Phantom Evil

Page 36

“Minus my great-grandmother,” Whitney said.
“Well, the thing is, the senator might want to just turn his head while Martin DuPre handles situations that could look a little on the sleazy side,” Angela said. “After all, it’s not illegal for adults to enjoy adult entertainment. If DuPre is taking some kind of kickback for getting business situations solved without the proper safety precautions, then he is engaging in a criminal offense. But we don’t really know that. And, to say that David Holloway was having an affair—it’s not like such a thing hasn’t happened before. Especially not in politics. Not only that, but suppose we prove that Martin DuPre is a horrible person—he still hasn’t done anything illegal. Gabby Taylor fingered him as the father, but I’m not sure what that means yet. It’s slimy and horrible, but other men have impregnated women, and they’ve been wretched about it, but I don’t think people go to jail for it anymore. She is eighteen, and she joined the ‘church’ of her own accord. She slept with him—and, apparently, she did so by choice. I’m pretty sure she had to be major league brainwashed in one way or another, and it’s as sleazy, slimy, contemptible as possible, but I’m not sure anything he did was illegal.”
“Unless there are underage girls in that place,” Jake said.
“Yes, that would be illegal,” Angela agreed. “But the point I’m making is that it won’t get us any closer to the truth about what happened here, so…we’ll try to dig further. DuPre saw us at the strip club tonight, so he knows that we saw him there. He doesn’t know that Jackson recognized Gabby Taylor from when she let you into the church, Jake, and that I followed her, and that she talked to me.”
“And none of this has anything to do with a haunted house,” Jenna said quietly. “And yet, somehow, it must.”
“Maybe none of it has anything to do with anything,” Angela said. “Anyway, kiddies, I’ve had it. I’m up to bed. See you in the morning.”
They bid her good-night and she walked up the main stairway to traverse the middle wing and head to the back of the house.
She paused halfway down the hall, trying to see if she felt anything. The hallway was shadowed, and for a moment, the house felt oppressive. None of it made sense. The children were trying so hard to warn her about something, but she didn’t think that the danger was in the house. Nor was she really afraid, though, after the experience in the basement, she didn’t particularly want to be there alone. It was a good thing that Jackson had suggested that none of them do it.
“You all right?”
She jumped at the sound of Jake’s voice, and then realized that it was coming from the camera and microphone set up in the hallway.
“Sorry! Yes, I’m fine. Good night,” Angela said, laughing at herself.
She walked around the ell to the room she had chosen. Regina’s room.
She stepped in and turned on the light. The room was a room. Walking over to the connecting doors, she saw that hers was closed over, but not shut. Jackson was on the phone; the low tone of his voice was audible. His door was ajar as well.
It was a surprise to realize that she wanted the door open a bit more before she indulged in a long hot shower before bed. That night, she didn’t know why, she was feeling nervous.
Opening her door a bit more, Angela turned and walked to the bathroom, and then happily slipped into the shower and turned on the spray. The bathroom had been redone using elements of the past; there was a beautiful claw-foot tub along with a shower stall. There were dual sinks set into marble, a door that closed off the toilet and a beautiful wooden cabinet that stretched over the sinks and had a large oval mirror in the center. She set about brushing her teeth and washing her face, and then stepped beneath a deliciously hot and strong spray of water.
Moments later, feeling warm and fresh, she stepped out. While drying off, she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. She froze, looking around the bathroom, but there was nothing there.
Then, as she turned, she saw there was something in the mirror. She thought it was her own face at first. And then she realized that there, in the steam, was another face. It was that of a young woman, one with haunted, red-rimmed eyes.
The lips opened, as if they would issue a scream. But no sound came; the face began to decay as Angela watched, frozen in fear. It rotted dark and black, and the soft tissue of the eyes disappeared, and the black sockets seemed to stare back at her.
A choked-out cry escaped her as slowly. Even the skeleton disappeared, and all that was left was the steam-filled mirror.
“Angela!”
She was barely in a towel, but Jackson burst through the bathroom door and stared at her. He was wearing pajama bottoms and nothing more—and carried a big gun, his Glock 22.
He looked around the bathroom and quickly lowered the gun.
“What?” he asked her.
She swallowed hard, thinking that, even if he did see things at times, he might think that she was definitely a loose cannon now. She held the towel to her and figured there was still nothing to say but the truth.
“There was a face in the mirror.”
That was the truth, but probably not the best way to express it. His expression was somewhat open for a change, and seemed to say, Of course there’s a face when you look in a mirror—your own.
“It was a young woman,” she said. That still didn’t seem to help. “It wasn’t me, Jackson. There was a face in the mirror, staring at me. Not my face. Another young woman. Please, stop looking at me like that. You admitted that you saw the children. There are spirits in this house, ghosts, souls—energy!—whatever. But…”
“But you’re all right?” he said.
She nodded, wincing. “Look, I’m sorry, sometimes these things still startle me.”
He shook his head and said huskily, “You don’t have to be sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, I’ll open both doors all the way so that you can get some sleep. And you’re welcome to scream anytime.”
“I’m really not a….” She paused. She didn’t know what to say. “I mean, I’m not a damsel in distress in any way.”
“I didn’t say you were. If something happened to me, I’d like to think you’d be there,” he said.
She smiled.
“You like it rough, remember?” he teased her.
They stood there for a minute, she in her towel, and he in his pajama bottoms and Glock. The night seemed to have gone still. She waited, thinking that the time was right. He was going to take a step and come to her. She could still remember the way it had felt when his lips had come down on hers in the club, when they had played the couple looking for a little titillation before heading home…
“Scream anytime,” he said again.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He turned and walked away, and she was astounded by the disappointment that flooded through her.
“Jackson?”
He turned back. She walked out, just holding the towel against her. “Who do you think it might have been?”
“Pardon?”
“In the mirror. Who do you think it might have been?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. You have the book on Madden C. Newton. Read through, and find out about his victims. It wasn’t Regina Holloway, was it? That would be nice—if you could just have a conversation going with her, she could tell us what happened.”
“I keep wishing we would see Regina. If she was murdered, she might well—linger,” Angela said.
“If this group is really able to communicate with those who have gone, you’d think someone would have seen her,” Jackson said.
“I’ve thought about that, too,” Angela said. “She might be here—unless she did commit suicide and doesn’t feel wronged anymore. But I don’t think that’s it—with Regina, I think that maybe she knew her son was in the world she had entered. She wanted to be with him.”
“Maybe,” Jackson said quietly. “Maybe.”
“Anyway it wasn’t Regina,” she said. “It was someone much younger. A girl—a girl about Gabby Taylor’s age.”
“Then see what you can find in the book,” he suggested.
He turned away again.
“Jackson,” she said.
He stopped. She walked straight to him and set a hand on his chest. “I don’t like it rough. Oh, I’m into energy and passion, but not pain. I don’t think I’m particularly strange, but I do like to think that I’m exciting.”
He looked down at her, and after a moment, smiled slowly. He tossed the Glock 22 on the bed and slipped his arms around her, tearing away the towel between them. He lifted her chin and kissed her lips long and with a lingering pleasure. Then he broke away. “Well, you know, you did take me to that club because you needed to get me riled up. So impotent, you know. But guess what? You’re far more tempting in a towel than anyone I’ve ever seen on a pole.”
“Is this allowed?” she asked, wondering that it could be so easy to stand here with him, wanting him, when it had seemed that desire had died along with the man she had once loved. He was nothing like Griffin. He was himself. But he might have in every quality something of what made him what he was that was something she subconsciously searched for in a man. Something in his inner strength, and more, his ability to deal with all that was horrible and cruel in the world, and to maintain honor, compassion and humanity.
And it might have been the way he wore his pajama bottoms. Or his naked chest. She wasn’t sure right now. It certainly had to do with the way she felt, crushed against him.
“Not this room,” he said softly. He released her to retrieve his gun. Catching her hand, he led her through to his room. The towel remained behind on the floor.
He slid the Glock into the drawer of the bedside table and turned back to her.
There was a moment when he looked at her, and Jackson looking at her was more seductive than the touch of any other. He seemed to drink her in, and as he did, she came alive before ever stepping back into his embrace and savoring the power of his arms as they came around her. Their lips locked passionately again, and she became instantly and desperately immersed in him, in every sensation that his touch brought.