Searching For Celia Part 17

"Your mum e-mailed me afterward, asked me to get in touch. And I meant to. I truly did." She releases a deep sigh. "But then I didn't."

"Lots of people didn't," I say softly.

"Even so, that doesn't make it right." She bites her bottom lip, unable to look me in the eye. "I thought of ringing you so many times, even picked up the phone, but didn't know what to say. The truth is, I was afraid you might weep. And I'd feel embarra.s.sed. Pathetic, isn't it? All the stupid, foolish things we tell ourselves, when all we really need to do is step up and be human."

"It's okay. It's over now," I whisper, even though I know that for me, it will never be over.

She sips the beer, then nestles the can in the crook of her knee. "I can't fathom what you must have gone through."

"It was pretty horrible," I finally say after searching for the words. Let's not talk about this. Not tonight.

"At least you had your faith."

"I suppose so." My mind flashes to the couple in the adjoining room, Leslie and his friend, perhaps just now falling asleep in each other's arms.

"I always admired your faith, even though I didn't share it." Celia takes the wrapper from the meat pie and smooths it with her fingertips. Her hazel eyes, dilated by the low light, seem hollow and far away.

"I remember you and your mum and dad getting all dressed up on a Sunday and driving to that little Lutheran church, the wooden one with the tall white steeple, off that country highway." She smiles gently at the memory. "When I first came to the States I couldn't believe people still did that, put on their Sunday best and went to church, where they sang hymns and praised the Lord and whatnot. I found it so quaint then, but there have been many times in my life since that I have wished for such certainty."

My skin p.r.i.c.kles. "I wouldn't call it certainty."

She shrugs. "Certainty, faith, belief-however you label it. The confidence that your baby is in a better place."

"And what place could be better than with me?" I blurt out. "Me-the mother who loved him?"

Celia looks up in surprise. "I didn't mean-"

"I don't know where my son is, I only know where he isn't." I've held it in for so long the words, set free, tumble out in a rush. "He isn't in my arms, or on my lap, or in his high chair or his crib or his bouncy seat. The world is full of places he's supposed to be. Places I created just for him. Don't you understand? He is everywhere and nowhere, all at once. How can he be so here, so present that I sense him all around me, and yet so utterly and completely gone?" My voice breaks and I stop.

Celia stares at me in horror, her pale cheeks pulsing red. "I'm sorry, Dayle. I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"No, it's okay." I swallow hard. "It's good, really. I rarely get to talk about him. Like you said, it makes people uncomfortable."

She looks wounded. "I'm so much more than people, Dayle."

"I know." I glance at the clock and see that it's almost six a.m. "Look, it's already morning," I say. "We should try to get some sleep while we still can. I'm gonna go wash up."

She places her hand kindly on my knee and the pressure of her touch makes me ache. "Are you certain you're all right?"

"I'm fine."

I climb off the bed and hurry into the bathroom, where I am free to weep, silently, so Celia cannot hear. I turn away from the mirror, so I don't see the swollen face leaking tears and the bruise surfacing beneath my left eye, where my cheek hit the Tube platform.

I struggle out of my clothes and into the T-shirt and sweatpants I wore earlier, then manage to wash my face and brush my teeth, all while averting my eyes from the mirror.

When I slip quietly out of the bathroom I discover that Celia has fallen asleep atop the bed. Her newly black, blunt-cut hair is tucked behind her right ear and she lies on her left side, knees pulled to her chest and hands folded beneath her cheek in a position resembling prayer.

It is 6:21 a.m. I had hoped we might share the bed for a few hours of sleep before we leave for the police station, but looking at Celia resting so peacefully, I can't bear to wake her and ask her to make room for me. So instead I cover her with an extra blanket from the closet and turn off the lights, leaving the bathroom light on and the door inched open, so only enough light fills the room to leave the biggest objects visible; visible, but drained of color and detail, reduced to outlines, vague shadows, and shapes. Even now the room is mostly dark, the only natural light coming from the small street-level window. A narrow shaft of light cast from the bathroom creeps across the carpet and rises up the side of the bed, illuminating the smooth serenity of Celia's sleeping face.

I take the chair and straddle it, folding my arms and resting my chin on my cast. From here I watch Celia sleep, marking the way her forehead crinkles and her spa.r.s.e eyebrows rise, meet, then relax as she exhales. In the absence of light, the noises outside seem both magnified and menacing: the rattle of metal bars opening over storefronts, a rare bird chirping, the splash of tires squealing through standing water.

For a moment Celia and I are thirteen again, bundled into army cots in a cabin at Camp Minnehowee in northern Wisconsin. Our two cabinmates, a shy Amish girl from Ohio and a 240-pound tattooed juvenile delinquent from Indianapolis, sleep soundly while Celia and I clutch our flashlights and hold our breath as we listen for the distant cries of herons, wolves, and loons. Celia is scared into wide-eyed silence; this big-city girl has never slept outside in a wooden A-frame, so exposed to nature. She finds the vast darkness terrifying, the featureless deep of the clear night sky where black meets black, obliterating any kind of horizon.

"It's all right," I rea.s.sured her, "close your eyes and go to bed. I'll stay up and keep watch while you sleep." I only knew for certain she was sleeping by the subtle shift in the rhythm of her breathing.

Who is she? I wonder, staring at Celia now, across the room from me at the Bayswater bed-and-breakfast. Who is she, really? Is she Celia the liberator, the deliverer, the freer of souls? Or is she someone who profited financially from the s.e.x trafficking of young women and girls? Can anyone ever truly know another human being? And if not, how can we act without that knowledge? Can faith alone ever be enough?

I vow to stay awake until it's time to leave, guarding Celia's silent, slumbering form. I will be steadfast. Faithful. I will not close my eyes. No. Not this time.

My body jerks sharply, startling me from sleep, from that achingly vivid dream in which a baby cries nearby. The closer I get to consciousness the more he retreats until, when I open my eyes and reach for him, he is gone. Pain shoots through my arm.

I squint, struggling to make out the clock. Even though the room is still dark, it's 7:45 a.m. "Celia?" I mumble sleepily. "Get up. We gotta go." As my eyes focus, I realize the bed is empty, save for a jumble of blankets and sheets. Hoping against hope I glance toward the bathroom, but the door is open and the light is off.

Oh my G.o.d, she's gone. Celia's gone. The realization tumbles through me like bricks falling into a well. How could I have been so stupid? She was guilty all along, and now she's escaped.

Chapter Twenty.

Thursday 7:51 a.m.

My mind races as I consider what to do. Call the police? Callaway? Edwina? And what, exactly, would I tell them? As I rise from the chair I see on the desk behind me a sc.r.a.p of paper, torn from a notepad and secured beneath last night's empty beer can. I grab the note and read it, hand shaking: Dayle-You looked so knackered, I couldn't bear to wake you. Meet me at the tomb, 9.15. I'm off to Hope House to give Sophie the 5000. I don't need it now, and it's the least I can do.

-Celia x.x.x I feel a strange mixture of hope and dread. Is she serious about donating the money to Sophie's charity? Or is she hoping to buy precious time by sending me off on a pointless journey to Highgate while she quietly leaves the country? There's only one way to find out-make my way to the cemetery and hope she shows up. Or do I hope she doesn't show up? Do I want her to have gotten away, even if she is guilty?

I shower as best I can with my broken hand, holding the cast outside the curtain so it won't get wet, then dress quickly and grab Celia's duffel bag and my backpack and head upstairs to the lobby. It's 8:22 a.m. and as I step outside, the streets between Bayswater and Queensway are stirring to life. The souvenir shops, noodle houses, and bureaux de change are filling quickly with rich j.a.panese tourists, college students on spring break, and steely eyed Russians hustling cheap knock-off luggage from storefronts and street corners.

The sky is misty, verging on rain, while a trace of fog lingers, curling like a nervous housecat around lampposts, traffic lights, and the wrought-iron fencing that lines Hyde Park. Even with the fog, the chilled morning air contains an unsullied freshness, a buoyancy just waiting to be brought down. One day, one ordinary day, just the simple movement of the sun across the sky, can change your life more than you ever imagine.

In the cab on the way to Highgate, my mind is tense and anxious, focused on Celia, but also on Callaway, picturing her greasy hair and beady eyes. Will she be there waiting, outside the cemetery gates? Or will she wait until after the handoff to take Celia into custody? Or will she keep her promise and not show up until Celia reaches Euston Station, supposedly on the way to Ireland? Why is Callaway so determined to get Celia, anyway? If Celia is just a small fish, as Callaway insisted, why devote so much of her time and resources to finding her? What's in it for Callaway? Suddenly an awful thought occurs-what if Callaway is working with Gregorovich? Instantly, yesterday's events are cast in a different, more sinister, light. Oh my G.o.d-all the elements were there, if only I had paid attention: Callaway searching Celia's flat after her initial investigation was supposedly complete, claiming to be double-checking something.

Callaway insisting on interviewing me at the hospital after my accident, even though the police station was only a few blocks away.

Callaway pressing me to describe the person who pushed me, even though I didn't see anyone. Was she actually behind my accident and feared I'd seen too much?

The pictures she showed me in Celia's flat were emotionally manipulative but offered little concrete evidence of wrongdoing by Celia. Celia exchanging money with Gregorovich? That could have been Celia paying him to release Anastasia, as Celia claimed. And how was Callaway so fortunate as to get that photo in the first place? In the right place at the right time? Or had Gregorovich told her exactly where and when the handoff would take place?

Celia is in more danger than either of us realized. I've got to reach her before Callaway does.

I tell the cabbie to step on it. As we approach the cemetery, I have him drop me at the top of Swain's Lane, a steep, winding one-way road that divides the two sides of the ma.s.sive Highgate Cemetery. Once I have hurried past the old pub and the mechanic's garage at the top of the lane, the road narrows as dark brick walls rise up on either side, marking the cemetery's outer perimeters.

Thick trees overhead throw a dense net of shadows across the road below, creating a choked and claustrophobic atmosphere that sets my nerves on edge. An occasional car whizzes past, and each time I fear it's Callaway.

Ahead I can see where the trees break as the brick walls give way to the entrances to the two sides of the cemetery, the East Cemetery on my left and the West on the right.

The West Cemetery entrance is marked by a ma.s.sive Main Gate, a brick fortress with rounded turrets and arched gla.s.s windows. I pay a small donation to enter and the attendant, a bored-looking man in his twenties, sets aside the textbook he'd been reading and waves me through the black iron gate, which swings closed behind me with a deep shudder that echoes through my body before settling in my broken hand, which vibrates long after the rest of me has stilled.

This is the first I have been inside a cemetery since Rory died. We buried him at the church that Celia remembered, the little Lutheran one with the tall white steeple, just off the country highway. Rory is buried beside my father, in the plot that had been reserved for my mother, with a headstone already engraved with her name and the year of her birth. Four pounds, seven ounces. He lived for fifty-three minutes. His coffin was thirty-six inches long. The numbers feel meaningless but they rush through my head nonetheless.

Just inside the cemetery's main gate is a broad open circle, elegantly paved and rimmed on the far side by a crescent-shaped colonnade with narrow, tombstone-shaped doorways. I hurry across the paved circle and through a doorway in the middle of the colonnade. Then I mount a stone staircase that takes me into the gently rolling grounds of the cemetery proper, where the ancient and more contemporary dead lie side by side, resting for all eternity beneath everything from simple stone crosses and modest grave markers to gigantic crypts, vaults, and mausoleums, many intricately carved and featuring elaborate, even garish, statuary of dogs, angels, cherubs, harps.

Highgate Cemetery is a strange and mysterious place. Built in the 1830s, it covers thirty-seven acres and has more than 53,000 graves holding the remains of more than 170,000 people. The atmosphere is certifiably spooky Victorian Gothic, thanks to the cemetery's official policy of managed neglect, allowing the grounds to remain wildly unmanicured, overrun with trees, vines, shrubs, and wildflowers that threaten to suffocate the countless tumbledown, crumbling, ramshackle graves.

I appear to be the cemetery's only visitor as I take one in the maze of many narrow, winding, muddy paths that cut through the dense vegetation toward the center of the cemetery. The fog, which had thinned to the lightness of a human breath back in Bayswater, still lingers here, farther north and at a higher alt.i.tude. This fog is in no hurry to lift as it kisses cold marble statues and embraces lonely gravestones, some untouched for decades by human hands.

Callaway could be on the way, I think, as a gust of damp wind whistles around my ears. Or she might be waiting, even now. I've got to get to Celia before she does. I quicken my pace as I move down the hillside and deeper into the cemetery, where the light barely pierces the tangled ma.s.ses of brambles, holly, and thick wiry shrubs.

I approach the Egyptian Avenue, one of the cemetery's best-known landmarks, and enter a dark descending pa.s.sageway beneath a great stone arch carved into the hillside, overgrown with ropy vines and cascades of ivy and marked on either side with obelisks. A chill darts up my spine as I hurry through the damp, shadowy tunnel lined with vaults, each holding a dozen ancient coffins. The vaults are separated by stone columns capped with carvings of lotus buds, extending the eerie theme.

The tunnel opens into the Circle of Lebanon, a sunken ring of elaborate Greco-Egyptian-style vaults and catacombs, twenty feet below ground level and fully exposed to the sky. In the middle of the circle stands the majestic Cedar of Lebanon tree around whose roots the circle was carved and which predates the cemetery by hundreds of years.

I can't remember exactly where Radclyffe Hall's tomb is located, so I work my way counterclockwise around the circle's damp dirt path, moving between the ma.s.sive stone vaults lining the ring's outer edge, each sized, shaped, and designed like a small Gothic chapel, and the inner rim's catacombs, with their dark recessed iron doors set deep into the earth.

Roughly halfway around the circle, I turn the corner and there is Cecelia Frost waiting for me, standing in the shallow entrance to a vault with the name Mabel Veronica Batten chiseled overhead. Mabel Batten was Radclyffe Hall's first lover and it is within her tomb that Radclyffe Hall is buried. At Celia's feet is a small white marble planter, engraved with Radclyffe Hall and holding a delicate bouquet of pink flowers.

Seeing me, Celia drops her cigarette and crushes it with her boot heel, then raises her arm in a silent salute. It is still a shock to see the bobbed black hair framing her pale skin and even features. Beneath her denim jacket she wears my Green Bay Packers sweatshirt, borrowed from my suitcase.

My heart pounds as I rush toward her, my feet turning up clumps of damp dark soil. "Celia," I pant when I reach her. "What did you mean when you said you were guilty of enough other things?"

She ducks back into the doorway, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"Last night." I gulp for air, bending at the waist. "When I told you about Callaway and the photos. You said you never took payoffs from Gregorovich, but you were guilty of enough other things. What other things?"

She stiffens, jutting out her chin. "Dayle, what the h.e.l.l is going on?"

Catching my breath, I speak more slowly. "Celia-I need to know. What else have you done?"

She folds her arms. "Nothing audacious. Just bent a few rules."

I turn, glance over my shoulder, then look past Celia, past the dark doorways that stare out like hollow eyes from the curved circle of tombs. "I need specifics," I insist.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. Let's see-crossed into Ukraine on forged papers when I couldn't get a transit visa. Sold a blood diamond and gave the proceeds to a clinic in Sierra Leone. Slashed the tires on a van meant to traffic underage girls from Ma.r.s.eille to Rotterdam. Shook hands with evil people and told myself it was for a greater good." Her face softens. "But I'm done with all that, Dayle. I want a fresh start. I want to feel clean again. There are other ways to be of use in this world." She pauses. "Now tell me what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"I believe Callaway is working with Gregorovich and they want you out of the way."

She inhales sharply. "What?"

"There's no time to explain. We've got to get you out of England."

I motion her away from the tomb's entrance but she stands her ground. "How?" she demands.

"By exchanging ident.i.ties. I'll be you and you'll be me."

She shakes her head so rapidly the blunt black ends of her hair strike her cheek. "You can't be serious."

"I am. With your hair cut and colored, we look enough alike, at least from a distance, to pull it off. You'll take my flight to Chicago as Dayle Salvesen and I'll be Cecelia Frost for as long as possible." I slip the backpack from my shoulder and push it toward her. "Take this. Inside are my pa.s.sport, driver's license, credit cards, cash, and the details for an e-ticket to Chicago. British Airways Flight 1544 out of Heathrow, leaving at twelve fifty. Be on that flight."

"But-"

"When you land at O'Hare, take a cab to my condo. The address is on my driver's license. I'll get a message to Mom, letting her know what's happened. She'll help you get settled until I get back."

"But the police will realize rather quickly you're not me," she argues.

"I know. I just want to buy enough time for you to catch that flight. We don't know what kind of false evidence Callaway might have. She may have convinced others that you're working with the traffickers. If you're here, you're in danger."

"But you're in danger too."

"Not as much as you are." I force a wry smile. "Besides-think how cool this will sound in the next a.s.signment novel." I fight my arms out of my jacket and motion for Celia to do the same. I struggle into her faded denim jacket while she slips on my green London Fog.

"Okay," I say, breathless. "One last thing."

"What?"

"This." I hold out my plaster cast and grasp it with my other hand.

Celia gasps. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" Her face pales as she steps back in horror.

"You've got to help me. Please, Celia. It's the only way."

Chapter Twenty-one.

Thursday 9:15 a.m.

I bear down and pull. The pain is so intense, I feel nauseous. "Help me, Celia," I plead. "If my arm swells, the cast'll never come off."

I motion for her to grab hold above my knuckles while I push from below. "Okay," I say when we're both latched on tightly. "On three. Ready?"

She nods, looking queasy.

"Okay. One, two, three!" I push while she pulls. After several agonizing seconds of stubborn resistance, the cast releases and I stumble backward, blinded by pain. My broken hand feels electrified, as if I've plunged it into a bucket of stars.