Maybe the feel-good power hadn't come from the church after all. On the chance it was further north, I jogged another quarter mile up A1A, gave up, circled back around to Eighth Street, and stopped about two blocks west of the church.
Still no feeling.
Assuming the power could be detected at least a mile from its source, I decided to cover as wide an area as possible on my way back to the B amp;B. The course I chose took me near the hospital on Center Street.
Which is where I finally felt it.
I didn't understand how the feeling could be at the church one day, at the hospital the next, but I knew for certain it was emanating from the hospital this time. Wishing I had a car so I could get there quicker, I tore down the street in a full sprint. As I rounded the last corner, I knew I was too late.
The feeling was getting progressively weaker.
I stopped.
Within a minute it was gone.
I jogged back to the B amp;B more confused than ever. When I got in the room I fired up my laptop and typed a name into the search engine while Rachel slept. In a half hour the alarm would ring to get us up for kitchen duty. I clicked on one of the search choices and began reading. That article led me to another, and I read a half dozen more before the alarm went off. When it did I turned the computer off and shut the lid.
Rachel pushed the button on the alarm and felt the empty bed where I was supposed to be. She sat up and looked at the bathroom, then around the room until she saw me.
"You still worried about D'Augie?"
"I still think he's trying to kill me, but that's not why I stayed up. I was thinking about Libby Vail, and how she wanted to come here to learn about her heritage."
"You really think she's alive and being held captive here?"
"I think it's possible."
"Okay, whatever. So you were wondering what, exactly?"
"There are probably a hundred cities and towns along the coast of North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, right?"
"I guess."
"But Libby wanted to come to St. Alban's to research her connection to Jack Hawley, the pirate."
"So?"
"So why St. Alban's? Why not Fernandina Beach, or St. Augustine, or any of the hundred other cities and towns?"
Rachel thought about it a minute and then frowned. "Kevin, you are so full of shit. I bet you've been looking at porn this whole time."
I laughed. "Not porn, but I did find something extremely interesting."
"Uh huh," she said, unconvinced.
"I found a fascinating story about pirates in St. Alban's, and how a girl named Abby Winter may have saved the town. The story was attributed to Jack Hawley."
"Attributed," Rachel said.
"You want to hear it?"
"No. I want to pee."
She climbed out of bed and trudged to the bathroom. I turned my thoughts away from pirates and concentrated on the day ahead. The kid Rachel called D'Augie may have sucked at it, but he was definitely trying to kill me, and I intended to find out why. But since he was in the hospital in terrible shape, I decided to put him fourth on my to-do list. First on my list was making breakfast for the departing guests. Second was interviewing the most influential person in town I could find, because if Libby Vail was being held captive, the cover-up had to involve a number of people, including those at the highest level. Third was rescuing Libby Vail, assuming she was being held prisoner. Then I'd deal with this D'Augie kid who was trying to kill me.
Chapter 22
I WAS IN no rush to rescue Libby Vail. For one thing, I wasn't positive where she was. The church was still my best guess, but if she was being held there I'd have to alter my theory that she was connected in some way to the power I'd experienced.
I knew it was a huge stretch to assume she was locked in a church on a relatively busy corner in St. Alban's. My reason for having made the connection was flimsy, at best: I'd seen a lady with a picnic basket walking up the church stairs a week before Beth left The Seaside carrying a similar basket. When Beth came back I found a woman's fingernail and scratch marks on the bottom of the basket that might be L and V.
So it was a hunch, more than anything.
Against that hunch, I had to imagine church leaders going along with the kidnapping of a young coed from Pennsylvania and allowing her to be held captive in their tiny building. Since church services are held there, you'd have to wonder how Libby Vail could be rendered quiet enough that none of the church members had ever heard her crying for help. Either that or you'd have to believe the entire congregation was involved. I also had to add the FBI into the equation, since they had set up camp in St. Alban's after the kidnapping, made a thorough investigation, and came away with nothing.
If I was right about Libby Vail being held captive at the little church all this time, it would require a conspiracy that started at the very top of local government, including the mayor and chief of police.
Which is why, at 1:00 pm sharp, I had Rachel drop me off at the court house. I walked up the three stone steps in front of the building, opened the main door, and walked about halfway down the hall until I found the mayor's office. The door was open, so I entered and passed the empty desk normally occupied by Milly, the mayor's secretary. This, I deduced by channeling my inner Sherlock Holmes. To put it another way, Milly's name plate was sitting atop the empty desk.
I knocked on the door to the mayor's office, and opened it.
"Mr. Creed," he said, rising to his feet.
We shook hands. He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and said, "Sit down, sit down." When I did, he pointed at the length of rope draped over my right shoulder. "What's that for, you planning to hang me?" He laughed.
"You know me as a cook, but I'm also the maintenance man."
He looked at the rope again and frowned. I couldn't tell if he was opposed to the rope itself, or the fact I wouldn't tell him why I had it. He brightened his expression a bit and said, "That corn bread you made was the best thing I ever put in my mouth. I told my wife about it, and she said, 'Ask him what his secret ingredient is.'"
"Yogurt."
"Well hell, that can't be true. I hate yogurt."
I smiled. According to comments I'd heard from our local breakfast customers, Carl "Curly" Bradford was considered Mayor for Life by the good people of St. Alban's. He was tall and lanky, mid forties, with sharp facial features and rust-colored hair flecked with gray. He had a stern, professorial air about him. I pointed to the bicycle hooked vertically on the far wall of his office. "You ride to work on that?"
"It's my exercise routine," he said. "I ride every day, rain or shine. Like you, except that you're a runner."
"Small town," I said.
"That, plus I've seen you running a time or two, out on A1A."
We looked at each other a minute without speaking. He seemed uncomfortable with the silence, and showed it by making small talk. "You're making quite a name for yourself as a cook."
"I won't lie, I enjoy it."
"You don't look like a cook, though."
"No?"
"Is it stressful looking after that old place?"
"Why do you ask?"
He smiled. "Couple of folks saw your car parked on A1A a few times, thought they might have seen you lying on the sand dunes."
"Is that illegal?"
"Closer to the beach it is. But not where you go, as far as I know."
I nodded.
"It's dangerous, is what it is," he said.
"How so?"
"Lot of fire ants in that area, as I guess you know. It's right near the spot where that young man nearly died from fire ant bites."