Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (18 page)

"Hiram came to tell me what happened," she said. "I'm so sorry there was this misunderstandin'."

"Well, I am, too. And I'm sorry I bit Hiram's head off. None of this is his fault. It's Amos's."

"Actually, that isn't what I wanted to discuss with you." The realtor hesitated. "Hiram said... well, he said you seemed upset about the doin's out at your place."

Kathryn drew her arm from Olive's. "What doings?"

"He said you spoke of things happenin'. Chains and drafts, noises and such."

"For heaven's sake, Olive. I was just being sarcastic."

"Kathryn, I think you should reconsider my suggestion that you stay someplace else for the rest of the time you are on the island."

Kathryn put her hands on her hips. "Why?"

"I've explained that. You told Hiram..."

"And I told you, I was being sarcastic."

"Nonetheless—"

"You lied to me, didn't you? I asked you if you knew anything about Charon's Crossing being haunted, and you said you didn't."

"I said there were stories, stuff and nonsense no sensible person would believe in."

"What stuff and nonsense?"

"Kathryn, please..."

"Dammit, I have a right to know!"

Olive knotted her hands together. "All right, I will tell you. But you must remember it is all—"

"Stuff and nonsense." A muscle twitched in Kathryn's jaw. "I know. But I want to hear it anyway."

Olive leaned closer.

"People claim they have seen things. Lights at night, flickerin' on and off."

"Kids," Kathryn said firmly, "or trespassers, fooling around."

"No one on this island would go into that house to play games, Kathryn, believe me."

"And that's it? That's what all the fuss is about?"

Olive looked even more unhappy.

"People say they've seen things in the garden," she said with obvious reluctance.

"What kinds of things?"

"Bad things. Evil things. A man with a drawn sword and blood drippin' from it."

Kathryn stared at Olive. Was that what Efram had seen? What he'd refused to tell her?

"And they say there's a cold spot on the staircase, and no way to account for it."

"I asked you about that, specifically." Kathryn tried to steady her voice. "I said, Do you feel this blast of cold air? And you said—"

"Never mind what I said, Kathryn. I'm tellin' you, now. And I'm not tryin' to convince you of anythin'. It was you who asked me to tell you what folks say, remember?"

This was insanity. It was out and out nonsense, and Kathryn wasn't going to let it carry her away. "Yes," she said, "I asked. And now you can tell them what I say. They're all nuts! Lights. Bloody swords." She gave a snort of disgust. "The only things living in that house are mice. And spiders. And maybe an occasional vagrant who's smart enough to know how to scare people off."

Olive held out an imploring hand but Kathryn swept past her. She ran to the VW, wrenched open the door, and stabbed the key into the ignition.

The gears shrieked as she shifted without regard for the clutch, and she sent the car into reverse.

"Olive," she barked.

The realtor sprinted to the curb.

"Yes?"

"Is there a doctor in this miserable town?"

"A doctor?"

"Yes. A medical doctor, not one who reads chicken entrails."

Olive swallowed dryly and pointed up the block. "Just before you reach the last house," she said. "You'll see his sign outside."

Kathryn nodded grimly and tramped down on the gas.

* * *

Malcolm Simpson, M.D., turned out to be a slight man. He was middle-aged, Harvard educated, and pleasant.

He was, he said, delighted to make her acquaintance.

"Frankly, Miss Russell, I've been curious about the American lady who's moved into Charon's Crossing."

"Well, I haven't moved in. I'm just here on a temporary visit, Doctor."

"And?"

Kathryn hesitated. "And," she said finally, "I haven't been sleeping well."

What else could she tell him? That she was afraid she had a brain tumor? That she feared she was going nuts? That she might be having hallucinations, brought on by a ghost-happy populace?

"I think it's the heat," she said, and smiled brightly. "But I figured I'd get checked over, just to be sure."

Dr. Simpson didn't bother pointing out that nights were cool this time of year, especially up on the cliffs where Charon's Crossing stood. He poked and prodded, tested and treasured, and, at last, assured Kathryn that her health was excellent.

"I'm glad to hear it." She cleared her throat. "I wonder... I mean, as long as I'm here..."

Simpson waited with a patient, impersonal smile. Forty years practicing medicine had taught him that people rarely came straight out and told you what was really worrying them.

"I thought you might check my vision," Kathryn said casually.

"Have you been having vision problems, Miss Russell?"

Well, I've been seeing things...

"No," she said. "But, ah, I've had some headaches lately."

"Mmm. No spots? No blurry shapes?"

Just a man with a face like an angel and the disposition of a bobcat.

"Nope, not a one."

"Let's have a look, then, shall we?"

Dr. Simpson turned off the lights. He put on a gizmo that made him look like a miner and made Kathryn want to giggle. He peered deep into her eyes, pulled down an eye chart and made her read it. Then he peered into her eyes again.

"Twenty-twenty," he said, flicking on the lights.

Kathryn nodded. "I figured that."

"The headaches are probably from tension. Or they could be sinus-related." He smiled pleasantly. "I'm sure we've got more strange things growing here per square foot than you have in all of New York."

Kathryn smiled weakly. "I'll bet."

Simpson began scrawling on a prescription pad.

"I'll give you a couple of prescriptions, Miss Russell, something to help you sleep and a mild painkiller, but I think your best bet will be aspirin for your headaches, and brisk walks along the beach for that insomnia. Perhaps the mustiness of that old house is getting to you."

"Are you familiar with Charon's Crossing, Doctor?"

"Oh, quite." He ripped the prescriptions from the pad and chuckled as he handed them to her. "I take it you aren't bothered by tales of jumbies and haunts, hmm?"

Kathryn's lips felt as if they were sticking to her teeth as she smiled back at him.

"You've heard the stories, then?"

"Of course." He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "There was a time, a couple of decades ago, I thought about buying the house myself."

"But you didn't," Kathryn said, stuffing the prescriptions into her pocket.

Simpson took her arm and walked her slowly to the door.

"No. I didn't."

"Do you mind telling me the reason?"

He laughed, and a light flush spread over his cheeks.

"It was my wife, actually. Sally said if I moved into Charon's Crossing, it would be by myself."

"But why?"

"I was born and raised in the States, Miss Russell. Sally... well, she's from Elizabeth Island."

"So?"

"So, she flatly refused to live in a house she said was haunted."

Kathryn swung towards him. "But you're a physician. Couldn't you convince her it wasn't true?"

Simpson paused, his hand on the doorknob, and gave her an embarrassed smile.

"Actually," he said, "I couldn't convince myself."

* * *

Was everybody on this island insane?

All the way back to Charon's Crossing, that was all she could think about.

Did they all believe there was a ghost in her house?

There wasn't. Hell, no. This was just a case of-f-of mass hysteria, like the Salem witch hunts or all those little kids in California who'd convinced themselves and everyone else that their teachers had dug secret tunnels under their classroom and spirited them off to heaven only knew where for God only knew what...

Ghosts.

"Ghosts," Kathryn snorted.

It would be a cold day in hell before she joined the ranks of those who thought she'd inherited not just a house but a spirit.

By the time she pulled up at the front door, she had gone from irritation to anger. She stormed out of the car, up the front steps, and threw open the door.

Legs slightly apart, hands on her hips, she glared at the wide staircase. The late afternoon light lent it an eerie look; the steps seemed to end in yawning blackness.

Kathryn hesitated for a moment. Maybe this wasn't so smart. Maybe...

Maybe, nothing!

"Okay," she said loudly, "Okay, here I am. And here's your chance. If there's anything or anybody here, come out and show yourself."

Silence filled the room.

"Come on, if you're up there. Listen, I'm from New York. I know all about street people. So if you moved in a while back, I won't be angry. Just come on down, walk out the door, and we'll forget this ever happened."

More silence. Kathryn took a deep breath.

"And—and if there's anything else up there..." What was she doing? This was ridiculous. It was crazy. But so what? There was nobody here to see her make an ass of herself. "If there's anything else hanging around," she said, her voice loud and clear, "it's time you took off, too." The wind had blown her hair around her face in wild, tumbling waves. She tossed her head and it fell back over her shoulders. "Not that I believe in ghosts, you understand. But everybody else here does, so I'm just going with the flow. There's the door. Come down, walk out, and don't come back."

Nothing stirred. Nothing spoke. Kathryn held her stance a minute longer. Then she let out her breath in a long, explosive sigh. Her hands fell from her hips. It was silly, she knew, but now that it was over, she was shak—

"Hello, Catherine."

The voice behind her was deep, masculine, and frighteningly familiar.

The hair rose on the nape of Kathryn's neck. Slowly, slowly, she turned around.

A shaft of late afternoon sunlight illuminated the staircase, falling like a spotlight on the man coming down the steps towards her.

He was tall and golden-haired; he was handsome enough to steal her breath away. He was wearing black tights and high black boots and a shirt with ruffles at the neck and at the cuffs...

And she could see the stairs right through him, see the pattern on the Persian runner...

"Must I introduce myself, m'lady?" He paused on the bottom step, his tone cool but his green eyes hot on her face. "Surely you have not forgotten my name."

"Certainly not," Kathryn said, in a voice that was very clear and calm. "You're Matthew McDowell."

Her eyes rolled up into her head and she tumbled to the floor in a dead faint:

Chapter 8

Hell and damnation!

Matthew managed to catch Catherine in his arms just as she crumpled to the floor. She felt as boneless as a rag doll.

"Cat," he said urgently, "speak to me."

Was this what he had been reduced to, then, terrorizing women?

His heart hardened. And it was all her fault.

He carried her into the drawing room and deposited her none too gently on one of the settees. Then he rose to his feet and stared down at her, his arms folded and his legs apart.

"All right," he said coldly. "You've done your swooning act. Now open your eyes."

She didn't stir.

"Do you hear me, Cat? Stop this nonsense and look at me."

She lay there, as still as death.