Vision of Darkness (D.I.E. Squadron Book 1)

by Tonya Burrows

“I’d like to do a séance,” Pru added.

  “Youse two knock yourselves out,” Alex said and pulled out his cell phone as he headed toward the front door. “I have some calls to make.”

  Pru watched him go. “He gets so touchy whenever someone mentions the paranormal.”

  Nick looped an arm over her shoulder and gave her a friendly squeeze. “No worries. He has…issues.”

  She had to laugh, remembering Alex’s response when she’d said the same thing about herself. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “True enough,” Nick agree with a smile that had the slightest hint of sadness to it. “That’s true enough.”

  ***

  Alex paused on the front porch, drawing a breath of the brisk evening air. The lighthouse beam flashed across the quiet lawn at regular intervals, reminding him of a spotlight in a prison yard seeking out potential escapees. He had the odd sensation that if he ran out across the lawn he’d be gunned down by unseen guards, and the even odder sensation that he was being watched. Through the window, he could see that Pru and Nick were deep in conversation, probably talking about that damn séance idea, not paying attention to him. Nobody else was around. The night was still and silent enough that he could faintly hear a rock-n-roll band playing at Buzzy’s, the only bar in town, which was nearly four miles down the road. If a living being were watching him, he’d hear it breathing.

  Living being?

  Hah. He was letting Pru’s beloved ghost stories go to his head. He snorted and dropped into the creaky Boston rocker on the porch, flipping open his cell phone and jabbing out Our Lady of the Incarnation’s number. Romano hadn’t called him about Theo’s condition as the nurse he talked to this morning had promised. If the doc wasn’t in—which, given the time, he probably wasn’t—then Alex would get his private number. He deserved to have some answers, and couldn’t shake the feeling that Romano had purposely ignored his call.

  A different receptionist answered, not as chirpy. She put him on hold and he listened to the same elevator music for five minutes. He pushed his feet against the floor, starting the rocker. Waited another three minutes. Just as he was about to hang up, Romano answered.

  “Alex.” His voice dripped with forced cordiality. “I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you.”

  Yeah, right. “I want to know how my brother’s doing. The nurse I spoke to this morning insinuated he’s not well.”

  A pause. Romano cleared his throat. “I’m afraid Theo’s condition is deteriorating. He’s alternating between manic episodes and catatonia. We’ve had to keep him away from the other patients and, unfortunately, we’ve had to restrain him on more than one occasion these past few days.”

  Alex leaned his head against the rocking chair and swallowed a surge of emotion. His big brother—who taught him to ride a bike and tie his shoes, who took care of him when their mother, too doped up to be bothered, left him cold and hungry—was deteriorating. Yes, there was a lot of bad blood between them, but Theo had always been a foundation for Alex. Even when Theo started showing the first signs of schizophrenia.

  Oh God.

  “I’d like to set up a meeting to consider our options,” Romano was saying. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  The screen door creaked. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw a woman walk across the porch and pause on the steps, staring to the left, away from him, over at the lighthouse tower. Pru? She had changed her clothes into a hideous waist-less green dress with puffy white sleeves, and a matching veiled hat obscured her face.

  “Uh, I’m sorry,” Alex said into the phone. “This isn’t a good time for me. I’ll call you back.”

  “We may not have much time,” Romano said. “During his manic episodes, Theo shows an increase in suicidal behaviors and thoughts. We try to protect him as best we can but, frankly, we’re not equipped—what if I came to you? Where are you? We really need to talk…”

  The doctor’s voice buzzed like an insect in his ear and he ignored it. Why wasn’t Pru still inside with Nick? And where did she think she was going in that ridiculous get-up, a costume party? Halloween was still a couple days away.

  “I’m sorry, I gotta go,” Alex said. “Please keep me updated. I’ll call you back to set up that meeting.” He jabbed the end icon on the phone’s screen and turned toward Pru. “Hey, what—”

  The porch was empty. He blinked and shoved out of the chair. Leaning over the railing, he scanned the quiet yard. Where the hell had she gone? He only looked away for half a second. Certainly not long enough for her to disappear, even if she ran.

  “Pru?”

  Silence.

  “Oh, I get it, the Green Lady. Very funny. Did that pisser Nick put you up to it?” The only sounds to answer him were his own heavy breathing and his heart pumping blood in his ears. He let out a nervous laugh. “Pru?”

  “She went to bed.”

  He about jumped out of his skin at the sound of Nick’s voice so close behind him. “Fucking A, Wolfy! Don’t sneak up on me like that. For christssakes, make some noise when you walk.”

  Nick shrugged without a hint of guilt in his smile. “What can I say? It’s the Lakota in me.” He leaned his forearms on the railing and gazed across the yard. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Myself.” The answer popped out too quick to be believable, but he refused to supplement it with an excuse.

  “Hm. You know what the Lakota say about men who talk to themselves?”

  “No, Nick, I don’t. Please, bestow on me your Indian wisdom.”

  “It means you’re brilliant or crazy. Or just very lonely.”

  Relaxing a little, he gave an abrupt, albeit half-hearted laugh. “I vote for brilliant.”

  “Of course you do. Personally, I think you’re one lonely sonofagun, which brings to mind a question. Why would you be lonely with a woman like Pru around?”

  “Same old Nick,” Alex said with a note of resignation. “You still go right for the jugular.”

  “It’s the Lakota in me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Should’ve known Nick would say something about it. The big guy wasn’t one to let go of something easily, especially after latching on, and he’d latched on to the sexual undercurrents like his namesake would a prime cut of meat. “It’s a complicated situation.”

  “So uncomplicate it. Pru’s your type, Al.”

  “I have a type?”

  “Yup. Smart, but a little naïve. A woman in crisis. You like to be the hero.” He cocked a brow. “Plus, you’ve always been an ass man and whew, she has one for the books. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself—”

  Alex saw red. He grabbed Nick by the fringed jacket, slammed him against the side of the house. “You look at her ass again and I’ll kick yours back to Montana.”

  Nick grinned at him until the haze cleared from his vision and he backed up a step, cursing under his breath.

  Yeah, he’d just been played like a flute.

  He gritted his teeth. Goddamn manipulative bastard. “You’ve been here less than three hours and you already have it all figured out.”

  Nick paused halfway down the porch steps, his gaze traveling to the left side of the property, over to the lighthouse tower. Like his four-legged namesake, he stood frozen for a second, head tilted as if listening to something only he and Triton, who had trotted out onto the porch after him, could hear. His mother was a half-breed Mexican, and his father a full-blooded Sioux, but sometimes Alex had to wonder if the man actually was part wolf.

  Finally, Nick’s eyes narrowed a fraction and he shook his head. “No, I don’t have it all figured out. I know you don’t believe, Alex, but there’s something bad here. A negative energy. On the bright side, it seems to be gone right now.”

  “Always a silver lining with you, huh?”

  “It’s the Lakota in me.” He jogged down the last few porch steps, his boots making no sound on the creaky wood. He told Triton to stay with a move of his hand. “But seriously, I�
�d forget whatever mission you’re on, pack up Pru and that adorable mutt of hers, and get outta dodge before somethin’ real bad happens. If I didn’t owe you for savin’ my life, I’d say hell with this place and be on the first plane back to Montana.”

  Alex scoffed and settled back into the rocking chair. “So you expect me to run away from something I can’t feel or see—”

  “You can so feel it, Al. You’re just ignoring it.”

  “—with my tail tucked firmly between my legs?” he continued as if Nick hadn’t spoken. “Is that more Indian wisdom?”

  “Nah.” He tossed a roguish grin over his shoulder before climbing into his truck. “That’s the white man in me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Silas, come to me.

  The whisper echoed inside his dreams, like the hiss of a snake. Alex jolted awake, his eyes popping open to the emptiness of the guest room. His T-shirt clung to every contour of his chest and a headache beat on his brain at his temples.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  In the light offered every twenty seconds by the beacon, he squinted at the room. Somehow he expected that it had changed, but nothing was moved as far as he could tell. His clothing was still in a pile where he left it when he changed for the night. The can of beer he’d been drinking before he fell asleep was still sweating on the end table, leaving tears of condensation on the open book of ghost stories Pru had suggested he read. He swung his feet to the cool floor and closed the book with a definitive slap of his hand. No more mixing beer with ghost stories before bed for him.

  Scrubbing his face with his palms, he waited for the lighthouse beam to flash through his room again and then checked his watch. It was a little after five in the morning and still black as the devil’s heart outside his window. He groaned. Sleep, a solid eight-hours of uninterrupted zzz’s, would be awesome.

  Ah, well. He was awake now and not going back to sleep any time soon judging by the twitchy unease skittering along his skin. Might as well check and make sure everything was still locked up tight.

  Alex grabbed his gun and his back-up piece from their hiding spots. He ghosted down the hallway, checked the small window in the bathroom—closed and locked—and the bigger one at the top of stairs—also locked.

  Your paranoia will be the death of you, inner cynic said.

  Yup. No doubt about it.

  In the living room, he paused and glanced at the closed pocket doors of Pru’s room. Should he knock and make sure she was still there and—No. That was his paranoia talking again. Since all the doors and windows were still secure, there was no reason to disturb her sleep.

  Alex crossed the living room, back to the foyer to check the front door. Locked. He strode through the bare dining room to the kitchen. No explosion. He still half-expected one every time he pushed through the door.

  He studied the unmarred frame and his throat closed up. If the fire had been real, Pru would be dead now. Why did that thought rip holes in his heart?

  You care about her in ways that you won’t understand until you look at her fifty years down the road and still see what you see in her today.

  Grandma Mae was right. He couldn’t understand what attracted him to Pru Maddox. His attraction to other women always started from a mutual love of sex, but the sex always got old and he’d find himself looking elsewhere for something he couldn’t begin to understand, nevertheless name. Was that what was happening now?

  He gazed out the window over the kitchen sink, scanning the darkness as if looking for answers in the beacon in the backyard. He saw nothing but a flash of light severing the gathering morning fog. With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at tired eye sockets with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  Alex whipped around, a sense of guilt all but body slamming him, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Just staring out the window and … fantasizing … about her. That wasn’t necessarily wrong.

  Was it?

  Maybe a little creepy, he decided. Definitely not wrong.

  With Triton faithfully by her side, Pru stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing only an oversized T-shirt that skimmed to mid-thigh. Her nipples, hardened by the winter nip in the air, poked through the cotton fabric and yep, his fantasies solidified into something concrete, the beginnings of an erection that he hoped like hell his flannel pajama bottoms were baggy enough to hide.

  He had to clear his throat to find his voice. “No, I couldn’t sleep. What with everything that’s happened, every sound I hear, I think—” He met her curious blue gaze and shut up. She probably thought he was paranoid or afraid of the dark or both. Forget that the old lighthouse did put his teeth on edge and gave him chills. Forget that there was plenty of reason to be paranoid if Sully’s little green pygmies were out there plotting his doom. He’d rather castrate himself with a rusty spoon than let her think he was a pansy-ass.

  “I mean, I know it’s probably the old foundation settling.”

  “Mm, yes. It can be disturbing.” She gave a small, placating smile, as if she knew his manhood was at stake, and crossed the kitchen, her socked feet making no noise on the floorboards as she made her way to the fridge. Triton was right on her heels, pausing for only a second to rub up against Alex’s leg. “Since you’re up, how about breakfast?”

  “You’re not going back to bed?” As she began brewing a pot of coffee, he realized her black hair, tousled around her shoulders, bespoke of her own restless night.

  “No. Tri and me, we’re early risers, aren’t we, boy?” She again patted the dog and his tail wagged. “Besides, he’s excited now. No way he’d fall back asleep. He heard you snooping around out here and thought you were a burglar.”

  Alex eyed the dog, who wandered over to sit at his feet. Tongue lolling, tail thumping against the floor, Triton’s chestnut eyes stared up, full of adoring trust. “Oh yeah, a burglar wouldn’t stand a chance against this pooch.” He reached down to scratch the retriever’s ear and noticed the outline of a knife tucked into the back of Pru’s panties underneath the T-shirt. “That might deter them though.”

  “Oh, geez.” She turned her backside away from him and fished out the knife and its cover. Stout but sharp, it would certainly get the job done if she needed to defend herself. She placed the blade on the granite countertop.

  “It was a present from my ex-husband after a rash of break-ins in our neighborhood. He thought I needed some type of defense since he was away a lot at night.” She scoffed as she fingered the leather hilt. “He said he was working. Networking for the restaurant, but now I know better. He just didn’t want to feel guilty if something happened to me while he was out screwing one of his girlfriends. That’s where he was the night we got robbed. In bed with one of the toothpick Barbie Doll waitresses.”

  Alex let his gaze drop from the knife down her body. She was no toothpick, but he’d never liked his women with angles. He wanted curves and she had them in breasts just the right size to fit into his palm and a nipped waist that flared into wide hips to support that luscious ass. So supple and feminine, she made his mouth water for a taste of her, his hands itch to touch her skin, and his dick weep for a chance to sink into her softness.

  His voice came out rough. “Any man that would choose a toothpick over you has to be a complete idiot.”

  Man, why did you say that? Inner cynic piped up, faithful as always, ever ready to take him down a peg. Might as well just call her fat, dumbass.

  Pru’s brow wrinkled, but before she could say anything, he strode forward and scooped up the knife, testing it out. The grip was too small for his hand, made to fit a woman’s. “But I do have to give the man credit where credit’s due. A weapon’s a good idea, though I wouldn’t have chosen a knife for you. You have to be within arm’s length for a knife to do any damage and if you’re ever that close to an attacker, unless you’ve had the proper training, you’re probably already toast.” He stabbed the blade into the cutt
ing board on the counter and started to roll up his pant leg to reveal the ankle holster and the smallest of his back-up pieces, but stopped short. The last time she’d seen one of his weapons … Uh, yeah, probably better to give her fair warning.

  “Uh, I have a gun,” he said slowly.

  Pru leaned against the counter, crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m prepared for it now.”

  “All right.” He pulled out the revolver. “This is what you need.”

  She raked her teeth over her lower lip and eyed the thing like it was a venomous snake. “You know how I am about guns. I’m okay right now, but—ugh. I don’t know.”

  “You know that old cliché: guns don’t kill people; people kill people. It’s true, and if they don’t have a gun, they’ll find another, more vicious way. Believe me, Pru. It’s better protection than the knife.”

  After a second, she reached out and took it from him, turned it over in her hands. Relief flooded his system as she studied it for several moments without any hint of panic.

  “Isn’t it kind of small?” she asked.

  “It’s supposed to be. Only has five rounds, so you don’t want to be out there playing Dirty Harry with it, but at close distance it can kill and at intermediate distance it can cause enough damage to facilitate an escape.”

  “Have you … ever shot someone with it?”

  “No.” When her shoulders sagged with relief, he hated adding, “It’s not really my kind of firearm.” She didn’t want to know he preferred a M40 with a good telescopic sight and a target a couple thousand feet away, so he kept that lovely tidbit to himself.

  “Why keep it then?” she asked.

  “Sentimental reasons mostly.” He turned the Ruger in her hands so she could read the inscription on the barrel.

  Always the hero, huh? Typical marine. Semper fuckin’ fi.

  Alex could almost hear the words coming out of K.C. Archer’s mouth again and cleared his throat as a fist squeezed it hard. “You remember earlier today I mentioned my buddy K.C. who died in Iraq? He gave this to me shortly before he was killed.”