by Stuart, Anne
She looked at Joseph across the rows of orange plastic seats. No one else could see him, of that she was certain. She even wondered whether she could, or whether she'd just managed to conjure him up out of intense longing.
It didn't matter. He simply looked at her, expressionless, waiting for her decision. And all hesitation left her as she nodded.
"Are there any seats left on this flight?" she asked the attendant outside the Martinique gate.
The woman smiled. "This must be your lucky day. We were booked solid, but we've just had two cancellations. How many?" Her eyes focused directly on Megan, not seeing the pale figure hovering at her shoulder.
"Just one."
"Will you be checking any luggage?" She glanced down at Megan's unencumbered hands.
Megan shrugged. "I'm afraid my luggage is on its way to London. Again."
The attendant was all concern. "We'll do our best to get it back to you as quickly as possible."
"That's all right," Megan said as a belated confidence began to fill her. "I don't expect I'll be wearing much clothing when I get there."
The woman blinked for a moment, and then she grinned, a conspiratorial grin. "Lucky you. Is he absolutely gorgeous?"
Megan smiled back, thinking of Ethan's divided face. "Absolutely."
She buckled herself into the window seat, impatient to be off, half afraid reason would rear its ugly head and send her tearing off the plane. She stared out at the tarmac, not looking when someone sat down beside her, rubbing her arms against the sudden chill on the air-conditioned plane.
"He needs you," Joseph said, his voice soft and fading in her ear.
She didn't bother to turn. She knew she wouldn't see him if she did, just as she knew he was there with her, as he'd been that terrible night so long ago on the hilltop. I need him, she said without speaking.
"Go to him."
She turned then, just in time to see a fat, sweating businessman lower his bulk into the seat beside her. He caught her scrutiny, gave her a bored leer and buckled his seat belt around his impressive bulk. Closing her eyes, Megan leaned back and waited for the silver bird to take her to Ethan.
The two-hour flight from Chicago had been endless. The five-hour flight to Martinique was far too brief, despite the presence of the flirtatious Harley Beamer beside her. She had no idea what she'd find when she got to the island. She had no idea where Ethan was. He'd said something about another island, a smaller one, but she imagined there5 d be quite a number to choose from. If people had actually seen Ethan, they'd remember him, but he had a talent for keeping hidden. He'd probably arrived in the dead of night, on a private plane, and Sal would have whisked him past any witnesses.
She'd have to be prepared to search. It would be getting on toward sunset when she arrived, and she probably had little choice but to find a hotel and start in the next morning. If she'd had any sense at all, she would have waited till she found out exactly where he was. The police in Millers Fork would have to know.
But she hadn't had any sense, and if she'd waited, she might have chickened out. She couldn't keep asking for something he wasn't ready to give. It was time for her to take the risk herself.
In the end, it was astonishingly, fatefully easy. When she walked into the small airport terminal on the island of Martinique, she looked across the crowded space and saw a familiar, burly figure at a counter offering charter services. She moved swiftly through the crowds, afraid he might disappear before she caught up with him, but when she tapped him on the shoulder, he turned and looked at her with such glowering horror that she was afraid she'd made the worst mistake in a mistake-strewn life.
And then she realized it wasn't horror on Sal's face, it was shock. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded roughly.
She wasn't going to let him scare her away. "What do you think I'm doing here?" she countered, sounding more self-assured than she felt. "What are you doing here?"
To her amazement, he laughed. "Chartering a plane. So Ethan can come and find you." He shook his head in amazement. "I guess the two of you got the right idea at the same time. If he hadn't decided to go, I swear I would have drowned him to put him out of his misery. I knew you'd destroy him sooner or later. You've come back to him, haven't you?"
"I've come back to him. If he wants me."
"You never struck me as particularly stupid," Sal drawled. "Are you going to stay?"
"As long as he lets me."
He nodded, satisfied. "There's a boat waiting to take me back to the island. It can take you instead." He looked past her. "Got any luggage?"
"None."
He made that odd, wheezing sort of laugh again, and she realized that during her timeless sojourn at the strange old house, she'd never heard him laugh. "Don't imagine you'll need any. Come along."
The boat was waiting at one of the jetties, a laconic native behind the wheel. Salvatore helped her into it, then stepped back.
She looked up at him. "Aren't you coming?"
"Nope. He doesn't need me anymore."
She looked for signs of sorrow, of jealousy, of anger in Sal's swarthy face. They were all there, but strongest of all was acceptance. "Will you ever come back?"
"Sometime. Right now I've got to find my own life. Take care of him, Megan."
She spoke past the pain in her throat. "I will."
"I know you will. Otherwise, I wouldn't leave him to you." He tossed her a box. "I was picking this up for him to bring to you. You might as well wear it." And without another word, he turned his back and disappeared into the gathering twilight.
She knew what she'd find in the box. The Janus ring had been cut down, sized perfectly for her slender fingers. She slid it on the ring finger of her left hand, where it belonged, knowing a moment of irrational regret for the piece of lavender yarn that had held it in place. The fit was perfect, but when she tried to pull it off, it stuck fast. She looked down at the twin faces in the dusk and smiled.
There was no conversation as the boat crossed the darkening waters of the Caribbean. Megan sat huddled in a corner of the boat as night fell around her, marveling at the lopsided way the quarter moon hung in the sky, the brightness of the stars overhead.
The island seemed small enough as they approached through the dark waters. She expected the operator to dock at one of the quays, but instead, he circled the island, and pulled up at an expanse of moon-silvered beach, then helped her alight.
"He's here someplace," the man said in his liquid voice, "you find the mon or he find you, it makes no difference." And then he pushed off, leaving her alone on the sand.
She started walking up the beach, her high heels sinking into the sand before she pulled them off and tossed them away. The sand stuck in the feet of her pantyhose, and she pulled them off, too, tossing her linen jacket, her purse, her belt and her earrings onto the pile of discarded clothing, so that she was dressed in nothing but a silk dress that flowed loosely around her, white in the moonlight. And then she started out in search of Ethan, her heart pounding.
She saw him long before he saw her. He was standing at the edge of the water, barefoot, shirtless, his dark hair tied at his neck, his marked face illuminated by the bright moonlight. The flowers growing in fragrant profusion around him were white, the same flowers that had filled that moon garden centuries ago. The same flowers that had covered her bed. And suddenly, Megan was afraid.
"Go to him," Joseph said, his voice a whisper of sound on the soft trade wind. "Be with him. Hurt with him if you must. But stay with him."
And then he left. This time forever. And with his passing went Megan's last doubt. She'd wanted Ethan to ask, and the ring on her finger was enough.
"Ethan," she called, her voice strong and sure on the moonlit air.
And he turned, already knowing she had come back to him, and held out his arms.
—THE END—
If you enjoyed Night of the Phantom, continue reading for an excerpt from
One More Valent
ine!
* * *
One More Valentine
* * *
Helen Emerson sat bolt upright in bed and screamed. No sooner had the sound vanished into the darkness than she clapped her hands over her mouth, as if to call back the shriek of unbelieving horror. A moment later she groped for the bedside lamp, turning it on, banishing the ghosts into the darkness where they belonged. She drew her hand back and noticed that it was trembling.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and shook her head. Five-thirty in the morning, and she couldn't even remember her dream. Couldn't remember the horrific nightmare that had torn her from sleep, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to. A few lingering impressions drifted through the back of her mind––a roaring kind of noise, one she couldn't place. And the sound of a dog barking.
She shook her head and ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She prided herself on being a practical woman, at least when anyone else was looking, and a nightmare was simply a nightmare.
But this wasn't the first time she'd had it. There was no way to know whether the same dream had haunted her those other times—she simply didn't remember anything about them. But there was a constant—the thunderous noise, like a thousand drumbeats, and the eerie howling of a dog.
Pushing herself off the bed, she tugged her oversize T-shirt down and wandered into her kitchen. She plugged in the coffeemaker, then stared unseeingly at the calendar. Friday the thirteenth. No wonder she was having nightmares.
She stared out into the early-morning light. February had to be the bleakest month of all, particularly in a city like Chicago. The wind whipped off the lake, freezing everyone to the bone, and the whole world seemed gray and desolate. In another month and a half things would start blossoming. For now not even the silly specter of Valentine's Day could lighten Helen's heart.
She couldn't wait for the coffee. She poured herself a cup as the coffee continued to splash down onto the burner, then wandered into the living room of her apartment. She loved this old building, and her apartment in particular. After decades of decay, 1322 Elm Street was finally part of urban renewal, and Helen was doing her part to bring the venerable old place back into shape. It had once been one of the most elegant town houses in Chicago, but years of neglect had taken their toll, until the place had sat derelict, waiting for someone with enough energy and money to save it.
On an assistant prosecutor's salary Helen was hardly possessed of the money, but she had energy to spare. There was no distracting man in her life, no one to bring her valentines and chocolate tomorrow, no one she'd send a card to. She would lavish her love on her funky old building, as always.
No, scratch that. Her brothers would probably send her valentines. They missed the point of the entire celebration. And come to think of it, she'd already mailed valentines to each of her seven nieces and nephews. Maybe she should just forget what February fourteenth stood for and concentrate on the chocolate.
At least it was on a Saturday this year. She wouldn't have to deal with all the forced merriment at work, the arch comments, the little games. Besides, she wasn't feeling very jovial about her job right now. Then again, there wasn't much about her job to make a person cheerful. Dealing with career criminals wasn't conducive to optimism.
She took another deep sip of her coffee, wondering if there was any way she could get out of going to work today. Call in sick, call in depressed. Everyone needs a mental health day now and then—surely Friday the thirteenth would qualify as a good enough reason. Then she'd have another two days to come to a decision about Billy Moretti.
But she was a responsible woman, and two days wouldn't make any difference. She was a prosecutor, albeit a minor level one, and Billy Moretti had broken the law. It was her job to make sure he paid for it, even if it felt as if she were kicking a helpless puppy.
She walked through the apartment, turning on every light in defiance of her electricity bill. It was going to be a cold, blustery day, gray and depressing, and she needed all the light she could get. Maybe she'd get to work early, face up to the Moretti case and any other bit of unpleasantness and then escape in the early afternoon. Treat herself to an elegant, late lunch, maybe even go shopping. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Surely she could find something to waste money on. Even if she had to succumb to her shameful weakness for old movies that she could just as easily tape off television...
She drained her coffee, shivering in the cool air, and headed for the bathroom. A long hot shower would clear her head, wake her up, help her face the day. But as she stood under the pelting streams of water, she thought she could hear the thundering drumbeats in the distance. And the mournful howl of a dog.
*
James Sheridan Rafferty leaned against the old brick building and closed his eyes. He remembered the first time he'd turned up back here, and the cold horror that had swept through him. He remembered the time he'd come back to find the garage torn down, rubble in its place.
Damn, he was cold. His feet were freezing, the wind was whipping through his old overcoat and he had no gloves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering, reveling in the physical sensations. He was hungry. He was cold. He was horny.
He opened his eyes, pulling the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, the one Mary Moretti had handed him, her eyes wide and pleading. Back in Chicago for only a few hours and his short stay was already tied up.
He shouldn't regret it. He'd always been fond of Billy Moretti. Of all of them, he was the one who least deserved his fate. He was only a kid, and a good one at that. Young enough to make mistakes. Old enough to learn from them, and go on if he got another chance.
Mary had looked terrified, and no wonder. She was nineteen years old, more than a little pregnant and her husband was looking at some hard time in Joliet. The only man she could turn to was James Sheridan Rafferty, and she was frightened of him. Not that he could blame her. He scared a lot of people, a fact that seldom bothered him. It was something about his stillness. Something about his eyes. Something about who he was, that people never quite understood but instinctively suspected. And recoiled from.
Just as Mary Moretti recoiled from him. But not when her beloved Billy was in danger. For Billy's sake she'd face the devil himself if she had to. And he could tell by the panic in her dark eyes that she considered he was a definite candidate for the job of Satan.
How could he tell her no? So what if he only had forty-eight hours in Chicago? Forty-eight hours into which he had to cram an entire year of living? He was learning responsibility, even if it was taking decades to sink in. He was learning to care about the other guy. Billy had stood by him, more times than he could remember. He had no choice but stand by him.
He glanced down at the piece of paper, written in Mary's spidery handwriting. Helen Emerson. Assistant State's Attorney.
He shook his head. He could never get over that. A woman prosecutor. Hell, she might even have a male secretary. The world had gotten screwy.
He took a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat pocket and lit it, cupping his hands around the wooden match to keep it out of the wind. His first cigarette in a year, and it tasted wonderful. That was another problem—each year fewer and fewer people smoked. It got so he couldn't find a place to light up without someone glaring at him, giving him a lecture about the state of his lungs. He'd usually listen in stony politeness, and the crusader would taper off, unnerved by his stillness.
One thing was for certain, he couldn't get on with his plans for the next forty-eight hours until he saw what he could do about Billy. It was six o'clock in the morning—Ms. Emerson probably wouldn't make it into work until nine. There was no way he was going to hang around, waiting. Three hours were too big a chunk of time to toss down the toilet.
He was going to find Ms. Helen Emerson right now and see if she couldn't be reasonable. He had a certain amount of weathered charm if he cared to use it. Surely he could manage to sweet-talk the woman i
nto dropping the charges. Otherwise, he could always resort to giving her an offer she couldn't refuse.
He wished he could just forget about Billy. Enjoy his stay in Chicago with a single-minded pursuit of pleasure, as he had so many other years.
But he was a different man. Time had changed him.
And he just couldn't enjoy himself, thinking of Billy stuck away in prison, leaving his pregnant, frightened wife behind. He was going to have to do something about it, and the sooner the better.
The Elm Street address had an uncomfortably familiar ring, one he couldn't place. It was in a part of town that had once been fancier than what he'd been used to. It had gone downhill since then, turning into slums, and he couldn't imagine a lawyer living there, even one on the city payroll. But he should be getting used to surprises by now, and Ms. Helen Emerson having the power of life and death over one Billy Moretti was a lot more important than where she lived.
He took a taxi, counting on the fact that his wallet would still be full. It wasn't until they were pulling up outside a residential street that he leaned forward.
"Hey, buddy," he said to the driver. "What year is it?"
"You kidding?" The cabbie turned around to stare at his passenger in disbelief.
"Nope. Just checking."
"It's 1993, pal. What did you think it was?"
Rafferty smiled thinly. "Sounds about right to me." He tipped the driver, then climbed out onto the sidewalk, staring up at the building as his memory drifted into focus: 1993. And James Sheridan Rafferty had been dead for sixty-four years.
*
Helen heard the doorbell ring. She slammed her hand against the wall in surprise, then cursed, glad her Irish Catholic father wasn't around to hear her.
