by Mina Khan
Barton sighed and slid further down his chair. “Angie was pregnant with our third child. It was a hard pregnancy and she was on bed rest. So she couldn’t work and the store wasn’t doing well.”
He paused and looked away at an empty wall. “Having had two kids, I knew how expensive a baby could be and I was worried about money,” he said. “So, I thought up the insurance scam.”
Lynn looked up from her notebook. “Weren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
Barton shook his head. “I knew Henry’s reputation.”
“And what was Henry’s reputation?”
Barton shrugged. “He’s been playing with fires ever since he was a kid. As he grew up, Henry hung out with a rough crowd and he’d do fire jobs for money.”
Lynn’s pulse quickened. “So he’d been involved in arson before?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Lynn cleared her throat. “How come the news articles don’t mention that? I mean, they treated your fire like his first.”
Barton let out a raucous laugh. “Nah, Henry wasn’t a virgin when it came to fires,” he said. “He was just so good, he never got caught before.”
“So what happened?”
Barton got out of his chair and then sat back down again. He gnawed his left thumbnail for a bit. “My bad luck,” he finally said. “That off-duty cop happened to be at the right place at the right time. Then Henry seized his chance and played it like his first time. And I did my time.”
Lynn put her pen down and looked Barton in the eye. “I appreciate you talking to me but, being a journalist, I have to ask you if you have any proof of Henry’s other involvements.”
Barton held her gaze for a moment. “I think I do.” He scraped back his chair and left the room.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom carrying a battered bible. “My wife’s,” he said, setting it down on the table. He flipped through it and brought out a yellowed newspaper cutting, which he pushed toward Lynn.
It was an article from a Louisiana paper, about twenty years old. A fatal house fire had killed Peter and Eva Chase. The only survivor was twelve-year-old Henry Callaghan Chase. The article mentioned the fire was under investigation.
Lynn wrote down the details in her notebook. She was surprised by the middle name, but didn’t remark on it.
Barton cleared his throat. “Eva was Angie’s mom. They investigated and questioned Henry a few times but couldn’t ever find anything,” he said. “Me and Angie were already married then and he came to live with us after that.”
Wow. “Weren’t you uncomfortable having him live with you?”
Barton shrugged. “He was family and a kid,” he said. “We had our suspicions and we made sure never to leave him by himself. Then he started hanging with his friends and was hardly home.”
“Do you have anything else?”
Barton shook his head. “That’s it.”
“Do you know where I could find some of his friends?”
“Nah. Troublemakers, all of them,” Barton said.
Lynn studied her notes for a while and then cleared her throat. “Where did Henry get his middle name? Is Callaghan a family name?”
Barton shrugged. “Angie’s mom used to be Eva Garcia, and for a while she went by Eva Garcia-Callaghan, before she married Peter Chase,” he said. He flipped to the front of the Bible until he came across a penciled in family tree. He turned the book towards her.
Lynn’s pulse quickened as she pored over the names. She frowned. Eva’s parents were Tomas and Rosa Garcia. “How did she end up with the surname Callaghan?”
Barton scratched his chin. “Well, the story I’ve heard is that some rich West Texas rancher by the name of Callaghan got Eva pregnant and then paid her to leave town. She moved to Louisiana with a nice little nest egg, added Callaghan to her name, and set up her fortune-telling business in New Orleans.” Barton waved a hand at the palm-reading sign.
“Fortune-telling?”
“Yeah, Eva claimed she was psychic.” Barton snickered. “She claimed all sorts of things.”
“Like what?” Lynn rested her arms on the table and leaned forward.
“Like knowing I was trouble.” He laughed. “Claimed she could sense a winning scratch-off or a lottery ticket.”
“Was she right?”
“Sometimes, but never about any big jackpots worth real money.” He shrugged. “I think she just got lucky.”
“Then what happened?”
“She raised Henry and ran the business, met Peter.” He scratched his jaw. “Whatever money she had, her and her husband blew on drinking and gambling.”
Lynn studied her notes. “I’m confused. Where does Angie come into the story?”
“Eva had her as a teenager with some man by the last name of Schultz. At least, that’s the name she gave Angie. Grandma Rosa raised her, which is why she’s so normal.” He glanced at the clock and stood. “I’ve got to start supper.”
“Can you tell me anything else about this Callaghan connection?” she asked, rising from her chair.
Barton shook his head. “Nope, told you all I know.”
Lynn nodded and chewed her bottom lip. “Where did Miss Garcia live before Louisiana?”
Barton shrugged. “Someplace called Ben Ficklin.”
Disappointment pooled in her gut. She’d been sure he’d say Paradise Valley or San Angelo. “Where is that?”
“It used to be a community a few miles south of San Angelo, got wiped out by a flood.”
Bingo. Lynn put away her things, and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Barton, I really appreciate you speaking to me.”
This time Barton shook her proffered hand. “Good luck with your article.”
She hurried back to the car. Lynn’s thoughts churned as she tried to process all the information and connect all the dots. Were Jack and Henry related? Did Jack’s womanizing grandfather get a young woman pregnant and then pay her to leave town? Or was it another rancher called Callaghan? Somehow, she didn’t believe in coincidences.
Chapter 26
Lynn arrived at her parents’ house juiced on the adrenaline of a good hunt. The puzzle stood on the brink of solution, if she could just place all the pieces in proper order. But for some reason, the solution eluded her. She slammed the car door shut and trotted up the driveway.
Halfway, she stopped and retraced her steps to stand in front of the house. Obaa-chan’s apartment, a mother-in-law addition, peered out from the back. Maybe one of her grandmother’s books would give her some clues about Henry’s kind of creature. Lynn dashed to the back and clattered up the stairs.
The thought that Obaa-chan wouldn’t be there, waiting with a cup of green tea, sucker punched her at the door. She stood on the landing, breathing hard. She hadn’t entered the place since the night her grandmother had died.
Heat swirled around her and memories —long repressed— clamored for attention. Her legs wobbled as dizziness almost swept her off her feet. Lynn grasped the railing. The touch of cold metal pulled her back to the present. Your fear is only as strong as you allow it to be, Obaa-chan’s words haunted her. She shook her head to clear the film of fear clinging to her mind.
Lynn stared at the tarnished brass door knob. It’s just an empty apartment. Heaving out a breath, she reached out and grasped the knob. Twisted and pushed, to no avail. Locked. Damn it.
Her shoulders sagging, she turned around and returned to the main house. Shame and relief seeped through her, making her miserable. She unlocked the front door and walked inside, dropping her backpack next to the coat rack.
“I’m in the kitchen!” Her mother’s voice bounced down the hallway, accompanied by the mouthwatering savory scent of fried onions and chicken broth.
Lynn trudged into the pristine white-and-blue kitchen, and flopped into a chair.
“Tired?” Ayako looked over the pot of boiling soup.
She managed a nod. “Long day. Anything I can do to help?”
Her moth
er eyed her hands. “Wash your hands first.”
“Yes, ma’am, Dr. Mom,” Lynn replied, pushing out of the chair. She made sure to scrub her hands for twenty seconds. Her mother abhorred germs.
By the time she finished, Ayako stood slicing chives for garnish. “Get some bowls, please?”
Lynn swallowed a sigh. Her mother’s forced cheerfulness and careful politeness added a different kind of strain to their relationship. Why couldn’t the woman just relax? Her conscience pinged her. At least she’s trying to make dinner civil and pleasant.
Facing the blue dinnerware, Lynn practiced smiling. Then she rolled her head from side to side, did a restrained shimmy, and grabbed two deep bowls. Next she found a couple of soup spoons and took them to her mother. “Smells good!”
Ayako shot her a smile. “Let’s hope it tastes good.” The smile wavered. “With my mind on your dad, I can’t seem to remember simple things, like where I left the keys or whether I put salt in the soup.”
Lynn managed a Jen-like careless wave. “Salt’s overused anyway,” she said. “It’ll be healthier.”
“Oh, so you do listen to me sometimes.” Her mother’s face shone red from the steam.
“Sometimes.” Lynn headed to another cabinet and snagged two glasses. “Milk, right?”
Receiving a nod, Lynn went to fridge and poured milk into the glasses, then carried them to the table. The soup bowls were already in place and Ayako sat waiting.
Lynn dropped into her chair and bent her face into the warm aroma floating up from the bowl in front of her. Fat Soba noodles, bits of chicken, slices of mushrooms and green onions floated in clear broth. It reminded her of simpler times from her childhood.
Her mother stirred some hot sauce into hers. “So, are you going to call Rob now that you’re back?”
Lynn’s spoon froze mid-air. Luckily, it was empty. Calm. Stay calm. “Rob and I are no longer seeing each other.”
“He told me you were angry at him for some mistake. He seemed really sorry.”
“Did he explain to you what the mistake was?” Lynn’s voice dripped icicles —cold and sharp.
Her mother shook her head, then dropped her gaze back to the soup.
“Would you like the sordid details?” Damn, she sounded bitchy.
Her mother pursed her lips and gave another head shake.
Lynn counted backwards from ten. “Mom, Rob’s a big boy and he doesn’t need, or deserve, an advocate. This is between me and him. Stay out of it, okay?”
A nod. If her mother bowed her head anymore, she’d get hair in the soup. Why the hell was she being so conciliatory?
Lynn sighed. “I know you liked him and you’re disappointed. I’m sorry.”
Ayako met her gaze. “I’m sorry too. I did like him, but mostly because he seemed to make you happy.”
“He did make me happy for a while,” Lynn said. “Trust me, I decided what was best for me.” The best thing for her would be to find a cave and stay the hell away from men. The faces of all the guys she’d been involved with —failed with— paraded through her mind. Her thoughts lingered on Jack and the two kisses they’d shared.
Her mother slurped a noodle into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I do trust you. Now, tell me about Jen and Paradise Valley. Have you met anyone there?”
Bile pinched the back of her throat. Just the thought of discussing the Jack debacle made her feel sick. She gulped down some milk to wash the bitterness from her throat. Her heart ached. How could she miss someone who thought she was about to eat him for a snack? She was so never going to discuss Jack. Especially with her mom. “Oh before I forget, do you have the keys to Obaa-chan’s apartment? I tried going in there and it’s locked.”
Ayako rubbed an invisible spot on the table. “Yes, I locked it. I guess I’m not as trusting as your grandmother.” She coughed. “I didn’t touch anything. Well, aside from cleaning out the fridge.”
“You didn’t sort through her things? Why?”
Fiddling with her spoon, her mother gave a half-hearted shrug. “I just thought you could deal with everything once you were ready.”
Thanks for leaving me the hard job. Lynn stared over her mother’s left shoulder at a silk scroll on the far wall. An orange and black koi swam in the pale blue waters of a quiet pond next to a weeping willow. If only she could escape to that serene spot.
“I mean, you were close to her.” The additional words drew Lynn’s eyes back in time to catch her mother’s glance dart to her and away again. “I—I didn’t want to intrude.”
Intrude? Did her mother really feel like she’d be intruding on Obaa-chan’s privacy? That not being dragon somehow made her not good enough? “I don’t think she would have minded.”
Ayako picked up her glass with a trembling hand and gulped some milk. “Mmm,” she mumbled, then dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin. “Maybe. But I think she’d have preferred you to do it.”
Lynn rubbed the bridge of her nose. Baggage. Why did everyone have baggage? “It’s going to be hard for me,” she said. “I would really like some help.”
Her mother’s spoon dropped with a splash into the soup. “Are you asking me to help you?”
Tears welled as Lynn bit her tongue —literally— to stop the smart-alecky reply that pounced to the ready. She nodded. “Yes, I want you there with me.”
Ayako wiped up the soup splatters on the table with the napkin. “Of course. Of course I’ll help.” She looked up. “When did you want to do it?”
Weariness —from the emotional turmoil of the past few days, the long drive, and this final conversation— descended on Lynn like a vulture coming in for the kill. She yawned into her hands. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Jack’s skin itched under all the dust and sweat covering him in the musty attic, yet he didn’t stop pawing through box after forgotten box. The piles of old clothes, scraps of paper and photographs just kept growing. All these years, he’d only made trips up to grab or stow Christmas lights. Everything else he’d ignored. Junk, just ancestral junk. Now, he searched for answers.
The naked overhead light bulb gave off a feeble glow. Shadows edged the small pool of light like doubt. Would there be anything to find? The entire idea seemed too fantastic. He wanted to dismiss what Lynn had said, forget everything. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Unfortunately, he couldn’t dismiss what his eyes had seen. Twice.
An image of Lynn half transformed into dragon pushed into his mind. He’d never forget it. Awake or asleep— didn’t matter. Whenever his eyes drifted shut, that picture woke him. In other instances, another image —of soft skin and willing lips— haunted him. His fingers curled around an old, grimy rubber ball. He threw it against the far wall with a grunt of frustration. After a plaintive squeak, the ball thumped to the floor.
He pulled out a tattered black notebook. Probably another ledger of accounts from the old dry goods store. His ancestors apparently counted and recorded every penny spent and earned. That was before his spend-happy grandfather and father got into the picture. Without bothering to open it, he tossed the notebook to the relevant pile and continued digging. This time he found one of his father’s old pipes. A faint smell of sweet cherry still clung to the empty bowl.
Jack froze. He turned and stared at the ball. Half deflated, it sat forlorn on the floor. That’d been one of his old childhood toys. He’d loved it as a child. And now the pipe. This box must be from his father’s time. Slowly, he twisted around and grabbed the notebook. The age-worn cover made it look much older than most of his father’s books. He flipped it open. Faded blue-inked words sprawled across the yellowing pages.
Settling into a cross legged position, Jack began to read. Just a few sentences later, recognition slammed him. He remembered lying in bed as a young child as his father had read him these stories— of dragons who sacrificed themselves so their loved ones could escape, and others who fought with courage and fire, of caves and treasures, adventures in the sky and foreign lands. As he g
rew older, he’d started asking for other stories. He’d always assumed the story was printed in a book, but it was handwritten. The book slipped from his sweaty palms and bounced on the floor. The precarious seam split some more, and a few pages spilled and scattered. “Shit!”
Jack scrambled to gather the pieces. Among them, he found an envelope. He held it a moment. He’d take the notebook downstairs to the library, take a shower and look through everything in better light. Instead of returning the small envelope to the damaged book, he slipped it inside his shirt pocket.
So, he was a coward. At least he was man enough to admit it. After a long, hot shower, Jack prowled around the desk, eyeing the notebook. As if, any moment, it’d transform into a dragon and bite him on the nose. He needed to read the words, needed to find answers. Instead, he remembered his promise to visit Tavistock at the assisted living facility in San Angelo. Grabbing his hat, he lit out the door.
As soon as he knocked and entered, the old man switched off the television and flashed him a toothy grin. “I see, you finally remembered me.”
“Oh, I’ve thought of you often, it’s just that life had me by the throat.” Jack sank into the comfortable lounge chair next to the bed.
“Or has a certain young reporter kept you busy?”
Jack stared at his fingers twisting his hat round and round. “Nothing like that.”
Silence forced him to look up into Tavistock’s worried gaze. “Y’all had a fight?”
Enough with the questions. Maybe the visit hadn’t been such a great idea. “No. So, how are the nurses treating you?”
Tavistock made a face. “Fuss over me like I’m a baby.”
“Anyone young enough to fuss over me?”
The old rancher shot him a sly smile and his chin jutted out. “You can’t fool me. I saw you and Lynn kiss at the fire. Reminded me of Elsie and me in our younger days.”
Jack leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Shit. Apparently there would be no avoiding the topic. “We aren’t right for each other.”
“Really?”
