Dead By Dusk (24 page)

The girls rushed up in a panic, and Drew tried to calm them. In the end, they all—including Arturo—drove to the hospital behind the ambulance bearing Doug.

 

 

They drove for at least ten minutes in tense and painful silence before Grant spoke at last. His steely gaze caught Stephanie's in the rearview mirror. “I apologize,” he said rigidly.

He didn't actually ask for forgiveness, so she didn't offer it.

“All right.”

“You were in a really dangerous place!” he reminded her.

“They need more light out there. All those workers . . . they could wander at night, too,” Liz said. “It's just . . . a dangerous place. Once it gets dark.”

“It's an archeological dig!” Clay said. “Not an Italian theme park.”

They all fell silent again.

The drive back was interminable.

And then, at last, they saw the resort ahead of them, and Grant found his parking place to the far left of the entry.

“Ah, a shower, a drink, and dinner!” Liz said. “Everything will look better then. Grant, thanks for driving. It was a fantastic place to see, and thanks to you, of course, we were given really special treatment by Carlo Ponti.”

“Carlo is a nice guy. He would have given you special treatment anyway, I'm certain, but I'm glad you enjoyed seeing the excavations,” Grant told her.

Clay was already out of the car. When Stephanie exited, she saw that he was standing rigidly. He certainly didn't have a forked tongue he injected into the air or anything of the like, and yet Stephanie had the notion that he was
feeling
it.

“There's something wrong,” he murmured.

Grant slammed the driver's side door. “There's definitely something wrong,” he muttered.

Clay ignored him, striding into the resort. He walked straight up to the receptionist's desk and began speaking to the clerk on duty in rapid Italian. The clerk spoke back excitedly. Stephanie caught Doug's name, and the word
mal
or bad, but the rest of it, she could only surmise.

“The hospital!” Grant, slightly behind her, said.

Clay turned at the same time, nodding at Grant.

Whatever hostility was still simmering between the two men, they capped it for the moment. The four of them returned to the car, and started off once again.

“What happened?” Stephanie demanded, looking back at Clay.

Clay now seemed to be as tense as Grant. “He collapsed.”

“Where?”

“In his room. Alone. He was supposed to have met the others. Drew went to find him, and he'd collapsed.”

“It sounds like what Lena had . . . except worse,” Stephanie murmured.

“Yes, that's how it sounds,” Clay said flatly.

They reached the small hospital. The one good thing about such a small town was that they had no problem parking. And when they burst into the waiting room, they immediately saw Lena, Suzette, Drew, and Arturo.

“How is he?” Stephanie asked anxiously.

“Dr. Antinella says that we got to him in the nick of time,” Drew assured her. He was holding his arm at an angle, and there was a bandage on it. He saw her staring at it and quickly added, “I'm not hurt. Their blood bank is low, and they're pretty desperate. No time for the usual tests, and I'm O positive. Any of the rest of you O positive?”

“I'm AB,” Stephanie said with a wince.

“I'm O positive,” Grant said.

As he spoke, a harried-looking Dr. Antinella came out of the white doors that led to the ER.

“Here, here!” Drew said, indicating Grant. Antinella spoke English fluently. “O positive—you're certain?” he said to Grant.

“Yes.”

“No diseases?”

“None.”

“Please, come in quickly, then.”

Grant disappeared with the doctor. Stephanie sat down, or rather collapsed, next to Suzette, who was shaky.

“It's all right. They'll take care of him,” Stephanie said, setting her hand on Suzette's.

Suzette shook her head. “You—you should have seen him, Stephanie. He was white. Not just ashen, but
white
.”

“They'll take care of him. He'll be fine.”

Both Suzette and Lena stared at her. Drew coughed. “Stephanie, Lena was sick first. Suzette began to feel the same symptoms. And now . . . Doug almost died. They're scared. Hell! I'm scared. What the hell is this?”

She didn't get to answer. Clay spun around, heading for the exit.

“Where are you going?” Suzette called after him.

“My blood is worthless to Doug,” he said briefly. “I think I can be of more help back at the resort.”

He left, distracted, not allowing them to say more.

“He speaks Italian,” Liz said, as if that explained his behavior. “I'll go with him. Maybe we can find out if there's been a . . . sickness like this before.”

She followed Clay out.

There was silence in the waiting room. At last, Suzette said, “Antinella said there was no way he could take blood from Lena . . . then he said that I couldn't give, either. Arturo gave . . . and one of the nurses, and both of the young fellows who came as the emergency unit.”

“He wasn't even . . . cut. Or hurt,” Drew said dully.

Stephanie stood and started pacing. Doug had to be all right.

“Strange, isn't it?” Doug murmured suddenly. “It seems almost to have something to do with . . . dreams.”

“Dreams?” Stephanie said, startled.

“Well, you were having some bizarre fantasies, right, Lena? When you got so sick?”

Lena flushed. “Well, I don't see how it relates.”

“Neither do I, but it seems to,” Drew said.

“What are you talking about?” Stephanie asked.

“Gema.”

“What?”

“Gema—and, well, Lena's fantasy lover.”

“I had a dream, too—then I woke up feeling as if I had no energy. I was really afraid that it was because . . . because I was . . . well, you know, tossing and turning all night, by my lonesome,” Suzette murmured, not looking at them.

Drew came to Stephanie, taking her hands. “I know this makes no sense, but both Doug and I had dreams about Gema the night before. I dreamt that she showed up at my place, and I threw her out. Doug dreamed that she had hot sex with him.”

Stephanie just stared at him.

“Remember, Steph, I told you that I thought I saw Gema in the audience,” Suzette reminded her.

“But . . . I don't get it. How could dreams make someone ill?” Stephanie asked, shaking her head.

She'd had her own share of dreams and fantasies. But still . . .

“Maybe . . . maybe Gema is here. You think you saw her, Suzette. And both of you and Doug supposedly dreamed about her. Maybe she . . . maybe she's ill. Wandering. And carrying some kind of terrible flu with her,” Stephanie said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Doug said dryly.

“And why not?” Stephanie asked.

“How would that explain Lena getting so ill first—before anyone saw or imagined Gema's having returned?”

Stephanie had no logical explanation.

Grant came out through the emergency room doors, a bandage around his arm. Antinella followed him, speaking in Italian. Grant seemed to understand him, because he shook his head, giving the doctor a rueful grimace. “I don't need to lie down—I'm fine. I swear, I'm fine.” He looked around. “Where are Clay and Liz? They could use another pint for Doug.”

“They left,” Suzette said.

“He has bad blood, or the wrong blood,” Lena added.

Grant shook his head with disgust, looking annoyed again.

“He's welcome to a bunch of mine, but it won't do him any good,” Stephanie said, hearing the rise in her voice.

Drew sighed. “They went back to the resort. He seemed to think he could find out something more about Doug's illness. By talking to people, I guess.”

Grant let out a sound of irritation. “I'm going back—I think I'm going to try and find out a few things on my own as well.”

He headed out the door. Stephanie suddenly chased after him. She caught him out in the parking lot, grabbed his arm, spinning him back around to face her.

She thought that she didn't know him. His features were taut, ferocious. She stepped back, feeling the wave of his heat and anger wash over her. She gritted her teeth, amazed that she still felt the urge to simply touch him. He was infuriating her, but he had never seemed more attractive or compelling.

“Grant, you've got to stop this,” she told him.

“Stop what?”

“You're going after Clay.”

“You're wrong. I'm not going after Clay.”

“Well, you've got something against him that's ridiculous,” she said. “And you're going to cause a terrible schism in everything, as if we're not having enough trouble with this disease, whatever this thing might be—”

“The disease is Clay.”

“Grant!”

“Somehow, it is. I'm telling you.”

She forced herself to step back, to shake her head. “Grant, I swear to you, I'm beginning to believe that
you're
the disease.”

He was still, staring back at her. Shoulders broad and square, blue eyes nearly ebony and narrowed with tension.

“Think what you like,” he said, and turned again.

“Grant!”

He paused, his back to her for several seconds. Then he spun again.

“What, Stephanie?”

“Stay in your own cottage tonight.”

“I can't leave you alone.”

“Oh, yes, you can. Because I'm afraid to have you with me.”

He stared at her and seconds passed like heartbeats. He muttered something.

She thought it might well have been the word
bitch.

Then he took the few steps back to her and gripped her arms. She saw the muscles twitch in his throat, the beat of his pulse against a vein. “I will never leave you alone. Never. Lock me out. You'll never be alone.”

But he released her then, as if she were somehow tainted, turned and strode for his car. As she watched him go, she was shaking. Her knees were weak. She was hot, and chilled, and she was angry . . .

And she was glad.

She could force herself to behave sanely.

But she didn't feel that way at all.

She was afraid . . .

But she wanted him more than ever. She wanted him so much that ...

Fear be damned.

She squared her shoulders, furious with herself. She'd meant it. She was locking herself into her cottage that night. Somehow, Grant was simply going to have to get a grip on his anger and emotions.

She loved him. But it was far too easy to see herself . . . a moth drawn to the flame. The way she felt was too deep, too fevered. Too desperate. As if . . . as if her emotions were even deeper than the time they'd been together, of the flesh, not of the flesh . . .

She groaned aloud, clenching her hands into fists at her side.

Then, as she stood there, it seemed that a deep, sweeping cloud came over the moon. And standing alone in the darkness outside the hospital, she felt vulnerable, as she never had before.

Stephanie . . . come!

It was the darkness, the strange shadows. She clamped her hands over her ears. She was letting her imagination play terrible tricks on her.

Stephanie . . .

She thought she heard throaty laughter.

It was only the sound of the wind, whispering through the trees.

She turned and ran back to the hospital.

Back to the blazing light that she knew, beyond a doubt, to be real.

Because she knew, deep in her heart, that she was being called.

Called . . .

Into the darkness.

He knew instantly, before he returned, that something had gone wrong, something that didn't fit the plan.

And he knew what.

He found her in his private quarters.

And it was what he'd expected.

She was like a well-fed cat, stretched out on the little love-seat, the look of absolute pleasure and satiation in her eyes. He tried to remember that she was young, that the hunger could be an overwhelming desire, but that did little to ease his temper. She was as disposable as any other; she had been useful, but she had turned that usefulness now into a situation that could destroy his careful plans.

She smiled when she saw him, and he knew she was feeling her strength and power.

“So . . . you disobeyed me,” he said.

She rose, still sleek as a cat, perhaps more sinuous than ever, so aware of herself, of her new being. “Yes, I disobeyed you,” she said, and she came to him, playfully teasing at his hair, sending a finger to draw a line down his cheek. “I,” she informed him, “am the same as you. And I have wants and desires as well. And the power to take what I will.”

He shook his head, calm despite the rage burning inside.

“No, no, little one, you don't understand. I have a certain protection. One that you are lacking. You will be caught.”

“Caught? What would it matter? Why . . . if a big, bad wolf came after me, I would just eat him all up.”

Again, he shook his head. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “There are still things beneath heaven and earth that you don't understand. Different beings, different strengths, those who live and let others live, and those who think to rule the universe for those they consider to be evil and out of control. But that doesn't really matter now. You disobeyed me.”

“I am my own power,” she insisted.

“I told you, I am the lord.”

“I want to be my own master.”

“I am the lord, and the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away.”

She never knew what was happening. It was almost a pity. She should have learned some humility.

His hands moved dexterously from her shoulders to cradle her head.

Then he snapped, and twisted.

There was an odd and horrible popping sound.

Her body fell into a pile at his feet.

Time to feed the demon dogs.

 

 

Doug had been taken to a room. He slept, and seemed to do so peacefully. Machines monitored his vital signs, and an IV brought vital fluids into his body.

Arturo had gone back to the resort, but Liz had returned to the hospital, saying that she wanted to take a turn sitting at Doug's side.

Stephanie was curious that she spent so much time speaking with the doctor in Italian, but whatever she was saying, Antinella seemed to agree with her. They looked grave when they spoke.

Stephanie decided that she didn't want Liz in with Doug alone. Then she began to wonder why it seemed that she didn't trust anyone anymore. Even the doctor seemed suspicious, and that was because he was talking to Liz. Liz was suspicious because she had come to them through Clay; Clay was suspicious because Grant made her so nervous about the man, but then, there was Grant, and he was suspicious because . . . there were a million reasons. She wasn't even sure what they all were.

For the first hour they were allowed in, she and Suzette sat with Doug. He had color, Stephanie was glad to see, and Drew, coming in with Lena and Liz to spell them, seemed to be greatly relieved.

She asked Drew to follow her as she left the room.

When he was in the hallway with her, she hesitated, then told him, “Whatever happens, let's keep two people with him at all times.”

He frowned. “All right,” he said slowly. He kept staring at her. “You're worried about someone in particular, aren't you?”

“No . . . yes. Drew, I'm just not secure with Liz being alone with him.”

He seemed really surprised. “She's one of the nicest people I've ever met,” he told her.

“I know. I think so, too.”

“But?”

“Drew, I'm beginning to get the feeling that none of us should be alone.”

“Maybe I spooked you with that talk about dreams. I had to sound crazy, right?”

“I wish you had sounded entirely crazy,” she told him. “Maybe it is crazy. Just please don't let Doug be alone . . . especially with Liz.”

“You got it, kid.”

“Did you find a place to eat while we were in with Doug?” she asked him.

He nodded. “A little café right around the corner. I'm pretty sure the woman said they were open until eleven. Luckily, this is Italy, and having dinner late is natural.”

“Great. Okay, Suzette and I will get some dinner, and be back.”

“Are we staying here all night?” he asked her.

“You think
you
sound crazy?” she asked him. “I just think that we need to be around a while, okay? Maybe until dawn, and then we can go back and get some sleep ourselves.”

Drew agreed. Stephanie went back for Suzette, and the two headed out, looking for the café. They found the place, and when they went in and sat down, the woman who was apparently cook, waitress, and owner came over. She didn't speak English, but Stephanie had learned enough to get by in a restaurant. The woman was pleasant, and took their order.

They both had a glass of wine as they waited for their food. “Do you think that . . . that Gema might be like . . . I don't know—skulking around somewhere? Perhaps really ill, and passing it on?” Suzette asked.

“I don't know. Sometimes I think we're all losing it.”

“It's a miracle that Doug is alive. You should have seen him when we first got here,” Suzette said.

Stephanie nodded, somewhat distracted. There was an elderly Italian man sitting with a group at the rear of the café. The five men had apparently long since finished eating, but as was often the custom here, they were sitting and talking with their cigars and brandy, drawing the evening out.

The one elderly gentleman was staring at her intently. It was the kind of serious study that made her feel uncomfortable.

The waitress came, delivering their salads.

She said something to them that Stephanie didn't understand, but it was friendly. She finished with a cheerful, “
Mangia!
”

They thanked her.

As they ate, Stephanie told Suzette, “There's an older man back there, staring at me.”

Suzette grinned. “He probably thinks you're hot stuff.”

“I don't think it's that,” Stephanie assured her.

“Hey, Italian men are appreciative of women. It's nice. You have to be nineteen and perfect not to feel a little flattered when a man compliments you.” She paused, taking a quick glance back. “Even if he is old enough to be Methuselah.”

“I really don't think he's appreciating me,” Stephanie murmured.

Suzette sighed. “Oh, well, let him look. It's a free country. Okay, it's not the United States, but it's a free country. Can't stop the old boy from looking. Strange, isn't it? I just love it here so very much! I mean, I'll always be an American, but I was so delighted to realize that we were really a success here, that we could have had a very long and prosperous run! What a base! I want to go to Sicily, and so many of the wonderful little spots around here. And hey, a few days in France, Greece . . . anywhere in Europe would be easy from here. Okay, well, not so easy, since we have to get into Naples, but still . . . I had really dreamed that I could put in a couple of years here, and now . . . pray God, that this is just some flu bug! I feel better today, but I knew how Doug felt, because the other morning when I woke up . . . it was terrible. It was like being . . . drained. Can a flu make you have strange dreams? I imagine. I mean, a fever can make you delirious.”

Stephanie was barely paying attention. The old man was not looking at her with appreciation. His stare was hard and cold.

“Yes, a fever can make you delirious,” she murmured.

The waitress returned with their pasta dishes. Again, she was sweet, urging them to eat up.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes, Suzette?”

“You're not listening to me.”

“I am, really.”

“Get over the old guy in the back.”

“Sorry. And listen, we are a tremendous success. We will continue to be so.”

“We can't be a success if we're all in the hospital, sick, or—as in Doug's case—at death's door!” Suzette said. “The pasta is delicious!”

“Yes, it is,” Stephanie murmured. And it was. Still, it was hard to enjoy her food, she was so aware of the man, just staring at her.

She forced herself to look at Suzette. “We will get to the bottom of what's going on. Lena has been getting better on her own, you said that you feel better already, and Dr. Antinella has taken good care of Doug.” She hesitated a minute. “You know what, though? I think it might be a good idea if you moved in with Lena, or if Lena moved in with you.”

“Why?”

“Because if you guys are getting fevers in the night, tossing or turning with dreams, you can wake one another up, get aspirin for one another . . . just be there for one another.”

“Maybe that's a good idea,” Suzette murmured slowly. “We became really good friends quickly here, but . . . we both enjoyed our own space. The little cottages are so special, you know? But you're probably right. And it will only be for a bit . . . I'll talk to her tonight. What about you? Oh, silly me, never mind. I forgot. There's Grant.”

Yes, there was Grant.

“Here comes our fish . . . wow, smell it! This place is like the find of the century. And you know what? I don't even think we're going to wind up really fat. I read a column on AOL News that said the Italians don't put all the bad stuff into pasta, the way we do in America.”

“Probably not,” Stephanie murmured.

The group of men was rising. She felt a tremendous relief. But the man who had been staring at her didn't walk out along with his friends.

He finally came toward their table.

Stephanie set her fork down.

He rested a hand on the table, facing her, and speaking so quickly she couldn't catch so much as a word he was saying in his deep, urgent voice.

He was angry.

At one point, he raised his fist, then lowered it.

She shook her head. “
Per favore! Non capisco!
” she told him, trying to make him comprehend that she didn't understand a word.

But he didn't stop speaking. At the end, he suddenly pulled something from his pocket. At that point, she jumped. He was so adamant that she thought he was about to pull a pistol.

It wasn't a pistol. It was a beautiful little piece of jewelry. A small silver cross.

Suzette, stunned, just sat with her mouth open.

The old man pressed the cross into Stephanie's hands.

She tried to tell him no, that she couldn't take it. He became even more excited.

At that point, a young man came out of the kitchen. He bore a resemblance to the woman who had served them, and Stephanie assumed that he had to be her son. He spoke soothing words to the old man, then smiled ruefully at Stephanie. “Thank you for your . . . patience. Adalio Davanti is old, yes, and he fears that you have brought bad things down upon us, with the theater. Please, don't take offense. He wants you to have this. To wear it. To make the town safe for all of us.”

Stephanie stared at the young man. “I—I—this is a beautiful piece. It is obviously worth something. I can't take it from him.”

The young man grinned. “He's a jeweler. It's what he does. The cross is not so expensive for him, and he really wants you to have it, to wear it. Please do. It's all right, really. My mother is about to get really angry with him, and he's actually a good man. My mother likes the customers that come into the new resort. Please, you will make both my mother and an old man very happy.”

Stephanie stared at the old fellow. He was still watching her so intently, so urgently.

She forced a smile. “
Mille grazie
. Thank you, thank you so very much.” She took the cross and put it on, clenching her teeth when he came to life and helped her with the catch.

She let her hair fall back into place and smiled again. “Thank you.”

He found some English and told her, “You—you wear. Not off.
Capisce?
”

“
Sì, grazie,
” she said solemnly.

At last, he seemed satisfied. He turned and left the restaurant. The young man sighed. “The fish is good, yes?”

“Excellent,” Suzette assured him.

They smiled at one another.

They were smiles of appreciation. The young man lingered, watching Suzette. At last he returned to the kitchen.

Suzette burst out laughing.

“What on earth was funny about all that?” Stephanie demanded.

“Sorry. Most people just get a pinch on the behind. You wind up with a gorgeous piece of jewelry! Steph, did you really look at that? The handwork on the silver is just beautiful.”

“Um, beautiful,” she murmured. “Let's hurry up and get back to the hospital. We can spell the others so they can get a late coffee or drink, maybe. Then they can come back . . . and I guess we can head back and get some sleep then. It will be nearly late enough—or early enough,” she murmured.

 

 

Grant didn't see Clay Barton or Liz anywhere when he returned to the resort.

There were people still in the restaurant, but they were mostly locals, and the head waiter told them that they had people down from Northern Italy and even France, but only a few.