Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (17 page)

She looked at the ground.
Am I?

We stopped. Nothing to be sorry for.

Was that true? Would Baldwin feel that way if he knew? The thought of him, his disappointment in her—another person disappointed in her—stabbed her heart.
He will never know, Taylor. You will not hurt him like that. This is between you and Memphis.

They were at the bottom of the path now, and the snow was picking up. Memphis borrowed the key from Taylor, let them out and locked the gate behind them. The castle lights were dimmed, only a few private quarters lit up. Saving electricity, Taylor supposed. They both stopped and looked at it, so forlorn, so alone, so stoic. Just like the family contained inside.

Memphis broke the spell. “You’re just not the kind of woman people get over easily,” he said, shrugging. “So, let’s see what Cook has prepared for dinner.”

Dear Sam,

I am a fool.

I know what you’re thinking. I can hear you in my head right now, giving me what for. And I’ve always been able to count on you for sound advice.

Memphis kissed me today, on Dulsie Bridge. It’s part of his family lands. Beautiful place. I can’t say that it took me by surprise. We’ve been dancing around the attraction for a while now.

Sam, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I don’t love him. Not in the way he wants me to. Or needs me to. That’s the thing, he needs me, so much. It’s so different from Baldwin. Baldwin has never needed me. He adores me—that I have no doubt about. But if something happened to me, he could go on, and be happy with another woman.

Memphis has already experienced that loss. And I know I’m just a substitute for Evan. But when he kissed me, I felt something I’d never felt before. And I don’t know what to make of it.

Write me back. Say something wise.

Love,

Taylor

Baldwin liked Sir Nigel. He was down-to-earth, pragmatic, and not a bit of help.

“I checked all of our files. We don’t have a record of ever using Julius, anywhere. Granted, that’s not much of a surprise. These kind of men are best left off paper.”

“Isn’t that the truth. Well, I appreciate your help.”

“There is someone who might know, though. I’ve got a call in to him. As soon as I hear back, I’ll ring.”

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Certainly. Till then.”

Julius. Where the hell are you, man?

Atlantic insisted Julius had simply gone off the reservation, but Baldwin wasn’t so sure. Julius had always been so reluctant. Terribly good at his job, a world-class sniper, but with a code. He wasn’t like many of the guns for hire. Julius was a thinking man’s assassin. Baldwin actually liked the man.

If anything, Julius had decided enough was enough and had dropped off the grid because he was tired of the job. He’d done this before. Baldwin had talked him into coming back.

That time, he’d tracked him to a cozy hidey-hole in Amsterdam, but so far he hadn’t shown up there.

Baldwin closed his laptop and sat back in the chair. The house was too quiet without Taylor. He missed her. God, he missed her.

If he found Julius, he was going to have to go talk him off the ledge and bring him back home, make sure he wasn’t going to lose his edge. But all he really wanted to do was catch the next plane to Edinburgh.

The texts had arrived in the middle of the night, polite and noncommittal. And he, not wanting to look like he was desperately awaiting word, had waited to respond. He got out his BlackBerry and read them again.

Tried to imagine where she was right now, what she was doing. What ridiculously charming event Memphis had planned for her.

He was being petty. He knew Taylor wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their relationship. He understood her desire to get away. Hell, if it had been him, he’d have collapsed long ago. She’d find her way back to him. Didn’t they always say that if you loved someone to set them free?

The phone rang. He hoped to see the 615 area code, but no luck. It was Ainsley again.

He answered on the second ring.

“That was fast.”

Ainsley didn’t waste any time. “He went to Argentina.”

“Are you kidding? What’s in Argentina?”

“Wine and alpacas. Probably a woman, too. Who knows why they choose these places. I’ll send you the specifics. With any luck, you’ll catch up to him.”

“With any luck. Thank you, again. I appreciate the information.”

“Be well, Dr. Baldwin.”

“And you.”

He hung up the phone.
Fuck. Argentina? Julius, you asshole.

His email dinged. The information from Ainsley. He read it, forwarded it to Atlantic.

The reply came back almost immediately.

Just received the same information. He’s not there anymore. We got a hit on one of his identities. He took a flight from Buenos Aires to Amsterdam last night. Hope your passport’s ready.

Perfect. Amsterdam he could handle. It would get him closer to Taylor, anyway.

Atlantic’s people would arrange his flights. With any luck, he could be in Europe by nightfall. He’d be met by someone from Angelmaker; they’d grab up Julius and he’d be finished before Christmas.

Then he could get his focus back. On his missing son. On Taylor.

He banged out a text before he went to pack.

Taylor, that’s good news. I’m glad your meeting went so well. I am leaving shortly for the airport. I’ll do my best to be in touch, but if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry. I’ll call as soon as I can. Be good. I love you.

He just hoped she’d be willing to have him when he got back.

Dinner was another elegant affair. Taylor knew she was going to gain at least five pounds on this trip if she didn’t watch it. Memphis was cheerful, vigilantly avoiding talk of their indiscretions on the bridge. Instead he regaled her with talk of his escapades as a young boy, of his brother’s wine-making venture in South Africa, and Jacobite lore. She was thoroughly entertained.

After dinner, she loaded up on meds and explored the castle with him. He showed her all the little bits and pieces that strangers paid hard-earned cash to see. He told stories in each room as if he were a tour director. She was relieved when they visited the billiards room, at last. It turned out the room was only three doors down the hall from her bedroom, so she would be able to sneak in to play a game here and there if she got bored or couldn’t sleep.

There were two snooker tables and one for regular pool. The table was grand, traditional green baize, heavy wooden lion legs, the pockets made of excellent well-broken-in leather. They assembled their cues, flipped a coin, and Memphis won. Ever the gentleman, he ceded his turn to Taylor, who, feeling frisky, ran the table.

The next game, Memphis got serious. He was a competitive man by nature, and Taylor wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge. They began laying bets, a pound a game. They played late into the night, the score moving back and forth, until Taylor got on a major roll and won seven pounds off him. Not a bad night’s work.

The pallor from earlier in the day was lifted. When Taylor finally excused herself to head to bed, Memphis didn’t fight it. He walked her to the door again, gave her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. He told her to call him if she needed anything, and to meet him in the dining room for breakfast at eight.

He lingered a moment.

“Do you want me to come in?” he finally asked.

Did she? Her body said yes, her mind said absolutely not. Her heart, well, she was learning to ignore the bitch.

Memphis. I think what happened this afternoon shouldn’t happen again.

He was quiet for a minute. “Whatever you want, Taylor. I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Good night, then.”

He headed off down the hall without looking back.

Great. Now he was pissed at her.

But it was better this way. With him gone, she could focus on the real reason she was here—getting back to normal. She was tired of feeling vulnerable. It wasn’t in her nature.

Her room was warmed by a fire, the flames dancing merrily, casting shadows on the walls. There was a tape next to the player with handwriting on it—Maddee’s biofeedback lessons. Taylor just wasn’t in the mood. She didn’t want to work right now. She wanted to forget. She wanted to disappear.

She noticed a new decanter on her bar, this one filled with a ruby-red liquid. She went to the bar, pulled the stopper out and sniffed, delighted to find the vintage port from last night. Thoughtful man. She poured herself a glass and sat in the chair opposite the fire.

She wondered how Baldwin was faring, wondered why he hadn’t called her back. She knew he was busy, that that bastard Atlantic would have him jumping through hoops on some top-secret project. She thought that maybe hearing his voice would help her center, get her grounded again. She grabbed her phone from her purse and saw the text. He’d be gone by now. She called anyway. Got his voice mail. It was better than nothing, but it didn’t help. Damn.

The port was warm and delicious. She finished the first glass and started in on another. Her head was still hurting, so she set the drink aside and took all her medicine, including the melatonin Maddee had given her.

She sat at her computer and saw Sam had written her back. She didn’t want to deal with that, either, but she sucked it up. Like tearing off a Band-Aid, it was better to get the worst over as quickly as possible.

She opened the email.

Dear Taylor,

Yes, you are a total fool. I told you this would happen.

I don’t know what to say about the kiss. You’re a big girl, and you’ll make the right decision.

But there is something I want to make sure you know.

Dulsie Bridge was the place where Evan died. Did he tell you that while he was kissing you? Did he tell you his wife plunged to her death over the side of that same bridge as he was making a move on you?

I know you haven’t spent a lot of time looking into Memphis’s background, so I’ve done it for you. Here’s a few links to the story, so you can see for yourself. Make sure you read all the way through them, honey. He is not the knight in shining armor he makes himself out to be.

I can’t tell you what to do, but if I were in your shoes, I’d make sure he stayed very far away.

Take care, Taylor. You don’t want to ruin everything you’ve fought so hard to get.

Love,

Sam

“Son of a bitch,” Taylor said without thinking about it. Her voice sounded foreign, thick and deep, her usual huskiness masked by disuse.

“Shit.”

Okay then. Cursing was good. Could she do any more?

“Memphis, what were you thinking?”

She breathed in deeply, a huge sigh of relief. She wasn’t completely broken. A little drunk, a little stoned, and terribly distraught, but not broken. Not anymore. Maddee and her hypnosis had proven that. And now Taylor had proven it to herself.

Finally.

Memphis
had
promised to heal her.

She shoved that thought away and clicked on the first link Sam had sent. It was a newspaper article, in the
Scotsman,
from December of 2008. She read it quickly, her stomach roiling.

Sam was right. Evan had died at Dulsie Bridge.

Oh, God. He’d been kissing her where his wife died?

Jesus. Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick. What the hell was all that, then? What sort of strange compulsion had led him to take her to the very spot his wife died to try and kick-start their relationship?

Taylor hit Delete, then went into her trash folder and deleted the past two emails from Sam.

She didn’t want to know any more.

No wonder he’d gotten quiet as they left the bridge. He was thinking about Evan.

Taylor recognized a long dormant feeling springing up in her chest. For God’s sake. She was jealous. Jealous of a dead woman.

Memphis leaving was definitely the best thing. This little crush would be extinguished and she could go back to focusing on her health.

She tried to read a little bit more, but she couldn’t pay attention to the story anyway. Not after Sam’s little bombshell. And her eyes were crossing. She was amazed at how quickly she’d gotten tired. It had been a long, emotional, weird day. She decided to chuck it all and start fresh in the morning. Ten minutes later, brushed and washed, she collapsed in the bed, lids heavy. The wonderfully unfamiliar sense of being tired and able to sleep carried her off quickly.

She was in a car, the engine revving as she took the hairpin curves faster and faster. Away. She just needed to get away.

The bridge was up ahead. She swung the car to a stop. Memphis stood on the stone wall, beckoning to her. He smiled, and she smiled back. Went to him. He took her in his arms, kissed her deeply.

“Evan. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

With a deep laugh, he hurled her over the edge.

The water was so cold. It rushed over her lap. She couldn’t feel her legs. The water was rising, rising. Her chest was underwater now, then her jaw. She was drowning. As the water streamed over her head, she screamed.

It was half past two when she jerked awake, bladder full and insistent. The fire had died down and the air in the room was chilled. The floor was freezing on her bare feet. She went to the bathroom, cursing not sleeping in socks. She hurried back to the bed, gathered the blankets to her chin, then snaked a hand out into the cold air to turn on the electric warmer.

She lay quietly, listening to the house creak and moan around her. There was something about the place after nightfall that was disconcerting. It was like being the only guest in a very large hotel, and the entire staff has gone home for the evening. There were unfamiliar noises, and what sounded like footsteps in the hall that she could only imagine was one of the servants creeping around. Maybe she needed to back off the Percocets? The dreams were getting crazier and crazier.

She turned and faced the window, and let her eyes close. She still felt tired. Sleep might come back to her.

She was thinking about the bridge, about Evan going through the windshield, imagining what Memphis would have done if she hadn’t stopped him, and why in the world he’d take her to the spot his wife died and not share that information, when she felt something touch her back.

She jumped straight out of the side of the bed closest to the window, whirled back around to see who was there. The room was empty, the air black and thick. She reached for the lamp, clicked the light. It didn’t come on. The bulb must have blown. She inched back toward the window, hoping to pull open the drapes and let some light spill in from the outside. She got a hand on the thick velvet and started to pull it aside when the light by the bed turned on with a crack.

The bulb lit up the room. It was empty. And here she was, crouched against the window, looking like a complete fool. She was letting the ghost stories get too far in her head.

She marched back to the bed, took the cord of the offending lamp in hand, and clicked the button. The light extinguished. She clicked it again and it came on. Obviously there was a short in the cord somewhere; that’s why it hadn’t turned on immediately. Or the bulb itself was affected by the temperature, needed to warm up before illuminating.

She felt like a right idiot. She went to the fire and stirred it, put on another couple of logs so it would heat the room again. Then she climbed back into the bed and turned off the light.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, watching the light from the fire tango through the shadows. The furniture felt like it was moving. She wished Memphis would come and lie next to her. She’d slept better with him near. It wasn’t like her to be nervous in strange places. She had to admit, it would be nice to have a warm body next to her.

She was just starting to drift back to sleep when she felt the feathery light touch, cold as ice, on her forehead. Right on the healing bullet wound. Her eyes flew open and she tried to move, to get out of the bed, to turn on the light—something, anything—but she was stuck, arms at her sides as if bound there. She couldn’t raise her head, couldn’t turn it. Something was on her chest—a weight holding her down. She started to scream, fought to rise, and the thing put its arms around her and hugged. She felt the cold tendrils shimmying up and down her back.

She screamed again, her cries echoing through the room, and felt an answering laugh. She stopped, and the hold around her body loosened.

I’m dreaming. I’m having another nightmare. I’m asleep. I do not believe in ghosts. Go away
.

She felt the nimble touch again, more familiar this time, then it stopped and she was able to breathe and then sit up. She turned on the light, hands at her throat, gasping for air. Her heart was pounding out of control. What in the hell had just happened?

You had a bad dream. Get up, get a book—not a ghost story, fool—and get your mind off of it
.

She couldn’t believe she was nervous about getting out of the bed again. There was no safety within; she’d already proven that. Should she ring the bell? Call Memphis and have him come sit with her? She didn’t want to be alone.

She heard footsteps in the hall again. Okay. She was tired of this. She pulled her sweater on and went to the door, flung it open.

Trixie was standing in the corridor, four feet from the door. She was slightly turned away, like she was about to leave.

“All right, mum?” she asked, eyes full of concern. Fake concern, Taylor knew. Trixie had no love for her.

“I’m fine,” Taylor answered, her voice barely above a whisper, but working.

“Forgive me, mum. I heard you screaming fit to wake the dead. I came to see if you were sick.”

Great. If she’d awakened the servants, had Memphis heard too? He’d come to her last night after she’d cried out, but not tonight. She didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Is Memphis awake?”

“I don’t rightly know, mum. Shall I fetch himself to you?”

“No, no. There’s no reason to bother him.”

“Aye. I have some tea for you, should you be needing it. Will help you sleep.”

Over Trixie’s shoulder, Taylor saw the tray on a linen-covered rolling cart. It was a singularly kind gesture on the older woman’s part. Maybe Memphis was right. Once she saw Taylor wasn’t going to try and take Evan’s place, she’d warm up.

“Thank you.”

Trixie brought the tray in, got the tea arranged and poured. “’Tis chamomile, from the gardens. Will knock out a horse if needs be. Drink up your cuppa, and you’ll have nae more bad dreams t’night.”

Taylor sat in the chair and put the porcelain to her lips. The tea was very hot. She blew on it and took a tiny sip, then set the cup in its saucer.

“Trixie?”

“Yes, mum?”

“You were Memphis’s nurse when he was growing up, right?”

“Aye, mum.”

“So you’ve been in the castle for many years.”

“Aye. Seen it all from this lot. Drink your tea now, that’s good.”

Taylor took another sip, surprised at how relaxed she felt. The tea was good. She didn’t normally care for chamomile, but this one was lightly sweetened and went down easily.

“Trixie, have you ever seen a ghost in the castle?”

The housekeeper laid a finger on her mouth for a moment, then answered with a nod. “Och, aye. The castle’s full of ’em. Is that what happened then, one of the wee beasties came to visit? Can put you right off your sleep, they can.” Her voice had softened. Taylor could see that she might make a good nursemaid to the children after all.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Taylor said.

“Of course you don’t. You’re American. Lacking in imagination.” She said it without rancor, just a statement of fact. “We Scots are surrounded, always have been. We know there’s more to life than work and death. Our people stay with us, guide us through, so we don’t make too much of a hash of things. Now, you must be feeling better. Get yourself into bed and get back to sleep.”

“Let’s not mention this to Memphis, all right?”

“No, dear. I won’t breathe a word.”

Taylor allowed herself to be talked to like a small child and, ushered back into the bedroom. She, climbed into the bed. But after Trixie left, she went to the door and double locked it, tilting a chair against the handle. No one would be able to get in without making a racket and waking her.

She went to the window, looked out onto the blackened landscape. The snow had stopped. Quiet as death, the night outside. She started to turn away but saw a light, off in the distance. Bobbing, as if someone were walking with a flashlight.

She extinguished her lights so her silhouette wouldn’t be seen against the window and watched. The light grew closer, and she recognized the powerful beam of a Maglite. The shape of the figure came into view as it passed beneath the huge Douglas fir trees. A man. It was Memphis. What was he doing, out wandering around in the middle of the cold, dark night?

He looked up at her window then. She pulled back a bit—there was no way he could see her, it was dark in the room except for the firelight, and she was back far enough away from the window as to be out of the line of sight, but he watched for a few minutes. She watched him back, wondering what in the world he was up to.

He finally turned away, toward the doors of the castle. She let the curtain fall across the sash and crept back to her bed. She was feeling strange. Hot. Dizzy. Yes, she’d definitely taken too many pain pills today.

She lay down, her body tired but her mind whirling. Memphis was up and about. Could he have gotten into her room? Could he have been the one touching her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her down, and she was simply so groggy from sleep and medicine as to not recognize it was him? The housekeeper had been lurking right outside her door. Had she been aware of her master’s intent?

A chill went down her body. Surely not. She was being ridiculous. Her imagination was getting away with her.

Just in case, she checked herself for wetness or telltale soreness. She felt nothing unusual, then felt insane for even entertaining the thought. As if Memphis would drug her, then sneak into her room and force her to have sex? That was ludicrous.

Wasn’t it?