Myth and Magic. Mae Clair
once he heard voices. He wasn’t the greatest housekeeper but did his best to keep it clean and inviting for his son. He wondered what Galen thought of the potted plants in the foyer, the overstuffed rocker next to the fireplace, and brightly-colored rug on the hardwood floor—all things a bachelor usually wouldn’t consider necessary.
Aren paused by the fireplace, his eyes skimming the framed photos Caith had placed on the mantle: Caith and Derrick on a fishing trip, grinning ear-to-ear; Derrick riding bicycles with Noah and Matt; Caith in uniform upon graduating Boston’s Police Academy; their mother Morgana Breckwood; and finally a very old, aged photograph of Caith as a child with Merlin, Veronica Kent, and Derrick Trask.
Merlin was only a year older. They’d been inseparable in those days, but hadn’t spoken a word in twelve years. What would he do if something had happened to Merlin? Or his father? He was estranged from both. Had been since he’d left for college at eighteen. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Dad, I’m bored.” Derrick traipsed into the living room. Dressed in flannel pajamas, a brick-red robe, and unlaced sneakers, he looked like he should be in bed. His son was a mirror image of him with ink-black hair and winter blue eyes. But whereas Caith’s hair was straight and neatly trimmed, Derrick’s was a mass of unruly curls.
“Wow, Uncle Aren!” Derrick’s eyes nearly popped from his head. With a cry of delight, he bounded across the room to hug his uncle and dance around him. “I can’t believe you’re here. Did Noah and Matt come with you?”
“Sorry, no. They’re home in Coldcreek.” When Derrick’s face fell, Aren dropped a hand on his shoulder. “But maybe you’ll get to see them soon.”
“Cool. When?”
“That depends on your dad.”
Derrick looked excitedly at Caith, then stilled when he spied Galen.
“Hello, Derrick.” Galen smiled hesitantly. “You don’t remember me, but I came to see your father when you were born. I’m your Uncle Galen.”
“Are you from Coldcreek, too?”
“I am.”
Derrick switched his attention to his father with an eager smile. “Dad, are we going somewhere?”
“You’re going in the kitchen to finish lunch.” Caith shot Aren a silent rebuff before refocusing on his son. “You need to eat the soup I made for you. It’ll help with your cold.”
“I feel okay.” Derrick scuffed the carpet with a sneakered foot. “And soup’s boring.”
“So is staying in bed, but that’s where you’re going to end up if you don’t finish your lunch.” Dropping to an easy squat, Caith conversed with his son at eye level. “I have to talk to Uncle Aren and Uncle Galen. When you finish lunch, you can watch TV in the family room. Deal?”
Derrick nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
Caith ruffled his son’s curly hair before nudging him toward the kitchen.
Behind him, Galen cleared his throat. “It’s not easy, is it?”
Surprised, Caith turned. “What?”
“Being a single father. Raising a son.” With a nod to the room and its comfortable, well-tailored furnishings, Galen sank into the nearest chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, even without the Breckwood name. I always wondered what made you pick Lairen.”
Caith tamped down a slow burn of anger. He wouldn’t get sucked into an age-old argument over his family name. “I got it out of a phone book. Stopped at Ralph’s Subs on Fifteenth and Dock, had a few beers, and decided to change my name.”
Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be cynical, Caith. We know why you changed your name.” His gaze shifted to the mantle and the pictures of Derrick.
Aren had always understood.
So it won’t happen again. So no one close to me gets killed by mistake. So Derry never has to go through what I did.
Caith shrugged, feigning indifference, and folded his arms over his chest. Perching on the arm of the couch, he braced one leg against the floor, the other swinging free, lightly tapping the hunter-green upholstery. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t remember the last time I had the family brigade in my living room. If Merlin were here, we’d be four brothers again.”
“We never stopped being brothers.” Aren paced to the bow window, then paused to study the sprawling front porch sheltered by chestnut trees. “Galen and I have a proposal for you, but you need to listen with an open mind. Do you remember the old Barrister House?”
Caught off guard by the change of topic, Caith frowned. “You mean that run-down place by Stone Willow Lake? We used to play there as kids. Wasn’t there some kind of sect connected to it?”
Aren nodded. “Yeah, I think there are several Web sites devoted to its history, probably even some cult followers still around if you look hard enough. They don’t bother us, so I don’t pay attention.”
“Us?”
“Breckwood Industries bought the place six years ago,” Aren explained. “We renovated and turned it into an anti-stress retreat for top-level executives. We’re low scale, nothing like the big corporate getaways. We run one and two week programs for small groups of employees—BI personnel and any other company that’s inclined to have their workers attend. No cell phones, TVs, iPads, laptops, or newspapers. Sessions include relaxation, mental focusing, and a number of outdoor activities. There’s no alcohol and no outside contact of any kind.”
“Sounds rigid.”
“We’ve done enough corporate studies to realize people in high pressure positions need an outlet or they reach a breaking point,” Galen picked up. “The retreat’s been remarkably successful. The BI employees who’ve completed the program have increased productivity in their respective departments. Their overall health has improved, their outlook on life, and their concept of work in general. Healthy, happy employees, particularly in upper management, translate to greater efficiency, which in turn generates increased revenue.”
“Yeah, I recall something about BI being interested in revenue.” Caith’s tone was pointedly flippant.
Aren spoke quickly as if to forestall a rise of testiness from Galen. “The retreat is called Stone Willow Lodge, after the lake. We maintain a manager, caretaker, and a cook on site. Also a maintenance worker, guide, and some seasonal employees who drive from Coldcreek.”
Caith arched a brow. “Guide?”
“He handles hiking, boating, and horseback riding. We also have a BI staff member who leads instructional sessions. For the most part, it’s worked well. Until now.” Aren paused, looking ill-at-ease. “Lately there have been occurrences we can’t explain. Rumors are starting to circulate about the legend of Barrister House. Our guests have reported seeing strange lights in the woods, horses spooked for no reason, items missing from their rooms.”
“Could be nothing more than a thief.”
“It isn’t only that.” Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced in front of the fireplace. “Things have gotten serious. It started with minor incidents, but has grown progressively worse. The mutilated carcass of a dog was left on a guest’s bed. Alma Kreider, one of our employees, claims she saw someone in the basement. The next day we found some of our food stores damaged. Two of the guests got sick and blamed it on food poisoning. There have been other incidents, too. Blood splattered in the kitchen, a normally gentle horse threw a guest, a missing fishing boat.”
“Did you call the police?”
Galen snorted. “Of course we did, but they can’t be there twenty-four-seven. They’re tired of us calling. The mess in the kitchen turned out to be red paint, and the horse was shoed improperly. My caretaker swears it was blood, and