Unholy Rites (24 page)

“Not on your life!” the woman said, and the couple drifted away. Arthur lingered until the band took a break, and then headed to Well Cottage for a catnap. Couples and families strolled to and fro as the day waned, some stopping, as he did, for another look at the main well dressing, now illuminated by flood lights. This time the scene spoke to him of serenity, of the never-ending river of life running through him and all things. The tension that had gripped him earlier in the day melted and flowed away, taking with it his mind's fretful chatter.

How could he have imagined evil to be abroad in this peaceful village?

An hour
later, Arthur stepped out of the cottage to find the light failing under a threatening sky. He went back inside for his hooded rain jacket—too hard to hold his Morris sticks and an umbrella. When he emerged again, he could hear the band tuning up by the church hall.

The front gate clicked shut behind him like an alarm bell. Danutia, he thought. Was he supposed to fetch her? What was the message Alice had relayed—not to disturb her before the procession? That suggested she'd get herself there, didn't it? And if she slept through, she must need the sleep. So he told himself as he hurried towards the people gathering for the procession, knowing he yearned to toss vigilance aside, lose himself in the wild Morris music.

At the edge of the group he paused, looking for familiar faces. The Rev Pat waved from a distance. No sign of Marple—not surprising, given his strong views about pagan rituals. Clough offered him a flaming torch, which he declined.

“Found Eric yet?” he asked.

Clough passed the torch to a reaching hand. “Not a sign of him.”

“He'll be back when he gets hungry,” Arthur said, regretting the easy cliche, yet letting the music draw him away.

Liz Hazelhurst, still in her costume, came up to him. “Good evening, Arthur. Your mother would be pleased to see you taking part in village life. It's days like this I miss her most.” She looked around. “Where's your friend Danutia?”

The tone of her inquiry was decidedly cool, reminding Arthur that the two women had crossed swords in the morning. Now, as the light from a neighboring flame fell across her face, it was sadness, not anger that he saw. He wondered how he could ever have thought her capable of harming his mother.

“Danutia's feeling ill and having a rest. Maybe it's a recurrence of the flu she had a couple of weeks ago.”

“Something like that, no doubt,” Liz mused, giving him an appraising look.

“Listen up, folks,” Kevin Oakes said through a loud-hailer. Gradually the crowd fell silent. “A few reminders. Torchbearers, stay well on the outside. Keep your torches upright so you're not in danger of burning yourself or anyone else. People in the middle, stay together as much as you can. The barricades are up, so you don't have to worry about traffic. I'll be at the front and Hugh Clough will be at the rear in case you have any problems. We'll be marching up to the station and back to the Reward car park, where Hugh and I will collect the torches. Band, are you ready?”

Kevin took his place between the two leading torchbearers and the band fell in behind him.

“I'm going to lead the dance, Arthur,” said Liz. “Why don't you stay with me?”

“Why not,” he said, stepping up beside her. Stephen Ellison had rushed to her other side, he noticed, with Beverley Bishop puffing up behind him, followed by her husband Jim. He felt a touch on his arm and looked around to find the Rev Pat grinning up at him.

The band struck up “Lord of the Dance” and Liz led out, swooping from side to side in long skipping movements, white handkerchiefs waving. Arthur stumbled along at first, but by the time they began to climb the hill to the station he'd got the hang of it, clashing his sticks together to the beat of the drum. He heard applause and shouts from onlookers lining the road, and felt like shouting himself when the procession began to turn in the station car park and he could see the flames and dancers waving to and fro behind him like the tail of a dragon. The group had become a swaying, dancing single body, asserting its light and sound against the darkness of an English night.

The procession was halfway down the hill when the rain burst upon them. Arthur paused to put up the hood of his jacket. All around him, umbrellas and coat collars went up. Only Liz and a few others carried on, oblivious to the elements. He could see her on the curve below, still dancing in the light of spluttering torches. Arthur hurried downwards, his mind fixed not on the dance but on his Reward of something hot and alcoholic.

He'd almost reached his goal when he was jostled by an umbrella as a couple pushed their way past him, muttering “Sorry, it's an emergency.” His curiosity aroused, Arthur followed to where Beverley Bishop was speaking excitedly to Kevin Oakes.

“One minute he was there and the next he was gone,” Bev said. “You've got to help us find him.”

Kevin raised his voice and addressed the group gathered there. “Is Stephen Ellison here?” Silence. “Has anyone seen Stephen?”

The taste of cough
syrup in his mouth only not bubble gum flavor, something icky making him gag, he was going to throw up. If only his eyes would open. Mum would be mad if he threw up in his bed he had to get to the toilet but his arms wouldn't move his legs wouldn't move he was smothering under his blankets he had to breathe but he couldn't open his mouth why wouldn't his mouth open? He'd choke on his puke and die. Wet ran down his cheeks he tried to lick the salty wetness but his mouth wouldn't open he must be very sick where was his mum his mum . . . 

His heart still pounded and the icky taste lingered at the back of his throat but he could breathe now. His fingers moved, he could feel them tingling, his fingers rubbing against his pants, smooth cloth rubbing against his legs, then skin, cold and numb. He pinched and pain shot outwards. He was alive. Joy exploded through his body. He was alive.

Why couldn't he move, then? He tried to sit up but he couldn't move his arms and the effort made his head dizzy, like when he would swing and swing, higher and higher. He counted his breaths like Mum had taught him, in and out, in and out, until the dizziness slowed down . . . slower and slower.

Happy. Had anyone fed Happy? How long had he been sick, anyway? He had poured gerbil food into the dish and then hand-fed him bits of carrot and raisins, but when was that? The air was musty and smelled of pee and something stronger, like cleaning fluid. Happy's cage must need cleaning. Mrs. Rosson would kill him if he didn't take good care of Happy. No, she wouldn't kill him she'd let somebody else feed him and take him home on weekends.

So it must be a weekend, if Happy's here. And it must be night time, because he couldn't hear the telly or Mum moving around down below. Just a quiet humming, like the fridge, and a feeling the room was moving. Moving? He must still be dizzy.

All he needed to sit up was a good shove. But something was around his chest, holding him. He tried to work his fingers down towards the bed, but they were so heavy. Cold leather, not his flannel sheet with the lumpy mattress underneath.

Then a bump, and he bounced a little. He was in a car. A car? That made no sense. He should be . . . where? Dancing down the road. Stopping when it rained. People opening umbrellas and pushing past. And Eric being sick and needing him. Where was Eric? He had to find his brother. But the rope squeezed his chest. His heart raced and sweat popped out on his forehead. A scream tore up from his gut and battered against his shut lips.

A child was missing,
and it was their fault. They'd known the lambs' bloody red necklaces were a warning, and they'd let down their guard.

Danutia laced her shoes, grabbed her rain jacket, flung open the door, and hurried down the stairs, Arthur clumping along behind. An excited murmur rose up to meet them from the pub, where knots of people stood talking in low voices and flicking cigarette ashes onto the floor. Blue smoke hung heavy in the air. Danutia plunged into the crowd, praying her queasy stomach wouldn't betray her. As Kevin ushered Alice into the manager's office, the buzz of voices swelled louder.

“This way,” Arthur said, clearing a path to where Beverley Bishop sat holding hands with a balding weathered man, two empty chairs beside them.

“Thank goodness you're here,” Beverley said to Arthur, her ample chin trembling. “Alice asked us to take Stephen home with us after the procession, you see,” she said to Danutia, “but we couldn't keep up—”

“Little bugger gave us the slip, that's what,” her husband added.

Beverley patted her husband's knee. “Now Jim, I'm sure he didn't mean to. As Sergeant Oakes said, he probably got bored and went off to a friend's house. That's what they're doing right now, phoning Stephen's friends.”

Half rising from his chair, Arthur said, “We're wasting time. Shouldn't we be organizing a search party?”

Danutia tugged on his arm. She understood his need to be doing something, anything, but a bunch of civilians blundering around in the dark would be no help. Turning around so that others could hear, she said, “There's a strict protocol for cases like this, and Kevin is following it. With a child of Stephen's age, you start with the most likely possibilities, and if the child doesn't turn up, then you organize a search. But you can't do a successful search over a wide area in the dark.” A few people nodded agreement.

“What about Eric?” someone asked.

“Kids his age are handled like adults,” Danutia said to the row of faces. “You assume they've most likely gone off by choice, and so you don't do anything for twenty-four hours or more.”

“I think he means Eric specifically,” Arthur said, his face reddening. “I forgot to tell you. Clough was in around six asking Alice about him. Seems he didn't show at the end of the duck race. Has he turned up?” he asked Beverley.

Danutia felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn't told Arthur about Eric's meeting with the man who must be Cameron Roberts, so he hadn't attached any importance to the youth's absence. She recalled the strange handshake with which Roberts and the young man had parted, and Eric's sneering face earlier as he called to Stephen, “Don't forget about tonight.” Now the night had come, and Stephen had disappeared.

“I think Cameron Roberts snatched Stephen,” she whispered to Arthur, quickly explaining why. “I've got to tell Kevin.”

The policewoman posted outside the manager's office raised a hand as Danutia approached. “The sergeant is not to be disturbed.”

Danutia took in the woman's white shirt, still crisp under her reflective vest, her bowler hat firm upon her head. Her whole demeanor said she had her orders and would follow them to the letter. Raising her voice, Danutia said, “I'm Corporal Dranchuk, a member of the
RCMP
from Canada. I've been working with Sergeant Oakes. I'm sure he'd want to hear what I have to say.”

The door opened and Kevin stuck his head out. “It's all right, Peniston,” he said.

“Arthur and I need to speak to you privately,” Danutia said.

Kevin must have read the urgency in her face. “Peniston, stay with Mrs. Ellison,” he said, then led Danutia and Arthur to the pub's now-empty kitchen. “Now, what's this all about?”

Quickly Danutia reminded him of their concerns about a ritual killer. “We'd narrowed the possible suspects to Liz Hazelhurst and Reverend Marple.” She explained why.

Kevin shook his head. “Hazelhurst didn't make off with Stephen, I can vouch for that. I was at the front, remember, and I kept turning around to make sure the torchbearers were keeping the procession in line. Hazelhurst never stopped dancing.”

“Stephen was beside her when the rain started,” Arthur said. “She could have passed him off to a confederate, though that seems unlikely. I'm more concerned about Marple. He wasn't around during the procession at all, as far as I could tell.”

“That's all very well, but there's someone new in the picture,” Danutia said, describing Eric's parting words to Stephen and his meeting with Cameron Roberts. “My guess is that Eric arranged to take Stephen to meet Roberts tonight, and the man's holed up somewhere with both boys.”

“So you've seen Eric with Cameron Roberts,” said Kevin. “Have you actually seen Stephen with him?”

“No,” Danutia said, knowing what would come next.

“We have to follow procedure,” he said. “That means we make sure Stephen isn't tucked up safe in bed or in front of a friend's telly. Or with his dad. Alice is convinced Bob has taken the boys in revenge for her kicking him out of the house.”

“But Stephen's life could be in danger,” Arthur objected.

“So it could,” Kevin agreed, his face grim. “Most likely, though, either the child's already dead, or we have a little time. We have to hope we have a little time. If Stephen hasn't been found by tomorrow morning, the case will be turned over to a detective inspector, and you can ask him to reconsider. Now I'd better get back to Alice. Danutia, would you be willing to join us? Peniston's a good officer, but a little chilly. I figure Alice could do with a woman's empathy.”

Danutia agreed, and shortly was ushered into the manager's office. Alice Ellison sat behind the desk, her face ashen and her hand trembling as she set down the phone receiver. She looked up. “No one has seen him.”

Danutia felt a rush of pity for the woman, trying so hard to be brave when every nerve must be crying out in fear and anguish. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “This must be very hard for you.”

Alice's blue eyes were moist but she gave herself a little shake and straightened her shoulders. “I can't help but worry,” she said, “but if Stephen is missing, I'm sure it's all Bob's doing. It's me he wants to hurt. Bastard that he is, he wouldn't hurt Stephen.”