One thing she did know, though, was that she was not spending another night in the house after this one. She’d leave this minute, except she knew negotiating that track down the mountainside in the dark wouldn’t be a sensible move, and she prided herself on being sensible at all times.
“At first light,” she told the horse, “as soon as it’s safe to ride, we’re out of here.”
This night, sensible or otherwise, she planned to sleep not one wink at all.
And when she heard, felt, sensed, a voice saying, “Come! I need you!” she fought it off with every erg of effort she could muster and strode back inside, locking the door firmly behind her.
Angus McQuarrie, lying beside his comfortably plump wife in his big, comfortable bed, in the warm, comfortable ranch house on the flat valley floor below Lenore’s cabin, heard the plea, too. He stirred, woke, and sat erect.
He stumbled from the bed, grabbed his pants and struggled into them. Reaching for his sweater, he knocked over a statue of Elvis, standing on the dresser. It fell to the floor and bounced, waking Jane, who rolled over and waved her hand in front of the light, turning it on.
“What are you doing?”
“Got to go out. I know where it is. I know, this time. I know!”
She picked up the glasses she had affected the day their first grandchild was born, declaring that she wanted to “look like a proper granny,” even though everyone, even in this old-fashioned little backwater, had corrective surgery each time their sight deteriorated in the slightest. Hell, he’d been lasered three times himself! Glasses got in the way. Through the thick lenses, Jane peered at the readout in the base of the lamp. “Angus, it’s after midnight. You’re not going anywhere. Come back to bed.”
His compulsion was too strong to withstand. “I can’t. I saw it.” He shook off her hand and tugged on his socks. “I saw the place. We’ll be rich, Jane. Rich, I tell you.”
“Oh, Angus, you’ve had that dream again, haven’t you?” Sounding weary, disturbed, she followed him into the kitchen, her voluminous nightgown flapping around her ankles. He shouldn’t have told her about the dreams of the last few nights. She believed it was nothing more than his crazy, life-long belief that there was gold just waiting for him up in the mountains, if only he could figure out where to look. “There is no mother-lode,” she insisted, “no gold. You’ve tapped on every chunk of rock in a hundred-klick radius. You’ve panned every stream for the past forty years. There is no gold in or around this valley.”
“There is. It’s there. There’s a cave of some sort. I have to go there. I’ll find the gold where I find the cave. Now let me go, Jane.”
He fought for possession of his hand so he could zip on his high-topped boots. “Jane!”
“All right, all right.” Now, she sounded resigned. “But have something warm to drink, first. You need your strength if you’re going prospecting in the middle of the night. And let me pack you something more to supplement your emergency rations. If I know you, you could be gone for days.” It was true. He had taken other prospecting trips and stayed away longer than he intended. And he knew Jane was right when she gave a puffing, annoyed sigh. “But don’t you realize it’s spring, now, with plowing and planting to do?”
Momentarily, he resented her disapproval. “Not this time, Jane! This time, I know where it is.” Angus closed his eyes for a second, swaying, seeing the vision growing sharper, clearer, until Jane clamped his hand to the back of a chair, steadying him. He looked into her worried, tired eyes, magnified by the lenses of her spectacles, and softened. “Jane...when I bring it home to you, you’ll see what a waste of time trying to wrest a subsistence from the soil of this valley has been. No more plowing. No more planting. No more working ourselves into our graves.”
“Come on, now,” she argued gently, as if he were sick. “It hasn’t been such a bad life, farming here, has it? Just sit down for ten minutes. The gold will wait, and you need food and drink.”
At the thought of food and drink and the strength it would impart, he felt the terrible pressure to move abating, easing just enough that he gave himself permission to sit, to watch her make a big pot of tea. “Yes,” he said. “Food. Drink.”
She set a mug of tea before him and when he picked it up and sipped, found it strong and sweet and creamy, just the way he liked it. He slurped. She served him big wedge of homemade chocolate cake and handed him a fork.
“You get outside of that, then if you still feel like going for a hike, I’ll cook you a proper breakfast and make some sandwiches to take along. Is your emergency pack up-to-date?”
Angus nodded, and ate, then started gulping his second cup of tea as the scent of frying ham filled the kitchen.
Nancy Worth’s eyes popped open so fast she thought her lids might suffer whiplash. “What?” she said, peering into the dim light shining through the bedroom door from the bathroom. She always kept a light on a night—a habit left over from when her mother lay sick and often needed her help. She realized she was sitting erect, her heart thundering hard. Not a great one for self-analysis, she wasn’t quite sure if it was fear or excitement that had brought her so thoroughly awake.
I...need! I...need! The words somehow impressed themselves on her consciousness. What did she need? Not to go to the bathroom. Not to see Peter. Not food but...A drink of water.
She tossed back her light throw and stumbled from her bed, bare feet slapping on the warmth of the floor as she headed for the light beaming from the bathroom across the hall. There, not even bothering with a glass, she put her mouth under the faucet and gulped greedily. At last, standing erect, she wiped her wet face with the end of a towel, gripping the front of the sink with both hands, almost gasping for breath.
Come. Come to me. It seemed that a voice implored her from...somewhere. Where, she didn’t know, couldn’t know, but in that voice there was a hint of some kind of promise. She swayed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, struggling to understand what that promise might bring her. It was that which made her heart pound with excitement, excitement mingled with not a little fear.
For one brief instant, she flashed on a scene she had envisioned before, a cruise ship on a sea so blue it hurt the eyes to gaze upon it, on islands she suspected were Grecian, though she had never once been to Greece. She had never been anywhere, but if she obeyed the dictates of that voice imploring her to seek, to find, she would behold the wonders of Greece, she would know the magic of seeing her dreams come true.
She opened her eyes and turned, strode from the bathroom of the safe, boring home she had shared for so long with her parents, but now shared with no one and nothing but her fantasies. Leaving it behind, she stepped outside into the night, following, following, following...she knew not what, but knew with as great a conviction as she knew her own name, that she had no choice.
Chapter Three
“COME TO ME!” THE cry was urgent. It echoed through the empty room. Lenore started, dropped her crochet hook atop her work and stared at the familiar room, walls she had known and on occasion, helped scrub, helped paint, helped hang pictures on. “Lenore! Come!”
This time, there were no sensual overtones. There was no physical touching, no heart-stopping seduction. And this time, it was no dream-time fantasy; she was fully awake, fully aware of who she was, where she was.
She was also fully, totally terrified.
All the hairs on the back of her neck stood erect. Every follicle on her arms and legs prickled. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, at the chintz sofa and chairs, at the pot-bellied heater where flames licked behind the glass door. She strained her eyes, looking for shadows on the walls, shadows that did not match the shapes of the old, comfortable furniture, shadows she did not cast herself.
There was nothing that did not belong, besides the voice, still echoing.
In her ears? Or in her head?
“Who are you?” she demanded, shooting to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Where are you? What do you w
ant from me?” Oh, God, what am I doing? I don’t believe in ghosts!
“Jon. I am Jon,” came the reply. Again, her eyes shifting rapidly, nervously, she sought substance to put behind that voice, tried to determine the direction from which it might have come, something, anything, on which to focus.
“Do not be afraid. I am Jon,” the voice came again, soothingly this time, deep, resonant, vitally masculine. “You know me.” Once more, she wondered if the words had been spoken aloud, or had they simply sounded in her mind?
Wherever the voice came from, whatever its means of transmission, with it, with the latest utterance of his name, came an odd lessening of her fear, and then, as suddenly as it had arisen, it was gone.
She smiled. A sense of serenity flooded her. Yes. He was Jon. She knew Jon. She trusted him. His name held the promise of union—and more. It offered love—love in the purest, most spiritual sense, love in the most carnal sense, love in every way that love could be offered, and she yearned for it, all of it, every aspect, every nuance, with him.
The very air, holding the sound of his name, offered a pledge of what their joining could bring. She smiled dreamily as she cupped her hands over her lower belly as if to cradle, to hold safe, the treasure that was not yet granted, but would be, but only if she—
“I need you,” he said again, the sound of a whisper on the wind. “You must come. We have great need of each other.”
“Yes,” she said aloud, taking a step toward the door. “I must come to you.”
The sound of her voice in the stillness of the room shocked her. She fought, suddenly, to dispel the aura of rectitude and strength and potency that had surrounded her, the sense that if she were with him, all would be well.
“No!” she cried.
She rejected, violently, the notion that all the love, all the goodness, all the fulfillment she had ever wanted could be had if she would only reach out and take. Reach out to Jon. It was never that easy. All was not well. All would not be well. All of this was crazy, and she was determined not to be a crazy woman.
She was Lenore Henning, CPA, daughter of Winston Henning, who owned so many lucrative businesses she had lost count. She was...
Empty...barren...loveless. She ached with the pain of the words.
Had she uttered them? Had he?
“Go away!” she shouted. “You’re driving me crazy! You—” she broke off with a sob that was half-laugh. Dammit to hell and back! Sane people did not have conversations with phantoms! Nor did they want ghosts to...to mate with them. Love them. Impregnate them.
“Go away!” she cried again, pressing her hands to her ears so hard she heard the blood rushing through her veins.
“I cannot.” The words came over the sound of rushing blood. In her head. Around her. Outside her and inside her, tugging at her, drawing her away from safety, security, sanity. “Please. You must come to me. Much is at stake.”
This was impossible. It was irrational to believe it could be happening. She was wide awake, and hearing voices. Still, something compelled her to ask, “Where are you?”
Into her mind flooded a picture, an image half-forgotten, of a day when she and Caroline, teenagers hiking, exploring, had been caught by an unexpected summer storm sweeping down the flank of the mountain. They had sheltered in a cave from rain that had become hail, then sleet, and rain again before the storm moved on.
A cave where a bronze-skinned man with tawny, dark-gold hair had lain naked on a low shelf of rock. She shook her head, confused. The image floated before her, tantalizing, filled with richness, Jon’s face before her, green eyes overflowing with incomparable love, compassion, and assurance. And the promise...oh Lord! The promise in that look...
“No,” she whispered and shook her head again, trying to dispel the apparition. As it went, it was replaced by the sensation of a hand on her back, gently urging her forward.
“Stop,” she said, stumbling across the braided oval of rug, tripping on the heap of orange, cream and brown material of her half-completed afghan. She looked down at it, at the gray metal crochet hook lying in the middle of the pile. Seeking to center herself in reality, she clutched the side of a china cabinet in one hand, the frame of the doorway in the other. Inside the cabinet, cut crystal wineglasses rattled in time with her trembling. Bone china cups quivered before their upright saucers. On the floor, the zig-zag pattern of the afghan danced before her eyes, but the cave, and the man, were superimposed upon them like a bad holo image.
Energy flooded her, along with a sense of rightness, a conviction that this was something she couldn’t not do. Why did she hesitate, resist? It was so foolish, so futile it was almost laughable. She wanted him. No, it went deeper than that. He had what she required to continue to exist. It was only he who could provide. He, her mate, the other side of her soul. She could taste the need in the back of her mouth, feel it deep in her bones. It hammered in her blood, throbbed in her womb.
Still, with the part of her she could control, she fought his power. “The cave was empty that day,” she said, tasting tears and knowing they were her own. “You were not there. No one was there! I can’t be dreaming you because you were not there.”
“I am...now. You know I am. You are not dreaming. You know you must come. Your needs, and mine, must be met. It is the way of life. Without that, there can be only...death.”
The picture flickered, like a poorly received satellite signal, then solidified, became real, almost tangible, clearer than even the most flawless hologram. He appeared to be sleeping. His bare chest, hairless, firmly muscled, rose and fell slowly. Too slowly? Alarm flared within her. A seep of reddish brown fluid spread on the rock below his left side. His hair, she saw as he tossed his head as if in fever, was also caked with blood. One leg hung half off the ledge, obviously broken, foot twisted at an odd angle. His penis lay in a limp curve, shadowy, nested in darkly golden hair, but for all its flaccidity, she knew its potential and trembled again. Around his neck was a necklace of some gleaming substance she could only guess at. It appeared to be composed of beads of...light?
With supreme effort, she shoved the vision away and it vanished again.
A sense of terrible, soul-destroying loneliness overcame her, sending her back to her chair with a sob of anguish. She had rejected him, turned her back, and he would die. Love would die. Her child would never be. Life...what promised to be life, would drain away, leaving an open, empty shell from which poured an unending stream of grief as black as night, as red as blood, as foul as bile.
“Must I die, then?” the voice said, again a mere whisper of tones, as if the words had been carried on the wind. Resignation tinged its emotional content. Regret. A deep sense of failure. Unendurable loss. “Must we all die? Must Zenna?”
His torment was her torment. It flooded her, choked her. It was more than pain, more than fear, and then suddenly, resignation was overridden by another surge of urgency, mingled with a feeling of deep concern for...someone? Zenna...his...sister? And responsibility. Determination that he would make her understand. That she know the cost, should he be left to die, know it, feel it as intimately as he did.
“In death, I will be unable to reassemble my... Reassemble what? Was it a word? If so, it was not one she could immediately identify, not one whose sense she could fully comprehend, but it was important, no, more than important, vital that someone...something...a situation be rectified. The burden lay heavy on her heart.
“Help me or I will die. The...she/they/it will die.” This time, a sense of eight individuals connected as one, like a circle of skydivers she had once seen, hands joined, descending through the air like a sixteen-point snowflake. This joined group of eight was not physically linked, though. Their confederation went much deeper than that. But how? And why? And who? “Come to me. Come to me and you will understand all. Lenore, I beg your assistance.”
So intense was the plea that Lenore found herself back on her feet, found her feet walking toward the back door. Her hand lift
ed, turned the knob, pulled the door open and she stepped out into a frosty night.
The cold ground against her bare soles brought her back to her senses.
“No,” she said, and fought the strong tugging, the powerful insistence that she move forward despite herself. One foot lifted. It planted itself another step away from the house, away from safety, away from warmth. The other followed.
Again, she resisted. “No. I must dress. I will freeze if—”
The wrenching need to move onward, into the blackness of the forest, to go to the cave, continued to assault her mind, to power her body, but she fought it with all her strength while the outer compulsion battled back.
Swaying, she remembered what he could give her, what he had promised, and knew that his pledge was true. She had only to keep walking, to go to him and he would release her from the terrible need she had suffered for so long.
But...a small part of her that remained her own knew that if she did it now, in this way, they would both die. They would...all? die.
“I will come to you. I will,” she vowed, weeping in her effort to resist the influence of his need, of her own. “But let me go, first. I need...things.”
“You will come,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but a conviction, and she felt his relief, his satisfaction and gratitude and joy. It danced in the air around her, vibrated on her nerves like a bow on violin strings tightened to near-breaking point. The very air seemed to shiver with his emotion. “You will!”
“I will,” she said as she let acquiescence flow through her, out of her, flow into him. There was no point in fighting it any longer. He needed her. And she—Oh, how she needed him! What he had, what he could give. What he would give.
The mental force eased its grip on her. She turned, rushing back into the house.
“But hurry,” the faint voice whispered in her mind. “Hurry...Help me.”
Time seemed to slow for Angus McQuarrie as he sipped his hot tea and listened to the sizzle of ham in the pan, the sharp cracking sounds of breaking eggs. As Jane punched the toaster into action, the urgency to find that cave, to discover the gold Angus knew would be in it, dwindled but not completely, leaving him feeling confused, unsettled, as if he were being torn by forces he couldn’t understand.
Whispers on the Wind Page 3