage, disused furniture, and storage cartons. He glanced inside the washer and dryer. He walked through the garage, opened the old freezer, looked behind sacks of fertilizer and potting soil and boxes of terra cotta planters. He poked beneath the bushes circling her house. He walked around her house, noting window and door conditions, shrubbery and flowers and mulched beds.

  Nothing. She had vanished.

  He locked the front door and slowly, painfully, returned to his car.

  * * * *

  Jamie turned his car south onto the A50. Tutbury Castle may be off the normal search track, but it and McLaren’s case were tied together. The castle and its Minstrels Court event had inspired Dena to involve McLaren in Kent Harrison’s murder. The idea wasn’t so much of a stretch; maybe Dena had run into trouble there.

  But two hours later Jamie mentally posted the castle and environs in the “no starter” column. He had questioned the car park attendant, castle staff and booth sellers, driven along every road in the village, and watched for Dena’s red MG along the A515 as he headed north again toward Kirkfield. The tarmac thread that he followed was slim, for the vast countryside surrounding the thoroughfare could hold its secret quite well if Dena were kept in a barn, machinery shed, or house. One thousand square miles. Lonely farms, disused coal mines, caverns, cities. Where should he look? She might not even be in Derbyshire anymore. He swore at the hopeless task confronting him. A police helicopter search would be nice, he thought, but he hadn’t the authority to request it. As he stopped in Ashbourne to buy something for breakfast, he realized he was on a fool’s errand. Willingness, time and physical availability were fine, as far as they went, but the coldness of Reality threw up roadblocks to his eagerness to help. Dena could have gone anywhere: just driving the roads to Derby or Belper or Wirksworth was a challenge, for she could have taken any route, detoured to any village or town farther afield. If she’d made for some place north or east of her house, if she’d gone to Manchester or Sheffield or Birmingham, or even London… He’d never find her in such large cities.

  A call to a mutual friend gave Jamie names and phone numbers of Dena’s closest friends. No one he talked to had heard from her or seen her recently. Hotels were equally unproductive, so unless she was staying at some bed-and-breakfast… He rubbed his head. Just thinking about the hundreds of B-and-B’s in the area gave him a headache. He might find her after a few years’ search…

  He tossed his half-eaten scone at the sparrows congregating at the base of the old market cross, returned to his car, and rang up McLaren.

  “Find her?” McLaren asked, answering the call on the first ring.

  “Not yet.” He took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Look, Mike, this is a waste of time.”

  A tinge of anger tinted his words. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m one bloke. One man to comb a thousand square miles. There is no way on God’s green earth that I can search every house, building, lorry, coal mine and cave in the county. Even if you joined me, we’d never do it. Not even taking into account that she might be in Not
tingham or Bolton or—”

  “Okay, I get your meaning.” Sounds of his ragged breathing came over the phone.

  “I’m not begging off. You know I want to help. I’ve already been to the castle, looked around there, scanned the A515 from Ashbourne coming and going. But I can’t cover the whole ruddy county. It’s impossible.” He waited for McLaren to say something, but the silence that returned his statement maddened him. Why the hell was McLaren so pigheaded? Couldn’t he see they were playing around with Dena’s safety?

  Jamie tried again, speaking slowly to keep a check on his growing annoyance. “I’ve phoned her friends. No one’s heard from her. You haven’t heard from her. It’s time to go through official channels, Mike. I shouldn’t have to tell you. A missing person, especially when it involves these circumstances and the degree of suspicion we already have, should be taken seriously. It’s time to include the police.” He waited for an explosion of anger, for a scathing opinion of police skills, but heard instead McLaren’s reluctant agreement.

  “You’re right,” McLaren said, his voice mixed with reluctance and relief. “But would you mind calling it in? I-I can’t manage that. Talking to…calling it in…”

  “Sure, Mike. I’ll phone it in. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He knew the real reason McLaren wanted to dodge reporting Dena’s disappearance. Even if he avoided speaking with someone he knew, he’d have to give his name. And that might be remembered…and the gossip of his former job could start again.

  On hanging up, Jamie phoned the Ashbourne police station, one of Derbyshire Constabulary’s sectional stations, and relayed the car description and registration plate number. While explaining that the car owner appeared to be a missing person—and one under mysterious circumstances—the dispatcher interrupted him.

  “An officer located the vehicle minutes ago. There’s no sign of the driver. Nor have there been any reports phoned in to the RAC or nearby garages from a motorist requesting help.”

  Jamie’s breathing nearly stopped. He grabbed a pen and his notebook and asked, “Where? Still in Derbyshire?”

  “On a lay-by on the A515, west of Tissington.”

  West of Tissington on the A515. Jamie had missed it, the village being farther north from his route down to Tutbury. He cursed himself for joining the A515 south of Fenny Bentley when he left Kirkfield and, thus, south of Tissington. The car just minutes from Dena’s house. Was this good or bad news? “I know the spot. Please tell the officer not to touch anything. I’ll be right there.” He rang off, his mind racing. So, where was Dena?

  NINETEEN

  Where is my release money? Dena wondered. Was her father still talking amount, or actually getting it? Unless she was hopelessly muddled on the days, there had been no bank holidays or weekend to interfere. He ought to have no trouble. Had he already delivered it? The thought of her paid ransom and subsequent release cheered her until she realized kidnappers didn’t always play fair. Once he got the money she might be dumped along a road or tossed into a lake. She was an unnecessary upkeep easily disposed of.

  Although still bound, she had struggled into a sitting position. Her entire body ached with the cold of inactivity and a hard sleeping surface. Bending her head forward, she tried stretching her neck muscles. That, at least, relieved some of the ache. She rotated her head slowly, feeling her neck vertebrae strain and pop into place, feeling the comfort this small bit of normality brought to her nightmare. Leaning forward, she got to her knees and arched her back before sinking onto her calves. Feeling better, she glanced around. Morning light crept into the room through a gap between the window and curtain, giving the space shape and color denied her the previous night. Instead of a terror-filled black hole, it had become a pale lilac rectangle. A stack of cardboard boxes filled the far corner. Left over from moving? Am I in a house? The wall color implies a residence rather than an office or warehouse. And if I’m in a house, she thought, rocking forward onto her knees again, maybe there are houses nearby, with people to whom I can signal. But is anyone out now? Are they going to work or coming home? What time is it?

  Hours and minutes had ceased to have any meaning. Her stomach ruled, dividing her waking time into segments of Hunger and Fullness. She judged the march of time by her meals and the light within the room. And though she assumed she had been held captive for two days, she needed to know her location, needed to know if she could signal to anyone.

  As if a baby again, she inched across the room, forcing each knee in turn forward. After many minutes she came to one of the room’s corners. Angling herself so that her back leaned against one wall and her shoulder pressed against the other, she pushed against the walls, using her leg muscles as leverage. She fell several times, once on her knees, and winced at the pain. But she righted herself again and maneuvered into position, again pressing her body into the wall. By the time she stood up, she was out of breath and aware of every pain in her body, but she hobbled over to the window. She grabbed the edge of the curtain with her teeth. As she moved her head the curtain parted enough for her to release the fabric and poke her head between the two panels, letting it lay against her as she looked outside.

  Houses similar to those she had seen at her first place of captivity stared back at her, their back gardens well kept and stretching in a line as far as she could see. They snuggled against each other, giving the impression of older row houses, separated from their neighbors by low stonewalls or thick, dense hedges. Immediately ahead, looming large and tantalizingly near, sprawled the garden of the house where she was kept. A path of paving stones led around to the left and a birdbath stood near the back hedge. A small wooden bench faced it on the right hand side. Although she didn’t know which direction she faced, the sunlight gave the impression of morning, white light illuminating the dew on grass, leaves and flowers.

  Morning! But where was she?

  Dena let the curtain fall closed, no better for her knowledge. She could have been anywhere overnight, even out of Derbyshire. How would McLaren ever find her?

  She pressed her back against the wall and slowly slid on to her seat, the pain in her body forgotten as a new realization hit her: she had grabbed the curtain with her teeth—her mouth was not gagged. Her captor didn’t fear she would call for help. She was alone.

  Though tired, she again crawled on her knees to the corner, struggled to her feet, and shuffled back to the window. The room was at ground level. Surely some neighbor would appear eventually in his own back garden—not everyone would be at work. Surely he would hear if she yelled loudly enough, moved her head wildly enough…

  She measured time in the thuds of unseen doors slamming, the starts of car engines on the street along the house front, the barks of dogs, the distant groan of lorry motors, the twittering of birds.

  A figure—hardly more than a shoulder, upper arm and back—appeared in the adjacent back garden, barely within Dena’s view. She strained on tiptoes to see more but the figure disappeared. She pressed her forehead against the window, desperate to find the person. A score of heartbeats passed before the figure straightened from its bent over position and revealed itself. It started to turn toward her, then stopped and began walking away. Dena banged on the window with her forehead, oblivious to the dull pain, and yelled.

  She had been shouting for nearly a minute when the door to her room opened, revealing the masked figure. And the inference of trouble.

  * * * *

  It looks like trouble, Jamie thought, standing at the edge of the lay-by. He had walked around Dena’s car, noting its condition and the ground in the immediate vicinity. The hard-as-iron earth yielded nothing obvious—no muddy shoe print, no trail of blood, no lost earring. Still, a team of constables would search the area and the car, since he had reported Dena as a missing person, and bag anything and everything. A clue could come from the most mundane object.

  A constable wearing a white paper work suit had already begun a preliminary examination of the car. He held up a smal
l notebook and mobile phone in his gloved hands and called to Jamie.

  “You might want to see this,” the constable said as Jamie stopped several feet from the car.

  “Something important on the page?”

  “Could be.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “If it’s easier, WPC Fischer can hold it so you can read it.”

  Jamie nodded as the constable handed the notebook to a young woman who had just finished suiting up. She angled the notebook so Jamie could see the page, holding it and turning pages while he made his own notes. When he finished, he asked the constable if the notebook had been open when he found it.

  “Yes, sir. I picked it up exactly as it lay. Even to the opened page.”

  “Was it on the front seat?”

  “No, sir. Between the two front seats. Her handbag is on the floor on the passenger side. Her mobile is still turned on.”

  “Could it have slipped out of her bag, do you think?”

  “May have done, though it would’ve had to have been earlier.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “The purse is zipped closed.”

  Jamie drew in his breath and stared at the notes he had made from Dena’s notebook. A list of five names, with summaries of the talks she had evidently had with each person, hinted at her amateur detective game. Had one of these people followed her, perhaps fearing that too much had been said? Did that person kidnap Dena? He grimaced, not willing to consider another alternative.

  “You say the mobile is on,” Jamie said as the female constable put the notebook into a plastic evidence bag. “Any indication who she may have been calling?”

  The constable punched a few buttons on the phone and said slowly, “No. It’s just on. Her last incoming call—which was never answered—was from McLaren, Michael. Name mean anything to you?”