Reclaimed Love: Evil Lurks in Friendly Places: The Reclaimed Series

Book I

Tragedy Upon Tragedy

Chapter 1

DAMN COLD TODAY. HE pulled the parka tight around his chest. He turned to the driver, Bad Storm, don’t ‘cha think?

No shit. The driver gripped the steering wheel through wool mittens. Menacing wisps of snow snaked across the aging highway. He turned to his passenger, Jeez Bjorn, look at you... a regular Cheshire cat. What 'cha so smiley about this morning?

Although the squealing heater barely kept up with freezing air wafting through the '79 Chevy, Bjorn still felt her naked thigh pressed against his. He inhaled. The lingering scent of her perfume on his skin tickled his nose. He smiled, the memory of her touch warmed his arms, his torso, his heart. A puff of frigid air brushed his cheek pulling him away from his thoughts.

Nothing, he flashed a grin, mentally reliving the morning’s events. Shivers strummed his spine.

The men bounced along the highway, the wind’s icy fingers sculpting magnificent drifts. Snow coursed its way across the ever-narrowing road biting the tires of the vehicle. It scooted across the highway, glazing the pavement, making travel nearly impossible. Bjorn gazed at the snowfall, marveling at the swirls, imagining her twirling, dancing, throwing back her head, laughing. He watched the snow speed under the darkening sky and wondered how it could race at such velocity, flying mere inches from the ground.

God, I hate this weather - roads icy? Bjorn’s eyes veered towards the drifts creeping towards the center line.

Yeah, in spots.

Probably should slow down ‘cause... He never finished. A flash of brown snagged his attention. A deer leaped from an unharvested field beside the highway. He gazed in alarm as it jumped in front of the pick-up. The driver slammed the brakes. Bjorn smashed his hands against the dash. An eerie whistling sound pierced his ears; it took a few moments before he realized it came from his own throat. The truck spun in two perfect circles, then slammed into a grove of trees.

In a matter of seconds, the '79 Chevy transformed into a mass of twisted metal. It hissed once before bursting into flames. The deer scampered away.

THEY SNUGGLED ON THE sofa, a comforter tucked around them. A cartoon flickered on TV.

When's Daddy coming home? Peter asked nudging closer.

He'll be home Friday. She kissed his head.

What day is it now?

Monday.

Why did he go? The child furrowed his brows.

He has to work far away, sometimes.

Oh... When did he go?

This morning.

He didn't say 'goodbye.'

He did. You were sleeping.

Sweeping?

Yep, sleeping. She snuggled the child, remembering watching her husband pack his bags. She remembered feeling a stone in her stomach as she glanced out the window, noticing the thick bank of clouds moving in.

Bjorn, she’d said, I don’t think you should go.

Why?

Storm. Looks bad.

He laughed, I’ve traveled in worse.

I don’t feel good about this one...

He kissed her nose. Don’t be superstitious.

She watched him tiptoe to their son's room and tenderly kiss him. He tucked Peter’s worn blankie tight... a baby burrito... and stroked his hair. She remembered the pain in her husband's eyes as he turned to face her. Without saying a word, he stepped close and kissed her temple. Her body tingled as she felt his arms envelop her.

He’d worked far away home many times before, but this time felt different. With everything within her, she wished she could stop time and hold this moment forever. Without saying a word, he grasped her hand and led her to the bedroom. With the door latched, they slipped into bed for one last intimate moment before he left.

When they finished, he laid next to her, brushing her cheek with his index finger.

I love you, Anne Olssen. She knew he meant it.

I love you, Bjorn.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his pants over his legs. I know this feels wrong, but I’ve gotta take this job. I'll be careful out there.

I know you will.

He turned to Anne. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.

I know.

Harry’s a good driver.

I know.

And if we get stuck in the storm, one of us can go for help. Or if we really get stuck bad, we can always keep each other warm. Or...

Or you can use your cell phone and call for help.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. You got it. He pulled a stray hair away from her face. I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think it was perfectly safe.

You’re right.

She stood by the door clutching her chenille robe as Harry’s '79 Chevy pickup backed out of the drive. Today she disliked these unpredictable Minnesota winters – already the storm felt worse than the forecasters predicted.

Over the drone of Peter’s cartoons, the sound of the Chevy’s tires squeaking on dry snow rang in her ears. She shivered remembering the wind whipping against her bare legs. She closed her eyes and visualized the old pickup disappearing into the white expanse of snow.

Peter interrupted her thoughts.

I'm hungry. She chuckled, watching his face crinkle in pain.

I'll get you something, she tucked the comforter around her son.

She wandered to the kitchen, engrossed in her thoughts. While humming, she haphazardly dug through the cupboard looking for some fruit snacks. Peter loved fruit snacks. The telephone rang as she handed the little package to the boy. 

WHERE'S STEVE? THE old woman demanded.

Jeez, How'm I supposed to know?

We’ve got to find him, she bit her lower lip, I don’t plan on scouring all of Connecticut looking for him. Leona Kreps dropped to the kitchen chair. God, I hate it when he’s gone for days on end.

And he seems to be pulling that stunt on a regular basis, the groundskeeper said. Then he added, Why do you need to get ahold of him?

Gus, she sighed, this nanny is not going ‘ta work. She wrung her hands. God, I wish he'd stay where I could find him. Her gaze dropped to the tabletop.

And you especially hated it when you probably know where he is.

She groaned. Yeah.

He's with that new girl friend?

Leona nodded. Yeah. Her face lifted as she said, What’s her name again?

I don’t remember. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t like this one either. She gives me the creeps. He added, But Mr. Vandrose sure likes her.

I don’t care what he likes. She’s poison.

I wish I could think of her name... Boy I hate it when that happens... Gus pondered a moment then said, Let me think... if memory serves... I think it starts with a 'K'.

Leona concentrated briefly then spit out the name. Natalie. It’s ‘Natalie.’ That’s her name.

Gus said, Yeah. You’re right. God, I don’t like this one. He shook his head, She's no good, you know. His career is going to go to hell in a hand-basket.

Musicians go in and out of popularity all the time, Leona shrugged, Who cares about his career. I’m worried about the kids.

Yeah, he agreed, the kids are important. But he has so much talent. I’d hate to see it go to waste. He sure can play that geetar.

Doesn’t matter. Harold deals with the career, we deal with his home. And today we’ve got to find him. Leona picked at the tabletop, scratching an unidentified crispy spot from its surface.

We’ll find him, Gus said, We always do.

Her face creased with tension, It’s just that I’m too old to keep doing this. I’m tired. She shrugged her shoulders and brushed a tuft of white hair from her forehead. I’m too old to keep this house orderly and keep up with those kids. I’m sick of everything. She sighed. If I didn’t need this job, I’d leave in a minute. The stress is too much. She pulled herself to her feet, plodded to the counter and leaned on it. We need a new nanny. Someone who’ll stay long term. She rubbed her head.

So, what's wrong with this one? Gus stepped towards Leona, leaned against the wall, and picked at black stains around his fingernails.

I found Jordan playing with matches.

Again? He wrinkled his nose. Where was the nanny?

Same old story. She took the job to meet Steve. She opened the cupboard and pulled out a mug. Probably ran off when she found out how little he’s home. Kids don't seem to matter.

You gonna fire her?

Of course I am, if she ever comes back.

I suppose that means we get to watch Elsa and Jordan until someone new is hired. Gus reached for a mug of his own.

Yup, she sighed.

Sheet.

Don’t swear.

Yes ma’am.

OH GOD, HE MOANED, What time is it? No answer. He poked the lump of blankets next to him. Natalie... you awake?

No answer.

Shit, he groaned as he pulled his body to a sitting position, Where's the clock, he mumbled, scanning the room.

Potting soil spewed all over the floor. Clothes littered the dirty carpet. He glanced at a glistening bag on the floor next to his shirt and smiled. Potato chips. He chuckled remembering the lewd act Natalie had performed with them. He glanced at the crumbs scattered over the floor, walls, even the ceiling. He peeled a chip from his arm and poked it into his mouth. It tasted stale. He started to rise from the bed but the room spun. He dropped to his seat.

Refocusing his eyes, he located his clothing and dropped to his hands and knees. Crawling across the room, he grasped his shirt and underwear. He brushed aside two more shiny bags in the process. With the room spinning like a vortex, he crawled back to the bed.

Nat, where’re my pants? He poked at the lump on the bed.

No answer.

Hey, wake up, he said, I gotta go.

Natalie lifted her head. Her matted hair resembled a black cotton ball; white makeup smeared across her face and smudged the pillow. As she turned, one flaccid breast spilled from beneath the satin sheet. Steve peeled a chip from it and placed it on his tongue. He attempted to pull himself upright.

Somebody inside his head appeared to be pounding on an entire drum set – cymbals and all – the sound piercing the back of his eyeballs. He dropped to his knees focused on maintaining his balance. After he pushed the resounding pain to the back of his mind, he pillaged through piles of clothing, garbage, and empty bottles, snatching what was his. As best he could, he dressed and pulled himself upright. After a few shaky moments he made his way towards the door. See ya later, he called as he stumbled into the hall. Natalie groaned in response. He left the apartment building and wobbled to his Porsche. Shivers quivered his hand as he thrust the key into the lock. After dropping into his seat, he pulled a comb through his hair. He revved the engine and squealed onto the street knowing he’d be late... again.

After what felt like an eternity, he flew into the parking lot. Harold, his manager, stood next to a blue Buick tapping his foot. The minute Steve rolled to a stop, Harold strode to the Porsche. Steve didn’t know if he dared open the window. Despite his reservations, his finger flicked the switch and the glass lowered.

You're four hours late, Harold spoke in slow, even tones, veins bulging in his forehead.

Sorry... he mumbled, picking a piece of potato chip off his jeans. He tossed it onto the pavement.

Everyone's gone. They left hours ago. The tone of Harold’s voice rose.

Sorry... Steve kept his eyes on the steering wheel, his cheeks flushing pink. His forehead moistened.

Harold leaned into the car window. He stared straight at Steve and said, And I’m not sure why I’m still here. So tell me, how are we supposed to conduct a recording session without you?

Sorry Harold...

Is that all you can say? Harold’s eyebrows collided.

Yeah, I guess so, Steve answered.

Harold’s eyes narrowed, Listen, if you expect to finish this project, you have to be here. You have to perform. You at least have to show up.

Sorry, Steve sighed.

Harold continued, What do you expect me to do?

Steve shrugged his shoulders.

Just because your last album went double platinum, doesn’t guarantee this one will. You need to work on it. Harold stepped away and seemed to organize his thoughts. He leaned towards the window and softly said, Right now, this CD stinks. You need this one to be better than the last one. Put some time into it. Write some quality lyrics. Get better melodies. You can’t rest on your laurels. You’ve got quality musicians... but I don’t know how much longer they’ll want to be attached to you and your... shit.

Steve glared at the steering wheel. How dare he speak to me that way. Hell... I’m the most popular singer in the nation. I could burp out a CD and my fans would buy it. Everybody wants Steve Vandrose. Everybody loves Steve Vandrose. The last review said I was the best lyricist this decade. So... I’m a little late? Steve said, So what?

Harold said, Listen, you've got to quit treating people like shit. You’re beginning to screw up big time. You’re out of control. Listen... you got to get your life together and quit pissing away your future. You hear me?

Yeah... Steve mumbled.

I really mean it. Harold leaned closer, You've got to pull your shit together or your career's gonna start to slide. You hear me?

Whatever...

Well, I've had just about enough of your attitude. 

Yeah, Harold.

Harold’s eyes bore into Steve. So, he said, how are the re-writes on the last two songs coming?

I'm working on them.

What do you mean you're working on them? 

Steve shrugged.

You haven't even started them, have you?

No. I haven’t had time.

Dammit Steve, Harold exploded, you promised.

I've been kinda busy.

Busy with what—or shall I ask 'who'? Harold hit the side of the car with his fist. Natalie, perhaps? That bitch is gonna ruin your career. Harold shook his head, Ever since you met her, you've been fucked up. You never get any work done. You treat people like trash. You gotta lose her or I swear you're gonna lose your career. Is that what you want? To lose the career we’ve spent years building?

Not really. Steve sighed.

Then get your act together and quit fucking up. You hear me? Harold stepped away from the Porsche. He added, And you stink. You shouldn't be driving, either.

Yeah. OK. Whatever... Steve mumbled as he put the car in gear.

Get cleaned up. Get sober. Be ready to work tomorrow. Got it?

Steve nodded. The tires squealed as he rounded the corner onto the street. Harold shook his head.

That guy is never gonna get it together. Harold mentally listed all the musicians he’d watched who blew it once they made it to the top. Fame, then women, drinking and drugs, then the downward spiral. He didn't think it would happen to Steve—too level headed – but since his wife died, the guy was out of control.

Harold envisioned the last time he saw Laurie. He could still see her beautiful smile. Steve loved her with all his heart. She was probably the only woman he’d love. If they hadn’t gone to the ocean that day, it never would have happened. Steve still won't go near that cabin, he mused, guess it was too much for him. He stepped towards the Buick and pulled open the door. I wonder what really happened to fuck him up like this – I didn't think Natalie was his type...

Harold sat in silence a few moments before he fired the ignition.

Good luck, friend, he whispered.

Chapter 2

THE ORGAN PLAYED A soulful dirge. Anne sat outside the sanctuary watching the room spin. She didn’t know how she could stand. A voice interrupted her solitude.

Come on, Anne, you can do it. She looked up. It was her older sister, Ingrid.

Ingrid, she said, I can't.

Yes you can. She squeezed Anne’s arm.

No.

I know you can.

No. They're gonna bury Bjorn. Incomprehensible grief poured into her mind. They’ll put him in the ground. Anne wasn’t sure if her body would let its next breath enter. She clenched her eyes shut hoping she’d somehow entered a parallel universe, hoping she was stuck in a nightmare, hoping she was doing anything but sitting outside this church sanctuary.

Anne, Ingrid said, you have to do this.

Anne opened her eyes and said, If I don't go in, they can't bury him, can they? Stress stretched across her face.

Ingrid touched Anne’s cheek and said, You have to go in.

No.

Anne, they'll bury him whether you're there or not. You need to go in and say 'goodbye'.

I can't. You don't understand, she said, I haven't seen him. They sealed the coffin before I got to see him. I don't think he's really gone. Maybe he’s not in it. Maybe they misidentified the body. Maybe he's somewhere trying to get home.

Anne, Ingrid sat next to her and grasped her hand, The accident was bad. Real bad. They didn't want you to see the body because it was burned up. She squeezed a bicep. Bjorn is gone. It’s him in that coffin. They checked his teeth... er... dental records. You have to attend his funeral. You need to do it for Peter. You need to be strong. For Peter.

I don't think I can. Anne felt her soul drain to her feet. A boulder formed in her throat. She clenched her teeth to control the sensations bombarding her.

The organ continued to play the sad melody.

"You can do it. I'll be there the whole time. Ingrid nodded, eyes wide.

Anne glanced towards the entrance to the sanctuary. Bjorn’s family stood waiting. All eyes fixed on her. She turned away, controlling tears that threatened to escape her eyes. How could this be true? How could Bjorn leave me? Ingrid tugged her arm. Come on. I’ll stay with you. Anne glanced at Bjorn’s family again. They stared. She grasped Ingrid's arm. OK. She breathed deep and concentrated on keeping the room from spinning. She steadied herself, then paused. Wait. Where's Peter?

He's with his Grandma. She pointed to the front pew. He's waiting for you. Come on. You’ve just gotta be brave.

Anne nodded mumbling, "Gotta be brave, gotta be brave, gotta be brave..." Somehow, as each word exited her mouth, Anne felt a surge of strength; strength that enabled her to pull herself to her feet. She kept repeating the words as she took her place at the front of the mourner line.

They entered the sanctuary. The congregation rumbled to their feet as Anne marched towards the front pew of the squeaky country church. She didn’t glance to the right or left.

The organ completed the never-ending song and silence invaded the sanctuary. She watched the minister stand and open his little black prayer book. A few mourners cleared their throats, the sound piercing silence. That’s when it hit her.

Today they’re not only burying Bjorn, but they’re burying my soul. How can I live without him? How can I raise Peter alone? How can I live without his touch, his words, his love? Without him, I’m an empty shell – a remnant of what "could have been."

The overwhelming fragrance of flowers filled the cramped church. It smelled like millions of different blossoms, the pungent odor choking her throat. From this day on, I hate flowers. Her eyes traced the front of the sanctuary. Garlands perched everywhere: on the communion table, on the steps, around the cross, atop the coffin. The staggering smell made vomit swell in the back of her throat.

Memories flooded her mind as she stared at the wood grain of the coffin – the coffin that supposedly held her husband. She longed to open it and touch him one more time.

Some enterprising sap had placed a replica of her bridal bouquet on top of the casket. She cringed. She closed her eyes and the echo of laughter reverberated in her memory. Bjorn’s smiling face focused in her mind – oh how he glowed on their wedding day. She turned to her left and watched the bridesmaids scramble for her throw-away bouquet. The person who catches it will be the next one married! Ingrid flew through the air, tackling two old maids, and slammed to the floor with a crash. But she had the flowers – at least most of them.

And it worked. Six months later Ingrid married Alex Kaufman.

Anne opened her eyes and found herself back at the funeral. She watched the singer strain for the top notes of The Lord’s Prayer. Jeez... can’t they ever get someone good enough to hit those notes? She closed her eyes again.

This time she watched Bjorn cradle Peter in his huge hands. An unending smile played on his lips for weeks after the boy joined their family.

Anne knew Bjorn wanted a son more than life itself, even though he claimed he’d be happy with a child with ten fingers and ten toes. After Peter was born, Bjorn frantically painted the yellow nursery to a more manly color, repainted the furniture, and exchanged the purple car seat to ... yup... blue.

She opened her eyes and watched the minister droning words of comfort to the congregation. She tried to listen, but another memory begged for attention. She