The Edge of Recall Read online

  THE EDGE

  OF RECALL

  DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES

  ………………………………

  The Rose Legacy

  Sweet Boundless

  The Tender Vine

  Twilight

  A Rush of Wings

  The Still of Night

  Halos

  Freefall

  The Edge of Recall

  Secrets

  Unforgotten

  Echoes

  www.kristenheitzmann.com

  KRISTEN

  HEITZMANN

  THE EDGE

  OF RECALL

  The Edge of Recall

  Copyright © 2008

  Kristen Heitzmann

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heitzmann, Kristen.

  The edge of recall / Kristen Heitzmann.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-2831-5 (pbk.)

  1. Women landscape architects—Fiction. 2. Labyrinths—Design and contruction— Fiction. 3. Labyrinths—Psychological aspects—Fiction. 4. Labyrinths—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.E468E35 2008

  813′.54—dc22

  2008014232

  * * *

  To Jessie,

  who conceived it

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER

  1

  Houses smaller than her dollhouse, fields stretching out and away. A pond tossing sunrays as she leans against the window, nose pressed to the glass. The plane seat rumbles. She feels it in her fingertips, in her teeth.

  Daddy points. “Look there.”

  And she sees it. Circle upon circle, living branches shaped like the inside of a seashell. Mesmerized, she follows the path with her eyes to the very center.

  Daddy’s voice holds all the mystery in the world. “It’s a labyrinth.”

  “Miss Young?”

  Tessa opened her heavy-lidded eyes to white light, beige walls. For a moment she’d thought she was in— But no, it was the emergency room. She rotated her wrist and winced. Her neck burned, and she could almost feel the grip there still. She drew a ragged breath.

  The nurse put a hand between her shoulder blades. “Let me help you up.”

  “Thank you.” Tessa slid her legs over the side of the exam bed and sat up, woozy, as the curtain slid open with a squeal of metal rings on rod. A man with a hawkish face and wiry hair entered. Dr. Brinkley. She’d spoken with him . . . how long ago?

  “You’ve had some rest, Ms. Young?”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples and realized that somewhere between arriving and now they had sedated her.

  “Sheriff Thomas is back, if you’re up to seeing him.”

  Her chest quaked as her mind replayed the knife flashing, Smith’s stunned face. Would she have to identify him? Could she bear it? The sheriff entered, his pants and jacket shiny with rain.

  “Is he . . . is he dead?”

  “We went over the property, Ms. Young. There’s nothing to indicate a homicide.”

  She had a moment of disconnect. What was he saying? “You didn’t find Smith?” Her throat constricted. “That’s impossible.”

  “The rain’s ruined what trace of an altercation there might have been.”

  She jolted. “Someone attacked us. He stabbed Smith.”

  “Someone not quite human.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t human, just grotesque, misshapen—”

  “Pale and malformed, rotten teeth and milky eyes. Wasn’t that the description?”

  The description conjured up his image. “Yes. That’s what I saw.”

  The sheriff slid out the pad he’d jotted her words on before. “Yours was the only vehicle.”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how he got there, but it isn’t the first time. I thought I saw him weeks ago.”

  “You said your boss was six-one, one-eighty. How would this small, malformed person with no transportation—”

  “He must have hidden Smith, buried . . . the body.”

  “We searched the field and surrounding woods.” The sheriff looked her over slowly. “I’ll round up some dogs in the morning, but before I do, why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

  She stared. “What do you mean?”

  “It appears you had a scuffle, but frankly, your story is . . .” He spread his hands. “Not plausible.”

  Her panic rose. “It’s not a story. I barely got away. Someone attacked us. He—” She fought the grief that raised the pitch of her voice. “Have you talked to Smith Chandler? Can you tell me he’s alive?”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to give you a while to come to grips with things, rethink your statement. Go home now, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Dazed, she got up and went out, shivering, to the dark, wet street. Go home? She was so far from home it made her head spin. Before driving her rental car back to the inn some miles out of town, she would try once more to make the sheriff listen. She huddled under the covered entrance and speed-dialed her phone, needing someone to vouch for her, someone with credibility, to make them realize she could never imagine something like this.

  “Dr. Brenner? I’m sorry to call so late, but I need you to talk to someone.”

  “Hello, Tessa. Would that someone be Sheriff Thomas?”

  Her jaw dropped. “You spoke to him?”

  “You listed me as your emergency contact, and he was concerned. He said you were hysterical and incoherent.”

  She brushed her hair back with shaky fingers. “Did he tell you why?”

  “He told me what you said.”

  “You mean what happened.”

  The pause said too much. “Tessa, this . . . experience. You do see the similarity to your dreams.”

  Her breath made a slow escape.

  “All your classic elements—the maze, the fear of losing someone, a
bandonment. Even a monster.”

  “It’s not a maze—it’s a labyrinth. And I can tell the difference between dreams and reality.” Her voice broke. “I saw someone stab Smith.”

  “As his rejection stabbed you?”

  “I . . . You can’t think—”

  “Listen to me, Tessa. It’s possible the scenario you’re describing is playing out like one of your dreams—or worse, that the real issues you’ve been dealing with have pushed you to a breaking point.”

  She started to shake. “Yes, I have dreams, terrible dreams. I also have a life. And I know the difference between what happens in my dreams and what happens in my life.”

  “To a soldier with PTSD, bombs landing on his home seem very real. The mind is a powerful thing.”

  She closed her eyes. “This is not in my mind.”

  “The condition can cause a person to overreact to a perceived threat or injury.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I want you to come back to Cedar Grove. Let me evaluate you . . . before you’re charged with a crime you may not have been able to control.”

  “You can’t believe I would hurt Smith.”

  “I think it more likely you’ve broken with reality.”

  “What about that I’m telling the truth?”

  His silence stung. She hung up and clutched the phone to her throat. Fear and dread loomed like monsters, but this was real. She knew it. Only . . .

  With trembling fingers, she dialed another number.

  Wet and shivering, Tessa dragged herself up the inn stairs to her room. She locked the door and window, dragged the wing chair over to the door and propped it beneath the knob. Enfolded by the soft yellow walls and cozy furnishings, she surrendered to the grief. Smith was gone, and the hurt overwhelmed her. Hurt and fear. Every creak, every muffled noise set her heart pounding. She tried to close her eyes, but the pale face and eyes of his murderer were etched on the back of her eyelids. She had not dreamed or imagined him.

  Perhaps she dozed, for she followed endless paths in endless circles until the cold morning light woke her. She opened her eyes and sat up. The sedative had left her brain filmy. Had Dr. Brenner authorized or even prescribed the medication? She had been hysterical, running for her life after seeing Smith fall.

  Pain came, as hard and relentless as the rain outside. She wished she could believe nothing had happened, but Smith would have answered her call if he could. She checked her watch. Last night she had collapsed in her clothes, but she tore them off now and changed into clean khakis and a T-shirt. Her wrist throbbed as she ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, impatient with each minute that kept her from answers.

  At the station, she found Sheriff Thomas conferring with a deputy. The sheriff finished his bite of bagel, took a swig of coffee, and cleared his throat. “Too much rain to go out there, Ms. Young. Dogs won’t pick up a scent, and the ground’s been ruined for footprints.” He wiped his mouth. “So why don’t we get the real story, now that you’re settled down.”

  “Smith Chandler was stabbed in the labyrinth field, just past the old foundation. I saw him fall. I saw him lying in the rain.”

  “Where’s the knife? What did you do with the body?”

  Her chest constricted. The red sags under the sheriff’s eyes and his drooping jowls gave him the look of a bloodhound, but he was on the wrong scent.

  “We searched everything, Ms. Young, including your weird crop circles or whatever you’re cutting out there.” Sheriff Thomas cleared the gruff edge from his throat. “This will go down so much better if you just come clean.”

  “I told you what happened.”

  He shook his head. “I’m going to find out. Until then, it’s probably best you don’t leave the county.”

  Returning to the inn, she closed herself into the room, anger rising. Dr. Brenner had fed the sheriff’s suspicion instead of giving her credibility. So what if this event had connections to her dreams? She was a specialist in labyrinths. Her work always overlapped the subconscious elements that haunted her sleep.

  She went and stood at the rain-streaked window. Could anyone truly believe she’d killed Smith? The thought that she may have had a psychotic break and imagined it all shook her, but if there was no body and no evidence of murder, then Smith was alive, somewhere. Oh, please—let it have all been in her head.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Five weeks before . . .

  The pungent smell of roses permeated the air as the sun warmed the blooms. Tessa opened her eyes once more to the finished labyrinth bathed by the sun’s honeyed glow. Leaning forward in the cherry-picker basket, she photographed the five-circuit classical labyrinth forming a single winding path to peace and wisdom—or, in this case, remembrance, as demonstrated by the rosebushes that formed the boundaries.

  “There must be roses,” Alicia Beauprez had said, her eyes misty. “On our first anniversary Roger gave me a single red bud. Our second anniversary, a red and a white, then red and white and yellow. Never a duplicate among them. Last year there were fifty-two varieties for fifty-two beautiful years.”

  Though she had never created a rose labyrinth, for several valid reasons, Tessa had not dissuaded her. It was Mrs. Beauprez’s prayer walk, and she wanted roses to recall the love of her life along the way. So Tessa had interspersed hawthorn with forty multi-hued rosebushes to line the path, and a dozen black-cherry tree roses stood on three-foot stems around a bench at the center where Alicia could sit to enjoy them.

  From her elevated position, Tessa photographed the entire landscape project. The labyrinth centered the property behind the house, giving the manicured lawns a focal point, and though it was her favorite element, it wasn’t the whole story. She had terraced the difficult side yard with quince and hydrangeas and accented the patio areas with massive overflowing garden urns. The front fountain featured dual-height jets for a tiered effect in the brickpaved circular drive.

  Satisfied, she signaled Jerome that she was finished shooting, and the cherry picker accordion-folded beneath her.

  “All good?” Jerome raised his brows, knowing the delight she took in each completion, especially when the project included a labyrinth.

  “Oh yes.” She hopped to the ground. “I’ll take Mrs. Beauprez for her final walkthrough, and then we’ll pack things up. Nice work, as always.” Her cell phone vibrated on her hip. Since it wasn’t a number she recognized, she answered professionally. “Tessa Young speaking.”

  “Tessa, hello. This is Smith Chandler.”

  At that, her professionalism fled. The accent and timbre of his voice disarmed her as time warped and the past became achingly present.

  “From Cornell.”

  She didn’t need clarification. She was back there in her mind already, a little hopeful, a little lost. . . .

  “Tessa, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Is now a good time to talk? I’ve something I’d like to run by you.”

  Jerome and the crew were capable of loading the tools and equipment, but Mrs. Beauprez would be expecting her tour. Most of all, she could not talk to Smith without preparing herself. “Actually, it’s not convenient. Can you call back in a couple of hours?” When she’d regained her equilibrium, if that was possible.

  “Yes, all right. But, Tessa—it’s important.”

  She closed the phone, took a deep breath, and went to find Mrs. Beauprez. Witnessing the joy in her clients’ faces made all the hard work worth it. And this had been a dream project. After seeing photographs of previous work, Mrs. Beauprez had embraced her suggestion to make the formal garden into a contemplative path that led to the center and back. She would not let Smith’s call interfere with the pleasure of leading her client down that rose-scented path.

  The sun had dipped to half-mast by the time she returned to her hotel room. She untied and tugged off her Wolverine steel-toed work boots, changed into a fresh T-shirt, and splashed her face with cool
water from the bathroom sink. The Beauprez landscape completed her current projects except for some consulting, design, and research, and she was eager to get home.

  Five hours and forty-three minutes since Smith’s call, he had still not called back. Typical, self-absorbed Smith. He knew it would drive her crazy not to know what he’d wanted—though not enough to call him. She tossed the phone onto the comforter and began to pack. As much as she enjoyed the different places she worked, going home grounded her.

  She zipped up the suitcase, leaned back on her heels, and groaned as her thoughts circled back to Smith. He’d sounded excited. His plans and ideas had always enlivened him. She wished just hearing that eager tone in his voice hadn’t conjured up the animated look in his gray-blue eyes, the motion of his hands as he described whatever it was. She should have heard him out and been done with it.

  She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror. The enemies that had haunted her since childhood stared back. Doubt, uncertainty, fear. All her Pyrrhic victories amounting to nothing once more. How could she have anticipated a call from the friend she’d half fallen in love with a dozen times before catching herself?

  Her phone rang, and for a second she considered not answering, but the anxiety of the last few hours dashed that thought. Better to know and be done with it than to keep wondering. She stepped over her suitcase. “Hello?”

  “Tessa, it’s Smith. I’m sorry it took so long to call back.”

  “Did it?” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she pressed a hand to her face, waiting.

  “Let me say, it’s good to talk to you.”

  No way could she say the same, even if she wanted to.

  “I saw your write-up in Architectural Digest and couldn’t believe I knew the artist who’d created that labyrinth garden.”

  Her breath made a hard escape. That from the man who’d ridiculed her vision?

  “You’ve made that crazy idea work.”

  “Maybe because it wasn’t crazy.” She lay back on the bed. That article had run two years ago. He could have picked up a phone and called her then if he was so impressed.