“Are you looking for something specific?” I ask, trying to get a bit more information from her.
She’s cute, in a slight and wispy way. Her hair is the widest part of her, and it’s a noticeable attraction around her oval face. It’s the color of golden straw, long, and wavy. It’s very pretty. The parakeet blue streak on one side gives her some individuality. It’s so different from my own.
She looks at me as if she’s struggling to say something. “I’m not sure. I have this problem.” I see her wringing her hands below the counter. Her shyness is almost painful for me to watch.
“You know, we have private consultations,” I say, thinking this may be a good solution for her.
That does help. Her blue eyes widen and I feel the spark of hope flare from somewhere within. “Yes, I think that’s why I’m here. I need to talk with someone.”
“Let me get Charlotte’s schedule and we can book an appointment.”
She squeaks out the question. “Charlotte? Er, who’s that?”
“Charlotte is the owner. She’s the herbalist.”
“Herbalist. No.” Her confusion is plain as day. “I was looking for Jules. Someone told me she works here and she, um, could help me?” She ends with a question in her tone.
“I’m Jules. I don’t do private consultations,” I tell her, feeling confused. No one comes in here asking for me.
“Aren’t you a practicing witch? I need someone like that.”
She sounds unsure in the extreme, and I would feel for her if she wasn’t looking for me. But she is, and I have to take a deep breath before I can answer. “I’m sorry; I think you may be mistaken. We don’t practice witchcraft around here. Maybe you could find what you’re looking for in Durango or Manitou Springs.”
Her hands shake as she lays them on the counter. A coin purse is clutched in one of them. “I have some money. I can pay you.”
Her eyes are pleading with me but holy mackerel she came in here looking for help from a witch. “Listen, what’s your name?”
“C-corrine,” she stutters.
She’s nervous. I can smell the faint acrid stench of sweat coming from her. “Listen, Corrine,” I give her my most gentle voice because she looks as if tears are about to fall. “I wish I could help you, and if you need some herbs I can, but I’m not a witch in any way, shape, or form. Sorry.” Did I just apologize for not being a witch? Thanks again, Ashley you wretched monster — no — I take it back; I will not curse the dead no matter how much I’d like to.
She stares at her hands as they slide off of the counter and then she walks out with her head hanging low. I watch, unnerved by her energy as she leaves. When she was in front of me I hadn’t noticed it, but as she slips out the door I see her aura resembles a shadow following her, appearing as a separate entity. It’s eerie.
Well, that was really weird. I hope she isn’t in any serious trouble. Geez Jules, you should have asked her if she was in some kind of danger. I berate myself for not thinking this through before she left, but now it’s too late. And will I ever get used to the new way people look?
There’s still an hour till close but I go find Grandma and ask her if I can take off early. She takes one look at me and says, “Oh Julie, you go enjoy what’s left of this summer’s nice weather.”
As I drive across town the urge to stop my car, get out and run in the opposite direction is so strong I find myself slowing down every few seconds and then speeding up again. Somehow, I make it to my destination. I watch the house numbers pass and my surprise grows exponentially as I recognize where I am. I pull up in front of the small cabin where Chris Abeyta lives, but I stare at the house next door. It’s a monstrous thing; two and a half stories of log and stone, screaming status and oozing money from its chinking. Chris’s little cabin could be the tool shed for the Johnson’s house. I’d been here once to drop Ashley off when she and Jared were still dating. At the time I hadn’t noticed the neighbors that much. All I remember thinking is the newer homes were swallowing the original smaller ones like giant carp swallowing bait. “The big fish eat the little ones…” the lyrics to a favorite song start to play in my head. Quiet in there, now isn’t the time, Jules.
My footsteps grind against the gravel drive and again I’m moving slower the closer I get to where I want to go. I picture myself leaving the bag by the front door, ringing the bell and dashing off like a kid playing ding dong ditch, but the thought of another restless night full of tormenting dreams keeps me moving forward. Under the covered front porch the screen door clacks against its wood frame as I knock. Waiting for an answer, I feel a ridiculous surge of hope that Chris isn’t home after all. I look over at Ashley’s parents’ house and am reminded of its missing daughter. Maybe Chris had forgotten about the funeral service today when I’d spoken to him. Maybe he left to attend when he remembered. A small inner pang about not being there myself makes me wince with guilt. I made my decision, right or wrong, it’s over and done with. I knock once more and I hear a faint reply.
“Around back.”
I step into the sunshine and walk around the side of the cabin. Passing through a waist high gate and down the length of the house, I steal a look around the corner and see Chris sitting on a stool in front of his patio table. He raises his eyes to me from something he’s working on and then returns to the project in his hands. I approach slowly, looking at everything but Chris. His patio is full of potted plants and the tomato vines appear to be thriving. As I try to decipher what else he has growing back here, he interrupts my survey of his tidy yard.
“I would have come to your grandmother’s store to pick up the Datura.”
“It’s all right. I wanted to bring it.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, like I’m choking on something. I clear my throat.
“You don’t have to stand there holding it,” he says and gestures to the table with a dusty hand.
I place the bag down and take a step back. I’m not sure how to ask him. Chris’s deep brown fingers, which are now colored with light gray powder, work with a small tool on the chunky thing he’s holding. It looks like a rock.
“So you aren’t at the funeral?” I say as a question.
“Neither are you,” he points out.
“I, um, Ashley didn’t like me very much.”
“Just your brother,” he says, surprising me that he was aware of their relationship. He doesn’t look up from his hands.
“Yes.” I quit staring at his work and look out across the yard at the thick pines and the sparse grass. Does he know the Johnsons well? Has he lived here very long? His next statement should not have shocked me but it does.
“I’ve lived here for a few years. They are good neighbors.”
He places the object down on the table with a small thunk and stares at me. I get the feeling he’s seeing my innermost secrets and I look away, watching the tops of the trees against the clear blue sky. He’s silent and I get a strong impression he’s waiting for me to say something. “I don’t want to bother you or anything, but I was wondering if you could answer something for me?”
“You don’t have to ask me if it’s okay to ask me something. You can just ask your question.”
Now I feel stupid on top of frustrated at how difficult this is for me. I cross my arms and turn to look at him. His raven black hair glints under the sun above his unreadable expression. To me it is a mask of calm confidence. I need to learn how to make that face.
“Why don’t you come with me? I think your questions will be better answered if you do.”
“Come with you? No, I just need to ask you something,” I say.
“I know, but in the process of doing, I think you will get more out of it.” Chris stands up and dusts off his khaki shorts and vest. He puts the files and the knives, which are lined up in front of him, in a wood box and then he picks up the lump of rock off the table and tucks it into a pocket.
“But how did you, I mean, how do you know why I’m here?”
�
�I have been expecting you. Your timing is good. Today is a good day.”
“But I just want to know about Ashley and about,” I can’t quite say his name aloud for some reason. I shake my head in confusion.
“I know. Let’s get moving.”
“All right.” Why am I agreeing? Why was he expecting me? I’m confused, but on gut instinct, I’m going to go with him.
“I need one moment,” Chris says, and then walks inside his cabin.
I don’t even have time to contemplate what I’ve agreed to before Chris reappears. He holds a slender leather bag in one hand and he gives me a nod of the head that says he ready.
“Do you want to drive or should I?”
“Are we going where I think we’re going?” I ask.
“Yes, we are.”
“Then you can drive.”
“Guess we’re good to go then.”
Chapter Twenty-eight: Veils
We’re silent for most of the drive. My nervous tension — which was wire taut before — is now snapped and frazzled. I can’t believe I’m volunteering to return to this nightmare of a place.
“Can we walk up?” I spit out, before the panic gets a death grip on my voice. “I mean, I can’t go near Castle Hill. If that’s okay with you?”
“Of course. Is it all right if we park inside the fence and then hike up?” he asks with caution.
“Yeah.”
I clamber out of his truck trying to get a grip on myself. I want to do this, but fighting against survival instincts is, let’s say, a little more than excruciating. I see Chris watching me which makes me even more uncomfortable about my barely controlled hysteria. I pretend not to notice.
“You don’t have to do this. It would be better if it were someone close to her.”
“Does anyone else even know about this place?” I ask.
“No. I was planning to take care of things by myself if you did not come.”
“Oh. No, I’ll be okay. I think I need to be here,” I murmur.
“Then let’s go.” He takes off, not waiting for me.
I frown at his back and then force my feet to carry me forward.
I stopped at home before I went to Chris’s house. At the last moment I had changed into my hiking boots which now seemed like a decidedly good decision as we wander ever uphill over the pine needle strewn ground. The purpose of my going home is stuffed into my back pocket. I stick a finger back there, double checking to make sure it’s still where I put it. I printed the photo I’d taken of Ashley the day she left me to freeze in Forge Creek. Fearing it was too impersonal, I went into Jared’s room and looked for one of the old letters or postcards she sent him when they were dating.
I found a letter, and something else that made me feel like an intruder in a stranger’s house. While I was rooting through his desk I found a glass pipe. I know, and everyone knows, Jared smokes pot, but this pipe wasn’t one I’d seen before. I picked it up and smelled it out of curiosity, and it didn’t smell like marijuana resin. So now I have to assume he’s smoking drugs too. But that wasn’t all. I also found a small mirror and cut sections of plastic straw. I placed everything back the way I’d found it, and left with the letter feeling heartbroken once again. What am I going to do about Jared?
“We’re doing a good thing. You do not have to be upset.”
“Pardon?” I stop short looking up into Chris’s oval nostrils. He’s about an inch from my running him over.
“I said you are doing a good thing. It is not worth worrying over.”
“No. I was thinking about something else.”
He takes a step back and turns, and then he continues on. I stay next to his side.
“Ah. I thought you were thinking about the spring and what we are about to do,” he says unfazed.
“That too,” I admit. I take a few more steps listening to the crackle of twigs and needles under our boots. Chris makes little or no sound. It reminds me of Nathan that night. How he could be absolutely quiet.
“How did you know I would come find you?”
His canvas vest shifts as he gives me a shrug. “An educated guess. A lot happened in a short amount of time. We were both there and you are intelligent. I figured you would have questions eventually.”
“Is she stuck in there?” I ask, and then I go on as I tend to do when I’m nervous or excited about something. It’s all or nothing with me, a flood or a dam. “I keep having the same dream every night and it’s awful and it wakes me up and I have to do something or I’ll go crazy from the lack of sleep. I thought maybe you could instruct me or tell me it’s all in my head and I need a therapist or something. But now we’re going straight there which makes me think you’ve already answered my question.”
“Do you breathe when you speak?”
He’s watching me from the corner of his eye.
“I don’t know.” I sulk a little at the thought of his noticing my uncontrollable babble.
“You have been dreaming about Ashley?” he asks.
“Yes, every single night. I dream her spirit is in the hot spring with other spirits. I keep remembering the place memories you showed me and I can’t stop thinking it’s real for her.”
“It is very real. Her death was untimely and in an unfortunate place. That increases the chances of her not being able to pass on.”
“So what does that mean? Why am I dreaming about her?”
“Does she address you in the dream?”
“No. I can’t do anything to help her. It’s terrible.”
“Then I think your subconscious is telling you about what happened that night. Your gifted side is telling your consciousness that more happened than you realize.”
“I don’t want it telling me anything.”
“You cannot always control what your mind wants to show you,” he says.
“I’ll do anything to get it to quit showing me this.” I point toward the mountain side where I can see the small waterfalls coming down.
“Do you remember when I told you that the Spring of Souls was disturbed by the stress on the earth here?”
“Don’t tell me what we’re doing isn’t going to work,” I say with a calm voice, but the thought makes me want to panic again.
“I am not sure, but we will try. I think that if we get good results, and you see it happen, then your brain will be satisfied and the dreams will end.”
“Great,” I say in my usual sarcastic tone, but in truth I hope and pray it will make a difference. “I brought something with me.” I reach into my jeans pocket and grab the folded papers. “It’s a picture of her and a letter she wrote to my brother.”
“I also brought something with me.” He reaches into the chest pocket of his vest and hands me a photo.
I stare at it as we gradually continue to move uphill through the trees. In the picture a large black dog is slobbering on the side of Ashley’s cheek. She has her face all scrunched up and is smiling. A smaller brown and white dog is trying to climb onto her lap. She looks a year or two younger and much more the way I want to remember her. Happy in her life.
“You know what? I almost hit your dog with my car on the highway,” I say as I point to the dog in the picture.
“That is not my dog. That is Ashley’s dog and the brown one is her brother’s.”
“But they were with you in your truck,” I say trying to make sense of it.
“Ashley was not being the most responsible dog owner that weekend,” Chris says.
“Oh?” The heated exchange between Chris and Ashley behind the castle was memorable. “Is that what the two of you were arguing about that day, the dogs?”
His mouth twitches at the corners and I can’t tell if it is from annoyance or humor. “She told me the hole in my fence was my problem, that she didn’t believe Ralph or Ruckus had torn up the trash all over my yard, and running all over town was the only exercise they were going to get.”
I give him a sympathetic look. I now have a much better understanding abo
ut his irate behavior that day and the need for poisonous substances. I recall the last things Ashley said to me, making accusations and embarrassing herself. It makes me feel almost sorry for her. Putting that aside, here we both are. I didn’t owe Ashley Johnson any favors, but doing what’s right seems to overshadow everything else.
“She was very distracted by vanity and self-importance. It is easy for anyone to be led away from the Good Red Road, but I remember that Ralph was her buddy.”
A short silence hangs in the air and I think we’re both busy contemplating all that happened, who we are, words exchanged, how we would change the past if given the opportunity. Chris speaks first.
“We all have moments that we are not proud of.”
I think he is talking about Ashley but then he goes on to explain.
“I should not have let myself become so angry. Ashley is no different than many girls her age. It really rubbed me the wrong way when she refused to take the dogs home after I spent the entire morning cleaning up after them and chasing them all over town.” He shrugs, deprecating. “Self-control is slippery. It may take more than one lifetime to get a grip on.”
“I would’ve been pissed off too. Anyone would be.”
He doesn’t say any more about it.
We walk on, blanketed by the warm dry air and listening to the creaking of the trees. Then we’re there. The rotten smell of the sulfur lingers in the air, and a distant trickling sound makes me look to the rocky cliffs ahead. I catch a glimpse of water cascading over ridges of stone. Thin veils of mist catch the breeze coming over the crest of the mountain and the tiny droplets sparkle like diamonds, then fade with the wind.
We scramble up the last short, steep, rocky slope and then we both pause to look down at the Spring of Souls. It’s peaceful and beautiful in the daylight. It doesn’t come close to resembling the black hole of my dreams and memories. Yellow crime scene tape wraps around the pump house on the opposite side of the pool. It tarnishes the mountain scene, a fresh reminder of all that happened here. I look away from the building, not wanting to think about drugs or Mason.
Death Lies Between Us (An Angel Falls Book 1) Page 28
