Twenty-Nine

Troubling dreams disturbed Callie’s sleep. In the last one, she clung to the sides of Duane’s boat as he zoomed around the cove; she protested futilely over the roar of the motor that it made her seasick. She woke actually feeling queasy—aware, though, that it was likely due to her virus.

She pulled herself out of bed to see if she had any ginger ale, remembering her mother’s antidote for an upset stomach, and found a bottle on the bottom shelf of the pantry. She poured herself a glassful over ice. That and a couple of soda crackers calmed her stomach enough to let her take a shower. She’d fallen into bed fully dressed except for shoes, and she’d been sweating. The tepid shower refreshed and soothed her, and the change to fresh nightclothes raised her hopes for a more restful sleep.

When Callie climbed back into bed, Jagger jumped up to join her, though she warned him things might be a little bumpy. It wasn’t long before she proved that to be accurate, as her next dream had her running after Elvin as he zigzagged between trees on Duane’s ATV. When she woke from that one, Jagger had moved to the far corner of the mattress.

She managed to fall into a deeper sleep after that until once again, her brain grew agitated. This time she traveled down a much darker road; she watched Aunt Mel come out of the guest bedroom, where she’d slept that final night, and, wrapped in her robe, head toward the stairs.

“Don’t go down,” Callie pleaded, but her aunt shook her head and silently put her finger to her lips.

Callie tried to rush after her, but she’d become so tangled in the bedclothes that she was in effect tied to the bed. She thrashed, trying desperately to free herself, and heard the cottage door downstairs close behind her aunt as Grandpa Reed’s music box played. “No!” Callie cried out in her dream, upset enough to wake.

She found herself sitting upright, her sheets scrambled, blinking into the darkness. She continued to hear the music, though faintly. Was she still dreaming? Then she realized the sound came from inside the blanket chest, where she’d left the music box, forgotten as her illness took over. The muffled music stopped, much to her relief.

Then she heard the noise.

Was that Jagger? Had he gone downstairs and bumped something? But no. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the large cat at the foot of her bed, not curled in sleep but on his feet and staring alertly toward her door. He had heard the thump, too.

Callie held her breath. She hadn’t imagined it. But what had caused it? Maybe a tree branch had fallen onto the roof? She didn’t hear any wind blowing outside, but dead branches sometimes dropped of their own accord, didn’t they? She realized she was trying hard to convince herself that all was well. Then she heard the second noise. The creak of a downstairs floorboard. Someone was in her house.

Callie patted frantically on the nightstand for her cell phone until she remembered she’d left it downstairs. Her heart sank. What could she do? At least, she told herself, get out of bed and not wait there like a sitting duck! She slipped out as silently as she could manage and grabbed onto the nightstand as a wave of dizziness swept over her. When that passed, she thought about what she could use to defend herself. The lamp over the nightstand had been clamped to the wall, and her tugs couldn’t release it. She eased over to the open closet, holding her breath that no floorboard squeaks would betray her. Was there anything heavy and weapon-like in the closet? Her mind raced, picturing the currently invisible contents. No crowbars or hammers, unfortunately. Nothing sturdier than a boot or a wooden hanger came to mind, and she wasn’t willing to stake her life on either.

She grabbed the robe that hung on the door and wrapped it around her thin pajamas, an automatic action that only seemed to highlight how vulnerable she was. Then she remembered the can of pepper spray she’d bought back in Morgantown, for the nights she came home late from work. She’d last seen it in her winter purse, the one she carried when she wore her long puffy coat against the bitter West Virginia winds. But where had she left that purse?

Callie reached for the closet shelf, trying hard not to accidentally knock something down and alert her intruder. Why hadn’t she organized her things by now? Nearly everything lay in the jumble they’d fallen into as she’d unpacked her many boxes, putting off doing a better job until later on. What was that procrastination going to cost her?

Not finding the purse on the shelf, she lowered herself to the floor to run her hands through the heaps of shoes. Would the purse have ended up among them? She heard a scraping sound from the living room and froze. What was that? The downstairs closet? Was her intruder searching it for valuables?

Knowing there was nothing worth stealing there gave her no comfort. He wouldn’t likely stop with one room. Did whoever it was believe the cottage to be empty, keeping lights off and moving quietly only to avoid alerting neighbors? She had planned to be away overnight. Who would have known about that? Too many people, Callie realized, but she didn’t have time to think about it. She needed to find her pepper spray.

Her search on the closet floor turned up only shoes, a bag of yarn, and a small pocket umbrella, none of which were of any use. She leaned back onto her heels and scoured her thoughts. Where was that purse? Suddenly an image of a hook at the back of the closet appeared. Of course! She’d hung it there!

Callie stood to reach between her hanging clothes, beneath the shelf. Her hand landed on a hook that had two leather straps over it. Jubilant, she followed the straps down to the top of the purse, recognizing the shape and feel as the one she’d been looking for. She eased the zipper open and slipped her hand inside. She immediately felt the bulge in an inside pocket and pulled out the small can. She clutched it in relief but knew she’d still need to think and act fast. And her illness was dragging her down.

One worrying sign was the dizziness that had struck when she’d risen from the closet floor, causing her to reach out to steady herself. Something on her feet might help. She searched with her toes for the pair of slip-on, rubber-soled shoes that she usually kept near the front, and finding them, slid her bare feet inside. Then she considered her options of where to stand if—make that when— her intruder came into the bedroom.

The closet was too cramped and stuffed to try to hide in. Behind the bedroom door would be better. She would wait there, Callie decided, letting him come all the way in before firing off the pepper spray. Firing too soon would mean he could block her escape. Cool though it all sounded, Callie trembled at the thought, keenly aware of all the things that could go wrong. Chief among them was her own lack of full control.

She heard another sound come from below, which she identified as the lid of the roll-top desk being raised. She’d left it unlocked after moving Grandpa Reed’s music box and knew that little else of any interest remained there. Thank goodness her growing fatigue had caused her to forget about bringing the music box back downstairs. If she’d returned it to the desk, she doubted the flimsy lock would have held against much force.

She began to hope that the intruder, not finding anything, would be discouraged and leave. Aunt Mel had no silver to steal or other items of obvious value. But then she saw a flash of light swing under her door, which could only mean one thing, and she braced herself as she heard the first footfall on the stairway. He was coming.

Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to see outlines of the bedroom furniture. She scoured the area for any signs of Jagger, but didn’t find any and assumed he’d hidden under the bed. A strong desire to join him arose, but Callie knew she was better off upright, ready to attack and to run. She drew a breath and waited.

A step creaked, this one higher up, informing Callie he’d nearly reached the top. The light from his flashlight was stronger, and she pictured him only feet away in the short hallway. She heard him cover that distance in seconds, pause between the two bedrooms, and then put a hand on her doorknob.

She watched the doorknob turn. There was a soft click and the door began to open. She raised her pepper spray and waited. A dark figure stepped into the room, preceded by the light from his flashlight. Callie stood motionless, afraid to breathe as he passed within inches of her. Then he turned slightly, and the brightness of the beam was enough to illuminate his features. Callie gasped and he spun around toward her, the light hitting her eyes.

She pressed down hard on the valve of the pepper spray can, aiming blindly and not caring that it was Jonathan, the man who’d been to her home for dinner just the night before, the man who’d seemed to offer nothing but friendship. He’d broken into her home in the middle of the night, and that was all she needed to know. The can hissed weakly, then stopped. It was dead.

Jonathan knocked it from her hands, keeping his flashlight aimed at her eyes. “You said you’d be gone!”

Callie tried to rush past him, but he grabbed her arm. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he snapped. “Just tell me where it is and everything will be okay.” His clutch on her arm was vise-like.

“Where is what?” Callie asked, struggling against his grasp and still grappling with the shock of his being there.

“The music box! Don’t be stupid. Where is it?”

“It’s not here.”

He threw her to the wall, and Callie’s head cracked hard against it. Any hope that this was some kind of awful mistake instantly fled. The room spun for a moment, and she thought she was passing out. But he caught her before she fell and held her. Jonathan wanted information, and her only hope was to keep that information from him as long as possible until she could escape.

“Where?” he demanded.

She managed to look anywhere but at the blanket chest. “I … it’s back in the shop. I wanted it where Tabitha could watch over it.”

Jonathan stared at her for a long time, deciding if he could believe her. Callie hoped she looked frightened enough to blurt out the truth. The frightened part wasn’t hard—she was truly terrified. But she was also stalling. Any time she gained, though, would run out when he didn’t find the music box in the shop. What would she do then?

After a full minute, Jonathan nodded. “Show me,” he said, his voice low and menacing. He pulled her to the door, his left hand gripping her upper right arm, the flashlight in his other hand. “Don’t try anything dumb. I have a gun. Be good and you’ll live.”

Callie doubted that, but the longer she could drag things out, the better chance she might have. She moved forward awkwardly, angled sideways by his grip on her, and they inched their way together down the hallway and the stairs.

“I’ll need my keys,” she said. “They’re in the table by the front door.”

He pushed her forward, keeping the beam of his flashlight aimed at the floor as they wove around other furniture toward the end table. Callie reached for the drawer pull with her right hand, Jonathan still gripping her arm tightly but leaning with her, and she shuffled through the drawer even though her fingers had instantly landed on the keys. Her goal was to distract Jonathan from noticing her left hand, which covered the cell phone lying dark and hidden in the shadows on the table top. She noisily pulled out the keys while slipping the phone into her robe pocket.

“How did you get in here?” she asked as further diversion.

“Your lock is easy to pick.”

“Is that how you got into the shop? That night you killed Aunt Mel?”

“Never mind,” Jonathan said gruffly and yanked her toward the front door. “Open it,” he ordered as he turned off his flashlight.

She did, and they faced the blackness of the yard until gradually shrubs and the back of her shop grew visible in the pale moonlight. He began walking her across the yard, warning closely against her ear, “Don’t even think of yelling for help. No one will hear, but even if they did, you’d only be bringing them to their death. I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

“Why?” Callie asked. “Why would you kill for a music box?” She stumbled on one of the raised bricks of the walk and Jonathan wrenched her upright.

“Just unlock the door.”

Callie took her time fingering through several keys on the ring to find the shop key, listening, as she did, for any sounds of life—of help—nearby. But could she actually call for that help after Jonathan’s promise to shoot? She knew she couldn’t, so her only hope was that someone might have seen or heard them from a window. But what was the likelihood, at that hour?

She felt for the keyhole with her left hand and slid the key inside. The lock turned and she opened the door. Inside, with the door closed behind them, Jonathan turned his flashlight back on but once again kept it aimed at the floor.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“First, I need to understand,” Callie said. “Why is my grandfather’s music box so important that you would kill for it? You did kill Aunt Mel, didn’t you?”

“It was her own fault.”

“How can you say that!”

“She surprised me that night, but she didn’t know who it was since I had a hood and scarf covering my face. I would only have stunned her enough to get away. But stupidly she fought and pulled down the scarf.”

And so you killed her, Callie silently finished for him. As you’ll kill me once you get what you want. Though gulping back fury at his cold-blooded statement, she needed to keep him talking. “And the music box? Why do you want it so badly?”

To her shock, Jonathan started chuckling. “You fools, all of you, having that magnificent piece for so long and never understanding what it was. Whose it was.”

“Tell me.”

“It was Sophie’s.” He fairly breathed the name.

“Sophie?”

“Duchess of Hohenburg,” he clarified impatiently. “Married to Archduke Franz Ferdinand. You know who that is, don’t you?”

Callie scoured her memory for the name, glad at least to be getting some kind of explanation. If she didn’t come up with the right answer, though, what then? But her years-ago World History exams rushed back to her and she remembered. “He was assassinated, right? It started World War I.”

Jonathan nodded. “Some years before they were killed, he gave her that music box. Sophie wrote about it in her diary. She treasured it, as I do, for its music and because he gave it to her.”

How did Grandpa Reed acquire it? Callie wondered. She could only hope to have the chance to find out. One very important thing she did discover as Jonathan spoke was that he wasn’t actually carrying a gun as he’d claimed. The only pocket in his dark clothing that held anything significant bulged in a flat, rectangular shape. She guessed it might be his lock-picking tools. It was definitely not a gun.

That, while being a relief, didn’t totally put her out of danger. Jonathan had killed Aunt Mel with a blow to her head, and he still had his heavy flashlight in hand.

“Enough of this,” he said, turning Callie roughly toward the shop area. “Where did you put it?”

Callie started to walk blindly, not knowing what to do next, when her cell phone suddenly rang. It startled them both but Callie recovered first, which gave her an instant to pull the phone from her pocket and press answer. “Help! Call 911!” she screamed, then spun out of Jonathan’s loosened grip and ran for the back door.

She only managed a few feet before Jonathan’s flashlight crashed against her skull. Callie staggered, but Jonathan’s aim had been slightly off, only grazing her, since unlike her aunt she’d been prepared to duck. Before he could strike again, she rushed forward, making it to the door and slamming it open. She made it out but then felt him grab her hair, yanking it hard. Callie cried out, falling back, and feared the worst until she heard a new voice order, “Stop right there.”

They both froze for a moment until Jonathan pushed Callie hard toward the voice. She stumbled against the man she now recognized as Brian. He caught her as Jonathan ran toward the path.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes! But he’s getting away!”

“No he isn’t,” a gruff voice near Aunt Mel’s tall fence said. Callie heard a cry and a heavy thump.

She picked up the flashlight Jonathan had dropped and aimed it toward the fence. Karl Eggers stood, scowling, with one heavy-booted foot pinning Jonathan to the ground.

“Where did you two come from?” Callie asked, astonished. But with blood running down her head and sirens sounding in the distance, she had to wait a while for her answer.