Dead By Dusk (17 page)

She caught her breath, immobilized in a sea of sensation. She felt as if her blood had been instantly set afire, that her limbs were electric, and yet . . . losing strength. It was as if great waves from the ocean were washing over her, flooding her with an urgent, desperate, dying need. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers tore into his hair . . .

Then he was standing, pushing her back. She fell against the bed, and saw him.

And he was there, as he had been in her dream, muscles heated and glistening in the pale light that seeped into them. Legs like sculpted columns, shoulders like metallic beams, his stance and added breath of excitement in a sea of sensual desire that gripped her in an all-encompassing hold. He crawled down atop her, and she reached for him. His scent was familiar, his arms were a bastion, and despite the fact that nothing mattered but the satiation of the hunger riddling her senses, she was aware as well that there was something far, far more . . .

He came to her . . . into her. She felt the force of his body like a shock, and yet she couldn't get enough. He moved, and she felt herself arching against him like a madwoman herself. He gripped her shoulders, fell lower, caught her buttocks, pressed them ever closer. His rhythm became fast, almost frantic . . . the speed, staggering . . . the rise, almost unbelievable . . . and yet so real. The feel of his flesh, the masculine scent of him, the sound of him breathing, the steady, then rising, pounding of his heart, soft, louder, engulfing. She cried out, body constricting into a taut knot, as the climax she had so desperately writhed and arched to achieve came racing explosively through her, and for long moments that seemed like an eternity, she couldn't have moved if she tried . . . she just allowed it to bathe her, the sweet aftermath . . . jolt after jolt . . . pulse and pulse . . . slower . . . slower . . . until her muscles eased. She felt the dampness then between them, the sheets, the night. And all that occurred to her at first was the sweetest gratitude.
It hadn't been a dream. It had been real, all real. And he was here with her, and outside, she could hear the ocean breeze as it rustled by . . .

He didn't try to speak. Neither did she. She felt his arm around her, holding her.

Later in the night, she felt his touch again. And she was eager to turn to him. More eager, still, to press her lips against the vibrance of his flesh . . . to seduce in turn. And again, to feel that wonder of sensation, like the wind, like thunder, sweeping through her . . .

Real. Every anguished or ecstatic moment real. Grant, real, at her side ...

Once again, neither tried for words.

When she awoke, he had showered. A bath towel wrapped around his waist, coffee cup in his hand, he was staring out the back glass doors.

It was morning.

With that light dispelling any illusions or fears of the night gone by, she wasn't sure what she wanted to say to him, where she wanted to go from here. She feigned sleep.

She heard him dress.

She heard him leave.

And she heard him check that he had duly locked her door after he had gone.

She lay still for a while, reflecting on the night. Then she rose and showered. It promised to be a long day.

So far, she realized, every day here had been long. Very long.

 

 

At ten o'clock, the body of Maria Britto arrived at the funeral home.

Danielo Vedero, the town's mortician, knew the girl, just as the police and doctors had known her. He intended to do his very best with her, despite the fact that he was deeply worried about the work.

He had heard how she had been chewed up. And then . . . after an autopsy. Well, she would have her wake in the following two days.

On Monday, she would be interred in the graveyard. It was very, very said. Merc and Franco, with whom Danielo had shared espresso early last evening, said that Maria's mother had done nothing but cry since the girl had disappeared. She had known, somehow, they said, that her daughter was dead. Intuition.

But for Maria, and for her mother, Danielo would see to it that she looked as if she was sleeping, and completely at peace.

He told his receptionist to hold all calls; he would be busy for hours.

He closed himself into his embalming room. His assistant had lain the girl out for him.

Coming to the body, he frowned. There was no autopsy scar on her chest. In fact . . . had they been wrong? She didn't look as if she had been chewed by animals! She was amazing. Her skin had color. In fact, she might have been just sleeping as she lay there, before he even touched her, began the embalming process, much less her hair and makeup.

He came close to her. It was so wrong, this child, dead. Laid out on her back, she showed none of the signs of the ravaging that she had endured. In fact . . . she was gorgeous, as only such a young woman could be. Her waist was slender, her limbs long and shapely. Her breasts were high and proud, full, despite the way she lay upon her back. Peering more closely at her chest and abdomen, he thought he could see the faint lines of scars.

Scars. Not fresh wounds. Not gaping holes created by the teeth of beasts.

Troubled, he leaned closer, and ran his finger along one of the pale lines that stretched from her breast to her abdomen.

“Danielo! You lascivious old dog!”

He jumped back, a scream rising in his throat.

Maria's eyes were open, and on him. He blinked, wondering if he'd not had enough sleep, or if all the overwhelming sadness hadn't caused a malfunction in his brain.

She sat up. His corpse sat up. And smiled. But it wasn't Maria's usual smile. It was easy and twisted. “What, are you horny, old man? Poor thing—that withered, screaming harpy of a wife you've got must not be putting out, eh, Danielo?”

She laughed as he stood there, stupefied.

He gave his head a shake, thinking he would wake up.

She crooked a finger at him. “Come here, Danielo. Come, come to me . . . I'll fulfill your deepest, darkest,
filthiest
desires, old man.”

Then, he really wanted to scream. His knees were buckling. His heart was pounding as if it would burst out of his chest. He was terrified.

But no sound would come to his lips.

“Come, come . . .”

He didn't feel her reach for him, but she must have done so. He was in front of her, and she was laughing again. She took his hand and brought it to her breast. Once again, cruel laughter rang from her lips. “Dear, dear, you mustn't die on me, Danielo, come on, I need you. Here, here . . . come closer, closer . . . there.”

She was going to whisper something in his ear. He felt her tongue flickering out, touching his flesh. Then . . .

There was a sharp pain.

And the noise . . .

A slurping sound. It went on and on and on....

And as he stood there, he realized it was delicious. And in the first time in recent memory, he felt . . .

Good.
Sì, sì, sì . . .
so good.

His body began to shake.

The sound continued . . .

Slowly, slowly . . . he sank to the ground.

 

 

Carlo greeted Grant at his rental car. “I tried to call you,” he told him. “Arturo said that you had already gone when I reached the resort, and your cell phone went straight to your answering machine. I'm afraid the satellites are not very good here.”

“Why were you trying to reach me?” Grant asked him.

“There's no work today. The police have cordoned off the area. There are crime scene specialists here.”

Grant nodded. At last, something made sense to him.

“They're hoping to discover who buried the girl?” he asked Carlo.

Carlo nodded gravely. “It is strange, isn't it? Why bury the girl, when so many were looking for her so desperately.”

“Have they questioned the fiancé?”

“Yes, but he seems to be innocent, from what they have told me. Maybe there was someone—a lover she shouldn't have been seeing—who saw the attack. And since he might have felt that it was his fault . . . well, he buried Maria so that he wouldn't be blamed. If so, hopefully they will discover the truth soon enough.”

“You really believe that animals did it?” Grant asked Carlo.

Carlo seemed surprised. “Well, you come from a very big city. Maybe you think that our men aren't as learned as those you know. But I can swear to you, both Barello and Antinella are superb physicians, and know what they're doing.”

“I'm sorry—I didn't mean to imply that they weren't,” Grant told him. He wondered if he was telling the truth. Because he simply didn't believe the autopsy report. “It's just . . .”

“It's just terrible, and that's that!” Carlo said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I'm so sorry you had to drive out.”

“It's all right. I'll just head back. The first show is tonight. The tour group should be flocking in as we speak,” Grant said.

“Check with Arturo in the morning!” Carlo told him. “I'll let him know if they've opened the dig back up to us!”

“I'll do that. Thanks!” Grant called.

He turned the car around on the little road and started back. Looking in his rearview mirror, he was momentarily blinded. It seemed that a swatch of black had settled over the sky.

He pulled the car to a halt, stopped, got out, and looked back at the dig. An eerie sensation he couldn't fathom gripped him.

The dig.

It all had to do with the dig, he thought.

He got back into the car, very anxious to return to the resort.

 

 

Danielo rose, feeling the back of his head. As he came to his feet, stars appeared before his eyes, and he thought he was going to black out again.

How strange!

He'd never had such an occurrence before in his life.

What had happened?

All he remembered was walking into the embalming room and then . . .

He blinked, trying to regain his vision. Then a sigh left him.

Well, whatever he had done—struck his head? Inhaled too much fluid?—at least, it had happened when he had finished.

Amazing—he couldn't remember a minute of it. And yet, what an outstanding job he had done!

There was Maria. Oh, she was so beautiful! Her hair curled around her shoulders, onto her breasts. Her mother had given them a beautiful blue dress for her burial. And her makeup! He had done an outstanding job.

She was truly so lovely. He had succeeded well.

She did look as if she slept. As if any moment . . .

She might awake.

The rehearsal went so well, Stephanie was amazed.

A lot of it had to do with the simplicity of their plan. Arturo had been sent ahead of time to acquire the set and props Stephanie had requested, and by the time she arrived on Friday, everything was set. Giovanni had taken care of it all, Arturo told her. She made a mental note to thank him, since she had seen very little of him since her first arrival. It was almost a pity that it seemed they kept losing their women players—had a man gotten ill, she mused, she would have been tempted to give him his time on stage.

Grant had come back early. Stephanie had actually been nervous about seeing him, but he gave no indication that there had been anything between them other than the usual, and they had made an easy segue into the day's work after he explained to her that there was to be no digging that day. He told her briefly that the area was still cordoned off.

For the show, it was all the better.

Lena was actually looking better as well. She was still weak, but much better. She made it out of bed to come and sit in the rear of the café with Arturo, and though she was naturally a bit suspicious of Liz at first, their newest player won Lena over as well, asking for her advice on character, and listening with an intense respect that seemed to please Lena.

They were due to welcome their first crowd at eight. They finished by five, and decided it would be a good time to have dinner. They were all exhilarated, on a high from the success of their work. The place was filled with tourists—most of them American military men and members of their families, but some were Germans who had civilian jobs at the base. In the restaurant, they were talking, laughing, eating, and drinking in very good humor.

There was a lot of laughter, and Stephanie realized that it was actually too easy to forget that a young girl had just died a savage death, and that the town was in mourning.

Arturo rushed by their table, just a little flustered for once. Stephanie called him, he stopped, and rushed back. “Did Reggie come with these guys?” she asked him.

“Reggie . . . no. I don't think so, anyway. I haven't seen her,” he said. “Tonight, you'll excuse me, please? It is our first evening with this kind of crowd,” he said.

“Certainly, do what you need to do!” Stephanie told him. He smiled, and went on.

“Why wouldn't Reggie come in with this group?” Grant murmured.

“Maybe she is here—maybe he just hasn't seen her yet,” Clay suggested.

“And where would she be, then?” Suzette asked.

“Could I have more of that Florentine steak?” Lena asked. “My God, suddenly, I'm just ravenous. And the meat . . . I wish it were just a bit more rare.”

“Lena! It's mooing all over the plate as it is!” Drew told her, passing her the meat. Lena smiled. Stephanie was glad to see that she was so much better.

“I'll bet Reggie just got tied up booking more trips,” Doug suggested.

“It's strange, though. You'd think she'd want to see her opening night,” Suzette said. She looked around. “I haven't actually met her, you know.”

“None of us has,” Drew said. “I never even sent in a resume—she pulled mine off the computer. I received the offer by e-mail, and then my contract by Federal Express.”

“That's how she hired all of us,” Suzette said. “I think. Well, except for Steph, right?”

“She's some kind of a distant relation,” Stephanie told Suzette. “But actually, even I agreed to this over the phone. I figured she'd show up sooner or later.”

Lena giggled. “Well, the rest of us won't know her if we see her.”

“Oh, you can't miss Reggie,” Grant told them. “She has a certain way about her . . . she walks as if she's royalty.”

Stephanie frowned. “What did you mean by that?”

“I meant what I said—and nothing bad. Reggie is tall, slim, has coloring a lot like Stephanie's, and she's traveled the world and has a certain elegance about her. She has a certain way,” Grant repeated, staring at Stephanie, and almost daring her to contradict him. He hadn't said anything bad, not really. She just hadn't liked the way he'd said it.

Stephanie pushed back her chair. “Let's take our coffee backstage and get into costume.”

“If you ask me,” Suzette said, rising, “this show should be great. Look how happy these people are! And they're drinking, so all the jokes about booze should go well.”

“Yeah, thank God they're not driving,” Drew muttered.

“Thank God,” Liz agreed.

As they exited, Arturo came breezing through again. He caught Stephanie's arm, and said, “Can you take a minute, please? I'd like you to meet Captain Mallory.”

She had no idea who Captain Mallory was, but she quickly found out. Even as Arturo stopped her, the young man with the buzz haircut was standing by the next table.

“Captain Mallory, this is our young director for the club—director, producer, actress, I should say—Miss Stephanie Cahill,” Arturo said, introducing her with a certain pride. “Stephanie, Captain Thomas Mallory.”

“How do you do?” He offered her a handshake and a smile. “I'm afraid I'm in charge of this expedition, so if there's any difficulty with folks getting rowdy, I'm the one you complain to.”

Stephanie smiled. “I'm sure we'll be fine, but it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you'll enjoy our show.”

“I know we will.”

“Well, then, excuse me. You know, you all are the audience for our opening night.”

“We may all go down in history,” he said wryly.

She smiled, starting to leave, but then she hesitated. “Captain Mallory, did Reggie come with you all?”

“Reggie?”

“Victoria Reggia—the real producer of the whole enterprise.”

“Oh, I'm sorry—Vickie.”

Reggie was suddenly going by
Vickie
?

“Right, Vickie. Did she come with your group?”

“No, no, she was moving on. To The Hague, I believe.”

“Ah, well, thank you, and I'll see you in there.”

He gave her a wave. As she walked away, she heard his friends at the table teasing him, commenting that it was too bad that he seemed to have such an “in.”

Hurrying backstage, she found that the others were already in costume. Lena was helping Liz with her makeup.

“Do you think you ought to be back in bed?” Stephanie asked her.

Lena shrugged. “I seem to be okay. Since last night . . . I honestly think I'm gaining strength every minute. I'll stay with Grant in the booth, sitting, and I know I'll be all right.”

“Okay, but . . . you get right back into bed if you start feeling worse.”

“Yes, ma'am!” Lena promised.

There were two large dressing areas, one for the men, another for the women. Stephanie quickly changed into her costume, a crimson getup with a side slit and a feathered hat. In costume and makeup, she joined the others in the eaves stage left.

Since Grant was in the booth, managing the lights and sound, he'd set up a mike system that warned them of their cues.

“Five minutes.” His voice came softly out of the wire.

“Well, guys, have fun. That's always the best direction,” Stephanie said.

“Break a leg, everyone,” Suzette said cheerfully. The group quickly went through the motions of offering one another hugs and kisses.

Clay Barton offered her no more than anyone else. And yet...

His touch seemed more magnetic. There it was, she mused, that strange power about him that seemed to make him more . . .

More. Just more. Intriguing, strange, and, oddly, he seemed to offer a sense of leashed power.

“Sixty seconds.” The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up. They were all aware that drinks would be served throughout by the restaurant staff, and that they couldn't allow themselves to be distracted—unless they did so on purpose because they were playing with the audience.

“Curtain,” came Grant's voice.

Suzette went out on stage with her feather duster.

Her costume alone was a hit. And she played to the applause and the catcalls, then began to explain that she was the maid for the World Traveler's Club, but really, she was much more; she'd probably been far more places than any of the members, but then she'd hit Monte Carlo, and since she was broke . . .

She was great. The servicemen offered her money and she brought her fingers to her lips and suggested that they leave an extra tip for the waitstaff, who worked very hard. Even that brought applause.

Drew was next on stage, admonishing Suzette for the dust, and when she claimed there was none, he blew on top of a stack of books and enough dust started flying to bring about more laughter. The two did a song, played with the audience, and next out to join them were Liz and Doug. Liz was wonderful, throwing out phrases in Italian and German, being silly as she played with the audience. Doug pretended to have been just about everywhere, but had all his facts very obviously wrong.

Clay made his entrance, playing with every female he passed, managing to do so with such a caricature of a playboy that even the men whose wives or girlfriends he stopped to ridiculously seduce were laughing right along with the women. Stephanie gave him a few moments in the spotlight, then made her own entrance, admonishing him, but then stopping to muss someone's hair, sit on a lap, or simply stare at a man. She pretended to be so caught up in one of the servicemen that Clay had to come to get her. They did their number, the group came out to argue about who really knew the world the most, and Doug did his best with a “what did it matter” speech—they were in Italy, on the water, in the sun, and wherever else any of them had been, the club was the finest place in the world.

The show ran an hour and a half. Much of it was bantering with the audience, asking questions about who was married, who was dating, where they all came from originally. The group was wonderful, eager to get in on the action. When Stephanie pretended to teach Doug to bump and grind, their hapless audience “volunteer” put on a spectacular show himself, and they were all impressed, and the ad-libs flew because the guy could really dance.

It was near the end of the show when Stephanie was in the background as Doug and Liz did a question-and-answer session about marriage when she looked toward the rear of the café. She missed a beat, frowning. It was dark in the back, but she could have sworn, if only for a second, that she saw Reggie. But as she looked that way, the woman turned. She seemed to see someone, or something, that frightened her.

Because she bolted from the doorway, as if she were hurrying out before she could be seen.

It was Reggie . . . it had been, hadn't it?

“Well?” Clay was staring at her. She remembered where they were in the play.

“
You
can make a group sing louder than I can.” She swung her little purse around and assessed the audience. “Oh, honey, I don't think so.” She skipped down into the audience, picking on a young lieutenant. “Don't you think my half of the audience could sing much, much louder?”

“I'd be a soprano for you!” the man told her solemnly, causing a rise of laughter.

Soon, they were taking their last bows. Their audience was on its feet, clapping and laughing as they exited the theater. Waiters from the restaurant saw to it that the group filed out—not rushed, but moving along.

Back in the eaves stage left, Stephanie found herself lifted and whirled around. Drew was delighted. Once again, they were on a high of excitement.

“It was fabulous! Who ever would have believed it!” Suzette exclaimed.

By then, Grant and Lena reached them. Again, hugs and kisses went around the group. Arturo burst in on them, and joined in the hugging and kissing. He had brought several bottles of champagne, and they were quickly popped.

“What an opening night! Wait until Reggie hears!” he said.

“You know, I could have sworn that I saw Reggie tonight, in the back of the house,” Stephanie said, accepting a glass of champagne. “Did you see her—or the woman who looked just like her, Arturo?”

Arturo stared at her blankly. “Reggie, no. A woman who looked like her . . . no, I don't think I saw anyone like her.”

“Grant, did you see who I'm talking about?” Stephanie asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry, my attention was on the stage.”

Stephanie shrugged. “Well, anyway, there's someone here who looks an awful lot like Reggie. Maybe I'll see her again tomorrow.”

“Strange,” Grant said.

“What?” Stephanie asked him.

“Reggie is so unique, that's all,” he said.

He was right. And still . . . she had to have seen someone who resembled Reggie to some extent. She felt a slight irritation. Reggie
should
have been here for tonight. The cast had really performed magnificently.

Laughter, champagne, and happy comments about each other's ad-libs and audience members continued for a while. Everyone was thrilled. But at last, they realized that they'd stayed backstage very late, and that there was a lot of work to do in the morning.

“Lena,” Liz asked, “think you'll be taking your role back soon?”

“I hope so. But probably not tomorrow. And you were wonderful.”

“Thanks,” Liz said. “Well, we're going black on Sunday and Monday, so probably by Tuesday, you'll be ready.”

“I hope,” Lena said. She stared at Liz, then gave her a hug. “Thank you. You were a godsend!”

“Let's just be thankful you're doing so much better. I've had fun,” Liz said.

They started out the backstage doors to the beach.

“Hey!” Grant said, suddenly somber. “Let's not forget the stick-together rule here.”

“Right!” Drew said. “Okay, Grant, I take it you're escorting Stephanie. Clay, you'll walk Liz to her place. I'll get Lena back safe and sound, and Doug, that leaves you with Suzette.”