Dadgummit
A Dreamwalker Mystery
Maggie Toussaint
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
www.maggietoussaint.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Dadgummit
Copyright © 2017 by Maggie Toussaint
ISBN: 978-1-60381-593-2 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-594-9 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934417
Produced in the United States of America
* * *
This one’s for Annaliese.
* * *
Acknowledgments
Special thanks go to Holly McClure, who provided information about the mythology and spirits of Native American culture. Critique partner Polly Iyer and friend Gordon Aalborg helped sharpen this manuscript. Any errors made with the information are mine.
* * *
Chapter One
The campfire’s flames soothed my soul after the eight-hour, three-hundred-fifty-mile drive from the coast. We had six glorious days in the Georgia mountains before jobs and the start of school demanded our return.
Should have done this months ago. Should’ve packed up the people I loved and hit the road for a vacation at the start of summer. But between dreamwalking and police consulting—two new jobs I’d added seven months ago—and my Pets and Plants business, I’d barely had time to catch my breath this year. Now we’d nearly run out of August. It was the last Tuesday of the month, and I had until Sunday to relax, unwind, and recharge with my favorite people.
I’m Baxley Powell, and apparently I’m a workaholic. People say I look a bit like Emma Watson from Harry Potter fame, but other than the shoulder-length brown hair, cocoa-colored eyes, lean body, and extra abilities, I don’t see it. At five-six, I’m taller than the actress and shun the spotlight. And then there’s my dreamwalking, which melds several psychic abilities, as opposed to her character’s fictional magic.
Mom cleared her throat, drawing me back to the campsite. My folks were the last wave of baby boomers, but their style of dress remained true to the 1960s. Both sported tie-dye T-shirts and wore their long gray hair in braids. My mom was dressed in a denim jumper, my dad in denim shorts and flip-flops. In age, they were nearing sixty, but I’d never known anyone more ageless and agile.
After the Army declared my soldier husband dead, I’d moved home to the house I’d inherited from my grandmother in Sinclair County, an hour south of Savannah, Georgia. My parents lived about ten minutes from me. They were a constant source of inspiration, encouragement, and childcare. Between my mother’s affinity with crystals and my father’s ability to talk to the dead, I had a built-in support team for dreamwalking.
“Tab and I are headed over to my friend Luanne’s farm first thing in the morning,” Mom said. “We’re helping her put up pickles. Her brother is there and he offered to teach Tab how to whittle. Everyone is welcome to join us.”
“No thanks. I plan to veg in the sun,” Charlotte said, firelight glinting off her glasses. My friend’s outgoing personality, ambition, and her love of bold colors and chunky jewelry made some folks wary, or maybe it was the heavy makeup that stood out in our small town. Honest to God, she never had a stray hair in her auburn bob or bangs, while my hair constantly stuck out in every direction.
We’d been best friends since Sinclair County Elementary School, and she was the closest thing I had to a sister. Plus, she was three months older than me, so I got to tease her every year about being an older woman. Right now, she was twenty-nine to my twenty-eight.
For months Charlotte had been vying for top dog at our local paper, but the constant friction had worn her down. She’d leapt at the chance to get away.
“I don’t want to think about deadlines or careers,” Charlotte continued. “Last time I visited Annabelle’s place in the mountains, I was a teenager. I plan to relive my glory days of being a slug.”
Charlotte’s cousin, Annabelle Kinsey, owned this property at Stony Creek Lake in north Georgia where we’d parked our borrowed RVs. When we’d asked Annabelle to recommend a campsite, she insisted we stay on her land. Three years ago, a friend of hers had sprung for electricity and water, installing it in the nearby pavilion along with an outdoor shower, thus creating the ideal temporary getaway. Annabelle said we’d be doing her a favor by making sure everything worked.
Her kind offer plus the campers we’d borrowed made this an inexpensive vacation. My tag-along style camper was a loaner from one of my Pets and Plants clients, and my folks were using their friend Running Bear’s small motorhome. They’d towed their sub-compact sedan behind it for scooting around in the mountains. We’d already connected both campers to water and power, so camping was going to be even easier than we thought.
“Sounds like we can accommodate everyone’s wishes,” I said. “The forecast is for blue skies and low eighties. A perfect day to be outdoors. Fishing in the morning for me, and paddleboarding in the afternoon for Larissa.”
As one, the dogs lifted their heads. Maddy, our black lab, bolted to her feet, her hackles raised. A deep rumble sounded in her throat, a menacing sound I’d never heard her make. Elvis and Muffin, our Chihuahua and Shih-poo, stood at attention behind her, their gazes riveted on the same spot in the woods.
Something was out there. Unfortunately, my Beretta was in the camper under my pillow. As concerned as the dogs were, I wouldn’t have enough time to grab the gun from inside and protect my family.
Swallowing my fear, I stood to face the threat. “Who’s there?”
The unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking echoed through the meadow where we’d camped. What had we gotten ourselves into? Priorities. My-ten-year-old daughter’s safety came first. Without turning, I said, “Larissa. In the camper. Now. Lock the door.”
She scrambled to her feet and darted inside. A small measure of relief washed over me. I called out again, “Who’s there?”
My parents and Charlotte inched toward me. Not a good idea. If we clustered together, a single shotgun blast could get all of us. “Separate and take cover. Charlotte, call the police.”
Charlotte dug her phone out of her pocket, but in her haste, fumbled it. She shrieked and fell to her knees. All three dogs barked their heads off. A shot echoed through the woods. A branch fell from a pine between us and the lake.
I dropped to the ground to make myself a smaller target, hoping and praying everyone I loved was safe. A quick glance around showed my parents and Charlotte were uninjured, though their faces were ghostly pale. Both cats had vanished. Between the barking dogs and my racing heart, I could barely hear myself think. This couldn’t be happening. After all I’d been through, after I’d finally achieved financial security through the Army Survivor Benefit Program and my police consulting work, would some mountain wacko with a gun end my life?
It had to be a mistake. That was the only thing that made sense. I summoned my courage. “Don’t shoot. We’re unarmed.”
“No phone calls,” a man yelled from the shadows. “You’re trespassing on private property. You’ve got five minutes to clear out.”
Fear had rendered me stupid. I’d forgotten to use all the tools at my disposal. Quickly, I slid into my extra senses to check the perimeter for l
ife signs. Only one heat signature, so only one guy out there. We weren’t surrounded by a band of militia or a rogue motorcycle gang. Even so, a single shooter could inflict a lot of damage.
I gathered my nerve and spoke loud enough to be heard in distant Atlanta. “We have permission from Annabelle Kinsey to camp here. Please put down your weapon.”
The man marched out of the shadows. As he neared, I noticed his camouflage attire from the brim of his ball cap to the heel of his sturdy boots. My late husband had served in Afghanistan and worn those same camies. This guy carried himself with the soldier-straight posture of former military.
Annabelle’s last-minute caution surfaced in my head. A neighbor of hers was hyper-vigilant. When Annabelle had given me the safe words in case I encountered this guy, I’d dismissed them. But the conversation came back to me in a blinding flash.
“Blue marmalade,” I said over the yapping dogs. The man kept advancing, so I shouted the phrase again. “Blue marmalade.”
The man halted ten feet from me, his weapon aimed at the ground near his feet. In the firelight, his angular, blackened face barely reflected any light. I couldn’t see his eyes at all under the brim of the cap. His thick neck ended abruptly in square, solid shoulders. A heavy, gear-laden belt circled his trim hips. This guy expected serious trouble.
His teeth flashed pearly white as he replied, “Roger, Red Rover. The enemy is wily. New targets appear daily.”
His response gave me the courage to sit up. I quieted the small dogs and called Maddy to my side. Elvis and Muffin followed their leader. According to Annabelle, her neighbor needed a second confirmation code, another color response to completely disengage. The answer would fit a pattern. Blue marmalade and red rover. Blue and red. What went with them? The answer unfurled like a flag. Red, white, and blue. The colors of patriotism.
“Copy that, White Duck. This grid is clear.”
He nodded. With another quartering glance at the perimeter, he tipped his cap to me. “Evening, ma’am. Burl Sayer. I look after Mrs. Kinsey’s property.”
“I see that you do.” I took a deep breath. We were all right. It had been a misunderstanding. Though my pulse still thrummed, I stood. “I’m Baxley Powell. My daughter Larissa is in the camper. We’re camping here all week with my parents, Tab and Lacey Nesbitt, and my friend Charlotte Ambrose. Charlotte and Annabelle are cousins.”
“Sorry to have rousted you, but a soldier’s job is to patrol and question those he encounters. Now that I know who you are, I won’t bother you again.”
Sayer obviously had a few issues, but at least he wasn’t keen on shooting us anymore. What was the protocol for receiving a gun-toting vigilante in the night? “Would you like some supper?” I asked.
He refused with a twitch of the head. “Don’t eat on patrol. Slows me down. Gotta keep watch for the invasion.”
Sayer seemed to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Several of my husband’s friends returned from the war changed forever, so I recognized some of their traits in Sayer. The restlessness, the extreme watchfulness, the armament in a civilian zone. Was he harmless or a time bomb waiting to go off? PTSD victims covered the full spectrum.
They lived in two realities at once.
Heck, most people said that about me, and I had no plans to kill anyone.
I nodded toward the forest. “You see any signs of activity?”
“Not in this sector,” Sayer admitted. “Spotted an incursion the other night through my scope, but the enemy quickly moved on.”
Unsure what that meant, I offered up a bland reply. “I see. Well, then, thank you for your vigilance. I’m sure Mrs. Kinsey appreciates it as much as we do.”
Sayer gave a curt nod and shouldered his weapon. “Guard your flank. The dogs will sound the alarm if the enemy approaches. I have miles to go before night is done.” With that, he melted soundlessly into the shadows.
The camper door opened, and Larissa bolted out to join us. She glommed onto my waist. I could feel the pounding beat of her heart through our clothes.
“Oh my God.” Charlotte bear-hugged me from behind. “You’ve got guts, girlfriend. You just defused a crazy man.”
My knees trembled, but I’d rather keep my adrenaline overload to myself. I disentangled myself from my friend’s awkward embrace. Bravery came at a steep cost. “I didn’t believe he was a threat after he came forward. Different and weird, yes. He’s got problems, but as I watched how he moved, how he scanned constantly for danger, I kept thinking one thing ….”
My parents crowded close for hugs. I gave up on trying to project a façade of calm and savored their familiar comfort.
“That you should call the cops?” Charlotte prompted.
I shot her a quelling look. “Not hardly. Wartime broke a lot of men, including my Roland. I know my guy’s supposed to be dead, but I can’t help thinking he could be a lot like this guy. Fried but functioning off the grid in survival mode.”
My parents nodded encouragingly. Larissa squeezed me again. That she wanted her dad to be alive went without saying.
Charlotte looked at me with pity. “Oh, Baxley, don’t torture yourself with false hope. Roland’s dead. The Army said so.”
My chin shot up. “The Army has no proof. They declared him dead. They never found his body. Dad and I have searched repeatedly for him among the dead. He isn’t there. That leaves one possible answer: Roland’s alive.”
Charlotte’s face fell. She patted my shoulder. “You should’ve taken a vacation years ago, Baxley. Getting your hopes up like this sets you up for an even bigger disappointment. The chances of him being like Burl Sayer are slim to none.”
“A single chance is all I need.”
My dad moved between us and kissed me on the cheek. “That’s enough excitement for me tonight. I want to be up early to watch the sunrise over the lake. “I’m off to bed.”
“Me, too,” Mom said with another loving touch.
“I’m ready to call it a night,” I announced, not wanting to argue about my mental health status or Roland’s whereabouts with Charlotte.
After dousing the fire, we all turned in, but sleep wouldn’t come. Automatically, I expanded my extra senses, letting them quest out as they did every night. Burl Sayer was long gone. We were blessedly alone.
But Charlotte’s certainty about Roland’s fate kept churning my thoughts. I wouldn’t accept his death. I couldn’t. As long his spirit wasn’t among the dead, logic and emotion dictated he had to be alive. He would come back to me. I couldn’t allow anyone, even someone as well-meaning as Charlotte, to dampen my hope.
Roland was alive.
Chapter Two
I stood beside the lake and flicked my line out again, enjoying the sunshine sparkling across the water’s surface. Charlotte sighed happily from the blanket where she drowsed in the warm, golden sunlight. Her glasses lay beside her. Without them, her freckles stood out and she looked radiant. Coming to the mountains had already invigorated her. I hoped the time off would give her clarity about her journalism career as well.
My parents had gone over to Luanne’s farm, promising to return early afternoon in time for the paddleboard excursion. Sayer’s intrusion last night made me wary. But I wouldn’t be caught flatfooted again on this vacation. This morning I’d stuffed my handgun in my back waistband as a precaution.
Larissa lounged beside my friend, head propped on a fat roll of beach towels, reading something on her tablet. I bit my tongue to keep from scolding her about tuning out. We all relieved stress in different ways. Reading suited my daughter.
Everything seemed peaceful at the lakeside, except for a mechanical whine in the distance. Someone was enjoying a boat ride, I supposed. I reeled the line back, cast it out again. So far, no luck with the lake trout. I hoped they weren’t on vacation.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Charlotte asked.
There had been only one “him” in my life—Roland Powell. “Only every night and every day.”
Charlotte’s heavy sigh sounded epic and moody. “At least you had a husband and a family. Time’s running out for me.”
“I still have both, though we should agree to disagree on that point. I’m concerned, though … for you.”
“You should be. I’ve been getting a weird vibe from Bernard at the office. I think he might ask me out.”
Charlotte had spent the last year railing about her rival getting the plum assignments, while she’d been on the jumbo vegetable circuit. “Oh? Say he followed through. What would you do?”
“I’m not interested in him romantically. There’s no spark. He’s like the annoying brother I never had.” She hesitated. “But there’s a small voice in my head that says he’s interested in me. That says I’m not the fat girl nobody looks twice at. You know what I want more than anything? I want to be part of a couple. I hate being alone.”
I was dismayed to hear her voice break, but she’d push me away if I offered her more than consolation. My plus-sized friend blamed her weight for her lack of dating prospects. Anyone who couldn’t look past a few pounds at what a wonderful person she was didn’t deserve her.
“You’re not alone, Char,” I said. “You have us.”
“Thanks, but I want what you had with Roland. Someone I can snuggle with at night. Someone who’ll keep the boogeyman away. I thought I’d have kids by now. I’m still the girl in town people look right through. The one who never went anywhere or did anything.”
“No one sees you that way.”
“Just the same, I’d rather have a hunk to light up my world.”
“Your guy will come.” My fishing line snagged on something. I tugged it to the side, and the pressure eased. “You need to announce your request to the universe.”
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