Into the Fire (19 page)

She couldn't read the word across the top of her stomach. The
D
stood out, as well as a bunch of vowels, but it was nothing she could understand. She squinted her eyes, trying to reverse the image. It looked like
Dungeon
, but why in the world would someone write that into her skin? But then, why would someone scratch anything into her flesh? She pulled the shirt back down over her, shutting out the questions.

She bought a six-pack of Diet Coke and a box of doughnuts and headed back to the car. Dillon's wallet held more than credit cards—there was a thick wad of money. His driver's license.

She stared down at the small plastic card. The picture didn't do him justice, but it was still the first photograph she'd ever seen of him. He'd been scowling at the camera, he hadn't shaved, and his hair was too long. And she stared at it, long and hard, and knew she wasn't going to give it back.

She flipped through the rest of the cards that were tucked in the plastic windows, then stopped. Why the hell would Dillon have the Serenity Prayer in his wallet? She looked further and found the answer to that question. A meeting list for south-central Wisconsin. The bad boy had reformed.

At first she thought there was nothing else in the wallet, until she noticed an extra flap in the leather. She pulled it up, and then wished to God she hadn't.

It was a picture of her, one she'd never seen before, hadn't even known had been taken.

But she knew when. It had been a summer afternoon when she was twenty. Dillon had disappeared from her life, forever, she thought. Her father had died, and her mother was holding the post-funeral reception in the garden of their house in Marshfield. It was a beautiful spring day, and Jamie was wearing pale yellow—her father's favorite dress. Her mother had had a fit, telling her it was disrespectful, but for once Jamie had held firm. Her father had loved it, and she had loved her father, and no
amount of pressure from her mother would make her dress in sober black.

She was talking with one of her mother's friends, holding a cup of tea in one hand, smiling with her mouth, not her eyes. She could remember how she felt at the time, the desperate longing to smash the teacup on the ground and run away, but she'd held firm and done her social duty to her mother's eventual grudging approval.

Nate must have taken that picture when she hadn't realized it. And somehow Dillon had ended up with it, hiding it away in his wallet.

She didn't want to think how he got it. She couldn't begin to understand him, and the smartest thing she could do was not even try. At least, not until she was safe at home.

She plugged in the pay-as-you-go cell phone she'd bought with Dillon's money, gave it a few moments to build up a minimal charge, and then dialed home. It was almost a shock to hear her mother's voice on the other end.

“Where are you, Jamie?”

“On my way home. I'm afraid I don't have Nate's things. There…there wasn't anything there.” She never lied, and she was lying to her mother.

“Don't be ridiculous. Dillon said he had two full
boxes of Nate's possessions. I want those things, Jamie. They're all I have left of him.”

“They're gone,” she said flatly. “And so is Nate.” And then she froze, as Dillon's words came back to her. That Nate might not be dead after all. Someone had been haunting Dillon's garage, leaving dead rats, trying to hurt her, carving words into her skin. Murdering Mouser. And Dillon was many things, but despite his nickname, he was no killer.

But Nate couldn't be. Couldn't be alive, couldn't be trying to hurt her. He was a brother to her, family. She'd learned the hard way not to trust him—he'd never told her the truth about the night of the prom, or about a million other things. And he was dead. Dillon had identified him.

Identified a body that was beaten into an unrecognizable mess. What if Nate had turned the tables on whoever tried to kill him?

“Jamie, are you listening to me?” Her mother's voice was strident in her ear, and it came to her that Isobel hadn't asked her how she was. Hadn't asked anything about her, only about Nate. And she didn't know whether it was Dillon's power of suggestion or the truth finally hitting home, but she realized that she had always been an afterthought, at least for her mother. Her father had loved her, she knew
that much, but Isobel had always been fixated on Nate. And Nate had taken advantage of it.

“I'm here,” she said faintly. The skin at the top of her stomach was hurting again—the scratchings were deeper there, still seeping some blood. “Does the word
dungeon
mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. Don't you remember? It's what Nate used to call the family home. The place that burned, the Kincaid family estate. It was called Dungeness Towers, but I suppose Nate was too little to say the real name, so he called it the Dungeon.”

“What happened to it?”

“Jamie, I'm not interested in ancient history, I'm interested in what happened to Nate's possessions….”

“Where is the Dungeon?” She overrode her mother's arguments ruthlessly.

“In Connecticut. After Nate died I inherited the place, but I haven't had the heart to do anything about it. It's just a bunch of ruins, probably quite dangerous. Once I'm feeling a little stronger I'll have the place bulldozed and sell the land. After all, my sister and brother-in-law died there—I hardly have fond memories of the place.”

“What about Nate?”

“Nate loved it. He didn't think I knew, but he used to go camping there. And take his awful friend
Dillon. I should have made him raze the place years ago.”

“Where in Connecticut?”

“A little country town called Danvers. Why should it matter?”

“It matters,” she said grimly.

“Jamie, I want you to go back to Wisconsin and insist on—”

Jamie pushed the off button on the cell phone and set it down on the seat beside her. It was growing dark, and, even though the snow had stopped, the roads were still slick. She was going to do the smart thing. She was going to find a discount store and buy herself a change of clothes, toiletries and shoes with Dillon's credit card. Then she was going to find a motel, eat a huge meal and get a good night's sleep.

And that's where her wisdom would end. Because tomorrow she was getting back in Dillon's car and driving to Danvers, Connecticut. To the Dungeon, where she'd been summoned.

To face the ghost of Nate Kincaid. Who'd never died in the first place.

N
ate Kincaid was beginning to come to the unpleasant conclusion that he might not be dead, after all. He'd spent so long in the upper reaches of Dillon's garage, watching, waiting, a spectre biding its time, waiting for vengeance. And when he'd needed strength, corporeal power, he'd somehow managed to leach it from some unknown source.

But he shouldn't have had such a hard time dragging Mouser's bloody body into the trunk of Jamie's car. He shouldn't have felt the delicious pressure of the knife as he carved his message into Jamie's skin. And it wouldn't have been so hard to stop when he did.

But if he'd cut deeper, slashed harder, there would have been too much blood, and Dillon wouldn't have understood his message. He would have been weeping over Jamie's dead body, totally immune to the challenge Nate had given him.

Killer was a fool. A weak, sentimental fool, when Nate had always considered him the only man who
even approached his equal. He mooned after Nate's little cousin like a adolescent, always would. Until she was finally gone, and the cloud would lift from Killer's usually hardheaded brain.

He could have killed her any number of times. The night Paul Jameson had raped her had been perfect, except for the interference of the police. He'd thought of her high school graduation and the lavish party Aunt Isobel and Uncle Victor had thrown for her, but he'd never had an opportunity—too many people milling around.

He'd come close the day of Uncle Victor's funeral. He'd spent the time taking pictures—he'd wanted to bring one final one to Dillon as a parting gift. But once more fate had interfered, this time in the shape of his indulgent Aunt Isobel. If he didn't know better he'd suspect she knew what was going on in his mind. But Aunt Isobel was a simple woman—she had the sense to appreciate his uniqueness, but she'd never guessed the extremes he was capable of. Nothing stopped him, not idiot laws or interfering people or maudlin emotions.

He was ready to bring things to a head—he'd waited too long as it was. Too long for what was rightfully his due, too long to get revenge on those who'd tried to thwart him. He knew which category Jamie belonged in. She'd been the only one who'd
managed to distract Dillon from Nate's agenda, the only one that Dillon hadn't gotten over. Uncle Victor's favorite. And she'd loved him, her cousin, with uncritical devotion. For that alone she had to die. He wasn't quite sure why—he only knew it was necessary.

But Dillon was another matter. Was he the object, or the barrier? The goal, or the hindrance? Maybe he'd never know. But he knew one thing—if he couldn't have Dillon, he could at least kill him.

 

Old oil soaked into concrete like water into a sponge. The bloodstains and scrawled message now lay hidden beneath a thin, viscous coating of recycled oil, and no one would be able to see it.

The first thing he'd done was search the garage from top to bottom. No sign of Nate, either ghostly or human. No sign that anyone had been in the upper reaches of the building, watching.

He took Jamie's suitcases and dumped them in a trash bin halfway across town. If anyone got to them before they reached the compactor there wouldn't be anything to identify her. He didn't know if she'd be pissed at the wholesale destruction of her clothes, but he didn't care.

Of course, he wasn't going to be appreciating that body anytime in the near future. And if he had to
be honest, he didn't really want anyone else doing so, either. Hell, maybe she should keep to the baggy clothes.

That wasn't his business, either. Still, it grieved him to let go of the racy underwear. Hell, if miracles happened and he ever got near her again he could always buy her some new stuff. Though he liked her best in nothing at all.

He didn't believe in miracles any more than he believed in ghosts. Jamie was gone, out of his life for good. Now he just had to wait for Nate to make his move. The word scrawled on the garage floor was only a first step. He just had to wait for the other shoe to drop.

Nate Kincaid had never been the forgiving sort, and he would have known that Dillon had given him up to the enforcer who'd come looking for him. The game of cat and mouse was just hint of things to come—he was circling around, making his way closer and closer toward his object.

Dillon had no fear that Nate would stab him in the back, cut his throat while he slept. Nate would want him to know what was happening, would revel in it. No, Dillon would get plenty of warning. All he had to do was wait.

It was late afternoon, and he had his head under the hood of the '63 Mustang, when he heard the
banging at his front door. The doorbell had stopped working years before, and half the time Dillon played the stereo so loud he couldn't even hear when someone showed up.

But for some reason he didn't want music. Not Nirvana blasting away—he'd never hear Kurt Cobain without picturing Jamie lying unconscious on the floor of the garage.

U2 was even worse—too fucking mournful when he was already missing Jamie. He'd get over it, he always did, all he needed was time. At least in time he'd have a sense of closure.

He laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of that thought. For a man who didn't believe in ghosts or miracles he seemed damned eager to believe in fairy tales. There wouldn't be closure with Jamie until they were both dead. And maybe not even then.

The pounding was continuing unabated. “Hang on, I'm coming!” he called, grabbing a rag for his filthy hands. “The door's unlocked—come on in.”

By the time he reached the kitchen he realized that might have been a tactical mistake. Most people around here knew he seldom bothered to lock his door, and most people were too smart to mess with him. Which meant it was either a stranger or the police, and he wasn't in the mood for either.

It was the police, in the personage of Lieutenant MacPherson, one of the few cops with a brain that
Dillon had ever met. This unbelievably shitty day had somehow managed to get worse.

“Had a big party, Gaynor, or is this your idea of housekeeping?” MacPherson closed the door behind him. He was alone, which was a good sign. If he'd come to arrest him he would have brought backup.

Dillon glanced at the trashed kitchen. “I got pissed off,” he said, leaning against the door to the garage.

“At anyone in particular? Should I be looking for a body?”

Dillon didn't even blink. “She took my '56 Cadillac and left. Untouched.”

“Untouched?”

“Well, unhurt,” Dillon amended. “What's it to you?”

“I heard you had someone staying here. I thought you might have decided to settle down, get married, raise a family.” MacPherson reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He didn't bother to ask—he already knew Dillon's kitchen was a smoker's haven from his previous visits. The scent of fresh cigarette smoke hit Dillon with a longing almost as powerful as his longing for Jamie.

“I'm not the marrying kind, Lieutenant. You should know that.”

“I'm not sure what I know. Had a couple of
questions for you, though.” He blew the smoke out, and Dillon was half tempted to move closer, just to get a taste of secondhand smoke. He thought of Mouser and stayed put.

“Ask away. Do I need to call my lawyer?”

MacPherson laughed. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Then let's stop playing games. You know anything about a dead body in a car down in Tucker's Ravine?”

Shit. That was too damned fast
. “Nope. What kind of car?”

MacPherson laughed. “Trust you to get to the essentials. Some kind of Volvo, they think. It's pretty welled burnt, and it must have been stolen in the first place. Someone's filed the VIN numbers off it, not to mention anything else that might identify it. Done by a professional, my men say.”

“I haven't stolen a car in almost ten years, Lieutenant.”

“And I'm supposed to believe you? As a matter of fact, though, I do. I just thought you might know who in town was in the habit of boosting cars.”

“One stolen car doesn't make it a habit.”

“It's not the only car that's gone. The Volvo was found last night, and then this morning we got word that an Audi was stolen. The damned car was
loaded with every antitheft device known to man, and it was still taken.”

“What does the owner say?”

“The owner's in the hospital with a fractured skull, and we're not allowed to talk to him until he stabilizes. We figure he came across the thief at the wrong moment. Lucky he's still alive—he was pretty badly beaten.”

Dillon shrugged. “That's a shame.”

“He'll survive. I just kind of remembered that you used to specialize in Audis, back in the day.”

“Nothing was ever proved. You know that, MacPherson.”

“Yeah, I know that. I also know how to add two and two.”

“I didn't steal someone's Audi and beat the shit out of the owner.”

“I'm not saying you did. I'm just thinking you might have a good idea who did.”

“Can't help you.”

MacPherson crossed the littered floor to the sink and ran water over his cigarette butt, rendering it useless. Just as well—if he'd simply stubbed it out Dillon would have probably salvaged it and smoked what was left. He was that desperate. “No,” MacPherson said, “I didn't imagine you could help. I just figured it was worth asking.” He headed back
to the door, the broken dishes crunching under his feet. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?” He knew cops, and specifically MacPherson, well enough to know that this one would be the zinger.

“We're thinking of doing a DNA test on some of the evidence from Kincaid's murder. We're thinking it might not have been as straightforward as we thought.”

“I identified the body. Are you saying I lied to cover for him?”

“We both saw the condition of the body. His own mother wouldn't have been able to recognize him. No, I think if it's not Kincaid, that you probably made an honest mistake.”

“You think I'm capable of honest mistakes, MacPherson?”

“I think you're a testament to the powers of redemption, Gaynor. You were a loser punk, throwing your life away, and now you're a productive member of society. I don't want to see you get into trouble again.”

“I'm not about to.”

MacPherson stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Take care of yourself, then.”

Dillon locked the door behind him. He had no cigarettes, no wallet, but he kept a wad of cash in his safe for emergencies, along with a phony
driver's license and registration for half the vehicles in the garage. He hadn't ever thought he'd need it, but a lifetime of habit couldn't be changed.

With luck he wouldn't need it. With luck he'd drive to Connecticut, to the ruins of the Dungeon, and have a final confrontation with his old buddy Nate. He'd been hoping Nate would be coming to him—he'd be easier to deal with on his own turf, but he should have realized it wasn't going to be that easy. The bloody word on the floor was a summons, as were the bloody scratches on Jamie's soft skin. The Audi was the final message.

Dillon had been adept at stripping down the Audis that Nate had brought him. Other people brought in Mercedes, Ferraris, even classic American cars. Nate only stole Audis.

His only consolation was that Jamie was safely out of the way. She didn't even know what the Dungeon was. By now she should be halfway home, and by tomorrow she'd be letting the Duchess fuss over her, and she'd be counting her blessings at her lucky escape.

Except he'd never seen the Duchess fuss over anyone but Nate. And there was no way he was going to count on Jamie being safe without checking.

He hadn't heard the Duchess's voice in twelve
years, and he could have happily spent the rest of his life without that particular pleasure.

“Is Jamie there?” He didn't bother trying to disguise his voice—she'd never paid him enough attention that she might remember. He knew she couldn't have made it home yet—not unless she ditched the car and flew. But a stranger wouldn't know that. At least he could find out if Isobel had heard from her.

“Who's calling, please?”

Trust the Duchess to add that “please” in her peremptory tone, making it even more of a command rather than softening it.

“I'm an old friend of hers from college,” he said easily. “James MacPherson. Could I speak to her?”

“She's not here.”

He'd been set to hang up the moment he heard her voice, but the chill that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach suddenly exploded.

“Where is she?”

“I don't remember her mentioning any James MacPherson,” she said, her voice suspicious. “And I'm not about to tell a perfect stranger where my daughter is—”

“Where the fuck is she?”

“Dillon.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement.