Nicholas Vickers, private investigator, was as comfortable
in a graveyard as he was in his own game room. That the
graveyard hadn't seen a new grave dug in a very long time
only enhanced his sense of belonging.
Wrapping the night's shadows around himself like a cloak,
he stood beneath a large maple tree and watched a biker
gang enjoying the ambiance of Ten Oaks Cemetery. Their
idea of fun did not include showing respect for the dead.
Eight of them had roared up on bikes half an hour ago. The
two who'd brought girls with them had made use of the
scant privacy afforded by a pair of chipped and listing
headstones to satisfy their sexual needs. They were now
relaxing with their friends, lounging among the tall grass
and weeds.
A scruffy blonde in a leather jacket finished off his
beer, tossed the can over his shoulder and opened another.
He took a swig just as one of his cohorts leaned over to
deliver the punch line of a joke. The blonde laughed
uproariously, spraying beer all over the head-stone next
to the fallen one on which his butt was perched. Another
partygoer clambered to his feet and wandered off into the
shadows only to return a minute later, zipping his fly.
Nick watched the goings-on with disgust. These animals had
no respect for sacred ground. Or any other ground, as far
as he could tell.
Over the past several weeks, he'd learned that the
repulsive crew had ridden down from Baltimore, about
twenty miles north, to enjoy the rural atmosphere of
Howard County. School playgrounds, local parks, old cow
pastures — they'd put their unique stamp on a number of
spots. But Ten Oaks Cemetery seemed to be their favorite.
Unfortunately for them.
The small burial ground was a stark contrast to Dayton
Acres, a new development of two-story colonials that stood
only a cornfield away. Not surprisingly, the owners
weren't eager to share their costly locale with a bunch of
crude invaders. They'd complained to the cops, who had
come out a few times but, failing to catch the bikers in
any illegal acts, had more or less washed their hands of
the problem.
Frustrated but determined, the homeowners' association had
taken matters into its own hands and hired Nick.
As Nick watched, two of the big lugs pushed over a
gravestone. It fell to the ground with a thud and cracked
in half.
"Oops!"
The witticism drew a burst of laughter from the leather-
clad crowd.
"Okay, gentlemen, it's time," Nick muttered. He was going
to enjoy scaring the spit out of these worthless jerks.
He was wearing one of his favorite outfits, a reproduction
of an eighteenth-century highwayman's costume — black
shirt, black britches and high black boots. In his machine
shop, he'd made two flintlock replicas, except instead of
holding a single shot, they each held a sixteen-shot clip
filled with blanks. He stuck the weapons into his belt,
then donned the other props he'd brought — a hood and
vest, both black. The hood was painted like a skull, while
the vest was adorned with ribs and vertebrae, all in white
fluorescent paint.
He hated to resort to cheap tricks, but he figured it was
the fastest, cleanest way to get rid of these brainless
slobs. And, really, he couldn't suppress an evil grin as
he imagined his quarries' reactions to the surprise he had
in store for them.
Halloween costume in place, he drew one of the pistols and
stepped from under the shadows of the maple. In the next
instant, he charged.
Moving with superhuman speed, feet barely touching the
ground, he zoomed toward the gang. At the last second,
just before reaching the blonde, he veered off, whipping
past the little cemetery like a creature who had clawed
his way up from one of the graves.
"Wha' the hell was that?" one of the bikers gasped.
"Dunno," his companion replied.
Nick changed his angle of attack. Weaving among the
headstones, using the moves he'd learned in one of the
video games he liked to play, he fired off a couple of
blanks. Like a wraith out of "Phantom Combat," he reached
out with his free hand to knock over a couple of the
revelers as he sped past.
The two guys cried out as they hit the ground. The women
who'd come for fun and games screamed like banshees. Nick
let loose with his best Tales from the Crypt cackle, then
fired off a couple more shots.
By the time he wheeled around for another pass, the bikers
and their lady friends were scrambling for their hogs.
Only one of them was dumb enough to stay and challenge the
supernatural intruder who had interrupted their party.
Nick recognized the moron as Butch McCard, the unofficial
leader of the group. Reaching into his boot, McCard pulled
out a small pistol and fired in Nick's general direction.
The bullet took a chunk off the top of a headstone five or
six feet away.
"Big mistake," Nick growled, zooming toward the shooter
like a monster escaped from a horror movie, firing blanks
from the pistols as he went.
The guy stumbled backward a few paces. "No! Please! Don't
kill me!"
"Be gone!" Nick roared. Suiting action to words, he shoved
his pistol into his belt and jammed his hands into
McCard's armpits. Lifting the two-hundred-plus-pound man
as if he were a bag of lemons, Nick tossed him so hard
that he landed twenty feet away, in the cornfield beside
the burial ground.
The jerk lay still for a moment, gasping for breath. Then
he scrambled up and dashed toward his bike.
The engine wouldn't start, and he desperately cranked the
ignition, cursing like a sailor. When his bike roared to
life, he didn't even look back as he raced away into the
night.
Nick stood at the edge of the cemetery, watching the
departing figure and fighting a vague feeling of
disappointment. The bikers hadn't been much of a challenge.
Turning, he surveyed the beer cans and fast-food wrappers
littering the ground. Cleanup wasn't part of his job, but
he returned to his hiding place, shucked his skeleton
costume and pulled out the plastic garbage bag he'd
brought along. He left the trash neatly at the side of the
access road. Then, finished with the night's work, he
walked across the field to the car he'd hidden behind a
tangle of honeysuckle vines, and headed for home.
He'd purchased the Victorian farmhouse and surrounding
twenty-five acres when prices were still reasonable. From
the outside, none of the eccentric renovations he'd made
showed, changes made to bring the place up to his
specifications — along with a few ideas borrowed from
Batman.
The garage was underground, the ramp hidden by a door that
looked like a wooden retaining wall. Behind the garage
were his workshop and laboratory. He'd made certain that
the contractor who had done the work would never tell
anyone about it.
As far as the interior of the house went, Nick had done
most of the work himself, utilizing some of the useful
skills he'd acquired over the years. As he walked through
the lower level to the restored first floor and looked
around, he felt a familiar sense of satisfaction. His home
was a showplace decorated with eighteenth-and nineteenth-
century antiques. He'd made a satisfying life for himself
here, and he intended to hang on to it as long as he
could. Which was why he kept to himself. None of his
neighbors and only a few of his clients had ever set foot
inside the house, and he meant to keep it that way.
And yet...
His gut was telling him that change was coming. It had
overtaken him too often in the past for him not to feel
the vibrations. He wasn't ready for it — he never was —
but if time had taught him anything, it was that change
was inevitable. It would come whether or not he was ready
and, good or bad, he would have to face it.
Something else he'd learned — worrying about the future
was energy wasted.
Moving quickly, he strode down the hall to his office,
where his computer appeared as a strangely modern addition
to the Winthrop desk on which it sat. Pulling up his
chair, he typed a report on the evening's activities for
the Dayton Acres Community Association, attached a bill
and e-mailed it to the organization's president.
Not that he needed the money. He could have lived very
nicely on his investments. But having once "enjoyed" a
life of leisure, he knew he'd be bored witless inside a
week if he didn't keep busy.
He checked his e-mail for the next chess move from his
opponent in Quito, Ecuador. Juan had moved his knight into
a position that would prove vulnerable six moves down the
line. In the library he moved the piece to its new
position.
Work and play finished for the night, he went downstairs
to the basement to set the alarm system — not a
conventional alarm but something a lot more creative that
he'd invented in his spare time. After crossing the
unfinished section of the basement, he stepped through a
doorway that led into a completely different environment:
his private living quarters, with its comfortable lounge
and bedroom, and an admittedly sybaritic bathroom.
Sleep tugged at him. Yet he sat for an hour on the wide
leather couch in the lounge, surfing the hundreds of
television channels beamed in through his satellite dish.
He used all six screens, flicking through multiple images
in four languages — English, Spanish, French and Arabic.
He knew why he was avoiding the inevitability of sleep,
and in the privacy of his own thoughts, he could
acknowledge the cowardice involved. He didn't want to face
the dreams that had been disturbing his slumber for the
past few weeks.
Sometimes they were scenes from long ago, scenes that he
had struggled to banish from his mind. He saw Jeanette
again. He saw himself, bound and helpless. He saw a
monster — a monster he recognized — leading Jeanette off
to her death.
Then, as his dreaming self watched in confusion, Jeanette
was transformed. Her sophisticated French upsweep had
become straight, shoulder-length and blond. Her large
brown eyes changed to blue, her small rosebud mouth
widened into full, sensual lips and her complexion paled.
He was dreaming about another woman. He was certain he'd
never met her, yet she returned again and again to haunt
his sleep. At first, the dreams had all been nightmares of
her death. Lately, though, things had taken a very
different turn.
He'd be holding Jeanette in his arms, kissing her, making
sweet love to her with all the tender emotions he had felt
so long ago. And then, suddenly, it was the other woman he
was holding, and all the passion he'd learned to keep
tightly in check was unleashed. Their clothing vanished,
and they were skin-to-skin close, chest to breasts, legs
tangling together amid silky-soft sheets. His mouth
devoured hers as he caressed her breast with one hand and,
with the other, searched to find the slick heat between
her legs. She lay back on the bed and held out her arms,
and he came down on top of her...then awoke, blood
pounding, breathing ragged, body covered with sweat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to banish the heated
scene from his mind. He didn't want to dream. Not of the
few sweetly tender moments of love he'd shared with
Jeanette, nor of her death or the fiend who had caused it.
And certainly not of wildly erotic love-making with a
woman who, if she even existed, he'd never met and could
never hope to have.
Finally, when his body dictated that sleep was his only
option, Nick wearily undressed and lay down on his bed.
His last conscious thought was to hope that the dreams
would leave him be.