Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates

by Elizabeth Chandler

  Ivy skipped to the short letter from Eric’s father. There were odd spaces between the words and several corrections.

  Dear Caroline,

  The enclosed report indicates the situation is as you suspected. As I explained in the office, this type of blood test can prove, in certain instances where there is no match, that a man is not the father. Clearly Andrew is not. Not Gregory’s father? Ivy wondered, then went on.

  The tests cannot prove that Tom S. is the father, only that he is a candidate, but I take it that that was not a question for you.

  “Tom S., Tom S.,” Ivy murmured. Tom Stetson, she thought, the man at the party, tall and lean and dark-haired like Gregory, the one Tristan said was a teacher at Andrew’s college—the man who left roses on Caroline’s grave. She finished the letter.

  If I can be of any further assistance, let me know. Of course, this will remain confidential.

  Meaning, Ivy thought, that no one else would know who Gregory’s father was. No one else, including Andrew? The answer to that question might be buried in the scrawl of Caroline’s letter. Ivy read it all the way through.

  Andrew,

  I’m leaving this here for when the right time comes. In the divorce your son sided with you, lied for you, convinced the judge to let him live with you—or was it your money he wanted to live with? And is he really your son?

  Sorry about that.

  Caroline

  So Andrew didn’t know, Ivy thought. And if Gregory knew, he wouldn’t want anyone else to. He was counting on the Baines money. Ivy wondered what would happen if Andrew found out that Gregory wasn’t really his son. And what would happen now that Andrew had another son, one he was growing very fond of?

  Maybe Caroline had guessed what was coming. Maybe she’d realized that this was her chance to get back at both Andrew and Gregory. Ivy could imagine her taunting Gregory. She remembered the day that he’d come from his mother’s house extremely upset—Ivy could imagine Caroline threatening to tell all.

  Would Gregory have silenced her, killed her for an inheritance?

  These letters were enough to take to the police, enough for them to start a serious investigation. Eric had left her what she needed. Angels, she prayed, let Eric rest in peace now.

  Then she glanced up at the clock. It showed twenty-seven minutes before three, but she had stopped it with her hand, and at least five minutes had passed. Gregory would be home soon. Ivy moved quickly, starting the swing of the pendulum, closing and locking the clock door. She slipped the key string around her neck and refolded the three sheets of paper, putting them carefully in the envelope. Then she dashed toward the back door.

  Outside the mist had become a light drizzle. Ivy stuck the envelope under her shirt and ran for her car. She drove to the police station, her damp arms covered with goose bumps. At a red light in town, Ivy fumbled through her purse, then dumped everything in her lap, trying to find the card with the name of the detective who had investigated her assault “Lieutenant Patrick Donnelly,” she read from the card, then tossed a lapful of tissues and hair ribbons into the back seat with the cat stuff. That was when Ivy remembered.

  “Ella,” she called, hoping the cat was under the blankets. “Ella!” At the next light Ivy reached back and felt the old quilt. There was no warm lump. Ivy figured the cat had escaped when she left the car door open. “Stay outdoors, Ella,” Ivy whispered. “He can’t corner you there.”

  When she arrived at the station, the desk sergeant took Ivy’s name, then informed her that the lieutenant was out. “He’ll be back any time now. Anytime now,” he repeated, his mild blue eyes watching her as she tore at the edges of the detective’s card. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No.” She tore at the card.

  “I’ll find you someone else to talk to,” he offered.

  “No, I’ll wait,” Ivy insisted. The story was too strange and too complicated to tell someone else.

  She sat down on a hard bench and stared at the room’s olive-colored walls and dreary tile. Directly across from her was a large clock. Ivy watched the minute hand jump from one black dot to the next as she tried to think what she’d say to the detective. Better leave the angels out, she thought. It would be tough enough to make him take her seriously.

  The door of the station swung open, and Ivy looked up hopefully. Two young officers reported to their desk sergeant, turning their backs to her. Ivy got up to ask if someone could telephone Lieutenant Donnelly.

  “Expected Pat back by now,” the sergeant was saying softly to the other officers as she approached. “He’s talking to the O’Leary kid.”

  The O’Leary kid? Will?

  The officers turned around suddenly, and the sergeant’s eyes met hers. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can help you with in the meantime?”

  “You can give this to Lieutenant Donnelly,” Ivy said, pulling out Caroline’s envelope. She asked for a bigger envelope, then scribbled on it: “I have to talk to you as soon as possible.” She wrote down her name, address, and phone number, then sealed Caroline’s envelope within. She handed it silendy to the desk sergeant and hurried outside. As she sped home Ivy couldn’t stop worrying about both Ella and Philip.

  When she pulled up in front of the house, she saw only her mother’s car in the garage. Good, she thought, Philip was safe, and she’d have a chance to find Ella before Gregory arrived. Ivy took a round-about route upstairs, passing through the dining room to make sure that she hadn’t left behind any signs of her search. The clock was ticking steadily, though it was several minutes slow.

  Ivy ran up the center stair two steps at a time. Hearing her mother on her bedroom phone, Ivy stuck her head in the door and gave a half wave, then continued on to her bedroom. The door was wide open, and Ella was not in sight. There were no round lumps in the bed, so Ivy checked underneath, thinking that after all that had happened, Ella might be hiding there. She wasn’t, but Ivy noticed that the shoes and boxes under her bed had been pushed to one side, forming a wall.

  She studied the wall, then gripped the quilt on her bed. Maybe Gregory had done this to corner Ella the day he cut her paw. Maybe it had helped him trap Ella when he shaved her flank. But there, as part of the wall, were the slippers Ivy had kicked off this morning. She straightened up slowly and saw that the door to her third-floor music room was open. She always kept it closed.

  “Ella,” she mouthed, the feeling of dread so strong in her she could not speak aloud. She couldn’t even walk. She crawled over to the door and saw that the light was on upstairs. Gripping the door frame, Ivy pulled herself up, then slowly climbed the stairs. What had he done to her now? Cut up another foot? Sliced a piece of her ear?

  When Ivy got to the top of the stairs, she looked immediately under the piano, then beneath the chairs in the room. Finally her eyes went up to the window, the shadow in it.

  “Ella! Oh, no! Ella!”

  The cat swung from a rope, dangling from a nail in the low ceiling. Ivy yanked at the rope, then lifted up Ella, but her body was limp. Her head hung down, her small neck broken. Ivy shrieked and shrieked, pressing her face against the dead body of Ella, still soft, still warm. Her fingers moved around Ella’s ears, touching her gently as if Ella were just sleeping.

  “Ella,” she moaned, then started screaming again. “He killed her! He killed her!”

  “Ivy! What’s wrong?” her mother called.

  Ivy struggled to get control of herself. Her whole body was shaking. She clung to Ella, rubbing her face against the cat’s soft fur. She couldn’t bear to let her go. “He killed her. He killed her!”

  Her mother was coming up the steps.

  “Gregory killed her, Mom!”

  “Ivy, calm down. What did you say?” Maggie asked when she reached the top of the stairway.

  “He killed Ella!” Ivy let go of the cat and stood between her and her mother.

  “What are you talking about?” her mother asked.

  Ivy stepped aside.
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  “Oh, my—” Her mother’s hand went up to her mouth. “Ivy, what have you done?”

  “What have I done? You’re blaming me? You still think I’m crazy, Mom? It’s Gregory. He’s the one behind all this.”

  Her mother stared at her as if she were speaking another language. “I’ll call the counselor.”

  “Mom, listen to me.”

  But Ivy could see that her mother was too frightened of what she saw, too afraid of Ivy and what she thought Ivy had done, to listen or understand. Maggie picked up a folded piece of paper that had been left on the piano bench and turned it over and over without looking at it.

  Ivy tore it out of her mother’s hands, unfolded the note, and read: “I can hurt those you love.”

  She thrust the paper at her mother. “Look! Don’t you understand? Gregory is after me! Gregory killed her just to get to me.”

  Ivy’s mother backed away from her. “But Gregory is out with Philip,” she said, “and—”

  “With Philip? Where?”

  “I’ll call Ms. Bryce. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Where?” Ivy demanded, shaking her mother by the shoulders. “Tell me where he took Philip.”

  Her mother pulled away from her and cowered in the corner. “There’s no reason to get so upset, Ivy.”

  “He’ll hurt him!”

  “Gregory loves Philip,” her mother argued from the corner of the room. She was moving sideways, edging toward the stairs. “You must have noticed how much he’s played with him lately.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Ivy snapped.

  “He promised Philip they’d go hunting for old railroad spikes today,” her mother went on, “and kept his promise even in this damp weather. Gregory is good to Philip. That’s why I told him—though Andrew didn’t want me to—I told him yesterday that he and Philip would soon be full brothers.”

  “Oh, no,” Ivy said, sinking back against her stereo.

  “I can hurt those you love”—she heard the words as clearly as if Gregory were standing next to her, whispering in her ear. She looked up at her mother and said, “Do you know where they’ve gone to look for the spikes?”

  Her mother was backing slowly down the steps. “By the railroad bridges. Gregory said he could climb up on the old one and get a lot of spikes for Philip.” Maggie looked relieved to have reached the bottom of the stair. “You come down now, Ivy. Leave Ella alone. I’ll call the counselor. Come down now, Ivy.”

  Ivy started down the steps, and her mother fled from the bedroom. Ivy waited till Maggie was in her own room calling Ms. Bryce, then she rushed through the bathroom and Philip’s bedroom and down the back stairs.

  “Tristan, where are you?” she cried, running out to the car. She jammed her key into the ignition.

  “Tristan, where are you?”

  Ivy took off, her wheels slipping, her door rattling. She opened and slammed it again while she was speeding downhill. As fast as she drove, as dangerously fast as she took the curves on the wet asphalt, she felt as if she would never get there.

  “Angels,” she prayed, tears running down her face, “don’t let him … don’t let him.”

  P3-17

  As soon as he arrived at the top of the ridge, Tristan knew that Ivy wasn’t there. Her car was gone. Maggie was standing at the edge of the driveway, clutching a cordless phone, looking distraught. “I don’t care what meeting he’s in, I have to speak to him.”

  What happened? Tristan wondered. Where was Ivy? He was still extremely groggy, like a person who had slept too long and too heavily. When he had fallen into this last darkness, it felt as if a force much greater than he, one more powerful than any he had ever experienced, had forced him over the brink and into the dreamless black.

  “It’s an emergency!” Maggie was shouting into the phone.

  Tell me, Maggie, tell me what happened, Tristan thought.

  “Andrew. Oh, Andrew.” Maggie closed her eyes with relief. “It’s Ivy—she’s gone crazy. She’s run off.”

  Run off where?

  “I don’t know what started it. She went upstairs and all of a sudden I heard her screaming. I went up after her, up to her music room. She—she killed Ella.”

  What?

  “I said she killed Ella…. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  Gregory killed Ella, Tristan thought.

  “I don’t know,” Maggie moaned. “I told her Gregory had taken Philip to the bridges to collect railroad spikes.”

  Now Tristan’s mind started clicking. Just before Tristan had fallen into the darkness, Gregory had shaved Ella’s flank. Tristan had thought Gregory was just trying to rattle Ivy, but now he recognized it as a warning. Gregory was striking closer and closer.

  “I thought I’d calmed her down, Andrew,” Maggie said. “I told her how good Gregory was being to Philip. I thought I was handling her right. Then I went to call the counselor, and she ran out. She drove out of here like she was crazy. What should I do?”

  Tristan didn’t wait to hear anything more. He rushed off toward the bridges, taking the route Ivy would have taken by car. He was fully awake now and felt stronger than he ever had. His mind was moving fast. Did Gregory plan to kill Philip? Was he crazy enough to think he could get away with one murder after another?

  Crazy like a fox, Tristan thought. What if this was a trap? What if it was just a way to con Ivy out to the railroad bridges?

  Tristan caught up with her on the winding route that followed the river. He rode beside her in the car, but she was so focused on where she was going that she didn’t notice his golden light. A sudden bump from a pothole broke through her concentration.

  Pothole! More of them. Watch out. Got to get to the bridges. Find Philip, Tristan thought, until he matched a thought with her and slipped inside. “It’s me.”

  “Tristan! Where have you been?”

  “The darkness,” he said quickly. “Ivy, slow down. Listen to me. It could be a trap.”

  “That’s what you said about Eric,” she reminded him, and drove faster. “Maybe if I had gotten to Eric a little earlier—”

  “That’s not how it was,” he interrupted her, “and you know it. You couldn’t have saved Eric.”

  “I’m going to save Philip,” she said. “Gregory’s not taking anyone else away from me.”

  “What are you going to save him with? A gun? A knife? What do you have with you?”

  He felt the doubts growing in her mind, fresh fear icing her veins.

  “Turn back. Go to the police,” he urged.

  “I went to the stupid police!”

  “Then try Will,” Tristan said. “We’ll go get Will.”

  “Will can’t be trusted,” she replied quickly. “You said so yourself.”

  “I was jealous, Ivy, and mad about the way he was keeping secrets. But we need him now, and he’d do anything for you,” Tristan argued.

  He felt Ivy draw back. She was keeping something from him. “What? What is it?”

  Ivy shook her head and said nothing.

  “He can help us,” Tristan persisted.

  “I don’t need his help. I have you, Tristan—at least I thought I did,” she challenged him.

  “You know you do, but I can’t stop bullets.”

  “And Gregory can’t risk them,” Ivy said with confidence. “That’s been his problem all along. He’s got to do it better than that, sneakier than that. There’ve been too many deaths now. Too many people close to him have died. He can’t get away with a murder that has any evidence attached.”

  Her certain tone told Tristan that this was a losing battle. She had made up her mind.

  “I’ll be back for you,” he said.

  “Tristan?” she called out.

  But he raced ahead of her now and came to the bridges almost instantly. The weather had worsened, the light drizzle becoming a cold, slicing rain that swept both sides of the river. A mist rose from the warmer water rushing beneath the bridges. Tristan saw the fog, and yet somehow he could cle
arly see the parallel bridges it blanketed. Gregory and Philip were not in view. Then Tristan heard voices upriver. They were moving north, in the opposite direction from where Eric had died, where there were no easy paths to walk. He felt like an eagle, targeting the two of them exactly, then dropping down beside them. Something had changed in him since the last deep darkness. His own abilities surprised him.

  Gregory was standing with Philip in front of a tiny shack that was well camouflaged by bushes and vines. He pushed open the wooden door, and Philip walked into the ramshackle building without hesitation.

  “We’ll be like real hunters,” Gregory was saying to Philip. “I know where there’s a pile of wood. I can pull out some dry pieces and build a fire.”

  Tristan listened, trying to figure out Gregory’s plan. Would he set the building on fire and trap Philip inside? No, Ivy was right: it was too obvious, and Gregory had to be very careful now. Besides, Maggie knew that Philip was out with him.

  Philip set down his iron spikes. “I’ll help. The spikes will be safe here.”

  Gregory shook his head. “No, you’d better stay and guard our treasure. I’ll go get the wood and be back in a few minutes.”

  “Wait,” Philip said. “I can put a magic spell on our treasure. Then no one will be able to take them and—”

  “No,” Gregory cut him off.

  “But I want to help.”

  “I’ll tell you how you can help me,” Gregory said too quickly. “Lend me your jacket.”

  The little boy frowned.

  “Come on, give it to me!” Gregory demanded, unable to hide his impatience.

  In response Philip’s jaw got that stiff, stubborn look. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “I need it to carry the wood in,” Gregory explained in a gentler voice. “Then we’ll build a good fire and get warm and dry.”

  Reluctantly Philip took off his red jacket. Then his eyes suddenly widened. Tristan knew that he had been spotted.