Jules said he would send them with Waltier the next day. “I have arranged for a wagon full of hay to be taken to a farmer I know just beyond the village of Portes. He’s expecting it.”
Madame Berger had a smile on her face.
“Dress accordingly,” Jules suggested.
“Oh, I will,” she answered. “Wrapped in a blanket. And praying I don’t sneeze.”
The others drifted into the front room of the house while Pierre and Catherine stayed at the table, their marriage certificate and a bottle of wine between them.
“Do we need to talk more?” He reached for a lock of her hair that had escaped from her lace head covering and then leaned toward her.
“Non,” she said, smiling at him. “Maybe.”
“About?”
“I don’t know.”
He took her hand again, but this time led her up the staircase. Instead of going down the hallway, he stopped on the top step and pulled her down beside him, putting his arm around her and pulling her head to his shoulder.
Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” she whispered. She had been tricked by Eriq’s bravado and by his deceit. And it had made her doubt the person she had loved most in all the world.
“Don’t be sorry. It couldn’t be helped.”
“But I am. And I am sad for all it has taken from us.”
He put a finger under her chin, lifting her head. “Things will be better than they were before. We’ll be together with no secrets between us. We have survived adversity. We have changed, but it has made us stronger and better prepared for what is ahead.”
He no longer smelled of paper and ink, but of smoke and wine, mixed with the mountain air. She relaxed against him for a moment, taking in his warmth and his wisdom. He was right. They had both changed. Her heart surged as she turned her face up to his. He drew her into an embrace as they kissed, his hand on the nape of her neck. When he released her, she stood, pulling him up to the landing and then toward the bedroom.
Before dawn the next morning, Catherine lit the candle at the desk and wrote a bit more in her journal while Pierre—her gentle, generous, passionate Pierre—slept in their marriage bed behind her. After she recorded the details of her wedding and hopes for their future, she stacked the pages in order and tucked them safely into her satchel.
Grand-Mère would not be able to read this record of her life until now and her private thoughts about all they had gone through recently, but someday Valentina would. Catherine knew what it was like to lose a mother. She hoped Amelie’s daughter would find a measure of comfort in this glimpse of her own mother and an understanding of what led her family to Le Chambon-sur-Lignon.
At dawn, on the eighteenth of June—the Eleventh Monday of Ordinary Time—Catherine told Cook and Estelle goodbye. Then Grand-Mère and Valentina. Finally, she turned to her brother.
As she reached to kiss him, he interrupted her by thrusting a pamphlet into her hand. Puzzled, she examined it. It was one she had seen in the print shop on Thursday of Holy Week, titled A Collection of Verse for the Encouragement of Young Men and Women.
“This awful thing?” she said, flipping through the pages. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Excusez-moi?” Jules replied, feigning deep offense. “Pierre and I worked very hard on that.”
Her brow furrowed. “What? The two of you made this? Why?”
Pierre explained. “It’s one of the ways we have helped guide our people to freedom. What looks like an ordinary pamphlet actually contains information about how to make it safely out of France—including various routes, safe houses, and secret allies along the way.”
Stunned, Catherine flipped through the pages but saw nothing of what he described. It was merely a collection of drawings and poems. “Where?” she demanded. “How?”
Taking it from her, Pierre turned to the page featuring the poorly rendered sketch of the horse. “For example,” he said, “if you look closely, you’ll see a map hidden in the animal’s flank.”
She stared at the drawing for a moment and then gasped. “This line here, this is the escape route?”
“Oui, one of them,” Jules replied. “And here, where the poem refers to ‘Galloping in the noble meadows by moonlight before coming to rest in a grand place that fits like a glove’? What that says is that it’s safe to move quickly through the rural areas outside Grenoble as long as you travel at night. Your goal should be to find a Monsieur Grand at the glove factory, where you will be given food and safe shelter for a day.”
“Really?”
“Trust me, the information is all there in the words if you know what to look for. ‘Noble’ means ‘Grenoble.’ ‘By moonlight’ means ‘only at night.’ Those who have been given the pamphlet have been instructed what to look for.”
“And this works?”
Both men nodded.
“Just last week, for example, I got a letter from one of the families we recently helped with it,” Jules said. “It was a drawing by one of their children—a picture of a house with a yard and a stable and a rope swing—and at the top, they had written, ‘Bonjour from Bern. Merci beaucoup.’ ”
Catherine shook her head, truly amazed. As a work of art or poetry, it left much to be desired, but as a hidden key showing the way to deliverance, it was a work of genius.
“Merci beaucoup from me too,” she said, clutching the pamphlet to her chest. “I will treasure this.”
Pierre put an arm around around her. “I’m so sorry, chérie, but once we reach England we will have no choice but to burn it. Because it can incriminate sympathizers and get them thrown in jail, we have had to guard it carefully and insist that it always be destroyed the moment those who have been using it reach safe haven.”
“Actually,” Jules corrected, “I think we should let this one copy survive. We should preserve it for the future so generations can better know how their forbearers managed to escape. Always keep it safely hidden, but eventually give it to your children, for their children.”
Pierre nodded in understanding and Catherine reached, again, to kiss her brother’s cheeks. This time he cooperated.
As he pulled away, he winked at Pierre and said, “Besides, this particular one is special. It has a coded message to my sister inside.”
Then Jules looked to her, and for the briefest of moments a smile flickered in his eyes, the old smile she knew when they were young and he had not shut her out of his heart.
Astounded, she thought of their code-breaking game from when she was a child. She looked again inside the pages, this time spotting the familiar circles. One last message from her brother. She would decode it tonight, once she and Pierre safely reached their first stop.
She looked around at the faces of family once more, committing the moment to memory. The time had come to be packed into the wagon among crates of paper with her beloved Pierre—her husband!—and be driven by Monsieur Roen on the overland journey to Rochelle, where they would then board the ship for England and their new life together.
Wherever God may lead them, she knew they were safe within His hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Renee
On Monday morning, the morning after our big discovery in the Dark Woods, my cousins and I got ready for the day and then went to the main house to talk to Nana together. We were feeling nervous but also excited—not to mention more than a little defiant. We had no idea how she would react, but now that the four of us had been vindicated, we didn’t really care that much.
Or at least that’s what we told ourselves.
We had three surprises for our grandmother. First, that Nicole was here; second, that we’d gone out to the cabin late last night and done some testing; and third, that said testing had essentially proven the validity of the claims we’d been making for nineteen years. And though we knew she’d be thrilled by the first bit of news, the second would likely make her peeved for having been kept in the dark, and the third… well, we weren’t
sure how she was going to react.
On the one hand, she would probably be glad to know that her four granddaughters weren’t raving lunatics. On the other hand, she would surely feel terrible for not having believed us back then. Complicating matters was the fact that this finding now opened up a huge can of worms that she would be stuck dealing with more than anyone because of her home’s proximity to the murder scene. I’d already heard from the detective, who was coming over soon for a visit that would officially kick off the investigation.
There was nothing like dumping a mess on your grandmother’s lap and then leaving town.
We found her in the solarium, sitting at her little rattan writing desk, no doubt penning thank-you notes and other follow-up correspondence from the big weekend. The four of us entered the room together, but she was so absorbed in what she was writing that she didn’t pay much attention at first.
“Good morning, girls,” she said, her eyes still on the page in front of her. “There’s fresh fruit and muffins in the kitchen if you haven’t had breakfast yet. The staff’s off today, but I think we can manage on our own, don’t you?”
Stifling smiles at her obliviousness, we looked to Nicole, who quipped, “Hey, Nana. Sorry I’m late.”
Our grandmother’s head whipped around, and the look on her face was one of confusion followed by pure joy. “Nicole!” she cried, rising and moving toward her youngest granddaughter. If she was startled by the girl’s bleached locks and gaunt appearance, she didn’t show it. She simply took her into her arms for a long hug.
Of course, once their greeting was complete, the questions began—“How did you get here?” “When did you arrive?” “Didn’t you realize the reunion ended yesterday afternoon?”—and so on. I jumped in lest Nicole have to break the big news herself. I suggested we all sit because we had something we needed to explain. Soon we were settled, with Nana in one side chair, me in the other, and my three cousins side by side on the couch.
I began our tale, laying out the situation as succinctly as I could and explaining how Blake and I had been talking on Saturday about the science of chemiluminescence and how it can be used to prove the existence of blood stains, even really old, cleaned-up, long-gone bloodstains. From the stricken look on Nana’s face, I could tell she realized where I was going almost immediately. She didn’t speak, however, so I pressed on, telling her the whole story, ending with our trip to the police station last night.
“We didn’t say anything to you ahead of time,” I added, “because there was a chance the test might not work, and we just couldn’t risk a repeat of nineteen years ago, if you know what I mean. I’m sorry, but that’s how we felt about it.” With that, I clasped my hands together in my lap and looked over at her, waiting for a response.
She didn’t give us much. In classic Nana fashion, she took a long moment to process the news and then seemed to draw up inside of herself, her posture growing erect, her diction precise.
“This is all very interesting, though I do wish you girls had come to me first before going to the police.”
“We were too excited to wait,” I replied.
“What difference would it have made?” Nicole asked.
Nana looked at her, flustered for a moment. “I… well, I suppose I’m just feeling a bit blindsided, is all. Did you say a detective is coming here? Today?”
We all nodded.
“Very well. If you girls will excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”
“Wait, what?” I said.
Nana sighed. “I need to contact my lawyer to discuss the situation. I’m just being prudent. It did happen practically in our laps, you know.”
With that, she rose and left the room.
Eyes wide, we all gaped as she went, stung by her utter lack of remorse or sensitivity. Where was the apology for not having believed us all those years ago? Where was the shock and joy over our new discovery? Where was the hope that this nineteen-year-old mystery could finally be solved and laid to rest?
“If I didn’t know better,” Danielle said softly, “I’d think… well…” She shook her head.
“You’d think what, that there’s something she’s not saying?” Nicole replied. “Me too.”
“Sure does feel that way,” Maddee agreed. “It’s almost as if she knew already. She wasn’t the least surprised.”
“At least not about the results of last night’s testing,” I agreed. “She seemed a lot more startled at the thought of a detective coming over. What’s up with that?”
Our eyes met, but none of us had a clue.
Nana made the call from her bedroom upstairs, so while we waited for whichever came first—her return or the detective’s arrival—we headed for the kitchen to avail ourselves of some breakfast. We’d just about finished our muffins and fruit when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin and heading for the entrance hall as my cousins quickly cleaned up our mess and then followed.
The detective was younger than I expected, a woman in her mid-thirties with black hair, dark eyes, and a pleasant-looking face. She introduced herself as Detective Ortiz, and despite her age, over the next hour I came to realize that her calm demeanor and laser focus seemed to suit her perfectly to the job.
We spoke in the living room, my cousins and I answering her questions by repeating pretty much everything we’d told the police last night. She took a lot of notes and seemed to have a good grasp of the situation, and I was eager for her to finish her part of things so we could ask our own questions in return, namely, what the next steps in the investigation would be and how long it would take to get DNA results on the blood.
Once we finally reached that point, Detective Ortiz responded by laying out the general plan, saying that they would start this afternoon by bringing in a forensics team to do a thorough examination of the cabin and the surrounding woods, though after all these years they likely wouldn’t find much evidence other than the blood our test had revealed last night. As for that, she said, they would run a few more tests of their own to verify our findings and to get a better look at the spatter patterns. They would also attempt to recover enough residue for DNA testing if possible. “But even if we can’t get DNA,” she added, “there are other ways to go about ascertaining the identity of the victim.”
“Wait,” Maddee said, “what do you mean if you can’t get DNA? If there’s blood, doesn’t that mean there will be DNA?”
The detective shrugged. “There has to be enough for testing, which may not be the case in this situation. Trust me, if it’s there, we’ll find it, even if that means dismantling pieces of the cabin’s walls and floorboards and bringing them into the lab. But it’s not a guarantee by any means.”
Maddee nodded, her expression dejected.
“Remember,” the detective added, looking to all of us, “there are a lot of variables here. We are talking about nineteen years of exposure in an uninsulated, untended cabin.” She counted off on her fingers. “Extremes of temperature, potential contamination by animals and other people, dilution through flooding, absorption rates of the structural materials, and so on. On the other hand…” Her voice trailed off as she flipped through the file folder at her side and finally pulled out an enlargement of what I recognized as one of Blake’s photos from last night. “Tell me more about these shoe prints,” she said, setting the picture down on the coffee table. “These were made by one of you?”
Nicole held up a hand, as if she were in a classroom. “Me. Though they were boots, not shoes. I stepped in one of the puddles of blood that day and then ran off, apparently leaving those footprints behind, even if they were wiped away by the time the cops got there.”
Detective Ortiz nodded. “And the boots themselves? I don’t suppose you still have them? Because there’s always a chance some residue could be up inside the treads.”
Nicole looked crestfallen. “No. I was so traumatized I made my mom throw them away. I used to love wearing those
boots, before. But after, no way. I never even wanted to see them again.”
The detective nodded, making a note, and we all grew silent until Danielle spoke.
“I do have my drawings,” she said softly. “I know it’s not as good as DNA, but maybe you could use them the way you would a police sketch.”
“Drawings?”
Danielle nodded. “Of the old man. The cabin. The blood. The knife. I have dozens. Guess I sort of worked through the trauma by drawing pictures of what I’d seen. Eventually my mother made me stop, but I still kept making them. I just didn’t let her see them.”
“How old were you then?” the detective asked skeptically. “Just nine, right?”
“Yes,” I interjected, “but Danielle was a real prodigy. Trust me, at that point she was better than some artists twice her age.” I remembered the sketches she’d made that first night and how realistic they were, how disturbing.
“I see. And you still have these?”
“Sure do. I’ll have to dig them out, but I know I have them. They’re with a bunch of my old papers.”
That thought gave us all hope. Maybe even if police couldn’t produce enough DNA samples for testing, they would be able to track down the victim’s identity using the old drawings instead. Surely someone somewhere might recognize the man’s face—or perhaps police could even run an image or two through their computer using some sort of facial recognition software.
Either way, I felt sure that learning the victim’s identity was the best next step in answering the many questions that surrounded the Incident—which sounded like an important element of the detective’s plan as well.
As for Nana’s odd reaction, she seemed much more herself when she came back down the stairs. Joining us in the living room, she settled into her usual chair and answered the detective’s remaining questions with grace and honesty. I couldn’t imagine what all that had been about before, but it bothered me enough that it was the first thing I asked once we were done and the detective was finally on her way.
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