He couldn’t sleep. He rose and walked to the double doors that led to the wraparound porch. It occurred to him that a gymnast could easily figure out a way to enter the house by means of the porch. The house did have an alarm system, but, as Frazier had said, it was a bed-and-breakfast. They catered to the public. The doors were seldom locked, so it was doubtful that the alarm was often activated.
Out on the balcony, he stared at the night. The moon was now up, its light was shining down with a benign glow. He looked to the cemetery, at the ghostly and beautiful tombs.
And he looked toward Ashley’s room, and then started, because, as if he had willed her there, she appeared on the balcony, encased in her gossamer white robe.
She looked his way.
He smiled.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Neither could I.”
They stared at each other as heartbeats went by. She kept her distance.
“Your friends are very nice.”
“We’re a good team.”
“Whitney is a doll.”
“She’s like a little sister.”
“Ah.”
He laughed. “Really.”
She walked to the railing, looking out as he had done.
“The river looks so peaceful tonight—and beautiful in the moonlight.”
“Not so great when you’re in it,” he said.
“True. The police have the rifle and the bayonet at their forensics lab?”
He nodded. “They crawled all over the property today, too. I didn’t think that they’d find anything, once we—you—had already found the weapon.”
“Will you really solve this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re so certain.”
“We have to be.”
She pushed away from the balcony and looked at him. “Oh, come on, Jake! I’m not walking to you again. I already made the play, and I fumbled badly.”
For half a heartbeat, he was still. Then he moved. He covered the distance between them and pulled her to him. He didn’t believe he was being used; he wasn’t sure he cared. Something, whatever lay between them, surfaced with the music, in the woods, even as they argued. He’d been looking for it without even being aware ever since he had lost her.
Feeling her in his arms, he found it.
He lifted her chin and touched her lips with his, and when he kissed her, she returned it with a passion and hunger that made his knees weak. He had to pick her up and sweep her off her feet quickly—while he still could.
He did so.
“Your room or mine?” he whispered against her lips.
“Either!”
He chose his own. He was certain that Emma Donegal knew all about this desperate kind of love and would leave them in peace.
He lay down with her on the bed, falling into the cool, clean touch of the sheets and the gossamer mist that surrounded her. He smoothed down the white flurry of the gown and met the crystal beauty of her eyes. She stared up at him with complete openness and trust, and he longed to ask her why she had turned from him so completely, but he didn’t dare take a chance with the moment, because it was fragile. He found her mouth again, rubbing his thumb gently over the dampness of her lower lip, cherishing the contours of her face. Then his mouth found hers, and again their kiss was instantly hot and wet and filled with passion and hunger. As they kissed, they fumbled with one another’s clothing, his easy since he was wearing nothing but briefs, hers a bit more complicated since she wore the light robe and a sheath of silk beneath. But making love had always been easy and natural for them, and in seconds he was feeling hunger and awe that he should be lying here with her once again. She was as smooth to his touch as the silk of her gown, and he swept his hands over her shoulders, cradled her breasts, pressed his lips to her collarbone and shuddered with the pleasure of simply touching her, feeling the pressure of her body, the tug of her fingers in his hair.
“Jake,” she whispered.
It was as if there should have been more, but it didn’t need to be said.
“Ashley.” He murmured her name in return, his lips against the taut sleekness of her abdomen.
Her fingertips played over his shoulders and teased down his spine. He tried to hold on tightly to every moment, knowing moments could become nothing more painful or sweet than memories.
His thought eclipsed to the back of his mind as he rose against her again, found her lips and felt her tear away then to press her mouth against his chest, to press more fully against him. She was a naturally exotic lover, sensually seductive, writhing or undulating just to cast the ultimate moment of arousal in any given place upon his body. He made love to her torso, breathing in the scent of her, tasting the erotic aroma of her soap and essence with his kiss. Her breasts were beautiful and perfectly formed, her waist winnowed away to nothing and her hips were pure fascination. He couldn’t touch them enough with his caress, with his lips, with his hungry kiss. As he moved against her body, he felt her breath, felt her body giving, yearning. He moved lower against her form, kissed her thighs, caressed her sexuality and grew ever more urgently in need as he felt her response to his touch. At last he rose above her, hungrily capturing her mouth once again. So entwined, he sank between her thighs and entered her. Sinking slowly into a state that was sure heaven, only to be followed by the blinding light of movement, urgent and passionate, and the explosive feel of her beneath him, undulating, tightening, wrapping around him and giving to him.
Her fingers gripped his shoulder, his back, his buttocks. She wound her thighs around him, and they seemed to rocket with the need and energy of lightning. Thunder tore into his heart, and storm winds created by their mingled breath. The world was still, nonexistent, and everything. And then he felt her gasp, felt the give of her body against his, and he allowed himself to climax, feeling as if he had emptied his body and soul. Giant shudders ripped through him in aftermath; he held her closely against him, and they eased back into the night, back into the bed, back into each other.
I think that I have loved you all my life.
The words didn’t escape him; he somehow held on to that modicum of control. Instead, he just held her. Yes, he had loved her. Yes, she had turned away from him. And no, he had never really understood. Maybe she hadn’t herself.
He hadn’t allowed himself to become a pitiable hermit; he had lived life, and he had enjoyed it. He had even had other lovers.
Never like this.
And it was frightening to be with her again. He’d gotten his soul back once. He didn’t know if he’d ever be so lucky again.
So he didn’t speak. He just felt their breathing subside together. He listened to her heartbeat, and to his own, and it almost seemed that they there were in a harmony of motion.
“Jake,” she said softly.
“Ashley,” he murmured.
She was silent for a minute, and he wondered what she had really wanted to say. Was it possible that it would have resembled his own thoughts?
“I’m—I’m so glad that you’re here,” she said.
“So am I,” he told her. “So am I.”
He didn’t ask her questions; she didn’t try to explain. They lay together and drifted, and awoke, and made love again.
And in the end, he slept with her in his arms.
Slept deeply, plagued by no nightmares.
He had been adrift in a boat, knowing that there were those who had to be found. He had seen Ashley, and he had reached for her, and her fingers had slipped through his again and again.
But now he had caught her.
And he could dare pray that the nightmares had really ended.
Interlude
Tonight…
Tonight had been exhilarating!
There had been those moments of stark fear; fear that he would be discovered and caught in the act, that he would be captured.
There had been those terrible moments of indecision.
And yet there had been A
shley.
Ah, Ashley! If she’d been alone, and come upon him, he could have handled her, of course. Not that she was easy—no, not Ashley. She always had been a fighter.
Difficult to think of her in a coffin, set in a vault and left to disintegrate into dust and bone fragments.
He didn’t like to think about Ashley dead, not really.
But the aspect of killing her was suddenly…so seductive.
Charles was a big old ugly lug; he hadn’t felt much of anything. Marty Dean was a bitch, pure and simple, fake breasts, fake hair, fake smile. He’d felt a pleasure in killing her that he hadn’t felt with old Charles.
If he had to kill Ashley…
He would definitely want her drugged. He would want to see her die without a crease in her beautiful face, without a cry of pain. She would be his then, if just briefly.
Ashley was special. She would fit the bill as no other could, and she would also fulfill something in him, some need he hadn’t known he had….
Well, not really.
He broke out suddenly in a cold sweat.
Tonight…
Tonight he had almost been caught.
No.
He was getting better and better at what he did.
And they never would catch him.
10
Ashley awoke alone.
She was in the Jeb Stuart room, so she hadn’t imagined a wild and passionate sexual experience.
In her mind, she had to admit, the fear had existed that she had dreamed the whole thing.
But, no, she had been with Jake through the night, and that made her wake with a smile. She rose, found her clothing, slipped into it and nearly opened the door to the hall. Remembering that her house was now riddled with cameras, she decided to reach her own room through the wraparound porch.
She showered quickly and headed downstairs. It was late; it seemed that breakfast was long over; there was no one in the kitchen or dining room, but Beth always had coffee on, so she quickly poured herself a cup and decided to start looking for the others.
Walking into the roadside parlor, she discovered that Whitney was in front of the bank of screens, comfortably curled into one of the wingback chairs.
The coffee cup nearly fell from her hands as she realized that one of the screens showed the back of the house—and the wraparound porch.
Whitney heard her there and turned around. Ashley’s horror must have been clear on her face, because Whitney smiled. “Hey, don’t worry! I’m the only one on now. And if there’s anyone in this world who can’t look at the two of you and know that something is going on, that person is certainly blind.”
“I—I—I just—”
“Quit stuttering!” Whitney said, laughing. “Sit—join me.”
Ashley sat in the chair next to her. It was amazing—the young woman, and Will, she presumed, had managed to place the cameras so strategically that the whole of the house was covered.
The outside and the public rooms.
There were no screens that covered the bedrooms, just as Whitney had said.
“So…”
“Jackson and Jake have gone to the sugar mill, and then they’re going to stop in on Hank Trebly,” Whitney said. “Angela is upstairs with a few folks from the police forensics team—they’re trying to discover anything they can about who might have stolen the Enfield. Will has gone to get Jenna. You haven’t met her yet, but you’ll love her!”
“Beth? My grandfather?” Ashley asked.
“Jackson and Jake are dropping them off at a diner down the street—they needed to get out for a bit,” Whitney explained. “Don’t worry—they’ll get them on the way back. Beth suggested that they wait for you, but your grandfather was insistent that you get some sleep.”
“It was good to sleep,” Ashley admitted. “So, what have you seen on the screens? Anything—besides me sneaking back into my own bedroom by way of the balcony?”
Whitney smiled at that. It was an honest smile. Ashley thought that she and Jake really were just friends. Caring friends, but no more. And it was easy to understand. Whitney was impossible not to like.
“I’ll roll some tape. It’s interesting,” Whitney said.
She hit a button on her remote and directed Ashley to watch the top screen. She did so. The screen captured the area between the stables and the cemetery.
Shadows seemed to undulate on the screen.
“What is it?” Ashley asked her.
“The past?” Whitney queried in return. “It’s hard to say. Skeptics would swear that you’re seeing movement because of clouds and the moon. I think it may well be the movement of ghosts.” Whitney looked at her; she wasn’t joking. “It seems that sometimes energy remains—energy from a particularly traumatic event, such as men dying in battle. Some people believe that such hauntings are repetitious—it’s just the energy, running in the same pattern over and over again. Then, of course, there’s what they call an intelligent, or active, haunting. That refers to a ghost or ghosts who still have their wits about them. And they don’t repeat an action over and over. They move about and watch the world.”
“Oh,” Ashley said simply.
Whitney smiled again. “So, what kind of haunting do you know best? I have a feeling about you. You’re like Angela—you just don’t know it yet.”
“Pardon?”
“Everyone is afraid at first,” Whitney told her.
“Afraid?”
“Of ghosts, of course,” Whitney said.
Ashley just stared at her.
Whitney continued. “The thing is, most of the time, they just want to help. They’ve made their mistakes. They want to keep others—especially their descendants—from making the same mistakes. I know that this house is haunted, but ghosts, in my experience, don’t want to meet everyone. I believe, though, that the ghosts very much want to meet you. They love you. They want to shield you from all danger, and they want to preserve Donegal Plantation, too, because it carries an important lesson. The place is all about the path that we’ve taken as Americans, the good things and the bad. The sane among us don’t want to repeat mistakes of misunderstanding, cruelty to our fellows or war.”
“I believe we do a good job with education here,” Ashley said. She realized that her voice sounded raspy. She took a long swallow of her coffee, afraid to say anything else.
Whitney smiled and shrugged. “Anyway, that’s what I believe,” she said softly. Then she added, “Hey, that was great last night—the music, I mean.”
“Jake and I played together…before,” Ashley said.
“That was obvious. You’re really good together,” Whitney said. “In many ways.” She set the remote down, stood and stretched. “Hey, want to introduce me to the horses? I love horses, and I never get to ride. I’d love to meet them. We’re certainly safe enough—the place is surrounded by cops at this moment, and besides, Angela is here. She made some of the best scores ever at the target range back when she was a cop.”
“It’s hard to believe Angela was a cop,” Ashley said.
“That’s like a fairy-tale princess in a patrol car, huh? But, hey, even Disney princesses are toughening up these days. We’re all capable of many things, right?”
“So I like to believe,” Ashley said. “Is it all right to leave the screens unattended?”
Whitney nodded. “Everything is taping.” She hesitated. “Okay, so half my job today is to make sure you’re safe. We might as well enjoy it, right?”
Ashley smiled. “Yes, and I love our horses, too. Come on out and meet them.”
* * *
It was obvious Hank Trebly wasn’t pleased to see Jake and Jackson—he left them sitting patiently in his waiting room for an hour.
He nodded curtly to them after emerging from his office and motioned to them to follow. He didn’t shake their hands, even though he’d known Jake before, just as Toby Keaton had known him, from the days when he had been at Donegal Plantation constantly.
“I don’t
know what you think I can tell you,” Hank said, pulling out the chair behind his desk in his office and taking a seat. “I was there, yes, of course. But I didn’t see anything. And I told that to the police. They sent a man around right after, you know—right after they found the poor bugger’s body.”
“You weren’t particularly fond of him, were you?” Jackson asked.
Trebly immediately took a defensive tone. “What was to like or dislike? He was O’Reilly’s stepson, and he didn’t really belong. I mean, he never even took his stepfather’s name. He was…just this big nothing, always there, always wanting to be a part of it all. He didn’t have anything to add to any of our conversations in a roundtable. It was his place to play a Yankee, but he whined so much Ramsay gave him the role of Marshall Donegal. But I didn’t hate him. And, sweet Jesus, I could never do that to another human being! I mean, why in hell would I?”
“Well,” Jake said, “there’s that bid you made to take over the Donegal property.”
“What?” Trebly said, sitting up straight. His eyes narrowed. “Frazier Donegal told you that?”
“No, actually, Frazier didn’t tell me,” Jake said. “It’s public record. Right after Frazier’s son, Patrick, died, the property fell into bankruptcy. You went to the bank, trying to coerce a sale.”
“I—well, that’s just pure bull!” Trebly said, but his face had gone pale. “Look, I was willing to help Frazier out.”
“I don’t think so,” Jake said. “There were also plans on file to expand the sugar mill and the sugar fields.”
Trebly sat back and stared at them hard. Then he dug around in his desk for a business card and tossed it over to Jackson. “I’m done speaking with you. If you need anything else from me, you can call my attorney.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said, rising. “We’ll do so.”
Jake stood behind him. Trebly didn’t rise; he looked like he was going to explode.
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Jake Mallory.” His voice broke. “You’re not wanted in the area. That was obvious after Patrick died.”
“This is what I do,” Jake said.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Trebly repeated.
Jake shrugged and started out. He was surprised when Jackson lingered. “Is that a threat, Mr. Trebly? Because if so, you just threatened a government agent. I could actually have you brought in for that.”
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside Page 48