Arm in arm, they walked back to the horses. The words “I love you” hummed inside her, but she didn’t say them aloud. She’d save them until she knew the time was right. Hopefully, that would be soon.
THEY TOOK THE LONG WAY back to the Bluffs, riding the crest of the cliff for a while. Azure waters stretched as far as she could see to the east. To the west, the landscape jutted and dipped into rolling grassy hills bordered by woodlands. The air was brisk and invigorating, alive with the smells and sounds of autumn in New England. It was amazing that a day that had started out so badly had turned glorious—all because she was with David. And because they’d talked and kissed and, for the very first time, he’d really opened up to her about his past, shared his hurt, let her see not only the wound and scar that defined the body, but the man inside the body. She still had no guarantee that he felt the same way she did or that he’d ever be ready to move on with his life, but at least she understood him better, and she had to believe there was a chance the two of them could make it as a couple.
Becca Smith. No one from no where, a part of a couple. That in itself was a miracle.
“Hold up a minute,” David said, pulling his horse to a dead stop. He’d been riding a few feet in front of her, leading the way, but now his attention was focused on something on the ground. Her gaze followed his to a trail of red. Blood? Maybe.
“What is it?” she asked as the mood shifted from near euphoria to one of dread.
“It’s probably just a wounded animal, but I want to check it out.”
“Wounded animals can be dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful. Wait here.” He dismounted and secured his horse, then pulled a gun from a leather saddlebag.
“When did you start carrying a gun?”
“At the same time I increased the security for my estate.” He disappeared into an area of heavy brush.
She waited for a moment, but as the seconds ticked by with no call from David, the dread became tangible, a nagging uneasiness that riddled her resolve. The body of a young woman—off Old Mountain Road, close to David Bryson’s property. Only this wasn’t near David’s property. It was on his land. Behind a tall stone fence with an electric gate and surveillance cameras. Whatever David had found, it couldn’t possibly be another body.
Yet her heart pounded against the walls of her chest as she slid from the saddle and tied Stardust to the branch of a maple tree before setting off to follow him into the woods. When he heard her coming, he took a step backward, his arms outstretched to halt her progress.
“You don’t want to see this, Becca.”
Chapter Fourteen
David’s warning came too late. Becca had already seen the body, stretched out on the grass, the woman’s arms and legs twisted at a bizarre angle, a silver-handled knife protruding from her chest. She fell against a tree trunk and grabbed her stomach. She knew she was going to be sick, but there was not one thing she could do about it.
David pulled a clean white handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her face, then forced herself to take another look at the body, as shock and nausea gave way to a sick realization. “I know her—knew her.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her before. In Wheels, I think.”
“Victim number two. Looks like our guy is a serial killer.”
“Just like twenty years ago.” She walked over to stand by David, still shaking inside, but regaining a bit of her equilibrium. “But how could he get the body in here? He’d have had to hoist it over the fence and drag it all the way back here. There’s no way he could have gotten a vehicle through the gate.”
“My guess is she came willingly.”
“I don’t follow.”
“People scale the fence all the time, sneak in to get a look at the beast in his lair. I’ve had kids actually camp out here, a kind of coming-of-age ritual, or an initiation.”
“You mean the way Claire had to go inside the mausoleum?”
“Something like that.”
“Then you think someone lured the woman here and then killed her?”
“It would have been the easiest way, since we know they didn’t come through the gate.”
“What kind of monster would do that?”
“The same kind who killed Sally Evers. Don’t touch anything. From the looks of the coloring and the texture of the skin, I’d say this body is still warm. We don’t want to do anything to contaminate the crime scene. The prints should be fresh enough to lift.”
“Unless he wore gloves.”
“Even then there could be some way to identify the killer. DNA can be taken from something as seemingly insignificant as one of the killer’s hairs.”
“You do know that Detective Megham’s first suspect will be you.”
“As always. For twenty years I’ve been the scapegoat for everything bad that’s ever happened in Moriah’s Landing. I’m surprised they didn’t try to blame my own mother’s death on me.”
“Was she murdered?”
“No. She died of an overdose of pain pills when I was seventeen. She had a form of cancer that was incurable, and I don’t think she could take living anymore when all she had to look forward to was pain and death. But I think it’s the only thing that happened back then I didn’t get blamed for.”
Becca started to walk away but couldn’t keep herself from stealing one last look at the body. “There’s something carved on her stomach. Initials.”
He stooped for a better look. “M.L.”
“McFarland Leary.” Something snapped inside her and a shudder ripped though her. “The killer really is the same man who ran me off the road the other day, David. He has to be. Why else would the driver have been wearing that hideous Leary mask?”
“This is all speculation, Becca. Let’s just go back to the house and call Megham. This is better left in the hands of the police.”
She was shaking as he led her away, her heart breaking for the young woman whose body lay a few feet away. As few as a couple of hours ago, she could have been alive, laughing and scaling the wall with some man she trusted, maybe was even attracted to. A man with no conscience, who could kill over and over again and never look back.
What kind of man would commit such acts? And how in the world were they going to stop him before she became his victim? He’d already picked her out. Had followed her and Claire home from the restaurant the other night, run her off the road on Sunday. It was the same man. She was sure of it. She didn’t know how she knew with such certainty, but she did.
THE INTERVIEW WITH Detective Megham went pretty much as David had anticipated. The man had already made up his mind, and now that he had a bit of evidence to go with his faulty conclusions, he would go after an arrest warrant. Number one—the person who stumbles across a body is always a prime suspect. Two, the body was found on his property. And lastly, he had no alibi for the morning up until the time he took Becca horseback riding.
David wasn’t worried about the arrest warrant. They could haul him in and question him all they wanted. When his twenty-four hours were up, they wouldn’t have the evidence to justify holding him any longer—unless they manufactured some. That was always a possibility, but he didn’t see Megham as the kind of guy who’d go that far.
But the biggest problem was that while Megham worked at putting him away, the real killer was out there, no doubt planning his next attack. And that could very well be against Becca.
“That man is really beginning to irritate me,” Becca said the minute the door closed behind Megham.
“I think that’s his plan,” David said.
“He’s so set on arresting you that he didn’t even comment on your suggestion that the woman might have come here willingly with the killer.”
“He’s probably already figured that out, as well.”
“I know the killer is the same man who tried to attack Claire and me the other night and then ran me off the road. The mas
k, the initials. It all adds up.”
“But if it’s the same man, then he’s using a completely different style with you, and that’s very unusual for a serial killer. It’s as if he’s singled you out, has taken more risks to get to you.”
David pulled a black notebook from his pocket and started making notes, talking out loud while he wrote. “A man who doesn’t buy into the town’s hype of a ghost who rose from the dead to kill young maidens, but is crazy enough to play along with the idea.”
“Or else it really is McFarland Leary.”
“You surely don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I didn’t.” Now she wasn’t sure. Half the time she felt as if Tasha’s ghost still roamed the halls of the Bluffs, that Tasha had entered her mind, haunted her so that she felt Tasha’s emotions instead of her own, the way she had when looking over the water where Tasha had been killed. The way she had when she’d held Tasha’s wedding dress to her shoulders. And if Tasha’s ghost was still present, then McFarland Leary’s could be as well.
“The ghost of McFarland Leary.” The name rolled off of David’s tongue as if he were introducing the ghoul. “It’s the perfect setup, especially since a lot of people around here still believe that Leary was responsible for the original murders.”
“It’s bloodcurdling.”
He took her hands in his. “I don’t want you to leave the house unless I know where you’re going and unless I know you’re properly protected. And if I’m not here to protect you, then Richard will be in charge.”
“Why wouldn’t you be here?”
“Because if Megham has his way, I’ll be in jail, at least for questioning.”
Fear, dread, anger—a collage of emotions she didn’t begin to understand—collided inside her. “It’s like the fairy tale where the prejudiced mob comes after the beast just because they don’t understand him. And you’re not a beast at all. They are. Megham is.”
“I’m not a murderer. As long as you know that I can live with what Megham thinks.”
“I know you’d never even hurt anyone, at least not intentionally.” She buried her head against his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight as he rocked her to him. Up until a few days ago, David Bryson had been the intriguing stranger on the hill, a man who’d stalked her mind by day and haunted her dreams at night.
Now he’d become her protector. And still she wanted more. No matter what danger lay outside the stone fence and guarded gate, she wanted David Bryson in her life.
CLAIRE CAVENDISH TOSSED and turned in her sleep as the habitual nightmare claimed her mind and body. The tomb was black, moldy, the putrid odor of decay clutching her every breath. Spiderwebs brushed across her face and adhered to her eyelashes, a gossamer veil that refused to be whisked away.
Someone grabbed her from behind, the way she knew he would, the way he always did. He clasped his hand over her mouth, silencing her scream, as the smell of whiskey burned her nostrils and mixed with the horror that heaved inside her.
She tried to break away, but he picked her up. A second later, they disappeared into the cold, narrow pathway that tunneled beneath the rocks and ended up out near the cliffs. When they exited, a gust of wind tore at her hair and plastered it against her face. It picked up the leaves and tossed them into a whirlwind of motion, the sudden gale moaning its way around the rocks, the desolate sound of the foghorn blaring in the distance.
Her friends were back at the cemetery, in their circle, holding hands. They would never know what had happened to her, never know that she’d been stolen from the mausoleum by the devil himself and taken straight to hell.
Claire woke with a start, her breath so shallow and fast, she felt as if she were suffocating. She knew at once it was only the dream, but something was different. She’d covered new ground, gone deeper into the recesses of her memory than she’d ever gone before.
She tried to think back. There had to be something about the man that would identify him. A voice. A smell. Something in his touch.
But there was nothing. Even though she’d finally got past the first horrible moment of contact, her mind was still protecting her from the full truth of what had happened during the time she’d been with the monster.
Kicking back the tangled sheets, she stretched her feet to the floor, flicked on the lamp by her bed and reached for her diary. She had to write everything down while it was fresh in her mind. Some people might say it was just a dream, that it meant nothing.
Claire was convinced it was much more. It was her way back to the living. Once she knew who had stolen her youth and her mind, once he was behind bars, she’d at least have a chance of moving past the dread that seemed to suck the very life from her.
She wished she could talk to Becca again, but Becca had moved into the Bluffs, moved in with a man who might not even be human. “Take care, Becca,” she whispered into the quiet of the night. “Please take care of yourself.”
ONCE DETECTIVE MEGHAM LEFT, David had gone straight to his lab and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. But, for the first time since Becca had moved into the Bluffs, he had joined her for dinner. Richard had gone into town, saying he had plans for the evening, but she knew he was giving them time to be alone.
They’d both avoided talk of serial killers and security and finding the body. Instead, they chose topics more favorable to digestion. The weather and the house itself.
Right after dinner, David had disappeared again and she hadn’t seen him since. Now, bathed and dressed in her prettiest nightshirt, she sat on the edge of the bed and thumbed through a copy of National Geographic. And the file on Joyce Telatia that she’d found in David’s library found its way into her mind.
Why would David have collected so much material on a woman who’d been killed twenty years ago? And what had spawned his fascination with murders and serial killers, prompted him to fill the shelves of his library with books on the subject? Surely, there was some logical explanation.
Or was there the slightest chance that she was truly bewitched by a phantom or perhaps a mortal with two completely different personalities? One—a man who was tortured by loss. The other—a man who could kill in cold blood and show no remorse. And if that were true, did he even suspect the truth about himself?
“Becca.”
She jumped to a sitting position at the sound of David’s voice.
“I noticed your light was on and thought I’d stop in and say good-night. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I was just looking at a magazine.” She tossed the National Geographic to the bedside table.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“It’s late.”
“True, but you’re awake, and so am I.” His voice was like a silken spray, covering her from head to toe, caressing. He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. “You’re beautiful, Becca. So young.” His fingers trailed her face. “So soft.”
The fears from a few minutes ago surfaced, then drowned in the desire that coursed through her as David’s fingers trailed a path down her neck, to the exposed cleavage at her collar. “I tried to stay away from you. I just can’t. I’ve wanted to make love to you since the first night I saw you.”
“Why me, David? I’m just a seamstress. A nobody. Why do you want me?”
“I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. All I know is that you’ve taken over my mind and my will. You’re all I can think about.”
And then his lips were on hers. Soft, coaxing, then growing hard and demanding. But his hunger was no more than her own as he eased her back to the bed, then lifted her feet to the top of the quilt and stretched out beside her. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, as his fingers worked the buttons loose on her nightshirt.
Her body was on fire now, flashes of intense heat and desire so strong it took her breath away. Her hands roamed his shoulders and back as her nightshirt fell open and she lay totally exposed to David’s mouth and hands and eyes.
&nbs
p; His fingers raked across her breasts and past her waist. “You’re so perfect. So beautiful. Just lie back and let me make love to you, Becca.”
She couldn’t have refused had she wanted to, and she didn’t want to. Her body craved him, her mind so possessed by him that she felt as if they were already one.
She moaned softly as his fingers skimmed the curves of her body, lingering over each breast, making her nipples pebble-hard before taking them in his mouth one by one. And then his hands splayed across her stomach, his thumbs moving in concentric circles, stirring her so that her insides seemed to be melting.
She arched to him as he lowered his mouth to her body and sent her spiraling to the top, then over the edge. She moaned in sweet relief and tried to catch her breath as her heart thundered inside her chest.
“Did you like it?” David whispered when she cuddled against him, content in the afterglow.
“I loved it.” And still her words were an understatement. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. “Now it should be your turn.” She tangled her fingers in the buttons of his shirt.
“Not tonight.”
His words were uneven, scratchy, as if he were trying desperately to tamp down the same desires that had driven her wild just a few seconds earlier. She started to push for an explanation, then stopped and grew cold at the possibility that flooded her mind.
He’d been in a terrible explosion. He’d lost part of his face, but what else had he lost? The idea that he could never make love again felt like weights on her chest, crushing her lungs.
“Don’t look so horrified, Becca. I told you. I’ve learned to live with the life fate’s handed me. But I won’t expose you to such a sight.”
“Is that all you’re talking about, just some burned flesh that you think is unattractive? Is that the reason you won’t make love to me all the way?”
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