IMAJIN THIS! QUALITY FICTION BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS First 3 Chapters of 2011 Imajin Books Titles VARIOUS AUTHORS IMAJIN THIS! SMASHWORDS EDITION Published by Imajin Books at Smashwords Copyright © 2011 by Imajin Books and various authors. All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. FIRST EDITION eBOOK Imajin Books - http://www.imajinbooks.com ISBN: 978-1-926997-49-0 Cover designed by Cheryl Tardif, Imajin Books Dedicated to everyone who reads Imajin Books. Acknowledgements Special thanks goes to every Imajin Books author, for their wonderful stories and their dedication to promoting their works. Thank you to Jennifer Johnson, our talented senior book designer, for all the fabulous covers she created in 2011. Jenn also created a couple of our book trailer videos. We look forward to another great year with her! Thank you to Kelly Komm, who created most of our 2011 book trailer videos. Kelly, we wouldn't have had such a successful first year without you! Thank you to our editors and proofreaders: Alisa C., Betty G., Chynna L., Kayleigh G., Lisa H., Lisa M. and Patricia L, who have edited, made suggestions and polished our manuscripts. Hopefully we haven't left anyone out. Thank you to Larry Kaye, our patient and brilliant formatter, who also does a final proof on all our manuscripts. We wish you'd been involved since day one and we look forward to another year, hopefully with no formatting gremlins! Table of Contents Introduction ASENATH by Anna Patricio BLONDE DEMOLITION by Chris Redding CHASING CLOVERS by Kat Flannery CHEAT THE HANGMAN by Gloria Ferris CHILDREN OF THE FOG by Cheryl Kaye Tardif DIVINE INTERVENTION by Cheryl Kaye Tardif DIVINE JUSTICE by Cheryl Kaye Tardif LANCELOT'S LADY by Cherish D'Angelo REMOTE CONTROL by Cheryl Kaye Tardif ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL by Melodie Campbell SHADOW OF INNOCENCE by Ric Wasley SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES by Cheryl Kaye Tardif SOUL AND SHADOW by Susan J. McLeod THE BRIDGEMAN by Catherine Astolfo THE OTHER FACE OF GOD by C. Robert Lee THE RIVER by Cheryl Kaye Tardif UNDER A TEXAS STAR by Alison Bruce VICTIM by Catherine Astolfo WHALE SONG (and WHALE SONG: SCHOOL EDITION) by Cheryl Kaye Tardif WHAT FEARS BECOME: An Anthology from The Horror Zine by various authors, edited by Jeani Rector Introduction Welcome to Imajin Books, where we promise "quality fiction beyond your wildest dreams." This special chapter book showcases our 2010-2011 releases from a variety of international authors. Our authors strive to deliver a quality read that will entertain you, maybe make you laugh, possibly raise the 'steam' level, or perhaps make you check your doors and windows. You'll find a wide range of genres, categorized on our website: http://www.imajinbooks.com. Most of our books are available in ebook and trade paperback editions. For your convenience, we've added quick links to Amazon and Smashwords in this sample chapter book. And we've added links to our authors' websites or blogs. IMAJIN THIS! features the first 3 chapters (plus prologues where applicable) of each of our books, so use your IMAJINation and enter the minds of our authors... Asenath by Anna Patricio ASENATH by Anna Patricio Pharaoh...gave him Asenath daughter of Potiphera, priest of On, to be his wife... Before the years of famine came, two sons were born to Joseph by Asenath daughter of Potiphera, priest of On. Genesis 41:45-50 (NIV) CHAPTER ONE Egypt, 1554 B.C. The Nile had just flooded, leaving the ground moist, rich and black. The children of our riverside village, I among them, frolicked about in the cool, gooey earth. In the distance, the ancient river circled the land, glittering with a thousand tiny dancing lights from the sun-god's Boat of a Million Years. A breeze blew, rustling the branches of the palm trees that surrounded our home. "Kiya!" No sooner had I looked than a mud ball pelted me hard across the stomach. "I'll get you for that, Menah." I bent down to gather mud in my hands when another ball landed on my back. He was a quick one, my best friend. I had just formed a mud ball and was about to raise my arm when Menah suddenly charged forward and pounced on me. "Now you'll get the tickle torture," he said in a mock evil voice. "No, Menah. Please, no." But I was overcome by uncontrollable laughter. "Menah! Kiya!" voices called out, interrupting our playful wrestling. Our mothers approached. "Come out now," my mother called. "It is time to prepare for the Feast of Hapi." Covered in mud from head to toe, Menah and I scrambled toward them. Mama shook her head, smiling. "You're such a mess." She led me back to our hut. "What is going to happen tonight, Mama?" I asked. "I mean, after we pray to Hapi? Will there be games?" Mama's blue eyes twinkled against her brown skin. "I see no reason why there shouldn't be." "And lots of food?" "All the food you could ever want." "May I wear my lotus necklace today?" Years ago, when I was very young, Mama had given me a beautiful carved lapis lazuli lotus pendant strung on a simple piece of coarse rope. She told me it had been in her family for many generations and that her grandmother had received it from Hapi himself. She ruffled my hair. "Of course. Today is, after all, a special day." As we entered our mud hut, which had been my home since birth, I saw my father mending one of his fisherman's nets. When he saw me, he pretended to cower in fear. "A mud monster has entered our house." I laughed. "It's just me, Papa." He leaned forward and squinted, as if trying to get a good look, though the gesture was comically exaggerated. "Is it? Let me see. Ah yes, it's my little Kiya." He leapt to his feet, picked me up and swung me around, ignoring the mud that soiled his hands. I squealed with delight. "Nakhti," Mama said. "I have to get her ready." "Yes." Papa set me down. He gave me a gentle slap across the back, motioning for me to return to Mama. "I get to wear the lotus today, Papa." He smiled. "I am sure you will look very pretty." Later that afternoon, four priests from a nearby town passed by our village. They shouldered on poles our patron god's idol, which nestled upon a bed of water lilies. A ray of sunlight bounced off the golden image and it flashed with brilliance. Behind the god was a small train of dancing priestesses. They rattled sistrums and twirled around, their white dresses billowing out like clouds. My fellow villagers and I were assembled outside our village, awaiting the god's arrival. When he appeared, we fell to our knees and touched our foreheads to the sandy ground. "Glorious Hapi," my father intoned. "We thank you for once again allowing your water to flow and give life. We thank you for nourishing our land and our people. We pray your sacred pitchers never cease to flow. We thank you, great god of the Nile." My heart swelled with pride. Papa was the most renowned fisherman in our village. Though he was quite an old man―many years older than my mother―he possessed skills and strength that surpassed even those of the younger generations. Everyone thus hailed him as the favoured of the river god. "Praise be to you, Hapi," I echoed along with the rest of my fellow villagers. As the idol trailed away, we rose to our feet and gathered up the amulets and flowers, which we would be tossing into the Nile as offerings. It was sunset now and sheer red-orange skies cast a fiery glow upon the river's rippling surface. From a distance, we heard the warbling of river fowl and the screeching of monkeys. We approached the riverbank. It was still soft and muddy from the inundation. We tossed our offerings in. All the while, Papa chanted hymns of praise. Afterward, we returned to the village for what we children had been anticipating the most―the games. A kind, respectable widow named Mekten, whom everyone called "Village Mother", held a game called the "statue dance." She played a reed flute while we danced and would stop at random moments without warning. We had to freeze as soon as the music stopped. Those who were still dancing were out of the game. My friends and I loved it so much that Mekten held several rounds of it. Unfortunately, I always lost, as I always got so caught up in the liveliness of the game. However, she awarded me a small spinning top as a prize for being the best dancer. I danced so much that I could barely keep my eyes open as we later sat down to the feast. Papa picked me up and carried me back to our hut. I was too tired to protest. As soon as he lay me down, I fell into a deep sleep. That night, I dreamt I was on a great winged barque sailing along the Nile. It was a bright day, with the white-golden Egyptian sun shining gloriously and flocks of ibises and herons gleaming against the clear blue sky. A group of friendly monkeys, like those who usually wandered near my family's hut, kept me company on the deck, entertaining me with their hilarious antics. Suddenly, the skies darkened and the water began to thrash against the barque. The monkeys leapt up and down, screeching frantically. I grabbed onto the rail. Thunder rumbled. Fierce white waves threatened to haul us overboard. The barque tipped to a dangerous level and I began to scream. Waking, I placed my hand over my heart, which was pounding fiercely. I was about to heave a sigh of relief when I heard the rumbling from my dream. I sat up, my chest constricting in fear once more. The noise sounded like it was coming from outside our hut. The rumbling stopped. I heard a strange voice shouting in a language I could not understand. My father appeared beside me. In the dim light, I could see the outline of his bony profile as he knelt by my side. "What's that noise, Papa?" He put his arms around me and before he could answer, a chilling scream sliced through the air. Other screams followed. Soon, the air was filled with a frightening cacophony―screams, cries and more shouts in that strange language. Papa's grip on me tightened. "Come, Kiya. We must hide you." The door of our hut flew open. Two enormous, fearsome-looking warriors towered like the tallest trees. Their faces were thickly painted in bright, garish colours. They wore loincloths made of animal skin and peculiar pointed headdresses that emphasised their unusual height. In their hands were spears that glinted threateningly. Mama screamed. One of the warriors shouted something, while waving toward us. Another dashed forward and snatched me out of Papa's protective hold. "Papa!" The monster hauled me outside. I kicked and flailed. "Papa!" "Kiya!" Papa hurried after me. Alas, though he was strong and agile, he was no match for these giants. They ran with such enormous strides that in no time he was out of sight. "Papa?" I writhed about in the warrior's iron grip. "Papa!" I felt a blow to the back of my head and the world turned black. Cold water slapped my face. When I opened my eyes, I was staring into the massive painted face of my captor. "Get up," he snarled. His breath was fouler than rotten fish. I struggled to my feet. Though I was still in a daze, I dared not disobey. The warrior grabbed my arm and led me through pitch-black darkness. I was certain he was going to kill me. My chest tightened with fear. He led me out into a brightly lit clearing. It looked like we were in the midst of a dense jungle. A campfire crackled at the centre where the warrior's comrades sat feasting and talking. Relief washed over me when I noticed my fellow villagers huddled together at the far end. Menah was with them. I smiled. "Menah!" The warrior slapped me hard across the face. "You are not to speak. If you do so again, we will kill you." I shuddered, though I was less frightened than before now that I knew I was not alone. The warrior dragged me over to the villagers and shoved me amongst them. "Stay with them. No talking and no trying to escape." He glared at us, then went to the fire to join the others. Menah took my hand. "Where are my parents?" I asked in a bare whisper. He looked at me sadly and shook his head. I knew what that meant. They were not there. I suddenly threw up. In a flash, the warrior was before us. "What's going on here?" No one answered. "She felt sick and vomited," our village mother Mekten said finally. The warrior turned to his comrades and said something in their language. They laughed boisterously. He shook his head and returned to them. Tears spilled from my eyes. Menah held me and rocked me, comforting me. I sobbed for a long time, eventually crying myself to sleep. What followed was an arduous journey through the jungle. The scorching sun was merciless and mosquitoes bit my arms, legs and face. The entire time, our captors threatened to murder us and I might have actually died with despair had it not been for the familiar faces around me. I do not know how far we travelled, but just as I thought we would perish, one of the warriors announced we had reached our destination. It was early evening. We were led toward a tribal encampment illuminated by a towering bonfire. Drumbeats pounded in my ears as we drew nearer. When we entered the camp, I saw tents made of dyed animal hides, as well as poles topped with the decapitated heads of people and animals. I averted my eyes, trying to erase the horrific images from my head. The drums were deafening as the tribespeople surrounded us. Like our captors, they were wrapped in animal skins. Their bodies were pierced in just about every part and painted in bright colours. I shuddered when a small child with painted teeth and a pierced nose came over and poked at my face. My fellow villagers and I were lined up in front of the bonfire. I thought for sure they would murder us. I whimpered as one of the warriors strode up to us. I recognised him. He had entered my family's hut. The warrior paced the length of our row. "Do you know why you are all here?" No one answered. He glared at us. "Many years ago, your Pharaoh murdered our chieftain. I am that chieftain's son and will now avenge my father's death. Until your king makes amends, we will continue to destroy your wretched country. If he does not, we will fight until Egypt is no more." As he reached me, he stopped pacing and smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "What is your name, little girl?" His voice was gentle. "K-Kiya," I squeaked. "What a beautiful girl you are. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?" I did not answer. "How old are you?" "Nine." "Ah. Perfect." His hideous grin widened. "You will be my slave, Kiya. And when your red moon comes, you will become my bride." I stared at him, too horrified to speak. He stepped forward. "That flower around your neck goes very well with your lovely face." He fingered the lotus pendant and I pulled back. "Where are my parents?" I blurted. "We left them behind, little one. We have no use for them." He laughed cruelly. My fear was replaced by rage. "I want my parents. Bring me back to my parents." One of the warriors rushed toward me, but the chieftain held up his hand. He stared into space for a moment. "Very well. If you work hard, I will send for your parents by the time you and I are ready to marry." My anger began to abate. "You mean that?" I looked into his dark eyes, which were surrounded by a strange painted pattern of dots. "Yes. So what do you say, little Kiya? Are you going to work hard?" I hated that he called me "little Kiya." It sounded like he was trying to replace Papa. But I knew that if I wanted to see my parents again, I had to be obedient and silent. I nodded. "Good," he said, turning away. "What is a red moon?" I asked. Some of my fellow villagers stared at me, aghast, while the tribespeople roared with laughter. The chieftain approached Mekten. "Be Kiya's advisor and explain to her what a red moon is. I am sure you know full well." He winked at her. I felt sick at that gesture, even though I did not understand what it meant. Mekten nodded in submission. The chieftain waved his arm, inviting his people to pick slaves from among us. A tall, thin woman with large bone earrings and a cold expression led Mekten and I to the chieftain's large tent. When we stepped inside, I nearly screamed. The place was festooned with more disembodied animal heads, as well as enormous wooden masks with frightening expressions. The dim light from torches cast shadows on the eerie things, making them look almost alive. The tribeswoman pointed to a dirty mat at the far end of the tent. "You will sleep there. Go now." Mekten and I headed for the mat, but the tribeswoman grabbed Mekten's arm. "Not you. You will stay here." I stared at them, confused, and the woman glared at me. "Go!" I hurried over to the mat as the tribeswoman extinguished the torch, plunging the tent into complete darkness. All was silent. Then the tent's flap rose, revealing the bulky profile of the chieftain. He shuffled inside and the flap swung closed. Not long after, I heard Mekten crying out in fear and pain. Heavy breathing followed. The louder Mekten screamed, the heavier the breathing grew. Though I had no idea what was happening, I knew I was hearing something bad. I covered my ears, but it was no use. Similar screams rose from the neighbouring tents. I slept amongst nightmares, waking at times to the sound of terrified cries and heartbreaking sobbing. The following morning, Mekten acted scared of everything and everyone, which wasn't like her. I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn't know how. Even the most trivial things I did frightened her. Throughout the day, I kept a distance from her. But at times, I tried to reach out to her. She was, after all, one of our dearest family friends. "Mekten," I said in a timid voice. "What is a red moon?" Mekten looked at me with sad eyes. Finally, she took a deep breath and explained everything in a shaky voice before breaking down. CHAPTER TWO For the next months, I woke up each day to a fresh new dread, which remained with me until the time I went to sleep. Even in my dreams, I was given no respite. Sometimes, I woke up in the middle of the night, worrying if we would ever be rescued and if I would ever see my parents again. Then one morning, at a most unexpected moment, my red moon dawned. Though Mekten had already told me all I needed to know, nothing could have prepared me for a pain so terrible that I could barely stand. When Mekten saw me hunched on the mat, she immediately flew to my aid. I was more than grateful as I desperately needed help. She gave me soothing herbs, then eased me into a foetal position, which improved my condition remarkably. As I knelt on the ground, she whispered to me, "Kiya, I'm pregnant." I gasped. "How?" Though Mekten had already told me the mysteries of womanhood, there was still so much I didn't know. "Ah...it's a long story." "Will you be all right?" "I hope so. I mean...yes, I will." She gave me a clearly forced smile. "If you need any help, you can always come to me." "Thank you, Kiya. I'd better go. I'll cover your chores for you." After she stepped out of the tent, I held the lapis lazuli lotus pendant close to my chest, thinking about Mama and Papa. In the rare, blessed silence of the tent, I tried to send messages to them, telling them that we would all be together again soon. A week later, I was lost in a dreamless sleep when I heard a faint rumbling, like distant thunder. I paid it no attention, even as the rumbling continued. Then I opened my eyes to the tent's heavy darkness and realised that the rumbling had become nearly deafening. I sat up. This was so much like the day we were captured. Whatever it was, whatever would happen, it could only be worse. Without warning, the tent's entrance flap was ripped apart and the breaking dawn light revealed three tall soldiers dressed in bronze breastplates and leather kilts. I screamed as they brandished their swords. One of the soldiers charged toward Mekten and I, while the other two headed for our masters. "Don't be afraid," the soldier said. "We're here to save you. We're Pharaoh's army. Come!" Immediately, Mekten and I leapt to our feet and hurried outside without looking back. I saw that the camp was already in the throes of battle. Cries rang out as the horses and chariots of the Egyptian army swept throughout the camp. Groups of soldiers tore down the tribespeople's tents. Weapons clashed and blood spilled everywhere. Not far from me, one of Pharaoh's soldiers beheaded a tribal warrior. Blood sprayed all over me and the head rolled at my feet. I stopped in my steps, shocked. "Come on, little girl!" my rescuer cried. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the encampment. Mekten and I were led to a safe distance, where a makeshift barricade of wagons and chariots had been set up. I saw that a number of our fellow villagers were already gathered there, guarded by more Egyptian soldiers. "Kiya!" Menah suddenly appeared and darted toward me. I screamed with joy this time and held out my arms to my beloved best friend. Our masters had kept us apart the entire time. The only one of my people I could speak to was Mekten, as I worked with her. But now, Menah and I swept each other up in a fierce embrace. Then some of the adults came to us and hugged us both. Soon, we were all embracing each other. Some of us laughed, some cried with relief. We must have made such a sorry sight, with our ragged clothes, soiled and bruised faces and stringy hair. But we did not care. Even the soldiers at the barricade watched us with smiles. In no time, Pharaoh's army emerged victorious and we received them with clamorous cheers. Those of the tribespeople who had not been killed were rounded up to be made slaves in Egypt. As for the chieftain, I heard he and his entire family had been murdered. I shed no tears for them. The much longed-for journey home started out happy, needless to say. The soldiers sang victory songs and invited us to join in. However, one day Mekten whispered to me to go fetch the doctor. She was bleeding, she said. He came to her at once and our journey was brought to a halt. I tried to comfort my friend, but my efforts seemed to be in vain. Her face was twisted in pain and she was taking deep, ragged breaths. "Mekten," I whispered, as she let out a groan that brought tears to my eyes. I took her hand. "Mekten, it's all right." "Kiya," the physician suddenly said. "She's bleeding very badly. Go get some linen." I gathered as much as I could. But soon, the pile of bloodied cloths rose high at the side and Mekten's mat had become a deep crimson red. I took her hand once more and leaned my face close to hers. "Mekten, I am so sorry. I am trying to do everything I can." "Thank you for your kindness, Kiya." Her voice was hoarse, as she struggled to get the words out. "Thank you." Then, her hand went limp and her head rolled back, looking up at me with a hollow, vacant expression. I threw my head back and let out a loud wail. Soon, the rest of my fellow villagers gathered to me, joining me in my mourning. The soldiers were kind enough to allow us a solid day of grieving. When we were ready to move again, the adults wrapped Mekten's body in linen and placed her aboard one of the wagons. We would be taking her back with us to the village to bury her there. It was the least we could do for our beloved Village Mother, after all she had done for us. The rest of the journey home was sombre. But when one of the soldiers informed us that we were only a couple of days away from our home, our spirits soared once more. I began to imagine my reunion with my parents. Would Papa pretend to see a ghost, then gather me up and swing me around? Would Mama hold me close, and in her beautiful soothing voice, tell me how much she had missed me and how much I had grown? I smiled thinking about it. Soon, our beloved home appeared as a speck in the distance. The moment my fellow villagers and I saw it, we burst into cheers that could have subdued the storm-god Seth. Suddenly, some of us began darting ahead. I thought that was a good idea and joined them. In no time, a crowd came pouring out of the village. Amidst the joyous shrieks, crying and hugging, I looked around for my parents. They were not there. I tried to ignore the dread that rose up inside me. Perhaps Papa was still out fishing and Mama was out gathering water and herbs. I blinked in astonishment. Already, I had readjusted to the old routine. It was as if the entire captivity had just been a horrible nightmare. I entered the village, the familiar surroundings opening up around me like welcoming arms. Nothing changed, but nothing ever really changed here. Still, the people of our village never had reason to complain, for everything we loved and wanted was here—our families and friends, our comfortable mud huts and the pristine beauty of the Nile. I arrived in front of my family's hut. I gazed lovingly upon it for a moment, then entered. The house was extremely filthy. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling and frogs and rodents scampered about. A strange squeaking noise sounded from inside one of the water jars. I edged toward it and peered inside. To my horror, I saw a rat had given birth to slimy pink blobs. I screeched and backed away. I was still looking around in bewilderment, wondering why our house was in such dreadful condition, when I heard a voice outside, "Kiya." I turned around. Standing at the entrance to our hut was one of my father's closest friends, an elderly fisherman named Sakhbu. "Welcome home. It's good to see you." I hurried over to him. "Where are Mama and Papa, Sakhbu?" Sakhbu paused for a moment. My skin grew cold. There was something about his voice. Something...bad. Sakhbu took a deep breath. "Kiya. Be brave. Be strong." He placed his hands on my shoulders. "Where are they?" I stared into his wrinkled face, suddenly too frightened to speak. "Kiya." His voice was now soft. "Your parents have gone to the realms of the gods. The warriors murdered them after they took you away. They murdered Menah's parents as well." All I remember after hearing that is screaming as I collapsed to the ground. When I regained consciousness, I saw I was back inside my family's hut. Three faces looked down at me. One was Sakhbu, the other was his wife and the third was a portly, middle-aged man I had never seen before. I could tell from his garments that he was a priest. I also knew that he was not from around here, because he carried himself with pride and grandeur, unlike the nearby town priests, who were simple and modest. "Are you all right, Kiya?" Sakhbu asked. I stared up at him without answering, not because I did not want to, but because my tongue could not move. "It has all been too much for her," Sakhbu said quietly to the priest. "And really, Lord Pentephres, who can blame her? First her captivity, and now this." The priest clucked his tongue. If I had not been numb, I would have been intimidated by his grandeur. "It is indeed too much for a young child." He looked at me with eyes lengthened by cunning kohl streaks. "Her parents need not worry. They can rest knowing that..." Then I slipped back into nothingness. CHAPTER THREE I was certain I had died. There were no sounds, not even a faint light, nothing. I could not even see the gods who would decree my eternal fate. Perhaps I had been deemed worthless by them and discarded for all eternity. One day, the darkness lifted. I opened my eyes and saw I was in a strange room. Rows of reed mats stretched out to either side of me. Torches burned from alcoves in the stone walls. A large window revealed a dark-blue sky. I looked around blankly, my mind in a fog. A door at the far end opened to reveal a tall thin woman. She hurried over to me. "Kiya! Praise Re, you have awakened." She knelt by my side. "How are you feeling?" My voice was hoarse. "Uh, all right. Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?" The woman smiled. "I am Irikara. You are here in the Temple of Atum-Re in Heliopolis. The high priest Lord Pentephres brought you and some of the other village children here." "What's Heliopolis?" "The city of the sun-god." My eyes widened in fear. "You mean this isn't my village?" "No, Kiya. You are in the city now." I began to shudder. I knew nothing of the big cities, except what I once heard from a passing trader. He told us that little children there were tied up in sacks and left to die. I whimpered. Irikara placed a gentle hand on my arm. "Don't be afraid, Kiya. We're here to help you. Lord Pentephres has commanded that no harm should come to you or any of the other village children. And some of your friends are here too. Do you know Menah?" My anxiety immediately vanished. "He is my best friend." "How about the twins, Lyla and Nyla?" "Yes." I didn't know them too well, for they were quiet people who often kept to themselves. But I was more than happy to have familiar people around. "Menah has been asking about you every day," Irikara said. "And Nyla sleeps on the mat next to you. This is the room for the girls, you see. Menah sleeps in the boys' room." "Do you sleep here too?" "Yes, over there by the window." She nodded toward it. "Anyway, we've cleaned you up so that you're now fresh and pretty." For the first time, I noticed I had on a new and clean white dress. "I also saved this for when you awoke." She drew something from her pocket. I gasped. It was the lapis lazuli lotus necklace. It was then I realised how close I had come to losing it. Irikara pressed the precious gift onto my palm. My fingers closed tightly over it. "Thank you!" I said. "Thank you, Irikara." She smiled. "Why don't you go freshen up for dinner? You'll be able to see Menah and the twins. I'll leave you for awhile. You can wash your face over there." She motioned to a pitcher and some bowls. I gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you." Everything was still so strange to me. But she seemed very nice. "I shall see you soon." She disappeared out the door. I strung the lotus around my neck. After splashing my face, I went over to the full-length mirror by the window. I gazed at myself. The dress I wore was cut modestly and reached just below my knees. My hair, which had become stringy and smelly during my captivity, now fell to my hips in a glossy black veil. My feet were bare. Though I was dressed very simply, I thought I looked glamorous. I twirled around, loving how the dress flared out slightly. If only my parents could see me now. Suddenly, everything came crashing back to me. The captivity. The terrible news of Sakhbu. I woodenly walked back to my mat and sank down. It was not fair. I wanted to break down and cry, but for some reason the tears would not come. In the depths of my heart, I cursed Hapi for allowing this to happen. Never mind that I was in a temple. I was so lost in these dark thoughts that I did not see Irikara reappearing until I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Kiya? Are you all right?" I jolted, then looked up at her. "Yes, I'm fine." As nice as she was, I did not feel comfortable confiding in her. "Let's go get something to eat." She nodded. I rose and followed her outside. "Great Re, aren't you tall!" she said. As Irikara led me down a dimly lit corridor, she said, "Before you have dinner, you will be meeting with some of the senior priests and priestesses of the temple. Lord Pentephres is currently away. He is in Thebes, meeting with Pharaoh. He will want to see you when he returns. Be on your best behaviour. Bow when you are introduced. The priests will be asking you several questions. Reply truthfully. If you do not know what to say, I will answer for you." I nodded blankly. Her words barely registered in my mind. Outside, the night was cold. I shivered and hugged myself. Irikara led me through dirt paths lined with squat, mud brick structures, then into an alleyway. At the end, we found ourselves on the threshold of a gleaming courtyard. My jaw dropped. I had not imagined that the rugged path would lead to such an elegant place. The courtyard's grounds were laid with polished tiles that reflected the torches. Rows of lotus columns lined the sides. At the centre was a towering pointed pole, an obelisk covered in precious stones. The tip was capped with a solid golden benben pyramid which flashed against the looming night sky. "Come now, Kiya," Irikara said. "We must not keep the priests waiting." With great difficulty, I detached my eyes from the magnificent sights. I continued on my way. As I followed her across the courtyard, I smelled the bittersweet scent of incense wafting through the air. Irikara led me inside an enormous limestone building. Once more, I paused in my steps. The walls were covered in colourful glittering images. I approached a portrait of a hawk spreading out its glorious wings. The picture was made up of tiny precious stones. "Kiya, come." Irikara tugged my arm and practically dragged me the rest of the way through the corridor. We entered a vast hall. At a long cedar table, two priests and a priestess sat before a sumptuous feast—roast fowl, lotus bread, cucumbers, onions and honey cakes. Irikara led me up to them. She bowed. I awkwardly aped her movements. "Ankh, weneb, sedjet―life, health and prosperity to you, holy ones," she said. "Please allow me to introduce to you Kiya. She was one of the village children who came with Lord Pentephres. Alas, she was unconscious upon her arrival." One of the priests, a short, stout balding man, gave me a friendly smile. "How old are you, Kiya?" "Ten." I cast a quick glance up at him before averting my eyes once more. Though I did not know anything about the city, I knew these were important people to be respected and feared. Gleaming in their linen robes and sparkling jewels, they looked like they could command day to be night with a single word. The priest looked at his colleagues. "She's quite a lovely girl, don't you think?" The second priest, a thin man with a large nose, frowned. "What trades do you know?" He looked at me with large painted eyes that seemed to see through me. I stared at him, not understanding the question. "Did you do any chores before you came here, little girl?" the friendly priest asked. "Um, I―" "Speak up!" the frowning priest said. "I cleaned tents and washed laundry. Before that, I helped my mother clean our hut. I also gathered water from the river." "Tents, indeed," he scoffed. "We're not lowly barbarians." "Neither is she," said his more amiable colleague. "She is Egyptian, just like us." "She's awfully tall for her age," the priestess said, looking at me as if I was something that had gotten in her way. The frowning priest waved his hand. "Very well. Irikara, you may take her to be fed." We bowed and left the room. Irikara led me outside once more. We entered another building which was unmistakably the kitchen. Delicious cooking smells filled my nostrils. I realised I was starving. Irikara seated me at a table. A frowning old serving woman approached and dumped food onto my plate. I was too hungry to feel offended. I gobbled everything up. After I had satisfied myself, I heard footsteps behind me. "Kiya?" I turned. It was Menah and the twins. I let out a whoop of joy and flew over to them. "It's so good to see you." I embraced them tightly. "You too." Menah squeezed my arm. Beside him, the twins were silent, though there were wide smiles on their faces. "We were so worried about you, Kiya," Menah said. "I asked Irikara―" "You urchins are too loud," the grouchy old woman screeched. "Lower your voices or I won't give you any more food for the night." Menah gave me a look. He leaned toward me and mumbled, "Don't mind her. That is just the old kitchen hag. She and her daughter are so mean. But everyone else here is nice." "Old hag? Menah, you dreadful thing! By the way, what happened to your hair?" He grinned and ran a hand through his newly bald head. "Shaved it. Makes me look more dashing, don't you think?" I giggled. "No. You look funny." "This is how the royal princes look, Kiya." He raised his chin. "Whatever you say." I rolled my eyes and laughed. I realised I had not laughed in a long time. After dinner, I returned to the girls' room with the twins. I saw most of the mats were occupied by sleeping females of all ages. Lying beside me was a young woman who I had not met yet. She was already snoring soundly. I wondered if I would be able to get to know her the following day. Long after the twins had fallen asleep and the last torch had been extinguished, I lay listening to the snores and grunts around me. Though I was very tired, I could not fall asleep. I felt my grief weighing down upon my chest, nearly suffocating me. In an effort to block out the pain, I squeezed my eyes shut. My fingers brushed against something tiny and pointed. The lapis lazuli lotus. I held it to my chest. I would guard it with my life. It was all I had left of everything I had ever known and loved. I awoke the next morning to Nyla's gentle prodding. I opened my eyes. Nearly all the mats in the room were empty. "Is everyone already up?" I rubbed my eyes. "Yes. Come Kiya. We'll show you the bath house." Her voice was barely audible. I struggled to my feet and followed the twins outside. Our roommates stood around in groups that looked to have been established long ago. They chatted and gossiped, completely ignoring us. I envied at how confident they looked. I wondered if I would ever be able to find my place in Heliopolis, or if I even had one at all. Later after breakfast, Irikara came rushing up to me. "Kiya! Lord Pentephres arrived earlier than expected. He wants to see you now. Come!" I looked at Menah nervously. He smiled. "It'll be all right. Go. I'll see you later." I followed Irikara across the courtyard. I practically jogged to keep up with her. "Hurry up, Kiya," Irikara said, even though we were already moving quite rapidly. "We don't want to keep the high priest waiting. Hurry!" Gods. She had too much energy in her. Midway down a tree-lined path, Irikara suddenly stopped and turned around. I crashed into her. I braced myself, expecting an angry outburst. "Now Kiya, Lord Pentephres and his wife, the Lady Satsepdu, are the most important people in Heliopolis. Remember to be on your best behaviour like you were last night. When we greet them, prostrate." "What do you mean 'prostrate?'" "Kneel and touch your head to the floor." She wet her thumb and dabbed at a spot on my cheek. "There. Perfect. Now come on." We approached a large rectangular pool that reflected the cloudless blue sky above. Ducks and water lilies floated on its surface. Around it were acacias, sycamores, palms and brightly coloured flower beds. A couple stood by the pool with their backs to us. Irikara cleared her throat. They turned around. She dropped to her knees. I followed suit. "Life, health and prosperity to you, holy ones," Irikara said. "To you, Lord Pentephres, hem-netjer-tepy, Chief Prophet of Heliopolis, Great Seer. And to you, Lady Satsepdu, werest heneret, Chief Concubine of Atum-Re. Greetings in the name of Pharaoh Amenhotep, the living god, may he live forever." "Arise," the high priest said. We rose to our feet. I stood slightly behind Irikara. She gently tugged me forward. I caught her expression and saw a hint of a frown. "My lord and lady," she said. "Please allow me to introduce Kiya." I bowed. I was very nervous. When I rose back up, I saw the regal couple staring at me intently. They were dressed more opulently than the priests and priestess I had seen the previous night. Lord Pentephres donned a fine linen robe embroidered with golden stars. A large glittering pendant of the Eye of Re hung around his neck. His wife wore a gown of silver folds that draped prettily across her slender frame. Upon her head was an ebony wig dusted with gold. The couple's gaze was made more intense by the kohl streaks lining their large eyes. Then they broke into warm smiles, as if I was an old friend they had not seen in years. "How have you been, Kiya?" Lord Pentephres asked. "Very well, my lord." "Has everyone been looking after you?" "Yes." I swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord." "That is good. We were worried about you." "You were right, Pentephres," Lady Satsepdu spoke up. "She is quite an extraordinary child. So tall for her age too. My dear, Hathor has blessed you with the finest beauty in the Two Kingdoms." I blushed and mumbled an incomprehensible thanks. "She has indeed," Pentephres said. "Well, Kiya, you are going to stay here for a while so that we can look after you. Would you be happy for us to do that?" "Yes, my lord." "It is not such a bad place. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to approach us. We would very much like to help you." "Thank you, my lord." I began to like the couple, even though I barely knew them. "However," the high priest said. "We will need your help at times as well. Pharaoh will be coming in a couple of weeks for the Feast of Atum-Re. There will be much to do. Do you think you can help us there, Kiya?" I grew excited. "Of course, my lord." "I am pleased to hear that. Very well." He flicked his wrist, indicating the meeting was over. "Go now. I shall see you again soon." As soon as we were out of the priestly couple's hearing range, I squealed, "Irikara, Pharaoh is coming. That is so exciting." "It is indeed." She smiled. "There will be a lot of work to do though. But it should be fun." "Have you seen him before?" "I certainly have." "What is he like?" "He is, as we know, the living god." Then, she lowered her voice. "He is quite elderly now, but rather on the frail side. Not at all like what those statues of him depict." You can read the rest of ASENATH at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Anna Patricio's blog: http://annapatricio.blogspot.com Blonde Demolition by Chris Redding BLONDE DEMOLITION by Chris Redding CHAPTER 1 Mallory Sage's heart raced at the sight before her—a bomb. It had all the parts necessary to blow up the beer trailer and everything nearby—including her fellow firefighters at the Coleville Volunteer Fire Company. Adrenaline and anger streaked through her. She called to her chief. "Jesse, get out." I won't lose you. Not now. Not like this. Jesse Moran backed away from her, licked his lips, then moved in her direction. "Get out of here, Mal." Her heart sank. Even in the face of a bomb, her lover was willing to protect her. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her breath coming out in pants. "Not without you, Jesse." Without taking her eyes off Jesse, she shouted to another firefighter. "Call 911. Tell them we need the bomb squad." When Jesse reached her, she yanked him out. He had a hundred pounds on her. She had the element of surprise. "Get me wire cutters." Jesse looked at her as though she had three heads. "Do it." He shook his head. "No, you don't know what you're doing." She made eye contact with one of the bystanders. "Get me wire cutters and clear everyone out of here. Make sure no workers are on the fairgrounds." The last thing the struggling fire company needed was to lose this fair. It was their sole fund raising effort. These guys missed dinners and family events to put out fires and some jerk with a penchant for bombs couldn't be allowed to do that to them. What if this is just the beginning? Part of her knew it was. She'd seen more than enough in her job with Homeland Security to know that this bomb was part of some larger plot. Just when I was thinking about the future…about moving on, finding my birth parents. Just when I was sure that chapter was over… Here it was. The men moved to do her bidding. Except Jesse. He was still standing in the doorway, his gaze piercing her. "Mal, get out. The timer said only ten minutes." She blinked. Still he'll protect me. Shield me. Her heart pounded as a thrill danced down her spine. Then the reality of the job at hand crept in and she put on her game face. Her demeanor was slow and steady even though her pulse still raced. The bomb squad wouldn't get there in time. It was going to blow. She had no choice but to defuse the bomb herself. She grabbed Jesse by the shoulders. "Look at me." He did, and his eyes filled with a fear she'd never seen. Even though he could confront a fire, a bomb was out of his league. But not hers. "Jesse, do you trust me?" "Yes." "Go. I can take care of this." "No." He ran a hand through his red hair. "This is stupid. I'm not losing you." The realization cut through her like shards of ice. Oh, God. In that moment, she knew she'd never been his to lose. Maybe I've always known the past would resurface. Maybe I've only been on hiatus from that life. The dream had come out of the blue for firefighter Cal Stedman. He didn't put much stock in the everyday dreams people had, but he knew this one meant something. He'd been tired. More tired than he should have been and came home early from setting up the fair at his firehouse. Maybe that was why he'd dreamed. Having lost his wife five years ago, he now lay alone in bed. His bones ached from the physical labor of moving cinderblocks and putting up snow fencing around his beloved beer tent. The dream rolled around in his mind. The woman in it... I thought I'd put her out of my mind a long time ago. I did worship her. Too bad she left me when I went into the military. He shifted onto his side, noting that darkness had fallen while he'd been asleep. He saw midnight on his clock. "You have a child," the dream woman had said. But he didn't. He and his wife had tried for years with no heirs. Why would I dream about a child at this late date in life? He groaned at his ailing muscles, feeling his own mortality in their hum. Maybe it was that very sense of his growing old and closer to death that led him to think about a child. One he hadn't had with his wife. The whole time I was a cop, I never felt this vulnerable, this...mortal. His eyes drifted closed as his mind returned to dreamland. What if I do have a child? Booth leaned against the wall in the firehouse, his gaze glued to the beer trailer. When the contract had come down, he hadn't believed whom he would have to kill. She couldn't look any more harmless. She did know how to defuse bombs. Go figure. The kill would be easy. Still, he hadn't been given the go-ahead yet. He'd practice his shot until it was time. Even if that weren't how he'd kill her. For a moment, his heart wasn't in it. He tamped that down. It was unprofessional. Exactly what they'd feared would happen. He shook his head. No. He'd do the kill. Shifting his shoulders to ease the tension, he wondered if he was getting too old for this life. He longed for a beach somewhere. The millions he'd stashed away would work for many years to come. Just one more, he kept silently repeating. One more dead body, then he was free. He could feel the sun on his face already. There'd be beautiful women to attend to him. There were no virgins waiting in heaven for him and he was fine with that. He wanted his reward in this life. He rubbed a hand down his face. The door to the beer trailer opened. His mark stepped out. Time to put on his concerned face. Sweat poured out of every part of Mallory's body. Each drop amplified the adrenaline racing through her system. Two wires down. Two more to go...but which two? She thought back to all the bombs she'd defused. This is no different. You're in the zone, Mallory. No questions. Just...do it. With a held breath, she snipped the last wire. The timer stopped. Nothing exploded. She dropped most of her tools and released her breath. The bomb wouldn't blow. Opening the door to the cooler, the humid New Jersey air hit her in the face. She smelled herself and she was sure she must have warmed all the beer with her body heat. She gave a small smile and a wave to the crowd peering out the bay doors. This must be how astronauts feel after they splash down in the ocean. Ragged but relieved. The bomb wouldn't blow. Her rubbery legs complained at the task of carrying her across the parking lot, away from what weighed on her mind. I've been sucked back into my former life. She walked past the bomb squad. "All clear." "You don't mind if I check, do you?" a man dressed in a bomb suit asked. She shrugged. "Not at all." She handed him her cutters and trudged to the firehouse. The door to the bay opened as she approached. Jesse's gaze met hers and his eyes held many questions. None she could answer. "Not tonight. I'll talk tomorrow." His expression softened and her heart broke. I'm not the person you think you know. I'm not at all who I said I was. Her arms didn't move. She stood gasping humid July air. "Can I at least drive you home?" Some part of her wanted that, to pass on some of the responsibility, to just lie in someone's arms for a few hours and pretend. The person she used to be wouldn't let her rely on anyone. "No," came out of her mouth before she could decide. She smiled at him. "I'll be fine, Jesse. I just want to be alone." "Wait." He pulled her into his arms and whispered in her ear. "Thanks." At that, she turned away from him. The bay door closed behind her. The hum of it sounded like a school bell to change classes. I'm not changing classes though...I'm changing lives. It seemed the parking lot had lengthened since she arrived that morning. Each step took herculean effort and for a moment, her vision closed to a pinpoint as if someone had turned off an old television. One thing she knew was life is short. Her search for her birth parents couldn't wait until after the fair. Her body dropped into the car seat as she caught her breath. She closed the door a moment later. Before she could start her car, a hand covered her mouth. CHAPTER 2 Mallory bit down, then yanked at the arm. Her meager strength came from another rush of adrenaline. "Whoa, Mallory. It's just me." The familiar voice froze her before she could do any damage. Oh, crap. As if my day hadn't tanked already. One by one, she uncurled her fingers from around his wrist. Her shaking hands grasped the steering wheel, knuckles white. If she had a list of people she never wanted to see again, his name would be at the top. Why here? Why now? This is the last thing I need. She steadied her breath and scanned the parking lot. No one stirred or walked to their car. I can't be seen with him. "Don't turn around. Just drive. I'll be hunkered down in the back." She started the car and drove home. Her knuckles remained white. "What the hell are you doing here?" "I think you know." Of course. "The bomb in our trailer?" Emotions roiled her stomach. She'd have to stock up on antacids if Trey was back in her life. And she had just been thinking how nutty this week of fair preparations had been. Now it all looked so easy. Her thoughts shifted to the events of the evening. Who could have the bomb? It wasn't a prank if this guy's here. This was bigger than all of Coleville, Centre County. She pulled in front of her house, a two-story Cape Cod set down a long driveway. "We're here and no one can see you from the road," she said. She got out of the car, leaving her guest to follow. She had a date with a shower and her bed. Alone. Whatever he had to say could wait until she wasn't in an adrenaline hangover. Maybe the earth would swallow him before he entered her house. She snorted, her gaze searching the sky for flying pigs. As she unlocked the door she felt, more than heard him, behind her. A whole host of emotions flooded her, robbed her of breath. "There's some microwave popcorn in the cabinet. I'm taking a shower." "Ah, you remembered," he said, his voice gravelly. She whirled to look at him for the first time. He leaned on the door, his look as wild and dangerous as always. Worn black jeans hugged all the right parts and his black T-shirt did the same. His craggy face sported his usual five o'clock shadow. No matter when he'd shaved, that beard always showed. She hated herself for remembering that detail…and how that beard felt against her most sensitive parts. His dark gaze held hers like a vise. "I eat it too." The sentence sounded lame. She shrugged. "I'm taking a shower." Booth stood outside Mallory's house and just inside the shadows. If she'd looked out, she wouldn't have seen him. No streetlights in this part of town. The lights were on in the kitchen and her ex-partner moved around in there. Booth figured he could take the guy if necessary. Right now it wasn't. If he knocked on the door what would happen? Would she stammer that it wasn't what he thought? He chuckled. Studying his kill had never been so fascinating. No one had ever been so oblivious. Her alarms and security measures were a joke for him. He could move like a ghost. God knows he'd been trained by the best the government had to offer. Not like Mallory, who'd been trained by a Johnny-come-lately group like Homeland Security. He rubbed a hand down his face. Time to go home and sleep. The hot spray hit Mallory's sore muscles like a thousand needles. Her heart raced. Her mind sped past it. What could he want? "Ask me." She heard his voice through the translucent panel of the shower door. A voice that could send a thrill through her, had whispered to her of naked pleasures. A voice attached to a body that could fulfill those pleasures. She shuddered, not surprised to see him. He had a knack for pushing through her boundaries. "Do you mind? I'm naked, Trey." His laugh rumbled from the depths of his amazing body. "I've seen you naked. In fact I could probably draw a roadmap of your body." Her mouth went dry. She finished her shower and turned off the water. She let out a noisy breath before she opened the door. He would not get the best of her. Trey McCrane held her towel as if he planned to make her barter him for it. A twinkle lit his ice-blue eyes. "Towel?" She leaned on the metal frame of the stall, refusing to be intimidated. "Give me the towel." He did, easier than she thought. His gaze roved over her as intrusive as if it were his hands. Even if she hadn't been naked, she would have felt that way. Trey could look through people. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" "No, but I do want to know how fast you can make it out my front door." "Is that any way to greet your former partner?" She knew he meant partner in every sense of the word. They'd been partners in Homeland Security and in bed. "Leave, Trey. I have a good life." "And a bomb in your beer trailer." She wrapped the towel around herself and brushed past him to her bedroom down the hall. This wasn't how I'd envisioned my evening. All I wanted was a bath and then bed. Alone. Her vision had nothing to do with saving the world. "How do you know about that?" "Because we were expecting it." She dropped her towel and grabbed for a shirt. His hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Let me see you." "You don't get to see me." He'd lost the right five years ago. Her body betrayed her, tingled at his touch. She turned at his insistence and his eyes blazed a path up and down her. He stood close enough that she could smell his masculine scent. His hand hovered by her abdomen and some pathetic part of her longed for him to touch her. Trey was her Waterloo and she needed him to leave. Now. She didn't voice the command, instead she watched as his finger traced the faint scar on her abdomen. She'd worked hard to erase it from her body. The scar in her mind was not that easily forgotten. "You can hardly see it now." She jerked away and pulled on her shirt. "Trey, leave." "Sugar, I can't." She tugged on bike shorts, eyed his legs. "Limbs look fine to me. Bet you could even run out of here." "Don't you want to know about that bomb in your beer trailer?" She did. Instead, she'd hear it from the bomb squad. "I'll find out tomorrow, in the papers. Just like everyone else." His laugh surprised her, his breath moving some hair on her face. She couldn't breathe and stepped away from him. "Honey, you are not like anyone else. I'm surprised you didn't know that bomb was in there. You have the knack." She had always known where the bombs were. Almost better than the K-9 crew. She'd known about this one too, as much as she'd love to deny it. The knack had never been a gift to her. "So?" He took her hand. She yanked it away. "Don't touch me." "Mallory, we have to talk. I'm here for a reason." Her shoulders slumped. Sleep would be a stranger tonight. "Okay, give me a minute. Go pop that popcorn." Someone knocked on Mallory's front door as she passed it. She knew who stood on her porch. He'd let her go from the firehouse with no hesitation. She sighed and opened the door. Jesse leaned on the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. His sturdy shoulders, raised in question. His eyes searched her face. Despite the casual posture, she knew he wanted to touch her. Hold her. Comfort her. On any other night, she would have invited him into her house and into her bed. "You okay, Mallory?" "Oh, Jesse." She hugged him. Her forced smile would have to convince him. He can't see Trey. "I'm good. I'm going to eat something and then go to bed." She put a hand on his cheek. If only she could click her heels together and her other visitor would disappear. Instead, he lurked just out of sight in the kitchen. "You're a good guy, Jess. Go home." "Just a heads up, some detectives want to talk to you…uh…about your skills." The questions he'd had back at the firehouse appeared in his eyes again. She wished she could answer them. "Thanks. I hope they wait until morning." He nodded at her before he left, then turned back and kissed her hard on the lips. He backed away, only glancing at her when he reached the end of the porch. When she spun around Trey stood in the doorway. He wasn't jealous. He wouldn't be. It wasn't in him to show that much insecurity. "Friend of yours?" She moved down the hall to Trey. Her finger poked into his lean chest. "Jesse is none of your business." She waited for him to move and let her into her kitchen. When he didn't, she shoved him out of the way—at least made the attempt. Trey could be an immovable object when he wanted to. "Does he challenge you?" Her face flushed. She wouldn't share Jesse with Trey. Wouldn't go there. Not tonight. Not ever. "That part of my life is off limits. Shall we talk?" He moved aside for her. She settled at the worn Formica table that she'd found at an estate sale. She hated the piece of furniture, but it had been cheap. Her real kitchen table was on order now and expected in the next six weeks. One more step to making her house a home. She couldn't wait. Trey found a bowl and poured the popcorn into it. Two beers sat opened on the scarred table. "What gives?" "The terror cell again," he said. More than five years ago, she and Trey had thwarted a bombing at Penn Station, New York. As far as she knew, all the members of the cell had been arrested. At least she'd assumed so. She'd been in the hospital getting the scar that Trey had been stroking. After that she walked away from that life, never looking back. Now, that life stared at her. It had popped up like a jack-in-the-box. She didn't hear Pop Goes the Weasel. Instead, she smelled honeysuckle. "What now?" "They have multiple targets. Carnivals. Maybe even amusement parks. We're not completely sure." "Carnivals?" "We think they plan to blow up some amusement rides." "Hardly seems like a high-casualty endeavor," she said. "It won't be, but it will get a lot of children." Her blood went to boil. She hated when children were involved. "Is this recent intelligence?" "Yes, and that's why we had Marvelous Midways under surveillance." "Our ride company?" She shook her head. "You don't get more redneck-flag-waving than Bud Cone." "Not him. We don't think he has any idea." "His workers?" "Most likely." She took a swig of beer. "Most of his workers are Eastern European." "They hold those passports. Doesn't mean they're real." She nodded. With enough cash, she could get a passport that said she was from Egypt, even with her blonde hair and green eyes. Still, she wasn't convinced. He'd have to do better to get her to give up this life that she loved…even though she'd been restless about it and wondered what her roots were. "So what do you need me for?" His gaze slid over her. "You asking me or the organization?" She rolled her eyes. "The organization." "Damn." He dropped some popcorn into his mouth as if chewing over his thoughts too. "We need you back." Booth met the man in a park that closed after dark. He figured it was risky, but the man had insisted. "Her old partner's contacted her," he said. Booth shrugged. "So? I doubt she's going to be pulled back into her old life." "You've gotten to know her that well?" "Yes. I have. Just like my job stated." "I think you're too close, but the boss is happy." A frown creased Booth's face."So stay out of it. Why'd you bring me here?" "If she goes back there will be a bigger price on her head." "How much?" "Three million. That should be enough to bring you out for one more kill." "Maybe." The man poked Booth in the chest. "You damn well better not be too close to her to pull the trigger. We've gone to a lot of trouble to get you where you are." Booth put up his hands. "I'm a professional." "Good, because if I have to do it, you'll be in my line of fire too." "Don't worry. I know my job." The man walked away, leaving Booth in the park. He waited until he no longer heard the car. He wasn't concerned…no cops would bother him with his position in the fire company. Hours later, Mallory lay in bed—wide awake. Her head thrummed with thoughts. Her body spent from adrenaline, she couldn't get comfortable. The baby she'd given up made her wonder about her own parents. The idea of finding her mother and father, or at least a record of them, swirled around her brain. She wanted to know who she was. Who she really was. Now the organization wanted her back. Could I go back? Give up what I've built? Trey had warned her he would contact her again. Undercover. He was posing as one of the ride workers. She would have to see him for the next four days. Lucky me. Convinced she wouldn't get any sleep, she rose, not turning on any lights. Years of being on guard kept her in the dark. Once her eyes adjusted, she could see what she needed to. A light flashed above her bedroom door. Someone was on the porch. Whoever it was had set off a sensor, one she'd installed when she'd moved into her home. She licked her lips and contemplated what her next move would be. If she came down the steps, the person might see her…there was no back stairway, so she went with her only choice. She refused to be chased from her home. Mallory located her gun in the nightstand. She took a deep breath to lower her heart rate, then checked the weapon for ammunition. She paused at the top of the steps and listened. Thankful she already had clothes on when the warning light triggered, Mallory descended the stairs one at a time. She stopped at each to see if she could hear anything. A breeze blew the leaves around, but it hadn't done anything to dissipate the humidity of the day. The air conditioner in her room kicked on the moment she thought she heard another noise. Damn. Now I won't be able to hear. Her heart thumped in her chest. Sweat trickled down her back. An eternity later, she reached the bottom of the steps. Her motion-sensor light had been tripped and it now illuminated the porch and part of the front yard. The customary deer that feasted on her shrubs were nowhere to be found. Something, or someone, had scared them away. With her back flat against the front door, she peered out first one sidelight window and then the other. At her second look, she saw a shadow edging just outside where the beam of light fell. She couldn't see a weapon. Mallory had her gun and the element of surprise—the person didn't know that she knew they were there. Crouched down, she made her way to the back door. No one lurked back there as far as she could see. She eased the door open, then slid out of the house. Her breath came in short bursts as adrenaline flooded her body. She'd felt the same way during fires. Had felt it all the time when she worked for the government. With silent steps, she crept around the house, stopping just before the front porch light. The person had moved while still in the shadows. What could anyone want with her? Fear turned to anger. She didn't want her home invaded. "Freeze." "Jesus, don't shoot, Mal." Her heart beat double time. This man was a threat, though not in the way she had first thought. "What the hell are you doing back?" CHAPTER 3 Freshly showered, since her trek around the house had made her sweaty, Mallory grasped a cold bottle of beer and glared at her ex-lover. She braced for the reason he came back. She shielded her heart from his charm. "I knew you wouldn't be sleeping," Trey said. She longed to wipe off that cocky grin. He'd want her to so she'd touch him. He had a lecherous look on his face as if he had no doubts about what he was going to do tonight. To her. You are not getting back in my bed. No way. Her heart had been hers for the last half a decade. She cleared her throat. "I should have just shot you and asked questions later." He didn't grin. Instead, a guffaw spilled out. "Fiery. Always were. That's what I liked about you." "Did you come here to take a trip down memory lane?" He rubbed a hand down his face and used a finger to rub his eyes—they looked bloodshot. "Sort of." "Then what?" He settled at the table, his gaze like an arrow through her head. I'd forgotten how intense he could be. On Sundays, they would go for hours without speaking. Neither of them angry, they just had no need to speak. Some of that time had been spent in bed. They'd always been in sync there. She shrugged off the unwanted memories. "Spill it." "Another carnival has been hit." Her mouth dropped open. "No." "No one was hurt, but we've received a letter that this was a warning." "From whom?" Why am I gathering the details? I don't want in on this case. The facts don't matter. She listened anyway. "A group called Islam Power." "Never heard of them." "They're backed by our favorite millionaire." She set down her beer. "Don't tell me anything else. This must all be classified." He shrugged. "You still have security clearance." She put a hand in the air. Could she stop this speeding information train? She shook her head. "I don't want it. I don't want the knowledge or the responsibility." Her head spun. Her brain was being sucked into a vortex. Dammit, I don't want to go back. I've made a wonderful new life for myself. She had to worry about fires and fundraising. Not bombs and bad guys. "What are you going to tell the bomb guys tomorrow? You raised some questions about your abilities." "I haven't decided." She would cross that narrow bridge when the time came. Good on her feet, she would think of a plausible story when they asked the questions. Until then she wouldn't lose sleep over it. Just over the bigger situation. And this man. "We could step in," he said. With one phone call, he could make it all go away. She rubbed a spot on her forehead that began to ache. "I notice you use the royal we." "I've always been a company man." Bile rose in her throat. Yes, he had been. That had been her biggest obstacle with him. She never knew where the job ended and Trey began. "I haven't forgotten." He leaned into her, his steel eyes sharp. "What else do you remember?" She slammed her hand on the table. Her beer wobbled. She caught it. "You are not seducing me back into this life." He shifted away from her, his arms crossed. His expression didn't change. He didn't flinch at her outburst. Not even at her use of the word seduce, which she knew any shrink would have a field day with. Had he predicted what she would do? When they had worked together, he'd known that she had to pee before she did. She'd never met anyone so in tune with her. Maybe she never wanted to have anyone know her that way again. "I'm different now. I have this great life." Her finger stabbed the air, punctuated every word. "You cannot take that away from me." "I'm not taking away anything. I'm giving you something. I'm giving you back the ability to make a difference." She stalked away from him. "You think I don't make a difference? What about the family whose house didn't burn down because I was there?" "You can protect even more houses with us." She shook her head. "It isn't the same." He was trying to appeal to her sense of honor and her strong desire to help people. He knew all the cards she held and how to play them to his advantage. "No, it's better," he said. He rose to his full height, towering over her. She wasn't intimidated. She knew he hadn't meant her to be. That wasn't his style. He charmed so she braced for it. "No one dead this time, Mal. Think about it. Think about a bomb on a kiddy ride." He leaned into her and she knew he would go for her jugular. "You don't want any kids to die, do you?" Booth's phone rang just as he returned home. He lived in a modest ranch house. He didn't want anyone to know the riches he had stashed away. "Her partner came back again," said the voice on the other end. "Doesn't mean she's going back to DHS." "Why are you so reluctant?" "I'm not." "You getting morals in your old age? The payoff is a big one." Booth rubbed the back of his neck. "I just want proof before I have to kill her. That's all." "She's more valuable to us dead." "I'm sure she is, but what if I killed her and then you find out she had information that could help you. You'd be shit out of luck." "Stay put for now. You'll get your orders when it's time." "Shall I stay close to her?" Not that it would be a hardship. He tamped down that thought. He had a job to do. "Yes." "Can I kill her how I want?" "As long as it can't be traced to you." Booth snorted. "I am a professional." Mallory had anger and aggression welling up in her. She taped up her hands and slid on her purple boxing gloves. Someone had tried to hurt children. Thwack. They're planning to do it again. Thwack. The punching bag was going to pay. Hoping the force of her blows would make her head clearer, her fists pummeled it relentlessly. She had a choice. Try to stop it or stay in her cocoon Trying meant she could fail. Again. But will I be happy if I don't try? She'd never been content to sit on the sidelines. Even as a firefighter, she'd learned every aspect of the job. She'd been up ladders fighting fires from the top and inside fighting them at the source. They couldn't pay her enough to sit by and pour coffee while the others risked their lives. Her fists hit the heavy bag looking for something... The bag held no answers. Dawn was a promise on the horizon. She didn't have to go to work. She'd explained to people who asked that she had a trust fund. The reality was that the government paid well for service, more so if they wanted you to stay quiet. Mallory kept her end of the bargain as long as she didn't have to punch a time clock or sit behind a desk. Or deal with any more bombs. That thought stopped her for a moment. Her chest heaved while her hands dropped to her sides. The government had broken its promise and wanted her back. The enormity of it washed over her. She shook it off. She slammed a fist into the bag as if it were Trey's face. Then her foot. Her form raw, she began more of the moves she knew. Power surged from her as her anger transferred to the heavy bag. She knew her rage was misdirected. She should be angry for all the innocent people killed in a world gone mad. She should be angry for the parents who had thought it was more important to give their lives to a cause than be there when their child arrived home from school. She should be angry with an American who financed it only because he could. The sun peaked into the window of the attic she had turned into a gym. Her venom spent, she stood drenched in sweat when the phone rang. "Mallory." Jesse's voice floated through the phone. "Good morning." "Hey." "Feeling better?" She couldn't feel worse. Well, she could—if he were hurt in the crossfire of her worlds colliding. "Sure." "Did you sleep?" A sigh ripped out of her. "No." "Sleep all day, trust-fund girl." She didn't know what to say to that. The ruse didn't fit her image of herself, though she played along anyway. She had to. Otherwise, there would be too many questions. "Mallory? You always go silent when I say that." "I'm sorry, Jesse. I'm a little ragged from lack of sleep." "And you always have an excuse too. Mal, you can tell me. Whatever it is that you hold back from me, you can tell me." The sincerity in his voice cut her heart to shreds. He couldn't be a better friend. "It doesn't matter." I'll still love you is what he didn't say. She knew her past wouldn't make a difference to him. Understanding was all he offered on that one day a year she wanted nothing to do with people. The anniversary she'd never shared with anyone. The one that made her scar ache. Along with her heart. She took in a deep breath, letting it out silently. "Oh, Jesse. Sometimes I wish I could." She heard him as he shifted in his office chair. The one she'd helped pick out. "You'd have to kill me afterwards? I've heard that before." She chuckled. Jesse always made her laugh. That alone made her care about him. God he was easy to be with. "My forte isn't getting rid of bodies. There would be way too many questions." She kept the joke going. Maybe she would feel better if she laughed. Her mind returned to what Trey had said last night about children dying. "Oh, Mal. I have a tour of the firehouse today, can you do it?" Jesse asked. She shuddered. Children. "How many and what age?" As much as she didn't want to see kids die for causes created by adults, she didn't want to be around them either. Too painful. If they were older, school age or so, she could get through the experience. "A moms club. I think ten of them. Four- and five-year-olds, maybe others." A Girl Scout troop she could do. Even a Brownie troop. The visitors would all be girls. She had to face this fear and put it to rest. Now wasn't the time, not if Trey was back in her life. She couldn't let Jesse down either. She smacked her forehead. What would a therapist say? Against her better judgment, she said, "I'll do it." "You sure? Maybe one of the college kids can do it." She snorted. "Some of those kids can't tie their own shoes." "Well, that's true." "I'll do it." "Thanks, Mal. I had someone else, but they cancelled. You'll find coloring books and plastic helmets in the cabinet." She half heard him, half wondered how she'd get through it. In every class, there was some impish blonde kid… He would be five years old and full of mischief and personality. Just how she'd been as a child. It's what kept her from being adopted, they'd told her. She was too much child for most people. Maybe I wouldn't have made a good mother anyway. She shook away the memories and bid Jesse goodbye. Then she headed for the shower. The day was going to be very long. Cal stepped out of his truck as Mark bounded up to him. The new kid was so full of energy. Cal didn't remember being so enthusiastic at that age. Right now, he wasn't sure he'd been enthusiastic at any age. He was tired of being tired. "Did you hear?" Mark asked. "What?" He hoped it wasn't bad news. The kid's expression didn't tell him anything. "There was a bomb in the trailer. The beer trailer." Bomb? Holy crap! He'd taken one evening off and it all went to hell. Why would there be a bomb in the beer trailer? His cop mind went into overdrive with the questions that he didn't have the energy to ask. "Yeah?" "The chief found it and Mallory defused it. She was so cool, as if she'd done it a hundred times." Mallory defused a bomb? Something about that niggled at the back of his brain. "Did the bomb squad come?" "Yep, but Mallory had it done by the time they arrived." Cal kicked himself for going home. He could have helped. At least kept the members calm or something. Even today, he wasn't his usual cheery self. He didn't want to be there. He came because the fire company needed this fundraiser. He sighed. "Thanks for letting me know, Mark. Do you know where Mallory is?" "I think she's doing a tour for some kids in a few minutes." "Thanks." Cal leaned against his truck as Mark strode away. At twenty-one Mark wasn't anywhere near the man he would become, though Cal thought he'd make a fine one once he settled down. It took great effort in the humidity, but he put one foot in front of the other and headed toward the firehouse, thoughts of a possible child in his brain. He hadn't dreamt anymore during the night—the thought that he still had family had propelled him out of bed. Right now, he longed for that energy back. Maybe I should go to the doctor. As Mallory suspected he would, Trey walked past her on the fairgrounds. He didn't look like Trey unless you were expecting him. But she'd always had a sixth sense about his presence. Her heart beat double-time, but not from the impending tour. She'd shoved that from her mind for the moment. "Have you thought about what I said?" Trey murmured behind her. She jumped. So much for that sixth sense. I'm out of practice. "Don't make a habit of sneaking up on me," she snapped. They stood under the food tent. Firefighters made planks and cinder blocks into tables and benches. The township inspector looked over all the gas connections to stoves and pizza ovens. Most of the fair workers put together the Tilt-A-Whirl and the giant Ferris wheel that people would see for miles. Things were still on schedule. She glanced at Trey. He raised an eyebrow. "You used to know when I was near." "Been a long time since I've had to watch my back." His long slender fingers spread across his chest. "That hurt." "Truth does." Cal looked her way from the beer tent, his brows knit with worry. She noted that he looked tired. Maybe she shouldn't bring up her idea about finding her parents today. It could wait until the fair was over. Cal's pace was slow but steady as he moved toward her. He tugged Mark, the new guy, along with him. It always amused her when they circled the wagons around her. It was sweet how they protected her. They had no clue she could defend herself armed or unarmed. That information didn't go along with her trust-fund reputation. No need to enlighten them. Trey's words brought her back. "Have you thought about it?" "Yes." "And?" "I didn't come up with an answer." She wouldn't be rushed. She would decide this in her own damn time. Not on someone else's schedule. "Better soon." "You better move on, Trey." He glanced back at the firefighters who walked his way. A sardonic grin creased his face. "Well, well." "Leave, Trey. I don't want to see anyone hurt." "Me or them?" He walked past her as if she didn't exist. "He bothering you?" Cal asked. She shook her head. "Nope, just asking the time." "You didn't look at your watch." Cal stared after Trey, who now turned bolts on the massive Ferris wheel. "I don't have one, so I couldn't tell him the time. He was harmless, guys. Thanks anyway." Another lie. Trey isn't harmless. Though he'd never hurt her physically. Just emotionally. You can read the rest of BLONDE DEMOLITION at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Chris Redding's site: http://www.chrisreddingauthor.com Chasing Clovers by Kat Flannery CHASING CLOVERS by Kat Flannery CHAPTER ONE Calgary, 1884 The stagecoach pitched to a stop, jostling Livy Green from fitful nightmares of a past she longed to bury and the stranger she was about to marry. Her neck stiff and her back aching, she massaged her shoulders. She straightened and tried to stretch her arms, but the tiny space wouldn't allow it. A loud sigh blew from her lips when she realized how rumpled her clothes were. Frowning, she ran her hands along her skirt. Nothing but a hot iron would get the wrinkles out. With only two other dresses in her wardrobe, and no time to change anyway, she had no choice but to meet her fiancé looking as she did. Her stomach dropped. What if I'm not what he's expecting? She peered out the window and wasn't surprised to see a few North West Mounted Police mingling with the other townspeople. Their bright red uniforms stood out like apples on a tree. She reached for her satchel and held it tightly before she stepped out the small door. You can do this. She squeezed the handle on her luggage. You have to. Fort Calgary was a bustling town with two hotels on either side of the street, a small dress shop with ladies hats and fabric displayed in the window, and a red-bricked bank on the northwest corner. She watched people walking along the wooden planks and filtering in and out of the shops. A loud squeal sounded behind her. Livy jumped. She was almost trampled by a young boy running from his mother. Her heart lurched at the sight of the child. The familiar ache inside her soul willed her to look away. But she continued to watch mother and child until they disappeared inside the mercantile. She took a deep breath, forced all thoughts of the past out of her mind and scanned the streets again. Her face flushed when she thought of what she was about to do. Bag in hand, she spotted the blacksmith across the street next to the barbershop. Her stomach twisted at the sight of the saloon two buildings down. The all too familiar swinging doors waved back and forth, taunting her. Two drunken cowboys left the saloon, weaving their way down the boardwalk. Livy clenched the satchel and tensed. She turned away, closed her eyes, and took another deep breath. Here she would be the wife to John Taylor―a man she'd never met―and stepmother to his two children. She took another breath. She would start over. Again. She surveyed the busy boardwalk in search of a tall man with dark hair. Almost every man she saw fit the description he had given her, so she decided to move over to the bench in front of the mercantile and wait for Mr. Taylor to find her. Hands folded together on her lap. She tapped her toe restlessly. Where could he be? A rough looking cowboy sauntered toward her. His brown greasy hair, and ripped denims were paired with an evil smile. Livy tucked her chin into her chest. Oh, please don't let that be him. She'd seen his type before and knew what they were capable of. The man lingered beside her for a few moments before continuing on down the boardwalk. She sighed with relief. How am I going to do this? No longer Angel Green, she was now Olivia Green. The past was far behind her, except on those long dark nights that would not allow her to escape it. She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the busy street. Her new life would begin here. She would survive. She blew out a shaky breath. It was all she knew how to do. "Olivia?" a male voice asked. A tall man stood beside her, his hat pulled low so she couldn't see his eyes. He hesitated, then extended his hand. "Olivia?" He had a polite, resonating voice. She shaded her eyes with a hand. "Livy will do fine." She was uncomfortably aware of his presence as he towered over her. He smiled and took off his hat. Wavy black hair curled above the collar of his coat and his skin was tanned from the sun. He looked nothing like the dirty cowboy. Thank goodness. Instead, he wore a clean flannel shirt tucked into faded denim pants. "John Taylor. Good to finally meet you. My buckboard is over there." He pointed the way, then peered around. "Where are your trunks?" "I only have this one." Her cheeks reddened as she lifted her tattered brown satchel. She held it slightly behind, not wanting him to see the holes and stains on it. Nodding, he offered his arm. She ignored it. Friendly eyes stared back at her. After what had happened to her in Great Falls, she hated being touched by men. "Do not be insulted, Mr. Taylor," she said, staring at his boots, "but I'd rather you show me the way instead." She headed in the direction he'd pointed out earlier. When she heard a low chuckle from behind, she pursed her lips and walked faster. I need no one, least of all a man. In truth, she needed John Taylor more than she could admit. As soon as she reached the buckboard, she tossed the satchel up onto the seat, gathered her skirts and climbed up. She had sat down when she noticed he was still standing on the walk. "Uh, Miss Green?" He tipped his hat back, crossed well muscled arms and smiled at her. "That's not my buckboard." Her face flooded with heat. If this wasn't his wagon, why hadn't he said something earlier, instead of watching her make a fool of herself? Her eyes misted. How had she gotten here, in this place, with a man she didn't even know? She swallowed. How could she have thought he was the answer to her problems? Standing, she clutched the satchel and moved to the edge. How am I going to get down from this blasted wagon? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John Taylor step toward her. She didn't want his help, nor did she want a stranger's hands on her. Determined, she held her breath and climbed down before he reached her. He shrugged broad shoulders and strode toward another wagon. She watched his massive frame climb up with ease. Reins in hand, he waited for her. The buckboard looked brand new, the wood oiled so it glistened in the warm afternoon sun. Lumber and a crate filled with supplies were piled in the back. She set her satchel in back and climbed up beside him. "This is your wagon?" He laughed, showing perfectly aligned teeth. "Sure is, ma'am." Instead of waiting for her to sit, he whistled and the team jerked forward. Livy grabbed the side of the wagon and muttered a curse beneath her breath. If he wasn't her intended, she'd give him a tongue lashing he'd never forget. Once seated, she ran her shaking hands along the front of her skirt and took a deep breath. Be more civil, Livy. It wasn't in her best interest to lose her temper and go flying at Mr. Taylor. She closed her eyes. Be kind. Smile. Her lips lifted at the corners, but then faltered. How could she smile? How was she supposed to be happy when all she felt was empty, incomplete and―worst of all―alone? The buckboard rolled past shops, hotels, and even though she didn't want to see it, the saloon. Relieved to be putting the town and its harsh reminders behind her, she stared at the fields. The stage master was true to his word when he had said, "You'll never see a sight like the prairies. It looks like a patchwork quilt, green and yellow with a touch of orange when the sun hits it." Lost in the array of colors, she stared at the stalks swaying in the breeze. The hot sun beat down on her and she remembered the bonnet hanging around her neck. She placed it atop her head, not bothering to tie it but letting the strings dangle in the breeze. "Sun gets real hot during the summer months," he told her. "Best to always wear a hat." Unsure of what to say, she stayed silent. They had traveled for almost two hours. Livy was grateful when he pulled the wagon to a stop below a large oak tree. Her bottom was beginning to go numb and she needed to stretch. "I'm hungry. How about you?" John lifted a red blanket and a basket from behind the seat. He jumped down from the wagon and strolled toward the tree. "Coming?" As soon as her feet touched the ground, she stretched and tried to work some of the kinks out of her sore muscles. Feeling a little better, she moved toward him, who fanned out the blanket and plopped down. Motioning for her to do the same, he opened the basket and handed her a piece of cheese and a slice of buttered bread. Her stomach grumbled as she bit into the moist bread. "Mmmm," she hummed. "Yeah, Alice can sure make good bread," he said before taking a bite of his own. "Alice? Is that your housekeeper?" He shook his head. "No, I don't have one." She was mesmerized at how his work-worn hands transformed into a light, almost feathery touch while he blotted his lips. "Alice and Hank own the ranch that borders mine. She bakes my bread and watches the children from time to time." "Oh." He took a deep breath. "Look, Livy…I know we've only written each other a few times," his dark eyes studied her, "but I hope I made it clear that you'll be cooking and cleaning as well as looking after the children." He took another bite of cheese. He had made it perfectly clear in all four letters she'd received. But she had lied when she told him she knew how to cook. She purchased two cookbooks and read a few pages on her journey, but she had not put any of this knowledge to use. "Um, that will be fine." She hesitated. "But I must tell you, I have little experience cooking." He stopped chewing. "How little?" With nowhere to go and little money left, she lied. "I know enough that you won't starve." He must have believed her because he didn't question her any more. Instead, he finished his lunch. "You remember the children's names?" he asked after a while. Of course she did. "Ben and…" She didn't want to say the little girl's name. "Em―" She cleared her voice. "Emily." Emotions that she had kept locked up began to escape. The panic that always came when she thought of her daughter started to crawl up her chest. A sharp pain slashed across her heart. Her throat felt thick and sticky. She grabbed the flask of water and took a long drink. Her eyes grew moist. She swallowed hard. "Are you okay?" He touched her shoulder. Heat from his hand radiated down her chilled body, but she couldn't move away. She was forced to endure his touch. "I had a piece of bread caught in my throat." She coughed, lying for the second time in five minutes. This time she didn't feel guilty. He eyed her for a few seconds. "Are you all right now?" "Yes." She blinked back tears. "I'm fine, Mr. Taylor." Only she wasn't fine and wasn't sure she ever would be. He stood and offered his hand. "Call me John." She hesitated. Part of her wanted to take his hand, to feel wanted, accepted. But she knew all too well what her touch could lead to. Her fingers dug into the blanket beneath her. With an impatient huff, he grasped her hand. She felt the calluses on his warm palm and slowly closed her fingers around his, so he could bring her to her feet. "Em's my little angel." A sad smile lay across his face. "Sweet as the woman who gave birth to her." He let go of her and she felt the instant cold on her palm. "I'm sure she is," she said. The mention of children put her on edge. Most times she'd walk away, but today there was nowhere to go and her mouth had taken liberties yet again. "Livy, does it bother you that I have children?" The blanket dangled from his hands. "Because if it does, say so now. I won't have a wife who doesn't approve of my kids." His lips formed a straight line, grim and full of displeasure. "No. I…I like children." This wasn't a lie. She did like children―what she knew of them anyway. She hadn't grown up with any other kids. Living inside a saloon didn't exactly make you front-runner in the friendship corral. Most of the kids she came across either teased her or were afraid of her. And what she knew of having her own children, she'd rather forget. He would take her back to town and put her on the next stagecoach if she didn't make this right. If truth be told, that's what she deserved. To be alone, a castaway thrown to the slums without another thought. She tried to smile, but her efforts proved futile. "I'm sorry." She wasn't the least bit sincere. "I'm a little irritable from the long ride. Please accept my apology…John." "Apology accepted." Relief washed over her. "When will we get to your ranch?" she asked. "You're already on my land. Have been for the last half hour." When he grinned, she had never seen a more handsome face in all her life. His dark eyes brightened and he seemed to relax before her eyes. He had said they'd be traveling for another couple of hours. How big is his spread? She scanned the fields. "The T-Bar Ranch is one of the biggest cattle ranches this side of the mountains." The pride in his voice was unmistakable. It had been so long since she'd felt proud, since she'd been happy. Would she ever feel those emotions again? "Y-you own all of this?" He pushed his hat back, grabbed the flask and took a long drink. "Yup, I sure do. Worked my fingers to the bone gettin' it that way too." "You must be proud." "Damn right I am," he replied. "I live and breathe this land. It's a part of me. Like my son and daughter, they all sit right here." He patted his chest. "Your wife must've loved it here." His expression changed from one of delight to regret. She instantly felt horrible. She knew his wife had died. He'd said so in his letters. She also knew what it was like to lose a loved one, and the emptiness that came with the loss. "Yes, she did," he whispered. She couldn't look into his eyes. She didn't want to see the pain that lay in their dark depths. "I'm sorry." "For what?" he demanded, disgust on his face. "She's gone and there ain't a damn thing you or me or anybody else can do about it." One minute he was beside her, the next he was at the wagon. The rest of the ride was spent in silence. When the ranch house came into view some fifty yards after the wagon crested a hill, Livy inhaled at the vast picture before her. The large whitewashed house stood two stories tall and a porch wrapped around the entire dwelling. The house and the brightly colored flowers planted along the walk were a welcoming sight. Two barns were situated to the left of the house. She could hear the clucks from the chicken coop. Fenced corrals with cows penned inside were scattered all around. Cattle sprawled over the land, grazing in the fields. Beyond the house she could see the Rocky Mountains. The mammoth jagged rocks were intimidating yet stunning. "It's so beautiful," she said, awestruck. John smiled for the first time since they left their resting point. "Yes, it is. I never tire of seeing it when I come home." "How could you not? It's perfect." He stopped the wagon in front of the house, jumped down and came around to help her. Although she attempted to wave him away, his strong hands wrapped around her waist and brought her to the ground. "Go on ahead and wait for me inside," he said. Nervous, she glanced up at him and only relaxed when he gave her a kind smile. His hands were still on her waist. As he stared down at her, she couldn't quite make out the play of emotions that flickered in his sable-colored eyes. Uncomfortable with having him so close, she tried to step out of his grasp, but his hands tightened on her waist. "Mr. Taylor, please." She pressed her palms against his chest. "Let me go." He didn't move. "I said let me go." She shoved him hard and he released her so quickly, she lost her balance and scrambled to correct her footing. "Go into the house," he commanded, "I'll be in after I put the horses away." Picking up her satchel, she ran toward the house. John drove the buckboard to the nearest barn, mentally cursing his behavior. What the hell was he doing? When he'd helped Livy down, he never thought holding her would affect him like that. He shook his head. She'd been unsure of him from the moment he'd met her. He'd seen the fear in her eyes every time she looked at him. He removed the horses' harnesses. Damn. Why had he sent for her? He yanked off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. He knew why. The children needed a mother. Setting his hat back on his head, he led the horses into the barn. He brushed them and cleaned their hooves before he led them outside to their pen. He smiled when the horses stomped their hooves and whinnied in anticipation of the fresh hay he was bringing to them. "Here you go, boys." He watched as the horses munched on the food, his thoughts trailing back to Livy. She was sitting in his house at this very minute, but he couldn't go there yet. What was he supposed to say to her? He wouldn't apologize for his harshness. He felt nothing for her. Never would. Becky's face appeared in his mind and his stomach turned at what he'd done. Hanging his head, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Becky." How would he handle having another woman in his house? Helping with his children? Eating off of Becky's dishes? "Ahh, shit." He'd battled back and forth for months before he placed the ad in the paper. He thought he'd prepared for this. It wasn't like he jumped at the first reply either. He'd made sure Livy was the right woman for the job. He asked her questions that he now knew she'd lied about. She didn't really know how to cook, but if that was the worst of her deficiencies, he could deal with that. But something told him it wasn't. There was more to Livy Green he didn't know about. She had sent him references from her boss at the mercantile and the woman who owned the boardinghouse where she stayed. She seemed on the up and up, and he had no reason to doubt she wasn't the perfect candidate. But now that she was here, he could tell she was hiding something more from him. He could see it in the way her green eyes darted warily away from his. And when he touched her, she went stiff as a board and her pretty face lost all color. She was afraid of him and that only meant one thing. Someone had mistreated her. He made his way toward the house, his eyes drawn to the oak tree where Becky rested. He'd never love another the way he'd loved her. Regret settled deep inside his soul. Was he betraying Becky? Would she understand why he'd sent for Livy? He dug his hand into his pocket and found the heart-shaped locket. He'd given it to Becky on their first anniversary. He carried it with him after she died. It was the only thing he had left of her, and he kept it as close to his heart as possible. Once inside the house, Livy let the satchel fall with a thump to the wooden floor. This just won't work. He had already caught her in one lie and he was bound to catch her in all the others she'd told him. Then what? Where would she go then? She released a frustrated sigh. She was desperate. Worst of all, she was tired of being alone. Tired of always looking over her shoulder. Tired of the nightmares. She plopped down on the bench by the door. She didn't belong here. She shook her head. "I don't belong anywhere." She had nowhere to go and little money saved. If she left the ranch, she'd be back to singing for money, a thought that sent shivers up her spine. She couldn't go back to that life. Her stomach knotted as she clasped her hands together. No, she would make it work here. She'd clean, cook―or at least try to―and she'd be kind. A loud sniffle pulled her from her thoughts. In the hallway, a young girl clutched a tattered white blanket. She stared at Livy with wide, tearful blue eyes. She was about two or three years old, with thin, stringy blonde hair. She wore a dusty-rose pinafore smeared with dirt. Livy blinked. "Emma?" Raw emotions rolled through her, paralyzing her. A piercing, knee-buckling pain zigzagged across her chest. She couldn't catch her breath. Breathe! In. Out. Emma's face was there. Her smell. Her blonde, frizzy hair. Livy covered her face and rocked back and forth on the bench. Emma…my baby…my darling little girl. Something touched her knee. Through tear-filled eyes, she saw a small, dimpled hand, so sweet and perfect. But not her Emma's. She had to put some space between her and this child, so she ran to the door, flung it open and slammed right into a wall. Someone gripped her shoulders. Blinded by grief, she struggled to get free. Misery overwhelmed her, causing her insides to churn. She needed to get away. Fast. She gathered enough strength to shove the barrier out of her way and ran to the railing on the deck. She leaned over and emptied her stomach on the bushes below. "No tears, Livy," she mumbled. "No tears. The past is that, gone forever." But it didn't feel that way to her. She squeezed her eyes shut. She would give her life if she could hold her little girl one more time. To smell her hair, kiss her soft cheeks. A sob escaped as tears streamed down her face. You are starting over. You have to. She was still bent over the railing when a cool hand touched the nape of her neck. A cup of water was placed in front of her. "Drink," John said. Her heart raced. How long had he been there? Had he heard her? Afraid to look at him, she kept her eyes down and picked up the glass. She took a sip, hoping it wouldn't come back up. "Motion sickness," she lied to him again. "I…I get motion sickness." "Uh huh." He didn't believe her? She glanced up at him, her hair free from the braid hanging in her eyes. "It is a bumpy ride." He smoothed a loose strand behind her ear. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready to come in." When he disappeared inside the house, relief washed over her. She leaned against the wall and sipped the water. She hadn't expected John's daughter to affect her like that. "What did you expect?" she muttered. If she were to live here, she had to find a way to be comfortable around the girl. She took a few deep breaths, patted her hair into place and strode toward the door. If she were lucky, she wouldn't see the child again for a while. CHAPTER TWO She found John seated at the kitchen table. Well over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a muscled chest, he made the spacious room seem smaller. She pulled her gaze from his body, and did a quick scan for his daughter. She couldn't help the sigh that escaped when the child was nowhere to be seen. "I poured you a cup of coffee."He slid the tin cup in her direction. "Can't say that it's hot, but I'm used to that." He shrugged and his mouth tilted upwards in a half smile. His eyes followed her as she placed the cup she'd been holding on the side counter. Hands shaking, she pulled the chair back to take a seat across from him. "Thank you," she said softly, and cradled the mug of coffee between her hands. He was right. It wasn't hot, but it was warm and she squeezed the cup a little harder. She couldn't keep her eyes from wandering about the neat and tidy kitchen, so unlike the saloon kitchens where she worked. The window above the wash basin was open to allow the hot breeze to flow through, and the white lace curtains added a woman's touch. It was a small window, but it let the sun in to brighten the room. The long wooden table they were seated at was in the middle of the room and appeared to be made by hand, John's no doubt. A cook stove stood against one wall and an icebox occupied part of the opposite wall. She took a deep breath and could smell a mixture of lilacs, coffee, and man. This was to be her new home. A new life, and even if she didn't want to be here, even if she wanted to bolt for the front door and run far up into the mountains she saw earlier, she couldn't. She had to stay. She had to be kind. She had to smile. Livy hadn't smiled―really smiled―since before Emma died. Her stomach pitched, and she took a deep, shaky breath. Breathe, in, out. You can do this. She didn't have a choice. It was either this, or go back to the saloons and the dirty cowboys, the memories, and the fear. "I didn't mean to …" John began in an apologetic voice. "I think we should start over," she interrupted. He smiled, easing the tension between them as well as her frayed nerves. "Good idea." The chair groaned as he stood up. "Your bedroom is upstairs, first door on the left. Mine is across from yours. Ben and Emily's are at the end of the hall. And the outhouse is out back past the garden." "Okay." He took his hat off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Alice will be leaving today. She was watching the children for me while I was in town. She can show you where everything is, you'll find her out back in the garden with Emily." "I will find her when we're done talking." "The evening meal is at six, and you only have to worry about me and the kids. The men take their meals in the cookhouse." She had to cook today? Heaven help her—could this day get any worse? She chewed on her bottom lip as her mind raced through the short list of things she knew how to make. I'll make sandwiches and some canned fruit. That can't be too hard. "The meal will be ready at six." John remained a moment longer. Livy, sensing he had more to say, waited patiently for him to continue. Instead, he pulled his hat down onto his head and placed the mug in the wash basin on the counter. "I've got work to do. See you at supper," he mumbled before he walked out the back door. She listened as his boots stomp down the steps, and slowly faded away. She sighed. "Alone at last." Leaving her cup on the table, she strode out of the kitchen into what seemed like a sitting room. On the far wall stood a shelf full of books. She examined the colorful bindings lined up neatly on each ledge. She'd never seen so many books in her life, and wondered if John had read them all. She ran her hand along the tall and short bindings while surveying the room. A fireplace protruded from the corner. Around the opening sat jagged pieces of brown, grey and rust-colored stone. A sofa and chair on either side. Closing her eyes, she imagined sitting here warm and cozy, a book in hand as the snow fell outside. "You must be Olivia." Caught day dreaming, she spun around and saw a short elderly woman standing in the doorway of the room, holding the little girl's hand. Livy's heart skipped and her hands grew clammy. She tried not to look at the child. "Yes, I am." "I'm Alice." A friendly smile on her wrinkled face, she glanced down at the girl, and tugged gently on her hair. "And this here is Miss Emily." "Hello," she said, her voice shaking. The child made her uncomfortable, and she could feel her chest grow tight. She was glad that Alice didn't seem to notice her resistance to the girl. It was better to keep her insecurities, and the way the girl affected her, to herself. If Alice suspected anything, she was sure to ask questions. And Livy had told enough lies for one day. "Benjamin will be in right away. He's a fine lad too." The woman patted Emily's head. Livy could see that Alice was very fond of the children. She tried to smile back, but only made it half way. "I'm told I have to cook dinner tonight." "Yes, six o'clock." Alice motioned to the kitchen. "I started a stew on the stove for you. All you have to do is add the vegetables Emily and I dug out of the garden." She sighed with relief. She wasn't keen on sandwiches and was sure John would want more than that for his evening meal. "That was very kind of you," she said. With no idea how to cook, she was sure she would make a mess of things tonight on her first try. She'd already decided to stay up half the night reading her new cook book, in the hope of finding a few easy recipes. With luck, she wouldn't kill any of them. "How about a cup of tea?" Alice suggested. She was hesitant, but the more time she spent with the older woman, the more comfortable she became. Besides, it would be nice to have another woman to talk with. In the kitchen, she noticed there was a steaming pot of tea on the stove, and once again was relieved. She had no clue where anything was and didn't have the energy to search through all the cupboards for their tea. Alice took care of everything. She put two cups on the table and carefully poured hot water into them. The child never left her side, but peeked around the woman's skirt. Seated once again at the kitchen table, she inhaled a deep, calming breath. She wished the girl would go outside and play. It was difficult to be around John's little girl—to look at her. "Tell me, where did you come from?" Alice asked politely from across the table. She'd come from everywhere. "Well, I was living in Fort McLeod." She lived in the dirty trading post town for six months when she spotted John's ad in the local paper. Before that she'd been in Great Falls Montana, but she planned on keeping that part secret. "Fort McLeod," Alice said, raising her eyebrows. "I've heard tales of how rough and scary it can be there. With Fort Whoop Up a few miles north, it isn't any wonder." She stiffened. This was true. Fort McLeod was a rough town, with two saloons a trading post and that was about it. No respectable woman lived there, unless she was married. And Livy was neither. "It wasn't that bad. I didn't live there for long." "Well, you're here now." She patted Livy's hand. Yes, I am, even though I've lied through my teeth to get here. After their visit, Alice gave the girl a hug, promising to come back soon. "Now you be good for Miss Green." The child nodded as they stood on the porch saying their farewells. She waved, as Alice's buggy pulled away. A part of her longed to go with her. To escape the life she was now destined to live. "Are you gonna be our new Ma?" asked a high pitched voice from behind her. She turned and spotted a boy no taller than her waist standing in the doorway of the house. He wore jean overalls and a black cowboy hat that was too large for his head. If it wasn't for his ears, the thing would surely fall past his eyes to rest on his nose. "You must be Benjamin," she said. It was much easier to look at this child. In fact she had no problem at all. He stood and stared at her with the same dark brown eyes as his father's. "Can ya cook?" What was with the men in this house? All they cared about was filling their bellies. "Well," she said, hesitating, "I can cook a little." Who are you kidding? You can't cook at all. He wrinkled his face. "I'll just eat with the men, till ya get the hang of things." "You'll do no such thing." John's voice came from behind her, and she jumped. When had he gotten here? These people were like ghosts, surprising her at every moment. "Ahh, Pa," the boy said, "she said she can't cook." "No, she said she hasn't done much cookin'," John corrected. "Same thing." "Mind your manners, son. She'll need a few days to get comfortable." "Actually," Livy interjected, "Alice made a nice stew, and it's on the stove now. Me and―your sister and I have vegetables to clean and add to it. So there will be a nice supper tonight." John smiled at his son. "See? You like stew. There's no need for you to eat with the hands." "Well," Ben said, squinting, "if Alice made half of it, it can't be that bad." "That's my boy." They spoke as though she weren't standing there. Something she was used to. While growing up in a saloon, no one ever paid her any attention. It wasn't until she'd grown old enough to sing for money that all eyes were on her―and not in a good way. She shuddered at the awful memories invading her mind. "Are you cold?" John asked. "Yes." Another lie. "There are some sweaters hangin' on the back porch. Feel free to use them anytime." "Thank you." John bent and picked up the girl. "How's my Angel today?" The familiar name caught her off guard. She almost answered, and was relieved that the girl's giggle stopped her. He tickled his daughter, nuzzling his chin into her neck. She hadn't heard the child utter a word yet and was startled at the innocent sound overflowing from her petite mouth. "Papa, don't twickle me." She wiggled in his arms to get free from his grip. He put her down and playfully swatted her behind. "You go help Miss Livy with supper." The girl squealed and ran into the house. His dark eyes rested on Livy. "You find everything you need?" "Yes, thank you." She averted her eyes. He made her uncomfortable, but not in the same way the men in the saloons had. She didn't feel the need to flee and cower in her room. It was something else, something she'd never experienced before. "Come on son, I'll race ya to the barn." The boy hopped off the porch and ran ahead of his Pa, laughing merrily. "Cheater," John yelled before chasing after him. She watched the father-son moment. A gnawing ache wrapped around her heart and squeezed until her breath caught in her throat and she had to look away. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. When Livy entered the kitchen, she couldn't help but notice the girl. Emily had pushed a chair over to the counter and was ready to help clean the vegetables. She stopped and took two deep breaths before she spoke, refusing to look at her. "Do you know where the aprons are?" The girl jumped down, opened a drawer, and pulled out two cloth aprons. She took one and put it on. The child remained motionless. "You can't put it on yourself?" she asked, concerned that she would have to help her―touch her. The girl shook her head. "All right, I'll help." After the apron was tied, she let the girl shell the peas into a bowl while she chopped potatoes and peeled carrots. Once she was done, Livy tossed the vegetables into the steaming pot, and grabbed the bowl of peas. Five peas rolled around inside the bowl. Emily had eaten the rest and now stood on her chair, sucking on a shell. She stirred the five peas into the stew. "Alice said to let it simmer for the next hour." She placed the pot at the back of the stove as Alice had instructed. She wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the door, intent on unpacking. A loud crash, followed by a piercing cry reminded Livy of the child in the kitchen. She ran back into the room. Emily lay on the floor, crying. Blood seeped from her mouth. Livy stood frozen. Help her. But her legs wouldn't move. Guilt washed over her. This was her fault. Staring at the girl, she didn't know what to do. "Come on, little girl, get up." Emily didn't move. Livy's face grew hot, and her hands began to shake. "Please, please get up." Her resolve faltered. The barriers that kept the pain locked far away were breaking down. Tears streamed down the girl's face and into the blood smeared on her chin and lips. "It hurts. I want my Pa." Livy took a half step toward her. Visions of Emma filled her mind, and she glanced at the child whimpering on the floor. She had been unable to help her daughter—unable to make everything better. Her heart beat rapidly. Oh please, oh please, someone help me. She grew frantic. Breathe. In. Out. Her skin crawled, and her chest constricted. Emma was in her mind, in her heart, in her soul. The girl stopped crying and stared up at her. Her long lashes wet with tears as her eyes, blue and honest, stared into Livy's. I'm being horrible. Battling her inner turmoil, she rushed over to the basin and wet a cloth. She placed it on the girls lip. "Put this on it for a while to take the swelling down." Mentally exhausted, she lifted the girl from the floor and put her on a chair. "I," Emily hiccupped, "want my Pa." "Sit here for a few minutes while I go upstairs to get my cook book." Needing to escape, she ran upstairs gasping for breath as another attack seized her lungs. Take deep, even breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. She clamped her hands over her eyes to stop the tears that wanted to come. Never again would she hold her daughter in her arms and wipe her tears. "Stop it, Livy, just stop it," she screamed to the empty room. She scratched her neck to stop her throat from closing. She was angry at the little girl who lived when hers had not. Angry at God for taking her daughter. Angry that she didn't have the strength to wrap her arms around the child and comfort her. She stopped pacing, lifted her satchel up off the floor and dug fitfully through it until she found her cook book. Clutching it in her hand, she forced her feet to walk back downstairs. She peeked into the kitchen. The child was fast asleep with her head resting on the table. She blew out a breath as she quietly entered the kitchen. For the first time, she really studied the girl. One chubby little hand held the cloth, while the other rested under her head. Her blonde hair spread across her small back and Livy watched as her lips opened and closed while she slept peacefully. Her stomach turned at the shame she felt. She's a little girl Livy. She has nothing to do with your loss. She reached out to touch the girl. Eyes filled with tears, she bit her bottom lip. Her hand hovered above the blonde head when she pulled back. Cheeks wet, she fled the room leaving Emily where she slept. CHAPTER THREE The evening meal went reasonably well, considering all she had to do was prepare the vegetables. Elbow deep in soapy water, she washed up the last plate and set it aside to be dried. She grabbed the tea towel and went about the task. She couldn't stop her mind from straying to the girl lying helpless on the floor. She knew she'd been cruel. Instead of comforting the child, she'd fled the room. Her inability to be around the girl was something Livy hadn't expected. She was prepared to marry John Taylor. Prepared to be around his children. Or so she thought. Ever since Emma's death, she hadn't allowed herself to be around many children. Not a smart thing to do, she realized that now. When she decided to take his proposal and move west, she honestly thought she'd be able to look at his children without resentment. She knew she'd never be able to love another child the way she loved Emma. But she was sure she'd be able to at least like them. The boy, Benjamin didn't bother her. It was the girl—the sweet, innocent little girl—like her Emma. She couldn't look at John's daughter without thinking of Emma. Without wondering how this child lived when hers had not. She was at a loss as to how to fix it. And the worst part? She didn't know if she had the strength to try. When John saw his daughter's split lip, Livy thought she was done in for sure. He asked her what had happened, but before she could tell another lie, the child told him about how she'd fallen, and how Miss Livy had made it all better. Astonished, she couldn't understand why the girl had not told John how cruel she'd been. While he knelt to inspect the wound and kiss it better, he mouthed a 'thank you' to Livy. Shame twisted inside her. Unable to stand the scene any longer, she left to get some air. She knew she had crossed the line today and was worried he would see her indifference toward his daughter and ask her to leave. With nowhere to go, she was hopeful things would work out. Since her fall, the girl hadn't so much as looked at Livy, out of fear, she was sure. That she was the sort of person a child would fear made her feel ill. Why hadn't the girl told John how she fell, and it was Livy's fault? Guilt ridden, she thought it best if she didn't have too much contact with the girl, for now anyway. She knew she couldn't avoid her all together, or John would start asking questions she wasn't prepared to answer. "The kids are fast asleep." Startled when John came up behind her, she dropped the plate she'd been drying onto the floor, shattering into tiny pieces at their feet. "Damn," she whispered under her breath. As she bent to pick up the broken glass, he remained standing and stared down at her. Was he angry at her for swearing? She had no clue what to do. You should watch your mouth―that's what you should do. He was still looking at her, and her face heated. "I'm sorry." "No, it's not your fault. I scared you." He knelt beside her, and began picking up the jagged glass. She moved slightly to the left, her body all too aware of how close he sat. "I guess I should make some noise before I come into a room, huh?" His full lips tilted into a smirk. "It might help." His dark eyes evaluated her, making the room feel cramped and closed in. She inched away from him again. He held a piece of the plate in his hand and rested his elbow on his knee, "You know, you wouldn't look half bad if you smiled." He grinned wider. She stiffened at the insult. "Excuse me?" John 's brow furrowed. "Now don't go gettin' your chaw in a knot. I meant that you're kind of pretty as is. I can't imagine what you'd look like with a smile on your face." He chuckled. She clenched her jaw. Fury radiated from every pore in her body. After the day she'd had, this seemed to be the icing on the cake. She squeezed her eyes shut. She hated being teased. She'd grown up with it all her life, and couldn't help but feel angry. "I don't see how a broken plate would prompt one to smile, Mr. Taylor." "Ah, hell. I'm only playin' with you, Livy." "Well, play all you want to, Mr. Taylor, but it won't be at my expense." She stood, untied her apron and tossed it over the back of the chair. "I'm sure the rest of the plate will find your humor hilarious." Chin held high, she marched up the stairs, smiling when she heard him swear, hoping he cut himself. Angel curled her exhausted body into a tight ball on her bed. The pain in her abdomen was beginning to fade. Her long brown hair, loose from its braid, clung to the sweat on her temple. She had no energy left to wipe it away. She took a shaky breath once the ache had subsided, and let her head rest lightly on her pillow. It wasn't but a few minutes when another piercing spasm sliced through her stomach, jolting her upright. Angel moaned and clutched her midsection. Veins of throbbing torment snaked slowly around her back and seized her whole middle. She bit her bottom lip to muffle the cry she knew would burst from her dry lips. But her efforts proved futile as a loud scream erupted and her eyes clouded with tears. Her stomach felt as if it were about to explode. The hard, swollen mound protruded from the damp white cotton nightgown she was wearing. The door to her room opened, and Doctor Simms entered quietly and calmly. He placed his large hands on her stomach, and she nearly jumped off the bed from the pressure. "It's almost time," he said to her, pushed up his sleeves to wash his hands at the basin on her dresser. Angel's breaths came in short, quick puffs. Her hands instinctively searched out the sheet on either side of her, ready to tear it from the straw-filled mattress. Her crotch felt heavy and it pulsed with urgency. A gush of liquid burst from between her legs and soaked the bed beneath her. An uncontrollable urge to push took over. She sat up and pulled her legs inward. She drew in a deep breath, pressed her chapped lips together and pushed with all her might. The doctor was in front of her now, and nudged her shaking legs farther apart. "A few more pushes and the baby will be out." The agony of it all was too much. She didn't know if she could stand the pain any longer. Her tired body was hot and sticky, and her legs felt numb. Her stomach tightened again, and she couldn't help but push. Her crotch burned―the pressure from the baby's head unbearable. The room blurred, and her head started to spin. She panicked, fearing she was going to die. Her life was ending, and she would never see her baby's face. Her middle was going to tear in two. She pushed again. Her body stretched and ripped, allowing the small life to come through. She ground her teeth together and groaned loudly. A baby's cry pierced the quiet night. she reached down, touching the baby girl that had slipped from her womb. Shiny and wet, she was the most beautiful thing Angel had ever laid eyes on. The pain gone, she examined her daughter, now cradled in her arms. Pink lips quivered as the baby mewled. Angel bent to brush a light kiss on her damp forehead. The doctor handed her an old yellow blanket. With shaky hands she began to clean her daughter. The room was lit by one lamp, casting the room in an orange glow. Calm and serene, Angel glanced out the window. All she could see were the white fluffy snowflakes that stuck to the glass. She snuggled closer to the bundle in her arms. She was warm, and for the first time in her life, truly happy. "I've got your money, Doc." Her voice was hoarse from the long labor. She rummaged under her pillow and grabbed a brown tin. Inside was the money she'd been saving. Not much there, she counted out a few coins and handed them to the doctor. Shaking his head, Doctor Simms spoke clearly, "It's already been taken care of, Dear." Angel glanced up confused. "Sam." The bartender and owner of the Saloon had paid for her delivery? Angel knew she shouldn't have been surprised. He'd felt guilty about what had happened to her and wanted to somehow make it right. "Me and little Emma," she said her daughter's name for the first time, "we plan on getting out of here and starting fresh someplace else." She watched as the doctor's kind blue eyes moved around the tiny room. She owed him and Sam so much more than her thanks. They had both helped her when no one else had, or wanted to. The room she rented upstairs at the saloon was a far cry from the white house the doctor called home. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she noticed the bawdy gowns that she had to wear scattered across the floor. Her life had no meaning before this day, and she was determined to give her daughter the life she never had. Emma whimpered, and Angel gazed down at her child. The love she felt for her daughter came instantly. Doctor Simms shrugged into his coat, and said quietly, "You'll do right by her. Chances are he'll be passing through here again soon, and he'll come looking for you." He stared directly into Angel's eyes. She saw pity in their kind depths. "When you leave here, don't ever come back." He gave her one last look, and left the room. She heard the doctor's warning and her body shuddered. She knew the doctor was right. He'd come back. He said he would, and as sure as Monday followed Sunday, he'd come looking for her. Emma cried and she gently rocked her baby back and forth while humming the lullaby Sam had taught her. Livy woke, her nightgown drenched with sweat. She lifted trembling hands to her lips. She had dreamt of Emma again, holding her, touching her, kissing her. Now fully awake, she tried to remember what her baby girl had looked like, but her face would not appear in her mind. "No, no, no," she cried, burying her head into her pillow. "Don't let me forget," she sobbed harder. She couldn't remember Emma's smell, or how her hand felt when she'd hold on to Livy's finger. What color was her hair? What color were her eyes? She didn't know―couldn't remember! Her heart beat loudly inside her chest as uneven gasps blew in and out of her mouth. The room began to spin and her vision blurred. She needed to get a hold of the short breaths filtering up from her lungs. Breathe, Livy. In. Out. In. Out. She sat cross-legged on her bed, concentrating on her breathing. In, out. In, out. Until her pulse slowed to its regular beat. But the ache deep inside her soul lingered, and the piercing pain continued to shoot across her chest. Her face wet with tears. She laid her head back onto the pillow. Closed her eyes, and willed her daughter's face to appear. John woke to Livy's cries. He wondered if he should go to her. "And do what?" he spoke aloud to the empty room. He didn't know her well enough to barge into her bedroom, and as sure as there was fire in hell, he knew he'd not be welcome. Not after he'd insulted her last night. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he'd thought she was quite pretty. Even though it annoyed him, he hadn't stopped thinking about her all day. He felt sorry for her. She'd said in her letters she had no family left. So he knew she was alone. Maybe that's why she seemed so empty all the time, so lost. Maybe she missed her Ma and Pa, or had a brother or a sister who had died. He thought on it and decided to ask her. See if he could help―sometimes talking to someone did. When Becky died, he'd talked to God. He was the only one worth talking to, and at the time, the only one there to listen. He rubbed his chest. He sure missed her. Three years had passed since the night little Emily was born―the happiest, yet saddest day of his life. While he watched his little girl slip into the world, he also watched his wife slip out. Since then he'd thanked God a thousand times over that he'd had the chance to tell his wife one last time that he loved her. He rolled over and lightly touched the locket on the table beside the bed. Emily never knew her Ma, and he hoped Livy could fill the void in his little girl's life. He sighed. His son struggled too without his Ma around, and often woke with nightmares. Livy would be good for him too. But his daughter needed a woman, especially when she got older, and he was grateful that Livy had answered his advertisement. He hoped he wasn't betraying Becky by remarrying. The question lingered in the back of his mind several times a day since he'd sent for Livy. Becky was the only woman for him, always would be. No one else came close. The rising sun peeked through the blue curtains, and cast sapphire and grey shadows throughout the room. It was time to get out of bed. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head. He was always working, and he was tired of it. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a day off or had any fun. On a ranch this size there was always something to be done. He was glad he had Clive, his foreman, to ease some of the heavy load. They had grown up together in Calgary. Clive had left for a few years, but had come back, knocked on his door, and asked for a job. He couldn't have been happier. It was after Becky had passed, and he couldn't get out of bed. He'd relied on Clive in those days when he didn't leave his room except to get another bottle of whiskey. His body gave an uncontrolled shake. Now he didn't touch liquor. Couldn't. Made him sicker than a dog. Doctor said he'd die if he drank any more. Besides, he had two kids to look after, and had disappointed Becky enough by succumbing to the amber juice that left his head foggy and his body numb. His mind already filling with chores that needed to be done today, he decided to give up on getting any more sleep. Sighing, he got out of bed, dressed, and headed downstairs to start the coffee. You can read the rest of CHASING CLOVERS at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Kat Flannery's blog: http://www.katflannery-author.com Cheat the Hangman by Gloria Ferris CHEAT THE HANGMAN by Gloria Ferris PROLOGUE Hammersleigh House, Blackshore, Ontario Saturday, July 24, 1943 A faint glow from campfires dotting the field beyond the house barely penetrated the windows of the tower room, but it was more than enough light for the task at hand―one that would condemn a soul to dwell in eternal fire. With laboured breathing, the thin figure hurried across the floor, the wrapped bundle almost slipping through fingers numb with shock. A storage door set low in the wall opened to expose three wooden boxes. The figure selected the sturdiest one and the jumble of mouldy books inside was upended onto a nearby demilune table. There is room now. A voice outside the windows generated a cry of alarm from the figure. They are already searching. No, it was just a reveller's radio―Vera Lynn was singing about nightingales. Despair welled up, overcoming the fear of discovery. For a moment, a low keening sound echoed through the room. With hasty care, the figure set the bundle in the bottom of the box. A soft object was tucked inside and newspapers were placed on top. The box was returned to the darkest recess behind the door. The other two boxes followed. Sobbing, the figure pulled a hammer and nails from a pocket and drove four long nails into the casing, one at each corner of the door. Table legs scraped along the wood planks until the half-moon-shaped table came to rest against the closet door. Several books fell to the floor and were kicked aside. May God forgive me. The tower room door closed with a soft click. Music drifted up through the windows, the notes filling the dark spaces in the tower room. Then silence returned. The nightingales no longer sang in Berkeley Square. CHAPTER 1 Hammersleigh House, Blackshore, Ontario Saturday, July 9, 2011 The tower room was a sauna and even my toenails were sweating. I knew my hair had kinked into a tangle of witch locks as moisture poured from my hairline and dripped off my earlobes. The rest of me was just as sweat logged, but with Conklin due back any minute, I had no time to take a break in a cooler part of the house. I drank warm water from a plastic bottle and heaved on the window frame to open it. Not happening. The wood had swelled in the heat and wouldn't budge. In the distance, I spotted a series of silver flashes that pierced the stand of pine trees lining the property. Squinting, I identified the flashes as the noon sun flaring off something metallic creeping down County Road 12 toward Hammersleigh House. "Crap." Uncle Patrick's classic Lincoln Town Car. Even driving his usual ten kilometres per hour under the speed limit, it would take Conklin just a few minutes to turn in at the iron gates and inch his way up the bricked drive to the parking area around back. After finding the perfect shady tree to park under and removing his shopping bags from the trunk, he would enter through the kitchen door and wonder what Madam was doing. Regrettably, I was Madam. Turning from the window, I picked up the smelly, one-eyed moose from the floor, planning to shift it to a nearby rattan settee. The moose head was heavy and the fur greasy with age. The single, glassy brown eye stared at me as the head slipped from my grasp and crashed to the floor. "Goddammit it all to hell." One of the antler tips stabbed my left foot. Blood spurted from my big toe. I hopped around the tower room, trying not to trip over glass cases full of long-dead butterflies and tiny stuffed songbirds. Out of breath, I collapsed next to a spotted leopard, grabbed my foot with both hands and looked around for something to staunch the bleeding. The only thing within reach was a roll of toilet paper I was using to clean the cloying dust off my fingers. Like grimy snowflakes, wads of tissue dotted the bodies of the hapless creatures surrounding me. Some of the animals were now extinct, all because a gang of Victorian aristocrats thought it was great fun to sit on an African plain and bag trophies to adorn their walls back home. Way to go, boys. While Conklin was out paying bills, shopping and visiting his sister, I had spent the morning collecting mounted beasts and songbirds entombed in glass from every room in the house. I'd brought them to the tower room until I could find a permanent resting place where I would never have to look at them again. The antelope waiting downstairs was the last of the herd, but there was no time to fetch it now. I could have asked Conklin where the attic was, except he'd have wanted to know why, tsk-tsked at my reason and called me "Madam" again. The way I saw it, he could disapprove all he wanted after the fact, but it would be a done deal. Some wise person―I forget who―once said that it was easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. Worked for me. I wrapped a strand of toilet paper around my toe and watched the thin tissue turn crimson. No time to wallow in self-pity. Conklin would be entering the house any second and I didn't want him finding me in the blood-spattered tower room. I was about to stand when I saw something under the table in front of me. I almost missed it. The demilune table was set against what looked like a solid wall while I was on my feet. Now, sitting on the floor, I was looking at a hobbit-sized door. "What do we have here?" I felt a strange tingle between my shoulder blades and shrugged it off. I leaned closer to the underside of the table. Painted white like the rest of the room, the door was about three feet high. I couldn't see a knob or handle and even the hinges were painted over, but bits of paint had flaked off to reveal the tarnished brass underneath. A nail had been hammered at an angle into each corner to keep the door from swinging open, but they had popped out an enticing quarter inch. I forgot about my wounded foot and even about Conklin, who would be wondering why the antelope head was on the hall floor by the staircase and why the rest of the mounted heads and glass cases were missing. I forgot about everything except the anticipation of opening that mysterious door. Over the years, I have been accused of having a short attention span, being too curious, having an overactive imagination and acting with disregard for the sensibilities of others. This last comment was the opinion of several of my older relatives, who in my view greatly exaggerated. I, Lyris Pembrooke, age thirty-eight and holding up well, was a well-balanced woman, with the standard mix of flaws and virtues. Whichever characteristic was dominant that day, it was not within my power to walk away and mind my own business. I mean, think of it. A hidden door, nailed shut, set into the wall of a tower room in a century-old house. Who could resist the temptation to pry it open? There could be ancient family papers or diaries behind that door. Maybe illicit love letters written by a frustrated Victorian nanny to the master of the house. Perhaps there were blueprints that pointed the way to a long-forgotten room and a treasure cache. Shoving Bullwinkle aside and crawling over the leopard, I stood up. The blood had stopped pumping and if my gore-wrapped toe still gave me pain, I didn't feel it. The first thing I did was pull the table away from the door. The top was covered with a half-bald squirrel posed on a branch and some other creature, maybe a mink or a weasel. The table legs screeched as I dragged it away from the wall. A couple of new scratch marks appeared on the wooden floor. I had no chance in hell Conklin would miss those on his next scheduled tour of the house. I reached for my hammer. Using the claw end, I pried out the nails holding the little door closed, breaking three fingernails and making a few dents in the wooden wall. When I was finished, bloody handprints stencilled the white paint around the door. I moderated my excitement. The frugal Victorian builder had likely utilized the space where the tower room wall joined the main house by constructing a simple storage closet. I was convinced of this as the door creaked open on stiff hinges, revealing my treasure. A trio of wooden boxes. The space behind the door was not deep, maybe two and a half feet, and no rat or other live creature pounced at me. No mouse poop and just a few cobwebs, although clouds of dry, musty air hit me in the face, tickling my nose and making my eyes water. I reached for the nearest box and uncovered a jumble of mismatched cups, plates and other tableware items. These were utilitarian pieces for everyday use, nothing to pique my interest. The second box contained several pre-industrial age flat irons and a sinister instrument that might have been used to torture a woman's hair into ringlets. The third box, pushed to the back of the closet, looked more promising. It was larger than the others were and so blackened with age I couldn't make out the lettering on the sides. It could have stored nails or other hardware in the pre-war years―one of the "Big Ones," like World War II or even World War I. I pulled it into the light. Several layers of newspaper, yellowed and disintegrating, covered the top. A local paper―the Blackshore Oracle. I was disappointed to note the date was July 21, 1943, only sixty-eight years ago. I had hoped for something earlier than that. I set the newspaper aside for later. I was curious to see if any family members were mentioned. Many Pembrookes of that generation, both men and women, served in the military during World War II. There was a piece of thick fabric under the newspaper. A box of clothes? If this was junk, it should be thrown out. The closet space could be used for some of the more hideous stuffed animals, like the elephant foot umbrella stand that had stood in the great hall for the best part of a hundred years―until about an hour ago when I carried it up here. I opened the cloth. At first, I felt no alarm, merely a mild curiosity. I didn't have the slightest idea what I was seeing. Then, like a lightening bolt, understanding registered. "No, no..." I dropped the cloth and scrambled away. Wave after wave of primal fear crashed over me, chilling my body, numbing my hands and feet and draining the blood from my brain. Great-Aunt Clem always claimed I'd inherited her psychic abilities. I wish that talent had kicked in earlier, because if I had felt psychic that day, I would have shoved the age-blackened box back into the closet and walked―no, ran―away. Even a modest flair for precognition might have stopped me from pushing aside the crumbling cloth. But nothing had stopped me. As a result, I let loose a string of events that shaped my future and almost changed the past. Alone in the tower room, and for the first time in my life, I fainted. Just before the darkness overwhelmed me, a long forgotten childhood memory stirred. I knew what was in the box. CHAPTER 2 When I opened my eyes, my head was in the hall and my feet were in the tower room, pressed against the box. I clawed at the carpet and managed to pull my legs out of the room. After several attempts, I got to my feet. It was like one of those nightmares where you are being chased by some ghastly thing, but every step takes forever. With icy worms of dread crawling through my blood, I exerted great effort and was able to reach out and pull the door closed. I had to pry my stiff fingers from the crystal doorknob with my other hand. With the door shut on the box, adrenaline at last flooded my bloodstream. I sped down the hallway, making no sound on the thick carpet runner and hearing the pulse beats that filled my head. The trouble with adrenaline is you can't turn it off with a switch. In my haste to get to the telephone, I reached the stairs, but couldn't control my speed. I gained momentum on the way down. By the time I realized I was in trouble, it was too late. My feet missed a step near the bottom and I sailed into space. And dropped like a stone to the marble floor of the great hall. I stared up at the high ceiling of the great hall, afraid to move. After a minute or two, I took stock. My arms and legs seemed okay. My ribs didn't hurt. I slowed my breathing and concluded that the only pain was coming from my toe. Since I was conscious, I probably didn't have a concussion. Something smelled. I turned my head and flinched. I was nose to lips with the antelope―and it had really bad breath. I inched away. The good news was the fall had snapped me out of shock. As a matter of fact, I was so clear-minded that everything seemed more real than usual. I decided to stay where I was until help arrived, even if it was Conklin. Overhead, the Waterford chandelier sparked white beams of light and seemed to sway. That was odd. I saw the individual crystal drops, thousands of them. "Boy, am I ever glad I don't have to clean that." My voice rang in my ears. The jewel tones of the stained glass fanlight over the oak entrance doors reflected on the walls and ceiling, and mingled with the white lights of the chandelier. The colours were so bright, my eyes watered. Ruby, amethyst, jade, sapphire, amber. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope. My stomach burbled and I had to keep swallowing saliva. "Damn. I don't feel so well." That's all I needed. Conklin would be displeased if I upchucked in the great hall. Hoping my stomach would settle, I closed my eyes and sought to think of something, anything other than my discovery upstairs. The ticking of the grandfather clock a few yards away resonated in my head. I switched to yoga breathing and focused my mind. I had moved into Hammersleigh House three days before. Great-uncle Patrick had died of heart failure a few months ago at the age of ninety-two and it was a surprise to the whole Pembrooke family when we found out he had left Hammersleigh House to me. Since the Pembrooke family numbers in the hundreds in the town of Blackshore alone, there was a lot of surprise to go around. Uncle Patrick's wife died early in their marriage without giving him an heir and he never married again, so we all thought he would leave his entire estate to the eldest male relative. That was my father, Kevin Pembrooke, until his death in a hunting accident seven years ago. We assumed Cousin Nathan would be next in line for the inheritance. After all, Nathan was a successful financial consultant in Toronto, very much the corporate type. We were partly right. When the will was read, Nathan walked away with Uncle Patrick's business concerns and investments. "Hammersleigh House," the lawyer stated, "is bequeathed to Lyris Pembrooke." Me. In his will, Uncle Patrick stated that he knew I would cherish and protect Hammersleigh House and all it contained. I promised to do my best, although I knew nothing about caring for such a valuable estate. I loved antique houses and furnishings, though, and I had to believe my uncle knew what he was doing. There was still a lot of rumbling from the family about my inheritance. "Lyris, the will is valid and binding and there are no grounds to challenge it," the lawyer, John Brixton, informed me. "So move in and enjoy Hammersleigh. It's yours." Easy for him to say. He didn't have to face the black looks and pursed lips I encountered every day on the streets, in church or at my job at the Blackshore Power Commission. I mean it, the Pembrookes were everywhere. At least my mother and brother, David, were happy for me. However, Uncle Patrick's will was not without a string of clauses. Some good, some not so much. For instance, one clause prevented me from selling Hammersleigh House or any of its contents for twenty-five years, so it was a good thing I loved the house, because I was stuck with it. The will also established a trust that paid the maintenance and repair costs for Hammersleigh. This included the wages of casual help to keep the grounds and gardens in pristine order and the cost of the cleaning team that came in weekly. The trust also paid for a housekeeper and Conklin. I guess this Trust business made me more of a caretaker than an owner, but on the upside, I didn't have to worry about saving for a new roof or electrical upgrades. Best of all, I didn't have to clean the place. Conklin and I were the sole occupants of Hammersleigh House, unless you counted Jacqueline, the hell-poodle, which I didn't. And if my first two nights in residence were filled with dark silences, well, I would get used to it. I continued the yoga stress-relieving breathing. Four breaths in, hold for four, four breaths out, hold for four, then repeat. The ticking of the clock was soft, soothing now, and too quiet to mask the sound of footsteps that came to rest beside me. Rescue was at hand. I looked up. "Hi, Conklin." Conklin wore his off-duty apparel, consisting of a pair of faded brown corduroys and a weathered beige jacket over a snow-white polo sweater, which exactly matched his thick shock of hair. We were in the middle of a July heat wave—outside, it was at least thirty-five degrees Celsius. I was wearing shorts and the briefest tank top I owned, and until I'd discovered the box, I had been sweating buckets in the tower room. Now I was shivering. I guess I should explain Conklin since he played such a central role in my new life at Hammersleigh House, kind of like an unwelcome conscience I might ignore at times, but couldn't shake loose. Strange as it may seem in this day and age, Conklin was my butler. First, he was Uncle Patrick's butler. Then Uncle Patrick left him to me in his will. Or, to be precise, Conklin was given the option of staying on at Hammersleigh or retiring. He decided I couldn't possibly get along without him. Unfortunately, he was right. Conklin had served Uncle Patrick for more than fifty years and knew Hammersleigh's every whim and whimsy. He knew who to call when a section of stone lintel developed a miniscule crack. He knew what to do when one of the ancient plants in the rose garden contracted black spot. He knew where to get the special beeswax polish that was used on Hammersleigh's woodwork. He knew the name of the contractor who annually checked the stone gargoyles on each corner of the house to ensure they didn't fall off. In short, Conklin knew everything and I needed him. Technically, he worked for me, but since I didn't pay him, he was pretty much a free agent. I think he disapproved of me and my inheritance. There he stood with Jacqueline at his side. "Madam?" I had a lot of explaining to do. I searched for the words to tell him about the box upstairs. "Madam, are you hurt?" He bent down and tugged on my arm. I sighed. I weighed only a hundred and twenty-two pounds, but that's still beyond the capacity of one senior citizen to handle. I yanked my arm away. He captured it again. "What happened, Madam? Please, speak to me." He made comforting noises to reassure me. He glanced from my face to the antelope's and back again. Jacqueline planted her body within inches of my ear and barked. "Shut up." Since "shut up" and "get off the furniture" were the only two phrases I ever directed at her, she couldn't pretend not to understand. The racket subsided, but she sat down close to my face. I kept one eye on her, since she had a fondness for biting. Conklin looked at my injured toe. The ream of scarlet toilet paper trailed from it, like a bloody banner of surrender. "Madam, you seem to have injured yourself. I will call 911." "No ambulance, fire truck or rescue vehicle will be necessary. Would you please call Marc Allaire and tell him to come over right away? Right now. Tell him it is business and I need him." Conklin was a very literal man. I found it helped to be specific. "Shall I tell him it's an emergency, Madam?" "You can tell him it's very serious. However, no sirens or backup are required." While Conklin was making the call from the cramped telephone closet under the staircase, I pulled myself up onto the bottom step and sat there, thinking. After a minute, I got to my feet, shuffled to the door and opened it to wait for Marc's arrival. "Madam, Chief Allaire said to let you know he will be here immediately. I advised him you appeared to be slightly injured, but did not require medical attention at this time. I hope that was correct." "Perfect, Conklin. Thank you." "I hope you haven't been attacked, Madam." I sure wished he would stop calling me Madam. I was beginning to feel like the owner of a massage parlour. I had already asked him to call me Lyris or Miss Lyris even. He just looked appalled at the idea and would have none of it. Yet he insisted I call him Conklin, though everyone else called him either Mr. Conklin or Arthur. "No, Conklin, I haven't been attacked." I was tired all of a sudden. My bones craved heat and I sat down in the sun. My mind drifted to the tower room. To the box. And its secret. What could have happened so long ago to end in such tragedy? A terrible act―an evil act―had been committed in this house. Selfishly, I wished the box had withheld its secret for another sixty-eight years. CHAPTER 3 During daytime hours, Hammersleigh's gates were set wide open at the end of the long driveway. Inside the house, a button in the electrical panel set into the wall by the front door controlled a mechanism that locked the gates every night and opened them again in the mornings. I thought the practice was a waste of time. Sure, the house was equipped with other security devices such as motion detectors, but locking the front gates when only a six-foot wrought-iron fence surrounded the rest of the property seemed absurd. There had been several break-ins around Blackshore in the past month, and there I was, sleeping in lonesome splendour on the second floor, while Conklin slept…somewhere else in the house. I had no idea where. Hammersleigh House was full of valuable objects protected by a psychotic poodle, an aged butler and one confirmed coward. Lights flashing, but siren muted, Marc's cruiser careened around the gates and sped up the driveway, skidding to a stop ten feet from the steps where I was sitting. I stood up and waited for Marc to reach me, the bottoms of my bare feet burning from the heat of the limestone. I had hoped to have a word alone with Marc without Conklin listening in—Conklin was not a young man, and I was afraid of shocking him into an anxiety attack or cardiac arrest—but it was not going to happen. Conklin and Jacqueline came out of the house and hovered nearby. I couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting one of them. Marc jumped out of the cruiser and ran up the steps to meet me. I wasn't able to read his expression behind the mirrored sunglasses, but the well-shaped lips were set a little more firmly than usual. I wondered what I looked like. Not good, I suspected. Blood-caked hands and foot, dust-streaked clothes, and God only knew what state my hair was in. Or my face. I dragged the back of my wrist down my cheek, hoping to remove a few sweat streaks. I probably still looked like three-day-old road kill. Our relationship was new, and sometimes I wondered why Marc was interested in me. Perhaps he enjoyed enigmas. He once said I resembled a Madonna, until I opened my mouth. I wished I'd asked him what he meant―not the mouth part; I got that. But with almost black hair, dark brown eyes and olive skin that tanned from April's first sunbeam, I sure didn't look like any Madonna. And my breasts, while perfectly adequate for most purposes, would disappear from sight under the folds of a saintly robe. So far, though, I liked pretty much everything about Marc. He was hot-looking and had no major fault I could find, unless a penchant for organization and order could cause me problems down the road. His person, vehicle, office, home, yard—everything was neat and clean. And don't bother laying your sweater over a chair. It will be hung up as soon as your arm is out of the sleeve. My ex-husband, Dennis Malinski, was a neat-freak in a different way. While Marc would hang up your sweater with a smile and help you put it back on later, Dennis would just look at it and seethe, then throw it out the back door into the fishpond. I lost a few good sweaters that way. And one Christmas turkey, but that's another story. "So where's the emergency? You haven't been robbed, have you?" Marc took off his sunglasses and I saw the grey eyes were concerned, not angry. He touched my arm and looked me over. I snapped an accusing glance at Conklin, but the snitch refused to meet my eyes. "Not yet. It isn't an emergency as such, Marc." And it wasn't. The contents of the box had been in the tower room for more than sixty years. "Lyris, I left the mayor and two councillors sitting in my office with a petition signed by almost four hundred citizens. They want more police patrols at night throughout the whole of Bruce County, and I don't have the manpower. I had to tell them I was called out on an emergency. How did you get hurt?" I figured I'd better not mention that one of the signatures on the petition was mine. Hey, I was a home owner too. "Sorry, this honestly is serious. And I dropped a moose on my foot and fell down the stairs. I'm fine though." His eyes flickered, but he didn't mention my injury again. That's another thing I liked about him—he didn't fuss. "Come upstairs with me and I'll show you what I found." I looked at Conklin. He and Jacqueline were still standing close behind me, sighing and snuffling respectively. Maybe I could lose them on the way up. "Well, after you then. I hope this is important. I should get back to the mayor and his squabbling councillors." "Don't trip on the antelope there." I led the way up the mahogany staircase, Marc behind me and Conklin and Jacqueline trailing along at the end. "I believe that's a wildebeest. Where are you taking me?" "It's an antelope. It says so on the plaque. We're going to the tower room." Marc glanced back at the antelope, then followed me along the length of the hallway. I stopped with my hand on the knob. The hand was shaking a little and I gripped tighter. "It's in here." I threw open the door. At first glance, the room looked like it had been finger-painted by a mob of angry preschoolers. There were round red drops on the floor, and the handprints on the wall around the hidden door opening were drying and turning brownish. Marc and Conklin looked at each other, then at my toe. The moose rested beside the demilune table. Impatient to get this over with, I tapped my good foot and indicated the box in the middle of the floor and the newspapers scattered close by. Before my momentary lapse of consciousness, I must have let the cloth drop back into place, so it was not possible to see inside the box. Marc turned and looked at me with a questioning eye. "Something in this box? You better show me." I glanced at Conklin. He was sticking close to my side. Well, I just hoped he had a strong heart. Jacqueline growled low in her throat and backed away. I pushed her out of the room, and for once, she didn't protest. She lay down flat in the hall a few yards from the door. I found I couldn't let Marc look in the box without warning him. He may have seen a lot of gruesome sights during his career, but I was betting this would be a first for him. I just wanted to get the words out and done with. "It's little Tommy." Both men continued to look at me. "You know, little Tommy Pembrooke." They still showed no reaction. "At least you must remember," I said to Conklin. "It was during the war. They never found him." "Which war would this be, Madam?" "Lord love a duck. World War II, of course. You were here then, weren't you? How could you forget something like that?" "Madam, during the War, I was overseas. My employment at Hammersleigh House did not commence until 1948." "Oh, I didn't know." The way he felt about Hammersleigh, I figured he had been born under a hydrangea bush in the back garden. "You must have heard about little Tommy. Everyone in Blackshore knows. It's a legend." "Wait," Marc said, "I remember now. He was here for a family reunion and disappeared one night. I came across the file in our archives a few years ago. The case is still open, although the file has never been appended." Conklin cleared his throat. "The affair is coming back to me also, Madam. I did hear about it from staff who were employed at Hammersleigh House many years ago. It was a fascinating story as well as a sad one. Poor child, I believe he was just an infant." "Two months from his second birthday. The house and grounds were searched over and over. Finally, the police decided to call it a kidnapping. They said someone entered the house in the middle of the night and took him." Marc leaned over and poked at the top of the box with a finger. I shuddered and moved closer to Conklin. "The federal authorities were contacted," Marc said, "but in those days they had no accurate tracking system for missing children, and no trace of the Pembrooke child was ever found. Did you come across some newspaper accounts here?" "Marc, you aren't listening to me. Tommy is in this box. Don't you get it? He never left the house. He's been here all along." Beside me, I could feel Conklin stiffen. "Madam, are you sure? The child disappeared over sixty years ago. It does not seem possible that he would still be recognizable." His faded blue eyes were sad. "Perhaps you have found the skeleton of someone's pet, a cat or a puppy?" A pet. I ignored him and turned to Marc. "Look in the box. I may not be a forensic specialist, but take one look and then tell me I'm wrong. And it's no skeleton." Marc took a pair of black latex gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on. He dropped to one knee and sorted through the newspapers, picking up each sheet by the corner with the tips of his thumb and forefinger and looking at it before replacing it on the floor. When all the papers were piled in a neat stack beside the box, he inspected the cloth without touching it. Now that I saw it again, I realized it was the remnant of a blanket. As Marc lifted it, the faded satin binding fell away from the soft blue material. A baby's blanket. A feeling of sorrow swept over me and I brushed at my eyes. For a moment I imagined I saw a toddler running toward me on the grass at Hammersleigh, his tiny hands clutching a yellow cloth bunny... Marc placed the blanket on the pile of papers and I kept my eyes on his face, not wanting to see the tiny body again. Marc leaned toward the box. He recoiled and rocked back on his heels. Then, he stood up and backed away. Conklin made a move to step forward and I clutched at his sleeve. He gently disengaged himself. "Madam, I was in the medical corps. I am no stranger to death, even in its more unpleasant forms." After a moment's consideration of the box's contents, Conklin plucked at the neck of his sweater with trembling fingers and spoke to Marc. "How could this have happened, Chief Allaire? I don't believe I have ever seen anything like this before." Marc looked in the closet. "The temperature and humidity must have been just right for the length of time it takes a body to dehydrate. And air current is a factor too. That looks like a ventilation pipe that's rusted apart running up the back of the closet. It isn't a large body and the desiccation process would have been quick. And the child did disappear during the summer." That was rather more information than I needed. He reached into the box and lifted out a stuffed toy, a rabbit that might once have been yellow. I moved uneasily and shrugged off the tingle between my shoulders. Marc replaced the toy. He stood up, removed his gloves, and motioned us to go ahead of him into the hall. He closed the door of the tower room and took me by the elbow. "I want you to tell me how you came to find the box. But first, I need to call Ronnie." Marc led us down the staircase, across the great hall, through the double oak doors, and down the limestone steps to the bricked driveway. The late afternoon heat was heavy with humidity as we halted in a row beside his cruiser. Marc called the dispatcher on the radio, asking her to contact Ronnie Guilbert, his sergeant, and instruct him to come to Hammersleigh House with his camera and other crime equipment. The radio squawked a question at Marc and he replied distinctly with a brief glance in my direction. "Ms. Lyris Pembrooke has found the mummified remains of a child in one of her closets." You can read the rest of CHEAT THE HANGMAN at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Gloria Ferris's blog: http://www.gloriaferris.com Children of the Fog by Cheryl Kaye Tardif CHILDREN OF THE FOG by Cheryl Kaye Tardif prologue May 14th, 2007 She was ready to die. She sat at the kitchen table, a half empty bottle of Philip's precious red wine in one hand, a loaded gun in the other. Staring at the foreign chunk of metal, she willed it to vanish. But it didn't. Sadie checked the gun and noted the single bullet. "One's all you need." If she did it right. She placed the gun on the table and glanced at a pewter-framed photograph that hung off-kilter above the mantle of the fireplace. It was illuminated by a vanilla-scented candle, one of many that threw flickering shadows over the rough wood walls of the log cabin. Sam's sweet face stared back at her, smiling. Alive. From where she sat, she could see the small chip in his right front tooth, the result of an impatient father raising the training wheels too early. But there was no point in blaming Philip―not when they'd both lost so much. Not when it's all my fault. Her gaze swept over the mantle. There were three objects on it besides the candle. Two envelopes, one addressed to Leah and one to Philip, and the portfolio case that contained the illustrations and manuscript on disc for Sam's book. She had finished it, just like she had promised. "And promises can't be broken. Right, Sam?" A single tear burned a path down her cheek. Sam was gone. What reason do I have for living now? She gulped back the last pungent mouthful of Cabernet and dropped the empty bottle. It rolled under the chair, unbroken, rocking on the hardwood floor. Then all was silent, except the antique grandfather clock in the far corner. Its ticking reminded her of the clown's shoe. The one with the tack in it. Tick, tick, tick… The clock belched out an ominous gong. It was almost midnight. Almost time. She drew an infinity symbol in the dust on the table. ∞ "Sadie and Sam. For all eternity." Gong… She swallowed hard as tears flooded her eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you, baby. I tried to. God, I tried. Forgive me, Sam." Her words ended in a gut-wrenching moan. Something scraped the window beside her. She pressed her face to the frosted glass, then jerked back with a gasp. "Go away!" They stood motionless―six children that drifted from the swirling miasma of night air, haunting her nights and every waking moment. Surrounded by the moonlit fog, they began to chant. "One fine day, in the middle of the night…" "You're not real," she whispered. "Two dead boys got up to fight." A small, pale hand splayed against the exterior of the window. Below it, droplets of condensation slid like tears down the glass. She reached out, matching her hand to the child's. Shivering, she pulled away. "You don't exist." The clock continued its morbid countdown. As the alcohol and drug potpourri kicked in, the room began to spin and her stomach heaved. She inhaled deeply. She couldn't afford to get sick. Sam was waiting for her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm ready." Gong… Without hesitation, she raised the gun to her temple. "Don't!" the children shrieked. She pressed the gun against her flesh. The tip of the barrel was cold. Like her hands, her feet...her heart. A sob erupted from the back of her throat. The clock let out a final gong. Then it was deathly silent. It was midnight. Her eyes found Sam's face again. "Happy Mother's Day, Sadie." She took a steadying breath, pushed the gun hard against her skin and clamped her eyes shut. "Mommy's coming, Sam." She squeezed the trigger. 1 March 30th, 2007 Sadie O'Connell let out a snicker as she stared at the price tag on the toy in her hand. "What did they stuff this with, laundered money?" She tossed the bunny back into the bin and turned to the tall, leggy woman beside her. "What are you getting Sam for his birthday?" Her best friend gave her a cocky grin. "What should I get him? Your kid's got everything already." "Don't even go there, my friend." But Leah was right. Sadie and Philip spoiled Sam silly. Why shouldn't they? They had waited a long time for a baby. Or at least, she had. After two miscarriages, Sam's birth had been nothing short of a miracle. A miracle that deserved to be spoiled. Leah groaned loudly. "Christ, it's a goddamn zoo in here." Toyz & Twirlz in West Edmonton Mall was crawling with overzealous customers. The first major sale of the spring season always brought people out in droves. Frazzled parents swarmed the toy store, swatting their wayward brood occasionally―the way you'd swat a pesky yellowjacket at a barbecue. One distressed father hunted the aisles for his son, who had apparently taken off on him as soon as his back was turned. In every aisle, parents shouted at their kids, threatening, cajoling, pleading and then predictably giving in. "So who let the animals out?" Sadie said, surveying the store. The screeching wheels of shopping carts and the constant whining of overtired toddlers were giving her a headache. She wished to God she'd stayed home. "Excuse me." A plump woman with frizzy, over-bleached hair gave Sadie an apologetic look. She navigated past them, pushing a stroller occupied by a miniature screaming alien. A few feet away, she stopped, bent down and wiped something that looked like curdled rice pudding from the corner of the child's mouth. Sadie turned to Leah. "Thank God Sam's past that stage." At five years old―soon to be six―her son was the apple of her eye. In fact, he was the whole darned tree. A lanky imp of a boy with tousled black hair, sapphire-blue eyes and perfect bow lips, Sam was the spitting image of his mother and the exact opposite of his father in temperament. While Sam was sweet natured, gentle and loving, Philip was impatient and distant. So distant that he rarely said I love you anymore. She stared at her wedding ring. What happened to us? But she knew what had happened. Philip's status as a trial lawyer had grown, more money had poured in and fame had gone to his head. He had changed. The man she had fallen in love with, the dreamer, had gone. In his place was someone she barely knew, a stranger who had decided too late that he didn't want kids. Or a wife. "How about this?" Leah said, nudging her. Sadie stared at the yellow dump truck. "Fill it with a stuffed bat and Sam will think it's awesome." Her son's fascination with bats was almost comical. The television was always tuned in to the Discovery Channel while her son searched endlessly for any show on the furry animals. "What did Phil the Pill get him?" Leah asked dryly. "A new Leap Frog module." "I still can't believe the things that kid can do." Sadie grinned. "Me neither." Sam's mind was a sponge. He absorbed information so fast that he only had to be shown once. His powers of observation were so keen that he had learned how to unlock the door just by watching Sadie do it, so Philip had to add an extra deadbolt at the top. By the time Sam was three, he had figured out the remote control and the DVD player. Sadie still had problems turning on the TV. Sam…my sweet, wonderful, little genius. "Maybe I'll get him a movie," Leah said. "How about Batman Begins?" "He's turning six, not sixteen." "Well, what do I know? I don't have kids." At thirty-four, Leah Winters was an attractive, willowy brunette with wild multi-colored streaks, thick-lashed hazel eyes, a flirty smile and a penchant for younger men. While Sadie's pale face had a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, Leah's complexion was tanned and clear. She'd been Sadie's best friend for eight years―soul sistahs. Ever since the day she had emailed Sadie out of the blue to ask questions about writing and publishing. They'd met at Book Ends, a popular Edmonton bookstore, for what Leah had expected would be a quick coffee. Their connection was so strong and so immediate that they talked for almost five hours. They still joked about it, about how Leah had thought Sadie was some hotshot writer who wouldn't give her the time of day. Yet Sadie had given her more. She'd given Leah a piece of her heart. A rugged, handsome Colin Farrell look-alike passed them in the aisle, and Leah stared after him, eyes glittering. "I'll take one of those," she said with a soft growl. "To go." "You won't find Mr. Right in a toy store," Sadie said dryly. "They're usually all taken. And somehow I don't think you're gonna find him at Karma either." Klub Karma was a popular nightclub on Whyte Avenue. It boasted the best ladies' night in Edmonton, complete with steroid-muscled male strippers. Leah was a regular. "And why not?" Sadie rolled her eyes. "Because Karma is packed with sweaty, young puppies who are only interested in one thing." Leah gave her a blank look. "Getting laid," Sadie added. "Honestly, I don't know what you see in that place." "What, are you daft?" Leah arched her brow and grinned devilishly. "I'm chalking it up to my civil duty. Someone's gotta show these young guys how it's done." "Someone should show Philip," Sadie muttered. "Why―can't he get it up?" "Jesus, Leah!" "Well? Fess up." "Later maybe. When we stop for coffee." Leah glanced at her watch. "We going to our usual place?" "Of course. Do you think Victor would forgive us if we went to any other coffee shop?" Leah chuckled. "No. He'd start skimping on the whipped cream if we turned traitor. So what are you getting Sam?" "I'll know it when I see it. I'm waiting for a sign." "You're always such a sucker for this fate thing." Sadie shrugged. "Sometimes you have to have faith that things will work out." They continued down the aisle, both searching for something for the sweetest boy they knew. When Sadie spotted the one thing she was sure Sam would love, she let out a hoot and gave Leah an I-told-you-so look. "This bike is perfect. Since his birthday is actually on Monday, I'll give it to him then. He'll get enough things from his friends at his party on Sunday anyway." Little did she know that Sam wouldn't see his bike. He wouldn't be around to get it. "Haven't seen you two all week," Victor Guan said. "Another day and I would've called nine-one-one." "It's been a busy week," Sadie replied, plopping her purse on the counter. "How's business, Victor?" "Picking up again with this cold snap." The young Chinese man owned the Cuppa Cappuccino a few blocks from Sadie's house. The coffee shop had a gas fireplace, a relaxed ambiance and often featured local musicians like Jessy Green and Alexia Melnychuk. Not only did Victor serve the best homemade soups and feta Caesar salad, the mocha lattés were absolutely sinful. Leah made a beeline for the washroom. "You know what I want." Sadie ordered a Chai and a mocha. "You see that fog this morning?" Victor asked. "Yeah, I drove Sam to school in it. I could barely see the car in front of me." She shivered and Victor gave her a concerned look. "Cat walk over your grave or something?" he asked. "No, I'm just tired of winter." She grabbed a newspaper from the rack and headed for the upper level. The sofa by the fireplace was unoccupied, so she sat down and tossed the newspaper on the table. The headline on the front page made her gasp. THE FOG STRIKES AGAIN! Her breath felt constricted. "Oh God. Not another one." A photograph of a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting on concrete steps dominated the front page. Eight-year-old Cortnie Bornyk, from the north side of Edmonton, was missing. According to the newspaper, the girl had disappeared in the middle of the night. No sign of forced entry and no evidence as to who had taken her, but investigators were sure it was the same man who had taken the others. Sadie opened the newspaper to page three, where the story continued. She empathized with the girl's father, a single dad who had left Ontario to find construction work in Edmonton. Matthew Bornyk had moved here to make a better life. Not a bad decision, considering that the housing market was booming. But now he was pleading for the safe return of his daughter. "Here you go," Victor said, setting two mugs on the table. "Thanks," she said, without looking up. Her eyes were glued to the smaller photo of Bornyk and his daughter. The man had a smile plastered across his face, while his daughter was frozen in a silly pose, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Daddy's little girl, Sadie thought sadly. Leah flopped into an armchair beside her. "Who's the hunk?" "His daughter was abducted last night." "How horrible." "Yeah," Sadie said, taking a tentative sip from her mug. "Did anyone see anything?" "Nothing." She locked eyes on Leah. "Except the fog." "Do they think it's him?" Sadie skimmed the article. "There are no ransom demands yet. Sounds like him." "Shit. That makes, what―six kids?" "Seven. Three boys, four girls." "One more boy to go." Leah's voice dripped with dread. The Fog, as the kidnapper was known, crept in during the dead of night or early morning, under the cloak of a dense fog. He wrapped himself around his prey and like a fog, he disappeared without a trace, capturing the souls of children and stealing the hopes and dreams of parents. One boy, one girl. Every spring. For the last four years. Sadie flipped the newspaper over. "Let's change the subject." Her eyes drifted across the room, taking in the diversity of Victor's customers. In one corner of the upper level, three teenaged boys played poker, while a fourth watched and hooted every time one of his friends won. Across from Sadie, a redheaded woman wearing a mauve sweatshirt plunked away on a laptop, stopping every now and then to cast the noisy boys a frustrated look. On the lower level, one of the regulars―Old Ralph―was reading every newspaper from front to back. He sipped his black coffee when he finished each page. "So…" Leah drawled as she crossed her long legs. "What's going on with Phil the Pill?" Sadie scowled. "That's what I'd like to know. He says he's working long nights at the firm." "And you're thinking, what? That he's screwing around?" Leah never was one to beat around the bush―about anything. "Maybe he's just working hard," her friend suggested. Sadie shook her head. "He got home at two this morning, reeking of perfume and booze." "Isn't his firm working on that oil spill case? I bet all the partners are pulling late nights on that one." Sadie snorted. "Including Brigitte Moreau." Brigitte was her husband's right-hand-woman, as he'd made a point of telling her often. Apparently, the new addition to Fleming Warner Law Offices was indispensable. The slender, blond lawyer, with a pair of breasts she'd obviously paid for, never left Philip's side. Sadie wondered what Brigitte did when she had to pee. Probably drags Philip in with her. "It could be perfectly innocent," Leah suggested. "Yeah, right. I was at the conference after-party. I saw them together, and there was nothing innocent about them. Brigitte was holding onto Philip's arm as if she owned him. And he was laughing, whispering in her ear." She pursed her lips. "His co-workers were looking at me with sympathetic eyes, pitying me. I could see it in their faces. Even they knew." Leah winced. "Did you call him on it?" "I asked him if he was messing around again." Just before Sam was born, Philip had admitted to two other affairs. Both office flings, according to him. "Both meant nothing," he had said, before blaming his infidelities on her swollen belly and her lack of sexual interest. "What'd he say?" Leah prodded, with the determination of a pit-bull slobbering over a t-bone steak. "Nothing. He just stormed out of the house. He called me from work just before you came over. Said I was being ridiculous, that my accusations were hurtful and unfair." She lowered her voice. "He asked me if I was drinking again." "Bastard. And you wonder why I'm still single." Sadie said nothing. Instead, she thought about her marriage. They'd been happy―once. Before her downward spiral into alcoholism. In the early years of their marriage, Philip had been attentive and caring, supporting her decision to focus on her writing. It wasn't until she started talking about having a family that things had changed. She flicked a look at Leah, grateful for her loyal companionship and understanding. Fate had definitely intervened when it had led her to Leah. Her friend had gone above and beyond the duty of friendship, dropping everything in a blink if she called. Leah was her life support, especially on the days and nights when the bottle called her. She'd even attended a few AA meetings with Sadie. And where was Philip? Probably with Brigitte. "Come on, my friend," Leah said, grinning. "I know you really want to swear. Let it out." "You know I don't use language like that." "You're such a prude. Philip's an ass, a bastard. Let me hear you say it. Bas…tard." "I'll let you be the foul-mouthed one," Sadie said sweetly. "Fuckin' right. Swearing is liberating." Leah took a careful sip of tea. "So how's the book coming?" Sadie smiled. "I finished the text yesterday. Tomorrow I'll start on the illustrations. I'm so excited about it." "Got a title yet?" "Going Batty." Leah's pencil-thin brow arched. "Hmm…how appropriate." Sadie gave her a playful slap on the arm. "It's about a little bat who can't find his way home because his radar gets screwed up. At first, he thinks he's picking up radio signals, but then he realizes he's picking up other creatures' thoughts." "That's perfect. Sam'll love it." "I know. I can't believe I waited so long to write something special for him." A few months ago, Sadie decided to take a break from writing another Lexa Caine mystery, especially since her agent had secured her a deal for two children's picture books. "It's been a welcome break," she admitted. "Lexa needed a year off. A holiday." "Some break," Leah said. "I've hardly seen you. You've been working day and night on Sam's book." "It's been worth it." "Is it harder than writing mysteries?" "Other than the artwork, I think it's easier," Sadie said, somewhat surprised by her own answer. "But then, Sam inspires me. He's my muse. Kids see things so differently." "Wish I had one." Sadie's jaw dropped. "A kid?" "A muse, idiot." Sadie grinned. "How's the steamy romance novel going?" "I'm stumped. I've got Clara trapped below deck on the pirate ship, locked in the cargo hold with no way out." Since the success of her debut novel, Sweet Destiny, Leah had found her niche and was working on her second historical romance. "What's in the room?" Leah gave her a wry grin. "Cases of Bermuda rum." "Well, she's not going to drink it, so what else can she do?" "I don't know. She can't get the crew drunk, if that's what you're thinking. " "What if the ship caught on fire?" Excitement percolated in Leah's eyes. "Yeah. A fire could really heat things up. Pun intended." They were silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. "Hey," Sadie said finally. "I've been tempted to cut my hair. What do you think?" Leah stared at her. "You want to get rid of all that beautiful hair? Jesus, Sadie, it's past your bra strap." In a thick Irish accent, she said, "Have ye lost your Irish mind just a wee bit, lassie?" "It's too much work," Sadie said with a pout. "What does Philip think?" "He'd be happy if I kept it long," she replied, scowling. "Maybe that's one reason why I want to cut it." Leah laughed. "Then you go, girl." Half an hour later, they parted ways―with Leah eager to get back to the innocent Clara and her handsome, sword-wielding pirate, and Sadie not so thrilled to be going back to an empty house. As she climbed into her sporty Mazda3, she smiled, relieved as always that she had chosen practical over the flashy and pretentious Mercedes that Philip drove. She glanced at the clock and heaved a sigh of relief. It was almost time to pick Sam up from school. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe there's been some progress today. 2 The instant Sam saw her standing in the classroom doorway, he let out a wild yell and charged at her, almost knocking her off her feet. "Whoa there, little man," she said breathlessly. "Who are you supposed to be? Tarzan?" "We just finished watching Pocahontas," a woman's voice called out. "Hi, Jean," Sadie said. "How are things today?" Jean Ellis taught a class of children with hearing impairments. "Same as usual," the kindergarten teacher replied. "No change, I'm afraid." Sadie tried to hide her disappointment. "Maybe tomorrow." She studied Sam, who could hear everything just fine. Why won't he speak? "Did you have a good day, honey?" Ignoring her, Sam pulled on a winter jacket and stuffed his feet into a pair of insulated boots. "It was a great day," Jean said, signing as she spoke. "Sam made a friend. A real one this time." Sadie was astounded. Sam's first real friend. Well, unless she counted his invisible friend, Joey. "Hey, little man," she said, crouching down to gather him in her arms. "Mommy missed you today. But I'm glad you have a new friend. What's his name?" When Sam didn't answer, Sadie glanced at Jean. "Victoria," the woman said with a wink. Grinning, Sadie ruffled Sam's hair. "Okay, charmer. Let's go." With a quick wave to Jean, she reached for Sam's hand. She was always amazed by how perfectly it fit into hers, how warm and soft his skin was. Outside in the parking lot, she unlocked the car and Sam scampered into the booster seat in the back. She leaned forward, fastened his seatbelt, then kissed his cheek. "Snug as a bug?" He gave her the thumbs up. Pulling away from the school, she flicked a look in her rearview mirror. Sam stared straight ahead, uninterested in the laughing children who waited for their parents to arrive. Her son was a shy boy, a loner who unintentionally scared kids away because of his inability to speak. His lack of desire to speak, she corrected. Sam hadn't always been mute. Sadie had taught him the alphabet at two. By the age of three, he was reading short sentences. Then one day, for no apparent reason, Sam stopped talking. Sadie was devastated. And Philip? There were no words to describe his erratic behavior. At first, he seemed mortified, concerned. Then he shouted accusations at her, insinuating so many horrible things that after a while even she began to wonder. During one nasty exchange, he had grabbed her, his fingers digging into her arms. "Did you drink while you were pregnant?" he demanded. "No!" she wailed. "I haven't had a drop." His eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Really?" "I swear, Philip." He stared at her for a long time before shaking his head and walking away. "We have to get him help," she said, running after him. Philip swiveled on one heel. "What exactly do you suggest?" "There's a specialist downtown. Dr. Wheaton recommended him." "Dr. Wheaton is an idiot. Sam will speak when he's good and ready to. Unless you've screwed him up for good." His insensitive words cut her deeply, and after he'd gone back to work, she picked up the phone and booked Sam's first appointment. She didn't feel good about going behind Philip's back, but he'd left her no choice. By the time Sam was three and a half, he had undergone numerous hearing and intelligence tests, x-rays, ultrasounds and psychiatric counseling, yet no one could explain why he wouldn't say a word. His vocal chords were perfectly healthy, according to one specialist. And he was right. Sam could scream, cry or shout. They had heard enough of that when he was younger. Sadie finally managed to drag Philip to an appointment, but the psychologist―a small, timid man wearing a garish red-striped tie that screamed overcompensation―didn't have good news for them. He sat behind a sterile metal desk, all the while watching Philip and twitching as if he had Tourettes. "Your son is suffering from some kind of trauma," the man said, pointing out what seemed obvious to Sadie. "But what could've caused it?" she asked in dismay. The doctor fidgeted with his tie. "Symptoms such as these often result from some form of…of abuse." Philip jumped to his feet. "What the hell are you saying?" The man's entire body jerked. "I-I'm saying that perhaps someone or something scared your son. Like a fight between parents, or witnessing drug or alcohol abuse." Sadie cringed at his last words. The look Philip gave her was one of pure anger. And censure. The doctor took a deep breath. "And of course, there is the possibility of physical or sexual―" Without a word, Philip stormed out of the doctor's office. Sadie ran after him. He had blamed her, of course. According to him, it was her drinking that had caused her miscarriages. And Sam's delayed verbal development. That night, after Sam had gone to bed, Philip had rummaged through every dresser drawer. Then he searched the closet. She watched apprehensively. "What are you doing?" "Looking for the bottles!" he barked. She hissed in a breath. "I told you. I am not drinking." "Once a drunk…" She cowered when he approached her, his face flushed with anger. "It's your fault!" he yelled. Guilt did terrible things to people. It was such a destructive, invisible force that not even Sadie could fight it. She looked in the rearview mirror and took in Sam's heart-shaped face and serious expression. She wondered for the millionth time why he wouldn't speak. She'd give anything to hear his voice, to hear one word. Any word. She'd been praying that the school environment would break through the language barrier. No such luck. Suddenly, she was desperate to hear his voice. "Sam? Can you say Mommy?" He signed Mom. "Come on, honey," she begged. "Muhh-mmy." In the mirror, he smiled and pointed at her. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. One day he would speak. He'd call her Mommy and tell her he loved her. "One day," she whispered. For now, she'd just have to settle for the undeniably strong bond she felt. The connection between mother and child had been forged at conception and she always knew how Sam felt, even without words between them. She turned down the road that led to the quiet subdivision on the southeast side of Edmonton. She pulled into the driveway and pushed the garage door remote, immediately noticing the sleek silver Mercedes parked in the spacious two-car garage. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. Philip was home. "Okay, little man," she murmured. "Daddy's home." She scooped Sam out of the back seat and headed for the door. He wriggled until she put him down. Then he raced into the house, straight upstairs. She flinched when she heard his bedroom door slam. "I guess neither of us is too excited to see Daddy," she said. Tossing her keys into a crystal dish on the table by the door, she dropped her purse under the desk, kicked off her shoes, puffed her chest and headed into the war zone. But the door to Philip's office was closed. She turned toward the kitchen instead. The war can wait. It always does. Passing by his office door an hour later, she heard Philip bellowing at someone on the phone. Whoever it was, they were getting quite an earful. A minute later, something hit the door. She backed away. "Don't stir the pot, Sadie." Philip remained locked away in his office and refused to come out for supper, so she made a quick meal of hotdogs for Sam and a salad for herself. She left a plate of the past night's leftovers―ham, potatoes and vegetables―on the counter for Philip. Later, she gave Sam a bath and dressed him for bed. "Auntie Leah came over today," she said, buttoning his pajama top. "She told me to say hi to her favorite boy." There wasn't much else to say, other than she had finished writing the bat story. She wasn't about to tell him that she had ordered his birthday cake and bought him a bicycle, which she had wrestled into the house by herself and hidden in the basement. "Want me to read you a story?" she asked. Sam grinned. She sat on the edge of the bed and nudged her head in the direction of the bookshelf. "You pick." He wandered over to the rows of books, staring at them thoughtfully. Then he zeroed in on a book with a white spine. It was the same story he chose every night. "My Imaginary Friend again?" she asked, amused. He nodded and jumped into bed, settling under the blankets. Sadie snuggled in beside him. As she read about Cathy, a young girl with an imaginary friend who always got her into trouble, she couldn't help but think of Sam. For the past year, he'd been adamant about the existence of Joey, a boy his age who he swore lived in his room. She'd often catch Sam smiling and nodding, as if in conversation. No words, no signing, just the odd facial expression. Some days he seemed lost in his own world. "Lisa says you should close your eyes," she read. Sam's eyes fluttered shut. "Now turn this page and use your imagination." He turned the page, then opened his eyes. They lit up when he saw the colorful drawing of Cathy's imaginary friend, Lisa. "Can you see me now?" she read, smiling. Sam pointed to the girl in the mirror. "Good night, Cathy. And good night, friend. The end." She closed the book and set it next to the bat signal clock on the nightstand. Then she scooted off the bed, leaned down and kissed her son's warm skin. "Good night, Sam-I-Am." His small hand reached up. With one finger, he drew a sideways 'S' in the air. Their nightly ritual. "S…for Sam," she said softly. And like every night, she drew the reflection. "S…for Sadie." Together, they created an infinity symbol. She smiled. "Always and forever." She flicked off the bedside lamp and eased out of the room. As she looked over her shoulder, she saw Sam's angelic face illuminated by the light from the hall. She shut the door, pressed her cheek against it and closed her eyes. Sam was the only one who truly loved her, trusted her. From the first day he had rested his huge black-lashed eyes on hers, she had fallen completely and undeniably in love. A mother's love could be no purer. "My beautiful boy." Turning away, she slammed into a tall, solid mass. Her smile disappeared when she identified it. Philip. And he wasn't happy. Not one bit. He glared down at her, one hand braced against the wall to bar her escape. His lips―the same ones that had smiled at her so charismatically the night they had met―were curled in disdain. "You could've told me Sam was going to bed." She sidestepped around him. "You were busy. As usual." "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" She cringed at his abrasive tone, but said nothing. "You're not going all paranoid on me again, are you?" He grabbed her arm. "I already told you. Brigitte is a co-worker. Nothing more. Jesus, Sadie! You're not a child. You're almost forty years old. What the hell's gotten into you lately?" "Not a thing, Philip. And I'll be thirty-eight this year. Not forty." She yanked her arm away, then brushed past him, heading for the bedroom. Their marriage was a sham. "Doomed from the beginning," her mother had told her one night when Sadie, a sobbing wreck, had called her after Philip had admitted to his first affair. But she'd proven her mother wrong. Hadn't she? Things seemed better the year after Sam was born. Then she and Philip started fighting again. Lately, it had escalated into a nightly event. At least on the nights he came home before she went to sleep. Philip entered the bedroom and slammed the door. "You know," he said. "You've been a bitch for months." "No, I haven't." "A frigid bitch. And we both know it's not from PMS, seeing as you don't get that anymore." Flinching, she caught her sad reflection in the dresser mirror. She should be used to his careless name-calling by now. But she wasn't. Each time, it was like a knife piercing deeper into her heart. One of these days, she wouldn't be able to pull it out. Then where would they be? Just another statistic? Philip waited behind her, flustered, combing a hand through his graying brown hair. For a moment, she felt ashamed of her thoughts. "Are you even listening to me?" he sputtered in outrage. And the moment was gone. She sighed, drained. "What do you want me to say, Philip? You're never home. And when you are, you're busy working in your office. We don't do anything together or go any―" "Christ, Sadie! We were just out with Morris and his wife." "I'm not talking about functions for the firm," she argued. "We don't see our old friends anymore. We never go to movies, never just sit and talk, never make…love." Philip crossed his arms and scowled. "And whose fault is that? It's certainly not mine. You're the one who pulls away every time I try to get close to you. You know, a guy can only handle so much rejection before―" "What?" She whipped around to confront him. "Before you go looking for it elsewhere?" He stared at her for a long moment and the air grew rank with tension, coiling around them with the slyness of a venomous snake, fangs exposed, ready to strike. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, defeated. "Maybe if you gave some of the love you pour on Sam to me once in a while, I wouldn't be tempted to look elsewhere." He strode out of the room, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. A minute later, a door slammed. She released a trembling breath. "Coward." She wasn't sure if she meant Philip…or herself. Brushing the drapes aside, she peered through the window to the dimly lit street below. It was devoid of any moving traffic, just a few parked vehicles lining the sidewalks. The faint rumble of the garage door made her clench the drapes. She heard the defiant revving of an engine, and then watched as the Mercedes backed down the driveway, a stream of frosty exhaust trailing behind it. The surface of the street shimmered from a fresh glazing of ice, and the car sped away, tires spinning on the pavement. Philip always seemed to get in the last word. She watched the fiery glow of the taillights as they faded into the night. Then the flickering of the streetlamp across the road caught her eye. She frowned when the light went out. One of the neighbors' dogs started barking, set off by either the abrupt darkness or Philip's noisy departure. She wasn't sure which. And then something emerged from the bushes. A lumbering shadow shuffled down the sidewalk, a few yards to the right of the lamp. It was a man, of that she was sure. She could make out a heavy jacket and some kind of hat, but she couldn't distinguish anything else. The man paused across the street from her house. Sadie was sure that he was staring up at her. She shivered and stepped out of view, the drapes flowing back into place. When her breathing calmed, she edged toward the window again and took a surreptitious peek. Gail, a neighbor from across the street, was walking Kali, a Shih Tzu poodle. But other than the woman and her dog, the sidewalk was empty. Sadie locked all the doors and windows, and set the security alarm. 3 After Sadie dropped Sam off at school the next morning, she drove to Sobeys for milk and laundry detergent. Walking past the bakery section, she was flagged down by Liz Crenshaw, a vivacious food demonstrator who talked a mile a minute. "Sadie! I was just thinking about you. How are you?" Though the petite woman was in her early fifties, she looked closer to thirty-five. Liz had three grown children and four grandchildren who all lived back east. Without her family around to spoil, she was a sucker for Sam. And Sam adored her. "How's your little boy doing?" Liz asked, smoothing a stray auburn curl behind one ear. "It's Sam's birthday soon, isn't it?" Sadie tucked the milk under her arm and reached for a custard pie sample. "Monday. But his party's on Sunday. He's excited about all the birthday gifts he'll be getting." Liz passed her a plastic spoon. "What did you get him?" "A new bike," Sadie said between mouthfuls. "I'm not giving it to him until Monday though." "I'd like to get him something. From Auntie Liz. What does he want, hon? Games? Books?" Sadie grinned. "A pet bat." The woman shuddered. "Ugh. That boy's got strange taste." Sadie frowned at the empty sample dish in her hand, then greedily eyed the others on the stand. "Yeah, I'm trying to talk my husband into getting him a puppy as a compromise." "Aw, I bet Sam'll love that." "Yeah, but Philip hasn't said yes yet." And he probably won't. After two more samples, Sadie headed home. As she drove, she thought about Philip's relationship with Sam. He barely saw his son. Whenever he did, there was always an uncomfortable strain in the air. He never said anything to Sam, unless he wanted him to pick up something off the floor, and then Philip's voice was always so intolerant. And he never played with Sam. He was always too busy, or he didn't want to wrinkle his shirt or get his pants dirty. She let out a sigh. She'd give anything to see Philip on the floor beside his son, both of them playing with dinosaurs or action figures―anything. Entering the house, she headed straight for the kitchen and put the milk jug in the fridge. In the laundry room, she started a load of darks and threw the whites into the dryer. The morning passed quickly as she lost herself in her regular routine of housework. After a bite to eat, she sat down at the small desk in the corner of the living room. She pulled out some watercolor paper and began drafting the cover for Going Batty. By two o'clock, she had created outlines of the cover and the first four pages. "Looking good," she murmured. She packed away the drawings and began straightening the pillows on the two sofas. Flicking a look around the room, she scowled at its stark white simplicity. She had wanted to decorate the spacious room with fresh flowers and colorful prints. But Philip wouldn't have it. He liked things the way they were. Everything in its place, no frivolous touches. The only room she'd been allowed free reign was Sam's. The phone rang. It was her agent in Calgary. "Hey, Jackson," she said. "I thought you'd forgotten me." There was a feigned gasp on the other end. "I could never do that. You're a Starr, remember?" Starr Literary Agency, run by Toronto native Jackson Starr, was giving the bigwigs in New York a run for their money. "Any word on the conference tour?" she asked. "That's why I'm calling. I have you booked in five cities in September, including the Crime Writers Conference in Toronto and Criminal Minds at Work in New York." She grinned into the phone. "How rich did you make me?" "Five thousand, plus hotel and travel expenses." "Well, that made my day. Thanks." "Any time. I'll deposit the check into your account this afternoon." There was a ruffle of paper. "So when you coming to visit us?" Sadie gaze was drawn to Philip's office door. He was at work, but she still felt his presence, his disapproval. He didn't like Jackson, was jealous of him. "Sorry, Jackson. I won't be able to get away for a bit. Maybe when I finish Sam's book." "How's it coming?" She filled him in on her progress, then hung up. The thought of the extra money in her private account elated her. Philip maintained control over most of their money, which he had tied up in investments. He gave her a weekly household allowance with the agreement that any money she made would be used for Sam's basic expenses and her own. Thank God, she made a decent income. Maybe this summer they could finally go to Disneyland. Thoughts of a family vacation, sunshine, castles and rides filled her mind and she practically danced into the laundry room. When the third load was dry, she folded Sam's clothes and placed them in a basket, along with a pair of Philip's socks that she'd discovered behind the laundry hamper. Gripping the basket under one arm, she trudged upstairs. In the master bedroom, she opened the top drawer of the tallboy dresser and tried to ignore the five airplane bottles of alcohol that clinked together. Philip had made a halfhearted attempt to hide them under his long johns. Five bottles, five drinks. She tossed the socks in and slammed the drawer shut. Then she moved into the hallway, hesitating outside the door to Sam's bedroom. She wasn't sure why, but when her hand touched the brass doorknob, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. With a nervous laugh, she turned the knob and stepped inside. A quick survey of Sam's room told her that nothing was out of the ordinary, so she set the laundry basket on the bed, next to a Batman t-shirt that had been tossed on the pillow. She sniffed the shirt. "Clean." Folding it, she placed it on top of the clothes in the basket. Then she gathered up the toy T-Rex, Raptors and Pterodactyls that were scattered on the floor and put them in the treasure chest. A few minutes later, Sam's clothes had been put away in the dresser, with the exception of an Oilers jacket. She moved toward the closet, the jacket in hand. Ssss… The sound brought her to a halt. "Get a grip. What would Philip say if he saw you?" She laughed derisively. "He'd say you're being a stupid fool." She hauled the door open. The closet was a jumble of toys and clothes. On the floor, jammed between two stuffed animals, a red balloon left over from the Valentine's Day parade hissed at her mockingly. As it deflated, she echoed the sound. "Idiot." She hung up the jacket, tossed the balloon in the garbage and went downstairs. An hour later, she headed out to pick up Sam, the balloon long forgotten. "It's Friday," she said as they left the school. "Park day." Sam let out a whoop, his mouth lined with orange Kool-Aid. She frowned. "We have to wash that face before Daddy sees." They crossed the parking lot and followed the sidewalk to the playground. A light blanket of snow still covered the grass, but that didn't deter the dozen or so children that played in the park. She settled Sam on a swing and closed her fingers over his. "Hold on tight, honey. Don't let go." She gave the swing a gentle push. Then another. Sunlight danced in Sam's black hair and he closed his eyes and leaned backward. He rose higher and higher, pumping his legs in delight. One of his boots slipped off and landed a few yards away. Sam didn't even notice. "You're flying," Sadie said, grinning. "Like a bat, Sam." Watching him, she had a sudden urge to freeze the moment, savor it forever. Times such as these made her wish she had brought a camera. She heard his soft giggle. It built slowly, then exploded into a bout of contagious laughter. Even the young mother next to her couldn't help but smile. "He's having a good time," the woman said. Sadie nodded. "Oh, to be young and carefree." "You got that right―Andrew!" Distracted by the antics of a lanky, freckle-faced boy climbing on top of the covered slide, the woman rushed off, leaving her daughter―still a toddler―in the baby swing next to Sam. Sadie stared after her in disbelief. What on earth was the woman thinking? How could she leave her daughter with a complete stranger after a girl had been kidnapped? Her gaze drifted over the school park. A cluster of mothers chatted at a picnic table, while an olive-skinned boy of about four wandered precariously close to the busy parking lot. A few feet away, an older boy―maybe thirteen―pushed a chubby girl off the steps to the slide, and a toddler of indiscriminate gender played in the sandbox, feasting on gourmet dirt laced with God knows what else. And all of that, ignored by the women at the table. The child in the baby swing let out a soft cry. Shaking her head in frustration, Sadie slowed Sam's swing. As she helped him down, she was torn between wanting to take him home and not wanting to leave the little girl alone. Huge brown eyes captured hers. "Mama?" Sadie sensed her fear. "Your mommy will be back soon." The girl whimpered, her eyes pooling with tears. A few minutes later, the mother rushed over. "Jeez, you'd think he'd been killed, the way he was carrying on." She nudged her head in the direction of the freckled boy. Sadie's lips thinned. "Your daughter was getting worried." The young woman's eyes widened as she let out a coarse snicker. "Daughter? She's not my kid. Neither of 'em are. I'm their nanny." Sadie was shocked. "Their nanny?" "Hey, people mistake me for their mom all the time," the woman said, as though motherhood were nothing more than a badge one could buy at the local Dollar Store. While the woman helped the toddler from the swing, Sadie gave her a disparaging look and bit back a reply. Without another word, she took Sam's hand and led him back to the car. "Snug as a bug," she said, clicking his seatbelt into place. She climbed into the driver's seat. As she reached for the door, something made her look across the street. A lone man wearing reflective sunglasses and a cowboy hat pulled low over his face waited in a gray sedan with the window rolled halfway down. She couldn't make out his features, but she did see the proud smile on his face as he watched his son or daughter playing in the park. I wish Philip would take the time to bring Sam here. She backed out and eased toward the parking lot exit. That's when she noticed the man in the car again. He wasn't looking toward the playground anymore. His shadowed gaze was directed at her. Passing the man, she was relieved when he looked away. You can read the rest of CHILDREN OF THE FOG at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Divine Intervention by Cheryl Kaye Tardif DIVINE INTERVENTION by Cheryl Kaye Tardif Prologue It always began with the dead girl in her closet. Every night when little Jasmine opened that closet door she expected to see lovely dresses and hangers―not a child her age strung up by a pink skipping rope, her body dangling above the floor…unmoving. The dead girl had long blond hair. Her blue eyes stared blindly and were surrounded by large black circles. Her mouth hung open in a soundless scream. The pink rope was tied tightly around her neck, a thick pink necklace of death. A purplish-black bruise was visible and ugly. The most unusual thing about the girl, other than the fact that she was swinging from a rope in Jasmine's closet, was that her skin and clothing were scorched. Gagging, little Jasmine stepped back in horror. When the girl's lifeless body swayed gently from a sudden breeze Jasmine let loose a cry of terror and raced down the stairs, searching anxiously for her parents. "Daddy?" Her throat was constricted and dry. "Mommy?" Then she screamed. "Mommy, I need you! Help me!" In the lower hallway, the shadows quickly surrounded her. Then she saw them. Red eyes flashing angrily at the end of the hall. Jasmine took a hesitant step backward. She tried to run but her feet would not cooperate. Her small body began to shake while the eyes followed her. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed a listless form moving toward her, arms outstretched―pleading. The girl from the closet wasn't dead anymore. Blistered hands reached for Jasmine. The girl's mouth yawned and a horrendous shriek emerged. Trapped and terrified, Jasmine began to scream… 1 Monday, June 18, 2012 ~ Vancouver, BC Agent Jasi McLellan awoke from her nightmare screaming and drenched in sweat. Irritated by a piercing sound, she turned her pounding head and glanced at the wall beside her. A technologically advanced video-screened wall, or vid-wall, had recently been added to her daunting security system. The wall was divided into four monitors―each coded for different activities. The message screen flashed brightly. Someone was trying to contact her. "Receive message," she croaked. She was rewarded with silence. Jasi eyed the clock. 5:30 in the goddamn morning. Who the hell would be calling her this early on her day off? Glaring words flashed across the monitor followed by a voice, deep and urgent. "Jasi, we need you! Ben." She was suddenly wide awake. "Message for Ben." When the system connected with Ben's data-communicator, she said, "Give me fifteen minutes. End message." She glanced at the words on the screen and realized her holiday was over. She wondered for a moment what was so important that Ben had to interrupt her downtime. With two days left, she had hoped to catch up on some much-needed rest. Crawling from beneath the sweat-soaked sheets, she crouched on the edge of the bed and reached for her portable data-com. She checked the calendar. A black X was scribbled over the date. "Oh God," she moaned. Today was her twenty-sixth birthday. Jasi hated birthdays. She pushed herself off her bed. In the dark, her toe connected sharply with the corner of the dresser and she let out a startled yelp. "Ensuite lights on, low!" Her Home Security & Environmental Control System immediately raised the lighting to a soft muted glow. Some days she was very thankful she had allowed Ben to install H-SECS in her new apartment. Of course, on the days when she couldn't remember a command or the security code to her weapons safe, Ben would get an earful. Limping to the bathroom, Jasi shook her head. Could this day possibly get any worse? Maybe I should go back to bed…wake up tomorrow. She hugged her arms close to her chest and stepped into the ensuite bathroom. Parking her butt on the toilet, she stared at her throbbing toe. Scowling, she stood up, leaned tiredly against the sink and examined her reflection. That's when she remembered her recurring nightmare. "Why can't you leave me alone?" she whispered to a dead girl who wasn't there. Frowning at her puffy, shadowed green eyes, Jasi splashed cool water on her face and rested her elbows on the edge of the sink. She traced a finger over the small scar that ran down the left side of her chin. It was barely noticeable, except to her. Spurring herself into action, she cast a self-deprecating glance at her hazy image and then headed for the shower. "Shower on, massage, 110 degrees," she commanded as she removed her panties and nightshirt. "Radio on, volume 7." Music from her favorite rock station pounded in through the ceiling speakers as she stumbled into the large shower stall. Stretching hesitantly, she relaxed her tense muscles and breathed a sigh of relief when the steamy water sent thoughts of a dead girl swirling down the drain. Jasi lathered her long auburn hair and stood under the spray, allowing the water to massage her scalp. Grimacing, she slid a wide-toothed comb through the tangled mess of wavy locks. Her hair had a mind of its own. More than once Jasi had threatened to chop it off but she was afraid she'd end up with a 'fro. Couldn't have that. No one would take her seriously. Her central data-com beeped suddenly. Her fifteen minutes were up. Cursing under her breath, she spit toothpaste into the sink, barely missing the soap dispenser. "Data-com on!" "Hey there, sunshine!" a male voice boomed. "You miss us?" Benjamin Roberts, her friend and partner, didn't wait for a response. "Divine has issued a Command Meet. He says he's sorry to cut your downtime short but we need you." His voice followed Jasi as she returned to her bedroom and ordered the lights on full. She sighed loudly. "It's not like I have anything better to do today. Like relax, go to a movie, or hook up with a handsome stranger for a night of passion." She eyed the closet nervously, then whipped the door open and stepped back, unsure of what or who might emerge. No one was there. "Hey, am I interrupting something?" She grabbed some clothes, slamming the door quickly. "I wish! What's up, Ben?" Stepping into a pair of casual slacks and a light blouse, she waited for her partner's answer. "You still in the shower, Jasi? Maybe you should put up the vid-wall." She heard him snicker. "Yeah right!" "We caught a case near Kelowna―a fire." Ben's voice grew serious. "One victim, Dr. Norman Washburn, ER doc at Kelowna General." Jasi frowned, and strapped on a shoulder harness. Kelowna. She hadn't been there in years. Not since the disastrous Okanagan Mountain forest fires of 2003. Now, nine years later, she would be returning. She'd have to take some precautions, prepare herself. "Why'd they call us?" "Sorry, Jasi. I know you're still officially on downtime, but this one is bad. They found a link to another fire. Two victims―a mother and child in Victoria. Unsolved." There was a long silence. "Ben?" She heard a soft chuckle on the other end. "By the way, Jasi, Happy Birthday." "How'd they link that one to the doctor?" she asked, ignoring the reference to her birthday. When he told her what the crime scene investigators had found at the scene, Jasi grabbed her 9-millimeter Beretta, checked the safety and jammed it into the holster. Then she dashed from the apartment―a shadow hot on her heels. A cab dropped her off at an isolated address in the West End. On the roof of a seedy-looking warehouse, a helicopter waited, its engine camouflaged by the busy drone of the streets below. Vancouver was a city in perpetual motion. A city that never slept. Hiking her handbag over one shoulder, Jasi keyed in her security access code and spoke her name into the VR box. The Voice Recognition program was the latest addition to security. When the door opened, she stepped inside a small airlock. A man in army greens and a brush-cut greeted her. He was loosely carrying a rifle in one hand. "Hey, Thomas," she waved. The weapons tech was tall and muscular, with a face like a pit-bull. Recognizing her, he cracked what was his idea of a smile. "Agent McLellan. Good to see you back." Jasi removed the Beretta from her pocket and laid it in a clear plastic tray. The tray was carried on a conveyor into a hole in the wall where the gun was scanned and the registration was recorded. Thomas buzzed her through. She followed a short hallway that opened to a large room filled with computers and electronic equipment. Another guard escorted her through a body scan, metal and powder detector and a fingerprint analyzer. The last stage was the Retinal Scanner Device. "I spy with my little eye," the RSD tech, Vanda, greeted her cheerfully. "Eyes that are puffy and bagged…and belong to a sixty-year-old," Jasi muttered when the RSD clicked off and Vanda waved her on. "For a sixty-year-old, you're lookin' pretty damned good, girl," the woman teased. "Yeah? Well, next time Divine calls me out on my downtime, I'll roll over and play dead!" Jasi neared the final scanning gate. It examined the small tracking device that had been surgically implanted in her navel. The tracker was used when an agent went missing―and for identification purposes. Especially if an agent's body was recovered in an unrecognizable state. Benjamin Roberts greeted her from the other side of the gate. "Pass on through, oh Queen of Darkness." He made a sweeping motion with his black-gloved hand. Thomas slid the tray with her gun toward Ben. Examining it, Ben said, "You know, Jasi, we do have better weapons than this old thing." She shrugged. "I know. But it has sentimental value." He handed her the gun. "Happy Birthday, Agent McLellan," Thomas called out. Jasi glared at Ben, her eyes shooting daggers. "What'd you do? Take out an ad in the newspaper?" "Naw, just a vid-wall ad on Hastings," he said, laughing. "Ouch! Watch that elbow!" Jasi examined her co-worker, taking in his broad shoulders and gray eyes. Benjamin Roberts was in his mid-thirties. He was a tall striking man who wore Armani suits like a second skin fitted to every contour of his muscular body. "New ones?" she asked, indicating his gloved hands. "I needed a better lining." She thought of how challenging it must be for him. Ben was a Psychometric Empath. If he touched someone, he often sensed flashes of thought or emotion. He wore specially designed gloves when he was out in public. Inside the black leather gloves, a protective coating blocked his empathic abilities. It was essential that he keep his mind fresh, so that he could focus on each case without unnecessary interruptions. Ben was also an expert in various martial arts and the best profiler the CFBI had. He had been with the Canadian Federal Bureau of Investigators for over fifteen years, before it was ever known as the CFBI. Back in the late 1990's, the Canadian government requested a more 'open-door' policy with the United States―-and the sharing of information. It started with computer programs designed to be accessed from either country so that information on every criminal perpetrator, rapist, pedophile, kidnapper, or serial killer was available at the touch of a keyboard. CSIS was still dedicated to protecting Canada's national security and focussed primarily on international terrorist activities. Then in 2003, the CFBI was formally introduced as a Canadian counterpart to the previously established FBI organization in the US. Eventually the CFBI took over CSIS and integrated a variety of divisions. Agents were employed and deployed from either side of the border, anywhere they were needed. Some agents were Psychic Skills Investigators―PSI's. Of course, the public was naively unaware that both governments were implementing the use of psychics. Even now, in 2012, it was a closely guarded secret. "Hey, Jasi! Ben! Over here!" a woman called. Jasi's other partner, Natassia Prushenko, was tall and leggy―and had breasts Jasi would kill for. Her black hair was razor-cut in a short wispy style. Her sapphire eyes twinkled mysteriously. It had been almost two weeks since they had seen each other but Jasi immediately sensed that something was different about Natassia. Something other than the copper streaks in her jet-black hair. Natassia passed her a sealed manila envelope. Then she gave a similar envelope to Ben, saluting him cockily. "Agent Prushenko, reporting for duty, sir." "Aw, cut it out, Natassia," Ben growled, rolling his gray eyes before pulling himself into the helicopter. The woman smirked, then climbed in beside him. "Aye, aye, mon capitaine." Jasi curiously eyed Natassia. Why, she wondered, was her friend grinning like a Cheshire cat? When Ben leaned forward to talk to the pilot, Jasi nudged Natassia's leg. "You'd better tell me what's going on." "Later." Jasi shrugged, then stared out the window. They were flying low under the canopy of clouds. As always, the beautiful British Columbia scenery with its lush forests and majestic snowcapped mountains entranced her. When the flight ended, they landed safely on the heliport in the center of a gated complex. Perched high on the electric wall, numerous cameras zoomed in on their arrival. A sterile concrete field surrounded two large buildings in the center of the complex. Both held a reception area and countless offices. Most were empty―a front. To civilians, the complex was known as Enviro-Safe Research Facility. To Jasi and the rest of the CFBI, it was Divine Operations. Or Divine Ops, as most agents referred to it. But the real Divine Ops was not visible. It was actually a maze of underground tunnels and offices more than fifty feet below the surface. "Well, now I know this is a big one," Natassia mouthed, her eyes glittering darkly while she followed Jasi from the heliport. On the tarmac ahead of them, a man paced restlessly. "Yeah," Jasi agreed. "A power-figure must be involved. I think this fire has someone hot under the collar." She nudged Natassia and they hurried toward the creator of Divine Ops. Matthew Divine's investigation of psychic phenomenon had initiated the construction of the first PSI training facility in Canada. The Federal government had listed the building as nothing more than a laboratory―one that researched the environment and its effect on people, animals, plant life and weather patterns. The locals knew nothing of the CFBI's presence. They were unaware that a web of offices existed underground, stocked with high tech computer equipment. They had no idea that the people they saw flying in and out of Enviro-Safe were highly trained government agents with specialized psychic skills. They did know that Matthew Divine and Enviro-Safe had brought prosperity to the area. When Enviro-Safe was first built, there was one existing town nearby. Originally called Mont Blanc, the town's name was changed in 2005. Through a unanimous town council vote, it was renamed Divine. Jasi straightened to her full five feet, eight inches as she reached Matthew Divine. He was a man of average height, average looks but above average intelligence. His long gray hair was tied back with a strip of leather. Intense brown eyes were framed with outdated tortoise-shell glasses. No one dared ask him why he hadn't gone for the ever-popular SEE―sectional eye enhancement―to restore his vision. Divine's arms were crossed. The grim expression on his clean-shaven face made Jasi gasp. A serial killer was on the prowl. 2 Jasi followed Divine while he led the PSI team into the primary operations station―Ops One. An assortment of security scanners recorded each agent's various stats before admitting them to a small corridor. The same programmers that designed H-SECS created the Divine Ops security system. Ever since the kidnapping and murder of the Prime Minister in 2008, security programmers had been rallying to design a system that was impenetrable and virtually flawless. Jasi allowed a technician to scan her with the paranormal electroencephalograph unit, an apparatus that recorded brain waves and psychic residue. This security precaution safeguarded PSI agents against overuse of their skills. Heaving a sigh of relief, she smiled when the PEU flashed green. She was clear. "Welcome back, Agent McLellan," Divine finally said with a curt nod. "I hope you enjoyed your well-deserved holiday. Sorry I had to cut it short. Have you been given details of the case?" Jasi held up the envelope. "Ben told me that the killer left something behind…a lighter?" Divine pulled her aside. "A Gemini lighter. Same as the one you received in the mail two months ago, Agent McLellan. The same brand found at a fire in Victoria last month." They waited for Ben and Natassia to clear security, and then the four of them crowded into an elevator. When the elevator doors opened, an electronic voice informed them that they had reached the PSI floor where an expansive maze of halls and pale mauve cubicles lay before them. "Happy Birthday, Agent McLellan," a co-worker greeted her. Jasi whacked Ben in the arm, hard. They wove through the maze of hallways, passing agents and technicians engrossed in their work. Artificial light hovered over occupied cubicles while the empty ones remained in darkness. Abstract paintings lined the wall―someone's attempt at personalizing the underground lair. One painting showed a window opening onto a garden. Beside it, a photograph of a wooden maze tempted two rats to find their way out. We're all just a bunch of lab rats, Jasi mused. We live underground, running through this insane maze every day. Part of her wished that her downtime hadn't ended. On the other hand, two weeks of pretending to be normal, living in her empty apartment in North Van, had been about as much as she could take of herself. Even her plants couldn't live with her. The last ivy had died a slow, torturous death, its neglected soil shrinking from lack of water. "Why didn't we hear about the Victoria fire a month ago?" she asked Divine. "Victoria PD thought they had an isolated case last month so it didn't show up on our radar. Until this morning's case, just outside of Kelowna. The current victim is Dr. Norman Washburn. He was the head of Surgery at Kelowna General Hospital. He's also the father of Premier Allan Baker." There's the higher influence. Divine escorted them to the Command Office. As they sat down around the conference table, Jasi opened the manila envelope and slid one picture from the stack of photographs. A blond-haired man smiled confidently into the camera. Premier Allan Baker. Allan Baker was the youngest Premier ever voted in by any Province in Canada. Now, at thirty-two years old, he had set the precedent for bringing in young blood. Baker was now a front runner for Prime Minister of Canada. She passed the photo to Ben, then carefully examined a surveillance photograph taken the year before, in which the Premier of British Columbia and Dr. Washburn were engaged in an intense argument. Jasi recalled that the newspapers had created a frenzy when it was discovered that Baker's mother had given birth to the son of a prominent, married doctor. The scandal had almost cost Baker the position. It had cost Washburn his marriage. Divine flipped a switch on the box embedded into the table in front of him. Two oak panels in the wall parted slowly, revealing a large vid-wall. He pressed the remote and a photograph of a lake appeared. "Dr. Washburn's remains were found at Loon Lake early this morning. Loon Lake is less than an hour's drive from Kelowna." The photo zoomed in to reveal a smoldering mass that was once someone's holiday home. "Who reported it?" Jasi asked. Without missing a beat, Divine answered, "Shortly after four o'clock this morning an anonymous caller reported a cabin fire near the lake. Fire fighters were sent to the area, and ten minutes later, the Kelowna PD arrived and secured the scene." Jasi's eyes locked on Divine's. "How secure?" Divine flipped to an aerial photo, revealing neon orange perimeter beacons that surrounded the crime scene. "Kelowna PD has guaranteed that there has been no contamination of evidence―other than water, of course. The fire was almost out by the time the trucks got there." Ben cleared his throat loudly. "We've heard that before. How'd they know there was a body?" "Kelowna PD used an X-Disc," Divine explained. "As you are all aware, very few departments outside of Vancouver and the major cities have access to X-Discs. And our PSI division is the only unit to have the Pro version. Kelowna PD has one of the original prototypes." "What's the estimated time of death?" Ben asked. "TOD is between one and two this morning." The wall photo switched to a black and white of the esteemed Dr. Washburn. The man had posed for the hospital staff photo as if it were a painful experience, his brow pinched in a wrinkled scowl. His receding white hair looked wiry and stubborn. Like the man himself, Jasi thought. She had met Dr. Washburn a couple of years ago during a symposium on children's health. The man had not impressed her. There was something about him she didn't like, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Divine turned to Natassia. "Forensics came back as a positive on Washburn. His dental scans matched. I'll need you to dig deep on this one, Agent Prushenko." Jasi saw Natassia's head dip in agreement. "We need any information pertaining to the victim. His life, his career―everything," Divine said. Jasi rubbed her chin. "If this is his second fire, then what's the connection between the victims? What can you tell us about the Victoria fire?" Divine's data-com beeped suddenly. He examined it, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Agent McLellan. I have a meeting with the Premier in half an hour. You'll have to upload that info into your data-communicators." He walked to the door, then paused. "The sooner you pick up your supplies, the sooner you can get your team moving. I need you at the Kelowna crime scene A-SAP. Allan Baker's going to want some answers―fast." Divine held her gaze. "Get me some." Then he left. Jasi plugged her data-com into the Ops mainframe and began reading aloud while the computer uploaded to her portable. "Case H081A. Two victim's. Charlotte Foreman, sixty-three, and Samantha Davis…four years old." Poor baby. Her voice faltered slightly. "TOD is 9:05 p.m. on Charlotte Foreman. She was pronounced in the hospital. The child died shortly before. Smoke inhalation." "Who called it in?" Ben asked. "A neighbor. When the fire department got there the rain had already extinguished the fire. Victoria PD exhausted their leads. The case was cold. Until now." Her eyes gleamed with determination. "So we have jurisdiction over both fires, now that it's a serial arson case." For the next half-hour, Jasi examined the evidence, including the fire investigator's statements and forensic reports on the two bodies found at the scene in Victoria. There wasn't much to go on. A cable truck would warrant investigating but other than that, no one in the neighborhood remembered seeing anything remotely suspicious. "Let's start with Washburn and work backward," Ben suggested. "I'll call ahead, Jasi, and make sure that everything's ready for you in Kelowna." He disappeared down the hall. Meanwhile, Natassia continued flicking through the wall photos of the Washburn murder. "See anything?" Jasi asked her, moving beside the dark-haired woman for a closer look. Natassia pointed to the close-up of a strange melted mass of plastic. "There's a few possibilities. The X-Disc found IV tubing. Washburn was secured to his recliner with it. Funny thing, though. The recliner was fully extended." Jasi chewed on her bottom lip, wondering why someone would bother to recline the chair…or use plastic IV tubing. Wouldn't a rope have been better? And how did the arsonist get possession of the tubing? "Back in a sec, Natassia. I have to get my pack." She walked down a narrow corridor to a door marked PSI Prep Room. Swiping her ID card, she was buzzed inside. The room held a row of lockers lined against one wall. She inserted her card into the slot on locker J12. It beeped, then opened. Removing a hefty black backpack, she silently cursed its necessary weight. She placed the bag on a metal table in the middle of the room and kicked the door to her locker shut. The zipper to the main compartment of the bag jammed. Frustrated, she tugged at it until it finally opened, revealing two thin flashlights, evidence markers, a piece of florescent chalk and other field supplies. From a shelf above the lockers, she grabbed the last can of OxyBlast and shoved it inside the bag. Satisfied, she closed the backpack, heaving it over her shoulder. Then she returned to Command. "Okay, ladies, we better get moving," Ben suggested, poking his head through the doorway. "Ladies?" Natassia asked with a laugh. "Jasi, did Agent Roberts just call us 'ladies'?" "Well, one of you certainly doesn't fit that description," Ben grumbled under his breath. "Come on, Natassia," Jasi said with a snort. "Focus." "I am focussing." Watching her, Jasi chuckled. She couldn't help but admire Natassia Prushenko. Not only was the woman gorgeous, she had self-confidence up the ying-yang. Natassia was a Russian immigrant. In some ways, she was a trade from the Russian government in return for favors from the PSI division. She spoke five languages and was the best VE Jasi had ever worked with. And Jasi had worked with a number of Victim Empaths over the years. Natassia had joined her team just over two months ago, during the Parliament Murders. Jasi had seen firsthand what her partner's skills could take out of her. A VE sometimes assimilated the emotions of the victim, to the point that it was almost impossible to separate―to come back to reality. "Happy Birthday, Jasi. Great way to be spending it, huh?" Natassia's grinning mouth snapped firmly shut when Jasi whipped her head around. "Okay, the chopper is ready," Ben announced. Covering their ears, they dashed across the tarmac. The four-blade rotor of an Ops helicopter sliced through the air, droning and choppy. The sound was deafening until the pilot handed each of them a headset. A few minutes later, they were onboard and gliding across the treetops. "We'll do the scene first," Jasi said, plugging her data-com into the outlet in front of her. Natassia nodded. "Okay. After that, I'll see if I can get a read off Washburn's remains. Maybe I'll get a hit. There's a good chance Washburn knew the perp." "I'll get the reports for both fires and make some calls to set up interviews," Ben said, removing his gloves. "Then I'll start my profile. So far, what do we have?" "A sick bastard who likes to set fires," Jasi murmured. "Yeah, we have that. Hey, are you going to be okay in Kelowna? Do you need anything special?" She handed him a short list. "Just this. I have everything else." Ben read the list quickly, then keyed in the request on his data-com. A few minutes later, his unit beeped a response. "Everything will be waiting for you, Jasi. Just see the Chief of Arson Investigation on-scene." She knew that her day would be long and grueling. She recalled the disaster that occurred years ago. A raging forest fire had swept over Okanagan Mountain, burning almost three hundred homes to the ground and destroying over twenty-five thousand hectares of natural forest. As the private helicopter soared closer to the dreary crime scene, Jasi settled into the seat, pulled her long auburn hair up into a quick ponytail and closed her eyes. She would need to be alert and rested. Agent Jasi McLellan could already taste the bitter smoke in the air. And something more―death. 3 ~ Loon Lake near Kelowna, BC The helicopter deployed Jasi and her PSI team one mile from the fire. A fog of gray smoke greeted them. It hung in the air over the crime scene like a smothering electric blanket set on high. The scorching sun smiled down upon them, adding to the heat. Fire trucks were parked on the side of a grassy field surrounded by thick trees and weedy underbrush. An oversized khaki-colored army tent had been pitched in the center of the field while an exhausted group of firefighters slept nearby in the shade. A variety of police vehicles slanted across the gravel road, blocking off public access. A tired, sooty police officer strolled toward them. "Hey, Ben." Ben grinned and introduced the man. "This is Sgt. Eric Jefferson, Kelowna PD." "How's it hangin', Ben?" Jefferson asked, after introductions were complete. "Are you supervising this case?" "Actually, I am," Jasi said, only slightly offended. Ben grimaced apologetically. "Eric and I trained at the VPA range together." The Vancouver Police Academy was highly regarded worldwide for its superior training of police officers. The academy owned acres of land outside the city limits. The rough terrain had been converted to a firearm training facility used by CFBI agents and police officers. There was also a separate area for the bomb squad. "A van's coming to get you," Jefferson said. "And someone'll be here any minute with the supplies you requested." "Where's the Chief of AI?" Jasi asked him. "Over by the tents, I think." Jefferson glanced over his shoulder at an approaching truck. "Your supplies are here." A police officer in his mid-forties, dressed in a fresh uniform, jumped from the truck. When he spotted them standing by the edge of the road his eyes narrowed. A firefighter wearing fire gear, minus the hat and mask, climbed from the passenger side carrying a bright red equipment bag. He had a stocky build and blond hair that was cut in a surfer style, long on the sides. The man reminded Jasi of an advertisement for steroids. She caught his eye and he aimed a withering look in her direction. Uh oh, she thought. Steroid-man wasn't happy to see them. "Detective Randall," Jefferson murmured, indicating the officer. "He's the lead on the Victoria case." "He was the lead," Jasi corrected him. She watched while Randall and the stocky firefighter lumbered closer. When the two men reached her, she held out a hand. "Agent McLellan, CFBI." The detective winced at her words. Then his hand crushed her fingers, challenging her to back down. Jasi squeezed harder until Randall let go. After introducing her team, she caught Randall fighting with Ben for alpha male status. Detective Randall lost. Tension sliced through the air, thick with male testosterone. She saw Ben wave Eric Jefferson aside. Jasi stole a glance at the firefighter. The man's head was turned slightly away. On the shoulder of his jacket, a blue firefighter's patch flapped loosely in the breeze. R. J. Scott, KFD, the patch read. "Have you got the supplies?" she asked him, feeling a shudder of pain behind her eyes. Scott dropped the red bag on the ground, crouched down and jerked the zipper open. "Right here." Her head began to pound. The smoke was invading her pores. She reached into her black backpack and extracted the can of OxyBlast. For half a minute, she sucked on the mouthpiece, inhaling pure oxygen and clearing her lungs. "The oxy-mask is in the bag," Scott muttered in a voice that was hoarse from breathing in too much smoke. When he brushed the hair from his eyes, she sucked in a puff of air. The left side of the man's face was scarred―a motley web of spidery burns. "Hazard of the job," he shrugged when he noticed her shocked expression. Detective Randall joined them. "You done here, Scott?" "Yeah," the firefighter grunted. Randall stared at Jasi and laughed rudely. "I don't know why she needs the mask." Scott scowled at her. "Yeah, it's as useless as tits on a bull―unless she's gonna go into a live fire." The men grinned at each other, then caught her eye. "Detective Randall," she said coldly. "There are many things that are useless on a bull." She allowed her eyes to slowly drift down past Randall's waist, locking in on his groin area. The man's face grew pinched, and then he muttered something indistinctly. She turned her back and reached into the bag, removing the familiar navy-blue mask. It had a built-in filtration system that eliminated air contamination, giving the wearer a clean source of oxygenated air. Small and lightweight, the oxy-mask fit securely over the nose and mouth. She drew it snugly over her head and adjusted her ponytail. Fighting back a feeling of claustrophobia, she took a deep breath. "I'm fine," she assured Natassia who was watching her intently. "The residue is bad out here." The oxy-mask muffled her voice. "It wasn't that big a fire," Scott huffed. "Not this fire. The Kelowna fire." The firefighter eyed her suspiciously. "What? That fire was years ago." The scarred side of his face stretched tautly and barely moved when he spoke. "Agent McLellan?" Ben called out, hurrying to her side with Sgt. Jefferson in tow. "Everything all right here?" "Everything's fine," she assured him. Her head swiveled and her eyes latched onto Detective Randall's. "Right?" The man flashed her a dangerous smile. "We don't need your help. Victoria PD is more than capable of handling―" Jasi threw the man a frigid glare. "This isn't a pissing contest, detective. The CFBI was called in and it's our case now. Both of them. And if you have a problem with that, then take it up with your supervisor." Outraged, Randall tipped his head toward Scott, then stomped back to the truck and sped away in an angry cloud of dust. Scott watched him go. A second later, he rasped a quick goodbye and headed for the field. Joining a small group of firefighters, he pointed in Jasi's direction and circled one finger beside his head. Crazy. Cursing under her breath, she spun around and looked Eric Jefferson directly in the eye. "What about you, Sgt. Jefferson? You have a problem with us being here?" The police officer smiled. "Whatever gets the job done, Agent McLellan. That's my motto. With a serial arsonist on the loose we can use all the help we can get." "Too bad those two don't feel the same way," Jasi growled, casting a shadowed look in Scott's direction. Jefferson glanced toward the field. "Scott's just a rookie with a big mouth. Randall, on the other hand, he's a hotshot. He needs the collar." He nudged his head in Detective Randall's direction. "It's guys like him you need to worry about…and maybe Chief Walsh." "I'll take care of the chief," she muttered. "As soon as I find the man." Jefferson elbowed Ben. "If Scott or Randall get in your way, you let me know. I'm the CS Supervisor." Jasi caught a brief nod then the man headed for a patrol car. "Good luck with the chief," Jefferson called over his shoulder. When the officer was gone, Ben removed two mini-cans of OxyBlast from the equipment bag and passed them to Natassia. Natassia tucked the cans into Jasi's backpack and pulled out a small protective nosepiece. She handed it to Jasi who carefully tucked it away in the top pocket of her black PSI jacket. "Thanks," Jasi smiled beneath the oxy-mask. She shoved her arms through the straps of her pack, shifting it slightly so the weight was balanced on her back. Natassia nudged her. "Let's find the AI Chief. He's supposed to be here somewhere. Then we can get a ride to the scene. Man, I'm starved! I could go for lunch right about now―maybe a nice marinated steak." Jasi grinned. "Yeah, with sautéed mushrooms." "Excuse me for interrupting your culinary exchange," Ben nudged dryly. "I'm going to talk to the police. You gonna move or stand there swapping recipes all day?" Laughing, Jasi adjusted her backpack while Natassia picked up the red bag. Then they headed toward a group of firefighters. Jasi noted their smoke-covered faces and sooty yellow fire jackets. The men were in the middle of a serious discussion and no one noticed their approach. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Natassia called out. The men stopped talking. Oh Jesus! They're gonna start drooling any minute. Jasi rolled her eyes when she saw the firefighters focus in on Natassia like a swarm of bees. One of the firefighters stepped forward, grinning unabashedly. The man's eyes slowly perused Natassia's body, then his ice blue eyes turned and rested on hers. One eyebrow lifted when he registered the mask she wore. She stiffened slightly, registering his obvious contempt. "Well, well. What have we here?" the man drawled sarcastically. "Uh, ma'am? The fire is out now. There's no need for that mask." The firefighter was over six feet tall―a lumbering, magnificent personification of man. He had eyelashes that most women would die for, and eyes that were such an unusual pale shade of blue that she wondered if he had visited a SEE office. A jagged scar intercepted his right brow, narrowly missing his eye. A slight cleft in his chin gave him an air of stubbornness. Dark wavy hair clung to his head and she couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to run her fingers through those curls. Jasi held his gaze while she examined him like a lab specimen in a jar. Built like a tank, she thought. "I think maybe you're a bit lost, ma'am," he said, his lip curling disdainfully. He turned toward the men, brushing her off like an annoying wasp at a barbecue. She stared at the back of his head and then flipped her badge. "That's Agent McLellan, not ma'am. Where's the chief?" Her voice was cool, her eyes unwavering. "Whoo-eee!" the man whistled when he caught sight of her ID. "An agent with an attitude. How rare!" He shifted so that he was standing in front of her. Behind him, some of the men snickered loudly. Jasi's smile was deadly sweet. "Listen, you arrogant asshole. When I find the chief and report you I'll have you on desk duty for a month. Now where is he?" The man's eyes snared hers, turning her knees to mush. Suddenly he reached for her arm, gripped it firmly and led her away from the laughing eyes of the firefighters. She felt the heat of his fingers through her jacket, branding her as his possession. Natassia nudged her sharply. "Jas―" "Shh!" Jasi interrupted her, glaring up at the man whose tanned fingers still curled around her upper arm. "I could have you up on charg―" "Check out his shoulder patch!" Natassia hissed. Jasi glanced down. Then her eyes found the patch. Walsh, Chief of Arson Investigations. Her eyes traveled back to the man's face. His expression was dark and smug. For a second her composure flickered. There was something annoyingly attractive about the man. But damned if she would let that cloud her judgement. "Brandon Walsh, at your service," he said blandly, interrupting her thoughts. "AI Chief Walsh, that is." Jasi ignored his outstretched hand and felt her temper rising when his eyes scoped Natassia's hip-hugging jeans and tight blouse. Men! When he turned to issue a command to the firefighters, Jasi couldn't restrain the snicker that erupted from her throat. The back of the man's fire jacket was well worn. The lettering in some places was covered with black scorch marks. Walsh, Chief of Ars In stig tions. "Arse, all right," she muttered under her breath. Abruptly, Walsh turned, piercing her with a frigid stare. Then he frowned and jerked his head. "This way, Agent McLellan." "Now isn't he a fabulous piece of work?" Natassia mumbled in her ear. "Check out the size of those hands." "Natassia!" Although Jasi had to admit, his hands were well shaped―like the rest of him. Beside her, Natassia giggled beneath her breath. "You know what they say about large hands―" "Shhh! Wouldn't want him to hear you. It might go to his head." And that's big enough already! She followed Walsh to a table standing beneath the shade of a tent. He pulled out a chair beside his, offering it to her. "You gonna tell me why you're wearing that mask?" Jasi's eyes fastened on his and she took the chair across from him instead. "Allergies." Walsh watched her for a long moment. "As the AI Chief, I've been informed of your…uh, special team. I wasn't given much info though." "What have you got so far on the victim?" "We've only received a few of the reports. Dr. Norman Washburn, age fifty-eight. He's the only victim. The fire originated in his livingroom where Washburn was tied to his recliner with IV tubing." "Time of death?" "Estimated TOD, one to two a.m.," Walsh replied. "We believe he died from smoke inhalation. We'll know for sure when the autopsy's in." "What about neighbors? Anyone see anything?" Walsh shook his head. "The cabins are separated by trees and bushes. He had no immediate neighbors." "Did you ask around?" she asked impatiently. "Listen," he said glibly. "I'm well aware that we've been ordered by the CFBI to cooperate with your team, but personally, I think AI is capable of handling this ourselves. And I don't really buy into the whole psychic thing." She detected a trace of bitterness in his voice. Jasi bit back her reply, frustrated. She was sick and tired of having to defend herself―and her team. This wasn't the first time that someone had questioned the PSI's value. "Chief Walsh, we've got two fires, three murder victims and few leads to go on. We're here to aid this investigation, not hamper it. You're not too macho to take help wherever you can get it, are you?" Walsh laughed. "Macho? Now there's an outdated term." Jasi refitted her oxy-mask. She desperately wished she could tear it off her face and rip into the man before her. His attitude grated on her and left her feeling uneasy. Walsh pointed to a Qwazi laptop and touched the screen with a stylus. "Here's the data from the X-Disc. Have a seat and read through it. And yes, we asked around. No one saw anything. I'll go check on the other agent. Where'd he go, anyway?" "Agent Roberts is busy drafting up a rough profile and arranging for transport to the scene," Natassia spoke up for the first time. "Upload the data, Natassia," Jasi ordered. "I'll go check on Ben." She cast a warning look in the AI Chief's direction. "I'm counting on your support. Don't get in my way, Walsh." The man raised a well-shaped eyebrow. "I have no intention of getting in your way. Just stay out of mine." She clenched her teeth. "Trust me, I'd be happy to stay away from you." "Jesus, thanks. I think. And here I thought I was irresistible." Jasi huffed in exasperation. The man was insufferable. The sooner she finished her job here, the sooner she could put Brandon Walsh out of her mind. Walsh accompanied her outside, and slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. "Need anything else?" she asked tightly. "Yeah. What's Agent Prushenko's role?" "She's a Victim Empath." The man stared blankly, his lip curling in disbelief. "She picks up vibrations―pictures from the victims," she explained. "Usually she sees their final moments." "Yeah, right," he scoffed. Jasi gripped Walsh's arm, her eyes flashing angrily. "Agent Prushenko has empathic abilities, whether you believe in them or not. She's been a PSI for eight years, traveled worldwide and is recognized as one of the best VE's in the CFBI." She wanted to slug the man. Walsh grinned. "What about you?" "I've been with PSI for almost six years. That's all you need to know." "What do you do?" "She reads fires," Natassia interjected, poking her head from the tent. Wordlessly, Jasi glared at her partner. "He needs to know, Jasi. Otherwise he's useless." Brandon Walsh―useless? Jasi hid a sly grin. "I can usually tell you where and how a fire started. Sometimes I pick up the perp's last thoughts or the last thing he saw." "She's a Pyro-Psychic," Natassia bragged. "Jasi is the best there is." "Jasi?" Walsh smirked. "That's Agent McLellan to you!" Jasi snapped. She'd make Natassia pay for that slip-up. Oops, Natassia mouthed silently, raising her open hands in the air. "Time for you to leave, Walsh," Jasi said rudely. "I'm sure there's something out there for the Chief of AI to do. Just remember we're running the show here." Walsh's breath blew warm against her ear. "We'll see about that." Then he hurried from the tent. "See ya later…Jasi." With her eyes glued to his back, Jasi cursed aloud. "Not if I can help it!" Brandon Walsh walked away from the tent, unsure about the PSI's role. He had heard of the Psychic Skills Investigators in his dealings with various police departments, but his cases rarely required CFBI intervention. Or interference, as he thought of it. As the AI Chief, he was compelled to assist the CFBI in any investigation involving serial arsonists. And that didn't sit too well with him―not one bit. He'd show Agent Jasi McLellan who was boss. After all, wasn't he the one responsible for capturing the arsonist involved in the Okanagan Mountain forest fires of 2003? He had led the AI team that had tracked down the arsonist and the accelerant used to set the blaze. The press had blamed an unattended campfire for the raging fires that consumed a massive portion of the BC forest. Then a week later, it was rumored that a single cigarette had ignited the blaze. That was before the public ban on smoking became official―before people were restricted to smoking in the privacy of their homes, in well-ventilated smoking rooms. Brandon had never believed the fire had started from a cigarette. He personally sifted through acres of destroyed forest, searching for a clue. He had explored the land until he discovered an abandoned cabin deep in the mountains. There, he found remnants of liquid methylyte and zymene, highly flammable chemicals used in the underground production of Z-Lyte. Z-Lyte, with its sweet musky scent, had become the hallucinogenic drug of the new generation. Public homeowner records listed Edwin Bruchmann as the owner of the cabin. An hour later, Bruchmann was in custody. When the old man was escorted into an interview room by his caregiver, Brandon was disappointed to discover that Bruchmann suffered from Alzheimer's. Brandon's leads were slowly disintegrating―until his suspicions turned to the caregiver. Gregory Lawrence, thirty-nine, had been employed by Bruchmann for the past two years and had access to all of the old man's documents. But Lawrence denied knowing anything about a cabin. "When was the last time Mr. Bruchmann visited his lakeside cabin?" Brandon had asked the caregiver. Lawrence's face had registered confusion. Then, without thinking, he had blurted, "You idiots! Edwin Bruchmann's cabin is not by any lake. See? I told you, you have the wrong person. Mr. Bruchmann's cabin overlooks the valley." Brandon had smiled then. "I thought you knew nothing about the cabin?" "I, uh…" the man stuttered. "Well, I m-might have heard about it once. But that doesn't prove anything!" A knock on the door halted the interrogation and a detective passed Brandon a toxicology report. "Maybe not," Brandon had agreed. "But this sure does." Earlier he had recognized the sweet-smelling body odor common with Z-Lyte users. Suspicious, he offered Lawrence a can of pop. When the man had finished it, Brandon dropped it into a plastic bag and handed it over to the lab for analysis. It came back positive for Z-Lyte. The case was immediately closed, Gregory Lawrence locked away, Bruchmann established in a care facility and Brandon promoted to AI Chief. All accomplished without any outside help. And Brandon certainly hadn't needed a PSI! This new case was no different, he reasoned. What could Agent Jasi McLellan possibly offer? Psychic mumbo-jumbo? He laughed suddenly, adjusting his shades. How could the woman expect him to believe she had the power to see into a killer's mind? I'd have to see it to believe it. You can read the rest of DIVINE INTERVENTION at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Divine Justice by Cheryl Kaye Tardif DIVINE JUSTICE by Cheryl Kaye Tardif On a journey to justice for Justice everywhere, By Mandamus of the Great Heavenly Cloner, I wake up daily before Eos kisses the Sun, And I stand by the tower of Justice and chant… ~Andre Emmanuel Bendavi Ben-YEHU Prologue Jasi McLellan drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts like waves lapping restlessly against the shore. When she opened her eyes, distorted faces flashed past her and indistinct words assaulted her ears. She reached for the names that belonged to those faces, but they eluded her. She tried to swallow, but her mouth and tongue were sandpaper-dry. She inhaled slowly, trying to place the smell, a mix of antiseptic and sweat. Where the hell am I? And why is it so dark, so cold? She blinked once and everything changed. Before her lay a long, murky corridor. At her feet, the bare hardwood floor was polished to a reflective shine. Her sandals clicked as she headed toward the door at the end of the hall. A crack of backlighting outlined the door's shape. As she moved toward it, the door appeared to drift further away. She paused and leaned down to look at her reflection in the gleaming floor. A face she didn't recognize stared back at her. Amidst charred skin, blue eyes blinked at her. I have green eyes. She cried out in terror when the face became two. The dead girl from her closet was coming for her. Jasi faced the girl. "Why can't you leave me alone?" "I can't leave. You need me, and I need you." The girl's accent was soft―from South Carolina maybe―and the pink skipping rope noose cut deeply into her lolling neck with every word she spoke. "He keeps callin' me," the dead girl whispered. "Who?" The girl began to sob and Jasi reached out to touch the child's blistered shoulder. She snatched her hand back when it encountered skin that was morgue cold. "Who are you?" "Emily," came the soft reply. "What do you want, Emily?" The girl's next words turned Jasi's blood to ice. "I want you to find me." Confused, Jasi shook her head and took a few steps backward. "What do you mean? You're right here." The girl said nothing. "I've seen you ever since I was a child," Jasi said. "You've never spoken to me before. Why now?" Emily lowered her head. "You jes never heard me before. Now you're open-minded. Now you're hearin' me fine." A light flickered at the end of the hall and Jasi glanced over her shoulder. "It's okay, Jasmine." Emily smiled weakly. "Go." The girl drifted backward toward the shadows. "Emily, wait!" Jasi cried. "How do I find you?" "When you're ready, I'll find you." As Jasi drifted off into a peaceful, healing sleep, she made a solemn vow to the dead girl in her closet. I'll find you, Emily. I promise. The dead girl finally had a name―Emily. 1 Tuesday, July 3, 2012 ~ Vancouver General Hospital, Vancouver, BC Natassia Prushenko was scared―really scared. She looked down at the woman lying motionless in the bed. She's so pale, so still. Like death. The door opened behind her. Someone stepped into the room. "Is Jasi awake yet?" Natassia glanced over her shoulder. "No, she hasn't moved an inch. I'm worried about her, Ben." Benjamin Roberts crossed the room, bringing with him an air of calm authority. When he reached Natassia, they stood side-by-side, keeping vigil over the woman in the hospital bed. It had been nearly two weeks since their partner and team leader Jasmine McLellan had taken a bullet high on her left arm. She'd been doing well, was even out of Vancouver General Hospital for nearly a week, but then she'd taken an unexpected turn for the worse. Her arm had swelled painfully, the bullet wound festering. Without warning, a blood infection invaded Jasi's body, causing serious complications and a sudden trip back to the hospital. That's where they discovered she had a concussion and mild swelling of the brain, probably from when she hit the ground after an explosion during the last case. Natassia stared down at Jasi. "I don't think she's getting any better, Ben. She looks like she's barely breathing." She reached out to touch Jasi's arm, but snatched back her hand as if she'd touched a hot flame. Ben raised a brow. "Natassia…" "You know what can happen if I touch her. After all she's been through, the last thing she needs is me poking around in her mind. Anyway, we already know what happened during the Gemini Murders. It's not as if we need to know any more." She studied the woman in the bed, taking in the tangled mane of shoulder-length auburn hair and the sprinkle of cinnamon freckles that appeared much darker against the creamy whiteness of her face. "It's up to Jasi now," Ben said quietly. "We both know how stubborn she is." He turned away, but not before Natassia saw tears in his eyes. "Where are you going?" she asked. "I want to check on her status. I'll get her doctor." Natassia felt a void in the room as soon as he was gone. She couldn't help but feel a little better when he was around. If there was one thing she'd learned, Ben knew how to take care of things―especially the people he cared for. She watched Jasi. "And he sure cares a lot for you, my new friend." Although she'd only known Jasi for about three months, she'd grown fond of her. The slender redhead had a lot of spunk. That was something she could appreciate. Natassia had spent a few years consulting with a Russian agency similar to the Canadian Federal Bureau of Investigation, which had been formed in 2003. As a Victim Empath capable of receiving cryptic flashes from the minds of victims, she was responsible for bringing down some notorious criminals. After a brief scandalous affair with a married field agent, Natassia was 'traded' to Canada's CFBI. Recently, she'd been assigned to the PSI Division and relocated to Vancouver, B.C. "Remember when we first met, Jasi? You thought I was an escort hitting on Ben." She laughed. "The poor guy practically fell over in his chair when I sat down with you two." It had been an awkward first meeting. Natassia let out a sigh. She still felt like the new kid on the block, having only been a Psychic Skills Investigator with the CFBI for the past three months. As a PSI, her gift of reading victims, live or dead ones, had helped crack the last case. But not before Jasi had been shot. Natassia hadn't been able to prevent that. Or Jasi's subsequent heartbreak. She pulled the chair up to the side of the bed. "Get well, my friend. We've got cases to solve, murderers to catch and good-looking men to tease." There was no answer. She leaned closer. "Jasi? Can you hear me?" No reply. "Jasmine McLellan, it's time to wake up now." The woman in the bed remained still. Out in the hall, footsteps approached. Ben entered the room, followed by Jasi's father and Brady, her brother. Dr. Mohinder Habib entered the room after them and immediately picked up the chart at the end of Jasi's bed. "So?" Natassia said impatiently. When the doctor looked up from the file, his expression was guarded. That made her nervous. "When is she going to wake up?" she blurted. "We've been monitoring her stats closely," Dr. Habib said, his black eyes drifting to the bed. "Ms. McLellan has been only slightly responsive to antibiotics." Natassia frowned. "But she's getting better, right?" "Your friend is too exhausted to fight off the infection, and the swelling in her brain is impeding her recovery." Dr. Habib tried to smile. "She's in a very deep sleep." "You mean she's in a coma," Ben stated. The doctor nodded. "Yes, but she's still breathing on her own." Jasi's father looked stunned. "When will she wake up?" "I'm afraid we don't know when," Dr. Habib said gently. "The body often reacts this way when it's under attack. Some people wake up within days, once an infection is under control. Some remain in a coma for longer periods of time." He made a note on Jasi's chart and adjusted the IV drip. "What's the worst case scenario?" Ben asked. Natassia knew it was the one question everyone had on their minds. "Well, worst case―and I mean very worst―would be that we can't control the swelling in her brain or the infection in her arm." He turned away from his patient. "And if the infection travels up her arm toward her heart, we might have to take more aggressive action." "What kind of action?" Jasi's brother demanded. "Brady," his father warned. "Let him finish." Dr. Habib's expression darkened. "If the infection spreads upward, it could reach her heart or brain and that would complicate matters. There is a slim possibility that we might have to amputate her arm." Natassia let out a soft cry. "No!" "We might not have a choice," the doctor said quietly. Natassia moved closer to the bed. As she gazed at Jasi, her mouth tightened. I won't let them take your arm. "For now, her vitals are good," Dr. Habib said, moving toward the door. "We have every reason to believe she'll fight the infection and regain consciousness. When she's ready. I'll check in on her in a couple of hours, but I can assure you we're doing everything we can for her." Brady and his father followed the doctor out into the hall, while Natassia sank into the chair by Jasi's bed. "They might take her arm, Ben. Oh, God…" Ben placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Hey, you heard the doctor. She's stable and she's a fighter. She'll wake up soon enough, and when she does, she'll be bossier than hell." Natassia studied the woman in the bed, yearning for Jasi to open her green eyes. "Come on, Jasi. You've gotta fight this thing." Behind her, Ben said, "She's probably dreaming about lying on a tropical beach somewhere, sipping mojitos and getting that tan she always wanted." While her partners discussed tropical beaches and tanning, Jasi drifted on a turbulent river of unconsciousness, reliving flashes of conversations and glimpses of past murder scenes that all led her back to the one case that had hit close to home. Too close. She'd let her guard down, opened herself to a personal connection instead of her ordinary measure of distance, something she always strived for. In her drug-induced world, faces flashed before her. Brandon…Ben…Natassia. A burnt corpse floated past her on a cresting wave. Monty Winkler. The dream took her closer to the water. She saw her reflection. And something else just below the surface. She scrunched her eyes. What is that? Suddenly, a hand broke the surface. Fingers clawed at empty air, yet as quickly as it had appeared, the hand sank below, returning to its watery grave. No! A rush of emotions assaulted her. Death…loss…pain. Jasi was suddenly transported to the day she had returned to Divine Operations, the covert location of the PSI Division. Divine Ops was cloaked within an isolated, heavily guarded complex in the Rocky Mountains. Not even the one hundred or so residents of Divine, BC, knew what went on inside the complex―or underground. They believed the signage that stated it was a company called Enviro-Safe Research Facility. In her dream world, Jasi found herself standing in front of Matthew Divine, the mysterious creator of the PSI Division. With shoulder-length gray hair tied in a ponytail and old-fashioned tortoise-shell glasses, the man could be easily mistaken for an aging hippie or a computer geek. The latter was true. "Hi, Matthew," Jasi said. She knew he wasn't pleased. Why should he be? She had another dead body on her hands, someone who could've been saved if she'd bothered to call for back up. Plus, she had a wounded friend who wouldn't have been shot if it wasn't for her stubborn refusal to follow protocol. "I-I'm sorry," she told him. A bright flash sent her muddled mind back to the case that still haunted her. The Parliament Murders. Memories flooded her mind. She couldn't fight them, or stop them. All she could do was remember. As usual, everything had started with a dead body. 2 Sunday, April 15, 2012 ~ Ottawa, ON Jasi first met Monty Winkler at the Ottawa Forensics Unit, but shaking his hand was definitely out of the question. From the look of his bloated, blistered and undeniably dead corpse, Winkler wouldn't be shaking hands, hugging women or kissing babies any time in the future. As she approached the metal table, she was forced to do a double-take. Her gaze drifted from the corpse's face to the photo on her data-com screen. She frowned. "You sure this is my floater?" "The one and only," the pathologist said. "All week." "A slow week?" "Dead slow. For him anyway." Jasi held out a hand. "Agent Jasmine McLellan, CFBI." The woman removed a latex glove and wiped her hand on her lab coat before offering it. "Dr. Faith Copeland, keeper of the dead. Also known as the chief pathologist." Copeland was small and neat in appearance, her ash-blond hair twisted into a tight bun. Gold-rimmed glasses made her brown eyes appear even larger and softened the small lines that feathered the corners. She wore no makeup and didn't need any to maintain an attractive, yet serious, appearance. The pathologist yawned loudly, then blushed. "Sorry. I've been on this case almost twenty-four-seven. We're a bit short-staffed. You know, government cutbacks and all." "No need to apologize." Jasi knew all too well the hazards of a case like this one. "This victim is our number one priority," Copeland stated. "And I doubt any of us will get much sleep until you find his killer." Jasi turned her attention back to the body on the table. Winkler was unrecognizable. His unanticipated swim in the icy waters of the Ottawa River had put on an extra twenty pounds or more of bloated tissue. That was after someone had tried to fry his flesh―extra crispy. His body was unevenly burned and blistered, with most of the damage to his head, face and right side. Fish had feasted on one side of Winkler's head, and the underlying skin tissue clung loosely to muscle and bone, falling away in places like meat from the bone of an overcooked turkey. Jasi's stomach lurched and she studied the photo again. What happened to you? The smiling―and alive―Monty Winkler in the photo reminded her of someone, a comedian. The father in American Pie. He had the same curly black hair, a prominent nose, bushy eyebrows and dark intelligent eyes circled by black frames. A man like him with average height, weight and looks would normally blend into a crowd, except that he had a charismatic personality that most people found very appealing. Married, with no kids, Winkler was a dedicated Member of Parliament and a firm supporter of gun rights, and although women hovered around him like flies, he'd always appeared committed to his wife. What was her name? Jasi consulted a file on her data-com. Ah, Marilyn! "Marilyn's going to take this hard, Monty." Her eyes wandered across the photo again and she glanced back at the decomposing body. "How can you be the same man who wielded such charm that you had college girls and married women practically swooning at your feet?" "Pardon me?" Copeland said, distracted. "Don't mind me. I have a habit of talking to the dead." "As long as they don't talk back." "So you're sure this is Monty Winkler?" Copeland nodded. "We made a positive ID from the DNA I pulled from his hair and matched to a hairbrush his wife brought in." Jasi tried to picture Monty Winkler as she'd last seen him on television. He was a well respected man, for a former lawyer. Unlike many of his fellow MPs, Winkler had kept himself in shape with a regimented routine of low-carb health food and running and weightlifting every morning. He'd looked damn good for a man nearing his fifties. But you don't make a very good-looking corpse. She hovered over the table, scanning every inch of Winkler's body. Unfortunately, the fire and the river had destroyed most of the physical evidence. And sitting in cold storage for almost three days didn't help either. "COD?" she asked without taking her eyes away. "In layman's terms, he drowned in freshwater," Copeland said. "There's a substantial amount of fluid in his airway and stomach, and his lungs are inflated. We were able to confirm the presence of diatoms, which we identified and were able to match to a specific section of the Ottawa River." "Which section?" "From Mud Lake―that's west of the city―to the MacDonald Cartier Bridge to the north. Ironically, he would have died soon anyway." "Why?" "There was blunt force trauma to the neurocranium. His brain was hemorrhaging." Since rigor mortis was fading, Copeland was able to carefully turn Winkler's partially shaved head so Jasi could view the injuries. The back of the skull was exposed. Fragments of parietal and occipital bone were embedded in a frenzied array of circular indentations, some of them overlapping. "Any idea what caused these wounds?" Copeland shook her head. "Never seen anything like it." "Could they be accidental? From the river maybe?" "No, not with this grouping so close together." "So he was hit on the back of the head numerous times." "With a heavy circular object," Copeland added, "approximately an inch and a half in diameter." Jasi chewed her bottom lip for a moment. "Why do you say he was hit with a heavy object?" Copeland strode across the room to a workstation. She tapped on a touch screen and brought up a 3-D hologram of Winkler's wounds. "There are ten of these impressions, Agent McLellan. Notice their depth. They're small in circumference, yet deep, meaning two things. The perp was enraged and the weapon had some weight to it, otherwise it would've broken or folded under pressure and left uneven marks, not these perfect circles." The pathologist zoomed in on the occipital region. "Each impression shows a slight angle of impact. I believe he was either hit from behind by a very tall man or he was kneeling or sitting." Jasi studied the hologram. "Maybe the killer used a metal pipe?" "Could be. But it's an odd way to wield a pipe." Copeland was right. Most pipe injuries were made with the side or length of a pipe, causing long, cylindrical wounds. "Maybe he was jabbed with a martial arts weapon," Copeland said. "What about defensive wounds?" "He couldn't have fought back. Toxicology report came back positive for flunitrazepam." "Flunitrazepam?" "You'd know it as Rohypnol." Jasi's heart skipped a beat. "The date rape drug?" "Flunitrazepam has sedative, paralytic and amnestic properties, which is why it's been a popular in rape cases. The victim loses muscle control and often ends up with anterograde amnesia and can't recall what happened." "Winkler wasn't raped, was he?" "No. My guess is someone wanted him docile." Jasi paced the floor. "Rohypnol isn't easy to get." "Not anymore. Ever since drug manufacturers started adding noticeable dyes to the tablets, we've seen less of it in the clubs and on the streets. It is available in injectable liquid, but you'd have to acquire it in Mexico or overseas." Copeland tapped the screen and brought up a holographic image of Winkler's upper left arm. "This is the injection site," she said, pointing to a small dark spot. "He was given a large dose." Jasi peered over the woman's shoulder at the body on the table. How could someone have gotten close enough to Winkler to stick him with a hypodermic? "The drug was administered about a half hour before the scalp wounds were inflicted," Copeland said. "He wouldn't have felt much, but he was conscious enough to know what was happening. Shortly afterward, he was lit on fire." "Jesus!" "The burn pattern is consistent with the use of an accelerant. What's unusual is that the regions here and here weren't burned to the same extent." Jasi studied the area the pathologist had indicated. The left side of the body was less burnt than the rest. "Do you think something was covering him?" The smile Copeland gave her had the effect of taking ten years off the woman. "Watch closely, Agent McLellan." The pathologist tapped the touch screen and the hologram began to fold in as if Winkler were sitting down. Then the 3-dimensional form rotated on one side. "He was lying on his left side when the accelerant was poured on him," Jasi observed. Copeland nodded. "In a small, restrictive space. He didn't die from smoke inhalation, although there was some smoke damage to his lungs. He was dumped into the river shortly afterward, still breathing." "What's the estimated time of death?" "TOD is between eleven p.m. and two a.m. on April 13." She grimaced. "Friday the 13th, to be exact." "Did you send your report to the CFBI?" "Yes, and I uploaded an image of the wound pattern." Jasi did something next that made the pathologist gasp. She strode toward the corpse on the table and leaned forward, her nose barely an inch from the scorched flesh. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled deeply. "Agent McLellan?" the woman said, concerned. "I have a keen sense of smell. Oversensitive olfactory nerve." She wasn't really lying. Then again, she couldn't exactly tell the woman that she was hoping traces of smoke still lingered on Winkler's body, enough to set off her psychic abilities so she could enter a killer's mind. She inhaled again. Nothing. Not one flash. Not one sick, twisted thought. She shivered. The dead won't speak to me. She thought of the young girl who had haunted her nightmares ever since she was a child. The girl waited each night in the closet of her dreams, a pink skipping rope strangling her last breath. She'd never said a word either. "You okay?" Copeland asked. "Yeah." The woman eyed her suspiciously. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Agent McLellan, but you look awfully―" She broke off, closed her mouth. "Young?" Jasi chuckled. "I get that all the time. But trust me, Dr. Copeland, there isn't much I haven't seen." The look Faith Copeland gave her was one Jasi had seen a million times before. In her father's eyes. The look said, "Why in God's name would a young woman go into such a depressing and dangerous line of work?" Because of Mom, she wanted to tell him. The pathologist patted her arm. "Seeing death the way we do, day in and day out, has a way of making you value your own mortality." Jasi raised a brow. "Meaning?" "Life is for the living, Agent McLellan." "Yeah, but I have to find justice for the dead first." Out in the hallway, Jasi pushed Copeland's dire warning to the back of her mind and searched for her partner. She found him standing near the information desk, chatting with a smiling blond who looked fresh out of college and eager to make his acquaintance. "Hey, partner!" "Took you long enough," he said, moving toward her. "I was getting bored." She smiled wryly. "Didn't look like you were bored." Eleven years her senior, Agent Benjamin Roberts gave off an air of quiet confidence. At thirty-six, he had several commendations for solving some of Canada's most gruesome, high profile murder cases. Jasi counted her blessings that she'd been paired with Ben and not one of the older PSI agents. Most of them thought she was too young to be a good field agent. Except Ben. He was a patient team leader, a top-notch profiler and her best friend. While he led her to an empty alcove, she studied her partner. Lean, six and a half feet of muscle and agility―and a Psychometric Empath to boot―Ben wore a navy blue Armani suit with ease. Not many men could it pull off, but Ben was at home in a well-fitted suit, the way most men practically lived in their favorite pair of old jeans. Armani was his middle name. Or it should be, she thought. She was sometimes tempted to ask him how he could afford such clothes. Sure, they made good money, but not that much. Regardless, there was more to Ben than he let on. One day she'd find out his secrets. "So what did you get off Winkler's suit?" she asked. He shook his head. "What little was left of it was tainted by fire, water and decomp. What about you?" "The pathologist was very helpful. Can't say the same for Monty Winkler." "No vision?" "Not a flicker. The river washed away all traces of smoke. I couldn't smell a thing other than decaying body parts, but we did get a COD. Monty Winkler drowned, and there was prior blunt force trauma to the back of his head." She described the strange circular wounds. "Pretty brutal," he said. "Sounds like a rage killing." "He was also drugged." "With what?" "Rohypnol. He was given an injection to immobilize him." Her mouth thinned. "Copeland says there are no signs of rape. Later, someone pounded on his head with an unidentifiable weapon and set him on fire." She told him about the uneven burn pattern on the body and Copeland's theory that Winkler had been placed into a restrictive space before an accelerant was poured on him. "He was dumped in the Ottawa River," she said. They were silent for a moment. "A trunk of a car is quite restrictive," Ben suggested. She shook her head. "Smaller. He was practically in a fetal position. Maybe a box of some kind." The blond from the information desk strolled past, giving Ben a coy look that said, "Call me! Day or night." "You going to call her?" Jasi asked when the woman disappeared into an office. Ben shook his head and glanced at his gloved hands. She let out an irritated huff. "You can't let those get in the way―" "You know what can happen, Jasi." "That doesn't mean you have to live like a monk." "Monks aside," he retorted, "let's stop discussing my personal life and focus on what we're going to report to Matthew." "I think he wasted his time sending us." She looked up at him. "Or at least me." "Matthew knows what he's doing. He sent us here for a reason." "Because the government takes care of their own." "It's been almost a week since they found Winkler. The Ottawa Police Service conducted the preliminary investigation before it was handed over to the RCMP. They've interviewed anyone who came into contact with Winkler before he went missing. Every alibi checked out. Everyone is stumped. That's why we were called in." He smiled. "Besides, Matthew thinks you're ready to lead your own team. This is good prep for you." She pursed her lips. "What if I don't want my own team? Did anyone ever think of that?" "Jasi―" "No, don't Jasi me," she snapped. "I like working with you, Ben. We're good together. With our skills, we complement each other. We make a great team. I don't get why Matthew doesn't see that." "He knows what's best." Frustrated, she changed the subject. "Did Winkler have any personal belongings?" "Nothing in his pockets, no wallet, no identification. Whoever did this even removed his wedding band." "Didn't want an ID made." She steered him down the hall, making for the doors to fresh air and life. Morgues always gave her a chill. Death lingered in the air, in every corner. Around 9:30, they crossed the gloomy parking lot. One streetlight at the far end provided the only light. She noted that two others weren't working. "Remind me to mention something to Copeland about the poor lighting out here," she said. They located the rental, a black SUV with dark tinted windows, the CFBI's definition of inconspicuous transportation. Ben unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel, and Jasi climbed into the passenger seat. "We'll have a full pathology report from Dr. Copeland by tomorrow," she said. "For now, we know that someone drugged Winkler, beat him, doused him in an accelerant, set his body on fire and threw him into the river." Ben frowned. "Kind of overkill, don't you think?" "That's exactly what I was thinking." "Intense rage and overkill. What does that tell you?" "It tells me that someone wanted Monty Winkler deader than dead." She looked Ben in the eye. "And Winkler knew his assailant." "So the question is…who?" She gave him a scornful look. "Are you kidding? He's a politician. Probably had people lining up at his door, just waiting for an opportunity." "Yeah, I think you're right about that." He fastened his seatbelt, started the car and inched it out into the busy traffic. "Well, since you're in training for team leader, why don't you tell me what we should do next?" Ben was testing her again. He'd been doing that a lot the last two weeks. On his say-so, she'd be ready to lead her own team. Something she'd been waiting for. She'd been going through all the manuals, studying past cases, listening to and watching recorded testimonies for weeks. She was more than ready to lead her own team. "We should start with his last known whereabouts and last contacts. Next, we should interview witnesses, make a list of known enemies, find out if any death threats had been issued and look into his political―" She broke off. "Hey, wasn't Winkler the swing-vote in the small arms rights bill a few months ago?" "Winkler pushed it through before anyone could blink." "And a lot of people were pissed." Monty Winkler was responsible for the new law that now gave Canadians the freedom to carry handguns. As long as they carried permits, of course. The gun law had created a surge of dissention across Canada. Some thought it was a long time coming, considering the US had implemented a similar law decades ago. Others thought it would lead to higher crime rates. For weeks afterward, thousands of people gathered on Parliament grounds across Canada, some in support and some in protest. The pro-gun crowd wanted fewer restrictions on licensing, while the anti-gun crowd protested Canadians carrying weapons at all. Ironically, three people were injured two months ago outside Ottawa's Parliament Hill. They'd been shot by an enraged pro-gun advocate, while the anti-gun crowd carried around massive signs showing dead teenagers in a high school cafeteria and a blood-soaked Toronto alley sealed off with crime tape. One particularly gruesome sign was a screen capture of Brett Laughlin slumped on his bed, brain matter pooling on the blanket beneath him. After being taunted mercilessly by a group of cyber-bullies, the shy, overweight sixteen-year-old had logged into an online video chat room, then sat down on the bed with his stepfather's newly purchased Walther PPX semi-automatic pistol hidden behind his back. "Today is my last day of suffering. And I'm glad." Brett spoke about his persecutors, about the beatings in the boys' change room, about the time he'd been forced to lick one boy's feet clean. Sobbing uncontrollably, he told the world how difficult it was to not fit in. "It's not easy being the most unpopular kid in school. I'm afraid every day of what they'll do to me. But no more. I can't do this anymore." He described how he'd suffered at the hands of his stepfather, who beat him for being weak and not fighting back. "I just wanted to be liked. I didn't care if I was super popular, but maybe just some respect. Instead I was treated worse than an animal, and no one gave a shit. Not my mother, and especially not that asshole she married." He swiped at the tears on his face. "So why should I care? I'll never be popular. I'll never even be liked." With millions of horrified people―mostly unsuspecting teens―watching live, Brett Laughlin put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening. In a matter of seconds, his grisly death had become the most popular cyber-suicide video to hit VidWurld, with over thirty million world-wide views before the Laughlin family got a court order to shut it down. It was ironic. Brett had gotten his wish to become popular. But what a price he paid for it. Jasi still couldn't get the kid's face out of her mind. He reminded her of her brother Brady―young, impetuous, troubled and filled with resentment. The perfect recipe for disaster. Pro-gun supporters didn't seem to care what guns were doing to the youth on the street, and no one bothered to look at what gun rights had done to the USA. The United States of Arms, as some called it. She sighed. "No one outside of law enforcement would be carrying if it weren't for Winkler and that other MP. What was his name?" "Ravinder Sharma," Ben replied. "They sure surprised everyone with their votes." "Wonder what made them change their minds." "Who knows? Some people believe they have a God-given right to protect themselves at all costs." "Well, they're half-right," she said dryly. "They just don't realize they increase the chance of violence by simply having a gun in their possession. The people shot at the Ottawa protest have proven that." Ben nodded. "Nothing worse than an angry mob." Jasi thought of the corpse lying in the morgue. "I don't think Monty Winkler would agree." 3 The Embassy Hotel & Suites, a regal hotel located on Cartier Street, was cradled in the heart of Ottawa. It had served military and government officials for decades, and the security was impeccable. Security guards and cameras made it virtually impossible for someone to walk into the hotel, carry out any nefarious plan and then get away without being detected. The sun had gone down by the time Jasi and Ben checked in. They took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. Their rooms were side-by-side, with windows facing Parliament Hill and the Rideau Canal. When Jasi opened the door to her room, she eyed the two queen-size beds. Recycled airplane air always made her tired and she'd give anything to just crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the day away. "First things first." She locked the door behind her and tossed her tote bag and backpack on the bed near the window. Shrugging off her jacket, she hung it on the back of a chair. She removed her shoulder harness and quickly inspected the M9 Beretta holstered in it. The double-action semiautomatic was ancient compared to the newer Glock models most agents were fitted with, but Pop had given it to her when she graduated from CFBI training. She'd cleared it with Matthew under the strict rule that she'd have it inspected by a weapons tech every three months. She slipped the gun into the holster and draped the harness over her jacket. "Time to check out the view." Crossing to the window, she pulled the cord and the gold satin drapes parted, revealing a sensational night skyline and the Ottawa River. City lights glinted off the Rideau Canal, the 125 mile long waterway that was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site back in 2007. Jasi recalled that in the winter the canal was closed down and turned into the world's largest skating rink, but because global warming had initiated an earlier spring, a warm spell during the first two weeks of April had melted most of the river ice. Ships and personal watercraft now dotted the Ottawa River, which was back to business as usual. She left the drapes open and moved to the bed where she opened the backpack and took note of the field supplies in various pockets. A full canister of OxyBlast, two flashlights, extra batteries, bottled water, evidence markers and other items. Everything was in order, so she unpacked her tote bag and hung her clothes in the wardrobe. She was about to toss the tote bag in a corner when she spotted a gourmet truffle on the pillow. "Dark chocolate. My favorite." Paying no heed to the inner voice that reminded her she hadn't gone for her run yet, she removed the wrapper and stuffed the decadent candy into her mouth before her conscience could argue. She let it melt, slowly, savoring the treat. She ate the chocolate from the other bed too. I'll add ten more minutes to my morning run. She tossed both wrappers into the wastebasket. A beeping sound caught her attention. Unclipping her portable data-communicator from her belt, she read a message from Ben. Have a good sleep, Jazz. "You too," she texted back. "Tomorrow the investigation begins." She peeled off her jeans and blouse and sniffed them. They smelled of death. From the morgue. She stuffed the clothes into a laundry bag and set it by the door. In the bathroom, she stripped completely and opened the glass door to the double shower. Inside was a digital panel set up for touch or voice command. Most modern hotels had these showers now. Jasi had one recently installed in her apartment, a luxury most people couldn't afford. She'd learned a long time ago to splurge on the few things that brought her comfort or pleasure. "Shower on." The shower obeyed, but the water was cold. "101 degrees." She stepped inside and heaved a sigh of relief. As steaming water washed away the morgue blues, she took a deep breath and released it, watching her tense morning swirl down the drain. She reached for the shampoo bottle. "Damn." In her haste to catch the flight from Vancouver to Ottawa, she'd forgotten to pack shampoo and conditioner. She picked up the hotel's mystery sample, opened it, gave it a sniff, then shrugged. "Note to self," she said as she lathered her shoulder-length hair. "Buy shampoo and conditioner in the hotel gift shop." She wondered how much Monty Winkler had spent on hair care products. Any time she'd seen him on TV, he'd always appeared immaculately groomed, as if he'd just stepped out of a Vidal Sassoon salon. As she rinsed her hair, she thought about his wife. Marilyn Winkler had supported her husband, followed him everywhere. The woman would be devastated. At least she doesn't have any kids to break the news to. She instantly recalled her own father's grief-stricken face the day he had taken her aside and told her that her mother was dead. Her life had changed forever after that. She couldn't recall events from her childhood before that, much less what happened exactly on the day her mother was brutally murdered. There was only one thing she could remember with perfect clarity. The sound of her mother screaming. That sound still haunted her at night. On that horrible day so many years ago, eight-year-old Jasmine was the only witness to a home invasion gone wrong. It had happened on Brady's second birthday. Everything she knew was from what her father had told her years later. He had returned from an outing with Brady and found Jasmine on the floor. She was covered in blood, holding her mother's limp hand, singing a lullaby. Her father had placed Brady in his playpen, then pulled Jasmine into his arms and carried her into her bedroom, where he broke down, sobbing. Jasmine had said nothing. She was in shock, nearly catatonic. Realizing he needed to also tend to Brady, Pop tucked her in bed, kissed her forehead and left the bedroom. Ten minutes later, while uniformed officers and a crime scene unit invaded their home, Pop had sat on her bed, stroking her hair. He tried to explain that her mother was gone, that she'd never be coming back. Ever. Her mother's death had left a gaping hole in Jasi's heart. Over the years she'd tried to remember, but every time she thought of that horrible day, all she could recall was her mother's scream. And the blood. There had been so much blood. In the shower, Jasi blinked away the tears and tipped her head back under the cleansing spray. But all the water in the world couldn't wash away that memory of death. You can read the rest of DIVINE JUSTICE at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Lancelot’s Lady by Cherish D’Angelo LANCELOT'S LADY by Cherish D'Angelo Chapter 1 Pacing in the expansive marble foyer of Lance Manor, Rhianna McLeod tried to calm her nerves as she waited for her life to change. One man's decision would determine her fate. Would she have a new job and a place to call home? Or would she be sent packing? A tall, thin man in a dark gray suit approached her. "Are you Mr. Lance?" she asked, holding her breath. The man smiled and fine lines crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes. "I'm Higginson, Mr. Lance's butler. He's resting at the moment. Perhaps you can leave your name." Rhianna blinked back tears. She couldn't be turned away. The trip to Florida had taken most of her savings and she didn't have enough money to fly back to Maine. Besides, if it weren't for Mr. Lance's letter, she wouldn't even be in this predicament. "But Mr. Lance is expecting me. I'm Rhianna McLeod, the palliative nurse he contacted. In his letter he said I'd have the job if I came here." "I'm dreadfully sorry. Mr. Lance already has a nurse." "But I don't have anywhere else―" Somewhere in the stately mansion something crashed to the floor. Before Rhianna could comment, a crystal-shattering shriek pierced the air. This was followed by a terrible wailing sound. The butler groaned. "Oh, no. Not again." He rushed off in the direction of the commotion. Unsure of what to do, Rhianna took a determined breath and followed him. When they passed beneath a pillared arch and into a long hallway, she saw a reed-thin elderly man dressed only in a threadbare blue plaid bathrobe. It gaped open in the front, threatening to reveal more than just a hairy chest. Beside him, a plump woman in white scrubs was trying her best to calm him down, even though she was dripping wet and very upset. As they approached the dueling pair, Rhianna tried to remember everything she could about her potential employer. In the past year, the tabloids had been filled with stories of multi-millionaire JT Lance and his fight against an aggressive disease, a cancerous brain tumor that made him an unruly and difficult patient. From what she could see, the rumors were true. Once exuding strength, confidence and perhaps a touch of arrogance, JT now looked frail and helpless. "JT?" the butler called out. "Higginson, get this woman a towel. She spilled my water." "I did not spill it," the nurse snapped. "Mr. Lance refuses to take his meds or draw a blood sample. Now he's having a temper tantrum. He threw that water pitcher at me." JT's eyes flared. "That's because you keep trying to poison me, you old bat!" "I am not trying to poison you," the nurse sputtered. "The medication will help―" "How the hell do you know what will help me? Half the time, you keep me so drugged that I don't even know who I am when I look in the mirror. The other half, you're busy taking my blood for your tests." JT turned his back on the nurse and staggered toward Higginson, oblivious of the broken glass and water on the floor. "Sir!" the butler warned. With a resigned sigh, JT leaned against the wall for support. Then he caught sight of Rhianna. His mouth gaped and electric blue eyes lit up like twin lanterns. "Anna," he whispered. "You came back." He moved toward her and she suddenly found herself wrapped in his scrawny arms. Her first reaction was panic. It gripped her around the throat, strangling her. She wanted to fight him off, but then something strange happened. Calmness washed over her and she felt connected, a sense of belonging. For once in her life, she knew what it felt like to be welcomed home. But this isn't my home. She pulled back, embarrassed. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod. I'm the nurse from Maine. Remember?" "Nurse?" He studied her face and something akin to recognition flickered in his eyes. "Ah, yes…" "What's going on, sir?" Higginson asked. "I'll explain later. First, I need a drink." Higginson gave Nurse Simpson an apologetic look. "Get Mr. Lance a fresh jug of water, please. I'm sure he won't let his temper get out of control now that he has company. Will you, sir?" All eyes watched as the portly nurse waddled down the hall. Her disappearing act seemed to make the old man extremely happy. JT nudged Rhianna. "That woman's a vampire." "As you can see," Higginson said, "Mr. Lance and the nurse don't exactly get along." He turned to JT. "Let's get you back into bed before you end up on the floor―again." "Come along, Anna." JT took her hand. "You can visit while Higgie tucks me in." Rhianna stifled a laugh. Higgie? When she caught his eye, Higginson shrugged. She followed the two men up a spiral staircase, her shoes clicking on the Italian marble steps and echoing around her. When she entered a handsomely decorated suite accented with polished mahogany and brass, she sucked in a stunned breath. The suite was larger than four bedrooms put together. A plush sitting room with two suede sofas and a wall of bookshelves greeted her first. Double French doors with glass inserts opened into the bedroom area. On one side of the bedroom, an open door led to a massive walk-in closet that held rows of suits, dress shirts and ties in every shade, and a shoe collection that would be the envy of any man on Wall Street. Another door opened into a bathroom ensuite featuring a Jacuzzi, a glass and tile shower and a sauna room. A sliding door on the other side of the spacious bedroom led out onto a small balcony overlooking a delicately scented rose garden. Between two tall windows stood a huge carved bed, a work of art in itself. A tan-colored suede armchair was positioned next to it―probably for the nurse―and a kaleidoscope of pill bottles lay scattered across the nightstand. "What do you think, Anna?" JT asked once he was settled in the bed. "I think it's definitely a man's domain." Nurse Simpson returned, carrying a plastic jug of ice water. Shoving the pill bottles aside, the woman set the jug on the nightstand and crossed her arms, every muscle in her face pinched in disapproval. JT dismissed her with an impatient flick of his hand. In the doorway, the nurse hesitated. "Mr. Lance needs his rest. Even if he doesn't think so." Sensing competition, her eyes narrowed in Rhianna's direction. "Or anyone else, for that matter." "Maybe we should talk later," Rhianna mumbled. "Nonsense," JT said. "Stay with me a while." The butler glanced toward the door. "Nurse Simpson, why don't you take a break for an hour or two?" JT nodded. "Anna will take good care of me." As the door slammed shut behind the nurse, Rhianna took a step closer. "Mr. Lance, my name is Rhianna McLeod." "Rhianna?" JT sighed. "Well, yes. I guess you are." Confused, she turned to Higginson. "I don't think he remembers writing me about the nursing position. He even contacted the hospital I used to work in and―" "I hate it when people talk as if I'm not in the room," JT fumed. "Of course I remember you, uh…Rhianna. And I do want you to be my nurse. Higginson! Make up the Rose-Mist Room for Ms. McLeod. She'll be staying with us indefinitely." "Are you sure?" Rhianna asked, surprised. "You may want someone more experienced. I've only worked in one hospital and one nursing home before coming here." Higginson cleared his throat. "Have you checked her references, sir?" "References are for untrusting fools. It's my blasted memory that's disintegrating, not my eyes." JT eyed the door. "And references sure didn't make a difference with Nurse Dracula. Which reminds me…see that the old bat gets a nice severance package." As the butler's footsteps faded, Rhianna was at a loss for words. "I…uh…thank you." "You can thank me by getting my pills over there." JT pointed to the nightstand. "The ones in the red bottle." She fetched his medication and quickly scanned the bottle. The prescription was for Vicodin, a narcotic pain reliever. She shook out two pills and poured a glass of water before approaching his bedside. "Thank you, Ann―Rhianna." His breathing was strained. "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Lance?" "JT, my dear. When you call me Mr. Lance, I feel so damned ancient, like some old geezer waiting to croak." He chuckled at his own joke. After he was resting comfortably, she sat down in the chair and studied him. His thinning gray hair and handsome face suggested the rather dashing young man he must once have been. A once-strong jaw line, now softened by age and illness, still held traces of stubbornness. But it was his eyes, bright and kind, that held her attention. They seemed sad. Tired and sad. "Now, Rhianna, tell me a bit about yourself." "Well, I grew up in Bangor, Maine, and graduated―" "Not the technical interview stuff, dear. I want to know about you. What are your goals, your dreams?" Nobody had ever asked her about her dreams. For nearly two years, she had hidden herself in the nursing home in Portland, afraid to let anyone too close. Afraid to dream. In that bedroom, sitting beside a dying man, she found more than an employer―she found a friend. Tentatively, she told him bits and pieces about her life. It started slowly, like a gurgle of water bubbling up from the center of the earth. Within an hour, Rhianna had told him all about her childhood, about the terror she had endured, and the fear and abuse that had drained her soul of all self-worth. Chapter 2 Settling into her new job had been easy for Rhianna. JT had made it easy. Although occasionally prickly, her patient was also compassionate and kind. He gave Rhianna full run of the mansion while he napped, which was often. As she wandered through the various rooms, admiring antique furniture, expensive ornaments and a collection of massive oil paintings in ornate frames, she caught sight of a painting in the foyer. It had mesmerized her since her first day at Lance Manor over six weeks ago. A rectangular brass plate on the bottom of the frame displayed no date or artist name, only the name of the work. Lady in the Mist. On the canvas, a woman's naked body, wrapped only in a thin veil of mist and caressed by soft blue moonlight. She stood in the shimmering stillness of a murky lake, her long, slender legs half-submerged in the water. Rich auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders and swirled over the peaks of firm breasts, and brilliant jade-green eyes gleamed with such yearning and expectancy. The mist rose from the lake in spiraling tendrils, like fairy hands grasping at the woman's body. The wind whispered in hot, humid breaths. Water trickled from the falls above, showering the plants with glistening moisture, while the Lady in the Mist appeared to be waiting for something. Or someone, Rhianna thought. There was something primal about the painting. It was alive. "It's a lovely painting, isn't it, Miss McLeod?" She spun around at the sound of Higginson's voice. "The resemblance is uncanny," he observed. "She looks like you." "You say that every time―as if she predicted my arrival." "Well, look at you." Higginson smiled. "You're here. And part of the family." "You and JT have shown me the meaning of family―I'll always remember that." "Don't talk as if you're leaving us," he chided. "I will be. One day." Rhianna's heart ached at the thought. Her job could end in a heartbeat. Or the lack of one. They both knew that. Though they'd given him six months at most, not even the doctors knew how much time JT really had left. It had been difficult at first, watching a grown man waver between being fully cognizant one moment and barely lucid the next. Some days he had a hard time remembering the simple things, like how to tie his shoes or the cream went in his coffee not over his eggs. But she loved the old man. JT was like the father she'd never had. Orphaned at birth, she'd been sent to live with her mother's sister, until Aunt Madeline and Uncle Bernard died in a ferry accident. After the funeral, Rhianna went into foster care and remained there until she was sixteen. The last place she was sent to was the home of Gwen and Peter Waverley. She spent three long years there―three years of hell. She shook her head. The past is the past. Flicking a look at Higginson, she noticed a single tear had escaped down his cheek. The man was a loyal employee, more like a companion and dear friend than a well paid butler. He'd been with JT for over twenty years. They often argued over business matters, yet JT always respected him, and that had won the butler's eternal devotion. "There's something magnetic about her," Higginson said, before leaving her alone. Rhianna's gaze was drawn back to the mysterious canvas. She often felt the woman in the painting was watching her. The artist had captured the sensual yearning in the young woman's expression, a sense of desperation, torment and passion that haunted her beautiful eyes. However, there was one thing that stood out―a flaw of sorts. The artist's signature was illegible. "Good evening, dear." Turning, Rhianna smiled as JT approached. "You're wearing your new robe." He frowned. "New? Oh, yes. I can't seem to find my other one." She'd given him a new bathrobe when he turned sixty-seven a week ago, but every now and then he'd forget about it and go in search of the ratty, threadbare one that she and Higginson had secretly thrown out. "Why didn't you answer me when I called your name?" he asked. "Sorry, I was daydreaming." She glanced at the painting. "It's so beautiful I get lost in it." "I know, dear. It's your favorite." "Who's the artist?" JT's eyes went cloudy. "What artist?" She indicated the painting. "I don't have a clue." He frowned. "I think I knew once, but…" His voice trailed away. "It's okay, JT." "What is?" he asked, bright-eyed again. She let out a sigh. JT's memory lapses were becoming more frequent. Higginson approached them. "Everything is ready, sir." "Then let's get this show on the road." JT winked and Higginson disappeared down the hall. "What's going on?" she asked JT. "You should be upstairs resting." "I'll have plenty of time for that when I'm dead." Her eyes watered. "Don't say that." "I'm sorry, dear. You know I wouldn't hurt you for all the world, but if I'm going to die soon I might as well enjoy life now." He gave her a secretive smile. "Anyway, I can't very well miss tonight's celebration, can I?" "What celebration?" He frowned. "Your birthday party, dear girl." Oh no. This was the last thing Rhianna wanted. "It's no big deal," she mumbled. "No big deal?" JT's arm swept across her shoulders. "My dear Rhianna, you're twenty-five now. When you're as old as I am, you'll be thankful for every single birthday you ever had. It means you lived one more year, saw one more year of sights and loved one year longer." She smiled. "I suppose you're right." "Of course I'm right. Besides, I have to dance with the birthday girl at least one time." He kissed her forehead. "You know, my birthday is coming up soon. I'll be sixty-seven." He frowned and scratched his chin. "Or is it seventy-six?" She didn't have the heart to tell him he'd had it already. His sudden burst of energy the past few weeks worried her. So did his insistence upon having a glass of brandy every night before bed, even though it was against doctor's orders. He'd been given six months. That was three weeks ago. JT took her arm for support. "Take me to the dining room. And no arguing." The first thing she saw when they entered the room was the bouquet of pink and mauve roses in a crystal vase. Instead of being positioned as a centerpiece, it sat on her plate. Beside the rose bouquet was a large box wrapped in pastel paper and tied with a lop-sided pink bow. "I couldn't quite get that blasted bow right," JT muttered. "Oh, JT," she said, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "You didn't have to buy me anything. I'm your employee." "No, Anna, you're like a daughter to me." JT's eyes widened. "Well, go on. Open it." Some days he's just like a child, Rhianna thought, bending her head so he wouldn't see how much his thoughtfulness meant to her. Blushing, she pulled out a mint green bikini with tiny lavender rosebuds on it. "I, uh…thank you." "There's more," JT prodded. Under a layer of tissue lay two sheer skirt-wraps and a pair of white leather sandals. "This is very generous of you, JT, but I'm not sure where or when I'd ever wear these. They're not very practical for a nurse." JT's eyes twinkled. "That's the point, Rhianna. Look how I had to argue with you just to get you to wear normal clothes instead of those ghastly nurse uniforms that only remind me that I'm dying." He smiled. "Besides, a pretty gal like you should be spoiled on her birthday. Someone needs to remind you that life is for living, not for holing up in an empty house with a cranky old geezer like me." "Well, you do know how to spoil a girl." She grinned. "And I suppose if I have to put up with a 'cranky old geezer' like you, I'll survive. If nothing else, you keep things interesting." "Now for the real gift," JT announced. Higginson handed him a white business envelope before vanishing from the room. Rhianna frowned. "Where's he going, JT?" "Oh, don't worry. He'll be back." She opened the envelope and gasped. "What's this?" "It's your vacation. A plane ticket to Angelina's Isle, a resort island just northeast of Nassau in the Bahamas. I want you to take the next three weeks off." "But I can't take a holiday." "Yes, you can. And you will. You need a bit of fun." "Fun? How can you say that when you…" "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her. "I'll still be here when you get back." Her voice trembled. "How do you know that?" "I just do." "But what if something happens while I'm gone?" "Higginson will make sure I have expert care." "But why are you sending me away? I don't understand." A tear trickled down her cheek. "Rhianna, don't cry. I'm doing what's best for you. Trust me." He looked her straight in the eye. "I want you to have an adventure you'll never forget. You can't get that here. Besides, you could use a break. You're too devoted to your job." I'm devoted to you, she wanted to say. "When you come back," he said, "you'll be rested and ready to face the inevitable." They both knew he was talking about his looming death. "You're paying me to look after you," Rhianna argued. "Not to go gallivanting off to some resort in the Bahamas." Even as she said this, a thrill of excitement raced through her. She'd never been anywhere except Maine and Florida. There was so much of the world she yearned to see, so many things she'd never experienced. Like freedom, adventure…love. "You've done a terrific job caring for me," JT said. "But there's more to life than looking after an old man. Higginson will drive you to the airport tomorrow morning. When you come back, I want to see you tanned, healthy and happy." She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. "If you won't do this for yourself, do it for me." She let out a heavy sigh. "Fine then. For you." Rhianna could tell JT was elated by her decision. The way he'd ordered her around one might think he was her father. As if reading her mind, the old man reached across the table for her hand. "You know I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. You've certainly shown me more affection than my son." "You never mentioned you had a son." "He left home years ago. Shortly after he got married, we had a terrible argument and I haven't heard from him since." "You mean he just disappeared? Hasn't he at least written you?" "He wanted to make me pay for my sins," JT said, the light in his eyes dimming. A minute later he looked at her, confused. "What were we talking about?" Before she could reply, Higginson returned with a small item wrapped in a piece of soft cotton. It was rectangular in shape and the size of a large book. "And now I have two more gifts for you," JT said, giving her a conspiratorial wink. Still fuming about JT's errant son, she watched him unveil a miniature print of the Lady in the Mist. Matted in deep blue and framed with a silver-edged frame, it was almost as exquisite as the original. "I love it," she said, swiping at a rogue tear. "Thank you." "Take it on your holiday," he suggested. "So you have a piece of home with you." She couldn't hold back. "What's the second gift?" JT grinned so widely that if he were dressed in a Santa suit he'd have passed for good old Claus. Well, Santa on Weight Watchers, maybe. "The original Lady in the Mist is hanging in your room." At her stunned expression, he added, "It's all yours." Rhianna was more than stunned. She was speechless. The very painting that she had gazed at for almost two months was actually hers. There were other paintings in Lance Manor, some even painted by the same artist, but none affected her quite like the one of the woman with the long red hair and deep green eyes. "JT…I don't know what to say. You're too generous." "That's what friends do," he said in mock sternness. "Now, just make an old man happy and say thank you." She grinned at him. "Thank you." Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around the dying man and hugged him fiercely. "You are an honorable friend, JT, and I am so glad you're in my life." "I haven't always been honorable. I've done some things in my life that I'm not proud of. And I've hurt people too." He lowered his voice. "There are no guarantees in life. But any risk is worth taking when you love someone. Remember that, Rhianna." Alarmed by the tremor in his voice, she pulled back and saw tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?" He blinked twice. "JT?" He gave her a blank look. "Anna…" She sighed. "It's past your bedtime." "When did you get here, Anna? Did you bring the baby?" Rhianna had asked Higginson about this Anna person JT always mistook her for. The butler didn't have a clue. And now it seemed this mystery woman had a baby. It must be someone from his past. Maybe his son's mother. Escorting JT to his room, she tried not to think of what would happen once he was gone. In some ways he was already gone. It was emotionally draining to watch him flip-flop between bouts of memory loss and total comprehension. Witnessing this grand man's decline was devastatingly heartbreaking. Today, one would never know by looking at him that he had less than six months to live. She blinked back tears, then pasted a smile on her face for the man who meant so much to her. He gave her more than a paycheck, more than a place to call home. He restored her sense of safety and belonging. Yes, JT was one of a kind. She scowled. Too bad his son hasn't realized that. If she ever met the guy, she'd have a few things to say to him. And none of them would be polite. Chapter 3 The airplane droned over cottony clouds and Rhianna was lulled into sleep. She dreamed of coming home to find JT lying in his bed, still and lifeless. Waking suddenly, she shook off an uneasy feeling. It's just a nightmare. She smiled, recalling JT's words before she left. "I'll wait for your return before I go anywhere," he promised, "including Heaven's pearly gates―or that other place―whichever will take me." God, please don't take him before I return. I'd never forgive myself. She yawned and rested her head against the window. Then restless dreams once again claimed her… After being dumped off on Mrs. Emerson, a foster mother with very little money and too many mouths to feed, Rhianna had given up hope of finding a real family. She was a lost soul for a couple of years, until the "system" found her new foster parents when she was almost sixteen. At first, Peter and Gwen Waverley seemed kind, but the honeymoon stage didn't last long. By the second week, Rhianna was making dinner, doing the dishes, vacuuming the house, and on weekends she did laundry. Sometimes her foster mother would ask her to dust too. Plus she had to keep her own bedroom spotless. Between school, chores and homework there wasn't much time left for a social life. It didn't take her long to realize that the Waverleys were more interested in having a live-in housekeeper than a daughter. Later, she found out that her foster father saw her as anything but daughter material. In fact, he saw her more as a possession. A possession he had to have. Peter's lecherous advances behind his wife's back made Rhianna so nervous that she remained in her room unless she had chores to do. At night, she'd lock her bedroom door, holding her breath as his footsteps slithered past her door. Most of the time she was able to avoid being alone with him―until one evening when Gwen decided to go see Phantom of the Opera. Rhianna saw the evil twinkle in Peter's eyes. "Please don't go, Mrs. Waverley," she cried. "I don't want you to leave." "Quit your whining," Peter snapped. Sweat trickled down his brow as he waddled over to his wife and handed her a twenty dollar bill. "Have fun." Gwen eyed Rhianna with disdain. "See to it that all your chores are done before you retire. I don't want to come home to a pile of dirty dishes and wrinkled laundry. And quit that sniffling." "But Mrs. Waverley, I'd just feel much better if you were home. And I don't think the agency would like―" Peter whipped around. "You don't think I can take care of you?" "Now, Peter," Gwen said with a sigh. "The girl is just missing me, that's all. I'm sure you'll do a fine job looking after our…daughter." Her eyes narrowed. "And don't worry, she won't say anything to the agency. She knows there isn't another family for miles that would take her in." Peter glared at Rhianna. In a cold voice he said, "It's a good thing your parents are dead. I don't think they'd be too proud of your behavior." "Yes, you behave yourself," Gwen commanded. "And get those chores done while I'm gone. I'll be back around ten o'clock." The door slammed shut behind her. Rhianna watched as Peter flicked the lock. When he turned around, his eyes were gleaming and his mouth was stretched into a sadistic smile. "Come to Daddy." Her heart stopped beating. "Miss?" a voice called from the blackness. "Wake up." Rhianna opened her eyes and a face swam into view. "Why, hello there," a flight attendant said, her accent placing her from Ireland. "Boy, that was one doozy of a nightmare, if I do say so. You better have a drink, and I don't mean water. Can I fetch you something?" "No, thank you." Rhianna shook off the remnants of her dream. "When will we be landing?" "In about twenty minutes, give or take. Course we have to make it through the Bahama Triangle first." Rhianna's pulse raced. "The Bahama Triangle?" The flight attendant grinned. "Just kidding. No such thing." In the aisle seat across from Rhianna, a man in a business suit nodded. "I've taken this trip dozens of times, and they still use the old Bahama Triangle joke." He smiled. "Where you headed?" "To a resort on Angelina's Isle. Have you been there before?" The man frowned. "No, can't say I have." Over the speaker, the captain asked everyone to fasten their seatbelts for their descent. The plane softly touched down and coasted down the runway. Rhianna's heart raced with anticipation, mimicking the rumble of the plane's engine. Fifteen minutes later, she disembarked from the plane and followed the ant trail of tourists and residents down the narrow hall. Once she passed through the airport, she hurried outside. A wall of heat and humidity hit her, and she sucked in a breath, grinned and hailed a cab. "I need to get to Bayshore Marina," she said, checking the directions JT had written down. A kaleidoscope of island colors and scenery rushed past the open taxi window. The seductive aroma of exotic flowers mingled with the fresh but humid scent of an earlier rain that had left evaporating puddles on the road. Between lush palm trees, she saw houses painted in tropical shades of orange, pink, yellow and green. It was breathtaking, unspoiled. Like another world. Almost too soon the taxi pulled up to Bayshore Marina. A small dock jutted out over the water and boats of various sizes and styles were moored there, while others dotted the water. In the distance, small islands appeared to float on the ocean's surface. She wondered which one was Angelina's Isle. Walking along the dock, she noticed two men arguing about the boxes they were loading into a brightly painted powerboat. Moving closer, she discovered that the paint job was meant to detract from the rickety shape the craft was in. "There isn't enough room for all of them!" yelled the dark-skinned man. "You'll have to make room, Roland," his older companion replied. "Tyler wants these supplies this month, not two months from now." "I'm telling you, Denny, I can't transport them all. The boat'll sink." The older man cursed. "Tyler pays you to make sure he's well stocked. You don't wanna get on his bad side. Remember what happened to Daniel O'Brien? Tyler just about took his head off when the poor kid forgot his brushes." "Excuse me," Rhianna said. Neither man noticed her. "Hello there!" she hollered. The two men looked up, their eyes widening in shock. Roland nearly dropped the box he carried. And Denny missed going for a swim by about six inches. "I'm looking for a boat called Siren's Call," she said. "Can either of you tell me when it's supposed to arrive?" "What do you want with the Siren?" Roland asked, white teeth gleaming as he smiled in her direction. "The captain is supposed to take me to Angelina's Isle," she explained, backing up as the men jumped onto the dock. At their doubting looks, she said, "If you could just tell me when he'll arrive, I―" "The captain won't be taking you anywhere," Denny said. "The Siren isn't taking passengers today." "But I don't understand. I was told the captain would take me across." She shaded her eyes with one hand and surveyed the boats nearby. "Maybe I can take another boat." "There aren't any others that dock there," Roland answered. "Lancelot's Landing is private property." "Well, I'll just wait until the Siren's Call gets here," she said in a tight voice. "I'm sure once I've explained why I'm here, the captain will take me across." Roland laughed. "Ma'am, this is the Siren's Call. At least it used to be, until the boss changed her name." Denny let out a scornful snort. "Long overdue, if you ask me." "Now she's Misty's Dream," Roland said with pride. "So you're the captain?" she asked. The young man nodded. "But like Denny told you, I can't take passengers today. I have enough on board already. Besides, the boss didn't say he was expecting anyone." "Then the boss is in for a big surprise." Rhianna reached into her handbag and dug out the envelope addressed to 'Captain'. "This is for you. From my employer." Roland suspiciously peered at the envelope. Ripping it open, he quickly read the note. "Your employer paid me five hundred dollars," he said. "Looks like you're heading to Lancelot's Landing." "Roland," Denny warned. "I need the money. Leave the last two boxes on the dock. I'll run them out to Tyler in a couple of weeks." Helping Rhianna aboard, Roland tucked her suitcase by her feet. "You won't get in trouble for leaving supplies behind, will you?" she asked. "Not enough to turn down the money you gave me." With a wave to Denny, Roland pushed the throttle forward and the powerboat took off, leaving a frothy wake in its trail. "I guess your boss forgot he had a new guest," she said, smiling as the wind caught at her hair. "Tyler never forgets." He did this time, she almost said. She found herself wondering about the resort's boss. How could he not pay attention to his guests' arrival? And how would he feel when Roland explained that they had to leave two boxes behind in order for her to come on board? Rhianna leaned back and closed her eyes while the boat raced across the water, the outboard purring like a kitten. The coolness of the breeze was a welcome change from the scorching heat she'd felt when she deplaned. Loosening her hair from the restraints of an elastic band, she ran her fingers through the wavy strands. "You're definitely not in Maine anymore," she said beneath her breath. Roland pointed at a small island. "That's Angelina's Isle." "It's very isolated." "You have no idea." The way he said it made Rhianna's heart sink. Minutes later, Roland slowed the engine and aimed the boat for a worn dock that jutted out into the water. A weathered sign nailed to a post at the end of the dock read, Welcome to Lancelot's Landing, Angelina's Isle. Underneath, a second sign warned, PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. It was an odd warning for a resort. Rhianna squinted, searching the bushes for signs of life. There wasn't a building, road or person in sight. Roland hefted the suitcase over the side and set it on the dock with the boxes he'd already unloaded. Then he opened a small mailbox under the warning sign. "Tyler's next order," he explained. "He should be here any minute." Roland jumped into Misty's Dream and prepared to cast off. "Wait! Where are you going? There's no one here yet." "Don't worry. Tyler'll be here. He hardly ever misses his supply drop." He waved once, then steered the boat toward open water. "What do you mean hardly ever?" she hollered. There was no reply. She moaned. "Where do I go if Tyler doesn't show?" As she watched the powerboat speed away, anxiety crawled over her like fire ants at a picnic. There wasn't a soul in sight. Not even a proper path through the overgrown brush to show her the way. "Wait until I get a hold of this Tyler," she muttered. "I've got a thing or two to tell him about customer service. Some kind of resort this is." She grabbed the Gucci suitcase―a birthday present from Higginson―and dragged it in the direction she hoped would lead to the resort. Using her handbag to ward off errant tree branches, she gradually made her way through the dense foliage, although the grass was slippery and she came close to falling more than once. "Where the heck is this place?" After ten minutes of fighting an unforgiving jungle, she turned around and headed back to the beach. When the boss comes for his supplies, I'll be waiting. She would register a complaint with the front desk. Guests shouldn't be dumped off in the middle of God knows where and left to fend for themselves for God's knows how long. She checked her watch. It was almost three o'clock. Damn. How long is Tyler going to keep me waiting? Mindful of slivers, Rhianna sat at the end of the dock and dangled her bare feet in the warm water. It had been a long trip, and worrying about JT definitely didn't help. She smiled, thinking of the old man's stubborn pride. He didn't like to be babied, especially by her. Staring out at the glittering ocean, a sudden pain flared deep within. Her only taste of what family was like would end in less than six months. She couldn't go back to Maine, not now. Not ever. Tears trailed down her cheeks, and for the first time in months, she broke down. If only she could have picked a father. She would have picked JT. The shrill cry of an unseen bird reached out to her as loneliness enveloped her, wrapping her in exhaustion. She couldn't resist lying on her back, her toes skimming the ocean. Before drifting into a deep sleep, she had one last thought. I'm like the Lady in the Mist. Waiting… A misty dream pool beckoned, calling her name. Rhianna… She waited expectantly, observing the still surface. Warm water closed around her toes as she stood at the shore, her white nightgown fitting the curves of her body like a second skin. A ripple disturbed the water, as if someone had dropped a stone from above. From its center a form arose, sleek and graceful. It was him! She had found him at last. This man of her dreams, all bronzed and muscular, brushed the water from his jet-black hair and waded to the shore. His muscles gleamed in the moonlight as he stepped, naked, from the pool. He moved toward her, his eyes smoldering with passion. Arms outstretched, he reached for her and pulled her close. She reached up, her fingertips gently tracing a path up his smooth chest. Winding her hands around his neck, she clung to him, barely daring to breathe. He bent his head, those sapphire eyes mesmerizing her, drowning her. Not a word was said. He leaned forward, caressing her lips with his, lighting a fire that swept through her very soul. His kiss deepened, growing more urgent. Then he whispered her name… You can read the rest of LANCELOT'S LADY at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cherish D'Angelo's site: http://www.cherishdangelo.com Remote Control by Cheryl Kaye Tardif REMOTE CONTROL by Cheryl Kaye Tardif "Be careful what you wish for," they say, but for forty-four-year-old Harold Fielding, who unfortunately isn't one to listen to such good advice, those words will come back to haunt him. Harold―Harry―always rebels against the norm. In fact, he says, "Wishes are like saying grace―something to be said before every meal." So he wishes at least five times a day, while growing exceedingly fat. However, good ole Harry has an excuse. "If I wish hard enough," he tells his wife Beatrice, "my wishes will eventually come true." Harry's a TV fanatic and, surprisingly, fairly intelligent. He spends about ten hours a day parked in front of his ten-year-old Sanyo television with the remote control in hand, while watching shows on just about everything. The next day, he can tell you all about it; his recall is nearly perfect. He never once contemplates actually working a forty-hour week and earning money. He's already maxed out the VISA and MasterCard, plus a small bank loan that Beatrice knows nothing about. And now he's waiting for his fortune to fall in his lap. Sadly, there's no room there, so whatever good luck finds him usually ends up in a puddle on the floor. Harry's good with puddles. He's a plumber by trade, when he bothers to do a job. The truth is, he's been having trouble maneuvering under kitchen sinks; his stomach keeps getting in the way. Six months ago, he was depressed, which made him eat more. He'd almost lost faith that there is something better for him…somewhere…out there, and then fate stepped in. After a chance run-in with an old classmate (Harry nearly knocked him down a flight of stairs when they passed on a landing), who happens to be very wealthy and who recommends one book, Harry's life changes forever. The Secret sits on the shelf behind the toilet. Harry reads it while relieving himself of the pounds of food he's eaten each day. Since he's always there a while, he can usually get through five or six pages a visit. "I've read it now from beginning to end at least five times," he boasts to his friends. Of course, he hasn't quite figured out that one must work towards receiving the good things in life, whether by deed or thought. He just figures that if he wishes for something, he'll attract it. Eventually. Be careful what you wish for, Harry. * * * On this fateful Friday night, Harry is sitting in his favorite recliner, the one with the sagging springs and torn leather footrest. He scowls at the television and balances a bowl of popcorn on his gargantuan stomach. Not an easy task. "I wish to be rich and famous," he says, just as he does at least twice a day. A handful of greasy popcorn follows and his stomach rumbles in rebellion. Harry wants everything out of life―recognition, an inexhaustible supply of money and the perfect family to share it with. He glances over his shoulder at his wife. Beatrice is ironing his work shirt for tomorrow, a pinched expression on her face. He studies her for a moment. She's wearing her regular work outfit―a skirt and jacket in dove gray. It would look great, he thinks, if she was twenty years younger. Beatrice is thirty-nine. And why won't that woman do something with her hair? Beatrice has grown out all the blond hair color he likes. It's now a rusty gray, which she twists into a lump at the back of her head and fastens with one of those clamp thingies. "You finished work early," she says without looking at him. "It was an easy job." Harry lets out a resounding belch in b-minor. The ominous sound is followed by a crescendo of sour pepperoni breath. It reminds him that there's still a half bag of mini pepperoni in the fridge. Beatrice looks up. "Why not take on a few jobs a week, Harry? We could use the money." She's holding her breath. He knows this because when she says money, it sounds like buddy. "You're making enough for us to get by on, Bea," he says. "'Sides, I'm waiting for my lucky streak to kick in." He doesn't want her to ask why he's been taking a hundred dollars out every week. "You have faith in me, dontcha?" Beatrice returns to her ironing with a loud sniff. She's annoyed. He can tell. "It's gonna happen soon," he says, more to himself. "I can feel it. My luck's gonna change, and when it does, you'll be sorry for doubting me." He laughs. "And I'll say, 'I told you so.'" He pushes the nearly empty popcorn bowl onto the end table beside his recliner and leans forward, grunting and shifting, trying to right the recliner. Finally, the footrest kicks into place. Then, with a deep breath, he grasps the arms of the recliner and throws his body forward and upward, and―ta-da!―we have lift off. Harold Fielding is standing. With huffing breaths, he lumbers toward Beatrice. * * * "He's one step from the grave," her mother had told her just last week. And Beatrice has to agree. She hears his heavy breathing moving closer but doesn't want to look at him. She doesn't want to see her reflection in his eyes, to know that her dull brown eyes rested in emaciated pits of shadowed skin, caverns that bespoke of countless sleepless nights. It's Harry's fault. He snores loud enough to wake the dead. Sometimes he stops breathing for so long that she holds her own breath so she can listen. Is he dead? And every time, she jerks when a gasping, strangled choke rises from the depths of Harry. She lifts her chin and finally looks at him. Her husband. The man she married over twenty years ago. 'Til death do us part.' She scowls. Well, how long is that going to take? And as quickly, she takes it back. Harry wasn't always like this. When she had married him, he had a bright future ahead of him and plenty of plans. They were going to build their own home, have three children and live in style. None of these dreams have come to fruition. The house they started building collapsed into a sinkhole when it was nearly completed. They had one daughter who moved out the day she turned eighteen and is now backpacking across Europe with a known drug dealer named Felipe. And as for living in style…? She glances around the sad looking room. The sunflower wallpaper―circa 1970s―is peeling in long banana peel strips from the walls in the kitchen area. The dinette set is something they found on Kajiji.com, purchased from a couple who were moving to Toronto. Harry has already broken two of the four chairs. In the living room, the matching couch and armchair in pastel periwinkle sink so low to the ground that it looks as if they will get sucked into the floor and earth below. Another sinkhole perhaps? A wayward spring sometimes jabs Beatrice in the thigh when she sits in the armchair, and the cushion is as flat as a pancake. Harry's girth has taken care of that. As her husband approaches, his massive belly flops over his pants and appears below the hem of his t-shirt. The waistband of his dirty track pants disappears beneath the drooping mass of dough-like flesh that hangs below his crotch. Oh, and there's his bellybutton. You could hide a bar of soap in that. Harry's limbs are short and thick, tapering at the wrists and ankles, then flaring out into misshapen hands and feet that are always swollen and red. He scuffles and shuffles rather than walks, stopping to catch his breath every so often. Think of a gigantic Galapagos tortoise moving across the sand and you'll get the picture. "Our savings is nearly gone," she says softly. * * * The only sound in the room is a ripping fart that Harry forces out as he passes her. He's been into the mini pepperoni sticks again, with a platter of eggs, it seems―by the noxious potpourri that simmers in the air. "Maybe you can teach some extra classes at the college," he replies. Beatrice bites her tongue. She already works full time teaching at an elementary school, plus she teaches the occasional adult class at Grant MacEwan. The college is already booked for courses for the next six months. "I really think it's time you find more work," she persists. "I wish you'd stop saying that." He moves to the fridge, grabs another beer and waddles back to his recliner. He wipes his perspiring brow with the back of a chubby hand. His fingers look like sausages ready to explode from their casings. Then he reaches into the bowl of popcorn, flops back into his chair and picks up the remote control, thereby completing his exercise regime. Beatrice clamps her mouth shut. When is the last time I saw him without that godforsaken remote control in hand? She remembers. Last spring, they'd taken a plane trip to New Brunswick to visit Harry's ailing mother. It wasn't a cheap trip either; they had to pay for three seats―two for Harry. And how long has it been since we've gone to a movie? The last time, poor Harry wedged himself into the theatre chair so tightly that it took Beatrice, three attendants and some of that fake butter topping to dislodge him. On the drive home, she saw him wipe his fingers over his greasy jeans and lick each plump digit. It was obscene. She misses the old Harry. The slimmer one. When's the last time he kissed me or told me he loves me? How long's it been since we made love? She shakes her head. Sex is completely out of the question. The last time they tried, she ended up with a dislocated hip and two fractured ribs, not to mention acid reflux symptoms that lingered for days afterward. They even tried to be adventurous, with her on top, but that only made things difficult to locate, and the last thing Beatrice wanted to do was go digging around under the sweaty layers of stomach and between Harry's cellulite-dimpled, thunderous thighs. Plus Harry can't lie on his back for long anyway. He might pass out. So why does she stay with him? After all, their daughter is grown and has flown the coop, leaving behind a tired old hen and an obese rooster who has no more "cock-a" in his "doodle-do". She watches him now, a longing in her heart, wishing so desperately that he would return to the Harry she once admired and loved. Can it be that that man is gone permanently? * * * Beatrice recalls the day they were married. The wedding was simple and sweet, and it took place a few months after college. Harry, decked out in a three-piece Armani suit that he'd borrowed from his brother, looked like the popular football jock that he was; Beatrice, wearing an elegant white dress cut low in the back, was the class valedictorian. She'd been so happy back then…and so in love. And Harry? Why, he'd literally swept her off her feet in a short five months. Now he can barely lift his own feet. They'd had such innocent dreams for their future together. She was going to teach wonderful, sweet children to read and write, maybe even homeschool their three equally wonderful and sweet offspring. Harry would own a plumbing company, hiring at least ten contractors, and they'd specialize in new homes. They'd target all the local builders and coax them with special deals. They'd all make a fortune. But instead, reality had given her a classroom of unruly, spoiled children, a hectic schedule and one child of her own whom she'd had no time to homeschool. Harry's company lost customers daily because of his poor work ethic and the three contractors he'd hired last fall had all quit. Better pay elsewhere, they'd all said. Beatrice catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dinette table. What happened to me? Her thin lips are pursed in discontent as she flicks a look over her shoulder and stares at the protuberance in the recliner. Things have got to change around here, she thinks. She hangs Harry's shirt over a wooden chair. "Goodnight, Harry." She pauses in the doorway. In answer, her husband of twenty years points the remote at the television and switches channels. Beatrice can't take much more of this. She turns away. I wish that things would change. Be careful what you wish for, Beatrice. * * * On this night―the night that 'IT' happens―the weather takes on the frightening quality of an orchestra gone awry. A merciless, miasmic symphony of heat and humidity is brewing, churning the heavens into a hazy, hellish hue of burnt amber. Bitter black clouds as dense as tar pits clash overhead. Hot rain is spat out, a trumpeting torrent that splatters and spreads into running rivers, flooding the grass and streets. Jagged lightning spears are thrown down to earth, landing with precision in a field of sleeping cattle, then on a power line, causing the lights in Harry's rented abode to flicker. Thunder booms through the tiny two-bedroom house and an enraged wind drums on the doors, windows and the stove vent. A pile of long overdue bills that Beatrice has left on the coffee table flutters to the ground, caught in a fluted draft that seeps under the front door and across the living room, and Harry shivers. The electricity in the air makes the hairs on his arms stand at attention. "Goddamn storm," he mutters. He knows that Beatrice is probably tossing and turning in the bedroom down the hall, but he isn't finished keeping his ever-vigilant watch of the small screen before him. There's fifteen minutes left of the hockey game and he's got a vested interest in the score. He's wagered a thousand dollars he took in increments of one hundred from their savings. One thousand dollars for the home team to win. And he has a feeling… The doorbell rings. His pizza is here. He pays the delivery guy, who yawns sleepily and hands him the two-for-one box. "Keep the change," Harry says, handing the guy a twenty. The man gives him a scowl. "Thanks, buddy. I may be able to pay for the gas with that…uh," he looks at the receipt, "forty-eight cents." Harry closes the door and waddles back to his chair, clutching the pizza box like an excited child holding a Christmas present. He opens the box, inhales about a thousand calories in one breath and downs a pizza in record time. He's starting on the second one when something crackles. Harry jumps. "What the―?" The lights wink again. Off, on. "There'd better not be a power failure," he yells at the television. The game is in the final minute. "Come on! Get the goddamn puck, you assholes. Now, shoot it!" He holds his breath, watching as the tiny puck on the screen glides across the ice toward the net. Closer…closer… * * * Without warning, the TV goes fuzzy. Static hisses at him and Harry hisses back. "Ssson-of-a-bitch!" He changes channels with the remote, but every channel shows the same gray, stagnant static, so he clicks back to the game. Still nothing. Harry heaves himself from the recliner, then pauses to catch his breath. This is not the time for the stupid TV to act up. Harry needs to know the score. He has to know if he's just made them ten thousand dollars richer, or if he'll have to find a way to cover his tracks―and hide the money loss. "Aw, for crying out loud! I wish to God I knew the score." With the remote control in one hand, he approaches the television with trepidation. He pushes the channel up button, and as his other hand―or fist, actually―makes contact with the box, he switches the channel back to the hockey game. Simultaneously and unbeknownst to Harry, a bolt of lightning sears the cable dish on his roof and a surge of electricity races down through the wiring and into his old television. He feels a minor tingling sensation in his fingertips. Then a sharp jolt of pain courses up his arm. "Beatrice!" he yells. His voice sounds funny, as if he's in a deep cavern. His vision blurs and darkness wraps him in a cloak of oblivion. Sounds fade in and out, waves of voices on a restless sea. The TV must be back on, his subconscious tells him. He blinks. Then he gasps. What was that? A face swims in front of him, too large for the television. A man's face. He has dark blue hair. That's not right, he thinks. He blinks again. And glimpses a crowd of people hovering over him. Am I dead? His vision clears and beyond the crowd, he sees hundreds―no, thousands―of screaming people. "Where the hell am I?" he bellows. But Harry knows exactly where he is. * * * He is standing now―after much assistance―and as he gazes across the stadium, his eyes rest on the hockey net at the other end of the ice rink. The home team is just setting up for a power play. The same scenario he's already witnessed at home, while sitting in his recliner with his popcorn and beer. "Excuse me," a woman says beside him. "This is yours." She presses a small black object into his hands. Harry's remote control. He's stunned. And very confused. "But how did you…?" "You dropped it when you fainted." "I fainted?" He rubs his forehead, squinting as a sudden pain flashes through his temples. Well, this is just wrong. I, Harold Abner Fielding, do not faint. While he tries to make sense of it all, his hands habitually caress the remote control buttons. When he grazes the volume button, he applies more pressure than he initially intends. The result nearly makes him pee his pants. The volume in the arena increases. "Must be a coincidence," he mumbles. He pushes the volume decrease button and the surrounding sounds diminish to a bare whisper. Flabby fingers stroke his 'long lost lover', pressing the mute button. The arena is eerily silent, yet all around him, people go through the motions of screaming, jumping up from their chairs, stomping their feet and whistling at the dueling hockey teams. It reminds him of those old black and white silent pictures with the incomparable Charlie Chaplin. He laughs, but no sound is emitted from his throat. "You suck!" he silently yells at the guy beside him. The guy gives him a nasty scowl. Apparently, the remote only gives Harry the effects. Everyone else hears just fine. Experimenting more, he presses the rewind button. It's a hysterically funny sight watching people move backwards, only slightly slower than normal. He glances at the woman behind him and immediately wishes he hadn't. She is regurgitating an all-beef hotdog smothered in mustard and onions. His stomach heaves, so he turns around and resumes fiddling with the remote. Fast forward gives him the expected results. The channel buttons do nothing that he can see. Distracted by this unexpected turn of events, he halfheartedly watches the final minutes of the game. As the puck makes its way across the center line, he catches sight of the "memory" button on the remote. "Now what does a remote have to remember?" He pushes it. * * * Zzzz-zap! A blinding flash of light pierces his eyes and he clamps them shut. When he opens them, he finds that he is standing next to the television in his stuffy two-bedroom rental. The remote control is at his feet and a burnt plastic odor lingers in the air. What the hell just happened here? He shakes his head, trying to free the cobwebs of his mind. He obviously imagined everything. Good God, Harry. You're losing it, buddy. He laughs. It starts off as a self-deprecating chuckle, then bursts into a full blown Jell-O belly laugh. Above his own laughter, he hears a thunderous cheering. The hockey game is in the last three minutes and the crowd is screaming wildly. The puck inches near the net, and Harry sees imaginary dollar signs. His bet is going to pay off. "Shoot!" he screams, trying not to think of what just happened. The puck hits the side of the goal net and ricochets between one player's feet, and the buzzer sounds. Game over. The home team has lost. And so has Harry. He's just lost one thousand dollars. He lets out a cry of frustration. "Goddamn losers!" Leaning over―which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes―Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote. In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic. The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. "Help me!" But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail. Jesus Christ, I'm drowning! He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers. The remote. Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he's ever prayed. "Please let this work. Please!" He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button. He's instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another 'zoning out' period except for two things―he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead. Or Beatrice, at the very least. She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he'd bought it for her last Christmas. He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right. "Harry?" Blink…yawn…gasp! "What in God's name is going on here?" * * * Beatrice searches the room for the source of the water. There's no leak in the ceiling and the kitchen sink isn't overflowing. So where'd all that water come from? Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she steps closer to Harry. "Did you go outside?" It's the only thing that makes any sense to her, yet the rain had stopped about half an hour ago. Harry gives her his 'you're so dense' glare, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Of course I didn't go outside." "Then why are you standing in the living room soaking wet?" Ignoring her, he pushes past and waddles toward the bathroom. "Just like a man," she mutters. "Avoid the question and run away." While he's gone, Beatrice cleans up the water on the hardwood floor. She searches for the remote control so she can turn off the TV, but it's nowhere to be found. "Harry?" she calls out. "Where's the remote?" He appears beside her, the remote firmly grasped in one hand. She holds out her hand. "I'm not done watching TV," he says. "But it's almost eleven-thirty." He looks at her, raises his eyebrows. "And your point is?" "You always go to bed by eleven when you have a job in the morning." "I know." He glances at the television. "But I have a plan that is sure to make us rich." She rolls her eyes. Another one of Harry's 'plans'. Oh goodie. "I have an idea," he continues, "that'll make you wish you'd never doubted me." "What I wish," she snaps, "is that you'd stop all your wishing once and for all. I wish that you'd stop pressuring me to work more hours and figure out a way to fix this mess we're in. In fact, I wish that you'd just leave me alone!" Beatrice turns on one heel, but his portentous words follow her. "Be careful what you wish for, dear Bea." * * * Harry is desperately afraid. Afraid that he's imagined everything, that he's had a stroke or something and temporarily blacked out. Terrified in a way that makes his heart race with anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he hasn't dreamt it up after all. There's only one way to find out. It's now just past midnight and Harry has changed his clothes, toweled off his hair, and his skin has returned to its normal color of malnourishment. Leaning forward as far as his tire tube belly allows, he sits in his recliner and contemplates how he can use his new best friend to make all his wishes come true. His pudgy hands are glued to the remote, as if his life depends on its close proximity. "Okay, RC," he says. "Let's see what you can really do." Now don't forget how smart Harry is. He's already thought this through. If everything that happened was real, then he has somehow found a kind of portal. And portals can be very useful―if one can figure out how to use them. "I was transported to the same hockey game I was watching on TV," he says. "I was actually there. Then I changed channels and went to the Arctic, just like the documentary." He shivers. "Bad move there." Needing something safe to test his theory on, he channel surfs. "There!" The screen shows dozens of digital cameras, flat screen TVs and laptops. Tonight's news is featuring a piece on the grand opening of a Best Buy store in southeast Edmonton. According to the reporter, the grand opening sale is on 'NOW'. "Then NOW is the best time," he says with a wry grin. He never stops to wonder what will happen if he selects a commercial that has been pre-recorded in a store that is now closed. But he does do two things. He wishes and waits. Nothing happens. "What the hell?" He holds the remote out in front, points and changes channels quickly, from a beer commercial back to the Best Buy ad, wishing with all his might for fame and fortune. Still nothing. He turns the television off, then on, and tries again. Point…wish…click channel button. Disappointed that he's still sitting in his chair, he says, "Why won't you work?" Scowling, he scratches his chins and replays previous actions in his head, thinking of everything he could have possibly done. Finally, he smiles. "Ah-ha! I touched the TV." Thankful he hadn't reclined his chair, he begins to rock. One…two…three! Up he goes. Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down. As a last thought, he grabs a hooded jacket he'd flung over the couch earlier that day. He doesn't bother to zip it up―he couldn't have even if he wanted to. But he does pull the hood over his head and fastens the top snap under his chins. He shuffles to the television and touches the faded black plastic. Making his wish, he switches back to the Best Buy commercial. In a single heartbeat, he sees his arm and hand disintegrate. Then Harry vanishes completely. * * * He's staring into a pitch-black cave. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realizes that he's inside the Best Buy store―after closing. Not even a night janitor is around. "It works!" He jerks as his voice echoes through the cavernous building with its high, open ceiling. Harry is stunned. He's tempted to hit the memory button and return home to collect his thoughts. But then it hits him; he should be collecting something else. He's standing in a store filled with expensive electronic equipment. Stuff worth thousands of dollars. Per shelf. Stuff he could keep―or sell. And best of all, there's no sign of a break-in, and there'll be no evidence of his departure. He glances up, sees a security camera sweeping the area and pulls the hood tighter. "Security!" Chuckling at his brilliance, he stares at his good friend RC and strokes the small black box. "Can I take really something back with me?" He remembers something. "Well, I brought back some of the Arctic Ocean, didn't I?" Makes sense to him that objects can be transported just as easily as water. "This'll be a reconnaissance trip," he decides, thinking of the movie Ocean's Eleven with George Clooney and a host of other big name actors. "It'll be a dry run, and I'll be Clooney." He waddles down one aisle, grabs a Canon camera and wraps the strap around his neck. Then he shoves four small digital cameras into his jacket pockets, two per side. He grins. With a skip and a bounce in his step―well, as much as his three hundred and sixty pound frame will allow―he lumbers into a second aisle and scoops a laptop up with one hand. Then he sees it, the most wondrous thing in the store. A forty-two inch Panasonic flat-screen TV. Shuffling toward his treasure, he practically salivates at the sight, and he makes a decision that will make one of his routine wishes finally come true. He hugs the flat-screen, squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer. "There's no place like home," he says. He tries to click his heels, but his marshmallow thighs won't let him. So he presses the memory button on the remote instead. * * * Harry stands motionless in his living room. His pockets are stuffed with stolen loot and the flat-screen he's holding makes his arms ache. He rests his new treasure on the couch and groans at the physical exertion. He stares at it and his jaw drops. A drip of drool slides from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and disappears into the unshaven folds of his face. Harry's eyes widen in comprehension. "I did it." He realizes something and puffs up his already expansive girth. He's no longer just Harold Fielding, plumber extraordinaire. Now he's a thief, a criminal, a wanted man. He grins and holds himself more erect. It feels good to be wanted, to be somebody special. A tingle of anticipation gives him a delicious shiver as he thinks of the police investigation that will follow. They'll wonder how someone got in and out without touching the doors or windows. They'll think I'm amazing. He empties his pockets. "And I am amazing." He can't believe he made away with it all. And he didn't even set off the Best Buy's alarm. Harry gasps. Maybe the press will give me a special nickname. "Maybe they'll call me The Disappearing TV Thief." Laughter escapes from his mouth, his bulky belly doing 'the wave' as it ripples with each laugh. He covers his mouth with fat fingers. What to do now… He must have an excuse for having all this state-of-the-art equipment. Now what can he tell Beatrice? Maybe an uncle passed away and left him―no, that wouldn't do. Beatrice knows he doesn't have an uncle. He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him. Harry grins. "I'll tell her I won everything. In a lottery." She'll never know the truth. She'd never approve of it. Suddenly, Harry hears a sound that makes his heart stop. Footsteps. Good God, Beatrice is awake! * * * You can read the rest of REMOTE CONTROL at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Rowena Through the Wall by Melodie Campbell ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL by Melodie Campbell Chapter 1 I saw the first one right after class. It was late April and already hot as a Swedish sauna in my home town of Scottsdale, Arizona. Kendra Perkins had stopped me to ask about a mark on her undergrad veterinary assignment, and while I was moving my hair away from my neck and longing stupidly for winter, I looked over her shoulder and there he was. The man was extremely large and very blond. He wore a banded tunic with leggings and had leather bands on both his wrists. My first thought was, how the heck had he gotten to the back of the classroom without me seeing him? Especially with that long gunmetal-gray sword that was hanging from a belt at his waist. I blinked twice and stared. He didn't move. Crap. He appeared to be real. "Is there a medieval festival in town?" I asked with a little skip in my voice. Tunic-man looked right at me, startled. His eyes were ice blue. Not one of my students, I realized. I'd never seen the guy before. And believe me, I would have remembered. Scary and way too attractive. Well, let's just say scary. I'd only taught for one term and I'd only been out of veterinary school for a year, but the impetus to protect my students was automatic. I stepped around Kendra. "Hello―can I help you?" I managed a smile and that seemed to surprise the stranger. He frowned and bent his head slightly as if to bow. Then he swung around, walked through the wall and was gone. Bloody Hell. "Row, who are you talking to?" Kendra asked behind me. I turned, my mouth gaping. "Didn't you see that guy dressed up as…as…" What, some sort of warrior? Kendra shook her head. "I didn't see nothing." "Anything," I corrected. Somebody was playing tricks. I walked to the classroom door and peered out. The hall was empty. No pranksters jumped out at me. No Derrick, Mark or any other of the motley crew in my first year class. Kendra eyed me. "You're kinda weird, you know. But in a nice way." This, coming from an eighteen-year-old with spiky black hair, black leather boots, armbands and a complete assortment of Goth piercings. Shaking my head, I let the whole thing drop. That night, I had peculiar dreams. I was in a world where the sky was azure, the sun was orange instead of yellow and the green was too dark for normal foliage. The edge of the forest looked over a verdant valley. I scanned the sky for birds, as I always do, and saw none. Where were they? From behind a split tree trunk, a little ground squirrel peeped out at me. It wanted to know what I was doing here, but before I could answer, I heard the pounding of hooves. Whether guided by instinct or by something more powerful, the squirrel and I slipped back into the foliage just in time to miss being seen by the riders. Horses whipped by us, frenzied mounts with riders clinging to their backs. I waited until the last animal had swept past us. Waited until the air was clear of pounding. Then I stepped into the clearing. Down the meadow I drifted, past Queen Anne's lace and clover. No bees hovered over the delectable menu of wildflowers. I called silently and nothing responded. How could that be? This valley should be teeming with life. I headed down to the river's edge and tried to get the attention of any frogs or fish that might be swimming in the turquoise water. Two clear eyes looked up at me and I smiled, reaching down to cup the small fish in my hands. A deep male voice thundered behind me. "Who are you? And what in Hades are you wearing?" As I turned, the scene faded and I awoke in a sweat. Chapter 2 The second time I saw Tunic-man, he wasn't alone. It was the same classroom, two days later. I was alone, marking papers at my desk. I heard a sound and looked up. There they were in front of me. I dropped my pen. "Holy crap, you scared me." The blond one wore the same tunic and leather get-up. This close, I put his age at mid-thirties, a little old for this sort of play-acting. His companion was blond as well, but younger, shorter and just as bulky. They looked right at me. "She's a comely lass," Tunic-man said in an unusual accent. "And she has the look of the Huel women." The younger man's eyes lit up with excitement. "Astonishing. But is she fertile?" My mouth gaped. Fertile? "Excuse me," I said. "I'm right here, you know." They stared back at me, shocked. I sighed. "I'm not deaf and that is rather a personal question. Don't be rude." It's always best to talk plainly with students, I find, especially since I'm not much older than they are. The younger one spoke first. "She can hear us?" Tunic-man nodded. "Apparently so. Woman, what is your name?" "Woman?" I pushed back the chair and jumped to my feet. "Are you fucking out of your mind?" "You don't have a name?" I was almost speechless. Almost, but not quite. "I don't know what fraternity you guys are from" I said, "but if you don't tell me what is going on this very minute, I will personally see that you two never ever graduate from anything other than obedience school." Tunic-man looked at his friend. "They have schools for the obedient here, Janus. We should think about such things." "This one doesn't look very obedient." "Perhaps they don't send their women." I picked up Epidemiology for Veterinary 1 and slammed it on the desk. "This has gone far enough. Leave my classroom immediately." To my surprise, Tunic-man grabbed Janus by the shoulder and pulled him though the wall. I watched the empty space for a good thirty seconds before reaching for the cell phone on my desk. I called a coworker. "Debbie, it's Row," I said. "Have there been any strangers hanging around lately? Strangers in weird medieval costumes like extras from Lord of the Rings?" Debbie, of course, laughed and said I was crazy. My name is Rowena Revel, but everyone calls me Row. Except for Dad, who calls me Red. It's the hair, which is a true auburn and reaches nearly to my waist. It's my one vanity, and by God, I deserve it. I'm not especially tall and I'm not slim. They invented underwire for women like me. There are worse things though. I may look sloppy in pants and a tailored shirt, but I look pretty darn good in slinky evening wear and satin nightgowns. That night, I slipped into one of my favorite nightgowns―a Natori―in a sapphire blue. It had spaghetti straps and came with a matching full-length dressing gown with lace edging. I had planned to wear it on my honeymoon. That didn't happen. If I had to tell the story of my life, it would be through the dogs I have known, not the men. I've loved animals all my life. I became a vet so I could care for them. I find, as most animal lovers do, that little creatures give back a lot more than they take. I can't say my experience with men has been the same. My expression in the bedroom mirror was sad, but the nightgown was as beautiful as the day I first set eyes on it. Piper, my West Highland white terrier pup, yipped and I looked down at his sweet furry face. "Come on, little one. Time for bed." We settled into the four-poster bed…and into our dreams. The sky was azure, the sun was orange and the air was as still as it had been the last time. How could I be back in the same dream? "Who are you? And what the Hades are you wearing?" I turned, perplexed. A dark-haired man in a tunic hovered over me. "Well, speak!" I opened my mouth, then closed it, floundering for words. "It's a Natori. I got it for seventy-five percent off at Saks." His anger turned to puzzlement. "What is this Natori and where do you hail from that maidens wear such flimsy items of finery? Where are your undergarments?" He crossed his brawny arms in disapproval. "You are obviously not from here. That much is certain." I took a deep breath. "I 'hail'―as you so quaintly put it―from Scottsdale, and I don't wear undergarments to bed. Besides, I wasn't expecting to be here." "Wasn't expecting to be where?" "Oh, for Pete's sake, in this dream." This was getting absurd. I was starting to feel like Alice. "So you're a Scot." Good Grief. "No, I'm American. Scottsdale is in Arizona." That seemed to stump him, so I took the opportunity to look him over. He was worthy of it. With the sun behind him, his hair looked black, but I could see now it was really a rich brown. Yup, he was wearing the same sort of tunic as Tunic-man and friend, with the leather bracelet thingies. This dream was becoming predictable. He frowned. "Are you a witch?" "No," I said slowly, as if talking to a dull-witted child. "I'm a vet." His brows drew together. "What is your name, vet?" I smiled with pride. "Dr. Revel. I qualified last year." He didn't seem impressed. "You shouldn't be out here alone, clad in only a Natori. It's not safe. Who is your father?" "Tom Revel. And although it's none of your business, my mother was Rowena Revel, nee Trefusus, if that makes a difference. What's this all about, anyway?" His dark face turned white. "Rowena?" "It's my first name too, actually. Rowena Revel. But everyone calls me Row." He sat down. "Rowena Trefusus?" I nodded. Oh boy. This didn't have a good feel. I wasn't liking this dream at all. "What about you?" I asked. "My name is Jon. Jon Trefusus." I stared at him, my heart hammering. "And that would mean what exactly?" Before he could answer, we heard hooves pounding over the ground, approaching with great speed. Jon grabbed me, threw me to the ground and covered my mouth with his enormous hand. He needn't have bothered. I wasn't going to say a peep. I could tell from the horses that this wasn't a group I wanted to meet. Images of fear and loathing invaded my mind. I sensed pain caused by the lashing of a whip. I tried to tune them out. Jon held me down. Don't make a sound, his hard gaze commanded. I tried to reassure him with my mind, but my gift never works on people. Especially in dreams. We were so close I could smell him. Fresh hay, leather and something rather musky. It shocked me to be that close to a man I didn't know. It shocked me even more to find my body reacting so primitively. I squirmed, but he moved his leg over my hips and pinned me down. After a few minutes, the meadow returned to silence. Jon pulled his hand away from my mouth, then put his index finger to his lips. He lifted his head and looked swiftly about. Then he smiled an 'all clear.' He was about to say something when I saw him glance down. I followed his gaze. Oh, crap. My nightgown had twisted, and the top, which had been somewhat daring before, was serving absolutely no purpose now. I saw the hunger in Jon's eyes and tried to roll away. His leg held me down and his hands pinned mine to the soft grass. I heard him groan as his mouth moved down to my throat. I struggled as he pulled down the strap of my nightgown and bared my breast. When his mouth latched onto my nipple and sucked hard, I gasped. Jon tugged at my skirt and I tried to push him away. It was like pushing against a rock face. "Stop," I cried. I awoke in a sweat, my heart racing. The light of dawn filtered through a crack in the blinds. It was hot in the bedroom and the thin strap of my nightgown had slipped off one shoulder in the night, baring one breast. My nipple was damp. Chapter 3 Next evening at the animal clinic, I asked Debbie, who had done her undergrad in psych, what she knew about dreams. She was a 'brainer' with short brown hair and an athletic body. "Do you mean clinically?" she asked. "Dogs have dreams, I know. You see them shake and twitch sometimes in their sleep." "Actually, I meant people dreams. Did you learn about them at all?" "Yeah, sure. What do you want to know?" "Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you swear it actually happened?" She looked at me, curious. "No, but I've had dreams that I wish would keep on going." She grinned. "Some dreams are better than reality, you know?" I knew. But I wasn't getting closer to understanding. "Actually, it's quite interesting, Row. There is a lot of reality in dreams. Your mind latches on to some thread of unfinished emotional business from the day. Then in REM sleep―you know, the rapid eye movement sleep when most dreaming occurs―it calls up bits of older memories that are somehow related and melds them together. That's why dreams look so peculiar. You have old memories and new memories woven into each other." Okay, this was beginning to sound scary. Old memories? "They are emotional connections," Debbie said, "rather than logical ones. The latest research shows that usually people work through the most negative emotions first. Their dreams become more positive as the night goes on. But nightmares interrupt that process. People often wake up before the frightening emotion is resolved, so the dream keeps repeating." I gulped. My fantasy dream world of intense color had some place in my past? "Speaking of reality," she said, "Steve called." My heart skipped. "Are you ever going to see him again, Row? I think he really wants a chance to explain." How can you explain cruelty? Steve was my ex. Or would have been, if I'd actually married him. Two months before the wedding, I saw him kick a stray cat across the pavement at the Biltmore Shopping Plaza, and that was it. I left the ring on the restaurant patio table. It was a full carat and it killed me to leave that ring. I shook my head firmly. "No, that's over for good. He's a jerk." "Too bad." Debbie sighed. "He sure was gorgeous. Are all investment bankers rich and handsome?" Handsome maybe, but in light of the men dominating my mind lately, Steve was scrawny. He was probably still sane, though, and I wasn't so sure about myself. Had I been daydreaming? Were the heat and the disappointment getting to me? Did I imagine those guys walking through the wall of my classroom? Or― I shook my head. Of course I imagined it. I was just feeling deprived. No more Steve in my life. No new man on the horizon. No sex in forever. Besides, gorgeous men don't walk through walls. Debbie was looking at me funny. "What did you say?" "Nothing." "You said something like 'gorgeous men don't walk through walls.'" I said that out loud? "Wouldn't it be grand if they did though?" Debbie mused. As soon as I fell asleep that night, my eyes opened to the azure sky and to a man with his hungry mouth on my breast. "Please," I whimpered. "Please don't." Jon raised his head. I held him in my gaze for a long time until he moved off me and sat down at my side, a dazed expression on his face. "Forgive me," he said hoarsely. "God forgive me. I can't imagine what came over me." I made a small sound of relief and tried to straighten the bodice of my Natori. Once adjusted, I glanced anxiously at Jon. He sat with his knees drawn up, his head resting against them. "Rowena Trefusus, can you ever forgive me?" I sighed. "Actually, it's Rowena Revel." "Not here. We take the mater's name, if it be the greater. Though Rowena Revel is pretty. And maybe safer." He lifted his head, gazed at me and started to shake. I said nothing and he looked away. "I am bewitched," he said in a bitter tone. I waited, not moving. He leapt to his feet and held out his hand. I took it and he pulled me up. "Are you sure you are not a witch?" "Not even a bit," I replied. "I'm a vet." "And what is this vet? "The full word is veterinarian. It comes from the Latin. I help animals that get hurt. I also teach younger students how to help animals." "Ah, a healer," he said, nodding in comprehension. "You use spells?" "No. I use medicine." "Potions?" That seemed to upset him. "No, no! More like…" I searched for the word. "Elixirs." Time to change the subject. "But tell me, sir, what you were going to tell me before. Who am I to you and to this place?" Good grief. Where did that stilted language come from? Jon had moved down to the stream and was cupping water into his hands. "Your grandfather and mine were cousins. That makes us distant kin. Your mother disappeared many years ago―when I was a babe―never to be seen again." "Ah," I said softly. So that's the connection. I was missing my mother again and it was showing up in this subliminal way in a very weird dream. "Her father―your grandfather―is the Earl of Huel. He lives still." I'd never known any of my grandparents. "And my grandmother?" "All the women of Huel are dead." That can't be good. "What happened?" Jon left the riverbank and returned to my side. "A witch put a curse on the land, that all babies of my generation would be male. It didn't seem so bad at the time because all the families wanted male heirs. They didn't think it through to the next generation." No female children. Therefore, no fertile women. "Holy crap," I said. "That's slow suicide." "Yes." His expression was bitter. "And so we die out." I didn't know what to say. We sat in silence as I tried to imagine a world with no children and few women. "You can't get the witch to take back the curse?" "No, she's dead. We burnt her." Well that's pretty final, I thought. Of all the stupid things to do. "Wait a minute," I said. "Surely you could intermarry with females from other lands." "There aren't many on this island. In war, the weak are vanquished. And women are weak. We've been at war for decades and there's been retribution. Hardly any have survived, and none with royal blood." He paused and I could feel his sadness. "The last great battle was four years ago. Now, there is nothing left to fight for. If you don't have women and children, nothing else matters. Who cares about grabbing more land?" This was definitely a horror story for the men of Huel, I realized. Good thing it was only a dream. "Jon, what about me?" My stomach turned over in knots. "Tell me. Did my mother leave Huel before the curse?" He looked away. "Is that why Tunic-man and his blond brother were scoping me out?" "I don't understand you. What is this scoping out?" I took a deep breath. "Two men―very big and blond, wearing tunics just like you do―popped into my classroom. They seemed surprised that I could hear and see them. I think one was named Janus." "Dear God in Heaven." He stood suddenly. "I need to get you to your grandfather." Panic rose within me. "They wondered if I was fertile." "I expect you are." Jon helped me to my feet. "You smell…intoxicating. That's what drove me crazy." It was half-past three in the morning when I awoke. Piper slept soundly beside me. I stayed in bed for awhile. Then I slipped on the matching sapphire dressing gown and went to the bathroom. When I returned to the bed, I stripped off the dressing gown and tossed it at the end of the bed. I lay down on top of the covers, amazed at how deliciously cool the desert could be at night. I closed my eyes. "Is this yours?" Jon held my dressing gown in his hand. "Where did you find that?" "On the grass, over there. Put it on, please. Somehow, I've got to get you to Castle Huel without starting a battle." He scowled. "Where are your sandals?" I looked down at my bare feet. "Is it a long way?" Jon sighed. "Maybe I should leave you here. I can be quicker on my own. Look, stay right here, below the crest of the bank. Don't move. I'll only be a short while." I nodded like a good girl. Really, what choice did I have? Jon moved swiftly along the riverbank. When he was out of sight, I sat back in the clover and opened my mind. A squeak sounded beside me. It was my squirrel friend. "Hello, little one. Can I hold you?" The squirrel scrambled into my left hand. I stroked it gently. It was warm under the orange sun, with the babbling of the river behind me. What a lovely, perfect place to sit and escape from the world. Maybe doze off. Hoofbeats warned me of Jon's return. He wasn't alone. Four horses galloped toward us at a breathtaking pace. Holy crap, I've walked right into a Bonanza rerun―only with better clothes. Any minute now, the theme song would start to pipe through hidden speakers in the hills. Idiot. I rose to my feet with as much grace as I could manage. The squirrel scampered away. The first man to dismount was Jon. With ease, he swung off the side of a big bay. "Sorry to leave you this long." He pointed to the man on the black. "This is your grandfather, the Earl of Huel. And these are my cousins, your distant kin, Ivan and Richard." The sun was in my eyes, but I could see a tall, elderly man flanked by two larger riders. "Rowena, you've come home?" the old man asked, a tremor in his voice. The earl stared at me as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "I think you mean my mother." I paused. "My name is Rowena though." "Rowena's daughter?" the older rider said in disbelief. "Can that be?" "It might be a trick," the other said. "Silence!" The old man dismounted stiffly and approached me. "Look at her. She's Rowena through and through. Where did you come from, child?" I nearly said Kansas, but that would have been too wicked. "Scottsdale, sir. In Arizona." I watched him mouth the word Arizona. "And is your mother there too, child?" This part I didn't like. I shook my head slowly and fought tears. "My mother is dead. She died when I was sixteen." The old man sagged, his hopes dashed. I felt awful. When he moved closer to peer at my face, I saw the lines on his. They were deep and vertical along his cheekbones. His hair was white and coarse, and his eyes were the same color as mine. He was thin now, but I could tell that he had been powerful in the past. He had the family shoulders. He reached out to touch my hair, as if to prove that I was real. "What is this you are wearing, dear one? It seems inadequate." "It's a Natori," Jon announced. "Ivan! Your cloak." Immediately, one man slid off his black steed and was at my side in four strides. He carefully wrapped a short black riding cloak around my shoulders and fastened it at the neck. Then he moved back and I was able to study him. Ivan was a good-looking man with thick black hair and warm brown eyes. Damn, he was big. He towered over me―and I'm not exactly a peanut. The earl stepped closer and reached around to lift my hair on top of the cloak. It was an intimate thing to do and oddly familiar. That surprised me. "And how did you come to be here, child?" "I don't know. I went to sleep and awoke in this forest. I walked down to the river and Jon found me." "Did he guard you well and with respect?" I sought Jon's eyes and saw the fear there. "Yes." The earl turned to Jon. "You did well, Jon. I am in your debt." Jon looked relieved. He owed me one, that's for sure. "Maybe there's a portal?" the younger man―Richard―said. I looked at him for the first time. He had the appearance of a young Greek god. He was tall like his brother Ivan, but much thinner, with dark golden hair. "This may be," the earl said. "But we can look for a portal later. It's not safe for her here." He turned to me. "Rowena, we must take you back to the castle. You can ride with Ivan." He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. "Do not be afraid of us." With that, he returned to his horse. Ivan mounted the black stallion, prodded it forward and leaned down. In one swift move, he grabbed me under the arms and swept me up in front of him, sidesaddle. He kept one arm around me and then nudged the black with his boot. We shot forward to a gallop, and I was very glad that he held me so tightly. The experience was exhilarating. I wanted so badly to hike up my gown and ride the black between my legs. But that wouldn't have been a good idea at all in this company. As it was, I was battling a cadre of feelings. My face was only inches from Ivan's chest and the strong scent of male was inescapable. It made my brain foggy. I wanted to distance myself. At the same time, I wanted to close the distance. In the back of my mind, I wondered if Ivan was equally bothered. When we slowed, I tried to make conversation. "Grandfather seems a good man." "He's clever and ruthless. But fair." I thought about that. "I should warn you," Ivan said. "He will want to marry you off quickly. You have royal blood and we need an heir." "Good thing I'm not married already then." "I didn't think of that." I could sense there was more to come. "Will I have a choice?" "Probably." He paused. "He will want to keep it in the family. There's me and Richard, although he's rather young. You've already met Jon, though I don't know if the earl will include him. And there is Cedric, the oldest. He's scouting down along the southern border right now." I sensed that Ivan didn't like his older brother. "What's wrong with Cedric?" "He's even more ruthless than your grandfather." I shivered and wrapped the cloak tightly around me. Something told me I wasn't going to like Cedric at all. But before I could analyze those feelings, the dream began to fade. You can read the rest of ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Melodie Campbell's site: http://www.melodiecampbell.com Shadow of Innocence by Ric Wasley SHADOW OF INNOCENCE by Ric Wasley Prologue Newport, Rhode Island—Summer 1968 At first glance, the summer cottage of Margaret and Jonathan Vanderwall appears quite ordinary, but closed doors and curtained windows can hide all sorts of secrets—and they have up to now. The cottage is modest by Newport standards, with only ten bedrooms and six baths. It doesn't look like a place where dark shadows are gathering behind the spotless windows and polished brass accented front door. The Vanderwalls prefer not to acknowledge shadows and secrets. The society they are a part of doesn't require it. They are proud of their world. And their acknowledged place in it. As a matter of fact, though it's been nearly three-quarters of a century since robber barons drove gilded carriages through the ornate gates of massive marble palaces, life along Bellevue Avenue still whispers sweetly to those who live there, like the Vanderwalls. Those who 'have.' And they do have. Cars, yachts, summer houses in Newport, winter houses in Manhattan, winter and summer houses in Palm Beach, and great looking tans. Yes, life in America's summer 'have' capital is indeed idyllic for the idle rich. Except that for the past few years, during the height of the summer season, when the prevailing wind from the ocean side of their 'cottages' recedes, the sound of music can be heard. Not the delightful warble of Julie Andrews dancing through the Austrian Alps, or the soothing strains of a Schubert sonata or a Mozart concerto, but the raucous sounds of guitars and banjos playing crass folksongs and woeful blues. It seems that the 'have-nots' have found a way to insert themselves and their unwashed music into one of the last bastions where everyone knows their place. Or used to. And nowhere are the summer rain clouds of musical disturbance, known as the Newport Folk and Blues Festival, dreaded more than in the first house on the seaside end of Bellevue Avenue—the mansion belonging to the Vanderwalls. But not by their oldest daughter, Blair Prentiss Vanderwall. Blair has made some distressing connections with the 'great unwashed' down by the harbor. Not only does she like their music, she has become one of them. A hippie, or so it seems. To all concerned, it's obvious that things can't go on like this. Something must be done about Blair. Chapter 1 Falmouth, Massachusetts—Father's Jazz and Folk Club—July 25, 1968 Smoke from hundreds of smoldering cigarettes and joints swirled around the sweating, black singer rasping out a hard version of 'Cocaine Blues.' His dark, craggy features have a Mephistophelian look, Blair Prentiss Vanderwall mused. The thought gave her a wicked little shiver. "What are you smirking about?" her friend Valerie asked from across the wine-wet table. Blair took a languid drag from the Salem cigarette dangling between her fingers. She held in the smoke for a moment and let the mellow Acapulco Gold, which now replaced the tobacco, free her mind to drift a few planes closer to her own personal nirvana. Jackie Trainor, the third girl at the table, watched Blair. "She's wondering what it would be like to make love to a...black man." The whispered words only heightened Blair's amusement and excitement. She loved the smoke-filled air, the smell of pot, the noise, the wine, but there was something she loved more. Dangerous boys. She shifted her gaze to the long bar at the right of the stage. A pair of reckless eyes stared back at her. She drew another deep drag and let the smoke slide out through her nostrils, where it hung around her honey-blonde hair. She imagined it looked like a wavering halo crowning one of hell's cutest little angels, though she was anything but angelic. The tall, lanky guy at the bar pushed his sweat-stained cowboy hat back onto his forehead and smiled at her. Blair took the Salem out of her mouth, and with the innocent, erotic look she had perfected, slowly licked the rim of her upper lip. She watched with the satisfaction of an impending conquest as the denim shirt and faded-jeans guy pushed his elbows off the bar, picked up his beer, and walked toward their table. Looking into his smoky blue eyes as he closed the distance to her table, Blair allowed a small smile. Those eyes held the promise of new thrills. Maybe even danger. The cowboy strode over, pushed his hat back and grinned. "Evenin', little lady. Cody Ewing. Mind if I sit down?" Blair pushed a chair out from the table with her foot. "What kind of name is Cody?" She twirled her long blonde hair around a forefinger. "Well," he drawled, "what kind of name do you want it to be?" "Um...I don't know. Something interesting." She pretended to look up at the ceiling so that she could arch her graceful neck and stretch her arms, allowing the scoop neck of the peasant blouse to fall open and provide a tantalizing glimpse of firm, round breasts. The view was not lost on Cody. "Well, if you like wild, good ol' boys and bad-ass outlaws, then yeah, I guess you could say it's sort of interesting." "Tell me," she whispered, "and make it exciting." Cody's grin widened. He moved his chair closer. "All right, then. Well, it goes back to my Granddaddy Cyrus. It seems that when he was just a kid, one day he was down in Louisville with his Pa sellin' tobacco when this Wild West show came to town." She raised white-blonde eyelashes and looked over the rim of her glass. "Go on." "Well, Miss—what was your name again, darlin'?" "Blair." "Blair. Now that's a beautiful name for a beautiful lady." "I said go on. You already have my attention." "Well, like I was saying, my granddaddy saw this here big feller, riding out in front of the Wild West show and sittin' way up high on a big white palomino horse. On his hips, he had two pearl-handled Peacemaker revolvers that he commenced to shootin' off as the parade wound down the main street." He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Well, ma'am, he was so taken by that feller that he just up and runned off and joined up with that show. He got a job taking care of the horses and the other livestock, and so's his daddy wouldn't know where to find him if he came a-lookin', he changed his name. He changed his first name in honor of that feller on the big, white horse. Buffalo Bill. And I wound up gettin' part of the name that Granddaddy took." The cowboy put his lips next to her ear. "Cody." She moved her head a fraction of an inch closer to those lips. "Tell me more," she whispered. Cody drew in a breath and started to speak, but Blair put her fingers to his lips. "Not here. On the dance floor." The club's jukebox was on between the live music sets. Blair smiled, intertwined her fingers with Cody's and pulled him away from the table. "Dance with me. I like this song. It's slow. You know how to dance slow, cowboy?" "Jest try me, darlin'." Newport Neck Tennis and Beach Club—July 26, 1968 "Come on, Davy," four-year-old Timmy Perkins whined at his older brother. "Let me see." "No," seven-year-old Davy said, scowling. "Go back to the sand castle. I'll be there in a minute." As the big brother, he was expected to take charge, set an example, and above all, keep Timmy out of trouble. That had been drilled into him by Mom. And this, Davy thought, looked like trouble. Big trouble. As he stared at the curious pile of seaweed, and something else, Timmy inched closer and began to pull aside the strands of green and brown seaweed. Something was underneath. Something not alive. "Damn it, Timmy!" Davy yelled. "I told you to go back to the sand castle. Now get out of here." Timmy stared at his older brother for a moment. Then his face crumpled and he let out a wail. He ran up the beach to where his mother was settled into a beach chair with the latest Harold Robbins novel. "Mom!" She glanced up just long enough to assure herself that her youngest wasn't drowning, and let her gaze drop back to her book. But she should have known better. After the third insistent "Mom-my!" blasted with an eardrum splitting screech, she reluctantly inserted a finger between the pages of her paperback and looked up. "What is it now, Timmy?" "Davy's not being fair, Mom." He stamped his foot. "He said we should go look for seashells for the sand castle. And I did, but I didn't find any." He stopped long enough to draw a breath and went on in a rush. "Davie found a giant, humongous pile of shells and all this seaweed, but when I came over to get some he told me to get away and go back to the sand castles." He paused once more. Then with a triumphant smile, he added, "And he swore." Shielding her eyes from the glare of the morning sun, she surveyed the beach. Davy was poking a pile of seaweed with a stick. Timmy followed his mother's gaze. "See, he's got a whole big pile of shells and stuff, and he's hogging them all for himself." She sighed. Was she was really going to have to leave her comfortable chair and Harold Robbins to deal with the situation? It was just getting interesting, too. That guy had just gone into that girl's apartment in Hollywood and found her sprawled on the bed and she was dead. Timmy sensed her indecision, and with a master tactician's skill, added the coup de grâce. "Mom, he's not sharing." That did it. It always happens, she thought. No sooner do I get a chance to sit down and read when one of them has a problem. With the long-suffering sigh of beleaguered mothers everywhere, she got up from her chair, and still clutching the paperback, walked down the beach to the harmony-shattering mound of seaweed. "Really, Davy," she called. "I don't see why you can't let Timmy play with the silly seaweed, too." Grinning, Timmy ran to the pile and pulled shells out of it. "Hey, Davy," he said, his hurt appeased with the achievement of his goal. "What's this?" "I told you," his brother replied with a worried frown. "Leave it alone!" Timmy ran to his mother. Davy's eyes filled with seven-year-old seriousness. "Mom, I think there's something bad there." His mother took two steps closer, bent down and picked up the stick that Davy had been using. She pushed two pieces of seaweed back, revealing something white. "Oh, no," she murmured. A dead seagull? No, too big. A seal? No, too white. She shivered. Good heavens, what if it's a shark? She peeled back more of the seaweed. The object beneath was too thin to be a shark—thin, pale and bound with thick black fishing line. She moved the stick a little higher and pushed away another clump of seaweed. She froze. Harold Robbins dropped unnoticed from her fingers as life chose once again to imitate art. She clapped her hand—sticky with suntan oil and sand—over her mouth, but couldn't stifle the scream. The slender object wrapped in fishing line was attached to a slim, white neck, which was attached to a bone-white face framed by a tangle of blonde hair and seaweed. A pair of cold blue eyes stared back at her. Chapter 2 Cambridge, Massachusetts—Inman Square—July 26, 1968 Michael Prescott McCarthy was having a very bad dream. He was back in the jungle, and something was after him. No matter which way he ran, it got closer and closer. He ran into the steaming jungle, which was loud with the fire of automatic weapons, and the beat of the rotors of a dozen helicopter gunships. The acrid smoke of napalm stung his eyes. Under the napalm was another smell. The sweet, sickening smell of roasted death. He stumbled blindly through a tangle of creepers and vines. Looking up, he saw that he was back in the village. That nameless, numberless, unknown Vietnamese village somewhere north of Firebase Bravo, and it was June 15, 1966. It was always June 15, 1966, in his dream. He knew where he was, what was going to happen, and he was always powerless to stop it. It replayed night after night in his head, like a long-playing record with a scratch in it. The same scratchy-track nightmare over and over again. The fly-speck of a village. A few dozen mud-plastered huts, a small, beaten-earth square, and in the square, his old squad from 'Nam. Begley, Walzack, Bell, Henderson and all the rest, waiting for him. They waved, gestured for him to come forward to take command again. With a big model 1911 Army Colt .45 on his hip, the colonel stood in the center of the village. "Sergeant," he snapped. "Report!" Sergeant Michael McCarthy—"Mick" to his friends—shook his head, but his feet carried him into the village. The colonel smiled. "Your squad is waiting for you, Sergeant." "What do you want me to do, sir?" The colonel gave the same answer he always did. "You know what to do, Sergeant." Mick shook his head as his men crowded around him. Private Begley pushed an M-16 into his hands and Private Lubowski slipped a razor sharp, double-edged Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife into Mick's web belt. "Come on, Sarge, they're coming at us again." Mick bit back a scream because he knew what they were, those black, misshapen lumps crawling out of the smoldering huts. "C'mon, Sarge," Begley pleaded, just as he had that first night in the jungle two years ago. "Give the order. They're coming for us." "Yeah, Sarge," Henderson yelled. "Give the order, man. We've got to open up on them. Waste 'em!" Mick stood rooted to the spot, M-16 clutched in shaking hands, moving his head back and forth. "No, no, no!" The smoldering lumps that Mick knew had once been the people of this village crawled forward. "Give the order, Sarge," one of his men shouted. "We have to open up, waste the V.C. bastards before it's too late." As if to punctuate the remark, a mortar shell burst next to him, sending a wave of pain crashing through his head. He heard ringing in his ears and fumbled for his .45. Instead, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder "Mick," a rich, throaty voice with the lilt of County Cork said, "look at me, darlin'." His eyes flew open and found the emerald green eyes of his own personal angel. Bridget Ann Connolly. Mick tried to raise the steaming cup of Earl Grey tea to his lips, but his hands shook, so he set it down on the scarred wooden nightstand. Bridget sat down on the bed, smoothed his hair back from his eyes and hugged him. "It's okay, darlin'," she murmured. "The jungle can't hurt you anymore. They're all gone. It's over. His trembling stopped. He picked up the tea and took a sip. He thought back to the events over the past three months. He'd finally agreed to help his father, former Boston cop "Big Mike" McCarthy, in his post retirement career as a private detective. And his sweet but feisty friend and lover, Bridget, had somehow managed to convince a skeptical Mick that she was just what McCarthy & Son needed. No matter the danger. For the first time since he'd come back from 'Nam with his faith and hope running through his fingers liked shattered pieces of glass, he felt that maybe, just maybe, he could do something with his life to help the scales of cosmic justice hang a little straighter. And if that didn't work out, then maybe he could kick a few asses that deserved kicking. But now the girl who'd helped him glue the broken pieces back into some rough semblance of working order watched him staring back into those places that he didn't want to go, and where she couldn't follow. Bridget bit her bottom lip and drew a deep breath. "Okay, darlin', I wasn't gonna tell ya, but maybe it's just what you need. Just before I woke you out of your nightmare, there was a phone call for you." The ringing in his dream. "I-I didn't want to tell you, because I thought—I mean, oh, Mick." She put her cool fingers under his unshaven jaw and turned his face toward her. "I just wanted you to have some time. Some time to forget and be all right." For a moment, she looked like she was going to cry. Then she got that mischievous little pixie look he loved. "But then I decided that I was getting tired of having a lazy slug sittin' around the apartment all day in his ratty old underwear and drinkin' up all me tea." "Oh, yeah?" He set the cup down on the nightstand. "Well, for your information, Miss Connolly, I'm all done with the tea drinking. And if my underwear is so damn ratty, then I guess I'll just have to get rid of it." With that, he threw back the covers, pulled off his boxer shorts, and lunged at her. She screamed, then giggled as he pulled her down on top of him. "Let go of me, ya nasty old thing." She laughed as he nibbled her ear. "Uh uh," he murmured, nuzzling the spot between her ear and her neck. "Not until you take back the crack about ratty old underwear." "All right, all right." She gasped. "I take it back. I think." He smiled and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. "Hey, you said you'd let me go." He pulled her closer. "I lied." The phone rang. Bridget tried to get up. "Shush," he said. "Maybe if we ignore it, it'll go away." The phone kept ringing. "Mickey," Bridget said, raising her head from his chest, "I think maybe you better answer it." He sighed. "Why, babe?" "Because it may be the same person who called before." The ringing in his dream. "Who was it?" He wondered if he really wanted to know. Bridget took a deep breath. "He said he was from your old squad in Vietnam." Mick's eyes grew cold and distant. "Go on." "He said his name was Smitty and that he needed your help." Chapter 3 Cambridge, Massachusetts—Harvard Square—July 26, 1968 Mick paused for half a second in front of the glass door that read: McCarthy & Son—Private Investigations. He smiled with equal parts pride and trepidation as he thought of the scarred ex-cop on the other side of the door. He could already imagine what his father was going to say, probably in very loud and profane terms, when Mick told him what he intended to do as the very junior partner of McCarthy & Son. He sighed, squared his shoulders and walked in. "Hey, Pop, are you busy?" His father didn't look up from the form he was filling out. He pointed to the chair in front of his roll-top desk. "Sit." Mick sat. He watched the former Boston beat cop with a mixture of pride and sadness. His father, the tough second generation Irish cop from the rough and tumble neighborhood of D Street in Southie. It was his reputation as much as his imposing size that had tagged him with the name "Big Mike McCarthy" long before he had joined the force on the eve of WWII. After that, he'd proved that his reputation wasn't an exaggeration when he'd put two suspected thieves, molesters and rapists in the hospital during his first week on the job, Mick studied him. He'd been told that he had the same square jaw determination and stubborn set of his chin as his father—the same icy cold grey eyes and corded scared knuckle hands. But where his father's expression said that here was a man for whom the world of subtle shades of grey had been reduced to stark black and white, his son wasn't quite so sure that the lines between the good and bad guys were so easily delineated. Where 'Big Mike' was broad and solid and with an open expression that said, 'What you see is what you get,' Mick was prepared to question everything on his way to the truth. He stared out the dusty window and let his mind wander to the scratch, scratch, scratch of his father's no. 2 pencil. He thought about the first twenty-two years of his life, his older brother Frankie, his sister Bronwyn, and his parents and their unlikely union. His Boston Brahmin mother, the former Miss Felicity Parker Prescott, and his father, the beat cop from Southie. His mind drifted back three months to when his father had shattered a dozen generations of McCarthy lone wolf tradition by asking his son to partner with him in his post-cop incarnation as a private detective. Mick had been drifting ever since 'Nam. Even before that. A prep school misfit, despite his mother's connections and what she'd always said was his birthright. Kicked out of Harvard in his freshman year for fighting. A gung-ho PFC and reluctant sergeant in Vietnam. And now? A partner—and hopefully a good son to the guy from D Street in Southie, who was now sitting behind a desk. Mick was trying like hell to get his life back on track. Partially through his mother's Ivy League connections, but mostly due to Bridget's well-meaning nagging, he was back at Harvard, majoring in Pre-Law as his mother liked to tell her friends. In truth, he was majoring in History because the past seemed so much safer than the future, with a Philosophy minor. No one could figure that one out. Mick didn't feel like talking about it. Not even to Bridget. His buddies in the old squad would have understood. When you've stared into the barrel of an AK-47, a cat's whisker away from having your brains blown all over some steaming jungle trail, you needed something to wrap your mind around and give it all meaning. Bridget said he would get all the philosophy he needed if he came to Mass with her. Sometimes he wished it were that easy. A few times he'd even tried it. But like everything else in his life, his religious upbringing had been a confused oil-and-water mix of back-to-back Sunday services with Pop at the Catholic Church in Southie, and the First Congregational Church in Cambridge with his mother. He had to smile when he thought about singing in the boys' choir next to his cousins Danny and Kevin as they tried to look angelic, while Father Kennedy stared at their latest black eyes and scarred knuckles acquired in pursuit of their favorite pastime—fighting. From that atmosphere of ceremony, incense and fun-loving family brawls, he would be driven from South Boston to the austere but elegant white clapboard church on Brattle Street in Cambridge. His stoic-faced father deposited him on the steps of the First Congregational Church where his mother would be waiting in her Bonwitt Teller navy-blue dress and expensive Tiffany pearl choker. She would nod to her ex-husband, take Mick's hand and walk with him to the Prescott family pew, from where three hundred years of Prescotts had stood watch over the 'correctness' of things on Brattle Street. He had always felt like an impostor sitting in the hard, puritan pew next to his mother, his brother Frank and sister Bronwyn. Frank had made it clear to Pop that he had no desire to do anything in Southie and for some reason Pop had never asked to have his daughter accompany him to Mass. Only Mick. Some would have said that he received a rich and diverse religious training. He just thought it was screwed up. And the net result was a rational mind filled with philosophy, but a subconscious populated by demons and angels. During the day, he kept them locked up behind the bars of Kant and Kierkegaard. But at night—especially in the dark hours just before dawn—they all came out to play in his dreams. That's when he saw the village, the shapes and death. "What the hell are you looking at?" "Nothing, Pop." "Well, if it's nothing, then I thank you very much for the visit, give my best to Bridget and goodbye. I've got a whole lot of work to do." "Actually, Pop, it's business—sort of." "What do you mean? Are you cutting classes? 'Cause if you are I'm gonna kick your butt all the way back to Inman Square. Or maybe I'll just call Bridget and let her do it for me. Or could it be that you had some free time between classes, decided to take your junior partner role in this business seriously and stopped by to help your old man with some of this damn paperwork?" Mick shrugged. "None of the above, I'm afraid." "Well, then?" Mick took a deep breath. "Pop, I think I've got a case, but you're not gonna like it." By the time he had finished telling his father about the phone call from Smitty and his plan to go to Newport to help out the cousin of an old friend, Mick could tell by the pinched look on Pop's face that his father wasn't on board with the project. "First of all," Pop said with a bulldog scowl, "what the hell makes you think you can get your buddy's cousin out of jail if he's been charged with murder?" "Because the Newport police picked him up as a material witness, but they haven't charged him with anything yet." Pop snorted, unimpressed. "So what's your plan?" "I don't know." Mick shook his head. Pop put down the pencil and pushed the half-completed form to the other side of the desk. He focused a hard look at Mick. It was the kind of look that had caused many a mugger or dope dealer to start confessing, whether they'd done anything or not. Mick's foot began a nervous jiggle. "We don't walk out of this office with an action plan that consists of 'I don't know,' do we?" Pop said in an ominous undertone. Mick's foot moved faster and he fidgeted in the chair. "Well, I was gonna fire up the BSA and take a run down to Newport and kinda look around." He looked at his father. Nope, not impressed. In fact 'not impressed' was being way too optimistic. His old man was looking like he'd just been given a flat beer down at Clancy's. Not good. "I'll come up with something, Pop. You know I always do." Pop continued to stare at him. "That's one hell of a plan, Mickey. And what is McCarthy and Son's fee for taking on this case?" That was the question Mick had been dreading. He looked into his father's eyes and drew a deep breath. "Not one red cent. But I need to do this, Pop. It's for Smitty. He saved my ass in 'Nam. " Pop gave a sigh, then smiled. "Okay, boy-o, I can understand that." He pulled open the small top left-hand drawer and reached inside. "Here, take this." He pushed a roll of twenty dollar bills across the desk. "Dad, I—" "Expenses. Take it." Mick's hand hovered over the wad of twenties. Before he could make up his mind, his father reached into the roll-top again and brought out a .38 snub-nosed Smith and Wesson Police Special. Mick shook his head. "Christ, I dunno, Pop, I haven't even held a gun since 'Nam." Pop's eyes narrowed. "Then I think it's time you started again. There's a lot more bad guys outside of the jungle than in it." You can read the rest of SHADOW OF INNOCENCE at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Ric Wasley's site: http://www.ricwasley.com Skeletons in the Closet & Other Creepy Stories by Cheryl Kaye Tardif SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES by Cheryl Kaye Tardif A Grave Error (Myrtle Murphy Mystery #1) Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life―a dead husband, a grown son who'd moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn't have was money. She needed a job. At sixty-one and living off a pittance of an early retirement pension, she had no skills to fall back on. Unless you could call slipping your husband small doses of rat poison in his evening tea for over a month a skill. Yet, on the other hand, it had taken a certain amount of talent to flavor the tea―just so―to avoid being caught. And it had definitely taken a particular cleverness to dispose of Norman's body. Norm. Now there was a waste of space. Ever since he decided to have a midlife crisis at forty-eight, the man had been virtually useless. And yes, he decided. That's exactly what he told her after he came home with a brand new sports car that they couldn't afford. "I'm having a midlife crisis, Myrt, and you better get used to it." After that he started going out with the 'boys'. Boys! Yeah, right! The 'boys' were three semi-retired old coots, like Norm, who had nothing better to do than sit around Farley's Pub and get drunk, while spending their paychecks at the slot machines. Sometimes she'd find one of boys passed out on her couch the next morning. Often there was a mess of vomit on the floor. And who do you suppose cleaned that up? Myrtle, of course. For a while, she considered having her own midlife crisis, maybe buy herself a sports car, or go to a club for ladies' night. But she knew she was well past all that nonsense. Myrtle was having a Norman crisis instead. Her husband of thirty odd years was always complaining about how his life could have been better if he had done this. Or become that. Or lived there. He had practically driven her around the bend with his constant complaining. "I should've gone into computers," he muttered one day while they were dining at Denny's. "That's where the money is." "That's what you said last week about banking," she said dryly. "Why can't you just be happy with being a plumber? Some of your friends make more than enough." She paused, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Course, they work twice as much as you do, and they don't turn down jobs because their thumb hurts." "Well, it did," he argued. She rolled her eyes. "And what about the time you said no to the townhouse complex, just because you wanted to go to the races with your boys?" "I needed a couple of days off," he said belligerently. "I worked hard that week." She snorted. "What?" he demanded. "What do you do all day? Watch soap operas is my guess." Her eyes narrowed. "You mean, what do I do after I've cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, paid our bills, checked the mail, gone shopping and made dinner? Hmm, well since you've been getting home around three each day, that doesn't leave me much time to watch soap operas, now does it?" The waitress interrupted them with their meals, a chicken salad for Myrtle and a bacon cheeseburger with fries for Norm. The girl plopped a bottle of ketchup on the table, then asked if they needed anything else. How about a cattle prod? Myrtle was tempted to say. "Oh, by the way," Norm said when the girl had left. "I'm gonna take back that vest you bought me." Her brow arched. "Really." He was talking about the green plaid vest she'd gotten him for his birthday last week. The one he had practically begged her for, that she'd traipsed three malls to find. "Yeah," he continued. "The boys said it washed me out, made me look old. Said I'd look better in red." She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Norm got to his feet. "Be right back," he said, before disappearing into the washroom. She picked up her fork, but her gaze came to rest on the ketchup bottle. It was the glass kind, the one with the little twist-off cap. The kind that was always temperamental, that wouldn't release the ketchup, forcing you to― A monsoon of an idea washed over her. She covertly glanced around the restaurant, then eyed the bathroom door. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she loosened the cap on the ketchup bottle. Then she slid the bottle toward her husband's plate, knowing that he wouldn't resist having ketchup with his fries. Sure enough, as soon as he sat down, he gripped the bottle in one hand. She held her breath, waiting to see him upend it all over his meal. But that's not exactly what happened. What did happen was far more rewarding. Norm shook the bottle. Vigorously. The cap flew off and ketchup exploded everywhere. It coated his gray hair, his grizzled face, then slid down his throat and under the collar of his white shirt. The shocked look in his eyes swiftly turned to embarrassment. Myrtle passed him a napkin. "You should always check the lid first." A dribble of red goo oozed down Norm's shirt and plopped into his lap. "I'll go clean up in the bathroom," he mumbled. When he was almost at the bathroom door, she couldn't resist a last dig. "The boys were right," she hollered. Heads turned. People gasped, pointed and laughed. "About what?" Norm snapped. She grinned. "You do look better in red." That night, her husband went on a rampage. He didn't outright accuse her of loosening the ketchup cap, but she could see it in his eyes. He suspected her. "You better wash my shirt right away," he insisted. "I don't want it to stain." "Wash it yourself," she said with a scowl. "I can't. My back hurts." Her mouth thinned in anger. If it wasn't his back bothering him, it was his leg. Or he had indigestion, or his eye was twitching, or his ear was itchy. "If it gets worse I won't be able to go to work tomorrow," he said slyly. She washed the shirt. And left out the fabric softener. * * * The next night, Norm continued his little game. This time he had a migraine. That was the moment she snapped. "You're giving me a migraine!" she yelled. "Shh," Norm moaned, cringing and squinting up at her. "Make me some tea, will ya." It wasn't a request. She glared at him, hands on hips, fuming. Sometimes you're such a pest, Norm. A slow smile emerged. "Sure thing…dear." The rat poison was tucked under the kitchen sink, way in the back. She'd found it the other day when she was looking for a scrub brush. She had no idea where the box had come from. She hadn't even known they had a rat problem. "One half teaspoon," she murmured, carefully measuring out the fine white powder. A sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of honey made Norm's tea just right. At least she hoped so. She certainly wasn't going to taste it to make sure. "Here," she said, plopping the cup down on the coffee table. "And here's a wedge of lemon." She studied him, a bit like a scientist studies a lab rat just before he administers something deadly. When Norm squeezed the lemon into his tea, she walked away, pleased by his inadvertent assistance. That night in bed, her poor husband couldn't sleep. "I have a tummy ache, Myrt," he whimpered. Tummy? What grown man said 'tummy'? "Must be something you ate," she said, rolling away from him so he wouldn't see her grin. * * * The following night, she made his evening tea with its special ingredient. She did this every day afterward. After a week, Norm began complaining that his vision was blurry. Myrtle told him to get new glasses. Then she upped the rat poison to one teaspoon. This went on for just over a month―until the night Norman Murphy did something phenomenal. He dropped dead. Actually, it wasn't so much a drop, more like a crash. And a splatter. It happened while she was sitting on the couch, watching House. Norm went into the kitchen and brought back a pitcher of orange juice. He was standing right in front of her, about to set it on the coffee table, when he let out a tortured groan. The pitcher flew out of his hands and juice erupted into the air. Unfortunately, Myrtle wore it. From the top of her head, down to her toes. "For heaven's sake!" she sputtered. "Watch what you're―" Norm hit the floor. He slid, face-first, until he rested at her feet. "Norm?" He didn't move. She prodded him with her foot. "Hey, get up." Still no movement. That's when it hit her. Norm was dead. She cocked her juice-drenched head to the side, watching him for a long moment. She'd always wondered if she'd regret her actions, feel sorry for him, miss him, maybe even feel guilty. "Nope," she said to his lifeless body. "Nothing." With a shrug, she set to work on cleaning up the mess he'd made. "Can't have a stain on the floor," she muttered. "Now can we?" After all, it was Norm who always told her that if there was a mess in the house he expected her to take care of it. Right away. It took almost an hour to get her husband wrapped up in an old tarp and drag him into the garage. It took another hour to clean up the orange juice and bleach the floor. After that, Myrtle had a leisurely shower, whistling all the while. Then she changed into a more practical outfit―black pants, a black turtleneck sweater and black leather gloves. She was tempted to wear Norm's black ski mask, but figured that might be overkill. Since she'd made Norm take back the sports car the day after he brought it home, she had to settle for either his old Honda or her Mazda. Panting and straining, she inched his tarp-covered body into the trunk of the Honda. Better his car than hers. "Shoulda gone on a diet, Norm." With a final grunt, she heaved him into the trunk, crammed his legs inside and tossed a shovel in beside him. Letting out a satisfied sigh, she closed the trunk and drove half a mile out of the city. Finally, she veered off down a country lane, then pulled over. Under a pitch black, starless midnight sky, she began to dig. Thankfully, the ground was soft, newly plowed. When the hole was deep enough, she opened the tarp and rolled Norm's body toward the edge. "Dust to dust," she said. "Et cetera, et cetera." She shoved him into the pit. Norm hit the bottom with a soft thump. He landed face up, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. His left arm was bent, half-covering his chest, and one leg was twisted under him. His jumbled pose made him look like a puppet that had lost its strings. She tossed the tarp into the grave. An hour later, the puppet was buried. * * * That was almost two months ago. Now here she was, sitting at the kitchen table, scouring the classified section of the Edmonton Sun. She had to consider employment ads because Norm, the old coot, had forgotten to renew his life insurance policy. She should've checked into that before she decided to get rid of him. "That was a grave error on your part, Myrtle." She doubled over in a fit of laughter. "Oh my, you're punny." Suddenly, the doorbell rang. With a huge grin on her face, she opened the door. A white-haired woman in antiquated cats-eye glasses stood on the porch, looking as though she'd just stepped out of Vogue. Myrtle recognized her immediately and her smile faded. "Mother Murphy. What brings you to town?" "I'm looking for Norman," her mother-in-law said, peering down the aquiline tip of her nose. "He hasn't called me in weeks. That's not like him." She pushed past Myrtle and strode into the living room, her regal head swiveling back and forth as her piercing blue eyes took in every speck of dust. "Where is he?" "He went camping with the boys." It was the first thing that came to mind. "Camping?" Mother Murphy's lips pursed in disapproval. "When will he be back?" Myrtle gritted her teeth. "I'm not sure. Would you like to sit for a few minutes before you head back?" Her mother-in-law gave her the look. The one that said her son had married a moron. "Of course I'd like to sit. Do you think I'd drive all this way just to stand here? It was a four-hour drive, in rush hour traffic, and only to find out that my son has gone…camping, of all things." They settled in the living room, Mother Murphy in the armchair and Myrtle on the couch. For a long moment they simply watched each other. Myrtle knew the old woman was sizing her up. It's what she'd always done, ever since Norm had brought his fiancé to meet his mother. "I wanted to let Norman know I've updated my will," her mother-in-law said finally. Well, that was a shock. And it must have been written all over Myrtle's face because the woman continued. "Wadsworth died, and since I can no longer leave my money to my dearly departed cat, I've made Norman my beneficiary." "Good for him." "Of course, he probably won't see anything for a few more years. My doctor says I'm in tiptop shape." Mother Murphy gave her a chilly smile. "You probably won't see much of it anyway. I'm sure Norman will want to buy a new car, since you made him give his last one back." She leaned forward. "I never could understand why he married you. You're so…common." Myrtle bristled. "Common? Your son's a plumber, for crying out loud. Not the royal heir to the throne." Her eyes narrowed. "Unless it's a toilet." Her mother-in-law gasped, one hand raised to her throat. "Myrtle! I'm appalled." She raised her chin in defiance. "I will be speaking to Norman about this." Myrtle hid a grin. "You do that. I don't care." "Well, you should care," the old woman threatened. "I am his mother after all. He listens to me." "He didn't when you told him not to marry me." The old woman stood slowly. "I best be getting back before my neighbors wonder where I've gone." "Didn't you tell them?" Myrtle asked, surprised. Her mother-in-law was usually very meticulous at letting her neighbors know when she'd be gone for more than an hour. The woman was always so petrified that she'd get stuck somewhere and poor Wadsworth―a miserable, unpredictable Siamese―wouldn't get fed on time. Correction, Myrtle. A miserable, unpredictable and now dead Siamese. "I completely forgot to tell them," Mother Murphy admitted. "I was worried that something had happened to Norman. I know you don't look after him. He told me how you refused to wash his clothes or make his favorite meals." Her eyes iced over. "And how you watch soap operas all day." At first, Myrtle said nothing. She was too busy trying to remember if there was another tarp in the garage. She took her mother-in-law's arm and steered her back toward the living room. "What are you doing?" the old woman demanded. "Let go of me!" "You should rest a bit longer," Myrtle said. "You look exhausted." "Do I?" Mother Murphy touched her face. "Perhaps I should rest. It has been a long drive. And talking to you is enough to exhaust anyone." Myrtle smiled with saccharine sweetness. "How about I make you a nice cup of tea?" The Death of an Old Cow (Myrtle Murphy Mystery #2) Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life―except her damned mother-in-law was still breathing. And that wasn't part of the plan. The bitch should have keeled over after drinking the three cups of tea laced with arsenic. Instead, she was passed out on the couch―snoring, of all things. And alive. Myrtle scowled. The nerve of her! The white-haired woman in her antiquated cats-eye glasses no longer looked like she had stepped out of Vogue. More like a commercial for Wrinkle-Away. Her face sagged, each crevice threatening to suck in both the foundation and blush she had caked on that morning. Her mouth was parted slightly, and every now and then she choked on a snore, her body jerking from lack of oxygen. Myrtle shook her head in frustration. "Mother Murphy, what am I going to do with you?" The woman had come looking for her son, but Myrtle had laid him to rest two months earlier. Permanently. Norman was buried in the woods, fertilizer for the voracious plants around him. He'd always said he had a green thumb. "He hasn't called me in weeks," Mother Murphy had said when she had arrived hours ago. "That's not like him." Myrtle had lied, told her mother-in-law that Norman had gone camping with his friends―the "boys". When Mother Murphy mentioned that she had changed her will and made Norman her beneficiary since her mangy Siamese cat Wadsworth had died, Myrtle's mind started churning. And when the witch of a woman started in on her, calling her "common", Myrtle knew there was only one thing to do. "How about I make you a nice cup of tea?" she had suggested. Her mother-in-law had peered over her glasses as if Myrtle were a bug that needed to be squashed with her Gucci heel. Then she lifted her imperious chins and settled onto the sofa. "Make it extra sweet," she commanded. * * * "Three cups," Myrtle muttered. "With enough of my secret ingredient to put down a cow." She scowled at the woman. Then on impulse, she reached over and pulled the bobby pins from the woman's salon hairdo. For good measure, she mussed it up with both hands. Myrtle stood back to admire her handiwork. "There. You look lovely, dahling." She had a good mind to get a tube of red lipstick and pull a Bette Davis. Mommy Dearest. "Now, what the hell am I going to do with you?" She glanced at her watch. It was getting late. The phone rang. "Myrt, it's Harry. Is Norm back from his trip yet?" It came out like: Myrt, is Sarry. Snorm back from strip yet? Harry was one of the boys, and Norman's best friend. They had played football in college together. Harry called every week, usually drunk and slurring his words. Tonight was no different. "You there, Myrtie?" he slurred. "Thought ya said he's coming back this week." "He had to go visit his mother," Myrtle snapped. "She's sick." She stared at the woman lying unconscious on the couch. "Maybe dying even," she added, smiling. "Well," Harry drawled as if it were a two-syllable word, "us boys are going to the old Morris farm and we wanted Norm to come with us." "It's almost midnight, for God's sake," Myrtle snapped. "What the hell are you going to do out there at this time of night?" "We's goin' cow tippin'" she heard Frank Burgess yell. Frank was Harry's twin brother and just as irritating. Cow tipping? Myrtle rolled her eyes and stared at the phone in her hand. Norm's friends were a waste of― She glanced at the old woman lying on the couch and a smile crept across her face. "The old Morris farm is just off Highway 14, right?" she asked. Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just let Norm know. We're getting Morris back for the stunt he played on Norm at the golf course. Okay, Myrtie?" "Sure. I'll call him at his mother's." She hung up. Standford Morris had been the bane of Norm's existence. A month ago at the annual senior's golf tournament, Stan had rigged the brakes on Norm's golf cart. Norm had ended up in the lake. He had always wanted to get Stan back. An idea teased at the edge of her mind. Her eyes widened. "Cow tipping?" In the garage there was one vinyl tarp left, the one Norm had used to cover his sports car. She retrieved it and quickly spread it out on the floor near the couch. Then she unceremoniously rolled Mother Murphy off the edge. The woman landed with a thud, let out a soft groan, then continued her snoring. Even after Myrtle rolled her in the tarp, she remained unconscious. Myrtle prodded the tarp with her toe, wishing she could just roll her out to the middle of the street and leave her there. But that wouldn't do. Like Norm, there had to be no evidence leading back to her. Hunched forward, she grabbed the tarp and heaved it, stepping backwards bit by bit. By the time she reached the garage door she was covered in sweat. "You certainly weigh a lot, Mother Murphy. You're just a fat old cow." Straightening, she chuckled and brushed her limp bangs from her forehead. Then she continued to haul the tarp-covered body down the three steps to the garage. Thunk, thunk, thunk! Her mother-in-law would have a headache…if she ever woke up. Resting for a moment, Myrtle leaned against the car, considering her idea. If it worked, the police would never suspect her. They'd have other suspects to question. Another ten minutes and Mother Murphy was securely dumped into the trunk of Norm's car. Then Myrtle set off toward Highway 14. * * * "Ah, I see you guys," she murmured as she killed the headlights and slowed the car to a crawl. Under a pitch-black, moonless sky, she passed by the dirt road where Harry had parked his car. Up ahead, another dirt road was unimpeded by parked vehicles so she pulled off and stopped the car. A quick reconnaissance of the area showed that the boys were still in Harry's car, probably polishing off a case of Old Milwaukee. Small red lights flickered inside. The boys were smoking up a storm, and she guessed they weren't all cigarettes. "Let's go for a walk, Mother." She popped the trunk and hefted the tarp over the side. It slid to the hard, dry ground. Grabbing the edge, she began pulling it into the field, pausing every now and then to catch her breath. She had worn Norm's old gum boots, and although they were far too big, she figured the treads would never lead the police to her door. They'd be looking for a man with size eleven boots. And she'd be sure to dispose of them on her way home. She stopped suddenly and held her breath. A motionless shadow blocked her way. It took her a moment to realize it was a blasted cow. The only cow in the field. Perfect! She positioned Mother Murphy alongside the sleeping cow, careful not to make any sudden moves or sounds. Even the old bat was agreeably quiet, her snoring disappearing altogether. Myrtle was tempted to unroll the tarp. Maybe her mother-in-law had suffocated. A door slammed. Crouching low, she peered under the cow's belly, her eyes seeking the car. Harry, Frank and two other men moved stealthily across the field. Time to move, Myrtle. As she moved away and headed into the bushes, she glanced back. There was a bare hump in the grass where Mother Murphy lay sleeping. The cow stood stock-still next to her. From the vantage point of the bushes, Myrtle could barely contain her glee. The boys were loaded. They'd never notice the tarp, even if they tripped over it. She heard faint snickers. Then someone shushed the others. After that everything happened in slow motion. It was almost like she'd been teleported back to the last college football game, where Harry had scored the winning touchdown. In a single fluid movement, the four beefy men ran at the cow, their arms stretched, making no sounds. Until they hit the cow. Thwack! "Tackle!" Harry shouted. In the same instant, the cow went down, waking suddenly and letting out a startled moo. But the momentum of the men toppled it and the cow hit the ground―and the tarp containing Mother Murphy―with a sickening splat that seemed to reverberate through the night. The men cackled with intoxicated amusement. "Let's get outta here," Frank slurred. "My shoes are covered in shit." "Gawd almighty," Frank said. "Can't believe we did it." "Yeah, that old cow must be deader than ground beef," one of the other men said. Myrtle stifled a laugh, then sneaked back to her car. On the ride home, she couldn't help but think of that last comment. "That old cow must be deader than ground beef," she mimicked. "Yep, she sure must be." Myrtle Murphy had only two things left to do. She'd dump the gum boots in a trash bin on the way home. And she'd pick up a cheeseburger at Burger King. She had a sudden craving for beef. Maid of Dishonor (Myrtle Murphy Mystery #3) Myrtle Murphy thought she had everything out of life, like a dead husband buried in the woods and a mother-in-law thankfully flattened by a sleeping cow. However, she began to feel rather lonely. After all, now that Norm was gone, the house was deathly quiet. So quiet that even her breathing seemed to echo down the hallway of the dreary two-story Victorian home. And there was an emptiness that pervaded each room, as if every molecule of oxygen had been vaporized and replaced with a void of stale, shadowed nothingness. Like a tomb, Myrtle thought one day. And there's no Harrison Ford coming to my rescue. It was time to do something about it. She picked up the phone and carefully flicked through the Rolodex. No telling who's in here. Her hand paused suddenly. "Rick Ferelli? Well, lordy, how did that get in here?" She plucked out the small rectangular card and squinted. She recognized Norm's handwriting immediately. But what the hell was he doing with her sister's ex-husband's phone number? Good God, did Norm find out what I did? Her wrinkled hand crept to her throat as she recalled the catastrophe that was her sister's wedding day thirty-five years ago… * * * "Are you ready yet, Myrtle Anne?" her mother shouted, pounding on the bathroom door. "You know, other people could use the mirror more than you." Myrtle adjusted the blue satin dress and twirled in the mirror, admiring her new hairdo. Turning her head to examine her profile, she couldn't help but notice how closely she resembled Eliza, her sister. Eliza was getting married in a few hours, and thank God she had the brains to order decent dresses for her bridesmaids and maid of honor. "I should've been her maid of honor," she muttered. Myrtle was still hurt by the fact that Eliza had chosen her best friend for the highest honor. How could Eliza do this to her? "Always a bridesmaid," Myrtle said to her reflection. Just that morning, her mother had warned her that she'd better hurry up and get married if she wanted children. She'd just turned twenty-six. A spinster, by her mother's terms. "For crying out loud, your sister who is six years younger than you is getting married before you. What's wrong with you, Myrtle Anne? Why can't you find a man?" Myrtle frowned in the mirror. I did find a man, Mother. Unfortunately, Eliza had beaten her to him. Rick… Ricardo Ferelli was a young legal assistant when Myrtle had first met him. Tall, handsome, with a mind bent on a career as an attorney, he had all the qualities she was looking for. They'd gone out for six months when he finally convinced her to invite him to dinner at her family home in Sherwood Park. Her mother had been more than thrilled. So was Myrtle. Things were looking serious. She'd finally found her man―until Rick set eyes on Eliza. Although Ricardo Ferelli had swept into both of their lives, he'd been swept out of Myrtle's faster than she could say "I do." In fact, she never even had the chance to contemplate those words. Eliza would be saying them instead. Myrtle glanced at her watch. It was nearing 7:00 PM. Almost time to leave for the church. She emerged from the bathroom, ignored her mother and headed downstairs. From the top step, she could see a small group of women standing in the living room. Eliza was in the center, all bride-like and glowing in her form-fitting, white satin wedding dress with the tiny diamonds on the bodice. Beside her stood Stephanie, her maid of honor and best friend. Myrtle's face transformed into a hardened mask of anger and jealousy. Eliza, you traitor! Resentment boiled with each step, threatening to erupt like a bad case of acid reflux. In that moment, she didn't know who she hated more, Stephanie or her own sister. "Myrtle!" her sister exclaimed over the loud music. "I was wondering where you were." Like you really care, Myrtle wanted to say. She glared at Stephanie. "How come everyone's inside?" Eliza pouted, something she was very good at. "It's raining." Myrtle glanced out the window. Sure enough, a light drizzle watered the yard and disturbed the dark surface of the barely visible swimming pool. "Your mom forgot to buy new bulbs for the outdoor lights," Stephanie said. "If it wasn't raining we'd have drinks by the pool before the wedding." Myrtle's brow arched. "Looks like you've already had a few." Stephanie gave her an overstretched smile. "One glass of wine." Eliza grabbed Myrtle's arm and dragged her into an alcove. "What are you doing? This is my wedding day." "Yes, it is." But it should have been mine! "Look, Myrt, you told me you understood when I told you I wanted Stephanie to be my maid of honor. She's my best friend." I understand that you're thoughtless. "I do understand. I just don't like her." At Eliza's shocked expression Myrtle added, "So sue me." Thankfully, their mother interrupted them. "We're popping open a bottle of champagne in the kitchen." She took Eliza's arm and whisked her away. Myrtle hung back, tempted to ditch the wedding and head for a bar where she could get seriously drunk. "Where is everyone?" Stephanie asked. Myrtle eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. "Don't know." "Can you tell your sister I'm moving my car to the grocery store parking lot out front?" Stephanie pulled her car keys from a silver handbag. "I'm in the alley and I don't want to be towed." "It's dark out there. I'll come with you." In hindsight, if Myrtle had paused to think about her unusual offer, she would have realized that a plan had started to percolate. * * * Myrtle snuck a peek in the foyer mirror. A strand of hair was dislodged and she tucked it back behind a hairpin. "We're getting ready to go," her mother told her. "I'll take Aunt Lucy and the bridesmaids. You're okay to drive your sister and Stephanie?" "Of course. I only had a rum and Coke." Hold the Coke. Myrtle helped Eliza into the backseat. "Where's Stephanie?" Myrtle shrugged. "She said something about her car." "What do you mean? She's parked out back." "I know," Myrtle said. "She had her keys out. She must have thought there wasn't enough room." Eliza blew out a breath of relief. "So she's meeting us at the church." She laughed. "For a minute I was worried." "Yeah, can't have a missing maid of honor, now can we?" Eliza shook her head. Then she took Myrtle's hand. "I'm so glad you understand, sis. I didn't want you mad at me on my wedding day." Myrtle painted on a smile. "Now why would I be mad at you?" She was about to close the car door, when her sister let out a loud gasp. "My dress!" Eliza hauled in handfuls of fabric just in time. Myrtle swore beneath her breath. * * * "Where can she be?" Eliza asked for the millionth time. Her voice crackled with unshed tears. "She should have been here before us." "I'm sure Stephanie will be here any minute, dear," their mother said, stroking Eliza's arm. Everyone was in a panic over Stephanie. Everyone, that is, except for Myrtle. She played the concerned sister and called Stephanie's number on her cell phone. She even left messages. "Stephanie, it's Myrtle. We're all at the church. Where are you?" Eliza moaned. "What am I going to do, Mom? She's my maid of honor." "Maybe she's here but doesn't know what room we're in. I'll go check, dear." Myrtle watched their mother scurry off in the direction of the church entrance. "Oh, Myrtle," Eliza wailed. "Stephanie was supposed to help me get ready." Myrtle turned her toward the floor length mirror. "I think I did a pretty good job." "Tell me what Stephanie said to you again." Myrtle let out an irritated sigh. "She had her keys in her hand and said she was going out to her car. I thought she was driving here." "And Mom checked the alley?" "That's what she said. And there was no sign of Stephanie's car." A tear trickled down her sister's face. "Then where is she?" "Maybe she stopped off at her boyfriend's house." Eliza's mouth opened, then closed. "She doesn't have a boyfriend." "Maybe she went to a pub for a few more drinks," Myrtle said, her voice hardening. "She wouldn't do that." Her sister stared up at her. "Why do you always have to be so mean? Stephanie's never done anything to you." Myrtle clamped her lips tight. No, nothing except take my place as your maid of honor. "Look, Eliza, I have no idea why your best friend would go traipsing off somewhere when she knows you're getting married." Myrtle glanced at her watch, "You're already twenty minutes late." "I can't get married without Stephanie!" "Of course you can. Rick's waiting for you." And you wouldn't want to keep him waiting. "You're right," her sister said between her tears. She turned back to the mirror. "Now help me fix my makeup. I want to be perfect for Rickie." "Rickie?" Good God. In the mirror, Eliza's eyes widened. "Shh, don't tell him I told you. I'm the only one who calls him that." "Maybe because he's a grown man." "No, silly. It's his special name." Eliza lowered her voice to a whisper. "You know, for when we do it." Suddenly, Myrtle was slammed with a terrible image, an image of Eliza wrapped in Rick's strong arms as they made love. The acid reflux that had boiled earlier rose to the back of her throat. She grabbed her throat, coaxing it back down, but not before contemplating spewing fiery black acid all over her sister's pure white dress. "I know," Eliza said with a giggle. "Too much information." In reply, Myrtle cinched in the ties at the back of Eliza's dress. "That's a little tight, sis. I can barely breathe." Don't tempt me, dear sister. Their mother waltzed into the room. "It's time!" She gave Myrtle a quick peck on the cheek, then wrapped her arms around Eliza. "My baby's getting married." Eliza smiled brightly. "Oh, Mom. I'm not a baby anymore." The three of them bustled out of the room, Myrtle taking up the rear, while Eliza and their mother held hands and giggled like school kids. Myrtle scowled and took an extra long stride, stepping on the train of Eliza's dress. "Be careful, Myrtle!" their mother scolded. "You don't want to ruin Eliza's beautiful dress." Maybe I do, Mother. The pastor hurried toward them. "Are you all set?" Eliza took a deep breath. "My maid of honor isn't here yet." "That's a shame," the pastor said. "We're just going to have to start without her." He smiled, oblivious to Eliza's distress. "At least the bride and groom are here." "Can't we wait another half hour?" Eliza begged. The pastor gave her an apologetic smile. "We're already late, my dear. I have an appointment in another hour." He glanced at Myrtle. "I'm sure your sister wouldn't mind standing in as your maid of honor." His comment made Myrtle grin. "Of course I can stand in for Stephanie," she said, as if it hadn't crossed her mind. "Come on, Eliza. It's time for you to get married." * * * The wedding ceremony went smoothly. Myrtle had stood beside her sister, held the bride's lush bouquet, and whispered the vows while smiling into the eyes of the groom. The bastard never even noticed her. That's when Myrtle came up with another plan. Once the reception at the Holiday Inn was underway and everyone was feeling the effects of too much champagne, she slipped a note in Rick's tuxedo pocket. Fifteen minutes later, she saw him pull it out, read it, then smirk with glee. He gave his bride a wink, then headed toward the bar. Rushing towards her sister, Myrtle said, "I think I saw Stephanie's car in the parking lot." Eliza's eyes lit up. "Really?" Myrtle nodded. "I'm pretty sure it's hers." Eliza bunched up the sides of her dress and hurried from the reception hall. Across the room, Rick grinned. Within seconds, Myrtle was running to the elevator, a room key card in hand. She'd taken it from her sister's purse earlier in the evening. Inside room 403, she briefly took in the honeymoon suite with its heart-shaped bed, chilled champagne, red roses and chocolate covered strawberries. Then she stripped naked. Hanging her dress up in the closet, she turned off all the lights and slid between the silky sheets. Anticipation teased her body until she was ready to explode. Finally, she heard a card slide in the door. It opened, silhouetting Rick's tall frame for a second. He quickly shut the door. "Lizzie, you're a wicked girl," Rick's shadow said in the dark. "When I got your note telling me you would be waiting for me here in the dark, I thought, 'What would your mother think?' He chuckled. "Then I realized I didn't care. I want to make love to you until you scream, my lovely wife." Sounds of clothes being tossed on the chair were followed by movement on the bed. In a flash, hot hands slid over Myrtle's body. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. "Lizzie…" Rick's tongue slid into her mouth. She ravenously kissed him back. It had been a long time since she'd had sex. Over a year. He'd been the last one…her only one. "Rickie," she whispered against his mouth. His fingers danced down her body, sending shivers of excitement through her veins. Then his lips trailed butterfly kisses down her neck to her breasts. Would he notice she was smaller than her sister? No, poor Rickie didn't notice a thing. Not even later when she cried out in ecstasy. Afterward, Rick dressed in the dark, just as she'd instructed him in her note. He kissed her lips. "I'll see you downstairs, my love." As soon as the door closed behind him, Myrtle let out a heavy breath. Good God, the man could screw. She could've gone another round. Stretching like a cat, she giggled. "Happy wedding night, Rick." She dressed slowly, as if in a dream, then left the honeymoon suite, feeling more bride-like than she could ever imagine. Plucking a chocolate strawberry from the platter, she bit into it and moaned with pleasure. It was almost as delicious as the orgasm Rick had given her. Almost. The elevator took her down to the lobby level. She entered the reception hall just in time to see Rick crossing the room. A sea of wedding guests parted and there was Lizzie in all her bridal glory stepping inside through the exit door to the parking lot. Rick lurched to a stop. He glanced around the room, a look of horror plastered on his face. Myrtle could almost hear his thoughts. What was Lizzie doing outside? Wait! She couldn't have made it downstairs before me. I left first. His horrified expression turned sickly. Oh my God. What have I done? Who was that upstairs? Myrtle took a step forward, then paused when Rick's gaze found hers. The smile she gave him started slowly, two tugs on the corners of her mouth. It then grew into a wide, knowing smile. Thanks, Rick. His face now paler than a corpse, he approached her, every expression churning in his dark eyes. Regret, sorrow, anger, fear. It was the latter that made Myrtle laugh out loud. Rick reached her. "What have you done?" She batted her eyes at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about." With that, she whirled away, heading toward her sister. "Myrtle, can you believe it?" Eliza said, flashing her rings. "I'm married." "Let's hope you can stay married," Myrtle muttered. "How can you say that?" "You know men. They're fickle to the core." Almost as fickle as my sister. "Not Rick," Eliza argued. "He's loyal to the core. He'd never cheat on me." Myrtle glanced over her shoulder. Rick was a few steps away, but by the look on his face, he'd caught Eliza's declaration. "Never, Eliza?" she said, grinning. "You know what they say. Never say never." "Where have you been?" Eliza asked her new husband. "I, uh…" Rick glared at Myrtle. "I have to go ask your mother something. I'll be right back." "We're going to talk about this," Rick whispered as he passed by. Myrtle didn't know if he meant they'd talk or he'd talk with Eliza. Either way it didn't matter to her. What's done is done. She wouldn't take back a minute of Rick's body on hers, inside her, for anything. "I couldn't find Stephanie anywhere," Eliza said, tugging on her arm. "I'm sorry, sis. I thought it was her. Hasn't she called you?" Eliza shook her head. "Did you call her?" "At least a half dozen times," Eliza said. "I think something's happened to her." "You mean like she got in a car accident or something?" Eliza nodded. "Or got a flat tire. And maybe her cell is dead. She always forgets to charge it. And she probably left all her credit cards at home, since everything was free tonight. She never likes to carry a heavy purse." She paused. "I never did thank you, Myrtle, for stepping in as my maid of honor." "My pleasure." Myrtle awkwardly patted her sister's shoulder, hoping it resembled something a concerned sister would do. "I'm sure your real maid of honor will turn up today or tomorrow. * * * Stephanie did turn up, just as Myrtle had predicted. The morning after Eliza's wedding, their mother had taken her morning tea and toast outside. She planned on having breakfast while sitting in her favorite wicker chair near the pool. Breakfast, however, was put on hold so she could call 911 and report the dead body floating in her swimming pool. "You should have seen S-Stephanie," she sobbed to Myrtle and Eliza. "The poor girl must have slipped and hit her head on the edge of the pool." Sob. "Then her lovely maid of honor dress weighted her down." "The poor girl indeed," Myrtle said, shaking her head slowly. It took a lot of composure to not burst out laughing. * * * Myrtle Murphy was known for her calm composure and demeanor in the face of adversity. This ability had come in handy over the years. It had gotten her through a terrible marriage, and her husband's untimely disappearance. The police still hadn't found his body. It had even gotten her through dealing with Mother Murphy, a grand matriarch with a firm handshake and a weakness for tea. She stared now at the small piece of paper in her hand. Rick Ferelli. Her sister's ex-husband, now turned attorney. She dialed the number. "Harrington and Ferelli Divorce Attorneys," the receptionist said. So that was it. Norm had wanted a divorce. Myrtle smiled. "Sneaky bugger. But I beat him to it." Yes, nothing says divorce like tea laced with rat poison and a midnight burial out in the country. You can read the rest of SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Soul and Shadow by Susan J. McLeod SOUL AND SHADOW by Susan J. McLeod "I have journeyed over a long road. The road of souls is opened. Ye shall not hold captive my soul. Ye shall not keep in durance my shadow. The way is open to my soul and to my shadow." "DECREE: If this Chapter be known by the deceased, he shall come forth by day, and his soul shall not be kept captive." —The Egyptian Book of the Dead Chapter One It was a big day when the mummy came to town. Amisihathor was living on in eternity. Her name was on everyone's lips—at least, those who could pronounce it. The rest just called her Amisi, and they had eagerly awaited her arrival from the Cairo Museum. "It's mummy mania," my best friend Katy exclaimed. "You'd think King Tut was here for a visit. T.V. commercials, billboards, newspapers—they've done everything but skywriting. No one could say that there wasn't enough publicity." "You're just jealous," I replied, "because it's nothing to do with King Arthur. If they found his body, you'd be personally guarding it with Excalibur." My fellow graduate student was part of the country's largest study of all things Arthurian. It was one of the projects our university was noted for, and Katy was a proud standard-bearer. "Very funny," she said. "But Merlin would not be giving tours, I can tell you that." "Well, neither is the mummy. It's just someone dressed as an ancient Egyptian, and I think it's a good idea." "You would. Off you go then, and don't forget to spend your paycheck in the gift shop." I left work early, and it was a good thing. The line at the museum was long, but I didn't mind. Anything that stirred interest in my field of Egyptology was fine with me. Nefertiti awaited us within. It was an ambitious choice because the queen was famous for her beauty. The woman representing her did not live up to the ideal. I wondered how she could see with all the eyeliner and mascara she had on. Her black wig was slightly askew and she was loaded down with garish costume jewelry. Okay, maybe not such a good idea. She handed out leaflets and postcards of Amisihathor's coffin, then motioned us farther in. A special display had been constructed—a replica of a tomb from the fabled banks of the Nile. Floodlights took the place of the burning Egyptian sun, but when they shone on the honey-colored stone, the effect was much the same. Shadows beckoned from within, mysterious and enticing. I could almost believe, as I stepped through the entryway, that I was actually walking back in time. "Yuck!" The spell was broken by a group of schoolchildren already inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see a series of pictures explaining the process of mummification. The kids were poring over the gory details with delight. "They pulled the brains out through the nose," a boy said, clearly wishing he could have been there to see it. "Awesome!" "And they put their livers in jars." A young girl stared at the canopic containers. "Are they still there?" she asked. "Maybe." The boy grinned impishly. "Maybe the mummy will come back to get it!" A teacher shushed the squealing and scuffling children and herded them away. Nefertiti arrived and gestured at the glass cases holding items from everyday life along the Nile. "Here," she said, pointing one blood red fingernail, "is a loaf of petrified bread that was meant to be someone's dinner over three thousand years ago." We all stared at it dutifully. "And here are some eating utensils, mostly made out of burned clay. See the bottles, the knife, and the plates." I looked at the items and felt the thrill that always went through me at the sight of such artifacts. "And all of you ladies will be able to appreciate this." The guide swept her hand over a collection of little pots. "These still hold traces of eye makeup, face powder, and lip color. Personal appearance was important to the ancient Egyptians." Men wore makeup too you know, I thought. We moved along to the next case. The crowd was fascinated by the jewelry: beautiful necklaces, amulets, and charms. "Just as in today's world, in the ancient one you needed all the protection you could get," Nefertiti announced. "And you did take it with you." People laughed politely. "Please continue on to see the coffin and the mummy. I'll be back to answer any questions you may have." I lingered a while before going into the inner chamber of the exhibit. This was where Amisihathor lay in state. Her sarcophagus was a work of art. Its colors were as vibrant as when they were first painted, showing the spells and divine beings necessary to guide her into the afterlife. Her spirit had long since flown away. Now only the mummy remained, wrapped in her yellowed linen. A strange feeling came over me as I gazed at her. An image entered my mind of a living, breathing woman, someone who was talking, eating, worrying, and dreaming. There was something melancholic and a little undignified about her remains being here on display. As if echoing my thoughts, I heard a woman nearby say firmly to her companion, "That's why I'm being cremated." Still, Amisi was helping to resurrect a whole civilization. And the ancient Egyptians believed that as long as someone's name was spoken, their soul lived on. So she should be happy. A sudden voice in my ear startled me. "She never imagined that she would lie in a place like this," it said. "Her dream was to enjoy eternity in the Field of Reeds with her beloved. Now, she walks in the shadows, waiting." I looked over my shoulder. A tiny woman was gazing at the mummy sadly. She was thin, but her posture was straight and proud. She looked about as old as the pyramids themselves, and also had a suggestion of their strength and power. This didn't stop me from wondering if she was crazy. I smiled nervously and began to inch away, but the woman moved with me. I've been told that I have a kind face. It must be true because I attract strange people like a magnet. And I find it next to impossible to be rude, which has led to some very odd conversations. "I'm glad I've found you, Lily," my new friend said. She had a British accent with a pleasant, musical quality. "Sit down and I'll tell you a story." "Excuse me," I replied, "but I'm afraid we've never met. And I have to be going now." She looked at me inquiringly. "You are Lily Evans, research assistant to Professor Peter Briggs, aren't you?" "Yes," I said, startled that she knew me, "but—" "Then you're the one. Come along." She waved a hand imperiously. I can't explain why I followed her. I should have gone the other way and alerted security that a confused old woman was on the loose. But I didn't. Perhaps it was my sympathetic nature, or the commanding look she had in her eye, or simple curiosity. Whatever the reason, I found myself trailing after her, back to the outside of the exhibit and the benches in front of the tomb. She settled herself on the hard stone like a queen taking her throne. She was amazingly spry for her age, attired in a plain white linen suit and some lovely New Kingdom-style jewelry. I admired a golden bracelet with a scarab clasp. Obviously a fan of all things Egyptian, this woman did not look feeble-minded. Rather, she had an air of being in complete control. Her eyes, an unusual slate gray, stared into mine. "Amisihathor was a songstress in the temple of Hathor. She sang to give pleasure to the goddess, and also at special ceremonies. It was an honored position, and she was proud of it. Her tomb is decorated with scenes of her duties, including a depiction of the Union with the Sun's disc at Wet-Renpet, a beautiful picture." Well, even if the old woman was nuts, she knew her Egyptian history. The ancient New Year, Wet-Renpet, had begun in August, when the star Sirius reappeared, heralding the rising of the Nile. It was a time of rebirth and celebration as the land was irrigated for crops. A special ceremony took place at Hathor's temple in Dendera. A gold statue of the mother goddess was carried onto a rooftop chapel so that the sun could reinvigorate her with its light. "Amisihathor's husband, Kahotep, was a powerful priest of Horus," the woman continued. "Most of the decoration on the walls of their tomb portrays them performing rites and having places of favor among the gods. The couple was the picture of marital bliss, of course. It was important to show the ideal so that it could come true in the next world. But appearances can be deceiving." "Really?" I asked. She didn't seem to be put off by my tepid response. Instead, she continued as if I hadn't spoken. "I happen to know that Amisihathor, whom I found buried alongside Kahotep as his wife, was also married to a scribe from Edfu. Her name and images share the walls of his tomb as well. And it was his declaration of love that she carried with her into the grave." That was interesting. "What was it?" "A letter. It was written on a scrap of papyrus and worn in an amulet around her neck. It addresses her as wife and is signed 'Kamenwati.' Either Kahotep was very open-minded, or he did not know what the amulet contained. I've done a great deal of research over the years. There was another oddity besides the letter." "What kind of oddity?" "All the depictions of Amisihathor in her tomb with Kahotep, though lovely, were done hastily, as if it was not originally intended to include her. Of course, they could have been recently married and just ran out of time. She was young when she died. But the more I discovered, the more the mystery deepened." "How?" "There are references in the temple records to Amisihathor and a scribe from Edfu. Also, a letter written to Kahotep the month Amisihathor died, making mention of the fact that he had no wife. I suspected that Amisihathor did not belong in his tomb with him. But there was no proof until the scribe's tomb was discovered last year. You must have read about it?" "Yes." The beautiful paintings had certainly caught my attention. "It had that lovely mural of him and his wife sitting under a palm tree, watching monkeys dance." "Yes, indeed. Kamenwati and Amisihathor. I knew it was the same woman. Egyptian art is very stylized, of course, but she had a unique piece of jewelry that was so beautiful, the artists included it in their representations. A necklace of turquoise and carnelian, with pearls and enameled lotus blossoms." "The symbols of resurrection," I said. "Quite right." The old woman smiled. "You sign your paintings with one. The blue water lily." "You've seen my work?" I asked in surprise. "Of course. That was how I knew you were the one I needed to help me. We must unravel this mystery once and for all, so the spirits can go at last into the Beautiful West and find peace." To my astonishment, she handed me a manila envelope. "I've made copies of various inscriptions and documents, as well as an outline. We can talk again after you've read them. I'm certain you'll be intrigued. I've included my card, so you can call me anytime. Promise me that you'll go over it, Lily. It really is vital." She rose before I could collect myself enough for a reply. "When you come to visit, I'll show you her necklace. Goodbye for now." With incredible quickness for someone her age, she moved away into the crowd. Chapter Two I stood up, looking around anxiously. There was no sign of her, even after I had walked about searching. I had the idea that I ought to report her to someone. She was not fit to be out alone. What if she had given me something important? I was about to go and notify security when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me." I looked up, and then farther up. He was a very tall man. I knew what was coming as soon as I saw his eyes. They were the same odd, compelling shade of gray as the old woman's. His accent was English too. "This is terribly awkward, but I believe you have something of my grandmother's?" His tone was not accusing, but I turned red in embarrassment. The best defense is a good offense. "I've been looking for her," I said. "She disappeared while we were talking. I'm glad to see that she's not on her own." He smiled slightly at the implied rebuke. "As you've discovered, she's not easy to keep track of. Not when she has her own plans. She's quite independent, is Gram." "I hope she's all right now?" I inquired. I didn't see her anywhere near. "She's with my brother in the foyer, feeling very pleased with herself. She told us that she'd found a new assistant. I gather she gave you some of her research?" I waved the envelope. "If that's what this is. She seems to think I can help her in some way. My name is Lily Evans. I work for a professor of Egyptology at the University. Your grandmother has heard of me." It sounded pompous after I'd said it, but the young man didn't appear to notice. "Ah, that explains it," he murmured. "Well, Miss Evans, I hope that Gram wasn't too intense for you. She lives and breathes ancient Egypt, and sometimes she gets a bit carried away." I liked the fact that he didn't say, "She's mad as a hatter," in his cultured British voice. I appreciated some family feeling. "She certainly knows her history," I said. He looked at me in bemusement. "Did she tell you who she was?" he asked. "Um, no. We never got that far. She was telling me about Amisihathor. She—has a theory about her. She must think I'm some kind of authority, but really, I'm not in a position..." "It's all right," he assured me with a sudden smile. "There's no need to feel responsible." "I'm only a research assistant. I haven't gotten my Ph.D. yet. Why don't you give these papers back to your grandmother, and tell her she can find someone more suitable to help her." That charming smile again. "You're a nice person, Lily Evans. Why don't you come along and let me formally introduce you? We'll get this straightened out." Once again, I could have turned away. But I didn't. I found myself wanting to be formally introduced—to him. The night had taken a definite turn for the surreal. I was walking past mummies, following a dark, handsome stranger, to return mysterious papers to a woman who believed in ancient spirits. Not that my life was normally dull, but it definitely was not full of such stuff as this. "What will your Ph.D. be in?" Mr. Handsome asked as we made our way through the crowd. "Ancient Egyptian studies. I specialize in art. I do drawings and paintings of life in ancient times." "Really?" He sounded genuinely interested. "I'd like to see them sometime. Here we are." We had arrived at the foyer, and I saw his grandmother on the arm of a man who was older, plumper, and lighter in coloring than my escort. Still, it was obvious that they were related. He nodded at me politely, and the old woman smiled in greeting. "How nice, Lily. Are you coming back with us tonight?" "No Gram," the stranger said patiently. "She doesn't even know who you are. You didn't tell her." "No? I'm sorry, my dear. What must you think of me? I—" But at that moment, a man who looked remarkably like Luciano Pavarotti came bustling up to our little group. "Dame Ursula!" he cried in a booming voice. "You're not leaving already?" "I'm afraid so," was the quiet reply. "I'm feeling rather tired, John. You understand." "Of course, of course. You and the boys must come and have dinner with us one night this week. Sandra will call and arrange it. All right?" "Thank you. We'd be delighted. John, this is Lily Evans. She works at the University. Lily, John Costanza is the chief trustee of the museum board. His help has been invaluable in mounting this exhibition." "Pleased to meet you," I stated, trying to control my amazement. My outstretched hand was engulfed. "Miss Evans. I hope you enjoyed yourself? Did it meet your expectations?" "Mr. Costanza," I said honestly, "I never imagined anything as exciting as this." He beamed at me. "Wonderful! We were very lucky to get a collection of this caliber. I can't thank Dame Ursula enough. But I won't keep you any longer. Goodnight to you all." I turned my eyes from his retreating figure to my previously unknown companions. "You're Dame Ursula Allingham," I said. "The archaeologist who discovered Amisihathor and Kahotep's tomb." She smiled as if I was a particularly clever student. "That's right. And these are my grandsons, Philip and Kent Ashton." "I'm Kent," my dark stranger said. "Phil, would you take Gram out to the car while I say goodnight to Miss Evans?" "Of course. Are you ready, Gram?" "Indeed. I have done all that I wished. I'll see you again, Lily." "It's been an honor, Dame Ursula. Thank you." "Thank you, my dear." And she was gone, leaving Kent and me alone again. "So," he said, "you've heard of my grandmother?" I took it for a rhetorical question, but replied anyway. "I'm an Egyptologist, Mr. Ashton. Of course I've heard of her. The tomb of Amisihathor and Kahotep was an important discovery. And my mentor, Professor Briggs, was a student of hers at Oxford." "Yes. That's probably why Gram approached you." "But why doesn't she just ask him for help? He's an expert," I protested. "I'm afraid I don't know. May I look in the envelope?" I tore it open. On the top was a page labeled 'The Excavation.' It was followed by several more pieces of paper, neatly typed, and illustrated with photo reprints and black and white drawings. From merely glancing through it, I could see it was a treasure trove of information. "This is incredible," I breathed. "Your grandmother should write a book. I don't know what she thinks I could possibly add." Kent didn't seem to know either, but he was too tactful to say so. "She must sense a kindred spirit," he said. "Or maybe she just enjoys my paintings. She's seen some of my work." I studied the end of the treatise Ursula had given me. "She's invited me to come over and discuss it with her. Please, tell her that I'm very flattered, but explain that I'm just not qualified." "I think you may be selling yourself short," Kent said unexpectedly. "Gram is a good judge of talent. But I understand that you don't want to make a commitment. I'll tell you what. You look over this information. She'll be disappointed if you don't, and it will be interesting for you. Then we can have dinner next week and discuss it. I'd love to see some of your work. It would make a wonderful birthday present for Gram." It might have been a strange situation, but no artist passes up the chance for a sale. Especially to a Dame's grandson. The fact that Kent was a very good-looking man may have influenced me too. But I didn't throw all caution to the wind. "If I can have your number, I'll check my schedule and let you know," I replied. "Fair enough." He scribbled on a scrap of paper from his pocket. "Here's my mobile. If I don't answer, just leave a message." He pressed the information into my hand. "I hope I hear from you, Lily," he said. Really, those were extraordinary eyes. I dragged my gaze away from them. "It was nice to meet you," I said. "Goodnight." I turned back into the museum after he had gone, but didn't stay much longer. The exhibit seemed anti-climactic now. In a kind of daze, I went out to my car. When I started it up and switched on the radio, Walk Like an Egyptian came warbling out at me. I laughed aloud and drove the twenty minutes to my home. I rented some rooms in a huge old Victorian house. My pet, Cleocatra, was waiting for me as I entered. She swished her long tail as if to ask how the evening had gone. "You wouldn't believe it," I said as I bent down to stroke her back. I gave her a treat, then headed straight to the computer. I had some research to do on Dame Ursula Allingham. Chapter Three "Lily!" I started as Katy dropped a heavy volume of medieval history on my desk. The thud of the book and the irritation in her voice brought me out of my reverie. "What?" I asked. "Is the coffee maker broken again?" This was usually the cause of bad temper in the otherwise affable Katy. But this time, her hostility was directed at me. "When are you going to tell me what happened last night? You've been mooning around all morning, torturing me with wild hints about mummies and handsome English lords. I want details, and I want them now." "I promised I'd fill you in at lunch," I defended myself. "I have to finish verifying these quotations for Briggs..." "Baloney," Katy said. "You're not working, unless staring into space constitutes work. So spill it, and maybe then you can concentrate." She was right. I hadn't gotten very far with the information that Dr. Briggs needed for his latest paper, and he could be an impatient man. Being a research assistant to a noted Egyptologist was a job I loved, but today it could not hold my interest, no matter what the work. The events of the night before seemed to be taking up all of the room in my brain. I decided that Katy was right, and I needed to tell my story. "All right," I said, giving in. "But open up that book of yours and pretend we're consulting if he comes by." "Okay. I need to know about Tutankhamen's influence on Lancelot. Now, come on." Katy had pulled up a chair and was looking at me expectantly. "Well," I began. "First of all, Kent's not a lord. Ursula's title is honorary, given for her services to archaeology. She's a Dame of the British Empire." "Oh." Katy seemed a trifle disappointed. "But he is handsome?" Kent's finely boned face and extraordinary eyes rose in my mind. "He certainly is," I answered. "And tall and dark." "So we have a storybook couple. Delicate little Lily and tall, strapping Kent. I do hope the children have your coloring. It would be a crime not to pass on those big brown eyes and perfect skin." I ignored her prattling. "And he's so nice. Polite, but not in a smarmy way. Very genuine." "Uh-huh." Apparently this was not high on the list of what Katy considered virtues. "And his grandmother found this mummy herself?" "Yes. She and her husband were digging in Egypt in the 1950s and excavated the tomb of Kahotep, a temple priest, and Amisihathor, a priestess. Hathor was the goddess of love and beauty, and also one of the chief funerary deities. She was worshipped throughout Egyptian history. There were some lovely objects buried with her that, unusually, hadn't been plundered. Both mummies were intact, too. Her husband was interred with her. He was a priest at the same temple and the tomb was actually built for him. It was an important find, and Dame Ursula is well-respected." "Did you find any hints about insanity?" Katy asked. "Not a word. But I don't suppose it's the kind of thing they normally mention in scholarly articles. Anyway, she's come up with this theory that Amisihathor's spirit is not at rest. Dame Ursula wants me to help it reach the Beautiful West." Katy frowned. "California?" "Your ignorance appalls me," I said with a laugh. "The 'Beautiful West' was the Egyptian paradise. Also called the 'Field of Reeds.' You couldn't be at peace unless you got there. That's why they had such elaborate preparations. The Book of the Dead is full of the spells you needed to reach it." Katy made a face. "The Book of the Dead? Sounds beautiful." "The Egyptians actually called it Book of Coming Forth By Day. If you couldn't get past the demons and through the right gates of the Underworld, you never came before Osiris to be judged. That meant you had no chance of being found worthy to go on to paradise." "Hard luck. And what exactly are you supposed to do to help this Amis—Amy—" Katy shrugged. "Ah-me-see-hath-or." I spelled it out for her. "And the answer to your question is, I don't know. Ursula and I didn't get that far. She handed me an envelope full of documents, and then disappeared. While I was looking for her, Kent found me." "And that's where the story really begins." Katy grinned. "It would be nice to sell a picture," I mused. "There's only been the one lately. I hope he meant it when he said he'd like to see some." "Well, you'll find out when you call him, won't you? When are you planning on doing that? Tonight?" "Maybe," I said, sidestepping her challenge. "Right now I actually have to do some work. My art alone isn't going to support me." "Okay," Katy said, rising from her seat. "But you haven't been out on a date in a while. Don't think for one minute that I'm going to let you pass up a chance like this." She was as good as her word, and nagged me for the rest of the day. Finally, at four thirty, I gave in. Somehow, calling from work was easier. I composed a few different messages in my head, scolded myself mentally for going to so much trouble, and decided to just speak right off the cuff. Of course, as soon as I heard the voice at the other end of the line, my mind went completely blank. "Hello?" Kent said, for the second time. "Kent. Hi." I really hadn't expected him to answer in person, and I couldn't come up with anything more scintillating than that. But the warmth of his reply banished my reservations. "Lily? I'm so pleased you called. How are you?" I turned my back on Katy, who was watching with unashamed interest. "I'm fine, thanks. And how is your grandmother doing?" "As right as rain. She really enjoyed talking to you last night. I do hope you're going to let me take you out for dinner." "That would be nice," I said demurely. "Which evening is good for you?" Why not throw all caution to the winds? "How about tonight?" I asked. "Lovely. I'll let you choose the restaurant. Just ring and let me know the time and place. And bring some of your drawings with you. Will that be all right?" "Sure. I'll see you later, then." "Right. Bye, Lily." Katy gave me the thumbs up sign as I replaced the telephone. "Good for you." I had some doubt. "I hope he's not just being kind. He might feel guilty because he thinks his grandmother bothered me." "Who cares?" Katy dismissed my qualms with a wave of her hand. "It doesn't matter what his motives are. You'll both have a great time, and if he buys a picture, so much the better." I couldn't argue with that. The studio displaying my work brought in some extra income, but it was erratic. A ready-made customer like Kent was manna from heaven. "You're right, Katy. There's no downside, is there? Unless I fall madly in love with him and he goes back to England and breaks my heart." "That's the spirit." Katy rolled her eyes. "Nothing like getting ahead of yourself. Just have a nice evening, show off your art, and enjoy the adventure. All right?" "Yes, Katy," I said meekly. You can read the rest of SOUL AND SHADOW at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Susan J. McLeod's site: http://www.susanjmcleod.com The Bridgeman by Catherine Astolfo THE BRIDGEMAN by Catherine Astolfo Prologue Discovering a dead body in the basement of a small school in the midst of a quiet village is not something anyone would expect, but that's exactly what happened to me. Not that most people ever envision finding a dead body at all. But I, Emily Taylor, was not exactly most people. This sleepy little town was our haven, our sanctuary, to which my husband and I had escaped from a notorious, tragic past. Not to mention, I was the school principal. That's why, when I descended those basement stairs of my school that morning, I was more than shocked at the grisly discovery. I felt utterly violated. I should have known better. I was feeling secure, lulled into a sense of normalcy, life going on at a steady pace. No surprises, kind of dull but satisfying. I marched down those stairs that day with the kind of confidence that comes from usually being in charge, of having control. An assumption that you are safe in a small town, especially in a respected building such as a school. Although no one could have predicted what I found at the bottom of those stairs, I, of all people, should have known that nothing in this life is definite. That you can never say never. Chapter 1 The local school was located at the corner of, appropriately, Read and Main Streets, not too far from the canal. The kids went on tours to the locks and made the history and the geography of Burchill very much a part of the curriculum. At least, it had been that way since I became the principal. Every morning, I jogged up Lakeview to Main, around St. Lawrence to Drummond, and circled back to Read. At first, the villagers were somewhat shocked to see their principal jog to work, but they soon got used to it. I'd always had a weight problem and I was determined to stay fit. Since I wanted to have a quick shower as soon as I arrived, I was always there early, sometimes even before the caretaker, Nathaniel Ryeburn. Passed by during the industrial era, Burchill remained largely as it was envisioned in the 1890s—a waterside community, quiet tree-lined streets, canal-centered. Walking or jogging down the street was an occasion. You waved, smiled, nodded or talked to everyone. Homes still bore the names of the first families who lived in them and even people who had restored these old houses honoured the original architecture. Most people were in bed at a decent hour, but if you wanted to take a midnight stroll, you always felt safe. On that particular morning, I spotted Nat's truck in the parking lot as I chugged the rest of the way up Read Street. As I told the police later, there was no other sign of movement. I used the key around my neck to open the door and noted that the alarm had been turned off. Everything was normal. I shifted my backpack to the front, shook out my dress, and headed for the small shower room next to the gym. Burchill Public School was built nearly thirty years ago, replacing the old school house on Lewis Street, which now served as a bakery and home to one of the local merchants. Due to the fact that the architect worked closely with the principal at that time, it was a cleverly designed building. It even had a convenient, though small, shower for a physical education teacher, if the school had one. For now, it doubled as my own personal 'beauty' room, where I kept some soap, deodorant, a hair brush, a towel and a little make -up. I didn't use much more than eyeliner and eye shadow. My blond hair was shoulder length with a body perm that allowed a quick brushing after a jog to return it to a lovely shine, turned up a little at the ends. I'd been told that I did not look forty-eight. I thought it was my oval face that gave the illusion of youth. In some social circles, I got obvious looks of approval from other men, or so my husband proudly told me. After a quick look in the mirror, I headed for the staff room, where Nathaniel always has coffee waiting for me. When I first arrived as principal, I told him not to spoil me like that, but he had given me such a look of disappointment that I allowed the practice to continue. Now and then I made sure to thank him, telling him how much I appreciated that first gulp of caffeine in the morning. His big, innocent face always crinkled in a grin and I was embarrassed to see how much my approval meant to him. There was no inviting aroma that morning. In fact, the door was locked and the coffee pot was cold and clean, testimony to Nat's absence from the room. Puzzled, I made the coffee myself. While I was waiting for it to drip into the pot, it occurred to me that there was an eerie silence in the building. Normally, there would be the sounds of Nathaniel puttering around, maybe even starting the vacuum cleaner. Without waiting for the rest of the coffee to drip, I headed out into the halls to look for him. Until then, I hadn't really noticed that a lot of the lights weren't turned on and that many of the doors had been left locked. Nat's usual pattern was to open all the doors first, turning on the hall lights as he went, to make the building bright and inviting for the first teachers to arrive. The outside doors were usually the last to be opened, at about seven-thirty, when one or two of the staff often drifted in. I normally arrived by seven, which was the case that morning. Often Nathaniel got there by 6:30 if he had extra things to do. Now nearly 7:20, I had still heard no sounds of Nathaniel Ryeburn going about his business. The school was L-shaped, with the office area at the corner of the L, and the staff room and gym at the end of the longer wing. Walking from the staff room, I passed the office, which was dark and locked. I called out at this point, thinking Nathaniel might be in one of the rooms at the other end of the building. As I walked, I opened doors and turned on the hall lights. By now I was a little concerned, even disconcerted. There was something about a deserted building that was unsettling. Especially one that was normally filled with talkative little people. As I rounded the corner, I spotted the open basement door. Because the school had been built in an era of bomb scares, the architect had designed a basement that could be used by a small number of people. It wasn't clear if he thought that the staff would hide and leave the students to face the bomb, or whether they'd select all the favourites and take them with them, or what he had in mind. In any case, the school had a wonderful storage area right below the short wing of the school. Very few people had been in the basement besides Nathaniel, who was always running up and down the stairs getting supplies. The door, for safety reasons, was absolutely never left open or unlocked. I poked my head around the open door and was met with semidarkness and silence. The light at the top of the stairs had been turned off, but there seemed to be a dim light somewhere down in the recesses of the basement. Clearing my throat, I called Nat's name twice. No answer. I convinced myself that he must have been down there working on something and couldn't hear me. With that confidence which I was not to feel for a very long time afterward, I descended the stairs. The steps were rather narrow and steep, which was why the door was supposed to be kept locked at all times. In fact, this was the first time I'd ever seen it ajar. I assumed that Nat hadn't thought it would be a problem leaving it open because it was so early. I crept carefully downward, calling his name as I went. There was absolutely no answer. The silence felt heavy and ominous. Now I was sure there was something wrong. Maybe Nathaniel had had a heart attack or was hurt and unable to move. He was a very big man, and a twisted ankle could have rendered him helpless. But why doesn't he call out? Is he unconscious? There was a little electrical room in the corner, where all the wires in the school seemed to gather and multiply. A dim light shone from there and the door stood open. As I walked toward it, I suddenly saw two long legs, clothed in the standard issue blue linen pants that the school board made its caretakers wear. Sprawled on the floor, Nathaniel was completely still, lying in the open doorway. He's fallen, I thought. He's badly hurt. I'll check and then run for the ambulance. "Nat," I said, softly, concerned. I was within a couple of feet from him when I saw, in the dim light that left his body in shadow, what was clearly wrong. A gaping hole in the middle of his back had poured a river of blood onto the basement floor all around his hips and waist. I could see a path of brownish red liquid to my left all the way to the door of the electrical room. Something was clutched in Nathaniel's hand. His head was twisted sideways. His open eyes had once stared at whatever he held. Absurdly, I looked up and noticed the pictures of all of his pets, lovingly placed on the small bulletin board inside the room. Without thinking, I moved toward Nat and picked up his right arm, which was splayed out toward me. It was cold and clammy. There was no life, no pulse, no sign of the man that had been Nathaniel Ryeburn. That was when the horror hit me. I straightened up, paralyzed with fear and the sensation that I had been violated, robbed of my security and serenity, bereft and angry and terrified at the same time. While I could only mostly think of myself, the tears began to stream down my face as the loss of this dear man's life slammed past my over developed sense of self preservation. As though peering through a broken camera lens, the scene around me went in and out of focus, zooming in and out, in my numbed head. My heart pounded in my ears and in my mouth. My breath came in clumps. Nausea threatened to overturn the small breakfast I'd had much earlier. I probably stood there no more than ten seconds, but the shock seemed to last hours. Suddenly I heard a loud banging in the distance and the sound frightened me into action. I raced up the stairs and confronted a face in the side doorway. Chapter 2 Lynda McLeay looked at me quizzically through the window, a fist raised to bang once more on the door. I could tell my face was flushed and my eyes wide with shock and fear. Tears still slid unbidden and unchecked down my cheeks. Lynda froze and simply stared at the sight of her normally composed principal. I opened the door and nearly dragged Lynda inside. "Lynda, something terrible has happened." My voice croaked and shook. I had to clear my throat to push the words past my lips. Lynda McLeay was our Grade 8 teacher. She was a big woman, at least six feet tall, probably well over two hundred pounds, with hands that could encircle a small child's waist. Her large, impassive face waited patiently for me to explain. Only her eyes, blinking behind her glasses, showed her surprise. "Something has happened to Nathaniel. I think he's…I'm sure he's dead." "Dead? How…?" "I'm not sure. It looks like he's been shot." "Oh my God. But...but this is Burchill! We're in a school." Lynda's face was white, almost angry. She felt the violation, too. "I know. Exactly." Lynda's pinched face and wide eyes were having a calming effect on me. I took both her hands in mine and tried to behave as the principal, the one who always made the tough decisions, the one in charge and in control. I sniffed away the tears and straightened my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, not planning ahead but thinking as I went, I said, "I'm going to lock the basement door and call Edgar Brennan at the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) Office. I'll give you my outside door key. Go and unlock the front door. Tell the first person you see about what has happened, and then both of you arrange to meet all staff at the front and side doors. Just let them know there's been an accident. Warn them that an ambulance or a police van may be showing up shortly before bell time and that they are to keep the kids outside and occupied. I want as few people as possible to know about this for now." Lynda nodded, took the key, and proceeded toward the front door while I locked the basement. For a brief instant I felt as though I were abandoning poor Nat, but then reminded myself that he no longer knew pain or loss. In my office, I began to feel somewhat under control. I was no longer nauseous or dizzy. The shaking had stopped and my voice was steady as I called Edgar Brennan. I knew that he arrived at the little OPP office on Mill Street at seven every morning, because in the winter, when I walked to work and got there later, I waved at him through the window as I passed by. A quiet, tall, and rather handsome man, Edgar was someone who had the kind of assurance and calm manner that you needed in a police officer. As soon as I heard his deep, reassuring voice, I felt tears at the back of my eyelids. "Edgar, it's Emily Taylor. I'm calling from the school." He must have sensed the effort I was making to remain calm, as he was immediately businesslike. "Edgar, there's been a death at the school. That is, Nathaniel Ryeburn has been shot and—" He didn't wait for more. "I'll be right there. Have you called Doc Murphy?" When I told him no, he said he'd do that and bring the doctor with him. After he hung up, I debated about whom to call next. The school board covers a very large area geographically, with the result that the board office is a long way away in a larger city. The school superintendent should certainly be notified, but should I call the local trustee first and have her call the superintendent or vice versa? My thoughts were swirling, getting caught like a flood of water on little bits of flotsam and useless detail. There was nothing in the emergency procedures to cover dead bodies in the basement. In the end, I decided to wait until the Doc and Edgar had looked at the scene. When I first moved to Burchill, I couldn't believe that the country doctor really did exist. It was like something I'd read about or seen countless times on television or in movies. Doc Murphy was in his fifties. His father was the town doctor before him. There were many rites of passage in Burchill and handing the family business over to your son (or daughter nowadays) was certainly one of them. In the case of the Murphys, Ronald Murphy had left to study in the United States and make his fortune, but had returned when his father suffered a stroke. Ron had never left, even after his father died. Lucky for Burchill, because Ron Murphy was an excellent doctor, one of the best we had ever seen. Like those heart-warming family movies where a village doctor is featured, Ron Murphy was always referred to as 'Doc'. It wasn't long before I saw Doc and Edgar walking quickly up the sidewalk next to my office window. Keys dangling at my side, I went to the front door to meet them. Lynda stood gravely posted as though she were a Buckingham Palace sentry, her face composed and calm, though her eyes still appeared wide with shock. Edgar and Doc said hello to her, but then moved quickly into the building with me. "We left our cars down the street, Emily. I don't want the whole town to know what's happening just yet." "That's great, Ed. The bell will ring in about forty-five minutes and I guess we don't want them greeted with police cars and ambulances." As we talked, we continued to walk past the office toward the basement door. Doc Murphy put his hand on my shoulder. "This must have been quite a shock, Emily. How do you think it happened?" "I can't imagine. Maybe he was cleaning his gun or..." "In the school?" Edgar asked incredulously. "Nat wouldn't be that stupid, would he?" I just shook my head. Approaching the basement door was making me nervous. My hand shook slightly as I inserted the key and opened it wide enough for Edgar and Doc to pass through. Taking a deep breath, I followed them down the steep steps into the gloom. Edgar stopped us at the bottom of the staircase and, mumbling that he better follow procedure, he asked us to slip on latex gloves. Doc immediately went to Nat and felt for a pulse, then listened with his stethoscope. "Emily's right, Ed. Nathaniel's gone." He continued carefully feeling around the body, touching Nat's face, searching for answers to questions that I could not even imagine. "He hasn't been dead very long, though. Rigor mortis hasn't progressed very much. It's just hitting the face now. Of course, it's fairly cool down here, but I would say it hasn't been more than…maybe two hours. Could be even less." Edgar was carefully walking around the body, peering into the electrical room, his perceptive, intelligent eyes taking in every detail. "This might be more serious than I first thought. I was absolutely convinced it was an accident of some kind. Does this look like an accident, Doc?" Ed had followed the trail of blood from the middle of the room. At one point, he stooped over and picked something up from the floor. "Here's where Nat was shot," he said, his voice flat with shock and something that could have been anger. "I believe I just found bullet fragments." "He must have dragged himself to the electrical room. At that point, he could have been still on his feet." Doc Murphy stood up, puzzled. "What the hell could he have wanted in the electrical room?" "There's something clutched in his hand," I said, pointing. Edgar came over and crouched beside Nat. "You're right, Emily, he definitely has something in that hand. It's not the gun, though. Could that be under his body, Doc? Maybe we can carefully lift him a little to see. If it's here, we might be able to safely say that the wound was self-inflicted. Maybe Nat was getting ready to go hunting and was cleaning his gun. If the gun's not here..." He left the rest unsaid, too pained to consider the idea of murder in Burchill. Once again that overwhelming feeling of violation, of being robbed of my safe haven, threw itself over me like a blanket. I know that I must sound selfish and self-absorbed, and perhaps I was but my past had taught me to be hyper sensitive to threats from the outside. It took very little to awaken the depths of fear and insecurity that I constantly kept at bay. The horror in this room was too much for my tenuous hold on the waves of terror that moved through my nervous system on a daily basis. I had to breathe deeply and steady myself by gripping the banister. Doc and Edgar carefully lifted Nathaniel until his body was tilted on its side. No gun. "Can we get more light down here, Emily?" I moved automatically, with each stride regaining control. "I think there's another switch inside the electrical room." I carefully stepped as far as possible around the body, into the small cubbyhole, and searched for the right switch. Nathaniel's pictures of his mother and father and his pets, pinned carefully to the bulletin board, smiled at me as I stood there in the filter of the one dim light bulb. I briefly thought of having to tell Nat's parents, about how lost they would be without him, and I found it difficult to swallow. The Ryeburns were totally dependent on Nat. What would they do now? As I hit one of the larger switches, the basement was suddenly showered in light. In the glare of reality, the body and the river of blood looked more rotesque, more out-of-place than ever. I was thankful that there were no windows. At least no one from the outside could look in on this ghastly scene. None of the little people, no doubt now milling about in the schoolyard, would be inadvertently exposed to this dreadfulness. Edgar continued his quiet search, his face wrinkled with thought, anger, and distaste. He had never had to deal with anything like this in his career. Burchill was his birth town. He had never considered the possibility of a murder in this little hamlet. There were occasional skirmishes, even threats, but generally everyone here knew everyone else. They were happy, generous, kind people. Either a stranger had entered their midst, or the appearance of happiness was just that—an appearance. "Emily, Doc, look carefully for a gun. I can't find one. And if there is no gun, we have to consider the possibility that Nathaniel has been murdered. And that puts everything in an entirely different light. We definitely can't let the children come into the building. Would all the staff be here by now, Emily?" He talked as he looked, poking into corners, yet careful not to touch or disturb anything. I couldn't move from my position in the electrical room, Nat's pets and his parents peering over my shoulder. Unless Nathaniel had shot himself and then absurdly hidden the gun carefully, there was no weapon in that basement. I checked my watch. 8:20. "Most of them should be here by now, Ed. The bell rings at 8:45 and we usually have kids in the yard by now, too." "Okay. I think I'd better call the city. I never even considered the possibility that this would actually be a murder, but I'm afraid that's the only conclusion I can come to now. Shit. I didn't even search the building. The murderer could actually still have been here." Edgar shook his head, feeling and looking the country bumpkin at the moment. "What time did you get here, Emily?" I shivered. I couldn't help picturing myself showering with carefree security while a murderer lurked in the hallways. Once again I found speech difficult and had to clear my throat several times before I could reply. "At seven. The doors were still locked, but the alarm was turned off, which is normal. I took a shower as I normally did, then I went searching for Nat. I suddenly realized none of the usual doors were unlocked, nor was the coffee made. I saw absolutely no one." I took a deep breath. "It was all dark and quiet and…" To my embarrassment, my voice cracked and the tears spilled over once again. "It's okay, Emily. Enough for now," Edgar said, his voice soft and comforting. "I'm going to call the city people and get some advice on this. For now, I'd like the staff to stay where they are out in the yard and try to keep the kids busy. Maybe they can gather their classes outdoors. Let them know there's some kind of problem in the school and they can't go in until it's been cleared. I'm also going to call Barry and Mike to do a full search of the building." Barry Mills and Michael Lewis were two trained volunteers who helped with emergency situations when Edgar was not available. Barry and his wife owned the Main Street Station Pub, famous for its food and hospitality. Michael was a local artist with some national repute. "I guess I should go over to the Ryeburns' place," Doc said, making the statement a reluctant question. "Jeez, Doc, I guess so. I'd appreciate that very much. Just tell them as little as possible, okay? They should know Nathaniel's dead, but maybe it's best to be vague about how. They can see the body if they want to, but not 'til he's been moved." Edgar shook his head in disbelief. "I can't get over this. It just doesn't seem possible. I keep hoping I'm dreaming." In the few seconds that they talked, I was able to gather my inner resources. I am the principal, I told myself. I am in charge, in control, responsible. I spoke up. "I think I'll call a staff meeting, Ed. I can send Lynda and whoever else is standing guard at the doors to round up most of the staff from the yard. Then we can have a plan. Do you think it would be okay to bring them into the gym by the side door? We won't go anywhere else." "Sounds okay. I guess that would be the best way to keep the kids organized and the parents at bay. Go ahead. Doc and I will take it from here." I almost raced up the stairs and headed toward the main office. It was now 8:30, so I turned off the bells. Many of our children would be at school by now, playing their innocent games in the yard, secure in the morning sunshine and the protective shadow of the building where they always felt safe and secure. I hated the thought of their peace of mind being shattered, of their assurance threatened, of tearing the net that school should provide for them at all times. As I was talking to Lynda at the front door, I saw May on the walkway. Lynda and Margaret Johnston, our resource teacher, left their posts at the doors and started rounding up the staff from the yard. May began walking toward me, her hand already outstretched to touch mine, her lovely face suffused with concern, her eyes holding mine steadfastly and openly. May Reneaux was my age and we were slowly becoming very good friends. Since I had no vice principal, May, as the school secretary, got the first earful of complaints or queries or comments. She was proud of the fact that she could handle any parent without getting ruffled. She could deal with any catastrophe from a bleeding nose, to a lost tooth, to a broken arm. She was articulate, understanding, and dedicated. May was an attractive woman, a full-blooded Canadian native with dark eyes and long straight hair. She looked slightly overweight, but that was really her sturdy, muscular build draped in the flowing, colourful clothes that she favoured. Her husband, Alain, owned the only full auto service station in town, so they were financially quite well off. May did this job to have some independence and because she truly loved people, big or small. I knew that May would be able to handle this situation, too, probably better than I could. "What's happened?" she asked calmly, her hand warm and dry and steadying in mine. Quickly but gently, I pulled her into the hallway and told her. Typically, she was shocked but immediately sensitive to me, clucking sympathetically about how I must be feeling after such a discovery. She enwrapped me in her warm, strong embrace and it was all I could do to prevent myself from pitching forward, staying there forever, rejecting responsibility for the situation, curling up like a child on May's lap, dissolving into and letting all the tears of the past and present enwrap us in a fog of ignorance. Lynda came into the office just then and informed me that all of the staff had gathered in the gym, save two who remained in the yard to supervise any children who'd already arrived. I stood out of the safety of May's circle, but her strength had infused me with a tonic that waved the uncertainty from my weakened state of mind. I stood up straight once again. There were thirteen teachers on staff, including myself, the resource teacher, and the French teacher. In my opinion, they were all excellent teachers and wonderful people. Since arriving here at Burchill Public, I had come to appreciate their abilities, their struggles, their quirks, creativity, and skills. I admired their idiosyncrasies as much as their accreditation and knowledge, because their passions and obsessions were what filled them with energy and ideas and love for children. Today I had to count on their professionalism to handle an unprecedented situation, but I had full confidence that they could do it. The air in the gym was thick with concern, curiosity, even anxiety about this weird twist in their daily routine. The lights hadn't been switched on. The small group stood huddled under a basketball hoop, their faces reddish in the glow of the emergency exit signs. The shadowed atmosphere seemed more than appropriate in the circumstances. I took a huge gulp of air, placing myself in the middle of the circle, and began. "I know you've been told there's been a terrible accident. It's actually worse than that. Nathaniel has been shot and killed." I waited for the gasps and whispers to subside. "We have no idea how this could have happened, but it looks like someone—it looks like it was deliberate." I couldn't say it, but the word 'murder' echoed on their faces and in their eyes. "I realize that this is a horrible shock for you. It is for me, too, and I hate so much to burden you with it. But right now we have to somehow submerge our feelings and our questions and deal with the kids first. When I've got all the information, we'll discuss everything." "Edgar Brennan is here and Doc Murphy just left. Ed wants us to keep the kids outside until he gets advice from the OPP in Ottawa. We don't know if they'll want to close the school or what the decision might be. It depends on the results of their investigation, I guess. Barry and Mike will be arriving soon to help." "It might be a good idea to get the kids together somewhere in the yard in your class groupings first, take attendance and let them know there's some kind of problem in the building. Don't let on that you know any details at all. If any parents of your own students bring the kids into the yard, you can let them know they can take them right back home if they want to. Just keep a notation of who has come and gone. After that, if we're still outside, I guess you'll have to keep them entertained somehow." I knew I was rambling, but they held fast to each word, saying absolutely nothing, only the sounds of expelled breath and small exclamations squeezed between my sentences. "Why don't I lead them in the songs we're doing for the school concert?" Margaret Johnston, resource teacher, piano player, concert organizer, and, I thought at that moment, all-round wonderful woman, offered, her voice sounding loud and firm in the silence. Everyone nodded. They began to murmur with determination, agreeing that they would have no problem keeping the kids entertained. The children were, after all, the priority, as always. I thanked them profusely for being so calm and professional as they went back out the gym doors and into the gathering groups of little ones in the yard. Once again, I blessed the principal before me, who had interviewed and hired this amazing group of people, and then had persuaded them to stay, despite the fact that an interloper was coming to town to take over when he retired. In the two years that I'd been here, I thought I'd done a good job establishing a rapport with the staff and the community. I was going to need to lean on that under these circumstances. When I returned to my office, Edgar was waiting with the door open. He waved me in, his face grave. "The city people will be down here in half an hour. They advise that we get on the phone right now and begin telling parents to come and pick up their children. Good thing it's Friday. At least we'll have the weekend to finish any investigating that has to be done and then a decision can be made about allowing the kids back into the building." Edgar ran his hand through his hair, his face filled with sorrow. "I can't believe this. Who the hell would want to kill Nathaniel Ryeburn? Especially here, right in the school..." Who indeed? If only I had been able to look into the future, I would have seen that there are actually even worse things than the desecration of a school building. Chapter 3 I couldn't answer Edgar's lament. I had to distance myself from the horror. I had to be objective and logical. I had to remember that everyone was depending on me. Right now I was trying to focus my mind on the emergency system that we have in place for sending the kids home. Every parent must fill out a card that dictated to where and with whom the students were dismissed if the school was closed because of weather or some other emergency. Like Edgar, I still couldn't comprehend the emergency we had just encountered. As soon as I had asked May to round up all the emergency cards, I waved Paul Granmercy, the French teacher, and Diane West, the Kindergarten assistant, back into the school. Before the three of them began the tedious task of calling every parent of three hundred and sixteen students—a total of one hundred and twelve families—I placed calls to the school board and the local trustee. It was not an easy task. Both the trustee and the superintendent of schools insisted that they would be right over. Despite numerous questions as May, Paul and Diane began their calls to the families, they continued to tell the parents that it was an emergency within the school building itself and that they had no details. They were also instructed to say—just like in the movies—that: "Mrs. Taylor is unavailable for comment". I knew I simply couldn't handle that right now. Besides, I had no idea what I could say. Let them believe it was something to do with the building. Allow them a little more time of peace and innocence and security. Meanwhile, Edgar had moved his OPP car to the front of the school. Mike and Barry arrived shortly after the phone calls to parents began, so Edgar placed Barry at the front door to direct them to the yard to collect their children (and deflect any of the curious). It was an excellent choice, for Barry was extremely popular and respected throughout Burchill. He was a tall, slightly overweight, redheaded man with a huge laugh and an intimate handshake. From his experience in running the local pub and restaurant, he was skilled with people in all kinds of situations. He handled the parents, who began almost immediately to arrive at the school, with diplomacy and reassurance. On the other hand, Michael Lewis was a small, bespectacled, sandy-haired man with the fine, delicate hands of an artist. He also had the mathematician's attention to detail that was required when you drew a complex scene and then added colour. He was the perfect companion for Edgar and me as we prowled the school looking for anything out of the ordinary. Answering Mike's numerous questions kept me occupied and alert. I was able to forget the fatigue that sometimes accompanies shock and nervousness. In the midst of parents arriving and toward the end of our school tour, the team from Ottawa, the school board Superintendent, and the local Trustee all descended upon the scene at once. The OPP officers arrived in two marked cars, two unmarked cars, a coroner's station wagon, and an emergency vehicle. The entire front yard was filled with vehicles. That should rouse the parents, I thought, as Mike Lewis went out to join Barry in directing the confused mothers, fathers, or baby-sitters to the back yard. At first it was chaos as the Ottawa people and the school board officials jockeyed for power. A short, stout man with a beard, Peter McGraw belonged in the fairly isolated school board office. He was organized, knew all the rules, regulations and memoranda, but was completely without people skills. Connie Cicero, the Trustee, was pretty well ignorant of the rules and regs, but she could collect anyone's vote with her dazzling smile and empathetic blue eyes. I had never met any of the Ottawa police before. In the confusion, I simply had an impression of big—big men, mostly, in uniform or suit, some with equipment, all quiet and hovering, except for one who immediately began asking questions. In the end, it was Edgar who assumed command. He did it by first introducing everyone with our names and position, thereby establishing our roles. Next he informed Peter and Connie that the 'accident scene' was no place for anyone but the trained experts and he was 'certain that Emily did not want to go back down there'. He suggested, nicely but firmly, that they stay with me to review what the school personnel had done so far and to plan strategy for what must be done next. The Ottawa team fanned out from there, most toward the basement, some to inspect the rest of the building. At that point, Edgar deferred to Constable Ducek, the man with all the questions, murmuring answers as they proceeded down the hall. I took Connie and Peter into my office where we all had coffee first, clucking over the incredulous occurrence. Once we got to work, our team turned out to be quite compatible. Peter, with his knowledge of the rules, was able to guide us through the proper procedures that the board and the parents should be able to expect. Connie, concerned with appearances and public relations, gave solid advice about how to handle the press and the parental reaction. My concern was the emotional stability of both the children and the staff. Eventually, we were able to put together a step-by-step plan that included calling the Burchill Banner, sending home a carefully worded letter, and calling on the services of a trained psychologist and child and youth worker from the main board office. When we were finished, and Connie and Peter gone, I actually felt much better. By the time we emerged from the meeting, most of the parents and students had dispersed. The staff had been permitted to take the few remaining children into the gym out of the quickly heating sun. Teachers were taking turns entertaining them. The rest of them were sitting in pairs or groups of three whispering to one another. There was a shocked quietness about their movements. They still couldn't believe this was happening in their little town, and the thought of Nathaniel lying dead in the basement was beyond imagination. I hadn't flashed back to that scene during the meeting with Peter and Connie. Now, in their wake, images of blood, Nat's sprawled and lifeless body, his clenched fist and staring eyes, kept darting through my thoughts like a film on ultra speed, startling me every time with their clarity and their power. I knew I had to keep busy. I checked with May and found that six families couldn't be reached for various reasons. She was working on emergency alternatives. Barry and Mike had left, Barry to the restaurant to prepare for the day, Mike to answer any calls that came to the OPP office. I found Edgar near the basement door, talking to some of the Ottawa team. His face opened up with concern when he saw me. "Emily! I see the kids have mostly been sent home. How did the parents take it? How was your meeting with Peter and Connie? How's the staff holding up?" I smiled at his unusual verbosity. "The meeting actually went better than I expected. Peter and Connie were really helpful and I think we have a sensible plan in place. Barry and Mike were great with the parents. They're confused, but Connie's on her way to the Banner to file a well-worded report for this afternoon's paper, so that should help. It's vague enough but truthful enough to keep parents calm, I hope. The staff's still waiting in the gym. I just came to ask you if we should be doing anything else at this point. Also, do you think they can go to the staff room? I'd like to fortify them with some coffee if I can and it's right across from the gym. They could take turns." The OPP officer from Ottawa answered at Edgar's gesture of inquiry in his direction. "Sure, let them get some coffee and a little fortification. I'll send an officer down there to supervise. We'll need to question all of the staff members, especially you, Mrs. Taylor. After that, we can start letting people go home. We'll start in about fifteen minutes. Okay?" "Sure, no problem. Since this is the weekend, we won't need a further closing of the school, will we?" "I don't see any reason to do that at this point. We may need to reassure parents that their kids are in no danger, that this is an isolated incident, etc." "The newspaper article we composed does that well, I think. We're also planning to send a letter home with the kids on Monday to reinforce that. We might even figure out a way to deliver them on Sunday." "Let's talk about all of this a little later. I'll fill you in on the investigation. I think you need more information than the rest of the population." The officer smiled at me and turned back to the basement door. I went to my office and shut the door. It was time to call my husband. Langford Taylor was a prominent artist in Ontario. He painted watercolours mostly, of scenes in and around Burchill. He'd been compared to Tom Thomson and some of the Group of Seven and in fact, made a pretty good wage these days from his talent. Few people know that his first name was actually William. For me, 'Will' had become an endearment, one I used only when we were alone, a reminder of a time when we were so close yet so far apart. I thought he might be out in the studio, but he answered the telephone right away. As soon as I heard his voice, my composure left me and I began to cry. "Em, what's wrong? What is it, honey? Should I come over?" I managed to choke down the sobs then. "No, no, for god's sake, don't do that, Will. I have to look like I'm handling this." I gave a short, unamused laugh and dabbed at my nose and eyes with a tissue, trying to stem the current of feeling that was leaking out of me. "Honey, something terrible has happened at the school. Nathaniel Ryeburn has been murdered. I found his body in the basement." He was silent for a moment, digesting the information. "What? Oh my god. Emily, this is incredible." His voice held all the emotion that I felt—the violation, the fear, the disbelief that murder had followed us to this little haven. I was in danger of dissolving into tears again. "The OPP from Ottawa are here investigating. Edgar's been great and so have the staff. I'm just waiting to be questioned." Again, that shaky laugh betrayed my nervousness and fear. Was our life about to change again? "Emily, don't worry. There's no connection between this and Vancouver. Don't be afraid, darling. It's going to be all right. Are you sure you don't want me to come up there?" "I'm sure. I really will be okay. And, Will, I never thought there was a connection to you. It's just that Burchill is our sanctuary…" To my chagrin, my voice broke a bit again. "I didn't mean that you would think there was a connection with me," Will said almost angrily. "I just meant…it's not the end of our life here." He was always reading my thoughts. But right now communication wasn't the best. We were in danger of isolating one another, and I knew it. I needed to be face to face, to touch his hands, to look into his eyes. This is the man I have loved for more than twenty-five years and I knew better than to short-change this conversation by submerging any of the feelings that we would have to deal with in the next few days. It was a conversation for home, for the lake, for the swing on the porch. "I know it won't be," I said, trying to sound as though I had conviction, determined to have the strength to get through the rest of the day. "I love you, Will." "I love you, too, Em. Will you be sent home early?" "I think so. All the kids are gone now. I'm sure the staff and I will be next, after they question us…" My voice stuck on the word, the questioning, the relentless asking, the flashing of camera bulbs, the…My husband's words brought me back to the present, to Burchill, to here, in this school of this little town, where I was in control. "If I'm not here, I'll be in the studio. I've got to finish some of Silver Lake before I lose the inspiration or the light, whichever comes first." He laughed softly. "Get to work, then. I'll probably see you early this afternoon." We said good-bye, almost as if this were a normal day, and hung up. For a few minutes, I could do nothing but stare at the telephone, thinking nothing and everything at once. Images flashed through my mind without thought or logic. My heart pounded heavily. I couldn't help myself. I was afraid. You can read the rest of THE BRIDGEMAN at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Catherine Astolfo's site: http://www.catherineastolfo.com The Other Face of God by C. Robert Lee THE OTHER FACE OF GOD by C. Robert Lee CHAPTER ONE Lima, Peru. 1968 The boy had been wandering about the streets of Lima for months. Or was it years? He no longer remembered where he came from or if he ever had a family. One fact he knew for certain—he was always hungry. He wanted to lie down and sleep forever, but some strange force kept him going. Today, in the dark just before dawn, he felt cold and stiff as he crawled from his tattered bed of newspapers and crumpled cardboard. In his heart he knew this would be the luckiest day of his life. Several days before, he had a dream about receiving a special prize. That same day he heard some lucky fellow got a norteamericano twenty-five-cent piece at the great cathedral in the heart of the city. Another street boy told him, "That's where God lives." He'd been thinking a lot about God lately. Despite the fact it would be a long and tiring walk, he decided that was where he'd find his special prize—in God's house. He was a bother to most people. He knew this by the way they'd draw back and say, "Get out, you beggar." Sometimes, beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen coming from a late movie or supper club would smile, toss him a few coins and walk away. Once a woman said, "My God, what a mess. He smells like rotting garbage. It's a pity." He kept his distance. If he angered them, they wouldn't throw him a coin. Then he'd have to forage through the dump or wait until Tuesday when the garbage was set out. For reasons he couldn't understand, his stomach pains had crept into his chest. Running caused a piercing flame to ignite within his chest and spread to his head and eyes. His stomach was growing rounder, even though he was eating less. It amused him when he had to use a longer piece of twine to hold up his pants. He was proud to have his pants fit and he had taken to wearing his shirt open so that people might see. He wanted to learn how to read signs and prices. He was old enough to be in the fourth grade and planned to be a soldier. He heard that soldiers always had food and were given fine uniforms to wear. It was his first trip into the heart of the city. He was frightened, until an old man with a cane gave him three pennies and smiled at him in front of the Palace of Justice. His spirits soaring, the boy gazed at the Congress building. It was beautiful. Everything had new beauty now that he had three pennies. He tried to whistle, but his dried lips were too cracked and sore to pucker. He sat in front of a curio shop until a woman chased him away with a broom. Farther on, he rested in an alley and fell asleep. Father Doug Ryan, a young priest from the Los Angeles Archdiocese, reread the newspaper clipping. He found it hard to believe that a priest would use mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas. If Padre Quispi ordered the killing of haciendados as claimed, would Ryan escape the mountains alive? In a few hours, his appointment with the Cardinal Archbishop of Lima would be the first step in a difficult and dangerous investigation for his friend, Bishop William O'Connell. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. If the story were true, he was in over his head. In the dining room of the Barone Hotel, Ryan enjoyed a hearty breakfast, despite feelings of loneliness. Even though he was fluent in Spanish and loved Latin people, he felt lost in a strange land. On his flight from Los Angeles, he had realized that his priesthood was burning out from under him. Through his cardinal's eyes, he was just another disobedient worker headed for the trash heap of the church's historic traitors. Had he really made a pact with the devil when he obeyed his cardinal's orders that he not report to the police the sexual abuse of a young boy by a pedophile priest? His sense of decency and commitment to truth was closing the gateway to his soul. Now he was poisoned by angst-driven guilt that assaulted his spirit without mercy. Walking in the direction of the cathedral, Ryan stopped in the shade of centuries-old ceiba trees and breathed in the fragrance of a rose garden. Short-legged Indian servant maids wandered about, their baskets filled with fruits and bright flowers. Some of the misti women were long legged and dressed well enough to pass for fashion models. Mistis lived in urban areas, while Indians dwelled in the rural parts. Ryan walked up the gaudy Jiron de la Union. Its shops were a tourist's delight, with superb quality and low prices. Jewelry of exquisite beauty fashioned from silver inlaid in copper crowded the windows. Ryan admired the many examples of Indian weaving and furry artificial llamas. He planned to return to buy small llamas for his nieces and nephews. He looked at his guidebook, then headed for the Plaza de San Martin. Startled by a honking horn and a truck's massive tires only inches from his spindly legs, the boy continued his journey, a bit stronger after his rest in the sunlight. Someone mentioned lunch. He'd once heard an older boy say that the best time to beg was before and during lunchtime when people came to the great cathedral to talk to God. Excited that he would get to talk to God, he walked faster. His heart thumped in his chest. When he saw the twin towers of the great cathedral, his head swam, though he tried to ignore this. He would rest at the cathedral. Facing the awesome, ancient structure of the Plaza de Armas, he experienced a feeling of accomplishment. It filled him as he feasted his eyes on its sun-drenched beauty. He was now in the presence of God. Something wonderful was going to happen to him. He crossed the street into the plaza. The policeman directing traffic smiled at him as though he really belonged. This will surely be the luckiest day of my life. The plaza was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He looked up through trees and rubbed his callused feet over soft grass. The wonderful smell of cooking meat reached him from a nearby food vendor's cart. Approaching, he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. His mouth watered and saliva dripped from his chin onto his chest. He reached into his pocket. Withdrawing his three pennies, he held them up in his palm for the vendor to see. The man shook his head and held up ten fingers. The boy's smile disappeared. Disappointed, he was about to turn away when the vendor handed him a skewer with three small cubes of charbroiled beef heart. The man took one penny in payment. The boy had never tasted food so delicious. This was truly his special day. He stopped at a circular pool, kept full by an endless stream gushing from the mouth of a bronze dog. Cupping his hands, he brought the cool liquid to his cracked lips and sipped. Then he rinsed off his sweaty face. Refreshed, he walked to the stone steps of the great cathedral. His special prize was close at hand. His heart thumped in his chest. A terrible pain shot through his arm. Climbing the shallow steps suddenly seemed more than he could manage. He was dizzy. And he was hot, then cold. Hot…cold… Reaching the broad stone steps, he stumbled into a wall next to a door. He slumped to the ground and tried to sit up. The massive twenty-foot-high doors, studded with half spheres of rusty iron, opened and closed numerous times as people passed him without taking a second glance at his outstretched hand. He wanted to go inside and talk to God. He wanted to ask Him for the special prize he was expecting. But he did not have the strength to get up. When the boy saw a limousine turn the corner and stop in front of the cathedral, his hopes soared—until he saw a truck full of soldiers following with two machine guns mounted on the roof. Are the soldiers coming to get me? Lightheaded, the boy struggled to stand. The soldiers dismounted and formed a circle. When they saw no irregularities, Master Sergeant Salvador Vargas, a medium-sized bull of a man, gave the all-clear sign. Then Colonel Victor Lopez moved up the steps inside his circle of bodyguards, like a yolk within an egg. Vargas saw the boy stagger at the top of the steps. "Halt and ready!" He lunged up the steps with his machine gun pointed at the boy, who was swaying and breathing in convulsive gasps, his face ashen. "Que haces aqui?" Vargas demanded. What are you doing here? The boy leaned against the wall, gasping for air. Vargas, alert for a decoy to throw Colonel Lopez off guard, kept the machine gun at the ready. The other six guards, expecting an assassination attempt, pointed their Uzi machine pistols away from the colonel in all directions. "Pido comida," the boy whispered. "Mareado. Mi premio especial." He fell at the sergeant's feet. "We have no food or special prize." Vargas kicked the boy in the ribs. "Levantate y vete!" Get up and leave! There was no movement from the boy, save the desperate sucking of air. Soldiers searched him, but found nothing suspicious. Vargas pointed to the boy's tightly clutched fist. A soldier pried it open. Two pennies rolled onto the rough tiles. "He's faking just to get a handout," Vargas shouted to a gathering crowd. "Move on and mind your own business." They dragged the boy by the feet to the corner of the building, his head bumping over the uneven tiles. They left him on the ground, out of sight, and continued into the cathedral where many people were praying. "No one is to leave or enter until the colonel has finished his business," Vargas told the soldiers. He stepped outside and gave the all-clear sign. Surrounded by soldiers, Colonel Lopez was escorted into the cathedral. Iron-plated jackboots clacked on the worn tiles and echoed in the air. At the arched openings facing an inner courtyard, they turned into the sunlight and passed the fountain of St. Francis. Birds of many songs and colors deserted the cool waters. Father Tito Prieta waited for the norteamericano priest, Father Doug Ryan. When he heard the insistent rapping on his door, he expected to find the young priest, not Colonel Lopez. "I must talk with Cardinal Tavarez," Lopez said. Father Prieta stared at the colonel's finely-tailored, white-linen uniform with gold buttons and gold epaulettes. What a pompous peacock. "His Eminence has an appointment with a norteamericano priest and his schedule is full for the next two weeks." "What does the priest want with the cardinal?" Father Prieta shrugged. "That is not for me to say." Lopez glared at him. "It is in your best interest to tell me." After a few minutes of verbal intimidation, Father Prieta gave in. "Father Ryan is representing a Los Angeles bishop, the financial power behind Padre Quispi." Colonel Lopez considered the benefits of having Father Ryan arrested and held for questioning. When he tried to step through the doorway, Father Prieta blocked his way. "El Presidente sent me," Lopez snapped. "Announce me. Or I announce myself." "But I—" "If you value your Indian tongue, Prieta, be kind to it and don't overwork it." Their eyes met in mutual hatred just as Cardinal Archbishop Tavarez appeared, obviously summoned by sounds of anger. "Come in, my son. Please have your men wait in the courtyard." The cardinal forced a smile. "Father Prieta, please ask Father Ryan to wait." After the priest had left, the cardinal gestured for Lopez to sit and offered his massive emerald ring for a kiss. Lopez chose to stand and ignored the ring. Visibly annoyed, the cardinal settled his fleshy body in a chair. "Something of importance, my son?" "El Presidente is concerned that you have not acknowledged his invitation to attend the ceremonies next week." "Oh, dear me, I almost forgot. How unkind of me, but I don't see how I can. Will you please convey my deep regrets?" "No, I will not. My counterrevolutionary forces expect the blessing from you." "I've been meaning to discuss this matter of blessing troops with El Presidente." The colonel had expected resistance. In a subtly mocking tone, he lied. "El Presidente suggested that I ask about the health of your brother and his family. Your fifteen nieces and nephews, I believe. Fine Catholics, every one." "Yes, they are well, thank you." "But I wonder for how long? You see, we've had word that the communists are agitating the Indians near your brother's fundo. The rebellion is spreading out from Ayacucho. Just yesterday, they murdered fifteen children in Sachabamba, some with their throats slit and their ears cut off. That Indian priest of yours, Quispi, has joined the communist guerrillas and is using mission funds to help them buy guns." "I've heard that story." "What about all those Indian communists Quispi encouraged to squat on the de la Cruz's Hacienda Pavine?" "Regrettably, that is true." "Your priest is responsible for many killings." The cardinal sighed. "I've relieved Quispi of his duties. He won't respond to my orders." "It's a good thing that my men do not obey like yours, or we'd all be dead by now. Quispi can't hide in those mountains forever. One of these days, I'll have the time and manpower to go after him." Cardinal Tavarez turned away from the colonel's piercing brown eyes. "I see." The fountain with its cascading water and joyous singing birds had always given him a feeling of peace, but now all he could see was a soldier's back and a submachine gun. The burning stare of the colonel compelled him to face the man. The air between them was heavy with intimidation, an art at which both were well practiced, but for different reasons. Just the day before, the cardinal had fought with Bishop Zavala of Cuzco over Padre Quispi. He came away from the meeting believing that Zavala was more of a communist than Quispi. He learned that Bishop Zavala had sold Church lands to the Indians at a fraction of their true market value. And he had approved Quispi's latest blunder of suggesting the Indians farm part of the land that belonged to the de la Cruzes. The cardinal recalled Bishop Zavala's claim that the de la Cruz land had been leased to the Church for a hundred years and was legally his to sublease. But so what? Why are the large landowners jumping on me? Why do they always have to put me in the middle? Lease or no lease, they're determined to drive the Indians off. Ignoring the impatient sound of Colonel Lopez's tapping foot, the cardinal wondered if he should share any of the details of his meeting with Bishop Zavala and with Colonel Lopez. He ran the details through his mind. Padre Quispi had not denied telling the Indians to kill the haciendados. Zavala said it was because the haciendados were having the Indians' milk goats killed and babies were dying. The cardinal believed that Quispi would lie and Zavala would swear to it. After all, they were both Indians. Maybe he should get rid of Zavala too. He should never have let the Indians get so deep into the Church. If godless atheistic communists didn't agitate the people, things would be peaceful. Impatient for the cardinal's response, Lopez stomped his iron-plated boots on the tiles and moved to the door. Wait till we put the electric cattle prod to his balls next week. He'll bless the troops then. Lopez turned and noticed the cardinal's blank stare. With a startled look, Cardinal Tavarez said, "One moment, Colonel Lopez. Tell El Presidente that I will call and explain my position." "No." "What?" "El Presidente said to tell you that he would be out of the city until just before the ceremonies next week." A conciliatory tone crept into Lopez's voice. "If you do not bless my counterrevolutionary forces, it is hard to say what they might do if there is a communist uprising. Won't you help us try to keep the Church alive?" Mocking humility sugared the colonel's next words. "Look what happened to the Church in Mexico. Where is the Church in Cuba? How about Russia and China? Surely you do not wish that for Peru?" He studied the room with its antique furniture, Persian rugs, exquisitely detailed tapestries and handwritten leather-bound books from other centuries. "I see you are a man of culture and taste. If the communists take over, all of this will go. And you with it." The cardinal released a hopeless sigh. "I will do my best to adjust my schedule." "Incidentally, Your Eminence, Father Prieta tells me there is a norteamericano priest in town to see you. Do you know what he's doing here?" "His Bishop is the financial support behind Padre Quispi. Father Ryan wants to pay his respects and ask me some questions." "You don't support Quispi and his mission?" "No. If it were not for this Bishop O'Connell of Los Angeles, there would be no mission up there in the wilderness." "Why didn't you stop it?" "I tried. Quispi is just a peasant Indian that some old Italian monk picked up out of the gutter. He got Quispi out of jail, more or less adopted him and encouraged him to become a priest. When I tried to block Quispi, the monk finagled a letter from Rome, ordering me to approve the establishment of the mission." "So that's what's really going on." Lopez paused to absorb this new information. "Thank you, Your Eminence, for your candor. Would it be asking too much of you to let me know what this priest wants after you talk with him?" "Not at all, my son." Lopez put his lips to the cardinal's emerald ring, while mustering an expression of false sympathy as he engaged the cardinal's worried eyes. Father Prieta paced the hallway until Colonel Lopez reappeared. After he showed the colonel out, he listened by an open window. "After the norteamericano priest, Father Ryan, meets with the cardinal," Lopez said to Vargas, "arrest the priest and take him to our secret headquarters. He's bringing in money for Padre Quispi to buy guns for communist guerrillas." "What if he doesn't answer our questions?" "A few cattle-prod zaps to his celibate balls should shock the truth out of him. Don't hesitate to shoot him if it is necessary. We'll make him another useful casualty of the communists against the Church." Father Prieta held back a gasp. CHAPTER TWO At the Plaza de Armas, Ryan paused at the Presidential Palace to watch the changing of the guards. He crossed the avenue and took a moment to admire the fountain of the bronze dog, the reflecting pool and the colorful flowers. With ten minutes to spare, he climbed the cathedral steps. A female voice said, "Father, please come here." Ryan turned from the cathedral door and saw the crumpled body of the boy. A woman in her forties hovered over him. "Come quickly, Father," she pleaded. "This young boy needs your help." When he saw the ashen-faced boy with his washboard-chest resting in the shadow of his bloated stomach, Ryan was shocked. The urge to run was strong, but it was countered by waves of pity and anger. Ryan, ear to the boy's nose, felt a whisper of air still entering his lungs. "Get a doctor!" he shouted to the gathering crowd. He winced at the smell of rotting garbage that enveloped the boy. His jaw muscles tightened into hard knots. "I'm Mrs. Serge," the woman said, watching Ryan's every move. "I found him like this." Someone brought the sacristan and the man handed Ryan a vial of holy oil. Ryan stroked the boy's cracked lips with the oil and marked a cross on his forehead. He stared at the vagrant's filthy feet and couldn't touch them. Glancing up, he saw repugnance in Mrs. Serge's eyes and realized, with shock, his own revulsion in touching the boy's flesh. He recalled images from his own love-filled childhood. They contrasted with another image he carried with him from Tijuana, Mexico, where he had seen the catlike curl of a child's body asleep in a nest of yellowing newspapers. The image burned in his mind. He stared at the boy, imagining how he was forced to live, sleeping and eating in trash heaps, sewers or cemeteries. Was this the challenge Bishop O'Connell had talked of—to see the other face of God in the hopeless child? "I should never have become a priest," he mumbled. "Why am I unable to touch this boy's feet?" Why couldn't he gather that wasted body into his arms and walk the streets, shouting like a madman for someone to help them? A traffic policeman arrived instead of a doctor. "Does he have a health card, Padre?" "How would I know? Look in his pockets." "You look, Padre." Ryan searched the boy's pockets and found nothing. "Without a health card, he can receive no assistance," the policeman said coldly. "He will die in a few more minutes anyway, just like the other 'hormigas.'" Ants. "What's the matter with you? We can't just leave him to die." The policeman's face twisted in disgust. "'Hormigas.' They're crawling all over the city. They don't care anything about birth control. Take him into your fancy cathedral." He walked away, calling over his shoulder, "What difference does it make if he dies?" Mrs. Serge's eyes glistened. "Father, my doctor's office is near—" She caught herself. "No, I'm sorry. He's a gynecologist. He would never…we'd better take him to the public health clinic at Saint Veronica's." Ryan looked at his watch. 12:10. "Are you expected somewhere, Father?" "Well, yes. The cardinal is expecting me. I'm already late and it's a matter of great importance that I see him today." "Oh, the cardinal. I've never had that great privilege. How nice for you, a foreigner and all." "Will you please take the boy to the clinic? I'll pay for a cab and his medical bill." "Please forgive me, Father. I work for charitable causes, but I can't be seen…uh…I…" Ryan sensed that she had already gone way beyond her comfort zone. When she wrote down the address of Saint Veronica's and handed it to him, her eyes misted, pleading for forgiveness. She handed him a one hundred-soles note. Filled with resentment at the uncaring crowd, Ryan gathered the boy in his arms and nearly gagged on the putrid smell as he flagged down a cab. "I'm truly sorry, Father," Mrs. Serge called out. "Indeed. Aren't we both?" The driver, a wild gleam in his eyes, ran red lights, jabbed the horn and missed pedestrians by inches. "Slow down," Ryan shouted, "or we'll all be dead before we get there." The driver gazed at Ryan as though he were a savior of lost souls, a look of adoration in his world-weary eyes. The crowd around the boy hadn't looked at him that way. His anger at the crowd continued to build. Would the pompous Cardinal Simmons, with his arrogant attitude toward women, take personal responsibility for this wasted little boy? Would he still insist that women turn babies out like cookies? Screeching to a halt in front of the emergency clinic of the hospital, the driver raced around the cab, opened the door and told Ryan to skip the fare. Surprised, Ryan thanked him and carried the boy inside to the admittance desk. "What is your name, sir," a young clerk asked, "and the name of your boy?" The boy's stench caused the clerk to twitch her nose in disgust. "Skip all that," Ryan said, shifting, so she could see him more clearly. "Please excuse me, Padre. I didn't see your collar at first. Now, if you will just—" He tried to control his frustration. "Please get a doctor." He looked around for a gurney or a medical treatment room, so he could lay the boy down. "I need a health card before I will call a doctor." "He doesn't have a health card," he snapped. "Too bad. No card, no pay, no medicine." "Listen, you stupid woman," Ryan lowered his voice, "if you don't get on the phone or the intercom and get a doctor here right now, I'm going to make a scene you won't forget." He snarled like a cornered mother bear with cubs. Eyes wide with fear, the nurse called a doctor over the intercom. Four young orderlies came down the hallway on their way to lunch. The nurse pointed a finger at Ryan. "He threatened me. Hold him, while I call the police." The orderlies balked at the sight of the clerical collar. "You lousy gringo," the nurse yelled. "You'll see who is stupid when the police get here." A man in a white coat rushed towards them. Shorter than Ryan, the doctor had a bull-like chest, a bushy white mane of hair, a craggy sun-and-wind-swept face and deep-set brown eyes. "What the hell is going on here?" the doctor said to the orderlies. "Can't you see that boy needs help? Go on, get out of here. I'll take care of it." "That lousy gringo threatened me and called me names," the nurse said. The doctor turned to Ryan. "I'm Dr. Tomas Odicio, executive director of St. Veronica's Hospital." "Father Doug Ryan." "Is this true, Padre, what she is saying?" The nurse glowered at the two men. "I'm calling the police." "Regrettably, yes," Ryan said, "but will you please get someone to help this boy. He's dying." Dr. Odicio quickly assessed the boy's condition and pointed a finger at the nurse. "You! Shut up and put that phone down if you want to continue working here." Turning to Ryan, he said, "Please follow me, Padre." The boy was placed on a gurney and wheeled into a treatment room. After a few minutes of prodding examination, Dr. Odicio said, "I'm sorry, but the boy is dead." Ryan did not respond. His eyes were locked on the boy's face. The hairs on the back of Ryan's neck rose and chills rippled through him. Dr. Odicio turned his gaze back to the boy and was stunned to see the dead boy's eyes flicker with a strange rose-colored light. A sweet fragrance emanated from his skin and filled the room. Slowly, two images of Christ on the cross formed in the hollow caverns of the boy's eyes. The images faded after a few seconds, while the eyes remained open in death. The sweet scent intensified and lingered in the air. Ryan started to shake. "Doctor, did you see that?" "I think so. Images of Christ on the cross in his eyes? The fragrance of lilies?" "Yes." "What does it mean, Padre?" "I don't know." Ryan's body shook uncontrollably. He clamped down his jaw and blinked back tears. He watched as the body of the boy was wheeled from the room. He had prayed many times for the newly dead, but never under such mind-bending circumstances. The odor of the child's wasted body settled over him once more, overpowering the fragrance of lilies. He searched his jacket for some source of the smell, but there were no stains. Alone in the room with Dr. Odicio, silent screams rose again in Ryan's mind. His hands formed into fists. "Oh God, what kind of bloody, stinking country is this when a dying boy can't get decent medical care just because he doesn't carry around some stupid piece of paper? He's with You now, and again we've failed and lost another tiny piece of You. God is dead, all right. We're killing You piece by piece." He let out a hoarse sob. "I'm the worst offender because I know better and do nothing." Ryan ripped his clerical collar off and hurled it to the floor. "I'm unworthy to wear that. I never want to see it again." He slumped to the floor and wept. Deep in his soul, Tomas was moved by Ryan's uncontrolled remorse for the street urchin. Tears welled up in his eyes. Father Ryan reminded him of his brother-in-law, Daniel Barcea. How much alike they seemed. With the tears, came more memories of those heart-ripping, soul-crippling first experiences he endured as a young doctor working for the public health service. Children—the victims of adults—were the most devastating. One day, during his first year, he was ready to quit after a nine-year-old boy was brought in, screaming his lungs out and bleeding profusely. "His mother's lover castrated him with a butcher knife," a neighbor explained. "All because the boy innocently interrupted their lovemaking." This experience had followed one a week earlier that was equally unnerving. A mother had brought in her infant daughter. The father had sliced off the baby's tongue with a razor blade because she cried too much. Tomas's father had consoled and wept with his son when he heard the stories. "A healer must be above tears, even above pain," his father had said. "You must go back, son. The world has too many salesmen, preachers, farmers, technocrats, politicians, soldiers. Too many of everybody, except healers. You must go back. You are needed." His father's words echoed in his head, bringing to life a new capacity for feeling that he had hardened himself against. Early on, he had gone into private practice with an older doctor. Money flowed in until his first wife left him for a younger man and he turned to the bottle for comfort. That was twenty years ago. He had been clean and dry since marrying his second wife, Anne Marie. The greatest sorrow of their lives was that the gift of children had been denied them. Now it was too late. Ryan was now silent and Tomas could sense the aching of the other man's soul. "Thank you, Padre," Tomas said, "for helping me to see how hardened I'd become to the plight of these street orphans." Father Ryan looked up, eyes glazed as if hypnotized, and Tomas continued. "The bureaucratic nonsense has become unbearable. I had decided to resign and return to private practice, but you have wounded me, amigo." "How so, Dr. Odicio?" "When you said God is dead and that we're killing Him piece by piece, it slammed into my brain like a bullet. You are right." "I wish I were wrong." Ryan stood and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. "Doctor, may I use your phone? I've missed my appointment with the cardinal and I was told he wouldn't be able to see me for two weeks if I was late." "Certainly, Padre Ryan." The doctor picked up Ryan's battered clerical collar from the floor and handed it to him. "Try not to be so hard on yourself." Ryan nodded and followed Dr. Odicio to his office. The cardinal's line was busy. While they waited, Ryan told the doctor of his assignment. "Have you heard or read anything about Padre Quispi using his mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas?" "Nothing different from what you already know." Ryan dialed the cardinal's number several times. "Still busy. I'm feeling lousy. I'll try again at the hotel." Dr. Odicio clasped Ryan's hand in his. "May I help you find out more about this Padre Quispi?" "Great. I don't know where to start." "Give me some time to think about this. I think I know a few people who are in a better position to guide you than I am." Ryan tried to smile. "I feel like I've been through a storm and you've rescued me. I'm honored that you were there with me when I completely lost it. You brought me back by being calm." The doctor nodded. "Where are you staying?" "The Barone." "It's possible a friend of my wife's can get you in to see the cardinal. This lady donates a lot of money to the Church and I'm sure you're aware of how money works magic." "Indeed I am. How much do I owe you for the boy?" Ryan withdrew the one hundred soles from his pocket. "A lady at the cathedral gave me this for the boy." "No charge, Padre. But I'll start an orphans' fund with it. Maybe it will bring us luck." "Do you know what luck means as an acronym?" "No, but I think you're about to tell me." "It means Living Under Christ the King." Ryan smiled. "I've been thinking that you and I have to make an unbreakable pledge to each other." "The images of Christ in the eyes." "Precisely. Are we one hundred percent sure that's what we saw?" "I am. How about you? Who else could it be?" "I think we should consider the experience as a secret holy gift from God that binds us together in brotherhood. We tell not even the one closest to us until such time as He shows us His purpose. I've learned that God always has something up His sleeve." "I can certainly testify to that," Dr. Odicio said. "I once had a wise professor who cautioned his students: 'When you think you've got God in a box, beware. The magician is on stage and the illusions have already begun.'" "I've learned recently that God won't stay in the box." Ryan paused. "So, are we in agreement, Doctor?" "Absolutely. Please call me Tomas, Padre." "I'm Doug. I'm quitting the church, so you can drop the padre." Tomas raised an eyebrow as he shook Ryan's hand. "Thanks, Doug, for waking me up." "Anytime." "I'd drive you back to your hotel, except I have a heavy schedule of appointments. I've thought of people who can help you. May I pick you up at eight-thirty tonight? We're going to a dinner party, family only, to honor my brother-in-law who finished the autobiography he's been working on for twenty-five years. I remember Daniel mentioning that he had met Padre Quispi." Doug stared into the older man's eyes and what passed silently between them was beyond words. It was as if the spirit of the dead street urchin hovered invisibly above them, drawing them into an unbreakable bond. Or had the street urchin's spirit entered their hearts as if the three of them now lived within the other? Outside, Ryan was surprised to see the cab driver. "How's the little boy?" the man asked. Ryan shook his head. "I regret to say he didn't make it." "That's too bad. Most street kids have something serious wrong with them." He opened the door for Ryan. "Please get in, Father. Where you going?" "The Barone." On the way, Ryan exchanged names with the driver. Ernesto Velez told him that it was unusual to see a street kid near the cathedral because the police could get pretty rough when vagrants left their own areas. "Can you show me these areas?" Ryan asked. "Sure." Ryan took Ernesto's business card. "I'll call." He handed him some notes, but Ernesto waved the payment off and drove away before Ryan could argue. Maybe there were still some caring people in the world. After Colonel Lopez left the cathedral, Father Prieta was conflicted about warning Father Ryan that guards were waiting to arrest him. When Ryan didn't arrive after a half hour had passed, he went into a private chapel and prayed about it, realizing that he had neglected to ask Father Ryan the name of his hotel. His intuition kept saying, "Warn him." To avoid the guards, Prieta made his way into the main cathedral by way of the cardinal's study as the cardinal had left to attend a luncheon. Seeing the sacristan replacing candles, he headed for him. "Have you seen a norteamericano priest?" He was directed to Mrs. Serge, who was still praying. "Yes," the woman said, relaying the story of the ill boy. "There was nothing I could do. You understand, don't you, Father? My doctor is a gynecologist." "Tell me more about the priest." "He was tall and redheaded and handsome with the most beautiful green eyes. He took the boy to Saint Veronica's hospital. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't. You do understand, don't you, Father?" "Yes, of course. Thank you, madam." Father Prieta rushed down a dark corridor that led to a private phone. "I did not believe the story about Father Quispi using mission funds to buy guns for communist guerrillas. What if I'm wrong? What if I help this norteamericano priest? If he is bringing in money to buy guns, then I-I'm—no, a man who would disregard an audience with a cardinal archbishop to try to save the life of a street urchin would not buy guns to kill other people." Or would he? Prieta asked God for help and decided to go with his intuition. Both the cardinal and Colonel Lopez were wrong about Padre Quispi and Father Ryan. After several phone calls, Prieta finally connected with Dr. Tomas Odicio. After introductions were made, he said, "Colonel Lopez is going to arrest the norteamericano priest who brought in the sick street orphan. Lopez thinks he's bringing in money to buy guns for guerrillas. Can you warn him to go into hiding? Is he there, Doctor?" Tomas hesitated. What if this guy is not who he says he is? Was he one of Lopez's men trying to track down Doug? "No," he said finally. "The padre has gone and I don't know where. "Soldiers with submachine guns are waiting here to arrest him," Father Prieta said, sounding frantic. "Four more are about to arrive at your hospital. I forgot to ask him where he was staying when he made his appointment with the cardinal." His voice trembled. "Do you understand that this could be a matter of life or death, Doctor?" "Yes, I do." "Are you in a position to help him?" "I don't know anything about him. He brought the kid in, dumped the little bugger in our laps and left." "How is the little street orphan?" "He was dead by the time Father Ryan got him here." "I'm sorry. You have a fine reputation, Doctor. I think I understand what you're doing. Please remember, just a phone call could mean the difference between life or death." "I wish I could help you, but as you know, this is a large city, and the priest didn't confide in me where he was going." "I understand. Just do what you can, please. Meanwhile I'll call the downtown hotels—just in case." Ryan phoned the cardinal's office from the lobby several times, but the line was still busy. In his room, he tried again. Busy. Frustrated, he stretched out on the bed. The reek of the unwashed street urchin clung to his clothing. I have to get rid of this smell. He stood, undressed and threw his clothes in a heap next to the bed. In the shower, he scrubbed away the stench of death and planned his next move. The cardinal's phone was probably out of order, so he would just walk back to the cathedral, offer his apologies and try to make another appointment. He thought of the dead boy and he offered silent prayers for his soul. His prayer habits were seldom formal out of church. As a young boy, he had talked to God as if He were a friend standing next to him. During seminary training, he had asked, "If God is our creator, our redeemer, our lover, our friend, why do we have to be so mealy-mouthed?" He never received an answer that was acceptable. Hot water drummed on his head and down his back. The rich lather of the shampoo smelled clean and he washed the rotting scent of the boy from his body, but not from his heart or mind. Had the boy ever had a bath? Ryan knew he took too much for granted. "Dear Lord, I'm beginning to realize how difficult You are to follow. I know You have said, 'He who does it for the least among you does it also for Me.' I didn't know the little boy's name, yet he died in my arms." He pictured the dead boy's face. "Was that really You who appeared in his eyes? What does that mean? Please give me some answers? Are You dead? Are we killing You piece by piece?" He thought of Uncle Will. Bishop William O'Connell, friend of Ryan's parents, had baptized Ryan as a baby and through the years had influenced him to become a priest. All the Ryan children addressed the bishop as Uncle Will. Ryan, the youngest of ten brothers and sisters, had always accepted Uncle Will as his spiritual father, who from day one reminded him that we're all challenged to become the other face of God. But what did that mean exactly? Dr. Tomas Odicio dialed the Barone Hotel and asked for Ryan's room. The phone rang a dozen times. The desk clerk came back on the line. "Father Ryan doesn't answer, sir. Would you like to leave a message?" "Yes, please tell him to call D—" Tomas bit off his name. "Never mind. Gracias." If he left a message and Lopez got to Doug before he did, it could implicate Tomas and then he'd be no help to either of them. Damn...what could he do? The padre needed a place to hide. Suddenly, Tomas smiled. "Chabuca's bookstore." He dialed the number of his favorite niece. CHAPTER THREE To the southeast of Lima in a private bullring shaded by towering eucalyptus trees, three men with swishing red capes worked a young bull. The bull snorted, charged into an empty cape and then dug in its hooves, sliding to a puzzled stop on the damp, hard sand. Along the nearby dirt road, two weapons carriers transporting soldiers escorted an armored limousine. The vehicles stopped next to the bullring. Colonel Victor Lopez lowered a window to watch Generals Angostini and Gonzales take their turns with the bull. They were coached by Rafael de la Cruz. Seeing Lopez, de la Cruz strode to the fence. "Glad you could make it, Colonel. Go on to the office. We'll be there in a minute or two." Lopez's motorcade made its way around the bullring. Then it drove along the side of a peach orchard that veered past a horse barn, moving toward the paved parking area. "What the hell is going on?" Lopez muttered, alone in the back seat. "If de la Cruz has those two in his pocket, what does he want with me?" He tapped his foot impatiently as he thought about the generals. General Gonzales was the Commander General of Tank Corps One, stationed on the outskirts of Lima. General Angostini, a Supreme Commander General of the counterrevolutionary forces, was Colonel Lopez's boss. He surveyed the de la Cruz ranch, his eyes full of admiration slowly turning to envy. Sprawled on the outskirts of Lima, the ranch was ten miles long by six miles wide, planted in a dozen various crops from peach orchards to cotton fields. Ten years earlier, at age twenty-seven, Rafael had inherited the ranch, plus twenty-four million tax-free dollars and stock in the family corporation, Pavine Inc. Rafael was the oldest of three sons and in his father's eyes, the one most likely to preserve and increase the family fortune. He had a ruthless macho quality necessary for survival among the barracudas of the business world. Family members had elected Rafael their chief executive officer and had no reasons for regret. In a decade he had tripled the value of the family businesses. His shares of Pavine stock had made him one of Peru's wealthiest men. Lucky bastard. Lopez knew that Rafael considered himself to be a fountain of favors and made it a point to cause people to feel indebted to him. Pavine Inc. held substantial positions and control in everything from a fishing boat fleet to various silver, gold and zinc mines. Not to mention a media conglomerate. In addition to the 500,000 acres of land in the Yucay Valley, Pavine also owned 5,000,000 acres of land in other South American countries. Early in his business career, Rafael recognized that being a polo player of international reputation opened many business doors, and his machismo sex life, now greatly enhanced by his membership in Club Glad, opened doors behind the doors. Against the wishes of his brothers, he bought into risky foreign investments on his own. His grueling pace used up executive assistants the way a racing car uses up tires. But he shunned publicity, except that which travels by word of mouth, or word of wife—someone else's. To the woman who had everything and wanted more, he was often the target of the evening. The taut muscles of his polo-disciplined, bull-fighting body never failed the women who lusted for his flesh and his favors. Everyone knew that Rafael's manipulative mind always found ways to use the conquest of a woman's body to penetrate the heart of a profitable business deal. Damn lucky bastard. Lopez waited in his limousine by a gnarly stand of Brazilian pepper trees. Just beyond the tree line lay the lush green polo field. When he saw Rafael and the two generals walking along the shaded path next to the polo field, he got out to greet them. "Welcome," Rafael said graciously. "You know General Gonzales and General Angostini." Lopez gave the men a nod. General Manuel Gonzales was a short, powerfully built man slowly turning to fat. His round cheerful face belied a brutal nature that could erupt without warning. General Romolo Angostini, with a slim, muscular body similar in size and build to Rafael's, was fastidious in his clothing, speech and diet. He frequently made it known that he was the direct descendent of an Italian Count who had married a niece of Queen Isabella of Spain and that his family had been in Peru for 300 years. "Shall we eat lunch before we get down to business?" Rafael asked, leading them into the ranch house. In Rafael's office, Lopez took in the décor, while trying to tamp down his envy. The walls were crowded with photographs of Rafael—on his polo ponies and with movie stars and political personages from around the world. The photos were penned with greetings and signatures. Oil paintings and trophies blended in with the photographs. Everything in the room, from the expensive chrome and leather furniture to the museum-quality Inca masks made of gold, was designed to impress and intimidate visitors. "Let's eat," Rafael said, motioning to the table. An oval conference table was set for four. Cold gazpacho soup and mouthwatering prime rib were served along with a robust French Cabernet. Lopez dove in greedily, all the while wondering what his host was plotting. Prior to Colonel Lopez's arrival, Rafael and the generals had decided that Gonzales would start the meeting. They had carefully rehearsed how they would proceed. After the servants had cleared the table and left the room, Rafael gave Gonzales a nod and the man took a bulky file folder from the table, pretended to read, frowned and jumped to his feet, all the while glaring at Lopez. "Is there a problem?" Lopez asked, his eyes widening. Gonzales slammed the folder on the table in front of him. "You can say that, Colonel Lopez!" "I don't understand," he said, without flicking an eyelash. "It's what you've been doing without our approval." "What the hell are you talking about?" "Do you want me to read it to you?" "Yes," the colonel said without hesitation. Gonzales reached for the folder, slid it across the table to General Angostini, and said, "Please read it." He began to pace. Angostini read, his cultured diction ringing out each syllable. "On the night of November 24, 1967, Major Victor Lopez was in Chorillos with his mistress, Rita Aguilar. She had a pet Shetland pony named Panchito that became lost. Major Lopez found witnesses who reported that they had seen the Alvarez brothers petting Panchito. The brothers admitted to petting the pony, but said they had gone home afterwards. The Alvarez brothers were found dead later that night, one bullet each to the back of the head." Three pair of eyes turned on Lopez. "Several days later," Angostini continued, "a farmer found Panchito grazing in his field, unharmed. The boys' father complained to the local police that Major Lopez had executed his sons because he thought they had stolen the pony. He demanded that justice be done. Major Lopez stated to local authorities, 'The Alvarez brothers were part of a communist plot to assassinate me and my mistress. The communist leaders executed them because they realized that I could make them talk and incriminate their leaders.'" "The boys' father swore revenge. An informer told Lopez and the father was later found with his head split open behind the wheel of a stolen car that had crashed into a tree. The authorities concluded it was an accidental death, since the father reeked of whiskey and there were several empty whiskey bottles in the car." Lopez barely twitched as Gonzales read from the file. "Major Lopez stated, 'I was with my mistress the whole time. The communists were afraid that the father was going to give me the names of the people the sons had been associated with, thereby exposing their entire organization, and his sons' killers.' Rita Aguilar, Major Lopez's mistress stated, 'I was with Major Lopez all the time he was in Chorillos. My mother and sister were there too.'" While General Angostini took a break and reached for a glass of water, Rafael looked for changes in Lopez's expression. The man is a stone, no emotion and he's a better liar than I am. Gonzales continued pacing back and forth behind the colonel's chair. Angostini cleared his throat. "And one week later Rita Aguilar and her mother were killed when their car was forced off the road by a truck. A motorist reported the accident, but the truck and its driver were never found. Rita Aguilar's sister was never found either, nor her body." General Gonzales stopped pacing, stared at the stony-faced Lopez, then slammed his fist on the table. "We believe you killed the boys and their father," he snarled into Lopez's ear. "And you later had your mistress killed because she wanted more money from you. She saw you execute those boys, didn't she? And she threatened to tell." A deathly silence fell within the room. Fiercely engaging each man's eyes in turn, Lopez responded without a trace of emotion. "If I were being charged with a crime, you wouldn't have invited me here. What's the big deal?" General Gonzales said, "The big deal is that we've been watching you for some time now. Your secret Red Shirts organization bombs small select targets, kidnaps left-wing sympathizers and collects ransom for their safe return. Then your press releases blame the communists. We're exposing ourselves to make you a proposition that if you turn down we'll deny. We want you to know that we have enough on you to put your ass before a firing squad." In one fluid motion, Colonel Lopez kicked back his chair and was on his feet with his .45 caliber revolver in hand. Raising his voice in command, he snapped, "You'll be dead before you make the call." The blood drained from Rafael's face. "Colonel Lopez…" "Tell him we're joking," General Angostini said, stammering. Gonzales began to sweat. "Dammit, Colonel," Rafael said, "This joke has gone far enough." "This is no joke," Lopez said. "Kneel! Clasp your hands behind your heads." When the men didn't obey, he shouted, "Kneel, you bastards!" Instantly, all three men dropped to their knees. Angostini began reciting Hail Marys, while Gonzales glared at Rafael. "Okay, Colonel," Rafael said, struggling to find the right words to calm the man down. "Put the gun away. The joke's over. We were putting you on. We had no intention of mentioning your past. To anyone." At least not now. Lopez let them sweat for sixty long seconds before he holstered his revolver. Then he laughed. "All right, you sorry thespians, get up. You be the judge, Señor de la Cruz. Who gets the Oscar for best performance?" Unnerved, Rafael said, "You do by a very wide margin." "Good, thank you. Now let's get back to the proposition." When General Angostini spoke, the words came out in a stutter. "Y-you're obviously as…g-good as Rafael thinks you are. We w-want you to continue what you're doing, only we want to help coordinate your activities." He paused and took a deep breath. "With our help, you could be the next president of Peru." "I could do that without your help." Angostini shrugged. "Perhaps. But you'd have no one to protect your flanks and no business community to help you financially. Understood?" "Sure. What's in it for me?" "Raf will fill you in." With a steady hand, Rafael served everyone coffee from a silver thermos. Between sips, he said, "The generals and a few of our friends and I feel you have the patriotism to stop our swing toward communism and especially land reform. Your cool courage under fire, combined with wit and resourcefulness to tell bold lies and make people believe you, has been honed to an art form. We are very impressed with your clever political savvy. Your success in orchestrating that sordid business down in Chorillos is a good example of your skill. And I'd bet there's probably a lot more we don't know." "Beautiful planning, Colonel," Gonzales said, nodding. "Yes," Angostini agreed, wiping his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. "Work with us," Rafael said, smiling, "and you'll never want for money." Just don't screw with us. Lopez sipped his coffee and considered the offer. I never thought anyone would find out about that business in Chorillos. Were they setting him up to take the fall for something he couldn't see? These were clever, well-connected men. Maybe they needed him, and maybe they didn't. But if they tried to charge him for the deaths in the Alvarez incident, they would have some rude surprises. "Sounds good to me. Let me congratulate each of you on your acting ability." "Isn't that what life is all about?" Rafael asked. "And money," Gonzales said. "And women," Angostini added. Lopez couldn't agree more. "When we have power, all those things will fall into place." "Speaking of money, Colonel," Rafael said, retrieving a briefcase from behind the desk and placing it in front of Lopez. "Please open it." Lopez snapped open the clasp and stared at freshly minted Swiss francs. "That's equivalent to $100,000," Rafael said. "American dollars. If you complete this first job according to our instructions, you will be given a second job worth an additional $100,000. Afterward, I'll fly you in my corporate jet to Switzerland to deposit your money. You don't want your money in a Peruvian bank where it can be traced and confiscated. We'll hop over to Paris. I'll fix you up with some of the wildest French women on the continent." Lopez stood up and stretched. "I admire your thoroughness and your style, Raf. It's obvious that I can learn more from you than the best way to kill a bull." "As long as we help each other, our bond is secure." "What are the jobs?" "First, we want you to assassinate Professor Daniel Barcea." Lopez widened his gaze but said nothing. "Make his death look like an accident, without a martyr's body. His body must never be found." "Why the professor?" Lopez asked. "He has just completed his autobiography. It contains a detailed account of how he got 40,000 acres of government land and taught the Indians how to farm it and compete as a modern corporation. We large landowners can't afford to let his ideas about land reform reach the general public. I want that manuscript destroyed, along with his notes, research materials and anyone who worked on it with him." "And the second job?" Rafael glanced at the generals. "Pavine Incorporated owns a fundo in the Yucay Valley. Dirty communist Indians are squatting on the east end, encouraged by a priest named Amadeo Quispi. I want their village burned and the priest to disappear. Make it look like a communist raid, with no loose mouths left to tell the truth. I'll give the story wide media coverage with any spin you want." Lopez nodded. "Done. I'm going to see the cardinal about blessing some new troops after I leave here. Maybe he can tell me more about this Quispi." "Excellent." Rafael opened a map on the conference table. "This is where the village is." Weeping Rock Springs. Lopez was not familiar with the area. It was valuable land. Years ago an earthquake had split the rocky ground, revealing an artesian spring. "I'll put the Pisac barracks on alert and move troops into position when we're ready," he said. "Can you advise me on staging areas?" "We'll fly to Cuzco in a few days and have some fun at Mamacita Chang's before we consider our options." "May I bring the NCO who will oversee the exercise?" "Sure," Rafael said. The four men shook hands to seal their pact. Then the generals left. "Thank you for the down payment, Raf," Lopez said, patting the briefcase. "That paltry 200 grand is only an appetizer. You're going to be a very rich man, Colonel, if you follow my instructions." "I love instructions involving money." "I've been putting together a primer of information for the past few years. I know ways we can channel a lot of the country's millions into our own pockets." "Sex and money are my favorite subjects, only behind cash and cash." Rafael forced a laugh. "It would have been funnier, Colonel, if you had said cash and carry, but never mind. I don't expect you to be a comedian. You would have a hard time trying to carry all the cash I'm referring to." "Cash and carry. I like that." Rafael reached for a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch and poured two glasses. "Once I'm your finance minister, Presidente Lopez, we'll begin with nationalization of the oil companies and install our own people to run them. Just imagine how many millions of dollars we can skim." "Won't that be risky? The United States could cut off our funding in aid, military and otherwise." "Good point." Rafael handed him the glass of scotch. "But stateside politicians are naive and trusting to the point of stupidity. A case in point—not long ago, Uruguay nationalized a cement factory, buying out the private owners. Where did they get the money?" "From the United States taxpayers," Lopez replied. "Yes, through their so-called representatives in Washington. In a few years, the once-profitable cement business was operating at a deficit, so the bureaucrats in Washington simply loaned them more money. They have a monopoly in many sectors—electrical power, gasoline, coal, alcohol, railroads, insurance, fishing, cement, hotels, airlines and meat packing. Practically all these government corporations lose money, yet the U.S. keeps pouring more money into that tiny country and repeating the same process in every country in South America. If I were to give all the details for every country, we would be here for the rest of the day and night." Rafael raised his drink. "A toast. To a profitable business arrangement." As the glasses clinked, Lopez imagined what life would be like as president. Rafael was worried about the colonel. The man had just threatened him and two generals. Lopez could be a problem. But the look on his face proved he was hooked on the idea of power and riches. "How much money are we talking about exactly?" Lopez asked. "Would you believe billions? Wouldn't you love to see the size of their Swiss bank accounts? Yet all of that is just piss in the ocean compared to the money they're throwing at Argentina, Columbia, Bolivia, Venezuela and Brazil." Lopez's expression was beyond jubilant. "As my finance minister, you keep the books and control the managers you appoint. Accuse the owners, especially American oil companies, of theft of a natural Peruvian resource. Control the government. Control the money—for the people, of course." "Now you've got the picture, Colonel. "Thank God for Switzerland, eh, Raf? Where in the world did you come up with all these dollar figures?" "Right out of the good old American Congressional Record. There are dozens more examples. Later, after you're president, we'll do in-depth studies on projects that will tap the U. S. Treasury. Oh, yes, and there's a thing called Treasury Interim Grant or American Emergency Credits. They call this bail-out money to cover Latin American government losses caused by operational deficits in nationalized industries." "This is incredible," Lopez said, shaking his head. "They actually pay for bad management. Tell me this isn't one of those 'If it sounds too good to be true it probably isn't.' deals." "You haven't heard the best part yet, but we'll save that for later. Sometimes, I actually feel sorry for the American taxpayers." "May I ask you a personal question, Raf?" "What's on your mind?" "Weren't you engaged to marry Barcea's daughter a few years ago?" "Yes." "If she knows what her father was writing about, we'll have to eliminate her. Can I count on your support?" Rafael took a long drink. "I don't know. I'll need to know all the details first." "Fine." Lopez raised his glass for a final toast. "To power, money and women." "In that order?" "When you've got the first, the other two will come begging." "You are so right, Colonel," Rafael said, his confidence in Lopez raising a degree. The glasses clinked again. "But don't underestimate Chabuca Barcea," he warned. "She's probably smarter than both of us. And worse—she's an unpredictable idealist." You can read the rest of THE OTHER FACE OF GOD at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit C. Robert Lee's site: http://www.crobertlee.com The River by Cheryl Kaye Tardif THE RIVER by Cheryl Kaye Tardif PART ONE Undercurrents I want to know the thoughts of God; The rest are details. ~ Albert Einstein One "She always leads with her heart," a voice croaked. Startled by the interruption, Professor Del Hawthorne lifted her head and gasped, shocked. What the— A man stood in the doorway to her classroom, panting for breath. He was in his late seventies and wore a grimy suede jacket over a once-pristine white dress shirt. The shirt was torn and stained with what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The man's tailored black pants were ripped from the knees down. He stumbled inside and slammed the door. Del threw a warning look at Peter Cavanaugh, her young anthropology protégé. Rising slowly from her desk, she faced the old man. "Can I help you, sir?" His stringy gray hair covered part of his face and was in desperate need of a shampoo and cut. His mottled, creviced skin reminded her of weathered cedar bark. But it was the man's glazed yet vaguely familiar eyes that made her heart skip a beat. Did she know him? "Sir?" The man's eyes flashed dangerously. "She always leads with her heart!" Del gulped in a breath. It wasn't every day that she heard her father's favorite saying―especially when it wasn't her father saying it. Instead, the words were coming from a man who looked like he had escaped from the psych ward. How the hell did he make it past security? She looked at her watch. Damn! After six o'clock, security was reduced to two men on the Anthropology wing. And they were probably on rounds or at the snack machine. She glanced at Peter. The young man was terrified. He stood motionless at the far end of the room, his head drooping against his chest. "Campus security will be here soon," he said quietly. The man turned half-closed eyes toward Peter. "Who's that?" Del took a hesitant step forward. She rested her hands at the edge of her desk, careful not to draw the man's attention. Where's the damn button? Security had installed silent alarm buttons underneath the lip of every faculty member's desk. Times had changed. Schools, colleges and universities had become common targets of deranged psychopaths hell-bent on murder. She pushed the button and drew in a breath, praying desperately that it wasn't the case today. "Security will be here any minute." The old man's head whipped around, his eyes pleading. "Don't you recognize me?" "Should I?" Whatever reaction she was expecting to see, didn't prepare her for the one she got. Instead of answering her question, the man slumped to the floor, babbling incoherently. His right hand reached shakily into the folds of the jacket. She stabbed repeatedly at the alarm button. Where the hell is security? Terrified, she saw the man pull something bulky from his jacket. A gun? Suddenly, two armed security guards rushed into the room. Then all hell broke loose. One minute, she was standing behind her desk. The next, she was on the floor―with Peter Cavanaugh on top of her. She waited, holding her breath, expecting shots of gunfire. But there were none. Instead, she heard scuffling sounds and a few grunts. Finally, one of the guards called out. "We got him, Professor." She heaved a sigh of relief. "You okay?" Peter asked, his boy-next-door face bare inches from hers. She groaned. "Uh, Mr. Cavanaugh? Security has him under control, so you can get off me now. You're crushing me." Peter turned a delicious shade of lobster red. "Didn't want you to get shot," he mumbled, helping her to her feet. She brushed herself off, then glanced toward the door. The guards dragged the intruder out into the hall. That's when she heard the man shout, "Delly! It's me!" Only one person in the world had ever called her 'Delly'. "Wait!" She ran toward the old man. "I've seen it," he hissed, his eyes wild. "I've seen the future…not human…monsters!" "Professor Schroeder?" she whispered. "Is that you?" The old man's gaze locked on her. "You have to stop the Director, Delly!" A shiver raced up her spine. "Director of what? Professor, we thought you were dead. You, my dad, the other men…" Schroeder leaned closer, tears welling in his eyes. "They're going to kill your father, Delly." "He-he's alive?" "For now. The little bastards have him. You have to destroy the cell. I know how to get in. To the secret river. I know how to get in…and out." "Professor Hawthorne," one of the guards said. "We have to take him downstairs." Halfway down the hall, Schroeder's head whipped around. "Follow your heart, Delly. And remember…only one!" The guards half-dragged him into the elevator. "Professor Schroeder!" she yelled. "What are you talking about?" His dull brown eyes flared like a trapped fox, wild and feral. "It's all in the book. Destroy the cell, Delly. Find the river and stop the Director before he destroys humanity." The elevator doors hissed shut. Del leaned against the wall outside her classroom. Her legs ached and vibrated. When her vision wavered, she closed her eyes and welcomed the darkness. They're going to kill him, Delly. Was her father really alive? Someone called her name. Peter. He stood beside her, clutching something to his chest. Whatever it was, he gripped it as though he were holding the treasures of the Egyptian Pharaohs. "He dropped this," he said, handing her a book. "It's what the old guy was reaching for. You gonna be alright, Professor?" She nodded. "See you tomorrow, Peter." Del returned to her empty classroom, firmly closing and locking the door behind her. She made it across the room before her legs gave out. Dropping into a chair, she took a few deep breaths, then she picked up the leather-bound book that Peter had given her. The cover was stained, partially missing. There was nothing on it except for an embossed symbol that was hard to make out. Perhaps a cross. She traced what was left of it with one finger. Professor Schroeder, what happened to you? Arnold Schroeder was a renowned genius in anthropology. Whenever he had visited Del's father, which was often, he would take Del under his wing and teach her something new. He was the reason she was teaching anthropology at the University of British Columbia. Schroeder had been her idol. Other than Dad, of course. Del carefully opened the journal, her fingertips barely grazing it. She flipped the pages, reading sentences here and there, trying to make sense of Schroeder's notes. Most of the entries in the journal appeared to be written in some kind of code and they were next to impossible to decipher. She was about to put the book down when a name jumped from the page. Dr. Lawrence V. Hawthorne. Just below her father's name, a date was scribbled. January 2001. Her hand began to shake. 2001? She yanked open a drawer and rifled through it. Finally, she found what she was looking for―a photograph taken seven years ago. Back in 1998. In it, her father and Professor Schroeder stood side by side wearing jeans, t-shirts and silly fishing hats. They had infectious grins on their faces, probably laughing at some private joke. The photo had been taken the day that her father, Schroeder and two associates had left for 'the adventure of a lifetime'. In the summer of '98, a new intern at Bio-Tec Canada, the company Del's father worked for, suggested a summer rafting excursion down the Nahanni River in the Northwest Territories. The intern seduced him with native legends about veins of undiscovered gold, and headless skeletons and corpses lining the banks of the river. Her father became consumed by the idea of exploring one of Canada's most spectacular sights, and he convinced Schroeder and his boss to accompany them. The four men went missing three days later. A search party was sent down the Nahanni, and the investigators discovered a headless skeleton a few miles downriver from Virginia Falls. Most of the flesh had been consumed by wild animals and the bones were badly decayed, but a forensics expert was able to identify the body. It was Neil Parnitski, CEO of Bio-Tec Canada. There was no sign of Del's father…or the other men. A week later, the search party found a bloody shirt on the shore and scalp tissue embedded into a rock. DNA tests showed that most of the blood matched her father's, while the scalp tissue was Schroeder's. The investigators also said that based on the amount of blood found at the scene, even a doctor couldn't have survived without medical attention. Six months later, the investigation was closed, the missing men presumed dead. Del stroked the photograph of her father. He's a dead man. Schroeder's words echoed in her mind, and she was unable to shake the doomed sensation that crept under her skin and invaded every pore. She stared out the window into the darkening night sky, remembering the day her mother had told her that her father was presumed dead, months after his disappearance. She recalled the funeral a week later, and remembered standing in the pouring rain at the edge of the gaping hole as an empty casket was lowered into the muddy ground. The funeral had been three days before her twenty-fifth birthday―a birthday that came and went without any fanfare. Del never celebrated her birthday anymore. Too many memories. Now, staring at her father's picture, the overwhelming grief she had felt seven years ago came back with a vengeance. They're going to kill him, Delly. It was past eight o'clock when Del reached her small house in Port Coquitlam. Parking her car under the carport, she grabbed her briefcase and went inside. "Honey, I'm ho-ome!" An overweight, one-eared, brown-tinged Siamese darted toward her and anxiously rubbed up against her leg, mewing mournfully at the same time. "Oh, Kayber! You act like I never feed you." She had found the cat in her backyard five months ago. He was bruised and scratched, his right ear hanging by a piece of skin. He looked like he had been in a barroom brawl―and lost. She had adopted him on the spot. Although, she often wondered if it weren't the other way around. Tossing her briefcase on the couch, she returned to the kitchen, poured some cat kibble into a dish and set it on the floor. Then she sat on the couch, picking at a bowl of leftover macaroni casserole and sipping vanilla tea. Her gaze drifted over the photographs on the mantle of the brick fireplace and dozens of memories raced through her mind. Memories of good times, happy times. Times when her father was alive―before he disappeared and left a dark void in her life. She slid the bowl of half-eaten casserole onto the coffee table and pulled the journal from her briefcase. She leafed through the book, stopping when she came to a page filled with unfamiliar words, abbreviations, numbers and symbols. NB…RESISTANT TO…≠ DC #02541-87654-18 PROV. BASE….BSC & SYN. CSF IN V. SALINE…GN. She found several references to her father but couldn't make out the content. A few pages in, the journal lapsed into page after page of numerical code. An hour went by and she was only one-third into it when she found an odd entry. BIO-T CAN…KEY! She hissed in a breath. Bio-Tec Canada? Her father had worked for Bio-Tec. Why was that in Schroeder's notes? Other than her father, Neil Parnitski and the intern, Schroeder had never had any contact with anyone else at Bio-Tec. He was an anthropologist. Bio-Tec was a research company exploring biotechnology. Del was baffled. She pushed the journal aside and flicked the remote control in the direction of the CD player. As Alexia Melnychuk's smooth voice filled the room, Del stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes. Kayber, having wolfed down his food, immediately took this as an invitation and jumped up on her stomach. All twenty-two pounds of him. "What is it with males jumping on top of me today?" As she thought of Peter Cavanaugh with his Tobey Maguire-like face, a smile formed on her lips. Peter was in his first year of studies, but he had missed too many classes due to an ailing grandmother, which resulted in an 'incomplete' on the regular one-year course. That was why he was taking her summer class. Ten years younger, he was an embarrassingly shy kid, a bit of a loner―except when he was around Del. He had a severe crush on her. She knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. Half the faculty thought she was sleeping with him. But she wasn't. She wasn't a cougar. She didn't go after younger men. Unlike her mother. Del unceremoniously pushed Kayber aside, then reached for the phone and dialed her mother's number. After several rings, someone picked up. "Yeah? Wh-who's this?" Ken, her mother's newest conquest and third husband, had been drinking again. That's what you get when you marry a nightclub owner. "Is my mother there?" "What ya want her for?" "Just put her on, Ken." She listened while her mother's husband stumbled through the house. He swore loudly after he dropped the phone. She swore too as the sound reverberated into her ear. "Hello?" Jesus! What's taking him so long? Did he pass out? She waited, listening to faint shuffling sounds. She was about to hang up when her mother's cool voice greeted her. "Maureen Walton speaking." "Hi, it's me." "Who?" "It's Delila, Mother." God forbid if you forget to introduce yourself! She couldn't believe that her mother was still playing that game. The woman lived for formality. Proper manners and etiquette, shaking hands, addressing elders by their surnames and owning a house that was treated like a show home. It was all part of her mother's attempt to become the next Miss Manners. Or, God forbid, Martha Stewart. "Delila, I haven't heard from you in weeks. Why haven't you come to visit us?" Del cringed, remembering the last time she had visited. The time Ken tried to cop a feel when she passed him in the hall. "I've been busy." "Too busy to visit your own mother?" Great! Here it comes. "When you were sick with the flu, was I too busy to bring you some magazines?" Her mother's voice was tinged with disapproval. "And when you went away with Tyler or whatever his name is, was I too busy to feed that filthy animal?" Del held the receiver away from her ear and threw Kayber a rueful look. "She's never going to forgive you for peeing in her shoes." She gave her mother a few minutes to vent, then drew the phone back to her ear. What could she possibly say that would shut the woman up? "Dad's alive." A sharp gasp on the other end was followed by silence. "Well, that worked," she said dryly to Kayber who was busy grooming himself. She pressed her ear against the receiver. Dead air. "Are you there, Mother?" "Of course, Delila. Now what's this nonsense about your father?" "I had a visitor today. Professor Schroeder." "Arnold? But that's not possible, dear. They found a piece of his head." "His scalp." "What?" Del gritted her teeth. "They found a piece of his scalp, Mother. And a bit of hair. That's all." "Well, whatever. He was dead and buried along with Neil, Vern and your father six years ago." Del resisted the urge to correct her again. It had been seven years. "Vern?" "Yes, dear. The young man, your father's assistant or whatever he was. At least I think his name was Vern. Or maybe it was Victor…" Her mother's voice dwindled away, lost in thought. "Professor Schroeder says that Dad is alive. He gave me a journal. It has some strange notes in it, Dad's name―" "Arnold always was a bit of an odd duck, Delila. I wouldn't take too much that man said seriously. God only knows where he's been." "I'm going to bring him back, Mother." There was a pause on the other end. "Arnold?" "No. I'm going after Dad." "You can't be serious, Delila. He's dead!" "I am serious. I'm bringing Dad home." She hung up, feeling both relieved and irritated. Why was her mother so heartless? Her parents had been married nearly thirty years. Didn't that count for anything? Didn't the woman care that her husband might still be alive? Or was it that her mother didn't want her perfect little life to come crashing down? Del scowled. She was the first to admit she certainly wasn't an expert on relationships. Look how long it took her to realize that TJ was screwing around on her. He had moved into her house and her heart. Then he betrayed both. She would never forget the day she came home early, barely able to walk and yearning for her bed―only to find that it was otherwise occupied. Her neighbor, Julie Adams, had always been asking whether the rumors about a black man's libido and the size of a specific part of his anatomy were true. Now Julie knew. Del had kicked TJ out on his ass that same day. She shrugged off the dark mood that threatened to engulf her and gave Kayber a quick pat on the head. With the journal and briefcase in her hands, she walked to the large second bedroom that doubled as an office. She flicked on the lamp and was immediately greeted by a pile of final summer exams that screamed to be marked. Turning a deaf ear, she nudged them aside, opened her briefcase and pulled out an empty notebook. She wrote a reminder at the top of the first page. Find out where Schroeder is. Go see him! Then she began to translate Schroeder's journal. An hour later, she gave up trying to make sense of the scribbled notes and strange numerical code. When she finally crawled into bed after marking the exams, it was after midnight. She lay in the dark, the flicker of shadows moving through her room. She pictured her father as she remembered him. Tall, with golden brown hair and rich brown eyes. He was always happy, always smiling. She closed her eyes, her lashes damp with unshed tears. I'm coming for you, Dad. Two Early the next morning, Del entered UBC, greeted security and headed down the hall. At her classroom door, she juggled her briefcase and fumbled with the key. "Del!" She swiveled on one heel and was greeted by Phoebe Smythe, president of the university. Phoebe was a tall, attractive woman with hair the color of rich, dark chocolate―except for the pure white streak that sprouted from her widow's peak. "I just heard," Phoebe said, tucking the streak behind one ear. "Is there anything I can do?" "About what? The fact that a dear friend whom we all thought was dead has returned from the grave? Or that he's adamant that my dad is alive?" "Oh God! I heard about Arnold, but I didn't know anything about your father. Are you all right?" Del shrugged. "I will be. Once I talk to Professor Schroeder. Do you know where he is?" "They took him to Riverview. He's in rough shape, Del." "What did the doctors say?" Phoebe patted her arm. "He has an unusual form of Progeria." "Accelerated aging? But Progeria is usually found in children." "It's a mystery. That's for sure." "Well, that certainly explains why I didn't recognize him. But it still doesn't make sense. Even with Progeria, he shouldn't look as old as he does." "They're bringing a specialist in, Del. Someone from downtown. I heard Progeria, Werner Syndrome…they really don't know. But what they do know is that Arnold's mental capacity is irreparably diminished." "So you're saying he could have made it up―about my dad?" Phoebe slipped her a piece of memo paper. "Call the hospital. Tell them you're family. Arnold's wife moved to London and his sons are both married and living in another province. You're all he has." Alone in her classroom, Del called Riverview Hospital and made arrangements to see Schroeder just before four o'clock. It was going to be a very long day. "In review, anthropology seeks to understand the whole picture when it comes to the study of man―Homo sapiens," Del told her summer class. "As an anthropologist, you will explore geographic space and evolutionary time so that you may understand human existence. Anthropology is a unique blend of folklore and commonplace science. It encompasses the evolution of language and the microscopic killer diseases that have wiped out entire civilizations." She glanced at the clock. "Time's up." "Mr. Cavanaugh, are you okay about yesterday?" she asked Peter as he scurried past. "About the man who was in the classroom?" "I heard he's a friend of yours." "He…is a friend of my dad's." Although he looks old enough to be my grandfather. The young man shifted the laptop and books in his arms. "Is he gonna be alright?" "I hope so." After Peter left, she peered out the window. It was raining. Vancouver―the city of rain. To Del, it was perfect weather to dredge up the past. Perfect weather to revisit the dead. Or not so dead. By the time she reached the outskirts of Riverview Hospital, an early summer storm had unleashed its fury on the entire Vancouver area, swamping the streets with water. She turned into the visitor's parking lot, snatched a ticket from the dispenser and made her way to an empty stall. Dashing through the main doors of the hospital, she was caught off guard by the slippery floor. She slid across the tiled surface―straight into the arms of a very handsome stranger. "Well, hello," he said, rewarding her with a dazzling smile. The man who held her was dressed in a casual suit. But he could have been wearing nothing at all as far as she was concerned. His dark brown hair was slicked back, except for an errant lock over one finely sculpted brow. The man's face was angular, with a strong jaw and ridiculously high cheekbones. He sported a closely shaved moustache and goatee. Kind of a seven o'clock shadow look. Regardless, Del liked it. Hell, what wasn't there to like? If he lets go, I'll melt to the floor. "Sorry. I-I…slipped." "Good thing I was here to catch you then." His voice was warm and inviting, like comfort food. "Yeah, good thing," she murmured. "You don't look sick." "I'm, uh, visiting a friend." "Hmm…lucky friend." Her mouth dropped. Oh my! He released her and she was suddenly cold. "Well, uh…thanks for, uh, catching me." She could have kicked herself. Could she possibly sound more dim-witted? Deep blue eyes swept over her. "Anytime." Mesmerized, she stared as he walked away. Then she turned toward the elevator and made it inside before she caught sight of him again. He was standing at the receptionist's cubicle. Before the elevator doors closed, before her raging hormones kicked into overdrive, the man turned and winked. Cursing under her breath, she jabbed at the button for the third floor―the secured psychiatric wing. When she reached the main nurse's station, she signed a form and was escorted through a set of locked doors. The nurse placed a hand on her arm. "I'll warn you, Miss Hawthorne, we had to sedate him. When he was admitted, he was hallucinating…and he's in a lot of pain." Del forgot all about Mr. Tall, Dark and Oh-So-Sexy the instant she stepped inside Schroeder's room―a room lit only by a small night-light glowing in the far corner. Someone had pulled the curtains partially open but it made no difference. Outside, the raging black sky held the sun at bay and unleashed its wrath. Schroeder was lying in the bed, one wrinkled hand strapped to the rail while the other was swathed in thick cloth bandages. An IV ran from his hand to a bag of clear liquid suspended on a pole, and near the bed, a heart monitor beeped steadily. Del watched the heart blips. Schroeder was still alive. "Professor?" He didn't move. Stepping closer, she stared in shock. Arnold Schroeder's face had severely aged. The skin under his chin hung in loose folds across his neck. Every inch of his spotted flesh was withered and scaly. His lips were cracked, peeling. Yesterday, in her classroom, the man had looked about seventy. Now he looked like he was nearing his nineties. Nearing death. What could have happened to make him age so rapidly? Progeria? Del reached forward and brushed the hair from Schroeder's face. When she withdrew her hand, the hair went with it. Appalled, she shook the tuft into the garbage can next to the bed. The man's rheumy eyes opened slowly. "You're in the hospital," she said, stroking his arm. "Delly?" "I'm here, Professor." "Aw, isn't it about time you called me Arnold?" His question ended with a ragged coughing spell. She picked up a glass of water that was sitting abandoned on a cafeteria tray. She brought the straw to his mouth and was shocked by the sight of his bloody gums and missing teeth. After a few weak sips, he waved the glass away. "Did you find it, Delly?" "The journal? Yeah." "It's all in there. Everything you need to know. Follow your heart. Find the key first. But, Delly…don't tell anyone! If you tell the police that you know your father's alive, you'll both be in danger." He groaned as a spasm of pain wracked his body. Del gripped his hand. "Do you want me to call a nurse?" "No, it's too late for me. It's only a matter of time now. But you, Delly…you have to go, find the key." He coughed sharply, spewing up blood. "Leave no stone unturned. Remember…that. Take care again―" Suddenly, the heart monitor raced and an alarm pierced the air. Del watched, helpless, as every muscle in Schroeder's body convulsed. The veins in his forehead and scalp protruded, his eyes rolled back into their sockets and he let out a horrific scream of agony. Then he collapsed―silent, unmoving. A tall Asian doctor rushed into the room. She was followed closely by two men pushing a crash cart. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave." Del's pulse raced as she stepped out into the hallway. She peered through the small window in the door while the doctor held the paddles over Schroeder's bare chest. When his body arched in response to the electrical current, Del pulled away from the glass. Depressed, she wandered into the small sitting area, with nothing to do but gaze at other visitors, their faces drawn in sorrow as they waited to hear news of a loved one. How she hated hospitals! She hated the smell of death and illness, the taste of decay. She abhorred the poking and prodding by doctors, nurses. And the endless tiresome tests. Yeah, she and hospitals were intimately familiar. She shook her head. No time to dwell on that now. There was Schroeder to think about…and her father. Something terrible had happened to them, and she was determined to find out what. The doctor exited the professor's room and approached with an apologetic look on her face. "You're Arnold Schroeder's family?" Del remained silent. "I'm Dr. Wang. He's stabilized at the moment but I have to tell you, I think it's only a matter of time." Exactly what Schroeder said. "We have a specialist on his way. In fact, he arrived about thirty minutes ago." Del was shocked. What's taking him so long? Dr. Wang suddenly smiled. "There he is now. Excuse me." Standing at the counter, the specialist turned his head and Del recognized him immediately. The man from the hospital lobby. Dr. Wang greeted him. They exchanged a few words and the doctor shook her head. Minutes later, they disappeared into Schroeder's room. Del's shock quickly turned to anger. Mr. Tall, Dark, Oh-So-Sexy and Selfish had certainly taken his sweet old time. He should have been checking on Schroeder, not flirting with her. She left the hospital feeling pissed off and disappointed. At the handsome specialist…and herself. An hour later, she was sitting in her living room with Lisa. Lisa Shaw had been her best friend since high school. They were like sisters, although Lisa was the complete opposite of her in almost every way. Six inches shorter than Del's five-foot-nine frame, Lisa was a brunette with a figure made for modeling. Her eyes were hazel in comparison to Del's pale blue. "So exactly how cute was this guy?" Lisa asked between mouthfuls of pizza. "I mean, was he Orlando Bloom cute or Harrison Ford cute?" "More like Johnny Depp cute." "My God!" "Well, he thinks he is." Lisa threw her a knowing look. "You think he's a God too, Delila Bea Hawthorne. I know it." Del felt the heat rising in her face. "Shut up and eat your pizza." "So, you gonna show me this book?" Del grabbed the journal and set it on the table. Lisa opened it carefully. "What's with all these numbers?" One line read 233253 = 3132218142! And one number was repeated throughout the book. 233253. "I have no idea." Lisa scowled. "He's not much of an artist." "Just because you studied under David C. Miller doesn't mean everyone had that honor." Miller was an internationally acclaimed marine artist from the United States, and he had taken Lisa under his wing. In two weeks, Lisa's newest collection of giclee canvases would be shown at Imagine―one of the most prestigious art galleries in Canada. There was already a buzz amongst the media, and some influential people planned to attend. Even Miller and his wife would be there for the big reveal. "This looks like a tree, Del. With two main branches. See? And this N shows that he was looking north through the trees." "How the hell am I supposed to find my dad with this?" "The professor said everything was in this book, right? Well then, you'll figure it out. When are you leaving?" Del's shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure. I have to make flight arrangements, but I can't even do that until I find some people to come with me." "You know I'd go…if I didn't have this―" "I completely understand, Lis. I'll find someone to help me bring my dad back. You just make sure your show is a smashing success." "What about TJ?" Lisa asked hesitantly. Del arched a brow. "What about him?" "You know he'd do anything for you. Plus he's an expert rafter." "Yeah, and an expert liar." "Have you seen Julie lately? She's an elephant." Lisa mimed a huge pregnant belly, then noticed Del's expression. "Oh, crap, Del. I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it. TJ made his bed―well, mine actually―and he doesn't seem to mind lying in it. I hope he's happy with her. And the kid. He always said he wanted a large family." She closed the journal, signaling the end of the conversation. "Do you want butter or cheese popcorn, my friend?" Lisa gave her a wide-eyed innocent look. "Why not both?" Del snorted. If there was one true gift that her friend had, it was the ability to make her laugh. "Comic relief. That's what you're here for, Lis." They watched two Jackie Chan movies back-to-back, pigged out on popcorn and finished off two six-packs of beer. Then Lisa passed out on the couch, snoring softly and fighting for space with Kayber. When Del crawled into bed, she wasn't feeling any pain either. A million thoughts raced through her mind when she awoke. How could she possibly convince anyone to join her on a crazy trek down the Nahanni River? People would think she was nuts if she told them she was searching for her presumed-dead father. And who in their right mind would go with her, knowing that she had no idea where her father might be and no proof that he was actually alive? Maybe I should ask TJ to go with me. Frustrated, she whipped the blankets aside and listened for the familiar clanging of pots and pans that always followed one of Lisa's sleepovers. There were no sounds of life from the kitchen. Del's stomach growled rebelliously. Groaning with hunger, she clambered out of bed. She threw on an old blue robe, stuffed her feet into Tweety slippers and plodded into the hallway. "Hey, Lisa!" she hollered, raking her fingers through unruly, short blond curls. "Is breakfast ready?" No one answered. She reached the kitchen, expecting the aroma of bacon and coffee to assault her senses. What she got was a note stuck to the fridge door. Mrs. Johnny Depp, I left you some herbal tea. It has some kind of root bark from Africa in it. Supposed to give you energy, ward off the effects of alcohol.  Love Lisa. XO P.S. I called TJ. He said of course he'll go. "Traitor!" Del muttered. She looked around the empty, foodless kitchen and spotted Kayber pacing by the door. She threw him a disgruntled look. "The least she could have done was make us breakfast." Lisa's tea sat on the counter, in an unmarked bag. Sniffing the contents suspiciously, Del prayed that her house wouldn't be the target of a drug raid. "Whatever's in here probably isn't tea." It probably isn't legal either. She made herself a cup, just to be sure. Afterward, she headed for Bio-Tec. Three It had been years since she had set foot inside Bio-Tec Canada, the company her father had worked for. The company that was mentioned in Schroeder's journal. Not much had changed. Even Annette Taylor was still there. The receptionist's eyes widened as Del approached. "Delila, what a surprise. What are you doing here?" "I'm not really sure, Annette. Who's in charge now?" "Edward Moran." Moran had been one of her father's associates, a man with a hard edge and a way of looking at her that made her cringe. She had always avoided him whenever her father had invited her to social events. "Do you want me to buzz him for you, Delila?" "I guess so. To be honest, I'm not even sure why I'm here." She was starting to sweat and her legs were beginning to shake. Damn! Not now! Annette returned with a glass of water. "Mr. Moran will be down shortly. Can I get you anything else?" "No, I'm fine, Annette. Thanks." Ten minutes later, Edward Moran strutted through the doorway, his chest puffed like an old rooster. He was a heavy-set man with a round, pudgy face. Small, squinty brown eyes were framed by copper-rimmed glasses perched atop a thick nose. Dark, curly hair receded from a wide forehead and settled into gray streaks above his ears. On some men it would look distinguished but on Moran, it just made him look old. The man's navy-colored suit strained across his stomach as he approached. It was at least one size too small. The black buttons on the jacket were fastened…barely. One sneeze or cough would likely send them flying like shrapnel, and Del pitied whoever was in the line of fire. "Delila Hawthorne, is that really you?" "Can we talk somewhere private?" Moran shrugged. "Of course. This way, please." She followed him down a narrow corridor to a door that read Edward T. Moran, CEO. He opened it and allowed her to pass. "You're looking as lovely as ever, by the way." It didn't take Del long to remember what she had always disliked about the man. He had a habit of licking his lips every so often, especially whenever his eyes landed on a woman. His fat pink tongue would sweep around his mouth in a full circle, leaving a trail of saliva behind. Yeah, maybe Moran had chronic dry mouth, but it probably had something to do with what he imagined when he watched her. His gaze never seemed to fully meet hers. Instead, his eyes constantly drifted toward her cleavage. He made her feel dirty, violated. I'll need a bath after this. Moran beckoned toward a couch in his office. She moved toward the armchair instead and self-consciously folded her arms across her chest. Lick. "So what can I do for you, Delila?" "I'm here about my dad," she said. Moran sat down across from her, leaned forward and patted her knee, lingering far too long. "Your father? Yes, well, it was a sad event. We were all very sorry." She brushed his hand away. "Mr. Moran, haven't you heard? Arnold Schroeder, my dad's friend, is alive." "Really?" His face went pale and his tongue slithered over his lips again. "So, why have you come to see me?" "I thought perhaps you knew where they had been heading. Before they disappeared, I mean." Moran shook his head. "Why don't you ask the professor?" "He's in the hospital. Dying." He gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry but I can't help you. I wasn't included in their plans. Besides, it's been seven years now. I'm sorry to hear about your friend and I'm sure that you didn't need a reminder of your father's death. If there's anything I can do for you…" His eyes drifted to her blouse again. She bolted to her feet, desperate to get out of the man's office, into some fresh air. "My dad is alive, Mr. Moran!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she recalled Schroeder's warning. Edward Moran's jaw dropped and his face lost all color. The last thing she saw before slamming the door behind her was a small black button springing free from the man's jacket. She heard the soft ping as it hit the floor. Heading for the parking lot, she climbed into her car, pulled out her cell phone and called TJ. He picked up on the first ring. "Yeah?" "Meet me at the Starbuck's, near my place." She hung up. Lisa was right. TJ really was the perfect choice. He was skilled in canoeing and rafting, and he was great at organizing outdoor events. He was great at a lot of things, Del realized. Including lying, cheating and deceiving. And being late, she thought twenty minutes later. TJ was running on Tyrone Jackson time. As usual. She was about to call him again when she heard her name. She spotted TJ weaving his way through the coffee addict crowd, carrying two venti cappuccinos. He put the coffees on the table, then grinned. "Long time no see, Del? I missed ya." He enfolded her in his arms, kissing her soundly on the lips. She pushed him away, gaped at him. "What, no more dreadlocks? What happened to you?" TJ ran a hand over his short black hair. "Julie happened." Del flinched, her eyes drawn to the gold-plated dog tags she had given him. Was that only two years ago? It had been seven months since she had booted TJ out. Seven long months of lonely nights and an empty bed. Damn! He looked good―real good. Suddenly, she stopped herself. What was she thinking? TJ had a girlfriend. A very pregnant girlfriend. Crossing her arms, she flopped in the chair. "How is Julie?" TJ slid into the chair across from her. "She's good. Baby's doing fine too. Due in six weeks. So what's going down, Del? You wanna go way up north in the middle of nowhere?" She nodded, not trusting her voice. "You really think your dad's still alive?" "Yes." "But how do you know for sure?" he asked. "Your dad's friend could've been hallucinating, making it up. Who knows what happened to him out there? Don't you think if your dad was alive, he'd try to contact you, somehow?" "What did Lisa tell you?" His warm brown eyes locked on hers. "That you needed me." She scowled. It would be a cold day in hell before she needed TJ again. Well, other than on this trip anyway. TJ let out a frustrated sigh. "She said you think your dad's alive, lost somewhere up north. And that you have a map or something." Or something. "When you wanna go, Del?" She held her breath. "Two weeks?" "That soon?" His brow arched in shock. "Doesn't give us much time to get organized. We're gonna need a tracker. Someone good in the mountains. We'll also need a couple more people, that's for sure. Someone to work on the code and someone who can handle a canoe. Know anyone?" "Peter Cavanaugh. You remember him?" "Ain't he the kid who's got a crush on you?" Del blushed. "He told me he took a whitewater course last summer. Says he's pretty good, and he seems really excited about going. In fact, he insisted." "Man! He's got it bad. You asking some others or you want me to?" "No, you go ahead. Ask anyone you want. Whatever it takes to get my dad back." They finished their cappuccinos in awkward silence. When she rose to leave, he restrained her. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Then he let go of her arm, without saying a word. "I can't wait around for you," she warned. "So if you're going to do this―" "Call me Monday," he said, cutting her off. "I'll check around, see who I can find to come with us." He followed her to the door and she stared at him as he crossed the street. On the other side, he held a closed fist up to one ear, extended his thumb and pinkie, wiggling his hand. "Call me!" Walking home, Del felt a burning in the back of her throat. She squared her shoulders, fighting the urge to break down. There was no time for tears. Her father's life depended on her strength and resolve. She would not let him down. Secure in the familiarity of her small two-bedroom house, her eyes searched the fireplace mantle, lingering on a photograph of her father. She recalled his contagious laughter and corny jokes. And the dam finally broke. She wept for her father, a man who was taken away from everything and everyone he loved. A man who was waiting for God-knows-what as his fate. She cried for the lost years, for the young woman who had stood at his graveside believing that her father was gone forever. When her tears subsided, she sunk into a dark depression. She ached for her father, terrified that they'd be too late. "Dad?" she called out to the empty room. "I'm coming for you." Exhausted and emotionally drained, she fell asleep on the couch, dreaming of her father―young and full of life. In her dream, he feigned annoyance when she beat him and his poker buddies one night, even though she knew he was secretly proud. Then the dream flashed to the night she had invited her parents for dinner in her small one-bedroom apartment. Her father had teased her about her hockey puck Yorkshire puddings. He called them doorstoppers. In her sleep, she smiled. Until the brash ringing of the telephone jolted her awake. "Y-yeah?" "Delly?" She sat up immediately, gripping the phone tightly. "Professor Schroeder? How did―" "Delly, I don't…time. You need…follow your heart. And remember, leave no stone…care…Bio-Tec." "Professor, I can barely hear you! I already went to Bio-Tec. They don't know anything." "Go back! Take care again―" The line went dead. Spurred by panic, she dropped the phone, snatched up a notepad and scribbled Schroeder's words on an empty page. Damn! She had to pay Bio-Tec another visit in the morning. And sure as hell, Edward Moran―with his slimy wet lips―would be there to greet her. Edward slammed an angry fist down on the desk. "Where the hell are they, you sonofabitch?" It was early morning and he was in the main NB Lab, typing furiously at the keyboard in front of him. The monitor kept flashing him the same message. No such files exist! It had been seven years since Lawrence Hawthorne went missing and was presumed dead. In that time, Edward had taken over most of Lawrence's research, but he was positive there was more. He suspected that the man had enlisted the aid of an encryption expert, encoded his files so that they were virtually invisible. But they were there. Somewhere. It was only a matter of time before he found them. Hawthorne had been researching something big before he disappeared. And someone else obviously knew about it. Four years ago, the NB Lab was broken into and tossed. Whoever was responsible for the break-in walked away with a number of files, notebooks…and Hawthorne's laptop. "Looking for something in particular?" Edward cast a sharp look at a white-smocked doctor standing in one corner juggling test tubes. "Pardon me, Jake?" The doctor edged closer while Edward tapped the keyboard and hastily exited from the lab directory. "Just wondering if you were looking for something specific." "I'd appreciate it if you would finish doing whatever it is that you were doing and leave me to my work." Insolent ass! Edward struggled to remember the doctor's surname. Nothing came to mind. Jake whatever-his-name-was had been with Bio-Tec for almost ten years, just two years less than he had, but they had never worked together. When the board had voted for a new CEO after Lawrence's disappearance, Jake had come in a close second, but Edward's seniority had won out in the end. Edward hid a furtive smile. The lab exuded power and success with its state-of-the-art equipment and leading technology. Countless lab workers surrounded him, busily nattering to each other about test results. To Edward, it sounded like some kind of classified code operated by a secret club. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. As CEO of a leading corporation like Bio-Tec, he basked in the glory of astounding discoveries and technological advances that only his research team had accomplished. As far as he was concerned, he was Bio-Tec Canada. The many doctors and experts were simply the mice in his lab, running the maze and searching for results. He was the one handing them the reward for work well done. Of course, he'd dip into those rewards too―whenever he could get away with it. He strode past Jake. His eyes narrowed when he saw the doctor cast a hasty look toward the main computer terminal. The last thing he needed was Jake snooping around in the files. Relax. He's a doctor, not a computer whiz. Reluctantly, Edward strolled through the automated doors. He was about to head for his office when his pager beeped. Perturbed by the message, he swore loudly and hurried toward the main reception area. He saw Delila before she noticed him. Lawrence Hawthorne had created a real beauty, but there was something about the woman that Edward didn't like. Not only was her confidence intimidating, she was also seemingly immune to his charm. What in blazes does she want now? He caught the glimmer of fury in her blue eyes as they fastened on him. His tongue flicked over his mouth, this time from sheer nervousness. He'd have to be very careful around her. "Did you forget something yesterday?" "I have a few more questions, Mr. Moran. Your office?" Edward did not like her curt manner one bit. He stomped into his office, huffing indignantly. Then he closed the door behind them and got right down to business. "While I can appreciate that you're having difficulty accepting your father's death, I hope you can appreciate that I'm a very busy man. We're in the middle of a huge research proj―" "I'm not here to talk about your research. I want to know where my dad's files are." He couldn't believe the woman's audacity. "That's Bio-Tec's property! Anything your father did here we own. You should know that." "It might be the only way I'll find him." What could he possibly say to get her off his back and off Bio-Tec grounds? He stood abruptly. "Follow me." When they reached the NB Lab, he swiped a small card through a keypad, pushed a button and beckoned her inside. He took her arm, steered her toward the main computer terminal. "This is where your father worked seven years ago. A lot has changed since then." Shit! Jake―the obnoxious moron―was sitting at the monitor, with his back to them. Edward paused. "The lab was broken into a few years ago. Most of your father's stuff was stolen. His files were deleted." The woman eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. "Of course I knew you wouldn't believe me so I brought you here to show you. Once I do, I expect you to stop coming here. Do you understand, Miss Hawthorne?" "Oh, I understand perfectly." The intensity of her glare burned a hole through his skull, and he was the first to look away. Del battled a multitude of thoughts, furious at Edward Moran's demeanor. Her father's files may have been deleted, but Schroeder had tried to tell her that there was something at Bio-Tec. All she had to do was find out what. Moran tapped the shoulder of the doctor sitting at the computer, then he leaned down slightly and said something, motioning the man to stay seated. "Delila Hawthorne, this is Jake. He'll be happy to show you the folder that your father used." When the man in the chair turned, she found herself ogling the attractive blue-eyed doctor from Riverview. Schroeder's specialist. Mr. Tall, Dark and Oh-So-Sexy. She struggled to catch her breath. Oh crap! The man appeared equally as stunned. "We've met. Well, sort of." He held out a hand. "Jake Kerrigan, scientist and doctor. How are you doing today?" She slipped her hand in his, then pulled back quickly, feeling a bit lightheaded from the electrifying contact. "I'm fine." "Yes, you are," the doctor said boldly. "Grab a chair." "Thank you, Dr. Kerrigan." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she paused. Kerrigan. Why did that sound so familiar? In the hospital, Schroeder's doctor had never mentioned the specialist's name. She was sure of it. "What kind of specialist are you exactly?" A smile formed on the man's lips. "I specialize in youth. Actually, in layman's terms, I'm researching the aging process and aging diseases such as Progeria. We've made some fascinating discoveries in the past ten years." "Is that why you went to see Arnold Schroeder?" "I've run some tests on your…friend." "Professor Schroeder was my dad's friend. And my mentor." There was a look of surprise on the doctor's face. "You're an anthropologist? I never would have guessed." Behind her, Moran let out an impatient huff. She clasped her hands tightly. "Dr. Kerrigan…" There it was again, that faint recognition. "Jake," he insisted. "I'm not one for formalities." My mother would hate you then. Del saw Moran move closer, until his vast stomach pressed against the mahogany desk. He observed every move Jake made on the computer. When the doctor made a data entry error and had to backtrack, Moran's beady eyes flicked him a look of disdain. "I'll leave you two at it then," he said after a while. "Remember what I said, Delila. I don't expect to see you back here again." He made his way toward the doors. As far as she was concerned, Edward Moran hadn't left soon enough. Something about the man made her feel as though an army of fire ants were crawling over her body. "There you go," Jake said, angling the monitor toward her. He pulled up a folder labeled with her father's name. It was empty. Nothing. Not one file. Moran was right. Someone had deleted all her father's work. But why? She stared at the screen, willing it to change. "Can you do a search? See if he had files stored someplace else?" "Let's see what comes up if I search for one of your father's research topics." He glanced up from the keyboard. "Do you prefer Miss Hawthorne or Delila?" "Call me Del. Everyone does." "Ok, Del. It could take a few minutes for the computer to scan all the files. Why don't we head for the lounge, grab a coffee?" They swiveled in their chairs simultaneously, their knees knocking together. Jake gave her a rueful look. "Sorry. Ladies first." She stood, then followed him. "Did you know my dad?" "Yeah, he was a great guy. We worked on a few projects together. You're a lot like him." "Is that a good thing?" He flashed her a wicked smile. "Uh-huh. Very good." Embarrassed, she looked away. "So, are you going to tell me why you're here, Del?" She thought of Schroeder's warning. No police. Well, Jake wasn't the police, but could she trust him? She had already let it slip to Moran that she thought her father was still alive. That could prove to be a huge mistake. Thankfully, the lounge was empty. The pastel beige walls of the room were bare, except for a set of brightly colored prints that someone had hung in an attempt to make the room cozier. Coffee-stained laminate counters held a variety of small appliances, including an ancient microwave―maybe the first ever built. In the corner, an old refrigerator rumbled and coughed, probably on its last legs too. So much for advanced technology. "You need a visit from the While You Were Out gang." "Hey!" Jake scowled. "I decorated this room myself." "Don't give up your day job." "Ha, ha," he said wryly. "Has anyone ever told you you're like Samson's Delila? Chop off a man's hair or chop him off at his ego, it's all the same." She laughed at his wounded expression. "So what are the pictures of?" "Nanomachines." She stared at him blankly. "Extremely minuscule electromechanical devices. Computers. Programmed with different functions, like repairing molecular anomalies or malfunctions. They're manufactured on the nanoscopic scale, so they're invisible to the naked eye." "It's hard to imagine a computer that small." "Your father was working on a few projects involving Nanotechnology. But he was especially interested in genetic diseases. I was very sad to hear about his death. We all were." She flinched. But he's still alive! "Were you here when the lab was broken into?" she asked. "Yeah, but I was working in another part of the building. It was late, probably close to eleven o'clock. I still don't understand how anyone could have gotten past security. All the doors are locked and coded at night." "So the only people who can get in are those with the codes?" "Or an ID pass." Jake held up a small card identical to the one Moran had used. "Didn't security spot anything?" "Yeah, a ghost." Her head shot up in shock. "Just kidding," he said. "There was a glitch in the computer system. It showed that Neil Parnitski had logged in." "Parnitski? But that's not possible. They found his body when my dad went missing." "Someone could have taken his pass card…if he had it on him at the time. Although, there are no markings on our cards. They don't even say Bio-Tec. A stranger in the woods wouldn't have a clue what the pass card unlocked." Del bit her lip. But someone traveling with Parnitski would. The thought troubled her. If her father was alive, why would he break into the lab and steal his own files? And why would he go back to the Nahanni, put his life in danger? Nothing made sense. "The computer should be done," Jake said quietly. "Let's see what it has to say." Following him to the lab, Del read the message on the screen. No such files exist! She wanted to cry. The empty folder with her father's name on it was the only sign that he had even worked at Bio-Tec. It was almost as if he had been…erased. Jake's mouth tightened. "Sorry, Del." "I was so sure that there was something here. Arnold Schroeder said there was." "What exactly did he tell you?" "He was rambling on about Bio-Tec. About…I don't know." Frustrated, she reached for her handbag and pulled out the notepad. She flipped the pages until she came to the note on Schroeder's call. She showed it to Jake. "You need…care…Bio-Tec," he read. "Go back. Take care again." Del slapped her forehead. Of course, you idiot! Take Kerrigan! Her head snapped in Jake's direction. He had a bewildered expression on his finely chiseled face. "Jake, Schroeder says my dad is alive, somewhere on the Nahanni River." "After all this time?" "I know it seems impossible but I believe him. Didn't Schroeder say anything to you when you went to see him in the hospital?" "Not a word, Del. By the time I finished reading his files and made it to his room, he had already coded. And when I left, he was unconscious. I've been running his blood work from here." "How close were you to my dad? I mean, there must be some reason why Schroeder thinks I should take you." His eyes flickered nervously. "Take me where?" "To the Nahanni River. To find my dad. Schroeder thinks you should go with me. Probably because my dad trusted you." She paused for a moment. Maybe she was wrong. "He did trust you, didn't he?" Jake's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious, Del! How the hell do you expect to find him after all these years? If he's really alive." "I know he's alive! I can't explain how, but I know it. I've always known it. When my mother and I buried him, I knew the coffin was empty for a reason. Not because they hadn't found his body, but because I knew there was no body. At least not a dead one." "Wait! I don't understand why you need me. I don't know anything about your father's disappearance." "Maybe not, but you knew my dad, how he thinks." Tension invaded the air, sucking out the oxygen as Del waited for his answer. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I can't possibly leave right now. Especially to go on some wild goose chase up north. I'm in the middle of a huge research project and―" "Forget it!" Snatching the notepad from his hand, she hurried to the exit. As the doors parted, she threw him a withering look. "The professor was in perfect health before he went to the Nahanni." When he said nothing, she huffed in exasperation. "Doesn't it make you the least bit curious about how he could've developed Progeria?" She stalked out of the lab. Bastard! You can read the rest of THE RIVER at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com Under a Texas Star by Alison Bruce UNDER A TEXAS STAR by Alison Bruce Chapter 1 Trailing from one dusty town to another in pursuit of a criminal fugitive was a job for a bounty hunter with a good horse and a small arsenal. It was tough work for a slim boy of small build, few means and fewer possessions―tougher still when the boy wasn't a boy at all, but a girl. It wasn't the walking. Marly was used to spending most of her day on her feet in the yard of the schoolhouse her aunt taught in, tending the kitchen garden, feeding the chickens, hanging the laundry or walking the mile to town for whatever errand Aunt Adele required. It wasn't the weight of the oversized oilskin coat or the bedroll slung across her back. They were nothing to hefting a crate of books or a basket of surplus eggs and vegetables into town to trade for flour and sugar. It was the solitude. Once upon a time, Marly would have reveled in the opportunity to get away from her aunt's incessant homilies, the critical stares of her aunt's cronies and even the kinder yet oppressive expectations of her friends. Now she realized that the outside clamor would be preferable to her own self-critical reflections. The long walks as she travelled from one town to another, gave her too much time to dwell on the events that put her on this solitary trail. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," her Aunt Adele would say. "No good turn goes unpunished," was more like it. It had started with a trip to the Doc's house. The two Johnnys had been fighting again. The on-and-off best friends were trying out their fledgling boxing skills. Marly blocked a stray punch while grabbing hold of the smaller John Henry. John Thomas' wrist gave way. Despite the pain, he was quite cheerful during the trek into town. Doc's chiding would be nothing compared to one of Miss Gumm's lectures, a fact he was quite comfortable sharing with Marly. She pointed out that her aunt wouldn't forget to punish him when he returned. When they came in sight of the Doc's house and found Sheriff Langtree on the porch, Johnny's fear of trouble was so obvious, Marly almost laughed. "I just sent a deputy to fetch you," the sheriff said by way of a greeting. "I brought Doc a wounded man. Victim of a hold-up. I think Doc could use your help. Rebecca's got her hands full and I've been ejected for being no help at all." Marly gave him a quick smile and consigned John Thomas to the sheriff's care. Ever since she provided first-aid and brought John Henry's older brother Joe in―after he shot his toe off with his father's borrowed revolver―Marly had become the Doc's go-too person when he needed more help than his wife could provide. "Just who we need," Doc said, looking up from his work. "Wash up, my girl. Take over for Becky so she can get back to Mrs. Applegate. She picked shopping day to go into labor. Silly first-timer mistake to make. " "Babies come when babies come," said the childless Becky on her way out. "Except when they don't." Marly spent the next hour assisting the removal of two slugs and the stitching of the wounds. This mostly consisted of handing implements to the doctor and the application of ether on a breathing cup when the patient started to rouse. Doc saw to John Thomas. She cleaned up and held the basin for the man as the effects of the ether wore off and nausea settled in. She bathed his face with lavender water, known for its cleansing and calming powers. When his hazel eyes cleared and he was fully conscious, his eyes lit with appreciation and genuine esteem. "I must be dead," he croaked, his throat raw from the ether, "for you are certainly an angel." Right, thought Marly, kicking a stone down the dusty road. Not an angel, but a naïve chit of a girl to be taken in by slick words and hazel eyes. Maybe if she hadn't been taken in by Charlie Meese, neither would the townspeople of Cherryville, Kansas. She had opened the door to a trickster because he appealed to her latent vanity. That girl was left behind in Cherryville. The Marly Landers that was tracking Charlie and the money down was now a scruffy boy in oversized clothes and a droopy, weather-worn hat. Chapter 2 "DO NOT ARREST―STOP―FOLLOW TO EL PASO AND MONEY―STOP..." Texas Ranger Jason―Jase―Strachan reread the telegram, then stuffed it into one the copious pockets of his duster. Jase wasn't surprised by the order. He was on the trail of a confidence man, who had made the mistake of cheating some very powerful people in Austen. However, arresting him now wouldn't recover the half million dollars he had embezzled. Dog Flats wasn't much. A couple of houses, a general store and a saloon. Blink and he'd ride right by. Most people―and more importantly, the stage―did just that. That was one of the reasons Jase chose the town. The other walked through the door just as he settled into the back corner of the saloon with his second beer. The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, yet he marched up to the barkeep, bold as brass, and demanded a job. "Don't need anyone," said the grizzle-haired man behind the bar. "I can wait tables, wash dishes, cook, clean. I'm a hard worker and you don't have to pay me. All I want is room and board for the night." Jase waited. The bartender stared down at the boy. The boy smiled back at the man. "You can start by clearing tables. Put yer stuff at the back." For three days, Jase had watched the same scene play out, afternoon or early evening. Arriving in town, the boy would talk himself into a job sweeping floors, washing dishes, mucking barns―all for supper, a packed lunch and a roof for the night. Then, at sunrise, he was on the road, walking or hitching a ride to the next town. Town by town, he advanced across Texas. The kid was patient and determined. It wasn't just the boy's tenacity that caught Jase's notice. The kid was making his own inquiries as he travelled. He was asking after the same man Jase was tracking. "You a Yank, boy?" Jase's attention snapped to one of the part-of-the-furniture patrons that saloons like this attracted. The man looked like he hadn't moved from his table in years. Evidently, he still had some life in him because he had a vice grip on the boy's wrist. "Leave the kid alone, Hayes," called another old geezer at the next table. "I asked you a question." Hayes pulled the boy in close, breathing whiskey into his face. "Are you a Yankee?" "Just say no," another patron advised. "I'm from Kansas." A hush fell over the room and Jase edged forward in his seat, ready to intervene if necessary. "And my folks were from Massachusetts, not Missouri, so I guess that makes me a Yank." "She-it," sighed the old geezer. "A Yankee killed my boy," Hayes snapped. "A Reb killed my father," the boy replied. "Another raped and killed my mother. Would have killed me too, if his sergeant hadn't found him and shot him first." Hayes dropped the boy's wrist. Jase sat back. Crisis averted. "Bring me another bottle," said a subdued Hayes. The boy stared at the man for several heartbeats, then turned toward the kitchen, not the bar. A few minutes later, he returned with a cup of coffee and a plate of cold beef and bread. "Before you throw that plate in my face," the boy said, "let me just point out that I'm paying for this meal with my work and you would be grievously insulting my hospitality." Hayes gave the boy a dismissive wave. For a long time, he stared at the plate as if the food might jump up and bite him. Finally, he took a sip of coffee. Then his appetite kicked in and he started picking at the plate. Jase took his empty beer glass up to the bar for a refill and had a few words with the bartender. Minutes later, the boy was sent over to his table. He was a scruffy lad in faded, dust-laden jeans that were a size too big and a work shirt that would have fit a man twice his size. He had hung his ground-scraping duster on a hook at the back with his bedroll―the only luggage he seemed to have. But he was still wearing his hat, which was an indeterminate brown and shapeless except for the turned up brim at the front. For all that, his face and neck were clean and his long red hair was neatly braided, Indian-style, down his back. "You want me for something, mister?" "I'd like to buy you a good meal. I thought steak and potatoes. If there's something else you would prefer―" "I eat in the kitchen, sir." "You just gave away your supper," Jase said in a dry tone. "I've arranged it with your boss. I'm taking care of your dinner and accommodations so you have the rest of the night off. You would be grievously insulting my hospitality to refuse." The boy's mouth twitched. He didn't sit or leave. Head tipped slightly to one side, he gave Jase a speculative stare. "You've been following me. Why?" "Hardly following you. I generally make town several hours ahead of you. Why are you following me, Marly Landers?" The boy's eyes narrowed. "What's your business, mister?" Jase pulled his jacket aside to reveal a tin star. "I'm a Texas Ranger." The kid was unimpressed. Jase broke the stare-down and leaned back, running his fingers through his shaggy, sandy-brown hair. "I reckon," he drawled, "that if I was to make inquiries in Kansas, I might just turn up something on you, Marly Landers. If I made inquiries." Landers shrugged and sat. Through dinner, they parried each other's questions. Landers admitted that he was headed in the general direction of El Paso. "Personal business," the boy said. "Of no interest to a Texas Ranger." "I'm probably gonna end up in El Paso," Jase admitted. But he didn't share the nature of his business. "What do you say to travelling together? I supply a horse and tack. You agree to work for me 'til we get to El Paso." The boy was reluctant, so he added, "It's either that or I hog-tie you and carry you across my saddle." The kid grinned and rocked back on his chair. "Okay. You'll have to teach me how to ride." Jase held out a hand. "Deal." No one had a horse to sell in Dog Flats and Landers refused to ride with Jase. No amount of cajoling or coercion worked on the boy. Fortunately, Mr. Hayes came to the rescue. He had a small farm, which he leased out for drinking money. Hayes persuaded his tenant to give Landers a ride to Abilene. It meant a late start because the farmer wasn't going to waste a day without taking trade goods with him. Jase took it in stride. They set out just before noon. Landers sat beside Farmer Jorgen with a basket of cold chicken, peaches, black bread and pickles between them. Jase rode alongside where the road permitted and he accepted whatever food was offered. His attention was focused, not on the mobile picnic, but on Landers. The boy, who would barely give Jase the time of day last night, was relating his life history to the fatherly Jorgen, including the story of his mother's death. "It happened after the surrender," Landers explained. "There was a group of Gray-coats heading home, still armed. They were hungry and my mother fed them, then asked them to move on, which they did. Then a couple of them came back after dark." "You remember this?" Jorgen asked, shocked. "You couldn't have been more than two or three years old." "A little more than that." Landers pursed his lips, holding back a further comment. "Anyway, their sergeant came back too late to save my mother, but just in time to stop them from hurting me. He shot them." "What happened to you then?" "Sarge took me with him. Didn't want to trust me to the Yankees." Jase bit his tongue. "You were a brave little boy," Jorgen remarked. "Did you have no other family?" "I have an aunt―my mother's sister. I had never met her. There were letters from her with my mother and father's wedding picture." The boy reached into one of the pockets of his duster and pulled out a small leather-bound folder. Inside was a tintype photograph of a young couple on their wedding day. He flashed it at Jase as though to prove he did indeed have parents, then held it for Mr. Jorgen to have a look. "Sarge took it from the house, along with the little bit of jewelry my mother had. He kept it safe until Aunt Adele sent for me." "Sent?" Jase asked. "Sarge was going to take me west with him. He said we could make a new family. He wrote my aunt, using the most recent letter for the address. He let her know I was alive and being taken care of, and that we'd stop in Waco for a spell before heading west if she wanted to write back. He didn't expect anything to come of it. Nothing did at first. We travelled together for almost a year before her letter caught us up." Jase frowned. "What did it say?" "She asked him to bring me home, which was stupid because she never liked me." By the time they made Abilene, it was late afternoon. Jorgen stopped at the closest livery, bid them a safe journey and continued on his business. "You take care of Grandee," Jase told Landers, handing him the reins of his horse. "Can you do that?" "Yes, sir." "I'm gonna arrange our accommodations. Stay put 'til I return." Jase sought out a cheap hotel and booked a room. Then he strolled over to the telegraph office and wired a short report to his superiors. Back at the livery stable, he found Landers mucking stalls. A stable hand was chewing a straw and cleaning tack as he chatted with the boy. When he noticed Jase, he made himself look busy, checking a bridle for signs of wear. Landers, on the other hand, paused in his work and nodded a greeting. Sweat streamed down his face, cutting rivulets in the trail dust. Jase shook his head. "You don't have to do that." "Yes, I do. You might have expense money, but I have to earn my keep." "Fine. Do what you have to and I'll do what I have to. When you're hungry, make your way to the hotel. We're staying at the DeSoto." He picked up his saddlebags and Landers' bedroll. "Wash up before you come." It was well past suppertime when Landers made his appearance in the hotel restaurant. Though his clothes were soiled, his hands, face and neck were scrubbed clean. By way of greeting, he handed Jase the quarter dollar in change he had earned at the stables. Jase pocketed the coins. "I hope you'll let me buy supper." He summoned the waitress. A pretty woman in plain clothing brought a coffee pot and an extra cup to their table. She filled their cups while he placed an order for cold beef and fried potatoes. He laid on the charm and his Texas drawl, since she was holding the kitchen open for them. Conversation was spare. The kid was obviously exhausted and Jase was busy with his own thoughts. His quarry had passed through Abilene two days ago, still headed for El Paso. Jase was taking a chance of getting too far behind by taking Landers. He told his Captain that he thought the boy might be an accomplice. Truth be told, he suspected that Landers was heading west to find the old Rebel who saved his life. In the boy's eyes, Sarge was a hero, but Jase knew of more than one discharged gray-coat, who had found it hard to leave the war behind and had taken to the outlaw life. He didn't want to see the boy fall into the wrong hands. It offended his honor. It wasn't a brilliant career move to let a wayward kid slow down a criminal investigation. Yet, there was some connection, however tenuous, between the boy and his quarry. That thought paced back and forth in Jase's mind, until Landers nodded off over his apple pie. "Come on," Jase said, prodding the boy. "Go get some rest." He sent Landers up to the room, alone. Jase had to see a man about a horse. Landers was gone when Jase awoke. The boy had packed his bedroll and left it by the washstand. Jase found him in the dining room, pouring coffee for other early risers. "Kid," he said between yawns, "you're unnaturally productive. Don't you ever give it a rest? Speaking of which, you didn't have to sleep on the floor. I would've shoved you over when I came to bed." Landers shrugged and fetched two cups of coffee, leaving the pot on the counter for someone else to wield. After a large and greasy breakfast, Jase dissuaded the boy from any further labor. It was time for him to learn to ride. The gelding was a short, sturdy gray mustang with a definite mulish look to him. The owner fit a similar description. He was asking forty dollars. Jase talked him down to twenty-five, then spent another twenty-five on a saddle, bridle and saddlebags. The tack he bought used from the livery owner. With a little dickering, Jase managed to get him to throw in a saddle blanket. Throughout this procedure, the boy stood out of the way, in awed silence. His expression was one of near panic. "Stop gaping and saddle his horse," Jase ordered. "S-sir, I c-can't―" "Sure you can. You seem to have made stable work a part-time career. Next to clearing tables, that is." He looked down at Landers and could almost see the mental calculations the boy was making. Fifty dollars was a lot of money. A month's pay for a Ranger. Mucking stables, the boy might make that in four. "Don't fret it," Jase added. "You take care of that horse and I'll get my money back for it in El Paso. Now hoof it!" Within an hour of trying to teach Landers how to ride, he started to wonder if he shouldn't trade the saddle tack in on a buck-board. It wasn't that the boy was slow-witted. Far from it. All things considered, Landers learned fast. Blame, Jase had to admit, lay partly at his own door. To him, riding was as natural as walking. He took most of what he knew for granted. That didn't make him an ideal teacher. Nor did it help that they were drawing an audience. The livery owner had cleared a corral for them. Bit by bit, the fence started filling up with folks who had nothing better to do on a sultry Friday morning. Most just watched for a time and moved on. Some cheered, while others taunted the boy. The worst ones shouted well-meaning but contradictory words of advice. Then there was the horse. The beast didn't just look mulish. He had a temperament to match. With more intelligence and malice than Jase had ever thought a horse could possess, this one did his best to make things even more difficult for the boy. Jase was losing his patience. When Landers tried to pull the horse to a stop, the animal bucked hard and the boy was thrown over his head. Jase jumped between the gray and the boy. "You!" He pointed at one of the cowboys. "Get the horse!" Two men jumped off the fence. One took Jase's position as block. The other grabbed the reins and let the beast know who was boss. Jase went to help the boy. "I'm okay," Landers said in a shaky voice. He waved off Jase's help, stood and brushed the dirt from his trousers. With a stubborn gleam in his eye, he marched up to the now calm horse. Grasping the bridle, he pulled the gray's head down to look him in the eye. "I've had enough. Your name is Trouble, 'cause that's all I've had from you. From now on, you better behave or I will personally slice you into horse steaks." Fascinated, Jase and the cowboys watched Landers. Still glaring, the boy took the reins and walked around to the right side. As though hypnotized, the horse maintained eye contact until he had reached the limits of his neck's ability to twist. Then Landers shortened the reins and with only a little awkwardness, mounted. The boy turned Trouble and walked around the corral's edge. Cautiously, he changed the pace to a trot. "That's an old Injun trick," one of the cowboys said. "What?" the other asked. "Mounting on the wrong side or threatening to make dinner out his horse?" "Both," Jase interrupted. "Show's over." The cowboy nudged his friend. "Come on, you can buy me a beer." Jase's gaze returned to the boy on the horse. It wasn't the most graceful riding he'd ever seen, but at least the kid kept his seat. When Jase announced it was time to eat, Landers almost fell out of the saddle. It seemed his knees had forgotten how to support him. They folded under him. Sitting in the dust, he looked up at Jase, puzzled and pitiful. Jase shook his head and flipped the stable boy a half dime to take care of Trouble. He offered a hand to the boy. Landers hesitated a moment, then allowed himself to be helped up. "You're doing fine," Jase said, giving the kid a pat on the back before letting him go. What have I gotten myself into? Over beef stew and biscuits, he discovered that not learning to ride hadn't been the boy's idea. "My aunt didn't think riding was a skill I needed to have," Landers said. "I don't think she approved of riding horses at all. Come to think about it, she didn't approve of anything I liked to do." "Like what?" "Like hanging out with the Sheriff Langtree. He let me sweep the floor and sort papers and keep the Wanted posters up to date. He knew Aunt Adele didn't approve, but he didn't stop me from coming around until she came down and told him face-to-face I wasn't allowed." He sighed. "For someone so law-abiding, my aunt had an odd aversion to lawmen." Jase tucked away the name Langtree for future reference. There was something familiar about it, no doubt a reference from one of the many reports he was required to read. If he could place it, he might have another clue to the boy's identity. After dinner, he took Landers to the general store. The boy needed to be outfitted properly. Jase accepted this as part of his self-assumed responsibilities. The kid didn't see it that way. "What's wrong with the hat I've got?" "Other than the fact it doesn't fit right?" "You can't keep buying me things, sir," Landers complained, picking up a fancy black hat with silver medallions. Jase bit his lip to stop a smile. He put the black hat back on its stand and placed a plain, light tan Texan on the boy's head. Landers compared prices. "You can't tell me you're going to sell these things off once we get to El Paso." "I'm keepin' account. I figure you can work it off over time as my unpaid assistant and stable boy. Speakin' of which, we'll add a shirt or two to your account. I can smell that one a mile away." The boy turned red as his hair and picked up a denim work shirt. "See if they got anything closer to your size," Jase advised. "My aunt always believed in buying things with room to grow." In the end, Landers allowed Jase to buy him two oversized work shirts, a hat and a couple of bandanas. Emptying out his pockets, the boy handed over almost three dollars in small change. Jase gave him back a silver dollar. "Get a bath before you put that new shirt on." Landers looked ready to argue, so he added, "Tell them to save the water. I'll be along once I've had a shave." When he arrived at the wash-house a half-hour later, a bath with fresh water was waiting for him. But no Landers. Jase sat in a chair in front of the hotel and waited. Hours later, the boy showed up. He was dirty, sweaty and smelled like the stables. Jase pretended to be asleep, legs stretched out, ankles crossed and hat pulled down over his eyes. As Landers tried to sneak by, Jase said, "Seems I ain't ever gonna get a meal on time with you around." He pushed his hat back and surveyed the kid. "You didn't have to wait." Landers handed over the half dollar. Jase shook his head, pocketing the coin. Switching from relaxed Texan to stern task master, he scowled at the boy. "The point was that you'd set down to supper clean and well dressed." "Sorry, sir. You'll notice that I didn't wear my new clothes. I can go clean up now. You don't have to wait for me." "You're a brat." "Yes, sir." "An obnoxious, stubborn brat," he said, trying hard not to smile. "Go wash up. Be down here in half an hour." He took a watch out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the boy. "I'm orderin' supper, so you better not be late." The kid wasn't late. Jase noted, with some satisfaction, that Landers cleaned up well. He was beginning to suspect that the boy was older than he seemed. His clear blue eyes and their intent gaze gave him an air of maturity. Then there were his memories of a war he should have been too young to experience. Jase had known boys who claimed to be twenty or more who hadn't a hair on their chins. He adjusted his estimation of the boy's age up to sixteen, the age Jase was when he joined the Texas Rangers. Landers was doing some sizing up of his own. Jase recognized the reaction his own transformation wrought. His beard was flecked with gray, which made him seem older. Clean, shaved, with his hair and moustache neatly trimmed, he now looked what he was, a man of thirty. Years had literally been washed away. The waitress came over as soon as they were seated. She gave Jase a warm smile and a delicate blush. "Coffee?" Jase returned her smile. "You're lookin' very pretty tonight. Even prettier than usual." "Why, thank you, sir. I set aside some fresh biscuits for you. Usually they're gone by now." "That was exceedingly kind of you." Landers' mouth twisted into a disgusted expression. "Give it time," Jase teased. "You'll learn to appreciate the fairer sex some day." "I'll never act like that!" The revulsion driving those words took Jase aback. He wasn't about to put up with rude behavior, but this was unexpected. Before he could get his bearings, Landers apologized. "Sorry. That was uncalled for." The boy echoed the very words Jase was mustering. "I should learn to hold my tongue." Landers was as good as his word, sitting quietly while they waited for their supper. It was stew and biscuits again. The meal was good, satisfying their hunger and cooling their tempers. "Warmer than Kansas, I reckon," Jase remarked. "A bit," Landers replied. "What part of Kansas you from?" "Cherryville. I was born on a farm further southwest." "We got somethin' in common. I'm a farm boy too." His eyes met the boy's. "And like you, I lost my home to war." "Where?" "Not far south of here, on the Brazos." "Union Army?" Jase's mouth tightened into a hard line. "Banditos." He turned his attention to scooping the last bit of stew. When he looked up again, the boy watched him, frowning. "Were you slave holders?" Landers asked. "My family was 'poor white trash.'" The kid looked blank. "My folks were neither slave-holders nor holding with slavery." "Why did you join the Rangers?" "To protect Texas." Landers gave him a thoughtful nod. "My father fought for Kansas and the Union. My aunt tells me that my mother was an abolitionist. I can't say I remember one way or the other. My aunt, though, says that slavery is a sin. I think the sin is treating people like they're not really people." They lingered over pie and coffee. Now that the boy had started talking, Jase only had to drop a comment here and a question there to maintain the conversation. When they headed upstairs, their easy understanding experienced a setback. Landers insisted he was comfortable on the floor and that is where he would spend the night. Jase figured he'd let the kid fall asleep wherever he liked and put him to bed later, but Jase fell asleep first and Landers stayed on the floor. Next day, Jase was irritated―with himself and the boy. "I'm not gonna put up with any more foolishness. Sleepin' on the ground when you had to is one thing. Sleepin' on the floor in a hotel room is wasteful." Landers neither argued nor agreed. Jase sighed. "Saddle the horses." They travelled in easy stages and made the quiet town of Coldwater by evening. Not used to riding all day, Landers was practically dead on the hoof. Jase had to force him to stay up long enough to have something to eat. He paid for a room over Coldwater's only saloon. The accommodations weren't fancy, but the place was clean. Like most rooms, it was supplied with a double bed. This one also had a cradle. "I can use the mattress in the cradle," the boy said. "I'll put it on the floor." Unbuttoning his shirt, Jase sighed. "Kid, you're exhausted. You need to rest or you're gonna slow me down tomorrow." Landers paused for a moment, then reached for the mattress. Jase cleared his throat. "Do you like crossing wills with me? Or don't you trust me?" "I trust you, sir. I never meant to imply that I didn't trust you and I don't mean to be contrary. I'm very grateful for all your help and―" "Never mind. Sleep where you like." Jase readied for bed. Gun and holster were hung on the bed post. He draped his outer clothes over the bottom post, with his boots tucked within reach. When he was stripped to his socks and long underwear, he climbed into bed. All the while, Landers held his bedroll in one hand and the cradle mattress in the other. When the candle was extinguished, sounds in the dark told Jase that Landers was getting ready for bed. The mattress shifted as the boy crawled between the covers, keeping to the edge of the bed. "Night, Marly." "Good night, sir." "Friends call me Jase." "Good night, Jase." The bed, like many old spring beds, sagged in the middle. Once they were no longer capable of consciously keeping to their sides, they met in the middle. Instinctively, they took advantage of each other's body heat as the night grew colder. It wasn't the first time Jase had shared his bed with a fellow traveler and ended up back to back, sharing warmth. He woke the next morning with his arm about Marly. The boy's head was on his shoulder and one hand rested on his chest near his heart. It felt so comfortable that it might have worried him―if he had not just discovered that Marly Landers was a girl. Chapter 3 Marly woke up in easy stages. At some point, in what seemed to be a dream, she felt warm and safe in a secure embrace―a feeling she had not known since her mother had died. Later, she stirred. Feeling a slight draft, she pulled the covers in closer and snuggled back down into sleep. Whether it was a minute or an hour later, she didn't know. Finally, sleep gave over to wakefulness. She pulled herself up on her elbow. "Morning." Already awake and dressed, Jase straddled a chair and watched her. "C'mon, sleepy head," he said with an exaggerated drawl. "We got miles to go. You get yourself cleaned up and dressed. And be quick. I'm going down for coffee and I'll be ordering breakfast. If you're late, you'll get yours cold." After he left, Marly took advantage of the privacy to have a sponge bath. It had almost broken her heart not to take a bath the day before, but she couldn't very well use the men's room at a public bathhouse. As she stripped down, she wished she had the nerve to ask Jase for a new set of long underwear. She made do, beating out the dust and using a damp towel to attack the worst of the dirt. She did the same with the singlet she wore underneath, a hand-knit garment she'd been given half a lifetime ago when she was ten. Being knit, it stretched to fit her and held in parts that would otherwise have given away her masquerade. "And to think," she said, examining her modest curves, "at one time I wished I had a real figure." Aside from feeling safer, she rather enjoyed being a boy, instead of the young lady her aunt always expected her to be. More importantly, a boy could travel alone, though she was glad of Jase's company and protection. Of course, if she had been born a boy, she wouldn't be in this trouble in the first place. If she had been born a boy, she might have been able to protect her mother and wouldn't have needed to protect herself. If she had failed to save her mother, a boy could have stayed with Sarge, instead of being taken to her aunt for propriety's sake. And if she had been taken to her aunt, a boy wouldn't be expected to help out at the school. He might have been allowed to work for the Sheriff instead. More importantly, a boy wouldn't have been seduced by a honey-talking, city slicker whose good looks and charm were in direct proportion to his criminal motives. So far, the masquerade hadn't been overtaxing. One of the benefits of overseeing the schoolyard was that she knew first-hand how boys acted. She modeled her behavior after young John Henry who, with three older brothers to train him, knew how to get away with murder around adults and hold his own with the bigger boys like John Thomas. Soon, being boyish came naturally to her. She didn't have to act like someone else. Her deception was aided by the fact that no one expected a young woman to be travelling on her own dressed as a boy. She suspected that one or two women she'd met had seen through the disguise. Since they didn't say anything, she couldn't be sure. The important thing was that no man would see her as a woman and take advantage of her. Marly didn't really think Jase Strachan would do that. She almost trusted him. But then she had trusted that hazel-eyed snake, Charlie, too. She remained cautious. Even if he didn't hurt her, Jase would probably feel it his duty to send her back to Aunt Adele. She couldn't let that happen. I reckon, she thought as she scrubbed her face, if I can pass for a boy sleeping back-to-back in the same bed, I probably don't have much to worry about. After Marly took care of her ablutions, Jase purchased extra supplies. Flour, sugar, coffee, beans and bacon were distributed between their saddlebags. Marly's bags also carried chocolate, dried fruit and peanuts. Jase's carried extra ammunition. She hoped they wouldn't have to use the latter. "My man has at least four days on us now," he announced as they rode out of town. "I know he's headed for El Paso, so I'm gonna risk headin' there directly, instead of trailin' him from town to town." "He's on the stage?" "Good guess," he acknowledged with a nod of his head. "He's not the ridin' type. He's been travellin' the stage, stoppin' now and then to play poker and relieve more suckers of their cash." "And that's why you are hunting him?" Marly's skepticism was met with a derisive snort. "If he cheats at the table, sooner or later it'll catch up with him. No, I'm on his trail for a more ambitious crime. He embezzled money from the wrong people. The kind who take this sort of thing personally and have the contacts in the Governor's house to back up their vendettas." "So you're after the money he stole." "He doesn't have the money with him. We caught him once and he gave us the slip. Lost him for a bit after that, then I got a tip that he was headed for El Paso." "How do you know he doesn't have the money now?" "I don't," he admitted with a shrug. "I'm guessin' because he's livin' hand to mouth. Game to game, in his case." They stopped mid-afternoon to make camp. "I'm not tired yet," she said. "We don't have a waiter to bring us dinner tonight. Or a readymade bed. We can't just ride 'til you're falling out of your saddle." Marly was about to protest. Hadn't she travelled a hundred miles on her own, often walking for long stretches of the day? It was true. She didn't have Jase's stamina in the saddle, but... She bit back a retort that was at the tip of her tongue. She had only a commonsense notion of how to make camp. Swallowing her pride, she listened to Jase and did as she was told. She committed every step to memory, from tending and hobbling the horses to clearing the area and digging a fire pit. Jase had found a slight hollow with scrub providing additional shelter. The horses were kept within sight, out in the open where they could graze on prairie grass. "Know how to handle a revolver?" Jase asked once they were settled. She eyed him with suspicion. "I know enough not to shoot my foot off." Jase had two revolvers. A Colt Peacemaker, which he wore in his holster, and a Colt Navy, a relic of the war. He put aside the Navy and had Marly start with the lighter weight Peacemaker. He unloaded the gun and took it apart, explaining the various parts and their functions with the bored ease of a teacher repeating the most basic lessons. She got the impression that Jase had been an instructor and a soldier in his past. Under his tutelage, she reassembled, loaded, unloaded, and disassembled the Peacemaker. The third time she loaded the gun, he stopped her, took the gun back and checked it over. "Okay," he said, picking up the second gun and his rifle. "Let's see what you can do." She followed him to a place where deadwood created a natural wall. Using large stones, he set up six targets. Then he counted off fifteen paces and signaled her to stand beside him. He handed her the Peacemaker. "Point and shoot." Marly reluctantly took the gun and checked it before straight-arming the revolver in front of her and pulling the trigger. The gun wobbled and a clump of dirt flew up several feet in front of the target area. Jase stepped up behind her and reached around her waist. "Steady the gun with your other hand." As he posed her arms, his hard muscles pressed into her back. Torn between fear and excitement, Marly stiffened. "Relax," he whispered. "Take your time. Speed will come. Squeeze, don't pull." He backed away and cleared his throat. "And try aiming. It helps." With great concentration, she aimed the gun, instead of merely pointing it. The shot went over the targeted stone. "Better. Watch me." Marly handed over the gun with relief. "Now draw a bead on your target. Stare that pebble in the eye and shoot it before it shoots you." He demonstrated, picking off the next target. Then he spun the Peacemaker and handed it back, grip first. "Try it. Think of it as somethin' that can shoot back." With a fatalistic shrug, she accepted the gun and followed his instructions. The stone exploded into dust. She looked at Jase in surprise and received an 'I-told-you-so' expression in response. "Again," he ordered. She hit the next target, but not dead-on. It ricocheted off the log. "Again." She missed. "Don't try so hard. Just do it." Click. "Don't to forget to count your shots," he said, setting up more targets. "You have to reload first." Marly reloaded the gun. She hit four out of six targets, missing one and nicking the other. "You got a good eye," Jase said. "Let's try another round, then we'll go on to the rifle." Hitting five out of six, she smiled with satisfaction. In a flash of blue steel, Jase drew the Navy and shot the remaining target. With a showy spin, he returned the gun to his holster. Marly stared in awe. Returning to the business of reloading, she handed the Peacemaker back to Jase. He checked and holstered it, tucking the gun into the small of his back. He handed her the Winchester .44 carbine. They hunted around for more targets and set them up. He counted off twenty-five paces this time, explaining that the rifle had a greater range and accuracy than the handgun. "Ready?" Marly took a deep breath. One. Two. The stones exploded in quick succession. She backed up five more paces. Three. Four. Five. Not one miss. All hits were dead-on. She gave him a smug grin. He acknowledged it with a raised eyebrow. Without warning, he threw two pieces of wood into the air. Marly swung the rifle up and both pieces of wood were hit, square on. Jase let out a whistle of admiration. "My Aunt Adele," Marly explained, expertly topping up the Winchester's magazine, then cradling the rifle in her arms. "She thought that riding horses was a waste of resources and sidearms were only respectable when carried by an officer of the law. Even then, she wasn't too sure about them. But I can hitch and drive a pair, and she made sure I learned to hit what I was aiming at with a shotgun or a rifle." Jase grinned. "Jack rabbits mostly, I expect." "And wolves. I have to admit, I didn't aim for the animals, just the earth beneath them. I figured they could warn their kin off if they lived to tell about their near miss. Anyway, the way I see it, long as there are rabbits, the wolves will eat them. And long as there are wolves, the rabbits won't overrun the garden." She shrugged. "Still, Aunt Adele was convinced I was a lousy shot." "What else did she teach you?" "She's a school teacher, so she taught me reading, writing and arithmetic. She also taught me how to cook, mend, chop wood, build a fire, tend chickens, hoe, mow, fear God and mind my manners." "Why'd you leave?" "She told me to." It was close enough to the truth, though Aunt Adele had another destination in mind. "I suppose," she said, bitterness in her voice, "I didn't learn some lessons as well as I did others." That killed the conversation for a few minutes. Marly was pensive and she was thankful that Jase was too cautious to ask the kind of questions that might prompt her to reveal her secret. How long could she keep it from him anyway? It was only a matter of time before he found out she was a girl. Jase put her to work cleaning the guns and rifle as he cooked. It was not the most inspiring fare―beans and biscuits―but the coffee was good. "Who taught you what you know?" she asked when Jase showed her how to clean dishes without water, using the sandy earth instead. "I got a little schooling when I was a youngster. I learned to read and write and do my numbers. Then my pa was killed. I had to stay home and work the farm with my ma and help take care of my little sister. In the evening, I'd read to ma. She liked to hear stories and she wanted me to keep in practice." "Sounds nice." "It wasn't a bad life, I guess. Can't say I ever took to farming. At sixteen, I joined the Rangers." "Your sister?" "Dead. All the family I know of is dead or gone." There was a long silence. Jase finally broke the mood by launching into a lecture on how to pack the gear in the saddlebags so it took up the least amount of space and the weight was evenly distributed. By the light of the fire, he had her unpack and pack her saddlebags to prove she'd been listening. While she packed, he started a second pot of coffee. "I generally sleep light on the trail. Since there's two of us, we might as well take turns sleepin'. You take the first watch. Just sit comfortable and keep the fire low. Don't stare into the flames. It's a sure way to get sleepy and it'll ruin your night vision. When the moon is high, wake me. I'll take over. Coffee will be ready soon. It'll help keep you awake." "Are we likely to get attacked?" "No, but chances are we'll run into trouble sometime on the trail. We'll come out all right. You're travelling with a Texas Ranger." He gave her a lazy smile. "Smart folk don't mess with Texas Rangers." Vigilantly, Marly sat out her watch. She stood and stretched a couple of times, careful not to disturb Jase. Twice, she thought she heard something approaching the campfire. It was either her imagination or whatever it was thought better of bothering them. It seemed Jase was determined not only to look out for her, but to teach her to look out for herself. It was unlikely that he suspected she was a girl. This left her with mixed feelings. Mostly, she was pleased she could perform her part so well. But beneath the guise of the charming, willful lad was the heart of a young woman with vanity enough to want to be considered attractive and feminine. She replayed her shooting lesson in her mind. In her imagination, Jase's arms wrapped around her, guiding her shots. Then, taking the revolver back, he turned her in his arms and gazed lovingly down at her before letting loose her braid. Fingering the curls, he told her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her. Except, she thought, my hair would be matted with dust from the trail and the layers of clothing between us would hamper the kind of romantic scene I'd read about in the penny dreadfuls I'd hidden from Aunt Adele. What she needed was a dress, but certainly not any dress she'd owned in her life. She needed a petticoat with an easy to loosen ribbon at the neck and maybe some ruffles. Though why she'd be wearing such a garment during a shooting lesson was hard to imagine. When the moon reached its zenith, she gently roused Jase to take his watch. They exchanged a few words, then she took his place between the covers of his bedroll. She had not realized how tense or how chilled she had become until she relaxed under the blankets. They were still warm from Jase's body. For a few pleasant moments, she dwelt on that thought. Then fatigue plunged her into slumber. Morning came too quickly. Determined not to be a burden, Marly shoved aside her blanket and pretended that she wasn't dead tired. With the help of fresh coffee and biscuits, she managed to convince herself that she was well rested. By the time the sun was visible on the horizon, they were on their way. Though she was sore in places she didn't like to mention, riding that early had its benefits. The landscape was beautiful in the dawn light. Later in the day, the sun would bleach the color out of the scenery. For now, everything was vibrant and the scent of sage wafted on the breeze. Ahead of them lay the Sacramento mountain range. Around them, the plateau was so flat Marly could see the dust of riders far in the distance. No one came any closer than that. Mid-morning, they stopped and let the horses graze for half an hour before setting off again. Around noon, Jase pointed out a good place for lunch, with grazing for the horses and a little shade. They dined on jerky and leftover biscuits from breakfast. Everything tasted wonderful. But she was bone tired. She yearned for a nap. "Come on, kid. We can get some target practice in while the horses rest." Marly suppressed a groan. She ran through the possible responses that boys she knew might have. Target practice wasn't a chore, therefore dragging her heels wasn't appropriate. Maybe he'd put his arms around her again. More cheerful, she hitched up her pants and set her hat forward to shade her eyes after smoothing back sweat-soaked tendrils of hair. "Not much to shoot at," she remarked. She pulled a leaf of dry grass and used it dislodge a piece of jerky from between her teeth―an action as unladylike as it was practical. "We'll aim at the tops of the tall grass," Jase said. Marly was required to repeat back all his lessons from the day before. Then he pointed to a stalk and let her shoot. "You missed." "I did not. I hit the one I was aiming at." "Then you were aiming at the wrong one." She pushed her hat back and gave him a hard stare. Jase sighed and pulled a thread from his bandana. He marched into the long grass, tied the thread around one of the stalks and returned to her side. "Okay," he said. "Can you see your target now?" Marly aimed, fired and missed. She shook off her irritation, and after a moment of squinting at the grass, she tried again. The top of the stalk disappeared. Jase set up another four stalks. With careful aim, Marly hit each one. Then he threw a rock in the air. She nicked it, sending it spinning. She shot at it again, but was out of ammunition. "We'll work on your loading skills later," Jase said, taking the gun. "We'd best rest a bit." Settling in the shade, he pulled a book out of his saddlebag and started reading. Marly flopped down on the hard ground, irked at the lack of appreciation for her improving skills. After all, a day ago she had never even held a handgun, much less fired one. Jase hadn't seemed to notice how much better she was at riding either. She considered sulking, but decided it was too much effort. It was much easier to stake a claim to a patch of shade and imagine saving Jase from some undefined danger. And rubbing his nose in it. Jase gave Marly's shoulder a gentle shake. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. For a few seconds, they just stared at each other and he was tempted to say something―if he could think of something that wouldn't cause trouble. Instead, he stood and gave her a hand up. "How long did I sleep?" she asked, her attention shifting from the sun to the saddled horses, then back to him. "Couple of hours. You looked like you needed it." She shuffled her feet. "Did you sleep?" "I rested my eyes a bit. Again, their gaze met and he resisted the urge to tell her he knew she was no boy. She broke contact first this time and began to brush dirt and dried grass off her clothes. "Tomorrow, we'll just rest at noontime," he said. "Target practice can wait until the evenin'. You're pretty good. I might just make a sharpshooter out of you." He saw pleasure, pride and just a touch of preening flit across her face before she thanked him for the compliment. Squelching a gallant impulse to help her into the saddle, he swung up onto Grandee. He waited as she mounted Trouble with only a little difficulty. Jase, he thought, you are riding the trail to Perdition. And I don't mean the half-dozen mining towns of the same name. He had told Marly that he picked this trail because it was shorter. Looking at a map, it seemed shorter than the stage route. If they rode hard, it could be a faster route―but he had no intention of riding hard. He told himself that he picked the trail to give him time to prepare Marly for what was ahead. That plan would make sense if she actually was a boy who needed a mentor to keep him alive and on the right side of the law. Instead of teaching her to ride, shoot and track, he should have spent his time finding out who Aunt Adele was and sending the girl home. Now he was stuck with the masquerade until trail's end. Or until he admitted he was a fool. Before stopping for the night, he shot a rabbit for dinner. The sound startled Marly, who was staring dreamily into the setting sun. It upset Trouble too and he unseated her. Both gave Jase an indignant glare. "Get used to it," he advised, squelching the desire to apologize. Or laugh. Later, Marly skinned the rabbit with practiced ease. She rubbed the flesh with fresh sage she'd picked. Next, she gathered fuel for the fire and salt from their supplies. She skewered the rabbit and set it to roast above the fire. After burying the head and offal away from the camp, she set to the task of scraping the skin. "Another skill your aunt taught you?" Jase asked as he worked on his chore of cleaning weapons. "The older I got, the more Aunt Adele expected me to cook. She was busy teaching and doing church work. Rabbit and chicken were the meats I most often had to put on the table." "You prepare them, but you won't shoot them?" "I'm not against hunting for food. I've killed chickens. And Aunt Adele had me help butcher the hog she bought one year. I didn't like it much." She chewed her bottom lip. "Some folks enjoy killing. I don't. I guess I'll do it if I have to." "You can leave the hunting to me." After the meal, Jase pulled out the battered book he'd been reading and offered it to Marly. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Thank you." "You're welcome." Sensing an unasked question, he added, "Many cowboys carry the Bible on the trail. I once met a man who carried Plutarch's Lives. I prefer Shakespeare." "I didn't know this about you." "Well, now you do." He closed his eyes, recalling Marly's earlier words. "Some folks enjoy killing." He hoped that wasn't how she saw him. He didn't think of himself as a killer, but he couldn't deny that death was part of his stock in trade. As he dozed off, he remembered the feel of Marly's body against his. He imagined taking her in his arms, pulling her close and devouring her with kisses. Would she return those kisses or shy away from him? Just past midnight, Jase woke to the smell of coffee. As he stretched, Marly glanced up from the book and gave him a warm smile. Coffee, company and that smile sure beats waking up alone, he thought. Then he tasted the coffee. Good God. He didn't mean to be rude. The expression on his face was a natural reflex. "It's not very good," she admitted, "but if you sip it slowly, I guarantee you won't fall asleep." He nodded toward the book. "Which one are you reading?" "As You Like It." "Maybe it's time I reread that one." A suspicious frown creased Marly's brow. "Really." "It's one of my favorites," he added. Although he'd always thought a girl dressing up as a boy to be a bit improbable. They switched places. She tucked down into his bedroll and he draped the blanket around his shoulders to keep the chill off his back. He wondered if she accepted this arrangement as convention, or whether she knew that he gave up his warm covers for her sake. "Do you regret taking me along?" she asked, startling him. "I've been a lot of trouble and I know I'm slowing you down." He had no idea what to say. "It has crossed my mind," she said, "that for a fraction of the cost, you could have put me on a stage for El Paso." "Is that what you want?" "No!" Trouble gave an indignant whinny. In a softer tone, Marly said, "Though I have someplace to be, I'm not in a big hurry to get there. I have to the end of the month to get to El Paso. That's still twenty-three days away." "I know it's not the business of the Texas Rangers, but do you think you could tell me why you're goin' to El Paso?" Marly rolled over on her back and stared at the stars. When she spoke, her tone was detached. "At the end of the month, maybe a bit later, a package should be arriving with my name on it. I didn't send it, but I've got to receive it or a lot of people will lose their savings. If I can, I also want to catch the guy who used my name―and me―to cheat my friends." "Sounds like it could be Ranger business." "The crime was committed in Kansas. Notices went out. The common wisdom seems to be that the folks of Cherryville should learn from their mistakes and get on with it." "But that's not good enough for Marly Landers," Jase remarked without rancor. "Nope." "What's this bandito's name?" "Charlie Meese. Though I think he's used other names." "No doubt." He had a bad taste in his mouth. "Get some sleep, Marly. We're a couple of days out of Fortuna and El Paso is a four-day ride from there. I'll get you there in plenty of time to take care of your business." And his. You can read the rest of UNDER A TEXAS STAR at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Alison Bruce's site: http://www.alisonbruce.ca Victim by Catherine Astolfo VICTIM by Catherine Astolfo We, like the birds, fly in a certain direction, and in spring, the jackrabbit starts his way. Through the hare's eyes, I see. Prologue Frieda waited until the police had finished searching. She did not even make the journey up the road until all the sightseers and relatives had drifted back to their homes. By the time she began walking toward the house, the woods had gone back to their natural quiet. The sun made diamond patches on the crisp snow as she trudged up the hill. Overhead, several birds circled, silently searching for mice indiscreet enough to take a run through the leafless trees. Frieda's breath came in puffs of white clouds and the cold tingled her nose into a reddish blush. Crunching across the brittle ground, Frieda's eyes and ears told her countless stories about life in the forest. Just to the side of the road, a small rabbit had been seized by an owl. Frieda spotted the frantic tracks racing to the trees, the sweep of the bird's wings as it grazed the ground and then flew off with its prey. A little further on, Barry Mills' son had destroyed a sparrow. She could see the boy's footprints and then a smattering of feathers and blood, which had once been a bird. Frieda smiled at this. Bobby Mills was learning to be a real hunter. The thrill of the hunt shivered through her body. She could picture the huge deer she had caught last week, flattened against the snow, eyes bulging and fearful. Waiting, felled by the pain, the victim was at Frieda's mercy. It was left up to her to end the misery, to decide between life and death. At that moment, she was the one in control. She was the god, the arbiter of fate. For Frieda, the power of those moments was the reason she loved to trap and hunt. The native woman prided herself on her keen powers of observation. She had spent most of her life in the woods, first trailing after her father, the man whose quiet aloofness had taught her to be silent and watchful. Her mother, frail and self-pitying, always lay pale and sighing in her bed when they arrived home, scrutinizing her daughter as though Frieda were an object of great perplexity. Frieda would spend hours in the woods alone, too, or in the shed out back, abiding by the stern lessons that her father had taught her about skinning and drying animal carcasses. Later, when she was almost a grown woman and her parents had died, Frieda followed in Oona's footsteps. At the thought of Oona and the traps, her heart swelled with pride. Oona had shared her knowledge with anyone she thought worthy of it, and Frieda had proven her best pupil. Together, Oona and Frieda had travelled and camped in these woods several thousand times. They knew it the way most people know their living rooms. The two women had similar builds—strong and stocky, muscular and round from walking and hiking through hills and forest. They could scale walls and ford streams, build campfires from scratch, and create wooden structures that withstood most storms. Frieda stopped at the bend in the road and sniffed the air. She might have been a bear whose den was being threatened, for only when she did not hear the saw whining in the distance or smell the dust of a fallen tree did she relax her stance. Her round, serious face was creased with sun lines and now, worry and curiosity. Her small brown eyes were inquisitive, almond-shaped, overshadowed by thick eyebrows. Her gaze was disconcerting to most. She had the ability to freeze conversation with her stare. As far as anyone knew, due to the woman's irascible and detached nature, Oona had been Frieda's only friend. The layer of ice that had fallen over the snow yesterday must have thwarted their efforts to build again today. Frieda smiled maliciously. Along with other Ojibwa natives and Burchill residents, Frieda hated the encroachment of the new subdivision on their communities. As most of the villagers did, Frieda dreaded the increased population as an intrusion on their quiet way of life. But she had other reasons for her reactions. Although the threat of competition in the trapping business was very real, Frieda was also secretly energized by the idea of a more modern life. She had her own secret agenda and the guilt made her uneasy and filled with anger. She knew, however, that the subdivision was not destined to last. Not if she could help it. The winter this year had not lent its sympathy to those opposed to the construction. Instead, it had been unusually warm, with very little snow, allowing the contractor to continue building. Over the last three days, a blanket of snow had coated everything, and then a sheet of ice had fallen on top. It was probably the first time in history that the Burchill Village residents, native and non-native alike, had welcomed the snow and cheered an ice storm. By the time she came within sight of the camp, Frieda had warmed to the hunt. Her breath was steady, the blood pumped excitedly through her veins. She went first to the little house. The door was open as always. Frieda stepped into the quiet warmth and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Everything was as Oona had left it. The rusty kettle sat abandoned on the black pot stove. Her cup, crusted with tea stains, perched nearby, a withered bag curled, forgotten inside. Oona's gun, shining and ready, gleamed from the corner. Frieda went in slowly, touching everything, drinking in the silence of the cabin. She thought she could see the outline of Oona's body on the thin mattress of the single bed. The cupboards were simple and few, constructed of raw wood that had never been finished, although each cup and plate and foodstuff had been organized neatly inside. There were utensils for only three, a small aluminum table with two uneven, unmatched chairs and one rocking chair with the stuffing held inside by duct tape. Even as she took in every object in the small room, Frieda found herself thinking of her own new home, and of how foolish Oona was to live this simply when she could be living in comfort as Frieda was now doing. She pictured Oona sitting here, smoking the wooden pipe that had been in her family for centuries, avidly reading whatever book she'd been given or borrowed, her face barely illuminated in the light of the kerosene lanterns. Slightly taller than Frieda, broader at the shoulders and hips, her face wide and open, her eyes impossibly large and disingenuous, only Oona had been able to defrost—at least temporarily—the frigid gaze that Frieda turned on the world. The real friction had stemmed from her guilt, Frieda knew. She had betrayed Oona's friendship, taken advantage of her innocence and trust. Her eyes flitted involuntarily to the old cupboard, its marred wooden surface spotted with age, sagging against the crooked floor. She remembered what she had done, and conflicting emotions darted through her mind. Misery, pride, joy, fear and guilt all struggled to reopen her closed heart. She blinked and turned away from the little room. Pulling on her mittens Frieda plodded back out into the cold, following the tracks carefully. The sheer layer of ice covering the snow had moulded the prints clearly into the ground, as though they had been painted there. Despite the dozens of footsteps made by the police and others, Frieda was able to find the ones she wanted. Straight and sure, the tracks proceeded emptily in a straight line away from Oona's camp on the edge of the reserve, toward the forest. Just before the big rock, the prints stopped abruptly. It was here that Henry, out looking for his sister, had found Oona's old brown coat. Covered with snow and ice, it had been abandoned and flung in a heap next to the rock. A small distance to one side, Henry had discovered her mittens. Frieda paused here, studying the efforts of the police and the others from the village. It took several minutes of careful observation before Frieda could sort out the correct prints and take up the trail again. They headed directly toward the forest, further apart now, obviously running. Frieda followed them quickly, feeling the pace, imagining some fear that would have made Oona run. When they reached a huge pine tree standing alone at the forest edge, the tracks suddenly veered to the right. Frieda stopped and stared, amazed at what she saw. The prints raced around the tree, not once, but exactly twenty times, in ever-widening, almost precise, circles. Chapter 1 May received the call at 10:30 on a Monday morning. It was a testimony to our friendship that she ignored my obvious, selfish reaction when I found out she had to leave. Somehow, Monday mornings at Burchill Public School were always hectic, unpredictable, and well, as the song goes, rainy days and Mondays always got me, the principal, down. This particular Monday was packed with events. A raging, purple-faced parent absolutely refused to even listen to anything I had to say. Luckily, we didn't have many of those in town, and as the villagers would say, they tended not to be Burchill born. A child languished in the health room with a suspected broken arm, but her parent seemed to be taking the long way here. Three students, who'd been caught throwing snowballs at a fiercely barking dog on a neighbour's property, were currently writing out their sins at the table in the office. Two classes were being temporarily watched over by other staff while May had begun scrambling to find supply teachers. Our caretaker was busily deciding between mopping up a leaking toilet and checking the temperature gauge in the gym, which was even too cold for running. Not only that, it was one of those frigid, damp days on which central Ontarians expected their babies to be kept indoors, which had already prompted several frantic calls to the office. Not being Burchill born myself, I am sometimes seen to be far less knowledgeable about things like weather than I ought to be. So when May Reneaux, my only office assistant, got the call telling her that Oona had disappeared, my first reaction was to dismiss the news as another of her aunt's prolonged hunting trips. However, I knew in my heart of hearts that Edgar would not have called May at work if he thought Oona had simply gone off on her own. Edgar Brennan was in charge of the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) detachment in our area. His official title was Chief Superintendent, but we always simply referred to him as the town's police chief. The detachment served our village of Burchill, the First Nation community adjacent to the village, and the provincial park on the other side, as well as the highways that led into the area. Edgar was Burchill born and raised and had worked all his adult life here, so he knew his people very well. If he thought Oona was on a hunting trip, he would never have sounded the alarm by calling May away from the school. It was not easy to hide my displeasure from May. She had become a very close friend in my four years in Burchill, especially over the last two. She knew me extremely well. However, she was too upset to notice my mood, and luckily when I realized the depth of her distress, my selfishness dissipated, and I made her exit fast and easy. I spent the entire morning soothing ruffled feathers, checking the weather station, escorting the supply teachers to their classrooms while giving them a quick course on the school's policies, assisting the injured child until her parent strolled in, eliciting apology letters to the neighbour from the snow-throwing boys, calling the school board about the broken gymnasium heaters, and answering the telephone. Two of our most reliable Grade Eight students came down to the office to help over the noon hour, but even with their eager assistance, I was unable to take a breather until later in the afternoon. I sat at my desk, contemplating this school principal job. Never had I felt so dissatisfied, even though, on the surface everything was going well. I began to drift in my reverie, wondering about the source of my unhappiness and bitterness lately, and actually started guiltily when Dominic, one of the office helpers, told me Mrs. Reneaux was on the line. I realized that I hadn't thought about May all day. When I heard her shuddering intake of breath after my hello and inquiry about how everything was, I knew the news couldn't be good. Speak, speak to me, all the air, land, water, speak to me while the earth locks us together. Chapter 2 Frieda shook herself and began to follow the tracks, her heart racing uncontrollably. She pushed the fear to one side, taking deep breaths of the cold morning air. She began to concentrate on the skills needed to follow the tracks. Definitely, she found that the prints wound around the tree twenty times, very close together, obviously at great speed. Yet they were precisely made so that they created wider and wider circles. Frieda was puzzled. On the last trek around the tree, the footprints raced off to the left and disappeared into the forest. For a moment, the native woman stood absolutely still, listening, thinking. Her round face, framed by long, straight hair that refused to turn grey, looked mesmerized. Suddenly, she bent down and took an object from inside her coat. Digging with her knife—the exercise difficult in the semi-frozen ground—she eventually made a large hole alongside the tree. Frieda placed the object inside and carefully put the dirt and bits of debris back where they had been. Straightening, she was pleased with her work. No one would know that anything had been placed here. The searchers were finished with this spot and would never think to come back. Somehow, Frieda knew that she should not take the treasure into the woods with her. Her decision had been made. She was going to follow Oona, and if she found her former friend, she did not want the burden of that object to hinder their encounter. Mixed with the tracks of the police and villagers, Frieda almost lost Oona's prints several times. Slowly, keenly, she followed them into the trees right up to the edge of the large pond. Here they stopped abruptly, as if Oona had stepped off into the murky water and disappeared through the thin layer of ice, which had closed like scum after her. The police and villagers had spent much time here, tramping off in every direction, wading into the shore of Bahswaway Pond. Frieda stood and sniffed the air, staring around at every tree and bush, feeling the atmosphere. It was deathly still, as if every animal and bird were in hiding. No breeze stirred the lifeless limbs. Though she stood silent, Frieda's mind was racing. There had been talk by the villagers that Walking Bear had frightened Oona. They surmised that he had found her trapping and had chased her into the icy water. Frieda did not believe in Walking Bear, but an ancient fear gripped her anyway as she surveyed the scene. Ojibwa children of Frieda's generation were still taught the lessons of the past. She had been raised with stories of spirits that existed in every animal and in each leaf of every plant. She knew the legends of the various clans. She had been ingrained with the notion that sorcerers could arrange with the spirits of the earth to bring punishment upon humans who disobeyed the laws of nature. As an adult, Frieda had rejected many of the native ways and beliefs, but now in the hush of a winter forest, the little girl in her still shuddered. Quietly, she inched along the edge of the pond, studying every twig of every bush along the way. Her feet slid over the ice without a sound. Her lithe body brushed against nothing as she manoeuvred through the trees. A short distance along, Frieda found the first evidence. It was a small bit of fur, drenched with dried blood, caught on a twig of one of the bushes. The fear grew larger and pulsed through Frieda's head. It was the fur of a bear that she held in her hand. Chapter 3 "It looks as if she might have drowned." May's voice shook, as she fought off the tears that threatened to silence her. "Henry found her coat and mittens strewn all over. Her footsteps headed straight for Bahswaway Pond and disappeared. But, Em, get this. The footprints wound around a tree twenty times in these weird circles before she ran off into the water. You should hear the stories that are going around. Our people are still very superstitious during a crisis, it seems. I haven't heard some of these legends since I was a little girl." I sat back in my chair, stunned, thoughts racing. "My God. But isn't Bahswaway just a pond? Wouldn't it be frozen up over the last couple of days?" May gave a rueful chuckle. "I keep forgetting you're not Burchill born, my friend. That's why it's called Bahswaway—the Echo. The story goes that it was once a huge well that the natives had dug and then abandoned after several children disappeared into it. A pond formed around the well, but it's still very deep where the hole was. It doesn't actually freeze all the way down apparently, even in severe winters. The legend could actually be true, or maybe it's not. But at any rate, the pond is very deep in the middle—" The enormity of what she was reciting suddenly caught in her throat. I leaned forward. "It's so strange, May. Those footprints, everything. What does Edgar say?" "He doesn't know what to make of it. Everybody's puzzled as hell. Oona's house looks just like it always does, pretty neat and tidy. It's almost like she's going to come back at any moment. It doesn't look like she'd planned any kind of trip, especially a hunt. Her rifle is still there. And anyway, she always lets me know if she's going to be gone for very long." Although May's mother had been a wonderful, caring person, she had not wanted her daughter to grow up in the old ways. It had been her Mother's sister Oona who'd taught May to hunt, fish, camp and cook in the traditional native ways. May had always felt very close to her aunt, especially when her mother suddenly died at fifty-eight—an age that was feeling more uncomfortably young to us every day. Oona was now seventy-five years old, although she looked and behaved more like a woman in her fifties. She was still active and spent a great deal of her time in the forest around Burchill. May and I had enjoyed more than one camping trip with her, enthralled by her tales of nature and native lore. Oona was a fascinating person. She was quiet but powerful, able to captivate an audience for long periods of time with her Oral Traditions. May looked a lot like Oona with her long hooked nose, oval face, straight black hair, light brown skin, large black eyes, all in a short, compact frame. At first glance you might think that Oona and May were overweight, until you noticed the hidden power of their hands and arms and the muscles in their shoulders. Her people had been built for carrying water, wood and dead animals, May would laugh. Too bad she'd been born when she had. Her self-deprecating humour is just one of the many things I love about May Reneaux. "But the footprints go right into the pond, and with her coat and mittens being abandoned, it just doesn't look good, Em. Edgar is organizing a search party right now. We've got lots of volunteers among the reserve and the town alike, which is really gratifying." "Everyone loves and respects Oona. She's a towering presence in this community. If something has happened to her..." I trailed off, aware that I was not doing much to cheer up my poor friend. "And if something hasn't, she's going to be really pissed that there's a whole bunch of people coming to find her!" May laughed. "Won't she be, though? I can just see her face!" She sighed. "Thanks, Emily. You can always make me feel better. I just hope we find her and that she's still alive." "May, don't come in tomorrow. I can ask Gillian to fill in for you. You're going to want to join the search." "Are you sure? I hate to leave you in the lurch like this." "You're not. Really. Gillian will be fine," I assured her, hoping that it was true. I could hear the relief in her voice as she thanked me. We hung up after I'd promised to see her tonight. As soon as we'd done so, I got on the phone again and called Gillian Hubbard, one of our amazing, generous parents who sometimes helped out in the office. She was quick to say yes, having heard about Oona and wanting to support May. The rest of the afternoon flew by with far fewer problems. By the end of the day I felt almost normal and had decided not to quit my job after all. I waited until the building was mostly deserted, and then headed home on foot. Most days I did walk to and from the school. In the warm weather I actually jogged. But today I'd had no choice. My husband, Langford Taylor, was a painter of some note in the region. He had left very early yesterday morning for a showing in a nearby town. In a place like Burchill it would be unforgivable to have two vehicles, and since I didn't expect him until late tonight I was stuck with my own feet as transportation. I planned to return home, change, feed the dog and head over to May's house, but it didn't quite turn out that way. You can read the rest of VICTIM at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Catherine Astolfo's site: http://www.catherineastolfo.com Whale Song by Cheryl Kaye Tardif WHALE SONG & WHALE SONG: SCHOOL EDITION by Cheryl Kaye Tardif prologue I once feared death. It is said that death begins with the absence of life. And life begins when death is no longer feared. I have stared death in the face and survived. A survivor who has learned about unfailing love and forgiveness. I realize now that I am but a tiny fragment in an endless ocean of life, just as a killer whale is a speck in her immense underwater domain. It's been years since I've experienced the freedom of the ocean. And years since that one horrifying tragedy took away everything and everyone that I loved. I have spent my life fighting my fragmented memories, imprisoned by guilt and betrayal. I had stopped hoping, dreaming or loving. I was barely alive. Locked away in darkness, I struggled―until I learned the lessons from Seagull, Whale and Wolf. Now I am free. I finally remember my youth. I recall the happy times, the excursions in the schooner and the sunlight reflecting off deep blue water. I can still visualize the mist of water spouting from the surface and a ripple opening to release the dorsal fin of a killer whale. But what I remember most is the eerie, plaintive song of the whale, caught on the electronic sound equipment of the research schooner. Her song still lingers in my mind. A long-forgotten memory… PART ONE VILLAGE OF THE WHALES One In the summer of 1977, my parents and I moved from our rambling ranch home in Wyoming to Vancouver Island, Canada. My father had been offered a position with Sea Corp, a company devoted to studying marine life. He would no longer be a marine biology professor at the university. Instead, he'd be studying killer whales and recording their vocalization. My mother was ecstatic about the move. She couldn't wait to return to Canada where her parents were living. She chatted nonstop about all the new things we would see and do. But I was miserable. I didn't want to move. "You'll make new friends, Sarah," my parents told me. But I―like most eleven-year-old girls―hated them for making me leave the friends I already had. Since our new home was fully furnished, we were leaving almost everything behind. A few personal belongings, my mother's art supplies and some household items would follow in a small moving van. My father told us he had rented out our ranch to a nice elderly couple. I was quite happy that no children were going to be living in my bedroom, but I was miserable about leaving behind my prized possessions. I reluctantly said goodbye to my little bed, my Bay City Rollers wall posters, my bookshelf of Nancy Drew mysteries, my mismatched dresser and my swimming trophies. Then I sulked on the edge of the bed and watched my mother sift through my things. "I know it's hard," she said, catching my sullen mood. "Think of this as an adventure." I let out an angry huff and flopped onto my back. "I don't want an adventure." The following morning, we left Wyoming with my three-speed bike strapped to the roof of the car and our suitcases and my mother's easel piled in the trunk. That night, I watched TV in a motel room while my parents talked about our new home in Canada. "Time for bed, Sarah," my father said after a while. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow." Unable to sleep, I tossed restlessly in the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what life would be like stuck on a tiny island. How boring it's going to be. I thought of Amber-Lynn MacDonald, my best friend back in Wyoming. She was probably crying her eyes out, missing me. Who was I going to tell all my secrets to now? I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. Life is so unfair. Little did I know just how unfair life could be. It felt like days later when we finally arrived in Vancouver. We drove to the ferry terminal and waited in a long lineup of vehicles. We boarded the ferry and I rushed to the upper deck where I stood against the rails and watched the mainland disappear. The water was choppy and the ferry swayed side-to-side. When we saw Vancouver Island approaching, dismal gray clouds greeted us and I instantly missed the scorching dry heat of Wyoming. The drive from the ferry terminal to our new house took hours and seemed relentlessly slow. After a while, we veered off the highway and headed along the main road to Bamfield. The narrow unpaved road was bumpy and pitted. It was swallowed up by massive, intimidating logging trucks that blasted their horns at us. I watched them roll precariously close while my father steered our car until it hugged the side of the road. I held my breath, waiting for the huge bands that secured the logs to snap and release the lumber onto our car. And I was sure that we'd topple over into the ditch or onto the rocks below. I released a long impatient breath. "Where's the ocean?" "You just saw it," my father chuckled. "From the ferry." "No, I mean the ocean ocean," I muttered. "That was just like a big lake. I want to see the real ocean, where it stretches out for miles and you can't see the end of it." My mother turned and smiled. "You just wait. You'll see it soon enough." I settled into the back seat with my latest Nancy Drew book and tried to read. But my eyes kept wandering to the window. When we hit a huge pothole, my book dropped to the car floor. It stayed there for the remainder of the trip. I pushed my face against the window and watched the scenery streak past. The forest that surrounded us was enormous and forbidding. Moss hung eerily from damp branches and a fog danced around the tree trunks. Then the sun broke out from behind a cloud―free at last from its dark imprisonment. It quickly heated up the interior of the car. Unfortunately, the gravel road kicked up so much dust that I wasn't allowed to roll down the window. And since we didn't have air conditioning, my hair―or my Italian mane as my mother called it―hung limply to my waist and my bangs stuck to my forehead. I scowled. We'd been driving for days and I was tired of being cooped up in the car. "Close your eyes, Sarah," my father said, interrupting my thoughts. "And don't open them 'til I say." I obeyed and held my breath in anticipation. I'm finally going to see the ocean. Minutes ticked by and I grew restless. Being a typical eleven-year-old, I had to sneak a peek. "Okay, now you can look," my father said. He chuckled when he caught me with my eyes already open. Pushing my damp bangs aside, I scrunched my face up close to the window. The ocean was spread out before me, interrupted only by a tiny island here and there. The water's surface was choppy with whitecaps and it looked dark and mysterious. I smiled, satisfied. Back in Wyoming, we saw endless stretches of green hills and grass with mountains rising in the distance. That was all I'd ever known. I could go horseback riding and never see water bigger than our duck pond. Now before me, the ocean seemed to go on endlessly. I couldn't resist rolling down the window. As soon as I did, I heard waves crashing along the shoreline. "Well, what do you think?" my father asked. "This road winds all along the shore. Every now and then, you'll be able to see the ocean. And once we reach Bamfield, our house is just east of town, right on the water." He reached over and tugged at a piece of my mother's long auburn hair. I laughed when she swatted his hand. "The house will be ours for the next three years," my mother said over her shoulder. "It belongs to an older couple, so we'll have to take very good care of it." Twenty minutes later, we passed a sign. Welcome to Bamfield. I breathed a sigh of relief. We were almost there. As we drove unnoticed through the modest town, I realized that it was much smaller than Buffalo, the town nearest our ranch in Wyoming. After stopping at Myrtle's Restaurant & Grill for a delicious supper of deep-fried halibut and greasy home-style French fries, we clambered back into the car and headed for our new home. "The house is just up ahead," my father said. "I know you're going to love it, Dani." He gave my mother a long, tender look. My mother, Daniella Andria Rossetti, was born and raised in San Diego, California. Her parents were immigrants from Italy who had moved to the United States after World War II. When she was eighteen, her parents moved again―this time to Vancouver, Canada. My mother took advantage of the move, left home and struck out for Hollywood with hopes of becoming a famous actress. After numerous rejections and insulting offers from sleazy directors, she gave up her stalled acting career and studied art and oil painting instead. Within a few months, her work was shown at Visions, a popular art gallery in San Francisco. It was there that she met my father. Jack Richardson was a Canadian marine biology student who had wandered in off the street after being caught in a tempestuous downpour of rain. Six months later, my mother moved in with him―much to her parents' disapproval. Four months went by and they were married in a small church with a few friends and family present. During the next three years, my parents tried to have a child. They had almost given up hope when they discovered that my mother was pregnant. Six months into a perfect pregnancy, she miscarried. My parents were devastated. Eight months later, my father's stepfather and mother were killed in a car accident. During the reading of the will, my father discovered that he had inherited the family ranch in Wyoming. But my mother was upset. She didn't want to leave the bustling city of San Francisco for the wide-open plains near Buffalo. When the curator of Visions, Simon McAllister, promised that she could courier her paintings to the gallery, my mother agreed to the move. After a year on the ranch, she couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Her work thrived, reflecting images of country living, meadows and mountains. Then she was rewarded with unbelievable news. She was pregnant again. Nine months plus a week later Sarah Maria Richardson weighed in at eight pounds, four ounces. At three months old, I had thick black hair and dark brown eyes. My parents doted on me. When I was about six, my mother told me how handsome my father had looked the moment she first saw him in the art gallery. Even though he was shivering and drenched, he had stared at one of her paintings for the longest time. My mother had fallen in love with him that instant. It sounded like a fairytale to me, but I believed that my parents loved each other and that they would be together. Forever. Now years later, we were driving along the rustic coast of Vancouver Island, anticipating the first glance of our new home. I felt restless and uneasy. I somehow knew that my life would change the second we drove into those trees. Destiny…or fate? As the sun began to set overhead, we reached a small, barely legible sign that read 231 Bayview Lane. A gravel driveway curved and disappeared into the trees. When the car followed it, we were plunged into darkness. Branches reached out to the car roof, caressing it like a thousand hungry fingers. The tall cedar trees that surrounded the car opened to reveal a lush lawn carefully landscaped with small shrubs. At the end of the gravel driveway, a two-story cedar house stood just beyond the lawn. The shingles of the roof gleamed in the reddening sunlight. The main door into the house was solid wood with no window. In fact, there were only three small windows on that entire side of the house. Our new home seemed forlorn―empty. "Well, not much to look at from here," my mother mumbled. "But I'm sure it's much nicer inside. We could always punch out a window…or two." My father grinned. "Dani, my love, looks can be deceiving. Just wait until you see inside." When he pulled the car onto a cement pad, my mother smirked. "The garage?" she asked sarcastically. "You're so funny," he said, unfolding himself from the driver's seat. I clambered out, impatient to get inside and explore. Reaching for his hand, I tugged on it and pulled him toward the house while my mother followed behind. At the door, we turned back and caught sight of her pale face. "Are you okay?" my father asked. "I'm just a bit carsick," she said with a wry smile. "You two go in first, let me get some fresh air. I'll be in shortly." "If you're―" She laughed. "Go inside, Jack. I'm okay." With a shrug, my father unlocked the door and gave it a gentle nudge. Then he turned to me, his mouth widening into the biggest smile I had ever seen. "Welcome to your new home, Sarah," he said. I let go of his hand and eagerly stepped inside, a thrill of excitement racing through me. "I want to see my roo―" I froze, dead in my tracks. ttwwoo It was the dazzling light that hit us first. Large picture windows wrapped the entire front of the house and faced the ocean. The flaming sunset outside made the interior glow like the embers of a fire. "Wow," I murmured. My eyes swept across the open main floor. There was a living room to my left. It was decorated in bronze and copper tones, and two beige plaid couches framed a chocolate-brown area rug. To my right, a dining room table and four chairs claimed the area in front of one of the windows. I ran to it, almost knocking over a potted plant. I looked out the window and stared, mesmerized, as the setting sun sparkled on the bay. "I can hear the ocean, Dad." The door behind us opened and my mother joined us, her face instantly lighting up. "It's beautiful, Jack." "It's private too," my father said. "The nearest neighbor is about a fifteen-minute walk down the beach." He teasingly ruffled my hair. "Hey, do you want to check out the rest of the house?" "Do I ever," I said, my eyes wide with anticipation. He led me to a large closet by the back door. "This is the closet." His voice was serious, as if he were a realtor showing me a potential property. I laughed. "No kidding, Dad." I took off my jacket and hung it in the empty space. That was my first claim on my new home. "Over here is the living room," my father said with a sweep of one hand. I pointed to a large black monstrosity. "What is that thing?" My mother stifled a gasp. "A wood-burning stove. How charming. I love it, Jack." She spun on her heel slowly and surveyed the room. "You were right about this house. It's perfect for us." I agreed. The house was far better than I had expected. I walked closer to the stove. Over it, a cedar shelf was mounted to the peach-colored wall. On it was a peculiar collection of oddities―an eagle's feather, a fisherman's glass ball wrapped with twine, a skull from a small animal and a crab shell. I looked up and gasped. "Mom! That's your painting." The large watercolor that hung above the shelf was the one my mother had painted while she was pregnant with me. It was of a mountain waterfall and was her very favorite. Mine too. "I sent it on ahead so it would be here when we arrived," my father explained. "I asked the caretaker to hang it. He also made sure we have lots of firewood. And he turned the electricity back on too." "Let's check out the kitchen," my mother said, rubbing her hands gleefully. A spacious country kitchen with a wooden island was tucked around the corner, barely visible. The walls were painted the palest sage green and along the ceiling edge ran a soft leafy border. A small round table and two chairs sat in one corner. My mother busied herself by checking out the fully stocked cupboards and making a pot of tea while I continued my exploration of the lower level of the house. Between the kitchen and dining room area, a wrought iron staircase led to the upper floor. Behind the stairs, a sliding glass door opened onto a cedar deck. "Can I go out there?" I asked my father. He smiled. "Of course. It's your house now." We stepped outside and the humid night air enveloped us. "Hey," I shouted. "A swinging chair." The deck held a padded swing, big enough for three people. There was also a barbecue and a picnic table with two benches. A protective wooden rail ran around the entire deck, with an opening for the stairs that led to the ground below. I leaned over the rail. A well-trodden rocky path led from the bottom of the stairs, through the grass and down to the beach. From the deck, I saw waves crashing on the fiery shore. Better yet, I heard them. I breathed in the salty air, thrilled with my new home. Then I turned and darted inside, urging my father to follow. "Come on, Dad," I yelled. "I want to see my room." He smiled and remained where he was. "You two go ahead." Grabbing my mother's hand, I raced up the spiral staircase to the upper floor. Under my pounding feet, the stairs groaned with a dull clang. I turned down the hall and entered the first room on the right. The room was tiny―like a baby's nursery. But there was no crib. There wasn't even a bed. The walls were painted off-white, but looked like they had definitely seen better days. Small tables, old toys and cardboard boxes littered the floor. A rocking chair sat motionless near a large window and an antique bookshelf took up one wall. Dusty encyclopedias and ancient books inhabited the shelves. I drew a heart in the dust. "This room needs a good cleaning," my mother muttered. I yanked back my hand and eyed her suspiciously. I was positive that she had plans for me―plans that included a dust rag in one hand and lemon furniture polish in the other. "This'll be my studio," she said, eying the room. I barged past her out into the hall. "I want to see my room." The next room I entered boasted a large brass bed with down-filled pillows and a flowered quilt. Along the side walls stood two white colonial dressers, one with a large oval mirror. The other wall had a cedar bench seat built into a bay window that faced the ocean. I fell in love with that room immediately. I turned, fingers crossed behind my back. "Is this your room?" I fervently hoped it was not. My mother looked around the room and pointed to the boxes stacked to one side. On the bottom box, the letter S had been scribbled in red marker. "Looks like it's yours, Honey-Bunny." I rolled my eyes at her. My parents had been calling me that ridiculous nickname since I was a baby, but I didn't have the heart to ask them to stop. Looking around my new room, I was elated. It was twice the size of the one back home, the bed was huge and I could see the ocean from my window. "I love it, Mom," I said stifling a yawn. After I took a peek at my parents' room and the large upstairs bathroom, I followed my mother down to the kitchen where I devoured a piece of toast with peanut butter and maple syrup. All through my snack, I wrestled with exhaustion, afraid that I would miss something wonderful. My mother noticed and sent me to bed early. That was the first time I didn't argue. In my beautiful ocean room, I sat in the window seat and cranked open the side panel. I heard waves lapping softly against the shore. In the distance, a water bird cried out, searching for his home. I didn't know it then, but I had found mine. Everything in the new house was perfect. But I missed Amber-Lynn. I had promised her that I would call and write to her every week. After all, best friends were hard to find. We'd been inseparable since we were two years old. Her parents and mine had often played cards together while the two of us stayed up past midnight watching movies until we fell asleep. Now I was hundreds of miles away from my friend, but I pledged my undying devotion to her. My only consolation was that in three years I'd be returning to Wyoming, to my ranch and to Amber-Lynn. Three years. To a child my age, three years was a lifetime. As the moon dipped lower behind the trees, I climbed into my new bed and sniffed the spring-fresh sheets. Then I sank into a dreamless sleep. "Can I go outside?" I asked my father the next morning. We were eating breakfast while my mother slept in. "Sure. Let's go for a walk." I followed him onto the deck, down the stairs and across the rocky trail to the beach. The sun gleamed off his blond hair, highlighting a few gray ones. At forty-one, my father was the most handsome man I knew. And I loved him more than I loved anyone in the world. He was my idol. He always made my mother and I laugh. He'd pretend he understood the creatures of the sea and he'd tell us what they thought of his fellow professors. Apparently, some of the whales didn't have too many nice things to say about them. I studied my father as he leaned forward and picked up a rock. He examined it with what my mother and I called his scientific mind. Then he skipped it across the water. When I tried to mimic him, my rock sank with a thud. "Like this," he said. He showed me how to select a flat stone and fling it toward the water's surface like a Frisbee. "You have to throw it hard, but keep it flat." I practiced skipping stones until my arm ached. "Last one," I said, frustrated. I flung a smaller stone and to my amazement, it skipped. One…two…three times. "You did it!" my father cheered. We followed the beach a few yards from our house. The shoreline of multi-colored rocks disappeared and a sandy beach curved toward the water. I squealed with delight and pointed to a floating raft anchored maybe fifteen yards out into the water. "Is that ours?" My father's eyes turned serious and dark. "This is all part of our property. It's safe to swim out to the raft, just don't go any farther." I looked out over the water and noticed an island not too far away. My father stared at it too and I wondered what he was thinking. It wasn't until after supper that I found out. That was when he told me the story of Fallen Island. "Last year, the son of one of our neighbors tried to swim out to Fallen Island," he began. "The story I heard was that the boy challenged his younger sister to swim from the raft to the island. When she refused, he went anyway. They say he made it most of the way across." He paused and I clung to my chair, waiting. "No one knows if he got caught in an old fishing net or if he just got too tired," he continued. "His sister tried swimming out to him, but I guess she panicked and went back to the raft. Her parents found her an hour later, sitting on it, staring at the island." "Did they find the boy?" I asked. My father shook his head. "Search teams dragged the bay, but they never found his body. I heard that his sister went to the beach every day for months, hoping to catch sight of her brother. She believed he was still alive. He was only fourteen." "That's an awful story," my mother moaned. She turned and patted my back. "Your dad never should have told you." "There's a reason I did," my father argued, looking at me. "I want you to promise, Sarah, that you'll never swim farther than that raft." There were times when he scared me. And that was one of those times. The intensity of his words combined with his piercing blue eyes made me swallow hard. "Promise me," he repeated firmly. As I made that solemn vow, I reminded myself that promises were sacred, not to be broken. I knew that he loved me and that he was only protecting me―or trying to. My father would always be my protector. The first week went by swiftly. Our days were spent exploring the beach. My mother was happy because my father didn't have to go to work for two weeks. I watched them take off their shoes and run along the water's edge, laughing like children and holding hands. If Amber-Lynn had been there, I would have felt mortified by my parents' display. Since I was the only witness, I just smiled and watched. During the second week, my father often went into town to get supplies. I'm sure he just wanted to escape all the cleaning my mother had planned. While he was gone, I helped her clean her new studio. We emptied one side of it and made room for her painting supplies. I dusted the numerous books while she washed the floor and stored the owners' boxes in the basement. By mid-afternoon, the room sparkled and a faint lemony fragrance lingered in the air. As a finishing touch, we placed some candles and an oil lamp on the round table beside the rocking chair. "There," I said, setting a blank canvas on the easel. "Now you're ready to paint." My mother shook her head. "Not quite. At least, not that kind of painting." To my dismay, she pulled out two cans and two large paint rollers. It appeared that the walls were going to get a new coat. Resigned to my fate, I grabbed a roller and started painting. She started on one side and I started on the other―until we met in the middle. By the time we were finished, we were covered in paint and giggling like children. It's one of my most favorite memories. "Good job," my mother said, shaking my hand as we admired the finished result. She leaned against the hallway wall. "I'm exhausted. And thirsty. How about some ice tea?" I laughed and raced down the stairs ahead of her. By the time she reached the deck, I had already set two tall glasses, complete with lemon slices, and a pitcher of ice tea on the picnic table. I crossed my fingers behind my back. "Can I go swimming?" My mother stared out at the bay. "I'm really tired, Sarah. I need to lie down for a bit." "You don't have to come with me," I assured her. "I promise I'll only swim out to the raft. You know I'm a good swimmer." I knew she was thinking of all the swimming lessons I'd taken at the Buffalo Recreation Center. I was an advanced swimmer, ahead of most kids my age. Not many eleven-year-olds could swim as fast or as far as I could. In fact, the last class I'd taken before we moved was with kids two years older than me. I'd even earned a badge for Intermediate Lifesaving. "Just for two hours," she said with a sigh. "Don't be gone longer than that." I gulped down my ice tea and checked my watch. Darn! It was already two o'clock. Charging upstairs, I changed into a one-piece bathing suit. When I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror, I stuck out my barely formed chest and scowled. "One day they'll grow." Pulling my thick dark hair into a quick ponytail, I secured it with an elastic band. Then I grabbed a towel and sprinted downstairs. My mother was still outside. "Be back by four," she warned. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard her yell after me. "No farther than the raft!" "Mothers," I muttered beneath my breath. I made a beeline for the beach across from the raft. Flinging my towel over a log, I quickly removed my sandals and stepped into the warm water. A few pieces of seaweed and something that looked like a bloated onion swirled around my legs. Other than that, the water was clear. I laughed and plunged in, shocked by the salty taste in my mouth. Swimming toward the raft, I glanced at the forbidden island across the bay. It didn't look so far. With the cockiness of youth, I grinned. "I could make that." I floated on my back and stared at the clouds. After a few minutes, I decided to see if I could swim underwater, holding my breath all the way to the raft. I dove under. When I reached the raft, I pulled myself up the metal stepladder and stretched out on my stomach, smiling. The raft sizzled under the summer sun and I lazily examined its surface. A few swear words had been scratched out with black marker, but I could still read them. I giggled. As I shifted my gaze, my eyes were drawn to some initials that were carved into the weathered wood. I traced them with one finger. RD+MC FOREVER! I glanced back at the shore, wondering about the owners of the initials. Who were they and where did they live? There were no houses visible, but the beach disappeared around a tree-lined corner. Maybe there are houses around the bend. I glanced at my watch. I had lots of time. Propping my chin on my hands, I admired the view. It was so peaceful―so soothing that it lulled me. I yawned loudly. Cleaning, painting the studio and swimming had made me more tired than I realized. I rested my head on my arms and dozed under the warm rays of the sun. The water lapped against the raft, like a whisper. "Amber-Lynn…I wish you were―" Something splashed nearby. I thought that maybe I was dreaming―until I heard it again and looked up. I blinked. Something was sticking out of the water. Seawater sprayed and foamed off a solid black mass as it rose from the depths. Then it sank underwater, out of sight. I was captivated by the strange spectacle and waited for it to reappear. But I didn't see a thing. I admit I was a bit nervous about going in the water. What if it's a shark? I didn't even know if there were any sharks in the bay. My father had never said anything. But I knew one thing. I couldn't stay on the raft all day. I pushed myself up on my elbows and strained my neck for a better view. The bay seemed quiet and demure―until I sensed something moving in the water behind me. "That was my brother," a voice said. tthhrreeee I whirled around and saw a girl about my age treading water near the raft. She had black hair braided into two long plaits and dark eyes that stared at me curiously. "What do you mean 'your brother'?" I asked when my voice had returned from the pit of my stomach. The girl grinned. "He comes back once in a while. To visit." She swam toward the raft, climbed up and plopped down cross-legged in front of me. "I'm Goldie," she said. "Goldie Dixon. What's your name?" She was smaller than I was, and her skin was darker. "Sarah Richardson," I replied shyly. I glanced beyond the edge of the raft, wondering if I'd catch a glimpse of her brother. "Did you see his fluke?" Goldie asked, her face beaming. Fluke? Of course… I knew what the black thing was. It was a whale's tail―its fluke. My father had shown me photos of whales from his marine biology class. Some pictures showed the whales' flukes or tails, some showed whales spouting water and one even caught a whale as it breached and rose almost completely out of the ocean. "So where's your brother?" I asked, looking around the raft. "He's dead." My eyes widened with shock. "What?" Goldie pointed toward the island. "He drowned. Out there." That's when I recalled the tragic story my father had told me. I had almost convinced myself that he had made it up, just to scare me away from swimming out too far. "He died last year swimming out to Fallen Island," she continued, as if I weren't even there. "I heard," I said. "My dad told me and my mom about it. I'm really sorry about your brother." She stared at me with huge dark eyes. "I'm a Huu-ay-aht First Nations Indian. Most people call us Nootka Indians. Nana told me your family used to live in the United States―in Wyoming." "Uh-huh," I said. "My dad's Canadian though. My mom and I are American." "Any Indians in Wyoming?" I nodded. I told her that around our ranch, it was common to find an Arapaho Indian buying one of my mother's paintings. We even had a Shoshone live in our barn for a while. He blessed our lands, our garden and my mother in return. "So why'd you say that was your brother out there?" I asked. She looked at Fallen Island. "Nootka believe that killer whales are magical and powerful creatures―almost human. One legend says that killer whales would knock over canoes and drag fishermen overboard, down to the Village of the Whales. Then the drowned men would turn into whales themselves." She stood slowly. "My brother has become a whale." She said this simply―as if there were no other explanation. "What's his name?" I asked as goosebumps dotted my arms. "Robert." Finally, the boy from my father's story had a name. My eyes wandered to the initials engraved on the raft. R.D. Robert Dixon. Even at such a young age, I understood how much Goldie needed to believe her Nootka legend. It made sense to me at the time. But as I watched her, I felt sorry for her. Her brother was dead. It was that simple. Goldie jumped into the water. "Have you ever heard of the Haida Indians?" she asked, treading water. I shook my head. "The Haida believe that if you see a whale near a town or village, you're really seeing someone who drowned, someone who's trying to talk to his family." Neither of us said a word. We simply stared at each other in quiet understanding. Then I dove into the water and we swam back to shore. I kept an eye out behind us though, looking for the whale. I think even Goldie knew that I was nervous. On the beach, we sat down on some driftwood, dried off with our towels and talked about everything that we liked―our favorite foods, music and singers. She was a big fan of Shaun Cassidy. I was hooked on the Bay City Rollers. I didn't know why, but it was as though I'd known her all my life. Amber-Lynn wouldn't be happy with me. Regardless, I was ecstatic to have met a new friend―even if Goldie did believe her brother was a killer whale. "You have very dark skin…for a white girl," she said, eyeing me. "You sure you're not Indian?" "My mom's part Italian. She's pretty dark too. My dad, though, he's…uh…light." "My parents are Nootka. My Nana lives with us too―my grandmother. She's seventy-two years old. I also have a little sister. Shonda. She's five. Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I told her how my parents had struggled to have children and that when I came along they were so relieved that they decided to have only me. I asked her more about Robert and learned that he, like me, had been an excellent swimmer. Goldie was very animated when she spoke about him. Her hands moved expressively and I discovered that she was a great storyteller. When she learned that my father was a scientist and was on the island to research killer whales, she grew silent. I knew she was worried about something. "He won't hurt them, will he?" she asked, biting her lip. I was stunned by that simple question. "Of course not. He's here to study them, to find out how they communicate with each other and what their sounds mean. He'd never hurt them." Goldie was relieved. She stared past the raft, searching the water for a sign. I knew she was thinking of her brother. As we dried ourselves off and proceeded down the beach toward my house, I invited her to come home with me and meet my mother. But she insisted she had to go home to look after her sister while her grandmother cooked supper. "I'll be here tomorrow," I said. "Where do you live anyway?" She pointed down the beach and told me that her house was around the bend, just beyond a small dock. I promised her that I'd return the next day. Then I raced home. As I sprinted up to the deck and entered through the sliding doors, I glanced at my watch. "Shoot." I was late. "I'm home," I hollered. I heard footsteps overhead. "Sarah, is that you?" "Yeah, Mom." A minute later she appeared. "I was just about to go look for you. It's almost half past four." She tapped her watch. "Sorry," I said. "I met an Indian girl when I was swimming and we started talking…and I forgot about the time." My mother sat down at the dining room table. "What's your friend's name?" I told her all about Goldie. When I got to the part about her brother, my mother's smile vanished. "Mom, did you know that some Indians believe that if a person drowns they can come back as a whale?" "That's a wonderful legend," she replied, her smile returning. Outside, a car engine rumbled to a stop. A second later, the back door opened and my father appeared. "Hey," he said. "What have you two been up to all day?" Before he could take his shoes off, I told him all about Goldie, her brother and the whale in the bay. "She's afraid you'll hurt the whales," I said. He patted my hand. "Tell her I'm just studying them. I promise I won't hurt them." At suppertime, my father told us he had some exciting news. "Sea Corp is getting a new schooner with state-of-the-art electronic equipment. It's coming all the way from Finland." He was so excited that he couldn't stop talking. He told us that the boat had been built a few years earlier and that one of his co-workers knew the previous owner and had convinced the man to sell it after a year of negotiations. "We're going to study echolocation," my father said. "Then we'll look at whales' dialects." He turned to me. "Sarah, did you know that whales emit short sounds or clicks?" I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh at him. "They listen for the reflecting echo," he continued. "That's how they can tell how far away an object is. Whales measure the time it takes for the echo to return. That's called echolocation." He loved explaining things to us with his scientific mind. Sometimes my mother would roll her eyes and say, "Here he goes again." "Killer whales are also called Orcas," he added. "And they're divided into three ecotypes. Do you remember what they are?" My father was a wonderful teacher. Over the past two years, he had taught me all about whales and dolphins. "I think so," I answered. "Residents are the ones that stay in the same area. Uh, offshores are the ones that are offshore and don't come too close in. And…I forget the last one." He gave me a patient smile. "Transients. They're the ones that move around a lot. Some have even been sighted miles away from their original location. They're a bit unpredictable and often eat other mammals." "Well, Professor Richardson, are you ready for dessert?" my mother said with a laugh as she reached for his plate. His hand shot out and grabbed hers. With a shriek, she jumped back. My father stared at her, then kissed her fingers. "I thought that was dessert," he teased, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Yeah, but you never know where my fingers have been, Jack." She snatched her hand back and pretended to pick her nose. "Ew!" I groaned. My parents started laughing and it was contagious. Soon I joined them. Every time my mother snorted, we'd break into another fit of laughter. Sometimes my family was so weird. My mother and father were always touching each other, holding hands and kissing like teenagers. Most of the time I quite liked it. But sometimes when my friends were around, I found it rather embarrassing. "What are you doing tomorrow?" my father asked me. I told him about my plans to meet Goldie again on the beach. He asked my mother the same question. "I'm not telling," she said, smiling mysteriously. I went up to my room after supper and wrote a long letter to Amber-Lynn. I gave her a detailed account of the trip to Bamfield. Then I described my new house and my big bay window. I told her about the raft and swimming in the ocean. I even told her about Robert. But I never mentioned a word about Goldie. I sensed that Amber-Lynn might feel jealous of my new friend, so I told her about my father's work, the new schooner and all about echolocation. I knew that would impress her. When I finished writing the letter, I crawled into bed. Sometime during the night, I had a dream that I was swimming in the ocean while a full moon ascended overhead. The water was warm and soothing, and I had no fear of it. As I floated on my back and looked up at the stars, restless waves gently nudged me back to shore. Suddenly, a whisper of movement under the water caught my eye. A streak of black and white rushed by me, just under the surface. A killer whale. Its gleaming body shone in the opalescent glow of the moon. I reached out a hand as it slid past me at a leisurely pace. Its smooth slippery skin was like the softest satin. It turned and swam past me again. Then the whale sank into the depths below. After that, I slept peacefully. I barely recalled that dream when I awoke the next morning, but many months later I remembered it and wondered if it was some kind of omen. I know now that it was. I met Goldie every afternoon in July and we became fast friends and confidants. She had a keen sense of adventure and a great imagination. She loved to tell me stories of her ancestors―legends from ancient times―and I was fascinated by them. From those stories, I learned to appreciate nature and the animals around me. We often saw bald eagles soaring overhead, and sometimes white-tailed deer would wander out from the forest. One afternoon, she invited me to her house to meet her grandmother. "Everyone says Nana is special. You'll love her." Nana was a wrinkled wise woman with the strangest hair I had ever seen. It hung down past her waist, thick and blacker than coal―except for one piece that framed the left side of her face. It was pure white. She had deep amber-colored eyes that always sparkled. And like a hawk, she never missed anything. She seemed to know things―things that no human should know. The first time I saw her, she was sitting in a rocking chair with her back to the door. She didn't even flinch when we walked inside. I thought that maybe she was sleeping. "Nana," Goldie said. "This is―" "Your friend Sarah," Nana finished without turning around. Casting the old woman a nervous look, I sat down at the table. Goldie passed me a plate of oatmeal cookies and I took one. "Take another one," Nana said behind me. I peeked over my shoulder. She still wasn't facing us. How did she know? Without warning, Nana looked at me and smiled. "Eat. You're too skinny. I can always make more." The rest of that afternoon, I felt her eyes burning into the back of my head. They seemed to follow me everywhere I went. "Told you you'd love her," Goldie said under her breath. I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. I thought Nana was a bit spooky. "Hey," my new friend said later. "I'll walk you home." As we strolled along the shore, she told me that Nana was a respected healer. Almost everyone in Bamfield went to her for natural homeopathic remedies. She was knowledgeable about every plant that grew on the island and she could heal cuts and bruises with a few leaves from her garden. Every morning, she made special teas from tree bark and other ingredients that induced sleep or calmed the nerves. "And she has a special gift," Goldie said mysteriously. "What?" I asked. She told me that sometimes Nana would simply look at someone and prescribe them a special remedy―before they even knew they were sick. "That's because she sees auras," Goldie said. She explained to me that auras were colored lights that her grandmother saw around someone's head or body. Few people saw those lights. Only those with 'the gift'. Nana was a wise woman―in more ways than I realized. The following weekend, Goldie invited me to stay for a sleepover. We raced back to my place to get permission from my parents. Then we collected my pajamas, toothbrush and some games. Back at her house, we unrolled sleeping bags in the loft overlooking the living room. The ceiling was slanted and we had to duck in some areas. Once, I forgot and walked straight into the beam. Goldie spent the rest of the night yelling "Duck!" every time I stood up. That night, we munched on homemade trail mix and buttery popcorn. We told stories and giggled long into the night―until Goldie's mom yelled at us to go to sleep. The Dixons were very nice, even when we kept them up until the wee hours of the morning. Mr. Dixon was a commercial fisherman and was often out on his fishing boat. Mrs. Dixon wove beautiful baskets with pictures of animals on them. She sold her baskets in a charming craft shop in town. Every morning, they left Goldie and her sister Shonda with Nana for most of the day. Shonda was a quiet child. We rarely ever saw her. She spent most of the time with Nana, helping her in the kitchen. The Dixon house always smelled like fresh-baked cookies and warm bread and Nana often gave me treats to take home to my mother. One day, she taught me how to make bannock―fried bread served warm and dripping with butter and honey. I made a perfect batch, according to her. "Are you sure you aren't Indian?" she teased in her raspy voice. She would often comment on my dark coloring and my love for nature. She said that I was part Indian, but that I just didn't know which part yet. I think she made it her duty to help me find it. Usually when I slept over, we'd have a bonfire outside. We'd sit around the crackling fire and roast hotdogs and marshmallows on sharpened sticks. Nana would tell us incredible stories. Sometimes, she'd even act them out. I loved listening to her―especially her old Nootka legends. She would mesmerize us with the adventures of Eagle or Bear. She would scare us with stories of strange and fierce creatures. Then one night, she told us the legend of Sisiutl. The School Edition comes with a discussion guides and questions for teachers and students. You can read the rest of WHALE SONG at Amazon or Smashwords. You can read the rest of WHALE SONG: SCHOOL EDITION at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine by various authors, edited by Jeani Rector WHAT FEARS BECOME: An Anthology from The Horror Zine by various authors, edited by Jeani Rector A SMALL MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Foreword by Simon Clark I want to talk to you about a mystery. An interesting and important mystery. One that is, well, a matter of life and death. And what has this extraordinary volume, What Fears Become, got to do with that extraordinary mystery? Because the book you hold in your hands is part of a unique gift that we enjoy as a species. That gift is 'story.' As far as we know, we are the only creatures to tell, invent, and enjoy stories. And stories are important. We owe our existence to them. They sustain. Interpret. Educate. Encourage. Give hope. They allow us to see through the eyes of our fellow humans. They nourish empathy. Stories develop the strength and breadth of our amazing imaginations. They give us the power, from time to time, to cheat death. They are vitally important to the human race. Stories mean life. Many anthropologists will cite singing and dancing as being the glue that cemented early tribal society together. I believe our 'species survival and growth package' includes other vitally important elements, such as a talent for the visual arts, a compulsion for physical and mental games, and stories—our universal passion for the made-up tale. Fiction pumps through our veins. Where's the origin of this apparent inborn need to tell and to hear stories? The mystery lies in the origins of this need. We can't say precisely where the first fable was spun. Or when. Perhaps a gene mutated in one of our ancestors two hundred thousand years ago. For some mysterious reason our great (many times great!) grandmother or grandfather found themselves saying words that broadly mean "Once upon a time." And then relating events that never actually happened, yet which contain iridescent truths that illuminate human life. Soon I'm going to talk about What Fears Become. First, I should say something about my dramatic statement that stories are so important we owe our existence to them. After all, I can't glibly toss out the opinion "that stories are a matter of life and death" in your general direction, then saunter away, can I? So, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I present my case. The facts are, at the time of this writing, scientifically accurate. Of course, I'm a writer of fiction (every cell of my body positively throbs with that 'story' gene: yours, too!), so I paint my facts onto the canvas of imagination. Here we go. We're traveling back twenty thousand years. Back to a world of woolly mammoth and saber-toothed cats. Silently, we follow a lone figure limping through the forest. This is the last of the Neanderthals. The anatomy of the figure is typical of the Neanderthal species. A very stocky build. Sturdy legs. The jaw juts out fiercely. Large eyes peer from beneath prominent brow ridges. The arms are muscular, biceps are bulging. She is so powerful that she can easily snap the neck of a wild pig. Her body language radiates confidence and strength. Her formidable torso is protected by a long cloak made from reindeer hides. She carries a spear tipped with a flint that's as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. For months she has been searching for more of her kind. A quest doomed to failure. She can't possibly know that she is the last of her species. Nor would she understand that something happened in the last few generations that caused the Neanderthal to begin a headlong rush to extinction. The last Neanderthal is living on borrowed time. In the forest she hears voices. Though the language is unfamiliar, she is suddenly excited. Her species have communicated with each other in a remarkably sophisticated way for thousands of years, using spoken words and tongue clicks. Her heart pounds. This female is certain she has found another family grouping of Neanderthals. The chances of joining the group are slim—typically Neanderthal tribes are insular, they seldom interact—just the thought, however, of setting eyes on her own kind is so thrilling that she begins to run. At the edge of the clearing the female pauses. Something is wrong. Yes, the men, women and children she sees walk on two legs, they call to one another, a couple are arguing, juveniles are laughing as they throw sticks into a tree. The figures wear animal skins, carry spears that are remarkably similar to the weapon she carries. Yet they are not the same as her species. Their bodies are so slender they seem almost fragile. Their faces are peculiar, too. They have small chins; the foreheads rise straight up instead of sloping back like those of her race. The last Neanderthal is disappointed. These aren't of her blood. Yet she finds their behavior interesting. Although it is decidedly bizarre. Not much of it makes sense to her. Lack of food has made her drowsy. So why not settle down here in the bushes? Rest. Observe these delicate creatures for a while. From her vantage point, concealed in the vegetation, she watches. The peculiar-looking creatures start a fire. They butcher a roe deer with flint knives. Soon they are enjoying a meal. Even though they have been hunting during the day they don't doze after the feast like Neanderthal hunters would do. These eccentric individuals chase one another about the camp. The young men make a competitive game of jumping over a rock. Meanwhile, a group of children scratch lines in the dirt with twigs. She realizes that the lines resemble horses. This is very perplexing because her own species never did anything like this. Nor did they carve figures as a man appears to be doing right now to a section of mammoth tusk. Just as darkness pulls in, when all sensible Neanderthals would be bedding down for the night, these people start to move about the fire. They clap their hands in a rhythmic way. Sounds come from their delicate, little mouths. They seem to be saying the same words at the same time, then they begin to sway to the rhythm. Song never featured in the Neanderthal way of life. Dance is alien to her. After the dancing a silver-haired woman begins to speak. All the tribe gather round to listen. They are captivated by what she is saying. The last Neanderthal notices the expressions on the faces in the audience. She's incapable of figuring out that the Homo sapiens are listening to invented situations that befall a fictional character. And because other tribes of Homo sapiens are eager for new stories, different tribes meet and share their fables. Therefore, they don't experience the tribal isolation that has brought the socially shy Neanderthal to the brink of extinction. The family group she watches from her hiding are vibrant, outgoing, and passionately interested in life. Their restless curiosity always means that they expand their contact amongst neighboring tribes, so the gene pool is ever-growing. These highly imaginative humans are equipped to survive, even flourish. The female stares at the creatures listening to the story. The faces of the children shine with delight. They are learning without even realizing a lesson is being taught. Or that the muscles of imagination are being strengthened to the point imagination becomes a tool of incredible power in its own right. The last Neanderthal continues to stare as the stars come out one by one. She no longer blinks. Not even when a spider begins to methodically spin a pure white shroud for her face. Story. So very important. So vital to the survival of our species. And fiction is important to us individually. You probably remember the first story you heard that fascinated you, and invoked the power of your imagination. Certain films and TV dramas undoubtedly still linger in your mind, even though you saw them as a very young child. I grew up loving movies that featured monsters, aliens, and robots. When I was three-years-old I watched a film on television that, for the first time, seemed to light up the atoms of my very being. For the life of me, I can't name the film, or the actors. But, wow! I can still remember the hulking, great robot that stomped down a metal ramp with so much force that sparks flew from its iron feet. Bouncing up and down on the sofa, I shouted, "That's great! I'm going to watch it again next week!" The adults carefully explained to the diminutive Simon, with his wide, shining eyes, that it was a film, not a TV series. That it wouldn't be back next week. That didn't matter. Not at all! Because my imagination had been brought to life. Whenever I wanted, I could recall in vivid, dazzling, awesome detail that huge robot clumping along, sparks blazing from its feet. So, like my fellow human beings everywhere on Earth, I found my love of story. Books, comics, television, film, radio. Stories pulsated everywhere. My family told tall tales. My uncles had a never-ending supply of haunted house yarns. "Simon. Do you see that house by the canal? There are ghosts in there…" An uncle would point to the creepy old building and I'd believe every word. Fiction nourished me as much as potatoes, gravy and the sweet puddings we were served at school. What I devoured most in the way of books were anthologies. Fortunately, the school library had a fine stock of ghost stories for children. I gobbled them up one after another. And birthdays brought me the Armada Ghost Book series. And it was only later that I appreciated that many of the pieces I enjoyed were first printed in magazines, such as the nineteenth century monthly The Strand Magazine, and Weird Tales, hailing from the 1920s. These publications used the latest print technology to deliver their content in what was then a fresh and inventive way. The Strand Magazine not only published great text by the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, there were also dramatic illustrations of soldiers brandishing swords, or explosions, or thrilling cliff-top fights. Weird Tales boasted vivid covers, which were broadly based on the Beauty and the Beast theme. Gorgeous females being menaced by alien creatures were a resounding favorite. Back in the gloomy depression between the World Wars they would have screamed excitement from the newsstands. Buy Me! I can take you away from your worries! Readers would be carried away on strange adventures from the pens of H.P Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard and the top pulp writers of the day. Imaginations would blaze; the reader would step into the hero's shoes. They'd be empowered. Even when the reader was back in the real world again after closing the magazine, they could face the day-to-day struggles with renewed energy and hope. That's what stories, do. They help our species to survive. With every new generation there's always an inventive, new way to feed our appetite for fiction. So, imagine my delight when I heard about The Horror Zine. Let me tell you about the e-zine. Launched by Jeani Rector in 2009, this is a glorious online treasury of fiction, artwork, photographs, articles and poetry. With that first click of the mouse I saw that there was something special about The Horror Zine. Lavish color, photos, and illustrations blazed from the screen. Its very look proclaimed a fresh approach to online publishing. The Horror Zine is divided into different departments. Each one features short stories, poetry, art, or non-fiction. Jeani Rector is a lady with vision. Shrewdly, she understands what horror fans enjoy. Jeani Rector ably ushers in artists, authors and poets for us to enjoy. There is provocative artwork. Some subtly erotic, some disturbing, some eerie, and some just plain beautiful. All of it very, very good. And instead of simply displaying the artwork of talented individuals, The Horror Zine becomes a vehicle that can take us to the artist's website, or invites us to contact them. In this way, Jeani Rector's e-magazine acts as both an art gallery and a marketplace, where publishers and individuals might seek to commission original artwork that is stimulating and visually exciting. The same applies to the fiction department. We step into the pages of new and gifted writers who create such remarkably unique and imaginative fiction that it stays with us long after we are finished reading. We can read the story; we learn something about the writer, then once more the door swings open for us to visit the authors' websites. Besides the new writers, The Horror Zine also has a remarkable list of established authors: Graham Masterton, Melanie Tem, Ramsey Campbell, Piers Anthony, Scott Nicholson, Conrad Williams, Ronald Malfi, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Elizabeth Massie and others, who have entrusted their work to the editor's decidedly capable hands. A click of the mouse and we're conveyed to the poets: Joe R. Lansdale is among them. The Horror Zine poets create fluid and artistic lines well worthy of the time spent to savor them. Elsewhere in the e-zine we find The Banners Page, a portal to other sites in keeping with The Horror Zine's morbid theme. "The Oddities in the News Page" features factual items culled from the newspapers: a medieval 'vampire' burial, plans to clone extinct animals, a 75-year-old mystery in Los Angeles that may or may not be related to Peter Pan, and the like. Anyone who has ever stepped into Ripley's Odditorium will love this. I know I do! "The List of Zines Page" is devoted to an extensive directory of both print zines and e-zines that that are potential markets for the work of writers, poets, and artists. Best of all, "The List of Zines Page" is kept current and all of the links work. "The Morbidly Fascinating Page" invites us to peek into some dark corners. Here we find pictures and articles - famous criminals of the past, haunted houses, ancient bodies preserved in bogs, shrunken heads, Victorian post-mortem photography, and an assembly of macabre curios and bizarre exhibits. There is a different subject every month to, well, morbidly fascinate us. And The Horror Zine holds its contributors in heartwarmingly high esteem. My work features there. I contributed a short piece of fiction entitled The Pass. Working with Jeani is a happy experience. She took a great deal of care in ensuring The Pass was displayed attractively, smartly illustrated, and I was extremely gratified that the reader has the opportunity to find out about my latest novels. Believe me, this gladdens an author's heart. I'm sure other contributors to The Horror Zine have been and will be looked after superbly. Just when this seems the point where I invite everyone to hurry over to The Horror Zine to immerse themselves in this groundbreaking creation, I holler "Wait!" Because Jeani isn't content to deliver a great online magazine. Jeani has also embarked on editing a very beautiful book. I'm honored to be able to introduce to you the Jeani Rector-edited anthology here in your hands: What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine. Maybe this book is in the form of paper and ink, or you might be reading it in an electronic format. Rest assured, however, that you are about to step into worlds of wonder where dreams and nightmares are waiting to steal into your heart. Here you'll find the kind of artwork in book format that elevates The Horror Zine into something so special. Your editor has selected a fabulous array of stories, poetry, and artwork for this book. Let me give you a little background about some of the contributors. Ramsey Campbell was encouraged in his writing by HP Lovecraft's friend, August Derleth, and has rightly gained a legendary status in the genre. Graham Masterton's skill as a writer shines from the page. Pick one of his stories and read the masterful dialogue aloud. You'll see what I mean. Piers Anthony's novels have appeared many, many times in the New York Times bestseller lists. I've been fortunate to take part in a convention event with Melanie Tem, and found myself wishing I could make notes about her insights into the craft of the tale. Elizabeth Massie is a well-established writer of novels, short stories and radio plays, and has legions of fans. A favorite movie of mine is Bubba Ho-Tep, which was inspired by a novella from the prolific and gifted Joe R. Lansdale. Here he turns his skillful hand to verse. Conrad Williams is carving a big name for himself in the horror world. His fans would agree; as does Peter Straub, who describes Conrad's work as "beautiful and blazing." Scott Nicholson is the celebrated author of The Red Church. The latest in a long line of fine books by Scott is Drummer Boy. Cheryl Kaye Tardif is a versatile writer, and a rising talent of the Canadian book world. A talent destined for worldwide appreciation. And then there's Ronald Malfi. Always a joy to read, Ronald Malfi's writing-style shines with a diamond-bright brilliance that always leaves me wanting more, much more. Bentley Little is ferociously loyal to the horror genre. He has been rightly described by Stephen King as "a master of the macabre." In the last twenty years he has built up a dedicated following for his terrific supernatural fiction. Bentley Little's The Mailman is a personal favorite of mine and is wickedly entertaining fare. Those are the established writing stars. Which make this book an essential must-buy in its own right. However, Jeani Rector hasn't forgotten the new authors. These new authors prove that The Horror Zine has a healthy appetite for writers who have a taste for the adventurous and the innovative. Online, The Horror Zine attracts the best talent. The well-known, the soon-to-be-well-known. Jeani Rector deserves our applause for producing such a visually stimulating, enchanting and downright exciting website. Now those elements are enshrined here in What Fears Become. This wonderful anthology continues the important traditions of the first story-teller. That ancestor of ours that first spoke the words: "Once upon a time…" Here is proof that humanity is still confidently exploring the world of imagination. And as we continue our voyage into the future we will always tell one another stories. After all, it truly is a matter of life and death. Simon Clark England August 17, 2010 http://www.bbr-online.co.uk/nailed/ BAST by Christian A. Larsen The fluorescent light flickered like the minds of the residents. Sometimes it lit up the entire breadth and depth of the hallway, and sometimes—most times—it only interrupted the peace of the darkness. "I hate this place," muttered Marty, counting off the room numbers. The patients, end-stage dementia sufferers and terminal cancer victims shambling past in flapping terrycloth robes, gave him the absolute willies. They looked like something out of a George Romero movie. He hated the smell worse, though—a mix of piss, disinfectant and ointment that made the nursing home stink like a giant litter box. The woman at the nurse's station smiled when he walked past, but never looked up from her Sudoku game. In fact, the smile never reached her eyes. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked automatically, scrawling numbers in a grid without pausing for an answer. A fat black cat lifted its head from a porcelain bowl where it had fallen asleep. It followed Marty with its good eye. The other was sewn shut and made it look like it was winking at him. Marty mumbled a perfunctory no thanks to the nurse and shuffled into his grandmother's room. The sun was a sinking tangerine and the lights were off, but he could hear her breathing raggedly—a faint snore repeating through her diminished frame. "Grandma?" he asked and wondered why. He hadn't had a real conversation with her in weeks. Not since a couple of months after she checked into the home, since the beginning of her great inexplicable—but not totally unexpected—geriatric decline. "Hubert? Is that you? It's too bright. I can't see." "Grandma, it's me. Marty," he answered, drawing a chair closer to her bed. With the faint purple coming in through the windows, he could see the outline of her face like a silhouette portrait cut from black construction paper. "They were having a party outside, Hubert." "Who was?" "The people in the white coats." "The doctors? Where? Out in the hall?" "No, the people in the white coats were having a party, Hubert. Don't you listen?" Marty didn't know why he was bothering with the conversation, given that she thought he was his years-dead grandfather Hubert, but at least they were connecting, at least a little, and it might be for the last time too. At least he hoped it might be. "Where was the party?" "Across the river," she sounded angry. "Didn't they invite you?" "No, they wouldn't stop inviting me!" For a long time, he couldn't draw anything else intelligible out of her. She moaned and groaned about the cat trying to kill her, how she was afraid to swim, that she wasn't ready, and why did she have to go in the first place? Marty patted her hand. Her skin felt thin and loose, like it was ready to slide off of her bones in a pile, and it made him shiver. Willpower. Old-fashioned German bull-headed willpower. That was the only thing holding her together. The doctors had said she had six months left in her, tops. That was thirteen months ago, and it beat Marty up every time he came back to see her, a little less there than the last time. But enough of her was left to fight that inevitable slide. How he wished that part of her was the first to go. He didn't mind seeing her bruised from the IV lines, or feeding her a cafeteria version of Thanksgiving dinner. What he minded was seeing her living through these nightmares like they were real, and waking up meant dying. Maybe she would be better off really dying. Marty slumped back in the chair and watched the sunlight drain from the twilight. His grandmother was sleeping, or some variant of it, but he told her about his day, anyway. The mundanities, the trivialities about his job, how his wife was handling grad school courses—whatever came to his mind. It was reflexive. He didn't actually intend any of it. It merely came out as the room fell into nighttime, with only the flickering fluorescent trapezoid cut by the doorway casting any light. Something brushed up against Marty's leg and he reached down in that momentary panic—where the small unknown seems life-threatening—and barely missed the fluff of the cat's tail. It sprang onto his grandmother's bed, settled between her feet, and looked at Marty with its single, slitted, radioactive eye. "Shoo, puss. Go on, go," said Marty, waving his hands at the animal. It looked back at him with something akin to bemusement. "I said go!" he repeated, reaching for the cat. It hissed at him and bared its teeth. When it reared back, the light from the door caught a white splotch on its chest shaped like a swinging noose. Marty settled back into his seat. It wasn't doing him any harm. Yet. But then it started to crawl up toward his grandmother's face, the blades of its shoulders pistoning higher than its sleek black head. Marty looked over his shoulder toward the nurse's station. "Can someone come in here and get this cat?" When he turned back, the cat had settled on his grandmother's chest, where it proceeded to lick its paws. There was a faint wheezing noise coming from the bed, like a broken motor or an air-hose leaking from a pinhole. The sound drew Marty forward, and for a couple of seconds, he thought it might be the cat purring, but it wasn't. The sound was coming from higher up, and then it shaped itself into words in his grandmother's voice. "I c-c-can't breathe, Hube-b-b-bert-uhh." "Grandma!" shouted Marty, reaching for the cat with both hands. It stood its ground and glowered at him with its one chartreuse eye. Marty tried to pick it up, but it seemed to weigh more than a thousand pounds. It let out a long purr that sounded like a burp. Then the room went quiet. "Grandma? Grandma?" whispered Marty, suddenly and surprisingly very afraid that she might be dead when just a few minutes before he had hoped as much. He took her hand in his and he patted it. It felt cold. He fumbled around her wrist and couldn't feel a pulse. "Nurse!" "What's the problem, sir?" asked the nurse sleepily as she entered the room. "My grandma's not breathing and I can't get this cat off her chest!" As he was saying that, the cat jumped off the bed and padded past Marty with its tail sticking straight up, flashing its anus at him. In the oddly cast shadows, the animal looked bigger than a small dog. The nurse called the staff physician and he declared Marty's grandmother dead a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gustafson," the doctor offered. "Doctor, there was a cat in here…" "That's Bast, a shelter cat. She's a favorite around here. Named after the Egyptian cat goddess." Marty didn't know why any of that was important when they should have been talking about his grandmother. "Why does that cat have the run of the place? That cat sat on my grandmother's chest." "Bast snuggles up to people when she's feeling affectionate, and the residents seem to like her. She brings their spirits up." "You didn't hear me. That cat, doctor, sat on my grandmother's chest and squeezed the air out of her." "Now, Mr. Gustafson, I'll admit she's overfed, but old Bastie doesn't weigh more than twenty-five pounds, give or take. She doesn't weigh enough to do what you described. Besides, if you were so concerned, why didn't you just pick her up?" "I tried. I couldn't move it." "I understand," said the doctor. "Some people don't like cats. I'll talk to the director of the home about keeping the cat out of places she's not welcome. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss. We'll make the arrangements for you." Marty felt like arguing, but let it go because of the offer of arrangements. Still, he felt like pointing out that he didn't have feelings about cats one way or the other—at least cats in general. But this Bast he didn't like at all, from its one-eyed glare to the noose on its chest, to the way it squashed the tidal breath out of his grandmother's dying body. Still, he was too numb to take it any further, so instead he worked with the home about the arrangements for his grandmother's body, and afterward, he walked back down the flickering hallway. Most of the residents were asleep this time, but Marty still had the willies for some reason. "Well, Grandma, I guess you won't have to be afraid of being alone in the dark anymore," Marty said out loud, feeling like he was whistling past a cemetery. He signed out at the visitor's check-in, spun himself through the revolving door and out of that litter box smell. But the outside didn't smell any better. Marty supposed it was either on his clothes or up both nostrils, and he'd have to shower when he got home. Hell, he needed a shower anyway, but it would have to wait until after he walked Freya. She was wagging her tail in the backseat. He waved at her with his free hand as he felt the door handle catch with the other. It was in that last split second that she growled and bared her teeth, too late to be an effective warning. He thought—as quickly as only such thoughts can be—how odd she looked, and then something hit him like the sweet spot of a baseball bat, right between the shoulder blades and knocked him down to the pavement. The dog was going nuts inside the car, a million miles away. There was a terrible weight on his back and another noise, breathing just above his ear, the hissing of a cat. He felt it curl its claws between his shoulder blades and start to press the air out of his lungs, just like he'd watched it do to his grandmother, and he couldn't even gather the breath to shout for help. His eyesight was graying out, and the last thing he would ever see was his bald tires. I guess I didn't need that alignment after all, Marty thought. Freya, though, tested the door with her weight and it gave. Marty heard her scramble out, her claws and jaws snapping and scrambling onto the pavement. Marty felt her weight on his legs and hips, but even for a dog her size, it was reassuring. The cat hissed and dug its claws deeper into Marty's back—this time a move not of predation, but of desperation. One cat paw moved off of Marty's back and Freya whimpered, drawing back. Marty's hopes went up in smoke. The cat got Freya. There goes my last chance. But he was wrong again. Freya leaped back, snapped at Bast, got a hold of something, and pushed her weight against Marty's side, peeling the cat off of his back. Bast mewled pitifully, raked its claws across Marty's back, and then was gone. He managed to look up. Freya's teeth were red with cat blood, her lips curled in a feral snarl. Marty dragged himself off the pavement and sat against the side of the car. "Good girl, Freya. Good dog." Freya dropped Bast's wrung and punctured corpse in front of Marty and sat down, panting like her master. Marty reached up and scratched the deep pile under the dog's throat. His arms trembled, a nervous reaction to his near-death experience with a house cat, but he'd be okay to drive home if he just gave himself a minute. Bast was a mess, the cat's tail and hind leg braided together at disturbing angles, its throat mangled, and its innards draped over its wounds like the pulsing bodies of coiled nightcrawlers. Marty watched the heat from the cat's body seep into the spring night air. It smelled like his own rejuvenation and rebirth. Finally he felt strong enough to stand, brush the asphalt off his jeans, call the dog into the car, and put this night behind him. "Come on, Freya." But the dog was investigating something under the car next to him—the car he had been sitting against. The cat was nowhere to be seen, but there was a track of gore leading from where Bast had been to the underside of that other car, and he could hear an obscene yowling coming from there. "Freya, get into our car…now!" said Marty, shooing her inside. Jumping into the driver's seat, it wasn't until he pulled onto the highway that he took another breath. "That cat—that damned cat—it still has a couple lives to work through. I don't want to be there when it does." The lights from the highway rolled over the glass of the windshield and Marty flicked on the radio. Ted Nugent was singing "Cat Scratch Fever" and Marty laughed a laugh out of relief more than amusement. "Hey, Freya, how's that for serendipity?" When he looked into the rear view mirror, he could see that Freya's ears were flat and her tail was down. Anxiety rimmed the dog's wide eyes. Marty felt his smile fade under the weight of that stare, dreading the sinister yowl coming from the car's undercarriage—the dead giveaway of a feline stowaway. He checked his gas gauge and calculated in his head how long he could keep the car moving. Not long enough. You can read the rest of WHAT FEARS BECOME at Amazon or Smashwords. Visit The Horror Zine: http://www.thehorrorzine.com Visit Simon Clark's site: http://www.bbr-online.co.uk/nailed/ Visit Christian A. Larsen's site: http://www.exlibrislarsen.com IMAJIN BOOKS Quality fiction beyond your wildest dreams For your next ebook or paperback purchase, please visit: www.imajinbooks.com www.twitter.com/imajinbooks