Hostage (16 page)

“Luther.”

Something was growling. It sounded mean.

It’s very simple. And easy. You’ve done it before, during your tours of duty. Just one quick movement, and it’s done.

“Luther. Listen to me. To
me
.”

Don’t. Don’t let her stop you. Stop us. We have to do this. You know we do. It feels right, doesn’t it? All the strength? All the power surging through you? Making you invincible? And it’s all yours. You’ll be able to do amazing things, Luther. You’ll be able to do anything you want. Anything.

“Luther, you have to listen to me.”

Growling. What was growling?

“Luther, concentrate. Listen to me. Ignore everything else.”

No, don’t listen to the bitch. She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know us. Doesn’t know what we’re capable of. Do it, Luther. Kill her.

Kill the bitch.

“Luther!”

He snapped out of it with something between a gasp and a grunt, his mind abruptly clear, that dark, dark voice gone, shoved out of him with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed and wasn’t even sure had been entirely his own.

And found himself in another kind of nightmare.

They were outside. In the woods.

He had her pinned up against a tree, his greater size and weight holding her there. That—and the big hunting knife he usually carried while in the outdoors pressed to her throat. A thin line of red showed that he had already cut her.

Luther realized that in an instant. He also realized that she had her weapon in hand, and that it was between them, snugged up just below his rib cage, pressing hard upward, inward. Aimed at his heart.

She could have killed him at any time.

As he stumbled backward, he saw as well that her free hand was extended down and to her left, fingers wide in a holding gesture. Holding in place the exceptionally well-trained Rottweiler standing about three feet from them. A hundred and twenty pounds of straining, trembling muscle desperate to leap to the defense of his mistress, Cesar kept his eyes fixed on Luther. And both the exposed and gleaming fangs and the deep, guttural growl promised that if he was given the command or even the chance, he could and would tear the throat out of the man threatening Callie.

Quietly, as though nothing had happened, she said, “It’s okay, Cesar. Break. Sit.”

The Rottweiler stopped snarling and sat down, but he was still trembling visibly and never took his eyes off Luther.

For his part, Luther took another stumbling step backward until he came up hard against another tree. He stared at the knife in his hand, then let it fall to the ground.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered hoarsely. “What the hell happened?”

Callie drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “The dark energy got in. Into you.”

NINE

Hollis said, “Okay, I’m beginning to see the appeal of this place as a vacation spot. It’s a little quiet for my taste, but it definitely looks like they go out of their way to provide either rest or recreation for their guests.”

“That’s for sure,” DeMarco agreed.

They had been wandering over the estate for nearly two hours, leisurely, and had wound up here and now, standing on a low rise just behind the house, looking down on a huge and beautifully designed pool—currently covered for the coming winter—with what were clearly rock slides and waterfalls. There was a beautifully designed pool house nearby, and a small building at one end of the pool that clearly housed a swim-up bar, judging by the stone countertop jutting out from the closed building and over the edge of a section of the covered pool.

All around the entire area were flagstone paths, meticulously maintained, that wound lazily through what was undoubtedly acres of a stunning garden in spring and summer. There were benches and chairs here and there for sitting, and tables with closed umbrellas scattered about.

Off to the right of the pool and at some distance were the tennis courts, also meticulously maintained, and in the distance straight out beyond the pool they could see what they had visited an hour or so before, which was a sprawling complex of stables, paddocks, and riding rings that was truly impressive.

“The whole place is impressive,” Hollis conceded.

“You sound disgruntled,” DeMarco noted as they turned in step and began making their way back toward the house.

“What, it doesn’t strike you as strange? This place, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Not really. In today’s bustling world, peace and quiet are at a premium, and the wealthy are always willing to pay for what they want. Besides, what else are you going to do with a place like this in these modern times with resident family having come down to only two people. Turn it into a museum or a hotel were probably the only real choices, and it’s too far off the beaten track to attract many customers to a museum, even if it had more than antiques and extensive gardens to offer.”

“Makes sense,” she agreed.

DeMarco shrugged. “It also wouldn’t surprise me if Alexander House hadn’t hosted in past decades some impressive guest lists from all up and down the East Coast for society fund-raisers, political events, even gatherings of people who prefer to get together out of the public eye.”

“Secret societies?” she asked, only half-seriously.

“Not in the conspiratorial sense. You can want to keep your business private without having some kind of creepy agenda.”

“Says the man who was undercover in a very secretive and very creepy society.”

“Well, that was a cult. Bit different.”

He hadn’t said much about that experience, and Hollis hadn’t asked, assuming he’d share what he wanted when he was ready. She also assumed that since he’d been undercover for a very long time in an extremely dangerous situation, it could easily take a while before he was ready to talk about it.

Since Hollis had been there briefly, she at least knew how it had all ended, and that was enough for her.

As for the time he’d spent there, his assignment, she knew the facts of it, just as he undoubtedly knew the facts of her own . . . experience. But she doubted he’d picked up much about that telepathically, because the horrific details of what had triggered her psychic abilities were not something she thought about consciously, and they were details she tended to keep buried pretty deep.

According to Bishop, and he’d know.

“Hollis?”

With a sigh, she said, “I suppose you’re right.” Hollis glanced to her left, nearly stopped, then continued on. “But I wouldn’t completely rule out secret societies.”

“Why? Seeing spirits?”

“Oh, I’ve been seeing them all morning. And if what I’m seeing comes from over a hundred years of history . . . then something’s definitely not right. There are a
lot
of spirits attached to this place, Reese. And that means a lot of people died here, or are or were connected to people here. At least, that’s true if I understand the spirit realm at all.”

“Can you tell the living from the dead now?”

“No, except for huge neon signs like clothing way, way out of fashion. But I imagine you would have commented more than once if you’d seen someone out here with us in the last couple of hours. I mean, I know you saw the maintenance people at the stables because we both spoke to them, so they were obviously alive, but . . . You didn’t see people sitting in the gardens as we walked through, did you? Maybe a dozen people, plus as many maids and waiters serving them drinks and stuff, and that’s not counting all the gardeners working at a discreet distance so as not to disturb anyone.”

“No,” DeMarco said. “I saw no one in the gardens.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Or people swimming in the pool and being served on swim-up underwater seats at that counter?”

“Hollis, the pool is covered. The pool house and bar closed up.”

“I know. When I looked at it just now, that’s what I saw. But an hour or so ago when we walked past, the pool was open and a bunch of people were swimming. Even some kids, a few little ones. Going down the slides, splashing and laughing with their parents. People swimming laps. Sitting at the bar drinking out of glasses with little paper umbrellas. More laughing. I could hear them. I could smell the chlorine in the pool water.”

DeMarco reached out and took her hand. “So you not only saw spirits, but parts of this place as they were . . . at another time.”

“Apparently. There were flowers blooming, and some shrubbery, so it looked like late spring or summer. I have no idea if I was seeing this place during a single season, or just this place as all these spirits saw it in their living visits.” She shook her head. “Almost like it all . . . blended together for me. A glimpse into Alexander House as a hotel. Except that some of the clothing I’ve seen marks at least some of these guests—or family—as being here during a time before the house was a hotel.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“And it’s not the kind of thing you’ve ever seen before?”

“
So
not. Until now, I just saw spirits, and they were definitely moving through our time, our dimension. This is different.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “A new tool in my psychic bag of tricks. Oh, joy.”

He stopped them, still yards short of the conservatory that served as one of the rear entrances to the sprawling house, and half turned so that he could look down at her gravely. “We will figure this out, you know.”

“You think?”

“Of course. It’s what we do.”

Hollis managed a smile, though she felt it was a twisted one. “Right. Right. I just . . . the more I see of this place, the more convinced I am that something is really wrong. That maybe something bad happened here.”

“Do the people you see look injured? Upset?”

“No, I usually don’t see wounds or injuries, thank God. It doesn’t look like a horror movie to me, a fate the universe has spared me. So far.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I can see auras, when I concentrate, and those look normal enough. And these people . . . they look like they belong here. Going about their business. Relaxing, reading newspapers or books, strolling, talking. Most smile pleasantly as they walk past, or nod politely, so they see us, or at least me. Nobody looks anxious or worried or frightened. It’s almost as if they don’t know they’re dead.”

“You’ve encountered that before.”

“Well . . . yeah, new spirits who were uncertain. Aware that something was wrong, something had changed, but either not ready or not able to accept that they had died. This . . . this is different.”

“Why?”

“Because some of them have been here a long time, Reese. Those neon fashion signs I mentioned. It’s more difficult to tell with the servants, because those uniforms apparently haven’t changed very much, but the people . . . Family or guests, I don’t know, probably both, and from their clothes we’re talking about completely different eras. I saw one woman with a long skirt and bustle.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah. And that one dates way,
way
back.”

He turned his head to look out over the landscape behind the house, which, to him, was empty of visible people, then returned his gaze to Hollis. “Do the spirits themselves seem aware of any incongruity?”

“Because of all the different fashions? Not as far as I can tell. It’s like I said, they all behave as if it’s perfectly normal to be here and be . . . going through the motions.” She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“But the unnaturalness of it is bothering you,” DeMarco said.

Hollis didn’t know if he’d guessed or read her, but she didn’t much care. “You bet it does. I’d think it was just place memories, but like I said, these spirits are reacting to us, to each other. They’re
here
. They’re here and they believe it’s normal for them to be here. A woman with a long skirt and bustle passes by a woman dressed like someone from the jazz age, and neither of them bats an eye? That’s disconcerting enough. To me, at least.”

“Maybe a costume party,” he suggested.

She considered, then shook her head. “No, because then they’d be dressed up. Some of these people are dressed more formally than others, but most are in casual clothes. And no masks. Aren’t there usually masks at fancy costume parties?”

“I would think so.”

“So all these people from just about every decade going back to when this place was built, maybe even earlier, are still here. Long before it was a hotel. Long before modern modes of travel at least made it reasonable to visit this place for short periods of time.”

“And?”

“And . . . how many people could have died in and around a private home that was not a hotel until about a decade ago? So many people from so many different eras? It doesn’t make sense. Unless this place has experienced a hell of a lot of tragedy, then it just doesn’t make sense.”

* * *

“WELL, NO.” ANNA
Alexander looked anxious, which seemed to be her default expression. “There really haven’t been any major tragic events here. I’ve lived in this house for more than thirty-five years, and my husband and Owen all their lives, of course. There’s a book in the library about the history of the family, privately printed, if you’d like to see that. It goes back even before the house was built, when the family acquired all the land and lived a lot simpler here.”

“We would definitely like to see the book,” DeMarco said, then added, “but we won’t find any tragic events in it?”

“Just the usual sort of thing you’d expect in a house this old, in a family going back so many generations. There have been deaths here, certainly. A few accidents back when the land was farmed and more livestock kept. Back when the flu took so many, it didn’t spare this house, either the family or the servants. Other illnesses over the years. At least a couple of women I read of died in childbirth, and several children died young, of disease; both were common in those days.”

She hesitated, then added, “A maid fell down one of the staircases and broke her neck, apparently tripping on a loose rug at the top. One daughter of the family committed suicide when her fiancé jilted her. And there were always rumors that Daniel’s grandfather’s first wife didn’t actually run off with a salesman, but that he killed her and buried her somewhere about.” Anna glanced around, almost as if she expected the possibly murdered wife to suddenly appear.

Hollis took a couple of steps and sat down in a chair.

They were in the cavernous room where they had first been brought the previous night, a room identified by the “hotel” map they had snagged in the foyer as the Grand Parlor. It was laid out with numerous seating groups scattered throughout the space, most of which managed to feel at least somewhat cozy despite the staggering size of the room, perhaps because of enormous potted plants and various screens and low display shelves used to delineate spaces. So family, visitors, or guests could find some semblance of privacy and quiet to read or talk.

Looking even more anxious, Anna sat down in the chair nearest the one Hollis occupied, while DeMarco moved silently to another chair in the grouping. A round table was at the center, perhaps intended for some board game or just refreshments.

“I know it sounds like a lot,” Anna said, “but this
is
an old house, and a lot of people have lived here. Worked here. The family was much larger generations back, and in those days it wasn’t uncommon for children to marry but not move far away, especially with so much land to work and stock to take care of then. First living in nearby cottages and then later here, when this house was built. With all this room, privacy was never an issue, and it was pretty much intended to be a big family home. Some people did live their whole lives here, and died here. But most of that was just . . . living and dying. Not tragedies, usually, unless it was a child or someone else who went before their time.”

Hollis leaned back with a sigh, and said to DeMarco, “I only had one question when we got here. Just one. I wanted to know about the light. So that the next time a spirit asked me, I’d know what to say. Now . . .”

“What’s the matter?” Anna asked, clearly worried. “Have you—have you seen Daniel?”

“No. Sorry. That’s his portrait out in the foyer, right? The one across from yours?”

“Yes. He had us both painted about ten years ago.”

Shaking her head, Hollis said, “Sorry, I haven’t seen him. Not yet, anyway.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Hollis watched the older woman’s hands twisting together in her lap, and for the first time she felt a pang of real worry. She had seen so many spirits; why
hadn’t
she seen Daniel Alexander? Only because she hadn’t been in the right place at the right moment?

“Hollis?” Anna sounded as anxious as she looked.

“Be honest,” DeMarco advised Hollis.

Hollis had unconsciously begun chewing on a thumbnail and forced herself to stop. “Anna . . . I’m finding it really difficult to believe that no one, in the family or a guest, has ever reported anything paranormal here.”