Short Story - Roses for Sophia Cooper (Part 4)

Roses for Sophia Cooper

 

Part 4

 

Fallen Roses

 

 

The series of back roads Thomas’ uncle directed him to drive made Boston’s tangled web of streets seem logical. They curved and coiled on themselves, twisting into blind corners and plunging into dips that left Thomas’ stomach fluttering near his heart. From the position of the approaching storm front and the way it dominated the sky ahead, Thomas guessed they were heading westward and skirting Kolb’s property. They forded a shallow creek, coming to a stop near a culvert that ran under the road just as the first raindrops spattered on the dusty windshield.

“We don’t have much time,” Thomas’ uncle said, wrestling the passenger door handle.

“Wait a minute; it’s about to storm…”

“You think I can’t see that?” Thomas’ uncle snapped. “Let me out of here, I didn’t ask for a weather report!”

“And I promised my mother I’d take care of you, not stand by while you caught your death of pneumonia.” Thomas pulled the door closed. “Now, tell me where you think the girl is and I’ll look for her.”

“I don’t have time to give you directions.”

“So, you’d rather waste time arguing?”

“Fine, follow the gully about a half mile into the woods and you’ll find a clearing where the old Peterson place used to stand. Be careful, though, that old place is falling apart. Sophia could have wandered inside and gotten hurt.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, retrieving the flashlight he kept in the glove box. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll stay in the car.”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, stepping out into the rain. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Thomas slid down the road’s steep bank, reaching the outlying ranks of trees just as the clouds opened. At first the drops drummed on the canopy, sheltering him from the rain, but soon the green ceiling gave way and torrents poured through. Seemingly sensing a chance to add to his misery the woods closed in, slapping him with wet branches and catching his clothes, but he plowed deeper into the trees. Finally, after clambering over a fallen log, Thomas saw the clearing.

Wild roses owned the meadow, swelling in flower-spangled drifts and forming thorny galleries that choked the space. The only evidence that a house had stood on the site was the ruined chimney that burst from the verdant growth, reaching skyward. Unabated by the forest canopy, the rain poured into the clearing, beating soft pink petals from the blossoms and sending them spiraling to the sodden ground.

“Sophia,” Thomas called picking his way through the outer ranks of thorns, but only thunder answered his call.

He moved deeper into the bramble, surveying the landscape as he went. The roses formed an almost impenetrable barbed obstacle that would have been at home on any of the battlefields Thomas had the displeasure of seeing. They eagerly grabbed at his pant legs and shirt sleeves, threatening to drag him into their barbed embrace. The only route through the field was a narrow path formed by the rotting bones of the old house and if anyone had come to this forsaken place, Thomas figured they would have followed that route. He tore free of the canes, making his way along the path to the chimney and it was in the shadow of the leaning stone spire that he found the first evidence Sophia had come this way.

The straw basket sat on the hearth stone, half filled with fading blossoms. Thomas stooped and inspected the roses; they were limp from the heat of the day. He surveyed the clearing and from his kneeling position he could see the dark pit of an abandoned well gaping under a bank of brambles.

Ignoring the clawing thorns, Thomas pushed under the rose canes and crawled to lip of the hole. The well shaft dropped ten feet before the gloom closed in and he reached for the flashlight to beat back the shadows. The beam of light showed that the walls of the well were lined with rough stones. Years of growth had spoiled the even cladding and in places roots as thick as Thomas’ forearm pushed out into the shaft. Further down a raft of rose canes and brush were caught up against the wall and the pink blooms that remained attached lay against a background of yellow cloth. He’d found Sophia and the sight of her at the bottom of the hole stabbed at Thomas’s heart. He called her name, but she didn’t respond to his voice or the probing flashlight beam. If he was going to get her out, he’d have to climb down.

The stone lining and relative narrowness of the well were an aid to Thomas’ descent. He stuck the flashlight in the waistband of his pants and wedged his toes into gaps on opposite sides of the shaft and gradually worked his way downward. It took time to make it to the bottom, and the runnels that coursed over the slimy stones didn’t help his grip. Finally he stepped onto the muddy floor, water rising to his ankles and rushing into his shoes. The rain had started filling the well; he’d have to work fast. He flattened against the wall, retrieved his light, and assessed the work that lay ahead. The narrowness of the shaft made it impossible to check Sophia, that would have to wait until he’d gotten her to the surface, but the question remained how best to make the ascent.

Thomas pulled the belt from his pants and slid down into a squatting position. He looped the belt under the girl’s arms and fed the end back through the buckle to form a makeshift harness. He wrapped the tail of the belt around his hand and pulled, testing his idea. As Sophia’s body rose the grisly sight of bones greeted Thomas. Roots grew through the gingham cloth that clung to the skeletal ribcage, pulling the remains down into the clay, and in his heart Thomas knew the pit had also claimed the Gorman girl Dukker spoke of had met her end at the bottom of the abandoned well. Swearing he wouldn’t allow Sophia to meet the same fate, Thomas adjusted his grip on the belt and began the ascent.

It took a half hour to reach the surface and by the time he pulled Sophia from the hole, Thomas’ back and shoulders ached. He put the pain aside, hovering close over the girl to look for signs of life. The first hint came in the gentle, dream-like fluttering of her closed eyes. A wave of relief erased the pains that wracked Thomas’ body and he scooped Sophia up, draping her over his shoulder and heading for the car.

* * * *

“It will weeks before she’s back to normal.” Thomas’ uncle took a drink from the tumbler of wine that sat on the table, savoring the home-brewed liquor and watching the festivities that swirled around the camp for a moment before continuing.

“I don’t know, I don’t trust this gadjo doctor – what is his name?” Lash asked, pulling the cork from the bottle to top off Thomas’ glass in spite of his protests.

“Dr. Mike Jameson,” Thomas’ uncle answered. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I served with Mike in the Army and he’s a good man, he even made arrangements for Hanzi and his father to stay in a rooming house not far from the hospital.”

“While I appreciate that, it still isn’t right for the groom’s family to be so deeply involved before the wedding. I’ll have Sophia’s cousin go up there; she can make sure nothing happens.”

“I’ll call Mike in the morning and tell him to expect more visitors.” Thomas’ uncle swirled the contents of his glass. “Concussions can be tricky, Lash, if I were you I’d postpone the wedding until October at the earliest.”

“If you say so,” Lash replied, nodding and returning the cork to the bottle. “I can’t thank you enough for saving my daughter…and me.”

“You should be thanking Tom. He’s the one who hiked through the woods and found Sophia.”

“I’ll never be able to repay you.” Lash met Thomas’ eyes and then danced off to the celebration. “I lost Sophia’s mother two years ago. I’ve never had to endure pain like that and I don’t think I could have kept going if it weren’t for Sophia. If I lost her…”

“But you didn’t.” Thomas replied.

“No, I didn’t. You and your uncle are always welcome in my camp, I consider both of you family.” Lash drew a deep breath and stood. “Now, eat and drink. We have an engagement to celebrate and that’s something that has to be done right!”

Thanks for following this little jaunt with Thomas Brooks and his uncle Dr. Daniel Webb, if you like what you've read please let me know. I'm considering writing more short adventures for our two intrepid detectives. I'll be airing at least one more short story (whether or not it has anything to do with Tom and Dan remains to be seen) to air on the blog this year.