“Did the realtor mention old Sheriff Donnelly?” Lewis asked.
“Who?” Her brows scrunched together and dipped below the bridge of her sunglasses. She tapped an impatient hand three times on her thigh before she said, “Well, thank you, gentlemen, for your help.” Then she turned on her fancy boots and marched back to her sports car.
“Do you believe her?” Lewis wanted to know.
“That she’s here on vacation?” Dylan shrugged. He didn’t care what she did as long as she stayed out of trouble.
“She doesn’t look like a backpacker.”
Dylan’s gaze settled on her behind in those tight jeans. “Nope.” The thing about trouble was, it always had a way of showing itself sooner or later. No reason to go looking for it when he had better things to do.
“Makes you wonder why a woman like her leased that old house,” Lewis said as Ms. Spencer opened her car door and climbed inside. “I haven’t seen anything like her in a long time. Maybe never.”
“You don’t get out of Pearl County enough.” Dylan slid behind the wheel of the Blazer and shut the door. He shoved the key in the ignition and watched the Porsche drive away.
“Did you get a load of those Tony Lamas?” Lewis asked as he got into the passenger seat.
“Couldn’t miss those boots.” Once Lewis shut his door, Dylan put the vehicle into drive and pulled away from the curb. “She won’t last six minutes, let alone six months.”
“Do you want to bet?”
“Even you aren’t that big a sucker, Lewis.” Dylan cranked the wheel and headed out of town. “She’s going to take one look at the old Donnelly place and keep right on driving.”
“Maybe, but I got a ten in my wallet that says she lasts a week.”
Dylan thought of MZBHAVN strolling toward him, all smooth and shiny and expensive. “You’re on, my friend.”
Chapter Two
BLOODTHIRSTY BATS ATTACK UNSUSPECTING WOMAN
Hope Spencer shut the car door behind her, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and leaned her behind against her silver Porsche. White-hot sun beat down from an endless blue sky, immediately baking her bare shoulders and the part in her hair. Not so much as a hint of a breeze touched her face or penetrated the cotton-and-Lycra tank sticking to her skin. The steady buzz of insects joined the whine of a my-man-done-me-wrong country song drifting from the lone house across the gravel road.
Hope’s gaze narrowed and her Ray Bans slid down the bridge of her nose. Number Two Timberline was brown and gray, all right. Brown where the gray paint had peeled away.
The house looked like something out of Psycho and absolutely nothing like the “summer home” she’d been led to expect. True, the “grounds” had been recently mowed. A twenty-foot perimeter around the house and a trail to the beach had been chopped down and cleared of waist-high weeds and wildflowers. From where she stood, the lake appeared a mix of light and dark greens. Sun collided with shadow and bounced off ripples as if bits of tinfoil floated on the surface. An aluminum fishing boat was tied to the sandy shore, rocking with the swell of gentle waves.
Hope pushed up her sunglasses and turned her attention to the rugged Sawtooth Mountains practically in her backyard. The view looked just like the postcards her employer had given her of the area. America the beautiful. Thick, towering pines and granite peaks reached straight up and touched the endless sky. She supposed the scented breeze and all that mountain majesty inspired awe in most people. Like God shedding His grace. Like a religious experience.
Hope trusted religious experiences about as much as she trusted Bigfoot sightings. In her line of work, she knew too much to trust tales of hairy wild men, weeping statues, or strychnine-drinking zealots. She didn’t believe anyone who saw Sasquatch running through the forest or who claimed they’d found the face of Jesus on a tortilla.
Hell, one of her most successful articles, “Lost Ark of the Covenant Found in the Bermuda Triangle,” had developed a huge religious following and spawned two equally successful stories: “Garden of Eden Found in Bermuda Triangle” and “Elvis Found Living in Garden of Eden in Bermuda Triangle.”
Elvis and the triangle were always a big hit with her readers.
But mostly when Hope looked at the immense mountains and wide-open space before her, she just felt small. Insignificant. Alone. The kind of alone she thought she had overcome. The kind that threatened to reach out of the dry mountain air and choke her if she let it. The only thing keeping her from feeling like the last person on the planet was the irritating tweak of steel guitar pouring from the neighbor’s radio.
Hope grabbed her Bally bag from inside the car and headed across the lumpy dirt path to the front door. Caution tempered each step of her Tony Lamas. She’d done her research. Snakes resided in this part of the country. Rattlesnakes.
The realtor had assured her that rattlesnakes stayed in the mountains, which she figured put Number Two Timberline smack-dab in Rattlesnake Central. She wondered if Walter had done this purposefully to get back at her for the trouble she’d caused him and the paper lately.
A fine layer of dust covered the porch, and the old steps creaked a bit beneath her feet, but to her immense relief, the wood felt solid. If she fell through the porch, no one would miss her for three days. Not until her deadline passed would anyone even think to look for her, and maybe not even then.
Neither her CEO and publisher nor her editor, Walter Boucher, was very happy with her at the moment. This “working vacation” had been their idea. She hadn’t produced anything good for months, and they’d strongly urged her to take in some new scenery. Somewhere that would inspire Bigfoot stories and alien articles. And, of course, there was that whole Micky the Magical Leprechaun fiasco. They were still ticked off about that one.
Hope stuck her key into the doorknob, then pushed the door open. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but nothing happened. No knife-wielding psycho dressed up like his mother, no ghosts, no wild animals to freak her out. Nothing. Just the smell of stale air and dust, and the sun behind her spilling into the entry and lighting up the room to her right. Hope found a switch just inside the front door and flipped it on. The chandelier overhead buzzed once, then cast shimmers of light into the remaining shadows.
She shoved her sunglasses into her bag, left the door open just in case, and made her way further inside the house. To her left, the dining room was filled with heavy sideboards and an ornate china hutch. Both could benefit from a dose of lemon oil and Windex. A long table took up most of the space, and an issue of Hunter’s Digest and a block of wood had been shoved under one leg. A fine layer of dust covered everything.
While the dining room gave off the impression of neglected elegance, the living room, to her right resembled a hunting lodge. Overstuffed leather and wood furnishings, a television with rabbit-ear antennae, a bearskin hanging over the rock fireplace. On the hearth stood a stuffed bobcat, teeth and claws bared. The coffee and end tables were constructed of antlers and topped with glass. And on the walls, more antlers, and dozens of impressive animal heads with huge racks were nailed above the wainscoting. Hemingway would have loved it, but Hope thought it looked like an accident waiting for a victim. She could imagine walking through this room at night and impaling herself.
Her bootheels echoed in the empty house as she made her way to the kitchen. Except for the past three years, Hope had always lived with someone. Her parents, college roommates, and then her ex-husband. Now she lived alone, and while she much preferred it, for the first time in a long time, she wished she had a big strapping man walking in front of her, shielding her from the unknown. A man she could curl into and hide behind. A man the size of the sheriff she’d met earlier. Hope was five-seven, and the sheriff had easily been half a foot taller-all broad shoulders, hard muscles, and zero body fat.
She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. Gold. The linoleum, the countertops, and the appliances-everything except the wrought-iron pots-and-pans rack hang
ing above the stove. She pulled open the oven door and discovered a dead mouse lying prostrate on the broiler pan. She let go, the door slammed shut, and she again thought of the sheriff and of how sometimes men did have their uses.
Before he’d reached for his sunglasses, Sheriff Taber’s deep green eyes had studied her from a face more suited for the silver screen than the wilderness of Idaho.
He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Pretty boys lost their looks in middle age, and there was no way anyone would ever mistake the sheriff for a boy. He was all man, a towering hunk with a smile that could easily turn a no into a yes, make a weak woman stand a bit straighter, stick her chest out a bit farther, and want to flip her hair. Hope didn’t consider herself a weak woman, but even she had to admit that she’d checked her posture several times during the course of their short conversation.
She didn’t know what she’d expected the law enforcement to look like in this part of the world. Maybe like the pencil-thin deputy, or maybe like Andy Griffith. A “gee, shucks” country bumpkin. But behind those green eyes and that easy smile was an obvious intelligence that could never be mistaken for a hayseed.
Hope made her way back through the living room to the stairs leading to the second floor. She flipped the switch at the bottom of the step, but nothing happened. Either the light didn’t work or the bulb was burned out. She stood for a moment gazing up into the deep shadows of the second floor; then she forced herself to walk up the darkened stairs, her heart pounding in her ears.
Sunlight spilled into the hall from four of the five open doors, and a faint smell of something slightly familiar from the edges of her childhood, like a long-forgotten memory, penetrated the hot air. Hope walked to the first room and peered inside. The heavy drapes were shut against the light from outside, but she could make out the shape of the bed and the dressers covered with drop cloths. She could see the outline of an old wardrobe, the doors thrown open. The smell intensified, bringing with it the recognition of ammonia and the faint memory of the summer of ‘75-the one and only time she’d attended Girl Scout camp.
Hope reached for the light switch next to the door. There were spots on the floors and drop cloths like dried mud, and she recognized them for what they were a split second before she heard the telling squeak, the sharp, scratchy nails, and the flutter of wings from within the wardrobe.
Two shadows swept toward her, and just like she was ten again, standing in the doorway of her cabin at Camp Piney Mountain, she opened her mouth and screamed. But unlike that time twenty-five years ago, she spun around on the heels of her boots and ran like hell. This time she didn’t wait for the slap of bat wings against her cheeks or the tangle of bat claws in her hair.
She flew down the stairs, past the wall of antlers, and out the front door. She was still screaming when she jumped off the porch, her feet in motion even before she landed. Her heart pounded faster than her boots, and she didn’t stop until she was safely hidden on the far side of her car. Her chest ached as she crouched on her knees in the dirt, sucking hot air into her lungs.
“OhmyGod-ohmyGod-ohmyGod,” she wheezed and placed her hand on her throat. She saw spots in front of her eyes, and beneath her fingers she felt her pulse pounding at warp speed. If she didn’t slow it down, she would pass out, or have a heart attack, or burst something vital in her head. She didn’t want to die. Not in the dirt. Not in the wilderness of Idaho.
Hope took a deep breath and stuck her head between her knees. She was going to kill that realtor. Just as soon as she caught her breath, she was going to jump in her car, drive to Sun Valley and mow him down. She thought of the realtor’s face, and she heard laughter-real laughter-for the first time.
Hope lifted her gaze and glanced to her left at two young boys doubled over. Both were shirtless. Both wore blue nylon shorts and brown cowboy boots. One pointed at her while the other held himself as if he were trying not to wet his pants. They were having a real good time at her expense. She didn’t care. She could practically feel an aneurism bursting in her head and was way beyond feeling remotely humiliated.
“You-you-you,” the one pointing at her stuttered before he collapsed in the road, laughing so hard his bony shoulders shook.
Hope raised herself enough to peer over the rear of her car toward the house. “Did you see bats fly out after me?” she asked above their high-pitched laughter.
The boy holding himself shook his head.
“Are you sure?” She stood, then dusted off the knees of her jeans.
“Yep.” He giggled and finally dropped his hands to his sides. “Just saw you fly out.”
She reached for her sunglasses in the purse that was no longer on her shoulder. She placed a hand on her brow to shield her eyes and looked across the dirt yard. No Bally bag. No sunglasses. No car keys. She’d obviously dropped the purse inside. Probably upstairs. By the bat room.
“Do you boys want to earn a few bucks?”
At the offer of money, the boy on the ground jumped to his feet, although he couldn’t quite control his laughter. “How much?” he managed.
“Five dollars.”
“Five dollars!” the boy who’d been holding himself gasped. “To share or apiece?”
“Apiece.”
“Wally, we could get a bunch more darts for our guns.”
For the first time, Hope noticed the neon-orange pistols and matching rubber darts stuck in the waistbands of both boys’ shorts.
“Yeah, and candy, too,” Wally added.
“What do we gotta do?”
“Go in that house and get my purse.”
Their smiles fell. “In the Donnelly house?”
“It’s haunted.”
Hope studied the faces before her. The boy named Wally had copper-red hair and was covered with freckles. The other kid looked at her from big green eyes and a face framed by short dark curls. He had a missing front tooth, and the new one was growing in a bit crooked. “Ghosts live in there,” he said.
“I didn’t see any ghosts,” Hope assured them and turned her gaze to the front door, still standing wide open. “Just bats. Are you afraid of bats? I’d understand if you are.”
“I’m not. Are you, Adam?”
“Nope. My grandma had bats in her barn last year. They don’t hurt you.” There was a pause before Adam asked his friend, “Are you scared of ghosts?”
“Are you?”
“I’m not if you’re not.”
“Well, I’m not if you’re not. And besides, we got these babies.”
Hope turned her attention back to the boys and watched them load their plastic guns with rubber darts. Personally, Hope would prefer a legion of ghosts to one lone bat.
She glanced from one boy to the other. “How old are you two?”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“You are not.”
“Almost. I’ll be eight in a couple of months.”
“What are you going to do with those toy guns?” she asked.
“Protection,” Adam answered as he licked the suction end of the dart.
“Wait, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said, but neither boy listened as they took off across the yard. She followed them to the foot of the porch. She’d never really been around children, and it occurred to her that maybe she ought to get permission from their parents before she sent them into a bat-infested house. “Maybe I should talk to your mothers first before you go inside.”
“My mom won’t care,” Wally said over his shoulder as the two climbed the steps. “ ‘Sides, she’s talkin’ on the phone with Aunt Genevieve. Probably be a couple hours before she’s off.”
“Can’t call my dad. He’s workin‘ on the mountain today,” Adam added.
The bats were probably long gone and her bag was probably just inside the door, Hope reasoned. The boys probably wouldn’t get attacked and die of rabies. “If you get scared, you run back out. Don’t worry about the purse.”
They paused in the open doorway an
d looked back at her. Wally whispered something about ghosts, which prompted a short-lived punching match. Then he asked, “What does your purse look like?”
“Bone leather with burgundy alligator accents.”
“Huh?”
“White and reddish brown.”
She folded her arms and watched the boys-guns raised-slowly move into the house. Lifting a hand, she once again shaded her eyes from the piercing sun and saw them move first to the left and then cross the hall into the living room. They were gone maybe half a minute before they ran back out, Hope’s purse in Adam’s free hand.
“Where was it?” she asked.
“In the big room with the antlers.” He handed her the bag and she reached inside for her sunglasses. She slipped them on, then slid two five-dollar bills from her wallet.
“Thank you very much.” In Hope’s line of work, she’d slipped money to doormen, doctors, and dwarfs. But this was a first. She’d never paid little kids for a favor. “You are the bravest guys I know,” she said as she handed them the money. Their eyes lit up and their smiles turned mercenary.
“If you need us to do anything else, we will,” Wally assured her as he stuck his pistol into the waistband of his shorts.
The dinner rush had hardly slowed by the time Sheriff Dylan Taber entered the Cozy Corner Cafe. The tint on the windows let a person see out, but from the street, they looked like silver foil wrap. If the sun hit them just right, they could burn a hole through your corneas.
On the jukebox next to the front door, Loretta Lynn sang about her Kentucky roots while Jerome Fernwood called out a pickup order from behind the grill.
The smell of fried chicken gravy and coffee assaulted Dylan’s senses and made his stomach growl. He tried to keep fast-food nights at his house to a minimum, but tonight he was tired and covered with dust and the last thing he wanted was to cook dinner. Not even hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, Adam’s favorite.
Finally off duty, he wanted to eat, take a long shower, and fall into bed. The shower was easily managed, but bed would have to wait for several more hours. Adam had a T-ball game in forty-five minutes, which always wound him up tight as a ball of string. Between the excitement of the game, the new puppy, and the “cool box” Adam had bought that afternoon for his special rock collection, Dylan doubted his son would nod off before eleven.
True Confessions Page 2
