The Edge of Recall

by Kristen Heitzmann

  The dog smelled him. He smelled the dog. Amber eyes opened, glowed red. He brought his face up against the short, tight, midnight fur, the floppy muzzle, moist nose. Warm, wet tongue, warm, dry breath. He rubbed his face on the dog’s, shaking with joy.

  The animal flopped to his side, surrendering his post, opening the way. Carefully, silently, he curled his shoulders in and pressed through the flapping door. He made his breath nothing in his ears, so only the sounds they made came in. One rumbly snore, one nasal whiffle.

  He crawled across the floor, pulled up on the pantry door, and slipped inside the narrow-shelved space. He felt with his fingers, the packages, the cans, the flip tops that meant meat or soup or stew. He picked one, not knowing which it would be, and slipped out. Back through the little door, back past the dozing dog. But not to the woods. Not yet.

  He pulled open the can and dug his fingers into hash. He licked his lips, licked his fingers, and when he found a trash bin, slipped the can inside. No trace. No trail. He worked his way past the dark backsides of a few more houses and buildings, skirting the ones with lights, squinting at the offense.

  He moved past the sleeping church to a small brick building. His hands quivered. He moved around to the side, pressed between the scratchy shrubs and the rough wall. Gripping the grate, smaller even than the dog’s door, he moved it aside. He almost had to dislocate his shoulders to squeeze through, but he made it and dropped to the floor with glee.

  The pitch-black cellar smelled of dust and mildew. He breathed it like perfume, moving between the stacks without hesitation. He reached the stairs and climbed, went through the door, trying not to giggle. To the desk. The drawer. He felt for the metal cylinder, small and thin like a finger.

  Bracing himself, he pressed one end, and a small, bluish light came out the point. The contents of the food cans could be a surprise, but not this. For this he needed just enough light to choose. He moved over to the first rack, the first floor-to-ceiling row of books. Heart racing, he let the light run over their titles, the numbers and categories on the white labels across their spines. He touched them, fingered them. What should he choose? What would he learn? This time.

  CHAPTER

  7

  With a thrust of her boot, Tessa dug the spade’s edge into the turf between the footers at the labyrinth’s entrance. It felt as though she were disturbing something that had lain for a long time in peace and maybe wanted to stay that way. Then again, it was only dirt and grass and had no feelings one way or the other.

  She had spent the last several days in meetings, poring over the plot plan, and generating her own drawings. She liked what she’d heard of the team members over the speaker phone, and the field engineer she’d met. But she had been there three weeks and was only now starting the actual recovery of the labyrinth.

  Groaning when her phone rang, she stood the shovel in the ground. If it was Smith calling another meeting she’d scream, but it was her assistant. “Hi, Genie. What’s up?”

  “Two things. Wilmette Meyer called—and she does want the fountain after all.”

  “I already finished that job, and it wasn’t in the bid since she insisted a fountain wouldn’t look right.”

  “Now she thinks maybe you were right. She went back and looked at your original drawings and wants the fountain.”

  “I reworked the design to take it out. I’d have to undo things to get it back in.”

  “She said you could put it anywhere.”

  Well, if symmetry and aesthetics didn’t matter . . . “Send me my designs, and I’ll see what it would take. But I can’t say when I’ll get to it.” Ordinarily she’d snatch it up, but what she would make on the labyrinth project easily covered all her winter expenses, and she didn’t want the distraction. “Not till next spring. And make sure she understands this is a new bid.”

  “Will do.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “You missed your appointment with Dr. Brenner. He wants to know if you’re all right.”

  Tessa made an exasperated noise. “I meant to call him, but I got wrapped up in things here. Can you ask him to suspend my appointments until I get back? I’ll call to reschedule.”

  “Umm . . .”

  “What?”

  “He wanted to hear from you.”

  “Then why didn’t he call my cell?”

  “I don’t know. He just said to have you call him.”

  She got it. He wanted to hear for himself what condition she was in, and he wanted her to initiate the call since she had missed the appointment. “I’ll take care of it. How’s the house?”

  “A whole lot nicer than anything else I’d be in.”

  Having Genie move in had been a stroke of genius. It gave her a safe place to stay and kept the house, plants, and stray cat cared for.

  “You haven’t forgotten the plants?”

  “Takes about three hours each time, but yeah, I’m watering them.”

  “Well, thanks for the messages. Take care.” Tessa drew a breath and speed-dialed Dr. Brenner. His receptionist answered and Tessa identified herself.

  “One moment.”

  Then Dr. Brenner came on the line. “Good morning, Tessa.”

  “Almost afternoon here.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Southern Maryland.”

  “Aha. I thought you’d finished in Virginia and were coming back.”

  She thought warmly that it sounded like something a dad would say to an adult child who had changed plans. “I’m so sorry I forgot to cancel my appointment. I made a snap decision and got caught up in what I found.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t free up my slot.”

  “You know that isn’t my concern.”

  “I know.” The last time she’d missed without notifying him, she’d been in a bad place. “It’s just when Smith called—”

  “Smith Chandler?”

  “He found a labyrinth, an actual historic labyrinth. I’m standing on it now. Or what’s left of it.” She looked over the ridged field. “Actually, if you didn’t know what you were looking at, you’d miss it altogether.”

  The doctor’s silence created a void she rushed to fill.

  “I have the chance to re-create it. A Chartres-style labyrinth, eleven circuits in hedge. I’ve never seen that design done vertically. I’m . . . really excited.”

  “I can hear that.”

  “So I’ll be here for a while.”

  “You think that’s wise? Two stressors and no safety net?”

  “I can call, right? I could have a session on the phone?”

  “Yes, Tessa, you could. But will you?”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “I thought you’d want me to face Smith. I thought you’d recommend it.”

  “I would. If it didn’t involve a labyrinth.”

  “I didn’t know until I got here. He was very mysterious. But I wouldn’t miss this opportunity for anything. I know you understand.”

  “You know my concerns. I don’t like your fascination with things that terrify you.”

  “Only in my dreams.”

  “Dreams that arise from an untapped trauma.”

  “Or the memory I’ve described again and again.”

  “A happy memory of flying over a labyrinth with your father would not account for the terror and despair of the nightmares.”

  They’d had this argument ad nauseam. “I’m fine.”

  “If you uncover that trauma while unearthing this labyrinth, and have no one there to help you process it . . .”

  She didn’t mention the sense of danger she’d experienced. While she appreciated his concern, she didn’t want to intensify it. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s discuss Smith and why you didn’t tell me you were going to see him.”

  “I was between appointments when he called. I decided to see what he wanted.”

  “And then forgot your appointment altogether.�
�

  “Not intentionally. But this is a chance to deal with things, with . . . Smith. I want closure.”

  “Do you?”

  “After I create this labyrinth.”

  Dr. Brenner sighed. “I’d like you to check in weekly by phone.”

  They hadn’t talked every week for a long time, but with her elevated stress level it might be a good idea, and with the money Gaston was paying she could afford to. “All right. But I’m fine.”

  “No nightmares?”

  “None I can’t handle.”

  “Hmm. I’m penciling you in at three o’clock your time Wednesday afternoons.”

  It would be good to fill him in on the progress, someone who understood. She kept her tone light so he wouldn’t sense the tension he already suspected. He had helped process the hurt, and must guess how hard this was. For a brief moment she acknowledged the irrationality of keeping secrets from her therapist, then shrugged.

  “Okay. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Tessa.”

  She pocketed her phone, took hold of her spade, and stomped the blade into the ground. She lifted a chunk of sod and then another and another until the stone surface appeared. She got down on her knees and used the hand trowel to clear enough to get a look. The bordering walls rose about two feet, and though covered in sod, they had made the pattern visible to the knowing eye. She stood and applied the shovel once again.

  It didn’t matter that her skin prickled like a lightning storm if Smith got too close, or that she turned everything he said over and over, looking for innuendo and alternate meaning. It didn’t matter that the feeling of being watched had not gone away. All that mattered was the labyrinth. Call her obsessive. She didn’t care. She couldn’t wait to see what lay beneath the centuries of sod.

  Nothing would frighten her off, and she would not let her issues with Smith get in the way, when this could be the fulfillment of a longing that had been with her longer than any other.

  Smith didn’t know what to think of Tessa’s working like a laborer. With her qualifications, she should never have to touch a shovel. Did she not understand delegation? Her part, like his, was to visualize, conceive, and direct others to bring those plans to fruition. Yet there she was, digging in the field all by herself.

  She said she’d never recovered an ancient labyrinth before, but even if it were a dig, she could have workers uncover the site. He shook his head. Not his business. As long as she completed her design and executed it on schedule, she could do as she liked with the labyrinth—as it seemed she was.

  Deeply focused, she appeared oblivious to his approach, though that could be intentional, he supposed. He stood four feet away when she finally noticed him with a sudden, searching gaze that made him want to run far and fast.

  He cleared his throat. “Everything all right?” The question could have opened delicate areas better left alone, but thankfully she merely nodded.

  He motioned to the spade. “You’re really going to dig it out by hand?”

  She brushed the hair back from her face. “I’m trying to see what’s here. These side walls have held the troughlike shape of the path”—she dug in again—“for a long time. It looks like the stonework survived the fire.”

  “So it seems. The wooden structure burned readily enough.”

  “I wonder what started it.”

  “I’m guessing that would be who. According to Gaston’s records, the religious feuds in this area got nasty.”

  She turned. “Didn’t the Maryland colony pass a religious tolerance act—like a precursor to the First Amendment?”

  “To start with. But others came in who disagreed. When they came into power, they destroyed churches and schools before religious tolerance was restored.”

  “So it wasn’t an accidental fire.”

  “Records are sketchy on this exact one, but from what I’ve read generally, the odds are in favor of intent. Especially since it wasn’t rebuilt. I’m not sure what you’ll find digging around in there.”

  Her hand recoiled from the shovel. “You don’t think people were in the labyrinth when the hedge burned.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time hatred in God’s name had deadly results.”

  A shudder passed over her, but with only a slight hesitation, she repositioned the spade. “Thanks for the warning.” She stomped it into the earth. It sank with a distinct metallic clang.

  He tipped his head. “What was that?”

  “Not a skeleton.” She tossed the clod aside.

  “Here, let me.” He took the spade and maneuvered its blade close to her last cut. His also hit metal. She knelt and brushed the dirt away with her hands.

  “There’s something there.”

  He removed another chunk of sod, and another.

  “Be careful of the stone walls.” She shoved dirt off a discolored metal rod. “Here,” she said. “Dig here.” Off to the side of the path.

  He obliged, and she cleared a metal curve and leaf. She looked up. “The gate?”

  “Could be.” He was not much for old things but had to admit this intrigued him, especially seeing how Tessa lit up.

  She took back the spade and dug vigorously. When she appeared to tire, he took over, carefully removing the turf from the gate as she kept clearing the dirt. In a little more than half an hour, they lifted it from the ground where it had lain for possibly three hundred years. Tessa was breathless as she ran her hands over the vines and leaves.

  “This pax symbol in the middle means peace. The labyrinth would have been used in that pursuit.”

  “Too bad it didn’t work.”

  “Smith, this is—” She shook her head, speechless.

  He pulled a smile. “Shall I consider myself thanked?”

  She dragged out a grudging “Yes,” but couldn’t hide the excitement as she gripped an edge of the gate. “Can you help me move it onto the turf?”

  They laid it flat and examined the design and condition. Six feet by three, he estimated, with a keyed lock.

  Tessa brushed the surface with her hand. “I think it’s bronze, oxidized, but it might still be saved.”

  “Think you’ll use it?”

  “If I could figure out why it was there in the first place. I’ve never seen a gated labyrinth. I was hoping the historical society might have something about the monastery, but so far I haven’t found much.”

  “The college has archeological and historical information. They’re currently rebuilding historic St. Mary’s City. You might try there, but remember, Tess, you can’t say anything about what we’re doing. Not even to get information.”

  “It can’t hurt to ask around.”

  He wasn’t so sure. “Don’t pique anyone’s curiosity.”

  “I know how to be discreet, Smith. Better than some people I know.”

  “Meaning me, I suppose?”

  “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “I’m quite sure you did. You’ve been sinking those tiny barbs since you got here.” He frowned. “What is it you think I betrayed?”

  “Besides me?”

  “You? How?”

  “Never mind.” She focused her attention on the gate. “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “I have loads to do, but I’m not leaving that statement—”

  “Forget it, Smith.” She rubbed furiously at the dirt caked on the leaves of the gate.

  “Right.” He wouldn’t even try to parse her comment. If she thought he’d been anything but circumspect in their prior interaction . . . All right, he had told their classmates what he thought of her defection. And what he thought of her new plan. He sighed. She might have a point, but wasn’t there a statute of limitations?

  The last thing he needed was drama, when this opportunity could open doors to people and places he might otherwise bang on his entire career and never gain entrance. He’d have to trust Tessa to uphold the non-disclosure. Gaston was near maniacal on that. She might not like it—or him—but she’d better
not violate the agreement just to pay back some real or imagined slight of years ago.

  Gaston was not a man to cross. He would slap a lawsuit on them so fast. Couldn’t she simply plant the labyrinth?

  He blinked in the shadows that were not enough, squinting into the overcast light at her working in the field. He should be sleeping, but he couldn’t resist looking. One more look at her on her knees, brushing the ground with her hands.

  He could almost feel her hands. Stroking. How long since a person’s hands had touched him? Humming softly, he slid his fingers down his arms, over his tender skin. In just the way she brushed the dirt. How easy it would be to creep up, creep up and see if she was soft, as soft as she looked.

  But she would scream. Scream and shield herself. Run.

  Better just to look. No! Better not to look. Not to want. She was one of them, not for him. No one for him. He clutched his head and slunk down, down low under the dark trees where the sun didn’t reach. Needles and leaves crunched under his side, under his cheek. He wanted his place but couldn’t get there, not with her where she was, where she shouldn’t be, where she took the dirt off the place she should not be.

  This one had been there so early he couldn’t get back. A moan that was more like a growl deep in his throat made a chipmunk scurry, but he didn’t snatch it. He curled up and let the moans come. What could he do, how could he make them leave? He knew so many things, but not that, never that, because he hadn’t needed to.

  Not since he’d been hidden, since she had made the screamers go away. But she was not there anymore. So long, so long since she had been there. And he was alone. And he had to make them go. And he didn’t know how.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Tessa had spent a good portion of every day over the month she’d been there on a different part of the property with her sketchbook and pencil, reading the land, watching what it told her about the play of light, the fall of shade, the flow of moisture. She sat down now, cross-legged, listening to the call of an oriole. Somewhere farther a squirrel chirped its way up a tree. Crickets and grasshoppers sang in the grasses as the fall sunshine warmed her head. With her design nearly complete, her excitement had grown, though nothing compared to her plans for the labyrinth.