Gravity Box and Other Spaces (35 page)

One day on his way to the glen, he found a trail of footsteps heading for the county road. It picked up on the other side of the blacktop, cutting through the field of new wheat. About a mile from the road he climbed a very old stone fence and, just over a rise, came to an abandoned church. The paint had long since weathered away from the now-gray wood and all the windows stared glassless around the overgrown landscape. Still, it possessed two doors, both intact and firmly shut. The front door of the church was locked, but not the side door. Pews had been shoved against one wall and the pulpit was missing. Standing below the tower he could make out the shape of the bell, still mounted, rope-less.

By a window looking out at the cemetery he found the blind. Not much of one, just a couple of director's chairs, a cooler, a field box, and some men's magazines. Inside the
cooler were a few cans of beer and discarded sandwich containers. Beside the field box were a couple coils of rope.

Out the window, movement caught his eye. Peter watched for a few moments, but saw nothing. Still, he knew someone was out there. He exited the church the way he had entered and went to the rear of the building. Still seeing no one, he went into the small cemetery.

Toward the back, Peter found a marker that someone had cleared of weeds and debris. A neatly-bound bundle of dogwood and laurel branches lay at the foot of the stone. Peter squatted to read the inscription.

HIRAM CONNELLY, 1889 - 1918

Footsteps came up behind him. He spun around. Paphos.

“Who was he?” Peter asked.

“Dulcie's—” Her voice faded.

Peter heard an entire lifetime in that one word. It felt like explanation enough, sufficient for him to imagine details. He looked again at the dates and tried to make them match the girl he knew.

“The influenza took him,” Paphos said. “She hasn't spoken since.”

“She talks to Elyssa.”

“I know. I'm—grateful. Elyssa has a gift.”

“She does that.” He swallowed around a sudden knowledge. “She's the only one I've ever been able to talk to.”

They stood in silence, moments slipping by, bound and isolated at the same time.

“Whose land is this?” Paphos asked, breaking the silence.

“It belongs, I believe, to the town. I was told about it when I bought the Higgins place. They intended to make it a public space. For hunters and hikers. This is a dangerous
place for Dulcie. She should not come back. The church is being used as a blind, probably by Craig Newhouse. He knows Dulcie comes here. This must be where the chase started.”

Paphos stared at the old church. She uttered a sharp phrase in a language Peter did not know.

“When we came here,” she said then, “we found refuge. This family,” she gestured at the grave, “then, later, Mr. Higgins, who was related by marriage, gave us sanctuary. There were only a few of us at first, but others have come over time. I was surprised how many of us had survived. We thought here we could live safely, without fear. Newhouse is not the first hunter, only the most recent. It has become more difficult to deal with them. They have protections. The world is smaller. People can no longer disappear as once they did. Someone always comes looking, so we are at risk.”

“It was a risk revealing yourselves to me.”

“Living is a risk. You have to choose.” She smiled. “Higgins would not have sold his land to you if he thought you were bad for it.”

“We barely spoke. He wanted to know what I did, where I've been, what I've seen. I didn't tell him everything. I couldn't.”

“He heard your conscience. You had to trust as well. When you saw us, you didn't run.”

“The world can be harsh and ugly, and I've seen my share of it. I'm not turning my back on beauty, no matter how strange.” He gestured at the church. “I should tell the sheriff about that blind. If this is public land, he can order them off.”

“It will be night soon. I have to get back.”

In silence, they walked together back to Peter's property and Paphos' sanctuary.

Dulcie met them as they came up the road to the house. She looked from one to the other, her face filled with worry.

“What is it?” Paphos said.

“The hunters,” Dulcie said.

In growing panic, Peter hurried toward his house. Paphos and Dulcie ran alongside him. As they came to the perimeter, Peter saw laurel trees in front where none had been before. Other dryads joined them at the edge of the woods. Craig Newhouse's vehicle was parked alongside Elyssa's. No lights shined in any of the windows of the house, but the studio door was open. Peter hung back in cover of the trees.

“Where are they?” he asked Dulcie.

“In there,” she said, pointing at the house.

“Elyssa?”

“In there.”

“Someone needs to fetch Sheriff Edmunds,” he said. His voice sounded oddly distant in his own ears. He heard Paphos say something, then noticed one of the women hurrying through the trees toward the county road. On foot, that would take a while, he knew, and he had no intention of waiting. He wanted to know that someone would come, especially if things went wrong. He glanced around. “Why did they all come?”

“To see, to help.” Paphos shook her head. “We do not kill.”

“Ever?”

“That is your way. Not ours.”

“Well,” Peter said, “it's not a bad policy.”

He stepped from cover and headed for his studio.

“Welcome home, Mr. Malon,” Craig called from the house. “I was beginning to wonder when you'd get here. Why don't you come on in and join us?”

Peter veered toward the front door, which opened when he reached it.

“Come on in.”

Peter stepped into his living room. Elyssa sat in a chair, facing the door. Danny stood behind her, holding a skinning knife alongside her face. Peter turned to the right to see Newhouse aiming a pistol at his head.

“We don't have to prolong this, Mr. Malon,” he said. “All I want is what I was about to catch when you interrupted my hunt. You stuck your face in my business, but you didn't actually know that at the time. Now you do, so I expect we won't have any more misunderstandings like that. I am a businessman, no matter what folks around here might say, and right now I have a client who has been waiting very patiently for me to deliver. Diminishing patience, I should say. I always deliver what I promise, and I promised him one o' them walking trees you got here on your land. I don't normally have this much trouble catching what I'm after, but I'm sure we can come to an accommodation without anybody getting hurt.”

“Except your prey.”

“Oh, now, I wasn't gonna hurt it. My client doesn't want to hurt it, just to have it. I wouldn't be surprised if it ends up in a nicer place to put down roots than it has here. There really is no reason for anyone to get hurt. I don't even want to hurt you, even though you have it coming.”

Peter looked at Elyssa. His eyes better adjusted to the dimness, he saw a bruise forming on the right side of her face. “You all right?”

She shrugged. “You give them what they want, and I'll never speak to you again.”

“Oh, now, ain't that brave!” Craig said, laughing. “Ma'am, he won't give me anything. He will get out of my way so I can collect it. Otherwise there will be costs.”

“They're not obliged to do anything for me,” Peter said.

“Oh, but I think they are. I saw what you've been doing for them. I have no doubt they put a very high premium on your skills, so I'd like you to get their leader in here. What's her name? Paphos? Don't worry, I don't want her, but I need to talk to her. Go on now.”

Peter went out the door onto the porch, Newhouse right behind him, and called for Paphos. After a few moments, she came forward.

Craig put the pistol to Peter's head. “That's close enough,” he shouted. “I don't need you inside to talk. Now, here's the deal. I want one of you. This isn't negotiable. I want one that has all its parts, is attractive, and can follow instructions. There's a collector willing to pay a lot of money for one of you. So you go back and talk among yourselves and choose one. If you don't, I'm going to break this man's hands.”

Paphos stiffened.

“Yeah, that's right. I know what he's been doing for you, and I know he's far from finished. I don't get what I want, he won't be worth a damn to you anymore. Understand?”

Paphos nodded and returned to the trees. Peter watched as several of the laurels changed shape and faded back into the shadows.

“You might have a little difficulty following through on that,” he said to Craig as they went back into the living room.

“Oh, now, I don't think so. 'Cause if you don't cooperate, I'll have Danny there start skinning your wife.”

“What if they won't agree?”

“They will.”

The stillness seemed to thicken. Peter knew timing was everything. Carefully, precisely, he began shifting his
weight, edging closer to Danny, gauging distances and angles. He was nearly in position when Dulcie stepped from the tree line walking in slow, deliberate steps to the porch.

“Oh, now, I never—!” Craig laughed. “This is too easy. Danny?”

Danny took Elyssa by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Wait, I—” Peter started.

“We are going to get out of here, Mr. Malon,” Craig said. “Just a little while longer, and we'll let your wife go.”

He wanted to act, but Elyssa was on the porch now. Craig waved his pistol signaling them to descend.

They obeyed. A liquid helplessness ran through Peter, as they moved toward Craig's vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, the shadows altered, seemed to shift among themselves, masking movement, but Peter concentrated on finding a solution, a tactic, to stop Newhouse and Danny. Too many things in motion, too many variables, with him in the middle of it unsure which way to go, what to do next.

Suddenly, Newhouse's Jeep rose up, tilted, and turned onto its side, pushed over by a laurel that had not been there seconds before. Danny lost his grip on Elyssa. She yanked free, spun around, and ran for the house. Craig raised his weapon. Peter screamed and charged at him colliding with Danny instead. Dulcie began to transform, one arm reaching for Newhouse's gun hand. A shot cracked the air. Peter looked up and saw Newhouse suspended by one arm in the thickening hold of Dulcie's branch.

Pain seared across his chest. Danny had sliced across it, cutting through Peter's shirt, etching a groove. Peter caught his wrist, twisted, and drove a fist into his face. The
nose smashed and blood spurted down his chin. Peter hit him again and wrested the knife away from him, stood—

—and saw Elyssa on hands and knees, halfway to the front door.

He scrambled to her, catching her as she collapsed. Blood soaked her shirt from just below her sternum where the bullet had exited. She looked at him, surprised, mouth working, gulping air. Peter's body strained, as if by force of will he could keep her here, alive.

But she faded, too quickly. She reached up to touch his face, surprise turning to consternation, then absence.

“No!”

Not his voice. He looked back to see Dulcie, caught between states, one arm dangling Craig Newhouse by the neck, her face stretched in a perfect echo of the pain beginning to burn through Peter.

Sheriff Edmunds knocked on the door frame and stepped into the studio. Peter acknowledged him with a nod, then went back to smoothing the base of the wrist on the arm he had been making.

Edmunds picked up one of the fingers and examined it.

“Danny's being transferred north,” he said. “Thought you'd want to know. Assault. Thought about kidnapping, but that's federal. Might bring too much attention.”

Peter nodded again. Edmunds had taken his formal statement that night, though they both knew his report was at best a partial fabrication. Newhouse was a known poacher. He had been trespassing. The situation had turned tragic. Both Craig and Danny would be going away now, finally.

“I wouldn't blame you if you packed it up and left,” Edmunds said. “I'd just like you to give us some time to find someone—”

“I'm not leaving, Sheriff.” He looked up. “I don't have anywhere else to go.”

Edmunds waited for more, then nodded. “I'll be checking on you from time to time. When you're ready, don't be a stranger. There are some good people in Saletcroix who'd be glad to help.”

Peter watched him go. The sheriff meant well, he knew, but just now “good people” and “help” sounded alien and useless. He glanced at the canvas-covered statue still in the center of the studio and wondered if he would ever look at it again.

He continued working. He had not seen any of the dryads since the incident. They had disappeared into their glen, and he was just as glad not have to deal with them.

It had been weeks since he had slept. There had been arrangements with Elyssa's family in Chicago for return of her body. Somewhere he had the notes for the funeral. For all he knew, he had missed it. Their attorney had called. She had left him everything. As if that mattered. She was everything.