To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  He bolted upright, got the spins and puked. His head pounded. It took several deep breaths to regain his equilibrium. When he did, he took the knife from his pack and crawled on his knees through the cramped tunnel toward the invading crack of light. Pushing back the bushes, he spied the outline of a man a few feet distant. He squatted over an open fire. Busy cooking fish, he didn’t glance up. Was it him? Estrada pressed open the switchblade. It lacked the balance of his stage knives, but after years of hitting his mark, he surely would not miss. Black toque and rain jacket, blue jeans and hiking boots. His hands were dark-skinned like his own, his long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Pinching the knife end between his thumb and fingertips, Estrada considered.

  “I sure hope you’re not planning to wing that knife at me.” As the man stood, Estrada noticed that he was only slightly taller than Sensara, maybe five foot five. Way too short for the man, who stood eye to eye with him and must be at least six two. “That wouldn’t be friendly. Especially not after I cooked you breakfast.” His voice was husky for his size—like maybe he smoked even more than Michael—and when he smiled, he showed a mouthful of pale even teeth.

  “Who are you?” Estrada closed the knife and slipped it back in his pocket.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I asked first.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Judging by the condition of the coals, he’d been out there a while. He’d cut open the fish, gutted it, and was grilling it skin side down on a cedar plank over the open fire. As horrible as he felt, Estrada’s stomach growled. “Name’s Josh,” he said. He poured water into his cupped hand and sprinkled it over the fire. It sputtered as steam puffed into the air mixing with the smoke.

  “Estrada.”

  “Well, Estrada. Think you can eat some of this salmon? I figured that since this is hangover day, you might be hungry.” Estrada surveyed the small glade. Everything was covered with a couple of inches of pristine snow. “You can sit out here but you’ll end up with a cold wet ass. I was hoping to keep mine dry.” Josh must have been in his early twenties, but when he smiled he lit up like a kid.

  Estrada nodded. “I could eat. Come in.” The fish would fill his belly and maybe mask the taste of dead tequila.

  Josh carefully picked up the cedar plank and followed him into the cave. He deposited it on the bench, then unzipped his jacket and made himself comfortable sitting with his back against the wall, short legs stretched out in front.

  “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the platter of steaming salmon. He took a pouch of tobacco and a packet of papers from his pocket and rolled a cigarette.

  “How long have you been out there?” asked Estrada. Leaning over, he picked off a moist chunk of fish and slipped it into his mouth. Fresh and slightly charred, it tasted so savoury he quickly ate another.

  “Came up this morning at first light.” He flicked open his lighter and lit his smoke.

  “You see anyone else around here?”

  Settling back and smoking, he briefly considered the question. “Nah. No one. Your partner a no show?”

  “Partner?”

  “The guy you met here last week.”

  “You saw me—?” With sudden interest, Estrada perched on the stone bench.

  “Yeah man.”

  “What did you see?”

  Josh sniffed and exhaled a large mouthful of smoke. “Saw you arrive with hair like mine and leave looking like you’d been scalped.” He grinned.

  “Where were you?”

  “Fishing downriver.”

  “Ah. Right. I remember seeing some guys fishing.”

  “Yeah. That was me and my buddies. See I noticed that red car you drove up in—she’s a real beauty.” After butting out his smoke, he took a hunk of salmon and swallowed it. “Then yesterday, I was fishing again when you drove up on that Harley. Man, you got some fine wheels.”

  “The bike’s mine, but the car belongs to a friend.”

  Josh drank from his canteen and offered it to Estrada. “Tequila leaves you dryer than sagebrush, eh?” He took a healthy swallow and passed it back. “My old man used to drink that shit when he could get it. My brother and me were just kids, but we tried it a few times. Stole it from him. Fucks you up good.” He smiled at the memory, and then sniffed it into a frown. “Shit killed them both. I gave it up.”

  “Sorry man.” How did a man react to a statement like that? “You stopped drinking it. You’re smart, smarter than me.”

  “Hell. Alcohol’s always been a problem for us,” he said, gesturing to the empty bottle. “I just learned my lesson early.” Taking out his tobacco pouch, he rolled another smoke and lit it.

  “Still smoke though.”

  “Don’t have to worry about stunting my growth. I’ve always been a runt, and hey—tobacco’s sacred. I’m praying with this stuff. You should know that. What tribe you from?”

  “Tribe? Oh, right. My mother is Mayan.”

  “Mayan? No shit.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, you’re one heck of a long way from home, brother.”

  Estrada nodded. It was true. He hadn’t been back to Mexico since he left with his parents and sisters, even though his grandmother still wrote to him every few months. Sometimes she even came to him in dreams. One day, he would go back.

  “So, why you so eager to kill yourself?” The question, asked so matter-of-factly left Estrada speechless. Sensing his discomfort, Josh rambled off in a different direction. “You ever hear of the Stó:lō people?” Estrada shook his head. “Well, this is Stó:lō land. We’ve always fished this river. Hell, Stó:lō means river. I’m curious. What brings you to our river?”

  “Private matter.”

  Josh nodded. “That’s cool.” He stood up. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t died in here. My brothers and I hole up here sometimes. We don’t bring that shit with us, though. We bring our medicine.” He pulled another pouch out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and handed Estrada a twisted stick of dried leaves.

  Estrada stood, accepted the herb, and smelled it. “Sage. We use this too. Thank you.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “You don’t really have to leave, do you? I didn’t mean to be rude. I just—”

  Josh shook his head. “I’m in no hurry. Light her up.”

  Estrada used a candle to light the sage wand, and then offered the smoke to Josh, who gathered it in his hands and spread it over his eyes, hair, and body. When he was finished, he nodded to Estrada, who bathed his own body in the pungent smoke.

  “Man, that’s good. I feel better already.”

  “You need anything else? If not, I’m gonna leave you to eat the rest of this salmon.” He grinned. “I’ve got other fish to fry.”

  “Hey, thanks for everything.”

  “Word of advice? Lay off the booze, man. It fucks you up.”

  “I know,” said Estrada.

  “Oh, and one more thing. There’s a big old black bear spends every winter here. Maybe don’t stay too long. After last night’s snowfall he might come snuffling around looking for his bed.” Estrada grimaced. “I don’t know what kind of medicine you’ve been doing in here with these candles, but that old bear, he won’t care one way or the other.”

  “You sure you didn’t see anybody, Josh?”

  He shook his head. “You know; I really hope you don’t find this guy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You were aiming to kill me, man, and you don’t strike me as the killing type. Ask me, you should just go home and spend some time with your brothers. Leave this bastard to the elements.” He gestured to the empty bottle of tequila lying on its side in the corner of the cave. “Hell. Look what it’s done to you already.” He sniffed and scraped a knuckle across his nose. “My father always said that when you take a man’s life, you end up dragging his corpse around with you.”

  “True enough,” Estrada said. Leaning over, he grabbed his pack, took out his cell phone and turned it on. “Twen
ty messages.”

  “Always good to have friends, man.”

  Busy scrolling through texts, Estrada had stopped listening. His face, suddenly grave, caught Josh’s attention.

  “Bad news?”

  “Yeah. It’s from my friend, Dylan.” Estrada read it out loud, not as much for Josh to hear, as to make sense of it himself: “3 nights sensara dreams grace in ireland. maggie in danger. call me.”

  “That sounds like some kind of friggin code. Sensara dreams grace in Ireland?”

  “Yeah. Sensara’s my—” Estrada slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Sensara knows things. She’s psychic.” He took a deep breath. “This guy named Grace, kidnapped this girl, Maggie. We got her back; in fact, we found her just up the road from here. Her mother sent her to Ireland to stay with family. But now, it looks like Grace has gone after her. What I don’t understand is why he’d go that far and how he got there so fast? Maggie just left last week. How could he know?”

  “I know someone like this psychic. The thing with dreamers is, they don’t always dream in this time. You know what I mean? Like this Grace might be there now, but she might also be dreaming the past or the future.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Sensara has dreams and premonitions all the time. They rarely come in sequence with this reality.”

  Josh nodded. “So, this girl might be in danger, but maybe not yet. You know what I mean?”

  “The thing is Josh; I’m a big part of the reason this shit’s happening, and my friend Dylan loves this girl.”

  “So I guess you’re going to Ireland, eh man? The land of lucky charms?”

  “Lucky charms.” Estrada rubbed his three-day beard. “I wish I had one. Nothing seems to work for me lately.”

  “This Grace, he’s not the same guy that—?”

  “You are one astute son of a bitch.” He rubbed his head. “I don’t care about my hair, but he’s crazy. When he kidnaps girls, he kills them…burns them. We were lucky to get her back alive.”

  “That’s some bad shit, man.” Josh fished around in the pocket of his jeans, then held out his fist to Estrada. “Take this. Keep it on you all the time, even when you’re in the shower or sleeping or… Well, it is a lucky charm.”

  “What does it do?” Estrada held the tiny cedar carving in the palm of his hand. It was no bigger than an acorn, and as smooth and round as a stone. He’d seen his share of talismans but never anything quite like it.

  “I don’t know, man, but it works. It’ll keep you safe. Hey, who knows? It might even help grow back your hair.”

  ≈

  Wedged in a thin tunnel above the cave, the man laid on his belly, cradling his chin in his hands. He was listening intently to the conversation. Though stiff from lying so long in such a hard cold place, it had been worth it. After the magician passed out, he’d crawled down into the cave and laid beside him for hours, feeling the beat of his heart, but resisting the urge to caress and awaken him.

  And now, this perfect man, this hero, was flying to Ireland to rescue a damsel he’d put in distress. Assured that his plan was working perfectly, the man pictured Estrada, free and willing and thinking only of him. One day, they’d be together again, and there would be no need for ropes or drugs. There would only be love.

  ≈

  “Seems to me there was a fella name o’ Paddy Vale who used to play with Finn O’Farrell…older fella, crackerjack fiddler.”

  Maggie wondered just how much older that could be. Declan was definitely a pensioner himself. Clutching his pint affectionately with both hands, he ruminated, wiggling his nose occasionally and snuffling somberly. Recollecting the names and faces of the past took concentration, as the stories of a thousand and one pub nights jigged and reeled through his mind.

  Ensconced in a cozy snug, Maggie and Primrose sipped through a second pot of strong black tea. Primrose had discovered Declan on one of her many forays into the crowd. After canvassing the locals with her great elfin eyes, she would venture out, and return with some old timer whose portly paunch was testament to his extent of pub lore. Although a few of Sligo’s older patrons had heard tales of the supposedly renowned fiddler, none could give the young women a firm answer as to his whereabouts. Declan, they hoped, would pay off for the price of a Guinness or three.

  With his leathered face etched in a scowl, Declan reminded Maggie of an old cowboy. His boorish snuffling didn’t give him quite the charm of Clint Eastwood or Sam Elliott, but he was a compelling character, mostly because he reminded her of her dad. Cowboys were her childhood heroes because of John. The two of them had cradled each other through hours of western melodrama in the log house. So much so, that Maggie grew up dreaming of living on a ranch where herds of horses ran free through raging rivers; where cows might get branded but never slaughtered; where bad guys got their comeuppance; and good guys rode off into the sunset leaving the town behind them a safer, albeit lonelier, place.

  Declan snorted, jarring her back from her reverie, and then set his pint squarely on the table. “Sure, I’m almost certain. I can see him in my mind’s eye.”

  Now for the million-dollar question. “Any idea where we can find him?”

  Fureys was the third pub they’d visited in Sligo that featured traditional Irish music, and after a long uneventful day, she was drained. Constant travel, at Primrose’s frenetic pace, was taking its toll. Apart from the platter of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, and brown bread, she’d wolfed down for brunch, the day had been a bust, and she just wanted it to end.

  To make matters worse, she’d called home several times and couldn’t reach her mother at the house, at work, or at the hospital where John still lay comatose; his condition unchanged according to the on-call nurse. Finally, after deciding that Shannon must have gone off somewhere to have a moment’s peace, Maggie gave up, and set about explaining away the uneasy sensation that had settled in her belly. An alcoholic binge, followed by fasting, a quick brunch, and several vats of black tea could wreak havoc on any digestive track. Shannon would say she was paying penance—a Catholic euphemism for hangover—and so far from home, where no amount of worrying would have any effect, she could accept that theory.

  Declan was still ruminating on the question. “No, can’t say that I do,” he replied at last, and rubbed his stubbly chin. Then, just when Maggie had decided they’d be leaving empty-handed again, he proffered a clue. “Finn, though, Finn might know. He lives up the Donegal Road, up around Drumcliffe.”

  “Oh. Can we call Finn?” asked Maggie.

  Declan pursed his lip and sniffed. “No, no phone. Finn doesn’t believe in modern conveniences. Says stuff just ties a man down, stuff does.”

  Maggie glanced around the pub. Fureys was filling rapidly as a session was promised after ten. A flutist and banjo player, who’d already set up in the front booth by the window, chatted casually in the spot reserved for musicians. It was rumoured, some famous trad player might show up later. Fureys was the haunt of Dervish, one of the biggest bands in Irish traditional music, and although they were out of town touring, plenty of friends and fans dropped by to sit in on sessions with the local players who frequented the pub. Someone was always popping in, according to Declan, who loved the music and the pints, but really came for the craic.

  “How would you go about tracking this Finn down?” Primrose asked.

  Maggie couldn’t believe how different Ireland was from Canada. In Vancouver, everyone had a cell phone; sometimes everyone in the family had their own. In Ireland, although she’d seen plenty of people with cell phones, there were still old folks who lived in cottages way out in the middle of nowhere; cottages without phones or computers, or the myriad appliances Canadians took for granted. Stuff just ties a man down—she’d have to think on that. Maybe this Finn had a point. They had been travelling without technology for several days and she hadn’t missed a thing.

  Declan drained his glass and set it down on the table with a flourish. “It seems to me that Finn has a granddaug
hter who works at the tea shop at Drumcliffe Cemetery.”

  “There’s a tea shop at a cemetery?” Maggie asked. Of course there was. Ireland was full of the dear departed and people anxious to track them down, just as she was doing—people who needed to be fortified with tea.

  “Aye, sure. Drumcliffe is where the famous Willie Yeats is interred. Always draws a crowd. You should see this town in summer when his festival’s raging. Folks come from all over the world just to see where himself is buried; as if seeing his grave might connect them somehow to his soul, which God bless us all”—crossing himself, he raised his eyes to the roof— “is with the Lord in heaven and not hovering over some stone cold slab by the sea.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Primrose whispered to Maggie with a quick wink, while Declan turned his attention to his empty glass and the keg of Guinness at the bar. The remark gave her goose bumps.

  The grave of Yeats—that was something worth seeing, even if they couldn’t find Finn’s daughter at the teashop. She loved his poem about “The Stolen Child” who was seduced away by faeries who believed the human world was just too sad a place for the child to live: “a world more full of weeping than he can understand.” Shocked, she realized that her literature class had studied it only three weeks before, and yet it seemed as if months, or even years, had passed. Another shiver rippled through her flesh.

  “Do you know how to get to Drumcliffe Cemetery?” she asked Primrose, who flashed her anime eyes at Declan.

  “Ah, just drive straight up the Donegal Road and you’ll find it sure,” he repeated with a wink of his leathery eye. “Are you all right now? Would you like a pint? This conjuring up the past is a dry affair.”

  “No thank you, Declan,” said Maggie. “I don’t think I’ll ever need a pint again. But, have one on me.” Primrose winked, obviously pleased that she’d learned her lesson.

  “Say, can I ask you something?” Declan said to Primrose. “I’ve been admiring your artwork. What’s the meaning of that?” He motioned to the symbols interwoven through the dark trees silhouetted on her head.