Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (14 page)

Taylor looked at the older woman. Her voice was so steady with conviction, so sure, it was difficult not to believe, just a little, that it was possible.

She paced the room, trying to figure out what she should do. Small-town oddities and crime had been what she’d come up here to write about, but she hadn’t expected to find anything this awful. So many dead people, all because of some shitty men no one had bothered to stop. If they’d really done it, killed the Coulsons because of some horrifying fixation of Nick’s…Taylor couldn’t feel that sorry for them. She knew firsthand how cruel they could be. That they’d gotten worse by going unchecked shouldn’t be that surprising.

Still, it was awful. Taylor wasn’t some hard-nosed reporter, and she’d grown up here. She might not have known the couple, but what had happened to them was incredibly unfair and wrong. The bell dinged in her head; something about Nick, something she’d seen back in high school. She just couldn’t keep a hold on it.

And now someone was trying to keep her from finding out what had happened, and someone else was framing Anton for murder. Great. If things got any more weird and complicated, it would be like a soap opera, but one of the weird ones where suddenly demons and ghosts show up.

Ghosts. Was she seriously considering the Rider? Was she actually thinking it might be more than just a story people told their kids to keep them from going out at night and having premarital sex? If it was, she was already screwed and definitely wouldn’t be one of those last girls standing. Not after the night she’d had with Anton.

Anton. Stuck in a cell, surrounded by the friends and colleagues of a bunch of possibly murderous thugs. She had to get him out of there. And fast.

“Susan, would you keep an eye on the place for me? Make sure no one comes snooping around? If someone is following me, they might come here,” Taylor said.

“Of course, honey. I’ll set up across the street. I even got a fancy new phone from my nephew, takes pretty good pics even from a distance.” Susan smiled.

“Be careful. If this is all connected, this person if very dangerous,” Taylor warned.

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m just an old lady. No one ever worries about us,” she said. “I’m more worried about you. What are you going to do now?”

“I think I need to talk to the experts,” Taylor answered with a grin.

“You tell those other old biddies I said hi. And be careful.”

They hugged and left, Taylor locking up and looking at the house one more time. Susan waved and went back to her own place, keeping a careful eye out as she crossed the road and walked inside.

It was the last time Taylor would see her old home the way it was.

“Would you like more scones?” Mabel asked, holding out a little silver tray to Taylor. She happily took another cherry and sipped her tea, a delicious oolong if she wasn’t mistaken. They’d been chatting for a while, mostly things Taylor already knew about the legend and the Rider. Which was a little disappointing.

Across from her sat Mabel, Annalisse, and Dot, the other Riderites. Susan was a sometimes member, not quite as obsessed as the others. Which had included her grams. All of these women were well over seventy, looked well maintained, and had bright, curious eyes that practically brimmed with life. Grams had been the oldest, and they had carried on her tradition of having meetings over a truly gorgeous afternoon tea spread.

She sipped at her cup, a fine white china with blue blossoms, and savored it. She hadn’t had time for a real teatime in ages. She’d forgotten how comforting they could be.

“…so really, the Rider is like an avenging angel. Righting wrongs when no one else will,” said Annalisse, a tiny woman with a light, almost childlike voice. She had snowy white hair up in a bun and looked like the picture version of a grandmother from old stories. She also loved the gory details involved in every Rider-related death with a degree of relish that was a little frightening.

“By cutting heads off. Seems a little extreme,” said Taylor.

“Perhaps. But the Rider is from an older time, when justice was swift and brutal,” said Mabel.

Annalisse nodded. “She didn’t have a choice, did she?” she asked. Taylor looked up sharply.

“She? You think the Rider is a woman?” she asked. That was new. Every story assumed the Rider was male.

“We do. Very probably the daughter of Montgomery Pinkerton. Her name was Mary Ellen,” said Annalisse.

“Wait, Pinkerton? As in THE Pinkertons?” Taylor was riveted.

“A cousin, we think. Not connected with the family in that way, but still carried the name,” Mabel said.

“But the Pinkertons didn’t get to the States until the mid-1800s. And that was the Midwest,” said Taylor.

“Well, that Pinkerton did. It’s not that uncommon a name elsewhere. And he settled here before the Revolutionary War by a good twenty years,” Annalisse said, sipping her own tea and nibbling on a ginger cookie.

“Hm,” said Taylor, not entirely convinced. Still, this was the most interesting information she’d heard in a while. Certainly quite different from the standard narrative of the legend. “So why would Mary Ellen be the Rider? Doesn’t seem like a very womanly thing to do, setting people on fire, lopping heads off.”

“She was killed for being a witch,” Dot said  softly.

“Wait, what? There’s no record of witch trials around here,” Taylor said.

“Well, it wasn’t much of a ‘trial.’ And you know Sweethollow. The town expunged what records there were. Only a few accounts remain from local diaries they didn’t get. We keep them locked up,” Mabel said.

“Oh,” said Taylor, feeling like she didn’t know the town she’d grown up in at all.

“It was a mob. A lot of people had been getting ill, a few people died, and they became convinced it was witchcraft. It was probably actually the water and sanitation, but they didn’t know that. So they beat her, tortured her with water, and then eventually set her on fire and took off her head,” Dot said. It was the most words Taylor had ever heard her put together. Figured it was about something so horrific.

“But why Mary Ellen?” Taylor asked.

“She was young, a midwife, and made her own herbal remedies. And she was unmarried and apparently refused several suitors. Pretty much the exact recipe to be considered a witch when things went bad,” Mabel said.

Taylor sighed, feeling angry. Being an outcast could have serious consequences. Taylor suddenly felt lucky she’d gotten out unscathed. In another time, she might have been like Mary Ellen.

“Okay, that’s all horrible. But it doesn’t mean she turned into a ghost rider,” Taylor said, trying to cling to reality.

“Well, except that she was a rider for the local militia and a secret spy against the British, too,” said Dot. Taylor stared.

“What?” Taylor felt like she’d just stepped into some TV show plot that was half soap opera, half supernatural alterna-history. Things were starting to feel decidedly unreal.

“Even though it all happened before the war, Mary Ellen was a staunch believer in the rights of the settlers here. So she did what she could to undermine British rule even before the war. She was only eighteen when she died,” Dot said.

“Wow. But why not her father? Wouldn’t he want revenge for his daughter’s murder?” Taylor asked.

“He left the area after she died and was not a rider himself, just an apple farmer. She fits better. And doesn’t it just subvert the expected in such a romantic way?” Annalisse laughed.

“Well, yes, but we’re still talking about a ghost. That’s just not possible,” Taylor said.

“You get to our age and you find a lot of things seem more possible. Plus, we’ve all seen her,” Mabel said. Taylor blinked. She knew Grams had, but she’d always assumed the rest of the Riderites just liked a good story.

“Wait, all of you?”

“Of course! Mostly when we were younger. She never hurt any of us,” said Dot, voice wistful.

“I don’t know what to say,” Taylor said, trying to process it all. She didn’t want to call them liars; they clearly believed they’d really seen the Rider. And if it was a real person, they couldn’t have seen the person currently masquerading as it when they were young. Taylor felt more confused than ever.

“It’s a lot to take in, dear,” said Mabel, patting her hand from across the table.

“I just don’t know what it has to do with the Coulsons or the Saints. I don’t know why the Rider would be involved in any of it. Unless someone is using the Rider to cover up murder,” Taylor said with a sigh.

“Oh, that’s easy, honey. The current murders are done by a man. Just like those poor girls back when you were young. The Rider would never do that. Someone within the Saints is doing them. If it was the real Rider, she wouldn’t be mucking about like whoever is doing these. Cruel person, whoever it is,” Dot said.

“But the Rider cuts off people’s heads!” Taylor exclaimed.

“Yes, but it’s quick and clean. No horrible fires. No drama or torture. And she doesn’t frame anyone else,” Annalisse said.

“True. And she has a calling card.” Dot nodded.

“She does? Grams never said that.” Taylor was looking between all of them as they looked at each other. “I never heard that before.”

“Well, it’s not widely known. We’ve kept it to ourselves. Your grams said it was important that people not know all the details. So we could weed out the pretenders from those truly dedicated to the legend,” Mabel said.

Taylor had to smile; it was exactly the kind of thing Grams would do. She was a little hurt her grandmother hadn’t shared it with her, but she understood. Taylor had never shown the same interest in the legend, and Grams took it all very seriously. God, she missed that woman.

“Can you tell me what it is? It could help me figure this out. A lot,” Taylor pleaded. “A…friend of mine is being accused of these recent killings. Anything you know could help him,” she said.

“For you, dear, but don’t go telling the wrong people,” said Mabel, very serious.

“I won’t. I promise. On Grams’ name,” she said.

“She leaves something white at the scene. A flower, a piece of cloth, but she always leaves something. If there’s nothing white, it wasn’t the real Rider,” Dot said with a definitive nod. Taylor started at that, remembering the starlike flower in the cemetery by the bust of the girl with only the name Mary on it. Something clicked. Finally. But she had to be sure.

Taylor thought about what Powell had said about the Saints; he hadn’t mentioned anything white being found at that first scene. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. And in any case, a bunch of white items could just be a coincidence. She wasn’t sure how she could get access to information from the other scenes, but she had a feeling there wasn’t anything white at them.

She had a pretty good feeling she knew what had happened now, and who was behind it. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but she knew why. And she knew why he was after her.

Anton sat in a cell, the only person in the small jail, and wondered how they were going to pin this on him. He’d spent a really uncomfortable night on a cot, and his ribs ached from where he’d been hit. He was also really worried about Taylor. She was alone out there, probably concerned about him, with some crazy person who’d tried to wreck her car. It was infuriating to be stuck in here.

He kept still, not wanting any of the officers to see him pace or look nervous in any way. He knew he was innocent, but it wasn’t like anyone was going to believe him. Better to wait for his public defender and keep his mouth shut.

Of course, they could keep him for twenty-four hours if they had probable cause. Or at least pretended they did. It wasn’t like anyone in town was going to rush his case or look that close until they had to. He could end up rotting in here for days.

He ground his teeth, trying to figure a way out of it faster. If they really thought he was a cop killer, he could end up dead before he even got to a hearing. He had to get to Taylor. Protect her before something happened. Everything was just getting worse.

He was just trying to figure out if he could escape somehow—maybe when they came to check on him—when Officer Nate Powell came in. He walked over to Anton’s cell and opened it.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Anton said, sitting up.

“Let’s go. The cameras are on a slight delay, but it won’t last. And you need to get out of here before either an arraignment where they’ll probably make sure you can’t post bail, or someone beats you to death,” Powell said. Anton stepped out, staring at Powell.

“Why?” he asked. The cop shrugged.

“Because the guys gunning for you are a bunch of thugs, and I know you didn’t do this,” said Powell.

“That’s nice, but this could cost you your career. And you don’t know I’m innocent,” Anton said, not sure why he wasn’t just running.

“I do, actually, I just can’t do anything about it. But your girlfriend might. But it won’t happen if you’re stuck in here. You won’t make it out. And you did something for me back in high school, so I owe you,” Powell said, not looking at him.

“I did?” Anton was confused. He couldn’t think of what that could be.

“Yeah. You kept the Saints from really hurting me once. Probably didn’t register to you, but they might have done serious damage, even killed me, if you hadn’t stepped in. So let’s get going before we get caught,” Powell said, leading the way.

He took Anton down a hall and out the back. He pointed towards Nedry Avenue.

“Take that and the other backstreets until you get to Rose Lane. I left Taylor a message. Don’t let anyone see you,” he said, handing Anton his jacket.

“Thank you, Nate,” Anton said.

“Yeah, yeah. Now get the hell out of here. And be careful. I don’t like where all of this is headed at all,” he said before turning away and heading back into the precinct.

Anton hoped he’d be okay, though it seemed like Powell was smart enough to cover his own ass. He really didn’t remember what he’d done to warrant this kind of help, but he was grateful.

Still, he had a lot of questions now. Like what the hell Taylor was working on and why Sweethollow seemed to have suddenly lost its damn mind.