by Susan Conley
Since her surprise arrival was not a part of his plan, Zeke thought long and hard about what to do with her. He got off on power of any kind. The power of victory. The power of deception. But this particular power — the power of deciding whether someone lives or dies — was by far the most intoxicating aphrodisiac he ever experienced. Like God, he could choose to save her. One phone call could have her out of that apartment. Or he could proceed as planned and kill her as an unexpected casualty — a bonus, of sorts. Or he could have a little fun with her first and decide what to do with her later.
Like that job in Las Vegas a year ago, a traveling companion might be nice for a week or two. He could use her until he got tired. Or bored. And then, well, she might end up like that sweet kindergarten teacher he’d snatched at the mall. What was her name? Emily? No. Natalie … something or other … Ah, Vegas, something about the irony of a cold desert night made disposing of a body so much easier. It felt like nature was out of whack, so why not the rest of the world — which Zeke happened to believe was a fact. He might be fucked up, but the universe had him beat fifty ways for Sunday.
One hour later, Zeke had made his decision. He stepped out of the car and ground out his cigarette butt with the heel of one shoe before closing the door. Walking to the back bumper, he carefully scanned the street. Satisfied there was no one around, he opened the trunk. He removed the red, plastic container and crossed the street like a regular guy who had simply bought some gas for his lawnmower.
As for the woman, Zeke knew the end would be the same — whether it was tonight or two weeks from now. The time in between, he decided, was his for the taking, if he wanted it. And he’d always had a thing for a longhaired, city girl with smooth, soft skin and legs up to her ass.
Grinning, he whispered, “Hi, honey, I’m home.”
He paused a beat at the building’s entrance and set down the container, still careful to assess his surroundings. Pulling a leather envelope from his jacket pocket, he retrieved the slender lock picks and within ten seconds he heard the familiar click. One turn of the knob and he was inside. No fuss. No muss. No problem.
• • •
Wangling her Save-The-Earth shopping bag, her fabulous new Dooney and Burke purse, and her keys, she managed to unlock the ornate front door before the cool September breeze chilled her entirely to the bone. Funny, she thought, it hadn’t felt nearly that chilly when she’d hailed the cab less than half an hour ago. Once inside, she paused before going upstairs.
As always the appealing, satisfying scent of Aromatiques greeted her. As many times as she had crossed that threshold, she never tired of the inviting aroma, because it hung in the air like an invisible safety net. That spicy, homey fragrance met her at the door and shadowed her every step throughout the shop. So, why — tonight of all nights — did something feel different? Just the dark and the chill of autumn, she decided as she flipped the lock behind her.
Looking around, the mission style, Tiffany nightlights placed throughout the store not only cast a comforting, warm glow, but they even made turning on the overheads unnecessary. Besides, she loved this place, knew it backwards and forwards, and could make her way through every aisle blindfolded. She frowned at how quickly she had lapsed back into victim mode. One skittish moment and she had faltered. That was just not acceptable. Shaking her head, she tossed her keys into her purse and shifted it to one shoulder. She straightened her spine and reminded herself of the mantra she had selected shortly after vowing to change her life. Always a Poe fan, she had chosen the one word that summed up her decision like no other could. “Nevermore,” she whispered.
Before Aromatiques, her life had been drastically different. Frightening. Tumultuous. Violent. Her hand touched one cheek as she remembered the first night she had spent in this building. Battered and confused, she had been broken and alone with nowhere to go. All she had known for sure was that escape was her only way out, and this shop had proven to be a much-needed soft place to land. This place, these brick walls had not only given her shelter, but they had provided her with exactly what she’d needed — a fighting chance. Since that fateful night, she had known that being involved in Aromatiques had been the single smartest thing she’d done in her entire life. And tonight she knew for a fact she’d been right. As bitter as those memories were, they made her news tonight all the more sweet.
She smiled, made her way through the store and took the stairs in the back room to the second floor. Stepping inside the apartment, she flipped on the light and headed for the kitchen where she ceremoniously removed the chilled bottle of Dom Perignon — her biggest splurge ever — from her bag. Filling an ice bucket from a nearby cupboard, she snuggled the champagne between the cubes and smiled. She pulled the envelope she’d received in the mail today from her coat pocket and carefully laid her good news on granite counter. Hardly able to contain herself, she rifled through the drawer next to the sink, found the corkscrew and set it next to the bottle. This is what she’d been waiting for and working towards for what seemed like forever. And, finally, it was right there in front of her … literally within her grasp. She touched the envelope one last time to make sure it was real. And it was.
Over the moon with excitement, she hurried to the bathroom to shower — her feet barely touching the floor. Frothy with suds, she was determined to wash away her past, for so many reasons, but especially so her good news could soak in. Wanting to secure it deep inside her, she dried and slathered rich, creamy lotion all over her body. She needed her future sealed once and for all and buried so deep that nothing or no one could ever take it away from her again. Slipping into her PJ’s, she couldn’t stop smiling as she headed for the kitchen.
And that’s when she saw him.
• • •
Maxine Spencer stepped into Jack’s office before leaving for the day. “Don’t forget tonight. Seven o’clock at Giovanni’s.”
“You can’t even say her name, can you?” When Maxine didn’t reply, Jack looked up and shut his laptop. “Hell, I don’t blame you. Bridget can be a real bitch.”
Maxine almost smiled as she buttoned her raincoat.
“Didn’t think there was a need. I always assume you know who you are meeting.”
Jack shrugged “Sometimes it takes a while to really know who you’re meeting.” Lightening split the sky outside his window.
“Whatever you say.”
There was that “almost” smile again.
Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled, and Jack thought back to Maxine’s instant dislike of Bridget. He had to admit that when it came to business or people, Max had the instincts of a bloodhound. And she hadn’t been wrong yet. He stood and checked his watch. At this rate, he’d be lucky to beat the downpour. Where the hell had this weather come from anyway? And why was Maxine always so damned prepared? The forecast had been sunshine for Christ’s sake.
Jack slipped the necklace back into the box. “Reservations?”
“Made,” Maxine grunted.
He watched her check the Go Green canvas tote for her galoshes.
“Thanks.”
“That’s my job.” She turned on her heels and left.
Used to the prim huff Maxine called goodbye, Jack sat a moment after the door closed. He should probably hurry before the storm broke, but he wanted to take one last look at the amulet’s wooden container. Three hundred years old and not a single hint, he thought. Plain wood — probably pine. About six inches long and four inches wide. No markings. No date. No clues.
As Jack slipped the box into the lap drawer of his desk, thunder rumbled, closer now. Suddenly thoughts of dinner with Bridget just pissed him off. The bottom line — he was sick of her. The social climbing. The attitude. The disrespect. She may be beautiful, but in her case, it really was only skin deep. Screw her, Jack decided. When he was done with someone that was it. He was finished. And Bridget
Bishop had shit her nest today. Let her eat alone, he thought without regret. Take out sounded just fine to him tonight.
Chapter Five
Salem, Massachusetts
14 September
Year of our Lord, 1690
The loud knock rattled the log cabin’s rough-hewn door.
Abigail’s broom stopped mid sweep. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her mouth felt like cotton. Yet, she stood as though both feet had been nailed to the floor.
Sarah Corey didn’t miss Abigail’s motionless posture or the wide-eyed look as her daughter anxiously glanced up and chewed her bottom lip. Hoping the girl would at least take a breath, Sarah wiped both hands on her apron and hurried to see who was outside.
When the ax-wielding, dark-haired young man dipped his head respectfully, then just stood there grinning like the town fool, Sarah prompted, “And what can I do for you, Jackson Hathorne?”
“Nothing, Ma’am.” His grin widened. “I just wondered if Mr. Corey could use some help chopping wood?”
Sarah leaned against the doorway and noted the three neat stacks young Hathorne had split for her husband just five days ago. Not that Ethan had questioned the lad’s ambition, because he hadn’t. Nor had she. The Hathornes were a long line of respectable, hard-working people, most of whom were lawyers and judges.
No, it wasn’t Jackson Hathorne’s pedigree that had the two of them whispering in bed long after the candles had sputtered into darkness. They had, however, both seen right through Jackson’s motives. Twenty years old and head-over-heels smitten, that’s exactly what Hathorne was. Anyone would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to see it, much less a lovely young girl’s mother and father. And their one and only Abigail was exactly that — beautiful and just about to turn sixteen.
Sarah sighed, knowing all-too-soon this young man would be asking for so much more than to help chop the firewood. But for now, there he stood in the crisp October afternoon, his grin fading as he waited on pins and needles for her answer. Unwilling to prolong his pathetic agony, she gave in. “Suit yourself.”
A smile nearly connected Jackson’s ears before he nodded politely and headed through the red and gold fallen leaves that covered the path to the woodpile.
Sarah turned to face her daughter, who still had yet to move. “Helpful lad that Hathorne boy,” was all she said.
Abigail shrugged, then began sweeping the already spotless planks, conveniently looking at the floor and not her mother. “He seems nice enough.”
Desperate to understand the sudden sense of dread she felt, Sarah stood perfectly still and focused her attention. Certain the bad feeling was coming from outside, she parted the muslin curtain and watched the Hathorne boy carefully.
Nothing.
Whatever Sarah was feeling, it wasn’t coming from him. But it was out there. Of that she was sure. Despite her uneasiness, Sarah turned away from the window and went back to her bread making. Kneading the flour. Feeling the dough, like her daughter’s life, changing form beneath her very fingertips.
• • •
Bridget Bishop hid behind a giant oak, peeking through its branches to watch the same man who had haunted her dreams. Last night her spell had been a success. Today, she had discretely followed Jackson Hathorne to the Corey’s cabin and was content, for the moment, to watch him chop wood from afar. His dark hair gleamed in the warm, autumn sunshine. His handsome brow furrowed as he concentrated on each deliberate cut. His strong, broad shoulders brought down the ax time and again with rhythm and precision.
When Bridget heard the log cabin door open and saw Abigail Corey hurry to the well, her stomach twitched. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Abigail give Jackson a long-handled ladle filled with water. With one boot resting on a nearby stump, he accepted the drink and grinned. Abigail, in turn, reached into the pocket of her skirt and offered him a hanky. Swiping his brow with the delicate square of white cotton, he nodded his thanks.
Bridget couldn’t hear what they were saying, but between that Corey girl’s bashful looks and Jackson’s polite smiles, Bridget’s stomach clenched. No one, especially not some mousy, red-haired fool like Abigail Corey, would stand in her way when it came to getting exactly what she wanted.
When she saw Jackson lower his mouth to Abigail’s, Bridget’s nails gouged the tree bark so hard they snapped. Oblivious to the pain, Bridget’s icy blue eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched.
“You’ve crossed the line, Abigail,” she swore through gritted teeth. “But you will not take what is mine. Not now. Not ever.”
Wasn’t it just last week that Goodwife Glover had been tried and hanged as a witch, Bridget mused? She glanced at Abigail and arched one brow. So, she would simply begin by planting the seed of doubt about Abigail with … a couple of high strung girls she knew in Salem … next she would mix the ergot in the rye dough … so the bread she baked would cause hallucinations … if she gave the loaves to Elizabeth and Rebecca … the rest, she decided with a sneer, would be history. Abigail Corey would be out of her life forever.
“Make no mistake,” she hissed, “Jackson Hathorne will notice me.” A smiled curved Bridget’s blood red lips as she pulled a snow-white ribbon from her pocket and twirled it around one splintered fingernail. “Because I know exactly how to make that happen.”
Chapter Six
10:38 P.M.
September 30, present day
Springfield, Illinois
Fire snapped and popped in the night wind like laundry on the Devil’s clothesline. Sirens wailed. Staccato blue and red lights on top of police cars blinked frantic Morris code. Black smoke hovered over the scene like a gigantic billboard from Hell.
Abby Corey dashed toward the blaze. Her heart hammered. Her three-inch heels pounded the sidewalk. Her lungs burned with each gulp of cold air.
She saw the officer’s arm dart out. His long reach stopped her just shy of the yellow perimeter tape. Unlike a runner at the end of the race, Abby would not break the ribbon and claim victory tonight. One glance and she knew there was nothing left to win.
“It’s my — ” Abby struggled to breath and talk, so she pointed toward the raging fire. “My shop.” Through a blur of tears she could still make out the elegant wrought iron sign — Aromatiques.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but you’ll have to stay back.” He hesitated then added, “There’s really no point.”
His words dwindled, but his message may as well have been delivered through a megaphone. “No point?” Stripped of hope, her voice was small, like a silent leak from a broken heart.
He offered a sympathetic shake of his head.
On her drive home, Abby had spotted the bottleneck of fire trucks and police cars. Since the chaos looked dangerously close to the location of her shop and traffic had come to a complete standstill, she parked in the first available spot. She left her coat and purse in the car and started out on foot. The closer she got the faster she walked, running the last two blocks and praying every step of the way.
Abby’s chest tightened. Dear God, anything but fire. Selling candles had even been hard for her, and now she watched her lifelong fear manifest before her eyes. She stood by helplessly at the scene as red-hot flames licked the walls and floor of her shop, devouring them like a starving dog. Despite the blast from each giant hose, the blaze raged.
“Abby.”
Swaying, coils of fire struck back at the spewing water like giant, crimson cobras. Cracking and popping, the inferno hissed its defiance. Mesmerized by the horror, she didn’t turn at the sound of his voice. She didn’t speak a word until strong hands took her by the shoulders.
“Abby.”
She blinked. “Jacques? What are you doing here?”
“I saw it on the news.”
Abby allowed him to wrap both arms around her, but it wasn’t any surprise Ja
cques had shown up tonight. After all, when a man’s true love is in danger …
“Abby?”
Abby lifted her head from Jacques’s chest and took a step back. “J.T.?”
“I came as soon as I heard.”
She watched the two men square off without a word and waited a beat. Satisfied there might not be a scene, she turned her attention back to the blaze. “How could this happen?” Her words were small. Unlike her heartbreak.
“My guess,” J.T. began, “a design problem.”
“If anything it was probably shoddy construction,” Jacques said.
“Like hell,” J.T. shot back. “Why are you even here, Asshole? You got what you wanted out of Abby ten years ago.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.” J.T. jabbed his finger in Jacques’s direction. “You wanted to be featured in Architecture’s Digest and that’s why you designed Aromatiques. Not for Abby. She was just a means to an end for you. And don’t get your hopes up. I don’t suppose they’ll revisit the ashes in a follow up piece.”
“You ought to talk.” Jacque took one step in J.T.’s direction. “Do you think I was blind? I saw how you looked at her the entire time you were working on that building.”
J.T. matched Jacques’s step forward.
Abby moved between the two. “Stop it.”
J.T. shoved both hands in his jeans’ pockets. “Sorry, Babe.”
Abby glared at Jacques.
“My apologies to you, Abby.” Jacques cleared his throat.
J.T. took one step back. “It’s about time Jock apologized to you.”
“Jacques,” Abby corrected automatically. In the beginning she’d known Jacques was ambitious. In the end, she’d realized just how ambitious he truly was. Somewhere in the middle, however, she’d learned a helluva lot about herself. All her life, Abby had been searching for something. She’d been engaged to Jacques and J.T. hoping to find it. Jacques hadn’t had it, and J.T. hadn’t been it.