The vicar had hinted that some things were better left unknown, but she needed to know. She needed to find out why she was here. Had there really been a competition, or was Ratty right when he called her stupid? Had she really fallen for a ploy, drawn to the house like a moth to the flame, unable to resist such a prize when everything else around her was going wrong? Jane had been more cautious; Chase now knew she was right to have been.
Oh, Jane, where are you?
She couldn’t face Adam again at the moment, but she needed answers.
Walking out of the house, Chase headed for the church.
CHAPTER 15
When Chase arrived at the church, the doors were locked. She walked around the side, trying not to look at the bank of fog as she was sure there was someone in there, watching her. Peering through the dirty windows, she thought she glimpsed movement between the pews. She tried to clean a small circle in the glass to see more clearly, but the grime was old and defied her attempts to move it.
“Hello, is anyone there?” She knocked on the glass.
A figure dashed across the church.
“Vicar, is that you?” No one answered, and she wondered if he was drunk again. Shaking her head and frowning, she walked further around the church and along the side of the adjoining hall until the fog encroached. Despite her trepidation, she stepped into the fog and felt her way around the hall, the brickwork wet with condensation. The fog was denser than she expected, and she was unable to see anything more than a few feet away. At the back of the hall she came to an unlocked door. Even before she entered, she could smell rotting food, and she stepped inside to find the remnants of the buffet still lying discarded on the tables and floor. The word, hell that the man had gouged into the wall at the reception caught her eye and she shivered. Why hadn’t anyone tidied up?
She walked past the tables, approached a side door. Cautiously opening it a fraction, she peered into the church. Shadows danced around the walls, cast by the candles on the altar. Opening the door enough to pass through, Chase slipped into the church and pressed herself against the wall. Something didn’t feel right.
Wooden columns held aloft the high, vaulted ceiling, obscuring her view of the front of the church. As she crept along the wall at the side of the pews, she caught glimpses of a figure, crouched before the altar. The figure didn’t move, as though deep in prayer. Almost level with the altar, Chase still couldn’t see the figures face so she didn’t know who it was. Realising how stupid she would look to someone, creeping along the wall, she stepped out, unsure whether to disturb the person if they were praying.
She coughed, trying to attract their attention without being too forward. The figure didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. She coughed again, louder, the sound echoing from the eaves. Still nothing. The candle flames flickered, casting the figures shadow like a dark net across the floor. Taking a step toward the figure, Chase coughed again, realising she was being overly zealous in her attempt at getting their attention. Still no response. Praying or not, she thought it was rather rude of the person to ignore her.
“Excuse me.” She reached down and touched the person’s shoulder, surprised when the figure slumped to the ground. Concerned and worried, Chase looked down and a scream gathered momentum in her throat.
It was the vicar.
But it wasn’t a dark shadow on the floor.
It was blood.
Someone had cut his throat. Blood glistened wetly around the fatal wound; the edges of the skin had parted like a grotesque zip. Blood covered the front of his clothes and speckled the floor in a gruesome dot-to-dot. She couldn’t see a knife; he hadn’t killed himself (no one slashed their own throat, did they?), and because the blood was still wet, she knew he had only recently been killed. Was the killer still here? Was that whom she had seen running between the pews? Her eyes scanned the room and she backed away from the body, leaving macabre footprints in her wake. She gagged, fighting the urge to be sick.
The candles flickered, smoked, and went out as a wind blew down the aisle. A door slammed, the sound echoing around the church and Chase jumped. She stared frantically around before fear propelled her toward the exit. Something fell and hit the floor behind her, but she didn’t look back, too afraid. She heard footsteps, running, almost disguised in synchronisation with her own. Finding the door was locked, the scream broke from her mouth and she frantically struggled to slide the bolts across, the footsteps growing closer as the lower bolt jammed. Panicking, she slammed the bolt with the heel of her palm, ignoring the pain as she slammed it again and again until it moved with a protesting squeal. The footsteps were directly behind her as she flung the door open, the sunlight stinging her eyes. Once outside, she risked a glance behind in time to see the church door slam shut with a sound like thunder.
Although the vicar was beyond Adam’s ministrations, she ran toward the surgery, her heart thudding like a drum. Fear propelled her flight, and by the time she reached the surgery, she was sweating and breathing heavy. As she dashed through reception, Patricia looked up from filing her nails into claws.
“Miss Black. Can I help you?”
Ignoring her, Chase ran through the waiting room where two people sat in silent contemplation of the empty fish tank.
“Miss Black, come back——”
Without knocking, she opened Adam’s door and ran in, panting. Adam was sitting on his desk, taking a young girl’s blood pressure.
“——the doctor is seeing someone,” Patricia said, grabbing Chase by the arm, her sharp claws digging in and making Chase wince.
“He’s dead,” Chase screamed, trying to shrug Patricia off.
The young girl Adam was ministering too, looked up at Chase with panic etched across her face. She squealed, stood up and backed away with the blood pressure meter still wrapped around her arm like a suckling alien. Her long, black hair fell across her face, but she made no attempt to brush it away. Black circles around her eyes marred her pale face.
“Chase, calm down, what is it?” Adam grabbed Chase by the shoulders to restrain her, his face full of concern.
“Adam, I tried to stop her,” Patricia said.
Adam nodded and mouthed ‘it’s okay’.
“The vicar, he’s dead. Someone’s killed him.”
“The vicar! Are you sure?” He looked sceptical.
“Of course I’m sure. He’s at the church and I think the killer’s still there.”
Adam frowned. “Now calm down and tell me what you saw.”
Chase took a deep breath. Her throat felt sore from screaming, as though she had pulled something deep in her throat. “Well, I went to see the vicar, but the church was locked and I went around the back, the door was open, I went in and he was dead, crouching in front of the altar.” She spoke quickly, the words running together so they became one word. She didn’t know whether Adam had understood what she said, because he was just staring at her, his expression blank.
“Come on, he’s dead, someone’s killed him. We’ve got to get help.”
Adam nodded his head. “Okay, let’s go and have a look.” He didn’t look convinced.
“I can’t go back there,” Chase squealed, shaking her head. “We need to contact the police.”
“Well, if he’s dead, he isn’t going to hurt you, is he.”
“Don’t get fucking sarcastic with me. The killer might still be there.”
“Well, I’m sure no self-respecting killer is going to hang around at the scene.” As he spoke, he approached the young girl who was cowering against the wall.
“Keep her away from me,” the girl said as Adam unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from her arm.
“Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you, will you Chase.”
Shaking her head, Chase let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Of course I won’t hurt her.” Why would she think that?
“Come on, let’s go and have a look then.” He walked toward the door.
In the surgery, the two people in the wai
ting room still contemplated the fish tank, seemingly oblivious to the commotion.
As if out of respect or disbelief, they walked toward the church in silence with Patricia and the young girl following at a discreet distance. When they arrived, the doors were still shut. Chase swallowed as Adam opened the door and walked inside. “Be careful,” she whispered.
Adam nodded and closed the door behind him. Turning around, Chase noticed Patricia and the young girl whispering to each other. Both of them stole furtive glances in Chase’s direction.
Chase swayed from side-to-side, nervous, impatient, her arms folded protectively across her chest. What was taking him so long?
The church door creaked open. Chase flinched and took a cautionary step back.
Adam appeared in the doorway, motioning for Chase to follow him inside. She took another step back, biting her lip. She really didn’t want to go in there. She didn’t want to see the vicar again. It was the first dead person she had ever seen and she recalled how pale his face had been, drained of blood, ghostly, like the fog.
“Come on.” Adam leaned out and grabbed Chase by the hand.
“No, I don’t want to go in there,” she protested. She didn’t think she could face it, not again.
Shaking his head, Adam pulled her inside.
As they walked down the aisle, Chase looked anxiously around the church, avoiding the altar. She really didn’t want to see the vicar. Why was Adam making her come back inside? Did he get some obscene pleasure out of scaring her? What if the killer was still there? Didn’t he realise how dangerous it was? She just wanted to get the hell out of there and call the police.
“Well?”
Chase looked at him. “Well what?”
“Where is he?” He swept his free arm out, indicating the altar.
Chase frowned. What did he mean? She looked toward the altar and her mouth opened in surprise. There was no one there. No body. No blood. Just a wet patch where a vase of flowers had fallen.
The room began to spin, getting faster and faster as reality disconnected, and Chase felt herself falling, as though spinning down a plughole into unconsciousness.
***
Ratty listened to the voices outside the room, straining to decipher the conversation. Izzy sat huddled at his side, shaking. He wanted to comfort her, but he felt useless. It was his fault she was in this mess.
He could feel the pressure of her breast crushed against his arm and it thrilled him, but he couldn’t believe he was thinking about such things at a time like this. Izzy needed him to be strong, not horny.
As the door opened, Ratty stood up. He could see two figures silhouetted in the doorway. One was immediately recognisable as Drake due to his size.
“Bring them to my office,” the other figure said before striding away.
Drake entered the room, grabbed Ratty and Izzy by their arms and pulled them outside. He was wearing green army trousers and a black body warmer over a green jumper, giving him a military demeanour.
Izzy squealed and Ratty flinched. He wished that he could help her but Drake’s fingers were like a vice, digging into his biceps.
They walked up an incline and the mist slowly dissipated, allowing Ratty to see they were walking between parallel, prefab buildings, the windows of which were dark. At the end of one of the buildings, they entered through a security door into a bright reception area. A man in a blue uniform sat behind a desk. He warily eyed Ratty and Izzy until they turned a corner, out of sight.
People hurrying along the corridor seemed to give Drake a wide berth, as though out of fear or respect. Ratty decided it was fear. Stealing a glance at Izzy, he saw the same look on her face; she looked more dishevelled than ever. Her hair was dirty and matted to her head while her face was caked in mud and his heart sank. He felt like crying, but he knew he had to be strong.
A middle-aged woman sat behind a desk at the end of the corridor. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun, making her narrow face appear serious and grave. Drake nodded to her and let go of Izzy to knock on a door. Without waiting for a response, he opened it and pushed Ratty and Izzy through.
Inside, the room was dark, the shutters down. A bearded man was seated at a desk, his hands steepled beneath his chin as he watched them enter. His face was expressionless, deadpan, as nondescript as the dark suit he was wearing.
“So this must be Peter Rathbone. Isabelle I’ve already met. My name is Nigel Moon.” He moved his hands from beneath his chin and placed them behind his head, his fingers interlocked. He leaned back, eyes narrowed into slits.
“Why did you lock us in that room?” Ratty demanded, an attempt at bravery that fell flat as Moon out-stared him.
“It was for your own safety,” Moon eventually said. “There’s a lot of dangerous equipment around our facility. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would we? What would your parents say?”
Ratty didn’t like Moon’s tone of voice. He seemed more threatening than concerned.
“So we can go home then?” Izzy looked expectant, eager.
“Of course you can. But first I need to ask you a few questions.”
Ratty frowned. “What questions?”
“Well, what are you doing here for a start?”
“We got lost in the fog,” Izzy said.
“I see. And what were you doing entering the fog? Haven’t you heard how dangerous it is to go wandering around like that?”
Ratty flinched as Moon stared at him.
“It was an accident, that’s all.” Izzy lowered her head, the expectant look fading.
“An accident. I see. So what do you think now you’ve seen our little facility?”
Izzy opened her mouth to speak but Ratty interrupted her. “We don’t think anything. We just want to go home. We won’t even tell anyone you’re here.”
“You won’t? Now why’s that?”
Ratty shrugged. “Because you don’t want people to know you’re here.”
“And what makes you think that?” Moon leaned forward like a predator, ready to pounce.
“Nothing, I don’t know what you’re doing and I don’t want to.”
“But you already seem to know some of it. I wonder. Can I trust you to keep our little secret?”
“You can trust us, honest,” Izzy said, still looking at the floor.
“I can, can I. And what do you think, Mr Drake? Can we trust them?”
Drake sneered, his harelip giving him a macabre countenance.
“Well there we have it. For the time being, I think we will have to keep you here.”
“But you said we could go home.” Izzy looked up. Fresh tears welled in her eyes.
“Yes you can, eventually. When we have finished our work, it won’t matter what you know or what you’ve seen.”
“But I want to go home now. We won’t tell anyone anything. I promise.” Izzy started to cry.
“You can’t keep us here,” Ratty said, his voice trembling.
“And why’s that Peter?”
“Because you’re not allowed to.”
“I see. Did you hear that Mr Drake. I’m not allowed to keep them here. Now let me see, where’s that piece of paper?” He rummaged over his desk. “Here it is. Ah yes.” He briefly held the piece of paper in front of Ratty. “Would you like me to read it to you? Of course you would.” He coughed for dramatic effect. “Due to the recent volatile behaviour of Mr Rathbone, it has been deemed necessary to place his son, Peter Rathbone in the custody of Storm Enterprises for his own safety ... Would you like me to read on?”
“You can’t do that,” Ratty protested. “My mum wouldn’t send me away.”
Moon skimmed his finger down the page. “Ah, here we are. Mary Rathbone. That’s her signature I believe. She indicates that in the circumstances, it is in your best interests to be placed into care while she ministers to her husband.”
“No, I don’t believe you.”
“It’s all there in black and white. Signed sealed and delivered. So I can keep
you here as long as I want.” Moon grinned.
“What about me?” Izzy said. “That doesn’t stop me going home.”
“Where’s that other piece of paper. Ah, here it is. Isabelle Adams social report. Unsociable. Moody. Depressed. Liable to excessive mood swings. Classic case of drug dependency.”
“You what? That’s not me,” Izzy protested.
“Well your parents would beg to differ, especially after the drugs they found in your bedroom.”
“Drugs, what drugs?”
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