Cat's Quill (30 page)

"Okay." Tomas put the cup back on the table, suddenly unsure as to where he stood with Edmonds. He'd seemed so with it, and suddenly.... "Mr. Edmonds, I--"

"Wynne, that's my name. Mr. Edmonds makes me sound like some old guy, which I'm not." He grinned suddenly. "You're only as old as you feel, and for the moment I'm feeling about twenty."

"Granddad." The sketchpad tucked carefully under one arm, Mikey got up and walked over to his grandfather, kneeling by the side of his chair. "I've finished the sketch. Did you want to see?"

"You drew me a picture?" Wynne's face lit up. "My mother used to do that when I asked." He took the sketchpad from Mikey and stared at it for a few long moments, his brow furrowing. "That's Cat," he announced. "I met him once, or was it twice?" He bit his lip, his eyes clouding over suddenly, tears forming. "He was my friend, and he never came back. He promised he would try, and he didn't. My mother died and he wasn't there. Neither was my father."

"He's my friend too, Granddad," Mikey said. "We're trying to find him. Can you help us?" He kept his voice low and even, obviously used to the changing mood and mindset of his grandfather.

Tomas kept a slight distance, not wanting to come between them and knowing he was responsible for this in part, by bringing up old memories. Shoving his hands in his jacket pocket, his fist closed on the button he was still carrying, the metal hard against his palm, focusing on the bite of it to control himself. Wynne had met Cathal. He had to be able to provide them with a better idea of what had happened all those years ago.

"I have something, I think." Wynne reached out and ruffled Mikey's hair. "You look just like my dear Libby. She left me too, died just like my mother, just like my lovely Sarah. All of them too young." He glanced at Tomas sharply, his eyes bright again. "Some love isn't meant to be, you know. It just leads to heartbreak. Rules are broken and people are lost. It's the way things are."

"We're trying to find him, Granddad. We can get him back." Mikey's voice choked; he wiped his eyes quickly, turning away to avoid Tomas. He didn't know how Mikey could deal with seeing his grandfather change like this, and yet it was obvious he was a frequent visitor. "He believes in dragons, just like you. We'll find him, and then I'll bring him to visit you. You'll see. He promised he'd come back, and he will."

"He would have if he could." Wynne shook his head. "They bound him to that tree, he told me. He did something wrong, and they made sure he couldn't leave. He also told me to look after my mother and he'd try to bring my father home." He coughed, reached into his cardigan pocket, and blew his nose on a large handkerchief, folding it up neatly and placing it back in his pocket when he was done. "He looks older than I remember. I didn't think he got older. My mother said he looked the same twenty years later, although she got old."

"How old did he appear to be when you knew him?" Tomas asked softly, unable to stay quiet any longer. How much of what Wynne said was truth and how much the ramblings of a confused mind? What the hell had he meant by Cathal being bound to the tree? It didn't make sense. And yet on a disturbing level, taking into account what Cathal had said, it opened up possibilities Tomas wasn't sure he wanted to contemplate. He edged closer, peering over the old man's shoulder at Mikey's sketch. His breath hitched at the likeness that stared back at him. Cathal was smiling, his eyes alive. With a shock, Tomas recognized the moment Mikey had captured and glanced down, remembering how Cathal's hand had felt in his, the reality of the smile, and the fact that it had been directed at him.

"He was the same age as me," Wynne said. "My mother cried when she saw him. She'd got old, and she said my father would be still young too. She didn't want to grow old without him; they were supposed to do that together, she said. He'd promised her." He pulled the blanket tighter around him. "Everyone is supposed to grow old together, but look at me, I'm like her. I got old all alone too."

"You're not alone, Wynne," Tomas reassured him on impulse, moving to kneel on his other side. "You have Mikey, and we're going to find Cat and bring him to visit you. I promise." God, he sounded almost as desperate as the old man, but he didn't care. "You said you had something of your mother's, a journal. Can I see it? I need to find Cat, to bring him back. Please." There had to be an answer to all this, a way to bring Cathal back, something Alice and Wynne had been unable to do for Christian. Cathal had returned after his cousin had disappeared; that was a difference right there.

The old man grew quiet and still, the blanket slipping out of long fingers. This time he didn't pull it back up. "In the bottom of the wardrobe there's a box." His voice was cracked, thin as paper. "Mikey, be a good boy and go get it for your old granddad."

Mikey was on his feet in an instant, striding across the room and opening the wardrobe. He pulled out a pile of books and newspapers, finally tugging on something pale pink. Wrapping both arms around it, he brought it back to his grandfather. It was a large cardboard box, pieces of rose-embossed paper stuck over it, covering it. Tomas recognized the pattern instantly; it matched the stationery on which Alice had written her letters. "Is this it, Granddad?" Mikey asked.

"Yes, that's it." Wynne gave Mikey a smile as the box was placed carefully on his lap. With shaky hands, he undid the pink ribbon wrapped several times around the box to secure it. Tomas edged still closer, needing to see what was inside. He almost offered to open the box for Wynne, but instinct told him that this was very personal and only to be touched if the old man granted permission.

A leather-bound journal lay on top of a faded sketchbook, some of the pages of the latter having come free as though trying to escape the confines of the book. The journal had a picture painstakingly etched on the front of it of some kind of musical instrument. Behind it was the outline of something else, drawn as though the two were connected, one bleeding into the other so that their individuality was indistinct. Tomas peered as close as he dared without encroaching too much into Wynne's personal space, then moved back again, finding that it was actually easier to make out the outlines farther away.

"It's the oak," he realized. The instrument appeared to be some kind of flute, although it didn't look like any Tomas was familiar with, being of oval shape rather than long, the light reflecting off the etching to contrast the sharp outlines against the dark of the leather.

"My father gave her this journal," Wynne said, running one finger over the outline. "He used his penknife for the design on the cover. The oak is the one that was outside where we lived, but when I asked about the flute, she just smiled, shook her head, and looked sad." He sighed. "She did that in response to a lot of my questions. It was frustrating, although she said she did it to keep me safe. We argued over that several times. I told her he was my father and I had a right to know, but she just kept saying no, he'd tell me himself one day. He never did."

"Can I look at it?" Tomas asked, not sure he had the right. He shivered slightly; Alice's words to her son echoed Cathal's own reservations a little too closely. "Please."

Wynne nodded slowly, caressed the cover one more time, and then handed Tomas the book. "We fought over this too," he sighed. "She wanted it kept private. I thought their story needed to be shared, so I wrote it. To this day I'm not sure who was right, but...." He looked up at Tomas suddenly, his brow creasing into a frown. "If it was this that led you to me, and to Cat, maybe... but then you've lost him too, haven't you, so the ending hasn't changed. I wanted it to, I hoped it might, but it never has."

"I'm sorry," Tomas mumbled, not sure, really, what to say. Opening the journal, he began to read the first paragraph, his breathing speeding up when he recognized the words. Glancing at Wynne, he read further, his fingers turning the pages to skim the rest of the journal. "This is your book," he said flatly.

"Her journal," Wynne corrected. "I had it published for her but didn't dare use her name. I also changed it so it was from my father's point of view. She was scared about keeping safe, so I tried to do that. Everyone knew who Alice Edmonds, or rather Alice Finlay, was. No one knew me, especially just by that name and not outside this village." He picked up the sketchbook, cradling it to his chest. "I thought he'd see it and come back to us. It was supposed to give her the happy ending she deserved, and all it did was to create a rift between us." His voice cracked, tears flowing down his cheeks. "Even on her deathbed, she never told me I'd done the right thing. She just kept asking for her Christian, and he never came."

"It's okay, Granddad," Mikey whispered, hugging Wynne tightly. He shot Tomas a glare, as though to say "see what you've done." "Do you want Tomas to leave? He will if you want him to."

"No!" Wynne shook his head. "This needs doing and sharing, Mikey. Don't you see? It's been waiting for the right person." He handed the box to Mikey. "Give this to Tomas; the two of you can look through it and bring it back in a few days. I've spent years trying to find a way. Everything I have of her is in this box. I have nothing left anymore; even the memories are slowly fading." He hunched his shoulders, pulling his blanket around him again once Mikey let go to take the box, the sketchpad falling onto his lap. "Nothing lasts forever, not even when you love someone. It all fades away and dies. Time catches up with all of us, some sooner than others."

"I don't want to believe that," Tomas protested stubbornly. He would find Cathal, bring him back, and give this story a happy ending.
In Hidden Places
would get its sequel by whatever means necessary. Placing the journal back into the box, he was surprised when Wynne gestured for him to come closer.

"There's something else you need to see before you and Mikey go," Wynne told him, opening the sketchpad. "This was my mother's too." He turned the pages reverently, showing them sketches of the old church, Alice's house before it had been converted to the existing inn, and the tree.

Tomas motioned him to stop; one particular drawing was a little too familiar. "It's the same scene as the painting that's hanging in the inn," he exclaimed, peering at it and fighting the urge to take it from Wynne. In this version the figures in the field could be seen more clearly.

"There are closeups," Wynne said, smiling at him, although there was no mistaking the melancholy behind it. "Would you like to see?"

"Closeups of what?" Mikey piped up, curious, but he didn't make a move to snatch the scrapbook, instead letting the two adults do what they needed.

Wynne turned the next page. On it was a sketch of a man Tomas had never seen before. He was fair-haired, if the shading of the sketch was anything to go by, with laughter lines around his eyes, his mouth turned up in a smirk-like grin as though amused by some private joke. His build was slender, and in one hand was a knife poised over some kind of half-finished carving.

"Who is it?" he asked, his mouth dry.

Wynne pointed to the bottom of the page, confirming what was written there. "It's my father, shortly before he disappeared. This is one of the last days they shared together." He watched Tomas carefully. "He and Cat share a few similarities in looks, although their personalities were very different. Chalk and cheese, my mother said. It amused her."

"You said closeups, as in plural?" Tomas's comment came out hoarsely. He already knew what was on the next page, what he hoped was the companion to this sketch. Wynne was right; the cousins were very similar in appearance, yet different too. It explained why he'd seen some of Cathal in Wynne, yet not quite.

"Yes." Wynne turned the page again, this time handing the book to Tomas to hold. "Sit down if you need."

"I won't...." Tomas's heart sped up, his lips dry. "Oh God," he breathed. In front of him was a sketch of Cathal, several years younger than he was now. He was laughing, gesturing to something in front of him, happy, and more carefree than Tomas had seen him. Tomas caressed the sketch with one hand, his fingers touching the penciled outline of Cathal's cheek.

His eyes grew moist; he blinked away tears.
Cat
, read the flowing script at the bottom of the page.
Alice Finlay Edmonds. 1918.

"Cat," he whispered, "my Cat."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty

"Screw this!" Tomas threw the book he'd been reading across the room, barely missing Donovan's coffee cup. "There has to be bloody something here." What the hell was he missing?

Donovan and Heidi exchanged a familiar glance. It was one they'd been giving each other since he and Mikey had returned from visiting Wynne two days ago. Tomas suspected it meant that they thought he was finally losing it.

"I think that you need to take a break from all this and go for a walk," Heidi suggested calmly. "Or maybe take a long shower and try to nap. You haven't slept properly in days, and we're both worried about you."

"No." Tomas glared at her and then at Donovan for good measure. "Napping isn't going to bring him back. He hasn't got time for me to bloody nap." He rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the dull throb in his temples. His promise to take better care of himself had fallen through when he'd begun looking through the cardboard box Wynne had given him.

How many times had he gone through that box? The newspaper clippings had only served to confirm what they'd already discovered about Alice. She'd died in 1945 after a long illness, having achieved not only a reputation as an artist but also as a recluse. There had been a close friend mentioned, Rachel Lewis, but the woman, who also cooked and cleaned for her, seemed to have been the only person she'd allowed close, apart from her son. So far attempts to track Rachel down had been fruitless, but Doug had offered to help and was in the process of following up on leads.

The phone rang. Tomas dived for it, desperate for information, anything further that could help. Alice and Wynne's search for Christian might have failed; that didn't mean his would end in the same manner.

"Yes?" he barked into the phone, regretting his tone as soon as Dr. McKenzie answered, asking to speak to Donovan. "It's for you," he mumbled, passing it along. "Dr. McKenzie."

Donovan took from the phone from him, the lack of comment on Tomas's behavior saying more than words would have achieved. "Hey, Doc, what's up?" He motioned for Heidi to pass him a notepad and pen, which she did. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear, he began writing, nodding at intervals, and interjecting the occasional comment of "okay."

Careful not to disturb the piles of books, letters, and maps strewn over her kitchen table, Heidi removed the empty coffee cups quietly. Donovan had made a trip to the local library, pleading with Phoebe to part with any resources from her rare collection. While there were myths and legends connected to the area, many of which were documented, it was still easier said than done proving that any of them had a basis in fact.

"Okay," Donovan said again, scribbling more notes. "Yeah, I know, and I don't think so, but we'll let you know." He held the phone slightly away from his ear. "Yeah, yeah, I'll do that, but he's stubborn as hell." His eyes shifted to rest on Tomas. "I might just take you up on that, thanks." Switching off the phone, he laid it on the table and sighed.

"What did Harry want?" Heidi asked, adding more muffins to the empty plate before bringing it and more coffee over to the table.

"He got the results of the blood tests," Donovan explained wearily. For all his talk about Tomas getting some sleep, he wasn't doing much better. Tomas had heard him banging things downstairs the night before and seen him wandering around outside, but he'd disappeared into his garage before Tomas could follow to ask what he was doing. This search was getting to all of them; they couldn't keep the pace up much longer. Heidi had threatened that if they still hadn't found anything they could use by the weekend, that would be it.

"Cat's blood?" Tomas asked sharply.

"Yeah, he sent it to another lab for a second opinion and pulled some favors someone owed him to push it through faster." Donovan pushed his fringe back out of his eyes and took a gulp of coffee.

"And?" Tomas knew that snatching the notepad at this point would not win him any extra Brownie points. As much as his friends wanted to help, he'd been very difficult to live with the past few days, and he knew it. The few social skills he had tended to disappear very quickly with lack of sleep and tunnel vision. The feeling he'd had of running out of time since Cathal had disappeared only served to make his personality failings worse.

He stopped, taking a gulp of coffee, freezing suddenly as his thoughts caught up with him. He did think of them as friends, and good ones at that. When had that happened? If they weren't, they wouldn't have put up with the crap he'd been dishing out the past few days, that was for sure.

"He thinks it must have been contaminated," Donovan explained, "but I'm not so sure." His cup still grasped firmly in one hand, he scanned the notes he'd made. "Apparently for the most part, it's perfectly normal...."

"But," Heidi prompted, her voice calmer than either of theirs but the redness around her eyes a telltale sign that she was just as tired and worried as they were.

"There's a couple of other things in there they can't identify, shit they've never seen before." Donovan shook his head.

"Are you trying to say he's not human?" Tomas bit off a rude comment about small-town doctors and their lack of resources, remembering in time that the sample had also been sent farther afield.

"No." Donovan's eyes ran down his pad. "He didn't say that, just that there's crap there they don't recognize. The only explanation he could come up with for it is that the sample must have been contaminated."

"What about the fact that everything we've found out suggests that he comes from another world?" Heidi said slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Wouldn't there be antibodies from there that aren't here? I don't know much about this kind of thing, but could that show up in the blood tests?"

"He's human," Tomas insisted. "More so than a lot of people I've ever met." The very thought that Cathal might not be was ridiculous.

Donovan held up his hand. "Hold up, Tomas. I'm sure I just said the doc didn't say he wasn't." He tapped the end of his pencil on the table a couple of times. "People develop different immunities depending on where they live, and that kind of thing shows up in their bloodstream. Heidi's theory has a hell of a lot going for it."

"I'm part of this investigation for good reason," she reminded them a little too smugly, although the expression faded quickly as another realization hit. "So, although this does confirm everything we've discovered, it still doesn't bring us any closer to finding him." She sighed. "All we're doing is building a case of fact as opposed to fantasy."

"That is not
all
we're doing," Tomas snapped. "We're trying to find Cat. That's the whole point of this. I don't care what's true or isn't." Cathal hadn't lied to him. Yes, he'd been evasive as hell and sidestepped, but he hadn't lied.

"It's been three days, and we're still no closer on that," Heidi pointed out gently. "I know you've gone down to that damn tree in the middle of the night and yelled at it. If there is a way of getting him back or following him wherever he might be, that information is not here."

Tomas felt his cheeks grow hot. "I didn't think I was that loud," he mumbled, not particularly proud of what he'd done the night before. Frustration had grown to a point he'd just wanted to hit something, so he'd gone out in the dark and taken out his anger on the bloody tree, yelling at it, demanding it send Cathal back. Nothing had happened. Not even when he'd slammed his fist into it. It had just stared back at him, keeping whatever secrets it held firmly to itself. Everything seemed to lead back to that fucking tree and the immediate area surrounding it. It should at least have the decency to share a few clues.

"You woke us, and several of the neighbors." Donovan shook his head. "I had Doug on the phone asking if you'd lost your mind completely after he received several phone calls complaining about the racket and wanting him to check whether everything was okay."

"It's not fucking okay." Tomas knew his voice was rising, but he didn't care. "I can't find him. I'm not waiting the rest of my life hoping but not knowing he'll come back to me. I can't do what she did. I won't. All I know is that he didn't leave by choice, and I intend to give that decision back to him."

"Sometimes choices are made for us and we don't have a say in the matter." Heidi reached across the table to lay a reassuring hand on Tomas's arm, but he glared at her and pulled away. "Getting angry like this is not going to make things any better. You can only do what you can in life and hope it's enough."

"It's all right for you," Tomas growled. "Everyone doesn't bloody leave you, do they? You're not getting this. It's not a fucking search for information or some quest to find the truth. Cat's more important than either of those. He's in trouble, and I can't do anything to help him. That arsehole hit him! God knows what else they've done to him. And you sit there and talk platitudes to me. They don't work. Nothing does. What happens if he doesn't come back? I spend the rest of my life waiting for what?" His voice cracked. "I don't want to end up like her. I can't."

Donovan shook his head. "I think you owe Heidi an apology, Tomas." His tone was very quiet, his eyes narrow. "Yeah, sure you're upset and hurting, but that does not give you the right to talk to her like that. You don't know anything about either of us. Life does not revolve around you, despite what's just happened."

"Of course it doesn't." Tomas was past any semblance of logic. He needed to lash out, the anger boiling up inside of him. "It never bloody has. Stupid me for thinking this would be any different." He slammed his chair back against the wall, ignoring the loud cracking noise.

"That's enough!" Donovan walked over to Tomas so that there were mere inches between them. "Apologize now, or you can get out until you cool down. I've had enough of this crap. This is our home, and we're trying to be your friends. We don't have to do any of this." His voice softened. "We're worried about Cat too. I know what it's like to lose someone you love. If I knew a way to find him, I'd be doing it, but sometimes there's not."

"There is," Tomas yelled. "There is." His stomach churned, his head was hurting. "This isn't fucking fair!" His fist came down on the table, his cup jumping into the air. Heidi grabbed it before it hit the floor.

"You need to calm down." Heidi glanced at Donovan. "You're not going to help anyone like this."

"And that's different to what I've already done, how?" Tomas shook his head. Donovan put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. He was a lot stronger than he looked.

"You're going to go outside," he said firmly, ignoring Tomas's efforts to pull away, "and do whatever it takes. Just scream, go for a walk or whatever, but you are not coming back inside until you have worked through this and are calmer."

"And if I don't?" Tomas told his logic to fuck off. He was past thinking, past caring about anything but what he knew he needed to do, and that did not involve wasting time going for some pointless walk. The thumping in his head was getting stronger, the rhythmic staccato reminding him over and over: lost him, lost him, lost him.

Heidi picked up the phone. "I'll phone Harry and get him to sedate you. He will if I ask. I've already warned him of the possibility."

He stared at her, his mouth dry. He hated sedatives; they reminded him of being in hospital after an accident he'd had as a child. He'd woken up alone, his head full of cotton wool, his stomach churning, convinced he'd been left there, forgotten. "You wouldn't," he pleaded, not able to hide the fear in his voice.

"If she doesn't, I will," Donovan promised, his grip easing but still firm enough that Tomas couldn't move.

He slumped, the energy and fire draining out of him. "Sorry," he mumbled, sure that the words were already spoken far too late. He'd well and truly screwed up their friendship by letting his emotions get the better of him. "I'll go." Tomas sighed; he hadn't yelled at anyone like that in years. In fact he'd never done that to anyone but Kathleen. "I'll come back and pack my bags later so I don't disturb you."

Donovan stared at him. "What the fuck?" he spluttered. "For God's sake, get your head out of your ass for one minute and listen to what's being said. I never said anything about not coming back. All I'm asking you to do is take some time out from this and calm down."

"You're our friend, Tomas," Heidi reassured him. "You're going through a rough patch, and you're not thinking straight." Donovan muttered something under his breath, and she glared at him. "Okay, wrong choice of words there, but you know what I mean. You've been doing this for three days now, and not sleeping. It's time to take a break." She sighed. Donovan let go, stepping back out of the way. Heidi closed the distance between them and pulled Tomas into a hug. "Go for a walk and clear your head. We'll still be here when you get back."

"Get any ideas of not coming back, and we'll kick your ass, after we've dragged you back," Donovan added. "You're not the easiest person to get on with, but you're growing on me, and life's too short to lose any more friends."

Heidi tightened her embrace, and Tomas let her, too tired to protest or pull away. "Sorry," he mumbled again, feeling his vision blur with unshed tears. This was supposed to be a happy ending, something out of a novel, not another reminder of the reality of life.

"Sorry means picking yourself up, moving forward, and trying to get in a better head space," Heidi said gently, giving him another hug before letting go. "Go have some quiet time and think. Sit under the tree if you need to, if that reminds you of him. Just don't thump the poor thing this time."