by Jenna Ryan
“Location’s easy. It’s in the lobby of your family’s hotel.”
“My—really?” She hadn’t expected that. “Katie was going to Bangor to check out the Boxcar’s books. Someone from the office could have called her. Didn’t want it known, couldn’t do it from his desk, didn’t have a cell.”
“There are people who don’t have cells?”
“Speculating here, Donovan. You’re the cop.” One whose eyes kept running over her legs, creating more sexual tugs than she needed to feel right now. She opted to circle the island.
Leaning across the counter and still too close for comfort, he let his lips quirk. “Coward.”
She matched his smile, met him halfway. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a morning person in that way.”
“Depends on the inducement.” His eyes slid to the vee of her robe. “Some are more irresistible than others.”
Despite the heat that sizzled through her, she lowered suspicious lashes. “I don’t trust that tone.”
“You shouldn’t.” And catching her chin, he brought her mouth onto his.
If she’d been hot before, she felt scorched now. And hungry. No, ravenous. Greedy to experience sensations she hadn’t felt for years, if ever.
Donovan’s tongue dipped and tasted, pushing at the boundaries of her control and his. She wanted to feel more, however, the island between them was a barrier she couldn’t sweep aside.
He raised his head to stare half-lidded. “We shouldn’t be doing this, Isabella.”
She caught his lip between her teeth, then released him to smile. “I know. Mystery text message, call from Bangor…”
“Old rifle, old suit, kitchen knife.”
“You know how to kill a moment, I’ll give you that.” She stroked a finger over his cheekbone. “Your loss, Agent Black, because after my first mug of coffee, I rock mornings. Speaking of…” Her eyes flicked to the window. “Isn’t there a triple-decker rock we’re supposed to check out today?”
“Right after you draw a picture. And I have a chat with George.”
“Okay. Uh, why?”
“There’s a nick in the blade of the knife that was thrown at you last night.”
“Which is significant because…?”
Eyes glittering once again, Donovan dropped a kiss onto her mouth that sent pretty much every question spiraling from her head. Until he added, “It was Darlene who nicked it two Christmases ago. That knife came from the kitchen of George’s lodge.”
IT WASN’T CHIVALROUS or fair, but Donovan left Isabella to turn Lindsay’s convoluted description of the man who’d given her Katie’s watch into a sketch while he went into town in search of Robert Drake. The man was a developer, and he was staying at the lodge. George allowed her guests to access the kitchen anytime, day or night. And she kept her knives in a rack on the counter.
He thought he’d have to return to the lodge, but he spotted Drake on a narrow side street. With a quick left-to-right look, the man ducked into a shop called the Apothecary.
He was examining a shriveled-up root when Donovan opened the door.
In keeping with the mood of the town, the space was heavily shadowed. Only a few dusty beams of light made it through a pair of mullioned windows. The proprietor, surely as old as the eighteenth-century glass, snored on his stool in front of a hand-operated cash register. Vivaldi played softly in the background.
Returning the root to its jar, the developer executed a ninety-degree turn. “You’re looking for me, I imagine.”
Donovan closed the door with his foot. “Why would you imagine that?”
“I heard there was an incident last night outside Ms. Ross’s cabin. I’m a stranger in town, and I’m looking to buy land. In a material world, a little coercion wouldn’t go amiss. On track so far?”
“I’ll let you know once we’re past the practiced stuff.” Hands in his jacket pockets, Donovan strolled closer. “How did you happen to hear about this—incident?”
“Same way I learned you’re a federal agent. Milt, the fisherman eats breakfast at the lodge. He was talking up a storm this morning. Given the speed of small-town grapevines, I figure the shop owner there is probably the only person who hasn’t heard the tale.”
Although Drake’s smile was as slick as his hair, Donovan spotted a fine line of perspiration on his upper lip. Time to nail down the source. He rested a hip on the glass-fronted counter. “I understand your brother’s into magic, Robert.”
The veins in Drake’s temples gave a quick pulse. “I wouldn’t call it magic, exactly.”
Donovan shrugged. “Special-effects work is just performance magic. It’s a fair call. Your brother’s done shows on Broadway and in three major theme parks.”
The veins bulged farther. “Sorry, I’m missing the relevance here.”
“I doubt that.” Donovan pushed off. “But I’ll enlighten you regardless. Twenty years ago, you and your brother had a bad mind-reading act that you worked up and down the East Coast. The clubs you played were third rate, but high rollers occasionally go slumming. You met one and finagled a job. You sold real estate, got lucky, decided to branch out. I won’t go into details, but the truth is, you’ve pissed off more than one landowner with your acquisition methods. Granted, you’ve never been brought up on charges, but I’m guessing that has more to do with embarrassment than anything else. You do what it takes to get what you want.”
Anger darkened Drake’s eyes. “You’re bordering on a libel suit, Black.”
“I’m only repeating what the people I contacted told me.”
Drake clung to his composure by a thread. “Did you break into my computer?”
“That would be illegal. I spoke to one of your former assistants. She was more than happy to give me names, dates and telephone numbers.”
“I don’t throw knives at women.”
“No, you slip things into their drinks and take it from there.” Donovan held the man’s glare, but he was aware of the hand twitching at Drake’s side. “I’m just here to buy tea.”
“Is that why you were looking at a mandrake root when I came in?”
“Looking isn’t purchasing.”
“It isn’t administering, either, is it, in, say, a pot of tea?” When Drake’s long finger grew even twitchier, Donovan figured he’d made his point. He tossed the developer a small brown box. “Try chamomile,” he suggested. “It’ll help you sleep. George says you’re a night owl.”
“Is that of some concern to you?”
“No, but it’ll be of great concern to you if anything happens to Isabella Ross.”
“Are you threatening me, Agent Black?”
Donovan grinned. “It’s not my job to threaten.”
“No? What is it your job to do?”
“I shoot.” A razor-sharp gleam appeared in his eyes. “And I make it a point not to miss.”
BETWEEN ORRY’S WISECRACKS and the young server’s indecisiveness, the subject of Isabella’s sketch came out looking like an 1840s prospector—dark, shaggy hair, droopy mustache, stubbly chin and wild black eyes. The result begged the obvious question: What could have induced Lindsay to dance with, let alone take a gift from, such a creepy-looking man?
In the end, Isabella figured the server probably hadn’t given them any kind of accurate picture.
After leaving the station, she tried Katie’s cell and home phones. No response. Again.
Inside her car, with the sun attempting to poke through a bank of mutinous black clouds, she punched Killer’s personal number but wound up staring at her phone in disbelief. Who went fishing with his buddies and didn’t take his cell? Incommunicado was fine, even admirable, but emergencies happened.
Frustrated, she tossed her phone in her purse, started the car and headed for Darkwood Manor. Donovan was meeting her there at two o’clock, and it was almost that time now.
She sighed when Gordie Tallahassee darted out of his office to flag her down. Dressed in a gray jogging suit and headband, he gripped t
he door when she lowered her window.
“Someone threw a butcher’s knife at you!” he declared, aghast.
“Actually, it was—”
“How on earth did he happen to miss?”
Absurd laughter tickled her throat. “I guess whoever threw it either had good aim and wanted to miss or bad aim and didn’t get lucky. You’re, uh, leaking, Gordie.”
“What? Oh, my bottle.” The top had opened, allowing water to dribble down the front of his sweats. His teeth gleamed in a feeble ray of sunlight. “I run to keep fit. I went up Ridge Road this morning, heard noises coming from the manor. Have you spent much time up there, Isabella?”
“Some. What kind of noises?”
“Thumps mostly. Slamming doors. Did you know old Aaron used to throw furniture around when he got angry? He’d crash through the hallways like a man possessed until he reached the attic. No one knows what happened next, because the whole place would go silent as a grave.”
“All I’ve heard so far is a wail,” Isabella said, then wished she hadn’t, because his expression brightened.
“That would be Sybil’s death cry. Aaron knocked her out, but she woke up and realized he was going to throw her from the cliff. The last sound she ever made was a long, mournful wail.”
“A wail she’s only recently begun to make again.”
“Ever since David Gimbel, a non-Dark, purchased the manor.”
“By that logic, Gordie, nothing would change if I sold the property. And what about the previous owner? He wasn’t a Dark, was he?”
The Realtor scratched a wrinkled jowl. “Hard to say. He’s from the area. It’s possible he had a drop or two of Aaron’s blood in his veins.”
“That’s a very convenient answer. Mine’s still no.”
His smile froze in place. “In that case, I wish you luck. I also hope you find your cousin. Have you searched the rocks at the bottom of Dark Ridge yet?”
Although her muscles constricted, Isabella kept her voice light. “Why would I do that? Katie was inside the house when she disappeared.”
“Rumrunners, Isabella.” He tapped the door before straightening. “Rocks lead to caves, tunnels from caves lead to manor.” His eyes took on a shrewd gleam. “And, of course, vice versa. I’m glad that knife missed its mark. But then I expect old Aaron’s a bit rusty after all these years. The man was amazing in his way. He could shoot an arrow at an acorn and hit it dead center. I can’t imagine a knife would be much different. Still, if I were you, I’d watch my back. Whether human or ghost, whoever threw it’s not likely to miss the target twice.”
OKAY, THAT WAS A THREAT. Delivered in a melodramatic fashion, but a threat nonetheless.
Good, Isabella thought. Because now she was angry, and anger was better than fear.
She drove up Ridge Road with one eye on the clouds and the other on Darkwood Manor. No way could a structure be evil. Even if ghosts did exist—highly unlikely in her current opinion—how could they harm a corporeal being? True, Aaron’s story would make bookings soar and Grandpa C a very happy man, but beyond that, it was down to theatrics.
She hoped.
The wind velocity increased the higher she drove. It dispersed some of the clouds and allowed the sun’s rays to gild the changing leaves. Light falling in pools on the driveway improved her mood considerably.
Until she reached the front stoop and saw an arrow protruding from the door.
“Might as well have signed your name to it, Gordie.” Marching up the stairs, she used a gloved hand to wrench the shaft free. She held on to it and her resolve as she stepped across the splintered threshold.
The Realtor had mentioned caves at the base of the cliff, ones that led to the house. Somebody could have been lurking in a hidden room, spotted Katie and decided to take her, use her disappearance and the story of Aaron Dark’s madness to frighten the new owner into selling the manor.
But why send a text message in her cousin’s name? To keep her from contacting her grandfather and thereby risk a full-blown investigation?
Careful not to step on anything suspect, Isabella made her way across the entry hall toward the angel with the empty eyes. Lifeless or not, she felt like they were watching her. It didn’t matter where she walked, the sensation persisted.
Well, damn, she thought in exasperation. Now she was unnerved again, so much so that all she wanted to do was get back outside. But she wasn’t going anywhere until she searched the ballroom again.
Shoulders squared, she played her new flashlight over the walls.
The paper covering them was old and peeling. In some places, it hung in long, water-stained strips. The remaining plaster had turned yellow with age. Someone, probably a kid, had spray painted one of the large exposed sections. She spied the words Death and Danger, and below that, more letters, partly hidden by a plank.
She angled her beam upward, paused, then brought it slowly back. The letters I-S-A jumped out at her from one side of the board, and L-L-A from the other. Tearing the plank away, she saw her full name painted in a garish scrawl.
Her heart knocked against her ribs. Backing up, she scanned the room. “Okay, this is sick,” she accused out loud. “Do you hear me? This is just sick. Whoever you are, you’re not going to make me believe—”
The sound came from directly behind her. She moved, but knew she hadn’t done it fast enough when fingers gripped her throat.
She started to gasp, but a square of cloth covered her mouth and nose. The gloved hand tightened on her windpipe.
Both arrow and flashlight slipped from her grasp as her fingers went limp, and the ravaged ballroom went dark.
“I NEED TO SEE THE HOUSE again.” Haden braced his palms on Donovan’s dash. “Up close and personal. B’sides, there’s more Isabella should know, and I’ve been dragging my feet about telling her. Don’t hit the chipmunk!”
Donovan swerved around it. “I saw Darlene going into the sheriff’s office today.”
“Really? Think maybe Gordie was burgled?”
“She went through the back door, Haden.”
The big man scratched his chin. “Can’t figure why she’d do that. She never could stand Orry, and the other deputies are too young, too old or too soft to pique her interest. You sure it was Darlene?”
“I’m sure.”
Trying to sound casual, Haden asked, “Speaking of interest, how’s yours for a certain blue-eyed blonde?”
Donovan shot him a level look and said nothing.
“I gave her the family tree, told her to study it.”
“Because she doesn’t have anything better to do right now but immerse herself in our past. Someone threw a knife at her, Haden. A slime bag wants to buy the manor, her cousin’s missing and Orry doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it.”
“Orry is a rat’s ass. Rut!” he shouted.
“I see it.”
Haden shuddered, peered out. “I can feel Aaron’s aura from here. Look through the trees. The clouds are coming back.”
They appeared to be massing over the old house. Any second now, Donovan expected to see lightning bolts shooting down at the roof.
A glance at the dashboard clock told him he was late meeting Isabella. A few minutes might not matter to her, but it did to him. Because of that, he wanted to turn his truck around and get the hell out of Mystic Harbor before he fell into something he couldn’t contain.
As he rounded the final bend, Haden went rigid. “I swear, there’s a heartbeat deep inside that place. It gets louder the closer we get to the gate. You sure Isabella wanted to meet you here?”
Donovan’s lips curved. “Why did you come with me again?”
“Don’t be smart. I had to know if I’d feel the same way now that the manor’s changed hands.” He squinted through the gate at the overgrown drive. “What’s going on up there?”
Donovan saw it at the same time. A man wearing head-to-toe black was carrying Isabella toward a nondescript van. When he spotted the truck, he tossed her
in the back, jumped in and slammed the door. Gravel shot from under his tires as he gunned the engine and took off.
“Hold on,” Donovan ordered his white-knuckled uncle. “He’s heading for the back road.”
A heavy wind sweeping in from the ocean bowed the smaller trees around them. They were almost directly under the storm clouds now.
Rain began to pelt the truck, falling in big, fat drops. Within seconds the drops became a downpour. Donovan switched the wipers on high and worked his gun from the waistband of his jeans.
Haden gripped the dash hard enough to crack it. “You can’t drive and shoot, Donovan. I don’t care how good you are.”
Donovan kept his eye on the van’s weaving bumper. The vehicle came and went from view, but he thought he might be gaining on it.
The woods on either side of Ridge Road closed in around them. Leaves, twigs and bits of bark joined the rain on his windshield. He drew a mental map, then swore as he narrowly avoided a pothole.
Haden sent him a frantic look. “What’re you doing?”
“Take the wheel.”
“I can’t steer from this side. We’ll crash into a tree.”
“We’ll have a better chance of not crashing if you take the wheel.”
Without waiting for a response, Donovan lowered his window, leaned out and took aim.
His first shot hit the left rear tire. The blowout caused the van to veer sideways, but didn’t slow it.
“Bastard’s crazy.” He aimed again. “Haden, keep the damn truck straight.”
His uncle’s response was unintelligible, but he steadied the vehicle.
As the van fishtailed, Donovan set his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The right rear tire blew apart.
“He’s going off the road!” Haden released the steering wheel to point. Donovan grabbed it and swung his four-by-four through a shallow ditch into the woods.
The van was still a good hundred yards ahead when it collided with the trunk of a large pine.
The front end crumpled. Steam shot from the damaged radiator.
Donovan glanced at the trees beside him and realized he’d gone as far in as he could. Even crippled, the van’s smaller size had given its driver an edge.
