The nurse said to Elizabeth, “She loves to have her hair brushed. That might help relax her.”
Elizabeth walked over to the vanity and picked up the brush, noting that the bristles were soft and pliant. Nothing that would cause any harm. She went to Claire and began stroking her hair, taking great care to be gentle.
After a moment, Claire’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She still said nothing, but at least she wasn’t screaming the way she had the last time Elizabeth had seen her. Elizabeth had heard those terrified shrieks all the way down the hallway, all the way home and sometimes in her sleep, she still heard them.
Tears smarted her eyes, but she willed them away.
Kat glanced up at Elizabeth, uncertainty flashing in her dark eyes. Elizabeth knew what she was thinking. How did they approach someone as fragile as Claire about what had happened that night? How, in good conscience, could they make her relive that nightmare?
Because it might save another young girl’s life.
It might save Claire’s own life.
Still, they would have to be very, very careful.
Claire reached a hand and touched Kat’s cheek. Then she stroked one finger along Brie’s curly red hair. “Pretty hair.” She lifted a hand and felt her own limp strands. “I used to have pretty hair.”
“Oh, honey, you still do,” Brie whispered.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. This was so much more difficult than she’d even thought.
“Claire, we want you to know something,” Kat said. “We looked for you that night. We would have done anything to find you, to help you. We’re so sorry we let you down.”
“Hurt me,” she whispered.
“Who?” Kat pressed gently. “Can you tell us who hurt you, Claire?”
“Hurt me again,” she said more insistently.
“We won’t let him hurt you again.” Kat’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “I promise you that.”
“Hurt me.” Then louder. “Hurt me! Hurt me! Hurt me!” A high keening emanated from Claire’s lips, and Elizabeth stopped brushing her hair and stepped back. What had they done?
She remembered the awful guilt she’d felt that night when Claire had disappeared, how she’d been so certain it was all her fault because she’d been thinking about Cullen.
God help her, she was still thinking about Cullen while poor Claire—
She glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.
It was as if her thoughts had conjured him from thin air. His gaze went from her to Claire, and a look came over his features that Elizabeth had never seen before. It was a combination of compassion, disbelief and a harder emotion that might have been determination.
“Get a nurse,” Elizabeth said.
He turned, but before he could move, the nurse who had shown them in came bustling into the room. She went over and took Claire’s arm, helping her out of the rocking chair. “There, there,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
She led Claire to her bed, and Claire lay down, curling herself into the fetal position while she clutched a pink bear to her chest. Her eyes were squeezed tightly closed as she rocked back and forth. The keening had stopped, but Elizabeth thought the silence that followed might even be worse.
“She needs her rest now,” the nurse said briskly. “But I hope you’ll come back again. It’s good for her to have visitors.”
“But she got so upset,” Brie said worriedly.
“Yes, she did,” the nurse agreed. “But any response is better than none at all.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was late by the time they left Glen Oaks. Darkness had fallen in earnest, and as they exited the curving drive and pulled onto the main highway, Elizabeth could see a full moon rising over the treetops.
She rode with Cullen although she hadn’t wanted to at first. She still felt awkward with him, but he’d made a point of asking her in front of Brie and Kat, and Elizabeth didn’t think she could turn him down without arousing her friends’ curiosity. If she’d insisted on riding back with them, they might have asked questions, and she didn’t feel like talking tonight.
Earlier, she’d have given anything for someone to confide in, but now all she wanted was some peace and quiet to think about everything that had happened.
She stared silently out the window for the first several miles of the journey. If Cullen spoke to her, she answered in monosyllables. Finally he gave up and put in a Bauhaus CD. The dark, edgy music was the perfect accompaniment to her mood.
When they were almost home, he turned down the sound. “Okay, what’s with the silent treatment?”
Elizabeth shrugged.
“Now you’re just being childish,” he accused. “You can at least answer me.”
She turned to face him. “What do you want me to say?”
“Anything that’s on your mind.”
“My mind is a complete blank.”
“You don’t want to talk about your friend, Claire?”
“No.” Which was true. The memory was still too raw.
“Do you want to talk about what happened in my apartment?”
“No!”
“I think we need to,” he said softly.
“Well, I don’t” Elizabeth folded her arms defensively. “What is there to say? You made your feelings perfectly clear, and for your information, now that I’ve had time to think about it, I agree with you. You’re not the right man for me.”
He threw her a startled glance. Then he frowned. “When did you come to that conclusion?”
“When you gave me no other choice.” She turned back to the window. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said, and you’re absolutely right. A woman like me needs candles and romance…whatever.” She waved her hand absently. “My first time should be special, with a man who knows how to…you know. Someone older, perhaps, and sophisticated. Someone like…like…Lucian LeCroix.” She slanted him a glance and saw his features harden.
“What the hell does he have to do with this?”
“He seems to fit the criteria you have in mind for me. He and I are both college professors. We come from similar backgrounds. We have a lot in common.”
Cullen’s voice hardened with anger. “I told you before, I don’t trust that guy.”
“But I do,” she lied.
Cullen’s gaze narrowed. “You’re just saying that to piss me off.”
“Am I?”
He turned back to watch the road, his face set in hard, furious lines. “Mission accomplished.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I’m just telling you what I thought you wanted to hear. You’re off the hook now. You don’t have to worry. I’m turning my attention elsewhere.”
“Like hell,” she could have sworn she heard him mutter.
INSTEAD OF DROPPING her off at her car where she’d left it on Waterfront Avenue, Cullen headed south of town, turning on Old Mountain Road.
Elizabeth glanced at him in surprise. “Where are we going?”
“To see David Bryson.”
“Why?”
“Emotions are running high around here. It’s my duty to warn him about a dangerous situation that could be brewing.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind having a little chat with him about the murders, either.”
According to talk in town, David Bryson never left his house during daylight hours, but after dark, he prowled the streets, keeping to himself and to the shadows. Elizabeth had never personally spotted him, but she wondered sometimes if the occasional sightings of McFarland Leary couldn’t be chalked up to Bryson’s nocturnal wanderings.
Not that she didn’t believe in ghosts. She was quite certain she’d seen one that night in St. John’s Cemetery, but she wasn’t about to confess her sighting to Cullen.
Old Mountain Road was a narrow, twisting trail that led, as its name implied, up the side of a mountain. At the top, clinging precariously to the edge
of a jagged cliff, was the Bluffs, David Bryson’s forbidden domain. As they neared the castle, Elizabeth thought that the stone facade blended almost seamlessly with the night.
There were no lights, save for a lone beacon in a tower window. A shadow moved across the light, and for a moment, Elizabeth could have sworn she saw someone staring down at them. She shivered, thinking of all the stories she’d heard about Bryson. A cold-blooded murderer. A horribly disfigured recluse. A man whose passions and grief could have driven him to do unspeakable evil.
Had they?
A butler—tall, rigid, impeccably dressed—opened the door. He was all set to turn them away, but then Elizabeth heard another voice in the background, and the man glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back, he opened the massive door and beckoned them inside. “This way.”
The inside was even darker and more forbidding than the outside. The place was old and creaky, full of shadows and mysterious doorways. Elizabeth and Cullen followed the butler down a long, dark hallway where he drew open a set of doors and waited for them to enter. Once they were inside, the doors closed with a resounding thud.
Elizabeth jumped a little, and goose bumps popped out on her skin. Judging by the crowded shelves of books, they were in a library of sorts, but the room was dank and musty, hardly inviting. The drapes at the window were drawn tightly, shutting out the moonlight, and only one lamp glowed dimly from a corner.
She and Cullen were both gazing around curiously. Elizabeth had assumed that David Bryson would join them momentarily, but as her gaze scanned the murky recesses of the room, she saw that he was already there. Either he’d been present all along, or he’d somehow slipped in from some secret passageway. She shivered as she felt his gaze meet hers.
“You’ve come about the murders.” His voice was deep and velvety smooth. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m sure you have,” Cullen said. “I’ve come by before, but your watchdog wouldn’t let me in.”
Elizabeth strained to see Bryson, but he’d positioned himself in deep shadow. Because of the scars?
“You’ll have to forgive Richard. He’s overly protective, I’m afraid, but then, he has good reason to be, considering that I’m the chief suspect in almost any criminal activity that occurs in this town.” A hint of wryness crept into his rich voice.
“I know what it’s like to be accused of something you didn’t do,” Cullen said. “I’m not here to make accusations.”
“Then why are you here, Detective?”
“To warn you.” Cullen paused. “Suspicions are running high because of these murders. People are scared, and when they get scared, they’re apt to do something stupid.”
“Are you saying the town’s out to get me?”
“I’m saying if I were you, I’d hang close to home until all this blows over.”
Bryson’s hand moved in a fatalistic gesture. “I’m a recluse, Detective. Hadn’t you heard? I never leave these castle walls.”
Elizabeth saw Cullen lift a brow slightly. “Is that so? I’ve heard you like to take…long walks after dark.”
A polite way of putting it, Elizabeth thought.
“Is that a crime, Detective?”
“Not if walking is all you do. Any chance you were near Heathrow College on the night of March sixteenth?”
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
Elizabeth sensed Cullen’s surprise. She turned to stare at Bryson, wishing again she could see his face.
“Were you on campus?”
“I didn’t go inside the gates if that’s what you mean.”
“What time was this?”
“Sometime before midnight. I can’t be sure of the precise minute.”
Cullen and Elizabeth exchanged a glance. “Did you see anyone enter or leave the campus either on foot or in a car?”
“I saw nothing.”
“What about the night of February fourteenth? Were you anywhere near the Pierce compound?”
“I was not.” Impatience crept into Bryson’s voice. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m afraid I really can’t help you out. I don’t know anything about these murders. I can give you a piece of advice, though.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He leaned forward slightly, and for a split second, Elizabeth glimpsed his face. She caught her breath.
And then he stepped farther back into the shadows. “Check the victims’ blood types, their medical histories. You may find something there.”
“How do you know about their blood types?” Cullen asked sharply, but David Bryson had melted into the shadows.
Somehow he’d vanished without making a sound.
“HOW DID HE know that both victims had the same blood type?” Elizabeth mused as they made their way back down the mountains. “That information hasn’t been released to the press.”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Cullen muttered.
“And what did he mean about their medical histories?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.” Cullen lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “But when he said that, I felt as if I should know what he was talking about. Like maybe there’s something I’ve forgotten or haven’t connected yet. You know how it is when you can’t quite put your finger on what it is that’s bothering you?” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait a minute. I think I do know. When I first interviewed Bethany Peters’s mother, she kept wringing her hands and crying over and over that Bethany had always been the picture of health. She’d never been sick a day in her life. How could something like this happen to her?”
“I’m sure it was just a figure of speech,” Elizabeth said. “She was very upset.”
“Maybe. But she was pretty adamant. And one of Morgan Hurley’s friends said something along those lines about her. She was never sick. Might be worth taking a look at their medical records and see if we can find other similarities.”
To what end? Elizabeth was about to ask, but then she turned to Cullen as something occurred to her. “Remember the test tube we found in the cooler room with Bethany’s body? What if someone who knew Bethany’s blood type and her medical history wanted to get a sample of her blood for some reason? An experiment, maybe?”
“But the cause of death was exsanguination. Her blood was drained. The killer would have known that.”
“It’s almost impossible to drain a body completely of blood,” Elizabeth pointed out. “But I’m not talking about the killer. I’m suggesting someone other than the killer may have wanted a sample of Bethany’s DNA. If we could find out who all knew about those blood types and medical histories and why they were so significant, then we might be able to figure out why someone wanted those girls dead.”
“We already know that Bryson knew.” Cullen frowned. “It still seems a long shot to me. Although…” He trailed off into thought.
“What?”
“I was just thinking about something Shamus McManus said to me once. We were in the Beachway Diner, and it was right before I was called to the Pierce compound after you’d found Bethany’s body. He said that McFarland Leary rises every five years to come searching for the ‘offspring of his offspring,’ I think is the way he put it.”
“What did he mean by that?”
Cullen shrugged. “I’m not even sure he knew what he meant. Marley Glasglow was there at the time, and he warned Shamus about sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m thinking Shamus may have overheard something he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But Shamus also asked me if I ever wondered why so many scientific types settle in Moriah’s Landing. I think that’s starting to sound like a damn good question.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any mystery to that,” Elizabeth said. “There are a lot of major universities in the area, and Boston is a fairly easy commute. Plus, the Pierce Foundation awards a lot of grants. It could be simply a case of following the money.”
“Maybe. But
I’ve been asking some questions around town about Leland Manning ever since we saw him that night. He has a laboratory right there on his property. If he has the background and credentials you say he has, why isn’t he affiliated with some Ivy League university, or some hotshot private research institution? And what about his weird theory on witches? If anyone is conducting bizarre experiments, I’d put my money on him. And another thing.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “He’s not the recluse that David Bryson is. He frequents a bar down on the waterfront.”
“Manning?” Elizabeth had a hard time picturing the rather formal man they’d met the other night in a waterfront bar.
“That could be where Shamus overheard something he shouldn’t have.”
“But that still doesn’t tell us what he heard,” Elizabeth mused. “Or if it’s connected in any way to the murders.” She sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “It’s all giving me a headache, just talking about it. Two months and two bodies, and we’re still no closer to finding the killer. Face it, Cullen. He could be anyone. Bethany had a class under Paul Fortier, and it’s possible something more may have been going on between them. But Morgan was an arts major. She wasn’t required to take biology. Then there’s Leland Manning. Yes, he lives fairly close to the campus. Yes, he has a laboratory on his property. And, yes, he has some pretty strange theories. But where is the connection to the victims? Same with David Bryson. He was a suspect in the murders twenty years ago, but nothing was proven then, and we don’t have anything on him now except that he somehow knew, or at least guessed, that Bethany and Morgan had the same blood type and maybe similar medical histories. So where does that leave us?”
“You forgot to mention your friend, Professor LeCroix. As freshmen, wouldn’t both girls have been required to take an English class?”
Elizabeth waved an impatient hand. “Yes, but Bethany was dead before Lucian ever arrived in town.”
“Assuming he arrived when he said he did.”
“Yes…”
“You’re still defending him, I see.” Cullen gripped the wheel as the car shot around a sharp curve. “Still figuring on him being your first lover?”
Elizabeth gave an embarrassed laugh. “I know I implied that, but I was just…hurt. A little angry, I guess.”
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