This seemed to come as some sort of revelation to Jean Marc. His dark eyes rounded as he watched me in the mirror. “I never see Monsieur Greggory at the hotel. I don’t know anything about partners,” he said with a shrug. “But I do know I take my orders from Monsieur St. Pierre. We all do.”
That I could believe, I thought in sudden annoyance. Even at the age of twenty-four, Reid St. Pierre’s arrogance and his abundance of self confidence had been intimidatingly apparent. I could well imagine what he would be like now, at thirty-four.
The image of an older Reid, more mature, more experienced, more everything left a peculiar weakness in the pit of my stomach. Telling myself that I, too, was older, wiser, more experienced did little to alleviate the feeling.
Jean Marc’s hand moved to adjust the rearview mirror, and with a jolt, I saw his ring for the first time. It was in the shape of a snake, very similar to the one the customs official had worn. Our eyes met again in the mirror, but this time I thought I sensed a wariness in his gaze, as though a shutter had been pulled down to close off the warmth.
“How much farther to the hotel?” I asked uneasily.
“Not far.”
“What’s it like?”
“Very luxurious. Only rich Americans can afford to stay there these days.”
There was the merest trace of resentment in his tone, and I realized that I had been correct in my earlier assumption at the airport. The locals harbored a disdain for tourists, especially Americans. Our government’s involvement in their recent political strife had rankled and left a bitter aftertaste for the undesirable but necessary tourist trade. It was hardly an encouraging welcome.
On the edge of the city, traffic thinned. I could see the silhouette of mountains looming above the coastal road, and rounding a curve, we met the sea once more. As the road ascended, a dense fog rolled down the mountains to greet us, and mist curled and frothed like smoke in our headlights.
We picked up speed on the open road, but all at once, without warning, the car gave a violent jerk, shuddered, then died altogether. Jean Marc guided the car to the shoulder of the road and cut the lights.
Glancing out my window, I saw the tombstones of a cemetery rising out of the fog and glowing ghostly white in the misty darkness. Trying to conceal a faint premonition of horror, I leaned forward in alarm.
“What’s wrong with the car?”
Jean Marc gave a helpless little shrug and lifted his hands off the steering wheel in an apologetic gesture. “Out of gas.”
“Out of gas? You’re kidding!”
“We’re not far from Port Royale.” His face brightened. “I’ll walk back to my cousin’s garage, and he’ll bring me back with some gas.”
I reached for the door handle as I slung my purse strap over my arm. “I’ll go with you.”
His dark eyes widened in distress. “No, please! When Monsieur St. Pierre learns about this, he’ll be furious. But if I allowed you to walk all the way back to town, in the dark, I could lose my job. He was adamant that I was to take good care of you. Please, wait here. I won’t be long, I promise….”
In face of such earnest protests, I didn’t know what to do. But Jean Marc did. He was already out of the car, still apologizing as he strode toward a copse of trees. “Besides,” he called over his shoulder. “I know a shortcut. I’ll be back in no time!”
“Wait a minute!” I was out of the car by this time, but I might as well have been shouting to the occupants of the graveyard for all the good I did. The mist had already swallowed Jean Marc.
I stood staring at the spot where he’d entered the jungle for a full half minute while my slow brain registered the fact that I had been deserted on a lonely road after dark. With the speed and impact of a bullet, the young woman’s comments at the airport came zooming back to me.
“They move by night.”
A finger of mist circled the antenna of the car, looking for the world like a snake coiling to strike. The image reminded me of the rings I’d seen today—first on the customs official, then on Jean Marc. Every memory now took on a new and more sinister proportion. I’d always considered myself reasonably brave and level-headed in emergencies, but standing on that lonely road beside a cemetery with both darkness and fog closing in, I felt more than one tremor of fear.
Damn. What was I supposed to do now—besides panic? Wait here in the dark and hope to God that Jean Marc came back soon?
The thought crossed my mind that I might try and catch up with him, but glancing at the density of the mist and the jungle, I quickly abandoned that plan.
I thought of starting up the road to try to find a phone, but a shiver slid up my spine at the prospect of walking God knows how far in the dark.
One by one, the ideas sprang to mind…and were summarily rejected.
No, the best course of action was simply to sit tight until Jean Marc returned.
Maybe someone would come along and offer me a ride. If I waited here beside the road, I could flag them down. Maybe my father would come by any minute now, having missed me at the airport, and we could both have a good laugh over our unorthodox first meeting. Maybe it would help break the ice over what was bound to be several awkward moments.
With new hope, I checked the road in both directions. My heart sank. There wasn’t a trace of light anywhere.
Damn Reid St. Pierre. The condemnation came out of the blue, but that I should blame him for this predictment made perfect sense to me. After all, if he hadn’t insisted on sending a car for me, I could have gotten my own taxi and already been to the hotel by now.
I wouldn’t be waiting out here in the darkness, letting my imagination run away with me. I wouldn’t be standing here thinking how very much the fog and the surrealistic scenery reminded me of my dreams….
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement in the cemetery. My first thought, after my heart had bounced once or twice against my chest, was that Jean Marc had come back already.
I scanned the darkness with an anxious, hopeful eye.
The tops of the tombstones stood out in eerie relief against the blackness of night, while the bases seemed to blend with the fog. The swirling mist gave the whole scene a bizarre illusion of movement.
And then I saw them.
At first, I thought my vision must be playing tricks on me. The movement of the fog had conjured the images, like the snake curling around the antenna. But as I continued to watch, the apparitions—people?—took on defined proportions as they moved toward me.
I could see three of them now, their grotesque faces painted and glowing in the moonlight. As if trapped in a nightmare, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe my eyes as they continued toward me with their hideous, skeletal faces.
Then I moved—faster than I ever had in my life. With a shriek of pure terror, I leapt back into the car and cranked up the window on the driver’s side, then desperately pushed down the door locks. Almost too late, I realized the back window was still down. I lunged over the seat and rolled up the glass just as something warm and red splattered across the window and onto me. I screamed long and hard.
Petrified with fear, I held my fist to my mouth as I watched them circle the car, shoving their white-painted faces against the window, grinning when I screamed and moved away.
“Who are you?” I yelled at them. “What do you want? Money?” With shaking hands I held up my purse, but they ignored it. As they continued to move around the car, they began to dance and chant in some language that seemed both ancient and tribal.
Muffled by distance, the eerie, staccato beat of drums echoed through the darkness. With each measured beat, the dancers’ movements became even more frenzied. One of them had a stick with something that looked like a chicken’s claw attached to the end. He scraped it across the glass, sending deep chills up my spine.
And all the while I continued to silently pray over and over, “Someone help me. Oh, God, someone please help me.”
The drums ceased as ab
ruptly as they’d started. The dancers stilled. Then, as if commanded by some invisible force, they reunited and, as one, advanced toward me once more.
Again and again I screamed. My heart pounded in terror, and I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. The stories I’d heard about the island were all coming true. The dreams I’d had were premonitions, prophesies of my own death!
Why, oh why, couldn’t I have stayed in Chicago, where I belonged?
One of the men picked up a large rock and repeatedly cracked it against the back window. With every blow the glass weakened until, like my sanity, it shattered into a million tiny pieces. I watched in helpless terror as a painted hand reached inside and slowly unlocked the door.
Huddling against the opposite door, I clutched the armrest with all my strength, but the rough hands that seized me were stronger. They hauled me across the seat to the open doorway as all three figures gathered around me.
And then I heard it.
No more than a faint rumble at first, but I knew that it was a car engine, and so did my tormentors. Their backs stiffened as I heard one of them murmur reverently, “Damballah!”
The one with the stick barked an order to the others. They immediately melted into the darkness while he turned back to me. His lips curled in a slow, sinister grin that revealed a gold tooth.
He radiated evil. I can think of no other way to describe him, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that face. Paralyzed with fear and revulsion, I watched him extend the clawed end of the stick toward me, raking it down my bare arm, searing me all the way to my soul.
I screamed in pain, and then suddenly, as if trapped on some crazy carnival ride, I felt myself spinning out of control….
Like the others, he disappeared into the darkness. Barely aware of what I was doing, I made it out of the car and half stumbled, half crawled toward the road. Headlights from the approaching car trapped me in their beam like a mounted insect under a microscope.
I put out both hands, a pitiful shield against the momentum of horsepower. Mist tossed between us, waist high and glowing golden as the glare from the lights struck it.
I heard the squeal of tires biting slick pavement. I saw the fog separate like the parted Red Sea. I sensed, more than felt, the impact of metal against my skin.
And then blessedly, the whole world went black.
CHAPTER TWO
The Second Day
I couldn’t seem to open my eyes.
I moved my hand and touched cold, smooth metal. That brought me awake. My lids drifted open and I gazed around. The metal bars on the sides of the bed were my first indication that something was terribly wrong. I tried to sit up, but my movements were sluggish, almost drugged.
Gazing around, I took in the white, antiseptic walls and floors, the shuttered window, the crisp cotton sheets on the bed.
A movement in the deep shadows of the room startled me, and I gasped, almost expecting to see the painted specters of my nightmare. But the man moving toward my bed was no ghostly phantasm, no hideous apparition, though he might well have been the product of an overly stimulated imagination. As he stepped out of the shadows, our gazes met and I had the oddest sensation in my stomach, as if I were descending several stories in a fast-moving elevator.
I knew who he was, of course, but the shock wasn’t lessened by the knowledge. My breath seemed to be stuck somewhere in the back of my throat as tingles of apprehension raced up and down my spine.
Reid St. Pierre stood looking down at me with the most extraordinary blue eyes I’d ever seen. Deep blue. Mysterious blue. Bluer even than I had remembered, and heavily fringed with jet lashes.
The thick black hair—with just a hint of wave—fell across his brow, and as he carelessly swept it back, I noticed irrelevantly how large his hands were—huge, well-shaped hands that were ringless. The sight of his hands seemed to further complicate the commotion in my stomach.
He was taller than I remembered—and older of course. More…formidable somehow. His full, sensuous lips were set in a line that hinted at displeasure. Beneath the expensively tailored gray suit he wore, his shoulders appeared massive, his chest broad and hard, narrowing to a lean waist and hips.
Aside from the rather spectacular physical attributes, however, there was something about him that was harder to define. He possessed a kind of latent sexual appeal that was almost tangible in the small confines of that room.
His indigo eyes held mine for the longest time as he stood looking down at me from the foot of my bed. Then he said, “So you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”
He asked the question without the slightest bit of emotion, as though politeness dictated he make the inquiry, but he could care less about my answer.
I frowned in response. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital in Port Royale. You were brought here last night by an elderly couple who nearly ran you down with their car. Don’t you remember?”
“Last night?” Had I been here that long? I looked at the shuttered window across the room. A tiny stream of sunlight filtered in where the bottom of the blind didn’t quite meet the windowsill. Sunlight. The last thing I remembered was darkness. Weakly I lifted my hand to my forehead. “Is my father here?”
He hesitated. “Not yet. It’s past noon. Are you hungry? I can ring for the nurse. She was just in here a minute ago.”
The queasiness in my stomach bubbled at the mention of food. “No, please. I just want to know what happened. Am I…hurt?”
A look swept through his eyes so quickly I could hardly decipher the meaning. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it might be anger.
“A few bruises, but no broken bones. You’ll live.”
“Then why have I been here so long?”
“Dr. LeClerc said you were quite distraught when you were brought in. Almost…incoherent. He thought at first you’d been drinking.”
“Drinking! I never drink.”
One dark brow lifted slightly, but he let the comment pass as he moved around the end of the bed and came to stand at the side. For the first time since I’d seen him, I noticed the fine lines of fatigue that were around his eyes and his mouth.
This was indeed an older Reid St. Pierre. And colder, I thought, unaccountably disappointed. There wasn’t the slightest trace of the devastating charm I’d glimpsed long ago in Chicago. This Reid was all business, but why I should be a part of his concern, I couldn’t imagine.
Almost with a will of its own, my gaze swept over him again. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off him….
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked suddenly. “Why isn’t my father here?”
The dark gaze flickered. “The hospital staff found the St. Pierre’s number in your purse last night, and I was still in my office when they called.”
“You’ve been here all night?”
“Most of it.”
“Have you even called my father? Does he know I’m here?”
“I’ve made the proper calls, don’t worry.” He seemed on the verge of saying something else, then hesitated. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pleated trousers, but when he spoke, his casualness seemed forced. “Do you remember anything at all about what happened to you?”
“My memory’s pretty hazy,” I admitted, frowning. “We ran out of gas, and Jean Marc walked back to town and I stayed with the car. It was foggy and dark and…” My voice faltered as the details of the previous night began falling into place, bit by terrifying bit. “Oh, my God. I remember now. There were these men—their faces were all painted and grotesque—and they circled the car—and I think—I think they were going to kill me!”
In increasing agitation, I tried to sit up, but Reid bent quickly, restraining me with those powerful hands on my shoulders. Firmly, he pressed me back against the pillows.
“Just relax,” he instructed in a voice that seemed more used to giving commands than comfort. “You’re
safe now. Are you saying someone attacked you last night?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I fell back against the pillows, the little energy I had left ebbing away. “I was attacked by these…creatures!”
That dark brow shot up again. “Creatures? I thought you said men.”
“Whatever they were, they danced and chanted and one of them broke the car window and scratched my arm and—What’s the matter?” I asked as his expression altered subtly. “Don’t you believe me? I’m not making this up!”
Meticulously, he picked an invisible speck of lint from his jacket sleeve. He no longer met my gaze. “I’ve spoken to the couple who brought you in. They said you were standing in the middle of the road, and that you made no effort to move out of the way. It was almost as if you were asleep. Luckily, they were able to brake in time before doing you any serious harm.”
“But they had to have seen them. The lights from the car scared them away. The couple in the car must have seen those men running. They were there, I tell you!”
Reid shrugged as he turned and walked back toward the window. “They swear they saw nothing.”
My eyes narrowed on him. “And what about Jean Marc?” I asked, leveling an accusation. “The driver you sent to get me. What did he tell you?”
“Pretty much the same story you did,” Reid admitted. With one finger, he pushed open the blinds and stared out broodingly between the slats. “When he got back to the car, you were gone. He was frantic. He had no idea what had happened to you.”
“Did he tell you about the broken window in the car?”
“There was no broken window. I saw the car myself early this morning.”
“What!?” I sat straight up in bed at that, ignoring the deep, steady pounding in my head. “Of course, there was a broken window. I just told you—one of the men broke it with a rock.”
His head slowly turned to face me. “And I just told you, there was no broken window when I saw the car.”
“Then Jean Marc must have gotten it repaired somehow. Don’t you think it’s just a bit odd that he ran out of gas at that particular spot? That I was so conveniently left alone?”
The Seventh Night Page 3
