Deadly Harvest (13 page)

The street seemed to fall dead silent then. It was as if even the breeze had hushed itself to better hear Brad's words.

“What did you see?” Jeremy asked flatly at last.

“Evil. I saw pure evil,” Brad said.

Suddenly the air was split by an eerie, keening cry, as if a wolf had let out a loud and plaintive howl.

Except there were no wolves around here. Not anymore. Not for more than a hundred years.

It was a husky, Jeremy told himself. Someone in the area had a dog, and that dog was baying to the moon that even now was rising higher in the night sky.

“You can't see evil, Brad, it's a concept,” Jeremy said.

“No. I
saw
evil,” Brad insisted. “The man was evil, and I saw evil in the shadows, in the darkness, in the corn. It's a deadly harvest of evil, that's what it is,” Brad said.

Again, the dog howled.

“Time to get you back to your room, Brad,” Jeremy told him.

“I have to keep looking. I have to find Mary,” Brad said.

“It's all right,” Rowenna told him. She took his face between her hands and stared into his eyes. “It's all right, Brad, really. We all know about the danger in the cornfields now. And everyone is looking for Mary. She's going to be all right.”

“How can you know?” Brad demanded, anguished.

“Because I've seen the cornfields in my dreams. I've seen the scarecrows. And Mary isn't one of them,” she said very softly.

She turned away from Brad, lowering her head, but Jeremy saw the movement of her lips.

And he imagined that he heard her one whispered word escape them.

“Yet.”

I
t bothered Rowenna more than she wanted to admit that Brad Johnstone had seen the cornfields in the crystal ball, the crystal ball owned by the man no one knew and no one could find.

“Does that sound good to you?” Jeremy asked.

“Sorry, what?” Rowenna asked, brought back to the present by the sound of his voice.

Brad had just gone in, and he had sworn that he would lock up and stay inside until the morning came. Now she and Jeremy were alone on the sidewalk, surrounded by the quiet darkness.

“I said we can just stay at my place here in town.”

“Oh. I…I can't. I need to go home.”

“Why?” Jeremy asked, almost combatively.

She stared at him, her brows arching slightly. He was in a hardheaded mood, that was for sure. He seemed ridiculously tall, all of a sudden, even fierce, and she wasn't sure why. Nothing about him had changed. He was just looking at her, dressed in the same jacket and jeans he'd been wearing all day. But his tone was hard, and she suddenly found herself remembering that he'd been a cop, so arguing with him wasn't going to be easy.

She could just tell him to go to hell.

Sure she could—if she were eager to end a relationship she'd been aching to have….

“Jeremy, I don't even have a toothbrush or anything.”

“We can find a convenience store, or an all-night pharmacy, if that's your big objection.”

“I just got home,” she told him.

“And your home is way out in the country, and it's late. And more important, I think we've both had enough of cornfields for the day.”

She needed to argue a little harder.

She didn't have the heart.

Actually, once she got past her own stubbornness, she realized she was kind of glad he'd suggested they stay where they were. She was feeling seriously unnerved, and she really
didn't
need to see any more cornfields tonight—or, frankly, ever. She'd been dreaming about those fields. Dreaming about the scarecrows, dreaming that they were the dead.

And now one of them was.

What really terrified her, though, was the looming fear that another body would be staked out for the crows before this was all over.

“I should go home,” she offered wearily.

“Yeah, well, not tonight,” he told her curtly.

“I still need a toothbrush. And I've never heard of a guy who traveled with an extra one,” she told him, managing a weak smile.

He smiled back. “Come on. Let's go find you what you need.”

At least he wanted her with him, she thought.

Maybe there was hope for them yet.

And what a thing to be thinking, when she had found a corpse earlier today and Mary was still missing.

And when Brad had seen cornfields in a crystal ball, cornfields like the one where the corpse had been so gruesomely posed.

Cornfields like the ones she had seen in her dreams.

She didn't say anything as they headed for the car.

It would do no good to tell him about her dreams. He'd made it plenty clear that he didn't believe that dreams—or anything else, for that matter—could foretell the future.

They got into his rental car, and within five minutes, they came to a gas station/convenience store combo. Rowenna headed in to pick up a few essentials, while he put gas in the car. As she stood in line to pay, the heavyset woman in front of her was speaking in hushed tones to the elderly man behind the register, obviously talking about the corpse Rowenna had found.

“They haven't identified her, but she's not that woman who's just been in the papers. It's ghastly, just ghastly. But…” She lowered her voice even further, and Rowenna strained to hear. “But I've heard it's happened here before.”

“When?” the old man asked. “I've been around these parts a long time, and I don't recall hearing any such thing.”

“Well, it's happened before, I can tell you that.” The woman let out a sniff. “It's all those uppity wiccans,” she declared.

Despite the fact that she wasn't a wiccan, Rowenna found herself indignant.

“Wiccans don't practice ritualistic murder,” she said before she could stop herself.

The woman turned toward her, seeming to gain girth like a puffer fish. “Are
you
one of
them?
” she demanded.

Rowenna was tired, and the events of the day were wearing on her. “No,” she said, and added, “No, I'm a Satanist. We worship the devil, but we usually just sacrifice goats, or occasionally a small dog or a cat. Trying to honor the master but stay within the law. You know how it is.”

The woman's jaw dropped.

Rowenna felt someone at her back then. Jeremy. He threw down a bill on the counter that would more than cover her toothbrush and deodorant, and drew her toward the door with him, apologizing as he went. “She's off her meds, ma'am. I'm so sorry. Please excuse us.”

Outside, he spun her around to face him. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded, eyes the color of a hurricane at full blast.

“She was just so ignorant and she's going to cause a panic or start a lynch mob or something!” Rowenna said. Oh, God, she'd been an idiot. Why was she even trying to defend herself?

“Get in the car. Before a lynch mob comes for you,” he commanded.

She lowered her head, bit her lip and did as she'd been told.

She looked straight ahead as they drove, but she could feel the condemning glances he shot her way as he navigated the streets back to his rental house.

He pulled into his driveway at last, and as she got out of the car, she was uncomfortably aware of the absolute stillness of the night.

It even seemed as if she could actually
feel
the darkness, too.

She still felt him eyeing her off and on as they headed toward the back door.

“I can go home, you know,” she said softly, as he turned the key in the lock. “I can just take a cab.”

He stood on the porch and looked back at her. “Great. You do something stupid, I get angry—so that's it. You want to go home.”

“I just meant that if you're
that
angry, maybe I
should
go home,” she told him.

“No, you should accept that you have to be careful. You can't go spouting off like that to people. Why don't you just admit that you were wrong and promise that you won't go crazy like that again?” he said, an edge still in his voice. “That's a lot better than running away, don't you think?”

Run away? From him? Was that what she was trying to do? She had finally gotten what she wanted. She'd spent years waiting for someone she could care about again, and now…

Now he was here, but the dreams and the nightmares and the fear were holding her back, threatening to ruin everything.

She stared at him. “All right, it was stupid. But she just made me so mad! It's attitudes like hers that probably caused the deaths of all those supposed witches centuries ago, and listening to her, it just made me think that maybe we haven't come that far and…”

Her voice trailed away.

“We should probably go in,” he suggested. “Instead of putting on a show for the neighbors.”

She was relieved to see that his anger was fading at last, and that just the hint of an amused smile was playing over his lips.

“Good idea,” she said, and followed him up the steps.

A light was burning softly in the dining room, casting a gentle glow out through the old pantry-turned-back-porch where they entered. She looked into his eyes, his expression a mix of the quizzical and frustrated, like a warm stream of silver and storm, and she couldn't help herself. She just smiled and kissed him. She dropped the bag holding her new toothbrush and let her handbag slide to the floor, and she slid tightly into his arms. She closed her eyes. It had been a horrendous day. She didn't want to think about the horrible end that unknown woman had come to. The world's evil could touch anyone at any time, but she couldn't let herself think about that, couldn't let herself fall prey to the visions playing at the corners of her mind.

She fought to hold on to the wonder of this moment, to the delicious feel of his body, warm and vital and close to hers, and the sweet, expert teasing of his kiss, hot and wet and evocative of the intimate passion they had so recently shared. They broke apart and stared at each other. A smile played over his lips again, and the single dimple in his cheek deepened. She pressed herself against him, glad just to be held there for a moment, to feel his hand, large and strong, cradling her head. Against his chest, through his shirt and jacket, she could hear the beat of his heart, and when he lifted her chin, she was glad for the feel of his lips again, the wicked and tantalizing dance of his tongue.

And then his hands left her face and began dealing with their clothing. Their jackets were discarded first, and of the rest of their clothes followed as they headed toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms, then somehow wound up on the sofa instead.

There were things she was coming to know so well about him, she thought now, as passion drove them together toward the heights. Things she loved, like the way he could be awkward and sensual and incredibly sexy all at once. Or the scent of him, subtle and unique, the sound of his laugh, and the way he would smile, until that smile began to fade as he looked at her and passion took over. She couldn't resist the deep storm color of his eyes, which could burn like cold steel. She loved the way he held her, the way he moved, the way he surged into her, as if the very survival of the world depended on their climax. She loved the way he held her, if only for a few moments, as if she were the most precious being in the world, once their ardor had been slaked. He was holding her that way now, and then he laughed as he looked around the room and surveyed the mess they'd left behind them as they'd raced for the comfort of the couch.

He went to turn off the lights while she collected their clothing, and then they made their way upstairs and back together again. Later, as they lay entwined and silent as sleep began its descent, she found herself blinking rapidly, trying to stay awake.

She was afraid of sleep. Afraid of dreaming.

She had to sleep sometime, of course. She knew that. Even so, she fought against it for hours, until, inevitably, sleep won.

When she awoke, it wasn't because of a nightmare.

Something in the room itself had disturbed her, and she didn't know what.

The little colonial house, with its Victorian gingerbread add-ons, was extremely charming. She hadn't fully inspected it yet, but the bed was pleasant, not too hard, not too soft, and the heavy comforter was wonderfully cozy. The old mahogany furniture had been stained to a warm and welcoming shade of light brown. So what was bothering her?

She was certain that Jeremy had locked the door behind them. He was an ex-cop. He would be careful that way.

But she felt as if someone else was there with them.

She stared at the ceiling, afraid to look elsewhere, and reached out, then realized that she was alone in the bed.

Where was Jeremy?

She heard him then. He was saying something, but she wasn't sure what.

She struggled to a sitting position as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hand outstretched, as if it were resting on someone's shoulder—but there was no one there. He spoke again, soft, reassuring words. “It will be all right. I won't leave you. You're going to be all right.”

She stared at him, afraid to move. There was no one in the room with them; Jeremy was talking to the air.

And yet…

Goose bumps were crawling over her flesh. She was icy cold.

No. The
air
was icy cold. Freezing.

It had to be her imagination, she told herself. It was fall, and no doubt the temperature outside had dropped and the house's heating hadn't kicked in yet, but there was no way on earth it could be freezing cold in here.

She gripped the covers, wondering if she should speak to him, startle him out of whatever scene he was playing out in his sleep.

At last she found the courage to speak.

“Jeremy?”

He didn't seem to hear her. But then, she'd barely managed to draw a real breath, much less create any sound.

He smiled, then laughed softly, staring down at his imaginary friend. “It's okay, pal, I'm here. I told you I wouldn't leave you, that I'd see you through till the end.”

“Jeremy!”

She'd said his name far more loudly than she had intended, maybe because she was so spooked by the chill that was cutting bone-deep.

His hand fell, and he turned to face her, then blinked and smiled.