The Gelidus Factor

By Patricia Otto

Ever since a freak accident took his wife and son, middle-school history teacher Mac McLeod has sunk into an abyss of booze and unanswered questions. Miserable and desperate, he vows to turn his life around. When he meets Roz Liddy, he is instantly attracted to her and hopes that, maybe, he can finally move on with his life.

Roz is hiding a secret. Since moving to her new house, her normally soothing meditations have become psychic voyages into history. At first, she must prove to herself she isn't crazy. Then she has to convince Mac. When her abilities are discovered by the Gelidus Society — a group of men dedicated to verifying history and solving cold cases — Roz realizes her gift may be important to humanity. On top of that, she may be the one person who can tell Mac what happened to his family. One thing is clear, her psychic abilities will put their new love and their lives in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Otto
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943860050

Patricia Otto

A few decades ago, I found out that most people don't make up stories about the people they watch while sipping ice tea at a cafe. They do not take a cast of characters from a book or movie and give them a whole new story. Who knew? I thought everyone did that. Then there were the out-of-the-blue-characters. The ones conjured up in my head, telling me their tales, pushing me to write their stories. Sharing them only seemed fair.

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Copyright

The Gelidus Factor Copyright © 2017 by Patricia Otto

Cover Design by Glass Slipper Web Design

EBooks are not transferable. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of the copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the internet, any electronic or prints means without the publisher's permission.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the writer's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

A year ago

I’m dead… Figures.

My mouth feels like a cat box. My head is pounding so hard it feels like my eyeballs could shoot out of their sockets. I’d see ’em bounce across the floor. Oh, that’s right, I’d be blind.

So this is what death feels like.

Shit.

If I’m feeling, I can’t be dead… Figures.

When Mac opened his eyes to stare at mounds of white, for a split second, death and heaven ran through his mind. Death didn’t bother him, but heaven? Now that was a kick in the head. He groaned, wishing he had thought up a different metaphor.

The white mounds shifted, stirring the return of his memory…such as it was. Another bar, another party girl plopping down on the barstool beside his and pulling her skirt up to her straddle. After the second drink, she’d been rubbing his leg dangerously close to his crotch and promising him whatever. No, this wasn’t heaven. That wasn’t his final destination anyway.

Turning from his side to his back, he blinked several times as the hangover thumped his skull. His mouth tasted gross, an ashtray of too many cigarettes and too much—what had been the drink of the evening?—oh yeah, bourbon on the rocks.

He exhaled a harsh breath.

Damn, he had to stop this. He hardly recognized himself anymore…hadn’t in a long time. Not since that moment two years ago at Martha Culpepper’s retirement party when his cell phone rang and a city cop’s voice on the other end spoke the words that changed his life forever. Oh God, he missed his family.

Mac focused his gaze away from the memories toward the ceiling fan. It was his, so that meant the bed was his. No hasty retreat this time. Damn.

Good morning, a voice cooed from the tangle of sheets. A semi-attractive blonde with mascara smudges beneath her eyes raked her hair over her shoulder as she propped on her elbow. She smiled.

Mac glanced over. Hey.

Has anyone ever told you, you have the most beautiful eyes? Those lashes are ridiculous. I couldn’t get mine that thick with three coats of mascara. She leaned in a little closer. Are they really that blue or do you wear contacts?

No. No contacts, he replied, quickly tossing back the covers to sit on his side of the bed. He couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. That was a new low, even by casual hook-up standards. Yes, change was absolutely necessary. He rested his elbows on his knees then put his face in his hands.

She snaked her arms around his neck. Last night was fun, she whispered into his ear.

Uh, yeah, he said, kissing the back of her hand. It was pretty amazing. Amanda? Miranda? What the hell is her name?

She nibbled his earlobe. Perhaps we can continue it this morning? I don’t have to be at work until eleven.

Ah, that’s right, she’s a waitress at a fancy restaurant uptown and last night was her night off. At least he remembered that much.

Oh my Gawd, she said, reaching over him to grab the picture off the night table. Please tell me this is your sister. I told you I don’t sleep with married men. You said you weren’t married.

I’m not married. He took back the picture of Rosemary holding Jason on her lap. It had been taken at Jason’s sixth birthday party about three months before the accident. He returned it to the nightstand. Not anymore.

When she boldly slid her hand down his chest heading for his crotch, he stood. Somehow Rosemary’s eyes peering from that picture with this woman in their bed, her hand moving inside his boxers, made him uncomfortable. Funny, it didn’t seem to matter last night when he was moving inside… Oh hell.

What’s wrong?

Look, um, you may not have to go to work, but I do, he lied.

She got to her knees, covering herself with the sheet. Um?

He frowned. What?

Just now you were going to say my name, but you said um. You don’t remember my name, do you?

Oh shit. Of course I do… He lowered his gaze to the floor, feeling like a complete jackass. If he took her to bed, he should at least recall her name. We had a lot to drink.

You’re Everett McLeod, everyone calls you Mac. Your turn. She tilted her head and drew her lips into a thin line.

Mac raked his hand through his hair then stroked his goatee concentrating hard to recall her name. He gave her a sheepish look. Honestly, he didn’t know her name, barely recalled having sex with her.

Bastard, she hissed, getting off the bed on the other side in order to grab her clothes from the floor. You’re a real jerk, she added before stomping into the bathroom. She slammed the door, but not before he saw the mix of anger and humiliation in her eyes.

Mac couldn’t blame her for either one. This was his fault. God help him. What had he become? She was right, he was a jerk and a bastard.

The phone rang and he went into the kitchen to answer it.

Mr. McLeod? The familiar gravelly voice gave him an idea of what he would be sounding like if he didn’t lay off the smokes.

Yes.

This is Substitute Procurement Director Irma Blount.

It tickled him that she always gave her full title when she called. Hello, Mrs. Blount.

I have a one-day fill-in over at the middle school in seventh-grade history.

He was silent for a moment. He needed the money that was certain but, jeez, his head was pounding. He was about to decline when the mystery woman emerged from his bedroom, flipped him the bird and left his apartment with a slam of the door. A loud, hangover-amplifying slam. He definitely needed to make changes in his life.

Mr. McLeod, did you hear me?

Anything for you, Mrs. B.

I’ll tell them you’ll be there at seven-thirty and you have a good day. The phone went dead.

Mac grabbed the bottle of Ibuprophen, downed four with a big glass of water then padded back into his bedroom. He flopped down onto his bed and covered his eyes with his forearm.

After a few moments, he reached for the picture of his family. He smiled. Rosemary, dark-haired and classically beautiful. Jason perched on her lap, freckle-faced with one front tooth askew. He would lose it the following week. Rosie had been his life, Jason the light they had created together. The photo was a potent reminder of all he had lost. Rosemary’s smile was an indictment of the many days he had wasted since their deaths. He knew if she were here, she would not be happy with him. More like disappointed…even disgusted.

I’ll make changes, Rosie, starting today. He touched the glass that preserved their image. I promise. Putting the picture on his chest, Mac closed his eyes. Just as soon as I get rid of this hangover.

Chapter One

That’s the last of it, Mr. McLeod. The mover handed him a clipboard. Can you check the destination and inventory then sign at the bottom, please?

Mac signed his name. How long will it take?

We’ll be in Saratoga in the morning.

Good, thanks.

The man tipped his baseball cap. See you at the other end.

Okay. Mac closed the door and looked around the almost empty apartment. All that remained were a few small boxes of essentials and his two suitcases. Those he would take in his car.

In the year since the promise he made to Rosemary’s picture, Mac had had some degree of success. On the plus side, there had been no more nameless faces smiling at him from the other side of the bed and he was down to a half a pack a day. His involvement with spirits fermenti, especially the ones aged in oaken barrels, had proved harder to end. But the spirits and he were not as close as they had been, thanks to a revelation back in the early spring.

He had been subbing in a sixth-grade history class and nursing a raging hangover. While talking about the Battle of Bull Run, Mac could tell by their expressions that they were listening to his every word. He could have told them the battle was fought on the moon and these kids would have believed him. In that moment, he realized he wasn’t just passing time for a paycheck, he held their young minds, their learning in his hands.

The feelings he had that first year of teaching—excitement, enthusiasm, a sense of purpose—came rushing back in a breakthrough aha moment.

Right then, he decided he needed to make bigger changes. That very afternoon, Mac had updated his resume and sent it to a dozen school districts upstate. Saratoga Springs had offered him a job as a sixth-grade history teacher and he had jumped on it.

New town, new house, new job equals…what?

A new life?

He walked down the hall to Jason’s room. It was still painted blue with the stars he had glued on the ceiling at Rosemary’s insistence. His mind flashed back to a moment when he was sitting in the rocking chair. He had newborn Jason nestled in the crook of his arm and Mac was reading to him from the American History textbook he used for his students. He looked up from the book to see Rosemary standing in the doorway. Her long straight hair was in a ponytail accenting the perfect oval of her face and the almond shape of her eyes. She had smiled then began the first of endless ribbing about reading a textbook to an infant.

Mac turned his back on the room and the memory.

His heart would never be without his family, but maybe in a new place he could get past the loss.

He cursed under his breath.

Well, Mac, all your worldly goods are on one truck and you don’t have a life to go with it. What you do have is a shot. One last shot. If this doesn’t frigging work, I don’t know what the hell you’re going to do.

# # #

It looks haunted. Eleven-year-old Walter Liddy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sniffed. If I believed in that sort of thing.

Oh, I hope so. Roz Liddy pulled the car she’d named Tin Lizzy into the driveway of their new house. Roz had always named her cars, from her first, a ’65 Firebird named Sunflower when she was seventeen, to the current ’95 Volvo wagon. We could use an encounter or two with our spirit folk.

Mom, you know that it has not been scientifically proven that we even have a spirit or a soul. Therefore ghosts can’t exist.

She shook her head. Can’t exist, not don’t exist, can’t—as if it were a complete impossibility. Walter was so much like his father, always had been. Both were pragmatic thinkers, black–and-white intellectuals. Her Feng Shui and aromatherapy had been foreign concepts to them. She swallowed hard against the loss. Even two years after his death she missed Brock, especially how it was before he had gotten sick.

Walter scratched his nose. It is merely a religious device.

She glimpsed at him. How old are you? And how did someone so skeptical emerge from my body?

Mooommm, yuck.

Or be such a prude, she added with a grin. Resting her hands on the wheel, Roz looked at their new home. The house was an old two-story, center-hall colonial. The realtor had promised it was very Feng Shui, the only criteria Roz had insisted upon. With the beige clapboard, the two big windows on the second floor and the front door with its oval glass insert, the house looked like a startled face. Maybe that’s why Walter thought it looked haunted.

Why are we moving anyway? I liked our old apartment.

She reached over to muss his hair. It was getting too expensive to stay in the city. And being closer to Grandma will help…now.

His gaze lowered to his lap. Now that Dad’s dead.

Yes. The word caught in her throat.

Roz opened her car door and grabbed her tote bag full of incense. Let’s go see our new home.

Walter sighed and opened the passenger door. Clutching the shoebox that held his bearded dragon, Walter slid out of the car. As he trudged up the stone walkway, Roz followed behind. She noticed the stoic resolve in his squared shoulders and straight back. He looked so grown-up as if trying to be the man of the family now that his father was gone.

She unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The creak of the hinges echoed through the empty space. Walter peered inside, looking anxious about breaching the threshold. She put her hand on his shoulder. It’s okay, we’ll do this together.

They stepped inside. Mid-August sunlight streaked the wood floors and the air smelled of fresh paint. Roz immediately sensed the balance in the space. Light and dark, earth tones and metal, yin and yang. There was harmony here.

There was something else too. As Roz walked around the first floor she could feel a certain energy, an essence. Not a presence like a ghost, it was more of a vitality. It wasn’t haunted, but the house almost felt alive.

She dug into her tote and pulled out the incense sticks and matches.

He wrinkled his nose. Not that stuff already.

Yes, this stuff, she replied, lighting four incense sticks in four separate holders. I want to set the proper mood for the movers. They should be here any minute and I want them alert and strong. Why don’t you go upstairs and pick out your bedroom? I’ll be right behind you.

When she got to the top of the stairs, Walter was coming out of the second door on the right. Find anything you like?

He pushed his glasses up his nose. This one, I guess. It faces the backyard.

Roz walked past him into the room. It is a nice space. She looked out the window. And it does have a nice view. When he moved to stand beside her at the window, Roz put her arm around his shoulders. I know how weird this all seems right now, but I think it’s going to be good. Eventually. He gave her a halfhearted smile and a nod.

Yoohoo, her mother called out. Anybody here?

Grandma, Walter said, heading out the door.

Roz was downstairs just in time to see Walter catapult himself at his grandmother.

Walter, my dear, I’ve missed you so much, Grandma said, wrapping her arms around him in a big hug.

I’ve missed you too, Grandma.

She put her hands on his shoulders. We are going to have such a good time. I’ll be able to see you so much more now. Won’t that be wonderful?

Her mother saw Roz and smiled. Hello, honey. Welcome to Saratoga.

Hi, Mom, Roz said, holding back the gathering tears. She walked into her mother’s embrace. That reassuring warmth washed over Roz just as it had when she was a kid and she had scraped her knee or yet-another goldfish had died. In that moment, Roz felt that everything really could be all right.

Her mother pulled back to see Roz’s face. How was your trip?

Uneventful.

Good. How about the ten-cent tour?

As the three of them walked from room to room, Roz studied her mother. Margaret Morehouse was trim and beautiful despite her sixty-five years. After working as a CPA for over thirty years, she was one of those lucky people who had retired then had such a busy social calendar they wondered how they ever found time to work.

Roz was her only child. She had named her Rozland. Not Rosalind or Roslyn. Her mother had hoped that the unusual spelling would make Roz unique. Poor thing didn’t know how prophetic that would be. Roz had always moved to the beat of a different drummer. It was a trait that had caused them much conflict when Roz was growing up, but now seemed to be tolerated if not fully appreciated.

Her mother gave her a teasing smirk. Incense, Roz, really, you’ll light the house on fire.

That’s what I said, Grandma.

The scents will make sure the movers are careful.

Walter and her mother crossed their arms and looked at her.

Roz’s jaw dropped open.

She had never noticed before that her son had many of her mother’s mannerisms. The tilt of his head, the slouch of one shoulder, the way they each arched an eyebrow behind their gold-toned glasses. Walter might not look like Roz, but here was proof positive that Morehouse blood ran through his veins.

Roz? Roz, honey.

Roz emerged from her thoughts. Mm?

Her mother pointed out the window. The movers are here.

A heavy-set man in a blue uniform with the name Ted on the pocket and holding a clipboard stood on the porch. Mrs. Liddy?

That’s me.

Your furniture is here. He held out the clipboard. If you’ll just sign here, we’ll get started.

Roz signed with a flourish and handed him the pen. Two men came into the house carrying the green fern-patterned overstuffed sofa. The man with the clipboard came in behind them carrying an occasional chair. Where to, lady?

She gestured to the living room. That room. The sofa on the long wall— she pointed, and that chair beside that window.

The men complied. Mr. Clipboard straightened and raised his nose to sniff. What stinks?

Roz twisted her mouth to one side. I’m surrounded by convention.

Chapter Two

Okay, Mom, I’m ready.

Roz turned to see Walter standing in the doorway. He was wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt with the collar up-popped as the kids liked to say. She smiled. First day of school.

Walter nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked nervous.

She walked over to give him a hug. You know, I think it might have been a good idea to come here.

Why?

In Saratoga, sixth grade is the first year of middle school. That means the kids from all the elementary schools come together for the first time. A lot of people won’t know each other.

"But everyone else will know someone."

You got me there. She kissed his head. It’s a big school, there has to be at least one other new person.

He shrugged, the contents of his backpack shifting and making noise. I guess.

She turned him toward the door. The bus stop is right there at the corner. Do you want me to go with you? He looked her up and down and Roz could tell by his expression that he did not consider her floor-length caftan to be bus stop attire. I could change.

No, that’s okay. I’m not a kid anymore. He turned the knob on the front door.

Roz caught his shoulders and turned him toward her. With her finger under his chin, she tipped his head to see his face—his cherubic, fine-boned face. You have a great first day. I’ll be here when you get back. She kissed his nose. Love you.

Me you too, Walter said then he pressed his lips together and nodded. When he was halfway down the walk, he turned. Mom, close the door, I’m not a baby.

Roz quickly did as instructed. Sneaking into the living room, she sat on the window seat and peeked out at the bus stop. You’ll always be my baby.

Losing Brock had shoved the frailty of life into her consciousness, making her overprotective. She hoped that in new surroundings she would find a way to ease her white-knuckle grip on the apron strings.

Roz waited until Walter had climbed up the steps into the bus before heading to the kitchen to make tea. She packed loose Assam and Ceylon teas into the ball infuser and waited for the kettle to sing. The morning sun flooded the kitchen and she decided that the backyard was the perfect place for morning tea.

She sliced a few wedges of fresh lemon, put them on her tea tray, along with her honey pot and porcelain teacup, then headed out the back door. She found a patch of sunshine near the arbor seat. Putting down the tray, Roz looked around the yard.

In the virtual tour Roz had taken of this house, the gardens had been a mere footnote. When they arrived, she discovered that the gardens had not been given their due. Though suffering from neglect, the backyard was more than half garden beds. She wanted to get the beds ready for spring.

Her goal was to make it look as much like her happy place as she could. Her happy place was what she jokingly called the place she visualized when she meditated. First, she would expand the herb garden just outside the back door to plant her favorite aromatherapy plants. Then she would consult her Feng Shui books to find the best way to bring harmony to the English formal garden in the middle of the yard. The wildflower gardens along the back fence would be allowed to grow freely.

She sat down on the arbor bench to make her first cup of tea. A squeeze of lemon, a drip of honey and the hot steeped tea, it was decadent. Lifting the saucer, she inhaled the lemony tang and honeyed sweetness wrapped around the wood notes of the tea. It suffused her mind with clarity. How could anyone not believe in the power of scent?

She was halfway through her second cup when she heard the voice. Thinking at first that it was her mother, Roz looked toward the house. There was no one at the back door. She stood looking to see if a neighbor was calling over the fence. She was alone.

She heard the voice again though she couldn’t make out what was being said.

Hello? Roz called out. Checking the backyard one last time, she headed into the house. Hello? She walked through the house listening in each room. It wasn’t until she was at the door to the attic that she heard the voice again. No, it was laughter. The sighing laughter of a young woman. Roz stared at the attic door. She heard the laughter again.

Perhaps this house was haunted. It was built in the early 1900s, there had to have been a scandal or two in over a hundred years. Perhaps this was a meeting place for spiritual lovers having an otherworldly tryst. Her heart pounding with excitement, Roz quietly turned the knob and peeked into the attic.

# # #

Walter looked out the window of the school bus at the storefronts and restaurants. Trees with red and white flowers around them grew out of circles in the sidewalk. Old-fashioned street lamps lined the street. He decided Saratoga was a pretty town, but he still liked home better.

He felt the bus slow down and heard the whoosh of the brakes. He wondered how much longer before they got to school. How much time did he have before he stepped off the bus into an ocean of strangers? Within minutes everyone would know. He might as well be wearing a sign around his neck that said New nerd in town.

Yup, Walter Liddy harbored no illusions that he was anything but a nerd. Unaccomplished at any of the sports he had tried, skinny in spite of his love of milkshakes and just the thought of putting contacts on his eyeballs made him flinch. Besides, everyone said he was just like his father. So if Dad was a nerd so was he, and Walter was not about to make any changes.

Is anyone sitting here?

Walter whipped his head around to see the person speaking and came face-to-face with the girl of his dreams. He said no, but the word came out more like a balloon leaking air so he shook his head.

The girl shrugged off her backpack then slid onto the seat next to him. Thanks. She smiled.

Walter thought he might die if she did it again.

I’m Jennifer Neuman, but you can call me Jenny.

The dream girl wanted him to use a nickname, he was in love.