by Joanna Wayne
Carrie was apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him.
“If there were something to the theory that there are undead in the Fernhaven area, this could represent the killer’s intersecting with Elora when he raped her. His world and her world coming together.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!” He moved the book away from her. “You’re not suggesting that some dead person who’s been wandering around in the mist raped and killed Elora Nicholas. Tell me you’re not saying that.”
“Not exactly.”
“But you think it’s possible?”
“I’m just offering a scenario.”
“No more liquor for you, Carrie. Or else that bump you took the other night scrambled your brain.”
“My brain is fine.”
“Then let’s sit here and talk like cops.” Stupid comment. How could they talk like cops when he was in nothing but a pair of boxers and her nipples were visible through one of his old T-shirts?
“Why don’t you grab Grandma’s robe and I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five?” he said. “We’re both wide-awake now. We may as well make a pot of coffee and see if we can make sense of the new information.”
“I think the man we’re looking for lives in these mountains and believes the way Maizie and your grandfather do. He may have read this same book. He might have eaten in Maizie’s café or roamed the same area where we found Tom today?”
“Now I think you could be on to something, Deputy.”
Carrie was off his bed and out the door by the time he untangled his legs from the sheet. He wiggled into his jeans and slipped into the old house shoes he’d found in the closet.
He glanced at the book again. A symbol for the intersection of the spirit world and the living. It was the stuff of horror movies.
Yet it was the symbol their perp had chosen. Bottom line, they might very well be dealing with a killer who lived inside a tortured, demented mind. The thought of ghosts didn’t frighten Rich at all. But dealing with a madman was scary as hell.
CARRIE SIPPED her coffee, not that she needed it to stay alert. The adrenaline had started pumping the second she’d found the symbol, and she was still keyed up over what it might mean.
She had to admit that when she’d been alone in her bedroom, ghosts had seemed more than possible. Even now, it didn’t seem as farfetched as Rich made it sound.
So many unfortunate souls had burned while trying to escape the death trap when the hotel became an inferno. They’d gone there for a vacation, some on their honeymoon. Most had never gotten a chance to say goodbye to the people they loved.
Now there was a new Fernhaven Hotel, one that was almost identical to the original. Perhaps some of the guests had never totally departed. They might be looking for a way to connect with what they’d lost. And here she went, getting all spooked again. She’d best shape up fast.
She picked up one of the pencils Rich had tossed onto the table, and tapped the eraser end on the tab let he’d scooted in front of her. She kept everything in her head, but Rich was forever making lists.
She stirred a dash of sweetener into her coffee “I guess this rules out Harlan Grant as a suspect. Not likely he’d be exposed to mountain lore in Kansas.”
“But he might have been while he was doing time,” Rich said. “Prisons have libraries. And he probably had lots of time to read.”
“But the symbol can’t be all that common. You were raised up here with a superstitious grandfather and you’d never seen it until tonight.”
“Actually, I think I might have.”
“Say what? You never mentioned that before.”
“It was years ago. I couldn’t have been more than seven.”
“Still, how could you not think of it when you saw Elora’s body.”
“The one I saw wasn’t printed out like the one carved into a body.”
“Where was it?”
“Somewhere in the mountains around here. I’m not sure where. Grandpa and I were fishing in one of the mountain streams. I probably got tired of fishing and went off to play. That was pretty much standard routine on our fishing trips. I wandered off, I guess. Anyway I remember coming across this snake-looking thing made out of twigs.”
“The symbol?”
“It could have been.”
“You’ve seen the photos of the marks on Elora’s body. If you’d seen that design before, why haven’t you said something before now?”
“I never connected the two. I was seven. All I remember for sure is the twigs were in a squiggly line.”
“Were there any twigs in a straight line?”
“No, but there were some rocks laid out in a straight line.”
“A line of rocks that intersected with the twigs?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. Grandpa came looking for me, and when he saw me kicking the twigs, he grabbed me and hauled me back to the truck in double time. He looked so upset, I figured I was in for trouble. But he didn’t say anything on the way home and I forgot all about it until now. But if it was the same pattern as the one in that book, then my kicking the twigs would explain his reaction.”
“Do you remember where you were when it happened?”
“Nothing other than it was near a mountain stream. Guess I’ll have to pay Grandpa a visit as soon as the roads are passable.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
“Under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to promise you won’t buy into his superstitions.”
“Me? Never. But while we’re in Seattle, I think we should try to see Marjorie Lipscomb. Wait,” she said, stopping him before he could say no. “I’m not going because I think she saw a ghost that night, I just want to know how the hotel reacted to her story.”
“And that would help us because…?”
“Something suspicious is going on at that hotel. Chuck Everly obviously wasn’t thrilled at our seeing those complaints the other night. I think the hotel management’s hiding something. I just don’t know what.”
“As long as you don’t think they’re renting rooms to ghosts.”
“Absolutely not. Everyone knows ghosts don’t have money.”
They went back to work and stayed at it for over an hour, going over things that might help them identify their perp, similar to what a profiler would have done.
Someone not in the mainstream. A loner who was into superstitions and the lore of the undead. Someone who knew his way around the hotel and the grounds. Someone who was a good shot and also skilled with a knife. Someone who’d rape and kill and then write a note begging to be stopped before he did it again.
Finally, the adrenaline wore off, and her eyes grew heavy. Once again, they decided to call it a night. She washed out the coffeepot so it would be ready for morning, then rinsed their cups while Rich put a little more food in Jackson’s dog bowl and gave the cur a good ear scratching.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she said. “I’d hate to think Jackson would have to sleep outside on a night like this.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s got a warm sleeping spot in the old storage shed and his own door for getting in and out.”
“Still he might have been frightened by the howling wind.”
“Jackson? He’s not afraid of anything, are you, boy?”
Jackson whined his agreement.
“What about you, Rich? Are you afraid of anything?”
He hesitated, as if he had to think about it. “Yeah. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of failing. Afraid that scum like the teenager who killed the little kid in Seattle and some sick son of a bitch who carves symbols on his victims will get away with it. I plan to do all I can to keep that from happening.”
She nodded. She believed him, but she still wasn’t sure he knew about fear.
“What about you, Carrie? What frightens you?”
Right now it was that way outside chance that they were wrong and that the undead were all around them
. She wasn’t about to admit that to Rich.
“I’m afraid of spiders and snakes and roller coast ers that turn you upside down,” she said, none of which was a lie.
But it was the killer she was thinking of as she padded down the hall and back to the warm, cozy bed.
HOSPITALS WERE their loneliest during the wee hours of the morning. There were footsteps outside the door from time to time and occasionally a nurse stopped in to check on Tom or Maizie. She wasn’t sure which since Tom was hooked up to a machine that let them monitor his heart from the nurse’s desk.
Maizie uncurled from the chair where she’d been dozing off and on since Tom had fallen into a restless sleep. She walked to the window and watched the snow flurries dance in the lights that illuminated the side parking lot and a church beyond that.
The wind had settled down. The snow had, too. It hadn’t turned out to be nearly as bad a storm as they’d predicted.
Not a night to be on the roads, though. They were lucky to be here. Lucky that Rich and his partner Carrie Fransen had found Tom when they did. Lucky he was alive.
“Uhhh. Uhhh.”
She walked over to the bed and took one of Tom’s hands, cradling the bony fingers between her short, chubby ones. “It’s okay, Tom. I’m here. You’re doing fine.”
He didn’t open his eyes, but he stopped moaning. She tugged on his top sheet, pulling it out from under his hips and tucking him in like she’d done the kids when they were young.
This wasn’t the way she’d pictured them growing old. Tom had always been her rock. He’d taken care of her when she had breast cancer and when she’d nearly died of pneumonia.
Now he was the one who needed tending. She’d warned him time and again about spending so much time out in those woods. She’d quit going camping and fishing with him long ago. Every time she’d gone up there, she’d felt as someone or something was watching her.
The hills were haunted. She’d always had a sixth sense about things like that. Most people didn’t. They just went through life unaware that they shared the earth with spirits that weren’t confined to time and space.
“Maizie.”
“I’m right here, Tom.” His eyes were open now, and she moved close enough he could see her face in the glow from the night-light. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re ready to go with me.”
“I want to go home.”
“We will soon.”
He turned toward the window. “She’s up there.”
“Up where?”
“In the mountains.”
She pulled a chair next to the bed. “Who’s up there, Tom? Who’s there?”
“The woman who wants me to help her.”
Maizie’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, and it hurt coming in and going out. She didn’t know if he was talking about something that had happened today in the mountains, or if he was just talking out of his head.
“Who was the woman, Tom? Who was she?”
“She’s trapped up there.”
Trapped in the mist. Maizie swallowed past the lump that filled her throat. “What woman?” she whispered, trying to sound calm and to keep the trembling that shook her hands from reaching her voice. “Who was she?”
“I couldn’t tell. Her face was gone.”
A chilling cold settled in Maizie’s heart. All these years, all the time he’d spent in the mountains and he’d never come into direct contact with one of the spirits until this year. Something had changed. The spirits were touching the souls of the living.
It had happened to Tom. It had happened to Selma. It was a bad, bad sign.
CARRIE USED Maizie’s phone to call Dr. Lipscomb the next morning at nine. She figured that was the earliest she could be reached at her office number, and she felt more comfortable calling her there than at home.
“Good morning. Dr. Lipscomb’s office. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Lipscomb.”
“Are you one of her patients?”
“Not yet.” Though Rich had been ready to commit her for psychiatric care last night.
“She’s not available to take calls right now, but I can take your name and phone number and have her call you back.”
Carrie gave her the information. The receptionist’s attitude changed when she heard the word deputy. “Can you hold on just a minute, Deputy Fransen? I’m not sure if she’s with her first patient yet.”
Which meant she wasn’t. A minute later, Marjorie Lipscomb picked up, and Carrie introduced herself all over again.
“Is this call in reference to one of my patients?”
“No, but I’m very familiar with your work, and I think you could provide some information that might help my partner and I on a murder case we’re investigating.”
“Have you read my books?”
“Studied them, actually. And I attended one of your lectures at the University of Washington. One of my professors in criminal psychology touted you as one of the most innovative and successful psychologists in the field today. I agree with him.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“I wonder if my partner and I could come in and talk with you about my case.”
“I should have an opening one day next week.”
“I was thinking more like tomorrow. This is really urgent.”
“I’m pretty sure my appointment schedule is full.”
“If you could fit us in any time at all, we’d really—”
“No, wait. I might be able to squeeze you in for a few minutes at 10:30 tomorrow. Is that convenient?”
“Perfect. We’ll see you then.”
Carrie hung up the phone and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d gotten the appointment without mentioning the Fernhaven Hotel. That had been Rich’s idea, one of his better ones, though he still thought talking to the doctor was a waste of time. But this way they’d be able to read her reaction when they brought up the incident she’d reported at the hotel.
The smell of bacon wafted in from Maizie’s kitchen. The café was closed due to Tom’s hospitalization and the storm, but Rich had raided Maizie’s refrigerator once again and he’d promised Carrie the best bacon-and-cheese omelet she’d ever eaten. She didn’t tell him she’d never had a bacon-and-cheese omelet. She was a bagel and coffee gal. If she kept eating like this, she’d have to order a bigger uniform.
She stared out the window at the snow that covered the world like frosting. In the bright light of day, looking at the snow, smelling bacon—she could almost forget the way her stomach had churned and her blood had run cold when she’d discovered the symbol last night.
KATRINA WALKED through the snow, loving the way it felt beneath her feet and the way the sun glistened on the pure white surface. She took one of the secluded paths that led to the private cabins. She didn’t usually venture that far but she had to get away from the hotel today, away from Bart.
Making love with him had been beautiful and perfect. Even in her dreams, she’d never imagined that anything could have made her feel the way she did when they’d become one. She’d trade a lifetime for one more night like that, if she’d had a lifetime to trade.
Already she ached for him. And she’d lied when she’d said the tears were tears of joy; they were pieces of her heart melting and breaking away.
How could fate be so cruel? How could it give her Bart for one night when all of this was about to be ripped away from her? Time was running out. It was down to hours now, maybe days if she was lucky. But if she became sidetracked from what she had to do, it might all be over in an instant.
Over. Once again.
She reached into her pocket and wrapped her hand around the pendant. It was hot to the touch now, as if the fire were already seeping into it. She hated to think about that night, but it was taking over now, the way it did so frequently. Time disintegrated as if it had never passed.
THE MUSIC drifted up from the ballroom. She stood in front of the mirror, checking her hair and her dres
s. And then she took the pendant from the jewelry box and fastened it around her neck. It was so beautiful, the family heirloom, an amulet passed on to every daughter when she married. It empowered them, guaranteed they always had something in life to fall back on.
The door to their hotel room opened and her husband stepped in. He’d been drinking. She could smell the whiskey on his breath even before he put his lips to the back of her neck.
She’d only seen him drunk once. He’d gone crazy, accused her of all sorts of things. And then he’d sobered up and brought her flowers to make it up to her.
He circled her waist, then let his hands ride up and cup her breasts. He pinched, and she pulled away.
“Don’t. Please.”
“Don’t what? Don’t touch you? I’m your husband now, Katrina. You belong to me. And I’ll touch you any time I please.”
“Please don’t act this way. You frighten me when you drink.”
“Do I, now?”
“Yes.” She pulled away, but he stuck his hands beneath her skirt and started pinching her thighs, so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
“It’s our honeymoon, Jonathan. Please don’t spoil it.”
“You’ve already done that. Do you think I didn’t see you looking at that man you were talking to in the garden? You did everything but invite him up here to screw you.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“You’re a slut.”
“That’s not true. I was only making conversation. It’s the whiskey. You only talk like this when you’ve been drinking.”
“Get used to it. I plan to drink a lot, my little bride. And I will talk any way I want.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
“Like hell you are.” He grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. Her head slammed against the bedpost and her vision went fuzzy.
She kicked him and ran for the door. If this was marriage, she wanted no part of it. She’d rather be an old maid all her life than be treated like this.
He grabbed her arm as she reached the door and twisted it behind her back.
“Let go of me, Jonathan, or I’ll leave you. I swear I’ll leave and I won’t come back.”
