The Seance (18 page)

She opened the frosted door. Forgetting her clothes and her shoes, she stepped in and hunkered down by him. As the water poured over them both, she could smell the heavy scent of soap. Somehow she knew that he had scrubbed with it, then scrubbed again.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He looked at her then. Looked at her as if he had just realized she was there, fully clothed and totally soaked.

“Christie,” he murmured. “Christie, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come here.”

“But you did. Now, come on out of there.”

She stepped out herself, turning off the water, then handed him a towel. He seemed impatient with himself then, all masculine and silent again. Wrapped in a towel, he found another one, drying her off as he stripped her of her wet clothing. She had meant to offer solace; instead, she found herself swept up in his arms and carried into her room, where he set her on the large upholstered chair by the bed. Then he found some logs in the basket beside the fireplace and set them in the grate on the hearth. It took him only a moment to get a fire started. She thought how striking and grave he looked, his features hard and chiseled in the light of the fire, and she wondered about the thoughts that went through his head. He'd been a cop. He'd seen so much.

But that didn't mean that what you saw couldn't tear at your heart.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I brought you a whiskey. There, on the night table.”

He glanced at her with just a trace of amusement in his eyes. “A whiskey, huh?”

She shrugged.

“Thank you.”

He swallowed the generous shot she had poured without a breath, then winced slightly. He poked the fire, then walked over to her. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't speak. She simply stood and opened her arms. He stepped into her embrace and just held her for a long moment, then sat down on the bed with her on his lap.

It seemed to her as if they sat there for a long time. She had the odd feeling that he was seeing today's dead woman. He was seeing the years gone by. Seeing his wife, so young to be so ravaged by disease. So much loss.

And he'd been as helpless to save her then as he had been to save the dead woman today.

She wished that she knew the right thing to say to him.

Life isn't fair.

It sounded so trite, but at the same time, it was so true.

She never did speak, because at last, he touched her face. Lifted her chin. Found her lips. It seemed as if a storm, a tidal wave of heat, washed over her, as if the hot spray of the shower was once again beating tumultuously against her.

His lips were crushing, almost violent. His hands were steel-strong, his passion volatile.

Suddenly the tempest ebbed, and his movements turned sweet, then wicked and wild. Before…there had been hunger and the thrill of exploration. Tonight it was as if the floodgates had opened. She couldn't taste enough of his flesh, his sex, couldn't ride hard enough against him. He was equally forceful. She had never felt so completely part of another human being, entwined as if they were one.

She soared to a sudden climax, drifted in the still-volatile aftermath of what they had shared. She had barely calmed before she felt him moving above her once more. His eyes were darker than any abyss, his features tense with concentration. But this time his mouth was gentle, questing, as his tongue teased her collarbone and breasts.

He slid into her once again, then withdrew. His mouth began to ravage the length of her, but slowly. Slow torture. Prolonged seduction. She wrapped her fingers around his sex. Played him. Her teeth and tongue danced over his shoulders, down his chest, tasting the salt on his skin No words were exchanged in the darkness of the night. In the end, he simply wrapped his arms around her, and she curled against him tightly. If she spoke, she would break the spell, she thought, so she just closed her eyes and allowed sleep to come, knowing he was with her.

Knowing that as much as she wanted him, as sweet as it was to be with Jed, it was equally true that she did not want to be alone.

She slept like an angel.

 

Awakening, Jed rose up on one elbow and watched Christina sleep. Her hair was a true auburn, and as it splayed across her pillow, the touch of the sun turned it into a cascading torch. Her lashes, however, were darker, and they swept over her cheeks to add a touch of mystery. He felt a catch in his throat. And in his loins. But he didn't intend to wake her, so he only continued to watch her, feeling a flush of warmth, thinking how lucky he was, and yet afraid to think of what that meant.

At last he rose, impatient with himself.

He'd known her forever, and he'd cared about her. How could he not? She was Ana's little friend. Ana's little friend who had grown up tall and stunning, elegantly built, with huge blue eyes. When he thought about it, he realized that he'd been involved with her forever.

But he'd been in love with Margaritte.

If he was in love again…

Did that make him disloyal?

He didn't want to think about that, so he strode into the shower. He had loved his wife; there was no question about that. And it had been torture to watch her die, little by little, day by day. He'd never been disloyal then. Never been anywhere but at her side. Fighting. Hoping.

But in the end, fighting and hoping hadn't changed a damn thing.

There had been other women since then, of course. He hadn't lived like a monk. But Christie was different. This could hurt him. She could hurt him. Hurt him badly.

He couldn't stay away. He wanted her far too much. Needed her, craved her…

Damn it, he didn't want to think about it.

He finished his shower and got dressed, and then the dog followed him downstairs, where he turned on the television, checked his watch. He called Jerry, who invited him to come sit in on a meeting with the FBI, then found the dog food and fed Killer. Damn, but he was a cute little mutt.

He left, carefully making sure that the lock caught once he was outside. It was better when the door was double-bolted, but it was broad daylight. And the dog did bark like blue blazes when anyone came near the house.

 

There was dead silence when Jed opened the door to the bare-bones conference room at the police station. He knew some of the officers, didn't know others. Undoubtedly a lot of the men didn't think he belonged, but Tiggs handled the situation for him.

“Anyone who doesn't know him, this here is our celebrity ex-cop, Jed Braden. He's a licensed P.I. now, and he's working for Beau Kidd's family,” Tiggs announced.

A murmur went around the room.

“Damn it, you're kidding,” someone whispered. “After that book?”

“Yeah, ironic, huh?” Jed said, moving in to take a seat at the back and looking around the room. Mal O'Donnell and Jerry were seated up front. Doc Martin was there, too, along with another twenty-plus cops, some local, but at least six of them from the state police.

One of the younger detectives leaned over to bring Jed up to speed. “That's Gil Barron talking. He's FBI, but he seems to have a handle on real life.”

Exactly what that meant, Jed wasn't sure, but he nodded his thanks, then listened.

“It's pretty obvious that our perp is targeting a certain type of woman. Whether we're looking at the same guy as twelve years ago or a second killer, the victim is young, right around twenty-five. She's not a prostitute. She either is an entertainer or works with entertainers.”

“That narrows it down. Doesn't he know this is theme park heaven?” one of the cops muttered.

Gil Barron obviously overheard, but he didn't seem disturbed. He only smiled. “It's a bitch, huh? I wish I could tell you something new. I can only reiterate what we do know. We've profiled this guy, and we think the murderer is employed, and that he makes a decent income. He's not old. Personally, I see the same ID in the killings, which would suggest that Beau Kidd was innocent. The murderer is snatching women and hanging on to them, so either he has a place to stash them where their screams aren't heard or he's keeping them drugged, or perhaps it's a combination of both. It appears that, for the most part, they've been snatched from public places. This would suggest that they're going with the killer with smiles on their faces. I hate to say it, but we're looking for the boy next door.”

“I hear that Beau Kidd was the typical boy next door,” one of the younger officers interjected.

“Profiling isn't an exact science,” Gil Barron said. He was tall, lean and had an unlined face. He didn't look like the kind of man who dealt with sick minds on a daily basis, Jed thought. “The killer may be married, may even have a family. And I'll repeat. My personal opinion is we're looking at the same guy from twelve years ago.”

Forgetting that he was no longer a cop, that he didn't really have a right to be there, Jed voiced his question. “What the hell has he been doing for the past twelve years, then?”

Gil Barron nodded in approval of the question. “I was just getting to that. We've pulled records from the national database. Three women disappeared and were found in similar circumstances in Georgia, near the Florida border, eight years ago. God knows why they were never associated with the earlier vics. I suppose most people thought the Interstate Killer was dead and just never thought about him. A recent international search pulled up a similar scenario just two years ago in Jamaica. The women—there were three of them—were black, but they all had their hair highlighted red. And though none of those killings were ever solved, the victims in each location did have a connection. In Georgia, the victims took piano lessons from the same teacher. In Jamaica, all three women worked in the same restaurant. We're looking diligently for something specific that connects our recent victims to the earlier women—if, indeed, we are looking for the same killer.”

Gil talked for a while longer, then Doc Martin got up to talk about the autopsies and the change in MO with the last victim. The meeting broke up then, and Gil Barron found Jed. “Good book,” he told him.

“I'm not so sure,” Jed said.

Barron shrugged. “Don't beat yourself up. It was fiction.”

“Yeah. Fiction.”

Barron smiled. “You're hungry to end this. That's a good thing. Tiggs seems to think so, too. Well, good luck to all of us, huh?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

In the morning, she woke alone.

Or almost alone.

When her eyes opened, she started violently, grabbing her covers, and stared at Beau Kidd, who was in the massive upholstered chair where she had sat the night before.

“This is very interesting,” he said without preamble. “First a woman who worked where your cousin works is killed, then a woman who was working with you.”

“What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” Christina demanded angrily.

Beau waved a hand dismissively. “What are you worried about? He's gone.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes. “Get out of my room. I'd like to take a shower and get dressed.”

“You're forgetting how important this is,” he told her.

“Never,” she said softly. “Like you said, I knew Allison Chesney. There's no way I can forget.”

“You are going to the wake, right?”

She arched a brow. “You know when it is?”

“Not for a few days.”

“And you know this how?”

“Braden had the television on before he left. Oh, and he fed the dog.”

“Did he put the coffee on for me?”

Beau smiled. “Well, he did make coffee, but I chucked it and started over. I know just how you like it.”

“Great. Now, get out of here. Please.”

She could only suppose that he had done so, since he disappeared. She rolled out of bed, showered, dressed and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, she poured coffee, and it was just the way she liked it, damn it. A minute later, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

It was Jed. “Christie, your grandfather played guitar for fun sometimes. Played his guitar and sang at a local pub, right? I seem to remember hearing him a year or so before he died.”

“He used to play at O'Reilly's. It was a real hangout for the Irish in the area. It's still there.”

“Thanks for the info.”

“Why? What's up?”

“I'm not sure. I'm just looking at all kinds of stuff. You just keep your door locked, okay?”

“I always do.” As she spoke, Killer started to bark, followed by the doorbell. It was uncanny how he always knew ahead of time when someone was coming. “Someone is here.”

“Don't open the door till you know who it is,” he said, but she had already set the receiver down.

“I
don't believe it,” Dan breathed. He was standing in front of the bulletin board, staring at the piece of paper announcing the casting for the new show had been done. He touched the sheet reverently.

Zeus, main: Daniel McDuff. Stand-ins…

He didn't see who would be standing in for him. He didn't care. He couldn't believe it. His own name was there, and he was too excited to think past that.

“Congratulations!” someone said, and he turned. The face in front of him was blurred. Tears? he thought. No, it couldn't be.

“Thanks,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.

Other people came by, and the congratulations continued to flow. It was incredible. His life was incredible. He was so happy….

“Patti Jo was up for this show,” someone said, and Dan swallowed, wincing. How could he have forgotten?

But…oh, hell. He had made it! He couldn't help the huge smile on his face, couldn't help feeling as if he had conquered the world.

 

“Christie?”

Jed knew she hadn't hung up on him, that she had just set the phone down, because he could hear the dog barking and some kind of commotion.

“Christina!”

She didn't pick up the phone again, and, swearing, he headed out, unable to explain the sense of sheer panic he was feeling.

 

“Gen? My God—I can't believe you're here!”

“Christie!”

It was so good to see her friend, it seemed almost impossible. Genevieve was standing on the front porch, and she wasn't alone. She was with her husband, Thor, and an older man she introduced as Adam Harrison.

Christina knew who he was from her Internet research. He was the head of Harrison Investigations, specialists in the paranormal, though he never actually claimed when speaking to the press that he believed in the supernatural or the occult. He seemed an expert at double-talk, at sounding forthcoming without actually saying anything at all.

He was an impressive-looking man. He was obviously in his seventies—or more—but he stood ramrod straight and had a full head of snow-white hair. His eyes were both warm and sharp, the kind of eyes that seemed to see far beneath what was obvious on the surface.

She led them all into her parlor together, where the conversation was casual at first. Then, as if they'd simply run out of script, everyone stopped speaking and they all just stared at one another.

“I have a ghost,” she said into the silence.

“So you told Gen,” Thor said, and she had to smile. His tone was so soft and reassuring, though the man himself was pretty much a giant, and very blond. No one, she was certain, had ever fit the name better. She had met him for the first time when she had attended Gen's wedding, but she had liked him right away.

Christina looked at him. “So you…you believe I have a ghost?”

He glanced at Adam with a trace of amusement. “I'm fairly open to the possibility,” he said.

“You told me you think Beau Kidd is haunting your house,” Genevieve offered encouragingly.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Genevieve asked.

“Why?” Christina echoed. “Because I've seen him.”

“No,” Genevieve said, a small smile curving her lips.

“Why would he be haunting this house?” Thor explained.

“Did he ever live here?” Adam asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Has he…threatened you in any way?” Genevieve asked.

Christina shook her head. “No. Though he had me thinking I was going crazy, moving things around in the house, putting coffee on,” she admitted. “I thought maybe my cousins were playing tricks on me.”

Genevieve frowned, hands clasped before her, leaning forward. “Christina, you don't think Dan or Mike would…would try to scare you out of here, do you?”

“Or worse?” Thor added.

“Worse?” she demanded. She felt as if she were bristling, just like Killer when his hackles rose.

The dog, in fact, seemed to know intuitively that she was upset. He barked, then walked over to stand next to her, glaring at the others.

“Dan had quite a sense of humor when you were kids,” Genevieve reminded her. “Once, down in the Keys, he threw a bunch of fish he'd bought into the water and they died, remember? And they thought they had a real problem on their hands. The park service wound up getting involved.”

“Dan has grown up,” Christina said. “And my cousins aren't playing tricks on me,” she added firmly, then turned to stare at Adam, as if daring him to disagree.

“I believe you,” he assured her.

He was such an interesting combination, she thought. So dignified and authoritative in looks, but when he spoke, his words were quiet, and his smile made you feel you'd known him forever.

“Gen…” she said, then took a deep breath. “Look, I know you all kept a low profile over the events in the Keys…The treasure you found, how you found it. The fact that you were nearly killed. But there was something else going on there, wasn't there?” She stared hard at her friend. “Ghosts.”

Gen smiled, meeting Christina's eyes. “Ghosts can be good, you know,” she said.

“So, can you see Beau Kidd?” Christina asked.

“No. Do you see him right now?”

Christina shook her head. “He's…not here right now.”

“But he visits you because he wants his name cleared, right?” Adam suggested.

“Yes. But…I hoped you could talk to him. He should really be haunting someone else, someone who can help him. Can you…can you at least feel him?”

Adam smiled gently. “I rarely have any direct connection with the supernatural, but I know those who do,” he told her.

“He talks to you? He actually carries on conversations with you?” Thor asked.

She nodded.

“When did he first appear?” Adam asked.

“He first appeared at the foot of my bed a few days ago. I thought he was a dream—or that
I
was dreaming, I should say—but he…he seemed so real that he scared me half to death. I ran out of the house, and then he came up behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder, and I ended up passed out on the lawn.”

“You passed out—outside?” Thor asked, then turned to Adam in concern.

“Yes, I know. I should stay inside, because the killer—the Interstate Killer or the copycat, whoever—isn't snatching women who are safely locked in their houses. But anyway, later…later I had to accept that Beau was here, that he does exist.”

Genevieve was watching her. “Don't you remember, Christie?” she asked softly.

“Remember what?”

“When we were kids. We'd go places, and you would rattle off all kinds of history, stuff you had no way of knowing. Christie, you saw things back then. And then, when your grandfather died…when I talked to you after, when I told you how sorry I was, you said that you knew he was okay, that he told you he was fine. Christie, you've always had…a connection to the other world.”

Christina shook her head. “No. I…I don't have a connection or a gift or whatever you want to call it. If I did, I'd be able to see my parents. And if ghosts are so real, why doesn't Granda, the nicest man in the world, haunt this place instead of Beau Kidd?”

Thor cleared his throat. “Maybe because your grandfather doesn't have anything to prove and Beau does?”

Christina looked pointedly at him. “You talk to him, then.”

“He's chosen to talk to you, and he'll either let the rest of us in or he won't,” Adam said.

Christina groaned softly. “
He
doesn't even know why he's connected to me. It might be something as simple as a flower I put on his coffin—he was buried on the same day as my grandfather, right nearby, and I went over and left a flower. I don't even know why.”

“It is a connection, however tangential,” Adam mused.

“Then again, it might have been the Ouija board,” Christina said.

“Ouija board?” Adam repeated, frowning.

“Yes…it's from when I was a kid,” Christina said defensively. “A bunch of us pulled it out the other night, and he…talked to us. To me.”

“Ouija board…” Adam said thoughtfully.

“Should we get it out?” Genevieve suggested.

Adam shook his head. “No, not at this point. I think we'd be better off trying…”

“I agree,” Thor said, looking at Adam.

“With what?” Christie demanded.

“A séance. A full-scale séance,” Adam told her, his tone serious.

Dead serious.

Silence filled the room after he spoke. Then Killer suddenly jumped up and began to bark, followed by a thunderous pounding on the door.

 

He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. There was too damn much activity.

He took a deep breath. Time to take a break. Time to lay low. He could do it; he'd done it before. Of course, he could also go away for a while, get a change of scenery.

No.

He was good. They'd never been able to catch him, so he could play it out the same way again and let someone else take the fall. It was easy to arrange. So easy.

He had to stay calm, confident. He couldn't let the little things tear down the brick bastions of his own talent. He was good, and this was all a challenge.

He started; his name was being called.

With a smile, he answered.

 

“You look great tonight.”

Dan McDuff turned. Marcie McDonnagh was standing there, just outside the women's locker room.

“You look pretty damned good yourself,” he told her.

“Aw, shucks,” she said, and smiled. Her hair was hidden beneath the black-and-gray wig she wore, but the exaggerated female vampire makeup just made her look wickedly, sensually attractive, he thought.

She ran up and hugged him suddenly, then pulled away self-consciously. “We made it, Dan! We both made it. Our pay goes up. Our prestige goes up. Hera and Zeus, here we come.”

He had to smile in return. “I wanted it so badly, I'm still not sure I believe it's real,” he told her.

“Me, too.” She let out a happy sigh.

“We should celebrate,” he said.

She nodded.

“My cousin and some friends are coming tonight. Maybe we can all go out after the show and celebrate.”

“I'd love to celebrate, but I've got an early class tomorrow. I'm going to have to ask you for a rain check.”

Was that the brush-off? he wondered. He wasn't sure, and he didn't really care. It wasn't as if he'd been trying to pick her up. He had just wanted to celebrate their victory.

“Sure,” he said.

Suddenly they both started. Above them, from the main park, a scream had echoed so loudly that it had penetrated to the catacomb of hallways and workrooms below.

Dan laughed. “They're doing a good job up there,” he said.

Marcie shuddered. “Yeah? Strange, isn't it? People, tourists, are paying to be scared, but all we have to do is live in the area, walk into a dark parking lot alone, to be afraid.”

“I'm here if you need me,” he told her gravely.

 

He could have killed her. Grabbed her right then and there, and shaken her.

She'd scared the hell out of him.

There was an unknown SUV in her front yard, a late-model Volvo, nice. Just the type of car for a boy-next-door serial killer to drive, he had tormented himself, his heart in his throat, when he reached her house. He'd heard the dog barking, but she'd never come back to the phone, and now there was a strange car in her driveway.

But Christina was evidently just fine. She opened the door and stared at him, her eyes wide with dismay as the realization of what she had done dawned on her. “Oh, my God, Jed!”

“Yeah, Jed,” he said dryly.

She winced. “I'm sorry.” She swallowed hard, and Killer barked. Jed absently patted the dog to quiet him. “Come in, please. My old friend Genevieve arrived with Thor, her husband, and I forgot all about the phone. Did you ever meet Gen? She came up here with me a few times when we were kids. She grew up in Key West, but we've been friends for years. I thought she was so lucky, growing up, actually living in Key West.” She was babbling, and she knew it. She forced herself to stop, then stared at him, looking stricken. “Jed, I am honestly so sorry.”

“It's okay. There's only a serial killer running around with a penchant for gorgeous redheads, and then you—a redhead, I might mention—drop the phone and don't come back to it. No problem.”

She flushed. “Jed…”