by Susan Conley
This was not only absurd, but returning to the hotel hadn’t proven a thing. Ever since that stupid nightmare, these eerie feelings had plagued her. Irritatingly persistent and scary as hell. Red cape. Red car. Red flag? If that weren’t bad enough, the deadly silence of this damnable room was driving her over the edge, but — oh, that’s right — because of her hissy fit last night, she had no other place to go …
She glanced toward the window.
… Except back out there. She shivered. “No way,” she whispered.
That increasingly familiar niggling in the pit of her stomach started again. She took a deep breath and tried to will it away. As she sorted through the facts, she had to admit whatever was going on here didn’t look good. The wreck was bad enough. She had been driving, but it was Jack’s car. Someone pilfering her room at Hannah’s Inn pointed directly at her. And now the red car — her again. For the first time in her life, Abby was truly frightened.
• • •
Zeke pulled into the hotel lot and parked. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. What to do? Following the Corey woman had definitely spooked her. Hell, she couldn’t get back to the hotel fast enough. Panic. He liked that in a woman. He would definitely use that against her. He grinned. Maybe, if she left in enough of a hurry, she would leave the necklace behind. His grin widened. He got out of the car, careful to stay close to the building, and picked a spot behind some thick evergreens where he could remain hidden and still see her when she left. And she would leave; he would see to that. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the hotel and asked for room 114.
She answered. He could hear the dread in her voice. He said nothing. Rewarded by another tremulous hello, he waited a beat then breathed into the receiver. Why that freaked out chicks he didn’t know. What he did know … it worked every time.
• • •
As tired as Abby was, she knew sleep was out of the question. Instead, she just lay down on the bed. Maybe she could rest and think. Possibly contemplate going home. Back to Springfield. Not that there was any home to go home to. The shrill ring of the phone nearly sent Abby into orbit. She fumbled for the receiver.
“Hello.”
Silence.
She waited a beat. “Hello.”
Nothing.
But someone was there. Abby heard breathing. She held her breath to make sure what she heard wasn’t coming from her. It was not. Her mind searched for logic. Jack was the only person she knew in Boston. She had ripped the page from his phone book, so he may have figured out where she was staying. But he didn’t play games. So, if it wasn’t Jack, who the hell was it? The desk clerk probably rang the wrong extension, that’s all. She exhaled.
Or, maybe it was the driver of the red car?
The hair prickled at the base of her neck. Abby eased the receiver back in its cradle and raced to the window. Was that the same red car on the far side of the parking lot? Thank God her car was right by the exit. She ran across the room as fast as her trembling legs would carry her. Fumbling, she finally tore free the locks and slammed the door behind her.
• • •
Unlike Hannah’s Inn, this time Zeke had been instructed not to toss the joint. Bridget had ranted and raved because he trashed the last hotel room. So, instead of ripping the place apart, which he had always loved doing, this time he would be careful. Not that he liked it, because he didn’t. Zeke took great pleasure in doing things his way. Always had. But, as Bridget had so often reminded him — the bitch was the boss. So, he would play along for now.
First, the closet. He searched each pocket thoroughly. Nothing. The dresser drawers. He painstakingly sifted through every one careful to replace each piece of neatly folded clothing. No necklace. And finally, her suitcase. The one he had nearly shredded the other night. He wondered what there was about gutting something — anything — with a knife that turned him on? Controlling the urge to tear out the zipper, sweat beaded on his forehead. Instead, he followed his instructions and unzipped the side pocket.
“Bingo.” He pulled out the wooden box and smirked. “Pay dirt.” He started to shove the case into his jacket pocket then hesitated. Instead, he opened it and removed the necklace. Slipping the amulet into his pocket, he shut the lid and replaced the wooden box exactly where he had found it. Walking to the door, he turned. Everything looked exactly as it had when he came in. Successful but sure as hell not satisfying to him. Not in the least. What to do? What to do? He thought a moment.
Question. Should he shut and lock the door behind him, like Bridget had insisted. Or, should he ignore Her Highness and do at least one thing as he damn well pleased? Why the hell not? After all, that Bishop chick was a psycho if he had ever met one. And he had met some real freaks in his time. Some of them good psychos, like Layla. Real good. His mouth watered at the thought. But some were bad. Really bad. Scary bad. Like Shanti. Now that was one twisted sister.
He was sick to death of Bridget’s bossy mouth and her flunky jobs. Once this was done and he was paid, he was through with her. But not with the redhead. Oh, no. He liked her looks way too much, and she was already set up for it. He had heard it in her voice. She was scared shitless. Just the way he liked his women.
Decision made. He could leave the door ajar to give the chick’s paranoia another nasty little poke. Besides, he loved the upper hand way too much not to. If he couldn’t trash the place to show her who was boss, why not at least leave a calling card to let her know he had been there before he paid her another visit. What the hell. On his way out, Zeke eased the door closed — almost.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Salem, Massachusetts
31 October
Year of our Lord, 1692
“Hawthorne,” a burly man heading Jackson’s way yelled.
“Luke?” Jackson felt Maxine’s frantic effort stop. Knowing she had slipped away, but failed to free him, Jackson raised his tear-stained face. “For God’s sake, Luke, untie me,” he pleaded.
“Watch,” Luke ordered, desperate to save his longtime friend. “Watch her hang, and it will break the witch’s spell.”
“I am not bewitched.” Jackson swore. As he writhed furiously to free himself, his captors’ ropes sawed through the tattered waistcoat and the torn sleeves of his loose, white shirt, biting into the exposed flesh of both arms. “I love her,” he bellowed.
Compelled to meet Abigail’s gaze, his head snapped up, and dark eyes met green for the last time. So powerful was her stare that he dared not breathe. Time stood still …
• • •
“Let me get this straight.” Jack tossed his pen aside and folded both arms over his black and gray herringbone jacket. “After storming out last night, you came here to offer your services?”
“Why not?” Abby skirted the obvious load of crap she was dishing out. “When I was here the other day, Maxine told me about your plan to redecorate.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “She did, did she?”
“Uh huh.” Abby nodded. “I thought you might need some help putting things back together.”
“I believe you made it crystal clear last night that I work for you. Not the other way around.”
Abby couldn’t argue that point, so she didn’t even try. “Just call this a little thank you for your generosity. After all, you did go above and beyond after my accident,” she insisted.
“And what about your adamant rejection of said hospitality last night?”
“My reaction had nothing to do with ‘said hospitality,’ and everything to do with personal boundaries. You know, the ones you completely disregarded.”
“Believe it or not, even I can understand gratitude.”
At the arch of Jack’s eyebrow, she amended, “Look, I don’t have any plans this afternoon — that’s all — and regardless of what you think, this car wreck ordeal ma
y still be tied to me. I guess I just feel responsible for dragging you into it.” She met his blatant stare and saw the hint of a smile tip the corners of his mouth.
“You just don’t give up, do you?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.” Sensing the change in Jack, Abby took the seat opposite his desk.
“I guess it was,” he admitted. “And you’re just here to help straighten up my office out of undying gratitude?”
“That’s right,” she lied. For whatever reason, Abby knew she needed to be close to Jack. “So, where do we go from here?”
“I, for one, have work to do,” he told her.
“Just tell me where to start.”
He leaned back and stared. “Like a Kelly girl?”
She sidestepped his question as well as the mess that covered the floor. “Looks like the painters had a fit in here.”
Jack eyed the index cards scattered on the floor beside his desk. “Derailed my Rolodex.”
“I can’t believe you still use one of those,” Abby muttered as she leaned down and scooped up the errant cards.
“Just a backup.”
She straightened the mishmash in her hand, then shot back, “I assume these were in some sort of order.”
“Not really.” He shrugged, handing her the small metal wastebasket at the side of his desk. “Normally, I just keep those in here.”
She ignored his sarcasm as well as the trashcan. “Alphabetical?”
“No, numerical.” He set the can back in its place without cracking a smile. “Of course alphabetical. Or, was that your version of a rhetorical question?”
For meanness, she shuffled the array of cards then offered, without as much as a blink, “Maybe you’d like a shot at these yourself.”
“Not me.” He stopped at the doorway and turned to face her. “I don’t suppose you make coffee, too?”
She placed the empty Rolodex in the middle of Jack’s desk and simply looked at him.
He shook his head. “Black, right?”
She nodded. “Coffee would be nice, thanks.”
After Abby made short work of the cleanup, she joined Jack and Maxine at her desk in the outer office.
“Can I get you anything else?” He reached for Maxine’s phone. “Chinese Food? Pizza?”
“Cut the bull, Hawthorne. Don’t you have something else constructive I can do?”
“Let’s see.” He refilled his mug. “Maxine has a ’68 Mustang out back that can use an oil change.”
“Cool car.” Abby didn’t even blink. “I’ll check it out before I leave.” She ignored the priceless look on his face and winked at Maxine.
“He knows good and well I change my own oil,” she told Abby. “Always have.”
“Me, too,” Abby lied then winked. “I have to say that you did a super job on the redecoration, Ms. Spencer. The place looks great.”
“Maxine,” the older woman corrected. “And thank you.”
“Maxine,” Abby repeated with a nod. “And you’re welcome.”
Jack glanced from one smiling female to the other, but decided he did not have time to psychoanalyze their strange but obvious bond right now. “They’ll be back this evening to paint the filing cabinets, and by tomorrow it should be business as usual.” He double-checked with Maxine. “That meeting still on with O’Malley tonight?”
“He just called. Seems he had to take a later flight, so he should arrive about eight o’clock tonight. I rescheduled him for nine o’clock, allowing eleven minutes for flight fluctuation, twenty-one minutes for luggage retrieval and a twenty-eight minute cab ride.”
Maxine looked from Jack to Abby and back again.
When neither spoke, she added, “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.
“Amazing,” Jack muttered, turning his attention to Abby. “Care to squeeze in dinner about seven?” he offered. “It’s the least I can do to repay you.”
Abby checked her watch — almost four — and forced the panic from her voice. “Did you say seven?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. Just the thought of that hotel room and the wrong number, or whatever it had been, made her skin crawl and the pulse pound in her ears. The last thing she wanted was to sit alone in that hotel room and watch the clock — not to mention the phone — or, the window.
“What am I supposed to do for three hours?” she blurted.
Jack searched her face, then offered, “I won’t be home, so if you’re looking for a way to kill time, you could stop by my place and feed your cat.”
At the mention of Shadow, Abby’s heartbeat steadied a bit. At least he would be company, albeit feline companionship, and that was a helluva lot better than being alone.
“Okay.” She felt better already. “But your favors are really piling up.”
“And I’ll bet you’re keeping score.” Digging into his pocket, Jack pulled out his keys and handed her the one to his front door.
Abby stared at the key. Just a chunk of metal. Nothing more. Right? Wrong. Dead wrong. It was a whole lot more than just a hunk of metal to her. When she walked through Jack’s front door, the furniture and pictures would be familiar. The house would remind her of coffee brewing and Jack’s after-shave. She knew what drawer his underwear was in. She knew exactly which cabinet held the chocolate fudge cookies. She knew the feeling, the smells, the sounds of home.
“Thanks.” She offered a shaky smile.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she lied. “I’ll meet you back here.”
“No need. I’ll pick you up.”
“Thanks, Jack.” She gave him a long, hard look and stood very still.
Jack laced his hand through her thick hair. He cupped her chin and lowered his head. He kissed her sweetly.
Abby saw it coming. He was going to do it again and she was going to let him. His touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness. She parted her lips ever so slightly and raised herself just enough to meet him. His mouth touched hers like a whisper. The hint of some trusted secret. She sighed.
Deep inside a haunting restlessness stirred. Not passion. Not desire. More like a fierce protectiveness she couldn’t explain. Or could she? The all-too-vivid mental image of Gallows Hill clouded her thoughts. Like distant thunder rattling the windows of her mind, it warned that a storm was brewing. Shaken, she pulled away. Something was gathering force. And fast. She could feel it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Abby spotted Maxine in the lobby, waiting by the door. Pristine navy blue suit. Her thin lips pursed. And something important on her mind.
“Thought I’d wait and walk out with you,” Maxine told her.
As little as she really knew about the older woman, Abby understood this was not social. And that fact did not offend her in any way. On the contrary, one detail she had picked up on about Maxine Spencer — when this woman talked, Jack listened. And that spoke volumes to Abby.
“Sure. I’d like that.” Abby followed her through the huge revolving door and out into the afternoon sunlight. She inhaled the sweet scent of autumn in the still-warm breeze and smiled. “Fresh air feels great.”
Maxine nodded.
“I’ve got a feeling there’s something you’d like to talk about,” Abby told her.
Maxine pulled herself up a little taller. “I’m a very private woman, Ms. Corey — ”
“Abby,” she said quietly.
Maxine nodded. “I have no family and no close friends. She cleared her throat unapologetically. “No one with whom to confide.”
“I see.” Abby could tell the woman would not be placated, so she simply waited for her to continue.
“If you have t
he time,” Maxine began, pointing to the Star Bucks across the street, “I would like to speak to you.”
• • •
Shortly before seven, Jack and Abby arrived at The Grotto, a quaint little neighborhood restaurant nestled between a bakery and a candy store, both of which smelled like heaven on earth. Hurrying inside, she shivered and pulled her coat tighter against the cold night air, or whatever had suddenly chilled her to the bone. Jack? Her conversation with Maxine? The almost full moon? Abby just wasn’t sure.
Seated in a booth, they were situated just far enough from the kitchen to avoid the ever-swinging door yet close enough to appreciate the mouth-watering aromas of sizzling steaks and simmering sauces. Candlelight flickered across the well-worn wooden tabletop as busy waiters and waitresses hurried past, taking and filling orders.
“Feeling better tonight?” Jack asked as he considered the menu.
Abby looked up in time to catch Jack watching her. Unceremoniously breaking the mood, her stomach growled, so she straightened her sweater, hoping he couldn’t see her unsteady hand in the candlelight. “I feel fine,” she lied.
He met the uncertainty in her gaze. “I meant better than this afternoon?”
“I felt fine then, too,” she lied again, certain he must have picked up on her … hysteria, or whatever the hell had come over her earlier in the day.
Interrupted by the waitress, Jack waited until they had ordered to continue. “Want to talk about it?”
“Look, I said I feel — ”
“Fine,” he interrupted. “Yeah, I got that. But I’m a lawyer, Abby, and I do have a certain ability to read people. What I saw this afternoon, was not a woman who felt fine.”
Something about his even gaze and steady tone relaxed Abby. “I don’t really know,” she began honestly.
“Well then, are you ready to tell me why you really came to my office this afternoon?”
Abby should have known better. After all, Hawthorne was a lawyer. He lived for details, facts and questions. But most of all for answers. Too bad she didn’t have any. So, as the food arrived, she decided to stick with her story. “Like I said, I really was grateful for all you’ve — ”
