Sleeping Beauty



PRINCE CHARMING ON A HARLEY

There was a woman who lived in a rose-covered cottage. She was a woman soft of heart and warm in spirit, with hair the color of new honey and twilight-colored eyes—eyes that, often as not, held a look that hinted at gentle secrets and close-held dreams.

She had spent her whole life in the small town where she was born, sheltered and protected by her family beyond what was usual, for evil had once set a shadowed hand among them, and they lived with the fear of its return.

Out of love, they bound her close with ties of fear and guilt.

Out of love, she accepted the soft bonds, though they grew tighter with each passing year.

She stayed safe within the walls of the rose-covered cottage, dreaming dreams of faraway places, exotic lands she would never see, adventures she'd never have. And if—just now and then—she dreamed of a man with a heart strong enough to break through the loving ties that bound her, well, that was a secret best kept between her and her heart.

This was real life, after all, and no one knew better than she that life was not a fairy tale.

Neill Devlin had never believed in hell, at least not in the fire and tombstone, hot lava and damned souls sort of hell. It was a metaphor, the moral to a story, and he didn't believe in it any more than he believed in witches on broomsticks, fairies dancing on buttercups or happily-ever-after. He was holding firm on the last three, but it was obvious he'd been wrong about hell. It existed, all right, but it wasn't some dark netherworld, filled with molten lava and knife-edged rocks.

Hell was right here, in the middle of Indiana, in the middle of summer, in the middle of seemingly endless miles of cornfields, stranded on a dirt road halfway between nowhere-in-particular and somewhere-up-ahead, with the hot August sun beating down out of a cloudless, pale blue sky and only the lifeless hulk of a seventy-year-old motorcycle for company.

"Next time you get a bright idea for a vacation, Devlin," he muttered as he began pushing the bike down the road, "save yourself some trouble and just check into the nearest asylum for the terminally stupid.''

Under the current circumstances, it was hard to remember why this trip had seemed like such a good idea when he'd started out. In the last eight years, he'd written three bestselling nonfiction crime books. A month ago, he'd finished book number four, and both his editor and his agent assured him that this was his best work yet, sure to shoot straight to the top of the New York Times list He wished he could share their enthusiasm, but, after spending two years delving into the madness that had led a woman to kill her own children in the name of the Lord, he wasn't feeling particularly good about what he did for a living. He wasn't, in fact, feeling particularly good about the world in general.

The truth was, at thirty-five, after spending most of the last decade staring into the darkest comers of humanity's heart, he was burned out, wrung dry and in desperate need of a break.

He was also sick to death of Seattle's rain and its organic-food-eating, latte-drinking, grange-music-playing inhabitants. He wanted to go somewhere where he could order a cup of coffee without someone asking him if he wanted a half caf, double-cream foamy with a twist of lemon. He wanted to order a steak, pan fried, rare enough to moo when he stuck his fork into it, no authentic mesquite grill, no béarnaise butter, no arugula and macadamia nut salad on the side—just a slab of unadorned meat without so much as a sprig of parsley to distract from the cholesterol-laden glory of it And he didn't ever again want to hear anyone chirp with joy over the wonders of the Pacific Northwest. As far as he was concerned, the whole damned place could sink into the ocean. It was so waterlogged already that he doubted anyone would notice the difference.

His parents had retired to Florida—Ft. Lauderdale, where nothing but an occasional hurricane got between the inhabitants and the sun. Just thinking about it made him feel warmer. He'd been staring out the window of his rented condo, watching a gray, misty rain fall, when the idea came to him, and his first impulse was to pick up the phone and arrange for a flight. In twenty-four hours or less, he could be lying next to the pool, letting the Florida sun bake the Seattle chill from his bones.

Then again, he'd been working nonstop for the last three months, running short on sleep and living on instant coffee and take-out food. Images from the book still filled his mind and haunted his thoughts. Past experience told him that he needed some time to decompress, time to step away from the dark comers he made a living exploring.

If he went home now, his mother would take one look at the shadows in his eyes and start worrying and baking—her response to most of the world's ills. His father would immediately drag him into the garage-turned-woodworking-shop, hand him a hammer and put him to work on whatever his latest project happened to be. Brandon Devlin was a great believer in the therapeutic effects of physical labor. A few days of their unspoken concern and he would have gained ten pounds, have blisters on every finger and be starting to envy his friends who never spoke to their parents.

That was when the idea had come to him. Sitting in the condo's basement garage was the 1930 Indian motorcycle he'd bought six months ago and had barely had tune to look at since. A cross-country road trip. It was exactly what he needed—a few weeks on the road with nothing to do but admire the scenery and nothing to worry about except where to stop for the night. No one was expecting him anywhere, so he could take all the time he wanted. Hell, he could spend the next year on the road if the mood struck him. Maybe there was even a book in this, something different, something that didn't require him to delve into the dark heart of madness.

It had taken him less than a week to tie up the loose ends of his life in Seattle—turn the condo back to the rental company, pack up and store the handful of things he'd gathered over the last two years, and call the few people who might notice he was gone. Then, feeling like a cross between Easy Rider and Alexis de Tocqueville, he left the gray, Seattle drizzle behind, heading south and east in search of sunshine and the legendary sense of freedom and adventure that came with life on the road.

After three weeks, he'd come to the conclusion that life on the road was highly overrated. He'd seen a lot of beautiful country, but, after a week or so, one spectacular sunset started to look pretty much like the ones that had come before. It was only sheer stubbornness that had kept him from chucking the whole idea and driving straight to the nearest airport a week ago.

But this was the final straw. He'd had enough of living like a nomad. Enough of staying in motels with paper-thin walls and a stingy supply of hot water. Enough of "home-cooking'' that came straight from a can. His butt was numb, and his legs felt permanently bowed from straddling the bike. His shirt was sticking to the sweat on his back, and there was an ominous threat of a blister forming on his left heel. He was hungry, thirsty, and the damned bike was getting heavier with every passing minute. He wanted a cold drink, a hot shower, a meal that owed nothing to Chef Boyardee macaroni and a bed with a mattress younger than he was. The only way he was going to get a book out of this life experience was if he moved into the horror genre, he thought sourly.

A shallow breeze drifted past, a faint breath of air that drew a whispery rustle from the tall rows of com that lined both sides of the road. Speaking of horror, he was starting to feel like he was trapped in an old Twilight Zone episode—the one where Billy Mumy kept sending people to the cornfields.

"No wonder they were terrified," Neill muttered. "It must have been summer in Indiana."

The hiccuping whine of an engine broke the stillness, and he stopped, bracing the bike against his leg as he turned to look back down the road. He allowed himself a brief fantasy of Cindy Crawford pulling up in a stretch limo. She just happened to be on her way to the nearest airport and was dying to give a lift to a slightly-the-worse-for-wear writer. Then again, the battered red pickup that appeared through the cloud of dust didn't look half bad, either, especially since the driver slowed as soon as he saw Neill, brakes scraping in complaint as the truck halted next to him.

"Need a ride, mister?'' The face that peered at him across the tattered seat was lined by years and weathered by the sun. Faded blue eyes, a sharply hooked nose and a narrow mouth hidden beneath a scraggly band of salt-and-pepper whiskers with pretensions toward mustache-hood

"I'd appreciate one. Is there room for my bike in the back?" Hell, who needed Cindy Crawford? She probably couldn't even drive a truck.

"You know, if you'd buy a real car, you wouldn't have to spend half your life at David Freeman's garage and the other half earning enough money to pay for repairs to that heap of junk." Lisa Remington slowed her car and flicked on the tum signal, waiting until a feed truck went past before turning left across Signal Avenue into the gas station.