THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART TWENTY-SEVEN:

Mike Johnson's EMT shift was over and he was driving home in his pick-up, humming along to

a Martina McBride song, patting the steering wheel with his left hand in time to the beat. "Whoa, baby!" he said aloud, coming around a curve and seeing a small car canted at an angle in the culvert alongside the road. He pulled over and got out, walking quickly up to the car to see if anyone were still inside. It was empty and he stepped back, looking at it. Looked like
the one Eden McLaughlin drove. He'd seen it often enough in the lot of the hospital when she'd bring Marshall in for his therapy and also near the inn. He had a habit of stopping by the inn

at least a couple of times a week. Not that he'd ever admit to a weakness for Martha's cookies

or anything. And now that Eden and Marshall seemed to have taken up long-term residence there, he'd have coffee and a cookie with them before heading home. Wadsworth had gotten quite used to him and when the three of them would go out for a bit of dogcercize, Mike would throw a tennis ball for Wadsworth to fetch.

He tried the driver's door as it was on the up-side of the tilt. It wasn't locked. He reached

across to the glove compartment, pulling out a black vinyl folder that held the registration

and insurance information. He frowned. It was Eden's car. What the heck was it doing in the ditch with nobody about...and the door unlocked?

The sun was just about to set so he got his big flashlight out of his truck, finding tracks that led to the small bridge he'd just driven over. Three sets. One probably Marshall's, but who would the others belong to? He squatted, studying the footprints more carefully. All of them were too big to be Eden's. A deep frown line creasing his forehead, he went back to the car, shining his light over the front seat. Nothing. He opened the passenger door, pausing when his beam crossed the back of the driver's headrest. Damn, if that wasn't blood.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed Eden's cell. No answer. He tried the main number at the inn. Also no answer, though he let it ring and ring. Maybe Harold's cell? Nothing there, either.

Now that was really strange. Either Harold or Martha was almost always at the inn just in

case unexpected guests stopped by.

He dialed another number. "Pete? Mike Johnson here."  Peter was the county sheriff. "Listen, I'm here by Eden McLaughlin's abandoned car. I don't think she was driving it and I can't reach her or anybody at the inn. You had any word on anything connected with this?"

"Nothing, Mike," Peter replied. "I've been busy all day myself. Two inmates broke out of Rockview last night. Word was they might've been seen heading this way."

"Pete," Mike said, "I think you'd better come take a look at this car. It's in the ditch 4 miles toward town from the inn. I'm going to the inn now."  He hung up and dashed for his truck, cutting off Peter's admonition for him to wait until a squad car got there. As he drove, he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a revolver.

For the better part of the afternoon, Eden, Martha, and Harold had struggled to get free.

Duct tape turned out to be a much more efficient way to bind someone than rope ever had.

And the way Calvin had gone about it, there was nothing for anybody's fingers to reach to loosen, even had there been knots. Harold had succeeded only in making his chair fall over sideways, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on a table leg.

Eden and Martha had talked quietly at times, but mostly sat in silence, terrified for Marshall. Eden had heard the smaller man's remark about the coat as they went out the front door, but she had no way of knowing if they'd let Marshall have it or not. The coat rack by the door was completely out of her sight. Was it still hanging there?

Along toward dark Eden's cell phone rang. It was in her purse on the coffee table in the parlor. Then the phone on Harold's desk began to ring. It rang for a long time before stopping, the sound being almost immediately taken up by the cell in Harold's back pocket. Somebody was trying desperately to get hold of them.

Not very many minutes later they heard the sound of boots running up the walk way, a pause outside the door, no knock, and then the long creak as the old door swung slowly on its hinges.  Almost dazedly Eden thought how carefully she listened to sounds these days.

"In here!" Harold shouted, hoping it wasn't the convicts returning.

At the sound of Harold's voice, Mike hurried to the dining room. "Good Lord!" he breathed at the scene before him. "Are you three unharmed?" He knelt beside Harold, quickly taking his pulse and then righting the chair. At first his fingers fumbled with the wide tape, not able to

find the ends, then he gave up and pulled out a pocket knife and just sliced carefully through
the tape where it touched the chairs.

"We're ok," Harold nodded, "but they took Marshall."

"In Eden's car?" Mike asked.

He looked at Eden, who stood, rubbing her wrists, her eyes sparking with tears. "They were going to take me," she said, "not really looking at anyone, "but he talked them into taking

him instead."

Mike was quickly on the phone to Pete again, who was half-way to Eden's car. "It's them, Pete. Took Marshall Sinclair hostage when they left the inn. Yeah, everybody here's ok. A bit shook up, but ok. There're tracks by the car, Pete, 3 males, heading to the creek. Yeah, ok, I'll do that. Thanks, Pete."

Eden clutched his arm. "What are you saying, Mike? Tracks by my car? Aren't they still in

my car?"

Mike shook his head. "Didn't get very far, I'm afraid, Eden. Saw it in a ditch about 4 miles from here. Nobody anywhere around." He decided not to mention the blood on the head rest.

"You said you saw tracks going to the stream?" Harold asked.

"Three sets, yes."

"Probably going to high tail it up the creek bed," Harold surmised. "Make it damn hard to follow."

"They're on foot?" Eden asked blankly. "Marshall's on foot?"

"Looks like, Eden," Mike said.

She looked at him, her chin trembling. "He's sick, Mike. Don't you see? He can't be out there

on foot. He just can't!" Then she remembered his coat and ran toward the front door, followed by a concerned Mike. "Oh, God...it's gone!" she sobbed gratefully. "It's gone!"

"What's gone, Eden?"

"His leather jacket. They let him have it after all."  Suddenly her knees didn't want to support her all that well and, holding her elbows, he led her to the couch. "Martha," he asked, "you

up for making some hot tea or something?"

"Sure fire," she said briskly, heading for her kitchen, wading purposefully through the mess Calvin had made and putting on a kettle to boil.

Mike sat beside Eden. "You say Marshall's sick? What kind of sick?"

"It started as a bad cold, Mike, but by today he had a terrible cough."

Mike pressed his lips together. Not good.

Mike's cell rang. It was Pete, calling from the location of Eden's car. "I think you should talk with Harold," Mike said. "He can tell you what happened here at the inn."

Harold sat at the dining room table, his forehead leaning heavily one one hand as he described the two men.  The ski masks made identification more difficult, but with what he said about their height and weight and manner, there was no doubt as to who they were. Calvin Hobbs, in for
three counts of grand theft auto and Bart Sommersby, repeat offender drug dealer, small-time thief, now in for manslaughter.

Eden listened to Harold's voice from the other room. "Do you think they'd hurt him?"

"Now why would they go and hurt him?" Mike said kindly. "He's their ticket out of a tough situation."  He had absolutely no confidence in what he was telling her, however.

She sat quietly twisting her fingers together, remembering what Marshall had said back at the beginning of November when he'd stood beside her on the porch as Wadsworth played. "It's

not so bad if Wadsworth's in harness with me, but when I'm on my own, it's like being packed

in cotton wool and I can't tell where I am or where I need to go....Any sureness I have of where

I am going disappears."

Yes, that's what he'd said. What if the men decided just to abandon him somewhere? He'd be alone, like that, packed in cotton wool, not knowing where he needed to go. A tear tracked

down her cheek. If only he had Wadsworth with him.

"Wadsworth!" she blurted out. "He's upstairs, shut in Marshall's room."

She ran for the stairs, the sound of his scratching getting louder. "Oh, Waddy!" she cried, opening the door and falling to her knees beside the big dog. "They took him, Waddy, they've got him." She spoke to him as though he'd understand her words.

Mike had followed her, standing at the top of the stairs, his hand still on the rail, watching her. Wadsworth paused in the bedroom doorway just long enough to permit a brief hug from Eden, then barreled past Mike and down the steps. He padded quickly through the entryway, his
nose to the floor, circled around the dining room then went to the front door and began his scratching again.

Harold opened the door and Wadsworth ran to the parking lot, stopping beside where Eden usually parked her car. He lifted his head, sniffing the air, then looked back at the inn where Eden, Mike, and Harold were all watching him from the porch.

"Dog might be of some use," Harold suggested. "Sure wants to find his man."

Mike got on his phone again. "Pete, I've got Sinclair's guide dog here at the inn. Be ok if I bring him down to the creek? He might pick up on some sort of scent that could help."

Marshall stirred in the snow, roused by his own coughing and his need to gasp for air. He had

to sit up! He couldn't get his breath lying down like that. Pushing with both arms, he managed

a sitting position, then wiped at his temple with one hand, coming away with blood on his glove.
He knew there was blood because he touched his finger to his tongue. What he didn't know was if it were day or night. Not that that really mattered to his perception of anything, but it might be good to know how long he'd lain there, how long since they'd left the inn. There was,
however, absolutely no way for him to tell.

His head was pounding, had been a good while even before the branch had fallen on him. The rope between his hands was still around the branch and he spent a while figuring out how to work it over the smaller parts that had it pinned. When that was done he pulled his hands
as far apart as he could get them. Hadn't been too bad when one of the men had been pulling him along, but on his own he couldn't get anywhere with them bound a foot apart. The larger branch, now lying beside him, had some ragged parts to it where old growth had broken off years ago. He ran his hand along the branch, feeling for the biggest of these then set about rubbing the rope back and forth across it. He had to stop and cough every little bit so it took

him some while, but finally the fibers of the rope parted and his arms were free to move. He didn't bother working at the knots on either wrist and so each had a small section of rope dangling from it.

He had almost no feeling in his legs or feet and knew he had to get up, get moving, get some circulation back into them. Using the branch as a prop, he hoisted himself to his feet, wiggling his toes and stomping before he had some returning sensation. That made them hurt like blue blazes. The air temperature had been hovering all day right under freezing and while he'd lain there, had risen a handful of degrees so that the snow was starting to melt a bit. There was a steady dripping of icy water from the limbs above him. He tipped his face, letting some of it

drip into his mouth. Despite the cold, his face seemed strangely hot.

Leaning on the branch, he tried to think what he should do. Thinking seemed to take a great deal of effort, but he remembered what Bart had said about his plans to cover their tracks and lead any searchers in the wrong direction. "They aren't coming for you, old boy," he said to himself grimly. "They'll think you're headed to town."  He breathed quietly, appreciating a moment without coughing. It was up to him. He knew that. It was up to him to get himself out

of this mess. "If it can be gotten out of," he added aloud.

He had no idea which way they'd come from, which way he should go. The stream. If he could only find the stream and follow along it, it should lead him back to the road. But...where? He took a few tentative steps, his right knee protesting from where he'd fallen on the rocks in the stream.  There was a definite slope to where he was. Streams were always at the bottoms of slopes, weren't they? If he went down hill, chances were he'd find the stream sooner or later.

Strong shivering took him and his teeth began to clack together. He couldn't stop them from doing it. He remembered that a lot of body heat escapes through the head and his head had

been bare all this while. Leaning the branch against his hip, he used both hands to pull his muffler up and out of his jacket, then wrapped it over his head, tying it in front of his mouth to keep his lips warmer and then tucking its long ends back down in the front of his jacket so

they spread across his chest. His chest had begun to hurt when he breathed, like the muscles wanted to pull away from his ribs.

Holding the broken branch like a cane in front of him, and with his left arm stretched out, fingers wide, he started down the slope. He'd gone about fifteen feet before he stumbled over

a half-buried rock and fell, rolling maybe ten more feet down the slope before he managed to stop. His tree branch cane was lost somewhere along the way. He got to his knees just as a long coughing spell took him and all he could do was lean forward, his palms pressed on his thighs, coughing and gasping. He knew he should keep going, but he was just so overwhelmingly tired.

His forehead brushed against a low, almost fluffy branch of some sort of evergreen. He stretched out more, feeling beneath it. There was almost no snow under there. Layer after layer of the fat branches hung down, practically brushing the ground and there was a thick padding of years

of fallen needles and old leaves. He slid into it on his belly, almost burrowing into the musty-smelling mound, wriggling into it, rolling onto his side,  using his hands to scoop it up and over himself as he curled tightly, his knees pulled up, his hands under his armpits. And he slept.

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