by Cailyn Lloyd
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ll explain later. Just tell me where you are.”
“The Auburn Inn, room 113, but—”
“I’ll see you in a little while.”
Laura slammed the phone down and buzzed the nurse. She climbed out of bed looking for her clothes. Found them hanging in the closet. She heard a nurse pad in behind her.
“What are you doing?” the nurse demanded.
“I’m leaving,” Laura said without turning.
“You can’t do that. The doctor was quite specific; you’re to stay until tomorrow, now—”
Laura turned, angered and frustrated. “I said I’m leaving, and as soon as I’m dressed, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“We’ll see about that! I’m calling the doctor!”
“Call whoever you like, just get out of my room. I want to get dressed.”
As the nurse stormed out, Laura tossed her gown and pulled her clothes on with angry thrusts. She was doing the right thing. Leah would be safe here at the hospital, perhaps more so than anywhere else. Besides, the doctor said she was making a remarkable recovery, and she preferred the idea of a hotel bed over a hospital bed. She was slipping into her parka when the nurse and an older woman barged in.
“Mrs. MacKenzie, please stop and reconsider. You have a serious head injury.” A slim figure, her face was stern, her lips covered with too much lipstick.
Laura stared at her coolly. “I know my rights. I’m leaving. Do I need to sign something?”
“You’ll have to sign an AMA form.”
“If you have it ready, fine. If not, send it to me.” Laura marched down the hall to the stairs. She stopped to see Leah, found her asleep, but lingered for a moment just to watch her, then kissed her on the forehead. She left Dana’s room number with the night nurse, called a cab, and knocked at the hotel room door thirty minutes later.
Dana pulled the door open. “Hey, Mom. What happened?”
Laura walked in and threw her coat onto the bed. “Oh, just about everything. The police all but accused me of tossing Leah through a trapdoor in her closet—I assume your father made that accusation. Now the nurses think I’m Attila the Hun.” Laura described the police visit and the attitude of the nurses later in the day.
Dana shook her head sympathetically. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“First, I’m going to find an attorney and deal with your father—Dana, I think he’s gone crazy. He knows I’d never hurt Leah.”
“Divorce?” Dana said tentatively.
Laura struggled with her tears for a moment, then forced them back. She nodded.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s sad.” She gave Laura a hug. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid it’s gone too far for anything else.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll pick Leah up and get out of here,” Laura said. “Can I stay with you for a few weeks?”
“I told you, Mom. You don’t need to ask.”
Laura tapped on Ashley’s name in her contacts but the call went to voicemail.
“Where’s Ashley staying? I want to call her.”
“I don’t really know.”
Laura called the other motels in the area, but couldn’t find her. Around eleven, Dana fell asleep, leaving Laura alone with an old movie on cable, Dark Passage.
Exhaustion soon took her, the TV illuminating the room in ghostly grey.
Fifty-Six
Shepherd watched Lucas drive off in the pickup, then stepped out of the woods and walked toward the front door. The house was dark, and he felt reasonably certain it was empty. He veered to the edge of the woods again, up to the drive, and jogged down to the house. He didn’t want to leave suspicious footprints in the snow.
Lucas MacKenzie was a skeptical twit which complicated the problem here. He shouldn’t blame Lucas. It was a ridiculous story and, after all this time, one he scarcely believed himself. Nevertheless, being at least partly responsible for the problem, he needed to resolve it. The village idiot in the equation, Edward MacCoinnich, had been dead for almost five hundred years and now his death didn’t seem punishment enough. Shepherd didn’t yet have a plan, so he had driven up and observed the house over the past three nights, becoming familiar with family routines, hoping to formulate a remedy to rid the house of Anna Flecher. He soon established a few patterns.
Lucas left each night between seven and eight o’clock and returned late, often after midnight. Curious, he followed Lucas to town the night before and found he was frequenting a tavern, drinking heavily, and cheating on his wife. He noticed Laura was gone but didn’t know why. Maybe she had taken a trip for a few days. Or maybe she had left Lucas. That would be better. Lucas was a cad.
He tried the front door, and it opened. No alarm sensor either. Lucas was obviously a trusting soul—or daft.
The house looked almost exactly as he remembered it. The colors were different, the decor more contemporary, but this was almost certainly the same house, the Tudor house inhabited by Edward MacCoinnich and Anna Flecher five hundred years ago.
He removed his boots and walked a slow circuit around the first floor, performing a quick inspection of each room. In the Greate Hall, he examined the paneling on the right side of the fireplace and noted subtle tool markings likely made when they opened the wall to access the tomb.
It was uncanny. Somehow, this house, built in England centuries ago, had been transported here by forces he could scarcely imagine. Yet, as he walked through the house, he sensed no presence at all. She must be here, he was certain, but had cloaked her essence in some way. So, it would be a game of cat and mouse from here as they appraised each other, seeking weakness. Anna Flecher had to know he meant to end her.
A flash of insight jogged a memory, the memory of an object placed here long ago that would confirm Anna had been interred in this house. He walked up the stairs and across the hall to a bedroom and searched the floor just behind the door. He pushed down, and the trapdoor flipped open. Inside, the cross meant to contain Anna lay there, marked with the single word he’d engraved upon it five hundred years ago—Dryhtdðm.
Judgement.
Ironic. It seemed judgement in the end had come to Edward MacCoinnich, not Anna Flecher. It would be doubly ironic if Anna exacted a revenge on him as well. He pocketed the cross.
He then noticed an ultra-low frequency vibration in the house. A deep bass thrum, a sensation felt more than heard. He fingered the amulet over his heart. It protected him from the presence in the house, the vibration caused by the dissonant conflict between the house and his amulet, the tension growing by the moment.
It was time to leave. He wasn’t yet prepared for a confrontation. Tomorrow, he would return and finish the job he’d started eons ago. He spoke a few words in his ancient Mercian dialect, the Old English equivalent of I’ll be back, and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
He climbed into the Range Rover and breathed a sigh of relief. A second amulet rested on the dashboard. Disabling a means of escape was common. Once it was killing or maiming horses; now, vehicle sabotage. He took no chances, understood the risks. With amulets, he protected his person and his vehicle, but he then thought about the cross in his pocket. That hadn’t worked. Not even a little.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. He was taking a dangerous path to fix this. It would be much safer to run, but his ethical sense of duty outweighed any thoughts of flight. That failed cross? That was a warning to stay focused, to avoid becoming reckless.
Driving home, he began to craft a solution to end to this nonsense once and for all.
Fifty-Seven
In the woods, a hundred yards out from the library, Tom sat on the fallen bole of a tree struck by lightning years before. He stared at the house, transfixed. Glowing a faint but iridescent green, the aura had spread from the roof to envelope the entire structure in the past few days. He did
n’t understand the phenomenon but assumed it was something bad.
An omen?
Tom didn’t know, and while he felt little emotion, he was experiencing a sensation approaching fear. The anxiety stemmed from the brick burial tomb. Something dangerous had been sealed within and the intruders had foolishly set it free. That presence, now loose, filled the atmosphere with hostile energy and was the likely source of the creepy green aura surrounding the house.
It was his fault. He should’ve worked harder to keep that guy out of there. Maybe this had all been fated. He had been brought here to protect the house until these people came and released it from bondage. Now an evil story was unfolding, directed by the dark and dangerous presence, a threat to the house and everyone within. He feared they were about to reap the whirlwind.
It was frightening, overwhelming. More than ever, Tom longed for death. Not the twilight consciousness he now occupied but blessed oblivion. He was tired of being a prisoner. He was also certain Elizabeth was never coming back. Maybe she was dead. Regardless, he had no reason to stay.
Problem was, he didn’t know how to leave. An invisible tether kept him within eyeshot of the house. The bullets Scarecrow fired at him had passed right through. Hadn’t phased him. Maybe silver bullets would do the trick? Or a wooden stake through the heart? Tom grimaced at the irony, reduced in his miserable existence to praying for an ugly demise.
Tom needed to grab and take hold of his destiny. Otherwise, a thousand years would pass and he’d still be here, dithering, unable to decide, truly a fate worse than death.
Things had to change.
Soon.
Fifty-Eight
Laura and Dana awoke just after eight. They showered and ate breakfast at the motel restaurant, a small alcove with four tables and a diminutive menu. Laura was happy to be leaving, relieved to have made meaningful decisions about her life. She also felt a strong undercurrent of unease, much like the day Sally died. Worried, she called the hospital, but Leah was fine and would be ready to leave by noon. Laura called several local attorneys, finding one who would see her today. Tapped the red icon and turned to Dana.
“Will you come with me? I’m a bit nervous.”
“Like I’ve got anything better to do,” Dana said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I am. Your dad is going through something. Maybe this will bring him to his senses.”
Dana nodded but remained silent.
Laura was more than nervous; she was downright apprehensive but attributed this to her meeting with the attorney. It would start the process to end her marriage, and as broken as things were, it was painful to consider letting go. Fleeting glimpses of their life together came unbidden; Dana’s birth, their trip to St. Lucia, their wedding day. She had never been with another man, and now it all seemed lost. Laura was certain he was seeing somebody. The idea of him with another woman—holding her, touching her, making love to her—felt like a dagger through her soul. She had doubts. This might be a mistake, might push them apart forever, but to protect herself, to protect Leah, it was the best course. Lucas didn’t care about Leah. He might still care about her. If he came to his senses, she would reconsider the marriage.
The attorney worked from an office building three long blocks from the motel. Laura and Dana walked but soon wished that they hadn’t. The sky was dull and dark, the color of washed slate, the air bitterly cold. The bank thermometer stood at an icy two degrees.
They waited thirty minutes and were then shown into a spacious office. A big man behind the desk jumped up to meet them with an outstretched hand. “Morning, ladies—Bill Wexler.”
Wexler was a tub of a man with a moustache and soul patch, dark bushy eyebrows, and an energetic manner. His suit looked trendy and custom-made. He listened intently to Laura, then said, “What do you want me to do?”
“I want a divorce. I want him away from me and our granddaughter. Can you do it?”
“Heck, yes. Do you want the house?”
“No, not even a little.”
“Wisconsin is a no-fault state. However, if we get the jump on him and file papers first, you’ll get temporary custody of Leah. Meanwhile, we’ll tie him up in paperwork so completely he’ll need court approval to use the restroom.”
Laura didn’t care for Wexler but retained him regardless, based on his promise to tie Lucas in knots. She suspected he was unscrupulous but decided a tawdry approach was just the ticket for this situation. Wexler asked numerous questions and took copious notes. At length he said, “That should do it. There’s one more matter to attend to, then I’ll get started.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll need a retainer plus filing fees for the paperwork. Two thousand dollars should do it. Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about money,” Laura said, feeling foolish and worried that Lucas may have frozen the accounts.
“Where are your accounts?” Wexler asked. Jotting down account numbers, he picked up the phone and confirmed the accounts remained unfettered.
“Figure out what you’ll need for the next month or two. Go down to the bank and draw it out in cash or traveler's checks. Drop off the retainer, and I’ll start the paperwork.”
Laura and Dana walked to the bank and spent an hour making the necessary arrangements. They delivered Wexler’s retainer and ran back to the motel. Laura grew more anxious. This was taking much too long—it was now after one o’clock.
Laura packed the few items she had and Dana went to pull the car around front. A few minutes later, Laura’s phone rang. It was Dana.
“Mom, my car won’t start. It won’t even turn over. I called for help, but they said it might be two hours.”
“We don’t have that much time. I’ll call a cab.”
“What about Uber?” Dana said.
“I don’t know. What about it?”
“Damn, there’s no Uber here.”
Laura summoned a cab, impatient to discharge Leah from the hospital. She called Ashley while they waited, but the call went to voicemail. When the driver arrived, they grabbed their purses and phones.
It had started to snow. The cabby, a congenial man with an unruly mess of grey hair and a big weathered nose, warned that a big snowstorm was coming later in the day. Soon after, the radio echoed his forecast, issuing a dire forecast about a winter storm—a panhandle hook—swinging northward from Texas. Apparently, it was a particularly bad sort of storm.
“Here we are, ladies.” He coasted to the entrance.
Laura paid him, stepped out, and said, “Could you have someone pick us up in an hour? We’ll need a ride back to our motel.”
“I’ll just wait for you in the coffee shop.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I’m due for a break. Might as well take it here.”
Laura and Dana rushed through the revolving door to escape the cold. The lobby was devoid of people or noise other than the faint hum of machinery. The elevator door was open and waiting. Laura shivered, trying to shake off the cold and a growing sense of dread. The apprehension was more acute, a premonition of danger and confrontation, a feeling that her life was about to unravel in a bad way. The feeling was approaching panic.
Stop it!
Laura silently cursed her morbid imagination and stepped out on the third floor. Everything would be fine. They would pick up Leah, drive to Illinois, and Wexler would handle the rest. She walked briskly to Leah’s room ahead of Dana, her heels clicking loudly on the hard floor, faster and faster, unable to control the explosion of anxiety within. Something was wrong, she was sure of it.
Stop it!
The corridor smelled of disinfectant. Two small boys clad in hospital pajamas raced past her, giggling. Laura tried to smile, slowed the last few feet to the door, and stuck her head around the corner.
The room was empty.
Fifty-Nine
Shepherd ate a light breakfast, a conc
oction of roots and wild grains high in complex carbs. For years, he’d been comfortable eating alone, but this morning he felt melancholy. He thought of Laila and missed her with deep longing. The burden to end the problem in Lost Arrow seemed immense and in times of stress, he thought of her. She had a calm manner and had always been his antidote for tension. Even now, her memory was soothing.
He thought of Laura as well. She reminded him of Laila, but there was something more. She exerted a powerful pull. Why? He couldn’t say. He suspected she was like him, a natural. She might not know it—might know she was different but not why. If so, she would have little training and her skill would be a raw, untamed thing. It was good she was away. The house was clearly a dangerous place for her.
As he ate, he checked the forecast, dismayed to see a winter storm warning in effect. Despite the weather, tonight felt like the optimal time to confront Anna Flecher. She would be preparing to meet his challenge and he dared not give her too much time to ready a defense. While he hadn’t sensed her in or near the house thus far, he assumed she was cloaking her presence. But what if she was dead and had left some remnant, malignant energy behind? He’d seen that happen over the years and it complicated the remedy. Shepherd ticked all possibilities off a mental checklist until satisfied he would arrive at the house prepared for every eventuality.
Shepherd spent an hour packing supplies and the tools and accouterments of his profession into the Range Rover. Placed a handful of his favorite Beethoven CDs on the front seat. The garage was heated, which allowed him to work at a comfortable pace. No need to hurry. He would wait until Lucas left the house, giving him at least five hours to work. A thread of anxiety ran through the mental preparations. How had she sustained a presence for so long? She was dead, entombed in brick, and yet, had persevered. Five hundred years later, she remained strong, remained a threat.
He walked down to his basement workshop. Unlike the advanced and highly technical study two floors above, this space harkened back to a simpler, more primitive era. The tools and raw materials here were roots and medicaments, amulets and talismans, the spoken word. He hadn’t spent much time here lately. He’d embraced technology at every turn and had become a wizard of a different persuasion, a sorcerer of technology—the only sensible path in the modern world. Nevertheless, a dangerous piece of the ancient world had found him and, regardless of his reservations, he needed to send back where it belonged.
