The Secret Night
Emma had learned her craft from Betty Blanchard, a master silversmith in Manitou Springs, Colorado. Two years after starting to work with Betty, she’d begun supporting herself on the sales from her original jewelry, first as an employee, then as a partner. Thank God Betty had been okay with her rushing off to Maryland. She understood the twin thing.
Caldwell moved from his place beside the window, gliding toward her almost as if his feet didn’t need to touch the floor. He stopped directly in front of her.
When he reached out a hand, she looked down at it. To her surprise, his nails were yellow and brittle, with grooves running from the nail beds to the tips. Even though his skin was smooth, those nails made him look a hundred years old.
She stood very still while he stroked her shoulder-length hair, her cheek, the side of her neck, her back.
Closing her eyes, she endured his touch. But when his hand drifted to the top of her breast, she took a quick step away.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
“You don’t enjoy intimacy?”
She had heard the women talking about their sexual experiences with Caldwell and had considered what to say if he put the moves on her. “I’ve had some bad experiences with men. That makes me cautious—even with you.”
He tipped his head to one side, studying her. “Speaking your mind is one of the qualities that makes you stand out.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “If you meant it as a compliment.”
“I’m thinking about how I mean it,” he said with a chuckle.
But she wasn’t fooled. He truly was weighing her merits, and she was sure her very life hung in the balance.
“You should go on, before you miss breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, and she exited the room.
She had to get out of here. But how could she leave Margaret at this place?
She couldn’t. Not alone.
It was extremely hard for Emma to admit she needed help. If her mother’s example had taught her anything, it was that the only person she could rely on—besides Margaret—was herself. Now Margaret was lost to her. And every day she spent at the Refuge had driven her closer to the conclusion that this was a situation she couldn’t handle on her own.
So she had come up with Plan B.
The star of the not-fully-formulated plan was a man named Nicholas Vickers. She didn’t know him, but she thought he might help her. During her snooping in Caldwell’s office, she’d found a thick folder on Vickers, containing a lot of notes about his job as a private detective, as well as his personal life.
Reading between the lines, she’d gathered that Vickers and Caldwell were mortal enemies. She didn’t know why, exactly, but she had the feeling the animosity had something to do with a woman. Maybe someone Vickers had loved had come to the Refuge for a weekend seminar and had been brainwashed into staying. Whatever the case, she knew something bad had happened between the two men in the past. And she knew that Caldwell considered Nicholas Vickers a threat. Coming from the Master, that was a powerful endorsement.
She’d begun thinking of Vickers as a possible ally. As her own sense of helplessness had grown, she’d started pinning her hopes on him, praying he could help her get Margaret out of here. Maybe because she was stuck in such an untenable situation, she’d actually started daydreaming about his charging in here on a white horse and sweeping her and Margaret to safety.
Caldwell hadn’t included a picture of the man in his files, but she’d made up a persona for Nicholas Vickers. And she was pretty sure she had started dreaming about him, too. He was totally appealing with his dark good looks, quick mind and muscular body. A dangerous opponent, yet a man with compassion. An expert lover, knowing and strong, able to bring her both intense fulfillment and complete contentment. Not a bad man to have around to help her forget, for a little while, about this horrible place she so desperately needed to escape.
There was a flaw in her scenario, of course. She always awoke from the dreams sweaty, tangled in her sheet and unsatisfied.
And then she’d tell herself sex wasn’t the important issue. The important thing was convincing him to help her rescue Margaret. Was that crazy? Pinning her hopes on a man she didn’t know? Maybe she was just as wacky as everyone else here. She was sane enough, however, to realize that Nicholas Vickers could never live up to her fantasies about him, either as a lover or a rescuer of deluded women like Margaret. But he was the only hope Emma had, so she’d memorized his name, address and phone number.
A man passed her in the hall, giving her a speculative look, and she realized she was standing like a statue in the corridor.
Ducking her head away from him, she hurried to the communal dining room. Relieved to find it almost empty, she grabbed a piece of toast from the buffet—then hurried out to the workshop.
Chapter Two
At the end of the day, Damien Caldwell stood at the open French doors, watching the sun set across the river, admiring the glorious pinks and oranges of the sky. The sunset was a gift of nature, as were the green lawns and the flower beds his workers tended so diligently.
Long ago, he had thought he would never see the daylight again. But his skills and endurance had given it back to him, and it had never shone on a more lovely, bucolic setting than the one where he’d founded his latest commune.
There had been many such enclaves over the years—in France, Germany, Corsica, Italy, Turkey. He had lived in many lands. And he had amassed great wealth and power.
He chuckled. For a boy who had been born a slave, he’d done very well for himself. That long-ago boy had dreamed of changing the rules, of being the one to crack the whip and make the life-and-death decisions. Fate had given him the chance to realize the dream. Of course, his methods weren’t exactly politically correct by modern standards. He lived by rules he’d learned centuries ago. His hero was still that shining example of despotism, Machiavelli. And nobody had ever given him a reason to change his philosophy.
He’d come to the United States—the land of opportunity—early in the nineteen hundreds and settled in Pennsylvania. From there, he’d moved to northern California, then to southern Georgia. He always kept his eye out for property that suited his needs. As it happened, he’d heard the Refuge was for sale at a time when Georgia had become…uncomfortable for him. And so he’d become a resident of Maryland’s quaint, easy-paced eastern shore.
The fifty-acre estate was very private, yet close enough to both the Baltimore and Washington metro areas that his followers could keep their jobs while they served him.
A deferential tap on the door brought Damien out of his musings. “Come in,” he called.
Henry Briggs entered, closing the door behind him. Briggs was one of his most trusted lieutenants—trust being a relative term.
“What about Emma Birmingham?” Damien asked.
“She did her work all right,” Briggs replied. “But all day she was jumpy as a bullfrog on a griddle.”
“I was afraid of that. She’s been pretending to fit in, but she’s not really one of the chosen.”
“No.”
“Doubtless, she’s here to try to convince her sister to leave.”
Henry made a sound of agreement. He was the perfect yes man.
“I’m going to hold one of my special ceremonies tomorrow night. The lovely Emma Birmingham will be the sacrifice.”
“You want me to scoop her up and put her in a holding cell?”
Damien shook his head. “Not yet. Let her make her beautiful jewelry one more day.” He waited a beat, then added, “And, Henry, make certain you get the right woman. Emma looks very much like Margaret.”
“I know which is which. Emma’s the one with the crafty eyes.”
“Yes.” Damien nodded toward the door. “Leave me, now.”
After Briggs left, Damien moved restlessly around the room. He would take Emma Birmingham’s life. First, though, he wanted to take her sexually. She would never come willingly to his bed, so he would wait until she was in the holding cell. Then he could do anything he wanted.
EMMA STOOD in the darkness outside Caldwell’s office, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She had to struggle not to sprint away like a frightened cat. If she did, Caldwell was sure to hear her.
When she’d seen where Henry Briggs was going, she’d ducked around the side of the house and crept up to the open French doors, praying that Caldwell wouldn’t step outside and catch her.
The conversation she overheard confirmed her worst fears. She hadn’t been fooling anybody. Caldwell knew her devotion to him was faked, and he’d made up his mind what to do about it. Unless she got out of here before tomorrow night, she was a dead woman.
She’d never been to one of his special ceremonies. They were attended only by his inner circle of followers. Once, when she was standing on the dock by the river, she had heard an eerie chanting coming from the grove in the woods where everyone knew the ceremonies took place. The sound had raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Something dark and ugly went on at those so-called ceremonies—she was sure of it. Now she knew it for a fact.
And she was slated to be the main attraction for the next one.
She had to get out of here. Now.
But how? How would she get past the guards and the electric fence? The chances were slim, and with Margaret in tow, they plummeted to near zero.
Emma’s fingers knitted together until they hurt as she tried to figure out what to do. Fantasies of being rescued by her dream lover, Nicholas Vickers, were just that—fantasies. She had to get herself and Margaret away from here on her own. And while she stood there in the gathering darkness, hidden by the shrubbery, a desperate plan began to form in her mind.
The question of whether it was hopeless to try to convince Margaret to leave had become irrelevant. She’d run out of time. Somehow she’d have to trick Margaret into leaving. The alternative—escaping alone—was…well, she just wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she abandoned her sister.
At dinner, Emma slipped away early, pretending she had to go to the bathroom. Then she hurried to her room and grabbed her purse.
Downstairs again, she waited for Margaret to come out of the dining room with the rest of the crowd.
Her sister spotted her immediately. “You were gone a long time.”
Forcing a little smile, Emma replied, “Yes, I stepped outside to admire the view.”
“It’s getting dark.”
“And it’s a lovely night. Let’s go down by the river, Marg.”
Margaret looked over her shoulder at the people headed for the common rooms inside the mansion. In the evening, they usually listened to music or played games like checkers and Monopoly, or they went to lectures given by Caldwell.
“Are you sure it’s okay to go out?” Margaret asked.
“Perfectly.” Emma took her sister’s arm. “It’s a step toward self-actualization, a merging of your spirit with the cosmos.”
The platitude came straight from a Caldwell lecture, and, thank God, Margaret seemed to recognize it. After a little resistance, she allowed herself to be led from the mansion and down the path toward the water.
Emma knew the way quite well. She had explored the grounds as much as possible, while being careful not to attract attention, looking for quick exits. Caldwell had a cabin cruiser moored at the end of the dock, but even if she had the key, the cruiser was beyond her navigational abilities.
The rowboat she’d spotted yesterday, however, was not. She was relieved to see that it was still pulled up on the beach near the pier, small waves lapping gently at its hull.
Emma looked out over the water. The Miles River wasn’t all that wide—less than a mile, she guessed, at the point where she stood—and she was in good shape. She could row the small boat to the opposite shore. Once she got Margaret that far…
Well, one step at a time. She’d worry later about how she’d convince her brainwashed sister to keep traveling away from the Refuge.
Of course, they’d be leaving behind everything they’d brought with them, including the car she’d rented at the airport. But that was nothing compared to their lives.
Fighting to keep her tone light and casual, she said, “Remember when we were kids, when Mom was married to Larry?”
“He was a jerk,” Margaret huffed.
“Yeah, but a rich jerk.”
Margaret chuckled—an encouraging sound given her near-robotic state. If she could still laugh, maybe she was still capable of thinking about something besides the crap Damien Caldwell had drummed into her head.
“Remember Larry had that cottage up at Moonlight Lake?” Emma said. “We’d go swimming there.”
After a brief pause, Margaret replied, “That was fun.”
“Yeah, it was. And sometimes we’d take his boat out.”
“We were too young to be doing that unsupervised,” Margaret said in a tone that echoed her old, ultraresponsible persona.
“Well, we’re not too young to do it now.” Emma gestured toward the rowboat. “Let’s go for a ride. You can be captain—just like the old days.”
Her sister eyed the small craft. “I don’t think we’re supposed to go for boat rides. We’d better ask first.”
Emma felt her desperation rising. “If you ask and they say no, I’ll be really disappointed. Come on.” She tugged on her sister’s arm. “Let’s just do it. Do it for me, Marg.”
Margaret dug her heels into the sand and eyed the water. “It’s getting dark and…sort of spooky.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s beautiful. Look at the stars. You used to love the night sky, remember? We’d lie on our backs and you’d point out constellations. I’ve forgotten them, though, so you could show them to me again.”
“No!” Suddenly Margaret let out a high-pitched yelp and shoved her away.
“Quiet! Someone will hear you,” Emma ordered, reaching for her sister.
But Margaret kept backing away. “I know what you’re trying to do, Emma. You’re trying to kidnap me. They warned me that you might.”
“Shhh!” She tried to cover Margaret’s mouth—and felt her sister’s teeth sink into her finger. “Ow! Margaret, stop it! Someone’s going to hear us.”
“Good! I want them to hear me. I’m going to find the men and tell them what you’re doing. You never really embraced Damien’s lessons—his wisdom and kindness. I know you, Emma. I know you’re too independent to be a follower of any philosophy, no matter how good and true it is. You’ve been lying to me—and, worse, to the Master—saying you believe. But you don’t and you never will.” Margaret wrenched herself from Emma’s grasp and started running.
As she watched her sister’s retreating back, Emma felt her throat clog with tears. Now what? Knock her sister out and drag her onto the damned boat?
When she started to follow Margaret, Emma heard her sister shouting, “It’s my sister! She’s trying to kidnap me! I need help!” And in that instant, Emma saw her choices swept away.
She had to leave. Now.
Before they could catch her, she pushed the little boat into the water. Then she climbed in, sat on the center seat and grabbed the oars, conveniently left ready in the oarlocks. It had been a long time since she’d rowed a boat, but it came back to her. She maneuvered the craft around, pointing the bow at the opposite bank, then began rowing in earnest, the oar tips digging deep into the dark water. As she pulled swiftly away from the shore, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Margaret running down the path—followed by two of the guards.
“Come back!” one of them shouted.
It was fully dark now, but the pole light at the end of the dock provided all the illumination necessary for her to see the man taking off his shoes and slacks. Oh, God, he was coming after her.
In the next instant, a volley of bullets sprayed the water, missing the boat by inches.
Emma cursed, wishing she had a weapon to defend herself. Ted, another of her stepfathers, had been big into self-protection, and he’d dragged them all, her mother included, to the shooting range on a regular basis. At the time she’d hated any suggestions that came from the creep, but she’d since come to appreciate knowing her way around firearms.
Not that the knowledge was doing her a bit of good right now. She’d been afraid to bring a gun with her to the Refuge. Which meant her only option was to row like hell until she was out of range—and hope the gunman’s aim didn’t improve.
She thought she must have succeeded when the shooting stopped. She breathed out a sigh of relief—then heard a splash that told her the guy who’d been stripping on the dock had plunged into the river.
In quick over-the-shoulder glances, she saw him swimming toward her—and catching up. Groaning, she forced her burning arm muscles to row faster until, finally, she was outpacing him. By the time she was three quarters of the way across the river, he gave up and turned around.
She muttered a prayer of thanks, knowing she wasn’t home free. For all she knew, Caldwell had people stationed on the other side of the river. All it would take was a call to a cell phone, and his goons could be waiting to snatch her when she landed. Even if the guards weren’t already in place, they could drive over the bridge a few miles upstream and still be there to catch her.
In all of her life, Emma had never been so frightened. With the palms of her hands blistering and her muscles screaming under the strain of pulling the oars, she rowed for her life—and for Margaret’s. She had come this far, had escaped Caldwell’s horribly misnamed Refuge, and she could damn well make it the rest of the way.
She had to make it. For herself and for Margaret.
A speedboat came racing up the river. It seemed to be heading directly toward her, and her whole body went rigid. What if it was full of Caldwell’s men? Or what if it rammed into her in the darkness? Either way, she’d be dead. As the speedboat came closer, she prepared to leap over the side of the rowboat.
When the larger craft sped by, she sagged in relief. She could hear people laughing and talking—vacationers, probably, or local residents out having fun on the river. For a minute or two, she slumped over the oars, breathing hard.
She wanted to curse at her sister for turning her in—for getting them both into this mess in the first place. But she knew it wasn’t Margaret’s fault. Her mind was like a sponge for Caldwell’s orders, and she was behaving as he had trained her to act. How long did Margaret have before her brain turned completely to mush? Was there a point beyond which she would be irrevocably lost?
Or would something even worse happen? Would Caldwell punish Margaret for her sister’s disobedience?
Emma straightened, her gaze fixed on the moonlit shoreline ahead. In her effort to save Margaret, had she, in fact, signed her twin’s death warrant?
Should she go back?
The rowboat had lost its forward momentum and was drifting with the current. She let it drift, while she sat caught in a storm of emotions more intense and painful than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.
She might have gone on sitting there, trapped by indecision, if a single thought hadn’t finally bubbled to the surface of the turmoil inside her head: Nicholas Vickers.
He would know what to do. He could help her save Margaret. She just had to find him and…and what? Tell him to don his armor, saddle his white charger and come to her rescue?
Emma snorted in self-disgust. How stupid could she be, pinning all her hopes on a stranger? She had no control over her subconscious, the irrational part of her that had turned Vickers into her ideal man—Sir Galahad and the perfect lover rolled into one. But common sense and experience told her that he would turn out to be just a regular, ordinary guy, nothing special. If she was lucky—and it was a big “if”—he wouldn’t be a complete jerk. And he would help her.
She needed help. That much was crystal clear. Desire and determination weren’t enough. She lacked the skills and training necessary to free Margaret, willing or not, from Caldwell and his guards. If Nicholas Vickers wouldn’t lend his expertise to her cause, she’d have to find someone else who would.
Meanwhile, she could only pray that Margaret had bought herself some favorable treatment by trying to abort her sister’s escape attempt and by refusing to go with her.
Feeling marginally better for having come to a decision, Emma took note of the rowboat’s position. The shore was only a couple of hundred yards away—a good thing, since her arms and shoulders felt like rubber. It occurred to her, though, that enough time had passed that Caldwell’s goons could well be waiting to pick her up when she landed.
She allowed the boat to drift past several docks belonging to large estates. Finally, when she thought she’d gone far enough downstream, she gathered what was left of her strength, rowed the rest of the way to shore and climbed out.
She started to pull the boat onto the beach, then hesitated, realizing she might as well post a sign that read This is Where Emma Birmingham Landed. She should probably sink the boat. Or she could use it as a decoy.
Giving the boat a shove, she pushed it into the water again, wading in to give it another good shove, then watching as the current grabbed it and took it away. With a little luck, it would serve to throw the Refuge guards off her trail. They might even think she’d drowned.
Exhausted and bedraggled, she looked around to get her bearings.
In front of her was a scraggly wood, full of underbrush, but a little way to the right lay a wide expanse of well-tended lawn. And on that lawn, set well back from the river, was a very large house with lights showing in many of its windows. Maybe the people inside would help her.
Or shoot her as an intruder. Or set the family Rottweilers on her. That, she thought, would really be the final straw.
Yet if she walked to the road, Caldwell’s men could be waiting to scoop her up.
She swiped a hand through her hair and sighed. Given the choices, she decided, the house was the lesser of the evils. She started toward it, but she hadn’t trudged more than twenty feet when a large, masculine hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She opened her mouth to scream—but she didn’t have the chance. The man’s other hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth.
Chapter Three
Emma twisted in her captor’s arms. Shooting out a foot, she caught him in the shin and was gratified to hear him grunt. But he didn’t let her go. She managed another kick, and he muttered a curse.
“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Like hell. She kept struggling and pounding him with all her strength, determined to go down fighting.
“If you’ve escaped from Caldwell’s estate, I’m on your side,” he puffed. “So stop trying to do me bodily harm.”
When she kept fighting, his voice took on an urgent note. “I’ll trust you, if you trust me. I’ll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. Nod if you agree.”
She could always change her mind later.
She nodded, and when he took his hand away, she spun around to face him. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Alex Shane. With the Light Street Detective Agency. I was hired to investigate the disappearance of a woman named Anabel Lewis. I have reason to think she’s at the Refuge. Do you know her?”
Feeling light-headed, as if she might actually faint, Emma tried to gather her wits. “Anabel. Yes. I do know her. She sleeps in the room next to mine.”
“So she’s okay?”
“As okay as you can be at the Refuge.”
“Tell me about it.” He looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”
“How did you find me?”
“I was doing some surveillance, and I saw you on Caldwell’s dock—fighting with some woman. Then I heard shouting, and I saw you take off in the rowboat.”