Tim kept her from falling. They clung to each other before Tim pushed himself away, the effort captured in his averted eyes, veins standing out like reeds in his throat. But Liz’s hands sought him, and he finally let out a grunt of surrender. And as he made himself part of her, they both cried out, their sound soaring up to the sky. Tim touched her as they moved and moved together, taking each inch of her cold, dead flesh and bringing it achingly back to life.
“I’m sorry,” he said when it was over.
Liz raised her face to his. “You are?”
“No.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Why should you be? You’re not the one who just cheated on her husband while her children are missing.”
“I don’t know that you can call it cheating when your husband’s the one who kidnapped those children.”
“Ah,” she said, looking off into the night. “So it is a kidnapping.”
Tim was reaching for his holster on the ground. “In all but the legal sense, yes.”
Silence descended.
Tim handed Liz her phone, and she pocketed it as she readjusted her clothes.
“Should we—” Liz began.
“You should know that—”
They both broke off, shaking their heads.
“Could we not?” Liz said after a moment. “For a little while?”
“Sure.” Tim held her gaze. “Of course.”
Liz looked away.
“You called me,” Tim said. “After you tried that number Mackenzie dug up, right?”
Liz couldn’t imagine recounting the disappointment she’d lived through, nor sharing the information—in all its dread incompleteness—that Andy had offered. Never mind the awful crippling of her garden. A weary wave broke over her.
Tim was watching. “Mackenzie will try to get info on the owner. Kind of like a reverse phone book. But that can take a while. I was hoping you might get lucky and someone would pick up.”
The possibility hurt to consider.
“When you got here,” Liz said. “You looked so upset. Broken almost.”
Tim squeezed his hand into a fist, and aimed his gaze away. “There was an incident today. An attack on a school bus on Wicket Road.”
Liz looked sharply at him, peering into the darkness.
“All the children are okay, thank God. But the perp—the man who did it—fled into the woods. Took us four hours to find him. And the bus driver is hanging on by a thread.”
Liz hadn’t taken in any of that. Woods. Wicket Road.
It was the site of Paul’s long ago accident. The connection she’d been looking for.
“Tim,” she said.
He’d been scrubbing tiredly at his face. Now he lowered his hand to look at her.
“I know where Paul has them.”
THE MURDER
Madeline had never felt so free in her life as she did trapped in a hot field of grasses, sweat pouring off her skin, machete in her hand. Their first big task was to clear any unwooded areas for planting. Madeline had already completed one section, and today one of the ladies—Magpie or Katrina—was going to transplant the seedlings Kurt Pierson had brought back last night. But they would need more acreage if they intended to sustain themselves by next year.
The season was about to come to a cold, screeching halt, so this year they would subsist mostly on stores people had brought in. Sacks of flour and bulk grains for bread and a thin, nourishing gruel Madeline had already sampled. It wasn’t bad. Tasteless, but not bad.
A flock of hens pecked and worried by the barn, its rooster strutting around, which would ensure a supply of eggs. There was even a grove of old apple trees, bearing small, hard fruit, which Katrina had been laboring over.
Madeline worried about milk for the children. She was nursing Dottie, so no need for concern there, but what about the older ones? Maybe one day there would be a cow.
A platoon of beehives was housed in square vats. Katrina had given Madeline a chunk of comb to lick, but Magpie—whose real name was Terry—had come up and steered her away, warning her not to let a single droplet fall anywhere near Dottie’s mouth, or touch Madeline’s bare breast.
“It could kill her, do you understand?” Terry said, making honey sound as dangerous as a gun. Then she went into this long, drawn-out explanation, botulism that somehow didn’t bother adults but was terrible for babies.
After that, Madeline didn’t go near the apiary—Katrina’s name for it—again.
It had been impressed upon her how much space she had to cover by the first hard frost. And even though it seemed as if the blue skies and warm sun would never abate, Madeline knew winter was coming. So she pushed herself through the sharp stalks of grasses at a pace that left her panting, and wrenched her deep inside, where until recently Dottie had lived.
Each blade of grass was covered with rows of tiny teeth, sticky, nibbling things that clung to Madeline and slowed her down. But even though the task was arduous, hot, and occasionally treacherous—she’d nicked herself with the tip of the machete twice yesterday, the wounds requiring treatment with calendula and wormwood—Madeline loved it. She loved feeling essential to the whole operation. And she loved being in this enormous expanse of open space, and blissfully, utterly alone.
She swung the machete, lashing at a swath of stems, then swiveling to get out of the way of the blade. Madeline wiped her face clear of perspiration. The intense effort was good for her; it would restore her body to what it had been before she’d gotten pregnant. She stepped over the pile of grasses she’d just struck down. These would be separated and dried, woven into baskets eventually, but that was someone else’s job.
She felt a rush of heat in her breasts, and glanced at the sky overhead. Madeline wasn’t good at telling time this way yet, but it looked to be around noon. Dottie must be getting hungry. For the past week or so, the baby had stayed with Terry while Madeline worked. The first time Terry had proposed this solution, Madeline had recoiled, saying that she could take care of her baby herself. Her plan was to lie Dottie on a blanket a safe distance away, tend to her in the green and fragrant grasses.
But Terry had pointed out all that was wrong with that idea—the baby would get too much sun; Madeline was going to cover enough ground that she wouldn’t be able to keep a close eye—and she had admitted defeat. Besides, Madeline saw the expert care and attention Terry bestowed, and was glad for Dottie’s sake.
Terry changed Dottie’s cloth diapers, swaddling her in blankets made of organic cotton, which had belonged to Terry’s children when they were babies. Terry said that her favorite time of all was when her children were first born. They give you trouble after that, Terry had explained, although Madeline looked forward to the ways Dottie might get into mischief, developing a personality of her own.
Her infancy was certainly turning out to be blissful. Terry gave her baths with some kind of apricot oil that smelled like heaven. She was insistent that breast milk was all Dottie take, which was fine since there was no formula here anyway. When Madeline pumped, it had to go into a glass bottle, though. Madeline couldn’t imagine what was wrong with plastic. She worried about glass breaking in Dottie’s tender bud of a mouth.
Terry had started taking over during the nighttime too, so that Madeline could rest up for the hard work of clearing fields. But Madeline was permitted to do one feeding each day by herself, and she looked forward to it with a hunger as great as Dottie’s. It was time now; she could tell by the surging in her breasts.
Madeline washed up first by the creek. Terry insisted that all the dust from the field had to be gone before Madeline touched Dottie, otherwise the baby would have to skip nursing and be given an extra bottle. It had already happened once. Terry assured Madeline that she knew microbes and bacteria were key to immune system development, so it wasn’t the dirt, but the spores and bits of chaff that might trigger allergies if inhaled at too young an age.
Madeline splashed and scrubbed ferociously, turning her skin raw
, letting her long, wet hair slap her back, no danger of missing this one precious encounter.
Dottie was lying on a blanket in the shade by the barn, just beginning to stir and whimper. Terry knelt beside her, singing softly into her ear. When Madeline whispered her baby’s name, Terry looked up. “I was just beginning to wonder if I should fetch a bottle.”
“I’m here,” Madeline said, reaching down shyly for Dottie. She still felt awkward, ungraceful compared to Terry, when she picked her baby up. “I’ll be down by the creek.”
“Not too close to the falls. The men are working there today.”
“Of course not,” Madeline said, shushing Dottie and turning away before Terry could remark that she might be able to calm the baby better.
Madeline never went near the falls. There was a willow tree upstream a ways, whose boughs overhung the creek, offering a broad base on which she liked to sit. You had to ascend a sloping hill to get there, but at least the rush of the falls was muted at that distance. Madeline found the falls a little scary, though she wouldn’t have liked to admit it. Everyone else was so brave here. But the roar of the waterfall was deafening and she’d seen a huge boulder taken up and sent hurtling down to the pool below as if it were a pebble. One day, the falls would provide the power for this place, but right now they seemed more menace than anything else.
The water at this lazy portion of the creek moved in slow whorls, however. Terry had instructed Madeline to remove the baby’s diaper when she switched sides in the hopes that Dottie would pee or poop. It was supposed to help with potty training later. Madeline thought she must look a little nuts, holding an infant at arm’s length, her naked bottom dangling. She did it over the creek just in case anything ever did come out, but so far nothing had.
Madeline looked down at Dottie, fingering a lock of her hair. It was growing in nicely, thick, with a shine to it. Terry had put avocado in Dottie’s hair a few times, till Katrina got angry and said that any food should go toward eating. They’d run out of avocados a few days after that anyway, and Madeline guessed she might never see one again.
“Okay, Dottie,” Madeline murmured. “Guess you don’t have to go right now. Are you still hungry?” Dottie latched on with such ferocity that Madeline felt a tug in her groin. “Whoa,” she said softly. “I should say you are.”
“Madeline Powers Jennings.”
It was as if two planets had collided. Madeline felt rocked by their force. She looked down to make sure Dottie still lay in her arms because for a moment she believed that everything, her baby, the last week, even herself might be gone. Dottie was still nursing hungrily, unperturbed by the fact that the two of them were about to lose everything.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” Cara Jennings said.
“How did you?” asked Madeline in a small voice.
Her mother shook her head impatiently. “I followed you to the end of the road that first day. Then I lost you for a while, but I found a way in eventually.” There was a triumphant note in her voice before Cara returned to her usual tone of displeasure. “The police wouldn’t help me at all. Something about you being of age.” She brushed dirt briskly off her hands. “Anyway, the only important question now is, what are you doing here?”
Madeline shook her head soundlessly.
“I’m assuming that you’re experiencing something called postpartum psychosis,” her mother continued. “I never would’ve believed such a thing existed—so much women’s foolishness to get out of caring for their children—but there’s no other explanation for your behavior. Standing there in the river, half nude!”
Madeline stared down at the creek. The amber water flowed by like syrup. It would gather force later on. Madeline wondered what would happen if she jumped in with Dottie.
“I’m happy here,” she said hopelessly.
It wasn’t clear whether her mother heard that or not.
“Come on,” she said. “Get out of there and give me the baby. We’ll be home before you know it. Just half a day’s drive. How you met up with these lunatics, I’ll never know.” She bent down toward Madeline, tsking her tongue and reaching for Dottie.
Madeline stood amongst the tangle of willow roots. She began to climb awkwardly up the bank.
Her mother leaned forward.
Dottie shrieked, either in alarm at being taken or anger at losing the breast. Her cries increased in volume, spiraling out into the still air.
Then two bodies appeared over the rise.
“Get the infant,” Kurt Pierson commanded.
He was a good-looking man, tall and strong, with a sweep of dark, glossy hair that almost made you need to touch it. Madeline could’ve stared into his jeweled eyes forever. She had developed a schoolgirl’s crush on him the first few days they were here, before acknowledging that Kurt was far too smart for her. Still, second only to spending time with Dottie, the thing Madeline loved most about life here was getting to talk to Kurt. He listened as if what she had to say truly mattered. He seemed to believe that she might really contribute something.
Madeline was relieved to see him now. Kurt would come up with the right way to deal with her mother, but just as important, he would listen to the background Madeline had to provide. Her relationship with Cara was unusually close; Madeline was aware of that.
Kurt’s shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbow, exposing muscled forearms, and his pants legs were damp. He’d been working at the falls, Madeline recalled.
Terry was there, too, lifting Dottie out of Madeline’s trembling arms. There wasn’t so much as a jog as the baby passed between bodies, so smoothly did Terry orchestrate it. Dottie started to calm as soon as she’d been lifted, and quiet filled the air. For a moment the only sound was the constant sigh of the brook.
“Go,” Kurt commanded, and Terry departed over the hill.
Cara Jennings was looking from Kurt to Madeline again.
Madeline felt frightened for no real reason. She wanted Dottie. She sneaked a look at Terry, taking her leave across the fields, only the regal straight of her back now visible.
“Who is this, Madeline?” Kurt asked.
“Who am I?” Cara Jennings retorted. “I should be asking you that question. Who are you, and why have you taken my daughter?”
Kurt took a step closer to Cara. “I ask the questions.”
Cara Jennings was uncharacteristically speechless. Madeline felt a lick of relief. Maybe this would still turn out all right. Maybe she could stay.
But then her mother opened her mouth. “Let’s go, Mad—”
Kurt raised his voice and spoke over her. “The first one was a gimme. A test. I know perfectly well who you are.”
Both Madeline and Cara frowned.
Kurt took another step forward. “I know a lot about you, in fact.”
His voice was mesmerizing, hypnotic. Madeline felt lulled, becoming calmer yet when even her mother went quiet.
“I know that you’ve cowed your daughter all these years, bending her to your will. I even know how you’ve done it, undermining her faith in herself to such an extent that she felt lucky to have you.” Kurt paused momentarily to seek out Madeline’s gaze. “Much as our own Magpie is doing to you again right now.”
Madeline’s vision blurred, distorting the sight of Kurt.
“The only thing I don’t know is whether you’ve told anyone else we are here,” Kurt said to Cara, taking another step.
She looked at him.
“And your eyes and that flinch just told me the answer to that.”
Cara Jennings narrowed her gaze, but it was too late.
“Good.” Kurt gave a ringing clap of his hands. Then he bent down and drew up his pant leg. He took a gun, blue steel and thick-barreled, from a contraption on his ankle.
The next seconds passed in a watery rush.
Kurt lifted the gun.
He was close enough to Cara Jennings that they appeared to be dancing.
Kurt fired, the blast momentarily dro
wning out the noise of the falls far away.
An enormous rose exploded on Cara’s chest, red and bursting with blooms. Cara fell backward to the ground, still wearing that habitual expression of thin-eyed distrust.
“No!” Madeline wailed. “Mommy!” She ran to her mother’s fallen form, cradling her as if she were holding Dottie. “No,” she said again. “Mommy, come back. Mommy! I love you, Mommy, I—”
A shadow descended, blocking out the warmth of the sun. Madeline felt the snub snout of the gun nosing the flesh by her ear.
“Madeline,” Kurt said.
Madeline had the urge to retreat, try and scoot back, but she couldn’t leave her mother.
“I did not expect a formal thank you for freeing you from that bitch. But if you don’t stop whining over her body, I’ll kill you, and that infant of yours, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Liz had remembered as soon as Tim said the words. Wicket Road was the twisted, winding site of Paul’s accident. A mean road, Marjorie had called it. A connection between Paul and Michael Brady had allowed Liz to find her husband in cyberspace. It might just work in real life, too.
Andy had said they were in the woods.
She told Tim all of this as he was preparing to leave. The prospect of the endless hours standing between her and her children was unbearable, but Liz knew that exploring wilderness at this hour would be impossible.
Suddenly Tim’s radio crackled; then there was a bang on the front door.
Liz opened up, but the policeman who stood there spoke to Tim.
“Chief, the old guy just woke up at the hospital.”
How had he known Tim was here?
Tim’s face went ruddy. He didn’t look at Liz as he headed out with the other cop.
But in the doorway, he paused.
“All right,” he told her. “We’ll leave at first light tomorrow.”
Ruin Falls Page 24
