Excerpt From
Analiese Rising
by Brenda Drake
I bump Dalton’s shoulder with mine and smile up at him. “I saw the mail. Congratulations. First place, huh? Your sculptures are going to make us millions one day.”
He pulls on the back of his neck. “Yeah, if I live through high school. That mythology final is going to kill my GPA.”
“If you let me out of the dishes tonight, I’ll help you study for it.” I live and breathe mythology. Our dad was a history professor, and that was our thing. I know the obscure gods and goddesses, not just the ones made popular by comic books and movies.
“Deal.” Now he bumps my shoulder, but it has his weight behind it and makes me stumble a little. He chuckles. “Graceful.”
The streets are crowded with rush-hour commuters. Across the way, some old man wearing a black newsboy cap and a camel-colored overcoat stands in front of the coffee shop we’re heading for. His eyes follow our approach, causing a shiver to prickle up my spine. I keep my eyes on where my feet are landing to avoid catching the man’s gaze.
The scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills my nose. We spent many Saturdays in this shop after our hikes with Dad. Back then, we were only allowed to drink hot chocolate while he sipped an Americano.
A crash sounds behind Dalton and me, and we spin around. An SUV and a small red car are mangled together. The tires of a black sedan squeal as it speeds in our direction.
It’s as though it all happens in slow motion. The sedan jumps the curb, and someone shoves me out of the way and into Dalton. We land hard on the sidewalk. One tire of the car rides the curb until coming off to join the other on the road. The driver weaves around a few cars before disappearing around a corner.
I scramble to my feet and glance back. The old man in the newsboy cap lies on the sidewalk. Blood trickles down the side of his face.
“Call 911,” I tell Dalton and drop to my knees beside the man. The gash in his head is deep. I search the crowd now forming around us. “Someone get a towel or something. I need to compress his wound.”
A woman removes her scarf and hands it to me. I take it, and I’m about to press it against the gash in the man’s head when his gloved hand catches my arm.
“Don’t touch me,” he says. “I’m dying.”
I push my eyebrows together. “You’re not going to die. The ambulance is coming.”
“My bag,” he says weakly. A worn-out leather satchel lays on the sidewalk a few feet from him.
I snatch it up and lift it for him to see. “This one?”
He nods, his lids half closed over soft blue eyes. His face scrunches up in pain. “That’s it.” He keeps his voice low. “Take it to my grandson. Don’t let anyone see you have it. You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop.”
My heart drops like a stone in my chest, and the case falls from my hands, slapping against the concrete. “How do you know my name?”
A fire truck and an ambulance pull up to the curb.
“Wh—” His eyes close, mouth slackens. I don’t know why I believe the man, but I do. I slip the strap to his bag over my shoulder, stand, and back away into the crowd beside Dalton. So many faces stare down at the man. Unknown faces. And one could belong to whoever this man feared.
Paramedics rush a stretcher and medical bags over to the old man. A woman places an oxygen mask on his face while another assesses his injuries.
“What are you doing with his bag?” Dalton asks.
“He wants me to give it to his grandson. Maybe his number or address is in it.” The man saying I was in danger made me nervous. I search the faces in the crowd again. No one looks menacing or suspicious. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I sprint-walk down the street and away from the accident.
Dalton keeps step with me. “That’s stealing. Taking the bag.”
“No, it isn’t. He gave it to me.”
“What’s in it?” he asks.
I dart glances at the people and cars passing us. We have to get off the street. I spot an ice cream parlor and dash inside with Dalton close behind me.
My gaze goes to the window. Sitting behind the large panes of glass making up the front of the store is like being in a fishbowl—trapped and exposed.
“Get us each a scoop,” I say, nodding to a table in a back corner. “I’m going to sit over there.”
The chair screeches across the tiled floor as I drag it away from the table. I sit, and it wobbles a little on its legs. The tiny buckles on the straps of the old man’s satchel are challenging to undo. The smell of leather oil clings to the bag.
The man’s injuries looked fatal. The driver who caused the accident never stopped. Had to be some drunk afraid to face the police.
You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop, the man told me, his sad eyes haunting.
How did he know my name?
I’m worrying too much. No one from the street can see me in my seat in the back corner of the parlor. And there probably isn’t anyone following me. The old man had to be delusional.
The accident was real, though. I’m still shaken up from it, because my hands are trembling as I remove items from the bag. My stomach’s doing that dip-and-fall thing it does while riding the monster roller coaster at the amusement park.
There are many objects in the bag, along with a tattered notebook—a ring, envelopes, keys, and other various things. I pick up the ring and spin the wheel with letters of the alphabet etched into the round steel. There’re two other wheels. One with numbers and the other with symbols.
A decoder ring? I pause a moment, wondering why the man would have one, before returning it to the bag. The envelopes have what I believe is the old man’s name and address on them.
Adam Conte. “He lives in Lancaster,” I say out loud, which causes the girl at the next table to look at me. I give her an awkward smile and tuck the envelopes back into the bag. Avoiding eye contact with her, I flip open the cover to the notebook. The first four pages hold a list of names. Many of the names are crossed out. I run my finger down the column.
Dalton returns from the counter, holding two cups with a mound of Oreo ice cream in each.
On the third page, I stop at a name with a line drawn through it—Alea Bove Jordan—my mother. Beside her name, written at an angle in pencil, is Jake Jordan, my father. He’s like an afterthought. A line runs across his name, too. Underneath them is my uncle, Eli Bove. His name is also marked off. I turn the page and gasp. Halfway down the list, written in thick black ink strokes, is Analiese Jordan.
…
Dalton’s tiny red-with-rust-spots Civic sputters down the I-76 highway toward Lancaster. An hour and a half there and back and I’ll be home before Jane ever knows I ditched school. It’s almost Spring Break, anyway. I’ve turned in most of my work, I reason with myself.
Besides, Jane won’t care. She’s barely around to notice. The hospital is more her home than our house. I’m not even sure she’ll be there on Sunday morning to see Dalton and me off to that bereavement camp for kids she insists we go to over the break.
The gas light flashes on.
“Crap. Dalton,” I seethe under my breath. He’s always running out of gas. I’m approaching the next exit and turn on the blinker.
The Turkey Hill Minit Market isn’t as busy as I thought it’d be during morning rush hour. I pull up to the pump right beside a black Audi sedan with a front license plate that reads My God Carries a Hammer.
“Nice.” I snicker and pop open the gas tank cover.
I fill up the Civic and rush inside to get a horrible gas station coffee. The lanky guy behind the counter straightens. His wide-set eyes follow me the entire way to the coffee bar. A man, way over six feet tall, with red hair that’s short on the sides and fades up to a dovetail on top, has one of the refrigerator doors open. With his stare on the contents inside, he rubs his neatly cut beard.
The Styrofoam coffee cup plunks from the holder when I tug it out. I pour a premade cappuccino from the fountain.
The man steps back and looks over, his hand still holding open the door.
The air between the man and me feels off—tense. It’s probably just me, and the fact I’m practically alone with a suspicious man in a gas station. I secure a lid over my cup and turn to leave.
“Which one do you suggest?” he asks, stopping me. There’s a slight accent to his voice, but I can’t place it. Possibly Scottish?
I glance around, and my eyes stop on him. “Are you talking to me?”
“There’s no one else about.” His smile is off. Like he has to remember how to create one or something.
“I don’t drink the stuff, but my brother likes the one with the gold star.” I want to look away, but something in his eyes captures me. They’re like a kaleidoscope of fall leaves—orange, yellow, and brown. Their focus on me causes the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck to stand straight up.
He picks up a can of the drink I suggested and lets go of the refrigerator door, his eyes never leaving me.
Now he’s freaking me out.
I pretend to search the pastries near the coffee bar.
“A young girl such as yourself should not be traveling alone,” he says. “You should be in school.”
The pastries blur out of focus, the display stands are closing in on me, and the coffee cup shakes in my hand. Great. The creeper knows I’m alone. I have to lie. Tell him Dalton is in the back seat, sleeping.
I glance over at him. “I’m not alone—”
He’s gone. I search over the display cases, but he isn’t anywhere in the market. The guy behind the counter watches me intently while taking my cash for the coffee. It’s as if he’s never seen a dollar bill before. Probably hasn’t, with everyone paying with debit or credit cards.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I force a smile to back up my statement. “Thank you.”
“Have a nice day.” His eyes have left me to watch two younger guys shuffling around the display cases.
The front door slides shut behind me. A brisk wind whips dark strands of hair around my face. I wrap my arms around me and dart for the Civic. The black Audi is gone, and I wonder if the man who strangely disappeared owns it. He did look like someone who would have a Thor license plate.
I’m nervous during the rest of the ride to Lancaster, glancing through the rearview window, checking and rechecking that no one’s following me. That the black Audi isn’t there.
“In 1.5 miles, turn left,” the female voice on my phone’s GPS directs.
Lancaster is a pretty cool town, with nearby farmlands and Amish country. When Dad was alive, we’d take weekend trips here and do touristy things like buggy rides and hikes. He loved checking out the architecture.
“In five hundred feet, your destination is on the left,” the GPS says.
I’ve never been in this neighborhood before. The houses are older, and the area is quaint. I pull the Civic up to the curb and stare at the home. It’s a two-and-a-half-story stone house and resembles a French countryside chateau with its bay windows, dormers, steepled gables, and cone-shaped roofs.
Dalton and I went to the hospital the night of the accident to see how the old man was doing, but he hadn’t made it, dying only minutes after arriving in the ER. His family left before I could give the bag to his grandson.
I would’ve come sooner, but I figured the family needed space to mourn. His obit said they were having a memorial and reception for family and friends. So here I am. At his house. Two weeks after the accident. Feels like a lifetime.
It’s almost nine in the morning. He probably would’ve been at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper, as old people do. His day might’ve been spent tending to the beautiful and colorful flowers in the beds surrounding the lawn.
For all I know, the house might be deserted. His grandson could live somewhere else.
After grabbing the man’s bag, I pop open the Civic’s door and slide out. The sidewalk is uneven and broken in spots. Because I’m superstitious, I avoid stepping on the cracks. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers over the lawn. The door has several locks and a peephole at eye level. I count them.
Seriously? Five? The door is metal, too. Above my head is a security camera.
Someone’s expecting the apocalypse.
I press the doorbell and wait.
And wait.
I press it again.
When no one answers, I turn to leave but then pause. A faint bass comes from around the corner of the house. The stone pavers on the lawn lead me to the front of the garage.
The doors are open, and a guy about my age works a tattered punching bag hanging by a chain attached to the ceiling. He’s shirtless, and his shorts are slung low on his hips. Tall, with dark, wavy hair, the boy isn’t bad to look at.
With each throw of his fist or kick, his muscles flex then go slack. The way he’s hitting the bag, he’s definitely letting off steam. Maybe I should come back later when he’s calmer.
This is a bad idea. I could just leave the bag at the front door. But then I won’t find out why my name is on that list. Or why the man crossed my parents off that same list. The guy needs some cooling down. I can go find a coffee shop somewhere and come back when he’s less angry and more dressed.
His music is so loud, he hasn’t noticed my approach, so I ease around and head back the way I came.
“Hey,” he shouts.
Crap. He spotted me. I turn back around.
He’s walking my way. His bare chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. A nautical star medallion with a silver chain rests just below his collarbone. “You need something?”
“Um.” Don’t look at his abdomen. My eyes betray me and go there. His half nakedness distracts me, and I forget what I was going to say. “Um…”
His lips twist into a smirk, amusement igniting in his eyes, so dark they’re almost black. He places his fist on his hip. It’s obvious he’s doing that to flex his bicep.
The corners of his mouth lower, and his fist drops away from his waist. “Where’d you get that bag?”
My hand instantly goes to the satchel’s strap. “He gave it to me.”
His eyes fix on mine. “My grandfather would never let it out of his sight.”
“I was there. Um. At the accident.” I sound insensitive. “I’m sorry for your loss. My name is Ana. Analiese Jordan.”
“Thank you. I’m Marek Conte.” He grabs the back of his neck, and I look everywhere else but at him. The boys at my school don’t look like him. He must work out a lot.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Why would he give it to you?” he asks, nodding at the satchel against my hip. “His bag?”
“I’m not sure, but he told me to return it to you.” I remove the strap from my shoulder, step closer to him, and give him the bag. Our hands touch, and a rush of adrenaline surges through my body. It’s a strange-encounter kind of day. First the Thor worshipper, and now Marek in all his bare-chested glory.
Marek stares at the bag for several beats before walking off while saying, “Again, thanks.”
Is that it? I didn’t drive all this way to not get any answers.
“Wait,” I say.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “What? Is there something more?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I level him with my best “it doesn’t faze me that you don’t have a shirt on” look. “There’s a list in that bag. It has my name on it. More importantly, it has my parents’ names, too, and theirs are crossed off. Do you know why he put us on it?”
A confused look passes over his face, and his eyes drop to the bag. “I don’t know. Come inside, and we’ll check it out.”
“Inside?” With you? No matter how hot the guy is, being alone with him is probably not a good idea. Some serial killers aren’t bad looking. That’s how they trick their prey.
“Yes,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Plus, my gram just made apple bread. Do you drink coffee?”
“That’s like asking if I breathe.”
He laughs. It’s not genuine, but more like the laugh you do when you’ve heard a joke too many times before. “Good. We have something in common. Come on.”
I trail him to the front and up the porch. The house has a small foyer, decorated in warm browns and shocks of red. Paintings crowd the walls. Aging flowers arranged in cut-glass vases sit on a long entryway table with sympathy cards stacked to the side. Probably from the funeral. My heart sinks at the thought.
He drops the bag on a bench by the door, grabs a T-shirt hanging off the edge, and pulls it over his head. I try not to watch the soft blue material slowly cover his extremely fit torso, but can’t help it. His eyes meet mine just as I catch the last glimpse of his tanned skin above the waist of his shorts. The smile on his lips widens, and I quickly look away, pretending to study one of the paintings on the wall.
“My gramps’s work.” He smiles at the one my eyes are fixed on—a boy and his dog playing fetch with a red ball. “That’s Bandit and me. I’m six there.”
“He was really talented.” And I’m not lying, like you do when someone is proud of their kid’s work and it’s horrible. The paintings are beautiful. “I bet they’d sell well—”
My words jam in my throat when my gaze lands on a painting of a young girl with dark hair, cradling a doll, a death’s-head hawkmoth sitting on her arm.
“That girl is me.”
…
Marek pours coffee from a French press into two mugs. He failed to mention that his grandmother had left with one of the loaves of apple bread. Says she’s at her bridge group. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to be alone with Marek. I don’t know the guy. He could be dangerous. Well, his muscles are, anyway.
“That painting has to be a coincidence,” he says. “How do you even know it is you?”
“The jean jacket. It has the same patches as mine. A unicorn and stars. I still have it. Of course, I don’t wear it. It’s too small.” I’m rambling, trying to string my jumbled thoughts together. “Since I made it, it’s one of a kind.”
“So what are you saying? That my grandfather was stalking you? He has better things to do. Had. He had better…” He trails off, staring at the steam rising from the press as he pours coffee into his mug.
It looks like he isn’t going to stop pouring.
“Watch it,” I clip.
He blinks and places the press on the table. “Maybe he just so happened to be there painting when he saw you. He spent a lot of time in Fishtown. By the river. You were his inspiration or something like that.”
“Maybe.” I sound doubtful. “So then why was he watching me the day of the accident? And he knew my name.”
He passes me a sugar bowl. “He said your name?”
I spoon the white granules into my mug. “Yes. He told me to run and that I was in danger. And my name’s on that list with my parents’.”
“Right, yeah. That is strange.” He lowers his head and studies the intricate lace in the tablecloth, then glances out the window. “But he was a bit eccentric.”
“Yeah, I’d say.” I have the feeling he isn’t telling me something. There are times when a warning blares through my mind like the one that announces class is over at my school. And I know not to ignore it. I did that once while riding my bike and ended up at the bottom of a ditch. Long story.
The warning goes off, and it makes me uneasy, right when Marek turns his eyes away from me and stares out the bay window. There isn’t anything out there to see but the lush green garden just past the rock-paved patio. And I’m pretty sure he’s seen it many times before and wouldn’t give it another glance on most other days. Other days than today. When he wants to hide something from me. Hide the fact that he knows more than he’s letting on.
I shift in my seat.
Marek tears his gaze away from the window, a serious look on his face, so serious it makes me recoil.
“You should go,” he says, the legs of his chair screeching across the tiles as he stands.
I shoot to my feet. “But…but what about that bag? You know something, don’t you? You know why I’m on that list with my parents. Tell me why.”
He lowers his head to avoid my pleading glare. “I know nothing.”
I let out an exasperated breath and stomp my way to the door to show him my frustration. Before I reach the entry, he stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “I don’t know anything about that list or what my grandfather was up to. This isn’t my home. I live with my parents in Baltimore. I was just here for the…for my grams.”
For the funeral, I’m sure he was going to say. “I’m sorry, that has to be tough.”
“It is,” he says. “Grams is having a difficult time. I practically had to force her to go to her bridge club. Anyway, my gramps was a secretive man. I wasn’t blowing you off. Just thinking. Or, more like trying to decide if I should break into the basement.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Break into the basement? Why would you have to do that?”
“My grandfather spent most of his time down there,” he says. “It was off-limits. Not even my grams could go in. We haven’t found the key to the door. She wanted to sort through his things and clean it up after the funeral. But it’s lost.”
I brighten. “Keys. There’s a ring of them in the bag.”
He glances around as if he’s forgotten where he put the bag. I don’t have to search for it. Ever since we entered the house and he placed the satchel on the bench by the door, it’s been a leather beacon calling me.
“It’s over here.” I gather the bag and hand it to him.
He digs through the contents and retrieves the keys. Sadness crosses his face as he flips through them. The metal ring’s tarnished by age. He stops on a skeleton key that strangely looks newer than the other ones that are modern.
“This is it,” he says.
The light coming in from the windows beside the door glints across the silver key. On the tip of it are two tiny red bulbs. “That’s unusual,” I say, pointing them out.
He starts down the hall. “Come on. Let’s see if it works.”
Everything in the house is old. The solid wood doors are tall and thin.
The front of the house is bright and cheery, painted in yellows and creams. This part is dark and decorated in warm browns. We pass what looks to be the family room. Antique furniture and delicate figurines and vases with lace doilies under them sit on the tables between the chairs. There’s a black onyx sculpture of a cat wearing one gold hoop earring and a thick necklace with hieroglyphs on it. Bastet. She’s the Egyptian goddess of protection. It looks heavy and entirely out of place with all the other stuff.
There’re more decaying floral arrangements placed throughout the house. I want to remove them. The drooping petals are like sad reminders of their recent loss.
Marek stops at the door near the back of the house, inserts the key, and tries to turn it in the lock. “It doesn’t work—”
A bright red glow illuminates the keyhole. Metal sliding against metal sounds from the other side. A series of clicks go off, and the light goes out.
“That’s interesting.” Marek turns the knob and opens the door.
“More like creepy,” I say.
He searches the wall for a switch and flips it up. The lights below flicker on, and I follow Marek down the steps.
It isn’t your typical basement. This one has a stone staircase and wooden beams on the ceiling. The smell of cigar or pipe smoke attacks my nose. Marek reaches the bottom, and four computers on a long cherry wood desk hum to life.
“They must be connected to a sensor.” He crosses the polished concrete floor to the desk.
“Wow, this is nice,” I say, scoping the place. There’re built-in bookcases on one wall and a seating area in front of it with expensive-looking leather couches. “Talk about a man cave.”
Embedded in the wall above the desk are rows of security monitors—six down, six across. Marek clicks on the master power switch, and the screens blink to life. Each one is a live shot of a house or an apartment building.
“Was your grandfather in the CIA or something?” Or worse, a voyeur. I keep that to myself because the dude just lost the old man, after all.
“No.” His eyes scan the images. “At least, I don’t think so. He owns a butcher shop. Owned. Sold it. He’s retired. Those two,” he says, pointing at a pair of monitors on the top right. “That’s the front and back of this house.”
I try to keep my mind from going there, but there’s no stopping it. A butcher? A great profession for a serial killer.
One of the screens catches my attention. My stomach drops. I recognize the red brick structure with the blue shutters. “That’s my house. Why was he watching us?”
“I don’t know.” He searches around the desk and then kneels to inspect the floor. “There isn’t a recorder. He must’ve just been monitoring people.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m completely freaked out.”
Marek straightens. “Me, too. There’ve got to be answers in here somewhere. I’m going to check the drawers. You see if there’s anything in that cabinet.”
The cabinet has four doors. Behind the first two are office supplies. On the middle shelf is a stack of passports. I snatch one from the top and open it. The photograph is of Adam Conte, Marek’s grandfather, but the name on the passport is Martin Cleary.
I check another one. Same picture, different name—Ted Johnson.
They all have his photo with an alias.
My finger bounces on the spine of each one as I count them. “There are fourteen.”
Marek glances up from the drawer he’s searching. “What’s that?”
“Passports.” I hold one up. “All with your grandfather’s picture but different names. Why would he need these? I’ll tell you. He was a spy, that’s why.”
He hurries over and flips through the passports. The look on his face changes from confusion to anger. He throws the stack across the room. “Who was he? What else was he hiding?”
I back up against the cabinet. This isn’t really happening. Some old man was stalking me, and probably many others. The thing is, I didn’t even know I was being followed or monitored. It’s as if bony fingers scratch up my back and over my skull. I’ve never felt so vulnerable before. Then a new thought comes to me. One that rips my heart completely out.
Did he kill my parents and my uncle?
“The list.” My voice sounds shaky, and my legs wobble a little. “He was watching us. Why was he watching us?”
Marek grabs the back of his neck, and his eyes flick in my direction. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out. Let’s keep searching. The answers have to be here.”
I should run. Go to the police. Tell them some crazy—maybe perverted—old man was stalking me. But he’s dead now, and I need answers. Why would my family be so important to this man?
And how had he hidden his secret life from his family?
If you enjoyed this excerpt, pick up
wherever books and ebooks are sold.