Devil Smoke (10 page)

“You’re not planning on staying here?” Tommy asked Sarah while TK collected the dress and its wrapping.

“No. Of course not. It’s not like this place has any meaning to me. I meant it was foolish for TK to insist on staying with me both day and night. What good is an exhausted bodyguard, right? She should take that,” she jerked her chin at the wedding gown as if it were contaminated, “to the police and then go get some rest. While you help me pack. We can go someplace public and safe until we figure out where to go next. A cheap hotel would work for me, except I don’t have any money or an ID—at least not until my replacement driver’s license gets here. Detective Burroughs said it should arrive by tomorrow.”

And that was that. No whining, no tears, just a plan. Tommy liked that. He only wished there was more to it. He knew Sarah wouldn’t be safe until they caught her stalker—and she found her memories.

“Would it be okay for us to set up surveillance here?” he asked. “In case the stalker returns?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” TK added. “We can put a button camera overlooking your front door and another inside.”

Sarah shrugged. “What do I care? I won’t be here.” She walked into the bedroom, leaving the door open so they could still talk. “Did you see any suitcases when you—oh, found it.”

TK bundled her evidence. Tommy walked out with her, holding the door open for her.

“You okay with this?” she asked. “I know you were planning to head home early.”

“I don’t need to pick up Nellie from school until three twenty. That should give you and Lucy time to flesh out a plan, find a place for Sarah to stay.”

“No problem.” TK looked past him back into the apartment. “I don’t know what to think of her. She seems all over the place, emotionally. Like she forgot what to feel and when to feel it, if you get my meaning.”

“It’s not uncommon in patients with concussions, even mild ones. Add that to the fact that her emotions are totally disconnected from any memories or life experiences…”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Feel kinda bad for her. It’s a shitty position to be in, even without a possible stalker. Can you imagine? Losing everything?”

“Losing everything is easy. People do it all the time and start over. It’s the losing every
one
—including yourself. That’s a living hell.”

TK paused, met his gaze. Seemed to realize maybe he wasn’t talking only about Sarah and her amnesia. “It’ll be okay.” Her tone made it sound so damn easy. “Give it time. It’ll be okay.”

With that she left. Tommy stood in the hallway, watching her walk away, and all he saw was Charlotte. Shaking her head and waving him away… right when she needed him most. And he’d gone. He’d left her. Alone.

TOMMY RE-ENTERED SARAH’S
apartment and closed the door behind him. He leaned against it for a long moment. He felt off balance, but that was nothing new—losing Charlotte had been like losing his gravitational center. He had to hang on with everything he had to keep from spinning off into the void. If it weren’t for Nellie, he would have let go long ago.

What was taking Sarah so long? He wandered through the living room and into the bedroom, hoping he wouldn’t interrupt her packing her underwear or anything else inappropriate. He found her sitting on her bed cross-legged, an open suitcase stuffed with clothing beside her. She was staring at the digital screen on her camera.

“I think I know where we should go,” she said without looking up at him. “I want to retrace my steps, follow my path from Saturday.”

Tommy considered. It was Monday morning; the trail would probably be deserted. “Last place anyone would be looking for you.”

She glanced up, the camera rising with her as if it were part of her, and smiled. “My thoughts exactly. We can use the GIS info and these photos as a map. Maybe something there will trigger a memory—after all, it was the last place I chose to go, right?”

He didn’t want to give her false hope. “Actually, with a traumatic brain injury, it’s often those memories closest to the time of the trauma that remain permanently erased.”

“Oh.” Her mouth worked back and forth as she considered that. “Still, better than staying here staring at stuff that feels like it belongs at someone else’s garage sale, right?”

“Sure. Finish packing and we’ll get going.”

She sprang off the bed, carefully returned her camera to its case, closed the suitcase, and zippered it shut. He hauled it off the bed—not very heavy; she really did travel light. “Sure this is everything you need?”

“No, but it’s everything I could think of. Packing is easy when you have no clue what clothes you like or which shoes are the most comfortable.” She spun around, taking in the room as if she’d never see it again. “I have no idea what I’m leaving behind. Everything feels so… sterile?” She heaved her shoulders in a sigh. “Leave your attachments behind. That’s like Zen or Catholic or something? Right?”

“No idea. Sounds kind of like the Hare Krishnas.”

“Hare Krishnas?” Her eyes closed as she concentrated. “I’m seeing orange, like wings flapping, swirling around… oh! I remember. They’re a dance troupe?”

“Close enough. Let’s go.”

He ushered her out to the Volvo. Traffic was light, and a little more than thirty minutes later, they left the narrow two-lane highway that twisted around the mountain, turning onto a gravel drive leading upward. Passing beneath the shadows of tall hemlocks, they arrived at the parking lot at Fiddler’s Knob.

During the drive they’d learned that Sarah didn’t like rock, country, pop, or cool jazz, but preferred classical music or NPR. She knew some of the presidents but not all of them, remembered the major wars but wasn’t sure who ISIS was—although to be truthful, who really was?—and she knew how to drive a straight stick, her left foot reflexively mimicking Tommy’s movements as he shifted gears.

The parking lot barely earned its name. It was a simple hard-packed dirt clearing with space for maybe ten cars max. The sign for the trail was its only adornment—that, plus a notice with hunting regulations and the remains of the shattered car windows sparkling against the dirt. Apart from the Volvo, the lot was empty.

“You’re sure about this?” Tommy asked while he undid his seat belt.

“Yes. It’s better than sitting around worrying.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “Okay. But after a head injury you don’t want to stress your body. If you get tired or dizzy or get a headache, tell me. And we go slow and easy.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “I feel fine.”

“It’s strange. Most people after a concussion, they’re fuzzy, little things confuse them. But you, you’re so certain, so clear.”

“Clear. I like that word. As if all those memories were a burden, blinding me, muddying things. I feel… light. Like I’ve shed a weight. Does that make sense?”

It did. But he didn’t want to crush her mood with an explanation of
la belle indifférence
and the power of denial to protect a mind against overwhelming circumstances. So he merely nodded and got out of the car.

Sarah joined him, hoisting her camera bag over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. It was almost noon, the sun not quite above the top of the mountain, leaving them in its shadow.

“I must have parked over there.” Sarah pointed to the other side of the clearing as she peered into the camera’s view screen.

“How can you tell?”

“Look at the angle of the shot of the sign. It’s the first photo on the card.” She thrust the camera at him. “Here. You follow through the camera while I see where my instincts take me.”

The camera was heavier than he’d expected—and this was only the body with one small lens attached to it. She carried a selection of larger lenses in the bag slung over her shoulder. He quickly oriented himself to the camera’s basic viewing functions, keeping his fingers away from anything that looked like it might alter her settings or take a picture, and followed her past the sign onto the trail.

The sunlight filtered through the trees in a cascade of pale gold ribbons that shifted with the wind. The forest was thick with pines, hemlocks, oaks, and maples, and the terrain on either side of the trail varied from moss-covered limestone ledges to spongy carpets of decaying leaves and pine needles. The scent was heavenly, waking Tommy up as if he’d been trapped within a long winter’s slumber. In a way, he had been.

He pushed thoughts of his own problems aside as he focused on Sarah’s photos, guiding them like landmarks on a tourist’s map. Often they’d have to backtrack as Sarah’s original path rambled back and forth away from the well-trodden main trail into the scrub and brush, searching out hidden gems of rock formations, plant life, and compositions of light and shadow.

“What’s that?” He stopped to peer at the next photo. It was a close-up of a small, delicate flower—a pink lady’s slipper. Beside it, on a bed of moss, was a bright metal object: a small, silver ballerina performing a pirouette. Except the leg holding her upright, the straight leg, had been broken off.

Tommy jerked upright, scanning his surroundings, feeling as if someone was watching him. That same sucker-punch feeling that came with being the butt of a sick joke.

No one was watching. No one was even near except Sarah, who was bent over examining a cluster of teaberry plants.

He sucked in his breath, bracing himself, and dared to glance back at the camera screen. It was still there. The charm, as broken as a promise, taunting him with impossible possibilities. He squinted, enlarging the image. How could this be happening?

“Sarah, look at this. Where did you take this?” His words snapped through the air between them, but she didn’t seem to understand his urgent need for answers.

Slowly she rose and took the camera from him. “Oh, I quite like that composition.”

He tapped the screen, pointing to the broken dancer. “Where is it? The charm?”

“How should I know? Around here somewhere. Why?”

“My wife. She had a charm bracelet. When Nellie was born I gave her a ballerina charm exactly like that one.” He crouched low to the ground, searching for the flower or any glint of metal.

She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Maybe he had. “Tommy, there are millions of charms like that one.”

“Not with the leg broken off. Nellie was playing with the bracelet and broke it just a few days before Charlotte went missing.”

“There’s no way—”

“Just help me find it. Please.”

Without another word, she joined him in the hunt. It was backbreaking work, scouring the detritus beneath the trees. They went to the location of the next set of photos—an easily recognizable rock formation a few yards away—and Sarah worked her way back along one side of the trail while Tommy took the other.

Then he spotted it. A pillow of moss tucked in below a rotting log. The flower with its dark pink “slipper” dangling down between two shiny green leaves. And beside it, the charm.

He sank onto his knees, the damp from the ground seeping into his bones.

Sarah came up behind him, taking pictures, the sound of the camera drowning out the rest of the world. Or maybe that was his shock, pushing everything else aside.

“Maybe you should leave it there,” she said. “In case it really is hers?”

She was right. If this was evidence, he should leave it for the police. But he also knew there was no way in hell Burroughs would ever come out here. For what? A charm that was no doubt sold in thousands of stores across the country? Even the broken leg wouldn’t convince Burroughs—he’d say that this charm design probably just had a weak, defective spot. If one broke, they probably all did.

He used a leathery maple leaf to coax the charm free from the moss. Up close, there was still nothing to indicate that it was Charlotte’s. There was no special inscription, no unique markings other than the broken leg.

“Tommy.” Sarah sank down beside him and rested her palm on his shoulder. She sighed. “It can’t be hers.”

“Why not?”

“Because look at it. It’s pristine. Lying on top of the moss. If it had been out here a year, it would be all grimy and covered with leaves and dirt.”

“Maybe you moved it? To compose your photo? Cleaned it up?”

She frowned, looked into the camera for answers. “I can’t remember, but looking at all these, nothing appears to have been staged. In fact, there are a few that would have been better compositions if I had rearranged the elements. But I didn’t.”

“Well, then maybe it wasn’t here a year.” He dared to meet her gaze. “Maybe she was here. Herself. Maybe she’s still alive.”

AFTER HER CONFRONTATION
with Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross, Nellie couldn’t stomach staying where his eyes followed her everywhere she went. She ran past the altar, barely remembering to genuflect and cross herself, and into the forbidden, secret room behind it.

It wasn’t so much a room as a closet. There was a large T-shaped wooden thing that seemed to be a coat stand for the pretty priest coats they only wore during Mass. The one hanging there now, waiting for Father Stravinsky, was cream with gold trim and tiny flowers sewn all over it. There was also a table with two gold chalices, a wash bowl, pretty embroidered towels—the kind Mommy said were only for show, not to actually wipe her hands on—and a glass jug of wine. Another crucifix hung above the table, but it was small, not scary at all.

On the other side of the closet was a door leading out. Nellie opened it and peeked through. It opened onto a hallway that ran along the back of the church. There was a door going outside, and past it a set of steps leading down. The stairs looked like a good place to hide until her class finished Mass; then she could sneak back into the school.

Checking again that no one was around to see her, she left the closet and raced to the staircase. It led down to a musty hallway, illuminated by only a few naked bulbs. It smelled of cleaning chemicals and old paper.

The first door led to a room with a big furnace that looked scary, so she shut it and kept going. The next doors were storage rooms. One had boxes and boxes of paper—this was where the musty smell came from. Nellie wrinkled her nose; she’d be sneezing the entire time if she hid in there.