Morgan began. “The new moon is a time of new beginnings and fresh opportunities. The dark side of the moon is facing us. To some, that will be unsettling.” Morgan always began her lessons with some kind of spiritual lecture. Usually Deirdre used the time to stretch while she listened with half an ear. “If you aren’t comfortable with unanswered questions, this time may be difficult for you. Let the emotions you feel become separate from you, allow yourself to observe them without judgment or fear. The void of the new moon provides a blank slate, an emptiness that can be filled with whatever you choose. Ask yourself, what is your purpose on this earth, in this life?” Morgan left the question hanging, and began an ohm, and the group slowly joined in one by one. She released her breath, and began another ohm, this time with everyone in unison. The vibration was palpable.
Damn right I’m not comfortable with unanswered questions, Deirdre thought as she felt her cheeks vibrate. Jeez, I don’t even know what the questions are! Oh well. She moved on.
What is my purpose? I’m a mom, a wife, a horsewoman. I run my own small business. Those didn’t seem like purposes somehow. What is my purpose? Deirdre let her mind go blank.
Just when she thought that she wasn’t thinking anything at all, a vision appeared, a woman on horseback, in slo-mo, riding directly toward her. Her hair was flying behind her, and the horse lifted its nose defiantly in the air. As the woman got closer, a ringing sound began, then got louder and louder, filling the room. Too loud. Her eyes flew open, banishing the vision. She fully expected to see Morgan holding her bronze Tibetan singing bowl, swishing the stick around the outer edge and making it hum like a tuning fork with feedback.
But Morgan was sitting immobile in Full Lotus, staring directly into Deidre’s third eye. She winked.
* * *
REBECCA AND JEREMY WERE speeding along Rancho Alto Road, through the dark part where nothing was built yet. The car window reflected her pale face. Jeremy’s mood had shifted in the hours since his bet in the hallway, from goofball to tense and jaw-clenched. Maybe he was bipolar. Or maybe he just hated deep-frying as much as she did.
“So what got Prince of Persia’s knickers in a twist yesterday?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
“What are you talking about?” So Jeremy had noticed her and Darius’ little spat. But it didn’t matter now, and she wasn’t about to spill her guts to Jeremy. She busied herself rearranging the contents of her backpack. Prince of Persia. What an asshole. No wonder Darius didn’t like him.
“Never mind,” he said, then, “What the…”
Rebecca looked ahead. Illuminated in the headlights, an apparition in white hovered on the side of the road. Her first thought was that she was seeing the White Lady, roaming a little outside her normal territory. But then Jeremy slammed on the brakes, jerked the wheel to the right and hopped the curb, stopping the car in a cloud of dust and tumbleweeds in front of a waifish girl, her long dirty blond hair blowing in the night breeze. She was tall and thin and wore a cheap white pleather biker jacket covered in zippers, with white jeans and white plasticky stilettos. He was out of the car and flung the door closed behind him.
“What are you doing out here?” his muffled voice came through the windshield. She rolled her window down to hear them better.
The girl swayed away from him, then focused on his face. “I needed a walk.” She swung a hideously large pleather handbag between her feet. It was curiously old-fashioned, the fact that the bag and heels and jacket all matched.
“Get in, I’ll take you home.” How chivalrous. He’s a veritable taxi service for teenage girls.
“No,” the girl said airily.
His voice became a low growl. “Get in.”
“John’s coming to pick me up.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be here any minute. Got a light?” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of one of her zippered pockets, almost losing her balance.
“John?” he sounded disbelieving.
“Yes.” She said it lightly, but the tension was as thick as the blackness that surrounded them.
“You’ve been drinking.”
The girl shrugged, pulled out a lighter and sparked it. She looked straight at Rebecca for the first time while she puffed her cigarette to life. “Look, I had to get out of there for a little while.”
Jeremy hung his head. “Fine. Do whatever you want, just like you always do. Just don’t come crying to me if you end up raped and murdered in a ditch.”
Damn, that’s harsh. Not only that, but the logical part of Rebecca’s brain pointed out, it would be technically impossible to cry if she was dead.
Jeremy got back in the car. They left the girl in a cloud of dust.
He took a hard right into San Amaro. Now there was cinderblock and street lights where the black wilderness had been. She was debating whether to ask who that girl was, when red and blue flashes filled the dark car. Her heart leapt into her throat. A siren whooped briefly behind them, then she was plastered to her seat as the engine whined.
“What are you doing? Pull over!” she screamed, turning to look behind them. A sea of emergency lights blinded her. Just as quickly as he’d accelerated, Jeremy eased off and pulled to the side of the road.
The procession sped past. Practically a whole kid’s playset of emergency vehicles: black and white cop car, red paramedic truck, yellowy-green fire engine, and a white ambulance bringing up the rear.
They both breathed out.
“Sorry,” he laughed feebly. “Instinct. I didn’t scare you did I?”
“Scare me? Oh no. I enjoy being a helpless passenger stuck in a car with a maniac trying to outrun the cops.”
“C’mon. Nothing happened.”
“The last thing I need is more trouble with the law. Just take me home.”
“More trouble?” he asked.
“I got busted for skating up where I used to live. Nothing major, but I can’t get in trouble again.”
They turned the corner onto Fairy Glen Road, ran the stop sign by the playground, but as they passed the apartment complex, he slowed down and peered around her, looking into the parking lot. “Don’t you dare make another one of your quick stops,” she said, acid burning her tongue. But then she turned and looked too.
All of the blinking red and blue lights were swarmed together, gathered around the apartment he’d stopped at last Saturday. He pulled in, drove around and parked next to the black pickup, got out and strode toward the mayhem. Neighbors were gathered around rubbernecking. She followed Jeremy as he snaked his way through the crowd.
“What is it?” she asked, jogging to keep up.
He didn’t answer, walked faster. She stopped and just watched.
“Jeremy!” a woman wailed from the center of the emergency vehicles, which were all circled like wagons in an old Western. “Jeremy!”
She wore a red negligee, her hair of many colors thrashed and fried and standing on end, definitely older than them but it was hard to tell how much. The same woman she’d seen in the black pickup truck the other night, who now fell into Jeremy’s arms and clung there like a limpet at low tide.
Rebecca melted into the darkness, resigned to hike home through the woods. Jeremy was too busy to notice her leaving.
She really had to do something about her transportation situation. She had a distinct feeling Jeremy would be missing more work in the future, but didn’t trust him to make good on his bet. Especially now.
As she scaled the embankment that led to the trail home through the woods, the one that only kids on bikes knew about, she turned to look again. The EMTs were loading a stretcher into the ambulance.
Thursday, October 11
THE HOUR OF INSOMNIACS again, but this time there was no moon. It was better that way.
Hector had parked far enough down the road, and walked the rest of the way, enjoying the sound of gravel crunching under his lightweight tactical boots. The veterinary hospital was just ahead. He skirted the fence surrounding the property, fou
nd a good entry point at the back corner of the lot, farthest from the buildings, a few white fenced pastures in between.
He silently scaled the chainlink and dropped to the ground below. The barn was about 100 yards away. He covered the distance in silence, not worrying about being seen. There were people here, he knew that, but they were inside the main building, and probably asleep.
He slipped into the breezeway of the darkened barn. Nobody here except horses. He passed each stall, flashing his penlight on the ID cards attached to the wall. The fourth one belonged to Swift Justice.
The horse came closer, moving with difficulty, neck and front legs in bandages, its huge eyeballs observing him, limpid and trusting in the quiet darkness. It got close enough that its velvet, stubbly muzzle could touch his hand where it rested on top of the half-door. He pulled his hand away.
He still had time to change his mind, and was half inclined to. After all, this was a fool’s errand. But, he was playing the fool, for now. Might as well commit to the part.
From one of the bags attached to his belt, he took out a pre-filled syringe. Now came the tricky part, finding the vein. It was a bit harder than on a human.
Walking back to the car, he felt acid in his stomach. This errand was simply…distasteful. Yes, that was the word.
But, who was he to quibble. His bosses would appreciate every penny he could extract from his debtor.
* * *
DEIRDRE WAS DROPPING JUSTIN at Stanton Academy’s roundabout driveway, when she saw Sally’s white Subaru wagon pull in behind her. Sally came to her window as Justin and Emily greeted each other and walked through the quad together.
“Could you bring Emily home today?” Sally threw her straight pale hair behind her shoulder. “I’m gonna work late. Got a few friends in the planning department, and I can hit them up for info on Paraiso.”
“Sure,” Deirdre said. “Hey that reminds me, I went riding yesterday, and you know those morteros down past the vacation park? They’re gone, completely dug up.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Looks like construction for the road maybe? I wanted to tell you last night at yoga, but you weren’t there. How was your date?” Remembering it was a secret too late, she barely stopped herself from slapping a hand over her mouth.
But Sally didn’t seem to mind. “It was…actually pretty great.” She sounded excited, not like her. “Man, it’s been a long time, but Tom is really—when he interviewed me I was just annoyed. But then at a certain point he looked up, and all I could see was his green eyes, and his plain face. Plain in a good way. I asked him out and he said yes.” The misty look in her eyes cleared up. “But the date got cut short. Some kind of suspicious death at the apartments by Albertson’s. He had to go investigate. Sounded like an overdose, but the girlfriend was hysterical, insisting it was murder. Thanks, San Amaro Hills,” she said sarcastically. “We never had stuff like that before that low-income housing was built.”
Deirdre wasn’t as quick to place blame as Sally. She’d lived in low-income housing when Rebecca was young, and still felt defensive when people downed it. But, taking an idea from Sally, she said, “You know, I’ve got a friend that might know a few things too.”
On the way back from the academy, Deirdre took a detour through Rancho Alto’s central village to visit the offices of High Living Magazine, ‘The Luxury Lifestyle, Home and Fashion Publication of Rancho Alto.’
She did their accounting in exchange for an ad in the back. Sometimes she wondered if it really brought in enough new clients to justify the work. The magazine itself was just glossy pages of useless fluff, in her opinion. Big homes, big pools, sunsets, women with big fake boobs plopped atop skeletal torsos, modeling extremely expensive but curiously unbecoming fashions that were meant to be worn by millionaire matrons, not valley girls one step up the fame ladder from doing porn.
Oh well. The editor was an old friend of hers. Sharon had often complained that there was no difference between the editorial content and the advertising. To be seen in it was its only point, either with a full spread article about your lovely home, or at the very least, in the society pages at the back. “It’s a wonder my journalism professor doesn’t drive down here and snatch my degree off the wall,” Sharon had complained to her. “Not to mention, everyone who doesn’t live around here thinks High Living is a cannabis magazine. At least the pay is decent.”
The other benefit, in Deirdre’s mind, was that Sharon knew everything that was happening in Rancho Alto. Whether she was supposed to or not.
The village square had the feel of a small south of France town—lots of whitewashed arches, blue awnings, and red Spanish tile roofs. She parked the Bronco in the shade and despite the heat, took the outside stairs two at a time, bursting in with a tinkle of the bell that hung over the blue paned glass door.
Sharon was sitting at her desk staring at her computer, lines of concentration etched between her eyebrows. “Hi Dee!” she said, looking at her over half-moon glasses under straight, dark bangs. “Oh my gosh, did I forget what day it is?” She shuffled through her desk calendar.
“No, you didn’t.” Deirdre took a deep breath, enjoying the old adobe’s smell. The room was warm, and the windows set deep in thick walls were open to let in fresh, if not cool, air. A ceiling fan with blades shaped like palm leaves turned lazily above. “I’m not here for the books. I wanted to ask what you know about the Paraiso project.”
Sharon looked relieved, but then lines of worry appeared between her eyebrows again. “Funny you should ask. That’s what’s giving me this massive headache,” she said as she stood up and leaned against the desk. Her slim form looked elegant in a second hand Chanel suit and heels, with estate gold necklaces looping down to her waist. Her brown bob and ecru t-strap pumps added to the old money disguise. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s my cover story. But the developer isn’t answering my calls. He agreed to do an interview and then poof! Does a disappearing act.” Sharon sat back down and glared at her screen. “So what’s your interest in this?”
“Have you heard about a road through Fairy Glen? A second evacuation route for Paraiso?”
“No. Nothing.” Sharon looked surprised at the news.
“We found out at the Town Council the other night.”
“Wow, I’m sorry. I thought Fairy Glen was protected.” For a crazy second Deirdre thought she was talking about supernatural protection, until she realized, of course, Sharon was referring to the county plan.
Sharon squinted at her monitor and Deirdre sidled around the desk to peek at rows of tiny photos gridded across the screen. “Maybe you won’t have to worry about it. Place is going bankrupt if you ask me,” Sharon said.
“Why do you think that?”
“I sent my photographer up there last week. There was this salesgirl basically art directing the whole shoot. There’s only one house finished, so he was photographing that. Then, they hear this ruckus outside. The girl ran out, then came back in, crying, and says she has to leave.
“So he goes outside, and these construction workers are gathered around the office trailer, and they’re all riled up.” Sharon pointed at the screen. “Look, Dave never stopped shooting, he can’t help himself, the old newshound.” There was a hint of pride in her voice. “They were banging on the door, but whoever was inside wasn’t opening up.”
Deirdre wouldn’t have opened that door either. The foreman looked like Mr. Clean. “What were they mad about?” she asked.
“Not only were they getting laid off without notice, but they just found out their previous paychecks had bounced.”
Sharon scrolled through the thumbnail photos, and the story unfolded like a stop motion animation. “They’re supposed to have a grand opening in January, but I don’t see that happening, not without workers to build.”
“And not without that second evacuation route, apparently.”
“Too bad I’m not an investigative journalist,
” Sharon said wistfully, and narrowed her eyes at the screen. “There’s a story there somewhere.” She turned to Deirdre. “I heard from the little sales gal the next week. She was looking for a job. I only hire freelancers, but we chatted for a bit. She was almost glad she got shitcanned. There’d been some weird stuff going on there. Mr. Bartley was always nice to her, she said. But there were a bunch of mean looking gangster types, she said they looked like Mexican Mafia, coming in and out of there. On her last day, one had just parked in front of the office and leaned on his car door, just staring.”
“Creepy!”
“Yeah. Creepy. Just standing there, waiting, smoking cigars…”
“Wait, cigars? What kind of car was it?”
“She didn’t say. I could use some of these photos, but without an interview with Bartley, there’s no story.”
Deirdre said, “I met him recently, but…under weird circumstances. But I know his wife. Actually she’s in the hospital now, had an accident on her horse last week. I asked her about the road but she doesn’t know anything.”
“Doesn’t know anything? Stephanie Bartley is Vice President of Bartley Corporation. She should know what’s going on.”
Vice President? Stephanie must’ve been lying when she acted surprised about the road.
Sharon went on, “She’s no dummy. Bend her ear a little. And ask her to have her husband call me! On that note Dee, let’s have lunch sometime? I gotta get back to the grindstone and come up with a new cover story. There’s some High Living to be done!”
Deirdre left, deep in thought. She was used to floating checks herself, but a rich guy like Bartley bouncing a whole payroll, that was pretty extreme. Even if he was personally in bad shape, the business should be kept separate. Should being the operative word. She thought of the man at the house, how he’d been waiting there for Bartley. Was he sent by the construction workers? A labor boss, or something?
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 15