No Stone Tells Where I Lie, Madeline Kalvis [e novels for free .TXT] 📗

pointless, she decided, to expect any conversation in this room to stay tethered to reality for long.

“Then she tells me the wild part. The government follows him about, because his tribe is still protected. They try to stop people from contacting him, make sure he stays alone. That wouldn’t do for me, being alone like that, having somebody watch over and make sure nobody ever rings the doorbell. So I ask her what that’s got to do with Ned.”

“And what did she say?”

“Don’t know. I never got an answer out of her for that. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Right. Well, this has been productive.” She stood up. “Please let me know if you can think of anything about Evan, or if you hear from Gregory Browne. I'm staying here, upstairs, so it's not hard to find me. I would say it's not hard to find anyone on this island, but I don't want to jinx it.” She hurried out of the pub and into the street.

A small crowd of men in their early twenties stood outside The Rock smoking. They watched her as she made her way up the street. She walked with purpose but without direction, hoping that if she projected confidence hard enough it would come true, or at least be a less obvious lie.

The common thread of recent events was violent self-harm. There must be some connection between that and the disappearances. A traumatized witness? Where would such a person go to lick their wounds? Standing in the cobbled high street she looked down to the harbor and up to the hill. Across from the Post was the Anglican church, its broad sides reflecting the occasional beams that sneaked through the cloud cover.

Walking through the patch of green that served as a cemetery, Emma made her way to the old parsonage. Since South Alderney had lost its vicar the church itself had been abandoned, and the parsonage converted into a meeting space. The door was unlocked.

The main room was full of chairs, arranged in a circle. The smell told of the eternal battle between mildew and scented candles. The next room had a large fireplace and folding tables along the walls. A Lenten jar on one table declared “Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain.” It was half full. Along the top of the wall a homemade banner was constructed of pieces of paper taped together and read “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” The H was not capitalized, and someone had drawn the rest of the letter in with pencil. This island needed a working school.

Another banner had fallen on one side. She picked it up off the floor. A pin was still stuck through the paper. She stretched to reattach the end of the banner as high up as she could reach and embedded the pin in the wall. The thin plaster over stone sent a chill through her fingers even in the middle of the day. As she stepped back to read it both ends of the banner fell from the wall and crumpled on the floor.

Emma stopped to listen for any sign of human activity. Outside, ferns and grass rustled against the walls and each other. The day wind created a faint white noise and brought a smell of ozone through the open window. But there was nothing to indicate she was not alone. She looked out the window, across the cemetery, at the old church building and sighed. Nothing for it.

The side door to the main nave had a tiny, handwritten sign warning readers not to enter. The ancient lock rattled when she tested the doorknob. The wooden frame was so degraded that the lock could easily be forced. Some of the wear looked fresh, as if somebody had had the same idea recently. She could follow their example, if she was desperate enough to break into churches in the middle of the day.

Emma thought about the old woman’s words from the day before. “Makes it all a little easier to bear.” Someone had come here in search of sanctuary. She tensed her body and put its full weight onto the door, forcing it open.

Compared to the light of early afternoon the dark of the church interior made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. She took two steps inside and squinted at the shadows and corners, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It didn't take long to find him.

Greg sat on a pew in the middle of the church, lit by one of the high windows. He turned his head when she approached him but said nothing and looked back toward the altar.

Emma circled around to face him.

“Gregory Browne?”

He nodded. His eyes were red and puffy when they flicked up at her.

She walked closer and tried a softer tone. “You’ve heard who I am?”

He nodded again.

She sat down on the pew a short distance from him. And waited. It was a technique she had learned from David. Finally, he spoke.

“I didn't want to be alone.”

“So you came to an abandoned building?”

“Do you believe in God?”

Emma didn't look at him. “Why do you ask?”

“It's hard to explain if you don't believe in God.”

“Do you believe?” She twisted her body to be slightly closer.

“I used to. My Dad said it’s hard not to believe in God when you see him every day. He was a farmer, and he used to talk about things like that when he was making me pick weevils off the potato plants. As if it wasn't torture enough for a child, he expected us to like it, too.”

Greg talked quickly with his eyes closed. “He always said he saw God in the leaves when they grew and fluttered in the wind like little flags. That's how he talked, too. Never said anything plain-like. I wish I felt that presence with me. I thought maybe if I came and sat here long enough it might come back.”

A minute went by. Then