When the Spirit Calls (When the Spirit... series - Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  When the Spirit Calls

  When the Spirit... series – Book 2

  Copyright ©2007, 2016 by Thomas J. DePrima

  16.g.28

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. The scanning, uploading, downloading, and/or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal, and punishable by law.

  No part of this novel may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13 (eBook): 978-1-61931-052-0

  ISBN-10 (eBook): 1-61931-052-X

  ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-61931-053-7

  ISBN-10 (print): 1-61931-053-8

  Cover art by: Kranchmedia

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you share it. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the owner and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To contact the author, or see information about his other novels, visit:

  www.deprima.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the fans of the first book, written in 2001, who kept asking for a sequel.

  * * *

  Acknowledgements

  Kudos to my editor, Myra Shelley, and her team of proofreaders who work so hard to make me look good.

  * * *

  Novels and Series by the author include:

  When The Spirit…

  When The Spirit Moves You

  When The Spirit Calls

  A Galaxy Unknown®…

  A Galaxy Unknown®

  Valor at Vauzlee

  The Clones of Mawcett

  Trader Vyx

  Milor!

  Castle Vroman

  Against All Odds

  Return to Dakistee

  Retreat And Adapt

  Azula Carver

  AGU:® Border Patrol…

  Citizen X

  Clidepp Requital

  Clidepp Déjà Vu

  AGU:® SC Intelligence…

  The Star Brotherhood

  Colton James novels…

  A World Without Secrets

  Vengeance Is Personal

  * * *

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Terror had pushed her almost to the limits of endurance. Moonlight, barely filtering through the overhead canopy of leaves, cast dark shadows that artfully destroyed her visual perception. The lowest branches of the trees slashed viciously at her face while the undergrowth clawed and scratched her limbs. Blood oozed from dozens of painful scrapes and dripped copiously from a number of deeper cuts. The sounds of pursuit seemed to echo off the forest trees to come at her again from seemingly different directions. Were she not so frightened, she would have understood that her pursuer was having as difficult a time as she, but the knowledge would have provided no comfort. Her ragged gasps for breath mingled with the sounds of pitiful sobbing that only uncontrolled fear for her safety could produce.

  Suddenly, she saw light ahead. Expectation that she might find someone to help her buoyed her spirits and gave her new energy. But upon bursting through the outer row of trees that embraced the dense patch of forest, she discovered the light to be just the soft glow of the quarter moon's reflection dancing nonchalantly on the surface of a swiftly moving stream. Almost forty feet of agitated water stood between her and the opposite shore, while black tongues of liquid licked greedily at the bank where she stood. The early spring runoff of melting snow in the nearby mountains had swelled the stream size immensely, making a crossing seem almost impossible. With water overflowing the rocky shoreline that normally bordered the tributary and trees dipping their branches almost to the undulating fluid, there was no easy escape route either left or right.

  Another crashing sound behind her brought her head up sharply and reminded her of the imminent danger. Her pursuer had been gaining ground as she stood indecisively on the bank. She could see that the trees on the other side had recently been harvested and knew that if she could make the crossing, the way would be easier. In the moonlight, the terrain ahead looked open and rolling. With no other option, she leapt into the frigid water.

  Although the stream rose only to her calves this close to the bank, the power of the flow was incredible. The torrent seemed determined to yank her legs from under her as she struggled to keep her footing on the smooth, slippery rocks. Extending one limb forward, she tried to plant her foot, but the current fought her every movement. The urgency of the situation dictated that she move quickly, but she knew that if she lost her footing, she would be swept downstream to be pummeled viciously against rocky outcroppings and boulders.

  She had advanced only a couple of yards when her pursuer burst from the forest. Without stopping to think, he sprang for her back. The impact drove her brutally down into the water, knocking the air from her lungs as his weight crushed her against the bottom. Small rocks and coarse sand ground savagely into her face and limbs. She bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Her lungs screamed for precious air, and she desperately needed to get her head above water, but it wasn't to be. The more she struggled, the more she understood the futility.

  It was over in another minute. She couldn't hold her breath any longer. Water coursed into her throat, filling her lungs. She stopped thrashing about then, her strength deserting her. She knew her cause was lost. She was dying.

  Climbing off her back, her attacker rolled her body over in the shallow water. Although she was unable to move her limbs, her unfocused eyes were open. From just beneath the water she could see her killer's outline against the moon as he dragged her to a tree that had fallen into the stream and then lodged her almost lifeless body beneath the half submerged bole to ensure it wouldn't float downstream and be found. There was no more pain. There was no more sensation at all as the bright moonlight overhead slowly faded to complete darkness.

  * * *

  Arlene awoke with a start and sat bolt upright among rumpled bedclothes while gulping air into her lungs. She was dripping wet, and her heart was racing. Realizing where she was and that she was safe, she calmed down and let her head droop wearily for a few seconds, then flopped back down onto the bed.

  Her pillow, also thoroughly saturated with perspiration, caused her to sit up again immediately. She yanked the pillowcase off and tossed the pillow towards a nearby chair before climbing out of bed
. After ensuring that the pillow had landed with the wet side up, she carried the pillowcase to her bathroom, rinsed it out, and draped it over the framework of the tub/shower enclosure.

  After she had washed her face and patted it dry, the tall blonde pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears and stared into the mirror. The whites of her cobalt-blue eyes were bloodshot, and her attractive face was haggard and drawn from sleeplessness. Normally by this point in May, her skin tone would be approaching the golden hue of the sun in those final moments before it dropped below the horizon, but she still had the lividness associated with the endurance of a long winter in the northern United States. Months of working in the college library and her dorm room as she prepared term papers and studied for final exams had taken their toll; so it was with great anticipation that she had looked forward to the start of summer vacation and long, lazy days lying on the beach.

  But for the past week, Arlene had been having the same nightmare every time she attempted to sleep, day or night. It never varied. Each time, she was racing through unfamiliar woods, frightened half out of her mind until she reached the stream. As she tried to cross, she was caught by her pursuer— and drowned.

  Returning to the darkened bedroom in the southeast corner of the manse's second floor, Arlene lowered her overtired body into an antique wingchair by the window. An almost full moon illuminated the rows of flowerbeds meticulously maintained by the small army of groundskeepers she retained to tend the estate grounds surrounding her seventy-room home in New Bedford, Massachusetts. She had been enjoying the splendorous panorama since her marriage into the Westfield family in 1884, and the view of the estate's rear gardens never failed to calm her. A cool evening draught from the nearby ocean filled the room, and she could smell the sweet fragrances of fugacious blossoms riding lightly on the salty breeze.

  As she nestled into the soft comfort of the familiar chair, she felt sleep tugging at her, but she refused to surrender to it, fearing that the nightmare would surely replay again. She was confident she had never visited the scene of the murder, so the images must be a precognitive vision, which seemed to add a new dimension to her paranormal abilities. Only twenty-one years old, the incredibly wealthy young woman had just completed her third year at Bryn Mawr, but Arlene Catherine Watson had knowledge far beyond her seeming years.

  The first light of approaching dawn was visible in the eastern sky when she finally roused herself and walked tiredly to her bathroom to prepare for the new day. An hour later, she entered the small family dining room on the first floor and took her customary place at the table.

  Though capable of seating eight comfortably, there were but four chairs around the thick maple table at present. Other chairs, placed discretely around the sides of the room, were always available at a moment's notice. Her older sister, Sarah, had married last year and moved out of the house, and neither her thirteen-year-old brother nor her parents had come down yet. Cook, ever sensitive to sounds in the dining room, appeared at the kitchen door a few minutes later.

  "You're down early, dear," Cook said. "Another bad night?"

  Now in her mid-fifties, the short, slightly overweight woman with dusty-brown hair projected a matronly appearance. Working alternately in private homes and restaurants, she had been searching for secure and satisfying employment since her husband of five years had deserted his family after the birth of their second child. With her grown daughters now married and moved away from Massachusetts, she had finally found a position where she was happy. This family had taken a liking to her, and she loved all of them as if they were her own. Her schedule was Thursday through Tuesday, with Wednesdays off, but she had no place else to go— or anywhere she wanted to go— so she prepared all the meals seven days a week. Usually she would spend Wednesday afternoons shopping in town, but she was always home in time to prepare dinner for the family.

  "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Brittle."

  "Perhaps you should see a doctor. There must be a reason for all these nightmares."

  "Yes, perhaps I will. I'd like a cup of tea and two buttered slices of whole wheat toast, please."

  "Right away, Miss," Cook said, allowing the swinging door to close as she stepped back into the enormous kitchen.

  The outside wall of the family dining room, like that of the very large, formal dining room on the other side of the kitchen, faced the rising sun. Now well above the horizon, light from the golden orb filled every corner of the room. Completed in 1880 as a home for the wealthy Westfield family, the mansion had deteriorated considerably by the time Arlene inherited it from her great-great-great-grandmother, Amelia Westfield. Although basically protected from the elements, the heat of summer and the cold of winter through more than half a century without occupants had nonetheless taken a toll. But along with the estate, Arlene had inherited a trust fund of enormous wealth that had enabled her to have the mansion fully restored to its original glory.

  Arlene had wanted the house to appear as it had when first built, so after every square inch of the interior had been photographed and molds made of the original plasterwork, the interior was quite literally gutted. The upstairs floors had begun to sag— badly in some places— and the electrical wiring and plumbing was hopelessly out of date. The architects she'd hired had suggested the house be torn down and rebuilt, but she couldn't bear that, so instead they came up with a plan whereby all the interior walls and floors would be removed and a steel I-beam skeleton erected inside the house. After the ironwork was completed, exterior walls insulated, floors replaced, and the framework of the interior walls erected, the electricians and plumbers had gone to work.

  With the interior walls plumbed and electrified, the master woodworkers, plaster craftsmen, and stonemasons could work their magic. They did such a wonderful job restoring the interior to match its original appearance that no one would ever know the house had been gutted. They used as much of the original marble and wood as they had been able to salvage and replaced what couldn't be used by meticulously matching the color and grain.

  When the multiyear project was finished, the first floor of the magnificent mansion looked every bit as wonderful as when it was built in the nineteenth century, and it now it had the advantages of modern wiring, plumbing, and insulation. The kitchen included all the modern conveniences found in a new home, but efforts had been made to have the decor blend with the rest of the house as much as possible. The exterior stainless steel surfaces of the massive refrigerators and freezers had even been sheathed in real oak so they'd resemble antique iceboxes.

  Whereas the first floor had been rebuilt to precisely match the original plans, the layout of the upper two floors had, by necessity, been completely redesigned. Each bedroom now included large walk-in closets to replace the former chifforobes, and modern replica plumbing fixtures had been installed in the bathrooms in place of the deteriorated antique plumbing. An elevator had also been added, which gave access to the three lower floors and the basement. The mechanical room had been housed within the fourth floor garret so it couldn't be seen from outside, but this meant that fourth-floor access was walkup only. The furniture in the house was mostly all original. It had been stripped, repaired where necessary, refinished, and reupholstered to appear as it had when new. Upon entering the house, a person would almost swear they had stepped back in time.

  Arlene's father, originally opposed to spending the small fortune the restoration of the estate would require, reluctantly came around when it was completed. Arlene had clearly stated her intention to occupy the mansion, and her father finally agreed to sell the family home and move the rest of the family to the estate. But he steadfastly refused to take money from Arlene and continued to work fulltime as an Information Technology Specialist. Of course, he did accept the occasional presents Arlene bestowed, such as the new luxury car each fall. The millions that the restoration work gobbled up had made a sizable dent in Arlene's trust fund, but she felt the work was worth every penny, and the enormity of the remaining mone
tary balance, which continued to grow due to careful investing, meant she would never have to worry about money for the rest of her life. Amelia Westfield's amazing insight into future events had allowed her to invest wisely and pass the proceeds onto her former/latter self.

  Arlene's dad— hurrying as always in the morning— rushed into the dining room, dropped his briefcase on the table, and immediately headed for the kitchen door, uttering a quick, "Morning, honey," to his daughter. With a job that kept him sitting in an office most of the day, her father had been putting on weight during the past decade, and he now tipped the scales at just over 210. This was all the more noticeable because he was only of average height. Arlene may have inherited the auburn hair color she had recently surrendered to become a blonde and the deep azure color of her eyes from her father, but her svelte figure surely came from her mother.

  Cook had her father's travel mug of coffee— light and sweet— already prepared, and he plucked it gingerly from her hands with wide smile and a "Thank you, Mrs. Brittle," then turned and hurried back through the door. "See you tonight, baby," he said to his daughter as he grabbed at the handle of his briefcase and rushed out again, probably never hearing her say, "Bye, Daddy." The dining room was much too far from the front drive for Arlene to hear his car as he gunned the engine and flew down the driveway towards the estate's front gate.

  *

  Arlene was still sipping at her tea when her mother came down for breakfast a half-hour later. Having worked as a bookkeeper until Arlene received her inheritance, Mrs. Watson had left her job of eight years with no regrets after they sold their former house and the family no longer had an acute need for the extra income. She would probably enjoy a leisurely breakfast this morning and then prepare for her normal weekday activities— a round of golf at the club (more as a form of exercise than any particular passion for the game), and then an afternoon of bridge at a friend's house. An inch shorter than Arlene, her mother's blond hair and hazel eyes might have previously kept strangers from speculating they were mother and daughter when out together. But with Arlene's change of hair color during her junior year in college, the facial similarities between mother and daughter had become much more obvious.