The souls of lost lake, p.29
The Souls of Lost Lake, page 29
The doll—or as Eddie had nicknamed it, Redneck Harriet—glared up at Wren from its crouched position. Its shoulder hung low on the left side, making its head tilt at an awkward angle. In the moonlight, the cracks that webbed across Harriet’s face looked like wispy spider legs all going in tangents. Uncontrolled and mad.
Wren and the doll stared at each other. The doll unblinking, and Wren holding her breath as though any second Redneck Harriet would launch herself from her spot by the door and go all horror-film on Wren’s face. The doll had been at the Markham home. Not here. Not at the Blythe house. Someone had placed it there, by the door, and it hadn’t been there earlier in the night when Wren had confronted her father.
Wren spun and cast wary glances into all the corners she could see into. Tree branches waved in the summer night breeze, their arms stretching up and out like clawed hands wanting to grab her. The crickets had gone still. The coyotes had ceased their howls.
Wren faced the doll again and forced herself to approach.
It’s just a doll. It’s just a doll.
But the doll had a moving part. Someone behind it, someone who had placed it at Wren’s back door. Something was pinned to the doll’s dress. Wren squatted in front of it, not breaking her gaze on Harriet’s glass eyes. She quickly unpinned it, and the movement made Harriet slide over and fall on her side. Her eyes rolled into her head.
Wren scooted away from it. The paper in her hand was small, crinkled, and thin. It felt like a napkin. She wrenched her gaze from the doll and squinted in the dim light. Handwriting scrawled across it. She already knew what the first two words would be.
Arwen.
Ava.
The same as the print on the back steps of the Markhams’. The violation made Wren shudder. She brought the napkin closer to her face. There were more words this time.
October 9, 1996
Find her in the paper.
She is not dead.
41
Ava
Ava wrenched her arm away from Noah’s attempt to grab on to her.
“Do not touch me!” she seethed between clenched teeth. Recently she had wondered what it would be like to cope with the embers that brewed inside Noah Pritchard, but today her own had flared to life. By fear. By an instinctual and primal knowledge that death was nipping at her heels. She had witnessed it before. Seen it, felt it, breathed it. The ax-head in the doorway was evidence that Ava had merely been surviving these past years, and now death had returned.
Noah sprinted after her. Ava could hear his feet pounding on the ground. She could also make out the shouts and clamor of the gathering for Jipsy’s funeral. Tempter’s Creek was awakened to her presence in the parsonage the moment she’d hurled the ax-head through the kitchen window.
Ava ducked around the corner of the pharmacy, glancing in the windows at the soda bar. It was mostly empty.
“Ava!”
She ignored Noah’s call. Ax-heads were everywhere in Tempter’s Creek. A logging community had no shortage of them. But the stark memory of dragging a logger’s ax behind her as a girl verging on womanhood had come rushing back. The weight of the ax. The injustice of anyone thinking she was strong enough to swing it multiple times and overpower her entire family. The cruelty that rumors and falsities would land on her shoulders for Hubbard’s death—for Jipsy’s.
Ava hurtled into an alley, intent on reaching the back of the blacksmith’s shop. From there, she had an inkling of how to make it through the woods toward her homeplace. They didn’t want her in Tempter’s Creek? Someone wanted to threaten her. Hunt her? Then she would take them back to where it all began. There was no avoiding it. No running from it. No hiding from it. Noah had been right. She needed to go back—and now she’d lead the entire town back there too. Where it all began.
She collided with something solid. Knocking the breath from her, Ava stumbled back, but Noah grappled for her arms to save her from connecting with the earth. He hauled her up and against him, spinning around the corner of the blacksmith’s shop and pressing his back against the wall. Ava smelled cedar and cinnamon on his shirt, her cheek pressed into his chest as he palmed her head against him. She could hear the pounding of his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his skin through his saturated shirt. His necktie scratched her cheek.
“Don’t say anything,” Noah hissed.
Ava heard the voices of various town members. Following them. Looking for her. They weren’t a mob—yet—but there were numerous intent inhabitants of the small population who believed it their civic duty to find Ava now that she had made her presence clear. And find . . .
Her head shot up to investigate Noah’s face. “They’re looking for you too?”
“Of course. You were in the parsonage—living there with me, alone.” His eyes widened in resigned acceptance. “It’s twice the scandal. Now shush.” Releasing her, Noah’s hand slid down her arm and gripped hers. There was no emotion in it, no feelings to tingle her heart. It was a necessity.
“Come on.” He tugged her toward the woods, and they scurried across a small clearing as fast as they could. Thornbushes scraped at Ava’s bare legs. Curse this dress. God knew she craved her overalls. Noah didn’t stop pulling her into the brush and the shelter of the trees. For several minutes they pushed and dodged their way through the brambles and growth of the forest, until finally they reached what must have made Noah feel was shelter for the moment.
Oak trees rose above them, mixed with pine and a few poplars. Saplings tried to reach for the sky, scattered across the forest floor, but their demise was inevitable with the thick overgrowth from the mature trees that shut out the sunlight.
“What’n heck were you thinking?” Noah paced the area, agitated. He kicked his foot at a rotten log on the ground. A few bones from a deer carcass were scattered near it. The spine, a few ribs . . . it was gruesome, but it was reality. Life met with death. Always.
Noah’s glare was a mixture of frustration, worry, and something else Ava couldn’t place. But he was upset, that much was clear, and she didn’t think any amount of waterlogged words would douse the fire that emoted from his expression.
“You threw an ax-head through my window?” Noah was incredulous. His shoes crunched on the forest floor as he paced again. His suit coattails were pushed out behind him, as his hands never wavered from their place at his waist. His tie was crooked.
“I did.” Ava stood still, staring down her nose at him. He didn’t understand. Wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t even asked why she’d made such a ruckus. “I’m done with it all. Don’t rightly care if they take me—put me in jail. I can’t do this no more!”
“You determine this now—when it’s more than apparent we’ve been living together? I put my entire reputation on the line for you!” Noah’s arms waved in exasperation. “Not a soul will believe we—”
“Well, I never asked you to!” Ava spat.
“My ministry here is shot to heck.” He skewered her with a look, striding a few paces toward her.
“Then move to another church. Doesn’t seem like you’re happy here anyway.” Ava tilted her head and glowered at him.
Noah stilled. “And why would you say that?”
“Doubtful I’ve ever seen you smile,” Ava challenged.
“You’ve been in my house all of a couple weeks.”
“Most people smile at least once in fourteen days,” Ava retorted.
Noah glared.
Ava raised her brows. “’Sides, it’s clear as the nose on your face that Emmaline has caused you problems. Seems like I ain’t the only one with ghosts in my closet.”
“I never killed her.”
“I never killed my family.”
They stared each other down. Both of them breathing heavier. Angry. Hurt. It was thick between them. As thick as the air that swirled but with something entirely different. Something that made Ava distinctly aware of the way Noah clenched his square jaw. Of the way his hair fell over his forehead. Of the way his eyes burrowed so deep into her soul that she was afraid he could read every part of it and know every nook and cranny.
“Emmaline isn’t my issue,” Noah responded finally, his voice a bit softer.
“Then what is?” Ava held up her hands. “No. I don’t need to know. Wanna know why? ’Cause I’ve had my face bruised in and bloodied. Someone left an ax-head in the back door for me to find. People think I’m a bloodthirsty murderer. Seems like I’ve got enough on my plate to be considerin’ than worryin’ about what your problem is.”
Noah’s eyes darkened. “Ava.”
“Don’t Ava me. You don’t have the slightest clue what it’s like to be afraid all your life.” Ava could hear herself ranting, like a dam of pent-up emotion she didn’t even realize she had. “You don’t know what it’s like to be lost. To grow up never knowin’ why your family died. To live with a crotchety old widower who thought your only worth was to do his chores and watch his traplines and rap at your door at night till Jipsy intervened. Ain’t no one ever cared enough to love me. To want me. Only thinkin’ I’m some mystery and then bein’ quick to judge when they needed someone to blame. Now I’m runnin’, but to where? Only home I got is deep in these woods, and it’s all burned down. I drug my family into the lake to save ’em from burnin’, but they was already dead. Dead and bloody. So don’t talk to me about your issues! Your problems. I’m sooooooo sorry I added to your troubles!” Ava was trying to shout, but her throat was clogged with tears, and her words came out more of a croak than anything.
“Ava—”
“You can move on. You prob’ly got family, and well, if’n Tempter’s Creek wants to make a mess of you ’cause you were helpin’ me, an’ they want to make up lies ’bout you, then it ain’t like you can’t pick up and go start new somewhere else.”
“Reputation and sin follow you.”
“So you’re gonna make this about sin now?”
“No,” Noah growled in exasperation. “That’s not my point.”
“Just let me go, Preacher Pritchard. It’s time we go our separate ways. I never asked you to look out for me. I never asked you to defend me. I never asked you to care!” Now she was crying, and that made Ava more frustrated. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Maybe caring is just what I do best.”
“Ain’t no one ever cared before.” Ava choked on her tears.
“Maybe you should let someone care.”
Ava tightened her embrace on herself, her fingers curling into the material of her dress. “Anyone who cares about me dies. Then I’m all alone. That there’s the hard cold truth of it, Preacher.”
Noah cleared the distance between them in a few quick strides. His hand threaded through her hair at the back of her head and he hauled her toward him. His mouth closed over hers, needing, searching, communicating something—something Ava wasn’t sure how to understand. But she responded anyway. She released her embrace on herself and clutched at his necktie, his shirtfront. Noah’s free arm slid around her waist and pulled her close to him. Ava could feel the breadth of his chest. She could taste him as he kissed her. Over and over, until she couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. They broke apart, and Noah leaned his forehead against hers, his hand still holding the back of her head.
His eyes were fully on fire. There was a passion in them that went beyond the kiss, went beyond any physical need. It was longing for closeness, a soul seeking oneness. The pain in Noah’s expression mirrored her own, and Ava couldn’t understand. Couldn’t fathom how he knew her ache without experiencing it.
They breathed in unison, staring into each other’s eyes. Oh, she’d been wrong. She wasn’t capable of handling the flames in this man. It was powerful. It held promise of things Ava longed for, but it was dangerous. A different sort of dangerous than what lurked in the woods—in her past and present—but dangerous nonetheless.
He kissed her again. This time, Noah was gentler. His lips held hers. Then he pulled back. “I’m not sorry.”
It wasn’t what she’d expected.
Noah ran his finger down her cheek. It left a fiery trail on her skin, traversed over her tears, and left Ava feeling alone when he pulled it away.
“You’re not alone.”
Ava shook her head. “I am.”
“You were. You’re not anymore.”
Ava backed away from him. His words filled a hollow in Ava. A chasm that had formed in her that day she huddled in the cellar and listened as her family died. But it also terrified her. With aloneness came the security of only fending for oneself. With togetherness, she would have to care, have to listen, have to put down roots. And while that was everything she wanted, it was everything she was afraid of.
Ava did the only thing she knew how to do.
She ran.
42
Wren
She’d texted Eddie but had heard nothing. A quick jaunt to the Markham house confirmed it was intact, with no damage or evidence of a break-in. But there had to have been, considering Redneck Harriet had last been in Eddie’s possession in the house. Wren looked for the hidden key under the garden gnome. It was there. She noticed the imprint of a foot near the gnome, and it was smaller than a male foot. Immediately, the image of Ava Coons was blazing in Wren’s mind. She’d been here. The woman in the woods. Smart enough to find the hidden key.
Wren snatched the key from its hiding place and hurried to the front door, inserting it in the lock. Sure enough, there were two muddy footprints just inside the door. A quick call to Gary, who thankfully answered, confirmed he wasn’t aware of anyone who would have accessed the house. An hour later, the police met her there, surveyed the area, filed a report, and shrugged a little since there was no evidence of anything broken or stolen. Wren showed them the doll that was lying facedown on the passenger seat of her truck. After she explained it had been taken, the police pointed out that it had also been found and now returned. There really wasn’t much they could do.
Annoyed, Wren sped a bit too fast on the gravel back roads, clattering over the wooden bridge that spanned Lily Pond, and headed for Tempter’s Creek city limits. Once there, she pulled through a corner coffee shack and ordered a strong quadruple-shot hazelnut latte and was perturbed enough she didn’t even ask for almond milk but instead upped it to a breve. Sipping it, she headed for the library. A little brick building with a selection of pre-2010 books and a limited selection of more current releases. But they had free Wi-Fi, and no one would look over her shoulder. She hadn’t said a word about the previous night and the doll to either her father or Pippin. This morning, Wren hated to admit, there was an even wider chasm between her father and herself. He’d poured his coffee in silence, hefted his laptop bag to his shoulder, and driven off to camp to welcome a new speaker for the upcoming week’s family camp.
It didn’t take long for Wren to get settled at a table near a shelf full of large-print Danielle Steel novels. She tugged the paper that had been pinned to Redneck Harriet’s dress from her bag.
October 9, 1996
It had to mean something, regardless of who had broken into the Markham home and who had left the doll at the back door of the Blythe home.
She started by punching the date into Google. As figured, the results were general and generic. Everything from zodiac signs to “what happened on this day.” Wren took a long sip from her latte. It was thick and milky and strong. She swallowed, glanced up at a mother and child passing by the table, then redirected her attention to her laptop.
Think, Arwen. Think.
She looked back at the note.
Look in the paper.
Wren considered it for a moment. The paper probably meant newspaper. Okay. She typed in the website address for the Tempter’s Creek newspaper and checked to see if archives were available online. Surprisingly, there were. Rather good for a Podunk town paper. Wren jabbed in the date, and an image of that day’s paper appeared. Skimming it, she noted the weather report, an article about a local high-school athlete who was on their way to earning state in wrestling, and a story about the tavern league.
Disheartened, Wren sagged in her chair. Of course, that was too easy, too simple. She racked her brain trying to place any semblance of meaning onto the date. Something that she would recognize. Aside from it being the year she was born, there wasn’t anything . . .
Wren straightened. The year she was born. Ava. Arwen. Whoever the woods-woman was, she was trying to communicate that there was some connection between Ava Coons and Wren. She’d tied it back to Redneck Harriet, who bore Arwen’s name on her foot and had been found in Ava Coons’s cellar.
October 9, 1996.
Two months after Wren had been born.
According to her grandmother, Wren was born in California, where her dad had been a professor. She bent over her laptop.
Stanford, California.
She added the date.
Several pages pulled up about a university, some economics . . . Wren refined her search to seek the title of the local newspaper. Once she found it, she pulled up its website and clicked on their archives.
“Wren?”
Wren jumped. She jerked around to meet Meghan Riviera’s eyes. “Oh! Meghan. Hi.” It was a lame greeting. Meghan appeared gaunt. Her eyes were pulled downward, her skin pasty enough that all color had disappeared. Her eyes shifted back and forth, looking over Wren’s shoulder, then back to Wren. She adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Wren asked.
Meghan tugged out a chair and sat down, leaning into Wren. “I need your help.” Her whisper gave Wren chills.
Wren shot a glance at the laptop. One click and she’d bring up the newspaper from Stanford, California, in 1996. She looked back at Meghan.
“What’s wrong?” The mother needed Wren’s prioritization. She was trembling. “Have you eaten anything?” She was worried Meghan was about to pass out.
