Wolff woke to the acrid smell of stale wood smoke. It was one of the first things he’d noticed on his arrival at the farmhouse yesterday. More than one hundred years’ worth of errant smoke had permeated every post, beam, plank and board of the old house.
He had to get some fresh air. What time was it anyway? He switched on the wobbly table lamp fashioned from a wine bottle and squinted at his watch. It was not quite five. At least he had managed to get some sleep. He dressed, put on a Seattle Mariners baseball cap, picked up his Marlboros and left the stuffy room, quietly closing the door behind him.
In the pre-dawn darkness, a breeze tousled the leaves of a graceful birch by the front door, making the sound of wavelets rippling on a pebble shore. Shielding his lighter from the wind, he lit a cigarette. Now and then, when the breeze slackened, he caught a whiff of fertilizer and other farm-like smells. He stood for a minute or so, enjoying the solitude. His eyes had now adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the shapes and silhouettes around him. For no reason, he walked to the side of the house. He started to think about the coming day and what it would be like when he finally got to see the rose that was to be his salvation. The dark mass of an outbuilding of some kind – a barn, probably – loomed to his left. The rustling of a nocturnal creature in the brush ahead of him momentarily interrupted his thoughts.
The wind had picked up. Between the corridor formed by the house and the barn it was kicking up dust and dry leaves in ankle-high eddies. Somewhere a door or window rattled on loose hinges. As he walked between the buildings, Wolff had to tilt his head down to prevent the dust from getting in his eyes. He ducked into the barn. Out of the wind, standing there, smoking the last of his cigarette, he noticed with indifference the curtains flapping in an open window on the first floor. Then he started back to the house. It took him three steps before he registered the implication of the open window.
Running into the house, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know which room Marcus, Billy or Kate occupied. He started banging on every door he could find, shouting Marcus’s name. Finally, Billy appeared in the hallway, pulling on jeans.
‘Billy, which room is the Sheppard woman in?’
‘The one on this side,’ he said, pointing. ‘Upstairs,’ he added, still half asleep and confused.
‘Shit! Just what I thought – the goddamned window’s wide open.’
Marcus appeared at Wolff ’s side. ‘What the fuck’s goin’ on?’ he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
‘It looks like the Sheppard woman’s escaped,’ Wolff snapped. ‘You told me there was no way she could get out of that fucking room. Christ knows how much of a head start she’s got. Marcus, you get the Jeep and drive up to the main road. Chances are she’s on foot, so check out the fields as you go. If you don’t find her, go straight to The Parsonage. I’ve got a feeling that’s where she’ll be headed. But she’s obviously not gonna stay there for long, so you’d better hustle. On the way, check out every goddamned phone box you can find, too. First thing she’s gonna do is call the police.’ He turned back to Billy. ‘Come with me. We’re gonna have to close up shop and get the hell out of here.
Chapter Twenty-five
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth
Kate had stayed out of sight on the toilet seat for what seemed forever. Now and again she slowly raised her head to the corner of the window, risking a darting glimpse to see if the smoking man was still there. Who on earth was he? He had to be one of the two men who had kidnapped her. But what in hell’s name was he doing out there, taking a smoke, at this ungodly hour? She glanced out for the fourth – or was it the fifth – time. She let out a little sigh of relief. He was gone. But he must have seen the open window. How could he have missed it? The flapping curtains, alone, were reason enough. She cursed herself for not having taken them down. Should she risk going now, or not? Probably they would be at her door any minute. But if one of them came back outside, she would jump right into his arms. Stay or go? Then she heard the shouting in the house.
Go, she decided.
She pulled herself up and with effort got her head and shoulders through the small opening. To her horror she suddenly found herself wedged in, arms pinned helplessly to her side. She was stuck half-way in and half-way out. Then she heard somebody downstairs shouting, ‘Marcus! Marcus!’ That did it. With every muscle straining she wriggled and kicked her way slowly forward. At last she was through, dangling almost upside down from the opening. In a desperate move she managed to grab hold of the sill and swing her body around. She looked down for a split second, then dropped to the ground into a patch of weeds that softened her fall. In a crouch, she scurried across the yard to the barn. Now she heard more frenzied shouts coming from the house. Pulling out the rusting, mud-spattered Raleigh bicycle, she was heartened to see that its front tyre had plenty of air and that the rear, while spongy, would likely hold up. Because the saddle was set for a man, she had to pedal in the standing position. She wobbled the first few feet across the bumpy dirt yard, quickly gathering speed once she reached the gravel drive.
Though still not daybreak, a sliver of moon peeping from time to time from behind the low clouds offered enough light to guide her way. Soon she reached the road. It had no signpost. Without thinking, she turned left, downhill. She had to put as much distance between her and the farmhouse as quickly as she could.
Crouched low over the handlebars, she freewheeled flat out down the steep incline, the rushing wind loud in her ears. She pedalled hard for another five minutes or so. She was thinking, so far so good, when she detected another sound over the wind, a low droning, growing ever louder. Taking a risky backward glance, she caught sight of the dancing headlights of a fast approaching car, about a quarter of a mile away. She had to get off the road.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, she saw the dark silhouettes of a cluster of buildings, probably a farm. She squeezed gently on the brakes. A screeching of metal on metal pierced the chill morning air as the shuddering old Raleigh slowed sufficiently to allow her to swing in a clumsy arc off the road on to a dirt path. She leaped off the bike, threw it against the nearby hedge and crouched beside it, her heart beating rapidly, eyes fixed on the road. In a matter of seconds the car flashed past, accelerating up the hill. It was travelling so fast – a momentary blur – that she couldn’t tell what kind of car it was but she had no doubt that it belonged to her captors. Hearing the engine fade in the distance, she breathed more easily.
She left her bike by the hedge and walked down a rutted path in search of a house where she could use the phone to call the police and Alex. After scouting the area for several minutes, she determined that there was no farmhouse, that the silhouettes she’d seen were sheds housing farming equipment, barns and various outbuildings. Aware that she’d wasted valuable time, she went back, retrieved her bike, and walked it up to the road.
For twenty minutes or so she pedalled hard along the empty country road. The ride was difficult and more tiring without a saddle to sit on. Every now and then she would have to stop and take a rest. She guessed that she was now at least five miles from the farmhouse, still with no sight of a telephone. Sooner or later, she knew she would happen on a village. There she would definitely find a phone box or get to use a phone in one of the shops. She just prayed that it would be soon, her legs were aching like hell.