A few seconds later, having followed his instructions without difficulty, they were sitting in the blessed flow of cool air.
After all they’d been through, it was tempting to just relax for a moment and rest. Which is what they did until Carl said, “We shouldn’t stay here. Let’s get moving.”
He identified the brake and gas pedal for her and gave her a quick lesson in use of the transmission. “Okay, put your foot on the brake, then move the transmission into reverse. Good. Now in a moment, when you take your foot off the brake, turn the steering wheel clockwise . . . that’ll make the car curve backward so we’ll be pointing in the direction we want to go. For now, don’t use the gas.”
Beth did fine until at the end of the reverse maneuver she hit the gas instead of the brake, sending them shooting backward. Correcting her mistake, she stopped the car so quickly it snapped Carl’s head into the headrest.
Eyes wide and filled with anguish she looked at Carl. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing fine. Everybody has moments like that in the beginning. Now put it in drive and lightly give her some gas. When we reach the road out front, check for any cars coming, then turn right.”
On the way out, she let the right wheels run off the drive into some tall weeds, but quickly corrected her course and made a smooth turn onto Portobella Road, where they saw Mahler’s car.
“Bet that belongs to the guy who attacked us,” Carl said.
Beth eased up on the gas. “Want to stop?”
“Keep moving. I want as much distance between us and this place as we can get.”
“Where are we going?”
“I booked us into a Ramada Inn in Loiza. So when we reach the highway, turn right.”
“Assuming that place back there was a boarding school, I guess those bones we found belonged to one of its students,” Beth said.
“Seems likely. But what the devil happened? If those other Xs also mark burial sites, that’s three dead kids. What kind of school is so dangerous your kid can die there? And how is it they were able to get away with just burying them out back like a family pet?”
“Because it wasn’t a school,” Beth said, now so comfortable driving she deftly avoided a chicken that suddenly darted across the road.
“An orphanage?” Carl guessed.
“I think so.”
“Maybe Hollenbeck was on the board of directors. That’s how he knew where those kids were buried.”
“I don’t see how that would tie in with Artisan.”
“Me neither,” Carl said. “But Hollenbeck is still the key. I’m sure of it. We need to know more about him.”
“What about that woman who wrote those letters . . . Rosa Suarez?. Our flight doesn’t leave tomorrow until late. We could try to find her and see what she can tell us.”
“That’s exactly what I’d planned to do. The map we got from the rental car office shows that Canovanas, where she lives, isn’t far from here.”
Chapter 39
CARL AND BETH stopped at a pharmacy in Loiza and picked up some Tylenol, an assortment of first aid supplies, a ten-day course of oral antibiotics to prevent Carl’s wound from becoming infected, and a crutch so he could get around without hopping or leaning on Beth. They then checked into their respective rooms, showered, and found a restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, with the help of the clerk at the Ramada desk who spoke both Spanish and English, they got a phone number for Rosa Suarez from information, then went to Carl’s room to make the call, hoping she spoke English.
“Mrs. Suarez?”
“Si.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Carl Martin. I’m here in Puerto Rico on some business, and I was wondering if I might come by tomorrow morning and talk to you about Arnold Hollenbeck.”
“Why?”
“I understand you were friends.”
“Who told you that?”
“It’s very complicated and not easily explained over the phone.”
“What did you mean when you said we were friends?”
“I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t know. Dr. Hollenbeck died six months ago in an accident at his home.” There was silence on the other end. “Mrs. Suarez, are you still there?”
Finally, she said, “I had no idea he’d passed. Six months ago you say?”
“Yes . . . carbon monoxide poisoning . . . from a faulty furnace.”
“Mi Dios . . . Arnold . . . gone.”
“Could we drop by tomorrow and speak to you about him?”
“Is there some problem?”
Believing he might be on the verge of losing her, Carl went right to his strength. “I have all the letters you wrote him. I thought you might like to have them back.”
“My letters,” she said, her voice acquiring an edge. “You want to sell them to me?”
Carl winced at the way she’d taken his response. “No, no. Not at all. They’re yours for nothing.”
“Then, yes, I would like them. If you come tomorrow at nine, I’ll be here.”
She gave Carl instructions on how to get to her home, then the conversation was over.
“It’s all set,” Carl said, hanging up and looking at Beth, who was sitting on the opposite bed. “It’s only about eight miles from here, so we should leave around eight thirty. That should give us enough time to find her place.”
Beth stood. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember ever being this tired before, even including what happened to us in that mine.”
Carl grabbed his crutch and got off the bed. “Believe me, I know what you mean. I’m drained emotionally as well as physically.”
“How’s your leg. Does it hurt?”
“No. I’m sure it would if it weren’t for the Tylenol.”
Beth stepped forward, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. She pulled back, but remained closer than she would in normal conversation. “You were very brave today.”
Carl looked into her eyes and believed he saw there what every man hopes to see when looking at a woman he desires. But the difference in age between them couldn’t be ignored. Then, doing precisely that, he moved his face toward hers, watching for the slightest sign he’d misread the signals.
Beth’s mind, too, was racing along with her heart. She had a far better reason than Carl to stop this, but couldn’t. She needed more, longed for the kind of connection that can exist only between a man and a woman. Aware of how selfish she was being and how wrong it was, she met his lips with her own and they kissed softly.
Then each stepped back, self-conscious about what had just happened, both apologizing at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Carl said. “I—”
“No. It was my fault,” Beth said, her face growing pink with embarrassment at what she’d done. She’d had no right to lead Carl to kiss her, to imply there could be something between them that could last beyond the next few days. “I should go.”
“If you think so, then I guess it’s the right thing.”
Beth turned, walked to the door, and left, muttering “Goodnight,” without looking back.
In the hall, she paused, the semantics she’d hidden behind earlier to keep from telling him the truth suddenly seeming like the flimsy deception it was. After all he’d done for her . . . almost losing his life twice, how could she not tell him? But there was the pledge she’d taken to never speak of it to anyone outside the enclave. She had the right to decide her own course, but her friends back in Artisan . . . how could she betray them?
Of course, there were other considerations. Her parents’ remains missing . . . Did Father Hanson know that? And what about the way she and Carl were chased out of the cemetery by people who had shot to kill. And the man from the plane . . . sent after them. Add al
l that to the apparent lie about how her husband had died and those odd Hollenbeck numbers assigned to each person in Artisan . . . Was it really in the town’s best interests for her to keep her pledge, or would they be better served if she didn’t? The dilemma pulled at her like buzzards picking at a carcass.
Then, making her decision, she turned and knocked on Carl’s door.
When he opened it she said, “Remember back in Little Rock when you asked if I was ill and I said no?. At that moment my answer was truthful. But it avoided the broader intent of your question. The entire truth is . . . I’m dying.”
Chapter 40
CARL HEARD THE words, but rejected the meaning “Dying . . . what do you . . . I don’t—”
“Let me in and I’ll explain.”
Carl slowly stepped back, his mind a piece of machinery stalled by the wrench Beth had just dropped into it.
She came in and shut the door. “This is going to take a while, so we should sit down.”
Carl shuffled over to one of the upholstered chairs by the window, eased himself into it, and propped his crutch on the armrest. Beth pulled the chair from the writing desk over to where he waited, sat, and folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing in telling you this,” she began, “because it doesn’t concern just me. It affects the entire population of Artisan. We’ve only known each other for a few days, but in that time it’s become obvious to me you’re a man whose word means something. So before I start, will you promise to tell no one what I’m about to say unless I give you permission?”
“I promise.”
“And you will not interfere in any way with the daily routine in Artisan unless I agree?”
Her preamble to explaining what she meant at the door was getting so bizarre Carl found it hard to just sit there and not react. “Beth, this is—”
“Yes or no. Can I rely on you?”
Seeing this was going to play out her way or not at all, Carl calmed down. “I agree not to interfere.”
“How old do I look to you?”
“Twenty-two or twenty-three.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“That’s amazing. I had no idea.”
“And it didn’t just happen naturally. Since the flu epidemic I told you about, everyone in Artisan has aged much more slowly than normal.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Shortly after the epidemic, our then pastor, Father Sealy, said that because of our piety and all we’d suffered, God had decided to bless those who survived. This blessing was to be given to everyone who took communion twice a week, once on Sunday and again on Wednesday. As long as we were faithful with our communion, we could look forward to a life span more like those in the Old Testament than what’s common now. But if we missed even one communion, we would die within two weeks. The day you and I met was Wednesday. I missed that one.”
Carl was no atheist. There was too much about life that seemed magical for him to doubt there was some guiding hand ultimately behind it. But he didn’t support that belief by affiliation with any church, nor did he acknowledge his position by outward behavior. As a scientist, he couldn’t afford to believe that on a whim, the architect of creation could decide to change the laws by which living things operate. That alone would have made him skeptical of Beth’s story. But most importantly, if what she’d just said was true, she really was dying and there would be nothing he could do about it.
“And you all believed this?”
“Why wouldn’t we? The church was the center of our lives. If the leader of the church tells you something, you don’t question it.”
Carl’s mind ground away at the edges of Beth’s story, trying to create a handle he could grab on to. “So there’s something in the communion wafer or the wine . . .”
“It’s the wine. An ingredient Father Sealy, and now Father Hanson, grows in a garden behind the parsonage. There’s apparently a limited amount that can be grown in one season, just enough to supply the needs of the town until the next harvest. That’s why we’re pledged to tell no outsiders about it. If anyone else knew, eventually, people would come to Artisan to find out more about it . . . maybe even try to take what we have stored. Then, everyone in the town would die. That’s why I made you promise to keep what I was about to tell you just between us.”
Something grown in the parsonage garden. Carl became optimistic. Now they were in his territory. “Did anyone ever test the warning about missing a communion?”
“Occasionally, the isolation of life in Artisan becomes a burden, and a resident will decide they don’t want to continue.”
“To live there, you mean.”
“To live at all. Including myself, there have been two others, like me, people who had lost their spouses and felt so lonely, life no longer held much attraction for them. Two of us decided we would leave Artisan and spend our last weeks seeing what else was in the world. Benjamin Rasco you know about.”
“But he died of a stab wound.”
“An unfortunate event that didn’t allow him to live out his two weeks.”
“Who was the other one?”
“Gayle Dickerson. One Wednesday, she didn’t drink the wine. She did the same thing the next Sunday. Within two weeks, she was dead.”
“With what symptoms?”
“I’m not sure. She was expecting it to happen, so when she first started feeling ill, she went right to the hospital. She died there a few days later.”
“Before she got sick, did Hanson or Meggs know what she’d done?”
“No one did, except me.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“No. What are you thinking?”
“I was just wondering if those two might have arranged for her to die to keep you all in line.”
“How could they do that if they didn’t know?”
“They couldn’t, at least not actively. Apparently, whatever’s in the wine is keeping everyone alive.” The conversation then ebbed until Carl said, “Was life really so hard for you there, you want to give it up?”
“Before I answer, let me ask you a question. A few minutes ago, before I left your room . . . when we kissed. What was that?”
“I thought it was an expression of mutual affection.”
“Affection? That’s a word you might use to describe your feelings for a cat.”
“Then it was the wrong word, at least for my part.”
“Why did you apologize afterward?”
“Because I thought I was too old for you.”
“Too old for what?”
“To explore the possibility that with you, my life might make sense.”
Beth exhaled heavily and slumped in her chair. “When I left Artisan I was so lonely and unhappy I didn’t want to live any longer.” She lowered her face and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the mess she’d made of things. With her right hand cupping her cheek and brow she slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry now I made that decision.” She dropped her hand back in her lap and looked up. “But if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have met and I’d still be miserable.” An expression of resignation crossed her face. “Guess I had no chance of coming out on the right end of this.”
Carl was split by contradictory feelings. She cared for him . . . but she was dying. They were the same age . . . but soon, she’d be gone. She felt the same way about him as he did her . . . but what did it matter . . .?
He grabbed his crutch and struggled out of his chair. “Maybe there’s something we can do. If I could get some of that wine, I could have it analyzed. Knowing what’s in it, I might be able to find a way to stop what’s going to happen to you.”
He began to pace, leg and crutch. “But this isn’t a poison . . .”
Beth got up and turned to
watch him hobble past the beds.
“You don’t die from taking it. You die by not taking it.” He shook his head. “That’s a much harder problem.”
“Short of an armed invasion of Artisan there’s no way to get a wine sample,” Beth said. “And I’m not going to be part of something like that.”
Carl turned to look at her. “Does that include a state police search and seizure?”
“Search and seizure . . . that’s exactly what I want to avoid. Even if we could get the authorities involved, which we probably couldn’t, they’d confiscate the wine and whatever’s being added to it as evidence. Be realistic. How likely is it that in fourteen days, or in my case, twelve, you could figure out what to do even if you had some samples?”
“It wouldn’t be easy but there is a chance.”
“And what about everyone else in town? A lot of people—no, make that most of them—are happy with things just as they are. What right do I have to take that away?”
“But it’s not what they think. From what we already know, this is no gift from God.”
“We don’t know yet what it is.”
Carl was aware of the long odds against him finding a way to reverse the process that would soon take Beth’s life. But to be denied the chance to try made him feel worthless.
“My suggestion for now,” Beth said, “is to follow up with Rosa Suarez as we’d planned. We’re going to be here anyway. And see where that takes us.”
“She was just his mistress,” Carl said. “What can she possibly tell us that would—” Realizing he was stealing hope from her with his pessimism, and that it had been his idea in the first place to see Suarez, Carl cut his objection short. “You’re right. Let’s do that. Who knows what might come of it?”
Beth came over and put her arms around him. “When I left Artisan, I wanted to see what I might have been missing. And look what I found.”
Chapter 41
“THERE IT IS,” Carl said, spotting the Suarez name on a lopsided mailbox a second before Beth saw it.
The previous night, after discussing this trip, they had lain fully clothed in each other’s arms in Carl’s bed, each nervous about what might and should happen next. But with all they had been through that day, they had both fallen asleep before any decision had been made. In the morning, they woke too late to do anything but change clothes, eat, and get on the road. But even without anything sexual having occurred, they’d forged a bond that made the thought of Beth’s impending death so painful it was hard for Carl to think of anything else.
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