It had been a week since I’d seen Susanna, and it was going to be a lot longer. There hadn’t been a drop of rain, and the forecast didn’t give me any hope.
Not knowing how she was doing drove me crazy. I could barely eat or sleep. I couldn’t concentrate. Other than cycling and lawns, I was worthless.
Had they flogged or jailed her? Had she been punished in other ways? Was she still…healthy?
I wanted answers.
“Mark?” Mom shouted up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Okay.” I stared blindly at the computer screen, propped up by pillows against the headboard of my bed.
“Are you coming?”
“No.”
Her footsteps charged up the stairs and stopped at my bedroom door. “Mark, you need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
There was a long pause. “Have you heard anything from Susanna?”
“No.”
She came in and sat at the end of the bed. “So, what can you do to find out what’s happened to her?”
“Nothing. It’s impossible at the moment.” I snapped the lid down on my laptop and slumped deeper into the pillows. If I was lucky, Mom would take the hint and go.
“Have you checked with the police?”
“Can’t.”
“Is her sister somewhere safe? Can you talk to her? Maybe—”
“Mom. Please.”
“Leaving now.” She squeezed my bare feet—which was as weird as it was comforting—and walked out.
But I wasn’t any happier after she’d left. Being grumpy with my mother was better than worrying about Susanna.
There had been one thing to try, but I’d already tried it. On Tuesday, I’d ridden down to the Archives, ignored the suspicious glares from the research assistant, and asked to see Jethro’s will and Joan’s indenture. The documents had looked exactly the same. Susanna’s failed escape hadn’t changed history.
How would it happen—illness or injury?
The tombstone hadn’t changed dates—but what did that mean? Did the actual event take place on August third? Had an injury already happened and she now lingered on, unable to recover?
God, I couldn’t stand thoughts like that.
It was times like these that I wished Carlton and I were still friends. I wouldn’t have been able to tell him the details, but it would’ve been good to hang out with someone I trusted.
Maybe I should talk to Marissa. That might help as long as she didn’t go all Mini-Mom on me.
Where was the rain?
The WeatherNOW site predicted no precipitation for the next ten days, and their models seemed to be really consistent on this point. I knew because I checked the forecast every other hour.
Whisper Falls had slowed from an occasional halfhearted dribble to nothing. Water puddled here and there. I could spit better. I knew because I checked every day.
I even tried rigging up some ropes and buckets of water to simulate a waterfall. But all I got from the experiment was wet clothes. Apparently, Whisper Falls was particular about where its water came from.
I punched my pillows and rolled to my side. Time for my nightly review of The Plan, an elegant series of steps to rescue Susanna. I’d been working on The Plan for a week. From memory, I’d drawn a scale map of the area between the falls and the Pratt property. I’d visited the approximate location in my century and timed various scenarios. I’d brooded and tweaked.
The objectives were simple enough. Grab Susanna and run like hell for 2016.
The only thing missing was a decent-sized storm.
* * *
After three weeks of not seeing Susanna, I totally got how people felt when a loved one went missing. I’d become an empty shell of a person, going through the motions, held together by a sickening mix of desperation, terror, and hope.
That would all change tomorrow. Hope had to win.
The meteorologists were getting excited. Tonight, there would be rain, massive amounts of it. A tropical system was blowing in off the Atlantic, and North Carolina was in its path. Even though Raleigh was one hundred miles inland, we were sure to get soaked. There would be lots of rain crammed into a narrow window of time. Flood watches were in effect.
The rain was no longer an if. It was a when.
It was July twenty-eighth. Two days until the Carolina Challenge. Six days until August third. Earlier this morning, I’d dropped my parents off at the airport for their trip to Mackinac Island. They got out well ahead of the storm.
I rode to Umstead Park and tried to get in a last training run on dry trails before the rain hit. It was such a good idea that lots of other bikers and runners had it, too. The trails were already crowded. I gave up early, too agitated to think clearly.
I checked the WeatherNOW website every hour. The storm moved closer but wouldn’t arrive until past midnight. I ate supper with my grandparents, watched The Weather Channel, and waited for bedtime.
My mother called after she arrived at their bed and breakfast. “How are things going?”
“Great so far.”
“Have you washed your stinky clothes?”
“Yes.” But not the towels. I’d do that the minute I got home.
“Any worries about the storm?”
Nothing besides I wished it had come three weeks ago. “I’ll be glad when it gets here.”
There was a long pause. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice grew husky with concern. “Is it Susanna?”
“Yeah.”
My mother hesitated. “Be careful, Mark.”
“I will. ‘Night, Mom.”
A few minutes after nine, I slipped from the lake house, hopped in my truck, and drove home. But I couldn’t just sit in the dark, waiting for bad weather. So I got busy. I rechecked my biking gear. I washed stinky towels. I emptied the trash cans.
It was around midnight when I heard the sound of drumming on the roof. I raced to the nearest window.
Rain. Lots and lots of rain. Weather radar showed a wide band of storms racing east to west—a solid band of green/ yellow/red, fifty miles wide. Within hours, Rocky Creek would be a torrent.
* * *
I was up before the crack of dawn and into the costume. Next came breakfast and the I’m OK text to Granddad.
The sun had just risen as I approached the creek. The falls gushed, no longer landing conveniently between my launching rock and hers. Instead, it shot forward like a fire hose. A six-foot-wide fire hose. I waded into Rocky Creek, braced myself against a boulder, and dove through the falls.
Whisper Falls clawed, flashed, and tingled. I emerged in the eighteenth century, up to my waist in water, dragged down by my wet clothes and soggy athletic shoes. There was no time to do anything about them. It was hot enough that they would dry soon.
Dragging myself onto the lip of a rock at the mouth of the cave, I studied the falls. It wasn’t nearly as intense in this century, but it was flowing steadily. That was real convenient, because I hadn’t made a Plan B for a drought on this side.
I walked parallel to the muddy trail leading to the Pratts’s farm, creeping through the woods, careful but not concerned because it wasn’t light yet. Once I reached the edge of their yard, I found a spot behind the outhouse and hid in the underbrush.
It was quiet. My location had decent visibility, but there wasn’t much to monitor yet. I could wait. I was resolved and calm, my mind blank of all thoughts except The Plan.
The sun crept up the horizon.
An elderly African-American man trudged from the barn, carrying a pail. He climbed the rear steps to the kitchen, disappeared inside, and re-emerged almost instantly, chomping on a hunk of bread. He headed back to the barn.
The main house remained still. An occasional door slammed, but no one came outside. Didn’t these people ever piss?
If something didn’t happen soon, I’d make it happen. Maybe I’d figure out which kid was Dorcas and ask her to find Susanna.
A few moments later, two girls exited the house—Deborah and a younger one. They entered the kitchen and exited a couple of minutes later carrying trays.
Half an hour passed. They brought the trays back.
Susanna hadn’t served today.
Why not?
I had to stay focused. It didn’t matter why she hadn’t served today. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Pratt and his son left together, walking in the direction of the village. Good. I wouldn’t have let them stop me—but it was just as well that they were out of the way.
Deborah sauntered from the kitchen and disappeared into the house. The younger girl ran toward the shade of a big oak. Other than her humming, the farm remained quiet. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney.
No sign of Susanna.
What if I was too late?
Okay, stop. Not going to think that way.
Please, Susanna. Please come.
A strange, metallic clanking broke the silence. The humming girl halted her impromptu twirl to look toward the kitchen.
Susanna appeared in the open doorway.
I closed my eyes and slumped onto all fours, panting through my mouth, shudders racking my body.
“Do you need anything, Susanna?” a clear, young voice asked.
“No, thank you, Dorcas.”
The hoarse rasp of her voice refocused me. Shaking off one last shudder, I snapped into a crouch. I was ready and disciplined.
Susanna was coming this way. The change in her shocked me.
She’d lost weight, her clothes hanging off her like she was made of sticks. There were dark circles under her eyes, deep hollows in her cheeks, and her hair lay in greasy clumps about her face.
But the worst were her feet. They shuffled forward in chains. Grimy iron cuffs had scraped sores onto her ankles. With each step, her breath came out in a puff.
I had to clap both hands over my mouth to keep from roaring with rage. If that jerk Mr. Pratt had put in an appearance, I’d have gladly beaten him to a pulp.
She didn’t see me as she approached the outhouse. I waited until she would be able to hear my whispers.
“Susanna.”
She halted. Our gazes locked. I was aware of the sounds. Birds called. Insects hummed. But nothing from her, even though her lips moved.
“I came back for you,” I said.
A tear rolled down each cheek. She tried to say something, coughed, then rubbed a knuckle against her lips.
“Mark. Take me away.”
I felt like a warrior of old. The sight of her filled me with strength and invincibility. I didn’t care what it took. I was setting her free.
“You won’t be living here another day.”
Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. I made a move toward her but she waved me away.
“Mark, watch the yard.”
“Okay.”
She struggled to her feet. “Can you see Dorcas?”
“Yeah. She’s watching you. She’s beginning to walk this way.”
“Stay where you are.” She struggled to rise and slipped into the outhouse.
The little girl returned to her tree.
“Dorcas isn’t looking anymore,” I said as loudly as I dared.
A few seconds later, Susanna came out again and shuffled behind the building. I drew her into my arms, cradling her like she was a baby. She was so light, so fragile. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been fiercely pushing me around with her arms and opinions. Today, she lay against me weakly, trembling with exhaustion.
I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and fought it back. Now, more than ever, she needed me to be logical, strong, and prepared. There was no place for emotion.
“I’m ready to go.” Her voice was muffled against my chest. “Please.”
“I’m sorry, Susanna, but not yet.” I gently pushed her upright and took a step back. I hated to do this to her, but the shackles were a risk I couldn’t take. “He put those on you to keep you from escaping. It was a brilliant move on his part, because we’ll be caught if you’re in chains. They have to come off.”
“Do it, then.”
“I can’t. I don’t have the right tools.”
She bent her head and sobbed.
Her cries tore at my heart. “I have bolt cutters at home. It won’t take long, Susanna. I’ll be back.”
She scrubbed at her cheeks and eyes with grubby fists. “What should I do until then?”
“Pack.”