Night of the Phantom

  She didn't question the certainty in his voice. Here was one more person who'd betrayed Ethan, either as a child or an adult. "Then I'll have to be the one to do it."

  Joseph looked at her for a long moment. "I think it may be too late."

  "Don't be ridiculous..-.."

  "I think that the best thing that could happen would be for you to leave before things explode. Things have gone too far—the people in town won't listen to reason. They wouldn't even recognize it. The only way you could help Ethan would be to leave."

  "I won't."

  "I don't think you're going to have much choice," Joseph said. He looked past her to the open French door to her room. Ruth stood there, framed by the flowing white curtains, a curious stillness in her stance.

  Megan clambered to her feet, reluctant to face her, reluctant to see anyone. Anyone but Ethan. She turned back to say something to Joseph, but to her amazement, he'd disappeared, vanished without a sound. Somewhere, hidden in that stone wall must be a door on hinges so well-oiled that someone could come and go in complete silence. She stared at the spot where he'd been, bemused, as the sun beat down on her, warming her. And then she turned and walked slowly down the crushed stone path toward Ruth's waiting figure. As she went, she turned the ring on her finger, letting it hang loosely, clinging to it as a protection against some sort of nameless evil. Or maybe the evil wasn't that nameless. Maybe it was simply the pain of a broken heart.

  "Sorry I'm late." Sal's voice was muffled in the darkness. Ethan didn't move. It was a testament to the sheer anguish he was going through that he hadn't even noticed Sal's failure to return.

  "What time is it?" he asked, turning around in his chair and staring through the darkness at his friend's silhouetted figure.

  "Sometime after six. At night. Your girlfriend's probably climbing the walls. I better get her something to eat, then I'll come back."

  "What's wrong?" Ethan asked sharply, setting his hands on the table in front of him.

  Sal hesitated. "I ran into a little trouble in town."

  "You went in last night and you don't come back for more than twenty-four hours? I'd think it was more than a little trouble. Turn on the light."

  "Let it go, Ethan."

  "Turn on the light, Sally."

  Salvatore had never failed to obey a direct order in his life, no matter how much he argued. Ethan instinctively shut his eyes as the dimly-watted bulbs blazed forth, giving himself a moment to accustom his night-dim gaze to the glare. When he could, he looked at Sal's battered face and he began to curse.

  "It looks worse than it feels," Sal said, moving forward with utmost care.

  "What happened?"

  "A bunch of guys jumped me at the construction site. They were up to their usual mischief, smearing the machinery with chicken blood, tacking up signs that say Repent or Perish." He shook his head in disgust. "Some of Pastor Lincoln's minions, I'd guess. I can't believe I was dumb enough to let them get the drop on me."

  "What did they do?"

  "Just beat the living daylights out of me. I would have been back sooner, but they cracked a rib. I figured I'd better have it taped, and there was no way in hell I was going to let Doc put his drunken paws on me. 'Specially since I thought I saw him there watching."

  "I'll kill him."

  "Calm down, Ethan. Lord knows I've had worse. If I hadn't let my guard drop, they wouldn't have been able to do more than bang me up a bit." He took a step nearer. "Are you certain you're doing the right thing?

  Can't you just let it go? Let the town go? Let's get out of here, go back to Saint Anne. You can even bring the girl if you have to. But let's get the hell away from here."

  Ethan shook his head, a faint negation. "It's too late for that, Sally. Too late for everything."

  "What happened while I was gone?" Sal's voice was sharp with suspicion.

  Ethan looked at him from behind the curtain of hair. "Not a thing," he said, not even wondering why he lied. He'd never lied to Sally, not in the decades they'd been together, from the time Sally had been a father figure, teacher and bodyguard all rolled into one. But he was lying to him now. He didn't want anyone's opinion, even anyone's knowledge, tainting the hours he'd spent in Megan's bed. It was over, sealed away forever in his heart. It was for him alone.

  Sal took him at his word. "So what's next?"

  Ethan leaned back, making a little temple of his fingertips. Fingertips that trembled slightly. "You get her out of here."

  "When?"

  "Just as soon as you can make arrangements. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest."

  "I'll make it tonight," Sal said. "As long as you're certain."

  "I'm certain. Get her out of here, Sally. Please." He didn't bother to disguise the raw pain in his voice. He'd managed to lie to Sally once—any more would be pushing it.

  "She's gone," Sal said evenly, spinning around and heading back to the door, a new purpose in his stride. Ethan wasn't the slightest bit surprised. Sal was possessive—after years of being almost everything to Ethan, he felt jealous of anyone interfering in their relationship.

  He kept his own romantic entanglements to a healthy minimum, and while he was more than happy to make those same arrangements for Ethan, for someone healthy and energetic to come to him in the dark, he wouldn't have wanted Ethan's heart involved.

  He'd disliked Megan the moment she'd arrived, and Ethan had been under no delusions as to why. He'd known, as Ethan had known, that Megan was going to change their lives. That she was going to matter, more than any other woman ever had. And the thought had frightened Salvatore almost as much as it had frightened Ethan.

  He'd never see her again. He'd have to resist the temptation to have Sal check up on her, see how she was doing "over the ensuing years. If he heard she married, had children, it would tear him apart. If he heard she kept herself remote, mourning something long past, it would be even worse.

  Maybe it would all be moot. He hadn't needed the proof of Sal's battered countenance to know that the people of Oak Grove were getting riled to a point of madness. He'd planned it that way. Sooner or later, they weren't going to be content with burning crosses. Sooner or later, they were going to march on this house with flaming torches, setting it ablaze as some sort of fiery sacrifice to the vengeful god they worshiped. He only hoped he'd be trapped inside.

  The construction crews were coming in two days, ready to break ground on the research center. The greedy denizens of Oak Grove had their limits—this time, they wouldn't take his money to work on his project. No one had come out to the house in two days, no one but Ruth. They were planning a bloody uprising that might very well take all of them with it.

  Another reason to get Megan safely out of here. He guessed he had a few days' grace before the town imploded, but there were no guarantees. He wanted her far gone, off on her aborted trip to Europe, before it did.

  Fifty years without her. They stretched ahead of him, an endless desert of unbearable pain. If they didn't torch the building, he might very well do it himself.

  Megan sat in the middle of the huge bed, her legs drawn up to her body, shivering slightly. She'd lost count of how long she'd been in residence in Ethan Winslowe's rambling old house, but of one thing she was certain. This was the first time they hadn't moved her to a new room by midday. _

  It was a good sign, she told herself, but she didn't believe it. He wanted her there, he wanted to join her in the huge white bed again, but she didn't believe it. Disaster loomed over her like a huge, dark bird. He wasn't going to come to her again.

  She hadn't touched the food Ruth had brought her. She hadn't responded to Ruth's cheerful conversation. She'd made the bed herself so that Ruth wouldn't realize those pristine white sheets had seen more than just sleep. But she'd kept her secrets to herself. She wasn't ready for an audience, someone to share the earth-shattering moments of the night before. Particularly not someone who'd already shared Ethan Winslowe's bed.

  It was irrational
and unfair of her, but she didn't want to look at Ruth, didn't want to talk to her, didn't want to be anywhere around her. What had been simple, unacknowledged jealousy before had taken on soul-eating proportions. The thought that Ethan had touched Ruth the way he'd touched her made Megan want to scream.

  Except that she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that he hadn't. He might have had sex with Ruth over a period of years—she wouldn't deny that. He might have even made love to her. But he hadn't shared what he'd shared with Megan. Those few hours with her were more important than years with Ruth. Meg didn't know how she knew that. But she did with unshakable certainty.

  She rocked back and forth on the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, as the night fell around her. She didn't bother to turn on the meager lights in the white room. He wouldn't come to her in the light. And all that mattered was that he come to her. She was trembling with need, with longing. She could do nothing but sit and wait and fight the dread that filled her.

  She heard the key in the door leading to the hall, and that dread spilled over. Ethan wouldn't use a key. He wouldn't need one. She huddled deeper into herself, dropping her head down, refusing to face what she knew she'd have to.

  A pool of lights spread into the room and she could see his shadow there. "Get your things together," Sal said, his voice faintly muffled and infinitely hostile.

  She looked up, then, into his battered face and angry eyes. "You're moving me to another room?" she asked, already knowing the answer to the question, hoping and praying she was wrong. He was going to move her to Ethan's room, Ethan's bed, so that she never had to be far from him. Please, God, let it be that.

  Sal shook his head. "You're leaving. Getting out of here, back to your own safe world. Tonight."

  She didn't move. Wouldn't, couldn't move. "How?"

  "I've got a car for you. A four-wheel-drive Blazer with enough gas to get you wherever you need to go.

  Nothing will stop you. By tomorrow morning, you'll think this is just a nightmare."

  "And if I refuse to go?"

  He stared at her. "You've been begging and pleading and complaining since you got here. You're finally getting your wish."

  "And if I refuse to go?" she repeated.

  "Then I'll carry you out to the car, drive you to the nearest airport and drop you there. You'll never find your way back here. And if you do, it'll probably be too late."

  "Too late?"

  "Either this place will be gone or we will. Face it, girly. He doesn't want you. He's finished playing his little games with you. He wants you gone."

  Megan didn't move as rage and pain battled for control deep inside. Rage was beginning to win. "When?"

  "I'll have to get the car ready, get it gassed up. I'll be back for you in an hour. And don't think you can go find him on your own and plead your case. This house is too convoluted for anyone to find anything. He doesn't want to see you, and there's no way you'll be able to force him. You're leaving, either willingly or not. Be ready." The door banged closed behind him, bouncing against the door jam. Bouncing before the automatic lock could click into place.

  She waited until his heavy footsteps faded into the distance. And then she pulled herself from the bed, absolutely vibrating with rage.

  Her hands were shaking as she ripped off the filmy gown she'd been wearing and pulled on her jeans and sweater. Ethan thought he could simply dismiss her, did he? He thought he could kidnap her, hold her hostage,—make love to her and then simply send her on her way without a word?

  He was in for a rude awakening. Never in her life had she suffered the ignominy of a one-night stand, and she wasn't about to start with her personal phantom. If he wanted to get rid of her, he was going to have to tell her himself.

  As for the ability to find him in this maze of passageways, she had no doubt at all. She had a sixth sense about him, one that would take her directly to him. He'd have to tell her himself. Full face, with the lights blazing. He'd have to send her away himself. And then maybe she'd go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  Ethan could hear the distant rumble of thunder, far above him, through the stories of concrete and steel, wood and plaster. He sat alone in the center of the rambling mansion, alone in the darkness, and waited for her to leave.

  He'd know when she was gone. It was very simple— his heart would be torn out. The pain that rippled beneath his skin would overwhelm him, blind him, wipe out all conscious thought. He would sit there, alone in the darkness, and die of grief.

  He wasn't naive enough to think she'd leave easily. She'd be bound to have mixed feelings. On the one hand, she wanted to escape, had wanted nothing else since she'd arrived.

  On the other hand, he knew perfectly well that what had passed between them last night was out of the ordinary. For both of them. He'd seen it in the shattered expression in her deep blue eyes, the tremulous mouth, the tears, heard it in her strangled, helpless expression of love.

  She'd get over it, he thought, trying to summon up his customary ruthlessness. She was temporarily enchanted by the place, by the circumstances, by the man. Once she got back to her own life, to the harsh brightness of the sun and the noise of the cities, she'd count herself lucky in her escape.

  There was even the remote possibility that he might get over it, too. He could listen to Sal's good advice, leave this place, leave his revenge, leave Joseph and Ruth and go back to the island. Where no one stared at him or even looked twice, where he could sit in the sun-dappled shadows and swim in the ocean, where he could breathe the air and feel the cool tropical breezes on his skin. Where the sunlight wasn't harsh and cruel, but soft and gentle, where the nights were warm and peaceful.

  But he didn't want the breezes, the sun, the water. He didn't want anything but the one thing he couldn't have. Megan Carey.

  Leaning back, he shut his eyes in the inky darkness. Let her leave quickly, he prayed to a distant, distrusted God.

  Megan was hopelessly lost. She'd been so certain she could find him. Her sense of direction had always been excellent, and she'd been taken down to his lair enough times that it should have been child's play to find it again.

  Instead, she just went deeper and deeper into the cavernous old house, turning corner after corner, passing gaslights and candles and dim electric lights, torches and kerosene lanterns and miner's lamps, heading down into total darkness. She thought she could hear the distant scratching, scuttling sound of something she'd rather not even contemplate. Rats, Salvatore had told her the day she arrived, and she hadn't been sure whether to believe him or not. Alone in the darkness, she had no doubt at all.

  She recognized the squeaky sound, too. High pitched, with an ominous fluttering overhead. Bats. She put a nervous hand to her tangled hair. Did bats really fly into people's hair? Did rats really climb up their clothes?

  There was still a faint glow of light in the long, tunnel-like ramp that led down into the bowels of the house. In the distance she could hear the rumble of thunder, and she managed to summon forth a nervous laugh. She should have stayed in the flowing white robe and kept the candlestick in her hand. Then she would have been the perfect Gothic heroine. Gothic heroines didn't wear jeans and sweaters and Reeboks. They weren't consumed with rage at being seduced and abandoned. Ethan had mocked her for being a virginal heroine. She was far from it now. She was a woman filled with rage and determination.

  One thing she was absolutely determined about. She wasn't going to leave this place until Ethan himself told her to go.

  She wasn't sure when the uneasiness slid over into fright. And when the fright sizzled into panic. The final clap of thunder did it, loud enough to shake a building that seemed to cover acres, rattling the windows, the walls, Megan's teeth and bones. She screamed, alone in the darkness as the last faint trace of light abruptly disappeared, and she knew that whatever power the house boasted had been abruptly terminated. She was alone in the darkness, with rats and mice and bats. She was lost and ter
rified.

  She couldn't take another step into the inky darkness of the hallway. She didn't know what she might find, and she didn't allow her panicked imagination to even think about it. She sank down on her haunches, leaning against the stone wall, and then slid farther, curling her legs up underneath her. She was cold, so very cold. And alone.

  Ethan, she thought, the name a cry of grief and longing. Ethan, I'm frightened.

  There was no light. No sound. No warning at all but the brush of air against her skin. And then his hands were on her arms—she knew they could be no hands but his—hauling her upward, into his arms, strong hands, hurtful hands.

  She didn't mind. She went to him, weeping with relief, yanking her arms free and sliding them around his neck, reaching up on tiptoes to find his mouth.

  He tried to jerk away, but she caught his long hair, entwining her fingers through it, and held him still for her desperate kiss. And as if he couldn't help it, he kissed her back, a kiss fraught with anger and despair.

  She moved her hands down between them. She could feel his loose shirt, and without thinking, she yanked at it, ripping it open so that the buttons went flying, exposing his warm, smooth skin to her touch. She pulled her mouth away from his, sinking down, kissing his chest, the smoothly muscled torso, as her hands caught his belt buckle and began fumbling with it.

  He groaned, a sound of pain and pleasure, as she dropped to her knees in front of him, and then his hands caught her, the fingers hard and painful on her shoulders; and he hauled her up, away from him, shoving her against the wall and pinning her there.

  "Don't," he said, and the one word was a rasp of agony.

  She was trembling with reaction, with need. She wanted to touch him, press her face against his bare stomach, take him into her mouth and love him. She wanted to do things to him that she'd never contemplated; she wanted to love him in every possible way. And she was frightened... frightened—

  "Don't send me away," she said brokenly. "Don't make me leave. You don't really want me to go, I know you don't."