Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Nora turned her attention to the barn in front of her and crawled forward, keeping as low in the grass as she possibly could. The trees along the drive were between her and the sun, casting streaks of deep shadow across the field, and she was grateful for that. Still, she had to be very careful. Ten feet…fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…thirty. Here she was. She slithered around the corner to the back of the barn and stood up, brushing dried blades from her black jacket and slacks, listening. The distant voices continued, laughing and joking; she hadn’t been detected. So far, so good.

She ran down the narrow alley behind the building, the wall on her left and the trees on her right. The barn soon ended and the stables began. This structure was longer than she’d expected, but she moved swiftly, hoping there’d be an entrance somewhere at the far end.

She stopped at the corner and peered cautiously around it, toward the drive. There was a side door here, the only opening in this wall, and another split-rail fence was attached to the front corner. The fence continued away down the drive to the wrought-iron gates at the main road, some twenty yards away. Nora went around to the door, assessing the landscape over her shoulder as she moved.

Yes, the trees were thick on this side of the fence, and they continued all the way to the front edge of the property, beside the gates. A red brick wall extended out from the gates in both directions, but it was only about six feet high. If Jeff was able to move or be moved, they could come out this door, through those trees, over the wall, and be standing in the main road in a matter of minutes. Then a quick run along the road to the forest at the other side of the property and into the trees where the Ford Focus was parked. Craig Elder had pocketed the keys, but Jeffrey Baron could start any engine on earth, keys or no keys. Even now, at this desperate juncture, Nora smiled at the thought of her husband in the “electronics business.”

Please, God, she thought. Please let him be alive…

She looked through the trees at the brick wall a mere twenty yards away. The world was beyond that wall, and it was going on as usual, unaware of the activities here, activities that would seriously threaten its well-being. Cars came along that road frequently, and there were other farms nearby. Should she run for it now, flag down a car or find a farmhouse, call the police? They could be here in-how much time? This wasn’t London; it was a sleepy village in Norfolk. The town constable, or whatever, wouldn’t be enough to stop these people, and the regional police would be farther away. King’s Lynn, probably. It was too far, and there wasn’t time. No, she had no options; there was only one course of action.

She tore her gaze from the view, noting the sudden pall. Deep shadows had arrived on the sunny grounds of the farm, and there was a new chill in the air. She looked up to see that the sky was now filled with black clouds. More rain was on the way. She wasn’t exactly surprised; this was England, after all.

Then she noticed the stable door. She hadn’t seen it clearly from the corner of the building, but now she was mere inches in front of it, and she could see that something was wrong. It was standing slightly ajar, and there was an empty, round hole in the wood where the handle had been. Looking down, she saw the brass doorknob glinting in the grass by the fence. Someone had forced this door, and very recently.

Bracing herself for whatever was on the other side of it, Nora cautiously pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was dark in the stable, but there were windows, a row of square openings flanking the big double doors in the wall to her right, facing the drive. To her left were the stalls, six of them, with enough room in each for two animals. There were no horses now, of course, but the faint, sweet scent of them lingered. She moved slowly, silently forward down the corridor in front of the stalls until she reached the far end, where two open areas had served as a smithy and a tack room. She saw a black iron anvil mounted on a table beside a potbelly stove, and rows of empty pegs along one wall that had once held reins and bridles. Discarded burlap feed bags were piled in one corner. There was a walled-off space at the end of the stall side, and its shut door had the words THE GROOM ROOM crudely scrawled across it in white paint.

The archway before her led directly into the barn. She stood under the arch, peering into the enormous space. It was two stories high, with a hayloft suspended ten feet above the floor on the opposite side from her. Big bales of straw were stacked in the loft, and the rustling sound she heard from there informed her that rats or mice had made this place their home. Otherwise, the barn was empty.

Almost empty. Several large wooden crates were stacked near the front doors, which were closed and padlocked. She counted the boxes: eight. Four for each truck, she decided, because it was obvious to her that these crates held the goods that had just been sold. She wondered, briefly, what was inside them. Then she swept every inch of the cavernous place with her gaze. She thought, Where the hell is he…?

She turned around and studied the only enclosed space in the entire complex: THE GROOM ROOM. Her husband must be in there, beyond that door, but she didn’t rush forward to fling it open. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out the LadySmith revolver. It was empty, useless, but the person or people guarding him wouldn’t know that. And they would definitely be armed.

Holding the gun out in front of her, she went over to the door and gently pushed it open. Nothing-no sudden shout or swift movement. It was very dark in here, and she had to pause a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When she could see, she held back a cry.

There were two cots in the room, one against each wall, and both of them were occupied. Jeff lay on the one to her left, covered with a plain brown blanket, his eyes shut as though in sleep. She took a step forward, just to be sure: Yes, it was definitely her husband, and she fought down a nearly overwhelming urge to rush to him. Tearing her gaze from his ashen face, she walked directly over to the other cot and pressed the tip of her revolver against the temple of the bearded young man lying there.

Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Nora leaned down, peering closer, slowly lowering her weapon and dropping it into her bag. This man was dead, eyes wide open, his head lying at an impossible angle on the pillow. Someone had broken his neck, placed him on the cot, and covered him with a blanket. She touched his cheek: warm. He’d died recently, very recently.

Now she turned to the other cot. She sank to her knees, staring at her husband, sheer dread rising up in her chest. His face was a mass of dark bruises and dried cuts under a five-day growth of beard. She gently touched his pale cheek, noting the warmth. The intense warmth-a fever. He was alive.

Uttering a soft moan, she threw herself across his chest, weeping. His eyes opened, and he weakly raised one hand to grasp her shoulder, pulling her head toward his face. She kissed his lips, and he groaned. His lips moved with no sound, so she carefully pressed her ear against them.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “Hide. Loft.” He winced, drew in a breath, and added, “ Now . They’re coming!”

Nora straightened up and looked down at him. His head fell back against the pillow, but he continued to watch her, the urgency clear in his dark eyes. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave him here.

“They have the manila envelope,” she said. “Bill and that son of a bitch Craig Elder. I swear, I’d like to-”