by Rebecca York
A week after the meeting, another woman had been found murdered, although, again, there was no proof to link her to Crawford. Two days after that, the man had vanished off the face of the earth.
Winston had gone back to Marshall with some questions. Ross had no alibi. He'd been home alone in his house in Lisbon, he said. But there was no evidence that linked him to Crawford's disappearance, and Winston had been forced to give up on that angle.
Yet as Jack sat at his desk now, he couldn't stop his mind from playing out an interesting scenario:
Marshall goes to Detective Winston with evidence he's sure will nail Crawford. When Winston presses him for details on his sources, Marshall clams up. So Winston blows him off. Marshall stews over the lack of police cooperation. Then Crawford kills again, and Marshall takes the law into his own hands.
Jack thought it a fascinating line of speculation, even if he did say so himself, but it didn't fit with the Ross Marshall he knew. Marshall was calm, controlled. Had he been a hotdog five years ago? Angry and outraged enough at another woman's death to put Crawford away?
Jack drummed the blunt-cut nails of his left hand against the papers.
There were no other leads in the case besides the tie-in to Ross Marshall. If the media had known Crawford was a murder suspect, then the families of the victims might be possibilities. But the investigation hadn't gotten far enough to go public.
Which led him back to Marshall.
He'd never run a background investigation on the PI beyond checking to see that he didn't have a police record and that he wasn't a former cop who'd washed out and had to settle for the next best thing. Thinking about it, he realized how little he knew about the man—and how little he'd wanted to know. Because Ross had been a good contact, he hadn't wanted to rock the boat.
That might have been a mistake.
He'd gotten the impression from the Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo Sport that Ross drove and his clothing that he lived a reasonably upscale life. And from their talks, he'd assumed he was a serious, career PI.
But working as a private investigator didn't usually bring in big bucks. Was freelance investigation Ross's main source of income? Was there something hiding in his background? A child custody battle? A lawsuit?
Mentally Jack checked off other sources of information. Utility bills. Cable and phone company records. The man's credit report.
Then, flipping open a notebook, he reached for the phone.
ROSS'S body was burning up. His mouth felt like a desert wasteland. And it took a major effort of will to distinguish reality from the fevered imaginings swirling in his brain.
Crawford. Arnott. His family. Father, mother, brothers—and all the children who had never had a chance.
In his lucid moments, he knew that if he didn't get to the bottle of antibiotics in the kitchen cabinet, he was going to die from the infection spreading from his leg to the rest of his body.
He'd arrived home yesterday—or was it the day before? He wasn't sure anymore because the hours had blended into each other like watercolor paint splotched by an unexpected spill.
He remembered sitting in the truck, gathering his strength for the drive home. He remembered the pain in his leg when he'd pressed on the accelerator. The rest of the trip came to him in nightmare snatches. Then he'd staggered into the house and down the hall to the bathroom, where he'd dug the bullet out, working in the oversize bathtub so that he could wash the blood down the drain. And he'd sloshed antiseptic onto the wound before tying on another bandage. If he'd been thinking more clearly, he'd have started antibiotics, too.
Too bad the disinfectant hadn't done the trick. Or perhaps the infection was just more of the bad luck dogging the Crawford case.
No. Not Crawford. Arnott.
Keep them straight, he ordered himself.
Crawford had died a long time ago. Or maybe he was coming back to get him. In his present condition Ross wasn't sure.
Yet he knew he needed to get out of bed, get to the antibiotics. Because an enemy might come charging through the door. And he suspected the pain of trying to change to wolf form now might finish him off. So he pulled open the drawer in the bedside table, got out his Sig .40, and slid in a clip.
Wrapping his hand in a death grip around the weapon, he heaved himself off the mattress and stood swaying on his feet, gritting his teeth with the effort to remain erect. By the time he reached the hall, his vision was blurring. Moving to the wall, he slid his shoulder against the vertical surface, willing himself to stay erect.
Every step was agony, but he pushed himself along, even when his muzzy brain forgot where he was going and why.
Blackness gathered at the edges of his vision. He made it as far as the rug in front of the sofa before he went down, first to his knees, then flat on his face—consciousness slipping from his brain even as he tried to struggle to his feet again.
CHAPTER THREE
« ^ »
MEGAN BRAKED THE car and stared through the windshield at the sign tacked to the gray bark of an oak tree at the foot of Ross Marshall's driveway.
NO TRESPASSING. THAT MEANS YOU.
The black letters were faded, and the white background had taken on a dirty gray tinge. But the aging appearance did nothing to diffuse the potency of the warning.
Marshall's voice might sound inviting, but the man didn't have the welcome mat out for company.
She felt her neck muscles tightening, felt the stirrings of pain at her temples, and made a deliberate effort to relax. She'd been stressed out almost from the moment she got to work that morning. No—stressed out since last night, since the phone call from Dory. Her sister had been drunk. Abusive. Angry.
And Megan had hung there on the end of the line, taking it. More than taking it. Abandoning her previous resolve, she'd ended up promising to write a check to cover Dory's rent so she wouldn't get kicked out of her apartment.
Megan stared unseeing at the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. She and Dory both had inherited two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from their parents, a mind-boggling amount in light of their father's frugality. Megan had used part of her share on a down payment for a house. The rest was still in the bank.
Dory had gone through the money like a plague of locusts chomping through a wheat field.
Broke again inside of a year, she'd started working on her sister's feeling of guilt, and there was plenty of that. Enough so that this morning, even with time for second thoughts, Megan had put a check for nine hundred dollars in the mail.
Partial payment for sins she hadn't known she was committing.
She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to push the painful memories out of her mind. Life had been tough for the Sheridan women—not because Dad had been into physical abuse. He'd known how to be careful of the law and nosy social service workers, how to deal out punishment that for the most part wouldn't leave any physical marks. Most of the damage had been psychological, and each of the Sheridan women had handled the pain differently. Mom had turned into a Stepford wife, terrified to do anything to set off her husband's derisive outbursts. To an outside observer, Megan admitted, her own demeanor must have appeared similar to her mother's. Being a good little girl was the easiest way to keep from setting off the man who seemingly lived to criticize and humiliate the women in his family.
But the surface had given no clue to what was inside her. Secretly she'd vowed to make something of herself—to prove to the tyrant who alternately belittled and lashed out in anger that she wasn't the fucked-up mess he wanted her to be.
Not like Dory—who had gone out of her way to prove the accusations true. Rotten grades. Shoplifting. Joyriding in stolen cars. A pregnancy when she was sixteen—ending in an abortion at Dad's insistence.
Last night, Dory had come back to a familiar theme—accusing Megan of abandoning her. And in a way it was true. A long time ago, she'd turned her back on everything familiar. Moved from Boston to Baltimore when she was still in college, beca
use she'd had the strength to save only one person—herself.
Now it was too late for her to help her sister. About all she could do was try to stanch a bleeding artery with a Band-Aid.
Megan slumped down and rested her head against the steering wheel until a sudden puff of wind shook the leaves overhead and buffeted the car, bringing her back to present reality.
It was like some cosmic hand shaking her out of her lethargy. Raising her head, she looked around, then reminded herself that she couldn't afford the luxury of sitting here feeling sorry for herself—or anyone else.
She'd already wasted twenty minutes backtracking down Route 99 when her computer-generated directions had erroneously indicated a right turn instead of a left. On the other hand, now that she was finally at the entrance to Ross Marshall's property, she couldn't help wondering if this harebrained assignment from Walter was going to get her shot.
Thumbing through her purse, she pulled out the number she'd copied down that morning and reached for the phone she kept in the closed compartment below the dashboard. It was a portable phone—not attached to the car. But she wasn't the kind of dork who sat in a restaurant or strolled down the walkways of a mall while carrying on a loud private conversation that was going to annoy everybody within fifty feet of her. The car was where she was most likely to use the phone, so that was where she kept it, not weighing down her pocketbook.
After punching in the number, she listened to the ringing on the other end of the line, then the same recorded message she'd heard that morning.
"Mr. Marshall?" she asked, unable to keep her frustration from creeping into her voice. "Are you there? I'm at the end of your driveway. If you're home, pick up the phone."
Her plea met with silence, and she felt her anxiety level crank up a notch. Where was he? Hadn't he gotten her message? Or was something very wrong at the Marshall house?
She was normally a calm person. Methodical. Careful. And she ordered herself to settle down and think with the logical mind she knew she possessed. She was already late because of the map problem. What if Marshall had come outside to wait for her—and that's why he wasn't answering?
Or what if he'd called the lab after she'd left and canceled the appointment?
Clicking on the phone again, she dialed the Bio Gen number. Betty answered.
"Hi. It's Megan. I'm out on that house call. Did Mr. Marshall by any chance phone to say he wasn't going to be home?"
"I haven't heard from him. Isn't he there?"
"I don't know. I'm at the bottom of his driveway, facing a No Trespassing sign."
"Oh, dear."
There was no point in asking Betty what to do. She couldn't make a good judgment from her desk in Bethesda.
"Okay. I'll go on up there. But if you don't hear from me tomorrow, send the police," Megan quipped, speaking only half in jest.
Betty laughed nervously.
"Just kidding. I'll see you in the morning."
"Oh—before you hang up, I have a message for you from Dr. Stillwell."
Megan made a face, glad that Betty couldn't see her expression. "What did he want?" As if she didn't know.
"He wants to discuss that plan of action he proposed."
"Well, I can't do anything about it now. I'll have to call him later." Or never, she thought as she got off the line.
Carter Stillwell was turning into a nuisance. She'd been introduced to him at a medical conference in September by one of her fellow Hopkins interns. He'd invited her for a drink and questioned her about her research, then told her that he knew someone at NIH who could get her funding to work on Myer's disease without the backing of Bio Gen. At first she'd been interested in at least pursuing the alternative. But as she'd gotten to know him better, she'd decided that he was all talk and no action. At least on the medical front. Personally, there was too much action. He was the kind of guy who stood too close, touched too much. He made her uncomfortable, and she'd been trying to stay away from him for the past few months. But he wasn't taking the hint.
With a sigh, she put away the phone, eased her foot onto the accelerator again, and started up the narrow drive. It looked like the access road had once been covered by gravel, but most of the chippings had been ground into the dirt or washed away, leaving large ruts that practically swallowed the wheels of her Toyota. How did Marshall get up and down here? she wondered. In a tank? Or one of those SUVs that guys seemed to love?
The road wound uphill, through light forest, where the first delicate green buds of spring leaves were visible on the dark branches. A number of the tree trunks were adorned with signs similar to the one near the entrance, just in case she hadn't gotten the original message.
She left them behind, then crossed a creaking wooden bridge spanning a stream where dark water tumbled over rounded rocks. Along the banks, delicate pink flowers carpeted the forest floor. It was a beautiful little surprise. Captivated, she swept her eyes over the gurgling water and the pink blossoms, caught by the aura of the place. It was a magical spot. And if at that moment some mythical creature—an elf or a fairy—had come wandering out of the woods, she wouldn't have been shocked.
Blinking, she shook off the fantasy. Elves and fairies! Really. She had work to do.
The scenery changed abruptly just a dozen feet on the far side of the bridge. The woods ended in a small glade warmed by the late-afternoon sun. Diagonally across the clearing was a stunning one-story wood and stone house, so cleverly sited on the property that it almost looked like a natural feature of the landscape. It wasn't large, probably two or three bedrooms, she judged.
At the edge of the woods, on a three-foot-tall post, was another sign. Braking to look at it, she saw it was also white, also faded. It said DÍTHREABH.
She struggled with the unfamiliar syllables, carefully pronouncing the word aloud. Was it "No Trespassing" in some foreign language? Or maybe the name of the house?
Shaking her head, she drove toward the building, emerging into the sunshine. A Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked close to the front door. Apparently she'd guessed right about Marshall's choice of transportation.
Glad that she hadn't turned around prematurely, she parked, picked up the kit she'd brought to collect a blood sample, and stepped into the late-afternoon sunshine. Immediately she was struck by the isolation of the place. No traffic noises drifted up from the road, but the woods seemed alive with the sound of birds.
She had started up the walk to the front door when she stopped short as she spotted a trail of red droplets spattering the stone walkway. Stooping to get a better look, she decided they were dried blood.
Immediately all sorts of dire possibilities leaped into her mind.
But she shut off the speculation. Whatever had happened, she'd find out pretty quickly. Raising her hand, she knocked on a varnished panel of the front door.
There was no answer. After waiting a full minute, she closed her fingers around the knob and turned, feeling the latch click.
Long ago her family had been in an automobile accident, bit from the rear at a red light by a driver whose brakes had failed. She'd been in the backseat with Dory, and when the car had slammed into their vehicle, she'd felt herself being thrown forward, then yanked backward as the seat belt had caught and held her. The crash must have taken place in mere seconds. But time had slowed at the moment of impact—making her feel as if she'd stepped outside herself and was watching the action in a slow-motion film.
She felt that way now—as if she'd stepped out of ordinary time into a separate reality. In the long-ago accident, she'd been helpless to change the outcome of events. This time, though, she had the power to make a choice. She could turn around and back away. Or she could push the door open.
If she did the latter, some sixth sense told her that her life would never be the same again. On the face of it, that was a ludicrous notion. Still, the impulse to turn and run for the safety of her car almost overwhelmed her. Backing away from the door, she decided to hedge her bets.
The living room windows were huge. Surely she could find out what waited for her inside the house.
Stepping off the walk, she waded through the bushes that flanked the front of the house. They were low hollies, and the sharp leaves raked her stockings, pulling at the delicate nylon.
Suppressing a wince, she cupped her hands around her eyes to cut the glare, brought her face to the glass, and peered inside.
It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the dimmer interior light. She was looking into a large, comfortable room—a great room, she supposed it would be called—with furniture of leather and rich wood, a massive stone fireplace along the far wall, and a floor of wide planking covered in several places by wool scatter rugs.
It was expensively done. Nothing looked out of the ordinary—aside from the man lying sprawled on his stomach across one of the throw rugs. He was naked except for a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his right thigh.
All thoughts of flight vanished from her mind. Tearing back through the bushes, heedless of the thorny leaves, Megan leaped to the front door, turned the knob again, and plowed inside.
"Mr. Marshall?"
"Wha… ?" The word sighed out of him, a shadow of the deep, rich tone he'd used on the answering machine, yet just as compelling in its own way.
Hunkering down, she touched his shoulder. Though his skin was hot and clammy, the feel of his naked flesh under her fingers sent a sudden and totally unexpected electric buzz through her hand and up her arm.
With a small involuntary sound, she snatched her hand back, even as impressions assaulted her. The stale sickroom smell. The barely conscious man—his physical perfection like the work of a Renaissance sculptor. He lay facing the door, one hand flung out to the side and hidden under the edge of the couch.
She stared down at his unclothed body, remembering her conversation with Hank. Both of them had assumed that some debilitating genetic illness had kept the client from coming to the lab. If so, the defect wasn't anything obvious. His arms and legs were muscular. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow. Firm buttocks. Olive skin that was flawless, except where it was marred by several scars—the one on his shoulder quite recent.
