Jessica gritted her teeth against his effect on her. They had been so close at one time. He had filled her life with his presence, his laughter, and warmth. He had made the entire household feel safe when he was home. It was difficult to sit across from him, thrown back to those days of camaraderie by his smoky voice, when she knew he was a different person now.
“My mother’s car had been tampered with.” Jessica blurted it out in a rush. She held up her hand to stop his inevitable protest. “Just hear me out before you tell me I’m crazy. I know what the police report said. Her brakes failed. She went over a cliff.” She was choosing her words carefully. “I accepted that it was an accident but then other accidents started happening. Little disturbing things at first, things like the fan on a motor ripping loose and tearing through the hood and windshield of my car.”
“What?” He sat up straight. “Was anyone hurt?”
She shook her head. “Tara had just gotten into the backseat. Trevor wasn’t in the car. I had a few scratches, nothing serious. A mechanic explained the entire thing away, but it worried me. And then there was the horse. Trevor and Tara ride every Thursday at a local stable. Same time, every week. Trev’s horse went crazy, bucking, spinning, squealing, it was awful. The horse nearly fell over backward. They discovered a drug in the horse’s system.” She looked straight at him. “I also found this in the horse’s stall, sticking out of the straw.” Watching his face she handed him the guitar pick with the distinctive design made for Dillon Wentworth as a gift so many years ago. “Trevor admitted that it might have been in his pocket and fallen out. That and other things were sent anonymously to the kids.”
“I see.” He sounded grim.
“The stable owners believe it was a prank on the horse, that it happens sometimes. The police thought Trevor did it, and grilled him until I called an attorney. Trevor would never do such a thing. But it felt wrong to me, two accidents so close together and only a few months after my mother’s car went out of control.” Jessica tapped her fingernail on the edge of his desk, a nervous habit when she was worried. “I might have accepted the accidents had that been the end of it, but it wasn’t.” She watched him very, very closely, trying to see past the impassive expression on his face. “Of course, the incidents didn’t happen one on top of the other, a couple of weeks elapsed between them.” She wanted desperately to read his blue eyes, but she saw only ice.
Jessica shivered again, experiencing a frisson of fear at being alone in the shadowy room with a man who wore a mask and guarded the darkness in his soul as if it were treasure.
“What is it, Jess?” He asked the question quietly.
What could she say? He was a stranger she no longer trusted completely. “Why did my mother come here and when?”
“Two days before her death. I asked her to come.”
Her throat tightened. “In seven years you never asked us here. Why would you suddenly ask my mother to travel all the way out here to see you?”
One dark brow shot up. “Obviously because I couldn’t go to see her.”
The alarm bells were ringing in her mind again. He was sidestepping the question, not wanting to answer her. It was too much of a coincidence, her mother’s visiting Dillon at his island home and two days later her brakes mysteriously failing. The two events had to be connected. She remained silent, suspicion finding its way into her heart.
“What else has happened? There must be more.”
“Three days ago the brakes on my car failed, too. It was a miracle we all lived through it. The car was totaled. Someone also has been phoning the house and sent old newspaper accounts of the fire to the children. That’s when the guitar pick was sent. The phone calls were frightening. That, along with the other incidents over the last few months, made me decide to bring them here to you. I knew they would be safe here.” She injected a note of confidence into her voice which she no longer felt. Her instincts were on alert. “Christmas was a natural, a perfect excuse should anyone question why we decided to visit you.” She had been so certain he would be softer at Christmastime, more vulnerable and much more likely to let them into his life again. She had run to him for protection, for healing, and she was very much afraid she had made an enormous mistake.
Dillon leaned toward her, his blue eyes vivid and sharp. “Tell me about these phone calls.”
“The voice was recorded like a robot’s voice. Whoever was calling must have prerecorded it and then played it when one of the twins answered. They said terrible things about you, accused you of murdering Vivian and her lover. Of locking everyone inside the room and starting the fire. Once he said you might kill them, too.” She could hear her own heart beating as she confessed. “I stopped allowing the twins to answer the phone and I made plans to come here.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“Only the police,” she admitted. She looked away from him, afraid of seeing something she couldn’t face. “The minute they realized Trevor and Tara were your children, they seemed to think I was looking to grab headlines. They asked if I was planning to sell my story to the tabloids. The incidents, other than the car, were minor things easily explained away. In the end they said they would look into it, and they took a report, but I think they thought I was either a publicity-seeker or the hysterical type.”
“I’m sorry, Jess, that must have been painful for you.” There was a quiet sincerity in the pure sensuality of his voice. “I’ve known you all of your life. You’ve never been one to panic.”
The moment he said the words aloud, her heart slammed hard in her chest. Both of them froze, completely still while the disturbing memories invaded, crowding in, filling the room like insidious demons crawling along the floor and the walls. A sneak attack, uninvited, unexpected, but all-invasive. The air seemed to thicken with the heavy weight of memory. Evil had come with the mere mention of a single word and both of them felt its presence.
Jessica did indeed know panic intimately. She knew complete and utter hysteria. She knew the feeling of being so helpless, so vulnerable, so stripped of power she had wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Humiliation brought color sweeping up her face and her green gaze skittered away from Dillon’s. No one else knew. No one. Not even her mother. She had never told her mother the entire truth. The nightmare was too real, too ugly, and she couldn’t look at it.
“I’m sorry, Jess, I didn’t mean to bring it up.” His voice was ultra soft, soothing.
She managed to get her shaky legs under her, managed to keep from trembling visibly, although her insides were jelly as she pushed away from his desk. “I don’t think about it.” But she dreamt about it. Night after night, she dreamt about it. Her stomach lurched crazily. She needed air, needed to get away from him, away from the intensity of his burning, all-seeing eyes. For a moment she detested him, detested that he saw her so naked and vulnerable.
“Jessica.” He said her name. Breathed her name.
She backed away from him, raw and exposed. “I never think about it.” Jessica took the coward’s way out and retreated, whirling around and fleeing the room. Tears welled up, swimming in her eyes, blurring her vision, but somehow, she made her way down the stairs.
She could feel Dillon’s eyes on her, knew he followed her descent down the stairs but she didn’t turn around, didn’t look at him. She kept moving, her head high, counting in her head to keep the echo of the long ago voices, of the ancient, hideous chanting from stealing its way into her mind.
When she reached her room, Jessica shut the door firmly, and threw herself, face down, onto the bed, breathing deeply, fighting for control. She was no child, but a grown woman. She had responsibilities. She had confidence in herself. She would not, could not let anything or anyone shake her. She knew she should get up, check on Tara and Trevor, make certain they were comfortable in the rooms Paul had provided for them, on either side of her room, but she was too tired, too drained to move. She lay there, not altogether asleep, not altogether awake, bu
t drifting, somewhere in between.
And the memories came to take her back in time.
There was always the chanting when Vivian and her friends were together. Jessica forced herself to walk down the hallway, hating to go near them, but needing to find Tara’s favorite blanket. Tara would never go to sleep otherwise. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. Vivian’s friends frightened her with their sly, leering smiles, their black candles, and wild orgies. Jessica knew they pretended to worship Satan, they talked continually of pleasures and religious practices, but none of them really knew what they were talking about. They made it up as they went along, doing whatever they pleased, each trying to outdo the other in whatever outrageous perverted sexual ritual they could envision.
As Jessica moved past the living room, she glanced inside. Black heavy drapes darkened the windows, candles were lit in every conceivable space. Vivian looked up from where she sat on the couch, naked from the waist up, sipping her wine while a man lapped greedily at her breasts. Another woman was naked while several men surrounded her, touching and grunting eagerly. The sight sickened and embarrassed Jessica and she looked away quickly.
“Jessica!” Vivian’s voice was imperious, that of a queen speaking to a peasant. “Come in here.”
Jessica could see the madness on Vivian’s flushed face, in her hard, over-bright eyes, and hear it in her loud, brittle laugh. She made herself smile vaguely. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wentworth, I have to get back to Tara immediately.” She kept moving.
A hard hand fell on her shoulder, another hand clapped over her mouth hard enough to sting. Jessica was dragged into the living room. She couldn’t see her captor, but he was big and very strong. She struggled wildly, but he held her, laughing, calling out to Vivian to lock the door.
Hot breath hit her ear. “Are you the sweet little virgin Vivian is always teasing us with? Is this your little prize, Viv?”
Vivian’s giggle was high-pitched, insane. “Dillon’s little princess.” Her words slurred and she circled Jessica and her captor several times. “Do you think he’s had her yet?” A long-tipped fingernail traced a path down Jessica’s cheek. “You’re going to have such fun with us, little Jessica.” She made a ceremony of lighting more candles and incense, taking her time, humming softly. “Tape her mouth, she’ll scream if you don’t.” She gave the order and resumed her humming, stopping to kiss one of the men who was staring at Jessica with hot, greedy eyes. Jessica fought, biting at the hand covering her mouth, a terrified cry welling up. She could hear herself, screaming in her head, over and over, but no sound emerged.
She struggled, rolled over, the sound of ugly laughter fading into terrified weeping. She woke completely, sobbing wildly. She pushed the pillow harder against her face, muffling the sound, relieved it was a nightmare, relieved she had managed to wake herself up.
Very slowly she sat up and looked around the large, pleasant room. It was very cold, surprisingly so when Paul had turned on the heater to take the chill off. Pushing at her long hair, she sat on the edge of the bed with tears running down her face and the taste of terror in her mouth. She hadn’t come back to the island with the sole purpose of keeping the children safe. She had come back in the hopes of healing herself, Dillon, and the children, of finding peace for all of them. Jessica rubbed her hand over her face, resolutely wiping the tears away. Instead the nightmares were getting worse. Dillon wasn’t the same man she had known seven years ago. She wasn’t the same hero-worshipping girl.
She had to think clearly, think everything through. Tara and Trevor were her greatest concern. Jessica flicked on the lamp beside the bed. She couldn’t bear to sit in the dark when her memories were so raw. The curtains fluttered, danced gently, gracefully in the breeze. She stared at the window. It was wide open, fog and rain and wind creeping into her room. The window had been closed when she’d left the room. She was absolutely certain of it. A chill crept down her spine, unease prickling her skin.
Jessica looked quickly around the room, her gaze seeking the corners, peeking beneath the bed. She couldn’t stop herself from looking in the closet, the bathroom, and the shower. It would be difficult for anyone to enter her room through the open window, especially in a rainstorm, because it was on the second floor. She tried to convince herself one of the twins must have come into her room to say goodnight and opened the window to let in some air. She couldn’t imagine why, it didn’t make any sense, but she preferred this explanation to the alternative.
She crossed the room to the window, stared out into the forest, and watched the wind as it played roughly in the trees. There was something elemental, powerful about storms that fascinated her. She watched the rain for a while, allowing a certain peace to settle back over her. Then, abruptly, she closed the window and went to check on Tara.
The bedside lamp was on in Tara’s room, spilling a soft circle of light across it. To Jessica’s surprise, Trevor lay on the floor wrapped in a heap of blankets, while Tara lay on the bed beneath a thick quilt. They were talking in low tones and neither looked at all astonished to see her.
“We thought you’d never come,” Tara greeted, moving over, obviously expecting Jessica to share her bed.
“I thought I was going to have to go rescue you,” Trevor added. “We were just discussing how to go about it since we didn’t exactly know which room you were in.”
Warmth drove out the cold in her soul, pushing away her nameless fears and the disturbing remnants of old horrors. She smiled at them and rushed to the bed, jumping beneath the covers and snuggling into the pillow. “Were you really worried?”
“Of course we were,” Tara confirmed. She reached for Jessica’s hand. “Did he yell at you?”
Trevor snorted. “We didn’t see any fireworks, did we? If he yelled at her we would have seen the Fourth of July.”
“Hey, now,” Jessica objected. “I’m not that bad.”
Trevor made a rude noise. “Flames fly off you, Jess, if someone gets you angry enough. I can’t see you being all mealymouthed if our own father didn’t want us for Christmas. You’d read him the riot act, probably knock him on his butt and march us out of his house. You’d make us swim back to the nearest city.”
Tara giggled, nodding her head. “We call you Mama Tiger behind your back.”
“What?” Jessica found herself laughing. “Total exaggeration. Total!”
“You’re worse. You grow fangs and claws if someone is mean to us,” Trevor pointed out complacently. “Justice for the children.” He grinned at her. “Unless you’re the one getting after us.”
Jessica threw her pillow at him with perfect aim. “You little punk, I never get after you. What are you doing awake, it’s four-thirty in the morning.”
The twins erupted into laughter, pointing at her and mimicking her question. “That’s called getting after us, Jess,” Tara said. “You’re worse than Mama Rita was.”
“She spoiled you rotten,” Jessica told them haughtily, laughter brimming over in her green eyes. “All right, fine, but nobody in their right mind is up at four-thirty in the morning. It’s silly. And it was a perfectly reasonable question.”
“Yeah, because we’re not in some spooky old house with total strangers and a man who might want to throw us out on our butts or anything like that,” Trevor said.
“Taking you off upstairs to do some dastardly deed we’ve never heard of,” Tara said, adding her two cents.
“When did you two become such smart alecks?” Jessica wanted to know.
“We talked to Paul for a while downstairs,” Trevor said when the laughter had subsided. “He’s really nice. He said he knew us when we were little.”
Jessica was aware of both pairs of eyes on her. She caught the pillow Trevor tossed to her and slipped it behind her back as she sat up, drawing up her knees. “He and your father were best friends long before the band was put together. Paul actually was the original singer for their band. Dillon wrote most of the songs and played lead guitar. He could play al
most any instrument. Paul played bass guitar, but he sang the songs when they first started out. Brian Phillips was the drummer and I think it was his idea to form the band. They started out in a garage and played all the clubs and made the rounds. Eventually they became very famous.”
“There were a couple of other band members, Robert something,” Trevor interrupted. “He was on keyboard and for some reason I thought Don Ford was the bass player. He’s on all the CD covers and in the old magazine articles written on HereAfter.” There was a note of pride when he said the band’s name.
Jessica nodded. “Robert Berg. Robert’s awesome on the keyboard. And yes, Don was brought in to play bass. Somewhere along the line, Paul picked up a big drug habit.”
Tara wrinkled her nose. “He seemed so nice.”
Jessica pushed back her hair. “He is nice, Tara. People make mistakes, they get into things without thinking and then it’s too late to get out. Paul told me he began using all the time and couldn’t remember the lyrics to the songs during their live performances. Your father would step up and sing. Paul said the crowds went wild. Paul was on a downward spiral and eventually the band members wanted him out. He was doing crazy things, tearing places up, not showing up for scheduled events, that sort of thing, and they said enough.”
“Just like you read in the tabloids,” Trevor pointed out.
There was a small silence while both children looked at her. “Yes, that’s true. But it doesn’t make the things they wrote about your father true. Remember, this was all a long time ago. Sometimes when people become famous too fast, have too much money, they have a hard time handling it all. I think Paul was one of those people. It overwhelmed him. Girls were throwing themselves at him all the time, there was just too much of everything. Anyway, Dillon wouldn’t give up on him. He made him go into rehab and helped him recover.”
The Wicked and the Wondrous Page 25