icy water. If he didn’t drown, he would cool off.
Six
I t took a lot of fast talk, a lot of grease for a lot of palms, and the tenacity of a bulldog. But Jonathan Q. Harding was willing to invest all of those elements when it came to a hot story.
His instincts, which he considered the best in the business, told him that Evan Remington was going to be his funnel to the story of the decade.
Not just the sizzle of scandal that was still shooting out a few sparks. All the angles on Remington himself—how he had hidden that violent face from the world, from his fancy Hollywood clients, from the upper crust of society—had been done to death as far as Harding was concerned. Even most of the details on how his pretty young wife had escaped him, risked her life to get free of his abuse and his threats, were common fodder now.
Harding didn’t bother with the common.
He’d dug around a bit, and he had enough confirmed information on where she’d run, how she’d run, where she’d worked, lived, during the first eight months after she’d ditched her Mercedes over a cliff. It was decent stuff—the former society wife, the pampered princess living incheap, furnished rooms, working as a short-order cook or a waitress, moving from town to town. Dyeing her hair, changing her name.
He could get some ink out of it.
But it was the period of time from after she’d landed on that bump of land out in the Atlantic to when Remington had been dragged into a cell that had his nose twitching.
Things just didn’t add up there, not tidily enough for Harding to close the book. Or maybe it was just too tidy.
Remington tracks her down. Pure coincidence. Knocks her around. Enter the hero, the local sheriff and new love interest.
Got himself stabbed for his trouble, Harding thought now, but he kept on riding to the rescue. Took Remington into custody in the woods, talking him out of slitting the pretty heroine’s throat. Hauled him to jail, and got himself sewed up.
Good boy saves girl. Bad boy goes into a padded cell. Good boy marries girl. Happy days.
That story, with all its angles, had been four-walled in the media for weeks after Remington’s arrest. And had, as most did, pretty much petered out.
But there’d been whispers. The kind no one could confirm, that more had gone on in the woods that night than an in-the-nick-of-time arrest.
Whispers of witchcraft. Of magic.
Harding had been willing to dismiss that idea, maybe play on the angle for a few column inches, but just for the novelty. After all, Remington was a raving lunatic. His statement about that night, which Harding had paid good money for, could hardly be taken without a truckload of salt.
And yet . . .
Dr. MacAllister Booke, the Indiana Jones of theparanormal, had taken up temporary residence on Three Sisters Island.
Didn’t that prick up the ears?
Booke wasn’t one to waste his time, Harding knew. The man hacked his way through jungles, hiked over miles of desert, climbed mountains to do research in his unlikely chosen field. And mostly on his own nickel, of which he had plenty.
But he didn’t waste his time.
He debunked more so-called magic than he verified, but when he verified, people tended to listen. Smart people.
If there wasn’t something to those whispers, why would he have gone? Helen Remington, excuse me, Nell Channing Todd, wasn’t making any claims. She’d spoken to the police, of course, but there was no mention of witchcraft phenomena in her statement. None in the press release funneled through her attorneys either.
But MacAllister Booke had deemed Three Sisters worth his time. And that interested Harding. Interested him enough that he’d read up on the island, its lore, its legends himself.
And his reporter’s nose had scented a story. A big, fat, and potentially juicy story.
He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to pry interviews out of Mac before. The MacAllister-Bookes were eye-crossing rich, influential, and staunchly conservative.
Six
I t took a lot of fast talk, a lot of grease for a lot of palms, and the tenacity of a bulldog. But Jonathan Q. Harding was willing to invest all of those elements when it came to a hot story.
His instincts, which he considered the best in the business, told him that Evan Remington was going to be his funnel to the story of the decade.
Not just the sizzle of scandal that was still shooting out a few sparks. All the angles on Remington himself—how he had hidden that violent face from the world, from his fancy Hollywood clients, from the upper crust of society—had been done to death as far as Harding was concerned. Even most of the details on how his pretty young wife had escaped him, risked her life to get free of his abuse and his threats, were common fodder now.
Harding didn’t bother with the common.
He’d dug around a bit, and he had enough confirmed information on where she’d run, how she’d run, where she’d worked, lived, during the first eight months after she’d ditched her Mercedes over a cliff. It was decent stuff—the former society wife, the pampered princess living incheap, furnished rooms, working as a short-order cook or a waitress, moving from town to town. Dyeing her hair, changing her name.
He could get some ink out of it.
But it was the period of time from after she’d landed on that bump of land out in the Atlantic to when Remington had been dragged into a cell that had his nose twitching.
Things just didn’t add up there, not tidily enough for Harding to close the book. Or maybe it was just too tidy.
Remington tracks her down. Pure coincidence. Knocks her around. Enter the hero, the local sheriff and new love interest.
Got himself stabbed for his trouble, Harding thought now, but he kept on riding to the rescue. Took Remington into custody in the woods, talking him out of slitting the pretty heroine’s throat. Hauled him to jail, and got himself sewed up.
Good boy saves girl. Bad boy goes into a padded cell. Good boy marries girl. Happy days.
That story, with all its angles, had been four-walled in the media for weeks after Remington’s arrest. And had, as most did, pretty much petered out.
But there’d been whispers. The kind no one could confirm, that more had gone on in the woods that night than an in-the-nick-of-time arrest.
Whispers of witchcraft. Of magic.
Harding had been willing to dismiss that idea, maybe play on the angle for a few column inches, but just for the novelty. After all, Remington was a raving lunatic. His statement about that night, which Harding had paid good money for, could hardly be taken without a truckload of salt.
And yet . . .
Dr. MacAllister Booke, the Indiana Jones of theparanormal, had taken up temporary residence on Three Sisters Island.
Didn’t that prick up the ears?
Booke wasn’t one to waste his time, Harding knew. The man hacked his way through jungles, hiked over miles of desert, climbed mountains to do research in his unlikely chosen field. And mostly on his own nickel, of which he had plenty.
But he didn’t waste his time.
He debunked more so-called magic than he verified, but when he verified, people tended to listen. Smart people.
If there wasn’t something to those whispers, why would he have gone? Helen Remington, excuse me, Nell Channing Todd, wasn’t making any claims. She’d spoken to the police, of course, but there was no mention of witchcraft phenomena in her statement. None in the press release funneled through her attorneys either.
But MacAllister Booke had deemed Three Sisters worth his time. And that interested Harding. Interested him enough that he’d read up on the island, its lore, its legends himself.
And his reporter’s nose had scented a story. A big, fat, and potentially juicy story.
He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to pry interviews out of Mac before. The MacAllister-Bookes were eye-crossing rich, influential, and staunchly conservative.
Similar Books
