In novels, they called it burning desire.
She may not know exactly how she felt about him, but one thing was for sure. Being possessed, by any man, wasn’t going to happen. Taylor may make mistakes—doozies, too. But she was well past the point of letting a man—letting anyone, for that matter—control her.
The fire was dying out. She went ahead and tossed on another couple of logs. Surely the storm must be breaking. A quick check of the radar showed it was as intense as ever. For the moment. The blizzard should last through the evening, start tapering off after dark. Thank goodness. She’d be gone in twenty-four hours, no more, even if she had to shovel her way to the road and hitch a ride.
She tried to call Baldwin back again.
As she dialed his number, the case for the tape Maddee had given her caught her eye. She’d forgotten all about it. Curiosity got the better of her. She’d left the tape in the Bose sound system on the bookshelf to the right of the desk. She hit Play and listened for a few seconds while Baldwin’s phone connected.
Maddee’s voice was soft and soothing. Taylor couldn’t help herself; she started to think about the pool of light enveloping her toes, of the warm, soft breezes…
“Taylor!”
Wow, she’d drifted off. Baldwin was shouting in her ear.
“Whoa. Sorry. I put in the biofeedback session Maddee had taped for me and I must have dozed off.” She hit Stop on the disc.
“What were you listening to?”
“Maddee said it was biofeedback. She wanted me to play it before I went to sleep. It was supposed to help me relax.”
“Let me hear it. But I want you to go to the bathroom and run the water, I don’t want you listening to it. Okay?”
“Why—”
“Just do what I ask, Taylor. Please.”
“Okay.”
She set the phone by the stereo and hit Play again, then went to the bathroom, shut the door and started the water, singing “La la la la la” out loud for good measure. She could still hear a bit, but not the words. She gave it a few minutes, then went back out. Clicked the tape off and picked up the phone.
“So?” she asked Baldwin.
“That’s not biofeedback. That’s hypnosis. They’re similar in nature, of course, but… In any of your sessions, did you say things you didn’t mean to say? Share secrets?”
“Well, yes. She did hypnosis. It’s how we knew my voice was working. I could speak fine when I was under. Why? What’s on that tape?”
“Did you feel suicidal at all after you listened to it?”
She swallowed hard. This was not exactly the conversation she wanted to have. But hiding her thoughts from Baldwin wasn’t the right thing to do. She knew that now.
“Last night. I may have had a few thoughts about ending things. But I don’t feel that way now, Baldwin. I promise.”
“Don’t listen to that tape, okay? You’ll go back under. And be very careful if you talk to her. She’s put suggestions into your mind that will allow her to manipulate your thoughts.”
“Suggestions to do what?”
“Harm yourself.”
Evan.
“Baldwin. Evan. Her suicide. Could it have been Maddee? Could she have planted suggestions in head her, too?”
“Taylor, that is a distinct possibility.”
“What the hell is going on here, Baldwin?”
“I don’t know. Either they’re all working together, and she’s meant to get your walls down so Memphis can look like a hero, or she’s working alone, and has a serious grudge. You need to be doubly on your guard. You can’t trust either of them.”
“I met the woman three days ago. I’m not that abrasive, I don’t think.”
“But think about it. Maybe she has feelings for Memphis. And if that’s the case, and she isn’t the most healthy individual, she sees you as a rival. And rivals are unwelcome.”
“She’s welcome to him. This is all a bit much for me to process.”
“Well, keep processing, because if that’s the case, you’re in serious danger.”
“I’ve been doing some research. I have a file from Memphis’s office, his private file on Evan’s death. I think you’re wrong about him cheating, though the tabloids certainly made sure he looked guilty.”
“Regardless of the circumstances, Taylor, there is a controversy about her death. We don’t know the truth. Whether you believe it all or not is your business, obviously.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Baldwin. I’m the one stuck up here trying to make sense of all of this.” God, should she tell him? She might have to if she wanted him to take her seriously.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. Listen. Memphis emailed me earlier. It gave me pause. Creeped me out, actually. You’re sure Memphis is nowhere around, right?”
“I haven’t heard word one from him. Why?”
“The note makes it sound like he might harm you.”
“What?”
She pulled the words from memory, recited them to him. “‘You won’t know what I’ve done to him, either.’ At first I thought he was talking about his unborn child. But I think he’s talking about you, Baldwin.”
“Taylor, listen to me. I’m at one of Atlantic’s offices in Amsterdam. I’ll be there in two hours, three at the outside.”
“You’re in Amsterdam? I thought you were in Nashville.”
“The case, Taylor. It worked perfectly for me to get there over Christmas. Don’t worry about that now. There’s no way he’s getting to me. Besides, I’m armed.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Which you need to fix immediately. It’s a working castle, correct? Surely there’s something less than ceremonial around there. Check with the gamekeeper. He should have something you can handle.”
Have Jacques take you ferreting for rabbits. That’s great fun.
Jacques, the driver, the bodyguard, and his blatantly visible shoulder holster. She would go to him. And hopefully, he would help her.
“Yes, I know who to talk to. Okay, that’s one thing settled. I have Lincoln doing some searching for Madeira James’s past. Sam couldn’t find any record of her having a license to practice, in the States or the U.K.”
Her other line beeped. She glanced at the caller ID. It was Lincoln.
“Let me take this, it’s Linc. He may have found something.”
“I’m going to look at some mode of egress for you. See what we can do to get you out of that castle. Or at the very least, get someone in who can protect you until I can get there.”
“I can protect myself, Baldwin. I can handle this bitch.”
“You’re compromised, Taylor. Just remember that. If you have to be around her, and she starts trying to get you to relax, leave the room. Sing. Do anything to interrupt her flow of words. Okay? Just promise me you’ll be vigilant. Last night you were saying your goodbyes. I’m not ready to lose you.”
“I’m on my guard now, Baldwin, I have it back together. Don’t worry.”
She clicked End and the line automatically switched over to Lincoln.
Lincoln’s voice was breathless. “Thank God I got you. Taylor, you’ve got a problem. A very big problem.”
ENDS
“Rue not my death. Rejoice at my repose, It was no death to me but to my woes. The bud was opened to let out the rose. The chain was loosed to let the captive go.”
—ROBERT SOUTHWELL ON MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Memphis was getting closer. He was exhausted. He’d been stuck in the car for hours, crawling up the A1. Seventeen hours to make a two-hour drive. He nearly cheered when he saw the signs for the A9. He was almost home.
His cell phone had died after the message from Maddee. He’d turned it off for a bit, let it build up a tiny charge. Then he’d put in a call to Pen, heard just enough about what had happened after he rushed out of the prison.
She was going to be the toast of London tonight—she’d
used the information Madison gave them about the house on Baker Street to solve the case. She’d stormed it with a team. All three girls were found, in various states of disarray, held against their will by the enigmatic Urq. But alive. Roger Waterstone had been arrested.
Pen was jubilant. He’d been right to let her take over the case. She needed a few wins under her kilt to get the right attention from the commanders. He was happy for her, and happy his gut had been wrong for once.
He just hoped it was still wrong now.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Taylor sat in the chair in front of the fireplace. Lincoln’s nimble fingers had gotten the information they needed. This was bigger than Taylor and Memphis, bigger than a petty jealousy. Bigger than they could possibly imagine.
As she suspected, Dr. Madeira James wasn’t who she said she was.
Taylor had taken fifteen minutes, laid out everything that had happened, and emailed the summary to Sam for safekeeping. If something went south, Sam was to use the information to make sure Maddee was taken down.
But Taylor didn’t think it was going to get that far. She had every intention of dealing with the doctor herself.
She had a fresh notepad in her lap, was mapping the castle corridors and stairwells. She couldn’t stay in her room, locked away, pretending she was sick. She had no choice. She had to venture out.
She needed two things, and needed some stealth to gain them.
A gun.
And Maddee’s laptop.
She sketched the rooms she knew from memory, filling in staircases, locked doors, rooms she’d been in, rooms she’d walked past. This place was so damn big. Maddee could be anywhere. Waiting. Watching.
A soft knock at her chamber door broke her concentration. It was followed by a high-pitched, girlish voice.
“I’m here to clean your room.”
Ah. One of Trixie’s elves. Perfect.
Taylor went to the door. She wasn’t taking chances. She opened the peephole and double-checked. Breathed a sigh of relief. The girl was alone.
She unlocked the door and let her in, then shut and latched the door behind her. It was the serving maid who’d brought Taylor’s breakfast on her first morning in the castle. That felt like weeks ago.
She had a pail and mop, started over to the bed. Taylor stopped her. This was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.
“What’s your name?”
“Maisrie, mum.”
“That’s a beautiful name. This has to be between you and me. We need to keep this a secret from everyone, Maisrie. Can you promise me that?”
The girl looked surprised, her forehead creasing momentarily. “Yes, mum?”
“Good. I need you to do something for me. I need to see Jacques. Is he here, on the estate?”
“Why, yes, mum, he surely is. But he’s probably down wi’ the sheep. All the stock was brought in, but there was some sheep as he couldn’t find.”
“So where would he be?”
“In the barns, maybe?”
“Can you take me there?”
She hesitated. “Well, yes, mum. I can take you to him. But it’s snowing something fierce out of doors now. Ye may want to wait until the storm’s passed.”
Oh that I could.
“I need to see him now, Maisrie. And we need to go the back way. I don’t want anyone knowing that I’ve seen him. It needs to be a secret. Okay?”
The poor child. She would probably promise most anything to the wild-eyed woman towering over her if she would loosen the grip on her arm.
“I must tell Trixie though. She’ll skin me alive if I disappear.”
Taylor dropped to her knees. The girl was only about five feet tall; this brought her to eye level. She looked her dead on, imploring.
“Listen to me. This is a matter of life and death. No one can know. Not Trixie. Not Dr. James. This will be between you and me.”
“Och.” The girl shook her head in disgust. “I’d never be telling her anything. I don’t like her.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth then. Talking poorly of her betters was surely discouraged.
Taylor suppressed a smile. For better or for worse, she had an ally.
Taylor wound her hair back from her face and secured it with a ponytail holder. She’d need her jacket if they were going to the barns, and her boots. She grabbed these items while Maisrie fretted by the door, waiting for her.
She wasn’t about to go into the corridor with just her bare hands to defend herself. The glass shards from the lowball wouldn’t work, she would cut herself trying to use it.
But the bar had a corkscrew, a professional sommelier version. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before. When extended, the Teflon-coated worm sat perpendicular to its base. Awkward unless you led with it, like a dagger among brass knuckles. But the foil cutter was a two-and-a-half-inch-long serrated knife. It faced the opposite direction of the screw, which was too bad, but it was better than nothing.
Taylor opened it like a blade, turned it over in her hands to ascertain its best defensive use, thrust into the air a couple of times to judge its weight, then folded it back up and stuck it into her pocket. It would be a formidable weapon if anyone got close.
Maisrie saw her do it, turned four shades paler.
“Ready?” Taylor asked.
The girl nodded, head bobbing quickly.
Taylor followed her to the door. Unlatched it, then gestured for the girl to proceed.
Maisrie had obviously seen her share of spy movies. She darted her head out for a quick look, then flattened herself against the doorjamb with a breathless “Eep.”
Obviously there was someone in the hall. Taylor bit back a laugh. This was serious, and she was glad the girl was taking it so, but cloak-and-dagger was obviously not her strong suit. Taylor counted to ten, put her finger to her lips, then motioned for the girl to keep moving.
This time the coast was clear. Following a path Taylor didn’t recognize, Maisrie led her the back way down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. Taylor could hear the familiar noises of pots banging and water being run—lunch was being prepared. Maisrie was getting better at being circumspect. She dodged around the entrance of the kitchen, took Taylor to a large pile of firewood, probably three cords’ worth, stacked floor to ceiling against the wall. There was a small bench that housed coats and Wellies, as humble and normal as any cold-weather house. Maisrie availed herself of a coat, gloves and boots, then looked to Taylor, her face serious.
“Ready?” Maisrie asked.
Taylor nodded.
“Hold on to me. I don’t want to lose ye in the storm.”
Taylor grabbed the girl’s collar, whispered, “Come on, then.”
Maisrie opened the door.
The world became a swirling mass of white. Bitter cold snapped at Taylor’s skin. God, it was still coming down.
Maisrie started off then, sure-footed, her steps guided by years of following this path, from kitchens to barn back to kitchens. It only took them seven minutes to make the trek. In good weather, it would probably only be three or four. Taylor hadn’t seen the building they were entering before; it was on the opposite side of the estate from the tennis courts and the run-down kirk, back toward the road. Toward civilization.
She was overcome with the urge to just grab the first vehicle she saw and take off, but chided herself. That would be the height of stupidity. She didn’t know where she was going, and her foray out with Memphis the other day had proved only one thing—the Scots weren’t terribly concerned with getting people from point A to point B by the quickest, easiest route. She could slide off the road in the storm, freeze to death in the car and no one would be the wiser until things thawed out.
That made her think of Evan, crashing over the edge of the bridge into the icy water below. No, setting off alone wasn’t an option.
She could just hide in the barn until the storm was over; that would work, too.
But Taylor wasn’t the h
iding type. And truth be told, she was pissed off. She didn’t like being manipulated, liked not knowing who was behind it even less. No, she needed to see this through. A few tools, that’s all she required.
They burst through the barn doors, breathless, covered in snow, shaking themselves like chickens shedding feathers.
It was warm inside, full of bleats and moos and clucks and the occasional whinny, the estate’s stock crammed into a space that wasn’t quite large enough to hold them all at once. Taylor wondered about the deer. Where had they been put? Or were they still out there, breathless and white, partially frozen, huddled together for warmth under some prickly gorse?
Maisrie was holding on to Taylor’s hand like the frightened child she was. Taylor gently untangled herself from the girl.
“Stay here.”
Maisrie shook her head, eyes wide. She was scared to pieces, of what she’d done, perhaps, of the repercussions if she were found out. She allowed Taylor to drop her hand, but followed when Taylor started to step away.
“Fine. Come on then. Let’s find Jacques.”
The groundsman wasn’t hard to find. There was a small office off the main entry. He must have heard the barn doors open and close, because he wandered out, a toothpick stuck in his teeth. Taylor had a moment’s flash of the Pretender, standing in the corridor outside her room, the same toothpick jutting out of his rotted mouth, but she was able to force it away.
Jacques took one look at the two women and his eyes grew large.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in French.
“English?” Taylor asked. Her high school French, while adequate for getting herself to the bathroom, wasn’t going to work here.
Jacques sized her up, then answered in slow, accented English.
“Yes, some. What is the matter? Why are you out in the storm? Not fit for man nor beast.”
Where All the Dead Lie Page 25