Chapter Seven

My struggles with sharing a planet with Susan probably could be traced back to my mom accidentally getting pregnant with another man’s baby almost three years after I was born. The drunken one-night stand had happened during the six months or so when my parents were separated and on the verge of divorce, leaving my mom in a helluva situation until my dad stepped back into the picture and rescued her.

In spite of being adopted at birth by my dad and growing up under his roof, Susan was not my father’s daughter—not physically, of course, but also mentally. They were night and day. The fact of her birth origin had remained unknown to Susan for decades, until I opened my big mouth in my twenties and spewed the truth about the family’s secret in a flash of frenzied rage.

I still hung my head about that not-so-shining moment.

But back to Susan … It wasn’t that I blamed my mom for Susan being one bubble off plumb. She and my father raised my sister with the same rules and values as those laid out for my brother, Quint, and me. My theory about the source of our constant clashing had more to do with mixing a good-for-nothing playboy’s genes with my mother’s flower-power DNA to produce a daughter who not only had a bulb or two burned out in her string of Christmas lights, but who also took great joy in smashing the pretty blinking bulbs in other people’s strands.

Mainly mine.

Repeatedly.

My mother had spent one night in the arms of a man who was totally opposite of my father both physically and mentally. Ironically, the spawn of that union had grown to be the bane of my existence, not my dad’s.

Actually, now that I thought about it, Susan was only one of many banes for me. I seemed to be populating a village of them these days.

My cell phone rang, interrupting my trip to the past. A look at the screen made me sigh—the heavy, tired kind of sigh, not the lovesick sort that I usually did around Doc, who was currently aiming a raised brow my way in the rearview mirror.

“What do you need, Mom?” I answered, giving away the caller’s identity in answer to Doc’s questioning look.

Silence greeted me in return.

I checked the phone’s screen. The call timer was still running. “Mom? Can you hear me?”

A hissing sound came through the line, followed by, “… she’s worried you won’t …” hiss, crackle, “… I can’t calm her down …” silence, “… need to talk to her.”

“What did you say, Mom? You cut out there for a bit. Who’s worried about what?”

“Mommy, I miss …” silence, “… where are you? Layne doesn’t think you …” hissssss, “… make it in time?” My daughter’s voice came through broken up—due to both the lousy connection and her hitching sobs mixed between her words.

My throat tightened. “Baby, I’m on my way, I promise. Tell Layne we’ll be there in plenty of time for Christmas.” I crossed my fingers, shooting a worried glance at Natalie. She crossed her fingers, too.

“I’m afraid …” silence broken by a short hiss, “… need to hurry before …” crackle, “Santa comes.”

“Don’t worry, Addy. A little blizzard isn’t going to keep Santa or me away.”

“Mommy? I can’t hear …”

Dead silence came through the line.

I checked the screen. The call timer had stopped. Shit. We’d been disconnected.

Another look made my heart sink. Actually, it was worse than that. “Damn it. I have no service. Does anyone else have service right now?”

A quick group check found us all up shit creek.

“Criminy!” I dropped my phone in my lap. “That was Addy,” I told Doc’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “I think she’s freaking out about the snow and us not making it down there for Christmas.”

His forehead wrinkled. “We’ll get there, Violet.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, scowling at the flurries pelting the windshield. “I hope so,” I whispered.

Natalie wound her arm around mine and shoulder bumped me. “Is Quint going to be home for Christmas?”

“Maybe.” I leaned against the headrest. “Mom said he called last week from somewhere way north of the Canadian border and told her he was going to try to make it back in time, but he couldn’t give any guarantees.”

The world outside the windows looked straight out of the Great White North, so my brother would feel right at home. However, with the blizzard blowing in tonight and tomorrow, blanketing everything in thick snow, I doubted Quint would be able to make it if he wasn’t already in town.

A short time later, we passed the road leading to Galena. Like Slagton, Galena had a few folks left rattling around in the old ghost town. However, unlike Slagton, Galena’s remaining population contained normal people living among the historic buildings and graves, not odd whangdoodles who refused to heed the EPA’s recommendation to leave due to contaminated water. However, I’d recently learned Slagton’s remaining residents had a different reason for staying put besides pure orneriness—one that made me cringe even more.

I checked my cell phone again. Still no service. I blew out a nervous breath, worrying my lower lip as I looked out one side of the vehicle and then the other. If we got stuck in the … No! I wasn’t going to go there. I looked at my phone again. The no-service indicator held steady. I bounced my knees, my chest tightening as I stared at my cell phone, willing it to work.

Cornelius snatched my phone out of my hands.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for it. “Give that back.”

He tucked it inside his inner coat pocket, raising one black eyebrow. “Quint who?”

I reached for his coat opening, but he knocked my hand away. “Quint Parker, my brother.”

“You have a brother?” His question held a fair amount of disbelief.

I thought he knew about my brother. “Is it so hard to imagine that I could share parents with a male representative of the human species?”

He cocked his head to the side, studying me. “What is the hair color of this male version of your parents’ breeding?”

“Uh, dark.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “And his height?”

“As tall as the weeds in a widow’s yard,” I said, parroting my grandfather’s description of Quint during his teen years.

“I see.” Cornelius’s gaze narrowed as he searched my face. “Based on your answers, I would hypothesize that his eyes are the same color as yours, his hair is wavy rather than curly, and he prefers to observe the world through the lens of a camera.”

My jaw hit my knees. He’d nailed Quint, including his career as a photojournalist. “What is this? Some kind of mind-reading, voodoo trick? Did you learn how to do that when you weren’t too busy training chimps to ride bicycles at the circus?”

“Unicycles, Violet. The monkeys rode only unicycles.” He scoffed. “The idea of a monkey riding a bicycle is simply absurd. Such antics are better left to canines.”

Natalie tried to smother a giggle and failed. I glanced at her, thinking she was laughing at Cornelius’s circus comment, but then took a closer look. “Why are you laughing, knucklehead?”

She shook her head, trying keep her lips pinched, but a bubble of laughter slipped out.

When I turned back to Cornelius, his mouth twitched again before he schooled his expression. “Okay, spill. How do you know that about my …”

Then I remembered that when Cornelius was at our family dinner a few weeks ago, he and Natalie had been standing in front of the family photos on Aunt Zoe’s wall. One of the framed pictures was of Quint taken next to some Native American ruins in New Mexico, wearing one of his expensive cameras around his neck.

I squinted at him. “You’re messing with me.”

“I believe he’s takin’ yer mind off yer troubles,” Harvey piped up from the front seat. “That’s a fine idea, bein’s yer sittin’ there shakin’ like a heifer with her first calf. Maybe we should sing us some holiday tunes. I was always fond of ‘Check the Balls on This Old Collie.’ “

Doc’s shoulders shook with laughter.

I crossed my arms. “That’s not a real song.”

“Is too. Want me to sing ‘er fer ya?”

“One word, Harvey, and I’ll sic Elvis and her Tyrannosaurus pecker on you.”

“Truth be told, Violet,” Cornelius interjected, “I find it interesting that you share your brother’s eye color. It makes me wonder what his view is on haints.”

“What are haints?” Natalie asked.

“Ghosts,” Doc answered. “The southern US variety.”

Cornelius nodded. “My grandmother believed that a channeler with light-colored eyes could see what she would call the ‘choleric haints’ easier than those with dark eyes.”

“Choleric meaning sickly?” I asked.

“Bad-tempered,” he clarified. “I think we can concur that you’ve seen a fair share of choleric haints during your channeling journeys.”

A snort came from the ol’ goat in the front passenger seat. “Sparky has a special skill when it comes to makin’ folks puff up like a mad toad, whether they still breathe oxygen or not. Just ask Coop.”

I pshawed. “Cooper chews up nails for breakfast each morning and spits out barbed wire come lunch. His opinion on my skills doesn’t count.” The dang detective woke up looking for trouble most days, especially when he came sniffing around me.

“What strikes me as odd,” Cornelius continued, “is that you also appear to be able to touch, smell, and hear choleric haints, interacting with them in a way that is highly unusual compared to other channelers I’ve worked with in the past.”

“I suspect Violet’s abilities run deeper than our basic five senses,” Doc spoke up on my behalf.

“You mean like a sixth sense?” Natalie asked.

“Deeper yet,” he said, giving me a quick look in the rearview mirror.

Deeper how?

“Have you ever questioned your male sibling about his abilities to see in the dark?” Cornelius asked.

Cornelius’s version of “the dark” was actually another realm full of not very nice beasties that reeked of hellish deeds and could see better than I could in the blackness. I shivered just thinking about my last visit to that dark world. Wouldn’t Quint have mentioned something about the dark and its terrors if he knew about it?

“Or if this XY chromosome version of you has sensed any other worldly presence during his travels?” Cornelius continued.

“No, but I’d think Quint would’ve mentioned it if he had.”

“Would he, though?” Natalie bumped my knee with hers. “I mean, I know you two are close, but have you told him about your new career, Madame Executioner?”

I sputtered. “In my defense, that’s not something that you just pick up the phone and blab about. It sort of needs to be shared face-to-face, and possibly with a good amount of liquor in hand.”

I thought back to the night Doc and I had let Cooper in on our secret. The salty law dog had downed a couple of whiskeys after hearing the news, not liking the taste of what we were sharing one iota. It had taken him time to swallow that particular horse chestnut, prickly shell and all.

“So, if Quint shows up for Christmas, are you going to tell him?” Natalie pressed.

I pondered her question while staring out the windshield as we rolled past the road to Nemo, where Natalie’s grandfather had a house. Since he’d married a widow from Arizona who owned an RV park down there, he hadn’t spent much time in the hills.

“I don’t know,” was my final answer.

First, I doubted he’d believe me. Second, I hadn’t a clue how to bring it up without sounding like a lunatic. Quint had always been pretty level-headed, not one to believe in ghosts even though he wore the protection charms Aunt Zoe made for him. “I’m not so sure telling Quint is a good idea. I mean, to what end? This is my problem, not his.”

Natalie smirked. “Don’t you think he might want to know that his sister is in mortal danger on a regular basis these days?”

“That would only worry him. Besides, it’s not like he can stop the trouble yet to come. This killing gene only shows up in the females of our lineage.”

“Yeah, but maybe he’ll have a daughter some day.”

I shook my head. “That would require Quint to settle down long enough to find a woman who will put up with his constant traveling, let alone be willing to have his kid. Currently, I don’t see that happening. He’s never had a girlfriend longer than a few months. I can’t imagine him giving up the career he’s worked so hard to build to stay put in one place anytime soon.”

“That’s true,” Natalie said. “He’s like Coop that way—career first, relationships second.”

I ignored the bite in her tone. “But if Quint ever does have a daughter, I’ll spill the beans.” I’d have to for her protection in case she was forced to step up and face her demons, same as me. “That’s if I’m still alive and kicking.”

Doc’s dark gaze met mine in the mirror. “You mean alive and killing, sweetheart.”

“That, too.”

“What about your other littermate?” Cornelius asked.

“Susan?” I grimaced. “I’m not sure Satan’s concubine can even spawn humans from that stick insect body. Lord help us all if she makes mini versions of herself.”

Natalie chuckled. “I can see the little devils running around your parents’ place with their adorable tiny horns, sparking fires to everything they touch. Poor Grandma Hope will be singed from head to toe.”

I grinned. “That’s not much different from what Mom looks like after a weekend with my kids.” I looked back at Cornelius. “Susan doesn’t count when it comes to haints and the dark place.”

“Violet’s Executioner line is through her father,” Doc explained. “Susan is not Blake’s child, so she has no connection.”

“She has no conscience, either,” I grumbled.

“Ah.” Cornelius stroked his goatee. “That explains why you two have different smells.”

I did a double take. “We smell different?”

“Invariably.”

“What do I smell like?” The last individual who’d sniffed me told me I smelled like death, informing me that the lovely fragrance was something I came by naturally due to my lineage. Since then, I’d sniffed myself more times than I could count, worrying others could pick up the odor of death on me. I doubted that particular smell was anything close to the aroma of wildflowers I was aiming for with my lotions and perfume.

Cornelius shrugged. “You smell like Violet Parker.”

I leaned forward. “Doc, you care to weigh in on this?”

Doc shrugged, too. “He’s right. You smell like Violet.”

“Is that bad?” Duh! How could the scent of death be good?

He glanced over his shoulder, flashing me a smolder-edged smile. “I find it incredibly intoxicating, Boots.”

“Good answer.” But I sat back, still frowning. I had a feeling Doc’s nose didn’t work when it came to me. Could Addy’s pets smell a difference on me? Is that why Elvis had started leaving her eggs in Doc’s shoes instead of mine lately? Why Bogart the cat kept bringing me other critters in bed?

Gah! I shook off my obsession with my smell and returned to what we’d been discussing before. “Susan is my mom’s ‘baby girl.’ She’s the end result of too much vodka during a lonely night when some good-looking tumbleweed blew into town.” At least that was what my mom had explained to me in my twenties when I asked for details, curious who had replaced my father for a heartbeat or two in her past. “She’s blind to my sister’s atrocities.” Whereas my mom examined my misdeeds painstakingly through a magnifying glass.

“Your mom isn’t blind,” Natalie said. “Hope sees the best in everyone. It’s one of her many delightful attributes.”

Delightful? More like another reason to pull my hair out while in her company.

I pinched my lips together and looked out the windshield. Now was not the time to curl into a ball on the psychiatrist couch and share my emotional hang-ups when it came to my family. Christmas was enough at risk without my whining about growing up in a house with a vindictive sister who liked to burn my teddy bears.

We passed the road that led to Harvey’s ranch and the town of Slagton several miles beyond. The wind was buffeting my SUV regularly now. The gusts whipped up swirls of snow in front of us, making it hard to see the road. Doc seemed to be taking our precarious sled ride in stride, the only evidence of his tension showing in his double grip on the steering wheel.

“What about your dad?” Doc asked, his gaze locked on the white mess out the windshield. “Is he aware of Susan’s crimes against you?”

“Yeah, Dad knows what’s going on. He always has. But when we were kids, he made sure we were punished accordingly, depending on who started the fight. Unfortunately, the instigator was usually Susan, and after a while she complained to one and all that he favored me over her. As the years passed, her anger at me for Dad’s so-called bias spurred her into more destructive acts behind my parents’ backs.”

“Sounds like yer sister was rotten before she was even ripe,” Harvey said.

“Exactly. The safest course for all of us this Christmas when it comes to Susan is—”

The sight of yellow and orange blinking lights ahead in the road made me pause. I leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. “What’s that?”

Doc slowed as we neared the blinking lights.

“Why is the snowplow parked on the side of the road?” Natalie posed the question on all of our minds. “Please tell me he’s taking a break to see a man about a mule and then he’ll get back to work.”

We stopped about twenty feet back from the big truck. The driver’s door swung open and a pair of black snow boots appeared, followed by a burly bearded guy with a bright orange stocking hat and matching ski bib.

“I’m guessin’ he’s in a pickle,” Harvey muttered.

Natalie cursed. “If he is, then we are, too.”

The snowplow driver gave a come-here wave in our direction.

Doc opened his door. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

The four of us watched in silence as Doc and the snowplow driver conversed, their scene spotlighted by the headlights. After several slow nods, Doc looked back our way, his face drawn in a frown.

Harvey grunted. “That there look doesn’t make me feel candy bar good.”

My gut sank, too. I would’ve liked to have several candy bars at that moment, so I could shove them all in my mouth and wallow in chocolate until this damn snowy version of Hell went away.

The plow driver headed for his truck. Doc held up his index finger toward us, and then followed after the driver. He stood at the base of the steps leading up into the plow, looking up while the driver leaned inside the open cab.

“What do you think is going on?” I asked. “Are they shutting down the highway? Are we going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard for a week and end up on national news telling the world how we had to eat our leather gloves and boots to make it out alive?”

“Sheesh, Vi,” Natalie said, groaning. “Why do you always think the worst first? Maybe they’re just exchanging phone numbers so they can call each other sometime to meet for a beer.”

I rolled my eyes so hard that my whole head turned along with them, ending up with my chin pointing in her direction. “Dear Lord! Is that the best you could come up with? Exchanging phone numbers in the middle of a freaking blizzard?”

“Violet’s tendency toward negativity may have something to do with her DNA,” Cornelius said, his focus still out the windshield. “Natural-born killers lean toward paranoia over positivity.”

“I’m not negative,” I said. “Or paranoid, either.”

“Corny has a point,” Harvey said. “Ya tend to think the boogeyman is out to get ya more often than not.”

“That’s because the boogeyman is out to get m—”

“Listen.” Natalie held her hand up in my face, quieting me. She inched down her window. A high-pitched whining sound made us all look around through the windows in the back of the SUV.

The whining sound grew louder, coming closer. A snowmobile came into view through the swirling snow. He skirted my Honda and then pulled up next to where Doc was standing. Doc moved back as the snowplow driver stepped down into the snow, closing the plow door. After a handshake with Doc, the driver hopped on the back of the snowmobile and the machine spun around, zipping back past us without even a wave good-bye.

“What the hell?” Natalie mumbled, her face pressed against her window.

My heart pounded. “Uh, please tell me they are just taking a little break and are heading off to make snow angels where we can’t watch.”

Before anyone said anything else, Doc pulled open the door and slid inside. He turned in the seat and looked at me, his face grim. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“The good,” Cornelius spoke up first. “My grandmother always said to choose positivity in the face of potential doom.”

“Why’s that?” Natalie asked.

“So you can die with a smile on your face.”

I guffawed. “How is that better than being negative?”

Natalie covered my mouth. “Give us the good news, Doc.”

“We have a full tank of gas.”

Oh, crud. Was that the best he could offer? “That was a precaution on my part,” I said, squashing his good news with reality. “Tell me the bad shit.”

“The plow had a hydraulic line burst. That means the driver can’t lower and raise the blade to adjust as he plows. There’s no going forward until they get a mechanic out here to fix the hydraulic line.”

I covered my eyes. “Oh, shit.”

“Now do you want the real good news?” he asked.

I lowered my hand, glaring at him. “I’m going to hurt you when we make it to dry land.”

He grinned. “The good news is we’ve been given orders to wait here.”

“Here?” I gaped, looking out the window at the frozen wasteland around us.

“In the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere?” Natalie asked, finally hopping on my negativity bus.

Doc nodded. “We’re to sit tight.”

“Why?” Harvey asked. “Is San-ty Claus coming to rescue us?”

“Not this time. Your nephew heard about the hydraulic line bursting over the scanner. He left a message for us with the driver.”

“What message?” Natalie asked.

“Coop is on his way.” Doc looked beyond us out the back window. “And he’s bringing the cavalry with him.”