Carl sped down the path, almost frantic with worry. He'd crept quietly away from the smithy, evaded the returning designers, and circled around the streets, searching for the hunter. After scouring the entirety of Boxborough, he hadn't found Gabriel, and there was now only one place he could check. At least, before he had to venture into the woods once more. The thought was enough that he allowed himself a tiny shudder before steeling his resolve. It was funny, he mused as he hastily navigated a turn in the path, how he didn't notice the bitter weather much anymore. The chill of apprehension lying so much closer to his bones drowned out any superficial cold.
He raced up to the Widow's home, pulling up short before the door and wasting a thin moment composing himself. When he was certain he didn't look as panicked as he felt, he tapped hurriedly on the door. And again. And once more –
The wood gave under his knuckles, pulled back as the door opened. "Carl," Ben said, surprised. The black lab pushed his way into the doorjamb, looking up at the friar with dark, moist eyes.
"Is Gabriel here?" Carl could not be bothered with wasting time on pleasantries.
"No," Ben replied, exchanging a wary glance with Ned. "We haven't seen him since early, this morning. Why? Is he missing?"
"Ben?"
The boy half-turned on hearing his name being called. "Yes, Mathilde?"
"Who's at the door?" the woman asked, coming forward. Carl could see that the Widow was holding a damp cloth and a towel – she had been tending to Lamar.
Ben opened the door wider. "It's Carl."
Mathilde smiled quizzically at him. "Carl, what an unexpected pleasure. Come in."
"I can't stay for long," the friar panted worriedly. Something caught his eye, however, sidetracking him completely. Dark eyes, glittering a little from fever, were focused on him. "Lamar!"
The Jerusalemite managed a smile. He was clearly feeling awful, but this was the first time he had been properly conscious for more than a few minutes in the nearly two days he had been ill. The expression faded, however, after a few minutes scrutinizing Carl's features. "What's wrong?" the weak man asked urgently.
Carl's face tightened. "I don't have the time to explain," he said cryptically, "but it's bad. And I can't find Gabriel."
Mathilde's worried eyes met Ben's. "I haven't seen him since early this morning," she said sorrowfully. "I'm sorry."
Carl shook his head once. "I saw him, right after he left from your house. I have reason to believe he ran into Robert Ancell some time later this morning." He matched Lamar's worried eyes with an even gaze. "Both walked away, apparently, though there may have been some harsh words exchanged."
"How do you know this?" Mathilde asked, puzzled. Ben looked at Ned, and the two seemed to be speaking without words.
"I overheard part of a conversation," Carl replied evenly.
"Carl," Ben interrupted. "Ned and I can help you."
"You can?" The question was guardedly eager, rather than skeptical.
"Ned's had some experience tracking," Ben explained.
Mathilde's worried gaze transferred to Ben and Ned. They, in turn, gave her pleading looks. "We can help," Ben insisted lowly, determination in his stance. Ned barked once in agreement.
Mathilde thought for a moment, then gave a tight-lipped nod. "Off with you, then," she murmured. "Put on your coat, go."
The youth rushed into his coat and shoes, but as he pulled them on and started for the door, there was a solid knock against the wood. Carl whipped around to stare at Mathilde.
"I'm not expecting anyone," she whispered.
"Mama? Where's Ben going?" Tanya asked reasonably, coming into the room for the first time. Her voice was light and young, sweet to the ears and endearingly innocent.
"Ned and I are going out for a bit, Tanya," the towheaded lad soothed, gently smoothing the wavy blonde hair. "Nothing to worry about. Go back in your room and read some more? Tell me what happens when I come back. I don't want to miss any of the story." Tanya's big brown eyes held Ben's steadily as she nodded.
The little girl had barely closed the door to her room when the knock came again, harder. Mathilde walked to the door, and Carl strode to Ben. "Is there a back door?" he asked quietly.
"In the lean-to," Ben responded. "I -"
Whatever he was going to say was lost in a loud thud, as Mathilde opened the door. The handle was wrenched from her grasp, and the door crashed against the wall with shattering force.
"Robert Ancell!" the woman's indignant cry rang shrilly through the air. "What do you think you're about?"
"I'm sorry, Mathilde," came the rumbling reply, not repentant in the least. "I've some business with the darkie." Ancell was stomping across the room, ignoring everything in his path on his way to Lamar. Carl, Ben and Ned barely registered, and were found unworthy of his attention after he noticed them.
"Robert!" Mathilde hissed. "Your manners are sorely lacking today. Have you been drinking?"
Ancell ignored the demand, stepping into the room. He was followed by his apprentice, Luke Rosenthal, and Kevin Pardoe. "Luke," Mathilde chastised the youth, who was scarcely twenty for all his brawn. "I refuse to believe you're mixed up in this . . . chicanery!"
At this, the youth visibly started. "Chicanery? Marm, I don't hold with trickery of any sort!" His voice was nasal and pained, most probably as a result of his badly broken nose.
"What do you call this?" Mathilde demanded furiously, gesturing to the room. Ancell had approached Lamar, who was hastily pulling his robe up and on, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. "What business could you possibly have with a sick man?"
"Doesn't look too sick to me," Pardoe judged dispassionately. The Senior Project Manager leant just inside the door, which was still open and blowing cold air into the house. Ancell jerked Lamar from his bed, dragging him from the blankets and forcing him to his feet.
"Kevin Pardoe," Mathilde thundered. "I refuse to believe that Louisa knows of this!"
"Mathilde," Kevin held up his hands placatingly, "Just calm down. Hastings just wants to talk to Mr. Al Ghamdi, and -"
"Why can't the mayor come here?" she returned, cutting him off rudely. At that, Ancell and Pardoe froze, exchanging a look before the shorter man began to speak once more.
"And he is in the middle of a project that he must complete. He can't be called away," Pardoe finished, eyeing the woman carefully.
Mathilde snorted, but seemed mollified by the answer. "Can't it wait?" she demanded icily, much to Carl's relief. He had feared she would simply give in. But she was stalwartly defending her patient, and with that all doubts Carl might have had about her dissolved into nothing.
"No," Ancell said, speaking for the first time in a deep, sharp voice. "It can't."
Carl's anger got the best of him. "I don't think so," he snapped, fury sparking in his tone.
Pardoe looked straight at him, and then gave him a cheery smile that was completely at odds with the situation. "Carl," he said warmly, advancing toward the friar. Now behind the Projects Manager, Ancell continued to drag Lamar to the door. "I've been wanting to speak with you."
"Wait! Where are you taking him?" Carl demanded, in no mood for games.
"Calm down," Pardoe responded, as the door slammed shut. Something thudded, hard, into the opposite side of the wood, making the door shake in its frame.
"What was that?" Mathilde demanded, jumping in fright at the sound.
"Nothing, nothing," Pardoe soothed ineffectually. "I just wanted to make sure Carl stayed to hear my proposition, that's all. You don't need to worry. You're perfectly safe in this house."
Carl snorted at that.
"No, please believe me. Mathilde, Tanya, Ben and Ned are perfectly safe here," Pardoe promised earnestly.
"I notice you don't mention Lamar or myself in that," Carl retorted sarcastically, without missing a beat. Motion behind Pardoe caught his eye. It was only with difficulty that he kept his gaze locked with that of the Senior Project Manager; Pardoe's eyes were agleam with an unnerving intensity.
"Well, you don't live here," Pardoe pointed out reasonably.
Carl sighed, glancing to the floor and then up again. "Just tell me, why do you want my friend? What is so important that you must drag him from his sickbed out into the cold, without even shoes?"
"I -"
Thunk!
Pardoe dropped, a dead weight, to hit the floor solidly. Carl winced, raising his eyes to meet Ben's. The youth blushed, faintly embarrassed, and lowered the heavy skillet with which he had struck Kevin Pardoe. Carl nudged the downed man onto his back with a foot– he was unconscious and unmoving.
The Widow crouched by Kevin's side, fingers ghosting over the lump rising on the back of his skull. "He'll be fine," Mathilde said after a shocked pause. Then she turned to look at Ben. The youth averted his eyes. "Thank you," she told him softly. He gaped at her for a moment, before a tentative smile snuck onto his face.
"Come on," Carl urged. "You said there was a back door?"
Carl, Ben and Ned left Pardoe in the house; the man was deeply unconscious and likely to remain so for quite awhile. Just to be certain, however, they made sure Mathilde and Tanya were on their way to the town, instructed to take refuge in the church. Slipping out the back, through the lean-to into the yard, Ben and Carl waited while Ned cast about on the ground, sniffing furiously. With a bark, he began trotting south, following a strange, scuffed trail of tracks.
"Look," Ben indicated, pointing to the pattern in the snow. Part of a bare heel was imprinted at one point; toes were visible at another. Carl's lips thinned and he nodded – Ancell was dragging Lamar behind him, moving quickly.
They had traveled for about a hundred yards, trekking further and further into the woods, when Ned stopped, whining.
"What's wrong?" Carl asked impatiently.
"There's another trail cutting crosswise across this one," Ben answered after a moment, pointing off into the brush. Carl could see several bent twigs, disturbance in the snow; the muted signs of passage.
"It's just a deer trail," he dismissed it, ready to continue. They needed to get Lamar away from Ancell, and quickly.
"No," Ben objected. "Ned wouldn't stop unless he knew the scent. It must be Gabriel!"
Hope beat wildly in Carl's chest. "You're sure?" he demanded. Just as he realized that the question really was as inane as it sounded, he had an answer.
"Yes."
Dare he believe it? Carl nodded again, refusing to spend precious time on doubts. "Follow the new trail," he instructed. "Hurry!"
Ben murmured something to Ned, and the dog started to run through the brush. Ben raced along behind, leaving Carl to bring up the rear, swearing under his breath as his robes snarled in brambles, catching and tearing. It was some time on this hurried race before he recognized his surroundings. It had been earlier in the day the last time he had traveled this way. But by the time he realized where they were heading, they were too close to be able to do anything about it. "Ben! Ned! Stop!"
It was too late – he saw the youth, a few paces ahead of him, stumble past an all-too-familiar pine tree, into the clearing Carl knew lay beyond. "Don't!" he cried frantically, wanting nothing more in this moment but to prevent Ben from seeing the horror awaiting them. He threw himself past the pine and into the clearing.
Ben and Ned were staring at him, with curiosity and worry in equal measure. Carl's jaw dropped in shock.
The clearing was empty. Where once there was a drawn circle containing a woefully mutilated corpse, there was nothing. Only a hole in the ground where the pole had been, and two dark lines emerging from opposite directions out of the woods, converging at that hole. Carl was staggered by this. Where – where had it gone? He needed to know, almost as much as he fervently wished not to.
Still in a mild state of shock, the friar stumbled over to the lines etched into the snow, staring down at them. Warding lines, he supposed; he hadn't had a good chance to see them before. He'd been concentrating on . . . other things. He approached these lines carefully, remembering what the hunter had said.
Standing for a moment, he followed each one back into the brush with his eyes. They were unbroken, continuing directly through the undergrowth. Mysteriously, no trees were growing on the direct paths the lines took; the friar could see for a shocking distance straight through the forest.
Crouching on the snow, Carl nervously reached out a hand as he had seen the hunter do. But as his fingers reached a point directly above the line, something sparked coldly against his skin. Freezing energy jolted into him, sending him careening backwards into the snow.
Ned barked in alarm
"What was that?" Ben's blue eyes were wide, and a little fearful.
Pushing himself to his elbows, Carl rolled onto his feet, reaching his hand out once more. The jolt of energy arced through the air this time, stabbing at flesh and coursing uncomfortably through his arm. Carl jerked his hand away, shaken. "I don't know," the friar grimly answered. The truth was small comfort, and his next words came hard. "Come on. Gabriel's not here – and we don't have any more time." Of that, he was certain. Whatever was going on in Boxborough was coming to a head. They had to get Lamar.
They raced back to the original trail, and Carl nearly plowed into Ben as they stopped abruptly; if not for the Lab's nose, they would have missed it entirely. Returning to the path, they continued on for several tense minutes before Ned came to a halt, barking worriedly. "What, what is it?" Carl was catching his breath; their headlong rush had come to an unexpected pause.
Ben squatted next to Ned, who was snuffling at something on the ground, half-buried in the snow. A paw dug carefully around the snow, claws scraping on metal. The boy whispered something into the dog's ear, nudging the snow away and pulling it free with difficulty. Carl took it numbly. He barely noticed a sharp stinging across his knuckles as he cut himself on a razor-sharp edge. It was one of Gabriel's spinning Tojo blades, discarded and ignored.
"Ned's picked up his scent, but it's very faint. They must have carried him," Ben reported quietly. The dog whined softly.
"We have to hurry," Carl repeated, lifting his eyes from the blade that his fingers didn't seem to want to let go of.
Without another word, the three continued on, this time with caution tempering their haste. They made good time directly south, and walked about two miles along the path before Ben held up an arm, slowing the friar. "We're getting close." These whispered words were the only ones passed between them since they had found the blade.
The three edged forward, prudent caution guiding their slow steps. Moments later, they found themselves on the edge of a clearing. Ben crouched down, Carl peering over his head and through draping pine needles. Below, the boy could hear the friar's breathing speed up. "What's going on?" Ben whispered. He couldn't see; a bedraggled holly bush was obscuring his view. Carl's eyes widened.
"Go back to the house," Carl whispered hoarsely.
"What?"
"Just take Ned and go!"
Ben scrambled out from behind the bush, obediently backing away at the uncharacteristic steel in Carl's voice. He kept one hand buried in Ned's ruff. "Come on," he whispered to the dog. "Should I bring help?"
"There is no help," Carl turned from the view of the clearing. Burning grey eyes locked onto the youth's. "Find Mathilde and Tanya. Stay with them. Please," Carl pleaded, openly distressed. Sensing this, Ben nodded, and he and Ned turned back to the path, jogging away. Carl gasped out a sigh of relief as the duo moved out of earshot.
He turned back to the clearing.
It was empty but for a hot, large fire in the middle. Heat trickled into the surrounding forest, sweeping over Carl even fifteen feet away. The wind shifted, bringing the rank smell of burnt meat to his nose. The friar gagged, silently grateful that the boy and dog had gone. He could see uprooted poles with bodies still speared on them fueling the fire. They looked gruesomely like oversized roasts, smoking and black.
To the left, mere feet from the edges of the coals, Lamar was huddled on the ground. He clutched the blanket around himself as he hunkered down in the snow. Carl recognized the dark line tracing a six-foot circle around him. No one else was in sight.
He waited a long moment, searching desperately for any sign of Ancell, or other townspeople. Seeing no one, he crept from the brush and into the open. Almost as soon as he left the protection of the undergrowth behind, Lamar's eyes were following his every move; but he didn't speak, overcome with a coughing fit that he was trying hard to stifle.
"Lamar!" Carl hissed as he crept closer. The Jerusalemite glanced to his left, to something behind the fire. Flames, licking hungrily over poles and blackened corpses, blocked Carl's view. It was only once he was almost touching the warding line confining Lamar that he understood.
There was a second cell bounded by a warding line not far from Lamar. Inside, distressingly motionless, Van Hesling was lying crumpled on his back. An outstretched hand lay alarmingly close to the warding line; six feet was barely enough space for the tall man. The hunter's upturned face was chalk-white, lashes dark against pale cheekbones. His chest rose and fell shallowly; Gabriel was barely breathing.
Rustling and sudden voices had the friar whirling in a panic. Too late. The lanky, sticklike figure of his host pushed through the bushes on the far side of the hunter's cell, jerking to an abrupt halt. Schoen was followed by Hastings, who was talking animatedly with Ancell. The mayor's voice trailed into silence as the three laid eyes on the friar.
Their time had run out.
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Well, I am off to pack; then its sun, surf and sand for me! Ch. 20 is ready and waiting for you on my return, dependant on the state of my inbox, of course. Enjoy!