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“Of course, thank you, that must be it. ”
He nodded, pleased that he had been of help.
She rose.
“Buona notte, signorina,” he told her.
“Grazie, buona notte,” she told him, and headed up the stairs. Once inside her room, she made a point of locking her door.
She walked across the room to the windows and saw that though they had been closed, the shutters opening to the walk and canal below had been left open. She opened the window, reaching for the shutters, but paused.
By day, she could look out and see the bustle of human traffic on the broad walk before the hotel; she could see the sweep of the canal and the majestic basilica beyond. Leaning far out, she could see the pillars before the Doge’s Palace and the Piazza San Marco.
Now . . . the night was quiet.
It seemed that even the last of the revelers had gone to bed.
About to close the shutters, she hesitated, and took a seat in front of the window.
She loved her room here. The bed was set back in a section of the room that was divided from the sitting area by draperies held with gold cords. There was a window in the area with the bed, and the window here. A picture-perfect view was offered from either window. The room was furnished with well-kept antiques. Each night when she came in, there was a tray of fresh fruit and mineral water waiting for her.
She opened the water and walked back to the window. She sat in the chair there again and stared out, listening to the lulling lap of water against the docks beyond.
The tea had tasted good; the water was better.
She had drunk far too much champagne tonight Leaning back, she closed her eyes and let the cool breeze waft over her. Ragnor’s suggestion as they danced passed through her mind. Maybe she should go home.
Steven Moore had joined the police force as a homicide investigator right when the city and the neighboring countryside had been plagued by a series of bizarre cult murders. The people of Charleston had been deeply concerned?it wasn’t so much that her leading citizens were disappearing, but Charlestonians tended to be both old guard, as well as concerned with being progressive. The city was beautiful: the Battery area had its antebellum houses and courtyards, the public parks offered mature trees and gardens, and to the east lay the shimmering Atlantic. The city was rich with history, from Revolutionary to Civil War times, and yet it strove to move into the future. There were problems, yes.
Moving into the future wasn’t easy. The Deep South carried a great deal of baggage, as well as the traditional charm and hospitality. But such strange and bizarre happenings . . .
The countryside surrounding the city was also rich in ruins and marshes. First, the decomposed remains of a young woman were found in the basement of a condemned manor by the river; little more than bones were found. Not a scrap of clothing was discovered near the remains, no sign of cause of death. The medical examiner’s office eventually sent the remains to the FBI; the bones told her age and race?eighteen to twenty-four, white. She’d had no dental work done whatsoever and had died with perfect teeth.
Later, rumor started about Latour House, an abandoned Colonial mansion just outside the city. Lights were seen, strange music was heard, and children from neighboring farms swore they heard laughter and chanting. The house was investigated; people had indeed been living in it. Remnants of fires were found, along with bottles, blankets, and cooking paraphernalia?including a George Foreman grille. The homeless had taken up residence, so it appeared. But then another body was found. This one had not decayed quite so thoroughly, and there were strange markings found on the remaining flesh. This girl’s teeth had been riddled with cavities; her remains were traced back to a missing persons report filed in Columbia six months earlier. Steven had just taken his position with the homicide department. He’d been among the officers to find the remains.
The next body was found in an abandoned mill. This time, fingerprints on a beer bottle were traced to a local high school tough guy who became a whimpering child in the hands of juvenile authorities. He told bizarre stories of a devil-worshiping cult, of a grand master who demanded that he and others lure young women?preferably homeless girls and runaways?to designated places.
The boy swore he had no hand in the murders, nor could he recognize the leaders of the cult. When talking to the police, though, he suddenly clammed up. No amount of pressure could get him to talk.
He was found dead in his cell at the juvenile detention hall. He’d gotten hold of a straight razor, and slit his own throat Jordan had met Steven at a local restaurant He’d immediately caught her attention with his deep concern for the young man who’d had such a checkered past, but was still a child. She’d started talking to him over coffee; she’d agreed to a date. His dedication to his work was admirable; his ability to keep his work and the rest of his life balanced was more so. He was often on call, but Jordan didn’t mind. She always had work to do, a book to read, and Charleston was her city?she had friends, and loved the movies, plays, museums, and everything else the city offered. Her parents had left her a house near the Battery where she kept a canvas hammock beneath a giant magnolia. She would lie there, reading and waiting for him to come. She could still hear the grate of iron when the gate would open and he would slip into the garden, touch her hair, her cheek, and lie beside her. He’d asked her to marry him in that old hammock. She hadn’t really known him that long, not even six months, but among his other attributes, he had been an incredible lover, and it had never occurred to her to refuse him, even though the speed of his question somewhat amused her.
Jared and Cindy had thrown them a wonderful engagement party, right before Christmas. They made their plans. They’d have a cat and a dog, maybe even a bird in the garden. One boy, one girl. They laughed as they talked about names, from the traditional to the odd. They teased one another about rethinking it all if they should have two boys, or two girls. If they couldn’t use a name they loved for a child, they’d just have to get another pet.
Then, after Christmas, another body was found. In the marsh area, decomposition could set in amazingly fast; a body could be reduced to little more than bone in a few days. Animals and insects could see to that. This time, the medical examiners found slash marks on the vertebrae of the neck, and the police knew that the cult had not died away, but had just been lying low. The FBI was called in to assist in the continuing investigation.
Tire tracks were found near the marsh; the vehicle used to dump the body had been a new model truck.
A knife found near the site was traced to a new Ford truck owner.
The man, however, and his truck, had disappeared. The search was on.
The last time Jordan saw Steven alive, he had stopped by the house to tell her he was hot on a lead, he’d be late, very late coming home. He worked long hours, but that had never bothered her because it was easy for her to adjust her work schedule. He had his own key to the house. He could come in and wake her whenever he chose.
But he didn’t come back.
That night, there was a fire at an abandoned and tumbledown barn. Through the night, firefighters worked desperately to get the blaze under control, but it had been created through the work of a well-planned arsonist.
When the fire was finally out, eight bodies, hopelessly charred, were discovered.
Weeks later, forensic specialists had the remains sorted. Steven’s body was the first to be identified, his belt buckle hadn’t burned completely and his badge had hardly been seared. Among the others were two backup officers, a twenty-three-year-old prostitute, the last victim of the cult, and five cult members. One of them was identified, through dental records, as the owner of the Ford truck. Piecing together the evidence, the police and FBI deduced that Steven and the others had hoped to surprise the cult members. A gunfight had taken place, and the kerosene, intended to destroy the murder scene, had ignited. Candles that had
been set up around the victim had spurred on the flames, and the barn had gone up like a tinderbox.
In her grief, Jordan knew that Steven would have felt his life was a fair trade for having destroyed something so heinous as the cult that had taken so many young lives.
It hadn’t changed the fact that he was dead.
The cool breeze coming in reminded her of the last winter they had spent together. She could almost hear the creak of the hammock in the garden, where she had so often bundled up and waited, regardless of the weather.
Soothing . . .
Jordan was never sure when she drifted from consciousness to sleep, or when memories twisted to become the substance of dreams.
She felt she was light as air. She was in the hammock, and it was winter; there was snow all around. But the snow wasn’t cold; it was soft, and drifting, and not even wet to the touch. It wasn’t snow, but clouds, she realized, and suddenly, he was walking through them.
Steven. Dark hair in a rakish mop, slightly tousled as it so often was. He wore a sheepish grin, as if he were late, but had a good excuse, and knew that she would understand. She wanted to jump from the hammock and greet him, but she was far too lethargic to do so. He would come to her. He would arrive at the hammock, perhaps slip up behind her. She’d feel his breath at her nape, and his fingers slipping beneath the collar of her sweater.
He was there with her.
“Ye olde hammock,” he murmured.
“Too cold, it’s winter,” she whispered. But his fingers were warm; hotter than vinyl, hotter than watching the acrobatic dancers . . .
“It’s never cold, where you are,” he told her.
She needed to talk. She wanted to tell him that she had seen his features on the face of a mannequin.
But he wasn’t there anymore. He was ahead of her in the snow again. Not snow, clouds; he was walking and walking, coming through the clouds, but he didn’t seem to be able to reach her.
“I love you, Jordan. ”
“I love you, too. I miss you. ”
“I’ll get back to you, Jordan. ”
“You can’t Steven,” she whispered softly. She didn’t say more; in the dream, it seemed far too rude to remind him that he was dead.
“I can, and I will. ”