Loe raamatut: «As Darkness Fell»

“You’re not telling me how to run my investigation, are you, reporter lady?”

His tone had that edge again.

Caroline stopped walking and her hands flew to her hips before she realized she was taking up her fighting stance. “So is this how it is between us, Sam? I’m Caroline if I play the game your way, reporter lady if I have an opinion of my own? If I show any spunk, you knock me down a peg or two, make sure I stay in my place. If I’m frightened and defenseless, you kiss me.”

He met her gaze. Cold and stony, but there was something else there, a mysterious quality to him that she couldn’t read.

“I didn’t kiss you because you were defenseless.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We’ve got an intoxicating lineup crackling with passion and peril that’s guaranteed to lure you to Harlequin Intrigue this month!

Danger and desire abound in As Darkness Fell—the first of two installments in Joanna Wayne’s HIDDEN PASSIONS: Full Moon Madness companion series. In this stark, seductive tale, a rugged detective will go to extreme lengths to safeguard a feisty reporter who is the object of a killer’s obsession. Then temptation and terror go hand in hand in Lone Rider Bodyguard when Harper Allen launches her brand-new miniseries, MEN OF THE DOUBLE B RANCH.

Will revenge give way to sweet salvation in Undercover Avenger by Rita Herron? Find out in the ongoing NIGHTHAWK ISLAND series. If you’re searching high and low for a thrilling romantic suspense tale that will also satisfy your craving for adventure—you’ll be positively riveted by Bounty Hunter Ransom from Kara Lennox’s CODE OF THE COBRA.

Just when you thought it was safe to sleep with the lights off…Guardian of her Heart by Linda O. Johnston—the latest offering in our BACHELORS AT LARGE promotion—will send shivers down your spine. And don’t let down your guard quite yet. Lisa Childs caps off a month of spine-tingling suspense with a gripping thriller about a madman bent on revenge in Bridal Reconnaissance. You won’t want to miss this unforgettable debut of our new DEAD BOLT promotion.

Here’s hoping these smoldering Harlequin Intrigue novels will inspire some romantic dreams of your own this Valentine’s Day!

Enjoy,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

As Darkness Fell
Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978 1 472 03299 7

AS DARKNESS FELL

© 2004 Joanna Wayne

First Published in Great Britain in 2004

Harlequin (UK) Limited

1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.

® and ^™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk Version: 2020-08-19

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Wayne lives with her husband just a few miles from steamy, exciting New Orleans, but her home is the perfect writer’s hideaway. A lazy bayou, complete with graceful herons, colorful wood ducks and an occasional alligator, winds just below her back garden. When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, she enjoys reading, traveling, playing golf and spending time with family and friends. Joanna believes that one of the special joys of writing is knowing that her stories have brought enjoyment to or somehow touched the lives of her readers. You can write Joanna at P.O. Box 2851, Harvey, LA 70059-2851.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Caroline Kimberly—She’s a reporter trying to do her job, until the killer becomes obsessed with her.

Sam Turner—He’s the detective in charge of locating the madman who’s brought fear and murder to his peaceful Southern town, but will his attraction to the new reporter get in the way of his finding the killer?

Becky Simpson—Caroline’s best friend, who only wants to enjoy the good life.

Jack Smith—Becky’s new boyfriend.

Matt Hastings—Homicide detective and Sam’s right-hand man.

John Rhodes—Editor in chief of the Prentice Times.

Ron Baker—Delivery coordinator and general handyman for the Prentice Times.

Tracy Mitchell—Works at the Catfish Shack and was a co-worker of the first victim.

Tony Sistrunk—Sam’s former supervisor with the San Antonio Police Department.

R. J. Blocker—Sam’s stepbrother.

Josephine Sterling—Police sketch artist.

Sally Martin—First victim of serial killer.

Ruby Givens—Second victim of serial killer.

Frederick Lee Billingham—The man in the portrait at the top of the stairs in the historic house that Caroline leases.

To my good friends Ted and Sylvia Ross whose romance

has withstood the test of time. And a special thanks

to them for being such great travel companions.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“There is one thing I should tell you, Miss Kimberly, ’cause you’re gonna hear it from the neighbors, anyway,” Barkley Billingham said, examining her signature on the one-year lease she’d just signed. “My grandmother claims this house has ghosts.”

Caroline looked at him, sure he was going to follow the statement with some kind of joke. But the guy just stared at her in the same deadpan way he had for the past two hours while she’d looked at the house.

“Why does she think the house is haunted?”

“You know how old houses are. They make noises. Creaks and moans, stuff like that. And when the north wind’s blowing, it catches the corner by the bedroom and sounds like a woman shrieking.”

“That’s all?”

He folded the lease and tapped it against his arm. “Pretty much.”

Caroline sighed. She could live with that, especially in a grand old house like this one. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anyone with the kind of roots Barkley had here ever wanting to live anywhere else. “Are you the owner of the house?”

“No, it’s still in my grandmother’s name, but she moved to Florida. Lives in one of those places for retired folks. She thought the house was too much work. She talks about selling it all the time, but nobody wants to pay the kind of money she’s asking for it.”

“Did you move out because you think the house is haunted?”

“I’d have stayed. I was living free here, but I moved in with my girlfriend. I wouldn’t worry none about the place being haunted if I was you. The house survived the Yanks coming down and destroying half of Georgia. Hell, I figure it can survive a few ghosts.”

“Is that one of your relatives?” she asked, pointing to a painting on the wall at the top of a winding double staircase that could have come right from the set of Gone with the Wind.

“That’s Frederick Lee Billingham, my great-great-great-grandfather. He’s the one who built the house, and my grandmother claims he’s hung in that very spot ever since the house was finished. She says he put a curse on the portrait, and if it’s ever moved, Frederick will come back from the grave and woe unto the one who removed him from his place of honor. My grandmother is kind of nuts like that.”

“Then I guess I better leave the picture hanging. I’m not looking for any woe.”

“Suit yourself. You can do whatever you want with it. Same with this furniture up here. You can use it or stick it in the basement with the other old junk.”

“This isn’t junk. I love the furniture up here, especially the sofa. I think the ghosts and I will get along just fine,” she said, hoping she was right.

“Good. ’Cause they’re all yours, as long as you pay the rent on time. How come you moved here to Prentice, anyway? Most people I know who are under the age of ninety are trying to get out.”

“I took a position with the Prentice Times.”

“What kind of position?”

“I’m a reporter.” Well, she wasn’t, but she would be, starting on Monday. She’d been a teacher in Atlanta until they’d let her go just two weeks before she was to start the year that would have given her tenure. But a job was a job, even one as a grunt reporter. And she loved the house.

“Don’t see how they even sell those papers. Nothing ever goes on around here to write about, unless you’re interested in that dumb historic pageant they do every summer in Cedar Park. Or the Heritage Ball.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some news. They seemed eager to hire a reporter.”

She stood at the top of the landing as Barkley let himself out the front door, then turned to the unsmiling face of Frederick Lee Billingham.

“Glad to meet you, sir. I’ll be living here now, and neither you nor any other Billingham ghosts are running me off.”

Actually, she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to—not until next August. She had a one-year lease. And high hopes for a new life in the quiet, historic town of Prentice, Georgia.

Chapter One

Six months later

Caroline Kimberly swerved into the first available parking spot she saw, past the news van from the local TV channel and two police cars that showered the park and street with blinking red and blue lights. She grabbed her camera from the back seat, then scooted out from behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and cut across a grassy area. Big mistake, she decided as her high heels sank into the mud.

She jerked off her dangling earrings and stuffed them in her purse before she reached the cop standing guard over the gate. Unfortunately she couldn’t do anything about the slinky red dress or the shoes. They’d been fine at her friend Becky Simpson’s birthday party, but they were sorely out of place here. A jacket would be nice to cover her cleavage, but it was unseasonably warm for February and she didn’t have one with her.

“Caroline Kimberly, the Prentice Times,” she said, flashing her press ID.

The cop shone a beam of light at the card, then looked her over, letting his gaze linger longer than necessary on the low-cut neckline of the dress. “If I were you, I’d go back to the party—unless you have a very strong stomach.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody caught a touch of full-moon madness. Killed a young woman, cut her throat and gave her a bloody paint job.”

“Full-moon madness?”

“That’s what I call it. Something about the moon and the blood rush pushes crazies over the edge.”

She shuddered and longed to turn around and go back to the party. But she’d worked hard to leave the ranks of grunt reporter and get a chance to cover some real news. Writing about murders had to be more challenging than covering a continuous run of ladies’ auxiliary meetings and garden teas. Of course, she hadn’t expected to run across a freshly butchered body her first week.

She scanned the area. No sign of her photographer even though he’d said he’d meet her here. Good thing she always kept her camera in her car. This could be big. She was glad her boss had gotten hold of the story so quickly, though it would have been nice if she’d beaten the TV reporters here.

“Get these people out of here—now. You can start with the broad on stilts.”

Caroline spun around to see who was barking orders and singling her out for his scorn. The guy was tall and brawny, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen a couple of thousand washings.

“I’m a reporter with the Prentice Times and I have every right to be here,” she shot back.

“Wrong. It’s a crime scene. You have no rights.” He stormed past her and headed to the spot where the TV camera was rolling.

“Obnoxious ass,” she murmured, too low for him to hear, but apparently not low enough. Another cop stepped to her side while she stood there debating what to do next.

“Don’t pay no attention to Sam,” he said. “That’s just his way.”

“Rude and all bark?”

“Hell, no. Sam’s more vicious than a bulldog on speed. I just meant you shouldn’t take it personally. He feels that way ’bout all reporters.”

That was just too bad. The TV cameras were running. She had to at least get a story. Someone else came up and started talking to the cop and she slipped away, this time all but running toward the action.

The cop yelled at her to come back. She ignored him, hoping that wasn’t grounds for arrest. A few yards later she was close enough to see the body. The woman was lying on her back, naked. Her neck was gaping open and giant X’s had been painted in blood across her breasts.

Caroline’s stomach heaved and she turned away, suddenly so nauseated she could barely stand. Someone told her to get out of the way. This time she did, slinking into the nearby bushes and throwing up everything but the lining of her stomach. When she finished, the young cop who’d tried to stop her earlier was standing right behind her.

“Must have been something I ate,” she said.

“Yeah. I almost did the same thing when I saw the victim.”

Almost. Meaning he hadn’t. She was obviously green, both literally and figuratively.

“Are you all right now?” he asked.

“I will be in a minute. What’s the story on the dead woman?”

“There isn’t one yet.”

“Who found the body?”

“Not sure, but whoever it was called the TV station. They were here before the cops, which is why Sam’s fit to be tied. Probably the most brutal crime to ever hit Prentice, and his crime scene is compromised.”

“Is he in charge of the investigation?”

“He’s the head of homicide. Makes sense he’d head up this one.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Turner.”

Detective Sam Turner. The name seemed familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the man before. He might be irritating, but he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget. More intimidating than handsome, but rugged—and brawny enough that a woman had to notice.

“I hate to run you off,” the cop said, “but Sam gave orders to clear the area of reporters.”

Yeah, especially the “broad in stilts.” She nodded and started back in the direction of the gate. Only, she made a turn at the last minute when she realized no one was watching her, took a deep breath to calm her stomach and rattled nerves, then walked back to the body. This time when she got there, she started snapping pictures, though she imagined they’d be too gory to run in the morning paper.

Detective Sam Turner appeared from nowhere and stuck his hand in front of her lens. “I hope there’s a very good reason why you’re still here.”

“I’ll be writing an article for tomorrow’s edition of the local paper, and I have a couple of questions.”

“Oh, well, let’s just forget the killer and try to get you a story.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Hey, Turner,” someone called from an area beyond the immediate crime scene. “Come take a look at this.”

“Be right there.” He turned back to her. “I don’t have a suspect or a motive or even an identification of the victim, and I don’t give a damn what you write in your little article. I do care that some woman was sliced up like a slab of meat, so if you’ll get out of my way, I’d like to find out who did the carving.”

“Should the public be concerned that…”

He turned and walked away as if she were a pesky fly not even worth swatting.

But he had told her what she needed to know. There were no leads and the victim was as yet unidentified. Slim, but she could stretch it into a front-page story, especially if any of the pictures were publishable.

This was no doubt the most macabre murder to hit quiet little Prentice in a long, long time. Maybe since forever. She’d have to call her boss the minute she got to the car and tell him to hold her a spot on the front page.

The Prentice Times was a small-town daily and John Rhodes, both editor in chief and managing editor, had a very hands-on management style. He’d want to see every word of this story before it went to print.

According to the lore of reporters, she should be experiencing some kind of rush right now. But all she felt was a queasiness deep in her gut and a nameless dread that seemed to reach clear to her soul.

She’d write the article, and every parent who picked up the morning paper would feel a knot of fear when they read it. Those who didn’t know where their daughters were would become sick with worry.

This was some career she’d chosen—or that had chosen her. A frightening, challenging, dubious hell of a career.

COPS, TV CAMERAS, reporters. What a show. And down to a man—and woman—they’d recoiled at their first glimpse of the body. But they stayed and stared, soaking up the sight of gore as if they couldn’t get enough.

They were wondering, no doubt, how it felt to actually wield the knife, imagining the frisson when the first blood spilled from her body. They envied him. Not that they’d ever admit it. They considered themselves above such cravings, but he knew better.

They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.

He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress. She was doing her job, but it was clear she was getting no respect. Sam Turner thought this was his game, but he was wrong. He’d find that out soon enough. They’d all find out.

Murder by murder by murder.

Chapter Two

It was ten minutes before midnight by the time Caroline had finished at the newspaper office and made it back to her house. As she’d expected, John was thrilled that she’d managed to get few pertinent details and a couple of usable pictures of the cops working the crime scene. He’d stood over her while she’d written the copy, making suggestions and asking questions, but when she’d finished, he’d told her what a great job she’d done.

She was tired, but the images from the murder scene stayed with her, replaying like a video in slow motion as she showered, brushed her teeth, then rummaged through her bureau drawer for something soft and satiny to sleep in. Lingerie was her one indulgence, a side effect of the years she’d had to wear nothing but functional cotton that could take lots of wear and harsh bleaches and detergents.

Tonight she slipped into a pair of pink silk pajamas with a matching robe. But even that didn’t calm her mood. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine and carried it with her as she roamed from one room to another. She loved the historic old house better all the time, even though the rent was a tad more than she could actually afford.

Sure the floors creaked and moaned and the ancient plumbing rattled, but the house had character and personality. It had seen weddings, births, countless celebrations—and deaths. It almost breathed stories of the past. So if a few spirits remained, who could blame them?

But she doubted any of the former inhabitants of the Billingham house had ever seen anything like the brutal murder she’d covered tonight. Caroline wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold and filled with a kind of nebulous apprehension, then climbed the creaking, winding staircase. The second-floor hallway was wide and high-ceilinged, and contained the furniture her landlord had left. A Queen Anne sofa so faded and stained, it was impossible to decipher the original color. An antique chest with spindly legs and broken pulls. A wavy wall mirror, bordered in tarnished silver, ornately embellished as if made for a queen.

And her favorite, a marred and stained secretary that had been made in France and shipped to America just before the Civil War. She’d found that out from records still stored in the secretary itself.

Caroline dropped onto the sofa and pulled her feet up beside her. Leaning back, she stared at the gold-framed portrait that hung above the staircase. Even at this angle, the eyes in the portrait seemed to be looking right at her.

“Things have changed, Frederick Lee. Time is no longer passing by your peaceful Southern town. History and modern macabre have now officially merged.”

Finally she gave in to the burning pressure of her eyelids and let them close. Her subconscious took over, forming new images out of gruesome reality. She was trying to close the victim’s gaping wound while Detective Turner guided her shaking hand. They moved slowly and deliberately, as if working some deranged jigsaw puzzle. The pieces were there, but she couldn’t make them fit. She was so tired. So very, very tired.

Slowly the images faded and she fell into the old nightmarish dream that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. The old church. The dark steep staircase. Dread so real she could taste it.

She jerked awake, the silk pajamas soaked with cold sweat that still beaded between her breasts and on her brow.

But it was only the nightmare that crept out from the dark recesses of her mind whenever she was stressed. Still, she flicked on the light. Frederick Lee was looking down on her, watching over her—at least, his painted eyes made her feel that he was.

It was nice to have him there.

CAROLINE STOOD with a dozen or more reporters at the news conference held at noon in Mayor Henry Glaxton’s office. The room overflowed with eager reporters, but it became whisper quiet the second the mayor stepped behind the podium and adjusted the microphone.

He addressed the group in a smooth Southern drawl, expressing his condolences to the family of the victim, who’d now been identified as Sally Martin, and warning the citizens of Prentice to be cautious until the man who had committed the crime was identified and arrested. A task that he assured them was top priority.

The chief of police took the mike next. His explanation of the murder was brief. Sally had been a waitress at the Catfish Shack and was last seen alive at about 10:30 p.m. when she’d left work alone. Her car was found in the parking lot of her apartment complex, her handbag in the passenger seat, apparently untouched. There was no sign of a struggle. Like the mayor, the chief declined to answer questions. He’d leave that to the lead detective, Sam Turner.

“Which means we’ll learn absolutely nothing,” a reporter standing next to Caroline muttered. “Turner considers reporters disgusting parasites that exist merely to plague him.”

Still, hands shot into the air as Sam joined the chief at the front of the room. He was no longer dressed in the faded jeans and T-shirt, but a pair of gray slacks and a light blue sports shirt, open at the neck. He cleaned up real good.

SAM LOOKED over the crowd and felt an annoying dryness in the back of his throat and a tightening of his muscles. As far as he was concerned, news conferences were a waste of time and a damn nuisance. He should be out in the field tracking down the murderer, not standing here trying to appease a bunch of clueless reporters.

“Do you think this was a crime of passion?”

“I don’t stick labels on murders. I leave that to you guys.”

“Do you think the killer knew the victim?”

“It’s possible.”

“Do you think this is connected to some kind of cult or devil worship?”

“We don’t have any information to indicate that.” Sam pointed at a skinny guy in the back of the room.

“If it’s not some kind of cult murder, how do you account for the marking on the victim’s chest?”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions and I’m not ruling out anything at this point.”

“But you do think it could be some kind of ritualistic killing?”

“Anything’s possible.” How many ways was he going to have to say that before this was over? He glared at the waving hands, then pointed to the woman who’d thrown up in the bushes last night.

“Do you think the killer will kill again?”

Not the question he wanted. Not that he didn’t know the answer. The guy was a walking time bomb armed with a hunting knife. And if Sam said that out loud, he’d send the town into total panic and give the mayor a heart attack.

“I think people should stay alert until this man’s behind bars.”

All the hands were flying now. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes before he could cut and run. Five more minutes that the killer was walking free.

SAM TURNER was the first to leave the room when the conference was over. Caroline was the last. There was no reason for her to rush to the office and put a story together from the skimpy details that had been provided. The Prentice Times didn’t run a Sunday edition.

She took the side exit, the one closest to her car. That side of the building was deserted, and for a second she had the weird feeling that someone was watching her. She turned and looked behind her. No one was there.

Still, she locked the car doors the second she got in, realizing that this was the first time she’d done that since she’d moved here from Atlanta. Instead of starting the engine, she took out her notebook and scribbled down her thoughts, not in reporter framework, but just in the order they flew into her mind.

A young woman had her throat slashed and blood smeared over her breasts. What would cause a person to do such a hideous thing? Anger? Passion gone berserk? Or had something in the killer’s mind just slipped off center? And would he strike again?

Caroline’s cell phone rang, startling her so that she jumped and bumped her elbow on the steering wheel. She checked the number. It was Becky. She took a deep, steadying breath before she answered, trying to dispel the dark mood that had come over her.

“Okay, I’m a louse,” she said. “I should have called and explained my sudden departure just when the party was starting to get fun.”

“No need. We figured you’d rushed off to a story. Was it the woman whose body was found in Freedom Park?”

“Yeah.”

“I was afraid of that. That must have been totally gruesome.”

“Pretty bad.”

“We’ll have a beer later. You can tell me all about it.”

“You’ll need more than a beer if I do.”

“You sound upset.”

“A little. Actually more than a little,” Caroline admitted reluctantly.

“Maybe you should ask your boss to put you back in your old assignment.”

“Just wimp out?”

“Hey, if it involves murder, I would,” Becky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Fine. How did the rest of the party go?”

“Not a lot happened after you left. We danced awhile. The party started breaking up about midnight.”

“So how does it feel to be the ripe old age of twenty-six?”

“Not bad. I checked for new wrinkles this morning, but didn’t find any. Of course, it could be that my eyes are going.”

“No. I’m already twenty-seven, and I can still read the very small letters they print my name in when they bother to add it to my copy,” Caroline said.

“Tell them to make it bigger or you’ll quit.”

“And who would pay my rent?”

“I’ll lend you money. I have plenty.”

Which was quite true. Not only were Becky’s parents well-off, but her grandmother had left Becky a trust fund that ran somewhere in the millions. Caroline wasn’t even sure Becky knew what she was worth. And not only was she rich, she was fun, petite and cute, with baby blue eyes and bouncy blond curls that danced about her tanned cheeks.

“I’ll just keep working,” Caroline said. “It keeps me out of trouble.”

“It won’t if you keep wearing that red dress you had on last night. You were hot!”

“Do you think it’s appropriate for shopping at flea markets? That’s about the only place I go these days, except for work.”

Caroline stuck the key in the ignition as she talked, then noticed a yellow square of paper stuck under her windshield. Not a parking ticket, but some kind of note.

“Let me get back to you, Becky. I’ve got some business to take care of.”

“Okay, but first, what did you think of Jack?”

“Do I know a Jack?”

“He was at the party last night. Cute guy. Blond hair. I saw you talking to him before he left.”

“Oh, yeah. He seemed nice enough. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

And probably wanted to fix her friend up with him. But the guy obviously wasn’t interested, or he wouldn’t have cut out early.

They said their goodbyes and she opened the door and retrieved the note. It was about three inches square with a sticky strip across the back. She might have spoken too soon about how acute her vision was. This time she had to squint to read the tiny, but very neat, print: