Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Drago . . . ” breathed Gillie.

  “To Hell with Drago.”

  Tia was doing an admirable job of not looking confused. “What about me? I want to go with you,” she stated. There was a defiant tone to her voice that hinted she already expected to be left behind and wasn’t going to accept it.

  In truth, he didn’t know what to do with her. If he left her behind to help take care of Gillie, he had no doubt she’d try to follow him. Short of disabling her car, he didn’t know how to ensure she’d stay put. He doubted even Mac, who was as physically imposing as himself, could keep her here against her wishes. Even if she did stay with Gillie, she’d be in danger. There was the possibility that St. James’ invitation was just a decoy to lure Dallas well away from Natchez, leaving all those he cared about behind, unprotected and at St. James’ mercy.

  On the other hand, if she went with him, and St. James was indeed waiting, he would be taking her straight into trouble. More than that, she would be a distraction to him. Every bit of worry he expended on her was energy not focused on St. James. Willingly giving an opponent an advantage was not a rule of survival.

  In the end he decided to take her with him. She’d be a distraction whether he took her or left her, and at least this way he could see to her safety. “You can go if you do two things. Clean up some of this mess before Mac gets here. Then go change into your most practical clothes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a ghost town. Hurry now.”

  Ten

  THE KILLER AURA. She had been right. The man sitting in the Lincoln beside her certainly had it in spades. And she didn’t.

  With all her experience, she’d thought she understood the truth of the human predicament. She’d thought she could understand every situation she found herself thrown into—thought she understood enough about the character of others to make good decisions. To understand and not be understood, Dallas had said.

  Well, she found herself not understanding a single thing. She hadn’t been able to assume the cloak of the killer aura long enough to do the right thing.

  She had seen Conner Flynne holding Gillie hostage. Saw Flynne attack him. Heard the whimper of pain exhaled from Gillie’s mouth. The man had been killing Gillie, and she had stood pointing her gun, her finger on the trigger, unable to shoot. After a second, Dallas’ body had blocked her shot, and in the next eyeblink Flynne had been plastered against the marble fireplace. But during that one second when she had a clear shot, she hadn’t been able to do it. What if Gillie had been killed during that one second?

  “Tia.”

  What was she doing wanting to confront St. James again? Did Dallas know he wouldn’t be able to count on her in a pinch? What would he be thinking of her if Gillie had died? What was he thinking now?

  “Tia.” The voice was loud, right in her ear.

  She flinched out of her reverie. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s this? No questions for me? I thought you’d have a million or so by now.”

  Questions? That’s what he was worried about? She couldn’t bring herself to admit her failure to him. Her mind shifted gears, reaching for what he seemed to expect from her.

  “You can tell me where we’re going.”

  “Rodney.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a place, not a person. Rodney is about forty miles up the Trace. It’ll take about an hour to get there, though. The highway doesn’t exactly roll through where we’re going.”

  Tia tried to get her mind to function. “I don’t remember St. James’ note saying anything about Rodney.”

  “It said to ‘come to the town that’s as dead as your friend.’ Rodney is a ghost town, the only one near Natchez.”

  “God, don’t tell me you have another story about spirits like Veilina and Rowan.” She allowed her disdain to color her voice, but in point of fact, another one of Dallas’ improbable tales just might take her mind off her brooding.

  He laughed, a rare sound. “Well, I don’t know any of Rodney’s spirits by name.”

  “How does St. James know about this place?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not exactly a tourist attraction, though the town does have a lot of stories attached to it. It used to be quite a famous place. Interested?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  He glanced at her. “Someone with your sense of history should appreciate this. Rodney was a grand town before the Civil War. It was almost voted the capitol of the Mississippi Territory. It had an opera house and two newspapers. Anyway, this story takes place in 1863, during the War. After Vicksburg fell, the Union Navy was in charge of the Mississippi River, and the gunboat Rattler was specifically put in charge of keeping an eye on Rodney. Every Sunday morning the men on board would line the decks hoping for a glimpse of the southern belles as they paraded into church. But one Sunday a reverend, who was a northern sympathizer, was in town to preach that day. He invited the captain and crew to attend services. So the men disobeyed orders, put on their best uniforms, went into town, and quietly seated themselves in the church. Just as the reverend started up, a Confederate Cavalry lieutenant walked up the aisle, apologized, announced that his men had surrounded the church, and demanded that the Yankee sailors surrender.”

  Tia found herself smiling in spite of herself. How was it that this man, who seemed so serious and dour, could inspire so much passion? “And did they? Surrender, I mean.”

  “Well, one of the Yankees took a shot at the Rebel lieutenant and all hell broke loose. Citizens dove under their pews for safety, and the skeleton crew left aboard the gunboat began firing their guns at the church when they heard the commotion. When the smoke cleared, the church and four homes had been hit, and the Rebels had seventeen prisoners, including the Yankee captain and lieutenant. The Rebel lieutenant who had started it all kept the Yankees from burning down the town by threatening to hang all his prisoners if the Rattler fired a single shot. The Rattler was infamous thereafter. It was the first time in history that a small squad of cavalry captured the crew of an ironclad.”

  “That’s terrible. All true?”

  “Tia, would I lie to you?”

  She turned her head to look at him. He met her eyes briefly. “In a heartbeat. So if the town was flourishing, why did it die?”

  “The river made Rodney what it was. It was the busiest riverport between St. Louis and New Orleans, but after the war a sand bar formed in the Mississippi, and the river changed course. By then cotton and slavery were gone, and Reconstruction was a hard time for the town to try to make a comeback.”

  Once they turned onto the Trace, there was no traffic to be seen in either direction, and no lights of any kind. Sometimes the trees receded from the road to reveal neatly mowed shoulders and fields, and other times giant limbs reached for each other across the pavement, like elderly lovers embracing. Tia could almost imagine how it was for the travelers of years long past. The countryside did have a feel of its history that was almost palpable. In such a setting, all of Dallas’ strange stories seemed almost believable.

  There were so many things she had wanted to ask him about earlier in the evening, but with everything that had happened, there had been no time. She still wanted to ask him about the diary, but even more she wanted to ask him about the two of them, and if he saw any future for them. Now was not the time. They had to survive the night first.

  “What exactly’s going to happen when we get there?” she asked.

  “Simple. I’m going to kill the bastard.”

  “How? What if he has a gun this time?”

  “I’m prepared for this round. While you were changing, I threw a few things in the trunk.”

  “What will you want me to do?”

  She watched him carefully as he gave each answer, but this time he did more than shif
t his glance in her direction. He pulled the Lincoln onto the grass shoulder without a word, put the car into park, and turned the dome light on. He twisted his body toward her, lessening the space between them. He was dressed again in black jeans and a charcoal shirt. The light accented the paleness of his skin, but his eyes gleamed with a luminescence that had nothing to do with the lamplight. She suddenly felt very warm.

  “This is different from what just happened at the house. I don’t want you involved at all. Understand? St. James is much more dangerous than Conner was. I don’t want you anywhere near him. I mean it, Tia. No heroics this time.”

  “But what if your life is in danger again?”

  “Do what you have to do to defend yourself, but don’t worry about me.”

  “How can you tell me to do that?”

  His eyes looked glassy in their stillness. “Because this is survival. You have to do as I say. I can’t afford to be distracted. If I’m thinking that you’re going to be charging up into the middle of things, I’ll not only lose my concentration, but St. James will know exactly where my mind is. He’ll take every advantage of that.”

  “Then why did you bring me here?”

  “Because you’re safer with me than at the house.”

  She blinked. His eyes hadn’t moved. She nodded.

  He turned the light off and pulled the car back onto the road. So that was it. He was fully aware that she could have shot Conner and didn’t, and he didn’t trust her now. She was merely the female to be protected.

  She was silent for a long time, watching the road wind languidly before them. She tried to let her mind relax, and as soon as she did, the Trace took it. The road captured her attention, like a stately white-haired lady would in a room full of young strangers. Even a Northerner like her could almost hear the whispers of time that flowed along the shoulders of the parkway. But it was more than that. There was tranquility to the empty highway that was like a presence—hushed, but as tangible as the very trees. It was something larger than she was, older and infinitely wiser. It had seen more people, more passages, and more tragedies than Tia would have seen in a hundred years as a cop. The feeling soothed her, and for a few moments, her problems shrank.

  It seemed silly, but the windings of the Trace wrapped her in a mantle of safety similar to that she had felt in Dallas’ presence. The road had persevered through both the destruction and healing of time, and survived still to aid the weary traveler. Despite his relative youth, there was something akin to the Trace in Dallas. It was a wisdom gained only with the passing of time spent in life, and yet it was a stillness in spirit gained only, she surmised, in death. She wondered what tragedy had happened in his life that he had attained that stillness in spirit.

  She glanced at Dallas as she had so many times in the past at her partners. All the profiles before him had shown youth and masculine strength. In that regard, Dallas was no different. The straight nose and strong jaw framed by the sweep of long hair was as attractive a profile as any man Tia had ridden with.

  The cops she had worked with had lived with the possibility of death and of causing death every night. But neither she nor any of them ever talked about it. She had tried not to even think about it. If she had, she couldn’t have done the job.

  This man was unlike any of the cops she had known. This man had killed, and he had talked of death. Yet she hadn’t been repelled or afraid, but comforted. Comforted by the killer aura. It should have been a scary thought, but it wasn’t.

  She had to help him. Whether he wanted her to or not, she couldn’t just sit idly by while he fought St. James. Dallas may be able to see with eyesight bestowed by the aura that surrounded him, but that aura wasn’t a shield against injury or pain, and it wouldn’t deflect death. However, if she was going to help, she would need more information.

  “How big is Rodney?” Her mind envisioned a Hollywood ghost town, with rows of deserted streets flanked by shells of abandoned buildings.

  “There’s three or four original buildings, plus a number of structures that have sprung up since then.”

  “That’s all? I thought you said it was a big town.”

  “It was, once upon a time. Fire, time, and nature have reclaimed the land. There are a couple churches, and a Masonic lodge if I remember correctly. The rest of the buildings are hunting camps, trailers, and newer houses. Oh, and of course the cemetery. The dead always survive when the living have fled.”

  Great. Another cemetery. At least she wasn’t wearing white. “No one at all lives there?”

  “Oh, I think there’s a few hardy souls still around to keep the spirits and deer hunters company.”

  The Lincoln slowed, and Dallas turned sharply off the Trace onto a narrow road that challenged even shock absorbers designed for ultimate cushion and comfort. The car bounced and swayed over a patchwork of red gravel, pavement, and dirt that Tia swore was no road at all.

  At last, when Tia thought they were hopelessly lost, Dallas shut off the headlights and eased the car to a stop. At first she could see nothing but darkness. After a moment her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, and she saw an alien landscape of mounds and twisted shapes, all covered by a thick blanket of vegetation, that rose on high slopes on either side of the gravel lane. She saw no lights, no buildings, no signs.

  “Is this it? I don’t see anything but vines.”

  “The infamous kudzu. Don’t stand too close to it, or it’ll swallow you up. The town’s just up ahead. Time to get ready before St. James realizes I’m here.” He popped the trunk and was out of the car like a draft, here and gone. Only seconds later she felt the car bounce as he shut the trunk, and when she turned her head to the driver’s door, the butt of a shotgun angled toward her face.

  “You know how to use this?” His low whisper came from outside the car, but she heard it easily. She grabbed the wooden stock and turned the weapon, automatically checking the safety. It looked like a twelve gauge pump action. This one was nicer than she was used to, but the deadly functionality was familiar.

  “Yeah.”

  He followed the shotgun into the car, but it was only to turn the car sideways on the road. Not a small feat, considering the leanness of the lane and the bulk of the Lincoln. He put the car in park and turned to her, the glow from the car’s interior lights accentuating lines in his face she hadn’t noticed before. He looked older and more serious than she had ever seen him. That, too, was no small feat.

  “The church is just up ahead and to the right. Stay in the car, doors locked and engine running. If you see St. James, get out of here as quickly as you can. Don’t worry about me. Just go. If you have to, use the shotgun. It’s loaded, but not chambered. Do you understand?”

  The interior lights made his eyes gleam with an unearthly glow.

  Tia nodded, but then asked, “How do you know he’s at the church?”

  “Just a guess, knowing St. James’ flair for the flamboyant. The church is the single most famous building left in Rodney. I can’t imagine he’d be anyplace else. Tia, do you understand what I said a moment ago?”

  She nodded again patiently. “Yes, Dallas.”

  She understood all too well what she had to do.

  HE HOPED FOR once she did see what he wanted her to see. The shotgun he had given her was loaded with shells filled with silver shot. A blast from the gun might not kill a vampire, but it would definitely slow it down. He had done all he could for Tia. Now was the time to concentrate on St. James.

  Dallas ran easily but cautiously up the road, testing the draw of a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol from his waistband. It was an oft-used armed forces handgun, and this particular specimen was nothing out of the ordinary, except for one thing. Like the silver shot in the shotgun, the Colt had a magazine full of silver bullets. Again, probably not enough to kill, just slow down.

  Dallas thought ab
out the vampire hunter St. James had used in the Chapel of Light graveyard. He hoped the possession of such an ancient weapon meant that St. James preferred killing an opponent in the traditional way. Dallas couldn’t assume anything, though. For all he knew, St. James had an arsenal of weapons at his disposal. After all, St. James had been planning his revenge for years, and was likely to take few chances. Dallas had but two points in his favor. Conner was dead, and St. James didn’t have the advantage of the sunlight he had at the cemetery. Now, at midnight, Dallas’ strength was at its peak.

  He reached the T-intersection and turned right along the gravel road, led by the decaying stink of the Undead. He passed a couple of buildings, currently being lived in—if the presence of a car that looked to be in running condition in the drive was any indication—and arrived at the Presbyterian Church. There, as expected, sitting behind the wrought iron fence on a tuft of long grass, was Jermyn St. James.

  Like a pale avenger, St. James seemed to glow in the moonlight. His blond hair, pallid skin, and ivory jeans and T-shirt took on a silvery sheen. For a being locked in the everlasting darkness of Midexistence, he seemed overly enamored of the one thing he could never have—the light of life.

  St. James spread his arms and, like a bird taking flight, was airborne, only to land gracefully at the bottom of the shallow brick steps. “Ha, Aldgate. Right on time. I was hoping you’d find my invitation . . . irresistible.”

  “Charming, as always, though I was disappointed that you saw fit to destroy one of my men in the process. This was to have been between you and me.”

  St. James paced back and forth in front of the church like an anxious parishioner. “Really? Whatever gave you that idea? Drago? Did Drago warn you not to decimate the local populace in your pursuit of me?”

  Dallas laughed. “Drago doesn’t give a damn about the locals. You should know that.”

  St. James halted in front of one of the white church doors. “Drago gave me a long and not very pretty speech about what I was and was not to do. A sermon I have every intention of ignoring. I had assumed he gave you the same little lecture. Or is he taking your side in this?”