Bell(e)s in the Woods - 6. Wednesday, April 23, 2025 (III)

~The Lawyer~

Once again, I felt like an impostor in my own office. Small and insignificant at this massive desk. But this time, it could well have been Michael Bell's fault, who was pacing nervously back and forth in front of the desk.

“Mr. Bell,” I began for the third time after he had stormed in and tried to explain to me in a barely intelligible mumble that he needed my help, “Mr. Bell, you have to talk to me. Otherwise, I can't help you.”

Mr. Bell paused, his gaze slowly shifting from his phone to me. “It's complicated, Mr. Upfield.” The phone pinged, and his gaze darted back to the screen. He resumed pacing around frantically and actually put a finger in his mouth to chew on his nail.

All my Homelander-dark-daddy fantasies evaporated. But it didn't help me because I still didn't know what to do next. A client who won't talk is difficult.

“I don't have to talk,” Mr. Bell blurted out at that moment, his blue eyes sparkling in the light. “I can't be punished for silence.”

“It's up to the situation. Depending on the circumstances, silence can also be seen as failure to assist a person in danger,” I replied.

Mr. Bell blinked in confusion, then shook his head. “I mean…” But he didn’t say what he meant, instead pacing again.

Suppressing a sigh, I rose. One of my professors had always said we should all use the resources we have. He was referring quite unabashedly to physical characteristics, which had initially caused horrified murmurs, then—in light of video demonstration material—an “aha” moment.

Not that I enjoyed doing so, but sometimes it is unavoidable. I moved over to Mr. Bell and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Mr. Bell...”

He looked up at me and blinked frantically, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Mr. Bell, sit down, put your phone away, take a deep breath, and then, please, talk to me,” I said slowly and emphatically, but quietly because of the proximity I had forced on him.

He nodded slowly.

I squeezed his shoulder again, took my hand away, but he didn't move. “This is about more than your daughter, isn't it?”

He nodded again, and this time fear shimmered in his eyes.

 

 

~The Detective~

Rain pelted incessantly against the windows of the break room, and the coffee machine gurgled as if it were drowning itself.

Khalid Shadid, our third lab technician, who had finally returned from his long sick leave, was engaged in lively discussion with Lee Curtis, one of the forensic scientists. Both were leaning over papers and gesturing so excitedly it seemed like a miracle to me that they hadn't spilled any coffee yet.

The coffee machine hissed loudly, sputtered once more, and then emitted a distorted beep. Like everyone else, I said a quick prayer that the thing would hold out a little longer as I poured myself a cup.

“Is it fresh?”

I almost dropped the milk in shock when Mary Bright, the only other female detective in Quincefield, appeared next to me. “Just finished.”

“Oh, thank God.” She rubbed her eyes.

“Tough day?” I asked cautiously, grabbing one of the awful biodegradable spoons.

“A nursing home caregiver disappeared. During his shift.” Mary's eye twitched. “But after everything I've heard about Hill View Nursing Home and now seen, I'm not surprised. What about your missing witch?”

I sniffed. Since I had never heard of the nursing home, I couldn't comment on that, so I just answered her question. “Make it two missing witches.”

“Oh, congrats,” Mary muttered sarcastically into her cup.

“Winter huffed like a steam train when I suggested we probably should search the forest after all.”

Mary grunted and swallowed. “Winter hates big search operations. She'd rather let you take three weeks off than approve something like that.”

“How convenient that she canceled my days off for the witch hunt.”

“Seriously?”

I nodded.

We leaned against the counters in the kitchen corner in mutual silence, the two men still arguing. The coffee tasted even worse than usual.

“I heard Harry's mom is in the hospital...?”

“M-hm. Heart attack. I have to call later and ask how she's doing. Harry didn't seem too happy this morning.”

“Get well soon.” Mary raised her cup in greeting, and after I nodded in response, she walked away.

Winter's “we'll have to see how the situation develops” sat heavy in my stomach.

Warren and I had searched for Madeleine's car (three pings on the street surveillance system on Monday around ten, apparently heading west), called her employer (she had called in sick on Monday morning, but without a doctor's note), spoken to her parents (both sides had last had contact with her before Easter), located her phone (last ping Monday morning at 9:45 a.m. at her home), and asked the officers on duty in both Attville and Warner's Hill to at least search the edge of the forest to see if her car could be found there.

My last call before visiting Winter was to the forest ranger in charge. He had said succinctly all he could do was mark known locations on a map and maybe stop by, because the area was far too large and many parts of it were inaccessible. Of course, that hadn't impressed Winter in the slightest.

Now what?

I emptied my cup, rinsed it, put it on the drying rack, and turned to leave. Khalil raised his hand in greeting, and I returned it, but my mood sank. Without Harry, I felt terribly alone, even though it wasn't his fault, of course.

Warren sat in Harry's seat—the sight still felt wrong—and rubbed his eyes. “Somewhat good news from Warner's Hill. The only street camera caught Madeleine. The officer in charge took a statement saying Madeleine was purchasing items at a local bakery.”

“When?” I asked, and Warren blinked in confusion before shaking his head.

“Monday morning, around half past ten.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess she only went to the village because of the bakery, because the camera caught her going in the opposite direction the second time.”

“Does that fit with her calling in sick?” I sank into my chair. The coffee made my stomach rumble, which actually wanted food, but dinner seemed a long way off.

“Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean you have to stay home in bed.” Warren tilted his head. “I don’t want to twist the facts to fit our theories…”

“But…?”

“But magic consumes energy. If the two arranged to duel and Madeleine bought food, it was surely intended as sustenance before or after. Warner’s Hill provides easy access to the northern and eastern parts of the forest.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds good, but we mustn't forget that it might have nothing to do with it at all. The hints about her male relationships could simply mean she made herself comfortable with a guy for a few days.”

But then why would she skip such an important conversation with her mentor?

“I know.” Warren shrugged and raised his hands helplessly.

As he spoke, my phone vibrated with a message, and with a sigh, I picked it up.

Nathan: MB is corrupt, being blackmailed, and scared. Check Benjamin Block, but it’s probably an alias.

Nathan: Before you ask, he suspects the guy of kidnapping Kate as leverage.

Violet: We need more than a false name, Mr. Lawyer.

Nathan: I'm working on it!

I put my phone aside and rubbed my face. My dinner would definitely have to wait a while longer.

 

 

~The Cursebreaker~

I hadn't expected Nico to come over for dinner. Neither had Uncle Carl, apparently. We filled the space left in our stomachs by the smaller portions with desserts. Afterwards, Nico shooed the two old men out and the both of us cleaned up the kitchen, albeit in an uncomfortable silence.

When Nico nodded with his head upwards after we'd finished, I imagined the worst, because we usually talked in the kitchen or the living room, not in my rooms. But I probably should have been suspicious already, given that Nico had come over despite the storm raging outside.

“What's going on?” I wanted to know, and stood awkwardly in front of my couch when Nico made no move to sit down with me. “Nico?”

He leaned against my desk with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

Since something was definitely wrong, I refrained from asking whether everything was okay. Instead, I went over to him and asked, “How bad is it?”

He grimaced, but I took it as a positive sign that there were no tears in his eyes. “Prostate,” he muttered, and then with a genuine grimace, “I'm too young for this shit.”

I leaned against the desk next to him and mimicked his posture. “Just because it mostly affects older men doesn't mean young men are spared. But the chances of recovery are better, of course.”

A sniff, then: “Thirty-seven isn't exactly young anymore.”

“That's what you said.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “How bad is it?” I asked again. If it were cancer, he would have said so first, right?

“Inflammation and enlargement.” He muttered the words as if it were something to be ashamed of. “Unfortunate location.”

“Does it need surgery?”

He shrugged weakly. “First, the inflammation has to disappear. But probably yes. Like I said, unfavorable location.”

I nodded slowly and nudged him again. “It’s not that bad. It’ll be fine.”

He sniffed again. “It’s my own fault.”

“Why?”

“Well, when something as basic as peeing hurts, you should go to the doctor.”

“Sounds logical, yes...”

“As if. I only went when... well, jizzing hurt.”

The first thing that came to mind was a comment that would have cost any nurse their job if they had said it. I swallowed it and nudged Nico again. “So you mean pain-free ejaculation was more important to you than pain-free urination?” I couldn't keep the amusement out of my voice, but Nico nudged me back.

“Yeah, I know, and I don't even have a girlfriend who could have been annoyed by my abstinence.”

“Men.”

“M-hm.”

I laughed softly, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, which were still terribly tense. “Better, now that you've told me?”

“Don't tell anyone, okay?” he asked instead of answering.

“I promise.” I leaned against him a little more, but his shoulders rose even higher, which made my concern return.

“Dust, I... um...” Nico shifted a little uncomfortably, and I let go of him. “Please don't get me wrong, but you're... an expert in this field?”

My eyebrows shot up. “In what field?” Somehow I felt like I had missed a change of subject.

“Well... prostate and stuff...”

I blinked at him in confusion, but his gaze was fixed on his feet. “Could you elaborate?”

“I mean...” – he actually turned his head away – "The doctor said prostate stimulation is helpful for inflammation and swelling. I don't know—" After hastily whispering the words, he broke off.

“I see.” His embarrassment was kind of cute, but also a hindrance. “Should I send you some links for suitable massage devices?”

“God, no!” His head snapped around, and he stared at me, his face bright red.

I stared back questioningly. “What? Instructions on how to finger yourself? I don't think—”

“Dust. No. Please.” He raised his hands imploringly. “Just buy—something small and thin and functional and... and...” He pushed himself away from the desk and turned his back to me, burying his face in his hands.

“Okay,” I replied quietly. I understood prostate issues were generally a cause for concern and that straight men saw a lot of supposed masculinity problems in that area, but coming from Nico, it surprised me. So much so, in fact, that I didn’t really know how to deal with it.

Finally, I gently touched his back. “Hey... we can talk about anything, you hear? Just like always.”

“I know,” he muttered back, then let out a half-sniffle, half-grunt as the phone in his pocket started to vibrate.

I was close enough to read Auntie before he silenced the call and put the phone away. “Are you seriously ignoring Auntie Evie?”

“Yes...” Nico turned back to me, his face a pained grimace. “I just can't talk to her right now.”

“That explains why she asked me if everything was okay with you.” I frowned at him.

“She did?”

“Of course she did. Along with the usual catalog of personal questions and lectures. It’s bad enough that I have to listen to Quen’s portion on top of my own, but yours in addition was a bit much.” I wrinkled my nose in displeasure.

“I'm sorry.” Nico took a deep breath and shook his head. “She keeps asking about Dad and... and I just can't stand all these health issues.”

“Auntie Evie is ninety-seven, Nico. Her life consists of doctor's appointments and collecting medication packages. The days when she drank the rest of the family under the table are long gone.”

“I know, Dust, but they always say you should leave a situation before you do something you'll regret. So I don't talk to her at all, okay?” The words came out more forcefully than he probably intended, because he turned away with a snort and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sorry.”

“It's totally fine, really.” I nodded in agreement, not sure if he even saw it. This was about Nico, his problems and worries, so I gave him time, even though the silence was uncomfortably long.

The storm howled around the house, the creaking of the trees dangerously loud, even over the arrhythmic patter of the rain.

“Thanks, man.”

I flinched when Nico suddenly spoke, forcing a smile onto my lips as he punched me playfully on the arm. “Are you sure you want to go back in this weather?”

He grimaced. “The offer's nice, but I have to finish something for Johnson, and I can only do that using the five-fold secured, verified, and police-checked connection on my desktop PC at home.” A roll of his eyes followed. “If my health doesn't kill me, then probably this case will.”

That made me laugh. “Don't exaggerate.” I brotherly punched him back.

“Never.” His grin returned. That was reassuring.

~

Confused, I blinked into the darkness and lifted my head.

Ding... Dong...

“What the...?”

Ding... Dong...

I couldn't have slept long, because my brain felt like mush. But I wasn't imagining the slow, deep droning of a church bell.

Ding... Dong... Ding...

My phone rang, and Fred's caller image popped up. It was just after eleven, I noticed, before I pressed the thing to my ear. “Yes?”

“Dust, you hear that too, right? The bell?” Fred asked uncertainly.

“Yes, but I—” I interrupted myself when Uncle Carl said in the background:

“Bridget, you can hear the bell ringing, right?”

Our house phone rang and Bridget, who was probably on loudspeaker, said: “No, Irma, that's not Attville. You can only hear the bell when the wind is right.”

And Michael interjected, “But there's no other church tower here.”

For a moment, practically all the residents of our small community were talking at once, connected to each other via various telephones.

Shaking my head, I swung my legs out of bed, slipped on my fluffy slippers, and threw on a cardigan before heading over to Uncle Carl and Fred, listening to the heated discussion.

The two of them had still been awake, watching TV in their own little living room, and it was almost a miracle that they had heard the bell at all above the volume of the TV and the storm.

“But the Monk’s Tower doesn’t have a bell anymore!” George yelled over the chaos.

“Magic can make noise too,” I interjected—the first thing I said.

“Well, I'd be surprised if you conjured up a magic bell,” Michael replied with a chuckle. “Don't yours ring often enough?”

Uncle Carl let out an indignant sound on behalf of everyone, while I just sighed.

“Can we complain somewhere?” George growled. “I have to work tomorrow and that thing is loud.”

“Forest rangers?” Fred interjected.

“Dust isn't wrong, magic can make noise too,” Bridget remarked thoughtfully at that moment.

“Then turn it off! My God, what do you have magic for?” George was in a really bad mood.

“You do realize there's a storm raging outside? And we live in the middle of the forest?” Uncle Carl asked critically.

“Yes, but can you sleep with that noise?” Michael asked cheerfully. Sometimes I thought the man swallowed something to keep him in a good mood. "You know what, Bridget, we'll dress warmly and go look at the tower. What do you say, Dust, you in?"

Before I could react, everyone was talking over each other again.

“God, that's ridiculous!” Bridget shouted over George. “You're a grown man.”

“No, Edward,” Irma called out to her husband, whom we couldn't hear, “your butt is staying here. You couldn't even make it from your bed to the bathroom without an accident this morning.”

Skeptically, I glanced at Uncle Carl, who returned my gaze and shook his head. Whether he was stunned or disapproving, I wasn't sure. “I'll go put on my rubber boots,” I said loudly, and Michael called back,

“See you at your gate in ten!”

George muttered an obscene curse.

“No, Edward!”

“See you soon,” Bridget said simply.

Shaking my head, I turned away.

Ding... Dong...

“Are you sure they took that thing down?” Fred asked quietly.

“In the eighties, yes, after young mages kept ringing the bell as a dare,” Uncle Carl replied grumpily.

Ding... Dong...

 

 

The forest floor had turned to mud, squelching under our feet. The trees creaked, the wind whooshed and rumbled through the branches, and the drumming of rain against my jacket drowned out everything else. The wind seemed to change direction constantly, spitting cold, hard water in our faces, my trousers were drenched within few minutes and the skin on my thighs hurt.

Above it all, the constant slow drone of the bell rang out.

Michael, cheerful as ever, and George, even grumpier than usual, strode ahead, the beams of their flashlights dancing, and Michael chattered incessantly. What he lacked in classic Parker physique, he made up for with a double dose of joie de vivre.

“Dust...”

I wiped the rain from my eyes and turned halfway toward Bridget, who had grabbed my sleeve. “Hmm?”

Although she could have protected herself from the wind and weather with a shield, she had decided against it. Perhaps because otherwise George would have complained about why he wasn't protected too. Thus, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek and a drop ran down her nose. “Do you know how to create magical images?”

“In theory, yes. Why?” Since she was now walking next to me on the narrow path and we both had our hoods pulled low over our faces, I could only see the tip of her nose when I glanced over at her.

“We all know there's no bell left in the Monk's Tower.” She slipped in the mud and I grabbed her arm. “But with the way the young people have been messing around there since the monks left and wisely took the clapper with them, there's probably an imprint left.”

“Making a magical imprint visible to the naked eye is one thing,” I replied, spitting out something that had blown into my mouth. “But having such an image function?”

“It's not that difficult, depending on the object.” Bridget huffed, slipping in a puddle. “It's just...”

“Yes?” We had reached the hill on which the monastery and tower had been built over a hundred years ago, and the ground was getting steeper with every step—and therefore more slippery.

“It's part of our curriculum,” Bridget replied after a pause. "Phoebe never mastered it herself, so she sent Kate to me for that part. And Kate was really good at it, I tell you. She could easily make a representation of the bell and ring it."

“Okay, fair enough, but”—a good distance ahead of us, Michael fell squealing into the blackberries at the side of the path—“but why?”

“I don't know. But the talk of a duel got me thinking.”

I sighed, the wind snatching the soft sound from my lips.

George had helped Michael to his feet by now and both of them struggled on up the hill.

Bridget clung to me for support and I almost fell backwards.

“Kate's father suspects someone who might have kidnapped her,” I said when Bridget let go of me. My feet were freezing cold despite three layers of socks.

“Well, then I don't know either. It's not difficult to ring a real bell with a barely controlled touch of magic, but this? I don't know why anyone would bother. Especially since hardly anyone can hear it in the storm anyway.”

Something about her statement made me frown, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Besides, George was yelling something at us, and of course, I slipped to the side at that very moment.

Bridget grabbed my hand, which didn't help, until Michael grabbed her hand in turn and practically pulled us the last few steps up the hill.

At the top of the hill, the trees were sparser, as many of them had only grown after the monastery had been abandoned, so the wind swept even more fiercely over us here. To our left was the small monastery complex, to our right the tower. The area in between had once been part of the monastery garden, and you could still find rampant asparagus, rhubarb, and garlic.

At the moment, however, the whole area resembled a flat lake, churned up by the storm.

“Can you see anything?” George called, his face turned toward the silhouette of the tower.

While I was still blinking into the magical vision, Bridget already called back, “Someone has created a magical image of the bell and is ringing it.”

“Can you stop that?” Michael wanted to know.

“Yes, sure, but there's something...”

The bell shimmered in a marbled mix of bronze and light green, but something red kept flickering. Bridget was probably referring to that.

“There's always a but,” George growled, stomping through the puddle-lake.

“Can we stop the ringing without disturbing the magic so we can take a closer look?” I asked Bridget.

“Yes. But that red thread there... it looks an awful lot like life energy to me.”

I glanced up again, studying the red flicker. “Someone has bound their life energy to the bell...”

“And it started ringing when the thread was cut,” Bridget finished my thought.

The question of why hammered in my head like the raindrops on my hood. Even without the storm, the ringing would never have reached Attville, Quincefield, or Warner's Hill. But did it have to?

I turned halfway around. In daylight, I could have seen the roofs of our houses. There were enough people who knew who lived here.

An outcry made me flinch, followed almost immediately by a frightened squeal.

I rushed off, Bridget at my side.

In the glow of the dancing flashlight beams, I saw George standing on the steps leading to the tower door; Michael was stepping aside and shaking himself. Something shapeless lay in front of the door, but since George had aimed his flashlight at his feet, it only took shape when my beam landed on it.

“Oh God...” Bridget said tonelessly, and I came to a sliding stop.

“Oh hell...” I muttered.

“It's what it looks like, isn't it?” Michael asked a little pitifully from somewhere behind us.

“Yes,” George said grimly, now letting his light slide over the form.

The clothes soaked from the rain, a young woman lay there. She looked as if she were asleep, but with the weather beating down on her, that was unlikely.

“You should call your detective,” Bridget said quietly, the flashlight in her hand trembling slightly. “We found Madeleine.”