The Witch’s Grave (14 page)

I felt Abby’s hand gently shaking me. “Ophelia, we’re home.”

“Huh? What?” I shot upright in my seat, my hand grabbing the dashboard.

“We’re home,” she said again.

As I looked at my cottage, my front yard, my familiar neighborhood, my brain felt like mush. I tried to shake the muddle from my mind.

“Let’s get you inside.”

With stiff legs, I hobbled out of the car, opened the back door, pulled out my suitcase and carry-on. Hoisting the carry-on, I crossed to Abby and gave her a hug. “Talk to you tomorrow,” I mumbled.

“Oh, no,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m staying here.”

“Abby—”

Touching my lips softly with a fingertip, she silenced me. “No argument—I’m spending the night.”

Too tired to put up a fight, I grabbed her bag along with mine and trudged to the house. Unlocking the door, we stepped inside to a flurry of yips and yaps.

After sniffing at me and then Abby, T.P. darted toward the front door. I lunged at him as he ran by, but missed. He headed out the door and to Abby’s car. Running around in
circles, he sniffed all the tires at least twice. Not finding what he was looking for, he padded back into the house and sat at my feet with a hopeful expression.

I glanced at Abby with a wry smile. “He’s looking for Tink, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she replied, squatting down beside him and rubbing his ears.

T.P. looked sad, and I felt my own spot of emptiness again. “I miss her, too, boy.”

Abby rose and threw an arm around my shoulder. “You get to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Agreeing with her suggestion, I hauled my stuff up the stairs and into my room. Lady and Queenie followed me, while T.P. pranced after Abby. I guess he figured if he couldn’t have Tink, Abby was the next best thing.

Once inside my bedroom, I heard my bed calling to me.
My own room, my own bed, my own pillows.
Changing in a rush, I threw back the covers and flopped onto the mattress on my stomach and wiggled down under the sheets. With a deep sigh, I crossed my arms under my pillow and nestled my cheek against it.
Home at last
. My eyes slowly closed.

One eye popped open.
I really didn’t like Henrick
. During the dream, I’d felt Madeleine’s passion for him, but I thought he led a selfish life. He seemed more worried about himself than the suffering of millions.

Drop it, Jensen, it’s one in the morning—go to sleep.

I turned my head to the left.
Was Henrick Stephen?

Rolling onto my back, I listened to the night sounds—Lady softly moaning in her sleep as she dreamed of chasing a squirrel, the low rumble of Queenie’s purr coming from the other side of the bed, a fly buzzing against the window.

I forced my eyes closed.

Even though I didn’t like Henrick all that much, he was still better than Vogel. That guy was a creep.

I turned on my side and punched up my pillow.

I’m acting as if I agree with Abby—my dream could be
of a past life.
That was the burning question: Did Madeleine and Henrick ever exist? Or did they live and love only in my imagination? Did meeting Stephen somehow trigger this elaborate dream? Or could it be that I was picking up energy from something that had happened over sixty years ago and thousands of miles away? I’d dreamed of the past before, but never one so long dead, or of a location that far away. And in those dreams, I’d been a spectator, not a participant.

Just forget about the dreams
, I told myself. If I wanted to stew about something, my time would be better spent focusing on now and the future—or I might not
have
a future.

But the last dream—Madeleine was on her way to drop off the explosives. Where? Oh, yeah, Canal Saint Martin, near Hospital Saint Louis.

I pushed up in bed. Hospital Saint Louis? Was it a real place? Or had my subconscious picked that name because I was in the
city
of St. Louis? I’d check it out tomorrow on the Internet. If such a hospital did exist, and if it were near a Canal Saint Martin, then I’d know my dreams were one of two things—Abby was right and they were memories of a past life, or for some reason I was reading energy from events long ago and maybe, somehow, they played into what was happening now.

What did I know of Madeleine? Were there other facts I could check on the Internet? Were there similarities between her and me?

Reaching over, I turned on my lamp and removed a pen and pad from the nightstand drawer. Drawing my knees up, I balanced the pad and began to make notes.

Madeleine was a Parisian model born in the south of France. Well, we both had grown up in rural areas—something in common there. But we differed on fashion—I had none.

In the last dream, it was apparent Madeleine had a gift for
reading
cards—some psychic ability. And it was a family talent—inherited from her grandmother. That was a no
brainer with one huge difference. Madeleine was supremely confident, but I’d never felt that way about my gift.

I chewed on the end of my pen. What else? She was madly in love with Henrick. I gave a sharp snort. We parted ways there.

She was involved in something dangerous. Gee, another thing in common?

Scanning my notes, I saw the parallels between myself and Madeleine. But what else? The key—we’d both received keys. I didn’t know what her key was for, but mine led to the disks. I wished I knew more about Madeleine’s key.

I felt a stir of excitement. What if I tried forcing the dreams? Tossing the pen and pad on the nightstand, I shut off the light and scooted down in bed. Folding my hands on my chest, I waited…and waited…and waited.

After twenty minutes of laying like a corpse, hoping for sleep to come, and with it, the dreams, I gave up. If I wanted answers, the disks were my best hope.

Throwing back the sheet, I climbed out of bed and unzipped my suitcase. I tiptoed down the hallway then the stairs with the disks clutched in my hot little hand. Crossing the living room, I stole into my office and softly shut the door. I lit a candle and booted up the computer.

The screen came on, casting a faint blue light into the room. As I hunched forward, I watched impatiently as each of the icons clicked on. Finally it was ready. Clicking on my computer, I opened the D drive and slid in the first disk.

Loading…

A box popped onto the screen.

Enter password
.

The garbled sound of voices coming from downstairs woke me. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock: 9:00. I’d finally crept up to bed at three after trying to break Stephen’s password. I’d used every combination of words I could think of. Stephen’s name, where he lived, the color of his eyes, his
hair—nothing worked. I’d even held the disk between my palms and tried to sense some sort of image, but my mind stayed blank. All I felt was the cool, plastic disk resting in my hands.

Abby was better at sensing things from objects, I thought as I tumbled out of bed.

Anxious to talk to her, I dressed quickly in shorts and a T-shirt. Slipping my feet into an old pair of flip-flops, I hurried to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and splashed cold water on my face. I twisted my hair up, holding it in place with a clip, as I rushed out of the bathroom, but then I stopped.

I figured one of the voices belonged to Abby, but whose was the other voice? What if it were Bill and the DCI? It wouldn’t look good if I suddenly came tearing into the kitchen. I continued at a slower pace down the stairs.

Rounding the corner of the kitchen, I pulled up short. Abby stood at the stove frying eggs and bacon, while the owner of the second voice sat at the kitchen table.

Darci. She took one look at me and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You lied to me,” she said, her eyes narrow. “You told me you were staying out of the investigation.”

I felt a sheepish expression steal across my face. “Ah, I take it Abby filled you in?”

“Yeah.” Her red lips puckered in a pout. “What’s the big idea leaving me out?”

With a shake of my head, I crossed the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. “As I recall, you encouraged me not to get involved.”

“Maybe, but that was before I found out you’re reincarnated.”

I shot Abby a dirty look over my shoulder. “You told her about that?”

She waved the spatula in my direction. “She already knew you’d been dreaming…I simply gave her my theory.”

Snagging a piece of bacon, I munched on it thoughtfully.
“Seems to me there’s too many theories. And right now they don’t mean squat.”

Abby flipped an egg in the skillet. “Would you make the toast, dear?” She opened the refrigerator door and grabbed the orange juice. “I heard you roaming around last night—did you read Stephen’s notes?”

“No.” I shoved down hard on the lever of the toaster. “They’ve got a password.”

Leaning against the counter, St. Louis, Karen Burns, and the man chasing me seemed far away from my bright kitchen. Darci sipping coffee at my table…Abby cooking…the animals curled up in a spot of sunlight, waiting for a handout. It all seemed so normal.

Darci broke the spell. “Forget about the password for now, tell me about being reincarnated.” Turning in her chair, she watched me with anticipation. “Was I right? Stephen’s your long-lost love, isn’t he? You had a tragic affair, didn’t you?” she asked, peppering me with questions.

A grin flicked across my face.
So much for normal
. The bread popping out of the toaster saved me from answering right away. Buttering it and placing it on a plate, I tried to frame my answer. At this point, I wasn’t sure if Stephen was Vogel or Henrick. As Ophelia, I didn’t care for either one of them.

Crossing to the table, I placed the plate in the center. “I don’t know,” I replied truthfully. “And before you get too wrapped up in the reincarnation idea, I have another thought. What if I’m just picking up energy from events that took place long ago?”

Darci tossed her head. “Why would you do that?”

“Who knows?” I glanced at Abby. “Any thoughts?”

“Not really.” She set the eggs and bacon on the table, and pulling at a chair, sat. “You need more information. Is there any way you can learn if Madeleine really did exist?”

“Oooh.” Darci squirmed in her chair like a little kid. “Me, me, let me…”

I half expected her hand to shoot up in the air.

“…I can do an Internet search.”

Abby’s eyes sparked with amusement. “I think that’s an excellent idea, don’t you, Ophelia?”

“Yeah, I do,” I replied, dipping my toast in the center of my egg. “Madeleine was a Parisian model and—”

Darci’s eyebrows shot up and she giggled. “You? A model? In a past life?”

“Hey, what’s so funny about that?” I chomped down on my slice of toast.

She cocked her head and gave me a long stare. “Shall we go through your closet again?”

“Okay, okay. I’ve already caught the irony of living a life as a model,” I groused. “You don’t need to hit me over the head with it.”

“Well, I think—” she began.

“Girls,” Abby said, cutting Darci off. “It’s my understanding that if something brought us unhappiness in a past life, we avoid it in this lifetime.”

“I get it—she loved fashion, but it didn’t make her happy, so now she hates it…” Darci picked at her egg.

“Exactly,” Abby answered.

They were talking as if I were invisible. “Hey,” I said, waving a hand. “I’m sitting right here.”

They ignored me.

“Humph, that would certainly explain all the polyester,” Darci said in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

“I don’t have
that
much polyester,” I interjected indignantly.

“Thanks to me,” Darci shot back.

I covered my face with my hands and shook my head in frustration. “Don’t you think we have more important things to discuss other than my wardrobe?” I asked, lowering my hands and glaring at them.

Abby reached out and gave me a sympathetic pat on the arm. “You’re right, dear.” Focusing on Darci, she said,
“You’re going to try and find references to Madeleine on the Internet.” She turned to me, her green eyes bright. “What can I do?”

“Well,” I said, giving her a knowing look, “since you seem to be so good at cracking passwords, how about giving Stephen’s a try?”

A cagey smile lit my grandmother’s face.

After we finished breakfast, Abby and Darci joined me in my office. Abby took a seat in the office chair next to my desk. I handed her the disk, and after she took it, her eyelids drifted shut. She took several deep breaths as she rubbed her open palm over the case.

Darci and I waited.

“This is so cool,” Darci said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I don’t get to see you guys do your mojo very often.”

“Shh,” I hissed, laying a finger on my lips.

Her voice dropped. “Does she go into some kind of a trance, or what? Does she know we’re here?”

“Yes, she knows we’re here, and no, she doesn’t go into a trance,” I replied with a sneer and a roll of my eyes. “Her head doesn’t spin around either. But she does need to concentrate.”

Darci shifted from one foot to the other. “Okay, I’ll be quiet…not another word…promise.” She made an X over her heart.

Standing at the corner of the desk, I watched Abby. Her breathing was slow and even, and her body relaxed. She turned the case over and over in her hand while a slight frown darted across her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes and handed me the case.

“Well?” I said anxiously.

“Flames and ashes.” She leaned back in the chair and folded her hands.

“That’s all?” I groused, looking down at the case in my hand. “What kind of password is that?”

“I don’t know—I saw flames erupt, leaving a pile of ash.”

I gave her a scowl. “I hate to tell you, Abby, but that doesn’t help me a whole lot.”

She met my expression with a smile. “What did you expect? That I’d envision Stephen’s password in big red letters?”

“It would be nice,” I declared, tapping the case on the desk.

Hopping up, I moved around to the computer. Abby stood, and I took her place at the desk. She watched over my shoulder as I inserted the disk. Darci moved to my other side.

“Okay, let’s try ‘flames.’” I typed in the word.

Nothing. I entered
fire.

Invalid password
.

Placing her hand on the desk, Darci leaned in. “Try ‘flames and ashes.’”

“Okay,” I said, swiftly typing the words.

No go.

Darci nudged me with her hip. “Let me try.”

“Whatever,” I said, switching places with her.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed every synonym for “flames and ashes” she could think of. She tried uppercase, lowercase, and still couldn’t break the code.

With a sigh of exasperation, she sat back in the chair and chewed on her lip. “I need to think about this.” She tore her gaze away from the computer and glanced up at me. “Karen Burns didn’t mention a password?”

“Jeez, Darci.” I leaned against the desk and glared at her. “Don’t you think if she did, I would’ve tried it?”

Her eyes focused back on the computer screen as if staring at it long enough would make the password magically appear. “All right, so that was a dumb question.”

“It might be she didn’t know Stephen used a password,” Abby commented in a reasonable voice. “She said she didn’t look at the disks until he’d finished the manuscript.”

“Well,” I said, pushing away from the desk, “I’m going to call her and find out. Oh, while you’re at it, Darci…would you go online and type ‘Hospital Saint Louis, Paris, France’ in the search bar. My password is”—I shot a look at Abby—‘ “magick.’”

Placing my hand on Darci’s shoulder, I leaned down to watch the screen as she logged in then typed the words in the search bar. She hit Enter.

My fingers squeezed into her shoulder.

“Ouch,” she said with a squirm.

“Oh,” I mumbled, my eyes never leaving the screen, “sorry.”

There it was—Hospital Saint Louis. It was a real place. Did it mean Madeleine was real, too?

After Abby left, I tried to reach Karen Burns, but failed. At a loss what to do then, I wandered back to the office where Darci had commandeered my computer and refused to budge. She was determined to discover Stephen’s password. Slouching in one of the armchairs, I watched as her fingers continually tapped the keyboard. The clacking sound of her long nails hitting the keys made me jumpy.

“Have you tried ‘conflagration’?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.” She typed faster.

“How about ‘flare’?” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, keeping time with Darci’s typing.

“Yeah.”

‘ “Inferno’?”

Her fingers paused. “Yes.”

‘ “Pyre’?”

“Will you stop?” she asked, leaning back in the chair and glaring at me. “You’re making me nervous.”

I popped to my feet. “What about you?” I wiggled my fingers at her. “All that clacking and clicking’s bugging me.”

“Then go find something to do.” She turned her attention to the screen and resumed typing. “Go do some psychic stuff,” she said, dismissing me.

Frustrated, I paced out of the office. “Do some psychic stuff,” I grumbled to myself.
Right, like it was that easy.
It wasn’t a switch I could flip on and off. I wished it were; then maybe I’d have my answers.

I wandered into the kitchen, and grabbing my cell phone off the kitchen counter, tried Karen Burns again. Nothing. I was beginning to think the woman didn’t want to talk to me. I hoped that was the case, and not that she
couldn’t
talk to me. I was at an impasse without the password, without any more information about Madeleine.

I picked up the paper and glanced at the front page. The main story was about Chuck Krause and his aide’s murder.

The young man, Benjamin Jessup, had been leaving Krause’s campaign headquarters with Krause when a man on a motorcycle speeding by opened fire. The DCI were investigating and had “no comment.” The article went on to quote Krause. He was shocked, appalled, at Jessup’s death, and saw the situation as one more reason to push harsher penalties for lawbreakers.

Disgusted, I threw the newspaper down. A young man was dead and Krause was using it to promote his own political agenda.

Shoving my hands in my back pockets, I stared off into space. What next? I snapped my fingers—Stephen’s date book. Maybe I’d missed something.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and pulled the copy out
of my nightstand drawer. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I thumbed through it. Nothing new hit me until I noticed the phone number entered next to
The Bookworm
. A 515 area code. I’d been so focused on finding Karen Burns that I hadn’t tried calling that number. I picked up the phone and dialed.

It rang twice. A young woman’s voice came on the line.

“Krause for representative.”

I swiftly covered the receiver to hide my gasp.

“Hello? Anyone there?” she asked.

“Ah, hi…” I stuttered, stumbling to my feet.

“May I help you?” Her voice sounded strained.

“Umm, this may sound odd, but I found this number listed in a friend’s date book…and, well…”

“Who is this? Is this a crank call?”

“No, honest…a friend of mine, Stephen Larsen—”

“The author who was shot?”

“Yes—”

“We’ve already talked to the police,” she cut me off curtly. “Good—”

“No, wait,” I said in a rush, “don’t hang up. I’m, I’m…”

I’m what? Think, Jensen, think.

“His mother, Louise Larsen, asked me to call.” The lie rolled out of my mouth quickly, but I didn’t think Louise would mind. “We’re trying to retrace Stephen’s activities before the shooting, and he had this number listed—”

“Look,” she said, cutting me off again, “I’ll tell you what I told the police. I refer—referred—calls like that,” her voice cracked, “to Ben.”

“So you did talk to Stephen?” I felt a rush of excitement.

“I don’t remember.” Her voice sounded sullen.

“But the call would’ve been transferred to Ben—why?”

“Ben handles—” She caught herself. “—handled, all
requests for information, interviews, anything to do with the press. If this guy identified himself as a writer, I automatically would have bucked the call to Ben. So would everyone else on staff.”

“I see…” I paused for a moment. “Do you know if Ben did talk to Stephen?”

“No.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Maybe his girlfriend, Gina Torreli.”

“Do you know how I can contact her?”

“Lady,” she huffed, “I don’t know who you are, but her boyfriend just got killed. You should leave her alone!”

The crash of the phone slamming down sounded in my ear.

That went well, I thought sarcastically. I definitely needed to work on my people skills.

Rushing downstairs, I whipped out the Des Moines phone book and looked up the name Torreli. There was one listing: Torreli, G. The address was at an apartment complex in West Des Moines, about thirty minutes from here. Since I’d muffed it with the young woman working for Krause, I decided not to call. I’d show up at her apartment.

Going back upstairs, I quickly put on makeup and changed into capris, a decent shirt, and a pair of sandals. I hurried down the stairs and to my office. Sticking my head in the door, I saw Darci still typing away.

Her blond hair tumbled around her face as if she’d pulled her hands through it again and again. A pencil was clutched tightly in her teeth while she muttered to herself.

“Hey, I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the computer screen.

“If I’m not back before you leave, lock up, okay?”

No response.

“Okay?” I asked again.

She paused her typing and waved a hand in my direction.

I guess that meant she would. As I crossed the living room, I heard the sound of her sweet voice coming from my office.

Gee, I didn’t know Darci knew
those
words.