Whispers in the Night

by Diane Pershing

  When, from the upstairs window he’d been working on, he’d heard a murmured conversation between Kayla and a man she called Steven, he’d figured it was none of his business, so he’d kept on working. When the man’s voice had grown louder, he’d decided to make it his business and, picking up a weapon, tore down the stairs.

  Just in time to hear the last few threats and Kayla’s answers. He held the hammer down, by his side. For now.

  The minute the guy in the suit saw Paul, he took a step back. His eyes raked him up and down, then took in the hammer. “Who are you, her bodyguard?”

  “Does she need one?”

  “Or maybe you’re her lover. How long has this been going on? And doesn’t that add a nice little wrinkle to my father’s death?”

  “Listen, you little creep—”

  Paul started toward him, but Kayla put up a restraining hand. “Paul, don’t,” she said, then turned back to the “suit”—Steven, she’d called him. “This man is doing work for me, Steven, for you and Joe and me, taking care of the things that need repairing in the house.”

  He greeted her statement with marked skepticism. “Yeah, right. Well, when I’m through with you, your name will be off the deed—it’ll be Joe’s and mine alone.”

  “Why? You’ve never liked this place or wanted it.”

  “Now I do. And I’ll fight you tooth and nail for it.”

  “Why don’t you take a hike?” Paul said, having kept his mouth shut long enough. The guy was really irritating him.

  Kayla shot him another cautioning look. “Please, Paul, you’re not helping.” Again, she addressed Steven. “You’re free to do whatever you want. But I need you to leave. Now.”

  “You can’t throw me off my own property.”

  “We have a deal, remember? Whoever is staying up here is in charge. I’m here now. Please, just leave.”

  Paul had to restrain himself from making an I’m-backing-her-up threat, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Still, he trained his gaze on the guy in the suit, letting him know if he didn’t get his ass off the property pronto, he’d have him to deal with.

  Steven’s eyes narrowed while he considered his next move. Then he said, “I’ll leave. For now. But this isn’t over,” he added, and turned to go.

  As he strode briskly away, Paul followed him around the house to the driveway and, slapping the side of the hammer into the palm of his free hand several times, watched as Steven slid into a sleek Jag, gunned the motor and backed down the driveway before turning and heading down the mountain.

  Shaking his head, he stalked back to where he’d left Kayla. She was still there, her hands in fists at her side, a look he hadn’t seen on her face before. She was quietly furious. He couldn’t blame her.

  He shook his head again. “What a creep.”

  “How dare you?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What gave you the right to say what you said to him? Who gave you permission?”

  Paul was so taken aback by her attack, he could barely speak. He’d expected, at the least, agreement on Steven’s lousy personality; at the most, maybe a thank you or two. He had not expected to see this slender woman shaking with a silent rage aimed squarely at him.

  “Well, excuse me,” he said when he managed to find the words. “I thought I was helping you.”

  “By doing your caveman routine? I don’t want that. I don’t need that.”

  “Listen, lady, you might think you don’t need it, but the guy was—”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand, cutting him off. “Spare me. I know how to handle Steven.”

  “Didn’t look like you were doing much of a job.”

  Her chin jutted out in defiance. “All right, then, I wasn’t doing much of a job. Either way, it’s my business. If you’d had your way there would have been a fight. I don’t like fights. And I don’t like men who engage in them. When and if I need your help, I’ll ask. Do you understand?”

  He glared at her, all kinds of hostile responses whipping through his head, but none he would say to a woman. He ground his back teeth together and clenched and unclenched his jaw muscles several times before he was able to say, “Yes, ma’am. I most certainly do.”

  Chafing at her dressing-down and his impotence to respond, he stormed off, heading for the stairs and the resumption of his chores. Damned if he’d ever come to the widow Thorne’s aid again.

  In fact, he decided, he didn’t need this stupid job at all. He could find Jay Vinovich without Kayla’s help. It would be difficult; but he could do it. He’d have to, because when he was done here for the day, he was done here for good.

  Chapter 4

  An hour later, Kayla found Paul at the top of the staircase, working on the banister, which had a tendency to jiggle when you touched it. She stood several steps below him. His back was to her, and she waited for him to acknowledge her presence. He took his sweet time doing it, which she probably deserved. And when he finally angled his head around, his face was a perfect mask of detachment. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” she told him.

  His gaze met hers without blinking, then he nodded once, growled “Fine,” and returned to his work.

  She remained where she was. “Paul? I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. It was Steven who deserved my anger, not you.”

  She waited again while he seemed to mull over her words. Then he turned around and stared down at her. At this angle, he seemed impossibly tall and imposing, and she was glad he was on her side. As though reading her mind, he set down his tools and lowered himself onto the top step, his elbows resting on his bent knees, his hands clasped between his legs.

  Grateful that he was obviously willing to discuss things a bit longer, Kayla sat a couple of steps lower down, angled her body around and gazed up at him. “You had a hammer in your hand and a look in your eye. And, well, I get this kind of knee-jerk reaction to, well, the way men are so quick to use physical threats to settle scores between them. You know, pissing contests. They make me uncomfortable. I prefer to try to reason things out.”

  “I have a knee-jerk reaction to men who threaten women.”

  She allowed herself a small smile, acknowledging the ambiguity in the situation. “Good for me you do. This time, anyway. It made Steven go away. Thank you.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at it, as though he were tired. Then he emitted a loud sigh. “He’ll be back, you know.”

  “Steven never goes away.”

  “Is he out of control? Has he ever been violent with you?”

  “Not so far. Let’s hope he remains that way.”

  His look said he was skeptical about that possibility. “Well, whatever you think about the way I handle myself, a physical threat is the only language some people understand. I’m good at that. So—” He paused, frowned as he silently considered something. Then he shook his head, as though thoroughly disgusted with himself before he went on. “Look, I’ll stay out of your business. But…hey, I’m here if you need me.”

  At these words of support, even though they’d been delivered with obvious reluctance, a sweet warmth filled her insides. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in, well, in a long, long time.”

  She reached up and laid her hand on his forearm. It was the first time she’d actually touched him, and the fact that his skin, under a light dusting of surprisingly soft hair, was warm and his arm was rock-hard with muscle reassured her even more. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  Crea-e-eak.

  At first she incorporated the noise into her dream, something sensual about a huge, unsmiling-but-studly man and a bed with old box springs.

  Crea-ee-eak.

  But then Kayla sat straight up in bed, her heart thudding, her throat clogged with fear. It was not a dream. It was the same noise she’d heard two nights ago. Again, it came from her downstairs porch.

  Instinctively, her mind sought answers. If it was an
animal, there was nothing out there to attract it. She’d thoroughly cleaned the compost pile. All garbage was in plastic bags in the mudroom. There wasn’t even anything growing in her garden to tempt the noncarnivores; all the weeds were gone. She intended to plant all kinds of nourishing vegetables after winter passed, in the early spring.

  Crea-eee-eak.

  A wild thought entered her head that she ought to get Paul to fix those loose slats. Sooner rather than later. But if he did, she wouldn’t have any warning sign when there was a trespasser, and then, whatever or whoever it was could creep up on her while she was sleeping.

  That scary little notion was enough to make her vault out of bed, don her robe and slippers and, again, reach for the poker sitting by the corner fireplace.

  Oh, how she did not want to know what was down there. She much preferred waiting it out in hopes that it would just go away.

  But this time, it might not.

  Would she have to get an alarm system now? No, no, that went against everything that was tradition up here on the mountain. The citizens of Cragsmont trusted one another, didn’t even bother to lock their doors.

  The sound of her rapid heartbeat thrumming in her ears sure wasn’t making it any easier to think. Whatever the answer, she needed to find out.

  Before leaving the bedroom, she glanced at the easy chair under the window where Bailey lay, his eyes closed, a soft snore emanating from his tiny mouth, oblivious to any danger. His deafness was a definite aid to a good night’s sleep—his own, anyway. And his sense of smell wasn’t too keen anymore, as well. Either that, or whatever was downstairs didn’t have much of an odor, not one that tiny dogs responded to.

  Pulse speeding at a jackhammer pace, Kayla crept down the stairs, flashlight in one hand, her trusty poker in the other. Please let these night sounds be the norm, she prayed silently. Because if they were, then she would just have to get used to nocturnal life on the mountain.

  Or she would just have to leave.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and listened.

  No more creaking, but now there was a kind of crackling whoosh, as though tree or bush branches were being disturbed. Then she heard an elongated moan, which made an involuntary cry escape her lips and the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up.

  Again she had to fight the urge to dash back upstairs and hide under the bed. Instead, Kayla crept over to the window nearest the sound, crouched low and peered out. In the moonlight, she could just discern a dark shadow melding into the bushes. A bear? It didn’t seem big enough. Or maybe it was a small bear. It was hard to tell, only that it was a form that stood on two legs. An upright-standing animal.

  Or a human.

  Or a spirit from the netherworld, she thought wildly, suddenly remembering Melinda and her creepy warning about “the bodies and the bones.”

  Nonsense, she told herself sternly, shining her flashlight on the form just as it disappeared from sight. She considered heading for the sliding glass doors that led onto the porch, opening them and racing out after whatever it was, but as soon as the thought popped into her head, she vetoed it as being not only foolish but potentially dangerous.

  As she’d done the other night, she sat down on the lower step of the staircase and waited. Déjà vu all over again. Would whatever it was return?

  All she could do was wait and see.

  In the next half hour or so, Kayla heard a coyote howling in the distance, then the scream of some small animal. She shuddered. She’d wanted the mountaintop and here she was. No reporters, no traffic, no shouting, no sirens, no cars backfiring, no boom boxes or TVs played at high decibel levels as though their owners gave not one whit who they were disturbing.

  It was why she was up here, why she had planned on being up here for several months. The quiet. She sought it out, always had. Quiet soothed her. It was where she found her soul.

  Except maybe not so much tonight.

  After a while, Kayla rose to her feet. Time to head up to bed. But she paused, thought about it. Shouldn’t she—now that her visitor had gone—go out on the porch and, well, investigate?

  As quietly as possible, she crept to the rear of the living room, clicked on the outside light, then slid open the doors. Peering out, she shone the flashlight the length of the porch in both directions. Nothing obviously out of place, nothing unusual that she could see.

  Suddenly her attention was caught by something on the floor, just below her—a mound of some sort lying a foot or so from the doorway. She shone the flashlight down on it.

  Then she screamed.

  The minute Paul opened the kitchen door, he took one look at Kayla and said, “What’s the matter?”

  She was leaning against the wall next to the mudroom. She held a cup of coffee in both hands, but they were shaking, so she was having trouble holding it. Her hair was loose and obviously hadn’t been combed. She was in her robe and fuzzy slippers again. And her skin was an unhealthy pallor, with black circles under her eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

  “Bull.” He set his backpack down on the counter next to the sink and laid the jacket he’d had slung over his shoulder on top of it. “Has that guy been back?”

  She frowned, looked confused. “What guy?”

  “Thorne’s son. Steven.”

  “Oh. No, no. I…just didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “I just didn’t.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  She managed to get her cup to her mouth and take a swallow of coffee before she nodded. “Yes, that’s all.”

  He didn’t buy it, not for one minute, and it was damned frustrating.

  Why the hell was he here? Hadn’t he been on the verge of quitting yesterday? Why in God’s name hadn’t he followed through? Now here he was, once again caught up in this woman’s problems, even though she was, once again, pushing him away. He shook his head. Man, he must be three kinds of fool.

  Okay, then. She didn’t want him to push? She was “tired” and that was all? Fine. He’d back off.

  Hell, he probably didn’t look too hot this morning, either, and for the same reason she claimed. He hadn’t slept well at all, not last night, not in a long time. He’d probably forgotten how.

  Now that he was out, he ought to be catching up on his sleep. He had a clean room in town, worked his tail off during the day, had plenty of fresh air and sunshine and decent food. A perfect prescription for a good, long slumber. But there was still some hangover of mistrust from his prison days: inside, he’d had to lie in bed, his back to the wall, his lids closed, but with that extra eye cons developed wide open, waiting for the unexpected, ready to defend himself. That kind of habit was hard to break.

  The last couple of nights, when he did manage to fall into a fitful sleep, his dreams made him restless. Bad prison memories, sure. Also lots of crude fantasies, pretty much focusing on Kayla Thorne and what he’d like to do to her. None of which made for a decent night’s sleep.

  In fact, with all the action in his head, it was a wonder he managed to get any shut-eye at all.

  “I’m going to help myself to coffee,” he said, feeling downright surly, “if that’s all right with you.”

  She seemed to snap out of her fog. She stood straighter, pushed herself away from the wall. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should have offered.”

  “Not really. I work for you, remember?”

  He took a cup from the row of other mismatched mugs hanging from hooks above the stove and filled it with the steaming, pungent-smelling liquid. He took a healthy slug, then nodded. “I’ll be working on the roof and rain gutters today. Best to get to them before the rains come. If you need me, for anything,” he couldn’t help adding, “let me know.”

  He drilled her with his gaze as he said this. Sure enough, she was trembling, her eyes wide and defenseless.

  Emitting a muttered curse, Paul set his cup down, went over to Kayla, pr
ied her cup out of her unsteady fingers and set it next to his. “Tell me, dammit,” he demanded, wanting to touch her, to shake her, to comfort her. He kept his hands clenched at his side. “Tell me,” he said again.

  She put a quivering hand over her mouth and shook her head. Then she closed her eyes, lowered her hand. A single tear appeared below the lashes of one eye and made its meandering way over her cheek. “I keep telling myself I can take care of this myself, but I’m not sure that’s the truth.”

  “Take care of what?”

  She raised her lids; both eyes glistened with unshed tears. “There were noises last night. Again. The same as Sunday night. They woke me up.”

  “Did you see it? Him?”

  “Only shadows.”

  “An animal?”

  “I don’t think so. But I can’t be certain. It stood upright.”

  “Upright?” He wanted to wipe away her tears, offer comfort of some sort. Instead, he held up a warning hand. “Now, don’t jump on me, okay? I have to ask. Are you sure it wasn’t a dream? Or your imagination?”

  “It was most definitely not my imagination,” she said with a shaky smile, swiping at her tears. Then she swallowed. This was obviously difficult for her. “It, he, whatever, left me a…gift.” Again, she swallowed, then shuddered. “One very large, very dead rat.”

  Her words sent a chill all through him, making the cop in him kick in like it hadn’t in years. In the criminal world, rats were left at the doors of informers, letting them know they were on the list for extermination.

  Did that apply here? Forget the notoriety, media speculation and suspicion. Forget her late husband’s family, their anger and resentments. Did the world according to Kayla Thorne also include some kind of Mob connection?

  Considering who her brother was, it wasn’t as far-fetched as it might sound. Or maybe Walter Thorne had been involved in illegal activities. Paul knew nothing about the man, only that he had been powerful and wealthy. No theory could be counted out.

  “A dead rat,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”