Chapter 7: The Blade

Tuesday, 31 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

It wasn’t often that Rebecca could free herself early enough in the day to surprise Wesley with dinner. Lately, though, with Wesley spending his afternoons in the library, she had found time to indulge her culinary whims before he got home. This afternoon, the first time this week, she had stopped at the city market and purchased a rack of ribs, smiling at her own extravagance. When Wesley got home he would be greeted by the smell of barbecue sauce. They would still have a good bit of the evening together before she retired to her own apartment. Time together was precious.

As usual, the kitchen door was unlocked and she dropped the groceries on the table. They would have to get new locks and keys for the doors before they left on their summer trips. The student they had found to housesit for the summer would need a secure place. Rebecca couldn’t remember a time when she had ever found the door to Wesley’s house locked. She put on an apron and set about preparing dinner.

As if in response to her daydreams, she heard steps in the study upstairs and a loud thump. Odd, she thought. He shouldn’t be home yet. Who is surprising whom?

“Wesley,” she called from the foot of the stairs. “Wesley, I’m here.” There was no answer nor any other sound. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. He wouldn’t normally be home at this hour. Then fearing that she may have heard him falling, she ran up the stairs to his study and through the door.

Before she could react to the chaos in the room or her own foolishness in rushing in, a hand grabbed her from behind and clamped down hard across her mouth. She raised an arm instinctively to drive her elbow into the attacker but stopped short as she felt the point of a knife poised beneath her left breast.

“Now keep quiet and don’t turn your head. No sense losing your life over a messy room. Besides, most of the mess is his own, Miss Hart. If I were you, I’d marry someone with better personal habits.” His voice had a British accent. Maybe Scottish. The hand on her mouth released its pressure gradually but the knife pressed threateningly against her ribs.

“What do you want and how did you know my name?” Rebecca asked with her arm still upraised.

“It’s a matter of public record. I try to know everyone the old man knows. Traveling to Scotland this summer, are you?”

“That’s not public record.”

The man carefully straightened her arm down by her side and began lightly stroking it.

“There now, that’s better. No, it’s in your boyfriend’s notes from your meetings with Heinrich. He keeps very thorough notes. Mrs. Weed is supposed to look you up. She’s a witch, you know.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” Rebecca was near panic. What else might Wesley have written in his notes?

“I just want the code. The rest of it. I want the pages that your fiancé stole from the library before I got there. Did he give them to Heinrich?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What code?” If she survived, there were things Doc and Margaret would want to know. To her surprise, her attacker did not take the bait.

“No, you wouldn’t know, would you? You have your own studies to take care of. Dabble a bit in the black arts? A little kitchen magic? Come now, you can confess to your kindly gatekeeper.”

“What gatekeeper?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s just say I’m a friend of the family. Now here’s a family tip. The best guides in the world can’t always get you safely through the gates of hell. You might actually need me.” The hand stroked Rebecca’s arm again and brushed purposefully against her breast. She stiffened under the caress. “Relax. I don’t have time to play right now. We’ll have time later. He’ll be back soon. So, what am I to do with you?”

“Just leave. I won’t look. I won’t even turn around.”

“You’re clever,” he laughed, “and I would never trust a woman. Least of all a witch.”

“I’m not a witch.”

“Think about it in the dark.” He pushed her across the room toward the closet and opened the door. “You should be comfortable enough in here. Just settle in and wait for your Wesley Allen.”

“I don’t know who you are but I’ll find out,” she screamed as the door shut. He laughed

“No doubt you will. Make sure when you find me that you know where my precious goddess is hidden. I want her. This one is just for myself.”

His footsteps retreated and she pushed against the door only to find it blocked. She fought her way through the clothing in the closet to the door at the opposite end and opened it quietly into the adjacent bedroom. She could hear him on the stairs already and when she opened the bedroom door she saw only the top of his short blond hair disappearing down the stairs.

She fell back on the bed and heard the front door close. He was gone.

Her relief was short-lived as she heard the back door slam and then slam again. She ran to the open window to see the blond man turn down the alley and Wesley come off the back porch. She leaned out the window and yelled.

“He has a knife, Wes. Don’t chase him!”

Wesley turned and looked up at her in surprise, torn for a moment between whether to pursue the intruder or to be sure that Rebecca was unharmed. In an instant, his priorities were straight and he charged back into the house and up the stairs.

“Becc! Are you all right?” He burst through the door and wrapped her in his arms, nearly knocking them both onto the bed. The sudden release of tension and emotion that she felt had her choked with tears before the single syllable could escape.

“Yes,” she sobbed into his shoulder as he smoothed her hair and cradled her in his arms. “He wanted the last page of Wilton’s notes.”

“I know. But he hasn’t got it yet. Why did I check my office before I checked here? Thank God you are all right.”

For a long time, they sat on the edge of the bed cradling each other. Then they talked and told their stories. They discussed the situation well into the night, the ribs forgotten on the kitchen counter. Rebecca alternated from passion to cold analysis. It was difficult to support Wesley in his battle when she was so involved in her own, both internal and external battle. At last she stood to leave.

“I’m going home. I’m too tired to deal with this anymore.”

“Stay here tonight,” Wesley responded. “I don’t like you being off and unprotected.”

“If I thought that was the invitation I wish it was, I’d stay,” Rebecca said, pulling him to his feet to kiss goodnight. “But it is no safer in your spare bedroom than anyplace else. At least my apartment has a lock on the door.”

“This place will, too, as soon as I get to a hardware store tomorrow. I know, that doesn’t help tonight. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

Wesley walked with Rebecca to her apartment. They kissed on her doorstep. He shifted nervously on one foot and then the other, hanging onto her so she wouldn’t go in yet.

“Wesley, people are going to see us out here on the steps,” Rebecca chided softly.

“I know.”

“What is it?”

“I’m...” Wesley faltered. It was harder to say than he expected. But the truth was there, nonetheless. “I’m afraid.”

Wednesday, 1 June 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

Wesley stared at the ceiling in the early morning light. He tried to pray, but thoughts of the events of the preceding day filled his mind. He was so stupid, gullible. What a coward! Downstairs, chairs were propped against doors, wooden sticks were jammed into window frames. He should be trusting in God to keep him safe. Instead, he was cowering in his bed alone and wanted nothing more than to hide beneath the covers.

Wesley had never experienced physical violence. Yes, he knew classmates when he was in school who had been in fights. But none had touched him personally. He was too young to be involved in World War II and was a deferred student in the Korean War. The very idea that someone would attack his fiancée in his home was earthshaking. For the first time, Wesley found himself thinking violent thoughts. That scared him even more. He prayed again.

Rebecca was so much better than he was at reading people, but Wesley couldn’t help questioning his trust in Doctors Heinrich and Jacobsen. They’d just waltzed right in and changed everything about his research and his life. They’d exposed Rebecca and him to danger. He distrusted Rebecca’s faith in them, even though she was always right about such things.

His dear, sweet Rebecca. It was his responsibility to protect her. She was such a temptation to his rigid morals. They would be married next fall, delayed from their intended June nuptials. Was it really so wrong to move ahead with their relationship before then? She would have stayed with him last night, but knew that he wouldn’t make love to her, even after the horrid attack. Must keep emotions in check. It was his duty to protect her, even though she was toying dangerously with this goddess cult. That would pass once she finished her thesis. He was certain of it.