The Night is Forever

“Are you a candidate, Mr. Blake?” Crow asked him.

Dustin lowered his head, hiding a smile. He looked back at Crow. “Well, let me put it this way—if you haven’t met him yet, I’d be glad to introduce you to General Bixby. He’s sitting at the bar right now, next to the man in the jeans and Alice Cooper T-shirt.”

That brought a grin to Crow’s face. Dustin hadn’t been sure the man was really capable of a smile.

“We haven’t met formally, no, but we’ve been aware of his presence.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was being tested or not.” Dustin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at Jackson Crow, then Dustin and finally the third man, Malachi Gordon.

“Why now?” he asked.

It was Gordon who answered him. “You’re from Nashville,” he said.

Dustin thought quickly. He was privy to law-enforcement reports daily. He hadn’t heard anything about a kidnapping or murder in the city of Nashville.

“I am from Nashville,” he said, frowning. “But I’ve been gone for a long time.”

“You go back often enough, don’t you?”

He did, except that he hadn’t been there in a while. His academic parents were living in London. His little sister, Rayna, had grown up to be a country music singer. But she’d been on tour for the past year. He’d caught up with her—and his folks—for a few days in London earlier in the summer.

“Yes, but I haven’t been back in about a year,” he said.

“That’s not too long,” David said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Marcus Danby?” Malachi Gordon asked him.

“Marcus Danby.” Dustin repeated slowly. The name was familiar. “Of course. Yes,” he said. “He founded a therapy center. He brings in clients—patients—to work with horses. Or dogs, sometimes. He was the black sheep of a very elite family, wound up addicted to everything known to man. He did time, but he was the last living member of his family and inherited property. He also changed his ways. The Horse Farm is extremely well-respected.”

“Danby is dead,” Gordon said abruptly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

“Fell into a ravine,” Gordon told him. “He was buried two days ago but the autopsy report was just released. He had drugs in his system.”

“That’s a pity. The man must’ve been clean for at least twenty years,” Dustin said. “What does this—”

“Some people close to him don’t believe what they’re hearing. We’d like you to investigate,” Jackson Crow broke in.

“You don’t believe it was a fall—or you don’t believe he was on drugs?”

“Neither,” Malachi replied.

“Are the police suspicious?” Dustin asked.

“No.” Crow shook his head.

“Then I don’t really understand—”

“Special Agent Blake, we often find ourselves slipping in when local law enforcement doesn’t see an immediate problem,” Crow said.

“I see.”

Malachi Gordon told him, “We’d like you to go in as a patient.”

“As a patient. You want me to go in as a patient and investigate an accident brought on by substance abuse when no one believes it might have been anything other than it appeared?”

“We have more than a suspicion that he was murdered,” Malachi said bluntly.

Dustin stared at him. “How? Why? I’m in the bureau. I know how it works. We’re usually called in when there’s a suspicion that a serial killer is at large or when a killer is crossing state lines.”

“Agent Blake,” Jackson Crow began. “We move in on cases when we’re afraid the truth may never be known because of unusual circumstances. We don’t go barging in as a unit. We send one or two people and they assess the situation for us.”

Dustin was surprised and, he had to admit, disappointed. This didn’t sound like a case that was worthy of the Krewe.

The units had handled many truly unique cases. The sad demise of a man, even a black sheep who’d changed his own life and created a lifesaving enterprise—just didn’t sound like the kind of puzzle that desperately needed to be solved.

He shook his head, baffled. “I need more than you’re giving me. Yes, I’m interested in working with a unit. As you’re well aware, a man can grow weary of finding excuses for knowing what he shouldn’t because he’s managed to have a conversation with someone who’s dead. And can I go in easily? Yes. The Horse Farm is about twenty miles outside the city, but I’d have to go in as myself because I do have friends in the area. But, God knows, that could be easy. Enough people in law enforcement crack—that’s a plausible reason. But I don’t understand how this even came to your attention.”

“My cousin called me, Blake,” Malachi Gordon said. “She works at the Horse Farm and she’s convinced that Marcus Danby was murdered.”

Great. Someone’s relative was upset.

Still...

It was an invitation to get a foot in the door with Jackson Crow and one of his Krewe units.

But if he was stepping in just because someone’s relative couldn’t accept the harsh fact that even the strongest person sometimes failed...

That wouldn’t bode so well.

“Why?” he asked Malachi. “Why is your cousin convinced that Marcus Danby met with foul play?”

“Because, Special Agent Blake, Marcus Danby told her that he was murdered.”

* * *

“I don’t get this horse-assisted therapy,” Joey Walters told Olivia as they walked around inside the pasture. “Unless,” he said, flashing her a belligerent glance, “it’s because our—” He hesitated a minute. She knew the word folks had been on his tongue. But he didn’t have folks anymore. “—our guardians think we’re as stupid as horses and that they’ll somehow fix us? The dumb leading the dumber?”

Olivia lowered her head, smiling, before she looked back at Joey. “Whatever makes you think horses are stupid?” she asked. She was glad to be working. They’d all taken a few days off for Marcus’s funeral, but now they were back.

And she was especially glad to be working because her mind kept racing in denial regarding the autopsy reports.

“They’re not smart—they’ll eat themselves to death if you let them,” Joey muttered.

“Horses have no hidden agenda,” she said. “They have their boundaries, just as we have ours. And for your information, Mr. Walters, horse therapy works well for those who tend to intellectualize everything. You can’t bully a horse. A horse can learn to trust you, but he or she requires you to be trustworthy, as well.”

As if to emphasize her words, Trickster, the twenty-year-old mare she was using with Joey that afternoon, nudged him in the back.

“Hey!” Joey said. But he turned and looked at Trickster. The mare snorted and shook her head, looking back at Joey.

It was a simple exchange—very simple. But Olivia saw something in Joey’s expression and the smile that touched his face. He might be telling her it was all a bunch of bull, but he already cared about Trickster and it was only their second time out.

“You weren’t paying attention to her,” Olivia said. “You brought her out here and then paid no attention to her. She wants to be noticed. She wants you to remember that you came to her.”

“Technically, you brought her out here.”

“Yes, but you brushed her and talked to her and started walking with her. She wants your attention.”

“You taught me that we learn about our boundaries through horses, as well. Most of the time, a horse will want to be in control. Isn’t that what you said? Not to let the horse push you around. She just shoved me!”

“Something else to learn, Joey,” Olivia told him. “Trickster does care about you. She nudged you to get some affection back. You can maintain control—and give her affection. Life is like that, Joey. You can love people—but you can maintain your own thoughts and opinions, as well.”

Joey’s smile deepened. He stroked the horse’s cream-colored neck, and Trickster clearly enjoyed his touch.

But then Joey stepped away. “I’ll get attached to her—and then have to leave her, too,” he said. “I’ll be alone again, like after my parents died.”

“Your parents would never have left you on purpose, Joey. And Trickster won’t leave. You’ll move on, but you can always come back and see her.”

“Everybody leaves,” he said sharply.

Joey had been sent to the Horse Farm because his parents were both killed in an automobile accident. At first, he’d been quiet, grieving, uncommunicative, his uncle had told them. Then he’d begun acting out. An athlete, he’d never been into drinking or drugs.

That had changed.

After his uncle had picked him up at a police station in Sarasota, their hometown, he’d begun to look for help. Joey was enrolled at Parsonage House about ten miles from the Horse Farm. The facility offered horse therapy to their “students.”

“Joey, I’m sorry about your parents. It was tragic and unjust. But like I said, you have to realize that they didn’t desert you, they loved you.”

“It’s not fair!”

“No. Life isn’t fair,” she said quietly. “We learn to cope with it the best we can.” She paused and walked over to stroke Trickster’s forelock. “Look at Trickster, for example. She was a racehorse once upon a time, Joey. She was destined for greatness. Then a jockey whipped her into frenzy and she broke a leg—and she was worthless to the man who owned her. Instead of being grateful for the races she’d won and the money she’d made for him, his owner planned on having her euthanized. But—”

Her voice broke, which surprised her. She believed she’d accepted that Marcus was dead. She hadn’t “seen” him since his death, and she and the rest of the employees at the Horse Farm were moving forward with the work Marcus had deemed so important.

“But?” Joey asked, puzzled.

“But Marcus heard about Trickster, and he bought her—offering her owner more money than the glue factory. He brought her out here, cared for her, and now she’s beautiful, as you can see.”

“They were going to make glue out of her?” Joey demanded, horrified.

“What matters is that she’s here now. And she knows we love her. It took a while, because she was just thrown out in a pasture and allowed to starve, living in constant pain, before Marcus rescued her.”

“But Marcus didn’t stay with her,” Joey pointed out.

“Marcus died, Joey. But he left her in the care of people who would continue to love her.”

Joey took a deep breath and ripped out a strand of grass to chew on. He looked across the landscape and said, “I shouldn’t have made life so miserable for my uncle, huh?”

“He was only miserable because he loves you. And I don’t think he’s miserable anymore because he knows you really do want to live a productive life. You just need to come to terms with what happened.”

He shrugged. At sixteen, he was a tall boy, a good-looking kid in great physical condition. He turned to her with one of his rakish smiles. “You like me, huh?”

“Of course I like you,” she told him.

His grin broadened. “I like you, too. But how I know you like me is that you’ve forgotten the time.”

Olivia glanced quickly at her watch. His hour was up; it had been for the past ten minutes. He’d been a tough case to crack and she’d felt deeply for him. “Don’t get ideas, kid,” she said. “I’m your therapist.”

“But you’re cute, too.”

“Great. Now let’s head back.”

“I can come and see Trickster when I’m older. Old enough to be a lot cooler in your eyes.”

“Joey! Cut it out. You’re just saying that to get a reaction out of me and you’re not going to. I’m your therapist. And you’re never going to be older than I am and we’re never going to date.”

“Wow. That life-not-being-fair thing is harsh!” he said. But he was still grinning. Then his grin faded. “They’re talking about Marcus, you know. There’s a rumor that he went back on drugs. That they found heroin in his system when they did the autopsy.”

Olivia felt her back stiffen. “Marcus wasn’t doing drugs,” she said.

“So, it’s a lie?”

She winced. It wasn’t a lie. But it was something that, so far, wasn’t common knowledge, even though the medical examiner had informed the staff at the Horse Farm. She’d assumed that unless an investigative reporter actually looked into Marcus’s death, no one would know it was true. And yet, rumors were obviously running rampant.

“I heard there were drugs in his system,” Joey said again.

“I knew Marcus, Joey. If there were drugs in his system, they weren’t there because he voluntarily took them.”

“You think he was tricked?” Joey asked.

“I don’t know what to think yet.”

“Wow. The plot thickens!” Joey said excitedly. “What if...wow. What if someone did drug him because they wanted him to die? Or what if he was pushed?”

“Joey, you’re talking about someone who meant a lot to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Liv, really.” Joey spoke with sincerity and she believed him. “It’s just that...well, we don’t have radios or TVs or the internet where I’m living right now. I’m embarrassed. I heard about this, and it was more interesting to think about that than...well, my own recovery, I guess,” he finished lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry with you.”

“Scary, though, huh? I mean, this place is here for therapy. Supposedly, working with animals saved Marcus Danby’s life. If he wound up going back on drugs...well, it doesn’t say much for therapy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Olivia agreed.

She looked toward the pastures at the Horse Farm. She hadn’t seen Marcus again—or rather, hadn’t seen his ghost. Had she imagined that she’d seen him? Did they—she and her cousin, Malachi—share a real gift? Or did they just imagine things, see them in their minds?

Uncertain, and unhappy with the official explanation, she’d called Malachi. But the results of the autopsy had just arrived that morning. She needed to call him again. He’d promised her he’d try to arrange an investigation, but explained that he had to tread carefully; he couldn’t come in officially unless invited. And because people knew he was her cousin, his arrival might give the appearance that the feds were intruding—or that she and the Horse Farm were receiving special treatment. But he’d said he’d figure something out.

Apparently, there was a government agent coming in as a client. A “burnout,” someone had called him. Was he Malachi’s answer to her request?

“Olivia?” Joey said.

“Yeah?” She tried to smile, realizing she’d been deep in thought and that he’d been watching her.

“I’m really, really sorry. I think this place is wonderful,” Joey told her earnestly.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“You all might have saved my life,” he said. “It works if you work it. You’re worth it, so work it!”

“Exactly,” she said.

He nodded. She really did like the kid. Especially when he realized, as he occasionally did, that he was a kid.

“Tell Trickster we’re going in,” Olivia instructed him.

Joey turned and stroked the horse’s forehead. “You are beautiful, Trickster,” he whispered, then gazed up at Olivia. “Do I get to ride?” he asked.

“Next session,” she said. “As you reminded me, we’re already over our hour. But next time, we’ll definitely ride.”

They returned to the Horse Farm. She watched as Joey brushed Trickster, brought her to her stall and fed her.

She didn’t have the heart to go and wave goodbye to the others who were leaving.

In fact, she didn’t even go back to the office. Aaron and the rest of the staff would be worrying, trying to figure out how to handle it if the news got out about Marcus’s autopsy. It was probably too late if a kid like Joey had already heard. Next step would be deciding how they were going to spin the information about his death.

When Joey left with his group, she quickly checked on the horses. She was the only one in the stables and assumed everyone else had either gone into the office for further anxious discussions—or hurried home. She headed straight to her car and left, driving the 4.5 miles to the little ranch house she’d visited so many times as a child. She’d purchased the place from her uncle once she’d accepted the job at the Horse Farm.

Her home was old, dating from the 1830s. She loved the house, always had. A huge fireplace took up most of the parlor, the ladies’ sitting room had been turned into a handsome kitchen with shiny new appliances and off the hallway was a computer/game/what-have-you room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, along with a sitting room, modern additions when they were built on in the late 1850s. They were all comfortable and charming. Her uncle told her that the house had always been in their family; a cousin, son, daughter, niece or nephew had taken it over every time. He’d given her a great price and held the mortgage himself. She’d paid it off last year on her twenty-sixth birthday.

As she stood at the door, she heard Sammy whining.

The dog could have stayed at the Horse Farm; God knew, there were enough rescue pets there! But Sammy had belonged to Marcus, and his leg was just beginning to heal. No one had objected when Olivia had said she was bringing him home.

She opened the door and there he was, tail wagging as he greeted her. Olivia didn’t have to bend far to greet him in return. Sammy was a big old dog who appeared to be a mix of many breeds. He had the coat of a golden retriever, the head of rottweiler and paws that might have belonged to a wolf. He had one blue eye and one half blue, half brown—it was a freckle on the eye, she’d been told.

He gazed up at her expectantly and sat back on his haunches. His hope and simple trust just about broke her heart. “He’s not coming back, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Sammy barked in response. She wondered just what dogs did and didn’t understand.

Olivia threw her keys on the buffet at the entrance and walked to the kitchen to give Sammy a treat. As he gobbled up the “tasty niblet of beef and pork,” she promised him that she’d be back downstairs in a minute. He couldn’t go running out into the yard because he was still recovering from the gash on his hind leg.

She dashed upstairs, stripping as she went. She breezed through her bedroom to the bath and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as it could get. She stood there, feeling it rush over her, for a long time.

She wished she could turn off her mind.

Leaning against the tile, she wondered about Marcus. “You didn’t!” she whispered aloud.

It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.

But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.

She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.

“At last!”

Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.

But no one had come to attack her.

The speaker was Marcus Danby.

Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.

“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”

2

Stepping off the plane and entering Nashville International Airport, Dustin heard the twangs and strains of a country music song. The sound made him smile. God, he loved Nashville. The city was unique in its mix of the up-and-coming and pride in its history. Music reigned supreme but without self-consciousness; it was ever-present like the air one breathed. People tended to be cordial. And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?

He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.

He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.

A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.

The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.

Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.

“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.

The man nodded to him. “You the cop?” he asked.

“Agent, now,” Dustin replied. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and came forward to shake the old man’s hand. “Dustin Blake, sir. How do you do?”

The man took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Jeremy Myers—but they call me Coot. Welcome. You don’t look like someone who needs much help.”

“We all need help,” Dustin said.

That brought a slight smile to Coot’s lips. “Burned out on the job? Or did you go wacko and beat up on some piece of scum that deserved it? Young man, that’s the thing today. No respect. Kids spit in teachers’ faces and the poor teachers can’t do a thing—less’n it gets called child abuse. So, you did your job too well?”

Dustin grinned. “Something like that.”

“No need to explain to me. You’ll have plenty of time to talk. Hell, all people ’round here want you to do is talk. Don’t let me keep you, though. That bag must be heavy.”

“Nice to meet you, Coot,” Dustin said.

“Just open the door and go on in. The main house is open until sunset, and after that you’ll need your key.”

“Thanks.” Dustin went in. It might have been any bed-and-breakfast in any rural section of the South. The entry led to a bright, cheerful parlor with the check-in desk being a bar, behind which was an equally bright and cheerful kitchen. He walked up and the young woman at the desk smiled.

“You must be Agent Blake,” she said.

“I am.”

“Hi, I’m Ellie Villiers. And you’re wondering how I knew who you are. Well, we don’t take in that many guests and we don’t take anyone without a reservation,” she explained. She was on a wheeled chair and she swung down to the end of the bar, where she plucked a set of keys off the wall. “We have you in the Andrew Jackson suite.” She was a gamine of a young woman, tiny with short dark hair and a perky manner. She gave him a warm smile as she rolled back to him and leaned close. “It’s not much of a suite, really. It’s just a big room—a ballroom in the old days. But it has the only private bath in the house and a door to the back porch. We’re careful who we give it to. Not that we have strict rules or regulations, but we do cater to those fighting their own demons, whether they come from a booze bottle, a pill bottle, stress, what have you.” She smiled at him. “You sound pretty cool. I heard that the bosses at the bureau think you need some downtime, that’s all.”