Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(106)
“And I won’t leave you, either. That’s a promise, Lizbeth. This great adventure of ours, it isn’t over yet!”
He tried to sound chipper, but the smile that stretched across his round, kind face was forced—and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a terrible good-bye. We had to deny it, and pretend otherwise. For the sake of our sanity, and our mission. For the sake of Ruth, who was on the run, in the dark, pursued by monsters.
Because weren’t we all?
Impetuously, almost girlishly, I leaned forward and planted a large, heartfelt kiss upon his cheek. I had to stand on tiptoes to do it. I think he was surprised, but not displeased; after all, he hugged me tight, then let me go.
I gave him the matches. He gave me the lamp.
“I’ll try to be quick, but stairs have never been my greatest joy. Wait for me at the car if you can. Run if you can’t. Get Ruth to safety either way. I know you can, and I know you will. Now go,” he urged.
Before I could change my mind, I turned on my heel—the lantern in my left hand, and the axe gripped firmly in my right. Without stopping to consider if I was alone, or likely to be confronted . . . without hesitating and second-guessing my directions, I dashed back the way we’d come. The sound of my heart banged between my ears. The sway of the light as I ran made the whole place dance some cruel tarantella, the walls bending and breaking and falling away, or rising up to stop me.
But I ran. And I did not stop, not even when I heard voices call out behind me.
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
OCTOBER 4, 1921
The sky was a low, black, flat canopy like I’d seen it before—no moon, no stars, nothing to give me a friendly hint of light to let me know where I was going; so when I ran, I was running blind.
I used my hands and my feet, feeling my way around the building and trying not to make too much noise while I was at it. I dragged my fingertips along the brick—but the brick didn’t last, and soon it was wood paneling again, so it must’ve been a chimney or something. I touched something slick and smooth like glass, and I guessed it was a window. I knocked my knuckles against the window frame when I reached the end, and I kept going.
The whole time, I struggled to remember anything at all about the way Chapelwood was put together, or how to get out of it. I recalled it was set up in kind of a half-moon shape, with the big church house in the middle, and some littler buildings on either side—but I didn’t know where I was, and that made it even harder to tell where I was going.
I wished I was wearing more comfortable shoes, but at least they weren’t the highest heels I owned. I wished I had some matches, or better yet, a lantern—but if I had one, I’d be easier to spot myself.
I was trying to look on the bright side. In case there was a bright side.
Every move I made sounded too loud, even my own breathing, and the banging of my heart around in my chest—I could hear it between every gasp for air, and every slap of my hands along whatever building I was following. I didn’t have any other path to guide me, so this was it until I could find that stupid little road that ran into the compound. It couldn’t have been more than two ruts leading off the two-lane strip of asphalt someone calls an automobile highway—and I think it must’ve been some kind of joke, because we probably didn’t have enough cars in the whole county to make use of it.
But if I could make it to that highway, such as it was . . . there was a chance I might flag somebody down—somebody who wasn’t part of Chapelwood, and wouldn’t drag me back to whatever fate the reverend had in mind.
Getting to the main road wasn’t much of a plan, considering I didn’t even know what direction I was facing, but it gave me something to look for. If I could make it to the tree line, I could feel around, and hope to find a cleared spot where the cars and carts came through on the way to church—back when anyone was still pretending Chapelwood was a church, and not . . . not whatever it really is.
Over the sound of my own body making a ruckus, I heard voices. They were coming from behind me, mostly, and off to my right. I thought about sitting down, curling up into a ball, and praying nobody would see me; but I had the awful suspicion that they could all see better than I could. I was only human, you know? These people out here, worshipping at the feet of the reverend . . . they were something else now. And if I stopped running, if I just held still and waited for them to catch up, I would just be making it easier for them.
Maybe they’d catch me anyway, and drag me back. But I wouldn’t go easy, and I wouldn’t go quiet. If they wanted me, I’d make them fight for me. So I took another step and ran out of the building’s shadow.
My hands flew off into space, and my feet tripped over themselves, now that there was nothing handy to direct them. I turned back in a panic and grabbed the building’s corner again, needing some kind of anchor to hold me down to earth. (Or that’s how it felt, when I’d let go and lost touch with everything except the dirt under my feet. It felt like flying, and I didn’t want to fly. Not at all, not especially in the dark so thick I might as well have had a bag over my head.)
I clung to that corner so hard my fingernails probably started to bleed, but I didn’t care. Forward I went, in this new direction—and now the voices all were behind me, which was encouraging . . . but that other noise wasn’t.