Night Mist. Helen R. Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ That’s all it was. There could be any number of innocent explanations. The man probably suffered from insomnia. What with their stuffy rooms and the lack of air-conditioning, why shouldn’t he seek the coolest spot—the window?

      Even so, she regretted not having asked Mrs. Levieux more questions about him when she’d learned the two of them would be the only tenants on the third floor. Recalling the casual comments— “such a quiet man” and “so private”—which her landlady had volunteered during her initial tour of the house, Rachel now found them oblique and hardly reassuring.

      If she sought out Adorabella tomorrow and made a point of bringing him up in conversation, could the old woman tell her more? Would she? It hardly seemed likely—not if she hadn’t seen fit to share the news about the murder on the bridge. No, the wily old fox had kept silent—probably for the sake of gaining another boarder.

      Listen to yourself. You’ve practically got the poor soul tried and convicted along with your neighbor.

      This proved she needed to calm down and figure things out, she thought, digging her keys from her pocket. She opened the screen door and unlocked the glass-and-wood one behind it.

      Once inside, she gingerly set the bolt. The extra care wasn’t necessary, since there was no great threat of rousing Adorabella. Although the woman normally ran the house like a dowager queen, keeping track of everything and everyone in her tiny kingdom, Rachel suspected that at night a burglar could carry off the antique cast-iron stove in the parlor without waking her. She attributed that to Adorabella’s affection for her “medicinal” peach liqueur and an equally potent stash of sleeping pills obtained from who knew where.

      But that didn’t mean Jewel’s antenna was shut down, even if her room was farther back in the house. Adorabella’s housekeeper, cook and confidante made the lady of the house look like an innocent. Deciding there were enough watchful souls around here as it was, Rachel proceeded with caution, tiptoeing as she began climbing the first flight of stairs.

      There were eight bedrooms on the top two floors of the house, and only four were currently occupied, two on the second level and two on the third. Every night since taking a room here, Rachel had felt it both a blessing and a curse that hers was on the top floor; however, at the moment, all she remembered were the negatives—like how with almost every step the stairs creaked, and how so far she’d managed to avoid only a percentage of them.

      When she reached her floor, she paused. Her room was at the end of the hall, opposite Mr. Barnes’s. She had chosen it because she’d wanted the view of the creek rather than the barn at the other end of the house, or the woods out back. She’d assumed—perhaps too naively—that Mr. Barnes had chosen his for similar reasons.

      The most she’d ever seen of her neighbor was his back as he slipped into his room after using their shared bathroom, or the top of his dark head when he hurried down the stairs. To be fair, there were logical explanations for their lack of contact. Their work schedules were complete opposites. That didn’t exactly enhance their chances for striking up a conversation. But fairness wasn’t an issue at the moment; her sanity, if not her safety, was.

      Suppose he decided it was time they did meet? What if he challenged her the moment she tried to reach the sanctuary of her room? Who could she rely on for help? Mr. Bernard, the retired railroad conductor on the floor below? The poor soul was practically deaf, and Celia Nichols, the sloe-eyed divorcée who had her eye on her boss, the married owner of the Black Water Creek Lounge, spent most of her time over there.

      Don’t be a fool. The man has never bothered you, and he’s done nothing to suggest anything will change.

      She was overtired and stressed, that’s all. Her job kept her steeped in responsibility. And she couldn’t forget the added pressure brought on by her alienated relationship with her family. Even without the burden of the past three nights, she had a lot taxing her mind.

      It would do her a world of good to try to let go of everything—including this last episode on the bridge—and start fresh in the morning. She doubted she would get much sleep, but simply relaxing might help. In the morning she would consider confiding in Sammy. He was, after all, her sponsor, advisor and friend, as well as her boss. Most important, he had more background in psychiatry than anyone between here and Baton Rouge; as real as the episode on the bridge had seemed, it wouldn’t hurt to make certain she wasn’t fabricating the whole thing in her mind due to emotional overload.

      But even with her new resolve, Rachel was cautious as she circled the balustrade and entered the bathroom. In fact, she found herself holding her breath until she set the lock.

      She placed her bag on the side of the tub and faced her reflection in the mirror, wincing at what she saw. It was worse than she’d expected, worse than when she used to pull marathon shifts as an intern. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, as though she’d been crying, and her face appeared as pale as a cadaver. Her dark brown hair, her personal vanity point, was no longer styled in a sleek pageboy cut, but rather a frizzy tangle. Add to it that her jeans and lab coat were stained with who-knew-what she’d picked up from crawling around on all fours on the bridge, and she was a visual horror herself.

      A shower would be heavenly, but it could wait until morning when she knew she would be alone on the floor. Instead, she settled for a quick scrub of her hands and face.

      When she was done, she leaned over to retrieve the jacket she’d laid beside her bag. At that moment she heard the doorknob twist.

      Jerking upright, she inadvertently knocked her bag into the tub and several items fell out.

      “Damn it, are you still in there?” a familiar voice growled.

      “Yes, but…but I’m almost…”

      “I need in. Now.”

      Strange, Rachel thought. Five minutes ago, the prospect of having to face the man had filled her with dread. Indignation, however, provided a blissful swell of courage.

      She released the lock and swung the door open, her first impulse being to tell the impolite jerk what she thought of bullies, not to mention voyeurs. Then she met the piercing dark eyes that the light revealed were midnight-blue, stared at the face that was etched forever in her memory and felt the room spin like a child’s top gone haywire.

      “Hell, lady, whatever you do, don’t faint, because I’m in no mood to play gentleman.”

      His voice, but without the aching tenderness. His face, once again grim with pain—but also with frustration and resentment. Joe Becket, but a Joe Becket who was very much the flesh and blood of this world.

      What was going on?

      “I need to use the sink,” he continued, holding up his wrapped left hand. “This has started bleeding again.”

      Seeing the blood on the thin, filthy rag saved her. Whatever doubts Rachel had about her ability to cope as a woman, or as a specter’s medium, they were insignificant in the face of a medical emergency. Drawing herself straight, she reached for his injured limb.

      “Let me see.”

      He jerked back. “I can take care of it myself. It needs to be rinsed off, that’s all.”

      “From the amount of blood soaked through that unsanitary rag, I think it’s going to need substantially more. I’m a doctor,” she added when he simply glared at her.

      “I know who you are.”

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