Midnight Exposure (3 page)

So like his mother, Scott liked blaring music, noise, and people. Reed craved solitude. In an attempt to purge his thoughts of his wife’s death and Chief Hugh Bailey, he perched on a stool and sipped his drink. He watched the wood, willing it to speak, but the trunk stared back at him in defiant silence. Usually he saw something in the raw material immediately. A shape, at least. Details could come later. But as he waited for the wood to tell him
what it wanted to be, the only image that came to mind was a gorgeous redhead with eyes the color of the clear Caribbean Sea.

How pathetic would it be if he drove into town to see what Mae, who happened to own the Black Bear Inn where a certain lost motorist was headed, needed him to fix?

Too pathetic. Bordering on desperate. He’d wait until morning.

Reed reached for a utility knife and began to score birch bark. Later he’d rough out the piece with a carving saw, but in the conception stage, he needed his hands on the wood to get the feel, the shape, the grain inside his head. Maybe he’d find what he was looking for when the log was stripped bare. His blade caught midstroke. Its razor-sharp edge slipped, slicing the pad of his finger painlessly. He moved to the sink and ran cold water over the wound. Blood swirled pink before eddying down the drain.

As the soap stung the wound, a twinge in his gut warned him something had changed. Something out of his control and unavoidable. He glanced back at the wood. Life was full of hidden knots that deflected the sure stroke of his blade. And left him bleeding.

Jayne steered through the turn for Huntsville. Insistent memories flashed. She could feel the arm at her throat, the burning knifepoint slicing through her cheek, hot breath against her temple, smelling of expensive scotch. The mental movie clip had to be stopped. Work. She needed to work.

The display on her phone showed three bars. She hooked her Bluetooth earpiece over her ear and punched in her editor’s number.

“Jason Preston’s office.” Tanya, Jason’s administrative assistant, picked up his line.

“It’s Jayne Sullivan. Can I talk to Jason?”

“I’m sorry, honey. He’s not here.”

“I need to ask him something. The information he gave me isn’t playing out.” Jayne didn’t mention details. Jason guarded his office like the gates of Hell, assuming Cerberus was a three-headed mini pinscher. If she wanted to keep working for the skinny little bastard, she couldn’t risk letting anything slip, even to the seemingly honest Tanya.

“He’s never wrong.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Jayne wanted him to be wrong. She wanted the real R. S. Morgan to live in Taos or maybe even a foreign county. Peru would be good. She didn’t want sexy, Southern Reed Kimball to be involved.

Tanya
tsk-tsked
. “Well, something’s going on. You know Jason can sniff out a scandal like nobody’s business.”

Wasn’t that the understatement of the decade? Jayne’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I know.”

“You better do some diggin’, girlfriend. He’s chomping at the bit to get whatever it is. He said to tell you the clock’s ticking.”

“He’s evil.”

“No kidding. But don’t worry, honey. The devil will come to collect his soul eventually.” The line clicked, signaling another call on Tayna’s end. “Gotta go. You take care.”

Jayne tossed her cell onto the passenger seat and fished a roll of Tums out of her purse. Working with Jason made her feel like
she’d
made a deal at the crossroads. Whatever. As a bartender and accounting clerk for the family tavern, she didn’t have any other way of making the kind of money Jason paid her. Her efforts with legitimate photography were the professional equivalent of running on a giant hamster wheel.

One thing was clear. She didn’t have time to wait for R. S. Morgan to find
her
.

Five minutes later, the town appeared as Jayne rounded a gentle bend in the road. A rustic wooden sign announced Jayne was entering Huntsville, Maine, population 1,067.

Hills rose on either side of the town, creating a small valley. Beyond the gentle knolls, jagged mountains loomed over the town. After driving by a smattering of homes, spaced closer and closer together as she encroached upon the main drag, Jayne sighted a combination gas station and convenience store. She pulled up to the pump and turned off the engine with a relieved sigh. Her arthritic Jeep complained with a cough, rattle, and shudder before shutting down. The car door bounced open with a hard shove and Jayne stepped out into the empty lot.

Wind whipped across the pavement, nearly pulling the door from her grip. As she slammed it shut, the back of her neck began to tingle. Having been stalked once before, she knew that feeling, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ignore her primitive alarm system this time.

Someone was watching her.

She scanned the surrounding area. Nothing. Through the glass of the Quickie Mart she could see an old man working the register, but he was concentrating on something behind the counter, not looking at her.

She turned around. Behind the lot, a small snow-covered field separated her from a thick band of woods. Something moved in the trees, something tall and dark. Her camera was in her hand before she could think, sweeping across the forest’s edge, snapping a quick burst of shots. She didn’t have the telephoto lens attached, but with fourteen megapixels of resolution, she’d be able to zoom in on the dark shape later on her laptop.

Had to be an animal. But why did she still feel like she was being watched? Maybe the animal was a predator. Bears hibernated, right?

She shook it off. Paranoia was getting the best of her.

Gas tank full, Jayne followed the directions she’d printed from the B and B’s website. A few minutes later, after a brief stop at a pizza joint for slices to go, she pulled up in front of the Black Bear Inn, a huge white clapboard house trimmed with glossy black shutters. A tiny electric candle glowed in the center of each windowsill, right above a red-bowed swag of greenery.

“Can I help you?” The middle-aged innkeeper was short and stout, with auburn hair that hovered somewhere between mahogany and magenta. Tinsel and holly dripped from the
antique furniture, and Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night” softly in the background. “I’m Mae Brown, the owner.”

“Jayne Sullivan. I have a reservation.” Jayne slid her credit card across the old-fashioned registration desk.

Mae consulted her laptop. “I have you down for three nights. You know there’s a storm coming right in the middle of your stay?”

“Yes, I do.”

“OK, then. What brings you to our town, Miss Sullivan?”

“Jayne, please. I’m a photographer.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Lots of pretty things to take pictures of around here.” Mae handed Jayne a room key—a real metal key, not one of those plastic cards. Mae shouted over her shoulder. “Bill, come out and help this lady with her bag.”

A large man shuffled in, head bent, shoulders stooped. In his late twenties, he looked like his bones were too big for his body. He gave Jayne’s feet a quick sideways glance. His pale blue eyes were vague, his expression lost and timid as a child’s on the first day of kindergarten.

Jayne tried a smile. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

Under a shock of sandy hair, his ruddy complexion flushed deeper. He whirled around and disappeared through a swinging door.

“I’m sorry.” Mae sighed. “My son is a little shy.”

“No problem. I only have the one bag.” Following directions, Jayne grabbed her duffel and trooped up the steps.

The room was larger than she’d anticipated. The double bed, armoire, and writing desk were stained a warm cherry; the comforter looked thick and inviting. After changing into sweats, Jayne settled at the desk with her pizza and laptop. At Jason’s insistence, her departure had been immediate, with no time for any research
on her subject other than grabbing the Arts & Leisure section of
The New York Times
from the recycling bin. Inside, along with the review of Morgan’s latest work, a columnist had speculated that the artist’s mysterious identity was just a new fresh way to generate media buzz. The picture of his carving that ran alongside the column was too small to see every detail, but what she could see was intriguing. She plugged in her AirCard and crossed her fingers.

Yes
! The Internet connection was slow, but it was there. It was also free, a nice boon to her tight budget. She hated to dip into her secret stashes of emergency cash.

A Google search on Reed Kimball yielded a list of names from across the country, but none seemed applicable to the man she’d met that afternoon. The man with the green eyes she couldn’t get out of her head. The search on R. S. Morgan was a different story. The man was a mystery, but photos and reviews of his sculptures were numerous. His style was unique, the lines modern with an abstract bent. All his subjects were female and nude, but not sexual. Unlike some other critically acclaimed human sculptures Jayne had seen, these had no giant boobs, no explicitly detailed or grossly enlarged sexual organs. The figures were waiflike, more elegant than erotic. If anything, the subjects’ sexuality was downplayed. The bodies were thin and delicate, the expressions sad, lonely, tortured. The blend of primitive and modern made the statues compelling. The more she looked at them, the more raw despair welled from them.

Jayne stared at the pictures as she chewed hot cheese and tangy sauce. The sculptor’s work was complex and fascinating, but more than a little disturbing. She was no art critic. But R. S. Morgan, whoever he was, had some serious issues.

He focused on the third window, for the rest were dark. Her shadow moved across the opening. The sheer curtains weren’t quite closed, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bright red curls as she passed by.

As he’d already noted, she was lovely. Long limbs. Strong back. Skin creamy as fresh milk. Hair like a fiery halo. The kind of woman who could keep home and hearth, as well as wield a sword on the battlefield. Celtic blood ran thick in her veins, of that he had no doubt.

But she’d taken his picture. Not acceptable. Not for a man with secrets such as his.

Someone might find out what he’d been doing. He wasn’t prepared for that yet. He needed time to prepare, to gather his power, to collect the necessary implements for the upcoming ceremony. A true Druid ritual required preparation and study.

There was so much work still to be done, and he had no one to share his burden. The others weren’t ready to accept their fate. They weren’t ready for the sacrifices that had to be made. His gloved fingers pulled at the hem of his coat.

But soon they would have no choice. The gods had ordained their fate.

She moved across the window again. Tall and graceful. There was something special about her. Something that stirred his own blood. If only he could pinpoint her familiarity.

The light went out in the window of the inn. He stayed in the shadowed alley that ran alongside the building a while longer. The photos she’d taken could be quite…damaging. She couldn’t be allowed to leave town.

He’d be back tomorrow. She couldn’t stay in the inn forever.

When she came out, he’d be waiting.

Fortified by a full country breakfast, Jayne stepped out onto the inn’s porch. The cold front preceding the approaching storm slapped her full in the face. But the shock was just what she needed to knock some sense into her. Her oldest brother, Pat, was keeping tabs on her paroled assailant. No news from Pat meant the scumbag was still accounted for. The danger was in Philadelphia, eight hundred miles away.

She could breathe.

With her camera bag slung over her shoulder, she tugged her knit hat over her ears and set out for the sidewalk. She would approach her search for R. S. Morgan the only way she knew how. She’d walk around, take pictures, talk to people, and hope her Irish luck played out one more time. Jayne’s fingers itched to capture the town’s Norman Rockwell charm anyway.

She turned down a side street. Smoke curled from chimneys and snow coated the ground like vanilla frosting. Lopsided snowmen waved mitten-covered stick hands at passing motorists. Buildings were draped with swags of greenery and wreaths.

This was what she was supposed to do. Real photography, not skulking around like a vulture waiting for celebrities to drop their guard. Knots slid from her neck muscles as she recorded images.

Her camera beeped. The memory card was full. She tugged off her gloves and changed it, shoving the full one into her jeans
pocket. Her frozen fingers and the painful numbing of her toes alerted her to the passing of time. She glanced at her cell. She’d been out there for hours. No wonder her nose was frozen. She shivered and tugged her gloves back on. Her winter gear wasn’t adequate for the kind of cold that Maine served up.

She squatted down and took one last picture of the rusty sign that dangled from the front of the feed store, then turned back down the empty lane that would lead her back to the inn, just a few blocks away. She slid her equipment into its padded sheath.

Her spine prickled. Jayne spun around. No one in sight. She eyed the buildings on either side. Crumbling brick facades sat close to the cracked sidewalk. Their shadows loomed near enough to conceal a person.