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  A cow hollered from a neighboring farm, distracting her briefly from the downward spiral she was sure to go through if she kept up this line of thinking. She couldn’t help it. The image of her son taken from their home stayed fresh in her mind every second of every day, even kept her awake at night. The nightmares lessened, but a few still haunted her. Between dreams of Larry and the nightmares, she hadn’t slept much in the last six months.

  Charlene finished the wine. Her ex-husband was to blame for their dire situation. He sent their restaurant into foreclosure, a business she’d dreamed of since a young child. Second to her son, The Café had been her heart and soul. Andrew took their money and skipped town without a word, not caring what would become of their family.

  She tilted the bottle over her glass and drained it.

  That’s when her already troublesome situation went belly-up. A man who presented himself as trustworthy and wanting to help loaned her money.

  Charlene gulped the wine. That asshole was dead now. She shook her head. This was not the type of person she was. She wasn’t hateful or vindictive. One horrific event in life can change a person, as it had her. She hoped she could find her way back to seeing the good in people, to trust. Outside of her family and the BOFs, she didn’t.

  Tears streamed down her face. The terrorist’s group end game: to use Pamela Young as a pawn to trap an FBI agent. She helped it happen, to save her son.

  Charlene set the empty glass in the basket, braced her elbows on her knees, and grasped the sides of her head.

  The explosion that day boomed in her ears. More tears fell, wetting her jean-clad knees. She believed Henry had died.

  She swiped a hand across her cheeks, gazed at the field toward the weird lights, and recalled the most heart-wrenching time of her life. Special Agent Larry Newman had walked toward her, holding her excited, yet frightened son’s hand.

  Relief had washed over her, lessening her nerve-racking anxiety.

  She shifted her gaze to the person responsible for saving her son and locked gazes with the agent. A connection passed between them. Like a treasure at the end of a torturous journey, she discovered a sensation she couldn’t have possibly fathomed. A draw so intense, she hadn’t believed it existed with another human outside of her mother and son until that moment…a future.

  The feeling had scared her then. Still did. Her ex had ruined any chance for her to have a healthy relationship with another man. And now, here, she considered calling Larry, bringing him into her life. A man she wanted to spend time with despite fear that if she did, she’d scare him away with her inability to trust. Time hadn’t healed her heart or soul.

  Voices carried on the night air, the anger in their tones bolstered through the evening breeze..

  She froze.

  ****

  Not twenty yards from the driveway on Greenwood Manor, Special Agent Larry Newman had his hands full.

  “On your knees. Hands on your head,” he ordered, his gun pointed at the peeping Tom. “Why are you spying?”

  “Why you? You’re the mother-fucker who’d been watching my crib and my girl.”

  Larry’s jaw clenched. He wanted to punch dipshits who spoke as if they hadn’t had a chance at an education. Judging by his shorts that covered half his butt and the rancid stink coming off him, he had no respect for himself either. “Your name?”

  “You don’t answer my question. I don’t talk to you.”

  This line of questioning went nowhere fast. A feeling churned in his gut. This guy was a pawn, not the leader. “Who sent you?”

  “I ain’t telling you shit.”

  “Have it your way.” Larry holstered his pistol and unclipped his handcuffs from his belt. With the right wrist secure, he informed, “You have the right to remain silent…”

  “Yadda, yadda, yadda. I know the drill.”

  Larry twisted the man’s left arm behind his back, clicked the cuff, then the other and spotted a worn wallet sticking out of the guy’s left pocket.

  “Glad you do,” Larry shined his penlight on the license. “Mr. Mathews.”

  Larry tugged on the cuffs until Mathews stood. The scruffy redhead would realize soon enough that he didn’t have the evidence to hold him. No matter how much Larry questioned Mathews, a man who he could tell went to great lengths by changing his appearance from the botched hair dye and shaggy beard, wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t give up anyone he was involved with, as Mathews called it, his crib. Still he had to try. “Nice costume. Did your mommy put it together?”

  “Man, that’s just wrong. Why yous treat me this way? I’m just walking by.”

  No way did he happen by. Larry gazed through Greenwood Manor’s kitchen window. Charlene had disappeared. This guy watched her, but why?

  “I know my rights. Your arresting me is wrong,” the man sputtered. Spit flew out the sides of his mouth.

  “Watching someone without his or her knowledge is a misdemeanor.”

  “You’re no better. You watched her, too. I seen ya.”

  Guilty.

  Charlene, showing up at Greenwood Manor on Halloween, surprised him. Since the kidnapping, her son and at least one of the BOFs accompanied her everywhere she went. So what gave tonight?

  More shocking than her arriving alone carrying an overnight bag was his inability to tear his eyes off her. From the time she arrived until Mathews approached, he had lost sight of the reason he came to the manor. He watched as she sat on the porch drinking wine, then through the kitchen window when she moved inside, trying to figure out a way to approach her.

  “No comparison,” Larry said offhandedly. His brain wouldn’t engage in an authoritative comeback. Having to explain his actions as to why he watched Charlene floored him. Not that he needed to go into details with a trespasser. Still, the comment stirred an emotion inside he didn’t want to address.

  “Yeah, there is. We’re both red-blooded males. A good-looking woman, we’re gonna look.” Mathews cracked his knuckles. “She’s off limits.”

  Red flashed before Larry’s eyes. The guy had balls. “Wrong thing to say.”

  “Bullshit. She’s mine. You stay the fuck away.”

  Larry fisted his hands. He wanted to cold-cock him. If he’d checked on the mysterious lights in the field and not perched on the step of the one-room schoolhouse watching Charlene, he would have avoided the protectiveness burning a hole in his stomach.

  “Nope.” His noggin still hadn’t connected. For a trained agent who thought fast and acted quickly on a daily basis, he turned to putty around Charlene, another reason to stay away. At least, he didn’t act on his primal instinct. He hadn’t beaten the shit out of this guy.

  “I work here. You don’t.”

  Mathews’ comment snapped him back to the here and now. Larry had hoped his off-handed comment about Mathews’ mother and costume would fire up the peeping tom so he’d spill the actual reason he roamed the yard. Larry had a hunch Mathews was up to more than snooping on a beautiful woman. At least his perception stayed intact.

  “I should call the real cops,” Mathews said. “You’re worthless.”

  Mathews’ comment tumbled around in Larry’s mind. Rage pounded through him, racing past annoyance and damn near stealing his control. Bile rose in his throat and his hands fisted. He gulped in a fortifying breath and shoved away the stabbing remark—you’re worthless— that showed its ugly head when his passion interfered with a case...words his father had used often.

  “Go ahead,” Mathews retorted. “Make my day. I’ll have you on assault charges.”

  Larry raked a hand through his hair and stepped back, letting his mind clear and his anger subside until numbness filled his consciousness, the only recourse he had to ward off the emotion invoked by his father’s vile memory.

  “Man, you feel me?”

  Feel him? “Hell, no!” Larry flexed and clenched his hands, his mind not as dulled as he’d hoped. “Shut your trap before we both regret it.”

  Mathews looked
as if he wanted to retort, but Larry’s glare stopped him.

  Larry stared across the field to remove the anger rushing through him. Emotions were getting involved, not what an agent wants to happen.

  The moon glowed on the empty field. Cows didn’t graze in this pasture. He wondered why. Before he could deliberate any more on the manager’s management style, lights flickered in the distance. The illumination didn’t display long. A few twinkles, maybe four or five, then darkness. He’d needed his night goggles to see the distance.

  Several questions came to mind. What was the origin of the mysterious lights that landed him at the manor? Were they a signal of some sort? Who was behind them? Larry gazed at the kitchen window. If Mathews worked on the manor, did he stay at the house? Why would he creep around instead of going inside? Was he seeing Charlene? The last question brought the sting of jealousy. Damn, he had it bad for this divorced mother.

  He focused on the matter at hand…figuring out Mathews. “Are you staying here?” Larry nodded toward the house.

  The anger on Mathews’s face turned compassionate as he stared at the empty window.

  Damn it. “What affiliation do you have with the woman?” Larry’s voice was stern, fortified by anger, not leaving any room to recoil and try another angle, one that didn’t have jealousy in the tone.

  “None of your business.”

  Unlike moments ago, Mathews spoke clear. The gangster slang and inflection had disappeared.

  Larry uncuffed one of Mathews’s wrists, dragged him to the column supporting the schoolhouse porch, and cuffed him to the column. As if Mathews had a choice, Larry said, “Stay here.” He walked several feet behind the ten-foot tall boxwood bushes and called the FBI office.

  Missy Richards, the administrative assistant who’d recently passed the requirements to be promoted to agent, answered. Missy working this late at the office didn’t surprise him. She often worked well into the evening, like him. “Hi, Missy… would you run a history on Allen Mathews?”

  “Will do, Special Agent Newman.”

  Ever since she left her previous position, she’d been calling him by his title, a habit he wished she’d break. A few moments later, she returned to the line. “No priors.”

  “Employment?”

  “Greenwood Manor.”

  So, the guy didn’t lie. “Anything else useful?”

  “No. There’s no history past a few months ago.”

  A spook? Certain military agencies cleared their men’s past, but this guy? “Thanks. Are you heading home?”

  “Not for a while.”

  He and Missy were similar creatures. Neither had a reason to rush home and neither wanted a reason. “Have a good evening.”

  “You, too.” She disconnected.

  Larry stuck his phone on his belt clip. With no reason to hold Mathews, he had to release him. The guy worked on the farm and had a right to roam. Arresting a person on gut instinct didn’t fly. The Director would take issue.

  With his gaze glued to the window, Mathews slid his cuff wrists down the column and settled on the porch step.

  His focus on Charlene dug under Larry’s skin. “You’re gonna stay away from the house?”

  “You don’t live here anyways.”

  The gangster slang returned. Interesting. “As far as you’re concerned I do. Tell your crib, FBI is watching.

  “You big fuzz?”

  Larry hadn’t heard anyone call the Bureau big fuzz. Other choice words, yes. “You bet.”

  “If I stay away, you gonna take these off?”

  Larry thought about his good friend Paul England’s worried phone call, insisting odd lights in the manor’s front field had to be the work of criminals, and tried to figure out if Mathews fit into the equation. His gut said Mathews was up to no good, yet he believed the feeling was directed more toward Mathews watching Charlene than the mysterious lights flashing on the hillside. “Yes,” Larry barked, sick the decision felt wrong and pissed to have no reason to hold him.

  ****

  Rage boiled in Mathews’s blood. How dare the big fuzz order him to leave? He stormed down the field toward the barn where he’d parked the four-wheeler.

  I’ll show that agent.

  Low man on the totem pole within the gang, Mathews still had a card to play to make the FBI quake, and make the other members of the Impalers give him the respect he deserved.

  His back seared from the agent watching him. He wanted to flip him off, but why bother? The chicken-shit would just arrest him. Not that the law would be able to hold him, his alias was clean. Still, he couldn’t afford any attention, not if he wanted to earn Charlene’s trust.

  The picnic basket had been a beautifully laid out idea. The laced wine would aid her into seeing strange apparitions. The banging and knocking he made upstairs set everything into motion, scaring her. He waited for the wine to reach its full effect so he could make his move. She would be so scared she’d need someone to protect her. Who knew what that protection would entail? Naked between sheets, he hoped.

  The plan executed perfectly until the damn son-of-a-bitch showed up. The desire in the agent’s gaze when he watched Charlene through the window formed a knot in Mathews’ stomach.

  The agent was an obstacle he hadn’t counted on and couldn’t afford. Mathews never shot anyone. Maybe it was time. He’d find the agent alone, away from the only person who could identify him, and take him out.

  Mathews climbed onto the seat of the four-wheeler, started the engine, and stared at the one-room schoolhouse. Charlene walked toward it and toward big fuzz. Her unsteady gait, a sign the drug took effect. Any minute, the agent would hear her. He’d be her rescuer.

  His gut burned.

  Fuck!

  Chapter Two

  The surprise of the raised voices propelled adrenaline through Charlene’s veins. Two people, near the schoolhouse, stood and argued.

  The voice that melted her insides on the mountain that awful day drifted toward her.

  Larry?

  Heart racing, she stumbled by the boxwood bushes, and fell to the ground beneath them. The limbs encased her as if they were prickly tentacles, scratching her arms and scraping her cheeks.

  “Whoa!” She braced a hand on the dirt and lifted herself on unsteady legs. Her surroundings passed by her as if she rode a merry-go-round. Waiting for the ride to slow, she held onto the bush’s skinny branches, swayed, and focused on the porch.

  When it did, her vision changed. She gazed at the fragmented porch and distorted steps as if she looked through a kaleidoscope. The wine’s effects played havoc with her senses. Playful as if a young child, she lifted her arms to her sides, shoulder level.

  “You’re gonna stay away from the house?” Larry’s commanding voice boomed. She looked in the direction of the sultry tone that heated her blood.

  Someone else spoke, but she couldn’t hear what was said.

  The desire to see Larry grew stronger. As if walking a tightrope and not a wide sidewalk, she placed a foot in front of the other.

  The voices ceased. She paused, looked down at her shoes. The toe of a sneaker touched a crack in the sidewalk. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” she sang, scooting her foot backwards parallel to the other, and lowered her arms.

  The concrete beneath her vibrated, and she jumped, straddling the sidewalk. The cement popped…snapped…cracked.

  She stared down in disbelief. Lines formed, stretched in every direction, like roots spreading at rapid speed, until reaching the end of the walkway.

  Larry’s voice boomed.

  “Larry,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper and shaky.

  He didn’t reply.

  She stepped to the right side of the walk and moved closer to call him again. At the corner of the house, the concrete ended and a brick path began. Lines crisscrossed, making the feat of not stepping on one impossible, worse than the sidewalk.

  “Hmm.” She stayed on the grass and followed the bricks
toward the schoolhouse.

  The hair on the back of her neck rose. Her skin prickled. The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face. She stopped, smoothed down her hair and turned, facing the side of the house. The moon and outside light cast a glow on the far end, highlighting two windows.

  Not long ago at The Memory Café, during BOFs weekly get-togethers, she overheard a few of the members discussing an old wives’ tale. At the time, she dismissed it as a joke children devised to terrorize one another. Now, standing outside the old house, she wondered if some verity backed the story.

  A hand without a body would appear in a second floor window.

  Maybe, if she called out…

  “Madison Hand! Come out! Come out, from wherever you are.” She giggled. Somewhere in her subconscious, she knew not to mess with the spirits. Again, she had no control.

  “What was in that wine?”

  The air stilled. She braced her feet a shoulder width apart and stared.

  The windows grew wider and longer. She smacked and pinched each cheek, trying to snap out of the haunted haze the alcohol had produced.

  She should have stayed home, gone ‘trick or treating’ with Henry and her mother.

  Well beyond his years, her son had understood her reasons for coming to the manor tonight. Guilt had seeped in when she dropped him off at her mother’s house until he excitedly said, “I get to stay up past bedtime.” At that moment, she knew she had to go. Henry needed his mother whole again.

  Clear as day, a hand emerged in the corner window, ripping her thoughts from her mind.

  She froze everything except her eyes. They stayed glued to the phantom object. Fingers wiggled behind the glass pane before jumping to the next window in a game of peek-a-boo.

  An owl hooted. The hand vanished. She darted her gaze between the two windows, waiting. “I’ve gone mad. I’ve turned into Alice in Alice in Wonderland. Where’s the rabbit?” She twisted, scanned the ground for a white furry creature, and caught sight of the one-room schoolhouse. A light twinkled inside.

  Is Larry there? Did he leave?

  Mindful of not losing her balance, she moved at a snail’s pace toward a concrete slab in front of the building, side-stepping a tree and its wayward branches. A rosebush with petite, deep red blooms grazed her arm.