Midnight Exposure (9 page)

Hugh didn’t hesitate. “OK, then. Let’s start looking.”

“Scott and I will walk from here to the bookstore. See if we can find any sign of her.”

The chief turned toward his car. “I’ll get Doug and a few other people to start driving around town, checking anywhere she could have stopped. There aren’t that many places open.”

Reed led the way, walking slowly and scanning the ground in front of him. He hadn’t gone fifty feet when he saw it. Tucked behind the hedge at the beginning of the path, a Styrofoam cup lay on its side in a puddle of frozen chocolate. His throat
constricted as he moved closer and bent down. The beam of his flashlight illuminated a bookstore bag farther under the shrubs.

Everything that had been whirling inside him collided in a dizzying sense of déjá vu. Loss lodged deep in his chest and spread in an empty ache. It took three long breaths of frigid air before his head cleared.

“Hugh, over here.”

The chief squatted down and peered under the shrub. “Shit.”

Reed shoved his clenched hands into his coat pockets. The cold he hadn’t felt earlier now burrowed into his bones. “Jayne didn’t get lost. Someone took her.”

Hugh straightened. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Did you have a chance to check out the scumbag in Philadelphia?”

“Yeah. Far as anybody knows, he’s still in town. Not due to check in again until Monday next. His parole officer promised he’d try to hunt him down, though, but I’m not holding my breath. I know how many cases these guys juggle.” The sharpness had bled from the chief’s gray eyes, leaving them clouded with sadness and disappointment. Disappointment in the town, his job, maybe the whole human race. Reed knew exactly what was going through Hugh’s head. “I’m not ruling him out, but what are the chances this guy followed her without anyone in town noticing him? If you don’t scoop your dog’s poop, somebody reports it.”

“If it’s unlikely she was grabbed by someone from her past, it’s probably someone from Huntsville’s present.”

“Yup.” Hugh said. “And the mayor can deny it all he wants, but if my gut’s right, she’s the third person to disappear.”

Reed’s gaze swept over the quiet street. He’d come to this town to escape violence. Now one teenager was dead and another
missing. Jayne had vanished. Someone in this perfect little town had a deep dark side.

The well-kept houses, the Christmas lights, the wreaths, the picket fences, it all felt like a lie. Under the quaint small-town facade lurked something evil.

The Druid kicked open the door and carried his burden down the wooden staircase. His Celtic blood hummed incessantly through his veins.

The only thing that could free him was a return to the old ways. Not the weakened, watered-down religion popular today. Wine for blood. Bread for flesh. Bah. There was no substitute for either. People just didn’t want to get their hands dirty anymore.

Not a problem now that he understood. He needed to return to his roots, to the practices handed down by generations in the Old Country and cast aside in the New World. As he’d learned at his grandfather’s knee, blood, fire, and water were the only real sources of energy. The only ways to restore the natural balance. The fire ceremony on Samhain had been compromised by the boys’ intrusion, especially the one who’d crossed into the sacred circle.

That boy had paid the ultimate price for his transgression. Necessity had fueled the killing. The gods required the boy die for ruining the ritual. But his trespass had been a blessing in disguise. It was when blood had been spilled onto consecrated ground that the gods’ message was revealed.

There was no such thing as coincidence. It was another omen. The gods had intended the boy to wander there. They wanted to show the true path to salvation. Blood was the stuff of life, from
man’s first nourishment in the womb until it ceased to circulate upon his death. Only a blood offering could save him. He knew that now.

Blood was his only hope.

He shifted her body in his arms.

Her blood.

He had no time to waste. He could feel his health slipping away, like water through cupped hands. The winter solstice was his last chance. This holiest of Druid celebrations, the rebirth of the earth from its darkest day, the dawning of new life.

He lowered the woman to the floor, grimacing at the filth she’d have to endure. Not for long, though. He only had to keep her confined for a few days.

He removed her jacket, hat, and gloves. Her limp body slid in the dirt as he adjusted her position and clamped the handcuffs around her slender wrists. She was a marvel. Fine-boned and feminine, yet simultaneously long-limbed and strong. His palms stroked up her biceps, squeezed the firm muscle of her shoulder, then moved upward to cup her jaw. And now he knew exactly why she’d seemed so familiar the first time he’d seen her.

His gaze moved to the tapestry he’d brought down and hung on the cinder-block wall. One of the prizes of his collection, it depicted the story of another tall, graceful redhead with creamy skin and a warrior’s bearing: the goddess, the healer, the Druidess, Brigid.

Jayne was Brigid in the flesh. And, like the goddess, she’d been sent here to heal him.

He turned back to his captive. Long eyelashes rested against skin the color of fresh cream. She was lovely. Absolutely lovely. And pure as the clean snow falling outside. His fingertip traced the scar on her cheek. A crude spiral. The symbol for ethereal
power. Exactly what he needed to end his torment. The woman had been marked by the gods.

He pulled her camera from her jacket pocket and turned it over in his hands. He scrolled through the digital images. His photo was not among them. She must have another. Perhaps she’d left it in her room at the inn. No matter. He’d get it. The picture wasn’t that important anymore. Not after the revelation had come to him.

The winter solstice loomed just a few days away. Until then he’d pass the night hours awake and lonely. On the solstice, she’d be bound to him forever. Her life would flow from her body to his. Life and death would be mingled in the strongest earthly connection.

Until then—

He pulled his
boline
from his pocket. The white handle of the ritual knife fit comfortably in his palm; its curved, sickle-like blade sharp as a razor. He knelt by her side, the concrete floor unyielding under his knees. He turned her palm upward, drew the knife across her soft skin, and dipped a forefinger in the blood that welled from the shallow cut. Raising his hand to his forehead, he drew the lines of Brigid’s off-kilter cross on his flesh.

Perhaps some of her power could sustain him until the solstice. Then, her sacrifice would be his salvation.

John lifted his head from the mattress and listened. Thumping and the barely discernable murmur of voices echoed through the ductwork.

The man was back. Terror coiled around John’s heart like a python and squeezed. His gaze darted to the open cardboard box
next to the door. The usual bottles of water and meal replacement bars were still piled inside from this morning’s visit. Unless it was tomorrow.

Had he blanked out an entire day? Or was this a new, unexpected visit? A steady dose of some sort of tranquilizer made days difficult to track, but a change in the daily routine could mean his time was up. Despite the man’s promises, John knew in his soul that death was on the agenda.

A shiver passed over him, but this third-story room wasn’t as cold as the basement prison he’d occupied those first few weeks. His heavy wool sweater and jeans were filthy but warm. The heat register gave an occasional puff of warmth. They’d taken his boots, though, so his feet were always cold.

With a groan, he rolled to his side, then slid off the mattress onto his hands and knees. The chain that attached his ankle to the iron bed frame clanked to the floor. Limbs stiff with disuse trembled. The impact with bare wood amplified the aches in his dehydrated joints. Unnaturally loose muscles protested and threatened to let his face flop onto the hardwood. Again.

Mustering energy from fear, he crawled toward the window. The tether played out before he was quite to the wall. Stretching, his fingers grasped the sash and he heaved to his knees. He closed one eye to peer through the half-inch gap between the trim and the plywood sheet screwed into the frame.

Lazy white flakes swirled across his field of vision. The overcast sky gave no clues as to the time of day.

The rough grate of wood on swollen wood paralyzed him. He knew that sound well, the scrape of the door to the basement. He couldn’t prevent the tremors that seized his limbs any more than Pavlov’s dogs could’ve stopped salivating.

Panic pulled at his remaining sanity. The strange symbols drawn in the cellar flashed through his mind in a terrifying montage.

The door rasped again. John’s bowels pinched. Memories of gut-searing hunger and debilitating blows received in those first days flooded his brain. Days when he’d hung on to life with both hands. Now he almost wished he hadn’t. A quick death would sure beat this slo-mo dying routine he had going on now. But he hadn’t known that then. And even if he had, he wasn’t sure he could’ve made a different decision.

Survival dominated all other instincts, hijacked the body and brain when necessary. He’d learned that the hard way. Imminent death brought forth the animal in him.

John held his breath and strained his ears for more sounds. Footsteps on the bare wood treads of the basement steps rang through the heat duct. More thumps. More footsteps. A vehicle passed beneath his window. Then silence.

He
wasn’t coming upstairs.

John’s bones shook as relief swept through him. Then he stiffened.

Those noises meant one thing. Someone else had been imprisoned in that cold and dank cellar. Someone else was chained like an animal, ready to be beaten and starved into submission. Someone else was going to be left with no options but to obey or die.

Bile surged into his throat. Helplessness drained his soul like a parasite. But what could he do? Escape attempts were futile and resulted in more pain. He couldn’t withstand any more pain.

A yearning was fanned inside him. He should shout down the register to the new prisoner. Just thinking about contact with another person other than his kidnapper sent a wave of giddiness
through him. But terror muted any sound that vibrated in his throat.

Bad things happened when he disobeyed.

He turned and looked across the few feet of space to his mattress. So far. Too far. His body curled into itself, wrapped in the fear of an unknown fate. As his eyelids drifted shut, he felt his humanity slip further away.

In the back office of the diner, Nathan looked up from his invoices at three sharp raps on his door. “Come in.”

Chief Hugh Bailey stood in the doorway “We have a serious problem.”

“What’s up, Hugh?” Nathan set aside his paperwork and straightened his spine. Unease whispered along the back of his neck.

Hugh swept his red knit hat from his head. A few snowflakes drifted to the commercial tile. “Just got back from the Black Bear Inn. Mae had a tourist check in earlier today. Went out this afternoon. Never came back.”

Grease from the hamburger Nathan had eaten for dinner rose into the back of his throat. “Was she tall, with long red hair?”

“Yeah.”

“She was in the diner today,” Nathan volunteered. No doubt Hugh already knew the girl had eaten here.

Hugh whipped out a pocket-sized notebook and clicked open his pen. “What time?”

Hugh probably knew that too.

“I’m not sure exactly. Toward the end of lunchtime.”

“Anything seem odd about her?” Hugh asked.

“Not really. City girl. Pretty. Looked out of place. Other than that, nothing.”

“You talk to her?”

“Sure. Introduced myself.” Nathan fiddled with a paper clip. “We talked for a few minutes. She expressed some interest in local artists. I offered to take her to see Mark’s ducks and Martha’s quilts in the morning, weather permitting of course.”

Hugh flattened his mouth and gave his head a curt shake. “While you were chatting her up, someone slashed two of her tires in your parking lot.”