“Who?” I asked, looking up.
Darci’s face glowed with an evil grin. “Olive Martin’s.”
Twenty-One
I’d watched Darci drive away to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows, spying on her. Before I went to bed, I once again checked all the doors and windows. And to be safe, I left the front porch light on to discourage unwanted visitors.
Once in bed, thoughts of my argument weighed heavily on my heart. If it weren’t so late, I’d call and apologize. But now it would have to wait until morning. My last thought before sleep claimed me: Please, no dreams tonight.
I didn’t get my request.
Once again I stood on Abby’s front porch, watching Grandpa and Henry Comacho swing back and forth on the swing. This time I saw Comacho’s aura. It glowed in swirls of red, orange, green, and indigo, like Abby had described it. But Grandpa’s aura shone with pure white light, the color of cosmic energy. The color made sense. Grandpa had crossed over and his aura reflected his spirit.
Their heads were bent close together, and this time, Comacho was doing all the talking while Grandpa listened closely to what Comacho was saying. Was he telling my grandfather what a pain in the butt his granddaughter was?
I knew the dream would shift and I waited patiently for the next scene to unfold.
When the scene changed, I found myself on a dark street. I was present, but not present. Somehow I wasn’t part of the scene. I was an observer, floating in time and space, watching events beyond my control happen.
But a new element had been added to the vision—music. To my ears, it sounded like a song played on an old player piano. Strangely, the song I heard was “Pop Goes the Weasel.” It played repeatedly in my head, but when the music reached the “Pop goes the weasel!” the note for “pop” was flat, discordant, harsh. Off-tune. Why?
A man walked the empty streets alone. He sensed someone followed. Stopping, he peered over his shoulder and listened for echoing footsteps. Hearing nothing, he walked on, in and out of the streetlights. He was anxious to get home. He’d had a long day. When his steps quickened, so did the killer’s.
The killer felt his victim’s fear and it delighted him. In his excitement his black aura curled around him. Fear made the chase more thrilling. He’d planned it all so carefully. He’d watched his victim for days. He knew all of the man’s habits, routines. Soon the victim would be at the capture point. The white van the killer would use to transport his victim to the killing place was parked a block from the man’s house.
The killer crossed the street, traveling away from his victim, and cut through the alley. He arrived at the van shortly before the victim. Crouching next to the van, he waited, the damp rag clutched tightly in his gloved hand.
The man passed the rear of the van and the killer sprang, grabbing the man from behind with one arm. With his other hand, he held the damp rag over the man’s nose and mouth. The victim struggled, but the fight soon left him and he slumped forward.
Balancing the nearly unconscious man with one arm, the killer wrenched the back door open and wrestled the man inside. He crawled in next to his victim and pulled the door shut. Opening the bag he’d placed near the back, he grabbed the duct tape and wound it around the man’s wrists and ankles. The last piece he placed over the man’s mouth. He would listen to his victim’s screams later.
It took the killer a long time to reach his special place. Once there, he drove the van into the barn. Opening the door, he saw the victim was awake. Good, it’s more fun when they’re conscious, he thought.
The man tried to struggle while the killer hauled him out of the van, but he was still weak from the effects of the chemical the killer had used to render him senseless. His eyes, wide with fear, searched for an escape. When he didn’t find one, a sense of doom spread through his mind. He was helpless as the killer half-dragged, half-carried him to a small room in the back of the barn.
The killer pushed the man on to a small cot, where manacles were attached to the cot’s frame. Using his knee to hold the man down, he cut the duct tape and attached the manacles to the man’s wrists and ankles.
Once the victim was secured, he crossed the room and lit the candles. The entire room—walls and floor—was covered with heavy plastic. But from underneath the plastic, picture glass reflected the candlelight. Walking back to the cot, he stood over his victim, admiring his work, relishing the fear in the man’s face. He reached down, toward the man’s face, grabbed a corner of the duct tape, and…
I shot up in bed. Ringing, I heard ringing. What in the hell was ringing? The phone—the phone was ringing.
“Hello,” I said, fumbling with the receiver.
“Ophelia, this is Arthur.”
“Who?”
“Arthur. I have some bad news—I’m at the hospital with Abby. She’s been hurt.”
The last thing I heard was Arthur’s voice coming from the receiver dangling off the nightstand as I rushed out the door.
“Hello? Hello? Ophelia, are you there?”
They tried to force me to go home, but I wouldn’t do it. I did manage to persuade Arthur to go home. He moved sadly out of Abby’s hospital room, taking one last look through his thick glasses at her lying motionless in her bed.
From this day forward, I would be in his debt for finding Abby. He had tried calling her several times during the evening. When she didn’t answer, he’d driven to her house to check on her. The light was on in the greenhouse, so he stopped there first. He’d found her lying on the floor unconscious and immediately called 911. Once they arrived at the hospital, he not only called me, but also my mother. Another debt I owed him.
The doctors said Abby had suffered a blow to the back of her head. It appeared Abby had been working in the greenhouse, trying to save some of her plants, no doubt, when an intruder knocked her out. Her brain scans were normal, but she was in a coma. The danger they said would come from posttrauma swelling of the brain. The next few days were critical.
Even though her condition was critical, the doctors gave me permission to stay in her room. I spent the night curled up in a chair near her bed, watching a parade of nurses come in and out, checking her vitals. Sleep was impossible. Memories of Abby and guilt crowded it from my mind.
Why did I argue with her? Will I have the opportunity to say I was sorry? Why didn’t I feel her danger? Has my gift let me down once again as it had with Brian? I hugged my knees to my chest. Who did this to her? Harley, out of jealousy? PP International’s imported goons? Was it the same person who had poisoned her plants? Wiping the tears from my face, I stared out the window at the rising sun and tried to think what I should do next, but without Abby’s guidance I was lost. Lost and afraid.
Hours ticked by and the sun climbed higher in the sky while I sat there in misery. Suddenly the door to Abby’s room softly whooshed open and my mother breezed in. She glanced at me, giving me a small smile, and went straight to the bed. Bending down, she gently brushed Abby’s hair back from her forehead.
“What have you got yourself into now, Mother?” she whispered. Straightening, she wiped a tear from her face and looked at me, sitting in the chair, still curled up in a tight ball.
“You look awful, dear.”
I gave her a watery smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She crossed the room and knelt in front of me. Placing her arms around me, she hugged me tight.
All the fear and pain I’d felt over the last few hours erupted from me in gasping sobs. I clutched my mother’s shoulders and buried my face in her soft warmth while my body shook. Finally, the sobbing subsided and I raised my head.
“Better?” she asked.
I took a depth breath and blew it out. “Yeah,” I said, smoothing the last of the tears away. I picked up my backpack and rummaged around for a tissue and my brush. I found the tissue, but no brush. Oh well, instead I grabbed a scrunchie out of the bag and twisted it around my tangled hair.
Mother still knelt in front of me and eyed
me speculatively. Little lines of worry wrinkled her forehead and her lips were pursed. It was a look I’d seen before—when I was a teenager—and she had suspected I’d been up to no good. Mother supposedly didn’t have any psychic talent, but she’d always seemed to instinctively know when I was in trouble. Her scrutiny made me squirm in my chair.
“How’s Dad?” I asked, stalling for time while I tried to decide how much information to give her.
If I told her too much, she’d call in the cavalry—namely my dad. And he’d be on me like stink. He’d be so determined to protect me that he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I couldn’t find the killer and the person responsible for hurting Abby if that happened.
But if I didn’t give her enough information, she could blunder into the middle of what was going on and be hurt like Abby. I loved my mother too much to let that happen.
“Did you hear me, Ophelia?” she asked, rising and pulling up a chair next to me.
“What?” I shook my head to clear it. “Sorry, I tuned out for a moment. What did you say?”
“I said your father was concerned about Mother, but otherwise fine. He sends his love, of course. All the flights out of Key West were later, so he drove me to Miami to catch an earlier flight.” Reaching in her bag, she drew out her needlepoint and set to work. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
I made my decision—I told her everything. About the serial killer, Abby’s fight with PP International, my visions, my dreams. It all came pouring out of me.
When I’d finished, she put down her needlepoint and took her glasses off.
“Well, you and Mother have been busy, haven’t you?”
“I guess,” I answered, my voice full of guilt.
“My first thought is to pack the both of you up and take you back to Florida with me.” She gazed at Abby. “Obviously, I can’t do that. And even if I could, neither one of you would agree to come with me. Or I could call your father.”
I groaned.
She gave me an arched look. “Right, I agree. Your father loves Mother as much as I do, but he’s never really understood the gifts you two possess.” She stopped for a moment and picked her needlepoint up. “All righty, then. What are you going to do?”
“‘Do’? I don’t know what to do, Mom,” I said, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. “I’m beat without Abby, without her guidance.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure Mother has taught you well. You have gifts, Ophelia. Gifts most people don’t.” She shook her head sadly. “You know I’ve envied you those gifts. And regretted I wasn’t one of the chosen, like you and Mother. I’ve always felt left out. Great confession for a mother to make, isn’t it?”
I patted her arm. “The gift isn’t much of a blessing at times, Mom.”
“I suppose so, but still..,” she said, smoothing her needlepoint and thinking. “Oh well, what is, is. Everyone has their own path to follow. Now you must follow yours and without Mother leading you. This is your time, Ophelia.”
I slunk down in my chair. “But I don’t know how.”
“Sure you do. But I think you’re afraid.”
“I am not.”
“Oh, yes, you are, dear.” She put her needlepoint down and stared at me. “You’re afraid of your gift, afraid to use it, afraid of what people might think if you do. But you can’t afford to surrender to the fear, Ophelia. You can’t sit back, wringing your hands, questioning your gift. Use what’s been given you.”
At her words I felt a spark of energy glow inside me. Like a twig suddenly catching fire. Was Mother right? Had fear been blocking my talent? The fire inside burned hotter. A killer had taken Brian’s life and almost ruined mine. It was the killer and what he did, not Comacho that had sent me over the edge five years ago. And he was out there somewhere, watching me, playing with me. I sat up straight in my chair while the fire spread through me.
Standing, I crossed the room to where Abby lay in her bed. She looked fragile and helpless and, for the first time, looked all of her seventy-four years. She was the kindest, gentlest person I knew and never in her life had she hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve to be treated so cruelly. My anger fueled the fire while I stood staring down at her.
The fire throbbed deep in my soul. It kindled each cell, each nerve, till I felt as if I’d burst into flames.
Use my gift? Oh, I’d use my gift, all right! With one last look at Abby, I whirled around and ran from the room.
Twenty-Two
On the hilltop behind Abby’s house I created my circle of salt as she had taught me. The air around me felt thick with ozone. Another storm approached, but I didn’t care. My anger, my rage put me past caring. The fire kindled at the hospital burned hot, hotter than before. It consumed me from the inside out.
My cowled robe clung to my legs in the still-quiet world while I prepared myself for what I was about to do. Uttering a silent prayer that my magick be guided, I stepped to the north. I paused and it seemed the world waited for me to act.
Bending down, I scooped a handful of dirt and called to the element of Earth. Still holding it tightly in my hand, I closed my eyes and felt as if I’d been transported deep into the rich black soil. My skin tingled with the soil’s energy of rebirth and my hand throbbed. I opened my eyes and my hand and with one quick move cast the soil in the air. Falling back on me, it showered me with tiny pinpricks of energy as the earth undulated beneath my feet.
Walking to the east, I called the element of Air. Lifting my arms, I tilted my head back and watched the clouds begin to swirl above me. They formed a rotating whirlpool of energy reaching down to surround me. The wind, created by the energy, tugged at my hair and plastered my robe against my body.
I walked against the wind to the south and called the element of Fire. Stretching out my arm, I pointed to the sky and traced a jagged line with my finger. Lightning flashed across the sky and the air around me felt scorched.
Stopping first to pull fresh air into my lungs, I walked around the circle to the west. Lifting my arms again, I called the element of Water. The clouds wrenched apart and torrents of rain poured down on me. Each raindrop sparkled and gleamed with power, drenching me in it.
Walking slowly to the center of the circle, I felt the power of the four elements rage around me—Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Each different, with a different energy, but all joined, joined with me in my purpose. Opening both arms, I gathered the energy inside me. I felt the seductive power run through my blood, increasing in force, making my fire burn brighter.
In my mind I saw Abby lying still and lifeless. Put there by some unknown hand. I saw Brian ripped apart by a killer who thrived on pain and terror. The power inside me grew and grew till I thought I’d burst—fueled by my hate of those who sought to harm and my need for revenge. I struggled to keep it chained until I was ready.
Opening my arms farther still, I kept the vision of Abby and Brian in my mind. I would slip the chains and set my power free, free to seek out those who would hurt the innocent.
Suddenly a voice soft as a breeze whispered in my ear.
The power doesn’t belong to you.
I lowered my arms. “Abby?”
You can’t bend the world to suit your will, the voice whispered again.
I wiped away the tears that ran down my face, mingling with the rain. “Abby.”
Your gift. Use it wisely. Follow the pattern.
“Oh, Abby,” I said, sinking to my knees.
On the hilltop in my circle of salt, the energy I had called forth slowly faded. The earth no longer vibrated beneath me, clouds no longer swirled overhead, and lightning no longer flashed across the sky. And the rain fell in a cool, soothing shower on my bent head while I wept.
Wiping my face, I sat in the wet grass and stared out through the rain. Follow the pattern, Abby’s voice had said. But what pattern? The murderer killed Brian with a knife and would’ve killed Gus the same way, but Gus beat him to it by dying of a heart attack. He’d marked both bodie
s after death—did Gus have a star on his forehead too? The bodies had been dumped differently: Brian’s had been placed in a Dumpster and Gus’s had been buried in the ditch. Gus had been set on fire, Brian hadn’t. No pattern there.
Abby put a lot of stock in auras. I thought about the dreams I’d had, chasing the killer through the park, Gus’s death and the dream I’d had last night. I shook my head, throwing droplets of water from my wet hair. No aura around the killer when I’d chased him. At Gus’s place, the killer’s aura had been a dark red. In the dream last night it had been black.
And the music—I’d never heard that before. Off-tune, false. The song hadn’t rung true.
I smacked myself on the forehead. Jumping to my feet, I took off down the hill, slipping and sliding in the wet grass. I knew what to do. Like the runes had foretold, it would require I sacrifice, sacrifice my pride, something dear to me, as Abby had pointed out. I’d have to ask for help from someone I disliked. And if I couldn’t convince him I was right, I might wind up in jail.
A killer was here in Summerset, stalking me, for whatever reason, and he was the one responsible for the deaths of both Brian and Gus.
Comacho thought so too. He thought he was on the trail of the Harvester, who’d plagued the Midwest. His questions about PP International, Abby, and Darci were a smoke screen, a way to badger information out of me, to figure out what connection I might have with the Harvester.
The killer I’d dreamed of last night.
But last night the song I’d heard didn’t ring true and the killer didn’t ring true. Different aura, different killer. Comacho was looking for the wrong man—not the Harvester, but someone who killed for a personal reason.
A reason tied to me.
After calling the hospital and checking on Abby, I called Bill’s office and asked the dispatcher to contact Henry Comacho and requested Henry call me on my cell phone. It didn’t take long to get a response. I’d told him to meet me at Abby’s. After changing into jeans and a sweatshirt—didn’t want Comacho to see me in my cowled robe—I waited by the greenhouse. He showed up about twenty minutes later.
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