Sound of Secrets

by Darlene Gardner

  The silence stretched, fueling her hope. Then she heard it. A deceptively soft flapping that got louder and louder until she jammed her hands over her ears. The air above her head stirred, rustling her hair until a number of strands stood on end.

  Self-preservation kicked in, and she raised her head. Even though her eyes were still closed, she could see the eagle that soared no more than thirty feet above her, its wings spread in a span wider than a man is tall. Its sharp talons were poised to pierce her skin like daggers, its hooked beak ready to tear into her flesh.

  The eagle swooped in a graceful, terrifying arc. Cara ran. She ran as though her life depended on it, her feet tearing through the thick underbrush of the open field, her breaths shallow and rapid.

  The flapping sound of the wings grew closer, closer, until the air whooshed at her back.

  She focused on the expanse of land in front of her, willing herself to run faster, and caught sight of something — someone — ahead of her. She was so shocked to discover someone else in the dream that she nearly stopped.

  Ahead of her, the little doomed boy turned toward her, in much the same way he had when she’d stopped at Sam Peckenbush’s gas station with car trouble.

  His features were still indistinct below his shock of dark hair, but she could tell from his posture that he was terrified.

  The eagle screamed, and Cara turned, watching it dip out of the sky, its talons lowered in anticipation.

  With a supreme act of will, Cara wrenched her eyes open.

  The shadowed ceiling of the hotel room, and not the deadly claws of the eagle, greeted her. She sat up shakily in bed, trying to catch her breath while she dimly noted that both the covers and her nightgown were drenched with sweat.

  She reached over and snapped on the light, trying to chase away the darkness that had once again invaded her life.

  "It was just a bad dream," she said aloud, pushing her hair out of her face with shaking hands. Even as she said the words, she knew it was more, much more, than that.

  The eagle had been menacing her dreams for as long as she could remember, regularly swooping with terrifying ease into her safe little world.

  She’d always known the eagle that haunted her by night and the panic attacks that struck her by day were related. She’d never had an inkling as to how or why.

  For years, she’d been fighting her demons in the dark, keeping them secret from her family and friends while trying whatever relaxation exercise or deep-breathing technique the latest book advocated to get rid of them.

  She’d succeeded, up to a point. Sometimes, she managed to keep the dream and the attacks at bay for weeks at a time. But they always came back. Just as they were back now.

  Only this time, they hadn’t returned to her life in the same yawning vacuum as they’d come. This time, she had clues.

  Whereas before she’d never understood what brought on an anxiety attack, she knew the last one had been triggered by the odd sense of deja vu she’d experienced while driving into Secret Sound.

  And, whereas before she’d always been alone in her dream, this time Skippy Rhett had been with her.

  She swung her shaking legs off the bed, intending to leave Secret Sound even before the sun came up. But as her legs hit the floor, the room seemed to dissolve into the same sort of misty darkness that pervaded her dream.

  She blinked, trying to dispel the eerie gloom. It did no good. She no longer seemed to be in a hotel room. The carpeting and fresh paint on the wall were gone, replaced by cement flooring and stacked bricks. She squinted, and she could barely make out a shovel and a couple of rakes standing upright, leaning against the wall.

  At first she thought she was alone in the room. Then she saw a shape huddled in the far corner. She took a few tentative steps away from where the hotel bed had been while her heart pounded in her chest.

  When she was close enough, she saw that the shape was a small boy with his head resting on his knees. He looked up at her approach. The freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks stood out against his pale skin, and his huge, dark eyes seemed haunted.

  Tears spilled and trickled down his face, marking his fear so clearly that it nearly broke Cara’s heart.

  "Is that you, Skippy?" Cara asked, her voice breaking on the unnecessary question. She knew, without a doubt, who was silently crying in the corner of the room.

  She took another step, intending to comfort him. Without warning the eerie gloom dissipated and the boy disappeared. She willed him to come back. It was no use.

  She was again alone in her redecorated hotel room, standing between a cherry armoire and the double bed that had housed nightmares she couldn’t hide from any longer.

  The conviction that reared up in her was so strong that she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  She knew, with a startling certainty, that her attacks and the eagle were connected to the mystery of why she’d seen the little boy die again.

  She’d gone to sleep counting the hours before she could leave Secret Sound. Now she knew that the decision she’d made on the beach was the wrong one.

  She looked down at her hands and saw that they were trembling. She wanted to run so badly that she almost got out of bed and packed her suitcase. Instead she lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  If she turned her back on the little boy reaching out to her from the grave, the bald truth was that she’d never shake her demons.

  Nor would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror again without seeing her own haunted eyes looking back at her.

  Karen Rhett stomped through the hallway of the Secret Sound Sun, imagining with every stride that her high-heeled shoe was stepping not on the linoleum flooring but on the face of the man she’d left in the conference room.

  How dare Stoney Gillick demand the features section print a retraction. If Gillick hadn’t wanted to be included in a story on domestic violence, he should have declined to be interviewed.

  Instead, Gillick had given detailed accounts of the beatings he’d administered to both his first and second wives as well as a vow that he was through using violence to get his way. Mandy Smith, whom Karen had added to the features reporting staff a year ago, had in turn written an informative, moving story about the ravages of domestic violence.

  Karen had a hard time believing Gillick's bullying days were behind him, especially since he'd threatened to sue the Sun for libel. He was a short, muscled thug in his mid-fifties who'd thrown his weight around Secret Sound for longer than Karen had been alive. He claimed he’d never struck his second wife and had only "slapped around" his first in the distant past. Incredibly, he seemed to think he could intimidate her into printing a retraction.

  Karen would never consent to correcting a story that had been the God's-honest truth. Mandy had only been out of college a few years, and Karen didn’t intend to disillusion her by failing to stand up for what was right.

  Karen’s Uncle Curtis had advised her to approach the meeting with a cool head and try to talk Gillick out of taking legal action. That made sense to Karen, but her determination to keep cool had lasted only until Gillick called her reporter a liar. That had been all of ten minutes.

  She’d ended the meeting by telling him she’d see him in court and slamming the door in his face, something that wouldn't please Uncle Curtis.

  “Did it go okay, boss?" a hesitant voice asked when she was almost to her office door.

  Karen probably would have ignored the question if it had come from anyone besides Mandy, who deserved an answer. She paused in her imaginary face-stomping.

  "It could’ve gone better," she said in a monumental understatement, "but you let me worry about that. You wrote a wonderful story, and you know I’m behind you all the way."

  She didn’t wait to hear Mandy’s murmurs of thanks, continuing to the sanctuary of her office. The door, which she was sure she’d left closed, stood open.

  In the center of her desk was a generous bunch of hibiscus, thei
r showy red blooms spilling over the sides of a large glass vase. Karen stopped at the door and stared at the gorgeous flowers in bafflement.

  In her experience, most men never bothered to find out which flowers a lady favored, instead sending long-stemmed red roses by default. On the few occasions her ex-husband had given her flowers, that’s what he’d done, even though she’d mentioned more than once that she didn’t like their sickly sweet smell.

  Whoever had sent her these hibiscus had either made a lucky guess or was paying attention. Karen was so partial to the flowers that, in high school, she’d had a shirt covered with their likeness. She’d worn it so often it had become faded and torn. Sometimes, if she were going to a party, she’d tuck a hibiscus behind one ear.

  A white card leaned against the base of the vase. Karen slowly walked toward it, daring to hope that Gray DeBerg had paid attention. Not able to stand the suspense any longer, she snatched the card and tore open the card.

  I forgive you for the slap.

  Karen pictured the sexy half-grin Tyler Shaw had worn at the Dew Drop Inn when he’d arrogantly told her they were going to be lovers. She saw red an even deeper shade than the flowers.

  She extended her arm and swept the vase off her desk, jumping backward when it crashed to the floor in a mess of water, broken glass and flame-red color.

  For a moment, she stood there, staring at what she’d done. The flowers, which had looked so beautiful on her desk, appeared sad and forlorn against the backdrop of the floor. Flowers so lovely hadn’t deserved so ugly a fate. Regret quickly replaced the anger.

  "Damn you, Tyler," she muttered, walking around her desk and pulling out a vase she kept in one of the drawers. Carrying the vase in one hand, she dragged the wastebasket across the floor with the other, and got down on her hands and knees. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "You’ve got a hell of a nerve sending me flowers after telling me you'll fix the mess I've made of my life. It hasn’t even occurred to you that nobody can fix it. If you were here, I’d slap your insolent face again."

  The three raps that sounded against the door were so soft Karen wasn’t sure she’d heard them. The employees with desks close to her office had probably heard the vase crashing to the floor, but they were well enough versed in her moods to know when to leave her alone.

  She turned her head, half-convinced she’d imagined the knocking, and saw the woman who had left the newspaper the night before with Gray and his father. The woman she suspected had kept Gray from following through on his plan to meet Tyler at the Dew Drop Inn, thus keeping Gray from her.

  A new surge of pique washed over her.

  "What do you want?" she snapped.

  The other woman’s question was hesitant. "Are you Karen Rhett?"

  "That’s what it says on the door, doesn’t it?"

  The woman licked her lips and swallowed, venturing a step into the office. "I’m Cara Donnelly," she said.

  Karen stared at her, wondering why the woman thought supplying her name would explain what she was doing at her door. She had to admit, reluctantly, that the other woman was even prettier up close. Not that she did much with her looks. Makeup could have enhanced her dewy complexion and big brown eyes. Her clothes, too, were wrong. She would have looked great in pastels. The nondescript summer dress that hung on her figure like a sack was a washed-out beige.

  "So what?" Karen challenged, ignoring the twinge of conscience that told her Cara Donnelly didn’t deserve to be treated this way. "Is your name supposed to mean something to me?"

  "We have an appointment." She glanced at her watch and then back down at Karen. "At two o’clock?"

  "What appointment?" Karen asked even as she remembered a hesitant voice on the phone that morning asking if she could spare some time that afternoon. If she had known it belonged to this woman, she would have refused. "Never mind. I remember now. I just don’t remember what you wanted to talk about."

  "The newspaper. I’m doing a story on small-town newspapers," she supplied, stepping farther into the room. "Since your family owns the Sun, I’d like to talk to you."

  "Sorry to disappoint you," Karen said, although she wasn’t, "but, as you can see, this isn’t a good time. I’m in the middle of something."

  Instead of retreating, the woman crouched down and picked up a hibiscus with a broken stem. Karen bit back guilt that she could have deliberately damaged something so fragile.

  "I don’t mind helping you clean up." She snapped the stem off the broken end and carefully arranged it into the new vase. "I think we can save most of them. These are so pretty it’s a shame you dropped them."

  "I didn’t..." Karen began, but stopped before she admitted her crime. She couldn’t give this woman ammunition against her, especially if she had Gray’s ear. "Listen, uh, Miss Donnel, I—"

  "It’s Donnelly. I’d prefer it if you called me Cara."

  "Whatever." Karen breathed out heavily through her nose. The woman wasn’t budging. She was tougher than she looked. "If you were doing a story about singing in a rock band or trying to make it in Hollywood, I’m your girl.” Karen didn’t add that she had failed miserably at both pursuits. "But since you don’t, go find my Uncle Curtis. The Sun’s been operating for seventy-five years. I’ve only been working here for one.”

  "I had an appointment with your uncle, too, but the receptionist said he was unexpectedly called away from the office."

  "Then reschedule,” Karen said.

  "I already did,” she said. “I’d rather not reschedule with you, though. I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise."

  Karen shook her head, admiring, despite herself, the other woman’s persistence. Isn’t that what she preached to her own reporters? That you should never, ever take no for an answer when on the trail of an important story.

  Thankfully for her reporters, they didn’t often run into sources as unflappable as Karen was. Or as determined not to be helpful. She chucked a few more pieces of broken glass into the waste basket and stood up.

  "I don’t have the time to spare, Miss Donnelly." She deliberately ignored the woman’s request to use her first name. "It is Miss, isn’t it?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "I’m sure you can find the way out by yourself."

  "We haven’t even finished cleaning up your spill."

  "I can manage by myself." Karen put on her best satisfied smile. She’d been such a handful as a little girl the teachers at the church school had told her she’d go to hell if she lied. So be it. "Besides, Gray can always send me more flowers. He knows these are my favorites."

  Karen had to give the other woman credit. Even though she blanched at the revelation, she very deliberately, very carefully placed the last of the hibiscus in the vase. Then she stood up. Karen was childishly glad that she topped her by a few inches taller, because she felt it gave her an advantage. And, all her life, Karen had been looking for an advantage. Without one, she couldn’t even begin to compete.

  "If you change your mind, I’ll be staying at the Hotel Edison. Room 123."

  "You’re a tourist just passing through then?" Karen asked hopefully. Perhaps she had been too hard on the other woman. Then again, she’d been pining long enough and hard enough for Gray DeBerg she didn’t intend to let anyone get in her way.

  "Actually, I’ll be staying a while. So feel free to leave a message at the hotel if you change your mind about talking."

  "Oh, I don’t think I’ll be doing that," Karen said, putting a hand on her cocked hip. “I’ll keep it in mind just the same."

  As Karen watched her go, she considered the other woman’s statement that she’d be staying in Secret Sound. Despite her words, she’d sounded unsure, as though staying was the opposite of what she wanted.

  Karen tapped her bottom lip with her index finger, wondering exactly how big of a nudge she’d have to give Cara Donnelly to persuade her that leaving town was in her best interest.

  "Some investigative reporter you are," Cara said aloud as she pu
lled her car out of the newspaper’s parking lot. "You can’t even get people to talk to you."

  That was why, she thought wryly, her dream of becoming a reporter would probably remain just that. Hadn’t she known, way back when she’d argued with her parents about their refusal to let her go off to college, that she wasn’t suited for the job anyway? Isn’t that why she’d given up so easily?

  A journalist couldn’t be afraid to stir things up, and she hadn’t even liked being at odds with her own parents. She was better suited to remain behind the scenes, tucked safely behind her desk in the circulation department where nobody expected her to drag information from reluctant sources.

  She frowned, because she had to find a way to do exactly that if she had a prayer of discovering how Skippy Rhett fit into her life. There had to be some way to convince Karen to tell her what she knew about her brother’s death.

  The road veered to the right, and Cara focused on negotiating the curve. When she hit the straightaway, her thoughts returned to Karen Rhett’s baffling hostility. She set her lips as a possibility occurred to her. It was so painful she felt a little stab in the region of her heart.

  If Gray DeBerg were close enough to Karen to send her flowers, maybe he was influential enough to convince her not to answer any of Cara’s questions.

  But if he were so close to Karen, what had he been doing kissing Cara on the beach? The question prompted an instant memory of Gray’s hungry mouth on hers, his body hard against hers. There was no question that he had wanted her, so why had he sent Karen flowers the next day? Guilt, perhaps? Karen shook her head, trying to shake her thoughts of Gray. She was in Secret Sound to find the answer to a far more important question.

  Why had she seen little Skippy Rhett die again?

  The question seemed absurd in the bright light of day, when the sun was shining gloriously overhead and turning her world golden.

  It would be easy for Cara to convince herself the boy, as well as the eagle in her dreams, were figments of her imagination and that Secret Sound was no more familiar to her than a hundred other towns in a hundred different places.