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However, the first thing that occurred to him was to ask the first person within range, "Didn't the fire bell ring?" the sound of that would have reached his home as well.
"No," said the man, "I don't think they played it because a lot of people started running right away, and they started throwing water buckets."
Safety practice, however, should not have been ignored: ringing a fire bell was a matter of common sense.
"It was tampered with," said a man with a beard, who had inadvertently heard the conversation between Nicholas and the other man.
"How?" Nick said with an already challenging look.
"This is what I heard: they immediately took action to put out the fire, and someone went to ring the fire bell, but they were left with the rope between their hands and the bell off from the turret and chipped."
"Are you sure?"
"Hey, that's what I heard, I'm not a firefighter."
Nick was already lost in a thousand thoughts.
It made no sense to destroy the fire alarm, even for a criminal town.
The spreading of the flames would have damaged himself, his eventual home or those he could aim to rob; not to mention the cultivated fields that were located just outside the town, just behind and not far from the church, which was a source of sustenance for thieves and criminals as well. Maybe it could have been the act of a deranged man who doesn't even have any survival instinct. Or perhaps a firefighter himself, unstable or vindictive?
A thousand hypotheses could be made. But for a crime, you always need a motive, and who could have something against the Reverend? What did he hope to achieve? It had to be for revenge: what interests could a humble person like a shepherd have affected?
Nick didn't like to attend church very much and only sporadically had he been dragged to the service by Annabeth's persistence; however, he knew the Reverend, and he could not believe any revenge against him.
The obvious next thing to do now was to look for who had experienced the fire firsthand: the Reverend Johnatan Abblepot himself.
By the way: why hadn't he given the alarm immediately? Why wasn't he in the square gathering at least the signs of solidarity of his congregation? Was he dead trying to fight the fire himself?
Nicholas cursed himself for his curiosity of an unmarried woman who had fixed him to a thousand assumptions without having taken a step, and for wasting time with those men in the square as if he was an ordinary passerby.
He made his way through the crowd, asking if they had seen the Reverend. But they all said no.
He continued to go further, and, as soon as he was near the fence that surrounded the lawn of the church, he could still feel the terrible heat that sprang from the damage of the fire even though it had been extinguished.
The planks of the fence were still white, and contrasted with the black remains, as if they were a crooked and mocking smile towards the tragedy that had happened.
"I'm police officer Nicholas Abbot, and I want to speak to Reverend Abblepot right away," Nick said to the first fire officer he met.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know where he is," replied guiltily.
"He is not here?!" Nick yelled
"No, sir, I mean that the Reverend is not here. We couldn't find him in the vicarage. Nor in the surroundings. And believe me, I was one of the first ones to arrive. "
The news did not immediately breach, as it should have in Nicholas' mind, still affected by recent events.
But when he rationalized it, the news hit him like a punch.
He said in a calmer but still tense voice: "Are you telling me that Johnathan Abblepot was not at home last night and still hasn't shown up?"
The firefighter replied, emphasizing the words: "I cannot know, sir, if the Reverend was not at home last night. I'm just saying that when we ran to the vicarage to wake him up, in case he slept through that hell nearby, he wasn't there. And even now in the surrounding area, no one has seen him. "Now, it was the man who was indisposed by Nick's attitude.
Nick understood that the information that the firefighter could give him would not go far beyond what he had already heard.
Nicholas managed to approach some other people, finding out that there was no sign of Reverend Abblepot.
"My son told me he saw him on the church lawn two days ago."
"I went to church to pray, but he wasn't there. I thought I saw his shadow in the window, but not him in person. "
"I even looked for him at his house. I knocked at the door three times: nobody answered. "
Everyone had their own story to tell, but in none of them, there was a hint of where the Reverend was. It seemed that they hadn't seen him for at least a couple of days.
Nick had to make a decision: to either carry on working on the boy's death case, or to continue investigating the mysterious church fire, and the disappearance of Johnathan Abblepot.
He knew he couldn't ignore what happened at Church Yard, and hoped he could reconcile the two. He had to find out more about the Reverend's disappearance, and what was behind the burning of his parish.
Once back home, there was no need for Nicholas to explain to Anna what had happened in town. The news went round fast.
Annabeth knew Reverend Abblepot.
Religion was a serious matter to her: she had talked to the Reverend several times, and she liked him.
“My God, Nick. Something bad has surely happened to him. But who could have wanted such a thing?! Destroy the church!”
Her husband replied as if he were already writing notes for the investigation: "It is certain that the two events are connected. But we don't know what did happen, or didn't, to Reverend Abblepot."
"Do you mean he could have set the church on fire!"
"I'm not saying that, how can you think that? However, for now Abblepot is a missing man. There seems to be no evidence that anyone has hurt him or made him disappear. To tell the truth there doesn't seem to be any proof of anything, not even that there is someone behind this incident. "
"If no one is responsible, what else could have happened? Did the church catch on fire due to terrible bad luck, and the fire bell fell from the column by itself? Did the Reverend, frightened by a possible accusation, want to escape? Which of these theories seems credible to you?! "
"Calm down, Anna, you're taking this too personally. I also believe that the recent disappearances and deaths around here are related to what happened last night. I have already spoken to the station: we will deal with this matter. I will deal with this. "
Anna clutched a tea towel in her hands and gathered thoughts by rocking her head slightly.
She said, "Nick, there is something strange about this. There is something wrong; I would never want something like that happening here in Vestavia, in our town. "
Nick looked at her full of kindness, but he could not remain silent about his frustration: "Anna, bad and wicked things happen in every city of America."
"I feel there is something different in this case. I think something disturbing. I don't know ... don't ask me why, but it's like that. "
Nick preferred not to insist further, given his wife's nerves. Annabeth was particularly shaken by the incident, even if he didn't know why.
She needed to feel him close.
He went to her and hugged her. Then he kissed her on the forehead and went outside.
He had work to do.
He walked high and low all the main roads in town, asking questions to many people; in some cases, he asked the same people twice a short time later, the ones who didn't convince him, to catch possible contradictions.
He looked at the site of the fire for a long time.
He filled several sheets with all the notes, the hypotheses, the thoughts that rioted inside him.
Yet even after all this intense activity, the sunset came without Nicholas Abbot being any closer to a lead.
He stopped for a drink before going back home, to gather his thoughts, or perhaps calm them down. He needed something strong.
Upon entering the bar, he noticed that a person was watching him. Then, when he had taken a more decisive step towards the front door, she withdrew, as if she wanted to approach him but not at that moment.
His tense nerves most likely made him see more oddities than there were. Therefore, he decided to silence the nerves and not give too much weight to the last impressions of a very long day.
When he went out into the street, without having shaken off that feeling of having made some mistakes, the figure waiting for him was still there, she had just changed place, but not the intention of approaching him, it seemed.
Nick became self-defensive, subtly tensing his muscles, ready to sprint. However, he soon realized that there would be no reason for it.
The person in front of him, now he saw her well, was an older woman, submissive, who certainly could not have caused him any concern.
"Inspector Abbot," said the woman.
Nick looked carefully at the figure before him. A crooked smile formed on his face.
"It's me, detective, Evelyn Archer."
The lampposts on the main street were already emanating their amber light, which seemed to wrap everything up. It was as if all Vestavia Hills was sinking into see-through molasses: people and buildings could still be seen, but everything had a sticky slowness on it. People seemed to move in slow motion. Things showed as a slowed downtime, not at their usual pace.
The town's colours seemed to merge, one moment they look like was chalk on a blackboard, the next moment they were exchanging places in strange combinations. A woman passing by had the skin the same colour as the moon and the hair like the nearby bush. A passing horse, on the other hand, was tinged with the bluish colour of the furthest areas of the street, where the street lamp's lights did not reach; while the buggy that the animal was pulling and the man who drove it had the colours of the blood of the pieces of meat exposed by the butcher.
Even the dimensions of objects and the world were assuming unstable and indefinite states. The outlines of things were fraying as if they came out wrong on a painting. Roundness and edges exchanged places: moreover, they first got bigger and then smaller, without any logic.
Yes, logic: every perception had lost its own, and it did not seem possible to determine which the right one for the world was.
The music spread everywhere from far away but contaminated by a background sound that seemed to contain many overlapping voices. This cacophony had something disturbing about it, as much as fascinating the mystery of its origin was. It appeared to be underwater, and those sounds had the touching indefinability of the wind when it whistles in the mountains.
Nicholas Abbot was a dot in that washed-out design of the world, firm in his position similar to a statue poorly made. Yet, with his head anxiously trying to interpret what he thought he was feeling, and throbbed slightly, perhaps for the drink he just had, probably for the unreality of what he deciphered.
An instant.
Maybe much more.
The blink of an eye. Or the prolongation of a moment, as it can only happen in eternity.
Then Nick recovered from that strange daydream, without knowing how long it lasted.
In front of him, there was still that modest and innocent figure, this time in its natural contours and colors, of Evelyn Archer.
"How can I help you?" Nick seemed to have regained his full presence of spirit, so he was able to resume the thread of the conversation.
Evelyn said to him, "I know you can investigate the church fire and the disappearance of Reverend Abblepot."
Nicholas didn't reply, but his demeanor made the woman understand that he was interested in letting her go on, so she continued: "I knew Johnathan Abblepot, like everyone else. But in so many ways, more than any person you can contact. "
The way Evelyn Archer spoke was convincing, not dragged, but sure and severe, Nick thought; it was the tone of someone who is not making anything up, and who is risking something in revealing what she is saying.
"If you want to know what happened to him, let me tell you, I do too. I need to know. And maybe I have something to say to you that will help both of us. "
This time the blink of an eye was real, and it was Nicholas': it was the time it took him to make the decision.
"Okay," he said, "I'll listen to you."
YET ANOTHER AFTERNOON FOR ROBERT RED
5.
He was sipping orange juice. He thought that the taste had a rancid aftertaste and that perhaps he had left it in the refrigerator a little too long.
He didn't want to put up with another nuisance: as if he needed a stomach ache from spoiled food. He threw the juice into the sink.
Robert was leaning against the kitchen cabinet with the dazed look of one who is following his thoughts, the one who makes the person with glazed eyes seem so ridiculous, almost as if they were those of a stuffed animal. Yet he was not thinking of anything specific.
More than anything else, he tried to follow his emotions, which were made mostly of anger inside his now quite physically tested body. Insomnia gave him no break, and this gave him other problems such as lack of appetite and headaches. Concern for his nightmares, which had also been joined by daytime hallucinations, was beginning to grow. Finally, for the past two days, a fever had arrived from who knows where, which gave him a dullness, a further numbness feeling.
In short, he felt like crap. And, although he did not know who to blame, and perhaps for this very reason, his anger was growing.
He would never have thought of doing it; it was something he could not understand and had always avoided because considered it a disease, he went to look for the number of a psychologist.
When he heard someone talking about it, he always looked with pity on the subject in question. How could it be possible that someone needed a person who told him how to feel, who coaxed him with pleasant or even provocative sentences, who gave him a shoulder to cry on and feel sorry for himself while getting paid for it?
What kind of person was someone who couldn't even control what he thought?
But now, gripped by the monster of insomnia, which forced him to spend whole days in a daze, and was no longer sure of what he saw or did, perhaps he too could give it a go. Those strange feelings, such as the experience of the previous day or the one in the literary café, convinced him that his psycho-physical health could be in question. He had already followed the doctor's orders: but the pills didn't work, and he had no intention of taking stronger medications.
The hallucinations were what worried him the most: if he were no longer able to distinguish the real from the unreal, well, that would have been a big problem.
With all those hours of lost sleep and that heaviness on his eyelids and in his brain, all those afternoons spent dozing off without really resting, and he was no longer sure he could distinguish what he did from what was only a dream.
Dr. Thomas Trevor.
To Robert, it seemed somewhat popular, judging from the website. Well, however, for Robert, one was worth the other, not having high esteem of psychologists.
Yet another twinge of headache convinced him that he should try.
So he dialed the number and spoke with a kind secretary, who told him that the doctor would be free the next day.
