Rite of Passage (26 page)

Everyone looked at Simon. “You could be right. But Courtney’s so powerful, so intelligent. It’s hard to believe there was no meaning in her communication. There had to be something in the images you received.” He shrugged and looked at us. “But our job now is to get her back. Here are the alternatives.”

Simon explained the choices. We could lay off the northeast coast of Anglesey and go into the harbor at Beaumaris, a quaint village known for its twelfth-century castle and its yachting population. Our arrival in the early hours of Thursday morning might give us some anonymity, but in boating season there was no guarantee. Anglesey had wide sandy beaches. We could land at one and hike inland. The cliffs were shallow and easily climbed. Several were secluded. Our final alternative was to take the motor launch south on the Menai, the strait that separated the island from the Welsh mainland. We could put in at one of the small quays upriver. Several were near the site of the sanctuary that Simon’s people had scouted. The final alternative offered the quickest and most covert entry onto the island. We could make our way inland and wait at their camp for our chance to intercept them. We chose the third.

“We should be within sight of the Welsh coast around 12:30,” Simon told us. “We could wait until morning, but let’s make sure we’re in the right place. No more miscues. We’ll leave the patrol boat at two. That should get us up the Menai by three and to our rendezvous by four. Try to get some rest. We’ll meet on deck at 1:45.” We all checked our watches and nodded.

Simon’s manner was quiet and serious, almost military. I looked at Michael and nodded. He smiled. With luck, by tomorrow at this time, Courtney would be safe again, and those who took her and caused her pain would be repaid for their treachery.

****

I lay in the lower bunk while Michael tossed in the upper one. Nigel had given his cabin to Gwyneth. Michael had spent the better part of the previous two hours showing me weapons, how to use, aim, and load them. We’d repeated the drill endlessly. I’d been hunting with Michael and my father and could shoot well, but despite my contempt and anger for the people who had taken Courtney, firing a bullet at one of them would be a new and frightening experience.

My mind overflowed with so many thoughts. I recalled with a sense of irony that six nights ago I lay in my apartment with Rachel. She slept beside me, her arm draped lazily across my chest. I remembered thinking how grand my life was and dreading the next day’s drive to the reunion. In the next day my life would take a turn so unexpected and strange no one would believe it. I knew. I found it difficult to believe myself.

As sleep began to take hold, I vowed to sacrifice anything, give my life if it meant saving Courtney or my comrades. I would never look back and ask myself what I could have done to make this come out right. In the days since that Thursday evening, Courtney was not part of my life, she was my life, the beacon that lit my way. If that beacon were extinguished, my existence would be pointless.

Chapter Forty-One

The dawn crept over the range of low hills to our front, its gray reluctantly giving way to a hint of pink beyond the forest. We had been in position since 4:30, resting on a low ridge a hundred yards from the site. Two local family members had delivered a sturdy duffel bag full of weapons. Adrenaline surged at the prospect of finding Courtney. But my mouth was dry and my palms sweaty. Despite my earlier bravado, the thought of taking a life left a dark, hollow feeling in my gut. The alternative could be worse.

Michael lay next to Gwyneth. He held up his field glasses, surveying the site. It looked still and empty. A hundred yards to the right of the clearing and the semicircle of stone benches that apparently served as seats stood a sturdy shack I assumed housed the tools and implements used when they performed their magic. But like the ritual site, it looked abandoned. If they were expecting a grand gathering to witness a sacrifice on the following evening, it seemed suspiciously absent of people or activity.

“Mike, are you getting the feeling I am?” I whispered as he continued to scan the area. “They have no idea we’re here. Wouldn’t they be making preparations, be involved in some movement if this thing was only thirty-six hours away?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “But yeah. I think there should be some activity.” His words died as he shushed me. Two women appeared from the thicket in back of what looked like an altar. As he stared, his shoulders sagged. He handed me the binoculars. These women wore hiking shorts, knee socks, and boots. Each carried a backpack. Upon seeing the stone amphitheater, they stopped and pointed. They seemed to be examining it. One produced a camera and took her friend’s picture in front of a gray monolith. Michael shook his head as they moved on. Why these women were in the woods at this hour I had no idea, but they weren’t planning human sacrifice.

Simon and Michael watched Gwyneth. She shook her head. “I’m getting nothing.” She shrugged and squinted. “No feelings of any kind. If they
were
here, they’ve gone. At least for now.”

“Simon, let Michael and me go down and check out that shed. If it’s full, we may be in the right place. If not, we may have been mislead.” I wanted to add the word “again” but thought better of it. I was getting the sinking feeling that we may have been duped a second time. All Simon’s logic about this place and its significance made perfect sense. That troubled me. It was too sensible, too logical. To date, their cunning had been masterful. How better to draw us away from the real site than to create a feint, show a host of activity where none existed, and steal away.

Simon looked at me. His face registered frustration. He nodded. “Be casual. Put on these backpacks and try to look like hikers out for a jaunt in the country.” He reached into the large bag, handing each of us a .45 automatic. “Just in case,” he whispered. I checked to make sure it was loaded, the safety was on, and had a round chambered—the way Michael had taught me. He handed me a small pry bar. “This may come in handy on the shed.” I put it in my belt. We tucked the weapons into our waistbands and headed down the low rise toward the shed.

We avoided walking on anything that might leave a trail, threading our way over the pine needles. When we reached the small outbuilding we scanned the area. A heavy padlock and hasp secured the door. Michael tried pulling it. No luck. I used the pry bar, pulling on it until it began to give way, then gave the plank door a yank.

“Shhh,” Michael warned, scanning the forest surrounding us.

I nodded. We waited for thirty seconds with our backs against the shed before moving again. The hasp pulled free and the door flew open. My heart sank as I surveyed the contents in the early morning light. Nothing but a few old relics, some burned candles, and used torches. I stepped into the gloom, hoping to find a trapdoor or some evidence of activity. Nothing. If this was to be the site of a highly anticipated ritual, the implements were lacking.

“Damn,” I said through clenched teeth. I slammed the shaky door. It vibrated and flew back toward us.

Michael’s eyes registered his disappointment. We’d been fooled again. Turning, we looked toward the ridge, thumbs down. I caught sight of Simon’s massive frame rising, head hung low as he spoke to Lionel and Gwyneth. As we plodded up to meet them, I felt empty and desperate. Had I been prone to tears, they would have flowed. But my anger and determination refused to let a sense of hopelessness cloud my vision.

“Damn them, where can she be?” Something dawned on me belatedly.

Gwyneth noticed. “What is it, Robbie? Are you thinking what I am?” She smiled.

Simon picked up on it, too.

“I hope so.” I nodded.

“Would you like to let us in on the secret?” Michael asked, looking irritable. “All I see is that we’ve lost any hope of finding Courtney.”

“How long to Briarwood? If we left now?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Hours. Twelve or fourteen and that’s if everything went like clockwork, and we had some way to get there. Why?” Michael asked.

“Because.” Simon looked at me. “That’s where we’ll find her.”

“What?” Michael asked. Lionel stood mute but I saw him nodding.

“The message about home, Romeo, and Mrs. Mac. She was unconscious but she was telling us where to find her. Don’t you see?” Simon had been right. “Those weren’t random thoughts. It was a message.”

“Damn.” Michael snapped his fingers. “Of course. Hide in plain sight. They’ve taken her home.” He smiled and squeezed Gwyneth tightly.

Simon already had the two-way radio out. He nodded. “Let’s go. The launch will pick us up in an hour at the quay and by nightfall we’ll land in Cornwall. When we get to the ship, I’ll tell our people to search Briarwood and get a lorry to take us there. By morning we’ll be in position.”

I hoped desperately that the final leg of our journey was at hand. I knew if we were wrong again it meant a terrible fate for Courtney. One I refused to think about. All I could remember was the way she looked the first night I saw her and how much I loved her.

We sat in the launch. I closed my eyes, blocking out the world. I focused on her image.
We’re coming for you, darling. Be strong and don’t be afraid. No harm will come to you as long as I draw breath.

Chapter Forty-Two

The estate sat like a jewel, acres of beautiful thickets and forest, hidden deep within the western English countryside. I could have called forth imaginings of Robin Hood and Arthurian knights had I not been so worried about
Courtney. The family members from this part of Gloucestershire had scoured every acre of Briarwood. Furious activity was apparent on one of the distant sections of the estate. Another ruse? I hoped it sprang from overconfidence, thinking they’d planted so many false leads we’d never find them.

It had taken eight unbearable hours, two hundred and forty miles on the patrol boat. We landed in the late afternoon under the cover of threatening clouds. They gave the landscape the look of night. Our landing site was a deserted beach on the coast south of Newport. We spent the next three hours avoiding the highways, driving over uneven country roads to make sure we hid our approach.

As sunset descended our trek came to an end. We parked the vehicles near the River Severn and followed it northeast toward Briarwood. Dusk was followed by a gray, heavy darkness. Thick underbrush and uneven ground covered with deep ruts made the final two miles a difficult test, especially after days of frustration, little sleep, and gnawing fear. I walked over and around the obstacles. Branches slapped at my face. My mind was on Courtney, not plant life or the geography. My empty stomach did somersaults. More than once I had the urge to step into the underbrush and throw up the remains of my last meal. Instead, I summoned my newfound powers of mental acuity.

Images of Courtney’s face helped me ignore the frightening possibilities if we were late or tricked again. I glanced at my watch, knowing that we had no margin for error.
She
had no margin for error. I found myself thinking about the possibilities if our small window of opportunity proved too miniscule, wondering as we traversed over the clumsy ground—had the Druids outsmarted us one last time? No. Courtney had to be somewhere ahead.

The local family members directed us toward one final rise and wished us luck. They offered to stay and summon their allies. Simon refused. He had been acting distant for the last few hours. Lionel had stayed behind with no explanation and there had been a long, private conversation with Simon and Nigel before we left the patrol boat. I wondered if our leader was feeling anxiety or doubt after the past miscues. Whatever happened tonight, he seemed to want as few witnesses as possible. Our work would be brutal but necessary, like using a strong insecticide to eradicate crops from a blight of pests. I was terrified—of our enemies, using weapons to harm them, and most importantly, of not finding Courtney in time.

For the first mile, I had a sinking feeling. Nothing but darkness showed ahead in the deepening twilight. The small path was lit by our infiltration lamps, powerful flashlights fitted with special covers that directed their light downward in a focused beam.

Suddenly, I felt a strong grip on my arm. “She’s here.” It was Gwyneth. She patted my back and returned to Michael’s side. As she spoke, in the distance I caught sight of a dim glow above the low rise ahead. I shined my light on my chronometer—9:30. We had two hours and thirty minutes to get in position, scout the layout, and arrive at a plan to save Courtney.

****

I lay prone, peering over the small crest of the ridge where we waited. This was the place. There was no doubt. I breathed more easily, found myself able to swallow without choking. Below us a massive circle of small granite monoliths stood in a semicircle facing a tall stake. A series of steps lead to a small platform, where I assumed the victim would stand. Below the stake was a growing pile of brush and sticks. Was this to be the source of the fire they would use to sacrifice her? A chill ran through me as I thought of the possibilities if she hadn’t sent that dreamlike message two nights ago.

Protruding from each of the monoliths was a large torch giving the setting an eerie, surreal quality. In the center of the circle stood a large altar. My stomach tightened into a knot. To the right lay a path that disappeared into the thick forest. For a distance of a hundred yards the entryway was lit by torches in the ground, fading into darkness amongst the oaks. Three hooded figures attended the ritual area. One lit the torches on the approach, while the second and third added more kindling to the pile beneath the stake. I clenched my fists.

As if sensing my anger and frustration, Simon put a firm hand on my shoulder. “It will be over soon,” he said, displaying a confidence absent during the walk from the lorry. Michael opened the large duffel bag we had taken turns carrying. The local family members had given it to us when we began our trek to the ritual site. Laid out before us was a stock of weaponry that would have made Al Capone blush. Simon and I each took a Thompson submachine gun. He gave me a quick refresher. Basically, pull the cocking lever back and squeeze the trigger in short bursts. Aim low since it tended to rise as it fired. I’d never seen one before, but after surveying the scene where they intended to sacrifice the girl I loved, I no longer had any anxiety at destroying these fiends. Besides, our mission was to frighten and delay. To rescue Courtney. Mass murder was not part of the plan. Michael picked up an Enfield rifle with a sniper scope. Gwyneth shouldered a Weatherby hunting rifle, this one equipped with a night vision scope. I still had the .45 tucked into my belt. I felt as if I was playing a role. I was a bona fide human arsenal—a stereotype from a John Garfield crime drama or a John Wayne horse opera. Simon and Gwyneth stayed true to their British heritage by each drawing a Webley Mark VI revolver. They had explained that these massive handguns were a favorite of English officers and could bring down an elephant at seventy-five yards. We all picked up extra ammunition and positioned ourselves.