Protective Hearts

Chapter 6

Chapter 6It took a few days to find a degree of comfort in my new surroundings. For the first three days, I remained firmly entrenched inside the house, the security system armed except when I let Rebel out for the call of nature. The wolf seemed sensitive to my unease, slipping out the door and reappearing within seconds. Paranoia was a constant companion and when I did unlock the door, I had a sizeable kitchen knife clutched in my fist while I waited anxiously for Rebel. It was nearly ten weeks since my rescue and for the first time I was truly alone and finding it difficult to adjust.

Nighttime was worse. I lay in bed, after double-checking every door and window, constantly second-guessing myself. The creaks and groans that emitted from the old house left me constantly wary. Every tiny noise woke me, leading to another inspection through the house, rechecking security.

By the fourth day, the situation was untenable. After a third sleepless night, I marched downstairs, determined to locate every strange sound and identify it. At least that way, I might get some sleep.

I sat in the living room, listening to every creak and groan from the old house. One noise, which had regularly bothered me, turned out to be an old sycamore tree, whose branches scratched against the dining room window. Other noises were equally insignificant; a shutter blowing in the breeze, a piece of loose cladding which flapped on the balcony, a rattling board on the porch.

By noon, I had a handle on every noise I could distinguish and felt more secure. Rebel had patiently trailed around the house with me during this little exercise, c*****g his head to one side as though he was listening to the noises, too.

Having solved one problem and feeling triumphant, I decided to drive into Rockport for supplies. Ash had brought groceries when we arrived, but I was running low on milk and wanted to see if there was somewhere to buy clay. Shelby had brought my sculpting tools from Chicago and with little to fill my time; I longed to do something creative.

Rebel followed me outside and watched as I locked the door, hearing the reassuring beep that signaled the alarm was armed. “Go for a run while I'm gone,” I offered, unlocking the car. “You've been cooped up for days.”

I pulled open the door and blinked in surprise when Rebel leapt inside the car, settling in the passenger seat. “Rebel! Get out of there right now!” I demanded.

Rebel sat with his tongue lolling out, watching me with interest.

“Rebel!” With hands on my hips, I stared him down, but it was fruitless. He wasn't getting out of the car and I wasn't confident enough to drag him. Reaching a stalemate, I backed down and clambered in next to him. “Fine, you win. But don't think you're getting out in Rockport. You're gonna sit in the car and wait while I go into the store. Is that clear?”

Rebel barked and I assumed he was in agreement with my terms. At least, I hoped he was. A wolf was intimidating – one walking through the streets of Rockport would garner attention I didn't need.

The drive to Rockport wasn't far – from Ash's house it was barely twenty minutes, the road winding along the coastline. Rockport itself was an attractive town, with a population of six thousand, the architecture in keeping with the state's long history.

It was easy to find a market and enquiries with the checkout clerk led me to a little craft store, which stocked modeling clay. The owner, a woman in her early fifties with long blond hair, was very helpful. Although she only had a small amount of modeling clay on hand, she offered to order some, which would arrive in two or three days. Thanking her, I stayed to chat for a few minutes before heading back to the car with my purchases.

Rebel had done as requested and sat in the car while I shopped, a feat I found remarkable. Though I doubted he understood English, the wolf was obviously intelligent and had an uncanny ability to comprehend what I wanted.

When we arrived at the house, Rebel ran to the door and barked noisily as I made my way up the steps. I eyed the door cautiously – could someone have broken in while I was gone? Shaking my head, I looked down at Rebel. “I'm sure it's fine,” I announced, not sure if I was reassuring him, or myself.

Rebel zipped into the house as soon as I unlocked the door. While I punched in the alarm code, he ran from room to room, sniffing the wooden floors. When I walked to the kitchen, Rebel had already completed his perusal of the house and returned to my side.

“No problems?” I said, grinning at the absurdity of the question. Rebel barked once, and I shook my head, convinced I was crazy. The wolf couldn't possibly understand what I was saying; the very idea was ridiculous.

I put away the groceries and poured a coffee, sipping it while I contemplated the best place to work. Deciding on the sunroom, I got busy setting up a workplace. The area was virtually empty and would be easy to clean up when I went home to Chicago. I sighed as I dragged an old wooden table over to the window, wondering if I would ever get to go home. Adding a stool from the breakfast bar completed the work area and I started on a new piece, everything else forgotten as I molded the clay.

Sculpting was an occupation I adored and each piece I created was utterly unique. Working with a lump of clay, shaping and molding, was a passion I couldn't deny. My forte was creatures of fable – fairies and elves, gnomes and the like. Each one was designed individually; fairies with delicate gossamer wings, gnomes with twisted little faces and cheeky grins, elves sitting on toadstools and peeking out from tree stumps. I never started with a plan – they seemed to appear magically beneath my fingers as I worked.

The first few years had been tough; I'd started at Mom's house, making sculptures and selling them at local markets. The memory made me smile; Mom had provided so much encouragement for me to follow my dreams. She'd accepted my decision to drop out of college at nineteen and supported me financially for three years, as I struggled to establish myself. It was a harsh path to follow, I was making little money, and frustrated by the little progress I made. Through every difficult moment, Mom and Bryan supported me unconditionally, Bryan often slipping fifty bucks in my hand when he hugged me goodbye after a visit.

With perseverance and pig-headed determination, I started to make a name for myself. Nearly two years ago, I'd come to the attention of John De Arracheur, a prominent New York art dealer, and I began to achieve some real success. Middle aged, distinguished, and intensely private, John stumbled onto my work at a craft fair, spending a good hour studying my pieces. He introduced himself and handed me a business card, requesting I give him a call later that week.

John's attention was the beginning of my career taking off. He kindly introduced my work to an upscale storeowner, who agreed to take a couple of pieces on a trial basis. When they were snapped up within days, for ridiculous amounts of money, the orders began flowing in. I'd discovered a niche market, where my pieces were treasured by collectors and new releases eagerly pounced on. The store even had a waiting list, collectors who wanted a Finnola O'Flaherty original. My sculptures were one of a kind, handcrafted and completely unique, and I'd become a success. 'Finnola's Fripperies' had taken off in ways I couldn't have imagined and I was incredibly grateful, because success had come before Mom's hellish descent into the ravaging effects of Early Onset Alzheimer's. She'd been able to savor my achievements with me – for the first year or so at least.

Having made a good start on the sculpture, I wiped my hands on a rag and stood back to admire my work. The expressive eyes of a woodland nymph stared back at me from a little rounded face, a tiny upturned nose giving her a beguiling look.

I flipped the light switch in the kitchen, realizing I'd worked into the early evening and thoroughly enjoyed it. For the first time in three days, security hadn't been uppermost in my thoughts and I poured a glass of red wine to celebrate. Rebel gazed at me mournfully, plainly indicating it was well past his dinnertime.

Reaching into the refrigerator, I pulled out the meat I'd set out to defrost earlier. Shep insisted Rebel wouldn't eat dog food, much preferring cuts of raw beef and the wolf did look happy when I presented it to him a few minutes later. I scratched the top of his head as he ate, apparently ravenous.

“Hmmm, shouldn't leave you waiting so long for dinner,” I suggested, figuring it probably wasn't a bright idea to let a wolf get too hungry. Despite how domesticated he appeared, he was a wild animal and might search for alternative options if a meal wasn't forthcoming when he expected it.

Perusing my own mealtime options, I found a steak and defrosted it in the microwave while I prepared some vegetables, humming softly to myself.

The ringing cell phone made me jump and I checked the caller ID before picking it up. “Hi Ash.”

“Hey Finn.” Ash sounded tired and I detected tension in his voice.

“Bad day?”

“No, it's been okay.” He paused for a second and I knew instinctively, he had some bad news. “Listen, Finn. I need to check out Bryan's apartment again. I wanted to give you a heads up beforehand.”

I put the knife down on the bench, biting my bottom lip. Bryan's apartment had been searched after his death, looking for clues as to how he'd located the cave the Ripper used. Ash had hoped some tangible evidence would turn up, but the search had proven fruitless. “What's up?”

Ash exhaled heavily. “Finn, there's no easy way to tell you this… we're investigating Bryan.”

“What?”

Ash cursed. “My superiors have the idea in their heads that Bryan was the Ripper.”

I slumped against the bench, unable to believe what I was hearing.

“Finn, are you still there?”

“Yeah.” My head span and the pit of my stomach was queasy.

Ash spoke rapidly. “I don't believe it for a minute, Finn. But there hasn't been another victim since your abduction.”

“The Ripper hasn't taken anyone since me. So what? Why would they assume that pointed to Bryan?” I reached for the bottle of wine, poured another generous measure into my glass.

“They're clutching at f*****g straws, that's why,” Ash erupted bitterly. “Trying to make Bryan into the patsy, close the case, and get the Mayor off our backs.”

I gulped down the wine, beginning to comprehend what Ash was implying. When I spoke, my voice wavered. “He was my brother, Ash.”

“I know that, Finn.” Ash's voice was raw with emotion.

“I was raped.” Squeezing my eyes shut, revulsion crawled over my skin. “Are they suggesting Bryan did that? My own brother? They think he r***d me?”

Ash cursed. “I know it's not true, Finn. You know it's not true. s**t, they bring in a top profiler and his entire goddamn report suggests we're looking for someone who's nothing like Bryan. Despite that, they're questioning how Bryan knew where to find you, when we haven't found a shred of evidence which could have led him to the Ripper.”

Swallowing back bile, I poured a third glass of wine, trying to steady my nerves. “So the scenario is—”

Ash's voice was edgy when he spoke, his anger barely controlled. “Bryan was the Ripper all along. The stresses of working undercover for so long got to him and he lost the plot. They still believe you were pinpointed at the Priest and Hooker party. The top brass think Bryan saw you dressed as a hooker, made you the next victim. He only marked you once, because he was guilt-ridden over his actions. Called the cops to tell them where you were being held, and then shot himself in remorse.”

“That's bullshit!” I shrieked. “Complete and utter crap! Bryan would never do that to any woman, least of all me!”

“I know, I know,” Ash soothed. “I'll get it cleared up, Finn. I give you my word.”

Blinking away tears, I stared blankly out of the darkened window, trying to comprehend how this had happened. Who could possibly believe Bryan would do this? A crime so heinous, so brutal – it wasn't possible for Bryan to do it. And what they thought Bryan had done to me – it was unimaginable.

“I have to go, Ash,” I whispered into the phone. “I can't… I don't… I have to hang up now.”

The emotion was raw in Ash's voice. “I'm so sorry, Finn. I thought you should know. I'll ring you in the morning.”

“Sure. Okay.”

Disconnecting the call, I dropped the cell phone onto the bench top. Discarding dinner preparations, I picked up the glass and the bottle of wine and wandered slowly through the house.