Fearless Read online

  Jake Tucker lived on a gentleman’s farm about a mile outside the town of Virginia Mills. It was a two-hundred-acre, fully functional dairy farm until five years ago when Jake sold all but fifteen acres to some contractor with big dreams and dollar signs in his eyes. What the contractor didn’t and couldn’t know was that the housing bubble was about to burst and he’d be out millions, with land to sell and houses to build but no one with enough money or guts to buy either. As it was, one half-built home stood on the road to Jake’s, a skeletal reminder to all who passed of the woes of the economic crisis. The rest of the land was staked and graded but as barren as the moon’s pocked surface.

  Jim could see the flames a mile away. The sky above the horizon flickered with the orange glow of the fire and the red, white, and blue strobes of the emergency vehicles, a morbid light display anyone would be happy to miss. As he neared, he got a better view. The house was mostly engulfed now, huge tongues of fire a story high clawed at the sides of the building, licked at the night sky. Oxygen was what it craved, and out here, where the September air was fresh and cool, it had its fill. The flames churned and writhed as if they were alive, a living beast rising from the pit of hell and devouring Jake Tucker’s home. In some perverted, macabre way, it was a beautiful sight, hypnotizing even.

  Men scurried to and from, barked orders, worked the trucks, the tanker . . . it was a chaotic waltz with each partner dancing his part perfectly. Four men manned two hoses, but despite the steady streams of water, the inferno showed no signs of surrendering any time soon. It had grown too strong, too confident, too hungry. Its ravenous appetite was not yet satiated.

  Stopping the truck behind a police cruiser, Jim killed the engine and got out. He’d known Jake ever since he was a kid, saw him at church every Sunday. Now he wondered where Jake would live. There was no saving the house, not after such fire damage.

  Doug Miller, the chief of police, approached and greeted him. “What gives, Spencer?”

  Jim dipped his chin. “Chief. How’re things going?”

  Miller’s face was flat, emotionless. He turned and watched the fire with glassy-eyed enchantment, his face changing colors in rhythm with the cruiser’s flashers. Red-red-white-blue. He was a big man, broad shoulders, thick neck, mid-sixties, with a mustache and crew cut that said he was all cop. “They’re gonna lose that house. Shame too. It’s been in Jake’s family for three generations.”

  “What about Jake?”

  Miller continued with his fixation on the flames. “They put him in the rig and took him to County General. No need to, really. He was fine. He was black as an alley cat from all the smoke and soot, but once he coughed it all up, he was breathing just fine. Nothing much to get excited about.”

  The flames gyrated and twisted, caught in the last throes of agony or passion; either would fit. The house was just a shell now, blackened bones of wood beams and posts. The beast had picked away and devoured anything of substance. The western side of the second story floor cracked, broke, and collapsed. An explosion of sparks shot up into the air then cooled and faded within seconds.

  Finally Miller pulled his eyes from the inferno. “Except for one thing.”

  “It’s always the one thing.”

  “There was a girl in there with him.”

  “A girl?”

  “A child. Says she’s nine.”

  Jim didn’t remember Jake ever saying anything about grand-kids. He looked around the area and found the girl, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the running board of one of the fire trucks. Tina, a volunteer EMT with the station, sat beside her, holding Jake’s cat. “That her?”

  Miller turned toward the girl. “Yep. Louisa. Least that’s what she says her name is.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Physically she’s perfect. Medics had her on oxygen for a while. Just took her off. She can’t remember her last name, though. Doesn’t know who her parents are or if she even has parents.”

  “Amnesia from smoke inhalation?”

  “I’ve seen stranger.”

  “What did Jake say?”

  “He said she was in there with him, but that’s the first time he’s ever seen her. He thought she was an angel; can you imagine that? Poor old-timer thought he was gonna kick it.”

  Jim looked at the girl again. She was a cute kid, blonde hair, soft features. Sitting next to the fire truck she looked small, lost, and lonely. “I sure hope you don’t think Jake was . . . you know.”

  Miller shook his head. “Naw, not Jake. Anyone else and I’d look at them cross-eyed, but not Jake. He’s as straight as straw, always has been. If he says he doesn’t know where she came from, his word’s good enough in my book.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’d have to go rounds with you if you suspected him of that.”

  Miller was back to watching the fire. “I’m glad you could come, Spencer. I called you because the kid needs a home for the night, until we can sort this out, find out who she is and who she belongs to.”

  “And you want me to take her?”

  “You used to take in foster kids, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but that was before—”

  “You think Amy will be all right with it?”

  Would Amy be all right with it? Jim had no idea. She could go either way. Bringing a little girl home could push Amy further toward that edge of utter despair, or it could be just the lifeline she needed to pull her back from the edge.

  “Can’t someone else do it?” Jim said. There had to be another option.

  “Sure they could, but I wanted to ask you first. You and Amy were my first choice.”

  “Why am I not flattered by that?”

  “Will you take her?”

  Jim hesitated. It wasn’t a matter of if it was right or wrong; he knew what the right thing to do was. And it wasn’t a matter of not having room; they had plenty of space in their house. It was Amy. She was so fragile now, so wounded. Her emotions were frayed and raw, and something like this, bringing a child home, could do irreparable damage.

  Jim watched as Tina combed the girl’s hair back and put her arm around her shoulders. The girl leaned into her and closed her eyes.

  Jim cleared his throat. “Okay. Until you get to the bottom of this.” Even as he said the words, another lump formed in his throat.

  Miller slapped him on the shoulder. “Great. I’ll get all the paperwork in order and stop by your house in the morning.”

  Jim left Miller and walked over to the girl. Tina smiled at him and nodded.

  “Hey, Tina. How’s it going?”

  “Just fine.”

  Jim knelt in front of the child. Strangely she smelled of burnt wood, but there wasn’t a mark of soot or a smoke stain on her. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, looked at him. Her eyes were large and round, the bluest Jim had ever seen, but they weren’t childlike. Innocent, yes, even guiltless, but mature and knowing, as if with them she could look past his weak exterior and see the true state of his soul.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Louisa, right?”

  She nodded. “Hi.” A yellow and white cat, dusted with soot and ash, poked its head out from behind the blanket. The girl stroked the cat’s head between the ears. “And this is Jovie.”

  Jim scratched the cat’s cheek. “Hi, Jovie. Louisa, I’m Jim Spencer. You can call me Mr. Jim. I was just talking to Chief Miller over there, and we both think it would be a good idea if you came home with me and my wife and spent the night at our house tonight. Does that sound all right?”

  She turned her face toward Tina as if seeking her approval. Tina smiled and squeezed Louisa’s shoulders. “It’s okay. He’s a good guy. And his wife, Miss Amy, is a sweetheart. They’ll take good care of you.”

  Louisa smiled and nodded at Jim. “Okay. Can we take Jovie too?”

  “Sweetheart,” Tina said, “Jovie is going to come home with me. I already told Mr. Jake I’d take care of her. She’ll be happy at my house. I have another cat she can play with.”
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br />   The girl ran her hand over the cat’s blackened fur one more time. “She won’t like getting a bath.”

  “I know,” Tina said. “But she needs one. She’s filthy, isn’t she?”

  Louisa nodded.

  Jim took her hand, mouthed “Thank you” to Tina, and led Louisa back to his truck. “You ever ride in a truck before, Louisa?”

  She shrugged.

  “Well then, this might be your first experience riding high.” He hoisted her up and into the passenger seat. “There you go. Put that seat belt on, and we’ll be ready to roll.”

  They were both quiet on the drive back to Jim’s house. The only sound was the hum of tires on asphalt and the soft country tunes flowing from the radio. Louisa eventually fell asleep. Her head lulled from one side to the other then finally rested against the seat belt.

  When they arrived home, Jim carried her inside and laid her on the sofa. He then went to the second floor hallway closet and got her a pillow and blanket. When she was comfortably situated and asleep on her side, he went back upstairs and into the bedroom. The light was off, and Amy had somehow found sleep again. He set his alarm for just after sunrise so he could be sure to get up before Amy. He didn’t want her to wake up, stumble down the steps to get breakfast, and find Louisa on the sofa. If he got up first he could warn her, explain what happened, and pray for the best.

  If it were a fait accompli, surely Amy would welcome Louisa into their home. She would have to. Wouldn’t she?

  After stripping out of his clothes and slipping into his pajamas, Jim got into bed next to Amy and spooned his wife, his hand on her hip. She stirred a little and moaned, a pathetic sound of sorrow and loss. He had no idea if she dreamed anymore or what she dreamed about; she never talked about it. But if she did dream, he supposed her night visions were anything but pleasant and fantastical. No princesses and magical unicorns for her.

  He brushed her hair to the side and lightly kissed the back of her neck before settling back onto his pillow. It didn’t take him long to slip into the warm waters of sleep. But the dreams that found him there were disjointed and violent, filled with flames and writhing bodies. Several times he awoke (or maybe he wasn’t awake, he couldn’t tell) and thought he saw Louisa standing in the corner of their bedroom. One time he even said her name out loud. But each time he was quickly pulled back under by sleep’s firm grip.

  At 3:12 a.m. Jim startled, snapped awake by something in his dream. To his right Amy rolled to her back and mumbled something incoherent. She was sleep-talking. She raised an arm and thrashed at the air, grunted from the effort, as if fighting off some unseen attacker. Then she began to weep. Jim had never seen her cry in her sleep before. She spoke again, and this time it was almost comprehensible.

  Jim rolled to face her. “What is it, honey? Say it again.” He spoke quietly so as not to wake her.

  Tears seeped from Amy’s closed eyes, trickled into her blonde hair. She whimpered, “I’ve lost my way.”

  She said it a few more times, each time more declarative than the previous, as if trying to convince her dream visitor that as strange as it sounded, it was indeed true. Jim did his best to soothe her. He combed her hair with his hand, kissed her cheek and forehead. Eventually she settled back into a comfortable sleep, and eventually Jim followed her . . .

  Where he was met once again by the angry tongues of fire.

  Chapter 3

  THE SUN HAD barely peeked above the horizon Monday morning when the man wheeled his truck in front of the farmhouse and shut off the engine. The farmer and his wife should be up and about; in fact, they had probably been awake for the past few hours, preparing for a day of labor and satisfying toil. She had no doubt cooked him a scrumptious breakfast of ham and eggs, maybe some fruit on the side, oranges and grapes. He would need his energy if he was going to put in a full day’s work.

  The man got out of the truck and eyed the barn. It was everything a barn should be. He did a 360-degree turn, taking in the panoramic view of the land, the homestead, the barn and other assorted outbuildings. He’d spent time on a farm just like this one when he was a kid; that’s why he’d chosen this particular property. It reminded him of the only peace he’d felt in the storm that had been his life. Plus not a single neighbor was in sight. The farmhouse sat square in the middle of two hundred acres, only accessible by the dirt lane that ran a straight half mile from the paved road. As far as he could see were cornfields and pastureland. The corn was high as a man and brown as dirt. Above the dry tassels the sky was bright and varying hues of clear blue.

  He stood by the open car door for a moment, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. The aroma of dirt and cut grass and aged hay reminded him of those days when he ran free on the farm, free of the violence, the torment, the hatred. But then it too was taken from him.

  He closed the truck’s door, and the sound brought the farmer’s wife to the porch. Clare Appleton. She was a tall, lean woman, older than sixty but younger than seventy, and looked to be in fantastic health. Her skin was as smooth as any forty-year-old’s, and her hair, as white as a cloud, was pulled off her face and fastened in a bun high in back of her head. She wore a knee-length plain dress and a flowered apron. Holding a dishcloth in both hands, she cocked her head to one side and said, “Hello, there. What brings you out at the crack of dawn?”

  The man liked the sound of her voice. It was nothing like his mother’s. He walked down a stone path to the porch. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “Sorry to drop by so early, but I figured you’d be up. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  “Every morning is beautiful.” Her smile was warm and inviting. She must be a wonderful grandmother to some small children somewhere. “For every morning brings the chance to start anew, to put the old behind and set a new course.”

  The man smiled. This was no ordinary farmer’s wife. She was also a philosopher.

  “Right you are,” he said. “Always looking forward.”

  “There’ll be no regrets in this house. Not as long as I’m living in it, anyway.” She finished drying her hands and tucked the dishcloth into her apron. “What can I do for you?”

  “Name’s Mitch Albright. I just moved in down the road apiece, bought the old Sanstead farm, and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. I was wondering if I could ask your hubby some questions, tap into his well of knowledge.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mitch. I’m Clare.” She motioned toward the barn. “Bob’s sharpening some tools. You’re welcome to talk to him. I think you’ll find him more than willing to share whatever he’s learned over the years. Be careful; he likes to wax eloquent now and again, and if you get him going on politics, you may just be here longer than you’d like.”

  “How long have you been farming this land?”

  “Bob was born here, right in this house. So I guess you could say he’s been working the land since he was old enough to hold a hoe.”

  The man forced a laugh, and to his ears it sounded remarkably genuine. The woman showed no sign of seeing past his façade. “Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded and turned away from her.

  The barn, he could see as he approached, was a magnificent structure, much larger than most in this part of the state. The foundation and both end walls were constructed of sturdy fieldstone. Atop it, at the peak of its roof, sat an ornate cupola with a dairy cow weather vane that currently pointed northeast. The barn looked to have been recently painted a dull sandy color, trimmed out with forest green. The same colors as the farmhouse. The man walked up the earthen ramp to the large front doors. One was open, and inside he heard the churning of a grinding stone, the gritty hum of metal being sharpened. He stood by the door and waited for the noise to stop. When it did, he knocked twice and entered.

  The barn was perfect in every way. Neat, cleanly swept, and cavernous. One half was stacked nearly to the ceiling with bales of hay, barley, and straw. Dust particles floated in the air, riding imperceptible currents as easily as plankton takes
to the motions of the sea.

  Bob Appleton was in the far corner of the barn, in an area set up as a small machine shop. Hand tools hung on pegboard walls. A workbench ran the length of the area, at least twelve feet long, and on it was the sharpening stone and an assortment of other table machinery. The space was organized and orderly, a testimony to the farmer’s pride in what he did.

  Bob looked up, set down the blade he was sharpening, and removed his safety glasses. “Howdy. Can I help you?” His voice was raspy and dry, as if to speak caused him great strain.

  The man approached and extended his hand. “Are you Bob?”

  “Sure am. Do I—”

  “No, you don’t know me. I met your wife by the house. Lovely woman. Name’s Mitch Albright. I bought the Sanstead place and am new at farming. Was wondering if I might pick your brain for a bit.”

  Bob smiled wide, and his eyes crinkled into many-toed crow’s feet at the corners. “Sure thing.” When he straightened to his full height, he was an imposing man of at least six feet two. His broad shoulders and thick chest spoke of a lifetime of hard labor and earth-forged strength, but his warm eyes and easy smile said it was a gentle strength, restrained. This man loved what he did. Farming was his life, his passion, his purpose. He was confident yet humble, and because of that humility and the fact that he reminded the man so much of his own grandfather, he, Mitch Albright, would spare Bob’s life.

  “I love your barn,” the man said.

  “Just had it painted last year. Woulda done it myself, but I’m gettin’ too old for that now. It was easier just to pay someone to do it. A bunch of college kids did it over the summer. Took ’em near the whole summer to get it done too.”

  “They did a beautiful job. I hope you paid them well.”

  “Not well enough,” Bob said. “For the work they did I didn’t think they charged enough, so I gave ’em all a little extra. You shoulda seen them smile.”

  The man, Mitch, liked Bob the farmer more and more all the time. “And the animal stalls are below?”

  “Yep. We don’t keep animals anymore, though. Used to. Horses, cows, goats, you name it. Now we just farm the land. Corn, barley, soy beans.”