Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (13 page)

He sauntered along the deserted beach deep in thought. He couldn’t help but think the old man had won. But what
had
he won? Annie? Their child? What kind of game was he playing? What kind of game was Annie playing? Surely it
was
a game. Away from the old bastard, Annie was a different woman, strong, independent and focused on her art. Maybe Doug had somehow made a terrible error. Perhaps she never had been anything but what she was now. Perhaps their entire life together had been a colossal lie. She had gone from being De Roché’s girl to Douglas McArthur’s woman, and now it seemed she was reverting back to daddy. In the absence of his wife De Roché would make Annie his woman. Hadn’t he always felt down deep that someday he’d lose her in this way, that everything up till now had all been some crazy yet temporary dream?

For Christ’s sake, McArthur, grow up. You’re being a complete and total paranoid jerk. The girl just lost her mother. You know she loves you. You’re just being selfish. You don’t want to share.

It was late when he started back.
Wind whispered through the palms and the sky had darkened. As he approached the house, rain began to fall, a fine, soaking mist.

He reached the garden and stood very still among the marble figures there, imagining he was one of them, and feeling like stone. His eyes searched the mansion. Behind a rain-streaked window on the second floor, a vague figure stood, distorted by rivulets of rainwater. It was a young woman—he could tell that much—perhaps a ghost of some long ago resident—and she held a child, rocking it gently in her arms. He squinted trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but it was no use, the distortion was too great. Shivering
, Doug made his way out of the garden, finding shelter from the rain under the Corinthian-columned porch. There he stood, staring into the garden as the deluge came, his pain a physical weight in his heart. Thunder clapped loudly overhead, and lightning parted the heavens.

Annie stood at the window hugging the rag doll from her childhood to her bosom, watching Doug make his way up from the beach. She saw him stop in the garden among the life-size figures of David, the Thinker and so many others of her father’s fancy. For a moment Doug looked as if he belonged there with them, forever frozen in some weird and classical time warp. The thought left her empty. As a child she had grown to hate those solemn, unyielding figures. And at night she would lie in bed and imagine them coming to life and roaming the house in search of a lonely little girl that wept for the arms of a mother who did not love her.

After Annie returned from the beach she’d searched the house for occupants finding not a servant or a security person in sight. Strange, she thought, considering what happened just last night. Daddy seemed to be absent as well.

In the kitchen she found Greta, the flight attendant sitting at the table with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. “Oh it’s you,” Annie said with little interest.

“Would you like some?” Greta said motioning toward the cup.

Annie shook her head in irritation. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “And where
is my father?”

“You’re father had business elsewhere,” Greta replied. “And I am here at his
request.” Greta drew on the cigarette. “I wonder if you realize what sort of trouble you’ve caused him.”

Annie’s temper flared. “You have no
right—”

“Maybe not. But I only have your father’s interests at heart.”

“He can take care of himself.”

Greta
glared at Annie. “You’ve been away far too long. You don’t realize...”

“What don’t I realize?”

“Things here have changed, and not for the better.”

“No shit. My mother was
murdered.”

“A terrible tragedy, yes, but
that’s not what I was referring to.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“You have no idea.”

“He’s afraid, I can tell.”

Greta crushed her cigarette out in an ashtray. “His empire is crumbling around him,” she said. “There are holes in his defenses. Your mother’s murder is proof of that. He has enemies. Lots of them.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“I don’t think you’re qualified to lay blame.”

“Who then?”

Greta glared. “Perhaps his own ambition.”

“Why is he throwing this insane dinner party tonight?”

“Who knows? It’s not my place to question his decisions. Perhaps out of some morbid need to push the envelope of his influence. Or maybe it’s an attempt to . . . confront the murderer.”

Annie was horrified. “You think he knows who it is?”

Greta shrugged. “I told you, he has enemies, some very close to his inner circle. You’re his only hope, you know.”

“Me? I don’t know how I can help.”

“He needs you here.”

“He’s already made that clear. But I don’t see what I can do.”

“Just be here for him, that’s all.”

Annie glared at the woman. “And what business is it of yours anyway?”

“Your father and I have been  . . . close for quite some time.”

“Close?” Annie’s eyes drew down on the woman. “How do you mean?”

“I take care of things.”

“Things?” Annie took an angry step toward the woman. Suddenly she did not like Greta in the least. “What sort of things?”

Greta stood and faced Annie defiantly. “I’m your father’s personal assistant.”

“Since when?”

“For quite some time now, my dear, I can assure you. Don’t forget, you’ve been out of his life. You broke his heart.”

“He was a bastard.”

“He was only trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Greta gave a short laugh. “If you don’t know by now you’re naïve.”

Annie stared at the woman, too tired to pursue demons. “I want to know what you do for him.”

Greta sighed as if this line of questioning bored her.

“Well?”

“Ordinary things, that’s all. I hire and fire the domestic help. I see that his clothes are taken to the cleaners, make sure his ties are straight and his shoes are shined. I assist him in many ways. I do the menial day to day tasks that he doesn’t have time for.”

“Speaking of, where
is
all the help?”

“Considering what happened last night, well, I told them not to come in today.”

“And security?”

“That’s Theo’s department. They’re here, I can assure you. You just don’t see them.”

Annie glanced around the kitchen, thinking she might see cameras. There were none visible, of course. Her father had always been discrete. “What about the dinner party?” she asked. “Who will do the cooking, and the serving?”

“He’s having it catered.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, security will be tight.”

“Where were they last night when my mother was murdered?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that. Please explain.”

“He’s very excited at the prospect of a grandchild,” Greta said. She took a quick glance at Annie’s belly and Annie thought she saw greed in the look.

Annie turned away from the woman’s scrutiny, feeling a fierce over-protectiveness for her unborn child. She felt suddenly very sick.

“Your father has asked me to look after you.”

“I don’t need a baby sitter.”

“You need to eat
.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“At least let me fix you a sandwich,” the woman insisted, going to the refrigerator. “I know you haven’t eaten all day, and dinner won’t be until eight. You must think of the child.”

“Okay,” Annie said, willing to do almost anything to get away from this repulsive woman. Without washing the cigarette residue from her hands, Greta constructed some sort of sandwich from fixings in the refrigerator. She handed the plate to Annie.

“I’ll take it to my room,” Annie said, accepting the offering and turning to leave.

“Make sure you eat it all,” Greta said with a dark smile. “Think of the baby.”

Annie marched from the room without replying.

As she climbed the stairs to her room she had the unsettling feeling that she wasn’t alone. It was a familiar feeling that did not frighten her much. She’d spent half her youth here and she was used to the odd paradoxes of this place. In a way it seemed oddly alive, often menacing, as if the very fabric of it was constructed of lost souls.

In her room she locked the door behind her, grateful to be away from Greta. She set the repulsive sandwich on her dressing table where it remained untouched.

Picking her rag doll out of its cradle she stood at the window rocking it gently in her arms, pretending it was the baby she carried inside her, Doug’s baby, the child they’d been dreaming about for so many years but had been afraid to make. Why had Doug been so afraid? And why had he never confided his fears in her? And the most vexing question of all: why had she never pressed him?

Something stirred behind her. She whirled, afraid that Greta had somehow gained access to her inner sanctum.

Her mother stood by the door.

“Mama?” Annie cried, dumfounded and frozen in place. “Oh my God. How did you . . .?”

The woman did not reply.

Before Annie could get herself under control tears overwhelmed her. “What happened to me in this room, mama?” she cried. “Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t daddy help me? Why did I have to run away?”

Rachael De Roché did not answer her daughter’s urgent pleas; instead she opened her arms and offered her an embrace she had rarely offered in life. In death had she discovered the capacity to love as well as be loved? No, never. Annie understood that
mama wasn’t really here, she was in a morgue somewhere downtown waiting to be placed forever into the womb of the earth, and if those questions were ever to be answered Annie knew that she would have to look inside herself.

Her heart nearly breaking, she forced herself to look away from the surreal image of her mother and back to the statue of her husband in the rain-shrouded garden.

Doug had been right. Her soul was lost. Long ago something she did not understand had taken it. Coming back here only reminded her of the truth of her condition, and that nothing had changed. That nothing ever would. Her pleasant life with Doug in the Maine countryside was an illusion. The real Annie, the soulless person beneath the shallow skin, would always belong here with the ghosts of a thousand terrible deeds and memories, and now, it seemed, a new ghost had taken up residence.

There was nothing left inside her that could be shared, everything that had once held promise was now gone, gouged out of her long ago as if by some terrible surgical instrument. She did not understand how a good man such as Douglas McArthur could be fooled for so long. She was so empty and he was so filled with goodness. 

Annie dropped the rag doll and curled her hands into fists, placing them against her mouth in a compulsive attempt to stifle the helpless sobs that were escaping her. There would have to be an excavation, she knew. It was long overdue. But she was unsure as to whether she had the skills or the courage for such an undertaking. There was so much here that she did not understand, so much that she feared, enough to make her wonder if she had the courage to go on.

“Doug!” she cried, lifting a listless hand to the rain-smeared window, hoping that he would peer up at her and smile that big beautiful Douglas McArthur smile of his. Whenever Doug smiled things were always okay. He was her rock, her breath, her life. He did look up
and met her eyes directly, but he did not acknowledge her existence. Was she now just a shadow, a ghost, standing here among all the other ghosts of her past? Doug walked on and disappeared under the overhanging porch roof that jutted from the house just below Annie’s bedroom window.

Night was chasing the rain down, obscuring all things around Antoinette De Roché McArthur, and Doug seemed to be fading into that obscurity, just as each and every good thing had,
away from the illusion of the life they’d come to know and love.

The rain shower passed quickly. The air felt crisper and cooler than before
, which was a blessing. Doug, still restless, strolled along the paths of the estate, determined that there was a mystery here that he could not see, some important clue that might shed light on the reasons he and Annie had been so suddenly wrenched from their quiet and happy lives and propelled headlong into the world of high power, brutal murder and abject uncertainty.

Toward the back quarter, well away from the
main house, there stood a large stone building surrounded by live oaks and cypress trees all dripping with Spanish moss. It was a mansion in its own right, its windows darkened by years of dust and grime. The gray stone of the building’s façade was weathered, as if it had been on the site for centuries unused. Doug had inquired as to the building’s nature on a number of occasions in the past but his inquiries had always been answered with warnings to let sleeping dogs lie. Annie had always pleaded ignorance as to the building’s purpose, and there had never been reason for Doug to challenge her. Best to just go away and not think about this place at all. But now he was inexorably drawn to the building as a moth to a flame. Birds seemed to be drawn to the building as well. Dozens, perhaps hundreds were perched on the building’s roof and many more fluttered around its eaves, as if looking for a way in. Doug watched the activity for a long moment before moving away and continuing his jaunt through the estate grounds.

Presently
, he came across a neatly kept kennel with several guard dogs within. Doug assumed they were guard dogs, at least. In years past he’d heard rumors of De Roché’s penchant for dog fighting, but had never seen evidence to substantiate the rumors. He’d also heard rumors of De Roché’s desire to be president one day and wondered, how, with so many skeletons, real or rumored, in his closet, the old man could accomplish such a lofty feat.

From what Doug could tell, these
animals looked healthy and vital. Upon catching his scent, however, the dogs—all large Dobermans—began pacing menacingly behind the kennel fence, eyes trained on his every move, teeth glinting savagely, but despite their intimidating postures they remained eerily silent. A handler emerged from a small building near the kennel, held his hand up and stilled the dogs. It was a simple command that was obeyed immediately, but what puzzled Doug was why the dogs had made no sound.

The handler stared at Doug for a long moment before motioning him to step closer. He was tall and thin with stooped shoulders and a head of thick unkempt brown hair
framing a face so white it could have been made of parchment.

“
You’re De Roché’s son-in-law,” the man said, his black, piercing eyes magnified behind the lenses of round-rimmed glasses.

Doug stepped closer. “I am. How do you know that?”

“Word gets around. I make it my business to know what’s happening on these grounds. Name’s Remy,” the man added, offering his hand. “Joe Remy. Please call me Joe.”

Doug took the offered hand. “Doug McArthur,” he said.

“You’re wondering why the dogs didn’t bark,” Remy said.

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Vocal chords have been cut. Dogs that bark are useless for protection. The best ones are always silent, otherwise they warn intruders. Silent dogs attack before the intruder sees them coming. That way he doesn’t get the chance to run, or worse, kill the dogs.”

“The idea is for the dogs to kill the intruder,” Doug said.

“Precisely.”

Doug had a thought. “Listen, Joe, do the dogs roam the estate freely at night?”

“You bet they do.”

“What about last night?”

Remy’s piercing eyes held Doug’s. “You want to know about the . . . intruder?”

“So there was one?”

“Officially, no, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”

Doug squinted at Remy.

Remy cleared his throat and pointed at the dog pen. “No human walked these grounds last night.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“Quite. The entire estate is surrounded by twenty foot stone walls topped with electric fence and razor wire. There are motion detectors and wide angle cameras every dozen feet or so.”

“What about the ocean side? Aren’t all beaches public land?”

Remy smiled. “Technically yes, but as you probably know, money can buy most anything. There are man-made breakwaters on either side of De Roché’s property put there on purpose. Piles of jagged boulders block the way to the south, and to the north there’s an intercoastal waterway guarded by lasers and infrared. A mouse couldn’t get past those detectors. Listen, even if someone did manage to get onto the grounds the dogs would have torn them to shreds.”

“Well how do you think . . .”

“They got to Mrs. De Roché?” Remy’s piercing eyes behind the thick glass lenses drew down into rheumy little beads. His white face gleamed. “Can’t answer that.” He laughed a short nervous little laugh. “Maybe the intruder wasn’t an intruder at all.”

Doug remained silent staring at Remy.

Remy darted a furtive look back toward the main house. “I’m not supposed to be talking about this.”

Doug looked around him. “But you are.”

“You don’t know this place,” Remy whispered. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, places you’d least expect. All I can say is there’s been some strange shit happening around here for the past week or so.”

“What
kind of shit?”

“Weird stuff. Lights in the night sky, strange apparitions. The whole compound’s spooked. The dogs haven’t rested much and neither have I.
”

“So . . .”

“So, if an intruder killed Mrs. De Roché . . .” Remy’s voice trailed off.

“You think it might have been an inside job?” Doug said.

Remy frowned. “Can’t answer that. Nothing makes sense.” He leaned in close to Doug and continued to whisper. “I’m a hired hand here, I do a job. I’m good with the dogs, it’s the only reason they keep me around. I ain’t supposed to think.” Remy’s eyes darted back and forth in suspicion before coming to rest on the mysterious gray stone building set against the woods in the distance.

“What are you trying to tell me, Joe?”

“You know how the Mrs. died?”

“Gunshot wound,” Doug said.

“No, no, no.” Remy gave a quick shake of his head. “That’s the official story, but I can assure you she didn’t die that way. A friend of mine, Don Savage, works for Theo, the old man’s security chief, told me her death was brutal, some sort of sick ritual, and it happened practically beneath the old man’s nose and he couldn’t do nothing about it.”