by John Coyne
Santucci mumbled something and Tom asked impatiently, “What did you say, Joe?”
“It’s Peggy Volt. Her husband found the body stuffed into the baby’s crib.” He continued to speak in his quiet, even tone, as if reading a newspaper aloud.
“How?” Tom asked, raising his voice, trying to break through the seeming indifference of the detective. “How was she killed?”
“We’re not sure. The body was nude. She might have been killed elsewhere and moved.”
“What about the husband? Is he a suspect?” Tom had taken out a small notepad and begun to jot down the detective’s answers. He was a reporter again, doing his job.
“We’ve questioned him,” Santucci answered and then lowered his voice confidentially. “He didn’t do it. I think you were right about this one, Tom.”
“What’s that?” Tom was having trouble understanding the detective.
“I think you’re right. I think it was the girl. We found a piece of her clothing in the bedroom. Her old man has identified it.” The detective sounded disgruntled. He was not someone who liked admitting his mistakes.
“We have more evidence here, Joe,” Tom replied. It did not make him feel better knowing that he was right, that the strange, retarded child was a killer, and he explained to Santucci about the tape, and how Cindy had answered Sara’s question about who killed the children.
“I better hear that. Stay at the house. I’m coming over.” “There’s more,” Tom went on, and told Santucci about the numbers, and how Sara thought Cindy was hiding out up on the ridge of the valley. “We were on our way up there.”
“Okay, I’ll get my men and floodlights; we’ll meet you there.” Santucci was no longer belligerent. He had been wrong about the girl, and Tom Dine had been right.
Tom, still stunned by the detective’s news, moved slowly away from the telephone.
“Who is it?” Sara asked.
“Peggy Volt.” He couldn’t look at her.
“Peggy, too.” Sara turned from him.
“How?” Marcia asked quickly.
“Santucci doesn’t know. She was found nude in the baby’s crib … stuffed into the crib.”
“They’ll kill us all,” Marcia whispered.
“No, they won’t,” Sara replied quickly. She knew she had to be positive and forceful.
“Santucci told me they found some of Cindy’s clothes at the Volts’,” Tom went on, in what he hoped was a neutral voice.
“It wasn’t her,” Sara answered back.
“She already told us she killed them, Sara!”
“Whoever is causing these attacks,” Marcia interrupted, “has got to be much more sophisticated than this twelve-year-old child, or her farmer father. I think Bruce Delp is capable of brute force, of murder, but not this!”
“Marcia’s right!” Tom agreed with excitement. “I think this kid has some sort of psychic powers. I keep remembering how her eyes seemed to blaze with color when I trapped her in the hayloft.” He turned quickly to Sara, saying, “Remember what I told you, that these autistic children have an unnatural ability to concentrate, to focus their minds.”
Sara nodded. “Yes, but you’re saying something much more bizarre—that her power of concentration can, number one, burn the cells and nerve fibers of the brain, and, two, cause these brutal attacks.”
“Mind control,” Tom answered. “It’s been proven from the research into psychokinesis that people like Uri Geller, for example, can bend metal just by the concentration of the mind. Well, Cindy Delp has that power. Only,” he added, “hers is a killer mind.”
She left a trail of lamb’s blood in the woods, on the thin path at the edge of the valley, and in the long grass that grew wild near the ancient site. Here the child stopped and circled the mound, easily finding in the dark the small mouth of the chamber. Centuries of neglect had reduced the entrance to a small tunnel, barely large enough for her to squeeze through into the cold stone room.
She stood and, reaching up over the old entrance to the giant lintel that faced the autumn sky, she marked the stone with her sacrifice, drew in blood the slanting lines, marking the granite with the eye of Bel.
Tom led them out of the Village, and up through the fields to the crest of the hill. They all had flashlights, and there was enough light among them to locate the mound quickly. It rose like a slight blemish on the thin edge of the valley. Beyond it were more open fields and woods, all descending in a gentle roll of landscape.
But the mound—even covered with long grass and dirt—was noticeable to the untrained eye, once you knew you were looking for it. At Neil Cohoe’s house, they had all looked silently at the section of the ridge Neil had marked on the survey map. Then Marcia announced quietly, suppressing her excitement, “The mound. The Indian mound where Benjy and Debbie were picking flowers the day it happened. That’s the only thing it could be, on that section of the ridge.”
The tunnel entrance was more difficult to find in the dark, and they made it even more so by trampling down the grass in their haphazard search. It was Sara who finally discovered it, stumbling down into the large opening as if she had come upon a gopher hole.
“It’s too small for me,” Tom said, clearing away the grass. He looked at both of the women.
“I won’t go in there!” Marcia protested immediately. She even backed away from the others. “Just because I’m the smallest …”
“Fine, we’ll wait for Santucci,” Tom answered, pleased with that decision. He did not want either of them inside the mound.
“I’ll go,” Sara said, and immediately slipped off her jacket.
“Sara, that’s not necessary!” Tom objected. “If Cindy isn’t inside, some wild animal probably is. This is Santucci’s job, not yours.”
“Let me take your flashlight, Tom?” Sara asked. “It has a stronger beam.” She was only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and was immediately cold from the night wind on the hillside.
“Sara, don’t!” Marcia said, feeling guilty that Sara wasn’t afraid to crawl into the dark tunnel.
“I want to talk to Cindy, now that we know how to reach her,” Sara responded calmly. “If Santucci gets hold of her first, she’ll be put under arrest for the murder. We’ll never know what she has been trying to tell me. And this,” she sighed, “is my only chance. Look!” Sara pointed down the hill. In the dark, they could see a dozen beams of flashlights, all converging, all climbing through the open field toward them.
“Then I’ll go with you!” Marcia said suddenly.
“Marcia, that’s all right.”
“No, I won’t let you go alone. We don’t know what’s inside; you might need me. Only,” Marcia took a deep breath, “you go first.”
Sara dropped to her knees, and shining the flashlight before her into the tight, dark hole, she crept forward. The tunnel was only a few feet wide and tight on her body; she had to twist and use her feet to kick herself forward and into the chamber.
The room was larger than she had expected, and when she swung the wide beam around the room, she saw it was also clean and bare, with the snugness of an attic. Then she turned the light toward the small entrance and helped Marcia scramble inside.
“This isn’t an Indian burial site,” Marcia announced after she had searched the room with her light. “It’s incredible, I know, but what I think we’re actually standing in is an ancient temple observatory.”
“It’s a what …?” Sara turned her flashlight on Marcia. Marcia’s mouth was open and she was shaking her head, baffled by the discovery.
“I realize it sounds outrageous,” Marcia continued, “and I’m not positive—I’ll have to do some measuring—but what this is, this chamber, is an astronomical observatory. The Celts used temples like this to mark the equinoctial days, and the summer and winter solstices. The opening faces east and it was from here that the Druid priests observed the sunrise of each new season. I’ll call the Smithsonian in the morning, and have a team of archaeologists and epig
raphists assigned to this site.” Marcia spoke rapidly, planning ahead.
“It still doesn’t help us with Cindy,” Sara responded.
“I know, Sara, but try to appreciate this. We might be standing in a Celtic temple built over three thousand years ago. This spot on the hill may have been a Druidic astronomical observatory before the Algonquins lived in the Appalachian mountains.
“The typical Celtic temple is like this one—a rectangle with a narrow entrance doorway in the middle of the eastern wall, and a smoke hole for the altar on the western wall. There are no window openings, and the only light comes from the doorway.
“These people made a cult of sun worship. The sun meant everything to them: warmth, the growth of vegetation, and, after winter, spring and the birth of wild animals. They worshipped and feared the sun, and kept track of it in ways that don’t mean very much to us.”
“Is it possible, then,” Sara asked, coming closer through the dark, “that there might be some connection between Cindy’s obsession with the Bel monogram and the Celts’ observation of the sun?”
“Yes, it seems to be tying together. We ask her name and she gives us the longitude and latitude of this place. Perhaps she thinks she’s acting at the will of this sun god Bel.”
“How could Cindy be responding to some ancient, prehistoric ritual?” Sara demanded.
“Sara, in certain places, farmers today still plant under a waxing moon, and harvest under a waning moon. These traditions—folklore, superstitions—still prevail, and actually I don’t think it is any more farfetched or preposterous than supposing that Cindy has psychokinetic powers.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you. I’m just feeling the strain of tonight.” Sara sighed, then added, “Let’s get out of this place.” She spun her flashlight around and searched for the small dirt hole in the entrance. In the total darkness of the chamber, she was disoriented. “Where’s the entrance?” she asked angrily. A small ball of panic sped through her body and caught in her throat, and she wildly flipped the beam of light back and forth across the walls of the long, narrow cave. “Marcia!” she called.
“Sara!” Marcia touched her arm and she jumped involuntarily.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is getting to me.”
“Wait a second!” Marcia said. “I think I saw something.” She took the flashlight and moved the beam of light slowly along the wall. “There!” she exclaimed. “See those marks!” Marcia moved closer, keeping the light fixed on the dark stains above the tunnel.
“These are new,” Marcia said, reaching up and touching the damp, slanting lines drawn on the lintel stone. “It’s blood,” she whispered.
“Does it mean anything?” Sara asked, and again she felt a wave of fear, realizing she was alone with Marcia in the chamber.
“Yes,” Marcia answered, concentrating on the blood markings. “This is the Ogam inscription, the one I told you about earlier.”
She stepped back suddenly, away from the lintel, and the beam of the flashlight cast her face into shadows.
“What does it say?” Sara asked quickly, frightened by Marcia’s reaction.
“It says,” Marcia began, beaming the light on each slanted line as she read, “G-L-N F-G.”
“Meaning?”
“Pay heed to Bel. His eye is the sun.”
On the butcher block table of Sara’s kitchen, Marcia began to draw simple line sketches on sheets of drafting paper, explaining to the others as she worked.
“Throughout all the phases of the Bronze Age in Europe, worship of the sun was a common religious practice, and sites where solar worship occurred were indicated by engraved signs representing the sun—a wheel, a checkerboard, and at times a ladderlike symbol.
“Also, rocks were set with astronomical meaning. I’m sure there were rocks here that were keyed to stars and sunrises, but over the centuries, they’ve been removed to build the farmhouse and barns.”
“I think I’ve seen some of these rocks,” Tom interrupted. He took his small map of the Village and opened it on the table.
“Can you pinpoint where that girl’s body was found, beyond Neil’s house?”
Sara leaned over the table and pointed to the wooded area beyond lot 75.
“There were huge rocks near the girl,” Tom went on, speaking quickly. “I’m sure they formed a circle under those oak trees. They didn’t seem important at the time, but they’d have religious significance, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, of course. Rings of Stone. Not many have been found in the United States. They are quite common in Ireland, and I’ve seen pictures of some in Connecticut, but the giant rings, such as Stonehenge, are found only in England.
“They’re called Druids’ circles, and probably were used for religious and magical rites. Where was that girl killed?”
“Right here.” He pointed to a dark spot on the map.
“What are the other X-marks for?” Marcia asked.
“Oh, I was fooling around, trying to find if there was a graphic pattern in the deaths and the attacks on the women. And you can see, the lines are like spokes of a wheel, pointing toward the Indian mound.”
For a moment Marcia studied the X’s on Tom’s map, then she slipped a thin piece of drafting paper over the map and, pressing lightly with a black magic marker, drew another set of lines connecting the X-marks. She lifted the drafting paper off the map and placed it flat on the table.
“It looks almost like a checkerboard,” Tom responded.
“That’s right. A symbol of sun worship.”
“Another sun reference,” Sara said, sighing, “but still none of it makes sense.”
“Oh, it makes sense. We’re just having a difficult time accepting the truth: that Renaissance Village is built at the exact location where once—sometime between 800 and 100 B.C.—a Celtic population built that rock chamber to chart the skies and pay homage to their sun god, Bel.
“This hillside, I’m sure, is another Mystery Hill, full of underground passages, standing monoliths, temple chambers, and Bronze Age inscriptions.”
“But you said earlier, Marcia, that no one, not even the experts, were able to decode Mystery Hill.”
“Yes, but now we have a key they didn’t have. A walking, talking Rosetta Stone.” Marcia’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
“Cindy? But how?” Sara asked. “These monuments—this chamber, the ring of stones—are over three thousand years old. How could she understand them?”
“The language. Cindy can write Ogam script. You’ve seen her.”
“But that doesn’t prove anything. Autistic children are able to achieve remarkable tasks, sometimes totally unrelated to their lives.
“I read about a boy who could run through a Walter Cronkite news telecast verbatim, complete with pauses, foreign reports, and commercials. He’d do the different voices, and also hummed the background music as he breathed. Actually, this type of autism is common. There’s even a technical term for his behavior, delayed echolalia.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sara?” Marcia answered. “A plausible, scientific answer to Cindy’s strange behavior.”
“I’m sorry, Marcia, but my mind doesn’t work quite like yours. I can’t take such large leaps of the imagination. Perhaps if I knew more about archaeology.” Sara shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe this child is somehow linked to the Celts who sailed to America in 800 B.C.”
“Reincarnation?” Marcia asked wryly.
“Oh, come on!” Sara crossed her arms and walked away from the table. “You’re a scholar, Marcia, not a believer in transmigration.” Then Sara turned back to the smaller woman and said forcefully, with all the conviction of her training, “The child is sick. Cindy Delp is an autistic savant suffering from neurological and biochemical imbalance, but it’s possible she can be cured through megavitamin therapy and an anti-allergic diet. And once this nightmare is over, I’m going to see she gets proper therapy.
”
“Once this nightmare is over, you might not have the chance,” Tom replied calmly. The women looked quickly at him and he went on, “You said yourself the next attack could be fatal.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ll soon see.”
TWENTY
“The child won’t hurt me,” Sara answered. “I’ve been with her during two stress periods and she hasn’t attacked me. I’ve seen the look in her poor eyes. This girl is trying to reach me, and I cannot run away from her. I’m going to find her, wherever she is hiding on this farm.”
“Sara, I know you believe that she won’t hurt you. And I agree: Cindy wouldn’t hurt you intentionally, but she can’t control herself.” Tom kept talking, but he could see in how she stood—her arms crossed, her head up and her jaw squared—that she had made the decision, and he knew she wouldn’t be swayed. But still he went on. “Sara, the power she has will destroy your mind, burn the cell tissues as it did in those children. As I’m sure she did to Peggy Volt.”
“I’ll be all right, Tom. She won’t hurt me.” Sara smiled to make it easier, to show both him and Marcia that she wasn’t afraid.
“I’m staying, too,” Marcia volunteered.
“No, Marcia,” Sara protested. “There is no reason for you to risk your life.”
“You’re both crazy!” Tom raised his voice and glanced at his watch. “You’ve got less than twenty minutes,” he warned.
“I’ll call the barn,” Marcia went on, “and tell the others to leave without us.” She went into the hallway to telephone.
“Come on, you two!” Tom pleaded. He was frightened, and his fear made him panic slightly. “Sara, if I have to, I’ll carry you out of this house and off the farm. The same for you, Marcia!” He was standing in the middle of the kitchen with his feet spread apart and both hands on his hips. He looked wild and out of control.
“Sit down, please,” she asked Tom, and slid herself into one of the kitchen chairs.