For Becca Sutcliff, a widow rather than a divorcee by mere
happenstance, gathering with her old high school friends is
no pleasure trip down memory lane. Rather, the discovery of
a body on the grounds of their former school has drawn them
together again to speculate on whether the remains could
belong to Jessie Brentwood. Their high school wild-child
friend had supposedly run away when they were teenagers,
but the possibility exists that she did not run very far.
For the adults who used to know her, the discovery of what
might be Jessie's bones has disrupted their lives with
turmoil. For Becca, she has to face her feelings for
Jessie's former boyfriend and the true nature of her
connection to Jessie's inner circle of friends. Quickly,
the turmoil created by the discovery appears to have deeper
implications than whether a troubled young woman ran away
or was murdered, as accidents plague the group.
A page-turner of a thriller, WICKED GAME is like candy for
the reader who loved Christopher Pike as a teenager
or who, as an adult, enjoys Mary Higgins Clark.
ONE BY ONE, THEY’LL DIE… Twenty years ago, wild
child
Jessie Brentwood vanished from St. Elizabeth’s high school.
Most in Jessie’s tight circle of friends believed she simply
ran away. Few suspected that Jessie was hiding a shocking
secret—one that brought her into the crosshairs of a vicious
killer…
UNTIL THERE’S NO ONE
LEFT… Two decades pass before a body is
unearthed on school grounds and Jessie’s old friends reunite
to talk. Most are sure that the body is Jessie’s, that the
mystery of what happened to her has finally been solved.
But soon, Jessie’s friends each begin to die in horrible,
freak accidents that defy explanation…
BUT HER… Becca Sutcliff has
been haunted for years by unsettling visions of Jessie,
certain her friend met with a grisly end. Now the latest
deaths have her rattled. Becca can sense that an evil force
is shadowing her too, waiting for just the right moment to
strike. She feels like she’s going crazy. Is it all a
coincidence—or has Jessie’s killer finally returned to
finish what was started all those years ago?
Excerpt
Midnight. . . .Mother Mary, help me!Oh, please . . . save me!
The girl rushed headlong through the maze and rising
mist. She stumbled, her face grazed by a poking
branch.
“Damn.” Clapping a hand to her cheek, she instantly
felt the warmth of blood welling against her fingers.
It spurred her onward. She kept running, moving,
breathing hard. Her calf muscles ached, her lungs
burned and still the midnight rain washed over her, cold and
cruel.
This is wrong. Oh, God, so wrong.It shouldn't be this way!Couldn't!
Glancing over her shoulder, she listened hard, deafened by
her own heartbeats. She wasn't lost. She knew
where she was. She knew the twists and turns that
would take her to this maze's center and once there, she
believed there was another exit-maybe two-though it had been
so long since she'd seen them. She thought for an
instant that she might be leading him to her own doom, to
a trap of her own creation. She just had to keep moving,
recalling twists and turns . . .
But it was so dark.
And he was getting closer. She could feel him.
As if his breath were already brushing across her skin.
Fear clutched at her throat and she nearly slipped around
a corner of shivering laurel. He knew about her and
now was running her to ground.
How had he known? When she'd spent so many years -
her entire life, it seemed! - learning the truth
herself.
Then foolishly she'd goaded him. Dared him. Brought
to the maze by her own invitation as she'd hoped to learn
more; to expose him. She'd believed she could turn
the tables on him, avert the very doom she now
faced. But things weren't going as planned, she
thought, her shoes slipping on the long grass.
Somehow the hunter had become the hunted.
But how could he know about her. . .unless. .
.unless he was one of them?
Oh, Jesus!
She heard something. A noise. . . a sibilant
hiss. . .
The hairs on the back of her nape lifted.
What the hell was that?
She froze in place, hands up, as if to ward off danger,
body quivering, poised on the balls of her feet, softly
panting. He was here! Close!
He'd already entered the maze. She could hear him now
easily, as he was making no effort to disguise his
approach.
Her heart knocked painfully against her ribs.
Was he alone? She thought he was alone. He
should be alone. She'd set this up so he
would be alone, but now she didn't know.
Didn't know anything.
That's where the fear came in because she always
knew.
That was her gift.
And maybe her curse.
That's why they hadn't been able to keep the truth from
her. That's why she'd found out who they were, and who
she was, even though they'd tried hard to keep her from
learning.
For her own safety, they'd said.
And now. . .now she was beginning to understand what
they'd meant.
Because of him.
She strained to listen, her heart quivering, her fear
mounting. He was walking through the maze.
Unhurried. Undeterred. Making all the right
turns. Were there more than one set of
footsteps? Someone else? She couldn't be sure.
And she couldn't stay where she was. She glanced
upward over the tall hedge and saw, as the clouds shifted
over the moon, a shaft of the palest light. It threw
the bell tower of the church in stark, ominous relief, and
near it, just to the south, the roof line of the convent.
She'd seen those landmarks a hundred times before.
Heart thudding, her bearings now intact, she slipped
through the hedges. Stealthily. Edging
onward, around a bench and a sharp angle, toward the
center of the maze, toward the statue.
She'd always been slightly leery of the ghostly Madonna,
but now she wanted to reach it with all her heart. Her
need to find it was like a hunger, something she could
almost cry out for if she dared on this dark, evil
night.
Sanctuary.
Safety.
Or, so she prayed. Her veins felt filled with ice,
freezing her so thoroughly it felt as if her blood might
solidify.
Silently rounding a final corner, she stopped suddenly as
the statue of Mary aburptly appeared, its arms uplifted,
greeting her in pale white. Accompanied by the quake
of the branches and the musty smell of dead leaves and
mud, the statue shimmered ghostlike.
At sight of it she drew a sharp breath and stumbled
backward, nearly falling. A tiny stick snapped beneath
her shoe.
She glanced backward fearfully, crouched, poised like a
hunted animal. Had he heard? Behind her, through
the night dark maze, she heard his progress.
Steadfast. Onward. Skirting corners without
hesitation. His footsteps echoed the beats of her own
heart, knelling her doom. Swallowing, she licked her
lips nervously as she forced her legs to move
forward. One corner . . . a length . . . another
corner.
Where the hell was the exit?
Had she missed it?
She wanted to cruy out in fear and frustration as she was
forced to backtrack, knowing he was nearer, feeling him
close enough that her skin quivered.
There was no opening, no parting of the thick branches.
Panic tore through her. There had to be a way out, a
place to hide, a way to get the upper hand . .. Oh, God.
And still he came.
Nearer.
His footsteps loud against the muddy ground.
Determined.
Where? Where the hell was the opening?
She hurried along each of the back walls of shrubbery,
running her hands through the leaves, searching .. .
searching . . . Head pounding, heart thrumming
wildly, her ears seemed filled with the roar of the ocean,
the battering of the sea against distant cliffs . . . though
she was nowhere near the ocean in this closed
labyrinth. But it had always been this way.
She had always heard these oddly familiar sounds, always
sensed a remote place with thick salt air . . .
But here she found no opening. No escape.
Nothing but thick, unbroken branches.
She swallowed hard against her fear. This was
it. There was no escape.
Kneeling at the statue, she mouthed, “Mother Mary,
save my soul. . .”
She hadn't been good.
Oh, God no.
But she wasn't all bad, either.
Behind her, she heard him move ever forward. No
rush, no rush at all.
He knew he had her. Terror crawled up her
spine.
She kept silently, desperately praying, again and again,
Mother Mary save my soul. And then another
voice. Deep. Rough. Echoing hollowly
through her skull: She can't help you. You
have no soul to save.
Were they his words? Was that his cruel
voice inside her head?
She thought with sudden clarity: I'm sixteen year's
old and I am going to die.
How stupid she was to have goaded him - teased him?
Dared him.
What had she been thinking?
This was crux of her problem: Not only could she see the
future, she sometimes tried to change it.
And now he was going to kill her. In the middle of
this maze, in the cold of winter, he was going to end her
life. Desperately she slipped on hand into the
pocket of her jacket, curled her fingers over the
jackknife hidden within.
With all her strength she prayed for her life, her
soul. Above her pulsing heart she heard the hunter's
footsteps. Nearer. Relentlessly
closer. She rose, turning, facing the yawning
opening in the thick shrubbery, the only means of
escape. From the depths a dark figure
appeared.
Tall.
Menacing.
Lucifer Incarnate.
Her beginning and her end.
“Leave,” she ordered, holding up the knife.
He kept walking.
“I swear I'll kill you.”
A slow, self-satisfied smile slid across his
face. You think you invited me here, whore,
when it was I who found you, who hunted you, who will do
the killing. He didn't say a word, yet his
voice reverberated through her brain.
“I'm not kidding,” she warned, brandishing her small
blade, the jackknife she'd stolen from her father's drawer.
Nor am I.
She lunged. Driving the knife downward, intending to
slice into his abdomen.
Quick as a snake, he coiled strong fingers around her
wrist and bent her hand backward.
Pain screamed up her forearm. She cried out and fell
to her knees.
Her gaze clashed with his.
Strong fingers bent her wrist back.
“Stop!” she yelled.
Breath hissed through his teeth. With a sharp
twist he snapped the bones in her wrist.
She cried out softly. The knife fell from her
nerveless fingers. His dark eyes were lasers as he
snatched it up and drove forward, jamming it between her
ribs. “No more,” he rasped.
She clawed at him but it was no use. Meeting his
gaze, she whispered, “This is just the beginning. . . “ and
saw his face contort with rage as he shook his head
violently, thrusting the knife deeper.
The night swirled around her. She crumpled to the
ground at the feet of the statue, aware that her attacker
was staring down at her, his teeth bared, his breath
visible in short puffs that dissipated as she gazed
upward, the lifeblood pooling out of her.
Then she lay still as death at the feet of the
Madonna. He backed out of her ever-narrowing
vision. Clouds shrouded the moon. Few stars
were visible. The Madonna's arms stretched upward to
the heavens. Somewhere, far in the distance, it
seemed a bell tolled.
I am a sacrifice, she thought.
Then darkness descended.
St. Elizabeth's campusFebruary 2009Midnight. . .
Kyle Baskin held the flashlight under his chin, beaming
its illumination upward, highlighting the planes and hollows
of his face.
“Bloody Bones entered the house,” he whispered in his
deepest, most ghoulish voice. His eyes darted around
the circle of boys seated on the ground at his feet, their
scared faces turned up earnestly. “Bloody Bones
crossed to the stairs. Bloody Bones looked up and
could see the children through the walls.”
“Like X-ray vision?” Mikey Ferguson squeaked.
“Shut up.” James, his older brother, threw him a
harsh look.
The branches overhead shivered. There was a moon but
it wasn't visible over the height of the maze's hedge.
Only the faintest trickle of light wavered through the
leaves.
“I'm on the first step,” Kyle intoned, hesitating for
maximum effect. He gazed across the beam of the
flashlight at the kids he and James had brought to the
center of the maze. They were supposed to be
babysitting but that was boring as hell. “I'm on the
second step.” He drew a shaking breath and said
slowly, “I'm on . . .the. . .third step. . .”
Mikey shot a look of terror over his shoulder and edged
closer to James whose smirk was fully visible to Kyle.
Tyler, that little piss-ant, started to snivel.
“I'm on. . .the. . .fourth. . .step. . .”
“How many steps are there?” Mikey cried, clutching at
James' arm.
“Shut the fuck up.” James tried to shake him off.
“I wanna go home!” Tyler wailed.
“I'm on. . .the fifth step!”
“I'm calling my Dad.” Preston, the overweight prick,
clambered to his feet, his normally toneless voice quaking a
bit.
“The phone's in the car, moron.”
“I'm on the sixth step, I'm on the seventh step, I'm
on the eighth step!” Kyle declared in a rush.
The boys leapt to their feet as if yanked by strings,
crying, heads jerking around, searching vainly for escape
but the hedges loomed, branches sticking out like skeletal
arms.
Kyle's voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm on the ninth
step. . . .”
James started to worry a little. They couldn't have
these dumbasses charging off in all directions in the
dark. “Siddown!”
“I'm on the tenth step. . .and now I'm walking down the
hall. . . .I'm outside your door. . . I'm pushing it open. .
. .cree----eeaa--kkk!!!”
It sounded sorta dumb, James thought, the way Kyle did it,
but it sure as hell did the trick. The kids started
running around like Keystone Kops, shying away from the
dirty old statue of that lady, screaming and
blubbering. James and Kyle started laughing.
They couldn't help themselves. That ratcheted the
boys to near hysteria, and Mikey stumbled right into the
statue - the idiot - and knocked the damn thing to one
side. The bulldozers had been at the site. The
school was being razed and they were taking down the maze
as well. That's why Kyle had come up with the idea in
the first place. One last spooky hurrah where they
could scare the snot out of the little kids.
“Moron, you knocked over the old lady,” James said in a
long-suffering tone.
He went to pick up his younger brother while Kyle
corralled Tyler and Preston who were crying like the babies
they were. Mikey had practically turned to a statue
himself. He stood frozen, staring. He slowly
lifted one hand as James approached, pointing toward a mound
of earth that had humped up when the statue tilted.
“Bloody Bones,” he whispered, his finger quivering.
James looked in the direction he was pointing. From
the ground a skeletal human hand lay upturned, its bones
both dirty and oddly white, its fingers reaching upward,
as if for help.
James' eyes bugged out. He started shrieking like a
banshee and couldn't quit.
Kyle gazed on in raw fear. “Shit,” he quavered.
Little Mikey grabbed James' hand and hauled them both out
of the maze. The rest of the gang thundered behind
them. They all ran for their lives, the cold touch
of Bloody Bones feathering their napes all the
way.
CHAPTER ONE
I feel it . . . that change in the atmosphere, subtle
but strong, like the slight tremor of a gentle earthquake
with its aftershocks. I know what it means. I knew it would happen.Was waiting.Flinging off the covers of the old bed, I listen to
the howl of the wind as it rushes from the west, driving
inland, churning up the water. I don't bother with
clothes as I open the door from the old keeper's quarters
that lead into the lighthouse itself. Quickly I take
the circular stairs, running up their rusted steps,
ignoring the metal as it groans against my weight.
Faster! Faster!My heart is pumping and all the restlessness I've
tried to contain, the impulses I've kept at bay are now set
free.The stairs curl more tightly as I ascend upward to the
landing where the once-vibrant beacon lies dormant, its huge
lens giving off no illumination, warning no sailors of the
impending shoals.I fling the door open and step onto the weathered
grating. Rain spits from clouds roiling in the
heavens, wind tears at my hair and the night is dark and
thick with winter. A hundred and thirty feet below,
the surf churns and boils in white-capped fury around this
small, craggy island that has been abandoned for half a
century.No one inhabits the island.The lighthouse is off-limits to the public, guarded
judiciously by the coast guard and a tired, twisted chain
link fence as well as the dangerous surf itself.A few have dared to trespass.And they have died in the treacherous currents that
surround this sorry bit of rock, once called Whittier's
Island, but now, referred to by the locals as Serpent's
Eye. If only they knew how close to the truth they
were.Even in the darkness, I turn and view the
mainland. I know they're there. I've taken as
many as I can. Their fortress can be breached,
though I bear the scars of battle and I must be
careful.Tonight, no lights glow from their windows. The
forest covers them.As I face the sea, I tilt my head, lift my nose to the
wind, but I smell nothing other than the briny scent of the
Pacific crashing a hundred feet below. I close my
eyes and concentrate. As the wind tosses my hair
into my eyes and my skin chills with the frigid air, the
blood in my veins runs hot. I imagine the scent of her skin. Like a
rain-washed beach. Tantalizing . . . I can almost smell her. Almost.Even without her scent, I now know where she is.
I've learned of her by another who has unconsciously shown
me the way.Good.It's time once again, to right an age-old wrong.This time, there will be no mistake.
A frisson slid down Becca Sutcliff's spine. She
inhaled sharply and glanced behind her. The girl at
the counter of Mutts & Stuff slid her a look from the
corner of her eyes. “You okay?”
“Someone walking on my grave, I guess,” Becca murmured.
The girl's brows lifted and Becca could practically read
her mind: Yeah. Right. Whatever.
She rang up Becca's purchases and stuffed them in a
bag. Thanking her, Becca shifted the packages she
was already carrying to accommodate them. Yes, she was
filling a need, shopping like it was an Olympic
sport, a result of the messy, lingering aftermath of
unsettled feelings that still followed from her split with
Ben. And now Ben was dead. Gone. Never
to come back. And it all felt. . .well. . .weird.
She headed back into the mall, slightly depressed by the
cheery red and pink hearts in every store window.
Valentine's Day. The most miserable day of the year
for the suddenly single.
Okay. She wasn't completely unhappy. She'd
known for a long time that she and Ben weren't going to make
it. They'd never been in love. Not in the way
she'd wanted, hoped, planned to be. When she'd
learned he was seeing someone else, she was angry. At
herself, mostly. She couldn't really even recall
what had triggered their marriage in the first
place. What had she wanted? What had Ben
wanted? Had it just been timing? A sense
that, if not Ben, then who?
Then she learned he'd died in the arms of his new
love. Heart attack.
Gone, gone. . .gone.
She was still processing. Still getting used to the
fact that he'd left her for another woman. Left her. .
.when she'd still believed that maybe, just maybe, there
would be that chance for them. That chance to start
a family. Have a child. A child of their
own. A child of her own. . .
The window of Pink, Blue and You, a combined baby and
maternity store, materialized in front of her. She'd
stopped into it earlier and picked out a gift for a
pregnant co-worker. It was a fine torture to be
inside. She wanted a baby. She'd always wanted a
baby. Her insides twisted with the memory that
she'd lost an unborn baby a long, long time ago.
Yet, at times like this, the pain returned, as fresh and
raw as when she'd miscarried.
Tears hovered behind her eyes. But she wasn't
going to break down, for God's sake. Not
now. She'd grieved far too long as it
was. She held the stupid tears at bay, turning her
face away from the display of pastel pinks and blues and
lemony yellows. Was that why she'd married
Ben? To have a baby? To replace the one who'd
been taken from her?
Becca told herself to get over it. She'd asked herself the
same question countless times, had toiled and fretted over
the answer. But it was all moot now. Ben was
gone. And he'd left his twenty-two-year-old new
lover pregnant, something he'd never wanted with Becca.
“I don't want children,” he'd said. “You knew it
when you married me.”
Had she? She didn't remember that.
“It's just you and me, Beck. You and me.”
Maybe she had married him to have a child.
Correction. To replace a child.
Maybe she'd made up the 'I love you' parts. Maybe
she'd just wanted the whole thing to be so much prettier
than it was.
“Damn it all.” She had no time to walk down this lane of
self-pity. It was over. O-V-E-R! She turned away
from the window. No need to torture herself
further. No need at all.
A food court was on her left and she glanced over as she
headed the other way. But as she tried to hurry on,
her vision grew blurry, forcing to slow down and finally
stop short. Her pulse was suddenly rocketing.
Damn. She was going to faint. She'd been this
route before, more times than she'd like to admit.
But it wasn't really fainting. No. More like.
. .falling into a spell. A wide awake dream. But
it hadn't happened in years. Not for years!
Why now? she asked herself a half-second before a sizzle
of pain shot through her brain. She staggered and fell
to her knees, packages tumbling from her arms. Becca
bent her head, instinctively hiding her face from curious
onlookers, one last moment of clarity before the vision
overcame her.
In a transformation that was both familiar and feared,
Becca was no longer at the mall, no longer feeling the
wrench of loss of her baby. No longer in the real
world but in a watery, insubstantial one, a world that had
plagued her youth yet had been curiously missing and distant
for most of her adult life. . . .until now.
In front of her, a short distance away, a teenaged girl
stood on a headland above a gray and frothy sea, her long,
light-brown hair teased by a stiff breeze, her shirt and
jeans pressed to her skin from its force, her gaze focused
across churning waves toward a small island, blurred with
rain. Becca followed the girl's gaze, staring past her
to the island as well, a forlorn, rocky tor that looked as
inhospitable as an alien planet. The girl shivered
and so did Becca. The cold burrowed beneath her skin
and gooseflesh rose on her arms.
The girl was familiar. So familiar. . . . .
Becca stared at her hard, putting a physical effort into
it.
Is she someone I know?
Becca struggled to remember. Who was she?
Where was she? Why was she pulling Becca into
her world?
Distantly, she felt the lightheadedness, the clammy
warning that she was about to pass out. No, no,
no! Caught between the two worlds, her body failing
in one, her mind desperately searching for answers in the
other, Becca focused on the girl.
“Who are you?” she called but the rising wind threw the
words back into her throat.
The phantom girl took a step forward, the tips of her
boots balanced over the edge of the cliff. Becca
reached out an arm. Her mouth opened in protest.
“Stop! Stop!”
Was she going to throw herself to her death?
Becca lunged forward just as the girl turned to face
her. Instead of a profile shot, Becca caught a full-on
view of her face. “Jessie?” she whispered in shock.
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