Night of the Phantom

  The bathroom was positively sybaritic compared to her dungeon. The towels were thick and white, and there was even a terry robe, the kind she'd found at better hotels, hung on the back of the door. The hot water was just as abundant as Salvatore had promised her, and there were even some hyacinth-scented bath crystals.

  At one forty-five on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when she should have been well on her way to New York and then to Europe, she found herself locked in a dungeon, having a perfumed, candlelit bath and even enjoying herself.

  The terry robe dragged on the floor as she wrapped it around her body. That was another advantage to this place, she thought, pushing her sheaf of dark blond hair back. There were no mirrors around to force reality home when she stepped out of the bathtub and confronted her naked self. She found her body a constant vexation—it remained stubbornly rounded and ten pounds overweight no matter how little she ate and how much she exercised.

  The mattress on the floor was a little more comfortable than she had imagined. The softness of the terry-cloth robe kept the wool blanket from being too itchy, and the pillow was made of feathers. She sat cross-legged and made a feast of her first candy bar, then stretched out with her novel.

  Her taste in science fiction ran toward women-authored extraterrestrial romances. The hero in this particular one had been a little too bizarre, even for Meg's tastes. A tall, green lizard with tiny scales instead of skin, he'd metamorphosed into a jellylike glob halfway through the book, leaving the earthling heroine frustrated and untouched, and Meg had stopped reading. Now she would have read romances about amoe-bas—anything to take her mind off her current situation. The only problem was, the vast green blob reminded her a little of Ethan Winslowe. Somewhere in this huge place, he was lurking, possibly tied up to life-support systems, a huge, evil spider waiting to... to...

  That didn't bear thinking about. Maybe he was simply an agoraphobic Howard Hughes-type. Maybe he was Salvatore himself. Whoever and whatever he was, she'd face him, calmly, bravely, and deal with him as he needed to be dealt with. And then she'd get the hell out of here.

  With a resigned sigh, she turned her attention to the romantic tribulations of Medora and X'n*d, squinting in the candlelight. In no time at all, she was sound asleep.

  The room was very dark, the only light the flickering image of the television monitors. Salvatore opened the door, shutting it behind him silently. He had good eyes in the dark, cat's eyes. He didn't need bright sunlight to see. A good thing. There was very little light in Ethan Winslowe's house, even on the brightest day.

  "What do you think of her?" he asked, leaning against the door.

  The man in the chair didn't move, didn't blink his eyes. One might think he was made of stone, so still did he sit. Salvatore knew better.

  "What color is her hair?" Ethan's voice was slow, deep, issuing from the depths of the chair.

  Salvatore glanced at the black-and-white monitor. Meg Carey was lying on the mattress, a paperback novel had fallen from her hand, and the white bathrobe was wrapped around her. "Blond," he said. "Dark blond, with streaks in it, like sunlight."

  "Sunlight," Ethan echoed.

  "Nice blue eyes. Friendly, big. Nice body, too, not too thin. But you can see that, can't you?"

  The girl had shifted in her sleep, rolling over onto her back, and the bathrobe shifted with her, exposing the warm curve of her breast. In another second, the screen went blank, turned off by an imperceptible move on Ethan's part. The other screens remained lit, illuminating empty rooms, empty hallways. "Remind me, Salvatore. What do we know about Megan Carey?"

  Salvatore breathed a tiny sigh of relief. "Twenty-seven years old. An only child, devoted to her father. Graduate of the University of Chicago, master's degree from Northwestern. Up until yesterday, she worked for Carey Enterprises. She'd quit to go traveling, or so word has it. I don't know whether she caught wind of what her father had been doing and wanted to get out before she got brought down, too—"

  "Unlikely. If she was trying to escape, she wouldn't have come here. What about her personal history?"

  "Two love affairs, one with a college student that lasted most of her junior year. Apparently they broke up over his drug use. The other was with an executive in the company. That ended a while ago when he got involved with someone else. She sees men on a casual basis but doesn't seem too serious. She reads science fiction and murder mysteries, likes Italian food and works out at a health club three times a week."

  "Efficient as always," Ethan said. "You never cease to amaze me."

  "I like a challenge," Salvatore said modestly. "She's had chicken pox, measles, a broken arm in a cycling accident and a benign heart murmur. No abortions, no pregnancies. Her doctor's computer is a piece of cake to break into."

  "Do you think she knows about her father?"

  "From what I can gather, no. She's known for her sense of honor. If she'd even suspected what he was doing, she would have stopped him. Maybe not blown the whistle on him, but she would have stopped him."

  "Maybe," said Ethan. "Then again, maybe not. We'll have to see. She likes to read, does she?"

  "Anything but horror novels. I guess she's gullible."

  Ethan's laugh was enough to send cold chills down anyone's spine but Salvatore's. "Make arrangements to move her to the tower room, Sally. Leave her a few more amenities, including a decent bed. Maybe you'd better see about finding her some more clothes. You must know what size she wears."

  "Size eight. Bra size, thirty-four C, shoe size, seven. I'll see what I can do. Anything special for the tower room?"

  "Yes," Ethan said. "No books but Stephen King novels."

  Salvatore chuckled. "Anyone tell you you were evil, Ethan?"

  "You have, many times. See to it, old friend."

  "It is done, O master," Salvatore said with a mocking flourish, closing the door behind him and plunging the room into darkness once more.

  The man in the chair didn't move, his eyes surveying the empty screens. And then, with a minuscule movement, he turned the middle one on.

  Meg Carey lay in the center of the pallet. The bathrobe had come undone enough to expose her shapely legs. Her hair was thick and slightly curly around her shoulders. The color of sunlight, Salvatore had said. An interesting recommendation to a man who avoided sunlight.

  A stubborn chin, even in sleep, he thought, cataloging her. A soft mouth, slightly parted, a nose that was totally without character. He half wished she'd open her eyes.

  He'd been enraged when Salvatore had first told him Reese Carey had sent his daughter in his place. But the moment Ethan had set eyes on her, he'd realized this made things a great deal more interesting. Justice or revenge, he wasn't quite sure which it was, was going to be far sweeter, and Reese Carey, in his blind cowardice, had sent the means directly into Ethan's hands.

  Ethan Winslowe couldn't wait for night to fall—and the games to begin.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  The cold, stone room was more like a tomb than a dungeon when Meg awoke hours later. The meager candlelight wavered in darkness from some unseen breeze, and the shadows were tall around her. She lay very still, shivering beneath the scratchy blanket, and told herself she had no reason to be frightened. This was almost the twenty-first century. She wasn't being kept prisoner in a mausoleum of a mansion by a deformed madman and his swarthy henchman. Even if it seemed like it.

  She sat up, shoving her hair away from her face, pulling the terry robe around her. If only it weren't so dark. If only she had clean clothes and something to eat. If only...

  Thinking about it was a waste of time, something to send her into weak-minded tears. She needed to pull herself together if she was going to finally face Ethan Winslowe and bargain her way out of here with her undeserving father's reputation intact. What meager light had come from the casement windows was now gone— surely he'd deign to see her soon.

  She was fully dressed again, sitting cross-legged on her pallet and
trying to read her novel by candlelight when she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. She held her breath, her heart pounding noisily beneath her thin cotton sweater, as a huge, menacing shadow preceded her visitor into the room. When the candlelight revealed Salvatore's impassive bulk, she breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered at it. Wasn't she more than ready to see the infamous Ethan Winslowe? Wasn't she more than ready to give him a piece of her mind?

  "Have a good rest?" Salvatore asked.

  "No." She stretched her legs out in front of her in an attitude of deliberate ease. Not for anything would she let him see how spooked she was. "I presume his highness is ready to grant me an audience by now?"

  "Don't assume nothing, girly. I'm moving you to different quarters."

  She raised an eyebrow, hoping the effect wasn't lost in the dim light. "Don't tell me you have other dungeons?"

  "This place has so many different rooms, you could spend months and never stay in the same bed twice."

  "I'm not going to be staying months," she said, unable to keep the slight waver of panic out of her voice.

  The smile beneath Salvatore's thick gray mustache was positively wicked. "That's up to Ethan. At least in your new room, you'll have a real bed. And books." He chuckled at some private joke.

  Meg didn't like that chuckle. "I think I'll stay here."

  "Girly, you don't have any say in the matter. If you don't think I could carry a little bitty thing like you, then you don't know diddly. You're going to get up and come with me or we're gonna have a real undignified struggle."

  "Don't call me girly," she said. "My name is Meg. Miss Carey to you." She waited long enough to assuage her pride, then rose, tucking the novel into her purse.

  "That's the ticket. You'll like your new room. There's a nice view of this godforsaken countryside. That is, when it isn't dark outside and raining."

  "I'd rather have a view of Chicago. When do I get to see him?"

  "When he says so. And not a moment sooner. I wouldn't be in any great rush if I were you." He started out the door, confident she'd follow. Which, indeed, she did, too nervous to remain behind. "Haven't you heard what the townspeople say about him?"

  "Why should I have talked with anyone in the town?" she countered.

  "You stopped for gas at Ferdy's place. I don't imagine that old reprobate would let you go without filling you full of stories."

  "How did you know I stopped?"

  Salvatore didn't bother to turn around, and she had no choice but to keep up with him. "I have my ways. Bet he told you the one about Mrs. MacInerny going mad when she saw Ethan. And did he tell you about the cows? What few cows were left in the area dried up when Ethan came back here. Or what about the children?"

  "The children?" she asked, her voice shaky. Iwon't believe this, she thought. He's only trying to frighten me.

  "There've been any number of young people who've come out here and never been seen again."

  "You're making this up." She told herself she was breathless from all the twisting stairs they'd been climbing, even though she could run six miles without getting winded.

  "That's the sort of story that people like Ferdy tell. And they believe it and worse."

  "It sounds like something out of the Middle Ages. Why haven't they burned him at the stake?"

  "Oh, they'd like to, missy. They would surely like to. They just can't catch him. He's like a phantom. No one sees him and lives to tell the tale."

  "Stop it! You're making this up."

  Salvatore chuckled, a reassuringly normal sound. "Most of it. Either me or them. One part of it's true, though." They had stopped outside another door, this one made of a different heavy wood, with different hardware. She didn't know how far they'd come; she'd again lost track of the staircases and the sloping passageways.

  "What's that?"

  He opened the door, illuminating the inky darkness beyond with his candle. "The children really do disappear."

  If the other room had been a medieval dungeon, this was more like a castle. The huge bed in the center of the room was on a raised platform, and it dominated even the lofty proportions of the place. The casement windows were set lower in the stone walls, and this time, there were no bars on them. A tapestry chair and carved chest stood in one corner, and the bed hangings were sumptuous gold and crimson.

  She cast a suspicious look at Salvatore as he moved about the room lighting the candelabra that stood at either end. "Are you certain you brought me to the right place?"

  "Ethan's orders. He thought you deserved better treatment. That's because he hasn't met you yet. Once you start in on him, you'll be back in the dungeon." Salvatore chuckled, stepping back. "Bathroom's through there, basically the same as the other one. I've ordered you some clothes, but they won't arrive until tomorrow. In the meantime, there are some things in the chest that should help."

  "You ordered me some clothes? How? This place doesn't come equipped with a telephone, does it? And why should you bother? I'm only staying until my car can be pulled out."

  "You're staying as long as Ethan says you are. And we have a dedicated fax machine. Federal Express will make the delivery."

  "Then I can get a ride back with them—"

  "Bring it up with Ethan."

  "I will if I just get a chance to see the man."

  "Now that's not likely to happen."

  Meg's frustration level was reaching mammoth proportions, overcoming even her nervousness. She stomped over and plopped herself down on the bed, ignoring its inviting comfort. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean Ethan doesn't like people looking at him, you should have figured that out by now. If and when he decides to talk to you, it will probably be in darkness."

  For a moment, she was speechless. "If? What are the alternatives?"

  "One, that you stay here until he changes his mind. Or two, he'll send you away and concentrate on crucifying your father. If I were you, I'd hope he chooses number one."

  "I hope he chooses to stop this melodrama and talk with me tonight."

  "That's also possible. I'll let you know when I bring you your supper."

  "I don't want any."

  "I'm bringing it anyway. Just relax, girly. At least you've got plenty of books to read." He gestured to the small bookcase she'd almost overlooked, stacked with paperback novels. The room was too dark for her to read the titles, but that was at least a minor comfort if she were forced to keep waiting.

  "I'll be back." He'd already pulled out that heavy ring of keys as he headed to the door.

  "You're not locking me in again," she said, her voice rising in panic.

  "For your own safety, girly. This can be a dangerous place, and we don't want you wandering where you don't belong."

  He'd already locked the door by the time she reached it, and the heavy wood muffled her cries, muffled the heavy tread of his footsteps as he walked away.

  "She’s worse than the townspeople," Salvatore announced in disgust when he stepped back into the darkened room.

  Ethan Winslowe didn't move. "No one's worse than the townspeople."

  "She's just as gullible."

  "That's because we're going out of our way to frighten her. The good people of Oak Grove have come up with horror stories on their own. We're doing our best to frighten Meg Carey witless," Ethan observed dispassionately. "It's working very well, too." He glanced over at the monitor. The candlelit room was murky, but he could see her leaning against the door, for a moment looking abject. He didn't want to see her cowed. If she were beaten too easily, he'd have to let her go. And he was feeling more alive than he had in a long, long time. "Feed her," he said. "Then bring her to me at midnight. Make sure she knows what time it is. I'll see her in the computer room."

  "She won't eat."

  "We'll simply have to convince her."

  "Ethan." Salvatore's voice was troubled. "Are you sure you ought to be doing this? I mean, she hasn't done anyone any harm as far as we know. Her father's a crook, but we don't
know that she's anything more than a loving daughter."

  "I don't imagine she is," Ethan said in his slow, almost dreamy voice. "Are you feeling sorry for her, old friend?"

  "A little. I don't think she deserves to be frightened."

  "I should let her go?" He asked the question very softly. "Say the word, Sally, and I'll release her."

  Salvatore shook his head. "That's up to you. She came here for a reason—you might as well hear her out. But then you should let her go back home."

  "And if I don't want to?"

  "I don't understand why not."

  Ethan moved his head a fraction, to stare at the television monitor. She'd moved from the door, across the room to stare out the casement windows. She was wearing the clothes she'd come in, a baggy pink cotton sweater, a long, loose skirt, mudsplattered highheeled shoes. He liked her better in the terry robe. He'd like her even better in nothing at all. "Let's just say I'm enjoying being a voyeur," he said.

  "Ethan..."

  "Don't worry about it. She'll be safe from my evil designs. In a week, she'll be back in Chicago, safe and sound."

  "A week. You're planning to keep her here that long? We might run into trouble when the workmen arrive on Monday."

  "The house is big enough. Don't worry so much, Sally. For now, I feel like playing with fire. I don't even mind if I get burned."

  Salvatore shook his head, knowing the gesture was unseen in the darkened room where his old friend stared at the woman on the television monitor. "I'm not worried about singed fingers, Ethan. I'm worried about the place burning down around us."

  "You worry too much. I promise you I won't hurt her. I probably won't even scare her as much as you have. I just need a little distraction. It's been a long time since Ruth."

  "Ethan..."

  "Bring her to me at midnight, Sally. Who knows, she might even be able to convince me to let her go." She turned from the window, pushing her hair back from her face, and he watched the nervous parting of her lips, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the baggy sweater. "Maybe," he murmured.