Into the Storm Read online

  Into the Storm

  Lisa Bingham

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Bingham

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition March 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-699-2

  Also by Lisa Bingham

  The Bengal Rubies

  Distant Thunder

  Eden Creek

  Silken Dreams

  Silken Promises

  Temptation’s Kiss

  To “Rancy”

  Thanks for being my best friend, my cheerleader, my therapist, and my big sister.

  You taught me to keep trying…and that most problems can be solved with an order of bacon.

  Dearest J.,

  Sadly, I have only one happy memory of my father.

  I think I was about five—maybe six? Yes. I was six. I remember distinctly because my younger sister hadn’t been born yet and I was leery of a “little stranger” being sent from heaven to live with us.

  According to the way Mama tells the story, I was a precocious girl, always getting into cupboards or her sewing box. Worse yet, I had an uncanny knack for escaping without her knowledge. New latches on the doors and a neat fence around the yard made very little impression on my wayward spirit. I didn’t want to entertain myself within the confines of the tiny house. As far as I was concerned, the cramped, four-room shack was lacking in imagination. The same was true of the rocky lawn. And the fence? I regarded the neatly painted pickets with the same contempt a prisoner might eye his cellblock bars.

  No, I wanted to explore the thick forest that meandered through the valley below the sawmill. There were age-old pine trees and fairy circles as well as squirrels and chipmunks and raccoons. Even better, away in the distance, I could see an enormous emerald pool—an abandoned quarry that had filled with water. I’d been warned countless times about staying away from the old limestone pit, but the mysterious blue-green lake became an obsession. I was sure that something so beautiful must harbor untold magic.

  That fateful afternoon, while my mother bent low over her washboard on the front porch, I found a crate in the larder and dragged it up to the back door. Carefully climbing atop it, I leaned forward as far as I could and slipped the hook free from the latch. As soon as it worked free, out I tumbled, coming to a soft landing in the midst of Mama’s petunias.

  I’m not sure how long I lay there, inhaling their musky scent, my body pulsing with the thrill of being free.

  I hadn’t been caught.

  I hadn’t been caught!

  Quick to finish my escape, I scrambled upright and wriggled beneath the fence in the same spot our dog Lucky had used earlier that week. At a trot, I headed for a forbidden path that wound through the towering evergreens. I would be back long before my mother finished the washing. No one would ever know about the adventure I’d had.

  The trail was easy to follow, the ground cocoa-brown against the new spring grass. Birds chattered from the trees overhead—fat chickadees and vibrant jays. Squirrels darted in the shadows, chirping angrily at me for disturbing their idyllic afternoon, their bushy tails flipping and twitching indignantly in their wake. Following them, I left the path and wandered deeper into the woods.

  I don’t know how long I explored. It could have been minutes or maybe an hour. But gradually, I realized that my surroundings had become completely unfamiliar. I stopped, making a slow, complete circle as my enchantment evaporated. Shadows cast by the pine trees crept ominous fingers across the ground. The familiar noises of the forest faded, overlaid by the guttural croaking of frogs and the incessant creak of crickets. More ominous still were the rustling sounds coming from the undergrowth.

  The hair on my arms stood at attention and I was swamped with foreboding. I had disobeyed my mother and she would be cross. And my father…

  I didn’t even want to consider his anger.

  Too frightened to try to find my way back home, I climbed atop a large rock, sitting with my arms wound tightly around my knees. Hugging myself for warmth, I watched the stars blink on, one by one.

  Soon, the moon rose high enough over the mountains to cast its sickly glow and I began to cry in earnest, huge heartrending sobs that exhausted me even further. I’d been a wicked girl and this time I deserved to be punished. My father would see to that.

  Yet even as I shivered at the thought of what he would do in order to “drive away my disobedience,” I discovered I didn’t care. I would willingly face whatever consequences awaited me if only someone would come and take me home.

  I’m not sure how long I lay there or when I fell asleep. A pink light was beginning to appear when a strong pair of arms lifted me into a gentle embrace. Still more asleep than awake, I made a weak show of resistance until I heard my father whisper my name.

  I waited for his anger to ignite, for the dire reprisals I knew he had planned. I was completely at his mercy.

  But nothing happened. Instead, he drew me close and all thought of fighting dissipated like dew against a summer sun. I nestled into the warmth of his body, my nose pressed into his shoulder. His beard was as scratchy as steel wool against my cheek, but oh, so welcome. That beard and the scents of pitch and pine shavings were as familiar to me as my own name.

  As relief crashed through my body, sleep threatened to swamp me again. But I felt my father’s arms tighten in a desperate hug. A sob snagged his breath—and when he kissed my hair, I felt his tears.

  Stunned, I remained motionless in his arms, hardly daring to breathe lest I break whatever spell hung over my father. For the longest time, I’d been sure that he didn’t like me much. That he’d resented the fact I hadn’t been born a boy. But at that moment, as he hugged me close, I felt…cherished.

  Close on the heels of that thought came a desperate panic. Instinctively, I knew that if my father realized I was awake, this unfathomable outpouring of tenderness would vanish and his anger and indifference would return. So I feigned sleep, thinking this could be a new beginning for us.

  It was not to be. In the years that followed, his affection would prove more elusive than gold. Unable to comprehend why he found me so unlikable, I struggled to please him, fruitlessly trying to recapture the emotions of that night. But it was as if the depth of emotion he’d felt had boiled dry. My very presence would fill him with a jittery anger that was impossible to control.

  If only I could have known early on what lay ahead, the utter fear and emotional darkness into which I would be plunged in my search to recapture that sense of belonging. Maybe if I’d known how difficult such a search would prove, the memory of that distant event wouldn’t linger in my memory like the searing heat of a brand upon my soul.

  RueAnn

  Chapter One

  Washington D.C., U.S.A

  September, 1939

  Charles Tolliver crossed to the front desk of the Merrimac Hotel and tapped his fingers restlessly on the marble counter. A few yards away, a nattily dressed clerk with an Errol Flynn mustache finished speaking on the telephone.

  Charlie checked the tickets he’d tucked into his pocket earlier that morning. Less than twenty-four hours remained before he would be on a train for New Yor
k. Mere hours after that, he’d be sailing for London.

  So where the hell was Jean-Claude?

  Finally, the clerk placed the receiver on the cradle and turned to Charlie.

  “May I help you?”

  “Room 406, please.”

  The man turned toward a wall of cubbies, light from the crystal chandelier gleaming from an excess of Brylcreem in his hair. When he returned, he offered a placid smile and slid the key across the richly veined marble along with a small bulky envelope.

  “This was left for you earlier today.”

  Charlie felt his gut tighten, but he kept his features neutral.

  “Thank you.”

  Dropping the packet into his trouser pocket, he jingled it carelessly with his spare change as he moved toward the bank of elevators against the rear wall. Eschewing the open car with its buxom operator, he dodged into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time.

  Mere moments before reaching the door to the third floor, he paused, peering down over the spiral banister, then up. Backing out of the line of sight, he ripped open the envelope and tipped it sideways.

  A gold lighter fell into his palm, causing the hairs at the back of his neck to prickle. The edges were worn, the etchings smoothed away to near extinction.

  Jean-Claude’s.

  Lifting the lid, he examined the mechanism, and then the inner cavity, finding a slip of rolled up paper.

  Taking a pen from his inside pocket, Charlie coaxed the paper free, unfolding it.

  Being watched. Second location. 1800.

  Muttering an expletive under his breath, Charlie pocketed the lighter and took the last flight of stairs at breakneck speed. Within five minutes, he’d gathered his belongings and stood at the window, fingering the curtain aside so that he could peer down into the street below.

  If Jean-Claude were being watched, that meant it was only prudent to assume…

  His gaze fell on a figure who sat on a bus bench at the end of the block. Dark hat, dark trench coat. Had Charlie seen him before? The set of his shoulders, the slouch looked…overly casual. Much like a gentleman in a sweater who’d taken a seat behind Charlie and his companions at the movies last night.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. With only hours to go, he couldn’t afford to miss Jean-Claude, but meeting him now would be more difficult. He could only be grateful that they’d set a backup meeting place early on.

  Scanning the street, he grew still when his eyes landed on a construction fence plastered with dozens of posters that proclaimed:

  Come See Glory Bee Hallelujah and Her Diplomat Angels!

  Dropping the curtain, he grabbed his suitcase and his hat and made his way back to the lobby. Strolling as casually as possible, he returned to the front desk.

  “My bill, please.”

  “Of course, sir. I hope your stay was satisfactory.”

  “Very.” Charlie offered him what he hoped was a sly grin. “I’ve merely managed to find more…pleasant company for my last evening in town.”

  The clerk’s smile was all-knowing. “Very good, sir.”

  Donning his hat, Charlie approached the shoeshine stand, then, at the last minute, altered his path to the side door. Stepping into the sunshine, he strode north, away from the figure he’d seen watching the front entrance. Carefully, he wove through several side alleys, retracing his steps twice, until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. Then, seeing a trolling taxi, he signaled to the driver.

  Glory Bee wouldn’t be at the theater yet so he would go to her apartment. She was bound to let him borrow her car—and with luck, Charlie would be able to finagle the companionship of one of her roommates as well. A drive into the countryside, a seemingly innocent errand to the Maryland shore…

  What could be simpler?

  • • •

  “RueAnn, there’s a phone call for you.”

  RueAnn barely glanced up. Her needle flashed in the dim light as she repaired the beaded hem of Glory Bee O’Halloran’s costume—a strip of fabric worn sarong style during an exotic rendition of Flying Down to Rio. RueAnn had been sewing since sunup, making the necessary repairs to the damage that appeared after each performance to the dozens of outfits used in the burlesque review. She still had three ripped seams and a sleeve to reattach. Then it would be time to wash and iron shirts and reset the wigs. If she could get everything finished by noon, she could spend the day exploring the Smithsonian until wardrobe call at six that evening.

  “RueAnn, did you hear me?

  She made a final knot and bit the end of the thread free.

  “Are you sure the telephone is for me?” she said absently, searching for her yellow thread. No one knew she was in Washington other than the performers who were her roommates—and their apartment didn’t have a phone.

  One of the women who worked in the front office leaned into the doorway. “She said her name was Astrid…Astral…”

  RueAnn’s head reared up. “Astra?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Her fingers grew suddenly clumsy, the needle pricking her finger and drawing blood. If Astra was on the line, it could only be bad news. Phone calls were next to impossible to arrange in Defiance, West Virginia—especially if Astra wanted to keep her conversation private. Using the pay phone at the company store would have aroused too many questions since the Boggs children were forbidden to use such a “tool from the devil.” That meant Astra had hitched a ride to Money or Slaterville in order to get a message to her.

  Heedless of the costumes in her lap, RueAnn jumped to her feet. Stepping over the puddle of satin and sequins, she rushed to the stage where a phone had been bolted to the wall near the stage manager’s desk. The receiver dangled from its cord, swinging like an oversized pendulum, marking the time it took for RueAnn to wend her way past the carpenters and grips who were readying the theater for this evening’s performance.

  “Astra?”

  There was an audible sob on the other end of the line. “RueAnn, Pa knows where you are!”

  “What?”

  “Pa knows you’re in Washington. I-I don’t know how he found out. I swear I didn’t say anything. I swear it!”

  RueAnn’s gripped the receiver so tightly, it creaked. Dear God. Just a few nights ago, she thought she’d seen Clive Meade—one of her father’s buddies from the sawmill—on the street outside the theater. But when she’d paused to take another look, the man had disappeared and she’d brushed off the incident as an example of her growing paranoia.

  Her younger sister was crying openly now, the piteous sound made even worse by the distance that separated them.

  “Astra, shhh. It’s okay. I think I know how he found out,” RueAnn offered, nervously wrapping the phone cord around her wrist as her thoughts scattered like buckshot.

  “RueAnn, you’ve got to get out of there,” Astra urged, echoing her thoughts.

  RueAnn stammered, “I-I can’t leave right now. I’ve got a job. And friends. Last night I went with Glory Bee to the—”

  “RueAnn!” Astra interrupted forcefully. “Pa didn’t go to work today.”

  “What?” RueAnn braced her back against the wall.

  Her father never missed work.

  Never.

  “Please, RueAnn, you’ve got to go. Pa and Gideon took the truck and disappeared late last night. Both of them were mad, RueAnn, really mad. I didn’t find out until this morning that they were headed for Washington. It took me forever to get a ride into Money so I could warn you.”

  “You’re sure?” RueAnn breathed. Yards away, the flickering exit sign tapped out its own mayday signal.

  Flick, flick, flick…flash, flash, flash…flick, flick, flick.

  “Yes!” Her sister paused then added, “RueAnn…he took the shotgun with him and…” Astra was crying openly now. “And…and the box from the pulpit.”

  The phone cord biting into RueAnn’s wrist had caused her fingers to turn purple. It was that color, that sickening, unnatural
shade that jolted RueAnn out of her disbelief.

  She’d been so careful this time. No letters home, no phone calls, nothing. She’d merely slipped away one night, hitching a ride out of Defiance, and heading for the bus station. Emptying the bag of coins she’d been stashing for over a year, she’d asked for a ticket that would take her as far away as her money would allow. Then she’d boarded a bus for Washington D.C.

  How much time did she have left? The bus ride to Washington D.C. had been about eight hours, but they’d stopped at least a dozen times along the way. In a truck, her father would have the advantage.

  “Where will you go?”

  RueAnn scrambled for an answer, but her brain stuck in the same groove, like a needle hitting a scratch in a record. If Jacob Boggs had discovered she worked in a burlesque theater…

  There would be no reasoning with him. He would beat her senseless then haul her back to Defiance by the roots of her hair.

  Come hell or high water, she would not go back to that life.

  “Miss Boggs, have you finished those repairs yet?”

  RueAnn started at the costume mistress’ call. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed what she hoped was a natural smile.

  “I’m almost finished, Ma’am.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you later this evening.”

  As soon as the woman disappeared in the wings, RueAnn hunched over the phone. “I’ve got to go, Astra.”

  “Be careful. Get away from there as soon as you can.”

  “I will. I…” She swallowed hard, injecting a light note into her voice that sounded false even to her own ears. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to let you know I’m safe and sound.”

  Very carefully, she replaced the receiver on its cradle. Then, as if the bottom of her world hadn’t dropped out beneath her, she made her way back to the narrow room dubbed the “costume closet.”

  More than anything else, she regretted that she would have to leave Mrs. Bixby in the lurch. The woman had given her a job when no one else would. If RueAnn hurried, she could finish her sewing then explain to her…

  What? That despite being a legal adult, she was running away from her father?