Hidden Salem

by Kay Hooper

  “He hasn’t found others?”

  “No, not even from other families. Not like Nellie. She’s the last of the direct descendants outside Salem. The last with the Talent, at least.”

  “He’s certain she has it?”

  “He’s certain. Just like you were.”

  “So he’ll try to control her, at least initially.”

  “Yeah, long enough to put into action plans I’m sure he’s already made to get her into his hands. In fact, I’m betting he’s already been trying to influence her, test her resolve, maybe her Talent.”

  “How?”

  “He has . . . a Dreamer under his control. The Dreamer can’t force someone, but once they’re asleep he can lead them into a dream. A created dream, down to the last minute detail.”

  “Building an illusion in someone else’s mind? Even a sleeping mind? That isn’t an ability I’ve ever heard of, much less encountered.” There was interest in the deep voice, but with an underlying tone of wariness that said he was well aware of both the positives and the negatives of any Talent.

  “And you’ve heard of most, I know. Maybe this one is . . . peculiar to Salem. To us. So much is.” He paused after the wry comment, then returned to his point. “If I know Duncan, which I do, what the Dreamer will create in Nellie’s mind will be a terrifying nightmare.”

  “To scare her off?”

  “Maybe, for a while. To buy himself more time. I really think . . . he believes he can gain more power by the things he’s doing. I mean actual power. The Talent is strong in him to begin with, because he’s a Cavendish and a firstborn. The fact that Thomas was unable to stop him in any sense is, to him, only more proof he’s meant to be the leader of all five families and in complete control of Salem. He believes that.”

  “And Nellie?”

  “I know he’s had her watched the last few years. Maybe he saw enough to convince him she’s even weaker than Thomas was, but not quite safe enough to just let her be. And I’m sure he wonders what she might have inherited from Sarah, because she had amazing strength of will as well as Talent. So, first, he’d try to control Nellie. Scare her, panic her, look for a way to . . . lure her to come to him, confide in him. He is, after all, her uncle. If he can control her, she’s a weapon he can use, maybe even power he can draw on to increase his own. If he can’t control her . . .”

  “There’ll be another body.”

  “He has to be sure Nellie will never be a threat. And unless she comes to him willingly, which neither you nor I believe she will, then he’ll have to destroy her, destroy the threat she poses. Maybe the way he destroyed Thomas’s Talent. Maybe something . . . more permanent. Maybe another body. If he can get his hands on her, destroy her that way, it means more power for him. He needs more power, and we both know where the strongest, darkest power comes from. So, yeah, he’ll . . . sacrifice again. He can’t take the chance Nellie will just leave here and never come back. She’s a Cavendish. A very large part of her birthright is here—Thomas’s half of what their father divided between them; all the paperwork is being held by an attorney down in Atlanta, an attorney who sends in an independent auditor to go over the books once a year, as per that original will. The attorney holds everything Nellie needs to claim her inheritance, and he’s spent years waiting for Nellie to contact him.”

  “Once she finds out about the material side of her birthright.”

  “Yeah. I’m not at all sure Thomas was wise to keep that from her, but he’d built another successful business in Charlotte and knew that would be hers with no ties to any other Cavendish.”

  “And yet she’s going to Salem.”

  “And we both know why.” Finn sighed. “Duncan wants it all. And I doubt he believes even he can persuade Nellie to sign everything over to him. Which I’m betting is his plan, if he can lure her to him.”

  “She can’t sign under duress.”

  “In Salem? The law bends to Duncan’s will.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was that bad.”

  “Not something I’m proud of, but it is. The way things have been here for a long, long time. As for Nellie, as long as she’s alive and not under his control, she’s a potential threat. Because he knows, or at least suspects, what she might be able to do if the Talent is strong in her. What she’s capable of.”

  “She doesn’t know. Not all of it.”

  “Then she has to be told. Or she has to learn. Before he can get his hands on her. And she’d better be strong. According to my father, Thomas Cavendish literally burned out the Talent trying to stop him. And when he failed, all he could do to save his family was grab them and run. And even then . . .”

  “I managed to trace Sarah Cavendish.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. She didn’t get far.”

  “So.” He stared out the window of his office at downtown Salem, not seeing what was so familiar. “Thomas lost his wife. His own life. And now his daughter is on her way here. His only child, the last of his line. The last of the direct line of Cavendishes stretching all the way back to the beginning. And the only one capable of stopping this insanity.”

  “If she can.”

  “Yeah. If she can.”

  SIX

  THURSDAY

  The question on Grayson’s mind as he looked out on the town of Salem was whether he should shrug out of his pack and reposition his rifle so that it didn’t lie obviously crossways just beneath the top edge of his pack. Within easy reach. Not, at least, while he made his way into town.

  “Hey.”

  Grayson had realized minutes before that a couple of college-age men carrying bulky backpacks had been climbing the path up from town toward him, but he hadn’t focused his attention on them until one of them greeted him in a friendly manner.

  “Hey,” he responded, equally friendly. “Just getting started?” He was somewhat relieved to see that both young men carried rifles as he did, strapped across their backpacks.

  They paused a few steps below him, and the one who had not spoken until then grimaced and said, “It took longer than we expected to get all our gear together, even though we started early.”

  Grayson noted the gear, much of which was suspiciously new, and silently debated a warning. “Going up to the Trail?” he asked.

  “That’s the plan,” the first said. “Far as we can get today, anyway.”

  “Day hikers or thru?” Grayson asked, still pleasantly.

  “Definitely not thru,” the second said. “Not this time of year. A day or two maybe. And south. I bet it’s sheer hell heading north.”

  “It is,” Grayson said. “Lot of snow this year. Treacherous hiking. Camping isn’t much fun either, even this far south.”

  “Did you come down from the north?” the first asked incredulously. “In January?”

  Grayson smiled easily. “No, I’ve only hiked thru north to south from spring to early fall. The best time, really. This time just a week or two starting down in Georgia. But it’s getting too cold for my taste even this far south. A real bed and decent food have been haunting my dreams. Thought I’d come down and spend some time in a pretty little town. That’s Salem, right?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Home?” Grayson asked them.

  For the first time, he caught a fleeting uneasiness in both faces, needing no extra senses, but the young men continued to smile, and the one who had spoken first said, “Well, family home. We’re college roommates, taking the winter semester off. Salem isn’t big on bars or pool halls, with or without live music, and after all the holiday fuss nobody’s in the mood for parties. Our one cinema isn’t much to shout about when it comes to variety. Not many other choices for activity unless you like pickup basketball on the park court or touch football if you can find enough other players. Most our age have gone back to school. So . . . we’re mostly stuck with rid
ing the trails or hiking. Today it’s hiking. Though if it’s really cold up there, we may be back down before dark.”

  “Probably,” Grayson agreed, still pleasant. “I’ve been wishing for that real bed in a nice, heated room for the last few days.”

  “Hales B and B is your best bet,” the second one said. “It’s at the north end of Main Street, can’t miss it. This time of the year, they almost always have rooms. With comfortable beds.” He grinned.

  Grayson returned the grin, though fainter. “And hot water for a nice shower?”

  “All the modern conveniences, and a damned good breakfast to boot. And it’s fairly central to what recreation we do have. Our little cinema is just off Main Street, and there’s a good gym offering day passes. Martial arts studio with an award-winning instructor, if you’re into that, also offering classes or just workouts for visitors. Restaurants and cafés in town are handy, within walking distance.”

  “He’s biased,” the first one said. “His family owns the place.”

  As if suddenly recalling his manners, the biased one held out his hand. “Connor Hales.”

  Grayson shook it firmly. “Gray Sheridan,” he responded.

  “And I’m Robert Deverell,” the other said as he shook hands. “Welcome to Salem.”

  Grayson thought there was a faint note of something not quite welcoming in that pleasant voice, but he ignored it. “Thanks. And good luck hiking. It actually gets a bit warmer as you climb, for some reason.”

  Neither offered to explain that reason. Still smiling, they began to move past him, with Connor Hales adding a cheerful, “Hope you enjoy your stay in Salem.”

  “I’m sure I will.” Grayson half turned to watch them for only a moment, then resumed his contemplation of the town below for another moment before beginning to move down the faint trail. He had no idea if Hales or Deverell might have looked back at him, or if someone else might be watching and had seen him coming down off the mountain, but he knew that standing too still for too long would draw attention. Unwelcome attention.

  Hales B and B. It was where he was staying, though he didn’t have a reservation. He was, after all, just coming down off the Appalachian Trail for a break in the cold winter, unplanned, so a reservation would have looked odd. It was one reason he had more or less hinted for recommendations from Hales and Deverell.

  He continued down the trail, keeping his footing easily even with the heavy backpack, skilled enough that he was able to keep at least half his mind on the puzzle that was Salem.

  Besides the companies of the major five families, there were of course other businesses in town. The usual ones. Couple of car dealerships. A bustling coffee shop that offered wine and beer as well—after five o’clock. A pet store that offered everything a pet owner could possibly need, including day care.

  There was a large bookstore offering plenty of books as well as a nice selection of crafts and artworks made in Salem, a bakery locally famous for its bread and desserts, and several hair salons (at least two of them day spas), as well as an honest-to-God barbershop. There was a video store right beside a store specializing in electronics.

  There were at least three good restaurants with varying cuisine, a couple of more casual cafés, and several clothing boutiques whose prices didn’t actually make a hopeful shopper wince. And that was just on or immediately off Main Street, in the downtown area.

  A Main Street that boasted a grassy, beautifully landscaped town square kept meticulously, with benches from which to enjoy the flowers and burbling fountain from spring to fall, and the seasonal decorations and plants during winter. Christmas decorations had been mostly taken down with the holidays not long past, but it appeared that Salem enjoyed decorative lighting woven attractively among the bare branches of several trees in the town square and lining both sides of Main Street.

  It was, on the surface, absolutely perfect Small-Town America.

  On the surface.

  But setting aside that apparent site of some kind of possible occult activity, the oddities of the town itself bothered Grayson, and one of those was simply the population of Salem.

  Excluding transients who were just visiting, mostly during tourist season, the population of townsfolk hadn’t varied by more than fifty people in as many years.

  There weren’t only five families, of course, a fact he’d considered briefly before. There were others who had come here over the centuries, and some had put down roots, remaining for generations. Even some “new” families had moved here in recent years, both retirees and young families, the latter perhaps partly drawn by a public school system rated the best in the state. But there were not as many newcomers as one might expect in a pretty little town like Salem with much to offer as a home.

  Not nearly as many as one might expect.

  Which was odd, definitely odd. A nice little pretty town with a healthy economy and room to expand—but that didn’t, really. Not in terms of population, as in a reasonable number of total strangers moving in fairly regularly to live, and not in terms of businesses; the “newest” business of any kind in Salem had been established nearly a decade ago.

  It struck Grayson, whom even his closest friends would have called a suspicious bastard, as almost . . . deliberate population control. As if someone, at some point, had decided that Salem would be so big—and no bigger.

  And that was damned odd just as an idea, a concept, never mind the practicalities of just how to maintain a finite number of citizens without some pretty damned hands-on management most Americans would surely have resisted. There was no law limiting the size of families, but Grayson supposed, thinking about it, that other . . . measures . . . could be taken.

  The food supply was mostly controlled, and the town’s central water system came from the same cold river where the paper mill had existed for generations.

  Population control . . . Something in the water?

  And that wasn’t just an odd thought; it was absolutely chilling.

  FRIDAY

  Nellie packed Leo’s toys, one pried from his stubborn mouth after some discussion of the matter. Put on his harness and hooked the leash.

  With the big suitcase packed and waiting on the floor at the foot of the bed, its handle sticking up, and Leo sitting with wholly visible patience beside it, she paused and sat down on the bed. She drew her big purse/satchel close and opened it again, this time studying the contents absently as if she expected to find something unusual there. But everything looked as it should.

  Well. Almost.

  The letter was tucked away in its discreet side pocket. Her gun in another, not visible to a casual glance. Her cell phone was in its outer pocket; she’d charged it all night but fully expected to have it go dead within a few hours whether or not she used it. There was the usual purse clutter of a small pack of tissues, a tube of lip balm, a compact she used more for the mirror than anything else because she wasn’t really a makeup girl, a couple of scrunchy-type hair ties and a pocket comb and brush, and a few pens, one clipped to a small notebook.

  There was also a small pocket address book of the type people seldom carried these days because all their information was kept on their cells and other devices. She could never trust her devices; any of them might be drained of power and therefore useless when she might badly need them, a lesson bitterly learned. Nellie had always considered it ironic that there were old-fashioned ways such as this one that she had to cling to because of her abilities.

  And there was the billfold. It looked as if she’d had it for a while, its leather just scuffed and creased enough to look as if it had been carried and used for at least a couple of years. Inside was the usual cash—not too much to seem suspicious—plastic debit and credit cards from a bank she had never used, and her driver’s license.

  All in the name of Nellie Reed. Reed. Her mother’s maiden name. All the IDs she carried, including the
current license and registration for her gun, were in that name.

  Another surprise from her father’s Charlotte attorney, sent to her only a week or so before she had finished her arrangements and begun packing for Salem.

  Your father asked that I send this to you before you left.

  She would have found that more unnerving if it hadn’t been for the fact that she had called him on impulse to tell him she was going back to her father’s hometown for a visit. For some reason she hadn’t even explained to herself, she had wanted someone to know where she was going.

  He hadn’t asked any questions, for which she was glad. Just seeing the very professionally faked ID and a very healthy checking account balance in that bank she’d never used before had unnerved her enough. There had even been paperwork to put in her car, inspection slips and proof of insurance and registration, all in the name of Nellie Reed.

  It occurred to her sometime later that she would need her actual ID, or at least enough of it to prove she was Nellie Cavendish—if she needed to. So her real driver’s license was secreted away in one of her shoes, between the insole and outsole.

  James Bond stuff.

  Except that was fiction. It was fiction and, besides, he always had lots of helpful gadgets and stuff to assist him on his mission. She didn’t even know what the hell her mission was supposed to be.

  Dammit.

  Again pushing aside doubts, Nellie reached into her bag and pulled out her gloves. They were custom-made, black, whisper-thin leather much stronger than it looked, skintight, and covered only her hands, buttoning at the wrist.

  She put them on with the ease of long practice, smoothing the leather almost compulsively, wondering, not for the first time, if the gloves would give her away. Could they? Not that she could risk not wearing them. And it was January, after all.

  Gloves would be . . . expected.

  Wouldn’t they?

  Nellie hesitated again, staring at her gloves, and then closed the bag with a smothered curse. Nothing to do but push forward and find out what the whole thing was all about.