Sunday, August 7, 2011, 5:00 p.m. Los Angeles
A white haze creeps across my eyes, the sign of an impending vision. The hospital room, Mr. Baccharis's cloak and hat hanging in the open closet, the antiseptic smell and beeping machinery fade from my awareness.
Amber McBride materializes in my mind. Flames lick at her heels as she runs across a meadow, grasses engulfed in fire.
Heart pounding, my eyes fly open.
Robert's awake. Sweat beads on his forehead. With one hand he brushes strands of grey hair from his eyes. "Amber, she's in danger!"
Nodding, I lean in to clutch his free hand.
He kisses my forehead. "That heart attack should've killed me. Your magic saved my life. Go save hers."
I squeeze his hand as I rise to stand. I don't want to leave Rob.
He releases his hand from my grip. "I'll be fine, Betty. Go."
Tears sting my eyes as I turn and leave my love in his hospital bed. With every step, fear tightens its grip around my heart. I run from the hospital. By the time I reach my Prius, I'm struggling to breathe.
The disembodied voice of my long-dead guru cuts through my scattered thoughts. Shadow Man wants you to panic.
I slide into the driver's seat and exhale until my lungs are empty. The soft tone of my guru guides me in a 15 second inhale. The next inhale is 30 seconds. By the third inhale–a full 45 seconds–my chest muscles smooth and my mind clears. Bowing my head, I bring my palms together in gratitude to my eternal Guruji.
Within 15 minutes, I'm parking across the street from Peppergate Ranch's open gate. A hot gust of wind messes my hair as I dash across the road. At the driveway's entrance, I pass through the open gate and head west for the cover of the trees.
The temperature drops ten degrees in the woodland shade. I follow an animal path along the hill until the house comes into view. Laughter reaches my ears.
I exit the oak forest and run to the stacked concrete slabs supporting the pool. The castle turret formation rises thirteen feet above my head. Following the voices, I walk east until I reach a stone staircase leading to the courtyard.
A yellow tennis ball bounces down the stairs to land at my feet. Amber's dog, Kibbles, appears at the top of the steps, tail wagging.
My heart swells as I grab the ball. "This yours?"
Sheriff Graves materializes next to the fluffy yellow dog. "Betty, how's Baccharis faring?"
I mount the steps and throw the ball across the courtyard. Kibbles zips after the yellow missile, which bounces between two teenage boys wearing t-shirts and shorts, Maxsim Kisilev, dressed impeccably in a suit despite the heat, and Cowboy Joe. One teen, a chubby Latino, tosses the ball in our direction. It lands in the pool.
Cowboy Joe dissolves and reappears by my side. One teen, a chubby Latino, tosses the ball in our direction. It lands in the pool.
Kibbles and the boys race across the grassy courtyard as I drop to my knees, reach into the water, and retrieve his toy. "Robert's doing great, considering he had a heart attack last night."
The boys cheer as Max walks to join us. He helps me to my feet.
Cowboy Joe removes his hat to fan his face. An unnecessary gesture, but old habits die hard. "Seeing his old love nearly kilt him." His eyes meet mine. "No disrespect to you, of course."
The Sheriff snorts. "Lucy was here, just this morning. Cold-hearted, that one. Didn't even inquire after Robert's well-being."
I hand the ball to the boys. "I'm Dr. Betty Morton. I'm here to see Amber."
A blonde teen points to Amber's room. "She's working some spell to protect the house." He pivots in the den's direction. "Her mom's there, and her aunt's in the master bedroom. They've been at it all day."
The Latino teenager puffs his chest. "We're standing guard with Sheriff Graves and Cowboy Joe."
Max clears his throat. "Kids have no manners." He points to the Latino. "That one is Luis Garcia. Other boy is Seth Lobata."
I incline my head toward the two teens. "Nice to meet you. Now, if you'll excuse me." Walking east, I reach the three brick steps leading to Amber's door. My heartbeat quickens as I climb and knock.
The door swings open to Amber and three teenagers. The black boy, Jonah Abernathy, I know, but I've never met the short Latina or the tall black girl.
Amber's brow furrows, her mouth set in a grim line. "Dr. Morton, come see what we found."
The Latina nods. "I'm Marisol Garcia." She tilts her chin at the black girl, who waves. "I'm Noelle Mertens."
Amber arrived yesterday, and she's already attracted a coven.
I enter the wood-paneled room, where the sun's rays shine through windows to glint off the oak flooring. The teens gather in front of a wardrobe built into the southwest corner of the room. A mirrored door hangs open. Clothes dangle from hangers.
Amber closes the wardrobe and places her palms on carved oaks framing the mirror. I hear a click, followed by a creak. She opens the armoire door and points to its floor, where a 12x12 inch compartment has opened. Dropping to a crouch, she retrieves a bundle of deerskin. Amber rises to stand and moves to her bed to open the package.
I walk to her side, where she's laid out a yellowed newspaper clipping. A lump forms in my throat as I recognize the thick, luxurious, California-blond hair framing grainy features in aging newsprint from 1982.
LAPD SEARCHES FOR MISSING TEEN
The sick feeling in my stomach spreads as I examine the article. Lucy Carpenter, age 18, disappeared from a party at a house known locally as Peppergate Ranch. The paper quotes unnamed sources as seeing the teen leave with a young man on a motorcycle. Lucy vanished. It lists a young man named Robert Franklin as the home's owner. The newspaper clipping notes that, although he is a person of interest, he is not a suspect.
I turn to Amber, who's frowning. "If Lucy was murdered, she probably doesn't know she's dead. Maybe that's why she's so mad." My stomach lurches as Amber reaches under the fading newsprint to retrieve a black-and-white photo booth strip with four pictures.
Lucy Carpenter is at the center of each photo. She's alone in one, smirking as if she knew Amber McBride would study her nearly 30 years later. I want to vomit as I scan the second photo, where Lucy's leaning into the man I love. The close physicality screams intimacy.
I force my eyes to the third photo of Lucy leaning forward and two people clowning around, trying to form a triangle behind her. Their heads aren't visible. Clothing matches Rob's, but I do not know who the third person might be. The mystery teen sits next to Lucy in the fourth photo, their face blurred.
Jonah joins us by the bed. "We searched the internet. Lucy's never been found." He drops his chin, "Guess she never left Peppergate Ranch."
Marisol and Noelle come to stand at the foot of the bed. Marisol extends a hand to touch the old newsprint. "The only thing we found online was her mother's obituary. It said Lucy was missing and presumed dead."
My stomach's in knots. Were my guru here, she'd encourage me to speak the truth. At this point in my spiritual evolution, I'm supposed to release all attachments. But having Robert back has weakened my resolve. The truth will destroy my beloved Rob and tear Amber's family apart.
Amber won't hear it from me. If the truth will out, let Creator tell the tale.
Marisol retracts her hand from the clipping. "My grandmother's been in my dreams every night this week. I think she wants to tell me something. Maybe she knows about Lucy."
The breath catches in my throat at the mention of the most powerful Bruja I've ever met.
Jonah shakes his head. "No offense, Mari, but Granny Graciela scares the shit outta me."
Noelle laughs. "Stay home, then! We don't need whiny babies at the Grotto."
Amber arches an eyebrow. "Huh?"
Marisol motions to the Simi Hills, visible out the northern-facing windows. "It's a sacred place in the hills where we go to practice divination."
Noelle adds, "It's the best place to see the past, present or future."
Amber's shoulders slump. "No way my Dad's letting me out of the house."
Noelle and Marisol exchange a glance, then Noelle nods. "Sneak out tonight, after everyone's asleep. We'll meet you at the bottom of your driveway."
Pain throbs at my temples. My vision placed Amber in the Simi Hills, surrounded by a raging inferno. She needs my help. "I'll drive you girls as close as we can get. No sense in walking the road in the middle of the night."
Jonah sighs. "Okay, I'm coming too. Max will drive me."
A lone streetlamp sputters on and off as my car approaches the trailhead next to the Sleepy Oak Cemetery. Amber and Marisol are silent in the backseat as I park behind Maxim Kisilev's SUV. Noelle rode with Max because her house is a five-minute walk from Jonah's.
We exit my Prius to find Jonah, Noelle, and Max waiting by a chain-link fence. A dirt trail stretches beyond an opening in the fence to disappear into darkness. Max reaches into the SUV and hands Amber a piece of paper. "I have something for you."
We gather around Amber as she shines her cell phone light on a print out of a newspaper article from 1987.
CHATSWORTH RESIDENT ARRESTED:
"DOCTOR" IS A FRAUD
Tightness spreads across my chest as Amber reads about the mysterious owner of Peppergate Ranch. Dr. Robert Hugo Franklin threw elaborate parties attended by Hollywood's elite. He had grown wealthy from a successful medical practice in Beverly Hills.
However, the wife of a patient complained to the California Medical Board after her severely ill husband died while under Dr. Franklin's care. Following an investigation, the board turned the case over to the District Attorney. Robert Hugo Franklin was not licensed as a medical doctor. Indeed, he'd never been to medical school.
The heaviness in my chest sharpens to needling pain as the article concludes with, "The so-called Dr. Franklin is in jail at the time of this writing."
Amber hands the paper back to Max. "How did you find this?"
"Los Angeles Times Archives. Much historical information is there."
Jonah chimes in. "Do you know what happened to him? Is he still in jail? Are there more articles? Did..."
Max holds up his hand for silence. "No more articles. But I check other source. Franklin did eight years after he struck plea deal. He sold Peppergate Ranch to pay for legal expenses. Disappeared after jail."
Marisol scratches her head. "So he's in hiding? Or is he dead?"
"No record." Max snaps his fingers. "He make vanish."
Amber kicks at the dirt. "How old would Robert Franklin be now?"
"54."
Jonah tugs at Max's sleeve. "Did you find a picture?"
Max's right hand retrieves a photo from his suit pocket. His expression is blank as he hands the picture to me. The teenagers crowd in for a look. Robert's booking picture.
Amber nods. "It's the same guy from the photo booth!"
My eyes moisten as my memories collide with the young Robert depicted in the photo. High cheekbones, full lips, unblemished skin and a straight, Roman nose. Blond hair cascades over his forehead into a V-shape, leaving only one eye visible.
Jonah laughs. "Check that hair!"
Noelle snorts. "Jealous? You'll never get your hair to look like that."
Despair oozes from Rob's face. My optimism fades as I sink into the quicksand of depression.
Marisol turns from our little group. "Put it away. I can't look at his face anymore."
I give Rob's booking photo back to Max and we begin our trek into the Simi Hills. The moon, which will be full in two nights, provides ample illumination.
Shadows swallow the sandy trail as we enter the inky blackness of the oak woodland. No matter. I could walk the familiar route blindfolded.
The teens use their cell phone lights to follow me through the forest. Their whispered conversation is unintelligible. Max brings up the rear.
As we hike, I silently pray to Creator for strength. Tears slide down my cheeks as foreboding overwhelms me. A girl with Amber's skills will unravel Rob's secret identity. The truth about "Mr. Baccharis" will explode like a bomb in our little corner of Los Angeles. I choke back a sob with the realization that the precious time I've spent with Rob is ending.
AUTHOR NOTES:
Banner photo Northernmost cliffs surrounding the Grotto in the Santa Susana Pass State Historic Park taken by the Author
Playlist Straight Back by Fleetwood Mac (feat. Washed Out)