Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  She slapped the paper against her lap. The man with the killer aura became more frustrating by the moment, and someone else with a killer aura had just turned an accident into a homicide.

  A homicide. I have important information regarding a homicide.

  Tia now had what in her ex-cop’s mind was a clear-cut duty. She would have to call the police right away and give them the information and photos she had of the black car. Of course, there was no proof that this was indeed the hit and run vehicle, but chances were good that it was. She was a little surprised the cops hadn’t already come knocking on her hotel room door. A good detective, seeing the photo in the newspaper, might wonder if the photographer had seen more.

  Tia went up to her room to call Natchez P.D. Moments later, she hung up the phone after receiving a promise that an officer would be out to talk to her directly. Her irksome conscience now clear, she wasted no time punching the number to Bishop’s Inn again. There was nothing to prevent her from pursuing her own interests. One good thing about no longer being a cop was that she could freely share the information she had with whomever she pleased. She had extra prints of all her photos, and there had been no reason to tell the police she would soon know who the owner of the black car was.

  “Bishop’s Inn. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m trying to get in touch with Dallas Allgate. It’s very important. It’s about the man who was killed in the accident last night. Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “Yes, but I can’t give it out.”

  Tia was not surprised. In fact, she already had plan B prepared. “Can you call him and relay the message? Then he can call me back.”

  “Hold on just a minute.”

  Tia heard the receiver thump to the counter, then heard voices in the background. Clearly, her plan B request was being evaluated. Allgate had no doubt instructed his staff in the stringent safeguarding of his privacy.

  A few minutes later the woman’s voice came back on the line. “Ma’am? Okay, I’ll take your message and pass it along to Mr. Allgate, but I can’t promise he’ll call you back.”

  “I understand. Please tell him it’s Tia Martell. He knows who I am. Tell him I have vital information on Marty Macklin, the man who was killed last night in the hit and run accident. Ask him to please call me as soon as he can.” Tia gave the woman her hotel name and phone number, and told her she’d be at the hotel the rest of the day and night.

  Tia dropped the receiver into its cradle, leaned back in her chair, and checked her watch. Almost one in the afternoon. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. According to her original itinerary, she would just about be finishing her leisurely, picturesque drive on the Natchez Trace Parkway back to Jackson and her flight home to Milwaukee. Instead, she was waiting for a visit from the cops, a phone call from a man more intriguing than the ghost who inhabits his inn, and a call that could possibly lead to the identification of a killer.

  Had she really told Sera less than twenty-four hours ago that she was bored?

  DALLAS ROSE AT seven in the evening, and, as usual, saw John Giltspur’s familiar face before anything else. As blank as clean paper, Dallas nevertheless saw something in the man’s face that signaled this was to be a day out of the ordinary. After last night, that was no surprise.

  “Yes, Gillie? What is it?”

  “A message from the inn, sir. I didn’t feel it quite urgent enough to wake you, but . . . ”

  For an inscrutable manservant, Gillie worried too much. “What’s the message, Gillie?”

  Gillie cleared his throat. “A woman’s been calling the inn asking for you. A Tia Martell. This woman told Angie you know who she is and that you should call her as soon as possible. She claims to have important information regarding the death of the private investigator Macklin. Her phone number’s on the table.”

  The woman. He had hoped to be done with her. “Anything else?”

  “Macklin is dead, sir.”

  Dallas nodded. “Thank you, Gillie.”

  Last night upon returning home to Rose Hill, Dallas had told Gillie about the accident, about Macklin and the information he had, and about Conner Flynne’s visit. He had warned Gillie that more visits from Conner Flynne and the master that pulled his strings were imminent, and that security and vigilance at Rose Hill should be the utmost priority. Dallas’ secretary, valet, and confidant for twenty-five years, Gillie not only ran Rose Hill, he was the one human Dallas trusted. Gillie had traveled every bump and valley of Dallas’ nature, knew his strengths, weaknesses, riches, and wants. However, Dallas kept most of his passions private, and saw no need to inform Gillie of each soul who became a victim of his need. Dallas had not mentioned the woman or the manner in which Marty Macklin had exited the world of the living.

  As soon as Gillie’s soft footsteps faded from the room, Dallas filled the void of silence. “Damn, bloody female!”

  Dallas rarely cursed. He considered it a human frailty, something any being with even a meager command of himself should be able to avoid. The brief lack of control upset him even more.

  He should have dispensed with her last night. She was a stranger to Natchez, a Yankee from her accent. No one here would have missed her or questioned her disappearance. But no . . . that was for the Conner Flynnes. In recent years he had tried to limit the number of humans he dispatched for the sake of his need, sustaining himself instead on animal blood. The change was not out of sentimentality, but safety and survival. In this high-tech age of computers and forensics, it was just too risky to leave a trail of bodies around, especially in a small community such as this one. Macklin had been an exception. Expediency, overwhelming need, and the desire to spoil Conner Flynne’s plans had overruled caution. It had been a foolhardy thing to do.

  It had also been foolish to believe that mere avoidance of one who possessed the rare perception this woman did would be enough. Her senses had seen something in him that humans seldom saw. Sometimes a human who had trespassed too close to the gates of death gained a kind of cognizance akin to that of the vampiric sense, but it was rare. Especially in one so young. And beautiful.

  His mouth curled downward in disgust. As if beauty had anything at all to do with the knowledge of the other side. Most likely she had had a near-death experience. To think that such awareness was natural born . . .

  He glided to the table and fingered the note with Tia’s name and phone number. Gillie’s precise handwriting made no room for error. Next to the note was today’s copy of the newspaper. Dallas exhaled a long breath that was as close to a sigh as he ever let out. “HIT AND RUN VICTIM DIES”

  It was to be expected, of course. Dallas scanned the article quickly, glad that no mention had been made of him. It was a standing request of all the Democrat reporters, reinforced as need dictated by a compelling glance.

  The way Tia Martell had looked at him was one thing. Her message was another problem altogether. She said she had important information regarding Macklin’s death. Everyone knew Macklin was dead. What else did she know?

  She had been following him. Had she shadowed him to the hospital? He was relatively certain she hadn’t trailed him inside the hospital. He would have felt her presence. But perhaps she had been sitting in her car in the hospital parking lot and had witnessed his confrontation with Conner Flynne. Maybe she had even taken photographs. Either way, she would know neither he nor Flynne was human. And he wouldn’t have known she was there. His senses in the parking lot had been totally focused on Flynne.

  What was her intent? She was a reporter, and worse yet, a photographer. Exposure flashed first in his mind. What else? Blackmail. As owner of a popular tourist attraction, her supposition that he had a measure of wealth was reasonable.

  Fortunately he had dealt with this problem before. Eliminating any kind of human threat was child’s play. Unfortunately, this
time he feared the solution would not be so easy. Once again, the thought of removing Tia Martell from the side of life somehow vexed him. A moment ago he had used logic to dismiss the option of destroying her. Now . . .

  He ran his hand through his long hair and headed for his dressing room. He bathed, trying to summon an answer. What was it that really made him hesitant to dispense with her? Sentimentality? God, I hope not. He scrubbed on skin already clean, as if the action would help conjure a key to the enigma of Tia Martell. If that’s the case, my survival is doomed. He couldn’t afford sentimentality at any cost, even for a woman as young and full of life as Miss Martell was. Was it her perception? The life of the Undead was a lonely one. Did he crave the presence of another who could share even the tiniest burden of existence over two centuries of war and pain? Gillie was the closest thing he had to a friend, yet having the man by his side assuaged that burden not the least.

  Dallas dressed in a silk shirt of pearl gray and lightweight black linen trousers. He took his time, as he always did, and yet the extra time did nothing to smooth a path for the revelation he sought. Perhaps it was those blue eyes that spoke a truth her prickly attitude tried to hide. Truth. It was a rare thing to find any human who bore the beginnings of wisdom. It was almost as though a truth were waiting to be awakened deep inside her—the truth of the human predicament.

  Perhaps he was thinking too hard about this. Maybe it was just her dark hair, long and full of highlights, like a waterfall under a moonlit sky, that distracted him.

  He combed his fingers through his damp hair. God! He didn’t need this problem right now. Not with Conner Flynne and his cohort nearby, wanting nothing so mild as blackmail. Dallas pulled open the heavy drapes that lined the west side of the large room. The tinted windows took some of the brightness and flare out of the lowering sun, but made it possible for Dallas to safely view at least a portion of the sun’s daily journey. He stood next to the window and soaked in the splendor of the reds and golds, ensanguined to burgundies and crimsons by the tinted glass. Rose Hill, appropriately built on a small hillock, afforded its residents an almost unobstructed view of the town’s western edge as well as a strip of the Mississippi River and the bridge to Louisiana. The view was one of the reasons Dallas had bought the property so long ago.

  He stood and gazed at the diminishing light, trying to calm his mind. Finally, as the midnight blue of the evening banished the daylight to a line of dying fire along the horizon, Dallas felt his mind clear. The power of the night was his power, and with its advent came the full force of Dallas’ physical and mental strength. He stepped outside onto one of the verandas and took a deep breath of the sultry air.

  Why had he even been worrying about the woman? She was nothing to him, and certainly no threat. He would call her and find out what information she had. If exposure or blackmail was indeed her intent, he would deal as swiftly with her as with any enemy.

  Four

  THE HARSH SOUND startled Tia from a nightmare-infested sleep. The room was draped in shadow when she opened her eyes, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Fumbling, she groped in vain for a light switch. But the insistent trill demanded attention, so her fingers gave up on the light and grappled instead for the receiver.

  “Hello?” Tia was vaguely aware that her sleepy greeting erupted as a very breathy whisper.

  “Tia Martell.”

  The deep voice sounded her name more as a statement than a question, as if there was no doubt in the caller’s mind he had reached the right party. Her senses started to come alive, or at least her hearing did. She knew instantly it was Dallas Allgate.

  “Yes, Mr. Allgate. Thank you for returning my call.” Finally. What time is it, anyway? She tilted the portable room clock towards her. Nine o’clock.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Martell?”

  Those suggestive words, like the soft rumbling of far-off thunder, promised danger to anyone daring enough to draw closer to the storm.

  “I have information regarding the death of Marty Macklin. I thought you might be interested.”

  “So you told my staff. Exactly what information do you have?”

  “Photographs.”

  “Not interested.”

  Damn the man! Why did he have to call when she was napping? Her mind was still trying to extricate itself from the web of disturbing dreams she’d been caught in. She hated feeling at a disadvantage with any man, but especially with this man. Of course photos alone wouldn’t interest him.

  “I have photos of Bishop’s Inn before the accident happened. They show the hit and run vehicle and its license plate. I have the listing on the plate.”

  “And what makes you think I care about a license plate? Call the law.”

  “I’ve already talked to the police. From your interest in Mr. Macklin I thought you might want to know who killed him.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, but Tia could feel his energy nonetheless, like a Mack truck idling blocks away.

  “What other knowledge do you have of the incident?” he asked, his tone seeming to suggest she knew more.

  “Meet with me in person. Right now.”

  “What do you want in return for this font of information?”

  The subtle suggestiveness laced the deep voice with a kind of electricity. Thunder and lightning. His voice was as good as his eyes. Too good. She was glad she was sitting. She didn’t care for the challenge of seeing if the strength in her knees was equal to the power of his voice. “Let me photograph you. That’s all.”

  Tia sensed more idling, faster this time, as if someone were giving gas to a powerful engine. A camcorder could record that incredible voice, but how to capture that energy? It was as tangible as the inflections that rippled through the phone lines.

  “Come to the inn. Tell the hostess you have an appointment with me. She’ll show you upstairs.”

  Yes! “Thank you, Mr. Allgate. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  She rose from the bed, feeling hot and sticky in spite of the constant blowing of the air conditioner. The nightmares, or Allgate’s mesmerizing voice? She wanted to take a shower and change. Her looks as well as her attitude had always served her well, and for this face to face, she wanted to make sure she had both arsenals at her disposal. No more giving this man any kind of advantage.

  DALLAS HUNG UP the phone with care. So all she wanted was to show him some photos in return for taking some of him. He wasn’t sure if he believed her or not. His vampiric senses, including even the narcotic effect of his voice, required a meeting of the eyes to function at their optimum power. But he would know soon enough if she was telling the truth. No human, even one with her rare awareness, would be able to lie if his eyes demanded honesty. Of course, either way, she would get no photos of him. The Undead feared few things in the realm of human ingenuity and technology, but the camera was one. He would deal with that problem at the appropriate time. Right now, Miss Tia Martell worried him more than her camera did.

  Dallas waited for her in his private suite on the inn’s third floor. The suite, in reality, was nothing more than a good-sized office, a bathroom, and a small storage room. In the inn’s earliest days, the third floor had consisted of a series of small rooms, each no larger than a cell, with enough space only for a narrow bed or pallet and a single small chair. The rooms were meant for servants or those too poor to afford the larger rooms one floor down. Years ago, Dallas had knocked out most of the inner walls, leaving just the present three rooms. Angie had wanted him to turn the third floor into a bed and breakfast room, but Dallas had resisted the idea. He enjoyed a place other than Rose Hill that he could consider a sanctuary.

  The office was dominated by an imposing wooden desk, behind which hunched a worn leather chair. Two smaller chairs for visitors sat before the desk. A leather sofa and fireplace filled one wall, shu
ttered windows the second, and doors to the other rooms the third. Bookshelves, file cabinets, a buffet table, and the doorway to the stairs lined the fourth wall. All the furniture pieces were antiques, and the room as a whole was steeped with a feeling of age that Dallas found comfortable.

  Still, he did not wait easily for Tia. So much of his life had been spent in the wait mode that he reminded himself he should be used to it by now. And he was. After all, the sphere of Midexistence he inhabited was nothing more than eternal waiting. Yet that didn’t make it easy.

  He leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. The night made him strong, but the lingering made him tired. His mind, with the laxity that weariness brought, wandered far into the past.

  London, 1786.

  A deathly veil of silence cloaked the courtroom.

  The magistrate paused in his rote recitation long enough to shift his eyes downward. Ostensibly to remind himself of the defendant’s name, he sat scratching a spot somewhere high on his protruding belly.

  Dalys Aldgate remained standing, silent as the rest, yet knowing that not another soul in the room, not even Viscount St. James, awaited the words to come with the anticipation that parched his throat with dread.

  The magistrate raised his head and cleared his throat. “This Court, having accepted the verdict of the jury, finds the defendant, Dalys Aldgate of Knightsbridge, guilty of the first offense, conspiracy to commit robbery, and guilty of the second offense, conspiracy to commit murder, said offenses deemed to have been perpetrated against The Honourable Christian St. James on the second of May, Year of Our Lord 1786. This Court, having convicted Dalys Aldgate of two capital non-clergyable felonies, does hereby sentence said defendant to death by hanging.”