Secret Sanctuary

by Amanda Stevens

  “Elizabeth?” Her mother sounded annoyed. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Did she need a reason? Elizabeth tamped down the old hurt. “I came to have dinner with Brandon.”

  “Oh.” Her mother shrugged. “Well, I assume Doris took good care of you.”

  Yes, Elizabeth thought. The housekeeper had done her job well. The meal had been perfectly cooked, perfectly served at the perfectly appointed table in the perfectly decorated dining room. She and Brandon had sat alone at the large table while the dour-faced Doris served them. Elizabeth had enjoyed the meal in spite of their austere surroundings simply because she loved spending time with her brother.

  But she couldn’t help thinking what it was like for him when she wasn’t there. When he sat alone at that table. Just as she had once sat alone.

  She took a seat across from her mother’s desk, refusing for once in her life to be intimidated by Marion’s brusque manner. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “I’m busy—”

  “This won’t take long.”

  At her insistent tone, her mother looked up from the computer screen with a frown. “What is it?”

  “How well do you know Leland Manning?”

  “Manning?” Her mother stared at her for a moment. “Why on earth do you want to know about Leland Manning?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Because I ran into him the other night, and the incident reminded me of something I overheard you and Father talking about once. Some sort of scandal associated with Manning.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know anything about a scandal.” Her mother turned back to her work, but in the glow of the monitor, Elizabeth saw that her features had tightened. That her mouth had thinned with displeasure.

  “Yes, you do,” Elizabeth persisted. “It involved that secret society of scientists to which both Manning and his protégé supposedly belonged. Is it coming back to you now?”

  Her mother hesitated, busying herself at the keyboard. Then she turned off the screen, and her face suddenly looked its age in the harsh glare of the desk lamp. “I don’t know anything about a secret society. It sounds like something you must have dreamed up, Elizabeth.” But her tone sounded strained, as if Elizabeth had struck a nerve.

  “Do you remember what happened between Manning and the other scientist? His name was René Rathfastar, I think.”

  It was as if a switch had been flipped, not just on the computer screen, but on Marion Douglas’s face. Her features seemed almost frozen. “Why all these questions?”

  “I told you. I ran into Manning the other night, and now I’m curious about him. And about Rathfastar. They had some kind of falling out, right? Rathfastar moved to Europe, to Brussels, wasn’t it?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.”

  Her mother’s expression was fascinating to watch. Elizabeth had never seen so many conflicting emotions flit across Marion’s face. “He was in a terrible car accident. Do you know if he survived?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Mother, you and Father and Manning—and Rathfastar, if he’s still alive—all work in the same field. You must remember what happened between them. You must have heard whether Rathfastar survived that car crash. Why are you being so evasive?”

  Marion’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “The only thing I can tell you is that Leland Manning is a very cunning man. He is not at all what he pretends to be. A word to the wise, Elizabeth. Stay as far away from that megalomaniac as you possibly can.” She turned her monitor back on then, and instantly grew absorbed in something on the screen. Her face became a blank slate, the emotions once again tucked away into a compartment where they couldn’t interfere with her work. Elizabeth knew further questions would be useless.

  Outside the office, she paused, unsettled by the conversation and by her mother’s prevarication. Why had she been so unwilling to talk about Manning and Rathfastar? And about the secret society, for that matter? Unless, of course, she and Elizabeth’s father were both members?

  But Elizabeth found that hard to believe. Their work was their lives. She couldn’t imagine either of them being affiliated with any organization which might jeopardize their reputations and their research.

  Then why had her mother been so evasive?

  And in another flash of memory, something came to Elizabeth that had been niggling at her for days, ever since she’d seen Leland Manning.

  Five years ago, just after Elizabeth had moved on campus at Heathrow, her mother had left rather suddenly for a conference in Brussels.

  “YOU ALL BY yourself tonight, Dr. Douglas?” George shone his flashlight beam inside her car, as if expecting to see someone pop up from the back seat.

  “Just me tonight, George.”

  He flicked off the light. “Well, you take care, you hear? This place is like a graveyard tonight. Everyone gone but you and me. You need anything, you give me a shout.”

  “I will. Thanks, George.”

  As the gates clamored open, Elizabeth pulled through, shivering a bit at George’s comparison to a graveyard. There was something a bit spooky about a school campus during spring break, she decided. The place was so quiet she could almost hear ghost laughter.

  Parking in her regular spot, Elizabeth got out and hurried up the walkway to her house. The weather had been nice for the last few days, heating up to a balmy fifty degrees during the day. But with the warmer weather, a low-lying fog had rolled in from the sea, undulating like some giant sea creature beneath the security lights.

  Entering her house, Elizabeth closed and bolted the front door, and then paused, listening to the deep quiet of the deserted campus. Nothing spooky about it, she decided. If anything, it was calm and peaceful. Just the sort of night for a hot shower and an early bedtime. And maybe a little reading once she was snuggled safely underneath the covers.

  She stood under the hot water for several long moments, hoping the sting of the spray would help alleviate a mild depression that had settled over her since her visit with her mother. Actually, the depression had started weeks ago, when Cullen had started avoiding her.

  Walking into her closet, she grabbed one of her cotton nightgowns from a hanger, but then seeing the filmy negligee set her friend and fellow teacher, Rada Kilmeade, had given her for Christmas, Elizabeth chose it instead. She’d been saving the set for a special occasion, but at the rate she was going, she would die a weathered old virgin who would have no need of sexy lingerie. Might as well enjoy it while she could.

  She slipped the silky white fabric over her head, and then selected a book from the collection she kept under lock and key in her bedroom. She was just about to crawl into bed when a noise brought her up short.

  Standing perfectly still, she listened to the silence. When she heard nothing else, Elizabeth told herself she was imagining things. But with a killer roaming free and the campus all but abandoned, she couldn’t ignore even an invented sound.

  Pulling on the matching robe, she walked into the living room, pausing once again at the door to listen. She was just about to give up and head off to bed when the sound came again. Something faint. Something out of place.

  Whistling, she thought. Someone was outside her cottage whistling.

  George, no doubt, making his nightly rounds.

  Elizabeth expelled a long breath of relief, and even considered opening the door to call out to the guard when she thought better of it. Instead, she crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes to stare out.

  She saw nothing at first. Ground mist glowed with a strange yellowish tint beneath the security lights and obscured much of the scenery. But across from her house, something moved on the tiny green. A shadow…

  Elizabeth peered through the darkness. Not a shadow, she thought. Something was hanging from a tree branch, swaying in a slight breeze. A body—

  Her heart slammed against her chest as her hand flew
to her mouth.

  Her first instinct was to rush out and see if she could help, but then she remembered the whistle, realized the killer could still be near. He might have made the noise deliberately to draw her outside.

  The phone!

  She whirled, lunging toward her desk, but before she was halfway across the room, she heard another sound.

  This time not a whistle.

  This time closer.

  This time in her house.

  She wasn’t alone, she realized with a dreadful certainty that threatened her knees. That made a scream rise up in her throat. Her instincts took over then, and she spun, rushing toward the front door, throwing it open and plunging into the night.

  She ran heedlessly. Blindly. Not knowing at first where she was going, just away from her house. Away from the killer.

  When she saw her car materialize in the parking lot in front of her, she realized there had been a method to her madness. But her keys were in her purse, and her purse was on her desk, next to the phone….

  The sound of footsteps on the cobblestone walkway brought her sharply around. The mist swirled and writhed. Someone was coming. The killer—

  Her pulse thundering in her ears, Elizabeth turned again and headed for the gates. George would be in the guardhouse, and he had a telephone. He also had a weapon. They could lock themselves in until the police arrived.

  She was gasping for breath by this time. The terror had winded her, but Elizabeth knew she had to keep going. The bedroom slippers impeded her speed, but she didn’t dare take the time to kick them off. She ran. She ran until she thought her lungs would burst and her legs would collapse beneath her. When she saw the guardhouse ahead of her, she let out a sob of relief.

  She couldn’t see George, but he had to be inside. He had to be! She pounded on the glass. “Please!” she cried frantically. “Open up!”

  But it was no use. It was after eleven, and George would be out making his rounds. The telephone was locked tightly inside the guardhouse, as was the control to activate the gates. Without access to the guardhouse or to the remote control she kept in her car, Elizabeth was trapped inside the campus. The gates were at least twelve feet high, the stone wall eight. No way she could scale it—

  The southwest corner! Where tree branches dipped low over the wall. Where Kat had taught her how to sneak in and out after curfew.

  Elizabeth ran through the darkness, wondering frantically if there was anyone at all left on campus except her and the killer. Would it do any good to scream? Even if someone was around, they might not hear her. Or they might not find her in time. All she might end up doing was alerting the killer to her whereabouts.

  The tree branches were higher than she remembered, and Elizabeth’s heart sank in despair. She didn’t know if she could reach them. Before, she’d had Kat to give her a hand up or a boost from the ground. Now she had no one.

  Come on! She could almost hear Kat coaxing her. You can do this! Now, get your butt up here. Jump!

  She missed completely the first time. The second time, her fingertips brushed against the bark. The third time, she managed to grab hold of the branch, clinging with all her might while her feet swung wildly and she grunted from the effort.

  Steeling her resolve, she dug in, using the adrenaline rush of her fear to give her the strength to swing her body up, to wrap her legs around the branch, to crawl along the limb until she reached the wall. Up and over, and then drop to the ground below.

  She landed on her backside, but Elizabeth didn’t take time to worry about injuries. She was up and running through the trees to the road. From there, it was still a mile to the police station, but surely a car would come along before that. Or she would find a telephone.

  Through the hushed mist came the unmistakable sound of metal scraping against metal. The front gates were opening, and then, a second later, she heard the roar of a car engine as it thundered through. Elizabeth prayed that the killer would guess wrong and head north, away from her location. But she could hear the sound of the engine getting stronger by the second. Gaining on her.

  The killer was coming for her. Somehow, he’d known where she would be.

  She had to get off the road.

  Glancing around to get her bearings, Elizabeth hurried across the pavement and struck out through the woods. She knew Leland Manning’s house and laboratory were around there somewhere, but his property was surrounded by an electronic fence. There would be no getting inside unless she could make it to the front gate and press the intercom button, pray that someone was home.

  But did she really want to do that? What if Manning was the killer?

  In the mist and darkness, it was difficult to keep a sense of direction, but Elizabeth tried her best to skirt Manning’s property. When she finally came out on another road, she realized finally where she was. If Leland Manning’s property was behind her, St. John’s Cemetery was just ahead, on the opposite side of the road. If she headed straight through the graveyard, she would come out near Old Mountain Road, which would put miles between her and Heathrow, and hopefully the killer. It would also bring her near the Bluffs, but Elizabeth wasn’t at all certain she wanted to seek refuge with David Bryson any more than she did with Leland Manning.

  Hearing the low rumble of a car engine fired her into action. She ran across the road, searching for the gates that would open into the cemetery. Whether David Bryson was the killer or not, she couldn’t waste time worrying. She had to get to a phone.

  Spotting the gates, she rushed toward them. The metal opened with a screech, and Elizabeth hurried through.

  She hadn’t been in St. John’s Cemetery since the night of the sorority initiation. Now, huddling just inside the walls, she gazed around in mounting agitation. The cemetery had been eerie and menacing in the storm, but the mist was even creepier. It swirled and slid among the headstones, draped the mausoleums in a filmy shroud until only the tops could be seen.

  Elizabeth hurried along, trying not to step on graves, hoping not to disturb the dead. Cullen had said he didn’t believe in ghosts, and she wanted to take comfort in his certainty. But the trouble was, she did believe in the supernatural. She did believe in spirits.

  From somewhere behind her, the gates clanged softly. Elizabeth knew instinctively the killer had entered the cemetery, and her situation suddenly seemed hopeless. She’d been running all this time while he’d been behind the wheel of a car. She was exhausted from the hunt; he would be fresh, exhilarated. There was no way she could outrun him. The best thing to do was find a hiding place, pray that her nightgown and robe would blend with the mist.

  She crouched behind a headstone, pressing herself against the cool surface as she listened to the night. She could hear him coming. He was breathing heavily, but not from exertion. From excitement. From anticipation. From the thrill of the hunt.

  Or was the sound her imagination? A figment of her fear?

  She didn’t dare glance around the headstone. She knelt there for long, excruciating moments until finally she heard the gates screech again. He had left the way he’d come in. Or at least, he wanted her to think he had.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t hide there forever. If he was still in the cemetery, searching for her, he would find her eventually. She had to get out.

  Standing on shaky legs, she glanced around. She hadn’t noticed before, but she was only a few feet from the mausoleum where Claire had been abducted. Elizabeth recognized the broken cross on top. That meant that McFarland Leary’s grave was around here somewhere.

  She stared in the direction she thought his headstone should be. The mist over his grave swirled. Contorted. Reshaped itself into—she would have sworn—a human form.

  A scream bubbled up inside her, and Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth to snuff the sound. She whirled, running recklessly through the foggy night, not knowing where she was headed or where she would end up, but miraculously, the second set of gates opened up before her. The hing
es screamed in protest when she pushed them open, and then she raced through, running in terror as if the devil himself were pursuing her. And for all she knew he was.

  Her first indication of yet a new danger was her feet hitting pavement. She was on a road. Elizabeth paused, looked up, and saw headlights plowing through the fog toward her.

  He’d found her! The killer had found her!

  Momentarily paralyzed with fear, she watched the lights rushing toward her. The sound of the car engine was a death roar in her ears.

  At the last moment, when she could feel the motor’s heat, Elizabeth found her senses and dove for the side of the road.

  The car squealed to a stop, a door slammed and footsteps hurried across the pavement.

  Elizabeth tried to run, but her legs would no longer carry her. She huddled in the mist as the killer strode toward her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Elizabeth!”

  She was so scared and so stunned that for a moment, her brain couldn’t assimilate the sound of her name being called by—not the killer—someone she trusted with her life.

  Then, when she saw him hurrying toward her through the fog, she launched herself at him. “Cullen!”

  He caught her by the arms and then, feeling her tremble, pulled her against him, holding her close. “Elizabeth? What’s wrong? What’s happened? What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

  She was still shaking so badly she could hardly speak. She buried her face in his shoulder, drinking in the scent of him, the comfort of him. “He’s…out there. In the cemetery.”

  He stiffened. “Who’s out there?”

  “The killer.”

  He pushed her gently away then, holding her at arms’ length as he bent and peered into her face. “Elizabeth. What are you saying?”

  “The killer is in the cemetery. Or he was. There’s another body…I saw her….”

  Cullen’s grip on her tightened. “Where?”

  “At Heathrow. In the green by my house. She’s…hanging from a tree branch.”

  “Come on.” He hurried her over to his car and helped her inside, then he ran around and got behind the wheel. Pulling the car to the side of the road, he turned to face her. “Tell me what happened. Everything.” Noticing that she was still shivering, he turned on the heater full blast.