The Seventh Night Page 11

  She was certainly an enigma, I decided. She was very lovely, with her thick, black hair and her olive complexion, but she dressed even more conservatively than I did. It wasn’t a comparision that flattered either of us.

  “I don’t get off work until late today,” she said. “But if you want to wait around, I’ll be happy to give you a lift. Otherwise, I can call a driver for you.”

  For some reason I wasn’t anxious to return to the house. There was too much time and space there to indulge my gloomy thoughts. “I think I’ll just wander about the hotel for a bit,” I told her. “I’ve always wondered about it, dreamed about—” I broke off. “And I’d like to see my father’s office, if that’s possible.”

  A brief frown touched her brow as she threw a quick glance at Reid’s closed door. “I suppose it’ll be all right,” she agreed, slipping another key from her desk drawer and handing it to me. “It’s the office right across the hall.”

  I took the key and closed my fingers around it. “Thanks.”

  But I didn’t go in right away. I hovered in the hallway, unaccountably nervous about entering my father’s domain. It seemed an invasion of privacy in a way, and if I were completely honest with myself, I was just a bit afraid of finding out something I didn’t want to know.

  In the brief time I’d been here, I’d gotten such a different image of him than the man I’d once known. But then, that had been a long, long time ago, I thought sadly.

  I slid the key in the lock, turned it, and then pushed open the door.

  The room was cool and already had a faint musty odor of disuse, even after so short a time. I stepped into the office and gazed about, trying to picture my father seated behind the wide antique desk which faced the door, or perhaps standing at the wall of windows that showcased a magnificent panorama of mountain and sea.

  Tentatively, I sat down behind his desk, getting the feel of the leather chair, running my hands across the smooth, waxed surface of the desk. My eyes misted with emotion.

  Sitting behind his desk, the Caribbean sea at my back, I suddenly felt closer to my father than I had since he’d left me so many years ago.

  He needed me.

  The feeling came to me so strongly I reeled from the sensation. Perhaps it was the warnings I’d received—from Mama Vinnia, from Mrs. DuPrae and now from Lawrence Crawford. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking that someone—anyone—could need me. I couldn’t be sure. But the feeling was so strong, panic bubbled inside me.

  My father needed me, and I felt powerless to help him.

  I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there, sensation after sensation flooding through me, when I began to grow drowsy. The musty scent seemed to grow stronger, soporific. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, but my lids now seemed to drop of their own accord. I would close them only for a moment, I thought…

  * * *

  I woke up with the uneasy notion that someone was watching me. I’m not sure how long I’d dozed, but it was late by this time, and the office was full of shadows. Behind me, somewhere over the sea, the sun had set and dusk had settled over the island like a velvet cloak.

  The sensation gained strength.

  Warily, I glanced around the shadowy office, almost expecting to see my father standing before me.

  No. The office was empty except for me. I was quite alone.

  But the feeling persisted. It wouldn’t go away. I even whispered his name aloud. “Father?”

  No answer. Just a faint echo of my own voice.

  My skin began to crawl under the scrutiny of those unseen eyes. The sound of my heartbeat pounded in my ears.

  Slowly, almost fearfully, I turned my head so that my gaze skimmed along the wall of windows behind me.

  He was out there, hovering on the edge of the cliff that overlooked the sea.

  It was misty outside, and at first, I thought my vision must be playing tricks on me. But as I continued to stare, the apparition took on defined proportions. A long white robe billowed in the wind, and a white hood shrouded the face.

  As I watched, unable to tear my gaze away, one arm lifted slowly and beckoned to me. It was the specter from my dreams in Chicago, the recurring nightmare which had presaged my visit to Columbé. Was I dreaming now?

  I closed my eyes and opened them. It was still there, moving toward the window, gliding with the fog, floating, as though the earth was not beneath it. I could almost see the face now, two more steps and I would know—

  And then, just before it reached the window, it stopped, as though wavering on the brink of some invisible abyss that could not be bridged. The mist writhed and coiled, the white robe fluttered in the wind, but the thing itself had ceased all movement.

  Slowly, as if in a trance, I got up and backed toward the door, never taking my eyes off the figure. When I felt the doorknob in my hand, I started to turn.

  Help me!

  Whether I actually heard the call or whether my mind conjured the plea from my own terror, I never knew. But my hand slipped away from the knob.

  The thing was still at the window, and the long sleeves of the robe flowed nearly to the ground as the arms spread wide in supplication.

  Help me!

  I stood there, torn between terror and an inexplicable sense of despair, which I knew wasn’t my own. As I watched, one arm lifted again to summon me.

  The entreaty drew me against my will. The compulsion to go out there was almost irresistible.

  Briefly—so very briefly—I looked away as I once again reached for the knob. When I looked back, the vision had vanished.

  My heart still pounding in my throat, I slowly crossed the room to the window and peered out. Mist swirled over the edge of the cliff, and in the distance, the hazy light of the rising moon cast an eerie sterling light on the waters of the Caribbean. Somewhere down on the beach, I could hear the normal sounds of laughter and music.

  There was an outside entrance to the hotel just down the hallway, and for one brief moment, I entertained the idea of going out to investigate. But I knew I wasn’t that brave, and so I decided to see if Rachel was still in her office. Maybe she’d go with me.

  I opened the door, and another figure lurked in the doorway. My hand flew to my mouth as I stifled a scream.

  Angelique gave me a cool glance as she stepped past me to enter the office. She carried the scent of the sea on her clothes. “What’s the matter, Christine? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” she said slyly.

  “Did you just come in from outside?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?”

  “Didn’t you see—?”

  The elegant brows rose. “See what?”

  “There was something at the window. You didn’t see it?”

  She looked bored. “I didn’t see anything. Perhaps you had a little too much to drink at lunch.”

  “I didn’t have anything to drink at lunch. It was purely business.”

  “Oh, really?” She sat down behind my father’s desk and ran her hand over the surface, much as I’d done earlier. But for some reason, her action seemed coldly calculated. “How do you know Lawrence Crawford?”

  “I met him today at the police station.”

  Again the brows soared. “Police station? I didn’t think he’d go near that place,” she mumbled. “What did you talk about with him?”

  Her cross-examination was beginning to annoy me. “We talked about my father, but I don’t see why that should concern you.”

  The blue eyes pinned me with icy scorn. “No. I don’t suppose you would. But take my word for it, a lot of things concern me. Tell me something.” She got up and walked around the desk, her gaze drifting over me with insolent precision. “Have I underestimated you? Is this Mary Poppins act for real, or have you snowed us all?”

  “I’m not the one putting on an act, Angelique.”

  “Ooh. So you do have claws. I thought as much. You just may have to use them before this is all over.” She dr
ifted toward the door, casting me a feline glance over her shoulder. “There’s a voodoo ceremony on the beach tonight. Everyone’s going. It might interest you to know that Reid will be there, too. You might learn something, if you come. If you dare come….”

  * * *

  When I finally went looking for Rachel she was nowhere to be found. Reid’s office door was closed, but I thought I heard voices coming from inside. Whether he was talking on the phone or someone was in there with him, I had no idea.

  I wanted to tell him about the white-robed figure I’d seen at the window, and yet something kept me from knocking on his door. Something about the way he’d looked at me at lunch, the anger brewing in his eyes. It had been a disturbing reflection of the temper I’d witnessed earlier, and it made me realize just how little I knew about him.

  What would he say if I told him someone had been staring at me through the window of my father’s office? Someone wearing a white robe so that I couldn’t even determine if it had been a woman or a man? Would he believe me? Or would he dismiss it as another product of my imagination, like he had the other incident? Would he think I’d been dreaming? Sleepwalking?

  And truthfully, I wasn’t even sure myself if the image had been real. Like everything else, I could no longer distinguish between dream and reality. If I had any sense remaining at all, I’d get on the first plane back to Chicago, before I completely lost my mind.

  But even there, the dreams had plagued me. Even there, I hadn’t felt safe. No, the thing to do was stay and find my father. Maybe then I could regain control of my life.

  I left Rachel’s office and walked slowly down the hallway. Most of the offices were deserted this time of day, and I remembered Angelique’s invitation to the ceremony on the beach. I thought I could hear the faint echo of drums. The sound, as always, lured me even as the thought of the rituals repelled me.

  I knew I shouldn’t go, and yet something inside me urged me on.

  “You might learn something.”

  What could I possibly learn at one of those barbaric rituals? I certainly didn’t believe in voodoo.

  “It’s a mind game as much as anything else.”

  “It might interest you to know Reid will be there, too.”

  “A voodooist can be sly and cunning. He can pretend to be your best friend…or even your lover….”

  Bits and pieces of conversation swirled in my head. Almost as if I wanted to prove to myself I was stronger than superstition and magic, I found myself on the steep wooden steps that led down the mountainside to the beach.

  The sound of the drums drew me to the place where twenty or thirty tourists sat in a wide circle facing a fire. I stayed back, away from the group, sliding my gaze over the crowd, searching, but I saw no one I knew. Not even Angelique.

  The soft murmurs of the crowd quieted as a young woman wearing a white, flowing dress came out of the dusky shadows. Her back was to me as she placed a white candle on the ground, lit it, then traced a symbol near it with something that looked like cornmeal.

  As in the ceremony in the woods, the drums began to build. As the tension rose from their penetrating beat, the woman started to dance, gracefully in spins and whirls, arms outstretched, face raised to the heavens.

  The drums intensified; her movements became more frenzied. But the spinning and whirling never ceased. The crowd, including myself, sat spellbound by her movements as her dancing drew us deeper and deeper into the trance.

  Her thick black hair spilled down her back, as glossy as a raven’s wing. Her arms reached for the heaven in divine supplication as her feet relentlessly pounded against the sand. Her movements mesmerized me, but still I couldn’t see her face.

  On and on the dance went, her spins taking her ever closer to the fire until, with one sudden leap, she bounded into the flame.

  I wanted to cry out in protest, to rescue her from what I was certain would be a horrible burn or death. But I was transfixed by all that was happening. My legs and arms were deadweights; I couldn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  She called out, not in pain, but in some ancient tongue that called forth the loa. After an impossibly long time, she jumped from the fire, sending embers and ash flying upward into the gathering darkness that soon would be night.

  The drums stopped, and the woman turned toward me, a look of triumph on her features. Even in the light from the fire, it took me a moment to recognize her. Then I gasped. Angelique. My God, it was Angelique.

  I stood for several long moments, reeling with shock as my senses slowly returned. Vaguely I became aware of the crowd around me standing and milling about, talking in low whispers. Almost against my will, I moved toward the fire. I stretched out my hand and felt the heat against my skin.

  “Did you think it was a trick?”

  Angelique stood beside me. She looked different, transformed. Everything about her had changed. In the light of the flaming torches planted around the beach, her eyes and skin and hair seemed to catch fire. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her.

  “How did you do that?” I asked in amazement. “It had to be an illusion.”

  “Yet you saw it with your own eyes.” When I didn’t say anything, she smiled luminously. “The loa embrace the fire. They command the elements. They are one with heaven and earth. Even hell, some say. Nothing can harm them. A true believer can have that power, as well. The power of the elements. Just imagine it!”

  I was imagining it as I watched her drift away. I was thinking about what Mama Vinnia had told me earlier. “A malefacteur who wishes to use your father to gain more power.” Could she be right? Could someone actually believe they could somehow gain power by harming my father? Could Angelique believe that?

  I didn’t begin to understand anything about voodoo, about the strange belief that worshiped a deity in the image of a snake, that could give one strength enough to walk on fire and not be burned. I didn’t understand anything. But I knew someone who did.

  Mama Vinnia. First thing in the morning, I would go see her, and I would ask her to explain the mysteries of voodoo to me.

  “You can’t stay away, can you? The myste`res draw you.”

  I spun at the sound of the deep voice behind me, and found myself staring up into Reid’s deep blue eyes. I shivered, remembering the anger that had been smoldering there earlier.

  Now the firelight softened his features, made his eyes shimmer with some deep, dark promise.

  “I came because Angelique invited me.”

  “Did you find it entertaining?”

  “Much more so than the other one,” I admitted. But even so, there had still been something primitive about the ritual, something powerful and…dark. “Did you know that Angelique could do that?”

  His smile seemed a little wry. “There’s not much Angelique can’t do when she sets her mind to it. That’s a St. Pierre trait, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid? Most people would consider it admirable.”

  His eyes flashed—with amusement? I couldn’t quite tell. “And do you?”

  “I don’t know either one of you well enough to make a…a judgment,” I stammered.

  “Don’t you?”

  Where was the anger, the rage I’d glimpsed earlier in his office and later at the restaurant. All I saw in his eyes now was something that had me trembling….

  The night seemed so unreal. Torches flickered up and down the beach, casting leaping shadows on the sand. The moon rose over the water, and the sound of the tide was almost as rhythmic and hypnotic as the drums.

  And there was Reid, his handsome features so dramatically highlighted by firelight, looking at me as though he wanted to—

  “I should go now,” I said, and turned toward the beach steps. He caught my arm, and where his fingers encircled me, my skin tingled with warmth, with desire.

  “Not just yet.”

  His voice was as smooth and rich as whiskey—and just as potent, I thought. “But Rachel is probably looking for me,” I said. “
She was going to give me a ride.”

  “I sent her home hours ago.”

  Finally I lifted my gaze to his, and the impact was staggering. Something was happening between us. Something very real and something very frightening, that had me trembling with emotion. “Please let me go.” My voice was barely a whisper, and I’m not even sure why I said it. Perhaps some vestige of sanity that yet remained had prompted one last appeal before I was lost forever.

  His hand on my arm dropped away, but the blue gaze held me. He smiled knowingly, and my heart threatened to thrash its way out of my chest.

  “We need to talk, Christine.” His voice was soft and deep, like liquid velvet flowing over my senses. “Have dinner with me.”

  “But I—”

  “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say,” he said, and the smile vanished from his face. The light in his eyes darkened. “It’s about your father.”

  * * *

  “Please don’t keep me waiting any longer,” I pleaded. “What have you found out about my father?”

  We were seated at an obscure table in one of the hotel’s elegant restaurants. Situated at the very top of the building, towering glass windows afforded a magnificent view of the moonlit ocean. A candle flickered in a crystal jar between us. Reid had insisted on ordering both wine and food before he would utter a word. His silence now was infuriating as he studied me in the dancing light.

  “Perhaps I misled you, Christine. I haven’t ‘found out’ anything.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I had something to tell you that I thought you’d want to hear. It does concern your father.”

  I sighed in disappointment. “What is it?”

  “I think you may be worrying needlessly. Christopher’s disappearance could be some sort of carefully orchestrated ploy.”

  “A ploy? What do you mean?”

  He hesitated, staring into the flame of the candle before answering. Then he looked up and his eyes met mine. “A ploy to get me to agree to sell the St. Pierre.”

  “Then you know about his plans?”

  “Oh, yes, I know all about his plans. I take it Crawford filled you in.” When I nodded, his frown deepened. “Did he also tell you that Christopher’s threatened sale of his partnership is strictly against the agreement he has with me? If either one of us ever wants out, the other is to have first option.”