Mystic Hearts (3 page)

“No
comparison,” Larry said offhandedly. His brain wouldn’t engage in an
authoritative comeback. Having to explain his actions as to why he watched
Charlene floored him. Not that he needed to go into details with a trespasser.
Still, the comment stirred an emotion inside he didn’t want to address.

“Yeah,
there is. We’re both red-blooded males. A good-looking woman, we’re gonna
look.” Mathews cracked his knuckles. “She’s off limits.”

Red
flashed before Larry’s eyes. The guy had balls. “Wrong thing to say.”

“Bullshit.
She’s mine. You stay the fuck away.”

Larry
fisted his hands. He wanted to cold-cock him. If he’d checked on the mysterious
lights in the field and not perched on the step of the one-room schoolhouse
watching Charlene, he would have avoided the protectiveness burning a hole in
his stomach.

“Nope.”
His noggin still hadn’t connected. For a trained agent who thought fast and
acted quickly on a daily basis, he turned to putty around Charlene, another
reason to stay away. At least, he didn’t act on his primal instinct. He hadn’t
beaten the shit out of this guy.

“I
work here. You don’t.”

Mathews’
comment snapped him back to the here and now. Larry had hoped his off-handed
comment about Mathews’ mother and costume would fire up the peeping tom so he’d
spill the actual reason he roamed the yard. Larry had a hunch Mathews was up to
more than snooping on a beautiful woman. At least his perception stayed intact.

“I
should call the real cops,” Mathews said. “You’re worthless.”

Mathews’
comment tumbled around in Larry’s mind. Rage pounded through him, racing past
annoyance and damn near stealing his control. Bile rose in his throat and his
hands fisted. He gulped in a fortifying breath and shoved away the stabbing remark—you’re
worthless— that showed its ugly head when his passion interfered with a case
..
.words his father had used often.

“Go
ahead,” Mathews retorted. “Make my day. I’ll have you on assault charges.”

Larry
raked a hand through his hair and stepped back, letting his mind clear and his
anger subside until numbness filled his consciousness, the only recourse he had
to ward off the emotion invoked by his father’s vile memory.

“Man,
you feel me?”

Feel him?
“Hell, no!”
Larry flexed and clenched his hands, his mind not as dulled as he’d hoped.
“Shut your trap before we both regret it.”

Mathews
looked as if he wanted to retort, but Larry’s glare stopped him.

Larry
stared across the field to remove the anger rushing through him. Emotions were
getting involved, not what an agent wants to happen.

The
moon glowed on the empty field. Cows didn’t graze in this pasture. He wondered
why. Before he could deliberate any more on the manager’s management style,
lights flickered in the distance. The illumination didn’t display long. A few
twinkles, maybe four or five, then darkness. He’d needed his night goggles to
see the distance.

Several
questions came to mind. What was the origin of the mysterious lights that
landed him at the manor? Were they a signal of some sort? Who was behind them?
Larry gazed at the kitchen window. If Mathews worked on the manor, did he stay
at the house? Why would he creep around instead of going inside? Was he seeing
Charlene? The last question brought the sting of jealousy. Damn, he had it bad
for this divorced mother.

He
focused on the matter at hand…figuring out Mathews. “Are you staying here?”
Larry nodded toward the house.

The
anger on Mathews’s face turned compassionate as he stared at the empty window.

Damn it
. “What
affiliation do you have with the woman?” Larry’s voice was stern, fortified by
anger, not leaving any room to recoil and try another angle, one that didn’t
have jealousy in the tone.

“None
of your business.”

Unlike
moments ago, Mathews spoke clear. The gangster slang and inflection had
disappeared.

Larry
uncuffed one of Mathews’s wrists, dragged him to the column supporting the
schoolhouse porch, and cuffed him to the column. As if Mathews had a choice,
Larry said, “Stay here.” He walked several feet behind the ten-foot tall
boxwood bushes and called the FBI office.

Missy
Richards, the administrative assistant who’d recently passed the requirements
to be promoted to agent, answered. Missy working this late at the office didn’t
surprise him. She often worked well into the evening, like him. “Hi, Missy…
would you run a history on Allen Mathews?”

“Will
do, Special Agent Newman.”

Ever
since she left her previous position, she’d been calling him by his title, a habit
he wished she’d break. A few moments later, she returned to the line. “No
priors.”

“Employment?”

“Greenwood
Manor.”

So,
the guy didn’t lie. “Anything else useful?”

“No.
There’s no history past a few months ago.”

A spook?
Certain military
agencies cleared their men’s past, but this guy? “Thanks. Are you heading
home?”

“Not
for a while.”

He
and Missy were similar creatures. Neither had a reason to rush home and neither
wanted a reason. “Have a good evening.”

“You,
too.” She disconnected.

Larry
stuck his phone on his belt clip. With no reason to hold Mathews, he had to
release him. The guy worked on the farm and had a right to roam. Arresting a
person on gut instinct didn’t fly. The Director would take issue.

With
his gaze glued to the window, Mathews slid his cuff wrists down the column and settled
on the porch step.

His
focus on Charlene dug under Larry’s skin. “You’re gonna stay away from the
house?”

“You
don’t live here anyways.”

The
gangster slang returned.
Interesting
.
“As far as you’re concerned I do. Tell your crib, FBI is watching.

“You
big fuzz?”

Larry
hadn’t heard anyone call the Bureau big fuzz. Other choice words, yes. “You
bet.”

“If
I stay away, you gonna take these off?”

Larry
thought about his good friend Paul England’s worried phone call, insisting odd
lights in the manor’s front field had to be the work of criminals, and tried to
figure out if Mathews fit into the equation. His gut said Mathews was up to no
good, yet he believed the feeling was directed more toward Mathews watching
Charlene than the mysterious lights flashing on the hillside. “Yes,” Larry
barked, sick the decision felt wrong and pissed to have no reason to hold him.

****

Rage
boiled in Mathews’s blood. How dare the big fuzz order him to leave? He stormed
down the field toward the barn where he’d parked the four-wheeler.

I’ll show that
agent.

Low
man on the totem pole within the gang, Mathews still had a card to play to make
the FBI quake, and make the other members of the Impalers give him the respect
he deserved.

His
back seared from the agent watching him. He wanted to flip him off, but why
bother? The chicken-shit would just arrest him. Not that the law would be able
to hold him, his alias was clean. Still, he couldn’t afford any attention, not
if he wanted to earn Charlene’s trust.

The
picnic basket had been a beautifully laid out idea. The laced wine would aid
her into seeing strange apparitions. The banging and knocking he made upstairs
set everything into motion, scaring her. He waited for the wine to reach its
full effect so he could make his move. She would be so scared she’d need
someone to protect her. Who knew what that protection would entail? Naked
between sheets, he hoped.

The
plan executed perfectly until the damn son-of-a-bitch showed up. The desire in
the agent’s gaze when he watched Charlene through the window formed a knot in Mathews’
stomach.

The
agent was an obstacle he hadn’t counted on and couldn’t afford. Mathews never
shot anyone. Maybe it was time. He’d find the agent alone, away from the only
person who could identify him, and take him out.

Mathews
climbed onto the seat of the four-wheeler, started the engine, and stared at
the one-room schoolhouse. Charlene walked toward it and toward big fuzz. Her
unsteady gait, a sign the drug took effect. Any minute, the agent would hear
her. He’d be her rescuer.

His
gut burned.

Fuck!

Chapter Two

The
surprise of the raised voices propelled adrenaline through Charlene’s veins.
Two people, near the schoolhouse, stood and argued.

The
voice that melted her insides on the mountain that awful day drifted toward
her.

Larry?

Heart
racing, she stumbled by the boxwood bushes, and fell to the ground beneath
them. The limbs encased her as if they were prickly tentacles, scratching her
arms and scraping her cheeks.

“Whoa!”
She braced a hand on the dirt and lifted herself on unsteady legs. Her
surroundings passed by her as if she rode a merry-go-round. Waiting for the
ride to slow, she held onto the bush’s skinny branches, swayed, and focused on
the porch.

When
it did, her vision changed. She gazed at the fragmented porch and distorted
steps as if she looked through a kaleidoscope. The wine’s effects played havoc
with her senses. Playful as if a young child, she lifted her arms to her sides,
shoulder level.

“You’re
gonna stay away from the house?” Larry’s commanding voice boomed. She looked in
the direction of the sultry tone that heated her blood.

Someone
else spoke, but she couldn’t hear what was said.

The
desire to see Larry grew stronger. As if walking a tightrope and not a wide
sidewalk, she placed a foot in front of the other.

The
voices ceased. She paused, looked down at her shoes. The toe of a sneaker
touched a crack in the sidewalk. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,”
she sang, scooting her foot backwards parallel to the other, and lowered her
arms.

The
concrete beneath her vibrated, and she jumped, straddling the sidewalk. The
cement popped…snapped…cracked.

She
stared down in disbelief. Lines formed, stretched in every direction, like
roots spreading at rapid speed, until reaching the end of the walkway.

Larry’s
voice boomed.

“Larry,”
she said, her voice not much above a whisper and shaky.

He
didn’t reply.

She
stepped to the right side of the walk and moved closer to call him again. At
the corner of the house, the concrete ended and a brick path began. Lines
crisscrossed, making the feat of not stepping on one impossible, worse than the
sidewalk.

“Hmm.”
She stayed on the grass and followed the bricks toward the schoolhouse.

The
hair on the back of her neck rose. Her skin prickled. The wind picked up,
blowing her hair across her face. She stopped, smoothed down her hair and
turned, facing the side of the house. The moon and outside light cast a glow on
the far end, highlighting two windows.

Not
long ago at The Memory Café, during BOFs weekly get-togethers, she overheard a
few of the members discussing an old wives’ tale. At the time, she dismissed it
as a joke children devised to terrorize one another. Now, standing outside the
old house, she wondered if some verity backed the story.

A hand without a
body would appear in a second floor window.

Maybe,
if she called out…

“Madison
Hand! Come out! Come out, from wherever you are.” She giggled. Somewhere in her
subconscious, she knew not to mess with the spirits. Again, she had no control.

“What
was in that wine?”

The
air stilled. She braced her feet a shoulder width apart and stared.

The
windows grew wider and longer. She smacked and pinched each cheek, trying to
snap out of the haunted haze the alcohol had produced.

She
should have stayed home, gone ‘trick or treating’ with Henry and her mother.

Well
beyond his years, her son had understood her reasons for coming to the manor
tonight. Guilt had seeped in when she dropped him off at her mother’s house
until he excitedly said, “I get to stay up past bedtime.” At that moment, she
knew she had to go. Henry needed his mother whole again.

Clear
as day, a hand emerged in the corner window, ripping her thoughts from her
mind.

She
froze everything except her eyes. They stayed glued to the phantom object.
Fingers wiggled behind the glass pane before jumping to the next window in a
game of peek-a-boo.

An
owl hooted. The hand vanished. She darted her gaze between the two windows, waiting.
“I’ve gone mad. I’ve turned into Alice in
Alice
in Wonderland.
Where’s the rabbit?” She twisted, scanned the ground for a
white furry creature, and caught sight of the one-room schoolhouse. A light
twinkled inside.