October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  Should she leave now and go, go to the Sheriff’s station in Manzanita and file a report? Or go to Sally’s and see if she could track down her sheriff in all this chaos? But where would they look? A police report was just a piece of paper. A useless piece of paper. She needed to find her daughter. And, she realized with a sinking sensation, it was going to be a do-it-yourself proposition.

  “I don’t have time for this Kathleen,” Deirdre said. She put down her teacup and prepared to stand up. Mrs. Fey grabbed her hand, holding it down on the table. “You don’t have time not to do this. Trust me.”

  She needed some kind of clue, a sign. She sank into the chair again, resigned to give it another ten minutes, or at least until her tea was gone. She took another swig.

  “Knight of Wands, reversed,” Mrs. Fey began her reading. “An impetuous, egotistical young man. Someone who doesn’t look before they leap. He’s frustrated, which leads to anger and resentment, makes him a dangerous sort.

  “The Tower. Pretty self explanatory, eh?” She looked up at Deirdre, who nodded, but she explained anyway. “Destruction, massive destruction. The tower is too big, not built on a solid foundation. Ambition atop false premises.

  “And, your ‘satanic’ King of Pentacles, also reversed.” Mrs. Fey blew out a tension-filled breath. The king had a goat’s head on his throne. His face was tan, he wore a smug expression, and a castle loomed in the background. Deirdre recognized him all to easily. Bartley.

  “This is the worst kind of man. Greedy. Ruthless. Shallow and untrustworthy. He’ll do anything for money.”

  She took Deirdre’s almost empty tea cup and swirled the dregs around in the bottom, then tilted it and peered inside, holding it to the weak light of the window.

  “Hmmmm…Ahhh. Ahah.” Kathleen said finally, and Deirdre resisted the urge to throttle it out of her, until it was just too much.

  “What, what?!”

  Mrs. Fey gave her a momentary disapproving look. Mentally, she took back the part about throttling. No throttling.

  “She’s with her boy, the Knight of Wands.”

  “Where?”

  Mrs. Fey furrowed her brow. She pulled the chopstick from the bun in her hair, letting her iron gray tresses tumble around her shoulders, and gazed into a distance just beyond Deirdre. The cloudiness in her bad eye seemed to waver, as if windblown clouds were obscuring a bright moon. Her voice changed to a sound like wind blowing over an ancient clay vessel, deep and disembodied. “As the owl flies, so shall the valley burn. A dark legacy will manifest. Tomorrow’s full moon will lead you to her. Look for the tower.”

  The hairs on Deirdre’s neck stood up. The house was crypt quiet and uncomfortably hot. Shadows absorbed the room as the unseeable sun went down.

  Deirdre held her breath until Mrs. Fey, the one Deirdre knew, came back. Kathleen got up, lit a match from the stove, and held it to a candle. She held the candle and looked out the window into the darkness. “You can see more than I can say Deirdre. It’s all there in front of you.”

  A huge dark shape landed on the table with a thump, and Deirdre screamed.

  “Cotchee!” Mrs. Fey yelled. “No supper for you tonight!”

  When she’d recovered from the near heart attack brought on by that stupid cat, Deirdre left Grandma Fey’s, frustrated beyond belief.

  Tomorrow’s full moon? She couldn’t even see the moon, what with the ever thickening brown smog. Should she go back to the apartment complex, on the off chance that Jeremy was there again? She didn’t even know for sure Rebecca was with him.

  As she got closer to Lina’s house, her phone rang. She almost swerved off the road trying to flip it open. It wasn’t Rebecca, it was Gabe, Rebecca’s dad. “I’m sure she’s fine,” he said.

  “No, she’s not fine,” she choked. “She’s not fine.”

  “She used to pull this shit with me all the time. Don’t worry so much. She’ll show up.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Gabe. The whole county is on fire! She wouldn’t do this to me. Not at a time like this.”

  “What can I say? Welcome to the club.”

  Her body went hot from head to toe. Before she could come up with a retort, she realized the line was dead. She dropped the phone and hit the steering wheel so hard her hand went numb.

  She pulled into Lina’s, eyes burning, throat choking, and brain hurting so bad it was all she could do to take the kids and drive home, hoping that Gabe was right for once.

  * * *

  CRYSTAL WAS STILL SHAKING with adrenaline when she pulled into John’s driveway at his Gran’s double-wide on the shore of Lake Hemingway. She pulled all the way back under the carport, threw a paint splattered drop cloth over Jeremy’s car, weighted it down with some bricks so the crazy wind wouldn’t pull it off, and went inside.

  John was there, watching the TV news. He looked up, surprised, as she walked past him into his Gran’s room.

  There she was in bed, surrounded by her oxygen tank, her walker, her wheelchair. Old people and their accoutrements usually weirded her out, but she felt more sorry for John’s grandma than anything. Her soft blue eyes, looking at her. Wondering what her grandson was doing with a girl half his age maybe? Probably not. Crystal didn’t think the old lady could reason that well anymore. She certainly couldn’t talk. Sometimes Crystal would sit and just hold her hand, and the old woman’s eyes would fill with tears.

  She opened the closet, and took a see-through pink scarf, a flowered housecoat, and a pair of shoes. John was in the hallway as she came back out.

  “I need your car,” she told him as she brushed past him.

  He reluctantly handed over the keys to his little white POS.

  In John’s car, disguised in his Grandma’s things, she went back out to do some surveillance.

  Her adrenaline had transformed into a seething, bubbling rage.

  She’d bet dollars to donuts that the weirdo that attacked her, whoever had killed her mom, and whoever had just chased her in that busted-up 4x4, were all three related and could be traced back to one source: Dear Old Dad.

  Thursday, October 25

  REBECCA WOKE UP IN the dark. It’s so confusing when you’re not sleeping in your own bed. You wake up, not sure if your head is pointing north or south, if the side of the bed is to your left or right.

  Wait, where was she? Not on a sleepover. Not at Grampa’s house. Total darkness. And it was hot. And what was that smell? A campfire.

  She groaned. God, what was wrong with her head? Terrible, terrible pain, clanging, like the time she spent New Year’s with her dad, in his neighborhood, slung out low, squatting in the flightpath of LAX, and all the people stood out on their porches and balconies, clanging pots and pans with wooden spoons, then little pop, pop, pops. She said “Dad, what is that?” He answered, “It’s a .22. Nothing. You could put a couple of those into me and I wouldn’t even feel it,” then took another swig of Corona, and winked.

  A swig of Corona. Her salivary glands spasmed.

  Later in physics class, she’d learned that a bullet shot into the air would return to earth at the same speed it left the gun, or maybe just at its terminal velocity, which was still pretty fast. Where had all those bullets fallen? Had they dropped back down through the water stained ceilings of those crappy apartment buildings in her dad’s neighborhood, had one gone through the top of some abuelita’s head? Imagine just sitting there in your easy chair, minding your own business, and whammo, a bullet to the brain.

  She was drifting. She had to focus.

  She moved her body around. Her shoulders and chest hurt. Apparently her hands were wrenched behind her, and tied too tightly, because they felt like two big hams.

  Where was she, and why? The last thing she remembered…the last thing…taking a few jumps on a bike, eucalyptus trees, smoggy air, a guy fixing his car…under the street light in a crappy parking lot, her dad’s old apartment complex—no. No.

  This was 2007, she was 16 years old, she lived in Fai
ry Glen, and Jeremy—Jeremy, that dumbass! He was the cause of all of this. A horrible image came back to her. A strangled woman. Jeremy, angry, snapping his fingers, snapping a neck…

  Thoughts yelled inside her head.

  Jeremy murdered Tanya! When they were there on Sunday getting Crystal. She’d seen him toss her over his shoulder and go inside, how long was he in there—?

  No.

  Jeremy was drugged and that dude murdered Tanya. The big powerful creepy dude, with the nice clothes and the shitty car. The one that had brought her here.

  She knew, in her gut. Jeremy was an idiot, but he was no killer. Besides, Rebecca had felt for a pulse. Tanya’s skin was warm to the touch. Her dressing gown was peach, not mauve. Her roots were touched up. She hadn’t died on Sunday. She’d died right before Rebecca got to the apartment.

  Her brain was suddenly alive, jolted full of electricity, juices flowing.

  What time was it? Definitely after midnight. Past her curfew. Her mom would surely notice and call the cops…but how would she know where to look for her? Rebecca didn’t even know herself.

  First step, she needed to break free. And no, she didn’t have a handy Swiss Army knife tucked in her sock or anything like that. She should seriously consider carrying one from now on. But even if she had, she was sure the dude was enough of a pro that he would’ve taken it.

  However, a couple of years of skating in Los Angeles County had given her first hand experience with breaking out of zip tie handcuffs. Once, the cops had raided a whole party of her friends skating a swimming pool in an abandoned backyard. In the shuffle, she was able to slip away, and another guy that was out on the street behind the house showed her how to lift her arms in front of her and slam them back down, pulling her hands away from each other with such force that it snapped the plastic. Then they’d both run as fast as they could in opposite directions.

  She arched her spine backwards, hooked her feet through her hands. Her hot dog fingers swelled to bursting, but she somehow wormed her body through the hoop of her arms, so her hands were in front of her. The advantages of being tiny.

  She looked down. Yep, zip ties.

  She took a few breaths and wiggled her arms and legs to get the blood flowing, then stood up and broke the zip ties after a few painful tries.

  It was dark, but she could make out blank walls around her. She crept through the house, ears on hyper-alert.

  She realized she was upstairs in the Olive Garden house, the one with the near 360 view and the infinity pool. There was a balcony up here, and she carefully opened the door and stepped outside.

  The sky was a milk chocolate color. Fingers of hot wind pulled at her hair, smoke smothered her. She shielded her eyes and pulled her hoodie up over her mouth, reaching in her pockets for the bandana she’d had. Not there. No phone either, of course. Her eyes pulled over in the direction of Fairy Glen, invisible in the dark and smoke.

  What if she could stare hard enough that her mom could feel it, send some kind of psychic signal? She shook it off. Mommy doesn’t rescue you in real life.

  Her tongue felt like an old bath towel dragging across the roof of her mouth. She needed water.

  * * *

  DEIRDRE WOKE WITH A painful jerk, peeling her slobber stuck face off the couch pillow, reaching for the crick in her neck. She’d fallen asleep here, watching the news and cradling her cell phone, even though she knew that it was useless—the cellphone, that is. Well, come to think of it, watching the news was pretty useless too.

  The dogs were barking like crazy. What time is it? She tried to focus on the numbers on her phone. It was still dark.

  She jumped again to a pounding on her front door. That must’ve been what woke her. She leapt from the sofa, sped through the kitchen, and narrowly saved herself a sprained ankle by doing a quick little spin like a quarterback after she tripped on the cat carrier in the front hall.

  She opened the door, where a small alien figure loomed, an anteater from mars, hind legs spread and front legs crossed. Her heart sank.

  “Wilma.”

  “Hi Deirdre.” Wilma pulled her fireman’s mask up on her forehead. “It’s time. I’m calling my unofficial large animal evac. This thing’s gettin’ squirrelly. It’s not barreling down on us yet, but it’s only a matter of time and I’ll feel better once all of the large animals are out. Are you all set to go?”

  “What time is it?” She pushed auburn strands away from her eyes, squinting outside at the smoggy half light. Thick morning fog, but no, it was brown.

  “6 a.m. You all packed? Kids, animals, documents?”

  “Rebecca’s still gone.” Deirdre looked down at Granger’s spiny back. He stepped forward and started licking Wilma’s hand.

  “Crap. I was hoping she would’ve shown up by now.” Wilma looked at Granger like he was something foreign, and moved her hand away. “I’ve radioed everyone I know, even Deputy Harvey. We’ve got eyes out. But now, you’ve gotta get the rest of your family and animals outta here and to the racetrack. Okay?”

  Deirdre’s thoughts went into a tailspin.

  Wilma lowered her chin, and asked again. “O-kay?”

  “Yes Wilma.” Like a robot, Deirdre closed the front door and headed down the hallway, her thoughts tumbling like socks in the dryer. Walt was in Texas. Rebecca was missing. And now she had to evacuate.

  Her Bronco was in the driveway, stocked with family photos, documents, dog crates, food for all the pets, snacks, water, sleeping bags, pillows, and change of clothes, while the big burgundy F250 was hooked up to the trailer, parked down by the barn facing out for a quick escape.

  Only one problem.

  She had expected to have another adult around to drive—Walt, or at least Rebecca. Bonnie had her own rig to drive, same with Lina, Sally, everyone else. She’d trust Rebecca in a heartbeat to drive the Bronco loaded with the dogs and cats, while she took the kids and horses in the truck. Even though the girl had never wanted a driver’s license, Deirdre had taught her to drive years ago in case of a situation just like this. She was a good girl, careful, had good reflexes. She’d be able to do it, no problem. Deirdre’s face puckered up, and she buried it in her hands.

  “Mama?”

  Deirdre unsquinched her face, then pulled her hands down, dragging her skin. Clara, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired, stood outside the girls’ bedroom. Their eyes met, and she giggled. “You look like the mask from Scream, Mama.”

  Deirdre released her hands, and her face bounced back into place, or at least she hoped it did. “Good morning, honey. Guess what? It’s time to put our plan into action, okay?” She did her best to hide her sheer terror behind an enthusiastic disguise.

  “But first we need to eat breakfast, right?” Clara frowned.

  Deirdre hugged her only present daughter, pressing Clara’s head against the spot below her sternum, the place that had once swelled and curved out, cradling her babies inside of her. When she’d gotten her emotions under control, she said, “Of course we can eat breakfast. Wake up Justin and I’ll get the cereal out.”

  It was actually a good idea. Who knew how soon they’d be able to eat another meal, and besides, breakfast would give her time to figure out which combination of vehicles, children, and animals was going to make it out of here on the first trip.

  “Mo-om. Don’t you think I can drive?” Justin looked genuinely affronted as he munched his Rice Chex.

  She laughed in his face. “No.” Then she tried to soften the blow. “I’d trust you honey, but you’re not experienced, and people drive crazy in disasters.”

  “This is a disaster?” Clara asked. “Like when I was born?” She looked inappropriately excited by the prospect.

  “No sweetie. Not yet. That’s why we’re getting out early.” She sounded believable, but it was in fact a disaster. Her oldest child was missing, her husband was stuck four states away, billowing brown smoke was blanketing her neighborhood, and ten miles away a wall of fire was pushing its unpredictable way
towards them.

  She looked at her watch. The sun was rising, at least it was somewhere in this time zone, over some other land unbesieged by hellstorms. Even on a normal day the winds picked up at dawn, and now, they whipped up with a furious force, trying to pull more fronds off of the three tall palms, the ones she looked out on from her place at her kitchen table. Below, she could see the top of the barn roof. The barn she would have to tear down, unless the fire did it for her.

  The enormity of losing it all again meant nothing without Rebecca.

  Without Rebecca. The concept short-circuited her brain for a second.

  Then the pressure to do something, get out of there, weighed on her so hard she stopped breathing. She grabbed the cereal bowls and rinsed them in the sink. She had it. First Justin and Clara, cats and dogs. Then she’d come back for the horses. “Ok kids, hurry up and get dressed, we’re going to Granddad’s.”

  “Mom, I wasn’t done,” Justin said, still holding his spoon in mid-air.

  * * *

  REBECCA WAS ON THE hunt for water, maybe Jeremy, and a way out of this place.

  Water first. The thirst was the most overpowering physical sensation she’d ever felt. Nothing else could happen until she drank. How long had she been unconscious?

  The house was quiet and still in the dim light of dawn, covered in a haze of construction dust. The sheetrock was hung but it was otherwise unfinished. She hoped the water was on.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, her sneakers left prints on the dusty concrete floor, but there were plenty of other footprints to blend with hers—big bootprints of construction workers. Thank god, water came rushing out of the faucet in a fluffy aerated stream. She pushed her face under and drank, drank, and drank some more. When she lifted her head, she was panting. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, not caring that her dry lips ripped open on the sweatshirt fabric. A gust of wind shook the window above the sink. Rattly windows in a multi-million dollar house. Figures. Outside, billowing clouds of brown smoke engulfed the house.