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The Flaming Sword

By Heather L.L. FitzGerald

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“Is she dead?” Shock shimmied up my spine at the sight of Great-Aunt Jules crumpled in my mother’s arms. I couldn’t tear my gaze from her conspicuous black eye, the size and color of a plum.
“Sadie!” Mom shot me a scornful look and shifted from under the weight of our Irish aunt. Not hard to do since she was smaller than my eleven-year-old sister Sophie. “Why do you always imagine the worst? Run and get a wet washcloth for her face.”
My breath came in shallow spurts. I dashed to the guest bath and scrounged a cloth from the cupboard, turning the tap full blast. Maybe it would drown my growing alarm. It takes a certain strain of vicious behavior to attack an elderly woman. And I’ve got my reasons for imagining ‘the worst’. With vindictive force I wrung out the washcloth and darted back to Mom.
“Sophie and Brady,” Mom shouted. “Downstairs. Now.”
Mom snatched the washcloth and pressed it against Aunt Jules’s forehead. With her other hand she stroked the crimson curls around our great-aunt’s face, speaking in hushed tones. If not for the unnatural angle of Aunt Jules’s body, she might have been sleeping peacefully.
I knelt beside my mom. “What’s this?” I reached for a piece of paper that Auntie clutched against her chest.
“Don’t touch it.” Mom’s tone made my fingers recoil. “Someone ransacked her house. They left a note.”
My mind reeled. Her tidy beach bungalow was in a safe, gated neighborhood where everyone looked out for each other. Uneasiness continued to swell.
Footsteps bounded down the stairs. Brady and Sophie stumbled into each other at the sight of our aunt.
“Oh, no!” Sophie’s hands flew to her face. “Is she dead?”
“For Pete’s sake.” Mom shook her head. “What’s with you kids? No. Aunt Jules fainted.”
“When did she get here?” Brady crossed to the couch. His lanky, fifteen-years-and-growing body towered over Mom and the patient. “Is she sick?” He crouched beside me. “Wow. Now that’s a shiner.”
Mom ignored his comment. “Carry her upstairs to Brock’s bed. She’s hurt…and who knows what else. Prop her feet on a pillow.”
Aunt Jules moaned when Brady scooped her up.
“Sophie, get an ice pack and a glass of water.” Mom pointed toward the kitchen. “And Sadie”—she gave me a serious look— “call your dad. Tell him, ‘code word curator.’ It’s a word we picked to alert one another in case of danger or a family emergency.”
“Code word? We have code words now? I thought all our bizarre family secrets were finally out in the open.” I was treading on thin ice, for sure. But the last six weeks had uncovered a host of skeletons from our family’s creepy closet. Living specters that had rocked my world.
“Not…now.” Mom looked ready to snap.
With a huff, I turned to find the phone. I used speed dial to call my dad at the Camas School of Cosmetology, the cosmetology college he owned. His occupation was only one of the numerous quirky things about my family. It helped that I was homeschooled—yeah, that qualifies as quirky too—so I didn’t constantly have to explain things like this to a multitude of people.

“Camas School of Cosmetology. This is Dinah. How may I direct your call?”
“Dinah? Hey, it’s Sadie. I need to talk to my dad.”
“Sorry, Sadie. Your dad hasn’t come in yet. Did you try his cell?”
“What? Are you sure?” I leaned against the wall. “He left like two hours ago.”
“Hmm. Lemme double check. I’m usually the first person to see him, but maybe he snuck past. Hold on.”
I wandered into the kitchen, dodging Sophie and her ice pack and water. “Oh, my goodness.” I froze.
My two-year-old brother, Nate, sat in his booster seat, covered in oatmeal. In all the uproar, the poor kid had been left to mind himself while strapped to his chair. Supporting the phone with my shoulder, I grabbed a bunch of paper towels and mopped the gummy stuff from his face.
“Sadie? No sign of your dad. Sorry.”
“Okay, thanks for checking. I’ll try his cell.” The oatmeal had migrated to my fingers. I leaned over the table and let the phone plop from the crook of my neck.
Nate clapped his sticky hands together, making slimy, suction noises between his fingers. “Mushy, mushy.” He smiled at the goo. The pale-colored oatmeal contrasted with his chocolaty Ethiopian skin. I envied my adopted brother’s year-round tan.
“Yep. It’s mushy, little man.” I crossed to the sink for more wet towels and caught sight of my youngest sister, Nicole, outside on the tire swing. “Hey, Nicole,” I called through the open kitchen window. “I need your help. Come ’ere.”
A moment later, she opened the patio door and peeked inside. A pink, plastic tiara nestled lopsided in her honey hair.
“Would you finish cleaning Nate? I have to do something for Mom.”
“Sure.” Nicole took the paper towels and zeroed in on the moving mound of muck. At only seven years old, she tackled most of Nate’s needs with the skill of a seasoned babysitter.
I picked up the phone and headed to the privacy of the living room. Something about using code words made me feel like I’d better keep the convo under the radar. While Dad’s cell rang, I wandered to the front window and thought about the random word my parents had chosen. Curator? Isn’t that an old person in charge of a museum or something?
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Liam Larcen…”
I caught sight of my haphazard reflection in the window. I didn’t want to dwell on the pimple on my chin, the cowlick in my brown locks, or the smudged mascara I forgot to wash off the night before. Instead, I focused my attention past the mess that was me and peered outside while I waited for the voicemail beep.
Is it okay to leave code words in a voicemail?
Aunt Jules’s old VW Beetle was parked crooked in our driveway and blocked both of our family vehicles. She obviously parked it in a hurry.
Wait.
“Oh my.” I smacked the phone onto the windowsill and booked it upstairs.
“Mom, Mom!” Nausea swirled in my gut. I whipped around the corner and skidded to a stop in my brothers’ bedroom. Everyone—who was conscious—jerked their heads in my direction.
I took a deep breath, then another, dreading what I had to say.
Mom paused in the middle of placing a blanket over Aunt Jules. “Sadie, please. Spare us the dramatics.”
I slowly exhaled. “Dad’s car is still in the driveway.”
The blanket slipped from Mom’s hands. “What?”
“His car. It’s there.” I thumbed in the general direction. “Parked.” The words impregnated the room with sinister implications. My mind flashed back to earlier this summer when both my parents went missing.
Mom shook her head. “No. He kissed me goodbye. I watched him walk out the door.”
Sophie shoved the icepack at Brady and brushed past me.
“Sophie!” Mom’s eyes flashed. “No, ma’am. Get back here.”
Sophie shuffled back in the room, arms crossed and chin set.
Mom raised a warning finger. “No one goes outside.”
“Amy?” Aunt Jules’s eyes were still closed. “What’s going on?”
Mom clasped her hand over Aunt Jules’s clenched fist. Unconscious or not, Auntie kept a stranglehold on her scrap of paper. “Someone broke into your house, remember?”
Aunt Jules’s mouth pressed into a frown, an uncommon sight for the cheerful woman. She blinked. The swollen bruise twitched. Her gaze settled on Mom. “I know what happened t’ me. Did somethin’ happen to Liam?”
Mom bit her lip. She appeared to weigh the wisdom of sharing bad news on top of bad news. “Uh, not sure. He left for work a couple of hours ago, but his car’s still here.”
“Ya think it’s related to what happened to me?” Aunt Jules tried to roll onto her side. Her emerald eyes winced with the effort.
Mom gently pushed her shoulder back onto the pillow. “That remains to be seen. I still don’t know what happened to you. You barely made it into the house, mumbling about a break-in, when you passed out.” She handed Aunt Jules the ice pack. “Here, use this on your eye. When you’re feeling better, we’ll talk.”
Aunt Jules shoved the pack away. “Won’t be needin’ that. Nothin’s wrong with me that a steamin’ cup o’ tea won’t fix. It’s painfully clear we’ve got loads of talkin’ to do.”
“Um…” Sophie looked at us like we’d been struck with amnesia. “Dad’s missing. Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“It’s true, your father’s not here.” Mom swallowed. “But…that doesn’t mean he’s missing. I mean, not in that way. It’s doubtful.” Her voice grew quiet. “Not after what happened before.”
“Family meetin’. Soon as the kettle whistles.” Aunt Jules worked her legs out of the blankets.
“Nonsense.” Mom barred her way. “You’ve had a terrible scare. You’re hurt. Now lie down and ice your eye…please. We’ll bring you the tea.”
“Amy Ann Larcen! If I say I’m fine, then I’m fine.” The spunky little redhead swung her legs off the bed and stood. “I won’t be lyin’ here when earth-shatterin’ events are takin’ place right under our noses. You’ve no idea how serious this is.”
Sophie, Brady, and I exchanged troubled glances.
Mom looked resigned to Aunt Jules’s insistence while she grabbed the ice pack. “Fine. But you’re going to keep this on your eye. You’ve got a terrible periorbital hematoma, and it needs attention.”
“Poppycock!” Aunt Jules straightened her twisted velour sweat suit. “Don’t throw that highfalutin’ medical talk at me, nurse Amy. Nobody dies from a black eye. If ya don’t mind, I’d like to speak to ya about this”—she waved the scrunched paper at us—“or somebody else is likely to go missin’ while I’m lyin’ here like a helpless lump o’ sugar.”
“Yes, let’s talk about that.” Mom looked like she was teetering on her last available nerve. “Before we do anything else, would you mind explaining what kind of burglar beats up their victim and leaves a note?”
“It wasn’t a burglary.” Aunt Jules shook her flaming curls. “Nothin’ valuable is missin’. These intruders weren’t thieves. Leastways, they weren’t today because they didn’t find what they came for. Which is why they left this for me.” She indicated the note and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
Mom looked puzzled. “Okay…”
“Ya think me brain is addled, don’t ya?” She leveled her gaze at Mom. “Listen, there’s somethin’ stirrin’. And it has to do with me late husband—and so much more.”
Mom shifted her weight and looked impatient. “I’m not following you. What could the intruders possibly want in regards to Uncle Daniel? He’s been dead for over thirty years.”
I scooted closer to my brother and sister. Their expressions a mixture of confusion and skepticism—exactly like my brain.
One lone tear slipped down Aunt Jules’s cheek. “Thirty-eight years, actually.” She stroked the crinkled letter repeatedly across her lap. Her head shook slowly. “This note. I wouldn’t believe a word of it, but…” Another tear dripped.
“But what?” I burst out.
“But I’d know this handwritin’ anywhere. I know who penned these here words like I know the wrinkles on me own face.”
Mom lowered herself onto the bed and placed a gentle hand on top of our aunt’s nervous fingers. “Whose handwriting?”
Aunt Jules let out a ragged sigh. “The date, see?” She pointed. “This note was written last week. But I’d swear by the dragon’s lair that the handwritin’ belongs to me dear husband, Daniel.”


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