CHAPTER TWELVE
Boston, May 1975
A high-pitched scream jolted Nathan from a dead sleep. He rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming?
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating his room in silvery gray and casting long, boogeyman-type shadows from the furniture. But Nathan wasn’t afraid of anything creeping up on him. He was too old to be afraid of the dark, and stark reality had replaced any nightmare that could spring from his imagination. No dream could possibly be worse than real life.
Another scream pierced his eardrums, and Nathan cringed. Hopelessness was a freezing hand on the back of his neck.
Mom!
He threw back the covers and tiptoed through the doorway. He stopped in the middle of the hall. The wood floor was cold under his bare feet, but that wasn’t what made him tremble. It was thinking about what had caused the scream that made his knees go wobbly. The urge to run back to his room and hide under the covers almost won.
But he needed to know what was happening.
He eased to the threshold of his parents’ room. The door was ajar. Dread slid through his belly like an icy eel as he gave the door a two-finger nudge.
His parents were huddled on the bed. Mom’s head rested against Dad’s chest. His mother sobbed. Something about bugs. Bugs on the bed. Bugs crawling on her. Thousands of them. Her shoulders shook. Between the thin straps of her nightgown, her backbone protruded through the skin like a snake’s skeleton.
“Shhh.” Dad stroked her hair and murmured things too softly for Nathan to make out the words. The words didn’t matter anyway.
Moonlight deepened the shadows across his mother’s face. One eye twitched. Without seeing, he knew the pupil was just a tiny pinprick, nearly lost in eyes the color of the ocean in winter. Her freckled skin had gone sallow and slack.
Dad hadn’t slept much either. His face was haggard; shadows under his eyes made him look like one of the zombies in Night of the Living Dead, the movie Nathan and his friend Eddy sneaked in to see last Saturday when Dad took Mom to another doctor, some big-time psychiatrist who wanted to put Mom in an asylum.
Nathan wished he’d gone with them. He’d have told the doctor he was wrong. His mother wasn’t crazy. She just couldn’t sleep.
Ever.
He swiped a hand under an eye. Guilt pricked at his conscience. He shouldn’t’ve gone. He should’ve said no to Eddy. Instead he’d disobeyed his dad. But he’d just wanted to escape his life for a while.
But the problem was, the movie hadn’t been much of an escape.
Feeling like an intruder, he retreated. He backed slowly down the hall to the darkness of his room and covered his ears, but it wasn’t enough to block out his mother’s cries. Dropping to his knees at the side of his bed, he fished in the nightstand for his rosary. He began the litany, pushing the beads through his fingers as the words tumbled from his mouth.
He focused harder. Surely if he prayed hard enough, God would save his mom. He squeezed his hands together until the cross bit into the flesh. He repeated the prayer, over and over, hoping the words would drown out Mom’s despair.
But her sobs still crept into the bedroom.
The floor behind him creaked. He glanced over his shoulder. A huge, familiar shape filled the doorway. His uncle lowered his bulk to his knees beside him. Their shoulders pressed together, and Nathan took comfort from the strength that flowed from his uncle’s body.
“What are ye doing?” Uncle Aaron’s accent, once strange, was now strangely soothing.
“Praying for her.” Nathan reached into the nightstand and produced another rosary. His breath caught in his throat, and he had to swallow before the words would come out. “I know you don’t go to our church, but would you say it with me?”
“Aye. You just tell me what to say.” The beads looked tiny, like shelled peas, passing through his uncle’s thick, sausage-like fingers. Nathan looked up into piercing blue eyes. Trust and relief bubbled up inside his chest. He knew Uncle Aaron didn’t go to the Catholic church. But it didn’t matter. His uncle would always be there for him.
As Uncle Aaron always said, blood was thicker.
Nathan inhaled the scents of the forest, only mildly tainted by the smell of gasoline. The ATV beneath him bounced as it ran over some rocks on the moonlit game trail. The vehicle was noisy, but Nathan had much ground to cover this night.
So many tasks. So little time until Beltane, the annual fire ceremony that marked the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Just three more days.
Luckily, he was in an isolated area. There was no one around to hear the engine scream. He stopped the vehicle at the edge of a clearing. Before him sat his uncle’s old house, now dark and gloomy with neglect, but in his mind’s eye, Nathan could see the home of his youth, the place his uncle had brought him after the dual tragedies that had ripped the innocence out from under his childhood.
A semicircle of trees rimmed the property: oak, ash, rowan, birch, alder, willow, hazel, holly, and hawthorn. Though not all native to Maine, his uncle had cultivated the nine sacred trees on his property. Nathan would need some of each to maximize the effectiveness of his Bel-fire and gain the favor of the fire god, Belenos. He got off the ATV and untied the sickle from behind the seat.
He collected two thin branches from the first eight species and bundled them together with nylon cording. Standing before a small stand of rowan, or mountain ash, Nathan snipped a half dozen narrow limbs from the sturdy trees. The most sacred of all should have the most impact. He carefully dug up a rowan seedling sprouting near the base of the tree. Cradling the tiny root ball, he placed it lovingly in a burlap sack.
He secured his cargo behind the seat and got on. Darkness inhibited his speed. More than an hour passed before he reached the edge of town. Nathan concealed the vehicle in a stand of evergreens and traversed the last mile into town on foot. He carried a short piece of rowan, along with the contents of his special bag. A few blocks from the inn, he took care to keep to the shadows. He touched the knife in the sheath at his waist. The town’s one remaining policeman wasn’t much of a threat, but a missing or dead cop would bring unwanted attention to the town and ruin Nathan’s plans.
He only had one shot at a new life for him and his son. All of his acquisitions must be attributable to accident or misadventure.
Still, tonight’s activity was risky. But Mandy must be claimed as his. She mustn’t be allowed to forget about him. From the darkness beneath the mature maple in the inn’s rear yard, Nathan gazed up at the house.
She was inside. His May Queen. The pure maiden who would give him life anew once the disease inside him was destroyed. Emotions surged in Nathan’s veins. Love, gratitude, and anger swirled into a heady cocktail that energized him more than sleep ever could. No man would come between them. Danny Sullivan must be stopped.
Nathan stole soundlessly across the grass, the dewy blades dampening the toes of his boots and the hem of his pants. He left his gift on the back porch: a small cauldron depicting the god who would grant Nathan salvation, Belenos. In the pot, Nathan had included hardy plants to signify new life. They were Mandy’s favorites. Small but strong flowers that belied their name and bloomed right through a spring snowfall. The perfect flower for the perfect woman.
Thus, nature could give Mandy the message that Nathan was unable to verbalize.
With twine, he affixed the rowan branch above her doorway to protect her from evil spirits.
Turning, he spied the old convertible sitting near the garage. That must be Danny Sullivan’s car. No outdoor enthusiast would drive such a vehicle. The temptation to sabotage the convertible flickered in his mind. He could damage the brakes or the wheel alignment, render the car inoperable or dangerous through any manner of procedure. But the risk of killing Sullivan was slim, and he’d need his car to leave town.
The best way to get rid of him was to have Mandy kick him out. Nathan’s mental gears clicked. He’d have a new job for his assistant tomorro
w. Thank the gods he’d had the foresight to force her to conceal their relationship. Having two members of the Huntsville community to do his bidding was proving useful.
He jogged empty-handed back to the ATV. One more stop. With a worried glance at the brightening sky, Nathan drove forward. Fortunately the public cemetery was on the way back. He only needed to be back in the deep woods before morning overtook the night.
He stopped in front of a plain marker. No inscription other than his uncle’s name and the dates that encompassed his life. Nothing about devotion to his family or his skill as a Druid. Sadness filled Nathan’s soul. Beneath the earth at his feet lay the man who had given his life for Nathan and his son. Uncle Aaron had embraced pain, loss, and death for one chance to save his family. There wasn’t anything Nathan could do to correct the injustice that fate had brought upon his uncle, but Nathan could ensure his passage into the next life was smooth. Nathan took the sapling from his saddlebag and planted it on the gravesite. The sacred tree would ensure his uncle’s final resting place would not be haunted by the dead.
It was the least he could do for the man who had given his life to show Nathan the true path to salvation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The coffeepot gurgled as Mandy pulled raw loaves of cinnamon bread from the refrigerator. She slashed the tops and glazed them with an egg wash. While the oven preheated, she finished the dining-room setup. Once the bread was in the oven and the timer set, Mandy poured an enormous mug of coffee and drifted to the window. Dawn washed the yard in pale, peaceful morning light.
All looked serene now. Last night, during a fit of wakefulness, the trees had cast ominous shadows only her imagination could penetrate. Would she ever sleep through the night without being shaken by her paranoia?
Mandy sipped the strong brew while staring out the window and watching the morning brighten. Caffeine cleared her head. The timer dinged, and she pulled the baked bread from the oven and set the loaves on a wire rack to cool. The scents of warm cinnamon and sugar filled the room. She refilled her mug and went out onto the back porch.
The kitchen door smacked into something metal. Mandy looked down. Next to the flowers Bill had brought her the other day, a container of pansies sat in the middle of the porch. The metal was antiqued and dented, as if someone had drop-kicked it from a garage sale to her back porch. The image repeated around the outside side was of a man’s face. His beard and hair flowed around his head like fire, or maybe rays of the sun. Despite the odd, almost intimidating depiction, Mandy smiled at the purple-and-white blooms rioting in the soil.
Had Bill left this for her? How sweet. As one of the earliest colorful annuals, pansies were her favorites. The hardly little flowers could endure the blasts of winter so common in a New England spring.
“Good morning.”
Mandy startled. She spun around. One hand went to her throat. Coffee sloshed onto the porch floorboards. Danny was standing in the doorway. His damp hair invoked thoughts of a warm beach and a rum-spiked drink. The only beaches she’d visited were rocky, the water a toe-numbing cold that did not invite the rest of her body to wade in.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He retreated to the kitchen for a second and returned with a dish towel. “Let me get that.” He bent down to mop up the spill.
Putting aside visions of places she’d likely never see and a vacation she’d never take, Mandy recovered. “It’s not your fault. I was looking at this pot of flowers. Bill must have put it there for me.”
Staring at the pot, Danny straightened. “It’s, um, different.”
Mandy laughed. “I’ve no idea where he dug up the pot, but pansies are my favorites.”
He tilted his head. “I’ll remember that.”
The comment drifted on the silent morning air. Mandy cleared her throat. “I have to get back to work. There’s coffee if you want it.” She reached for the doorknob. A strange branch was tied over the entrance. She paused. “What on earth has Bill been up to?”
Danny reached around her and opened the door. “Why would he hang a stick over your door?”
“I don’t know. Even for Bill, that’s strange.” From just a few inches away, Danny’s aftershave drifted to her nose. Light and fresh, it reminded her of the woods in midwinter, and tempted her to lean in for a better whiff.
Probably not the best way to discourage Danny’s advances. But she really wanted to. If only they’d met under different circumstances, like the kind that didn’t include threats to her family members’ lives. It wasn’t meant to be. Reluctantly, she moved away from it, and him, into the safety of her kitchen. The smell of freshly baked cinnamon bread camouflaged his scent.
A glance at the clock told her she needed to get breakfast rolling. She moved to the fridge and pulled out a dozen eggs. When she turned around, Danny was tying a plain black apron around his waist. She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Thought I’d help with breakfast.” He washed his hands at the sink.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry. I promise not to ask you any questions about the case.”
“I’m very particular about the food that comes out of my kitchen.”
“Seriously, breakfast food isn’t that tough. As long as it’s simple, I can cook it. Short order is my specialty. My family owns a tavern. My brother Pat put me to work in the kitchen at a young age. He was trying to keep me out of trouble.”
“Did it work?”
“Not a bit.” His face split into the sexy bad-boy grin that melted her resolve faster than butter on a hot griddle. He dried his hands. “What are you serving this morning?”
“Waffles, scrambled eggs, and bacon.” Mandy grabbed her own apron and washed up. “Plus the basics.”
Danny lifted a large skillet from the overhead rack. “I’ll take the scrambled eggs. Do you do anything special with them?”
“I’ve made herbed cream cheese to fold in at the end.”
“Nice.” Danny lit the burner under the pan and went to work cracking eggs like a pro.
Mandy started on the waffles. “Tell me about your family.”
Danny tossed a slab of butter into the pan with a sizzle. “My parents died when I was eleven.”
“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” Mandy paused, a ladle of batter suspended over the waffle maker.
“For a long time it was,” Danny said. “Anyway, there are four of us. I’m the youngest. Jayne’s a year older. Then there’s Conor and Pat. Poor Pat. As the oldest, he took over running the family business and raising me and my sister. In exchange, I made his life hell.”
Mandy poured batter into the machine, closed it, and set the timer. “I’m sure you weren’t all that bad.”
“Oh, I was.” Danny selected a whisk and whipped eggs with an angry zeal. “I skipped school, barely stayed out of juvie, and dragged my sister into my nefarious exploits whenever I could. That’s what I feel the worst about. It was one thing to self-implode, but to pull Jayne into my downward spiral with me was selfish.”
“You were angry.” With a sad pang, Mandy remembered the night her father left. No argument, just exited with a simple declaration. I can’t take it anymore. She’d had her mother to help her through the anger and helplessness.
“That I was.”
“What happened?”
“Eventually, I got caught doing something I couldn’t weasel my way out of. Only I wasn’t a snot-nosed little neighborhood brat anymore. I was a legal adult, and the local beat cops had had it with me. I think they ignored the petty shit I’d done in the past because they had so much respect for my brother Pat. But at twenty, it wasn’t acceptable anymore. They grabbed me outside an electronics store with an armload of DVD players.”
Mandy stared, open-mouthed. “You were stealing them?”
Danny sighed. “I was.”
The timer dinged. Mandy transferred the first four Belgian waffles to a plate. “Did you go to jail?”
“Bottom cabinet to your left.”
He pulled out the dish and set it on the counter next to the stove. “The cop was pissed. Kept asking me how the hell a man as good as Pat could have a brother as worthless as me.”
Mandy refilled the waffle maker. “That’s terrible.”
“Hey, I deserved it. I was worse than worthless.” Danny dumped the eggs into the silver dish and covered it. He set the pan back on the stove and turned off the burner. “Anyway, the cop said this was the end of the line. I was shaking in the back of the car. Thought I’d finally done it. Either he was going to beat the shit out of me, or I was going to prison.” Danny looked up at her. “I think your waffles are done.”
“Oh, geez.” Mandy rescued the food just in time. “Thanks. What did he do?”
“What?” Danny pulled another dozen eggs from the refrigerator.
“Did he beat you or arrest you?” Mandy asked impatiently.
“Oh. Neither. He drove around until morning. Then he took me to the army recruiting center. My choice was to enlist or go to prison. Either way, he was not dealing with my ungrateful punk ass committing crimes in his neighborhood again.”
“What did you do?”
“I spent the next eight years in the army and served two tours in Iraq,” Danny said. “I’d still be in the army if I hadn’t been injured.” He took a heavy breath. “We’d better get this food out, right?”
Mandy checked the time. Breakfast officially started in less than five minutes. “Are you mad at that policeman for making you go into the army? If you hadn’t, your hand wouldn’t be injured.”
Midnight Sacrifice Page 11