Читать книгу Ghost Shadow - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

David nearly jumped, he was so startled by the sudden scream.

That irritated him. Greatly. He was thirty-two, a veteran of foreign action and a professional who trekked through the wilds and jungles of the world.

He was not supposed to jump at the sound of a silly girl’s scream.

Of course, it had been stupid to come here. He had thought that he’d come back just to sign whatever papers he needed to settle his grandfather’s estate. But he had come home. And no way out of it—the past had called to him. No matter how far he had gone, he had been haunted by that night. He’d had to come here.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find.

There were no fresh corpses in the old museum.

Elena Milagro de Hoyos rested in robotic finery—as sadly as she had, years ago, at the real funeral parlor.

But he could remember the night they had found Tanya. He could remember it as if it had been yesterday.

She hadn’t been killed here, she had been brought here. She had been positioned for the shock value. It was something certain killers did. This fellow wanted to enjoy his sadistic exploits and wanted his handiwork to be discovered.

The killer had never been caught. No clues, no profile had ever led anyone anywhere, even when the local police had pulled in the FBI. There hadn’t been a fiber, a speck of DNA, not a single skin cell to be analyzed. That meant that the killer had been organized. The Keys had even braced for a wave of such murders, because such killers usually kept killing. But it seemed that Tanya’s murder had been a lone incident. Despite the fact that he had been cleared, he had been the only person ever actually under suspicion, no matter how they worded it.

The Keys hadn’t been crime-free by any means. Accidents occurred far too frequently because people overimbibed and still thought they’d be fine on the highway—often two-lane only—that led back to the mainland. Crosses along the way warned travelers of places where others had died, and the police could be fierce on speeders, but deaths still happened. Gangs were coming in, just as elsewhere, but they were seldom seen in the usual tourist mainstream on Duval Street. Domestic violence was always a problem, and now and then, as Liam seemed to believe, “outsiders” came into the state to commit their crimes.

But there was nothing like the strangulation death and bizarre display of Tanya Barnard. Not in the decade since David had been gone.

When it had happened, Craig Beckett had tried to hold his head high. He knew, of course, that his grandson was innocent because they had been together during the time it had happened—only a small window of opportunity. The museum had closed late on Friday night because there had been a festival in the city—and Craig Beckett had agreed with his fellows in the business association that his museum should remain open until midnight. David had come in with the first tour just after nine the next morning.

And Tanya’s body had been discovered.

David understood that, to many, he might well appear guilty as all hell.

But he had an alibi.

He’d been at the museum the night before, filling in for Danny Zigler then, too. But it was a small museum. It was only open for tours. There had been times between tours, people reckoned, when he might have slipped out. Or, according to others, the coroner might have been wrong. He might have left the museum and gone to quickly kill Tanya before returning home.

Think about it. Just how long did it take for a tall, muscular man to strangle the life out of a small, trusting woman?

Luckily, the coroner wouldn’t be called wrong. He insisted on the time of Tanya’s death.

And there were enough tourists to swear that David couldn’t have gone far in between the tours.

And after? David and his grandfather had stayed up until nearly four, engaged in a chess match. Then they’d even fallen asleep watching a movie in the den; his grandmother had come in to throw blankets over the two of them. By seven in the morning, the family had been engaged in breakfast. David knew many people believed that his grandparents had just been covering for him, but the one thing that gave David strength was the fact that he had been with his grandparents, and they did know that he was innocent.

Craig had tried to maintain the museum. But when everyone coming in had wanted to know about Tanya and little else about the history of the island, he had given it up at last. He had cared for the place, but he had closed its doors to the public. He had dreamed of the right time to reopen it.

Now his grandfather was gone. They would never reopen the museum. Tomorrow, he’d talk to Liam about selling off the characters. He knew many were made with fine craftsmanship and were valuable. Then work could be done to restore the house, and it would definitely be a valuable commodity.

So what the hell was he doing here himself?

He’d had to come. And he’d found himself staring at the exhibit, wishing he remembered more about Tanya and yet aware that the sight of her on Elena’s bed was permanently embedded in his memory. Nothing of the girl herself. Everything about the horror of her death.

And now, this girl, standing there staring at him, her scream just an echo in their minds.

“Who the hell are you and what in hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

The girl flushed. She was an exceptionally attractive young woman, early to midtwenties, with deep auburn hair, long and loose down her back, and, even in the muted light, eyes so startlingly hazel they seemed to be gold. Her features were cleanly cut and beautiful, and her body, clad in jeans and a T-shirt that advertised a local bar, was lean and well formed. There was something familiar about her, but he wasn’t sure what or why.

She stared at him, obviously recovering herself. Her cheeks were red at first, but then she appeared to be angry, as well.

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?” she demanded in return.

“What?” he snapped.

“You heard me—I asked who you are, and what in hell you’re doing here,” she said, an edge of real anger in her voice.

He stared at her incredulously.

“Are you drunk?” he demanded.

“No! Are you?”

He walked around from the rear of the exhibit to accost her. She stepped back warily, as if ready to run out of the room.

Good. He was tempted to come closer and shout, “Boo!”

He didn’t.

“I’m here because I own the place,” he told her. “And you’re trespassing. You have about two seconds to get out of here, and then I’m going to call the police.”

“You are absolutely full of it,” she told him. “I own this place.”

Again, he was startled.

“You’re wrong,” he said harshly, “and I’m tired of the joke. This place is owned by the Beckett family, and it’s not for sale—yet.”

“Beckett!” she gasped.

“Beckett, yes. The name that you see on the marquis outside. B-E-C-K-E-T-T. This museum has been the property of my family for decades. I’m David Beckett. It is four in the morning and I’m wondering what you are doing here at this time. I actually belong here—at any hour. Now, if you please, get out.” He spoke evenly, almost pleasantly. But he meant the get out.

It seemed now, after hearing his name, as if the young woman facing him had changed her attitude suddenly. She seemed to back away. I’m a Beckett. Oh, yeah, David Beckett. Person of interest! he almost shouted.

It had been ten years since he had left, determined that he wouldn’t let the past follow him, not when he was innocent, not when someone else had taken his fiancée’s life, long after she had taken leave of him.

“I’m so sorry; I should have known,” she said. “Actually, we’ve met. It was years ago, but I should have known, you do look a lot like Liam. I’m Katie—”

“I don’t care who you are,” he said, startled by his abrupt rudeness. He shook his head. “Just get out. It’s private property.”

“You don’t understand. I believe that I do own this place. I just have a few last papers to sign on Saturday. Tomorrow. Liam is, after all, Craig’s executor—okay, you both are, if I understand it right, and you’d told him to go ahead and act in his absence. Liam was ready to sell.”

David frowned.

Sell? Never. Not the museum. The museum needed to be dismantled, taken apart. He wasn’t superstitious, he didn’t believe in curses. But this place held a miasma. There was something that appeared to be evil in the robotics. The faces were too lifelike. The ones that moved didn’t jerk about—they looked like the real thing from a distance.

They invited idiots and drunks and psychotics to behave insanely. Commit murder, and leave the corpses behind, far more fragile than the imitations that might survive many decades.

David shook his head, feeling a twinge less hostile. He still couldn’t really figure out who in hell the girl was, but, at least she wasn’t a drunken tourist who had stumbled in. A Northerner, probably. Someone who had come to Key West convinced it was not only a sunny Eden, but a place to make a good few bucks off the spending habits of vacationers. But she’d said that they’d met?

“Whatever you might have thought, whatever you might have come to believe, the museum is not and will never be for sale. If it’s the house you’re interested in, it may come up on the market in a year or so,” David said flatly.

She stared at him steadily. Now it seemed that she was the hostile one. “So, you’re David Beckett, suddenly home and taking interest in the family—and the family property. How nice. Perhaps you should speak with the lawyers. I believe that the sale has gone through.”

“Look, Miss—”

“Katherine O’Hara, and don’t be superior with me, because my family has been down here as long as yours—or longer. I hope that you’re wrong, and that this sale can go through. I love what your family created. This is a beautiful place, and your grandfather and great-grandfather did such a fabulous job showing history, the simple, true and the bizarre. I don’t understand…”

Her voice had trailed as she stared at him. She looked nervous suddenly.

Was she thinking that no matter what the newspapers or police had said, he might be a murderer? A very sick one at that, setting a corpse into an historical tableau?

After all, she had said that her family had been here forever, and yes, he did know of O’Haras who were longtime residents, but…

“Katie O’Hara?” he said sharply.

“Yes, I just introduced myself,” she said with aggravation.

“Sean’s little sister?”

“Sean’s sister, yes,” she said. She left out the “little,” her aggravation apparently growing.

“Sean doesn’t have any part of this, does he?” His tone was sharper than he had intended.

“My brother is working in the South China Sea right now, filming a documentary, and no, he has nothing to do with this. But I don’t see what—”

“Nothing. Look, nothing has anything to do with anything. This place will never be a museum again, and I’m pretty damned sure you just looked at me and remembered why I feel that way.”

She inhaled, as if steeling herself to speak patiently.

“Something terrible happened. You were cleared. Your grandfather closed the place, but he always wanted to reopen it. We will never rid the world of psychos. I intend to have security, and locks and make sure that nothing so terrible could ever happen again,” she assured him.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and stared at her incredulously. “And a bunch of frat-boy idiots wouldn’t try to put a blonde mannequin in here, ever, or suggest that you do a mock-up tableau of Elena with Tanya’s body? Haven’t you ever watched those horror movies with parts one, two, three, four, five and so on, where the same stupid people keep going to the same stupid, dark woods to wind up dead? What if the psycho who did it is still hanging in the Keys? What do you think of that kind of temptation?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen. All people are not horrible, and it’s a wonderful museum. I’ve worked really long and hard—”

“Right. You must be all of what now, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four, and that’s hardly relevant. I already have my own business—”

“Katie? Katie O’Hara?” He laughed suddenly. “Katie-oke! That’s your business?”

She stiffened and her face became an ice mask. “For your information, Mr. Beckett, karaoke is big business these days.”

“At your uncle’s bar, of course.”

“You really have matured into a rather insufferable ass, Mr. Beckett,” she said, her tone pleasant. “I will leave. I’ll see you with my attorneys tomorrow.”

“As you choose. Good night, Miss O’Hara. And forgive me. I didn’t mean to laugh at Sean’s little sister.”

She stared at him. “I really don’t care, Mr. Beckett. And neither would Sean. We’ve both worked hard and been responsible, and we make our way quite fine, thank you. And by the way, I never knew you were friends with my brother. Is he aware of the fact?”

He laughed then. He had been an insufferable ass. It was this place. It was the possibility that it might be opened again.

It was him.

He had left here. He never hid his past. People knew about Tanya, about what had happened. But outside of this place, no one assumed that he had done it, that despite his honest and upright alibi, his entire family had lied to save him.

Being back here…

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive. To you, Miss O’Hara, and not to anyone’s sister, younger or otherwise. However, the place is seriously not for sale. And my reasons are valid. I don’t want to see history repeating itself.”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” she said.

She moved away, but then turned back to him. “I should have known you. Recognized you, I mean. Your grandfather talked about you all the time. Craig Beckett was a wonderful man.”

He was surprised at how her remark seemed to sting. He had loved his grandfather—he didn’t know anyone who hadn’t liked and respected his grandfather. And he had seen him often over the years.

Just not in Key West.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his head.

“I’m glad you’ve managed to make it back now, since you couldn’t be here for the funeral.”

“If you knew my grandfather, Miss O’Hara, you know that he didn’t believe much in funerals—or in massive monuments to the dead, caskets worth thousands and thousands of dollars or any other such thing. Memories exist in the mind, he always told me. And love was something distance could never quell. So I am fine with my memories, and in my conscience.”

“I’m happy for you. Personally, I find a funeral a special time to remember and honor a loved one, but to each his own, of course. I’ll get out of here, Mr. Beckett. I will see you tomorrow at the bank.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a shrug.

She was near the door. “I take it you’re not planning on staying in town long?”

“No.”

She hesitated again. “Then what do you care?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

“I would keep it alive with the dignity it deserves,” she told him.

“I apologize for being so rude. You seriously startled me, being here. I really do apologize for any offense given.”

She nodded and turned to leave.

He watched her go. Sean’s little sister. He and Sean had played high-school football together. She didn’t remember, but he had been in her home. She’d sported a head of almost orange-red hair back then, a lot of skinned and bruised knees and freckles that seemed to have faded now. She was definitely a striking young woman. She had unnerved him. He wasn’t customarily such an ass, and didn’t make light of the endeavors of others.

And yet, seriously…Katie-oke?

He started. It was suddenly cold—ice-cold—where he stood in the museum. He thought about the many sayings people had, such as, “It was as if a ghost walked right through me.” It was as if he had been…shoved by something very cold. Well, ghosts didn’t go around shoving people. Oh, and he didn’t believe in ghosts.

He went about turning off the lights and, when he left, he locked the place securely.

“I gave him a good comeuppance,” Bartholomew announced. “A strong right hook, right on the fellow’s jaw. And I could swear he felt it. All right, all right, so he didn’t crash down on the floor in a knockout, but I’d swear he knew he’d been given a licking of one kind or another.”

Katie waved a hand in the air, distracted. “I don’t believe it. No one thought that he’d even come home. He was supposed to stay off in Africa, Asia or Australia, or wherever it was that he was working. Why? Why? He’s got to be wrong on this. Liam was certain that he could go through with the sale, that David despised the place and never intended to come back.”

“You’re welcome. Yes, I would defend you to the death against such an oaf. Oh, wait. I am dead. And still, my dear, I did my best.”

Katie had offended Bartholomew, she realized. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bartholomew. I’m sure you sprang instantly to my defense, and I deeply appreciate your efforts.”

“I will keep trying. As long as that man is in the city, I swear, I will keep trying,” Bartholomew promised.

“I don’t understand. He doesn’t want to be here. He plans on living elsewhere forever and ever,” Katie said.

She realized that he was silent then.

“What?” she demanded. “He hasn’t been here in ten years, Bartholomew. He doesn’t care about the place, and I don’t care what he said, he showed no respect, not making it home for his grandfather’s funeral.”

“I thought they couldn’t locate him—since he was off somewhere,” Bartholomew said.

“You’re standing up for him?” she asked skeptically.

“No, no…his behavior to a lady was reprehensible, abominable!” Bartholomew said. “Completely unacceptable. Except…”

“Except what?”

Bartholomew looked at her, appeared to take a deep breath and said, “I think, in a way, I understand his feelings.”

“I would never let anything horrible like that happen again,” Katie protested.

“I don’t think they expected it to happen the first time,” Bartholomew told her.

“But they weren’t aware of what might happen. I’d be way ahead. And please, we don’t have murderers crawling through the city, visiting the museums on a daily basis.”

“At the least, though, you should understand his feelings. If I know the story right, he was engaged to the girl. And she was found dead, right where you came upon him tonight.”

“I don’t think they were engaged anymore,” Katie said.

“And there the point. Motive for murder.”

“So you think that he did it.”

“No, actually, I don’t think so. But a ruined romance? That’s a motive for murder.”

“You’re watching too much TV,” Katie said.

“Hmm. TV. Such an amazing and wonderful invention. So vastly entertaining!” Bartholomew agreed. “But it’s true. He was a spurned lover. That’s a motive. She was leaving him. For a brute of a game-playing fellow. That is, by any reckoning, definitely a motive for murder.”

“He was cleared,” Katie said.

“He wasn’t arrested or prosecuted. He had an alibi. His alibi, however, was his family.”

She turned to him sharply. “I thought you just said that you didn’t think that he murdered her?”

“True. No. No, I don’t think he killed her. He was rude, but I know many a fine fellow who can actually be rude. But murder, especially such a crime of passion—he doesn’t look the type. He seems to be the type who easily attracts women, and therefore, he might have been heartbroken, but he would have moved on. I mean, that’s the way I see it. The man is—appears to be, at least—a man’s man. He could completely lose his temper and engage in a rowdy bar fight, maybe, but murder…Ah! But then again, what does the type look like? Now, in my day, many a man looked the part of a cutthroat and a thief—because he was one. But these days…ah, well. We did come upon him at the scene of the crime.”

“It wasn’t actually the scene of the crime. She was strangled, but the police believe she was killed elsewhere and brought to the museum. I was a child when it all happened. Well, a teenager, at any rate, and it was a scandal, and I know it disturbed Sean…I vaguely remember that he and David Beckett were…friends. They both loved sports, football, swim team, diving, fishing…all that. But then David left. And never came back. And the talk died down. Mainly, I believe, because everyone loved Craig Beckett. But if David Beckett is innocent, I really don’t understand his position—or yours. And he’s deserted Key West. So?”

“I have to admit, I rather admire the fact that he’s so determined, especially because he doesn’t want to stay here. He doesn’t want to see anything like it happen again, whether it affects him or not. I’ll still do my best to take him down for you, though!” he vowed.

The streets here were quiet, with only the sound of distant, muted laughter coming to them now and again. Even that was infrequent now. The hour was growing late—or early.

They came to Katie’s house. She’d left lights on in the kitchen, parlor area and porch. The two-seater swing on the porch rocked gently in the breeze. She had a small—very small—patch of ground before the steps to the porch, but her hibiscus bushes were in bloom and they made the entry pretty.

Set in stained glass from the Tiffany era on the double doors, a Victorian lady and her gentleman friend sat properly, immortalized in timeless ovals.

Katie unlocked the door and stepped in. Her world was familiar. Her parents were now boating around the world, her brother would always be off filming another documentary and the house was hers. Certainly, her folks had given her a bargain price. But she had purchased it through a bank, she had come up with the down payment and she had never missed a mortgage payment.

She loved the house. She was delighted that she owned it, that she had kept it in the family.

And yet, as she stood there, she wondered about the years David Beckett had spent away. He had gone to exotic places. He had discovered the entire globe.

She’d gone away, too, she reminded herself.

Right…all the way up the eastern seaboard!

“Katie?” Bartholomew said.

She looked at him.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just realized that I’ve made an island my world.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“But is it a good thing? Anyway, don’t answer. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“We have to be at the bank bright and early.”

She blew him a kiss. “Don’t go watching more television, Bartholomew.”

“It will stunt my growth? Make me die young?” he asked. She groaned and walked up the stairs.

He had been restless that night, all through the night.

That was the only reason he had been out walking.

And when he had been walking, he had seen the lights on at the museum.

And so, he had looked up at the old mansion, and he had stared.

There could only be one person who would be there tonight, only one person who would have gone in, turned on the lights. Someone with a right to be there.

Someone who knew it well. Beckett.

Silently, he cursed Beckett. The man shouldn’t have come back. The past was the past; settled, over, accepted. Some believed it had been David Beckett, but that he was long gone and despicably above the law. Others believed that a psycho had come and was also long gone. It was over. It was part of the myth and legend of Key West.

He shouldn’t have come back.

But he had.

He had seen Katie O’Hara, seen her go in. He’d heard the squeak of her scream, but he hadn’t been alarmed. He’d held his ground. Watched. Waited.

Then, he’d seen her come out, and he’d stepped quickly back into the shadows. He hadn’t intended to be seen that night.

Katie had left in what appeared to be a fury.

She’d thought she owned the place. But Beckett was back.

A few minutes later, Beckett had come out, and he’d headed in the same direction but then turned down the street to the Beckett estate.

When Beckett was gone, he’d followed Katie. He knew where she lived. He’d walked, and stood in the shadows, and he’d looked at her house.

He stayed, feeling time go by. No need to be here, staring up at the house in the darkness.

But he stayed, watching.

His fingers itched.

He felt a bizarre fury growing inside of him.

And then he understood.

He felt the sudden temptation to let history repeat itself.