The Amulet

by Joanna Wayne

  And neither had he. He kissed her, and then they were a tangle of passion and desire. He couldn’t think. He didn’t have to. It just all came together.

  God, did it come together. He’d thought he’d had great sex before, but it was never like this. He moaned and called her name, over and over, while the hot, ragged need ran wild inside him.

  Just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, it did. She screamed in passion and he exploded as if someone had lit a firecracker in his bloodstream.

  When it was over he held her, glad he’d never made the promise to let her go. But then he felt tears on his chest and he cratered. What if he’d disappointed her? What if she was sorry they’d made love?

  “What’s wrong, Katrina?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re crying.”

  “Tears of joy.”

  He kissed them away. “If happiness makes tears, then I should be crying, too.”

  “Not you, Bart Finnegan. I bet you’ve never cried.”

  “Not in a long, long time. But I’ve cried. Men do, you know, but mostly we do it on the inside where it doesn’t show.”

  “If I’d been there when you cried, I would have kissed your tears away like you did mine.”

  “If you’d been there, there wouldn’t have been tears.”

  She snuggled beside him, then trailed her fingers up and down his chest. “There are things I need to tell you about me, Bart.”

  “Will I like them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I don’t want to hear them.”

  “I have to say them.”

  “Tomorrow. Say them tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but then you’ll have to listen.”

  “I’ll listen, but it won’t change how I feel about you. A million daybreaks can come and go, and I’ll still want you in my arms.”

  And drunk or sober, that was undoubtedly the corniest—and truest—words he’d ever uttered.

  CARRIE DRIED the last bowl and put it back in the cabinet with the rest of the neatly stacked dishes.

  “You do good work, Deputy Fransen. Do you hire out by the day?”

  “No. I only work for food. But any time you want to make me another pot of chili, I’ll be glad to help with kitchen chores.” She untied the borrowed apron and hung it back on the hook next to the pantry. “How did you learn to cook like that?”

  “Necessity and watching my grandmother. But my repertoire of menu items is limited. Chili, bacon and eggs, hamburgers and grilled salmon. That’s pretty much it, unless you count cereal and canned soup.”

  “Soup counts. Cereal doesn’t unless it’s hot cereal. You could earn a couple of brownie points for that.”

  “Always hated hot cereal. It tastes and looks like something you should feed hogs.”

  “Raised a lot of hogs, have you?”

  “No, but my grandmother made me listen to her read Charlotte’s Web every time she needed a good cry.”

  “You must have spent a lot of time with your grandparents when you were growing up. You seem so close to them.”

  “Just summers and holidays. But I am close to them.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I did all right, but I didn’t have the storybook kind of grandparents you did.”

  Or any grandparents for that matter, as least none that stepped forward to take care of her when she was four and her mother had died. No family. No roots. Nothing but a few memories that were from so long ago, she didn’t even know if they were real or something she’d made up along the way.

  “Where did you grow up?” Rich asked.

  “Arizona, near Tucson.”

  “That’s a nice area. How did you end up in Washington State?”

  “I worked with an airline. They transferred me here. I liked it and when I decided to go back to school, I worked my way through the University of Washington.”

  “Go Huskies.”

  That was the most she’d told anyone with the sheriff’s department about her past except Bart. It surprised her that she’d shared it with Rich. Maybe it was the storm and being here in his grandparents’ house that made her feel safe enough to talk about it.

  “Did your grandmother bake cookies and spoil you rotten?” she asked, switching the focus of their conversation back to him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Grandma baked cookies, but there was no spoiling. She made me toe the line. So did my parents except they were always working so I got away with more with them.”

  “What kind of work did they do?”

  “They own a neighborhood restaurant in Seattle. Dad still thinks he has to be there anytime the doors are open, and Mom’s almost as bad.” Rich opened the doors on one of the higher cabinets and moved a few bottles around. “How about an after-dinner drink? It will help you sleep through the howling wind.”

  “It does whistle around the corners, doesn’t it?”

  “Like a screeching owl convention.”

  “I don’t think it will keep me awake, though, not after that hike up the mountain. But the drink offer sounds good. What do you have?”

  “Brandy or a peppermint schnapps. The brandy is Granddad’s. The schnapps is Grandmother’s. That’s the only alcohol she drinks, but she loves her nightcap. I’ve got to remember to buy her a new bottle for Christmas.”

  “I’ll go with your Grandmother’s choice.”

  “You got it.” Rich took down two glasses and poured her a couple of fingers of the liqueur and himself a brandy.

  She picked up her glass and held it for a toast. “To Tom’s speedy recovery,” she said, “and a break in the investigation.”

  “I’ll drink to those.”

  They clinked glasses, and then she took hers back to the living room. Rich followed and added a few more logs to the grate. The old wood sputtered and spit out a few flames in protest, proof they weren’t dead yet. Jackson lifted his head to check out the noise that was interrupting his sleep.

  Being snowed in with Rich was not as awkward as she’d feared, at least it hadn’t been to this point. He was far more patient and thoughtful as a host than as a partner.

  Nonetheless, winter storms made strange bedfellows. Without an emergency, she and Rich would never have shared a cozy meal in his grandparents’ house or settled in front of a blazing fire for drinks.

  And she would never have picked up his grandfather’s book of mountain ghost tales. She’d read two stories. They’d frightened her so much, she’d had to put the book down even before Rich had announced the chili was ready.

  She picked it up again. “Have you ever read this?” She held the book so Rich could see the title.

  “No. I’m a Tom Clancy kind of man. I like details, not hogwash.”

  “Your grandfather must not think it’s hogwash. The books looks well read.”

  “He’s a smart man in lots of ways, but he’s superstitious as hell. I hate to admit it, but he’s as bad as Maizie is about that undead bull.”

  “Then he actually believes the stories about the undead roaming the mountains?”

  “Afraid so. He also believes in throwing salt over your shoulder, burying beans in the yard to cure warts and knotting your handkerchief to ward off evil spirits.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “But you said the two of you spent lots of time in the mountains. Why would he do that if he thought they were haunted?”

  “He figured if we didn’t bother the undead, they wouldn’t bother us. Someone must have told him that, or else he read it in the book you were reading or another one just as stupid.”

  “I haven’t come to that part.”

  “At any rate, we never encountered a ghost or goblin when we were in the mountains, not even when we camped out.”

  “If Maizie believes the ghosts are harmless like your grandfather did, then why would she blame them for Tom’s mental and physical condition?”<
br />
  “That’s just her. Some people blame the Democrats or Republicans for everything, Maizie blames the mountains. It does offer a lot of immunity from guilt. It’s not the pork chops and steaks or the biscuits and gravy that clogged Tom’s veins and caused a stroke but some undetermined curse of the mountains.”

  “She may have some strange ideas, but I like her.”

  “I like her, too,” Rich said. “But it’s hard to fathom intelligent people who are reasonable in every other way believing in ghosts.”

  Which was just the segue way she was looking for to bring up the files they’d examined at Fernhaven. “So what do you make of the complaints of phantasmal happenings at Fernhaven?”

  Rich set his empty brandy glass on the mantel and turned his back to the fire. “Talk about your crazies. The Fernhaven must send out flyers to mental hospitals offering free booze and double bonus points.”

  “So you’re ready to dismiss them all?”

  “You’re not?”

  She was—and she wasn’t. “What about Marjorie Lipscomb?”

  “What about her? She was probably drunk when she called security. She sobered up and withdrew the whole story. What was it she said? She had a nightmare?”

  “The report didn’t indicate she was drunk.”

  “It didn’t indicate those people who complained about their ice being late or washcloths folded wrong as being pampered jerks, either, but they obviously are.”

  “Dr. Lipscomb’s a renowned psychologist. We had to read her books at the university, and I heard her speak once. Her big thing is dropping inhibitions and fears and taking charge of your life. That hardly makes her the superstitious type.”

  “I’m not saying she’s superstitious,” Rich admitted. “I said she was drunk, or maybe popping pills or sniffing a little coke.”

  The cozy mood they’d shared briefly had totally dissolved. His attitude irritated her, or maybe she was irritated with herself for letting all this haunted lore get to her. Sheriff Powell would yank her off the case before she could say Bippity Boo or knot a handkerchief if he thought she gave the haunted aspect of Fernhaven any credence.

  Even Bart would think that was over the line.

  Rich kicked off his shoes and perched on the edge of the ottoman, putting them on eye level. “Don’t tell me you bought into Marjorie Lipscomb’s story.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good. We have a killer who’s threatened to strike again. We don’t have time to go off on a ghost hunt.”

  “You were the one who suggested going through the complaint files.”

  “I was looking for something concrete. Someone noticing a man hanging around where he shouldn’t be, someone following them or harassing them. I wasn’t looking for superstitious booby traps to bog down the investigation.”

  Rich left the ottoman and stirred the fire, and once again it hit her how well he fit in the house. Sturdy, rugged, no nonsense. Bossy, but she wasn’t sure that related to her comparison. He irritated her, but he fit the house and the area.

  She tried to imagine him as a young boy listening to his grandmother read Charlotte’s Web. The image wouldn’t gel, but she could easily imagine him out roaming the mountains with his grandfather or as a tough city cop.

  “What was it like working homicide in Seattle?”

  He propped a booted foot on top of the hearth. “Challenging. Interesting. Sometimes dangerous.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  He stoked the fire again then walked to the window, staring into the night for a few moments before turning back to her. “What did you hear?”

  “Nothing, except that you quit.”

  “I didn’t quit. I was let go.”

  That was news. Powell had acted as if they were privileged to have him. She probably shouldn’t ask about the situation, but they’d crossed several lines in their newly established partnership tonight. She might as well state the obvious. “Why did they let you go?”

  “I was charged with police brutality.”

  She stiffened impulsively. He’d finally worked up to tolerable in her book. Now he’d slipped back to ground zero.

  Rich turned back to the window. She couldn’t see his face, but she saw the muscles bunch in his arms and saw his hands clench into tight fists.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about the circumstances or are you just going to judge me from right there on top of your high horse?”

  “I wasn’t judging.” A lie, but what did he expect?

  “I used my fists to excess on a punk hoodlum.”

  Finally he turned to face her, and she could swear she could still see the anger in his eyes.

  “He’d just beaten a four-year-old boy to death,” Rich continued, his voice strained as if he found it difficult to talk about. “When I asked him about it, he laughed. He laughed, and I lost it.”

  Her insides knotted. She was sitting here fretting over farfetched stories of supernatural beings. He’d seen the body of a four-year-old who’d been beaten to death. They were on different planes, on different planets. No wonder he looked hard. He’d had to be.

  “One of the other punks caught enough of the beating on his cell phone camera that the city had to hold a hearing. Funny thing about punks. They all have guns and cell phones and anything else they can steal.”

  “Did you fight the charges?”

  “Nope. I refused to deny what I did, so I was let go.”

  She should say something, but only one thing came to mind. “I don’t know how you kept from killing him.”

  “My partner pulled me off.”

  “What happened to the punk?”

  “He was tried as a juvenile. He’ll be on the streets again when he’s eighteen.”

  “It seems I’d remember that, but I don’t.”

  “It was a few years back. You were probably away at school. I left law enforcement, roamed the country. Worked on a ranch in Montana for awhile, but then ended up back here when my grandfather had his first heart attack. Sheriff Powell heard I was back and signed me on. Now you know the rest of the story.”

  It gave her a whole new framework for how she looked at him.

  “What do you say we call it a night, Deputy Fransen? You can take my old bedroom. The mattress is newer.”

  “I say that’s a capital idea.”

  “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s only one. The towels on the rods are clean and it takes forever for the water to get hot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You bet. If you need anything during the night, you can squeak. I am a very light sleeper.”

  She nodded, picked up her glass and started to the kitchen to rinse it and put it in the sink. She was tired. She should fall asleep the second her head hit the pillow.

  She made it to the kitchen door before she turned around and went back for the book. Not because she believed in ghosts. It was just good business to know what the locals believed.

  One more story, and then she’d turn off the lights and go to sleep, hopefully not to dream of the stories in the book.

  THE MATTRESS on his grandparents’ bed was old and lumpy, but it was the thoughts pummeling his brain that wouldn’t let Rich fall asleep. He’d asked to be put on this case, thought he had something to offer. Now he was beginning to wonder.

  The only decent lead they had was Harlan Grant, and he’d slipped right through their hands. Rich had called that all wrong, and his mistake had almost cost Carrie’s life. Not that anyone blamed him, but he blamed himself.

  He should have arrested Harlan the second he stepped out of that pickup truck. They could have held him twenty-four hours for questioning. He just hadn’t figured the guy would head in the woods with two armed cops standing there.

  But the real surprise in all of this was Carrie Fransen. He hadn’t really liked her before he’d been assigned to this case. She was nice-looking. That was part of the problem. She was too cute. Upbeat. Officer Friendly in person.

  But
she was a lot more. Bart had figured that out. They’d been more than partners. He just wasn’t sure how much more. Not that it mattered or was any of his business.

  The important thing was that Carrie was a lot more capable than he’d given her credit for.

  He rolled over and punched the pillow a few times, then closed his eyes. The floorboards outside the bedroom creaked. He jerked to a sitting position as a light knock sounded at his door.

  “Come in.”

  “You have to see this, Rich.”

  It was Carrie, wearing one of his cotton T-shirts and holding that damned ghost book.

  “Not more ghosts?”

  “It’s worse. Much worse.” She pushed the book in front of him.

  One look and he knew the undead could no longer be ignored.

  Chapter Nine

  Rich picked up the book for a closer look at the graphic. It was the same symbol, all right, the same squiggly line intersecting with the straight line, appearing just as the cuts had on Elora Nicholas’s stomach.

  “Do you realize what this means, Rich?”

  He probably wasn’t thinking what she was. “It could mean any number of things. We have a perp who wants people to think the crimes were committed by a ghost or possibly he thinks he’s aligned with the dark side. Or maybe he just saw this symbol somewhere and liked it.”

  “Did you read what the book says about the symbol?”

  He read the caption beneath the drawing out loud. “‘The design is a symbol indicating the place where the spirit world and the living intersect. It can be used to represent a physical place or a supernatural event.’”

  “A place where the two worlds of the dead and the living mix,” she said, paraphrasing the statement. “A place like Fernhaven. This could be a major development, Rich.”

  He wasn’t sure where Carrie was going with this, but he had a feeling it wasn’t anywhere he was about to follow.

  “It helps narrow down our suspects,” he admitted, “and gives us some new clues that might lead to people we wouldn’t have considered otherwise. I’m not sure what else it does.”

  She pulled her feet up on the bed with her and sat cross-legged, facing him and the book. The T-shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing a little too much soft flesh to make this comfortable. Worse he could see the outline of her nipples beneath the worn cotton. He swallowed hard.