Читать книгу Myth and Magic - Mae Clair - Страница 8

Caithelden Lairen plucked the mail from the box at the end of his driveway and sorted through the letters. Two bills and a junk circular inviting him to take advantage of a twenty-percent markdown on costumes at the Halloween Emporium.

Not likely. He hated the wretched holiday, though anyone who didn’t know him would find it hard to tell. His front porch was decorated with cornstalks and hay bales banked by bright orange pumpkins. A plump scarecrow with a floppy brimmed hat sat slumped in a wooden rocker. Despite his negative feelings, he did his best to make Halloween fun for his son, Derrick. Right now the kid was home from school with a cold, bored out of his mind, but not well enough to be out in the crisp autumn air. The tribulations of an eight-year-old.

The wind shifted and he caught the scent of hollowed-out pumpkins and dry leaves, odors that kindled memories of his childhood in Coldcreek. His gut tightened in reaction and he shoved the association aside, heading up the crescent-shaped walkway to his house. Typical New England with white siding and black shutters, the pristine Colonial was nestled in an upscale Massachusetts suburb. Since striking out on his own, he’d done well for himself. Not bad for a guy who’d ditched the family name and business and chose to be a private investigator instead.

He had his hand on the doorknob and was ready to enter when a gray sedan pulled into the driveway. The man in the passenger’s seat lifted a hand and waved.

Aren?

He hadn’t seen his older brother since Aren packed up his family and headed back to Coldcreek, leaving Breckwood Industries’ Boston office in the hands of an underling. He’d grown weary of city life and wanted to go back to small town living. Or so he had said.

Dressed in a customary suit and tie, Aren stepped from the car. At thirty-eight, he wore his sandy hair longer than convention, the only edge to his appearance that didn’t scream corporate America. The man who stepped from the driver’s side was slightly shorter with neatly trimmed brown hair. Like Aren, he was dressed in a suit and tie.

Galen.

Caith couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his oldest brother. Eight years ago when Derrick was born? That had to be it.

Why would Galen show up now…and with Aren? Had something happened at home?

He tried to quell the reactionary knot in his gut. More than likely, the brothers had merely been at BI’s Boston office for a meeting and decided to swing by. Interesting, given Aren must have coerced Galen into the visit.

“Hey,” Caith said as the two approached. “What’s the occasion?” He tried to keep the anxiety from his voice. “It isn’t often I get the two of you together on my doorstep.”

“Eight years was the last time.” Galen held out his hand and Caith shook it.

Aren was more demonstrative, giving him a slap on the back with his handshake. When he’d lived in Boston, they’d connected frequently. Aren had been there for him when he’d struggled as a single parent with a newborn son. Later, his odd shifts as a cop on Boston’s police force meant he’d frequently had to leave Derrick in the care of Aren and his wife, Melanie.

“Did something happen at home?” Caith was unable to get the thought out of his head.

“Nothing like that,” Aren assured. “We were at the Boston office and wanted to run something by you. Can we talk inside?”

Caith nodded, his natural curiosity piqued. Galen rarely left Coldcreek. He shoved the door wide. “Come on in.”

He led them to the living room, knowing Derrick was bound to make an appearance once he heard voices. He wasn’t the greatest housekeeper but did his best to keep it clean and inviting for his son. He wondered what Galen thought of the potted plants in the foyer, the overstuffed rocker next to the fireplace, and brightly-colored rug on the hardwood floor—all things a bachelor usually wouldn’t consider necessary.

Aren paused by the fireplace, his eyes skimming the framed photos Caith had placed on the mantle: Caith and Derrick on a fishing trip, grinning ear-to-ear; Derrick riding bicycles with Noah and Matt; Caith in uniform upon graduating Boston’s Police Academy; their mother Morgana Breckwood; and finally a very old, aged photograph of Caith as a child with Merlin, Veronica Kent, and Derrick Trask.

Merlin was only a year older. They’d been inseparable in those days, but hadn’t spoken a word in twelve years. What would he do if something had happened to Merlin? Or his father? He was estranged from both. Had been since he’d left for college at eighteen. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Dad, I’m bored.” Derrick traipsed into the living room. Dressed in flannel pajamas, a brick-red robe, and unlaced sneakers, he looked like he should be in bed. His son was a mirror image of him with ink-black hair and winter blue eyes. But whereas Caith’s hair was straight and neatly trimmed, Derrick’s was a mass of unruly curls.

“Wow, Uncle Aren!” Derrick’s eyes nearly popped from his head. With a cry of delight, he bounded across the room to hug his uncle and dance around him. “I can’t believe you’re here. Did Noah and Matt come with you?”

“Sorry, no. They’re home in Coldcreek.” When Derrick’s face fell, Aren dropped a hand on his shoulder. “But maybe you’ll get to see them soon.”

“Cool. When?”

“That depends on your dad.”

Derrick looked excitedly at Caith, then stilled when he spied Galen.

“Hello, Derrick.” Galen smiled hesitantly. “You don’t remember me, but I came to see your father when you were born. I’m your Uncle Galen.”

“Are you from Coldcreek, too?”

“I am.”

Derrick switched his attention to his father with an eager smile. “Dad, are we going somewhere?”

“You’re going in the kitchen to finish lunch.” Caith shot Aren a silent rebuff before refocusing on his son. “You need to eat the soup I made for you. It’ll help with your cold.”

“I feel okay.” Derrick scuffed the carpet with a sneakered foot. “And soup’s boring.”

“So is staying in bed, but that’s where you’re going to end up if you don’t finish your lunch.” Dropping to an easy squat, Caith conversed with his son at eye level. “I have to talk to Uncle Aren and Uncle Galen. When you finish lunch, you can watch TV in the family room. Deal?”

Derrick nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”

Caith ruffled his son’s curly hair before nudging him toward the kitchen.

Behind him, Galen cleared his throat. “It’s not easy, is it?”

Surprised, Caith turned. “What?”

“Being a single father. Raising a son.” With a nod to the room and its comfortable, well-tailored furnishings, Galen sank into the nearest chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, even without the Breckwood name. I always wondered what made you pick Lairen.”

Caith tamped down a slow burn of anger. He wouldn’t get sucked into an age-old argument over his family name. “I got it out of a phone book. Stopped at Ralph’s Subs on Fifteenth and Dock, had a few beers, and decided to change my name.”

Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be cynical, Caith. We know why you changed your name.” His gaze shifted to the mantle and the pictures of Derrick.

Aren had always understood.

So it won’t happen again. So no one close to me gets killed by mistake. So Derry never has to go through what I did.

Caith shrugged, feigning indifference, and folded his arms over his chest. Perching on the arm of the couch, he braced one leg against the floor, the other swinging free, lightly tapping the hunter-green upholstery. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t remember the last time I had the family brigade in my living room. If Merlin were here, we’d be four brothers again.”

“We never stopped being brothers.” Aren paced to the bow window, then paused to study the sprawling front porch sheltered by chestnut trees. “Galen and I have a proposal for you, but you need to listen with an open mind. Do you remember the old Barrister House?”

Caught off guard by the change of topic, Caith frowned. “You mean that run-down place by Stone Willow Lake? We used to play there as kids. Wasn’t there some kind of sect connected to it?”

Aren nodded. “Yeah, I think there are several Web sites devoted to its history, probably even some cult followers still around if you look hard enough. They don’t bother us, so I don’t pay attention.”

“Us?”

“Breckwood Industries bought the place six years ago,” Aren explained. “We renovated and turned it into an anti-stress retreat for top-level executives. We’re low scale, nothing like the big corporate getaways. We run one and two week programs for small groups of employees—BI personnel and any other company that’s inclined to have their workers attend. No cell phones, TVs, iPads, laptops, or newspapers. Sessions include relaxation, mental focusing, and a number of outdoor activities. There’s no alcohol and no outside contact of any kind.”

“Sounds rigid.”

“We’ve done enough corporate studies to realize people in high pressure positions need an outlet or they reach a breaking point,” Galen picked up. “The retreat’s been remarkably successful. The BI employees who’ve completed the program have increased productivity in their respective departments. Their overall health has improved, their outlook on life, and their concept of work in general. Healthy, happy employees, particularly in upper management, translate to greater efficiency, which in turn generates increased revenue.”

“Yeah, I recall something about BI being interested in revenue.” Caith’s tone was pointedly flippant.

Aren spoke quickly as if to forestall a rise of testiness from Galen. “The retreat is called Stone Willow Lodge, after the lake. We maintain a manager, caretaker, and a cook on site. Also a maintenance worker, guide, and some seasonal employees who drive from Coldcreek.”

Caith arched a brow. “Guide?”

“He handles hiking, boating, and horseback riding. We also have a BI staff member who leads instructional sessions. For the most part, it’s worked well. Until now.” Aren paused, looking ill-at-ease. “Lately there have been occurrences we can’t explain. Rumors are starting to circulate about the legend of Barrister House. Our guests have reported seeing strange lights in the woods, horses spooked for no reason, items missing from their rooms.”

“Could be nothing more than a thief.”

“It isn’t only that.” Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced in front of the fireplace. “Things have gotten serious. It started with minor incidents, but has grown progressively worse. The mutilated carcass of a dog was left on a guest’s bed. Alma Kreider, one of our employees, claims she saw someone in the basement. The next day we found some of our food stores damaged. Two of the guests got sick and blamed it on food poisoning. There have been other incidents, too. Blood splattered in the kitchen, a normally gentle horse threw a guest, a missing fishing boat.”

“Did you call the police?”

Galen snorted. “Of course we did, but they can’t be there twenty-four-seven. They’re tired of us calling. The mess in the kitchen turned out to be red paint, and the horse was shoed improperly. My caretaker swears it was blood, and the guide insists he shoed the horse himself, something he’s been doing since he was a kid on his father’s farm. Last week, my manager claims she saw a severed hand in the fireplace. She called the police, but by the time they arrived, it was gone, and there was no evidence to indicate it was real. They wrote it off as night-time hysterics, but I know Veronica Kent, and I think you do, too. She isn’t given to theatrics.”

Caith tensed, suppressing a reactionary jolt. “Ron’s your manager?”

“Since we opened.” Galen tossed a suspicious glance in Aren’s direction. “You mean all the years you palled around with Aren, he never told you Veronica worked for BI, or that she and Merlin dated? Even when Aren was in Boston, he knew everything that went on back home.”

Veronica and Merlin dated?

Why not? Considering how he’d screwed up and hurt her. They’d all been close as kids. It was only natural her affection for Merlin would develop into something more.

Aren swiped a thumb beneath his nose. “That’s irrelevant. And it’s not why we’re here.” He looked at Caith. “Bottom line is we don’t think Stone Willow is haunted, but something is going on. We need a private investigator.”

Caith balked at the idea. “You’re joking.”

“You know Barrister House and you know the area. And despite what your driver’s license says, you’re still a Breckwood.”

“Screw that.” Incredulous, Caith paced behind the sofa. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe Dad condones this?”

“He’s in Canada,” Galen supplied. “On vacation with Mom. They’re not due back until the end of the month.” He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “In time for the annual Halloween party.”

Caith frowned. He hated the lavish costume party his parents had thrown every year since he was a kid. Even the memory brought a tang of bitterness to his throat. “Hire a PI in Pennsylvania. I’m not licensed to practice there.”

“We don’t want a PI in Pennsylvania,” Aren said firmly. “We want you. Someone who has BI’s interests at heart.”

“What makes you think I give a rat’s ass about BI?”

Aren scowled. “Maybe you don’t care about BI, but I think you still care about the people who run it and the people in Coldcreek. Your family needs you, Caith.”

What a load of garbage! Merlin needed him? His father needed him? “Where was my family when I needed them?”

Aren stepped forward until only the couch separated them. “Caithelden, I’ve never turned my back on you. From the time you left for college to your graduation from the police academy, and the mess you had juggling a newborn and a career, I’ve been there.”

“I know that.”

Aren had stood by him. At thirty, Caith was eight years younger, a gap that had seemed insurmountable in the days when football, girls, and cars had taken precedence, but they’d grown close as adults.

“I appreciate it, but you and Mom are the only ones.” Caith sent Galen a pointed glance, but the older man remained silent, unmoved by the criticism.

“I need you in Coldcreek,” Aren pressed. “I need you to do this for me, Caith.”

“Don’t manipulate me.”

Galen shifted impatiently. “We’ll double your usual rate, whatever it is. What’s the matter, Caith? Are you still making the world a safe place to live or just shooting eight-by-ten glossies of cheating spouses?”

Caith glared at his brother. “Sixty-five percent of my business is corporate. I wouldn’t be successful if it wasn’t.”

“So you’re fighting white-collar criminals?”

“It was a white-collar criminal who killed Derrick Trask.”

Galen dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t come here to dredge up the past.”

“Bullshit.” Caith paced to the fireplace, inserting distance between them to crush a spike of anger. “You expect me to go back to Coldcreek, a place I haven’t set foot in since I was eighteen. A place where my best friend was murdered and I spent three days held for ransom in a root cellar. Knowing all that, knowing I’d have to take my kid there, you’ve got the gall to say you didn’t come to dredge up the past?”

“Wait a minute.” Aren raised both hands. “No one is saying this will be easy for you, but you can’t keep the truth from Derry forever. He’s got a right to know about his family. About what happened to you, and why he’s named after your childhood best friend.”

“The hell he does.” Caith whirled on his brother. “He’s eight years old. He doesn’t need to know about the kind of monsters who kidnap and murder children. Not as it relates to me. I’m the single stable influence in his life and I intend to keep it that way.”

“What about his family? His grandfather?”

“His grandfather never once tried to see Derry. He’s never tried to see me.”

“All right, forget it.” Aren quickly changed the subject. “I don’t want to dredge up old wounds either. The bottom line is BI is in trouble, and we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t value your skills as an investigator. With the exception of the last ten months, you and I have been together almost every day since you were twenty-two. I know the kind of work you’re capable of, and…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t anything personal involved. Melanie and I have missed having you around, and I know Matt and Noah miss Derry.”

“You’re a sap, Aren. Galen’s an ass and you’re a sap.”

“And you’re as eloquent as ever.” Aren grinned as if knowing he’d struck a nerve. “What’s it going to be, Caith?”

“I have open cases.”

“Anything that can’t wait?”

Could he really go back to Coldcreek? Could he face the past? Veronica? Why the hell was he even considering it?

The thought of seeing her again…

“One I need to wrap up in the next few days.”

“So finish it,” Aren insisted. “By the weekend, you can be on a plane for Coldcreek. We’ll put you up at Stone Willow Lodge. The family and Veronica will know why you’re there, but to anyone else you’ll be one more BI employee needing stress-relief therapy. Even if you’re not licensed in Pennsylvania, you can still nose around and give us your professional opinion. I happen to know any private citizen with the gumption and knowledge can legally investigate a crime as long as they don’t interfere with the police.”

“It’ll never work. Twelve years isn’t that long. Someone will recognize me.”

“Not if you stay at the lodge. It’s only been in operation six years, and believe it or not, everyone employed there moved to Coldcreek after you left. We’ll set you up with a fake identity, fake name. No one will make the connection.”

Silently weighing the options, Caith roamed to the sofa again and propped on the edge. The money was enticing, but he’d never been about cash. The thought of seeing Ron again, of having a second chance to right his horrible wrong, had him waffling on the fence. He’d never stopped loving her. “What about Derry?”

“I already checked with Matt and Noah’s school,” Aren supplied. “Derry can attend with them while you’re in Coldcreek. And he can stay at my place. Melanie and I would love to have him.”

Caith jerked reflexively. “He wouldn’t be with me?”

“Not at the lodge. Children don’t fit with the concept of a corporate retreat.”

A ripple of alarm shot through him. Leaving Derrick with someone else in Coldcreek…

“Listen up.” Aren slid into a chair across from him and rapped a knuckle against his knee. “What happened to you and Trask as kids was a freak incident. You’ve got to stop being so overprotective. I’ll look after Derry. You’ll know where he’ll be when you want to see him.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “It’ll be good for him, and he’ll enjoy the time with my boys.”

Caith wavered. “I don’t know.”

Before becoming a private investigator, he’d been exposed to all manner of grisly crimes as a homicide detective. He’d seen the worst of humanity, forced to develop an exterior callousness. But there was one offense that still had the power to terrify him.

A hesitant shuffling drew his attention to the hallway. Derrick stood just inside the room, his expression hopeful. Realizing he’d overheard a portion of the conversation, Caith frowned. “Derrick, what are you doing here?”

The moment for retreat past, Derrick fiddled with the belt on his robe. As young as he was, he’d already picked up a number of Caith’s childhood traits—ever-inquisitive, always exploring, dissecting some story or fact. It led him to frequently poke his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Are we gonna stay with Uncle Aren?” Derrick blurted.

Caith’s scowl deepened. “I thought I told you to finish lunch and then watch TV in the family room?”

“There’s nothing on. It’s all soap operas and stuff.”

“Derry.”

“I finished my soup.” Derrick traipsed into the room and plopped on the couch beside Caith. Still fighting his cold, he sniffled. “How come we never go to Coldcreek, Dad? Even when Grandma visits, it’s always here.”

Caith stilled, not wanting to broach the subject. How could an eight-year-old understand the bitter rift that led him to cut ties with his father? Exhaling, he rubbed the boy’s shoulder. “You’d have to leave school for a few weeks and your friends. What about Halloween? I thought you wanted to go trick-or-treating?”

“I can go in Coldcreek, and I heard Uncle Aren say I can go to school with Noah and Matt.” Bowing his head, Derrick plucked at the seam on Caith’s jeans.

“You were listening when you shouldn’t have been.”

“Uh-huh.” Derrick exhibited just enough contriteness to pacify Caith. He’d obviously heard only the tail end of the conversation. Rolling his head against the sofa, he glanced up at his father. “Dad, can’t we go to Coldcreek? I don’t understand why you never wanna go home, and how come you won’t talk to Grandpa or I can’t see him?”

Caith sighed. Between Aren, Galen, and Derrick, he fought a losing battle. “All right, we’ll go.”

“Yes!” With a wide grin, Derrick clambered to his feet.

“Not so fast.” Caith snagged his waist as he moved to dash away. “You’re not going anywhere if you still have a cold this weekend.” Cupping Derrick’s cheek in his hand, Caith tilted his head, searching his eyes for signs of a fever. He pressed his palm to the boy’s forehead. “Not too bad, partner.”

“So we’ll go for real?”

“We’ll go for real.” Caith grinned at his son’s wide-eyed earnestness. “Now go watch some TV or find a book to read while I work out the details with your uncles.”

“’Kay.” Smiling happily, Derrick bounded out of the room.

Caith looked to his brothers. “Mission accomplished. It looks like I’m going home after all.”