Dear Emily (28 page)

For the first time Emily smelled her own fear. Her eyes started to burn with the salty sweat dripping into them. She was lost and she knew it. “You shouldn’t have trusted me, Rosie,” Emily wailed.

Suddenly Ian’s voice rang in her ears. “Bitch, Emily, you do that best. And when you’re done bitching, cry and whine. No one does it better.”

“Shut up, Ian. You’re dead. Ashes in the desert. You can’t talk to me anymore and you can’t tell me what to do either. I’d like to see you find your way in these woods. I can do this, you wait and see, you son of a bitch! I’m not really hearing you. You’re just a figment of my imagination,” Emily snarled.

Which direction should she be going—west, east, north, or south? She had no idea. Where was the sun going to set? It was impossible to tell with the way the clouds were streaking across the sky. The canopy overhead was so dense, so chilling, she felt bile rise in her throat. She lashed out with the stick, closed her eyes, and moved to the left only because it felt right to do so. She slipped then, the sturdy mountain boots going out from under her. She was on her back, sliding over rocks, brush and the sticky, oozing pine needles. She felt something graze her cheek and then she felt the pain and wetness.

The wind knocked out of her, Emily didn’t move. A trembling hand reached up to touch her face. Blood. She pulled up her shirt to wipe at it. Head and face wounds bled profusely and didn’t necessarily mean a serious injury. She stared overhead at the patch of grayness directly in her line of vision. Any fool would know it was going to rain and rain soon. The cooling breeze she’d felt before was stronger now. Definitely wind.

Emily got to her knees, shook her head to clear it, and started off again. She thought she was going the same way, but at a lower level, one that wasn’t so dense with under-growth. She was still on high ground, but her breathing was easier. She tied a piece of bandage onto a bush, winced at the sight of her own blood.

She struggled on, glancing at her watch every few minutes. It was a quarter to five. She still had hours of daylight if a storm didn’t come up. Winded, she leaned against a tree and bellowed at the top of her lungs. She called for help over and over until she was hoarse and then she started off again. “I can do this. I have to do this. You can do whatever you set out to do if you have the will.” Well, by God, she had the will. It was nature and the forest that were not cooperating. She plowed on, wiping at the oozing blood on her cheek with the back of her hand.

She thought about the inspiration hour that she and Rosie had attended the week before. It had started out seriously and ended on a silly note, but she’d walked away with a wonderful feeling. Part of it was Sister Cookie and her dry sense of humor. Basically it was a list of things to do, suggestions that were an inspiration guide.

Now, if she could just remember some of those things, it might help. She plunged ahead, her head reeling dizzily. It was darker, the trees and shrubbery more dense. Soon it was going to be totally black within the forest. Open a book, to any page, choose a paragraph, and let it be your inspiration. Sure, sure, what if it’s one of those romance novels full of sex and mayhem? Emily muttered as she whacked at the dense growth along the trail. Don’t for one minute think or even tolerate negative thinking. Don’t listen to people with negative tongues. Easier said than done. You take me now, Sister Cookie, just what the hell is positive about the situation I’m in right now? Don’t lose your sense of humor. If you temporarily misplace it, find it. It takes more muscles to frown than it does to laugh. Laugh often. Ha, ha, Emily snorted.

Emily stopped, took a deep breath. She was exhausted, winded. She leaned back against a tree, her legs spread, her hands on her knees. She took deep breaths. She swore then that she heard Ian’s voice soughing through the treetops. It was unmistakable. She should know, she’d listened to it for years and years.

“You screwed up, Emily. Now you’re copping out. You never think, you just plunge ahead. For once in your life take charge.”

“Shut up, Ian, you’re dead. You aren’t even buried so you can’t rise from the dead. You’re spread all over the Mojave Desert with those stupid tulips. I’m here and I’m doing the best I can. It’s black as pitch. I can’t see. I think I might have a concussion and Rosie is depending on me to get help. Don’t talk to me, Ian. I refuse to listen to a dead person. Get the hell away from me.”

Let your mind and spirit be open to receiving a miracle. Here I am, Lord, you can send one this way any minute now. No, no, don’t direct it at me, send it to Rosie. You’re full of it, Sister Cookie. I liked the one where you said it was a wise man or woman who knows when to retreat. That one was made for me. A close second was when you said we should all be on the lookout for His Messengers. God, I can’t even see. What if He’s here and misses me? bullshit!

Suddenly she was on the ground, rolling, rolling, rolling, until she slammed against an outcropping of boulders at the base of a tree. She wanted to scream her agony, but the pain in her shoulder was so bad all she could do was bite down on her lip, rock her body in misery. She felt a rush of warmth on her arm. Was it ripped open?

It was lighter here with a break in the overhead canopy of pines. By squinting she could just barely make out the hands on her watch. And stuck into the outcropping of rocks was a wooden arrow with the words
APPALACHIAN TRAIL
. Five o’clock. Was she going toward the Black Mountain Retreat or toward Maine? Providing she could even get up. She rolled on to her left side, waited a moment until the pain eased, and then struggled to one knee. Pain rocked her body, spears of pain shooting up and down her arm. Broken shoulder, collarbone, arm? Probably all three. She was on her feet now, her face contorted with the effort.

“Goddamnit, Emily, move!” Was it Ian’s voice that shouted encouragement? Impossible. Ian was dead, gone forever. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re going the wrong way. I always said you were stupid. Turn around and go the other way. Do it, Emily.”

“Shut up, Ian. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

“I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

Was it really her ex-husband talking? Was she delirious, hallucinating? From long years of habit she turned around, each step agony.

“If I’m really talking to you, Ian, what are my chances of getting help for Rosie? How far am I from the retreat?”

She was on the ground again, her body one massive raw nerve ending. She knew she was going to black out. “You pushed me, you son of a bitch!”

“That’s it, Emily, get mad. Real mad. Get on your feet and
move
!”

“Help me, Ian. Please. If you hate me so much, then help me to get help for Rosie. Rosie never did anything to you. Please. I can’t do this. I cannot take another step. I have to lie down. Sooner or later someone will find us. Leave me alone, Ian. My arm and shoulder are broken. You’re a doctor, you know how painful that is. You went to bed when you got a pimple.”

“Quitter! You’re going to let your friend die because you’re too damn lazy to pick up your feet. I gave you an order, Emily, and you damn well better obey me. You just sprained your arm and shoulder. Nothing’s broken. You only have a gash on your arm. Trust me.”

“I’m not a quitter and I’m not lazy. Another thing, you bastard, when I get back, I’m turning you in for practicing medicine when you’re dead. So there!”

She was moving. She must be crazy for talking to a dead person. On the other hand, maybe talking to a dead person was what Sister Cookie meant when she said she should be ready to receive one of His Messengers.

Ian a Messenger of God? It was too ludicrous for words. Wasn’t it?

What time was it? How much time had gone by since she fell? Talking to a Messenger of God, even if it was Ian, took time. Five-thirty, six? Probably five forty-five.

“Keep moving, Emily.” His voice was gentle this time, prodding her on. Maybe he really cared if she made it. For Rosie’s sake, of course. I can do this. I have to do this. I
will
do this.

At the Black Mountain Retreat, Sister Cookie looked at the clock. Goodness, time had gotten away from her. She looked around, checked the ovens, slid the trays of scrubbed potatoes into the one that was free. The rump roasts were baking to perfection. The salad was all ready, the tables set, the vegetables ready to be steamed. The home-baked rolls were in the warming oven, the peach cobbler cooling on a long table on the back porch.

A tray with pitchers of ice tea and glasses waited for her to carry out to the back porch, the one place, besides their bedrooms, that was off limits to their guests. Here in this private, secluded place that was all theirs, they congregated to smoke a forbidden cigarette and drink their ice tea. Once a month they confessed their vice and then forgot about it until the following month.

None of the nuns really knew where the cigarettes came from—the fresh packs anyway. The ones left on the tables after meals were placed in a shoe box in the kitchen waiting to be claimed. Usually they waited three days before they smoked them. “Finders, keepers,” Phillie chortled as she fired up. The fresh packs appeared as if by magic, usually every other day. Most times they were left on the steps of the back porch, where they sat during their morning and afternoon break. The sisters were divided on their opinions as to who left the awful things. Gilly, Cookie, and Tiny thought it was Matt. Phillie, Gussie, and Millie thought it was Ivan.

Tiny poured the ice tea. Gussie handed out the cigarettes. Millie held the lighter.

“Terrible, filthy habit,” Phillie said, leaning back as she drew deeply on the cigarette.

“Disgusting,” the others said cheerfully.

They took turns blowing perfect smoke rings.

“I know for a fact that God isn’t going to punish us,” Gilly said happily. “Because He lets us find these terrible things. If He didn’t want us to have them, He’d keep them out of our sight.”

“Baloney. That’s a crock,” Eric Clapton’s biggest fan, Sister Gussie, said happily. “I’m not giving them up.”

“We aren’t either,” the other nuns chorused.

“We might roast in hell,” Sister Tiny said.

“Then we’ll roast together,” Sister Millie said.

“Time to stub out,” Sister Gilly said, holding up the stub of her Marlboro Light. “See, nothing but the filter. Absolutely sinful.”

“Do you think Mother Teresa smokes?” Sister Phillie asked fretfully.

“Probably, with all the stress she’s under, how could she not?” Sister Cookie said. “I think the sky is pretty black. Oh, I hope we don’t have a storm this evening. I wanted to finish that blood and guts book I’m reading. If the power goes out, I won’t know who killed Darlene.”

“Her sister Marlene did it, so stop fretting,” Sister Gussie said. “Plus, it was the gardener who gored the guard at the gate. That other stuff was just a red herring. Now you don’t have to worry if the power goes off. I have a new book you can start tomorrow called
Missing Beauty.
Matt dropped it off yesterday.”

“I do hope Rosie and Emily are all right. It gets pretty dark up there around this time of day even when the sun is out. With a storm coming, it will be dark as Hades,” Sister Tiny said.

“Rosie’s been on the trail before,” Gilly said.

“The most she’s ever hiked is four miles. Today they planned on ten miles. Emily isn’t familiar with the trail at all.”

“I’d feel better if we asked Ivan to go take a look when he gets here with the mail. He’s late. Usually he’s ringing the bell by the time we finish our…sinful vice,” Millie said.

“I promised to save them a dinner plate.”

“Breaking the rules again, Gilly,” Gussie said.

“Rules are meant to be broken. They aren’t hikers like some of the others,” Gilly dithered.

“I hear the bell. Ivan’s here with the mail.”

The sisters gathered up the tray and the dirty ashtray. It was left to Gilly to walk around to the front of the building to accept the mail.

Ivan was a bear of a man, six foot four and weighing in at two hundred and sixty pounds, a monolith with tree trunk arms and hands like slabs of beef. The khaki uniform and the Stetson did nothing to dispel his giant size.

“Big storm coming Sister, but not till later. Maybe ten o’clock. Make sure everyone is inside.” His voice was soft and gentle, comforting.

“Oh, well, if it isn’t going to hit until ten, then I guess I don’t have to worry about Rosie and Emily. They went for a ten-mile hike up on the trail this morning.”

“What time did they leave?” the giant asked quietly.

“After breakfast. I promised to hold dinner for them. Actually, I said I would fix their plates and put them in the oven. I know it’s breaking the rules, but I don’t care. They’ll both be starving when they get back.”

“That was nice of you, Sister. Rules can be broken from time to time. Did Rosie feel confident to hike ten miles? Perhaps I should take a look. The woods will be pretty dark about now. Rosie is afraid of field mice so she might get spooked.”

“How do you know Rosie is afraid of field mice?” Gilly asked.

“Matt told me. I’ll take the jeep up and look around. If they left at eight-thirty, nine at the latest, they should have been back by now, even allowing for a lunch break and other pit stops. I’m going to take a look. If I miss them, send up one of the flares we left with you. Will you do that, Sister?”

“Of course I will. I’ll tell the others. I cautioned Rosie to stick close to the trail and not to get off. I even told her to mark it. Each hiker is told the same thing. They should be back by now. I must go or dinner will be late this evening.”

Ivan handed over a light sack of mail, turned on his heel, and marched around the side of the building to the front where he’d left his jeep. He waited until he was a quarter of the mile away from the retreat before he pulled his mountain vehicle to the side of the road. Using the mobile phone, he called Matt Haliday.

“Trust me when I tell you those two women did not hike ten miles, and if they aren’t back by now, something is wrong. Rosie has a bunion. Everyone in Black Mountain knows about her bunions.”