When the Puppet Strings Break

She thought she had found her safe haven. She thought he could never find them here.

It was two days from her book signing and her nerves were in a bunch as public speaking was not her forte. But these days books do not sell themselves.

Pacing back and forth, practicing her speech for her latest crime novel signing event, she glanced from the front window and stopped in her tracks.

I must be seeing things. My mind is playing tricks on me.

After what seemed like an hour frozen in time, she redirected her thoughts and ran to the front window, stretching her neck to see the country road, high above. As the breeze moved the branches of the walnut trees, walnuts the size of golf balls rained on her car’s hood.

She shook her head, trying to erase the flashbacks that began to replay in her mind.

You better find yourself a good bodyguard. You won’t get out of this alive.

Just then, she hears the side gate slowly creak open, racing downstairs confirming all the doors and windows are locked. Slipping halfway down the stairs, she pops up like a hot Pop Tart in a toaster.

She trembles with fear, running from room to room, peering out from the windows and into her backyard.

That’s strange. I have a PO Box and took all the safety precautions…How could he find me? I need to lie down.

It has been five years since Willow, her son Louie and partner Steve moved from Sonoma to a small country town high up in the mountains to escape the death threats of her ex. The authorities were of no help and if she continued to live under these conditions, there was a good chance she could be featured on a future Dateline episode. She left the only home she knew in order to protect her family and herself, hoping to regain some sort of quality of life.

Taking her own advice, she laid down. The last thing she needs is another breakdown.

Feeling a bit restless, as the sun started to set, she reached for the bedside light. Thinking the bulb must have burned out, only to get up and turn the bedroom light switch on but still no light. It appeared to her that the power was out, so for confirmation she glanced out the window to the nearest neighbor’s house and noticed their lights were on.

They have power. Odd.

Desperately trying not to overthink the situation, a loud thud sounded off downstairs in the basement - resounding like a box falling on the hard concrete floor.

Both Steve and Louie have not returned home from work. It was time to be brave and investigate on her own, so she reached for the flashlight from underneath her bed, her hand shaking as she maneuvered her way in the dark.

Halfway down the stairs the door knob to the basement jiggles as if someone is trying to get in from the basement.

Was the basement door locked?

It was too late to worry about that now. Someone was inside the basement and she had a good idea who it was.

Before taking another step down to encounter the inevitable horrors below, she called 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Please come to 1865 Bridgeville. Hurry. There’s an intruder inside my basement.”

“Ma’am please speak up. I can barely hear you.”

Willow sneaks up the staircase and manages to step on every creaky board while doing so.

“1865 Bridgeville…..”

Suddenly the basement door slams down and off the door hinges.

Nothing but screams of terror can be heard throughout the house. Whoever it is now in inside.

Two Years Prior…

The Sonoma Valley was known for many things – exquisite wines, trendy wine bars and hordes of pretentious tourist. The locals were familiar with visits from the rich and famous, the actors, celebrities and millionaire athletes alike that swarmed the Valley as independent and upcoming wanna-be paparazzi snapped and flashed their lives away.

What was it about this small town? Was it the rolling hills, the pleasant weather, the famous chefs who called this place home, the wine bars strategically placed on every downtown street corner or was it something else?

The extensive list of historic wineries was massive and newbie winemakers continued to immigrate to this beautiful yet mystical place.

Enter Willow Copekski – she obstinately disapproved of the crowds, the commotion, and the traffic – the general chaos that swirled in the atmosphere like frozen ice in a high speed blender. It was enough to make this woman miss the old Sonoma Valley she once recalled.

You see, she grew up in Sonoma and remembered better days, when the identity of this small community was unfamiliar to strangers. People would ask…

“Sonoma? Where is that? California?”

She knew those days were something of the past – historic past. Just the thought of those nostalgic times made her smile and ponder the past layout of the land in the 1970s.

Her opinionated daydream had become an obvious distraction. Glancing at her smart phone, she realized only 10 minutes were left for her break – where to grab peppermint mocha without long lines that resembled Walmart on Black Friday?

The local coffee roaster was always fast and accommodating and the barista, Joelee, wouldn’t know a bad day if it hit her upside her head.

“Weeping Willow! Dry your bones and pop a squat – the usual?”

“Hey Joelee. The usual – I’m running late. Can you put a rush on it?”

The annoying bell attached to the door was intentionally twisted tightly to the old copper knob, still chiming as Willow closed the squeaky door that was in need of an oil lube.

“One of these days that bell may disappear. Who knows maybe its fate will be in the Sonoma River.”

“It sounds like someone is having a bad day. Can’t be as bad as the poor soul whose body was found in the river.”

Willow shook her head in disgust and sighed a long sigh. She walked to the rectangular back window that overlooked the Sonoma River.

“That’s the second one this month. Wonder if our Mayor will cover this one up, too. God knows we need more tourists in this small town. We can’t let our future tourists know that murders are actually committed in this fairy tale land. Bring your money and keep coming to Sonoma.”

Joelee giggled as she handed Willow her drug of choice.

“Things will get better, Willow. I know it’s been a rough year for you. Is he still bothering you?”

“He will never stop - as long as I’m alive.”

The cheery barista could only smile as she seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Gotta run.”

All heads turned toward the door when Willow opened it – but when she exited, the curious heads turned back to be buried in their newspapers.

The skies seemed to open up as the rain pounded on the cracked concrete – almost bouncing back up with such a force it startled her. At that moment a fierce wind blew her off balance as yellow crime tape caught her eye. Shivering, yet too curious for her own good, she walked toward the commotion.

Her old buddies from the cop shop were working the crime scene, taking photos – measuring and performing the usual crime scene duties. She walked closer and saw her longtime friend, Nanette – who, in her opinion, who was the best CSI this side of California.

Willow caught Nanette’s eye and she waved through the pouring rain. Her years of experience working at the police department reminded her not to become a distraction, so she put her hand to her ear, mimicking a telephone as if I’ll call you later.

“Dammit it. I’m late.”

Being careful not to spill her coffee, she swiftly walked back to the district attorney’s office – her home away from home. The usual office troublemakers would surely draw attention to her tardiness, ready to pounce on the unproductive opportunity. You know the type – boss snitch and lunch buddy, insecure in their own skin and unable to stand alone.

She was wise enough to identify the personality type and keep them out of her head. After all, not everyone belongs in there.