Micah never misses his daily visits to the Twelve Oaks Rest Home. His wife lives there, and he loves her deeply. He regrets that she has to be there, misses having her at home with him, but her fits are too severe these days. When she's sane, they're best friends, holding hands and taking walks through the grounds. When she's not, he just can't handle her. This duality in her personality reminds him unpleasantly of his mother.
He hasn't told her Claire came to visit him. Telling her, the reason for the visit in particular, would disturb her dreams for many nights to come. So Micah keeps that information to himself, and it stews inside him for a couple of days.
He didn't want to give Claire that . . . man's number. But she looked so hopeless, so nearly lifeless, that he gave in to her only request. Ever since she left, hugging him in a brief but oddly significant way, he's had an unshakable feeling that he made a grave error.
When Micah gets home, he can't put it off anymore. He sets his cane down by the couch, picks up the telephone, and dials the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford.
Robert Rutherford has aged rather well. At fifty-three, his light brown hair is streaked with grey, but it's all there, no thinning or receding. He still cuts a fine figure in his suit. All in all, he's handsome.
But not at the moment.
Frantic, his footsteps raise a cacophony as he pounds down the staircase to answer the jangling telephone. Even as he rips the receiver up to his ear, his eyes are drawn back to that spot before the fireplace, where the cream-colored carpet is a mat of dark red and brown.
"Blood," he says, his voice a throaty croak.
"I—excuse me?" The voice on the other end sounds elderly, male.
"What?" Quickly, Rutherford clears his throat and shakes his head, snapping himself out of it.
"This . . . this is Micah Sanders." The voice is hesitant at first, thrown off by Rutherford's obvious distraction, but then it recovers. "You might remember my wife and I, we attended your wedding."
"Of course," Rutherford says automatically, gripping the mantel with a clammy hand at the sound of the word wedding.
Michael who? he wonders, trying desperately to get a hold on the situation. How can such normalcy as a phone call still exist when his wife is nowhere to be found and there's goddamn blood on his goddamn carpet?
"Would it be possible for me to speak with Claire, Mr. Rutherford?"
Rutherford's breathing is shallow.
"Why are you calling?" he asks sharply. The voice on the other end goes silent for a moment at the angry desperation in Rutherford's tone.
"I wanted to make sure she was all right," Micah answered finally. "That's all. I've been thinking about her lately. We're old friends, you know."
The false-casualness in the old man's tone drives a stake of suspicion into Rutherford's chest.
"Did my wife contact you?" he demands. "Did she say something, did she tell you anything—?"
"Claire isn't there, is she?" Now the voice is sadly resigned, as if perhaps the man suspected as much all along and had been trying to deny it.
Rutherford turned to the carpet once more, shaking his head, lips parted silently.
"I don't know," he says at last, feebly.
There's a faint click, and Rutherford purses his lips to cry Wait! but it's no use. He's left listening to the dial tone and desperately trying to remember the man's name.
He stands before the stain on the floor.
Ashes in the fireplace, he observes. It's summer. What was she burning?
Blood on the floor. He steps away from the large stain and follows the narrower trail of it, leading across the floor and out the front door, which he found open upon his arrival.
Drag marks that end a small way from the porch.
Rutherford wanted rid of his wife—that's true. But, god, what sort of surreal nightmare is this? He didn't want her to vanish.
"Sanders," he breathes softly to himself. "He said Sanders."
[] [] []
There she goes, Micah ponders, settling himself on the couch and fiddling absently with the crook of his cane. There's an uncomfortable space inside him. Down the rabbit hole, good luck and goodbye.
Claire Rutherford is alive. He's as certain of that as he is of his own wife's rapidly approaching death.
Whether Claire's lively status is to her benefit or not . . . Well, that he isn't so sure of anymore.