of the counter, looked between the bars. “Mr. Remington, I’m Harding, Jonathan Q. Harding. I believe you were expecting me today?”
There was no response. Harding cursed inwardly. Couldn’t they have waited to give him his zoning pills until after the interview?
“I spoke with your sister yesterday, Mr. Remington.” Nothing. “Barbara, your sister?”
A thin line of drool slid out the corner of Remington’s mouth. Fastidiously, Harding looked away from it.
“I was hoping to talk to you about your ex-wife, about what happened on Three Sisters the night you were arrested. I work for First Magazine. ”
Or he did for the moment. His editors were becoming entirely too delicate, and penny-pinching, for his taste.
“I want to do a story on you, Mr. Remington. To tell your side. Your sister is eager for you to talk to me.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but he had convinced her that an interview might lead to a sympathetic story, which might in turn give weight to her legal action to have her brother moved to a private facility.
“I might be able to help you, Mr. Remington. Evan,” he corrected. “I want to help you.”
He got nothing but that dead and silent stare. And the sheer emptiness of it scuttled along his skin.
“I’m planning to talk to everyone involved, to get afully rounded story. I’m going to talk to your ex-wife. I’m going to arrange to interview Helen.”
At the sound of the name, the dark, dull eyes flickered.
Someone’s at home after all, Harding thought and edged slightly forward. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Helen for you? Any message I can take to Helen?”
“Helen.”
The voice was raspy, hardly more than a whisper. Harding told himself that was why a cold finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it. “That’s right. Helen. I’m going to see Helen very soon.”
“I killed her.” The slack mouth bowed up into a stunning and brilliant smile. “In the woods, in the dark. I kill her every night, because she keeps coming back. She keeps laughing at me, so I kill her.”
“What happened that night in the woods. With Helen?”
“She ran from me. She’s mad, you know. Why else would she run, would she think she could get away? I had to kill her. Her eyes burned.”
“Blue lightning? Did they burn like blue lightning?”
“It wasn’t Helen.” Remington’s eyes darted, black birds on the wing. “Helen was quiet, and obedient. She knew who was in charge. She knew.” As he spoke his fingers began to scrabble on the arms of the chair.
“Who was it?”
“A witch. Came out of hell, all of them. So much light, so much light. They blinded me, they cursed me. Snakes, under my skin. Snakes. Circle of light. Circle of blood. Can you see it?”
For a moment he could. Clear as glass, and terrifying. Harding had to force back a shudder. “Who are ‘all of them’?”
“They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the finehairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”
He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward.
A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter.
But. . .but. . .
The smell of the story was too strong to resist.
Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt.
Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation.
He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.
It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would
There was no response. Harding cursed inwardly. Couldn’t they have waited to give him his zoning pills until after the interview?
“I spoke with your sister yesterday, Mr. Remington.” Nothing. “Barbara, your sister?”
A thin line of drool slid out the corner of Remington’s mouth. Fastidiously, Harding looked away from it.
“I was hoping to talk to you about your ex-wife, about what happened on Three Sisters the night you were arrested. I work for First Magazine. ”
Or he did for the moment. His editors were becoming entirely too delicate, and penny-pinching, for his taste.
“I want to do a story on you, Mr. Remington. To tell your side. Your sister is eager for you to talk to me.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but he had convinced her that an interview might lead to a sympathetic story, which might in turn give weight to her legal action to have her brother moved to a private facility.
“I might be able to help you, Mr. Remington. Evan,” he corrected. “I want to help you.”
He got nothing but that dead and silent stare. And the sheer emptiness of it scuttled along his skin.
“I’m planning to talk to everyone involved, to get afully rounded story. I’m going to talk to your ex-wife. I’m going to arrange to interview Helen.”
At the sound of the name, the dark, dull eyes flickered.
Someone’s at home after all, Harding thought and edged slightly forward. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Helen for you? Any message I can take to Helen?”
“Helen.”
The voice was raspy, hardly more than a whisper. Harding told himself that was why a cold finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it. “That’s right. Helen. I’m going to see Helen very soon.”
“I killed her.” The slack mouth bowed up into a stunning and brilliant smile. “In the woods, in the dark. I kill her every night, because she keeps coming back. She keeps laughing at me, so I kill her.”
“What happened that night in the woods. With Helen?”
“She ran from me. She’s mad, you know. Why else would she run, would she think she could get away? I had to kill her. Her eyes burned.”
“Blue lightning? Did they burn like blue lightning?”
“It wasn’t Helen.” Remington’s eyes darted, black birds on the wing. “Helen was quiet, and obedient. She knew who was in charge. She knew.” As he spoke his fingers began to scrabble on the arms of the chair.
“Who was it?”
“A witch. Came out of hell, all of them. So much light, so much light. They blinded me, they cursed me. Snakes, under my skin. Snakes. Circle of light. Circle of blood. Can you see it?”
For a moment he could. Clear as glass, and terrifying. Harding had to force back a shudder. “Who are ‘all of them’?”
“They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the finehairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”
He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward.
A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter.
But. . .but. . .
The smell of the story was too strong to resist.
Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt.
Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation.
He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.
It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would
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