The foghorn sounded in the distance and Shamus knew the fog would be rolling in, thick, blanketing the coast like a shroud. A perfect night for McFarland Leary to be on the prowl.
BLOOD WAS ON HIS MIND as the man walked the area along the wharf. Up until a week ago, he’d imagined that the sight of warm blood spurting from a dying person would be nauseating. Now it was all he could think about.
But he had decided to kill only three women, and that’s the way it had to be. It would be the crime spree of the century, relived over and over again in stories told to the tourists when they visited Moriah’s Landing.
One more to go. Becca Smith. Beautiful, with her shiny blond hair, her shapely body, her tinkling laugh. But it would all come to an end when he took the sharp blade of the knife and sliced through the jugular. Quick and simple.
But that was all that would be simple about her murder. Her moving into the Bluffs had complicated everything else. But the details were all worked out. The flower delivery van made a trip to the walled-in fortress once a week. This time he’d be in it, stowed away in the back beneath the blankets used when transporting the large glass swans they used for weddings.
But there would be nothing in the back of the panel van when they delivered David Bryson’s white roses. There never was. The driver made the long trip to the Bluffs early, before the other deliveries were ready. And the long white boxes of roses rode in the passenger seat, right next to the driver. He knew. He’d checked out all the details.
While the driver walked to the house with the flowers, he’d sneak out of the van and find a nice place to hide until the time was right. The Bluffs was a huge place with lots of windows and doors. And one would lead to Becca. By this time tomorrow night, her body would have been found and safely ensconced in the morgue.
He’d be in the bar having a beer with the talk of murder all around him. He’d be infamous. Too bad no one but him would ever know.
BECCA FINISHED READING the diary and laid it on the table. It was obvious that in the days before Joyce Telatia’s murder, she’d been involved in some sort of bizarre, secret research project. It was also obvious that she’d become obsessed with some man whom she didn’t identify.
“Who do you think the young man was that Joyce was in love with?”
“From the description, I’d say it was Leland Manning, which would explain how he came to get his hands on her diary before the police did.”
“I read the accounts of the murders in the newspaper files. There was no mention of Leland’s having dated Joyce.”
“I’m sure they didn’t date. Leland was married at the time, but there must have been some kind of affair going on between them, one the cops never heard about.”
“Lots of men have affairs, David. That doesn’t make them murderers.”
“True, but there is no record of any projects involving students at that particular time. That’s why I think the secret society might have been behind the projects. Joyce became involved, and she was murdered.”
“But the newspaper indicated the killings were all random.”
“They may have been, a random selection of young women involved in the project. I was investigating the secret society at the time my boat blew up. I think it was someone trying to get rid of me before I found out too much. Only it wasn’t me they killed. It was Tasha.” Sadness turned his eyes into a pool of dark chocolate.
As always, everything in David’s life eventually came back to Tasha. It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. Every time she made a step forward with him, Tasha’s name came up and it seemed she fell two steps back.
“What have you learned from Manning’s notes?” she asked, preferring to concentrate on something she might be able to help with.
“In the beginning, the society was more of a social club, a place where men got together to play poker, drink whiskey and discuss the topical events of the day, especially those related to the medical field. It was made up mostly of local doctors, but there were always a few key business people in the group, as well.” He rummaged through his notes. “Take a look at this.”
He spent the next two hours showing her the basics of what he’d discovered after months of scrutinizing Manning’s notes. Some of the society members had become obsessed with the search to find the fountain of youth through research experiments using blood taken from direct descendants of women identified as witches in Moriah’s Landing in the seventeenth century.
Although the research was far from conclusive, they had identified a gene that they referred to simply as “gene W,” the witch gene. The goal was to clone new cells that included that gene, implant the new cells in humans and have it become a part of a living human’s genetic makeup. What they hoped for was a human who didn’t age in the traditional way. They were never successful, and apparently there was a lot of bickering among the members who were involved as to what was morally and legally acceptable research on live subjects and what wasn’t.
The more Becca read, the more upset she became. She’d always held doctors in such high regard, but reading the notes, she realized that a few had been willing to completely ignore the Hippocratic oath for their own mercenary and personal benefit.
If they had found the proverbial fountain of youth, they would have not only dramatically increased their own longevity, but in all likelihood would have become unbelievably wealthy in the process, the way David had when he’d made the major breakthrough in genetic research, discovered drugs that were now used in hospitals and research centers around the globe. But for these men, it was a matter of selling their souls to the devil.
“I think I’ve seen enough for one night,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “More than I ever wanted to know about the corrupt side of medicine.”
“It’s pretty gruesome,” he admitted.
“I’m still not sure why you’re so certain that the murders were connected to the society.”
“Not to the society as a whole, but to one person in the society. It’s that name I have to come up with. The name and indisputable proof.”
“It boggles the mind, and I’m too tired to think anymore tonight.”
He straightened a stack of notes, walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh, kneading her tired muscles. But as always, there was no way for them to touch without the sparks igniting into a full-blown fire. His thumbs traced the lines of her neck.
A second later she was in his arms, kissing him again and again, the need swallowing up the sludge and mire they’d waded through for the past dismal hours. She ached to make love to him, but not in the catacombs, not in a room where depravity was spread out on the table like food for demons.
“Let’s go back to my room,” she said, breaking from the kiss.
“Not tonight.”
Puzzled and hurt, she pulled away from him.
He fit his hands around her waist. “I think it’s time you moved into the master suite with me.”
“I can handle that.”
Using the flashlight to guide their way, he led her back through the bleak catacombs, through the oppressively narrow passageway and to the steep steps. Skulls, skeletons, lost souls wandering endlessly in a world of darkness. The images assaulted her mind, but she refused to let them take hold.
“You’re awfully quiet,” David said. “I probably hit you with way too much information for one night.”
“Nonsense. I’m a big girl.”
“You’re tough.”
“Like you, I had to be if I wanted to survive. Besides, I was just imagining people being locked away down here without food or water.”
“More likely it was used for storing goods that were imported illegally and then sold in the colonies. The Pierce who built the house originally was in the shipping business.”
“The history of the Pierces and that of Moriah’s Landing must be intertwined from the very beginning.”
“Yes, I can just imagine a Pierce throwing the first stone at someone
suspected of being a witch, or stringing up the rope to hang that witch.”
“Strange how this town has kept its fascination with witches, warlocks, vampires and ghosts intact for three hundred and fifty years.”
“I hated those tales when I was growing up. My earliest memories are of lying in my bed at night, listening to the wind howl through the trees or the blast of the foghorn, and I’d imagine it was the ghosts coming to get me. And on those nights when the fog rolled in so thick I couldn’t even see the tree outside my window, I’d imagine it was poison spewing from the mouths of the witches that had been killed in the seventeenth century.”
“How old were you then?”
“Only four or five. I toughened up quick when I started school. I had to. The other kids knew what my mom did for a living and they never let me forget it.”
“But if you hated this town so much, why did you come back here?”
“The town wouldn’t let me go.”
It was a bizarre comment, but in a way she understood it. The first day she’d come to Moriah’s Landing, she’d felt as if it were reaching out to her, as if she belonged here. “Did you know about the catacombs when you bought the house?” she asked.
“No, but I found them shortly after, while Tasha and I were dating. We discovered a yellowed layout of the house in a rusted trunk at the back of the attic. I did the carpentry work myself, opened one passage, and put in the sliding bookcase to cover it.”
“A man of many talents.”
“And I plan to show you all of them.”
“Sounds intriguing.” As everything about David did. “How many people know the catacombs exist?”
“Aside from the original owner, I’m not certain, other than me and Richard and, of course, Tasha before she died. I’ve found human skulls and bones down here, as well as the skulls of animals, so I think they must have been used as a mausoleum of sorts at one time, or for some type of sacrificial ceremonies.”
“Let’s just hope the sacrificial ceremonies were a long time ago.”
“Probably a century or two. As for who else knows about the catacombs, I’m not even certain the current generation of Pierces knew about them, though you can still feel a draft if you stand near the openings that are boarded over.”
“That explains the cold spots.”
“I guess Richard told you about them.”
“Yes, but he didn’t mention the secret passage that we came through or the catacombs.”
“Just one more corner, then we’ll reach the exit that leads into the library.”
She gulped in a deep breath as they stepped out of the passageway and into the light. And once again she was struck speechless by the sheer grandeur of the Bluffs. Perhaps it was the starkness of the catacombs she’d just left, but the massive chandelier, the hand-carved molding, the hand-painted ceiling over the library, the dark, rich wood of the bookcases seemed like something from a fairy tale as her feet sank into the thickness of the Persian rug.
“I love this room,” she said. “The books and the warmth of the wood. It think it’s my favorite in the whole house, at least of the ones I’ve seen.”
He looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “It was Tasha’s favorite room, too. She used to come in here to study for her classes at the university.”
Tasha. Yet again. She was sorry she’d said she liked the room now. And once again she wondered if she’d ever be able to compete with the memory of a woman who hadn’t lived long enough to ever do anything wrong.
“You seem so quiet,” David said. “Have I done something to upset you?”
“Not intentionally. It’s just that what we have doesn’t seem enough to compete with your memories.”
“That’s not true. It’s just…”
David walked to the window, pushed back the heavy drape and stared out into the darkness. Things had been going so well a minute ago, now they were crumbling around him. The last person in the world he wanted to hurt was Becca. What he wanted to do was protect her, hold her, drown in her kisses. So why couldn’t he just move on and let the past go? He knew Tasha would want him to.
She stepped behind him. “Finish the sentence, David. It’s just what? That I’m not Tasha? That I’ll never be her? You can say it. I may not like it, but I won’t go ape on you.”
He struggled to find the right words to explain feelings he didn’t understand. “It’s just that I’ve lived on memories for so long. I never expected to have another chance at love, never thought anyone could desire this mangled mess of a body. I guess it’s just all happening too fast for me to adjust. I know Tasha would want me to go on, and yet I feel almost as if I’m betraying her.”
“Then don’t betray her, David. Stay here and live on your memories. Love her as much as you like for as long as you like, but she isn’t coming back. And I can’t stay with you knowing that I’ll never come first with you.”
He heard her footsteps as she walked away, ached to run after her and hold her so close he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Longed to make love with her over and over again. But he couldn’t, not until he knew he could deliver what she asked. He owed that not only to Becca, but to himself.
He started to walk to the locked room where he went so often on lonely nights. The one place he still felt close to Tasha. A few feet down the corridor, he changed his mind. Nothing would give him peace tonight. So he might as well drive into town and see what he could discover about the town’s reaction to the latest murder.
And, if miracles still happened, he might even find out something that would give him the identity of the killer. But he wouldn’t lurk in the shadows. Not anymore. Those days were over.
If his experience with Becca had taught him nothing else, it was that he was a lot more than flesh and blood, and if people didn’t like the way he looked, that was their problem. And if they didn’t like the fact that he was the owner of the Bluffs now, well, that was their problem, too.
Moving almost silently, he let himself out the front door, careful to lock it behind him. The security was all in place. Becca would be safe. And protection might be the only good and decent thing he could give her.
DAVID COULD HEAR the din of laughter, loud talk and the jarring blast of the jukebox a half block before he reached the door of Wheels. Within seconds after he pushed his way inside, the talking and laughter stopped, leaving only the blare of the jukebox to fill the void. He let his gaze travel the smoky saloon, looking one man after another in the eye before finally walking to the bar and sliding onto a barstool between Shamus McManus and a bearded man he didn’t recognize.
Shamus was the first one to break the silence. “Are you lost, Bryson?”
“Not likely. I grew up on the wharf, remember.”
“Oh, I remember well. I took you on your first fishing trip and taught you how to drive your mom’s old Chevy. You’re the one who seems to have forgotten where you came from.”
“I’ve got my memory back now.” He stared at the bartender. “What’s a man have to do to get a drink around here?”
The bartender wiped his hands on his apron but stayed his distance. “You’re not welcome in here, Bryson.”
“You got a policy against serving scientists?”
“I have a policy against serving murderers.”
“If you have any kind of evidence against me, then call the cops and have me arrested. Otherwise, I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks. And one for my friend Shamus.”
“I told you you’re not welcome.”
Shamus banged his glass down on the table so hard that a piece of the ice shot out and bounced across the bar. “Hell. Ain’t none of us welcome in here. You just like our money, and Bryson’s got more of it than any of the rest of us. Now, pour the blasted drinks before I come behind the bar and do it for you. And the rest of you in here…” He raised his voice so that it boomed over the jukebox. “This is David Bryson. Used to be the roughest, brattiest kid on the wharf. Back then he
had a right hook that would set your head rattling for days. I hear it’s worse now, so if you want to tangle with him, I suggest you pay your insurance up first. If not, then quit gawking and get back to your drinkin’.”
The bartender poured the drinks and set them in front of them. There were a few grumbles at the back of the room and a lot of stares, but the noise level increased and a guy pulled a shapely redhead into his arms and started doing moves that David guessed passed for dancing.
“You always were quite an orator,” David said, clinking his glass with Shamus’s.
“And you always had piss-poor timing. So what the devil are you doing making your grand entrance at the same time we got us another serial killer making the rounds?”
“Like you said. I’ve got piss-poor timing. Now, have you got any ideas who’s behind the murders?”
“A couple, though I’ve got nothing but speculation to go on. Finish your drink and we’ll go back to my place where we can talk.”
IT WAS NEARLY TWO WHEN DAVID drove the winding road back to the Bluffs. He hadn’t learned much from Shamus, but tonight had still been an important milestone for him. He’d stepped back into the world of the living, not tentatively, but boldly, and he’d done it without covering the scar on his face.
He’d made another decision tonight, too. He prayed he’d made the right one.
THE WHITE PANEL VAN ROCKED and rattled along Old Mountain Road. By the time the driver slowed for the turn onto the private road to the Bluffs, his hidden passenger was impatient and trying hard not to sneeze. The blanket was scratchy with a sickeningly sweet flower smell that made him feel as if he were awake for his own funeral.
One more murder. One more knife slicing across the neck. Quick and simple. This time he wouldn’t even stay around to hide the body. He’d just scatter the vial of dirt he’d brought from Leary’s grave over the body and then he’d be gone. Back through the woods and over the fence.
He could pick even the best of locks with the speed of Houdini. A teenage career of breaking and entering had taught him that.
His heart rate increased. This would be his last murder—for a while, anyway. He’d miss it, the act itself and the satisfaction of knowing he could do it and never get caught. Not to mention the fun of watching those idiots in town speculating whether or not a ghost was popping off their young women.
Moriah's Landing Bundle Page 74