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Mrs. Levieux’s boardinghouse rose out of the fog. Three stories tall, it was a gothic-style dwelling nestled within a giant’s grasp of ancient oak trees. The fog muted the effects of the peeling paint, but at the same time turned it tombstone-white, emphasizing the starkness of the numerous windows. They seemed to stare at her like the hollowed eyes of a skull. Lifeless yet watchful eyes.
Rachel shivered. For all she knew, Joe Becket’s killer could be renting a room in there, as she did. As she squinted to see each black rectangle through the mist, she focused on the side of the house, specifically the one at the top floor on the far right corner. Her neighbor’s room. The reclusive Mr. Barnes.
If anyone deserved to be a prime suspect, he was the man. No one knew anything about him except that he worked at Beauchamp’s and avoided speaking to anyone if he could help it. He wasn’t a Nooton native, either. In fact, Mrs. Levieux—Adorabella—had made a point of telling her more than once how he’d moved to town not long before she did.
The pale chintz curtains framing the screened window shifted slightly. Rachel sucked in a quick breath, then reminded herself that after what she’d been through, it was perfectly understandable for her to get a little paranoid—but unnecessary. As eccentric as her neighbor seemed to be, there was nothing going on up there except the night air stirring the curtains. A quick scan of her own window proved hers were fluttering, too.
She was about to turn onto the sidewalk when her gaze was drawn back to her neighbor’s window. At that instant she saw the tiny dot of reddish-orange. It grew brighter, and then dimmed…like the burning tip of a cigarette, she concluded, with renewed unease.
Mr. Barnes smoked. Sometimes, when she walked in the hall, she smelled it, and at other times, as well, like when she was in the bathroom they shared. Which meant…?
That was him up there watching her.
For the second time that night, the hairs at her nape and on her arms lifted, radioing messages of fear. What was he doing awake at this hour? From the darkness of the room, it didn’t look as though he was trying to watch TV or read.
Maybe he’d seen what had happened on the bridge. She glanced back and decided otherwise; the mist was too thick. But then what was he doing standing there in the dark?
Whatever the reason, Rachel told herself, she didn’t need to stand down here and blatantly advertise that she’d spotted him. Ducking her head, she walked briskly the rest of the way to the front steps. It took supreme effort not to break into a frantic run. But at the door, she needed a moment to lean back against the wall, and press her hand against her heaving chest.
Coincidence. That’s all it was. There could be any number of innocent explanations. The man probably suffered from insomnia. What with their stuffy rooms and the lack of air-conditioning, why shouldn’t he seek the coolest spot—the window?
Even so, she regretted not having asked Mrs. Levieux more questions about him when she’d learned the two of them would be the only tenants on the third floor. Recalling the casual comments— “such a quiet man” and “so private”—which her landlady had volunteered during her initial tour of the house, Rachel now found them oblique and hardly reassuring.
If she sought out Adorabella tomorrow and made a point of bringing him up in conversation, could the old woman tell her more? Would she? It hardly seemed likely—not if she hadn’t seen fit to share the news about the murder on the bridge. No, the wily old fox had kept silent—probably for the sake of gaining another boarder.
Listen to yourself. You’ve practically got the poor soul tried and convicted along with your neighbor.
This proved she needed to calm down and figure things out, she thought, digging her keys from her pocket. She opened the screen door and unlocked the glass-and-wood one behind it.
Once inside, she gingerly set the bolt. The extra care wasn’t necessary, since there was no great threat of rousing Adorabella. Although the woman normally ran the house like a dowager queen, keeping track of everything and everyone in her tiny kingdom, Rachel suspected that at night a burglar could carry off the antique cast-iron stove in the parlor without waking her. She attributed that to Adorabella’s affection for her “medicinal” peach liqueur and an equally potent stash of sleeping pills obtained from who knew where.
But that didn’t mean Jewel’s antenna was shut down, even if her room was farther back in the house. Adorabella’s housekeeper, cook and confidante made the lady of the house look like an innocent. Deciding there were enough watchful souls around here as it was, Rachel proceeded with caution, tiptoeing as she began climbing the first flight of stairs.
There were eight bedrooms on the top two floors of the house, and only four were currently occupied, two on the second level and two on the third. Every night since taking a room here, Rachel had felt it both a blessing and a curse that hers was on the top floor; however, at the moment, all she remembered were the negatives—like how with almost every step the stairs creaked, and how so far she’d managed to avoid only a percentage of them.
When she reached her floor, she paused. Her room was at the end of the hall, opposite Mr. Barnes’s. She had chosen it because she’d wanted the view of the creek rather than the barn at the other end of the house, or the woods out back. She’d assumed—perhaps too naively—that Mr. Barnes had chosen his for similar reasons.
The most she’d ever seen of her neighbor was his back as he slipped into his room after using their shared bathroom, or the top of his dark head when he hurried down the stairs. To be fair, there were logical explanations for their lack of contact. Their work schedules were complete opposites. That didn’t exactly enhance their chances for striking up a conversation. But fairness wasn’t an issue at the moment; her sanity, if not her safety, was.
Suppose he decided it was time they did meet? What if he challenged her the moment she tried to reach the sanctuary of her room? Who could she rely on for help? Mr. Bernard, the retired railroad conductor on the floor below? The poor soul was practically deaf, and Celia Nichols, the sloe-eyed divorcée who had her eye on her boss, the married owner of the Black Water Creek Lounge, spent most of her time over there.
Don’t be a fool. The man has never bothered you, and he’s done nothing to suggest anything will change.
She was overtired and stressed, that’s all. Her job kept her steeped in responsibility. And she couldn’t forget the added pressure brought on by her alienated relationship with her family. Even without the burden of the past three nights, she had a lot taxing her mind.
It would do her a world of good to try to let go of everything—including this last episode on the bridge—and start fresh in the morning. She doubted she would get much sleep, but simply relaxing might help. In the morning she would consider confiding in Sammy. He was, after all, her sponsor, advisor and friend, as well as her boss. Most important, he had more background in psychiatry than anyone between here and Baton Rouge; as real as the episode on the bridge had seemed, it wouldn’t hurt to make certain she wasn’t fabricating the whole thing in her mind due to emotional overload.
But even with her new resolve, Rachel was cautious as she circled the balustrade and entered the bathroom. In fact, she found herself holding her breath until she set the lock.
She placed her bag on the side of the tub and faced her reflection in the mirror, wincing at what she saw. It was worse than she’d expected, worse than when she used to pull marathon shifts as an intern. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, as though she’d been crying, and her face appeared as pale as a cadaver. Her dark brown hair, her personal vanity point, was no longer styled in a sleek pageboy cut, but rather a frizzy tangle. Add to it that her jeans and lab coat were stained with who-knew-what she’d picked up from crawling around on all fours on the bridge, and she was a visual horror herself.
A shower would be heavenly, but it could wait until morning when she knew she would be alone on the floor. Instead, she settled for a quick scrub of her hands and face.
When she was done, she leaned over to retrieve the jacket she’d laid beside her bag. At that moment she heard the doorknob twist.
Jerking upright, she inadvertently knocked her bag into the tub and several items fell out.
“Damn it, are you still in there?” a familiar voice growled.
“Yes, but…but I’m almost…”
“I need in. Now.”
Strange, Rachel thought. Five minutes ago, the prospect of having to face the man had filled her with dread. Indignation, however, provided a blissful swell of courage.
She released the lock and swung the door open, her first impulse being to tell the impolite jerk what she thought of bullies, not to mention voyeurs. Then she met the piercing dark eyes that the light revealed were midnight-blue, stared at the face that was etched forever in her memory and felt the room spin like a child’s top gone haywire.
“Hell, lady, whatever you do, don’t faint, because I’m in no mood to play gentleman.”
His voice, but without the aching tenderness. His face, once again grim with pain—but also with frustration and resentment. Joe Becket, but a Joe Becket who was very much the flesh and blood of this world.
What was going on?
“I need to use the sink,” he continued, holding up his wrapped left hand. “This has started bleeding again.”
Seeing the blood on the thin, filthy rag saved her. Whatever doubts Rachel had about her ability to cope as a woman, or as a specter’s medium, they were insignificant in the face of a medical emergency. Drawing herself straight, she reached for his injured limb.
“Let me see.”
He jerked back. “I can take care of it myself. It needs to be rinsed off, that’s all.”
“From the amount of blood soaked through that unsanitary rag, I think it’s going to need substantially more. I’m a doctor,” she added when he simply glared at her.
“I know who you are.”
Rachel wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he could be so blatant about spying on her or that he was rudeness incarnate and a disappointment; whichever, it prompted her to lift an eyebrow and affect a cool hauteur that was poles apart from the wariness and tension she actually felt. “Then you have the advantage, Mr….?”
She wanted him to say it. She already knew what she was going to hear and that it was already compounding the mystery she’d let herself get caught up in, but she wanted the words to come from his own lips.
“Barnes,” he ground out. “Jay Barnes.”
CHAPTER THREE
Rachel stared, certain she’d misunderstood. When she’d first opened the door, she’d been shocked. She was just as shocked by not hearing him say, “Joe Becket.” Of course, if he had said it, it would have made things more bizarre and creepy than they already were. But it would also have given her the next piece of the puzzle—clarifying what, or rather, who Joe had meant when he’d warned her not to come back here. For an instant she’d believed she had her answer; instead she had a deeper mystery.
Joe Becket…Jay Barnes…J.B. What was going on?
“You going to stand there and let me bleed to death, or are you going to get out of my way?”
This time she almost welcomed Joe’s—Jay’s rudeness. It helped remind her that until she knew more, she couldn’t afford to let him see her confusion.
Hoping he didn’t sense her nervousness, too, she reached out again, waiting for him to give her his hand. “As I said, Mr. Barnes, I’m a doctor. By the looks of what you deem as ‘care,’ it would be in your best interest to let me help.”
He seemed on the verge of refusing—and not politely. Beneath his pronounced five o’clock shadow, the naturally taut muscles along his long jaw worked as he ground his teeth together; his midnight-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, not to mention disapproval.
Maybe he was one of those relics who believed women couldn’t be as good as men in any profession, let alone the sciences. She was used to their small-mindedness, and to the type who found her youth disconcerting.
But was that what she felt emanating from Jay Barnes? She didn’t think so. She had a hunch he would have been reluctant and rude no matter who was offering him help. It allowed her not to take his rejection personally. It also raised her initial question all over again: Why was he behaving this way?
As pain seemed to win out, he slowly extended his left hand toward her, while the look he shot her warned she better be all she’d advertised.
Rachel ignored that. “Come in here so I can work with better light,” she said, stepping back to make room for him.
Once again she sensed his unwillingness, an almost palpable sensation, but at least this time he didn’t take forever to make his decision. When he did step forward, she found herself with yet a new problem—she had to deal with the room itself.
Converted years ago from a closet, the bathroom was narrow and cramped, clearly a room designed for no more than one person at a time. Despite the decorating wisdom of crisp white walls and fixtures that helped add a slight sense of space, she had to work to close herself to a surge of claustrophobia.
Hoping he didn’t sense her uneasiness, she began unfolding the rag. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”
“Only when someone reminds me of it.”
She didn’t bother glancing up at him. Didn’t dare. “There are reasons for the question besides a concern for your comfort, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’d be fine if I hadn’t accidentally bumped it.”
As the final covering fell away and she saw the angry tear of flesh across the outer edge of his palm, Rachel winced inwardly before replying, “No, you wouldn’t. In another twelve to twenty-four hours infection would have set in. What’s more, a simple bandage won’t get it. You need stitches.”
“No stitches.”
Neanderthal, she thought, and shot back, “All right, have it your way. I’ll do what I can with a pressure bandage and an injection of—”
“You’re not giving me any shot, and I’m not paying for one.”
Exasperation won ground. “Who asked you to?”
“Don’t tell me you’d give me a freebie out of the goodness of your heart?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Uh-huh…that’s one way to stay broke.”
There was no admiration or approval in his voice, but there wasn’t any real scorn, either. Relieved, Rachel replied dryly, “It’s been pointed out to me before.”
She dropped the offensive rag into the plastic-lined wastebasket and examined the wound. On a small woman or child the cut would have been critical, but on a man of Jay Barnes’s tall if lanky size it was slightly less severe. Barely medium height herself, she could tuck herself comfortably under his sharp chin. Not that she had any desire to be there, she amended hastily. She’d just thought that if Joe had stood completely straight, he would be close to that height, too.
Disturbed by her wayward thoughts, she retrieved her bag. “How’d this happen?”
“Working.”
“From what I’ve seen of it, Mr. Beauchamp’s establishment is a disaster waiting to happen.” Rachel felt him stiffen and glanced up. His expression, if possible, turned more wary than before. Could he suspect her of spying on him? “It’s a small town,” she said, shrugging. “And you must have figured out by now that our landlady is something of a clearinghouse for all the gossip.”
“Don’t remind me.” Permanent frown lines bisected his straight, stark eyebrows. “So, she mentioned where I worked when she gave you the offical tour of this firetrap?”
His smooth delivery didn’t fool her. She could feel tension radiating from him in powerful waves. It made her own overworked nerves feel like gelatin in an earthquake. “She spoke about everyone.”
Rachel took a sample tube of antibacterial soap out of her bag. “It’s going to sting like crazy, but I need to get the grit washed out of there.” To fill the pulsating silence that followed, she said, “I understand you moved in only a short time before I did?”
He grunted from behind compressed lips.
“Well, that’s what Adorabella, Mrs. Levieux, told me. But I, um, I don’t quite remember where she said you were from?”
“Here and there.”
The response, through gritted teeth, could have been a reaction to her work, but Rachel had a hunch it was also a result of another kind of probing. “Really? I enjoy moving around myself. Ever been to Virginia?”
He shook his head.
“That’s where I’m from.”
“Good for you.”
Resemblance or no resemblance, no way he and Joe Becket could be the same man, Rachel thought, repressing a grimace at his continuing rudeness. Jay Barnes acted as though having to be near her was more painful than his hand! And the way he glared…it was a wonder her face wasn’t singed from all his searing looks. What did he think she was going to do? she brooded, tugging a few tissues from the dispenser. Stab him with the tube of soap or something?
Who was he and what was going on?
Listen to yourself. One minute she was thinking about the viability of ghosts and the next she was weaving her own dark mystery, all because a withdrawn and more than slightly abrupt neighbor bore a striking resemblance to someone whose blood was, then wasn’t, on her hands? Get a grip, Gentry. Your sense of reality is slipping. Fast.
“I think that’s as dry as it’s going to get.”
The terse observation made Rachel stop, look and almost groan. Lost in her thoughts, she’d lingered too long over dabbing away the water from the wound. Embarrassed, she tossed the tissues into the trash and dug in her bag for the ointment and the rest of the things she needed.
All she needed was for the man to think she was coming on to him. With a build like his, he probably got more propositions than he knew what to do with, especially if he spent a lot of time walking around in nothing more than unsnapped jeans. “Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s been a long day.”
He didn’t bother replying.
Creep. Maybe he had the physique to turn heads, but he needed a personality transplant to be regarded as human.
For an instant, a shameful instant, she almost wished he and Joe Becket could change places. Why was it always the good ones who got hurt the worst? But as quickly as the thought came, she was overwhelmed with self-disgust.
“This won’t sting. In fact, it’s quite soothing.” As she spoke, she turned back to him and accidentally bumped into his rock-hard bicep. The tube went flying out of her grasp.
Jay Barnes’s face was a granite mask as he bent to retrieve it. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”
“Would I be toting this thing around if I wasn’t?” she replied, gesturing to her bag.
“Who the hell knows. In any case, you’re the clumsiest, edgiest one I’ve ever met.”
“I’m surprised you’ve known any,” she shot back. “In fact, I’ve about come to the conclusion that you’re the type to cauterize your wounds over a flame to prove you’re tough and don’t need anyone.”
“At least I don’t put my patients through small-talk hell.”
“Listen to who’s criticizing—Mr. Personality.”
After a slight pause, he replied, “I guess I don’t have any room to complain.”
His quiet response not only surprised her, it made her uneasy. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but for a moment he almost sounded like…No, she told herself, smoothing ointment on the cut. She wouldn’t start that again. “Look, I, um, I’ve been under considerable stress lately.”
“Did it have anything to do with the strange way you behaved when you walked home tonight?”
Her hands shook slightly as she opened a gauze pad and secured it in place with more gauze. “I thought I saw you watching me,” she said, when she could control her voice. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to spy on other people?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Meaning?”
Indignation made her braver, just as it made her fingers more efficient. “It’s probably residual guilt over all the people you’ve fried with your acidic tongue.”
“Wrong. Unlike you, most people take the hint when I make it clear I want to be left alone.”
“Take heart, Mr. Barnes,” she replied, having had enough of this foolishness. “As soon as I finish this, you can go back to your precious privacy with my wholehearted approval.”
She worked quickly and without mishap after that, despite being acutely aware of his gaze following her every move. Only when she secured the gauze with a last piece of tape did he break the lengthy silence.
“So, what upset you out there?”
Although outwardly casual, something about the repeated question from a man who had no use for small talk had Rachel’s antenna going up again. She decided this time it wouldn’t be wise to meet his intense eyes. As it was, they seemed to have X-ray abilities. “Nothing much. I spook easily, that’s all.”
“People who do don’t usually walk home from work at 2:00 a.m.”
“They do if they don’t own a car,” she countered, hoping he’d been awake those times when Cleo had given her a ride. The less she had to explain, the sooner she could change the subject.
But he didn’t mention Cleo, or other sightings, seeming interested only in tonight. “It sounded as though the last truck that passed you on the bridge came close to hitting you. Or was there something else?”
She was grateful they were no longer in physical contact, and focused on replacing her things in her bag. “What do you mean?”
“Last week somebody lost a wooden pallet off a flatbed trailer and it messed up a truck’s tires before the driver saw it. There’ve been more than a few animals getting run over up there, too. The fog’s treacherous.”
“Yes…and actually, it was me the trucker was warning. I, um, was crossing the road and thought I had more time to get out of his way.” It wasn’t totally a lie. In a way. Even so, Rachel wasn’t comfortable with having to shade the truth. She’d worked too hard to keep her life honest and simplified.
“Better be careful,” he continued, his tone almost whimsical. “You could get knocked off that thing, fall into the creek, and no one would ever think to look for you down there until it was too late.”
“I’ll remember that.” She didn’t know how she got the words out. There was no ignoring that his words could be construed as a slickly phrased threat. Did he have intimate knowledge of such goings-on? Her hand had a fine tremor as she took one last package from her bag. “Well…I’d say we’re through. The bandage should be changed within the next twenty-four hours, and I’ll give you these.” She tried to shove the sample envelope of painkillers into his hand without touching him. “These should take care of any further discomfort you might have.”
“I don’t take drugs.”
“This is very mild. The equivalent of an over-the-counter dosage.”
“I don’t want them.”
She’d had enough. Throwing the pills back in her bag, she zipped it closed. “Fine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m dead on my feet and ready for bed.”
But he didn’t get out of her way. Instead, he tapped the fingers of his good hand against the doorjamb and eyed her with a mixture of doubt and indecision. “Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, okay? I guess I’m just not the kind of guy who deals with people well.”
Whereas Joe Becket had seemed caring and interested. No, no…she didn’t want to think about that, about him anymore tonight and shook her head dismissively. “We all have our weaknesses.”
“I appreciate the first aid.”
“You’re welcome. Goodnight.”
Go, she willed him. But he didn’t budge. Unable to avoid it any longer, she looked up and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Something changed in his eyes—a flickering of doors inching open, guards being lowered, and wistfulness, maybe even yearning, seeping in. It was as though she was glimpsing the face of another person. It troubled her. In a way, it frightened her…every bit as much as his hard demeanor had. But it also did terrible things to her curiosity.