Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (4 page)

Mark Franklin was watching
The Price Is Right
when his grandmother barged into his bedroom, making that sudden demand in a strident, no-nonsense voice. “Stop treating me like a kid, Gram. I’m twenty-five freakin’ years old.”

“Then start actin’ like it.” She stubbed one cigarette into an ashtray on the bureau near the door and immediately lit up another. After taking a long draw and exhaling a cloud of smoke, she looked at her watch, then at his pajama bottoms, then back to her watch. “It’s noon, for heaven’s sake! Get the heck up and take a shower. I need your help.”

He raised the stump of what used to be his left arm. “What? You want me to dig your vegetable garden? Or fix the roof? How ’bout I change the beds for all your guests? Or scrub the toilets?”

“Pfff! What I want you to do is thank God you’re alive and stop wallowing. There’s a whole heck of a lot you can do. Start with getting involved in this cave project.” His grandmother was like a pit bull tugging on his pants leg.
Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff!

“Why should I?”

She sank down into an upholstered chair near the window and sighed. He could swear there were tears in the old bird’s eyes. In that instant, she looked every one of her seventy-five years. “Because I’m so far in debt I might lose this place if one of us doesn’t start earning some money,” she revealed in a small voice.

“Maybe if you’d make this a smoke-free B & B, you’d get more business.”

Her response was to blow smoke rings in the air. “Joke all you want, but the only way I see us avoiding a sheriff’s sale is by making this project a success.”

“Sell my truck.”

“Are you kidding me? That clunker is ten years old. What do you think I would get for it? Two thousand? On a good day, maybe three thousand. Besides, you need it for a trade-in when you get a vehicle with automatic transmission.”

Mark had been doing his best the past year to avoid feeling anything, but man, she made him feel like crap now. This house and this property had been in his family for two hundred and fifty years. And his grandmother was in danger of losing it? How could he not have known? “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because you had your own problems. Took all your energy to heal . . . in the beginning. That was before you started this wallowing business.” She ground her cigarette stub into the ashtray and lit up another one.

At this rate, Mark figured he would be getting lung cancer without ever having smoked. “You don’t need me, Gram. You have Caleb and the rest of the Jinx crew.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “They’re not family.”

“Don’t lay a guilt trip on me. Please.”

“The way I figure it, boy, is you’re already guilty enough, just for being alive.”

Mark didn’t have to be reminded that he was the lone survivor in his crew over in Af-friggin’-stan. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to say something foul to his grandmother.

“By the way, Lily called again last night.”

“You better not have invited her for dinner again. Because I won’t come down.”

He’d known Lily since they were both five years old, playing in her dad’s hayloft on a farm down the road a ways. They’d been engaged before his deployment. They were unengaged now, although he’d had to tell Lily that at least a dozen times so far. Lily could do better than a one-armed, unemployed ex-pilot.

“I heard she’s takin’ her clothes off and doin’ the hootchie cootchie over at The Red Zone—that stripper joint over at State College.”

“I know what The Red Zone is, Gram, and I don’t believe for one minute that Lily is stripping. She undresses in the dark, for Pete’s sake!” His face heated up at having disclosed such an intimate thing to his grandmother.

But she didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe she’s drinkin’. Booze’ll turn a wallflower into a Gypsy Rose Lee every time. I hear they do lap dances over at that place. Do you think Lily does lap dances?”

“You’re making all this up. Just to get me out of bed. You are freakin’ unbelievable!”

“Tsk-tsk! Such language!” She stood and walked out the door, puffing on her blasted cigarette.

He was the one who was angry now. He levered his legs off the bed and stomped to the open doorway, yelling after his grandmother. “I’ll try to help you, but you’re nuts if you think I’m going do any cave diving. And I better not see Lily hiding around some corner, either.”

At the first landing, she craned her neck around and smiled so big it was a wonder her jaw didn’t crack.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you, you old bag? And you better stop smoking those coffin nails. And I am not shoveling bat shit out of that cave for your rose garden, like you made me do when I was a kid. Do you hear me?”

Now at the bottom of the stairs, she glanced up at him where he was leaning over the railing. “Cripes! The whole world heard you. The bats in the cave are probably holding their wings over their ears.”

He closed his eyes on a long sigh. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Her direct, unsmiling gaze told him why. She loved him too damn much, that was why. Instead of speaking those words, she said, “Haul your sorry butt down to my sitting room after you shower. I have a secret to tell you about the cavern.”

His grandmother knew how much he loved the cavern . . . at least he had before being wounded. The sly old witch. First she lured him with guilt, then with secrets. If he wasn’t careful, she would have hookers lined up in the front parlor, just waiting to help him unwallow.

He grinned at that image.

Or Lily.

He stopped grinning.

I’m a goner.

Mano to mano, warrior to warrior . . .

Caleb was sitting on the back patio of the Butterfly Bed & Breakfast, admiring the view.

He should have been working on the unopened laptop at his side. Or making some business calls from his cell phone. Instead, he sat sipping at a mug of delicious black coffee that Abbie had prepared from some fresh-ground Cajun beans LeDeux brought from Louisiana.

It was a great setting. A two-hundred-fifty-year-old brick house in the Federal style on roughly three acres, all bordering a privately owned stretch of Spruce Creek, which had been world-famous for its fly fishing long before ESPN Outdoors had discovered it. You didn’t have to be a fishing enthusiast to enjoy it here, either. The sound of the rushing stream. Flower beds bursting with color and butterflies everywhere. The heavy scent of lilacs in the air. Sunlight peeking through the massive pines and oaks. Dozens of varieties of birds and the occasional deer. Geese squawking as they cruised by. The place oozed tranquility.

Not that Caleb felt tranquil. Not after Crazy Claire’s titillating comment to him earlier today. She was seeking a stud, and Caleb did not consider that a compliment. He knew sure as sailors love sex that the witch wanted his swimmers, nothing else. He could laugh it off, or tell her to fuck off, literally, if he didn’t find her so damned hot.

“Hey, Peach.”

Caleb jumped and almost spilled his coffee. He turned and saw Mark coming out of the kitchen doorway onto the patio. It was the first time he’d seen Mark in more than a year. Mark had declined to see Caleb since his arrival, making one excuse after another via his distraught grandmother.

The boy looked like hell. He wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt sporting the words “Top Gun,” with one sleeve pitifully empty from the elbow down. The shirt and his faded jeans hung on his body, which must have dropped at least twenty pounds since he’d shipped out to Afghanistan two years before. His hair was overlong, but he’d shaved, which accentuated his sunken cheekbones. His pallor could only be described as ghostly.

Putting his mug on the patio table, Caleb stood and met Mark halfway. Stretching out an arm, he shook Mark’s right hand, then pulled him into a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again, buddy,” he said huskily against Mark’s ear.
There but for the grace of God go I.

Mark held himself stiff as a board.

When Caleb stepped back, he said, “Welcome back to the living.”

“Hah! I don’t feel like I’m living,” Mark said, dropping into one of the patio chairs and indicating with a wave of his hand that Caleb should sit back down, too. Mark poured himself a mug of coffee from the carafe Abbie had left on the table. An awkward process when done one-handed, but Caleb knew enough not to offer his help. Mark leaned back, slouching, and exhaled loudly. “I’m so shit-faced screwed up.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Mark grinned, which Caleb took as a good sign.

“You’re out of bed. That’s a start.”

Mark raised his eyebrows at him. “My grandmother been blabbing to you?”

“A little. She’s worried about you.”

“She likes worrying. It’s a pastime with her. Pfff! How ’bout you? I hear you left the teams. I thought you loved being a SEAL.”

“I did love it, but I was getting too good.”

Mark nodded. He didn’t have to be told that Caleb meant his kill totals had been going through the roof. Didn’t matter that they were the vilest tangos in the world, either. After a while, a warrior could take down only so many terrorists before it started to eat away at his soul. And yeah, that’s what SEALs were. Warriors. Navy pilots, like Mark, were, too.

“You still engaged?”

“No.” The terseness of his reply was a neon sign blinking, “Don’t ask.”

He hoped the chick hadn’t ditched him because of his arm. It was surprising how many women failed to support their broken heroes. But it was more likely that Mark had pushed his girlfriend away. That happened too often, as well.

“Speaking of Gram, where is she? She lured me downstairs with some big secret, then disappeared.”

“She took LeDeux and Famosa over to Spruce Creek Outfitters to pick up some last-minute equipment. Dr. Cassidy will be here soon to go over some details.”

“Crazy Claire?”

“Oh, yeah.” It was Caleb’s turn to grin. “Do you know her?”

Mark shook his head. “Just heard of her. She’s notorious in these parts.”

“For being crazy?”

“That, and other things.”

“Hey, I heard that.” Claire came strolling around the side of the house, a five-inch notebook in one arm and her yipping dog in the other. She wore the same outfit she’d had on earlier, except for an open white button-down shirt on top.

He and Mark cringed at having been caught talking about her.

“Do you have any extra coffee for this crazy lady?” She winked at Mark and made a silly face at Caleb.

The second she set her mini-dog on the ground, it barked a half dozen times at Caleb’s shoe, just to show Caleb who was boss, then shot like a bullet toward the stream and the squawking geese. The geese didn’t stand a chance and they knew it, taking off with wings flapping and feathers flying.

Once the chaos settled down, the rat dog went off to sniff the entrance to the cave, no doubt getting the scent of Sparky, whom Caleb had yet to see, thank God.

Claire sank into a chair on the other side of the patio table from him and Mark.

After pouring Claire a mug of coffee, he introduced her to Mark, then asked, “Did you have to bring your rat with you?”

She made another crinkly-nosed face at him. It was probably the female version of giving the bird. “Boney was lonely.”

“Boner?” Mark’s eyes widened incredulously.

“Jeesh! You men are all alike.” She went on to give Mark the Napoleon/Boney explanation she’d given Caleb earlier.

He and Mark exchanged quick glances that pretty much said,
Yep. Crazy.

“So, Mark, will you be working on this project?” she asked.

A rush of crimson stained Mark’s pale cheeks. “My grandmother wants me to, but man, my balance isn’t so great. That’s all the Pearl Project would need. Me falling into a cave pit.”

“There are lots of things you could do,” Caleb said. “Besides, we work in pairs on this project. So if you fall, your partner does, too.”

“Oh, that makes me feel better.”

“I’ve noticed you rubbing your stump a lot,” Claire remarked.

Oh, my God! First time he ventures out, and she’s got to call attention to his handicap. And stump? Did she really use the word
stump
?

Mark’s face flushed again, and he appeared as astonished as Caleb that a virtual stranger would call attention to his . . . stump.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Mark. I just wanted to tell you that Native Americans, my specialty, were very familiar with the phantom limb syndrome. Not that they called it that, of course, but being warriors in the early days and going into battle often resulted in serious injuries. Anyhow, I make some ointments, passed down through the generations of tribes, and there’s one that would relieve the distress on your limb a great deal. If you’re interested. It’s a mixture of goldenrod, pawpaw seeds, honey, vinegar, and red clay. I make a paste, and you could use it at night with a sock to hold it in place. Of course, there is also . . .”

A sock?
Caleb swore under his breath. Bloody hell, he’d like to tell her to
put
a sock in it. Her mouth, that is.

On and on she went with her Indian crap while he and Mark just gawked at her. The nutcase was totally oblivious to the fact that neither of them was responding to her discourse.

“Crazy,” he mouthed to Mark.

Mark grinned and rolled his eyes. At least he wasn’t offended anymore.

“On the other hand . . .” she began.

Caleb put his face in his hands. Every time a woman said, “On the other hand,” a guy had to know he was in for a marathon of female opinion.

“The phantom limb syndrome really is a mental thing. Your balance problem, as well. The Lenni Lenape did the most wonderful thing with meditation to center the soul’s focus. They set up a sweat lodge and drank lots of a specially prepared tea. Once they went into a trance, the medicine man led the person into his soul path and practiced exercises to regain wholeness.

“You see, a person is what he thinks he is. Nothing more. If you think of yourself as whole, you are. I could help you.”

She dropped down to the patio and sat Indian style, legs crossed and folded under herself, and began chanting, “Ooohm, ooohm, ooohm.”