Deadly Harvest (23 page)

“Oh, God,” Eve said suddenly, appalled.

“What?”

“I just said
I'm not dead
. And that poor woman…Oh, God, Ro—we met her when she came in the store. She was just here having a good old time, and now…she's dead.”

“Dan told me he'd seen her, too.”

“She was nice, just like Mary…. She came in and bought some jewelry.” Eve hesitated for a moment, looking unhappy, then shook her head. “She said she lived in Boston and hadn't been up this way in ages. She came here to see the leaves and then…then she died here.”

Eve looked stricken, ready to cry.

Rowenna gave her a hug. There was nothing to say.

Eve drew away. “Hey, hurry up. Go meet your guy.”

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Eve said.

“All right, then, go back in, close up,” Rowenna told her.

Eve still looked anxious.

“Eve, is something else wrong?” Rowenna asked, worried. She didn't want to get to the bar late and send Jeremy into a panic, but she didn't want to leave her friend standing there, looking so lost.

“Nothing.”

“Eve?”

Eve laughed. “Nothing. Really.” She looked away, as if trying to hide her feelings. “Nothing you can fix, anyway. So go meet Jeremy, and don't stop along the way to talk to strangers.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Eve took a deep, steadying breath, then nodded and ducked back into the store. Rowenna waved and walked on along the pedestrian mall.

The other shops had closed. It seemed impossible, but in a matter of minutes, the streets had cleared.

The chilly autumn breeze suddenly blew. A scattering of leaves whirled up from the pavement, then settled again at her feet. She quickened her pace.

A strange buzzing sound reached her ears, and she glanced up. A streetlamp was flickering, and as she watched, it buzzed again, burned brightly for a moment, then went out.

A perfectly natural occurrence, she told herself.

There was still plenty of light.

But where there was light, there was also shadow.

Moving quickly now, she looked at the bricks beneath her feet and nearly jumped at the sight of a shadow on the ground.

Of course there was! Her own.

She listened to her own footsteps and wondered if she was hearing a slight echo to each one, as if someone were following and trying to match his footsteps to hers.

The breeze stirred again, and the leaves were swept into a minor cyclone, dancing wildly through the air before falling at her feet with a dry rustle that sounded just like an insinuating whisper.

The shadow was growing, as if she were getting taller, larger. Broader. As if a mountain was looming behind her, massive and dark.

No, it wasn't a mountain, it had a shape.

Like a man, a man in a cape, rising from the bowels of the earth.

Her imagination was taking charge, and even though she knew she was being ridiculous, she quickened her pace even more.

The echo of her footsteps seemed to come a beat too late.

Like a pulse, a heartbeat out of sync.

Fear suddenly swept through her. Somehow whatever was creating the shadow was no longer behind her, but had moved in front of her.

She turned and ran, fleeing the mall along the nearest side street, knowing she was being forced away from the business district and toward the less populated side of town.

No longer did her pursuer make a pretense of stealth. She
was
being followed.

Every shop, every restaurant she passed was closed and dark.

The footsteps following her now were loud and fast and all too real. She knew they had to belong to a human being, yet it felt as if she were being followed by something more than human, something that whispered of evil.

Where was everyone?

This was leaf season, for God's sake.

A pair of Pilgrim salt-and-pepper shakers smiled benignly from a shop window as she passed. A historic building, closed to the public, was next. The witch memorial was across the street.

And the cemetery.

Bizarrely, the gate was standing open, but why question fate?

It was insane, given what had happened there, but she knew the cemetery so well that she could streak across it, hoping her pursuer would get confused in the dark, maybe even trip on one of the old headstones, while she raced out the other side.

With nowhere else to go and her stalker coming closer, she raced through the gate and past the old tombs and broken stones to the other side, where she came to an abrupt halt.

The evil was no longer behind her.

It was in front of her.

She stood dead still, the pitiful stones marking the little children's graves to her right, broken stones to her left, an aboveground tomb before her.

And she was aware that someone, something, had somehow herded her to this spot, then managed to circle past her again to block her path and keep her here.

Words whispered through her mind.

“Come closer, closer, bow down before me, come…”

It was in her head. It beckoned. It made her think of a hill, where power and vengeance, life and death, were all to be found.

“Honor me. Worship me….”

The darkness was growing, taking on form and mass, like something living.

There was a tomb just beyond the graves of the little children, and in that thick darkness, the age-old etching began to gleam red—red, the color of blood….

Bloody ink, spelling out the name of the deceased.

Rowenna Eileen Donahue.

B
rad was waiting at the bar when Jeremy arrived.

He was running his fingers up and down the glass of beer he was drinking, evidently fascinated with the frost that had formed on the outside, but at least he appeared calm and in control.

“Anything?” he asked hopefully, as Jeremy slid onto the stool next to him.

“Not really, but I've had some interesting conversations,” Jeremy told him. “How are you doing?”

Brad nodded gravely. Jeremy could tell that he was sober; it looked as if the beer was his first. “I got a copy of the police flier—you know, with the pictures of Dinah Green and Mary.” His voice went husky at the end. “I couldn't just sit around all day, so I drove north, stopped in every town I could find and showed the flier to people. Everyone was sympathetic, but no one had seen either one of them.”

Jeremy already knew that neither woman had ever gotten north of the area; he knew the trail for both had ended right here. But Brad was right; he'd needed to be doing something, and it was always a mistake when investigating to count on what you “knew” without eliminating every possibility.

“So what about your conversations?” Brad asked.

The bartender came over with a beer for Jeremy. It was the same guy who'd been on duty before, Hugh. Thirty-something, balding, stocky and pleasant. “Hi, good to see you again,” he said.

Jeremy nodded, and thanked the man for his beer.

“So you know she was in here, right?” Brad said, before Jeremy could answer his earlier question. “Dinah Green? Seems like half the town saw her in here with some guy. Big tough-guy type.”

The bartender hadn't gone far, and now he moved back over to them, looking at Jeremy, and leaned on the bar, speaking in a confidential tone. “I served her. I served Dinah Green. Did Brad tell you?” he asked. “She drank Cosmos, and the guy was a whiskey, neat.”

“So you must have been able to describe him for the cops.”

“Yeah. They sent a sketch artist right over, but they're not going to need all that—I had something better to give the cops,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

“The guy's credit card receipt?” Jeremy asked.

Hugh looked deflated, and Jeremy felt immediately sorry for having spoken.

“Yeah. How'd you…Oh, yeah. It's what you do,” Hugh said.

“The thing is,” Brad said, “and I don't know whether it's a good sign or a bad one, but if this guy—”

“His name is Tim Richardson,” Hugh volunteered. “Address in Little Italy, in Boston.”

“I wonder if they knew one another back in Boston,” Jeremy said.

“The thing is, no one saw Tim Richardson here on Halloween,” Brad said, then went on hopefully. “So maybe…maybe Mary is safe somewhere.” A tormented look came over his face. “But then, where is she? And why? Mary wouldn't disappear on purpose. I know it. But after finding Dinah's corpse, the cops think all we have to do is find Dinah Green's killer and then we'll find Mary. But if the two cases aren't connected, we're wasting time when we could be looking for Mary while she's still alive. And she
is
still alive. She
has
to be.”

“Brad,” Jeremy said, setting a hand on his friend's shoulder, “just because Dinah Green was with this guy at the bar, we don't know that he killed her.”

“It was the last time she was seen,” Brad said stubbornly.

“And he
was
with her,” Hugh added.

Jeremy studied Hugh. “Did they leave together?” he asked.

Hugh frowned and flushed. “I don't know,” he admitted.

“They were both at the bar, right?” Jeremy asked.

“Yeah, but it got busy real fast that night. I ended up running a few of the tables, too. The guy had paid his tab, and they were still talking when…I served a veal Oscar. Yeah, over there, table two. I could see that the girls were rushed off their feet out on the floor, and one of the kitchen guys brings the food out to the end of the bar when it's busy, so I helped out. So no, I didn't actually see them leave.”

“Maybe someone else did,” Jeremy said. “Did the police take the receipts from that night?”

“Hey, we're talking weeks ago now—the receipts are all turned in,” Hugh said.

“So how did you get the info for the police?” Jeremy asked.

“The computer.”

“Can you print me out a list of the receipts for that night? Not now, I know you're working, but later? I can pick it up in the morning.”

“Sure.” Hugh seemed pleased to be asked. Then he looked past Jeremy and Brad to the door, and a smile lit his face. “Hey, Eric. Good to see you.”

Jeremy turned and saw Eric Rolfe coming into the bar. He was alone, and though he was only wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a denim jacket, he looked like a man who had showered and shaved in preparation for a night out. Except for a single autumn leaf sticking out of the top of his left boot.

Brad seemed not to have heard Hugh's greeting, nor to have noticed Eric's arrival.

He was staring morosely at his beer.

“The morning,” he said bleakly. “Everything is always something we're going to get to in the morning.” He looked at Jeremy. “We're getting nowhere. How many more mornings will Mary have?”

Jeremy's thoughts turned back to the man Hugh had seen with Dinah, even though he didn't know if she'd left with him or not.

Boston wasn't far away. The man could be their killer. Just because Hugh hadn't seen him on Halloween, that didn't mean he hadn't been in town.

Whoever had killed Dinah Green was still on the streets.

Mary was still missing.

And Rowenna hadn't arrived yet.

Jeremy stood abruptly and said goodbye to Brad, nodding to Eric as he passed and looking once again at the leaf protruding from his boot.

Shower, shave and take a walk in the woods? He didn't think so.

He wanted to grab the man as he walked by, shake him and demand to know where he was keeping Mary Johnstone. Somehow, he refrained. Until he had more to go on than a hinky feeling and a stray leaf, he was going to have to hang back. Meanwhile, he was worried about Rowenna, anxious to get to the street and take the shortest route from the bar to the museum.

 

“No.” It was only a whisper of protest. She was too shocked to manage anything more.

That was her name.

On a tombstone.

And there was a shadow in the cemetery, taunting her, calling to her.

No. It was all in her mind.

It was nothing but the power of suggestion, nothing real, only her fears given substance by her own traitorous mind.

It was as if the skills she used when she put herself in a victim's place, feeling what had happened, using logic and intuition to let her imagination run free, had suddenly all turned inward and created a monster from all the fears that had been haunting her. Perception was truth and reality, so now she had to change her perception and defeat this shadow monster.

She'd been in this cemetery a hundred times. Her name wasn't on any tombstone. And she wasn't going to be anyone's victim, not even the Devil himself if he had risen from hell just to find her.

“No,” she said loudly and firmly, staring into the dark graveyard.

It was empty. No one was there, not even a shadow.

She stared back at the stone where she had so clearly seen her name in blood.

There was nothing there.

The moon came out from behind a cloud, dispelling the darkness that had seemed so tangible only moments before. In the silver light she could see autumn leaves lying on the ground, and when she examined the stone, the writing that was the only memorial to some stranger's death was too eroded by the passage of time to say anything, much less her name. The breeze blew lightly, and when she looked around, there was no one else in the cemetery, real or imagined.

Then, suddenly, she heard her name called in a real, solid and worried voice.

“Rowenna?”

She spun around.

“Hey, Rowenna, are you all right?”

Adam Llewellyn was standing by the gate—closed now, she noticed, but she wasn't going to dwell on the strangeness of that—as if he were afraid to venture into the graveyard by night. He was staring at her as if she had lost her mind.

Had she?

As she stared at him, a couple, hand in hand, came walking down the street, talking about the restaurant they were heading to.

A car passed along the nearby street, its headlights cutting reassuringly through the darkness.

It was just a night like every other night.

A man was passing the wax museum, walking a yapping Pekingese. Big guy, small dog.

“Ro?” Adam asked again.

She squared her shoulders and strode quickly in his direction, and made it easily to the low wall.

“Adam, hi. Were you following me?” she asked, studying him. He was just Adam, the same Adam she had known for years.

Had he just helped save her from her own mind—or from someone or something else? Or was he somehow involved in whatever had just happened to her? She dismissed the idea out of hand. Nothing could be more ridiculous.

“I was trying to catch up with you,” he told her, still looking confused.

“Did you see anyone else?” she asked him, and though she tried to sound calm, even blasé, she knew there was an edge of hysteria in her voice.

He seemed troubled by her question, and he gave it some thought. “Um, Libby Marston was closing up her shop, but the streets were pretty quiet.” He shrugged. “I'm sorry if I scared you, though,” he said. “Ro, especially after everything that's happened, why would you climb over the wall to get into the cemetery at night?”

“I didn't climb the wall. I went through the gate. It was open.”

He lowered his head, but she saw his brow arch skeptically before he did so. He didn't believe that the gate had been left open. They didn't like graveyard ghouls around here—people who thought it was cool to hang around with the dead at night.

This was just Adam, she told herself. Her good friend's husband, her own friend.

And now, with him standing there, the two of them chatting, cars passing in the background, pedestrians going by, the whole night felt surreal.

And yet, like the books at the museum, something to think about.

“Never mind,” she said. “I just thought I saw…someone.”

“In the graveyard? At night?”

“Why were you following me? Do you need something from me?” she asked. “Because you scared me.”

“I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry.”

He shook his head. “Ro, if you think you're being chased, running into a dark cemetery is not a good idea. Especially not when Mary Johnstone disappeared from that same cemetery.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. How could she possibly explain that she knew it had been a stupid thing to do, but she had been
chased
here, given nowhere else to go?

She would never be able to explain it. She didn't understand it herself.

“Whatever. Hey, I need to go meet Jeremy. Walk with me?” She hated the tremor in her voice as she asked, but she couldn't help it. She was spooked.

“Sure,” he told her.

“Wait—where's Eve?”

“At the store, unpacking a box of Thanksgiving stuff. Interested in a gravy ladle shaped like a Pilgrim?” When she shook her head and laughed, he added, “How about an Indian?”

“Just don't let her leave there alone, okay?” Rowenna said, suddenly sober.

“Don't worry. I won't. Now come on, I'll walk with you,” he said.

She was glad of his company. “So why were you following me?” she inquired as they headed toward the hotel.

“I'm worried about Eve,” he admitted.

“What?” she asked, shocked. Eve was worried about Adam, and now
he
was worried about
her?
“Why?”

“I don't know what's up with her lately. Just because I think Eric Rolfe's masks are incredible and thought we should carry books about Alistair Crowley and Satanism, she thinks I've become something evil. I don't understand her. Eve and I always shared our thoughts, talked about everything that interested us. And now…it's as if she's turned into a little old lady with a mind-set straight from the sixteen hundreds.” Adam frowned as he spoke, looking truly mystified. “She keeps on saying how worried she is about me.”

“Have you given her anything to worry about?”

“No,” Adam said firmly. “But all we do now is argue. And sometimes she looks at me as if I'm not a person anymore. The other night, when I touched her, she flinched. I don't know. I love my wife, I really do. I've loved her since we were kids.”