by Rebecca York
She dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush. If he was using hypnotic tricks, he was manipulating her. Manipulating her perceptions and her emotions. And not simply because he wanted to make love to her. He was up to something, and she didn’t know what. Now, more than ever, she needed to have a straight conversation with him. But she knew that conversation would be at his convenience. Maybe next time he’d climb down the wall of the building and let himself into her room like Dracula. She snorted. He’d been a mountain climber. Maybe he could do it. Meanwhile, she was going to get the help she needed from the Light Street Detective Agency.
THE PERSON who had been following Bree’s progress since she’d stepped out of the grove crouched behind a large clump of huckleberry bushes, the compact foliage working as an excellent screen.
The watcher kept a sharp focus on the woman as she stood for a moment staring out to sea, the wind off the ocean blowing back her long blond hair in a golden curtain. Too bad she was such a pretty little thing. Too bad she’d brought herself to Ravencrest.
A few minutes ago she’d come out of that grove of trees. The grove, of all places she could have wandered on this godforsaken estate.
What was she doing nosing around in there? She’d been under the trees a long time. Plenty of time to find—
The watcher canceled the thought, unwilling to deal with the unthinkable. She hadn’t found it! She couldn’t have found it.
But they’d better be prepared, if the worst had happened. And they’d better not let her talk to anyone else about what she’d seen and heard here.
WITH RENEWED PURPOSE, Bree marched back across the headlands into the garden and then into the house.
After that, it took another twenty minutes to locate Nola. She found the woman sitting behind the desk in a small room on the first floor that was set up as an office. Nola’s face was slightly flushed. Had she spoken to her husband?
Bree dragged her gaze from the woman and eyed the communications equipment with a mixture of thanksgiving and disappointment. There was a phone in here—the only one she’d seen in the whole damn house. And a computer sitting on the desk el. If she could come back later and use the machine, she could send an e-mail to the Light Street Detective Agency. But she’d have to be alone for that.
But she might not need e-mail. She might be able to solve her immediate problems here and now. Right in front of Nola.
The woman made her wait for several seconds while she finished writing on a sheet of paper on the desk, giving Bree more time to wonder if Abner had talked to his wife about the incident outside.
After carefully turning her work facedown on the blotter, Nola looked up questioningly at Bree. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice calm and controlled.
“My car won’t start. I was wondering who you’d recommend from town to come fix it.”
“Nobody is going to come out here.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t like this place. There are stories about things that have happened here.”
“Like what?”
“I already told you about the woman who went over the cliff and her husband who haunts the house and grounds.”
In spite of her earlier resolve, Bree felt a wave of cold flow over her skin, then got control of herself again. “That was years ago.”
“The folks around here have long memories.”
“Well, can I use the phone? Maybe I can get somebody to change their policy.”
Nola pushed back her chair and dug a phone book out of a bottom desk drawer. “Be my guest,” she said as she handed over the book.
Bree sat and began going through the listings of repair shops. It wasn’t long, since the nearest town, Fort Bragg, had only about six thousand people.
Quickly she found out that Nola was correct. Mechanics seemed willing to drive out of town to look at a disabled car—until they found out the work would be done at Ravencrest.
She glanced up from the last call to find Nola’s gaze fixed on her. “I told you you were wasting your time,” she murmured.
“Well, there are some things I forgot to bring with me from home. Would it be possible for me to borrow one of the cars here and go into town?”
Nola pulled a long face. “I’m sorry, that isn’t possible. Apparently Mr. London had some trouble with his car insurance. Someone who wasn’t on the policy was driving one of his vehicles and had an accident. So he was warned that his insurance would be canceled, if there was another accident with an unauthorized driver.”
“I see,” Bree said, keeping her voice even.
“If you need anything, give your shopping list to Graves, and he’ll take care of it on his next trip into town.”
“Does he like to buy tampons?” Bree snapped.
“Probably not. But he’ll do it, if you need them. Or you can borrow some from me if it’s an emergency.”
“I don’t need them right now. I was just giving an example,” Bree muttered, wondering if she could steal a car and make her getaway with Dinah in tow. But first she’d have to find the keys and match them to a vehicle.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Nola muttered, and for a moment Bree thought she was going to say something more. Then her expression closed up again.
“Well, I’ll make a list of what I need,” Bree said, then hesitated. She wanted to ask why there was only one phone in this huge house, but no doubt she wouldn’t get a straight answer.
As she left the room she debated what to do next, then decided she should check on Dinah.
Mrs. Martindale was in the kitchen getting ready for dinner. When Bree asked about the little girl, the housekeeper directed her down a short hall to a cozy sitting room that was probably the servant’s lounge. It was out-fitted with a comfortable couch and chair, both facing a large television set.
Dinah was on the sofa eating pretzels from a bowl and watching a Disney video.
She looked up as Bree came in.
“Can I turn off your program for a minute?” Bree asked.
“For a minute,” the child answered, making it clear that she didn’t really want to be interrupted.
Bree clicked the stop button on the VCR, then sat on the couch. “I know you like to watch videos, but we could play a game instead.”
“I want to find out how Cinderella comes out.”
“You haven’t seen it before?”
“No. Mrs. Martindale just got it out. She keeps new ones around for a surprise.”
Bree thought about keeping the child company. She wanted to spend more time with Dinah but she wasn’t going to be pushy about it. So she said, “You watch the movie. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
“Okay.”
Bree clicked the video on again, then started back toward her room, thinking she might as well get some rest. As she made her way down the hall she heard voices and stopped. Mrs. Martindale was talking to someone, her tone sharper than Bree had heard it before. She stopped in the hall, aware that she was eavesdropping, yet willing to use any means she could to find out about the situation at Ravencrest.
“What’s wrong with you? This isn’t a good time,” the housekeeper was saying.
“Then when do you suggest I come back, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Bree recognized the other speaker. It was Foster Graves, the spooky handyman.
“I suggest you come back later,” Mrs. Martindale said firmly. “When I’m not…cooking dinner.”
After a space of several seconds there was a grudging, “Okay.”
Bree waited a few beats to make sure the conversation was finished, then stepped briskly down the hall and entered the kitchen again. “Problems?” she asked as she took in Mrs. Martindale’s slightly flushed face.
“That was Graves,” she said.
“Yes, I heard him.”
The housekeeper looked exasperated. “I asked him two days ago to check the drain in the kitchen sink. It’s sluggish. So he shows up now to fix it. When I expl
ained to him it wasn’t a good time, he got that stubborn look that makes me so annoyed.”
Bree nodded. So Graves was stubborn. She might have added that the man gave her the creeps. But she didn’t know his relationship with the housekeeper. Their conversation hadn’t exactly sounded friendly, but she wasn’t going to make any assumptions.
“I’ll be in my room if you need me,” Bree said.
“Yes. Fine.”
She’d simply been going to get some rest. But she felt a strange sense of urgency as she started back to her quarters. By the time she reached the upstairs hall, she was running. Maybe…maybe Troy would be there.
With a feeling of anticipation, she threw open the door. But the room was empty. She felt her shoulders sag as she stepped through the door.
She leaned back against the wall and took several deep breaths. She had a right to be keyed up after the events of the day. Relaxing before dinner was an excellent idea.
First she crossed to the bathroom and used the facilities. Then she turned to the sink and began to wash her hands. She was just drying them when a sound stopped her. At first she only felt it as a vibration under her feet. The vibration grew, swelled, resolved itself into the same strange drumming she’d heard in the grove. It was followed by the unexpected sound of voices in the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” she heard a man’s voice say.
It was Troy! Somehow she’d expected to find him here.
She started to open the bathroom door, then was stopped by another speaker. “Where did you come from?” a man asked, his voice made high and thin by fear so that she had no idea who it was.
“That’s not important. Answer my question.”
She heard rapid footsteps then, followed by a dull, thudding noise like a hard object hitting flesh and bone— followed by what sounded like broken glass raining onto the floor.
She’d been frozen in place. Now she realized that Troy was in trouble.
There was no thought for her own safety. She had to help him. Looking wildly around for a weapon, she picked up the plaster statue of a water nymph from the shelf over the toilet tank and burst through the door into her room.
It was empty.
She blinked, trying to take in what she was—or wasn’t—seeing as she stood there, her breath coming in gasps. The room was just as she’d left it. No one was here.
But she’d heard the beating of the drum and what sounded like a malicious assault.
The vibrations were almost below the limit of human awareness now. But she still felt them.
Quickly she crossed to the closet and pulled the door open, but no one was there, either.
“Troy?” she called as she’d done so many times before.
There was no reply, but the thrumming surged, making the air around her vibrate. It was like the whirlwind in the woods, only more subtle. And there was nothing to see. She could only feel the currents of air pulsing around her.
She’d come tearing in here in an agony of fear, prepared to rescue Troy. Now the stirring of the atmosphere around her turned soft and gentle, soothing the panic away. It calmed her down, convinced her that everything was all right once again. She closed her eyes, thinking that the sensation was almost like the caress of a hand on her hair, on her cheek, on her lips. Troy’s caress. Because it felt so much as though he was really here.
Far, far in the background she heard music. Once again Rod Stewart was singing “Tonight’s the Night.”
“What’s tonight? Are you finally going to make love to me?” she murmured, her voice dreamy as she swayed to the beat of the ballad.
The words simply tumbled out of her mouth. Her eyes blinked open and she found herself standing in an empty room. Technically empty. But still it was alive with elements that were real—elements just beyond the threshold of time and space.
The currents of air seemed to wrap themselves more tightly around her, holding her in an embrace that was both tender and sensual.
“Stay with me. Let me see you,” she pleaded.
He didn’t show himself. But he stayed for long minutes. And then, all at once, it was over. She was alone in her room.
Troy had been here. He hadn’t let her see him and he hadn’t spoken. But he’d held her, touched her, comforted her, somehow using the special powers he’d acquired. Now he was gone.
She didn’t realize he’d been holding her up until she found that her legs wouldn’t support her weight. She swayed on her feet, tottered to the overstuffed chair and collapsed in a heap, her head thrown back and her legs sprawled out in front of her.
She was still drifting, still muzzy-headed. Troy had done that to her. Clouded her mind, she thought with a little giggle.
Gradually, over a span of several minutes, the otherworldly sensations subsided and she came back to herself. As she did, she began to wonder what had happened. The events might have been triggered by hypnosis or something chemical, some type of hallucinogen. She recalled hearing about a similar thing in a case at the agency. Whatever the cause, the pattern of events was significant.
Deliberately, she went back to the scenes she’d overheard from the other side of the bathroom door.
It had started with a frightening incident: Troy asking a question then getting ambushed.
She swallowed the sick feeling that had suddenly risen in her throat. She’d asked Troy what had happened to him and he’d said he didn’t remember. Maybe the memory had come back to him and he’d chosen this way to answer her question. Or maybe it was a fantasy he was showing her.
If he was only showing her a fantasy, why frighten her? So he would have an excuse to comfort her afterward? That hardly seemed like something he would do. At least, not the old Troy London. The new Troy was mysterious and secretive and devious. He’d manipulated her before. Why not again? Maybe he wanted to frighten her, so she’d take Dinah and leave the estate as he’d asked her to do.
There was no way to be sure what had happened. But it was impossible not to feel as though someone—maybe Troy—was playing with her mind.
Pushing herself up, she stiffened her knees, then crossed to the bathroom again, where she splashed water on her face before taking several sips.
Feeling she could think better, she turned back to the bedroom, searching it in a new light, bringing back each detail of the attack, examining each in isolation.
The episode had ended with glass breaking.
She focused on that detail, then ran to the light switch and turned on the overhead fixture as well as all the lamps. If someone had broken a bottle or a vase in here, they had obviously cleaned it up. But had they gotten all the glass?
At first she saw nothing when she started to search along the baseboards. Then her heart leaped into her windpipe when she saw the tiny speck glittering in the crack where the floor met the wall. There were more tiny pieces that would have been easy to miss if she hadn’t been searching for them, and a larger one—a quarter of an inch long, sticking upright.
When she reached to pick it up, a sharp edge dug itself into her finger and she made a small sound as blood welled from the injury. Cupping her palm around the dripping finger, she hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a tissue and pulled out the piece of glass. Then she washed off the finger and put on a bandage from her medicine kit.
Back in her bedroom, she sat in the chair and looked around the room once more. It could be that something totally unrelated to Troy had happened here. Something from long ago. Such as the ghost. But she didn’t think so.
The speculation made her chest tighten. She hated to think that Troy had been attacked in this bedroom where she was sleeping. But it might be one of the reasons he kept coming here. Even when he’d lost his conscious memory of the incident, he might have remembered it on some level.
Suppose he’d been hit on the head and that had created strange side effects—such as awakening psychic powers. Or suppose he already had some kind of powers and the blow to the head had somehow sharpened them. And
now he was calling forth those arcane abilities while he traveled silently around the estate, using the secret passages he and Helen had discovered when they were children.
She sighed. All of that was simply speculation. She really didn’t know what had happened—or how he was creating the special effects that seemed to accompany her contact with him.
And then there was an even more important question: who had hurt him? She’d come here thinking the Sterlings were the prime candidates. Perhaps they were working with Graves and he was directing the show.
There was one more point she had to consider. Strange things had been happening since she’d arrived here and she’d basically accepted them all at face value. Did that mean she should be calling her own sanity into question? Abner Sterling had called this place an insane asylum. Maybe all you had to do was live in this house to go insane.
Chapter Ten
Resolutely, Bree regained her composure. When she felt she was equipped to come in contact with the people on the estate, she went down to the kitchen and found Mrs. Martindale preparing dinner.
“I’ve been thinking about Dinah’s meals being served in the schoolroom. She’s there so much. Is there somewhere else she and I could have dinner?” Bree asked.
Mrs. Martindale considered the question. “We have lots of rooms that aren’t used much. There’s a sunporch near her bedroom. Would that do?”
“I think so.” She cleared her throat. “Uh, can I help you get dinner ready?”
“Oh, no, dear. That’s not your job. I’m almost finished. You could help me fill plates for you and the little girl, though. She already went up to her room.”
Bree helped transfer peas and carrots, pieces of roast chicken and parsley potatoes to dinner plates, then cleared her throat. The last time she’d ask the housekeeper questions, the answers hadn’t been much help. Now she felt she had to try again.
