The Missing Link
The interview with the police had been more than a little exhausting but sort of exhilarating at the same time. The endless barrage of repetitive questions had comprised the exhausting part, but having Sergeant Molinson shake her hand and give her a grudging, “Good job,” even as he shook his head in exasperation, had left her feeling quite good about the whole mini adventure. She had climbed into the front seat of the police cruiser with a light heart and asked the nice officer to please drop her off at the end of the Wheelers’ driveway.
She nearly skipped her way to the clubhouse but stopped short when she heard her brother’s voice carrying out from one of the open windows, his words loud and clear in the still, summer air.
“I think we should suspend her from the club,” Mart was saying. “Think about it. It’s only the second week of July, and already she’s dragged us into a finals week cheating ring, a series of coffee shop robberies, and now an art thief who doubles as an arsonist. We need to stop her before someone gets hurt.
“Well,” Dan’s voice chimed in, “Tad did get stabbed.”
“Right! Right!” Mart’s voice increased in its intensity, “Look at how much danger always seems to find Trixie, and through her, all of us. Think about what’s happened to us over the years, not just today—although Honey, Diana and Tessa getting tied up in a building that was being set on fire and Tad getting stabbed was plenty. Think about the past. Jim was knocked over the head by Dick, the diamond thief. Dan was kidnapped. Brian got poisoned. Honey and Trixie were kidnapped, how many times?”
“Too many for my taste,” Brian answered. “But I think Mississippi was the worst. When I think of how that could have gone, it gives me cold chills.”
“That ties for me with going into the Hudson in a car,” Jim added. “I still have nightmares.”
“See? That’s what I’m getting at,” Mart continued. “We need to put a stop to this. Right now, we’d be better off without her. She’s a danger magnet.”
The danger magnet had heard enough. She turned and ran, taking the woods trail back toward Crabapple Farm. She crashed through the trees and hurtled herself up the steps and into the house, letting the kitchen door slam behind her.
The noise startled her mother. “Trixie! Whatever is wrong?”
Tears were close, but she held them back, spitting her story from between her clenched teeth. “They all hate me and want me to stay away.”
“Who?” Moms seemed confused.
“The Bob-Whites. My so-called friends, led by my brother! Mart wants to suspend me from the club. He called me a danger magnet.”
“That can’t be right,” Moms said. “Your friends love you. Your brother loves you, even when you frustrate him. I know they were all frightened today. When I found out, I was terrified, but the police said you handled things appropriately. You must be mistaken, dear.”
“I heard him say it,” Trixie insisted angrily, “I was standing right by the window, and I heard him say it. He said they’d be better off without me, and no one disagreed. I just wanted to disappear, so I left.”
“Eavesdroppers rarely hear good things about themselves, Beatrix. I’m sure that if you calmly asked your brother for an explanation, he could clear this up. You know that Mart often speaks before he thinks things through.”
“It sounded like he’d given it plenty of thought, Moms! Oooooo. I’m so mad at all of them. I wish I’d never met any of them! I wish I’d never been born!” Trixie stomped her foot and pounded her thighs with her clenched fists.
“Throwing a tantrum isn’t going to solve anything, dear,” he mother told her calmly.
“I’m not throwing a tantrum!” Trixie nearly shouted. “You don’t understand! Nobody understands!” She spun on her heel and stormed up the stairs and into her room, closing the door with more force than was warranted. Throwing herself face down on her bed, she let herself dissolve into tears. “I wish I hadn’t been born,” she sobbed. “Then they could all do what they want and not worry about me at all!”
“Seriously?” The voice came from the corner of her room, and Trixie sat up with a frightened squeak. Wide-eyed, she stared at the dark-haired young man leaning against the wall, his muscular arms folded across his chest, a sardonic smile on his handsome face.
“Wh...who are you?” Trixie stammered. “And why are you in my room?” She looked around frantically.
“Consider me your wake-up call,” he told her bluntly. “I’m your guardian angel, sweet cheeks, and I’m here to give you a lesson in real life.”
“Guardian angel?” Trixie blinked. She wanted to scoff, but there was something about the glint in the man’s pale blue eyes that stopped her. “Where are your wings?”
He snorted with laughter. “Typical,” he said. “Sweetie pie, you and your antics give me such a work out I have to dress for comfort, not for style.” He gestured to his worn blue jeans and snug fitting light blue t-shirt. “But, if it will make you feel better...” There was a flash of sorts, and Trixie’s vision wavered—as if she were looking at something under water. She blinked, and when she reopened her eyes, the form in front of her was...amazing. The face—which had been ruggedly handsome before—glowed with divine beauty, and the muscular body was now cloaked in golden garb. But it was the wings billowing out in glorious gold tipped feathers that completely took her breath away. She fell back against her bed, her eyes closing against the blinding brilliance of the being before her.
“Open your eyes.” The voice held a little too much amusement for Trixie’s taste, but she still obeyed the command. He was back in his original form, all boy-next-door and human like—except for those silvery, pale blue eyes. “Let me start again,” he said, holding out his hand. “You can call me Ziel. I’m your guardian angel.”
“My guardian angel is named Zeal?” Trixie asked, gingerly taking the proffered hand. It was warm, his grip strong but gentle.
“Zee-ahl,” he replied, rolling his eyes as he stretched out the pronunciation. “It’s the short version of my name. Raziel. Come on. We’ve got a lot to see.”
“Why?” Trixie was still wary, although her curiosity was beginning to get the better of her.
Ziel sat down next to her on her bed, loosening her hand. “Because, my sweet, you are wallowing in self-righteous self-pity. “Poor me. Poor misunderstood me.” He affected a whiney high tone. Dropping his voice back into normal range, he continued, “You think that your friends are out to get you, when in reality, they’re just worried about you.”
“They don’t care about me,” she responded sulkily. “All they do is say no to anything I want to do. All they do is complain about how difficult I make their lives.”
“That’s your perception, but it isn’t reality.” Ziel rose and once again extended his hand. “You touch many lives, sweet-cheeks. But you take far too many chances. That’s what your friends and brothers dislike. It’s a problem for me, too. You really keep me hopping, little one.”
“I suppose you want me to apologize, too?” she asked bitterly.
“Nope. I just want you to come with me.”
“Where?” Trixie once again put her hand in his, surprised at the warmth that seemed to envelope her entire body from fingertips to toes.
“To see what life would be like without you.” Ziel pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her as if they were wings. “Hold on.” There was a rush of light and sound, and then nothing.
She opened her eyes to a circle of trees, tall and white against the winter blue sky. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel cold. Wrapped in Ziel’s arms...wings...whatever, she was positively toasty. “Where are we?” she asked.
“In the Preserve,” he answered, his voice giving nothing away. “This place is a portal of sorts. Crabapple Farm is over that way, and the Manor House, over there. Which do you want to visit first?”
“Not the Farm.”
“Very well.” Ziel said, releasing her and taking her hand instead. “Manor House it is. Come.” He led her through the snow, only a few feet past the circle of trees. With a whirl of white, he encircled her again in his wings and they simply ceased to exist in that space.
Trixie opened her eyes and found herself in the music room at the Manor House. Seated at the piano, Honey Wheeler played a minuet, her long, slim fingers picking out the notes. “Honey?” Trixie called out hesitantly, but there was no indication her friend had even heard her.
“She can’t hear you,” Ziel confirmed. “You don’t exist, remember?”
“Oh.” Trixie took a step forward. Honey continued to play, her hands moving rapidly over the keyboard, the music turning darker, almost violent with each chord. Trixie moved until she could look directly at her friend’s face. What she saw frightened her. The gentle hazel eyes she knew and loved were empty of emotion. The pianist was focused on the keys and only on the keys; the faster the fingers flew, the colder and more distant her expression grew.
“Miss Wheeler!” The stern looking woman in a sharply pressed gray uniform stepped into the room.
Honey paused, her fingers frozen over the keys. “Yes, Mrs. Walker?” she asked politely.
“You are past time, Miss,” Mrs. Walker said. “Miss Lynch has arrived for your scheduled luncheon. Cook has the meal ready, and although Mr. Regan’s unexpected issue has cancelled your ride, that is no excuse for tardiness.”
“Of course, Mrs. Walker. Forgive my rudeness. Please let Diana know I will be in as soon as I wash my hands.”
Trixie watched as Honey rose gracefully from the piano and, with a sigh, walked out of the room. “Who is Mrs. Walker?” she asked Ziel. “Where is Miss Trask?”
“Mrs. Walker is Honey’s governess and teacher,” was the response. “Miss Trask could not reach acceptable terms with the Wheelers in regard to Honey’s educational goals, so Mrs. Walker was hired to replace her.”
“But she and Diana are friends, right?”
“Acquaintances, yes.” Ziel shrugged. “Friends, well...”
Trixie soon understood what he meant. No one noticed when she plopped herself down on a chair around the formal dining table, and that in itself didn’t surprise her. With Diana at one end, and Honey at the other, it was a wonder they were able to carry on a conversation at all. The food looked good enough. Salads to start followed by a savory tomato bisque and exquisitely cut watercress and pate sandwiches—something Trixie only recognized thanks to one memorable high tea with Honey’s Hart grandmother. She wrinkled her nose. Ham and cheese would be more to her personal taste. Diana’s as well, it would seem, as she nibbled nervously at a single triangle before setting it aside. Honey barely ate at all, and the conversation between the two girls was stilted and formal—almost as formal as Diana’s dress—a lavender confection with a dainty pink cashmere sweater and pearls.
“What happened to them?” Trixie asked, realizing that her voice could no more be heard than her body seen.
“Nothing,” Ziel replied. “Honey’s family moved her here for the fresh air and sunshine. But she has all of her lessons here in the house, and her parents travel almost continuously. Diana’s father became wealthy, and her mother has slowly isolated Diana from all of her old friends. She is also tutored at home, now. She and Honey have a shared luncheon twice a week, followed by a deportment session when at Diana’s house, and a riding lesson when here.”
“They still have horses, then?” Trixie asked, perking up. “But Regan is still here. That woman said so. Does he still run the stable? Does Dan help him out?”
Ziel shook his head. “Not exactly, although Regan does still work here. Come on. I’ll show you.” He held out his hand, and as she took it, the room flashed and Trixie found herself in the stables.
Strawberry snorted, evidently sensing some sort of presence, but he calmed at Ziel’s touch.
Trixie looked around at a place both familiar and strange at the same time. Only three of the stalls were occupied. Jupiter. Lady. Strawberry. “Are Starlight and Susie outside?” she asked, knowing somehow that she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“No.” Ziel’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “The Wheelers barely use the three horses they have. They had no need for more.”
“But Brian and Mart,” Trixie choked, “and...”
“You don’t exist here, remember?” Ziel reminded her. “Your brothers barely know who Honey is, and they never come up here unless it’s to sneak a swim or use one of the back hills for sledding.”
A muffled sound caught Trixie’s attention, and she moved away from her angel. Peering into the stable office, she was shocked to see Regan sitting at his desk with a letter crumbled in his big, freckled hands and tears streaming down his face. Sorrow and something else—guilt—seemed to roll off of him in desperate waves. Trixie wasn’t sure how she recognized his emotions, but somehow she did. Moving closer, she heard his pained moan, “Danny, I’m so sorry.”
She turned to Ziel in fear and confusion. “Dan isn’t in Sleepyside, is he?” she asked. The angel shook his dark head. “Where is he?” Trixie demanded. “Let me see him. Please!”
He nodded, moving to envelope her again. “Brace yourself,” he whispered, and she had the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket, and the sensation of the floor dropping out from under her.
It was cold when she could see again. Cold and white, but she was standing on a tile floor, not in the snow. Looking around from the protection of Ziel’s arms, she took note of the gray doors lining the walls like over-large filing cabinets. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice sounding hollow in her own ears.
“I think you know.”
“The morgue.” Trixie whispered. “I really don’t want to see this, do I?”
“We can leave,” he offered gently.
She shook her head and swallowed, hard. “No. I need to know.” She stepped forward. “Where?”
Ziel held up his hand and a drawer slowly extended, revealing the body on the silver slab. Trixie instinctively closed her eyes, breathing in the chemical scents of the morgue. Her stomach churned violently. Slowly opening her eyes, she stared down at the still, gray form before her.
He was smaller than she had expected—but then, he would be. Gone were the muscular arms, built up by hours of wood chopping. Gone were the healthy tan and the wicked gleam of humor. Instead, Dan lay naked, save a towel, on the slab, thin and malnourished, the dark hair long and stringy, and the navy eyes closed forever. He’d been beaten. That much was obvious. The handsome face was marked with bruises far too livid against the pallor of death, and under the harsh light, his battered chest and ribs showed damage beyond anything Trixie could have imagined.
She covered her mouth with her hands and turned away. Ziel was there, and she buried her face in his shoulder. “Why?” she sobbed. “How?”
He seemed to sigh, and she heard the snick-click of the drawer sliding back into place. “The experiment in Sleepyside didn’t work,” Ziel explained. “Mr. Maypenny wasn’t involved, so it was just Regan and Dan. They rubbed each other wrong at every turn. There were some minor robberies, and even though Dan wasn’t involved, public opinion rarely favors the newcomer—especially not a newcomer who comes with a juvenile record. It lasted about a month. Regan arranged for Dan to be sent back to the city, but Luke came for him before the court could. He was living with the gang, on the street, stealing cars. Two days ago, he refused to rob an elderly lady. Luke was high and angry and had the whole gang behind him. Dan was his target. He really didn’t stand a chance.”
“Oh, God. Dan... What about...Tessa...”
“They never met,” Ziel assured her. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look into his pale eyes. “You don’t exist here. You never wrote to your aunt. They never came to New York. That lifeline went an entirely different way. Do you want to go and see?”
“No! I can’t...please...I...” Trixie twisted away, sobbing harder into the angel’s shoulder.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Jim.” The name came to her lips without thought. “I need to see Jim.”
She felt him sigh as his wings wrapped around her. “Very well,” he whispered, and they were gone.
She opened her eyes to a completely unfamiliar place. A school, two stories of beige and brick against the cold gray sky greeted her gaze. The sign on the lawn read, Colonie Central High School. “Where are we?” she asked. “This isn’t Sleepyside.”
“It’s Albany,” Ziel told her.
“Albany?” Trixie shook her head in disbelief. “No. No. Jim can’t be in Albany. He can’t.”
“And yet, there he is,” Ziel said, turning her as a bell rang and the double doors flew open, disgorging students. Sure enough, Trixie quickly spotted Jim, his broad shoulders hunched as if against the cold, his red head down as he moved slowly toward the busses, his feet seeming to drag against the pavement. No one approached him. His entire body language seemed to scream, “Stay away!”
Students swarmed the sidewalk yet gave him a fairly wide berth. Trixie noticed the way he was dressed. Where most of the boys exiting the school were dressed in jeans or cords with polo shirts, t- shirts and lightweight jackets, Jim wore a long sleeved button down shirt and slacks. He carried a backpack, as did most of the others, but Jim’s was clutched in front of him rather than worn over his shoulder or across his back.
“I don’t understand.” Trixie turned to Ziel. “Jim should be in Sleepyside.”
“He was, briefly. Last summer.” Ziel’s pale eyes were full of sympathy. “But his great-uncle died before Jim could meet him. He ran, but the first camp director he applied with realized that something was wrong. The authorities were notified, and from there, his stepfather, and...here he is.”
“But Honey...” Trixie broke off, realizing the truth.
Ziel finished the thought for her anyway. “Honey thought the face in the window was a ghost, or an illusion. She would never have considered investigating on her own, and you weren’t there to encourage her. The Wheelers are completely unaware of Jim’s fate.”
“Is he okay?” she asked. Shaking her head, she answered her own question. “No, of course he isn’t.” She turned her eyes on Ziel, imploring, “Can we stay for a while? I just need to know...”
“Time, for us, is not a straight line,” he replied. “We can go forward and backward, linger or not, and still end up at the start. Come.” He folded her in his embrace again, and when she opened her eyes, she was on the porch of a worn whitewashed farmhouse, looking out on a gray barn, a battered brown building with bay doors, three metal and glass hothouses, two huge fenced dog kennels, and a large fallowed field.
“This is Jonesy’s truck farm, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Ziel answered, “and here comes the school bus.”
Sure enough, the big yellow bus came to a screeching halt at the end of the long drive. Jim stepped out, his eyes still focused on his feet, his bag clutched in his arms. The bus pulled away, and Jim trudged sullen and silent toward the house. He stepped right past Trixie and Ziel and in through the door. Silently, Trixie followed. She watched as Jim cautiously set his backpack on the table inside the door and cocked his head—listening for something she couldn’t decipher. Whatever it was, he seemed satisfied that he was alone, for his shoulders relaxed slightly and he moved to the kitchen. In a smooth, controlled manner, he took a wrapped chicken out of the ancient looking Harvest Gold refrigerator, unwrapped it and placed it in a terra cotta casserole dish. With economical movements, he washed his hands in the kitchen sink before he cut up and added carrots, potatoes, onions and celery to the dish. He lightly seasoned the dish and placed the pan in the oven, peeling a strip of dull orangey-yellow paint off the side and revealing a strip of gray below.
Jim set the timer and turned to pull out a drawer, removing the meat tenderizer and slipping it up his sleeve before he left the kitchen. “What’s he doing?” Trixie asked.
The angel shrugged. “Go upstairs,” he suggested.
She did, moving up the stairs, unsure of where Jim had gone. There were four doors upstairs, two on the right and two on the left. She stood, pondering which one to choose. With a belabored sigh, Ziel touched her shoulder and she found herself inside the most depressing bedroom ever.
It was small and undecorated, with walls that might once have been white, but were now dull grimy beige, the scarred wooden floor covered by a large, threadbare braided rug she thought had once been shades of blue. A battered wooden dresser stood next to the door and a makeshift desk sat under the small, bare window, its broken leg balanced by an old dictionary. In the corner was a metal-framed twin size bed, covered with a dark green spread. It was neatly made but there was something lumpy on the corners. Trixie noticed, but her attention was diverted by the fact that Jim had changed out of his school clothes and into denim overalls. Trixie watched as he hung his trousers in the closet, alongside three identical pair and four shirts in the same style as the one he wore. His fingers methodically unbuttoned his shirt, and Trixie watched him wince as he shrugged out of it and placed it in the hamper, followed by his undershirt. She gasped at the sight of his naked back, mottled with blue and yellow bruises.
He pulled a long-sleeved, gray t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it over his head, fastening the straps of his overalls. He started for the door but hesitated, turning back to place his school shoes under the chair by the desk. He shuffled out in his sock-clad feet.
Trixie followed him back down the stairs where he put on muck boots and headed outside. She watched him as he did chores, filling the grain bins in the barn, checking the plants and irrigation system in the hot houses, feeding and watering the chickens and collecting the eggs, and then heading toward the kennels. He was so quiet. There was none of the cheerful whistling she was used to. He didn’t speak to the chickens, but when he reached the dog kennels, he showed more emotion than she had seen so far.
The kennel was divided into several fenced segments, each with a lean-to structure. There were five Pit Bulls—one male and four female. Two of the females were obviously expecting puppies, while another nursed a litter of five. Jim grabbed a handful of dog treats from a bin against the wall and stuffed them into the pocket of his overalls.
As he opened the gate, five sets of eyes looked up at him expectantly, and for the first time, Jim smiled. It wasn’t the crooked grin Trixie knew so well. No, this smile was sadder, almost bitter. He opened each pen in turn, entering with a treat, scooping the pen, and giving some attention to the occupant before exiting with more treats.
In the last pen, he took the time to cuddle each of the puppies, and then, Trixie finally heard his voice.
It was rusty, as if he hadn’t used it for a while, but it was the words he spoke that sent chills down her spine. “Hey, Sally,” he said, giving the mama dog a scratch between her ears. “It won’t be long now, I promise. No more cages. No more being forced.” The dog whined, and he told her, “I know. I don’t like it either, but it’s all we have left. He’s taken everything. He’s just waiting until I’m eighteen. Then he’s going to make me disappear. This is the only way.” Sally whined again and licked his hand. Jim dipped into his pocket for the last treat. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“What is he talking about?” Trixie asked Ziel. “What is he going to do?” She felt panicked. Everything was wrong.
“Watch.” Ziel touched her arm, and Trixie found herself
looking down from what had once been a hayloft, her angel at her side.
Below, in the space where farm machinery was kept, Jim eased himself down beside an ancient-looking tractor. Trixie couldn’t see what he was doing, but it involved the meat tenderizer, and something that resembled a small glass jar partially filled with liquid. When he finished, Jim tied a kerchief around his mouth and nose and donned a pair of safety goggles, before moving to a row of labeled containers. Choosing three different containers, he used two of them to coat the floor around the tractor. Slowly, the husky redhead drew random patterns with the fluids, spending an inordinate amount of time soaking several small piles of sawdust and scattering them to soak up the fluid before returning two of them to their resting place.
“What is he doing?” Trixie whispered, even though she now knew Jim couldn’t hear her.
“Well,” Ziel said, “they say that desperate times call for desperate actions. I’d say that young Mr. Frayne just passed desperate. First, he loosened the fuel filter and stripped the coil wire on the tractor. Now, he’s soaking the barn with acetone, kerosene and gasoline.”
“He’s going to set it on fire?” Trixie stared at the angel in disbelief.
“Not personally,” he told her. “He’s just setting the stage. After all, his stepfather does enjoy his tobacco.”
She watched, horrified as Jim continued on his mission. Reaching behind a jumble of metal and wire, he pulled out bottle. A closer look revealed an empty bottle whose label read, Jose Quervo Tequila. Hefting the third container, he used a funnel to fill the bottle about half way. He screwed the lid back on the bottle, capped the container, and placed it back with the others. He walked slowly toward the bay doors, his eyes focused on his goal. Carefully, he tucked the bottle partially inside a spare tire. Gathering sawdust from the pile against the far wall, he cushioned the bottle, laying it on its side with the neck barely peeking out from under the rubber treads. Satisfied with his work, he left the barn, closing the bay doors behind him.
“No.” Trixie shook her head so hard her hair bounced off of her face. “No way. Jim would never...he wouldn’t even fight back! He said so. He said you just run.”
“He’d have a hard time running these days,” Ziel told her. He wrapped his arms around her again, and said, “I’ll show you.”
They’d moved forward in time again but not by much. Jim was standing at the sink, rinsing the last of the dinner dishes while Jonesy sprawled in all of his hunched-shouldered, yellow-toothed glory at the table. As he rolled his next cigarette, Trixie could swear she smelled the disgusting stench of the tobacco. “Hurry it up, boy. I don’t got all night.”
“Yes, sir. I’m done.” Jim’s voice was quiet.
“Get yerself upstairs, then.” Joneys clamped his home rolled between his crooked teeth and ran a calloused hand through his greased back, black hair. “You’ve got until I finish this ciggie. You’ll be in your bed when I get up there, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Jim folded the dishtowel and set in on the counter before trudging back to the stairs. Trixie and Ziel stood in the kitchen watching as Jonesy finished his cigarette and silently pushed back his chair. They followed him as he crept up the stairs.
As ordered, Jim was in his bed, the covers pulled up nearly to
his chin. Jonesy said not a word, he just grinned evilly and grabbed Jim’s right wrist with his nicotine stained fingers and roughly secured him to the bed via the leather restraint. Reaching across, he repeated the action with Jim’s left wrist. Giving each restraint a sharp tug, he snickered and slapped each of his cheeks with a mocking, “Good night. Sleep tight. Tomorrow is a work day.” As he left the room, he flicked off the light and Jim’s world went dark.
“He can’t run.” Trixie understood now. “Ooooh. I just want to...that man. That evil, evil jerk! He can’t just leave him like that. Jim’s helpless!”
“He’s also very resourceful. Come.”
She was standing in the same place in Jim’s room, but the sun was peeking up over the horizon, casting dim light into the room. Suddenly, his green eyes snapped awake, his body tensing. The door flew open. “Up and at ‘em, princess,” Jonesy growled, striding across the room. He released the restraints, and Jim pushed himself up, rubbing at his wrists. “I want you out in the potato field in twenty minutes. The starts are ready to go in the ground. When you’re done with that, the early field needs weeding. If you finish that, you can come in for lunch. After, I want the greens from house one and house three harvested. I’m taking the tractor out to till the adjacent fields, so I’ll have my eyes on you. I want the corn, beans, tomatoes and eggplant in by tomorrow. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jonesy left, but Jim didn’t follow. He sat on his bed, flexing his hands, fisting and opening, tightening and loosening, his face inscrutable. Trixie felt Ziel’s hand on her back, and her attention turned to the window.
Jonesy was shuffling toward the mechanical building, ape arms swinging, the ever-present cigarette clamped between his lips. He slid open the bay doors and disappeared from her line of vision.
“What’s going to happen?” she asked. Her hair whipped back and forth as she swung her gaze from the window to the still and silent Jim.
“It won’t be pretty,” Ziel warned her, right before she found herself transported once again.
She hadn’t had time to close her eyes this time, so she didn’t have to open them to realize she was back in the old hayloft, surrounded by the detritus of agricultural mechanics. Below her, Jonesy climbed on the tractor and fired it up.
Literally. As the engine roared to life with a choke and a groan, the fuel tube came loose, spewing gasoline into the air. Jonesy swore, his lit cigarette falling from his lips, even as the stripped coil wire sparked. What happened next looked like a scene from a horror movie. The gasoline vapors ignited, engulfing the tractor—and its driver—in flames.
She screamed, even though she knew no one would hear her. The last thing she saw before her guardian angel swept her away was the fuel-soaked wooden floor erupting in fire.
Trixie was gasping for air. It didn’t matter that the flames hadn’t touched her. The horror of the sounds and images in her head made her feel as if all the air had been sucked away from her. “Breathe,” she heard Ziel order softly, his feathered wings enveloping her, removing much of the terror, and calming her enough that she could obey. When she could breathe normally again, she realized they were back in the tiny bedroom with Jim.
He hadn’t moved. He still sat on the bed, his hands working as he stared, his face devoid of all expression. He didn’t move until something outside exploded. Then, and only then, he made his way to the window. “That was the acetone he put in the tequila bottle,” Ziel told her. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“Long until what?” she managed to ask, her throat dry.
“Resourcefulness.”
The sound of sirens echoed in the early morning air, and the swirling glow of emergency lights could be seen in the distance. Calmly, Jim returned to his bed. He buckled the left restraint into a circle, and then fastened the right one to his right wrist, pulling it tight. Then, he patiently worked his left hand in a circle until he managed to slide it through the loop. Secured, he slid down on the bed, waiting. While he waited, he twisted and pulled against his bonds, his actions leaving marks on his wrists.
Trixie’s mouth worked, trying to form the words she so wanted to say. Finally, she rasped out a whisper, “What is he doing? The house could go up next.”
“It could,” Ziel agreed, “and he would simply accept that as his punishment. But it won’t. There’s nothing to catch between here and there, and the fire brigade should be here in five...four...three...two... now!”
It all happened so fast. Fists pounding on the door. Voices shouting. The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and the boy on the bed carefully schooled his features.
Jim’s bedroom door was flung open, and he turned to his visitors with fear and resignation on his face.
“This is wrong.” Trixie shook her head. “This isn’t true. This isn’t happening. Jim would never...Not my...Not Jim. This is a lie.”
“This is an alternate life line,” Ziel reminded her. “Jim doesn’t know you. He never met you or your family or the people who became his family in your world.”
“I don’t like this,” she stated, angry tears in her china blue eyes. “I don’t want to watch this anymore.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home. I want to go home.”
“As you wish.” Ziel unfurled his wings, wrapping them around her, and despite her anger and fear, she was once again comforted by their strength and softness. “But be prepared. Lifelines are tricky. It’s all a matter of come and go.”
Crabapple Farm was beautiful in the late spring. The trees were green with leaves, the fruit buds beginning to blossom. At first, Trixie was afraid to look, fearful that her warm, comforting home would be little more than derelict in this increasingly terrible reality. What she saw seemed...normal. With a sigh of relief, she headed for the door.
That was when she saw the garden, or rather, what should have been her mother’s garden. The large plot was fallow, untilled, unplanted and unproductive. Trixie was drawn like a magnet to the sad field, staring in disbelief at the weeds poking up around the border. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Moms’ always has a garden. She had one before I was born. Me not being here shouldn’t have changed that.”
“Your absence didn’t affect your mother’s gardening,” Ziel agreed. “Why, just last summer, she canned a record number of tomatoes and pickles. She won blue ribbons for both those, and her zinnias at the fair. This year, though, she just didn’t have the energy.”
“Is she sick?” Trixie felt her stomach clench with dread.
“Physically, no,” he answered. “Take a look.”
She found herself in her bedroom, but it wasn’t hers. The walls were painted in an ocean blue, and sailboats with cheery green, red and yellow sails were painted in a happy regatta. Gone were her twin beds. Instead there was a single bed, covered in a quilt pieced in a matching boat pattern. It was very much a boy’s room. Judging by the stuffed panda on the window seat, this was Bobby’s room. The only thing in the room that remained of Trixie was the green-eyed, spotted china cat on the dresser.
Trixie reached out and touched it. “Hello, Spotty,” she said, with a tremulous smile. “I see you fared better in this reality than you did in mine.”
The door opened, and Helen Belden walked in, closing the door quietly behind her. Trixie nearly wept. Her mother, her beautiful mother, looked so thin and haggard, dark circles underneath her dulled blue eyes, her hair streaked with grey. “She is sick!” she said, staring indignantly at Ziel.
“Not in the physical sense,” the angel repeated. “She’s grieving.”
“Grieving?” Trixie was confused. “Grieving for what?” Helen hunched down on the window seat, clutching the panda to her chest. “No. Not Bobby?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her throat hurt, and her eyes burned. “How?”
“He wanted to find a kitty. He slipped away—you know how good he was at disappearing. It was February, there was snow, and he ended up trapped in a catamount den.”
She shook her head. “No. Dan dug him out. Dan saved him. I was there.”
“Dan never knew he was out there.” Ziel used his index finger to tip up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Luke and Dan were arguing over whether or not to rob the Wheelers. Dan prevailed— although it cost him, later—and they left. You weren’t here, Trixie. You didn’t find your brother. You didn’t go off searching for help and find Dan. Bobby was alone. They didn’t find him until early the next morning. I’m sorry.”
“What else?” she asked dully. “I get what you’re doing, Ziel. Cause and effect. What else is wrong here?”
“I’ll let Mart tell you.” He touched her shoulders, and they were in her almost twin’s bedroom.
His crew cut was as precise as always, and both a dictionary and thesaurus sat on his desk, but her brother was sitting on the edge of his bed, a tape recorder in his hands. She wanted to be angry with him, her almost-twin who had cut her to the core with his words, but she couldn’t. She’d seen too much since then, and looking at Mart, she was struck by how fragile he looked, like a boy hanging on by his fingernails. She sat down on his desk chair, listening as he started speaking into the tape recorder microphone.
“My name is Martin Belden, and I’m fourteen years old. I’m almost a sophomore at Sleepyside Junior-Senior High School, and I will be fifteen in twelve days. I used to be the middle child in my family. Now, now I’m not sure who I am, or even if I still have a family. My school counselor, Mr. Harkins, loaned me this recorder. He suggested I keep a recorded journal. He’s a psychologist, so I’m going to trust his education and give it a try. Otherwise, I’m afraid I might go nuts.
I’ll start with the basics. My father is Peter Belden. He’s a branch manager at the bank in town. My mother is Helen Johnson Belden, and she’s a homemaker—although she’s also a really good artist. I have an older brother, Brian. He’s sixteen, which makes him about twenty months older than me. He’s smart, so he’ll be a senior next year, when he should be a junior. He skipped second grade. He used to want to be a doctor. I mean, it was everything to him. Being a doctor was what drove him to study so much. He used to read medical textbooks from the library while everyone else was reading Cosmo McNaught. Now, I’m not sure what he’s thinking. He spends a lot of time in town and down by the river. I know he’s been drinking with a bunch of losers, and the other day, I swear I smelled weed on him. When I asked him what was going on, he shoved me away and said it’s not any of my business how he deals.
What he’s dealing with is our little brother’s death. Robert Belden, age six. Bobby died three months ago, in February.” Mart paused the tape. Trixie wanted to reach out to him, tears streaming down her face as she watched him try and regain his control. He continued, “He wandered off because he wanted to find a kitten. I was at the movies with my friend, Ty. Brian was studying...something...and told Bobby that he’d take him kitten shopping when the snow melted and spring started. So, Bobby went off on his own. Moms thought he was with Dad. Dad thought he was with Moms. They didn’t notice he was gone until dinnertime. I got dropped off just before it was ready, and Moms asked me to get Bobby washed up. It was fried chicken night, and I was hungry, so I was irritated when we couldn’t find him. Then, we really couldn’t find him. We found his footprints, but it was dark, and snowing a little. We searched and searched, and so did the police, but it was Reddy— our dog—he’s the one who found him. It was the next morning. Bobby was in a cave, a den really, judging by the animal remains inside. He’d gotten his foot trapped under a rock and some dirt. He couldn’t get out, it was cold, and I guess he just cried himself to sleep. He had tear stains on his face when we found him. He didn’t wake up. He died from exposure, in the hospital, the next morning.” He turned the recorder to pause, taking deep, slow breaths. After a long moment, he pushed the button again.
“Bobby’s dying wrecked my family. Brian was mad at himself, because he couldn’t save him. He couldn’t bring him back, and he didn’t keep him safe. That’s always his job, Brian, keeping us safe. My parents never fight. Never. I’m not stupid or naïve. I know they probably had disagreements, but they never fought. Until now. Moms blamed Dad for not paying attention to Bobby, and Dad blamed Moms, because she’s the one who takes care of us. They yelled at each other, and Dad walked out. He came back, but they don’t talk now. Dad works late, and when he comes home, he sleeps in the guest room. Moms, well, she still cooks and does stuff for us, but it’s like she’s not here. She’s always had this great garden—her tomatoes and pickles are prizewinning. This year, she said she didn’t have the energy. She doesn’t have much energy for anything, I guess. She cries a lot, and I’ve seen her sneaking into Bobby’s old room. She doesn’t go to Garden Club or Choir anymore, either. And, I don’t think she’s noticed how much Brian has changed. Dad hasn’t either, but that’s because he isn’t around much, and when he is, he’s in his den with a bottle of bourbon, or in the guest room, with the door closed.
So, I lost my little brother, and now I feel like I’ve lost my father and big brother, too. Moms is so sad, and I don’t know what to do to make her happy. I think this weekend I’m going to put in her garden, and if she doesn’t have the energy to work it, I will. I’ve saved my allowance for a while, so I’m going to order some plant starts and some seeds. I’m hoping I might be able to get her interested in something again. Because, if I don’t, I’m afraid my family will completely self-destruct.
I need someone to talk to. I’ve always been close to my brother, Brian, and to my parents, but they...they just aren’t...anymore. I really wish I had someone my own age around here. Someone to talk to. Someone to listen to. It’s so quiet around here, now. Sometimes, the silence hurts. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. It makes me itch, deep inside. That’s why Mr. Harkins suggested this tape thing.
There was a kid here for a while. He was the cousin or nephew of that redheaded guy who takes care of the horses up at the Manor House. He seemed nice, although quiet, but then he was gone. I’ve heard rumors, but who knows if they’re true or not. I don’t know, and I don’t much care. It’s getting harder to care about anything.
Sometimes I think Brian might be right. At least if he’s smoking weed and drinking, he isn’t feeling anything. No guilt, no fear, no sadness. Just, nothing. That might be for the best. It would sure beat the way I feel now.”
He pressed the stop button and placed the recorder under his bed. Lying back, head on his pillow, he folded his hands behind his head and stared sullenly at the ceiling. His lower lip trembled slightly, and he let the tears run unchecked.
Trixie’s tears were also running unchecked. Ziel approached her, hand outstretched, but she didn’t take it. Tucking her hands beneath her, she asked the angel, “All this happened because I wasn’t born?”
“Yes and no.” He smiled at her. “This is one possible thread, out of many lifelines. I just wanted you to see that you do have an influence on lives. You are important in your timeline.”
“They’re all mad at me,” she said.
“They were all afraid for you,” he countered.
“I heard them...”
“What did your mother say about eavesdropping?”
She licked her lips and looked up at him. “She said that eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves. Why?”
“What would you say if I told you there was more—a lot more— to that conversation you overheard?”
“Really?”
“I’m your guardian angel. Would I lie to you?” He held out his hand again, and this time, she took it.
They were in the Preserve again, Ziel’s wings around her. “So, are you ready to go back?” he asked her, “Or do you wish to remain unborn?”
“I think I’d like to go back,” she answered, “but only to my original timeline. You know, the one where we’ve all met and become friends.”
“Of course.” The wings retracted. “I’ll put you back outside the window, but you need to promise me that you’ll listen to the whole conversation before you act. Can you promise?”
“Yes.”
He tipped her chin with his finger. “Good,” he said. “I promise I won’t be far from you, but if you could take it a little easy on me, I’d appreciate it. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
She giggled. “You look like you’re twenty.”
“When I was assigned to you,” he said, giving her a sour look, “I looked fifteen. Give a guy a break, would you?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good enough.” He touched her forehead with his index finger, and she found herself outside the clubhouse window once again. Alone.
“...She’s a danger magnet,” Mart said.
“That isn’t completely true,” Diana protested. “We were in danger before she figured it out, and when she did, Trixie tried to do the right thing today. As soon as she realized that Gus was the thief, she went to the police. She’s not responsible for what he did to us, but she did put herself at risk to save us. When she realized the police weren’t going to arrive before Gus set the fire, she tackled him. If he’d lit that match, the whole place would have gone up with us inside.”
“Tad stabbed himself,” Tessa added, “He backed into the box knife that was on the counter while he was trying to move away from Gus. You can’t blame Trixie for that. She wasn’t even in the building at that point.”
“She’s not responsible for me being poisoned, either,” Brian pointed out. “That was an accident, and although I might wish she’d been a little more tactful about accusing Loyola, it was a good thing she figured out the source, or I might have ended up sick again.”
“You can’t blame her for what happened to me at all,” Dan spoke up. “I got caught by members of my old gang. Trixie not only figured out where I was, she also helped clear my name. Not to mention that she gave me a way out the first time I was here. Regan would have sent me back, and I’d have probably ended up in jail...or worse.”
“Dick hit me because I confronted him,” Jim spoke slowly, his voice deliberate and calm. “That was my temper that got me into that situation, not Trixie. But it was your sister who got me out of a horrible situation. If I hadn’t met her, I wouldn’t have the life I have now. I’d have either ended up on the run or back with Jonesy. I don’t know who I’d be if either of those things had happened, and I don’t want to think about the possibilities.”
“Me, either.” Honey spoke softly, but her voice gained strength as she continued. “I know that sometimes it looks as if Trixie is looking for trouble, but I don’t think she is. She just wants to set things in order and sometimes that draws trouble. But, Mart, what happened in Mississippi was my fault. I’m the one who insisted on trusting the Aguileras. Trixie didn’t trust them for one second, but I insisted. She’s the one who managed to whistle and get your attention. Same as she did when we were trapped on that old barn roof in Iowa. She saved us.”
“She put herself through a crazy fake crush to save my car,” Brian mused.
“She figured out that Tessa was being held prisoner in the school basement,” Dan added.
“She saved Daddy from getting swindled by my fake uncle,” Diana pointed out, “and she found those emeralds so Mr. Carver could get his operation.”
“Trixie found the missing money for Ethel and Ed on Cobbett’s Island,” Jim added, “Plus, she rescued my cousin from the dangerous bluffs and figured out that the fake Juliana was a fake.”
“Definitely more good than bad,” Brian said. “She’s the one who found you in the avalanche, Mart. I was afraid we would be too late, but she was determined. She saved you, and she saved your reputation during that Midnight Marauder mess.”
Mart sounded calmer, almost resigned. “You’re all right, I guess. She saved Bobby when that copperhead bit him, and I guess I do owe her for introducing me to my favorite author. It’s just that every time something like this happens, I feel like my heart is going to stop beating.”
She couldn’t stand anymore. Trixie reached for the door handle and pulled it open, stopping the conversation. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t go looking for trouble, Mart, I swear.”
He went pale and then bright red. “How much of that did you hear?”
“From about the point when you suggested I be suspended from the club.” She scowled at him before turning to face the group. “Look, I’m sorry if I worried you. Really, I am. If you want to suspend me, go ahead. If you think that Mart’s right, and you’re better off without me, then you should. Just know this. I’m better off because I have all of you in my life. You’re my family—the ones I was given, and the ones I chose. The only thing I regret is making you worry—and I can’t promise I won’t do it again. I don’t do it on purpose. It’s just...” Her voice failed.
“It’s who you are.” Honey finished the sentence, running to throw her arms around her best friend. “It’s because you just want to help, and I wouldn’t change that for all the not-worried feelings in the world. I love that about you!” She let go of Trixie, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder. “So, if you go, I go, too.”
“Me, three,” Diana said, standing up.
“Where you go, and all that,” Tessa said, getting to her feet and joining them. “Besides, we have to keep the girl power together, right?
“That’s half,” Dan said with a shrug, a grin on his face. “I think I’ll give into peer pressure in this case.” He stood up, leaning against the wall. “Especially since I want to go with the better looking, better smelling half of the group. What do you say, Jim?”
“Goes without saying,” Jim agreed, also rising. He looked at Trixie, his face open and honest. “I would never vote you out of the club. Without you, there wouldn’t be a club.”
The smile that had been on her face since Honey and Diana had decided to stand with her faltered just a little, memories of her strange journey clouding her eyes. There hadn’t been a club in her...dream? Hallucination? Blinking hard, she looked at her brothers. Waiting.
“Jim has a point,” Brian said shooting his best friend a sardonic grin, “and I’m not talking about the one his hair conceals.” He stepped into the circle, dodging Jim’s playful punch.
Mart sighed in a loud and exaggerated manner. “I wasn’t serious,” he protested. “I was just letting off steam. Sheesh!” He stepped up to his sister, bending his head so they were nose to nose. “Don’t be a goon, almost-twin. I couldn’t handle life without you. It’d be far too dull. Just, please, try to stop giving me heart failure. That would almost be as bad as dying from the ennui the lack of Beatrix would bring.”
It was group hug time. Silent and invisible in the corner of the room, Raziel—the Angel of Mysteries, smiled. He loved a happy ending.
The End
Author Notes
This is my CWE #9. It was written for our lost friend, Amy.
I didn’t personally know Amy, but I have known loss. My heart breaks for her family and friends.
This story had been sitting in my brain for a while. When the chance to write for the Amy Compilation CWE #9 came up, I let it out. It’s dark in ways I don’t usually write, but it does end up happily. I like “what if” stories. I like guardian angels. I’m guessing that Trixie’s would be getting a workout. This has all of that.
Each of us touches, and is touched by every person with whom we come in contact. I am grateful for each of you. You all have impacted my life. Thank you.
I give thanks to my editors, Susansuth, Dianafan & WendyM.
I give thanks to those of you reading this story. I give extra thanks to those of you who donated in Amy’s memory.
