Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Thank you. I appreciate the trouble.”

  They filed out, leaving the scent of chocolate cookies and floral perfume behind.

  “Not a dish in the cupboard,” Min muttered to the group. “Not a single dish. But she had beer in the refrigerator and plenty of it. Like father like daughter, I say.”

  “Oh, hush up, Min,” Gladys Finch said good-naturedly.

  Crazy Annie liked to sing. As a child she’d been a soprano in the church choir at First Lutheran. Her high, sweet voice had changed little in more than half a century. Nor had her skittish, uncomplicated mind.

  She liked bright colors and shiny objects. Often she would wear three blouses, one over the other, and forget underpants. She would crowd dangling bracelets on her arms and forget to bathe. Since her mother’s death twelve years before, there had been no one to take care of her, to patiently, lovingly fix her meals and see that she ate them.

  But the town tended its own. Someone from the Ladies Club or the Town Council dropped by her rusty, rat-packed trailer every day to take her a meal or look at her latest collection of junk.

  Her body was strong and solid, as if to make up for her fragile mind. Though her hair had gone steel gray, her face was remarkably smooth and pretty, her hands and feet chubby and pink. Every day, whatever the weather, she would walk miles, dragging her burlap sack. Into Martha’s for a doughnut and a glass of cherry fizz, to the post office for colorful flyers and occupant mail, by the Gift Emporium to study the window display.

  She moved along the roadside, singing and chattering to herself as her eyes scanned the ground for treasures. She stalked the fields and the woods, patient enough to stand for an hour and watch a squirrel nibble a nut.

  She was happy, and her blank, smiling face concealed dozens of secrets she didn’t understand.

  There was a place, deep in the woods. A circular clearing with signs carved into trees. It had a pit beside it that sometimes smelled of burned wood and flesh. Walking there always made her skin crawl in a scary way. She knew she had gone there at night, after her mother had gone away and Annie had searched the hills and the woods for her. She had seen things there, things that had made her breathless with terror. Things that had given her bad dreams for weeks after. Until the memories faded.

  All she remembered now was the nightmare vision of creatures with human bodies and animal heads. Dancing. Singing. Someone screaming. But she didn’t like to remember, so she sang and doused the memory.

  She never went there at night anymore. No sir, no indeedy, not at night. But there were days she felt pulled there. And today was one of them. She wasn’t afraid when the sun was up.

  “Shall we gather at the riiiv-er.” Her girlish voice drifted through the air as she dragged her sack along the edge of the circle. “The beautiful, the beautiful riiiv-er.” With a little giggle, she touched a toe inside the circle, like a child on a dare. A rustle of leaves made her heart pound, then she giggled again as she saw a rabbit scamper through the underbrush.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she called after him. “Nobody here but Annie. Nobody here, nobody here,” she chanted, dipping and swaying in her own private dance. “I come to the garden alone, when the dew is still on the ro-ses.”

  Mr. Kimball had the prettiest roses, she thought. He would pick her one sometimes and warn her not to prick her finger on the thorns. But he was dead now, she remembered. Dead and buried. Like Mama.

  The moment of grief was sharp and real. Then it faded away to nothing as she saw a sparrow glide overhead. She sat outside the circle, lowering her thick body to the ground with surprising grace. Inside her sack was a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper that Alice had given her that morning. Annie ate it neatly, in small, polite bites, singing and talking to herself, scattering crumbs for some of God’s little creatures. When she was finished, she folded the waxed paper precisely in half, in half again, and stored it in the sack.

  “No littering,” she mumbled. “Fifty-dollar fine. Waste not, want not. Yes, Jesus loves meeee.” She started to rise when she saw something glint in the brush. “Oh!” On her hands and knees, she crept over, pushing at vines and old damp leaves. “Pretty,” she whispered, holding the slender, silver-plated bracelet to the sunlight. Her simple heart swelled as she watched the glint and glitter. “Pretty.” There was carving on it that she recognized as letters, but couldn’t read.

  Carly

  “Annie.” She gave a satisfied nod. “A-N-N-I-E. Annie. Finders keepers, losers weepers. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.” Delighted with her treasure, she slipped it over her own thick wrist.

  “Nobody saw her, Sheriff.” Bud Hewitt set Carly Jamison’s picture on Cam’s desk. “I showed it all around town. If she came through here, she was invisible.”

  “Okay, Bud.”

  “Broke up a fight in the park.”

  “Oh?” Because he knew it was required, Cam looked up from his paperwork.

  “Chip Lewis and Ken Barlow trading punches over some girl. Sent them both home with a bug in their ears.”

  “Good work.”

  “Got cornered by the mayor’s wife.” Cam lifted a brow.

  “Complaining about those kids skateboarding down Main again. And the Knight boy gunning his motorcycle. And—”

  “I get the picture, Bud.”

  “She told me Clare Kimball was back. Got a garage full of junk and no dishes in the cupboards.”

  “Min’s been busy.”

  “We read all about her in People magazine. Clare, I mean. She’s famous.”

  “That so?” Amused, Cam shuffled papers.

  “Oh, yeah. She’s an artist or something. Makes statues. I saw a picture of one. Must’a been ten feet high.” His pleasant face screwed up in thought. “Couldn’t make out what it was. I dated her once, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, sir, took her to the movies and everything. That was the year after her dad died. Damn shame about all that.” He used his sleeve to wipe a smudge from the glass of the gun cabinet. “My mom was friends with her mom. Fact is, they were out together the night he did it. Anyway, I thought I might go by the Kimball place sometime. See how Clare’s doing.”

  Before Cam could comment, the phone rang. “Sheriff’s office.” He listened for a moment to the rapid, high-pitched voice. “Is anyone hurt? Okay, I’ll be right there.” He hung up and pushed away from the desk. “Cecil Fogarty ran his car into the oak tree in Mrs. Negley’s front yard.”

  “Want me to take it?”

  “No, I’ll handle it.” Mrs. Negley’s was just around the corner from Clare’s, he thought as he went out. It would be downright unneighborly not to drop by.

  Clare was just pulling into the drive when Cam cruised up. He took his time, watching her as she fumbled for the lever to pop the trunk. Hands tucked in his pockets, he strolled up behind her as she tugged at the bags and boxes heaped in the back of the car.

  “Want some help?”

  Startled, she rapped her head on the hatchback and swore as she rubbed the hurt. “Jesus, is it part of your job description to sneak around?”

  “Yeah.” He hefted out a box. “What’s all this?”

  “Things. I realized you need more than a sleeping bag and a bar of soap to survive.” She dropped two bags on top of the box he held and gathered up the rest herself.

  “You left your keys in the car.”

  “I’ll get them later.”

  “Get them now.”

  On a long-suffering sigh, Clare walked around the car, juggling bags as she leaned inside to pull the keys out of the ignition. She went in through the open garage and left him to follow.

  Cam took a look at the tools, several hundred dollars’ worth, he estimated. The steel tanks, the stone and metal and lumber. “If you’re going to keep all this stuff in here, you’d better start closing the garage door.”

  “Taking our job seriously, aren’t we?” She stepped through the laundry room into the kitchen.

 
“That’s right.” He glanced at the counter loaded with covered dishes. “You want to make room for this?”

  “Sorry.” She pushed plates and bowls together. “The ladies came by this afternoon.” She pried a plastic lid from a tub, took a sniff. “Want a brownie?”

  “Yeah. Got any coffee to go with it?”

  “No, but there’s beer and Pepsi in the fridge. And somewhere in all of this is a coffeepot.” She began to dig in the box, unraveling items wrapped in newspaper. “I hit a flea market on the way to the mall. It was great.” She held up a slightly battered percolator. “It might even work.”

  “I’ll take the Pepsi,” he decided and helped himself.

  “Just as well, I think I forgot to buy coffee. I got plates, though. This terrific old Fiestaware. And I got these great jelly glasses with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on them.” She tossed back her hair, pushed up her sleeves, and smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”

  “Cecil Fogarty ran his Plymouth into Mrs. Negley’s oak tree.”

  “Pretty exciting.”

  “She thought so.” He passed her the bottle of Pepsi. “So, you’re going to set up shop in the garage.”

  “Um-hmm.” She took a long sip and handed it back to him.

  “Does that mean you’re settling in, Slim?”

  “That means I’m working while I’m here.” She chose a brownie for herself, then scooted up to sit on the counter by the sink. The light of the fading sun glowed in her hair. “Can I ask you something I was too polite to ask you last night?”

  “All right.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “I wanted a change,” he said simply, and not completely truthfully.

  “As I remember you couldn’t wait to see the last of this place.”

  He had gone fast, not looking back, with two hundred and twenty-seven dollars in his pocket and all kinds of needs boiling in his blood. There had been freedom in that. “I was eighteen. Why are you back?”

  She frowned, nibbling on the brownie. “Maybe I’d had enough change. I’ve been thinking a lot about this place lately. This house, the town, the people. So here I am.” Abruptly she smiled and changed the mood. “I had an incredible crush on you when I was fourteen.”

  He grinned back at her. “I know.”

  “Bull.” She snatched the Pepsi from him. When he continued to grin, her eyes narrowed. “Blair told you. That weasely creep.”

  “He didn’t have to.” Surprising them both, he stepped forward and laid his hands beside her hips on the counter. Her head was above his so that his eyes were level with her mouth. “You used to watch me—and waste a lot of energy pretending like you weren’t watching me. Whenever I’d talk to you, you’d blush. I thought it was real cute.”

  Cautious, she studied him as she tipped the bottle back and drank. She resisted the urge to squirm. She wasn’t fourteen anymore. “At that age, girls think hoods are exciting. Then they grow up.”

  “I’ve still got a motorcycle.”

  She had to smile. “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Why don’t I take you for a ride on Sunday?”

  She considered, polished off the brownie. “Why don’t you?”

  Chapter 5

  The coven of thirteen met at moonrise. Thunder grunted in the distance. In twos and threes they stood, chatting, gossiping, smoking tobacco or marijuana as the ceremonial candles were lit. Black wax softened and pooled. In the pit the fire caught and crackled and began to climb, digging greedy fingers into the dry wood. Hoods shadowed unmasked faces.

  The bell was rung. Instantly voices were hushed, cigarettes extinguished. The circle was formed.

  In the center the high priest stood, clad in his robe and his goat mask. Though they knew who he was, he never revealed his face during a rite. No one had the nerve to demand it.

  He had brought them three whores, knowing they required the release of sex to remain faithful—and silent. But that feasting would wait.

  It was a time of baptism and beginnings. Tonight, two members who had proven themselves worthy would be given the mark of Satan. To brand them and bind them.

  He began, lifting his arms high for the first invocation. The wind carried his call, and the power rushed into him like hot breath. The bell, the fire, the chant. The altar was ripe and lush and naked.

  “Our Lord, our Master is the One. He is the All. We bring our brothers to Him so that they might be joined. We have taken His name into ourselves and so live as the beasts, rejoicing in the flesh. Behold the gods of the pits.

  “Abaddon, the destroyer.

  “Fenriz, Son of Loki.

  “Euronymous, Prince of Death.”

  The flames rose higher. The gong echoed.

  Behind the mask, the priest’s eyes glittered, reddened by the light of the flames. “I am the Sayer of the Law. Come forth, those who would learn the Law.”

  Two figures stepped forward as lightning walked across the sky.

  “We do not show our fangs to others. It is Law.” The coven repeated the words, and the bell was rung. “We do not destroy what is ours. It is Law.” The response was chanted.

  “We kill with cunning and with purpose, not with anger. It is Law.”

  “We worship the One.”

  “Satan is the One.”

  “His is the palace of Hell.”

  “Ave, Satan.”

  “What is His, is ours.”

  “Hail to Him.”

  “He is what we are.”

  “Ave, Satan.”

  “We shall know, and what we know is ours. There is no path back but death.”

  “Blessed be.”

  The Princes of Hell were called. And smoke billowed. There was incense to clog and mystify the air. Tainted holy water in a phallic-shaped shaker was dashed around the circle to purify. The hum of voices rose into one ecstatic song.

  Again the leader raised his arms, and beneath his robe his heart gloated at the followers’ weakness for imagery. “Cast off your robes and kneel before me, for I am your priest and only through me you will reach Him.”

  The initiates cast aside their robes and knelt, sex thrusting, eyes glazed. They had waited twelve months for this night, to belong, to take, and to feast. The altar rubbed her breasts and licked her slick red lips.

  The priest, taking a candle from between the altar’s thighs, circled the two, passing the flame before their eyes, their manhood, and the soles of their feet.

  “This is Satan’s flame. You have walked in Hell. The Gates have been flung wide for you, and His beasts rejoice. Hell’s fire will make you free. We toll the bell in His name.”

  Again the bell rang out, its tone echoing, echoing until there was no sound. All the night creatures were hidden and silent.

  “Now your path is set, and you must follow the flame or perish. The blood of those who fail is bright and will guide your steps to the power.”

  Turning, the priest reached into a silver bowl and drew out a handful of the graveyard dirt where an infant had rested for a century. He pressed the soil into the soles of the initiates’ feet, sprinkled it over their heads, laid it gently on their tongues.

  “Revel in this and stray not. You make your pact tonight with all who have gone before into His light. Seek and be glad as you obey the Law.”

  He took up a clear flask filled with holy water and urine. “Drink of this and ease the thirst. Drink deep of life so that He will shine within you.”

  Each man took the flask in turn and swallowed.

  “Arise now, Brothers, to receive His mark.”

  The men rose, and others came forward to lock the first initiate’s arms and legs in place. The ceremonial knife glinted under a full ghost moon.

  “In the name of Satan, I mark you.”

  The man screamed once as the knife sliced delicately over his left testicle. Blood dripped as he wept.

  “You are His, from now and through eternity.”

  The coven chanted. “Ave, Satan.”

>   The second was marked. Drugged wine was given to both.

  Their blood stained the knife as the priest lifted the blade high, swaying as he gave thanks to the Dark Lord. As the thunder rumbled closer, his voice rose to a shout.

  “Raise your right hand in the Sign and take the oath.”

  Shuddering, faces glinting with tears, the men obeyed.

  “You accept His pleasures, and His pains. You are returned from death into life by His mark. You have declared yourself a servant of Lucifer, the Bringer of Light. This act is of your own desire and by your own will.”

  “By our desire,” the men repeated, in thick, dazed voices. “By our will.”

  Taking up the sword, the priest traced an inverted pentagram in the air over each new member’s heart.

  “Hail, Satan.”

  The sacrifice was brought out. A young black goat, not yet weaned. The priest looked at the altar, her legs spread wide, her breasts white and gleaming. She held a black candle in each hand, with another nestled at the juncture of her thighs.

  Well paid and comfortably drugged, she smiled at him.

  He thought of her as he raked the knife across the kid’s neck.

  The blood was mixed with the wine, then drunk. When he cast aside his robe, the silver medallion glinted against his sweaty chest. He mounted the altar himself, raking his stained hands down her breasts and torso while he imagined his fingers were talons.

  As his seed spilled into her, he dreamed of killing again.

  Clare woke in a cold sweat, her breath heaving, her face drenched with tears. Reaching out for the light, she found only empty space. There was one frozen instant of panic before she remembered where she was. Steadying herself, she climbed out of her sleeping bag. She counted her steps to the wall, then flicked on the overhead light and stood shivering.

  She should have expected the dream to come again. After all, the first time she’d had it had been in this very room. But it was worse this time. Worse, because it had melded into the dream memory of the night she found her father sprawled on the flagstone patio.

  She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and leaned back against the wall until both images faded. In the distance she heard a rooster heralding the new morning. Like dreams, fears faded with sunlight. Calmer, she stripped off the basketball jersey she had slept in and went to shower.