The first few days I stayed inside the beach house and slept. Not far from Matt and Jake. All three of us slept together in the game room on one of the ginormous leather couches that didn’t come close to filling up the huge space. You name it, it was in the game room. Every boy toy, electric game you could think of was waiting in the corners, in the cabinets and on the shelves. A huge TV screen that was the size of a movie theater and thousands of DVDs and Blu-rays. It wasn’t Matt’s house after all but belonged to a friend. The kind of friend a New York City detective wasn’t supposed to know. There wasn’t any possible way to trace the connection between the friend and Matt, so no one would look for us here. I was able to relax and slowly, my speech came back so that the only noticeable effect was that my drawl was missing, and I had a slight slur to my words.
I wandered the house picking up the small antiques carefully because I knew that they were expensive, and rare. Everything in the house was expensive. Rich. From the real paintings on the walls, (not prints) to the fancy Limoges china and Lalique crystal. I even saw Tiffany lamps. But what was noticeably missing were the photos of the people who owned the house and lived there. Or had lived there as it was empty. It had that empty, un-lived in feeling of homes that had lost their owners.
There wasn’t any food in the fridge, just canned goods and non-perishables in the pantry. The pantry was the size of my room back in the trailer. I could have lived in there.
There were three‒ not one but three freezers and although each one was running, all three were empty.
Upstairs were ten bedrooms and five full baths. There was a third floor, with a huge open room that Matt said was a ballroom. I knew from Crispin’s memories that it didn’t mean a room where you played ball, but a dancing area for ladies in fancy gowns and parties with dancing. More bedrooms up there, too but these were tiny, the size of a closet. Matt said they were for the maids and servants. For the hired help.
Another room was enclosed in cedar; he said that it was for fur coats and woolen clothes. That the cedar kept the moths from eating holes in the cloth.
I found back staircases, lonely hallways that led to the kitchens, laundry room and outside. Not to any of the ‘family quarters’ because servants should not be seen or heard during their duties. I knew that because I could draw on the memories of my past lives. Not that I had ever been born into a rich family.
But, the best room of all was called the panic room. It was accessed through a small door under the fancy winged staircase, the central point of the house once you came in through the foyer. You had to know the door was there under the side of the stairs, it was disguised as a bookshelf and led to a small space underneath the stairwell. That had a steel hatch opening to a short hallway and into a 10 by 10 room that was bomb-proof, fire-proof, had its own air supply, fire and 911 service through a dedicated phone line. It also had two escape exits, one that came out somewhere in the dunes near the boat house and the other was the stair entrance. Both exits were made of steel doors that could not be kicked in and worked with an electronic keypad.
There was enough food and water for a week, with a chemical toilet good for that long. Which made me even more positive that the house’s owner was Mafia. Or a rich hit man. Not because of the toilet, because of the panic room. It was like John Wick. Maybe.
Matt said we were in the Hamptons where the very rich lived. But only on the weekends and summers. They spent the winter months in Florida or the City. They would not be nosy enough to come around and see who was living in the previously empty mansion. Nor would they be curious enough to ask questions when Jake or Matt went to town for groceries. I wanted to go with, but he warned me not to leave the house until they were sure no one was watching.
Jake stayed with me, as he did not know his way to or around the village. And he would stick out as a stranger when Matt did not, having spent his summers here. By then, I had enough of being cooped up and cajoled Jake into a walk on the beach with me. We walked for over an hour, and I could see that he was becoming nervous that Matt had not returned yet.
I wore jeans, t-shirt and the gag-me pink coat as it was the only one I had. The other jackets in the house were so big that I stepped on them. I wore the braids but not the hat, he tucked them into a crown on the top of my head and secured it with bobby-pins, so the hair wouldn’t fall off. He didn’t tease me about what a cute girl I made and for that, I gave him credit. I wouldn’t have been so nice.
The mist sprayed in the air by the waves was cold, invigorating. I danced up and down the surf line, entranced by the never-ending display of gray waves. The ocean here was not blue and tranquil, not the gentle ripple of waves that came in like on Louisiana’s coast. No, here was the might and majesty of the Northern Atlantic, the same harsh beast that had taken the Titanic and other vessels.
I bent over and picked up a seashell, the top half of a scallop. Rubbing my fingers on the pearly inside, I marveled at the play of opalescent colors. There were a lot of shells on the beach. I stuck the first one in my pocket and looked both up and down the sand.
There were no people out here and no trash littering the ecru sand. I was used to seeing beer cans and plastic bottles littering the beaches that Mom had taken me to visit. Not here, but I suspected that it was because these beaches were private ones, belonging to the fancy homes that dotted the coast.
“Jake?”
He turned to look at me, his attention drawn from scanning the surroundings. Like Matt, his eyes were never still, always observing, calculating and aware of everything around him.
“What?”
“Who owns this place? Why aren’t there any photos in the house?”
“The man who owns the place is a bit of a recluse. No one knows what he looks like and he wants to keep it that way,” he answered.
“Is he a hit-man?”
He laughed. “What gave you that idea?”
“I dunno. Maybe cuz Matt don’t admit knowing him or that there aren’t any pictures anywhere.”
“He is into a shady business. International stuff that wouldn’t look good if the Internal Affairs cops knew Matt knew about it. If they knew Matt was…associated with the gentleman…well, he’d be in trouble,” he explained. “He doesn’t do anything with the man, except they’re related. That is enough to get him in trouble. You ready to go back in? Cold?”
I looked down the beach. Up toward the setting sun. Saw no other houses nearby, just dunes and saw-grass whipping in the stiff breeze. The air was decidedly cooler with a sharp bite even through the heavy pink coat.
“He’s Mafia, then,” I muttered. “Some Don or Capo of the Cosa Nostra. Maybe his brother or Grandfather.” I don’t think Jake heard my under-the-breath comment.
I turned around and trudged through the wet sand, following my own footsteps back to the house. Jake went first, making me wait until he was sure that we were alone, and the coast was clear.
Before we made it all the way back to the house, I thought I heard the churp-churp of a helicopter’s blades. When I stopped to look, Jake nearly stepped on my heels.
“What?” he said. He looked up at the sky where my face was pointed. I didn’t see anything; the clouds weren’t that low even though they were thick enough to cover the entire horizon. I could still see a long way in all directions. Nothing there but sand dunes, water and tumultuous skies.
“What did you see, Cris?”
“I thought I heard a helicopter,” I said slowly. “Is that normal for around here?” It wasn’t for Taylorsville, Tennessee where mom and I had lived eons ago. I had seen one once at the local fair. Giving rides for twenty bucks so I hadn’t had one. Mom wanted to, but twenty bucks on top of the five apiece to get in was more than she could spend.
“I don’t know. In the city, they’re everywhere. Cop choppers, news choppers and tour ones are always flying around. Don’t see why there would be one around here, unless there was a disaster that the bloodsucking reporters were covering.”
“Like a bus crash with multiple victims?” I asked dryly. He gave me that look.
“You see anything?” His head swiveled. There wasn’t anything in the sky except seagulls. Thousands of them. They were everywhere. The roof of the house glistened with their white crap.
He scanned the sky for five minutes. I didn’t hear it again nor did I see anything. We were just going in through the back doors when I heard a vehicle’s tires crunching on the gravel and seashell drive. Jake pushed me inside so fast that my head whipped, told me to go to the panic room and not come out until he was sure it was Matt and they both told me I could exit.
When Matt knocked and told me on the intercom that it was safe to come out, the first thing I noticed were the pizza boxes in his hands. Then, I asked him if he knew John Wick. He stared at me with a confused look on his face, glanced at Jake who shrugged. I grabbed the pizza box, set it on the kitchen table and pulled out a huge piece of pepperoni and sausage. Stuffed my face as they set out plates, forks, napkins and glasses.
“No Pepsi?” I mumbled. He served me a glass of water. I made a face. Not my favorite but it would do. “No MacDonald’s?” I asked. He understood me with my mouth full.
“Not in this snooty town. Maybe over in Marblehead. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”
“Nobody out on the beach. No neighbors. Nearest houses are closed for the season,” Jake said. He looked at me and when I didn’t say anything, he helped himself to two pieces of pizza. He pulled two beers out of the fridge.
“Hey! Where did you get those?” I demanded. “I want one.”
“No!” both said. “You’re too young for beer. Besides, you won’t like the taste.”
“How will I know if you won’t let me taste it?” I returned smartly. They laughed.
“I’m sure you had beer in Crispin’s day. Hardly anyone drank water. Tea, coffee and beer were the beverages of choice,” Jake said.
“And whiskey. Mr. Harris gave me whiskey in water once. To settle my nerves, he said. I was having a hissy fit,” I admitted.
“What’s it like, Cris? Remembering all those lives?” Matt asked me.
“You don’t know?”
“I remember it as if it were a dream – being your dad. But no other lives between then and now. Jake said it is the same for him. He can remember Fitz but no one else.”
“It’s like that. Like a dream. Memories that pop into my head. I know them, but I haven’t lived them. I’m me, Cris Snow but I’m also Crispin Lacey. Ben Johnson. Peter Levander. Mark Caruthers. Levy Jaeger. Others who didn’t live long enough to know their names. Some come through strong and certain, others are only vague shadows. I don’t remember all the ways that we died, I think if I did, it would make me go crazy.”
I finished my second piece and ate all the crusts that they had left. Matt had bought two large pies and by the time all three of us had eaten, there was only one slice left. I asked them to leave it out in case I got the munchies later.
We went to the foyer and Matt checked the burglar alarm to make sure that it was on and working. The house had cameras, too, showing the approaches to the front and rear doors, the sides and back of the house and the driveway. There was another system for the beach access, and nothing showed out of the ordinary. Not even a seagull on the roof.
We went to the game room, one of the only rooms downstairs that had no windows. Matt patted the couch where he had stacked sheets, blankets and pillows, making me a cozy bed. I climbed in and he tucked the blankets around me.
“Okay? Need anything? Drink? Potty? Brush your teeth? Bedtime story?”
I snorted and pulled off the braided wig. “I’m 12, not five, Matt,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And I need a new toothbrush. I’m not using an old one that’s been hanging around for years. Are you going to watch a movie?”
“Why? Something you want to see?”
“John Wick,” I answered promptly.
“What’s with the fascination with hit-men? Or is it Keanu Reeves?”
“That’s so gay,” I grumbled. Jake explained that I thought the owner of the mansion might be a wealthy retired hit man. Matt snickered as he went through the DVDs. They were all in alphabetical order.
“No, he’s not a shooter although he has shot people.”
“Oh. A Mafia Don? Or Capo?”
“No.” His answer was short and crisp.
“Why doesn’t he have pictures in the house?” I demanded.
“He’s retired Black Ops. He was exposed and now, there’s a contract out on his head by several foreign governments. He owns this place under a shell corporation and is presumed dead by our own government,” he answered finally. “Now, I’m going to have to kill both of you.”
“Oh.” Both of us were silent. Me for only a minute. “Who is he?”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Man, you never give up. He’s my older brother, Declan.”
“Declan who died 5 years ago?” Jake asked in shock. “I saw his funeral on TV!”
“Yeah, well I was in it. I didn’t know he wasn’t dead for three years,” Matt returned. “No one knows he’s alive, where he is or what he looks like anymore.”
“So, he’s a spy? Cool,” I said. “Does this place have a secret weapon cache and spy stuff? Is that why the fancy alarm and camera system? Does he have a car like James Bond, 007?”
“Whoa, boy. Down. You’re getting way too excited. This is real, not make-believe. You can’t repeat any of this stuff. Our lives and my brother’s depend on zippered lips.”
I pretended to zip mine shut.
He put the movie into the DVD slot in the TV and I sat up, my arms around my knees. Ten minutes into the movie, I yawned and said there wasn’t enough killing in it. Really. There was so much death and blood that it was silly. Stupid. No one person could do that much shooting and not get shot once.
Disgusted, I went back to my nest of blankets, pulled the covers over my head and zoned out. I didn’t know why I was so tired all the time, but what kid would turn down the chance to sleep anywhere, anytime?
Anyway, I didn’t stay awake to see if they watched the movie all the way to the end. Sometime during the night, I was aware of both Matt and Jake checking on me. The soft murmurs of their voices reassured me that I was safe. I slept deeply. Peacefully with no nightmares or dreams. No ghosts came to warn me in my dreams.
The smell of frying bacon, coffee perking and eggs cooking woke me in the morning. I stretched, stuck my feet out from under the warm blankets and onto the cold floor. Tiles. Marble looking.
My eyes felt gunky and my mouth tasted like garlic and tomatoes. I needed to brush my teeth and wash my face. It was gross. I went in search of the bathrooms, there were three on the first floor. Done in different themes, I liked the one with the lighthouses and seashells. It sorta reminded me of being in an underwater cavern. A new toothbrush sat on the counter top still wrapped in the package.
“Yay,” I said and sat on the pot. I peed, brushed and flushed. Sort of like one-stop-shopping. Get it done all at once. I knew it was weird, but it was also weird to brush before I ate; I couldn’t stand the taste of garlic in my mouth anymore. Or the slimy feeling.
There was a bar of fancy perfumed soap in the scallop shaped soap dish. I looked for one of the regular kind like Dial. I wasn’t sure if rich people used that kind of soap, but Mom had told me that the fancy ones were just for decoration. I purposely didn’t look in the mirror while I was in the bathroom. That was too much to take in just before breakfast.