Vision of Darkness (28 page)

CHAPTER 29

The typical smells of a hospital, urine and cleaning products, blasted Alex as he stepped into the main foyer of Our Lady. Despite the cheerful attempts of potted ferns and the ever-smiling staff, the gothic place always reminded him of Dracula’s castle.

“Mr. Brennan,” the receptionist said when he approached the desk with his heart beating in his throat. “It’s been a while. Theo’s been asking about you.”  

“Is he okay?”

The redhead cocked her head to one side, brows drawn together. “Why, yes. Of course he is.”

It was Alex’s turn to be confused. “He’s not…hurt…or anything?”

“I can assure you, he’s fine. In fact, he’s doing better today than he has for the past week. He’s been in bed for several hours now. If something had happened, we would’ve called you right away.”

Alex released a ragged breath and slumped against the desk. He took a moment to enjoy the flash of relief, but then reality set in again. If Theo was okay, then who the hell called him? “I received a call from here about five hours ago from a man who said Theo…”

Was what? Come to think of it, the man hadn’t really said anything about Theo being hurt or hurting someone else. He had just mentioned the hospital’s name and Theo’s, and then let Alex’s terrified mind fill in the blanks.

Someone had wanted him distracted.

And Kevin Mallory was still out there somewhere.

Shit.

“Lookit, can I go up and check on him real quick?” he asked the receptionist, the first tendrils of real panic creeping into his mind. He had to see Theo with his own two eyes before returning like a bat out of hell to Maine. Refused to leave without making sure his brother really was okay.

The receptionist frowned. “Mr. Brennan, you know visiting hours are over at—”

He slammed a fist on the desk. A framed prayer jumped and fell to the carpet. “I pay this place enough money that I should be able to come see my brother whenever I damn well feel like it.”

“Okay, okay. Shh.” She waved her hands in a pressing motion to lower his voice. Her gaze flashed up and down the hallway. “You can go up and check on him, but please, do not disturb him. Sleep is an important part of his recovery.”

Alex didn’t bother arguing with her that schizophrenics, as a rule, did not recover. With drugs, their disease was manageable, but they were never truly free.

Rather than wait for the elevator, he raced up the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hall was dim and quiet, save for the soft strumming of a radio and the voices of two male aides at the desk by the elevator discussing the curvy assets of one of the nurses. They never noticed Alex slip into Theo’s room.

The austere room wasn’t much bigger than the walk-in closet in Alex’s condo, with space enough for the metal frame bed where Theo lay in a tangled knot of blankets, sound asleep. A wood dresser and small writing desk took up the rest of the space and the hospital’s maintenance staff had bolted every stick of furniture to the floor.

Although Our Lady was not a prison, iron bars covered the fortified window, which offered a dreary view of the hospital’s gardens, a moss-covered fountain that hadn’t worked in decades, and a handful of crumbling angel statues in the backyard. Charcoal sketches framed the window and Alex scanned each—all grotesque, demonic figures. A complete waste of Theo’s exceptional artistic talents.

One sketch on the desk caught Alex’s attention and his breath hitched as he picked it up. In it, a lighthouse guarded a ragged cliff and the silhouette of a woman stood atop the tower with her arms spread wide, loose hair whipping in the wind.

The lighthouse looked like Danger Ledge.

The woman eerily resembled Pru.

“Alex,” Theo said from the darkness, voice thick with sleep. “That you?”

He strode to the bed and shoved the sketch in his brother’s face. “What the hell is this?”

“The Guides told me you were coming,” Theo said, ignoring the sketch.

Again with the fucking paranormal bullshit. Was he the only sane person in the world? Alex felt like screaming and gnashed his teeth to keep from doing it. “Who told you about the lighthouse? Who told you about Pru?”

Sitting up, Theo released a frustrated breath. “I told you—”

“The Guides do not exist!”

Theo shot to his feet and pointed a finger at Alex’s nose. He was several inches taller, but a good twenty-five pounds lighter. Besides, Alex never backed down from him. Not when they were kids, and certainly not now.

“You need to back up, bro.”

“I’m getting so fucking sick of being told what does and does not exist.” Theo’s voice shook. “I know what I hear. I know what I see. You can keep me locked away with these wackos and shrinks, you can let them pump me full of all the drugs you want, but I am not going to ignore the fact my little brother is in danger. I saw a demon who wants to kill us both. He had eyes like a wolf—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not hallucinating.” He snatched the lighthouse drawing from Alex’s hand and shoved it in his face. “And the Guides told me about this place. They told me if I ever wanted to see you alive again after tonight, I should keep you away from here.”

Alex waved the drawing away as the same old sadness he felt every time he visited his brother took root deep in his heart. “Theo, man. You’re so sure there’s nothing wrong with you—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! All of you! Goddammit.” He backed away and tunneled his hands through his hair, yanking on the limp strands, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. His entire body shook. “Let me think. I need to think.”

Alex swallowed a surge of emotion. It was always hard to see Theo in this condition, but tonight hurt worse for some reason. “T, listen to yourself. This is not how a sane person talks. You need those shrinks and those drugs.”

The episode passed as quickly as it began. Tears streaked Theo’s face and he turned away, toward the window. He leaned an arm against the frame, propped his forehead on his arm, and gazed out at the garden below. Yellow streetlights cast shadows over his features that, even though they were only half-brothers, were so much like Alex’s it was like looking at a mirror whose reflection was a little bit off.

“You have no idea what it’s like living here,” he finally said. “I even have to piss on a schedule.”

“Then take your meds and go to therapy. Stop causing problems for the staff. Your disease is manageable if you put in a little effort. In time, you can get outta here and live a perfectly normal life.”

“I’ll never be normal.” His lips pressed together in a grim line and he glanced over his shoulder. He stared, but not at Alex. Through him. “And neither will you. You have a little demon in you too.”

You got the devil in you, boyo.

A chill rattled Alex’s spine. “Don’t talk like that. You sound like Granddad.”

“Forget it.” Theo sighed and resumed staring out the window. “Is there any way I can convince you not to go back to that lighthouse?”

“No, Theo. There’s not.”      

CHAPTER 30

Every old photo told a story, and Nick lingered over the spread before him on the cheap metal table in the basement of Three Churches’ Town Hall, thrilled to have tangible objects to study. Since Pru had excused herself to bed with a headache, he made sure the lighthouse was secure then decided to spend a little time indulging his curiosity about the place.

History was something he loved studying almost as much as the paranormal.

The cute, perky secretary that led him to the archives had said the town was digitizing everything, but had only gotten as far back as 1950. Newspapers went back a little further in microfiche, to the twenties. Everything before that, he’d have to look through by hand.

Perfect.

Nothing against computers—they had a great many uses—but the digitization process destroyed something precious. The smell of old paper, the feel of a fragile document, faded and thin as silk, in his hands—beautiful, and just as much a part of history as the information the documents contained. Couldn’t get that on a damn computer screen.

Sighing in appreciation, he picked up what looked to be the oldest photo of the group, a scratched daguerreotype in a protective glass case that showed the lighthouse during construction. A group of men stood in front of the half-erect tower, grim-faced, as if they knew of the pain the place would eventually cause. They hadn’t, of course. The construction workers didn’t smile because exposure time was close to ten minutes for a daguerreotype. Nick had never tried holding a smile for ten minutes straight, but he was sure it hurt after a while.

He picked up another photo, newer than the daguerreotype but still well over a hundred years old. The lighthouse stood tall and complete in the background. In the foreground, a small family posed. The woman sat on a chair, her skirt a waterfall of ruffles, a wide hat covering her head, a parasol in one dainty hand. The man stood slightly behind her in a stiff-collared shirt and sport coat, his mustache neatly trimmed, his hat square on his head, one hand on her shoulder and one on the boy’s. The boy, maybe eleven, was a smaller version of his father and stood beside his mother’s chair. His mouth quirked in a familiar half-smile.

Very
familiar.

Excitement surged. Hot damn, he was onto something. He’d seen that kid before. But…where? Another photograph? He sifted through his memories, trying to bring the niggling sensation to the forefront of his mind. It eluded him. He turned the photo over. Someone with flowing penmanship had inscribed the back, but time had faded the ink.

The family…Mr. Wal…Clara …

Too washed out to read the rest. He scanned the documents and photos on the table and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. While Alex lived to hunt down criminals, and Sully thrived on the thrill of outsmarting an opponent, and Kai enjoyed seducing women out from under other men, there was nothing Nick loved more than delving into the past.

So. Judging by the clothing style, the family lived in the late 1890s or early 1900s. He reached for the yellowed newsprint he’d stacked in the corner of the table and started leafing through the pages. Back then, and especially in a small town like Three Churches, the newspapers were more like an extended gossip column and this family looked prominent enough to warrant some attention from the local media. He hoped.

A lot of the print had faded, but remained legible enough to read. The paper felt thin and crinkled under his fingers as he scoured the headlines from 1900 and found nothing of interest. Five years later, ten years—nothing. Then in 1914, an announcement among all the who-did-what-on-Sunday personals caught his eye.

Mr. and Mrs. Walter True, of 1515 Windfall Road, announce the engagement of their only son, Silas Bartholomew True, to Miss Adeline Barnett of Portland, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Barnett.

Jackpot. 1515 Windfall Road was the lighthouse’s address. Lovie’s real name: Adeline Barnett True.

Grinning, Nick picked up the family portrait again. “Well, now. Hello, young Silas. Your wife has sure caused a helluva of fuss ‘round here lately.”

He went back to the newspapers, but for the next several years, the headlines revolved around World War I. Then he found an obituary for Clara True in 1919, which claimed her death resulted from an extended illness. Her husband followed less than a year later, in early 1920, and the obit writer surmised Walter died of a broken heart at the ripe old age of 54. After the funeral, Silas moved his young wife from Portland to Three Churches and took over his father’s duties as lighthouse keeper.

Nick had to switch to microfiche and scan through several more years before he found any more mention of the True family. November 1, 1925. A headline in bold block letters screamed across the top of the page: LIGHTHOUSE FIRE! KEEPER AND WIFE DEAD!

He read it, rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and read it a second time. “Holy shit.”

Pru mentioned Alex had once specifically asked her about a fire. He’d known about it even though none of the locals remembered it. And the guy claimed he wasn’t psychic. Yeah, right.  

The article continued in intimate, gory detail. Two bodies, Silas’s burned beyond recognition in the kitchen and Lovie’s broken at the base of the lighthouse tower.

The phantom scent at the lighthouse. Pru thought it was a pork roast, like Lovie had cooked dinner, but it always struck him as disgusting and vaguely familiar. Now, he knew why. Human flesh. He had smelled it several times overseas, sickening in how close it resembled pork, with only a slight rancid undertone. The phantom scent was Silas True’s body burning.

Nick rubbed a hand over his chin as he read. The fire proved excellent fodder for gossip and speculation thrived until the police made their judgment a week later. MURDER! SUICIDE! the following day’s headline shouted in bold letters.

“Christ almighty,” he whispered and recalled the séance, the procession of images they’d all seen. Sinner, envy, murder. Had Alex been possessed by Silas True that night? Possibly. Hell, the more he read about the man, pretty damn likely. Silas wouldn’t have taken his murder easily. He was a war hero, a true-and-blue warrior, much like Alex. His spirit would want justice.

Nick drew a breath, returned to the microfiche and flipped ahead, but the fire soon faded from the public’s spotlight. The paper went back to covering everyone’s day-to-day life.

Mrs. Mary Howard visited her cousins, Misses Grace and Cora Mills, Sunday…

J.C. Ingram, who has been confined to his bed, severely ill for several months, can now receive visitors…

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Nick started to turn off the machine when a small announcement, tucked away between ads as if in embarrassment, caught his eye.

In the midst of much scandal, Miss Olivia Mae French gives birth to a daughter named Fiona Mae, 17 July 1926. Miss French refuses to name the child’s father.

Grandma Mae?

Nick sat back in his seat. A sinking sensation, a sick feeling of dread, turned his stomach to lead. Alex reckoned Lila VanBuran’s killers were responsible for all the so-called accidents around the lighthouse, but Rhett and David had refused to take responsibility, even after they freely admitted to killing Lila and concealing Cappy Putnam’s murder. That hadn’t set right with Nick from the get-go. Why admit to those deaths but not another?

He could think of only one reason. They were telling the truth.

Silas
was
like Alex. He’d want justice, but if Lovie had died the same night of his death, justice had been served. No, if he was still kicking around this plain of existence, it was to
protect
someone.

Someone like his daughter. And great-granddaughter.  

***

The pounding noise started in Pru’s dream, but didn’t immediately wake her, very slowly bringing her back to consciousness. She blinked and rolled over, searching for her alarm clock.

Darkness.

Electricity must be out, she decided when she couldn’t find the pale blue numbers. Then she remembered she was upstairs in the bed Alex had used. She had crawled into his bed for a moment to wrap herself in his calming scent that still clung to the sheets. Sappy, yes, but she refused to be ashamed.

The pounding downstairs continued and she realized no barking accompanied the sound.

Where was Triton? She hadn’t seen the dog since he disappeared upstairs during the thunderstorm earlier in the evening. He should be going bonkers right now.

Groaning, she sat up and groped around for her watch, which she had set aside before laying down. The screen lit up with a blue glow when she hit the button. She groaned again. She’d been sleeping for several hours already, but still felt as mentally and physically exhausted as she had before. The headache she’d been battling since Alex left surged back with a vengeance.

Who the hell was pounding on her door at ten-forty-five at night?

Alex.

It must be Alex back from Boston. Her irritation faded. She smiled, swung her feet to the floor, and raced barefoot down the creaky, narrow staircase.

But why was he being so impatient? She paused for a split-second with her hand on the knob of the front door. She peaked through the side window, but couldn’t see anything more than the shadowed outline of a man. Gulping down a sudden surge of fear, she tried the switch for the porch light. It clicked. No light came on. Shoot.

It’s all over
, she reminded herself. Rhett and David were in jail, Kevin was either on the lam or dead, and Helen was dead. J.J. was still in the hospital, serious but stable, but even if he wasn’t, she’d never fear him. Yes, she had to accept that he’d known about Lila’s death and hid it, and he’d probably face some type of legal punishment for that, but she couldn’t believe that he had anything to do with the rest of it. Luckily, neither did the police.   

So there was nobody left to terrorize her anymore. Nick was sure enough about her safety to leave her by herself and he had good instincts. He wouldn’t do that if she was still in danger.

Still, uncertainty stayed her hand on the knob. Since moving here, she’d never worried about who was on the other side of her door.

“Who is it?” she called, part of her despairing over the fact she’d never again be able to open her door and warmly greet visitors.

“Pru, open up. I need to talk with you. It’s important.”

“Jones?” She unlatched the deadbolt and peeked out. The cook stood on her porch dressed in a black turtle neck and jeans, his greasy hair combed into a tail, and she had to do a double-take to be sure it really was him. She’d never once seen him clean-shaven. “Where the hell have you been?”

His big body hunched. “Uh, just around.”

She opened the door a little wider. “You’ve really screwed us over at the diner, you know that? Poor Jenny’s been working almost full-time around school to make up your shifts.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Pru. Let me explain—”

“I should fire you right now.”

He took a step forward, crowding her. “If you’ll let me come inside, I’ll explain everything. Please? It’s cold out here and we really need to talk.”

Pru hesitated. The cook was lazy, a little odd, and not all that bright, but he wasn’t dangerous. She’d seen dangerous last year in the masked gunman who robbed her restaurant, and this morning in Helen’s desperate attempt to save her son.

Jones was not dangerous.

She stepped back and rubbed her temple as he came inside, not feeling up to dealing with him tonight. Her headache was approaching terror alert level red.

Jones peered around the foyer and into the living room like he expected a cobra to be curled up on her couch. “That city guy…is he here?”

“Alex had some family business to tend to.”

“Oh. Good.” Jones’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled. Without all the facial hair he looked younger, almost boyish. He might even be considered handsome if he wasn’t such an odd duck.

“All right, I’m listening.” With a sigh, Pru headed toward the kitchen with him trailing on her heels. She needed coffee, and not the decaf stuff she’d drank with Nick earlier. “So explain to me why you thought it was okay to ditch work over the past couple weeks.”

She paused with the coffee pot under the tap and leaned against the counter as a wave of nausea swept through her. Her head throbbed, a constant knocking pressure, as if someone wanted to get inside.

Migraine? It’d been a long time since she’d last had one, but with the stress of the day, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Damn. She’d let her Imitrex prescription lapse months ago.

Pru braced her palms on the edge of the sink, sure everything in her stomach was about to come up.

Breathe.
She focused on the task of inhaling and exhaling.
Just breathe through it.

“Pru?”

When she trusted herself not to hurl all over, she looked up. For a second, she’d forgotten Jones was there. “We’ll have to save this conversation for another time. I’m not feeling well.”

“This can’t wait.” His tone was urgent, verging on panicked. “I need help. I haven’t been to work because I’m on a very important mission.”

“A mission?”