Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Two days later…
A bby emerged from the woods with her arms full of dry grapevines and several stalks of something-or-other that were covered in loads of orange berries.
She’d gotten it into her head to recreate the wreath on the cover of the one and only Home and Garden magazine that—against all odds of shifter masculinity—had gained its unlikely entry into the den. She’d found it buried under a stack of Hustler , Sports Illustrated , and Motor Trend .
Why she was making home crafts when they were still under threat of the Collector and his zombie attacks…? That was a very good question and one she’d been asking herself for the last two hours.
She’d decided it was her way of giving him the middle finger. She was going to go about her business as if he had no effect on her. Plus, hanging a pretty fall wreath on the door would make the shed look more homey.
After living for so long without a home, she needed this. Her mates might tease her about the decorations, but their jabs would all be in fun. She liked it when they teased, caling her the marauding Martha Stewart. Dylan, in particular, was a master at the silly jabs, and Hawk, though mostly serious, would occasionally crack a smile.
God, she lived for those smiles . Since coming home from the masquerade ball with a sprained wrist and a lump on the back of her head, she’d yet to see one.
She’d made it halfway across the clearing when Hawk came tearing out of the woods on the opposite side.
“Where have you been?” he yelled.
She made a shrugging gesture, not to be ambiguous or evasive, but because that was all she could manage with her arms full of vines, and because it did emphasize her collection and pretty much answered his question.
“Scared me to death when I realized you’d snuck off,” he said, his volume now less than a bellow because they’d nearly closed the gap between them.
“I didn’t sneak off,” she said.
“I tracked your scent into the woods, then it disappeared.”
“Did it?” Huh . She’d waded through the creek a bit, but not for so long that it should have thrown Hawk off the trail. Was he really that undone?
“What’s all that?” he asked.
“Arts and crafts.”
Hawk let a low growl rumble past his lips. No surprise. She knew he didn’t have the same fondness for home décor, and he really wouldn’t think it was worth the risk of “sneaking off” alone.
Just then, Max’s flatbed truck pulled off the narrow road that wove through the woods and drove into the clearing. He parked beside a row of SUVs and a rusted-out Pinto.
Abby stepped closer to Hawk’s side, and he put his arm around her shoulders.
The driver’s door flew open, and Max hopped out, his brown skin glowing in the sun. “Hey, you guys.”
“Did you go to town for something?” Hawk asked.
“Mail,” Max said, and he lifted a bundle for them to see. “As a matter of fact, something came for you, Abby.”
“Me?” Abby glanced up at the underside of Hawk’s jaw, then to Max. “Who would send me mail?”
Since the debacle that came from letting her friend Christa know her whereabouts at the den, Abby had been careful not to reveal their location to anyone.
“No idea. There isn’t a return address.” Max pulled the envelope out of the stack and read the front of it. “Abby Prescott, care of Tyrus Cain. Methuen, Mass.”
“Tyrus?” Hawk asked.
“Who’s Tyrus Cain?” Abby asked.
“He was the pack alpha,” Hawk explained. “Two alphas ago. Before my time. I never met him.”
“And the post office workers would know that letter should end up with the rest of pack mail?” Abby asked.
“Good question,” Hawk said. “Obviously someone at the post office was old enough to still recognize the name and get it in the right box.”
Max made it to them and held out the letter to Abby.
She set the grapevines on the ground and took the envelope. She glanced up at Hawk again, seeking reassurance, because she had the uneasy feeling the correspondence could go off like a bomb.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Open it.”
For obvious reasons, Abby remained reticent. The world outside the pack—her parents, the Gables, the guards, the Collector and his minions—not much of it had been good.
Maybe this was finally the arrest warrant for having killed Jerry. Except that wouldn’t come in an unmarked envelope, would it?
She wedged her finger under the flap and slid it across to the other end. A single piece of paper was folded inside. She put it to her nose and inhaled the familiar, female scent. “Frannie.”
“Frannie?” Hawk said. “Frannie from the pit?”
“Frannie from Boston,” Abby said, knowing Frannie would not take kindly to a moniker that coupled her name with the term “pit.”
“What does she say?” Max asked.
“It starts out with ‘Boston, 1930,’” Abby said excitedly. “That’s fifteen years after we sent her home. So, that’s good.”
Hawk nodded. “Keep reading.”
Abby wetted her lips and read out loud.
Dear Abby,
“Like the advice column,” Max interjected.
Abby ignored him and kept reading.
I have left this letter in my safe deposit box with instructions to my progeny that they are not to post it until the date I have indicated, which I hope is the date now marked on this envelope. If you are reading this, then, for once, they have not been a disappointment to me.
Abby chuckled. She couldn’t imagine having Frannie as a mother, though Frannie would’ve been far better than her own.
As you are likely aware, the stock market crashed last year, or in your case, nearly a century ago. It has severely damaged my husband’s interests. Not even my magic could have shielded us from financial devastation.
Oh, no… ” Abby silently read ahead.
“What does she say after that?” Hawk asked.
“Um…she says…”
The whole country is suffering, which makes those who seem unaffected stand out. One such person is a Mr. Simon Ford.
Abby looked up at Hawk. “ Simon Ford? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because that was the name of the kid at the farmhouse,” Hawk said.
“What kid?” Max asked.
“The one who was using Brady’s debit card,” Hawk explained. “The one who let the Collector use his grandfather’s barn to hold his collection of corpses.”
A chill ran over Abby’s arm at the mention of the barn. She could still see the empy tank that, in anticipation of her capture, bore her name.
Max’s lip curled in response. “That was Simon Ford?”
“Keep reading, Abby,” Hawk ordered.
This Simon Ford is not someone I know, but I remember you mentioning the name during one of the stories with which you regaled us during our time in that ghastly hole, so I can’t help but wonder if my letter will create some interest for you, especially since the gentleman resides in Salem.
Abby frowned but kept reading.
He holds himself out as being a psychiatrist like Mr. Freud, though I have my doubts, and according to my cook—yes, we have still managed to employ a cook—who has heard it on good authority from her cousin, who works in Salem on the property adjacent to Mr. Ford, the entire town views him as a recluse. His servants are indeed quite afraid of the old gentleman, but?—
Abby stopped there to catch her breath because she understood what Frannie was saying.
“What is it?” Max asked.
“Obviously,” Abby said, “she’s not talking about the Simon Ford we know. He’s not a ‘gentleman,’ and he’s certainly not an ‘ old gentleman.’”
“He could be,” Hawk said. “If he’s time hopping.”
Abby shook her head. “You forget. Simon Ford isn’t a witch.”
Hawk’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.
“Someone’s just using his name,” Abby said. “Someone who’s used to adopting aliases.”
“The Collector,” Max surmised because, really, how many options were there for a Salem recluse who managed to avoid the stock market crash and knew the name Simon Ford?
Abby nodded, then picked up where she’d left off in the letter.
His servants are indeed quite afraid of the old gentleman, but they stay because he pays them exorbitantly well—so much so, it has become a nuisance for other families in the town to provide competitive wages, especially in these trying times.
The other thing you should know: he apparently has a room in the house that none of the staff are allowed to clean, let alone get a peek inside. It is rumored that this is where he has kept his wealth after the banks’ collapse, which may be true, but if he is who I think he is, I worry that there are more sorry souls imprisoned there, or he has established another place to do his grisly business.
Abby sucked in a breath.
“Does she say anything more?” Max asked.
“Just this,” Abby said.
For obvious reasons, I don’t dare go to Salem to confirm my suspicions, but I relay this information to you in case you are still searching for the Collector in your time. If he remains elusive, you now have one more place to look.
Affectionately yours,
Frannie.
P.S. I should have mentioned the address for the house, but upon my re-read, I see that I did not: 176 Washington Square East, Salem.
P.P.S…
“ God , don’t you just love a P.P.S.?” Abby asked.
“That’s what she wrote?” Max asked.
“No, that bit was me,” Abby admitted, quickly moving into the actual post postscript. “Frannie says…”
If you are traveling to 1930 Salem to visit the house, I would not complain if you were to also make a stop in Boston. I would love to see your face again. Until then, be safe.
“Wow,” Max said.
Abby stared at the letter for another few seconds, amazed by Frannie’s ingenuity in delivering her message while simultaneously uncertain about how to use the information. Had the time finally come to confront the Collector? Were they going to time hop back to the 1930s?
“We’ll need to give Stella a call,” Hawk said. “She’s not going to believe this.”
Abby carefully refolded the paper along its one-hundred-year-old creases.
“Why wouldn’t she believe the Collector has traveled to 1930?” Abby asked. “He’s traveled further back than that.”
“It’s not the date. It’s the address,” Hawk said. “One-Seventy-Six Washington Square East is Stella’s childhood home.”
If Abby needed any more convincing that Simon Ford was the Collector, then that did it.
“In that case,” she said, her voice rising, “we can’t call Stella.”
“Why the hell not?” Hawk asked.
“Because her store is only a few blocks from there.” Abby threw her arm out in a general south-easterly direction. “If we call her, she won’t wait for us. She’ll go back into the house on her own. With Ethan probably, but without us.”
“You hate being left behind,” Hawk said.
“I hate letting Stella have all the fun,” Abby amended, and in truth, she also wanted to redeem herself for having balked at the second-story window of Hurley’s office.
Hawk glanced up at Max with a help-me expression.
Max chuckled, then walked away muttering, “And I thought Chelsea was a handful.”
Hawk let out a heavy sigh.
“So?” Abby asked. “Are we going to Salem?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Great! I’ll mustard the troops.”
Hawk’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”
“I’ll mustard the troops,” she repeated before translating, “Get Dylan and Stryker.”
“It’s muster the troops,” Hawk said.
Now it was Abby’s turn to be confused. She furrowed her brow. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty positive,” Hawk said with a smile.
Abby shrugged even as her heart fluttered at one of her mate’s rare smiles. She bent down to retrieve her grapevines.
“And if we’re going to be digging up ghosts in that old house,” Hawk said, “there’s one more person whose prophetic insights we could use.”
Abby’s head jerked up. “Who’s that?”
Hawk drove his hands deep into his pockets. “When I tell you, promise you won’t call Stella to warn her?”