Beyond Your Touch (4 page)

“I don't think so. But it's a wonderful suggestion. I'll pass it on to my supervisor,” she said. Then with a smile she scuttled off toward the museum gift shop.

Chase shrugged. “Any other ideas?”

I ran my fingers along the edge of the display case, thinking. With the entire rescue mission at stake, giving up this easily wasn't an option. Sure, there was no visible way to break into the display case from this side. But it was against a wall, so most likely there was an access room on the other side. Probably, I could sneak into that room by picking the lock on its door. That was, if there weren't any alarms. I glanced up at the security cameras.

Chase's hand landed on my arm. “Don't even think about it,” he whispered close to my ear.

I batted my eyelashes. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Still grinning, I took out my phone and snapped a few photos of the display and the journal before anyone could tell me taking them was forbidden, then I gave Chase a wink.

After that, he and I began scouring the other displays, one at a time. Beadwork, quillwork, baskets, and birch bark containers were all on display, amazing works of art with patterns that were beautiful and in all probability symbolic. The quillwork was particularly fascinating. On any other occasion, I would have lovingly examined each one of them, but right now all they were doing was making my head ache. Nothing except the drawing in the journal was reminiscent of a genie.

When we got to a nineteenth-century bead-and-quill-decorated medicine bag, something about it prickled the back of my mind. It reminded me of another medicine bag I'd seen at a different museum or maybe heard about on TV. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The memory was too old, the kind that drifts through your mind when you're sleeping, but vanishes when you wake up.

“Mom!” shouted a grade-school-age kid in a Boy Scout uniform as he raced across the room to a group of women. “We got to go to the park. There's a guy teaching people how to build a fire without matches—and a Wabanaki storyteller.”

Chase raised his eyebrows. “Where there's fire and a storyteller—”

“—there might be information?” I said.

Along with the Boy Scout, his mother, and a group of other people, we flooded toward the museum's front door.

We were about to leave, when the employee I'd asked about the explorer's journal came jogging up to me. “I'm glad I caught you,” she said, a bit breathless. “I was wrong. There isn't a complete copy of the journal available, but there is a booklet in the gift shop. It's quite comprehensive.”

“That's wonderful,” I said to her. I turned to Chase. “Why don't you go on to the park and save us a place to sit? I'll be right there.”

Chase nodded, then trailed after the Boy Scout and everyone else. I made for the museum gift shop and located the booklet almost at once. It was fantastic, lots of images and drawings. If nothing else, it would make a great addition to Moonhill's library.

I darted to the checkout. There were only two people ahead of me, but the first person's credit card wouldn't go through and the guy running the register didn't seem to know what to do about it. Eventually, he called the supervisor. She showed up and started messing around with the machine. Meanwhile, the woman in front of me put down the handmade basket she'd planned on buying and left. I was tossing around the idea of doing the same thing, when the employee who'd told me about the booklet appeared and took over the register. I gave her cash, shoved the booklet in my bag, and dashed off.

By the time I got to the park, a large crowd had formed a horseshoe at the front of the gazebo. I couldn't see Chase, but I was certain he was there. So I found a place at the rear of the crowd and went up on my tiptoes, trying to spot him through the forest of people.

At the front of the horseshoe, a guy in Native American garb crouched next to a smoking pile of tinder that was set inside what I'd earlier assumed was a supersize wok. In truth, it was a portable fire pit. As he added strips of bark and twigs into the smudge, the smoke crackled into flames. The crowd applauded and shuffled back, giving the demonstrator more room and avoiding the eye-stinging smoke that swirled lower as the breeze picked up and shifted direction.

Once the flames and smoke died back a little, a man and woman came down the steps from the gazebo. They were also in Native outfits and the woman was carrying a hand drum. The crowd applauded again. The man raised his hands, his voice drifting across the park as he began to tell a story about the Wabanaki people, animals, and fire. While he talked, the woman drummed a soft, hypnotic rhythm, a pulse that surrounded me like a surreal heartbeat and made it hard to focus on the storyteller's voice. Somewhat reluctantly, I broke away from the drum's spell, and I looked around for Chase.

“Excuse me,” I said, edging my way forward into the crowd.

As I wormed past a woman with frizzy hair, I caught a glimpse through the smoke of the Boy Scout and his mother on the far side of the horseshoe, sitting on the ground. Chase knelt next to them.

I leaned left, then right, and eventually caught his eye. He shrugged, nodding at the storyteller with a cross between a smile and grimace as if to say he was sorry we were separated but the performer was exactly what we needed. I smiled back to tell him I agreed. Then the smoke swirled my way, the crowd shifted, and I lost sight of him.

After a few minutes, the storyteller's voice grew louder and even more animated, and the drumbeats lowered to an emphatic throb. Unable to resist, I went up on tiptoes to see what was happening. The storyteller's hands once more lifted skyward, and dropped as he ended the story with sudden silence, even the drumbeats stilled.

A long second passed, the air growing heavy with expectation. That's when the eerie melody started. The sound of a flute, rising and falling. Not the flowery trill of the flutes I'd heard at the Boston Symphony or the earthy warble of a wooden recorder. This was more dreamlike, a primitive sound that brought to mind shamans, otherworldly beings, and moonlight.

The crowd went motionless, even the kids and babies hushed. Shivers swept across my skin, but inside my body thrummed. A Native American flutist. This was perfect. Once the show ended we'd talk to the flute player and the storyteller.

I bent to one side, looking between two guys who stank of cigarette smoke and beer.

I could only see the back of the flutist's head. A petite, lithe woman, her hair pulled tight as if in a braid, dancing slowly around the fire pit, swaying as she played.

My breath caught in my throat as intuition put a face on her. It couldn't be. Not her, of all people. I clenched my jaw, praying to Hecate and anyone who would listen that I was wrong.

She reached the far side of the horseshoe and for a moment I saw her clearly.

Damn and shit. I was right. It was the hippie-waif girl from the museum with a thin gray flute held against her lips.

It's bone,
I told myself though it could have been grayed wood, partly wrapped in bright thread. It was a foot or maybe a little less in length. Feathers and small shiny bobbles hung down from it, tied on with tan string or maybe thin leather strips. It was hard to tell at a glance. But what hung from the flute and what it was made from weren't as vital as the other thing I noticed. The smoke from the fire followed her and when she turned toward the fire pit, the smoke rose straight up, writhing like a cobra in front of a snake charmer.

My pulse shifted into hyperdrive. I craned my neck, struggling to see Chase, so I could catch his eye and cryptically ask if he'd noticed the smoke's odd movement. Sure, I had an innate dislike for this flutist girl, but that didn't take away from the fact that she was exactly what we needed: a practitioner of flute-magic. The key to rescuing my mother.

Crouching a little, I caught a clearer view. The fire's smoke bent and twisted in directions that had nothing to do with the way the breeze was blowing. For a split second I saw Chase as well. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a lopsided smile as he stared at the flutist. My stomach tightened and a bitter taste crept up my throat. I knew that smile. I knew what he was gawking at. And it wasn't the smoke or her flute.

With a huff, I got back up and took out my phone. He had a better view than I did, but I doubted he'd think of recording this.

I went up on my tiptoes, holding the phone above my head in hopes of getting a clear shot. But almost instantly, the flute music stopped and the storyteller's voice rose, thanking everyone for coming and bringing the show to a close.

As the crowd dispersed on all sides of me, I caught bits of their conversations. “Did you see the trick with the smoke?” a woman said to her friend.

“Yeah. I wonder how she did it.”

“I bet it's one of those science magic tricks you can learn on YouTube. . . .” Their voices faded as they wandered off. I strongly suspected if they tried to search on the Internet for this trick, they'd find nothing. This was real magic, the same kind as the explorer had recorded in his journal. Still, that didn't mean the flutist could open the veil or would be willing to show us how to do it.

I spotted Chase standing near the fire pit, people brushing past him.

“Hey!” I shouted, and waved.

He waved back and worked his way over to me.

“You saw it, right?” I bounced from one foot to the other, excitement coursing through me.

Wrinkles creased his forehead. “Saw what?”

“The smoke, moving with the flute music.” I rested my hand on my hips. “You would have seen it, if your eyes weren't glued to her tits.”

He grinned. “They were kind of hard not to notice.”

I cuffed his bicep. “Jerk.”

He squeezed my shoulder and pulled me close, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “Just teasing, I noticed the smoke, too. We need to talk to her.”

His kiss sent warmth rippling through my body, almost making it easy to forget his ogling. Still . . . I bit the inside of my lip. I wasn't about to forget how she checked him out. I wasn't that foolish.

“There you are!” Selena's smiling face broke through the crowd as she jogged toward us, Newt close behind. She bounded over, almost colliding into me, and gave me a huge hug. “Thanks for letting me have time with Newt,” she whispered. “It was the best.”

I smiled. “You'd do the same for me, right?”

Newt slid his hand down her back. “What do you say we treat them to lunch? You know, for letting us—” He gave her a goofy in-love grin.

I felt like making a barfing gesture. “Maybe later,” I said. “Right now, Chase and I've got to talk to the flutist. I want to find out if she has a Web site because . . . ah”—I tucked my hands in my pockets and dreamed up a fast lie—“for my dad, he loves flute music.”

Selena's eyes went wide. “You didn't talk to her already?”

“Not yet. They just finished performing.”

“I know that,” she said, “we caught the very end of the show. But she left already. I saw her taking off down the street.”

“Shit.” My stomach sank and I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Why didn't you stop her?”

“I figured you guys had talked to her before the show. You were here early, right?”

“Chase was.” I sliced a look in his direction.

He held his hands up. “I didn't notice the flute until she began playing.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Seriously, I didn't even notice her.” He glanced toward the gazebo again. “I'm going to talk to the other performers. They'll know how to get ahold of her.”

While Newt and Selena took off to buy lobster rolls and drinks, Chase and I caught up with the drummer. She said the flutist's name was Lotli. As far as the drummer knew, she wasn't local. She didn't belong to any of the Wabanaki tribes. She just showed up at powwows and other events, and everyone let her play because she was one of the best and most adaptive flutists around, and they felt sorry for her.

At this point the storyteller joined our conversation and clarified. He told us that Lotli usually had her sickly grandfather with her, that she drove an old bread truck that had been converted into a camper. But neither he nor the drummer knew where they stayed, in a campground or on private property—or if they had a house, for that matter.

“Her music isn't ours,” the storyteller added. “But it is as beautiful as the stars, isn't it?”

I pressed my fingers against my temples, easing a newborn headache. I could see where this was leading. Asking them about the smoke and flute-magic might score us a myth or two, but that was it. We had to hunt this Lotli girl down ourselves, somehow.

CHAPTER 4

 

—Disturbing Nursery Rhymes
www.DarkCradleTime.com

 

 

O
nce Selena returned and Newt took off, we decided it was probably smarter to head home for the day, talk to Kate, and figure out the best way to find Lotli.

However, we weren't even out of Bar Harbor yet when Chase filled a lull in the conversation with an awkward clearing of his throat. “Let's drive by the house,” he said.

I looked away from the road for a second and gaped at him. “Your mother's house? Are you sure?”

Selena rested her hand on the back of his seat. “You don't have to do it to make us happy. Seriously, I won't bug you about it again.”

“I need to do it,” he said. I felt the weight of his gaze shift onto me. “I keep thinking about it and I can't afford to have anything take away from my focus, not with everything that's going on.”

The steering wheel grew hot and moist beneath my hands. I hesitated before glancing his way. His eyes, ocean-deep and sad, touched mine, telling me something I didn't quite get. Or maybe I didn't want to understand it. I would have thought he was referring to his nightmares, but he didn't know I was aware of them. I shook my head. This was all getting so confusing.

Taking a steadying breath, I looked back at the road. “All right, then,” I said.

Ten minutes later, we reached Harbor View Lane and I turned onto it. Some of the houses on the road looked new, others older. They all had landscaped yards and thickets of trees between them. The odd-numbered houses were on my side of the road, the even on Chase's side, at least according to the mailboxes.

As we got nearer Selena counted. “452. 454. 456 . . . you said it's 460, right?”

Chase nodded. His lips grew taut as bands of steel. He looked straight ahead, his spine glued against the back of the seat.

“Sure you don't want me to turn around?” I asked.

“No.”

“458. Your house is next.” Selena's voice choked a little.

Sunlight flashed against the windshield, its shimmering brightness shielding the view.

460
. The number on the mailbox gleamed in the haze. It was a newer box, decorated with a typical Maine lighthouse and ocean scene. The name
Abrams
was stenciled in stiff black letters. Chase's last name.

I pulled to the edge of the road and parked next to the box, near the end of a driveway.

“Shit. I can barely see the house,” Selena said.

She was right. Only glimpses of a two-story white colonial were visible down the driveway, closely flanked by overhanging trees.

Chase stared toward the house, his shoulders rigid.

A car whirred by us, the sound of its passing moving into the distance, vanishing a second later. What was Chase thinking? And what if someone noticed us sitting here and thought we were burglars casing the place? What if they called the cops?

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “It looks like a nice house,” I managed to say.

“We could pretend we were Jehovah's Witnesses and knock on the door,” Selena suggested. “They'd never know we weren't.”

“No. I just want to sit here for a minute,” Chase said.

Selena's suggestion came back to me, circling and giving me an idea.
Knock on the door
. Dad and I had occasionally knocked on strangers' doors to see if they had anything to sell. We hadn't done it often, but I knew how it worked.

Swallowing hard, I turned the Mercedes into the driveway.

Chase wheeled toward me. His deeply tanned face blanched. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You really want to do the Jehovah's Witness thing?” Selena said, clearly shocked.

“No, but I've got an idea.” I moistened my lips with my tongue. “You and Chase are going to have to stay in the car, though.”

Selena huffed. “That's no fun.”

Still silent, Chase settled back into his seat, once again staring straight ahead.

I slowed the car, inching down the tree-shadowed drive. Here and there, streaks of stark sunshine broke through the shade, opening up glimpses of clipped hedges and a turnabout in front of the colonial, a nice newer house but disappointingly neat: no junk cars messing up the yard, no pile of old lobster traps, vintage signs, or even rusty license plates nailed to the side of a garage, nothing collectible that I could use as an excuse to knock on the front door and open up a conversation. Still, I couldn't turn around. I had to do this.

I pulled the Mercedes up in front of the house and took a deep breath.

“I'll be right back,” I said, getting out. One thing was for certain: No matter what excuse I used to get inside the house, no one would mistake me for a junk antique dealer, not driving Dad's classic Mercedes.

Head held high, I strode up the front walk, jeans shushing and heels sounding with each step. On either side of the front door, cast-iron urns overflowed with petunias and marigolds, really ornate urns, over a hundred years old, exactly the sort of thing that an antique dealer might stop to inquire about. Perfect, in fact.

I rang the doorbell. Its musical Westminster chime echoed inside, going on for quite a while. I counted to ten and rang again.

“Estelle! Answer that damn thing.” A man's gruff voice came from a room to the left of the front door. I had no trouble locating or hearing it, thanks to an open window.

My stomach flip-flopped and sweat dribbled down my sides. Was he Chase's stepfather? I'd tried not to think about him.

Asshole,
not father, was the word Chase used for the man who'd never referred to him by any name other than
little bastard
. The man who—according to Grandfather—had convinced the police that Chase was the product of his wife's cheating with a Brazilian businessman, and that his wife had given five-year-old Chase to this nonexistent man who had in turn fled back to Brazil with him. That there was no kidnapping. Not that anyone would have believed his mom was impregnated in her sleep by a genie and that the same being reappeared five years later to claim his child.

Through the windows alongside the front door, I spotted a gray-haired woman in a prim maid's uniform bustle across the foyer. The door opened. Her gaze flittered from me to the Mercedes and most likely the people sitting inside it.

“Hi,” I said, stepping forward, successfully getting her to step back. “Is this the Abrams residence?” I took another step, making it impossible for her to slam the door shut on me.

“Yes. Is Mr. Abrams expecting you?”

“Ah—” My mouth dried. I scanned the foyer and up a staircase behind her. It seemed like if Chase's stepfather hated answering the door that much, then his mom would appear any second. I decided against the “I noticed your lovely urns and wanted to make an offer” ploy and took a more personal approach. “It's actually Mrs. Abrams I stopped by to see. She went to college with my mom. I'm an appraiser. My mom said Mrs. Abrams had some items she wanted to have valued for insurance purposes. It's been a while, but my mom said I should stop by when I was in town.” It was a total lie, but it was also a con one of my dad's less scrupulous dealer friends was known to use.

A dismissive snort came from the other room. “Must have been a fucking long time ago,” said the man I assumed was Chase's stepfather. “Tell her that Mrs. Abrams is no longer in need of any services.”

My head swiveled toward his voice. What did he mean by that? Was Chase's mom—dead? Was he being sarcastic about her funeral service? Grandfather, Kate, no one had mentioned anything about her dying. What else could he mean?

The maid stepped toward me and this time I retreated, all the way back outside. But instead of shutting the door, she followed me and eased the door shut behind her. She held her hand up to stop me from leaving and whispered, “Your mother, she must not realize. Mrs. Abrams is not well. She's at Beach Rose House.”

I frowned. She'd said the name like it should mean something to me.

Her hand went to her throat, clutching at a cross. Her voice hushed even further. “It's a permanent care facility. Mrs. Abrams is not well, mentally.”

My cheeks heated. That possibility had never occurred to me. But, of course, after all she'd endured it made sense.
Mentally ill
. Crap. I'd just gone through that with my dad. Well, sort of. He'd been possessed by the genie Culus and the symptoms had mimicked mental illness. It was why we'd ended up returning to Moonhill.

“Thank you,” I said. Then I fled down the walk, my head whirring as I tossed back and forth whether to tell Chase about his mother's condition or not.

But as soon as I got into the car and saw the eager look on Chase's face, the squeeze in my heart made the decision for me. I had to tell him the truth.

His eyes met mine, worry flicking through them. “Well?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. First we need to get out of here.”

I drove back under the darkness of the shade trees, past the mailbox, and onto the road.

“Was she home?” Chase nudged.

“She's—She wasn't home. The maid or maybe she was a housekeeper . . .” My mind staggered and I gripped the steering wheel super tight, struggling to find the right words. Finally I just spat it out: “Your mom's at a place called Beach Rose House. It's a facility for people with mental issues.”

“That sucks,” Selena said.

Chase let out a long breath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, husky with emotion. “How long has she been there?”

“I don't know. I didn't find out anything else, not really.” I glanced at him. His face didn't hold any anger.

His eyes grew sad, but a faint smile touched his lips. “Thank you for doing that. I couldn't have ever walked up to that door.”

If Selena hadn't been with us, I'd have pulled over to the side of the road and wrapped my arms around him, told him that his mother's condition wasn't his fault and that her issues had started before his conception and even before Malphic had slithered into her dreams and life. They had begun with her choice in husbands.

“We could find out where Beach Rose House is and try to see your mom sometime,” I suggested.

He closed his eyes. “Maybe, sometime.”

* * *

When the three of us got back to Moonhill and pulled into the garage, we found Tibbs inside, tinkering on one of the ATVs. Tibbs and his mother, Laura, were the only nonfamily members besides Chase who lived on the estate. Tibbs was a lanky, ginger-haired guy. And, despite being almost twenty-three, he stumbled over his tongue like a lovesick teenager whenever Selena spoke to him. However, he and I got along like old friends.

“You know where Kate is?” I asked him as I got out of the Mercedes. I bit my lip and nodded at the ATV he was working on. It was the one I'd used this morning. “I didn't screw it up, did I?”

Tibbs laughed. “Nothing's wrong. Just changing the oil.” He shoved his camo-colored cap in his hip pocket and smoothed back his hair. “By the way, Chase, would you mind taking my patrol shift tonight? I've got something to do in town.”

“No problem,” Chase said.

Selena lifted an eyebrow at Tibbs. “Got a heavy date?”

He went bright red, right up to the tips of his ears. “Um—no.” He looked at me. “You and Chase didn't have plans for tonight, did you?”

“Not really,” I said. Swallowing my disappointment, I headed into the office and flung the Mercedes's key ring onto the pegboard with all the other sets. I'd hoped Chase and I could get together tonight. After all, it wouldn't be long before he went to the realm. What if something happened to him? What if he didn't—?

I squeezed my eyes shut, putting an end to that train of thought. Nothing bad was going to happen to him or Dad or Mom. They'd all be fine. They'd come back from the djinn realm. Mom and Dad would rebuild their life together, and Chase and I . . . I scrunched my eyes even tighter. It was impossible, downright stupid, to daydream about the far distant future—my future—with everything so precariously on edge.

Taking a long, slow breath, I forced my mind away from the future and back to the recent past, to the first time Chase and I had spent an entire night together, to the good stuff, not the nightmare part.

Tibbs had been on duty and everyone else had left for the marina in Port St. Claire where the family kept a boat. Chase and I were supposed to meet up with them and go for a sunset cruise and dinner, but I'd texted Dad and pretended I had menstrual cramps as an excuse to stay home. After that, I'd grabbed a bottle of sparkling wine from the family's cellar and headed for the cottage. Neither one of us had much for cooking skills, but Chase made boxed macaroni and cheese. It was a wonderful meal by candlelight on his living room floor, like a picnic. We had tossed salad and pickled beets, too. Our eyes had met so many times during the meal, both of us resisting the urge to kiss, laughing and smiling.

By the time we'd gotten around to doing the dishes, the smolder in his eyes was so wicked that I was forced to splash soap bubbles at him to keep him in line. He retaliated by throwing the sponge at me. Later, we lingered on the sofa in each other's arms, listening to music in the candlelight as evening drifted into darkness. Chase hinted that his neck was stiff. I heated some baby oil, pulled off his shirt, and massaged his shoulders and back. I moved down, unzipping his pants, taking them off, rubbing his beautiful butt cheeks, his thighs, his calves, his toes, languorously as if time didn't matter, as if there were no world beyond that room. He undressed me, massaging the oil into my temples, my neck, my shoulders. We moved together, massaging, caressing. His lips roamed my body. My hands skated across his skin. I nipped his shoulder. And, in a hot flash, the smolder in his eyes darkened into fierce lust. Time burst back to life. He pinned me to the couch. I gripped his arms in wanton desire, arching against him—