I went to my left and Morgana followed. We traced the outside wall of the inn, and in the process went through some hedges of short hemlock trees, past the green industrial size dumpster to a short brick stairway. Morgana and I went up the five steps to the white Dutch door at the top. The aromas of herbs, onions, garlic, and a trace of bacon wafted through the minuscule openings around the doorway, leading me to believe that this was the way to the kitchen.
Morgana wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Richard, I don’t want to be out here in the rain anymore. Let’s get inside.”
“Good idea,” I gave the knob a turn. “It’s locked.”
My wet wife responded by mumbling something uncomplimentary about my leadership abilities and questioning herself about following me on what she called, ‘a wild goose chase.’
I knocked on the door in the conventional cadence — bang, bang, BANG. And lo, a latch turned with a clunk and the door swung open. I immediately I looked at the floor inside the threshold of the doorway. It was dry.
“Who are you? And what in hell are you doing out there?” Our Mr. Hospitality was a tall, thin man in his late thirties, or so, with short, black, curly hair. He looked as annoyed as he did puzzled to find two people outside his door in the rain. He wore a white chef’s jacket and checkered pants. From his accent, I would say he was a foreigner who had spent time in the New York City area or northern New Jersey. He definitely wasn’t a native Vermonter. “I don’t buy anything at door. Good-bye.”
“No, please, we are guests and — ”
“The lobby is on other side of the building.”
“I know. My wife and I just stepped out. We are — ”
“Crazy tourists who walk around in the worst storm in a hundred years because you want to get hit by lightening or a broken tree limb.”
Strangely, at that moment, his mentioning of falling tree limbs was more disturbing than his obnoxious attitude.
“No,” I said, trying to hold onto what little patience and humor that I had left. “You see, my wife and I were helping — ” At that instant, the bottom fell out of the cloud over us. Water gushed down from the sky; Morgana and I were almost swimming where we stood. “May we come in out of the rain?”
“This is a kitchen. Guests aren’t allowed here. If you want come inside, go to the same way that you went out.”
“Richard, stop jabbering and get inside!”
“Please, may we come inside?”
“No! Use another door.”
I never thought that I would ever do it, but I stuck my foot into the doorway as the door was about to be slammed shut.
“Yow! That’s my foot!” The corner of the metal part of the door sweep jammed into my new leather boot. The jerk not only gouged a piece out of my shoe, but it also struck pay dirt in the side my foot. “What in hell is wrong with you!”
“Wrong with me? You are the one too stupid to understand simple directions or to get out of the way of a closing door. Maybe you should be in home for the mentally impaired. No guests come through the kitchen.”
“Richard, let’s go,” Morgana ordered. “I'm soaked. We’ll get inside by the dining room entrance.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the Dutch door closed again, this time unhindered by my foot. With a huff, I turned and briskly went down the stairs, passing Morgana on my way, and continued my exploration for other entrances.
“Richard, where are you going now?“ called Morgana.
“I’m looking for other ways to get inside.” I kept walking even though I started to feel that the side of my foot was a little sore.
“Not now, We’re getting soaked out here.”
“No, we’re not. We’re soaked already. We can’t get any wetter than we are.” I could hear the Dutch door open again. Arezoo’s strained voice cut through the rustle of the rain and rushing sound of the wind. “Dr. MacKenzie, I’m so sorry. My husband didn’t know. Please, come in, come in.”
When I looked back toward Morgana, she was yelling at me from the doorway to come with her inside.
“You go in, Morgana,” I yelled back, “I’ll meet up with you in a little while.” I was angry and humiliated. I wanted to cool off, and, more importantly, I wanted to resume my search for another way inside.
I jumped over puddles and dodged cascading waterfalls from overflowing roof gutters as I circled the perimeter of the building until I came to a cellar entrance. Its heavy steel doors were well maintained and appeared to have been recently painted a dull forest green. I also found that they were unlocked. I gave one of the doors the old heave-ho, and it swung opened with a high pitched squeal. I peered down into the dark cavern below.
Though the doors met modern expectations, the cellar testified to its nineteenth-century construction. The walls of the cellar were composed of rocks and boulders held together with, to my eye, a slapdash application of mortar. The steps were uneven and were made from irregular gray flat field stones.
I looked for a light switch, but I found none. I reached into my pocket for my keys, which had attached to them a miniature LED flashlight, a birthday present from Morgana the previous year. Holding the keys in a type of fist, with the light beam peeking out between my fingers, I cautiously proceeded into the dank darkness. I went down a series of eight steps reaching a landing which led to a second set of stairs to my immediate right, an effect which gave the cellar stairwell a ninety-degree bend at its mid-point. As my eyes adjusted to their new surroundings, I discovered that stone floor of the landing was drier than the steps above. It also was marked by wet footprints of a recent visitor whose destination appeared to have been further down in the inner recesses of the cellar.
I cautiously continued on. The musty air tickled my nose; cobwebs dangled from the ceiling and brushed against my face. Reaching the last step, I wished that I had a stronger light. I paused to give myself more time to acclimate further to the darkness. I began to wonder whether the footprints were really those of the assailant. And if they were, how was he moving around in the dark without a light because I was having a devil of a time moving about.
CLINK!
The distant metallic sound bit into the darkness and sent a shiver up my spine. Bo’s words of caution about the killer being armed made a return trip to my brain and had me reconsidering my self-appointed mission. “If someone is down here,” I said to myself, “would he take the risk and pull a gun on me — or worse?” I had gone only a few steps while I pondered the question when my bad foot caught something on the uneven ground. “Damn!” I tumbled to the dirt floor and, in the process, my keys flew from my hand. Without the pressure of a finger, the light vanished somewhere into the blackness.
Disoriented, I frantically searched for my keyring on my hands and knees. I blindly sent my right hand forth on little forays around me. My initial finds were a smooth rock that protruded several inches out of the dirt, several small stones, a bent nail, and a short piece of rusty baling wire.
Soon my right knee started to throb and sting. The pain emanated from the same leg which had the good fortune to get a door slammed into it a few minutes before. I momentarily called off the search for my keys and, gave my leg a cursory examination by touch. My preliminary conclusion — I hadn't broken anything, but the way my leg pained me, I knew that I scraped my shin pretty badly. I felt at the site of injury, a sticky wetness, and I assumed that was blood. On the bright side, I realized that the discomfort from my injured foot had diminished.
My assessment of my injury brought some peace of mind — I was banged up a bit, but I was okay. And so, after my brief respite, in nursing my wounds, I resumed my search in the dark. Following another archeological discovery of yet another old bent nail, I located my keys, and hastily turned the LED light on again.
By this time, my eyes had adjusted pretty well to the subterranean darkness, and I discovered that my little light had revealed a trail of wet footprints about a yard away. Seduced by curiosity and ignoring the better an
gels of common sense, I resumed my manhunt of the unidentified assailant. I stood up. Accompanied by a few “ouches” and “ahs,” I cautiously followed in the direction of the fading wet prints, hoping, as I did, to find their destination before the trail went dry.
The prints led me to a small, wooden plank door, about three feet by five feet, secured with only a simple latch lock. From what I could see from the marks in the dirt, the door had been used recently. A well-defined arc etched into fine silt on the floor — I assumed made by the pivoting action of the door — could plainly be seen and so could the wet footprints that were on it. “Our rabbit went this way, did he now,” I said to myself.
The thrill of the hunt, and just plain stupidity, overtook my sense of caution. With a ringing click and a gentle pull, the rusty hinged door opened. I don’t know what I expected to see on the other side of it. The reality was that all I saw were several stacks of lawn furniture looming out from the dark emptiness. I walked through the opening and into the low-ceilinged room. I aimed my little light toward the ground in front of me in the hopes to find again traces of recent traffic, but I could barely see my own feet, let alone footprints. My light was losing its brightness; its battery was approaching its life’s end.
And there, a some feet away from me, was the girl whom I saw on the stairs. I thought that I dreamt her. She was huddled up, sitting on the floor. Her arms were hugging her legs with her knees up against her chin. She looked frightened and very, very wet. “What are you doing down here?”
She didn’t answer.
“Hey, hey, Hun,” I said to reassure the child, “are you okay?”
Old habits die hard. My brain automatically reverted back to teacher mode. The girl looked up. Her eyes were sad. She wore a little gold necklace that sparkled in the dimming light of my LED. It must have been at that exact moment, as I leaned forward to help the child, when out from nowhere came a distinct scent, or better said, sensation of cool, moist air, like that found in an ocean breeze or in the air by a waterfall. The sensation was instantly followed by an unnerving scream which seemed to come from every direction in the room. Instinctively, I flinched — then I was struck hard, across at the back of my head and sent to the realm of unconsciousness.
As I lay in the cellar like a lifeless blob, I saw my mother who had passed away some years ago. The usual narrative about this type of episode would have the injured person see his dearly departed mother engulfed in some sort of glowing, warm, comforting light. And as she approached, she would offer her child loving words of reassurance and encouragement. But that wasn’t my experience.
I found myself sitting across the table from my mother at a familiar French restaurant which our family used to frequent when I was a child. My mother’s penetrating eyes reflected the light from the flickering candle on the table. It was a singular effect that gave my mother an appearance of an evil queen in some fairy tale — an appearance which became more pronounced when she smiled or in my mom's case, grinned.
On this occasion, she wore a straight loose black knit skirt that stopped at the knee and a matching jacket with lavender color piping trim. Her ensemble was paired up with a lavender blouse. She was accompanied by a dry martini. I knew it was dry; she only drank dry martinis, and by her tapping of the glass with her ruby ring, my mother seemed to be impatiently waiting for me to do something.
“Well, Richard?” Mother said in her ‘I’m-upset-with-you-voice.’ She motioned with her eyes for me to straighten up in my chair.
I sat up.
She took a short sip from her drink and blankly stared at me. I stared back at her. My semi-conscious mind toyed with the fact that since my mother is dead, our rendezvous should not be taking place. I wasn't scared; I was annoyed. Why does she keep bothering me even when she has been laid to rest for almost a decade? The woman never takes a break from being on my case.
A glass of red wine appeared on the table in front of me. It felt comforting to drink it, but I couldn’t taste a thing.
“Red wine, just like your father,” my mother said with disdain. She took another sip of her martini. “For some unknown reason, the girl trusts you. She likes you. I’m sure you will do the right thing.”
I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t move my lips.
My mother finished her drink and signaled for the check. “You do have that unique quality, Richard, that lets you have friends and admirers in all sorts of places. I don’t understand it. I love because you are my son of course, but the others . . . I just don’t understand. It must that teacher quality which you have picked up from somewhere. Lord, knows, neither your father nor I had it.” She got up from the table and started to leave. “I think, and don’t take this the wrong way, Dear, but I think that your personality, as the kids would say, really sucks.”
The bill appeared in front of me.
“Be a good boy, Richard, and take care of that debt for me.” She stood up and began to walk away.
I tried to speak, but again no luck again.
My mother turned to me. “Say hello to Bo and to that wife of yours . . . You are lucky,Richard. People are always watching out for you. Don’t fret, Dear; you’ll be okay. Use plenty of ice on that thick skull of yours.” She then waved and left the restaurant
I tried to follow her, but I couldn’t. I was stuck to my chair. With all my might, I attempted to get up, but I couldn’t budge. I tried again, and suddenly I moved, but I wasn’t going up. Instead, I felt myself falling backward onto my back. My head started to throb.
“Can you hear me?” Words came out from the darkness.
Whose voice was that, I wondered? Not Mom’s.
“Richard, can your hear me? Can you speak, Richard?” The familiar voice was quite insistent.
Lord, did my head hurt.
“Richard,” came another voice, “say something, or I’ll give you another crack in the head.” Ah, yes, Bo was nearby. I then surmised that the first voice must have been Morgana’s. The idiosyncratic reason for my order of voice recognition can be simply explained. I associate things having to do with Bo with physical and psychological discomfort, and pain always grabs my attention before anything else.
When I opened my eyes, all was a blur. Three faces with no distinguishing features looked down on me and bright lights glared into my pupils.
“RICHARD!” roared Morgana.
“Don’t yell, please. My head really, really hurts.” I tried to touch the source of my pain, when I realized I was on the ground and propped up against Peterson’s leg who was sitting next to me.
“Who were you tangling with, Old Sport?” Bo’s tone lost its edge as she crouched beside me. “Follow my finger,” Bo commanded. Aiming a flashlight in my eyes, she moved her index finger from right to left and back again just inches from my nose.
“If you don’t get that light out of my eyes and your finger out of my face, as God is my witness, I’ll bite it off,” I growled. My voice made my head wound throb all the more.
“Why didn’t you come in through the kitchen?” Morgana said, reprimanding me for my foolishness. “You could have been k . . . . You could’ve come into the kitchen!” She took hold of my hand and held it tight.
Ah yes, the kitchen, attended by Mr. Personality, the resident door slammer. “Sorry Love, but I was on the trail of . . . who were we tracking exactly?” My loss of words sounded worse than the reality of the situation. I’m sure that Morgan thought for an instant that I had lost my mind. What I meant was that we were tracking a murderer, but I had a senior moment and couldn’t think of the word “murderer”. And for some reason, just for a second, I mistakenly thought that we had actually pinned a name to the felon, and I couldn’t think of his name.
But I did remember something, which was even more disturbing to my rescuers. “What happened to the girl?” Seeing no trace of her, I began to look around the room frantically.
“What girl?” Bo asked, looking confused. “There’s no girl here.”
“I was
standing over a frightened young girl when I was struck from behind. She screamed just as it happened. You must have seen her.”
“We all heard a scream,” said Peterson. He eyed Bo and Morgana. His face began to telegraph, as I would like to say, a countenance of comforting insincerity. “It could’ve been woman’s or a girl’s scream. Whoever screamed, it brought us all here to you, but on our way, we didn’t see any girl. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a girl.” Peterson went on, obviously choosing his words carefully. “We just didn’t see anyone around except for you. And we found you face down, draped over this rock.”
I twisted myself to look over my left shoulder. There was a three foot high boulder that protruded from the dirt basement floor.
“You found me on that?”
“Yes, Sir, and bleeding from the head,” the deputy responded as he inspected the back of my head.
Bo picked up something that resembled a four foot long, rusty crowbar. “This was couple feet away from you. There were fresh marks in the dirt in the area where I discovered it, which makes me think that this thing was recently moved or dropped. Do you remember picking this up or tripping over it?”
I squeaked out a “No.”
“No, what? Remembering or picking it up or — ”
“I didn’t pick it up or trip over it,” I said rather harshly, which just made the back of my head feel worse.
“Well, then, I think it fair to surmise that you were hit from behind and our mysterious friend whacked you with this.” Bo dropped the bar and brushed her hands together. “You must have moved at the precise moment when you were struck. The result was that you just got clipped by what should have been a death blow. You are one, lucky teacher, Richard. There must be someone upstairs looking out for you.”
I found her remark particularly amusing at the time.
Bo must have seen me chuckle and asked, “Are you sure that you are okay?”
“Yeah, considering.” I instinctively touched my wound and looked at the blood on my fingers.
FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
