The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,87
you’ve lost me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I know what I have to do.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I don’t think I can. I just know.”
I can tell something’s slipping, the bond between us is stretching thin. The sisters-on-the-way-to-the-beach soundtrack skips to its end. The reality of everyday life looms ahead, darker than storm clouds.
“I really want to understand,” Holly says. “If what you’re looking for is some kind of service project, there are better things to invest yourself in. Safer things.”
“I’m not looking for anything. It was looking for me.”
“I wish you’d stop talking like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
She shakes her head, but I know what she means. Talking like I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid. Talking like a woman on a mission, a true believer.
Which is what I feel like. Nothing’s changed, she’s right.
But a hole opened up in the roof.
It’s past eleven, half an hour from Lutherville, and there’s no answer on the home phone or Jed’s cell. I hate to disturb Deedee this late, but call her anyway, looking for reassurance. No answer there either.
“I don’t know what’s going on.”
“At least you know where Rick will be,” Holly says. “That’s something.”
When we pull up in front of the house, there are no lights on. Next door at the Smythes’, too, everything is dark. It’s as if our corner of the street has lost power. No sign of occupation.
“This isn’t right,” I say.
Without bothering about the luggage, I get out of the car and rush to the door, fumbling with the keys until Holly comes up behind me, telling me to calm down.
“I’m sure they’re okay,” she says. “Maybe they went out.”
“Everyone together? They’re all gone?” I shake my head at the impossibility of the idea.
Then I’m inside, calling Jed’s name, calling Eli’s, switching on lights as I move through the house. Up the stairs, into their empty bedrooms, down the stairs and through the empty kitchen. Out in the backyard the shed looks dark too. I burst through the back door, crossing the distance in a run, grabbing the doorknob and opening the shed.
Empty.
All the furniture in the little outbuilding has been pushed against the walls. On the floor, where I’d seen Rick stretched out the first night, a bedroll is hastily piled. The books pilfered from the shelves are stacked on the open rolltop desk, which is pushed against the fireplace. The topmost volumes lie open, anchored by an empty Nutella jar. I go for the lamp and, in my frantic haste, tip it off the side table.
“Beth, are you okay?” asks Holly.
“He’s not in here. Where are they? Something’s wrong.”
I head across the lawn, past the stone wall, and onto the back steps of the Smythes’ wraparound porch, with Holly trailing behind me. Despite the late hour, I rap on the door and several of the ground-floor windows, expecting a light to switch on inside. Nothing.
“Try calling them again.”
I dial the Smythes. On the other side of the glass windowpane, I hear the phone ringing. No one answers. I try Jed’s number. Still nothing.
“What about Rick? Try him.”
I dial and hold the phone to my ear. In the distance, a faint electronic chirp. Following the sound, we end up back at the shed, where Rick’s phone is plugged into the socket by the desk.
“Holly, I don’t know what to do.”
By now, my sense of spiritual calm is shattered completely, just a heap of menacing shards at my feet. We return to the house for another fruitless search. Maybe there’s a note? Maybe a message on the voice mail? I even go to the computer and check my neglected e-mail inbox.
“Anything?”
I shake my head.
Then the doorbell rings and we both jump.
I wrench the door open, expecting Jed or Eli, even Rick. Instead, Roy Meakin stands there with an apologetic look on his face.
“I know it’s late,” he says, “but I saw the lights and thought I’d come over and check. Is there an update? I haven’t heard anything since they left.”
“We just got here, Roy. I have no idea what’s going on. Where is everybody?”
He frowns. “You don’t know? They’re at the hospital. There was an ambulance, paramedics, the whole shebang.”
I’m looking down at the dark sky again, with nothing to pin me in place. Falling into black despair. First thought: Rick being hauled out of the shed, dead from hunger. Then I think of Eli and some freak weed-related accident, or Jed . . .
“Rick,” Roy says.
My knees go weak. I put my hand out to steady myself.