be home. Owens’ hands greedily rubbed the rich leather arms of his favourite chair. He tilted it back and stretched out his legs, resting his slipper-clad feet on the desk.
Just this morning, upon his release, the director of Penetang had subtly inferred that he was one hundred percent sane. As if he had ever been insane. Owens’ large, handsome face creased into a foxy smile. The silly doctor had basically apologized for the inconvenience of his incarceration. He didn’t exactly say it, but Owens could read between the lines. His antennae were always up, and he knew that the doctor’s stern warning to take his pills faithfully was merely rote. He couldn’t really expect a sane man to take mood-altering drugs. The lithium dulled his senses. It reduced his pleasure. Even his taste buds didn’t function in the same way.
Owens had patiently served his time, but now it was over. Things could get back to normal.
Lightning lit up the sky, and for a brief second, the lane through the lower woods was visible. Owens gasped. In that blink of an eye, he imagined that he saw Dancer and Mousie James, riding down the lane through the woods, from the direction of the Caseys’. Just like they’d ridden many times before.
Owens blinked. His forehead beaded with sweat and his pulse raced. He could almost feel his blood pressure rise. He dropped his feet to the floor and peered out the window, squinting. He grabbed his binoculars off the hook and focused them on the lane. No sign of horse or rider. He breathed deeply, calming himself. It had been a long, tiring day.
He turned the binoculars to Wick Farm, and then toward the Casey property. This is what he’d thought about again and again at the hospital. He would own all the land he could see from any window in his house. He would purchase total privacy. It was essential to his happiness. This was his goal, and he was going to achieve it. He’d thought a lot on how to proceed.
He would give the beautiful divorcée, Helena Casey, a call. In the next few days, he’d drive over for a little visit.
He rang the silver bell for his manservant. It was time for a Chivas, his first in five long years. Owens dangled his arm over the wastebasket and deliberately dropped the full bottle of lithium. It landed in the empty brass container with a satisfying clunk.
Hilary and Dancer were thoroughly soaked, but not cold. They were moving quickly. They’d run along the road and cut cross-country toward the trail. When they got to the point where the paths crossed, they headed south. First they checked the fields north of the Caseys’ where her stepfather, Rory, had pastured his prize Herefords. The fields were empty now. Rory had sold the beef cows after his divorce from Helena.
They had galloped past the Casey mansion, where Helena continued to live. The lights were on in the sitting room, but the rest of the house was dark. Hilary imagined Helena sitting elegantly in the pink Queen Anne chair, wearing a tastefully expensive couturier ensemble. She’d be sipping her drink and clinking her ice cubes as she harboured resentments toward Hilary for being engaged to her son, and toward Christine James for marrying her ex-husband.
Hilary had never understood how such a cold mother could produce a son as warm and understanding as Sandy. And Rosalyn, Sandy’s sister, was growing into an engaging young woman. She was fourteen now, and when Mousie had seen her last Christmas, she could hardly believe how the chubby, insecure little girl had changed into a confident, bubbly teenager.
On they ran, through the fields behind the mansion and into Samuel Owens’ woods. Hilary noted the exact spot where Dancer had been stabbed. The memory was fresh, even five years later. Suddenly a surge of raw fear shot through her body. She felt that someone was watching her. Her eyes darted toward Owens’ house at the top of the hill. The lights were on, and she detected a slight movement in the large window.
Was Owens home? Not possible, she thought. He’d be locked up for years to come. It was likely a servant. A flash of lightning lit up the woods, momentarily blinding her. The following thunder rattled the trees, scaring Dancer and sending him lunging forward. “Okay, Dancer. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
They sped through the woods and over the fields, up the rise and past the craggy bluffs with the river below. Hilary slowed Dancer as they started into the woods, trotting him through the trees as trunks groaned and branches bent and swayed with the storm.
“A forest isn’t always the safest place in a storm, but neither are the open fields,” Hilary said aloud to Dancer. She was trying to keep them both calm by talking. “A branch can break off and kill you in the woods, and lightning can strike when you’re the tallest thing around. Right-y-o. I think I’ll shut up before I scare myself to death.”
Once out of the woods and onto the Wick Farm fields, the ground became treacherous with mud. Hilary slowed Dancer to a trot, and looked around for signs of Abby. The rain continued to pour down, obscuring any possibility of tracks.
“I wonder what we thought we’d accomplish, Dancer,” said Hilary to the steaming stallion. “We might as well go back and count ourselves lucky to get home safely.”
Dancer stopped dead. His ears pricked up and his head raised sharply and swung to the right. Hilary felt tension travel throughout his body.
“Steady, boy.” Dancer spun to the right and stopped again. Abruptly he whinnied loudly and deeply. He listened. A far-off echoing whinny caught Mousie by surprise.
It came from the old Wick barn. Hilary knew that no animals had been there for years. She heard another whinny, followed by a higher-pitched call. There was definitely more than one horse over there.
Excited, Hilary strained her eyes, trying to see what Dancer saw across the dark field. Ears alert, Dancer trotted hard through the thick muck toward the abandoned barn, heading directly to the nearby shed.
Hilary could now make out the heads of two horses looking over the Dutch door. The one on the left was definitely Moon Dancer, with her looks so strikingly like Dancer’s. And that was Moonlight Sonata, for sure, with her fine, dark head and beautiful, dreamy eyes.
“Good work, Dancer!” She praised him as she slid to the slippery ground. “Bloodhounds have nothing on you.” Hilary led Dancer through the gate up to the Dutch doors. The horses sniffed and blew their introductions.
“Abby?” called Hilary loudly. No answer. She could see that the horses were dry and untacked. A saddle and a bridle were neatly propped up and a saddle pad was hung to dry. A riding cap and windbreaker confirmed that Abby had arrived with the horses, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Hilary walked Dancer into the shed, out of the pelting rain and raging wind. At the rear were two narrow stalls where horses could stand. She backed Dancer into one and closed him in securely. He could watch the action but be separate from the mares. She didn’t want any trouble while she searched for Abby.
Hilary looked outside through the rain, wondering where to begin. A light was on in the barn. She hadn’t seen it when she arrived. As she looked more closely, she saw why. Black-out drapes covered all the windows except the one beside the door.
3
THE GHOST
“DON’T WORRY, ABBY,” reassured Mr. Wick. “He’s been here for years and has never harmed a soul. Which nobody knows, by the way. Don’t let on he’s a friendly ghost, Abby.”
“Why is there a ghost? How long has he been here? Were there plays in here
