A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  She stared at the door, going cold.

  Another thud.

  “Jason?” She called, heading toward the door even as her stomach tightened with an urge to flee. She drew the door open wider, stepped inside. A side of dead animal swung suddenly and hit her in the shoulder.

  “Shit!” She jumped back, pulse jackhammering.

  The half deer carcass swayed back and forth, hook creaking on the overhead rail system. Behind the side of animal hung two butchered turkeys and some other wild game. She fixated on the deer. Skinned, veined. White sinew.

  Sweat broke out over her skin. In her mind she saw a woman’s partially flayed body hanging by the neck from a meat hook. The woman had red hair on her head, red pubic hair. Bile rose in her throat.

  “Olivia?” Jason appeared from behind the dead animal. “I was just getting this one out to butcher for the venison stew on the menu tomorrow tonight. We have a nice crowd coming for the Friday dinner.”

  Her gaze remained riveted on the meat hook. Blood drained from her head. She swayed, her world spiraling down into a black memory tunnel. She couldn’t breathe.

  She stepped backward, catching her heel and stumbling.

  “Liv?” He caught her arm. “You okay?”

  “I . . . I’m fine.” She spun around and quickly exited the meat locker, her pulse racing.

  Jason followed, consternation creasing his brow. “You look deathly pale,” he said as she grasped the back of a chair to ground herself. “You sure you’re all right?”

  She heard geese honking—the sound coming through the kitchen door she’d left open. Suddenly in her mind it was spring. She could smell it. She could smell human blood.

  No!

  The geese are flocking south. It’s fall. You’re on Broken Bar. All is fine, dammit. Fine.

  She gripped the back of the chair tightly, hanging her head down a minute, fighting to stay present. “I . . . I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”

  Do not let the flashbacks back in. You cannot allow them to take over again . . .

  Blood flowed back into her head. She felt her cheeks warm. Slowly, she put her head upright and forced a smile. “I’m sorry about that. I must be coming down with a bug or something. Felt dizzy for a minute.”

  “Can I get you a glass of water? Some juice?” Concern filled his dark narrow eyes.

  “No. Thanks. I just wanted to say thank you for those blueberries you left outside my door this morning.”

  Jason glanced at the basket of berries on the table. “I didn’t leave those.”

  Something inside her went still.

  “Maybe Nella did?” Her voice came out tight.

  “I don’t know.” His brow furrowed deeper as he regarded her. “Is it important? I can try and find her and ask—she’s probably out feeding the chickens or watching Brannigan with the horses.”

  “Oh, no thanks.” She forced a light laugh that didn’t come out so light.

  “I did bring up a couple of trays from Clinton, so she might have.”

  “Tell her I said thanks, will you? I’ll just grab a coffee and an apple for Spirit and get out of your hair.”

  Feeling Jason’s eyes on her, she poured another big mug of coffee from the pot on the counter, snagged an apple from the bowl on the table, and made her way to the office off the guest living room.

  Ace was already in the office, sleeping in his basket in a puddle of yellow sunshine. She checked e-mail for any new reservations that might have come via the website. There were none.

  Apart from the late drop-ins, this was likely the end of the guests for the season.

  She listened to voice mail and scanned the dining reservations book to see how many would be coming for meals over the weekend.

  Before heading out, she checked the daily weather report. Surprise rippled through her. There was a big storm in the short-term forecast. Precipitation was expected in the form of snow, which could start falling by Monday afternoon. Up to two feet was predicted. It looked as though winter would be arriving early this year, right on the back of the long weekend. She’d have to warn guests. There was no plow service out here—a big dump would render the dirt roads impassable. They could be cut off for days.

  Grabbing the campsite reservations book, credit card processor, and the cash pouch from the safe, she whistled for Ace and headed out the door. She helped Ace up into the cab and drove over to the stables where Brannigan, the groom, routinely chopped, bundled, and stacked wood for the campsite.

  After checking on Spirit and feeding her the apple, Olivia donned her gloves, dropped the tailgate, and started tossing wood bundles into the bed of her truck. Working up a sweat, she wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. This was good. She felt more solid already. The sun was climbing and temperatures warming fast. Whatever had assailed her earlier this morning—it was over. Done.

  When she arrived at the campground she saw there were new occupants in two of the sites. The first site had a gray Ford truck parked across the entrance. Olivia left Ace in her vehicle, rounded the Ford truck, and headed down a small path to where a camper, which had been jacked off the truck, was positioned closer to the shore. Next to the camper a generator chugged away, powering a small freezer. There was no one here. She was about to go back up to the entrance and jot down the Ford’s plate number when she caught sight of blood streaking down the side of the freezer. She froze.

  A buzzing started in her ears.

  Blackness mushroomed through her mind, swallowing her vision down to tiny pinpricks of light. And suddenly she could smell him. He was behind her, his hot breath whispering against her cheek, into her ear.

  Gamos, Sarah. It’s a marriage . . . we are conjoined . . .

  Olivia swung around, heart jackhammering.

  The lodgepole pines towered above. Branches black against the sky. The dark trees seemed to swirl around her, faster, faster, a dizzying kaleidoscope of bright and black. Branches whispered and swayed. Again she saw the purplish-white body of a redheaded woman swinging from a creaking hook.

  She saw the glint of the knife.

  Through the cracks of her shed, she saw him hacking hunks of meat from the body, putting the chunks into the freezer, blood streaking down the side.

  Olivia braced her hand against the picnic table. She fought to draw a breath. But she was hyperventilating. Quickly she made her way back up to her truck. The wind gusted. Branches swayed.

  Sarah . . . Ssssssarah . . .

  She reached her truck, yanked open the door, and shoved Ace aside. She climbed in, slammed the door. She sat for a moment, hands shaking, sweat prickling over her skin.

  Olivia. Your name is Olivia West. He’s dead. You cannot allow the flashbacks back in. You cannot go back there.

  Reaching forward, she fired the ignition. Gravel spewed out behind her as she hit the gas, and her truck fishtailed. She drove too fast around the lake, dust boiling behind her. When she reached the lodge, her shirt was drenched. Her hands still trembled. The taste in her mouth was sour.

  It was happening again. The flashbacks. And it was going to get worse unless she found a way to stop it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Late Friday afternoon. Vancouver.

  A knock sounded at the front door. Tori ran to open it. Sergeant Mac Yakima stood there, dressed in jeans, leather jacket.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said with a warm smile. “I’ve come to pick up your dad for his big retirement party.”

  “He doesn’t want to retire.”

  Mac stared. Stalemate. He cleared his throat. “Sure he does.” He bent down. “Don’t tell him, but we got him one of those Sage spey rods he’s always wanted. He’s been itching to dust off those tackle boxes. Fishing nirvana awaits.”

  “He’s only fifty-six,” Tori said. “People don’t retire at fifty-six unless there’s something wron
g.”

  “How about you tell him I’m here?” Mac followed her inside.

  “Dad!” she yelled up the hall steps. “Sergeant Mac is here.”

  She stomped through to sit in front of the TV, but she could see them through the arched doorway.

  Emotion roiled, tightened. Tori clamped her arms tightly over her stomach. She loved her dad. But she’d loved her mother more than the entire world. It was her fault her mom had died, that she hadn’t been able to pull her out of the tree well. Her eyes burned, memories rearing up inside her—her mom’s legs kicking as Tori had tugged on her ski boots. More and more snow falling into the hole and landing on top of her mom each time she tried to help her move. Then the whole load of snow from the tree above had come avalanching down on top of them both. Like it was yesterday she could feel the spasming in her mother’s legs, then the sudden, terrible limpness. Tori had screamed for help as more snow came down, muffling her pleas.

  “You all set for the big night?” Mac slapped her dad on the back.

  Tori, pretending to watch the TV, slid her gaze over to them in the hall. She could tell it was all false, that backslappery.

  “What happened to your hand?” Mac said.

  Her father held up his right hand. It was bandaged. Tori hadn’t noticed that before. “Scraped it last night while moving a bookshelf.”

  She frowned. She hadn’t heard her dad moving any bookshelf. Then again, she’d been locked in her room listening to music.

  Her father peeked into the living room. “You sure you don’t want the sitter to come over, Tori?”

  “I’m almost twelve,” she snapped, refusing to look at him. She glared at the television instead. But she knew why her father was asking—he was worried about her state of mind after that thing at school.

  “Not sure what time I’ll be back, kiddo. Don’t stay up, okay?”

  She didn’t reply.

  As they exited the front door she heard her father say, “I can still drive myself, you know.”

  A hearty laugh came from Mac. “Not after we’re done with you tonight, you won’t.” The door banged shut. She heard their footsteps crunching past the window, saw the tops of their heads.

  Tori got up, went to the window.

  She watched them climb into Mac’s car, back out of the driveway, and pull away. When she was certain they were gone, she hurried upstairs to her father’s office. The door didn’t have a lock. She pushed it open, her pulse quickening as she made for the filing cabinet where she’d seen her dad stuff that concertina file with newspaper cuttings and crime scene photos. He’d tried to hide them from her, but one had fallen to the floor. A black-and-white photo of a woman’s naked body. She yanked at the drawer of his file cabinet. It was locked. She scrabbled in her father’s desk drawers. No key anywhere.

  She stood there, thinking. Her father had changed. Everything had changed since Mom died. He was hiding all sorts of things, growing weird and short-tempered and increasingly distant. It made her mad. It made her feel like he was forgetting Mom. Forgetting her. Forgetting the family they once were. A recklessness fueled by hurt fired through her.

  She booted up his computer, then froze as she heard tires crackling on the wet street outside. But the vehicle went past their driveway.

  His computer was password protected, and nothing she entered into the box worked. She shut the computer down, turned in the swivel chair, thinking again. She got up and made quickly for the adjoining room that had served as her mother’s study.

  Opening the door cautiously, she stepped inside.

  It was cold, the heat turned off.

  She could still scent her mother’s perfume in here. Her lotion. There were books everywhere. Her laptop sat on a small desk with trinkets she’d collected over the years. A bay window let in lots of light despite the stormy sky outside. A reading bench covered with cushions in a pink-and-green cabbage rose pattern ran the length of the window.

  The room was pretty. Soft and gentle, spiked with accents of livid fuchsia, which underlined the playfulness in her mother and reminded Tori of the sparkle in her eyes. The slight smile that had so often played across her mouth.

  Her mother was—had been—a successful novelist. And it was in this gentle, calming place that she wrote some very dark books of fiction, mysteries and thrillers that reviewers said were ripped from the headlines and usually based on true crimes. The stories had actual sex in them. Violence. She hadn’t been allowed to read them, but she’d found them in the public library, and online, and read them anyway.

  Tori’s English teacher had told her she’d inherited her mother’s talent for writing. Others told her she looked like her mom, and that she was so like her mom in so many other ways. She’d informed everyone she, too, would be a writer some day. Her eyes burned as she touched her mother’s things. She picked up a framed photo of the three of them. The three musketeers, her dad used to call them. Tori’s mind drifted to the pastor’s words in church, at the funeral, how he spoke about her mother being in a better place. With God.

  What kind of God did this? Stole away the people you loved most? Why should it be a better place?

  Heartsore, Tori replaced the photo and curled up on the window bench where her mother used to read to her. Clutching a small pillow tightly to her chest, she watched the rain outside. The sky was heavy and battleship gray. She couldn’t see the mountains on the other side of the water. Foghorns sounded repeatedly.

  Curling tighter around the soft pillow, she drifted into sleep, bad dreams haunting her. She woke with the start of a scream. Her heart raced. It was getting dark out. Shivering, she got off the bench to lift the lid and find the soft afghan her mother had knitted.

  Inside the bench box, lying atop the neatly folded afghan, were the printed pages of a manuscript secured with a rubber band. Tori clicked on the lamp and lifted out the manuscript. She read the title page.

  The Pledge

  By Melody Vanderbilt

  Tori’s breath caught. She hadn’t opened this bench since the accident—she’d never seen this manuscript. Tentatively, she touched the words, black ink on white. More eternal than flesh. Words her mother had put on paper. Words that had outlived her. And Tori’s chest felt as though it would burst in pain. Her mom once told her that words were like magic, like ancient runes, symbols, that, if you knew how to unlock and decode them, conjured stories—people and pictures in your mind.

  Is this what you were working on when you left us, Mom?

  A tear plopped onto the page. It left a gray mark and startled her—she hadn’t even felt it coming. She slipped the rubber band off the manuscript and lifted the title page. The dedication page lay underneath.

  For my dear Tori, a story for the day you are ready. I will always love you, more than you will ever know . . .

  Tori’s heart banged as she read the words. Almost subconsciously she closed the bench box and climbed back on top. Wrapping the afghan around her shoulders, she began to read:

  Prologue

  It started, as all dialogues do, when a path crosses that of another. Whether in silence, or greeting, a glance, a touch, you are changed, irrevocably, by an interaction. Some exchanges are as subtle as the touch of an iridescent damselfly alighting on the back of your hand. Some are seismic, rocking your world, fissuring into your very foundations and setting you on a new path. That moment came for Sarah when he first entered the store.

  The bell chimed, and in came a cool gust of air. Sensing something unusual had entered, she glanced up.

  From across the store his eyes locked onto her face—the kind of full-on stare that made her stomach jump. Ordinarily she’d smile, offer a greeting, but this time she instinctively averted her gaze and continued with her bookkeeping. Yet she could sense his gaze on her, rude, brazen, probing as he approached the counter where she worked.

  “Morn
ing.”

  She was forced to look up into eerily pale amber eyes. They brought to mind a mountain lion. A wild predator.

  He smiled. It was bewitching. It twisted something low and hot in her belly. His hair was black as ink, unkempt. Not unpleasantly so. He reminded her a bit of that actor, Rufus Sewell. Same kind of curls. Similar intensity. He was tall. Sun-browned. High cheekbones. Beautiful fingers, strong hands.

  She helped him choose beads—silver, red—thread, hair, feathers, hooks. As she rang up his purchases, he allowed his hand to touch hers.

  And in that secret moment she was a little thrilled that Ethan wasn’t in the store with her that afternoon. You know those moments? You mean nothing by them. You will never cheat. But they fire a spark in you. They make the world feel wonderful. They make you feel like a vital, sexual being. Basically, they make you feel alive.

  In retrospect, she believed that was the moment he first selected her. Culled her from a pack. Like a wolf singled its target out from a herd.

  He took his time. He played with her. He returned twice each week from the end of the summer into the chill of fall. Nearly always on those afternoons when Ethan was away. She liked to imagine he watched for those opportunities.

  Little did she know. For he did watch. He planned. Everything.

  Then, when Thanksgiving was almost upon them, he told her how the steelhead were running up the Stina River.

  She tied him a fly, using a pattern she’d designed, one that had given her untold luck with those silvery fish, those fighting steelhead. She was anxious for his return.

  “Does it have a name?” he said, when she gave it to him.

  “The Predator.” She smiled. A little embarrassed.

  His eyes turned dark, and her heart beat faster. His voice dipped low. “It’s a fine name.”

  He regarded her for several heavy, silent beats. She felt an atavistic pull, the hairs on her arms rising toward him, as if in electrical attraction. He leaned closer and her mouth turned dry. And he told her about the wild blueberries. Down by the bend in the river.