Thistle and Twigg (17 page)

I
t had always been such an easy lie. Over the years, I never had a problem when asked what I did nor in replying I was quite content in being a housewife. Everyone thought it natural for me, a childless military wife with nothing but time on my hands, to find a hobby, and they accepted my desire to be a volunteer digger at whatever archaeology site I could find.

No one queried much further when I explained it was just dirty, tedious work and nothing like the excavations of Egyptian tombs that most people were familiar with. Real riches were found rarely, even bones or plain pots were only found occasionally No one ever questioned my long absences from home. And on the rare occasion that my shooting skills came into conversation, I shrugged it off and said I shot to please the Colonel. And that was that.

I made friends wherever we moved, of course, but it was best not to have any too close. My freelance work meant staying away from others, which suited me, really. I’ve always been one more for reading and studying than socializing. My work also meant a fair degree of danger, not always a high risk, but still all of a sensitive nature. For you see, my part-time work was for the government, and the archaeological digs I worked all over the world were my cover. In reality, I was a spy.

One of the Colonel’s colleagues approached me after attending a dinner party at which the Colonel and I were goaded into doing a self-defense demonstration. The colleague, a higher-ranking officer than my husband, already knew I was working on a nearby dig. The next day, he came home with the Colonel for dinner.

They’d already talked it over between themselves. Both seemed to think I’d be a good candidate to surreptitiously listen to and watch someone at this particular dig, a professor from China, who was under suspicion of buying state secrets.

I was in a perfect position to see who he talked to, when he left camp, and also to take photos of any meetings with noncamp staff without drawing attention. It wasn’t until I accepted the assignment and was watching him do exactly what he was suspected of, that I realized the CIA would also have been watching me. My recruiting officer had not been at the dinner party by chance, nor was our demonstration there a sudden lark on the spur of the moment. They would have checked my credentials long before I was approached, would have watched my own movements for some time. And the Colonel would have known this. It was a good lesson. He never told me the truth. I never pressed, and I never took anything at face value again, even from him.

One assignment led to another, and before long, I found myself taking more undercover jobs while working various digs whenever my husband was transferred. The CIA proved to be a good job finder for digs. I was hired on excellent jobs I’d never have gotten otherwise. They paid very well and the assignments were low-risk at first. Gradually, they grew a bit more dangerous and gave me more than a few good frights.

I did this during tumultuous times, politically, when it was difficult to always rationalize that what I did was right. I only spoke once of my misgivings. The Colonel could be a bit strong in his opinions. He certainly had no doubts as to service to country, as was appropriate for a man in his position. To him, assisting the government in this way strengthened the country. Finding information as I did prepared the authorities against any sort of outside threat and, in turn, meant a safer, more secure America.

Most of the time, I agreed, though there were days in which the gray areas between right and wrong made me think otherwise. For this reason, I never spent a cent of my earnings. They sat safely in a credit union account, provided by my employer, as an emergency fund. That was what my husband called it. I thought of it as a charity fund, for the day when I would be free to give it to a deserving cause.

When the Colonel was near retirement and assigned a more permanent job in the States, I also, in effect, retired. We settled into a slower pace of living. I still volunteered occasionally for digger jobs that weren’t too far away from the Colonel’s work. We moved several more times around the country, and I did take on a few more freelance assignments, but I generally considered myself out of the game.

My coming to Tullulah had been a purposeful step toward true retirement. Oh, yes, I still subscribe to archaeology magazines and others on anthropology and wildlife, but haven’t felt compelled to dig since the Colonel’s health took a turn. When he died, I wanted a new, clean start, free to think as I liked, to speak the truth as I saw it without worrying if the Colonel or my former freelance bosses agreed. No more snooping, no more lying or telling half-truths as I had done for so many years.

This time, my evasion of Phoebe’s question did not sit well with me. Not at all. As Phoebe might say, it “bugged the fire out of me,” a phrase that sprang into my mind immediately after I answered her, for I understood the words’ suitability at last.

I didn’t want to start wrong here. It didn’t fit. I didn’t want to lie. Still, I knew no good would come of being frank about my government work with Phoebe at that moment. Perhaps later, but now my worries about Cal’s land and these new disturbing finds filled my mind.

One thing became clear as we walked home together. I now had a most worthy charity for my emergency fund, one solely dependent on me, one that would require much more than my money. It needed my protection. Its very survival depended on the actions I would take for its future, and I would see it done. I touched the bullet casings in my pocket as threats I hadn’t considered before began to form in my mind.

When we walked up onto my porch, we saw something propped against the front door. It had been set inside the screen. I slowed my steps as I approached, but quickly recognized the familiar yellow and red photo-processing logo.

A sticky note had been attached to the packet. It was from Riley. The note assured me these pictures were mine to keep, and that if I should need any further assistance, he would be most happy to oblige. At the bottom, he’d scribbled his phone number. I smiled, wondering what he and his entourage had captured on film.

Phoebe looked at the first picture. She gave it a dismissive wave and said, “I’m taking a shower. Don’t forget, tonight is when I meet Bernard for dinner.”

“All right, dear.” I took the photos to my desk and turned on the banker’s lamp.

I couldn’t deny Riley’s results. Definite patterns of color, colors not on my walls or floors in the present world, seemed to hang in the air in certain shots. Riley was right in calling them “auras” for they glowed in the photos. Some had a fixed look, oblongs and rectangular shapes that seemed more solid than others. For example, the area near my fireplace in the front room where Riley got his first reading had an orange rust aura shaped in a rough square. It extended across the rug to the fire screen and up as high as the top of the mantel.

A few smaller areas, such as that by my phone, had a greenish cast and ranged in size from say that of a quarter to that of a shoe-box. These were not the most interesting. The Hot Spot by the bay window of the den certainly held the most wonders. Here a virtual rainbow of colors swirled about the glass, the bookcases and other walls, and filled the center of the room, though there the colors were not so vibrant.

One photograph taken in the upstairs hallway showed a small circle of blue on the wall, but what caught my interest was the top of the picture. A narrow swath of blue and green hung down, much fainter but definitely there. It hung like a vapor over the height and width of the attic door.

I replaced the photos in their packet and set them out for Phoebe to see. She would enjoy looking at them when I wasn’t watching her, of course. After she left to meet Bernard, I had a light supper and went upstairs, intending to lie down until I heard her come in again.

I settled down under the bed covers at last, with thoughts of the day moving farther into the background in my mind, submerging and getting more quiet as they mixed together with the night sounds outside the window and the creaks and sighs of the house.

A little pop across the room made my eyes flutter open for a moment, long enough to see my grandmother’s table inch forward.
I’m tired,
I told myself.
My eyes are playing tricks on me.

Just then, it wobbled again and rocked to a stop.
It’s only a rickety table that would fall over at any rate unless I take more care in setting it up properly.
My eyes closed halfway, noting as they did so the table’s slight but decided scoot to the right.

My eyes snapped open, fully awake now. I lay still. The house was completely silent. As the moments passed, the table remained as it was. I remembered the wave of Sarah’s hand over the table and wall, and the soft blip of her device as it passed over them. The photo Riley took there, if I remembered correctly, showed a small dash of green. I waited a bit longer, then threw back the covers. I put on my robe and slippers and was downstairs in a flash.

In my previous occupation, I used a pair of Russian night visors on occasion. They should be far superior to the out-of-date pair Riley wore. I unlocked the old trunk in the den and quickly found them among the other specialized supplies I’d used when at work for my former employer.

The table had remained where it was, so far as I could tell. With the lights still off, I set out the visors, a notebook and pen, and one other tool, a special camera with features conducive to night work of a sensitive nature.

I snapped a few frames as a reminder of the table’s position then wrote approximate distances and a brief account of events so far. I opened the visors and held them up to see an incredible sight. Just as in Riley’s picture, the color green was present. Now a much larger aura spread and pulsed around the table. Seeing it moving, not static as in the photographs, but swirling and dancing before me, took my breath away. Tiny speckles glistened in the eddy. Whether bits of magic or merely dust motes, I couldn’t say

With amazement, I noted the feeling that I was in the presence of a personality, not as in the photos that conveyed residual energy. They had the feel of something left behind, like the faint scent of perfume that lingers in a room after everyone has gone. Here, to my mind, was the source of such an imprint.

Quickly, I jotted down my thoughts while I tried to absorb the reality of them. Not easy, even for one such as I who believed in ghosts. Was it this easy for everyone to see the colored auras? Or was it my “gift” that enabled me to see? I set the notebook aside once again, and took up the visors to sit and ponder. One thing became clear on this viewing, something I hadn’t noticed before. Most likely, I was in a small state of shock and unable to take everything in at first. Now in the visors, it was apparent that the green cloud centered on a section of wall where it met the floor, the same spot where I’d placed grandmother’s table originally.

I moved the table out of my way and got down on my knees. Yes, this close, the color deepened. On zeroing in, I now could also see a dark vertical line, about three inches long, from top to bottom of the baseboard. I reached out. The line was a cut in the wood. About six inches away was an identical one.

My fingernails weren’t long enough to be effective. I grabbed my pen but found it useless as well. I sat a moment and thought. I had plenty of tools downstairs, but what did I have up here? My Leatherman. I kept one, the size of a large pocketknife, in my purse. It is made along the line of a Swiss Army knife, with eight or ten tools that fold into the handle. I unhinged the knife blade and put it to the wall. It worked.

Paint and age made my task perhaps a little harder, but once I traced the vertical cuts with the blade, the baseboard was easily pried away. I imagined jewels stuffed inside, or bundles of old cash. What I found was much more astonishing.

It was a letter. One single, handwritten page. Not so very interesting, you might say? That was my first thought. After reading it, however, I thanked heavens above that I didn’t have a prior heart condition and was in stable mental health. There was no doubt whatsoever that what I held in my hand was the most shocking thing I’d seen in a lifetime. It was a letter from a woman long dead. And it was addressed to me.

I
ane was sound asleep when I got back from my dinner date with Bernard. He took me to Muscle Shoals to a real nice restaurant where we had wine served right at our table. I still can’t get used to that. All the counties around here were dry for most of my life. No liquor, beer, or wine could be had until a few years ago. I’m not one for drinking, but I sure do like the nice, new restaurants we have now.

The next morning, Jane and I had a lot to do in town. She needed to go to the bank. She said she’d stop by my house to see how things were going later.

I was amazed at how fast they’d been able to get the wall up in my kitchen. I walked through the house to make sure the paint in all the rooms were what I wanted. Not twenty minutes later, I heard Jane’s car pull up in the drive.

“That was quick,” I said. “I didn’t expect you here for another hour.”

“I’m quite surprised, too,” she said. Her face was flushed pink and she looked like something had upset her.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. That is, I’m confused really. I’ve come from the bank. When Mr. Roman came out to meet me in the lobby, he was very nice as always, but he didn’t ask me to his office. I was baffled, and he fidgeted and talked nervously. Before I could ask, he told me the bank was experiencing a problem with my loan. When I asked what sort of problem, he practically shoved me out the door saying he’d be in touch.”

“The nerve!” I said. Poor Jane. She looked like she was about to cry. I’d be upset too if some little penny-ante nobody did that to me.

“I tried to ask why but he wouldn’t give me a chance. He just pushed me through the doors and said good day.”

“And you doing him a favor? You don’t need him anyway. The little twerp.”

Jane had something else on her mind. “Do you think the lawyer’s office is open this early? I think I’d like to stop in to see about the document Shelley was preparing. Maybe she could shed some light on the situation. It isn’t that I’m anxious, you understand, to take over.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. You just want to know what to expect, right? That’s only natural. You want things to be set.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

We went downtown on the square to the Hannigan and Wade offices. A cool blast of air-conditioning hit us when we stepped into the reception area. It was decorated like George Washington lived there, which is so tacky but sure is popular with rich lawyers and doctors. Nobody was there except the receptionist, a young girl with a bob cut who was new since the last time I’d been in there.

“Good morning. What can I do for you?”

Jane stepped forward. “I hoped to speak with Shelley Barnette if she’s available.”

“I’m sorry. Shelley is out of town for a few days. Could someone else help?”

“Oh, dear.” Jane and I looked at each other. “Did she perhaps leave a document for me to pick up? For Jane Thistle or Cal Prewitt?”

“No, not with me,” she said, as she looked through papers on her desk. She went to Shelley’s office but didn’t find anything there either.

Jane said, “I’m sure Mr. Wade will be very busy today, but if you could leave him a note to call me when it’s convenient, I would appreciate it.”

As we walked out, I told Jane, “You’d think Shelley would’ve let you and Cal know she was leaving town. Or brought it out to your house before she left.”

As always, Jane made excuses for somebody else. “I’m sure she would have done so if she could,” she said. “I imagine it was a family emergency that called her away so suddenly.”

“I guess.” She dropped me off at my house again. I think old Roman at the bank had made her want to be by herself for a while.