Phantom Evil

Page 20

He turned, hearing footsteps on the main stairs.
“Okay, we’re all ready!” Whitney said.
Jackson moved over to the display of screens Whitney had set up in the grand ballroom. One mirrored the movements they were making; another showed the empty hallways and another showed the upstairs hall. While Whitney took one of the cameras—attached to an incredibly long extension cord—and headed toward the hall to reach the kitchen, Jake bounded back up the stairs. “I’ll give a call and a wave,” he said.
Will positioned himself in front of the monitors.
“Yep, good,” Will said. “Whitney, wave at me when you’re down in the basement, too, and it’s all set up. Let me know that the camera is good, and that you’re fine, too.”
“Of course, I’ll be fine,” Whitney said.
“I’ll go with Whitney,” Angela said, “and give her help if she needs any.”
She seemed concerned about the basement, Jackson thought. But then, she’d dug a skeleton out of the floor there.
“No, you stay. I’ll give her a hand. That camera looks heavy,” he said. “Angela, would you watch the screens?”
“Sure,” she said slowly, looking at him. Will and Jenna remained to watch the screens as well.
He carried the camera, and Whitney followed, laying cord out as close to the wall as she could, lest one of them trip over it.
They went the length of the house and down to the basement. He turned on an overhead bulb to light up the vast basement area as Whitney set up, and they waved. “We’re here—how’s the angle?” she called out.
Jackson looked at her, surprised.
She grinned. “Mics—right there, see, at the bottom of the camera, right above the tripod.”
“Excellent,” he murmured.
“You look good!” he heard Will call to him.
“Yep, they’re all working,” Angela said. “Hallway, hallway, hallway, hallway, ballroom and now basement. All are a check.”
“Okay, then, we’re heading back,” Jackson said.
Whitney preceded him, and together they walked back to the ballroom where the others were waiting, watching the monitors.
Nothing was happening.
“I’ll stay up for a while and keep an eye on things,” Will said.
“And when you tire out, just get me, and I’ll take on a few hours,” Jake told him.
“Cool,” Will said.
“Get me about four in the morning. That’s when I woke up when I was working as a nurse,” Jenna told him.
“Well, that’s great then—we’ll make it through the night,” Will said.
“I thought you had tape for when we were all sleeping,” Jackson said.
“Hey, we do,” Whitney said, “but if one of us is willing to be up, that’s better.”
“Okay, well, if anyone gets too tired, just let the tape roll,” Jackson said.
“I’m going up to sleep. If you want me or need me, just come get me,” Angela told them.
“We will,” Whitney assured her. “But the film thing is what Will and I are supposed to do, so…I guess we’ll figure it out as we go along, right?” she asked Jackson.
Jackson smiled. “Yep, I guess we’ll figure it out as we go along.” He was surprised to realize just how much he liked his team, though he had just met Jenna and Will. And it was odd. He hadn’t quite reached his thirty-fifth birthday; Angela was thirty. The others were in their mid-twenties. But he and Angela were still the “seniors.” And the “kids,” as they had called them, seemed to have figured out the pecking order already. “Good job, kids,” he said. “Angela, I think that means we’re supposed to get our sleep.”
She laughed. “Hey, it works for me.”
He reached for her hand. She took it. “Okay, then, we’re leaving the whole thing in your hands, kids. Is everyone’s door to the balcony locked?” he asked.
He was answered with a sea of nods.
“Okay, I’m setting the alarm after Angela and I go up and make sure that ours are locked as well. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Good-nights were exchanged. He and Angela headed up the stairs, down the halls and to their respective rooms. At the door to hers, he paused. “You’re sure you’re going to be comfortable sleeping in there?” he asked her.
“I need to be sleeping in here,” she told him.
“Okay, then, Mom,” he teased. “Good night.”
His room was next to hers. He’d hear her if she made the slightest noise. And he was still loath to leave her there.
He would have to.
“Good night—and I’m fine,” she assured him.
“Make sure your door to the balcony is closed,” he reminded her.
“I will,” she promised.
“I’m right next door if you need me,” he said.
“I know. And I’m glad,” she told him.
She kissed his cheek. He was surprised by the gesture, though it was smooth and fluid.
“Thanks,” she said huskily.
Then she walked into her room. She didn’t close the hallway door.
Jackson went into his room. He found the remote control that managed the house on the table next to his bed.
He opened his bedside table, making sure his Glock 22 was exactly where he had placed it. The pistol hadn’t moved.
They’d been vigilant about the house, so he hadn’t expected it to. But it was true that they were working for Senator Holloway. A man with a reputation like diamond. And threats that cut like one.
Thoughts raced through his mind as he lay down; he willed them to stop so that he could sleep.
The room didn’t seem to offer any late-night sensations. Disappointment pricked at Angela.
Sleep claimed her quickly and she found herself in the midst of a dream.
The children were there again. They were at the foot of her bed, as they had been. Percy and Annabelle. Percy trying to make his younger sister stop crying. And then, he came into the room.
Madden C. Newton.
He had mutton chops on his cheeks with the customary clean-shaven chin. He was a man of approximately forty years, about five feet five inches in height, traces of gray showing in the slightly curly hair he wore to his shoulders. He was neither compelling nor unattractive; his eyes were almost colorless.
“Children!” he said, smiling.
They were still hugging one another.
“Sir!” Percy said, stepping back just slightly as Madden C. Newton entered the room.
“What a polite child!” Newton said, feigning delight. “What a lovely child. Polite and caring. Which leads to the question. If your sister was in danger, how willing would you be to protect her, boy?”
Confused, and dreading what he began to sense was to come, twelve-year-old Percy still managed to say, “I would die for her, sir!”
“And so you shall!” Newton told him.
“Sir?” Percy said again.
And that’s when Madden C. Newton pulled the ax he carried from behind his back and showed it to the children. The blade glittered in the light of the kerosene light that glowed within the room.
Young Annabelle was the first to realize that the man could seriously mean to use such a weapon against them.
“No, oh, no!” she cried. “Mommy, Daddy!” she cried hysterically.
And Newton laughed. “They’re a bit tied up right now!” he said, laughing again at his own joke.
“Annabelle, run!” Percy advised. He shoved his little sister toward the door, but Newton was blocking the way. As she tried to escape, he swung, and with a vengeance. The little girl was caught directly in the throat with the blade.
Percy began to scream.
Madden C. Newton stepped forward.
Percy tried to run. He did run. He ran from place to place within the room, trying to get to his sister, trying to evade his attacker.
But in the end, there was nowhere to go.
Madden C. Newton raised his ax. And he struck hard.
In a sea of blood spatter, Percy fell dead. His eyes still open. Staring.
And panting, Madden C. Newton said, “Delicious!”
And began to lick the blood as it dripped upon the floor.
Angela awoke. The room was cast in the soft and shadowed glow of the moon. She had never closed the drapes. For a moment, she thought that she saw Madden C. Newton there, clutching the child he had murdered.
And despite herself, despite her training, despite the Smith & Wesson .22 within reach in the bedside table, she began to scream.
A terrible, high-pitched scream that tore relentlessly through the night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jackson Crow had bolted out of bed before.
And still, he was pretty certain he had never bolted out of bed quite so fast.
He was at Angela’s door in a split second. When he arrived, there was nothing there to cause such alarm.
Well, nothing other than Angela, jackknifed up to a sitting position. She was just staring—as if a thousand aliens were attacking.
“Angela?” he said, his voice low, gentle.
At first, he received no response.
He walked into the room and sat on the side of the bed, but she didn’t seem to see him. He set his arms on her shoulders; her body was like ice.
“Angela,” he said very quietly.
She blinked, and turned to stare at him.
Her eyes touched his, and she recognized his presence there, gasping softly, and flushing so completely, he could see the change in her color despite the dim light.
Little blonde princess, he thought. What could have made her scream as she had screamed?
“Oh!” she said.
“Oh?” he repeated.
“Did I do something that woke you?” she asked him.
“If you call screaming like a banshee something that might wake me, yes,” he told her.
“I’m so sorry.”
She was trembling. He was almost overcome by the desire to draw her against him, hold her, and tell her that everything was all right. He had to maintain the appropriate distance, and remember that he was the head of a team. But it was difficult. She seemed to warm beneath his touch, and her skin was like silk; her eyes were on his with tremendous trust, huge and blue, and golden-blond tendrils of her hair swept over his fingers like moonlit temptation. If he wanted to, he could draw her to him, and feel far more of the woman beneath the thin cotton knit of her nightshirt. She was dressed so appropriately for sleeping in a house with others, and yet, he wasn’t sure that any outfit could have made her more sexually alluring.