Where All the Dead Lie

by J. T. Ellison

  His body, upright in the chair.

  Her lover.

  She went to him, careful not to drag the trails of her nightgown in the blood. Her arms skimmed the walls; so much blood. Seeping, all around her. The floor was getting deeper, the tide rushing in, covering her feet now. She moved forward until she could touch his arm. One last time.

  Memphis turned, his face a compilation of holes, empty. “Leave here,” he moaned. “Leave before it’s too late.”

  She began to scream, louder and louder, until he raised up a bloody hand to quiet her, a hand with a gun, and she saw the muzzle flash as she yanked herself from his grasp, backed away quickly, heedless of the mess.

  The bump of her body against something jarred her.

  Taylor could feel her spine against the wooden paneling, her arms raised as if she were warding off an attack. She was drenched in sweat, her T-shirt sticking to her body like she’d been swimming in it.

  Red, everywhere. Blood.

  Her breath came short. She was dying. She could feel her body slipping away into nothingness. Feel the pain in her head grow larger, stronger, until the red was replaced by black.

  She couldn’t breathe. She had to breathe.

  She forced her eyes open.

  The room was empty.

  She let her hands drop to her side, realized her heart was pounding against her chest wall so hard it hurt. She breathed in several times, square breaths, trying to get her heart rate to slow.

  Her eyes adjusted, the darkened space coming into focus. She was in her bedroom in the castle. Against the wall across from her bed. Not Memphis’s office. And not in the attic of the Snow White’s house facing the Pretender, stepping in the blood of her best friend’s child.

  It took a few minutes until she felt like she had herself back under control. She edged to the side table and turned on a lamp. The room leapt from the darkness as if it too was disturbed.

  There was nothing sinister about it anymore. It was just a bedroom.

  Her breath came more normally now.

  Jesus. That was a whopper of a dream. She was used to having crazy nightmares, but Memphis’s wild stories must have really landed in her subconscious. She’d actually felt like the scene was real. She touched her stomach, flat and taut. Crazy. She had felt the child inside her, moving.

  And sleepwalking. My God, she hadn’t done that since she was a child.

  Her mind reached into the tendrils of the dream. The blood felt so familiar. Her blood. The floor of the attic rising up to meet her, the primal scream the Pretender made as he raised his arm. Stupid, stupid girl, letting him get a gun on her.

  She’d gotten herself into this mess. And now look at her. Locked away from everyone, unable to cry for help. She should have never tried to take him down alone.

  Taylor knew she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night. She went into the sitting area, snapping lights on as she went.

  Heineken. Second half of Ativan. Another Percocet. Stood at the window until she started feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges.

  That was better.

  Her legs were feeling a bit wobbly. She sat down at the desk, hard, and opened her laptop. The castle had a strong wireless signal. Memphis had mentioned that they had a T1 line running directly into the castle, lightning-quick. She assumed that the room was also wired. How else would it penetrate those thick stone walls?

  Seeking something mundane, she checked her email, deleting three from the various television stations around Nashville wanting interviews—my God, they were relentless—then sent Sam a note. That made her feel better, more grounded.

  She closed the computer, helped herself to another beer, and parked in front of the television. She started surfing the channels idly, wishing for her pool table. Surely the castle had a billiards room? She’d have to ask Memphis, though to be honest, she didn’t particularly want to go roaming around this place alone at night.

  She settled on a crazy reality show where the contestants were made to strip down so the audience could assess their bodies in an attempt to bolster their flagging self-esteem. That would be a hit in America.

  There was a soft knock on her chamber door.

  “It’s me,” a low voice said. Memphis.

  She was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. Not decent. She grabbed her sweater from the chair and tossed it on. Grabbed her notepad. Went to the door. Opened it.

  Memphis stood in the hall, hair sticking up, a blue-and-cream-striped robe half pulled on his shoulders. She smiled.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  Of course. Why?

  He looked at her like she was an idiot. “You were screaming.”

  I was? Funny. I don’t have my voice back. Maybe you heard something else.

  “No, Taylor, it was definitely you.”

  She didn’t know whether to be happy that things were functional, or embarrassed.

  I’m fine. Truly.

  He leaned against the door frame.

  “I would have come sooner… Honestly, I debated whether coming to you was the best idea.”

  At least he was aware of that.

  Cold air was leaking in from the hall. She could see him shiver a bit. She pulled the door open wider, gestured for him to come in. Latched it behind him. He went straight to the fire and stirred it up, then turned back to her, the glow from the flames outlining his broad shoulders.

  “Bad dreams?” he asked.

  No more reason to pretend. He was here now. She wondered if she’d brought him subconsciously. Summoned him.

  She sat at the desk and crossed her legs, prim and proper.

  You could say that. It was bizarre. You told me to leave.

  He stayed statue still in front of the fire. “I’d never tell you that. It’s the last thing I want. I want you to stay. To be here.”

  He paused. His face was jagged in the firelight.

  “I will never lie to you, Taylor. I’ve been as open and up front about my feelings as I can. I respect that you’re with Baldwin. Hate it, but respect it. I promise, I will never do anything that you don’t want. But right now, I’m going to ask a favor. Can I stay here tonight?”

  She was taken aback. It was a great speech, completely controverted by the last statement. But he looked like a very frightened child.

  I don’t know if that’s such a great idea, Memphis.

  He tipped his head. “Your virtue is safe with me, my lady. I’d just like the company. We can sleep, or talk. If you think about it, we’ve been talking every night for the past several weeks. I missed it tonight. And seeing as you’re having bad dreams, maybe we can help keep each other entertained for a bit. At least until you’re ready to go back to sleep.”

  What if I want to go back to sleep right now?

  Careful, Taylor. Careful.

  He watched her warily, trying to ascertain any hidden meaning, or openings. Apparently sensing she was sincerely interested in sleep, or at least too drunk to stand up properly, he waved a hand toward the bed.

  “Then by all means, do so. I’ll watch over you in case you have any more bad dreams.”

  She broke eye contact, fiddled with the TV remote. He was right. They had been talking every night. He’d been the one she turned to when Baldwin had shut her out. Could she blame him for treasuring that intimacy? She’d been the one letting it happen, after all. Encouraging it, if she were being honest with herself. It felt good to have a friend she could count on.

  All right. But just sleeping, Memphis. I am tired, and I’d like to try to get some rest.

  He gave her that wicked smile that made her feel funny inside. “Of course.”

  She hesitated for another moment, then powered down the TV. Picked up her pen.

  Turn off the lights.

  He did.

  The darkness felt different. Not as foreboding. Safer.

  She went into the bedroom, pulled off her sweater and climbed back into the bed. Memphis lay down next to her, careful
to point out that he was on top of the covers. She plumped up her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  They were quiet for a few minutes, then Memphis started to sing. It was a soft tune, quiet, and she got the sense that it was a lullaby of sorts. She let the words roll over her, her eyes shutting, all the fight gone out of her.

  Maybe she could sleep again after all. With Memphis there to protect her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sam washed the blood off her knives and disinfected them, saw that the autopsy suite had been cleaned to her satisfaction, everything gleaming and sparkling, then headed to her office to do some paperwork.

  She woke her computer and checked her email, was happy to see a note from Taylor. That girl. Foolhardy and headstrong, running off to Scotland without a thought to Memphis Highsmythe’s “estate.” Sam knew it was more than that; she’d Googled the man months ago, when he popped onto the scene and made a play for Taylor’s affections. There was tons of information about Memphis online. About his family, and his wife’s sad death. The castle itself had its own web page.

  She knew Taylor would have never bothered to look that deeply into Memphis. It would have felt like a betrayal to her. She was committed to Baldwin, wouldn’t waste time wondering what might have been with another man. Like looking up an old boyfriend on Facebook, just to see what he was up to. That wasn’t the kind of thing Taylor did. She lived in the now, not in the past.

  Sam knew her girl might walk a thin line with Memphis, but she’d never cross over. Whether Memphis could be trusted not to try and force her into it was another matter.

  She clicked the email open.

  Dear Sam,

  I’ve landed safely. Memphis met me at the airport and spirited me away early, so I’m writing you from Dulsie Castle. I guess I never really thought about what Memphis’s life might be like over here, but trust me, this place is unbelievable. It’s huge. All stone and fireplaces and gorgeous furniture. And the food, Lord, the food. Cook did a seven-course meal for us tonight, with ridiculously expensive wine. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to be drinking, but a little bit of wine won’t hurt.

  Memphis has been very kind, and very good. No hanky-panky. Which is nice. I was a little worried he’d be pushy, and he’s not. We talked after dinner, and he told me some of the castle’s history, including this gruesome ghost story about the Lady in Red. I promptly fell asleep and had a terrible nightmare. Which is why I’m awake and writing you.

  I still can’t speak more than a couple of words at a time, but I’m meeting with Memphis’s therapist friend in the morning. We’ll see how that goes.

  Any word on our hit-and-run?

  Love you, so much.

  Taylor

  Sam shook her head. Taylor was a bright woman, but sometimes she could be so hopelessly obtuse. Of course Memphis was behaving himself. Like the spider to the fly. Make the web look safe, attack when weakness appears.

  She didn’t know why she disliked him so much. Outside of the fact that Taylor was finally, after all these years, settled and happy, and the first thing that happened was this interloper.

  Oh, well. Taylor was a big girl. She’d have to make her own mistakes.

  Sam typed quickly. She wanted to go home, see the twins. See Simon. She’d make a nice dinner, open a bottle of wine. She’d been married long enough to recognize that she was being too concerned with Taylor’s relationship, and not enough with her own.

  Hi, Taylor,

  Glad to hear that you’re in safe. Everything is fine here. We’re getting more snow tonight—can you imagine? So much for global warming.

  Remember when we were girls, and it used to snow all winter long? We’d go sledding on the big hill in Percy Warner Park, or ice-skate on the pond behind my folks’ place. We’d come in frozen to the bone, our hands so cold we could barely move our fingers, and your mom used to have Mrs. Mize make us hot chocolate. She’d pretend not to listen to us giggle. I don’t know if you ever noticed her, standing at the edge of the kitchen, watching us have fun. Kitty always seemed so sad, even back then. Before she grew bitter.

  Wow, that was a step into the way-back machine.

  I’m hoping to have some time to take the twins sledding tomorrow.

  Our hit-and-run got more interesting today. Her name is Marias González. She had a marked bill in her pocket. Blue dye. Your brilliant young detective Marcus thinks she’s involved in the Regretful Robber case somehow. It’s a good thought. He’s really coming along.

  I’ll let you know more when I find it out.

  In the meantime, young lady, you continue to behave yourself. Beware of Viscounts bearing gifts, and all that. Or is that Greeks?

  Love you too,

  Sam

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Taylor woke, the sun was already high. She glanced at the clock. Almost eight. There was no Memphis, nothing to show that he’d even been there the night before.

  She was surprised by her disappointment.

  But she didn’t have time for thinking, not now, at least. She needed to get moving. She was supposed to meet Dr. James at nine.

  She showered and dressed, was brushing out her wet hair when she heard knocking on her chamber door. That would be breakfast. Memphis had mentioned they’d bring it to her room.

  She went to the door and opened it. A small maid who couldn’t be more than fourteen bustled in with a tray. Tea and toast, rashers of bacon and sausage, softly scrambled eggs, a bottle of water—“for yer hydration, lady”—a carafe of apple juice and a matching one with cranberry. The girl bobbed and disappeared as quickly as she’d come, leaving Taylor with the huge tray of food—more than enough for two.

  Before the door was completely closed, she heard whistling. She stuck her head in the hall and saw Memphis coming her way. He looked rested and happy, all the haunting sadness of the night before gone.

  “Morning. Sleep well?” he asked.

  He knew exactly how she slept, but she saw the maid lingering at the end of the hall, realized he needed to put on a show for his people as well. As modern as the castle was, spending the night in his unmarried lady friend’s chambers was apparently frowned upon, or, more likely, fodder for gossip among the Highland staff.

  She made a show of writing in her notebook. Felt strangely defensive, whether toward Memphis or his servants, she didn’t know.

  Mostly. Bad dreams.

  “Oh, no. Well, let’s feed you up and see you off to the doctor then.”

  Join me?

  Memphis nodded in agreement, and she let the door close behind him.

  The tray had been deceptive. There were two of everything, plates, cups, glasses, cutlery. Taylor realized Memphis hadn’t just happened by, this was all planned. But she was too hungry to worry about it. Never one to pass up a meal, she sat at the little table and tucked in.

  Memphis wandered around the suite with a glass of apple juice in one hand and a piece of toast in the other, distracted.

  You’re dropping crumbs on the floor.

  Taylor pointed to the small piles of toast that trailed in Memphis’s circumnavigated wake.

  “The mice need to eat, too, you know. This saves them from having to leave this floor to tend to their meals.” He dropped a bit of toast on the floor then, purposefully.

  This place is too clean for mice.

  “Oh, ho, not at all. The castle cats are fat with their plunder. There’s enough to keep the circle of life in play. I made a pet of one of the mice when I was a boy. Named him Bilbo. I was besotted with Tolkien in those days. I fed Bilbo from my breakfast every morning. My mother caught me at it once. She didn’t say a word, sent me on my way. I had to go hunting that day, I was nervous anyway. When I came back that evening, freshly blooded, flush with success—I’d bagged my first fox and my father had allowed me to ride home with the Master of Hounds—a gray tabby was curled up asleep on the bed. I never saw Bilbo again.”

  Poor mouse. Poor fox, too.

  His e
yes flashed in amusement. “Poor fox? Poor mouse? Poor me. I’d lost my boon companion. We had adventures, Bilbo and I. We sailed the high seas. He made an excellent first mate.”

  He must have been a lonely boy, to live in such a make-believe world.

  “I know what you’re thinking. God, you have a glass face. I was a bit lonely. I was older than my brothers, and my sister hadn’t come along yet. There were few boys my age around the estate that summer, but it all changed in the autumn. I was sent off to school, and I’ve not been lonely since. Now, are you almost finished? Maddee will wonder what’s become of us.”

  Taylor finished the last of her tea and stood up.

  Ready. Just let me grab my sweater. What’s freshly blooded mean?

  Memphis escorted Taylor down to the first floor through a separate stairwell, explaining the intricate etiquette of a first kill. When he got to the part about having a bit of the fox’s blood smeared on his face, she held up a hand and stopped him. She didn’t need to know any more.

  They ended up in the southernmost part of the castle, close to the public banquet hall, before trailing back around to a room done up in burgundy and cream. Taylor would never find her way back alone.

  A woman sat in front of the fire, staring into its depths. When she heard them arrive, she stood and came to Taylor, hand outstretched. Her hair was dark and long, straight as an arrow, her smile friendly, her eyes brown and warm. She was Taylor’s age, no more than thirty-five or so.

  “You must be Taylor. I’m Dr. Madeira James, à votre service. But please, call me Maddee.” Her accent was a shock, much more New York than Scotland. Taylor’s face must have showed her surprise, because Maddee said, “Long Island, born and bred. I fit in so nicely amongst the locals.”