Unmasking the Shadow Man

by Debbie Herbert

  “The mafia? Here?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

  “Not on that kind of scale.” Her blue-gray eyes regarded him with a mixture of hope and wariness. How far was he willing to explain his undercover discoveries without knowing if she’d even believe his story?

  “The crimes in Baysville are localized, without ties to a larger crime ring,” he hedged.

  She tapped an index finger against her lips, considering his words. “Tonight’s shooting was no random robbery gone bad. And someone was after you on the drive home as well. You’re getting too close to the truth. Which is making someone very nervous.”

  Relief melted the twisted knots in his shoulders. Harper understood. “Exactly. It was a warning.”

  “But who...” She paused, studying his set face. “You can’t tell me. Probably not a good idea for me to know anyway.”

  “Knowledge can be dangerous.”

  The numbing injection at the wound site was wearing off, replaced by an itchy burning. Standing around arguing all night wasn’t what the doctor ordered. He ran a hand through his hair, silently giving in to the weariness.

  “You need to rest,” she said, taking him by the elbow and guiding him back to bed.

  * * *

  HE SETTLED INTO the warm cotton covers. Again, he sought her hand, and their fingers interlaced. Heaven help him, he could get used to this. To Harper’s sweet body beside him, making love to her every night and waking with her in his arms every morning. Dangerous, forbidden longings. Lethargy overcame his whirling thoughts, and yet one more thing needed saying aloud.

  “Thank you again,” he murmured.

  “It’s the least I could do after you believed in me when I reported that email threat. And for not believing Bryce when he hinted I was mentally unstable. Even if...well, never mind about that.”

  He was wide-awake now. Liam switched on the bedside lamp and leaned on an elbow, staring down into her troubled eyes. “Never mind about what?”

  “Shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. You’re not the type to let something go.”

  “So tell me then.”

  She sighed and ran a hand through her red tresses that pooled on the white pillowcase. “There’ve been more strange noises at the house. It seems to be getting worse.”

  Liam sucked in his breath. “There has to be a logical explanation. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “That’s what I used to think.” She laughed without mirth. “Either my house is haunted, or everyone is right about me. I’m a basket case.”

  He smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “I reject both those posits.”

  “Then how do you account for the weird noises?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

  Chapter Nine

  Daytime is safe.

  Liam had insisted on going in to work today, hoping to get a lead on the possible owner of the truck that had chased them last night, and she had her own agenda of things to do. Harper sprinted up the steps to her house.

  She felt herself grin, remembering her awakening next to Liam. If she’d thought their first kiss had been spectacular, it was child’s play compared to this morning’s toe-curling kiss. She bounded inside, 100 percent more lighthearted than when she’d left.

  First things first. Harper entered the basement and gasped at the change. Kimber’s crew had done amazing work. Every shelf, tool and box was gone, just as she’d requested. They’d even swept the floors and washed the high windows. Worth every damn penny. She promptly called her friend and invited her over for coffee. Just mailing a check seemed too impersonal.

  Harper proceeded upstairs and into Mom’s room. Today, she’d take all those packed-up boxes to Goodwill and check off another section of the house as completed. After more than a dozen trips up and down the stairs, Harper loaded up her car and then headed to the kitchen to start the coffee. The aroma of fresh-ground beans revived her flagging energy, and she happily pulled cups and saucers from the cupboards. There was a pack of chocolate chip cookies, not homemade but they would have to do. Kimber wouldn’t take but a couple of nibbles anyway.

  Tires crunched gravel, and she glanced out the window to spot Kimber emerging from her Town Car. She wore an expensive-looking navy pantsuit and the same tight, worried expression Harper had witnessed at their last meeting. What had happened to the bright-eyed, happy cheerleader from high school? Now she thought about it, Kimber’s temperamental descent had been gradual over the last few years. At first, Harper had attributed it to stress from building her real estate career and managing a large family. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Marital problems, perhaps? She and Richard always seemed so perfect for one another, so in love. But no one could ever know what went on with a couple behind closed doors.

  Harper threw open the front door with a welcoming smile, determined to cheer up Kimber. “Hey there, come on in.” She gave her a hug, holding it for an extra second before ushering her to the kitchen table. “You sit down and relax while I fix you a cup.”

  “I can’t stay long, I have an open house in less than an hour.” Instead of sitting, Kimber walked down the hallway, peering in rooms. “Looks like you’ve made progress clearing out the place.”

  “A room a day. That’s the game plan.”

  “So, by that rate, I take it you’ll be finished here within the week.” She returned to the kitchen and perched on the edge of a chair. A ball of nervous energy always ready to take flight.

  “More or less.” Harper set their drinks on the table.

  “Have you thought any more about my offer?”

  “I’m staying put for the time being. If I decide to sell later, I’ll let you know.”

  Kimber’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean? Don’t you need to get back to your job in Atlanta?”

  The sharp edge in Kimber’s voice caught her unawares, and she sipped her drink to consider her next words.

  “I’ve made arrangements, so everything’s covered in my absence.” Harper slid a check across the table. “Thanks for your help. I included a little extra money so you can tip all the workers.”

  Kimber stuffed the check in her designer purse, then sipped her coffee, her face pensive.

  “Is everything all right, Kimber? I mean, you don’t have to tell me the specifics if you don’t want to, but you seem a bit wound up. I’m concerned about you.”

  “Me?” She set down her cup with a decided thud, her brows drawn together. “I’m perfectly fine. Why would anything be wrong?”

  And yet, Kimber’s smile was brittle, and that sharp edge remained in her tone.

  Harper regarded her somberly. Kimber had never been one to confide if she were having problems. She liked everyone to think her life was perfect, that she could handle anything on her own.

  “I’m not trying to pry into your business,” she said gently. “It just appears to me like—oh, I don’t know—like you don’t have any joy in your life lately. You’re always busy or stressed.”

  Kimber sat up straighter, bristling with indignation. “I own my own business. Of course I’m busy. And you of all people should know how stressful that can be. Plus, I have a family and you...”

  “Don’t,” she supplied drily.

  To Harper’s surprise, Kimber’s eyes filled with tears.

  Harper grabbed a tissue and handed it to Kimber. “We’ve been friends a long time. You’ve seen me at my worst and took me under your wing from middle school on up. I’ll never forget that. So if there’s a problem and you want to talk, I’m always here.”

  Kimber blew her nose and sniffled. “It’s nothing. Just stress from trying to keep up with everything. Teenagers. A business.”

  Harper nodded sympathetically and waited for her friend to elaborate if she wanted.

  But Kimber stood, clu
tching her purse like a lifeline. “Can’t sit around all morning blubbering about my problems. Maybe one day next week you can come over to my place for a home-cooked meal. Richard will be glad to see you.”

  Harper doubted that. Richard was wrapped up in sports and motorcycles—two things she had no interest in. Not that she had anything against him or his hobbies—they just had nothing in common. And maybe she and Kimber didn’t, either. Not anymore.

  With a heavy heart, she walked her friend out to her car, where they exchanged perfunctory goodbyes before she returned to the house. Absentmindedly, she gazed out the window. A dreary pall fell over her spirits—until she thought of Liam and waking up in his arms. Harper straightened her shoulders. If he could go back to work this morning, she could do the same. From her research at the library, she’d garnered a list and phone numbers of Presley’s old friends to call. Not that she planned on spreading the news of her sister’s pregnancy, but she was curious if Presley might have confided in someone about her condition or problems she had with anyone.

  Filled with renewed determination, she sat at the kitchen table and began making the calls. Over an hour later, Harper surveyed her dwindled list and notes. A couple of names had been scratched through as out of service, but most of Presley’s old friends had been glad to reminisce about memories and old times. It cheered her that so many people remembered Presley with such fondness.

  She tapped her pen on the table, trying to determine what action to take next. The old grandfather clock loudly ticked away the minutes, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. Maybe she and Liam could brainstorm later about the next course of action. With any luck, he’d have a few names of black-truck owners to investigate.

  Decision made, Harper grabbed a container of shrimp scampi from the freezer and dumped it in a pan to heat up for lunch. This dish had been her sister’s favorite. If Presley was still alive, the two of them could enjoy it together. Unexpected sadness pinched her heart.

  A booming static infiltrated the quiet bustle of the kitchen. As if someone were in the next room and had switched on the TV or radio to an unclear channel. The fine hairs on her arm rose as she turned down the stove burner and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. She should go investigate. Yet her feet remained unmoving.

  It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She started to draw a relieved breath—see? All is well—when a stomp of slow, deliberate footsteps sounded from the basement.

  She wasn’t alone. Someone was in the house.

  Harper stilled, struck by a frightening paralysis. The kind she experienced in dreams when danger approached and she couldn’t run from an oncoming threat.

  The basement door rattled. “Go away,” she screamed, as though trying to reason with a ghost.

  At last, her feet unglued from the tiled floor and she crossed over to the cabinet drawer that held the cutlery. She picked up the largest, sharpest knife available and gripped it tightly.

  The stomping resumed, louder than before.

  Harper crept across the dining room floor. A quick glance out the back window of the property revealed nothing out of the ordinary. She inched forward until she faced the closed basement door. Again, the stomping ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

  What lay on the other side of the door?

  Her need to know overcame her fear of the unknown. One quick, deep breath and Harper grabbed the doorknob with her left hand and jerked it open.

  Cool, damp darkness awaited.

  “Anybody down there?” she called out. As if they would answer. But the sound of her own voice was reassuring in itself.

  Utter silence greeted her words.

  Harper licked her dry lips and slowly stepped down the first three steps. Leaning forward, she surveyed the dark, still shadows. Thanks to the work of the cleaning crew, little remained in the basement. No place for anyone to hide. No explanation for the clomping footsteps.

  She retraced her steps, careful not to turn her back on the darkness. Just in case. At the head of the stairwell, she shut the basement door, the sound of her own breathing loud and thick in the hushed house.

  There had to be a rational explanation. Though not a one came to mind. In the meantime, she’d go to the hardware store and buy a lock. It might be useless and irrational, but it would help her sleep at night.

  Harper returned to the kitchen and tossed the knife on the counter. The smell of burned butter had created a stench, so she turned off the stove and set the pan in the sink. Any desire to cook flew out the window. She wanted a break from being inside.

  Air. She needed fresh air.

  Harper went out the front door and into the yard, rubbing her arms. What the hell had just happened back there? It made no sense.

  Mrs. Henley emerged from her cottage across the street, bundled in a sweater.

  “Harper?” she called out. “What are you doing standing in the yard without a coat? It’s cold out here.”

  The nip in the air had nothing to do with her body’s involuntary shaking. Could she confide in Mrs. Henley?

  “I, um, thought I heard something inside the house, and it freaked me out a little,” she ventured.

  Mrs. Henley shook her head in sympathy. “Your mom used to say she heard noises, too. But like I always used to tell Ruth, it’s just the old house settling. Happens at my place all the time.”

  The news brought her up short. Mom heard weird stuff, too?

  “Did Mom say what kind of noises?” she asked. “Or mention if she thought the place might be haunted?”

  Faded blue eyes danced with mirth. “We used to joke about it. I’d mention that Fred—my late husband—had been rattling around my house the previous night, making a general pest of himself. Then Ruth would tell me if she’d heard anything at her place. It was quite the joke between us.”

  Harper grabbed a fistful of the hair whipping about her face. Too bad she could find no humor in the joke.

  Mrs. Henley laid a hand on her forearm. “Are you okay now?”

  “I have an idea,” she said, forcing joviality into her voice. “Would you like to come inside and keep me company while I make lunch? It would be a kindness.”

  As Harper suspected, her neighbor was delighted with the notion. She clasped her hands together at her chest. “Why, I’d love to. It’ll be like old times with Ruth. We spent many an afternoon chatting over coffee. Why we’d talk up a storm about the latest books and TV shows and...”

  Harper half tuned out the constant barrage of chatter. Had her mother humored the elderly widow by keeping her company, or had she really been lonely? Of course, she had been living all by herself. A guilty pang hammered her heart. She should have made an effort to visit more, to understand her mother better. Now it was too late.

  They made their way to the front door, and even with Mrs. Henley by her side, Harper felt the familiar foreboding as she reentered the kitchen and turned on the stove. As her neighbor chattered away, Harper heated the shrimp scampi with unsteady hands, ears straining for any unexplained noises or whispers.

  Of course, with a witness on hand, there wasn’t a peep out of the resident ghost.

  Chapter Ten

  The sight always depressed him.

  A cluster of dingy, sagging canvas tents and a few shelters that were nothing more than large strips of blue tarp hung between two trees. A huge campfire burned in the center of the vagrant gathering, and several men huddled over the warmth, the more fortunate holding sticks with hot dogs or other food scraps. The aroma was distinctive—burning oak mixed with roasted food and an unfortunate underlying note of rot. Empty tin cans, plastic jugs and other trash littered the outside edges of the tents. His mother would be dismayed to know that her brother had willingly chosen such a lifestyle, so Liam never filled her in on the finer details of the modern homeless living conditions.

  He’d read report
s estimating that over twenty thousand people chose this kind of fringe existence, but their numbers were dwindling and their culture drifting from the strict moral codes of the past. No one bemoaned this more than Gunner, who proudly claimed he’d jumped freight trains for decades traveling the country, although it was much harder now and at his age much too dangerous to continue.

  As usual, Gunner was the first person to greet him. Liam limped over and waved.

  “What happened to your leg?” Gunner shot a mostly toothless grin. “Did ya hurt yourself jumping the rails?”

  “Not hardly. I don’t have your physical agility,” he joked, holding out the bag of groceries he’d brought with him.

  The half a dozen other men scrambled to their feet and strode over, their faces pinched with cold and hunger. He knew all the regulars’ names now, Sam, Grady, Biff, Tick and Buster. It’d taken Liam weeks to gain their trust so they’d accept his offerings of free food. Pride could be found in even the most humble of men.

  Gunner doled out the provisions, equitably distributing the canned goods and other staples. The sandwich meat and bread he kept in the bag. “For supper tonight,” he declared to the men before facing Liam again. “You need to speak with me?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “Yeah. Let’s sit in my car a bit and warm up.”

  Once they were out of earshot of the others, Gunner cast him a worried frown. “So what happened to your leg?”

  “Bullet wound. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Just won’t be suiting up for work a few days.”

  Gunner gave a low whistle but said nothing else until they were safely ensconced in Liam’s car. “Any of this related to what happened to Larry?”

  “I feel sure of it. Proving that there’s a correlation is another matter.”

  “We’re starting to get scared. Baysville used to be a good resting spot, but now there’s talk among the guys of moving on. Maybe heading farther south, at least for the winter.”