Night of the Phantom Page 8

  "Those sects are all unknowing," he said loftily. "I follow the true way, like my father and grandfather before me."

  "But you must have been trained—"

  "Don't need training, sister, when you have a calling." He clamped a hand down on her arm, and she was surprised by the steely strength in those skinny fingers. "Come with me, child. We'll teach you about the real God."

  "No, thanks," she said hastily, pulling away. He was too surprised to hold on, otherwise she might have had difficulty escaping. "I think I'll stay here for now. But thanks for the offer."

  "Evil!" Pastor Lincoln screeched, pointing his finger at her. His entire body was vibrating with outrage. "It's too late for you. He's taken you, made you one of his succubi."

  "One of his what?" she demanded, not knowing whether to be amused or outraged.

  "There'll be no cleansing of your sins, short of fire. You're one with the evil, lost in the sins of the flesh, rioting in fatness and sensuality!" He ran down the steps to his school bus, still shrieking.

  "Guess you made an enemy of that one," Salvatore said with a smirk.

  "He made an enemy of me with that crack about fatness," Meg snapped back. "Is everyone around here loony tunes?"

  "Just about," Sal said. "Ready to go back to your room?"

  The enormity of what she'd just done hit her. She whirled around for one last wistful glance at the school bus as it jolted and jarred its way back down the road. Repent or Perish, it said on the back. Her only chance of escape and she'd thrown it away. So what if he'd wanted to purify her? It probably wouldn't have been any worse than what Ethan Winslowe had in mind for her.

  She turned back to Salvatore, keeping her back straight. If one opportunity came, another would come. Ruth was her best chance so far—she had a good heart, even if it came with a misplaced loyalty to the Phantom of Oak Grove. Meg simply had to keep working on her.

  "Ready," she said. "Unless..."

  "Yeah?" he demanded impatiently.

  "I'd really like to spend some time outside." She could hear the sounds of construction from the left side of the house. If Sal would just leave her alone on the porch, she could go in search of the workers. The day she couldn't talk to a construction crew and get them to do what she wanted would be the day she'd give up.

  "They won't help you," Salvatore said, reading her very clearly. "They know where their paycheck is coming from."

  She resisted the impulse to make a face at him. One person had her interests at heart, one person would help her, she knew it deep in her heart. "As a matter of fact, I'd like to spend some time in the rose garden I saw from my window. Got any problem with that?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to check with Ethan "

  "Isn't he asleep in his coffin? Come on, Igor, take some responsibility on your own shoulders."

  He glared at her. "He's not going to like your attitude."

  "Tough. Let me go to the rose garden and I'll be docile."

  There was a long pause. "Can't see the harm in it," Sal said finally, surprising her. "Just one word of warning."

  "What's that?"

  "Watch out for ghosts."

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  The rose garden was cooler than the front porch. The grass was wet and green beneath her sneakers, and the rich scent of spring earth was almost erotic in its intensity. Salvatore left her there, muttering something about returning in an hour, and she was alone.

  The garden was lovingly tended, the roses very old and just beginning to bud. Ruth had told her the sullen townspeople of Oak Grove came in daily to take care of the house—one of them must have a green thumb to keep such ancient roses in such healthy shape.

  But it wasn't a townsperson, she knew that instinctively. It was the old man who'd found her that night, the old man she'd glimpsed less than an hour ago from her window.

  She turned and looked back at the house, shaking her head in amazement. From every angle, the building was a wonderment as one architectural style gave way to another, a crazy quilt of building styles that was both bizarre and oddly appealing. She could only guess which windows were hers. The turret rose above her, made of solid stone, and she knew with a pang that it must have been built exactly as the old castles of Europe had been built. The old castles she should have been visiting, instead of being trapped in a state like Arkansas. A place where nothing was as it seemed.

  She crossed the damp grass and stepped up into the gazebo, sinking down on one of the wooden benches, hiding behind the greenery. Ever since she'd arrived at the Meredith place, she'd felt as if someone was watching her, following her every movement. She knew that no one could see behind the tangle of rose bushes. For a few minutes, she was going to sit back, alone, away from everyone, and try to figure out what in the world she was going to do to get away from there.

  She wrapped her arms around her body. She should have worn something a little heavier than the soft cotton shirt she'd unearthed from her suitcase, but it hadn't seemed that chilly. She leaned back against a post, closing her eyes for a moment, and wondered whether she ought to shed a few tears of self-pity.

  She decided against it. She was quickly regaining her health and no one had actually done her harm. Certainly she was trapped in this place against her will. She was also becoming more and more fascinated with its occupants, Ethan Winslowe in particular. If he were suddenly to capitulate, to let her father off the hook and set her free, her obvious reaction would be overjoyed relief. But it would be tinged with regret. Perhaps even disappointment. She had wanted to go to Europe for adventure. Whatever happened when she finally got there would probably appear tame after what she'd been through in the past week or so.

  She opened her eyes and sat forward. A man was kneeling in the dirt on the far side of the gazebo, digging at the roots of one of the rose bushes, concentrating on his work. His hands were old and gnarled, stained with liver spots, and the white hair beneath his old cap was wispy. He must have felt her gaze on him for he looked up, and once more Meg looked into what must be the kindest, gentlest eyes she'd ever seen. Here was a man who was truly ageless—he looked at least ninety— and yet he was clearly spry and active if he kept this garden looking as it did. And she knew without a doubt that he did.

  "I thought you might be asleep," he said, sitting back on his heels and brushing the dirt from his hands.

  "I came looking for you."

  He nodded. "I thought you might. Did you ask them about me?"

  "No one will admit you exist."

  His smile was peculiarly sweet. "I'm not surprised. Maybe I don't. Do you like my garden?"

  "It's very beautiful."

  "It's even prettier when the roses start blooming. By the middle of May, the place is a riot of color and scent. A perfect place for a wedding."

  Meg was startled. "Is anyone getting married?"

  "Not here," he said sadly. "The only one would be Ethan, and he never comes out into the daylight."

  "Why not?"

  "Ask Ethan."

  "I'm asking you," she said stubbornly.

  "Ask me something I can answer. You sent that crazy minister away, didn't you?"

  Did everyone around here see everything? "'Crazy' is the word. I got the impression he'd dunk me in a vat of boiling water to cleanse the devil from me."

  "I hadn't realized Ethan had gotten that far."

  She sucked in her breath. It was one thing hearing Ethan referred to as evil by a crazed fanatic, another by this gentle old man. "You think he's the devil?"

  He shook his head. "I know just who and what he is. If anyone's the devil around here, in my opinion it's Pastor Lincoln and his crazy followers. They run around saying everything's unclean and make life a living hell for the few people who don't believe exactly as they do. People like Burt and Ruth Wilkins. It doesn't help that Ethan does everything he can to goad them. If he'd leave them be, then they might let him alone, too."

  "Do you really believe that?"

&n
bsp; "No. Lincoln and his crew won't rest easy until they've destroyed Ethan. They're so convinced he's the epitome of evil that they can't use their limited brain power to think about anything else. Including how to get out of the mess their town has gotten into over the last century."

  "It's a little hard to right the wrongs of a century, isn't it?" Meg observed.

  "It depends whether they want to or not. The town of Oak Grove is doomed, evil. The best thing that could happen would be if one of those tornadoes came right through here and flattened everything."

  Meg moved from the bench to the gazebo steps. The sunlight had faded into a misty afternoon fog, and the old man seemed faded, indistinct. "Isn't that a little extreme? What's wrong with the town? Just isolation?"

  "They've chosen that isolation. It started around the turn of the century. It was a bad time for the people around here. Drought, year after year, wiped out their crops. Then came the windstorms, wiping out half the families. The only ones who survived were the ones who were too mean and bitter to die off. The ones who locked their neighbors out in the storms to face certain death rather than risk their own necks. And those mean, bitter people just keep inbreeding over the years, so now, there's no one but them left. The good ones leave any way they can manage it. The bad ones stay on, locked in their own miserable, bitter little lives."

  "I wouldn't have thought a whole town could be classified as rotten."

  "You haven't seen enough of this one. It's...evil. I hate to use Pastor Lincoln's word, but it fits."

  "Then why does Ethan stay here? Wouldn't that make him evil, too?"

  The old man looked up at her out of indistinct, faded blue eyes. "He stays here because he feels he belongs. He thinks all people are as cruel, as heartless, as intrinsically rotten as the people of Oak Grove. It reinforces his opinion of mankind."

  The weight in her chest grew, but this time she knew it wasn't from the lingering effects of the pneumonia. Her lungs were clearing. It was her heart that was heavy.

  "Is there any way to help him?" Her voice was very quiet in the stillness of the misty afternoon.

  He looked at her with both surprise and compassion. "Why should you want to? Hasn't he been keeping you a virtual prisoner here? Hasn't he threatened to destroy your father and everything you care about? Why would you want to help him?"

  She didn't bother asking how he knew. Everyone around here seemed to know everything. Except for her. She knew absolutely nothing at all, and the longer she stayed around, the more confused she got.

  "Maybe if I help him, he'll let me go," she suggested, knowing that was the least of her worries.

  "I wouldn't count on it. Ethan's good at anything he sets his mind to, and tenacity is one of his dubious virtues. I should know. He blames Doc Bailey and the townspeople for his father's death more than fifteen years ago, and he's still working on the perfect revenge."

  "But why should he blame them?"

  "Oh, they're to blame, all right. He had a heart attack out here in the gardens. Doc Bailey was too drunk to help, and the townspeople refused. Ferdy down at the gas station had the only working vehicle, and he wouldn't drive him to the hospital. Ethan's father might have died anyway, but the townspeople helped him along, and Ethan was an orphan before he was twenty."

  "That makes him about thirty-five," Meg quickly computed.

  "How old did you think he was?"

  "I don't know. I've never seen him. What happened to his mother?"

  The old man snorted. "His mother was a worthless butterfly who couldn't stand the sight of her own son. She died in a car crash when he was twelve, and if you ask me, it was eleven years too late."

  "That's pretty harsh."

  "She deserves it for what she did to him," the old man said, his voice calm and implacable. "He's not past saving, Meg, but his time's running out. Soon it'll be too late. I think you were sent for him. His last chance."

  The heaviness rose, threatening to choke her. "Last chance for what?"

  "You'll have to figure that out for yourself," he said gently, his voice fading in the thickening fog. "Don't blame yourself if you can't save him. It may already be too late."

  "Save him from what?" She could no longer see the old man, only a faint outline in the swirling mist. A light drizzle had begun to fall and she retreated into the dubious shelter of the gazebo. "Save him from what? Don't go yet. You haven't explained—"

  "I'll be here," his voice whispered from the distance. "When you need me, I'll be here."

  "But who are you? What's your name? Where are you going? Who..."

  "Joseph." She didn't know whether she actually heard him speak the name, or whether it somehow just echoed in her mind.

  She called after him, but there was no answer. Only the thickening rain and mist, with her trapped on the gazebo island in the midst of it all.

  "She called me Igor," Salvatore said in an aggrieved voice.

  Ethan laughed. "It's appropriate. After all, you really are the evil madman's faithful henchman. You don't have a hunchback or a cast in your eye, but we could do something with a costume."

  "I didn't think it was funny. She said you slept in a coffin."

  "I didn't know she was interested in where I slept. I'll have to enlighten hen"

  "Ethan..."

  "I wish you'd stop doing that. Every time you say 'Ethan...' in that tone of voice you make me think of a schoolmarm. Next thing I know, you'll be rapping my knuckles with a ruler."

  "Maybe you're acting like a schoolboy."

  "Maybe. I wish I'd seen her send Lincoln on his way. It must have been amusing."

  "It's what you expected, wasn't it?"

  Ethan shrugged. "I don't count on anything. She might have been fool enough to go with him. It would have simplified matters."

  "What are you going to do about her father?"

  Ethan glanced at him. "Is there any hurry? I thought things could wait while I concentrated on his daughter."

  "He's breaking ground for a civic center in Alabama next week. Nothing you designed, so you're off the hook if something happens. Maybe you don't need to do anything."

  "Do you think I've gone after him because of my reputation?"

  "No. But I don't think you've gone after him out of concern for your fellow man. I've known you too long, Ethan, to be fooled into thinking you've turned into a bleeding heart."

  "True enough. I don't, however, enjoy knowing that people might die while a man I've helped makes money off them. Reese Carey wouldn't be where he is today if it weren't for my designs. Therefore I have a measure of responsibility."

  "You also want a measure of revenge."

  "Even more true, Sally. And I intend to get just that. His daughter's a good place to start. Where's our unwilling houseguest right now? Maybe it's time I told her a few home truths about her father."

  "You don't think she's known all the time? That she's part of the cover-up?"

  Ethan hesitated. "No."

  "Good God," Salvatore breathed. "You've really fallen, haven't you?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Just because I think she's relatively innocent..."

  "You don't believe anyone's innocent. Not until you've got proof, and all you've got with Meg Carey is gut instinct. Or is it something a little lower down than that?"

  "I'm a man, Sally. I'm as capable of lust as the next man."

  "I know that. I just didn't think you were capable of falling in love."

  Ethan's reaction was absolute horror. "Give me a break, Sally. Falling in love is a euphemism for something a lot more biological."

  "And your feelings for Meg Carey are biological?"

  "Most definitely. And getting more overwhelming every day." Ethan leaned back in his chair, putting his fingertips together as he thought of Meg Carey's mouth. Of her surprisingly lush body beneath the thin cotton nightgown. He wanted to watch her again. Not touch her, not yet. He wanted to savor the anticipation. And he wanted her to savor it, too, even if she hadn't yet recognize
d that that was what it was.

  "She's in the rose garden. Stuck in the gazebo while it rains."

  "What the hell is she doing there?"

  "Looking for Joseph."

  "Do you think she found him?" Ethan kept his voice no more than idly curious, though he didn't know why he bothered. Sal knew him better than any human on this earth and he wouldn't be fooled for a moment.

  "Not many people do. He came to her once, though, when she was lost in the rain. He might come again."

  Ethan nodded. "He probably did. She has an amazing ability to draw people to her."

  "It hasn't worked with me," Sal said righteously.

  "Hasn't it? Why do you keep trying to get her away from my evil clutches, then?"

  "Maybe because it's you I'm worried about. Not her. You can't just kidnap people, Ethan. You can't keep her prisoner here indefinitely. Sooner or later, they're going to come after you. Not that cowed bunch of fanatics in Oak Grove, but the state authorities. Maybe even the feds. You aren't going to get away with it for much longer."

  "Who's going to send out a distress signal? Not the good people of Oak Grove. Not her cowardly father. She has no other attachments. Everyone else thinks she's gone to Europe. Reese Carey has probably convinced himself of the same thing."

  "You're playing with fire, Ethan."

  "I don't think it would matter much if I got burned, do you? I think I'm going to have to pay Meg a little visit tonight. Go and rescue her from the gazebo, Sal. This damp weather won't do her lungs any good. And you'd better make sure she has enough antibiotic to finish out the course. We don't want her having a relapse."

  "Why not? That would force her to stay here longer."

  "She's staying as long as I want her. Besides, I want her healthy. I have plans for her," Ethan said evenly.

  "Ethan..."

  "There you go again, schoolmarm. Go find her and get her safe and warm. Maybe it's time to move her again. Why don't you take her to the Roman section?"

  "Which room?" Sal asked in a weary voice.