The Witch's Stone (30 page)

“That’s fine,” Hillary said, walking over to the dresser and collecting the first two volumes, then snatching the third from the floor next to the bed. She didn’t need them now, anyway. She’d already transcribed all three.

Another step completed, bringing her closer to leaving.

Shouldn’t she be glad to go home? To return to her family?

Of course. Then why did the prospect of doing just that leave her feeling so hollow?

She forced a smile and handed Bristol the books.

“Ta. Tell me more about what you’ve learned from these?”

Hillary frowned. “I thought Warren didn’t think too much of my idea.”

“He doesnae, but since you found the name Fraser in there, I thought you might be on to something.”

“I see.” She tried to squelch the sudden surge of excitement his words caused. As her work with Anne Black drew to a close, this new sense of purpose was oddly appealing. And it gave her something else to think about besides going home.

She explained her findings from the journal to Bristol, comparing her list to the one Joan had given her. When she finished, Bristol looked unconvinced.

“I hate to say so, but it sounds like a lot of coincidence to me. I’m no’ saying yer wrong,” Bristol added when Hillary started to speak. “But if I take this to Warren, he’s no’ going to take you seriously. I need a stronger connection.”

“I might be able to find something if I could see the records from that year. Mrs. Semple from the historical society keeps ignoring my requests.”

A cheerful smile lifted the corners of Bristol’s mouth. “Well, she’ll no’ ignore mine.”

Caid listened to Bristol and Hillary’s exchange, anger building inside him. He couldn’t really be hearing this. Bristol and Hillary working together to catch a killer? What in the hell were they thinking?

Bristol couldn’t find a clue at the bottom of a biscuit tin. And Hillary? Surely she remembered the sight of Willie’s prone form on the scuffed pub floor. He certainly remembered the ear he’d found yesterday. And that horrible, eerie laugh. A shiver skittered along his spine.

“Say that yer both correct,” Caid said. “And these deaths are somehow linked to those blasted journals. How many people have died as a result? And you want Hillary to risk herself by continuing to work with them?” Caid snarled at Bristol.

 “If we get the word out Warren has the journals, that would take the heat off of us,” Hillary said. “Nobody else knows I have all three books transcribed on my computer.”

“Aye, that’s a fine idea,” Bristol said. “I know just whose ear to drop that tidbit in to see it makes the rounds.”

“It’s no’ a fine idea,” Caid said, his voice heavy with frustration. “Will the two of you no’ be satisfied until someone else is dead?  Have you forgotten spending the night in the hospital? What if whoever did that to you gets you alone again? What if this time he’s no’ satisfied with merely knocking you unconscious?” The idea of her hurt or worse… His stomach knotted. He couldn’t let something like that happen.

And he wouldn’t.

“Caid, I think you’re being unreasonable. If the killer no longer believes we pose a threat, why would he try to kill us?”

“A trip to the historical society might make our killer believe ye’re as much a threat without the journals as you are with them.”

Hillary held his gaze for a long moment. “I have to do this.  I can’t explain why, but I do.”

“Is that yer final word, then?” Anger throbbed behind his eyes. Why did she have to be so bloody stubborn?

She nodded.  

“I need some air.” He turned and stormed from the hotel room, followed the hallway to the stairs at the end of the passage.

He had to do something. The idea of Hillary playing detective with Bristol was nearly as ridiculous as it was terrifying.

Caid glanced at his watch as he climbed the steps to the front door of the town house. Nearly seven. His mother had assured him that James would be out. If his father found him here, he’d put a stop to everything Caid had set in motion--or he’d bloody kill him for sending Bristol to speak to him. He was surprised his mother had agreed to speak with him at all, but then having only just returned from visiting his aunt, perhaps she didn’t know about Bristol interviewing his father. Or the woman who had provided James with an alibi. 

Nerves jittered through Caid’s system. His hands shook like he’d had too much caffeine--or needed a drink. Or was it doubt that had him restlessly pacing the front step? Was he making a huge mistake?

He gave himself a quick mental shake. No, this was the right thing to do. The smart thing. He should have done it sooner. Before someone set Joan’s inn ablaze, knocked out Hillary and murdered Willie.

The image of Hillary wearing the same slack, lifeless expression as Willie turned his blood cold. He pounded on the door and waited.

Perhaps he should have told Hillary what he’d planned, first, but he couldn’t risk letting her talk him out of it. She’d be angry when he told her what he’d done, what he’d agreed to. Still, she had what she needed from the journals. If giving up Glendon House kept her from playing investigator with Bristol, then so be it.

The door swung open and Jude stared up at him. He tensed, waiting to begin their usual back and forth. Instead, she said, "She’s expecting you.”

Jude turned abruptly, leaving him to follow her inside. He found his mother in his father’s library, seated behind the desk, reading a letter. She lifted her gaze as he entered, but said nothing.

Did she choose this room deliberately, remembering all that had happened here so long ago? Or was the significance lost on her?

For him, crossing the threshold was like stepping back in time. The image of his father, thrusting his tongue down the throat of one of his graduate students while the topless girl wriggled beneath him on the leather settee on the far side of the room, was forever burned in his brain.

And what had his mother done when he’d told her? She’d been furious, of course. But to his surprise, her venom had been directed at him--not James.

Only fourteen, Caid had been too young to grasp why she’d been angry with him. Now, as a grown man, he understood. Image was everything to his mother, the façade of a respectable family all that mattered. She could tolerate a philandering husband, provided no one knew.

But a troublesome son who would repeat what he saw? She wouldn’t stand for it.

Hours later, his father had called Caid into this very room. James had been waiting for him, leaning against the edge of the desk his mother now sat behind. Caid had stood before him, head cocked defiantly, waiting for his father to grovel for forgiveness after falling from the pedestal he insisted his sons place him on.

Instead, James had hit him--for the first and only time in Caid’s life--closed fist to the mouth. Caid had stumbled backward, falling to the floor, the metallic flavor of his own blood on his tongue.

When he’d looked up, James stood over him, his face red with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. He stared down at Caid without speaking a word. For how long, Caid couldn’t say. It felt like an eternity before James, at last, turned and strode from the room, leaving Caid alone and stunned on the floor.

“What is it you wanted, Caid?” His mother’s impatient voice jerked him from the past. “You asked to see me.”

He dropped into one of the deep leather chairs, and forced the words from his mouth. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll agree to your terms for Glendon House.”

A slight smile touched her lips. “If memory serves, we never discussed a price.”

“We both know the financial aspect was no’ the problem.”

“That’s true. So which terms are you willing to meet?”

“I’ll tell him whatever you want.”

She nodded and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then turned it so he could read the sum. He rolled his eyes. They were the only two in the room, who did she think would hear them speaking of anything as tacky as money?

“It’s fine. What do you want me to do? Wait here and grovel in person, or should I ring him later?”

“Neither. I’ll tell him you begged me to take the house from you, and Jude can attest to yer visit. See, painless.”

“My God, ye’re cold,” he murmured, half to himself.

Her lips thinned. “Dinnae expect to me turn soft now that you’ve at last done the right thing.”

“Did you care nothing for me?”

“Must we suffer another bout of yer melodramatics?”

“I’m just trying to understand why all my life you made me feel like you hated me."

“I admit, yer father and I were not interested in raising another child by the time you were born. We were very set in our ways and yer brother had already left for school. Still, we did our duty and brought you up. If you feel that we hated you, then perhaps you need to look to yer own behavior. You were a difficult child to love.”

“I was a child,” he exploded. “What did you expect? That I would raise myself?”

“You were a problem from the moment you were born. You demanded so much. You cried more than Alex. If I turned my back for a moment, you were drawing on walls or breaking things. Do you remember cutting your head when you were eight?”

“I was six,” he corrected, his hand automatically going to his forehead. He traced the thin ridge of scar tissue just below the hairline.

How could he forget? He had been bouncing from one settee to another when he missed and hit the corner of the table, gashing the side of his head. He’d screamed, the agony like a hot lance against his scalp. Blood had flowed fast and steady down his face, and when he’d pulled his hand away from the wound, bright crimson smeared his skin. He’d screamed again.

But no one heard.    

Sobbing, he’d gone in search of his mother and found her in the sitting room on the telephone. At the sight of him, her eyes had rounded in horror, and she’d quickly hung up.

Now, he’d thought, now she will love me.

“Sophie,” his mother had shrieked. Then when the housekeeper appeared, “For the love of God, get him into the kitchen before he makes a mess.” In the end, Sophie had taken him to the hospital where he’d received seven stitches and loli for not making a fuss.

“I asked you to sit in the front room quietly while I made my call,” his mother said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But could you manage even that? No. The next thing ye’re bleeding and screaming hysterically.”

“How inconsiderate of me,” he said, but his attention had started to wander. The problem had never been him. He’d been no worse than any other child. Nothing he could have done or been would have changed his parents.

The realization was like shedding an ill-fitting skin that had become so tight he’d been strangling. He should probably thank her for her disinterest. How might he have turned out under her influence?

He stood and slid a folded scrap of paper from his back pocket. “My account information. You can transfer the funds here. Once that’s done, I’ll sign whatever paperwork you have for me.”

“I’ll speak to the solicitor today. We should have this all tied up by the end of the week.”

Thank God.

With a nod, he started for the door, but her voice stopped him. “There is the issue of Dr. Bennett.”

“She’s finished with the journals and has what she needs. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“I suppose not. You’ve done the right thing, Caid. Yer father and I would never have walked away from that house.”

Something in her tone, her icy stare, sent a chill through him. All this time he’d suspected his father, but what would his mother be willing to do get what she believed was hers? Could she kill for his father’s birthright? Had she really been at his aunt’s?

He turned away, cold sweat slicking his skin. It didn’t matter if his father was a murderer or his mother, not any more. He’d given them the house. Hillary would be safe and he’d be in Spain. If they were killers, it was up to the police to prove it.

  Caid left the house with a sense of finality. He doubted he’d ever see either of his parents again. Instead of relief, the tension in his shoulders tightened. He still had to tell Hillary what he’d done, and he doubted very much that she would appreciate the gesture.

Why should she be angry? She had what wanted from Roderick’s journals, and as for the two of them, well, there had never been any plans for permanency.

While the idea of never seeing his parents again didn’t bother him, the idea of never seeing Hillary again left him with hollow ache.

What a lot of foolishness. Look at the past he’d only just closed the door on. What could he possibly offer Hillary, or anyone else, coming from that mess? He wasn’t meant for long term relationships or, Heaven forbid, marriage. He simply didn’t have it in him. 

A soft knock sounded on the hotel room door. Hillary froze.
Caid. Let it be Caid
.

She hurried across the room, grasped the knob, but hesitated. “Who is it?”

“It’s Caid. I’m sorry. I forgot the key.”

Thank God. Her hands shook as she turned the lock and pulled open the door.

He stood in the threshold, leaning against the frame, hair falling across his forehead, studying her with eyes the color of the sea at twilight.

He was fine. Just fine.

The relief swamping her vanished, hot fury taking its place. “You selfish shit.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

Anger and exhaustion tangled inside her, making her throat tight, her eyes wet.  She turned and moved away, pressed her fingers to her eyes, wiped at the maddening moisture before he noticed and assumed she was upset rather than furious.

She heard the door click softly closed and Caid’s footsteps as he came up behind her. “Hillary?”

She whirled around to face him. “After sitting here all night worried sick, wondering where you were, whether you were hurt or worse, wondering if the next time the phone rang it would be Bristol telling me that you’d been killed--”

Her voice cracked and she turned away from him, her cheeks hot with humiliation.