They watched as Morwenna thanked him, then stepped forward. She turned her head slightly, her eyes wandering off to the tree line.
Then she was stepping inside.
“Go!” Heath hissed.
He sprang from their hiding place like a jaguar.
Blood rushing in his ears, Cal ploughed forward.
Their feet pounded across the yard. They reached the house, just as the man was turning to close the door.
In a flash of movement, Heath rammed his shoulder into the wood. The door flew inward, knocking the man from his feet with a startled cry. He landed heavily on his back, the air knocked from his lungs.
His heart hammering like a hummingbird’s, Cal entered the house. He saw pairs of muddy Wellington boots lined up against the wall and a coat rack full of jackets. Beyond was a wide foyer with oak panelled walls and a grandfather clock in the corner. Large potted plants with thick, green leaves lined the edges. Normal things in a normal house.
Except for the man, who was scrabbling back on his elbows, his face contorted with terror.
“Don’t move a fucking muscle!” Heath bellowed, brandishing the hunting knife.
The man froze, raised a trembling hand.
“Please!” he cried. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Behind him, Morwenna stood with her feet apart and her eyes black as midnight, an unnerving grin fixed on her face.
Heath twisted around, staring wildly at Cal.
“What are you waiting for? Hit him!” he screamed.
Cal stared at the man, who was now hyperventilating in between braying sobs. He was older, Cal noted, around the same age as Grandpa Gary. But unlike Grandpa Gary, who had maintained a trim physique after years of physical labour working on boats, this man was flabby and unfit. Cal wondered who he was, and why Jacob had sent the Dawn Children to his house.
“Cal!”
He pulled his gaze away from the man and saw Heath’s wide-eyed, pallid face. His teeth were clenched, his lips pulled back. A thick vein throbbed at the centre of his forehead.
“Do it!” he yelled.
Cal stepped forward, hammer gripped in his fist.
The man began to cry like a child with a grazed knee.
“Do it!” Morwenna cried, her unnerving smile growing wider.
Cal towered over the man. He raised the hammer high above his head.
“Please!” the man begged, hands flapping in front of his face.
“Last chance,” Heath hissed. “Or you fail.”
Cal hesitated. The hammered wavered.
Go on, boy! Do it! Make your father proud!
Cal brought the hammer down. The man shrieked and twisted away. The hammer slammed into his shoulder with a dull thud.
Cal pounced on top of him, straddling his chest. He raised the hammer and brought it down again, striking the man’s temple.
Beneath him, the man stopped struggling. His eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Do it again! Smash his head like a pumpkin!
Cal raised the hammer.
A large hand wrapped around his wrist. He snapped his head up, lips curled back, staring at Heath.
“Jacob was right about you, after all,” Heath said quietly. “Now get up. You’ve done your part.”
Panting and wheezing, Cal glanced down at the unconscious man. He dropped the hammer with a clatter on the floor. In front of him, Morwenna started to laugh.
“Well done, Cal!” she said, nodding frantically. “You did it!”
Cal got to his feet. He stepped back, noting the thick blood leaking from the man’s temple. Morwenna crouched over the man and pressed two fingers against his neck.
“Still alive,” she said. “Unlucky for him.”
Retrieving the coil of rope that had fallen from his shoulder, Heath set to work, binding the man’s wrists.
Behind Cal, something moved. He spun around. A silver tabby cat sat half in the shadows, its green eyes fixed on its unconscious master. Cal approached it and crouched down. The animal turned to face him, making no move to attack or escape. Carefully, Cal ran his fingers along the length of the cat’s spine. The cat arched its back and started to purr.
“What are you doing?” Heath stared at him as he tied the man’s ankles. “Go outside and open the van door.”
Cal stroked the animal’s flanks, extracting loud, excited purrs.
“Cal!” Heath threw a key chain at him. Cal caught it with one hand. He stood up. And saw the child.
A young boy dressed in striped pyjamas stood on the staircase. He was no more than five years old, with a shock of blond hair and deep blue eyes that were round with fear. His face was pale and tear-stained as he stared at the strangers.
Morwenna looked at Heath. “Shit. I thought Jacob said he lived here alone.”
Heath’s black eyes were fixed on the boy. “He did.”
No one moved.
Then the boy began to cry.
Something stirred in Cal’s memory. The boy looked a lot like Noah Pengelly. Even the way he cried was similar.
“We’ll have to take him with us,” Morwenna said. “We can’t leave him here. He’s seen our faces.”
She reached for the blood-spattered hammer.
On the stairs, the boy was slowly retreating, blindly searching for the next step with his foot.
“We have to take him,” Morwenna said again, her voice taut with panic. “Jacob will know what to do.”
Slowly, Heath got to his feet. “Or we get rid of him along the way. We can take the coastal road, past the cliffs.”
“Heath, you can’t—” Morwenna’s voice was cut off by a loud groaning. On the floor, the man stirred. He grew still again.
Cal watched the scene with curious eyes. He glanced down at the cat, who was still purring and rubbing its flanks against his shins.
Heath darted forward toward the stairs.
The boy squealed.
Heath was upon him, sweeping him up in his arms, clamping a hand over his mouth. The boy kicked and squirmed.
Heath brought him down to the floor, pulling off one of the child’s socks and stuffing it into his mouth. He removed his shirt and used it to tie the boy’s hands behind his back.
“Get over here!” he barked, glaring at Cal.
Cal crossed the hall. Morwenna was no longer smiling. Both she and Heath were pale and trembling. Cal bent down and scooped his hands under the man’s arms. Together, he and Morwenna lifted him into the air and began carrying him out of the house. Behind them, Heath slung the boy over his shoulder. Reaching the van, they threw the unconscious man into the back. Heath threw the boy in after him.
“We don’t hurt children,” Morwenna said, her voice shaking. “Children are sacred. Children are the New Dawn.”
Heath stared at the boy, who was weeping in the shadows, his sobs muffled by the makeshift gag.
He nodded to Cal. “Get in there and watch him.”
Cal climbed in beside the boy. Heath slammed the door shut, plunging them into darkness. A minute later, they were back on the road and hurtling through the countryside. No one spoke. The air was heavy and cloying.
In the shadows, Cal watched the boy. He made no move to comfort him. The boy continued to sob quietly as they drove on through the darkness.
27
“HOW ARE WE DOING?”
It was ten a.m. on Sunday morning. Rose and Carrie sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the tea to finish steeping in the pot.
Carrie was exhausted. Her body ached. Cal’s toy dinosaur had been sitting on the back step for two days. She hadn’t visited the hardware store. Cal’s room remained the same.
She was supposed to be moving on. She’d promised herself.
Instead, she’d retreated to her bedroom, refusing meals, refusing to speak. Instead, she’d been watching endless hours of mindless television and drinking enough booze to impress the swarthiest of sailors.
When she’d slept, it had been in fits and starts, in part
due to the alcohol, but mostly because of the nightmares; terrible dreams in which Cal murdered her family, over and over, or Grady Spencer tied her down to the table in his basement of horrors and tortured her in unspeakable ways.
And now Rose was here.
Sally had let her in, then headed out for the day to visit friends in Falmouth, desperate to get away from the misery. Carrie glanced across the table at her friend, who was staring at her with worried eyes, and slowly shook her head.
“I’m not doing so good,” she said.
Rose smiled. She reached out a hand and Carrie took it in her own. “I’m not surprised. You’ve been to hell and back.”
“I don’t think I’m back yet.”
“But you will be soon.”
Carrie snorted. “Sally’s about ready to call the men in white coats and have me carted away.”
“She’s your mother. She’s worried, that’s all. It ain’t nice for her to see you this way.”
“No one asked her to come here.”
“But here she is, anyway. That has to count for something.”
Shrugging a shoulder, Carrie reached for the tea pot.
As she poured the tea into cups, she was aware of a trembling in her hands. Rose saw it, too.
“How’s that girl of yours?” she asked, accepting a cup. “She all right over there with Gary and Joy?”
Carrie spooned sugar into her tea, watching the grains sink beneath the surface. “She’s fine.” She pushed the sugar bowl across the table. “Dylan is taking good care of her.”
“Well, of course. He’s her father, after all.”
Rose was staring at her intently, her brow creased, her lips pressed together. Oh great, Carrie thought. Here we go.
It was the same look that came over Rose whenever she was about to offer advice—advice that Carrie wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. She leaned back in her chair and threw her hands in the air. “Go on, Rose. Say whatever it is you want to say.”
Rose stared at her. She sipped some tea then heaved her shoulders. “How long are you going to keep this up?” she said.
“Keep what up?”
Now it was Rose’s turn to throw up her hands. “All this! This house of despair! None of us can possibly know what you’re going through. But what I do know is that Cal may be gone, but Melissa is still here. She’s your daughter, Carrie. You’re her mother. She needs you. She needs to come home with you.”
Carrie winced at the words. She felt a headache coming on. “You sound just like Sally,” she said, crossing her arms over her stomach.
“Well maybe you should listen to one of us. The quicker you let your daughter back in your life, the quicker you’ll start to heal. You need to let the people that love you, love you. And Melissa has so much love for you.” She paused, glancing away for a second. “Dylan, too.”
“I know that.” Carrie felt a stab of irritation in her chest. It was rare that her friend could cause such a feeling. “But it’s not that simple. I can’t just forget what’s happened. I can’t pretend everything is fine.”
Rose picked up her cup and took a sip. “No one is saying it’s easy. In fact, I’m telling you it will be bloody hard. But what’s the alternative? You don’t get to stop being Melissa’s mother just because you feel bad. God knows, there are plenty of children in this world whose parents don’t care about them. Look at my Nat. You know what she’s been through at the hands of her so-called parents. How damaged she is because of it. Do you want that to happen to Melissa? Do you want her to grow up thinking you sent her away because you didn’t want her?”
Carrie was quiet for a moment, irritation turning to anger. “This isn’t about rejection, Rose,” she said. “It’s not about sending Melissa away because I don’t want to be her mother.”
“But that’s the message you’re sending, anyway. You really think a four-year-old’s going to understand why her mother would rather stay home and drink herself to death?”
Carrie flinched. She felt her face heating up.
Rose lowered her gaze to the table. “You reek of it, Carrie. I could smell it on you before you even came downstairs.”
Both women were silent, their heads bowed.
“It’s been nearly three months,” Rose said at long last, her voice soft and gentle. “Are you really going to keep Melissa away on the off chance he might come back? She could grow old and die before that happens. We all could.”
A single tear sailed down Carrie’s cheek. She wanted nothing more than to run upstairs and drink herself into unconsciousness. But shame and guilt kept her pinned to the chair.
“I’m scared you’re going to sink down into a hole and never come back up,” Rose whispered. “After everything you’ve been through, you deserve more than that.”
Carrie wiped the tear away, wondering if she really did deserve more. She glanced at her friend, silently debating whether to tell her about Aaron Black, about what he’d told her.
But it was as if Rose had read her mind.
“Anyway, no reason to keep on about it,” she said, before arching an eyebrow. “Have you heard about the author who’s in town? Aaron ‘holier than thou’ Black.”
Carrie looked up. “Sounds like you’ve met him.”
“I can do better than that. I’ve had him around for dinner.”
Shocked, Carrie listened as Rose told her about her encounter with the writer and Nat’s involvement with him. “I tell you,” she said, “that girl is going to be the death of me. She’ll send me to an early grave! I’ve warned her to stay away from him. I’ve told her that he’s trouble. But you know what she’s like. The girl’s as stubborn as an ox. Has he been to see you yet?”
For a reason that she couldn’t quite fathom, Carrie shook her head. “Nat’s working for him?”
“Helping with research or some such.” Rose sighed. “She says she needs the money, thinks she’ll be cast out on the streets at the stroke of midnight on her eighteenth birthday, like she’s Cinderella with a crew cut, or something. Daft bird! I’ve told her she has a roof over her head for as long as she needs it. I don’t care about the money. But will she listen?”
Carrie nodded, not really listening either.
“Is it true what they say about him?” she asked. “That he’s writing a book about. . . Well, about all this?”
“A true crime account is what he’s calling it.” Rose waved a dismissive hand. “He’s not a bad person, not really, not like some of those journalists you’ve had around. He’s passionate, I’ll give him that, and he seems to think he knows his stuff about all that psychobabble-whatnot. But honestly, I wouldn’t worry. From the sound of things, he’s not getting very far. No one’s talking to him. No one except Dottie Penpol, of course. Give it a day or two, he’ll probably give up and go home.”
Carrie leaned back in the chair. Anxiety fluttered in her chest.
“So, you think he’s genuine?” she asked, looking directly at Rose. “He’s not a hack?”
Rose narrowed her eyes. “You’re not thinking about talking to him, are you?”
“No. Of course not. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
But she had heard the hesitation in her own voice.
And so had Rose. She sipped more tea, her gaze fixed on Carrie.
“Probably just as well,” she said. “There are more important things at stake.”
Carrie nodded. She attempted a smile.
“You’re right,” she said.
But now, she couldn’t think of anything more important than finding out if Aaron Black had been telling the truth after all.
28
AARON WAS PREPARING to leave the hotel room, ready for another day of driving in the cold and rain, of roaming from farm to farm in the vain hope that someone, somewhere could provide him with any kind of clue to Cal Anderson’s whereabouts, when his mobile phone rang. The muscles in his shoulders immediately tensed. If it was Taylor calling again, he would need to seriously consider changing his numb
er, or at least think about buying a disposable phone to use, so that he could switch this one off.
The guilt was starting to get to him, weighing him down. He supposed he should be thankful that Taylor hadn’t involved the police. Not that there would soon be any money left for them to recoup.
Steeling himself, he glanced at the phone screen. The caller ID displayed a mobile number he didn’t recognise. Perhaps Taylor was getting sly, trying to trick him into picking up. Try all you want, he thought. Aaron Black is smarter than that.
Hooking his bag over his shoulder, he waited for the mystery caller to hang up, then slipped the phone inside his pocket. As he rode the lift down to the lobby, the phone started to ring again.
The usual receptionist sat at the front desk, his eyes glazed with boredom. As Aaron entered, he sprang to life, like a marionette having its strings pulled.
“Don’t you ever go home?” Aaron asked him, a wry smile on his lips.
The receptionist scowled.
Leaving the hotel, Aaron pulled his jacket collar around his neck and hurried to his car. He let the engine run for a minute and rubbed his hands together as he waited for the heaters to kick in. Then, laying the map out on the passenger seat, he glanced over the circled area and the number of places still left to investigate. He winced, attempted to push back the taunting despair.
His phone rang for a third time.
“Son of a. . .”
Pulling the phone from his pocket, he checked the screen with one eye shut. It was that same number again.
Switching on the radio, he turned to a local station and cranked up the volume, drowning out the ring tone. A news reader was in mid-flow.
“. . . police were alerted to the scene early this morning, after Beaumont’s cleaner found the front door open and scenes of a struggle inside. The former councillor’s four-year-old son is also believed to be missing. Beaumont stepped down from his councillor position a year ago following allegations of child abuse. All charges were eventually dropped. Mr. Beaumont had recently acquired weekend visitation rights for his son after a lengthy custody battle with his ex-wife. Detective Inspector Angela Wells has stated that Devon and Cornwall police are still establishing the crime scene. We’ll have more on the story as it comes in. . .”
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