Rose from the Grave

by Candace Murrow

  Held back by Rusty, Zeke wiggled and yipped. Hunched over the dog, Rusty grinned, seemed to be enjoying the scene on the porch. Chance peeled away Monique's arms and brought her into the house, thus blocking Rusty's view with a closed door.

  "What are you doing here and how did you find me?" he asked, though he knew quite well what her answer would be.

  "How silly a question that is. You know we keep tabs on you." She tossed her sweater on a dining room chair, slid an arm around his waist, and looked up at him. "Surely you have not forgotten we keep tabs on all our associates, past and present."

  "I'm quite aware of that." He stepped out of her grip. "I know how the organization works, Monique, but you don't make personal visits to a place like this unless you want something from me. And I have nothing to give, not to you or the organization."

  "Oh, but you are wrong," she said. "You have a promise to keep to the firm."

  He thought of his manuscript as he read the edge in her tone, verging on a threat. He was thankful he'd buried it from her sight.

  "And, I hope before this night is over, a promise to me as well. I have waited too long to be with you."

  His muscles ached with tension. "First of all, the organization has nothing to worry about. I have a new life here. They know that. And I'm not anxious to change it in any way."

  "Oh, it is not me, Chance. I would never accuse you, but there are those who believe otherwise. They sent me to make sure you are satisfied here, that you will not cause problems in the future."

  "What do they think I'll do? It's been five years."

  She circled around him and peered into the kitchen. "I have traveled all day, Chance. Can we get comfortable? Do you have wine?" When he didn't respond, she spotted a bottle of Merlot on the counter that had recently been opened and set it on the table. She found wineglasses in a nearby cupboard and poured them each a glass.

  She was determined to stay, so he agreed to hear her out. She waited for him to sit, then pushed her chair near his, slipped off her shoes, and rested her feet on his lap. "Do you remember our first meeting, darling?"

  He volunteered nothing, not a yes or a no, only toyed with the stem of his glass, so she brought up their first encounter. Whenever they were together, she loved hashing over old times: After his first successful assignment for the organization, they'd sent him to London for rest and relaxation. A colleague, Monique, showed up at his hotel suite to sweeten the deal.

  He remained stoic, revealing no emotion or recognition, as if the memory of their initial meeting had been lost in a fog. She continued to recount the times they'd worked together in various parts of the world, including the United States. Still, no glimmer of fond remembrance in his eyes, no wistful smile.

  She poured herself another glass of wine, and his remained untouched. "You are so quiet, Chance. What are your thoughts?"

  Nothing he cared to share with her. He stared at his glass and wished Kat were here in place of Monique, yet prayed at this particular moment Kat wouldn't surprise him with a visit. "I think this conversation is over. Shouldn't you be on the road back to Seattle?"

  She glanced toward the window. The sun had set, and the light in the room was dimming. "It is too late. May I stay here till morning?"

  "That wouldn't be a good idea." He lowered her feet to the floor.

  "You know I cannot drive in the dark. And I have not said all I need to say."

  "Save your breath," he said. "I know what you're going to say to me."

  She placed her hand on his knee. "It is imperative, Chance. I must remind you of Gerald Morningstar. Do you remember him?"

  "Don't bother me with the details."

  "Then you remember he was a, what do you say, whistleblower. Last year he turned on the organization. He had been out five years, the same as you. They get antsy after too long because of him."

  Chance stood and shoved in his chair. "I know about Morningstar, and I know what they are capable of, so save your words, Monique."

  "I came here on my own as a friend." Her eyes softened. "I wished to see you, yes, to warn you of what they are talking of now. I do not want you to get hurt like Gerald."

  "There's nothing they can do to me."

  "Oh, but you are wrong. If you say or do anything."

  "What makes them think I plan to cross them?"

  She paused, glanced at her wineglass, and eyed him steadily. "Just let me be your friend and warn you of what they are thinking, that you might bring misery to them as Gerald has done. You left so suddenly. They worry you will do the same. They want you back in the organization, Chance."

  "That will never happen." He poured out his wine in the kitchen sink, the liquid slithering down the drain, leaving tiny red splatters.

  It would be pitch dark before Monique made it to the mountains, and she did suffer from night blindness, at least that was what he recalled. He was resigned to having an overnight guest, albeit an unwelcome one. He'd lost his appetite, and instead of cooking dinner, he made her a ham and cheese sandwich and showed her the guest bedroom.

  While he was outside fetching her overnight bag, Zeke bounded up to him, wagging his tail. Because Monique was allergic to dogs, he asked Rusty to look after Zeke.

  "It ain't none of my business, boss, but I thought you'd takin' a liking to that Summers woman. Who's this lady?"

  Chance scrubbed Zeke's coat. "It isn't any of your business. I'll see you tomorrow." He gave the dog's rump a swift pat. "Go with Rusty, boy." He watched Rusty meander toward the barn shaking his head with Zeke in pursuit. He returned to the house.

  Monique had come back to the kitchen to get more wine. "Will you not drink with me, Chance?"

  "There's a TV in your room if you get lonely." Though it was still early, he retreated to his bedroom, hoping to keep a safe distance between them.

  CHAPTER 19

  On returning home, Kat had sorted through cupboards, throwing out stale food--old pancake mix, cereals, flour. She'd tossed out the canned goods as well. No telling how long they'd been stored.

  She'd worked with only her socks on, and by late evening her feet were chilled from the bare floors. She went in search of her slippers.

  Her mind skipped to Tim Holmes and what he may have done to Brianna. The ire rose in her again. She wouldn't let the matter slide.

  Rounding the bedroom doorway, she accidentally kicked a slipper under the bed. She switched on the lamp to have a better look and realized she'd also disturbed the scatter rug. On the wooden floor was a reddish brown blotch that looked like smeared blood.

  When Kat knelt and touched the stain, a horrendous stab of shock and terror lit into her, her imagination reeling with bits and pieces of a macabre scene: hands on a woman's neck, a terrifying struggle. She lifted her hand. The images instantly disappeared.

  Was Brianna murdered here? That thought was too horrible to consider, too foolish even. They'd discovered her body in the garage. Kat shooed the notion away and dragged the rug over the stain.

  She looked up and could have sworn the curtains fluttered. But the window was closed all the way. Her mind was definitely playing tricks on her.

  She reached under the bed and felt around for the slipper. Her hand butted against a hard object. She pulled out a box, filled with more of Brianna's stories.

  Kat picked up a manuscript, expecting to be calmed and entertained by a charming children's story about a duck or a dog or a little girl. The title was innocent enough: Jack Meets Jill. By the second page delight changed to disbelief. Brianna had taken a child's nursery rhyme and turned it into a dark erotic fantasy.

  Kat skipped to the back page and found a copy of a contract from a porn magazine, signed by Brianna, along with a copy of a check in her name, dated six months before she died. The pay was exceptional.

  She must have needed the money. No wonder she never showed these stories to Chance.

  To discover how far back in time Brianna had written these particular stories, Kat began to rifle through
the box in search of more signed contracts, but the blast of a motorcycle engine interrupted her. She shot into the living room and flipped on the porch light. In the driveway Tim Holmes's Harley sputtered to a stop.

  Kat prickled with anger and panic. She didn't want to be alone in the house with him, so she met him outside by his motorcycle. "What are you doing here?"

  He tucked his helmet into the crook of his arm. "Pete said you were looking for me, and then later he saw you parked across the street watching the shop. Said you'd been there at least an hour. I figured it must be important, so what did you want to talk to me about?"

  "I wanted you to clear something up about your relationship with my sister."

  "I already told you."

  "Just hear me out." How would she ask him if he beat up Brianna without inciting him? If it were true, Kat wanted to tear him apart, but now that they were alone in the dark, she didn't feel quite so brave. "Look, I'm pretty tired. Why don't we talk tomorrow at your shop?"

  "I came all the way out here. Just tell me what you want to know. I don't have all night."

  This dark, dead-end street wasn't the place for a confrontation with Tim Holmes. "I'd really rather talk to you tomorrow at your shop." She turned to go inside, but he grabbed her arm.

  "I'm here, okay?" His voice was steady, but searing.

  The feel of his rough hand fueled her anger even more. She yanked her arm free. "Is this how you treated Brianna? I heard you knocked her around."

  "I never did that."

  "That's not what Tilly said. She told me she saw you shove Brianna into the wall behind Bertie's."

  "Tilly? That girl's nuts. I never touched Brianna that way."

  Against her better judgment, Kat said, "If you beat your wife, what would stop you from manhandling my sister?"

  "Yeah, and who's the bitch who told you that?"

  "I saw your wife, and it's not hard to put two and two together."

  He filled his lungs and between clenched teeth blew out a long, ragged breath, as if he were trying to maintain control. His hands closed into fists.

  Now that it was out in the open, Kat couldn't hold back. "Did you know Brianna was writing for porn magazines?"

  "Porn magazines." He seemed surprised but not enough for Kat.

  "Did you put her up to it?"

  "You know what, lady? You're just asking for it." He stepped toward her, then stopped himself. Muttering a parade of obscenities, he put on his helmet and mounted his bike. He backed down the driveway and lurched the bike forward, burning rubber.

  Kat's wobbly legs almost gave out on her. Where had the courage come from to confront a man like Tim Holmes? Or was it stupidity?

  She longed for a hot bath, but settled for a quick, tepid shower and a cup of steaming chamomile tea. Afterward, she shoved the box under the bed and climbed under the covers with Tiger by her side. The argument with Tim Holmes had drained her. The tea had relaxed her, and she fell into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  He had to see her again. If he strained his eyes, he could barely make out the outline of her body. That wasn't good enough. The curtains blocked his view, and it was way too dark. The grass was prickly on his ankles. Too many spider webs lurked in the shadows. He had to get closer. He had to touch her. He tugged at the window frame, but it wouldn't budge.

  The weeds and vines were devouring this old house. He crept around to the front door, looking for a way in. He kept his flashlight pointed low, just enough light to guide his way.

  The old road, leading from town through tangled trees, was a stroke of luck for him. No one traveled it anymore because it only led to this broken-down house on a dead-end street.

  The woman inside was his release, Brianna's gift. He had to get closer tonight. He had to run his palm across the curve of her hip.

  Another stroke of luck. The doorknob jiggled free. She forgot to lock the door. No doubt she forgot on purpose.

  He slowed his breathing to quiet his yearning heart. He didn't want to wake her. He wanted to touch her, a taste of what was to come.

  He tiptoed ever so softly across the room. The floorboards groaned. He waited, listening for sounds from the bedroom. Nothing.

  He snuck to the doorway. There she was, sleeping like a sweet, sweet memory.

  His breathing picked up, came in short, choppy bursts. His palms were hot and clammy. He wanted to wait, but he couldn't wait. He had to feel skin against skin.

  Maybe this time it would be different. Remembering their last encounter, he dug into the flesh of his palms to dampen the anger. No, he told himself. Not now. Go slow. But he had to touch her.

  She was lying on her side, facing away from him, and just as his hand hovered over her leg, she whimpered in her sleep, startling him. As he backed from the room, the door slammed shut. In a shocked haze he fled the house.

  * * *

  Kat rolled onto her back, alarmed. She'd heard a thunderous noise, like the door crashing shut, then a rattling sound. She bounded from the bed, heart thumping, and found Tiger in the living room with her back hunched and the door partway open. Kat had a vague feeling she'd forgotten to lock it before she turned in for the night. She couldn't be sure.

  A sick feeling replaced the uncertainty. After her encounter with Tim Holmes, she'd been so stressed she hadn't given the door a thought. She was certain she'd closed it. On the other hand she was positive the door banging shut was what woke her. And now it was open again. But everything in the room was in its place. She rummaged through her purse and found nothing missing.

  This time Kat made sure the door was securely locked and braced a chair under the doorknob. She scooped Tiger up and went back to bed, but she wouldn't sleep.

  For a while she listened for any little disturbance--the house settling, the refrigerator's hum--and fought the urge to close her eyes. But it was no use. Soon she dozed restlessly until the kitten's growl scared her, and she woke in a daze.

  At the foot of the bed was a filmy outline of Brianna's body, her face anxious and troubled. A voice, faint but distinct, pleaded, "Help me." In a blink the image slipped into the void.

  Kat shivered under the covers. Was she going crazy? First, the vision, now a voice, a voice that cried for help. Help her, how? And if it truly was Brianna's spirit, had she tried to get Kat's attention earlier in the night by slamming the door? Logic told Kat this was all nonsense, but a tugging of her heart told her otherwise.

  Questions were piling up, questions that needed answering: Why was there blood on the floor? Who was the perpetrator of the crank calls, and was there a connection? Why had Tim Holmes shown up at the house the night Brianna died? Something about Brianna's death wasn't adding up. Was that why Brianna haunted her?

  Kat had to tell someone her concerns, but who could she trust? She ran down the list of characters in this town but ruled out every one of them. Unfounded rumors were too easily spread. Her only choice was Chance Eliason. He was discreet, he was private, and he was the one person who genuinely understood and cared for Brianna.

  Kat wrapped a wool shirt over her pajamas and in the middle of the night huddled on the couch with the kitten.

  * * *

  Chance had read until midnight. With Monique in the house, he'd remained hyperaware. He didn't trust her. Once, he'd heard footsteps in the hallway and the bathroom door click shut.

  Just as he was drifting into a light doze, a grating noise startled him awake and on his feet. Avoiding the creaks in the floorboards, he slid his door open and walked cautiously to his office.

  Monique glanced up from his desk and froze. The bottom drawer was ajar, and it looked as if she were about to rummage inside. The strap of her flimsy nightie slipped off her shoulder, revealing part of her breast. "I needed a pen," she said.

  He knew exactly what she needed. He shoved the drawer inward and gripped her upper arm until she winced. No way would he leave her anywhere in his house alone. He dragged her into his bedroom and shoved her onto the bed. "Get
in."

  "You have to understand, Chance, I am only trying to protect you."

  "Get in the bed, Monique. Now."

  She scuttled under the covers, and Chance slid in next to her. "Don't get any ideas," he warned. "I'm just keeping an eye on you. In the morning you're gone."

  "But, darling."

  If he turned his back on her and fell asleep, it might give her the opportunity to sneak out, so he lay facing her. She snuggled up to him, her soft breasts against his bare chest. Her breath was hot and ticklish. It'd been a long while since he'd felt the warmth of a woman in his bed.

  Years ago, when he was young and foolish, he wanted this woman so badly, he'd begged her to leave the organization and run away with him. In those days, to her, he was any other man. Now, here in his bed, she meant nothing to him. Yet, she was so close, so alive, her body heady with perfume. Why not give in to temptation and have sex for the sake of satisfying his own needs?

  "Let me make love to you," she whispered, as if she'd read his mind.

  Her fingers inched up his thigh, giving him a surge of longing, but in his mind's eye all he could see was Kat's face. He stifled a moan and grabbed Monique's wrist before she moved any farther up his leg. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing she still had that effect on him.

  He pushed her onto her back and pinned her down with an arm across her chest. She squirmed to free herself, but she was no match for his strength. "Do you not want me? You know I want you," she said.

  His body craved the release of sex, and it would have been so easy to let Monique--this woman whom he'd been close to in every way imaginable--fulfill his desires, but all he could think of was Kat. He asked Monique to face away from him, and she reluctantly turned onto her side. "Go to sleep, Monique. I beg you. Just go to sleep."