by Jan Harman
Brush of Shade
The Whisperer’s Chronicles
By
Jan Harman
Copyright © Janet Harman
This book is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. Certain settings may be referred to by their real names. Details of these settings as well as any incidents portrayed as taking place within these settings are purely the product of the author’s imagination. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part in any form.
To my wonderful husband, Harry and our three fantastic children, this book wouldn’t be possible were it not for your willingness to live through chaos while I was engrossed by characters and plot. Sorry about all the make it yourself dinners. To my daughters who read countless drafts, thank you for your critiques. All my love.
Chapter 1
Ordinarily people don’t give much credence to those flashes of movement that catch briefly in the corner of their eyes. Common sense provides reasons that allow them to go about their days bypassing the psych ward, which is where I feared I was headed. The fact that I had legitimate cause for concern did nothing to sooth my anxiety. Once in the hospital parking lot after my last round of surgeries, yesterday during lunch at the outdoor café, and three times so far this week in our hotel lobby, I’d been positive someone had been watching me. When I’d turned to look more fully into the shadows, I’d seen something . . . nothing, definable out of place. It was just delayed stress or survivor’s guilt. I needed to work through my grief, one too many counselors had kindly told me.
It’s just ordinary goose bumps.
Keep walking. Eyes straight ahead.
Don’t have one of those days.
Then, like now, the only thing apparently not right was me.
The muffled clumping of my crutch against carpet disguised the unevenness of my gait. I exchanged a polite farewell and good luck with the doctor’s receptionist and turned the corner to the elevators. My posture slumped, and I rested on the padded top of my crutch. For once the elevator whooshed open immediately. In my mind, I sailed confidently inside. In reality, my left knee caught and refused to bend properly. I lurched forward, executing a slow version of the three-legged race. I punched the button for the lobby and leaned against the back wall, grateful to have the elevator to myself. To keep distracted from the tight, airless space, I reviewed the doctor’s final report detailing my knee’s limited range of movement and the looming possibility of yet another surgery.
“Umph,”someone grunted as they tried to slip on at the last second. The doors rumbled and bounced back.
My head snapped up. I slid into the corner, hunching my shoulders and trembling. The sensation of being watched persisted, prickling the hair on the back of my neck. I stared hard at the corner opposite the control panel. Only the metal handrail broke the line of simulated wood paneling. I strained to hear over my pounding heart, the hum of the motor, and the soft guitar music coming through the speakers. Was that breathing? Did I smell pine? That would be cleaning solution. Get a grip. I rubbed my tingling arms. This was no place to have an episode.
Against all rational observation to the contrary, I refused to look again at the corner to the left of the doors. As the floors ticked past, I counted down to my escape from insanity. By the time the elevator opened to the lobby revealing my aunt waiting to drive me home, my hand was stuffed deep into my purse, searching for my medication.
Act normal. Be normal. Apparently, normal was on holiday. I was stuck with faking it.
“Olivia, you look drained,” my Aunt Claire said, giving me a once-over that stopped when her gaze reached my purse. Her lips pressed flat and her freshly manicured nails tapped the smooth leather of the portfolio tucked beneath her arm. “Is the pill necessary?”
I bit back what I really wanted to say. Instead, in my quest for normal and to avoid another lengthy discussion, I shook my head. “No, I was looking for gum. I like your haircut.”
She sighed heavily and with a forced smile ran her fingers through her light brown hair that curled about her neck “I had a productive hour. Everything is all set for us to head out tomorrow. Miles with nothing to do but relax and enjoy the fall foliage will be good for the both of us. The valley will put that sparkle back into your eyes. Until then, let me take care of all the details.”
Not that I had a choice. Throughout the gut-wrenching months of misery and pain since my parents’ deaths last May at the end of my junior year, she’d contradicted every image I had of her as the go-where-life-takes-me artist. A force not to be tangled with, she’d set out to get into the face of every medical practitioner who’d dared doubt that I would ever regain the use of my left leg. Awed by her and overwhelmed by debilitating grief, I too had fallen in line with her plans. Now that bits of the old Olivia were resurfacing, I wanted to argue against spending more than a few minutes at a time in a car. I suspected one of those details involved refilling my meds.
Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the feeling of being observed persisted, following on my heels as I exited the building. It scratched the back of my neck, demanding to be noticed like an irritating mosquito bite. Each time we strolled passed a building with a shiny exterior, I squinted in the bright afternoon light in an effort to check the reflection. Even with the lunch hour crowds clogging the sidewalk and getting in the way, it was clear no one was following us to our car. The idea was ludicrous. Pull it together. Now would be a good time to concentrate on a happy place and try the deep, calming breaths my psychologist had recommended. Too bad I couldn’t think of a place and I was puffing too hard from being out of shape.
Oh, crap! I spun around. While I’d been busy watching the reflections, the current had swallowed my aunt. Dots danced in front of my eyes from staring at metal, making it hard to see. I wet my lips, breathing quite heavily now. Think back. On the way here this morning, she’d mentioned something about stopping at a store after my appointment. I hadn’t paid attention. I’d thought she was just rambling again because she knew I found all the traffic upsetting. I decided against backtracking. Either I’d find her up ahead waiting at the entrance to a store or we’d meet up at the car. I was not a lost toddler. I’d navigated my way around cities all over the world. I could get myself to the parking garage.
The congestion bottlenecked next to a newspaper stand, hindering my attempts to locate Aunt Claire’s taupe-colored jacket amongst a sea of fall outwear and suits. A panhandler stuffed a baseball cap containing two nickels and a dollar bill under my nose. In French, I told him his cap stunk from vomit. I escaped by squeezing between the magazine rack and a tourist asking for directions to the National Mall. A sudden surge of the herd carried me along. In my role as the wounded animal on the urban plateau, my slow, jerky movements broadcasted my weakness. The predators—those power walking, soon to be ruling the world executives—jostled and outright shoved me out of their way. I swiped my sweaty palms on my jeans while trying to remember why I’d ever found the crowds and the noise of the city exciting. I considered waving down a taxi. That would defeat the purpose of parking so far away. Apparently, I hadn’t been pushing myself enough. According to my physical therapist, I needed to build up my endurance.
My leg started to shake. I envisioned falling and scavengers rifling through my belongings. “Please, someone let me pass,” I said in a voice that not even I could hear above the roar of a motorcycle driving down the street.
A man wea
ring a plain, gray sweatshirt with its hood pulled up crowded close to me, pressing against my right side. Pedestrians hemmed me in, making it impossible to put distance between us. My right arm tingled and itched. I must’ve scratched myself when I clipped the planter in the lobby of the doctor’s office. I wanted to stop and check, but I was afraid of being run down. Long strides pulled the man ahead and into the middle of a trio of businessmen. He stooped to converse with the gentleman on the far right before moving on.
The businessman slowed and turned to look back at me. An outstretched hand waved me forward. “Come this way. There’s more room along the side.”
The businessman waved the crowd back until I squeezed around the light post and out of the crushing stampede. I thanked him and chalked his actions up to a random act of kindness. I searched the crowd for the sweatshirt man to thank him, too. But he was gone as was my strange reaction. It must be the new meds.
At a slower pace, I maneuvered the less crowded strip of pavement between the street and the congested walk. With an eye out for the parking garage, I was able to concentrate on the safe placement of my crutch. The frantic beat of my pulse slowed. Despite the press of people, I set about enjoying my last minutes in Washington, D.C., one of my favorite cities. I considered persuading my aunt to stop for a quick bite at a bistro. The suggestion alone would gain me much needed coping points in her eyes and maybe less scrutiny. I saw no reason to burden her with my recent episodes of weirdness. She’d be on the phone to my shrink. That led to thoughts that gave me the shakes.
I glimpsed the neon, green sign for the parking garage half a block up on the other side of the street. The Do Not Walk sign blinked; the crowd began to slow. Out of nowhere, a bike messenger cut across the corner to sneak ahead of the traffic jam. Angry pedestrians shouted and jumped to the side. My uncooperative leg refused to be hurried. I gasped when it became apparent that he had no intention of slowing down.
Out of nowhere, a stiff gust of wind swooped down the street, driving a spray of newspapers into the crowd. People shrieked and batted their hands. Eddies swirled the papers around the bicyclist, pelting his face and body. The bike wobbled and veered off course, clipping a street sign. The messenger flew over the handlebars, face planting ironically into a stack of newspapers. People moving faster than me got to him first. The gray sweatshirt guy was back, helping the bike messenger to his feet. I was gawking and rubbing the goose bumps on my arms when my aunt joined me.
She looked me up and down, her expression put out, but there was worry in her eyes, too. “Liv, are you alright? Don’t scare me like that!” The light changed to green; the crowd surged. She grabbed my elbow and grumbled, “Reckless behavior.”
I was pretty sure she hadn’t meant the messenger. I sighed.
Once inside the parking garage, the sensation of watchfulness returned. It lasted until my aunt’s blue Focus pulled into traffic. By then the thought of eating twisted the knot in my stomach all the tighter. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep to avoid her questions. My questions, the ones circling my grasp on reality, refused to be silenced.
***
After four unhurried days on the road as tourist enjoying the fair weather of the last week of September, we’d finally commenced on the last leg of our journey. The mile markers in Colorado seemed to come quicker and our stops shorter. Conversation fizzled. Aunt Claire sat forward in her seat intent upon the road, while I tried to lose myself in my music.
On a two-lane state route that we had to ourselves, our Focus dropped down out of the pass through a forest of gold leafed aspens interspersed with ponderosa pine. A string of craggy peaks, majestic and scarred, rose up to scrape against the azure sky like sentinels standing watch over this remote community. As the car descended through a series of switch-back turns, my gaze traced the highway on the valley floor as it followed the curves of the land towards the town. Broad streets formed a tidy grid pattern, offering limited highway access. In contrast to the tightly packed subdivisions so common in metropolitan areas, wide plots of land divided neighbors as though people out here valued their space and their privacy.
Excitement shone in my aunt’s gaze as she pointed out places of interest. “Down this drive my best friend Cali used to throw the wildest . . . never mind. And this dirt road will take you into the backcountry to this pretty camping spot with the best hiking trails and a mountain lake with a rope swing. Talk about a dunking that will take your breath away.” She glanced at my leg. “Something to look forward to for next summer. Before we get too low we might be able to see . . . yes,” she pointed, “If you look to the left of the steeple, you’ll see a road winding up into the mountains. That’ll take us out to the Pepperdine manor. It’s a stately old Victorian with a wide, wraparound porch. The caretaker says its solid, but could do with some modernizing. You’re going to love it here. The crisp mountain air, the unhurried pace of life, and the healing quality of the valley will cleanse away the sadness in your soul.”
For my part, I leaned forward searching the streets for familiar names of stores and places to eat, the basics of civilization. We drove past a sign advertising the stores downtown. My head swiveled. I read the sign again. Pepperdine’s Hand Made Soaps and Candles. I had relatives?
I settled back into my seat only half listening to my aunt’s ramblings as we passed the welcome sign for Spring Valley and an empty, olive-green jeep. Those odd incidents of being watched that lay discarded with the rest of my old life in a hollow house back in Washington, D.C. were reenacted exponentially. The hardware store, the first structure of any significance, gave me goose bumps. Less than a minute later, the mini-golf raised the hairs on the back of my neck. My skin crawled, and I flashed on a memory of a hand covering my face followed by a burning pain that never cooled. By the time we pulled into the gas station, my chest felt tight and I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
While Aunt Claire chatted with a man filling his SUV, I headed next door to the small grocery store for a gallon of milk, a few odds and ends, and a package of instant sanity. The parking lot was surprisingly crowded for six o’clock on a Friday evening. I nodded hello to a father and his two young sons just getting out of their vehicle.
“That her?” one of the boys asked, bouncing up and down with excitement.
“I thought you promised to be quiet if I let you tag along,” the dad hissed.
My fingers were inches from grabbing the door handle when the dad leapt forward, smoothly opening the door and waving me through. “Thank you,” I said unable to hide the surprise in my voice. I looked back at the car and the two boys smiling shyly up at me. I held the door open for the father, but he’d already turned and was heading back to his vehicle. From just inside the entrance I hesitated, watching all three pile back into their Range Rover.
I shook off the strange behavior and headed for a loaf of bread, rubbing my arms that felt like spiders were crawling all over them. It must be something in the air or worse, a reaction to one of my meds. An elderly couple—chatting about taking a drive over to Aspen to enjoy the fall colors—fell silent when I joined them in the narrow aisle. I scanned the shelf. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the woman lean forward to get a good look at me. Sure I looked all rumpled from traveling in the car since nine o’clock this morning, but it wasn’t like I had something in my teeth or food dribbled down my shirt. I grabbed the closest loaf and hurried off down the aisle, trying not to clump my crutch against the linoleum.
Two teenage boys about my age blocked the milk cooler. “Excuse me.” I waited. They continued to talk. “Excuse me, if I could just get some milk?” I asked, smiling sweetly in a way that usually worked with teenage guys. One ignored me and the other sneered down at me like I was something disgusting he’d stepped in. Realistically, I was never going to be called drop-dead gorgeous, but seriously the pickings out in Podunk couldn’t be that high to risk being rude to the cute, new girl in town.
The jerk with the sneer squeezed my loaf of
bread crushing the end. “Hey!” I yelled, pulling it away.
“Anderson, McDermitt, move,” a male voice threatened.
Hate-filled eyes glared over my shoulder at the intruder. They waited a beat before shoving past me, laughing when I stumbled against the cooler.
A steadying hand gripped my elbow until feet and crutch were steady. I turned slowly to thank the Good Samaritan. A guy with a mop of russet curls shoved off the wall of coolers. His hazel-brown eyes eased down my body then flicked back up to my face. I felt a flush stain my cheeks. Guys were the same everywhere. At least he hadn’t stopped at my chest. I gave him a point for that. Despite the evening’s chilly fall temperatures, he wore cargo shorts and a snug, short sleeve T-shirt that emphasized his muscular frame and his deeply bronzed skin.
“So you’re one of the Pepperdines,” he said in that peculiar drawl that seemed to be part of the local charm.
What did he mean by that? Sure, I could trace my family tree back to the original settlers, but I supposed that could be said for most of the folks in town. Maybe it was an archaic, local custom where people were pigeonholed based on their family name, a kind of Hatfield and McCoy sort of thing, hopefully minus the bloodshed.
I juggled the bread and milk carton in one hand. “And you would be?”
“A Cassidy,” he answered like it should mean something.
“Does everyone around here go by their last names?” I asked, not getting the friendly, small town feeling that I’d been expecting.
His lips curled up into a lukewarm smile. “Trent Cassidy, football jock and team captain, pitcher on the Spring Valley High baseball team, student body president, and hiking club vice president. I could get you my class rank, SAT scores, and investment portfolio, so you’ll know I’m in the same league as the high-society, boarding school guys you’re used to dating.”
I blinked. How did he know anything about me? The nerve implying I was a snob. Did he just ask me out? “Let’s leave something for next time, shall we?” I replied, squeezing past him.
