Dark of the Night

by Dee Davis

“You had a nightmare.” Maudeen sat back, uncertain what to do. From the time Caroline died until shortly after her mother passed away, Riley had had horrible nightmares, but they’d stopped almost as abruptly as they’d begun, and, as far as she knew, they hadn’t returned. Until now. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” Riley sat up, running shaking fingers through her hair, and frowned. “What are you doing awake?”

  Maudeen contained a smile, noting that Riley wasn’t surprised to find her at Rivercrest, only that she was awake. Carter seriously underestimated his daughter. “Actually, I was just going home. Shall I call your father?”

  “No. Leave him be. I’m fine now. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

  “You’re sure?” She searched Riley’s face for some sign that she was really all right.

  “Positive.” The younger woman smiled weakly, nodding, almost as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s just been so long since I’ve had the dream.”

  “So it was the same?”

  Riley nodded, her beautiful face clouded with pain. “Why would it come back now—after all this time?”

  “Honey, you’ve had a hell of a shock to your system, and even though you’re pretending everything is all right, the truth is, you almost died today. And that’s enough to make anyone have bad dreams.” She reached for Riley’s hands, giving them a squeeze. “And when you factor in what you witnessed at Douglas Michaels’s, well, I’d be shocked if you weren’t having nightmares.”

  “I just don’t want it all to start again. I thought it was behind me.”

  “Caroline, you mean?”

  She nodded. “And my mother. I love them, Maudeen, but remembering is so painful. It’s easier just to forget.” Guilt washed across her face, and Maudeen wished she could take it all away. Riley had experienced too much pain for someone so young.

  “My father always said it’s best to face things head on. Maybe that’s all your dream is trying to tell you.” She gave Riley’s hands another squeeze, then reached over to turn on the lamp. They both blinked, then laughed awkwardly, the intimacy of the moment vanishing with the light.

  “I’m all right now, really.” Riley’s voice sounded calmer. “You go on. I’ll read awhile and then try to sleep.”

  “All right then.” Maudeen reached over to give her a last pat. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Riley nodded, closing her eyes, and Maudeen turned to go, wishing she could do something more, something to help set Riley free of her nightmares once and for all.

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  Chapter 6

  THE MEDICAL EXAMINER’S office smelled of death and formaldehyde, the sweet stench hard to stomach first thing in the morning. Jake followed Megan Green as she walked across the room to a cubicle in the corner.

  “There’s no question, he killed himself.” She pulled back the curtain, exposing the lifeless form of a teenage girl. Jake swallowed to keep from gagging. “There were powder burns on his fingers, and the trajectory of the bullet and the angle of the entrance wound are consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot.” She picked up a scalpel and Jake fixed his gaze on a water stain high on the wall. “An open and shut case, actually.”

  “Did you establish a time of death?”

  “Somewhere between eight and ten, I’d say. He’d been dead about half a day when you discovered the body. So what’s your interest with the police chief anyway?” She paused, scalpel in hand, curiosity crinkling her forehead.

  “Well, aside from the fact that I found him, he has a connection with another case I’m investigating. You did the autopsy on Hank Larsen, right?”

  “Not much to autopsy.” She leaned over the girl’s body, and Jake concentrated on the water stain.

  “But you established cause of death as suffocation.”

  “Right. It takes longer than you think for a human to burn. In most cases, when someone is trapped in a fire, the victim smothers long before he burns to death.”

  “And there was no sign of foul play?”

  “Jake,” she stopped and turned to face him, “we’ve been through this before. The man’s house caught on fire and he died before he could get out. End of story.”

  “Cut and dried.”

  “Nothing is cut and dried. But sometimes things are more straightforward than they seem. Did somebody set the fire that killed Larsen? Maybe. Can I prove that through his autopsy? No way.” She resumed her work with the body. “I heard you had your own brush with pyrotechnics yesterday.”

  “Yeah. My car decided to spontaneously combust.”

  “Way I heard it, it was supposed to be Riley O’Brien’s car.”

  “Her father’s press secretary’s, actually.”

  “So you think it was a pro-life thing?”

  “I don’t know. I guess the trick now is to try and find out.”

  “If anyone can do it, I suspect it’ll be you. I’d lay odds the bomb wasn’t for Riley, though.”

  Jake raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You know her?”

  “Slightly. Mainly by reputation. But she’s well thought of in Atlanta. Done a lot for the city.”

  “That’s what politicians want you to think, Megan. It’s called spin.”

  “Cynical this morning, aren’t you?” She dropped an unnamed body part into a bag, sealing it with a quick twist.

  “It seems to be a common opinion.”

  Megan shot him a questioning look, then turned back to the table. “Well, Riley O’Brien is more than a politician, Jake. I sit on the mayor’s council for teen pregnancy with her.”

  He tried to contain his surprise. “Seems to be a popular committee.”

  “It’s important work,” she said, continuing to work. “Bartlett wanted a cross section of the community.”

  “More like a roll call of Who’s Who in Atlanta. You, Michaels, Riley.”

  “You’ve really got a stick up your ass, don’t you?” She waved her scalpel at him. “The council is important, Jake. And without heavy hitters like Riley, we’d never have any success. She’s been phenomenal. Knows who to push and just how far to push them. Half the things we’ve accomplished were due directly to her involvement. Maybe in your mind that’s political, but in mine it’s about caring. And Riley really cares.”

  “All right already. So you’re an O’Brien supporter.” Jake held up his hands, taking a step back.

  “Not across the board. I’ll take the daughter, but pass on the father, if you don’t mind. Carter O’Brien seems more interested in Carter O’Brien than anything else. In my opinion, he’s the one to be cynical about.” She turned back to her work. “But then, I’m a Republican.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.” Jake laughed. “And I wasn’t maligning the council, honestly. Just curious about the connection between Riley and Michaels.”

  “Because she was at his house yesterday?”

  “Yeah. She mentioned the council to the police. I was just curious.”

  Megan looked up with a frown. “You’re not ‘just’ anything, Mahoney. You’re thinking there’s some kind of connection between what happened to Michaels and the council. Or maybe between the bombing and the council.”

  “I’m not thinking anything. I’ve just got a hell of a lot of pieces and nothing that seems to fit together.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help.”

  It was Jake’s turn to shrug. “You can’t tell me more than they tell you.” He nodded at the girl’s body.

  “I only wish I could.” Megan waved absently, turning back to the job at hand. Jake walked down the hall, trying to keep his breathing shallow, his mind still on the senator’s daughter. He was grasping at straws, trying to make pieces fit into places they probably didn’t, but the next order of business seemed to be a talk with Riley O’Brien.

  The pertinent question was whether it would help matters or only make them worse.

  And based on his physical reactions to Ms. O’Brien, he had the uncomfortable
feeling it was definitely going to be the latter.

  It was one of those in between days, a last hoorah for summer with an insistent push from fall. There was a storm building off toward the west, the air heavy, humid and warm, but there was also an undernote of autumn, a hint of chill, a different smell. Riley walked through the towering pines breathing deeply. This was her favorite time of year. The world was peaceful, beginning to settle down for a long winter’s sleep.

  If only she could capture some of that peace. But she couldn’t. She was trapped somewhere between the past and the future. There was so much riding on the next few months. Everything her father had worked for was coming together in one single moment. One vote. And even though there would be another day, this was the moment. The moment when all the press conferences, the strategizing, the dreaming would come to fruition.

  And Riley would be the First Lady. After a fashion.

  She wondered if her mother would have liked the job. Probably not. Deirdre O’Brien had been a fragile fairy of a woman. Barely five feet in her stocking feet, she’d been the heart of their family. But when Caroline died, everything changed, the balance shifting to the macabre, her mother wasting away, certain that with the loss of her firstborn, life simply wasn’t worth living.

  The fact that there was a second, living, daughter hadn’t mattered at all.

  Riley fought against a wave of bitterness. It was over, part of the past. And she’d moved on—or at least tried to. Until last night. And the dream. Nebulous and abstract, it still reeked of a time she wanted to forget. As long as she lived, and remembered, a part of her sister and mother lived on, but if she let them, the memories would consume her. So the trick was to keep the painful memories separated from the pleasant ones.

  She pushed open the gate, stepping into the tiny graveyard. Her sister’s grave was off in a well-tended corner, the stone startling white against the creeper-laden fence. Riley felt a rush of sadness—for all that had been, and for all that could never be.

  Her mother’s stone was almost in the center of the cemetery, next to an open space intended for her father. She swallowed tears. The pain of the past suddenly seemed overwhelming.

  She’d needed her mother. Wanted her. But her mother hadn’t been able to let go of Caroline, and in the end had chosen death rather than to live on without her. Riley knelt by the headstone, running her hand over the smooth face of the marble. So many things would have been different if her sister had lived.

  But she hadn’t.

  And there was nothing Riley could do to bring her back. Or her mother. They were gone. And she and her father were here. And because of everything that had happened, they shared a bond that couldn’t be broken. They were survivors.

  Riley frowned. Not just survivors. Winners. She and her father had risen above tragedy. They’d made a life together. And now they were on the eve of reaping all that they’d sown. Her father was going to be the next President of the United States.

  There was still the matter of the election, but the polls were clear. Barring catastrophe, Carter O’Brien would win. She traced the carving that spelled out her mother’s name. The cost had been high, but they remained winners. She should be ecstatic. But she wasn’t. She leaned her head against her mother’s headstone.

  Truth was, all she wanted to do was cry.

  The house was stately. A remnant of an era gone by. Jake stepped out of his car, his reporter’s mind taking in the graceful sweep of its columns and white painted facade. There was an understated style to Rivercrest, evident from the moment a visitor turned into the magnolia-lined drive. Not exactly the porticoed magnificence of a southern plantation, but still an elegant reflection of the grandeur of the old South.

  According to his research, the house had been built by Neel Reid in the 1920s for one Elliott Riley. From there it had passed from family member to family member until it reached the last of them. Deirdre. Upon her death, it had passed to Carter, and would one day, no doubt, belong to Riley.

  Riley.

  He shook his head, trying to banish the image of honey hair and silvery eyes. He sucked in a breath, buried his hands in his pockets and considered the best approach. The idea was to breach the mansion and capture the ice queen. Or at least catch her unaware.

  And hopefully keep his wits about him in the process. The divine Ms. O had a habit of setting his blood to boiling, and he wasn’t certain he could keep his cool indefinitely. Still, nothing ventured nothing gained. And if Riley could shed light on his investigation, it was worth a little discomfort.

  He strode to the front door and rang the bell, plastering on what he hoped was an irresistible smile.

  The woman who opened the door was a cross between regal and pixie. Her short gray hair curled around her head in a riot, framing a surprisingly unlined caramel-colored face. In her day, she had been a beauty, and the aura of it lingered still.

  But it was her eyes that held his attention. Soft brown with a hint of something more. A woman one did not trifle with.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a take-no-prisoners kind of voice only certain women can affect. Something to do with progesterone, he guessed.

  He swallowed and, if he’d had a hat, he’d have whipped it off his head. “Jake Mahoney, ma’am.”

  “The reporter.” She tilted her head back, her dark eyes surveying him critically. “Why are you here?”

  “To see Riley.” That seemed obvious.

  “I know that.” She shot him another look. “But why?”

  He took a deep breath, trying to look charming. “I have to talk to her.”

  “As a reporter or a man?” The woman waited, and he knew this was secret password time. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any idea what game they were playing at. If in doubt, boy, tell the truth. He could almost hear his father’s voice.

  He met the sprite’s gaze full on, holding his steady. “Both.”

  The woman studied him for a bit and then smiled gently, evidently liking what she saw. “She’s out back.” She cocked her head toward the back of the house. “With her mama. You go on and find her.” Then, still smiling, she closed the door in his face.

  He stood there for a moment, bemused. The woman was definitely an enigma. Or a nutcase. Shaking his head, he started to walk around the house, hoping the old gal hadn’t tricked him into rottweiler territory.

  The house looked even larger from the back. A long wing ran perpendicular to the main structure, an obvious addition, and off to his left, amid overgrown vegetation, he could just see the top of an outbuilding of some kind. There were roses everywhere, some pruned to prize-winning perfection and others tangled together in wild masses of color.

  The yard itself was cropped to golf green quality, broken only by circles of chrysanthemums edging strategically planted trees, nature held at bay by a rickety looking hurricane fence. The gate lay open invitingly, and although there was no way to be certain, Jake’s instincts told him that Riley was out there somewhere.

  But not with her mother. Despite the older woman’s words, he knew better. Deirdre O’Brien was dead. He frowned at yet another puzzle and walked through the gate. At least there hadn’t been a dog.

  The forest was silent, the only sound the slight rustle of the wind high in the pines. Even with all the years he’d spent in Atlanta, he hadn’t gotten used to the trees. They were so tall. And, unchecked, so dense it was hard to maneuver. Having spent the better part of his life in the coastal plains of Texas, he found any trees at all amazing, but Georgia pines were awe-inspiring.

  He strained to see a flash of something human among all the green and brown, but nothing jumped out at him, and it occurred to him that perhaps the old gnome had sent him on a wild goose chase.

  Gullible.

  So much for trusting one’s elders. He almost turned back, but a spot of white caught his attention. He moved forward, trying to keep silent. There was a sort of clearing here—and a fence. He could just make out the solid line of the creeper-co
vered stone. No kudzu in the O’Brien woods.

  The white spot took on substance. A gravestone. He shivered. Her mother—Riley was talking to her mother. He stopped at the gate, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Hell, he was an intruder. She was kneeling in the far corner, her head against a stone. There was something so lost and lonely about her that he wanted to reach for her, to somehow make everything all right.

  He shook his head, realizing it was only an illusion. She was made of ice; he’d seen her in action. Still, something deep inside him, something more powerful than reason, drew him forward. He wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms. He’d actually taken a step when she heard him and looked up.

  Tears glistened on her face, and there was nothing cold or forbidding about her. Instead, the haunted look was back. Like a doe trapped in a hunter’s sight. He felt a wave of revulsion. He was the hunter. She rose slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. Leaves and grass clung to the long lines of her jeans-clad legs, and her hair hung loose, almost to her waist, gold highlights flashing as she moved.

  “What are you doing here?” The transformation was almost instant. Peasant to royalty with only a sentence. Her eyes cleared, her face hardening, locking her soul inside. The ice queen was back.

  “The woman at the door told me you were back here.” He leaned against the gatepost, waiting to see what she’d do next. There was something compelling about her, no matter which persona she adopted. With the one, he found he wanted nothing more than to chip away at the ice until he revealed the woman underneath. With the other, well . . . if he ever had the chance, he knew exactly what he’d like to do with her.

  She shivered, despite the heat, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, then shook her head, as if dispelling the thought. “Adelaide?”

  It took him a moment to remember what they were talking about. The woman at the door—Adelaide—a fitting name for a sprite. He almost smiled, but the intensity of her gaze made him think better of it. “If she’s about this high,” he raised a hand to his chest, “and looks like a gnome.”

  The corner of her mouth quirked upward, but she quashed it before it could turn into a full-blown smile. “I don’t think she’d appreciate being called a gnome.” She lifted her chin in an imperial sort of way, and Jake fought the urge to bow. “And she’d never send you back here, unless . . .” She stopped, her eyes searching his.