Sleeping Beauty

by Dallas Schulze

  SLEEPING BEAUTY

  Once Upon a Time.

  1 here was a woman who lived in a rose-covered cottage. She was a woman soft of heart and warm in spirit, with hair the color of new honey and twilight-colored eyes—eyes that, often as not, held a look that hinted at gentle secrets and close-held dreams.

  She had spent her whole life in the small town where she was bom, sheltered and protected by her family beyond what was usual, for evil had once set a shadowed hand among them, and they lived with the fear of its retum.

  Out of love, they bound her close with ties of fear and guilt.

  Out of love, she accepted the soft bonds, though ihey grew tighter with each passing year.

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  She stayed safe within the walls of the rose-covered cottage, dreaming dreams of faraway places, exotic lands she would never see, adventures she'd never have. And if—just now and then—she dreamed of a man with a heart strong enough to break tiirough the loving ties that bound her, well, that was a secret best kept between her and her heart.

  This was real life, after all, and no one knew better than she that life was not a fairy tale.

  Chapter One

  JNeill Devlin had never believed in hell, at least not in the fire and taimstone, hot lava and damned souls sort of hell. It was a metaphor, the moral to a story, and he didn't believe in it any more than he believed in witches on broomsticks, fairies dancing on buttercups or happily-ever-after. He was holding firm on the last three, but it was obvious he'd been wrong about hell. It existed, all right, but it wasn't some dark netherworld, filled with molten lava and knife-edged rocks.

  Hell was right here, in the middle of Indiana, in the middle of sununer, in the middle of seemingly endless miles of cornfields, stranded on a dirt road halfway between nowhere-in-particular and some-

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  where-up-ahead, with the hot August sun beatmg down out of a cloudless, pale blue sky and only the liteless hulk of a seventy-year-old motorcycle for company.

  **Next time you get a bright idea for a vacation, Devlin," he muttered as he began pushing the bike down the road, **save yourself some trouble and just check into the nearest asylum for the teraii-nally stupid.''

  Under the current circumstances, it was hard to remember why this trip had seemed like such a good idea when he'd started out. In the last eight years, he'd written three bestselling nonfiction crime books. A month ago, he'd finished book number four, and both his editor and his agent assured him that this was his best work yet, sure to shoot straight to the top of the New York Times list He wished he could share their enthusiasm, but, after spending two years delving into the madness that had led a woman to kill her own children in the name of the Lord, he wasn't feeling particularly good about what he did for a living. He wasn't, in fact, feeUng particularly good about the world in general.

  The truth was, at thirty-five, after spending most of the last decade staring into the darkest comers

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  of humanity's heart, he was burned out, wrang dry and in desperate need of a break.

  He was also sick to death of Seattle's rain and its organic-food-eating, latte-drinking, grange-music-playing inhabitants. He wanted to go somewhere where he could order a cup of coffee without someone asking him if he wanted a half caf, double-cream foamy with a twist of lemon. He wanted to order a steak, pan fried, rare enough to moo when he stuck his fork into it, no authentic mes-quite grill, no b^amaise butter, no aragula and macadamia nut salad on the side—just a slab of unadomed meat without so much as a sprig of parsley to distract from the cholesterol-laden glory of it And he didn't ever again want to hear anyone chirrap with joy over the wonders of the Pacific Northwest. As far as he was concerned, the whole damned place could sink into the ocean. It was so waterlogged akeady that he doubted anyone would notice the difference.

  His parents had retired to Florida—^Ft. Lauderdale, where nothing but an occasional hurricane got between the inhabitants and the sun. Just thinking about it made him feel warmer. He'd been staring out the window of his rented condo, watching a gray, misty rain fall, when the idea came to him, and his first impulse was to pick up the phone and

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  arrange for a flight. In twenty-four hours or less, he could be lying next to the pool, letting the Florida sun bake the Seattle chill from his bones.

  Then again, he'd been working nonstop for the last three months, running short on sleep and living on instant coffee and take-out food. Images from the book still filled his mind and haunted his thoughts. Past experience told him that he needed some time to decompress, time to step away from the dark comers he made a living exploring.

  If he went home now, his mother would take one look at the shadows in his eyes and start worrying and baking—^her response to most of the world's ills. His father would inunediately drag him into the garage-tumed-woodworking-shop, hand him a hammer and put him to work on whatever his latest project happened to be. Brandon Devlin was a great believer in the therapeutic effects of physical labor. A few days of their unspoken concem and he would have gained ten pounds, have blisters on every finger and be starting to envy his friends who never spoke to their parents.

  That was when the idea had come to hinL Sitting in the condo's basement garage was the 1930 Indian motorcycle he'd bought six months ago and had barely had tune to look at since. A crosscountry road trip. It was exactly what he needed—

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  a few weeks on the road with nothing to do but admire the scenery and nothing to worry about except where to stop for the night. No one was expecting him anywhere, so he could take all the time he wanted. Hell, he could spend the next year on the road if the mood struck him. Maybe there was even a book in this, something different, something that didn't require him to delve into the dark heart of madness.

  It had taken him less than a week to tie up the loose ends of his life in Seattle—^tum the condo back to the rental company, pack up and store the handful of things he'd gathered over the last two years, and call the few people who might notice he was gone. Then, feeling like a cross between Easy Rider and Alexis de Tocqueville, he left the gray, Seattle drizzle behind, heading south and east in search of sunshine and the legendary sense of freedom and adventure that came with life on the road.

  After three weeks, he'd come to the conclusion that life on the road was highly overrated. He'd seen a lot of beautiful country, but, after a week or so, one spectacular sunset started to look pretty much like the ones that had come before. It was only sheer stubbornness that had kept him from chucking the whole idea and driving straight to the nearest airport a week ago.

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  But this was the final straw. He'd had enough of living like a nomad. Enough of staying in motels with paper-thin walls and a stingy supply of hot water. Enough of **home-cooking'' that came straight fix)m a can. His butt was numb, and his legs felt peraianently bowed from straddling the bike. His shirt was sticking to the sweat on his back, and there was an ominous threat of a blister forming on his left heel. He was hungry, thirsty, and the damned bike was getting heavier with every passing minute. He wanted a cold drink, a hot shower, a meal that owed nothing to Chef Boy-ardee macaroni and a bed with a mattress younger than he was. The only way he was going to get a book out of this life experience was if he moved into the horror genre, he thought sourly.

  A shallow breeze drifted past, a faint breath of air that drew a whispery rustle from the tall rows of com that lined both sides of the road. Speaking of horror, he was starting to feel like he was trapped in an old Twilight Zone episode—the one where Billy Mumy kept sending people to the com-fields.

  **No wonder they were
terrified,** Neill muttered. **It must have been summer in Indiana.**

  The hiccuping whine of an engine broke the stillness, and he stopped, bracing the bike against his

  leg as he turned to look back down the road. He allowed himself a brief fantasy of Cindy Crawford pulling up in a stretch limo. She just happened to be on her way to the nearest airport and was dying to give a lift to a slightly-the-worse-for-wear writer. Then again, the battered red pickup that appeared through the cloud of dust didn't look half bad, either, especially since the driver slowed as soon as he saw Neill, brakes scraping in complaint as the truck halted next to him.

  "Need a ride, mister?'' The face that peered at him across the tattered seat was lined by years and weathered by the sun. Faded blue eyes, a sharply hooked nose and a narrow mouth hidden beneath a scraggly band of salt-and-pepper whiskers with pretensions toward mustache-hood

  *Td appreciate one. Is there room for my bike in the back?" Hell, who needed Cindy Crawford? She probably couldn't even drive a truck.

  **You know, if you'd buy a real car, you wouldn't have to spend half your life at David Freeman's garage and the other half earning enough money to pay for repairs to that heap of junk." Lisa Remington slowed her car and flicked on the tum signal, waiting until a feed truck went

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  past before turning left across Signal Avenue into the gas station.

  **Lucy is a real car/* Anne Moore protested.

  *'Depends on your definition of 'real,' I guess. Personally, I think a real car should hold more than one and a half people. And have the ability to go more than thirty miles an hour."

  "Lucy holds two people quite comfortably.''

  "Only if they're contortionists," Lisa muttered.

  "And she'll go more than thirty miles an hour."

  "Only if you get out and push."

  Anne laughed, reaching for the seat belt as Lisa pulled up next to the garage. It was an old argument, one neither of them expected to win. "You're just jealous because my car has a personality."

  "Like a professional hypochondriac. If it isn't the brakes, it's the engine or the transmission. You only bought the stupid thing because no one else wanted it."

  Aime shrugged, but couldn't deny the accusation. "They were going to send her to the junkyard."

  "That's where it belongs," Lisa pointed out.

  "Shh, she might hear you," Anne said, grinning as she nodded to the open garage door.

  Lisa gave the ancient VW Bug that sat inside a

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  sour look. **Nothing that old can possibly have any hearing left. Do you know how old that thing is in dog years?"

  *'If she was a dog, Fd worry," Anne said dryly. She pulled the door handle. ''Thanks for the lift."

  *'Hubba hubba." At Lisa's soft exclamation, Anne, one foot already on the ground, turned to look at her. Lisa was staring, mesmerized, toward the open garage, and when Anne followed her gaze, she could understand why.

  Hubba hubba, indeed, Anne thought. The man leaning over the VW's engine compartment was a jeans manufacturer's dream come true. Faded denim clung lovingly to narrow hips and long legs.

  "If I were a man, I'd say something sexist, like 'That's the most incredible butt I've ever seen,'" Lisa breathed reverently.

  "It's not sexist when it's true."

  "He must be from out of town. I'd know if a butt like that lived in Loving," Lisa said with conviction.

  "Do you suppose the rest of him lives up to the rear view?" Anne's hand still gripped the door handle, but she'd forgotten all about getting out.

  "It couldn't possibly."

  As if in answer to the question, he straightened and half tumed toward them. The dim light inside

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  the garage made it impossible to see his features clearly, but what they could see was more than enough.

  **Look at those shoulders," Lisa sighed.

  Anne was already looking. The black T-shirt molded his torso, revealing broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist and flat stomach. He was tall—^an inch or two over six feet—^and every inch of that was lean muscle. Thick dark hair fell onto his forehead, and, even from a distance, the overall impression was one of rugged masculine beauty.

  *1 hate to use such a clich6, but there*s a genuine hunk,'' Lisa said.

  "Maybe he has buck teeth."

  **0r crossed eyes."

  **0r he's gay," Anne said with gloomy certainty. They were both silent a moment, contemplating the depressing likelihood of that.

  He moved farther into the garage, out of their sight, and both women sighed. Anne shook herself a litde and remembered to pull the door handle. **I wonder who he is."

  **Maybe David finally hired someone to help in the garage," Lisa said. **He's been threatening to find part tune help for the last couple of years."

  **More likely he's just passing through town,"

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  Anne commented as she pushed open the door. More people moved out of Loving, Indiana, than moved into it, and, even from a distance, there was a coiled, restless look about the stranger that made it difficult to imagine him settling in a sleepy little fanning town.

  **Are you coming to dinner with Jack tonight?*' Anne asked as she started to slide out of the car.

  **Sure. Where else can I go to have my character called into question and my fashion sense insulted, all in one fun-filled evening?"

  •^t's not that bad.''

  '*Sure it is. Your mom detests me. She detested me fifteen years ago when Brooke was alive and I was her best friend, and she detested me when I moved back to Loving two years ago. Hell, she probably even detested me the ten years I was in California." Lisa shrugged, one comer of her mouth angling down in a rueful smile. **One thing you've got to hand her is that she's consistent."

  *'She doesn't detest you," Anne protested weakly. '*She just...worries that—"

  '*That your brother is going to ask me to marry him," Lisa said bluntly.

  **It's not that. Exactly." Catchmg her friend's eye, she amended the statement. **Not just that, anyway. She just doesn't want to see Jack—"

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  *'Make a mistake?" Lisa asked, dry as dust. She shook her head when Anne flushed. *'Don't let it bother you. I don't. Your mother thinks that if Jack marries me, he'll stay in Loving and keep his job as sheriff." Exasperated, Lisa shoved her fingers through her hair, tousling the deep red curls into even greater disarray. **He's ihirty-five, for God's sake, but, I swear, she still thinks he's going to go back to med school and become the world famous surgeon she planned on your father being. That ended when Brooke died. Why can't she just accept that?"

  A lot of things had ended when her sister died, Anne thought, but all she said was, **Acceptance isn't a big part of my mother's vocabulary."

  **A masterpiece of understatement."

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, and then Anne broke the silence.' 1 think the politically correct phrase would be a mz-s^^^^piece of understatement," she said solemnly.

  Lisa considered for a moment and then shook her head. **No, I think it would have to be a per-sonpiocc of understatement."

  **A personpiece?" Anne wrinkled her nose. *'Makes me think of Hannibal Lector/*

  Lisa waggled her eyebrows. '*You bring the fava

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  beans and I'll bring the Chianti. We can tell your mom it's a hostess gift."

  Anne was smiling when she got out of the car, but the smile faded as the car pulled away. She'd known Lisa most of her life, though when she was a child, the six-year difference in their ages had been an unbridgeable gap and Anne had known her only as her older sister's friend. Their friendship had started two years ago, when Lisa moved back to Indiana.

  On the surface, they didn't have much in common. Lisa was an artist. Anne worked as a secretary in a bank. Lisa had moved to California when she was twenty, ha
d married a musician and traveled all over the country with him. When they divorced, she took her half of their community property and went to Europe for six months. Other than a trip to the Disney World amusement park when she was a child, Anne had never been more than a couple of hours' drive from Loving. She'd also never had a serious relationship with a member of the opposite sex, unless you counted Frank Miller, and she really hated the idea of counting him. After more than a year of casual dating, she could barely remember what he looked like between dates.

  But despite their differences—or maybe because of them—^she and Lisa had become close friends.

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  and the fact that Lisa and Jack were datmg would have made it a picture-perfect situation if it wasn't for her mother's politely implacable hostility, Anne thought, as she stepped out of the bright sunlight and into the dim garage.

  Maybe there was a God after all, Neill thought, looking at the woman who'd just walked into the garage. She'd stopped just out of the sunlight, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the relative gloom. Maybe it was shallow to ascribe a ride into town, a cold Coke and half a dozen Oreos to divine intervention, but, when you threw in a pretty blonde in a blue-flowered sundress, there was no longer any room for doubt. God was in His heaven, and, if all wasn't completely right with the world, well, at least things were definitely looking up.

  Her eyes still dazzled from the sun, she hadn't seen him yet, and he was in no hurry to make his presence known. Leaning against the cluttered workbench, Neill admired the view. She wasn't very big—^not much over five feet—^but she was very nicely packaged. The short, flippy skirt of the sundress revealed lightly tanned legs—delightfully long legs for such a small woman—and the rest of her was just as appealing. She had the kind of figure that had been fashionable back in the fifties—

  a little too full in bust and hip for the current fashion, with a narrow waist that emphasized the curves. If she was like most women he knew, she probably thought she needed to lose ten pounds, but, as far as he was concerned, she looked just about right—^soft and supple and very, very female.

  And it's obviously been way too long since you spent time in the real world, Devlin. Neill shifted, uncomfortably aware that his jeans were suddenly tighter than they had been. He was a couple of decades past the age when just looking at a pretty woman was enough to get him hard. Then again, he'd spent most of the last year buried in research, and for the past six months the closest he'd come to a carnal relationship was biting into a hot pizza.