Шрифт:
Marley Glasgow—He hates women. But enough to kill?
Max Weathers—The FBI agent disappeared after being sent to Moriah’s Landing to investigate an anonymous tip.
Dr. Leland Manning—How far will the scientist go in his quest to discover the secret in witches’ descendants’ genes?
Leslie Ridgemont—She might be dead, but in Moriah’s Landing that doesn’t mean she is gone for good.
This one is for Jeff Robinson, a great writer,
a great friend. Not only has he always supported my career—but he keeps my husband, Parker, busy playing basketball so I can write. Thanks, Jeff!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
A killer fog rolled in off the Atlantic, moving silently through the darkness as it approached the small town nestled at the edge of the sea.
Jonah Ries didn’t see the fog coming any more than he could see the future. But he felt it. At first just a disquieting sense of foreboding. Then he came roaring up over a rise in the rocky landscape and saw the sign, Welcome to Moriah’s Landing, and he knew, a soul-deep knowing, that this was the last place on earth he should be.
He slowed his motorcycle, the feeling of darkness so strong he could see himself flipping a U-turn in the middle of the road, throttling up the bike, his taillight growing dimmer and dimmer beneath the twisted dark limbs snaking over the pavement.
But he could no more turn back than he could convince himself he had nothing to fear in Moriah’s Landing. He knew what he would risk coming here. A hell of a lot more than just his life, he thought as he swept down the hill, passing St. John’s Cemetery without looking in that direction, and heading for the wharf.
Overhead, a half-moon rode the star-specked sky, reminding him he had five days, tops.
He felt the first hint of the fog long before he saw it. Small patches of dampness brushed past his face, ghostlike as spiderwebs. But the moment he turned down Waterfront Avenue, the mist moved in as thick as wet concrete, obliterating everything, forcing him to pull over, park his bike and walk the rest of the way.
Might as well just get it over with. He reached under the left side of his leather jacket for the reassuring feel of his .38 nestled in the shoulder holster. Snug as a bug. Too bad what he feared most couldn’t be killed with a bullet. Not even a silver one.
He made his way along the brick sidewalk toward the faint beat of the neon bar sign at the end of the street, unable to throw off the ominous feeling he’d gotten at just the sight of the town’s sign.
Nor had he realized how late it was until he noticed that the shops were all dark, locked up for the night. Of course, it wasn’t Memorial Day yet. That’s when the tiny Massachusetts town would come alive with tourists, especially this year, with Moriah’s Landing celebrating its 350th anniversary.
Tourists would flock here for the beach—and the witch folklore, bringing a morbid fascination for the town’s dark, witch-hanging past.
Tonight, though, the small township lay cloaked in a fog of obscurity, silent as McFarland Leary’s grave, as if waiting for something to happen. Unfortunately, Jonah feared he knew what that something was.
“Hey!” A voice came out of the darkness from the end of the street near the blurred, flashing bar sign for the Wharf Rat. Jonah could barely make out the form, but instantly recognized it, just as the man coming out of the bar had recognized him.
“Hey.” The man staggered forward, then stopped, clearly jarred momentarily from his drunken state.
Jonah reached blindly for the first door next to him, grabbed the handle and turned, praying it wouldn’t be locked, but prepared to use whatever it took to get in. He shoved with his shoulder as he turned the handle, losing his balance in surprise as the door fell open and he stumbled in, closing it behind him.
“You’re late,” a female voice admonished.
He froze, his back to the dark room. From beyond it, a narrow path of light ran across the carpet to his feet. He turned slowly, comforted by the feel of the .38.
She stood behind a large antique desk, one hand on her hip, her head cocked to the side so her long mane of raven’s-wing-black hair hung down past her shoulder like a wave. He could feel her gaze, dark and searching, long before he stepped close enough to really see her face.
“Sorry,” he said without thinking. He had plenty to be sorry about so he didn’t mind.
Her eyes narrowed. “I guess you didn’t get my last e-mail.”
He shook his head. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten any of her e-mails.