Read the book: «Colder Than Ice»

Praise for the novels of
MAGGIE SHAYNE

“A tasty, tension-packed read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Thicker Than Water

“Maggie Shayne demonstrates an absolutely superb touch, blending fantasy and romance into an outstanding reading experience.”

—Romantic Times on Embrace the Twilight

“Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

—Bestselling author Suzanne Forster

“Maggie Shayne delivers sheer delight, and fans new and old of her vampire series can rejoice.”

—Romantic Times on Twilight Hunger

“Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven…. A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night!”

—Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

“Shayne’s talent knows no bounds!”

—Rendezvous

“Maggie Shayne delivers romance with sweeping intensity and bewitching passion.”

—Bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“Shayne’s gift has made her one of the preeminent voices in paranormal romance today!”

—Romantic Times

MAGGIE SHAYNE
COLDER THAN ICE

COLDER THAN ICE

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Prologue

Arthur Stanton stood in the middle of the narrow, deserted road while the rain poured down on him. In the distance, sirens wailed. Bloodhounds bayed, their unmistakable yowk-yowk-yowks rubbing his nerves raw. Every few seconds a helicopter passed overhead, its searchlight sweeping the ground. Men’s voices rose from far away. Too far away, though. Right now, it was just the two of them: Arthur Stanton and the man in prison grays who’d come stumbling out of the tree line only to stop in his tracks, thirty feet away.

The convict met his eyes; then his glance slid lower, toward the gun Arthur held. He didn’t move, just held his breath, waiting.

Arthur’s hand trembled, not with fear, nor with the symptoms of his age, but with the weight of the decision tearing at his soul. David Quentin Gray, Jr., white-collar criminal and former attorney to a madman, wasn’t the offender Arthur lived to apprehend. But he could be the key to that criminal. If he were free. Imprisoned, he was useless.

Swallowing against the bile that rose in his throat, Arthur lowered his weapon.

The convict frowned at him, jerking convulsively in an almost-lunge, before going motionless again.

He thinks I’ll shoot him in the back if he runs. Hell, maybe I should.

But Arthur didn’t. Instead, he turned and trudged back to his car. It waited on the muddy shoulder, where he’d skidded to a halt when he’d spotted the scarecrow silhouette among the trees, picked out by his headlights as he rounded a curve.

After three steps, Arthur stopped and squeezed his eyes tight. I can’t, I can’t just let him walk. He’s a criminal. I’ve spent the past forty years working against his kind.

He raised his gun as he turned again, unable, unwilling, to do something so contrary to everything he believed.

But David Quentin Gray, Jr. was gone. The decision was made.

Headlights found Arthur, as if to illuminate this newest stain on his soul. Tires skidded, and a car door slammed. It was done. He couldn’t undo it. And now, he thought, the lies begin.

“Stanton? What’s going on? Did you see something?”

Arthur recognized the voice and turned. “Thought I did. It was just a deer, though.”

Assistant Warden Martin Phillips sighed deeply, came closer and clapped a hand to Arthur’s shoulder. “Dammit, I’m sorry. I know what this prisoner meant to you, Stanton.”

“We’ll get him. He can’t get far.”

“Still…” Phillips sighed, looked around just in case, lowered his voice. “You’ll probably have to move her now, right?”

Arthur lifted his head.

“Hell, only a handful of people even know she’s alive,” the assistant warden went on. “Much less where she’s hiding out.”

“You shouldn’t even know.”

“I wouldn’t—if Gray’s cellmate hadn’t been so eager to earn a few brownie points. He was coming up for parole and thought telling me what he knew would help his case.” He grinned. “By running his mouth, all he really did was force us to keep him inside, where he couldn’t spread what he knew about Elizabeth Marcum. Poor stupid shit.”

Arthur reacted instantly, gripping the man by his lapels and drawing him up onto his toes. “She’s dead. As far as the world is concerned, she’s dead. I hear you say her name again, I’ll have to put you someplace where you can’t spread it around.”

“All right, all right. Damn.” Arthur released the man, and Phillips smoothed his lapels. “You act like it’s my fault Gray saw that news clipping of some small-town Blackberry Festival with her in the background. Hell, if it were up to me, they wouldn’t have access to television, newspapers or anything else from the outside.”

Arthur unclenched his fists. He was angry with himself, not Phillips. He’d fucked up. Again.

“So will you move her?” Phillips asked, apparently too stupid to know when to let it drop.

“No.” He’d come this far, Arthur thought. He might as well see this through.

“But—”

“But nothing. You’ve been keeping the prisoner under surveillance since you found out what he knew. Haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah. We’ve watched him like a striptease.”

“And he hasn’t tried to get word out to anyone about the woman’s whereabouts, has he?”

“No. But…all due respect, Arthur, that doesn’t mean he won’t run straight to Mordecai Young now that he’s free.”

I’m counting on it, Arthur thought. But aloud, he only said, “How about you do your own job, Phillips, and let me worry about mine?”

“Jesus, Arthur, if Young finds her, he’ll kill her.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t have the blood of one more innocent staining his hands. He would see to it that Elizabeth Marcum—Beth Slocum, as she was currently known—remained safe. Not by moving her, but by being ready for the madman to strike. And then he could finally catch Mordecai Young and redeem himself. God knew he didn’t have a lot more time to make amends. He was on the far side of sixty, and facing mandatory retirement.

He was using an innocent woman as bait to capture a madman. He knew that. And it was wrong. He knew that, too. He’d had to make a snap decision, and he’d made the wrong one. But it was made. Now he had to follow through. He could make it work out right; he knew he could. The key was in seeing to it that “Beth Slocum” had the best protection he could give her. Someone who would lay down his life before letting any more harm come to the woman.

And he knew there was only one man he could count on to do that.

A man who, like the rest of the world, believed she was dead. A man who had spent the past eighteen years convinced he was the one who had killed her.

Mordecai Young sat in his car with the wipers set on intermittent and the headlights turned off. An observer, had there been one, would have said he was alone in the car, yet Mordecai was never truly alone. He waited right where he had said he would. He could wait all night. But he wouldn’t have to. He had it on pretty good authority that his old friend and former attorney, David Quentin Gray, Jr., would make it here unscathed.

It would be good to see David again. It had been a long time.

He really had picked the perfect spot—or rather, his guides had: a pull-off near a railroad crossing where no trains ran anymore. Back roads, no one around.

Oh, there would be roadblocks, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t know why yet, but he knew they were not going to be a problem. He knew it with a certainty that told him it was “given” knowledge. It came from beyond him.

Mordecai sat a little straighter in his seat when he spotted the man, hunched and shivering, near the edge of the woods. Gray was peering through the rain at the car, as if too wary to come any closer. Smiling to himself, Mordecai flashed his headlights on, then off, then on again. He left them on, because he couldn’t believe his one-time attorney looked the way he did. Prison had apparently forced him to overcome his obsession with Italian suits and flawless grooming. David could have passed for a scrawny, half-drowned alley cat.

When he drew closer, Mordecai reached across the car and opened the passenger door.

David peered in at him, his face drawn and pinched, even when he smiled—a smile that never reached his eyes. “Mordecai. Damn, it’s good to see you.” He started to get in.

“Wait.” Mordecai reached into the back seat for the red flannel blanket that lay folded there, pulled it into the front and draped it as best he could over the upholstery. “You’re a mess, David. What did you do? Crawl out through the prison sewers?”

David scowled at him but got in. As soon as he’d closed the door, he pulled the loose ends of the blanket around him. “I’m frozen half to death.”

“No wonder. You’re skin and bone. You don’t look well, David.”

“Prison will do that to you.” He glanced at Mordecai. “You look good, though. You never change.”

It was true. Mordecai hadn’t changed. His head was still clean shaven, his eyes still his most distinctive feature. He would have to change, though, once he found out where Lizzie was hiding. It wouldn’t do to have her recognize him too soon.

He started the engine and turned up the heat. “I was glad to receive your letter, David. I have to say, it surprised me.”

“It should have,” David said, using a corner of the blanket to wipe the rain water from his face. “They’ve been watching everything I do—listening in on every conversation, every phone call, reading my mail both coming and going. My own fault, blabbing to my cellmate about what I knew. I know the little bastard ratted me out.”

“It wasn’t smart to tell him anything. It’s never smart to give away too much. You taught me that yourself.”

David frowned, but didn’t ask what Mordecai meant by that. Maybe because he knew where the conversation was going. Or maybe the reference to his disloyalty of a year ago had sailed right over his head.

“I had to smuggle your letter out with another prisoner on work release.”

“I didn’t mean I was surprised you could get a letter out. What I meant, David, was that I was surprised your loyalty to me had lasted so long.” He tipped his head slightly.

Bull. He wanted you to get him out of prison, and that’s the only reason he told you a damn thing.

Don’t trust him. He could be trying to trick you, the way she did.

Ask him where she is. Stop wasting time!

Mordecai closed his eyes briefly, slowly. The voices had multiplied. Where there used to be one or two, there were now too many to count. Though it had occurred to him that there were likely twelve. That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it? Twelve.

And perhaps, he thought, one of them might be his Judas.

He didn’t know them all. Some were more accurate than others, and he’d been struggling to learn which ones he should heed and which he would do better to ignore, or whether it was the flaw of his own human condition that twisted their messages so that they were not always quite right—a far more likely possibility. The voices came from Spirit. Spirit couldn’t be wrong. His guides had taught him many things over the years. A deeper understanding of scripture. The importance of faith without question. The intricacies of poisons, and everything there was to know about explosives. The true depth of his twofold mission: to bring Lizzie to her knees, and to find his rightful heir.

He lifted his chin, tried to will the voices to be quiet. They chose to obey this time. They didn’t always.

“I’d still like to know how you managed to get me out,” David said. “I know some of the guards had to look the other way, let it happen.”

Mordecai smiled softly. “It wasn’t hard. My guides told me which guards would be open to bribery. Most men have their price, David.”

David lowered his eyes. “Still with the voices, huh?”

“Of course. They’re spirit guides. They don’t just go away.”

He could tell David would have liked to argue with that, but he had the good sense not to.

“So how are you going to get us out of here without being caught? Did your guides tell you that?”

“They will, when the time comes. But first, David, you have to keep your promise. Tell me what you know about my Lizzie. Where is she hiding?”

David licked his lips, looked out the rain-streaked windows into the darkness. Then he shook his head. “Not here. It’s not safe, sitting here like this. How about you get me out of here, past the roadblocks and shit first? Then I’ll fulfill my end of the bargain.”

Mordecai didn’t like that.

He’s an ungrateful bastard, this one.

Put him in the trunk!

Mordecai nodded, rubbing his forehead a little. “All right. You’re going to have to ride in the trunk, David. In case they do stop us.”

“The trunk?” David looked horrified at the thought.

The man’s soaking wet and frozen to the bone. Have mercy for God’s sake.

God, how he hated it, Mordecai thought, when the voices disagreed.

He was your friend once.

That much was true. David had been his friend. Once. “Just get in the back, then. Lie on the floor and keep yourself hidden under the blanket. All right?”

David nodded, smiling a little. “Thanks, Mordecai.” Then he climbed into the back seat and curled up on the floor, a skinny, wet blanket-bundle.

Mordecai drove the car. He drove where the voices told him to drive, even though he didn’t understand why. Faith, he reminded himself, wasn’t about understanding why. It was about believing, about acting without hesitation to obey the dictates of Spirit. He drove for ten minutes, then twenty. And then he pulled off and stopped the car.

He leaned over the back seat. “We’re clear, David. All clear.”

“God, you didn’t even get stopped,” David said, pulling the blanket from over his head and staring up at Mordecai from the floor. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You know how ineffective the police can be.”

David smiled and started to get up.

“Wait,” Mordecai said. “I’ve been very patient with you, David. Very patient. But my patience is wearing thin. Tell me what you know about Lizzie.”

David was sitting up now, but still on the floor. He nodded, sighing. “There was this picture in the newspaper, some kind of festival, late last fall. She was in the background of the shot, standing in the crowd watching a parade go by.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe the coincidence.”

“Oh, it was no coincidence. It was the hand of Spirit. You were meant to see that photo, and I was meant to find my Lizzie.”

David nodded, licking his lips and looking a little nervous. “The town was some rural place in Vermont. Blackberry.”

“Blackberry, Vermont. God, it’s almost too quaint.” He pictured her, the way she had been, long ago. Lost and alone, and so very needy. He’d been her hero, her savior, then. “I presume she’s using an alias.”

“I don’t know. I would imagine so. The government probably set her up with a whole new identity after—after what happened last year.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe she actually shot you. If it wasn’t for that vest—”

“We don’t discuss that, David.”

David’s eyes shot to Mordecai’s, then lowered. “All right.”

“That’s all you know? You’ve told me everything?”

He nodded. “That’s all. I don’t know if she’s living in that town or was only there visiting. But I know it was her. I’m sure it was her. I saved the clipping for you.” He dug into a pocket as he spoke, tugged out a folded scrap of paper and held it up.

Mordecai took it. It was damp and worn. He unfolded it carefully, then turned on the overhead light so he could see it. The headline read “Harvest Time in Smalltown, USA.” The photo was three columns wide, and in color. Floats with giant pumpkins and small children. A high school marching band. A crowd of spectators. A backdrop of crimson and gold foliage. Despite the wet blotches and creased folds, Mordecai spotted her right away. She stood in the crowd, and yet alone. She wore blue jeans and a suede jacket. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was irrationally glad she hadn’t cut it.

“You’re right,” he said to David. “It’s her. It’s Lizzie.”

“I knew it. Anyway, the article doesn’t say anything about her. But it’s something. It’s more than you had before.”

Mordecai nodded. “Then I guess I’m finished with you now. You can get out.”

Blinking, frowning in confusion, David said, “You…want me to just…go? You’re just going to leave me out here like a stray dog? Mordecai, I need a place to crash, some dry clothes, maybe a few dollars in my pocket. I’ve got to survive. After what I’ve done for you, I thought—”

Mordecai sighed. “You’re right. I mustn’t forget what I owe you, after all. I’m going to take care of you, David, the way you took care of me. Come on, get up now. Come with me.”

Mordecai opened his door and got out; then he opened the back door and took David’s arm to help him out of the car. “You have taken good care of me, after all, haven’t you, David?”

“I knew you’d want to know.”

“Oh, I don’t mean this,” Mordecai said, shoving the clipping into his pocket. “This…this was good, David, but we both know it was self-serving. You did this for yourself, not for me.”

“No—”

“Yes. You wanted me to get you out of prison. You knew this information would ensure I did so. After all, you could have just enclosed the clipping with the letter.”

David broke the hold of Mordecai’s eyes to look around. He was getting very nervous. “I could have. But I didn’t want to risk losing it. It could have been found.”

Mordecai shrugged. “And what about last year, when you told them where to find me after I’d reclaimed my daughter from that bitch Julie Jones? Was that all for me, as well?”

David’s gaze snapped back to Mordecai’s. “I didn’t—”

“David, David, don’t lie to me. I know it was you. You were the only one, besides Lizzie and I, who knew about the mansion in Virginia. And even if you weren’t, my guides told me who played Judas to my Christ.”

“Jesus, the guides again. Mordecai, you can’t always trust those voices in your head. They aren’t—”

“Aren’t what? Aren’t real? How have I survived, then? I could have been killed at the raid on my compound eighteen years ago. I could have been killed in Virginia last year, when the woman who claimed to love me fired a bullet into my chest. Or later, when the police descended on me. But I wasn’t. My daughter could have been killed, as well, by those bastards claiming to have come to rescue her. From her own father. They called it a kidnapping. Can you imagine?” He shook his head. “I survived. I always survive. The guides see to that. And they tell me all I need to know. Admit it, David. You betrayed me.”

David blinked. He was shaking again, but not from the cold this time. “You’re right, I did tell someone about the Virginia house. Not the authorities. Another prisoner. I had no choice in that, Mordecai. He had clout, a lot of respect. You don’t know what it’s like in prison. They would have killed me if I hadn’t talked.”

“So again, your self-interests outweighed your concern for me.” Mordecai shrugged. “I suppose it’s part of the human condition. Selfishness. Disloyalty.”

David couldn’t hold his eyes, so he looked past him. And then the worry returned. “Mordecai, this looks like the same place where you picked me up. Isn’t this right where we started?”

“Right where you started, perhaps. I’m miles ahead of where I was a short while ago. Goodbye, David.”

Mordecai lifted the gun, as the voices had been screaming at him to do for countless minutes now. It had come to him very clearly why the roadblocks would not be a problem tonight. It was because David wouldn’t be cowering in the back seat when Mordecai’s car was searched. David wasn’t going anywhere—nowhere on this plane, at least. He pointed the gun’s barrel at David’s head, and even as the man flinched and cried out, Mordecai calmly squeezed the trigger.

David’s body collapsed downward like a building when well-placed demolition charges go off. He sank fast, landing in a heap at Mordecai’s feet.

“I promised to free you from your prison, David. And now I have.”

Mordecai left the blanket where it was, twisted around David’s body. It was wet, muddy now, and tainted with blood. He got back into the car, sliding the gun into the holder he had mounted under the driver’s seat, and drove away.

It was time to find Lizzie. It was time to right the wrongs she had done, wash clean the sins she had committed—against him, against their daughter.

Against God.

Chapter One

Thursday

Elizabeth Marcum was running again.

She was always running, it seemed.

One after the other, her powder-blue Nike cross trainers hit the winding road’s soft shoulder, her steps cushioned by a thick, fragrant carpet of leaves. She sucked in the aroma of them with every harsh breath she drew. Sugar maples lined the roadsides, arching overhead like a vivid circus canopy of scarlet and purple and pumpkin orange. It crossed her mind that she loved it here, but she brushed the thought aside. There were a hundred other small towns with country lanes and breathtaking foliage where she could be just as comfortable. Comfort wasn’t love. She could take Blackberry, Vermont, or leave it.

She hit the three-mile mark just as she rounded the curve that brought the old Bickham place into view. The once stately Victorian’s white paint was peeling. A few of the black shutters were crooked, others missing, like neglected teeth in an old man’s mouth. On the porch, Maude waved from her wicker rocking chair. Elizabeth slowed to a walk, her heart rate slowing naturally as she veered off the road and onto the overgrown flagstone path. She preferred it to the driveway, despite its cracks and weeds. The sidewalk started at the tilting signpost, with its weather-worn sign and fading letters—you could hardly make out “The Blackberry Inn” anymore—and wound its way to the porch, forking off in one spot to twist around the old house to what had once been a garden in the back.

At the bottom of the porch steps, Beth leaned over, braced her hands on her knees and took a few breaths.

“Gettin’ older, girl,” Maude called. “You might better walk, like you used to.”

Beth smiled. Every day, Maude began their morning visit with the same remarks. When Beth had first come here—God, had it really been a year ago?—she had started this ritual with a daily walk. It had scared the hell out of her to even leave her house, but that daily walk had been an act of defiance, a way of thumbing her nose at her own fears. It had evolved into a run.

“I like to run, Maude. It makes me strong.”

“And what does a thirty-five-year-old woman need with muscles, anyway?”

Beth grinned and trotted up the steps. “Thirty-six. And I need ’em to fight off all my suitors.”

Maude slapped her knee, chuckling to herself, and rose from the chair. “Tea is just off the burner. Still piping hot. You made good time this morning.” She leaned over the rickety tray table to pour from a china teapot into two matching cups. Antiques, white with pink rosebuds and gold edges. There was an old silver tray with a cover, and an empty hypodermic needle beside it.

“God, Maude, why don’t you get an insulin pump so you can stop sticking yourself three times a day like your body’s a pin cushion?”

Maude waved a hand at her. “I don’t trust machines. And if you could see what they charge for one of those gadgets…”

“You have insurance.”

“That’s no reason to throw good money away on nonsense. ‘The frivolous can waste more by the teaspoon than the frugal can bring home by the wheelbarrow.’”

“Is that one of your originals?”

She shrugged. “You’d have called the original sexist. So I put my own twist on it, just for you.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve been waiting for the opportunity to use it.”

Maude sent her a wink. Then she reached to the tray table and poured from a dewy pitcher into a tall glass. “Here’s a nice glass of cold water. Cool you down after all that ridiculous running.”

“Perfect.” Beth took the glass from the table and tipped it up, drinking half the refreshing, sweet water down before lowering herself into her customary seat, a second wicker chair that matched the first in age and wear, if not color or design.

“Cookie?” Maude offered.

“Chocolate chip?” Beth asked, leaning over the table to lift the tarnished silver lid from its platter.

“How did you know before you even looked?”

“I could smell them baking in my dreams last night.”

Maude chuckled, but then her smile died, and she shook her head. “A young woman ought to have something to dream about besides cookies.”

Taking a big bite, Beth said, “What else is there?”

But Maude didn’t join her in her teasing. “I’m serious, Beth. Life without friends is like pie without ice cream. You’ve lived in Blackberry for a year now, and yet you’ve barely made any friends at all.”

Beth tipped her head to one side, reminding herself that the old woman needed something to occupy her mind, and if worrying about her was the thing to do it, then fine. She would indulge her. Reaching across the table, she patted Maude’s hand. “I’ve made one friend, Maude. One very good friend.”

That got a smile out of Maude. She actually had to blink a little moisture from her eyes. “Oh, you. Now you’ve gone and made me misty.”

“Well, I mean it. I’m so glad you called me over here that first time.”

“Saw you walking by, then running by, day after day. Any fool could see you were lonely. Besides, I was curious to ask what it was you were running away from.” She took a sip of her tea. “Not that I’ve managed to get an answer to that question.”

“‘A woman without secrets has led far too boring a life,’” Beth said, repeating one of Maude’s own pearls of wisdom back to her.

“Score one for you.” Maude sighed, settling back in her chair. “You know, there are some nice people in Blackberry. You’re missing out on a lot by keeping so much to yourself.”

Here it comes, Beth thought.

“Take Jeffrey Manheim. Owns the coffee shop down on Main Street. Nicest unmarried man you could ever want to—”

She broke off there, looking up as a shiny white pickup truck pulled into her driveway. Beth shielded her eyes to try to make out who was inside, but already she was on guard. She didn’t recognize the man who got out of the truck and glanced their way. A younger man—maybe eighteen—got out from the passenger side and came around the truck to join him. Strangers. New in town.

This couldn’t be good.

Maude rose to her feet and stumbled a little as she started forward, so Beth got up as well, and grabbed hold of her forearm to steady her.

“Joshua?”

The man flashed a smile. “It’s me, Gram. It’s been way too long.” By the time he finished the sentence, he was mounting the steps, and then he swept Maude into his arms for a hug. Maude hesitated only slightly before returning it.

The man released her and stood back just a little to look her over. “You look wonderful, Gram. Just as pretty as ever.”

She smiled at him, and Beth could have sworn her cheeks went pink. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Bryan, get up here and say hello to your great-grandma.”

The boy joined them on the porch. It was obvious now he was the man’s son. He had the same milk-chocolate hair and the same jawline—as if it were etched in stone. But there was a brooding quality about him. He didn’t stand quite straight, didn’t meet his father’s eyes—or Maude’s, either, for that matter—and he didn’t look happy to be there. He kept slanting sideways glances at Beth.

She really should leave, she thought, as the boy took his hands from his jeans pockets long enough to give the old woman a halfhearted hug. “Hello, Grandma.”

“My, my,” Maude said. “What a fine young man you have here, Joshua.”

“He sure is,” Joshua said. “Gram, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Oh, of course. Where are my manners? Beth, this is my grandson, Joshua, and his boy Bryan. Boys, this is Beth Slocum. She’s a good, good friend to me. You be sure you treat her right.”

Joshua turned to face her fully for the first time, extending a hand to close it around hers. He met her eyes, and then something changed in his face. The smile seemed to freeze in place, and he looked into her eyes so intently it made her squirm. He looked stunned, shocked, and maybe there was a hint of recognition amid all the other things swimming in his eyes. It worried her.

Swallowing hard, she tugged her hand, but he didn’t let it go. “Um…It’s nice to meet you,” she said, wishing like hell that she could read his mind as she tugged her hand a little harder.

He blinked, glanced down at their hands, and let go quickly. “Sorry about that. You…remind me of someone.”

“Really? Who?”

His eyes were still dancing over her face. My God, she thought they might even be dampening. What the hell was with this guy? “Never mind,” he said. “It’s not important.” He tore his gaze from hers and looked at his son. “Bryan, say hello to Miss Slocum.”

Bryan looked at her. “Hi.” Then he turned to his father. “I’m going to get my MP3 player out of the truck.” He turned on his heel and marched back down the steps to the truck, where he took a few suitcases and duffels from the back.

“He’s not happy to be here,” Beth said.

“He’s had a tough year,” the stranger explained. “His mother and stepfather were killed over the summer. Plane crash. Then I had to uproot him from the West Coast and move him to Manhattan. He’s not dealing well.”

Those words wrapped themselves around Beth’s heart and squeezed. “His entire life has been stripped away from him,” she said, her throat tightening. “There’s no way to deal well with something like that.”

Josh was looking at her again. “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

She shrugged and lowered her eyes. His were too intense. Too filled with something she couldn’t name, and too intent on probing, on digging into her soul.

To change the subject, she said, “Maude, I always assumed you and Sam didn’t have any children.”

“Now why would you assume that?” Maude asked, fussing with the sleeve of her blouse.

“I don’t know. You never mentioned any kids, and there were no pictures around the house.”

“I really do need to get some photos put up,” she said, as if that explained everything perfectly.

Beth glanced at Josh, saw the way he was watching Maude, watching her responses to Maude’s explanations. He looked a little nervous.

“There was a death in your family over the summer, and you never said a word?” Beth asked.

Maude blinked. “Well, the family’s so estranged, you know, I never even heard about Bryan’s mother until a week ago, when Josh phoned me.”

“Kathy kind of cut my side of the family off after the divorce,” Joshua said.

Beth nodded as if it made perfect sense, when in fact it made none.

“Honestly, none of that matters,” Maude said. “All that matters is that they’re here now. Come from Manhattan to spend some time with me.”

“That’s nice, Maude.” Beth watched the boy, felt the pain coming off him in waves. She loved kids and felt an empathy for this one. Maybe because she, too, had been stripped of everything in her life. “Is he still in high school?” she asked.

“This is his senior year.” Joshua looked guilty now. “But I could barely get him to go when the semester started. He hated everything about Manhattan, but especially going to school there.”

“So what are you going to do?”

He shrugged, then faced her. “This parenting thing is like rocket science to me. I’m damned if I know what to do with him.”

“Beth can help with that,” Maude said. “She’s a teacher. You two sit down and chat. I’m going to get more cookies.” She went through the door and into the house without another word. The screen door banged.

Josh said, “So you’re a teacher?”

“I used to be.”

Josh sat in one of the wicker chairs, waving her to the other one. She glanced toward the young man, but he was sitting on the tailgate now, with headphones on.

“So why did you stop?”

She sent him a quick look. Was he a little too interested in her past? Or just being polite? “Needed a break. I still tutor, though.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “So how long are you going to be here?” she asked, turning the tables by asking questions rather than answering them. It was a skill she’d perfected over the past year.

“To be honest, I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things.”

He had a way of answering a question without revealing a thing. She recognized the tactic, because it was another one she’d grown deft at employing.

“Why is it Maude’s never mentioned you?”

He shrugged. “There’s been a rift in the family.” Then he met her eyes. “It’s kind of personal.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem.” He looked toward his son again. “I wish I knew what to do about Bryan.”

“I could talk to him…if you want.”

He looked at her as if surprised. “Do you have kids, Beth?”

Jesus. The innocent question knocked the wind out of her. She tried not to let it show in her face, turning away quickly, just as Maude called for Joshua to come help her for a minute.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Why don’t you go help Maude with those cookies? And tell her I’ll see her in the morning.”

Beth walked down the steps, but she didn’t take the flagstone path. She went out the driveway, pausing by the pickup to tie her shoe and pull herself together. It wasn’t Joshua’s fault, she told herself. He couldn’t possibly know her chance to raise her only child had been stolen from her because of some toy soldier with an itchy trigger finger eighteen years ago.

When she rose it was to see Bryan staring at her. She glanced back toward the porch. Joshua had gone inside. The porch was empty.

Bryan had stacked suitcases on the pickup’s tailgate, though it was completely unnecessary. “Don’t worry, my father has that effect on a lot of people,” he said.

She looked at him, then allowed a smile as she realized he’d witnessed her reaction to Joshua’s question, though he probably hadn’t heard the dialogue. “Then it’s not just me?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“That’s good to know.” She rolled her eyes and saw Bryan’s smile turn from polite to amused. “Your dad tells me you’re in your senior year.”

“Yeah. But I’m taking a semester off.”

She nodded. “What do you still need to graduate?”

“History, Spanish Four, English Twelve.”

Beth smiled a little. “I used to teach English Eleven and Twelve.”

“Used to? What, you don’t anymore?”

“I’m taking a semester off.”

He smiled at her, his eyes, and interest, sincere.

“Actually, more like a few semesters. I still tutor, though. Let me know if you want to get those English credits out of the way while you’re in town. Give me an hour a day and I’ll have you ready for the final by Christmas.”

“I doubt we’ll be here that long.”

“Then give me two hours a day and make it Thanksgiving.”

He looked at her. “You know, it’s actually not all that bad an idea.”

She liked Bryan, she decided. She liked him a lot. Dawn would like him, too, if she were here. “Well, it’s up to you. I’m not pushing. And it would be tough on limited time. You’d have to be up for a challenge.”

“English is my best subject. How much do you charge?”

“What are you, kidding? You’re Maude’s great-grandson.”

“I don’t want a free ride.”

“Well, we can work something out, then. Maybe you could help me with a few chores?”

He nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

She smiled, pleasantly surprised. “You mean we’re on?”

“We’re on,” he said, extending a hand.

She shook on it, feeling buoyant and knowing why. She could help this kid. And he was going to let her. “We can start tomorrow. My place at noon. Maude can tell you where.”

“Great. See you then.”

“You’ll see me sooner.” She jogged down the driveway, turned left onto the lane, and fell into an easy rhythm.

She didn’t think she liked the man. Then again, she didn’t like any man. She didn’t trust them. But she liked his son. Maybe that was because looking at all the grief and loss in the boy’s eyes was like looking into a mirror. Or maybe it was because she knew that no matter how much the people in his life would like him to “get over it” there was no such thing. He could deny it, defy it, or learn to live with it. But he couldn’t get over it.

God knew she never had.

Mordecai had set himself up in one of the seven perfect Victorian homes situated in a neighborhood halfway between the towns of Blackberry and Pinedale. The houses had been purchased by some brilliant entrepreneur twenty-odd years ago, according to Mordecai’s research—he didn’t believe in going anywhere without all the information. The houses were rented out to wealthy families as vacation homes in the summer and to foliage-seeking tourists in the fall. In the winter, the skiing enthusiasts took over, and from February through March, they were inhabited by folks in town for the maple syrup season, and all the festivals and events it brought. In April the houses were closed for upkeep.

The others were all occupied. This one should have been, too—by Oliver Abercrombie, who’d made his reservations six months in advance. Unfortunately for the late Mr. Abercrombie, he was the only tenant without an immediate family, or anyone else close enough to miss him right away.

Mordecai had also learned that the school districts of the two tiny towns had merged a decade back, when the population of students had outgrown their buildings and the cost of educating them had outgrown the towns’ respective tax bases. Now the Pinedale-Blackberry Central School System had its elementary building in Pinedale and its high school in Blackberry. The towns were eight miles apart, and this hamlet—which wasn’t a town at all, but was called Bonnie Brook by the locals—was halfway between the two.

Lizzie was a teacher. He expected to find her working in one of the schools. So getting into the school system would be his first order of business.

This town was too quiet, he thought as he drove. It gave the voices too much silence in which to operate. When Mordecai was surrounded by noise and activity and people, they mostly kept quiet. But here, where the only sounds at night were the creaking of the old house and the gentle rustling of the October wind in the drying leaves…here they almost never went silent.

They were whispering now, in the background of his thoughts as he drove slowly along the winding, narrow roads, among the Day-Glo yellow of the poplar trees. Whispering…

She’s here, somewhere.

You’re close, Mordecai. You’re very close.

She was supposed to burn in the fire, you know. Eighteen years ago, when the government raided your compound and all those young women died. She was supposed to die with them.

He frowned, and said aloud, “Maybe I was supposed to die with them, too.”

You know you can’t die without leaving an heir, Mordecai.

You need a child, someone to carry on your gifts, your work.

He sighed, disappointed anew that his own biological daughter, his and Lizzie’s, had not turned out to be the one. Spirit had rejected her. Still, he loved her, in his way. He had set her free because of that love. But he yearned for another, his heir. Perhaps he would find that heir here.

He turned the car’s steering wheel, leaving the poplar-lined lane for one that wound and twisted between rolling meadows, dotted by fat, slow-chewing Holsteins with swollen udders and huge eyes.

He saw a woman running, jogging, along the road’s shoulder.

She wore maroon warmup pants with a thin white stripe up the sides, and a white tank top that fit her like a second skin. The jacket that matched the pants was knotted around her waist, and her blond ponytail bounced with every step she took.

That hair…

“Lizzie?” he whispered, slowing the car to a crawl so he could get a good look at her when he drove by. But there was something decidedly un-Lizzie-like about this woman. The squared shoulders. The pumping of her clenched fists. The way she held her head, chin high. Her stride was powerful, almost aggressive.

Slowly, he eased the car past her, then looked into the side mirror so he could see her face. But she’d stopped, was bending now, tying her shoe.

Go on, Mordecai. Keep driving. You have a date to keep. This one can wait.

The guides were right, he thought with a sigh. Besides, this wasn’t his Lizzie. His Lizzie was insecure, cowering and needy. And he was here for more than just Lizzie. He was here, he suspected, because this was where the heir would be found.

He drove the rest of the way to the high school, and waved to the woman who was waiting outside as he pulled into a vacant parking slot. Then he tipped the rearview mirror down to check his appearance.

Coke-bottle-thick glasses made his eyes appear huge, and emphasized the green of the colored contacts. The toupee looked real enough, mostly because few people would wear a hairpiece that was thick, black and mussed. He’d had it custom made. His new jet-black goatee was trimmed to a point at his chin and accompanied by a matching moustache that connected to it, bracketing his mouth. The new Oliver Abercrombie didn’t resemble the Mordecai Young of eighteen years ago, with his long mink hair and thin layer of stubble. Back then he had looked the way most westerners imagined Jesus Christ had looked. He didn’t resemble his more recent persona, Nathan Z, who’d been utterly bald, with striking brown eyes and a clean shaven face, either. He didn’t think Beth herself would have recognized him today, even had she bumped into him on the streets of Blackberry.

That was the way he wanted it. For now. She mustn’t know he had found her, not until he was ready.

He got out of his car, and Nancy Stillwater came limping toward him from the school’s main entrance, smiling. The smile put creases into her plump face. “Hello, Oliver,” she said, pushing dull brown hair, with a few gray strands, behind her ears.

“Ahh, Nancy. You are a vision. How is your day going?”

“Not too badly, so far. The new textbooks I’ve been waiting for finally came in.”

“Wonderful. Are they as good as you’d expected them to be?”

“Better. Even my students approve. So where are we having lunch?” she asked, lifting the basket she had, no doubt, taken great pains to fill.

“Anywhere you like,” he said, taking the basket from her. “It’s such a nice day for a picnic.”

“It really is. We won’t have too many more like this.”

“No, we won’t.”

“There are picnic tables this way.” She actually took his arm as she led him around the building, either because she was attracted to him and wanted to touch him, or because her bad leg was bothering her. The limp was considerably worse today than it had been yesterday, when he’d met her while applying for a job as a substitute teacher at the high school.

His false credentials had impressed the office staff, and by the time they got around to checking them out, his work here would be done. After all, his claims put him far above what was required of substitute teachers.

His résumé ought to put him at the top of the list, if they even had a list.

List or no list, you will be the one they call. We’ll see to that.

You have to stop doubting us, Mordecai.

Yes, stop doubting us. All is in place. All we need now is for one of the regular teachers to get too sick to come in to work.

“Here we are,” Nancy said, as they walked into a courtyard with round concrete tables, benches and planters situated every where. “This spot’s reserved for staff and seniors. And the staff know when the seniors have their lunch period,” she added with a smile. “It’s nice, don’t you think?”

“Particularly without the seniors present.” He laughed softly, setting her picnic basket on the nearest table, lifting the lid and beginning to unload dishes.

She sat down beside him. “I was surprised when you asked me to join you for lunch today, Oliver.”

“Now why should that surprise you?” He pulled out the bottle of sparkling grape juice, removed the cork with a flourish and poured juice into stemmed, plastic wineglasses.

“Well, I’m not exactly used to the attention of men.”

“Then the men around here must be stupider than I imagined.” He handed her a glass. “To the beginning of a lovely friendship, and the promise that, next time, the wine will be real.” He held his glass toward her.

She tapped hers against it, took a sip and smiled.

Mordecai smiled back, glancing down at the sectioned plates with their air-lock plastic lids, specially designed for packing picnic lunches. He removed the lid from the first one, and with his hands still hidden inside the basket, twisted the cap off the vial he’d palmed and emptied its contents onto the salad. Then he picked up the plate and set it gently in front of her. “Ah, this looks wonderful, my dear.”

“It’s my special ambrosia salad, chicken coq au vin—albeit cold—antipasto, and a homemade double chocolate brownie for dessert.”

“My goodness! You’re a goddess.”

She smiled as he passed her a napkin-wrapped set of silverware. “I don’t eat like this every day, mind you. But I thought today it would be all right to forget about my diet.”

“Diet? Please, you’re perfect. A Botticelli nude.”

“Oh, my.” She averted her eyes as her cheeks went pink.

Mordecai pocketed the empty vial and casually cleaned his hands with an antibacterial wipe he’d brought along. Then he removed the lid from his own plate, set the basket on the ground and dug into his meal with relish.

She dug into hers, as well. Poor stupid woman.