The Searing Page 14

  “And the basement?” Another wave of paranoia swept through her.

  Tom nodded. “We’ll check again, just to be sure.” He took Sara’s hand and they went through the house to the kitchen. Tom first made sure the door was locked, then flipped on the outside lights to the terrace. The backyard was empty and the flood lights spread across the fringe of the fields beyond the lawns. No one was crouched in the rocks beyond the property. He turned off the outside lights, then said to Sara, “I went through the basement earlier, but we can check it again.” He slipped the bolt to unlock the cellar door, but before he could turn the knob, the door burst open, and Cindy Delp fell into the kitchen. Her hands and arms had been gashed by glass, and as she tumbled forward across the tile, her flaring arms sprayed them both with a fine mist of warm blood.

  Sara screamed and kept on screaming. The shock of the bloody child and blood all over her had driven Sara to hysteria.

  The child crawled into the corner of the kitchen. She, too, was crying, clutching her bleeding hands and arms against her body. The blood soaked her torn dress and spread in a pool around her body.

  In Tom’s tight embrace, Sara tried to stop shaking. She understood the first symptoms of shock and realized she had to control herself. Cindy Delp might bleed to death if she didn’t respond, if she didn’t overcome her terror.

  “I’ll call Santucci,” Tom said, sensing she was back in control.

  “No, don’t leave me!” Sara stared at her hands trembling on Tom’s arm. “We have to help her. She needs first aid.”

  “Sara, you’re in no condition. Let’s get the cops. They’ll handle it. Please, Sara.”

  Sara shook her head. “There isn’t enough time for that. It’s my responsibility. Get my bag by the front door, and in the second-floor hall bathroom there’s a first aid kit.” She pulled herself up. The fear and terror had passed. She had summoned the last of her strength to save the child’s life. She grabbed a dishtowel from the rack and, ripping it swiftly into strips for tourniquets, moved toward Cindy Delp,

  The child watched her. She, too, had stopped crying. Her face was ghostly, drained of the blood that gushed from the long slashes on her hands and arms.

  “Hurry, Tom!” Sara shouted, seeing the severity of the injuries. And to the child, “It’s okay, Cindy; everything will be all right.”

  The child did not seem alarmed at seeing Sara approach. It was only when she reached to apply the first tourniquet that Cindy avoided her grasp, and instead leaned forward, as if doubled up in pain.

  Then she dipped her forefinger in the shallow pool of her own blood, and on the cream-colored tiles of Sara Marks’s kitchen, she slowly, almost religiously, daubed six lines that looked more like scribbling than a message so urgent it had to be written in blood:

  SIXTEEN

  “Do they make any sense to you, Marcia?” Sara asked, sliding the drawings over to her. “Tom made these sketches of the marks while I was treating Cindy.” Sara looked across the table at Marcia Fleming. It was early morning, and they had gathered in Marcia’s living room. “I know that at the Smithsonian you work with languages,” Sara went on, “and I think this may be one.”

  “You mean you think Cindy may know a foreign language?” asked Marcia. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Not a foreign language, more like … a personal language. Autistic children don’t learn to speak the way normal children do—by mimicking adults. They can’t seem to learn our language, but they are capable of an inner language that is difficult for others to understand.”

  Tom broke in. “For the last few days this girl has been shadowing Sara. She keeps hanging around the house, breaking into it, and I thought she was trying to kill Sara. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe she was trying to tell us something.”

  “And since she can’t talk,” Marcia commented, “she’s using these marks to make you understand.” She looked at Sara and Tom, and they nodded in agreement.

  “Well, I think it is even more complicated than just that,” Marcia went on. “These marks do have significance.” She kept talking as she moved to her bookcase and took down several textbooks. “I’ve seen this symbol before. I know what it means, and it’s incredible that Cindy would know it.”

  Marcia opened one of the reference books and placed it on the coffee table before them. “These odd lines which Cindy drew are actually part of the Ogam alphabet, an ancient Celtic script. Ogam means grooved writing, and there are about seventy varieties of the script going back in America to the first millennium, B.C.

  “Now we were taught that Christopher Columbus discovered America in 1492, but since the 1960s we have known differently. According to inscriptions found on stones throughout America, we now know that America was first settled by Celts, Basques, Libyans, and even Egyptians over 2,500 years ago.

  “These people built temples, left gravestones and tablets, and married American Indians. They also left a script called Ogam.”

  On a blank sheet of paper, Marcia used a magic marker to draw a few short lines. “The letters,” she continued, “are constructed from single parallel strokes placed in sets of one to five, in position above, below, or across a guide line.

  “A stone from Vermont, for example, was inscribed this way:

  That inscription means ‘Stone of Bel.’ What is significant about the blood sketch by Cindy Delp is this—” Marcia paused a moment to search through her books on Ogam inscriptions, and when she found the page, she turned the book around so Tom and Sara could see the photographs and drawings.

  “A linguist and epigraphist named Barry Fell decoded Ogam in a place called Mystery Hill in North Salem, New Hampshire. Mystery Hill is a twenty-four-acre hilltop full of underground passages, standing monoliths, drystone chambers, and inscriptions that have never been fully explained.

  “But within the last ten years it’s been proven that the standing stones have astronomical alignments. When viewed from one particular spot, they line up correctly for the winter and summer solstices, the point when the sun reaches its furthest point north and south in the sky.”

  “Like Stonehenge?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, but Mystery Hill has even more significance. When Barry Fell visited the site in 1975, he decoded the Ogam markings on a triangular stone tablet. When translated it said, ‘dedicated to Bel’. “Now Bel was the Celtic sun god, but the Phoenician name Baal also meant ‘sun god’; so, it’s possible that New Hampshire was visited by both the Celts and the Phoenicians, and as far back as 800 B.C.”

  Marcia pointed to one of the photographs in the reference book. “This is the monogram of Bel or Baal, that was found on a triangular stone in Mystery Hill. It’s the same symbol that Cindy drew. She wrote the name of Bel in her own blood.”

  Sara and Tom glanced at each other, then at Marcia.

  “Do you think she found this picture in a book?” Tom asked.

  “I doubt that. There aren’t many pictures of the monogram. More likely she has seen a stone itself with the inscription, found it somewhere here on the farm or along the river bank.”

  “How would that be possible?” Sara asked, frowning. “There couldn’t be that many ancient stones in this country.”

  “Well, epigraphists have found examples of Ogam as far away as Oklahoma. I know researchers at the Smithsonian who have decoded second century, A.D. Hebraic script in Loudoun County, in Tennessee, and on prehistoric walls in Fayette County, West Virginia. So, it is possible that there are some examples here on the banks of the Potomac, and if there are,” Marcia’s eyes widened, “I want to find them.”

  Tom stood and nervously began to pace around the sofa and chairs. “You mean that’s all it is?” he asked, circling the women.

  “That’s enough for me,” Marcia answered. “If Cindy has discovered prehistoric inscriptions here, in this Village, it’s a major find for archaeology.”

  Sara pulled back the drawings and compared them again to the photos found on the triangular stone. Then she
asked, “Do these inscriptions have any religious significance, Marcia?”

  “Yes, they do. This triangular stone in Mystery Hill was located in the temple of the sun god. Usually stone tablets with such engravings were votive offerings. You would buy one from a priest near a sacred temple, and then leave it behind as a gift to the god.”

  “Then there might actually have been a temple in the Village, or at least on the farm?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, possibly. Or the stone might have been dredged up from the river years ago and used as part of the foundation for a building. No one would have thought anything of the grooves on the face of the rock. Until recently people assumed that grooves like that had been made by stone-cutting drills from colonial masons, or even Indians. I’m sure Cindy, or her father, or anyone else building this Village, would have had no idea what these lines mean.”

  “Cindy knows,” Sara answered softly. “And that’s why she drew them for me. She’s trying to tell me something.”

  “Oh, Sara, that’s not possible. How could Cindy know Ogam?”

  “I’m not sure, but the child has nearly killed herself trying to explain. Now I’m going to try and help her tell me.”

  “Would you let me come with you?” Marcia asked quickly.

  “Of course. I need your help.”

  “Let me go call Neil; he took Benjamin over to his place this morning.” Marcia smiled wryly, “A vain attempt to keep him occupied.” She stood, and went upstairs to get her coat and to telephone.

  Tom sat down across from Sara and whispered, keeping his voice low. “Why do you think Cindy knows anything about the killings? You told me last night I was absurd.”

  Sara nodded, agreeing. “I still don’t think Cindy killed those children, or that she caused the attacks, but she may know something about the deaths. Autistic children, we know, are capable of extrasensory perception. There have been enough demonstrations of clairvoyant incidents to statistically show this ability isn’t coincidental. She may be trying to tell me what she knows. The problem is that I can’t understand her.”

  Sara raised her hands, knowing Tom would start asking questions she couldn’t answer. “I realize it doesn’t make any sense. But let me talk to Cindy; I think I’ll be able to reach her. She wants me to understand her.”

  “You’re wrong about her, Sara.”

  “I have to do this my way, Tom,” Sara answered, resolved now that she knew what to do.

  “She’s trying to kill you,” he went on slowly. “If you go near her again, she could destroy your mind.”

  Sara stared back at him. She was determined, and her eyes lost their bright, shiny gleam, and were now the color of slate. She was fighting her own exhaustion, his disapproval, and she knew she couldn’t rationally explain her insistence on pursuing the child.

  Tom was right: it was better to leave Cindy alone and let the police solve the murders. She could leave, sell the house, and move back to Boston. Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave, to walk away from Sam. She felt a piercing pain of homesickness for Boston, for the cool, damp cobblestones of Cambridge, for the ivy and dark brick of Harvard.

  “It’s something I have to do, Tom,” she finally said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “The child is tormented. I don’t know why she’s chosen me to communicate with … maybe it’s because she senses I can feel her pain, even when she can’t express it. It doesn’t really matter why. I have to help her.”

  “Why, because you happen to be a doctor? This has nothing to do with the Hippocratic oath. You’re getting involved with police work, not a medical problem. You’re pursuing Cindy Delp for other reasons and I don’t think you’ve thought them through.” He settled back in the couch, staring hard at her.

  “Why are you so angry? Are you afraid for me or are you upset because I won’t listen to you? I don’t think you know what’s best for me.” Sara spoke quietly and without raising her voice, but she let the tone show her annoyance with his attitude. She had spent all of her adult life studying the medical and psychological behavior of man, and she knew she was better qualified than Tom to deal with Cindy Delp.

  “I think she’s a killer,” Tom answered, not responding to her hostility. “And, yes, I do fear for your life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think I’m in love with you,” he answered quietly.

  “Oh, no,” Sara sighed and looked away. She hadn’t expected a declaration. It complicated everything, and the implications of all that came walloping home. She wanted to touch his arm, to show him some sign of affection, but she heard Marcia in the hallway upstairs, and she said quickly, “I don’t like to depend on people.” That admission surprised even her.

  “What’s so terrible about it?” Tom leaned forward and touched her arm.

  “I find that when I depend on someone else, I only get myself in trouble.”

  They both started nervously at the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

  “Well, here’s Marcia,” Tom said, too loudly.

  “I’m sorry I upset you.” Sara stood and began to collect her things, then whispered, smiling secretly to him, “I promise to behave.”

  “I think you’re wonderful,” he answered.

  Sara stared down at the deep pile rug and blushed. His words made her feel warm and desired. She nodded, unable to respond, and walked toward Marcia in the foyer, her footsteps falling uncertainly on the carpet, as if she were slightly drunk.

  SEVENTEEN

  Cindy Delp sat at the kitchen table surrounded by adults but not conscious of them. She had become fascinated by her left hand, and she held her fingers inches from her face and slowly, endlessly, turned her hand before her beautiful black eyes.

  While Cindy wandered in her own world, her father listened silently to what Sara Marks had to say. They had all crowded into the farmhouse kitchen, Delp and his wife Pearl, Sara, Tom and Marcia, and Santucci and two of the county police.

  Only Bruce Delp and the women sat at the table. The men stood back against the kitchen cabinets, and kept quiet while Sara told the parents, “I think your daughter is trying to help us. I think she’s trying to tell us something about the murder of these children.”

  Bruce Delp snorted and moved impatiently in his chair. He had been out working that morning, and Santucci had brought him back to the farmhouse to meet Sara Marks. He was dressed for the fall weather, heavy overalls, flannel shirt, and denim jacket. Inside the house he had taken off the jacket, but not his Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. He kept it pulled down low on his face, as if to hide his eyes.

  “I told the police here that Cindy didn’t have anything to do with those kids. You’ve seen yourself my girl can’t harm no one.”

  “We don’t think she’s responsible, either, Mr. Delp,” Sara said softly. “But I do believe there’s a reason for Cindy coming to my house. I think she is trying to tell me something.”

  Pearl Delp gestured toward her daughter. “Cindy don’t know she ain’t supposed to go up to the construction. She’s been playing in these fields all her life, and it’s hard, you understand, for me to keep her home.” The wife’s small, gray eyes looked guiltily at Sara.

  “It don’t mean anything, Miss, that she come by your place,” Delp said, picking up from his wife. “About once or twice a day I have to fetch her from either the Village or the fields. She’s been like that, you know, since she could first walk. I’m sorry she’s been bothering you. The police here, they say she broke your windows. Well, I’m sorry about that; I’ll be over there first thing this afternoon with new glass. We’ll have you okay by evening.” He tilted his head up to look at Sara, and she stared into his eyes. They were small and watery-blue and full of pain. It hurt Sara to look at him.

  She opened her bag and took out Tom’s drawings. Unfolding them, she asked the parents, “Does this symbol mean anything to you? Have you seen it on the farm? Have you seen it cut into the face of any rocks?”

  Sara held up the
drawings so Pearl Delp could see, and the sudden motion of her hand attracted Cindy. Her head jerked back and she saw the sign and lunged over the table, grabbing it from Sara’s hands.

  She seized the drawing and held it tenderly, her fingers softly tracing the lines. Then she placed the paper on the kitchen table and hovered over it. They were all quiet, surprised by her unexpected response. She began to hum softly to herself, a clear, simple child’s lullaby, and, bending over the drawing, she smiled.

  “Cindy, give that picture back to the lady,” Pearl Delp ordered.

  Sara raised her hand, motioned for the mother not to interfere. The roomful of people was silent, hypnotized by Cindy’s fixation with the strange symbol of Bel.

  “Cindy, what does this mean?” Sara asked, speaking slowly and softly to the child. She asked the question and then paused, waiting for Cindy to absorb the sentence and understand. After several seconds she asked again, “Cindy, what does this mean?”

  It was as if the simple English sentence was a foreign language, and Cindy was able to catch only a few words. Sara waited, listened. Then Cindy answered painfully slowly, but her reply was incomprehensible.

  “What did you say?” Sara tried once more.

  Cindy spoke again, and Sara shook her head, frustrated that she could not understand. Tom motioned for her to remain sitting, and he circled the table.

  “Try to get it on tape,” he said, handing her his small Sony recorder.

  Sara leaned forward again and held up the tape recorder, but now Cindy would not even whisper. She sat quiet, still smiling, still gently touching the monogram of Bel.

  Santucci and the other police officers stirred restlessly, and Pearl Delp came to stand at Cindy’s side, as if to ward off Sara and her recording machine. Sensing that the meeting was about to break, Sara looked around the room as if appealing to them all. “Just give me a couple of minutes. She’s not retarded; she can be reached, I know she can. I just want to ask her a few questions and see if I can establish an I.Q. level for her …”