I arched an eyebrow and stared at her. “Darce, I don’t plan on doing this again,” I said vehemently. Picking up the papers, I rattled them at her. “So if you couldn’t find anything out, what’s this?”
She gave me a sly look. “I didn’t say I couldn’t find any information.” Her lips formed a smug smile. “Henrick Sorenson.”
I glanced at the papers in my hand in disbelief. “You found Henrick? He really did live?”
“Umm-hmm,” she said with a self satisfied nod. “And he was honored by Sweden for his work in helping refugees escape the Nazis.”
“But…but in the dreams,” I stuttered, “all he cared about was ripping them off.”
“Not between 1941 and 1944. He used his father’s company to smuggle them into Sweden.”
“Really?” I was amazed. “What happened after 1944?”
“Well, the honor was given posthumously—”
“He died?”
“Yup.” Taking the papers from my hand, she thumbed through them quickly. “Here it is,” she said, giving me a page. “The war was turning against Germany. The Soviet Union had driven them back, and the Allies were getting ready to launch the invasion of Normandy.” She pointed to a paragraph. “Henrick went back to Paris for the last time. There, he lured a German colonel…umm…what was his name?” she asked, peering at the paper my hand.
“Vogel,” I said without looking.
“Right,” she commented with a snap of her fingers, “Vogel. Henrick persuaded Vogel to meet him in the Catacombs, near—”
“Menilmontant,” I provided for her.
She cocked her head and stared at me. “Hey, did you already know this?”
“No,” I said softly.
“Once he had Vogel in the Catacombs, he executed him using a garrote.”
“He strangled him to death.”
“Yeah, slowly, I guess. One source quoted Sorenson as saying during his interrogation that he didn’t want Vogel to die an easy death.”
“I take it Henrick was arrested?”
“Yeah. After he killed Vogel, he calmly turned himself in. He faced a firing squad the next day.”
Thirty-Three
My experience on Monday must have drained me—I’d slept a dreamless sleep. But I hadn’t expected the dreams to come. They didn’t have anything else to tell me. I’d witnessed Madeleine’s death, and thanks to Darci, I knew Henrick’s fate. The only unanswered question was what happened to the Gaspards. I never expected to find that answer—there had been too many deaths for one little family to be remembered. My heart felt heavy as I thought about them.
I tried Bill again and talked to the same dispatcher. He still wasn’t in, and she was just as unhelpful as she’d been the day before. Now that I knew what Stephen had written on the disks, I wanted them out of my house and in Bill’s hands. Once he had them, maybe this whole thing would be over and I’d feel safe about bringing Tink home.
She’d pressed me last night during our daily conversation as to when I thought that event would happen. It wasn’t that she wasn’t having a swell time and learning a lot from Great-Aunt Mary—I didn’t question her about that claim—but she missed her friends, me, Abby, T.P., Lady, and Queenie. I noticed she had mentioned her friends first, but let it go.
I spent the entire morning wandering around the house in my jammies as the animals followed me from room to room. Giving up on trying to accomplish anything productive, I showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. I decided to go to Abby’s and bug her, thinking I might get a free meal out of the deal.
Downstairs, I was ready to slip on my tennis shoes and head out the door when the phone rang.
“Ophelia…?” said a bright voice in my ear.
“Yes…?”
“Louise Larsen. I wanted to call you with some good news.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Stephen’s opened his eyes.”
“Oh, Louise,” I exclaimed, “you must be so relieved.”
“I am. He has a long road to recovery. He’s still on the ventilator and has to be gradually weaned off, and he drifts in and out quite a bit, but the prognosis is much improved.”
“Is he able to communicate?”
“Not really. With the ventilator, he can’t speak. And he’s not with it enough to hold a pencil.” Her voice caught. “But he does squeeze my hand when I talk to him.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to the hospital—” I broke off. I didn’t want to tell her about Karen’s mugging. “I’ve been out of town. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I’m fine, especially now that Stephen’s better. Well, I must go—I just wanted to give you the news.”
“Thank you. I’ll slip down to the hospital tomorrow.”
“That will be fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”
After Louise hung up, I pumped my fists in the air. Good, good. I’d turn the disks over to Bill, and Stephen was not only going to live, but could explain how he thought this whole mess started.
But my excitement quickly faded. Eventually he could talk to Bill, but from what Louise had said, Stephen wasn’t in any condition to be questioned. A thought occurred to me then. Since Stephen was semiconscious now, did it put him at a greater risk? Was he more vulnerable to an attack? Unconscious, he hadn’t been a threat, but now it seemed he was. Would the killer show up at the hospital and try to silence him once and for all?
Nah. I shook my head. Surely Bill would have a deputy on guard.
But he wasn’t in charge of the investigation…the DCI was handling it, and they didn’t believe Stephen had been a target.
I had to do something, but what?
The doorbell ringing broke into my thoughts. Darci, I thought. She’d probably been up all night surfing the Web, trying to dig up more information.
I was wrong. Claire Canyon waited on my porch. Opening the door, I bent to pick up the daily paper. “Hi, Claire,” I said, adding it to the growing pile of unread newspapers lying on the table near the door. “Come on in.”
“No,” she said with a quick glance at her watch. “I can’t stay. I’m on my way to a meeting at the town hall. I stopped by to give you this.” She handed me several papers.
“What’s this?”
“The guest list…remember you wanted to write thank-you notes?”
Dang. I’d forgotten about my lie, and now I was stuck writing a bunch of notes.
From her spot by the front door, Claire eyed the stack of newspapers. “Have you read about the accident?”
“What accident? I’ve been kind of busy and haven’t been paying attention to the news.”
She lowered her glasses and peered at me over the rims.
I squirmed, shifting my weight back and forth.
“Really, Ophelia,” she said as she settled her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “You ought to make more of an effort to stay informed. The interstate between here and Aiken has been closed for the last twenty-four hours. The driver of a van fell asleep at the wheel and the van crossed the median, hitting a semi head-on.”
“How awful,” I said in a shocked voice. “And they closed the interstate?”
“Yes. The van was carrying several immigrants. They were all thrown out into oncoming traffic, and—”
My stomach rolled. I held up a hand, cutting her off. “That’s okay…I don’t need the details. I can imagine what the accident must’ve been like if they shut down the highway.”
She leaned in. “I heard the driver was one of those coyotes. You know, someone who—”
I nodded quickly. “Yeah, Claire, I know all about them.”
More than I wanted to, but I didn’t share that with her.
“I think they’re using some abandoned farmhouse around here as a base,” she said, wiggling her glasses and peering at her watch. “My goodness, look at the time.” She spun on her heel and skipped down the steps. “Send those out soon, will you?” she called over her shoulder.
I stood
in the doorway, thinking, as I watched her whip out of my driveway.
I didn’t doubt Claire was right about the smugglers using a nearby house. Too many events dealing with undocumented workers had popped up recently. Were these the same men responsible for trying to smuggle Antonio Vargas’s sister across the border? And who then left her to die? If so, Antonio knew more than even I had expected. Was he a threat to them now, like Stephen had been?
I tugged on my lip. Why Ben Jessup? Were they really aiming at Krause? Then why had Ben’s apartment been burglarized? What had they taken? Oh yeah, electronics—as in computers. Suddenly, I got the connection between Stephen, Vargas, and Ben, and it felt right.
I whirled around and slammed the door. I knew where they were hiding the immigrants, but I needed proof. I couldn’t reach Bill, so I’d have to go to the DCI. And I knew I’d better have something more than dreams and premonitions to tell them.
Sliding down to the floor, I grabbed my tennis shoes and shoved my feet into them. As I was tying them in a rush, I hit my elbow on the leg of the table and sent the newspapers cascading into my lap.
“Ouch.” I scooped up the pile and, scrambling to my feet, shoved them back on the table. That day’s paper happened to land facedown.
Staring up at me from below the fold was the article about the accident on the interstate. Accompanying the story was a picture of the driver. Even though the black and white picture was grainy, I recognized the photo.
The man in the picture had a scar running down the side of his face.
While driving to the winery, I made my plans. If the man who chased me in St. Louis was the killer, as I suspected, I should be safe. He was beyond hurting anyone else now. And the old church should be abandoned. All I had to do was slip out there and find the proof I needed. Once I did, I’d beat it back to my car and call Bill on my cell phone. If I couldn’t reach him, I’d talk to a deputy.
Piece of cake.
There was a chance the trash had been left by construction workers, but I doubted it. I was convinced they were using the old church as a hiding place. Did that mean Ron Mark was involved, or were they passing off the new faces as workers? And what construction company was handling the renovations?
I’d worry about that one later. And whether or not Ron was involved, I didn’t think that after the last incident, he’d welcome me back to the winery with open arms. I’d have to make sure he didn’t spot me.
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I noticed one of Tink’s baseball caps on the backseat. I’d wear that, and sunglasses. Not much of a disguise, but it would have to do.
When I drove down the gravel road to the winery, I saw a big silver bus pulled over to the side. Great, a tour. I’d blend in with the group and wait for my chance to slip away.
I parked behind the bus and slipped on my sunglasses. Getting out, I reached in the back and picked up Tink’s hat. I pulled the hat on, settling the brim low on my forehead and tucking my hair underneath.
Walking around the corner of the bus, I caught sight of the tour group and groaned.
Hair, ranging from flat black to odd shades of silver, shone in the sunlight. The group was dressed in almost identical outfits—textured polyester shorts, knit polo shirts tucked into elastic waistbands, and white tennis shoes with anklets folded neatly below varicose-veined calves.
From the back, I guessed the average age to be about eighty. How in the devil would I blend in?
In front of the group I saw the young woman from the gift shop. Her voiced carried across the heads of the little old ladies as she explained the art of grape cultivation.
Pulling my hat even lower, I edged my way to the back of the group, trying to fit in with the group of seniors. I’d mosey along with them until I could make a break for the woods. The gravel crunched as I stepped behind a lady with flat black hair wearing mint green shorts and a yellow polo shirt.
She turned at the sound, and from behind her glasses shrewd blue eyes appraised me.
“Hi,” she said pleasantly. “Are you with us?”
“Um, sort of,” I stammered.
“Good,” she said, moving back and linking her arm with mine. “It’s so nice to have young people join us. I’m Lucy and this is Mabel.” She pointed at the woman on the other side of her, wearing a bright purple sun hat, lavender shorts, and a pink shirt.
Gee, this was working out better than I thought. As long as I didn’t run into Ron Mark, I’d be okay.
I waved at Mabel.
Lucy gave me a friendly smile. “We’re from Sunset Retirement Homes—”
A soft snort came from Mabel, cutting Lucy off. “What a stupid name—Sunset. They might as well call it ‘End of the Trail.’”
“Now, Mabel,” Lucy admonished, “you have to give us a chance.” Lucy turned to me. “Mabel’s children talked her into selling her house and moving to Sunset. She’s not happy about it,” Lucy whispered loud enough for Mabel to hear her.
“Well,” I said, scanning the backs of the ladies in front. “You look like a pretty lively bunch.”
“Oh, we are.” Lucy’s eyes flashed. “We come here every year for a tour and a dinner with all the wine we can drink.”
I chuckled. This Lucy reminded me of Aunt Dot.
“But,” she lowered her voice again, “we’ve got to keep an eye on Phoebe over there. She can’t hold her liquor and she gets a little crazy.”
I didn’t want to know what was considered crazy for an eighty-year-old, so I let the remark slide.
“Do you know if the old church is on the tour?” I asked.
Mabel whipped her head around so fast that I swore I heard her neck pop. “Is it haunted?”
It was to me, but I wasn’t going to explain that one. “No, I’ve never heard that it was.”
“Does it have an old graveyard?” Mabel was getting excited.
“I suppose,” I replied with a small frown.
Mabel straightened her shoulders and stood tall. “I’m psychic, you know. I can sense spirits.”
I suppressed a smile. “Really?”
Lucy waved a wrinkled hand in Mabel’s direction. “Oh, don’t get her started.”
Mabel’s face fell. “Well, I am, and—”
“Oh look, there’s Ron,” Lucy exclaimed, and dropped my arm.
I watched as both she and Mabel raced up to the front of the group, crowding the crazy Phoebe out of the way. Each took his arm. His chuckle drifted back to me as I ducked my head and fell a few steps behind the rest of the group.
The gang followed Ron, Lucy, and Mabel toward the winery while I stayed as far back as I could. We neared the path and I saw my chance. Quickly, I dodged to my left and ducked behind a tree. Holding my breath, I waited until the voices became fainter.
Then I whirled and took off down the path at a dead run.
Thirty-Four
Wise now to the old memories lurking in the clearing around the old church, I stopped for a moment before I approached. Taking a deep breath, I thought of my experience on the hilltop and imagined the warm glow I’d felt within. It ran through me, around me, making a fierce shield. With a long sigh, I felt prepared, ready to face any challenge.
Instead of entering the clearing directly in front of the old church, I made a half circle through the woods to the back. Mabel had been right, the old cemetery was directly behind the church. The building had blocked my view when I was there last week.
Pine trees cupped the graveyard, and not only cast the ground in deep shade, but the wind sighing through the boughs sounded like the whispers of the dead. The weathered stones either stood or lay tumbled on the ground in precise rows. Some tilted at crazy angles, their bases having sunk partially into the black soil.
The breeze tugged at a strand of hair that had escaped the baseball cap, but when I stepped into the graveyard, the air calmed. Nothing moved—not the deep grass, not a butterfly, not a bird—the only motion was mine as I walked through the tall grass. A heavy stillness seemed to w
eigh down on this place. While crossing the graveyard, I noticed that many of the headstones had an angel or a lamb carved deep into the pitted surface. I didn’t need to pause to read the dates—those were the markers of children gone too soon.
I reached a single door located on the side, at the rear of the church, and stopped. To my left were two large doors extending out from the building at a downward slope. Cut into the foundation next to them was a boarded-up square. The cellar doors and the old coal chute.
I extended my hand and was about to touch the doorknob when I dropped the hand to my side. Did I really want to do this? I could leave now, run back to my car, and leave this place for good. I could dump it all in Bill’s lap and let him figure out what was happening.
A sudden buzzing in my ears urged me to finish what I’d started, and I reached for the doorknob again and slowly turned it. The door opened with a creak that reverberated through the quiet glade. I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Why—I had no idea—it was only me and the spirits of the long dead here now. Stepping inside, I softly closed the door.
Dim light shone through grimy windows placed high in the wall to my right. I stood in a hallway leading to the front of the church, and ahead of me spied a door to my left. Creeping up the hallway, I grasped the tarnished knob and turned it slowly. Then, with a hard push, I flung it open.
Nothing—the room was empty save for some mildewed boxes and an old kerosene lantern sitting on a decrepit end table. Crossing to the boxes, I flipped one open, sending a fine cloud of dust into the air. I sneezed. Again nothing—old newspapers that had been shredded into a mouse’s nest. Yuck. I quickly closed the lid.
I wiped a grimy hand across my forehead and scanned the room. No one had been there for a long time. Looking down at the dirty wooden floor, I saw that the only footprints tracked through the dust were mine.
I left the room and proceeded to the main part of the church. A shaft of late afternoon sun shone down through the hole in the ceiling, and dust motes danced in its beam. The room was as it had been last week, except the pile of trash and the moth-eaten blanket had vanished.
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