by Anne Stuart
She’d run into trouble if she did, he thought coolly. Because someone had killed the three girls. And unless that someone was him, the killer might strike again.
His vain hope that Sophie might be unaware of her mother’s wanderings was dashed when they came through the end of the pathway. The main building of the old Niles homestead was ablaze with lights, and he thought he could see her standing on the porch, peering out into the darkness. At least there were no police cars parked there. No cars at all except for the late-model Subaru that belonged to Sophie.
“Yoo-hoo, dearie, I’m back!” Grace called out in a cheerful voice. “And wait till you see who I’ve brought with me.”
“I’ll head back now,” Griffin said, trying to disentangle his arm from her surprisingly strong grip. “Your daughter will take it from here.”
“I’m not sure I can make it to the house,” Grace said in a quavering voice, suddenly sounding frail. “I’m very, very tired.” As if to convince him she started to sag, and he had no choice but to put his arm around her fragile body and help her up the small slope to the porch, cursing inwardly.
“What the hell have you done with my mother?” Sophie looked like an avenging angel there on the porch. She was wearing some kind of white lace nightgown that looked more like an Edwardian wedding dress than something to sleep in, and her hair was down. He hadn’t realized how long her hair was. It looked rich and warm in the overhead light, and he wanted to touch it. Her feet were bare, and she had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“Brought your wandering lamb home,” he said. “I found her in my kitchen half an hour ago.”
“Don’t you think it might have been a good idea to call me and tell me where she was before I got completely frantic?”
“Considering that I don’t know your phone number, my telephone isn’t hooked up, and my goddamned cell phone doesn’t work at the back end of beyond, I couldn’t very well call you, though I think it would have been an excellent idea. That way you could have come and gotten her instead of me having to traipse out in the middle of the night.”
Grace seemed to have mysteriously regained her strength, and she abandoned him, scampering up onto the porch with all the energy of her teenage stepdaughter. “I’m going to bed now, Sophie,” she said. “Don’t let me sleep too late—I’ve got things to do.”
“What things?”
“Oh, many, many interesting things,” she said. “And he didn’t kill anyone. He told me so.”
“Who did?” Sophie said sharply, but Grace had already wandered back into the house, humming happily.
“Me. She asked me if I was a murderer and I told her no.” He should leave, go back to bed, but for some reason he wanted to stand in the moonlight and look at Sophie in her ridiculous nightgown. Just for a moment.
And for some reason Sophie didn’t disappear into the house, chasing after her errant mother. She was looking at him warily, as if she’d accidentally come across a wild bear, but she didn’t back down. “I’m afraid that’s a remnant of when she was still…” She glossed over the word. “She loves to read true-crime books. I thought she’d stopped, but when I checked on her this evening she was reading one of her old ones. She probably can’t tell the difference between reality and what’s in the books.”
“Not the kind of fantasy world I’d choose,” he said. What the hell was he doing, standing there in the moonlight, talking to her? He had better things to do—Sophie Davis couldn’t help him with his search for the truth. She hadn’t even known of Colby, Vermont, twenty years ago. He needed to make his excuses, get the hell away from her. From inexplicable temptation.
“No, I like mine better.”
It was enough to stop his excuses. “Your fantasy world?”
She gestured toward the moonlit house. “Victorian values. Edwardian simplicity. Flower arranging and antique lace and wonderful food and everything just as it should be. I’m no fool, Mr. Smith. I know perfectly well I create my reality to suit myself, and it has nothing to do with the way most people live. I just happen to prefer it.”
“Prefer living in a dream world?”
“Dreams are usually much better than the real world.”
The wind had come up, blowing the long, lacy nightgown against her body. A good body, nicely rounded, just a bit plump, he couldn’t help but notice. An old-fashioned woman with hair that drifted away from her face in the soft breeze.
Not his type, he reminded himself. But for a brief, irresistible moment he wished she was. Wished he was the kind of man who could embrace this kind of life, instead of always living in the darkness. Wished he could simply climb up the steps to the wide front porch and pick her up in his arms, carry her to some fluffy, old-fashioned bed and strip that ridiculous nightgown from her lush body.
He wasn’t about to do any such thing, and he dismissed the brief fantasy automatically. “Dreams turn into nightmares,” he said. “And they can’t be shared.”
“You look like you know more about having nightmares than sharing them,” she said.
It was an odd conversation to be having with her, but she seemed unaware of it. A light in the house turned off, and he assumed Grace had finally gone back to bed. The bright half moon bathed the sloping lawn in silvery light. What would she do if he came closer? Would she turn and run?
Of course she would. And he wasn’t about to move any closer, to put his hands on her skin and see if it was as soft and cool as he thought it would be. He wasn’t going to see if she tasted of honey and fresh bread and wild clover. Even if he wanted to. He’d lost his innocence long, long ago and he’d never had a taste for it in bed. And as illogical as it was, he sensed that hardheaded Sophie Davis was, at heart, as innocent as a lamb.
He wasn’t in the mood to play hungry wolf, no matter how tempting.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he said, turning to go.
“I can’t.”
The quiet tone of desperation in her voice stopped him. He turned back. “Can’t what?”
“Can’t sleep,” she said with a rueful shrug. “For some reason I can’t sleep. Too worried, I guess. I’ve just been lying in bed, tossing and turning.”
Innocent, indeed. In another woman, in Annelise, for example, that would have been a come-on, pure and simple. Sure, darling, I’ll take care of you, wear you out so you can fall asleep. You just need a good man and a good fuck.
“They say worry is a waste of the imagination.” Go away, he told himself. Don’t stand here talking in the moonlight.
“Then I’ve definitely got too strong an imagination. Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”
He closed his eyes in exasperation for a moment. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he’d misread her, let that virginal nightgown convince him she was something she wasn’t. And maybe he wasn’t interested in fighting temptation, after all.
“If you drink coffee at this hour it’s no wonder you can’t sleep,” he said. “Or was that your subtle way of asking me to go to bed with you?”
Victorian virgin, all right. She reacted as if he’d slapped her, with shock and outrage. “You really do have delusions, don’t you, Mr. Smith?” she said, her voice icy. “I’m not interested in sex.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she stumbled. “Not with you, I mean. Someone else, maybe, at another time. I’m perfectly healthy, but I’m not the slightest bit interested…”
“Don’t tie yourself in knots, Sophie. I figured as much, but by the way you were acting I thought I might have been mistaken. Let me give you a little hint. Don’t stand on the porch in the middle of the night wearing only your nightgown, especially when the light behind makes the damned thing just about transparent, and don’t invite strange men in for coffee at two in the morning unless you’re wanting something else. People might get the wrong idea.”
Her mouth opened to say something, but she bit the words back. Nice mouth, he realized with belated regret. Very nice mouth, indeed.
“Go ahead and sa
y it, Sophie,” he said. “You know you want to, and you’re not going to shock me.”
“Fuck you.” No hesitation this time. She was furious, and he told himself he should be sorry he’d goaded her. He knew he wasn’t.
“I’ll come back when you mean it,” he said. If he’d been closer he would have kissed her, just to see how she reacted. Just to taste her mouth.
But she was too far away, up on the porch, and by the time he reached her she would have locked herself back in her inn, well out of reach, and he’d feel frustrated and foolish.
He hadn’t come here to waste his time with an uptight Victorian throwback. So he simply turned and walked back toward the lake path, half expecting her to hurl something at his departing head.
All he heard was the slam of the door behind him. And he had no choice but to admit he was damned sorry he wasn’t on the other side of that door, drinking her coffee, drinking her mouth.
He gathered his tools with the care and deliberation of a master craftsman. He prided himself on his work, and on the variety of his approach. It was part of his divine mission, given to him as a way to finish his task in this world of sin and grievous sexuality. He never killed the same way twice, and there were infinite ways to snuff out an undeserving life.
He had stabbed, slashed, garroted. Poisoned, beaten with his fists, hanged and drowned. Never the same, and the police had no way to track him down. The corrupt officials of the law had no idea how many women had died by his hand, their lives of filth and wickedness wiped out before they could ensnare another innocent.
He was running out of ideas, and he was a man who didn’t like to repeat himself. He’d thought he had finished with his quest, until the newcomers arrived at the old inn. And he knew he had one more task.
Flames, he thought. A purifying fire to cleanse the body, the soul and the spirit. The old Niles place would go up like tinder, and by the time the volunteer fire departments arrived from the neighboring towns it would be too late. No one would ever know it wasn’t the result of an old firetrap and an accidental cigarette from that young harlot. And if others died in the conflagration—well, there were always casualties in a holy war.
He’d pray for their souls.
7
Marty opened her eyes to the glaring sunlight, cursing. It was well before noon, and outside her open window the sun was hideously bright, enough to give her a headache. A great, growling noise had shaken her awake, the insistent buzz like some giant dentist’s drill, and she fumbled on the bedside table for her pack of cigarettes. Sophie had forbidden her to smoke in the inn, so Marty did her best to do so every chance she got. She encountered only an empty, crumpled package.
She shoved the covers away and stepped out onto the shiny wood floor. Everything was its usual blur—she pulled her glasses from the drawer and planted them on her nose, breathing an unexpected sigh of relief when the room came into focus. If Sophie would only let her have laser surgery to correct her eyes then she wouldn’t have to bother with her damned contacts. At least extended wear would have been an improvement, but she’d never been able to get used to them, so each morning she had to wear glasses until she was ready to emerge from her room. There was no way she was letting anyone see her without her contacts.
The horrible buzzing noise grew even louder, and she headed straight for the windows overlooking the side lawn. She grabbed the window frame, ready to slam it down to shut out the noise, when she saw the young man.
He was stripped to the waist, wielding a chain saw with deliberate power. For a moment she stared at him, mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath his tanned skin, the controlled strength of his movements, and she couldn’t breathe.
He must have felt her watching him. He looked up, but she couldn’t see his face beneath the shadow of the protective helmet he wore. She only knew he was looking straight at her as she stood in the window, dressed in nothing more than a baggy T-shirt, her hair sticking up, her glasses perched on her nose.
She jumped back, away from the window, just as the roar of the chain saw sputtered to a stop. There was no way she would edge back up to that window. For one thing, she wasn’t going to risk having anyone see her in her glasses, and if she took them off she wouldn’t be able to see a damned thing.
Where the hell was the plain, gawky boy who usually did the mowing and the gardening? He’d been of no interest whatsoever, and she’d decided she was doomed to an empty summer. Doubtlessly one reason Sophie had dragged her up here was the complete and total lack of good-looking boys. It wasn’t as if she was a sex fiend or anything. She just liked boys. A lot.
Things were definitely beginning to look up, judging by the muscular torso of the man outside. If only his face matched the body. She had friends who would have told her it didn’t matter, but she hadn’t gotten quite so jaded that she didn’t appreciate a pretty face. But she was working on it.
There were times when it seemed like Sophie had hired the most homely people in northern Vermont to renovate the old inn. This was the first decent possibility she’d seen in months, and she wasn’t about to let him get away until she got a good look at his face. Maybe he had cigarettes. Otherwise she was going to have a hell of a time getting new ones—Audley’s was very strict about selling to minors, and she hadn’t yet found someone to buy for her on a regular basis. People were so judgmental up here. It wasn’t as if they all hadn’t smoked when they were younger. Even her paragon of a sister.
Still, things were looking up. She passed Sophie in the hall on her way to the shower, and for once she didn’t growl when her sister wished her a good morning. Maybe, just maybe, Colby, Vermont, wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Maybe she wouldn’t need to run away.
Sophie opened the door as quietly as she could. Gracey lay sound asleep, tangled in her soft covers, her face oddly youthful in repose. It was no wonder—after her late-night excursion she must be exhausted.
What in God’s name had sent her to the old Whitten house? She’d never shown any interest in it before now. She’d shown no sign of wandering in the past—it was all Doc could do to tempt her to have dinner with him and his wife in their little village home. Normally she kept to her room or the front porch, staring vacantly, humming beneath her breath.
It would be an absolute disaster if her mother started taking off. The money was so tight that Sophie didn’t know where she could find enough to pay for a baby-sitter, and she couldn’t add anything to her already overwhelming responsibilities. She could ask Marty, but chances were Marty would agree sullenly and then forget all about it. And Sophie couldn’t bear the thought of her mother getting lost in the woods that circled the pristine lake.
Gracey was snoring softly—more like a faint purring sound than an all-out snore. There were books piled beneath her bed, and one lay open on the plain white coverlet. Sophie didn’t have to look closer to know it was one of those lurid true-crime books—the blurry photograph on the cover was unmistakable in the genre. She supposed she should be glad. It was the first time in months that Gracey had shown interest in anything at all. Even the gloomy and macabre were preferable to the dazed dreamworld she was floating in.
She’d have to tell Doc. He’d be very pleased—he was always telling her that Gracey needed to find new interests. In this case she was simply returning to her old ones, but at least she was reading, using her mind for something other than staring vacantly at the cool, clear lake.
Gracey stirred again, muttering something in her sleep, and Sophie turned and closed the door behind her, careful not to make any noise. At least while she slept Grace would be safe. But after last night’s wandering, she doubted she herself would ever get a good night’s sleep again.
She took her mug of coffee out onto the front porch, propping her skirted legs up on the railing as she looked out over the lake. There were early morning fishermen, and over near the Whitten place some wild ducks swam peacefully. No sound of the loons yet, and no sound of motorboats and jet skis. For now all was
peaceful and quiet, just the birds and the fishermen and the occasional kayaker slicing through the stillness of the lake. Gracey was safe in bed, and even Marty had been marginally pleasant this morning, a welcome change. For now she could just drink in the peace and quiet, safe and serene.
She closed her eyes, letting the scent and sounds wash over her. Then her eyes shot open again, as she realized what book Gracey had been reading.
Murder in the Northeast Kingdom. A lurid, sensationalized account of the Colby murders by a famous true-crime writer. Sophie hadn’t bothered to read it herself—Doc and the others in town held it in contempt as a lurid, inaccurate piece of trash. Obviously Gracey didn’t have any such compunctions.
Odd, though. When Gracey’s mind had begun to slip, soon after they moved to Colby, Sophie had gone into her room and taken the book out of her huge stack of paperbacks, planning to read it until Doc told her not to bother. Anything she wanted to know, he’d tell her, he’d said. Without the melodrama and emotion and the purple prose. So Sophie had dumped the book in the trash, and presumably it had been incinerated with all the other garbage.
So what was a copy doing back in Gracey’s possession? How could she possibly have gotten it, when nowadays she was only just capable of seeing to her own physical needs and not much more?
She should set down her coffee and sneak back into Gracey’s room to get the book. Her mother would never miss it—she probably didn’t even realize it took place in the same town, some of it in the same house. Or if she did, it was only on some subconscious level.
Maybe the so-called Mr. Smith had given it to her. She still couldn’t rid herself of the firm belief that he was something other than what he said he was. No tourist immured himself in a falling-down house in the middle of nowhere, no matter how beautiful it was. Colby and Still Lake were well-kept secrets, and almost everyone who ended up here could trace their arrival to a long-time resident. Mr. Smith had appeared out of nowhere, and she didn’t trust him.