Mystic Hearts (2 page)

She
rested against the door and caught her breath. The scent of flour and spices
filled the air. The kitchen was double the size of hers. There was a table in
the center, and cabinets lined three walls. A flour mill cabinet and appliances
filled the empty wall spaces. The room looked at peace, yet everything about
the extravagant home possessed an air of mystery, encouraging her to explore.

Adrenaline
cleared her fuzzy head. She shoved off the door, set her belongings on the
kitchen table, and filled her glass with wine.

An
opened salon style door revealed the formal dining room. Flipping the light
switch up, she gazed at the crystal chandelier over the brim of her glass. The
light sparkled off the crystal and reflected onto the cherry table’s dark
surface, giving the furniture a hint of elegance.

Double
doors in the room’s exterior wall opened to a moonlit room with wicker
furniture. Books and magazines covered a small table, a means to pass time.

The
light from the chandelier dimmed then brightened. She emptied the glass of wine
and scanned the room. Looking for what, she had no clue. The peculiar
occurrences gave the impression someone was indeed there: the wine basket, the
unlocked doors, and now the lights dimming when only a gentle breeze stirred.

She
remembered the reason Paul asked someone to stay. On Halloween, he’d been
worried about trespassers wanting to have fun with the old house. With the
manager out of town, Paul had said no one was available to check on the place.
Was he misinformed? Was someone here…now…aiming to play a trick on an
unsuspected victim…on her?

Another
step, the lights flashed.

Backtracking,
her heart pounded against her ribcage as if a drummer beat against it, readying
for battle.

Emptying
her glass and setting it on the table, she opened a cabinet drawer, frantically
searching for a flashlight, candles, anything for a light source. What a fix
she was in. No car, no one around to call for help. Holding a knob, she paused.
Why not call Larry? He’d come, but if she did she would be back into the same
predicament, not facing her fears on her own. People couldn’t keep babysitting
her. It was time for her to confront her phobias and reservations head on and
get a grasp on her overactive imagination.

The
next drawer she flung open with more force than she meant. Silverware flew out,
stabbing and hitting her hand and arm before falling to the floor. She knelt,
picked them up, and after a few minutes of consideration whether to wash them
first or not, she tossed them in the sink.

The
electricity gave another warning as to what would happen shortly. Three times,
the lights had blinked. At her home, the electricity would flick off any second
and not return for hours. She yanked open the drawer closest to the
refrigerator. Matches and a couple of candlesticks rested inside. Images of
horror stories entered her mind, her walking through the old house, carrying a
candle to guide her way. She shivered.
Spooky
.

Shoving
the images away, she set the sticks on the kitchen counter and gazed out the
window. The moon glowed and stars twinkled over the stirring trees and bushes.
The schoolhouse looked cute, quaint, and harmless. Not the same thoughts she
had earlier, when the ghosts hid behind it.

She
covered her mouth with a hand, blocking the sound of a hiccup, and braced her
elbows on the counter.

In
the distance, an unusual glow of diamond-shaped sparkles dotted the hillside.
Three…no, four dots glittered, similar to the way a lightning bug’s nervous
system turns on and off in short, rhythmic flashes.

But
that couldn’t be. The bugs didn’t come out this time of year––the cool weather
made sure of it. She pressed a thumb against a closed eyelid, fingers on the
other lid, to clear her vision before looking again.

The
lights vanished.

A
loud noise vibrated through the house.

The
coldness of fear spread through her body, threatening to tear her apart and
sucking the air out of her lungs. She forced in a deep breath and gazed at the
ceiling, waiting with nervous energy for what would happen next.

A
loud thump, and she jumped.

Damn it!

At
this rate, she’d be looking over her shoulder, beneath mattresses, in closets
everywhere she went. The plan to move beyond scared was backfiring.

An
eerie scrape came from outside. The noise sounded like nails dragging across a
chalkboard. Charlene rubbed her fingernails against her palms, cringing, and
lifted on her tiptoes to peek out the window. Uncertain of what she might find
unnerved her, yet didn’t sway her determination to see what caused the
disturbing sound.

The
breeze had picked up. Tree branches moved like disjointed arms. One of the
branches hit the aluminum siding. Nothing serious. She dropped back to her
heels and gazed across the field.

The
fake lighting bugs blinked. This time the rhythm of the flashing lights was
familiar: Morse code. Having been fascinated by the communication system, she
studied it and learned the alphabet. Now, when her learning it would be
beneficial, her vision was skewed from the wine. She couldn’t decipher the
dashes and dots.

The
house lights flicked off. The moonlight produced dancing shadows on the
cabinets.

“Come
on!” The hair lifted on the nape of her neck. Her mouth grew dry. She ran a
hand over the countertop, found the candles and matches, and lit a wick. On
high alert, she glanced around the room, darting her eyes from one side to the
other.

Overhead,
scratching noises scampered upstairs followed by creaking.

Enough!

Weak
or not, smart or not, she was phoning Larry. Either she called, or went
berserk. She grabbed her purse and searched the contents for his business card.

It
wasn’t there.

She
recalled picking up her bag and not paying attention to the card on top. She
snatched her phone and slipped it into her pocket, grabbed the glass and bottle
and headed outside, away from the creaks and thuds.

Since
she’d gone inside, the autumn air cooled, sending goosebumps over her body and
making her wish she’d dressed warmer than a cotton tee and a pair of jeans. The
wind tossed her hair, blocking her view. She tucked the long locks behind her
ears and made a quick survey of the outer porch.

Like
she’d thought, Larry’s card lay face up near the basket. She sat down on the
top step, poured a glass of wine, and sipped. The fruity flavor soothed her dry
throat and relaxed her tense muscles. Again, she contemplated the wisdom of
contacting Larry.

She
flashed back to that horrible day, high on a mountain, nothing but trees and a
couple cabins nearby. Members of the Black Scorpions, a terrorist group, had
kidnapped her son to force her to do their bidding. She’d had to persuade her
boss and friend, Pamela Young, to go to the mountains so the Black Scorpions
could enact their revenge on her boyfriend, Special Agent Jake Gibson, and Charlene
would get her son. Things didn’t work out the way they’d said. At gunpoint,
they’d thrown her and Pamela in a cabin.

The
worse part of the whole horrible situation had been the day she learned her son
was taken. She ached just as much today as she had then. Tears filled her eyes.
She sipped some more wine. No amount of alcohol would ever take the pain away,
but she’d given it a try a few times since then. Either her mother or one of
the BOFs stopped her from having too much. Thankfully, she had enough sense not
to drink when Henry was near.

A
cow hollered from a neighboring farm, distracting her briefly from the downward
spiral she was sure to go through if she kept up this line of thinking. She
couldn’t help it. The image of her son taken from their home stayed fresh in
her mind every second of every day, even kept her awake at night. The
nightmares lessened, but a few still haunted her. Between dreams of Larry and
the nightmares, she hadn’t slept much in the last six months.

Charlene
finished the wine. Her ex-husband was to blame for their dire situation. He
sent their restaurant into foreclosure, a business she’d dreamed of since a
young child. Second to her son, The Café had been her heart and soul. Andrew
took their money and skipped town without a word, not caring what would become
of their family.

She
tilted the bottle over her glass and drained it.

That’s
when her already troublesome situation went belly-up. A man who presented
himself as trustworthy and wanting to help loaned her money.

Charlene
gulped the wine. That asshole was dead now. She shook her head. This was not
the type of person she was. She wasn’t hateful or vindictive. One horrific
event in life can change a person, as it had her. She hoped she could find her
way back to seeing the good in people, to trust. Outside of her family and the
BOFs, she didn’t.

Tears
streamed down her face. The terrorist’s group end game: to use Pamela Young as
a pawn to trap an FBI agent. She helped it happen, to save her son.

Charlene
set the empty glass in the basket, braced her elbows on her knees, and grasped
the sides of her head.

The
explosion that day boomed in her ears. More tears fell, wetting her jean-clad
knees. She believed Henry had died.

She
swiped a hand across her cheeks, gazed at the field toward the weird lights,
and recalled the most heart-wrenching time of her life. Special Agent Larry
Newman had walked toward her, holding her excited, yet frightened son’s hand.

Relief
had washed over her, lessening her nerve-racking anxiety.

She
shifted her gaze to the person responsible for saving her son and locked gazes
with the agent. A connection passed between them. Like a treasure at the end of
a torturous journey, she discovered a sensation she couldn’t have possibly
fathomed. A draw so intense, she hadn’t believed it existed with another human
outside of her mother and son until that moment…a future.

The
feeling had scared her then. Still did. Her ex had ruined any chance for her to
have a healthy relationship with another man. And now, here, she considered
calling Larry, bringing him into her life. A man she wanted to spend time with
despite fear that if she did, she’d scare him away with her inability to trust.
Time hadn’t healed her heart or soul.

Voices
carried on the night air, the anger in their tones bolstered through the
evening breeze..

She
froze.

****

Not
twenty yards from the driveway on Greenwood Manor, Special Agent Larry Newman
had his hands full.

“On
your knees. Hands on your head,” he ordered, his gun pointed at the peeping Tom.
“Why are you spying?”

“Why
you? You’re the mother-fucker who’d been watching my crib and my girl.”

Larry’s
jaw clenched. He wanted to punch dipshits who spoke as if they hadn’t had a
chance at an education. Judging by his shorts that covered half his butt and
the rancid stink coming off him, he had no respect for himself either. “Your
name?”

“You
don’t answer my question. I don’t talk to you.”

This
line of questioning went nowhere fast. A feeling churned in his gut. This guy
was a pawn, not the leader. “Who sent you?”

“I
ain’t telling you shit.”

“Have
it your way.” Larry holstered his pistol and unclipped his handcuffs from his
belt. With the right wrist secure, he informed, “You have the right to remain
silent…”

“Yadda,
yadda, yadda. I know the drill.”

Larry
twisted the man’s left arm behind his back, clicked the cuff, then the other
and spotted a worn wallet sticking out of the guy’s left pocket.

“Glad
you do,” Larry shined his penlight on the license. “Mr. Mathews.”

Larry
tugged on the cuffs until Mathews stood. The scruffy redhead would realize soon
enough that he didn’t have the evidence to hold him. No matter how much Larry
questioned Mathews, a man who he could tell went to great lengths by changing
his appearance from the botched hair dye and shaggy beard, wouldn’t care. He
wouldn’t give up anyone he was involved with, as Mathews called it, his crib.
Still he had to try. “Nice costume. Did your mommy put it together?”

“Man,
that’s just wrong. Why yous treat me this way? I’m just walking by.”

No
way did he happen by. Larry gazed through Greenwood Manor’s kitchen window.
Charlene had disappeared. This guy watched her, but why?

“I
know my rights. Your arresting me is wrong,” the man sputtered. Spit flew out
the sides of his mouth.

“Watching
someone without his or her knowledge is a misdemeanor.”

“You’re
no better. You watched her, too. I seen ya.”

Guilty
.

Charlene,
showing up at Greenwood Manor on Halloween, surprised him. Since the
kidnapping, her son and at least one of the BOFs accompanied her everywhere she
went. So what gave tonight?

More
shocking than her arriving alone carrying an overnight bag was his inability to
tear his eyes off her. From the time she arrived until Mathews approached, he
had lost sight of the reason he came to the manor. He watched as she sat on the
porch drinking wine, then through the kitchen window when she moved inside,
trying to figure out a way to approach her.