by Joanna Wayne
A strange title for an article about an orphanage, but Meyers Bickham was mentioned in the opening sentence. She read the piece quickly, then went back and read it again as the familiar but nebulous fears swept through her.
The orphanage had been housed in a converted church on a Georgian hillside. To an outsider, it was a place where children ran and played in the sunshine, but to the children who lived there, it was a place of endless rules and harsh punishment for those who broke them. A place where laughter was rare, winter nights were cold and dark, and the nighttime lullaby was the scratching of rats inside the crumbling walls.
The article had been written just after the orphanage had closed its doors for good. The author claimed it was based on his memories of the two years he’d spent there, but then, authors tended to use a little creative license even in nonfiction. Surely the place wasn’t as bad as he’d drawn it.
Still, Ron’s friend had pretty much said the same thing. If it was that horrid, it might explain the nightmares that had haunted her for twenty years. An old church. Dark, steep steps. A baby crying. Orphanages surely had crying babies.
Her mood was far too somber now. She was sorry she’d read the article. She walked to the kitchen, dumped what was left of her salad down the disposal and took the winding stairs to the second floor, where Frederick Lee ruled over a much more hospitable past.
She opened the closet and pulled out the box in which she’d first found the teal satin dress. The garment was now hanging in her closet, ready to be worn to this year’s Heritage Ball, which would be held on the final night of the spring pilgrimage.
But there were surely other Billingham treasures waiting to be discovered and break her dismal mood, especially on a night when she should be celebrating.
She’d kept her job. Trudy was recovering and had given Sam vital information that would soon lead to the arrest of the Prentice Park Killer. And she’d had one wonderful night of lovemaking. No matter what happened between Sam and her, she’d always have that.
This time she chose another box. It was stuffed into the back of the closet and harder to get to. She opened it and pulled out a scrapbook. The pages were yellowed, but it was filled with old newspaper clippings. And a wedding picture. The bride was beautiful, dressed in a simple but exquisite white gown set with tiny pearls.
Margie Billingham, wed to the Reverend Thomas Cleary, February 18, 1904. And she’d been wed right here in this house. Caroline could picture her walking down the winding staircase with all her family and friends watching as she married the man of her dreams.
“You sired a great family, Frederick Lee.” She sat on the sofa and looked through the scrapbook, careful not to damage the frayed pages. Packed beneath the scrapbook was a stack of letters, tied with twine. All addressed to Margie Billingham.
Caroline slid the first one from the tattered envelope. It was a love letter from Thomas. Captivated with the sweetness of his words and the depth of his feeling, she read every one.
But the box had more. There was something wrapped in layers of tissue. Caroline pushed the paper aside, then oohed and ahhed as she pulled out the wedding dress from the old black-and-white photo. It was yellowed, but so gorgeous it took her breath away.
She held it up to her shoulders, but knew that would never be enough. She shed her clothes in record time and pulled the dress over her head. It was tight across her bosom, a little loose around the waist, but she felt as if she’d stepped back in time.
She stood in front of the mirror. As always the wavy glass distorted her image, made her look surreal, almost a ghost bride.
She twirled. Ghostly or not, the dress swishing around her ankles felt divine. Not wanting to take it off, she swept down the staircase in it. The marvelous find called for a glass of wine. She used one of two antique crystal flutes she’d found at a flea market the month before and took it back to her desk.
She logged back onto the Internet and pulled up her e-mail. Now there were twenty-eight messages. The last one was from someone she’d never heard of, but the subject line got her attention.
To my sweet Daphne.
The words filled her with dread. It might just be someone who’d read the tabloid about her changing her name and wanted to slam her. She should just delete it, but she didn’t dare. It could be from the killer. He had to be stopped. One way or the other, he had to be stopped. So she moved on and read his message.
Hello, Daphne
I’m thinking of you, though I’m not happy you spent last night with Sam Turner. I had hoped you were saving yourself for me. But then, you don’t really know me yet. You will soon. And you’ll discover how very much we have in common. Much more than you have with Sam. He hasn’t suffered as we have. But he will. Trust me, he will.
Take care, Daphne. Our destiny is upon us.
Sick! The guy was totally and completely depraved. Why did he keep coming at her like this? What made him think she was like him in any way?
She wanted to scream or throw something or bang her head against a wall. But she couldn’t even delete his disgusting message. Sam would want to see it.
Catch him quickly, Sam. Get him off the streets before he slices up someone else. But the truth was they didn’t know for sure if the guy contacting her was the man who’d murdered Sally and Ruby. He never said anything that unmistakably tied him to the crimes. He could just be a crazy who got his rocks off tormenting her.
Caroline dialed Sam’s number. She got a busy signal. She pushed back from the computer, wanting to get as far away from the message as she could. She went back to the front of the house, still wearing the exquisite wedding dress, but it had lost its magic.
She stopped off in the kitchen to refill her wineglass, then hurried past the door to the basement the way she always did. But this time there was more than the chilly blast of cold air. There was the sound of crying.
She stood very still, her body frozen to the spot, though her heart was pounding against the wall of her chest. She was losing it. Letting a deranged killer drive her absolutely mad.
But she heard the sound again. A baby’s cry. Soft, but unmistakable. It was the cry from the nightmare…but nightmares weren’t real. Nightmares couldn’t hurt you, not unless you let them steal your sanity.
And she wouldn’t let them. She wrapped her hand around the doorknob and eased the door open. She tried to flick on the light, but either the bulb was missing from the fixture or it had burned out. But there was enough light from the hallway that she could see down the steep, narrow steps to the darkness below.
She didn’t see a baby, but something moved in the shadows and she heard the cry again. The wave of fear that hit her was deep and strong, pulling her under and back into the past. Back to the dark, damp hell where ghost babies cried in the wall.
“Let’s all three hold hands. If we stay together, they won’t hurt us. Just hold on tight and be very, very quiet.”
Caroline held on. As tightly as she could. But the baby just kept crying. And whatever it was that moved in the shadows inched closer.
Chapter Twelve
Sam slowed as he passed Caroline’s house. It was late, but her lights were still on. He wondered what she’d say if he knocked on her door this time of the night. For that matter, what would he say?
The truth sounded corny for a man his age. I’ve been thinking about you all day—in and around attempts to locate the murderous Billy Smith, instead of the thousand law-abiding ones. I like sleeping on your floor. Or the ever popular, I’m horny as hell and I’d like to make love to you again.
Actually, he just wanted to be with her. If she didn’t want to be with him tonight, she could always kick him out. He parked the car and hurried up the walk.
He rang the doorbell and waited. Then he rang it again. Still no response, but there were lights on all over the house. She had to be in there.
This time he pounded on the door. “Caroline!”
His cop instincts kicked in with a rush of ad
renaline. He had her key somewhere. He rummaged through his pockets until he found it. He called her name again as he shoved open the door.
The drawing room was empty, but the door to the basement was open. He ran to it, then stopped. She was sprawled across the steps, a white dress spread all around her, her head at an awkward angle against one of the balusters.
He ran down the steps and gathered her in his arms. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
“Sam?”
“It’s me. I’m here, baby.”
“How did you get here?”
“I just stopped by. I had your key so I came in.” There was no blood and she was talking, though she seemed confused, almost as if she’d been in some kind of hypnotic trance. “What happened here, Caroline? Did you fall?”
“I think I passed out, or maybe I slipped on the steps. I don’t remember.”
“Why were you down here in the dark?”
“I heard a noise. It sounded like a baby crying, like in my nightmares. But I knew it couldn’t be real.”
“So you came down here in the dark to prove that?”
“The light’s burned out.”
“Have you ever blacked out like this before?”
“No. But I think it’s just dealing with all the madness. It all got to me at once and I started having strange thoughts, as if I were remembering something from long ago. I think it’s memories from back when I was at Meyers Bickham.”
“More fallout from that stupid tabloid article.”
“I guess. They mentioned the place and then someone at work brought it up again today.”
The children’s home from hell. Sam had heard the horror stories long before he met Caroline, but hadn’t really believed them then.
He swooped her up in his arms and started up the steps. Suddenly, he felt her stiffen at a sound—but he’d heard it, too, and he’d never been to Meyers Bickham. He sat her down at the top of the stairs. His right hand flew to the gun in his shoulder holster, but when the culprit sprang out of the darkness, he didn’t shoot.
“A cat,” Caroline said. “I was frightened out of my skull by a cat.”
“Do you have some milk?” Sam asked. “If you do, we can probably coax it up here. And I need a flashlight so I can figure out how it got into your basement.”
“The flashlight’s by my bed, third door down the hall. You get that. I’ll get the milk.”
Sam watched her hurry toward the kitchen, dressed in the long white gown, her short hair bouncing about her head. She looked like a vision. Or a bride. Desire slammed into him with the force of a runaway train. He had it bad.
CAROLINE STROKED the cat while Sam searched the basement. She’d slipped out of the wedding dress and into a soft silk robe. No reason to risk getting milk or cat hairs on the antique gown.
The cat was scrunched up in her lap and purring contentedly. “You precious little thing, how in the world did you get in my basement? That’s okay—you were probably as frightened as I was, though you didn’t pass out. You handle fear well. Good kitty.”
“Looks like you made friends fast,” Sam said, returning to the kitchen, flashlight still in hand.
“Animals like me.”
“And that empty saucer on the floor wouldn’t have a thing to do with that, I guess.”
“She’d have liked me, anyway. She just likes me better now.”
“It’s that slow hand with the stroking.”
She had the feeling he wasn’t only referring to her stroking the cat’s back. A flush crept to her cheeks, but it felt good. Being with Sam felt good. “Did you find out how she got in?”
“Yep. You have a broken window.”
Her heart jumped to her throat as the terror set in again. “The killer?”
“It could have been neighborhood kids.”
“I’ve never had problems with them before.”
“Could have been a common thief. There’s a lot of stuff down there.”
“You don’t believe that, Sam, and neither do I.”
“Well, if it was Billy Smith, you won’t have to worry much longer. He’ll be in custody soon. And I’ll fix that window first thing tomorrow and have metal grates installed over the glass.”
“Dare I ask how the search for Billy Smith is going?”
“There are a lot of Billy Smiths in the state of Georgia. A slew of them just in this county. And then there are all the Billy or William Smiths in neighboring states and the strong likelihood that Billy Smith is an alias.”
“So what do you do? Wade through them all, hoping to find something that indicates he might be the one?”
“I have an artist flying in from San Antonio in the morning, the best in the business.”
“I suppose an accurate picture would make a world of difference.”
“Especially if this guy has a record, and I’m almost certain that he will.”
“Did you check to see if anyone in Georgia by the name of Billy Smith had a record?”
“I have a team working on that now. Meanwhile, there’s no proof that Billy Smith is the one who murdered the two victims.”
“Well, I’m convinced it’s Billy and I’m counting on your artist delivering such a great likeness that he’s arrested within the hour of circulating the sketch.”
“I hope you’re right. I’d appreciate it if you could be at the hospital tomorrow morning when the artist is there. Trudy seems a lot more relaxed when you’re around.”
“She seems to have bonded with me. I’m not sure why.”
“You’re easy to bond with.”
He meant it as a compliment, but it hit the wrong chord. “Apparently too easy. I heard from him again tonight, Sam.”
He crossed the room and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Did you record the voice?”
“It wasn’t a phone call this time. It was an e-mail. But in a way, that’s good, isn’t it? Can you check the address he sent it from and find out where he is?”
“On the unlikely chance that he used his own e-mail account.”
“But even if used a friend’s, couldn’t you find and question that person?”
“If the guy’s as smart as past experience indicates, he probably used a computer at a public library or some Internet café. Actually it’s pretty easy to just walk into a large office building these days, step into an empty office and log on to the Internet.”
“Wouldn’t he need a password?”
“Computers in a library or Internet café are already online. So are the computers in half the offices in town. People are supposed to sign off public computers, but they don’t always. So the next person goes up and there’s the previous user’s ID. We had a case last month of a stolen identity, and that’s how the guy got the information.”
“Modern crime.”
“And technologically adept criminals. So let’s see this e-mail.”
She sighed. The cat jumped from her lap. “I’d scatter, too, if I were you,” she said.
Sam followed her back to her office and she pulled up the message. He read it, then slammed his right fist into his left hand.
“Do you think it’s from Billy?” Caroline asked.
“He may not be Billy, but he’s obsessed with you and obviously watching everything you do. He knows I spent the night here last night. He probably knows I’m here now.”
She touched Sam’s arm. The muscles were taut. He was as disturbed by this latest contact as she was. “Is my broken basement window large enough for a man to squeeze though?”
“If he’s skinny.”
“Or average size?”
“I’ll see that those grates are installed tomorrow. Strong ones that’ll take a blowtorch to get through.”
“And tonight?”
He put a thumb under her chin and tilted it so that she met his gaze. She saw concern there, a touch of fury, but also desire. The same desire she felt every time he was near.
“If you sleep with a cop,” he said, “you’ll always be saf
e.”
“Do you have any particular cop in mind?”
His answer was a kiss. She melted against him, loving the feel of his strong arms around her and his solid chest to lean on.
Always safe when you sleep with a cop.
Unless he broke her heart.
SAM WAS WITH HER again. Had his stinking cop hands all over her. So disgusting, it made him sick to think about it. They were pushing him too far. Sam Turner always pushed too far. But he wouldn’t get away with it.
Caroline was meant to be his. He’d paid the price. He had a right to her. They were bonded in a way she and Sam could never bond. When she learned the truth of who he was, she’d know that, too. There would be one more death. And then Caroline would be his forever.
He stared at the rambling old house as the last light went out, and he hated Sam Turner clear down to his soul.
SAM AWOKE with his arm around Caroline and her naked body pressed against his. He eased his arm from under her and slid off the bed, being careful not to wake her. For the second night in a row, they’d made love. For the second night in a row, it had been exciting and passionate and right.
He hadn’t expected it to happen this way, would never have believed he could have slipped into intimacy so easily. But then, that was how it had happened with Peg, too. He’d been knee-deep in a murder case, so involved that he hadn’t seen the relationship coming. Maybe that was what it took to get him past the bad notions about relationships he’d learned at his mother’s knee—and on the receiving end of his stepfather’s belt.
Now here he was, so involved in a case that he hardly even had time to breathe regularly and he was sleeping with a reporter. In her bed. In her arms.
He walked through the house, stopping to check the lock on the basement door. He didn’t know how the window had gotten broken, but it had happened recently. Otherwise the basement would been have cluttered with leaves and debris.
Besides, he knew that the cop patrolling the area was keeping a close watch on the house, even walking around it and making a visual inspection at least a couple of times a day, and he hadn’t reported a broken window.
