One night, when he’d spent the afternoon next to Monty at the hospital, he headed over to Blair House in the early evening. Angela was preparing a roast. Jake’s fiancée was joining them at the house while they finished up in New York, and the two were musicians. He’d been invited for a Krewe of Hunters evening, and he was grateful that they considered him part of their in-crowd.
When he arrived, he could see through the open gate that Whitney was standing in the front, looking perplexed.
“What’s going on?” he asked her.
She looked at him and smiled sheepishly.
“One more time,” she told him.
His heart thudded. “One more time?” he demanded.
She smiled and moved against him, lifting her head and coming on her toes to give him a kiss. “One more time with picks and shovels!” she told him.
He arched a brow.
“The dog, Jude. I have to find the dog. The excavation team dug up an old metal tag. A dog tag. It had the name Rufus on it. I think—I know you saw Rufus, Jude. I know that you did. I have to find him. We’ve decided that, between us, and with a fund from city donations, we can actually bury the victims from the past—and Jane Doe dry, until we find out who she is.”
“If we find out who she is.”
“We may never,” Whitney agreed. “When we bury Annie Doherty, I want to bury Rufus with her.”
“But you said they found his tag next door, at the excavation site.”
“Right. I think Rufus tried to protect his mistress. I believe someone got a hold of him, but he escaped. He came back, and the owners cared for him, never understanding why he sat in the yard, staring at the House of Spiritualism, barking now and then, and trying to get someone to understand. Please, Jude, I know this is hard, but…”
“Let’s dig,” he said.
One by one, the others came out. Jude was silently glad to see that Jake Mallory’s fiancée was a sweet and beautiful young woman. He couldn’t help but see that Ashley and Jake were so close, and he had to admit that he had felt a twinge of jealousy now and then.
But Ashley dug in with the rest of them, not at all surprised that they were going to search for the remains of a ghost dog.
As Whitney had thought—though they did tear up the yard and make a mess of it—they found the remains of a dog. They were tenderly gathered, and wrapped, and set in a show box to await burial.
It was a beautiful night; it was the first night he had really relaxed, it seemed, since he’d been called in when the body of Sarah Larson had been pulled from the river.
He didn’t leave until morning. Whitney, groggy, golden and beautiful, reached out her arms to him when he was ready to go. He paused, returned to her side and kissed her. But she couldn’t coax him back into bed.
“I’ll be back,” he promised her.
At the animal shelter, the attendant told him that they didn’t have any full-blooded German shepherds at the moment.
Jude smiled. “I don’t want a full-blooded shepherd. I want a mix. Something big and furry and lovable that enjoys people and needs a good home.”
“Well, there’s Ruff,” the attendant told him.
“Who?” Jude asked.
“Ruff—that’s what they called him when he was found on the street, I guess. Anyway, it’s what we’ve been calling him here,” the attendant told him.
“I’ll take Ruff,” Jude said.
“You haven’t even seen him yet!”
“I know I’m going to like him.”
And he did. Ruff was a mixture of shepherd and something big—maybe a wolfhound, or deerhound. He wagged his tail wildly when he met Jude, whined softly and slipped his wet nose against Jude’s hand.
He filled out all the paperwork, paid the fee and left a donation, and left the shelter with Ruff, a shiny new collar and tags, and a long leash.
* * *
Whitney hadn’t understood why Jude had been so eager to leave. When he called her to say that he was on his way back, she went out into the yard to wait.
They had the gate open, and she saw him drive up.
He got out of the car and opened the passenger side.
The dog bounded to her as if he’d known her all her life.
Jude came behind, impossibly tall and sexy, his hair falling lightly over his forehead and a grin on his face.
“I thought you were a cat person?” she said.
“Yes, but…I’m in love with a dog person,” he told her. “And, somehow, canines have really grown on me.”
She laughed, threw her arms around him and kissed him. Then she drew back. “Jude, how are we going to work this out?”
“I don’t know,” he told her. “I only know that we will.” He looked down at her for a long moment. “I know that I met you, and my world changed. I changed. I love you. Too soon to say that? I hope not. It’s true.”
She smiled. “What’s too soon?” she asked him. “I love you,” she added softly.
He pulled her close and kissed her. Ruff barked.
And Whitney knew that time and distance would mean nothing. Sometimes, that would be annoying.
But annoying could never interfere with anything this powerful and sure.
They would work it out.
MANHATTAN
The drink that typifies the five-o’clock cocktail hour in the city that rushes around with the speed of light? It could be named only for the borough itself.
But was it named for the borough? There are a number of stories that go with the creation of the Manhattan. Some say it was named after a bar called Manhattan. Some say it goes farther back, that a bartender in the 1860s created the drink for the first time.
Some even say the sewage system was so bad back then that the water ran brown with the color, and thus the drink was named Manhattan for the brownish flow of the rivers.
However it came about, it remains a classic cocktail with many variations.
Ingredients
2 oz rye whiskey
½ oz sweet vermouth
2–3 dashes Angostura bitters
Maraschino cherry for garnish
Preparation
Pour the ingredients into a mixing glass with ice cubes.
Stir well or shake.
Strain into a chilled cocktail glass (or serve on the rocks in an old-fashioned glass).
Garnish with the cherry.
Variations on the Manhattan
Dry Manhattan—Use a dash of dry vermouth and garnish with a lemon twist.
Perfect Manhattan—Equal parts of sweet and dry vermouth. Garnish with a lemon twist.
Brandy Manhattan—Replace whiskey with brandy.
Scotch Manhattan—Replace whiskey with Scotch.
Southern Comfort Manhattan—Replace whiskey with Southern Comfort.
THE PERFECT NEW YORK STRIP STEAK
While many around the world are turning to low-fat, heart-healthy diets and choosing fish and chicken over red meat, the classic steak house remains a New York staple. In the city, you’ll find that there is an abundance of such establishments, and most New Yorkers with a taste for steak have their favorite. But even opinionated NYC chefs tend to agree on a few important steps for grilling the perfect New York Strip at home.
Shopping: Do spend the extra money on USDA PRIME cuts. Look for well-marbled meat—not too much fat, not big chucks.
Preparation: The New York Strip needs to sit out for approximately an hour, to achieve the correct temperature for the grill. Steaks right from the refrigerator will not cook correctly.
Coating: Never coat the grill. The coating goes on the steak. NYC chefs from different restaurants prefer different coatings. Some believe that rubbing, not spraying or soaking, a cut of meat in olive oil before adding seasonings is the key. Others prefer a butter reduction with the milk solids removed. Butter solids appear when you zap the butter in the microwave for a few seconds. They can be strained out through a coffee filter, or with a spoon. Some chefs prefer marinades, but t
hose really do not constitute the flavor of the basic prime strip steak.
Seasonings: Some chefs believe there can’t be too much salt, as the salt will form a crust. Most will suggest kosher salt, and many are turning to sea salt. And crack your pepper—none of that powdered stuff! Rub both into each steak after it’s coated, and place the steak on the grill.
Perfect temperature is considered medium rare, not raw, but red in the middle extending to the perfectly charred outer rim.
Many steak houses sell custom sauces to complement your grill-at-home steaks!
And, of course, one of the best side dishes for the perfect steak has always been the baked potato. Russet potatoes are recommended, as they have a great texture for baking. The skin should be brown—no green patches. Potatoes should be scrubbed, and dried by towel or air-drying. Wrapping a potato in tinfoil will actually steam it, and leave a soft skin. For a crispy skin, do not wrap. Prepare the potato by rubbing it with olive oil or canola oil, and then rolling it lightly in kosher salt or sea salt. Optimum baking temperature is considered to be 350°F, and the oven should be preheated. Time is approximately an hour. A potato is done when the skin is crispy and its “meat” is soft.
A fresh salad always complements this meal. Iceberg wedges, dusted with bacon bits and blue cheese, a mixed salad or a Caesar serves as a nice final touch. So…sip your Manhattan and grill your steaks!
It’s a meal that provides a pleasant evening in New York City. When the winter weather gives way to spring, Manhattanites head on home after work and like stepping out at night to enjoy the great weather! (Wait, many live in apartments without balconies. Okay, so…buy a little indoor grill!)
Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
“Graham expertly blends a chilling history of the mansion’s former residents with eerie phenomena, once again demonstrating why she stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”
—Publishers Weekly on Phantom Evil, starred review
“An incredible storyteller.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“A fast-paced and suspenseful read that will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon
“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest…. Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”
—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground
“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”
—Booklist on Ghost Walk
“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Vision
“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
An Angel for Christmas
Available from MIRA Books
wherever books are sold.
THE EVIL INSIDE
HEATHER GRAHAM
For Lisa Manetti, Corinne De Winter,
Brent Chapman, Juan Roca, Dennis Pozzessere,
Jason Pozzessere, Dennis Cummins, and all our
group, and the amazing scares and laughs
we all shared at the Lizzie Borden House.
(And thanks to the house’s beautiful current owner!)
In memory of my in-laws,
Angelina Mero and Alphonso Pozzessere;
I can’t think of Massachusetts without
thinking about them, and smiling.
And in memory of Alice Pozzessere Crosbie and
“Uncle Buppy,” and for the Crosbie clan,
Steven, Ginger, Linda, Tommy, Billy,
and Mary, and their families.
And for the great, diverse state of Massachusetts.
Especially Gloucester, and Hammond Castle,
where Derek and Zhenia had
the most beautiful wedding ever.
Prologue
The boy stood naked in the middle of the road.
Sam Hall’s headlights caught him there, frozen in position, like a deer. He was covered in something slick, and it dripped down his flesh. It looked reddish, like blood, as if the kid had run off the set of a horror movie after being drenched in buckets of the stuff.
Sam slammed his foot on the brake pedal, grateful for once that his years with Mahon, Mero and Malone had given him the ability to afford the new Jaguar with the stop-on-a-dime brakes.
Even then, the car pulled to a halt just inches before the boy.
Swearing softly beneath his breath and puzzled beyond measure, Sam jumped out of the car. “Hey, what the hell are you doing there, son?”
The boy didn’t move, didn’t seem to realize that he’d nearly been roadkill. He just shook as he stood there. Summer had recently turned to fall, and the air had a sharp nip, typical for Massachusetts at this time of year. Tree-laden tracts lined the road; the old oaks seemed to bend and moan with the breeze, while multicolored leaves danced on the road and swept around the scene as if they, too, were deeply disturbed.
The boy didn’t acknowledge Sam or look at him.
Again Sam swore softly. There was obviously something really wrong, though this kid couldn’t have been injured severely and still be able to stand as he was.
He couldn’t have lost that amount of blood and still be conscious.
Was it really blood…couldn’t be.
Either way, Sam couldn’t leave him in the middle of the road.
He looked at the new Jag he really loved, with the leather seats he also loved, and walked around to his trunk and found the beach blanket he’d picked up on his recent drive to the Florida Keys. It was sandy, but it would warm the kid.
He returned quickly, but the kid hadn’t run off, much less moved. “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
He received no response.
“Here, here, you’re going to have to get into my car,” Sam said, approaching the boy with the blanket. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”
Sam wrapped the blanket around him. “Sorry about the sand,” he said.
The kid looked to be somewhere between fifteen and seventeen, but underdeveloped. He was painfully thin. His eyes were huge and brown in the lean contours of his face. His chest was devoid of hair, so most of the blood had slid down his chest.
The temperature seemed to be around forty degrees Fahrenheit. It wasn’t freezing, but the kid shouldn’t be exposed to this long.
Sam intended to
get him into the car. And yet, as he stood there, trying to be compassionate while saving his wool coat from the sticky red substance that looked like blood, he suddenly froze.
It didn’t just look like blood—it was blood.
Denial rushed through his mind.
But it was blood, no denying it.
Pig’s blood, cow’s blood…hell, rabbit’s blood.
But something told Sam that it was not.
He drew the blanket off the boy and turned him around, seeking an injury that might have caused that amount of blood.
But he didn’t find any. If he had, the boy wouldn’t have been standing upright. He wouldn’t have been breathing. He’d have been dead from a wound like that.
He’d already wrapped the blanket around the kid. No undoing that.
And if he could, would he leave the kid there shivering with nothing?
Still standing in front of the boy, who didn’t even reach up to hold the blanket in place, he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone and hit 911. An operator with a droning voice asked him what his emergency was.
“My name is Samuel Hall. I was driving into Salem when I nearly hit a young man in the road. He’s covered in blood. It doesn’t appear to be his blood, but I can’t be certain that he isn’t injured. He’s standing on his own, and doesn’t seem in any way to be too weak to do so, but he’s nonresponsive. He may be in shock. Can you get someone out here—fast?” He looked around and quickly gave his position as best he could. Hell, it was a quiet backwoods road. He’d opted to take IA north from Boston, but had turned off early. The dark, quiet road through the trees had seemed a soothing path for his first visit home in a long time.
“Stay calm now, Mr. Hall,” the operator told him. “I’ll have a car out to your position immediately. Patrolmen are in the vicinity. It won’t be long. You’re sure the young man isn’t bleeding? If so, you must stanch the flow of blood. Stay calm. Are you doing all right?”
He hesitated for the fraction of a second, staring at the phone, his mind racing. He thought of the horrors he had witnessed in the military, and he thought of the crime-scene photos he’d studied as a criminal attorney.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside Page 86