Pinpricks of bright light romped before his eyes, then faded like spent firecrackers when he shook his head.
The acrid stench of gasoline filled his nose. A warm trickle of blood ran down his temple. The sting of rain pouring in from the cracked window pelted his face. When he tried to move to get his bearings, dizziness overwhelmed him.
He reached up to touch his forehead and connected with the roll bar, instead. If it hadn’t been for the bar, he’d be dead. And against all odds, he was surprised he was glad to be alive.
The engine wheezed spasmodically, but the lights were out. Tyler saw nothing, not even the hand he waved in front of his face. Slowly, deliberately, to keep his head from swinging crazily like one of those bobbing-head dolls in a car window, he fumbled for the ignition switch and turned off the engine. He reached for the door handle. Pain shot through his wrist.
“Okay. Take it easy.” Securing his hurt wrist against his bruised ribs, he twisted his body and pulled himself through the window with his good arm. Rain assaulted him with a vengeance.
Another bolt of lightning rent the sky, giving him a chance to reexamine his position. Then he braced himself against the Jeep’s frame and jumped. Slipping on the muddy embankment, he lost his balance and landed in the water at the bottom of the ditch. As he sat, water filled his cowboy boots and seeped through his jeans and cotton shirt.
The rain turned into pea-size hail. Numbed instincts prickled back to life. Survival proved stronger than the pessimism of the past year.
Tyler forced himself to stand. Pain throbbed through his body and ended in his head with the pounding of a hundred hammers.
“Tyler Blackwell is back,” he warned the rain. Thunder mocked him.
He clawed his way out of the ditch, pulling up his body with sheer determination until he found the road. Lightning flashed at regular intervals, lighting his way. Wincing with every step, he trudged toward town.
What kind of trouble could a recluse get herself into within the confines of a castle? Melissa Carnes painted pictures, and she rode horses, for crying out loud. Freddy’s instincts were wrong this time. It was the baby, the guilt. There was no psychotic stalker, no wicked stepmother, no greedy half sister out to harm his niece.
“I hope you’re worth it, lady.” He gritted his teeth and concentrated on walking.
“Damn you, Freddy, for cashing in your chip, and damn you, Lindsey, for dying.” No, he didn’t mean that. It wasn’t her fault. He sneered. Yeah, most people would say it was his fault. His beautiful wife. If he hadn’t been so ambitious. If he’d known when to let go. If he hadn’t pushed the wrong person too far. Then Lindsey would still be alive, and he’d still be a hero. He rested for a moment against a sign that read No Outlet. “Great. Just great. I’m heading nowhere.”
The road came to a sudden end. Lightning crazed the sky, flickering a mirage before him. The photographs had not done Thornwylde Castle justice.
Before him was a fortress straight out of Camelot—moat, drawbridge, towers and all. Castles belonged in England, not the wilds of North Texas. Took a rich eccentric like William Carnes to import a castle and plop it on land more suited to ranch bungalows. Took a peculiar woman like Melissa Carnes to live there and pass herself off as a witch. But she was Freddy’s niece, and Tyler had promised to keep her safe.
Head pounding, he dragged himself over the wooden bridge that spanned a water-filled moat and found himself faced with a barred and closed entrance gate. Three stairs, that to his aching body, seemed as unscalable as Mount Everest, stood to the left and led to a smaller door. With his last ounce of strength he hoisted himself up the steps and knocked on the door.
He leaned against the rain-slicked wood. His body crumpled under his weight and his face buried itself in the prickly doormat. A wave of heaviness surged through him and filled him with the same darkness that surrounded him.
And as the last thread of thought snapped into black, an overwhelming sense of evil engulfed him.
RAY LUNDY sat alone in the cab of his pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the prearranged two-short-and-one-long signals of light. He couldn’t have asked for a better atmosphere if he’d had a straight line to God. Drenching rain poured from a sky darker than Hades, and the eerie strobelike dance of the wizened oak branches around him added just the right touch.
His contact wanted anonymity. Well, hell, you couldn’t get more lost than in this part of Parker County. Ray pressed the button that lit his digital watch. He’d give his contact five more minutes, then he’d leave.
Only fools went out on a night like this. Even the witch wouldn’t venture out of her castle tonight. No, anyone with half a brain would stay home, heeding the weatherman’s forecast of possible tornadoes in the North-Texas area.
Though the purr of the idling engine offered a measure of comfort, Ray flipped on the heater button to stave off the chill. He didn’t dare turn on the radio. Not that anyone would be out on a night like this, but he’d hate to be caught unawares. Instead, he let the rhythm of the rain on the pickup’s roof keep his thoughts company.
Ray knew he was a fool, but if things kept going his way, it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon, very soon, he’d give his job the kiss-off and be his own man. He’d get back what was owed him. Then he’d be the one giving orders, sending whipping boys to do the dirty work and him reaping all the rewards. A smile curled his lips at the headiness of the thought. Yeah, he could handle that.
Through the heavy downpour Ray saw the weak signal. He hit his headlights in answer. Let the contact get wet. I may be a fool, but I ain’t stupid.
The contact, dressed all in black, yanked the rusty door open and slid into the passenger seat. “Couldn’t you have picked a drier spot?”
“Yeah,” Ray said, exaggerating his drawl. “Guess I could’ve. But then I’d have missed a great sight. Tch, tch. Rain and leather and silk just don’t mix, do they.”
He laughed and drew a cigar from his coat pocket. Once he lit the stogie, he took a slow drag, inhaling deeply before he deliberately blew smoke rings in his contact’s face, enjoying the action even more than the poke he’d had earlier with the new stable girl. He was the one pulling strings now. Power. There was nothing to beat sheer power. It was his birthright, and he’d get it back—no matter whose strings he had to yank to get the results he wanted.
“Why all the secrecy?” Ray asked.
The contact shifted to avoid the smoke. “Nobody can know I’m involved. It has to look like it’s her idea. I have just over a month to run Melissa Carnes off her land.”
Ray stopped blowing smoke rings. Now wasn’t that interesting? Melissa Carnes would have been his last guess for this little enterprise. Oh, yeah, this was definitely his lucky day. “It’ll take me less than a day to plug a bullet in her brain. Everyone knows the witch likes to ride at night.”
“No, you jackass! It has to look like it’s her idea to leave.”
See if you talk to me in that tone of voice when this is over, you bottomfeeder… Ray took a long pull on the cigar. I’m in charge here. “Why?”
“You’re paid to follow orders, not to ask questions.”
“I like to understand the psychology behind the job.”
