Legacy of the Witch Page 3

  I took his hand, and I thought that it already was.

  Chapter Three

  I was staring down at our joined hands as if I’d gone into a trance, and I couldn’t let go.

  “Amarrah?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope I didn’t offend you. I’m glad you’re Iraqi. I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

  “Of course not.” It wasn’t until that very moment—as I shook off the dream or vision or delusion or whatever it had been and refocused on the immediate situation—that I realized how this would look if he caught on to my deception. I was Iraqi. He was a decorated veteran of Desert Shield. And I was here under false pretenses. I might easily be labeled a spy, and given the current climate in the U.S. where my country was concerned, I could land in serious trouble.

  I would have to find the witches’ box quickly, then get out just as quickly. No time for exploring this odd feeling that I knew him, that he was somehow a part of…of all of it. Everything.

  But he only shrugged. “I’m particularly fond of the Iraqi people,” he said. “I got very attached to a lot of them while I was there.” He lowered his eyes. Painful memories washed through him. I felt it as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud. “Your English is flawless.”

  “I’ve been here since I was thirteen.”

  “Ahh. Your family immigrated?”

  “Died,” I told him. “I came here to be with distant cousins, the American branch of my family.” I sipped more coffee. “How did it look? My country? I haven’t been back in over ten years.”

  Again he lowered his eyes. “It’s rough. The bombing has taken a toll.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Amarrah. It’s a beautiful place. I’m sure this is tearing you apart.”

  “I try not to watch the news. Or any television, because the news constantly interrupts. But it sometimes feels as if I can hear the cries of my people.” I blinked against the emotion I rarely gave voice. How was it that I was discussing these feelings with him when I never discussed them with anyone? Ever. “Can we talk about something else, please? The work I’ve come to do, perhaps?”

  He studied my face for a moment, and I thought he was searching for something to say to erase the pain that undoubtedly showed in my eyes. But he must have decided nothing could do that, because he gave up with a sharp nod. “Sure. Let’s get right to it. This way.”

  Turning, he walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room and over to the wide staircase. His big, sock-covered feet moved soundlessly up the thickly carpeted steps.

  I started to follow, then paused.

  He doesn’t think I’m a prostitute, does he? I replayed everything he’d said so far in my mind, or tried to.

  Sensing my hesitation, I think, he turned. “Anything wrong?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, come on, then. The office is right up here.”

  Office. Phew. Okay, great. I got myself moving again and remembered to keep a keen eye out for the box as he led me down the second story hallway, past a handful of closed doors I presumed were bedrooms to an open one at the far end.

  His office must have been intended as the master suite. He’d converted it, and beautifully. A huge desk took up one corner, rich dark walnut, clearly an antique. A squat fat computer monitor sat atop it, the tower on the floor nearby. A smaller, more modern desk sat in another corner, also sporting a computer, and there was a table in between that held a printer, a fax and a small copier.

  The carpet in here was the same thick plush beige as the stairs and hall, soft and cushiony under my feet. Big windows filled the triangular peak facing front, letting in tons of light.

  “There’s a walk-in closet there, with most of the office supplies. And the master bath has everything you should need.” Then he frowned. “Did you leave your bags in the car? The agency did tell you this job includes room and board for the duration, didn’t they?”

  This was getting better and better. And scarier, too. I was expected to stay here? For how long? And with this man, who seemed to get inside my brain, unleashing parts of the story I’d never known before. Parts my gidaty had never told me. Parts I hadn’t made up to tell her. Parts that felt more like memories of that dark-eyed man-boy, Harmon. “Yeah. Uh, yeah, they’re in the car.”

  The telephone on the big desk rang. He held up a finger to me and went over to pick it up, while I prayed in silence, Don’t let it be the agency he just mentioned.

  He spoke briefly, then hung up. “I’m sorry. I have to go out for a bit. So I guess you get a reprieve. Look, your room is back down the hall, first door on the left. Mine’s at the opposite end. Take some time to get settled in. Make yourself at home. And maybe?” he picked up a stack of printed pages “…give it a read. See what you think. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Thanks, Amarrah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  And then he left. I watched out the window, where I had a clear view of the driveway and the two-car garage that matched the rich gleaming wood of the house itself and sat kitty-corner to it, with a covered walkway in between. One of its doors rolled up slowly, and a sporty looking red Jeep came speeding out of it, darting down the drive and out to the road, its motor growling loudly with each shift.

  He was gone, and I was alone in the house.

  The phone rang. I picked it up hesitantly. “Sergeant Brockson’s residence,” I said.

  “Hi, there. This is Linda from Sumner Temps. I need to speak with Harrison Brockson, please?”

  This must be the agency! “He’s not here, but I can take a message and see that he gets it.” I twisted the twirly telephone cord around my forefinger as I listened.

  “All right. Please give him my apologies. The temp we had lined up had a family emergency—gave us no notice at all. We’re scrambling to find him another—”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, thinking fast, “we have several agencies finding us several temps, and I’m new here, so can you be more specific? What job exactly was this temp you were sending supposed to do?”

  “I didn’t realize he was working with more than one agency.”

  “Well, not for the same job, naturally,” I said.

  She sniffed. I thought I’d made her angry. “She’s supposed to be doing some proofreading and copyediting, that sort of thing. I believe he’s writing a memoir?”

  “Oh, that temp,” I said as if I knew. My gaze flew back to that stack of pages with a sharpened interest. “Actually, we were going to call you and cancel that one anyway, so it all worked out just fine.”

  “Oh?” The woman sounded surprised. “Did he…hire someone from another agency?”

  “No, no, an old friend came in from out of town for an extended visit, an English Lit professor, actually,” I said, thinking of my own English Lit professor, Susan O’Shaughnessy, and how much I admired her snow-white complexion, red curls and sharp mind. “So she offered to help. Thanks for calling,” I said, not wanting to explain further or answer any more questions. “You have a great day.”

  “You, too,” she said, and I hung up the phone.

  I clapped my hands together and turned my attention to the stack of papers on the desk. A Soldier’s Story, by Sgt. Harrison Brockson.

  I blinked. He was writing…his own story. What a perfect way to get to know more about him! My eyes sped over the first few lines. It was indeed a memoir. His experience in Iraq. My homeland. And maybe it would even include the story of how he’d come to find my heirloom chest.

  I was dying to do just what he’d asked and read the manuscript, but I was here for a reason. And reading this man’s book was not it.

  I had to find the witches’ box.

  Except I didn’t. Two hours later I’d searched the entire house, and there was no miniature treasure chest to be found. No safe anywhere, no mysterious hidden or locked rooms. I’d learned a little something about Sergeant Harrison Brockson, though. He was a neat freak. The place was as spotless as if no
one really lived in it, like a model home or something. He was also a fitness nut. One entire room was devoted to workout equipment, and none of it was used to hang jackets from, like the solitary treadmill at my temporary apartment, where all the roomies insisted on keeping the thing, and none of them ever set foot on it.

  Harrison used his equipment. There was a bathroom off the gym, with stacks of towels, and a minifridge full of nothing but ice cubes, bottled water and Gatorade. His workout clothes had a drawer all to themselves in his dresser, and he kept his running shoes in the box they’d come in, in the closet, next to the fireproof security box—and no, I couldn’t see what was inside that. But it wasn’t big enough to hold my treasure chest.

  Okay, no luck, but I’d learned something about the man. He was neat and athletic. And a war hero, if the medals and framed citations were anything to go by. But not vain about it. They were all piled on closet shelves, collecting his home’s only visible dust, not displayed on walls or in cabinets.

  He had uniforms in his closet, freshly cleaned and still in the dry cleaner’s plastic. Still on active duty, then?

  There were a few family photos, a couple with their three little blond-haired, blue-eyed boys seemed to be his favorite subjects, as there were several of those around. One of an older couple taken on their golden anniversary—the man was in uniform. Had to be his parents. But not a single photo of the fiancée from the antiques show on TV.

  Interesting.

  I wound up back in the office, staring at the stack of pages on the desk. I’d intended to reclaim my ancient chest and be out of here by the time he returned, but that hadn’t worked out. And if I was still here when he got back, I supposed I ought to have read the thing, since that was ostensibly what I had come here to do.

  Besides, I was burning with curiosity. So I sat down, kicked off my shoes and began.

  And pretty soon I was turning the final page, and shaking my head in awe and wondering if this man was really someone from whom I had the nerve to steal. He’d written about his experiences the way I suspected a police officer fills out his reports at the end of the day. Just giving facts without embellishment—minimizing his own heroics, if anything. But he’d carried a wounded comrade through heavy gunfire to a helicopter to get him to safety. He’d breached the enemy line to rescue a young man who’d somehow become pinned down on the other side. He’d run into a burning building to rescue an innocent family.

  Nothing about how he’d felt. Nothing about the thoughts running through his mind, no emotion. Just simply-stated facts, like he was writing down a grocery list.

  He’d played it all down, probably left out a lot. And even from that cold recounting, I could tell he was a hero.

  Always has been…

  That odd voice inside my head whispered the thought, and even before I could start to analyze it, my mind was whisking me into the familiar world of the harem.

  I’d been sent out by Magdalena to fetch some water from the river. We had a water boy who filled our tall, ornate jugs and left them just beyond our doors each morning. But Magdalena said he must have been rushed this morning, because the water was muddy.

  This was another example of the kindness of these women I had so grown to love. Magdalena could have sent a message to the palace, asking for clean water, but that would have resulted in the water boy being beaten, or worse. And she would rather drink mud than cause the boy pain.

  So I was sent out with a single jug, a strap running from its slender neck to its base so I could carry it over my shoulder.

  I wasn’t supposed to leave the harem quarters, but since my mistress had sent me, I thought it would be all right. And she’d told me, too, to take my time about it. So I had. I’d knotted my long skirt up around my waist, so it hung only to my thighs, and I waded into the sacred river, enjoying the cool rush of its waters over my legs. I waded far out from the sandy shore and into the pebble strewn depths where the water was clearer, and I filled the jug there. It was heavier than I had expected it to be, and as I turned to heft it up onto my shoulder I slipped on a rock and fell with a huge splash and a soft squeal. And then the current swept the jug away, and with its strap still around my shoulder and one arm, it swept me right along with it.

  Faster and faster it seemed to drag me, and each time I pulled my head up for a gulp of air, the jug yanked me down again. I was choking, flailing my arms uselessly, trying to save myself but growing more and more exhausted, until I was certain there was no hope for me. I was going to drown in the sacred waters.

  And then, from nowhere it seemed, strong arms grabbed hold of me, lifting my head above the water, dragging me shoreward as I coughed and gasped. I felt relief as the jug was scooped up out of the river, disentangled from my body. And then I was scooped up, too, and he was carrying me, sloshing through the shallows of the river toward the shore.

  I blinked water from my eyes until I could see, and was not surprised to see Harmon, the young man I was already sure I would love forever. His jawline, so sharp and strong, his nose already big like a man’s nose, very straight and proud. Surely he had the blood of kings in his veins, I thought. For no king could be more beautiful.

  As we reached the shore he lowered me to the ground, removed the jug from his strong shoulder and stood it nearby, and then he was kneeling beside me, pushing the hair from my eyes, speaking to me in the voice that sent chills right up my spine. “Are you all right, beautiful Amarrah?”

  I would always remember just the way my heart felt at that moment. As if it would burst from joy over what I saw in his eyes as he looked at me. Concern, caring—passion. It was… It was a moment I vowed I would never forget.

  And then I was in the present again, blinking away the vision. The memory?

  It had gone dark outside, and the only light came from the desk lamp I’d turned on. I’d been so mesmerized by the man’s story, and then by the fantasy it had inspired in my brain, that I’d lost track of the time. For some reason my visions of the boy were very much a younger version of the man whose story I’d been reading.

  I heard footsteps below and thought he’d come back, so I set the manuscript aside and got up, walking toward the doorway, unreasonably eager to see him, and reaching around the corner for the light switch in the hall.

  But my hand went still when I saw the flashlight beam on the first floor. Frozen in place, I stared over the railing into the living room below, following the beam to its source, a gloved hand, and then my gaze moved up the arm to the face. Despite it being barely visible in the darkness, I could see enough to deduce that it was covered up by a black ski mask.

  And there was another man following close behind him.

  This is a break-in.

  I jerked backward into the office, moving as quietly as I could while shaking from my head to my toes. Scuffing my sock feet over the thick carpet, I got back to the desk, and reached out for the lamp. I needed to shut it off before they saw it and realized I was up here and—

  Click! said the lamp.

  I cringed at the noise, and then I heard them whispering loudly to each other as they came up the stairs, summoned by my stupid, stupid, stupid noise. What had I gotten myself into?

  I looked around wildly, but it was too far to the closet, and they were coming down the hall now. I could see their flashlight beams coming closer. With nowhere else to go, I ducked low and scrambled underneath the desk, though even the sound of my jeans on the carpet seemed louder than gunfire.

  The desk was solid in front, so I was hidden. I hoped.

  The two thugs came into the office.

  “I know I heard something,” said one.

  “Who the hell cares? Let’s just find the thing and get out of here.”

  They moved to the closet, opened it and rifled around in there, not being nearly as careful as I had been when I’d searched it myself earlier. Then one of them came over to the desk, swiping everything to the floor as I curled up even tighter, making myself as small as possib
le. He circled around to the back of the desk—my side of the desk!—and bent to yank open one drawer, then another.

  “Hey, ass-wipe, it’s too big to be in a desk drawer.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe there’s a clue in here.”

  “A clue? Who’re you, Magnum, P.I.?”

  “Come on over here and I’ll show you a—” He looked at me then, just happened to shift his head the right way and met my eyes under the desk, just like that. Bam. I was discovered.

  “Well, well, well. What’ve we got here?”

  He aimed the flashlight beam in my eyes, blinding me. “Come on, little thing. Come on out of there now.”

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. I crawled out from under the desk, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me upright.

  The other one stopped what he was doing and stared at me. “We were told the sarge lived alone.”

  I opened my mouth once or twice, but no words came out.

  “So who are you, then? You a burglar, too?”

  I shook my head.

  “You mute?”

  “N-no. J-j-just scared.”

  “You’re gonna be more than scared if you don’t start talking, little lady. Who are you and what’re you doin’ here?”

  “I…w-work here.”

  “You work here.” He looked me up and down, then looked at his partner. “She works here.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet she does.”

  “Well, that’s good, that’s good. Maybe you can help us out. We’re looking for a box. Looks like an old treasure chest, only smaller. You seen anything like that around here?”

  I lowered my eyes, shook my head.

  “Interesting. Interesting, huh, Joe?”

  “The way she couldn’t look you in the eye when you asked her that? Yeah, very.”

  “I know a liar when I see one, lady. You’ve seen that chest we’re looking for. When and where?”

  I shook my head again. “You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking abou—”

  He hit me with the flashlight, though it felt more like a baseball bat. Caught me right across the jaw, snapping my head back hard. My knees buckled under me, and I crashed to the floor, butt first. But the guy had me by the blouse, pulling me right up onto my feet again. “When and where have you seen that box?” He buried his hand in my hair, twisting it cruelly and pulling hard, bending my head to the side.