by Janni Nell
He shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”
I sat up, intending to prove how tough I was, but my head spun and I had to lie down again. My mind zipped back to the moments before Casper had rescued me. Lily. I’d had her in my arms, trying to drag her off the road. Was she okay? How could I face Mom if I’d let her favorite daughter get killed?
“Lily,” I murmured, but my lips started trembling so I couldn’t ask, Is she dead?
Casper chuckled softly, very pleased with himself, which kind of clued me in that she was okay.
Trying not to show my relief, I said, “I assume that self-satisfied laugh means you saved her too.” He stopped chuckling. Angels aren’t supposed to feel self-satisfied.
“Lily is over on the grass. She’s fine and so is the baby.”
“What about her blood pressure?” It had spiked after SJ’s accident and come down with rest. After this near-death experience, I imagined it was sky high again.
“Right now her blood pressure is lower than yours,” said Casper. “Don’t ask how I know. I just do.”
“I’ll be more convinced when the paramedics arrive and check her over.” On cue, sirens sounded in the distance.
Something rumbled in the eighteen-wheeler, as if it had a belly ache. I smelled gas. And smoke. Uh-oh. A little flame flickered. The flame snowballed and burst into Fourth-of-July brilliance. Casper scooped me into his arms and away from the fireball.
“Put me down,” I ordered. “Save the driver.”
“Already have,” he said, setting me down on the grass near Lily and a male body.
“Is he okay?”
“Unconscious. Broken arm and leg. But he’ll be fine once the paramedics get here.”
“So you saved three people. I didn’t think that was in your job description.”
“Do we need to have this discussion now?”
“Humor me.”
He sighed. “My job is saving you first. And since you were clinging to Lily, when I pulled you out of the way, she came too. Once I made sure you were okay, I was free to get the driver out. But we don’t have time to talk now. You and Lily have to get out of here.”
“The paramedics need to check her blood pressure.”
“I told you it’s fine. You have to get out of here now.” He pointed to the sky, which was suddenly filled with helicopters and lights. “Media.”
A big traffic accident was news, but when they realized it involved the daughter-in-law of the Sexiest Politician of the Decade, the story would expand like a drunken senator’s speech.
Casper said, “Take Lily and get out of here. I’ll distract the media.” He flew up toward the helicopters. After letting the journalists get a look at him, he zoomed off. I imagined the photographers pulling out cameras, yelling instructions. It’s not every night you see a drop-dead gorgeous angel, golden wings spread in full flight. The helicopters buzzed around like deranged flies chasing him. Shame those photographers didn’t know that Casper’s image couldn’t be permanently captured on film. Not when his wings were out anyway.
Lucky Lily was too dazed to notice what was happening above. Taking her hand, I led her away from the freeway and back through the deserted suburban streets. Her front door was wide open—I’d forgotten to close it when I dashed after her—but everything inside was untouched, emphasizing the safety of her neighborhood.
After locking the door, just in case the media swung by, I switched on a news channel and watched the driver of the eighteen-wheeler taken away in an ambulance. There were interviews with witnesses. Fortunately none of them could accurately describe the pedestrians who had caused the accident, other than to say one was a pregnant woman and the other a young man, possibly an adolescent.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been identified as a man and I was less than thrilled. Okay, I have short hair and I’m taller than the average woman and I don’t have a curv figure, but to describe me as a man—it was just wrong.
Putting the hissy fit I wanted to have on hold, I listened to a reporter describe what appeared to be an angel flying around her helicopter. Unfortunately he couldn’t be captured on film, but she went into raptures describing his muscular torso. Beside me Lily shivered. Not with rapture—more like the chill of an October night. I tried rubbing some warmth into her ice-cold hands and feet, but she was shivering so much I suggested she have a hot shower.
When she was warm and dressed and cradling a well-sugared cup of tea, I asked, “You were sleepwalking, right?”
Her brow puckered. “I don’t think so. Sleepwalkers don’t remember things, do they? It was more like a kind of waking dream.” She chewed her lip. I felt sorry for her, which was a new and not altogether pleasant experience. “This is going to sound crazy, but it was almost like I was drugged, or—” her voice dropped to a whisper, “—or possessed. I couldn’t control my own movements. Something—I don’t know what to call it, a force or an energy—”
“The malhag,” I put in. “She can influence you with her magic.”
If Lily had been a cartoon she’d have gulped. “The m-malhag made me leave the house. I tried not to give in but it—she was so strong I couldn’t resist. I left the house and…I don’t remember much until I was beside the freeway.” She stroked her rounded belly. “When she tried to make me walk in front of a car, I resisted with everything I had. That’s why I was weaving all over the road—trying to keep control over my own body.”
“Did you realize I was on the road too?”
She nodded. “I knew you wanted to help, but she wouldn’t let you. And then the eighteen-wheeler was coming at us. I thought we were going to die.” All the color drained from her face. “This is just like what happened to Steven when he wrecked the car. I didn’t believe him when he said someone had taken control of the steering wheel, but now I know what he meant.” Her eyes widened in horror as she realized where Steven was now. “Oh no, please don’t send me to Oak Lodge. I’m not crazy.”
“I know.” Although I couldn’t deny that at the moment Oak Lodge would be the safest place for her. I made the mistake of saying so and she glared at me.
“My baby will not be born in a mental institution.”
“Don’t be silly. When you go into labor they’ll send you to the maternity ward you’re booked into. Anyway, I might have solved the case by then. Right now I don’t have time to babysit you.”
“Babysit. As if,” she huffed, playing the big sister. Then, folding her arms, she said, “I refuse to go to Oak Lodge and you can’t make me. Jerry and Helen will look in on me every day.”
“And what about the nights? What if you sleepwalk again?”
She passed a hand over her eyes. Her nail polish was chipped and she hadn’t even noticed. She was more freaked out than I’d imagined.
“I’ll tie my foot to the bed like did.”
“And if the malhag forces you to untie it?”
Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t have an answer for that. Miserably she murmured, “I don’t know why I’ve become a target of this malhag thing. I mean, I’m not a Hampton by blood.”
Should I tell her? Yep, I had to. “You’re not the target. Your baby is.”
That’s when she fainted.
I caught her—easy, since she was sitting beside me—and lowered her gently onto the sofa. She was coming to when Casper arrived. He carried her up to bed and offered to stay in the house while we both grabbed a few hours of sleep.
I was too hyped to go to bed. I slumped on the sofa and massaged my aching head.
“Let me,” said Casper, moving behind the sofa. “Lean your head back.” His fingers moved across my forehead, stretching the tight muscles, making soothing circles on my temples. Against all expectations, I dozed.
In my dream I walked along Mr. Hampton’s picture gallery. With each echoing footstep, the eyes of the portraits followed me. Curtains billowed beside dark windows. A raven with one purple feather flew in and perched on my shoulder. I stopped in front of Elowyn’s por
trait. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. She pointed at the raven on my shoulder. It nipped my ear. I swatted it but the creature refused to leave me. A male voice, husky like Darth Vader’s, said, “I’m Steven Richard Hampton the twentieth.”
Another voice, louder this time, “I’m Steven Richard Hampton the twenty-fifth.”
All the voices from the first Steven onwards chimed in, overlapping, growing louder and louder. My head ached, threatening to explode. The raven on my shoulder nipped my ear again and whispered, “Look at the busts.”
One of them wobbled on its plinth, swaying from side to side until it plunged to the floor and shattered. Resting on the plinth, beneath the place where the bust had been, was a diary.
I awoke with a start.
Casper looked worried. “Did I massage a sore spot?”
“I had a dream. About the picture gallery at Hampton House.”
Casper’s smile was relieved but also a bit smug. I wanted to smack my forehead. How could I be so dumb? When Casper had saved me from walking into poison ivy, he’d encouraged me to look more closely at the busts. It was his way of helping without upsetting the Powers-That-Be.
“Okay, so it took me a while to get it,” I said. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
I wanted to rush to Hampton House immediately, but I couldn’t take the chance of Lily sleepwalking again. When she awoke an hour later, the circles beneath her eyes had faded. She assured me she was feeling “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” and that she planned to spend the day with SJ at the hospital.
Figuring she’d be safe there, I headed off to Hampton House. Casper elected not to join me, which was just as well considering he had no appreciation for Barry Manilow and that would be my music of choice as I sped ng the freeway.
After singing along loudly to “Copacabana,” which is really best in between sips of piña colada, we—me and Barry—launched into “Jump Shout Boogie.” Nice one, Bazza, as Dad used to say. I can still hear Dad singing along to “I Write the Songs,” which, ironically, Barry Manilow didn’t write.
Dad, where are you? Why haven’t you come home? And why did Lily insist on calling Steven Dad? She was seven years older than me—twenty-two when Dad had disappeared—so she should have had the strongest connection to him. Still, she’d always been closer to Mom and I’d been closer to Dad. Example—Lily and Mom both hated Barry Manilow with a passion. In Lily’s case, a passion that bordered on insanity. Remember how she’d told Mom that Dad’s old records were under my bed so Mom could destroy them?
I’d been trying and failing to understand Lily for most of my life.
Putting on a burst of speed, I focused on the road and reaching Hampton House. I’d called ahead to let Barb Johnson know I was coming. When I arrived, she was in the process of packing. Her face was washed clean of even the most subtle makeup and her hair was scraped back into a ponytail. Tendrils had come loose and curled around her crow’s feet. She interrupted her packing to make me a mug of excellent coffee.
“I heard about Steven’s accident,” she said as we sipped. “I suppose that will delay his move here.”
“I suppose,” I said, unwilling to give her too much information about Steven’s condition. She could probably make a few hundred thousand selling his story to the media. But then, maybe the five million she’d made in the will was enough. She certainly looked happy. Thinking she might have another reason for asking about Steven’s delay in moving, I asked, “Do you need more time to pack your stuff?”
She shook her head. “Just between you and me, I can’t wait to leave. You’ve probably heard that Stevie took care of me very well in his will, bless him, so I’m off to Hawaii.”
“Nice,” I murmured, thinking of heat and sunshine. “Have a piña colada for me.”
She laughed. “I plan to have hundreds and I’ll think of you every time. Now, you said on the phone you wanted to have another look at the picture gallery. Off you go. Enjoy.”
“Don’t you want to come with me?” I asked, remembering my last visit when she’d shadowed Lily and me.
Barb shrugged. “Couldn’t care less. Stevie was the one who was all secretive about his ancestors.” As I headed upstairs, she called after me, “Hope you find that diary.”
Just like in the dream, my footsteps echoed through the empty picture gallery. Unlike in the dream, I didn’t bother looking at any of the portraits. I hurried along the line of busts. Up close they still looked like ancient Romans except for their little brass plaques, which I hadn’t bothered to read before. This time I checked out each one carefully.
The very first Steven Hampton had been born in the thirteenth century. His plaque read:
Steven Richard Hampton 1200-1242.
Loyal subject of Henry III.
Granted the estate of Wessingfield for services to the king.
The plaque on the next bust read:
Steven Richard Hampton VII 1340-1399.
The only one of seven brothers and three sisters to survive the Black Death.
The next three busts commemorated various Stevens, who had either increased their landholdings or served their kings in some way. Then things changed.
Steven Richard Hampton XIX 1640-1688.
Came to New England to start a new life.
And:
Steven Richard Hampton XXIV 1758-1779.
Wounded at the Battle of Bunker Hill.
The final three busts commemorated the business achievements of Stevens XXVI, XXX and XXXI. By my count, that made seven busts out of thirty-three Stevens. Had the Hamptons only made busts for ancestors who had accomplished something extraordinary? Nope, couldn’t believe that. I guessed each Steven would consider himself extraordinary and would commission his own bust. Besides, Casper had hinted Steven Twenty’s bust was in the portrait gallery. Maybe I’d misunderstood. I hurried to Barb’s bedroom, where she was bent over an open suitcase.
“Finished already?” She straightened up, rubbing her back.
“The other busts,” I asked. “Where are they?”
It was easier than I’d expected. “In the basement,” said Barb. “Each Steven who inherits Hampton House chooses the busts he wants to display in the gallery. Do you want to see the others? Just a sec. I’ll get the key.”
When Barb unlocked the door to the basement, a musty smell rushed out to greet us. She switched on the light. “There, that’s better. Mind yourself on the stairs,” she said, and hurried away to continue her packing.
Junk was everywhere. Exercise equipment that had been out-of-date ten years ago slumped in a corner. Broken bikes leaned against an old sofa. A standard lamp with a lopsided shade stood like a sentry beside a chair with three legs. I worked my way around the sealed packing boxes and the armchair with the spring erupting dangerously from its seat.
Looking for the busts instead of where I was going, I tripped over a bucket and fell headfirst into a pile of moldy cushions. Sneezing, I scrambled to my feet. Taking more care with where I stepped, I peeped behind an ancient wardrobe. Lots of cobwebs but not much else…except a door. I tried the handle. Yep, it opened. Dark and cold inside. I reached along the wall and found a light switch.
In neat rows like a legion of Roman soldiers stood the busts. Twenty-seven of them crammed together, each on its own plinth. I was reminded of a creepy movie I’d seen—something about English history, where enemies of the throne had their heads lopped off and stuck on pikes for everyone to see.
As I moved around the busts looking for Steven Twenty, my phone rang. Seeing it was Lily, I picked up immediately. “Help…me.” She sounded like she was hyperventilating.
“What’s up?”
“…being kidnapped…can’t control the car…like someone’s taken over…steering for me…”
“Lily, you’re breaking up. I’m in a basement. Hang on.” I took the steps two at a time. When I bounded out of the basement, I could hear Lily loud and clear. I really wished I couldn’t.
“The malhag’s ta
ken control of my car.”
“Where are you?”
“Near SJ’s hospital. I was driving home. I’m stopped at a red light.”
“I thought the malhag had control of your car.”
“She’s driving very carefully. I know that sounds crazy, but she is. Maybe she’s waiting until we get to the freeway to crash my car. Oh God, oh God, you have to help me. I don’t want to die.”
“Calm down. Listen to me. Next time the car stops at a red light, jump out.”
“I can’t,” she wailed. “The doors are locked. They won’t open. I’ve tried and tried. The car’s moving again. I can’t stop it. We’re heading for the freeway. Shit, oh shit.”
“What direction are you traveling?”
“How should I know? The car’s going away from the city. What direction is that?”
“Get a grip. Look for the position of the sun.”
There was a short silence. Then, “I think I’m going west.” To The Hollows. “I’m scared. Help me.” The phone went dead.
From Hampton House, there was a shortcut to The Hollows. I broke every road rule getting there in half the time it should’ve taken. But even so, I was too late.
I found Lily’s car abandoned on the bare earth between the end of the dirt road and the swollen gray lump of The Hollows. The car door hung open. Inside was a crumpled tissue, a half-empty bottle of water and a thin parka. The keys were still in the ignition. I pocketed them and studied the ground. A set of small neat footprints led to The Hollows, but there was no sign of a struggle. The malhag must be controlling her in the same way she did when Lily sleepwalked into traffic.
After locking Lily’s car, I tossed her keys in my glove compartment, grabbed my flashlight and locked my car.
I headed to the base of The Hollows and began to climb. All I could think of was Lily. And not in a bad way. Not, She deserved this for being a bitch. I was genuinely worried about her. And not because Mom would be pissed off if I let anything happen to her favorite daughter. I actually wanted Lily to survive. Go figure.
I stepped o the bones of a dead animal and kept on going. Didn’t look back. As I climbed, the stench of decay got worse. I tried not to think the unthinkable but I was deeply concerned that the smell might be coming from Lily’s dead body. The muscles in my neck tightened. My jaw clenched. My strides lengthened. I leaped upward like a mountain sprite.