The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “You know Sweden is neutral,” he reasoned, “and if we want to stay neutral, we have to give the Germans what they want.”

  “Iron ore from your father’s mine,” I said, my mouth twisting. “But if they learn you’re padding the accounts?”

  “I’m a Swedish citizen, plus…” He paused. “My father will protect me.”

  Turning my head, I shot him a skeptical look. “You’re cheating your father, too.”

  “I’m his only son,” he said, as if it justified his actions. “I’m doing this for us. With the money, we can make a life together after the war.”

  “It’s blood money, Henrick.”

  “It’s our future, my love.” Coming up behind me, he rested his hands gently on my waist and pressed his cheek to mine. “I can handle the Germans and my father, but I fear for you. You’re taking a great risk by helping the saboteurs.”

  I felt my anger at him soften. “Many people are,” I replied quietly. “In exchange, they’re giving me counterfeit food tickets. I can use those tickets to feed one more family of refugees.” I crossed my arms. “And you needn’t worry—I know I’m not going to be caught.”

  He rubbed my cheek with his, and I felt his smile. “I hope you’re not counting on your ‘talent’ to keep you safe.”

  “Humph,” I snorted. “I know you doubt me, but my cards don’t lie to me.”

  Turning me around, he gazed into my eyes. “A deck of playing cards can’t tell the future.”

  “Mine do,” I insisted stubbornly.

  “Ah, Madeleine.” He shook his head, looking up toward the ceiling. “Telling fortunes with piquet cards is a charming parlor trick, but no more—”

  I stamped my foot. “I don’t care if you believe or not. I know what I know. Didn’t the reading for Giselle show Andre was lying to her?”

  “My love, everyone except Giselle knew Andre lied.”

  “But the cards proved it to her, and she left him.”

  “One can’t let a deck of cards steer one’s life.” He brushed a lock of hair from my cheek.

  “My grandmother did. And everyone in our village. They all came to her for advice.” I narrowed my eyes and stared at him defiantly, daring him to doubt my words. “She saved many a farmer from ruin.”

  “They are superstitious country folk.” He cupped my face with his hands. “And you’re no longer a wide-eyed child living among them in a southern province. You’ve seen more than they could ever dream.”

  “Henrick, the truth is the same no matter where you live.”

  “You will persist in clinging to these antiquated beliefs, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” I replied with a lift of my chin.

  He dropped his hand and crossed to the couch. “Don’t rely on your cards to protect you from Colonel Vogel.”

  “Vogel suspects nothing. I ran into him today and—”

  Lowering his head, he pulled his fingers through his hair. “You what?”

  “I saw Vogel at the corner of the Boulevard de la Villette.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “Of course.” I poured more wine in both glasses. “In fact, he wanted me to join him at a café. I declined and he went on his way.” Setting the bottle down, I ran a finger around the rim of my glass. “He’s becoming too friendly—I think it would be wise if I avoided him.”

  He sank to the couch. “Madeleine—”

  “Come, I don’t want to fight anymore.” I placed my glass on the table and curled up on his lap. Leaning back against the arm of the couch, I let my hand steal up his chest. “You’ve been away so long.”

  I felt his heart beat faster against my palm as he lowered his head to nuzzle my neck.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he murmured into my ear.

  With a little laugh, I stroked his soft blond hair. “I can think of many things.” Suddenly an idea occurred to me. “If you’re so worried about my safety,” I whispered, “one of those things would be to marry—”

  He abruptly stopped nibbling and reared back his head. “We’ve been through this,” he said in a curt voice.

  I scooted off his lap and sat on my legs. Leaning forward, my eyes searched his face. “I don’t understand—your father will look the other way while you cheat him, yet wouldn’t accept me as your wife?”

  “You’re not Swedish,” he said simply. “That’s why I need the Germans’ money. With it, I can escape my father and have a life with you.”

  “But if we married now, your country’s neutrality would protect me, too.”

  “Madeleine,” he said slowly, “no country in the world can save you if the Nazis catch you blowing up their railways.”

  Twenty-Three

  I felt Abby’s hand gently shaking me. “Ophelia, we’re home.”

  “Huh? What?” I shot upright in my seat, my hand grabbing the dashboard.

  “We’re home,” she said again.

  As I looked at my cottage, my front yard, my familiar neighborhood, my brain felt like mush. I tried to shake the muddle from my mind.

  “Let’s get you inside.”

  With stiff legs, I hobbled out of the car, opened the back door, pulled out my suitcase and carry-on. Hoisting the carry-on, I crossed to Abby and gave her a hug. “Talk to you tomorrow,” I mumbled.

  “Oh, no,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m staying here.”

  “Abby—”

  Touching my lips softly with a fingertip, she silenced me. “No argument—I’m spending the night.”

  Too tired to put up a fight, I grabbed her bag along with mine and trudged to the house. Unlocking the door, we stepped inside to a flurry of yips and yaps.

  After sniffing at me and then Abby, T.P. darted toward the front door. I lunged at him as he ran by, but missed. He headed out the door and to Abby’s car. Running around in circles, he sniffed all the tires at least twice. Not finding what he was looking for, he padded back into the house and sat at my feet with a hopeful expression.

  I glanced at Abby with a wry smile. “He’s looking for Tink, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she replied, squatting down beside him and rubbing his ears.

  T.P. looked sad, and I felt my own spot of emptiness again. “I miss her, too, boy.”

  Abby rose and threw an arm around my shoulder. “You get to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Agreeing with her suggestion, I hauled my stuff up the stairs and into my room. Lady and Queenie followed me, while T.P. pranced after Abby. I guess he figured if he couldn’t have Tink, Abby was the next best thing.

  Once inside my bedroom, I heard my bed calling to me. My own room, my own bed, my own pillows. Changing in a rush, I threw back the covers and flopped onto the mattress on my stomach and wiggled down under the sheets. With a deep sigh, I crossed my arms under my pillow and nestled my cheek against it. Home at last. My eyes slowly closed.

  One eye popped open. I really didn’t like Henrick. During the dream, I’d felt Madeleine’s passion for him, but I thought he led a selfish life. He seemed more worried about himself than the suffering of millions.

  Drop it, Jensen, it’s one in the morning—go to sleep.

  I turned my head to the left. Was Henrick Stephen?

  Rolling onto my back, I listened to the night sounds—Lady softly moaning in her sleep as she dreamed of chasing a squirrel, the low rumble of Queenie’s purr coming from the other side of the bed, a fly buzzing against the window.

  I forced my eyes closed.

  Even though I didn’t like Henrick all that much, he was still better than Vogel. That guy was a creep.

  I turned on my side and punched up my pillow.

  I’m acting as if I agree with Abby—my dream could be of a past life. That was the burning question: Did Madeleine and Henrick ever exist? Or did they live and love only in my imagination? Did meeting Stephen somehow trigger this elaborate dream? Or could it be that I was picking up energy from something that had happened over sixty years ago and thousands of
miles away? I’d dreamed of the past before, but never one so long dead, or of a location that far away. And in those dreams, I’d been a spectator, not a participant.

  Just forget about the dreams, I told myself. If I wanted to stew about something, my time would be better spent focusing on now and the future—or I might not have a future.

  But the last dream—Madeleine was on her way to drop off the explosives. Where? Oh, yeah, Canal Saint Martin, near Hospital Saint Louis.

  I pushed up in bed. Hospital Saint Louis? Was it a real place? Or had my subconscious picked that name because I was in the city of St. Louis? I’d check it out tomorrow on the Internet. If such a hospital did exist, and if it were near a Canal Saint Martin, then I’d know my dreams were one of two things—Abby was right and they were memories of a past life, or for some reason I was reading energy from events long ago and maybe, somehow, they played into what was happening now.

  What did I know of Madeleine? Were there other facts I could check on the Internet? Were there similarities between her and me?

  Reaching over, I turned on my lamp and removed a pen and pad from the nightstand drawer. Drawing my knees up, I balanced the pad and began to make notes.

  Madeleine was a Parisian model born in the south of France. Well, we both had grown up in rural areas—something in common there. But we differed on fashion—I had none.

  In the last dream, it was apparent Madeleine had a gift for reading cards—some psychic ability. And it was a family talent—inherited from her grandmother. That was a no brainer with one huge difference. Madeleine was supremely confident, but I’d never felt that way about my gift.

  I chewed on the end of my pen. What else? She was madly in love with Henrick. I gave a sharp snort. We parted ways there.

  She was involved in something dangerous. Gee, another thing in common?

  Scanning my notes, I saw the parallels between myself and Madeleine. But what else? The key—we’d both received keys. I didn’t know what her key was for, but mine led to the disks. I wished I knew more about Madeleine’s key.

  I felt a stir of excitement. What if I tried forcing the dreams? Tossing the pen and pad on the nightstand, I shut off the light and scooted down in bed. Folding my hands on my chest, I waited…and waited…and waited.

  After twenty minutes of laying like a corpse, hoping for sleep to come, and with it, the dreams, I gave up. If I wanted answers, the disks were my best hope.

  Throwing back the sheet, I climbed out of bed and unzipped my suitcase. I tiptoed down the hallway then the stairs with the disks clutched in my hot little hand. Crossing the living room, I stole into my office and softly shut the door. I lit a candle and booted up the computer.

  The screen came on, casting a faint blue light into the room. As I hunched forward, I watched impatiently as each of the icons clicked on. Finally it was ready. Clicking on my computer, I opened the D drive and slid in the first disk.

  Loading…

  A box popped onto the screen.

  Enter password.

  The garbled sound of voices coming from downstairs woke me. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock: 9:00. I’d finally crept up to bed at three after trying to break Stephen’s password. I’d used every combination of words I could think of. Stephen’s name, where he lived, the color of his eyes, his hair—nothing worked. I’d even held the disk between my palms and tried to sense some sort of image, but my mind stayed blank. All I felt was the cool, plastic disk resting in my hands.

  Abby was better at sensing things from objects, I thought as I tumbled out of bed.

  Anxious to talk to her, I dressed quickly in shorts and a T-shirt. Slipping my feet into an old pair of flip-flops, I hurried to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and splashed cold water on my face. I twisted my hair up, holding it in place with a clip, as I rushed out of the bathroom, but then I stopped.

  I figured one of the voices belonged to Abby, but whose was the other voice? What if it were Bill and the DCI? It wouldn’t look good if I suddenly came tearing into the kitchen. I continued at a slower pace down the stairs.

  Rounding the corner of the kitchen, I pulled up short. Abby stood at the stove frying eggs and bacon, while the owner of the second voice sat at the kitchen table.

  Darci. She took one look at me and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You lied to me,” she said, her eyes narrow. “You told me you were staying out of the investigation.”

  I felt a sheepish expression steal across my face. “Ah, I take it Abby filled you in?”

  “Yeah.” Her red lips puckered in a pout. “What’s the big idea leaving me out?”

  With a shake of my head, I crossed the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. “As I recall, you encouraged me not to get involved.”

  “Maybe, but that was before I found out you’re reincarnated.”

  I shot Abby a dirty look over my shoulder. “You told her about that?”

  She waved the spatula in my direction. “She already knew you’d been dreaming…I simply gave her my theory.”

  Snagging a piece of bacon, I munched on it thoughtfully. “Seems to me there’s too many theories. And right now they don’t mean squat.”

  Abby flipped an egg in the skillet. “Would you make the toast, dear?” She opened the refrigerator door and grabbed the orange juice. “I heard you roaming around last night—did you read Stephen’s notes?”

  “No.” I shoved down hard on the lever of the toaster. “They’ve got a password.”

  Leaning against the counter, St. Louis, Karen Burns, and the man chasing me seemed far away from my bright kitchen. Darci sipping coffee at my table…Abby cooking…the animals curled up in a spot of sunlight, waiting for a handout. It all seemed so normal.

  Darci broke the spell. “Forget about the password for now, tell me about being reincarnated.” Turning in her chair, she watched me with anticipation. “Was I right? Stephen’s your long-lost love, isn’t he? You had a tragic affair, didn’t you?” she asked, peppering me with questions.

  A grin flicked across my face. So much for normal. The bread popping out of the toaster saved me from answering right away. Buttering it and placing it on a plate, I tried to frame my answer. At this point, I wasn’t sure if Stephen was Vogel or Henrick. As Ophelia, I didn’t care for either one of them.

  Crossing to the table, I placed the plate in the center. “I don’t know,” I replied truthfully. “And before you get too wrapped up in the reincarnation idea, I have another thought. What if I’m just picking up energy from events that took place long ago?”

  Darci tossed her head. “Why would you do that?”

  “Who knows?” I glanced at Abby. “Any thoughts?”

  “Not really.” She set the eggs and bacon on the table, and pulling at a chair, sat. “You need more information. Is there any way you can learn if Madeleine really did exist?”

  “Oooh.” Darci squirmed in her chair like a little kid. “Me, me, let me…”

  I half expected her hand to shoot up in the air.

  “…I can do an Internet search.”

  Abby’s eyes sparked with amusement. “I think that’s an excellent idea, don’t you, Ophelia?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I replied, dipping my toast in the center of my egg. “Madeleine was a Parisian model and—”

  Darci’s eyebrows shot up and she giggled. “You? A model? In a past life?”

  “Hey, what’s so funny about that?” I chomped down on my slice of toast.

  She cocked her head and gave me a long stare. “Shall we go through your closet again?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ve already caught the irony of living a life as a model,” I groused. “You don’t need to hit me over the head with it.”

  “Well, I think—” she began.

  “Girls,” Abby said, cutting Darci off. “It’s my understanding that if something brought us unhappiness in a past life, we avoid it in this lifetime.”

  “I get it—she loved fashion, but it didn’t make
her happy, so now she hates it…” Darci picked at her egg.

  “Exactly,” Abby answered.

  They were talking as if I were invisible. “Hey,” I said, waving a hand. “I’m sitting right here.”

  They ignored me.

  “Humph, that would certainly explain all the polyester,” Darci said in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

  “I don’t have that much polyester,” I interjected indignantly.

  “Thanks to me,” Darci shot back.

  I covered my face with my hands and shook my head in frustration. “Don’t you think we have more important things to discuss other than my wardrobe?” I asked, lowering my hands and glaring at them.

  Abby reached out and gave me a sympathetic pat on the arm. “You’re right, dear.” Focusing on Darci, she said, “You’re going to try and find references to Madeleine on the Internet.” She turned to me, her green eyes bright. “What can I do?”

  “Well,” I said, giving her a knowing look, “since you seem to be so good at cracking passwords, how about giving Stephen’s a try?”

  A cagey smile lit my grandmother’s face.

  Twenty-Four

  After we finished breakfast, Abby and Darci joined me in my office. Abby took a seat in the office chair next to my desk. I handed her the disk, and after she took it, her eyelids drifted shut. She took several deep breaths as she rubbed her open palm over the case.

  Darci and I waited.

  “This is so cool,” Darci said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I don’t get to see you guys do your mojo very often.”

  “Shh,” I hissed, laying a finger on my lips.

  Her voice dropped. “Does she go into some kind of a trance, or what? Does she know we’re here?”

  “Yes, she knows we’re here, and no, she doesn’t go into a trance,” I replied with a sneer and a roll of my eyes. “Her head doesn’t spin around either. But she does need to concentrate.”

  Darci shifted from one foot to the other. “Okay, I’ll be quiet…not another word…promise.” She made an X over her heart.

  Standing at the corner of the desk, I watched Abby. Her breathing was slow and even, and her body relaxed. She turned the case over and over in her hand while a slight frown darted across her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes and handed me the case.