Chapter 8
A Lark at Pueblo State
November 9, 1988
Owen
A charge ran through Owen as he held Abby in a loose embrace. Moonlight edged around the cracks in the wood covered windows, causing the airborne dust to sparkle. He lightly ran his fingers through her long, silky hair. Her eyes held a longing, an anticipation of what may come. He leaned in and kissed the hair held in his fingers and inhaled her intoxicating, flowery scent. At the same time Abby's breath flowed down his neck, and he welcomed it. She held there for a moment.
Now, Owen thought, we become one. He braced for a piercing incision; her teeth tearing into his flesh. But it never came. Instead of a bite, she turned her face toward his. Her lips brushed his own.
"What is it you want, Abby?" he asked.
"Shhh," she whispered. Placing her fingers on his lips, the taste whetted his thirst. He studied her face, mesmerized by her bright blue, shimmering eyes. She replaced her finger with her mouth, this time more firmly. Her chilled breath washed over his tongue. Owen returned her affection with intensity. He cherished the cold tingle from her lips. She satisfied his carnal ache of hunger in a way that food could not.
With a new found confidence, he held onto her kiss. He ran his fingers down Abby's side and played with the seams of her shirt. He placed his fingers under the hem teasing the soft, bare skin of her waist. He slipped his hands further underneath and caressed the furrows of her ribs. Her hair crackled and danced with static from rubbing against the red wool blanket. Pausing he took in the beautiful vision. A cold, comforting chill sparked through his lips as he moved in to kiss the nape between Abby's bare neck and shoulder. She's delicate; she's sensual, she's passionate; she's …
"Aaaaah!" He forced himself fully awake. "She's only twelve," Owen moaned in a frustrated whisper. He shoved himself away from her childlike body on this mattress they shared and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Get out of my head," he mumbled with little malice. Is she smiling?
On the other side of nearly awake, Owen nurtured the enchanting memory. Snuggling under the warm blankets he tried to recapture that last remnant of sleep. It didn't work. He drifted back to the awareness of Abby's soft skin against his own. Dammit, she's still twelve! He shut his eyes against encroaching light and allowed himself one more reflection of the comforting, unnatural dream. The illusion provided a momentary diversion from a reality that he sought to avoid.
Waking next to a slumbering Abby, Owen wondered what he was doing here. The rest of the world drifted past with a purpose while he remained trapped in the force of Abby's static presence. The minimal help he managed for Abby seemed to create more trouble. She was the sum total of his entire existence. Would she even notice if I were gone?
Owen tested Abby's forehead with the back of his hand. It felt cold and clammy – normal. At least the worry of her unrelenting illness had ended. He rose from the mattress and stumbled over the cold, concrete floor to complete his morning routine in the bathroom. A cold shower would be perfect right now. He settled for a cold 'bird bath' – using water splashed directly from the sink. He brushed his teeth and finished his other morning rituals.
On the street Owen watched from afar while other people fought through the daily efforts in their lives. Occasionally he scoffed at their meaningless struggles over clothes or homework or car trouble. Other times, he was jealous of the mundane. Today he would accept any of that for a bite to eat. Meandering through the city he found it once again crowded with vagrants of all shapes and sizes. Many were more pathetic than he, as though that provided any comfort. The area around the grocery store trash bin was clean, but the container itself was locked up tight with a new combination lock.
Another opportunity lost to him, but food was not his primary goal. Today he had planned to research possible cures for blood lust in the library. Overcast skies mirrored the darkness in his spirit.
The university was a good hour walk away from the abandoned steel mill. His appetite timekeeper let him know that he arrived on campus near lunchtime, at least for most people. Lined with trees and impressive buildings, the halcyon paths teemed with clusters of laughing, well-nourished students making their way to class. He stopped a couple of backpack toting girls and asked for directions. One ignored him while the other at least pointed in a general direction. He endured her sour look of disgust.
A few minutes later he sauntered up the marble pathway leading to a multistory, modern structure known as the Library and Research Center – the LARC. Owen strode through the double paned glass doors and the security turnstiles as though he belonged. Once inside he stopped in his tracks, bewildered by the variety of choices. "Wow!" Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the vast territory with shelf after shelf of books crowding the floor. So much more than he had expected. Several students bumped past him while rushing into the library.
Finding the main desk, Owen asked about a reference section. They pointed him to an entire wing filled with tax codes, government publications, dictionaries, and finally, encyclopedias. He sneezed in the cloud of dust created when he grabbed several volumes covering the letter 'V' and located a carol for private reading.
Within an hour Owen grew frustrated. After reading many entries about Dracula and the history of Vlad the Impaler, he was no closer to a solution for Abby. Stories and legends were plentiful, but cures were not even mentioned. Time wasted which could have been used for begging or scavenging. He resolved his continue on his research. Already at the library, he should finish the task.
Owen's gaze floated around the entrance area of the library search for the card catalog. There wasn't any. He abandoned the idea and worked up the courage to ask at the front desk. A gray haired, spectacled woman with a named tag that read 'Gloria' said, "We don't use card catalogs anymore. Try the dumb terminals." She waved in the direction of a bank of computer terminals across from her counter.
"Thanks." I feel dumb enough, Owen thought. I think I need a few smart terminals.
Owen walked over to the terminals. A little lost, he glanced over somebody's shoulder to get some idea where to start. Maybe the dumb terminal is a good name. With that help he plugged the word 'vampire' into the subject search line and received nearly a thousand suggestions on the monochromatic green screen. This isn't going to work. He returned to the home screen and found that he could narrow the choice between 'fiction' or 'non-fiction'. Which one means real and which one means fake? He selected 'non-fiction' and hoped for the best. The choices were fewer than twenty. Better yet, most were held in the same area of the library – beginning with numbers 398.
He found the map for each floor drawn on placards and bolted to a stanchion. It directed him to the third floor of the stacks, past a group study area, and to the right. Dozens of students argued loudly around tables in large and small groups.
On the way he was tempted by an alcove containing vending machines and, more inviting, a partially filled trash can. He couldn't resist the isolated opportunity. He headed straight for the garbage.
With his head inside the can his senses were alerted to a salty, pungent scent. Sure enough, halfway through the trash he located the treasure – a half-empty vending size bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. He hated sour cream and onion, but in seconds the bag was empty. He tore it open and licked the residual salt. Heavenly. Owen closed his eyes, reflecting on the memory of the rare delight. He shuddered with pleasure.
The chips only served to whet his appetite. Pangs of hunger demanded more. The other side of that clear Plexiglas cover held sufficient food for days. He salivated at the candy bars, chips, and crackers just beyond his grasp. He pounded his head on the vending machine window. Unbreakable, it just reverberated. So close!
In the middle was a row of Doritos corn chips. He licked his lips, longing for the spicy cheese taste he remembered from his youth. He removed a precious quarter from his pocket and dropped it in the machine. Pushing the button 'B2', Owen waited as the metal curlicue advanced to dispense the measly package. When the mechanism stopped rotating, the corner of the bag caught under the metal, causing the bag to stop and dangle in place. Like a hesitant suicide jumper, it didn't want to fall. For crying out loud! Owen thought. I can't catch a break. He grabbed the sides of the vending machine and shook it hard, trying to break the bag loose.
"Can I help you?" Owen turned to see a slight Hispanic girl with long sable brown hair cascading down her back and shoulders.
Suddenly aware of how this might appear to someone else, Owen reddened. He glanced at his reflection in the vending machine and barely recognized himself with his matted hair, scraggly beard and filthy clothing. He tried to cover for his transgressions. "No … no. I was just trying to get something from the machine." Owen tried to move around the student to escape the embarrassment.
To his surprise she grasped him gently on the elbow. She gazed directly into his eyes. "Don't worry. It's okay. Pick something out. My treat."
Disconcerted by the attention, Owen averted his attention. His mouth watered from the hunger. "Doritos," he mumbled lacking anything clever to say.
"Doritos. No problem. Is that your bag hanging up in the dispenser?" Owen nodded. She inserted a quarter into the money slot and pushed the button for a bag of chips. First one, then the second dispensed into the discharge tray. She pulled them out of the drop slot. "Here you go. What's your name?"
The question; he should have expected that one. Sweat began to form on the back of his neck while he tried to think of what to say. Greg was right; the library is really warm. "Kenny," Owen said, He could not help but wonder if by giving voice to that lie brought himself one step closer to evil. "You … you should have the second one."
"Hi, Kenny. I'm Gabriella." She reached out her hand and Owen shook it. "Keep them both." She handed both bags to him. "The shelter is closed right now. When it reopens you should stop by. It's not the best food, but there's plenty of it."
"Thank you. I might do that," Owen replied, staring at the green tile floor. The reopening shelter would lead to a return of the anonymous Dumpster diving lifestyle he had grown to appreciate.
"See you around," Gabriella said and she walked back to her study group. Owen was a little shaken by the encounter. It was almost like speaking with a real, live person. With one conversation he brought himself a little closer to the positive side of humanity. But with one falsehood …one lie … he threw away the chance of becoming something good. Evil was as near as those snacks on the other side of the Plexiglas, and he found himself craving it.
Billy Scott
"Here is a list of books. Why don't you see which ones you can find?" Gabriella handed Billy a slip of paper with about a dozen titles on it.
He had hoped this type of work ended with his high school graduation. Spending time at the library conducting research reeked of boredom and wasted time. Instead he found himself ensnared by the allure of Gabriella Agosto. Fascinated by her since that night he volunteered at the shelter, he now found himself helping her with an American History research paper.
If he played his cards right, he anticipated a little more intimate setting this weekend. Gabriella should have some free time with the shelter closed. Now he needed to focus on her research assignment – the causes of the French and Indian War. Billy could not imagine anything lamer. If he achieved a date at the end, then he would suffer through it.
"Aye, aye, Skipper," Billy gave a mock salute and searched through the library catalog system and then onto the bookshelves.
After a good half hour of exploration, he returned to the group study room delighted to have found three of the requested references. There were books and encyclopedias scattered over the table top with most of them opened to select pages. Gabriella copied notes onto index cards to organize her thoughts. "Only three?" Gabriella said looking disappointed. "I guess that's a start."
Maybe I should have tried to find more than three, Billy thought. "Do you want me to help you straighten up these books," he asked.
"No thanks. It looks disorganized, but I know where everything is." To prove it she reached across a few scattered books, picked up another open book. From this she started scrawling notes in large, looping cursive on note cards.
Billy heard something rustling over by the vending machines. Looking in that direction he noticed a boy searching through a garbage can in the snack food alcove. "What a 'tard," Billy whispered with a little chuckle to himself. When the boy found a snack, Billy let out a loud guffaw. "Look at him annihilate that bag of chips. It never stood a chance."
The utterance corralled Gabriella's attention, but not in a positive light. 'Aaah, poor guy." She said a little too sweetly for Billy's preference; like she was talking about a little dog. "He's just looking for something to eat. The loss of the shelter has made things difficult for a lot of people."
Gabriella surprised Billy when she pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. "I think it is a good time to stretch my legs. Maybe there is something I can do for him."
Bill grabbed onto her arm with a tight grip. "Don't go over there; he may have a knife or something. You can't trust them."
"Don't be stupid, Billy. He's not going to try anything here. There are too many people around." She peeled Billy's fingers off of her arm. "Most people are one paycheck away from destitution. Imagine what you would do if you found yourself without family or money." Gabriella strode confidently over to the homeless boy.
"I would get a job," Billy said as she walked away.
Billy watched carefully as Gabriella spoke to the youth, ready at a moment's notice to leap to her aid. Much to Billy's surprise, he wasn't needed. Gabriella spoke to the stranger. Then she inserted a coin in the machine and handed the boy two bags of snacks. They spoke for a few more moments. He finally relaxed when Gabriella returned to the study table. "You should be careful," He said. "Twenty years ago, there was a knifing in the stacks. Nobody knows what happened. Some say the murderer is still wandering the library searching for his next victim."
They watched the boy devour the two bags of Doritos, gazing into the second empty bag for more before tossing it into the garbage. "That's just an old wives tale. It sounds like truth because it is the type of thing that could happen. It's just like the story of the lost Indian tribe at Lake Pueblo."
"What story?"
"You never heard this story around the campfire at the Lake?" Gabriella looked stunned.
Billy shook his head. "We didn't go camping much."
Gabriella sat down at the desk and pulled out another reference. She spoke with elaborated hand motions to emphasize the tale. "I went with the youth group every year. The older kids liked to tell a scary story about a massacre of an Indian tribe which took place at the lake nearly a hundred years ago. The army swept the Western Territories to disarm and relocate an isolated tribe of the Jicarilla."
"Who are the Jicarilla?"
"They were a segment of the Apache in this area. Didn't you learn about them in school?"
"Uh ... sure, I remember them." But Billy could not remember the first thing about the Jicarilla tribe.
"Now be quiet and listen," Gabriella insisted. "A new shaman arrives and proclaims himself messiah. Over one late night ceremony this shaman prophesies that a tidal wave of soil would cover all of the blue coats and lead to plentiful game. It required complete and total sacrifice – the bloodshed of the entire tribe would lead them to a promised land.
"When the American army arrived they found the tribe slaughtered with the exception of one small child who relayed the story. His mother forced him to leave the ceremony in fear for his life. The child was near catatonic. His mother had saved him, but the failure of the prophecy was his fault. His blood was not shed. Somehow, the child was pleased with the failure.
"Drunk with the blood of the tribe, the shaman disappeared into the forest never to be seen again. The story claims that the shaman is still wandering the area around Lake Pueblo waiting to devour any wayward campers."
"That happened right here in Pueblo?" Billy asked. "I can't believe I never heard this story."
"It's just a senseless story to scare kids. Just like the murder in the stacks, it isn't true," Gabriella said. "Every so often somebody discovers remains at the lake which they claim is related to the massacre. Reporters react like crazy for a day or two until the furor dies down. Sometimes they interview the child."
"That kid is still alive? Maybe Kenny is the shaman. You should be careful."
"That kid celebrated his hundredth birthday this past summer. I think I'm safe from Kenny. I don't think he's the killer from the stacks any more than he's an ancient Indian shaman. We'll be fine. I know a hundred Kenny's. He doesn't think anyone is going to give him a chance. Usually he's right."
With his reaction, Billy thought he had blown his chances with Gabriella. "I would like to ask you out this weekend, but I'm beginning to think that you're attracted to the truly needy. I guess I'm too self-sufficient." Billy said.
"Don't sell yourself short. You're plenty needy." Gabriella gave him a gentle, malicious smile. "Well why don't you ask?" she said.
"Would you like to go to a movie this weekend?"
"Sure, I just need to finish this paper first. So go forth and find a few more references. This shouldn't take much longer." Billy gave another quick salute and wandered off into the massive library.
Owen
The Doritos were satisfying, but he thought he could have enjoyed a dozen bags without denting his appetite. Owen escaped this area without spending any more money. He drew too much attention to himself as it was. Gabriella was pretty. She probably would have liked Kenny. He wondered what it would be like to get to know someone like Gabriella. Someone who grows older.
Ascending the three flights of stairs to the third floor, Owen found his way well into the depths of the stacks. Lighting was much more dismal here compared to the ground floor. The single, long fluorescent light between the metal bookshelves battled against the shadows.
He expected to find only a few books, but there must have been hundreds on all sorts of bizarre subjects like witchcraft and demons. He pulled out the slip of paper with specific numbers on them and found about a dozen books which might be helpful. He squirreled all of those books away to a carol and began to page through them.
In the quiet study area of the stacks, Owen lost himself in reading. Most of the books were novels disguised as fact, written for entertainment purposes – except boring as hell. About as useful as a stake in the chest. Others described treatments that Owen was familiar with – the use of holy water, a silver cross, and bells. None of these offered a cure. One of the more common suggestions included severing the blood line. That could be difficult. I have no idea how to find the blood line. His concentration faded with the dismal prose and his thoughts wandered.
Aileen Sacco
Aileen sat restlessly in the school's administrative office. The wait reminded her of her own school years positioned on a wobbly metal chair outside the principal's office. The office staff clicked away on their IBM Selectric typewriters and cheerfully handed out passes to the 'good' students. Sharpened pencil smell dominated the area. This visit had been delayed for weeks. Yesterday, she had worked a double shift at the ER with the multitude of minor complaints from the homeless shelter victims. Exhausted, she was not in a hurry for someone to judge her parenting skills.
"Mrs. Sacco you can come in now," Principal Beyer called from inside the open office door. "Please have a seat." Aileen took the seat in front of the large mahogany desk. The placard on the front of the desk said "Jessica Beyer". Yes, this revived some evil memories.
The principal shut the door behind Aileen and took the seat on the comfortable, commanding side of the desk. "Let's see we are here to talk about …." She scanned her desk for the appropriate file, "Javier." She pronounced the name an American "J" pronunciation. One strike against her already. "Thank you for finally taking the time to review his progress this year. I'm sorry we have not had the opportunity to meet before." Those last two comments were a little too pointed for Aileen. Daggers aimed at an uncaring, out of touch parent. So it's going to be the parental responsibility lecture. "He's been having a rough go of it this year."
Aileen nodded her head without comment. Principal Beyer initiated this conference. Any admission had to be dragged out of Aileen kicking and screaming, if need be. That was her strategy during her own school days, and it wasn't going to change now.
Principal Beyer gave an uncomfortable cough in response, "He's gotten into several fights over the past few weeks at school. I thought maybe we could discuss that."
"Feel free."
"Has there been any difficulty at home?" Principal Beyer asked pointedly.
"No."
The principal let out a long-winded sigh. Considering strategies to elicit the information she wanted. "Has he had any trouble with the police?"
"I'm sorry. He's a juvenile. I can't share any information about things like that," Aileen answered with her own juvenile smirk.
"Javier has been bragging to friends that he spent time in jail the other day."
"His father is a police officer who was rushed to the hospital. A friend picked up Javier for safe keeping until the crisis was over. That's all." She emphasized the "H" sound in her son's name to give the principal a lesson.
"Aah, well that makes sense. He seems to have a little bit of excess energy. Perhaps he should consider a sport." Principal Beyer added helpfully.
"You should look through your files a little more thoroughly." Aileen waved her finger casually over the principal's desk and decided she would school the principal. "Javier has asthma. I don't think a sport would be in his best interests."
"How about a club? Like the chess club." Aileen grimaced at that idea. "I'm only trying to help Mrs. Sacco. We both have Javier's welfare at heart."
"I don't believe Javier is cut from the same cloth as the children in the chess club."
"No, perhaps you are right. We don't have a lot of physical disagreements in the chess club. Those students can usually find a way to settle their differences amicably." Ouch. Then the principal aimed the pointed suggestion. The point she was working toward all along. "Perhaps you should consider enrolling Javier in another school. A school with children more like him."
If Aileen was not irritated before, this suggestion made her down right angry. "You mean with other Hispanic children?" The principal nodded. "What decade is this?" Aileen blasted. "Now it is not enough to be the wrong color. Javier just has the wrong tint! Separate but equal has been outlawed years ago. I expect you to fix any bigotry at your school." That should teach her.
Somewhere in the corner of her mind Aileen thought there might be truth to Beyer's suggestion, but she wasn't going to grant her the satisfaction. It was just not right to give in to petty prejudice. The tirade helped Aileen feel better after the tough few days at work.
The principal was a little flustered by the outburst. "Of course I am not suggesting any such thing, Mrs. Sacco. As I said, we both have Javier's welfare at heart. Please just speak with him about controlling his temper at school. You might want to consider some extracurricular activities." The principal folded Javier's paperwork away and tucked it under another folder. "That's all I have today. If you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."
With that dismissal, Principal Beyer walked her to the office door. The next mother waiting outside was a timid little mousy thing. The principal said, "Mrs. Decker?" The woman in the rickety metal seat nodded. "Thank you for coming to speak about Raymond."
Aileen was not fully satisfied with the confrontation. She found the musty air of the prejudice disturbing. To nobody in particular in the room, "To think there is a student with AIDS here and everybody is worried about a little difference in skin color."
While entering the principal's office, Mrs. Decker turned around in bewilderment. "There's a student with AIDS … at this school?"
Aileen could tell by the angry glare raising from the principal's face that revelation this was not a surprise. The fearful look on Mrs. Decker's face told Aileen she may have went too far in revealing this secret. The line between the patient-hospital privilege may have been stepped on, but she didn't give out any names. And parents should have the right to know that an infected student attended school with their children. That was how Aileen justified the slip, at least to herself.
Owen
Owen's head was plastered face down across the pages of one of the books. A few hours of rest each night coupled with the warm, stale air of the stacks had taken its toll. Owen had fallen asleep. His head ached and pounded. He felt his face; a sharp crease ran down from his ear to his chin marking the side of the book. How long have I been sleeping? He saw sunlight creeping through the high windows in the library wall.
He gathered the books in a pile in the carol. While organizing them Owen stumbled across a possible antidote. A potion needs to be made with a mixture of imperata, garlic, and nightshade - the belladonna and mandrake forms - combined in a mixing bowl and heated. What the hell? It's a place to start. Might as well give it a try.
Owen left the books in a stack on the carol and hurried down the stairs. He slowed with a wistful memory of the vending machine alcove and the tenderhearted girl from the group study room. Scattered over Gabriella's table were dozens of open books. Late afternoon and the room was empty. A map of North America in the 1750's caught his attention. Snooping into her studies was a relatively minor offense.
One of the encyclopedias was opened to a lithograph picture of a distinguished elderly priest. Stunned Owen recognized the caption "Abbé Jean-Louis Le Loutre". Is this for real? Is this a picture of Abby's uncle? He scanned the entry to read a little more.
"Though Le Loutre was trained for, and went to Acadia in order to be a missionary among the Indians of Acadia, one would have to ask whether in his work with the natives he better served God or his political masters in France. This much, we might observe: Le Loutre used the Indians. He contrived to use them on the one hand to murder the English, and on the other to terrify the Acadians. The plan which he [Le Loutre] pursued consistently from first to last with the Acadians was to threaten them with the vengeance of the savages if they submitted to the English, and to refuse the sacraments to all who would not obey his commands."
One British leader was gave a description of Le Loutre:
"Le Loutre was a man of boundless egotism, a violent spirit of domination, an intense hatred of the English, and a fanaticism that stopped at nothing. Towards the Acadians he was a despot ... he dragooned even the unwilling into aiding his schemes."*
That sounded like an accurate description of one of the few people who could terrorize Abby. The entry to the encyclopedia closed with a mention of his imprisonment by the British until his release in 1763 followed by a quiet retirement until his death in Nantes, France in 1772.
Owen tore the page out of the encyclopedia, folded it and shoved it in his pocket. This is great news! The blood line was already severed. Some of the specifics didn't fit with Abby's story, but it occurred a long time ago. She may have confused some of the details. He closed the encyclopedia, hiding the missing page, and scampered excited out of the library front door.
The low, red sun blazed through the clearing clouds. Owen shivered against the biting wind contrasting against the inviting warmth of the library. Next stop The Blazing Crescent. Owen wondered how much of the potion ingredients he could purchase with less than six dollars in his pocket.
The tinkling bell sounded its welcome. He was becoming comfortable here – a quaint second home. Waiting on a customer, Jane gave a glancing smile of welcome in Owen's direction. She completed her transaction with the customer. Over a hundred dollars for candles, books, and trinkets. Dang, I could do a lot with that money, Owen thought.
The other customer left with a quick goodbye, and Jane turned to Owen, "Before you ask, Selkie hasn't returned, and I don't have any food for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"I need a few things today." Owen pulled the list out of his pocket and read, "imperata, garlic, and nightshade."
"What kind of nightshade? Nightshade could be almost anything. I could get you a potato. That's a nightshade." Jane strolled around the counter top to a shelf where she kept natural ingredients."
Owen studied his list trying to make out his own writing, "Mandrake and belladonna."
Jane turned and looked questioningly at Owen. "Belladonna is a poison and both could be abused as hallucinogens. Do you think the government would let me sell those roots?" Owen sagged in disappointment. He wasted all day in the libraryThis potion was his only hope to cure Pera.
Jane chuckled at his expression, "I'm just kidding you. Of course they let me sell them as 'natural remedies'. Belladonna is poisonous if you ingest too much, but it is also used in a number of cures. As far as hallucinogens, I have stronger stuff in the back if that is what you are interested in." She gave Owen a sly wink. He wasn't sure if he should take her seriously. "How much of each were you interested in getting." One of the walls in the store was lined floor to ceiling with plastic topped ingredient bins – each one with their own metal scoop or tongs.
"About a dollar's worth," Owen answered.
"A dollar?" Owen never seemed to stop amusing Jane. "Whoo, whoo. At last I can close this store and retire in luxury." Sarcasm notwithstanding, Jane pulled out a couple of long, red blades of grass, "blood grass" she mumbled to herself. "Do you mind if I put these all in one baggie?" She asked. Owen shook his head. Jane added a clove of garlic. When she dug into the next bin white powder wafted into the air. Jane breathed in a big, long sniff and shook her head to clear her thoughts. "I always enjoy sampling the merchandise," she said. Two teaspoons of white, desiccated powders added to the bag, "That should do it," she said as she handed the packet to Owen. "That will be four dollars, plus tax."
Owen took out five wrinkled one dollar bills wadded up in his pocket and reluctantly handed them over to Jane. She gave him back seventy cents in change. "Are you sure you want to buy this Owen? Wouldn't you rather buy food?"
"No, I want this. Thanks," Owen said. As he exited the store, Jane turned around the 'store closed' sign and locked the front door.
Owen made his way back to the abandoned steel mill. Inside he found the black cat guarding the boarded over windowsill. I wonder what cat tastes like. The cat meowed angrily in response, as though he could read Owen's mind. He looked pretty stringy. Maybe I should just give him a name. "From now on, you're Toto. I've been to Kansas, and Pueblo is nothing like it." He always had trouble with prey when he knew their name.
Aroused by the sudden noise in the mill Abby stirred awake, "Hello Owen," she said with a mesmerizing smile. The week-long rest had been good for her. She sat up on the mattress emitting a healthy glow. The angelic vision shoved away thoughts of Gabriella. Her simple, steadfast expression of welcome validated Owen's affection. Her child-like innocence deserved Owen's care.
"Good dusk," he said. "Do you know what you would like to do tonight?" He placed the plastic bag of ingredients on the floor with his belongings. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead with the memory of this morning's amorous dream infecting his thoughts. He noticed a boil forming near her ear."
"I think I remember you saying something about the zoo. I've never been to the zoo before," she said. "I think I'd like to go see the animals."
Owen tilted her chin to get a better look at her ear. "It looks like a sore is forming."
Abby quickly moved her hand to cover the spot. "I'm okay! It's nothing."
"Abby, it has only been a week since your last meal. You can't be hungry again," Owen said. His eyes betrayed his confidence. He knew he was wrong.
"The old man was sick. His blood was weak. It's not the same as someone younger ... someone healthier." Abby pulled Owen's hand off of her cheek and held it away forestalling the encroaching desire for more blood.
"I have some powders which might be able to cure your cravings. We could try a potion."
"No, not tonight," Abby said. "I don't need another spell of sickness. Let's just enjoy a healthy night while we can."
Owen worried over this girl that he loved and agonized over the child in his care. "The zoo it is then. We'll head out as soon as the sun sets." Owen had studied enough maps today that he thought he could work his way there.
Jane Mosi
Six o'clock and another long sales day ended. Jane closed and locked the front glass door against the darkening skies. She hated the time of year when the sun set before closing. She turned the sign around to read 'closed' and counted the receipts for the day.
It was a strong day for early November. Pumpkin cinnamon candles were still selling well and maize was beginning to take off. The four dollar sale late in the day unnerved her. Belladonna brought back some bad memories. What could the boy want with that? That was not a product she sold very often. Fortunately, her inventory contained mostly flour filler. It was not enough to do any real harm, and she knew exactly how much that was.
She remembered testing it on their pet guinea pig. Was that five years ago, already? The pet weighed about one and a half pounds. Her father didn't even suspect when he found the carcass. He was more interested in disposing of the body before Selkie found it, than what caused the death. He should have been more curious.
The store closed and the inventory counted, Jane decided to spend some of her earnings on some well earned fresh produce. She exited the store, purse hanging from her shoulder, and headed to the local food market. The clouds from the last few days were clearing with the stars shining through. The shadow of the new moon hung low in the sky. She did not expect to find Owen on her expedition, but she nearly stumbled into him and a waifish girl exiting the alley behind the old steel mill. The girl was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, but no footwear or jacket. They were headed in the opposite direction and hadn't seen Jane coming. She startled him when she asked, "Who's your friend, Owen?"
Caught off guard by the communication Owen answered, "My … uh… little sister, Abby." Jane wasn't buying this story. Aside from her clothes, she looked nothing like him.
"Pleased to meet you, Abby." With a smile, Jane held out her hand. The girl did not respond in kind. Her quiet stare intimidated Jane. Is she growling at me?
Jane covered the uncomfortable moment with a cough. She had seen too many bad things in her life to ignore another one. Owen seemed like a sweet kid, but this girl was awfully young. The thought of Owen and a troubled, young girl was distressing enough. Her eyes were sunken and dark, could be bruising, but it isn't fresh. She was definitely not well cared for. Owen had trouble supporting himself. Add belladonna to the unstable mix …. She's small, the belladonna may become hallucinogenic, but it shouldn't be enough to make her sick. "Is there anything I can do for you Abby? Do you need a place to stay?"
"I'm fine," Abby said in a deep throated snarl.
Jane placed her hand on Abby's shoulder trying to reassure her. "Seriously, let me help you." The in a whisper so quiet, Jane mouthed the words, "Is he hurting you?"
Abby whipped her arm around to knock Jane's hand off her shoulder. She was strong. "No, I'm fine!"
Owen put his arm around Abby's to turn her away from Jane. With a bashful smile he said, "She's okay, Jane. Really she is. She is getting over a pretty bad illness. Thanks, but we need to get going."
"Í can get you some shoes. Where are you staying? I'll bring them by." The little girl just stared. Maybe Owen wanted the belladonna for himself. She dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
Jane watched the two walk off in the direction of the Fourth Street Bridge. Abby's bare feet tread lightly on the concrete sidewalk. Something wasn't completely right with that pair. They had just come from the alley behind the steel mill. Smoke rose from the stack a week ago. She was going to keep an eye on them.
**History of Nova Scotia; The French Moses and English Devil" BluPete Publications .
