Heaven and Earth by Nora Roberts (2)

Things just didn’t add up there, not tidily enough for Harding to close the book. Or maybe it was just too tidy. Remington tracks her down. Pure coincidence. Knocks her around. Enter the hero, the local sheriff and new love interest. Got himself stabbed for his trouble, Harding thought now, but he kept on riding to the rescue. Took Remington into custody in the woods, talking him out of slitting the pretty heroine’s throat. Hauled him to jail, and got himself sewed up.

Good boy saves girl. Bad boy goes into a padded cell. Good boy marries girl. Happy days. That story, with all its angles, had been four-walled in the media for weeks after Remington’s arrest. And had, as most did, pretty much petered out. But there’d been whispers. The kind no one could confirm, that more had gone on in the woods that night than an in-the-nick-of-time arrest. Whispers of witchcraft. Of magic.

Harding had been willing to dismiss that idea, maybe play on the angle for a few column inches, but just for the novelty. After all, Remington was a raving lunatic. His statement about that night, which Harding had paid good money for, could hardly be taken without a truckload of salt. And yet . . .Dr. MacAllister Booke, the Indiana Jones of the paranormal, had taken up temporary residence on Three Sisters Island . Didn’t that prick up the ears? Booke wasn’t one to waste his time, Harding knew. The man hacked his way through jungles, hiked over miles of desert, climbed mountains to do research in his unlikely chosen field. And mostly on his own nickel, of which he had plenty. But he didn’t waste his time.

He debunked more so-called magic than he verified, but when he verified, people tended to listen. Smart people. If there wasn’t something to those whispers, why would he have gone? Helen Remington, excuse me, Nell Channing Todd, wasn’t making any claims. She’d spoken to the police, of course, but there was no mention of witchcraft phenomena in her statement. None in the press release funneled through her attorneys either.

But MacAllister Booke had deemed Three Sisters worth his time. And that interested Harding. Interested him enough that he’d read up on the island, its lore, its legends himself. And his reporter’s nose had scented a story. A big, fat, and potentially juicy story. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to pry interviews out of Mac before. The MacAllister-Bookes were eye-crossing rich, influential, and staunchly conservative. With a little cooperation he could have generated a series of solid features on the family and their spook-chasing son. But nobody, particularly Booke himself, cooperated.

And that stung. Still, it was just a matter of finding the right crowbar and knowing the correct amount of pressure to apply. Harding was confident that Remington himself would help him ease the lid off. After that, he could take care of the rest.

Harding walked down the corridor of what he thought of as the loony bin. Remington had been judged legally insane, which had saved the taxpayers the cost of a long, detailed trial and cheated them out of the meaty morsels the media could have dispensed had there been one. The fact was, the weapon used against the island sheriff had Remington’s fingerprints on it. The sheriff, and two witnesses, including the island’s deputy, had given statements that Remington had held that knife to his wife’s throat and had threatened her life.

Even more damning, Remington hadn’t simply confessed, he’d screamed about murdering her, babbled about till death do us part, and carried on about the need to burn the adulterous witch. Of course, he’d screamed about a lot of other things, too. About glowing eyes, blue lightning, snakes crawling under his skin. Between the physical evidence, the witness statements, and his own rantings, Remington had copped himself a room in the barred and guarded section of the nuthouse.

Harding’s visitor’s badge flapped on the lapel of his tailored suit jacket. His tie, the exact shade of charcoal as the suit, was perfectly knotted. His hair was dark, shot with silver and meticulously cut to suit his square, ruddy face. His features were blocky, and his eyes, a dark brown, tended to vanish when he smiled. His mouth was thin, and when annoyed he appeared to be lipless.

If his face, and his speaking voice, had been marginally more appealing, he might have wormed his way into television news. He’d once wanted that, the way some boys want that first touch of female breast. Lustfully, gleefully. But the camera was not his friend. It accented his features and made his short, stocky build resemble a tree stump.

His voice, as some smart-mouthed tech had once told him, sounded like a wounded goose when miked. The cruel loss of that childhood dream had helped turn Harding into the kind of print reporter he was today. Ruthless and iceberg-cold. He listened to the echo of locks being released, heavy doors opening. He would remember to describe them when he wrote of this visit, of the eerie clang of metal on metal, the impassive faces of the guards and medical staff, the oddly sweet smell of madness.

He waited outside yet another room. There was a final check here, an attendant beside the door with a bank of monitors on his desk. The inmates in this section, Harding had been told, were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. When he stepped in with Remington, he himself would be watched as well. That was, he admitted, a comfort. The last door was opened. Harding was reminded he had thirty minutes. He intended to make the most of it.

Evan Remington didn’t look like the man Harding was used to seeing in the glossy pages of magazines, or in sparkling color on the television screen. He sat in a chair, dressed in a violently orange coverall, his posture ruler-straight. There were restraints on his wrists. His hair, once a golden crown, was dull yellow and cut short. His handsome face was puffy now, from the institutional food, from medication, from lack of salon treatments. The mouth was slack, the eyes dead as a doll’s.

They had him sedated, Harding imagined. Take your average sociopath, toss in a few psychoses and violent tendencies, and drugs were everyone’s best friend.

But he hadn’t counted on trying to wend his way through the chemical maze to Remington’s brain. There was a guard at the door to Remington’s back who was already looking bored. Harding sat on his side of the counter, looked between the bars. “Mr. Remington, I’m Harding, Jonathan Q. Harding. I believe you were expecting me today?”

There was no response. Harding cursed inwardly. Couldn’t they have waited to give him his zoning pills until after the interview?

“I spoke with your sister yesterday, Mr. Remington.” Nothing. “Barbara, your sister?”

A thin line of drool slid out the corner of Remington’s mouth. Fastidiously, Harding looked away from it.

“I was hoping to talk to you about your ex-wife, about what happened on Three Sisters the night you were arrested. I work for First Magazine.”

Or he did for the moment. His editors were becoming entirely too delicate, and penny-pinching, for his taste.

“I want to do a story on you, Mr. Remington. To tell your side. Your sister is eager for you to talk to me.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but he had convinced her that an interview might lead to a sympathetic story, which might in turn give weight to her legal action to have her brother moved to a private facility.

“I might be able to help you, Mr. Remington. Evan,” he corrected. “I want to help you.”

He got nothing but that dead and silent stare. And the sheer emptiness of it scuttled along his skin.

“I’m planning to talk to everyone involved, to get a fully rounded story. I’m going to talk to your ex-wife. I’m going to arrange to interview Helen.”

At the sound of the name, the dark, dull eyes flickered.

Someone’s at home after all, Harding thought and edged slightly forward. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Helen for you? Any message I can take to Helen?”

“Helen.”

The voice was raspy, hardly more than a whisper. Harding told himself that was why a cold finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it. “That’s right. Helen. I’m going to see Helen very soon.”

“I killed her.” The slack mouth bowed up into a stunning and brilliant smile. “In the woods, in the dark. I kill her every night, because she keeps coming back. She keeps laughing at me, so I kill her.”

“What happened that night in the woods. With Helen?”

“She ran from me. She’s mad, you know. Why else would she run, would she think she could get away? I had to kill her. Her eyes burned.”

“Blue lightning? Did they burn like blue lightning?”

“It wasn’t Helen.” Remington’s eyes darted, black birds on the wing. “Helen was quiet, and obedient. She knew who was in charge. She knew.” As he spoke his fingers began to scrabble on the arms of the chair.

“Who was it?”

“A witch. Came out of hell, all of them. So much light, so much light. They blinded me, they cursed me. Snakes, under my skin. Snakes. Circle of light. Circle of blood. Can you see it?”

For a moment he could. Clear as glass, and terrifying. Harding had to force back a shudder. “Who are all of them?”

“They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the fine hairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”

He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward. A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter. But. . .but. . .

The smell of the story was too strong to resist.

Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt. Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation. He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.

It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would have been, by his standards, rude. Patience and courtesy had paid off, and she’d casually asked him if he would like to come up for dinner. He’d accepted, just as casually.

Now, as he drove up the coast road, he was filled with anticipation. There was so much he wanted to ask her, particularly since Ripley shut down each time he tried to question her. He had yet to approach Nell.

Two warnings by two witches made a definite point. He would wait there, until Nell came to him or the path was cleared. There was plenty of time. And he still had that ace in the hole. He liked the look of her place, the old stone high on the cliff, standing against time and the sea. The art of the gables, the romance of the widow’s walk, the mystery of the turrets. The white beam from the lighthouse cut through the dark like a wide blade, swept over sea, the stone house, the dark stand of trees.

It was a lonely spot, he thought as he parked. Almost arrogantly alone and undeniably beautiful. It suited her perfectly. The snow had been neatly cleared from her drive, from her walk. He couldn’t imagine any woman who looked like Mia Devlin hoisting a snow shovel. He wondered if that was a sexist opinion. He decided it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her being a woman, and everything to do with beauty. He simply couldn’t imagine her doing anything that wasn’t elegant.

The minute she opened the door, he was certain that he was right. She wore a dress of deep forest green, the sort that covered a woman from neck to toe and still managed to tell a man that everything under it was perfect. Was fascinating. Stones glittered at her ears, on her fingers. On a braided silver chain a single carved disk glinted almost at her waist. Her feet were seductively bare.

She smiled, held out a hand. “I’m glad you could come, and bearing gifts.” She accepted the bottle of wine. It was her favorite, she noted. “How did you know?”

“Huh? Oh, the wine. It’s my job to dig up pertinent data.”

With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”

She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”

Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor. He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth. There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase. The air smelled of them, and of her. Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing. There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.

“I’m a practical woman.”

He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.

“Excuse me?”

“Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”

“Your passion’s eclectic.”

“Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his.

“You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his. She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”

He wondered if the room was over warm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”

“Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”

“More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”

“You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”

It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”

“And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”

“Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.

“How’s your . . . appetite?”

His color rose. “My appetite?”

He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”

“Great. Good.”

She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”

Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.

The dining room should have felt formal, intimidating with its huge mahogany table, the wide sideboards and high-backed chairs. But it was as welcoming as her parlor. The colors were warm here, too, deep burgundy shades mixed with dark golds. Flowers in the same hues scented this air as well and speared out of cut crystal. A fire crackled, like an accompaniment to the quiet music of harps and pipes.

The trio of windows along the wall was left uncovered to bring the contrast of black night and white snow into the room. Perfect as a photograph. There was a succulent rack of lamb and the light of a dozen candles. If she’d been intending to dress a stage for romance, she had succeeded, expertly. As they ate she steered the conversation into literature, art, theater, all the while watching him with flattering attention.

It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way she looked at a man, fully, directly, deeply. Candlelight played over her skin like gold on alabaster, in her eyes like gilt over smoke. He wished he could do better than rough pencil sketches. Hers was a face that demanded oil and canvas. It surprised him that they had so much common ground. Books enjoyed, music appreciated. Then again, each of them had spent considerable time learning of the other’s background. He knew she’d grown up here, in this house, an only child. And that her parents had given most of her day-to-day care into Lulu’s hands. She’d gone to college at Radcliffe and had earned degrees in literature and business.

Her parents had left the island before she’d graduated, and rarely returned. She came from money, as did he. She belonged to no coven, no group, no organization, and lived quietly and alone in the place of her birth. She had never married, nor had she ever lived with a man. He wondered that a woman so obviously, so elegantly sexual, had not done so.

“You enjoy traveling,” she said.

“There’s a lot out there to see. I guess I enjoyed it more in my twenties. The kick of packing up, taking off, whenever I wanted, or needed to.”

“And living in New York . The excitement, the stimulation.”

“It has its advantages. But my work can be done anywhere. Do you get to New York often?”

“No. I rarely leave the island. I have all I need and want here.”

“Museums, theater, galleries?”

“I don’t have much of a thirst for them. I prefer my cliffs, my forest, my work. And my garden,” she added. “It’s a pity it’s winter, or we could take a stroll through my garden. Instead we’ll have to settle for coffee and dessert in the parlor.”

She treated him to delicate profiteroles, which he enjoyed. Offered him brandy, which he declined. A clock from somewhere deep in the house bonged the hour as she once again curled herself on the sofa beside him.

“You’re a man of great personal restraint and willpower, aren’t you, Dr. Booke?”

“I’m not sure that’s ever come up. Why?”

“Because you’ve been in my home, alone with me, for more than two hours. I’ve plied you with wine, candlelight, music. And yet you haven’t brought up your professional interest in me, nor have you tried to seduce me. Is that admirable, I wonder, or should I be insulted?”

“I thought about both those things.”

“Really? And what did you think?”

“That you invited me into your home, so to bring up my professional interest was inappropriate.”

“Ah.” She tilted her head, deliberately giving him the opening to lean in, take her mouth. “And the seduction?”

“If there’s a man who’s been within a half a mile of you and hasn’t imagined seducing you, he needs therapy immediately.”

“Oh, I do like you. More than I’d counted on, actually. Now, I’ll apologize for baiting you.”

“Why? I liked it.”

“Mac.” She leaned over, touched her lips lightly to his. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so.”

“I might have enjoyed being more, but it would have been brief, and it would have complicated destinies.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both, and more. We’re not meant to be lovers. I didn’t know you’d already realized that.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I regret it a little.”

“I’d be annoyed if you didn’t.” She tossed back her curling flood of dark-red hair. “Ask the professional question that’s most on your mind. I’ll answer if I can.”

“The circle in the woods by the cottage. How did you cast it?”

Surprise had her pursing her lips. She rose to give herself a moment to think. “That’s a good one,” she said, wandering to the window. “How did you find it?” Before he could answer, she waved a hand. “No, never mind. It’s your job. I can’t answer a question that involves others who may not wish it.”

“I know about Ripley, and Nell.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you?”

“From research, process of elimination, observation.” He shrugged his shoulders. “From being good at what I do. I haven’t approached Nell because both you and Ripley objected.”

“I see. Are you afraid what we’d do if you ignored our objections?”

“No.”

“No. Just that simple and quick. A courageous man.”

“Not at all. You wouldn’t use your gift to punish or harm—not without cause or provocation—and then only to protect. Ripley doesn’t have your control or dedication, but she has her own code, possibly more strict than yours.”

“You read people well. And you’ve approached Ripley? You’ve spoken to her?”

“Yes, I have.”

The corners of her mouth bowed up, but there was little humor in the smile. “And you say you’re not courageous.”

There was enough bite to the words to intrigue. “What happened between the two of you?”

“That’s a second question, and I’ve yet to decide if I’ll answer the first. Until Ripley confirms your supposition—”

“It’s not a supposition, it’s fact. And she has confirmed it.”

“Now you surprise me.” Puzzling it out, Mia paced to the fireplace, from there to the coffeepot to pour, though she had no desire for coffee.

“You’d protect her, too,” Mac said quietly. “She matters to you, a great deal.”

“We were friends, as close as friends can be, for most of our lives. Now we’re not.” She said it simply, though it was anything but simple. “But I haven’t forgotten what we were, or what we shared. Even so, Ripley can protect herself. I can’t think why she’d have admitted to you, so quickly, what she has. What she is.”

“I boxed her in.”

He hesitated only a moment, then told Mia of the energy burst, the woman on the beach, the hour he’d spent with Ripley in the cottage.

Mia took his wrist, examined it herself. “Her temper was always a problem. But her conscience is even stronger. She’ll suffer for having harmed you. She’d have transferred the burns, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“That would have been her way to do penance, to make it right and just again. Taking the burns from your flesh onto her own.”

He thought of the heat, the pain. Swore. “Damn it, that wasn’t necessary.”

“For her, it was. Let it go.” She released his wrist, wandered about the room, and settled her mind.

“You want her, sexually.”

He shifted on the sofa. The blush wanted to creep up his neck. “I’m not entirely comfortable getting into that subject with another woman.”

“Men are so often squeamish about sex. Discussing it, not having it. That’s all right.” She came back, sat again. “Now to answer your question—”

“I’m sorry. Would you object if I recorded your answer?”

“Dr. Booke.” Amusement sang in her voice as he took the little tape recorder out of his pocket. “Such a Boy Scout. Always prepared. No, I don’t suppose I’d object, but we’ll just put it on record as well that this goes into no publication without my written permission.”

“You’re a Boy Scout yourself. Agreed.”

“Nell had taken precautions, and so had I. Legal action was about to begin as further protection. Zack, who is also good at his job and very much in love with Nell, was also protecting her. Yet Evan Remington came to the island, and he found her. He hurt her and terrorized her. He nearly killed Zack and would have killed Nell. Despite everything, he would have taken her life that night. She ran to the woods to keep him from killing Zack, who was already wounded. Ran there knowing he would follow her.”

“She’s a courageous woman.”

“Oh, indeed. She knew the woods, they’re hers, and it was the dark of the moon. Yet still he found her, as part of her knew he would. There are fates that nothing can turn—no magic, no intellect, no effort.”

Her eyes were deep and intense as they met his now. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do.”

She nodded as she studied his face. “I thought you would, and on some level, you even understand it. He was meant to find her. This . . . test that held her life in the balance was written centuries ago. Her courage, and faith in self, were key.”

She paused a moment, gathering herself. “Even knowing that, I was afraid. As a woman is afraid. He held a knife to her throat. Her face was already bruised from his hand. I abhor those who prey on others, who deliberately cause fear and pain in those they see as weaker.”

“You’re a civilized woman,” he said.

“Am I, Dr. Booke? Do you also understand that it was within my power to have caused Evan Remington’s heart to stop, to have stopped his life, given him unspeakable pain, in the instant he threatened my sister?”

“A curse of that magnitude, that violence, requires the belief of the one being cursed. And a complex ritual with . . .” He trailed off because Mia was sipping coffee and smiling—pure amusement now. “All my research confirms that.”

“As you like.” She said it lightly, and the back of his neck prickled. “What I could have done is one thing. I’m bound by my own beliefs, my own vows. I can’t break faith and be what I am. We stood, the five of us, in that wood. Both Zack and Ripley had weapons. But using them would certainly have ended Nell’s life as well as Remington’s. There was only one path, one answer. The circle of three. We cast it that night, without the ceremony, the tools, the chants that are most often required. We cast the circle through will.”

Fascinating, he thought. Amazing. “I’ve never seen that done.”

“Nor had I, until that night, ever attempted it. Needs must,” she murmured. “A link, mind to mind to mind. And power, Dr. Booke, ran in a ring like fire. He couldn’t harm her when she would not be harmed. He couldn’t stay sane when forced to face what lived inside him.”

She spoke quietly, but something—the word magic seemed almost too ordinary—shimmered in the room, stroked over his skin. “Ripley told me you closed the circle.”

“Ripley is uncharacteristically chatty with you. Yes, we closed the circle.”

“The energy’s still there. Stronger than any open circle I’ve documented.”

“The three are very strong when linked. I suspect the energy will be there long after we’re just memories. Nell found what she needed. The first step toward the balance.”

The air cooled again, and she was just a beautiful woman holding a china pot. “More coffee?” she asked.

 

 

Chapter Seven

The slick-handed son of a bitch. First he puts the moves on her, then he worms his way past her better judgment with that cute, trust-me act, then he makes it clear he wants to have sex. Ripley ground her teeth as she jogged along the beach. Then, then , at the first chance, he cozies up to Mia. Men, she decided, were slugs.

She might not have gotten wind of it either if Nell hadn’t casually commented about Mia having Mac up to her house for dinner. Dinner? she snorted. Right, dinner. She just bet he had his mind on his stomach when he bought a bottle of Mia’s favorite fancy French wine at Island Liquors. She’d heard about that, too, after the fact. He’d even asked the clerk which type—vintage—Mia preferred.

Well, he was free to put the make on Mia and on every female on the island. But not when he’d put it on Ripley Todd first. Bastard. City-slicker bastard getting her all stirred up and twitchy, then sneaking off to nibble on Mia. Mia had probably cast out lures just to get her goat. It would be just like her.

She swung around at the end of the beach, pounded in the opposite direction. No, damn it, it wasn’t. However much she would have enjoyed jabbing her elbow in Mia’s face on principle, she couldn’t delude herself. Mia never went sniffing after someone else’s man. The fact was, she didn’t sniff after men at all, which was probably why she was such a moody, irritating woman. A little recreational sex would improve her attitude.

But it wasn’t Mia’s style, and however much at odds they were, Mia Devlin was entirely too loyal, and too damn classy, to poach. Which brought Ripley back full circle to Mac. His fault, completely and totally. All she had to do now was figure out the most satisfying way to make him pay for it.

She finished her run, showered, dressed for the day in dark wool slacks and a turtleneck, buttoning a flannel shirt over it. She laced up her boots. Then took a good long look at herself in the mirror. She could never compete with Mia in the looks department. Who could? Then again, she’d never wanted to. She had her own style and was comfortable with it. Still, she knew just how to bump up the package when she was in the mood.

Toying with the outline of an idea for vengeance, she slicked on lipstick, smudged on eyeliner and shadow, brushed on mascara. Satisfied that she’d made the best use of what she had to work with, she sprayed on some of the perfume Nell had put in her Christmas stocking.

It was a deep, earthy scent and suited her more than anything floral or airy. After some debate, she ditched the flannel shirt. She might be a bit chilly before end of day, but the turtleneck and slacks showed off her curves. Pleased with the results, she strapped her holster to her belt and headed out to work.

Pete Stahr’s mutt had gotten off the leash, again. He’d nosed out a goodly pile of frozen fish guts, feasted on same. Then had sicked them up, along with his morning ration of kibble, on Gladys Macey’s pristine front stoop. It was the sort of neighborhood crisis Ripley preferred leaving to Zack. He was more diplomatic, more patient. But Zack was on the windward side helping to deal with a couple of downed trees. That left her stuck.

“Ripley, I’m at the end of my patience.”

“I don’t blame you for that, Mrs. Macey.” They stood, hunched against the cold, and several steps downwind from the mess on the front stoop.

“That dog—” She pointed to where the unrepentant hound sat tied to a tree trunk by a length of clothesline. “He’s got no more sense than a block of wood.”

“No arguing there, either.” Ripley watched the dopey-faced dog grin and loll his tongue. “But, you know, he’s affable.”

Gladys merely puffed her cheeks full of air, blew it out. “Why he’s taken such a shine to me I don’t know, but the fact is, every blessed time he gets loose he’s over here doing his business in my yard, burying some mangy bone in my flower beds, and now this.”

She set her hands on her hips and scowled at her stoop. “Just who’s going to clean up that awful mess?”

“If you’re willing to wait, I’ll see that Pete does it. It’s coming up to lunchtime, and I’ll root him out and make him come over and deal with it.”

Gladys sniffed, nodded sharply. Justice, she thought, was justice, and the Todds usually found a way to meet it. “I want it done soon and I want it done right.”

“I’ll see to that. Pete’s going to get slapped with a fine, too.”

Gladys folded her lips. “Been fined before.”

“Yes, ma’am, he has.” Okay, Ripley thought, what would Zack do? The dog was harmless, puppy-friendly and dumb as a turnip. His major flaw was his obsession with dead fish parts, which he either joyfully rolled in or greedily consumed. Each with revolting results. As inspiration struck, Ripley hardened her face. “The fact is, that dog’s a public nuisance, and Pete’s been warned.” She tapped her fingers on the butt of her weapon. “We’ll have to impound the dog this time.”

“Well, I should think . . .” Gladys trailed off, blinked. “What do you mean, impound?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Macey. We’ll take care of the dog. He won’t be coming around your yard to do any kind of mischief in the future.”

The little clutch in Gladys’s throat had her voice quavering. “Now wait just a minute.”

As Ripley had counted on, Gladys gripped her arm. “Do you mean to take that dog in and . . . and have it put down?”

“He can’t be controlled . . .” Ripley let the sentence, and its implication, hang. The dog cooperated by sending out a pitiful whine.

“Ripley Todd, I’m ashamed of you for suggesting such a thing. I’m not having it, not for a minute.”

“Now, Mrs. Macey—”

“Don’t you Mrs. Macey me.” Incensed, she wagged her finger in Ripley’s face. “That’s the most heartless thing I’ve ever heard! Putting that harmless dog down just because he’s stupid.”

“But you said—”

“I said he pooped in my yard!” Gladys waved her arms, currently covered in the shocking-pink wool of her sweater. “What are you going to do, pull that gun and put a bullet in his ear?”

“No, I—”

“Oh, I can’t even talk to you right now. You go on, and you leave that dog be. I want my stoop cleaned, and that’s the end of it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ripley hung her head, let her shoulders droop as she walked away. And winked at the dog.

Zack, she decided, couldn’t have done it any better.

She tracked down Pete, read him the riot act. He would go without lunch, the Macey stoop would sparkle, and the dog, who already laid claim to a snazzy red doghouse complete with a heated blanket, would get a stronger chain to keep him on the Stahr property when no one was home. And that, Ripley thought, would likely wrap up the keeping of the peace of Three Sisters Island for the day.

On her way back to the station house, she spotted a small figure climbing through the first-floor window of a clapboard saltbox. Okay, she decided with her hands on her hips, maybe there was a bit more peace to be kept. Her brows lifted, then knit. It was the home of one of her cousins, and the bright blue jacket on the B and E man was very familiar.

“Dennis Andrew Ripley, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She heard his yowl of pain when he bumped his head on the window, and felt no sympathy. He was twelve, and any boy of twelve who didn’t own a hard head should, in her opinion, develop one. He went still for a moment, half in, half out, battle-scarred hightops dangling. Then, slowly, he wiggled to the ground. His hair was pale blond and stuck out in tufts around his ski cap. Freckles exploded over his face and stood out in sharp relief against his bright flush.

“Ah . . . hi, Aunt Ripley,” he said innocently.

He was, Ripley thought with admiration, an operator. “That’s Deputy Todd to you, you little weasel. What’re you doing crawling in the window?”

“Um. I don’t have a key?”

“Dennis.”

“Well, I don’t. Mom and some of her lady friends went over to the mainland to shop and stuff. She must’ve locked the door.”

“Let’s try the question this way. Why are you crawling in the window of your own house instead of sitting at your desk at school?”

“Because I’m sick?” he answered hopefully.

“Is that so? Come on, then, I’ll take you over to the clinic right now. Your mother has her cell phone, doesn’t she? We’ll just give her a call and let her know her sweet baby boy’s feeling poorly. I bet she’ll come home on the next ferry.”

Ripley had the satisfaction of watching his face blanch. “Don’t call her. Okay? Please? I’m feeling a lot better. It musta been something I ate is all.”

“I just bet. Spill it, kiddo, and if you try to bullshit me again, I’m hauling you to the clinic and telling them to get out their biggest, dullest needle.”

“We’re having a history test,” he blurted out, and talked very fast now. “History’s the pits, Aunt Rip. It’s all about dead people, anyway. So, you know, who cares? And it’s like European history crap, and we don’t even live there. I mean, hey, do you know the capital of Liechtenstein ?”

“Didn’t study, did you?”

He shifted from foot to foot—Jeez, what was it with boys and their big clown feet, she wondered—and attempted a pitiful look from under his lashes. “I guess maybe not.”

“So you decided to blow off the test and hook school.”

“Just one stupid day. I could take the test later. I was going to hang out in the woods today, and study,” he added, with quick inspiration. “But it’s too cold.”

“So you were going to go inside . . . and study.”

“Um. Yeah! Yeah, I was going to hit the books. Couldn’t you just pretend you didn’t see me?”

“No.”

“Aw, Aunt Rip.” He sighed, recognizing the look on her face. “Deputy Todd.”

She hooked him by the ear. “You’re getting a police escort to school.”

“Mom’s going to kill me.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to fail the test.”

“Should’ve studied for it.”

“I’ll get in-school suspension.”

“Kid, you’re breaking my heart.”

When he muttered “shit” under his breath, she gave the back of his head a quick tap. “Watch the mouth, peewee. We’re going to pay a visit to the assistant principal, you’ll make a full confession, and take your lumps.”

“Like you never hooked school.”

“When I did, I had enough brains not to get caught. Therein, young Skywalker, is the power of the Force.”

He snorted out a laugh. And because he did, because he was hers, she walked him the rest of the way to judgment with her arm companionably around his shoulders. The morning’s work and her replay of both incidents for Zack put her in a much better frame of mind. She strolled into the bookstore, looking for lunch, and gave a quick wave at Lulu.

“Put your belly on hold a minute and come over here.”

“About a minute’s all my belly can wait.” But Ripley detoured and walked to the counter. “What’s up?”

“I got a letter from Jane.”

“Yeah?” Ripley thought of the café’s former chef. She and her man had taken off for New York so he could have a shot at a part in an Off Broadway play. “How’re they doing?”

“Well enough. Sounds to me like they mean to stay.” Lulu glanced toward the stairs, lowered her voice.

“Guess who strolled, big as life, into the bakery where Jane’s working?”

“Harrison Ford.” At Lulu’s steely stare, Ripley shrugged. “I’ve had a thing for him lately. Okay, who?”

“Sam Logan.”

“No shit?” Ripley’s voice dropped as well. “What does Jane say about him? How’s he look? What’s he doing?”

“If you’d shut up for five seconds I’ll tell you. He looks, so Jane says, better than ever. Tall, dark, and dangerous. That’s Jane speaking. She got all giddy because he recognized her. She never had two licks of sense. I don’t suppose he said what he was doing, or she didn’t ask, otherwise she’d have put every word of it down. But she did say he asked after Mia.”

“What do you mean, ‘asked after’?”

“Just that, casual, according to Jane. ‘How’s Mia?’ ”

“And?”

“And nothing. That was it, that was all. He bought a box of pastries, wished Jane good luck, and walked out again.”

Considering, Ripley pursed her lips, juggled the angles in her mind. “Funny coincidence. Of all the bakeries in all the city, he walks into the bakery where Mia’s ex-cook works.”

“I don’t think it was coincidence. I think his curiosity took him there.”

“I won’t disagree. Are you going to tell her?”

“No.” Lulu sucked air through her nose. “I thought about it, chewed on it, twisted it around, and I don’t see the point.”

“Are you asking my opinion?”

“Do you think I’m telling you all this to give my tongue a workout?”

“Okay, then I agree with you. There’s no point in it. It still hurts her.” She sighed because it could still hurt, just a bit, to know that Mia hurt. “Besides, if Mia wanted to know what he’s up to, she could find out.”

Lulu nodded. “Just feels better to have somebody agree with me. Go eat. Soup’s black bean today.”

“That’ll hit the spot. Oh, Lu?” Ripley paused on her way to the stairs. “If you write Jane back, tell her not to say anything about this. You know.”

“Already done.”

That, Ripley told herself, was that. Three good deeds in one day. What more could anyone ask? She strolled up to the counter, started to ring the bell. Then saw, through the kitchen door, Nell serving soup and a sandwich to Mac.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, a place reserved for friends. She’d taken two long strides toward the end of the counter before she stopped herself. This wasn’t the way, she thought. Going in guns blazing—metaphorically—wasn’t the way to deal with the man, the situation, or her own annoyance. She gave herself a moment to calm, then walked around the counter, into the kitchen.

“Hi, Nell. Mac.” Doing everything she could to radiate goodwill, she sniffed the air. “Smells great. I’ll have what he’s having. Okay if I eat back here?”

“Of course. Coffee with that?” Nell asked her.

“Let’s jazz it up and go with a latté.” Ripley unbundled her coat, hung it on the back of a chair. And sent Mac a slow, warm smile. “Don’t mind a little company, do you, Professor?”

“No. You look great today.”

“Thanks.” She sat across from him. “What’re you up to?”

“I asked him to come back, Ripley.” Nell squeezed Ripley’s shoulder before setting down a bowl of soup. “To talk.”

Annoyance clawed up in her throat, and was dutifully swallowed. “If you’re all right with it, I’m all right with it.”

“Actually, Mac’s been entertaining me with some stories of his travels, and his work. It’s fascinating. I’m going to order those books you recommended,” Nell added, tossing him a glance as she made Ripley’s sandwich.

“I hope you’ll tell me what you think, after you’ve read them.”

“I will.” She served the sandwich. “I’ll get your latté.”

When she was out of earshot, Mac leaned forward. “I’m not pushing her.”

Ripley held up a hand. “Truce. Nell’s in charge of her own life, makes her own decisions.” You miserable son of a bitch.

“Okay. But I want you to understand that I know she’s been through more than anyone should ever have to go through. I won’t push, whatever the circumstances.”

The fact that she believed him didn’t change a thing. She ate with him, listened to his laugh when she told him about the dog, the boy. It irritated her to realize she liked talking to him, hearing him laugh. The man was good company, even if he was a slug. Under other circumstances she’d have enjoyed spending time with him. Getting to know him better. Finding out all the stuff that went on inside of that high-voltage brain.

His smarts weren’t boring. She’d already figured out that much. Then there were those terrific brown eyes, the long, slow smile, the really superior body. To say nothing of the moves—which were past excellent. Then she imagined him using those moves on Mia only hours, hours after he’d danced with her. There was only one recourse. He must be annihilated.

“So,” she said, “you must be keeping pretty busy, hunting spooks and searching for, what is it, vortexes or whatever.”

“Busy enough. I’m getting my bearings, getting to know the island.”

“And the natives,” she said. Sweetly.

“Sure. You know, my day’s still pretty flexible,” he told her. “I can wander over to the gym almost anytime. I’d enjoy the workout more with company.”

Why don’t you ask Mia to come sweat with you? she thought. “What time do you usually go over in the morning?” She knew, of course. She knew everything that went on under her own damn nose.

“About seven-thirty.”

“That could work for me.”

In fact, she decided, it would be perfect.

She walked into the gym at seven-forty-five. He was already on the stepper, and just working up a sweat. He hadn’t shaved again. When he shot her a quick grin, she could only think it was too damn bad she had to crush him like a bug.

He was working out to music instead of TV. Wasn’t it just like him to try to be obliging? She set the weight on a leg machine, slithered onto the bench on her belly, and began to work on her hamstrings. The added benefit was to give him a good view of her butt. Look and dream, pal, she thought. Look and dream.

“I heard we’re in for more snow.”

She counted off reps. “The sky’s full of it. Did you get that wood?”

“Not yet. I lost the name.”

“It’s in your coat pocket.”

“It is?”

He looked cute when he was baffled. “That’s where you stuck it after I wrote it down for you. Right pocket of your long black coat.”

“Oh.”

“Nobody seems to be thinking of health and fitness this morning,” she commented.

“Actually, there was a guy in here before. He finished up right before you came in. Great legs you’ve got there, Deputy Todd.”

“You think?” She slid a flirtatious smile onto her face, gave him a deliberate once-over. “Yours aren’t so bad, either, Dr. Booke.”

“You should’ve seen me at eighteen. Well, twenty,” he corrected. “Any time up to twenty I was the model for the guy who gets sand kicked in his face at the beach.”

“Skinny, were you?”

“A toothpick with a sign on his back saying ‘Please, pick on me.’ ”

There was a little tug of sympathy for the skinny, undoubtedly awkward boy. Remembering her mission, she ignored it. “So you decided to get cut.” She switched to work her calf muscles.

“A guy with my body type doesn’t get cut unless he devotes his life to it. I just wanted to get in shape. I read up on bodybuilding.”

She couldn’t stop the laugh. “Read up on it?”

“That’s my approach,” he said with a shrug. “Then I experimented with different programs until I found what I could do.” Obviously amused at himself, he grinned over at her. “I made charts.”

“No joke?”

“No joke,” he admitted. “Charts, graphs. A computer analysis, before and after. A merging of the intellect and the physical. Worked for me.”

“I’ll say.”

He flushed a little. “Well, it didn’t take long to figure out that if I was going to be hiking trails, climbing into caves, hacking through the occasional jungle, I’d better be able to handle the physical part of the job. Walk a few miles in a hundred percent humidity, carrying a full pack and sensitive equipment, you realize you’d better put in a few hours a week at the gym.”

“Whatever the reason, the results are fine.”

She rose to change machines and gave him a quick pinch on the butt as she passed. When he only stared at her, she laughed. “You can pinch me back anytime, cutie.”

She worked her quads, pleased to note that she’d ruined his rhythm.

“Have you taken a tour of the island yet?”

“Not complete.” He lost count of his reps, and struggled to get his pacing back. “I’ve been working, more or less, inch by inch.”

“Next time the two of us have a couple of hours free, I’ll show you around.”

He was starting to heat up, and it wasn’t just the exercise. “I can be free anytime.”

“Now, that’s a dangerous thing to say to a woman. I like it.” She all but purred. “I like a man willing to take risks.” She licked her lips. “Have you been thinking about me?”

“Only ten or twelve times a day.”

“Ah.” She wriggled off the bench as he picked up free weights. “Another risky statement. Not to be outdone, I’ve given you considerable thought as well.”

She walked to the weights, but instead of selecting hers, skimmed a fingertip over his arm. “Mmm. All slicked up, aren’t you? Me, too.” She shifted closer, brushed bodies. “Wouldn’t we just slither and slip all over each other right now?”

Maybe, just maybe, if all the blood hadn’t drained out of his head, he’d have caught the hard-edged glint to her eyes when she smiled. But even the best man often stopped thinking with his brain when a hot, sexy, willing woman was rubbing herself against him.

“Let me put these down,” he managed. “Before I drop them on my foot. Or yours.”

“I like lean muscles on a man.” She squeezed his biceps. “Long . . . lean . . . limber.”

The weights clanged like a pair of anvils against the stand. He fisted a hand in her hair, drew her up, had his mouth a breath from hers.

Then her elbow rammed straight into his gut.

“Back off!”

He coughed. It was the only way his body could gather air. “What? What the hell?” He was too shocked for anger, too busy trying to breathe normally again to do anything but stare into her suddenly furious face.

“You think I want your hands on me?”

He managed the breath, rubbed gingerly at his stomach. “Yes.”

“Well, think again. Nobody juggles me with another woman.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“And don’t pull that innocent act. Maybe you think you can pretend you forget you’ve been hitting on me when you decide to hit on her, and vice versa, but that’s taking the absentminded professor act one step too far.”

“Who? What?”

She bunched both fists and nearly used them. Very nearly used them. “You’re not worth it.”

She turned on her heel and stalked into the women’s locker room. She kicked the wall, just because it felt good, then limped to her locker. She was just about to strip off her sports bra when Mac swung in after her.

“You turn around and march straight out of here,” she ordered. “Otherwise I’m arresting you for lewd and lascivious behavior.”

He didn’t turn, he didn’t march. He stalked, seriously surprising her, until he stood toe-to-toe with her.

“I’m entitled to an explanation of what just went on in there.”

“You’re not entitled to anything from me. Now beat it.”

“If you think you can sashay in there, tease me half to death, punch me in the stomach—”

“It was an elbow jab. And I’ve never sashayed in my life.”

“You deliberately came on to me with the express purpose of slapping me back. I want to know why.”

“Because I don’t like cheats, I don’t like sneaks. And I don’t like men who try to see how many women they can sleep with at one time, especially when they’re trying to add me to the list.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone. I haven’t even gone out with anyone since I’ve been here.”

“Let’s add ‘I don’t like liars’ to that list.”

He took her firmly by the elbows, lifted her straight off her toes. “I don’t lie. And don’t even think about spitting any magic at me.”

She opened her mouth, shut it again. When she spoke, it was dead calm. “Take your hands off me.”

He set her on her feet, took a full step back. “I’ve made it clear I’m interested in you on a personal level. It happens that I’m not interested, at the moment, in anyone else on that same level. I haven’t juggled anyone. I don’t have the reflexes for it.”

“You bought a bottle of fancy wine and spent an evening snuggled up to Mia.”

“Where the hell do you get this?” Flustered, he dragged his hands through his hair. “I went to Mia’s for dinner, though that’s completely my business. She’s one of the main reasons I’m here. That’s a professional interest. However, I also happen to like her very much. I didn’t sleep with her, don’t intend to sleep with her.”

“Fine.” Because she’d started feeling like a fool even before he’d released her, she turned to her locker.

“It’s your business, like you said.”

“You’re jealous.” He paused a moment, as if to gather his wits. Or his temper. “After I get over being seriously pissed off, I might find that flattering.”

She whirled back. “I’m not jealous.”

“Replay that little scene,” he suggested, jerking a thumb toward the gym. “See what you come up with. Now, I’m going to go soak my head. I suggest you do the same.”

He strode out, sending the swinging door slapping.

 

 

Chapter Eight

There was one thing Ripley hated more than feeling guilty. It was feeling ashamed. It took her a while to get there, as her temper wasn’t of the flash-and-fade variety. She wallowed in anger, enjoyed the way it bubbled and churned inside her and kept clear, rational thinking at bay. She rode on that blissful annoyance most of the day, and it felt good. It felt just. The energy it gave her had her whipping through a backlog of paperwork at the station house and taking Zack’s turn at cleaning the premises. She did her patrol on foot, then, still raring to go, volunteered to take her brother’s cruise shift.

She drove all over the island, looking for trouble. Hoping for it. When trouble didn’t cooperate, she spent an hour at home, beating the hell out of her punching bag. Then common sense began to trickle through. She hated when that happened. That trickle opened a crack, and through the crack she was able to view her own behavior with distressing clarity. She’d been stupid and that was hard to swallow. She’d been wrong and that was a bigger, nastier gulp. Feeling like an idiot made her depressed, so she skulked down to the kitchen when no one was around and ate three of Nell’s brownies.

She could hardly believe she’d worked herself up into that sort of a state over a man in the first place. Not that it had been jealousy, she thought, contemplating a fourth brownie. He was completely wrong about that. But she had overreacted, big time. And she, she decided as the feeling of stupidity began to slide toward the first sticky edge of guilt, had treated him shabbily. She’d teased him. She had no respect for women who used sex as a weapon, or a bribe. Or a reward, for that matter. But she’d used it as bait and punishment. That shamed her.

Replaying her actions in the gym drove her to brownie number four. Even if he had been interested in Mia, which she was now convinced he hadn’t been, he was a free agent. A couple of lip locks with her didn’t make them exclusive, or oblige him to fidelity. Though she firmly believed that if you were nibbling on one cookie, you finished it off before you picked up another. But that was neither here nor there.

The best thing to do, she thought, rubbing her now slightly unsettled stomach, was nothing. Stay out of his way, nip any personal connection in the bud, though it was probably a little late for the bud stage, she admitted. They would just pretend nothing had ever happened—which, of course, it shouldn’t have. She crept back up to her bedroom, closed herself in, and decided it would be wise to avoid all human contact for the next eight hours.

Sleep didn’t come easily, but she put that down to overdosing on chocolate and deemed it fair punishment for her crimes. The dreams, when they came, seemed harsher than she deserved.

The winter beach was deserted. Solitude weighed like chains around her heart. The moon was full, ripely white so that its light washed over the shore and sea. It seemed you could all but count every grain of sand that glittered in that beam. The sound of the surf drummed in her ears, a constant sound that reminded her she was alone. Would always be alone. She flung up her hands, called out in pain, in fury. The wind answered, and spun those sparkling grains of sand. Faster. Faster. Power sliced through her, a blade so cold it burned hot. The storm she called roared and built until it blocked the light of that pure white moon.

“Why do you do this?”

She turned in the torrent and looked at her lost sister. Golden hair shimmered, blue eyes were dark with sorrow.

“For justice.” She needed to believe that. “For you.”

“No.” The one who had been Air didn’t reach out but stood quiet, hands folded at her waist. “For vengeance. For hate. We were never meant to use what we are for blood.”

“He spilled yours first.”

“And should my weakness, my fears, excuse yours?”

“Weak?” Magic dark boiled inside her. “I am stronger now than ever I was. I have no fears.”

“You are alone. The one you loved sacrificed.”

And she could see, like a dream within the dream, the man who had held her heart. She watched him, watched again, as he was struck down, taken from her and their children by the bitter edge of her own actions. The tears that swam into her eyes burned like acid.

“He should have stayed away.”

“He loved you.”

“I am beyond love now.”

Air turned over her hands, hands that gleamed as white as that blinding moonlight. “There is no life without love, and no hope. I broke the first link between us, and lacked the courage to forge it back again. Now you break the second. Find your compassion, make your amends. The chain grows weak.”

“I would change nothing.”

“Our sister will be put to the test.” Urgently now, Air stepped closer. “Without us, she may fail. Then, our circle is broken once and forever. Our children’s children will pay. I have seen it.”

“You ask me to give up what I have tasted. What I can now call with a thought ” She flung out a hand and the great sea rose to rage against the shimmering wall of sand—a thousand voices, screaming. “I will not. Before I am done with this, every man, every woman, every child who cursed us, who hunted us like vermin, will writhe in agony.”

“Then you damn us,” Air said quietly. “And all who come after us. Look. And see what may be.”

The wall of sand dissolved. The furious sea reared back, froze for one throbbing moment. The moon so white, so pure, split and dripped cold blood. Across the black sky, lightning slashed and whipped, stabbed down toward the earth to smoke and to burn.

Flames erupted, fed by the wild and greedy wind, so that the dark was blinded with light. The night became one long, terrified scream as the island was swallowed by the sea. However upsetting the dream, Ripley could convince herself it was a result of guilt and chocolate. In the light of day she could shrug off the anxiety it had caused and expend her energy shoveling the latest snowfall.

By the time Zack joined her, she’d finished the steps and half the walk. “I’ll do the rest. Go in and get some coffee, some breakfast.”

“Couldn’t eat. I gorged on brownies last night, so I can use the exercise.”

“Hey.” He caught her by the chin, lifting her face for a long study. “You look tired.”

“Didn’t sleep very well.”

“What’s gnawing at you?”

“Nothing. I ate too many sweets, didn’t sleep well, and now I’m paying for it.”

“Baby, you’re talking to somebody who knows you. When you’ve got a problem you march through work—physical and mental drudgery—until you come out the other side. Spill it.”

“There’s nothing to spill.” She shuffled her feet, then finally just sighed. Her brother could simply stand and wait through an entire geological era for an answer. “Okay, I’m not ready to spill it. I’m working it out.”

“All right. If all this shoveling's helping you with that, I’ll just leave you to it.”

He started back in. She didn’t just look tired, he thought. She looked unhappy. At least he could take her mind off that. He scooped up a handful of snow, smoothed it into a ball. What were big brothers for? And let it fly. It hit the back of her head with a solid whomp. He wasn’t leadoff pitcher for the island’s softball team without reason.

Ripley turned slowly, studied his cheerful grin. “So . . . want to play, do you?”

She grabbed up snow as she sidestepped. The instant he bent down for ammo, she fired straight between his eyes. She played third, and it was a brave or foolish runner who tried to steal home against her arm. They pummeled each other, winging snowballs across the half-shoveled walk, slinging insults and taunts after them.

By the time Nell came to the door, the once pristine blanket over the lawn was bisected with messy paths, dented with furrows where bodies had temporarily fallen.

Lucy, with high, delighted barks, shot through the door like a bullet and dived into the action. Amused, Nell hugged her arms against the chill and stepped out on the porch. “You children better come in and get cleaned up,” she called out. “Or you’ll be late for school.”

It was instinct more than plan that had brother and sister doing instant and identical pivots. The two snowballs hit Nell dead center. The resulting squeal had Ripley laughing so hard she had to drop to her knees, where Lucy leaped on her.

“Oops.” Zack swallowed the grin as he caught the dangerous glint in his wife’s eyes. “Sorry, honey. It was, you know, a reflex.”

“I’ll show you a reflex. It’s comforting to know the entire island police force will shoot the unarmed.”

She sniffed, shot her chin into the air. “I want that walk cleared off, and you can clean off my car while you’re at it, if you can spare a moment from your hilarity.”

She sailed back inside, slammed the door.

“Ouch,” Ripley said, then dissolved into laughter again. “Looks like you may be bunking on the sofa tonight, hotshot.”

“She doesn’t hold a grudge.” But he winced, hunched his shoulders. “I’ll go take care of her car.”

“Got you whipped, doesn’t she?”

He merely burned her with a look. “I’ll kill you later.”

Still chuckling, Ripley hauled herself to her feet as her brother and Lucy plowed through the snow toward the back of the house. Nothing, she thought, like a good snow fight to put everything back on an even keel. As soon as she finished the walk, she would go inside and make nice to Nell. Still, she’d counted on Nell’s having a little more sense of humor. What was a little snow between friends? Brushing herself off, Ripley picked up the shovel, then heard the pained howl, the wild barks. Gripping the shovel like a bat, she raced around the side of the house. As she cleared the corner, she was greeted by a face full of snow. The shocked gasp caused her to swallow some of it, choke. As she spit it out, rubbed it off her face, she saw her brother, covered to his shoulders with snow. And Nell, standing with a smug smile, and two empty buckets. She banged them together smartly to shake out any remaining snow. “That,” she said with a nod, “was reflex.”

“Boy.” Ripley tried to dig under her collar where snow was dribbling, cold and wet. “She’s good.”

She was able to maintain the good, even mood through most of the day. She might’ve stayed there if Dennis Ripley hadn’t come shuffling into the station house.

“It’s my favorite delinquent.” As he rarely failed to entertain her, Ripley propped her feet on the desk and prepared to enjoy the show. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m supposed to apologize for causing trouble, and to thank you for taking me back to school, and blah blah.”

“Gosh, Den.” Ripley dabbed at an imaginary tear. “I’m touched.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Mom said I had to. I got two days ISS, I’m grounded for three weeks, and I have to write essays on responsibility and honesty.”

“Essays? That’s the worst, huh?”

“Yeah.” He plopped down in the chair across from her, sighed weightily. “I guess it was pretty stupid.”

“Guess it was.”

“No point in hooking school in the winter,” he added.

“No comment. How about the history test?”

“I passed.”

“No kidding? You are a jackass, Den.”

“Well, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. And Mom didn’t wear me out like I figured she would. Dad either. I just got the lecture.”

“Oh.” Ripley obliged him with a shudder and made him grin. “Not the lecture!”

“I can use most of it in the essays. I guess I learned my lesson, though.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, besides planning better so you don’t freeze your ears off in the woods when you ditch school, it’s less trouble to just do what you’re supposed to—mostly—in the first place.”

“Mostly,” she agreed. And because she loved him, she rose to make him a cup of instant hot chocolate.

“And because you made me go in and say what I did, right out, I didn’t have to sweat it out, you know?

Dad said how when you mess up, you have to face up to it, make it right. Then people respect you, and even more, you can, you know, respect yourself.”

She felt a twinge in her gut as she dumped chocolate powder in a mug. “Man,” she muttered.

“Everybody makes mistakes, but cowards hide from them. That’s a good one, doncha think, Aunt Rip? I can use that in the essay.”

“Yeah.” She cursed under her breath. “That’s a good one.”

If a twelve-year-old boy could face the music, Ripley told herself, then a thirty-year-old woman had to be able to do the same. Maybe she’d rather be grounded, maybe she’d rather write the dreaded essay than knock on Mac’s door. But there was no option. Not with guilt, shame, and the example of a twelve-year-old crowding her.

She thought Mac might just slam the door in her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to blame him if he did. Of course, if he did, then she could just write a polite note of apology. Which was almost like an essay when you thought about it. Face-to-face had to be the first move, though. So she stood in front of his cottage door as the light dimmed with dusk, and prepared to eat crow.

He opened the door. He was wearing his glasses, and a sweatshirt that carried an emblem from Whatsamatta U and a picture of Bullwinkle. Under any other circumstances, it would have been amusing.

“Deputy Todd,” he said. Very coolly.

“Can I come in for a minute?” She swallowed the first stringy morsel of crow. “Please.”

He stepped back, gestured.

She could see he’d been working. A couple of the monitors were booted up. One of them had zigzagging lines that put her in mind of hospital equipment. He had a fire going, and she could smell stale coffee.

“I’m interrupting,” she began.

“That’s all right. Let me take your coat.”

“No.” Defensively, she pulled it tighter. “This won’t take long, then I’ll get out of your hair. I want to apologize for the other day. I was wrong. Totally wrong, and completely out of line. There’s no excuse for what I did, what I said, or how I behaved.”

“Well, that about covers it.” He’d wanted to stay angry with her. He’d been very comfortable in that groove. “Accepted.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets. She didn’t like it when things were too easy. “I overreacted,” she said.

“I’m not going to argue there.”

“I’d like to finish.” Her voice frosted.

“Go right ahead.”

“I don’t know why I overreacted, but that’s what I did. Even if you had been with Mia in a . . . in an intimate fashion, it was none of my business. I’m responsible for my own actions, my own decisions, and my own choices, and that’s the way I like it.”

“Ripley,” he said, gently now. “Let me take your coat.”

“No, I’m not staying. I got myself worked up about it, way more than it warranted, considering. That pisses me off. And the fact is, I’d talked myself into thinking that you’d put the moves on me—then put them on Mia—to try to soften both of us up so we’d help you out with your work.”

“Well.” He took his glasses off, dangling them by the earpiece. “That’s insulting.”

“I know it,” she said grimly. “And I’m sorry for it. More, I’m ashamed that I let myself use that to justify me using sex—you know, getting you worked up like I did—as a punishment. Women who do that give sex a bad name. So—”

She blew out a breath, tested herself. No, she didn’t feel better, damn it. She felt mortified. “So, that’s all. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

She turned to the door, and he moved with her. Braced a hand on it. “Digging beneath the surface, which is something I like doing, there’s a small, specific area of your overreaction that I find satisfying. In a strictly shallow, egotistical manner.”

She didn’t look at him. Refused to. Why bother when she could hear the smirk in his voice? “That just makes me feel more like an idiot.”

“I’m not opposed to that result.” He ran his hand down her long tail of hair. “I’m taking your coat.” He tugged it off her shoulders. “Want a beer?”

“No.” It surprised her that what she wanted was a hug. Just a quick little cuddle. And she’d never been the cuddling type. “No, I’m on call.”

He touched her hair again, a quick dance of his fingers down the soft stream of it. “Want to kiss and make up?”

“I think we’ll just take a break from the kissing part of the agenda.” She took the coat from him, sidestepped and dumped it on the floor by the front door. She nodded at his sweatshirt. “Your alma mater?”

“Hmm?” He glanced down, focused. “Yeah. I did some postgrad work there. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen spring in Frostbite Falls .”

She smiled and felt better. “I can’t peg you, Mac.”

“Me either. Do you want—” He broke off as the phone rang, then stood looking blankly around the room.

“Sounds like the telephone to me,” Ripley said helpfully.

“Yeah. Which one? Bedroom,” he decided and loped away.

She reached down for her coat. It would probably be best if she just eased out while he was busy. Then she heard him, speaking what she thought was Spanish. What was it about foreign languages, she wondered, that stirred the juices? She left her coat where it was and strolled casually toward the bedroom. He was standing by the bed, his glasses now hooked by the earpiece in the front pocket of his jeans. The bed was made; she appreciated that basic tidiness in a man. Books were stacked, piled, spread everywhere. He paced as he spoke, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes. Just thick socks—one black, one navy. It was so cute.

He seemed to be talking very quickly. Whenever she heard a foreign language, it seemed to be rapid, just a flood of incomprehensible words in fascinating accents. She cocked her head. He seemed to be concentrating fiercely, but not, she thought, on the Spanish. It came too fluently to be anything but second nature. Then he began searching the room, patting his shirt with one hand.

“Right front pocket,” she said and caused him to turn and blink at her. “Glasses?”

“Uh, no. Yes. Qué? No, no, Uno momento. Why don’t I have a pen?”

She walked over, picked up one of the three that lay on his nightstand. When he still looked frustrated, she offered a pad to go with it.

“Thanks. I don’t know why they always—Como? Sí, sí. ”

He sat on the side of the bed and began to scribble. Since she’d already poked her nose in this far, Ripley didn’t see any reason to stop now. She angled her head to read his notes, only to be confounded when they were, again, in shorthand.

Probably in Spanish, too, she decided, and took the opportunity to study his bedroom. There weren’t any clothes strewn around. There wouldn’t have been much room for them with the books, the magazines, the stacks of paper. No personal photographs, which she thought was too bad. There was the usual pile of loose change on the dresser, along with a Saint Christopher’s medal. She remembered the gris-gris in his glove compartment and wondered how many other bases he’d covered. There was a Leatherman knife, a set of small screwdrivers, a few unidentifiable bits of plastic and metal that might have been some sort of fuse, and some kind of glassy black rock. She touched it and, feeling a low, vibrating hum, decided not to touch it again. When she turned back, he was still sitting on the side of the bed. He’d hung up the phone and was staring into space with an expression both distracted and dreamy.

She cleared her throat to get his attention. “So, you speak Spanish.”

“Mmm.”

“Bad news?”

“Huh? No. No, interesting. A colleague in Costa Rica . Thinks he may have a line on an EBE.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, EBE—extraterrestrial biological entity.”

“A little green man?”

“Sure.” Mac set the note aside. “It goes with all the broom-riding witches I’ve documented.”

“Ha.”

“Anyway, it’s interesting. We’ll see how it goes. If nothing else it got you in my bedroom.”

“You’re not as fog-brained as you look.”

“Only about half the time.” He patted the bed beside him.

“That’s a really thrilling offer, but I’ll pass. I’m going to head home.”

“Why don’t we grab some dinner?” He took off his glasses, tossed them carelessly on the bed. “Out. We’ll go out and get some dinner. Is it dinnertime?”

“It could be. Take your glasses off the bed. You’ll forget and sit on them or something.”

“Right.” He picked them up, laid them on the nightstand. “How did you know I do that?”

“Wild guess. Mind if I call home, let my family know I won’t be home for dinner?”

“Go ahead.”

When she stepped to the phone, he took her hand, turned her, nudging her in until she stood between his legs. “I’d like to discuss that break from kissing you talked about. And I think since you’re the one who apologized, you should be the one to kiss me.”

“I’m thinking about it.” She picked up the phone first, kept her eyes on his as she called, spoke briefly to Zack, then replaced the receiver. “Okay, here’s the deal. Hands on the bed. And you keep them there. No touching, no grabbing.”

“That’s very strict, but okay.” He placed his palms down on the edge of the bed. It was time, she decided, to show him he wasn’t the only one with moves. She leaned over, slowly, letting her hands run through his hair before they rested on his shoulders. Her mouth paused an inch from his, curved.

“No hands,” she said again.

A brush of lips, a slight scrape of teeth, a hint of tongue. She nibbled one corner of his mouth, then the other, let her breath come out on a long sigh. She eased back, a breath away—held the moment suspended. Then her fingers dived into his hair, fisted, and she plunged. Instant heat, enough to burn a man alive from the inside out. His hands tightened like vises on the edge of the bed, and his heart spiked straight into his throat. It was like being devoured, with merciless greed.

She took him over, pumped into his system like a fast-acting drug, one that scraped nerve endings raw rather than numbing them. He could feel . . . too much, and waited for his system to simply implode. She nearly shoved him back, nearly gave in to the need plunging inside her and pushed him back on the bed. Something happened to her, every time she was with him, that jangled her brain, shocked her body, squeezed her heart. Even now, when she’d demanded and taken control, she was losing. She felt him tremble, and her own shiver of response.

It took every ounce of will for her to end the kiss, to draw back. He let out a ragged breath. She could see the pulse beating in his throat like a jackhammer. Yet he hadn’t touched her. That kind of control was something to respect, she thought. To admire, and to challenge.

She dabbed a fingertip at the corner of her mouth. “Let’s eat,” she said and strolled out of the room. Point for point, she decided as she scooped up her coat, they were dead even.

 

 

Chapter Nine

Jonathan Q. Harding knew how to get people to talk. It was a matter, first of all, of knowing that under the veil of dignity and discretion or reluctance, people wanted to talk. The seamier or more bizarre the subject, the more they wanted to gab about it. It was a matter of persistence, patience, and occasionally palming over a folded twenty. The story had its teeth in him every bit as much as he had his teeth in it. He started back at the cliff on Highway1 , where a desperate woman had faked her own death. It was a picturesque spot—sea, sky, rock. He imagined stark black-and-white photographs, the drama of them. He was no longer thinking just a feature in a magazine. Harding had upped the bar to a big, juicy, best-selling book.

The seeds of that ambition had been planted during his first visit with Remington. It was odd, he thought, that it hadn’t occurred to him before. That he hadn’t realized how, well, hungry he was for the fame, for the fortune. Others had done it, turned their expertise or their hobby into a book with a glossy cover and fast sales. Why couldn’t he?

Why was he wasting his time and his considerable skill on magazine bylines? Instead of him pursuing Larry King for an interview, this time around Larry King would come to him. A voice he hadn’t known was inside him had awakened, and it continually whispered, Cash in. That’s just what he intended to do. Gathering tidbits of information, morsels of speculation and hard bites of fact from police records, he began to follow Helen Remington’s, now Nell Channing Todd’s, trail.

He had an interesting conversation with a man who claimed to have sold her the secondhand bike she’d used as her initial transportation, and after various questions asked at the bus station in Carmel confirmed the bike’s description. Helen Remington had started her long journey pedaling a blue six-speed. He imagined her riding up and down the hills. She’d been wearing a wig—some reports said red, some brown. He was going with the brunette. She wouldn’t have wanted to be flashy. He spent more than two weeks tracking, backtracking, rapping into the wall of false leads until he hit his first jackpot in Dallas , where Nell Channing had rented a cheap motel room with kitchenette and taken a job as a short-order cook in a greasy spoon.

Her name was Lidamae—it said so on the name plate pinned to the candy-pink bodice of her uniform. She’d been waiting tables for thirty years and figured she’d poured enough cups of coffee to fill the whole of the damn Gulf of Mexico . She’d been married twice and had kicked both sons of bitches out on their lazy asses. She had a cat named Snowball, a tenth-grade education, and a Texas twang so sharp you could’ve cut diamonds with it. She didn’t mind getting off her dogs for a few minutes to talk to a reporter. And didn’t scruple to refuse the offer of a twenty for her time and trouble. Lidamae tucked the bill just where you’d suppose she would. Into the generous cup of her bra.

The sheer perfection of her, the over bleached hair teased into an enormous cascade, the blowzy body, the staggering blue of the eye shadow that covered her lids almost to her eyebrows, had Harding wondering who might play her in the film based on his book.

“I told Tidas—Tidas, he runs the kitchen back there—I told Tidas there was something odd about that girl. Something spooky.”

“What do you mean by ‘spooky’?”

“A look in the eye. A rabbit look. Scared of her own shadow. Always watching the door, too. ’Course, I knew right off she was on the run.” With a satisfied nod, Lidamae took a pack of Camels out of her apron pocket. “Women, we sense these things about our own kind. My second husband tried to kick me around a time or two.” She dragged in smoke like breath. “Hah. It was his ass got kicked. A man raises his hand to me, he’d better have a good health policy, ’cause he’s gonna spend some quality time in a medical-type facility.”

“Did you ever ask her about it?”

“Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, that one.” Lidamae snorted, sending a dragon-stream of smoke out of her nostrils. “Kept to herself. Did her work, you can’t say different, and never was anything but polite. A lady, I said to Tidas, that Nell’s a lady. Got quality written all over her. Thin as a rail, her hair all whacked off any which way and dyed mongrel brown. Didn’t matter, quality shows.”

She took another drag, then wagged the cigarette. “I wasn’t the least bit surprised when I saw the news report. Recognized her right off, too, even though she was all polished up and blond in the picture they showed. I said to Suzanne—Suzanne and me were working the lunch shift—I said, ‘Suzanne, look at that on the TV set.’ That one there, over the counter,” she added for Harding’s benefit. “I said, ‘That’s little Nell who worked here a few weeks last year.’ Coulda knocked Suzanne over with a feather, but me, I wasn’t surprised.”

“How long did she work here?”

“Right about three weeks. Then one day, she just doesn’t show for her shift. Didn’t see hide nor hair of her again till that news report on the TV. Tidas was pissed, let me tell you. That girl could cook.”

“Did anyone ever come looking for her? Pay more attention to her than seemed natural?”

“Nope. Hardly ever poked her head out of the kitchen anyway.”

“Do you think Tidas would let me see her employment records?”

Lidamae took a last drag on her cigarette, studying Harding through the curtain of blue smoke. “Don’t hurt to ask, does it?”

It cost him another twenty to look at the paperwork, but it gave him the exact date of Nell’s departure. Armed with that, and a reasonable assessment of her finances, Harding scouted out the bus station. He tracked her to El Paso , nearly lost her, but then dug up the man who’d sold her a car. He followed her trail by day, read, over and over, every news article, interview, statement, and commentary that had been written since Remington’s arrest.

She’d worked in diners, hotel restaurants, coffee shops, rarely staying in one spot longer than three weeks during the first six months of flight. There seemed little rhyme and no reason to her route. And that, Harding thought, had been the point. She would head south, then east, then overlap her own tracks and drive north again. Even so, she’d always, eventually, headed east again. Though he didn’t put much credence in Lidamae’s opinion of her own insight, he did find a thread of consistency throughout his interviews with employers and coworkers.

Nell Channing was a lady.

How much more she was, he’d have to judge for himself. He couldn’t wait to meet her face-to-face. But before he did, he wanted more. He wanted Evan Remington’s story.

Unaware that her life was currently under a microscope, Nell took advantage of her day off and a break in the weather. The February thaw offered a teasing hint of spring, with warmth that required no more than a light jacket. She took Lucy for a walk on the beach and toyed with the idea of going into the village to buy something foolish and unnecessary. The fact that she could toy with the idea was one of her daily miracles. For now, she was content with the beach, the sea, and the big black dog. While Lucy entertained herself chasing gulls, Nell sat on the sand and watched the waves.

“Lucky for you I’m in a good mood, or I’d have to write you up for having that dog off the leash.”

Nell glanced over as Ripley dropped down beside her. “You’d have to write yourself up, too. I didn’t see a leash when the two of you went for a run this morning.”

“I used the invisible leash this morning.” Ripley wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees. “God, what a day. I could take a few hundred of these.”

“I know. I couldn’t stay in the house. My to-do list is as long as your arm, but I ran away.”

“It’ll keep.”

“It’s going to.”

When Nell continued to stare at her, Ripley tipped down her sunglasses, peered over them. “What?”

“Nothing. You look . . . pleased with yourself,” Nell decided. “I haven’t seen much of you in the past couple weeks, but whenever I have you’ve looked quite smug.”

“Is that so? Well, life’s good.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve been spending some time with MacAllister Booke.”

Ripley trailed her fingers through the sand, drawing little curlicues. “Is that your polite way of asking if we’re doing it?”

“No.” Nell waited a beat, exhaled. “Well, are you?”

“No, not yet.” Content, Ripley leaned back, braced her elbows in the sand. “I’m enjoying this pre-sex interlude more than I figured I would. Mostly, I’ve always figured if you’re going to dance, just get up and dance. But . . .”

“Romance is a dance of its own.”

Ripley’s look was sharp and quick. “I didn’t say we were having a romance. Like hearts and flowers and cow eyes. He’s an interesting guy to hang out with, that’s all—when he’s not caught up in spook patrol. He’s been all over the place. I mean, to places I didn’t even know were places.”

He’d known the capital of Liechtenstein , she remembered. Imagine that.

“Did you know he graduated from college when he was sixteen?” she continued. “Is that brainy or what?

Even with all that, he gets into regular stuff. Like movies and baseball. I mean he’s not snooty about, what is it, popular culture.”

“No intellectual snobbery,” Nell commented, enjoying herself.

“Yeah, that’s it. He’s into Rocky and Bullwinkle, and he listens to regular music. It’s like he’s got this enormous brain capacity so it can hold on all the E-equals-MC-squared junk, but it still has room for the Barenaked Ladies. Plus, he’s totally buff, and he’s got excellent form in the water, but sometimes he just trips over his own feet. It’s kind of cute.”

Nell opened her mouth to comment again, but Ripley was already plowing on. “Sure, he’s a complete geek, but it’s sort of handy. He fixed my headset when I was going to pitch it. And the other day . . .”

She frowned when she caught Nell’s wide grin. “What now?”

“You’re smitten.”

“Oh, please. What kind of a word is that?” She snorted, crossed her legs at the ankles. “Smitten. Jesus.”

“It’s the perfect word from where I’m sitting. And I think it’s wonderful.”

“Don’t get on that romance boat of yours and sail, Nell. We’re just hanging out. Then we’ll have sex and hang out. We’ll keep it friendly as long as he doesn’t shove the witch angle down my throat. Then he’ll go back to New York and write his book or paper or whatever. We’re not stuck on each other.”

“Whatever you say. But in all the months I’ve been on the Sisters, I haven’t seen you spend this much time with anyone else, or look as happy doing it.”

“So, I like him better than most.” Ripley sat up again, shrugged. “And I’m more attracted to him than most.”

“Smitten,” Nell said under her breath.

“Shut up.”

“Bring him to dinner?”

“Huh?”

“Bring him home to dinner tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m making Zack’s favorite, and there’ll be plenty.”

“We’re having Yankee pot roast?” Ripley’s mouth began to water.

“I’m sure Mac would appreciate sitting down to a home-cooked meal instead of eating takeout or eating in a restaurant, or heating up one of my deliveries.” Nell stood up, brushed sand off her pants.

“Sure, he likes to eat. Nell, you’re not going to try any matchmaking deal, are you?”

Her blue eyes widened with innocence. “Of course not. Tell him six-thirty, and let me know if that’s not convenient.”

She clapped her hands, called for Lucy, then started for home.

She had a great deal to do in a short amount of time.

“I’m not doing a spell.”

Mia angled her head, smiled sweetly as Nell scowled at the potato she was peeling. “Then why did you ask me to come by and discuss your plans for tonight’s dinner?”

“Because I admire your taste.”

“Try again.”

“Because you know Ripley better than I do.”

“Keep going.”

“Oh, all right.” Grimacing in disgust, Nell snatched up another potato. “It’s not a spell. That would be wrong . . . wouldn’t it?” she added with a quick sidelong glance.

“Yes, that would be wrong. You have neither party’s permission. Added to that, interfering with anyone’s personal life crosses a line.”

“I know it.” Nell’s shoulders slumped, just for a minute. “Even when you have their best interest at heart?” She let the statement hang as a question, though she knew the answer. “She looks so happy. You’ve seen it for yourself. You should have heard her. She was absolutely bubbling about him.”

“Deputy Dawg bubbling?” Mia chuckled. “I’d have paid to see that one.”

“She was, and it was adorable. All I wanted was to give her a little nudge. Not with a spell,” she added quickly, before Mia could speak. “A nice friendly family dinner. And if I added a little of this, a bit of that, just something to encourage clear vision. Something that would lower the boundaries just a tiny inch or two.”

“And if they’re seeing what they need to see, feeling what they need to feel, at this moment? Can you be sure your . . . nudge won’t be in the wrong direction?”

“You’re so frustrating when you’re practical. Worse when you’re right. It’s hard not using what’s available to help.”

“Power’s a tricky business. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t mean anything. You’re in love yourself,” Mia said.

“Still riding on that lovely rush of it all, and you’re seeing everyone coupled and cozy and content. Not all of us are meant for what you have with Zack.”

“If you could have heard the way she babbled about him before she caught herself.” Shaking her head, Nell scrubbed her peeled vegetables. “She’s halfway in love with him and doesn’t even know it.”

Mia indulged herself in one moment of pleasure and envy at the thought of her childhood friend taking the fall. “And if she did know it, if you helped her see what may be happening inside her, she might scramble back from that edge before she falls. It would be just like her.”

“You’re right again. I hate that. Tell me what you think of him. You’ve talked to him more than I have.”

“I think he’s a very clever man, very astute and very focused. He’s not pushing Ripley with his research because he knows she’ll balk. So he circles around that.”

Mia wandered to the cookie jar, dipped in. “Chocolate chunk. I’m doomed.”

“That’s calculation.” Automatically Nell moved to the stove to brew tea to go with Mia’s cookie. “If he’s using her—”

“Wait.” Mia held up a finger, swallowed. “Of course he’s using her. That isn’t always wrong. She refuses to let him be direct in this area, so he’s indirect. Why should he ignore what she is because she does, Nell?”

“To spend time with her, to play on her feelings. That’s wrong.”

“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think he is. He’s too well mannered. And I think besides being smart, he’s also a very good man.”

Nell sighed. “Yes. So do I.”

“I imagine he’s quite attracted to her, despite the fact that she’s abrasive, annoying, and hardheaded.”

Nell nodded. “That makes sense. You care about her a great deal, despite those facts.”

“I once did,” Mia said flatly. “Your kettle’s boiling.”

“She matters to you. You matter to each other, no matter what happened between you.” Nell turned to deal with the tea and missed Mia’s soulful expression.

“She’ll have to deal with me again, and I with her. Until she accepts who she is, what she is, and what she’s meant to do, she’ll never be open to what you have. You had fear. So does she. So do we all.”

“What’s your fear?” As soon as she asked, Nell turned back. “I’m sorry, but I look at you and see only confidence, such incredible assurance.”

“I fear feeling my heart break a second time, because I’m not sure I could survive it. I’d rather live alone than risk the pain.”

The statement, the quiet truth in it, made Nell’s own heart ache. “You loved him that much?”

“Yes.” It hurt, Mia thought, just to say it. As much as it ever did. “I had no barriers where he was concerned. So you see, it could be dangerous to nudge at Ripley’s. MacAllister Booke is part of her destiny.”

“You know that?”

“Yes. Looking isn’t interfering. They’re connected to each other. But what they do about it, the choices made, are for them alone.”

There was no arguing with Mia’s logic. But . . . there was no reason not to choose pink candles for the table. She neither charmed nor inscribed them. The color being that used for love spells could be purely coincidental.

She already had rosemary potted on the windowsill, for cooking, of course. And also to absorb negative energy. It was true that that particular herb was used in love charms, but that was neither here nor there. Nor was the rose quartz tumbled in a bowl, nor the amethyst crystals that stimulated intuition. It wasn’t as if she’d made a charm bag.

She’d used Zack and Ripley’s grandmother’s china, the silver candlesticks she’d unearthed weeks before and polished to a gleam, an antique lace tablecloth that had been a wedding present, and a centerpiece of lily of the valley that she’d forced to keep the winter gloom away. The wineglasses had been another wedding gift, and their garnet stems went well, she thought, with the pale pink candles and the rosebuds on the china.

She was so intent on judging the results that she jumped when Zack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Pretty fancy.” He rubbed his lips over her hair. “The table hasn’t looked like that in . . . Come to think of it, I’ve never seen it look like that.”

“I want it to be perfect.”

“I don’t see how it could look better. Or smell better. I nearly fell to my knees in reverence when I passed through the kitchen. How come Rip’s not helping you out? It’s her date, isn’t it?”

“I chased her out half an hour ago. She was in my way. And so”—she turned, kissed him briefly—“are you.”

“I figured you needed somebody to sample some of those little canapé things you’ve got in the kitchen.”

“No.”

“Too late.” He grinned at her. “They’re great.”

“Zack. Damn it, I had them arranged.”

“I scooted everything in,” he told her as he followed her back into the kitchen. “No gaps.”

“Keep your fingers out of the food or I won’t make beef stew and dumplings with the leftovers.”

“Nell, honey, that’s downright mean.”

“No sulking. Now, let me look at you.” She stepped back, skimmed her gaze over him. “My, aren’t you handsome, Sheriff Todd.”

He hooked a finger in the belt of her slacks. “Come over here and say that.”

She obliged, was just lifting her mouth to his when she heard the knock on the front door. “That’s him.”

She broke free, dragged off her apron.

“Hey, come back here. Ripley can get the door.”

“No, she can’t. She needs to make an entrance. Oh, just—” She waved a hand at him as she hurried out. “Go put on some music or something.”

Mac brought wine and flowers, and earned Nell’s approval. Three times, that Nell counted, he touched Ripley’s hand as they enjoyed appetizers in the living room. It was comfortable, as she’d wanted, casual as she’d planned. And watching the two of them together she felt a nice warm glow. By the time they settled down in the dining room, Nell was already patting herself on the back.

“Of all the places you’ve been,” she asked Mac, “which is your favorite?”

“Wherever I am is always my favorite. Three Sisters is like this perfect little slice of the world.”

“And the natives are friendly enough,” Zack added.

“They are.” Mac sent Ripley a grin as he ate his roast. “Mostly.”

“We discourage munching on missionaries and explorers these days.” Ripley stabbed a potato.

“Mostly.”

“Lucky for me. I’ve had some interesting interviews. Lulu, the Maceys.”

“You talked to Lulu?” Ripley interrupted.

“Mmm. She was top of my list. She’s lived here a long time, but she wasn’t born here. And there’s her close association with Mia. It’s intriguing to me the easy, almost casual way Lulu accepts the metaphysical. She accepts Mia’s gifts the way another might accept a child’s hair color. It would be different for you,” he said to Nell. “Coming into your talents as an adult.”

“I suppose.” She didn’t mind talking about it. In fact, Nell thought she might enjoy discussing the entire matter on an intellectual, scientific plane. But she recognized the warning signals in Ripley’s stiff shoulders.

“More beef?” she asked brightly.

“Thanks. It’s great. Zack, I wonder if I could schedule some time with you? Get your perspective as someone who’s lived here all his life, and who married a woman of considerable talents.”

“Sure. My time’s fairly flexible.” He wasn’t oblivious to his sister’s reaction, but he considered it her problem. “You’re going to find that most of us don’t think about the history of the island on a daily basis. We save that for the tourists. Most of us just live here.”

“That’s one of my points. You live with it, go about your business, create and maintain normal lives.”

“We are normal,” Ripley said softly.

“Exactly.” Mac lifted his wine, studied her coolly. “Power doesn’t alter, doesn’t have to alter, elemental human needs. Home, family, love, financial security. The close, familial relationship between Lulu and Mia, for example, isn’t based on what Mia is, but on who she is.”

He looked at Zack. “I don’t imagine you married Nell because she’s a witch, or despite it, but because she’s Nell.”

“True. Then there was her pot roast.”

“Which can’t be discounted. Strong emotion feeds power. I’ve been pretty emotional about Nell’s cooking since my first bowl of soup.”

Zack chuckled as he topped off everyone’s wine. “Good thing I saw her first.”

“Timing is key. If Lulu hadn’t landed here when she landed here, she might not have had the major role in Mia’s upbringing. And as I understand it, Nell, if you hadn’t walked into the bookstore at the exact moment that Mia’s former café chef was quitting, you might not have made that connection—or not that precise connection. That connection led to one with Zack, and to Ripley, and in a winding, indirect way, to me.”

“I don’t have anything to do with it.” Ripley’s voice remained soft, but the barbs were poking through.

“Your choice,” Mac said easily. “Choice is another key. In any case, since you’re reluctant to show me around the island when I’m working, I wanted to ask you about a place on the south point. Great old house. Lots of gingerbread, wide covered porch. There’s not much else around it. It’s just up from a cove that has a shale beach. There’s a terrific little cave.”

“The Logan place,” she said shortly. “The family that owns the hotel.”

“It looked empty.”

“They don’t live here anymore. They rent it out now and then during the season. Why do you care?”

“First, because it’s a beautiful spot and an appealing old house. Next, because I got particularly strong readings in that area.” He watched Ripley’s gaze flick to her brother’s face, hold a moment. “I haven’t heard much about the Logans . They show up in my research, of course, but no one has much to say about them in the village. How long since any of the family lived in the house?”

“More than ten years,” Zack answered when Ripley remained silent. “Mr. Logan, or one of his representatives, comes back now and then to look things over, but they stay at the hotel.”

“Shame to let a beautiful house like that sit empty. Is it haunted?”

Zack’s lips twitched at the muttered rumble his sister made. “Not that I know of.”

“Too bad.” And he meant it. “How about the cave? I got the strongest readings there.”

“The cave’s a cave,” Ripley shot. There was a little twist in her heart, and it annoyed her.

“We used it as boys,” Zack began. “To play pirate and hunt for treasure. Teenagers have been known to treat it as a kind of lovers’ lane.” He stopped abruptly as it struck home. Sam Logan, and Mia. They’d been teenagers once, and the cave would surely have been theirs. One look at his sister’s face told him she’d known. And was trying to protect a childhood friend’s privacy.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if your equipment’s picking up on all those hormones,” Zack said cheerfully.

“What’s for dessert, honey?”

At sea, Nell rose. “I’ll get it. Ripley, mind giving me a hand?”

“No, fine. Sure.” Annoyed, Ripley pushed away from the table and stalked into the kitchen.

“What is it?” Nell demanded. “What don’t you want to say about the Logan place?”

“It’s just an old house.”

“Ripley, I can’t help if I’m in the dark.”

With her hands in her pockets, Ripley paced the kitchen. “Sam and Mia—they were a major item.”

“I know that much. He left, and hasn’t been back. It still hurts her.”

“Yeah, well, she ought to get the hell over it.” With a sigh, Ripley bent down to stroke Diego the cat.

“They were lovers. Mia and I, we were still . . . we were friends. We knew everything about each other. The first time she was with Sam, the first time they were together, was in the cave. It was one of their meeting places.”

“I see.”

“It’s still a raw spot with her, and she doesn’t need some jerk asking questions and taking energy readings.”

“Ripley, don’t you think if Mac knew he’d be less likely to rub against that sore spot?”

“I don’t know what to think about him.” Disgusted, Ripley straightened. “One minute he’s a nice guy, and the next he’s trying to wheedle data out of you over your own pot roast. He’s got no business coming here as a guest and pressuring you and Zack.”

“I didn’t feel pressured.” Nell took a Boston cream pie out of the refrigerator. “I’m sorry it upsets you, Ripley, but I’ve already decided to talk to Mac. I’m interested in his work, and I’m interested in contributing to it.”

“You want to be one of his lab rats?”

“I don’t feel that way. I’m not ashamed of what I am, and I’m not afraid of what I’ve been given. Not anymore.”

“You think I’m afraid?” Ripley’s temper flared. “That’s bullshit. As big a pile of bullshit as this idiotic project of his. I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ve got to get out of here.”

She turned on her heel and shoved out the back door.

She couldn’t think, but she knew she needed to walk off the anger before she said or did anything regrettable. Nell’s business was Nell’s business, she tried to tell herself as she jogged down the beach steps in the pearl glow of moonlight. And if Nell wanted to make an exhibition of herself, expose herself to gossip, to ridicule, to God knew what, she was entitled to do so.

“In a pig’s eye,” Ripley called out, kicking at sand as she hit the beach. What Nell said or did had a direct link to her. There was no avoiding it. Not only because they were related by marriage, but because they were connected.

And that son of a bitch MacAllister Booke knew it.

He was using her to get to Nell, using Nell to get to her. She’d been stupid to let her guard down these past few weeks. Stupid. And there was little she hated more than realizing she’d been a fool. At the barking behind her she turned, just as the big black shape leaped out of the dark. Lucy’s exuberance knocked Ripley on her butt.

“Damn it, Lucy!”

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Mac rushed up behind the dog, started to lift Ripley to her feet.

“Get off me.”

“You’re freezing. What the hell’s wrong with you, running out without a coat? Here.” Even as she slapped at his hands, he bundled her into the jacket Nell had given him.

“Fine. You’ve done your good deed. Now beat it.”

“Your brother and Nell are probably used to your spontaneous displays of rudeness.” He heard the scolding tone of his own voice, but the closed and stubborn look on her face told him that she deserved it. “However, I’d like an explanation.”

“Rude?” She used both hands to shove him back two full steps. “You’ve got the nerve to call me rude after that interrogation at dinner?”

“I recall a conversation at dinner, not an interrogation. Just hold on.” He grabbed her arms as Lucy, wanting to play, wiggled between them. “You don’t want to talk to me about my work, and I haven’t pressed you. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to talk to anybody else.”

“You hook Nell, and you know it’s going to involve me. You talked to Lulu, and you damn well asked her questions about me.”

“Ripley.” Patience, he warned himself. She wasn’t just angry, she was scared. “I never said I wouldn’t ask questions. I’m just not asking you. If you want control of what involves you, then talk to me. Otherwise, I have to use what I get secondhand.”

“All of this was just to corner me.”

He was a patient man by nature, but that patience had its limits. “You know better, just as you know saying that is an insult to both of us. So just can it.”

“Just—”

“I have feelings for you. It makes it complicated, but I’m dealing with it. And that aside, Ripley, you’re not the center of this. You’re only part of it. I’ll work around you or with you. It’s your choice.”

“I won’t be used.”

“Neither will I, as a target for your emotional storms.”

He was right, bull’s-eye right, and she wavered. “I won’t be ogled like a sideshow.”

“Ripley.” His voice gentled. “You’re not a freak. You’re a miracle.”

“I don’t want to be either. Can’t you understand that?”

“Yeah, I can. I know exactly what it’s like to be looked at as one or the other, or both at the same time. What can I tell you? All you can be is who and what you are.”

Temper was gone. She couldn’t even find the pieces of it. He’d talked her down not because he wanted something but because he got it. At the core, he got it.

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d understand, you’d know. Maybe I should have. I guess being the big brain is a kind of magic, and it’s not always comfortable. How do you do it?” she demanded. “How do you stay so goddamn balanced?”

“I’m not . . . Cut it out, Lucy.” Still gripping Ripley’s arms, he shifted as the dog barked and vibrated between them. Then he saw what had caught Lucy’s attention.

She stood on the beach, as she had before. And she watched them. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her hair dark as the wind teased it. Her eyes seemed to glow against the night. Deeply green, deeply sad. The surf foamed up, spilled over her feet and ankles, but she made no sign of feeling the cold or wet. She simply stood, watched, and wept.

“You see her,” Mac whispered.

“I’ve seen her all my life.” Tired now, Ripley stepped away from him because it would be too easy, frighteningly easy, to step toward him. “I’ll let you know what I decide when I decide it. And I want to apologize for being rude and swiping at you, for mucking things up. But right now . . . I need to be by myself.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“No. Thanks, but no. Come on, Lucy.”

Mac stayed where he was, between two women. Both of them pulled at him.

 

Chapter Ten

Nell found it strange to knock on the door of a house where she’d once lived. Part of her still thought of the yellow cottage as hers.

She had lived much longer in the white palace in California , and had never considered it hers. Unless it was to think of it as her prison, one she’d risked her own life to escape. But the little cottage by the wood had been hers for only a few months, and had given her some of the happiest moments of her life. Her first home, the place where she had begun to feel safe, and strong. The place where she and Zack had fallen in love. Even the terror she’d known there, the spilled blood, couldn’t spoil the sense of belonging that the little yellow cottage with its dollhouse rooms gave her.

Still, she knocked, and waited politely on the front stoop until Mac opened the door. He looked distracted. He was unshaven, his hair sticking up in wild spikes.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“What? No. Up for hours. Um.” He dragged a hand through his hair, tousling it further. What was she doing there? Did they have an appointment? Jeez, what time was it? “Sorry. My mind’s . . . come on in.”

The peek past him showed her the room jammed with equipment. Lights were glowing, and something was beeping steadily. “You must be working. I won’t disturb you. I just wanted to bring you some of last night’s dessert. You missed it.”

“Dessert? Oh, right. Thanks. Come in.”

“Actually, I’m on my way to work, so I’ll just . . .” Since she was now talking to his retreating back, Nell shrugged and stepped inside, closed the door behind her. “Why don’t I just put this in the kitchen for you?”

“Uh-huh. Look at this. Wait, wait.” He held up one hand, making notes with the other as he studied a printout that put Nell in mind of a seismograph.

After a moment he looked over at her again and beamed. “You just sparkle, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“The readings changed the minute you came into the house.”

“Really?” Fascinated, she stepped a little closer. And realized that no matter how close she got, she would never understand a thing about it.

“It’s different with Ripley,” Mac went on. “Her readings are all over the chart, and you never know. But you, you’re a dependable soul.”

Her lips pursed, the beginnings of a pout. “That makes me sound boring.”

“On the contrary.” He took the plate from her, lifting the protective wrap to break off a piece of the pie. Scattering crumbs. “You’re a comfort. I’d say you’re a woman who’s found her place and is happy there. I’m sorry I messed up dinner last night.”

“You didn’t. If you’re going to eat that now, let me get you a fork.”

When she walked back to the kitchen, he followed her, watched her go to the right drawer, take out a fork. “Does it . . . sorry.”

“Does it bother me to be in here?” she finished for him, and handed him the fork. “No. This house is clean. I cleansed it myself. I needed to do it myself.”

“A strong comfort. Sheriff Todd’s a very lucky man.”

“Yes, he is. Sit down, Mac, I’ve got ten minutes. Do you want coffee with that?”

“Well . . .” He glanced down at the pie. He couldn’t quite remember if he’d eaten any breakfast. Besides, the pie was here. “Sure.”

“You said it was different with Ripley,” Nell said as she measured out coffee. What was already in the pot looked nearly as hideous as it smelled, and she poured it straight down the drain. “You’re right. I don’t know all the reasons why, but she doesn’t talk about it. And if I did, I wouldn’t talk about it. It’s for her. But she’s my sister, so I’m going to ask you straight out. Is your interest in her only to do with your work?”

“No.” He shifted a bit, seeking comfort. He was a man more used to asking the questions than answering them. “In fact, it would probably be easier for me, and certainly easier for her, if she wasn’t involved in the work. But she is. Was she all right when she got home last night?”

“She wasn’t angry anymore. Unsettled, but not angry. I’m going to confess and get this out of the way. I set things up last night.”

“You mean the pink candles, the rose quartz, sprigs of rosemary, and so on?” Relaxed again, Mac shoveled another bite of pie into his mouth. “I noticed.”

“So much for subtlety.” Irked, Nell got down a mug. “I didn’t do a spell.”

“Appreciate it,” he said with his mouth full. “I also appreciate knowing you thought about doing one. I’m flattered you’d consider me someone you’d like to see with Ripley.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Not exactly. I upset her last night, and I’m sorry for that. But it’s something we’re both going to have to come to terms with. She is what she is. I do what I do.”

Angling her head, Nell studied him. “She wouldn’t be attracted to you—not for long, anyway—if you were a pushover.”

“Good to know. Will you talk to me on the record?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that? No qualifications?”

She set his coffee on the table. “I won’t tell you anything I don’t want you to know. I’m still learning, Mac. I may learn as much from you as you do from me. But now I have to get to work.”

“One question. Does the power make you happy?”

“Yes. Happy and centered and strong. But I could be all those things without it.” Her dimples winked.

“Now ask me if I could be this happy without Zack.”

“I don’t have to.”

After she’d left, Mac sat thinking about her for a while, about how she seemed to fit so comfortably into the rhythm of the island, the rhythm of her power.

It couldn’t have been easy for her, yet he thought she made it seem like the most natural thing in the world to have started a new life out of the horrors of another.

What had happened to her hadn’t scarred her. She’d been able to trust again, to love again. To become. That, he decided, made her the most admirable woman of his acquaintance. He could also see why Ripley was so determined to protect her. Somehow he would have to make the hardheaded deputy see that Nell was in no danger from his direction. He packed up the equipment he wanted to take with him on his planned field trip. And spent ten frustrating minutes searching for his glasses before realizing that he’d hooked them onto his shirt pocket. He found his keys in the bathroom medicine cabinet, scooped up a few extra pencils, and was on his way to the south point of the island.

The Logan house pulled at him. He could think of no other way to describe the almost physical tug he experienced when he stood on the edge of the narrow shale road and studied it. It was big and rambling. He wouldn’t have said it was particularly grand, particularly charming. Compelling, he decided as he dragged out his recorder to log his thoughts.

“The Logan house sits on the south point of the island, and is accessible by a narrow crushed-shale road. There are other houses nearby, but this one sits on the highest rise and is closest to the sea.”

He paused a minute, let himself feel the wind, taste the salt in it. The water was a hard blue today, a hue that made him wonder why the sea didn’t slice itself open with its own waves. When he turned a circle, he studied the other houses. More rentals, he deduced. There was no sound, no movement except the sea and the air, and the gulls that swooped over this quiet stretch to cry. Mia’s cliffs—and wasn’t it odd that they were at nearly the precise opposite end of the island—were more picturesque, he thought. More dramatic. More everything. Yet this spot seemed . . . right somehow. Right for him.

“It’s three stories,” he continued with recording his observations. “It looks as though several additions have been made to the original structure. It’s wood—cedar at a guess, faded to silver. Someone must maintain it, as the paint, a grayish blue, is fresh on the shutters and trim. The porches, front and back, are deep and wide, with a section of the back area screened off. It has narrower balconies off many of the second-and third-story windows, with curling . . . maybe they’re called valances—I’ll look it up—along the overhangs. It’s a lonely spot, but it doesn’t feel lonely. More like it’s waiting. It’s odd that it feels as if it’s waiting for me.”

He walked across the sandy patch of lawn, around the side of the house, to the back, where he could stand just above the beach and study the quiet cove. There was a dock, again well maintained, but no boat tied to it.

He would want a sailboat, he decided. Maybe a motor launch as well. And the masculinity of the house needed to be softened a bit with some flora. He would have to research what grew best in this type of soil. He wondered if both the chimneys were in working order, and what it would be like to sit in the winter with a fire roaring while he watched the sea. Shaking off the daydreams, he went back to his Land Rover and unloaded his equipment. It was only a short hike to the cave. He noted that the shadowed mouth of it was hidden from the house by the slight curve of the land. Making it more private, more mysterious. A perfect spot for kids’ adventures and young lovers, he decided.

But if it was still used for such purposes, there was no sign. He could see no litter, no footprints, no markings as he walked across the shale. He had to make two trips, and though the air in the cave was cool and slightly damp, he shed his jacket. He set up his equipment to the pretty music of lapping water and the echoes of the underground chamber. 

The cave wasn’t large. He measured it at just over eleven feet long and just under eight wide. He was grateful that the heart of it was more than seven feet high. He’d spent time in others that had forced him to squat or hunch or even explore on his belly. Armed with a halogen flashlight—something he hadn’t had along with him on his first trip—he studied every inch of the cave while his equipment ran.

“Something here,” he mumbled. “I don’t need the machines to tell me, there’s something here. Like layers of energy. New over old. Nothing scientific about that, but there you go. It’s a strong sense, gut sense. If this is the cave mentioned in my research, it means—What’s this?”

He paused, shining his light on the wall of the cave. He had to squat after all to see it clearly.

“Looks like Gaelic,” he said, reading the words carved into the stone. “I’ll have to translate it when I get back.”

For now he copied down the words in his notebook, and the symbol beneath them.

“Celtic knot, Trinity pattern. This carving isn’t that old. Ten years, twenty maximum. Another guess. I’ll test and verify.”

Then he ran his fingers along the carvings. The indentations filled with lights that lanced out in narrow beams. His fingertips warmed with the heat of them.

“Holy shit! Is that cool or what?”

He sprang up to get his gauge and his video camera, forgetting the curve of the cave ceiling. And he rapped his head hard enough to see stars.

“Idiot! Son of a bitch! Damn it! God!” With one hand clamped on his head, he paced and cursed until the sharpest edge of the pain dulled to a vicious throb.

Pain was replaced by disgust when he noted the wet smear of blood on his palm. Resigned, he dug out a handkerchief, dabbed gingerly at the knot that was forming. He held the cloth in place while he gathered his camera and gauge. This time he sat on the ground. He took measurements, logged them, then, prepared to document the changes, ran his fingers over the carving again. And nothing happened.

“Come on, now, I saw what I saw, and I have the minor concussion to prove it.”

He tried again, but the carving stayed dark, and the stone cool and damp. Undeterred, he stayed where he was, cleared his mind. He ignored the nasty headache already full blown. As he lifted his hand again, his monitors began to beep.

“What the hell are you doing? Holding a séance?”

Ripley stood at the mouth of the cave, the sun throwing a nimbus around her body. Too many thoughts jumbled in his mind, and all of them involved her. He gave up, for now, on the carving and just looked at her.

“Are you on cave patrol today?”

“I saw your car.” She scanned his equipment as she stepped into the cave. It was still madly beeping.

“What are you doing sitting on the ground back there?”

“Working.” He scooted around to face her, then sat back on his heels. “Got any aspirin on you?”

“No.” She played her flashlight over him, then rushed forward. “You’re bleeding. For God’s sake, Mac!”

“Just a little. I hit my head.”

“Shut up. Let me see.” She yanked his head forward, ignoring his yelp of protest, pawed through his hair to get to the scrape.

“Jeez, Nurse Ratched, have a heart.”

“It’s not too bad. You won’t need stitches. If you didn’t have all this hair to cushion your lame brain, it’d be a different story.”

“Are we on speaking terms again?”

She sighed a little, then lowered herself to the cave floor, sitting as he was, back on her heels. “I did some thinking. I don’t have any right to interfere with your work. I don’t have any business resenting it, either. You were up front about it, right from the start, and what you said last night was true. You haven’t pushed me.”

She was wearing earrings. She didn’t always. These were tiny dangles of silver and gold. He wanted to play with them, and the pretty curve of her ear. “That sounds like a lot of thinking.”

“I guess it was. Maybe I’ve got to do some more. But for right now, I’d like to put things back the way they were.”

“I’d like that, but I need you to know I’m going to talk to Nell. On the record.”

Ripley pressed her lips together. “That’s up to Nell. It’s just that she’s . . .”

“I’ll be careful with her.”

Ripley looked in his eyes. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. “You will.”

“And with you.”

“I don’t need you to be careful with me.”

“Maybe I’d enjoy it.” He slid his arms around her waist, rising to his knees. Drawing her up to hers. In the back of his mind he could hear the monitors pick up again. He could have cared less. He wanted one thing at that moment, and only one thing. His mouth on hers.

As their lips met, her arms wound around him. Her body fit to his, like the last piece of a complex and fascinating puzzle. For a moment, it was soft, and it was warm. And it was everything.

Shaken, she drew back. Something inside her was trembling. “Mac.”

“Let’s not talk about it.” His mouth brushed her cheeks, her temples, skimmed down to graze her neck.

“After a while talk just intellectualizes everything. I ought to know.”

“Good point.”

“It has to be soon.” His lips crushed down on hers. “Soon. Or I’m going to lose my mind.”

“I need to think about it a little more.”

He let out one ragged breath before he gentled his grip. “Think fast, okay?”

She laid her palm on his cheek. “I’m pretty sure I’m about done with that section of our program.”

“How odd,” Mia said as she strode into the cave. “And how awkward.” As she watched Ripley and Mac draw apart, she tossed her hair back. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

Even as she spoke, Mac’s equipment began to shrill. Needles slashed like whips. As one of his sensors began to smoke, he scrambled up. Saying nothing, she spun around and walked back into the sunlight.

“Jesus, it fried it. It fucking fried it.”

Since he sounded more excited than distressed, Ripley left Mac to his equipment and followed Mia outside.

“Hold up.”

As if she hadn’t heard, Mia continued over the shale to where the water of the cove lapped and retreated, where small tidal pools teemed with life.

“Mia, wait a minute. I didn’t think you walked over this way anymore.”

“I walk wherever I please.” But not here, she thought, staring blindly across the water. Never here . . . until today. “Did you bring him here?” She spun around, hair flying, eyes brimming with a terrible grief.

“Did you tell him what this place is to me?”

The years fell away between them, for that moment. “Oh, Mia. How could you think that?”

“I’m sorry.” One tear escaped. She’d sworn never to shed another over him, but one escaped. “I shouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t.” She dashed the tear away, turned to face the water again. “It was just seeing you in there together, holding each other, and in that particular spot.”

“What—Oh, God, Mia.” Ripley pressed her fingers to her forehead as she remembered the carving. “I didn’t realize. I swear, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Why should you? It shouldn’t matter, anyway.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, hugged the elbows tight. Because it did matter, and it always would. “It was long ago when he wrote that. Long ago when I was foolish enough to believe he meant it. To need him to.”

“He’s not worth it. No man’s worth it.”

“You’re right, of course. But I believe, unfortunately, that there’s one person for each of us who’s worth everything.”

Rather than speak, Ripley laid a hand on Mia’s shoulder, left it there when Mia reached back, held it.

“I miss you, Ripley.” The grief of it trembled in her voice, like tears. “The two of you left holes in me. And neither of us will be pleased tomorrow that I said that today. So.” Briskly she released Ripley’s hand, stepped away. “Poor Mac. I should go make amends.”

“You smoked one of his toys, I think. But he seemed more jazzed by it than upset.”

“Still, one should have more control,” she replied. “As you well know.”

“Bite me.”

“Ah, we’re back. Well, then, I’ll go see what I can do to patch things up.” She started back toward the cave, glanced over her shoulder. “Coming?”

“No, you go ahead.” Ripley waited until Mia disappeared into the shadow of the cave before she let out a long breath. “I miss you, too.”

She stayed there, crouching at a tidal pool until she pulled herself together. Mia had always been better, she thought, at smoothing her ruffles. And Ripley had always envied her that degree of self-control. She watched the little world in the water, a kind of island, she supposed, where each depended on the others for survival. Mia was depending on her. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to accept her connection or the responsibility it put on her shoulders. Refusing to believe it had given her a decade of normality, and cost her a cherished friend.

Then Nell had come, and the circle had formed again. The power of that had been so brilliant, so strong. As if it had never been locked away. It had been hard, very hard, to turn the key again. Now there was Mac. She had to decide if he was the next link in a chain that would drag her down, or the key to another lock.

She wished with all her heart he could be just a man. Mia’s laughter drifted out of the cave, and Ripley straightened. How did she do that? Ripley wondered. How did she turn herself around in such a short span of time?

She started toward the cave just as Mia and Mac stepped out. For an instant she saw another woman, hair bright as flame, sweep out of that dark mouth. Bundled in her arms was a sleek black pelt. The vision wavered, blurred, then slid away, like a painting left out in the rain. It left behind the vague headache that those images always brought with them.

Ten years, she thought again. For ten years she’d blocked it all. Now it was seeping back, liquid through cracks in a glass. If she didn’t shore up those cracks it would all break free. And never be contained again.

Though her knees had jellied, she strode forward. “So, what’s the joke?”

“Just enjoying each other’s company.” Mia wrapped her arm around Mac’s, sent him a slow, warm look from under her lashes.

Ripley just shook her head. “Get the goofy grin off your face, Booke. She does it on purpose. What is it about you and men, Mia? You get within two feet of one, and his IQ drops below his belt.”

“Just one of my many talents. Don’t look so flustered, handsome.” She rose to her toes to kiss Mac’s cheek. “She knows I never poach.”

“Then stop teasing him. He’s starting to sweat.”

“I like him.” Deliberately Mia cuddled against Mac’s side. “He’s so cute.”

“Is there any way I can enter this conversation,” Mac wondered, “without sounding like a moron?”

“No. But I think we’re done now.” Ripley hooked her thumbs in her jacket pockets. “How’s your head?”

“Nothing a bottle of aspirin won’t cure.” When he reached up to probe gingerly at the knot, Mia asked,

“Did you hurt yourself? Let me see.” She was a great deal more gentle than Ripley had been, but just as firm. After she took a look, she hissed out a breath. “You might have had some compassion,” Mia snapped at Ripley.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s seeping blood, swollen and painful. None of which is necessary. Sit,” she ordered Mac and gestured at a tumble of rocks.

“Really, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m always banging into something.”

“Sit.” Mia all but shoved him down, then drew a small bag out of her pocket. “I have. . . a connection to the cave,” she said as she took some cayenne out of her bag. “And so a connection to this. Be still.”

She stroked her fingers over the cut. He felt a gathering of heat, a focus of the pain. Before he could speak, she was chanting quietly.

“With herb and touch and thought to heal, this wound under my care to seal. From illness and pain let him now be free. As I will, so mote it be. There, now.” She bent over, touched her lips to the unmarked top of his head. “Better?”

“Yes.” He blew out a long breath. The ache, the throbbing had vanished before she’d finished her chant.

“I’ve seen cayenne work on minor cuts, but not like that. Not instantly.”

“The herb’s a kind of backup. Now be more careful with that handsome head of yours. Friday night, then?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Wait.” Ripley held up a hand. “What?”

“I thought it only fair that I make it up to Mac for damaging his equipment. I’ve invited him up on Friday to observe a ritual.”

Ripley was speechless for a moment, then she grabbed Mia’s arm. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course. Why don’t you walk me to my car?” Mia sent Mac an easy smile. “Friday, after sunset. You know the way.”

“Obviously you’ve lost your mind,” Ripley began as she accompanied Mia across the shale. “Since when do you perform for an audience?”

“He’s a scientist.”

“All the more. Listen. . .” Ripley broke off as they started up the rise to the road. “Okay, listen,” she started again. “I know you’re probably a little shaken up right now, and not thinking straight.”