The Edge of Recall (8 page)

“No. Malcolm says he’s good, though. Big fella, good sense of humor. Should lighten up the team.”

“You mean Tessa?”

He inclined his head. “She does good work, but she’s—”

“Sensitive.”

“Hypersensitive.” Smith waited while the server brought their Cokes. He would have liked a Laughing Lab, but not if Bair was slipping. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely pleased to have her. I mean, she’s treating the labyrinth like an archeological dig.”

The waiter carried the other drinks on his tray to the next table and took that order.

Bair sipped his Coke. “Then what’s with the sparks and barbs?”

“Are we back to that again?” When had Bair become a mother hen? “For the last time, Bair, there are no sparks, and the barbs, well, that’s just Tessa.”

“I’m only saying—”

“Too much.” He didn’t need this getting messy. Too much rode on this project’s success. In spite of what he had told Tessa, it surprised him that he’d received the contract. Gaston had to have architects in his pockets, yet he’d chosen him. He planned to show Rumer Gaston that he had chosen well. With an effort he shoved back the nagging doubt. He could do the job and do it well.

Like a fox on the prowl, he slipped from shadow to shadow. He’d gone out sooner than usual to see her as she left, risking the half-light before the darkness made him invisible. Risking her seeing him. But she hadn’t. He’d been quick. Invisible. Silent as night.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, feeling the gaps, the soft gum between them as he loped along the road, keeping to the tree line. His joints loosened, his gait strengthened as the last of the light leached away.

Some nights he watched the ground for small prey. More frequently, he followed the line of the road to their place. So much there for the taking. If you were small. If you were clever. He drew the night air through his teeth in anticipation.

What would it be tonight, he let himself wonder. Something to eat, yes, but then what? He curled his fingers at his sides, anticipation tickling his palms. A chortle formed in his throat, the fear that had consumed him fading, fading. He would worry about them later. Tonight he was a ghost. A whisper. A half-forgotten dream. He would move through their world like a memory.

He pulled up the hood of his gray sweatshirt and scuttled on until the lights came into view—not so many, but more than he liked. A streetlight at the corner, porch lights sprinkled about. He had gone far and taken long enough that there were few headlights. He would wait until they slept, softly. Awareness fading.

He stayed in the trees all the way to the first houses. These gave cover, but he hadn’t yet figured a way in. So he moved on to the one he knew. Waited. Watched. The dog lay like a black heap of fur. He crept close, closer. On hands and knees, he crawled.

The dog smelled him. He smelled the dog. Amber eyes opened, glowed red. He brought his face up against the short, tight, midnight fur, the floppy muzzle, moist nose. Warm, wet tongue, warm, dry breath. He rubbed his face on the dog’s, shaking with joy.

The animal flopped to his side, surrendering his post, opening the way. Carefully, silently, he curled his shoulders in and pressed through the flapping door. He made his breath nothing in his ears, so only the sounds they made came in. One rumbly snore, one nasal whiffle.

He crawled across the floor, pulled up on the pantry door, and slipped inside the narrow-shelved space. He felt with his fingers, the packages, the cans, the flip tops that meant meat or soup or stew. He picked one, not knowing which it would be, and slipped out. Back through the little door, back past the dozing dog. But not to the woods. Not yet.

He pulled open the can and dug his fingers into hash. He licked his lips, licked his fingers, and when he found a trash bin, slipped the can inside. No trace. No trail. He worked his way past the dark backsides of a few more houses and buildings, skirting the ones with lights, squinting at the offense.

He moved past the sleeping church to a small brick building. His hands quivered. He moved around to the side, pressed between the scratchy shrubs and the rough wall. Gripping the grate, smaller even than the dog’s door, he moved it aside. He almost had to dislocate his shoulders to squeeze through, but he made it and dropped to the floor with glee.

The pitch-black cellar smelled of dust and mildew. He breathed it like perfume, moving between the stacks without hesitation. He reached the stairs and climbed, went through the door, trying not to giggle. To the desk. The drawer. He felt for the metal cylinder, small and thin like a finger.

Bracing himself, he pressed one end, and a small, bluish light came out the point. The contents of the food cans could be a surprise, but not this. For this he needed just enough light to choose. He moved over to the first rack, the first floor-to-ceiling row of books. Heart racing, he let the light run over their titles, the numbers and categories on the white labels across their spines. He touched them, fingered them. What should he choose? What would he learn? This time.

CHAPTER

7

With a thrust of her boot, Tessa dug the spade’s edge into the turf between the footers at the labyrinth’s entrance. It felt as though she were disturbing something that had lain for a long time in peace and maybe wanted to stay that way. Then again, it was only dirt and grass and had no feelings one way or the other.

She had spent the last several days in meetings, poring over the plot plan, and generating her own drawings. She liked what she’d heard of the team members over the speaker phone, and the field engineer she’d met. But she had been there three weeks and was only now starting the actual recovery of the labyrinth.

Groaning when her phone rang, she stood the shovel in the ground. If it was Smith calling another meeting she’d scream, but it was her assistant. “Hi, Genie. What’s up?”

“Two things. Wilmette Meyer called—and she
does
want the fountain after all.”

“I already finished that job, and it wasn’t in the bid since she insisted a fountain wouldn’t look right.”

“Now she thinks maybe you were right. She went back and looked at your original drawings and wants the fountain.”

“I reworked the design to take it out. I’d have to undo things to get it back in.”

“She said you could put it anywhere.”

Well, if symmetry and aesthetics didn’t matter . . . “Send me my designs, and I’ll see what it would take. But I can’t say when I’ll get to it.” Ordinarily she’d snatch it up, but what she would make on the labyrinth project easily covered all her winter expenses, and she didn’t want the distraction. “Not till next spring. And make sure she understands this is a new bid.”

“Will do.”

“What’s the other thing?”

“You missed your appointment with Dr. Brenner. He wants to know if you’re all right.”

Tessa made an exasperated noise. “I meant to call him, but I got wrapped up in things here. Can you ask him to suspend my appointments until I get back? I’ll call to reschedule.”

“Umm . . .”

“What?”

“He wanted to hear from you.”

“Then why didn’t he call my cell?”

“I don’t know. He just said to have you call him.”

She got it. He wanted to hear for himself what condition she was in, and he wanted her to initiate the call since she had missed the appointment. “I’ll take care of it. How’s the house?”

“A whole lot nicer than anything else I’d be in.”

Having Genie move in had been a stroke of genius. It gave her a safe place to stay and kept the house, plants, and stray cat cared for.

“You haven’t forgotten the plants?”

“Takes about three hours each time, but yeah, I’m watering them.”

“Well, thanks for the messages. Take care.” Tessa drew a breath and speed-dialed Dr. Brenner. His receptionist answered and Tessa identified herself.

“One moment.”

Then Dr. Brenner came on the line. “Good morning, Tessa.”

“Almost afternoon here.”

“And where is that?”

“Southern Maryland.”

“Aha. I thought you’d finished in Virginia and were coming back.”

She thought warmly that it sounded like something a dad would say to an adult child who had changed plans. “I’m so sorry I forgot to cancel my appointment. I made a snap decision and got caught up in what I found.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t free up my slot.”

“You know that isn’t my concern.”

“I know.” The last time she’d missed without notifying him, she’d been in a bad place. “It’s just when Smith called—”

“Smith Chandler?”

“He found a labyrinth, an actual historic labyrinth. I’m standing on it now. Or what’s left of it.” She looked over the ridged field. “Actually, if you didn’t know what you were looking at, you’d miss it altogether.”

The doctor’s silence created a void she rushed to fill.

“I have the chance to re-create it. A Chartres-style labyrinth, eleven circuits in hedge. I’ve never seen that design done vertically. I’m . . . really excited.”

“I can hear that.”

“So I’ll be here for a while.”

“You think that’s wise? Two stressors and no safety net?”

“I can call, right? I could have a session on the phone?”

“Yes, Tessa, you could. But will you?”

She ran a hand through her hair. “I thought you’d want me to face Smith. I thought you’d recommend it.”

“I would. If it didn’t involve a labyrinth.”

“I didn’t know until I got here. He was very mysterious. But I wouldn’t miss this opportunity for anything. I know you understand.”

“You know my concerns. I don’t like your fascination with things that terrify you.”

“Only in my dreams.”

“Dreams that arise from an untapped trauma.”

“Or the memory I’ve described again and again.”

“A happy memory of flying over a labyrinth with your father would not account for the terror and despair of the nightmares.”

They’d had this argument ad nauseam. “I’m fine.”

“If you uncover that trauma while unearthing this labyrinth, and have no one there to help you process it . . .”

She didn’t mention the sense of danger she’d experienced. While she appreciated his concern, she didn’t want to intensify it. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s discuss Smith and why you didn’t tell me you were going to see him.”

“I was between appointments when he called. I decided to see what he wanted.”

“And then forgot your appointment altogether.”

“Not intentionally. But this is a chance to deal with things, with . . . Smith. I want closure.”

“Do you?”

“After I create this labyrinth.”

Dr. Brenner sighed. “I’d like you to check in weekly by phone.”

They hadn’t talked every week for a long time, but with her elevated stress level it might be a good idea, and with the money Gaston was paying she could afford to. “All right. But I’m fine.”

“No nightmares?”

“None I can’t handle.”

“Hmm. I’m penciling you in at three o’clock your time Wednesday afternoons.”

It would be good to fill him in on the progress, someone who understood. She kept her tone light so he wouldn’t sense the tension he already suspected. He had helped process the hurt, and must guess how hard this was. For a brief moment she acknowledged the irrationality of keeping secrets from her therapist, then shrugged.

“Okay. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Tessa.”

She pocketed her phone, took hold of her spade, and stomped the blade into the ground. She lifted a chunk of sod and then another and another until the stone surface appeared. She got down on her knees and used the hand trowel to clear enough to get a look. The bordering walls rose about two feet, and though covered in sod, they had made the pattern visible to the knowing eye. She stood and applied the shovel once again.

It didn’t matter that her skin prickled like a lightning storm if Smith got too close, or that she turned everything he said over and over, looking for innuendo and alternate meaning. It didn’t matter that the feeling of being watched had not gone away. All that mattered was the labyrinth. Call her obsessive. She didn’t care. She couldn’t wait to see what lay beneath the centuries of sod.

Nothing would frighten her off, and she would not let her issues with Smith get in the way, when this could be the fulfillment of a longing that had been with her longer than any other.