* * *
At sunset, Charles DeWitt pulled up to his family's cabin and parked.
He'd eaten his cheeseburger and fries while driving. Now that he was stopped, he ate Samantha's fries as well. One cheeseburger was all that she deserved, and besides, he wouldn't want her to fill up on fries and not have room to eat the sedative-laced burger. He knew it wasn't very sporting of him to drug the woman again, but he couldn't take any chances. He was not a large man. He barely weighed a hundred pounds. He had reasonably good proportions, but his height forced him to buy clothes in the Juniors' section.
He finished eating, wiped his mouth with a fistful of napkins, and stepped out of the car. He sucked the last ounces of red cream soda from the waxy drink container. He stretched and admired the colors of the sky. The last low layers of crimson faded to indigo, and the stars twinkled overhead. Had the stars ever been more beautiful than they were this magical night? No. And he'd never felt more alive.
He reached into the passenger seat, grabbed the bag with the cheeseburger, and went inside the cabin to prepare Samantha's final meal.
He whistled as he spread the sedative around inside the burger. His dark-haired guest was probably so hungry, she'd snap it down in two bites. Thinking about how hungry she was made the full meal in his belly all the better. He took his time cleaning up the kitchen and wiping down all the surfaces. He didn't want to accidentally ingest any of Samantha's treats.
With the plate in hand, he unlocked the padlock holding down the trap door. Before lifting the door, he paused. She wasn't screaming. The last time he'd returned to the cabin, she had made a terrible racket. Now she was quiet. Perhaps she was sleeping, or already dead. If it was the latter, he hoped she hadn't started to stink. The last thing he needed under the cabin was a rotting animal.
He set the plate on the floor, grabbed the biggest knife from the kitchen to use for protection, and creaked open the trap door lid. It was dark below, but he spotted the glow of her blouse where he expected to see it, in the corner with the most head clearance. He sighed with relief. For a moment, he'd imagined she might have broken through the cement floor into the red earth and tunneled her way out like a red-eyed rodent. He set aside the knife and traded it for the plated cheeseburger. He'd used a paper plate rather than a ceramic one, because he was a careful man who thought things through.
“Samantha,” he called out in a sing-song voice. “Dinner time. Wakey wakey.” He leaned down to set the plate on the concrete, and as the echoes of his voice came back to him, he wondered how many children he and Caitlyn would have. At least two. And he would wake them up by singing to them, and together—
All of Charles DeWitt's thoughts smashed to a flat line as his head hit the concrete. The impact made him swoon, and his mouth filled with water, but he didn't lose consciousness. Despite the searing pain and the stars flashing in his head, he saw her, and he understood what was happening.
The conniving, red-eyed crawlspace rodent had removed her clothes, just like the cheap whore she was. She'd draped them over something in the corner to trick him, and she'd attacked poor, defenseless Charles, pulling him down to her level. He'd landed head first, the rest of him following in a heap. He was lucky he hadn't snapped his neck. Poor little Charles! He had always been small for his age. People could be so cruel, and none were more cruel than women like Samantha Torres, with their teasing eyes.
“Wait!” he screamed. He croaked out something indecipherable, muddled between a threat and a plea, and then the trap door slammed shut.
He heard her curse above him. The padlock! She wanted it, but he had it, in his pocket. He righted himself, his head swimming in pain, and started shouldering the trap door. It only opened an inch before she stomped it back down. But her body weight wasn't enough to keep him down, and when he got out, there would be hell to pay. He pushed again and again, and now she screamed. The little possum wasn't playing dead anymore.
He paused to catch his breath and heard a noise. Furniture being dragged. He howled in outrage and threw his weight at the trap door. This time, it barely budged. He took a full breath to scream at her, to promise her that a high price would be paid for her insolence.
He checked his pockets, feeling around in the dark. He still had the keys for his car. The cabin was isolated, far removed from any neighbors, and two miles from a main road. She would not get far on foot, but he would have to work fast. He braced himself to push the furniture from the trap door. If he could lift it just a little, he'd have an angle and the sofa would start to slide.
* * *
Above, Samantha gave herself orders in single words.
Heavy, she told herself as she pulled the room's furniture over the trap door.
Leave.
She got to the door, where the calm voice in her head spoke again. Boots.
Boots?
She looked down at her feet. They were bare. She was nearly naked, wearing only her underwear. Her clothes had been sacrificed to create the scarecrow down in the corner of the crawlspace. Parts of the bucket had formed a rib cage. The metal handle of the bucket had been her tool to break free of the plastic cuffs. She'd used the metal and a jagged bit of stone to cut through the ties. And now she was nearly free.
The voice spoke again. Look.
She looked around. She was in a cabin of a similar size to the one she'd been renting. A few lamps were on, and the windows were black. It was night.
She would run, but she didn't know where she was, or how far away help would be.
Boots, the voice said, and now she knew it wasn't her speaking. It was her guardian angel, Samuel, the man she'd been mistaking for Warren for the past month. Her grief had been so powerful, she couldn't accept what was right in front of her eyes.
She couldn't see her angel Samuel anymore—he'd disappeared when the trap door opened—but she could hear him now, and she could feel him all around her.
She found a pair of Charles DeWitt's boots near the door. With shaking hands, she pulled them onto her feet. They were small, but seemed to fit. She even managed to pull the laces tight. Tying a bow was impossible, so she shoved the loose ends down toward her ankles.
Coat, Samuel said.
She grabbed the longest jacket from a hook next to the door and pulled it on. The feel of the fabric on her skin caused her to cry out in a mix of gratitude and relief. After thirty hours in the dark crawlspace, it was a miracle to feel something other than dry wood and cold concrete.
Keys?
She checked the hooks by the doorway and did a quick search of the counter in the kitchen. She didn't find her captor's keys, but she found the spread-out contents of her purse. Her phone had been dismantled, and parts appeared to have been smashed. Phone. Her gaze flicked from the busted cell phone to the old-fashioned phone on the cabin's wall. She lunged for it and held the receiver to her ear. No dial tone. She depressed the receiver several times to make sure.
Down below, Charles had stopped screaming profanities and threats. His silence worried her.
She spotted the knife next to the trap door. If she killed him, he could never hurt her again. Did she dare open the trap door again?
No, said her guardian angel. Run.
On shaking legs, she bolted for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the furniture on top of the trap door shift. Samantha opened the front door, shot out into the night, and she ran.
* * *
When Charles emerged from the crawlspace, everything was red. He'd scraped the ridge of his eyebrow getting out, and now blood from the cut ran into his eye.
He staggered through the cabin toward the bedroom. He yanked open the bedside table drawer, tossed aside the thin piece of wood that formed the fake bottom, and grabbed the gun. It was loaded and ready to go. The gun wasn't his top choice, because someone might hear the shots and call in a report, but he would do what needed doing.
He ran out the front door and scanned for her. There was a single road leading from the cabin
. The road zigzagged down the mountain for two miles before it branched off. He jumped in his car, rolled down the windows, turned off the headlights, and started down the road.
It didn't take long before he spotted movement in the woods next to the road. He kept his foot steady on the gas and didn't allow his head to jerk. He kept driving at the same slow speed, not letting on that he'd spotted his prey. Once he'd rounded a hairpin corner, he killed the engine and jumped out. He pocketed the keys and closed the door gently, then doubled back.
She was quiet, making no noise as she moved through the forest. It was a miracle he'd been able to spot her movement in the wan moonlight. He stepped slowly, carefully, but kept snapping branches underfoot.
She stayed ahead of him, always out of reach, but close enough to keep his hope alive. He aimed the gun once, twice, three times, but every time he had a clear shot of his prey, she seemed to evaporate into the dark forest. He didn't dare fire and give away his position. All he needed was patience. She was either lost or disoriented, climbing up the mountain and above the cabin rather than down and toward town. He stayed on her trail, keeping his breathing calm and measured. Persistence pays off, he told himself. I am a persistent man. A patient man.
After an hour of stalking Samantha Torres through the woods, they both reached the peak. There was nowhere else to go.
And there she was, waiting for him in a clearing at the top, shivering like a sacrificial lamb. She slipped off the jacket she stole from his cabin, kicked off the boots, and turned to face him.
Her expression was that of acceptance. Of love.
She was thirty feet away.
Twenty feet away.
The night wind picked up and made her dark hair flutter around her bare shoulders. She was as beautiful as any woman in a painting.
And her face was so serene, so calm, so inviting.
He was ten feet away. Her eyes caught his and held them. In her eyes he could see eternity.
He pulled his gun from his pocket and showed it to her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
No, the gun was too impersonal.
He tossed the gun at her feet. It made no sound as it hit the dirt.
She tipped back her head, exposing her neck to him, inviting his embrace.
He took one more step toward her, and he was falling. Falling for her. Falling... through her.
He passed through her body and through the illusion of rocky ground at her feet. The forest at the bottom of the cliff rushed up toward him. She'd been a vision, a mirage, a lie.
Charles DeWitt sucked in his breath, preparing to scream, but the only sound he made was a crack as he hit the rocky ground below.
* * *
Samantha stumbled onto the main road and flagged down a vehicle. She knew it wasn't Charles, because she'd passed his compact car halfway down the winding access road. The car was empty, the keys gone. Someone had been crashing around in the forest, growling and shouting threats. It had been easy to avoid him, even without her guardian angel, who'd disappeared.
The vehicle she was flagging down came to a stop. It was an older-model station wagon, and the woman who stepped out of the driver's-side door looked familiar.
“Do I know you?” Samantha asked.
“You don't know me, but I know you.” The woman took her by the hand and led her around to the passenger side, where she lovingly tucked her into the seat. There was no one else in the vehicle.
“Who am I?” Samantha asked. She heard herself, and let out a strangled laugh. “I mean, who are you? I know who I am. I'm not that crazy.”
The woman held up a finger, closed the door, and got in on the driver's side. She locked the doors and started driving.
“I'm Caroline Winters,” the woman said. “You know my daughter, Caitlyn. She's actually out right now, looking for you. The whole town's looking for you.”
Samantha answered in a whisper, “I was abducted. Nobody's going to believe me, but it's true.”
“I believe you,” the woman said.
They spoke for a few minutes, with the woman gently asking questions and assuring her they were going directly to the hospital, and that Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud would meet them there.
As they entered town, both grew quiet.
After a minute, the woman said, “You must have someone very special watching over you. In all my days, I've never seen an aura as bright as yours.”
Chapter 16
May 5th
8:20 p.m.
The Watering Hole, Owl Bend, Colorado
Finn Bruno waved Samantha over to the bar. “Toni should be here any minute,” he said. “She ran out to get some more salt. Do you think people would notice if I put sugar on the margarita rims?”
Samantha laughed and shook her head. “They might notice, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind. People in Owl Bend are pretty cool.”
The bartender grinned. “That's why people like us can never leave.”
“How's your big venture going? The locked room?”
The grin fell off his face. “We're nearly set up, but Toni says I'm not supposed to talk to you about that, on account of... what happened to you.” He looked down as he handed Samantha a non-alcoholic lemonade in a tall glass.
“That's sweet of her. Your fiancée is a very considerate person, but honestly, it's been almost a year and I can talk about things without, you know, going to that dark place in my mind.” She lifted the lemonade in a one-sided toast. “It helps that I've been sober close to a year. Sobriety is a good thing.”
Finn held his finger to his lips and glanced around the one-third-full bar with cartoonish paranoia. “Shh. Don't tell our customers.”
Samantha chuckled and took a sip of her lemonade. She found it easier to stay sober when she wasn't around people drinking, but she'd be with friends tonight, and she didn't want to miss one of the town's main annual events. Everyone would be packed into the Watering Hole tonight, including Daniel's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Dawson. The white-haired woman had promised to be there from nine o'clock until ten, after which she would promptly go home so she could be in bed by eleven.
Samantha had been getting to know Mrs. Dawson, thanks to spending so much time at Daniel's. More importantly, she'd been getting to know the deputy sheriff. The last few months had been good.
After her encounter with Charles DeWitt, Samantha's world had crashed in on her. Even though a search and rescue team had located his body in a rocky crevice, the man continued to devastate and terrify her. She wanted to put Owl Bend behind her, so she got on a bus, then a plane, and headed back to California, where she stayed with Hilda and Ricky.
After three months of what Hilda called Rehabilitation By Dueling Toddlers, Samantha had made significant progress. She'd stayed sober and sane, and most days she was even happy. But when it came time for her to move out of the Francis family's spare room and into her own place, none of the apartment listings interested her. The money from her fiancé's life insurance policy would cover buying a house outright, but none of the homes she toured interested her.
In October, she got an email from Caitlyn Winters—they'd stayed in touch through the internet—and Caitlyn mentioned that the resort where Samantha had been staying was for sale. She and her mother were thinking of investing, and she'd emailed simply to ask Samantha how she'd enjoyed the resort as a customer.
Samantha could hardly sleep that night, and in the morning she emailed Caitlyn asking if she and her mother were interested in a third partner.
Caitlyn replied with a message full of funny images of cartoon animals saying YES!
In January, Samantha left California for Colorado. A very teary Hilda saw her best friend off and promised the whole family of four would come to visit soon. “The wide open spaces of Colorado are a great place to raise a couple of rambunctious boys,” Samantha said, and Hilda winked to let her know she was working on it. And she was. Hilda could work on her blog anywhere, but it would take three years to wrap up Ricky's business
there in Los Angeles, sell the house, and head east, but the boys would grow up riding horses and enjoying the great outdoors.
Samantha had been living in Owl Bend for two months and fifteen days before Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud worked up the courage to ask her on a date. It was April, ten months since their first date at Yolanda's All-Day Bar and Grill, and they returned to the truck stop restaurant for their second date, joking that in another ten months they'd come back for dinner.
Now it was May fifth, the one-year anniversary of Warren's death. Earlier that day, Samantha and Daniel had visited Warren's grave with some other friends to lay down flowers and say a few words. They caught a glimpse of his aunt, Wendy, who was reportedly doing much better.
Everyone was doing much better. Toni and Finn were back together, planning to get married later that summer. Caitlyn was much happier with her job now that Charles was gone. And Samantha was no longer seeing ghosts or losing her grasp on chunks of memory. Since the moment she fought her way out of the crawlspace, she hadn't seen Samuel again. At first, she regretted that she hadn't had the chance to say goodbye, but as time moved on, she realized she didn't need to. He would always be a part of her, always reside somewhere deep within her heart. And there would always be room for more in her heart, for now the doors and windows were wide open.
A hand brushed across her shoulder and then Daniel was there, gazing into her eyes.
She asked, “Everything okay?” He'd sent her into the tavern without him because he'd gotten a call about a disturbance.
“Just kids knocking over some trash bins,” he said.
She pretended to roll up her sleeves. “Do you need backup? I'm your gal, Deputy Sheriff. Just point me at 'em.”
He laughed and brushed some of her hair behind her ear. It was the second time he'd done such a gesture. They were only a month into dating, so Samantha was still keenly aware of their firsts and seconds. She caught his hand and kissed it. His eyebrows shot up. She hadn't done that the first time. He gave her a glimpse of his off-duty dimples and leaned in for a real kiss.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 30