Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [85]
“Where in Connecticut?”
“A little country town called Danvers. Why should it matter?”
“It matters,” she said grimly.
“Jamie, I want you to go back to Wisconsin and insist on—”
Jamie pushed the off button on the cell phone and set it down on the seat beside her. It was growing dark, and, even though the snow had stopped, the roads were still slick. She was going to do the smart thing. She was going to find a discount store and buy herself a change of clothes, toiletries and shoes with Dillon’s credit card. Then she was going to find a motel, eat a huge meal and get a good night’s sleep.
And that’s where her wisdom would end. Because tomorrow she was getting back in Dillon’s car and driving to Danvers, Connecticut. To the Dungeon, where she’d been summoned.
To face the ghost of Nate Kincaid. Who’d never died in the first place.
19
Nate Kincaid was beginning to come to the unpleasant conclusion that he might not be dead, after all. He’d spent so long in the upper reaches of Dillon’s garage, watching, waiting, a spectre biding its time, waiting for vengeance. And when he’d needed strength, corporeal power, he’d somehow managed to leach it from some unknown source.
But he shouldn’t have had such a hard time dragging Mouser’s bloody body into the trunk of Jamie’s car. He shouldn’t have felt the delicious pressure of the knife as he carved his message into Jamie’s skin. And it wouldn’t have been so hard to stop when he did.
But if he’d cut deeper, slashed harder, there would have been too much blood, and Dillon wouldn’t have understood his message. He would have been weeping over Jamie’s dead body, totally immune to the challenge Nate had given him.
Killer was a fool. A weak, sentimental fool, when Nate had always considered him the only man who even approached his equal. He mooned after Nate’s little cousin like a adolescent, always would. Until she was finally gone, and the cloud would lift from Killer’s usually hardheaded brain.
He could have killed her any number of times. The night Paul Jameson had raped her had been perfect, except for the interference of the police. He’d thought of her high school graduation and the lavish party Aunt Isobel and Uncle Victor had thrown for her, but he’d never had an opportunity—too many people milling around.
He’d come close the day of Uncle Victor’s funeral. He’d spent the time taking pictures—he’d wanted to bring one final one to Dillon as a parting gift. But once more fate had interfered, this time in the shape of his indulgent Aunt Isobel. If he didn’t know better he’d suspect she knew what was going on in his mind. But Aunt Isobel was a simple woman—she had the sense to appreciate his uniqueness, but she’d never guessed the extremes he was capable of. Nothing stopped him, not idiot laws or interfering people or maudlin emotions.
He was ready to bring things to a head—he’d waited too long as it was. Too long for what was rightfully his due, too long to get revenge on those who’d tried to thwart him. He knew which category Jamie belonged in. She’d been the only one who’d managed to distract Dillon from Nate’s agenda, the only one that Dillon hadn’t gotten over. Uncle Victor’s favorite. And she’d loved him, her cousin, with uncritical devotion. For that alone she had to die. He wasn’t quite sure why—he only knew it was necessary.
But Dillon was another matter. Was he the object, or the barrier? The goal, or the hindrance? Maybe he’d never know. But he knew one thing—if he couldn’t have Dillon, he could at least kill him.
Old oil soaked into concrete like water into a sponge. The bloodstains and scrawled message now lay hidden beneath a thin, viscous coating of recycled oil, and no one would be able to see it.
The first thing he’d done was search the garage from top to bottom. No sign of Nate, either ghostly or human. No sign that anyone had been in the upper reaches of the building, watching.
He took Jamie’s suitcases and dumped them in a trash bin halfway across town. If anyone got to them