by Nell DuVall
Later that afternoon, when the rush finally slowed, she got back to Roget’s Thesaurus and looked up rabid. When she turned to the entry cited, she laughed. Mad as a March Hare. Well, why not? Jimmy would get a kick out of that and, maybe, just maybe, it would teach him something about Roget’s. At least she no longer had to worry about Ian McLeod and his rabbit.
Chapter Six
Ian turned over the small envelope marked Personal. It bore no return address, and he didn’t recognize the neat, rounded letters of the writing. Most people, except MaryLou, his long-suffering secretary, found his handwriting almost indecipherable. Why she put up with him, he didn’t know, but he always thanked his lucky stars she did. Friends often asked him if he had switched from medicine to accounting because, according to them, only doctors had worse handwriting.
He received little personal mail at the office. Most of his friends sent invitations and cards to his home. From the postmark, it had been mailed yesterday. Puzzled, he opened the envelope. From inside he pulled out a small postcard-sized slip of paper.
Dear Mr. McLeod,
Your life is in danger. Someone wants to kill you. Dreams don’t lie. Beware rabid black rabbits.
A friend
Ian stared down at the note. Someone wanted to kill him? He hadn’t seen a note like this in two years. Just after James Harrison had died, some crank had sent threatening notes, but they had stopped after a few months. Yet this seemed a little different.
Instead of threatening him, it sounded more like a warning. No one had any reason to want to kill him. Nothing had happened to support such an idea, no accidents or strange events.
Dreams don’t lie? Someone obviously knew nothing of nightmares. Had some nut dreamed about him? Ian frowned. He didn’t like the feel of this.
Beware of rabid black rabbits? He laughed. Someone had a warped sense of humor. It had to be a practical joke. It couldn’t be serious. Anonymous notes usually came from people who didn’t want to be tied to the mischief they created. He couldn’t think of anyone who would bother with such juvenile nonsense.
Crumpling the note, Ian then tossed it toward the wastebasket. He had more important things to do than to deal with an anonymous note. He went on to the rest of his mail and forgot about the note.
At six, he pushed his chair back from the desk and rose. He stretched and then hunched his back to loosen the muscles in his neck. Walking around more would ease that. Once he got involved with a problem, nothing else mattered until he had resolved it.
At least tonight, he didn’t have to worry about Sharon. She had aerobics on Wednesday. Thinking of her reminded him he had not yet called his brother David about the wedding. Not usually one to procrastinate, his reluctance troubled him.
“Follow your heart.” His grandmother’s words came unbidden to him. She had been special to him and had understood him better than his mother. She’d always had time for him. He still missed her advice.
His mother had wanted him to be the world’s foremost concert violinist, the next Perlman, but he hated the instrument and only practiced when he couldn’t get out of it. The whine of the strings when he hit a wrong note irritated him. His grandmother had smiled wisely and took him aside.
“Ian, you should not hate the violin. It is not the instrument at fault. You must follow your heart and let your fingers find their place naturally. Don’t force them.”
She had taken the instrument from him and played Danny Boy. She closed her eyes and the music flowed over him with a haunting, hurting quality to it that brought tears. His grandmother played, eyes closed, a sad smile on her face. As the last notes faded, she lowered the instrument, and Ian came to himself.
“That is playing from the heart.” She handed the violin back to him.
After that, Ian practiced more and tried to make his notes echo those of his grandmother. Though he could never quite do it, he became much better. He played the gay Irish and Scottish jigs and dances best. He never played Danny Boy or the sad ballads. His fingers rebelled.
“It will come,” his grandmother assured him. “You have to grow up first. How can you play a sad song unless you have known that sorrow yourself? Always listen to your heart.”
He hadn’t played the violin in years, not since his grandmother died. That had happened during his senior year in high school. After her funeral, he had tucked the violin away on the top shelf of his closet. At the memory, he flexed his fingers.
Follow his heart? Had he done that with Sharon? He cared for her. He couldn’t see anyone else as his wife. The relationship offered everything he had sought and yet something niggled at him. He wanted something, something more, but he couldn’t define what.
Sharon epitomized all any man could want in a wife. She would be a partner on whom he could rely. He would never have to worry about her. Cool, classic, always in control.
Follow your heart. Had his heart or his head chosen Sharon? Did it really matter? He had made the decision to marry before he had asked Sharon. He had no other woman in mind, so he had no excuse for hesitating.
He had never been in love and had reached the conclusion the movies had it wrong. He could admire and lust after a shapely body like any healthy male, but love? He loved his mother. He had loved his grandmother, but he had never felt that ‘til death us do part’ desire for anyone. Maybe he had grown beyond that age and bypassed it altogether. So why this empty ache, this yearning for something he couldn’t identify? How could he miss something he had never experienced?
He should call David. It would be good to talk to him and catch up a little. Tonight. Or was this the night David bowled? If he didn’t call David soon, Sharon would ask him about it, and he would have no answer. The thought of discussing his doubts with her left him even more uncertain and dissatisfied. Perhaps he just had a case of pre-marriage jitters. Making a commitment for the rest of his life scared him and yet that was exactly what marriage was. For the rest of his life.
Ian locked his desk, then his office, and left. No one lingered in the outer office so he locked the outer door as well. Pocketing his key, he went off, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets.
* * * *
Quiet settled over the empty office. Only the dim green glow of the lights on the copier and the various computer workstations remained. Everyone had left for the day, even Ian McLeod. The cleaning crew would arrive soon. Brad would have to check McLeod’s office now. He pulled out his key ring and fingered the keys until he found the master key.
After he started work at McLeod Enterprises, it had taken him some months to find the opportunity to remove MaryLou’s keys without her knowledge. The day he did, she thought at first she had lost them and was on the verge of telling McLeod so the locks could be changed. Brad had urged her to wait and search for the keys again. He agreed to help her look.
Late that afternoon, he almost laughed at her look of relief when he produced them. He told her he had found them on the floor behind the copier. Of course, he had made a copy first on his lunch break before returning the keys. MaryLou had thanked him profusely.
Brad pushed the brass key in the lock and turned it carefully. Even though the building looked empty, he exercised his customary caution to make as little noise as possible.
He opened the door to Ian’s office and slipped inside as he did every night. He waited a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the fading sun and then moved quickly toward the large desk positioned in front of the window. He rifled rapidly through the various folders on the desk, but kept them in neat stacks just as Ian had left them. Nothing of interest caught his eye.
Picking up the wastebasket, he began sorting through its contents. One empty milk carton, a yogurt container, four empty foam cups, assorted crumpled pages of figures and notes, and a couple of letters labeled Draft. He smoothed out each of the crumpled sheets, read them, and then scrunched them back up. The usual garbage.
About to set the basket back, he saw a marble-sized ball o
f paper on the floor next to where the basket had been sitting. He picked the paper ball up and carefully straightened it out. The wrinkles made it hard to read at first.
Dear Mr. McLeod,
Your life is in danger. Someone wants to kill you. Dreams don’t lie. Beware rabid black rabbits.
A friend
A chill ran down his spine, as he read the note and spread to his fingers. Someone wants to kill you. Someone knew. He didn’t know how, but someone had found out about his plans.
Brad stopped. He didn’t move, not even his eyes as he sorted through the possibilities. How? Who? He had been so careful, so meticulous. How could anyone know? Yet someone did.
In a panic, he dug through the basket again looking for the envelope, tossing pieces of paper right and left. His fear threatened to overwhelm him. At the bottom, he found a small envelope with no return address just a little larger than the note. Marked Personal in a firm hand, the address had also been handwritten in a script like that of the note. The note had been signed A Friend. Neither the envelope nor the writing told him anything.
Rabid black rabbits? Was someone playing a joke? What did that mean? What could McLeod have to do with rabbits? Brad could think of no connection for the word rabbit. Maybe the keyword was rabid. Somebody thought a crazy person was after McLeod.
Brad snorted. He wasn’t a rabbit, and he wasn’t crazy. Maybe he was being paranoid, and the note wasn’t about him. But, if not, who was it about?
He narrowed his eyes in a twisted smile. He had good reason to want McLeod dead. The Bible said ‘an eye for eye.’ McLeod owed him for the two lives he had ended.
Justice. He had become jury, judge, and executioner because he couldn’t expect justice from a perverted legal system whose only interest was to protect the property of the wealthy. He would make his own justice.
He looked back at the note and crushed it in his hand. McLeod would pay. Oh yes, he would pay. Brad couldn’t afford discovery now, not when he was so close. He would have to be even more careful. He clenched his fingers in a tight fist.
No one must interfere with his plans for Ian McLeod.
He had worked too long and too hard to fail. Vengeance lay within his grasp. Then, once he finished with McLeod, he could get on with his own interrupted life.
For a brief moment, he considered his plan. That McLeod would not know who had killed him or why, he regretted. His own safety demanded secrecy. If the police had no motive, they would also have no suspects. He had laid a false trail, and he expected the hounds of the law to circle in vain looking for their quarry.
He started to toss the crumpled ball back into the trash and then stopped. Rubbing his chin, he considered the possibilities of the note. False trails. Umm, maybe he could use this to lay one more trail. The rabbit might be useful after all.
He laughed and shoved the crumpled ball into his pocket. Picking up the scattered debris from floor, he scooped it and the envelope back into the trash. He glanced around the office again to make sure he had left no trace of his presence. Satisfied, he carefully locked the office and left by the back door.
He whistled as he started his motorcycle. Fate had played into his hands. Yes, things definitely were going his way.
Chapter Seven
Friday came before Cassie realized it. No need to worry about fashion at Tula’s parties because casual ruled. Tula lived in Victorian Village, north of downtown Columbus and just south of the Ohio State University. The area of old Victorian houses had undergone some renovation and investment but still represented an eclectic mixture of students, professionals wanting the proximity to downtown and the galleries of the Short North, long time older residents, and even some less desirable elements. Its student population varied with the seasons, lowest during the summer and highest in the fall.
Cars lined both sides of Tula’s street, so Cassie had to park on a side street a block away. Good food and lively people attracted a diverse crowd including professors, students, artists, poets, and authors. No one went away hungry or bored.
Tula’s house, a red brick, had a wide front porch. Despite the chill in the crisp air, a number of young people lolled about smoking and talking. While Tula liked a wood fire and candles or an occasional joss stick, she refused to allow smoking in her home. As Cassie climbed the steps and crossed to the front door, she nodded to the group on the porch, none of whom she knew. The heavy oak door stood open. Two young men and a girl came out to the join the others on the porch.
Having met Rod at one of Tula’s parties, Cassie had hesitated about attending this one. Even Tula never knew who would come to her gatherings. However, in a crowd, it would be easy to avoid Rod if he came. Being with a lot of people would make her forget dreams. Besides, with the note mailed, she no longer had to worry about Ian McLeod and the black rabbit. This time she had taken action.
Inside, the crowd milled in the square entry hall and split into two streams. One spilled over into the large front parlor and through the wide square arch to the dining room. The other wound up the stairs to the rooms above. Carried forward by the people entering behind her, Cassie found herself on the staircase. Seeing no one she knew among those lining the stairs, she climbed up to the second floor. The landing at the top formed a large square hall with doors to four rooms and a bath opening off it.
Through the door to her right, a group of people clustered about a dark haired woman in a gold silk blouse seated cross-legged on the floor in front of an overstuffed sofa. Books lined three walls of the room with windows on the fourth wall. A tall lamp lighted the room and cast a glow on the seated woman.
She had a series of cards spread out before her in a cross with another group of four lining the right side. A young man in jeans and a white T-shirt kneeled opposite her and stared down at the cards. A bearded man sat next to him while a girl in a green miniskirt and another man in jeans hovered on the other side of him. Cassie took a place to the left side beyond the bearded man and near the windows lining the front wall.
Cassie studied the woman’s strong features and wondered if she had Romany ancestors. Tarot cards had become the in-thing. Funny how people clung to fortune telling. Tula believed in the cards, but always reminded her, choice remained with the person and not the cards.
As the dark haired woman nodded, the silvery hoops in her ears jangled. “Yes, the answer to your question is that you will succeed, but change may come from an unexpected quarter. You are unlucky in your choice of romantic partners.”
The blond young man frowned and then glanced quickly to the orange-shirted, bearded man on his left. “What type of change?”
“I don’t know. These cards don’t tell that.” She picked up the cards and added them to the others in her hand. “Do you want me to cast again?”
“Come on, Brian.” The bearded man pulled on the young man’s arm. “Enough of this mumbo jumbo. Let’s go. I need a drag, now.” He stood up and ambled toward the door like John Wayne. He leaned against the door frame as he waited.
Wistful, the young man looked at the cards and then at the impatient man at the door. He sighed. “All right, Victor, I’m coming. Thanks, Leah.” He rose and trailed after the bearded man, his steps lagging.
The young woman in the green miniskirt moved into his place. She accepted the cards from Leah, shuffled them, and handed the deck to her.
Leah held the cards for a moment. “Your question?”
The woman in green reached out a hand to the man sitting next to her. “I want to know if I’m doing the right thing.”
Leah, the diviner nodded and pushed up the nest of silver bangles on her wrist. She laid the cards out face up, beginning in the center. She laid a second card atop the first at right angles to it, then one above the crossed pair, one to the right, one below, and then one to the left of the pair. The girl watched every movement, her eyes darting from place to place as Leah placed the cards.
As she turned, the face of each one up, the girl clutched the man’s
hand more tightly. Next, Leah set out four more cards from the bottom to the top along the right side.
Once she laid out cards, the woman leaned back, hands resting on her knees to study them. “You have recently had a broken relationship and have now found a new lover.”
The girl exchanged glances with the man, and he squeezed her hand.
“Your past weaknesses still influence the present. You must overcome these in order to succeed in your new relationship, but the future looks bright, and you will find that which you seek.” She smiled at the pair facing her across the cards.
The girl let out a pent-up breath and hugged the man. “See, Bob, I told you everything would be fine. Now do you believe me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Umm, I guess so. Let’s get something to eat.”
He helped the girl to her feet, and she called ‘thank you’ from the door as the two of them left. Only Cassie and Leah remained.
“Hi, I’m Leah Chernowski.” The silver bangles slid forward with a soft tinkle as the card reader held out her hand to Cassie.
“Cassie.” She stared down at the short, stubby fingers gripping hers. Leah’s hands looked the twin to Cassie’s own. “Cassie Blake.”
“Would you like a reading?” Leah picked up the cards and held them out to her.
“I ... I don’t know.” Cassie looked at the deck of cards, uncertain. “You didn’t need cards to read those people.”
“Perhaps not, but it makes them feel better. Besides, the cards only speak to those who listen. Some people have closed minds.”
Leah’s words stung Cassie. She prided herself on being open minded. The fortunes of the others had sounded innocuous. Besides, what could this woman tell her anyway? From the sample she had already heard, most likely Leah would tell her she would find true love and live happily ever after. She had nothing to fear.