gotten the project red-flagged. They say it violates the neighborhood covenants ?cuz it?s too small. The neighbors enlisted Olson to be their go-between with their Habitat board, where Bob Preston is a big old striped bass in a teensy-weensy pond. Know anything about that? There?s going to be an article in the paper this week.?
I said no and wondered if Arch was following all this. To my dismay, he was staring open-mouthed at Frances Markasian. I wasn?t sue, but I thought I saw awe in his eyes.
She gave me a skeptical look before lighting another cigarette with the glowing end of the one she?d been working on. ?So what do you think was going on between the head of the Episcopal Church Women and your priest?? The first cigarette landed at her feet.
?Gee, Frances, guess you?ll have to ask the head of the Episcopal Church Women that one.? I crushed the cigarette stub under my heel and stood up as an act of dismissal.
Frances took a deep drag, looked across the street at the roof of St. Luke?s, and blew smoke. ?What do you know about Roger Bampton?? she asked.
?Nothing that isn?t common knowledge in town. How much of it is true in another question.?
?Do you believe his healing was a miracle??
?Do you??
She shoved herself to her sneakered feet, sighed, and heaved the bag over her shoulder. ?The only thing I believe in is the power of the press. That?s where the truth is. For me, anyway.? She gave me a good-natured handshake and half-smile around the drooping cigarette. ?Well, Deep Throat, if you hear anything else, be sure to give the Mountain Journal a jingle.?
?My pleasure,? I lied.
?Stop by the office some time, Arch. I keep a fridge full of Jolt back by the press.?
Arch?s face turned momentarily jubilant until he caught my don?t-even-think-about-it glare. When Frances had hopped back down Hymnal House?s stone steps and roared away in the smoke-spewing Fiat, Arch and I picked up our flashlights to go back to the driveway and wait. When we got near the entrance to Brio Barn, we heard something. Something like a drawer or a door being closed hard. Or a metal chair sliding across a floor. Arch shot me a look.
?What was that??
?Honey, I don?t know.?
?We have to go in, Mom.?
?Forget it.? Despite my words, I eyed the barn door.
?It could be him! He could be trying to get out! Mom! Are you listening to me? He might be trying to signal somebody! But maybe he?s about to pass out or … And anyway, check it out!? He gestured widely to the houses near the conference center, the row of old cars puffing through Aspen Meadow. ?This is like, a neighborhood. Nobody?s going to bother us in the middle of the day in a neighborhood. But if you say we can?t, then he?ll probably be unconscious by the time the police get here, and we won?t find him until ? ?
He stopped talking again as the scraping sound again reached our ears.
?Okay, look.? My voice quavered. Arch already was walking down the old stone steps to the barn. ?Don?t call out to see if anybody?s there until we get inside and have a look, say, on the stage, underneath the stage, in the storage areas, and so on. Do you want the Mace??
Arch?s voice said firmly, ?Okay. I don?t know where anything is in this place.?
?I?ve catered here enough to know the ins and outs. Just follow me.? I spoke with more confidence than I felt.
The padlock chaining the barn doors was unhinged. I didn?t stop to wonder why as I threaded the rusty metal loops over and up to free the door handles. WE swung the creaking doors open to the cavelike, shadowy space and were immediately greeted by a current of icy, dank air. What the hell am I doing here? my inner voice demanded. I groped for the switch to the overhead light that I knew existed. When I snapped it, nothing happened. Of course. Although winter was technically over, the electricity would be off until the summer conferences began. That meant that anywhere except Hymnal House, there would be no power, and anyone kept here would be cold. I thought of Tom shivering from exposure.
?Turn on your flashlight.? My voice sounded like gravel. We swept fragile beams of light into the interior. The theater-shaped space was primarily used for rehearsals, choral concerts, and conference liturgies. In front of us across the wooden floor, the old pipe organ stood like a tall museum ghost. Sensitive to cold, it wasn?t used here, merely stored. The stage was on our right; chairs were stacked haphazardly against the walls. The smell of old, musty wood was strong. I didn?t want to shine my flashlight upward. The thought of creatures that could be skittering through the rafters was a distinctly unpleasant one. Gooseflesh prickled my arms. I was going into cold, abandoned, semidark space on a cloudy Sunday afternoon to look for Tom Schulz. I didn?t know which was worse, the earringing fear or that recurring thought that I must be losing my mind. Actually, what was worse was the fear that Tom might indeed be … worse than unconscious.
?You do remember my birthday is this coming Sunday,? Arch said in a low voice.
Leave it to a kid to bring up a birthday. Discussing something completely unrelated might relieve anxiety, after all. And where were the police?
?Yes,? I said as I moved tentatively into the room. My voice came out too loud and echoed along with my footsteps. ?It doesn?t usually fall on Easter, but it does this year.?
?I think when I grow up,? said Arch courageously as he parted from me and walked in the direction of the stage, ?I?m going to be the kind of guy who does people?s taxes. Four days after tax day every year is my birthday. Then I?ll always be able to have a big celebration, even though I?m grown up.? He hesitated, then hissed, ?Shouldn?t we be calling his name, anyway? Since it doesn?t look as if anybody?s here? If he?s in a storage area, maybe he could make noise …?
Good idea. ?Tom!? I called weakly. My voice echoed from the cold, wooden walls. ?Tom!?
Nothing.
I continued forward into the semidarkness, focusing my flashlight on the dusty wooden floor a yard in front of my shoes. Every few steps, I lifted the beam to the old organ. Its dull metal pipes rose toward the ceiling like prison bars. Once I shone my flashlight all the way up to the pitched ceiling. Hanging from the barn beams were not bats, but dusty embroidered banners from parishes whose organists had attended the music conference for many years. From the teas I?d catered in this space, I knew there was a closet behind the organ that served as storage for music and educational materials. This closet was opened for the July and August conferences of choir directors and Sunday School teachers. After I checked it we would go underneath the stage to check the dank stone basement that was used to store old church files. Neither sounded like much fun.
?Mom?? The beam of Arch?s flashlight shone weakly in my direction.
?Over here. You were talking about what kind of party you were going to have when you grow up.?
?Okay. I?m moving up onto the stage.? The beam of his flashlight disappeared.
?Are you worried you won?t have a party this year?? I asked, slightly louder.
?Sometimes I think I?m too old for that kind of stuff.? His voice was muffled. From his shaded, moving light, I knew that he was checking behind one of the stage?s heavy velvet curtains. ?I would like a cake, thought,? he announced when he emerged. His small voice echoed. ?Maybe a little family party. Are there dressing rooms or anything back here, any place where Tom could be? Maybe he?s gagged.?
I stopped walking. ?Flash your light along the wall.? He did, and revealed nothing but dusty paneling. With false cheer, I said, ?What do you want for birthday presents??
His voice was both earnest and fierce. ?Tom Schulz back, Mom, what do you think? Did you look behind the organ??
?I?m about to.? I swallowed, ignored the pounding in my ears, and walked briskly to the organ. Going behind a large instrument, into a dark space where who-knew-what could be lurking, was intimidating. The keys and pipes were covered with cobwebs. I?d been bitten once by a poisonous spider. It wasn?t fun. I shuddered and came around behind the pipes. A pile of chairs stood in front of the closet door. I put my shoulder to the middle of the stack and strained hard to push it out of the way. The chairs didn?t budge. I took a deep breath and tried again. They made an unearthly scraping noise. They also moved an inch.
?Gosh, Mom,? came Arch?s horrified cry. ?What are you doing??
I put my shoulder against the chair-pile and shoved. If Tom Schulz was in this closet, whoever had put him in there was extremely strong. I pushed again, then stopped to rest. I pulled the bench around to use as a lever. I
