Читать книгу Vestavia Hills - Christian Perego - Страница 6

Vestavia Hills, 1859

Nicholas Abbot opened his eyes. It was Tuesday morning. The scent of wood filled the room up.

He lived in a not very large but well-kept house, which his wife appreciated for its quietness.

A slight sticky feeling bound his tongue to the palate. He didn't know what could have been the cause.

The night before, he had gone to bed early enough and slept with a dreamless, deep, but strangely restless sleep.

It must not have been that early, judging by the light that entered the room through the door, which his wife, who had already got up, had left open.

Nicholas staggered in the day room, searching for his wife with bleary eyes.

"Good morning to my dormouse!" Anna greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, what time is it?" Nicholas asked, his voice strangely clear and not pasty.

"It was time to wake up!"

Annabeth was particularly cheerful that morning, and that already set the right tone for the day. The disagreements between them a few months ago seemed to be going away gradually.

Nicholas loved her: he liked everything about her, mainly how she tolerated him and how she knew how to be sweet and attentive. He was delighted with her cheerfulness, which was always ready on every occasion. Even though it had been tough for them the previous year, he never stopped experiencing these feelings.

They had been married for four years and had not been able to have children yet, but they didn't let it be an issue, even if it wasn't a comfortable situation.

Nicholas Abbot was a detective. He tried to give a name and an explanation to the tragedies that occurred daily in Vestavia Hills like in the county as in every part of Alabama.

Annabeth had never particularly loved her husband's career: Nick had to deal daily with violence and with people who were indeed not the cream of society. Nevertheless, over the years, she had become used to it: she had never intended to question the profession that her husband loved so much.

After all, nothing serious had ever happened to him in so many years. Not that Nick hadn't been in potentially dangerous situations, but he was cautious enough and very smart. Moreover, his colleagues had always given him a big hand.

"Honey, can we throw this newspaper away?" Anna said, picking up a newspaper that was on the kitchen table.

"What? Oh, no, wait, leave it there. "

"But it's two days old, what are you doing with it? Maybe it there was at least something interesting in it."

Nicholas did not reply. Instead, he asked for breakfast.

The newspaper reported the news of a child found dead not far from Church Yard. The misfortune had affected everyone in the community. The monster's hunting had already begun, but there were those who, as the article said, hypothesized an accidental death.

Reading that article, which in reality did not report anything other than the usual general journalistic information, Nick felt troubled and almost morbidly intrigued. That's why he hadn't thrown the newspaper away yet.

In the last few weeks, other tragedies like that happened, like a kind of god of violence had taken over the people of Vestavia Hills and the county. People seemed to have gotten wicked.

Perhaps, however, it was only his impression: in the months and years before, there had always been misfortunes, either related or not to violence.

However, Nick continued to feel stirred inside.

He picked up the newspaper again, and while drinking his cold milk and eating Anna's cake, he meticulously observed it again, as hypnotized by the page that reported the events of the tragedy.

In the afternoon, Nick greeted his wife with a kiss and began to leave the house; he had decided to go by the police headquarters, despite not being on duty.

"Be careful," she said, as she did every time, even if he had to go buy milk.

The dusty road reflected all the yellow of the sunlight: it didn't look like a day made for the bad news.

Once he arrived, Nick found the familiar smell of tobacco and the usual intense activity to welcome him.

"Abbot! What are you doing here?" said Philip Torrent, one of his roughest colleagues.

"I couldn't stand a day without seeing you, Phil!"

In response, Torrent let out a husky laugh and exposed his partially broken teeth.

His friend Jack said to him, "Since you've come by, Nick, I'll send you to the captain right away. He has been harassing me all morning by saying that he wants to talk to you. Even if you're not on duty. "

"Okay, Jack, thanks. I'll go straight away," said Nicholas.

Instead, he first went to check some files, which was why he had gone there.

He searched through the mess that was around and found what he was looking for: some information about the latest deaths reported by the county newspaper.

Was there something that tied everything? Nicholas thought so he could feel it.

He wanted to make sure he had read all the details that the command recovery officer had gathered and shown him not long ago.

Once he did that, he went to the boss's office.

Mr. Flitter was the worst you could wish for: quick-tempered and moody, and he also had heavy breath. However, he was a good cop.

"Abbot! Just looking for you. "

"Captain."

"Now, I want you to explain to me why you didn't tell me anything about the interrogations you did last week. I thought I was clear. "

Nicholas could have justified himself in some way, but he knew it would only make the situation worse. Therefore, he kept quiet and let the reprimand pass.

"All the information needs to go by me," Flitter yelled, "especially the ones about an investigation that I wanted."

Flitter stopped without speaking any more: with that tone, he had made things clearer than he would have done by spending more time talking.

Nick said, "Of course, sir. My mistake. I'll report back tomorrow when I'm back on duty. "Then he added hurriedly," I want to ask you to deal with a case. "

Flitter blinked as if he had been annoyed by a bug: "What?!"

"I want to investigate the boy found dead."

"Wolf is already working on that."

"And the latest alleged cases of violence in the county," Nick continued as if he had not heard Flitter's statement.

"I said Wolf is already working on that case."

Nick insisted: "I want to investigate, even privately. I promise you that I will not take time away from my other duties; you should reduce them a little. "He concluded like that with a smartass look on his face.

The two looked at each other for a few long seconds.

Then the captain said, "To hell with it. I know that even if I didn't permit you, you would do it anyway. Also, Wolf just let us know that he is not well and won't be for a few days, that bastard."

Getting some of the other idiots out there to do his job means wasting time." Finally, he added authoritatively: "But you will have to report everything to Wolf and me when he returns. Understand?"

"Understood," Nick said and then slipped out of the office. After all, Flitter was a good cop.

He decided to keep the half-day he had off and spend some time with Anna: before facing death and violence again, he needed something beautiful that would show him what else life can reserve.

The next morning he woke up early, even before his wife. He went out to scout the city.

He would begin to visit all the public businesses once again: the shopkeepers were good informants, even involuntary; thanks to all the people they met each day, and those they could notice walking up and down the street. Never underestimate the disconnected look of a butchery owner who observes what people, who walk past him, do and how they behave.

As soon as Nick found himself on the main road of Vestavia Hills, he felt it wasn't going to be a day like any other at all.

There was incredible fibrillation in the air, a palpable heaviness as if someone had spread a wet blanket over the shoulders of the whole town.

It did not take him long to understand why people exchanged inquisitive looks and had a sort of interest that one noticed as soon as one set foot on the street.

Once around the corner of Hickory Road, Nicholas saw in the distance, towards Church Yard, a column of black smoke that had nothing reassuring.

He quickened his pace. Then he decided to let go of all restraint and started running.

Once there, he found several people still staring astonished at the burning rubble. Several small groups had formed throughout the Church Yard: people talked to each other to give themselves the courage and try to understand what had happened, but without raising their voices, as you do at a man's deathbed.

The burning building was the church. The fire must have developed very early in the morning, and the fact that the construction was slightly away from all the houses had perhaps contributed to delaying the alarm.

Then action was taken, probably with a human chain, to try to put out the flames using buckets of water.

Flames had burnt more than half of the church, and the embers were still hot and kept under control by a group of citizens. The vicarage wasn't too damaged, although the part closest to the church had the signs of the flames, similar to enormous dark fingers that stretched to grasp it.

Nicholas was surprised that he didn't realize something was going on, but probably the wind blew in the opposite direction to his house, so neither the smoke nor the screams of fear had reached it. Also, his home was on the other side of Vestavia in respect to the church, and that agitation around it left no traces in his neighbourhood.

However, the first thing that occurred to him was to ask the first person within range, "Didn't the fire bell ring?" the sound of that would have reached his home as well.

"No," said the man, "I don't think they played it because a lot of people started running right away, and they started throwing water buckets."

Safety practice, however, should not have been ignored: ringing a fire bell was a matter of common sense.

"It was tampered with," said a man with a beard, who had inadvertently heard the conversation between Nicholas and the other man.

"How?" Nick said with an already challenging look.

"This is what I heard: they immediately took action to put out the fire, and someone went to ring the fire bell, but they were left with the rope between their hands and the bell off from the turret and chipped."

"Are you sure?"

"Hey, that's what I heard, I'm not a firefighter."

Nick was already lost in a thousand thoughts.

It made no sense to destroy the fire alarm, even for a criminal town.

The spreading of the flames would have damaged himself, his eventual home or those he could aim to rob; not to mention the cultivated fields that were located just outside the town, just behind and not far from the church, which was a source of sustenance for thieves and criminals as well. Maybe it could have been the act of a deranged man who doesn't even have any survival instinct. Or perhaps a firefighter himself, unstable or vindictive?

A thousand hypotheses could be made. But for a crime, you always need a motive, and who could have something against the Reverend? What did he hope to achieve? It had to be for revenge: what interests could a humble person like a shepherd have affected?

Nick didn't like to attend church very much and only sporadically had he been dragged to the service by Annabeth's persistence; however, he knew the Reverend, and he could not believe any revenge against him.

The obvious next thing to do now was to look for who had experienced the fire firsthand: the Reverend Johnatan Abblepot himself.

By the way: why hadn't he given the alarm immediately? Why wasn't he in the square gathering at least the signs of solidarity of his congregation? Was he dead trying to fight the fire himself?

Nicholas cursed himself for his curiosity of an unmarried woman who had fixed him to a thousand assumptions without having taken a step, and for wasting time with those men in the square as if he was an ordinary passerby.

He made his way through the crowd, asking if they had seen the Reverend. But they all said no.

He continued to go further, and, as soon as he was near the fence that surrounded the lawn of the church, he could still feel the terrible heat that sprang from the damage of the fire even though it had been extinguished.

The planks of the fence were still white, and contrasted with the black remains, as if they were a crooked and mocking smile towards the tragedy that had happened.

"I'm police officer Nicholas Abbot, and I want to speak to Reverend Abblepot right away," Nick said to the first fire officer he met.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know where he is," replied guiltily.

"He is not here?!" Nick yelled

"No, sir, I mean that the Reverend is not here. We couldn't find him in the vicarage. Nor in the surroundings. And believe me, I was one of the first ones to arrive. "

The news did not immediately breach, as it should have in Nicholas' mind, still affected by recent events.

But when he rationalized it, the news hit him like a punch.

He said in a calmer but still tense voice: "Are you telling me that Johnathan Abblepot was not at home last night and still hasn't shown up?"

The firefighter replied, emphasizing the words: "I cannot know, sir, if the Reverend was not at home last night. I'm just saying that when we ran to the vicarage to wake him up, in case he slept through that hell nearby, he wasn't there. And even now in the surrounding area, no one has seen him. "Now, it was the man who was indisposed by Nick's attitude.

Nick understood that the information that the firefighter could give him would not go far beyond what he had already heard.

Nicholas managed to approach some other people, finding out that there was no sign of Reverend Abblepot.

"My son told me he saw him on the church lawn two days ago."

"I went to church to pray, but he wasn't there. I thought I saw his shadow in the window, but not him in person. "

"I even looked for him at his house. I knocked at the door three times: nobody answered. "

Everyone had their own story to tell, but in none of them, there was a hint of where the Reverend was. It seemed that they hadn't seen him for at least a couple of days.

Nick had to make a decision: to either carry on working on the boy's death case, or to continue investigating the mysterious church fire, and the disappearance of Johnathan Abblepot.

He knew he couldn't ignore what happened at Church Yard, and hoped he could reconcile the two. He had to find out more about the Reverend's disappearance, and what was behind the burning of his parish.

Once back home, there was no need for Nicholas to explain to Anna what had happened in town. The news went round fast.

Annabeth knew Reverend Abblepot.

Religion was a serious matter to her: she had talked to the Reverend several times, and she liked him.

“My God, Nick. Something bad has surely happened to him. But who could have wanted such a thing?! Destroy the church!”

Her husband replied as if he were already writing notes for the investigation: "It is certain that the two events are connected. But we don't know what did happen, or didn't, to Reverend Abblepot."

"Do you mean he could have set the church on fire!"

"I'm not saying that, how can you think that? However, for now Abblepot is a missing man. There seems to be no evidence that anyone has hurt him or made him disappear. To tell the truth there doesn't seem to be any proof of anything, not even that there is someone behind this incident. "

"If no one is responsible, what else could have happened? Did the church catch on fire due to terrible bad luck, and the fire bell fell from the column by itself? Did the Reverend, frightened by a possible accusation, want to escape? Which of these theories seems credible to you?! "

"Calm down, Anna, you're taking this too personally. I also believe that the recent disappearances and deaths around here are related to what happened last night. I have already spoken to the station: we will deal with this matter. I will deal with this. "

Anna clutched a tea towel in her hands and gathered thoughts by rocking her head slightly.

She said, "Nick, there is something strange about this. There is something wrong; I would never want something like that happening here in Vestavia, in our town. "

Nick looked at her full of kindness, but he could not remain silent about his frustration: "Anna, bad and wicked things happen in every city of America."

"I feel there is something different in this case. I think something disturbing. I don't know ... don't ask me why, but it's like that. "

Nick preferred not to insist further, given his wife's nerves. Annabeth was particularly shaken by the incident, even if he didn't know why.

She needed to feel him close.

He went to her and hugged her. Then he kissed her on the forehead and went outside.

He had work to do.

He walked high and low all the main roads in town, asking questions to many people; in some cases, he asked the same people twice a short time later, the ones who didn't convince him, to catch possible contradictions.

He looked at the site of the fire for a long time.

He filled several sheets with all the notes, the hypotheses, the thoughts that rioted inside him.

Yet even after all this intense activity, the sunset came without Nicholas Abbot being any closer to a lead.

He stopped for a drink before going back home, to gather his thoughts, or perhaps calm them down. He needed something strong.

Upon entering the bar, he noticed that a person was watching him. Then, when he had taken a more decisive step towards the front door, she withdrew, as if she wanted to approach him but not at that moment.

His tense nerves most likely made him see more oddities than there were. Therefore, he decided to silence the nerves and not give too much weight to the last impressions of a very long day.

When he went out into the street, without having shaken off that feeling of having made some mistakes, the figure waiting for him was still there, she had just changed place, but not the intention of approaching him, it seemed.

Nick became self-defensive, subtly tensing his muscles, ready to sprint. However, he soon realized that there would be no reason for it.

The person in front of him, now he saw her well, was an older woman, submissive, who certainly could not have caused him any concern.

"Inspector Abbot," said the woman.

Nick looked carefully at the figure before him. A crooked smile formed on his face.

"It's me, detective, Evelyn Archer."

The lampposts on the main street were already emanating their amber light, which seemed to wrap everything up. It was as if all Vestavia Hills was sinking into see-through molasses: people and buildings could still be seen, but everything had a sticky slowness on it. People seemed to move in slow motion. Things showed as a slowed downtime, not at their usual pace.

The town's colours seemed to merge, one moment they look like was chalk on a blackboard, the next moment they were exchanging places in strange combinations. A woman passing by had the skin the same colour as the moon and the hair like the nearby bush. A passing horse, on the other hand, was tinged with the bluish colour of the furthest areas of the street, where the street lamp's lights did not reach; while the buggy that the animal was pulling and the man who drove it had the colours of the blood of the pieces of meat exposed by the butcher.

Even the dimensions of objects and the world were assuming unstable and indefinite states. The outlines of things were fraying as if they came out wrong on a painting. Roundness and edges exchanged places: moreover, they first got bigger and then smaller, without any logic.

Yes, logic: every perception had lost its own, and it did not seem possible to determine which the right one for the world was.

The music spread everywhere from far away but contaminated by a background sound that seemed to contain many overlapping voices. This cacophony had something disturbing about it, as much as fascinating the mystery of its origin was. It appeared to be underwater, and those sounds had the touching indefinability of the wind when it whistles in the mountains.

Nicholas Abbot was a dot in that washed-out design of the world, firm in his position similar to a statue poorly made. Yet, with his head anxiously trying to interpret what he thought he was feeling, and throbbed slightly, perhaps for the drink he just had, probably for the unreality of what he deciphered.

An instant.

Maybe much more.

The blink of an eye. Or the prolongation of a moment, as it can only happen in eternity.

Then Nick recovered from that strange daydream, without knowing how long it lasted.

In front of him, there was still that modest and innocent figure, this time in its natural contours and colors, of Evelyn Archer.

"How can I help you?" Nick seemed to have regained his full presence of spirit, so he was able to resume the thread of the conversation.

Evelyn said to him, "I know you can investigate the church fire and the disappearance of Reverend Abblepot."

Nicholas didn't reply, but his demeanor made the woman understand that he was interested in letting her go on, so she continued: "I knew Johnathan Abblepot, like everyone else. But in so many ways, more than any person you can contact. "

The way Evelyn Archer spoke was convincing, not dragged, but sure and severe, Nick thought; it was the tone of someone who is not making anything up, and who is risking something in revealing what she is saying.

"If you want to know what happened to him, let me tell you, I do too. I need to know. And maybe I have something to say to you that will help both of us. "

This time the blink of an eye was real, and it was Nicholas': it was the time it took him to make the decision.

"Okay," he said, "I'll listen to you."