Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “Why?” she asked, her voice taking on a business edge. “Something going on over there?” Knowing there was no way for him to explain the events that led up to this moment and still sound sane, Michael simply said, “I’m not sure. Janet and Ellie left for the cabin yesterday, and I’ve been trying to reach them ever since. The phone’s probably out because I keep getting out of order signals or circuit recordings. But just to be on the safe side, I’d like someone to go out there and check them out. I’m going to be heading to Carlton in a minute, but—”

  “No problem,” she said briskly. “Can you hold for two seconds? I’ll try to reach them right now.”

  “Yes, okay—thanks.”

  “Just hang tight,” she said, then the phone went silent.

  Michael began to pace.

  An old man. Threats. Massive dog prints.

  Anna. Warnings. Barrette.

  A missing gold coin.

  A missing Wilson.

  Ellie.

  He circled the bedroom twice more, then went back into the bathroom for Ellie’s barrette. For whatever reason, he needed to hold it again, a symbolic lifeline to his daughter.

  When he reached the vanity, however, the hair clasp wasn’t there. Frowning, Michael looked behind a can of hair spray, then under a bar of soap. He moved the small, glass container of potpourri, checked under an open box of Band-Aids, pushed aside a hair dryer. No barrette.

  He stepped back, heart hammering, phone pressed to his ear, and scanned the floor of the bathroom.

  “Mike?” Shirley’s voice returned, harried now.

  Michael continued to search. “Did you get through to them?” There—on the floor near the baseboard to the vanity.

  “No luck. I got the same crap you been getting. Circuits are busy. Probably this weather screwing up the service.”

  “They can’t all be busy,” Michael said, squatting to pick up the barrette. “I got through to one of the neighbors a little while ago and left a message on their answering—” His jaw suddenly locked shut. He touched the hair clasp briefly, then pulled his hand away. Beside it was an indention in the carpet. A round one, a little bigger than the circumference of a quarter. He looked at the barrette, then the circle. The barrette—the circle. Barrette—circle.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, praying he hadn’t found what he thought he found—the link between Ellie and the Stevensons. This spot had to be where the coin landed after falling out of his father’s jacket. It was the right size, right shape. And the butterfly clasp—had Ellie come into the bathroom after Wilson and found the gold piece? Without warning, Michael’s mind synopsized the threats from the vanishing old man.

  Unless it be returned before the rising of the second sun, anyone who dares to possess it will die without mercy.

  “Hey, you still there?” Shirley’s voice barked in his ear.

  “Huh—yeah. What?”

  “I’ve been asking if you’re okay.”

  Michael picked up the plastic butterfly with trembling fingers. “Keep trying to reach the sheriff, will you, Shirley? Call the next parish over if you have to. Just get somebody over there as soon as you can.” He gave her his cell number. “I’m leaving now, so call me as soon as you hear anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Michael hung up and drew a deep, shaky breath. The pain and fear he felt only served to add certainty to his heart. He had to get to his daughter. Her life depended on it—depended on him winning a race against the sun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was nearly eight-thirty before Janet arrived back at the cabin. Twenty minutes later, the girls sat at the dining room table, somber and distant, eating a snack of milk and cookies. Janet sat on a stool nearby, watching them, still shell-shocked over the day’s event. She couldn’t believe only hours earlier a fireman in a cherry picker had caught her daughter in a midair tumble and pulled her to safety. Everything had seemed to happen so fast, but at the same time painfully slow.

  Once Ellie had been secured, the Ferris wheel operator had lowered Rodney and Heather to the ground, and a waiting ambulance took Rodney to a local hospital. A female EMT tried coaxing Ellie into a second ambulance, but the girl staunchly refused, even when Janet promised her she’d ride along. So Janet had followed the ambulance in her van with Sylvia bawling in the front seat and Ellie and Heather strapped in the back. After a battery of tests, the physician diagnosed Rodney’s condition as an acute anxiety attack. The symptoms, he assured Sylvia, were similar to a heart attack’s but seldom lethal. To placate the hysterical woman, he admitted Rodney into the hospital for observation.

  Ellie and Heather were examined for good measure, and other than a mild case of dehydration from the day’s activities, both girls were in perfect health. Ellie hadn’t spoken but a handful of words since the incident, and the more Janet or the doctor tried to get her to talk about what happened, the more distant she became. The physician suggested both girls be taken to a counselor to work through their experience. It was a recommendation that needed no debate. Janet had already decided to pack up and head back home first thing in the morning. She’d tried to call Michael from the hospital to let him know, but there’d been no answer at home or the funeral home.

  Heather raised her glass from the table. “Can I have some more milk, Aunt Janet?”

  Janet hopped off the stool and took the glass from her. She glanced at her daughter’s full cup. “What about you, honey? Want anything?”

  Ellie shook her head and ran her fingers over the glass horse, which stood beside her plate.

  Sighing, Janet went to the fridge and filled Heather’s glass. She heard her niece whisper something to Ellie, and Janet turned her head slightly so she could see them from the corner of her eye. Ellie’s head nodded slowly as though in reluctant agreement to something. Then she got up from the table, clutched the horse to her chest, and quietly moved to the family room, where she curled up in the old recliner.

  “Drink up, sweetie,” Janet said, returning with Heather’s milk. She stroked the girl’s hair and glanced back at Ellie. “I need to get the two of you off to bed so I can finish packing.”

  Heather looked down at her half-eaten cookie. “I’m full,” she said with a yawn. “Do we gotta go home tomorrow?”

  “Afraid so,” Janet said. She stacked Ellie’s cup on top of her plate, then brushed crumbs from the table into her hand.

  Heather propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in a palm. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, then let it go. “Is it ‘cause Ellie’s grandpa’s gonna die? Is that why we gotta go home?”

  Janet’s hand stalled in mid-swipe. Her own father had been dead for eleven years, so the only grandpa Heather could be referring to was Wilson. She frowned. “Of course not. Where did you hear that nonsense?”

  “Ellie,” Heather said. She sat back and swirled stray crumbs around her plate with a finger. “Can’t you bring him to the doctor like Mr. Rodney so he can get better?”

  “Honey, I’m sure you misunderstood,” Janet said, dusting the crumbs she’d gathered onto a plate. “Ellie’s grandpa is fine.” She collected the dishes and carried them into the kitchen, peering into the family room when she rounded the snack bar. Ellie was slouched over in the chair already asleep.

  Heather wiggled down from her seat and followed Janet. “Aunt Janet?”

  “Hm?”

  Heather looked down at her sneakers and began to rock slowly from toe to heel. “What does it feel like to die?”

  Janet stared at her niece, feeling gooseflesh speckle her body as she remembered the strange questions Ellie had asked about death while they were delivering flowers to the funeral home. The irony of Ellie asking about death not long before the near tragedy on the Ferris wheel made Janet’s insides suddenly quiver with dread. She lowered to her haunches and gently pulled Heather toward her, hoping her niece wouldn’t see how badly her hands were shaking.

  “Come here, you,” Janet said, softly. “Now,
what’s all this talk about dying?”

  Heather wrapped her arms around Janet’s neck and snuggled close. “Nothin’.”

  “Is it because of what happened on the Ferris wheel today? Is that what has you worried?”

  Heather shrugged.

  “Everyone’s okay now.” Janet hugged her tight. “No one’s going to die. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” Heather squirmed deeper into the crook of Janet’s arm and yawned again. “Can I go play with Ellie’s Barbie?”

  “I think what you need is sleep,” Janet said, getting to her feet. She led Heather by the shoulders to the family room. “You go on upstairs and wash up. We’ll worry about baths in the morning.”

  Heather let her head fall back on her shoulders. “But I’m not tired,” she said and rubbed her eyes.

  “Make you a deal,” Janet coaxed. “You wash up, scoot into bed, and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

  Heather scratched her knee and eyed Janet. “The Magic Cherry Tree?”

  “If that’s the one you want.”

  “Do I gotta brush my teeth, too?”

  “Yep.”

  Heather looked at her skeptically. “You won’t skip no pages?”

  “Not a single one.” Janet patted her niece’s bottom, sending her to the foot of the stairs. “Now go.”

  Heather trudged up the stairs, throwing furtive glances in Ellie’s direction as she went. Janet watched until she disappeared beyond the landing, then made her way to the couch. She sat down and picked up the phone, hoping this time she’d be able to reach Michael.

  The dial tone was a pleasant surprise when she pressed the receiver to her ear. She dialed her home number, then closed her eyes against the weariness lapping over her. From somewhere overhead, a board creaked and pipes moaned, and Janet threw open a watchful eye. Her jitters were not only back in full swing, they’d brought friends.

  After the tenth ring and still no answer, Janet tried the number for the funeral home. Not even the answering service picked up. Puzzled, she dialed Michael’s cell phone. It rang continuously, his voice mail refusing to answer. Janet hung up, worried. Where was he? She’d expected him to be late, but not this late. And it wasn’t at all like Michael not to at least check in.

  Janet rubbed the growing knot of concern from the back of her neck and got up. She went to the recliner and scooped her sleeping daughter into her arms. Ellie shifted her head against her mother’s shoulder, touched her fanny pack with blind fingers, then sighed deeply. She pulled the horse closer.

  “You’re worrying me, kiddo,” Janet whispered as she carried her up the stairs.

  When she reached Ellie’s room, she pushed the door open wider with a foot. Heather was sprawled across one of the twin beds, fully dressed and asleep. Janet crept to the opposite bed, lay Ellie on it, then pulled off her daughter’s sandals. After covering her with a light blanket, she tugged lightly on Ellie’s fingers to untangle them from the horse.

  “Mia Lona!” Ellie shrieked, and with her eyes still shut, slapped her mother’s hand.

  Shocked, Janet jumped back, her heart slamming against her chest.

  Ellie rolled over on her side and pulled the horse against her. Within seconds, the child’s breathing became deep and steady again.

  Heather mumbled in her sleep and threw an arm over her stomach.

  Janet looked from one girl to the other, as though waiting for one of them to wake and explain what had just happened. But neither moved. Fear bubbled inside Janet like peroxide in a wound, and she tried to calm it by reminding herself that the doctor had examined Ellie thoroughly. Healthy five-year-old, he claimed. Everything’s fine—just fine. But things weren’t fine. This solemn child, the one screaming and thrashing on the Ferris wheel, those strange words, the hitting, this wasn’t Ellie. What if the doctor had missed something?

  Janet brushed away sudden tears and tucked the blanket around Ellie’s slight body. Then she went to the closet where she found an extra blanket for Heather. After covering her niece, Janet turned off the light and headed back downstairs, more eager than ever to get home.

  Once in the kitchen, she tackled the sink of dishes. As she soaped and rinsed, Janet found herself growing more and more irritated, but at what she wasn’t sure. Michael for not calling? Not understanding what was happening to Ellie? Herself for coming here in the first place? Pondering each possible reason only boiled her irritation to anger.

  She dried her hands, then stomped to the pantry for a cardboard box. Finding one, she threw it down on the snack bar and started loading it with the dry goods she’d bought when they first arrived. In the middle of oatmeal cartons and cooking oil bottles, her elbow bumped into a cereal box. It flipped onto the floor, and hundreds of chocolate covered corn puffs chased one another across the linoleum.

  “Crap,” Janet groaned. She picked up the cereal box, then cursing under her breath, made her way to the utility closet with corn puffs popping and crunching beneath her feet.

  After arming herself with a whiskbroom and dustpan, Janet got on her knees, and struggled to corral the cereal.

  Ten minutes later, with the broom still going one way and the corn puffs the other, Janet heard scratching sounds coming from behind one of the bottom cabinet doors. She froze, listening.

  The scritch—scratch—scritch quickly grew louder, more determined, sending with it a sudden vision of rats gnawing their way into the kitchen.

  Alarmed, Janet jumped to her feet, and her left shoulder rammed into an open utensil drawer. The collected corn puffs scattered across the floor again, and shock waves of pain raced down her arm. Abruptly, the scratching noises stopped.

  “Shit!” Janet dropped the dustpan and while hissing through her teeth, unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse. She peeled the material away from her shoulder to see if she’d been cut. Her fingers moved gingerly over scraped skin. Nothing bled, but it was sure to leave a whopper of a bruise.

  She hitched her blouse back into place, buttoned it, then slammed the utensil drawer shut. She marched off for the vacuum cleaner, determined to suck the damn cereal off the floor if she had to, rats or no rats.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Janet stumbled to a halt and gawked. The Frigidaire’s heavy door hung wide open, and the drawer she’d rammed into only moments earlier dangled over the floor by its back hinges. The hair on her arms stood tall as she slowly crunched through cereal to close both. Maybe—maybe she’d slammed the drawer shut a little too hard, and it sprang back out on its track. Maybe the refrigerator—well—it was so old . . .

  The floorboards in the dining room creaked softly, and Janet peered nervously over her shoulder.

  She saw nothing but old furniture.

  Jesus, is it ever time to go home!

  With one ear cocked and on weird noise patrol, Janet quickly vacuumed cereal. The old upright pinged and whined, but soon the last brown puff disappeared. Satisfied with good enough, she turned on the stove light, turned off the main kitchen light, stored the vacuum, then went upstairs.

  More floorboards creaked as Janet tiptoed to Ellie’s room and peeked inside. The girls were asleep, just as she’d left them. A little surprised that neither had even stirred from the noise in the kitchen, she crept in for a closer look.

  Both faces peaceful, both small chests rising and falling evenly.

  Content with what she saw, Janet crept out of the room and closed the door behind her. She went into the bathroom and turned on the sink’s faucet to wash her face. While waiting for the water to warm, she cupped the edge of the vanity and lowered her head.

  Thoughts of Michael weaved through her mind. She hoped he was okay, wondered where he was, prayed he was safe, wished he was here. After a day like today, she needed to feel the security of his arms around her.

  Blowing out a breath of exhaustion, Janet flicked a finger through the steaming water and looked up at the mirror. Mist clouded the glass, obscuring her reflection. She zigzagged a trail through the con
densation with a finger, then began to wipe it away with her palm. As her hand traveled back and forth, revealing her tired face inch by inch, something more came into view. Behind her stood a woman with sad, dark eyes and black hair parted down the center of a long widow’speak.

  With a gasp, Janet spun about., but all that confronted her was the shower curtain. She’d recognized the woman as the one she’d met near the water fountain at the funeral home—Anna Stevenson. But how could that be? Janet’s eyes searched desperately about the small bathroom but found no hint the woman had ever been there. When she finally turned to face the mirror again, only her own frightened eyes peered back. She considered them for only a second before instinct made Janet bolt for Ellie’s room.

  The short distance between bath and bed felt like miles as she stumbled and slipped across it, all the while remembering Anna’s warning to her. “Watch over her closely.” When Janet finally reached the bedroom door, she threw it open, and flipped on the light.

  Ellie and Heather were still in bed, asleep. Neither even flinched from the sudden brightness. Janet pressed a hand to her chest and stood there for a moment, gulping and grateful. She’d half expected to find Anna in here. Realistically, she knew that wasn’t possible. If Anna had truly been in the bathroom, the woman would’ve had to move at the speed of light to make it into the girls’ room that fast. Janet tried to convince herself that seeing her had just been the result of too much stress, only her over-plagued mind playing tricks. Sure, she could go along with that. But why had it chosen Anna Stevenson to scare the shit out of her?

  Not sure of what to think anymore, Janet crept over to Ellie’s closet and looked inside.

  All clear.

  She peeked under the beds.

  Nothing more sinister than dust bunnies.

  Finally, she went to the door and scanned the room as a whole one last time. Although she didn’t see anything out of place, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was tumbling out of place. Not the furniture, not the knickknacks, but something in the air itself.