Indian Pipes (21 page)

“We’ll take it off, but not yet, Mrs. Trumbull. Give us a moment to light the lamps and disguise ourselves.”

Victoria smelled kerosene, heard the sound of a glass chimney being set on a wooden tabletop, the scritch of a wick turned up, a
match striking, the nostalgic smell of burning kerosene. So they were not near the electric poles, or if they were, there was no electricity in this house. She scuffed her feet. There was a braided rag rug on the floor. An old one, not one made from yarns.

“Are you warm enough, Mrs. Trumbull?” Mack asked.

Victoria thought a moment before she answered weakly. “Is there something I can put on my feet?” If she could get away from here, she would prefer not to walk barefoot.

She heard drawers opening, and Mack came back with a pair of wool socks he drew gently over her misshapen toes.

“Heat up some water for soup,” he ordered. She heard someone pump up a kerosene stove, heard the
glug-glug
of water poured from a jug into a saucepan, caught the strong smell of the stove.

“Would you like some instant soup, Mrs. Trumbull?”

Victoria really didn’t want it but thought it might be a good idea to keep her strength up, and nodded as if it took more effort than she had.

“This was a mistake,” the driver said. “You can tell the drive almost did her in. We should have left her home.”

“Shut up, will you? We had no choice. I’m giving you another minute, then I’m taking the case off her head. The rest of you, out of here.”

It was a relief when Victoria felt the muffling pillowcase come off her head. Once she could see again she seemed to hear better and sense things better. She must remember to act like a feeble old lady, she thought. It was her only hope of getting away from here. She tried to look around without seeming to do so. She let her bright eyes become dull. Her body sagged, her hand draped listlessly over the edge of the couch.

Mack was dressed entirely in black, and she could tell nothing at all about him. He brought her a mug of some kind of instant cream soup, and she acted as though she couldn’t handle it. He was showing impatience. He spooned the soup into Victoria, who let much of it dribble down the side of her mouth the way she had seen old people eat. She let her head loll.

“Mrs. Trumbull, that trip couldn’t have been that hard on you. You’re a strong woman.”

Victoria almost let herself rally, and told herself she was an actress, acting the part of an old lady. She moaned, and the soup dribbled out of the corners of her mouth.

“I have to question you, I’m sorry.”

Her head wobbled from one side to the other. “I’m fine,” she said in a way that made it clear she was not. “Ask me. Whatever I can…”

“Where is that computer, Mrs. Trumbull? I don’t know whether you heard me or not, but we know you identified it at the fire scene. We know Atherton took it to your house and stored it in the library. It’s not there now. Where is it?”

Victoria thought for a long, long time. She let her eyes go vacant while she examined everything she could see in the dark room, which was illuminated only by the one small kerosene lamp that stood on a table in front of the couch. The rest of the room receded into darkness that seemed all the darker because of the one spot of light. She could make out a table with straight chairs next to it on one side of the room, and she saw lamplight reflected in windows opposite her. She didn’t dare look up, but sensed that there was no ceiling, the room went up to rafters and a dark sloping roof.

“Mrs. Trumbull!” His voice was curt. She’d better not pile it on too thickly. He was already suspicious.

“Howland put it in the library,” she murmured so softly he had to move his head close to hers. She caught a faint, faint whiff of a scent coming from his face or hair or hands. Was it patchouli? Did everybody wear patchouli? Had he had some contact with Linda? She must remember to tell Casey.

“It isn’t in the library, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“I know,” Victoria said softly. “I looked for it.”

“Where is it, Mrs. Trumbull?”

His dark eyes showed through slits in his ski mask. Would How- land be safe if she told Mack where the computer was? She might learn something. Howland could take care of himself.

“Somebody stole it.” She took a shallow breath.

“What! What makes you say that?”

“It…was…gone,” Victoria murmured. “They…took it.”

“Who, Mrs. Trumbull?” Mack stood up and paced. “Who? Who?”

“Dumpster.” Victoria let her voice fade away.

“What!” said Mack. “Did someone throw it in a Dumpster? Who?” All rhetorical questions, and Victoria didn’t answer. “Who else is after that computer? Did Atherton find it? Does he have it now?”

“I’ve got to lie down.” Victoria leaned back against the lumpy cushions and, as if it was a great struggle, tried to lift her feet onto the couch. Mack helped her. She let one hand fall onto her stomach, where it pressed against the shell necklace she still wore, the other hand trailed on the rug.

“Please, Mrs. Trumbull. Does Atherton have it?”

Victoria moved her head from side to side as if she were too weak to answer, and closed her eyes.

“Shit!” said Mack.

C
HAPTER
24

Mack stomped into a room to one side, and Victoria heard him say, “Everything in the world is on that computer. We’ve got to find it.” Someone responded. Mack said, “If the fire destroyed the data, it’s gone. But if anything can be recovered, we’ve got to get to it before anyone else does.” The door between them and her shut with a click.

She heard a woman’s voice, the driver’s. They talked quietly, so quietly that if her hearing had not been so attuned, she wouldn’t have known they were there. Mack spoke distinctly, and she could make out a few of his words.

She felt drowsy. She didn’t want to lift her wrist to look at her watch in case Mack came back and saw that she wasn’t sleeping. She had to be careful not to fall asleep.

Who were these people who wanted the computer? And why? Did it have to do with blackmail? Property? Motorcycles? Finances? Casinos? It was too tangled for her to sort out. Besides, she really didn’t feel as alert as she’d like.

She strained to hear what was being said. She could catch occasional words. She heard “sleeping pill” and “old ladies” and “half,” and she put those words together sleepily.

The door opened, and Victoria snored gently. She must not fall asleep, no matter what.

“She’ll be out for a couple hours,” Mack said. “Most likely the rest of the night.”

“We can’t leave her,” the driver said.

“We have no choice. She’ll be okay. She’ll sleep, even if she does wake up, where can she go?”

“Don’t take any chances,” the driver said. “She’s a smart old bird.”

“She’s what, ninety-two?” Someone must have nodded because he continued, “I’ll lock the door on the outside.”

Victoria sensed the presence of the woman, a clean soap smell, and the presence of the fourth person. She bit down on her tongue to stay awake, and pressed the back of her neck into the necklace Bernice Minnowfish had given her.

“How long do you plan on keeping her here?”

“Until we find that computer. We
must
find it.”

“What if it takes a couple of days?” The driver again. “Everybody on the Island is looking for her. It’s on the scanner. It’s only a matter of time before they find her, and they’ll accuse us of kidnapping, that’s what.”

“We’ve got to chance it. Come on, let’s go.”

“All of us?” said the woman.

“Everybody. She’ll be okay. I’ll send one of you back with food. We got nothing here except that damned soup.”

Victoria fought sleep by tightening her toes in the wool socks, by biting the side of her tongue, by thinking about Elizabeth, who must be worried about her. They were looking for her. Hurry up and get out, she urged her captors silently. I don’t want to fall asleep. Half of a sleeping pill? She had dribbled quite a bit of the soup down the front of her nightgown. Enough to make a difference?

They blew out the light—she could smell the burned wick—and then they left. A key turned in the lock. The Jeep started up, shifted into gear, and skidded on sand. The motor sound faded, then became louder again. Were they returning? It faded again. The Jeep must have gone into that valley and up the other side. She had to hurry. She had no idea how much time she had.

She pulled the socks up around her ankles. It would help if she could find shoes. She fumbled around in the darkness for matches, finally found some, then decided she’d better not light the lamp in case someone was watching. She put the matchbook in the pocket of her nightgown and felt her way into the bedroom, fumbled in the bare closet for shoes, didn’t find any, didn’t find any clothing she could wrap around herself. She had to get out of here. The wool socks would have to do.

She found her way to the front door and tried the knob. Perhaps it
was the kind of lock you could open from the inside, but it wasn’t. She felt around the wall until she came to the kitchen. A knife would be useful. She patted the counter until she located a drawer and a paring knife, which she wrapped in a paper towel from the holder over the sink. She found the back door, which she could unlock from inside. When she opened it, the sound of waves on the shore became louder. She must be careful not to fall. The socks would protect her feet, but they were too big and she was afraid she might trip over them or slip. She pulled them up as high as she could, almost to her knees, twisted the top of each, and made a sort of knot. She found a railing, felt for the wooden steps with her stockinged feet, and stepped down onto the sandy beach at the bottom.

The night was so dark she circled the cabin by holding one hand against its shingled wall. She worked her way toward the deck and the steps that led up to it. She looked up at the sky and could see Orion and, by turning, the Big Dipper. She would navigate by stars, the way her grandfather had taught her. The North Star was behind her. She must not go in circles, and she must conserve her energy. She ought to mark the way so Casey could find the camp. She had the packet of matches and the paring knife. Anything she could think to do with either of those, blazing trees or leaving burned matches, would take more time than she had. She could lay down a pattern of stones wherever the road branched, but that too would take too much time and the road was naturally stony. Then she remembered her necklace with its colored shells. She took it from around her neck, and cut the string carefully so she could remove one shell at a time. She dropped two shells next to the steps leading to the deck. The fluorescent shells would stand out against the grays and tans of the road.

Her feet found the rutted road, and she began the steep climb away from the cabin toward the main road. How far had they driven down that road—two miles? Three? She needed a stick of some kind for support. She made a foray off to one side of the road and picked up a fallen oak branch from among the huckleberry brush. She stopped long enough to break the stick to the right length.

Slowly,
she told herself. Ten steps, then rest for a count of ten. The road was not difficult to follow. Starlight showed her the ruts and
twists and turns. If she were not so concerned about the Jeep returning, concerned about Elizabeth and Casey, too, and if her feet were not feeling so tender, she might have enjoyed this night walk, an adventure that made her heart beat faster, pumping the half of the sleeping pill out of her system. She slid down, faster than she wanted to go, into what had seemed, by Jeep, like a small valley, that now was a deep bottomless gorge, and climbed up the other side, breathing hard. She dropped a shell every time she thought the track might be confusing.

Going up the side of the valley, she was so out of breath, she took five steps and rested ten counts. The road would level off, she recalled, and she would make better time. At the top she came to three side roads, and dropped several shells on the road she’d been on. She puzzled over the direction to take. She couldn’t afford to spend energy on the wrong turn. She rested on her stick. Island roads branched like rivers, tributaries feeding the main stream at an acute angle. She studied the roads, looked up at the stars, and moved on again.

After she’d taken ten steps and waited for a count of ten so many times she’d lost track, she decided to reward herself by sitting down on the first big rock or stump or high side of the road, someplace where she wouldn’t have to get all the way down, then all the way up again.

The road passed through a grove of oak trees that blotted out the starlight. Over the years the ruts had cut deeply into the sandy soil, leaving three-foot-high banks on either side. Victoria sat down on the left bank on a soft bed of moss, the height of a chair with a velvet cushion. She took a deep breath, breathed in the night air. She listened to the night sounds, waves on the shore of the Sound, far away now, gratifyingly far, a bell buoy she hadn’t recalled hearing before. Far off she heard a car. She listened intently and decided it was on the main road. A mile? Two miles? How far had she come, a half mile, perhaps? Up a steep hill, down into a valley, and up the other side. If she remembered correctly, there would be no more hills. But she was tired. Her feet were beginning to hurt. The cold night air seeped through her nightgown. She shivered, and started to walk again. Thank goodness for the socks. They were bulky and uncomfortable,
and she had to keep pulling them up to adjust them, but think how it would be in bare feet. She must not allow herself to be tired or cold. She would think about cranberry juice laced with rum in front of the living room fire, about soaking her feet in a warm tub smelling of herbal essences. She threw back her shoulders and took fifteen steps.

Walking like a ten-year-old, she remembered, and stopped for a count of ten. Fifteen steps and rest for ten. Although the road was mostly sand, in places there were stones she couldn’t see that bruised her feet. She knew there were large rocks in the road that she would have to avoid. She could not afford to stumble over one and fall. Fifteen steps and a count of ten. She looked up at the stars. They hadn’t moved from where they’d been when she started. Her heading was almost due south, she figured. The road twisted and turned, but headed generally south. She stubbed her little toe on a large rock, and barely caught herself before she fell. She said “Ouch!” out loud, and lifted her foot off the ground until the pain subsided, and scolded herself for carelessness. She put the foot on the ground softly, and drew it up again with the sharp pain. If she simply ignored it and kept going, the pain would go away. Back to five steps and a count of ten.