Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “What’s wrong, Cami love? Why, you act as if you’re afraid of me.”

  The girl took a seat as far across the room from Vic as she could get. When he moved closer, she seemed to cringe with fear.

  “Cami, what is it? Have I done something to displease you?”

  “That is not my place to say, m’sieur,” she answered subserviently. “Fiona said it is I who must please you. I fear I do not.”

  Vic was dumbfounded. “Whatever put such a thought in your head? Of course, you please me. You’ve given me new life and hope. Why, I couldn’t live without you now. Come here to me.”

  Meaning to demonstrate his words with immediate and passionate action, Vic swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply. No small velvety tongue crept out to stroke his, no gentle hands caressed his neck, no firm breasts pressed his chest. Instead, she held herself coldly away from him.

  “What is this—some new game?”

  In answer, she merely bit her lip and shook her head. He felt her go rigid in his arms.

  “Ah, acting the nervous virgin, are we?” He laughed, thinking the Cami he knew so well was truly playing a game that she hoped would amuse and arouse him. “I know exactly how to deal with you, then.”

  Swinging an arm down, he caught her behind the knees and hoisted her against his chest. “We’ll see who knows the best games, little love.”

  Vic took her straight to his bedroom where he quickly stripped off her gown. She quivered before him, trying to hide her nakedness with her hands.

  Seeing her futile actions, he threw back his head and laughed. “My God, Cami! You’re a delight!”

  Never for a moment did it dawn on him that she might be seriously afraid—not even when she backed away from him, her face pale, her small hands still attempting to cover far more than they were capable of hiding from his fierce, black eyes.

  “Come here to me!” he ordered, her “act” arousing him so that he could wait no longer.

  Slowly, she walked toward him, her eyes downcast.

  “Get on the bed,” he commanded gently. Trembling, she obeyed.

  Still fully clothed, Vic lay down beside her. He chuckled softly as he slipped his hand between her thighs. “You want games, my love? Well, let the games begin.”

  Ever so gently, his fingers played between her clamped thighs. Always before she had parted them for him at his slightest touch. But today she lay rigid, closed to his pleasure. When he bent to suckle her breast, no moans of pleasure issued from her pretty mouth, only a whimper.

  Vic began to wonder what she was about. He understood none of this. Their loving had been so perfect from the very start. Now, suddenly, Cami was as cold as New England ice. But the more she refused him with the stiff rejection of her body, the more he became aroused.

  He tried kissing her to softness, but met with no more success than he had encountered earlier. For an instant, he thought seriously of leaving—storming out of the room to let her know his displeasure. But why should he? It was his room and she was his lover!

  When he probed her gently with his fingers, she moaned softly. The sound fired his blood.

  “Since it seems you aren’t in the mood this afternoon, we’ll make it quick.”

  Vic sat up to free himself from his britches. At the sight of him, she gave a frightened cry.

  “Oh, please! It isn’t night yet. You never come until after dark. Must I fear the day as well?”

  Vic stared at Cami, stunned. Could this woman be the same loving, passionate, almost wanton mistress he had come to know over the past weeks? Why was she cringing there before him?

  “Daytime, nighttime, it’s all the same to me,” he said in a husky voice. “When love needs making, the time is always right.”

  He had to pry her thighs apart to gain entry. She made herself tight, tighter even than she had been their first time. She made no move to touch him, to kiss him, or overtly to deny him. She simply lay there as motionless and as passionless as stone.

  Disgusted that he would stoop to force her and confused by this new Cami, Vic spent himself quickly, then rolled away. When he left her, she was crying softly into her pillow.

  At the moment he closed the door, the sound of her crying still ringing in his ears, Vic decided what he must do. He’d been wrong about Cami. She’d put up a good front for him until this afternoon. But now he knew her darkest secret—the secret Fiona had hinted at. Obviously, Cami had put on a convincing act for as long as she could manage, but deep down she was cold. Cami could never be able to love any man.

  “So,” Vic murmured aloud with a sigh, “I’ll send her back to Fiona this very evening.”

  Frank’s hand moved. His fingers traced the frightened tears on Carol’s cheeks. She uttered a cry of relief.

  “Don’t cry, Cami. I’m sorry, my little darling. I do love you, you see, and I don’t want to send you away.” Frank’s voice was deeper than usual, not quite his own. And he was begging, pleading, his heart breaking. These were the first words he had spoken since they left the ball. Any words would have made Carol rejoice, but these confused her as well.

  “Frank, oh, Frank! Can you hear me? What happened?”

  The glassy look remained in his eyes. He turned toward Carol, but seemed not to see her. A haunted look crossed his face.

  He laughed aloud, seeming relieved at something. “So, it was a mere dream—more nightmare, actually,” he said in that same strange voice, yet a voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Carol. “Come here to me, little love.”

  Carol did as Frank said, sliding closer to him across the bed. His hands gripped her tee-shirt. He stared at the silver “Dollywood” logo across her breasts and chuckled. “What manner of camisole is this?” The next moment, he tugged it off over her head.

  Frank’s mouth on Carol’s breasts felt cool and wonderful. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  His hands went next to her jeans. “Britches?” he growled. “My Cami in britches?”

  Carol’s eyes shot open. She stared at Frank, only she wasn’t seeing Frank, she realized. His entire demeanor had taken on the likeness of Black Vic. Even the scar was there—left on Frank’s face by a ridge in the bedspread. Or was it?

  Carol trembled as Victoine Navar’s strong hands gripped her waist.

  “You women make this so difficult,” he complained good-naturedly. “Take these things off, won’t you, Cami? And don’t wear them anymore.”

  Carol obligingly slipped out of her jeans. Meanwhile, Frank—or was it truly Vic?—shed his clothes as well.

  Her heart thundered as he pressed his body close, drawing her tight against his erection.

  “Ah, that’s better, love,” he moaned, slipping his hand between her legs exactly as he had done the last time—that strange one-way coupling when Cami had been so cold.

  “You won’t turn from me again, will you?”

  “Never!” Carol answered in a voice choked with excitement and emotion. He was truly doing marvelous things to her.

  When at last Vic took Carol, it was a wondrous experience. It seemed she was being loved by two men—as if both Frank and Vic had done everything in their mingled powers to arouse her and then satisfy her. When the perfect moment came, Carol cried out in total, exquisite pleasure. Then her eyes closed.

  For a long time, they lay still in each other’s arms. Slowly, Victoine Navar ebbed away until only Frank was left in the bed with Carol.

  “What the hell…?” Frank’s voice jolted Carol, who had nodded off.

  “Is that you, Frank?” Carol asked dreamily.

  “Well, I should hope to God it’s me! I mean, we’re both lying here without a stitch on in my bed and I’m inside you. Who the hell did you think it might be?”

  This wasn’t going to be easy to explain and Carol knew it, but she vowed to give it her best shot. Quickly, she filled in the details of their departure from the ball and Frank’s strange state. She was careful to skirt any mention of Eileen’s gown. “You woke up talki
ng to Cami,” she told him. “You must have gone back without me, Frank. Just you and the real Cami and I got left back here.”

  “Yes,” he answered simply. “That’s exactly what happened. I remember it all now. It was awful, Carol!”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  Before he answered, Frank drew Carol into his arms and kissed her deeply. She copied his tongue strokes hungrily. When he released her, he let out a long sigh.

  “Thank God! You’re still the same, Carol. Only Cami has changed.”

  “What do you mean, Frank?”

  “I went back… yes!” he exclaimed. “First, Vic was at Fiona’s. He wants her to help him find his wife so he can get an annulment and take Cami to Paris to marry her there.”

  “Oh, how romantic!”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You see, when Vic got back to the house, Cami was different. She acted like she was scared to death of him. You know all those old tales about how Victorian women put up with their men only to get pregnant and how they really hated sex?”

  Carol nodded. “Yes, but I never believed a word of it.”

  “Well, apparently it’s true ’cause Cami sure didn’t want anything to do with Vic. She was as cold as frozen marble—made him feel like a real bastard for taking her to bed.”

  “But how could she act that way? She loves Vic; she adores him.”

  Frank’s dark eyes narrowed as he gazed at Carol! “When you’re there, she does. But I have a feeling that Cami—all by herself—is a far different woman. Carol, why did you ask if it was me a minute ago?”

  She shied away from his direct gaze. “You’re not going to like this, Frank.”

  “Somehow, I had a feeling I wouldn’t. But shoot. I can take it.”

  “You left first while we were dancing, but you were gone only a minute or two. Then after we got back here, you went away again. When you returned, you brought Vic with you. It was uncanny. You looked like him, you talked like him.”

  Frank leaned up on one elbow and stared hard at Carol. “You’re right. I don’t like this one damn bit! You mean he was here, in this very room?”

  Carol nodded. “Right here, in this bed.”

  Frank looked down. He’d spent himself and slipped out of Carol, but he’d still been erect and inside her when he woke.

  “Did he do what I think he did to you? Tell me honestly, Carol.”

  Biting her lower lip, she nodded.

  “I’ll kill the bastard!” Frank threw off the blanket and got up like he meant to go for his gun right then and there.

  Carol caught his arm and pulled him back to the bed. “Listen, it was you, Frank! I mean, you and I were the only ones in bed. He was here only in spirit. Somehow he hitched a ride back with you, but he’s gone now.”

  Frank put his face in his hands and rubbed hard. “Shit! This is crazy!”

  “I think I understand what happened, Frank,” Carol ventured. “If what you say about Cami is true, then Vic came with you looking for the Cami he knows, the Cami who is there only when I’m with her.”

  Frank thought for a minute, then nodded agreement. “Yeah! That must be right. And if it is, that means that Vic and Cami will never be happy unless you and I go back there and hold their hands. So I say, shove it! I’m sick of a bunch of dead people playing fast and loose with our lives.”

  Carol experienced a sudden sinking feeling. Frank was right and she knew it. They had no obligation to Cami and Vic. They had their own lives to lead.

  “Well, how about it, Carol? Don’t you agree?”

  “I guess so,” she answered half-heartedly.

  “Then that’s that! Case closed! Come here, you!” Carol shoved away from him. “No more tonight, Frank. It’s been a long day and, actually…” she paused, not sure if she should tell Frank the truth, then hurried on, “I’m kind of sore.”

  “Damn that friggin’ bastard!” Frank exclaimed, but he let Carol go back to her room for what little was left of the night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carol couldn’t sleep when she returned to her room. After tossing fitfully for a time in the dark, she sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. The first thing she saw was the green and gold shimmer of Eileen Longpre’s gown, thrown carelessly across the arm of a chair.

  Carol went over and picked it up, turned it around, and ran her gaze along the inside zipper seam. There it was, just as Frank had said, a small label, stitched in gold—“Cassandra Classics.” She dropped the dress as if it had suddenly burned her hands. Without turning around, she inched her way back to the bed and sat down.

  “What’s going on?” she asked aloud as if speaking directly to Eileen’s gown, or perhaps to Eileen’s ghost. “Don’t try to tell me this is a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything that happens in life occurs for a reason.”

  Her only answer came in the form of oppressive silence. Then far off in the distance—or was it far off in some distant part of her memory?—she heard the faint stirrings of harp strings.

  Carol sighed and closed her eyes, trying to block out everything. Why was life so complicated? Now that she had finally fallen in love, why was she being forced to do battle with man, nature, and the great unknown in order to hold that love?

  “Seems like it would be a simple enough matter,” she reasoned aloud. “Frank could have Eileen declared legally dead, which I’m certain she is. We could get married, go on a honeymoon, then come back to New Orleans and settle down to wedded bliss, maybe even have a couple of babies. My shop’s no problem—just close up and sell out.”

  But what of my problem, mademoiselle?

  The voice sounded as if it came from a man right in the room with her, but Carol’s senses and the gooseflesh rising on her arms told her differently. She glanced about just to make sure. She was alone. Besides, she knew that voice, and if that particular guy was here, it was most certainly in spirit only.

  “I don’t think I can help you, Black Vic.” Her answer was as calm as if she were carrying on a normal conversation with a normal person.

  You are my problem! the voice argued.

  “I’m not; Cami is,” Carol pointed out.

  But you are Cami!

  “No!” Carol cried. “I am not! Now, go away and leave me alone.”

  You will be alone soon, the voice warned. All alone!

  “What do you mean?”

  Only silence answered her. Carol shivered, seized with sudden panic.

  “Dammit, you answer me! What are you talking about? I’ll never be alone again as long as I have Frank.”

  My heart bleeds… The phantom voice trailed off into deep space, leaving Carol trembling with fear.

  She hugged herself and rocked back and forth on the bed like a frightened child. “I am not going crazy!” she murmured. “Somehow, all of this is connected. I won’t try to find explanations, only answers to why it’s happening to me—and to Frank. Poor Frank! I got him into this whirlpool of insanity. If I’d stayed in North Carolina where I belonged, he would have been okay.”

  But even as she said the words, she knew she was wrong. The mummy from the swamp had drawn Frank into this weird puzzle before he ever knew Carol’s name. And everything that had happened since that discovery was connected.

  “Everything!” Carol whispered. “Like a drawstring or a noose being pulled tighter and tighter by the minute. Cutting off air and light and breath.”

  Lost in her morbid thoughts, Carol realized suddenly that she was gasping, trying to gulp for air. Her vision blurred and everything in the room seemed to swim around until the lamps, the chairs, and Eileen’s shimmering gown lost form and substance and became no more than a stream of swirling color like a sidewalk chalk picture caught in the rain.

  Then, just as suddenly, the chaotic rainbow fused, forming a ghastly scene before her eyes. She saw a woman’s ghostly face—nothing else—only the face in light, swimming in a deep pool of darkness. Her green eyes were wide with terror a
nd tears made clean tracks down her dirty cheeks. Her hair was tangled and matted with sweat. Although Carol heard no sounds, she could tell the woman was screaming. At irregular intervals, her mouth opened wide and her features contorted in an awful grimace of pain and fear.

  In a momentary flash, Carol saw the rest of the woman’s body. Her clothes had been partially torn from her—shirt ripped, jeans zipper torn open, lacy pink panties showing through. She was bound tightly with rope, her arms behind her back. She lay twisted on the swampy ground.

  A sudden dark shadow dulled the brightness of the vision. Carol watched, unblinking, as a man’s bulk stepped between her and the silently screaming woman. He lashed out—once and then again. And each time he did, Carol got a fleeting glimpse of the tattoo on his right arm. Her stomach twisted. Her heart beat faster and faster.

  Sound, at last. Ugly, painful, horrible sound—the man’s fist smashing into the woman’s tender flesh. Then a surly, drunken voice: “Yell your head off, bitch! Nobody’ll hear you out here. Not even your shit-ass husband. After I do you, he’ll get his. But for now, it’s just you and me for as long as you last…”

  “Frank, help me!” The woman’s scream bounced off the walls of Carol’s room and echoed inside her aching skull.

  Closing her eyes as tight as she could, Carol covered her ears with her hands and ground her clenched teeth. “No more,” she moaned. “Please, no more!”

  After what seemed a very long time, Carol dared to open her eyes again. To her vast relief, the horrible scene had dissolved, but still the colors swirled, warning of more to come. Tentatively, she uncovered her ears. Blessed silence!

  Moments later, a new scene materialized—the woman again. But this time she was still, silent, as pale as death except for the garish bruises on her face, the blood trickling down her chin. Her green eyes still stared, but now with a glazed, unseeing look. The visionary “camera” drew back, giving Carol a wider shot. She gagged and snapped her eyes shut. The woman was gone. Only her head remained, dead eyes staring at the bloody patch of ground where her body should had been.