He looked down at the sand. “So, now what?”
“We go back and…” she turned her gaze away from him.
“And what?”
“We do what we have to do.”
He gently turned her toward him searching for hope somewhere in her deep blue eyes, but found none. He stood abruptly and dove into the lake and made his way back to the boat. Moments later, she followed.
Sarah wiped away her tears. “I feel such pain…a hurt deep within me.” She set the book down, sighed, and stared into the fireplace. “Who are these teenagers? Could they be the children of the woman who was killed? Obviously, you expect me to do something with this tiny glimpse of their situation.” Her voice became laden with frustration. “What’s the message, Book?”
Silence.
She picked the book up and read on.
Ardor
The cavernous art studio was cluttered with paintings, many hanging on the walls or leaning against easels or furniture, some lying on the floor. Alabaster sculptures sat on pedestals and tables, crammed among the paintings. A large easel stood at the center of the loft covered by a white sheet dappled and smeared with a kaleidoscope of colors. A table crowded with tubes of paint of every imaginable hue, surrounded by rags and brushes, stood beside it.
From behind an oversized screen that separated the studio from the makeshift bedroom, the moans of a man and woman involved in fervent lovemaking echoed through the room.
Bodies entwined, they writhed and moaned atop a king-size mattress that rested directly on the floor. Pillows and covers lay strewn where they’d fallen or been flung away.
A large painting hung precariously above the bed, dominating the room in a disturbing way. It was a stylized rendition of a jackal snarling at an unseen enemy, while a pale, delicate hand reached from the upper right corner of the canvas toward the beast.
After an exuberant climax, the couple’s breathing slowed to a series of heavy sighs. The man attempted to withdraw, but the woman wrapped her arms and legs around his body. “No, wait, Andrew,” she moaned.
He surrendered to her embrace, kissing and nibbling her neck. Something he did around her ears caused her to giggle. “Stop.” She laughed and struggled in vain to escape, as he growled fiercely and tickled her without mercy. In the struggle, he rolled off the mattress and she snatched up the sheet, taking refuge beneath it.
He sat up on the floor and leered at her. A stunning man in his late thirties, with long black wavy hair, gray eyes, dark olive skin, and taut muscles, Andrew exuded an irresistible combination of razor-sharp intensity and animal presence.
He pushed back the sheet and caressed her buttocks. A rose-shaped red birthmark decorated the back of his left hand. He chuckled and slapped her behind, causing her to squeal with delight. His eyes wandered to a covered sculpture on a table across the room. He rose to his feet and padded across the studio toward it.
Bewildered, the woman emerged from under the sheet to see what had caused their game to come to such an abrupt and unexpected end. She spotted him next to the sculpture and eyed him with curiosity.
Andrew yanked the cloth away and tossed it aside, revealing a half-finished sculpture of a jackal cradled against a reclining nude woman. He studied it intently for several seconds, then reached toward the mass of clay on a small table nearby.
“Was it something I said?” the woman asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Andrew, clay in hand, didn’t respond; his attention fully focused on the sculpture.
As she stood, the sheet fell to the floor, revealing her soft and attractive figure. Her wavy auburn hair fell loosely over her shoulders. She was an eye-catching woman in her late twenties. Picking up the sheet, she wrapped it around herself, and sauntered over to him.
Without looking at her, he acknowledged her presence with a smile. “Animals, like women, are exhilarating.”
“Andrew, tell me—”
“No questions. You agreed. Let’s deal with what you can observe and feel in this room.”
“Okay, but first—”
“Hush…”
He dropped the clay, wiped his hands with a rag, turned, and pulled her to him.
“Karla, all you need to know is that you enthrall me.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his right hand.
Karla sighed as she gave in to the sensation of his touch.
“Model for me,” he said.
“Now? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“I can’t stay in one position for that long.”
“You don’t need to be motionless. I’m not after a duplicate of you. I seek who you are. I crave losing myself in the depths of those crazy hazel eyes of yours.” He cupped her face in his hands. “The tones of gold around your iris that fade into pools of blue and gray pull me in. ”
“Aren’t we metaphysical today?”
He stared into her eyes. “You’ve bewitched me.”
She smiled. “I could say the same thing about you.”
“Say yes. Let me take you all in.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
Andrew snaked his arms around her waist. The sheet dropped as he delicately ran his hands over her nude body. “Slowly. Very, very slowly.”
With an impish grin, Karla broke away from his embrace, and ambled about the studio studying his work. “Is that how you’ve created all these…creatures?”
“Ask them.”
There were sculptures of every size, all of women and animals. The paintings depicted the same subjects. She ran the tips of her fingers over the sculptures, feeling their vibrations, listening, expecting them to spring to life. A quiet intensity, buried anger or hidden pain, emanated from all of the figures.
“Can you hear them?”
Startled, Karla jumped. “Yes,” she gasped. “In a way. They’re so real.”
“They are real. They’re my most intimate friends. Without them, I couldn’t survive.”
He walked up to her and combed his fingers through her hair.
She tilted her head back to meet his sensual touch without taking her eyes off the painting of two jackals standing over a nude woman, whose lustful eyes stared back from the canvas.
“What do you mean, survive?”
His lips tickled the nape of her neck. “They take care of me. Look around. What can I tell you that they haven’t already captured? My work speaks for me. I cannot. If I knew how to express myself in words I’d be a poet, or a writer like you.”
“How will I—“
“You’ll work it out. You’re good at your craft. I like what you do. You grasp things other art journalists don’t.” He spun her around and touched her lips gently with his. “I long to read what you can do with me.”
“Without talking?”
“We don’t need to talk.”
“You’re a strange man, Andrew.”
“Am I?” He pulled her toward him and kissed her.
The words dissolved.
Sarah blinked and stared at the page only to find the first poem staring back at her. She flipped to the next page and encountered a second poem.
“Where’s the story?” She flipped through the pages, but saw nothing but poems. She scanned the book deliberately, but the poems didn’t change. She slammed it shut.
“This tale appears and disappears at will. Who are these people? They don’t look like the teenagers—well, maybe a little. Andrew has some resemblance. But the girl was a blue-eyed blond. Karla looks different.” She stared down at the cover. “Why show me their lovemaking? What connection do any of these people have with the woman who fell down the stairs and died? I don’t get what this story is about.”
Silence.
She sighed and forced herself to rein in her frustration. “Why would you make the story disappear? Unle
ss you need me to read the poem—is that it?” She shook her head. “I need to think about these scenes first. Give me a minute.”
She rose from the chair and paced up and down the room. “There’s a definite connection between these poems and the stories. There has to be. So, do the poems need to be read before the story goes on?” Sarah mulled that over for a moment and shook her head. “No, I saw the death of the woman first, the poem followed. Which means the story comes first and the poems appear to explain—what, the plot of the story? No, no, no. That doesn’t add up. The woman’s death happened, and then the first poem expressed the love and need of the writer for his lover…unless the poet is a woman. Either way, the poem was followed by the two chapters about love, one of deep disappointment, possibly betrayal, the other—” She stopped and stared at the book from across the room. “Jealousy! The story is about jealousy and the poems are…” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what they are. The man who sent the woman flying down the stairs, is he the jealous one? Is he the one I’m supposed to find? Is that what you need from me?”
The book refused to answer.
“Your silence is very annoying.” She yawned, grabbed the book from the table and carried it back to her bed. “Fair warning, I’ll read the next poem, but after that, I’m going to sleep, unless you give me something.”
WORDS
I love you more
Than words can say
No language could express
The things I feel for you
My need for you is greater
Than fear or joy could ever be
The only anguish great enough
To make me lose my mind
Is knowing that for just a day
You won’t be by my side
And if I were God
For just a single day
Some changes I would make
To be the only love for you
The only thing you had to do
Your only thought
Your only sight
To reach inside of you
And stay
Both night and day
Throughout the substance
Of your life
To repeat in every way
I love you more
Than words can say
Surprise
The morning sun glared down through the skylight onto the bed in Andrew’s studio. Only Karla lay beneath the messy sheets, squirming sensuously into consciousness, moaning softly. She felt about the bed searching for her lover. Squinting against the bright sun, she sat up and glanced around the room.
“Andrew?” she called out. The only response was the echo of her voice.
She crawled out of the bed naked, spotted his T-shirt on a nearby chair, and slipped it on. She peeked around the screen, half-expecting Andrew to burst from some hiding place to surprise her, but found no one. She ambled over to the kitchen in the far corner of the room, filled a kettle with water, and placed it on the stove. After rummaging through the cupboards, she found a satisfactory type of tea, removed a bag, and dropped it next to a cup.
She wandered about the studio, peering at the paintings strewn about the room and stopping to examine a sculpture. The shrill whistle of the teakettle demanded her attention so she scurried back to the kitchen, filled the cup with hot water, and placed the tea bag inside. She found a bottle of honey on the shelf above her, poured a few drops in, and swirled it with a spoon. She removed the bag, sipped her tea, and turned back toward the studio.
This time the large easel at the center of the room caught her eye. A mischievous smirk crossed her lips as she headed over to the easel. She reached for the cloth that shrouded the painting. Something on the table next to it caught her attention. A page from a local newspaper was pinned to the table by a large sharp knife that had been stabbed through the photograph of a woman labeled: Martha McKenzie. The headline above read: McKENZIE MATRIARCH FEARED DROWNED, Lakeside Community Shaken by Inexplicable Death.”
3
The Fellow Traveler
Sarah bolted upright in shock. The four-poster bed in her hotel room squeaked and wobbled with the sudden jolt. She grabbed the book from the nightstand, opened it, and stared down at the page before her. A new chapter titled Surprise, silently waited for her reaction.
“The murdered woman is Martha McKenzie. Wait a minute, did I dream this chapter exactly as it’s written?”
Her eyes frantically scanned the pages. “I’ll be darned, the exact description, the same images. When did all this stuff happen?” She reread the chapter, but found no mention of a date anywhere in the narrative. “Did this just happen or did it take place a long time ago? I didn’t notice a date on the newspaper. I don’t get it.”
The book offered no answers.
She looked at the clock by the bed. “Oh, my God. I slept for eleven hours straight. That’s a first. Well, at least it’s not too early to call James.” She pulled James’ contact information from her purse and dialed her cell phone.
James answered. “Hello, Sarah, how are you?”
“How did you guess it was me?”
He chuckled. “The Washington State area code on your phone number. What’s up?”
“Good morning James, first of all. Sorry to bother you, but I’m enormously puzzled by this book. Is there any way we can get together for a chat this morning?”
“Sure. I’d love to have you to come to the house, but I’m afraid the book may shut down with all the stuff I have around here. Where are you staying?”
“The Carter House Inn Hotel.”
“Tell you what, meet me at Café Waterfront. It’s on the corner of 1st and F streets. The front desk can give you directions. How about we meet in one hour?”
“Great. I’ll be there. Thanks, James.”
An hour later, Sarah entered the small restaurant and scanned the tables.
James stood and waved her over.
She was grateful that he’d picked a corner table that offered a bit of privacy.
He welcomed her with a warm embrace. “Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning, James. Thanks for seeing me so soon.”
He motioned for her to sit and followed suit. “Welcome to the Weaver Building, built in 1892. In my opinion, it’s one of the most interesting in town, and quite a beauty. Back in its heyday, it boasted a saloon downstairs and a brothel upstairs. Some years later, it became the Blue Bird Cabaret where men paid a dime a dance. Imagine that.”
“I noticed the sign in the front. It’s a Eureka historical landmark.”
He leaned toward her with his elbows on the table. “You haven’t had any breakfast. It shows in your eyes.”
“You’re right.”
He relaxed back in his chair and grinned. “Well, you’re in for a treat.”
“I’m not really hungry, I—”
“You must eat, at least a bit. Your body is going to need all the energy it can muster to deal with whatever is bothering you. I recommend their huevos rancheros. They’re super good.”
Sarah smiled. “Huevos rancheros it is.”
After they placed their orders, James reached over and held Sarah’s hand. “I can tell that you’re uneasy. Tell me about it.”
“Okay.” She took the book from her purse and placed it on the table.
James yanked his hand away and frowned. “This book refuses to be shared with me.”
She glanced back and forth between the book and James, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
His voice fell to a whisper. “I sense a strong force pushing me away. It won’t allow me to interfere. Please put it away.” Stunned, Sarah did as he asked. “If you’d like you can ask me general questions, that should be fine, but don’t reveal any specific names or events. The book is adamant that its contents are meant only for you.”
&nb
sp; Sarah nodded. “This is a book of love poems. Beautiful poems, I may add. But—how can I put this? It also reveals a story. In bits and pieces, mind you, and…well, the text appears on the page and then…it disappears. Like magic.”
“I understand.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“No, my dear, not at all, certainly not in these parts, and definitely not with someone like you. You are quite special.”
“How can you say that? We only just met.”
He shook his head and peered deep into her eyes. “We may have only met in person now, Sarah, but I feel a very strong connection to you—a sense of partnership—as if we’ve been friends a long while.”
“Well, ditto, my friend. Any idea why we have that impression?”
“I suspect it’s aided by our surroundings. Our subconscious minds and spirits are connecting. They’re at ease. There’s trust and comfort. Like a favorite blanket cuddling you.”
“What’s so special about our surroundings?”
“Ah, well…” He leaned closer. “For starters, there’s the shape of the bay, and our local geography. It is said, and this goes back generations, that it forms a kind of tuning device that opens a gateway between our four-dimensional plane and other planes in other dimensions.”
Sarah furrowed her brow, staring at him skeptically.
James smiled. “A bit outlandish, I know. Many have been hard pressed to explain the strange electromagnetic energies of the region and, let’s not forget, the hauntings and visions in unusual spots. Yet, there it is. We’re proof that some kind of inexplicable energy is enabling our communication at a deeper level, far beyond being right here chatting over breakfast.”
Sarah gave a slow nod of agreement. “You’ve got a point there.”
“Let me tell you a bit about Eureka’s…hmm…let’s call it a special attraction. According to the owner and operator of Old Town Ghost Tours, there are twenty-seven spots in Old Town Eureka that are haunted or have reported ghost sightings. This is a man who’s a natural skeptic, who has researched the history of this area extensively, and examined all the reported paranormal events in depth. He claims Eureka is one of the most haunted places on the West Coast.” Before she could speak, James held up a hand. “Sure, these claims are good for tourism, and provide him with some extra money. But he is not making it all up. One of the reasons Eureka has so many hauntings is most certainly because of its longitude and latitude, but also because of its past, going all the way back to the original inhabitants.”
Jackal Page 3