Dae's Christmas Past (6 page)

I knew I could count on Jake for help, but Tom and Dr. Sheffield wouldn’t be as easily moved. I had no legal sway in Corolla and it was doubtful the town council would back me since everyone saw this as a goldmine for the community.

Jake had been so overwhelmed by the need to know what was buried behind his barn. I understood it was that passion that had led him to force me to hold one of the statues.

That didn’t mean I could forgive him—at least not for a while. It was going to be hard to talk to him and see him right away. But I was going to have to grit my teeth and work with him before something came out of the ground and we couldn’t put it back.

The drive home in the golf cart was cold, but what I needed to snap myself out of what was left from touching the stone horse.

I stared out at the Currituck Sound as we passed the boardwalk. Mary Catherine and Gramps were chatting in the front seat. I was glad that the two of them seemed to have such a wonderful rapport. If I was going to leave my family’s old house and move in with Kevin someday as his wife, it would be good to know that Gramps had someone too.

I realized that it might not be Mary Catherine. She hadn’t said anything about staying in Duck beyond this crisis. She would probably go back to her life in Wilmington. There were no good-sized radio stations that could hire her to do her pet psychic radio show here. I was pretty sure Gramps would never leave his family home.

It was a quick trip since the roads were empty between the Blue Whale and our house. The air was sharp and crisp. It was nice to get inside where it was warm and cozy. I excused myself to give Mary Catherine and Gramps some privacy. The house wasn’t very big. I knew what it was like to be there with someone you wanted to speak with alone.

“Goodnight, honey,” Gramps said. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’m sure things will look better in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Dae,” Mary Catherine called. “Your grandfather has promised me blueberry pancakes in the morning. We’ll see if he can fulfill that vow.”

I looked at the two of them standing close together, gazing into each other’s eyes.

I could imagine having her in our lives. Gramps had been alone too long. “I could go for some blueberry pancakes too. Don’t let him wiggle out of that promise!”

I went up to my room, thinking about what this house had been like when I was a child. My grandmother had died before I was born. My mother and I lived here with Gramps. He was the sheriff when I was young. He had been strict with me—probably with good reason since I liked to goof around a lot.

I had never known my father—at least not until the last few years. Gramps and my mother had decided it was better to tell me that he was dead instead of telling me that he was a criminal. He’d come back to Duck long enough for me to get to know him before he left again. He’d been in and out of jail most of his life. He hadn’t changed, still looking for that big score that was going to make his life perfect. Instead it had almost killed him, and he’d had to run away.

I was sorry for him that he’d had to miss spending time with my mother and me. He hadn’t even known she was dead until I told him. He’d claimed to love her, but that didn’t seem like love to me. Gramps was hard on him too, I’d found out later. He thought my father wasn’t good enough for his daughter.

It was complicated, I guess.

My mother had died while I was in college. She’d left me feeling guilty about the last time we’d seen each other. We’d argued about something stupid before she’d gone home to Duck that day. She’d lost control of her car and it had gone off the bridge from the mainland. Her body had never been recovered. I still had dreams about her sitting in the car beneath the water.

No one ever knows if they will have a chance to make it right with someone they care for.

I’d seen ghosts, and even helped a family pirate ancestor prove he wasn’t guilty of the crime he’d been hanged for. But not my mother’s ghost. The one spirit I really wanted to summon seemed to be content where she was. Sometimes I blamed that on the family ‘gift’ skipping a generation. Grandma Eleanore had the gift of sight, but not my mother. Instead, it had come to me.

These weren’t the best thoughts to think as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I was supposed to focus on good things to get away from what I’d seen in the vision. That wasn’t working. I stroked Treasure’s soft fur. He always slept with me. But knowing he was there didn’t make me feel any better. There was still that pent-up emotion and fear lingering inside me. I couldn’t sleep.

I put on my robe and slippers and walked up the narrow stairs that led to the roof and the widow’s walk. I’d spent hours here as a child, trying to figure things out and enjoying the view. The ornate wrought-iron rail was frosty as I put my hand on it.

From here I could see the beams from the working lighthouses across the Outer Banks. Their large, bright lights swept across the water as a reminder to sailors that the shoals around the islands were dangerous. Called the Graveyard of the Atlantic for more than four hundred years, the waters still took their toll. Most of the larger vessels had electronic devices now that kept them safe, but smaller vessels still sometimes ended up beneath the surface of the deadly water.

Treasure came soundlessly up the stairs after me. He looked up and meowed, and I lifted him in my arms. We stared out at the Currituck Sound, smooth and clear, and the edge of the Atlantic. The rooftops around us covered the sleeping houses in Duck and farther along the coast.

Women had once watched for their loved one’s return from these high walks. Day after day, a wife, sister, or mother would wait for the tall masts that would signal the safe and successful voyage of a ship.

Sometimes their husbands, brothers, sons, and fathers would be gone for months, even years, as they traded goods with other states and countries. Many times they never returned, which was how the high rooftop got its name. I’d read countless ghost stories of widow’s walks when I was a child. Some female ghost was still looking for her missing lover.

I’d always thought how unfair it was that men weren’t up here pining for their women. There had been a few female pirates and ship captains, but not enough to tell stories of. It hadn’t sounded appealing to me—being gone for years from the people you loved. I was glad that didn’t happen anymore.

Something icy and white hit the top of Treasure’s head. He hissed at it before batting at the next one with his paws.
Snow!
I let him down so he could run back to the stairs. I couldn’t believe it was snowing.

Snow was an infrequent guest in Duck. The white stuff didn’t last long, but it was always welcome and exciting. Everyone stopped what they were doing to marvel at it. The snowflakes started coming down faster and harder, covering the widow’s walk and the rooftops below me.

I ran down the stairs after Treasure, who had curled up on the bed again to go back to sleep. “Don’t you want to go outside and see the snow? Who knows when we’ll have it again?”

He made it clear to me that he wasn’t interested in anything cold or wet. I threw an old shawl over my robe and went downstairs to the living room. I didn’t bother putting on real shoes, afraid the snow would stop before I could get outside. I ran out in my slippers and reveled in the sparkly white stuff that covered everything in the yard.

I tried to scrape enough snow from the golf cart to make a snowball—there wasn’t enough. I whirled around in it and caught snowflakes on my tongue. I grinned as my hair and shawl were covered in it. The snow catching in trees and bushes revealed hidden depths. It was thrilling, and exactly what my wounded heart needed to feel light again.

Skidding across the drive, I headed to Duck Road, glancing up and down. No cars had been through to mar the clean, white surface. But there was something large and dark in the middle of the road. Maybe it was a rug or something that had fallen off the back of a truck. Snowflakes were rapidly gathering on it.

I hoped no one had carelessly injured or killed a dog and left it there as I walked toward it. I walked down to the spot, slipping and sliding on the road, not knowing what I would find. When I reached the dark form I considered that it was too big to be a rug. Probably not a dog either.

It was then that I realized it was a man.

He was wearing dark dress pants and a dark suit coat. He was lying on his chest, his head turned to the right so I could see his face in the dim streetlight’s glow.
Tom Watts
.

Maybe he had passed out after drinking too much. Kevin’s party wasn’t the only one where people had been drinking. I needed to touch him, try to wake him. I didn’t dare do it without protection after going through the vision earlier.

I slipped my hand inside my shawl and bent close to him.

“Tom?” I pushed at him. He didn’t move. “It’s me, Dae O’Donnell. You have to get up. I don’t think I can move you by myself. Even in Duck, it’s dangerous to be in the middle of the road.”

A bad feeling was slowly overwhelming me. I beat it off with a reminder that things weren’t always the way they appeared. I had to move him before a vehicle came down Duck Road and hit him. “Tom—can you hear me? We have to get you out of the road.”

I thought his eyes were closed until I put my covered hand on his face and realized that they were wide open, staring into the snow-filled darkness. He was dead. The words whispered through the silent night.

“Tom.” I pushed away the tears that slid down my cheek as I knelt in the street beside him. “What happened? Why are you out here?”

I wanted to insist that he get up. He couldn’t be dead. He was a good man and a good friend to the wild horses. His work was so important. Who would step in to take his place? This couldn’t be happening.

Being the granddaughter of a retired sheriff, I noticed things about the scene that other people with grandfathers who were dentists and accountants wouldn’t have noticed. There was no blood. Blood would have been visible even in the dim light. His jacket was torn on the right side. One of his hands was stretched out. The other was tucked under him. He had an ugly mark on the side of his head. It was a deep gash, but it had some kind of shape.

I stood to go inside and get Gramps. He’d make the appropriate calls and verify what I already knew. There was a rush of icy air that swirled the newly fallen snow on the street. I heard the thunder of horse’s hooves and smelled the scent of them coming toward me.

Then I was engulfed in what felt like a stampede as hundreds of horses seemed to rush down Duck Road. I cringed and tried to protect myself from them as they raced by me. Their loud snorts and screams echoed through the night. I was afraid I would be crushed by their frantic pace.

But when I looked up, there were no horses. It was some kind of strange mirage, maybe part of the vision still lingering inside of me. And yet there were hoof prints up and down the street, marking the clean snow and covering Tom’s body, as though horses had run across him.

Spooked, I ran into the house and woke Gramps. I was surprised to find him sleeping in his bedroom. I hadn’t seen him use it in ten years. Usually he slept on the recliner in the living room, across from the TV. Who knew he’d make appropriate changes for our guest?

“What do you mean there’s a man in the road?” He stuffed his legs into worn pants and shoved his sockless feet into boots. “Why were
you
in the road, Dae?”

“It’s snowing.” I fought to find an explanation. “I went out to see the snow.”

He eyed me critically. “You’re a little old to run out in the middle of the night to look at the snow.”

“Maybe. But you’re missing the point.”

He put on his fishing hat and jacket. “Which is the man in the road. I get it. Do you know who it is?”

“It’s Tom Watts. I think he’s dead. We have to move him so no one hits him. I couldn’t do it by myself.”

“Well, of course not,” he complained. “Let’s go.”

He brought a flashlight, and I retraced my steps into the street. There were still no tire tracks, only hoof prints, visible in the snow. The hoof prints extended into the yard, almost up to the porch, and around the side.

“What the hell? There were
horses
out here?”

“I don’t think they were real horses.” I told him what had happened.

“Whatever they were, they left physical evidence. Go back and get your phone. Take some pictures before this snow is gone. We won’t be able to see the hoof prints after that. You’ll need to take some pictures of Tom too—just in case we need them.”

I ran inside to do as he said, leaving him to check Tom. I came back out with my phone. Gramps was setting up old wood sawhorses as roadblocks. I knew then that I was right about Tom.

Swallowing hard, I took dozens of pictures of Tom lying still and lifeless on the road. I took even more pictures of hoof prints. The hoof prints not only extended up into our driveway but into our neighbor’s drive and yard too. I’d never seen anything like it. The wild horses had never come this far into town.

Gramps lit flares that sparkled red in the darkness to alert anyone coming this way. Both sides of Duck Road were blocked from traffic. “You were right,” he said. “Tom’s dead. Looks like he took a bad blow to the head.”