Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

Stone had traded his preferred khakis for a light brown summer suit with a six-button vest and a silk tie that had belonged to his grandfather. Constance was clad in a simple navy dress with wide shoulders and a belted waistline. She was all business.

They were greeted at the door by an officious-looking man in an ill-fitted black suit. He looked them up and down, frowning.

“Mister Stone, and Miss… something, I take it?”

Stone forced a smile. “I am Brock Stone and this is Constance Cray. We have an appointment with Mrs. Carroll.”

“I am Mister Ward.” Ward tilted his round, balding head, and peered between them. “Why did your driver not drop you off at the front door?”

“Our truck was leaking oil and we didn’t want it fouling your driveway,” Stone invented. “He has gone to make repairs.” The truth was, they didn’t know if the presence of Moses would create a problem.

Stone had been around the world and tolerant people were getting harder to find. In Germany, a fascist named Adolf Hitler was running for president. Remarkably, Hitler had led a failed coup against the government almost a decade earlier, and had served time in prison, yet he had now enjoyed tremendous popular support. It was like Stone’s grandfather used to say, “Never underestimate the power of telling disillusioned people exactly what they want to hear.” Other European nations were also facing similar right-wing uprisings. Upon returning home, the fuzzy memories of Stone’s youth gave way to the reality that the nation he loved was battling the same forces of fear, mistrust, and intolerance that seemed to be driving Europe toward a second Great War.

Ward looked at him doubtfully, but finally nodded. “Please wipe your feet before you enter.” He led them to the director’s office.

Patricia Carroll was a tall, gangly woman with a large nose and short, gray hair. She welcomed them with a curt not and did not invite them to sit down.

“I am afraid I cannot tell you anything more than what I told your colleague, Miss Paige,” she said.

“I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” Constance said. “Miss Paige is our friend. She has gone missing.”

Carroll glared sharply at Ward, who was lingering in the doorway. “That was not the message you conveyed to me, Mister Ward.”

Sweat broke out on Ward’s brow. He ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “It was Junina who took the message, Headmistress. She has been having a difficult time of late. Ever since…”

“You may go!” Carroll said sharply. She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to send a message to Ward.

Ward gave a bob of his head, turned, and hurried away. His heels clicked loudly on the marble floor as he fled. When the sound faded into silence, Carroll relaxed and motioned for Constance to close the door.

“I apologize. Junina was a resident here when this was a home for troubled young women. She does not have a place in the outside world, but she is quite bright, so I kept her on as a staff member.”

“If I may, what do you mean she doesn’t have a place?” Stone asked.

“She is a Yakama Indian by birth. No one around here will hire or marry her, and she refuses to return home. Something about a childhood trauma.” Carroll gave a small, sad shake of the head.

“I am sure you are very busy, so we shall not demand much of your time,” Constance said. “We are tracing our friend’s last known movements. Might you have any idea where she went after she left here?”

Carroll shook her head. “We spoke only briefly. She was reporting on the history of this building, and I have only been employed here for a year. I told her what I knew, and then turned her over to Junina. No one knows this place the way she does.”

“Do you know what they talked about?” Stone asked.

Carroll stiffened. “Of course not. I am not Mister Ward, lingering in doorways or hiding around corners.”

“Please accept my apologies. I only wondered if Junina might have discussed their conversation with you.”

Carroll closed her eyes for a moment and her shoulders sank. When she opened her eyes again, her demeanor had changed. “It is I who owe you an apology. Things have been difficult here. My staff believe the ridiculous ghost stories about this building, and I just learned that Ward has been encouraging them. He has them all convinced that a devil is buried beneath the old wine cellar. None of them will go near the place now. Of course, there is nothing down there but dusty old crates. It hasn’t been used for wine storage since the original headmaster of the girls’ home died.”

“We understand,” Constance assured her. “Would it be possible for us to speak with Junina?”

Carroll looked at them each in turn, as if taking their measure. Finally, she made a curt nod. “You may. She is working in the office near the front doors. I only ask that you stop questioning her if she becomes upset. She is fragile.”