Dark Lightning

by Mary L. Farmer

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  The ordeal of adjusting to college life and to being on her own made Haven feel as though she’d already been in school for ages. Luckily, she got these breaks on the weekends. Selling antiques was a lot more fun than writing essays on Fauvism. Haven drained the last of her coffee. “I knew I should have gotten the large,” she muttered.

  “Want some of mine?” Brian held up his gallon-sized travel mug.

  Haven made a face. “Um, no thanks. I’m good.”

  “Okay…what’s that look for?” Brian asked.

  “You buy your coffee at random gas stations, Brian.”

  “And?”

  “I’m a little more selective, that’s all.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” Brian retorted. “Someday you’ll realize coffee’s just coffee, princess, not a dining experience.”

  But Haven didn’t hear her brother’s remark. She was staring down at her empty cup. There it came again—that unsettling feeling from her dream—an odd sensation that made her feel like a toddler being pulled around in a wagon. Only now, the stink of burning oil from Brian’s piece-of-crap car told her she was no longer asleep.

  Brian glanced at her sideways. “Are you sure you’re all right, Haven? Seriously, kid, you look a little pale.”

  “No, I’m fine, it’s just…I feel like I was supposed to do something, but I don’t remember what it was.” Haven took her phone out of her messenger bag and scrolled through her weekly calendar. “Maybe it’s because I forgot my phone charger.”

  “No worries. You can borrow mine.”

  “Thanks,” she said absently, dropping her phone back in her bag. Her stomach felt funny. Ugh…hope I’m not getting sick.

  To distract herself, she turned to see what kind of crazy stuff Brian had stored in his back seat. He often rode around with loads of junk in his car so his wife wouldn’t get pissed off about how much money he’d spent on collectibles. Reaching over the headrest, she picked up a bobblehead sports figurine and playfully jiggled it near Brian’s ear. “Is it my imagination, or is there like, twice as much crap in your car since last week?”

  “Hey, put that back. Do you have any idea how much I can get for those things online?” Brian said defensively.

  Haven tossed it into the box. “No, and I don’t want to be the one who gets stuck doing the pricing research for them.” She eyed the cardboard boxes crammed into every nook and cranny of the back seat. “You know Amy’s going to kill you, right?”

  Brian raised a bushy brown eyebrow. “What happens at the estate sale stays at the estate sale.”

  “You mean what happens at the estate sale ends up back at the house.”

  Her brother’s ears reddened and he scowled at the road. “Smartass.”

  Haven laughed. “I’m only kidding, Bry…geez. ”

  Though she often teased her brother about his hoarding tendencies, Haven was grateful to have him around. Two years ago, when their father died suddenly of a brain tumor, Brian and his then-girlfriend Amy took Haven in and became her legal guardians. Her mother had already deserted them and moved away to South Carolina. If not for Brian, Haven would have been stuck moving to Virginia Beach to live with her grandparents, whom she barely knew.

  Haven loved living at her sister-in-law’s quaint, Victorian bed and breakfast overlooking the Delaware River in Stockton, New Jersey. Named the Rose Garden Inn for the gorgeous, heavenly scented bushes running riot all over the large front yard, the house was actually a large showcase for Amy’s art—the brightly painted, upcycled furniture and accessories she created from unsold estate sale goods.

  Haven often pitched in during school breaks to help her sister-in-law clean rooms, book reservations or serve breakfast to guests while Brian and his business partner, Richard Horn, ran their auction business, Stockton Estate Sales LLC, out of a metal warehouse on the back lot of the property. It was in that cavernous building that the boxes of bobbleheads would undoubtedly end up collecting dust.

  “So…have you heard from Mom lately?” Brian asked, his blue eyes fixed on the expressway. Haven’s throat tightened at the mention of their estranged mother, Adele.

  “Um, no. Have you?”

  “Amy called her on Wednesday. Left the usual message about inviting her up for Thanksgiving, but Mom hasn’t called back.”

  “Yeah, well, no surprise there, right?”

  “No.” Brian said after a pause. “But Amy seems to think that if we keep inviting her, one of these days she’s bound to show up.”

  Haven shrugged. “Maybe,” she said softly.

  She won’t come back. She’s too messed up.

  Brian snorted. “She even offered to pay Mom’s airfare to Philadelphia this time. I tried to tell her it won’t make any difference. Mom’s not gonna fly up here. She hates planes.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Haven. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to see her anyway. I mean, the whole damn thing still pisses me off. Having a nervous breakdown didn’t give her the right to just abandon us like that.”

  Haven traced the pattern on her vintage skirt. “Well, it wasn’t as if I was five years old when she left. I was sixteen. And you’d already moved out of the house. Maybe Mom figured we could take care of ourselves.”

  “Yeah, but what about Dad? He got sick not too long after that. Tell me, how’s a brokenhearted man supposed to fight cancer?”

  Tears welled in Haven’s eyes. She looked out her window to see an oversized, cheerful face of a morning radio DJ plastered on a billboard and squeezed them shut. Though Brian was a grown man, it was clear her brother was still hurting—they both were. “It’s not Mom’s fault he got cancer, Bry. Dad never had a chance…he was Stage IV. They couldn’t do anything for him.”

  Brian exhaled slowly. “I know. Amy tells me all the time—that I need to let go of the past, that it’s not healthy to hang on to the resentment. But what Mom did…shit, maybe I shouldn’t be bitter or whatever, but I can’t help it. She left Dad—and us—right when he needed her the most. When you needed her the most.” Brian pounded a meaty fist on the steering wheel. “I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show up at Dad’s burial. Seeing Mom at the cemetery after everything she put us through…” He shook his head. “Then poof, she was gone again, like the damn Phantom of the Opera.”

  Haven wiped the moisture from her cheeks. “We’ve done everything we can for her. She doesn’t want our help.”

  For so long, Haven had tried to push everything down, to squash her feelings into an emotional trash compactor so she wouldn’t have to deal with them. She knew her brother was just venting, but what was the point? Rehashing the past hurt, and it was all stuff they had no control over anyway.

  Haven looked at Brian and managed to smile. “It’s kind of funny, actually…I think Amy sees Mom as the ultimate challenge. I mean, let’s face it—Amy’s pretty stubborn. If she’s that determined to get through to Mom, it’s not going to hurt to let her try, right?”

  Brian laughed briefly. “My wife’s got her work cut out for her, that’s for sure.”

  Haven suddenly thought of the voice from her dream years ago. Give her time…

  “Who knows,” she said. “Maybe Mom will come back someday—when she’s ready.” Then again, she’s been gone two-and-a-half years now. I’m not going to hold my breath or anything.

  Haven swallowed thickly, recalling the day she’d come home from school to find out that her otherwise sane mother had tried to jump in front of a train. After a lengthy hospitalization, when Adele was at last able to speak, Haven’s weekly visits with her were tense and heartbreaking. Adele staunchly refused to discuss anything with her daughter except for school, the weather, or the latest episode of NCIS.

  But the worst was yet to come.

  The day after her mother was released from the hospital, she inexplicably packed a suitcase into her Jeep Cherokee and drove to South Carolina, abandoning her children and husband with no explanation other than to
say they were all better off without her.

  Haven looked out at the undulating fields of green and gold rushing by the window. They were almost out of the city now. The fertile Pennsylvania farmland reminded her that the seasons would go on changing no matter what calamity she faced. No pause button came along with life to let someone grieve, there was no rest stop where a person could wallow in misery and catch up later. Haven could either move on or let herself be plowed under as food for the earthworms.

  Haven didn’t care much for worms.

  “So…where are we headed today?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Bucks County.” Brian instantly looked in better spirits. “You’re really going to like this place—it’s an old farm property on the National Register of Historic Places. Part of the house was built in 1752, so it pre-dates the Revolutionary War.”

  Haven smiled. “Wow, that’s cool.”

  “One of the locals told Rich that the farm was actually the site of a small skirmish between Hessian mercenaries and the patriot militia.”

  Haven sat up straighter. “So we’re going to a real battleground?”

  “I don’t think the conflict was ever officially recorded. But Rich said the farm’s owner at the time, a colonial businessman named Robert Hall, was somehow involved in the war effort.”

  “Really?”

  “Descendants of the Hall family owned the property until the 1870s. The current owner bought it from an elderly couple in 1963, and she’s lived there ever since. The locals still call it Hall Farm, though.”

  “Sounds interesting,” said Haven. “It’ll be a nice change from clearing out old row homes and retirement condos.”

  Brian nodded. “It’s a big place—four acres, plus the farmhouse, a barn and some outbuildings. Rich was over there with Victor and Kyle this week clearing out the attic and the second floor. Today the plan is to go through the cellar and make sure the barn and outbuildings are emptied out.”

  “Okay.” Haven looked down at her vintage paisley skirt. If she’d known she was going to be sitting in an old cellar all day, she would have worn jeans. Too late now.

  Brian handed her a sheet of paper. The title across the top read, THE ESTATE OF MISS GAIL CROSBY. “Here’s the auction inventory Rich put together, in case you want to take a look. He’s shipping a few of the really good antiques to Christie’s in New York. Rich thinks they’ll get better exposure up there.”

  Rich Horn, Brian’s business partner, managed the financial side of Stockton Estate Sales. He also handled most of the paperwork, which was a good thing, because Brian was hopeless when it came to detailed administrative stuff.

  Haven scanned the long list of furniture and other household goods. “So, this lady…Gail Crosby…what’s her story? She pass away recently?”

  “No, but she’s in a nursing home over in Newtown. Rich met with her yesterday. He said she came down with the flu two months ago and it turned into pneumonia. Apparently Miss Crosby’s in pretty rough shape—she’s got chronic pulmonary disease and heart trouble.”

  Haven’s brow furrowed. “Poor lady.”

  “The doctors told her she won’t be able to live by herself any longer. Her attorney hired us to clean out her house so she can put the property on the market,” Brian explained.

  “Doesn’t she have any family?” Haven asked.

  Brian shrugged, slowing the car and steering off the Delaware Expressway. “I don’t think she has kids. Crosby’s a spinster—her attorney said she never married.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Haven said. “I need to be back on campus by tomorrow night. We have classes on Columbus Day, and my art history professor decided to schedule our midterm for Monday.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish.”

  Brian blew out a long sigh. “That means I’ve got to find someone else to run the cash wrap.”

  “Sorry. I know I should have said something sooner, but I’ve been feeling kind of distracted.” Haven squirmed in her seat, trying to ignore the weird sensation that was growing ever stronger as they headed west on Route 413.

  “Amy’s got guests booked at the B&B over the holiday, but maybe I can get Rich’s wife to work the register.” Brian pulled out his cell and dialed a number. “Hey Darlene, it’s Brian. Listen, I need to ask a favor…”

  While her brother talked, Haven gazed out the window at the fields dotted with gigantic bales of newly mown hay. It was October—harvest time. Her eye was drawn to a large green tractor as it pulled a mechanical baler down a sloping hill, and she suddenly thought of the antique silver watch from the hypnotist’s show.

  Its embossed case had depicted stalks of wheat and a scythe. She shuddered, remembering how the antique watch had spontaneously leaked blood onto her outstretched hand. Because of her graphic visions, Haven was certain a former owner of the watch had taken at least two lives…but probably more.

  Yet even though the object had given her dreadful hallucinations, Haven wondered why its owner would choose to leave such a valuable timepiece behind. Surely the tragedies connected with the watch had occurred centuries before, and couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that harmless old man in the tweed jacket.

  SEVEN

  South Devonshire, England

  Late September 1667

  JEAN-CLAUDE FAUCHEUR stood waiting in the upstairs hall of his uncle’s country estate, nimbly manipulating a dagger between his long fingers. Johanna, his Aunt Henrietta’s most trusted chambermaid, always came up at this time of night to turn down the beds. He leaned over the balustrade and peered down the marble stairway. He cursed to himself—once again she was late.

  If she’s been dallying with that weasel-faced footman, I’ll cut off his—

  “Aaahhheeeee!”

  Faucheur winced at the high-pitched squeals rising above the chatter of the party guests downstairs. Well, well, Aunt Henrietta must’ve finally won a hand at cards. An intense loathing percolated through Faucheur’s insides. To him it seemed a cruel joke that the late Marie-Thérèse—Henrietta’s sister, Faucheur’s dear maman—and the mindless fool down in the drawing room should both be offspring of the same parentage. Yet such was the case.

  Like Marie-Therese, Henrietta had been born into untitled French nobility. But unlike Faucheur’s elegant mother, the idiot had run away at seventeen to elope with an English commoner. Although Henrietta’s husband, a bumbling imbecile now known as Sir Perceval Wheatley, had since been knighted, Faucheur was fairly sure the man had paid handsomely for that honor. Still, he hadn’t a clue as to how his uncle had managed to scrape together enough gold to merit his new title.

  This annoyed Faucheur no end.

  Sir Perceval had no fortune of his own, and his shipping company comprised only two or three small schooners. True, his uncle did a modest trade in sugar, West Indian spice and English cloth, yet this scanty income didn’t coincide with his obvious prosperity. Somehow, Uncle Perceval and Aunt Henrietta were able to live in a grand house and throw lavish parties every night for their bourgeois friends. For people of such limited means, this didn’t make any sense.

  Scowling, Faucheur returned his attention to his blade. How on God’s earth, he wondered, were his relatives able to live like royalty during such hard times? Where the devil did their money come from? HeeHeH felt sure they were keeping some devious secret, and he fully intended to discover what it was—because he had absolutely nothing better to do.

  Faucheur’s empty stomach rumbled with hunger. He’d already endured three weeks of exile in his uncle’s house near the seaport town of Plymouth, yet he still found it difficult to tolerate the bland meat, pasty stews and flavorless pies of his uncle’s nearsighted cook. He dearly missed the cuisine of Édith, his stepfather’s French cook back in Paris.

  I shall have to find some other form of nourishment tonight.

  He glanced in the mirror across the hall and straightened the sleeve of his blue silk waistcoat. Tall and lithe, he’
d inherited his mother’s almond-shaped, dark brown eyes, his father’s long nose and full lips. A fashionable wig featuring a long cascade of gray curls concealed his healthy crop of dark chestnut hair. He was considered quite handsome, even when seen without his formal wig.

  In fact, many women back in Paris—young and old—had gawked outright whenever he entered a room. But these brazen tarts bored Faucheur—they were far too easy. However, he relished the furtive gazes of the timid ones immensely. He preferred ladies who afforded him a challenge, and he pursued them with the intensity of a wild game hunter. Once they finally gave in to his advances, the pleasure they provided was simply exquisite.

  Apart from Johanna, though, Faucheur had yet to make a single conquest here in England. Most of his aunt’s acquaintances had proved to be as wrinkled and homely as old blankets. Faucheur grew more restless by the hour, and he cursed his callous stepfather for suddenly shipping him off to live in this remote, depressed little hamlet with Sir Perceval and Lady Wheatley. The abrupt separation from his many friends in Paris (and from the theaters, brothels and gambling houses he often frequented) had begun to take its toll on the twenty-year-old Frenchman, leaving him more miserable and homesick with each passing day.

  The week before, just when Faucheur felt as though his head would burst with tedium, he’d wandered down to the cellar one morning and cornered Johanna in the laundry. Their brief rendezvous behind the steaming washtub had been most satisfying, and Faucheur could hardly wait to repeat the encounter at length.

  He glanced once more over the marble balustrade.

  Ah…at last.

  The object of this evening’s pursuit had appeared in a bobbing pool of candlelight. Faucheur watched Johanna move up the back stairs carrying an armful of fresh bed sheets. Errant strands of golden hair escaped from her white linen bonnet and trailed across her angelic face. She was all of sixteen, somewhat plump, possessing tantalizingly soft lips and bright green eyes flecked with brown and gold.

  The effort of the two-story climb had stained Johanna’s rounded cheeks a healthy pink, which, Faucheur noted, contrasted agreeably with the smooth, pale skin of her throat. As her shoulders rose above the level of the landing, he licked his bottom lip in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to feel her supple body writhing beneath his.