Where the Fire Thorns Grow

By Marilyn Nichols Kapp

Who is tormenting Maggie? Demons of her own mind? A convicted Killer? Or the man with whom she is rapidly falling in love?

There is a hole in Maggie Dawson's memory the size of a year. She has relocated all the way across the country and knows no one except the charming Federal Agent assigned to protect her from friends of the powerful man she helped send to prison. So who is tormenting her with phone calls, mysterious sounds, and smells? Who delivered a dead kitten to her doorstep? Could it be the agent, Brad Phillips? Has Justin Dykes made good on his promise to find her? Or is it all in her mind as the authorities believe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590881071

Book preview

Prologue

Twenty years ago

The wind had gusted all day, twisting the graceful hemlocks and whipping the bay into a frenzy of whitecaps. Just before dark, as the tide changed, the air calmed. The entire city seemed to vibrate with a sense of expectancy as pressure mounted in the atmosphere above Puget Sound. With a solitary flash of light and one long roll of thunder, the storm broke, sweeping across Port Gardner Bay, lashing the city with sheets of sleet and hail, laying siege on the house on the hill.

Freezing rain stabbed the windows with needles of ice. Wind rammed the walls, deflected upward, howled under the eaves like a banshee wailing her portent of death. But inside, the house was quiet except for the tick of the mantle clock and the hiss and sizzle of logs burning in the fireplace. The flames flared, subsided, flared again. The scene reflected in each square pane of the vast expanse of glass in the living room of the dream house he had built for her. As the wind sucked at the chimney, the spasmodic blaze leaped higher. Fingers of orange flame dipped and swayed in an erratic dance as though trying to distract the brooding thoughts of the man who stared, unseeing, at the white marble hearth.

He sat with head in hands, elbows on his knees, continually stroking his forehead in an effort to wipe away the dread of what he knew was coming. The throb behind his eyes was getting worse. It always did when he thought of what she was doing to him. Tension continued to build. His body felt as though it were coming apart, almost as if little pieces of him were going to fly in all directions. The muscles tensed in his back, shoulders and arms as he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Leaving. His lips thinned with determination.

Something scraped against the tile floor in the foyer. The metal corners on her suitcase? Her purse latch snapped. Heels clicked across the floor, stopped, her progress muffled by the thick cushion of carpet. He knew she was in the room then, her presence enfolded him, swirling around him like an expensive perfume. He heard the soft rustle of her clothing behind him and turned slowly to face her, as if he couldn’t bear looking all at once. She stood just inside the doorway, coat draped over one arm, rain hat in her hand. Sight of the fragile, golden girl filled him with a dark, blinding pain.

Lisa. The name was a barely audible moan, like the whimper of a wounded animal. He stood, straightened his shoulders, determined not to show that he was desperate, silently screaming all the things he had wanted to say aloud these past five years. He must make her understand she was his most valued possession, that she belonged in a protective glass case. A case that shielded the perfectly molded features, sky-blue eyes and cloud of spun-gold hair, which brushed her shoulders like a summer breeze. How could he explain that the mere touch of man would somehow mar that translucent beauty radiating from her soul?

Don’t do this, Lisa.

It’s too late for us. Her voice was thin, like the high note of a violin. I’m a woman, Jason, not a porcelain figurine.

This is crazy. He would simply forbid her going. He had given her everything befitting this goddess of beauty. He had held her up; set her on a pedestal of immaculate love. Yet this slight, sensitive creature was the only thing in his thirty-one years he could not master. She obeyed his commands, but he had always known there was a part of her he could never reach and it drove him mad.

Lisa, you are not to leave this house!

I’m sorry, Jason, I really am. But Charles loves me as a woman of flesh and blood, not as a trophy on display.

For a moment fear constricted her throat. Firelight flickered. The reflection caught and held in his eyes, giving the too handsome face a fiendish look. But fear was ridiculous. Jason would never harm her, physically. Everything was going to be fine. Charles was in Alaska, waiting for her.

Go to your room, Lisa. I will be up shortly. We will have a talk and all this will be forgotten. You’ll see.

Not this time, Jason. The bravado of her words was more than she felt. I’ll send for my things. I only want what belonged to Mother. It’s all in Father’s old trunk in the attic.

You will not leave...me...You will...not... He reached out, clutching his life, his love.

The storm momentarily retreated, then gathered strength for one last assault. The wind slammed the walls. It tore around the corners and howled under the eaves, sounding very much like a woman’s screams.

One

R etrograde amnesia is the inability to recall information stored in the brain, a gap extending from the moment of onset, backward. Disease can cause it, so can physical injury or psychiatric illness. It can be a short term gap, as is Margaret’s case, or it can wipe out the entire memory bank.

Frowning, Brad Phillips asked, What are her chances for full recovery?

Unfortunately, there are no guarantees.

Dr. Brandon, you said this—retrograde goes backward in time. When I saw her, she couldn’t remember what she had for breakfast.

Anterograde amnesia, the inability to store information. Unfortunately, that gap is often permanent.

Brad shot from his chair. Do you mean to tell me that every day for the rest of her life, she is going to wake up in the morning with a blank page where yesterday ought to be?

The doctor shook his head. I didn’t say that. She is making progress there. When the long-term memory returns, the blanks, as you put it, will only be from that time, back to the night of the shooting. She will eventually remember the period from the night of the shooting backward to where the emotional trauma drew the line. That’s the part that cannot be rushed.

Are you talking months? Years? Is there any kind of time frame?

Not really. There is no way to ascertain how much of her deficit is physical. I believe the loss of recall before the injury is due to the emotional trauma.

Is that like selective amnesia?

Well, yes and no. Selective is not remembering a particular thread of the past. What Margaret has done is to go back far enough to block out everything that could have any possible bearing on the incident and draw the curtain at that point in time.

Doctor Brandon, are you absolutely sure she’s up to making this trip? Brad leaned forward in the straight-backed office chair, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Anxiously, he studied the doctor’s face beneath the shock of white, unruly hair for any signs of doubt.

Dr. Brandon’s gaze was direct, his expression open and earnest. As if compensating for Brad’s tension, the doctor twisted in his seat and draped one arm casually across the back of the sofa. Physically, she’s in top shape. I think she will be better off out of St. Louis. Here, there’ll always be the possibility of a chance encounter or a thoughtless remark to send her into a jarring flashback, causing extreme...

He was interrupted by a knock and the door opened a few inches. A wan face surrounded by a thick mane of golden hair poked through the slit.

Dr. Brandon rose and strode toward her. Come in my dear and see who’s here. Do you remember this gentleman?

Brad rose and studied the tall, thin woman. He recognized the scent of Joy perfume. Eyes large, round, and deep blue, she crept forward, offering her hand in greeting. Her skin felt warm, her grip weak and hesitant.

Shyly, she said, Hi, I’m Maggie Dawson. You’re from the Witness Protection Program. You were here yesterday. She turned to the doctor, proud of her recall.

I—my name is Brad Phillips. He shot an inquisitive glance at Dr. Brandon.

Maggie is storing more data every day, aren’t you, dear? He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Mr. Phillips is going to take you away from here today, Maggie. Are you ready to go?

She stared into Brad’s eyes a long moment. Something in her demeanor visibly relaxed. She flashed a brilliant smile and said, Yes. Yes, I am. I’ll get my things.

With a perceptible effort to appear confident, she strode from the room.

Dr. Brandon turned and took Brad by the arm, his expression becoming serious. Dealing with two types of amnesia can be particularly frustrating. But be patient. She will likely have sporadic instances of anterograde amnesia until the brain completely heals. That could take up to a year. Just remember it is crucial for her retrograde memory to return on its own. Rushing her could result in a deeper psychological disturbance, perhaps irreversible. He crossed the room and took a card from the desktop. This is my colleague in Seattle. I’ve made him aware of Maggie’s condition. I’d suggest you contact him as soon as you arrive.

Feeling as though he were about to walk into a dense, dark forest, Brad asked, How soon should I get her to this doctor?

Don’t rush unless something happens. Take your time driving across the country. The trip could be very relaxing and good for both of you. I wish you both the best of luck, Brad.

CAREFUL NOW, BRAD cautioned. At the top of this hill, you are going to wish you had let me drive. All morning he had been as antsy as a five-year-old in church.

A veil of hair fluttered across Maggie’s face as she rolled the car window down and inhaled the soft sweetness of a spring morning. I’ve told you a thousand times since we left the hospital, I’m not made of egg shells. I hate...

I know, he said with exaggerated resignation. You hate to be dependent.

Or manipulated... She grinned, thinking how accustomed she had become to his presence since they had left St. Louis two weeks ago. She had never felt this comfortable with anyone but her empathic twin Marie, whose thoughts and emotions had always been a part of Maggie.

Or told something is for your own good, he finished ruefully.

Chuckling, she swiped a strand away from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear and tried to focus her attention on driving the unfamiliar road. It wasn’t easy to do. Glimpses of the bay and snow-capped mountains drew her eyes to even the smallest opening in the trees along the twisting route. Maggie tapped the brakes.

Oh, Brad. You said it was beautiful here but I had no idea. This is awesome.

One of these days you’ll learn to trust me, he said, eyes smiling but lower lip thrust forward.

She laughed and for the first time in months it sounded genuine, even to her. I do, I do.

In fact, Maggie was amazed at the total confidence she had in a man she had only known for a matter of weeks, that she could remember. But from the moment Dr. Brandon had introduced him as the agent in charge, assigned by the Federal Witness Protection Program, Maggie felt as though she had known the man forever. It seemed strange that it was so much later when she first took note of his attractive features. To be exact, it was the day a late snowstorm in the mountains had driven them to take shelter in...she couldn’t remember where. But, she had suddenly become aware that she couldn’t feel her twin. The realization had felt like a deprivation. She remembered his voice, telling her it was a temporary thing and insisting she write to Marie. She could picture the strong chin, straight nose, and worried gray eyes. In her mind’s eye, the wind ruffled blond hair as he opened the door and braved the elements to take her letter to the motel office for mailing.

Now, she wondered that he had allowed the communication with Marie. According to all the movies she had seen, people in hiding were not permitted contact with anyone from the past. She was becoming more and more aware, though, that Brad Phillips was an exceptional man.

In spite of the medication prescribed to keep her emotions on an even keel, she shivered with a rippling current of excitement. Was it from thoughts of this man’s kindness or the nearness of him seated beside her?

Are you cold? He reached over to feel her bare arm. Your sweater is in the back. Stop and I’ll get it.

No, I’m fine. It’s just that for the first time in a long while I felt...anticipation, I guess. Here in a new place her life would soon return to normal. She would recall the missing pages of her past and rid herself of the doubts that constantly gnawed her mind.

Are you sure this arrangement is going to work, Brad?

What, the house?

The whole charade. We are supposed to be man and wife. What if you meet someone and want to take her out? How would you explain me?

That’s not going to happen.

He sounded pretty positive. Was it possible he was...?

Nonsense, she told herself. Knowing something terrible had happened to her and not remembering it had left her emotionally weak and prone to all kinds of wondering.

For months after the attempt on her life, she had lived in a dense fog where nothing reached her. Then came vague impressions—like fragments of a nightmare.

Slowly, as reality began to penetrate her world of dark delusions, her medication was decreased and she was able to retain bits and pieces of each day. But even now, those memories were muddied by the black depression and irrational imaginings she had suffered then.

It seemed impossible that anyone, much less someone she had known and cared for, could have really tried to kill her. But it was true, she knew. Besides the long scar above her right ear as testimony, the horror of the experience was like a living entity, constantly gouging the surface of her mind.

In spite of the sales pitch she was giving herself, fingers of dread splayed outward from the pit of her stomach.

Brad leaned forward in the seat. Okay, we’re getting close to the turnoff. Just beyond the grocery store. His voice crackled with excitement.

Her own enthusiasm was mounting. From what Brad had told her, the place was the fulfillment of something she had dreamed about even as a child.

You said it’s an older house, didn’t you?

I’m not sure how old. Somewhere between twenty-five and forty years, I would guess.

Good. She had always been partial to the charm of an older house. One into which she could breathe new life, one which had the warmth of other times and other lives. If only it were not all a sham and so far from home, so far from Marie. Ree, as Maggie had always called her, was as close to Maggie as part of her own being.

She passed the store and slowed.

The turnoff should be close. There’s a wooden bridge just ahead. Cross the stream, and turn left. She could feel him watching for her reaction.

The road began to climb. Behind a split-rail fence, a small A-frame nestled deep in a stand of fir and alder. A variety of flowers, their blossoms a riot of colors, bordered the lawn.

That’s not it, is it? Her voice was laced with disappointment. It’s pretty but not very old.

Nope! There! Turn right.

Maggie stomped the brakes. Clumps of rhododendron in full bloom had nearly obscured the white stone columns and iron gate. She made the turn and followed the dirt road. It showed few signs of recent use, despite the carpenters, electricians, and plumbers she knew had come and gone since Brad had made arrangements for her to live here.

Swerving to avoid a deep rut, Maggie decided she had better not let her mind wander from her driving. She rounded a curve to the right, caught her breath and stopped the car. Wow, was all she could think to say.

Now can I find a house or can I find a house? Grinning, he rubbed his hands together then reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

You can find a house for me anytime!

Sprawled on a ridge jutting west, the white stone structure reached toward her like a huge inverted U. Two white pillars, with a rusting grill arched between them, framed the setting. Snow-capped peaks drew a jagged line across a backdrop of blue sky and shimmering water.

Look at this place! Oh, I wish Ree could be here now. Tears welled in her eyes and a leaden sadness settled in her chest. Quickly, Maggie chided herself...when would she stop overreacting to the thought of separation from her twin? It was selfish of her to want her sister here. Sharing the moment was one thing, but Maggie had no wish to endanger Marie.

Maybe she wouldn’t see her twin for a while but they would not be apart forever, protection or no. As a matter of fact, when Marie and Alan returned from their cruise, there would be cards and letters waiting to be passed on by Dr. Brandon. Maggie only regretted the couple had gone on vacation and she couldn’t remember saying goodbye. Emptiness threatened to drop a black curtain around her life again.

Come on, I want to show you the inside before my ride gets here. Brad’s enthusiasm was hard to resist but Maggie wanted to savor the view.

She swiped at the moisture in her eyes and eased the car forward. Evidence of neglect surrounded them. The driveway was paved from the gate to the garage, but time and the elements had crazed the surface. Bracken and dandelion probed their way through the cracks. Someone had made an effort to mow them and the lawn looked freshly cut.

Maggie parked in front of steps constructed of the same white stone that covered the outer walls and formed the gateway. Brad unfastened his seat belt, opened the door and was out of the car before it came to a complete halt. She got out, stretched, and lifted her face to a gentle wind blowing off the water of Puget Sound. The breeze mingled the scents of salty air, damp earth, and new-mown grass.

Who told me it rains all the time here?

Damn, that’s my ride to the office, Brad said at the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

Maggie turned to see a new Mercedes with tinted windows roll through the gateway.

I guess the guided tour will have to wait. Opening the back door, he reached inside for his briefcase then trotted around the car. He leaned over, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and whispered, Have to keep up the appearances of a happy couple.

She watched the car leave. Turning back to the Buick, which she had owned long enough to remember it from before, she gathered her purse, shelf paper, and scissors and stuck them into the basket of cleaning supplies. Bolstered by the beauty around her, Maggie strode across the porch of her new home and unlocked the door.

Inside, she sneezed in the stale mustiness of a long-closed place. Though workmen had been and gone, it would take a few days of circulation to bring the air in there to life. She turned back to prop the door open with the basket, then removed her watch and dropped it among the supplies. Anxious to see the rest of her home, she hurried from room to room.

The living and dining areas were in the rear of the house. French doors, each capped with a fan of glass wedges, formed the entire north wall and opened onto a white stone terrace. Some of the square panes in the doors had been recently replaced. The new putty was unpainted and still soft to the touch.

Brad had said the place needed cleaning. The agency would provide people to do the