by Allen Kent
“The castle?”
“Yes. This city is fantastic, Tate.” For a moment, she seemed to forget the reason for her call. “I wish you could be here to see it with me.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “Wish I could too.”
“Well, it’s really old and looks like you imagine Scotland would look. Big old stone buildings and streets that are paved with bricks. The river is only about five minutes from the hotel. When you walk over there, you can see this castle not far upriver on a hill. I went there early this morning, but it wasn’t open yet. It’s just like one you’d see in Braveheart or one of those movies.”
“Anyway,” she said, catching herself, “this person thought the kids left with these tourists who were going to the castle.”
“The student group wasn’t going to the castle?”
“Erin said they’d already been, but didn’t have a lot of time and kind of rushed through. The day Danny and Miriam disappeared was their free morning. We’re thinking they may have wanted to go back when they had more time and agreed to go back with this couple.”
“What did the couple look like?”
“Like I said—very casual. Shorts. Sunglasses. That’s why the witness thought they were tourists.”
“No, I mean did they look Middle Eastern, by any chance?”
“Nothing was said about that. I’ll ask.”
“Where are you now, Grace?”
“I’m still at the station. It’s out on the edge of the city by one of the hospitals. They had an officer come in and get me this morning. A detective inspector named Conall MacKay. He’s been really good about telling me what’s going on and said I can be as involved as I like. He seemed pretty impressed that I have a degree in law enforcement.”
Yeah, I thought, that, and that he’s never seen a cop who looks like you. Out loud I said, “Did you ask if they’d followed up on the possibility that whoever took the kids was after Miriam Haddad? That it was part of the old vendetta thing?”
“I did. The FBI called here after you talked to Agent Rosario. They’re checking that all out. Inspector MacKay said they contacted their own intelligence people and no one knows of anyone leaving Syria lately and showing up in this part of the country.”
“Didn’t they think it was kind of strange to find Miriam’s phone just sitting by the road? Not smashed or anything? Battery and card still in it?”
“Actually, they thought that wasn’t very suspicious. Cell phones are found all the time. It was like the kids were with someone, stopped for a break, and for whatever reason, Miriam left the phone. Maybe she just dropped it. I think they would have been more concerned if it had been smashed. I’m having a hard time convincing them that these aren’t kids who thought it would be a real kick to just take off with two strangers.”
“Yeah, but even so, knowing Miriam what little I do, I can’t see her dropping her phone and not noticing.”
“Knowing them the way I do, they’d never take off like that in the first place, Tate. I’m just telling you what I’ve learned.”
“Sure. I understand. Even if the police there think they might have gone off with someone, I imagine they’re checking with tourists and tour groups in the city to see if anyone can identify this couple.”
“Yes. Their constables—that’s the beat cops—have pictures of the kids and are going to all the hotels and tour places. But the city is crawling with visitors. The inspector told me they have more than twice the usual number because there is some kind of a big gathering related to Outlander.”
She was hitting me with a bit of pop culture I hadn’t been keeping up on. “Your mom mentioned this Outlander. Is that a movie?”
“I swear, Tate. Sometimes I think you live in another world. You know. On STARZ and Netflix? It’s a series like Game of Thrones. This World War Two nurse gets taken back in time to early Scotland? Claire and Jamie? I’m surprised you haven’t seen it. There’s a lot of sex in it.”
Talking to Grace about sex at 4:00 a.m. was not good for a psyche that was already missing her more than it wanted to admit.
I chuckled. “You think I’d know about it because there’s a lot of sex in it?”
“No. I didn’t mean that. But it’s one of the reasons it’s popular.”
“So, I gather you’ve watched it?”
“Everybody’s seen it, Tate—except you, I guess. Anyway, the stone circle where this nurse traveled back in time—Craigh na Dun—was supposed to be near Inverness.”
“Supposed to be? What does that mean?”
“Inspector MacKay tells me the stone circle doesn’t really exist. That they made the stones out of styrofoam or something. But that’s why so many tourists are here.”
“Okay. Got it. Anything else?”
“The police are pretty certain the kids didn’t go into the castle. There are cameras on the gate, and they didn’t enter between the time they left the hotel and when they should have been back.”
“Not good news. And no other sightings?”
“None so far.”
“Hmm. Not much good to pass along to the parents.”
“You can tell them the police have a lot of people working on it, Tate. They’re pretty concerned about having a couple of high school kids from the U.S. disappear. The police have teams canvassing the whole city and all the area around it. They’ve contacted officials down in England in case Danny and Miriam show up there. I’ve been given permission to ride along with Detective Inspector MacKay.”
“I’ll pass your message along. Remember to ask Erin about the passports. If the kids had them with them, you might suggest that the police check to see if they’ve been used anywhere.”
“I’ll do that,” she said quietly, then added, “and I’m doing the best I can here, Tate.”
Her apologetic tone made me feel like a schmuck. “I know you are, Grace. And better than any of the rest of us could.” I paused, then added, “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Tate. I’ll call tomorrow.”
15
My day had been planned for time in the office. I needed to catch up on the things Frankie and Rocky hadn’t been able to cover and let Marti know she didn’t have to hold the department together by herself. I spent the first hour passing Grace’s information along to the families and school administration and trying to talk them out of panic mode. I was just starting down Marti’s ‘To Do’ list when the phone rattled in my shirt pocket. It was Chase Backman.
“Yo, Chase,” I answered. “What can I do for you?”
“Better get out to Webber’s Mountain,” Chase said breathlessly. “I just pulled up at the bottom of the hill with their groceries and there’s a lot of smoke pouring up from the direction of the cabin. No way to get a truck up there, but I’ve called the department. I’m headed up.”
For the past five years, Chase, who runs our ambulance service and funeral home, has made a weekly run out to the mountain to take groceries to the twins and make sure they don’t need a ride back to the clinic.
“Call the volunteers at Jacob’s Creek,” I suggested. “They’re much closer. I’m on my way.” I paused just long enough to explain to Marti my change of plan and get an “Oh, those poor old ladies” as I headed out the door.
Edith and Ethel live on what everyone calls Webber’s Mountain, a hill that is a little higher than most in the county and is studded with pines and mixed hardwoods. The only way to the clapboard cabin their father built is a narrow footpath trodden into the hillside by the old ladies’ clients as they wind their way up for psychic readings.
Granny Durbin was a regular, and my mother an occasional visitor when she felt the need for a glimpse into an uncertain future. I hadn’t placed much faith in the old women and their tea leaves until Miriam Haddad’s mother Lilia had started visiting the sisters seeking reassurance that her family back in Syria was safe. It was one of those readings that had first hinted that her more immediate family in Crayton was in danger, threatened b
y men seeking to settle an old tribal score. That case had been the last time I had worked with Mara Joseph. It had led to some sleepless nights as I struggled between a growing attraction for the feisty sprite of a state inspector and an uneasy awareness that the only thing keeping me from pursuing Grace Torres was the fact that I was her boss.
I had called Marti one morning to tell her I would be coming in late and had slipped away to see if The Old Women of the Mountain could peek into my own troubled future. Now, as I turned the Explorer south out of town and flipped on the lights and siren, I remembered the sisters introducing me to an Oolong tea that has since replaced coffee as my morning drink of choice. I could hear Ethel’s bird-like voice saying as they gazed at the scatter of leaves left in the bottom of my cup, “You have suffered a terrible loss in your life, young man. Part of what you wish to know is if you will ever be able to get over that loss.”
Though I had begun to allow that the sisters may have some powers of clairvoyance, her statement had hit me in the gut like a sucker punch. How could these old women know about the loss of Adeena? Or how, since coming back to Crayton, I had resisted any closeness to another woman because I blamed myself for Adeena’s death?
Edith had touched my arm. “You will never forget, but you will be able to forgive yourself. And there will be new love.”
My eyes misted again at the memory, as they had that spring morning. Edith Webber had squeezed my arm gently and murmured, “She would not wish you to carry this guilt.”
We had sat in silence for a long moment while they let me regain my composure, all the time feeling what I can only describe as psychic energy flowing between me and the two old women. Removing their hands, they had again bent over the cup and Edith said, “You have also come to ask about this new possibility of love.”
Again, her prescience had sucked the breath out of me.
“You see two paths before you and are unsure which you should follow,” Ethel had continued. “The leaves only tell us that you face these two paths. They do not show which you will follow. But one thing is clear. You will not need to choose. The decision will be made for you.”
Her prophecy had squeezed like a vice at my heart, triggering a crushing fear that I was about to suffer another unbearable loss. The women again took my elbows and pressed softly in unison.
“One path joins you together,” Ethel had said reassuringly. “The other, we cannot see its end.”
I had relived that visit to Webber’s Mountain when I saw Joseph again at troop headquarters and when Grace walked away from me toward the security line at the airport. I had been waiting, not at all patiently, for some sign as to which of the paths would join mine and which would trail away. I prayed now as I sped between fields of waist-high corn toward the shadowy roll of the hills that I would find the Webber sisters alive.
A water tender truck from the volunteer station at Jacob’s Creek had pulled up beside Chase’s ambulance and two pickups at the bottom of the hill, its light bar flashing and engine running. With no way to get water to the source of the billowing smoke that topped the hill like the plume of an angry volcano, the trucks had been abandoned. The thought flitted through my head as I started a steady jog up the trail that someone could easily drive off with the fire truck. But then, what do you do with a red tank truck with Jacob’s Creek Volunteer Fire Department emblazoned in big gold letters on the doors? The scream of chainsaws echoed down from the crest. As I neared the clearing, men’s voices called back and forth through a screen of shortleaf pines.
“You see any sign of them, Jason?”
“No. But there’s still some heavy piles of burning wood. Hard to know what’s under there.”
“You getting any side blazes?”
“Not over here. Things were pretty well cleared away from the cabin on this side.”
“We’re good here. I think we should just let her burn out.”
As I stepped into the clearing where the simple house had once stood, Chase Backman hurried toward me from the edge of the trees to my left.
“Good thing we’ve had some rain, Tate,” he said. “The sparks have been dying as they hit the ground or trees. Otherwise, this whole hill would have gone up in flames.”
I looked past him at the smoldering pile of charred wood. “Where are the sisters, Chase? Any sign of them?”
“Not yet. The guys from Jacob’s Creek got here in about twenty minutes. All they could do was pack portable extinguishers up the hill. But I have to tell you, I don’t think the twins are in there.”
“Why not?”
“I just about killed myself hustling up that path. The whole place was on fire when I got here, but the front door was gone and the roof hadn’t fallen in yet. I could see most of the inside of the cabin. I didn’t see any sign of the sisters.”
The four volunteers from Jacob’s Creek circled the clearing, their final blasts of foam smothering kindling that had fallen away from the collapsed building. I scanned the trees beyond them.
“I’m not sure the old ladies could even make the trek down the hill,” I told Chase. “If they weren’t in there, where would they go?”
He followed my gaze around the clearing, uttered a sharp, “Oh!” and grabbed my arm.
“Come with me,” he insisted. “I think I may know where they are.”
He steered me past the firemen to what had been the back of the building and onto a faint trail that began just beyond the tangled surface roots of two pines. Twenty paces into the trees, the path sloped gradually downward for another fifty feet, ending at a natural rock basin where a rivulet of clear water cascaded from the hillside. Beside it, on a broad flat stone, Edith and Ethel Webber clung to each other like two waifs in a blizzard, still soaked and shivering from the morning’s shower. They looked up and burst into tears as we stepped through the trees.
“Oh, Mr. Backman. Sheriff Tate! We are so glad it’s you,” they sniffled with the uncanny unison that was one of their inexplicable gifts. We stepped across the small stream that spilled from the basin and lifted the women to their feet, stripping off our jackets and wrapping them as well as we could about the women’s shoulders.
“Are you alright? Chase, there are blankets in the back of my car. Get one of the firemen to run down and get them. I’ll get the ladies back to the clearing.” Beneath my hands, the twins’ uncontrollable shivering signaled the onset of shock. Chase hurried back up the path.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I coaxed as I steered the women after him, my arm holding the jackets across their backs.
“Some men came this morning just as it was getting light,” Edith said through chattering teeth. “They burned our home. The one our father built.” The women dissolved again into tears, and we paused along the path.
“How did you get out?” I wondered.
Ethel sniffled, pulled a damp handkerchief from the side pocket of her shapeless cotton shift, blew her nose, and tried to see past me to where the cabin had once stood. “We get up very early,” she said so quietly I had to lean toward her to hear. “Our day always starts with our own reading.” She looked at her twin. “When we looked at the leaves this morning, they said danger.”
“In both of our cups,” Edith said. “Right by the handle where the most important message is.”
Ethel continued in the same voice, “We went to the door and could hear the men coming up the path. We knew we only had a few minutes to hide.”
Edith looked up at me pleadingly. “Our house. Is it gone, Sheriff?”
I tightened my arm around the frail shoulders. “I’m afraid it is. I need to have you come with me back to town. We’ll find a place for you to stay until we can figure this all out.”
I felt them sag beneath the damp jackets. “It’s all we had,” Ethel sniffled.
“All our father had to leave us,” Edith sighed.
“We can get it replaced,” I assured them. “I’m just glad you are both safe. I’ll see if I can find out who did this to
you.”
The twins started moving again toward the remains of their cabin. “We can help with that,” they said in unison.
16
“They can stay with me,” Marti volunteered before I could suggest that we needed to find the Webbers some lodging. “I have plenty of room, and my husband Nolan is around the farm all day if they need help with anything.”
We were gathered in the fishbowl, the sisters wrapped in dry blankets and sipping some of Marti’s personal stock of Earl Gray. Marti sat beside them with a hand cupped over theirs. Chase had sprung into action as soon as he arrived back from the hill. Bill Latimer, who pastors the Methodist Church and coordinates our local Habitat chapter, had already started a call chain of volunteers about building a new cabin. The minister walked into the outer office with two shopping bags bulging with clothing he had gathered from some of his older parishioners, lifted them for me to see, and deposited them on Marti’s desk.
“Looks like we have some clothes for you,” I told the women, giving Bill a wave. “Would you like to change before I ask a few questions?”
Ethel answered for the pair. “No. We can sometimes see things before they happen, but we don’t always remember them very well afterward . . .”
Edith completed the thought. “We think we should talk now.”
I nodded, glancing at the clock above Marti’s desk. Grace should be calling within the next hour, and I wanted to be free. “Why don’t you begin,” I suggested, “by telling me what happened after you heard the men coming up the hill.”
Ethel began. “We hurried over to the spring. It was still raining a little. Unless you know where it is, the path is hard to find. We thought they may not know to look for us there.”
“And they didn’t,” I acknowledged. “Could you hear them from where you were?”
“As soon as they got to the house, we heard them pounding,” Edith said. “Not like knocking, but like they were hammering with something on the door.”
Ethel nodded and added. “Then they started to shout, thinking we were inside.”
