Wicked Deeds

by Heather Graham

  “I meant...”

  “Yes?” she teased.

  “I meant, starving to meet you in the shower... Yes, soap, steam... Delicious!”

  She grinned. “You can order dinner, too, though. That would be nice.”

  “Okay, what would you like?”

  “You can choose.”

  “Cool. Dessert?”

  “How about champagne and strawberries?”

  “On the government’s budget?”

  “Indulge me. We’ll pay. The hell with the government.”

  She kissed his lips quickly and escaped his arms. “I have no idea why—I just feel like something decadent!”

  He called down to room service, then he followed her into the bathroom where her clothing lay suggestively strewn on the floor. The water was beating down, and steam was rising all around. She poked her head out of the curtain. “Champagne and strawberries?”

  He laughed softly. “Beer and chocolate-covered pretzels,” he told her. “It’s late on a Sunday night.”

  “Ah!”

  He stepped into the shower and teased, “Think of me as your champagne and strawberries!”

  She laughed, running soap down his flesh. “I think something like that should be my line!”

  “Don’t be sexist!” he told her.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m far too fond of your sex...”

  She moved closer to him. And made an absolute truth of her words.

  * * *

  Vickie was right back where she had been, in the alley. Or the street... She wasn’t sure which. It was a different day, a different time, a world she had only learned about in books.

  Gas lamps glowed, but illuminated little.

  The shadows seemed to move like monsters, ready to pounce.

  Poe was at her side. He was walking...and growing nervous.

  They’re coming, she thought. They were coming. And she and Poe would be one, and the burlap bag would come over her head as the attack took place...

  And there was nothing—nothing!—she could do to stop it.

  “Go back!” she said, looking at Poe.

  But he didn’t hear her. He was her; they were one being that night.

  And a warning wouldn’t have mattered; Poe was already frightened. He knew he shouldn’t have been in the darkness...

  The flurry of sound! The footsteps.

  She—they—tried to whirl around, to ward off the attack, whatever it was going to be.

  Too late!

  The canvas bag was over her head, darkness was raging...

  And there was nothing.

  Yet, Vickie was still aware. She was even aware that she was dreaming. And she wanted to fight the darkness, all the shadows that surrounded her and her dream world. But she could not.

  She could hear a sound. It was faint; she couldn’t begin to comprehend just what it was. But then...

  It grew louder. It was like a horrific howl and gnashing growl all in one. As if...

  She blinked, at first, still seeing only darkness. Then, a prick of light, a pale glow...lamplight that afforded so little. So little except...

  She heard screaming; it was Poe.

  It was herself.

  Then she saw the eyes, like demon eyes. Horrible, yellow, blood-flecked. She could only think that she had entered a realm of pure make-believe and horror. It was a devil, a demon; it was some kind of a werewolf, or...

  “Vickie!”

  She realized that Griffin was straddled over her—and that she had been screaming.

  The reality of the room clicked into her mind; the reality that she was there, that he was with her.

  She gasped to inhale.

  Screaming in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly new for her.

  Her dreams recently were often tortured nightmares.

  She fell silent, staring up at him.

  “What was it?” he asked her, his dark eyes concerned.

  “Poe. Poe...before he died.”

  “What happened? Did you see who was with him, who did it—whatever it was?” he asked.

  “The devil!” she said.

  “The devil?”

  She shook her head. “I just saw the eyes...”

  There was a tentative knock at their door. Griffin winced and rose. He grabbed a robe and Vickie leaped up to do the same.

  Griffin opened the door.

  A nervous-looking little man stood there.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Sonny Smith, the night manager. We had a report about a disturbance in this room,” he said.

  “We apologize. Vickie had a horrible nightmare,” Griffin explained.

  “And you’re certain she’s all right?” he asked.

  Vickie strode quickly to the door. “I’m fine. I’m just fine. I’m just so sorry to have awakened people!” she said.

  He looked her up and down and seemed satisfied. “Well, thank goodness. Please forgive me, but we can’t have this kind of disturbance here. We value all our guests, but...”

  “Not to worry, we understand,” Griffin said. “And, actually, we are checking out tomorrow.”

  “Excellent! I mean, well, we’re sorry to see you go. We hope you’ve enjoyed your time here!”

  Flustered, the little man was ready to leave. Vickie felt so bad for him.

  “I’m truly, truly apologetic!” she assured him.

  With one last anxious smile, he hurried away down the hall.

  Griffin turned to Vickie as he shut the door. “A devil? A demon? That’s how Poe...died?”

  “No! I don’t think so. I mean... I don’t really know what it was. I wish that I hadn’t screamed myself awake. There was...more. There was sound, a guttural howling...or something like that.”

  “A werewolf killed Poe?” Griffin asked.

  Vickie was still shaky, but she had to smile at that. “No... I’m not sure what I was seeing. I woke myself up.”

  “Did you tell Poe what you saw before?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Whatever was done to him seemed to have stripped away his short-term memory. He doesn’t remember anything at all. That’s a kindness, I guess. He doesn’t remember the hospital—anything. All he does know is that the man who wrote his obituary was his enemy and because of that, everyone remembers him only as a tormented drunk who was his own worst enemy.” She fell silent. “I believe him when he tells me that he was older, wiser and in love again. He hadn’t been well to begin with, so...”

  “An attack by a werewolf couldn’t be fought off easily!” Griffin finished.

  “Amusing.”

  Griffin was suddenly silent. “Maybe not so amusing—maybe real.”

  “A werewolf?”

  “No, not a were-anything. But a dog or a wolf.”

  “You think that he wouldn’t remember such an attack?”

  “In retrospect, one of the theories regarding Poe’s condition when he was found before his death was that he’d contracted rabies.”

  “Oh!”

  “If he was attacked—bitten by a rabid dog or other creature—it could readily explain his apparent dementia.”

  “It is a theory!” Vickie said. “And maybe... Well, it would explain everything. Except...”

  “What?”

  “Why he was walking in a dark alley. And who attacked him. Because before he was attacked by the growling dog or animal or whatever, he was taken by someone.”

  “You’re having the dream every time you go to sleep. The truth is in there somewhere. Trying to explain any of this absolutely defies science, but maybe Poe’s subconscious mind is somehow manifesting through you. After all I’ve seen you do, th
e other dreams you’ve had, I don’t doubt many possibilities.”

  She grinned. “Then, maybe a werewolf did get Poe.”

  “And maybe werewolves are man’s creation to explain rabies.”

  “Maybe. I might have heard that theory, too,” Vickie said. “And following that idea, all we have to do is figure out...”

  “Who kidnapped him—and let him be attacked by a rabid animal,” Griffin finished for her. “And we have to figure out what that has to do with what’s happening now.”

  “You think that the two are connected?” Vickie asked.

  He shrugged. “I can’t be sure. But I do believe Poe is here because he’s looking for vindication. Many biographers and scholars have helped restore his name—and the doctor who saw him definitely helped by stating that Poe was not under the influence of alcohol when he was found. But even if we can’t prove what happened—just reinforce a theory—I think it will mean something to Poe. And because of the way our current murders have been committed, yes, I believe they are connected, even if it’s a tenuous bond.”

  * * *

  Dylan and Darlene had found Josh.

  Downstairs in the sunny breakfast room, the three were engaged in conversation at the end of the buffet; Darlene leaned against the wall, the two young men facing her. Dylan paused now and then to reach out and touch someone who went by with a plate of food.

  Vickie saw that he smiled each time he startled someone.

  Griffin went to choose a table in the bright room on the east side of the old mansion and Vickie headed for the buffet. Taking care that no one noticed, she rebuked Dylan, “Cute, real cute,” she told him.

  “Oh, come on. It’s a bit of fun,” Dylan said.

  Josh smiled at her. “Good to see you, Vickie.”

  “You, too,” she assured the ghost. And then, of course, she realized that others had gotten into the buffet line and an elderly gentleman was staring at her.

  Dylan laughed softly.

  Vickie rolled her eyes and headed to the table, where she and Griffin were soon joined by Jackson, Angela and Adam.

  “So, Vickie, we were right,” Griffin said. “Both Franklin Verne and Brent Whaley were called by the same number several times in the days before their deaths. The same number just showed up in their feeds for the first time that week. Each received a call from that number at 10:00 p.m. on the night they were killed.”

  “You did nail it,” Vickie said. “But the number is from a pay-as-you-go phone, cash purchase?” she asked. “So how does it help?”

  “It is a big needle in a haystack,” Jackson said. “But we’re going to canvass every store around here with pictures of the suspected players. We’ll have a posse of agents, and the local police will have out an equal number of men and women.”

  “There is a chance that we’ll get something with old-fashioned legwork,” Angela said. She smiled. “It works now and then. We have people narrowing down the assigned number to the batch of hardware, so at the least we’ll have an idea of where it was bought.”

  “That’s great,” Vickie said. She glanced over at Griffin. “Are we on patrol?”

  “Oh, no, you’re popular with the locals,” Adam told her.

  “Really?” Vickie asked.

  “Gary Frampton did ask you out to his estate,” Adam said, smiling.

  “You’ll be watching the key players,” Angela said.

  “I see. But...” She hesitated a minute, looking from Angela to Adam. “Do you feel that you’ve eliminated anyone yet?”

  “Monica,” Adam said, shaking his head and smiling as he looked at Angela.

  “We haven’t eliminated anyone yet,” Angela said, looking back at him—and shaking her head.

  “But we will soon,” Adam said. “I will be heading out to stay with the widow,” he said.

  “And we will hope that we can eliminate her soon. Jackson and I will also be looking more into Brent Whaley’s life. One of his friends might know something. The police have pulled apart Franklin Verne’s computer, but not Whaley’s, and now that we’re officially in, I want one of our experts to take a look at both computers. And the security footage. Hopefully fresh eyes will see something new.”

  “Hopefully,” Vickie murmured. “So...” She looked over at Griffin.

  “We’re heading out to Frampton’s in about an hour,” he said.

  “Do you think that the invitation was sincere?” Vickie asked him.

  “He asked me again this morning,” Griffin said. “He’s definitely making it appear that he’s afraid—without saying it. So, as we figured before, either he really is fearful, or he’s playing it as a gambit in a game. We’ll find out.”

  “All right,” Vickie said.

  “The children,” Adam said with a sigh, “will be coming with me.”

  Vickie smiled. Adam was watching their three adolescent ghosts. Now they were all playing the touching game—seeing who totally ignored them and who reacted.

  “They are good at exploring their environs,” Vickie said.

  Adam stared at Angela. “Exactly. So, if Monica is hiding something, we’ll discover that soon.”

  Angela wagged a stern finger at him. “Do not let your guard down.”

  “I will not, Angela. I promise,” he told her.

  “Everyone, stay on point,” Griffin said. He rose. “Vickie—let’s get packed up and ready to get on the road.”

  “We’re all within thirty minutes, tops, of one another,” Jackson said. “Obviously, any information is important information.”

  He was looking at Vickie.

  She realized that the others didn’t need telling—they were accustomed to close communication at all times.

  “Any information is important information,” she said.

  Jackson nodded and leaned toward her, and she realized that Griffin had told them all about what seemed to be a “serial” dream for her.

  “Even what some people wouldn’t accept as real. Anything that you even perceive as truth—awake or asleep—may be very important.”

  “Okay,” Vickie said. “Do you think, too, that the dreams, Poe and the murders might all be related?”

  “I don’t see how they’re not,” Jackson said. He rose, too. “Guess we should all get going. Adam, we’ll drop you first.”

  “There’s a plan,” Adam said.

  He smiled, looking at Vickie. “My dear, I think you are going to top all the rest for cases you’ve helped with as a civilian. Which is to your advantage. It has certainly given you time to consider whether you really do or don’t want to be part of the Krewe. What do you think, what do you feel?”

  Vickie rose to stand by Griffin. “With all my heart and mind, sir, I know that it’s an incredible, life-changing opportunity to work with the Krewe. I couldn’t be more determined to pass the academy.”

  “Good!” Adam told her. He winked, something that he got away with easily because he was such a distinguished older gentleman. “There are days when you are going to need that dedication!”

  “To get through the academy?” she asked.

  “The academy—and the life we live!” he added. “Excellent, excellent, excellent!”

  He smiled and turned away. Breakfast was over; the day was beginning.

  “We’re on the legwork and the cyberwork,” Jackson assured them as they split up. “You’re on the people and intuition side of the equation.”

  “Yep. We’ll be in touch,” Griffin assured him.

  Griffin was quiet as they went back upstairs for their belongings.

  “What are you thinking?” Vickie asked him.

  “It’s our third actual day on this,” he said. “Oh, we were here Friday night. But that was before. Saturday morning, a body. Franklin Verne. Sunday, a bo
dy. Brent Whaley. And now...”

  “Monday.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re concerned...we’re going to find a third body? But we’re not going to be anywhere near the restaurant. The police have combed it over and over.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You think that there is a body out at Gary Frampton’s country house?” she asked.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Good.”

  Griffin looked at her and gave a slight shrug. “But,” he said quietly, “yes—the idea is there in my mind. I do think that, somewhere in the great Baltimore area, another body will be found today.” He attempted a smile for her. “But hey, that’s just me. You might actually enjoy what we’re doing—Gary Frampton has assured me that his house is extremely historic. It was used as a headquarters by several generals in several wars. It’s just the kind of place you love.”

  Vickie nodded.

  She refrained from telling him that he was wrong...

  She really wasn’t at all fond of places where she was afraid she would find the bodies of the recently deceased.

  10

  “Oh... Oh, my God!” Vickie breathed, staring.

  Gary Frampton’s house in the outskirts-slash-woods of Maryland was—as he had said—old.

  But it was more than just old.

  It was both magnificent—and straight out of a Poe story.

  It had an air of decaying grandeur; it spoke of elegant bygone days. Vickie quickly estimated that it had been begun before the first shots had been fired in the American Revolution. It had continued to grow; the outline of the original saltbox could just be seen by a slight discoloration in the sad gray-beige paint that covered the house. A grand porch with chipping columns had been added at some point, along with a third story and an attic.

  Whoever had added on during the early Victorian days had seen to it that the extensions or wings on each side were the same in size. They’d added balconies to the second story, and someone, somewhere along the line, had given both wings bay windows in the front.

  It was beautiful.

  It was morose.

  Vines trailed over the house and over the brick wall surrounding the overgrown lawn. A wrought-iron gate opened to the immediate surrounding woods. A groundskeeper had evidently not been about in years.