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The rose garden was cooler than the front porch. The grass was wet and green beneath her sneakers, and the rich scent of spring earth was almost erotic in its intensity. Salvatore left her there, muttering something about returning in an hour, and she was alone.

The garden was lovingly tended, the roses very old and just beginning to bud. Ruth had told her the sullen townspeople of Oak Grove came in daily to take care of the house—one of them must have a green thumb to keep such ancient roses in such healthy shape.

But it wasn't a townsperson, she knew that instinctively. It was the old man who'd found her that night, the old man she'd glimpsed less than an hour ago from her window.

She turned and looked back at the house, shaking her head in amazement. From every angle, the building was a wonderment as one architectural style gave way to another, a crazy quilt of building styles that was both bizarre and oddly appealing. She could only guess which windows were hers. The turret rose above her, made of solid stone, and she knew with a pang that it must have been built exactly as the old castles of Europe had been built. The old castles she should have been visiting, instead of being trapped in a state like Arkansas. A place where nothing was as it seemed.

She crossed the damp grass and stepped up into the gazebo, sinking down on one of the wooden benches, hiding behind the greenery. Ever since she'd arrived at the Meredith place, she'd felt as if someone was watching her, following her every movement. She knew that no one could see behind the tangle of rose bushes. For a few minutes, she was going to sit back, alone, away from everyone, and try to figure out what in the world she was going to do to get away from there.

She wrapped her arms around her body. She should have worn something a little heavier than the soft cotton shirt she'd unearthed from her suitcase, but it hadn't seemed that chilly. She leaned back against a post, closing her eyes for a moment, and wondered whether she ought to shed a few tears of self-pity.

She decided against it. She was quickly regaining her health and no one had actually done her harm. Certainly she was trapped in this place against her will. She was also becoming more and more fascinated with its occupants, Ethan Winslowe in particular. If he were suddenly to capitulate, to let her father off the hook and set her free, her obvious reaction would be overjoyed relief. But it would be tinged with regret. Perhaps even disappointment. She had wanted to go to Europe for adventure. Whatever happened when she finally got there would probably appear tame after what she'd been through in the past week or so.

She opened her eyes and sat forward. A man was kneeling in the dirt on the far side of the gazebo, digging at the roots of one of the rose bushes, concentrating on his work. His hands were old and gnarled, stained with liver spots, and the white hair beneath his old cap was wispy. He must have felt her gaze on him for he looked up, and once more Meg looked into what must be the kindest, gentlest eyes she'd ever seen. Here was a man who was truly ageless—he looked at least ninety— and yet he was clearly spry and active if he kept this garden looking as it did. And she knew without a doubt that he did.

"I thought you might be asleep," he said, sitting back on his heels and brushing the dirt from his hands.

"I came looking for you."

He nodded. "I thought you might. Did you ask them about me?"

"No one will admit you exist."

His smile was peculiarly sweet. "I'm not surprised. Maybe I don't. Do you like my garden?"

"It's very beautiful."

"It's even prettier when the roses start blooming. By the middle of May, the place is a riot of color and scent. A perfect place for a wedding."

Meg was startled. "Is anyone getting married?"

"Not here," he said sadly. "The only one would be Ethan, and he never comes out into the daylight."

"Why not?"

"Ask Ethan."

"I'm asking you," she said stubbornly.

"Ask me something I can answer. You sent that crazy minister away, didn't you?"

Did everyone around here see everything? "'Crazy' is the word. I got the impression he'd dunk me in a vat of boiling water to cleanse the devil from me."

"I hadn't realized Ethan had gotten that far."

She sucked in her breath. It was one thing hearing Ethan referred to as evil by a crazed fanatic, another by this gentle old man. "You think he's the devil?"

He shook his head. "I know just who and what he is. If anyone's the devil around here, in my opinion it's Pastor Lincoln and his crazy followers. They run around saying everything's unclean and make life a living hell for the few people who don't believe exactly as they do. People like Burt and Ruth Wilkins. It doesn't help that Ethan does everything he can to goad them. If he'd leave them be, then they might let him alone, too."

"Do you really believe that?"

"No. Lincoln and his crew won't rest easy until they've destroyed Ethan. They're so convinced he's the epitome of evil that they can't use their limited brain power to think about anything else. Including how to get out of the mess their town has gotten into over the last century."

"It's a little hard to right the wrongs of a century, isn't it?" Meg observed.

"It depends whether they want to or not. The town of Oak Grove is doomed, evil. The best thing that could happen would be if one of those tornadoes came right through here and flattened everything."

Meg moved from the bench to the gazebo steps. The sunlight had faded into a misty afternoon fog, and the old man seemed faded, indistinct. "Isn't that a little extreme? What's wrong with the town? Just isolation?"

"They've chosen that isolation. It started around the turn of the century. It was a bad time for the people around here. Drought, year after year, wiped out their crops. Then came the windstorms, wiping out half the families. The only ones who survived were the ones who were too mean and bitter to die off. The ones who locked their neighbors out in the storms to face certain death rather than risk their own necks. And those mean, bitter people just keep inbreeding over the years, so now, there's no one but them left. The good ones leave any way they can manage it. The bad ones stay on, locked in their own miserable, bitter little lives."

"I wouldn't have thought a whole town could be classified as rotten."

"You haven't seen enough of this one. It's...evil. I hate to use Pastor Lincoln's word, but it fits."

"Then why does Ethan stay here? Wouldn't that make him evil, too?"

The old man looked up at her out of indistinct, faded blue eyes. "He stays here because he feels he belongs. He thinks all people are as cruel, as heartless, as intrinsically rotten as the people of Oak Grove. It reinforces his opinion of mankind."

The weight in her chest grew, but this time she knew it wasn't from the lingering effects of the pneumonia. Her lungs were clearing. It was her heart that was heavy.

"Is there any way to help him?" Her voice was very quiet in the stillness of the misty afternoon.

He looked at her with both surprise and compassion. "Why should you want to? Hasn't he been keeping you a virtual prisoner here? Hasn't he threatened to destroy your father and everything you care about? Why would you want to help him?"

She didn't bother asking how he knew. Everyone around here seemed to know everything. Except for her. She knew absolutely nothing at all, and the longer she stayed around, the more confused she got.

"Maybe if I help him, he'll let me go," she suggested, knowing that was the least of her worries.

"I wouldn't count on it. Ethan's good at anything he sets his mind to, and tenacity is one of his dubious virtues. I should know. He blames Doc Bailey and the townspeople for his father's death more than fifteen years ago, and he's still working on the perfect revenge."

"But why should he blame them?"

"Oh, they're to blame, all right. He had a heart attack out here in the gardens. Doc Bailey was too drunk to help, and the townspeople refused. Ferdy down at the gas station had the only working vehicle, and he wouldn't drive him to the hospital. Ethan's father might have died anyway, but the townspeople helped him along, and Ethan was an orphan before he was twenty."

"That makes him about thirty-five," Meg quickly computed.

"How old did you think he was?"

"I don't know. I've never seen him. What happened to his mother?"

The old man snorted. "His mother was a worthless butterfly who couldn't stand the sight of her own son. She died in a car crash when he was twelve, and if you ask me, it was eleven years too late."

"That's pretty harsh."

"She deserves it for what she did to him," the old man said, his voice calm and implacable. "He's not past saving, Meg, but his time's running out. Soon it'll be too late. I think you were sent for him. His last chance."

The heaviness rose, threatening to choke her. "Last chance for what?"

"You'll have to figure that out for yourself," he said gently, his voice fading in the thickening fog. "Don't blame yourself if you can't save him. It may already be too late."

"Save him from what?" She could no longer see the old man, only a faint outline in the swirling mist. A light drizzle had begun to fall and she retreated into the dubious shelter of the gazebo. "Save him from what? Don't go yet. You haven't explained—"

"I'll be here," his voice whispered from the distance. "When you need me, I'll be here."

"But who are you? What's your name? Where are you going? Who..."

"Joseph." She didn't know whether she actually heard him speak the name, or whether it somehow just echoed in her mind.

She called after him, but there was no answer. Only the thickening rain and mist, with her trapped on the gazebo island in the midst of it all.

 

"She called me Igor," Salvatore said in an aggrieved voice.

Ethan laughed. "It's appropriate. After all, you really are the evil madman's faithful henchman. You don't have a hunchback or a cast in your eye, but we could do something with a costume."

"I didn't think it was funny. She said you slept in a coffin."

"I didn't know she was interested in where I slept. I'll have to enlighten hen"

"Ethan..."

"I wish you'd stop doing that. Every time you say 'Ethan...' in that tone of voice you make me think of a schoolmarm. Next thing I know, you'll be rapping my knuckles with a ruler."

"Maybe you're acting like a schoolboy."

"Maybe. I wish I'd seen her send Lincoln on his way. It must have been amusing."

"It's what you expected, wasn't it?"

Ethan shrugged. "I don't count on anything. She might have been fool enough to go with him. It would have simplified matters."

"What are you going to do about her father?"

Ethan glanced at him. "Is there any hurry? I thought things could wait while I concentrated on his daughter."

"He's breaking ground for a civic center in Alabama next week. Nothing you designed, so you're off the hook if something happens. Maybe you don't need to do anything."

"Do you think I've gone after him because of my reputation?"

"No. But I don't think you've gone after him out of concern for your fellow man. I've known you too long, Ethan, to be fooled into thinking you've turned into a bleeding heart."

"True enough. I don't, however, enjoy knowing that people might die while a man I've helped makes money off them. Reese Carey wouldn't be where he is today if it weren't for my designs. Therefore I have a measure of responsibility."

"You also want a measure of revenge."

"Even more true, Sally. And I intend to get just that. His daughter's a good place to start. Where's our unwilling houseguest right now? Maybe it's time I told her a few home truths about her father."

"You don't think she's known all the time? That she's part of the cover-up?"

Ethan hesitated. "No."

"Good God," Salvatore breathed. "You've really fallen, haven't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just because I think she's relatively innocent..."

"You don't believe anyone's innocent. Not until you've got proof, and all you've got with Meg Carey is gut instinct. Or is it something a little lower down than that?"

"I'm a man, Sally. I'm as capable of lust as the next man."

"I know that. I just didn't think you were capable of falling in love."

Ethan's reaction was absolute horror. "Give me a break, Sally. Falling in love is a euphemism for something a lot more biological."

"And your feelings for Meg Carey are biological?"

"Most definitely. And getting more overwhelming every day." Ethan leaned back in his chair, putting his fingertips together as he thought of Meg Carey's mouth. Of her surprisingly lush body beneath the thin cotton nightgown. He wanted to watch her again. Not touch her, not yet. He wanted to savor the anticipation. And he wanted her to savor it, too, even if she hadn't yet recognized that that was what it was.

"She's in the rose garden. Stuck in the gazebo while it rains."

"What the hell is she doing there?"

"Looking for Joseph."

"Do you think she found him?" Ethan kept his voice no more than idly curious, though he didn't know why he bothered. Sal knew him better than any human on this earth and he wouldn't be fooled for a moment.

"Not many people do. He came to her once, though, when she was lost in the rain. He might come again."

Ethan nodded. "He probably did. She has an amazing ability to draw people to her."

"It hasn't worked with me," Sal said righteously.

"Hasn't it? Why do you keep trying to get her away from my evil clutches, then?"

"Maybe because it's you I'm worried about. Not her. You can't just kidnap people, Ethan. You can't keep her prisoner here indefinitely. Sooner or later, they're going to come after you. Not that cowed bunch of fanatics in Oak Grove, but the state authorities. Maybe even the feds. You aren't going to get away with it for much longer."

"Who's going to send out a distress signal? Not the good people of Oak Grove. Not her cowardly father. She has no other attachments. Everyone else thinks she's gone to Europe. Reese Carey has probably convinced himself of the same thing."

"You're playing with fire, Ethan."

"I don't think it would matter much if I got burned, do you? I think I'm going to have to pay Meg a little visit tonight. Go and rescue her from the gazebo, Sal. This damp weather won't do her lungs any good. And you'd better make sure she has enough antibiotic to finish out the course. We don't want her having a relapse."

"Why not? That would force her to stay here longer."

"She's staying as long as I want her. Besides, I want her healthy. I have plans for her," Ethan said evenly.

"Ethan..."

"There you go again, schoolmarm. Go find her and get her safe and warm. Maybe it's time to move her again. Why don't you take her to the Roman section?"

"Which room?" Sal asked in a weary voice.

"I think it's time to up the ante. She's had enough Stephen King for now. Put her in the Pompeii room."

 

"So where’s my toga?" Meg demanded when Salvatore showed her into the dimly lit interior of her new

rooms. She'd been hard-pressed to hide her gratitude when he'd showed up at the entrance to the gazebo with a huge gold umbrella to shield her from the rain. At least the precipitation had been accompanied by warmer temperatures. If that unnatural chill had stayed in the air, she would have probably been ready for a relapse.

The austere confines of her new rooms weren't precisely welcoming. At least there was a decent-size bed directly in the center of the room. This room was at least partway underground, and in the corner was a brazier with hot coals sending warmth into the air. The walls were covered with murals, ones she didn't bother to look at. For the time being, she wanted to change out of her damp clothes, get something to eat and figure how she was going to get out of here.

"Women didn't wear togas," Sal said repressively. "Bathroom's over there, and your clothes are in the closet. Be ready in half an hour."

"Ready for what? I planned to take a long hot bath. Romans were famous for baths, weren't they? I'm assuming this place comes equipped with a Roman-style swimming pool."

"You can use it later. Ethan wants you for dinner."

"To feed or to eat?"

Sal glowered. "Don't wear jeans. He doesn't like them."

That settled the question of what she'd wear to dinner. Obviously, jeans it would be. "I'll be ready in an hour," she said flatly.

The Roman section of the house even had a pillared portico with steps leading down into a courtyard complete with marble statues. Meg glanced out into the gathering gloom. For the first time, she'd have immediate access to the outdoors, unless, of course, Ethan decided to have her locked in again. Maybe if the rain cleared, she'd try to leave tonight.

Except that it was clear the town of Oak Grove wasn't going to provide any help. She might be able to find her rental car, but given the size and complexity of this old place, chances were slim. It was conceivable she could drive one of the construction vehicles she'd heard in the distance. At one point, she'd been moderately proficient at running a backhoe.

The problem with backhoes was that they only traveled about five miles an hour, maximum. She'd be better off on her own two feet. And better off waiting just a couple more days until her strength was back. It wouldn't do much good to take off and then collapse in a ditch a few miles away. And when it came right down to it, she wasn't sure who she'd rather have find her in those circumstances: the deranged Pastor Lincoln and his bunch, or Ethan Winslowe himself.

There was no hurry, was there? No one seemed to give a hoot that she'd disappeared off the face of the earth, up to and including her father. As long as she stayed put, Ethan had promised to leave Reese alone. Not that she was certain her father deserved any mercy, but certainly no man should be crucified for one shortsighted mistake. And then there was the company, with hundreds of jobs depending on it.

No, maybe she wouldn't wear the jeans, after all. Maybe she'd find her prettiest dress, follow Salvatore like the demure young lady she certainly wasn't and do her best to ameliorate Ethan Winslowe's uncertain temper. If she were just sweet and accommodating enough, he might be talked into dropping this whole crazy idea and letting her go.

And maybe pigs could fly. She wasn't about to use sex to get what she wanted from the man. That had too much possibility of backfiring right in her face. The baggiest, most wretched pair of jeans she'd brought with her, her loosest sweater and her grumpiest expression. Anything was worth a try.

There was only one minor problem with her current plan. When she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a voluminous towel, she found her damp pair of jeans missing from the mosaic floor of the room. Every pair of jeans she owned had been taken from her suitcase, and her Reeboks had disappeared. She was left with dresses, all of them too filmy or too clinging or too low cut.

Not that she usually considered her dresses provocative. They were all reasonably trendy, flattering fashions, ones she'd never thought twice about wearing.

She was thinking twice now. She didn't want Ethan Winslowe's unseen eyes traveling down the front of the clinging peach dress, dipping over the décolletage of the black knit, running along the curves of the blue sundress.

She had no real choice in the matter. The black knit had the longest hemline, the loosest cut, and if she just kept tugging at the neckline, there wouldn't even be a hint of cleavage. Hell and damnation, why hadn't she lost weight when she was sick? With her luck, she'd probably gained five pounds, all in the chest.

The ancient Romans apparently had no mirrors, so she could only guess what she looked like. Too pale, too defiant, too rounded. Target practice for Ethan Winslowe.

"You ready?" Salvatore hadn't bothered to knock. He'd swung the door open, standing there with a flashlight against the gathering gloom.

"Morituri te salutamus," she muttered under her breath, slipping on her highest heels for the modicum of moral support they gave her.

"What's that?"

"Just getting into the Roman spirit of things, Sal," she replied, shoving her hair back away from her too pale face and biting her lips. "We who are about to die salute you."

"I don't think it's going to go that far. Not if you're careful," Sal replied, absolutely seriously.

She looked at him in horror. "Et tu, Brute? I don't scare easily."

"I know you don't. More's the pity." Without a word, he took off down the darkened hallway, leaving her to follow him.

For a moment, she considered staying put. Not for a moment did she consider that she might really be in danger. Ethan had warned her about innocence and blind trust. The only person she hadn't trusted so far had been the minister. Certainly that wasn't a good omen for the future.

She wasn't going to improve her situation by cowering in her room, either. Chances were Ethan would come after her or send his hulking familiar. She'd lied to him. It didn't take much to scare her at all. At the moment, she was frankly terrified.

But staying in the darkened room didn't offer much of an alternative. Particularly when certain scenes of the last Stephen King novel she'd been desperate enough to read kept drifting into her memory, despite her efforts to banish them.

"Wait up, Igor," she called out after the rapidly disappearing light. And ignoring her panic, she took off after Sal into the darkness.