It wasn’t, of course. She realized immediately it was one of the volunteers bringing a fresh pack of paper cups out to the water station. Lucy shook her head, trying to clear her mind as she resumed running, but she couldn’t get that easy rhythm back. Once again, the image she couldn’t seem to shake, the vision that kept reappearing—Alison’s white face and long, swirling hair just beneath the surface of the water—came back to haunt her. What on earth possessed the girl to go out on that ice?
That was the question that bedeviled Lucy. It was such a foolish, dangerous thing to do. Why did Alison do it?
Lucy was running more steadily as she approached the gates at Pine Point. The thump-thump had become a why-why, why-why. And suddenly, clear as day, she remembered doing something remarkably similar. Something so foolish and risky, she could hardly believe she’d done it.
“My bag! I dropped my bag!”
Lucy heard the panic in the voice, and she quickly stooped down and grabbed the bag off the tracks moments before the train came thundering into the station.
She could still hear the frantic urgency, and the memory of that close call was so strong that it took her breath away and squeezed her heart, stopping it for a moment. The pain was excruciating, piercing, and then it began to ease.
She was running. She was running again and she was certain she knew who had sent Alison onto the ice.
But what about Ed Franklin? Did the same person kill Ed? It was possible, she thought, even likely. As Mimsy had pointed out, it didn’t take a lot to pull a trigger, especially if you were gripped by a powerful emotion. Cops who feared for their lives shot unarmed people. It seemed to happen all the time. Gang members who’d been dissed took their revenge on city streets, often missing their intended targets and killing innocent bystanders. Lost souls were recruited by terrorist organizations and turned into lethal killers, and mentally unstable people heard voices that urged them to kill. Even love could sour and turn to murderous hate, as children rose up and killed parents or spouses took advantage of intimacy to pull a gun from beneath the pillow.
By the time she reached Church Street and the turn back toward town, Lucy found herself practically alone. She could see the backs of the elite runners ahead of her, but they were some distance away, and she knew that most of the others were behind her. She decided to try to catch up to the leading group of runners as she approached the ancient cemetery where former citizens of Tinker’s Cove were presumably resting in peace beneath lichen-covered tombstones that leaned this way and that.
She turned to catch a glimpse of a favorite grave marker, a Victorian angel that bowed sadly over little Rose Williams, barely three years old when she died in 1854, but couldn’t make it out as a flash of bright sunlight momentarily blinded her. Curious, she slowed. As her vision cleared and the angel came into view, she realized to her horror that the blinding flash had not come from the sun but came instead from a huge carving knife. That knife was held in Eudora Clare’s hand and she was brandishing it wildly over Mireille’s prone and struggling body.
Momentarily at a loss, Lucy didn’t know what to do. She was alone, she was tired and out of breath, and she didn’t have a weapon of any sort. She did hear the runners approaching from behind, however, and thinking quickly, grabbed one of the signs marking the course and turned it so it pointed to the road leading into the cemetery. Then she raced to intervene, praying that the other runners would be deceived and follow her into the graveyard.
As she drew closer to the statue of the hovering angel, she realized that Mireille had been trussed up with duct tape and was lying on her back on a raised stone grave, twisting from side to side in a tremendous effort to avoid Eudora’s knife thrusts. Lucy could hear Eudora’s voice cooing like a demented mourning dove, admonishing Mireille to lie still.
“It won’t hurt a bit and will be over in a minute.” Eudora aimed the knife for Mireille’s dome of baby belly. “Won’t hurt a bit. Not a bit,” she crooned over and over as she brandished the knife. “You took them all, my Ed and my little Alison, and now you have to give me your baby.” The knife connected with Mireille’s breast, slitting her shirt. “It’s not your baby.” Eudora shook her head sadly and thrust the knife yet again, slashing Mireille’s upper arm which began to bleed. “It’s my baby. My baby.”
Lucy realized with horror that the unbelievable was actually happening. Eudora was attempting to cut Mireille’s baby from her body.
“You can’t do that! Stop! Stop!” Lucy yelled, leaping over gravestones and throwing herself at Eudora, attempting to knock the knife from her hand.
Eudora wouldn’t let go, even though Lucy had grabbed her arm with both hands, desperately trying to pry the knife from her grip. She was surprisingly strong, and Lucy found she had a tiger by the tail. She had to hang on for dear life. She couldn’t use her hand to punch or strike the crazed woman for fear Eudora would slash or stab her. She tried to use her feet, kicking at Eudora’s shins in an attempt to knock the woman down, but Eudora was able to dodge her running shoes.
Lucy found herself weakening, tired from the race and the struggle. Her hands were slipping and she knew it was now or never. She had to gain control of Eudora. She took a deep breath and using both hands, forced Eudora’s arm upward, then threw herself at the woman, knocking her down on the ground. Lucy was in an awkward position, and although
