Whisper Falls (35 page)

Maybe I should talk to Marissa. That might help as long as she didn't go all Mini-Mom on me.

Where was the rain?

The WeatherNOW site predicted no precipitation for the next ten days, and their models seemed to be really consistent on this point. I knew because I checked the forecast every other hour.

Whisper Falls had slowed from an occasional halfhearted dribble to nothing. Water puddled here and there. I could spit better. I knew because I checked every day.

I even tried rigging up some ropes and buckets of water to simulate a waterfall. But all I got from the experiment was wet clothes. Apparently, Whisper Falls was particular about where its water came from.

I punched my pillows and rolled to my side. Time for my nightly review of The Plan, an elegant series of steps to rescue Susanna. I'd been working on The Plan for a week. From memory, I'd drawn a scale map of the area between the falls and the Pratt property. I'd visited the approximate location in my century and timed various scenarios. I'd brooded and tweaked.

The objectives were simple enough. Grab Susanna and run like hell for 2016.

The only thing missing was a decent-sized storm.

* * *

After three weeks of not seeing Susanna, I totally got how people felt when a loved one went missing. I'd become an empty shell of a person, going through the motions, held together by a sickening mix of desperation, terror, and hope.

That would all change tomorrow. Hope had to win.

The meteorologists were getting excited. Tonight, there would be rain, massive amounts of it. A tropical system was blowing in off the Atlantic, and North Carolina was in its path. Even though Raleigh was one hundred miles inland, we were sure to get soaked. There would be lots of rain crammed into a narrow window of time. Flood watches were in effect.

The rain was no longer an
if
. It was a
when
.

It was July twenty-eighth. Two days until the Carolina Challenge. Six days until August third. Earlier this morning, I'd dropped my parents off at the airport for their trip to Mackinac Island. They got out well ahead of the storm.

I rode to Umstead Park and tried to get in a last training run on dry trails before the rain hit. It was such a good idea that lots of other bikers and runners had it, too. The trails were already crowded. I gave up early, too agitated to think clearly.

I checked the WeatherNOW website every hour. The storm moved closer but wouldn't arrive until past midnight. I ate supper with my grandparents, watched The Weather Channel, and waited for bedtime.

My mother called after she arrived at their bed and breakfast. “How are things going?”

“Great so far.”

“Have you washed your stinky clothes?”

“Yes.” But not the towels. I'd do that the minute I got home.

“Any worries about the storm?”

Nothing besides I wished it had come three weeks ago. “I'll be glad when it gets here.”

There was a long pause. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.”

Her voice grew husky with concern. “Is it Susanna?”

“Yeah.”

My mother hesitated. “Be careful, Mark.”

“I will. ‘Night, Mom.”

A few minutes after nine, I slipped from the lake house, hopped in my truck, and drove home. But I couldn't just sit in the dark, waiting for bad weather. So I got busy. I rechecked my biking gear. I washed stinky towels. I emptied the trash cans.

It was around midnight when I heard the sound of drumming on the roof. I raced to the nearest window.

Rain. Lots and lots of rain. Weather radar showed a wide band of storms racing east to west—a solid band of green/ yellow/red, fifty miles wide. Within hours, Rocky Creek would be a torrent.

* * *

I was up before the crack of dawn and into the costume. Next came breakfast and the
I'm OK
text to Granddad.

The sun had just risen as I approached the creek. The falls gushed, no longer landing conveniently between my launching rock and hers. Instead, it shot forward like a fire hose. A six-foot-wide fire hose. I waded into Rocky Creek, braced myself against a boulder, and dove through the falls.

Whisper Falls clawed, flashed, and tingled. I emerged in the eighteenth century, up to my waist in water, dragged down by my wet clothes and soggy athletic shoes. There was no time to do anything about them. It was hot enough that they would dry soon.

Dragging myself onto the lip of a rock at the mouth of the cave, I studied the falls. It wasn't nearly as intense in this century, but it was flowing steadily. That was real convenient, because I hadn't made a Plan B for a drought on this side.

I walked parallel to the muddy trail leading to the Pratts's farm, creeping through the woods, careful but not concerned because it wasn't light yet. Once I reached the edge of their yard, I found a spot behind the outhouse and hid in the underbrush.

It was quiet. My location had decent visibility, but there wasn't much to monitor yet. I could wait. I was resolved and calm, my mind blank of all thoughts except The Plan.

The sun crept up the horizon.

An elderly African-American man trudged from the barn, carrying a pail. He climbed the rear steps to the kitchen, disappeared inside, and re-emerged almost instantly, chomping on a hunk of bread. He headed back to the barn.

The main house remained still. An occasional door slammed, but no one came outside. Didn't these people ever piss?

If something didn't happen soon, I'd make it happen. Maybe I'd figure out which kid was Dorcas and ask her to find Susanna.

A few moments later, two girls exited the house—Deborah and a younger one. They entered the kitchen and exited a couple of minutes later carrying trays.

Half an hour passed. They brought the trays back.

Susanna hadn't served today.

Why not?

I had to stay focused. It didn't matter why she hadn't served today. I wasn't going anywhere.

Pratt and his son left together, walking in the direction of the village. Good. I wouldn't have let them stop me—but it was just as well that they were out of the way.

Deborah sauntered from the kitchen and disappeared into the house. The younger girl ran toward the shade of a big oak. Other than her humming, the farm remained quiet. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney.

No sign of Susanna.

What if I was too late?

Okay, stop. Not going to think that way.

Please, Susanna. Please come
.

A strange, metallic clanking broke the silence. The humming girl halted her impromptu twirl to look toward the kitchen.

Susanna appeared in the open doorway.

I closed my eyes and slumped onto all fours, panting through my mouth, shudders racking my body.

“Do you need anything, Susanna?” a clear, young voice asked.

“No, thank you, Dorcas.”

The hoarse rasp of her voice refocused me. Shaking off one last shudder, I snapped into a crouch. I was ready and disciplined.

Susanna was coming this way. The change in her shocked me.

She'd lost weight, her clothes hanging off her like she was made of sticks. There were dark circles under her eyes, deep hollows in her cheeks, and her hair lay in greasy clumps about her face.

But the worst were her feet. They shuffled forward in chains. Grimy iron cuffs had scraped sores onto her ankles. With each step, her breath came out in a puff.

I had to clap both hands over my mouth to keep from roaring with rage. If that jerk Mr. Pratt had put in an appearance, I'd have gladly beaten him to a pulp.

She didn't see me as she approached the outhouse. I waited until she would be able to hear my whispers.

“Susanna.”

She halted. Our gazes locked. I was aware of the sounds. Birds called. Insects hummed. But nothing from her, even though her lips moved.

“I came back for you,” I said.

A tear rolled down each cheek. She tried to say something, coughed, then rubbed a knuckle against her lips.

“Mark. Take me away.”

I felt like a warrior of old. The sight of her filled me with strength and invincibility. I didn't care what it took. I was setting her free.

“You won't be living here another day.”

Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. I made a move toward her but she waved me away.

“Mark, watch the yard.”

“Okay.”

She struggled to her feet. “Can you see Dorcas?”

“Yeah. She's watching you. She's beginning to walk this way.”

“Stay where you are.” She struggled to rise and slipped into the outhouse.

The little girl returned to her tree.

“Dorcas isn't looking anymore,” I said as loudly as I dared.

A few seconds later, Susanna came out again and shuffled behind the building. I drew her into my arms, cradling her like she was a baby. She was so light, so fragile. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been fiercely pushing me around with her arms and opinions. Today, she lay against me weakly, trembling with exhaustion.

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and fought it back. Now, more than ever, she needed me to be logical, strong, and prepared. There was no place for emotion.

“I'm ready to go.” Her voice was muffled against my chest. “Please.”

“I'm sorry, Susanna, but not yet.” I gently pushed her upright and took a step back. I hated to do this to her, but the shackles were a risk I couldn't take. “He put those on you to keep you from escaping. It was a brilliant move on his part, because we'll be caught if you're in chains. They have to come off.”

“Do it, then.”

“I can't. I don't have the right tools.”

She bent her head and sobbed.

Her cries tore at my heart. “I have bolt cutters at home. It won't take long, Susanna. I'll be back.”

She scrubbed at her cheeks and eyes with grubby fists. “What should I do until then?”

“Pack.”

This next hour would surely be the longest of my life.

I shuffled across the yard, pausing to watch Dorcas singing and twirling. I smiled, drinking in the sight of her. She waved and laughed. I waved back, my smile dying. I had promised to say good-bye, but now that the time had arrived, I couldn't do it. The risk was too great. Indeed, I couldn't speak to her or any of my precious babies. My voice would give me away.

I entered the kitchen and sat on the bench. Perhaps it would be better to think of things I wouldn't miss. I looked about me with fresh eyes, viewing the space as someone who knew she would never return. It was a hot, humorless room. Four walls. Two doors. One table. Over the ash-strewn hearth dangled toasting forks, spoons, and knives, the blackened tools of my trade. The smells of stewed meat and wood smoke pervaded each rough-hewn board of the floor.

No, I would leave this all behind happily.

There were so many people in my life that I would be glad to forget. But the ones I would miss? Oh, how they echoed in my heart. How could I bear to leave my adorable John? Sweet Dinah and Delilah? My beloved Phoebe?

And Dorcas? Irrepressible Dorcas. Child of my soul, if not of my body. Lost to me forever.

The threat of tears ached behind my eyes, but I fought them back. I had to conserve my strength for the dash to freedom.

I must find something to do. Mark had said to pack, but there was no need. I couldn't take my other bodice and petticoat, or my master could say I had stolen from him.

How sad that I had nothing to call my own.

Merciful heavens, I'd forgotten my two books—the legacy from Papa. They were hidden in the attic. If I fetched them, the effort would draw everyone's notice. Chains dragging on the stairs would be heard throughout the house.

But this could not be helped. Papa's books were my treasure. I could not leave them behind.

With a groan, I rose. The walk to the main house was slow and labored. Mrs. Pratt and Deborah sat in the parlor, engrossed in the spinning lesson. The three littlest ones sat quietly in the corner, playing with blocks. All looked up as I passed by.

“Susanna, what are you doing here?”

I paused, regarding my mistress gravely. “Fetching some garments to mend.”

She sniffed and returned her attention to her spinning. Her children watched me quietly as I continued to the stairs.

I clanked my way carefully up to the attic and knelt on my pallet in the corner. After prying away a board, I reached deep into a crevice for the two books. The smaller one came out easily and slipped into my pocket, nicely masked by the folds of my petticoat. The larger one would be a problem. I lay on my side and stretched until my fingertips touched the binding. The book relinquished its hiding place reluctantly.

Brushing the dust and the cobwebs from the cover, I considered what to do. It was too big to fit in a pocket. And if I carried it openly to the kitchen, someone would remark. I had to hide this volume, perhaps in the mending basket. It was in the dining room, on my route to the outside.

I made it down the stairs without seeing anyone. If I could walk past the parlor without being stopped, I would have my problem solved.

“Susanna?” Mrs. Pratt called.

I froze, framed by the parlor door, the book clutched to my side. I angled my body away from her. “Yes, ma'am?”

“If you have enough free time to work on mending, perhaps you can take the little ones with you.”

“The little ones?” I glanced their way. Dinah and Delilah dropped their blocks to smile at me. John immediately pounced and added their blocks to his pile.

My heart yearned to hug them and kiss them one more time. If only there was some other way. With children underfoot in the kitchen, I couldn't escape this morning. Until Deborah or Mrs. Pratt reclaimed them, I would have to oversee their safety.

Would Mark's plan work on another day?