Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  I scrambled down the step stool, picked up the recorder and tackled the difficult toggle menu. It wasn’t clear-cut like my cassette player. It would be great if I had recorded some of the missing day. I pushed the menu button, right, then left, then dead center. It started into a playback mode. I listened while I continued dusting.

  The step stool was barely high enough for me to reach the top shelves. I listened to small talk, the pleasant sound of teacups set on saucers, the distant hoot of an owl. Then I froze with the feather duster in my hand.

  I climbed down off the stool and sat in Keith’s chair and listened to the most gut-wrenching narrative I had ever heard. I could hardly take it all in. That hazy afternoon was coming back. Reconstructing itself like a kaleidoscope that formed bits and pieces into shapes and colors.

  It was coming back now. All of it. Her terrible story about the night when the Klan decided to punish Francesca for being a witch and her husband for being a Catholic.

  Her hands broken, shattered. Her husband mad with grief. The killing of the animals. Their dear animals. The wonderful Andalusian horses. The horses of kings, Francesca had called them. Their dogs. And her precious cat. Because they thought her little cat was a witch’s familiar.

  I remembered the incredible child-like poem that seemed to underscore the horror of it all.

  Those hands. How could I have forgotten any of it? The warm room, the tea, the carbon dioxide, the heat?

  I bent over and clutched my stomach but endured until the end. Endured until I heard Francesca say she would get her revenge. The seeing drugs. Dear God, I had personally mixed the drugs that would allow Francesca to go back in time and see the faces of men who had harmed her.

  Revenge. She had dedicated her life to getting revenge. God only knew what she planned to do. What had I mixed the day Keith and I were there together?

  And Jane was headed there right now with a Klan poster and a cat’s collar.

  ***

  I scribbled a note to Keith—Trouble. At Compound”—left it on the counter, then tore out of the house. My promise to never go to Francesca’s alone just got trashed. He was in the pasture and might as well have been on Mars. I couldn’t take the time to track him down. I needed to reach Jane right away.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. A tower of dust rose behind me. My heart was in my throat, my blood pounded in my temples. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles were white.

  Francesca wanted revenge. She was determined to get it. She lived for it. She had said that hate was stronger than love. I had no doubt that in Francesca’s mind that included punishing the sins of the fathers through the children.

  Skidding on a patch of gravel, I over-braked, over-steered, then took my foot off the accelerator. I couldn’t help Jane if I were lying in a ditch.

  Scenarios swirled through my mind. What would I find? Would Francesca allow her to get into the workroom? Only if she didn’t know what Jane was bringing, I decided.

  Cecilia would probably leave if Jane said she intended to stay for several hours. She seemed more comfortable now about leaving others in charge of Francesca. She was probably getting used to people tromping through the place. Me, Elizabeth, Keith. No visitors for years, and then a veritable stream of people going back and forth.

  Fear eased just enough for my brain to kick in. Jane absolutely would have called in advance to make sure Francesca was home, but she wouldn’t have mentioned what she was bringing. Yes, I was positive that would be the case. So Cecilia would ask Jane to drive herself and Francesca to the workroom. And then she would leave for the afternoon.

  And then? I swallowed tears as I imagined Francesca’s reaction to the poster, the little cat’s collar. Jane’s confusion.

  Francesca had vowed to get revenge for her ruined hands. Her desecrated family. The slaughter of their animals.

  But what she could do? She couldn’t do anything. Not anything. Not with those hands.

  Unless she kept herself together long enough to persuade Jane to put on the kettle for tea.

  She couldn’t manage a single thing on her own. Would Francesca get her to drink a lethal combination of herbs? Probably mixed by my own hand. The Bohemian woman would certainly stay for tea just to be polite.

  I prayed I would not be too late.

  Perhaps Francesca would cause harm by other means. I shuddered, realizing I actually believed Francesca could cast a spell. Believed that she could conjure up a hex. I was infected with her madness.

  Jane’s little Honda was parked in front of the workshop. I pulled up beside it and slammed on the brakes. I jumped out and rushed inside.

  Francesca was lying on the floor. There was broken glass all around. Herbs strewn across one of the worktables. Sparkling in the sunlight was the red crystal jar, still full. She had not taken the seeing herbs or any of the mixture I mixed last.

  Jane was nowhere in sight.

  I rushed over to the old woman and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there. The Klan poster and a little collar with a bell was on the floor beside her.

  She started to rouse.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered. “Lie still. I’m going to the car and I’ll call the hospital. They’ll have an ambulance here immediately.”

  “No. No.” She tried to roll to one side so she could push herself up with her elbow. “No. Tea. Protection.”

  There was a cup on the table and glass of water. I gave her the water first, then held the cup to her lips. She took a couple of more sips. “Now you.”

  “An ambulance. I need to get to the satellite phone in my car and call an ambulance. “

  “No. Protection first. Both of us. Protection first.” Her voice rose.

  Her pulse accelerated so rapidly I knew she was on the verge of a stroke. Not wanting to upset her, I finished the cup.

  “You have your owl amulet?” Her voice faltered.

  “Yes.”

  “Must try. Must try to protect you. Put your soul in the mirror. Get me a mirror.”

  “No. The ambulance first.”

  “No. You.”

  Her breathing quickened again. Her heart beat faster. I saw a hand mirror on the work table and brought it to her. She quieted. I held the mirror up to my face and she began to chant. I impatiently repeated words I didn’t understand.

  “Where is Jane?”

  She closed her eyes for a second and her breath faltered. Her eyes drifted to the poster and the little collar. “Her family. It was her family. They had the collar. Didn’t need to see. She brought the evidence with her.”

  “Francesca, no! I still can’t believe it. Where is she?”

  Her pulse galloped.

  “Jane,” she whispered. “Jane Jordan. Danger. Danger.” She glanced toward the door that led to the rest of the house.

  I rose. My mind raced. I had come here without a gun or any kind of weapon. I didn’t dare go to the car and call for help. I could not risk leaving Francesca here alone for even a second if she was trying to tell me Jane Jordan was in the next room.

  The quiet little worker bee I had trusted.

  I looked around. I didn’t know what I would be dealing with. I tiptoed to one of the worktables and grabbed a granite pestle.

  My heart pounded. Blood throbbed in my temples. I eased over to the door. I carefully twisted the crystal knob.

  Jane Jordan wriggled on the floor.

  Her mouth, hands, and feet were bound with duct tape.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I tossed the pestle aside and reached to pull the tape off Jane.

  Not smart. I should step back and check the surroundings first. Before I freed Jane. I knew that, but I couldn’t focus. I shook my head to try to clear it. My fingers started to grow numb, then they trembled. I waited for my dizziness to subside, but still couldn’t manage
to grasp the end of the tape.

  What had Francesca put in the tea?

  Jane squealed. Her eyes widened.

  I turned. But I couldn’t make my feet work. Couldn’t think. My legs were unsteady.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no. What had been in Francesca’s tea?

  I drifted in and out of my mind. First everything was sharper, then blurred and distant. Then there were hands under my armpits and a man’s voice. No, two voices, I thought. There were two. And they were dragging, dragging me toward the well house. And Francesca, too.

  Behind me she wailed, keened like some primitive animal.

  We were shoved into the well house. The walls contracted, expanded, wavered before my eyes. The bricks glowed in ever-changing colors like iridescent crystal.

  Francesca’s voice sounded from a distance. Like it was coming from the well opening. But when I turned, she was right beside me.

  Her eyes glittered. “I’ll never tell. Never.” She lifted her ruined hands. “See these? Do you think if I were capable of enduring all this I would now tell?”

  “No, you see this.” He aimed a shotgun toward her stomach. Then he glanced at her hands. Studied her hands. “Or perhaps you need something more. Now tell us where the map is.”

  “I will die first.”

  “No you will die after you tell, old witch. After.”

  “I can choose. I will choose. I will die now.”

  She seemed taller. Straighter. Then she faded in and out. She slipped, wavered before my eyes.

  “Sadly, I’m leaving you between, Lottie Albright. In the mirror. But I must go now. And someone else must come after you.” Her voice was faint, distant.

  “Francesca!”

  She sank onto the floor. Her eyes fluttered.

  “Leaving you between. God forgive me. You won’t be able to stop it. Mirror.” Her voice was thick with pain. Her breaths were shallow. “In the mirror. Here or the other side.”

  Her mouth stilled.

  Then there were hands dragging me toward the ledge of the well. I could not resist. Could not think. I heard an owl hoot. Calling my name.

  There were two men. Two men. I had seen them before. At the feedyard? No, at the funeral. They were the two men harassing Maria. The ones who claimed to be distant cousins while she insisted she didn’t even have an Aunt Lucia.

  Hadn’t Sam said there were two men? Suddenly they loosened their grip.

  I heard a car. More than a car—a monster—coming up the lane. A roaring coming up the lane.

  Josie’s Mercedes drove past the open well house door.

  Elizabeth and Zola were with her. It didn’t make sense. Why were they here? My mind wavered, cleared. My note to Keith. They had probably seen the note I left in the kitchen.

  They were driving toward the Old House. Francesca’s workroom. They would see my car. Think I was in there, and see all of the broken glass. Jane would thump her feet.

  She would do something. Make some kind of noise when they called out.

  My stomach lurched. Jane would tell them Francesca and I were in danger. Please God, don’t let those women come here. Don’t let them come toward armed men.

  Tears stung my eyes. But my brain sharpened, sorted, tried to decide how to protect them. None of these women would immediately think of going to the well house. None of the three of them had ever been here. No reason to decide to check inside the well house. Jane wouldn’t know where the men were taking us.

  Josie would know to call for help. Immediately. Her cell phone would be out of range, but she could use the satellite phone in my car. Would she think of that? In time?

  My heart thumped in my chest. There was no reason for any of these women to immediately suspect we had been taken to this place. Don’t come. Don’t come. I chanted it silently over and over again, like a mantra.

  But Tosca figured it out. Became a bloodhound in the space of a blood speckle.

  Sick at heart, I heard the yipping little dog tearing toward us.

  The men had been still up until then. But this was a game-changer. One of them stepped into the doorway and fired at Tosca.

  He missed.

  “Tosca,” Josie screamed. “Tosca. Tosca. Stop.”

  She ran toward Tosca, scooped her up and held her tightly against her chest.

  “Go back,” I screamed. “Josie, go back.”

  I turned to the man holding the shotgun and lunged at him. “You bastard. Those women are unarmed. Defenseless.” I swayed. My words were slurred. “What do you want from us?” He back-handed me across the jaw. I hit the wall and began sliding toward the floor. I rolled to my feet.

  “Josie, Elizabeth, Zola. Stay back.” Then my vision stabilized. All my senses sharpened and suddenly I could think again.

  Shouldn’t have used names. Shouldn’t have let them know there were only three women. Unarmed women.

  The man with the handgun walked outside and motioned to Josie. “Get inside with her. Now.”

  Carrying Tosca, Josie stumbled into the well house. Her sobs echoed off the stone walls. She carefully laid the trembling shih tzu on one of the stone benches.

  She stood next to me and I reached for her hand, hoping to transmit some of my newfound strength.

  “Well now, ain’t this something.” The man with the shotgun was red-faced with a large stomach and arms like hams. I remembered his face now. His rudeness toward Maria Diaz at the funeral. His thighs bulged in his jeans. I decided it would be a mistake to think he was slow because he was so big.

  The dark-haired man with the handgun edged back for a better look. He looked eager to spring, like a pit bull. Hair-trigger eyes. Excitable. He transferred the gun to his other hand. I looked away, not wanting to give him an excuse to hurt us.

  “Yes. Indeedy. This is something. Can’t believe our luck. Can you, Leon?” He looked at Josie, then me, then back again. “One for each of us.” Their eyes traveled over our bodies. “And just think. One of them probably has some information.”

  “We’re entitled to this information,” Leon snickered. “How long do you think it’s going to take, Jerry?”

  “A while. A good long while. And I believe it requires enhanced interrogation techniques.”

  “Very enhanced.” Leon pulled out a pocket knife. He pulled Josie toward him and ripped her blouse down to her waist. Then he slit the front of her bra. Her breasts glistened in a ray of sunlight coming through the slit at the top of the well house. “Oh my, yes.” He looked at me. “Double the enhancement.”

  “But let’s not take any chances on leaving those other two alone. They might be dreaming up all kinds of mischief.”

  “Only way out is to drive past us, Jerry. No problem.”

  “No, we’ll tend to them now. Right now. Or sort of take care of them. I think they would be happier back here, don’t you? With their friends?”

  Leon looked around and eyed the ropes hanging from the pulley system. He stepped forward and ran his hands over Josie. “Yes, they will all be happier united with their friends.” He pinched one of her nipples. “God, I want to make this woman happy. Right now.”

  Jerry gave a soft chuckle. “The other women first.” He turned to me. “What did you call them? Elizabeth? Zola?”

  “Tie them up,” he ordered Leon. “Don’t want no slip-ups. You’ll get your reward. Promise. Two for you and two for me.”

  They took the rope from the rotating beam and tied our hands above our heads. Then they hoisted it over the beam and swung us over the well. The pain was excruciating.

  They went outside. “Oh Zola, Elizabeth, darling. We’re coming for you.” Their voices receded. I fought against the pain. My breath was coming in tortured gasps. They had guns. There was absolutely nothing Zola and Elizabeth could do to defend themselves. Nothing but hide.

  My head bent and
all I could see beneath us was black. Not good to look down. I wouldn’t do it again.

  Suddenly there was a soft whoosh of air, a movement behind us. Someone was swinging me away from the well. Zola came round in front and lowered me to the ground and untied my hands. She did the same thing to Josie. Her hands were steady, her mouth a straight line. She unfastened the rope from the beam and coiled it so fast she might have been doing it all her life.

  Had been doing it all her life, I realized.

  “Stay here,” she ordered.

  We struggled into a sitting position and watched her slip through the door. I didn’t see her cross the yard and knew she had slipped around to the front of the well house and was probably moving quietly toward the Old House.

  I was the first to get to my feet. I looked at my sister. “Don’t try to come after me.”

  Too eager to get two more women, the men had gotten careless, over-confident. They weren’t making any attempt to be quiet. Gravel crunched beneath their feet. “Oh, Elizabeth, Zola. We’ve got something for you.”

  Jerry guffawed. I ran behind George’s Spanish bungalow and came up to the Old House just as they shoved the door open.

  Elizabeth was standing behind it, holding one of Francesca’s granite pestles. She bashed Jerry in back of the head and grabbed the shotgun as he fell.

  Leon rushed forward and aimed before Elizabeth could raise the shotgun to her shoulder.

  The air parted, zinged, and a rope fell over his shoulders pinning his arms to his side. He was still clutching the handgun, when I rushed through the door and picked up a piece of broken glass.

  “Drop it. Now. If you want to keep those fingers.”

  He did.

  Zola walked toward Leon, coiling the rope as she went. When she was ten feet away, she sent it sailing around and around the length of his body and yanked him off his feet. He hit the floor with a thud. She was on his back in a flash and tied his arms in back and then bent his legs backward and secured them to his hands.