Red Ochre Falls

by Kristen Gibson

  I guess the guy did his job, but he deserved a kick in the nuts for scaring us so bad.

  Jos’s cousin was part of the Ashfield family—corn tycoons, or something. They had an old farm between Cincy and Dayton, which they maintained and worked to this day.

  The countryside stretched out ahead. The car revved and I let it loose. Jos was right, I needed a break.

  A half hour later, the Nav system instructed me to turn right. The car owned the road until the dirt trail. Pockmarked and only about a lane and a half, the trail started low on the property. It curved upward through trees and land until I saw a large yellow and white farmhouse. An idyllic setting for a house with a generous front porch, and two old-fashioned rockers out front.

  I stepped out of the car and inhaled grasses and woods. The switch had flipped from summer heat to autumn cool. When I got to the house, Jos’s Aunt and Uncle debated Farmer’s Almanac predictions of another harsh winter. The idea of a polar vortex was unsettling, so I stopped listening and hugged Jos.

  She gave me a brief tour, and introduced her cousins. It happened so quickly—I remember meeting her Aunt JoAnn, Uncle Lou and a bunch of kids. The farm buzzed with activity, so we headed outside and got started.

  “So what do you want me to do with all these?” I indicated the enormous hay cylinders that towered over us.

  “Spray paint them with pumpkins and goofy Halloween faces,” Jos said, as she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “We want to keep it PG so little kids can enjoy it, and their parents will want to bring them back. Stuff like this helps keep the family business going after harvest. They even host a sleigh ride with Santa.”

  “Why couldn’t I have pulled that gig?”

  “I know you aren’t into creepy stuff, but you’ll enjoy this. Think of when we used to go trick-or-treating at Crystal Creek. It was all about dressing up and getting candy, not being scared by disemboweled freaks.”

  “Okay, but I’m out of here if even one person jumps out at me. That includes you.”

  “I know, I know.” Jocelyn handed me a cardboard box full of random paint cans, with and without lids. “Just paint something. Painting hay bales is like tagging a wall, only it’s legal.”

  “I never painted the school, Jimmy Peters made it look like I did.”

  “I know, but I already managed to help you forget someone wants you dead.”

  My stomach knotted up and I thought I’d throw up. My face must have shown it too.

  “Too soon? Sorry. Let’s get to work. We can have lunch, or at least some cider and donuts when we’re finished with all these.”

  “Yum. How many of these things do we have to decorate?” You could see acres of harvested landscape, and eight-foot or taller rolls of hay everywhere.

  “We only have to paint 50; half are yours. It’s doable. I have to head up to the house and get a few things together for Aunt JoAnn. Will you be okay here?”

  “Yeah. Even if I wasn’t, I’d still do it to help Jos.” I recited the words she used to lure me here, and she laughed.

  “It won’t be bad. Text if you need anything.” Jocelyn hopped on a small utility cart. The motor buzzed as she drove toward the house.

  I sat the paint box near my first victim and picked up a can without a lid—much easier than prying one off with a screwdriver. I shook the can and heard the metallic ball clanking around before taking aim.

  Paint droplets misted the air. Some even hit the hay bale. I concentrated and hit the target the second time. The gold and auburn countryside was picturesque. I’d say it took my breath away, but it might have been the paint fumes.

  Painting in this setting reminded me of the time mom and I completed a baby-to-big kid bedroom makeover. We painted an old dresser then she sketched lines on the walls. I had sky, and clouds, and a rainbow in my room when we finished painting. The sun burned away my tears so I could get back to the hay.

  After the first couple not-so-scary bale-faces, I felt like I’d gotten the hang of it. I got more creative and ended up with a couple of purple-haired googly-eyed faces that looked almost cute. I bent to find a canister of orange when I heard something rustle in the field a few feet away.

  This was it, I thought. After confrontations and threats, someone was going to get me. My heart pounded. I looked for a clear path to the house, but gigantic hay bales were all over the place. I prayed the noise was just some birds, or field mice running around the corn stover because my only weapon was spray paint. I wished for a lighter to make a paint can flamethrower—but I had no experience, and probably would have burned the hair off my arms and face if I’d tried.

  The wind picked up. Some leaves flew by and the rustling started again. I aimed a spray can with one hand, and grabbed my phone to thumb text Jos for help with the other. Then waited.

  My hand cramped around the paint can, and my knees locked up waiting.

  And waiting.

  Wondering if I’d turn to stone, Jos came to my rescue just as a cat ran out of the field. Whew!

  “Probably chasing mice,” Jos said, and stepped out of the Gator. There were plenty of animals running around here, but something didn’t seem right. “I can stay and help.”

  Relieved, I thanked Jos. We stuck together and painted hay bales until they were all decorated as fun-not-frightening characters. The rest of our time at the farm, we talked with her Aunt JoAnn and stuffed ourselves full of donuts and cider.

  After an hour, I checked my phone. Garrett and Ryder had been really flexible about phone coverage the past couple days, and I didn’t want to take advantage of their kindness. I signaled Jos. She knew I needed to head back. It was critical I start my ‘shift’ on time. Saying thanks didn’t seem like enough, so I hugged Jos and her aunt then headed back with cash and cider.

  Country roads and yellow lines lay before me. I turned on the radio, cracked the windows enough to let in fresh air, then hit the road.

  During the drive home, I wrestled with the idea Chloe could somehow be linked to a gangster. It began to appear as though everyone was tied to the mob. Chloe, Tess, and Garrett—claiming a one time deal. It was Garrett’s only flaw, so far. I was curious about a lot of things Garrett-related, especially, what he did for Ruggiano. But first, I needed to figure out how Ruggiano fit into Chloe’s world, or vice versa.

  Ideas tumbled around upstairs. But what stuck out was the Sigo case. According to information from Tom Clark, a guy I’d met only yesterday, this was a big land deal, and probably Chloe’s big case. Seeing Tom’s strange behavior, I knew it was important to check out Chloe’s place. Last night was too late, Jos and I worked this morning, and I was headed back to the funeral home to answer phones through the night. Finding answers would have to wait until morning. My new to-do list: work, sleep, snoop, and school.

  CHAPTER 19

  When I got home, clouds hung overhead. Ash grey saturated every detail of the funeral home. The place looked dull compared to the vibrant landscape I’d left.

  My motivation waned. But I thought of mom, and the job, and pushed onward.

  Everything looked secure from the outside. Everything will be fine, I tried to reassure myself. Crisp air whipped at my skin and I had second thoughts about this place. Once safely inside, I shut out the outside world.

  “Hey there,” Garrett said. I jumped a mile high. “Easy, I’m friendly.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief then giggled thinking of him as more than friendly. Getting close to him posed a major risk, but it didn’t stop me from imagining it. A perk of doing this sort of work was I got to see him nearly every day. More frequently, since we had an influx of dead bodies. I cringed at the thought and pushed it to the back of my brain.

  Garrett took my hand in his. “Nice paint,” he commented on my purple, orange and black hands. He led me through the hallway, past the cookie tables, the coffee pot, and into the office.

  “Are we discussing business?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what?”
>
  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. It’s time you tell me what’s really going on with you.”

  “With me? I have a few questions for you, mister!”

  “Okay. I’ll answer yours, if you answer mine. But first, I’ve got plans.”

  This sounded promising. I wondered if he wanted to order Thai, hunker down, and figure this mystery out, or if he planned something romantic. A girl can dream. Right? “What plans?”

  Garrett stepped closer, which made me warm in all the right places. When he leaned forward, I got ready for a kiss.

  “Training,” he whispered across my lips then picked some hay out of my hair.

  I huffed at him, and he gave me a peck on the cheek.

  “But first, there is someone you need to meet.”

  I eyed Garrett suspiciously. He’d arranged for me to meet Mrs. Jacobson, the lady who lived down the street. He told her I was looking for work and said she was more than happy to interview me.

  It sounded like a nice gesture, but I wanted to get the job on my own merits. He figured as much and offered to stay behind. He then pointed me toward the door.

  “I have to clean up.”

  “Better make it fast. She’s expecting you in fifteen minutes.”

  “But, how did you know I’d be here in time?”

  “Jos. She called when you left, so I could tell Mrs. J.”

  First, Jos talks to my mom, and now Garrett? “Are you guys double-teaming me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I can handle myself, you know.”

  “I know. Just trying to help.”

  “It would be nice if one of these days someone would talk to me before making decisions about my life.”

  “Very well. You get to pick what we do after practice.”

  “It’s a start.”

  I hustled upstairs, and did my best to scrub the paint off my hands and run a brush through my hair. My jeans were dirty, so I pulled on a pair of black pants, added a grey shirt, and stuffed my phone and ID in the pockets. Satisfied, I grabbed a jacket and went back downstairs.

  Garrett gave me the address. Mrs. Jacobson lived across the street—three doors down from the Davis Funeral Home.

  Freshly painted, her house stood as a revived Victorian among other less maintained homes.

  When I got inside, Mrs. Jacobson showed me around. She explained how she decorated it just the way she liked. The house featured antique clocks and wood trim, Queen Anne chairs, and a library of old books. I could have browsed the library all day, and not read the same title twice. Everything appeared well maintained, and there wasn’t a hint of must or mothballs. I could definitely hang out here.

  Mrs. Jacobson used a cane during the tour. She wobbled a bit, but shrugged off my attempts to help—determined to prove her independence.

  She directed me to sit. The couch was covered in an expensive-looking brocade. She had a tea set on the long, low table in front of us. Alongside it sat a three-tiered serving tray. The top tier held fresh strawberries, raspberries, and pears. The second tier had dessert bites that looked like pecan brownies. Beside those were mini caramel apple tarts, and cranberry scones with a side of clotted cream. The bottom tier held sliced cheese, and cucumber sandwiches.

  When Mrs. Jacobson finally sat, she smoothed out her dress and asked me to pour the tea. I was a little nervous about spilling it, so I made sure to focus.

  She added two sugar cubes and milk to both cups then gracefully stirred and lifted her tea to sip. I mimicked her. The tea was the perfect temperature and sweetness. When finished, she placed the delicate cup back on the saucer. I did the same.

  “So tell me, dear,” she said in a slightly broken tone. “What are your skills?”

  Even though I knew it was an interview, the question sounded abrupt. The dainty foods, and sweet tea led me to believe it might be more of a ‘get-to-know-you-chat’. Instead of panicking, I took a breath and asked her what the job entailed, so I could best answer her questions.

  “You’d do a little of this and that. I like the company, and it helps to have someone here in case I run into trouble. You know, the ‘Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up’ scenario.”

  Mrs. Jacobson made light of her condition, she wasn’t bitter. I liked her.

  She explained that the cook was expecting her third child and wanted to scale back on work. She’d like to have me visit a once a week and occasionally run errands.

  “I’d have my nephew do it, but he’s not always available,” she sounded perturbed. “I love the boy, but he needs to mature.”

  In answer to her question, I listed a half dozen skills and traits to fit her needs. Really, I was overqualified, but the woman needed help. I assured her I’d be prompt and dependable.

  We snacked and discussed the schedule and pay rate. She was more than generous, so it wasn’t much of a discussion.

  My phone alarm buzzed. “Sorry. I promised to be home soon,” I told her. “Do you have anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  “Not today.”

  “Feel free to call if you have other questions, or need anything.”

  “Thank you, Mattie.”

  We both rose. She grabbed her cane, and even thought she didn’t need to, she walked me to the door.

  On the way out, I noticed an unfinished painting in the solarium. The landscape was unlike anything I’d ever seen. She caught me hypnotized by it. I blushed. “It’s striking,” I told her.

  “Thank you, dear. I think so too. Needs some work, though.”

  There was something about the way she said it. “Is this your work?” I was astounded anyone in her frail state could paint such a beautiful piece.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I may be old, but I’m not dead yet.” She eyed the painting then me. “I look forward to seeing you again.” That was it. She offered no other details, and let me out.

  As if in a trance, I thought about the painting all the way home. All seven minutes of it. I crossed the street heading toward Mackenzie’s driveway. A blue van that I thought was a quarter mile away gunned the engine. I had to run to avoid getting hit.

  I turned to curse at the guy and saw brake lights. The van screeched around, doing an illegal U-turn, and headed straight toward me.

  I sprinted up the drive. My body was moving, but outrunning the van was going to be a challenge. I’d had a couple of angry threats this week, and I did not want to find out what happened if the stalker caught me.

  In my mind, I started going through scenarios of how best to get inside. Coming straight up the drive meant my side door key was useless. It wouldn’t unlock the outer glass, or the cathedral doors behind it. If I went to my right, my key would work, but I was totally exposed. People came through this place daily, sometimes hourly, when we were busy. Where was everyone when I needed help? Probably seeking shelter to avoid the rain, which had started.

  If I ran left, I might make it to the back delivery door. If my followers gained speed, I could be trapped.

  Front door, banging to get inside=bad idea. Side door, exposed=bad idea. Delivery side, trapped=bad idea. So, I chose the best of the bad ideas, and prayed. My legs burned as I ran faster, slipping only once.

  This competition was about speed. I didn’t look back for fear it would slow me down, but I could hear the van’s tire squeal to grip the asphalt. They were closing in on me.

  The front of the building flashed past, then the side portico—I didn’t know if my key would work there, so I wasn’t going to chance it.

  I got a few feet further and heard brakes. A door slid open. Three more steps, and…Whump! Someone took me down from behind. I braced myself for impact, but the massive beast somehow turned as we fell, so I landed on him. Not the other way around. I noticed a sword tattooed on his wrist as he rolled me over. Dazed and confused, I looked over to see a dark-haired guy, dressed in black, wearing a Zorro mask.

  “Where is it?” he yelled.

&nb
sp; “Where’s what?” I had next to nothing. Why would some masked man be tackling me?

  “They key! Give me the key!”

  “What key?” I said, as the rain came down harder. It occurred to me they could be demented thieves who wanted access to the funeral home. “You want my house key?”

  “No!” He was anxious more than angry. “The key you got yesterday.”

  This was about the key Tom gave me. This was about Chloe.

  “I don’t have it on me.”

  “Where is it?”

  What I said next was either very smart, or very stupid. “It’s inside.” I wanted to take the words back as soon as I’d said them. But if these guys wanted me dead, they’d have hauled me away in that creepy van already. When this guy tackled me, he twisted so I wouldn’t be crushed or crippled. They needed the key. And they needed me to get it. My only chance was to buy time, and hope for a miracle.

  Zorro picked me off the ground and led me to the delivery door. The yellow lines were visible and rain puddled on the blacktop, which made me think no one else was here.

  I inserted my key then twisted the handle. The masked man pushed me in first and followed. I turned to head further into the building when Garrett jumped out and punched the guy. He got another good shot in before the bad guy fired back and locked his arms around Garrett’s neck.

  I scanned the room for a weapon, and noticed an urn and an umbrella. With his back turned, I smacked fake Zorro upside the head with the umbrella. It was a nice hit, but it only stunned the guy.

  Garrett got free and smiled at me. Fake Zorro came back and punched Garrett who stumbled, but managed to grab the guy’s shirt. They struggled near the open door where Garrett swung him around and slammed him into the door. The creep dropped to the ground.

  I ran over, pulled off his mask, and smacked him. It surprised the guy. He put his hands up defensively.

  “Why are you doing this?” I yelled. “What do you want from me?” I kept slapping at him even though it wasn’t doing anything other than irritating him.

  Garrett caught my arms, and lifted me off Zorro, out of harm’s way. I started back toward the guy, but Garrett stopped me then turned to deal with my assailant.