Other books by Jaye Roycraft
Dance with Me, My Lovely
Rainscape
Crimson Rain
“Image” Series
Double Image
Afterimage
Shadow Image
Immortal Image
“Hell” Series
Half Past Hell
Hell’s Warrior
Double Image
by
Jaye Roycraft
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-60-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-893896-66-6
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2000 by Jaye Roycraft
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites
ImaJinnBooks.com
BelleBooks.com
BellBridgeBooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Patricia Lazarus
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man © Curaphotography |Dreamstime.com
Background © didi_mc | Renderosity.com
:Eidc:01:
Dedication
To Chris and Rodney, this one’s for you.
One
Natchez, Mississippi
“SERA, I’M SO BORED I could die!” Tia Martell held the phone against her ear and sighed dramatically.
Her friend Serenity Adams sighed in return. “Hey, don’t give me that. This is what you wanted, remember? If you want to see blood and death you could have stayed here.”
“I know. I’m not really complaining, but I feel like a tourist. If I have to shoot one more pillared mansion surrounded by trees dripping Spanish moss, I’m going to be sick.” Tia flipped a long strand of sweat-dampened hair away from her face. God, why did she have to get this assignment in July?
“Just say the word and I’ll trade with you. Besides, didn’t you say your shoot was over? So go ahead and have some fun. What about the night life there? Are you going to check it out?”
“Hmm. Yeah, the haunted mansion was a flop, but there’s supposed to be a haunted inn, and get this, even a ‘vampar’ somewhere around here.”
“A what?”
“‘Vampar.’ That’s Southern for creatures who wander the night.”
Laughter filled Tia’s ear. “No more dead stuff! And you know I meant the kind of night life with real men, silly!”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing scary about the dead down here. It’s all just hype to attract the tourists. And, yes, I did know what you meant. The last thing I need is another Bret Scorsone.”
“Tia, Tia. Bret was two years ago. When are you going to move on?”
Tia normally had patience with Sera’s scolding, but it had been a long, hot day. “Sera, I have moved on. I have a new job, I’m traveling . . . ”
“And you’re avoiding men.”
“I am not. Hey, I have to go. The haunted inn beckons. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Another dramatic sigh preceded Sera’s reply. “Okay, I know when I’m getting the brush off, but be careful. I’m sure there are as many nuts running around down there as up here.”
“I sure hope so. Bye, Sera.” Tia stepped out into the late afternoon Mississippi sun, shaded her eyes, and glanced around. The quaint little town of Natchez was distressingly devoid of “nuts,” running or otherwise.
The heat buzzed around her like a thing alive, and the ancient live oaks surrounding Stanton Hall reached crooked branches to each other like deformed fingers of giant hands, but there the mystery ended. She had just finished her tour and outdoor shoot of Stanton Hall, and the much-touted ghosts of Frederick Stanton, his children, and even his black cocker spaniel had all failed to appear. The mansion itself, though, lived up to all her expectations. Stately and elegant, it sat poised high above the surrounding streets like a grande dame taking her afternoon leisure in the sun. Black shutters lent an aristocratic accent to the all-white profile, and encircling pink azaleas added a strategic splash of color to the stark splendor.
Tia glanced at her watch. Six o’clock. Just in time to stop at her hotel for a quick shower and change before dinner with a ghost.
An hour later, as Tia steered her rental car to the center of town, turning the air conditioning all the way up in defense of the unaccustomed humidity, another twinge of guilt assailed her. Tourist. She rolled down the window and tried to shrug the feeling off. She was not a tourist, and she was not playing hooky. This was her job, and if she wasn’t yet comfortable with it, that was her own fault. Sera was right. She needed to just relax and enjoy.
She pulled up in front of Bishop’s Inn and idled the car, her attention drawn by the aura of the ancient stone building rooted high above the Mississippi River. Only one among many antebellum structures, and without the ornateness and grandeur of the nearby churches and mansions, still the inn sang to her. Finally, with a deep breath of appreciation, she turned the engine off and exited the car, pulling her camera case out with her. She squinted against the low early evening sun and decided there was still plenty of light left for a few photos. Tia walked across the street to get a better angle and snapped off several shots, taking her time with each. Then, her years of photographing details hard to shake, she approached the building, shooting the sign, the heavy wooden door, and the small window above the door that formed the shape of a bishop’s miter. Nesting her camera back in its case, she entered, and the cool air flowed around her, beckoning her in. She requested a booth, but felt too silly to specifically ask for Veilina’s booth. “Veilina” was the supposed resident ghost, the daughter of the inn’s owner, who, after the death of her lover, committed suicide in one of the rooms on the inn’s upper floor.
Tia took the booth shown her by the hostess and, as always, sat facing the door. She had resigned from the police department two years ago, but once a cop, always a cop. Old habits were hard to break. She always sat so she could view the comings and goings of those around her. Glancing across the aisle, she noticed a “Reserved” card perched on the table opposite hers. Probably Veilina’s sacred booth, and they don’t want anyone sitting there.
She ordered a steak, one of the specialties of the house, and while she waited for it her thoughts returned to her conversation with Sera. Her friend was absolutely right. Tia had acted like a petulant child who begs for a toy, then grows bored and abandons it soon after. After patrolling the worst areas of Milwaukee for four years, Tia had requested a transfer to the Identification Division. It was a way off the street and a way to utilize her photography skills on the job. But the three years of being an ID technician had grown increasingly difficult. With every crime scene she photographed, her nightmares had increased. Shooting homicide and suicide victims hadn’t bothered her at first, but as time went on the death masks of children caught in crossfires, store
and restaurant employees shot during robberies, and teenagers killed in traffic accidents haunted her during waking hours. But even worse were her nighttime dreams. They were personal. There were no victims other than herself, always the target, always on the defensive.
And Bret hadn’t been able to help. She wanted to laugh. Bret had seen none of what she saw, yet was unable to cope with her job, much less lend support to her. He had left her in June, and in July, during the middle of a long, hot summer that promised to never end, she resigned her job.
Building a career as a freelance photographer hadn’t been easy, but it had been her way out—what she had wanted. She was just now starting to snag assignments and make sales on a regular basis. So why was she complaining?
Her steak arrived, and she took her time savoring it, in no hurry to leave. The excellent meal finally dispatched, she leaned back, mulling over the decision of whether or not to order dessert. She had already eaten far too many big meals this week, as if she were indeed on vacation and not working. She shouldn’t indulge, and yet . . .
Movement down the aisle raised her downcast eyes, and she forgot about dessert.
A man approached, and he was no tourist. He moved with a slow, feline grace, and though his head didn’t move from side to side, his eyes were everywhere. They caught and held hers, even as he slid onto the bench opposite, the booth with the “Reserved” card.
Maybe it was the cop still in her, but she was aware of everything about him. The shoulder-length brown hair, combed away from his face. The long-sleeved white linen shirt, open at the collar. The impeccable chrome-gray linen trousers. No, she amended, it was the photographer in her. He was impossible to look away from. Her detailed eye saw a man just under six feet with seemingly ordinary features, and she puzzled for a moment on what it was that held her.
When the answer came to her, she pulled her eyes away and felt the skin on her face go hot. It wasn’t the cop or the photographer, but the woman in her that responded to him. It wasn’t because he was classically handsome, or even that his stare had been that of a provocative come-on. Just the opposite—his gaze had been as cold as a raw, sunless dawn. No. What struck her was an air about him as tangible as that of the inn itself. It hummed through the currents of air and reverberated through the floorboards as he walked. Sexuality. Strength. Masculinity. And tied around that package was a warning all but the most foolish would be quick to heed. Stay away.
But more than all that was something harder to define. Tia had seen it numerous times on seasoned cops. It was the way you could tell a veteran from a rookie, and it had nothing to do with age. It was boredom, weariness, cynicism, but also confidence, skill, and, if not necessarily wisdom, surely a knowing—a knowing of people, places, and of all the horrible and sordid things that man is capable of doing to his fellow man. It was what enabled good cops to do their job. It was also what sank others into severe depresssion. It was the killer aura. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, her partner once told her. Her mouth turned downward at the thought. In the end, she hadn’t had it. This man shouldered it like a heavy cloak, yet looked to be no older than his mid-thirties.
Tia felt the flush extend downward from her neck, and her embarrassment grew into anger. She had stared at him, true, but his returning glare had definitely been rude in a place where hospitality was supposed to rule over all. She forced her eyes back to his, and saw they were focused on the camera bag beside her. Had he seen her earlier taking photos? Her 35mm camera, along with the extra lenses in the bag, were valued close to two thousand dollars. Was he thinking of robbing her? The town hardly looked the place for it, and he hardly looked the type, but her years of being a cop made her cynical.
“Good evening, Mr. Allgate. How are you tonight?” greeted a young waitress as she placed a glass of red wine in front of the man.
He looked up at the girl. “Doing well, Jaz. There’ll be someone meeting me for dinner tonight. Let Angie know, would you?”
“Right away. If there’s anything more you need, just let me know.”
The girl turned to leave, and as soon as she did, Tia felt his eyes slide back to her, and by now her whole body felt on fire. As before, she couldn’t look away. The face was rugged, yet his complexion was paler than the weathered tan she expected to accompany such features. It was his eyes, though, that held her captive. It was hard to see their color in the dim light of the inn, but the killer aura and every one of its facets radiated from their depths.
Why was she sitting here enduring this? She was finished with dinner. She would pay the hostess and leave.
A loud shout from outside the inn and the squealing of tires disrupted her plan. Inquisitive patrons near the door scurried outside to see what had happened, but none of them were quicker than the man in the reserved booth.
Tia grabbed her case, and by the time she reached the street, a small crowd had surrounded the crumpled form sprawled on the street. Allgate bent over the injured man and seemed to be talking to him. The ring of onlookers kept a measure of distance, and no one seemed eager to breach the space around the two men.
No one except Tia. She elbowed her way through to inside the circle, and kneeled on the opposite side of the injured man. Street lamps poured light onto the prone figure, whose left leg was twisted to the side in an unnatural way. Tia had seen enough hit and run victims to know the man had been struck by a car.
“Did you call for an ambulance?” she asked Allgate.
“Shut up!” Not even a cursory glance at her accompanied the growl.
His words stoked the angry fire that had been lit inside the inn, but now was not the time for an argument. She turned to the curious crowd.
“Does anyone know if an ambulance was called? Or the police?”
“Yes, ma’am. A lady went back inside to call,” replied a thin young man.
“Did anyone see what happened?” What was she doing? She was almost a thousand miles from home, and even if she were home, she wasn’t a cop anymore. Most people ignored her, but a few stared at her as if they were wondering who she was to be asking. Strangely, Allgate was one of the few who turned, but she quickly realized from his sweep of the onlookers that he was more interested in hearing a response than in who she was.
The thin man who had answered her before eyed her camera case. “You a reporter?”
“No.”
“Find the woman and make sure she doesn’t leave.”
The command came from Allgate, his low drawl somewhere between the resonance of a cello and the purr of a very big cat. She turned toward him, and their eyes met for the first time since they had been seated across from each other. The lamplight gleamed off his strange eyes, and this time they shone more like polished stone than living tissue. She resented being ordered around, but it was what she was going to do anyway, so she didn’t argue. Besides, there wasn’t time.
Tia hurried back inside Bishop’s Inn, and the lady in question wasn’t hard to find. She was at the bar, eagerly repeating her story to the bartender and waitresses. Tia listened for a moment before interrupting, taking the opportunity to size up the woman. Middle-aged, with a purse that could pass for a small suitcase, she sported the fresh splotches of sunburn that marked her as a tourist.
“ . . . and then this big black car swung around the corner, swerved, and headed straight for this poor man. You know how you know something’s going to happen but you can’t do anything to stop it? I just knew the car was going to hit him. There was this terrible thud, and this poor man was thrown like a rag doll. I tell you . . . ”
“Excuse me, ma’am. Did you call the police?”
The woman turned and stared at Tia. “What? Oh, yes . . . ”
“They’re going to want to talk to you.”
The woman clutched a sweater to her chest and hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “The poli
ce? I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re a witness.”
“I didn’t see all that much. Really.”
Flashes of blue strobed across the tavern’s windows like the beat of a sad song. “They’re here. Come on. I’ll go with you.” Tia beamed her best smile and cocked her head toward the door in encouragement. Maybe it was the smile, or maybe it was the shade of command presence, still evident after two years, but the tourist put on a brave face and went outside with Tia.
A silver squad car blocked traffic on the one-way street at the intersection to the east. Paramedics were working on the fallen man, one police officer was talking to Allgate, and a second officer was shouting at the crowd and moving everybody back. Tia called to the officer and waved to get his attention. After a moment he looked at her.
“Officer, this lady was a witness.” Tia put a gentle hand on the woman’s back, preventing her retreat back into the building. The lady reluctantly advanced and was moved even further from the crowd by the officer. Her duty done, Tia turned her mind to more selfish matters. She reached into her bag and pulled out her camera. If she was quick enough, she could snap a couple shots of the hit and run victim. She might even be able to sell a photo to the Daily Democrat. She knew the cops wouldn’t like her taking photos at a crime scene, but she buttered her bread on the other side of the fence now, and there wouldn’t be much they could do to stop her except to move her back out of range. Hopefully she could get what she wanted before that happened. She readied her camera, pulled the press card that hung around her neck from underneath her shirt, got as close as she could, and took three shots in rapid succession.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doin’?” The cop doing crowd control strode towards her.
“Press!” she shouted.
“I don’t care who you are. Don’t you people have any respect? Move it back!”
Tia smiled. She knew the game from both sides. She had what she wanted. Almost.
Double Image Page 1