The Forever Stone (42 page)

The four of them re-crossed the woods, patterned now with the long gray shadows of evening, and birds rustled in the branches, settling down for the night. Madeleine glanced at Bria’s set face and tried to think of something hopeful to say.

They entered another dense growth of saplings and underbrush, and Jude kicked at a charred trunk. “Looks like a fire went through here,” he said. “We’ll probably run into that swamp again soon.”

The air pressed cold and heavy against her face, and she knew Jude was right about the swamp. Should they turn back?

Remi paused. “What’s that?” He peered through the gloom at a tangle of vines and branches that humped into a mound.  

Jude ran to it and began pulling off handfuls of vine.

One part of her brain remarked that the vine was catbrier, and the other said they’d found what she’d been hoping wasn’t there. 

“A car, a black one,” Jude gasped. He wiped a bleeding hand on his jeans. “But there’s lots of abandoned cars in these woods.”

He attacked the vines once more with Remi’s help, and finally they stepped back.

The car must have been caught in the fire, because it was partially burned. The blackened skeleton of a tree lay across it, and the windshield was cracked. The fenders were bent and rusted, scabbed with blistered paint. The windows had disintegrated into fragments or disappeared altogether.

Bria stared at the ruin, her face carved in lines of grief. Jude stood motionless.

It was Remi who moved to the window on the driver’s side. “Not too bad inside.”

Jude darted forward, looked in, and struggled to open the door, but it was rusted shut.

“Hey, man,” Remi said, “what’re you after?”

“On the steering wheel.”

“That silver inset?”

“Yeah.” Jude pulled out a pocket knife and leaned through the window. “Give me a boost.”

Bria crept closer. Jude pried a round object from the depression in the center of the steering wheel. He backed out, holding it in his hand.

It was a small black medal with a raised design of silver interlocking lines.

Remi bent to study it. “Isn’t that what they call a Celtic knot?”

“Yeah. Celtic,” Jude said, and he handed it to Bria. She closed her fingers around it and turned away.

They stumbled back to the road, following the beam of Remi’s flashlight. The trees, muffled in black, seemed to close in around them with a hushed and weighty stillness.

It would be much too easy to lose your way out here, Madeleine thought. Already, Bria and Jude seemed lost in their own private world of grief.

No one spoke during the long trip back, but Madeleine knew the questions that burned in each mind.
Who?
and
Why?

Remi dropped Bria and Jude off at the end of their driveway and turned toward the Manor. “I wonder if their dad had any enemies,” he said. “Even a disgruntled student. I read once about a couple of kids who played a prank on their teacher, and the guy ended up dead.”

“I don’t know,” Madeleine said. “He’s been gone for such a long time.”

“All those bogs around there,” Remi said. “They’d never find his body.”

Sorrow grew inside her. “Jude will think of that, after a while.”

The headlights of Remi’s truck lit up the driveway and then the porch. She tried to collect herself. “Thank you for coming. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Hey, no problem.” He parked beside the porch. “I can’t work tomorrow—I’ve got something to do for Timothy. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “The Manor can wait.”

Mac met her in the hall with welcoming noises, and she remembered that he hadn’t been fed. She reached into a cupboard for the bag of cat food and stopped to think.

Had Rhys Castell been murdered? If so, this was no job for amateurs. More than once, her father had told her, “Don’t try to play superman with criminals. If you’re suspicious, talk to a policeman. He’s a trained professional.”

But who was the criminal? And how could he be found, three years later?

She set the bag on the counter and leaned her elbows against it. Who could she talk to?

Nathan was probably still working, but Timothy would be home. Maybe he’d be opening a can of stew for his supper. One of these days she’d have to invite him over.

She dialed his number, and it rang for a long time.

“Dr. Parnell.”

“Nathan? Is something wrong?”

“Timothy’s sick. I’m spending the night with him.”

“His cough?”

“Getting worse. He might have a bad case of the flu,” Nathan said.

She heard a phone ring and stop. His unhurried voice continued. “Did you have a question for Timothy?”

She told him about finding Rhys Castell’s car, and the connection between it and Tara’s uncle.

“I’ve been wondering how Kent and Sid fit together,” he said. “If Birklund finds something useful, we can turn it over to the police. Even if he’s gone, they’ll catch up with him.”

“Yes.” Kent was leaving tomorrow. She should feel relieved, but failure gnawed at her. He was going to get away.

Nathan said, “I’ll talk it over with Timothy when I can.” He lowered his voice. “And pray for him, will you, please? He’s a tough old guy, but he worries me.”

In the background, Timothy was coughing, much too hard.

“I’m looking forward to our date.” His voice softened. “Fear not, Mollie.”

She smiled. “Fear not. See you tomorrow.”

Her smile faded as she put down her phone.

She wandered from room to room in the old house, unmindful of the deepening night, and ended up on the window seat in the library.
“He worries me.
”

Doctors didn’t worry about little things like a sore throat or a cough. But the flu could be dangerous, and Timothy was old.

“Lord,” she whispered, “Please. I ask you in Jesus’ name to spare Timothy. We need him here. I need him.”

She squirmed on the upholstered seat. “But if You want to take him away . . .”

Like He had taken Dad? What would she do?
Accept.

She covered her face with her hands. “Be my Rock, my strong tower. I’m running to You as fast as I can. I bring You Timothy’s sickness. And Kent’s scam. And the horrible mystery of Rhys Castell. And Tara.” Her eyes burned. “I can’t even think straight anymore. Make me wise.”

She sat for a minute, letting the stillness quiet her.

Whiskers brushed against her hands, and she lowered them from her face. Mac nibbled delicately on one of her fingers.

She pulled her hand back. “What’s the matter with you?”

He gave her a mournful look.

“I never did feed you, did I?” Slowly she got to her feet. “Let’s take care of that.”

She fed him and took a bowl of chicken stew out of the freezer for her own supper. Before she could do anything with it, Aunt Lin phoned. “How’s the work going?” she asked.

Madeleine told her about the marble fireplace, and her aunt exclaimed in delight. “And have you come up with any ideas for recycling the dear old place?”

“Someone suggested a tea room,” Madeleine said. “With regional specialties, like cranberry-whatever’s.”

Aunt Lin laughed. “Now that’s worth considering. We could call it Cranberry Manor. Maybe I’ll see what Vance thinks.”

Madeleine had to smile. The lunch with Vance must have gone well. “See you Wednesday,” she said. That would be soon enough to tell her everything else.

She pried the top off the frozen stew, and the kitchen phone rang again.

A woman’s soft voice said, “Hello? Hello? Is this Madeleine?”

“Cousin Willa? Is everything all right?”

“Oh, my dear.” The voice faltered. “Vera was supposed to call and invite you. Last week. But she didn’t, did she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe the phone lines were down out there or something. Such a wild place! Anyway, there’s wonderful news. Your mother and Wayne.”

Madeleine put the stew into the microwave and turned it on.

Cousin Willa sounded more cheerful. “She told you about him, surely. They just got married, and they’re off to Bermuda for two weeks, and we are all so thrilled.”

The bowl of stew revolved slowly, round and round and round.

She let Willa give her the details and said goodbye as sweetly as possible. So that was that. No need to feel guilty about deserting dear old Mom.

Dad, I miss you. Again,
again?
Yes.
You will hurt for the rest of
. . .

After she’d eaten, she tidied up her bedroom and searched for the paperweight once more. Was it in the closet? No, it definitely was gone.

She picked up her journal and sighed. Why did that little egg-shaped piece of glass seem so important to her? Because it was one of her last links with Dad?

Let it go. Get ready for bed, and then write about all the things that happened today.

She had almost finished when Tara called, sounding apologetic.

Eleven o’clock! She’d forgotten to phone her about tomorrow.

“Can you?” Tara said. “I waited as long as I could.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll come. Around ten in the morning, is that okay?”

“Thank you a million times, Mollie. You are my truehearted friend.” She sounded like someone in a book.

Tara paused and let out a dramatic sigh. “Mollie?”

“Yes?”

“I have to tell you an awful truth. I must needs confess.”

What
had
she been reading?

“I borrowed something from your room. I didn’t think you’d mind. Really, truly, I wasn’t going to keep it, but Mr. Kennedy made me leave, and so . . . and so I’ve still got it.”

Madeleine sat up. “What?”

“Your forever stone, with the calico.” Tara’s voice hurried. “I just wanted to hold it for a while. I was going to creep in and put it back. And today, I was going to give it to you, but Uncle Sid would’ve caught me.” 

Her paperweight.

“Mollie? You’ll forgive me all my sins, won’t you, please? Lest I stay awake the whole night long with this burden on my heart?”

“I forgive you, Tara. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

Her paperweight wasn’t lost. She’d get it back tomorrow—something to be thankful for.

Slowly she put away her journal, crossed the room, and opened the window. She leaned an elbow on the sill. For once the trees stood silent.

The calm night should be soothing, but it seemed that clouds were massing above her—storm clouds—shaped by the events of the day. Secret piled upon secret. Greed and hate and fear. How were they linked to Sid and Tara, to Bria and Jude? To Kent?

No bad dreams. No clouds in the sky this morning. But last night’s foreboding lingered.

She made herself an omelet for breakfast and dredged up reassuring thoughts. She was going to take muffins for Tara; they’d have a visit that might be long or short; she’d talk to Sid, perhaps get some useful information; then she’d come home.

As long as Aunt Dixie stayed away, all would be well.

She repeated the litany to herself as she drove away from the Manor, traveled one road after another, turned down the highway, and then onto Salty Spung Road. She ignored the sneaking little fears that dodged behind trees whenever she tried to look them in the eye.

Be not dismayed, for I am your God.

Everything about the Marricks dismayed her.

I am your God.
Think about this beautiful day He’d given her, complete with a hazy blue sky.

 She pulled off her jacket, tossed it into the back seat, and opened her window to enjoy the sunlit breeze.

Here was the Marrick sign, with its flaking red letters.

Smoke?

She clutched the steering wheel, her hands gone cold. Long gray twisting threads of smoke rose from the Marrick’s house.

The breath rasped in her throat. She couldn’t handle fire, not anymore.

Keep going. Get the neighbors.
Danger-danger-stay-away
.

But Tara was there.

She gunned her car down the driveway, lurched to a stop, and called 911 as she ran for the house.

Wisps of smoke drifted from the kitchen window. It must have just started. Where was everyone?