Chapter 11 - The Knock in the Storm
A late-season autumn gale slammed into the county that evening, tearing yellow leaves from the birch trees and hurling sheets of torrential rain against the living room windows.
The wind howled around the eaves of our house, a violent, restless roar that matched the turmoil churning inside my mind. Michael had called my father immediately after Josh’s call cut out, but when Dad drove past the Maple Street house to check on the situation, all the exterior lights were dark, and Eleanor’s black SUV was parked across the driveway, blocking any approach.
We sat in the living room with only a single lamp lit, the television tuned to a muted weather radar. Michael had his arm around me, but neither of us could relax. The image of Josh’s terrified face in the pharmacy, combined with the sound of Beth’s frantic screaming over the phone, echoed relentlessly in my head.
"We should have called the police," I said for the fourth time that night.
"And tell them what, Anna?" Michael asked gently. "That a husband and wife had an argument while the grandmother was visiting? Without proof of immediate danger, the police wouldn't intervene, and Eleanor would use it to file a restraining order against us before Sunday."
"It isn't an argument, Michael. Beth is using that baby like a prop, and now that the stage is falling apart, she’s coming unglued."
At ten-fifteen, the power suddenly flickered, surged once, and died completely.
The house fell into utter darkness, save for the rhythmic blue flashes of lightning outside the picture window. The only sound was the torrential deluge drumming furiously against the glass.
Michael stood up, pulling a heavy flashlight from the drawer beneath the side table. "I’ll check the circuit breaker out in the garage, just in case a surge tripped it."
"Take the flashlight," I said, standing up with him, unwilling to be left alone in the dark.
We moved down the hallway toward the mudroom. Just as Michael’s hand touched the metal latch of the interior garage door, a violent, frantic pounding rattled the heavy front door at the other end of the house.
*BANG. BANG. BANG.*
It wasn't a civilized knock. It was the frantic, flesh-against-wood thudding of someone throwing their entire body against the panels.
Michael immediately shifted the beam of the flashlight toward the entryway, stepping in front of me. "Stay behind me, Anna."
We moved quietly down the foyer corridor. Through the frosted glass flanking the door, the strobe of lightning illuminated a hunched, soaked silhouette standing on our front porch, drenched by the storm.
*BANG. BANG. BANG.*
"Anna! Please! Open the door!"
It wasn't Eleanor. It wasn't my father.
It was Josh’s voice, shredded and hysterical, competing against the roar of the wind.
Michael unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, keeping his shoulder braced against the frame.
The gale tore into the foyer, spraying cold rain across the hardwood floor. Standing on our threshold, soaked to the skin with water streaming down his face, was Josh. His coat was torn, a dark, swelling bruise was visible along the side of his jaw, and tucked tightly against his chest inside a soaked fleece jacket was a tiny bundle wrapped in plastic trash bags to keep out the rain.
He fell to his knees directly onto our entry rug, gasping for air as if he had run miles in the dark.
"Josh!" I dropped down beside him, heedless of the freezing water soaking into my jeans. "What happened? Where is Eleanor?"
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Josh looked up at me with wild, terrified eyes, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he pulled back the plastic to reveal the baby, crying soundlessly against his drenched shirt.
"Beth took your car keys," Josh choked out, his chest heaving. "She found your address book... she knows about Lily’s garden. She took a can of gasoline from the garage, Anna. She’s already on her way here."
