It was probably nothing to worry about.
Helen could hear Moppet barking. A warm wet tongue woke her from her half-conscious state. She murmured reassurance, but when she tried to take the little dog in her arms she found her ankles and wrists were bound with cord. The barn door was closed, too, and it was dark inside.
At least she was still alive. For now.
Moppet barked again and she tried to hush him, discovering that her mouth was also bound with some sort of cloth gag.
Helen wriggled on to her back, wincing, and sat up. He’d tied her hands in front of her and it only took a moment for her to find a pitchfork among the bales of hay. She rubbed the cord against the prongs until they frayed enough for her to break them. Even so, her skin was raw and bleeding. Hurriedly she removed the gag and then the cord about her ankles, then staggered to her feet.
Moppet ran to the back wall and Helen followed, realizing there was a gap in the boards, half hidden behind a barrel. The little dog darted through and Helen began to follow, ignoring the stabbing pain behind her eyes and the queasiness in her stomach.
Behind her the barn door opened.
Angus had once been a big man but age had bowed and shrunk him down into something less formidable. Angus ran a small museum in an old house in the main street.
Claire knew she should be working but she still had that squirmy feeling in her stomach and she needed distraction. It was more than that, though. The idea of solving the mystery of Helen and Niall had taken hold of her. It wouldn’t restore her own lost self, but it would help. It would give her the self-confidence she needed to tell Gabe she was in love with him.
“Do you have any photos of Niall McEwen’s homestead?”
“I do have a few photos. Why do you want to see them, Claire?”
“I thought I’d do a story on Niall. Now that the homestead is no longer under water, people are interested.”
“Are they?” Angus looked sceptical. “There was always something nasty about that whole Helen thing.”
Nevertheless he went and found the photos, packed in a cardboard box. When Claire asked if she could take them with her he gave her a hard stare.
“I’ll be very careful,” she promised.
Reluctantly he put the box in her arms and she carried it out to the car, closing the trunk just as her cell phone rang.
“Claire? Merv here, how you doing?”
Merv was her neighbour further along the reservoir towards the spillway.
“You haven’t lost a dog, have you Claire?”
“A dog? I heard one barking one night in the reservoir. I thought it might be yours.”
“Well, it’s here but it’s not mine. Not yours either then?”
“No.”
“Just turned up in the middle of the night. Strange thing was it was covered in mud and all wet. Must have been in the water, I reckon.”
Claire felt a prickle of unease. What about the man who had been in the homestead, the man in the photo? Was the dog his? And if so, why had he left it behind?
“Claire?”
She realized she’d fallen silent, standing by her car, the phone pressed hard to her ear. “How about I come over and take a look at it now? I’m about to drive home anyway.”
“See you then.”
Merv, man of few words, hung up. Claire climbed into the car, telling herself that it was probably just a stray dog, dumped on the highway further out of town. Animals could smell water for miles, couldn’t they?
Merv was waiting for her, his shock of white hair even wilder than usual. Inside a dog was barking. Short, sharp yaps. It sounded like the dog she’d heard the other night. As Merv opened a door a small bundle of newly washed white fur ran past him and straight at Claire. Before she could stop it, the small dog was jumping at her, blunt claws scrabbling at her legs as it barked hysterically.
“Whoa there, boy!” Merv caught the sturdy little animal up, holding it away from her, but it continued to bark. Bright eyes peered at her through a mop of white fringe, and a pink tongue lolled as it fought to catch its breath. Merv looked at Claire. “You sure you haven’t met before? He seems to think you’re his.”
She shook her head, laughing, and reached out to rub the dog’s head. It was white and woolly. This wasn’t the sort of dog that an owner dumped on a highway; this was a pet, healthy and well fed.
“I wonder where he came from?” she asked, smiling as the animal licked at her hand, little tail wagging so violently its whole body shook in Merv’s arms.
“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s an intelligent little fellow, and friendly.”
Claire gave the woolly head another pat. “I’ll put something in the paper for Thursday. Perhaps we can find his owners.”
The dog seemed calmer now, and Merv put it down. It trotted over to Claire and sat, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.
“Love at first sight,” Merv quipped.
“I’ve never had a dog,” she said, stooping to tickle the animal under the chin. “Well, not that I can remember, anyway.”
Merv leaned against the doorjamb. “Nothing’s come back to you then?”
Claire grimaced. “Nothing. It’s as if I never existed. As if I’m nobody.”
“You’re somebody in this town, Claire,” Merv reminded her levelly.
It was nice of him to say so, and Claire smiled.
“I hear you’re digging into Helen’s disappearance.” The humour had gone from Merv’s eyes.
“Yes, I am. Do you think Niall killed Helen? Is that what everyone thinks?”
He shrugged. The little dog barked, breaking the tension.
“Do you want to take him? Might be company for you until his owner’s found.”
The dog was watching her, panting, and she nodded. Why not?
But as she drove away, the dog sitting proudly in the back seat, questions began to fill her head. If the dog belonged to the man in the homestead then why had it run away? Could. could the man have fallen? Claire’s heart began to pound. Was he still out there, inside, too hurt to call out? Trapped and injured and expecting her help.
Guilt swamped her. The other night all she had wanted to do was get away from the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her that the man might need her help, that she was running from an injured man and not a ghost.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, and pressed down hard on the accelerator.
He was coming closer. She heard him throwing aside hay and tools and empty crates, anything in his way. Helen reached through the gap in the wall, fingers like claws in the earth, and pulled herself through. A moment later she was on her feet and running towards the homestead. There were people there. She could get help. Someone would help her.
The water had receded some more, leaving a line of newly formed crusts over the mud around the edge of the moat. It was still too deep for Claire to wade across despite her gumboots, but she could see the bottom now and from the feel of the sun scorching her back, it wouldn’t be long before it had dried up enough.
She shaded her eyes and squinted up the slope towards the homestead. The barns and other buildings that must once have encircled the main house were long gone, either rotted into the mud or dismantled before the water covered them. In daylight the homestead had lost its poignancy and looked forlorn, with one wall leaning dangerously, the boards buckled and warped, and the window frames empty dark squares staring inwards.
“Hello!”
The word seemed to stop, as if it came up against something solid. No echo, no carry. She called again. There was still no real sense that anyone who might be in the structure would be able to hear her, or that she could hear them. Especially if they were injured and unable to answer loudly.