“It’s reason enough.”
“Not for me, David. And it shouldn’t be for you. I don’t care what you look like. I care about us.”
He jerked to a standing position and looked down at her, his face hardened into lines of granite, his dark eyes as piercing as a sword. “Okay, Becca. You win. And once again, I’m going to lose.”
In one frantic motion, he jerked his shirt open, the buttons tearing loose and bouncing across the floor. “Look at me, Becca, and then tell me you’d ever want to make love with a man who looks like this.”
Becca gasped, then averted her gaze, hating herself for not being able to hide the initial shock. Once the shock abated, it wasn’t repulsion she felt but an overwhelming sense of sadness for the pain David must have suffered and the anguish he felt now.
He clutched the shirt with both hands and jerked it back together, covering the ribbed area of pinkish, curdled flesh that swept across his belly. “So you see, the people in town were right all along. I am a beast.” He hesitated, then looked up and let his gaze lock with hers. “I’m sorry, Becca. For everything.”
His apology ground inside her, tearing at her like a vicious cat might tear at its prey. “A burn like that must have hurt terribly,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice on a steady keel.
“It did. But that was the kind of pain that pills could help. Looking in the mirror every day hurts far more.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen a plastic surgeon.”
“Several. Grafting new skin is a long, painful process at best. I haven’t had the best. My body rejects a lot of the grafts and I’ve had serious problems with bacterial infections following many of the surgeries. It seems that after all the work on my face, my body has just decided it’s had enough for a while. The doctors are optimistic that over time they can make me less of a ghoul, but there are no guarantees.”
“There are no guarantees about any part of life, David. Not for you, or me, and there certainly were none for the two women who were brutally murdered. But as long as we’re alive, we have to keep fighting.”
“So they say.” He turned away but stopped and leaned one hand against the door frame, his head hung low, the defeat weighing down every part of his body.
“Don’t go, David. Please, don’t go.”
“Stay and see you pity me? Watch you try to make yourself touch me when the very sight of me makes you sick to your stomach? No thanks.”
“Then go. Sit by yourself and wallow in self-pity. You obviously don’t have a clue how I feel, anyway.”
“Are you saying the sight of my mangled skin doesn’t repulse you?” It was more of a challenge than a question.
“It’s ugly and it’s unfortunate. But I’d want you, David Bryson, even if you sprouted green antennae or an extra nose.”
He shook his head, his expression reflecting just how incredible he thought her reaction. “How could you possibly want me to stay after what you’ve just seen?”
“It’s simple. I love you.” She hadn’t meant to say the words, but they’d slipped out, and now that she’d said them, she was glad. She did love him, and she was certain she’d never wanted any man the way she wanted him right now.
He turned back to her, still clutching his shirt so that the worst of his stomach was covered. “I have nothing to offer a woman like you, Becca.”
“I didn’t say it was smart or right to love you. I only said that I do.” She stood and took a few steps, stopping just in front of him. Fitting her fingers around the edges of the front placket, she pushed the shirt open.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I do. I have to do it for me. I can’t pick and choose parts of you to love.” She splayed her hands across the wound, amazed how easy it was to do. Awed by the fact that desire coursed through her with the power of an ocean current.
He shuddered at her touch, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were closed tight, moisture pooling in the corners. And then he wrapped his arms around her and his lips found hers. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down in the center of it before climbing in beside her.
He kissed her mouth, her face, her eyes, then trailed downward and buried his lips in the hollow of her neck. As always his kisses set her on fire.
They made love in a frenzied tangling of arms and legs and heated touches that left her breathless. The dreams of him had been erotic beyond anything she could have imagined, but feeling him inside her was a million times more exciting. They came together with a hunger so intense, she forgot explosions and killers and danger.
All she knew was that she was finally one with David. And it was perfect.
THE WHOLE ATMOSPHERE of the Bluffs changed after that night of making love. In spite of the danger lurking all around, in spite of the knowledge that Megham was probably working on getting an arrest warrant, in spite of the body of the killer’s latest victim being found on the grounds, David seemed more relaxed than at any point since she’d met him.
She wasn’t sure if it was the actual act of consummation—as glorious as it was—that had made the difference in him or if it was the fact that he’d gotten past showing her the damaged flesh that he’d thought would totally repulse her. Whatever the reason for his change in mood, she couldn’t help but smile as she sat across the dinner table in the cozy garden room.
“Will you be working in the lab tonight?” she asked, when David had finished the last morsel of chocolate cake.
“No. I plan to spend the next few hours going over some notes and files.”
She swirled the last few drops of coffee in her cup, then finished it. “What kind of old notes?”
“Pieces to a puzzle that never quite fit.”
“I take it you don’t mean an actual jigsaw puzzle.”
“No. A twenty-year-old murder mystery. A mad bomber. Records of doctors with sick minds.”
“Why such an interest in a murder that took place twenty years ago.”
“The whole town’s curious, as are the multitude of tourists who flock here every year. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It just doesn’t seem like you.”
“You’re right. I’m interested in Joyce Telatia and the other victims because I think there’s a chance they could be connected to the explosion that killed Tasha.”
She found his answer incredible. “How would they be connected?”
“There are things that have gone on in this town for twenty years, illegal, immoral, unethical things, and they involve some of the most upstanding citizens. Some have been uncovered, but not all. A lot of people still have a tremendous amount to lose.”
“Is this connected to the secret medical society that we talked about before?”
“Possibly. It’s a tangled maze, but I can’t go pointing fingers without facts to back them up.”
“Who do you think is behind it?”
“This isn’t fit after-dinner conversation, Becca, and there’s no reason for you to take on these problems when you already have so much to deal with. When the killer is caught and your life has settled down again, I’ll fill you in on the details, that is, if you’re still interested. Now, I suggest we finish our coffee before it gets cold. I still have work to do tonight.”
She tried to make light conversation, but the mood had been destroyed. But she stayed at the table after David finished and left, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee and trying to imagine what possible connection the unsolved murders of twenty years ago could have on Tasha’s death.
Some people in town believed David had killed those three women. Some probably believed he was the madman serial killer who’d killed the two women in the last few days. Others would be sure it was McFarland Leary himself or some deranged psychotic who thought himself to be Leary.
Finally she left the table and walked the long hall to the staircase that led to the library where she had first seen the file. She spent the next hour perusing copies of book on true crime and medical and psychia
tric studies on the minds of serial killers. The material was chilling, and she shivered as she stopped in front of the one bookcase she hadn’t looked at before.
She pulled out a heavy volume. Her fingernail brushed a bump at the back of the bookcase. Stooping, she looked to see what she’d touched and saw a smooth black knob. She hesitated for only a second before she pushed it. A second later the bookshelves slid apart and a wooden door appeared.
Hands shaking, she opened the door and stared into a dark tunnel that disappeared into total blackness. A million questions swam in her mind. Serial killers, Joyce Telatia, rumors that David Bryson was a madman who killed innocent women in cold blood, even his fiancée.
Questions without answers. Only she had the strange idea that the answers might all be waiting at the end of the tunnel. She looked around the room, spotted a gas lantern and a book of matches. All the light she’d need, for as long as she’d need it. Unless she never returned.
The echo of her footsteps seemed deafening as she made her way down a series of dark steps and through tomblike passages. If there was such a thing as ghosts, they would surely be at home here. Her foot bumped against something that bounced off the wall and went careering down the passageway. When she got close enough, she lowered her light and saw the eerie glow of the flickering flames creeping over a skull. She swallowed the scream, but it rattled inside her head, nearly driving her wild. And still she kept walking.
Finally, the passageway widened. Stopping beneath an arched doorway, she took in her first view of a rambling system of columns and arches that extended far beneath the Bluffs. It was a basement of sorts, though like no basement she’d ever seen before. She was standing in an open area about the size of the ballroom, but a series of meandering hallways ran off in every direction.
She had no idea which path to take, so she just started walking down the first dark passage. It intersected with other corridors, and after a couple of turns, she realized that she might not be able to find her way out.
Fear ran icy fingers up her spine and along the back of her neck. Maybe this had originally been a tomb. That would explain the skull. Or maybe it had been more of a dungeon, with people locked down here while they were still alive and left to wander the dark, cold corridors until they became so weak they just passed out and eventually died.
She forced her feet and legs to keep moving forward, though she felt like Claire must have felt the other night when they’d almost been attacked near her house. Her insides quivered, and she could have easily dissolved into a formless heap.
And then she saw a light. A few feet ahead, a ribbon of light around what appeared to be the outline of a door. She stopped, but the soft echo of footsteps still sounded behind her.
She wasn’t alone.
Chapter Fifteen
“Are you looking for something?”
Becca swung around and found Richard only a few feet behind her. The darkness and shadows changed his appearance, gave his skin an eerie glow and turned his hair the color of soured cream.
“I’m looking for David,” she lied, amazed that in this setting even Richard seemed threatening.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. Just follow the light. Open the door and you’ll find him.”
She did as he said, stepping into a room that had been set up as an office. A half-dozen oil lamps had been strategically placed around the room, all of them burning. There was a folding card table set up in the middle of the room, two folding metal chairs, a laptop computer, and boxes of books, files and disks stacked everywhere. All things that could have been carried through the narrow passageway that she’d just followed.
David sat at a table, a file open in front of him. Seventy rooms inside the Bluffs and he had made this dark chamber inside the catacombs his office.
“How did you find me?” David asked, peering at her over the back of the folder.
“I was looking at books in the library and I accidentally touched the button that parted the bookcases.”
“Pure luck.”
He didn’t specify if it was good or bad luck, and at this point, she hadn’t decided, either. David definitely didn’t appear to be overjoyed to see her.
“I didn’t know where the passage would wind up.”
“But you decided to follow it, anyway. You are a very brave woman, Becca. It’s a miracle you found me at all. If you hadn’t made the correct turns, you might have been lost down here for days, or months, with no one even knowing to look for you here.”
But she’d made the right turns, almost without thinking, as if someone, or some thing had been guiding her here. It was too creepy for words.
“I brought the files you asked for,” Richard said, from his position by the door. “Would you like me to walk Becca back into the house as I go?”
“No. She’s here now. She may as well know everything.”
She wandered closer, letting her gaze scan the folders on the table. Dr. Leland Manning’s name jumped up at her. “Why would you work down here, David, when you have such a beautiful home to work in?”
“For years it was the only place I felt comfortable. I didn’t use it as an office until recently, but now, it seems appropriate for the tasks I perform here.”
She leaned against the folding table that David was using as a desk. “The puzzle that you said you were trying to solve?”
He spread his hands as if encompassing the entire array of files spread across his desk. “These are printouts of Leland Manning’s files. Most of them have to do with his connection to the secret society. I’m convinced the missing piece of the puzzle is somewhere in these notes.”
“How did you get Manning’s notes? I’d have thought the police would have taken them when they arrested him.”
“I stole them before the police had a chance to confiscate them.” He stood and pulled out a chair for her. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned so far. But let me warn you that it’s as grim and as demonic as any nightmare known to man.”
“Like the nightmare Claire lived through.”
“Every bit as heinous. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Claire’s abduction and torture aren’t connected to our original killer. It would fit his pattern perfectly—only Claire escaped before he’d finished what he’d started.”
She dropped into the chair, her insides knotted into a tight ball, her heart pumping in overtime. Last night she’d lain in David’s arms, flushed with pleasure and heated by the afterglow of making love. Today she was in a web of cold, dark chambers.
David reached over and took her hand. “You’re pale, Becca. Maybe we should just go back. I don’t want to frighten you.”
“No, I’d like to hear what you discovered in the notes. I’m already involved in this and I’d like to know what I’m up against.”
“Whatever you’re up against, the man isn’t going to win. Not this time. We are.”
And once again she believed him and loved him so much that the fear dried up like a hot sidewalk after a summer rain. “Let’s hear it,” she said. “I can handle it.”
“Then let’s start with this.”
He pulled a small, worn book from a desk drawer and handed it to her. The fabric that held the lock had decayed and frayed. She tucked her finger under the cover and lifted it, studying the handwritten note on page one. The diary of Joyce Telatia. Her hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Leland Manning’s office. Just jump to the back, starting about a dozen pages from the end. The entry in question is highlighted.”
She read the first sentence of the marked passage. I met a fascinating young man today, and I feel totally bewitched.
SHAMUS MCMANUS SAT at the end of the bar, swigging down his whiskey on the rocks and listening to the acrimonious grumbling going on all around him. Two murders in a week’s time. Both young women. Both found naked with their jugular veins cut. Everyone had a theory, but no one knew jack about what
had really happened. Least of all the police.
“Hey, Shamus, you got an alibi for the time of the murders? That old relic detective they’ve got on the case is questioning everybody in town, and a grouchy old buzzard like you is sure to be on the list.”
He stared at the man asking the questions—Sammy Jacobs—stained sweatshirt, tobacco-stained lips, his beer belly punching into the bar.
“I don’t need an alibi. If I were going to kill someone, it wouldn’t be young, good-looking women. It would be an old cuss like you that the world wouldn’t even miss.”
“Wasn’t a man that killed them,” Marley Glasglow said. “It was Leary. The police are trying to keep it quiet, but I know someone who works at the morgue and he’s heard plenty.”
Kevin Pinelle straddled the bar stool next to Marley. “Right on, Marley. Why don’t you and me just go to the cemetery and take care of that bag of bones?”
Marley turned and stared at Kevin. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it, pretty boy? I wouldn’t be surprised to find you lying naked one night with your throat slit.”
The bartender turned from the mug he was filling with draft beer. “Yeah, but it will probably be because some guy found him in bed with his wife.”
A few guys laughed, but nothing like the guffaws that would have filled the room on a regular night. The murders had cut into the serenity of the small coastal town, the fear sticky and thick as the fog blowing in tonight. The mood was getting to Shamus.
He heard the door open behind him and felt the draft as a burst of cold air slunk inside. When he looked up, he caught a glimpse of Marley’s face. It was white as a sheet.
Sammy jumped to his feet. “What the hell!”
Shamus turned around to see a man in the door. A McFarland Leary mask covered his face, topped by a stringy white wig.
Kevin burst out laughing. “Larry Gayle, you are one crazy man.”
Larry jerked the mask from his face. “How did you know it was me?”
“You got on the shirt you had on at lunch today. Ketchup stains right in the same place.”
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