Loyalty Under Fire - Trish McCallan Page 0,1

the desk… the rise and fall of delighted laughter when they struck a spring mechanism and a secret compartment creaked open.

The vision shifted, and for a moment her mother’s lilting voice filled the car.

A stainless steel spoon in hand, her thick black curls romping against her slender back, Rachel Blaine danced between the huge eight-burner gas stove and the gemstone counter of the kitchen island. Her voice rose and fell in a pure Irish cadence…

“Aye, I see the moon and the moon sees me

She be smilin’ through the window on me precious baby

Aye, the moon loves me Becca, as much as me

See her smilin’ on the face of me sleepin’ beauty.”

The recollection spawned quiet sorrow. Her mother had claimed that moonlight was the moon’s way of smiling. Funny how she’d forgotten that.

The memory had barely registered when an ominous shadow usurped her mother’s sparkling eyes and bouncing hair. She stiffened, flinching as the shadow writhed and swayed, a macabre dance in midair from the business end of a noose. With a shudder, Becca banished the nightmare.

It was odd how memories worked. How one’s imagination could infuse them with events that hadn’t happened—terrifying images that hadn’t been seen by the human eye but still buried themselves in the human psyche.

Her mother’s body hadn’t been moving when she’d walked into the foyer. It had been hanging there in midair, perfectly still—like a beautiful, life-sized doll. Her long corkscrew curls had shimmered beneath the chandelier’s glow; her dark eyes had been wide and glassy—empty of life. Her mother hadn’t been struggling or writhing or any of the horrific images that had reeled through Becca’s mind late at night or infected her dreams so often sleep had become something to fear.

It had taken years to banish the nightmares. She wasn’t about to let them sink their destructive fangs into her again. So, as she’d learned to do in the early days of her recovery, she closed her eyes and concentrated on detaching the negative emotions from the image—on denuding the memory of its teeth. She envisioned a gentle silver rain, a tranquil cleansing that rinsed the wretched emotions away, washing and washing until nothing but serenity remained.

The desk Harold had left her arrived two weeks later, delivered to her doorstep by three young men in T-shirts sporting the logo of National Freight.

“Where would you like it?” one of the deliverymen asked once the bureau was freed from its crate.

“In the living room. I’ve already cleared a spot for it.”

She led the way through her front door, down the short entry hall, and around the corner to the living room. After indicating the open space in the corner next to the window, she stepped back so they could wiggle the desk into place. After signing the release form and escorting the two men back to the front entrance, she returned to study the newest addition to her living room.

Up close, the desk looked even smaller than she’d remembered. Not a surprise since she’d only been six or seven when she’d been obsessed with its secret compartments. It was interesting to see it now through adult eyes. It was quite lovely, with a warm patina and the aura of timelessness emitted by material objects of historical significance.

Its feet were carved like cat’s paws, and the front and back legs were clearly the limbs of a cat as well—broadening as they reached the undercarriage of the desk until they resembled shoulders.

The front of the desk was up and held in place by two yellow straps. After cutting the plastic straps, she eased the front down until the hinges caught. The interior had drawers stacked three high on the right and left with a double tier of file slots in between. Above the drawers and file folders were seven more drawers. They were tiny, barely large enough for paper clips or keys. But if she remembered correctly, that fourth drawer hid the latch that opened the largest of the secret compartments.

Grasping the tarnished knob, she gently pulled the drawer all the way out and set it aside, then eased two fingers inside the small space and pressed up. The wood against her fingertips gave with a soft click, and the file folders dropped forward slightly. Smiling, she pushed the section with the file folders down, revealing the ten-inch compartment behind.

The slanted entrance to the secret compartment was exactly as she remembered. But the russet, leather-bound book tucked inside the space was new. Wasn’t that just like Harold? He