October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  After greetings, they told her their plan to ride over the dam.

  “That’s where I was going too. I’ll go with you till you cross over to Del Diablo.”

  They fell into step together. Smooth, giant boulders grew out of the side of the increasingly steep-walled trailside.

  Deirdre said, “Wish you could have margaritas with us.” Maybe she could get some legal advice about her restraining order.

  “No no,” Sally dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “I can’t.”

  “Got another hot date?” Lina asked. God, she sounded like she was in junior high.

  “Tom is very nice.” Deirdre spoke up before Sally had to answer Lina’s stupid question. After all, she was the only one of them that had actually met him. “Any more news about who killed that kid at the quarry?”

  “You know how you were asking about the Bartleys? Tom thinks the older kid’s involved. Apparently he’s a known meth dealer for the high school kids. Never been arrested. Think that has something to do with how powerful daddy is?”

  “So the whole family are criminals.”

  “Basically. If not legally, than morally and environmentally,” Sally said. She was in the lead now. Darkling was dancing instead of walking, waiting to be unleashed. Even Gatsby—big, powerful, sedate Gatsby—picked up on the excitement, and Bonnie had to collect him almost into her lap to keep him at a walk. Scarlet was strangely calm, as if waiting for the two lead horses to make decisions for her.

  “They’re trying to take Mrs. Fey’s land. Do we have any power to stop the road?”

  “It’ll be tough,” Sally said. “But I’m not gonna stop until I find a way. Okay, here’s the shortcut to the top. Y’all wanna take this?” Sally had started up a little trail to the right.

  “I don’t know, Sally,” Lina said from the back of the line. “How difficult is it?”

  “You’ll be fine.” Sally said. That was that.

  Sally stayed in the lead, with Bonnie bringing up the rear, probably to give Lina confidence so she wouldn’t wimp out; a virtual kick in the butt.

  Scarlet eagerly followed Darkling’s steps. The trail was steep, winding in neat switchbacks between the huge boulders, the size of Volkswagens, a few the size of semi-trucks, sporting furry beards of moss on their north faces. Eucalyptus umbrellaed high overhead. They were hidden from the lowering rays of sunlight by the curve of the trail, in a fold of the mountainside, and the whole place took on a magical feeling. Across the creek, through a wind blown curtain of green and gold oak and sycamore leaves sparkling in the sun, she heard the distant rushing of the occasional car speeding along Fairy Glen Road. Here on the other side, the women floated in a shadowless world of gray rock, brown dirt, and silver tree bark. Far overhead, wind tossed the branches in the canopy, but down here was peaceful, like being underwater watching the surface turbulence of a stormy sea.

  She hadn’t ridden on the trail since her crazed chase last Saturday. Appreciating the fact that she could see, and that she wasn’t headed straight uphill, and nobody had pointed a gun at her, Deirdre breathed deeply of the eucalyptus scent. The trail was hard packed and narrow, supported by the boulders and tree roots that jutted out here and there. If they met a hiker there would be no room to pass, but the place felt entirely alone, out of time, like they were the only ones that existed here.

  A loud crack shot her out of the saddle. The horses flinched, and in that second, another huge crack, and a big thump of something hitting the ground and a rattling after-echo. Darkling took off fast up the trail, with Scarlet at his heels.

  This routine was familiar by now. She clung by pure instinct, while trying to regain control of Scarlet’s head, choking up on the reins and pulling her mouth back and down. Scarlet tossed her head skyward, wrenching the reins from her hands, and she wished she was wearing gloves.

  They were coming up on Darkling fast, and he was a kicker, the red ribbon on his tail evidence of that.

  She grabbed the reins again, and with a grunt of determination, sat back deep and pulled hard. Scarlet’s head bowed down then up again like a rubber band. Deirdre leaned forward, grabbed the reins directly below the bit, and pulled straight down. Scarlet eased her bounding gallop and came to a halt, right on top of Darkling’s hind end.

  Deirdre backed Scarlet up while Sally pulled forward, growling, “Get off his ass.” Safely out of kicking range, Deirdre looked down to see if the other two were okay. A huge section of a eucalyptus lay on the lower trail. On the switchback above it, Lina’s face was pale. Bonnie’s was awe-struck. “Whew, that branch came down right where we just were!” she marveled.

  “We all could have died,” Lina said.

  “Killer Trees of Fairy Glen!” Deirdre couldn’t keep herself from doing a parody of a TV announcer’s voice. Lina shot her a nasty look. Sally laughed out loud, and Bonnie just smirked and shook her head.

  They continued up the trail with no more mishaps, coming out at the top of the plateau, with Richardson Reservoir on their left. A blustery wind hit their faces. There was nothing higher for miles. The view extended to the Mexican border.

  “Ohhh crap,” Bonnie said, but they’d all seen it already. Far to the southeast, a pillowy gray column stretched from earth to sky.

  At Gorda y Flaco’s, they found a tall two-top table in the bar, begged an extra stool, and ordered margaritas all around from the skinny boy in white dress shirt and black apron. He carefully wrote their orders on his pad, eyes serious under straight black eyebrows.

  “Look!” Bonnie said, pointing to the TV. Aerial footage of the wildfire, with the headline Breaking News: Border Blaze. Gorda turned up the volume.

  “…this afternoon, winds kicking up, fanning the flames of this fire near the border at Tecate, which is now upwards of 200 acres, with one structure destroyed.”

  The news anchors blathered for a minute, then Gorda lowered the volume, letting the mariachi music take over. The conversation in the bar rose to a low hum again.

  Bonnie reached over and squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “We’d all better get prepped,” she said gravely.

  “Prepped?” Lina asked, as the margaritas came.

  “For evacuation,” Deirdre explained. Lina hadn’t lived here last time, she didn’t know.

  “Evacuation? From the fire? That’s down at the border!” Lina’s eyes widened.

  “For now,” Bonnie said. “Those things can spread. Fast.”

  Deirdre took a swig of her margarita and swirled it in her mouth, feeling little salt crystals dissolve on her tongue. Her mind flashed back to October, eight years ago. A small wildfire had broken out on a hillside above Interstate 15. The fire had found opening of their valley and raced through it like a fuse on dynamite. She had Justin, Rebecca, a dog, two cats, and two horses to evacuate. And that’s when she’d gone into labor.

  “Deirdre!” Bonnie knew where her mind was headed and yanked her back. Bonnie replaced the worried look on her face with a matter-of-fact, upbeat tone and a smile. “Don’t worry Lina. We’ll help you pack.”

  “I’m going to the ladies room,” Deirdre said, needing a minute alone, but Lina said, “Me too.”

  “Hurry up. I’m next,” Bonnie called after them.

  Deirdre and Lina threaded through the busy bar. “I hope Sheffie shows up,” she said, trying not to think about the fire.

  They pushed through the ornate wooden door. The ladies room was dimly lit, tiled in royal blue and yellow tiles. “What’s your obsession with this old guy?” Lina asked as they went into their stalls.

  “He knows a lot of history, and I think him and Mrs. Fey had a fling way back when.”

  “Right,” Lina said skeptically.

  As they washed their hands, Lina said into the mirror, “What I meant was, have you forgotten about everything else?”

  “Everything else?” She looked at Lina, whose sleek bob was only slightly mussed from her helmet. Her own hair was pulled back in a braid, but a nimbus of fuzzy escaped hairs f
ormed a red halo around her head.

  Lina said, “I was right about her wasn’t I? Stephanie?”

  She nodded. “Pretty much.” Lina was right, but it made her incredibly sad.

  Lina turned to leave, but stopped suddenly. “Oh how awful!”

  On the back of the door was a flyer, the face of a young teen girl with braces and dark hair smiling out from under the word “MISSING” in red across the top. Samantha Austin, missing since 10/14/07.

  “That name sounds so familiar,” Deirdre said.

  Lina made a guttural sound. “You don’t know everyone, do you Deirdre?”

  Deirdre flung the door open, moving fast through the bar. She’d had enough of Lina, the girl was bugging the shit out of her lately. She didn’t have to be a royal pain in the ass all the time, did she? Her face got hot.

  Back at the table she took a dainty sip of her margarita. Bonnie left for the bathroom. Now the little girl’s face flashed across the TV screen, “Missing” in big red letters.

  Lina sat down, about to throw another barb no doubt, but the TV switched back to the news anchor, and Deirdre launched herself over to the bar faster than she thought she could move with her sore muscles. “Gorda, could you turn it up?”

  Gorda unmuted the television, but not soon enough to catch the story of the girl. “So sad,” Gorda murmured. “Her family, they came in, put the flyers up a few days ago. I told them I’d pray for her.”

  Deirdre delayed going back to her table, stopping at the fireplace to take a closer look at Gorda’s family photos. Since she’d last been here, things had been added, and it had turned into an altar. Among the picture frames were marigolds and tall votive candles in glass holders painted with saints and virgins. Mexican pastries sat on plates. Oranges and pomegranates here and there. There was even a Mexican Coke.

  She looked at the pictures closer. Ranging in era from the late 1800s to the 1980s, the photos depicted folks that were unmistakably related to Gorda, at least judging from the body type.

  Not ready to go back to the table, she caught the skinny boy’s attention. “Is this an altar?”

  He nodded. “Dia de los Muertos,” he said shyly.

  Deirdre, being a Southern California native, knew about Dia de los Muertos. It happened the day after Halloween. But come to think of it, she really didn’t know all of the details. “So it’s on November first right?” She looked at the photos again. One stuck out, a recent color photo of three handsome guys smiling in sunglasses, arms around each other’s shoulders, all wearing dark blue T-shirts and red suspenders.

  “November first is for remembering children, los niños, and November second is for adults.”

  Niños. Walking back to her table, she thought of the innocent face on the flyer, hoped that little girl’s parents wouldn’t have to set out remembrances on the first day of November.

  But she was jumping ahead again. It was still October. Walt would be home next week, and she’d have to tell him about having to tear down the barns and being officially evicted, then there was Justin’s Halloween dance at school—her stomach flipped thinking how he’d react to her rift with the Bartley family, and then, then the show at Del Rio, which she should probably cancel, then Clara’s birthday…her breath was coming shallow and her heartbeat quickened, when the young boy slid a giant plate of nachos onto the table, and Bonnie said, “Hey, is that the old guy?”

  Deirdre twisted around and scanned the bar. Yep, down near the end, it was Sheffie, slumped over a drink. “That’s him. When did he get here?” She was sure he hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

  Lina said, “Why don’t we invite him over Deedee? We could buy him a drink.” Lina, for the first time in a long time, had not a bad idea there. But Deirdre hesitated. Her palms were sweating.

  “Well…he doesn’t stop talking once he starts. Let’s finish eating first and then—”

  “Well, if it isn’t the redheaded lady again. Seen any ghosts tonight?” A sandpapery wheeze and a whiff of whiskey from behind her head announced Sheffie, who, for being an incurable drunk, apparently had a good memory and keen powers of recognition.

  “Too late,” Bonnie whispered.

  “Well, hello again!” Deirdre turned to him, trying to sound pleasant and off-hand.

  “I couldn’t help but notice a trio of beautiful ladies, so I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.” Deirdre looked towards the bar, seeking out Gorda’s protective surveillance, but Gorda was hidden behind a cluster of big college boys buying beers.

  Lina’s eyes were wide, but to Deirdre’s surprise, she made the first gesture of civility. “Would you like to join us for a drink sir?” she said, her accent quite pronounced.

  “Oh, a Bohemian! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

  “Carolina. Carolina Petrovic-Smith,” Lina announced, and extended her hand in formal greeting. “From Bosnia, actually.” Deirdre remembered once again her friend’s war torn past, so easily forgotten, and felt ashamed of judging her so harshly. Sheffie took her hand and kissed it, and as his white whiskers brushed her skin, her fingers wiggled.

  He greeted each of them with the same gentlemanly flair, pulled up a nearby stool, and his reminiscences took off galloping like a racehorse out of the starting gate at Del Rio. They offered him nachos, but he didn’t eat. The restaurant swelled with Saturday night dinner daters and dusk settled outside as he regaled them with tales of a distant past full of Indians, sheepherders, cattle barons, Rancho dons, stagecoaches full of gold…how old was he anyway? Jeez. Deirdre couldn’t get a word in edgewise to ask about the Kathy he’d mentioned last time.

  Bonnie, glancing at her watch, left to check on the horses. Deirdre knew they’d have to leave soon, so it was now or never, unless she planned to make a regular Saturday night date with Sheffie.

  “Sheffie, last time you mentioned someone with red hair, named Kathy, that you were in love with when you were young…ger.”

  “Oooh, Kathy, yes. She had the most beautiful red hair—a lot like yours in fact! We were quite an item. I do believe she liked me almost as much as I liked her. But, you see, we weren’t meant to be. It was her mother. Her mother,” he looked at Lina and Deirdre in the eyes, each in turn, “was a witch.”

  Lina’s eyes opened wide, shooting a sparkling glance at Deirdre. “Tell me about it,” she said, and put a hand over Sheffie’s on the table. Lina was doing all the buttering up, and all Deirdre had to do was listen.

  “She kept Kathy on a tight leash, didn’t want me around. Finally, she put a spell on Kathy, and she stopped loving me.”

  “I thought you said they were gypsies?” Deirdre asked. Sounded like average teenage love gone stale, not witchcraft. Always, the mother gets blamed.

  “Gypsies, tinkers, whatever you want to call them. My family was no more than poor white trash, from the wrong side of town. Not even good enough for a gypsy.” He hung his head, caught sight of his whiskey glass, and took a swig.

  “Whatever happened to Kathy?” Deirdre asked.

  “When her mother got killed—and that’s a whole story itself—she done took over the witchin’. I took up sheepherding for Wolfskill Ranch and was up in the mountains all the time after that.”

  “Deirdre. We’re loaded up. Let’s go.” It was Bonnie’s baby voice behind her. The horses were waiting.

  “Okay, be right there…” she said, then to Sheffie, “What was Kathy’s full name?” She stood and pushed the remaining nachos toward him.

  “Kathleen. It was Kathleen,” Sheffie said. He ignored the nachos and was looking up at the ceiling, looking far back in time, and now the tears started. She’d been hoping to get a last name, but she made her escape as he lowered his head and began quietly sobbing into his whiskey.

  “When they say she’s a witch, they just mean she was a healer right? Herbs and all that stuff?” Deirdre asked from the back of Bonnie’s truck. The windows were open, and the warm night air was blowing in.

  “Maybe,”
Bonnie said, flicking the blinker to turn out onto Del Diablo.

  Lina turned to Deirdre, frowning in consideration. “Yes, maybe.” The way she said it, it sounded like no.

  * * *

  HECTOR HAD SLEPT ALL day, waking up to the late afternoon sun coloring his room orange. He never did that. The nightmares had exhausted him and he’d only fallen asleep at dawn. What was this witchcraft? She must have put a curse on him. There was only one way to get rid of curses.

  He had showered, dressed, and stopped to eat a good meal at the Four Seasons, the only decent food between his hotel and Paraiso. There was work to do, and not much time. He needed sustenance.

  Now, on the snaky road up past the dam, he thought of the witchcraft again. With a full belly and a clearer mind, the fear of curses receded into the distant past, to a childhood that seemed like another lifetime. He smiled at the memory of the scared little boy, hidden beneath the counter in his grandmother’s kitchen, listening to the woes of the broke, the broken-hearted, the heartburn afflicted; smelling the herbs in the potions she brewed to give them relief; watching as she slipped faded, folded bills into the pockets of her skirt.

  As he drew up to the intersection where he would turn left and climb through the dark canyon up to Paraiso, the light turned yellow. He slowed to a halt. Law enforcement was scarce around here, but no need to take chances. He wasn’t 20 years old anymore, high on adrenaline.

  He waited, as a truck and horse trailer pulled out from Lake Hemingway and swung past him, turning onto the highway. Three white faces glowed, apparitions floating in the cab of the truck. A cold steel grip clutched his heart, sweat trickled from his temple down the side of his cheek. He clenched the steering wheel and waited, trying to resist.

  As his green left-turn arrow came and went, his resolve broke. He threw the car into a U-turn, ignoring the red light. Nobody was on the highway, it didn’t matter.