Nightwind (9 page)

real estate agent waved a dismissing hand. “Hell, Wiley! It’s all over town by now that she was

murdered. I didn’t even make it out of the office before one of the secretaries told me what had

happened!”

“I can’t discuss it with you, Reed. We’re still investigating.”

“You find him, Wiley!” Yelverton spat. “You find that pervert that’s going after our women.” He pushed

through the door into the rain, his angry footsteps kicking up water as he ran across the street.

Syntian felt the Sheriff’s gaze come back to him and he looked away from Yelverton to look politely at

his inquisitor .

“What time did you leave the party, Mr. Cree?”

“I tried to leave about eleven o’clock.”

“You tried to leave?”

“I didn’t quite make it.”

Jackson’s brows drew together over his thick nose. “Then how did you get home?”

“I didn’t.” Syntian watched the Sheriff’s mouth tightened. “Allen insisted I spend the night there; he was

afraid I’d wrap myself and the Porsche around a pine tree on Chumuckla Highway on the way home. I

crashed in his guest room that evening and the next morning, Olivia drove me home on her way to church

at Pine Terrace Baptist.”

“Did you leave the Turnbridge house at any time that evening?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any condition to go anywhere, Sheriff Jackson.” He looked down at the floor.

“Allen told me the next morning that I had passed out on the sofa in his den. He and some other

gentleman got me up and took me to the guestroom. I kept insisting I could make it home, but Allen

wouldn’t hear of it.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Do you make it a habit to drink until you pass out, Mr. Cree?”

“No, but it’s been a long, tiring week. I’ve been trying to get things settled at the house, get my business

affairs in order up in New Haven. I’ve been out hunting for office space in Pensacola.”

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Cree?”

“I’m a commodities broker. I got tired of the harsh winters up north and decided to sell my share of the

business to my partner and relocate down here.”

“So you were just unwinding at the Turnbridge party is that it?” Jackson probed. “Letting your hair

down, so to speak?” He flicked a disapproving glance over Syn’s long hair and the silver hoop in his left

ear.

“I think I overdid it, Sheriff. I believe I came unwound that night.” Syntian laughed. He shook his head.

“I haven’t been drunk since my college days and I don’t think I’ll try it again any time soon.”

“Hung over, were you?”

“Bent over,” Syntian answered. “I became up close and personally acquainted with the toilet Sunday

morning.”

“You live out at the old Herndon place.” It was more an accusation that a statement.

“Yes, I do.”

“You live out there by yourself?”

Syntian nodded. “I haven’t had time to hire a staff yet. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you wasn’t afraid to be out there all by your lonesome,” Jackson remarked.

“What with most folks in Santa Rosa County thinking the place’s haunted.”

Syntian laughed. “So I’ve been told. But I don’t think Jesup Herndon is going to bother me.”

“And why’s that?” Jackson asked, curious about the strange look that had flitted quickly across the

other man’s face.

“I’d be more likely to scare him.”

The Sheriff found himself thinking the same thing. He looked down at his note pad for the too direct gaze

of Syntian Cree’s umber eyes made him uncomfortable. “Are you seeing the Fowler girl?”

A look of surprise crossed Cree’s face. “Lauren?” As the Sheriff looked up at him, Syntian shook his

head. “No, I’m not, but it hasn’t been for lack of trying.”

“How’s that?” Jackson asked, wondering what the man could possibly see in Maxine Fowler’s old maid

daughter.

Syntian grinned ruefully. “The lady seems to be immune to my charms.”

“To my knowledge, she ain’t never had a date,” the Sheriff informed him.

A glimmer of dislike passed over Syntian’s face. “And I would imagine the entire town would have

known if she had.”

Jackson didn’t pick up on either the insult or the tone with which it had been spoken. “I’d imagine so.”

He closed his note pad, stuck his pen through the top of the spiral binding then shoved pad and pen into

his raincoat pocket. “I might have a few more questions for you, Mr. Cree. You aren’t planning on

leaving town any time soon, are you?”

Syntian schooled his face into confusion. “No. Am I a suspect in these attacks, Sheriff Jackson?”

Wiley Jackson shrugged, his lower lip thrusting out and arching down. “You’re new in town. We don’t

know you, yet. I’d have been remiss if I hadn’t questioned you.”

“I see.” Syntian dropped the words like a stone. He let his face set in insult. “Will there be anything

else?”

Wiley Jackson shook his head, understanding that he had just made a life-long enemy of the man before

him. He wondered why that worried him more than it should have.

“Then, may I go?”

“Yeah.”

Syntian nodded curtly and pushed his way through the door into the storm outside. The Sheriff watched

him get into the expensive foreign job parked at the curb and pull away.

“Sheriff?”

Jackson turned to find the Fowler girl looking at him with fearful eyes. “How’s Lou?” he asked, passing

his attention over the drably-dressed woman, pondering once more how a man of such sophistication and

obvious breeding as Syntian Cree could find anything interesting in her.

“She’s washing her face.” Lauren had overheard the Sheriff’s questioning of Syntian Cree. “Mr. Cree

really isn’t a suspect, is he?”

If Wiley Jackson was surprised by the admonishing tone in the woman’s voice, he didn’t let it show.

“Every man in this town is a suspect until I know he had nothing to do with this mess.”

“But surely you couldn’t think Mr. Cree capable of such a thing.”

“What do you know about him, Miss Fowler? Do you know where he came from? Who his friends

were? If he’s married, divorced, widowed?” He let his gaze slide insultingly over the woman. “For all you

know, he could have a wife in every state.”

As the black Porsche sped down Stewart Street, the shift ground as the angry hand clutching it

pushed the stick too fast to accommodate the clutch. A hiss of rage filled the silence in the sports

car as the Sheriff’s words intruded into Syntian Cree’s consciousness.

Lauren’s chin came up. “I don’t know Mr. Cree well at all, Sheriff. I’ve only spoken to him on a few

occasions.”

“Yet he drove you to work this morning,” the Sheriff insinuated, his tone curt. “We have a witness that

saw him at your place and you getting in that car of his.”

The Porsche’s tires lurched dangerously on the wet pavement, the rear end of the black car

hydroplaning momentarily as the foot on the accelerator pressed down too hard for the road

conditions.

“Mr. Cree was kind enough to stop by on his way into town. I don’t have a car, as you know, Sheriff. I

would have had to walk two blocks in the rain if he hadn’t thought to stop by for me.”

“Has he asked you out?” Wiley inquired, making the question seem as though he would be astonished if

she answered in the affirmative.

The black sports car’s brakes squealed as if they were in horrible pain as the steering wheel spun

toward the gravel drive leading to the old Herndon estate and the Porsche was downshifted with

careless regard to the finely tuned mechanics of the engine. The rear wheels slid in a short arc as

they dug into the red clay of the roadway then were jerked viciously back onto the gravel as the

car shot up the long, curving drive.

“I don’t see that my personal life is any concern of yours, Sheriff,” Lauren made herself say.

A short, furious bark of laughter echoed through the murky interior of the Porsche.

Wiley Jackson stared at the woman. He didn’t care for the way she was looking at him. Her face was

still. If he hadn’t known her better, he’d have thought she’d developed a bit of backbone, but he shook

his head, negating the notion. He reached up and adjusted his hat. “I’d be careful of him, Miss Fowler,”

he warned her. “What’s been happening’s been happening to women you work with. Three women been

hurt bad and one of ‘em is dead. I don’t think nothing would happen to you.” He smiled snidely. “Or

Louvenia,” he added. “But you never know. You don’t know this Yankee boy and I’m just suggesting

you watch him careful like. He’s too slick for my liking.” He held her gaze for a moment more, trying to

make her look away. When she didn’t, he sniffed and left the store, a faint touch of unease lingering on

his mind.

The low-slung black car skidded to a dangerous stop on the semi-circular driveway in front of the

old Ante Bellum-style home. The car door was thrust open in a vicious shove and then slammed

hard enough to rock the entire body of the Porsche. The front door of the mansion crashed back

against its hinges then slammed shut. Angry footsteps echoed hollowly on the parquet floorings

until they stopped at what had once been the mansion’s sitting room.

Syntian Cree reached out and flicked on the ornate chandelier hanging from the room’s ceiling. He stood

in the doorway, his entire body quivering. He was unmindful of the heavily boarded windows nailed shut

with 1 x 12s; paid no attention to the dark tint he had painted the walls and boards. Nor did he notice the

deep scarlet flooring beneath his feet. His eyes had searched for, and unerringly found, the bright gold of

the design that he had carefully painted in the center of the floor. He moved toward it, lightning and

thunder moving over the old house with lethal snaps and booms. He stepped into the direct center of the

design and raised his hands to the tempestuous heavens.

“Hear me, Master!” he shouted, his voice trembling with rage. Rain glistened on his face. “Hear

Your servant!”

A deadly crack of light stair-stepped the heavens and crashed violently into the forest behind the

mansion. The air turned chill, stank of sulfur, and the Earth rumbled and throbbed. The wind

howled its fury across the house, shaking the very foundations of the old place.

“I come to You seeking vengeance!”

A pine tree in front of the house was cleft top to bottom by a spear of blinding white light. The

design in the center of the floor glowed bright, seemed to lift upward from the scarlet-painted

floor. Overhead, the chandelier’s lights flickered out and the only source of luminescence on the

black walls came from the glow cast by the golden pentagram on the floor.

“Lauren?”

Lauren turned. “Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Yelverton?”

“I don’t believe we’re going to be having many customers today,” Louvenia said, unable to look at the

girl. “I called Mrs. Hellstrom and explained the situation to her. She suggested we close up and go on

home.”

Lauren’s heart sank. Outside, the storm was raging, the rain lashing against the windows with heavy

sheets of fury. Lightning was cracking overhead so loud it was hard to hear the older woman speaking.

Now and again, the lights in the shop flickered, threatened to go out. It was only a matter of time before

Gulf Power cast them into darkness.

“I suppose you’re right.” Lauren glanced out the window and saw nothing for the heavy downpour of

rain.

“I’ll drive you home,” Louvenia suggested, a bit surprised by her offer. She looked up to see the young

woman staring at her. “You’ll never get Horace McBride to send a cab out in this mess.” She was

intently embarrassed by her offer and beginning to regret it. The last thing she had wanted to do was offer

the girl a ride, but it wouldn’t have been Christian not to do so.

“I...I would appreciate it very much, Mrs. Yelverton,” Lauren assured her. “I don’t know how to thank

you.”

“Just go get your purse,” Louvenia grumbled. “I want to get the hell out of here before the lights go off.”

Once inside the musky interior of Louvenia Yelverton’s Lumina, Lauren was quiet, afraid to speak, for

the older woman’s lips were pressed tightly together as she backed out of her parking slot beside the

store. Lauren knew her manager could barely see through the windshield for it had already fogged and

was running thickly with pummeling water.

“I don’t remember ever seeing such a nasty storm this time of year,” Louvenia remarked as she pulled

cautiously out onto the street.

“I hope this isn’t a warning that we’re going to have a bad hurricane season,” Lauren answered, feeling

she had to make some comment. “All this talk about
El Niño
makes you wonder.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Louvenia said. She glanced at her passenger. The girl was sitting so rigidly in the

seat, pressed tightly up against the door, it seemed almost as though she were trying to make herself as

inconspicuous as possible. The older woman looked at the road, a momentary nudge of pity making her

hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You live in that little blue cottage next to the Black’s, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lauren leaned forward, trying to peer out of the windshield. “I don’t have a driveway.”

“If I remember rightly, you have a screened porch, don’t you?”

Lauren looked at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then it won’t hurt if I pull up into your yard and let you out there at the door,” Louvenia said.