Close to Home (27 page)

“You just don't look,” Gracie told her. “Or maybe they don't want you to see them.”

“You are seriously whacked,” Jade retorted.

Clint rubbed his chin and said, “You know, I used to fight with my brother all the time too. Not just with words. We'd wrestle and kick holes in the wall and throw punches. My dad had a way of handling it, though. He would make us go out to the barn and the stable and shovel manure for hours.”

“What does that mean?” Jade asked, making a face.

“Do I have to paint you a picture?” Now he did smile.

Gracie regarded him suspiciously. “You plan on disciplining us?” she asked in a tone that suggested he was out of his mind.

“He just means that bad behavior has consequences,” Sarah intervened.

“You're not planning on moving in or anything, right?” Jade asked, not bothering to keep the horror from her voice.

Sarah was about to assure her daughter that nothing was further from the truth when Clint said dryly, “Not yet, but if I hear that you're giving your mom trouble or forever getting at each other, I might consider it.”

He was lying, but Jade took him at his word. “Oh, God. I just wish I could get my car back from the shop and go home,” she moaned.

“This is home,” Sarah told her.

“No, it's not, and it never will be. And you—” She frowned at Clint. “Don't get all parental on me, cuz I don't even really know you.”

“Deal. As long as you don't get all teenager on me,” he said.

“I want my damn car,” Jade said again. “How hard could it be to fix a Honda?”

Sarah could tell Clint was more amused at Jade than annoyed, which was a good thing, but his talk of lawyers made her feel cold inside nonetheless.

“I've got to run,” Clint said. “Got a dog waiting for me and chores to do. Also have about fifty head of cattle and a few horses, so there's a lot of you-know-what to shovel at my place.” He threw a smile at Jade, whose face was shuttered, as if she were seriously worried that Clint expected to jump in and start parenting both her and Grace right now. To Sarah, he added, “Why don't you walk me to the door?”

Sarah followed him out. As they circumvented a couple of boxes in the foyer, he said, loudly enough for Jade and Gracie to hear, “You have any trouble with them, just give me a call.”

“You know they'd have a fit if you tried to tell them what to do,” she pointed out, once they were on the porch and out of earshot.

“Oh, yeah. I was just joking with them.”

She thought he would leave, and truthfully, she was feeling wrung out and ready to be alone, but he hesitated, then gave her a searching look. “Ghosts, Sarah?” he asked.

She shrugged, faintly embarrassed.

“I thought you got over that.”

“Gracie's obsessed with Angelique Le Duc. She thinks she's seen her spirit and that she should help her pass to the other side.”

“And you're buying that?”

“Not exactly, but something's going on. Earthly, unearthly . . . I don't want to completely shut her down and say there are no ghosts.”

“You saw a ghost when you were about her age.”

“That was a hallucination,” Sarah said quickly, sorry she'd ever confided so much in him. “I was sick. Feverish.”

“Jade said you accused her of being upstairs, in a room on the third floor, when she was downstairs.”

Sarah gritted her teeth. She really didn't want to have this discussion with Clint, but there seemed no way around it. “Okay, I did think someone was upstairs. I guess I'm just nervous, what with the move and all.” She glanced at the darkened acres surrounding the house. “Sometimes I think we're being watched. By something or someone.”

“That's why you got the dog.”

She nodded.

Clint's gaze held hers for an instant, and for one crazy second she thought he might kiss her, but all that changed as he stepped away. “I do have to get back, but this isn't finished.”

“It's just beginning. You're Jade's father.” She placed a hand on the doorknob.

He seemed to want to argue with her, but just said, “I'll talk to you soon.”

“Good-bye.” Sarah closed the door. She was weary of everything, especially of herself, because, though she wanted to deny it right down to the soles of her feet, the truth was she was still attracted to Clint Walsh. And Jade's father or not, Clint was off-limits. She couldn't, wouldn't get involved with him. All those fantasies she'd had as a girl when she'd found out she was carrying his child—that she and Clint would someday get together—had been pure fiction, the daydreams of a young, scared, and pregnant girl. She'd grown up and tucked those girlish thoughts into the mental closet of her youth, the one with the firmly locked door.

Clint was the last man on earth she should consider romantically. It was going to be hard enough just navigating through their new family dynamics.

Hearing the rumble of his truck head down the drive, she had to force herself to keep from watching him leave through one of the windows.

Expelling a pent-up breath, she headed back to the living room. She just needed to keep reminding herself that, for her, Jade's father was off-limits.

“F
or God's sake, pull yourself together!” Rosalie was nearly hoarse from yelling at the idiotic girl in the far stall, but Candy just kept sobbing and mewling and carrying on. “We have to find a way out of this place.”

More sobs.

“Look, are you athletic? Can you, like, climb up over the stall walls and get out, then come and let me out?”

Sniffing and snorting. Oh, the girl was useless. “Come on. We have to find a way out of here. Do you like to play sports? Maybe swim?” Rosalie was wracking her brain and hoping beyond hope that she could get through to the girl.

“I—I'm a flautist.”

“You mean like a gymnast?” For a second Rosalie's heart soared. Maybe this girl was the next Olympic contender and could jump, balance, do backflips, anything to get them out of here.

“I play a flute. In the band.”

Rosalie slid down the wall, her legs giving way, and dropped her head into her hands. She wanted to scream obscenities, but took in a deep breath and yelled instead, “Can you try to climb over the wall?”

“How?”

At least she had the girl's attention, so she explained how she'd tried to climb over. “Look for anything mounted in the sides of the stall that you can grab onto, or step into, like a crack between the boards of the wall, so you can wedge your toe in and start climbing up and over.”

“I don't think there is anything,” she complained in a whining tone that suggested she was staring wide-eyed in the dark and wringing her flute-playing fingers.

Rosalie said, “You have to try!”

“Haven't you?”

“Yes, but my stall might be different. Nothing's worked so far. But I'm not giving up. And neither are you.”
Oh, please, God, “
Come on, you can do it. You have to look for a way to get out.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Then you've got to find a way to get out of here!” Rosalie pointed out tautly.

“Okay . . . ,” Candice finally agreed, sniffling loudly. “But it's so dark.”

“I know. Do what you can tonight, feel around—”

“Ick! There could be rats and spiders and poop!”

All of the above,
“When it starts to get light, look around. Everywhere. Examine the place, every nook and cranny. Just see if there's any way to get out of the stall.” Trying to calm Candice down—to scream some sense into her, and get her motivated—was an uphill battle.

“I don't know . . .”

“So far, those two dickheads have never come back in the morning, so we'll have some time.” Rosalie crossed her fingers and prayed she was right, but what did she know? It sounded as if the perv who'd abducted her was getting anxious and pressured, so things could change.

What was it he'd said about her temperament?

“
It's good that you've got that little bit of fire in you, He's gonna want to see that you'll give him a bit of a fight,”

She shivered.

Who the hell was “he,” the guy pulling her abductor's strings? Worse yet, what was it
he
intended to do with her?

 

His night goggles in place, pistol strapped to his belt, he crept through the woods surrounding Blue Peacock Manor. Fortunately, the area was so vast there was little chance anyone would see him, and he'd parked his truck in an abandoned lane off a spur of the county road and then hiked along the deer trails, the same paths he'd used when hunting in his youth. Back then, he'd been convinced these woods were haunted and had seen ghosts and demons and even Satan himself flitting through the thickets of fir and pine, causing the skeletal branches of the deciduous trees to rattle, kicking up tufts of dry leaves, causing them to whirl and dance and blow their cold demon's breath through the gorge and down his spine.

Even now, as a grown man, he heard them whispering in the dark, the rush of the wind a cloak for their gravelly voices.

“You're evil,” they murmured, causing his blood to run cold. “God knows and he will punish you.” And at that moment a twig snapped, and he whipped around, peering through his goggles, and spied a skunk waddling off.

His heart was thudding crazily, and he closed his eyes for a second to ground himself. He didn't believe that these woods were haunted, he didn't. Those were just wild exaggerations, make-believe tales that had been passed down for generations to those who had lived around Stewart's Crossing.
Have faith,
he told himself and managed to bring his heartbeat down to a normal level and continued following the winding path, refusing to see the wraiths and phantoms he'd learned about so long ago. A coyote showed up in his range of vision, but as if realizing it could be seen, it quickly dodged behind a boulder and vanished.

Maybe it was a werewolf,
his fertile imagination teased, and for just a second his skin crawled, and he imagined the beast reappearing, ten times its original size, as it lunged at him with snapping, bloody jaws.

Resolutely, he tamped down his fears. They were nothing, just the stupid ghost stories older kids told younger ones to keep them in line.

Thankfully, the forest gave way to brushy, unused farmland, though, of course, that damned cemetery was nearby, and being so near to grave sites set his teeth on edge.

He pushed his fears aside, told himself he was a fool, then started forward to the fallen log that had been so perfect for viewing the house before. This time he stopped.

Someone was there.

Someone or something!

A black figure stretched out on the ground.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he reached for his pistol.

A demon?

Ghost?

Angelique Le Duc, her undead self?

Maybe even the Prince of Darkness.

Holy shit! His heart went into overdrive, and his fingers clasped around the grip of his Glock.

The figure, all in black, moved, starting to turn from its belly, gathering itself, ready to flip over and pounce.

Blam!
He didn't think twice, just pulled the trigger.

The demon squealed, its body twitching.

The gunshot seemed to echo through the hills.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Three more shots, and the figure stopped moving; only a long, gurgling moan issued from it. He was breathing hard, adrenaline firing his blood as he stared at the dark form. Vaguely, he became aware of a dog barking in the distance. Farther away yet, a train rolled on distant tracks.

Inhaling a deep breath, he waited for the unworldly specter to vanish, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

But the being didn't disappear, didn't wither away into a netherworld mortals couldn't view. It just lay there, stone-still.

Because it's a person, you idiot! Why do you think the night goggles caught it? Because it was alive, jerkwad! You just killed a man! What the fuck were you thinking? Your damned imagination got the better of you, Thermal imaging, man, You know ghosts and demons don't emit heat! They're icy son of a bitches, their breath so cold it would freeze a man's skin, For the love of St, Peter, now what?

He was breathing hard. Sweating. Carefully approaching his target, he kept his Glock drawn, trained on the downed man . . . just in case he wasn't human. What if the demon had taken on the shape of a man, even going so far as to emit heat in order to fool anyone who came by? Then, when least expected, the beast could morph into its monstrous shape again and pounce.

The spit had dried in his mouth. He prodded one of his kill's legs with the toe of his boot.

Nothing.

He pushed a little harder.

Still the form seemed lifeless.

So he bent down to roll the thing over, had just flipped it onto its back when it let out a horrific groan, eyes staring wide, lips pulled into a hideous grimace as blood spurted from its mouth.

He dropped the body, stumbling backward, gun drawn, as if he expected the beast to rise into a grotesque creature of the night. Instead, the thing lay motionless again, and he told himself to grow some balls. Approaching once more, he studied the bloody victim and realized he'd seen the guy around town, maybe in the diner. No demon. No beast. No damned ghost. A man. Now a very dead man.

What the hell had he been doing here?

Now that he realized his victim wasn't unworldly, he began looking around and noticed a pair of high-powered binoculars that had fallen to the ground on the far side of the log. So the guy had been spying, just as he'd intended to do.

With rapid speed, he searched the guy's pockets, pulled out his wallet, cell phone, and keys—where the hell was his vehicle?—then decided it was time to get the hell out. He couldn't risk surveillance tonight.

Suddenly he was aware of a dog's agitated barks, coming from the damned house.

Not good.

Not good at all.

He thought about dragging the body into the woods and hoping the coyote he'd spied earlier, or some of the canine's friends, would feast on the man's remains, but as he heard the dog barking, he knew he couldn't be slowed down with his victim. Nor did he want to leave a bloody trail leading toward the place where he parked his vehicle.

And he was running out of time if anyone got concerned about the idiot dog barking its fool head off.

Spurred into action, he drew on all of his courage, lifted the body, and carried it to the overgrown cemetery with its bleached white headstones poking through the brambles. Here, he speculated, is where the dead man belonged. He tossed the unlucky voyeur over the uneven pickets of the fence, and as the corpse landed with a soft thud, he took off at a jog for his truck. He'd change into the fresh set of clothes he kept in the van, then stop by a local watering hole, establishing a bit of an alibi.

The night had turned into a fuckin' disaster.

 

Sarah was in the kitchen, lost in thought, when Xena first started barking. She'd let the dog outside for a few minutes, and now she hurried to the front door to find Xena on the porch, hairs on her back and neck standing on end, eyes fixed on the dark distance. Stiff-legged, tail up, she was growling and barking.

Opening the door, Sarah said, “What is it?”

Another spate of wild barking ensued, as if she were even more excited at Sarah's presence.

“Xena! No! Come on inside!” Sarah was beginning to think Xena was still too much of a puppy to be effective.

Whining slightly, head lowered, and tail at half-mast, the dog followed but still let out a low, unhappy growl as Sarah locked the door behind them.

“I know,” she said, patting Xena on her head. “Come on.” The dog padded after her to the kitchen, and Sarah assured herself there was nothing outside, no one watching the house. Nonetheless, she was certain she'd feel safer next week when the guesthouse was finished with its two doors, new windows, and state-of-the-art dead bolts.

It's not the house,
she reminded herself, but couldn't help feeling vulnerable here. That ticked her off. The truth of the matter was that when Clint was around, she felt safer. Yes, another adult helped, and yeah, a man provided a different kind of presence, but she wasn't going to fall into the trap of being a helpless female. Not at this point in her life. And as for Clint Walsh, she wasn't going to be intimidated by him just because he was Jade's father, nor would she go running to him just because he lived close by.

Pop!

She heard the sound of a car backfiring, she thought, though it was far away, of course, as there were no roads close by.

Xena scrambled toward the back door, barking furiously.

“Stop! Good grief. No more!” She quickly found a dog biscuit in a box on the counter and gave the dog a couple. Xena chomped loudly. “There ya go,” Sarah said and heard another faint series of far-off pops.

Car backfiring?

Firecrackers?

Or gunshots?

Grabbing her phone, she went to the back door and opened it, so that if the sounds repeated she could pinpoint them.

Xena scrambled after her, and Sarah had to grab her collar to restrain her from taking off. “It's nothing,” she told the dog and considered calling the police.
And say what? That you think you might have heard the report of a rifle being shot, when you know in your gut that's not what it sounded like?
Maybe it was local hunters, out late at night with scopes, or stupid teenagers, like her brothers when they were younger, “out plinkin' in the woods,” as their father used to say. Or maybe a car backfiring. She could call and complain about trespassers, but she wasn't sure the noises, whatever they were, had originated on her property. Nervously, she bit her lip. Xena kept up her whining and barking, and no amount of shushing seemed to settle her down.

“Gracie!” she called when Xena wouldn't stop.

“Come on,” she said to the dog, dragging her back inside again and locking the door behind them.

“Grace?” she called as she headed toward the dining room, where Gracie had all kinds of papers spread out on the table. Phone to her ear, she was eyeing the pages.

“. . . yeah, you too . . . uh, I will . . .” Gracie was smiling and twiddling a pen in one hand. “She's . . . um . . . I don't know. Just a minute.” She turned the phone to her chest and yelled, “Jade! It's Dad!”

Great. Sarah shook her head, and Gracie got the message. “Sorry,” she said into the phone as she held her mother's gaze. “Jade's not around . . . I will. Uh-huh. Promise . . . okay . . . Love you too.” She hung up and said, “Sorry, guess it's kind of weird for her now. With two dads.”

“Didn't you hear Xena?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Did she see a squirrel or something?”

Xena pushed her big head between them, still whining. “Grace, it's night,” Sarah said. “She didn't see a squirrel.”