The Haunted Heart: Winter (7 page)

We slip slided our way across the porch and
down the steps, managing not to kill ourselves or drop the mirror,
which we loaded carefully into the bed of the truck.

Kirk raised the tailgate, locked it, and
crunched around to the driver’s side. I wiped my perspiring face,
started for the passenger side, but the snow was deep, much deeper
than I’d thought, and I seemed to be sinking down into it. Sinking
deeper and deeper with each step, until the cold white blankness
closed over my head.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“F
lynn.”

The voice was deep, quiet, calm. I liked the
calm. I liked the quiet. I liked the fact that someone was there at
the end of this long, long tunnel…

I opened my eyes. Blackened open beams. One
of those mid-century — last century — starburst ceiling light
shades. Gold stars on a black background.

“How are you doing?” the voice inquired, and
I snapped back to the present.

I was lying on the sofa in Kirk’s living
room. Kirk sat on the coffee table, folded arms braced on his
thighs as he scrutinized me.

“Hey,” I said in a creaky, old man’s
voice.

His mouth quirked. “Had a nice nap?”

“I guess?” Had I? How long had I been out? I
felt strange. Not bad. Not good exactly, unless it was the way you
feel good after a bad hangover, when just not feeling horrendous
seems wonderful.

I felt warm, that was the main thing — and
the best thing.
Warmth
. God. When was the last time I’d been
warm all the way through? It probably had something to do with the
mountain of mothball-scented blankets piled on top of me. “What
happened?”

Kirk cocked his head thoughtfully. “You have
any health issues?”

I raised my head. “Me? No.”

“Then I’m guessing it’s not eating or
sleeping for a week.”

“I slept last night. And I had soup for
dinner.”

Kirk made a scornful sound. “You don’t mean
that Cup-a-Soup stuff?”

I felt compelled to defend Sir Lipton’s
honor. “That counts.”

“Not really. Anyway, what happened is you
blacked out. Then you sat up, spoke a few words of French, let me
walk you in here, and had yourself a little…” He glanced up at the
clock “twenty minute snooze.”

“
French?
I don’t speak French.”

“Neither do I, so maybe it wasn’t French.
Anyway, you babbled something I couldn’t understand, and then
sacked out on the couch.”

I sat up. “We’ve
got
to get that
mirror out of here.”

“Why? You think it’s a portal to a Berlitz
Learning Center?”

“I think whatever is wrong with that mirror
is getting worse. Getting more powerful.”

He grunted. “I see. This,” he nodded at the
cocoon of blankets, “is all because of the mirror. Because you were
in such great shape before?”

“Well, I wasn’t speaking French or having
blackouts.”

“Like I said, I’m not sure it was French.
Maybe it was Portuguese. Maybe you just weren’t enunciating very
clearly. The point here is the dead faint and the fact that your
core temperature felt like I dug you out of a snow bank.”

“You kind of did, right? I was lying in the
snow? Anyway, I feel okay now. I feel fine. I just want to get that
mirror out of here.” Actually, if I was honest, I felt like shit.
Weak and shaky and wrung out, but I wanted that mirror gone. I
wanted things back to normal. Or what passed for normal now. The
new normal.

“Relax. We’re getting the mirror out of
here. But first you’re going to drink this.” Kirk held up a glass
of green liquid, which I suspected he’d been hiding behind his
back.

“What the hell is that?”

“Juice.”

“
Juice?
God never intended juice to
be that color. Juice is orange or pink. That looks like a beverage
from
The Exorcist
.”

“This is exactly the color God intended
juice to be.” He handed it to me. “Drink it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m liable to
throw up just looking at it.”

“Take it. Drink it.”

The evil looking potion wasn’t going away,
so I took the glass from Kirk. “On your head be it. And that could
be literally. Just sayin’.”

“Drink it.”

I held it up doubtfully. “What’s in
there?”

“Kale, spinach, celery, squash, parsley,
spirulina, apples, oranges.”

“That’s not juice, that’s soup.”

“I hear you like soup, so just drink it and
we can get going.”

“Wouldn’t two fingers of brandy be more
traditional?”

“You’re starving to death not having the
vapors. Quit stalling and drink up.”

I looked at the juice then looked at Kirk. I
said uncertainly, “Why are you doing this?”

“I wish I knew, kid. Just drink the damn
stuff. I want that mirror out of here as much as you do.”

I doubted that, but I took a mouthful and
swallowed. My insides did what felt like a belly flop on the
sidewalk. “Ugh. Tastes like grass.” After a fraught moment, the
churning and bubbling in my gut died down and I expelled a cautious
breath. “That’s really awful.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not a kid, by the way.”

“That comment right there is proof you’re a
kid.” Kirk smiled. Probably the nicest smile I’d seen on his
usually grim face. His teeth were white and perfectly straight, his
eyes a warm gold-shot brown, like tortoiseshell. “You’re what?
Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You’re a kid to me. I’m thirty-nine.”

“Oh. Yeah, I see. Well, you’re not
that
old,” I said kindly.

He snorted. “Drink your juice,
smartass.”

I laughed and downed the rest of the witch’s
brew. It didn’t get any better. I shuddered and wiped my mouth.
“Does this work like Popeye’s spinach? Are muscles going to pop out
on my arms?”

He stood up. “I’ll be content if you just
pop out of those blankets and we can get a move on.”

“I’m ready.” I threw aside the blankets
before I had time to think about how much I didn’t want to see or
touch that mirror again. “Let’s do it.”

Kirk tossed me my parka and I shrugged into
it as we left his rooms and headed across the front hall. Our boots
were by the front door, dripping onto spread open newspaper. It
gave me a funny feeling to think of Kirk pulling off my boots and
peeling me out of my coat. I must have been really out of it.

He opened the main doors and we walked out
into the cold white world.

Kirk started down the steps, but checked
mid-stride. I stopped too.

His truck was still backed up to the edge of
the porch. A brown tarp to cushion and wrap the mirror lay crumpled
in the bed. But the tarp was the only thing in the bed. The mirror
was gone.

“You see that too, right?” I asked after a
second or two.

Kirk swore and half ran, half skidded down
the steps. “Look!” He pointed across the empty yard where four sets
of deep footprints churned up the otherwise smooth spill of snow.
Two pairs of boots. Four sets of tracks. Two people coming and
going from the main road.

“No way,” I said. “Someone carried it off?
Someone
stole
it?” I wasn’t sure if I was horrified or going
to laugh.

Kirk’s reaction was more straightforward. He
was pissed, the black scowl back in full force. “I don’t think it
walked out of here on its own.”

“How do we know? Maybe those are the
mirror’s footprints.”

I was kidding, my normal inappropriate
reaction to stress, but Kirk didn’t hear me or at least didn’t
acknowledge he heard me. He stalked up and down the wavering line
of prints, swearing quietly. And not so quietly.

“This is bizarre,” I said. “Who the hell
would even be out this way? Let alone have the balls to swipe
something out of your truck. Especially something that heavy and
hard to move?”

“Probably the same assholes who broke into
the shed last month. And tried to break in the month before that.
And the month before
that
.”

Now there was an unwelcome news report.
“Broke into the shed? Which shed? You mean like burglars? Were they
trying to get in the house?”

Kirk nodded grimly, still studying the
chunks of kicked up snow.

“They were
in
the house?”

He glanced at me. “No. They gave it their
best shot. I discouraged them. Not enough, I guess.” He added,
“It’s not a secret your uncle stored a valuable collection of
antiques and art here.”

“It just keeps getting better.” I looked
uneasily over my shoulder. Though weathered, the front door was
heavy and well made. The handle and lock were another story. A good
kick would probably take care of them both.

“You didn’t report it?”

“Yeah, I did. To the cops and the property
management company.”

“The company didn’t let my parents
know.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I did my
bit. Maybe they figured there was nothing to report. It’s not the
first try at a break-in and it won’t be the last.” He nodded at the
footsteps disappearing down the lane. “We could try to go after
them.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugged at my tone. “Or not. Are you
going to report this?”

“I think I should. Uncle Winston didn’t keep
enough insurance on the place, but there should be something. I
don’t want the mirror back, though.”

“Don’t worry,” Kirk said dryly. “You won’t
get it back.”

I absorbed this and my heart suddenly
lightened. “So that’s it. Problem solved. The mirror is gone.”

“Looks like it.” Kirk’s gaze met mine and he
gave a sour smile. “Try not to look quite so delighted when you
talk to the law.”

“Right.” But I felt myself smiling for the
first time in…well, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like
smiling. Really smiling.

* * * * *

The Chester police force consisted of a
Resident State Trooper. Portly and middle-aged Trooper Dunne showed
up late that afternoon to take my report and, like Kirk, did not
hold out much hope of recovering the mirror.

“Perfect timing for somebody, you leaving
the item in question out there when you did,” Dunne observed at
last, putting his notepad away. He had big, bright blue eyes like a
doll. They stared at me with as much warmth.

“Maybe they were in the area and checking to
see whether the place was deserted because of the storm?”

“Maybe.”

I thought I saw where he was going with
this. “I don’t even know if there’s insurance on that mirror.”

“Not saying you did,” Dunne said. “Just
saying it was convenient.”

“There have been attempted break-ins out
here before.”

“Yep. And I guess there will be again. So
don’t go leaving any other valuables out where they could be
grabbed by someone passing by.”

“Trooper Dunne thinks I’m running an
insurance scam,” I informed Kirk a short while later. He had left
the door to his quarters standing wide open while Trooper Dunne was
in the house, so I figured even if it wasn’t an actual invitation,
he probably wouldn’t mind an update.

“I’m surprised Trooper Dunne has that much
imagination.” Kirk was lifting what looked like an old-fashioned
set of free weight barbells. A deep V of perspiration soaked his
gray sweatshirt as he deliberately, methodically did his curls. His
gaze was pinned on a spot past my right shoulder.

“I think it’s really over. Something feels
different. Lighter. Cleaner.”

“Yeah?” Kirk exhaled a long, even breath,
executing another slow, precise curl.

“Don’t you think?”

He inhaled. His gaze veered briefly to my
own. “Sure.”

“Okay, that could be more convincing, but
I’ll take it as confirmation. Anyway, I thought you’d want to
know.”

Exhale. “Thanks.”

I watched him for another moment or two.
There was something both relaxing and pleasurable in seeing a
perfectly made human machine functioning at such optimum levels of
efficiency.

“I’ll see you around,” I said.

“Yep.” Kirk inhaled.

* * * * *

It was over.

The fact that I finally found the reference
to the mirror — purchased in 1956 at an estate sale in Louisiana —
was moot. Interesting but moot. Because it was over.

REGENCY ORMOLU MIRROR WITH LATER
CARTOUCHE-SHAPED PLATE, THE CONFORMING FRAME CAST WITH FOLIATE
SCROLLS, STRAPWORK AND TRELLISWORK, THE ARCHED CRESTING CENTRED BY
A FLOWER VASE ON A LAMBREQUIN, THE SIDES WITH CORNUCOPIAE, SCROLLED
BASE, POSSIBLY FRENCH. $200. CASH.

I refolded the yellowed invoice back into
its four fragile squares and tucked it back into the ledger it had
fallen out of.

That night when I brushed my teeth, I risked
a couple of cautious, sideways glances at the cabinet mirror. My
own wide-eyed, foaming-mouthed reflection was all that met my
gaze.

It. Was. Over. Whatever the hell it had
been, it was someone else’s problem now. And serve ‘em right.

The next day I scrubbed the bathroom from
top to bottom, using a gallon of bleach and giving the mirror
several extra squirts of Windex.

Maybe Kirk couldn’t feel the difference, but
I could. Especially at night. Yes, I still turned around to look
when the floorboards creaked, and I couldn’t help thinking the hot
water pipes clanked and clanged like they were possessed. I still
occasionally had that weird sense that someone was watching me, but
the heavy oppressive atmosphere was gone. At least the external
heavy oppressive atmosphere. My internal atmosphere…climate
controlled. Which was good enough. Nobody could ask for more than
that.

Three days passed and I slowly but steadily
worked my way through Uncle Winston’s collection, identifying,
appraising, cataloging.

I didn’t see Kirk, which was fine with me.
Now and then I heard his god-awful, hopeless attempts at playing
guitar; once in a while the smell of savory cooking infiltrated the
floorboards. I liked knowing he was around, that I wasn’t entirely
by myself, but that was as much company as I required.