The Night Is Watching (7 page)

“Don’t you
dare
leave money. Next time, you can give me a tip if you want. Sloan tipped enough for five tables,” Liz told her. “Seriously, don’t you put down a dime!”

Jane didn’t want to insult the woman and she was afraid that insisting might just do so. “All right, thank you. But, please—”

“Next time!” Liz said.

Liz moved on, efficiently taking orders from the crowd now seeking chairs and bar stools.

Jane didn’t see Henri Coque, Jennie or any of the actors yet—just the people who’d been in the audience. She headed for the stairs. She glanced around to see if the slightest hint of an apparition might appear; none did. She was convinced, however, that she’d seen the image of a woman there earlier.

The ghost in her room? The spirit of Sage McCormick?

And had Sage been busy in the bedroom while she was gone?

Jane turned the key in her lock, opened her door, flipped on the light and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed in the room. “Hello,” she said softly.

“Hey!”

The shout came from the hall. Startled, Jane swung around. Brian Highsmith was opening the door to the room beside hers. “You all right, Jane? Were you expecting to greet the resident ghost? If you’re worried, I can check out the room for you.”

Brian was serious; he seemed worried that she might be frightened, even though he knew she was an FBI agent.

“Just because you know how to use a gun,” he said, walking down the hall toward her, “doesn’t mean you might not be afraid of the theater’s reputation.”

“Brian, I’m pretty sure every old building has a reputation for being haunted.”

“But this is
Lily.
”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

He paused, looking a little disappointed. “You don’t understand. This town...well, it saw a lot of violence. The whole place is haunted, inside and out. Are you positive you don’t want me to check that there’s nothing—no one—in your room?” He leaned against the wall, presenting her with a come-on smile. Was he trying to use this as a pickup line? Did he think she’d ask him to protect her, so he could offer to sleep by her side?

He was dark and handsome, and although he played the villain, he had a pretty-boy flair to him. She was disturbed to realize she was comparing him to Sloan Trent. Trent was far more seductive, even in his awkward courtesy when he’d pondered opening a door for her. She liked his looks, but she was still debating his reversal, from hostility to polite and genial conversation this evening. Well, he’d wanted a seat to have dinner. It could be as simple as that.

“Jane?”

“Oh, no, Brian, thanks. I had my door locked. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not afraid of ghosts?”

“Not tonight. I’m too tired.”

“You really should take the haunted hayride trip tomorrow night,” he advised. “You’ll hear about all the ghosts haunting this town. Pretty scary.”

It was the second time she’d been told she should try out that particular Lily attraction. Maybe she would. She’d enjoy learning more about the history of the town.

She smiled at Brian. He was young and earnest—if a bit too persistent. “And yet,” she said, “you seem to be okay. As do the other actors.”

“Well, we’re not sleeping in
her
room,” he said.

“I’ll take my chances tonight.”

“If you need me, just holler. I’ll be here in a second,” he assured her.

“I appreciate that,” she told him. “But I’m quite tired. Traveling all day, you know. I’m sure the room is empty—and that I’ll go right to sleep. A lot of people believe Sage ran away to Mexico, right? If so, she’s not here.”

“Okay, but don’t forget. Just scream if you need me. Some people
don’t
believe she ran off.”

“I’ll do that,” she promised solemnly.

With a reluctant nod, he returned to his room down the hall as Jane entered hers and closed the door.

She’d much rather deal with a ghost than a young would-be lothario.

She leaned against the door for a moment, and then moved away, quickly turning to lock it.

Experience had taught her. The living were usually far more dangerous than the dead.

Usually...

3

S
loan’s house wasn’t but a mile down Main Street where it crossed Arizona Highway 101. Although it was in the countryside, it was also within walking distance of the Gilded Lily. Only two properties sat between him and the old town. One belonged to Silvia Mills—eighty-eight and spry—and the second belonged to Mike Addison, who now owned the old sheriff’s office and jail bed-and-breakfast. Mike was seldom at his property; his ranch overseer was a good man of mixed Mexican, American and Indian descent, Barry Garcia. Neither Mike nor Silvia ever had any trouble at their properties.

Sloan’s house was ranch-style and had been built in the 1860s, first as a one-room log structure, and then gradually, as the years had gone by, as a far larger home. The front door still opened into the main section of the house, a parlor with leather and wood furniture, Indian artifacts, a stone fireplace and a stone counter that separated it from the kitchen. Beyond that was a screened-in porch with a pool; to the left were two bedrooms and to the right was a master suite. It was a comfortable home and had always been in his family. Wherever he chose to go in the future, he’d hang on to the house. Johnny Bearclaw, an Apache who’d come to help his grandfather before Sloan made it home, still lived here. Johnny’s wife had died of cancer and he had no children; running Sloan’s property and working with the horses seemed to be a good life for him. He had an apartment above the barn, which was about an acre back on the land. He looked after the house and grounds and the two buckskin quarter horses Sloan kept, Kanga and Roo.

It was late. Sloan had been out far longer than he’d expected, not thinking he’d actually stop by the Gilded Lily for dinner. But as he’d driven through town from the sheriff’s office, the theater had beckoned him—mainly because he was fascinated by their visiting artist.

And he did have to eat. That was a fact. He knew he’d been rude, so maybe taking a few minutes to be...not rude would be a smart idea. He reminded himself that Logan would never have sent him his own Krewe member if she weren’t good. He’d gone to Logan because they both knew there were forces in the world that weren’t obvious, that weren’t necessarily
seen
by everyone. Logan had sent him Jane, therefore Jane was good.

It wasn’t
good
that bothered him.

It was the fear that finding the skull was all some kind of catalyst, that something evil had begun—or come to the surface—when the skull was found. Dread had been building within him and he’d sensed it, felt it in the air, almost smelled it...but been unable to pin it down.

Maybe that was why he’d wanted the damned skull out of town!

They weren’t dealing with a current tragedy, accident or murder. Whatever had happened to the living, breathing person they now sought to identify, it had happened way before they could make an arrest or bring any responsible party to justice. So why his concern?

He didn’t know.

He walked into the kitchen and opened his refrigerator. For a moment he froze, brought to full attention as something plopped onto the counter next to him.

He refrained from pulling his gun and smiled to himself, shaking his head.

“Cougar. Where were you? Sleeping on top of the fridge?”

He stroked the pitch-black cat with the huge gold eyes that sidled up to him.

“Sorry, how inconsiderate of me. I’ve eaten, you haven’t. Hang on, okay?”

Sloan found the cat’s bowl, which was shoved up against the cabinets beneath the sink, and filled it with cat food, then checked the automatic water dispenser he had for his pet. It was still almost full.

“You needed sustenance and that comes first. I was just going for a beer.”

The cat meowed; he was darned loud for a cat. Very talkative. He’d found Sloan, rather than the other way around. One day, he’d been on the doorstep and Sloan had taken him in. The fliers he’d posted around town hadn’t produced an owner, nor had the ad he’d placed in the paper. Cougar had become his. He was huge, maybe part Persian or Maine coon, and he deserved the name “Cougar.”

Once the cat was cared for, Sloan pulled a beer from the refrigerator and went back to the parlor.

He eased into one of the two plush leather chairs that sat in front of the fire, although tonight he didn’t have a fire going. He closed his eyes for a minute; when he opened them again, he saw that he wasn’t alone.

The man who sat next to him was ageless. His hair was long and dark and barely graying. He wore jeans, a calico shirt and a cowboy hat. His facial structure was fine and proud, his expression stoic at all times.

It wasn’t Johnny Bearclaw. Johnny never entered without knocking.

It was the “visitor” he’d first met when his grandfather was dying. Longman. In talking, he’d learned that Longman had ridden with Cochise and had been his great-great grandfather on his mother’s side. He had come for his grandson, Sloan’s grandfather—and to see that his great-great grandson learned how to help the living cross the great plain to the great lands beyond.

Only, when Sloan’s grandfather had died and crossed the plain, Longman had not. He chose to remain behind and torment Sloan. At least that was how Sloan saw it.

He managed to keep from groaning out loud. He held his silence, waiting for the spirit of his ancestor to speak.

Longman didn’t say anything for a while. He stared at the hearth as if a fire was crackling.

“Evening,” Sloan said at last, raising his beer to Longman, who nodded gravely, then continued to stare as if deep in thought, mesmerized by dancing flames that weren’t there.

“An artist is doing a rendering of the woman whose skull was discovered up at the theater,” Sloan began. “She’s a very good artist.” She was. “I don’t know why, but I feel I’ve seen the woman in her drawing, and it bothers me. But that’s impossible.” He didn’t add that he was bothered by Jane Everett, as well. She could be all business, and yet courteous at the same time. She’d clearly gone through all the right training. She was truly stunning and he had to admit he was attracted to her in a way that was definitely physical but much more. Maybe it had to do with how she moved and spoke, or the depth of passion and care that seemed to lie beneath the surface.

He was worried about her. Again, he didn’t know why. She was no doubt proficient at protecting herself.

Longman looked at him. “And?” he asked.

“And...and that’s it. Oh, there’s the usual. Caleb Hough is acting like an idiot over his son being arrested. The kid is okay, though.”

“But you’re worried.”

“Yeah, I’m worried.” He didn’t say that Hough wasn’t his major concern at the moment; it was Jane Everett. Strip away the FBI appearance, the tailored business attire, and Jane Everett looked as if she could be a model for an elegant line of lingerie.

That didn’t explain why he was afraid for her. In fact, there was no reason for anyone to be afraid in Lily. The town had kids who drank too much and a few adults, like Caleb Hough, who thought they were money kings. There weren’t even any high school gangs in Lily and, for the most part, Native Americans, African Americans, Hispanics and old Euro-Americans—everyone—got along just fine.

Longman turned back to the hearth. “When you feel the wind, my boy, it means it is blowing from somewhere. Remember that. Too often, we forget that we need to pay heed to the sights and sounds that tease the air. If you feel wind, Sloan, then you must look for the storm, for surely it is coming.”

“A storm? To Lily? When?” Sloan asked.

“A storm, a change, a shake-up. The ground is always quiet before the earth erupts. First, men feel a rumble, and if they don’t heed the warning, they fall through the cracks.”

Great. Really great. All he needed was a cryptic ancestor. Longman was on his mother’s side. His dad’s people had been a no-nonsense mix of English and Norwegian. But, of course, this land had been in his mother’s family for generations. Longman was his mother’s great-grandfather, and it was her father who’d raised him. This house was on old Apache land, it was natural, he supposed, that his last full-blooded Apache ancestor should come to his parlor to watch invisible flames.

Then, of course, his dad’s family had its share of the unusual, as well. The bad, the good—and those who’d just disappeared into thin air.

As if reading his mind, the specter of his dead great-great grandfather looked at him thoughtfully. “You think you’ve seen the woman in the picture because you have. You’ve seen pictures of her many times—even old photographs. In fact, those pictures have been seen by everyone in Lily. You believe they found the skull of Sage McCormick, your father’s great-grandmother.”

Yes, it
had
been in his mind. Of course!

“You knew her?”

“I often saw her perform from the back of the theater. I was allowed in. We were tolerated in Lily—my people, I mean. When the wars still raged and Native peoples were rounded up, many of us were part of the community here. I remember when Sage McCormick came to Lily. I remember her presence onstage. I remember her laughter, and that she was kind. I remember when she fell in love with your father’s great-grandfather, and I remember her daughter, your father’s grandmother, as she grew up.”

“So that’s it,” Sloan said. “I knew the picture because I’d seen the woman Jane depicted dozens of times. She’s my great-great grandmother. And I’ve avoided acknowledging this—because I never wanted to know how she died. It’s the distant past now, but I guess the stories always made me want to believe she went to Mexico and lived happily ever after in a world where she could be herself.” He sighed. “And if there
is
a ghost in her room at the Gilded Lily, I wanted to believe that it wasn’t her—or that she returned there after her death. Does that make sense?”

There was no answer. Sloan looked over at the chair. Longman was gone.

Maybe he had never been there. Sloan didn’t know. He had never known if he created spirits with whom he could earnestly debate the dilemmas in his own mind or if they actually existed.

But now...

Cougar, still in the kitchen, suddenly let out a screech. The cat was almost as good as a watchdog. Sloan jumped to his feet. He headed straight to the kitchen and saw that the cat was standing by the door to the screened-in porch, his back arched.

Sloan strode across to the door, set his hand at his waist over his gun, and yanked the door open.

No one there.

He looked out at the far stretches of his property. Sparse trees grew here and there, low and scraggly. His land stretched out in back until it came to a row of foothills that skirted the mesa where Lily was situated. To the left, he saw the stables and the paddocks, and all seemed quiet. A light burned upstairs in Johnny Bearclaw’s apartment. He heard one of the horses whinny.

He had ten acres—a big enough spread if someone wanted to hide there.

He walked out to the stables, turning on lights as he entered. Kanga and Roo whinnied again as he approached their stalls, stepping up to the gates to receive attention. Sloan patted the horses, speaking to them softly. Kanga was almost twenty, and she was as friendly as a dog and loved human interaction. Roo was “the young un,” at twelve. He was Kanga’s only offspring, bred from Fierce Fire, an award-winning running quarter. Sloan wasn’t much on rodeos, but occasionally he brought Roo out to show. He didn’t enter competitions, but Roo could turn on a dime, and Sloan liked to let him strut his stuff now and then.

The horses didn’t seem skittish. Then again, they did like human contact and Sloan had enough visitors out here that they wouldn’t be skittish if they’d heard someone walking around the yard.

Maybe the cat had seen demons that haunted his feline mind.

As he stood by the stalls, his cell phone rang. He answered it quickly.

“Hey, you down there?” Johnny Bearclaw asked.

“Yeah, it’s me, Johnny.”

“You been there awhile?”

“No, I just came out. The cat was freaking out over some noise or other,” Sloan said.

“I was about to come down,” Johnny announced.

“You heard something?”

“It sounded as if the horses were a little restless. I’ll be right there.”

Sixty seconds didn’t pass before Johnny came hurrying down the steps from the overhead apartment. He wasn’t a tall man; he stood maybe five-ten, but he was barrel chested and had broad shoulders and huge hands. Johnny could tenderly serve a dying man soup—or tackle the meanest bronco. His dark eyes were narrowed as he said, “Oddest thing. I just had the feeling someone was around. Strange as hell. Then heard Kanga there neighing and stomping. I saw the light spill out over the paddocks and called you. Does anything seem to be amiss?”

Sloan shook his head. “Let’s take a look around for the hell of it, though.”

“Could’ve been a coyote who thought better of it. ’Course, we don’t have any chickens around here, anyway. A coyote would have figured that out pretty fast,” Johnny said.

“We’ll split up. I’ll go east, and you take the west,” Sloan told him.

Some brush on either side separated Sloan’s property from his neighbors, but like him, his neighbors had paddocks and stables; they all put up picket fences in front of their homes, but they didn’t bother with gates. No one cared if someone rode over someone else’s land.

That meant there wasn’t far to go and not many places to look.

Sloan met Johnny at the rear of the stables. “If someone was snooping around, they’re not here now,” Johnny said. “My money is on a coyote.”

“You’re probably right.” Sloan looked off into the night. Behind them, the foothills were purple in the moonlight.

“’Course, if anyone
was
around here and they knew the place and wanted to disappear...” Johnny began.

“They could just head out back behind the hills,” Sloan finished.

“Not much there now but desolation,” Johnny said. “The old mine entrances were blown out with dynamite years ago.”

“Coyote,” Sloan said. “Thanks, Johnny. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, you, too, Sloan. Everything going all right?”

“Yep.”

“That artist come in?”