Searching for Celia (22 page)

I duck and pivot as the man makes another rapid slash at my side, this time missing me by inches. I close my eyes as he swings again. Celia angles between us and pushes me behind her, shielding me with her body.

“Leave it out!” she screams as the man again raises the knife. Celia rears back and smashes his face with the plaster cast on her arm, ramming her hand into his nose, nearly knocking him off his feet as he, stunned, stumbles backward. Blood pours from his nose, streaking his lips and dribbling from his chin. Celia knocks the knife from his hand and it falls to the ground, where it lands with a dull thud, glinting against the damp soil.

Celia lunges toward the knife but the man is faster as he bends and grasps it, plunging it into his pocket. Then he turns and runs away, back down the winding path, a dark form darting quickly out of view.

“He’s gone,” I whisper, doubled over and struggling to breathe. “But I think I’m okay.” I touch the slashed sleeve of my jacket where the denim has split, leaving only a riot of white thread remaining. “He didn’t get any skin. How about you?”

“Still in one piece,” she pants, tenderly testing her ribs.

“Why didn’t you run?” I ask. “You could have gotten away.”

“And leave you to fend for yourself? Not bloody likely.” She shakes her head, still panting. “That knife was meant for me. For Celia, not for Dayle, the one with the cast on her arm.” She waves the plaster-cast arm in weak surrender, then opens her jacket, revealing two tiny petals of blood blossoming in the sweatshirt’s bottom hem.

“Celia—look.”

She glances down and grimaces, her mouth a determined downward slash. “What do you know? Looks like the bastard got me after all.”

“Let me see.” I reach for the sweatshirt but she withdraws quickly, as if my fingers were flame. “It’s okay,” I say gently. “I’ll just take a peek.” I step closer and carefully lift the sweatshirt, which is glued to the T-shirt beneath with a dark sticky circle of blood.

Celia’s face pales.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “Just hold still.” She stands, stiff and rigid, while I search for the wound, sweeping her skin until I find a two-inch gash on the right side of her abdomen, just above her hip.

The slit, though small, weeps steady beads of blood that gather in her waistband. I slide my finger into the wound, trying to gauge its depth and staunch the flow, but the blood rises quickly, covering my finger. Celia’s knees weaken as air rushes from her lungs. “Dayle…?”

I clutch her shoulder, trying to hold her upright. “Just hold on, okay? Be strong.” Information from the third grade, gathered in pursuit of the Brownies first-aid badge, races through my mind.
Keep her covered, keep her calm, keep her warm. Raise her head and legs.
How? And with what?

She starts to tremble, her pale shocked face stricken and desperate.

I’ve got to do something. Now.

“Come on,” I say, my voice shaking. “Let’s go sit down.” I hike the duffel bag over my shoulder and with my arm around Celia’s waist we stumble like drunks, off the narrow path and into the sacred space where the grass is thickly matted and the graves so close and cloistered their ghosts can gossip easily, leaning in to whisper, mouth to ear.

I nod toward a patch of clover nestled between two jagged headstones and edged by an ancient oak tree. Celia, anguished, leaves my side and sinks slowly to the base of the tree, which is cushioned by ferns and small yellow flowers. “Okay?” I ask, looking down at her.

“Never better,” she whispers bitterly, struggling to steady her shaking legs.

“Press your hand firmly to the wound,” I advise her. “As hard as you can manage, all right?”

She nods grimly, hunching forward and bearing down against the pain.

I reach into the duffel bag and pull out my cell phone, but get only a no-service message. Damn. Maybe I could get a signal somewhere else in the cemetery, but I can’t leave Celia—not like this.

So I forgo the phone and duffel bag and instead drop to my knees beside her, feeling her sweaty forehead and clammy cheeks. Threads of blood unspool between her fingers, blackening the grass and staining the dark earth beneath her hip. This is happening too quickly—why is she losing so much blood?

“Right,” I say confidently, fighting off my denim jacket and placing it on the damp ground beside me. Then I gently loosen Celia’s clenched white knuckles, peeling back the shirt to check the wound.

“Bad?” she whispers through clenched teeth.

“No,” I lie, re-covering the wound. “But you’ll probably need a few stitches.”

“Brilliant,” she sputters. “
Another
scar.”

“Don’t worry—it’ll be tiny.” I lean back on my heels and look to the sky, to the dense but delicate web of tree braches darting and weaving overhead, and down to the neglected nearby graves of Lillian and Edward Chesterfield and their infant daughter, Clarrisa, born and died in April 1892, but help is not forthcoming. It occurs to me I should scream, I should call for help, I should do
something
. Celia needs me now.

“Come on, scoot over.” Still on my knees I move behind Celia, wedging myself between her and the tree.

Her limbs stiffen. “What the hell?” she demands as a flare of anger briefly flames her cheeks.

“It’s okay.” I gently hook her waist with my good arm and center her between my legs. “Let’s keep you warm till help arrives.”

“Right. ’Cause they’re
certain
to be here any moment.”

“Come on—just let me help.” I draw her backbone to my chest as I circle her quivering ribs. With my broken hand I drag the denim jacket closer and drape it across our bodies. “Better?” I ask, willing the heat of my body to pass into her.

“Yeah.” Her breathing is rough, ragged. “
Just
spiffy.”

I move my hand down to her wound, feeling the warm creep of blood filling the fabric and spreading between my fingers. This is so much worse than I imagined.

Celia winces and I smell fear rise from her neck, from the damp back of her collar. Then her jaw softens and her eyelids flutter, even as she struggles to stay annoyed. It wouldn’t be like Celia to make this easy for me.

“Just relax,” I say gently, stroking her arm and breathing through the blunt softness of her newly blackened hair, which is cool to the touch and still smells slightly of dye. I gaze down at her face, her ghost of a black eye, the shadow of a damaged cheek, and I let myself feel the familiar shape she carves into my arms, the warm settled weight of her torso, the notches of her spine nestled against my breastbone. I have missed her so much, I realize, have missed holding her like this.

“I’ll take care of you, Celia,” I promise, brushing aside her short, black, roughly cut bangs and hoping she’ll forgive me for sounding sentimental. “You ferried so many people to safety. Let me carry you now.”

“Well aren’t I the lucky one.” Celia’s raspy voice curls with sarcasm; she swallows hard to stem the tears. We share a silent understanding that life is leaving her quickly, leeching out of her pores, or escaping stealthily, like steam rising from a kettle.

I steel my voice with false bravado. “Celia, listen. Just hang on. I’ll get you out of this somehow, I swear.” She nods quickly, closing her eyes, but as I shift my hip against the cold, hard ground, I can feel Celia’s heart surface from somewhere deep inside her, a faint, frantic tapping, like a prisoner desperate to escape his cell.

The fog begins to lift, rising above the graves and throwing them into high relief as the chill morning air fills suddenly with birdsong—goldfinch, sparrow, starling, lark. Highgate, this garish Victorian death-obsessed theme park, holds so much more life than I first realized—not just songbirds but foxes, rabbits, badgers, doves. I want to share this realization with Celia, but she is long past caring now.

Suddenly agitated, Celia shivers and lifts her chin, her breathing light and rapid as her eyes fly open and her lips flush with blue. “Daddy?” she calls out, desperate as a little girl. “Daddy! Where are you?”

“It’s okay, Celia. Just hang on.” I gaze into her empty black eyes, all pupil, staring up at me in stunted sorrow. We share the same thought: This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening to
her
. She is too proud, too arrogant to die so quietly, in the corner of a desolate cemetery on a foggy morning in March. “It’s okay,” I coo, softly rocking her back and forth. “I’ve got you in my arms.”

Her face contorts in pain and her bluish lips pucker. “Dayle, I want my dad.”

“I know. And he’ll be here soon, I promise. Just stay calm.” She sighs as I pull her closer, tightening my grip around her ribs.

I came to London just over twenty-four hours ago with only one thing on my mind: seeing Celia. Not the conference, not the keynote speech, just Celia. I had hoped to rekindle that fallow friendship and return home enriched with more tales of my bold, brilliant, fearless friend. I never dreamed that my journey here held a second, secret purpose: to do for Celia what I had failed to do for my son—to hold her in her final moments and see her safely to the other side, to deliver her gently into the arms of a great someone.
Steady. Rest now. We are so, so close to home.

As I press my lips against Celia’s temple, a stone angel rises behind me and veils us in the shadow of his feathery wings. The sky separates; shards of light pierce the canopy of branches and leaves, casting dazzling patterns on the cemetery floor, where Celia and I huddle as if shipwrecked, marooned and helpless in a deep shifting sea of emerald green.

Suddenly three figures emerge from the foggy haze at the bottom of the path and sprint toward us, limbs hurtling like windmills as the ghostly shapes assume human form. “They’re coming.” Hope tightens my throat. “Help is almost here.”

Celia moans.

As the figures draw closer, I see that it is Callaway, in heavy boots and her dirty trench coat, flanked by a uniformed police officer on either side.

Celia stirs to life as a tremor moves through her. “Dayle?” Her tongue is thick and she struggles to speak.

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell them I was frightened.”

Frightened? That’s what she’s worried about?
“I won’t.” My voice is defiant. “Now just hold on.”

“I can’t.” Her arms slide limply to her sides.

Callaway and the two men stumble to a stop just in front of us. All three are winded, gulping buckets of cold, damp air. “What the hell happened?” Callaway bends at the waist, hands on her hips as the two cops reach for Celia.

I turn Celia’s ashen face away from them as her body spasms and then softens, relaxing in my arms. My cheeks burn as I look up. “You’re too late,” I say triumphantly. “Celia’s safe, and you can never hurt her now.”

Six months later

Chicago, Illinois

My suspicions about Detective Constable Andrea Callaway turned out to be correct: She was taking payoffs from Gregorovich in exchange for police protection. Gregorovich hated Celia’s work and all she stood for, so he paid Callaway to have Celia eliminated.

Callaway had used the photographs to manipulate me that night in Celia’s flat. There had never been any witness protection program with the promise of a new name and identity; Callaway’s endgame was always to initiate Celia’s death. And my own. Callaway, using the information I had provided, hired the man in the hooded sweatshirt to attack us at Highgate Cemetery that morning in March.

Callaway had assembled enough false evidence to make the case against Celia appear quite compelling, but once I told the police what I knew, Callaway’s story unraveled rather dramatically. After being taken into custody, she provided details of our assailant’s identity in exchange for what she hoped would be a lighter sentence. Both she and the man pleaded guilty and will spend many years in prison.

Following Callaway’s arrest, the police determined that Celia had committed no crime. Therefore, I faced no charges for trying to help her leave England. After a series of interviews with the police and some assistance from the American Embassy, I was free to return home to Chicago.

Since I have been back, I have canceled my trip to Japan and had the contract for
Assignment: Tokyo
voided. Candee Cronin has taken an extended sabbatical so she might find herself as an author once again. Her fans are said to be quite disappointed. What few people know, however, is that Dayle Salvesen is working on a new book—a small literary novel about a shy teenage girl and her well-endowed friend trying to mount their own musical stage production of
Gulliver’s Travels
.

I struggled for a long time deciding how best to honor Celia. She had offered the ultimate sacrifice, been willing to give up her life for my own. Ultimately I purchased a burned-out old factory and the surrounding brownfield on Chicago’s Far South Side and invested $250,000 to build the Marguerite Alderton Memorial Women’s Center. Celia, given her modesty, would not have wanted the center to bear her own name. So I gave it her mother’s name instead, to memorialize a woman, long gone, whose name represented for Celia her hopes and dreams of a new life in America.

The Alderton Center, in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods, will provide disadvantaged, immigrant, and abused women with shelter, health care, job training, and other social services. And Celia will arrive from London in two weeks’ time to run the center, once all her green card paperwork is approved.

Celia’s knife wound, though serious, was not fatal, although it took numerous transfusions and hours of surgery to save her life, followed by weeks of a slow and painful recovery. Edwina and I saw her through the worst of it, keeping nightly vigil at her hospital bedside, where we slept in shifts so one of us would always be awake to watch over her. Celia was a terrible patient—rude and moody, refusing to eat and always quick to complain. But I must say, she has been left with a rather sexy little scar. And I have kept my promise; I never did tell anyone that she’d been frightened.

But Celia’s survival, though miraculous, has also been bittersweet. The truth is that I lost Celia that morning at Highgate Cemetery, just not in the way I imagined. I lost the Celia of my childhood, my one-time lover, that sharp yet tender friend who introduced me to the wonders of Joy Division and jam butties, who encouraged me to write like my life depended on it, and who taught me to smoke in my grandmother’s basement, with the stinky unfiltered Gauloises she had smuggled back from England in her suitcase, duty-free.