The Witch of Stonecliff (23 page)

“A few questions for his book,” Paskin told his wife; his eyes narrowed, but his smile never faltered. “I’ll take care of him, then be out to help. You know what needs done.”

“But—”

“Do what you’re told!” Paskin’s voice boomed like a thunderclap in the small room.

Dylis jolted and cast Kyle a sidelong glance before she nodded and scurried back the way she’d come. Kyle’s apprehension shot up another notch.

Paskin turned his attention back to Kyle. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”

“You blame Eleri for your son disappearing?”

“I blame her for his murder. Griffin’s body has been identified. He was one of the men pulled from the bog.”

Kyle’s blood ran cold. That couldn’t be true. They would have heard if the identities had been released to the public. Or would they? They had no contact with anyone in the village. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a newspaper. “When did you hear?”

“A few days ago.”

Eleri believed the man had gone to France, insisted he wasn’t one of the men to fall victim to whatever was happening at Stonecliff.

“Your son was romantically involved with Eleri?” A thin pang of irrational jealousy bore into his chest.

Paskin snorted. “I never understood it myself. So plain-faced. Still, she has a fit little body. Probably tight as hell.” His brows waggled. “Heh? Tight as she looks?”

Kyle’s hand fisted. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. There had to be something wrong with the man. They were discussing his murdered son, for God’s sakes.

“How do you imagine one small woman overpowered your son?”

Paskin shrugged and nodded to the glass on the coffee table. “Maybe she drugged him.”

Unease crawled up his back.

“When I was here two years ago, I spent my last night in your establishment. I left with a woman.”

“I remember. She robbed you and left you for dead, isn’t that right? You certainly have a type. Is it the thrill of being with a dangerous woman?”

“Do you remember her, the woman I left with?”

Paskin’s mouth twitched and he waved a hand dismissively. “Vaguely. I’d never seen her before, didn’t know who she was if that’s what you’re after. I told the police.”

“I know.” Kyle straightened and leaned forward. “I read your police interview, but you left something out.”

Paskin’s brows lifted. “I don’t believe I did.”

“You told police the last time you saw me was when I left the pub, but I have a witness who says you followed me out.”

“Is that all? I followed you out, but that woman was already behind the wheel of your car, and you were passed out. She said she was fine to drive and was taking you back to the inn.”

“So why not tell police?”

Paskin shrugged. “Given how it all turned out, I was worried there might be repercussions for letting her go with you. I didn’t want to put my business on the line. If I lose this place, I’ll starve.”

The woman could have driven to Stonecliff, delivered him to or even have been among the people who’d tried to kill him. He frowned. That didn’t make sense. Barber had told him he’d moved his car from the pub’s car park. So either his car hadn’t moved or someone drove it back.

Why would Paskin lie? His son had been killed by the same people.

“Sorry couldn’t be more help to ya, lad.” Paskin lifted his glass in a mock toast before tilting it to his lips. “I need to get back to the pub.”

Kyle didn’t join him. Instead, he stood. “I appreciate you speaking to me. I’ll leave a number where I can be reached if you think of anything else.”

Paskin shot him a tight smile, narrowed gaze tracking him. “You didn’t finish your drink.”

“I’m driving,” Kyle lied and started for the front door, Paskin following behind.

“There was one other thing,” the man said.

“What’s that?” Kyle started to turn, and Paskin’s fist slammed into his face like a sledgehammer. His nose crunched, sharp pain exploding in his face. Blood filled his nasal passages and dripped down the back of his throat, the metallic flavor thick on his tongue. He stumbled back into the wall and Paskin drove another hit into his gut, thrusting the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.

“You should’ve taken the drink,” Paskin said, and kicked Kyle’s feet out from under him. He landed hard on his side.

Fight back!
some small distant voice in the back of his head screamed.

Paskin squatted next to him. “Would have been just like before, painless—at least for now.”

Before? Paskin had drugged him?

Kyle fisted one hand and swung wide, landing a solid hit to the man’s ribs and knocking him sideways.

Paskin cursed and stood, glowering down at him. “A little fight left in you yet, eh? Well, we’ll take care of that.”

Paskin’s fist swung down again, and the world turned black.

* * *

Reece stared out the windscreen at the light spilling from The Iron Kettle’s windows, his stomach a knotted ball of ice. He should never have let Peirs go into the pub on his own.

Nearly an hour had passed. The sky darkened and still no sign of Kyle. Every minute that passed Reece’s unease ratcheted up another notch. What could be taking Peirs so long?

With a sigh, Reece got out of the car, crossed the car park and entered the pub. It was a slow night—a few regulars lining the L-shaped bar, a booth with an elderly couple, and three women still dressed in their office attire at a table near the hearth. Dylis Paskin’s head shot up from the lager she was pulling behind the bar, dark eyes narrowing.

“You’re not to come in here,” she said, pointing one chubby finger at him. Conversation ceased and all eyes shifted to him.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “His name is Kyle Peirs. He’s the writer letting Morehead Lodge.”

“He hasn’t been here.”

Her eyes shifted, just briefly, just enough to make his pulse pound. She was lying. Kyle had been here and they both knew it.

“He has,” Reece said, taking a step toward the woman, doing his best to ignore the slick nausea twisting his insides. “I’ve been waiting on him outside for nearly an hour. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s busy and hasn’t time to tell you the same thing I’m telling you now. So out with you.”

Like hell he’d leave. “I want to speak to your husband.”

Dylis shook her head, her frizzy dyed-black hair falling over her shoulders. “I told you he’s busy and won’t want anything to do with the likes of you. Now, get—”

“What’s all this noise about, then?” The man in question emerged through a door behind the bar. Paskin’s hard eyes narrowed. “You? You’re not welcome here.”

Reece glared at the man, fear and frustration bubbling inside him like a geyser on the verge of explosion.

“He’s looking for the man renting Morehead. I told him we haven’t seen him.”

“I saw him,” Paskin said, earning a sharp glance from his wife. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “About an hour ago. I told him to shove off, too.”

“He didn’t come in here or your flat?” Reece asked, blood pounding in his ears.

Paskin snorted and shook his head, straightening. “What do you think?”

If Paskin was telling the truth—and why wouldn’t he be?—Kyle had been MIA for nearly an hour.

Reece left the pub, cold evening air slapping at his face. He walked around to the rear of the building, hoping to find some trace of the other man. Nothing but the dark silent woods.

On a muttered curse, he started back to his car and fished out his mobile from his coat pocket. After dialing Brynn’s number he pressed his phone to his ear and waited.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hey. Are you guys almost back?”

Guys
not
you
. Whatever thin fissure of hope he’d had that Kyle had somehow returned to Morehead on his own vanished.

“Kyle’s not there?” he asked, anyway.

“No,” she said, slowly. “He’s with you.”

“What’s happened to Kyle?” He could hear Eleri’s panicked voice in the background. Knots tightening his gut squeezed harder.

Reece explained Kyle’s plan to speak to Paskin, and Paskin’s claim that he’d sent him away an hour ago. Brynn relayed everything to Eleri.

“I’ll come back to the house. We’ll call the police when I get there.”

Again he heard Eleri’s voice in the background, but it was too muffled for him to comprehend.

“Eleri thinks we should come to you and call the police from there.”

“What if he goes back to Morehead and no one’s there?”

He heard Eleri’s reply this time. “He’s not coming back. Not unless we find him.”

She was right. He knew it in his gut. Brynn said a quick goodbye and disconnected. He set his phone on the console and waited, staring at the darkened pub.

How in the hell had he missed Kyle leaving, or someone taking him for that matter? He’d been sitting there the entire time. Had someone been waiting in the woods?

“Shit,” he whispered, dragging his fingers through his hair. There had to have been
someone
who saw
something
.

The ghost girl he’d seen when Kyle had first gone around the side of the house. The white lady.

White ladies are bad omens
.

Reece popped open the car door and climbed out, dropping guards carefully. The last thing he needed was every spirit in Cragera Bay sensing him and coming forward. The minute his blocks dropped, he spotted the woman still standing by the door.

She watched him approach, eyes dark and fathomless, expression grim.

“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked, as he drew nearer.

She flinched slightly, as though the sound of his voice had startled her. Her knotted blonde hair fell past skinny shoulders, and she peered out at him between the lank strands with pale colored eyes—maybe blue. In life, she’d probably been pretty, but in death she was a fading specter.

“Too late.” Her voice creaked like a rusted hinge.

Reece’s gut pulled tight. “Why? Where is he?”

“The round room.” She spoke the last two words on a trembling whisper.

The dread gripping Reece’s chest squeezed tighter, turning his breathing short and shallow. “What is that?”

“Pain,” she whispered, again. “Once you go in, you never come out. Not until he’s done with you.”

“Where is the round room?”

“It’s so dark.” She held out her hand, slender finger shaking badly. “I can only feel the rough, stone walls. They curve. It’s always dark until he comes, but the light is only what he wants to see. It hurts so bad.” Her voice turned high and reedy. A shudder gripped her, and when she spoke next her voice had calmed. “It’s better when it’s dark.”

She wasn’t making sense. She was his best hope for figuring out what happened to Kyle, so he had to make her coherent. “Is the round room here? Somewhere nearby?”

“He didn’t go when he took us the last time. Just me. They needed him right away, and I was the prize. This time, he’s gone to the round room.”

“Kyle?”

She nodded, eyes wide and glassy. Peirs had said he’d been with a woman the night he’d nearly been killed. She must have been murdered, too, and likely by the same culprit.

“Who took you?”

She glanced surreptitiously at the door behind Kyle. “I was his prize for a successful harvest. They let him keep me until he was done.”

“Stephen Paskin?” He asked. “He took you? He has Kyle?”

She shuddered and nodded.

Chapter Eighteen

Reece turned to the door leading into the pub. He wanted to storm in, grab Paskin by the throat and squeeze until he told Reece where he’d taken Kyle. Where the round room was.

He turned to the girl. “Is the room here? In the pub?”

“He takes them where no one can hear. I try to warn people what he is, what he does, but no one listens.” Her brow furrowed and her eyes cleared a little. “Just you.”

Of course, she stayed to warn others. She was a white lady.
White ladies are bad omens
.

“You don’t have to stay. You can cross over.”

She seemed to consider his words. “He’ll keep taking people. Some for harvest, some for himself.”

“What’s harvest?”

“I don’t know,” she told him, voice lowering to a whisper. “I was his prize.”

He opened his mouth to ask her more, but the door behind him opened and the couple he’d seen earlier stepped out.

Careful to avoid eye contact, the woman drew closer to her husband, while the man frowned at Reece.

“Alright?” the man asked, his perplexed gaze never wavering as if trying to guess just what Reece was doing loitering outside the pub door. Maybe he’d even caught some of Reece’s one-sided conversation. Probably had, if the wife’s refusal to glance his way was any indication.

“Fine, yeah,” Reece muttered, ducking his head.

The wife hurried to their car, but the husband dragged his feet, glancing back at Reece over his shoulder.

Yeah, yeah. Freak. Weirdo. Just get in your car and go
. Reece jammed his hands into his pockets. Once their car turned onto the road, he shifted his attention to the dead woman.

“They can’t see me,” she said. “Just you. He wouldn’t want them anyway. They’re too old. The harvest must be strong, and his prize pretty. I used to be pretty.”

“Cross over,” he said, with more urgency this time. God knew what she’d suffered through in the last days of her life. She should at least have peace in death.

She shook her head. “I have to warn people to stay away.”

“No one sees you, anyway.”

“You did.”

For all the good it did him. Kyle was gone. If Reece had spoken to her when he’d first seen her, he might have been able to stop this.

The white glow from a car’s headlamps lit up the trees on the far side of the road just before Eleri’s car pulled into the car park. Reece glanced at the spirit beside him. Convincing her to move on wasn’t going to happen tonight. Not while Stephen Paskin was inside holding court.

“I have to go now,” he said. “Thank you.”

She stared ahead, watching Eleri’s car pull up next to his. “I’m glad you heard me.”

He jogged over to meet the women as they got out of the car. His gaze snagged on Brynn and his heart swelled until his chest felt tight. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “No more splitting up.”