Catching the Wind(74)

Baby squirmed in Brigitte’s arms as farmland transformed back into forest. Rosalind turned right onto a bumpy path and the Wolseley began to climb a wooded hill toward the river.

“She’s blessed, Rosalind. She has a good mother to care for her, no matter where you live.”

Rosalind’s lips pressed together in a steely silence as she accelerated the car. Brigitte braced her feet against the floorboard, her fingers clutching the handle. Their tires hit another rut, and her head slammed against the metal roof.

“Slow down,” she demanded, but Rosalind was lost to her again.

And Brigitte knew—she had to get the baby out of here.

Baby was crying louder now, but the cries only seemed to propel Rosalind to drive faster, as if speed would swallow the car and the noise. The wand on the fuel gauge dipped toward empty, and Brigitte prayed the petrol would run out before Rosalind killed them all.

A cow stepped into the path ahead of them. Brigitte screamed, and Rosalind braked, the car shivering as it swerved through the branches. Brigitte yanked on her handle and the door swung open, its hinges rattling behind her. Then she jumped out onto the forest floor with baby clutched close to her chest. She rolled into the brush, away from the car.

The crunch of metal ripped through the trees, her door torn from its hinges. And the cow, it snorted at her before strolling back into the forest.

Baby girl was quiet in her arms—too quiet. As she sat on the moss, stunned, Brigitte thought the impact might jolt Rosalind back to reality, that she would turn around at least to check on the baby, but minutes passed, and Rosalind didn’t return.

Adrenaline rippled through Brigitte’s body as she stood, the earth beneath her still trembling, branches bobbing in the wind. When baby began kicking again, the realization hit her. She had nothing to care for an infant. No food or clothing or diapers. She could survive in the woodland until winter, if she must, but the baby could not. Without milk, baby girl might not survive the day.

A blast of sound raked through the forest then—the squeal of brakes, skidding of tires, the crash of metal against rocks.

Brigitte raced with the baby through the trees, until she reached the cliff above the river. Wind gusted up from the chalky canyon, blowing past her, rustling the trees. In the grass strip between trees and cliff were black tire marks, leading straight over the edge.

Below she could see the blue Wolseley in the water, the boot standing on end as if it were the mast on a sinking sailboat. She couldn’t see inside the vehicle—the front was completely immersed.

“Rosalind!” she shouted over the edge. The name rolled and coiled and sprang back to her.

There was no answer to her pleas. No sight of her friend.

Her stomach turning, Brigitte scanned the cliff for some sort of path, but a rock wall blocked her from the river. It would be precarious climbing down there by herself, and she certainly couldn’t do it with a baby.

There was no sentiment for losing Herr, but Rosalind . . .

How could she bear to lose her only friend?

Brigitte called her name again and again as if she might be in the water, waiting for her.

Finally she turned back toward the forest. When she did, she swore she saw a shadow shift in the trees.

“Rosalind!” she called one last time, but the shadow was gone.





Welcher Mensch ist unter euch, der hundert Schafe hat und, so er der eines verliert, der nicht lasse die neunundneunzig in der Wüste und hingehe nach dem verlorenen, bis da? er’s finde?

LUKAS 15:4, LUTHER BIBLE (1912)



What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?

LUKE 15:4, KING JAMES VERSION (1611)





CHAPTER 45





_____

“It’s very odd,” Lucas said as the jet prepared to take off from Biggin Hill. He was across the aisle from Quenby in a leather recliner the color of silver birch.

“Evan didn’t seem to think our visit was odd at all. He was spending a few days near Brighton and wanted to speak with me about the story.”

Lucas continued his rant. “But how did he know you were in Newhaven?”

“Chandler told him.”

“Brighton was just an excuse. He came down to see you.”

She took one last sip of her London Fog before Samantha swept the cup away. “Chandler said he’d taken an unusual interest in this story.”

“Obsessive might be more accurate.”

“Like Mr. Knight?”

“No—Mr. Knight’s interest is more like a calling. I think you uncovered something that’s worrying Evan Graham.”

“Intrigued is what he said. He asked me to report what I find directly to him instead of Chandler.”

“Which you’re not going to do—”

“Of course not. Until my story’s reinstated, I won’t be reporting anything about it to him.”

“If it is reinstated, how are you going to write it without mentioning Brigitte?”

“I don’t know,” she said. The lines between the Terrell story and the Rickers had blurred in her mind now, Brigitte like a zipper holding them together. “It’s all so confusing.”

“Indeed,” he said. “You once told me I had to earn your trust, and I think you’re absolutely right. Evan needs to earn your trust as well.”