October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  “Breathe in, and out. In through the nose, and exhale.” Morgan’s voice flowed like water. Deirdre breathed deep. There was a noticeable odor of horse sweat, hay, and dust, and it wasn’t just her. Half the class had probably come here straight from mucking out stalls and throwing hay. At the country club she must’ve stood out as a complete bumpkin, but Brian Jr. never let on. Thinking back though, she was sure she’d detected embarrassment from Justin. Her face flamed as she wobbled on one foot, trying to balance in tree pose.

  Soon the class was winding down. Morgan had them all lying in corpse pose. It was supposed to be restful, but Deirdre didn’t like the name.

  “Release all your worries. Focus on your body. Relaaaaax,” Morgan cooed. The yoga had relaxed her tense body, but not her mind. She was still thinking about Paraiso. The word echoed through her skull in Brian Jr.’s mocking tone. It was bad enough that Fairy Glen was blocked on the western front with an ever-encroaching army of tract homes, now the ‘custom luxury estates’ were coming down the mountainsides for them.

  “And, when you’re ready, sit up slooowly,” breathed Morgan.

  The class exhaled audibly, and sat up one by one.

  After a long pause, Morgan broke the silence. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” replied the class.

  The lights faded up. Bonnie, Lina and Sally, another neighbor whose daughter went to Stanton Academy with Justin, were there in front. Bonnie stood and started conferring with Morgan. They had a lot in common, the yogi and the dressage trainer, both teaching placement of the human body. Sally and Lina put their heads together about something. Deirdre nodded and said a few words to old George from down the street, who had started joining the Wednesday night class after his wife died last year.

  When she turned to put away her mat, she was surprised to see Vivian in the back corner. Her thin frame was bent in half rolling up her mat, her graying ash brown hair hiding her face. She had tried to be a good neighbor to Vivian when she moved home to take care of her ailing parents last year, bringing food and offering an ear after they passed on, but Vivian played it close to the vest. And she kept her horse all alone too, that was another thing. She rarely attended Wednesday night class, preferring the paid yoga classes during the week, according to Morgan, and Deirdre hadn’t noticed her as she was sneaking in late. Maybe Vivian was just good at hiding—until yesterday that is. It was possible that wasn’t the first time Vivian had spied on her out riding, she realized. It was kind of creepy.

  Vivian straightened suddenly and caught her staring. There was a moment of shared knowledge, then she went about stuffing her mat into its cloth bag.

  “Vivian—” she started, but Vivian pretended she didn’t hear, and then Lina walked between them.

  “Hi Deedee!” she said, smoothing her dark bob away from her face.

  “Oh, hi Lina, hold on, I wanted to talk to Vivian,” she raised her voice, aiming it over Lina’s shoulder. “I saw her on the hill yesterday…”

  “Have you seen the houses up there?” Sally said, mis-overhearing and butting in anyway. She brushed her straight, pale wheat hair over her shoulder, and hitched her glasses up her nose right under her bangs. If anyone else would’ve seen the construction, it was her. She spent hours conditioning her horse for endurance rides. She knew these trails maybe better than Deirdre.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. And guess who’s behind it?” Deirdre said, anticipating the satisfaction of one-upping her.

  “Brian Bartley. Yes I know,” Sally went on, not noticing Deirdre’s disappointment, saying how they had skipped some county permitting process, and something was fishy. “The Bartley Development Corporation has a special way of doing business.” Sally worked for the D.A.’s North County office, so she had the inside scoop. “I don’t know how they got approval. Building on ridgelines was banned a few years ago, but…” She raised her palms and crinkled her chin. “I’m going to look into it, that’s for sure.”

  “Hey, what do you know about the Bartleys?” Deirdre asked. “Personally, I mean.” Brian Jr. definitely had some sort of good influence in his life. Was it his father? Even if he was a cut-throat developer, maybe he was a good dad.

  Sally said, “I really don’t know much about him—except that his wife is a druggie, and the older kid is kind of screwed up. And now the daughter is turning into a mini version of mom, if you know what I mean. But Brian Jr.’s a good kid. Emily even has a crush on him.”

  For not knowing much, Sally sure knew a lot. And just because Emily had a crush on him didn’t make him a good kid. But, with a druggie mom, she guessed his dad really was his best influence.

  Bonnie stood beside her now. “Putting your ear to the ground eh, Deedee?” she said with a smirk.

  Lina put a hand on her arm and started complaining about how nervous she was about the show on Saturday, and by the time she’d extracted herself, Vivian was gone.

  * * *

  AFTER WORK REBECCA WENT out back and took a deep breath, savoring air free of peanut oil vapor, even if it did come with plenty of car exhaust.

  She looked up at the inky sky. No moon. Made it a little risky to take the dirt trails home, but no more risky than leaving her fate in the hands of the zombie motorists on the roads. Or, an even scarier possibility. She pictured the jacked-up pickup racing up from behind, running her down, squashing her flat.

  Should she call her mom? There was plenty of room for her bike in the back of the Bronco, and her mom had said she’d give her a ride any time, no questions asked. Of course, what her mom said when they were having ‘the talk’—about drinking, drugs, and parties—and what she’d actually do on a typical weeknight—after running her bookkeeping business, shuffling the two younger siblings around for their various extra-curriculars, feeding the horses, making dinner and then cleaning up afterwards—well, they were two very different things. Add to that her mom’s compulsive sportiness—in addition to the horses, it was softball in the spring, bowling league in the winter, and oh yeah, tonight it was yoga.

  She was on the brink of giving it a shot anyway, when Jeremy came out back.

  “Nice riding,” he sneered.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I think you dented my fender though.”

  She gulped. The car was an old hot rod, she wasn’t sure what model since she didn’t care about cars that much, but it was what they call a muscle car, probably made in the seventies, and it was in really good shape, like all restored, shiny paint, gleaming chrome. Expensive.

  She was about to point out that he ran into her (did he?) when he laughed. “Just kidding.”

  She pretended to laugh too. “Did you…happen to see what I did before we ran into each other?”

  “Uh, no,” he said, slightly confused. So, he wasn’t part of the construction crew. She relaxed, until he took a step closer. “So, wanna take a ride in Fairy Glen tonight? You know there’s a haunted insane asylum out there, right?“ He kind of wiggled his pelvis when he said this.

  He must use this line on all the girls, and it probably worked, but not on her. She lived in those haunted woods, she wasn’t scared of them. And, she certainly wasn’t scared of him. This was the opportunity she was waiting for. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I need a ride home.”

  “Home? To the insane asylum?”

  “No. To Fairy Glen.” She put a finger on his chest and pushed him back.

  He smiled, a faint twist of the mouth under the mop of dishwater hair. “You live out there?”

  "Yeah, only my whole life," she lied. Barring the last five years. And the first three.

  "Where?” he asked.

  “I’m not lying, asshole. Are you giving me the ride or not?” No way was she telling him her address. “You can drop me on the corner of FG Road and SdG and I can ride from there. Know where that is?”

  “Yep. I live out that way too.” He opened his trunk and gestured for her put her bike in. Not a gentleman. Well that was okay. She was a feminist. S
he wheeled it over with one hand loose on the center of the handlebars and heaved it in.

  “Nice car. What is it?” she asked, as she got in and groped around for a seatbelt.

  “Hemi Cuda.”

  She had no idea what that meant, and didn’t really care, until he started the engine. The rumbling went all the way to her insides. He revved it a few times, and the car wiggled like an anxious puppy ready to play. She could kinda see the appeal. He put the shifter in reverse and backed out faster than necessary, then put it in drive and made the tires squeal. She didn’t take the bait by reacting, since that’d only encourage him.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said after he’d turned onto San Amaro Road, to break the awkward conversational silence. “I think I might have someone out to kill me.”

  He smiled. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I egged some loser’s truck.”

  He reverse snorted a laugh, then straightened up. “That’s pretty badass. Why’d you do it?” He looked at her across his right arm that was braced straight against the steering wheel, accentuating his triceps. Probably posing on purpose.

  “Because he fucked with me,” she said, in her most menacing tone.

  Jeremy looked back at the road. Was that a smirk on his face? Was he laughing at her? “So, wanna check out the insane asylum after all?” he said. He was really goofily upbeat, in contrast to the image he tried to project.

  “This insane asylum that you’re referring to was actually a sanitarium, which contrary to popular belief—and the Metallica song—is not the same thing as a mental institution. People with tuberculosis or other diseases around the turn of the century went there to convalesce.” Clara and her useless trivia. It was coming in handy giving this guy the smackdown.

  “Convalesce, huh?” It definitely sounded like he was mocking her. That was fine. Idiots always mock the educated. “It’s still a spooky place,” he said. “No matter what you call it. Buncha sick ghosts, coughing and shit? Sounds scary to me!”

  She giggled before she could stop herself.

  Thanks to his breakneck driving, they were already getting close to her house. He stopped at the corner, got out and unlocked the trunk for her.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling out the bike.

  “No problem. See ya mañana.”

  He slammed the door and roared off, but not back onto Fairy Glen Road. South, down Suerte del Gitano, into the outback of Fairy Glen. Did he live just down the street from her? How did she not know this?

  Overtaken with desire to give chase, she hopped on her bike.

  She knew all the shortcuts, and flew along the dirt paths, through some open fields, and caught up to him so that by the time he made the hard left and started climbing she had to slow down so he wouldn’t see her. He curved around the loopy road, and she slalomed left and right up the dirt embankments. There was no moon, and Fairy Glen didn’t have streetlights, so she didn’t have to worry about being seen.

  He was taking the back road into Rancho Alto. Made sense. That car, even though it looked like it belonged in some beer-drinking, blue collar guy’s garage, probably cost more than her mom made in a year. He was just some rich kid slumming it. No way he lived in Fairy Glen.

  But right before the pavement turned to dirt, he made a left and roared up the driveway of the old Victorian on the side of the hill.

  She braked hard. “What are you doing Rebecca?” she whispered. She turned around and booked it back home.

  * * *

  APACHE HEARD THE BIG engine coming up the driveway, and whinnied a greeting to the young male, his sole playmate. The youngster slammed his car door and sauntered up to the fence, reached over and scratched him between the eyes, just where he liked it. After a moment enjoying that, he threw his head over the kid’s shoulder.

  “Ahhh, yeah, right there, right there,” the kid said, turning so Apache could rub him between the shoulder blades with his lips and teeth. “Best back scratcher around!” the kid laughed, then turned and jumped up on the first fence rail. Apache put his head higher, then the kid stepped on the second rail, and again he stuck his head higher in the air. Finally the kid got on the top rail, put his arms around Apache’s head, trying to pull him down. He whirled and yanked the boy over the fence into the pen, to hoots of laughter.

  Now, they could really play. He ran to the far side, spun, and charged. The boy feinted right, then left at the last minute, yipping like a cowboy, and gave him a solid smack on the rump on the way by. He half bucked and kicked out behind, making sure his hooves were nowhere near the kid.

  It was like playing with his herd when he was a foal, or later, his band of bachelor stallions, outcasts from the herd. At that awkward age—too old to stay in the band he was born into, but not old or strong enough to gather his own mares or challenge his sire for leadership.

  But the bachelors didn’t have much time or energy for play. They would range 50 miles or more a day, finding water wherever it flowed, or in the dry season digging it up from underground streams flowing through the desert canyons, nibbling on meager plants.

  That winter before his capture could easily have been his last. Cold and starving, he and a few other bachelors made easy prey.

  The helicopter swooped out of the sky, scaring them into a panicked flat out run for their lives, chopping the air with its deadly blades, sweeping back and forth behind them with its horrible whine. It funneled them through arroyos that grew narrower and steeper, no way out, until he joined in with a frightened and exhausted mass of wild horses that filed into a holding pen.

  That day, he had thought his life was over. But he was wrong. Vivian had given him a new life.

  “Jeremy!” Vivian yelled. They both planted their feet and looked at her. “Enough.”

  You can only play for so long before the mares get irritated. They’re the serious ones, always checking the horizon for danger, tasked with protecting the future of the species.

  Species. He had extended the definition to include his woman, and now this boy, the only one who ever came here. If he played it right, he could include the red mare, maybe her woman too, and her other senior mare. That one, he’d never seen, but they knew each other, calling back and forth over the hills at night.

  “Hey,” Jeremy scaled the fence, and dropped down the other side. She hugged him, he hugged her back carefully, as if she might break. He was right about that. She’d been getting worse and worse lately. Sicker and sicker.

  He listened to their vocalizations, watched their body language.

  “Will you stay?” she said, looking straight into the boy’s eyes.

  “I have another appointment later.” He looked off to the side.

  “Can’t you cancel?” She made piercing eye contact that he couldn’t avoid.

  He hesitated. “I’m supposed to meet a new supplier.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Please don’t. Stay here, with me.”

  He shifted his weight, but then he pulled a phone out of his pocket and started poking it with his finger. “Ok, I’ll ask someone else to go.”

  They both walked inside the house. Apache blew a satisfied snort. At least for tonight, she wasn’t alone.

  Thursday, October 4

  HECTOR WAITED. HE HATED waiting on late people. Despite being from Latin America, with all its stereotypes—mañana and all that—he was very precise, like a Swiss watch. You couldn’t be in this business unless you were.

  It was nearly 3 a.m. He’d been out here a couple of hours now. These Southern Californians were so flaky. No wonder he’d been sent here to straighten this all out—this late payment, missing inventory, screwed-up situation.

  Couldn’t even keep a simple appointment. He sighed.

  On the other hand he couldn’t fault a person for being late for their own demise.

  The first casualty in this small war. It would make a statement. The death itself wouldn’t accomplish anything, except to send a very strongly worded message to his arrogant debtor.
Nothing like killing a first-born son to make someone sit up and pay attention. And that in itself would set things in motion, like flushing game out of the brush, and he could sit back and observe.

  In some ways, this was the perfect hunting grounds. He looked at the dark sky, the desolate surroundings.

  He walked to the edge. Below, he could make out the depth of the quarry, the scarred surface of the granite torn away by machines and men.

  A deep tiredness came over him. After this, he would finally retire. Go back to his adopted home in Sinaloa, to the little house in the hills. To Antonia’s body in those clean white sheets.

  He pulled a half smoked cigar from the case in his pants pocket, and stuck it in his mouth, but didn’t light it. He laughed at the memory of the nosy woman, on her high horse. As if he was an idiot, a complete dolt who would accidentally start a fire. If he wanted to start a fire he would do it on purpose. He envisioned it. The whole place burning, mountaintop to sea.

  He put the cigar back in his pocket, saving it for after the job was done. His feet hurt, and he shifted back and forth in his shoes. Maybe tomorrow he’d do some retail therapy.

  Dawn was coloring the sky now. The stars had almost disappeared. Just when he was cursing the kid again, the headlights came, bouncing up the hill. Time to work.

  He prided himself on his creativity and ability to think on his feet. He never planned very far ahead, he didn’t have to. He searched the ground in front of him for the perfect rock, not too big, not too small. He remembered his boyhood in Bogotá, pitching for his street gang’s stickball team. As the car pulled up next to his, he smiled. He still had a good arm.

  * * *