Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone

No, it wasn’t a floor, but snow, the blood blossoming in the white

powder like crimson flowers appearing before his eyes, and he was running, running, trying to catch her, but the snow clung to his feet and his legs grew heavier and heavier. Then the dark figure ahead ducked into an opening, and as Kit followed he recognized his surroundings—it was the yew tunnel that ran alongside his friend Nathan’s garden.

Hope had surged in him; this was his place, he could stop her here, keep her safe. But the snow still mired his feet, and even as he wondered how there could be snow inside the tunnel, he realized it wasn’t the yew hedge at all, but a canal tunnel, and it wasn’t snow closing over his head, but water . . .

Then reflex had jolted him awake, but even the memory of the dream made him shudder. Tess whimpered, and he realized he’d gripped her hard enough to pinch. “Sorry, sorry, girl,” he whispered, stroking her, trying to will the fear away. It was just a dream, and it didn’t take much to see where his subconscious had picked up the material. His worry over Lally had merely crept across the barrier between waking and sleeping.

She’d been quiet all the way back to the pub yesterday, ignoring him, ignoring Leo’s taunts about Annie, and when Leo had finally left them at Barbridge, she hadn’t even said good- bye.

They had all been waiting, Duncan and Gemma, his grandparents, Juliet and Sam, but no one had questioned or criticized either him or Lally. On the way back to the farmhouse, and later, as Rosemary had prepared ham sandwiches for tea, the adults had made small talk as if nothing had happened. Kit understood that this was meant to reassure the children, but it hadn’t helped him, and he didn’t think it had helped Lally, either.

After tea, a friend of Hugh’s came to the house and took Juliet into the kitchen for a chat, and although no one said, Kit guessed the man was a lawyer.

Rosemary herded the others into the sitting room for a Scrabble tournament before the fire, but after a bit Lally began to drift away s

from the board between turns, and at last she disappeared altogether. Kit couldn’t concentrate on the board, and when Hugh had trounced him and Gemma beyond redemption, he excused himself and slipped out of the room as well.

The murmur of voices still came from the kitchen, the man’s low and steady, his aunt Juliet’s rising like a breaking wave. Silently, he’d climbed the stairs, and had seen that the door to Hugh’s study, where Lally had slept with her mum the night before, was slightly ajar.

He hadn’t known what he’d meant to say, had pushed the door open without thinking, really. Lally sat on the floor, her back to the sofa bed, the left sleeve of her sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow. She was peeling back a strip of bandage from the inside of her forearm, and a trickle of bright blood seeped from beneath the white gauze.

Then, above the bandage, he saw a barely scabbed-over cut, a horizontal slash in the pale flesh, and above that, another, and another—purple scars, straight as rulers.

“Lally, what are you doing?” he cried out, his voice high with shock.

She jerked down the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Nothing. Don’t you knock?”

“I didn’t know—” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Let me see what you’ve done to your arm.”

“It’s just a scratch. It’s none of your business, Kit.” She crossed her arms tightly beneath her small breasts.

“It’s not. I saw it,” he insisted. “You cut yourself, and more than once.”

They stared at each other, deadlocked, until at last she gave a little shrug. “So?”

Kit gaped at her, unprepared for the enormity of the admission.

“But—but you can’t do that. You can’t hurt yourself.”

“Why not?” She smiled, then rocked up onto her knees and raised her chin in defiance. “Don’t you dare tell.”

“You can’t keep me from it,” he said, his anger and fear making him reckless.

“Oh, yes, I can.” Her eyes were dark with promise. “Because if you tell, I’ll do something much, much worse, and it will be your fault.”

The memory drove Kit out of bed, but he moved quietly, trying not to wake Toby and Sam as he pulled on his clothes. Although the travel clock on the desk had stopped the day before, its battery dead, the quality of the light and the stillness of the house told him it was early, perhaps just past daybreak.

He knew he couldn’t face the others, that he couldn’t sit across the breakfast table from Lally and pretend that nothing was wrong.

When he was ready, he fished a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack and scribbled, “Taken Tess for walk. Back soon.” He picked the dog up in his arms and slipped out of the room, leaving the note on the floor of the hallway in front of the door.

He made it out of the house unaccosted. He’d forgotten Tess’s lead, but it didn’t matter, he’d no intention of going near a road. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the fog had lifted in the night and the sky was a clear, pale gold, tinted with rose in the east. The air was cold and fresh, as if the fog had scoured it, and when the sun arched above the horizon, the glaze of ice on tree and hedge sparkled like crystal. The beauty of the sight made Kit stop, and he gazed a long moment, as if he could capture perfection.

Then his stomach rumbled, a reminder that time was passing. He knew he should go back—he didn’t want anyone worrying about him—but when Tess ran on ahead, he followed. Not even the glory of the sunrise had quite dispelled the uneasiness that lingered from his nightmare, and he hadn’t worked out what he was going to do about Lally.

Reaching the Middlewich Junction, he turned south, passing by

the sleeping inn on the opposite side of the canal. It occurred to him that if he went on, he would find the Horizon, and if Annie was up, he could apologize for yesterday. He’d been horribly rude, and he didn’t want her to think he hadn’t wanted to come back. Maybe they could even set a time for later that day.

He was afraid that yesterday’s fog had distorted his perception of the distance, but soon he rounded a curve and saw the Horizon, just where he thought it would be. The blue paintwork gleamed in the morning sun, but no smoke rose from the chimney. Fighting disappointment, he went on, just in case she was up but hadn’t yet lit the stove. Tess had stopped a few yards back to dig in the edge of the hedgerow, but he let her be, trusting that she would catch him up.

No sound or movement came from the boat, and he had made up his mind to turn back when he saw a huddled shape to the side of the towpath, just past the bow. His steps slowed, mired as if in his dream, but he forced himself to go on. Blood roared in his ears; he fought for breath as his brain pro cessed something far worse than any nightmare.

Annie Lebow lay on the towpath, between the foot track and the hedge. One of her shoes rested a yard from her outstretched leg, and he had to resist the urge to pick it up and slip it back onto her foot.

She was on her side, one arm thrown over her face, as if to protect her eyes from the rising sun.

Kit stopped, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat.

The blood that had pooled beneath the blond spikes of her hair was not crimson, as in his dream, but black as tar.

Chapter Fifteen

Babcock had just hung up the phone, after a half- hour argument with the elusive boiler man, when it rang again. His hands already stiff from the numbing cold in his kitchen, he fumbled for the handset without checking the caller ID and barked, “If you’re not here in thirty minutes, I’ll sue for damages when I’ve lost fingers to frostbite.”

“Um, sir. I can be there in five, but I’m not sure what I can do about the frostbite.” It was Sheila Larkin, sounding bemused.

Babcock groaned. Holding the phone with his shoulder, he blew on his fingers. “Sorry, Larkin. I’m still trying to get my bloody boiler repaired. Is there a particular reason you’d want to pick me up at this ungodly hour?” His