matter to herself: not in this lifetime.
Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” emanated from somewhere, the bar maybe. She studied the joint as they chugged past it. To a degree it defied description, the kind term would be quaint. In Blue’s estimation it was a dump. A shack with a rusty corrugated tin roof and a couple of windows that had been boarded shut at one time or another. There was no way to tell if the damage had been caused by a storm or by rowdy patrons. Beer logos and a crude hand-painted sign displaying the hours of business decorated the weathered batten-board siding. One truck, a relative of the one Chester drove no doubt, two bicycles and a moped were parked in front of the establishment. Things were jumping at BullDog’s, she mused.
At the edge of “downtown” was a small general store, its dusty parking area empty. The building wasn’t large, but it was well-maintained, clean even. As they drove by, an elderly man stepped onto the stoop, broom in hand, and vigorously swept off the steps.
“That’s where most folks get the little things they run out of now and again.” Chester nodded toward Weber’s Grocery. “Gotta go to the mainland to get your staples though. O’Mally, the fella who hauled you over, makes two runs a day from the mainland, once in the morning, once in the evening. Otherwise you gotta hire some local to run you back and forth.”
Blue had lived in one major city or the other her whole life. This was definitely a big change. No carry-out pizza, no taco stands, no Chinese takeout, no nothing.
She shook her head and amended her thinking. No, this wasn’t a big change. This was a whole different planet. Lucas had failed to mention that little detail.
The woods bordered the narrow island road for as far as Blue could see in the enveloping gloom. And, as far as she could tell, there really was only the one road, which was as bumpy as all get out. Alongside the cramped road, undergrowth was thick, the massive canopy of the trees stretching over it blocking the sun’s waning light.
She didn’t like the dark. She stiffened her spine and tamped down the budding fear. It wasn’t completely dark, she reminded herself, just gloomy. She’d be at her destination before darkness completely descended.
But one thing was a given, she wouldn’t want to be out in these woods at night. No way. She couldn’t shake the sensation of recognition, though she knew it was not feasible.
Occasionally she noticed what looked like a side road, but the foliage worked as such good camouflage that she couldn’t be sure if she’d seen anything at all. She hadn’t noticed a single house or person except for the handful of patrons at the bar and general store, and, of course, Chester.
“Here we go.”
Chester turned right, bouncing down a lane that was one pothole after the other. The woods closed in on Blue now, dark, silent and subliminally threatening. Her uneasiness escalated in spite of her conscious efforts to keep it in check.
Get a grip, she chastised herself. She might be a fish out of water in these surroundings, but she could adapt. Give her a flashlight and a nine-millimeter and she could kick anybody’s butt, even in the dark.
Finally the near-nonexistent road widened slightly. A tall wrought-iron gate crossed their path. Hinged on brick pillars that stood on either side of the lane, one side of the ornate gate was open, allowing their passage. Beyond the apparently decorative feature the compact undergrowth and the dense forest opened up into a clearing. A lush green lawn stretched for half an acre and stopped abruptly at the foundation of a towering three-story house. Blue wasn’t that up to speed on this particular architecture, but it looked old, as in antique-old—mid-1800s, if she had to guess. And a little like something from an Emily Brontë novel with its perception of beauty marred by a distinct air of evil, especially in the fading light.
Ivy carpeted a great deal of the brick exterior. Here and there resurrection fern sprouted from a crack in the centuries-old mortar. Window after window—long, wide windows—were shut tight with hurricane shutters. A crenelated tower and a parapet along the tin-shingled roofline lent a castle-like feel to the place. Wooden icicles of fretwork and other intricately carved ornamentation softened the hard exterior.
A wide verandah sprawled across the front of the house, twilight casting it in long shadows. A smaller balcony centered on the second floor. The third floor of the structure, the tower, could have been a fairy-tale turret had it been round instead of square. A tower room, she decided, feeling suddenly better. Okay, she could live with that. When she’d been a little girl she’d dreamed of being a princess and living in a castle. Her fantasy chamber had been at the very top of the spiral stairs. The tower room. She smiled faintly at the memory. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and she darned sure wasn’t a princess. Far from it. But this was nice. A little too far away from civilization, but doable on a temporary basis.
The house looked in fairly good condition, maintenancewise. But there was something unsettling about it, she decided the moment Chester turned off the truck’s engine. It was so quiet. The shutters were closed tight over the numerous windows. Another shameful waste of architectural beauty. She supposed it was Drake’s condition that necessitated the closed shutters. She swiped at her damp brow with the back of her hand and hoped there was air-conditioning. It was still hot and sticky and the sun was all but gone from sight.
As she emerged from the truck, bottles hanging from a nearby tree captured her attention. “What’re those?” she asked, closing the door behind her and pointing to the bottles in question.
Chester flicked a glance toward the tree. “Spirit bottles,” he said. “They keep the evil spirits away.”
The breeze shifted the bottles, stirring to life a clanging noise that made her shiver all over again.
“Way I hear it, they don’t do much good around here.” Chester reached for her bags and led the way up the eight steps that divided the house from the lawn.
She opted not to pursue the subject of the spirit bottles. Blue had never been superstitious, nor did she believe in any of the related mumbo-jumbo. She wasn’t about to start now.
Before they’d crossed the verandah, the intricately carved mahogany door opened wide.
“Thank you, Chester,” the man standing in the doorway, Mr. Kline, she presumed, said as he stepped back for Chester to place her bags just inside the house.
Chester touched the tip of his hat. “See you on Friday.” As he turned to leave, his gaze caught Blue’s and held for just one second. She couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes, sympathy maybe, before he walked away.
“Miss Callahan, I’m glad you’re here.”
Blue turned her attention back to the older, white-haired man waiting at the door. He had the same drawl as Chester, only a bit more distinguished. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a crisp white shirt and reminded her of a professor she’d once had. “Mr. Kline?”
He thrust out his hand. “Call me Lowell, please.” He gave her hand a quick, polite shake, then gestured inside. “Won’t you come in?”
To her immense relief, climate-controlled air greeted her as Blue crossed the threshold. Lowell closed the door behind her and—
It was dark.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart jolted into a faster rhythm.
“Why are the lights so low?” There was no way to miss the edge of panic in her voice. She swallowed
