Читать книгу Myth and Magic - Mae Clair - Страница 10

Sunlight danced on the hood of the SUV, sending leaf-shaped patterns scampering across the windshield. Caith gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckle force, quelling a surge of panic. As the tree-lined streets of Coldcreek unfurled before him, a suffocating tightness grew in his chest, resurrecting the painful memories of a cold autumn day when he was thirteen.

Caith pedaled hard, racing down the hillside, head bent close to the handlebars as the wind whipped hair from his face. It was too cold to be biking. His lungs burned with frigid air, and his fingers were chapped where they gripped the handlebars. But none of that mattered in the race to reach the bottom of Spoon Hill first. Behind him, Trask pedaled for all he was worth but his shorter stature was no match for Caith’s long-legged speed. Clamping down on the brake, Caith spun the back tire out behind him, doing a half donut when he reached the bottom of the hill.

“No fair!” Trask arrived a few seconds behind. “You had a head start.”

Both boys laughed, flushed with excitement and the adrenalin of the race. Trask pedaled to his friend’s side then stood balancing his bike, one foot braced against the asphalt. Traffic was non-existent, and the few homes scattered nearby were separated from the roadway by rolling fields and pastureland. It was the perfect place to race.

“Ron should have seen you,” Trask said with a sly grin. “She likes you, you know.”

Caith made a face. “That’s stupid. She’s just a friend.” He stomped his foot on the left pedal and it spun in a frenzied circle as his heel slipped off.

Trask grinned as if sensing he’d struck a nerve. “She told Becky Kessler she’d like to be your girlfriend.”

Before Caith could reply, a car rounded the bend behind them. With a glance over his shoulder, Caith moved his bike off the road along with Trask. He had dismounted, squatting to check the pedal, when he heard the car slow. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as it rolled to a halt directly beside them. The hum of an electric window lowering into the door panel made Caith turn around. The car was sleek and shiny, a four-door black sedan.

“Hello, boys.” A blond-haired man smiled from inside the passenger’s side of the vehicle. He had a broad face, pockmarked on the right side. “Do either of you know where Candlestick Road is?”

Deciding they were out-of-towners, Caith stepped closer. There was another man on the driver’s side, a shadowy figure he couldn’t quite see, and another in the rear seat. “That way.” He pointed to the right. “Past the cemetery at the end of Chapel Road.” The moment he looked away from the man, he heard a metallic click. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, and the wind blew cold across his face. His gaze returned to the car, and his eyes widened when he saw the barrel of an automatic pistol pointed at his chest.

Trask made a strangled sound.

“Get in the car,” the man with the pockmarked face ordered.

The back door popped open. A large dark-haired man reached forward and grabbed Trask by the wrist. Caith’s eyes remained frozen on the barrel of the gun, his heart pounding wildly.

Sensing his fear, the man with the yellow hair sneered. “You’re worth a lot of money to me Caithelden Breckwood. Now get in the car before we hurt your friend.”

“Dad, it sort of looks like home.”

Caith flinched, jarred by his son’s innocent voice. Derrick sat in the back of the Ford Explorer, straining against the seat belt, engrossed in watching storybook homes and farmland roll past. Too tense to speak, Caith nodded. He inhaled raggedly as they passed the corner where Bidder farm once stood. The imagined taint of model glue tickled the back of his nostrils and, for one horrid moment, he thought he was going to puke.

Breaking out in a cold sweat, he dragged a hand over his face. Eventually the Quik-Mart dwindled from sight and he veered left, continuing into town.

It hadn’t changed much. Some storefronts had been remodeled, and there were a few new businesses clustered near the center of town. The post office had received a face-lift but remained firmly entrenched on the corner of Sickle and Rosewood. The family-owned pharmacy where he, Trask, Ron, and Merlin had stopped after school each day to get sodas and licorice whips had been replaced by a coffee shop. A new McDonald’s sprouted off the square and, farther from town, the community park had expanded to include a new ball field and swim club. Caith could just decipher the soaring roof peaks of the private, gated residence that had been his childhood home set back in the hills, overlooking the town.

Derrick bounced on the seat, grinning ear-to-ear. “When will we get to Uncle Aren’s, Dad?”

Caith recovered his composure. His kid didn’t seem to realize anything was wrong, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Soon.” He shot Derrick a glance in the rearview mirror. “You know once I drop you off and go to the lodge, I won’t see you every night?”

“I know.” Derrick was looking out the window again, seemingly unaffected by the thought, his eyes glowing with eagerness. The trip had been long, and though Derrick had slept the first few hours, he’d eventually had to amuse himself. Too excited to read or watch a DVD, he’d asked endless questions about Coldcreek. Where did Uncle Aren live? Where did Matt and Noah go to school? When was trick-or-treat? Would he be able to go? The list went on and on. Caith had distracted him enough to play some travel games and they’d counted license plates from different states until it was time to stop for lunch. That had been nearly four hours ago, and Derrick was growing antsy again, eager to reach their destination.

“Will I get to see Grandma and Grandpa’s house, too?”

Caith clenched his jaw. The roof peaks of the mansion rolled behind a crest of trees and were blocked from view. “They’re not home, Derry.”

“But we could still see where they live. Uncle Aren could take us.”

“No.”

“Dad.”

“I said no.” Caith flicked another glance in the mirror. “Derrick, this is work for me, do you understand? I’m here because Uncle Galen and Uncle Aren hired me to do a job, just like the people who come to see me at home. I’m not going to have time for anything else.”

“You just don’t wanna see Grandpa,” Derrick muttered, slumping in the seat.

Caith exhaled, silently counting to ten. There was no easy way to explain what had happened so many years ago to alienate him from his father. Without delving into Trask’s murder, something he wouldn’t subject Derrick to, there was no magical answer to explain why he wouldn’t see Stuart Breckwood. Perhaps he should let Aren take the boy to the house. What harm would there be if Derrick went to see the place without him? His parents were in Canada. For that matter, he could go himself, without fear of encountering his father.

“Derrick, we’ll talk about this later.” The tone of his voice indicated the discussion was over.

Still sulky, Derrick went back to looking out the window, and for a while they drove in silence. Ten minutes later, they reached Aren’s home, a renovated farmhouse six miles from the fringe of town. The property included an old barn, converted to a fort-playhouse for the boys, and a pond that promised excellent ice skating in the winter. Their collie-shepherd mix, Domino, and family cats, Biscuit and Charm, added to the warmth Caith always felt in Aren’s home.

Melanie greeted him with a kiss, while the boys danced around hooting and hollering. The exuberant greeting was enough to make him momentarily forget his discomfort. Dinner followed almost immediately, pot roast with potatoes and corn, and Melanie’s homemade deep-dish apple pie. Afterward, the boys disappeared, Noah and Matt eager to show Derrick their new home. While Melanie tinkered in the kitchen, making sure Domino stayed clear of Biscuit and Charm while they ate, Aren led Caith onto the back porch.

“I have most of the ground leased to a farmer,” he explained, nodding off toward tall stalks of corn in the distance. “He rotates crops, but it’s written into the lease he plants one field of corn every year for my use.”

Caith raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a farmer, Aren.”

His brother chuckled. “Not even close. We just want to do something for the kids around here. I’ve hired people to help out. Remember those great hayrides we used to go on? They’re few and far between these days. Farmers can’t afford the expense or the time, and anyone who can isn’t interested in making it happen.” Aren shrugged. He scuffed a shoe against the plank floorboards. “Guess I want to change that. My wife and kids grew up in a city, Caith. Noah and Matt never saw farmland until we moved here. It’s important they experience some of the things I did. I don’t want them growing up with the corporate world as the only choice they have.”

Caith studied his brother. “You’re serious about this?”

Aren grinned. Dressed in jeans and a green pull-over sweatshirt rather than his usual suit and tie, he looked relaxed. “I know you don’t like Halloween, but there used to be a time when you did. Before Trask.”

Caith looked away.

“I’m planning a maze in the cornfield,” Aren continued quickly as if to cover the sudden awkwardness. “I’ve got a crop of pumpkins we’re going to harvest for the kids to face paint. We’re going to have two weekends, starting on Friday night with the hayride and continuing through the next Sunday afternoon. The high school drama club has volunteered to act as staff, and they’ll be in costume. Balin is heading things up for me.”

Caith hadn’t seen his nephew, Balin, in years, but knew Galen’s son would be a teenager now.

“I’ve got vendors to provide hotdogs, pumpkin pie, caramel apples, and cider,” Aren said. “If it goes over as good as I hope, I want to make it an annual event. I’ve got the ground. Why let it go to waste?”

Caith angled a glance at the surrounding fields. Once more a sense of déjà vu swept over him. Derrick had never been on a hayride or run giggling through rows of towering cornstalks. “What does Dad say about it?”

Aren shot him a suspicious look. “He’s always loved the outdoors, and he’s never outgrown his small town roots. He wanted to funnel BI money into it, but I told him I wanted to do this on my own. Dad’s always supported anything that benefits the community, especially if it involves Coldcreek’s children.”

“Too bad he didn’t feel the same about his own kids.” Caith turned away before Aren could reply. Overhead, the sun slipped toward the horizon, melting into a brass-soaked ball. Caith stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s not easy coming back. I’ve thought about it all day. About leaving Derry here.”

Aren’s face registered confusion. “Caith, we talked about this.”

“I know we did, but I’m not ready to leave Derry that long. Not here, where Trask…” He exhaled deeply, reaching a decision. “I’ll go to the lodge as a consultant, someone who’s evaluating the program for you. It’ll cause less suspicion when I start asking questions. I’ll be able to come and go as I please, and see Derry whenever I want. You can tell people you know me from Boston. Our kids are friends, and Derrick’s staying with you while I complete an assignment for BI. It’s strictly credible you’d hire someone you can trust to evaluate the program. As it is, there are people who are going to recognize me. Let’s face it, I look a lot like Dad. With any luck, I can avoid most of them.”

“Galen isn’t going to like it. We’re changing something without his approval.”

“Screw Galen. This is about my kid, my terms. I’ve got plenty of cases waiting back home if you want to scratch the whole deal.”

“Why do you always have to be so bullheaded? Between you and Dad—” Aren broke off and shook his head. “All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll advise Galen of the changes tomorrow, but I want you to go to the lodge tonight. There’s a new group of guests arriving tomorrow evening. I’d rather you had the lay of the land before they get there.” Frowning, he considered his brother. “The board isn’t involved in this, but I’d like to update them twice a week as a courtesy. Stone Willow has BI connections, but it’s a Breckwood family project, not a corporate venture. There are two working phones at the lodge, one in Veronica’s office and one in Alma Kreider’s room. You can use one of those to contact me. Cells work, but the reception is limited.”

“Kreider’s the cook?”

Aren nodded. “She lives at the lodge along with Veronica. Lew Walden, the caretaker, has a separate home on the property. Call when you can.”

Nodding, Caith fell silent. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Do, um…Trask’s parents still live around here?”

Aren hesitated. “They left the year after their daughter graduated from high school. You would have been a college freshman then. They tried to tough it out, but it was too hard for them to stay.”

Caith nodded. “Aren, Derrick’s never been away from me for more than a night or two.”

“I figured that. I remember in Boston when he’d spend the weekend with Noah and Matt. You were freaky about it then.”

“This isn’t Boston. It’s worse. It’s where Trask was killed.”

Sighing, Aren clapped a hand on Caith’s shoulder. “I know this is hard, Caith, but don’t make your fears his. There’s a reason you haven’t told him what happened to you and Trask, and it’s because you want him to grow up a normal little boy, something you didn’t get the chance to do. Let him have fun while he’s here.”

He was being foolish. “You’re right.” The last thing he wanted was to ruin his kid’s enjoyment. He’d spent the last eight years making up for the fact that Derrick didn’t have a mother, doing everything he could to keep his life happy and fulfilled. While he might be a little on the protective side, he wasn’t going to move into suffocation mode and chain his kid to an imaginary leash. Aren understood his fears and would take care of Derrick. “I should go while there’s still light.”

It was harder than he thought.

When he left, Caith gave Derrick a hug with instructions to listen to his aunt and uncle. Aren trailed him to his Explorer, assuring a final time he had nothing to worry about. As Caith opened the door, he spied Derrick’s pouch of marbles in the back seat. A lump formed in his throat.

Retrieving the pouch, he passed it to Aren. “He takes them everywhere.” Before his brother could respond, he climbed into the truck and started the engine. He never looked back as he headed for Stone Willow Lodge.

* * * *

Veronica sprinted down the steps, satisfied with her inspection of the guest suites. When the new arrivals checked in, they’d find everything in order. A relief, considering she’d be juggling Caith, too.

Aren had phoned to tell her his brother was on his way and to make certain she was comfortable with Caith’s guise as a Breckwood consultant. It meant they’d be working closely. She’d never forgiven Caith his callous dismissal of her feelings, but assured Aren what happened between them had been nothing more than infatuation and puppy love. He didn’t need to know how deeply their time together had scarred her.

“Veronica!”

She halted at the bottom of the staircase as Alma Kreider rounded the corner. A few months shy of sixty-five, her graying hair worn in a top knot, the cook was usually no-nonsense to the point of rude. Lately, she’d grown timid, casting worried glances over her shoulder and avoiding empty rooms after dark.

“I’m glad I found you. I’ve started a cobbler and need three jars of peaches from the basement.” Alma fidgeted, twining her hands. “Lew said the breaker needs a new fuse, and the lights aren’t working. I don’t want to go down there.”

Veronica should have known. With the sun setting and exaggerated shadows creeping from the walls, Alma was more likely to tangle with a rabid dog then venture into the basement.

It was nearing six in the evening. Beyond the towering windows in the lobby, darkness feathered the edges of the October sky.

“I’ll go.”

“By yourself?” Alma was appalled. “In the dark? After what I saw?”

“I’ll take a flashlight. There’s nothing down there but food stores and boxes.”

Alma frowned. “Now, don’t start sounding like Sheriff Cameron. I saw Warren Barrister’s ghost, plain as day.”

They’d had the same discussion numerous times. Veronica slipped a hand beneath Alma’s arm and steered her toward the kitchen. “There are no ghosts at Stone Willow, Alma. If someone was in the basement, they’re gone now.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do. But whatever you saw wasn’t a ghost.” Veronica was careful not to upset her further, but didn’t want to stoke rumors of the supernatural.

“What then?”

She bit her lip, unable to offer an answer.

As if taking that as a concession of defeat, Alma harrumphed her triumph and departed. Veronica headed behind the reception counter and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a flashlight. She tested the batteries, then walked to the basement wondering what else could go wrong. The breaker was another item in a long list of mechanical problems to plague the lodge. Coupled with those incidents that bordered on the supernatural, it was no wonder guests had started to imagine poltergeists behind every corner.

The hinges on the basement door creaked as she pushed it open, and she made a mental note to tell Lew to oil them when he took care of the breaker. She tried the light switch once, then flicked on her flashlight, angling the beam down the staircase. Darkness yawned below, layered in whorls of licorice black. Must and mildew tickled her nose, and a draft of cool air scraped over her cheek.

The cone of yellow light bobbed as she descended the steps. She paused at the bottom, sweeping the light to the far corners of the room, sending shadows scurrying from the beam. To the left, a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit loomed against the wall. Row after row of jarred vegetables and fruits cast back the reflected glow of her flashlight. Alma had canned most of the items, gathering the vegetables from a garden at the rear of the lodge, purchasing the majority of fruit from a local market.

To the right, a short set of block steps led up to an exterior exit. Rarely used, the metal storm doors were angled into the rear of the home, part of the original structure from the 1800s.

She felt an unnatural chill, but pushed it aside, realizing she was being silly. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. Crossing to the shelving unit, she ran the beam of the flashlight over neat, orderly rows of canning jars, pausing to study the handwritten labels. Something moved behind her and a hand settled on her shoulder.

Veronica gave a startled squawk and lurched clear, her scream choked short by fright.

“Veronica, it’s Caith.” His voice struck her as the yellow beam washed over his face. Wincing, he raised a hand to block the direct path of light. She caught only vague impressions—coal black hair and eyes like crisp winter sky.

“Caith?” she echoed dumbly.

“Mind lowering the light?”

Veronica dropped the beam to the floor where it bounced off faded denim and brown work boots. She had a vague sense of his height, pinned between him and the shelving unit. He held a flashlight in his hand, smaller than hers, something that would easily fit into his pocket. Sidestepping, she swept her own light to both corners making sure there were no other surprises. “What are you doing in the basement?”

“I came in through the storm doors a while ago.”

“They weren’t locked?”

“Not when I got here.”

She frowned, disturbed by the idea of Caith snooping around without her knowledge. “You could have saved me three years of gray hair by coming through the front door like everyone else.”

“Sorry.”

She doubted he was. He didn’t seem contrite at all. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see him better. Wiry and lanky as a youth, he’d developed the muscle and definition that comes with maturity. Tall, broad of shoulder, and narrow through the hips, he carried a trim, athletic physique. His hair was shorter, black as the raven he’d been named for, and tapered against his neck in a becoming cut. Piercing blue eyes held her gaze, causing her heart to hammer faster. The good-looking boy she remembered had grown into a thoroughly handsome man.

He frowned. “What are you doing in the basement in the dark?”

“The light doesn’t work.”

“I figured that out.”

Heat flushed her face. “So that private investigator’s license is good for something after all?”

Caith chuckled softly. “Maybe we should start over.”

Veronica opened her mouth to snap a reply. Before she could formulate a single pointed word, a shrill scream jarred her to the bone. She felt the blood drain from her face as the horrified shriek shuddered into silence, then started again, climbing in volume.

“Alma!” she cried.

Of one accord, she and Caith bolted for the stairs.