by Dawn Brown
“Is that significant?”
“One of the most famous finds related to the druids and human sacrifice is Lindow Man. His mummified remains were found in a bog about thirty years ago. There was evidence that he suffered trauma to the head, he’d been strangled and his throat cut. Physical characteristics indicated the man was in his twenties and of the upper class , possibly a druid himself.”
Kyle’s stomach churned. “No one hit me in the head.”
“A hit to the head might have been to incapacitate the sacrifice. Whatever drug you’d been given would have had the same effect. The thing is,” Carly said thoughtfully, “if this is a neo-druid sect, they’re not terribly well versed. Druids used other methods of sacrifice—fire, drowning, hanging—all dependent on the god they were sacrificing to. I find it telling that they’re emulating Lindow Man, who received such notoriety. Provided these murders are ritualistic at all, of course.”
“There’s a pattern to the dates the men disappeared,” Kyle told her. “Always the same four months. January, April, July and October.”
“Seasonal.” She nodded slowly. “Could you send me the exact dates?”
“Sure. Are they significant?”
“They could be.” Carly wrote out her email on a Post-it note and handed it to Kyle. “The four main Gaelic holidays revolved around the changing season. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone sacrificing their own child?” Reece asked.
Kyle jerked his attention to the other man and frowned.
Carly shook her head. “Not in druid or Celtic practices. I’ll check in to that, too.”
Reece nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”
Carly stood and handed him her file, flashing a brilliant smile. “Sure you won’t come this weekend?”
Reece smirked and shook his head. “Have to pass.”
“You know, I could come out, see what you’re dealing with for myself. Might be more help that way.”
Despite implying that her interest in visiting Stonecliff was for their benefit, the gleam in her gray eyes said otherwise.
Reece snorted. “I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
“What’s happening at Stonecliff had better never appear in print.”
Kyle stiffened and turned away from the dull gray skies outside the passenger window, holding tight to his growing irritation. Reece stared ahead through the windscreen, one hand lightly gripping the steering wheel, the other resting on the shift. The man had barely uttered more than a grunt since they’d gotten into the car and Kyle was quickly losing patience.
“I haven’t written anything in two years. I’m not about to start with the possibility I might have been used as a human sacrifice.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
By her Kyle assumed Reece meant Eleri. “Is that any of your business?”
“No, but if you are, and you’re using her for a story, it’s a shitty thing to do.”
Maybe Eleri was wrong about her sister’s boyfriend. Maybe he was as determined to help her as Brynn was. Despite the other man’s hostility, the possibility pleased Kyle. If something happened to him, at least Eleri wouldn’t be on her own.
“There’s no story.”
“Good.”
Silence filled the car once more until Reece asked, “Did anything Carly say hit home for you?”
Too many things. “Her theories make as much sense as anything else. Doesn’t bring us any closer to figuring who, though.”
He felt like there was a piece he was missing. If he found it, everything else would make sense. He needed the dead hours between stumbling out of the pub and waking next to The Devil’s Eye filled in.
“Drop me at The Iron Kettle.”
Reece scowled at him before returning his attention to the road. “Have a drink on your own time. I don’t want to leave Brynn alone longer than I have to.”
“I want to see Paskin.” Though, after his last run in with the man, he wasn’t certain Paskin would talk to him at all. “He was the last person to see me before I wound up at The Devil’s Eye, and he lied to police.”
Reece muttered a curse. “Fine. We’ll speak to Paskin.”
“Just drop me. He’ll be more likely to talk if I go alone.”
“There’s no bloody way I’m going to leave you there. Eleri will have my ass if I go back without you.”
Reece pulled into the car park and cut the engine. “Don’t be long.”
Kyle started for the door beneath the swaying sign creaking in the wind, but stopped before he reached it. He spotted Stephen Paskin at the side of the building locking up cellar doors where he took his deliveries.
“Mr. Paskin,” he called out.
The bigger man faced him and scowled. “What do you want?”
“A moment of your time.”
Paskin snorted. “You didn’t have time for me when you were protecting that little bitch.”
Kyle’s jaw tightened. The memory of the man grabbing for Eleri heated his blood all over again. He swallowed and cocked his head to one side. “You believe she murdered your son. I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
He didn’t give a shit what Stephen Paskin’s version of events was, but he wanted the man to believe he was on his side—or at least neutral—even if pretending churned his stomach.
“I remember you,” Paskin said, grin widening. “From when you were here before asking all those questions. Heard you were writing a book. Is that why you’re so chummy with her?”
“She’ll tell me more if she trusts me.”
Paskin chuckled and nodded to his flat around the rear of the building. “Better come in, then.”
* * *
Reece tapped his thumb against the steering wheel and watched Kyle disappear down the side of the large Tudor building. He felt a nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.
He shouldn’t have let Kyle go on his own, should have insisted they stick together. But Kyle had been right; Paskin wouldn’t have said anything with Reece in tow. Brynn standing by her sister and his relationship with Brynn made him an outcast.
Invisible pressure bore between his shoulders. The hair at the back of his neck prickled as if he were being watched.
Frowning, Reece scanned the car park. His gaze snagged on a thin, pale woman standing a few feet from the pub’s door. She stared at him with wide, sunken eyes, her arms limp at her sides, oblivious to everything around her except him.
“Shit.” They sensed him the same way he did them.
Dull stringy hair framed her gaunt colorless face. Her clothes, though modern, were worn and faded. She looked washed out, whitened.
White ladies are bad omens.
A chill scurried up his spine at his own words coming back to him.
What the hell did she want?
Not his problem. The energy and strong emotions given off in busy public places like pubs or shopping centers—airports were, in his experience, the worst—always attracted the dead. He had enough happening just now. No need to add whatever the dead-eyed girl watching him wanted.
He leaned back against the headrest, pinched the bridge of his nose and strengthened his mental blocks. When he looked out through the windscreen, the girl was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Kyle followed Paskin inside, down a short hall and into a small lounge. Pink carpets, white walls and furniture with sunny yellow throw cushions assaulted his eyes. He had to squint against the brightness after the outside gloom.
“Take a seat.” Paskin nodded to the settee. “How about a drink?”
“Ever the barman,” Kyle said, lowering himself onto the settee. “I’m fine.”
Paskin clinked glasses at a makeshift bar set on a trolley in the corner of the room. “Nonsense, a little something to warm you on such a miserable day.”
He turned away from the trolley, a glass of scotch in each hand. He set one on the white veneer table before him then sank onto the lov
eseat opposite.
“Stephen, I need you to…” Dylis Paskin entered the room and stopped dead. Her gaze landed on Kyle and all animation drained from her puffy face. She turned to her husband. “What’s he doing here?”
“A few questions for his book,” Paskin told his wife; his eyes narrowed, but his smile never faltered. “I’ll take care of him, then be out to help. You know what needs done.”
“But—”
“Do what you’re told!” Paskin’s voice boomed like a thunderclap in the small room.
Dylis jolted and cast Kyle a sidelong glance before she nodded and scurried back the way she’d come. Kyle’s apprehension shot up another notch.
Paskin turned his attention back to Kyle. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”
“You blame Eleri for your son disappearing?”
“I blame her for his murder. Griffin’s body has been identified. He was one of the men pulled from the bog.”
Kyle’s blood ran cold. That couldn’t be true. They would have heard if the identities had been released to the public. Or would they? They had no contact with anyone in the village. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a newspaper. “When did you hear?”
“A few days ago.”
Eleri believed the man had gone to France, insisted he wasn’t one of the men to fall victim to whatever was happening at Stonecliff.
“Your son was romantically involved with Eleri?” A thin pang of irrational jealousy bore into his chest.
Paskin snorted. “I never understood it myself. So plain-faced. Still, she has a fit little body. Probably tight as hell.” His brows waggled. “Heh? Tight as she looks?”
Kyle’s hand fisted. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. There had to be something wrong with the man. They were discussing his murdered son, for God’s sakes.
“How do you imagine one small woman overpowered your son?”
Paskin shrugged and nodded to the glass on the coffee table. “Maybe she drugged him.”
Unease crawled up his back.
“When I was here two years ago, I spent my last night in your establishment. I left with a woman.”
“I remember. She robbed you and left you for dead, isn’t that right? You certainly have a type. Is it the thrill of being with a dangerous woman?”
“Do you remember her, the woman I left with?”
Paskin’s mouth twitched and he waved a hand dismissively. “Vaguely. I’d never seen her before, didn’t know who she was if that’s what you’re after. I told the police.”
“I know.” Kyle straightened and leaned forward. “I read your police interview, but you left something out.”
Paskin’s brows lifted. “I don’t believe I did.”
“You told police the last time you saw me was when I left the pub, but I have a witness who says you followed me out.”
“Is that all? I followed you out, but that woman was already behind the wheel of your car, and you were passed out. She said she was fine to drive and was taking you back to the inn.”
“So why not tell police?”
Paskin shrugged. “Given how it all turned out, I was worried there might be repercussions for letting her go with you. I didn’t want to put my business on the line. If I lose this place, I’ll starve.”
The woman could have driven to Stonecliff, delivered him to or even have been among the people who’d tried to kill him. He frowned. That didn’t make sense. Barber had told him he’d moved his car from the pub’s car park. So either his car hadn’t moved or someone drove it back.
Why would Paskin lie? His son had been killed by the same people.
“Sorry couldn’t be more help to ya, lad.” Paskin lifted his glass in a mock toast before tilting it to his lips. “I need to get back to the pub.”
Kyle didn’t join him. Instead, he stood. “I appreciate you speaking to me. I’ll leave a number where I can be reached if you think of anything else.”
Paskin shot him a tight smile, narrowed gaze tracking him. “You didn’t finish your drink.”
“I’m driving,” Kyle lied and started for the front door, Paskin following behind.
“There was one other thing,” the man said.
“What’s that?” Kyle started to turn, and Paskin’s fist slammed into his face like a sledgehammer. His nose crunched, sharp pain exploding in his face. Blood filled his nasal passages and dripped down the back of his throat, the metallic flavor thick on his tongue. He stumbled back into the wall and Paskin drove another hit into his gut, thrusting the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.
“You should’ve taken the drink,” Paskin said, and kicked Kyle’s feet out from under him. He landed hard on his side.
Fight back! some small distant voice in the back of his head screamed.
Paskin squatted next to him. “Would have been just like before, painless—at least for now.”
Before? Paskin had drugged him?
Kyle fisted one hand and swung wide, landing a solid hit to the man’s ribs and knocking him sideways.
Paskin cursed and stood, glowering down at him. “A little fight left in you yet, eh? Well, we’ll take care of that.”
Paskin’s fist swung down again, and the world turned black.
* * *
Reece stared out the windscreen at the light spilling from The Iron Kettle’s windows, his stomach a knotted ball of ice. He should never have let Peirs go into the pub on his own.
Nearly an hour had passed. The sky darkened and still no sign of Kyle. Every minute that passed Reece’s unease ratcheted up another notch. What could be taking Peirs so long?
With a sigh, Reece got out of the car, crossed the car park and entered the pub. It was a slow night—a few regulars lining the L-shaped bar, a booth with an elderly couple, and three women still dressed in their office attire at a table near the hearth. Dylis Paskin’s head shot up from the lager she was pulling behind the bar, dark eyes narrowing.
“You’re not to come in here,” she said, pointing one chubby finger at him. Conversation ceased and all eyes shifted to him.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “His name is Kyle Peirs. He’s the writer letting Morehead Lodge.”
“He hasn’t been here.”
Her eyes shifted, just briefly, just enough to make his pulse pound. She was lying. Kyle had been here and they both knew it.
“He has,” Reece said, taking a step toward the woman, doing his best to ignore the slick nausea twisting his insides. “I’ve been waiting on him outside for nearly an hour. Where’s your husband?”
“He’s busy and hasn’t time to tell you the same thing I’m telling you now. So out with you.”
Like hell he’d leave. “I want to speak to your husband.”
Dylis shook her head, her frizzy dyed-black hair falling over her shoulders. “I told you he’s busy and won’t want anything to do with the likes of you. Now, get—”
“What’s all this noise about, then?” The man in question emerged through a door behind the bar. Paskin’s hard eyes narrowed. “You? You’re not welcome here.”
Reece glared at the man, fear and frustration bubbling inside him like a geyser on the verge of explosion.
“He’s looking for the man renting Morehead. I told him we haven’t seen him.”
“I saw him,” Paskin said, earning a sharp glance from his wife. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “About an hour ago. I told him to shove off, too.”
“He didn’t come in here or your flat?” Reece asked, blood pounding in his ears.
Paskin snorted and shook his head, straightening. “What do you think?”
If Paskin was telling the truth—and why wouldn’t he be?—Kyle had been MIA for nearly an hour.
Reece left the pub, cold evening air slapping at his face. He walked around to the rear of the building, hoping to find some trace of the other man. Nothing but the dark silent woods.
On a muttered curse, he started back to his car an
d fished out his mobile from his coat pocket. After dialing Brynn’s number he pressed his phone to his ear and waited.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hey. Are you guys almost back?”
Guys not you. Whatever thin fissure of hope he’d had that Kyle had somehow returned to Morehead on his own vanished.
“Kyle’s not there?” he asked, anyway.
“No,” she said, slowly. “He’s with you.”
“What’s happened to Kyle?” He could hear Eleri’s panicked voice in the background. Knots tightening his gut squeezed harder.
Reece explained Kyle’s plan to speak to Paskin, and Paskin’s claim that he’d sent him away an hour ago. Brynn relayed everything to Eleri.
“I’ll come back to the house. We’ll call the police when I get there.”
Again he heard Eleri’s voice in the background, but it was too muffled for him to comprehend.
“Eleri thinks we should come to you and call the police from there.”
“What if he goes back to Morehead and no one’s there?”
He heard Eleri’s reply this time. “He’s not coming back. Not unless we find him.”
She was right. He knew it in his gut. Brynn said a quick goodbye and disconnected. He set his phone on the console and waited, staring at the darkened pub.
How in the hell had he missed Kyle leaving, or someone taking him for that matter? He’d been sitting there the entire time. Had someone been waiting in the woods?
“Shit,” he whispered, dragging his fingers through his hair. There had to have been someone who saw something.
The ghost girl he’d seen when Kyle had first gone around the side of the house. The white lady.
White ladies are bad omens.
Reece popped open the car door and climbed out, dropping guards carefully. The last thing he needed was every spirit in Cragera Bay sensing him and coming forward. The minute his blocks dropped, he spotted the woman still standing by the door.
She watched him approach, eyes dark and fathomless, expression grim.
“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked, as he drew nearer.
She flinched slightly, as though the sound of his voice had startled her. Her knotted blonde hair fell past skinny shoulders, and she peered out at him between the lank strands with pale colored eyes—maybe blue. In life, she’d probably been pretty, but in death she was a fading specter.
