Chapter Seven

Frank tried to crawl to his knees but hurt too bad to move. The possessed woman advanced as if in slow motion, and he could do nothing to deter her. So, this is how it would end, his face smashed in by a lunatic wielding a garden shovel? He’d always thought he’d meet his demise like Quinn, by a bullet. About now, he thought it an honorable way for a man of his calling to die.

Rand’s green eyes surfaced, and the ebony hair that reminded him of volcanic glass under moonlight. Hey, who said he wasn’t a romantic? Would that he could take one day back in his life. The word commitment seemed so inconsequential at this moment, so miniscule it shouldn’t be considered between people who loved one another, man and woman, man and man, hell, woman and woman. He’d spent so many hours, days, weeks in tremors over the word, and it remained just that now, fucking negligible drivel that assholes like him clung to.

"Rand, I’m sorry," he whispered.

She stood above him, the crazed female in the long black skirt, her hair in a tumble, her blue eyes—Ghost-girl eyes—glazed over with a triumphant gleam. He’d never know why she’d taken the girls, or know how Cricket had died. What did it matter now? The infamous legend about one’s life flashing before them proved true. In that infinitesimal moment, every minute of every day flashed before him like a video on super speed. Christ, the end was at hand, his end.

She raised the shovel, a maniacal leer splitting her cracked, blood red lips. He closed his eyes and accepted his fate, asked again for mercy and forgiveness from all those he had harmed in life.

A commotion above him snapped his eyes open. Things happened so fast he couldn’t remember in what order they appeared. Cricket’s bright aura lit up the dimly lit room. It whirled, twisted and dipped around the spade, driving it back with a force he didn’t think possible. The woman’s eyes hardened, an indication she’d dug in to fight to the death. When a great gulp of air heaved her chest, Frank sensed her shock that someone or something had usurped her plans.

Amid the pain and confusion, his heart swelled with emotion. Cricket, his waif of a restless spirit, had come to his defense against her own mother. Calling on a lifetime of resolve, Frank willed the pain from his mind and commanded his good arm to move toward the Glock. His fingers came in contact with the handle, and hope reared its head. You can do it, Frank, two more inches. Grab the gun, pull it loose.

The battle roared around him. The woman stumbled back and the mass of supernatural energy parried. Forward and back they lunged, the shovel holding a tenuous position above his head.

Frank gripped the gun in his hand and pointing at the human specter, bellowed, "Put it down! Put the spade down or I’ll shoot!"

Out of breath, a series of raspy wheezes left her lungs. Bent at the waist and gasping like a fish out of water, she dropped the shovel onto the cement floor.

Frank crawled to his knees with the gun pointed at a spot above her heart. Please don’t do anything stupid, lady. I don’t want to shoot you, not in front of Cricket.

Her eyes blank, the woman backed away from him until her heels clicked against the bottom step. She turned and sped up the stairs in spite of her breathless state and advanced age. Cricket’s aura swept up the staircase behind her.

He had to get the girls out of the cellar, get them secured at the table upstairs, and see what the demented woman was up to. He patted down his shirt and searched for his cell phone. Shit, must have lost it in the melee. Frank crawled to the door of the cellar and from his knees, pulled it open. Three blond-haired, blue-eyed girls met his gaze. Their eyes widened and shivers passed over their small bodies.

"Friend," he said with great difficulty. He laid the gun on the floor and looked at the one he thought might be Mindy. "Walk over here to me and I’ll see about untying your hands."

Fear crossed her eyes, but she stood up, walked toward him, and knelt down with her back to him.

"You’re Mindy, right?"

She turned to face him and nodded.

"Good. Now listen carefully. I need to find my cell phone to call for help. Untie Lauren and Chelsea, and then we’re going to walk up those stairs. Stay behind me and make as little noise as possible. I have no idea where that woman is, so until I do, we’re going to be as quiet as church mice, okay?"

Mindy nodded again, walked toward the other girls and untied their hands.

"We’re sick," Mindy said. "She fed us berries at night, and I think they got poison in them."

The smallest of the trio spoke up, her voice a whisper. "Tonight, she said we’d have mushrooms like her daughter, Christine."

"Mushrooms?"

"I think they got poison in ‘em too."

Mindy spoke again. "She said we would join Christine in heaven tonight so she had someone to play with."

Frank closed his eyes. Cricket had died from eating poisonous mushrooms. The woman’s words echoed through his head, “An accident . . . a terrible. . ..”

"Come on, girls. Everything will be all right. You have no idea how happy your parents will be to see you. You ready to walk up those stairs?"

They nodded in unison.

As luck would have it, Frank found his cell midway up the steps. He punched in 911 and asked the operator to put him through to the Washington FBI branch stat.

Rueben came to the phone a minute later. "Frank, I’ve been trying to call you for two days."

"Listen, Hayworth, I don’t know how long I can hang on here, and when I say here, I’m not sure where here is."

"You’re in trouble?"

"To put it mildly."

"Give me something, Frank, a name, an address."

"Don’t have a last name or an address, but I’ll give you this. Twenty-five years ago, a little girl died near the town of Philippi from eating poisonous mushrooms." Frank’s chest clogged with emotion. "Her name is Christine. Find the newspaper article or talk to the local sheriff. As they say, “everyone knows everyone around here.” I’m sure someone will remember that sad event. That’s where you’ll find me, Rueben, at Christine’s house, and I have the missing girls with me."

"Two questions Frank. Are the girls alive?"

"That’s a positive."

"Second question. You said, “her name is Christine”. If she died twenty-five years ago, don’t you mean her name was Christine?"

"Your FBI roots are showing." Frank chuckled despite the pain. "It’s a long story, and we need help. Now, Hayworth."

"Got you covered, McGuire. I’ll have so many red lights flashing; you’ll hear them from three miles off."

Frank closed his phone and turned to the girls. "Change of plans. We’ll sit right here and wait for help. I don’t think I can make it up those stairs."

* * *

"We found the old lady, Frank." Hayworth pointed to a field in the distance. "She fell down an old well shaft about a half-mile from here. The sheriff thinks in her state of mind she either forgot where it was or became disoriented and ran right over it. Looks like her neck is broken, possibly her back by the angle of her body."

"You see anything else down there?"

"Anything else? Like what?"

"Never mind. I’ll look myself."

"You can’t walk out there in your condition. You need to get to a hospital."

"You’re right, but you can drive me there, can’t you?"

"Frank, I assure you she’s dead. The coroner is on his way."

"I’m going out there, Hayworth—"

Rueben put his hand in the air. "I know, one way or the other. Come on, then, let’s go."

With every rut and gopher hole Hayworth hit in the open meadow, Frank grimaced. Rueben looked over at him, apologized and said, "I brought the newspaper article with me about the girl’s death."

God, did he want to hear it? "She died from eating poisonous mushrooms, didn’t she?"

"Yes. The article said she and her mother went for a walk in the nearby woods. Apparently, she’d been told never to eat wild plants, mushrooms, but that day, she didn’t listen."

God picks the day and not the way.

"An only child, the mother never got over Christine’s death. Locals claim she went off the deep end. After her husband died last year, she sank deeper and deeper into a depressed state. A woman that has known her for years claimed this past year she vacillated between various stages of manic depression, at times catatonic, at other times, inanely gleeful."

"And no one put two and two together?"

Hayworth shook his head and clucked his cheek. "Why would anyone have reason to believe a woman would kidnap three girls twenty-five years after her daughter’s death?"

Frank’s answer was more of a statement than a question. "Yeah, why would anyone believe that?"

"Her friend thinks the death of her husband drove her over the final edge. Who knows, perhaps she planned to kill herself when all was said and done."

"Could be. I’m just happy we found those girls."

"You found them, McGuire, and I knew you would."

"I had help. One day I’ll tell you about it. Not today."

"I’d be happy to have you share it with me one day." Rueben stopped the car, opened the door and pointed to a stone structure a block away. "There, she’s in there."

Not without effort, Frank left the car by hanging on to the handrail by the window and pushing his body out the door. He struggled for breath on the short walk, but determination to confirm the woman could never hurt another child again propelled him forward.

He looked down the well and recognized the black skirt and the wild, gray hair. The image brought him little solace. A tiny energy of light pulsed in front of his eyes. His breath escaped in a rush. Cricket.

She hovered near his face for a moment and he felt her kiss on his cheek, so soft, so opaque, it could have been the breeze. God, he hoped not; wanted to believe she’d be happy now, at peace. She swooped down the well, her aura fading with every passing second. With misty eyes, he leaned over the rim and searched the dark depths. Where are you, Cricket? Please show yourself. A tiny light flickered before she landed on her mother’s bosom. Her aura pulsed once or twice and then blew out like a candle in the wind.

"Frank, you okay?"

A tranquil, serene feeling washed over him. Ghost-girl would finally rest in peace.

"I’m fine, Rueben, just fine."