The Memorist

Chapter 57

Tuesday, April 29^th-5:56 p.m.

In the teeming rain, the forest had become treacherous and it was impossible for Meer to get her bearings or recognize any landmarks as she ran. All she knew was that she had to keep descending, and if she could manage that she’d find her way out of the woods. She had to get Sebastian help.

She tripped on tree roots, vines and twigs but she kept getting up and soldiering on down the mountain all the while listening hard, knowing that just because she couldn’t hear her assailant over the sound of the rain didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

Did the man in the slicker want her or just the papers? Was she actually getting away or did he know the forest so well he was waiting for her up ahead? Was her running putting Sebastian in more danger? If the man had taken off after her, maybe she should double back and help Sebastian?

A burst of lightning illuminated her surroundings for a brief second at the same time her foot hit a patch of mud. Sliding, she reached out for a root or a rock, but found she was clutching at nothing but air-and was still falling.

Finally, Meer grabbed hold of an exposed root. She lay in the dirt, tasting it, smelling it, for what seemed like a long time. All she knew was that no one stood over her, there was no gun poking her in the side, no one was screaming at her to get up and move. Finally, she accepted that if someone had been following her, they would have found her by now. Her legs, arms, chest and back all ached.

Crawling to the base of a pine tree about five feet away, she used the trunk to stand up. She was in pain but Sebastian needed help.

Except what was the best way to help him? Go back up to him or head down to the town and get the police? She wished she knew how badly he’d been hurt. Unsure with every step that this was the right solution, she started back up toward the hut.

She’d only been moving for a few minutes when she saw the glow of a searchlight through the trees to her right.

The gunman had found her.

Frantically she looked around for someplace to hide and in the semidarkness made out what looked like a large clump of bushes. Was there space to crawl inside them? Could she reach their shelter without making any noise?

Slowly she inched forward through the mud, careful to keep checking the ground for branches lest she come down on them and make any noise that would give her away. And then she heard something-it sounded like someone calling out her name. She stopped moving, listened, peered through the trees.

“Meer?” It was Sebastian with a group of policemen, and they were searching for her.

Once the police ascertained she didn’t need to be taken to the hospital they offered to escort her to the station so she could answer questions while they secured the scene but she insisted on going with them back up to the hut. Sebastian was adamant about accompanying her.

This was her last chance to search for any remnants of the music she’d been hunting for her whole life, that she’d miraculously found and then lost only minutes later.

As they made their way through the soggy forest, she and Sebastian filled each other in on what had happened. The police suspected he had been chloroformed because all he remembered was coming to, lying in the mud, in the rain. When he was able to get up he started searching for her, finally working his way down to the town and eventually to the police.

“I was afraid that if I kept looking in the woods I’d wind up going in circles and keep missing you,” he said. “Did he get the music?”

“He got a handful of pulp but no music.”

“You have it then?”

“There were only a few musical notations left and not in sequence. They washed away in the rain.”

“But you saw them first, didn’t you? You saw the notes?”

“There was so little left to see. And it happened too fast. I wasn’t thinking straight. But maybe some of the shreds of the paper are still up there. That’s why I have to go back. To see if there’s anything at all left. Once it gets into police custody we might never see it again. Anything I can take back to my father that could be examined and dated might be of use. There must be infrared techniques they can use to pick up vestiges of faded ink.”

Reaching the shelter, the officers cordoned off the hut and the surrounding area. The old chapel with its fading plaster statues couldn’t just be a dead end. The music couldn’t be gone forever. But she couldn’t even get inside to see if anything was left.

What should she do? Her father had spent his life hunting down hidden Torahs. What would he do if he were here? Once he’d told her that there was always a point when the clues would seem to dry up and he’d feel utterly lost and then he’d rely on faith. In the moments when he wanted to curse, he forced himself to pray, to remember that there was a purpose to everything and in those prayers he always found the strength to keep going.

She’d never prayed before but no one would know that. Neither would they know that she was Jewish and that even if she did pray, she wouldn’t kneel. But now, without asking the police for permission, Meer walked around to the crucifix, knelt down in front of it and bowed her head.

“Miss Logan…” the inspector said softly.

From this vantage point she could look for shreds of paper without appearing to do so.

“Miss Logan…” he said again, but she didn’t lift her head, hoping he would allow her these few moments of devotion.

The stones hurt her knees, which were already sore from the fall, but she remained frozen, her eyes scanning the ground, not thinking about what she’d do if she found anything or how she’d pick it up without anyone noticing. But it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything left. Not a shred. The paper must have completely disintegrated in the rain and, with it, every last hope for discovering the elusive music that had haunted her for most of her life.